joyce wilson, espe (nada prodanovic), and the pg finale project team. [transcriber's notes: -page vii: the word following "view of what owen" was unclear, and may not be the "writes" which has been chosen. -(mus. not.) following a title means that the original book contains musical notation for that song.] cowboy songs and other frontier ballads what keeps the herd from running, stampeding far and wide? the cowboy's long, low whistle, and singing by their side. cowboy songs and other frontier ballads collected by john a. lomax, m.a. the university of texas sheldon fellow for the investigation of american ballads, harvard university with an introduction by barrett wendell _new york_ the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ copyright, , , by sturgis & walton company. set up and electrotyped. published november, . reprinted april, ; january, . new edition with additions, march, ; april, ; december, ; july, . reissued january, . reprinted february, . printed in the united states of america. by berwick & smith co. _to_ mr. theodore roosevelt who while president was not too busy to turn aside--cheerfully and effectively--and aid workers in the field of american balladry, this volume is gratefully dedicated cheyenne aug th dear mr. lomax, you have done a work emphatically worth doing and one which should appeal to the people of all our country, but particularly to the people of the west and southwest. your subject is not only exceedingly interesting to the student of literature, but also to the student of the general history of the west. there is something very curious in the reproduction here on this new continent of essentially the conditions of ballad-growth which obtained in mediæval england; including, by the way, sympathy for the outlaw, jesse james taking the place of robin hood. under modern conditions however, the native ballad is speedily killed by competition with the music hall songs; the cowboys becoming ashamed to sing the crude homespun ballads in view of what owen writes calls the "ill-smelling saloon cleverness" of the far less interesting compositions of the music-hall singers. it is therefore a work of real importance to preserve permanently this unwritten ballad literature of the back country and the frontier. with all good wishes, i am very truly yours theodore roosevelt contents page araphoe, or buckskin joe arizona boys and girls, the bill peters, the stage driver billy the kid billy venero bob stanford bonnie black bess boozer, the boston burglar, the brigham young, i brigham young, ii bronc peeler's song bucking broncho buena vista battlefield buffalo hunters buffalo skinners, the bull whacker, the by markentura's flowery marge california joe california stage company california trail camp fire has gone out, the charlie rutlage chopo cole younger convict, the cow camp on the range, a cowboy, the cowboy at church, the cowboy at work, the cowboy's christmas ball, the cowboy's dream, the cowboy's lament, the cowboy's life, the cowboy's meditation, the cowgirl, the cowman's prayer, the crooked trail to holbrook, the dan taylor days of forty-nine, the deer hunt, a deserted adobe, the disheartened ranger, the dogie song down south on the rio grande dreary black hills, the dreary, dreary life, the drinking song drunkard's hell, the dying cowboy, the dying ranger, the fair fannie moore fools of forty-nine, the foreman monroe freckles, a fragment fuller and warren fragment, a fragment, a freighting from wilcox to globe gal i left behind me, the gol-darned wheel, the great round-up, the greer county habit, the happy miner, the hard times harry bale hell in texas hell-bound train, the here's to the ranger her white bosom bare home on the range, a horse wrangler, the i'm a good old rebel jack donahoo jack o' diamonds jerry, go ile that car jesse james jim farrow joe bowers john garner's trail herd jolly cowboy, the juan murray kansas line, the lackey bill last longhorn, the life in a half-breed shack little joe, the wrangler little old sod shanty, the lone buffalo hunter, the lone star trail, the love in disguise mccaffie's confession man named hods, a melancholy cowboy, the metis song of the buffalo hunters miner's song, the mississippi girls mormon song mormon bishop's lament, the mustang gray muster out the ranger new national anthem night-herding song old chisholm trail, the old gray mule, the old man under the hill, the old paint old scout's lament, the old scout's lament, the old time cowboy only a cowboy pecos queen, the pinto poor lonesome cowboy prisoner for life, a railroad corral, the rambling bay rambling cowboy, the range riders, the rattlesnake--a ranch haying song ripping trip, a road to cook's peak root hog or die rosin the bow rounded up in glory sam bass shanty boy, the silver jack sioux indians skew-ball black, the song of the "metis" trapper, the state of arkansaw, the sweet betsy from pike tail piece texas cowboy, the top hand texas rangers trail to mexico, the u.s.a. recruit, the utah carroll wars of germany, the way down in mexico westward ho when the work is done this fall whoopee-ti-yi-yo, git along little dogies whose old cow wild rovers windy bill u-s-u range young charlottie young companions zebra dun, the introduction it is now four or five years since my attention was called to the collection of native american ballads from the southwest, already begun by professor lomax. at that time, he seemed hardly to appreciate their full value and importance. to my colleague, professor g.l. kittredge, probably the most eminent authority on folk-song in america, this value and importance appeared as indubitable as it appeared to me. we heartily joined in encouraging the work, as a real contribution both to literature and to learning. the present volume is the first published result of these efforts. the value and importance of the work seems to me double. one phase of it is perhaps too highly special ever to be popular. whoever has begun the inexhaustibly fascinating study of popular song and literature--of the nameless poetry which vigorously lives through the centuries--must be perplexed by the necessarily conjectural opinions concerning its origin and development held by various and disputing scholars. when songs were made in times and terms which for centuries have been not living facts but facts of remote history or tradition, it is impossible to be sure quite how they begun, and by quite what means they sifted through the centuries into the forms at last securely theirs, in the final rigidity of print. in this collection of american ballads, almost if not quite uniquely, it is possible to trace the precise manner in which songs and cycles of song--obviously analogous to those surviving from older and antique times--have come into being. the facts which are still available concerning the ballads of our own southwest are such as should go far to prove, or to disprove, many of the theories advanced concerning the laws of literature as evinced in the ballads of the old world. such learned matter as this, however, is not so surely within my province, who have made no technical study of literary origins, as is the other consideration which made me feel, from my first knowledge of these ballads, that they are beyond dispute valuable and important. in the ballads of the old world, it is not historical or philological considerations which most readers care for. it is the wonderful, robust vividness of their artless yet supremely true utterance; it is the natural vigor of their surgent, unsophisticated human rhythm. it is the sense, derived one can hardly explain how, that here is expression straight from the heart of humanity; that here is something like the sturdy root from which the finer, though not always more lovely, flowers of polite literature have sprung. at times when we yearn for polite grace, ballads may seem rude; at times when polite grace seems tedious, sophisticated, corrupt, or mendacious, their very rudeness refreshes us with a new sense of brimming life. to compare the songs collected by professor lomax with the immortalities of olden time is doubtless like comparing the literature of america with that of all europe together. neither he nor any of us would pretend these verses to be of supreme power and beauty. none the less, they seem to me, and to many who have had a glimpse of them, sufficiently powerful, and near enough beauty, to give us some such wholesome and enduring pleasure as comes from work of this kind proved and acknowledged to be masterly. what i mean may best be implied, perhaps, by a brief statement of fact. four or five years ago, professor lomax, at my request, read some of these ballads to one of my classes at harvard, then engaged in studying the literary history of america. from that hour to the present, the men who heard these verses, during the cheerless progress of a course of study, have constantly spoken of them and written of them, as of something sure to linger happily in memory. as such i commend them to all who care for the native poetry of america. barrett wendell. nahant, massachusetts, july , . collector's note out in the wild, far-away places of the big and still unpeopled west,--in the cañons along the rocky mountains, among the mining camps of nevada and montana, and on the remote cattle ranches of texas, new mexico, and arizona,--yet survives the anglo-saxon ballad spirit that was active in secluded districts in england and scotland even after the coming of tennyson and browning. this spirit is manifested both in the preservation of the english ballad and in the creation of local songs. illiterate people, and people cut off from newspapers and books, isolated and lonely,--thrown back on primal resources for entertainment and for the expression of emotion,--utter themselves through somewhat the same character of songs as did their forefathers of perhaps a thousand years ago. in some such way have been made and preserved the cowboy songs and other frontier ballads contained in this volume. the songs represent the operation of instinct and tradition. they are chiefly interesting to the present generation, however, because of the light they throw on the conditions of pioneer life, and more particularly because of the information they contain concerning that unique and romantic figure in modern civilization, the american cowboy. the profession of cow-punching, not yet a lost art in a group of big western states, reached its greatest prominence during the first two decades succeeding the civil war. in texas, for example, immense tracts of open range, covered with luxuriant grass, encouraged the raising of cattle. one person in many instances owned thousands. to care for the cattle during the winter season, to round them up in the spring and mark and brand the yearlings, and later to drive from texas to fort dodge, kansas, those ready for market, required large forces of men. the drive from texas to kansas came to be known as "going up the trail," for the cattle really made permanent, deep-cut trails across the otherwise trackless hills and plains of the long way. it also became the custom to take large herds of young steers from texas as far north as montana, where grass at certain seasons grew more luxuriant than in the south. texas was the best breeding ground, while the climate and grass of montana developed young cattle for the market. a trip up the trail made a distinct break in the monotonous life of the big ranches, often situated hundreds of miles from where the conventions of society were observed. the ranch community consisted usually of the boss, the straw-boss, the cowboys proper, the horse wrangler, and the cook--often a negro. these men lived on terms of practical equality. except in the case of the boss, there was little difference in the amounts paid each for his services. society, then, was here reduced to its lowest terms. the work of the men, their daily experiences, their thoughts, their interests, were all in common. such a community had necessarily to turn to itself for entertainment. songs sprang up naturally, some of them tender and familiar lays of childhood, others original compositions, all genuine, however crude and unpolished. whatever the most gifted man could produce must bear the criticism of the entire camp, and agree with the ideas of a group of men. in this sense, therefore, any song that came from such a group would be the joint product of a number of them, telling perhaps the story of some stampede they had all fought to turn, some crime in which they had all shared equally, some comrade's tragic death which they had all witnessed. the song-making did not cease as the men went up the trail. indeed the songs were here utilized for very practical ends. not only were sharp, rhythmic yells--sometimes beaten into verse--employed to stir up lagging cattle, but also during the long watches the night-guards, as they rode round and round the herd, improvised cattle lullabies which quieted the animals and soothed them to sleep. some of the best of the so-called "dogie songs" seem to have been created for the purpose of preventing cattle stampedes,--such songs coming straight from the heart of the cowboy, speaking familiarly to his herd in the stillness of the night. the long drives up the trail occupied months, and called for sleepless vigilance and tireless activity both day and night. when at last a shipping point was reached, the cattle marketed or loaded on the cars, the cowboys were paid off. it is not surprising that the consequent relaxation led to reckless deeds. the music, the dancing, the click of the roulette ball in the saloons, invited; the lure of crimson lights was irresistible. drunken orgies, reactions from months of toil, deprivation, and loneliness on the ranch and on the trail, brought to death many a temporarily crazed buckaroo. to match this dare-deviltry, a saloon man in one frontier town, as a sign for his business, with psychological ingenuity painted across the broad front of his building in big black letters this challenge to god, man, and the devil: _the road to ruin_. down this road, with swift and eager footsteps, has trod many a pioneer viking of the west. quick to resent an insult real or fancied, inflamed by unaccustomed drink, the ready pistol always at his side, the tricks of the professional gambler to provoke his sense of fair play, and finally his own wild recklessness to urge him on,--all these combined forces sometimes brought him into tragic conflict with another spirit equally heedless and daring. not nearly so often, however, as one might suppose, did he die with his boots on. many of the most wealthy and respected citizens now living in the border states served as cowboys before settling down to quiet domesticity. a cow-camp in the seventies generally contained several types of men. it was not unusual to find a negro who, because of his ability to handle wild horses or because of his skill with a lasso, had been promoted from the chuck-wagon to a place in the ranks of the cowboys. another familiar figure was the adventurous younger son of some british family, through whom perhaps became current the english ballads found in the west. furthermore, so considerable was the number of men who had fled from the states because of grave imprudence or crime, it was bad form to inquire too closely about a person's real name or where he came from. most cowboys, however, were bold young spirits who emigrated to the west for the same reason that their ancestors had come across the seas. they loved roving; they loved freedom; they were pioneers by instinct; an impulse set their faces from the east, put the tang for roaming in their veins, and sent them ever, ever westward. that the cowboy was brave has come to be axiomatic. if his life of isolation made him taciturn, it at the same time created a spirit of hospitality, primitive and hearty as that found in the mead-halls of beowulf. he faced the wind and the rain, the snow of winter, the fearful dust-storms of alkali desert wastes, with the same uncomplaining quiet. not all his work was on the ranch and the trail. to the cowboy, more than to the goldseekers, more than to uncle sam's soldiers, is due the conquest of the west. along his winding cattle trails the forty-niners found their way to california. the cowboy has fought back the indians ever since ranching became a business and as long as indians remained to be fought. he played his part in winning the great slice of territory that the united states took away from mexico. he has always been on the skirmish line of civilization. restless, fearless, chivalric, elemental, he lived hard, shot quick and true, and died with his face to his foe. still much misunderstood, he is often slandered, nearly always caricatured, both by the press and by the stage. perhaps these songs, coming direct from the cowboy's experience, giving vent to his careless and his tender emotions, will afford future generations a truer conception of what he really was than is now possessed by those who know him only through highly colored romances. the big ranches of the west are now being cut up into small farms. the nester has come, and come to stay. gone is the buffalo, the indian warwhoop, the free grass of the open plain;--even the stinging lizard, the horned frog, the centipede, the prairie dog, the rattlesnake, are fast disappearing. save in some of the secluded valleys of southern new mexico, the old-time round-up is no more; the trails to kansas and to montana have become grass-grown or lost in fields of waving grain; the maverick steer, the regal longhorn, has been supplanted by his unpoetic but more beefy and profitable polled angus, durham, and hereford cousins from across the seas. the changing and romantic west of the early days lives mainly in story and in song. the last figure to vanish is the cowboy, the animating spirit of the vanishing era. he sits his horse easily as he rides through a wide valley, enclosed by mountains, clad in the hazy purple of coming night,--with his face turned steadily down the long, long road, "the road that the sun goes down." dauntless, reckless, without the unearthly purity of sir galahad though as gentle to a pure woman as king arthur, he is truly a knight of the twentieth century. a vagrant puff of wind shakes a corner of the crimson handkerchief knotted loosely at his throat; the thud of his pony's feet mingling with the jingle of his spurs is borne back; and as the careless, gracious, lovable figure disappears over the divide, the breeze brings to the ears, faint and far yet cheery still, the refrain of a cowboy song: whoopee ti yi, git along, little dogies; it's my misfortune and none of your own. whoopee ti yi, git along, little dogies; for you know wyoming will be your new home. as for the songs of this collection, i have violated the ethics of ballad-gatherers, in a few instances, by selecting and putting together what seemed to be the best lines from different versions, all telling the same story. frankly, the volume is meant to be popular. the songs have been arranged in some such haphazard way as they were collected,--jotted down on a table in the rear of saloons, scrawled on an envelope while squatting about a campfire, caught behind the scenes of a broncho-busting outfit. later, it is hoped that enough interest will be aroused to justify printing all the variants of these songs, accompanied by the music and such explanatory notes as may be useful; the negro folk-songs, the songs of the lumber jacks, the songs of the mountaineers, and the songs of the sea, already partially collected, being included in the final publication. the songs of this collection, never before in print, as a rule have been taken down from oral recitation. in only a few instances have i been able to discover the authorship of any song. they seem to have sprung up as quietly and mysteriously as does the grass on the plains. all have been popular with the range riders, several being current all the way from texas to montana, and quite as long as the old chisholm trail stretching between these states. some of the songs the cowboy certainly composed; all of them he sang. obviously, a number of the most characteristic cannot be printed for general circulation. to paraphrase slightly what sidney lanier said of walt whitman's poetry, they are raw collops slashed from the rump of nature, and never mind the gristle. likewise some of the strong adjectives and nouns have been softened,--jonahed, as george meredith would have said. there is, however, a homeric quality about the cowboy's profanity and vulgarity that pleases rather than repulses. the broad sky under which he slept, the limitless plains over which he rode, the big, open, free life he lived near to nature's breast, taught him simplicity, calm, directness. he spoke out plainly the impulses of his heart. but as yet so-called polite society is not quite willing to hear. it is entirely impossible to acknowledge the assistance i have received from many persons. to professors barrett wendell and g.l. kittredge, of harvard, i must gratefully acknowledge constant and generous encouragement. messrs. jeff hanna, of meridian, texas; john b. jones, a student of the agricultural and mechanical college of texas; h. knight, sterling city, texas; john lang sinclair, san antonio; a.h. belo & co., dallas; tom hight, of mangum, oklahoma; r. bedichek, of deming, n.m.; benjamin wyche, librarian of the carnegie library, san antonio; mrs. m.b. wight, of ft. thomas, arizona; dr. l.w. payne, jr., and dr. morgan callaway, jr., of the university of texas; and my brother, r.c. lomax, austin;--have rendered me especially helpful service in furnishing material, for which i also render grateful thanks. among the negroes, rivermen, miners, soldiers, seamen, lumbermen, railroad men, and ranchmen of the united states and canada there are many indigenous folk-songs not included in this volume. of some of them i have traces, and i shall surely run them down. i beg the co-operation of all who are interested in this vital, however humble, expression of american literature. j.a.l. deming, new mexico, august , . cowboy songs and other frontier ballads the dying cowboy[ ] "o bury me not on the lone prairie," these words came low and mournfully from the pallid lips of a youth who lay on his dying bed at the close of day. he had wailed in pain till o'er his brow death's shadows fast were gathering now; he thought of his home and his loved ones nigh as the cowboys gathered to see him die. "o bury me not on the lone prairie where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, in a narrow grave just six by three, o bury me not on the lone prairie. "in fancy i listen to the well known words of the free, wild winds and the song of the birds; i think of home and the cottage in the bower and the scenes i loved in my childhood's hour. "it matters not, i've oft been told, where the body lies when the heart grows cold; yet grant, oh grant this wish to me, o bury me not on the lone prairie. "o then bury me not on the lone prairie, in a narrow grave six foot by three, where the buffalo paws o'er a prairie sea, o bury me not on the lone prairie. "i've always wished to be laid when i died in the little churchyard on the green hillside; by my father's grave, there let mine be, and bury me not on the lone prairie. "let my death slumber be where my mother's prayer and a sister's tear will mingle there, where my friends can come and weep o'er me; o bury me not on the lone prairie. "o bury me not on the lone prairie in a narrow grave just six by three, where the buzzard waits and the wind blows free; then bury me not on the lone prairie. "there is another whose tears may be shed for one who lies on a prairie bed; it pained me then and it pains me now;-- she has curled these locks, she has kissed this brow. "these locks she has curled, shall the rattlesnake kiss? this brow she has kissed, shall the cold grave press? for the sake of the loved ones that will weep for me o bury me not on the lone prairie. "o bury me not on the lone prairie where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, where the buzzard beats and the wind goes free, o bury me not on the lone prairie. "o bury me not," and his voice failed there, but we took no heed of his dying prayer; in a narrow grave just six by three we buried him there on the lone prairie. where the dew-drops glow and the butterflies rest, and the flowers bloom o'er the prairie's crest; where the wild cayote and winds sport free on a wet saddle blanket lay a cowboy-ee. "o bury me not on the lone prairie where the wild cayotes will howl o'er me, where the rattlesnakes hiss and the crow flies free o bury me not on the lone prairie." o we buried him there on the lone prairie where the wild rose blooms and the wind blows free, o his pale young face nevermore to see,-- for we buried him there on the lone prairie. yes, we buried him there on the lone prairie where the owl all night hoots mournfully, and the blizzard beats and the winds blow free o'er his lowly grave on the lone prairie. and the cowboys now as they roam the plain,-- for they marked the spot where his bones were lain,-- fling a handful of roses o'er his grave, with a prayer to him who his soul will save. "o bury me not on the lone prairie where the wolves can howl and growl o'er me; fling a handful of roses o'er my grave with a prayer to him who my soul will save." [footnote : in this song, as in several others, the chorus should come in after each stanza. the arrangement followed has been adopted to illustrate versions current in different sections.] the dying cowboy (mus. not.) "o bu-ry me not on the lone prai-rie," these words came low ... and mourn-ful-ly ... from the pal-lid lips of a youth who lay on his dy-ing bed at the close of day. the days of forty-nine we are gazing now on old tom moore, a relic of bygone days; 'tis a bummer, too, they call me now, but what cares i for praise? it's oft, says i, for the days gone by, it's oft do i repine for the days of old when we dug out the gold in those days of forty-nine. my comrades they all loved me well, the jolly, saucy crew; a few hard cases, i will admit, though they were brave and true. whatever the pinch, they ne'er would flinch; they never would fret nor whine, like good old bricks they stood the kicks in the days of forty-nine. there's old "aunt jess," that hard old cuss, who never would repent; he never missed a single meal, nor never paid a cent. but old "aunt jess," like all the rest, at death he did resign, and in his bloom went up the flume in the days of forty-nine. there is ragshag jim, the roaring man, who could out-roar a buffalo, you bet, he roared all day and he roared all night, and i guess he is roaring yet. one night jim fell in a prospect hole,-- it was a roaring bad design,-- and in that hole jim roared out his soul in the days of forty-nine. there is wylie bill, the funny man, who was full of funny tricks, and when he was in a poker game he was always hard as bricks. he would ante you a stud, he would play you a draw, he'd go you a hatful blind,-- in a struggle with death bill lost his breath in the days of forty-nine. there was new york jake, the butcher boy, who was fond of getting tight. and every time he got on a spree he was spoiling for a fight. one night jake rampaged against a knife in the hands of old bob sine, and over jake they held a wake in the days of forty-nine. there was monte pete, i'll ne'er forget the luck he always had, he would deal for you both day and night or as long as he had a scad. it was a pistol shot that lay pete out, it was his last resign, and it caught pete dead sure in the door in the days of forty-nine. of all the comrades that i've had there's none that's left to boast, and i am left alone in my misery like some poor wandering ghost. and as i pass from town to town, they call me the rambling sign, since the days of old and the days of gold and the days of forty-nine. days of forty-nine (mus. not.) you are gaz-ing now on old tom moore, a rel-ic of by-gone days; 'tis a bum-mer now they call me. but what cares i for praise; it is oft, says i, for days gone by, it's oft do i repine for those days of old when we dug out the gold, in the days of for-ty-nine, in those days of old when we dug out the gold, in the days of for-ty-nine. joe bowers my name is joe bowers, i've got a brother ike, i came here from missouri, yes, all the way from pike. i'll tell you why i left there and how i came to roam, and leave my poor old mammy, so far away from home. i used to love a gal there, her name was sallie black, i asked her for to marry me, she said it was a whack. she says to me, "joe bowers, before you hitch for life, you ought to have a little home to keep your little wife." says i, "my dearest sallie, o sallie, for your sake, i'll go to california and try to raise a stake." says she to me, "joe bowers, you are the chap to win, give me a kiss to seal the bargain,"-- and i throwed a dozen in. i'll never forget my feelings when i bid adieu to all. sal, she cotched me round the neck and i began to bawl. when i begun they all commenced, you never heard the like, how they all took on and cried the day i left old pike. when i got to this here country i hadn't nary a red, i had such wolfish feelings i wished myself most dead. at last i went to mining, put in my biggest licks, came down upon the boulders just like a thousand bricks. i worked both late and early in rain and sun and snow, but i was working for my sallie so 'twas all the same to joe. i made a very lucky strike as the gold itself did tell, for i was working for my sallie, the girl i loved so well. but one day i got a letter from my dear, kind brother ike; it came from old missouri, yes, all the way from pike. it told me the goldarndest news that ever you did hear, my heart it is a-bustin' so please excuse this tear. i'll tell you what it was, boys, you'll bust your sides i know; for when i read that letter you ought to seen poor joe. my knees gave 'way beneath me, and i pulled out half my hair; and if you ever tell this now, you bet you'll hear me swear. it said my sallie was fickle, her love for me had fled, that she had married a butcher, whose hair was awful red; it told me more than that, it's enough to make me swear,-- it said that sallie had a baby and the baby had red hair. now i've told you all that i can tell about this sad affair, 'bout sallie marrying the butcher and the baby had red hair. but whether it was a boy or girl the letter never said, it only said its cussed hair was inclined to be red. the cowboy's dream[ ] last night as i lay on the prairie, and looked at the stars in the sky, i wondered if ever a cowboy would drift to that sweet by and by. roll on, roll on; roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on, roll on, roll on; roll on, little dogies, roll on. the road to that bright, happy region is a dim, narrow trail, so they say; but the broad one that leads to perdition is posted and blazed all the way. they say there will be a great round-up, and cowboys, like dogies, will stand, to be marked by the riders of judgment who are posted and know every brand. i know there's many a stray cowboy who'll be lost at the great, final sale, when he might have gone in the green pastures had he known of the dim, narrow trail. i wonder if ever a cowboy stood ready for that judgment day, and could say to the boss of the riders, "i'm ready, come drive me away." for they, like the cows that are locoed, stampede at the sight of a hand, are dragged with a rope to the round-up, or get marked with some crooked man's brand. and i'm scared that i'll be a stray yearling,-- a maverick, unbranded on high,-- and get cut in the bunch with the "rusties" when the boss of the riders goes by. for they tell of another big owner whose ne'er overstocked, so they say, but who always makes room for the sinner who drifts from the straight, narrow way. they say he will never forget you, that he knows every action and look; so, for safety, you'd better get branded, have your name in the great tally book. [footnote : sung to the air of _my bonnie lies over the ocean_.] the cowboy's life[ ] the bawl of a steer, to a cowboy's ear, is music of sweetest strain; and the yelping notes of the gray cayotes to him are a glad refrain. and his jolly songs speed him along, as he thinks of the little gal with golden hair who is waiting there at the bars of the home corral. for a kingly crown in the noisy town his saddle he wouldn't change; no life so free as the life we see way out on the yaso range. his eyes are bright and his heart as light as the smoke of his cigarette; there's never a care for his soul to bear, no trouble to make him fret. the rapid beat of his broncho's feet on the sod as he speeds along, keeps living time to the ringing rhyme of his rollicking cowboy song. hike it, cowboys, for the range away on the back of a bronc of steel, with a careless flirt of the raw-hide quirt and a dig of a roweled heel! the winds may blow and the thunder growl or the breezes may safely moan;-- a cowboy's life is a royal life, his saddle his kingly throne. saddle up, boys, for the work is play when love's in the cowboy's eyes,-- when his heart is light as the clouds of white that swim in the summer skies. [footnote : attributed to james barton adams.] the kansas line come all you jolly cowmen, don't you want to go way up on the kansas line? where you whoop up the cattle from morning till night all out in the midnight rain. the cowboy's life is a dreadful life, he's driven through heat and cold; i'm almost froze with the water on my clothes, a-ridin' through heat and cold. i've been where the lightnin', the lightnin' tangled in my eyes, the cattle i could scarcely hold; think i heard my boss man say: "i want all brave-hearted men who ain't afraid to die to whoop up the cattle from morning till night, way up on the kansas line." speaking of your farms and your shanty charms, speaking of your silver and gold,-- take a cowman's advice, go and marry you a true and lovely little wife, never to roam, always stay at home; that's a cowman's, a cowman's advice, way up on the kansas line. think i heard the noisy cook say, "wake up, boys, it's near the break of day,"-- way up on the kansas line, and slowly we will rise with the sleepy feeling eyes, way up on the kansas line. the cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, all out in the midnight rain; i'm almost froze with the water on my clothes, way up on the kansas line. the cowman's prayer now, o lord, please lend me thine ear, the prayer of a cattleman to hear, no doubt the prayers may seem strange, but i want you to bless our cattle range. bless the round-ups year by year, and don't forget the growing steer; water the lands with brooks and rills for my cattle that roam on a thousand hills. prairie fires, won't you please stop? let thunder roll and water drop. it frightens me to see the smoke; unless it's stopped, i'll go dead broke. as you, o lord, my herd behold, it represents a sack of gold; i think at least five cents a pound will be the price of beef the year around. one thing more and then i'm through,-- instead of one calf, give my cows two. i may pray different from other men but i've had my say, and now, amen. the miner's song[ ] in a rusty, worn-out cabin sat a broken-hearted leaser, his singlejack was resting on his knee. his old "buggy" in the corner told the same old plaintive tale, his ore had left in all his poverty. he lifted his old singlejack, gazed on its battered face, and said: "old boy, i know we're not to blame; our gold has us forsaken, some other path it's taken, but i still believe we'll strike it just the same. "we'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same, although it's gone into some other's claim. my dear old boy don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it, and we'll drill and shoot and find it just the same. "for forty years i've hammered steel and tried to make a strike, i've burned twice the powder custer ever saw. i've made just coin enough to keep poorer than a snake. my jack's ate all my books on mining law. i've worn gunny-sacks for overalls, and 'california socks,' i've burned candles that would reach from here to maine, i've lived on powder, smoke, and bacon, that's no lie, boy, i'm not fakin', but i still believe we'll strike it just the same. "last night as i lay sleeping in the midst of all my dream my assay ran six ounces clear in gold, and the silver it ran clean sixteen ounces to the seam, and the poor old miner's joy could scarce be told. i lay there, boy, i could not sleep, i had a feverish brow, got up, went back, and put in six holes more. and then, boy, i was chokin' just to see the ground i'd broken; but alas! alas! the miner's dream was o'er. "we'll strike it, yes, we'll strike it just the same, although it's gone into some other's claim. my dear old boy, don't mind it, we won't starve if we don't find it, and i still believe i'll strike it just the same." [footnote : printed as a fugitive ballad in _grandon of sierra_, by charles e. winter.] jesse james jesse james was a lad that killed a-many a man; he robbed the danville train. but that dirty little coward that shot mr. howard has laid poor jesse in his grave. poor jesse had a wife to mourn for his life, three children, they were brave. but that dirty little coward that shot mr. howard has laid poor jesse in his grave. it was robert ford, that dirty little coward, i wonder how he does feel, for he ate of jesse's bread and he slept in jesse's bed, then laid poor jesse in his grave. jesse was a man, a friend to the poor, he never would see a man suffer pain; and with his brother frank he robbed the chicago bank, and stopped the glendale train. it was his brother frank that robbed the gallatin bank, and carried the money from the town; it was in this very place that they had a little race, for they shot captain sheets to the ground. they went to the crossing not very far from there, and there they did the same; with the agent on his knees, he delivered up the keys to the outlaws, frank and jesse james. it was on wednesday night, the moon was shining bright, they robbed the glendale train; the people they did say, for many miles away, it was robbed by frank and jesse james. it was on saturday night, jesse was at home talking with his family brave, robert ford came along like a thief in the night and laid poor jesse in his grave. the people held their breath when they heard of jesse's death, and wondered how he ever came to die. it was one of the gang called little robert ford, he shot poor jesse on the sly. jesse went to his rest with his hand on his breast; the devil will be upon his knee. he was born one day in the county of clay and came from a solitary race. this song was made by billy gashade, as soon as the news did arrive; he said there was no man with the law in his hand who could take jesse james when alive. jesse james (mus. not.) jes-se james was a lad that killed a-ma-ny a man; he robbed the dan-ville train; but that dirt-y lit-tle cow-ard that shot mis-ter how-ard has laid poor jes-se in the grave. refrain. poor jes-se had a wife to mourn for his life. three chil-dren, they were brave; but that dir-ty lit-tle cow-ard that shot mis-ter how-ard has laid poor jes-se in the grave. poor lonesome cowboy i ain't got no father, i ain't got no father, i ain't got no father, to buy the clothes i wear. i'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, i'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, i'm a poor, lonesome cowboy and a long ways from home. i ain't got no mother, i ain't got no mother, i ain't got no mother to mend the clothes i wear. i ain't got no sister, i ain't got no sister, i ain't got no sister to go and play with me. i ain't got no brother, i ain't got no brother, i ain't got no brother to drive the steers with me. i ain't got no sweetheart, i ain't got no sweetheart, i ain't got no sweetheart to sit and talk with me. i'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, i'm a poor, lonesome cowboy, i'm a poor, lonesome cowboy and a long ways from home. buena vista battlefield on buena vista battlefield a dying soldier lay, his thoughts were on his mountain home some thousand miles away. he called his comrade to his side, for much he had to say, in briefest words to those who were some thousand miles away. "my father, comrade, you will tell about this bloody fray; my country's flag, you'll say to him, was safe with me to-day. i make a pillow of it now on which to lay my head, a winding sheet you'll make of it when i am with the dead. "i know 'twill grieve his inmost soul to think i never more will sit with him beneath the oak that shades the cottage door; but tell that time-worn patriot, that, mindful of his fame, upon this bloody battlefield i sullied not his name. "my mother's form is with me now, her will is in my ear, and drop by drop as flows my blood so flows from her the tear. and oh, when you shall tell to her the tidings of this day, speak softly, comrade, softly speak what you may have to say. "speak not to her in blighting words the blighting news you bear, the cords of life might snap too soon, so, comrade, have a care. i am her only, cherished child, but tell her that i died rejoicing that she taught me young to take my country's side. "but, comrade, there's one more, she's gentle as a fawn; she lives upon the sloping hill that overlooks the lawn, the lawn where i shall never more go forth with her in merry mood to gather wild-wood flowers. "tell her when death was on my brow and life receding fast, her looks, her form was with me then, were with me to the last. on buena vista's bloody field tell her i dying lay, and that i knew she thought of me some thousand miles away." westward ho i love not colorado where the faro table grows, and down the desperado the rippling bourbon flows; nor seek i fair montana of bowie-lunging fame; the pistol ring of fair wyoming i leave to nobler game. sweet poker-haunted kansas in vain allures the eye; the nevada rough has charms enough yet its blandishments i fly. shall arizona woo me where the meek apache bides? or new mexico where natives grow with arrow-proof insides? nay, 'tis where the grizzlies wander and the lonely diggers roam, and the grim chinese from the squatter flees that i'll make my humble home. i'll chase the wild tarantula and the fierce cayote i'll dare, and the locust grim, i'll battle him in his native wildwood lair. or i'll seek the gulch deserted and dream of the wild red man, and i'll build a cot on a corner lot and get rich as soon as i can. a home on the range oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play; where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. where the air is so pure, the zephyrs so free, the breezes so balmy and light, that i would not exchange my home on the range for all of the cities so bright. the red man was pressed from this part of the west, he's likely no more to return to the banks of red river where seldom if ever their flickering camp-fires burn. how often at night when the heavens are bright with the light from the glittering stars, have i stood here amazed and asked as i gazed if their glory exceeds that of ours. oh, i love these wild flowers in this dear land of ours, the curlew i love to hear scream, and i love the white rocks and the antelope flocks that graze on the mountain-tops green. oh, give me a land where the bright diamond sand flows leisurely down the stream; where the graceful white swan goes gliding along like a maid in a heavenly dream. then i would not exchange my home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play; where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play; where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. home on the range (mus. not.) oh, give me a home where the buf-fa-lo roam, where the deer and the an-te-lope play;... where sel-dom is heard a dis-cour-ag-ing word and the skies are not cloud-y all day. home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play; where sel-dom is heard a dis-cour-ag-ing word and the skies are not cloud-y all day. texas rangers come, all you texas rangers, wherever you may be, i'll tell you of some troubles that happened unto me. my name is nothing extra, so it i will not tell,-- and here's to all you rangers, i am sure i wish you well. it was at the age of sixteen that i joined the jolly band, we marched from san antonio down to the rio grande. our captain he informed us, perhaps he thought it right, "before we reach the station, boys, you'll surely have to fight." and when the bugle sounded our captain gave command, "to arms, to arms," he shouted, "and by your horses stand." i saw the smoke ascending, it seemed to reach the sky; the first thought that struck me, my time had come to die. i saw the indians coming, i heard them give the yell; my feelings at that moment, no tongue can ever tell. i saw the glittering lances, their arrows round me flew, and all my strength it left me and all my courage too. we fought full nine hours before the strife was o'er, the like of dead and wounded i never saw before. and when the sun was rising and the indians they had fled, we loaded up our rifles and counted up our dead. and all of us were wounded, our noble captain slain, and the sun was shining sadly across the bloody plain. sixteen as brave rangers as ever roamed the west were buried by their comrades with arrows in their breast. 'twas then i thought of mother, who to me in tears did say, "to you they are all strangers, with me you had better stay." i thought that she was childish, the best she did not know; my mind was fixed on ranging and i was bound to go. perhaps you have a mother, likewise a sister too, and maybe you have a sweetheart to weep and mourn for you; if that be your situation, although you'd like to roam, i'd advise you by experience, you had better stay at home. i have seen the fruits of rambling, i know its hardships well; i have crossed the rocky mountains, rode down the streets of hell; i have been in the great southwest where the wild apaches roam, and i tell you from experience you had better stay at home. and now my song is ended; i guess i have sung enough; the life of a ranger i am sure is very tough. and here's to all you ladies, i am sure i wish you well, i am bound to go a-ranging, so ladies, fare you well. the mormon bishop's lament i am a mormon bishop and i will tell you what i know. i joined the confraternity some forty years ago. i then had youth upon my brow and eloquence my tongue, but i had the sad misfortune then to meet with brigham young. he said, "young man, come join our band and bid hard work farewell, you are too smart to waste your time in toil by hill and dell; there is a ripening harvest and our hooks shall find the fool and in the distant nations we shall train them in our school." i listened to his preaching and i learned all the role, and the truth of mormon doctrines burned deep within my soul. i married sixteen women and i spread my new belief, i was sent to preach the gospel to the pauper and the thief. 'twas in the glorious days when brigham was our only lord and king, and his wild cry of defiance from the wasatch tops did ring, 'twas when that bold bill hickman and that porter rockwell led, and in the blood atonements the pits received the dead. they took in dr. robertson and left him in his gore, and the aiken brothers sleep in peace on nephi's distant shore. we marched to mountain meadows and on that glorious field with rifle and with hatchet we made man and woman yield. 'twas there we were victorious with our legions fierce and brave. we left the butchered victims on the ground without a grave. we slew the load of emigrants on sublet's lonely road and plundered many a trader of his then most precious load. alas for all the powers that were in the by-gone time. what we did as deeds of glory are condemned as bloody crime. no more the blood atonements keep the doubting one in fear, while the faithful were rewarded with a wedding once a year. as the nation's chieftain president says our days of rule are o'er and his marshals with their warrants are on watch at every door, old john he now goes skulking on the by-roads of our land, or unknown he keeps in hiding with the faithful of our band. old brigham now is stretched beneath the cold and silent clay, and the chieftains now are fallen that were mighty in their day; of the six and twenty women that i wedded long ago there are two now left to cheer me in these awful hours of woe. the rest are scattered where the gentile's flag's unfurled and two score of my daughters are now numbered with the world. oh, my poor old bones are aching and my head is turning gray; oh, the scenes were black and awful that i've witnessed in my day. let my spirit seek the mansion where old brigham's gone to dwell, for there's no place for mormons but the lowest pits of hell. dan taylor dan taylor is a rollicking cuss, a frisky son of a gun, he loves to court the maidens and he savies how it's done. he used to be a cowboy and they say he wasn't slow, he could ride the bucking bronco and swing the long lasso. he could catch a maverick by the head or heel him on the fly, he could pick up his front ones whenever he chose to try. he used to ride most anything; now he seldom will. he says they cut some caper in the air of which he's got his fill. he is done and quit the business, settled down to quiet life, and he's hunting for some maiden who will be his little wife,-- one who will wash and patch his britches and feed the setting hen, milk old blue and brindy, and tend to baby ben. then he'll build a cozy cottage and furnish it complete, he'll decorate the walls inside with pictures new and sweet. he will leave off riding broncos and be a different man; he will do his best to please his wife in every way he can. then together in double harness they will trot along down the line, until death shall call them over to a bright and sunny clime. may your joys be then completed and your sorrows have amend, is the fondest wish of the writer,-- your true and faithful friend. when work is done this fall a group of jolly cowboys, discussing plans at ease, says one, "i'll tell you something, boys, if you will listen, please. i am an old cow-puncher and here i'm dressed in rags, and i used to be a tough one and take on great big jags. "but i've got a home, boys, a good one, you all know, although i have not seen it since long, long ago. i'm going back to dixie once more to see them all; yes, i'm going to see my mother when the work's all done this fall. "after the round-ups are over and after the shipping is done, i am going right straight home, boys, ere all my money is gone. i have changed my ways, boys, no more will i fall; and i am going home, boys, when work is done this fall. "when i left home, boys, my mother for me cried, begged me not to go, boys, for me she would have died; my mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, that's all, and with god's help i'll see her when the work's all done this fall." that very night this cowboy went out to stand his guard; the night was dark and cloudy and storming very hard; the cattle they got frightened and rushed in wild stampede, the cowboy tried to head them, riding at full speed. while riding in the darkness so loudly did he shout, trying his best to head them and turn the herd about, his saddle horse did stumble and on him did fall, the poor boy won't see his mother when the work's all done this fall. his body was so mangled the boys all thought him dead, they picked him up so gently and laid him on a bed; he opened wide his blue eyes and looking all around he motioned to his comrades to sit near him on the ground. "boys, send mother my wages, the wages i have earned, for i'm afraid, boys, my last steer i have turned. i'm going to a new range, i hear my master's call, and i'll not see my mother when the work's all done this fall. "fred, you take my saddle; george, you take my bed; bill, you take my pistol after i am dead, and think of me kindly when you look upon them all, for i'll not see my mother when work is done this fall." poor charlie was buried at sunrise, no tombstone at his head, nothing but a little board and this is what it said, "charlie died at daybreak, he died from a fall, and he'll not see his mother when the work's all done this fall." sioux indians i'll sing you a song, though it may be a sad one, of trials and troubles and where they first begun; i left my dear kindred, my friends, and my home, across the wild deserts and mountains to roam. i crossed the missouri and joined a large train which bore us over mountain and valley and plain; and often of evenings out hunting we'd go to shoot the fleet antelope and wild buffalo. we heard of sioux indians all out on the plains a-killing poor drivers and burning their trains,-- a-killing poor drivers with arrows and bow, when captured by indians no mercy they show. we traveled three weeks till we came to the platte and pitched out our tents at the end of the flat, we spread down our blankets on the green grassy ground, while our horses and mules were grazing around. while taking refreshment we heard a low yell, the whoop of sioux indians coming up from the dell; we sprang to our rifles with a flash in each eye, "boys," says our brave leader, "we'll fight till we die." they made a bold dash and came near to our train and the arrows fell around us like hail and like rain, but with our long rifles we fed them cold lead till many a brave warrior around us lay dead. we shot their bold chief at the head of his band. he died like a warrior with a gun in his hand. when they saw their bold chief lying dead in his gore, they whooped and they yelled and we saw them no more. with our small band,--there were just twenty-four,-- and the sioux indians there were five hundred or more,-- we fought them with courage; we spoke not a word, till the end of the battle was all that was heard. we hitched up our horses and we started our train; three more bloody battles this trip on the plain; and in our last battle three of our brave boys fell, and we left them to rest in a green, shady dell. the old chisholm trail come along, boys, and listen to my tale, i'll tell you of my troubles on the old chisholm trail. coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. i started up the trail october twenty-third, i started up the trail with the -u herd. oh, a ten dollar hoss and a forty dollar saddle,-- and i'm goin' to punchin' texas cattle. i woke up one morning on the old chisholm trail, rope in my hand and a cow by the tail. i'm up in the mornin' afore daylight and afore i sleep the moon shines bright. old ben bolt was a blamed good boss, but he'd go to see the girls on a sore-backed hoss. old ben bolt was a fine old man and you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd land. my hoss throwed me off at the creek called mud, my hoss throwed me off round the -u herd. last time i saw him he was going cross the level a-kicking up his heels and a-running like the devil. it's cloudy in the west, a-looking like rain, and my damned old slicker's in the wagon again. crippled my hoss, i don't know how, ropin' at the horns of a -u cow. we hit caldwell and we hit her on the fly, we bedded down the cattle on the hill close by. no chaps, no slicker, and it's pouring down rain, and i swear, by god, i'll never night-herd again. feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle, i hung and rattled with them long-horn cattle. last night i was on guard and the leader broke the ranks, i hit my horse down the shoulders and i spurred him in the flanks. the wind commenced to blow, and the rain began to fall, hit looked, by grab, like we was goin' to loss 'em all. i jumped in the saddle and grabbed holt the horn, best blamed cow-puncher ever was born. i popped my foot in the stirrup and gave a little yell, the tail cattle broke and the leaders went to hell. i don't give a damn if they never do stop; i'll ride as long as an eight-day clock. foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn, best damned cowboy ever was born. i herded and i hollered and i done very well, till the boss said, "boys, just let 'em go to hell." stray in the herd and the boss said kill it, so i shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet. we rounded 'em up and put 'em on the cars, and that was the last of the old two bars. oh it's bacon and beans most every day,-- i'd as soon be a-eatin' prairie hay. i'm on my best horse and i'm goin' at a run, i'm the quickest shootin' cowboy that ever pulled a gun. i went to the wagon to get my roll, to come back to texas, dad-burn my soul. i went to the boss to draw my roll, he had it figgered out i was nine dollars in the hole. i'll sell my outfit just as soon as i can, i won't punch cattle for no damned man. goin' back to town to draw my money, goin' back home to see my honey. with my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky, i'll quit punching cows in the sweet by and by. coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. the old chisholm trail (mus. not.) come a-long, boys, and list-en to my tale, i'll tell you of my trou-bles on the old chisholm trail. refrain co-ma ti yi you-pe, you-pe ya, you-pe ya, co-ma ti yi you-pe, you-pe ya. jack donahoo come, all you bold, undaunted men, you outlaws of the day, it's time to beware of the ball and chain and also slavery. attention pay to what i say, and verily if you do, i will relate you the actual fate of bold jack donahoo. he had scarcely landed, as i tell you, upon australia's shore, than he became a real highwayman, as he had been before. there was underwood and mackerman, and wade and westley too, these were the four associates of bold jack donahoo. jack donahoo, who was so brave, rode out that afternoon, knowing not that the pain of death would overtake him soon. so quickly then the horse police from sidney came to view; "begone from here, you cowardly dogs," says bold jack donahoo. the captain and the sergeant stopped then to decide. "do you intend to fight us or unto us resign?" "to surrender to such cowardly dogs is more than i will do, this day i'll fight if i lose my life," says bold jack donahoo. the captain and the sergeant the men they did divide; they fired from behind him and also from each side; it's six police he did shoot down before the fatal ball did pierce the heart of donahoo and cause bold jack to fall. and when he fell, he closed his eyes, he bid the world adieu; come, all you boys, and sing the song of bold jack donahoo. utah carroll and as, my friend, you ask me what makes me sad and still, and why my brow is darkened like the clouds upon the hill; run in your pony closer and i'll tell to you the tale of utah carroll, my partner, and his last ride on the trail. 'mid the cactus and the thistles of mexico's fair lands, where the cattle roam in thousands, a-many a herd and brand, there is a grave with neither headstone, neither date nor name,-- there lies my partner sleeping in the land from which i came. we rode the range together and had rode it side by side; i loved him as a brother, i wept when utah died; we were rounding up one morning, our work was almost done, when on the side the cattle started on a mad and fearless run. the boss man's little daughter was holding on that side. she rushed; the cattle saw the blanket, they charged with maddened fear. and little varro, seeing the danger, turned her pony a pace and leaning in the saddle, tied the blanket in its place. in leaning, she lost her balance and fell in front of that wild tide. utah's voice controlled the round-up. "lay still, little varro," he cried. his only hope was to raise her, to catch her at full speed, and oft-times he had been known to catch the trail rope off his steed. his pony reached the maiden with a firm and steady bound; utah swung out from the saddle to catch her from the ground. he swung out from the saddle, i thought her safe from harm, as he swung in his saddle to raise her in his arm. but the cinches of his saddle had not been felt before, and his back cinch snapt asunder and he fell by the side of varro. he picked up the blanket and swung it over his head and started across the prairie; "lay still, little varro," he said. well, he got the stampede turned and saved little varro, his friend. then he turned to face the cattle and meet his fatal end. his six-shooter from his pocket, from the scabbard he quickly drew,-- he was bound to die defended as all young cowboys do. his six-shooter flashed like lightning, the report rang loud and clear; as the cattle rushed in and killed him he dropped the leading steer. and when we broke the circle where utah's body lay, with many a wound and bruise his young life ebbed away. "and in some future morning," i heard the preacher say, "i hope we'll all meet utah at the round-up far away." then we wrapped him in a blanket sent by his little friend, and it was that very red blanket that brought him to his end. the bull-whacker i'm a lonely bull-whacker on the red cloud line, i can lick any son of a gun that will yoke an ox of mine. and if i can catch him, you bet i will or try, i'd lick him with an ox-bow,-- root hog or die. it's out on the road with a very heavy load, with a very awkward team and a very muddy road, you may whip and you may holler, but if you cuss it's on the sly; then whack the cattle on, boys,-- root hog or die. it's out on the road these sights are to be seen, the antelope and buffalo, the prairie all so green,-- the antelope and buffalo, the rabbit jumps so high; it's whack the cattle on, boys,-- root hog or die. it's every day at twelve there's something for to do; and if there's nothing else, there's a pony for to shoe; i'll throw him down, and still i'll make him lie; little pig, big pig, root hog or die. now perhaps you'd like to know what we have to eat, a little piece of bread and a little dirty meat, a little black coffee, and whiskey on the sly; it's whack the cattle on, boys,-- root hog or die. there's hard old times on bitter creek that never can be beat, it was root hog or die under every wagon sheet; we cleaned up all the indians, drank all the alkali, and it's whack the cattle on, boys,-- root hog or die. there was good old times in salt lake that never can pass by, it was there i first spied my china girl called wi. she could smile, she could chuckle, she could roll her hog eye; then it's whack the cattle on, boys,-- root hog or die. oh, i'm going home bull-whacking for to spurn, i ain't got a nickel, and i don't give a dern. 'tis when i meet a pretty girl, you bet i will or try, i'll make her my little wife,-- root hog or die. the "metis" song of the buffalo hunters by robideau hurrah for the buffalo hunters! hurrah for the cart brigade! that creak along on its winding way, while we dance and sing and play. hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! hurrah for the pembinah hunters! hurrah for its cart brigade! for with horse and gun we roll along o'er mountain and hill and plain. hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! we whipped the sioux and scalped them too, while on the western plain, and rode away on our homeward way with none to say us nay,-- hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! hurrah! mon ami, mon ami, hurrah for our black-haired girls! that braved the sioux and fought them too, while on montana's plains. we'll hold them true and love them too, while on the trail of the pembinah, hurrah! hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade of pembinah! we have the skins and the meat so sweet. and we'll sit by the fire in the lodge so neat, while the wind blows cold and the snow is deep. then roll in our robes and laugh as we sleep. hurrah, hurrah for the cart brigade! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! the cowboy's lament as i walked out in the streets of laredo, as i walked out in laredo one day, i spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen, wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay. "oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly, play the dead march as you carry me along; take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me, for i'm a young cowboy and i know i've done wrong. "i see by your outfit that you are a cowboy," these words he did say as i boldly stepped by. "come sit down beside me and hear my sad story; i was shot in the breast and i know i must die. "let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin, let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song, take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me, for i'm a poor cowboy and i know i've done wrong. "my friends and relations, they live in the nation, they know not where their boy has gone. he first came to texas and hired to a ranchman, oh, i'm a young cowboy and i know i've done wrong. "go write a letter to my gray-haired mother, and carry the same to my sister so dear; but not a word of this shall you mention when a crowd gathers round you my story to hear. "then beat your drum lowly and play your fife slowly, beat the dead march as you carry me along; we all love our cowboys so young and so handsome, we all love our cowboys although they've done wrong. "there is another more dear than a sister, she'll bitterly weep when she hears i am gone. there is another who will win her affections, for i'm a young cowboy and they say i've done wrong. "go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys, and tell them the story of this my sad fate; tell one and the other before they go further to stop their wild roving before 'tis too late. "oh, muffle your drums, then play your fifes merrily; play the dead march as you go along. and fire your guns right over my coffin; there goes an unfortunate boy to his home. "it was once in the saddle i used to go dashing, it was once in the saddle i used to go gay; first to the dram-house, then to the card-house, got shot in the breast, i am dying to-day. "get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin; get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall. put bunches of roses all over my coffin, put roses to deaden the clods as they fall. "then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs lowly, and give a wild whoop as you carry me along; and in the grave throw me and roll the sod o'er me, for i'm a young cowboy and i know i've done wrong. "go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water, to cool my parched lips," the cowboy said; before i turned, the spirit had left him and gone to its giver,--the cowboy was dead. we beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly, and bitterly wept as we bore him along; for we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome, we all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong. love in disguise as william and mary stood by the seashore their last farewell to take, returning no more, little mary she said, "why surely my heart will break." "oh, don't be dismayed, little mary," he said, as he pressed the dear girl to his side, "in my absence don't mourn, for when i return i'll make little mary my bride." three years passed on without any news. one day as she stood by the door a beggar passed by with a patch on his eye, "i'm home, oh, do pity, my love; have compassion on me, your friend i will be. your fortune i'll tell besides. the lad you mourn will never return to make little mary his bride." she startled and trembled and then she did say, "all the fortune i have i freely give if what i ask you will tell unto me,-- say, does young william yet live?" "he lives and is true and poverty poor, and shipwreck has suffered beside; he'll return no more, because he is poor, to make little mary his bride." "no tongue can tell the joy i do feel although his misfortune i mourn, and he's welcome to me though poverty poor, his jacket all tattered and torn. i love him so dear, so true and sincere, i'll have no other beside; those with riches enrobed and covered with gold can't make little mary their bride." the beggar then tore the patch from his eye, his crutches he laid by his side, coat, jacket and bundle; cheeks red as a rose, 'twas william that stood by her side. "then excuse me, dear maid," to her he said, "it was only your love i tried." so he hastened away at the close of the day to make little mary his bride. mustang gray there once was a noble ranger, they called him mustang gray; he left his home when but a youth, went ranging far away. but he'll go no more a-ranging, the savage to affright; he has heard his last war-whoop, and fought his last fight. he ne'er would sleep within a tent, no comforts would he know; but like a brave old tex-i-an, a-ranging he would go. when texas was invaded by a mighty tyrant foe, he mounted his noble war-horse and a-ranging he did go. once he was taken prisoner, bound in chains upon the way, he wore the yoke of bondage through the streets of monterey. a senorita loved him, and followed by his side; she opened the gates and gave to him her father's steed to ride. god bless the senorita, the belle of monterey, she opened wide the prison door and let him ride away. and when this veteran's life was spent, it was his last command to bury him on texas soil on the banks of the rio grande; and there the lonely traveler, when passing by his grave, will shed a farewell tear o'er the bravest of the brave. and he'll go no more a-ranging, the savage to affright; he has heard his last war-whoop, and fought his last fight. young companions come all you young companions and listen unto me, i'll tell you a story of some bad company. i was born in pennsylvania among the beautiful hills and the memory of my childhood is warm within me still. i did not like my fireside, i did not like my home; i had in view far rambling, so far away did roam. i had a feeble mother, she oft would plead with me; and the last word she gave me was to pray to god in need. i had two loving sisters, as fair as fair could be, and oft beside me kneeling they oft would plead with me. i bid adieu to loved ones, to my home i bid farewell, and i landed in chicago in the very depth of hell. it was there i took to drinking, i sinned both night and day, and there within my bosom a feeble voice would say: "then fare you well, my loved one, may god protect my boy, and blessings ever with him throughout his manhood joy." i courted a fair young maiden, her name i will not tell, for i should ever disgrace her since i am doomed for hell. it was on one beautiful evening, the stars were shining bright, and with a fatal dagger i bid her spirit flight. so justice overtook me, you all can plainly see, my soul is doomed forever throughout eternity. it's now i'm on the scaffold, my moments are not long; you may forget the singer but don't forget the song. lackey bill come all you good old boys and listen to my rhymes, we are west of eastern texas and mostly men of crimes; each with a hidden secret well smothered in his breast, which brought us out to mexico, way out here in the west. my parents raised me tenderly, they had no child but me, till i began to ramble and with them could never agree. my mind being bent on rambling did grieve their poor hearts sore, to leave my aged parents them to see no more. i was borned and raised in texas, though never come to fame, a cowboy by profession, c.w. king, by name. oh, when the war was ended i did not like to work, my brothers were not happy, for i had learned to shirk. in fact i was not able, my health was very bad, i had no constitution, i was nothing but a lad. i had no education, i would not go to school, and living off my parents i thought it rather cool. so i set a resolution to travel to the west, my parents they objected, but still i thought it best. it was out on the seven rivers all out on the pecos stream, it was there i saw a country i thought just suited me. i thought i would be no stranger and lead a civil life, in order to be happy would choose myself a wife. on one sabbath evening in the merry month of may to a little country singing i happened there to stray. it was there i met a damsel i never shall forget, the impulse of that moment remains within me yet. we soon became acquainted, i thought she would fill the bill, she seemed to be good-natured, which helps to climb the hill. she was a handsome figure though not so very tall; her hair was red as blazes, i hate it worst of all. i saw her home one evening in the presence of her pap, i bid them both good evening with a note left in her lap. and when i got an answer i read it with a rush, i found she had consented, my feelings was a hush. but now i have changed my mind, boys, i am sure i wish her well. here's to that precious jewel, i'm sure i wish her well. this girl was miss mollie walker who fell in love with me, she was a lovely western girl, as lovely as could be, she was so tall, so handsome, so charming and so fair, there is not a girl in this whole world with her i could compare. she said my pockets would be lined with gold, hard work then i'd leave o'er if i'd consent to live with her and say i'd roam no more. my mind began to ramble and it grieved my poor heart sore, to leave my darling girl, her to see no more. i asked if it made any difference if i crossed o'er the plains; she said it made no difference if i returned again. so we kissed, shook hands, and parted, i left that girl behind. she said she'd prove true to me till death proved her unkind. i rode in the town of vagus, all in the public square; the mail coach had arrived, the post boy met me there. he handed me a letter that gave me to understand that the girl i loved in texas had married another man. so i read a little farther and found those words were true. i turned myself all around, not knowing what to do. i'll sell my horse, saddle, and bridle, cow-driving i'll resign, i'll search this world from town to town for the girl i left behind. here the gold i find in plenty, the girls to me are kind, but my pillow is haunted with the girl i left behind. it's trouble and disappointment is all that i can see, for the dearest girl in all the world has gone square back on me. whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies as i walked out one morning for pleasure, i spied a cow-puncher all riding alone; his hat was throwed back and his spurs was a jingling, as he approached me a-singin' this song, whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies, it's your misfortune, and none of my own. whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies, for you know wyoming will be your new home. early in the spring we round up the dogies, mark and brand and bob off their tails; round up our horses, load up the chuck-wagon, then throw the dogies upon the trail. it's whooping and yelling and driving the dogies; oh how i wish you would go on; it's whooping and punching and go on little dogies, for you know wyoming will be your new home. some boys goes up the trail for pleasure, but that's where you get it most awfully wrong; for you haven't any idea the trouble they give us while we go driving them all along. when the night comes on and we hold them on the bedground, these little dogies that roll on so slow; roll up the herd and cut out the strays, and roll the little dogies that never rolled before. your mother she was raised way down in texas, where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; now we'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla till you are ready for the trail to idaho. oh, you'll be soup for uncle sam's injuns; "it's beef, heap beef," i hear them cry. git along, git along, git along little dogies you're going to be beef steers by and by. whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies (mus. not.) as i was a-walk-ing one morn-ing for pleasure, i spied a cow-punch-er all rid-ing a-lone; his hat was throw'd back and his spurs was a-jing-lin', as he ap-proach'd me a-sing-in' this song: refrain. whoopee ti yi yo, git a-long little dog-ies, its your mis-for-tune and none of my own. whoop-ee ti yi yo, git a-long lit-tie dog-ies, for you know wy-o-ming will be your new home. the u-s-u range o come cowboys and listen to my song, i'm in hopes i'll please you and not keep you long; i'll sing you of things you may think strange about west texas and the u-s-u range. you may go to stamford and there see a man who wears a white shirt and is asking for hands; you may ask him for work and he'll answer you short, he will hurry you up, for he wants you to start. he will put you in a wagon and be off in the rain, you will go up on tongue river on the u-s-u range. you will drive up to the ranch and there you will stop. it's a little sod house with dirt all on top. you will ask what it is and they will tell you out plain that it's the ranch house on the u-s-u range. you will go in the house and he will begin to explain; you will see some blankets rolled up on the floor; you may ask what it is and they will tell you out plain that it is the bedding on the u-s-u range. you are up in the morning at the daybreak to eat cold beef and u-s-u steak, and out to your work no matter if it's rain,-- and that is the life on the u-s-u range. you work hard all day and come in at night, and turn your horse loose, for they say it's all right, and set down to supper and begin to complain of the chuck that you eat on the u-s-u range. the grub that you get is beans and cold rice and u-s-u steak cooked up very nice; and if you don't like that you needn't complain, for that's what you get on the u-s-u range. now, kind friends, i must leave you, i no longer can remain, i hope i have pleased you and given you no pain. but when i am gone, don't think me strange, for i have been a cow-puncher on the u-s-u range. i'm a good old rebel oh, i'm a good old rebel, that's what i am; and for this land of freedom, i don't care a damn, i'm glad i fought agin her, i only wish we'd won, and i don't axe any pardon for anything i've done. i served with old bob lee, three years about, got wounded in four places and starved at point lookout; i caught the rheumatism a-campin' in the snow, but i killed a _chance_ of yankees and wish i'd killed some mo'. for i'm a good old rebel, etc. i hate the constitooshin, this great republic too; i hate the mouty eagle, an' the uniform so blue; i hate their glorious banner, an' all their flags an' fuss, those lyin', thievin' yankees, i hate 'em wuss an' wuss. for i'm a good old rebel, etc. i won't be re-constructed! i'm better now than them; and for a carpet-bagger, i don't give a damn; so i'm off for the frontier, soon as i can go, i'll prepare me a weapon and start for mexico. for i'm a good old rebel, etc. the cowboy all day long on the prairies i ride, not even a dog to trot by my side; my fire i kindle with chips gathered round, my coffee i boil without being ground. i wash in a pool and wipe on a sack; i carry my wardrobe all on my back; for want of an oven i cook bread in a pot, and sleep on the ground for want of a cot. my ceiling is the sky, my floor is the grass, my music is the lowing of the herds as they pass; my books are the brooks, my sermons the stones, my parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones. and then if my cooking is not very complete you can't blame me for wanting to eat. but show me a man that sleeps more profound than the big puncher-boy who stretches himself on the ground. my books teach me ever consistence to prize, my sermons, that small things i should not despise; my parson remarks from his pulpit of bones that fortune favors those who look out for their own. and then between me and love lies a gulf very wide. some lucky fellow may call her his bride. my friends gently hint i am coming to grief, but men must make money and women have beef. but cupid is always a friend to the bold, and the best of his arrows are pointed with gold. society bans me so savage and dodge that the masons would ball me out of their lodge. if i had hair on my chin, i might pass for the goat that bore all the sins in the ages remote; but why it is i can never understand, for each of the patriarchs owned a big brand. abraham emigrated in search of a range, and when water was scarce he wanted a change; old isaac owned cattle in charge of esau, and jacob punched cows for his father-in-law. he started in business way down at bed rock, and made quite a streak at handling stock; then david went from night-herding to using a sling; and, winning the battle, he became a great king. then the shepherds, while herding the sheep on a hill, got a message from heaven of peace and goodwill. the cowboy (mus. not.) music by the "kid" all day on the prai-rie in the sad-dle i ride, not e-ven a dog, boys, to trot by my side. my fire i must kin-dle with chips gathered round, and boil my own cof-fee with-out be-ing ground. i wash in a pool and i wipe on a sack, i car-ry my ward-robe all on my back. bill peters, the stage driver bill peters was a hustler from independence town; he warn't a college scholar nor man of great renown, but bill had a way o' doing things and doin' 'em up brown. bill driv the stage from independence up to the smokey hill; and everybody knowed him thar as independence bill,-- thar warn't no feller on the route that driv with half the skill. bill driv four pair of horses, same as you'd drive a team, and you'd think you was a-travelin' on a railroad driv by steam; and he'd git thar on time, you bet, or bill 'u'd bust a seam. he carried mail and passengers, and he started on the dot, and them teams o' his'n, so they say, was never known to trot; but they went it in a gallop and kept their axles hot. when bill's stage 'u'd bust a tire, or something 'u'd break down, he'd hustle round and patch her up and start off with a bound; and the wheels o' that old shack o' his scarce ever touched the ground. and bill didn't low no foolin', and when inguns hove in sight and bullets rattled at the stage, he druv with all his might; he'd holler, "fellers, give 'em hell, i ain't got time to fight." then the way them wheels 'u'd rattle, and the way the dust 'u'd fly, you'd think a million cattle, had stampeded and gone by; but the mail 'u'd get thar just the same, if the horses had to die. he driv that stage for many a year along the smokey hill, and a pile o' wild comanches did bill peters have to kill,-- and i reckon if he'd had good luck he'd been a drivin' still. but he chanced one day to run agin a bullet made o' lead, which was harder than he bargained for and now poor bill is dead; and when they brung his body home a barrel of tears was shed. hard times come listen a while and i'll sing you a song concerning the times--it will not be long-- when everybody is striving to buy, and cheating each other, i cannot tell why,-- and it's hard, hard times. from father to mother, from sister to brother, from cousin to cousin, they're cheating each other. since cheating has grown to be so much the fashion, i believe to my soul it will run the whole nation,-- and it's hard, hard times. now there is the talker, by talking he eats, and so does the butcher by killing his meats. he'll toss the steelyards, and weigh it right down, and swear it's just right if it lacks forty pounds,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there is the merchant, as honest, we're told. whatever he sells you, my friend, you are sold; believe what i tell you, and don't be surprised to find yourself cheated half out of your eyes,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there is the lawyer you plainly will see, he will plead your case for a very large fee, he'll law you and tell you the wrong side is right, and make you believe that a black horse is white,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there is the doctor, i like to forgot, i believe to my soul he's the worst of the lot; he'll tell you he'll cure you for half you possess, and when you're buried he'll take all the rest,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there's the old bachelor, all hated with scorn, he's like an old garment all tattered and torn, the girls and the widows all toss him a sigh, and think it quite right, and so do i,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there's the young widow, coquettish and shy, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye, but when she gets married she'll cut quite a dash, she'll give him the reins and she'll handle the cash,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there's the young lady i like to have missed, and i believe to my soul she'd like to be kissed; she'll tell you she loves you with all pretence and ask you to call again some time hence,-- and it's hard, hard times. and there's the young man, the worst of the whole. oh, he will tell you with all of his soul, he'll tell you he loves you and for you will die, and when he's away he will swear it's a lie,-- and it's hard, hard times. cole younger am one of a band of highwaymen, cole younger is my name; my crimes and depredations have brought my friends to shame; the robbing of the northfield bank, the same i can't deny, for now i am a prisoner, in the stillwater jail i lie. 'tis of a bold, high robbery, a story to you i'll tell, of a california miner who unto us befell; we robbed him of his money and bid him go his way, for which i will be sorry until my dying day. and then we started homeward, when brother bob did say: "now, cole, we will buy fast horses and on them ride away. we will ride to avenge our father's death and try to win the prize; we will fight those anti-guerrillas until the day we die." and then we rode towards texas, that good old lone star state, but on nebraska's prairies the james boys we did meet; with knives, guns, and revolvers we all sat down to play, a-drinking of good whiskey to pass the time away. a union pacific railway train was the next we did surprise, and the crimes done by our bloody hands bring tears into my eyes. the engineerman and fireman killed, the conductor escaped alive, and now their bones lie mouldering beneath nebraska's skies. then we saddled horses, northwestward we did go, to the god-forsaken country called min-ne-so-te-o; i had my eye on the northfield bank when brother bob did say, "now, cole, if you undertake the job, you will surely curse the day." but i stationed out my pickets and up to the bank did go, and there upon the counter i struck my fatal blow. "just hand us over your money and make no further delay, we are the famous younger brothers, we spare no time to pray." mississippi girls come, all you mississippi girls, and listen to my noise, if you happen to go west, don't you marry those texian boys; for if you do, your fortune will be cold jonny-cake and beefsteak, that's all that you will see,-- cold jonny-cake and beefsteak, that's all that you will see. when they go courting, here's what they wear: an old leather coat, and it's all ripped and tore; and an old brown hat with the brim tore down, and a pair of dirty socks, they've worn the winter round. when one comes in, the first thing you hear is, "madam, your father has killed a deer"; and the next thing they say when they sit down is, "madam, the jonny-cake is too damned brown." they live in a hut with hewed log wall, but it ain't got any windows at all; with a clap-board roof and a puncheon floor, and that's the way all texas o'er. they will take you out on a live-oak hill and there they will leave you much against your will. they will leave you on the prairie, starve you on the plains, for that is the way with the texians,-- for that is the way with the texians. when they go to preaching let me tell you how they dress; just an old black shirt without any vest, just an old straw hat more brim than crown and an old sock leg that they wear the winter round,-- and an old sock leg that they wear the winter round. for your wedding supper, there'll be beef and cornbread; there it is to eat when the ceremony's said. and when you go to milk you'll milk into a gourd; and set it in the corner and cover it with a board; some gets little and some gets none, for that is the way with the texians,-- for that is the way with the texians. the old man under the hill there was an old man who lived under the hill, chir-u-ra-wee, lived under the hill, and if he ain't dead he's living there still, chir-u-ra-wee, living there still. one day the old man went out to plow, chir-u-ra-wee, went out to plow; 'tis good-bye the old fellow, and how are you now, sing chir-u-ra-wee, and how are you now. and then another came to his house, chir-u-ra-wee, came to his house; "there's one of your family i've got to have now, sing chir-u-ra-wee, got to have now. "it's neither you nor your oldest son, chir-u-ra-wee, nor your oldest son." "then take my old woman and take her for fun, sing chir-u-ra-wee, take her for fun." he takened her all upon his back, chir-u-ra-wee, upon his back, and like an old rascal went rickity rack, sing chir-u-ra-wee, went rickity rack. but when he got half way up the road, chir-u-ra-wee, up the road, says he, "you old lady, you're sure a load," sing chir-u-ra-wee, you're sure a load. he set her down on a stump to rest, chir-u-ra-wee, stump to rest; she up with a stick and hit him her best. sing chir-u-ra-wee, hit him her best. he taken her on to hell's old gate, chir-u-ra-wee, hell's old gate, but when he got there he got there too late, sing chir-u-ra-wee, got there too late. and so he had to keep his wife, chir-u-ra-wee, had to keep his wife, and keep her he did for the rest of his life. sing chir-u-ra-wee, for the rest of his life. jerry, go ile that car come all ye railroad section men an' listen to my song, it is of larry o'sullivan who now is dead and gone. for twinty years a section boss, he niver hired a tar-- oh, it's "j'int ahead and cinter back, an' jerry, go ile that car!" for twinty years a section boss, he niver hired a tar, but it's "j'int ahead an cinter back, an' jerry, go ile that car-r-r!" for twinty years a section boss, he worked upon the track, and be it to his cred-i-it he niver had a wrack. for he kept every j'int right up to the p'int wid the tap of the tampin-bar-r-r; and while the byes was a-swimmin' up the ties, it's "jerry, wud yez ile that car-r-r!" god rest ye, larry o'sullivan, to me ye were kind and good; ye always made the section men go out and chop me wood; an' fetch me wather from the well an' chop me kindlin' fine; and any man that wouldn't lind a hand, 'twas larry give him his time. and ivery sunday morni-i-ing unto the gang he'd say: "me byes, prepare--yez be aware the ould lady goes to church the day. now, i want ivery man to pump the best he can, for the distance it is far-r-r; an' we have to get in ahead of number tin-- so, jerry, go an' ile that car-r-r!" 'twas in november in the winter time and the ground all covered wid snow, "come put the hand-car-r-r on the track an' over the section go!" wid his big soger coat buttoned up to his t'roat, all weathers he would dare-- an' it's "paddy mack, will yez walk the track, an' jerry, go an' ile that car-r-r!" "give my respects to the roadmas-ther," poor larry he did cry, "an lave me up that i may see the ould hand-car before i die. come, j'int ahead an' cinter back, an' jerry, go an' ile that car-r-r!" then lay the spike maul upon his chist, the gauge, and the ould claw-bar-r-r, and while the byes do be fillin' up his grave, "oh, jerry, go an' ile that car-r-r!" john garner's trail herd come all you old timers and listen to my song; i'll make it short as possible and i'll not keep you long; i'll relate to you about the time you all remember well when we, with old joe garner, drove a beef herd up the trail. when we left the ranch it was early in the spring, we had as good a corporal as ever rope did swing, good hands and good horses, good outfit through and through,-- we went well equipped, we were a jolly crew. we had no little herd--two thousand head or more-- and some as wild a brush beeves as you ever saw before. we swung to them all the way and sometimes by the tail,-- oh, you know we had a circus as we all went up the trail. all things went on well till we reached the open ground, and then them cattle turned in and they gave us merry hell. they stampeded every night that came and did it without fail,-- oh, you know we had a circus as we all went up the trail. we would round them up at morning and the boss would make a count, and say, "look here, old punchers, we are out quite an amount; you must make all losses good and do it without fail or you will never get another job of driving up the trail." when we reached red river we gave the inspector the dodge. he swore by god almighty, in jail old john should lodge. we told him if he'd taken our boss and had him locked in jail, we would shore get his scalp as we all came down the trail. when we reached the reservation, how squirmish we did feel, although we had tried old garner and knew him true as steel. and if we would follow him and do as he said do, that old bald-headed cow-thief would surely take us through. when we reached dodge city we drew our four months' pay. times was better then, boys, that was a better day. the way we drank and gambled and threw the girls around,-- "say, a crowd of texas cowboys has come to take our town." the cowboy sees many hardships although he takes them well; the fun we had upon that trip, no human tongue can tell. the cowboy's life is a dreary life, though his mind it is no load, and he always spends his money like he found it in the road. if ever you meet old garner, you must meet him on the square, for he is the biggest cow-thief that ever tramped out there. but if you want to hear him roar and spin a lively tale, just ask him about the time we all went up the trail. the old scout's lament come all of you, my brother scouts, and join me in my song; come, let us sing together though the shadows fall so long. of all the old frontiersmen that used to scour the plain, there are but very few of them that with us yet remain. day after day they're dropping off, they're going one by one; our clan is fast decreasing, our race is almost run. there were many of our number that never wore the blue, but, faithfully, they did their part, as brave men, tried and true. they never joined the army, but had other work to do in piloting the coming folks, to help them safely through. but, brothers, we are falling, our race is almost run; the days of elk and buffalo and beaver traps are gone. oh, the days of elk and buffalo! it fills my heart with pain to know these days are past and gone to never come again. we fought the red-skin rascals over valley, hill, and plain; we fought him in the mountain top, and fought him down again. these fighting days are over; the indian yell resounds no more along the border; peace sends far sweeter sounds. but we found great joy, old comrades, to hear, and make it die; we won bright homes for gentle ones, and now, our west, good-bye. the lone buffalo hunter it's of those texas cowboys, a story i'll tell; no name i will mention though in texas they do dwell. go find them where you will, they are all so very brave, and when in good society they seldom misbehave. when the fall work is all over in the line-camp they'll be found, for they have to ride those lonesome lines the long winter round; they prove loyal to a comrade, no matter what's to do; and when in love with a fair one they seldom prove untrue. but springtime comes at last and finds them glad and gay; they ride out to the round-up about the first of may; about the first of august they start up the trail, they have to stay with the cattle, no matter rain or hail. but when they get to the shipping point, then they receive their tens, straightway to the bar-room and gently blow them in; it's the height of their ambition, so i've been truly told, to ride good horses and saddles and spend the silver and gold. those last two things i've mentioned, it is their heart's desire, and when they leave the shipping point, their eyes are like balls of fire. it's of those fighting cattle, they seem to have no fear, a-riding bucking broncos oft is their heart's desire. they will ride into the branding pen, a rope within their hands, they will catch them by each forefoot and bring them to the sands; it's altogether in practice with a little bit of sleight, a-roping texas cattle, it is their heart's delight. but now comes the rising generation to take the cowboy's place, likewise the corn-fed granger, with his bold and cheeky face; it's on those plains of texas a lone buffalo hunter does stand to tell the fate of the cowboy that rode at his right hand. the crooked trail to holbrook come all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco steer, i'll sing to you a verse or two your spirits for to cheer; it's all about a trip, a trip that i did undergo on that crooked trail to holbrook, in arizona oh. it's on the seventeenth of february, our herd it started out, it would have made your hearts shudder to hear them bawl and shout, as wild as any buffalo that ever rode the platte, those dogies we were driving, and every one was fat. we crossed the mescal mountains on the way to gilson flats, and when we got to gilson flats, lord, how the wind did blow; it blew so hard, it blew so fierce, we knew not where to go, but our spirits never failed us as onward we did go,-- on that crooked trail to holbrook, in arizona oh. that night we had a stampede; christ, how the cattle run! we made it to our horses; i tell you, we had no fun; over the prickly pear and catclaw brush we quickly made our way; we thought of our long journey and the girls we'd left one day. it's long by sombserva we slowly punched along, while each and every puncher would sing a hearty song to cheer up his comrade as onward we did go, on that crooked trail to holbrook, in arizona oh. we crossed the mongollen mountains where the tall pines do grow, grass grows in abundance, and rippling streams do flow; our packs were always turning, of course our gait was slow, on that crooked trail to holbrook, in arizona oh. at last we got to holbrook, a little gale did blow; it blew up sand and pebble stones and it didn't blow them slow. we had to drink the water from that muddy little stream and swallowed a peck of dirt when we tried to eat a bean. but the cattle now are shipped and homeward we are bound with a lot of as tired horses as ever could be found; across the reservation no danger did we fear, but thought of wives and sweethearts and the ones we love so dear. now we are back in globe city, our friendship there to share; here's luck to every puncher that follows the bronco steer. only a cowboy away out in old texas, that great lone star state, where the mocking bird whistles both early and late; it was in western texas on the old n a range the boy fell a victim on the old staked plains. he was only a cowboy gone on before, he was only a cowboy, we will never see more; he was doing his duty on the old n a range but now he is sleeping on the old staked plains. his crew they were numbered twenty-seven or eight, the boys were like brothers, their friendship was great, when "o god, have mercy" was heard from behind,-- the cattle were left to drift on the line. he leaves a dear wife and little ones, too, to earn them a living, as fathers oft do; for while he was working for the loved ones so dear he was took without warning or one word of cheer. and while he is sleeping where the sun always shines, the boys they go dashing along on the line; the look on their faces it speaks to us all of one who departed to the home of the soul. he was only a cowboy gone on before, he was only a cowboy, we will never see more; he was doing his duty on the old n a range but now he is sleeping on the old staked plains. fuller and warren ye sons of columbia, your attention i do crave, while a sorrowful story i do tell, which happened of late, in the indiana state, and a hero not many could excel; like samson he courted, made choice of the fair, and intended to make her his wife; but she, like delilah, his heart did ensnare, which cost him his honor and his life. a gold ring he gave her in token of his love, on the face was the image of the dove; they mutually agreed to get married with speed and were promised by the powers above. but the fickle-minded maiden vowed again to wed to young warren who lived in that place; it was a fatal blow that caused his overthrow and added to her shame and disgrace. when fuller came to hear he was deprived of his dear whom he vowed by the powers to wed, with his heart full of woe unto warren he did go, and smilingly unto him he said: "young man, you have injured me to gratify your cause by reporting that i left a prudent wife; acknowledge now that you have wronged me, for although i break the laws, young warren, i'll deprive you of your life." then warren, he replied: "your request must be denied, for your darling to my heart she is bound; and further i can say that this is our wedding day, in spite of all the heroes in town." then fuller in the passion of his love and anger bound,-- alas! it caused many to cry,-- at one fatal shot killed warren on the spot, and smilingly said, "i'm ready now to die." the time was drawing nigh when fuller had to die; he bid the audience adieu. like an angel he did stand, for he was a handsome man, on his breast he had a ribbon of blue. ten thousand spectators did smite him on the breast, and the guards dropped a tear from the eye, saying, "cursed be she who caused this misery, would to god in his stead she had to die." the gentle god of love looked with anger from above and the rope flew asunder like the sand. two doctors for the pay they murdered him, they say, they hung him by main strength of hand. but the corpse it was buried and the doctors lost their prey, oh, that harlot was bribed, i do believe; bad women to a certainty are the downfall of men, as adam was beguiled by eve. fuller and warren (mus. not.) ye sons of co-lum-bia, your at-ten-tion i do crave, while a sor-ri-ful sto-ry i do tell, which hap-pened of late in the in-di-an-a state, and a he-ro ... not ma-ny could ex-cel. like sam-son he court-ed, made choice of the fair, and in-tend-ed ... to make her his wife; but she, like de-li-la,... his heart did en-snare, which cost him his hon-or and his life. the trail to mexico i made up my mind to change my way and quit my crowd that was so gay, to leave my native home for a while and to travel west for many a mile. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. 'twas all in the merry month of may when i started for texas far away, i left my darling girl behind,-- she said her heart was only mine. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. oh, it was when i embraced her in my arms i thought she had ten thousand charms; her caresses were soft, her kisses were sweet, saying, "we will get married next time we meet." whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. it was in the year of eighty-three that a.j. stinson hired me. he says, "young fellow, i want you to go and drive this herd to mexico." whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. the first horse they gave me was an old black with two big set-fasts on his back; i padded him with gunny-sacks and my bedding all; he went up, then down, and i got a fall. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. the next they gave me was an old gray, i'll remember him till my dying day. and if i had to swear to the fact, i believe he was worse off than the black. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. oh, it was early in the year when i went on trail to drive the steer. i stood my guard through sleet and snow while on the trail to mexico. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. oh, it was a long and lonesome go as our herd rolled on to mexico; with laughter light and the cowboy's song to mexico we rolled along. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. when i arrived in mexico i wanted to see my love but could not go; so i wrote a letter, a letter to my dear, but not a word from her could i hear. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. when i arrived at the once loved home i called for the darling of my own; they said she had married a richer life, therefore, wild cowboy, seek another wife. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. oh, the girl she is married i do adore, and i cannot stay at home any more; i'll cut my way to a foreign land or i'll go back west to my cowboy band. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. i'll go back to the western land, i'll hunt up my old cowboy band,-- where the girls are few and the boys are true and a false-hearted love i never knew. whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. "o buddie, o buddie, please stay at home, don't be forever on the roam. there is many a girl more true than i, so pray don't go where the bullets fly." whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. "it's curse your gold and your silver too, god pity a girl that won't prove true; i'll travel west where the bullets fly, i'll stay on the trail till the day i die." whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo-a-whoo. the horse wrangler i thought one spring just for fun i'd see how cow-punching was done, and when the round-ups had begun i tackled the cattle-king. says he, "my foreman is in town, he's at the plaza, and his name is brown, if you'll see him, he'll take you down." says i, "that's just the thing." we started for the ranch next day; brown augured me most all the way. he said that cow-punching was nothing but play, that it was no work at all,-- that all you had to do was ride, and only drifting with the tide; the son of a gun, oh, how he lied. don't you think he had his gall? he put me in charge of a cavyard, and told me not to work too hard, that all i had to do was guard the horses from getting away; i had one hundred and sixty head, i sometimes wished that i was dead; when one got away, brown's head turned red, and there was the devil to pay. sometimes one would make a break, across the prairie he would take, as if running for a stake,-- it seemed to them but play; sometimes i could not head them at all, sometimes my horse would catch a fall and i'd shoot on like a cannon ball till the earth came in my way. they saddled me up an old gray hack with two set-fasts on his back, they padded him down with a gunny sack and used my bedding all. when i got on he quit the ground, went up in the air and turned around, and i came down and busted the ground,-- i got one hell of a fall. they took me up and carried me in and rubbed me down with an old stake pin. "that's the way they all begin; you're doing well," says brown. "and in the morning, if you don't die, i'll give you another horse to try." "oh say, can't i walk?" says i. says he, "yes, back to town." i've traveled up and i've traveled down, i've traveled this country round and round, i've lived in city and i've lived in town, but i've got this much to say: before you try cow-punching, kiss your wife, take a heavy insurance on your life, then cut your throat with a barlow knife,-- for it's easier done that way. california joe well, mates, i don't like stories; or am i going to act a part around the campfire that ain't a truthful fact? so fill your pipes and listen, i'll tell you--let me see-- i think it was in fifty, from that till sixty-three. you've all heard tell of bridger; i used to run with jim, and many a hard day's scouting i've done longside of him. well, once near old fort reno, a trapper used to dwell; we called him old pap reynolds, the scouts all knew him well. one night in the spring of fifty we camped on powder river, and killed a calf of buffalo and cooked a slice of liver. while eating, quite contented, i heard three shots or four; put out the fire and listened,-- we heard a dozen more. we knew that old man reynolds had moved his traps up here; so picking up our rifles and fixing on our gear we moved as quick as lightning, to save was our desire. too late, the painted heathens had set the house on fire. we hitched our horses quickly and waded up the stream; while down close beside the waters i heard a muffled scream. and there among the bushes a little girl did lie. i picked her up and whispered, "i'll save you or i'll die." lord, what a ride! old bridger had covered my retreat; sometimes that child would whisper in voice low and sweet, "poor papa, god will take him to mama up above; there is no one left to love me, there is no one left to love." the little one was thirteen and i was twenty-two; i says, "i'll be your father and love you just as true." she nestled to my bosom, her hazel eyes so bright, looked up and made me happy,-- the close pursuit that night. one month had passed and maggie, we called her hazel eye, in truth was going to leave me, was going to say good-bye. her uncle, mad jack reynolds, reported long since dead, had come to claim my angel, his brother's child, he said. what could i say? we parted, mad jack was growing old; i handed him a bank note and all i had in gold. they rode away at sunrise, i went a mile or two, and parting says, "we will meet again; may god watch over you." by a laughing, dancing brook a little cabin stood, and weary with a long day's scout, i spied it in the wood. the pretty valley stretched beyond, the mountains towered above, and near its willow banks i heard the cooing of a dove. 'twas one grand pleasure; the brook was plainly seen, like a long thread of silver in a cloth of lovely green; the laughter of the water, the cooing of the dove, was like some painted picture, some well-told tale of love. while drinking in the country and resting in the saddle, i heard a gentle rippling like the dipping of a paddle, and turning to the water, a strange sight met my view,-- a lady with her rifle in a little bark canoe. she stood up in the center, with her rifle to her eye; i thought just for a second my time had come to die. i doffed my hat and told her, if it was just the same, to drop her little shooter, for i was not her game. she dropped the deadly weapon and leaped from the canoe. says she, "i beg your pardon; i thought you was a sioux. your long hair and your buckskin looked warrior-like and rough; my bead was spoiled by sunshine, or i'd have killed you sure enough." "perhaps it would've been better if you'd dropped me then," says i; "for surely such an angel would bear me to the sky." she blushingly dropped her eyelids, her cheeks were crimson red; one half-shy glance she gave me and then hung down her head. i took her little hand in mine; she wondered what it meant, and yet she drew it not away, but rather seemed content. we sat upon the mossy bank, her eyes began to fill; the brook was rippling at our feet, the dove was cooing still. 'tis strong arms were thrown around her. "i'll save you or i'll die." i clasped her to my bosom, my long lost hazel eye. the rapture of that moment was almost heaven to me; i kissed her 'mid the tear-drops, her merriment and glee. her heart near mine was beating when sobbingly she said, "my dear, my brave preserver, they told me you were dead. but oh, those parting words, joe, have never left my mind, you said, 'we'll meet again, mag,' then rode off like the wind. "and oh, how i have prayed, joe, for you who saved my life, that god would send an angel to guide you through all strife. the one who claimed me from you, my uncle, good and true, is sick in yonder cabin; has talked so much of you. "'if joe were living darling,' he said to me last night, 'he would care for you, maggie, when god puts out my light.'" we found the old man sleeping. "hush, maggie, let him rest." the sun was slowly setting in the far-off, glowing west. and though we talked in whispers he opened wide his eyes: "a dream, a dream," he murmured; "alas, a dream of lies." she drifted like a shadow to where the old man lay. "you had a dream, dear uncle, another dream to-day?" "oh yes, i saw an angel as pure as mountain snow, and near her at my bedside stood california joe." "i'm sure i'm not an angel, dear uncle, that you know; these hands that hold your hand, too, my face is not like snow. "now listen while i tell you, for i have news to cheer; hazel eye is happy, for joe is truly here." it was but a few days after the old man said to me, "joe, boy, she is an angel, and good as angels be. "for three long months she hunted, and trapped and nursed me too; god bless you, boy, i believe it, she's safe along with you." the sun was slowly sinking, when maggie, my wife, and i went riding through the valley, the tear-drops in her eye. "one year ago to-day, joe, i saw the mossy grave; we laid him neath the daisies, my uncle, good and brave." and comrade, every springtime is sure to find me there; there is something in the valley that is always fresh and fair. our love is always kindled while sitting by the stream, where two hearts were united in love's sweet happy dream. the boston burglar i was born in boston city, a city you all know well, brought up by honest parents, the truth to you i'll tell, brought up by honest parents and raised most tenderly, till i became a roving man at the age of twenty-three. my character was taken then, and i was sent to jail. my friends they found it was in vain to get me out on bail. the jury found me guilty, the clerk he wrote it down, the judge he passed me sentence and i was sent to charleston town. you ought to have seen my aged father a-pleading at the bar, also my dear old mother a-tearing of her hair, tearing of her old gray locks as the tears came rolling down, saying, "son, dear son, what have you done, that you are sent to charleston town?" they put me aboard an eastbound train one cold december day, and every station that we passed, i'd hear the people say, "there goes a noted burglar, in strong chains he'll be bound,-- for the doing of some crime or other he is sent to charleston town." there is a girl in boston, she is a girl that i love well, and if i ever gain my liberty, along with her i'll dwell; and when i regain my liberty, bad company i will shun, night-walking, gambling, and also drinking rum. now, you who have your liberty, pray keep it if you can, and don't go around the streets at night to break the laws of man; for if you do you'll surely rue and find yourself like me, a-serving out my twenty-one years in the penitentiary. sam bass sam bass was born in indiana, it was his native home, and at the age of seventeen young sam began to roam. sam first came out to texas a cowboy for to be,-- a kinder-hearted fellow you seldom ever see. sam used to deal in race stock, one called the denton mare, he matched her in scrub races, and took her to the fair. sam used to coin the money and spent it just as free, he always drank good whiskey wherever he might be. sam left the collin's ranch in the merry month of may with a herd of texas cattle the black hills for to see, sold out in custer city and then got on a spree,-- a harder set of cowboys you seldom ever see. on their way back to texas they robbed the u.p. train, and then split up in couples and started out again. joe collins and his partner were overtaken soon, with all their hard-earned money they had to meet their doom. sam made it back to texas all right side up with care; rode into the town of denton with all his friends to share. sam's life was short in texas; three robberies did he do, he robbed all the passenger, mail, and express cars too. sam had four companions--four bold and daring lads-- they were richardson, jackson, joe collins, and old dad; four more bold and daring cowboys the rangers never knew, they whipped the texas rangers and ran the boys in blue. sam had another companion, called arkansas for short, was shot by a texas ranger by the name of thomas floyd; oh, tom is a big six-footer and thinks he's mighty fly, but i can tell you his racket,--he's a deadbeat on the sly. jim murphy was arrested, and then released on bail; he jumped his bond at tyler and then took the train for terrell; but mayor jones had posted jim and that was all a stall, 'twas only a plan to capture sam before the coming fall. sam met his fate at round rock, july the twenty-first, they pierced poor sam with rifle balls and emptied out his purse. poor sam he is a corpse and six foot under clay, and jackson's in the bushes trying to get away. jim had borrowed sam's good gold and didn't want to pay, the only shot he saw was to give poor sam away. he sold out sam and barnes and left their friends to mourn,-- oh, what a scorching jim will get when gabriel blows his horn. and so he sold out sam and barnes and left their friends to mourn, oh, what a scorching jim will get when gabriel blows his horn. perhaps he's got to heaven, there's none of us can say, but if i'm right in my surmise he's gone the other way. sam bass (mus. not.) sam bass was born in in-di-an-a, it was his na-tive home; and at the age of sev-en-teen, young sam be-gan to roam. sam first came out to tex-as, a cow-boy for to be; a kind-er-heart-ed fel-low you sel-dom ev-er see. the zebra dun we were camped on the plains at the head of the cimarron when along came a stranger and stopped to arger some. he looked so very foolish that we began to look around, we thought he was a greenhorn that had just 'scaped from town. we asked if he had been to breakfast; he hadn't had a smear, so we opened up the chuck-box and bade him have his share. he took a cup of coffee and some biscuits and some beans, and then began to talk and tell about foreign kings and queens,-- about the spanish war and fighting on the seas with guns as big as steers and ramrods big as trees,-- and about old paul jones, a mean, fighting son of a gun, who was the grittiest cuss that ever pulled a gun. such an educated feller his thoughts just came in herds, he astonished all them cowboys with them jaw-breaking words. he just kept on talking till he made the boys all sick, and they began to look around just how to play a trick. he said he had lost his job upon the santa fé and was going across the plains to strike the -d. he didn't say how come it, some trouble with the boss, but said he'd like to borrow a nice fat saddle hoss. this tickled all the boys to death, they laughed way down in their sleeves,-- "we will lend you a horse just as fresh and fat as you please." shorty grabbed a lariat and roped the zebra dun and turned him over to the stranger and waited for the fun. old dunny was a rocky outlaw that had grown so awful wild that he could paw the white out of the moon every jump for a mile. old dunny stood right still,--as if he didn't know,-- until he was saddled and ready for to go. when the stranger hit the saddle, old dunny quit the earth and traveled right straight up for all that he was worth. a-pitching and a-squealing, a-having wall-eyed fits, his hind feet perpendicular, his front ones in the bits. we could see the tops of the mountains under dunny every jump, but the stranger he was growed there just like the camel's hump; the stranger sat upon him and curled his black mustache just like a summer boarder waiting for his hash. he thumped him in the shoulders and spurred him when he whirled, to show them flunky punchers that he was the wolf of the world. when the stranger had dismounted once more upon the ground, we knew he was a thoroughbred and not a gent from town; the boss who was standing round watching of the show, walked right up to the stranger and told him he needn't go,-- "if you can use the lasso like you rode old zebra dun, you are the man i've been looking for ever since the year one." oh, he could twirl the lariat and he didn't do it slow, he could catch them fore feet nine out of ten for any kind of dough. and when the herd stampeded he was always on the spot and set them to nothing, like the boiling of a pot. there's one thing and a shore thing i've learned since i've been born, that every educated feller ain't a plumb greenhorn. the buffalo skinners come all you jolly fellows and listen to my song, there are not many verses, it will not detain you long; it's concerning some young fellows who did agree to go and spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo. it happened in jacksboro in the spring of seventy-three, a man by the name of crego came stepping up to me, saying, "how do you do, young fellow, and how would you like to go and spend one summer pleasantly on the range of the buffalo?" "it's me being out of employment," this to crego i did say, "this going out on the buffalo range depends upon the pay. but if you will pay good wages and transportation too, i think, sir, i will go with you to the range of the buffalo." "yes, i will pay good wages, give transportation too, provided you will go with me and stay the summer through; but if you should grow homesick, come back to jacksboro, i won't pay transportation from the range of the buffalo." it's now our outfit was complete--seven able-bodied men, with navy six and needle gun--our troubles did begin; our way it was a pleasant one, the route we had to go, until we crossed pease river on the range of the buffalo. it's now we've crossed pease river, our troubles have begun. the first damned tail i went to rip, christ! how i cut my thumb! while skinning the damned old stinkers our lives wasn't a show, for the indians watched to pick us off while skinning the buffalo. he fed us on such sorry chuck i wished myself most dead, it was old jerked beef, croton coffee, and sour bread. pease river's as salty as hell fire, the water i could never go,-- o god! i wished i had never come to the range of the buffalo. our meat it was buffalo hump and iron wedge bread, and all we had to sleep on was a buffalo robe for a bed; the fleas and gray-backs worked on us, o boys, it was not slow, i'll tell you there's no worse hell on earth than the range of the buffalo. our hearts were cased with buffalo hocks, our souls were cased with steel, and the hardships of that summer would nearly make us reel. while skinning the damned old stinkers our lives they had no show, for the indians waited to pick us off on the hills of mexico. the season being near over, old crego he did say the crowd had been extravagant, was in debt to him that day,-- we coaxed him and we begged him and still it was no go,-- we left old crego's bones to bleach on the range of the buffalo. oh, it's now we've crossed pease river and homeward we are bound, no more in that hell-fired country shall ever we be found. go home to our wives and sweethearts, tell others not to go, for god's forsaken the buffalo range and the damned old buffalo. range of the buffalo (mus. not.) 'twas in the town of jacksbo-ro, in eigh-teen eigh-ty- three, when a man by the name of cre-go... came step-ping up to me; say-ing, "how do you do, young fel-low, and how would you like to go... and spend one summer sea-son on the range of the buf-fa-lo?" macaffie's confession now come young men and list to me, a sad and mournful history; and may you ne'er forgetful be of what i tell this day to thee. oh, i was thoughtless, young, and gay and often broke the sabbath day, in wickedness i took delight and sometimes done what wasn't right. i'd scarcely passed my fifteenth year, my mother and my father dear were silent in their deep, dark grave, their spirits gone to him who gave. 'twas on a pleasant summer day when from my home i ran away and took unto myself a wife, which step was fatal to my life. oh, she was kind and good to me as ever woman ought to be, and might this day have been alive no doubt, had i not met miss hatty stout. ah, well i mind the fatal day when hatty stole my heart away; 'twas love for her controlled my will and did cause me my wife to kill. 'twas on a brilliant summer's night when all was still; the stars shone bright. my wife lay still upon the bed and i approached to her and said: "dear wife, here's medicine i've brought, for you this day, my love, i've bought. i know it will be good for you for those vile fits,--pray take it, do." she cast on me a loving look and in her mouth the poison took; down by her infant on the bed in her last, long sleep she laid her head. oh, who could tell a mother's thought when first to her the news was brought; the sheriff said her son was sought and into prison must be brought. only a mother standing by to hear them tell the reason why her son in prison, he must lie till on the scaffold he must die. my father, sixty years of age, the best of counsel did engage, to see if something could be done to save his disobedient son. so, farewell, mother, do not weep, though soon with demons i will sleep, my soul now feels its mental hell and soon with demons i will dwell. * * * * * the sheriff cut the slender cord, his soul went up to meet its lord; the doctor said, "the wretch is dead, his spirit from his body's fled." his weeping mother cried aloud, "o god, do save this gazing crowd, that none may ever have to pay for gambling on the sabbath day." little joe, the wrangler it's little joe, the wrangler, he'll wrangle never more, his days with the _remuda_ they are o'er; 'twas a year ago last april when he rode into our camp,-- just a little texas stray and all alone,-- on a little texas pony he called "chaw." with his brogan shoes and overalls, a tougher kid you never in your life before had saw. his saddle was a texas "kak," built many years ago, with an o.k. spur on one foot lightly swung; his "hot roll" in a cotton sack so loosely tied behind, and his canteen from his saddle-horn was swung. he said that he had to leave his home, his pa had married twice; and his new ma whipped him every day or two; so he saddled up old chaw one night and lit a shuck this way, and he's now trying to paddle his own canoe. he said if we would give him work, he'd do the best he could, though he didn't know straight up about a cow; so the boss he cut him out a mount and kindly put him on, for he sorta liked this little kid somehow. learned him to wrangle horses and to try to know them all, and get them in at daylight if he could; to follow the chuck-wagon and always hitch the team, and to help the _cocinero_ rustle wood. we had driven to the pecos, the weather being fine; we had camped on the south side in a bend; when a norther commenced blowin', we had doubled up our guard, for it taken all of us to hold them in. little joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest; though the kid had scarcely reached the herd, when the cattle they stampeded, like a hailstorm long they fled, then we were all a-ridin' for the lead. 'midst the streaks of lightin' a horse we could see in the lead, 'twas little joe, the wrangler, in the lead; he was riding old blue rocket with a slicker o'er his head, a tryin' to check the cattle in their speed. at last we got them milling and kinda quieted down, and the extra guard back to the wagon went; but there was one a-missin' and we knew it at a glance, 'twas our little texas stray, poor wrangling joe. the next morning just at day break, we found where rocket fell, down in a washout twenty feet below; and beneath the horse, mashed to a pulp,--his spur had rung the knell,-- was our little texas stray, poor wrangling joe. little joe, the wrangler (mus. not.) lit-tle joe, the wran-gler, he'll wran-gle nev-er-more, rode up to our herd his days with the re--mu--da they are o'er; on a lit-tle tex-as po-ny he call'd chaw; 'twas a year a-go last a-pril he rode in-to our herd; with his bro-gan shoes and o-veralls, a tough-er look-in' kid just a lit-tle tex-as stray, and all a-lone. you nev-er in your life be-fore had saw. it was late in the eve-ning he harry bale come all kind friends and kindred dear and christians young and old, a story i'll relate to you, 'twill make your blood run cold; 'tis all about an unfortunate boy who lived not far from here, in the township of arcade in the county of lapeer. it seems his occupation was a sawyer in a mill, he followed it successfully two years, one month, until, until this fatal accident that caused many to weep and wail; 'twas where this young man lost his life,--his name was harry bale. on the th of april in the year of seventy-nine, he went to work as usual, no fear did he design; in lowering of the feed bar throwing the carriage into gear it brought him down upon the saw and cut him quite severe; it cut him through the collar-bone and half way down the back, it threw him down upon the saw, the carriage coming back. he started for the shanty, his strength was failing fast; he said, "oh, boys, i'm wounded: i fear it is my last." his brothers they were sent for, likewise his sisters too, the doctors came and dressed his wound, but kind words proved untrue. poor harry had no father to weep beside his bed, no kind and loving mother to sooth his aching head. he was just as gallant a young man as ever you wished to know, but he withered like a flower, it was his time to go. they placed him in his coffin and laid him in his grave; his brothers and sisters mourned the loss of a brother so true and brave. they took him to the graveyard and laid him away to rest, his body lies mouldering, his soul is among the blest. foreman monroe come all you brave young shanty boys, and list while i relate concerning a young shanty boy and his untimely fate; concerning a young river man, so manly, true and brave; 'twas on a jam at gerry's rock he met his watery grave; 'twas on a sunday morning as you will quickly hear, our logs were piled up mountain high, we could not keep them clear. our foreman said, "come on, brave boys, with hearts devoid of fear, we'll break the jam on gerry's rock and for agonstown we'll steer." now, some of them were willing, while others they were not, all for to work on sunday they did not think they ought; but six of our brave shanty boys had volunteered to go and break the jam on gerry's rock with their foreman, young monroe. they had not rolled off many logs 'till they heard his clear voice say, "i'd have you boys be on your guard, for the jam will soon give way." these words he'd scarcely spoken when the jam did break and go, taking with it six of those brave boys and their foreman, young monroe. now when those other shanty boys this sad news came to hear, in search of their dead comrades to the river they did steer; six of their mangled bodies a-floating down did go, while crushed and bleeding near the banks lay the foreman, young monroe. they took him from his watery grave, brushed back his raven hair; there was a fair form among them whose cries did rend the air; there was a fair form among them, a girl from saginaw town. whose cries rose to the skies for her lover who'd gone down. fair clara was a noble girl, the river-man's true friend; she and her widowed mother lived at the river's bend; and the wages of her own true love the boss to her did pay, but the shanty boys for her made up a generous sum next day. they buried him quite decently; 'twas on the first of may; come all you brave young shanty boys and for your comrade pray. engraved upon the hemlock tree that by the grave does grow is the aged date and the sad fate of the foreman, young monroe. fair clara did not long survive, her heart broke with her grief; and less than three months afterwards death came to her relief; and when the time had come and she was called to go, her last request was granted, to be laid by young monroe. come all you brave young shanty boys, i'd have you call and see two green graves by the river side where grows a hemlock tree; the shanty boys cut off the wood where lay those lovers low,-- 'tis the handsome clara vernon and her true love, jack monroe. the dreary black hills kind friends, you must pity my horrible tale, i am an object of pity, i am looking quite stale, i gave up my trade selling right's patent pills to go hunting gold in the dreary black hills. don't go away, stay at home if you can, stay away from that city, they call it cheyenne, for big walipe or comanche bills they will lift up your hair on the dreary black hills. the round-house in cheyenne is filled every night with loafers and bummers of most every plight; on their backs is no clothes, in their pockets no bills, each day they keep starting for the dreary black hills. i got to cheyenne, no gold could i find, i thought of the lunch route i'd left far behind; through rain, hail, and snow, frozen plumb to the gills,-- they call me the orphan of the dreary black hills. kind friend, to conclude, my advice i'll unfold, don't go to the black hills a-hunting for gold; railroad speculators their pockets you'll fill by taking a trip to those dreary black hills. don't go away, stay at home if you can, stay away from that city, they call it cheyenne, for old sitting bull or comanche bills they will take off your scalp on the dreary black hills. the dreary black hills (mus. not.) kind friends, you must pit-y my hor-ri-ble tale, i'm an ob-ject of pit-y, i'm look-ing quite stale; i gave up my trade, selling right's pat-ent pills, to go hunt-ing gold in the drear-y black hills. refrain don't go a-way, stay at home if you can; stay a-way from that cit-y they call it chey-enne; for big wal-i-pee or co-man-che bills, they will lift up your hair on the drear-y black hills. a mormon song i used to live on cottonwood and owned a little farm, i was called upon a mission that gave me much alarm; the reason that they called me, i'm sure i do not know. but to hoe the cane and cotton, straightway i must go. i yoked up jim and baldy, all ready for the start; to leave my farm and garden, it almost broke my heart; but at last we got started, i cast a look behind, for the sand and rocks of dixie were running through my mind. now, when we got to black ridge, my wagon it broke down, and i, being no carpenter and forty miles from town,-- i cut a clumsy cedar and rigged an awkward slide, but the wagon ran so heavy poor betsy couldn't ride. while betsy was out walking i told her to take care, when all of a sudden she struck a prickly pear, then she began to hollow as loud as she could bawl,-- if i were back in cottonwood, i wouldn't go at all. now, when we got to sand ridge, we couldn't go at all, old jim and old baldy began to puff and loll, i cussed and swore a little, for i couldn't make the route, for the team and i and betsy were all of us played out. at length we got to washington; i thought we'd stay a while to see if the flowers would make their virgin smile, but i was much mistaken, for when we went away the red hills of september were just the same in may. it is so very dreary, there's nothing here to cheer, but old pathetic sermons we very often hear; they preach them by the dozens and prove them by the book, but i'd sooner have a roasting-ear and stay at home and cook. i am so awful weary i'm sure i'm almost dead; 'tis six long weeks last sunday since i have tasted bread; of turnip-tops and lucerne greens i've had enough to eat, but i'd like to change my diet to buckwheat cakes and meat. i had to sell my wagon for sorghum seed and bread; old jim and old baldy have long since been dead. there's no one left but me and bet to hoe the cotton tree,-- god pity any mormon that attempts to follow me! the buffalo hunters come all you pretty girls, to you these lines i'll write, we are going to the range in which we take delight; we are going on the range as we poor hunters do, and the tender-footed fellows can stay at home with you. it's all of the day long as we go tramping round in search of the buffalo that we may shoot him down; our guns upon our shoulders, our belts of forty rounds, we send them up salt river to some happy hunting grounds. our game, it is the antelope, the buffalo, wolf, and deer, who roam the wide prairies without a single fear; we rob him of his robe and think it is no harm, to buy us food and clothing to keep our bodies warm. the buffalo, he is the noblest of the band, he sometimes rejects in throwing up his hand. his shaggy main thrown forward, his head raised to the sky, he seems to say, "we're coming, boys; so hunter, mind your eye." our fires are made of mesquite roots, our beds are on the ground; our houses made of buffalo hides, we make them tall and round; our furniture is the camp kettle, the coffee pot, and pan, our chuck it is both bread and meat, mingled well with sand. our neighbors are the cheyennes, the 'rapahoes, and sioux, their mode of navigation is a buffalo-hide canoe. and when they come upon you they take you unaware, and such a peculiar way they have of raising hunter's hair. the little old sod shanty i am looking rather seedy now while holding down my claim, and my victuals are not always served the best; and the mice play shyly round me as i nestle down to rest in my little old sod shanty on my claim. the hinges are of leather and the windows have no glass, while the board roof lets the howling blizzards in, and i hear the hungry cayote as he slinks up through the grass round the little old sod shanty on my claim. yet, i rather like the novelty of living in this way, though my bill of fare is always rather tame, but i'm happy as a clam on the land of uncle sam in the little old sod shanty on my claim. but when i left my eastern home, a bachelor so gay, to try and win my way to wealth and fame, i little thought i'd come down to burning twisted hay in the little old sod shanty on my claim. my clothes are plastered o'er with dough, i'm looking like a fright, and everything is scattered round the room, but i wouldn't give the freedom that i have out in the west for the table of the eastern man's old home. still, i wish that some kind-hearted girl would pity on me take and relieve me from the mess that i am in; the angel, how i'd bless her if this her home she'd make in the little old sod shanty on my claim. and we would make our fortunes on the prairies of the west, just as happy as two lovers we'd remain; we'd forget the trials and troubles we endured at the first in the little old sod shanty on my claim. and if fate should bless us with now and then an heir to cheer our hearts with honest pride of fame, oh, then we'd be contented for the toil that we had spent in the little old sod shanty on our claim. when time enough had lapsed and all those little brats to noble man and womanhood had grown, it wouldn't seem half so lonely as round us we should look and we'd see the old sod shanty on our claim. the gol-darned wheel i can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly west. i can ride him, i can break him, let him do his level best; i can handle any cattle ever wore a coat of hair, and i've had a lively tussle with a tarnel grizzly bear. i can rope and throw the longhorn of the wildest texas brand, and in indian disagreements i can play a leading hand, but at last i got my master and he surely made me squeal when the boys got me a-straddle of that gol-darned wheel. it was at the eagle ranch, on the brazos, when i first found that darned contrivance that upset me in the dust. a tenderfoot had brought it, he was wheeling all the way from the sun-rise end of freedom out to san francisco bay. he tied up at the ranch for to get outside a meal, never thinking we would monkey with his gol-darned wheel. arizona jim begun it when he said to jack mcgill there was fellows forced to limit bragging on their riding skill, and he'd venture the admission the same fellow that he meant was a very handy cutter far as riding bronchos went; but he would find that he was bucking 'gainst a different kind of deal if he threw his leather leggins 'gainst a gol-darned wheel. such a slam against my talent made me hotter than a mink, and i swore that i would ride him for amusement or for chink. and it was nothing but a plaything for the kids and such about, and they'd have their ideas shattered if they'd lead the critter out. they held it while i mounted and gave the word to go; the shove they gave to start me warn't unreasonably slow. but i never spilled a cuss word and i never spilled a squeal-- i was building reputation on that gol-darned wheel. holy moses and the prophets, how we split the texas air, and the wind it made whip-crackers of my same old canthy hair, and i sorta comprehended as down the hill we went there was bound to be a smash-up that i couldn't well prevent. oh, how them punchers bawled, "stay with her, uncle bill! stick your spurs in her, you sucker! turn her muzzle up the hill!" but i never made an answer, i just let the cusses squeal, i was finding reputation on that gol-darned wheel. the grade was mighty sloping from the ranch down to the creek and i went a-galliflutin' like a crazy lightning streak,-- went whizzing and a-darting first this way and then that, the darned contrivance sort o' wobbling like the flying of a bat. i pulled upon the handles, but i couldn't check it up, and i yanked and sawed and hollowed but the darned thing wouldn't stop. then a sort of a meachin' in my brain began to steal, that the devil held a mortgage on that gol-darned wheel. i've a sort of dim and hazy remembrance of the stop, with the world a-goin' round and the stars all tangled up; then there came an intermission that lasted till i found i was lying at the ranch with the boys all gathered round, and a doctor was a-sewing on the skin where it was ripped, and old arizona whispered, "well, old boy, i guess you're whipped," and i told him i was busted from sombrero down to heel, and he grinned and said, "you ought to see that gol-darned wheel." bonnie black bess when fortune's blind goddess had fled my abode, and friends proved unfaithful, i took to the road; to plunder the wealthy and relieve my distress, i bought you to aid me, my bonnie black bess. no vile whip nor spur did your sides ever gall, for none did you need, you would bound at my call; and for each act of kindness you would me caress, thou art never unfaithful, my bonnie black bess. when dark, sable midnight her mantle had thrown o'er the bright face of nature, how oft we have gone to the famed houndslow heath, though an unwelcome guest to the minions of fortune, my bonnie black bess. how silent you stood when the carriage i stopped, the gold and the jewels its inmates would drop. no poor man i plundered nor e'er did oppress the widows or orphans, my bonnie black bess. when argus-eyed justice did me hot pursue, from yorktown to london like lightning we flew. no toll bars could stop you, the waters did breast, and in twelve hours we made it, my bonnie black bess. but hate darkens o'er me, despair is my lot, and the law does pursue me for the many i've shot; to save me, poor brute, thou hast done thy best, thou art worn out and weary, my bonnie black bess. hark! they never shall have a beast like thee; so noble and gentle and brave, thou must die, my dumb friend, though it does me distress,-- there! there! i have shot thee, my bonnie black bess. in after years when i am dead and gone, this story will be handed from father to son; my fate some will pity, and some will confess 'twas through kindness i killed thee, my bonnie black bess. no one can e'er say that ingratitude dwelt in the bosom of turpin,-- 'twas a vice never felt. i will die like a man and soon be at rest; now, farewell forever, my bonnie black bess. the last longhorn an ancient long-horned bovine lay dying by the river; there was lack of vegetation and the cold winds made him shiver; a cowboy sat beside him with sadness in his face. to see his final passing,-- this last of a noble race. the ancient eunuch struggled and raised his shaking head, saying, "i care not to linger when all my friends are dead. these jerseys and these holsteins, they are no friends of mine; they belong to the nobility who live across the brine. "tell the durhams and the herefords when they come a-grazing round, and see me lying stark and stiff upon the frozen ground, i don't want them to bellow when they see that i am dead, for i was born in texas near the river that is red. "tell the cayotes, when they come at night a-hunting for their prey, they might as well go further, for they'll find it will not pay. if they attempt to eat me, they very soon will see that my bones and hide are petrified,-- they'll find no beef on me. "i remember back in the seventies, full many summers past, there was grass and water plenty, but it was too good to last. i little dreamed what would happen some twenty summers hence, when the nester came with his wife, his kids, his dogs, and his barbed-wire fence." his voice sank to a murmur, his breath was short and quick; the cowboy tried to skin him when he saw he couldn't kick; he rubbed his knife upon his boot until he made it shine, but he never skinned old longhorn, caze he couldn't cut his rine. and the cowboy riz up sadly and mounted his cayuse, saying, "the time has come when longhorns and their cowboys are no use!" and while gazing sadly backward upon the dead bovine, his bronc stepped in a dog-hole and fell and broke his spine. the cowboys and the longhorns who partnered in eighty-four have gone to their last round-up over on the other shore; they answered well their purpose, but their glory must fade and go, because men say there's better things in the modern cattle show. a prisoner for life fare you well, green fields, soft meadows, adieu! rocks and mountains, i depart from you; nevermore shall my eyes by your beauties be blest, nevermore shall you soothe my sad bosom to rest. farewell, little birdies, that fly in the sky, you fly all day long and sing your troubles by; i am doomed to this cell, i heave a deep sigh; my heart sinks within me, in anguish i die. fare you well, little fishes, that glides through the sea, your life's all sunshine, all light, and all glee; nevermore shall i watch your skill in the wave, i'll depart from all friends this side of the grave. what would i give such freedom to share, to roam at my ease and breathe the fresh air; i would roam through the cities, through village and dell, but i never would return to my cold prison cell. what's life without liberty? i ofttimes have said, of a poor troubled mind that's always in dread; no sun, moon, and stars can on me now shine, no change in my danger from daylight till dawn. fare you well, kind friends, i am willing to own, such a wild outcast never was known; i'm the downfall of my family, my children, my wife; god pity and pardon the poor prisoner for life. a prisoner for life (mus. not.) fare you well green fields,... soft mead-ows, a-dieu! rocks and moun-tains i de-part ... from you, nev-er-more shall my eyes by your beau-ties be fed, nev-er more shall you soothe my poor bo-som to rest. the wars of germany there was a wealthy merchant, in london he did dwell, he had an only daughter, the truth to you i'll tell. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. she was courted by a lord of very high degree, she was courted by a sailor jack just from the wars of germany. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. her parents came to know this, that such a thing could be, a sailor jack, a sailor lad, just from the wars of germany. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. so polly she's at home with money at command, she taken a notion to view some foreign land. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. she went to the tailor's shop and dressed herself in man's array, and was off to an officer to carry her straight away. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. "good morning," says the officer, and "morning," says she, "here's fifty guineas if you'll carry me to the wars of germany." sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. "your waist is too slender, your fingers are too small, i am afraid from your countenance you can't face a cannon ball." sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. "my waist is not too slender, my fingers are not too small, and never would i quiver to face a cannon ball." sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. "we don't often 'list an officer unless the name we know;" she answered him in a low, sweet voice, "you may call me jack munro." sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. we gathered up our men and quickly we did sail, we landed in france with a sweet and pleasant gale. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. we were walking on the land, up and down the line,-- among the dead and wounded her own true love she did find. sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. she picked him up all in her arms, to tousen town she went; she soon found a doctor to dress and heal his wounds, sing i am left alone, sing i am left alone. so jacky, he is married, and his bride by his side, in spite of her old parents and all the world beside. sing no longer left alone, sing no longer left alone. freighting from wilcox to globe come all you jolly freighters that has freighted on the road, that has hauled a load of freight from wilcox to globe; we freighted on this road for sixteen years or more a-hauling freight for livermore,-- no wonder that i'm poor. and it's home, dearest home; and it's home you ought to be, over on the gila in the white man's country, where the poplar and the ash and mesquite will ever be growing green down on the gila; there's a home for you and me. 'twas in the spring of seventy-three i started with my team, led by false illusion and those foolish, golden dreams; the first night out from wilcox my best wheel horse was stole, and it makes me curse a little to come out in the hole. this then only left me three,-- kit, mollie and old mike; mike being the best one of the three i put him out on spike; i then took the mountain road so the people would not smile, and it took fourteen days to travel thirteen mile. but i got there all the same with my little three-up spike; it taken all my money, then, to buy a mate for mike. you all know how it is when once you get behind, you never get even again till you damn steal them blind. i was an honest man when i first took to the road, i would not swear an oath, nor would i tap a load; but now you ought to see my mules when i begin to cuss, they flop their ears and wiggle their tails and pull the load or bust. now i can tap a whiskey barrel with nothing but a stick, no one can detect me i've got it down so slick; just fill it up with water,-- sure, there's no harm in that. now my clothes are not the finest, nor are they genteel; but they will have to do me till i can make another steal. my boots are number elevens, for i swiped them from a chow, and my coat cost dos reals from a little apache squaw. now i have freighted in the sand, i have freighted in the rain, i have bogged my wagons down and dug them out again; i have worked both late and early till i was almost dead, and i have spent some nights sleeping in an arizona bed. now barbed wire and bacon is all that they will pay, but you have to show your copper checks to get your grain and hay; if you ask them for five dollars, old meyers will scratch his pate, and the clerks in their white, stiff collars say, "get down and pull your freight." but i want to die and go to hell, get there before livermore and meyers, and get a job of hauling coke to keep up the devil's fires; if i get the job of singeing them, i'll see they don't get free; i'll treat them like a yaller dog, as they have treated me. and it's home, dearest home; and it's home you ought to be, over on the gila, in the white man's country, where the poplar and the ash and mesquite will ever be growing green down on the gila; there's a home for you and me. the arizona boys and girls come all of you people, i pray you draw near, a comical ditty you all shall hear. the boys in this country they try to advance by courting the ladies and learning to dance,-- and they're down, down, and they're down. the boys in this country they try to be plain, those words that you hear you may hear them again, with twice as much added on if you can. there's many a boy stuck up for a man,-- and they're down, down, and they're down. they will go to their parties, their whiskey they'll take, and out in the dark their bottles they'll break; you'll hear one say, "there's a bottle around here; so come around, boys, and we'll all take a share,"-- and they're down, down, and they're down. there is some wears shoes and some wears boots, but there are very few that rides who don't shoot; more than this, i'll tell you what they'll do, they'll get them a watch and a ranger hat, too,-- and they're down, down, and they're down. they'll go in the hall with spurs on their heel, they'll get them a partner to dance the next reel, saying, "how do i look in my new brown suit, with my pants stuffed down in the top of my boot?"-- and they're down, down, and they're down. now i think it's quite time to leave off these lads for here are some girls that's fully as bad; they'll trim up their dresses and curl up their hair, and like an old owl before the glass they'll stare,-- and they're down, down, and they're down. the girls in the country they grin like a cat, and with giggling and laughing they don't know what they're at, they think they're pretty and i tell you they're wise, but they couldn't get married to save their two eyes,-- and they're down, down, and they're down. you can tell a good girl wherever she's found; no trimming, no lace, no nonsense around; with a long-eared bonnet tied under her chin,-- . . . . . . . . . . . . and they're down, down, and they're down. they'll go to church with their snuff-box in hand, they'll give it a tap to make it look grand; perhaps there is another one or two and they'll pass it around and it's "madam, won't you,"-- and they're down, down, and they're down. now, i think it's quite time for this ditty to end; if there's anyone here that it will offend, if there's anyone here that thinks it amiss just come around now and give the singer a kiss,-- and they're down, down, and they're down. the dying ranger the sun was sinking in the west and fell with lingering ray through the branches of a forest where a wounded ranger lay; beneath the shade of a palmetto and the sunset silvery sky, far away from his home in texas they laid him down to die. a group had gathered round him, his comrades in the fight, a tear rolled down each manly cheek as he bid a last good-night. one tried and true companion was kneeling by his side, to stop his life-blood flowing, but alas, in vain he tried. when to stop the life-blood flowing he found 'twas all in vain, the tears rolled down each man's cheek like light showers of rain. up spoke the noble ranger, "boys, weep no more for me, i am crossing the deep waters to a country that is free. "draw closer to me, comrades, and listen to what i say, i am going to tell a story while my spirit hastens away. way back in northwest texas, that good old lone star state, there is one that for my coming with a weary heart will wait. "a fair young girl, my sister, my only joy, my pride, she was my friend from boyhood, i had no one left beside. i have loved her as a brother, and with a father's care i have strove from grief and sorrov her gentle heart to spare. "my mother, she lies sleeping beneath the church-yard sod, and many a day has passed away since her spirit fled to god. my father, he lies sleeping beneath the deep blue sea, i have no other kindred, there are none but nell and me. "but our country was invaded and they called for volunteers; she threw her arms around me, then burst into tears, saying, 'go, my darling brother, drive those traitors from our shore, my heart may need your presence, but our country needs you more.' "it is true i love my country, for her i gave my all. if it hadn't been for my sister, i would be content to fall. i am dying, comrades, dying, she will never see me more, but in vain she'll wait my coming by our little cabin door. "comrades, gather closer and listen to my dying prayer. who will be to her as a brother, and shield her with a brother's care?" up spake the noble rangers, they answered one and all, "we will be to her as brothers till the last one does fall." one glad smile of pleasure o'er the ranger's face was spread; one dark, convulsive shadow, and the ranger boy was dead. far from his darling sister we laid him down to rest with his saddle for a pillow and his gun across his breast. the dying ranger (mus. not.) the sun was sink-ing in the west, and fell with lin-g'ring ray through the branches of the for-est,... where a wound-ed ran-ger lay; 'neath the shade of a pal-met-to ... and the sun-set sil-v'ry sky, far a-way from his home in tex-as,... they laid him down to die. the fair fannie moore yonder stands a cottage, all deserted and alone, its paths are neglected, with grass overgrown; go in and you will see some dark stains on the floor,-- alas! it is the blood of fair fannie moore. to fannie, so blooming, two lovers they came; one offered young fannie his wealth and his name; but neither his money nor pride could secure a place in the heart of fair fannie moore. the first was young randell, so bold and so proud, who to the fair fannie his haughty head bowed; but his wealth and his house both failed to allure the heart from the bosom of fair fannie moore. the next was young henry, of lowest degree. he won her fond love and enraptured was he; and then at the altar he quick did secure the hand with the heart of the fair fannie moore. as she was alone in her cottage one day, when business had called her fond husband away, young randell, the haughty, came in at the door and clasped in his arms the fair fannie moore. "o fannie, o fannie, reflect on your fate and accept of my offer before it's too late; for one thing to-night i am bound to secure,-- 'tis the love or the life of the fair fannie moore." "spare me, oh, spare me!" the young fannie cries, while the tears swiftly flow from her beautiful eyes; "oh, no!" cries young randell, "go home to your rest," and he buried his knife in her snowy white breast. so fannie, so blooming, in her bright beauty died; young randell, the haughty, was taken and tried; at length he was hung on a tree at the door, for shedding the blood of the fair fannie moore. young henry, the shepherd, distracted and wild, did wander away from his own native isle. till at length, claimed by death, he was brought to this shore and laid by the side of the fair fannie moore. hell in texas the devil, we're told, in hell was chained, and a thousand years he there remained; he never complained nor did he groan, but determined to start a hell of his own, where he could torment the souls of men without being chained in a prison pen. so he asked the lord if he had on hand anything left when he made the land. the lord said, "yes, i had plenty on hand, but i left it down on the rio grande; the fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor i don't think you could use it in hell anymore." but the devil went down to look at the truck, and said if it came as a gift he was stuck; for after examining it carefully and well he concluded the place was too dry for hell. so, in order to get it off his hands, the lord promised the devil to water the lands; for he had some water, or rather some dregs, a regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs. hence the deal was closed and the deed was given and the lord went back to his home in heaven. and the devil then said, "i have all that is needed to make a good hell," and hence he succeeded. he began to put thorns in all of the trees, and mixed up the sand with millions of fleas; and scattered tarantulas along all the roads; put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads. he lengthened the horns of the texas steers, and put an addition on the rabbit's ears; he put a little devil in the broncho steed, and poisoned the feet of the centipede. the rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings, the mosquito delights you with buzzing wings; the sand-burrs prevail and so do the ants, and those who sit down need half-soles on their pants. the devil then said that throughout the land he'd managed to keep up the devil's own brand, and all would be mavericks unless they bore the marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the score. the heat in the summer is a hundred and ten, too hot for the devil and too hot for men. the wild boar roams through the black chaparral,-- it's a hell of a place he has for a hell. the red pepper grows on the banks of the brook; the mexicans use it in all that they cook. just dine with a greaser and then you will shout, "i've hell on the inside as well as the out!" by markentura's flowery marge by markentura's flowery marge the red chief's wigwam stood, before the white man's rifle rang, loud echoing through the wood; the tommy-hawk and scalping knife together lay at rest, and peace was in the forest shade and in the red man's breast. oh, the spotted fawn, oh, the spotted fawn, the life and light of the forest shade,-- the red chief's child is gone! by markentura's flowery marge the spotted fawn had birth and grew as fair an indian maid as ever graced the earth. she was the red chief's only child and sought by many a brave, but to the gallant young white cloud her plighted troth she gave. by markentura's flowery marge the bridal song arose, nor dreamed they in that festive night of near approaching woes; but through the forest stealthily the white man came in wrath. and fiery darts before them spread, and death was in their path. by markentura's flowery marge next morn no strife was seen, but a wail went up, for the young fawn's blood and white cloud's dyed the green. a burial in their own rude way the indians gave them there, and a low sweet requiem the brook sang and the air. oh, the spotted fawn, oh, the spotted fawn, the life and light of the forest shade,-- the red chief's child is gone! the state of arkansaw my name is stamford barnes, i come from nobleville town; i've traveled this wide world over, i've traveled this wide world round. i've met with ups and downs in life but better days i've saw, but i've never knew what misery were till i came to arkansaw. i landed in st. louis with ten dollars and no more; i read the daily papers till both my eyes were sore; i read them evening papers until at last i saw ten thousand men were wanted in the state of arkansaw. i wiped my eyes with great surprise when i read this grateful news, and straightway off i started to see the agent, billy hughes. he says, "pay me five dollars and a ticket to you i'll draw, it'll land you safe upon the railroad in the state of arkansaw." i started off one morning a quarter after five; i started from st. louis, half dead and half alive; i bought me a quart of whiskey my misery to thaw, i got as drunk as a biled owl when i left for old arkansaw. i landed in ft. smith one sultry sunday afternoon, it was in the month of may, the early month of june, up stepped a walking skeleton with a long and lantern jaw, invited me to his hotel, "the best in arkansaw." i followed my conductor into his dwelling place; poverty were depictured in his melancholy face. his bread it was corn dodger, his beef i could not chaw; this was the kind of hash they fed me in the state of arkansaw. i started off next morning to catch the morning train, he says to me, "you'd better work, for i have some land to drain. i'll pay you fifty cents a day, your board, washing, and all,-- you'll find yourself a different man when you leave old arkansaw." i worked six weeks for the son of a gun, jesse herring was his name, he was six foot seven in his stocking feet and taller than any crane; his hair hung down in strings over his long and lantern jaw,-- he was a photograph of all the gents who lived in arkansaw. he fed me on corn dodgers as hard as any rock, until my teeth began to loosen and my knees began to knock; i got so thin on sassafras tea i could hide behind a straw, and indeed i was a different man when i left old arkansaw. farewell to swamp angels, cane brakes, and chills; farewell to sage and sassafras and corn dodger pills. if ever i see this land again, i'll give to you my paw; it will be through a telescope from here to arkansaw. the texas cowboy oh, i am a texas cowboy, far away from home, if ever i get back to texas i never more will roam. montana is too cold for me and the winters are too long; before the round-ups do begin our money is all gone. take this old hen-skin bedding, too thin to keep me warm,-- i nearly freeze to death, my boys. whenever there's a storm. and take this old "tarpoleon," too thin to shield my frame,-- i got it down in nebraska a-dealin' a monte game. now to win these fancy leggins i'll have enough to do; they cost me twenty dollars the day that they were new. i have an outfit on the mussel shell, but that i'll never see, unless i get sent to represent the circle or d.t. i've worked down in nebraska where the grass grows ten feet high, and the cattle are such rustlers that they seldom ever die; i've worked up in the sand hills and down upon the platte, where the cowboys are good fellows and the cattle always fat; i've traveled lots of country,-- nebraska's hills of sand, down through the indian nation, and up the rio grande;-- but the bad lands of montana are the worst i ever seen, the cowboys are all tenderfeet and the dogies are too lean. if you want to see some bad lands, go over on the dry; you will bog down in the coulees where the mountains reach the sky. a tenderfoot to lead you who never knows the way, you are playing in the best of luck if you eat more than once a day. your grub is bread and bacon and coffee black as ink; the water is so full of alkali it is hardly fit to drink. they will wake you in the morning before the break of day, and send you on a circle a hundred miles away. all along the yellowstone 'tis cold the year around; you will surely get consumption by sleeping on the ground. work in montana is six months in the year; when all your bills are settled there is nothing left for beer. work down in texas is all the year around; you will never get consumption by sleeping on the ground. come all you texas cowboys and warning take from me, and do not go to montana to spend your money free. but stay at home in texas where work lasts the year around, and you will never catch consumption by sleeping on the ground. the dreary, dreary life a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, some say it's free from care; rounding up the cattle from morning till night in the middle of the prairie so bare. half-past four, the noisy cook will roar, "whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!" slowly you will rise with sleepy-feeling eyes, the sweet, dreamy night passed away. the greener lad he thinks it's play, he'll soon peter out on a cold rainy day, with his big bell spurs and his spanish hoss, he'll swear to you he was once a boss. the cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, he's driven through the heat and cold; while the rich man's a-sleeping on his velvet couch, dreaming of his silver and gold. spring-time sets in, double trouble will begin, the weather is so fierce and cold; clothes are wet and frozen to our necks, the cattle we can scarcely hold. the cowboy's life is a dreary one, he works all day to the setting of the sun; and then his day's work is not done, for there's his night herd to go on. the wolves and owls with their terrifying howls will disturb us in our midnight dream, as we lie on our slickers on a cold, rainy night way over on the pecos stream. you are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms, you are speaking of your silver and gold; but a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, he's driven through the heat and cold. some folks say that we are free from care, free from all other harm; but we round up the cattle from morning till night way over on the prairie so dry. i used to run about, now i stay at home, take care of my wife and child; nevermore to roam, always stay at home, take care of my wife and child. half-past four the noisy cook will roar, "hurrah, boys! she's breaking day!" slowly we will rise and wipe our sleepy eyes, the sweet, dreamy night passed away. the dreary, dreary life (mus. not.) a cow-boy's life is a drear-y, drear-y life, some refrain.--half-past four the ... noi-sy cook will roar, say it's free from care; rounding up the "whoop-a-whoop-a-hey!" slow-ly you will cat-tle from morn-ing till night in the rise ... with sleep-y feel-ing eyes, the ... mid-dle of the prai-rie so ... bare, sweet, dream-y night passed a-way. jim farrow it's jim farrow and john farrow and little simon, too, have plenty of cattle where i have but few. marking and branding both night and day,-- it's "keep still, boys, my boys, and you'll all get your pay." it's up to the courthouse, the first thing they know, before the grand jury they'll have to go. they'll ask you about ear-marks, they'll ask you about brand, but tell them you were absent when the work was on hand. jim farrow brands j.f. on the side; the next comes johnnie who takes the whole hide; little simon, too has h. on the loin;-- all stand for farrow but it's not good for sime. you ask for the mark, i don't think it's fair, you'll find the cow's head but the ear isn't there it's a crop and a split and a sort of a twine,-- all stand for f. but it's not good for sime. "get up, my boys," jim farrow will say, "and out to horse hunting before it is day." so we get up and are out on the way but it's damn few horses we find before day. "now saddle your horses and out on the peaks to see if the heifers are out on the creeks." we'll round 'em to-day and we'll round 'em to-morrow, and this ends my song concerning the farrows. young charlottie young charlottie lived by a mountain side in a wild and lonely spot, there was no village for miles around except her father's cot; and yet on many a wintry night young boys would gather there,-- her father kept a social board, and she was very fair. one new year's eve as the sun went down, she cast a wistful eye out from the window pane as a merry sleigh went by. at a village fifteen miles away was to be a ball that night; although the air was piercing cold, her heart was merry and light. at last her laughing eye lit up as a well-known voice she heard, and dashing in front of the door her lover's sleigh appeared. "o daughter, dear," her mother said, "this blanket round you fold, 'tis such a dreadful night abroad and you will catch your death of cold." "oh no, oh no!" young charlottie cried, as she laughed like a gipsy queen, "to ride in blankets muffled up, i never would be seen. my silken coat is quite enough, you know it is lined throughout, and there is my silken scarf to wrap my head and neck about." her bonnet and her gloves were on, she jumped into the sleigh, and swiftly slid down the mountain side and over the hills away. all muffled up so silent, five miles at last were past when charlie with few but shivering words, the silence broke at last. "such a dreadful night i never saw, my reins i can scarcely hold." young charlottie then feebly said, "i am exceedingly cold." he cracked his whip and urged his speed much faster than before, while at least five other miles in silence had passed o'er. spoke charles, "how fast the freezing ice is gathering on my brow!" young charlottie then feebly said, "i'm growing warmer now." so on they sped through the frosty air and the glittering cold starlight until at last the village lights and the ball-room came in sight. they reached the door and charles sprang out and reached his hands to her. "why sit you there like a monument that has no power to stir?" he called her once, he called her twice, she answered not a word, and then he called her once again but still she never stirred. he took her hand in his; 'twas cold and hard as any stone. he tore the mantle from her face while cold stars on it shone. then quickly to the lighted hall her lifeless form he bore;-- young charlottie's eyes were closed forever, her voice was heard no more. and there he sat down by her side while bitter tears did flow, and cried, "my own, my charming bride, you nevermore shall know." he twined his arms around her neck and kissed her marble brow, and his thoughts flew back to where she said, "i'm growing warmer now." he took her back into the sleigh and quickly hurried home; when he arrived at her father's door, oh, how her friends did mourn; they mourned the loss of a daughter dear, while charles wept over the gloom, till at last he died with the bitter grief,--now they both lie in one tomb. the skew-ball black it was down to red river i came, prepared to play a damned tough game,-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! i crossed the river to the ranch where i intended to work, with a big six-shooter and a derned good dirk,-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! they roped me out a skew-ball black with a double set-fast on his back,-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! and when i was mounted on his back, the boys all yelled, "just give him slack,"-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! they rolled and tumbled and yelled, by god, for he threw me a-whirling all over the sod,-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! i went to the boss and i told him i'd resign, the fool tumbled over, and i thought he was dyin',-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! and it's to arkansaw i'll go back, to hell with texas and the skew-ball black,-- whoa! skew, till i saddle you, whoa! the rambling cowboy there was a rich old rancher who lived in the country by, he had a lovely daughter on whom i cast my eye; she was pretty, tall, and handsome, both neat and very fair, there's no other girl in the country with her i could compare. i asked her if she would be willing for me to cross the plains; she said she would be truthful until i returned again; she said she would be faithful until death did prove unkind, so we kissed, shook hands, and parted, and i left my girl behind. i left the state of texas, for arizona i was bound; i landed in tombstone city, i viewed the place all round. money and work were plentiful and the cowboys they were kind but the only thought of my heart was the girl i left behind. one day as i was riding across the public square the mail-coach came in and i met the driver there; he handed me a letter which gave me to understand that the girl i left in texas had married another man. i turned myself all round and about not knowing what to do, but i read on down some further and it proved the words were true. hard work i have laid over, it's gambling i have designed. i'll ramble this wide world over for the girl i left behind. come all you reckless and rambling boys who have listened to this song, if it hasn't done you any good, it hasn't done you any wrong; but when you court a pretty girl, just marry her while you can, for if you go across the plains she'll marry another man. the cowboy at church some time ago,--two weeks or more if i remember well,-- i found myself in town and thought i'd knock around a spell, when all at once i heard the bell,-- i didn't know 'twas sunday,-- for on the plains we scarcely know a sunday from a monday,-- a-calling all the people from the highways and the hedges and all the reckless throng that tread ruin's ragged edges, to come and hear the pastor tell salvation's touching story, and how the new road misses hell and leads you straight to glory. i started by the chapel door, but something urged me in, and told me not to spend god's day in revelry and sin. i don't go much on sentiment, but tears came in my eyes. it seemed just like my mother's voice was speaking from the skies. i thought how often she had gone with little sis and me to church, when i was but a lad way back in tennessee. it never once occurred to me about not being dressed in sunday rig, but carelessly i went in with the rest. you should have seen the smiles and shrugs as i went walking in, as though they thought my leggins worse than any kind of sin; although the honest parson, in his vestry garb arrayed was dressed the same as i was,-- in the trappings of his trade. the good man prayed for all the world and all its motley crew, for pagan, hindoo, sinners, turk, and unbelieving jew,-- though the congregation doubtless thought that the cowboys as a race were a kind of moral outlaw with no good claim to grace. is it very strange that cowboys are a rough and reckless crew when their garb forbids their doing right as christian people do? that they frequent scenes of revelry where death is bought and sold, where at least they get a welcome though it's prompted by their gold? stranger, did it ever strike you, when the winter days are gone and the mortal grass is springing up to meet the judgment sun, and we 'tend mighty round-ups where, according to the word, the angel cowboy of the lord will cut the human herd,-- that a heap of stock that's lowing now around the master's pen and feeding at his fodder stack will have the brand picked then? and brands that when the hair was long looked like the letter c, will prove to be the devil's, and the brand the letter d; while many a long-horned coaster,-- i mean, just so to speak,-- that hasn't had the advantage of the range and gospel creek will get to crop the grasses in the pasture of the lord if the letter c showed up beneath the devil's checker board. the u. s. a. recruit now list to my song, it will not take me long, and in some things with me you'll agree; a young man so green came in from moline, and enlisted a soldier to be. he had lots of pluck, on himself he was stuck, in his government straights he looked "boss," and he chewed enough beans for a hoss. he was a rookey, so flukey, he was a jim dandy you all will agree, he said without fear, "before i'm a year in the army, great changes you'll see." he was a stone thrower, a foam blower, he was a loo loo you bet, he stood on his head and these words gently said, "i'll be second george washington yet." at his post he did land, they took him in hand, the old bucks they all gathered 'round, saying "give us your fist; where did you enlist? you'll take on again i'll be bound; i've a blanket to sell, it will fit you quite well, i'll sell you the whole or a piece. i've a dress coat to trade, or a helmet unmade, it will do you for kitchen police." then the top said, "my son, here is a gun, just heel ball that musket up bright. in a few days or more you'll be rolling in gore, a-chasing wild goo goos to flight. there'll be fighting, you see, and blood flowing free, we'll send you right on to the front; and never you fear, if you're wounded, my dear, you'll be pensioned eight dollars per month." he was worried so bad, he blew in all he had; he went on a drunk with goodwill. and the top did report, "one private short." when he showed up he went to the mill. the proceedings we find were a ten dollar blind, ten dollars less to blow foam. this was long years ago, and this rookey you know is now in the old soldiers' home. the cowgirl my love is a rider and broncos he breaks, but he's given up riding and all for my sake; for he found him a horse and it suited him so he vowed he'd ne'er ride any other bronco. my love has a gun, and that gun he can use, but he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze; and he's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope, and there's no more cow punching, and that's what i hope. my love has a gun that has gone to the bad, which makes poor old jimmy feel pretty damn sad; for the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low, and it wobbles about like a bucking bronco. the cook is an unfortunate son of a gun; he has to be up e'er the rise of the sun; his language is awful, his curses are deep,-- he is like cascarets, for he works while you sleep. the shanty boy i am a jolly shanty boy, as you will soon discover. to all the dodges i am fly, a hustling pine woods rover. a peavy hook it is my pride, an ax i well can handle; to fell a tree or punch a bull get rattling danny randall. bung yer eye: bung yer eye. i love a girl in saginaw; she lives with her mother; i defy all michigan to find such another. she's tall and fat, her hair is red, her face is plump and pretty, she's my daisy, sunday-best-day girl,-- and her front name stands for kitty. bung yer eye: bung yer eye. i took her to a dance one night, a mossback gave the bidding; silver jack bossed the shebang and big dan played the fiddle. we danced and drank, the livelong night. with fights between the dancing-- till silver jack cleaned out the ranch and sent the mossbacks prancing. bung yer eye: bung yer eye. root hog or die when i was a young man i lived on the square, i never had any pocket change and i hardly thought it fair; so out on the crosses i went to rob and to steal, and when i met a peddler oh, how happy i did feel. one morning, one morning, one morning in may i seen a man a-coming, a little bit far away; i seen a man a-coming, come riding up to me "come here, come here, young fellow, i'm after you to-day." he taken me to the new jail, he taken me to the new jail, and i had to walk right in. there all my friends went back on me and also my kin. i had an old rich uncle, who lived in the west, he heard of my misfortune, it wouldn't let him rest; he came to see me, he paid my bills and score,-- i have been a bad boy, i'll do so no more. there's minnie and alice and lucy likewise, they heard of my misfortune brought tears to their eyes. i've told 'em my condition, i've told it o'er and o'er; so i've been a bad boy, i'll do so no more. i will go to east texas to marry me a wife, and try to maintain her the balance of my life; i'll try to maintain; i'll lay it up in store i've been a bad boy, i'll do so no more. young man, you robber, you had better take it fair, leave off your marshal killing and live on the square; should you meet the marshal, just pass him by; and travel on the muscular, for it's root hog or die. when i drew my money i drew it all in cash and off to see my susan, you bet i cut a dash; i spent my money freely and went it on a bum, and i love the pretty women and am bound to have my fun. i used to sport a white hat, a horse and buggy fine, courted a pretty girl and always called her mine; but all my courtships proved to be in vain, for they sent me down to huntsville to wear the ball and chain. along came my true love, about twelve o'clock, saying, "henry, o henry, what sentence have you got?" the jury found me guilty, the judge would allow no stay, so they sent me down to huntsville to wear my life away. root hog or die (mus. not.) when i was a young man i lived up-on the square, i nev-er had a-ny pock-et change and i hard-ly thought it fair, but out up-on the highway i went to rob and to steal, and when i met a ped-dler, oh, how hap-py i did feel. sweet betsy from pike "a california immigrant song of the fifties" oh, don't you remember sweet betsy from pike who crossed the big mountains with her lover ike, and two yoke of cattle, a large yellow dog, a tall, shanghai rooster, and one spotted hog? saying, good-bye, pike county, farewell for a while; we'll come back again when we've panned out our pile. one evening quite early they camped on the platte, 'twas near by the road on a green shady flat; where betsy, quite tired, lay down to repose, while with wonder ike gazed on his pike county rose. they soon reached the desert, where betsy gave out, and down in the sand she lay rolling about; while ike in great terror looked on in surprise, saying "betsy, get up, you'll get sand in your eyes." saying, good-bye, pike county, farewell for a while; i'd go back to-night if it was but a mile. sweet betsy got up in a great deal of pain and declared she'd go back to pike county again; then ike heaved a sigh and they fondly embraced, and she traveled along with his arm around her waist. the wagon tipped over with a terrible crash, and out on the prairie rolled all sorts of trash; a few little baby clothes done up with care looked rather suspicious,--though 'twas all on the square. the shanghai ran off and the cattle all died, the last piece of bacon that morning was fried; poor ike got discouraged, and betsy got mad, the dog wagged his tail and looked wonderfully sad. one morning they climbed up a very high hill, and with wonder looked down into old placerville; ike shouted and said, as he cast his eyes down, "sweet betsy, my darling, we've got to hangtown." long ike and sweet betsy attended a dance, where ike wore a pair of his pike county pants; sweet betsy was covered with ribbons and rings. quoth ike, "you're an angel, but where are your wings?" a miner said, "betsy, will you dance with me?" "i will that, old hoss, if you don't make too free; but don't dance me hard. do you want to know why? dog on ye, i'm chock full of strong alkali." long ike and sweet betsy got married of course, but ike getting jealous obtained a divorce; and betsy, well satisfied, said with a shout, "good-bye, you big lummax, i'm glad you backed out." saying, good-bye, dear isaac, farewell for a while, but come back in time to replenish my pile. the disheartened ranger come listen to a ranger, you kind-hearted stranger, this song, though a sad one, you're welcome to hear; we've kept the comanches away from your ranches, and followed them far o'er the texas frontier. we're weary of scouting, of traveling, and routing the blood-thirsty villains o'er prairie and wood; no rest for the sinner, no breakfast or dinner, but he lies in a supperless bed in the mud. no corn nor potatoes, no bread nor tomatoes, but jerked beef as dry as the sole of your shoe; all day without drinking, all night without winking, i'll tell you, kind stranger, this never will do. those great alligators, the state legislators, are puffing and blowing two-thirds of their time, but windy orations about rangers and rations never put in our pockets one-tenth of a dime. they do not regard us, they will not reward us, though hungry and haggard with holes in our coats; but the election is coming and they will be drumming and praising our valor to purchase our votes. for glory and payment, for vittles and raiment, no longer we'll fight on the texas frontier. so guard your own ranches, and mind the comanches or surely they'll scalp you in less than a year. though sore it may grieve you, the rangers must leave you exposed to the arrows and knife of the foe; so herd your own cattle and fight your own battle, for home to the states i'm determined to go,-- where churches have steeples and laws are more equal, where houses have people and ladies are kind; where work is regarded and worth is rewarded; where pumpkins are plenty and pockets are lined. your wives and your daughters we have guarded from slaughter, through conflicts and struggles i shudder to tell; no more well defend them, to god we'll commend them. to the frontier of texas we bid a farewell. the melancholy cowboy come all you melancholy folks and listen unto me, i will sing you about the cowboy whose heart's so light and free; he roves all over the prairie and at night when he lays down his heart's as gay as the flowers of may with his bed spread on the ground. they are a little bit rough, i must confess, the most of them at least; but as long as you do not cross their trail, you can live with them in peace. but if you do, they're sure to rule, the day you come to their land, for they'll follow you up and shoot it out, they'll do it man to man. you can go to a cowboy hungry, go to him wet or dry, and ask him for a few dollars in change and he will not deny; he will pull out his pocket-book and hand you out a note,-- oh, they are the fellows to strike, boys, whenever you are broke. you can go to their ranches and often stay for weeks, and when you go to leave, boys, they'll never charge you a cent; but when they go to town, boys, you bet their money is spent. they walk right up, they take their drinks and they pay for every one. they never ask your pardon, boys, for a thing that they have done. they go to the ball-room, and swing the pretty girls around; they ride their bucking broncos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats; their california saddles, their pants below their boots, you can hear their spurs go jing-a-ling, or perhaps somebody shoots. come all you soft and tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun, come go among the cowboys and they'll show you how it's done; but take the kind advice of me as i gave it to you before, for if you don't, they'll order you off with an old colt's forty-four. bob stanford bob stanford, he's a texas boy, he lives down on the flat; his trade is running a well-drill, but he's none the worse for that. he is neither rich nor handsome, but, unlike the city dude, his manners they are pleasant instead of flip and rude. his people live in texas, that is his native home, but like many other western lads he drifted off from home. he came out to new mexico a fortune for to make, he punched the bottom out of the earth and never made a stake. so he came to arizona and again set up his drill to punch a hole for water, and he's punching at it still. he says he is determined to make the business stick or spend that derned old well machine and all he can get on tick. i hope he is successful and i'll help him if i can, for i admire pluck and ambition in an honest working man. so keep on going down, punch the bottom out, or try, there is nothing in a hole in the ground that continues being dry. charlie rutlage another good cow-puncher has gone to meet his fate, i hope he'll find a resting place within the golden gate. another place is vacant on the ranch of the x i t, 'twill be hard to find another that's liked as well as he. the first that died was kid white, a man both tough and brave, while charlie rutlage makes the third to be sent to his grave, caused by a cow-horse falling while running after stock; 'twas on the spring round-up,--a place where death men mock. he went forward one morning on a circle through the hills, he was gay and full of glee, and free from earthly ills; but when it came to finish up the work on which he went, nothing came back from him; for his time on earth was spent. 'twas as he rode the round-up, an x i t turned back to the herd; poor charlie shoved him in again, his cutting horse he spurred; another turned; at that moment his horse the creature spied and turned and fell with him, and beneath, poor charlie died. his relations in texas his face never more will see, but i hope he will meet his loved ones beyond in eternity. i hope he will meet his parents, will meet them face to face, and that they will grasp him by the right hand at the shining throne of grace. the range riders come all you range riders and listen to me, i will relate you a story of the saddest degree, i will relate you a story of the deepest distress,-- i love my poor lulu, boys, of all girls the best. when you are out riding, boys, upon the highway, meet a fair damsel, a lady so gay, with her red, rosy cheeks and her sparkling dark eyes, just think of my lulu, boys, and your bosoms will rise. while you live single, boys, you are just in your prime; you have no wife to scold, you have nothing to bother your minds; you can roam this world over and do just as you will, hug and kiss the pretty girls and be your own still. but when you get married, boys, you are done with this life, you have sold your sweet comfort for to gain you a wife; your wife she will scold you, and the children will cry, it will make those fair faces look withered and dry. you can scarcely step aside, boys, to speak to a friend but your wife is at your elbow saying what do you mean. with her nose turned upon you it will look like sad news,-- i advise you by experience that life to refuse. come fill up your bottles, boys, drink bourbon around; here is luck to the single wherever they are found. here is luck to the single and i wish them success, likewise to the married ones, i wish them no less. i have one more request to make, boys, before we part. never place your affection on a charming sweetheart. she is dancing before you your affections to gain; just turn your back on them with scorn and disdain. her white bosom bare the sun had gone down o'er the hills of the west, and the last beams had faded o'er the mossy hill's crest, o'er the beauties of nature and the charms of the fair, and amanda was bound with her white bosom bare. at the foot of the mountain amanda did sigh at the hoot of an owl or the catamount's cry; or the howl of some wolf in its low, granite cell, or the crash of some large forest tree as it fell. amanda was there all friendless and forlorn with her face bathed in blood and her garments all torn. the sunlight had faded o'er the hills of the green, and fierce was the look of the wild, savage scene. for it was out in the forest where the wild game springs, where low in the branches the rude hammock swings; the campfire was kindled, well fanned by the breeze, and the light of the campfire shone round on the trees. the campfire was kindled, well fanned by the breeze, and the light of the fire shone round on the trees; and grim stood the circle of the warrior throng, impatient to join in the war-dance and song. the campfire was kindled, each warrior was there, and amanda was bound with her white bosom bare. she counted the vengeance in the face of her foes and sighed for the moment when her sufferings might close. young albon, he gazed on the face of the fair while her dark hazel eyes were uplifted in prayer; and her dark waving tresses in ringlets did flow which hid from the gazer a bosom of snow. then young albon, the chief of the warriors, drew near, with an eye like an eagle and a step like a deer. "forbear," cried he, "your torture forbear; this maiden shall live. by my wampum i swear. "it is for this maiden's freedom that i do crave; give a sigh for her suffering or a tear for her grave. if there is a victim to be burned at that tree, young albon, your leader, that victim shall be." then quick to the arms of amanda he rushed; the rebel was dead, and the tumult was hushed; and grim stood the circle of warriors around while the cords of amanda young albon unbound. so it was early next morning the red, white, and blue went gliding o'er the waters in a small birch canoe; just like the white swan that glides o'er the tide, young albon and amanda o'er the waters did ride. o'er the blue, bubbling water, neath the evergreen trees, young albon and amanda did ride at their ease; and great was the joy when she stepped on the shore to embrace her dear father and mother once more. young albon, he stood and enjoyed their embrace, with a sigh in his heart and a tear on his face; and all that he asked was kindness and food from the parents of amanda to the chief of the woods. young amanda is home now, as you all know, enjoying the friends of her own native shore; nevermore will she roam o'er the hills or the plains; she praises the chief that loosened her chains. juan murray my name is juan murray, and hard for my fate, i was born and raised in texas, that good old lone star state. i have been to many a round-up, boys, have worked on the trail, have stood many a long old guard through the rain, yes, sleet, and hail; i have rode the texas broncos that pitched from morning till noon, and have seen many a storm, boys, between sunrise, yes, and noon. i am a jolly cowboy and have roamed all over the west, and among the bronco riders i rank among the best. but when i left old midland, with voice right then i spoke,-- "i never will see you again until the day i croak." but since i left old texas so many sights i have saw a-traveling from my native state way out to mexico,-- i am looking all around me and cannot help but smile to see my nearest neighbors all in the mexican style. i left my home in texas to dodge the ball and chain. in the state of sonora i will forever remain. farewell to my mother, my friends that are so dear, i would like to see you all again, my lonesome heart to cheer. i have a word to speak, boys, only another to say,-- don't never be a cow-thief, don't never ride a stray; be careful of your line, boys, and keep it on your tree,-- just suit yourself about it, for it is nothing to me. but if you start to rustling you will come to some sad fate, you will have to go to prison and work for the state. don't think that i am lying and trying to tell a joke, for the writer has experienced just every word he's spoke. it is better to be honest and let other's stock alone than to leave your native country and seek a mexican home. for if you start to rustling you will surely come to see the state of sonora,--be an outcast just like me. greer county tom hight is my name, an old bachelor i am, you'll find me out west in the country of fame, you'll find me out west on an elegant plain, and starving to death on my government claim. hurrah for greer county! the land of the free, the land of the bed-bug, grass-hopper and flea; i'll sing of its praises and tell of its fame, while starving to death on my government claim. my house is built of natural sod, its walls are erected according to hod; its roof has no pitch but is level and plain, i always get wet if it happens to rain. how happy am i on my government claim, i've nothing to lose, and nothing to gain; i've nothing to eat, i've nothing to wear,-- from nothing to nothing is the hardest fare. how happy am i when i crawl into bed,-- a rattlesnake hisses a tune at my head, a gay little centipede, all without fear, crawls over my pillow and into my ear. now all you claim holders, i hope you will stay and chew your hard tack till you're toothless and gray; but for myself, i'll no longer remain to starve like a dog on my government claim. my clothes are all ragged as my language is rough, my bread is corn dodgers, both solid and tough; but yet i am happy, and live at my ease on sorghum molasses, bacon, and cheese. good-bye to greer county where blizzards arise, where the sun never sinks and a flea never dies, and the wind never ceases but always remains till it starves us all out on our government claims. farewell to greer county, farewell to the west, i'll travel back east to the girl i love best, i'll travel back to texas and marry me a wife, and quit corn bread for the rest of my life. rosin the bow i live for the good of my nation and my sons are all growing low, but i hope that my next generation will resemble old rosin the bow. i have traveled this wide world all over, and now to another i'll go, for i know that good quarters are waiting to welcome old rosin the bow. the gay round of delights i have traveled, nor will i behind leave a woe, for while my companions are jovial they'll drink to old rosin the bow. this life now is drawn to a closing, all will at last be so, then we'll take a full bumper at parting to the name of old rosin the bow. when i am laid out on the counter, and the people all anxious to know, just raise up the lid of the coffin and look at old rosin the bow. and when through the streets my friends bear me, and the ladies are filled with deep woe, they'll come to the doors and the windows and sigh for old rosin the bow. then get some fine, jovial fellows, and let them all staggering go; then dig a deep hole in the meadow and in it toss rosin the bow. then get a couple of dornicks, place one at my head and my toe, and do not forget to scratch on them, "here lies old rosin the bow." then let those same jovial fellows surround my lone grave in a row, while they drink from my favorite bottle the health of old rosin the bow. the great round-up when i think of the last great round-up on the eve of eternity's dawn, i think of the past of the cowboys who have been with us here and are gone. and i wonder if any will greet me on the sands of the evergreen shore with a hearty, "god bless you, old fellow," that i've met with so often before. i think of the big-hearted fellows who will divide with you blanket and bread, with a piece of stray beef well roasted, and charge for it never a red. i often look upward and wonder if the green fields will seem half so fair, if any the wrong trail have taken and fail to "be in" over there. for the trail that leads down to perdition is paved all the way with good deeds, but in the great round-up of ages, dear boys, this won't answer your needs. but the way to the green pastures, though narrow, leads straight to the home in the sky, and jesus will give you the passports to the land of the sweet by and by. for the savior has taken the contract to deliver all those who believe, at the headquarters ranch of his father, in the great range where none can deceive. the inspector will stand at the gateway and the herd, one by one, will go by,-- the round-up by the angels in judgment must pass 'neath his all-seeing eye. no maverick or slick will be tallied in the great book of life in his home, for he knows all the brands and the earmarks that down through the ages have come. but, along with the tailings and sleepers, the strays must turn from the gate; no road brand to gain them admission, but the awful sad cry "too late." yet i trust in the last great round-up when the rider shall cut the big herd, that the cowboys shall be represented in the earmark and brand of the lord, to be shipped to the bright, mystic regions over there in green pastures to lie, and led by the crystal still waters in that home of the sweet by and by. the jolly cowboy my lover, he is a cowboy, he's brave and kind and true, he rides a spanish pony, he throws a lasso, too; and when he comes to see me our vows we do redeem, he throws his arms around me and thus begins to sing: "ho, i'm a jolly cowboy, from texas now i hail, give me my quirt and pony, i'm ready for the trail; i love the rolling prairies, they're free from care and strife, behind a herd of longhorns i'll journey all my life. "when early dawn is breaking and we are far away, we fall into our saddles, we round-up all the day; we rope, we brand, we ear-mark, i tell you we are smart, and when the herd is ready, for kansas then we start. "oh, i am a texas cowboy, lighthearted, brave, and free, to roam the wide, wide prairie, 'tis always joy to me. my trusty little pony is my companion true, o'er creeks and hills and rivers he's sure to pull me through. "when threatening clouds do gather and herded lightnings flash, and heavy rain drops splatter, and rolling thunders crash; what keeps the herd from running, stampeding far and wide? the cowboy's long, low whistle and singing by their side. "when in kansas city, our boss he pays us up, we loaf around the city and take a parting cup; we bid farewell to city life, from noisy crowds we come, and back to dear old texas, the cowboy's native home." oh, he is coming back to marry the only girl he loves, he says i am his darling, i am his own true love; some day we two will marry and then no more he'll roam, but settle down with mary in a cozy little home. "ho, i'm a jolly cowboy, from texas now i hail, give me my bond to mary, i'll quit the lone star trail. i love the rolling prairies, they're free from care and strife, but i'll quit the herd of longhorns for the sake of my little wife." the texas cowboy (mus. not.) mrs. robert thomson i am a tex-as cowboy, light-hearted, gay and free, to roam the wide, wide prairie, is always joy to me; my trust-y lit-tle po-ny is my com-pan-ion true; o'er plain, thro' woods and river, he's sure to "pull me thro." chorus _allegro_ i am a jol-ly cow-boy, from tex-as now i hail, give me my "quirt" and po-ny, i'm read-y for the "trail;" i love the roll-ing prairie, we're free from care and strife, be-hind a herd of "long-horns" i'll journey all my life. the convict when slumbering in my convict cell my childhood days i see, when i was mother's little child and knelt at mother's knee. there my life was peace, i know, i knew no sorrow or pain. mother dear never did think, i know, i would wear a felon's chain. clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain? clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain? when i had grown to manhood and evil paths i trod, i learned to scorn my fellow-man and even curse my god; and in the evil course i ran for a great length of time till at last i ran too long and was condemned for a felon's crime. my prison life will soon be o'er, my life will soon be gone,-- may the angels waft it heavenward to a bright and happy home. i'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home; i'll be at rest, sweet, sweet rest, there is rest in the heavenly home. clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain? clink, clink, clink, clink, clink, ah, don't you hear the clinking of my chain? jack o' diamonds o mollie, o mollie, it is for your sake alone that i leave my old parents, my house and my home, that i leave my old parents, you caused me to roam,-- i am a rabble soldier and dixie is my home. jack o' diamonds, jack o' diamonds, i know you of old, you've robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold. whiskey, you villain, you've been my downfall, you've kicked me, you've cuffed me, but i love you for all. my foot's in my stirrup, my bridle's in my hand, i'm going to leave sweet mollie, the fairest in the land. her parents don't like me, they say i'm too poor, they say i'm unworthy to enter her door. they say i drink whiskey; my money is my own, and them that don't like me can leave me alone. i'll eat when i'm hungry, i'll drink when i'm dry, and when i get thirsty i'll lay down and cry. it's beefsteak when i'm hungry, and whiskey when i'm dry, greenbacks when i'm hard up, and heaven when i die. rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey i cry, if i don't get rye whiskey, i surely will die. o baby, o baby, i've told you before, do make me a pallet, i'll lie on the floor. i will build me a big castle on yonder mountain high, where my true love can see me when she comes riding by, where my true love can see me and help me to mourn,-- i am a rabble soldier and dixie is my home. i'll get up in my saddle, my quirt i'll take in hand, i'll think of you, mollie, when in some far distant land, i'll think of you, mollie, you caused me to roam,-- i am a rabble soldier and dixie is my home. if the ocean was whiskey, and i was a duck, i'd dive to the bottom to get one sweet sup; but the ocean ain't whiskey, and i ain't a duck, so i'll play jack o' diamonds and then we'll get drunk. o baby, o baby, i've told you before, do make me a pallet, i'll lie on the floor. i've rambled and trambled this wide world around, but it's for the rabble army, dear mollie, i'm bound, it is to the rabble army, dear mollie, i roam,-- i am a rabble soldier and dixie is my home. i have rambled and gambled all my money away, but it's with the rabble army, o mollie, i must stay, it is with the rabble army, o mollie i must roam,-- i am a rabble soldier and dixie is my home. jack o' diamonds, jack o' diamonds, i know you of old, you've robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold. rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye whiskey i cry, if you don't give me rye whiskey i'll lie down and die. o baby, o baby, i've told you before, do make me a pallet, i'll lie on the floor. jack o' diamonds (mus. not.) o mol-lie, o mol-lie, it's for your sake a-lone that i leave my old pa-rents, my house and my home; that i leave my old pa-rents, you caused me to roam-- i am a rab-ble sol-dier, and dix-ie is my home. repeat from first for refrain the cowboy's meditation at midnight when the cattle are sleeping on my saddle i pillow my head, and up at the heavens lie peeping from out of my cold, grassy bed,-- often and often i wondered at night when lying alone if every bright star up yonder is a big peopled world like our own. are they worlds with their ranges and ranches? do they ring with rough rider refrains? do the cowboys scrap there with comanches and other red men of the plains? are the hills covered over with cattle in those mystic worlds far, far away? do the ranch-houses ring with the prattle of sweet little children at play? at night in the bright stars up yonder do the cowboys lie down to their rest? do they gaze at this old world and wonder if rough riders dash over its breast? do they list to the wolves in the canyons? do they watch the night owl in its flight, with their horse their only companion while guarding the herd through the night? sometimes when a bright star is twinkling like a diamond set in the sky, i find myself lying and thinking, it may be god's heaven is nigh. i wonder if there i shall meet her, my mother whom god took away; if in the star-heavens i'll greet her at the round-up that's on the last day. in the east the great daylight is breaking and into my saddle i spring; the cattle from sleep are awakening, the heaven-thoughts from me take wing, the eyes of my bronco are flashing, impatient he pulls at the reins, and off round the herd i go dashing, a reckless cowboy of the plains. billy venero billy venero heard them say, in an arizona town one day. that a band of apache indians were upon the trail of death; heard them tell of murder done, three men killed at rocky run, "they're in danger at the cow-ranch," said venero, under breath. cow-ranch, forty miles away, was a little place that lay in a deep and shady valley of the mighty wilderness; half a score of homes were there, and in one a maiden fair held the heart of billy venero, billy venero's little bess. so no wonder he grew pale when he heard the cowboy's tale of the men that he'd seen murdered the day before at rocky run. "sure as there's a god above, i will save the girl i love; by my love for little bessie i will see that something's done." not a moment he delayed when his brave resolve was made. "why man," his comrades told him when they heard of his daring plan, "you are riding straight to death." but he answered, "save your breath; i may never reach the cow-ranch but i'll do the best i can." as he crossed the alkali all his thoughts flew on ahead to the little band at cow-ranch thinking not of danger near; with his quirt's unceasing whirl and the jingle of his spurs little brown chapo bore the cowboy o'er the far away frontier. lower and lower sank the sun; he drew rein at rocky run; "here those men met death, my chapo," and he stroked his glossy mane; "so shall those we go to warn ere the coming of the morn if we fail,--god help my bessie," and he started on again. sharp and clear a rifle shot woke the echoes of the spot. "i am wounded," cried venero, as he swayed from side to side; "while there's life there's always hope; slowly onward i will lope,-- if i fail to reach the cow-ranch, bessie lee shall know i tried. "i will save her yet," he cried, "bessie lee shall know i tried," and for her sake then he halted in the shadow of a hill; from his chapareras he took with weak hands a little book; tore a blank leaf from its pages saying, "this shall be my will." from a limb a pen he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak in the warm blood that was spurting from a wound above his heart. "rouse," he wrote before too late; "apache warriors lie in wait. good-bye, bess, god bless you darling," and he felt the cold tears start. then he made his message fast, love's first message and its last, to the saddle horn he tied it and his lips were white with pain, "take this message, if not me, straight to little bessie lee;" then he tied himself to the saddle, and he gave his horse the rein. just at dusk a horse of brown wet with sweat came panting down the little lane at the cow-ranch, stopped in front of bessie's door; but the cowboy was asleep, and his slumbers were so deep, little bess could never wake him though she tried for evermore. you have heard the story told by the young and by the old, away down yonder at the cow-ranch the night the apaches came; of that sharp and bloody fight, how the chief fell in the fight and the panic-stricken warriors when they heard venero's name. and the heavens and earth between keep a little flower so green that little bess had planted ere they laid her by his side. dogie song the cow-bosses are good-hearted chunks, some short, some heavy, more long; but don't matter what he looks like, they all sing the same old song. on the plains, in the mountains, in the valleys, in the south where the days are long, the bosses are different fellows; still they sing the same old song. "sift along, boys, don't ride so slow; haven't got much time but a long round to go. quirt him in the shoulders and rake him down the hip; i've cut you toppy mounts, boys, now pair off and rip. bunch the herd at the old meet, then beat 'em on the tail; whip 'em up and down the sides and hit the shortest trail." the boozer i'm a howler from the prairies of the west. if you want to die with terror, look at me. i'm chain-lightning--if i ain't, may i be blessed. i'm the snorter of the boundless prairie. he's a killer and a hater! he's the great annihilator! he's a terror of the boundless prairie. i'm the snoozer from the upper trail! i'm the reveler in murder and in gore! i can bust more pullman coaches on the rail than anyone who's worked the job before. he's a snorter and a snoozer. he's the great trunk line abuser. he's the man who puts the sleeper on the rail. i'm the double-jawed hyena from the east. i'm the blazing, bloody blizzard of the states. i'm the celebrated slugger; i'm the beast. i can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits. he's a double-jawed hyena! he's the villain of the scena! he can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits. drinking song drink that rot gut, drink that rot gut, drink that red eye, boys; it don't make a damn wherever we land, we hit her up for joy. we've lived in the saddle and ridden trail, drink old jordan, boys, we'll go whooping and yelling, we'll all go a-helling; drink her to our joy. whoop-ee! drink that rot gut, drink that red nose, whenever you get to town; drink it straight and swig it mighty, till the world goes round and round! a fragment i'd rather hear a rattler rattle, i'd rather buck stampeding cattle, i'd rather go to a greaser battle, than-- than to-- than to fight-- than to fight the bloody in-ji-ans. i'd rather eat a pan of dope, i'd rather ride without a rope, i'd rather from this country lope, than-- than to-- than to fight-- than to fight the bloody in-ji-ans. a man named hods come, all you old cowpunchers, a story i will tell, and if you'll all be quiet, i sure will sing it well; and if you boys don't like it, you sure can go to hell. back in the day when i was young, i knew a man named hods; he wasn't fit fer nothin' 'cep turnin' up the clods. but he came west in fifty-three, behind a pair of mules, and 'twas hard to tell between the three which was the biggest fools. up on the plains old hods he got and there his trouble began. oh, he sure did get in trouble,--and old hodsie wasn't no man. he met a bunch of indian bucks led by geronimo, and what them indians did to him, well, shorely i don't know. but they lifted off old hodsie's skelp and left him out to die, and if it hadn't been for me, he'd been in the sweet by and by. but i packed him back to santa fé and there i found his mules, for them dad-blamed two critters had got the indians fooled. i don't know how they done it, but they shore did get away, and them two mules is livin' up to this very day. old hodsie's feet got toughened up, he got to be a sport, he opened up a gamblin' house and a place of low resort; he got the prettiest dancing girls that ever could be found,-- them girls' feet was like rubber balls and they never staid on the ground. and then thar came billy the kid, he envied hodsie's wealth, he told old hods to leave the town, 'twould be better for his health; old hodsie took the hint and got, but he carried all his wealth. and he went back to noo york state with lots of dinero, and now they say he's senator, but of that i shore don't know. a fragment i am fur from my sweetheart and she is fur from me, and when i'll see my sweetheart i can't tell when 'twill be. but i love her just the same, no matter where i roam; and that there girl will wait fur me whenever i come home. i've roamed the texas prairies, i've followed the cattle trail, i've rid a pitching pony till the hair came off his tail. i've been to cowboy dances, i've kissed the texas girls, but they ain't none what can compare with my own sweetheart's curls. the lone star trail i'm a rowdy cowboy just off the stormy plains, my trade is girting saddles and pulling bridle reins. oh, i can tip the lasso, it is with graceful ease; i rope a streak of lightning, and ride it where i please. my bosses they all like me, they say i am hard to beat; i give them the bold standoff, you bet i have got the cheek. i always work for wages, my pay i get in gold; i am bound to follow the longhorn steer until i am too old. ci yi yip yip yip pe ya. i am a texas cowboy and i do ride the range; my trade is cinches and saddles and ropes and bridle reins; with stetson hat and jingling spurs and leather up to the knees, gray backs as big as chili beans and fighting like hell with fleas. and if i had a little stake, i soon would married be, but another week and i must go, the boss said so to-day. my girl must cheer up courage and choose some other one, for i am bound to follow the lone star trail until my race is run. ci yi yip yip yip pe ya. it almost breaks my heart for to have to go away, and leave my own little darling, my sweetheart so far away. but when i'm out on the lone star trail often i'll think of thee, of my own dear girl, the darling one, the one i would like to see. and when i get to a shipping point, i'll get on a little spree to drive away the sorrow for the girl that once loved me. and though red licker stirs us up we're bound to have our fun, and i intend to follow the lone star trail until my race is run. ci yi yip yip yip pe ya. i went up the lone star trail in eighteen eighty-three; i fell in love with a pretty miss and she in love with me. "when you get to kansas write and let me know; and if you get in trouble, your bail i'll come and go." when i got up in kansas, i had a pleasant dream; i dreamed i was down on trinity, down on that pleasant stream; i dreampt my true love right beside me, she come to go my bail; i woke up broken hearted with a yearling by the tail. ci yi yip yip yip pe ya. in came my jailer about nine o'clock, a bunch of keys was in his hand, my cell door to unlock, saying, "cheer up, my prisoner, i heard some voice say you're bound to hear your sentence some time to-day." in came my mother about ten o'clock, saying, "o my loving johnny, what sentence have you got?" "the jury found me guilty and the judge a-standin' by has sent me down to huntsville to lock me up and die." ci yi yip yip yip pe ya. down come the jailer, just about eleven o'clock, with a bunch of keys all in his hand the cell doors to unlock, saying, "cheer up, my prisoner, i heard the jury say just ten long years in huntsville you're bound to go and stay." down come my sweetheart, ten dollars in her hand, saying, "give this to my cowboy, 'tis all that i command; o give this to my cowboy and think of olden times, think of the darling that he has left behind." ci yi yip yip yip pe ya. way down in mexico o boys, we're goin' far to-night, yeo-ho, yeo-ho! we'll take the greasers now in hand and drive 'em in the rio grande, way down in mexico. we'll hang old santa anna soon, yeo-ho, yeo-ho! and all the greaser soldiers, too, to the chune of yankee doodle doo, way down in mexico. we'll scatter 'em like flocks of sheep, yeo-ho, yeo-ho! we'll mow 'em down with rifle ball and plant our flag right on their wall, way down in mexico. old rough and ready, he's a trump, yeo-ho, yeo-ho! he'll wipe old santa anna out and put the greasers all to rout, way down in mexico. then we'll march back by and by, yeo-ho, yeo-ho! and kiss the gals we left to home and never more we'll go and roam, way down in mexico. rattlesnake--a ranch haying song a nice young ma-wa-wan lived on a hi-wi-will; a nice young ma-wa-wan, for i knew him we-we-well. to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! this nice young ma-wa-wan went out to mo-wo-wow to see if he-we-we could make a sho-wo-wow. to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! he scarcely mo-wo-wowed half round the fie-we-wield till up jumped--come a rattle, come a sna-wa-wake, and bit him on the he-we-weel. to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! he laid right dow-we-wown upon the gro-wo-wound and shut his ey-wy-wyes and looked all aro-wo-wound. to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! "o pappy da-wa-wad, go tell my ga-wa-wal that i'm a-goin' ter di-wi-wie, for i know i sha-wa-wall." to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! "o pappy da-wa-wad, go spread the ne-wu-wus; and here come sa-wa-wall without her sho-woo-woos." to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! "o john, o joh-wa-wahn, why did you go-wo-wo way down in the mea-we-we-dow so far to mo-wo-wow?" to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! "o sal, o sa-wa-wall, why don't you kno-wo-wow when the grass gits ri-wi-wipe, it must be mo-wo-woed?" to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! come all young gir-wi-wirls and shed a tea-we-wear for this young ma-wa-wan that died right he-we-were. to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! come all young me-we-wen and warning ta-wa-wake, and don't get bi-wi-wit by a rattle sna-wa-wake. to my rattle, to my roo-rah-ree! the railroad corral oh we're up in the morning ere breaking of day, the chuck wagon's busy, the flapjacks in play; the herd is astir o'er hillside and vale, with the night riders rounding them into the trail. oh, come take up your cinches, come shake out your reins; come wake your old broncho and break for the plains; come roust out your steers from the long chaparral, for the outfit is off to the railroad corral. the sun circles upward; the steers as they plod are pounding to powder the hot prairie sod; and it seems as the dust makes you dizzy and sick that we'll never reach noon and the cool, shady creek. but tie up your kerchief and ply up your nag; come dry up your grumbles and try not to lag; come with your steers from the long chaparral, for we're far on the road to the railroad corral. the afternoon shadows are starting to lean, when the chuck wagon sticks in the marshy ravine; the herd scatters farther than vision can look, for you can bet all true punchers will help out the cook. come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair; come break your old broncho to take in his share; come from your steers in the long chaparral, for 'tis all in the drive to the railroad corral. but the longest of days must reach evening at last, the hills all climbed, the creeks all past; the tired herd droops in the yellowing light; let them loaf if they will, for the railroad's in sight so flap up your holster and snap up your belt, and strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt; good-bye to the steers from the long chaparral, for there's a town that's a trunk by the railroad corral. the song of the "metis" trapper by rolette hurrah for the great white way! hurrah for the dog and sledge! as we snow-shoe along, we give them a song, with a snap of the whip and an urgent "mush on,"-- hurrah for the great white way! hurrah! hurrah for the snow and the ice! as we follow the trail, we call to the dogs with whistle and song, and reply to their talk with only "mush on, mush on"! hurrah for the snow and the ice! hurrah! hurrah for the gun and the trap,-- as we follow the lines by the rays of the mystic light that flames in the north with banners so bright, as we list to its swish, swish, swish, through the air all night, hurrah for the gun and the trap! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah for the fire and cold! as we lie in the robes all night. and list to the howl of the wolf; for we emptied the pot of the tea so hot, and a king on his throne might envy our lot,-- hurrah for the fire and cold! hurrah! hurrah for our black-haired girls, who brave the storms of the mountain heights and follow us on the great white way; for their eyes so bright light the way all right and guide us to shelter and warmth each night. hurrah for our black-haired girls! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! the camp fire has gone out through progress of the railroads our occupation's gone; so we will put ideas into words, our words into a song. first comes the cowboy, he is pointed for the west; of all the pioneers i claim the cowboys are the best; you will miss him on the round-up, it's gone, his merry shout,-- the cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out. there is the freighters, our companions, you've got to leave this land, can't drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand. the railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best; so give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west. bid them all adieu and give the merry shout,-- the cowboy has left the country and the campfire has gone out. when i think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill; when i think of the tin can by the fire and the cayote on the hill. i'll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a show,-- our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know. but things have changed now, we are poorly clothed and fed. our wagons are all broken and our ponies most all dead. soon we will leave this country, you'll hear the angels shout, "oh, here they come to heaven, the campfire has gone out." night-herding song by harry stephens oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round, you have wandered and tramped all over the ground; oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow, and don't forever be on the go,-- oh, move slow, dogies, move slow. hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo. i have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too, but to keep you together, that's what i can't do; my horse is leg weary and i'm awful tired, but if i let you get away i'm sure to get fired,-- bunch up, little dogies, bunch up. hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo. o say, little dogies, when you goin' to lay down and quit this forever siftin' around? my limbs are weary, my seat is sore; oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before,-- lay down, little dogies, lay down. hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo. oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down, stretch away out on the big open ground; snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound that will all go away when the day rolls round,-- lay still, little dogies, lay still. hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo. . . . . . . tail piece oh, the cow-puncher loves the whistle of his rope, as he races over the plains; and the stage-driver loves the popper of his whip, and the rattle of his concord chains; and we'll all pray the lord that we will be saved, and we'll keep the golden rule; but i'd rather be home with the girl i love than to monkey with this goddamn'd mule. . . . . . . . . . . . the habit[ ] i've beat my way wherever any winds have blown, i've bummed along from portland down to san antone, from sandy hook to frisco, over gulch and hill; for once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. i settles down quite frequent and i says, says i, "i'll never wander further till i comes to die." but the wind it sorta chuckles, "why, o' course you will," and shure enough i does it, cause i can't keep still. i've seed a lot o' places where i'd like to stay, but i gets a feelin' restless and i'm on my way. i was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, and once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. i've been in rich men's houses and i've been in jail, but when it's time for leavin', i jes hits the trail; i'm a human bird of passage, and the song i trill, is, "once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still." the sun is sorta coaxin' and the road is clear and the wind is singin' ballads that i got to hear. it ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; for once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. [footnote : a song current in arizona, probably written by berton braley. cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.] old paint[ ] refrain: goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne, goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne,-- my foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand; goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne. i'm a-leavin' cheyenne, i'm off for montan'; goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne. i'm a ridin' old paint, i'm a-leadin' old fan; goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne. with my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand; goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne. old paint's a good pony, he paces when he can; goodbye, little annie, i'm off for cheyenne. oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay, and seat yourself by me so long as you stay. my horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay; my wagon is loaded and rolling away. my foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand; good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand. goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne. goodbye, old paint, i'm a-leavin' cheyenne. [footnote : these verses are used in many parts of the west as a dance song. sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "home, sweet home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. the "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.] down south on the rio grande from way down south on the rio grande, roll on steers for the post oak sand,-- way down south in dixie, oh, boys, ho. you'd laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddle of a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,-- way down south in dixie, oh, boys, ho. rich as a king, and he wouldn't be bigger fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old nigger,-- way down south in dixie, oh, boys, ho. ole abe kep' gettin' bigger an' bigger, 'til he bust hisself 'bout a lame old nigger,-- way down south in dixie, oh, boys, ho. old jeff swears he'll sew him together with powder and shot instead of leather,-- way down south in dixie, oh, boys, ho. kin cuss an' fight an' hold or free 'em, but i know them mavericks when i see 'em,-- way down south in dixie, oh, boys, ho. silver jack[ ] i was on the drive in eighty working under silver jack, which the same is now in jackson and ain't soon expected back, and there was a fellow 'mongst us by the name of robert waite; kind of cute and smart and tonguey guess he was a graduate. he could talk on any subject from the bible down to hoyle, and his words flowed out so easy, just as smooth and slick as oil, he was what they call a skeptic, and he loved to sit and weave hifalutin' words together tellin' what he didn't believe. one day we all were sittin' round smokin' nigger head tobacco and hearing bob expound; hell, he said, was all a humbug, and he made it plain as day that the bible was a fable; and we lowed it looked that way. miracles and such like were too rank for him to stand, and as for him they called the savior he was just a common man. "you're a liar," someone shouted, "and you've got to take it back." then everybody started,-- 'twas the words of silver jack. and he cracked his fists together and he stacked his duds and cried, "'twas in that thar religion that my mother lived and died; and though i haven't always used the lord exactly right, yet when i hear a chump abuse him he's got to eat his words or fight." now, this bob he weren't no coward and he answered bold and free: "stack your duds and cut your capers, for there ain't no flies on me." and they fit for forty minutes and the crowd would whoop and cheer when jack spit up a tooth or two, or when bobby lost an ear. but at last jack got him under and he slugged him onct or twict, and straightway bob admitted the divinity of christ. but jack kept reasoning with him till the poor cuss gave a yell and lowed he'd been mistaken in his views concerning hell. then the fierce encounter ended and they riz up from the ground and someone brought a bottle out and kindly passed it round. and we drank to bob's religion in a cheerful sort o' way, but the spread of infidelity was checked in camp that day. [footnote : a lumber jack song adopted by the cowboys.] the cowboy's christmas ball[ ] way out in western texas, where the clear fork's waters flow, where the cattle are a-browzin' and the spanish ponies grow; where the northers come a-whistlin' from beyond the neutral strip; and the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they had the grip; where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, and the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely medder lark; where the 'possum and the badger and the rattlesnakes abound, and the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, while the double mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call,-- it was there i attended the cowboy's christmas ball. the town was anson city, old jones' county seat, where they raised polled angus cattle and waving whiskered wheat; where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full of health, where the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; where they print the _texas western_, that hec mccann supplies with news and yarns and stories, of most amazing size; where frank smith "pulls the badger" on knowing tenderfeet, and democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to beat; where lives that good old hunter, john milsap, from lamar, who used to be the sheriff "back east in paris, sah"! 'twas there, i say, at anson with the lovely widder wall, that i went to that reception, the cowboy's christmas ball. the boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; the ladies, kinder scatterin', had gathered in for miles. and yet the place was crowded, as i remember well, 'twas gave on this occasion at the morning star hotel. the music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, and a viol came imported, by the stage from abilene. the room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, and the candles flickered festious, around the airy walls. the wimmen folks looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, till the leader commenced yelling, "whoa, fellers, let's stampede," and the music started sighing and a-wailing through the hall as a kind of introduction to the cowboy's christmas ball. the leader was a feller that came from swenson's ranch,-- they called him windy billy from little deadman's branch. his rig was kinder keerless,--big spurs and high heeled boots; he had the reputation that comes when fellers shoots. his voice was like the bugle upon the mountain height; his feet were animated, and a mighty movin' sight, when he commenced to holler, "now fellers, shake your pen! lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like men; saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing and let 'em go; climb the grapevine round 'em; neow all hands do-ce-do! you maverick, jine the round-up,--jes skip the waterfall," huh! hit was getting active, the cowboy's christmas ball. the boys was tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, that old bass viol's music just got there with both feet! that wailin', frisky fiddle, i never shall forget; and windy kept a-singin'--i think i hear him yet-- "oh, x's, chase yer squirrels, and cut 'em to our side; spur treadwell to the center, with cross p charley's bride, doc hollis down the center, and twine the ladies' chain, van andrews, pen the fillies in big t diamond's train. all pull your freight together, neow swallow fork and change; big boston, lead the trail herd through little pitchfork's range. purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope and balance all!" huh! hit were gettin' active--the cowboy's christmas ball. the dust riz fast and furious; we all jes galloped round, till the scenery got so giddy that t bar dick was downed. we buckled to our partners and told 'em to hold on, then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. no sir-ee! that whirl at anson city jes takes the cake with me. i'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them i've had my fill, give me a frontier break-down backed up by windy bill. mcallister ain't nowhere, when windy leads the show; i've seen 'em both in harness and so i ought ter know. oh, bill, i shan't forget yer, and i oftentimes recall that lively gaited sworray--the cowboy's christmas ball. [footnote : this poem, one of the best in larry chittenden's _ranch verses_, published by g.p. putnam's sons, new york, has been set to music by the cowboys and its phraseology slightly changed, as this copy will show, by oral transmission. i have heard it in new mexico and it has been sent to me from various places,--always as a song. none of those who sent in the song knew that it was already in print.] pinto i am a vaquero by trade; to handle my rope i'm not afraid. i lass' an _otero_ by the two horns throw down the biggest that ever was born. whoa! whoa! whoa! pinto, whoa! my name to you i will not tell; for what's the use, you know me so well. the girls all love me, and cry when i leave them to join the rodero. whoa! whoa! whoa! pinto, whoa! i am a vaquero, and here i reside; show me the broncho i cannot ride. they say old pinto with one split ear is the hardest jumping broncho on the rodero. whoa! whoa! whoa! pinto, whoa! there strayed to our camp an iron gray colt; the boys were all fraid him so on him i bolt. you bet i stayed with him till cheer after cheer,-- "he's the broncho twister that's on the rodero." whoa! whoa! whoa! pinto, whoa! my story is ended, old pinto is dead; i'm going down laredo and paint the town red. i'm going up to laredo and set up the beer to all the cowboys that's on the rodero. whoa! whoa! whoa! pinto, whoa! the gal i left behind me i struck the trail in seventy-nine, the herd strung out behind me; as i jogged along my mind ran back for the gal i left behind me. that sweet little gal, that true little gal, the gal i left behind me! if ever i get off the trail and the indians they don't find me, i'll make my way straight back again to the gal i left behind me. that sweet little gal, that true little gal, the gal i left behind me! the wind did blow, the rain did flow, the hail did fall and blind me; i thought of that gal, that sweet little gal, that gal i'd left behind me! that sweet little gal, that true little gal, the gal i left behind me! she wrote ahead to the place i said, i was always glad to find it. she says, "i am true, when you get through right back here you will find me." that sweet little gal, that true little gal, the gal i left behind me! when we sold out i took the train, i knew where i would find her; when i got back we had a smack and that was no gol-darned liar. that sweet little gal, that true little gal, the gal i left behind me! billy the kid billy was a bad man and carried a big gun, he was always after greasers and kept 'em on the run. he shot one every morning, for to make his morning meal. and let a white man sass him, he was shore to feel his steel. he kept folks in hot water, and he stole from many a stage; and when he was full of liquor he was always in a rage. but one day he met a man who was a whole lot badder. and now he's dead, and we ain't none the sadder. the hell-bound train a texas cowboy lay down on a bar-room floor. having drunk so much he could drink no more; so he fell asleep with a troubled brain to dream that he rode on a hell-bound train. the engine with murderous blood was damp and was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp; an imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones, while the furnace rang with a thousand groans. the boiler was filled with lager beer and the devil himself was the engineer; the passengers were a most motley crew,-- church member, atheist, gentile, and jew, rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags, handsome young ladies, and withered old hags, yellow and black men, red, brown, and white. all chained together,--o god, what a sight! while the train rushed on at an awful pace, the sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face; wider and wider the country grew, as faster and faster the engine flew. louder and louder the thunder crashed and brighter and brighter the lightning flashed; hotter and hotter the air became till the clothes were burnt from each quivering frame. and out of the distance there arose a yell, "ha, ha," said the devil, "we're nearing hell!" then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain and begged the devil to stop the train. but he capered about and danced for glee and laughed and joked at their misery. "my faithful friends, you have done the work and the devil never can a payday shirk. "you've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor; the starving brother you've turned from the door, you've laid up gold where the canker rust, and have given free vent to your beastly lust. "you've justice scorned, and corruption sown, and trampled the laws of nature down. you have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied, and mocked at god in your hell-born pride. "you have paid full fare so i'll carry you through; for it's only right you should have your due. why, the laborer always expects his hire, so i'll land you safe in the lake of fire. "where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar, and my imps torment you forever more." then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry, his clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high. then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour to be saved from his sin and the demon's power. and his prayers and his vows were not in vain; for he never rode the hell-bound train. the old scout's lament come all of you, my brother scouts, and listen to my song; come, let us sing together though the shadows fall so long. of all the old frontiersmen that used to scour the plain there are but very few of them that with us yet remain. day after day they're dropping off, they're going one by one; our clan is fast decreasing, our race is almost run. there are many of our number that never wore the blue, but faithfully they did their part as brave men, tried and true. they never joined the army, but had other work to do in piloting the coming folks, to help them safely through. but brothers, we are failing, our race is almost run; the days of elk and buffalo and beaver traps are gone-- oh, the days of elk and buffalo! it fills my heart with pain to know these days are past and gone to never come again. we fought the red-skin rascals over valley, hill, and plain; we fought him in the mountain top, we fought him down again. these fighting days are over. the indian yell resounds no more along the border; peace sends far sweeter sounds. but we found great joy, old comrades, to hear and make it die; we won bright homes for gentle ones, and now, our west, good-bye. the deserted adobe round the 'dobe rank sands are thickly blowin', its ridges fill the deserted field; yet on this claim young lives once hope were sowing for all the years might yield; and in strong hands the echoing hoof pursuin' a wooden share turned up the sod, the toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin' and sang content to god. the toiler brave drank deep the fresh air's brewin' and sang content to god. a woman fair and sweet has smilin' striven through long and lonesome hours; a blue-eyed babe, a bit of earthly heaven, laughed at the sun's hot towers; a bow of promise made this desert splendid, this 'dobe was their pride. but what began so well, alas, has ended--, the promise died. but what began so well alas soon ended--, the promise died. their plans and dreams, their cheerful labor wasted in dry and mis-spent years; the spring was sweet, the summer bitter tasted, the autumn salt with tears. now "gyp" and sand do hide their one-time yearnin'; 'twas theirs; 'tis past. god's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin', to fail at last. god's ways are strange, we take so long in learnin', to fail at last. the cowboy at work you may call the cowboy horned and think him hard to tame, you may heap vile epithets upon his head; but to know him is to like him, notwithstanding his hard name, for he will divide with you his beef and bread. if you see him on his pony as he scampers o'er the plain, you would think him wild and woolly, to be sure; but his heart is warm and tender when he sees a friend in need, though his education is but to endure. when the storm breaks in its fury and the lightning's vivid flash makes you thank the lord for shelter and for bed, then it is he mounts his pony and away you see him dash, no protection but the hat upon his head. such is life upon a cow ranch, and the half was never told; but you never find a kinder-hearted set than the cattleman at home, be he either young or old, he's a "daisy from away back," don't forget. when you fail to find a pony or a cow that's gone a-stray, be that cow or pony wild or be it tame, the cowboy, like the drummer,--and the bed-bug, too, they say,-- brings him to you, for he gets there just the same. here's to the ranger! he leaves unplowed his furrow, he leaves his books unread for a life of tented freedom by lure of danger led. he's first in the hour of peril, he's gayest in the dance, like the guardsman of old england or the beau sabreur of france. he stands our faithful bulwark against our savage foe; through lonely woodland places our children come and go; our flocks and herds untended o'er hill and valley roam, the ranger in the saddle means peace for us at home. behold our smiling farmsteads where waves the golden grain! beneath yon tree, earth's bosom was dark with crimson stain. that bluff the death-shot echoed of husband, father, slain! god grant such sight of horror we never see again! the gay and hardy ranger, his blanket on the ground, lies by the blazing camp-fire while song and tale goes round; and if one voice is silent, one fails to hear the jest, they know his thoughts are absent with her who loves him best. our state, her sons confess it, that queenly, star-crowned brow, has darkened with the shadow of lawlessness ere now; and men of evil passions on her reproach have laid, but that the ready ranger rode promptly to her aid. he may not win the laurel nor trumpet tongue of fame; but beauty smiles upon him, and ranchmen bless his name. then here's to the texas ranger, past, present and to come! our safety from the savage, the guardian of our home. muster out the ranger yes, muster them out, the valiant band that guards our western home. what matter to you in your eastern land if the raiders here should come? no danger that you shall awake at night to the howls of a savage band; so muster them out, though the morning light find havoc on every hand. some dear one is sick and the horses all gone, so we can't for a doctor send; the outlaws were in in the light of the morn and no rangers here to defend. for they've mustered them out, the brave true band, untiring by night and day. the fearless scouts of this border land made the taxes high, they say. have fewer men in the capitol walls, fewer tongues in the war of words, but add to the rangers, the living wall that keeps back the bandit hordes. have fewer dinners, less turtle soup, if the taxes are too high. there are many other and better ways to lower them if they try. don't waste so much of your money printing speeches people don't read. if you'd only take off what's used for that 'twould lower the tax indeed. don't use so much sugar and lemons; cold water is just as good for a constant drink in the summer time and better for the blood. but leave us the rangers to guard us still, nor think that they cost too dear; for their faithful watch over vale and hill gives our loved ones naught to fear. a cow camp on the range oh, the prairie dogs are screaming, and the birds are on the wing, see the heel fly chase the heifer, boys! 'tis the first class sign of spring. the elm wood is budding, the earth is turning green. see the pretty things of nature that make life a pleasant dream! i'm just living through the winter to enjoy the coming change, for there is no place so homelike as a cow camp on the range. the boss is smiling radiant, radiant as the setting sun; for he knows he's stealing glories, for he ain't a-cussin' none. the cook is at the chuck-box whistling "heifers in the green," making baking powder biscuits, boys, while the pot is biling beans. the boys untie their bedding and unroll it on the run, for they are in a monstrous hurry for the supper's almost done. "here's your bloody wolf bait," cried the cook's familiar voice as he climbed the wagon wheel to watch the cowboys all rejoice. then all thoughts were turned from reverence to a plate of beef and beans, as we graze on beef and biscuits like yearlings on the range. to the dickens with your city where they herd the brainless brats, on a range so badly crowded there ain't room to cuss the cat. this life is not so sumptuous, i'm not longing for a change, for there is no place so homelike as a cow camp on the range. freckles. a fragment he was little an' peaked an' thin, an' narry a no account horse,-- least that's the way you'd describe him in case that the beast had been lost; but, for single and double cussedness an' for double fired sin, the horse never came out o' texas that was half-way knee-high to him! the first time that ever i saw him was nineteen years ago last spring; 'twas the year we had grasshoppers, that come an' et up everything, that a feller rode up here one evenin' an' wanted to pen over night a small bunch of horses, he said; an' i told him i guessed 'twas all right. well, the feller was busted, the horses was thin, an' the grass round here kind of good, an' he said if i'd let him hold here a few days he'd settle with me when he could. so i told him all right, turn them loose down the draw, that the latch string was always untied, he was welcome to stop a few days if he wished and rest from his weary ride. well, the cuss stayed around for two or three weeks, till at last he was ready to go; and that cuss out yonder bein' too poor to move, he gimme,--the cuss had no dough. well, at first the darn brute was as wild as a deer, an' would snort when he came to the branch, an' it took two cow punchers, on good horses, too, to handle him here at the ranch. well, the winter came on an' the range it got hard, an' my mustang commenced to get thin, so i fed him some an' rode him around, an' found out old freckles was game. for that was what the other cuss called him,--just freckles, no more or no less,-- his color,--couldn't describe it,--something like a paint shop in distress. them was indian times, young feller, that i am telling about; an' oft's the time i've seen the red man fight an' put the boys to rout. a good horse in them days, young feller, would save your life,-- one that in any race could hold the pace when the red-skin bands were rife. * * * * * whose old cow? 'twas the end of round-up, the last day of june, or maybe july, i don't remember, or it might have been august, 'twas some time ago, or perhaps 'twas the first of september. anyhow, 'twas the round-up we had at mayou on the lightning rod's range, near cayo; there were some twenty wagons, more or less, camped about on the temporal in the cañon. first night we'd no cattle, so we only stood guard on the horses, somewhere near two hundred head; so we side-lined and hoppled, we belled and we staked, loosed our hot-rolls and fell into bed. next morning 'bout day break we started our work, our horses, like 'possums, felt fine. each one "tendin' knittin'," none tryin' to shirk! so the round-up got on in good time. well, we worked for a week till the country was clean and the bosses said, "now, boys, we'll stay here. we'll carve and we'll trim 'em and start out a herd up the east trail from old abilene." next morning all on herd, and but two with the cut, and the boss on piute, carving fine, till he rode down his horse and had to pull out, and a new man went in to clean up. well, after each outfit had worked on the band there was only three head of them left; when nig add from l f d outfit rode in,-- a dictionary on earmarks and brands. he cut the two head out, told where they belonged; but when the last cow stood there alone add's eyes bulged so he didn't know just what to say, 'ceptin', "boss, dere's something here monstrous wrong! "white folks smarter'n add, and maybe i'se wrong; but here's six months' wages dat i'll give if anyone'll tell me when i reads dis mark to who dis longhorned cow belong! "overslope in right ear an' de underbill, lef' ear swaller fork an' de undercrop, hole punched in center, an' de jinglebob under half crop, an' de slash an' split. "she's got o block an' lightnin' rod, nine forty-six an' a bar eleven, t terrapin an' ninety-seven, rafter cross an' de double prod. "half circle a an' diamond d, four cross l and three p z, b w i bar, x v v, bar n cross an' a l c. "so, if none o' you punchers claims dis cow, mr. stock 'sociation needn't git 'larmed; for one more brand more or less won't do no harm, so old nigger add'l just brand her now." old time cowboy come all you melancholy folks wherever you may be, i'll sing you about the cowboy whose life is light and free. he roams about the prairie, and, at night when he lies down, his heart is as gay as the flowers in may in his bed upon the ground. they're a little bit rough, i must confess, the most of them, at least; but if you do not hunt a quarrel you can live with them in peace; for if you do, you're sure to rue the day you joined their band. they will follow you up and shoot it out with you just man to man. did you ever go to a cowboy whenever hungry and dry, asking for a dollar, and have him you deny? he'll just pull out his pocket book and hand you a note,-- they are the fellows to help you whenever you are broke. go to their ranches and stay a while, they never ask a cent; and when they go to town, their money is freely spent. they walk straight up and take a drink, paying for every one, and they never ask your pardon for anything they've done. when they go to their dances, some dance while others pat they ride their bucking bronchos, and wear their broad-brimmed hats; with their california saddles, and their pants stuck in their boots, you can hear their spurs a-jingling, and perhaps some of them shoots. come all soft-hearted tenderfeet, if you want to have some fun; go live among the cowboys, they'll show you how it's done. they'll treat you like a prince, my boys, about them there's nothing mean; but don't try to give them too much advice, for all of them ain't green. bucking broncho my love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks, though he's promised to quit it, just for my sake. he ties up one foot, the saddle puts on, with a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone. the first time i met him, 'twas early one spring, riding a broncho, a high-headed thing. he tipped me a wink as he gaily did go; for he wished me to look at his bucking broncho. the next time i saw him 'twas late in the fall, swinging the girls at tomlinson's ball. he laughed and he talked as we danced to and fro, promised never to ride on another broncho. he made me some presents, among them a ring; the return that i made him was a far better thing; 'twas a young maiden's heart, i'd have you all know; he's won it by riding his bucking broncho. my love has a gun, and that gun he can use, but he's quit his gun fighting as well as his booze; and he's sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope, and there's no more cow punching, and that's what i hope. my love has a gun that has gone to the bad, which makes poor old jimmy feel pretty damn sad; for the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low, and it wobbles about like a bucking broncho. now all you young maidens, where'er you reside, beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide; he'll court you and pet you and leave you and go in the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho. the pecos queen where the pecos river winds and turns in its journey to the sea, from its white walls of sand and rock striving ever to be free, near the highest railroad bridge that all these modern times have seen, dwells fair young patty morehead, the pecos river queen. she is known by every cowboy on the pecos river wide, they know full well that she can shoot, that she can rope and ride. she goes to every round-up, every cow work without fail, looking out for her cattle, branded "walking hog on rail." she made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her rope; can tie down every maverick before it can strike a lope. she can rope and tie and brand it as quick as any man; she's voted by all cowboys an a- top cow hand. across the comstock railroad bridge, the highest in the west, patty rode her horse one day, a lover's heart to test; for he told her he would gladly risk all dangers for her sake-- but the puncher wouldn't follow, so she's still without a mate. chopo through rocky arroyas so dark and so deep, down the sides of the mountains so slippery and steep,-- you've good judgment, sure-footed, wherever you go, you're a safety conveyance, my little chopo. refrain:-- chopo, my pony, chopo, my pride, chopo, my amigo, chopo i will ride. from mexico's borders 'cross texas' llano to the salt pecos river, i ride you, chopo. whether single or double or in the lead of the team, over highways or byways or crossing a stream,-- you're always in fix and willing to go, whenever you're called on, my chico chopo. you're a good roping horse, you were never jerked down, when tied to a steer, you will circle him round; let him once cross the string and over he'll go,-- you sabe the business, my cow-horse, chopo. one day on the llano a hailstorm began, the herds were stampeded, the horses all ran, the lightning it glittered, a cyclone did blow, but you faced the sweet music, my little chopo. top hand while you're all so frisky i'll sing a little song,-- think a little horn of whiskey will help the thing along? it's all about the top hand, when he busted flat bummin' round the town, in his mexican hat. he's laid up all winter, and his pocket book is flat, his clothes are all tatters, but he don't mind that. see him in town with a crowd that he knows, rollin' cigarettes and smokin' through his nose. first thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand,-- leads you to think he is a daisy hand; next thing he tells you 'bout his trip up the trail, all the way to kansas, to finish out his tale. put him on a hoss, he's a handy hand to work; put him in the brandin'-pen, he's dead sure to shirk. with his natural leaf tobacco in the pockets of his vest he'll tell you his california pants are the best. he's handled lots of cattle, hasn't any fears, can draw his sixty dollars for the balance of his years. put him on herd, he's a-cussin' all day; anything he tries, it's sure to get away. when you have a round-up, he tells it all about he's goin' to do the cuttin' an' you can't keep him out. if anything goes wrong, he lays it on the screws, says the lazy devils were tryin' to take a snooze. when he meets a greener he ain't afraid to rig, stands him on a chuck box and makes him dance a jig,-- waves a loaded cutter, makes him sing and shout,-- he's a regular ben thompson when the boss ain't about. when the boss ain't about he leaves his leggins in camp, he swears a man who wears them is worse than a tramp. says he's not carin' for the wages he earns, for dad's rich in texas,--got wagon loads to burn; but when he goes to town, he's sure to take it in, he's always been dreaded wherever he's been. he rides a fancy horse, he's a favorite man, can get more credit than a common waddie can. when you ship the cattle he's bound to go along to keep the boss from drinking and see that nothing's wrong. wherever he goes, catch on to his name, he likes to be called with a handle to his name. he's always primping with a pocket looking-glass, from the top to the bottom he's a bold jackass. california trail list all you california boys and open wide your ears, for now we start across the plains with a herd of mules and steers. now, bear in mind before you start, that you'll eat jerked beef, not ham, and antelope steak, oh cuss the stuff! it often proves a sham. you cannot find a stick of wood on all this prairie wide; whene'er you eat you've got to stand or sit on some old bull hide. it's fun to cook with buffalo chips or mesquite, green as corn,-- if i'd once known what i know now i'd have gone around cape horn. the women have the hardest time who emigrate by land; for when they cook out in the wind they're sure to burn their hand. then they scold their husbands round, get mad and spill the tea,-- i'd have thanked my stars if they'd not come out upon this bleak prairie. most every night we put out guards to keep the indians off. when night comes round some heads will ache, and some begin to cough. to be deprived of help at night, you know is mighty hard, but every night there's someone sick to keep from standing guard. then they're always talking of what they've got, and what they're going to do; some will say they're content, for i've got as much as you. others will say, "i'll buy or sell, i'm damned if i care which." others will say, "boys, buy him out, for he doesn't own a stitch." old raw-hide shoes are hell on corns while tramping through the sands, and driving jackass by the tail,-- damn the overland! i would as leaf be on a raft at sea and there at once be lost. john, let's leave the poor old mule, we'll never get him across! bronc peeler's song i've been upon the prairie, i've been upon the plain, i've never rid a steam-boat, nor a double-cinched-up train. but i've driv my eight-up to wagon that were locked three in a row, and that through blindin' sand storms, and all kinds of wind and snow. cho:-- goodbye, liza, poor gal, goodbye, liza jane, goodbye, liza, poor gal, she died on the plain. there never was a place i've been had any kind of wood. we burn the roots of bar-grass and think it's very good. i've never tasted home bread, nor cakes, nor muss like that; but i know fried dough and beef pulled from red-hot tallow fat. i hate to see the wire fence a-closin' up the range; and all this fillin' in the trail with people that is strange. we fellers don't know how to plow, nor reap the golden grain; but to round up steers and brand the cows to us was allus plain. so when this blasted country is all closed in with wire, and all the top, as trot grass, is burnin' in sol's fire, i hope the settlers will be glad when rain hits the land. and all us cowdogs are in hell with a "set"[ ] joined hand in hand. [footnote : "set" means settler.] a deer hunt one pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow; i picked my old gun and a-hunting i did go. i came across a herd of deer and i trailed them through the snow, i trailed them to the mountains where straight up they did go. i trailed them o'er the mountains, i trailed them to the brim, and i trailed them to the waters where they jumped in to swim. i cocked both my pistols and under water went,-- to kill the fattest of them deer, that was my whole intent. while i was under water five hundred feet or more i fired both my pistols; like cannons did they roar. i picked up my venison and out of water came,-- to kill the balance of them deer, i thought it would be fun. so i bent my gun in circles and fired round a hill. and, out of three or four deer, ten thousand i did kill. then i picked up my venison and on my back i tied and as the sun came passing by i hopped up there to ride. the sun she carried me o'er the globe, so merrily i did roam that in four and twenty hours i landed safe at home. and the money i received for my venison and skin, i taken it all to the barn door and it would not all go in. and if you doubt the truth of this i tell you how to know: just take my trail and go my rounds, as i did, long ago. windy bill windy bill was a texas man,-- well, he could rope, you bet. he swore the steer he couldn't tie,-- well, he hadn't found him yet. but the boys they knew of an old black steer, a sort of an old outlaw that ran down in the malpais at the foot of a rocky draw. this old black steer had stood his ground with punchers from everywhere; so they bet old bill at two to one that he couldn't quite get there. then bill brought out his old gray hoss, his withers and back were raw, and prepared to tackle the big black brute that ran down in the draw. with his brazen bit and his sam stack tree his chaps and taps to boot, and his old maguey tied hard and fast, bill swore he'd get the brute. now, first bill sort of sauntered round old blackie began to paw, then threw his tail straight in the air and went driftin' down the draw. the old gray plug flew after him, for he'd been eatin' corn; and bill, he piled his old maguey right round old blackie's horns. the old gray hoss he stopped right still; the cinches broke like straw, and the old maguey and the sam stack tree went driftin' down the draw. bill, he lit in a flint rock pile, his face and hands were scratched. he said he thought he could rope a snake but he guessed he'd met his match. he paid his bets like a little man without a bit of jaw, and lowed old blackie was the boss of anything in the draw. there's a moral to my story, boys, and that you all must see. whenever you go to tie a snake,[ ] don't tie it to your tree; but take your dolly welters[ ] 'cordin' to california law, and you'll never see your old rim-fire[ ] go drifting down the draw. [footnote : snake, bad steer.] [footnote : dolly welter, rope tied all around the saddle.] [footnote : rim-fire saddle, without flank girth.] wild rovers come all you wild rovers and listen to me while i retail to you my sad history. i'm a man of experience your favors to gain, oh, love has been the ruin of many a poor man. when you are single and living at your ease you can roam this world over and do as you please; you can roam this world over and go where you will and slyly kiss a pretty girl and be your own still. but when you are married and living with your wife, you've lost all the joys and comforts of life. your wife she will scold you, your children will cry, and that will make papa look withered and dry. you can't step aside, boys, to speak to a friend without your wife at your elbow saying, "what does this mean?" your wife, she will scold and there is sad news. dear boys, take warning; 'tis a life to refuse. if you chance to be riding along the highway and meet a fair maiden, a lady so gay, with red, rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes,-- oh, heavens! what a tumult in your bosom will rise! one more request, boys, before we must part: don't place your affections on a charming sweetheart; she'll dance before you your favors to gain. oh, turn your back on them with scorn and disdain! come close to the bar, boys, we'll drink all around. we'll drink to the pure, if any be found; we'll drink to the single, for i wish them success; likewise to the married, for i wish them no less. life in a half-breed shack 'tis life in a half-breed shack, the rain comes pouring down; "drip" drops the mud through the roof, and the wind comes through the wall. a tenderfoot cursed his luck and feebly cried out "yah!" refrain: yah! yah! i want to go home to my ma! yah! yah! this bloomin' country's a fraud! yah! yah! i want to go home to my ma! he tries to kindle a fire when it's forty-five below; he aims to chop at a log and amputates his toe; he hobbles back to the shack and feebly cries out "yah"! he gets on a bucking cayuse and thinks to flourish around, but the buzzard-head takes to bucking and lays him flat out on the ground. as he picks himself up with a curse, he feebly cries out "yah"! he buys all the town lots he can get in the wrong end of calgary, and he waits and he waits for the boom until he's dead broke like me. he couldn't get any tick so he feebly cries out "yah"! he couldn't do any work and he wouldn't know how if he could; so the police run him for a vag and set him to bucking wood. as he sits in the guard room cell, he feebly cries out "yah"! come all ye tenderfeet and listen to what i say, if you can't get a government job you had better remain where you be. then you won't curse your luck and cry out feebly "yah"! the road to cook's peak if you'll listen a while i'll sing you a song, and as it is short it won't take me long. there are some things of which i will speak concerning the stage on the road to cook's peak. on the road to cook's peak,-- on the road to cook's peak,-- concerning the stage on the road to cook's peak. it was in the morning at eight-forty-five, i was hooking up all ready to drive out where the miners for minerals seek, with two little mules on the road to cook's peak-- on the road to cook's peak,-- on the road to cook's peak,-- with two little mules on the road to cook's peak. with my two little mules i jog along and try to cheer them with ditty and song; o'er the wide prairie where coyotes sneak, while driving the stage on the road to cook's peak. on the road to cook's peak,-- on the road to cook's peak,-- while driving the stage on the road to cook's peak. sometimes i have to haul heavy freight, then it is i get home very late. in rain or shine, six days in the week, 'tis the same little mules on the road to cook's peak. on the road to cook's peak,-- on the road to cook's peak,-- 'tis the same little mules on the road to cook's peak. and when with the driving of stage i am through i will to my two little mules bid adieu. and hope that those creatures, so gentle and meek, will have a good friend on the road to cook's peak. on the road to cook's peak,-- on the road to cook's peak,-- will have a good friend on the road to cook's peak. now all kind friends that travel about, come take a trip on the wallis stage route. with a plenty of grit, they never get weak,-- those two little mules on the road to cook's peak. on the road to cook's peak,-- on the road to cook's peak,-- those two little mules on the road to cook's peak. araphoe, or buckskin joe 'twas a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called araphoe, and the whiskey was a running with a soft and gentle flow, the music was a-ringing in a dance hall cross the way, and the dancers was a-swinging just as close as they could lay. people gathered round the tables, a-betting with their wealth, and near by stood a stranger who had come there for his health. he was a peaceful little stranger though he seemed to be unstrung; for just before he'd left his home he'd separated with one lung. nearby at a table sat a man named hankey dean, a tougher man says hankey, buckskin chaps had never seen. but hankey was a gambler and he was plum sure to lose; for he had just departed with a sun-dried stack of blues. he rose from the table, on the floor his last chip flung, and cast his fiery glimmers on the man with just one lung. "no wonder i've been losing every bet i made tonight when a sucker and a tenderfoot was between me and the light. look here, little stranger, do you know who i am?" "yes, and i don't care a copper colored damn." the dealers stopped their dealing and the players held their breath; for words like those to hankey were a sudden flirt with death. "listen, gentle stranger, i'll read my pedigree: i'm known on handling tenderfeet and worser men than thee; the lions on the mountains, i've drove them to their lairs; the wild-cats are my playmates, and i've wrestled grizzly bears; "why, the centipedes can't mar my tough old hide, and rattle snakes have bit me and crawled off and died. i'm as wild as the horse that roams the range; the moss grows on my teeth and wild blood flows through my veins. "i'm wild and woolly and full of fleas and never curried below the knees. now, little stranger, if you'll give me your address,-- how would you like to go, by fast mail or express?" the little stranger who was leaning on the door picked up a hand of playing cards that were scattered on the floor. picking out the five of spades, he pinned it to the door and then stepped back some twenty paces or more. he pulled out his life-preserver, and with a "one, two, three, four," blotted out a spot with every shot; for he had traveled with a circus and was a fancy pistol shot. "i have one more left, kind sir, if you wish to call the play." then hanke stepped up to the stranger and made a neat apology, "why, the lions in the mountains,--that was nothing but a joke. never mind about the extra, you are a bad shooting man, and i'm a meek little child and as harmless as a lamb." rounded up in glory i have been thinking to-day, as my thoughts began to stray, of your memory to me worth more than gold. as you ride across the plain, 'mid the sunshine and the rain,-- you will be rounded up in glory bye and bye. chorus: you will be rounded up in glory bye and bye, you will be rounded up in glory bye and bye, when the milling time is o'er and you will stampede no more, when he rounds you up within the master's fold. as you ride across the plain with the cowboys that have fame, and the storms and the lightning flash by. we shall meet to part no more upon the golden shore when he rounds us up in glory bye and bye. may we lift our voices high to that sweet bye and bye, and be known by the brand of the lord; for his property we are, and he will know us from afar when he rounds us up in glory bye and bye. the drunkard's hell it was on a cold and stormy night i saw and heard an awful sight; the lightning flashed and thunder rolled around my poor benighted soul. i thought i heard a mournful sound among the groans still lower down, that awful sight no tongue can tell is this,--the place called drunkard's hell. i thought i saw the gulf below where all the dying drunkards go. i raised my hand and sad to tell it was the place called drunkard's hell. i traveled on and got there at last and started to take a social glass; but every time i started,--well, i thought about the drunkard's hell. i dashed it down to leave that place and started to seek redeeming grace. i felt like paul, at once i'd pray till all my sins were washed away. i then went home to change my life and see my long neglected wife. i found her weeping o'er the bed because her infant babe was dead. i told her not to mourn and weep because her babe had gone to sleep; its happy soul had fled away to dwell with christ till endless day. i taken her by her pale white hand, she was so weak she could not stand; i laid her down and breathed a prayer that god might bless and save her there. i then went to the temperance hall and taken a pledge among them all. they taken me in with a willing hand and taken me in as a temperance man. so seven long years have passed away since first i bowed my knees to pray; so now i live a sober life with a happy home and a loving wife. rambling boy i am a wild and roving lad, a wild and rambling lad i'll be; for i do love a little girl and she does love me. "o willie, o willie, i love you so, i love you more than i do know; and if my tongue could tell you so i'd give the world to let you know." when julia's old father came this to know,-- that julia and willie were loving so,-- he ripped and swore among them all, and swore he'd use a cannon ball. she wrote willie a letter with her right hand and sent it to him in the western land. "oh, read these lines, sweet william dear. for this is the last of me you will hear." he read those lines while he wept and cried, "ten thousand times i wish i had died", he read those lines while he wept and said, "ten thousand times i wish i were dead." when her old father came home that night he called for julia, his heart's delight, he ran up stairs and her door he broke and found her hanging by her own bed rope. and with his knife he cut her down, and in her bosom this note he found saying, "dig my grave both deep and wide and bury sweet willie by my side." they dug her grave both deep and wide and buried sweet willie by her side; and on her grave set a turtle dove to show the world they died for love. brigham young. i. i'll sing you a song that has often been sung about an old mormon they called brigham young. of wives he had many who were strong in the lungs, which brigham found out by the length of their tongues. ri tu ral, lol, lu ral. oh, sad was the life of a mormon to lead, yet brigham adhered all his life to his creed. he said 'twas such fun, and true, without doubt, to see the young wives knock the old ones about. ri tu ral, lol, lu ral. one day as old brigham sat down to his dinner he saw a young wife who was not getting thinner; when the elders cried out, one after the other, by the holy, she wants to go home to her mother. ri tu ral, lol, lu ral. old brigham replied, which can't be denied, he couldn't afford to lose such a bride. then do not be jealous but banish your fears; for the tree is well known by the fruit that it bears. ri tu ral, lol, lu ral. that i love one and all you very well know, then do not provoke me or my anger will show. what must be our fate if found here in a row, if uncle sam comes with his row-de-dow-dow. ri tu ral, lol, lu ral. then cease all your quarrels and do not despair, to meet uncle sam i will quickly prepare. hark! i hear yankee doodle played over the hills! ah! here's the enemy with their powder and pills. ri tu ral, lol, lu ral. brigham young. ii. now brigham young is a mormon bold, and a leader of the roaring rams, and shepherd of a lot of fine tub sheep and a lot of pretty little lambs. oh, he lives with his five and forty wives, in the city of the great salt lake, where they breed and swarm like hens on a farm and cackle like ducks to a drake. chorus:-- oh brigham, brigham young, it's a miracle how you survive, with your roaring rams and your pretty little lambs and your five and forty wives. number forty-five is about sixteen, number one is sixty and three; and they make such a riot, how he keeps them quiet is a downright mystery to me. for they clatter and they chaw and they jaw, jaw, jaw, and each has a different desire; it would aid the renown of the best shop in town to supply them with half they desire. now, brigham young was a stout man once, and now he is thin and old; and i am sorry to state he is bald on the pate, which once had a covering of gold. for his oldest wives won't have white wool, and his young ones won't have red, so, with tearing it out, and taking turn about, they have torn all the hair off his head. now, the oldest wives sing songs all day, and the young ones all sing songs; and amongst such a crowd he has it pretty loud,-- they're as noisy as chinese gongs. and when they advance for a mormon dance he is filled with the direst alarms; for they are sure to end the night in a tabernacle fight to see who has the fairest charms. now, if any man here envies brigham young let him go to the great salt lake; and if he has the leisure to enjoy his pleasure, he'll find it a great mistake. one wife at a time, so says my rhyme, is enough,--there's no denial;-- so, before you strive to be lord of forty-five, take two for a month on trial. the old gray mule i am an old man some sixty years old and that you can plain-li see, but when i was a young man ten years old they made a stable boy of me. i have seen the fastest horses that made the fastest time, but i never saw one in all my life like that old gray mule of mine. on a sunday morn i dress myself, a-goin' out to ride; now, my old mule is as gray as a bird, then he is full of his pride. he never runs away with you, never cuts up any shine; for the only friend i have on earth is this old gray mule of mine. now my old gray mule is dead and gone, gone to join the heavenly band, with silver shoes upon his feet to dance on the golden strand. the fools of forty-nine when gold was found in forty-eight the people thought 'twas gas, and some were fools enough to think the lumps were only brass. but soon they all were satisfied and started off to mine; they bought their ships, came round the horn, in the days of forty-nine. refrain: then they thought of what they'd been told when they started after gold,-- that they never in the world would make a pile. the people all were crazy then, they didn't know what to do. they sold their farms for just enough to pay their passage through. they bid their friends a long farewell, said, "dear wife, don't you cry, i'll send you home the yellow lumps a piano for to buy." the poor, the old, and the rotten scows were advertised to sail from new orleans with passengers, but they must pump and bail. the ships were crowded more than full, and some hung on behind, and others dived off from the wharf and swam till they were blind. with rusty pork and stinking beef and rotten, wormy bread! the captains, too, that never were up as high as the main mast head! the steerage passengers would rave and swear that they'd paid their passage and wanted something more to eat beside bologna sausage. they then began to cross the plain with oxen, hollowing "haw." and steamers then began to run as far as panama. and there for months the people staid, that started after gold, and some returned disgusted with the lies that had been told. the people died on every route, they sickened and died like sheep; and those at sea before they died were launched into the deep; and those that died while crossing the plains fared not so well as that, for a hole was dug and they thrown in along the miserable platte. the ships at last began to arrive and the people began to inquire. they say that flour is a dollar a pound, do you think it will be any higher? and to carry their blankets and sleep outdoors, it seemed so very droll! both tired and mad, without a cent, they damned the lousy hole. a ripping trip[ ] you go aboard a leaky boat and sail for san francisco, you've got to pump to keep her afloat, you've got that, by jingo! the engine soon begins to squeak, but nary a thing to oil her; impossible to stop the leak,-- rip, goes the boiler. the captain on the promenade looking very savage; steward and the cabin maid fightin' 'bout the cabbage; all about the cabin floor passengers lie sea-sick; steamer bound to go ashore,-- rip, goes the physic. pork and beans they can't afford, the second cabin passengers; the cook has tumbled overboard with fifty pounds of sassengers; the engineer, a little tight, bragging on the mail line, finally gets into a fight,-- rip, goes the engine. [footnote : to tune of _pop goes the weasel_.] the happy miner i'm a happy miner, i love to sing and dance. i wonder what my love would say if she could see my pants with canvas patches on my knees and one upon the stern? i'll wear them when i'm digging here and home when i return. refrain: so i get in a jovial way, i spend my money free. and i've got plenty! will you drink lager beer with me? she writes about her poodle dog; but never thinks to say, "oh, do come home, my honey dear, i'm pining all away." i'll write her half a letter, then give the ink a tip. if that don't bring her to her milk i'll coolly let her rip. they wish to know if i can cook and what i have to eat, and tell me should i take a cold be sure and soak my feet. but when they talk of cooking i'm mighty hard to beat, i've made ten thousand loaves of bread the devil couldn't eat. i like a lazy partner so i can take my ease, lay down and talk of golden home, as happy as you please; without a thing to eat or drink, away from care and grief,-- i'm fat and sassy, ragged, too, and tough as spanish beef. no matter whether rich or poor, i'm happy as a clam. i wish my friends at home could look and see me as i am. with woolen shirt and rubber boots, in mud up to my knees, and lice as large as chili beans fighting with the fleas. i'll mine for half an ounce a day, perhaps a little less; but when it comes to china pay i cannot stand the press. like thousands there, i'll make a pile, if i make one at all, about the time the allied forces take sepasterpol. the california stage company there's no respect for youth or age on board the california stage, but pull and haul about the seats as bed-bugs do about the sheets. refrain: they started as a thieving line in eighteen hundred and forty-nine; all opposition they defy, so the people must root hog or die. you're crowded in with chinamen, as fattening hogs are in a pen; and what will more a man provoke is musty plug tobacco smoke. the ladies are compelled to sit with dresses in tobacco spit; the gentlemen don't seem to care, but talk on politics and swear. the dust is deep in summer time, the mountains very hard to climb, and drivers often stop and yell, "get out, all hands, and push up hill." the drivers, when they feel inclined, will have you walking on behind, and on your shoulders lug a pole to help them out some muddy hole. they promise when your fare you pay, "you'll have to walk but half the way"; then add aside, with cunning laugh, "you'll have to push the other half." new national anthem my country, 'tis of thee, land where things used to be so cheap, we croak. land of the mavericks, land of the puncher's tricks, thy culture-inroad pricks the hide of this peeler-bloke. some of the punchers swear that what they eat and wear takes all their calves. others vow that they eat only once a day jerked beef and prairie hay washed down with tallow salves. these salty-dogs[ ] but crave to pull them out the grave just one kiowa spur. they know they still will dine on flesh and beef the time; but give us, lord divine, one "hen-fruit stir."[ ] our father's land, with thee, best trails of liberty, we chose to stop. we don't exactly like so soon to henceward hike, but hell, we'll take the pike if this don't stop. [footnote : cowboy dude.] [footnote : pancake.] note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations and sound files of the music. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the loving ballad of lord bateman. illustrated by george cruikshank. london charles tilt, fleet street and mustapha syried, constantinople mdcccxxxix warning to the public concerning the loving ballad of lord bateman. in some collection of old english ballads there is an ancient ditty which i am told bears some remote and distant resemblance to the following epic poem. i beg to quote the emphatic language of my estimable friend (if he will allow me to call him so), the black bear in piccadilly, and to assure all to whom these presents may come, that "_i_ am the original." this affecting legend is given in the following pages precisely as i have frequently heard it sung on saturday nights, outside a house of general refreshment (familiarly termed a wine vaults) at battle-bridge. the singer is a young gentleman who can scarcely have numbered nineteen summers, and who before his last visit to the treadmill, where he was erroneously incarcerated for six months as a vagrant (being unfortunately mistaken for another gentleman), had a very melodious and plaintive tone of voice, which, though it is now somewhat impaired by gruel and such a getting up stairs for so long a period, i hope shortly to find restored. i have taken down the words from his own mouth at different periods, and have been careful to preserve his pronunciation, together with the air to which he does so much justice. of his execution of it, however, and the intense melancholy which he communicates to such passages of the song as are most susceptible of such an expression, i am unfortunately unable to convey to the reader an adequate idea, though i may hint that the effect seems to me to be in part produced by the long and mournful drawl on the last two or three words of each verse. i had intended to have dedicated my imperfect illustrations of this beautiful romance to the young gentleman in question. as i cannot find, however, that he is known among his friends by any other name than "the tripe-skewer," which i cannot but consider as a _soubriquet_, or nick-name; and as i feel that it would be neither respectful nor proper to address him publicly by that title, i have been compelled to forego the pleasure. if this should meet his eye, will he pardon my humble attempt to embellish with the pencil the sweet ideas to which he gives such feeling utterance? and will he believe me to remain his devoted admirer, george cruikshank? p.s.--the above is not my writing, nor the notes either, nor am i on familiar terms (but quite the contrary) with the black bear. nevertheless i admit the accuracy of the statement relative to the public singer whose name is unknown, and concur generally in the sentiments above expressed relative to him. [illustration: (signature: george cruikshank)] [illustration: musical score] the loving ballad of lord bateman. i. lord bateman vos a noble lord, a noble lord of high degree; he shipped his-self all aboard of a ship, some foreign country for to see.[ ] for the notes to this beautiful poem, see the end of the work. [illustration: lord bateman as he appeared previous to his embarkation.] [illustration: the turk's only daughter approaches to mitigate the sufferings of lord bateman!--] ii. he sail-ed east, he sail-ed vest, until he come to famed tur-key, vere he vos taken, and put to prisin, until his life was quite wea-ry. iii. all in this prisin there grew a tree, o! there it grew so stout and strong, vere he vos chain-ed all by the middle until his life vos almost gone. [illustration: the turk's daughter expresses a wish as lord bateman was hers.] iv. this turk[ ] he had one ounly darter, the fairest my two eyes e'er see, she steele the keys of her father's prisin, and swore lord bateman she would let go free. v. o she took him to her father's cellar, and guv to him the best of vine; and ev'ry holth she dronk unto him, vos, "i vish lord bateman as you vos mine!"[ ] [illustration: the "wow."] vi. "o have you got houses, have you got land, and does northumberland belong to thee? and what would you give to the fair young lady as out of prisin would let you go free?" vii. "o i've got houses, and i've got land, and half northumberland belongs to me; and i vill give it all to the fair young lady as out of prisin vould let me go free." [illustration: the turk's daughter, bidding his lordship farewell, is impressed with a foreboding that she will see him no more!--] viii. "o in sevin long years, i'll make a wow for sevin long years, and keep it strong,[ ] that if you'll ved no other voman, o i vill v-e-ed no other man." ix. o she took him to her father's harbour, and guv to him a ship of fame, saying, "farevell, farevell to you, lord bateman, i fear i ne-e-ever shall see you agen." [illustration: the proud young porter answers the door--] x. now sevin long years is gone and past, and fourteen days vell known to me;[ ] she packed up all her gay clouthing, and swore lord bateman she would go see. xi. o ven she arrived at lord bateman's castle, how bouldly then she rang the bell, "who's there! who's there!" cries the proud young porter, "o come, unto me pray quickly tell." [illustration: the proud young porter in lord bateman's state apartment] xii. "o! is this here lord bateman's castle, and is his lordship here vithin?" "o yes! o yes!" cries the proud young porter; "he's just now takin' his young bride in." xiii. "o! bid him to send me a slice of bread, and a bottle of the wery best vine, and not forgettin' the fair young lady as did release him ven close confine." [illustration: the young bride's mother is heard (for the first time) to speak freely] xiv. o! avay and avay vent this proud young porter, o! avay and avay and avay vent he,[ ] until he come to lord bateman's charmber, ven he vent down on his bended knee. xv. "vot news, vot news, my proud young porter,[ ] vot news, vot news, come tell to me?" "o there is the fairest young lady as ever my two eyes did see. [illustration: the young bride comes on a horse and saddle] xvi. "she has got rings on ev'ry finger, and on one finger she has got three: vith as much gay gould about her middle as would buy half northumberlee. xvii. "o she bids you to send her a slice of bread and a bottle of the wery best vine, and not forgettin' the fair young lady as did release you ven close confine." [illustration:--and goes home in a coach and three----] xviii. lord bateman then in passion flew, and broke his sword in splinters three,[ ] saying, "i vill give half my father's land if so be as sophia[ ] has crossed the sea." xix. then up and spoke this young bride's mother, who never vos heerd to speak so free:[ ] sayin, "you'll not forget my ounly darter, if so be as sophia has crossed the sea." [illustration: lord bateman, his other bride, and his favorite domestic, with all their hearts so full of glee.] xx. "o it's true i made a bride of your darter, but she's neither the better nor the vorse for me; she came to me with a horse and saddle, but she may go home in a coach and three." xxi. lord bateman then prepared another marriage, with both their hearts so full of glee, saying, "i vill roam no more to foreign countries now that sophia has crossed the sea."[ ] the end. notes. [footnote : _some foreign country for to see._ the reader is here in six words artfully made acquainted with lord bateman's character and temperament.--of a roving, wandering, and unsettled spirit, his lordship left his native country, bound he knew not whither. _some_ foreign country he wished to see, and that was the extent of his desire; any foreign country would answer his purpose--all foreign countries were alike to him. he was a citizen of the world, and upon the world of waters, sustained by the daring and reckless impulses of his heart, he boldly launched. for anything, from pitch-and-toss upwards to manslaughter, his lordship was prepared. lord bateman's character at this time, and his expedition, would appear to have borne a striking resemblance to those of lord byron. his goblets brimmed with every costly wine, and all that mote to luxury invite. without a sigh he left to cross the brine, and traverse paynim shores, and pass earth's central line. childe harold, canto i.] [footnote : _this turk he had, &c._ the poet has here, by that bold license which only genius can venture upon, surmounted the extreme difficulty of introducing any particular turk, by assuming a fore-gone conclusion in the reader's mind, and adverting in a casual, careless way to a turk unknown, as to an old acquaintance. "_this_ turk he had--" we have heard of no turk before, and yet this familiar introduction satisfies us at once that we know him well. he was a pirate, no doubt, of a cruel and savage disposition, entertaining a hatred of the christian race, and accustomed to garnish his trees and vines with such stray professors of christianity as happened to fall into his hands. "this turk he had--" is a master-stroke--a truly shakspearian touch. there are few things like it in the language.] [footnote : _and every holth she drunk unto him vos, "i vish lord bateman as you vos mine!"_ a most affecting illustration of the sweetest simplicity, the purest artlessness, and holiest affections of woman's gentle nature. bred up among the rough and savage crowds which thronged her father's lawless halls, and meeting with no responsive or kindred spirit among those fierce barbarians (many of whom, however, touched by her surpassing charms, though insensible to her virtues and mental endowments, had vainly sought her hand in marriage), this young creature had spent the greater part of her life in the solitude of her own apartments, or in contemplating the charms of nature arrayed in all the luxury of eastern voluptuousness. at length she hears from an aged and garrulous attendant, her only female adviser (for her mother died when she was yet an infant), of the sorrows and sufferings of the christian captive. urged by pity and womanly sympathy, she repairs to his prison to succour and console him. she supports his feeble and tottering steps to her father's cellar, recruits his exhausted frame with copious draughts of sparkling wine, and when his dim eye brightens, and his pale cheek becomes flushed with the glow of returning health and animation, she--unaccustomed to disguise or concealment, and being by nature all openness and truth--gives vent to the feelings which now thrill her maiden heart for the first time, in the rich gush of unspeakable love, tenderness, and devotion-- i vish lord bateman as you vos mine!] [footnote : _oh, in sevin long years i'll make a wow, i'll make a wow, and i'll keep it strong_. love has converted the tender girl into a majestic heroine; she cannot only make "a wow," but she can "keep it strong;" she feels all the dignity of truth and love swelling in her bosom. with the view of possessing herself of the real state of lord bateman's affections, and with no sordid or mercenary motives, she has enquired of that nobleman what are his means of subsistence, and whether _all_ northumberland belongs to him. his lordship has rejoined, with a noble regard for truth, that _half_ northumberland is his, and that he will give it freely to the fair young lady who will release him from his dungeon. she, being thus assured of his regard and esteem, rejects all idea of pecuniary reward, and offers to be a party to a solemn wow--to be kept strong on both sides--that, if for seven years he will remain a bachelor, she, for the like period, will remain a maid. the contract is made, and the lovers are solemnly contracted.] [footnote : _now sevin long years is gone and past, and fourteen days vell known to me._ in this may be recognised, though in a minor degree, the same gifted hand that portrayed the mussulman, the pirate, the father, and the bigot, in two words. the time is gone, the historian knows it, and that is enough for the reader. this is the dignity of history very strikingly exemplified.] [footnote : _avay and avay vent this proud young porter, avay and avay and avay vent he._ nothing perhaps could be more ingeniously contrived to express the vastness of lord bateman's family mansion than this remarkable passage. the proud young porter had to thread courts, corridors, galleries, and staircases innumerable, before he could penetrate to those exquisite apartments in which lord bateman was wont to solace his leisure hours, with the most refined pleasures of his time. we behold him hastening to the presence of his lord: the repetition of the word "avay" causes us to feel the speed with which he hastens--at length he arrives. does he appear before the chief with indecent haste? is he described as rushing madly into his presence to impart his message? no! a different atmosphere surrounds that remarkable man. even this proud young porter is checked in his impetuous career which lasted only _until_ he came to lord bateman's chamber, vere he vent down on his bended knee. lord bateman's eye is upon him, and he quails.] [footnote : _vot news! vot news! my proud young porter?_ a pleasant condescension on the part of his lordship, showing that he recognised the stately youth, and no less stately pride of office which characterized his follower, and that he was acquainted with the distinguishing appellation which he appears to have borne in the family.] [footnote : _and broke his sword in splinters three._ exemplifying, in a highly poetical and striking manner, the force of lord bateman's love, which he would seem to have kept strong as his "wow." we have beheld him patient in confinement, descending to no base murmurings against fortune, even when chained by the middle to a tree, with the prospect of ending his days in that ignominious and unpleasant position. he has borne all this and a great deal more, seven years and a fortnight have elapsed, and, at last, on the mere mention of the fair young lady, he falls into a perfect phrenzy, and breaks his sword, the faithful partner and companion of his glory, into three splinters. antiquarians differ respecting the intent and meaning of this ceremony, which has been construed and interpreted in many different ways. the strong probability is that it was done "for luck;" and yet lord bateman should have been superior to the prejudices of the vulgar.] [footnote : _if my own sophia._ so called doubtless from the mosque of st. sophia, at constantinople; her father having professed the mahomedan religion.] [footnote : _then up and spoke this young bride's mother, who never vos heerd to speak so free._ this is an exquisite touch of nature, which most married men, whether of noble or plebeian blood, will quickly recognise. during the whole of her daughter's courtship, the good old lady had scarcely spoken, save by expressive smiles and looks of approval. but now that her object is gained, and her daughter fast married (as she thinks), she suddenly assumes quite a new tone, "and never was heerd to speak so free." it would be difficult for poetry to comprehend any thing more strictly true and life-like than this.] [footnote : _with both their hearts so full of glee._ if any thing could add to the grace and beauty of the poem, it would be this most satisfactory and agreeable conclusion. at the time of the foreign lady's arrival on the shores of england, we find lord bateman in the disagreeable dilemma of having contracted another marriage; to which step his lordship has doubtless been impelled by despair of ever recovering his lost sophia, and a natural anxiety not to die without leaving an heir to his estate. the ceremony has been performed, the church has done its office, the bride and her mamma have taken possession of the castle, when the lost sophia suddenly presents herself. an ordinary man would have been overwhelmed by such a complication of perplexities--not so lord bateman. master of the human heart, he appeals to feminine ambition and love of display; and, reminding the young lady that she came to him on a saddle horse (with her revered parent following no doubt on foot behind), offers to bestow upon her a coach and three. the young lady closes with the proposition; her august mother, having brought it about by her freedom of speech, makes no objection; lord bateman, being a nobleman of great power, and having plenty of superfluous wealth to bestow upon the church, orders another marriage, and boldly declares the first one to be a nullity. thereupon "another marriage" is immediately prepared, and the piece closes with a picture of general happiness and hilarity.] english songs and ballads compiled by t w. h. crosland london grant richards leicester square edinburgh: printed by t. and a. constable first impression april second impression april l note english songs and ballads' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,--that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference. index of first lines (transcriber's note: no author is cited for the first song in the collection, "my swete sweting." page references in the "index of first lines" and in the "index of authors" have been expunged since they do not apply to this electronic version; please use electronic searches to locate poems.) about the sweet bag of a bee a chieftain to the highlands bound ae fond kiss, and then we sever agincourt, agincourt ah, my swete swetyng alas! my love, you do me wrong allen-a-dale has no faggot for burning all in the downs the fleet was moor'd all ye woods, and trees, and bowers and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman an old song made by an aged old pate a parrot from the spanish main arm, arm, arm, arm, the scouts are all come in a simple child as i came thro' sandgate ask me no more where jove bestows ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea a spirit haunts the year's last hours as thro' the land at eve we went a sweet disorder in the dress attend all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise a weary lot is thine, fair maid a well there is in the west country a wet sheet and a flowing sea beauty clear and fair be it right or wrong, these men among believe me, if all those endearing young charms bird of the wilderness blame not my lute! for he must sound blow, blow, thou winter wind blow high, blow low, let tempests tear break, break, break busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride but are ye sure the news is true call for the robin-redbreast and the wren cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry cold's the wind, and wet's the rain come all ye jolly shepherds come, cheerful day, part of my life to me come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer come follow, follow me come into the garden, maud come live with me and be my love come not, when i am dead come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving dear is my little native vale doubt thou the stars are fire drink to me only with thine eyes duncan gray came here to woo faintly as tolls the evening chime fair daffodils, we weep to see fair pledges of a fruitful tree fair stood the wind for france fear no more the heat o' the sun flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow for auld lang syne, my dear four and twenty bonny boys from oberon, in fairy land from the forests and highlands from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested full fathom five thy father lies gather the rose-buds while ye may god lyaeus, ever young god prosper long our noble king god save our gracious king go fetch to me a pint o' wine go, lovely rose good-morrow to the day so fair good people all, of every sort go where glory waits thee green fields of england, wheresoe'er hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be hang fear, cast away care hark! now everything is still hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings he is gone on the mountain her arms across her breast she laid here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling her eyes the glow-worm lend thee here's a health unto his majesty here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen hide me, o twilight air home they brought her warrior dead ho! why dost thou shiver and shake how should i your true love know i arise from dreams of thee i cannot eat but little meat i come from haunts of coot and hern i come, i come! ye have called me long i knew an old wife lean and poor i lov'd a lass, a fair one i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill i'm sitting on the stile, mary in going to my naked bed in good king charles's golden days in her ear he whispered gaily in the merry month of may in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he is there for honest poverty i tell thee, dick, where i have been it is an ancient mariner it is the miller's daughter i travelled among unknown men it was a blind beggar had long lost his sight it was a friar of orders gray it was a lover and his lass it was a summer evening it was the frog in the well it was the time when lilies blow i've seen the smiling i wander'd by the brook-side john anderson, my jo, john john gilpin was a citizen kentish sir byng stood for his king king death was a rare old fellow lassie wi' the lint-white locks lawn as white as driven snow lay a garland on my hearse let me the canakin clink, clink let the bells ring, and let the boys sing lithe and listen, gentlemen long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us lord, thou hast given me a cell love wakes and weeps maxwelltown braes are bonnie men of england who inherit mine be a cot beside the hill move eastward, happy earth, and leave my banks they are furnished with bees my heart is sair, i darena tell my heart is wasted with my woe my mind to me a kingdom is o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut napoleon's banners at boulogne no stir in the air, no stir in the sea not a drum was heard, not a funeral note now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are now, now the mirth comes now ponder well, you parents dear now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white now the hungry lion roars of all the girls that are so smart of a' the airts the wind can blaw of nelson and the north oft i had heard of lucy gray oft in the stilly night oh, call my brother back to me oh, mary, go and call the cattle home oh! the days are gone when beauty bright oh, the sweet contentment oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone o jenny's a' weet, poor body o listen, listen, ladies gay o mistress mine, where are you roaming o, my luve 's like a red red rose o nanny, wilt thou go with me on either side the river lie on linden when the sun was low, on that deep-retiring shore on the banks of allan water orpheus with his lute made trees o sing unto my roundelay o swallow, swallow, flying south our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered over hill, over dale o waly, waly up the bank o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms o whistle and i'll come to ye, my lad o world! o life! o time! o, young lochinvar is come out of the west pack clouds, away, and welcome, day pibroch of donuil dhu piping down the valleys wild proud maisie in the wood queen and huntress, chaste and fair red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae rich and rare were the gems she wore rose cheek'd laura, come scots wha hae wi' wallace bled shall i, wasting in despair she dwelt among untrodden ways she is a winsome wee thing she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps she stood breast high among the corn she walks in beauty like the night sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more sing his praises, that doth keep some asked me where the rubies grew some talk of alexander, and some of hercules some years of late, in eighty-eight so now is come our joyfullest part so, we'll go no more a-roving spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king still to be neat, still to be drest sweet and low, sweet and low sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright sweet emma moreland of yonder town tell me not, sweet, i am unkind tell me, where is fancy bred the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold the boy stood on the burning deck the breaking waves dashed high the bride cam' out o' the byre the deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the toun the feathered songster chanticleer the fountains mingle with the river the glories of our blood and state the harp that once through tara's halls the king sits in dunfermline town the laird o' cockpen, he's proud an' he 's great the lawns were dry in euston park the minstrel boy to the war is gone there be none of beauty's daughters there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, there come seven gypsies on a day there is a garden in her face there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet there was a youth, a well beloved youth there was three kings into the east there were three ladies play'd at the ba' there were three sailors of bristol city the splendour falls on castle walls the stars are with the voyager the stately homes of england the time i've lost in wooing they grew in beauty side by side three fishers went sailing out into the west tiger, tiger, burning bright 'tis the last rose of summer toll for the brave turn, gentle hermit of the dale 'twas in the prime of summer time under the greenwood tree was this fair face the cause, quoth she wha 'll buy my caller herrin' when all among the thundering drums when all is done and said when britain first, at heaven's command when cats run home, and light is come when daffodils begin to peer, when daisies pied and violets blue, when hercules did use to spin when icicles hang by the wall when love with unconfined wings when o'er the hill the eastern star when the british warrior queen when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye 's come hame when this old cap was new when we two parted where gang ye, thou silly auld carle where the bee sucks, there lurk i while larks with little wing who is sylvia? what is she why does your brand so drop with blood why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears why so pale and wan, fond lover with fingers weary and worn ye gentlemen of england ye little birds that sit and sing ye mariners of england you are old, father william, the young man cried you spotted snakes with double tongue index of authors anonymous barnard, lady anne beaumont and fletcher blake, william bloomfield, robert breton, nicholas browning, robert burns, robert byron, lord campbell, thomas campion, thomas carew, thomas carey, henry chalkhill, john chatterton, thomas clough, arthur hugh cockburn, mrs coleridge, samuel taylor cowper, william cunningham, allan dalrymple, sir david dibdin, charles drayton, michael dufferin, lady edwardes, richard fletcher, john garrick, david gay, john goldsmith, oliver hamilton, william hemans, felicia herbert, george herrick, robert heywood, thomas hogg, james, holcroft, thomas hood, thomas houghton, lord jonson, ben keats, john kingsley, rev. charles lovelace, richard macaulay, lord marlowe, christopher mickle, william julius moore, thomas nairne, lady nash, thomas parker, martin percy, thomas proctor, b.w. rogers, samuel ross, alexander scott, sir walter shakespeare, william shelley, percy bysshe shenstone, william shirley, james sidney, sir philip southey, robert still, john suckling, sir john tennyson, lord thackeray, william makepeace thompson, james vaux, lord waller, edmund webster, john wither, george wolfe, charles wordsworth, william wyatt, sir thomas songs and ballads my swete sweting ah, my swete swetyng! my lytyle prety swetyng, my swetyng will i love wherever i go; she is so proper and pure, full stedfast, stabill and demure, there is none such, ye may be sure, as my swete swetyng. in all this world, as thynketh me, is none so pleasant to my eye, that i am glad soe ofte to see, as my swete swetyng. when i behold my swetyng swete, her face, her hands, her minion fete, they seme to me there is none so swete, as my swete swetyng. above all other prayse must i, and love my pretty pygsnye, for none i fynd so womanly as my swete swetyng. _lord vaux_ thinking when all is done and said, in the end thus shall you find, he most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind: and, clear from worldly cares, to deem can be content the sweetest time in all his life in thinking to be spent. the body subject is to fickle fortune's power, and to a million of mishaps is casual every hour: and death in time doth change it to a clod of clay; whenas the mind, which is divine, runs never to decay. companion none is like unto the mind alone; for many have been harmed by speech through thinking, few, or none. fear oftentimes restraineth words, but makes not thought to cease; and he speaks best that hath the skill when for to hold his peace. our wealth leaves us at death; our kinsmen at the grave; but virtues of the mind unto the heavens with us we have. wherefore, for virtue's sake, i can be well content, the sweetest time of all my life to deem in thinking spent. _richard edwardes_ the falling out of faithful friends in going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, i heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; she sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, that would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. she was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; she rocked it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: then did she say, now have i found this proverb true to prove the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. then took i paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, in register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; as she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. and proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by god above, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; when manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place, then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, and leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, that might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, that met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, and force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; so noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, and bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. i marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, to see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, and some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. _sir thomas wyatt_ the lover's lute blame not my lute! for he must sound of this or that as liketh me; for lack of wit the lute is bound to give such tunes as pleaseth me; though my songs be somewhat strange, and speak such words as touch my change, blame not my lute! my lute, alas! doth not offend, though that perforce he must agree to sound such tunes as i intend to sing to them that heareth me; then though my songs be somewhat plain, and toucheth some that use to feign, blame not my lute! my lute and strings may not deny, but as i strike they must obey; break not them so wrongfully, but wreak thyself some other way; and though the songs which i indite do quit thy change with rightful spite, blame not my lute! spite asketh spite, and changing change, and falsed faith must needs be known; the faults so great, the case so strange; of right it must abroad be blown: then since that by thine own desert my songs do tell how true thou art, blame not my lute! blame but thyself that hast misdone, and well deserved to have blame; change thou thy way, so evil begone, and then my lute shall sound that same; but if till then my fingers play, by thy desert their wonted way, blame not my lute! farewell! unknown; for though thou break my strings in spite with great disdain, yet have i found out for thy sake, strings for to string my lute again: and if perchance this silly rhyme do make thee blush at any time, blame not my lute! _christopher marlowe_ the passionate shepherd to his love come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, fair lined slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. a belt of straw and ivy buds with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. the shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may morning: if these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love. _john still_ jolly good ale and old i cannot eat but little meat, my stomach is not good; but sure i think that i can drink with him that wears a hood. though i go bare, take ye no care, i nothing am a-cold; i stuff my skin so full within of jolly good ale and old. back and side go bare, go bare; both foot and hand go cold; but, belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old. i love no roast but a nut-brown toast, and a crab laid in the fire; a little bread shall do me stead, much bread i not desire, no frost nor snow, no wind, i trow, can hurt me if i wold; i am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd of jolly good ale and old. and tib, my wife, that as her life loveth well good ale to seek, full oft drinks she till ye may see the tears run down her cheek. then doth she trowl to me the bowl even as a maltworm should, and saith, 'sweetheart, i took my part of this jolly good ale and old.' now let them drink till they nod and wink, even as good fellows should do; they shall not miss to have the bliss good ale doth bring men to; and all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, or have them lustily troll'd, god save the lives of them and their wives whether they be young or old. back and side go bare, go bare; both foot and hand go cold; but, belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old. _nicholas breton_ phillida and corydon in the merry month of may, in a morn by break of day, with a troop of damsels playing forth i went forsooth a-maying. when anon by a wood side, where, as may was in his pride, i espied, all alone, phillida and corydon. much ado there was, god wot! he would love, and she would not, she said, never man was true: he says none was false to you; he said he had lov'd her long; she says love should have no wrong, corydon would kiss her then; she says, maids must kiss no men, till they do for good and all, when she made the shepherd call all the heavens to witness truth, never lov'd a truer youth. then with many a pretty oath, yea and nay, faith and troth, such as silly shepherds use, when they will not love abuse; love, which had been long deluded, was with kisses sweet concluded; and phillida with garlands gay was made the lady of may. _thomas nash_ spring spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the palm and may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! spring! the sweet spring! _sir edward dyer_ my mind to me a kingdom is my mind to me a kingdom is, such perfect joy therein i find, that it excels all other bliss that god or nature hath assigned: though much i want that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. no princely port, nor wealthy store, nor force to win a victory; no wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to win a loving eye; to none of these i yield as thrall, for why, my mind despise them all. i see that plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soonest fall; i see that such as are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all; these get with toil, and keep with fear: such cares my mind can never bear. i press to bear no haughty sway; i wish no more than may suffice; i do no more than well i may, look what i want, my mind supplies; lo, thus i triumph like a king, my mind's content with any thing. i laugh not at another's loss, nor grudge not at another's gain; no worldly waves my mind can toss; i brook that is another's bane; i fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; i loathe not life, nor dread mine end. my wealth is health and perfect ease, and conscience clear my chief defence, i never seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to give offence; thus do i live, thus will i die; would all do so as well as i! _james shirley_ death the leveller the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things; there is no armour against fate; death lays his icy hand on kings: sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they kill: but their strong nerves at last must yield; they tame but one another still: early or late they stoop to fate, and must give up their murmuring breath when they, pale captives, creep to death. the garlands wither on your brow; then boast no more your mighty deeds; upon death's purple altar now see where the victor-victim bleeds: your heads must come to the cold tomb; only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. _thomas heywood_ ye little birds that sit and sing yz, little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys, and see how phillis sweetly walks within her garden-alleys; go, pretty birds, about her bower; sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; ah me! methinks i see her frown! ye pretty wantons, warble. go tell her through your chirping bills, as you by me are bidden, to her is only known my love, which from the world is hidden. go, pretty birds, and tell her so, see that your notes strain not too low, for still methinks i see her frown; ye pretty wantons, warble. go tune your voices' harmony and sing, i am her lover; strain loud and sweet, that every note with sweet content may move her: and she that hath the sweetest voice, tell her i will not change my choice: --yet still methinks i see her frown! ye pretty wantons, warble. o fly! make haste! see, see, she falls into a pretty slumber! sing round about her rosy bed that waking she may wonder: say to her, 'tis her lover true that sendeth love to you, to you! and when you hear her kind reply, return with pleasant warblings. pack clouds, away pack clouds, away, and welcome, day! with night we banish sorrow. sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft to give my love good-morrow! wings from the wind to please her mind, notes from the lark i'll borrow; bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! to give my love good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow notes from them all i'll borrow. wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! sing, birds, in every furrow! and from each bill let music shrill give my fair love good-morrow! blackbird and thrush in every bush, stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, you pretty elves, among yourselves sing my fair love good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow! sing, birds, in every furrow! _beaumont and fletcher_ sleep come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving lock me in delight awhile; let some pleasing dreams beguile all my fancies; that from thence i may feel an influence all my powers of care bereaving! though but a shadow, but a sliding, let me know some little joy! we that suffer long annoy are contented with a thought through an idle fancy wrought: o let my joys have some abiding! song to pan all ye woods, and trees, and bowers, all ye virtues and ye powers that inhabit in the lakes, in the pleasant springs or brakes, move your feet to our sound, whilst we greet, all this ground, with his honour and his name that defends our flocks from blame. he is great and he is just, he is ever good, and must thus be honoured. daffodillies, roses, pinks, and loved lilies, let us fling, whilst we sing, ever holy, ever holy, ever honoured, ever young! thus great pan is ever sung. aspatia's song lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew; maidens, willow branches bear; say, i died true. my love was false, but i was firm from my hour of birth. upon my buried body lie lightly, gentle earth! _john fletcher_ beauty clear and fair beauty clear and fair, where the air rather like a perfume dwells; where the violet and the rose their blue veins and blush disclose, and come to honour nothing else: where to live near and planted there is to live, and still live new; where to gain a favour is more than light, perpetual bliss-- make me live by serving you! dear, again back recall to this light, a stranger to himself and all! both the wonder and the story shall be yours, and eke the glory; i am your servant, and your thrall. let the bells ring, and let the boys sing let the bells ring, and let the boys sing, the young lasses skip and play; let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, our learned old vicar will stay. let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah and let the fat goose swim; for verily, verily, verily, oh! our vicar this day shall be trim. the stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, a loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; the duck and the drake shall swim in a lake of onions and claret below. our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat to thee our most noble adviser; our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, and we ourselves will be wiser. we'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, and tithes shall come thicker and thicker; we'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, and thou shalt be learned old vicar. weep no more weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, sorrow calls no time that's gone: violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain makes not fresh nor grow again. trim thy locks, look cheerfully; fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. joys as winged dreams fly fast, why should sadness longer last? grief is but a wound to woe; gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. pan sing his praises that doth keep our flocks from harm, pan, the father of our sheep; and arm in arm tread we softly in a round, whilst the hollow neighbouring ground fills the music with her sound. pan, o great god pan, to thee thus do we sing! thou who keep'st us chaste and free as the young spring: ever be thy honour spoke, from that place the morn is broke, to that place day doth unyoke! god lyaeus god lyaeus, ever young, ever honour'd, ever sung, stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, in a thousand lusty shapes dance upon the mazer's brim, in the crimson liquor swim; from thy plenteous hand divine let a river run with wine: god of youth, let this day here enter neither care nor fear. a battle-song arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. behold from yonder hill the foe appears; bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; o view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! the vanguard marches bravely. hark, the drums! dub, dub! they meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: see how the arrows fly that darken all the sky! hark how the trumpets sound! hark how the hills rebound-- tara, tara, tara, tara, tara! hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! the battle totters; now the wounds begin: o how they cry! o how they die! room for the valiant memnon, armed with thunder! see how he breaks the ranks asunder! they fly! they fly! eumenes has the chase, and brave polybius makes good his place: to the plains, to the woods, to the rocks, to the floods, they fly for succour. follow, follow, follow! hark how the soldiers hollow! hey, hey! brave diodes is dead, and all his soldiers fled; the battle 's won, and lost, that many a life hath cost. _anonymous_ my lady greensleeves alas! my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously; and i have loved you so long, delighting in your company. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! i bought thee petticoats of the best, the cloth so fine as fine as might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! thy smock of silk, both fair and white, with gold embroidered gorgeously; thy petticoat of sendal right: and these i bought thee gladly. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! greensleeves now farewell! adieu! god i pray to prosper thee! for i am still thy lover true: come once again and love me! greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! _sir philip sidney_ my true love my true love hath my heart, and i have his, by just exchange one for another given: i hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; there never was a better bargain driven: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. his heart in me keeps him and me in one, my heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: he loves my heart, for once it was his own, i cherish his because in me it bides: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. _john webster_ dirge call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, since o'er shady groves they hover, and with leaves and flowers do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men. call unto his funeral dole the ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, to rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, and (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; but keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, for with his nails he'll dig them up again. the shrouding hark! now everything is still, the screech-owl and the whistler shrill, call upon our dame aloud, and bid her quickly don her shroud! much you had of land and rent; your length in clay's now competent: a long war disturb'd your mind; here your perfect peace is sign'd. of what is't fools make such vain keeping? sin their conception, their birth weeping, their life a general mist of error, their death a hideous storm of terror. strew your hair with powders sweet, don clean linen, bathe your feet, and--the foul fiend more to check-- a crucifix let bless your neck; 'tis now full tide 'tween night and day; end your groan and come away. _thomas dekker_ content art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? o sweet content! art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? o punishment! dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd to add to golden numbers, golden numbers? o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? o sweet content! swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? o punishment! then he that patiently want's burden bears no burden bears, but is a king, a king! o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! troll the bowl cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, hey derry derry down-a-down. ho! well done, to let me come, ring compass, gentle joy! troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. _anonymous_ sir patrick spens the king sits in dunfermline toun, drinking the blude-red wine; oh whare will i get a gude sailor, to sail this ship o' mine?' then up and spake an eldern knight sat at the king's right knee; 'sir patrick spens is the best sailor that ever sail'd the sea.' the king has written a braid letter, and seal'd it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens was walking on the strand. 'to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis thou maun tak' her hame.' the first line that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he; the neist line that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. 'o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me, to send us out at this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea?' 'be't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, our ship maun sail the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis we maun tak' her hame.' they hoisted their sails on monenday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; and they hae landed in noroway upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say-- 'ye scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, and a' our queenis fee.' 'ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, sae loud 's i hear ye lee!' 'for i brought as much o' the white monie as gane my men and me, and a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, out owre the sea with me. 'mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn.' 'o say na sae, my master dear, i fear a deadlie storm. 'i saw the new moon late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm!' they hadna sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, it was sic a deadlie storm; and the waves cam' owre the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. 'o whare will i get a gude sailor will tak' the helm in hand, till i get up to the tall tap-mast, to see if i can spy land.' 'o here am i, a sailor gude, to tak' the helm in hand, till ye get up to the tall tap-mast, but i fear ye'll ne'er spy land.' he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, and the saut sea it cam in. 'gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and wap them into our gude ship's side, and letna the sea come in.' they fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, but aye the sea cam' in. o laith, laith were our scots lords' sons to weet their coal-black shoon, but lang ere a' the play was play'd, they wat their hats abune. and mony was the feather-bed that fluttered on the faem, and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam' hame. o lang, lang may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand. and lang, lang may the maidens sit, wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. half owre, half owre to aberdour 'tis fifty fathom deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. the beggar's daughter of bednall-green part i it was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a fair daughter of beauty most bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, for none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was of favour most faire, yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me go away to seek out my fortune, whatever it be, this suite then they granted to pretty bessee. then bessy, that was of beauty so bright, all cladd in grey russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she; who sighed and sobbed for pretty bessee. she went till she came to stratford-le-bow; then knew she not whither, nor which way to go: with tears she lamented her hard destinie, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the high way; where at the queen's arms entertained was she: so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straightway enamour'd of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love was extolled; her beauty was blazed in every degree; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy she showed herself courteous and modestly coy and at her commandment still would they be; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go; they craved her favour, but still she said no; i would not wish gentles to marry with me; yet ever they honoured pretty bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for pretty bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suitor, and proper withal: her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with me, quoth the knight, i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart's so enthralled by thy beautie, that soon i shall die for pretty bessee. the gentleman said, come, marry with me, as fine as a lady my bessy shall be: my life is distressed: o hear me, quoth he; and grant me thy love, my pretty bessee. let me be thy husband; the merchant did say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy she sighed, and thus she did say, my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their good will, and be faithful to me, and then you shall marry your pretty bessee. to every one this answer she made, wherefore unto her they joyfully said, this thing to fulfil we all do agree; but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee? my father, she said, is soon to be seen: the silly blind beggar of bednall-green, that daily sits begging for charitie, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his marks and his tokens are known very well; he always is led with a dog and a bell: a silly old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for me. nor, quoth the innholder, my wife thou shalt be: i loth, said the gentle, a beggar's degree, and therefore adieu, my pretty bessee. why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will go. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be so; a poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be, then take thy adieu of pretty bessee. but soon after this, by break of the day the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the young men of rumford, as thick as might be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ryde they were seen, until they came near unto bednall-green; and as the knight lighted most courteouslie, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came speedily over the plain, or else the young knight for his love had been slain. this fray being ended, then straightway he see his kinsmen come railing at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i be poor, yet rail not against my child at my own door: though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, yet will i drop angels with you for my girl. and then, if my gold may better her birth, and equal the gold that you lay on the earth, then neither rail nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. but first you shall promise, and have it well known, the gold that you drop shall all be your own. with that they replied, contented be we. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angel he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it was proved most plain, for the gentlemen's one, the beggar dropt twain: so that the place, wherein they did sit, with gold it was covered every whit. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, said, now, beggar, hold, for we have no more, thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright. then marry, quoth he, my girl to this knight; and here, added he, i will now throw you down a hundred pounds more to buy her a gown. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, admired the beggar of bednall-green: and all those, that were her suitors before, their flesh for very anger they tore. thus was fair bessy matched to the knight, and then made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen, than the blind beggar's daughter of bednall-green. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marvellous pleasure and wished delight. part ii of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a young knight; all the discourse thereof you did see: but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they could have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslie, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties and delicates sweet were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then went this gallant young knight; his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen, as went with sweet bessy of bednall-green. this marriage being solemnized then, with musick performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sat down at that tide, each one admiring the beautiful bride. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk, and to reason a number begun: they talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, 'much marvel have we, this jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.' my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. 'the praise of a woman in question to bring before her own face, were a flattering thing, but we think thy father's baseness,' quoth they, 'might by thy beauty be clean put away.' they had no sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak; a fair velvet cap, and a feather had he, and now a musician forsooth he would be. he had a dainty lute under his arm, he touched the strings, which made such a charm, says, please you to hear any musick of me, i'll sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play; and after that lessons were played two or three, he strain'd out this song most delicatelie. 'a poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, who for her fairness might well be a queen: a blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she, and many one called her pretty bessee. 'her father he had no goods, nor no land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yet to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. 'and if any one here her birth do disdain, her father is ready, with might and with main, to prove she is come of noble degree: therefore never flout at pretty bessee.' with that the lords and the company round with hearty laughter were ready to swound; at last said the lords, full well we may see, the bride and the beggar's beholden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearly drops standing within her fair eyes, 'o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth she, that through blind affection thus doteth on me.' 'if this be thy father,' the nobles did say, 'well may he be proud of this happy day; yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: 'and therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray (and look that the truth thou to us do say) thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee.' 'then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that it may not win good report, then do not give me a _groat_ for my sport. 'sir simon de montfort my subject shall be; once chief of all the great barons was he, yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase, now lost and forgotten are he and his race. 'when the barons in arms did king henry oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was he, and ofttimes he made their enemies flee. 'at length in the battle on evesham plain, the barons were routed, and montfort was slain; most fatal that battle did prove unto thee, though thou wast not born then, my pretty bessee! 'along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, his eldest son henry, who fought by his side, was felled by a blow he received in the fight; a blow that deprived him for ever of sight. 'among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay, till evening drew on of the following day, when by a young lady discovered was he; and this was thy mother, my pretty bessee. 'a baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he lay, was moved with pity, and brought him away. 'in secret she nurst him, and swaged his pain, while he through the realm was believed to be slain: at length his fair bride she consented to be, and made him glad father of pretty bessee. 'and now, lest our foes our lives should betray, we clothed ourselves in beggars' array; her jewels she sold, and hither came we: all our comfort and care was our pretty bessee. 'and here have we lived in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented with humble delight: full forty winters thus have i been a silly blind beggar of bednall-green. 'and here, noble lords, is ended the song of one, that once to your own rank did belong: and thus have you learned a secret from me, that ne'er had been known, but for pretty bessee.' now when the fair company every one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, they all were amazed, as well they might be, both at the blind beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to be. thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, a bridegroom most happy then was the knight, in joy and felicitie long lived he, all with his fair lady, the pretty bessee. the babes in the wood now ponder well, you parents dear, these words, which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possest one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind, in love they liv'd, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three yeares old; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appeare, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a yeare. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children came to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possesse their wealth; for so the will did run. now, brother, said the dying man, look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this daye; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone. with that bespake their mother dear, o brother kind, quoth she, you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or miserie: and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard. with lips as cold as any stone, they kist their children small: god bless you both, my children dear; with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there, the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not feare; god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, wheli you are laid in grave. the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straite unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in fair london, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoycing at that tide, rejoycing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them, more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: stay here, quoth he, i'll bring you bread, when i come back again. the pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town; their pretty lips with black-berries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cryed. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief, in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-redbreast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd, his lands were barren made; his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him stayd. and in a voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and misery: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about. and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to die, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overseers eke, of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. robin hood and the pinder of wakefield in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, in wakefield, all on a green; 'there is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder, 'nor baron that is so bold, dare make a trespasse to the town of wakefield, but his pledge goes to the pinfold.' all this beheard three witty young men, 'twas robin hood, scarlet, and john; with that they spied the jolly pinder, as he sate under a thorn. 'now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder, 'for a wrong way have you gone; for you have forsaken the king his highway, and made a path over the corn.' 'oh, that were great shame,' said jolly robin, `we being three, and thou but one': the pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'twas thirty good foot and one. he leaned his back fast unto a thorn, and his foot unto a stone, and there he fought a long summer's day, a summer's day so long, till that their swords, on their broad bucklers, were broken fast unto their hands. ................................... 'hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said robin hood, 'and my merry men every one; for this is one of the best pinders that ever i try'd with sword. 'and wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft, and live in the green wood with me?' ................................... 'at michaelmas next my covenant comes out, when every man gathers his fee; i'le take my blew blade all in my hand, and plod to the green wood with thee.' 'hast thou either meat or drink,' said robin hood, 'for my merry men and me?' ................................... 'i have both bread and beef,' said the pinder, 'and good ale of the best'; 'and that is meat good enough,' said robin hood, for such unbidden guest. o wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft and go to the green wood with me? 'thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, the one green, the other brown shall be.' 'if michaelmas day were once come and gone, and my master had paid me my fee, then would i set as little by him as my master doth set by me.' the nut-brown maid _he_. be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain, to love them well; for never a deal they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new do them pursue, their first true lover then laboureth for nought; for from their thought he is a banished man. _she_. i say not nay, but that all day it is both written and said, that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but, nevertheless, right good witnèss in this case might be laid, that they love true, and continùe: record the nut-brown maid: which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. _he_. then between us let us discuss what was all the manner between them two: we will also tell all the pain, and fear, that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answèr; wherefore, all ye, that present be, i pray you give an ear. 'i am the knight; i come by night, as secret as i can; saying, alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man.' she. and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trustying to show, in words few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse; therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse, mine own heart dear, with you what cheer i pray you, tell anon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. it standeth so; a deed is done whereof great harm shall grow: my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow; or else to flee. the one must be; none other way i know, but to withdraw as an outlaw, and take me to my bow. wherefore adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. o lord, what is this worldis bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is derked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay, we depart not so soon, why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas! what have you done? all my welfare to sorrow and care should change, if you were gone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your paines hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take comfort to you again. why should ye ought? for to make thought, your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you to, as hartely, as i can; for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. now, sith that ye have showed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i will not live behind; shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you ready, for so am i, although it were anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he_. yet i you rede to take good heed what men will think, and say: of young and old it shall be told, that ye be gone away, your wanton will for to fulfil, in green-wood you to play; and that ye might for your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill woman, yet would i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge, that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove that faithful love it is devoid of shame; in your distress, and heaviness, to part with you, the same: and sure all those, that do not so, true lovers are they none; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he_. i counsel you, remember how, it is no maiden's law, nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an outlaw: for ye must there in your hand bear a bow, ready to draw, and, as a thief, thus must you live, ever in dread and awe; whereby to you great harm might grow: yet had i liever than, that i did to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore: but love may make me for your sake, as i have said before, to come on foot, to hunt, and shoot to get us meat in store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more: from which to part, it maketh my heart as cold as any stone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. for an outlàw this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pitie, hangèd to be, and waver with the wind. if i had need (as god forbid!) what socours could ye find? forsooth, i trow, ye and your bow for fear would draw behind: and no marvèl; for little avail were in your counsel then: wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. right well know ye that woman be but feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight: yet, in such fear if that ye were with enemies day or night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death men many one; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. yet take good heed; for ever i dread that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep valleys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, no other roof but a brake bush, or twain: which soon should grieve you, i believe, and ye would gladly than that i had to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. sith i have here been partynere with you of joy and bliss, i must alsò part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleasure; and shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. if you go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for you gete, neither beer, ale, nor wine; no slakes clean, to lie between, made of thread and twine; none other house but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine, lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diéte should make you pale and wan; wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. among the wild deer, such an archère as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plentè: and water clear of the rivere shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, or we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. lo yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee; with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night before daylight. to woodward will i flee. if that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to shote my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother, before all other for you i have most dread! but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye: now let us flee; the day cometh fast upon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell you why, your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for, like as ye have said to me, in likewise hardily ye would answere whosoever it were, in way of company. it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold; and so is a womàn. wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she_. if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i loved you, pardè and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved, a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. a baron's child to be beguil'd! it were a cursèd deed; to be felàwe with an outlàw! almighty god forbid! yet better were the poor squyère alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that, by my cursèd rede, ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she_. whatever befall, i never shall of this thing be upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you well, how that ye deal; for, if ye, as ye said, be so unkind, to leave behind, your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me truly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purvayed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another more fair than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can; wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she_. though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be yours: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteous every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power: for had ye, lo, an hundred mo, yet would i be that one, for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. mine own dear love, i see the prove that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changèd new; for it were ruth, that, for your truth, ye should have cause to rue. be not dismayed; whatsoever i said to you when i began; i will not to the green-wood go; i am no banished man. _she_. these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure; but it is often seen, when men will break promise, they speak the wordis on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then were the case worse than it was, and i more wobegone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he_. ye shall not need further to dread; i will not disparàge you (god defend), sith ye descend of so great lineàge. now understand; to westmoreland, which is my heritàge, i will you bring; and with a ring, by way of marriage i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can. thus have you won an erle's son, and not a banished man. _here may ye see, that woman be in love, meek, kind, and stable: let never man reprove them than, or call them variable; but rather pray god that we may to them be comfortable; which sometimes proveth such, as he loveth, if they be charitable. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone._ sir hugh of lincoln four and twenty bonny boys were playing at the ba'; then up and started sweet sir hugh, the flower amang them a'. he hit the ba' a kick wi's fit, and kept it wi' his knee, that up into the jew's window he gart the bonny ba' flee. 'cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid, cast doun the ba' to me '; 'o ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get till ye cum up to me. 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and get the ba''; 'i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes twa.' 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and play wi' me'; i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes three.' she's gane into the jew's garden, where the grass grew lang and green; she pow'd an apple red and white, to wyle the young thing in. she wyl'd him into ae chamber, she wyl'd him into twa; she wyl'd him to her ain chamber, the fairest o' them a'. she laid him on a dressing-board where she did sometimes dine; she put a penknife in his heart and dressed him like a swine. then out and cam the thick, thick blude, then out and cam the thin; then out and cam the bonny heart's blude, where a' the life lay in. she row'd him in a cake of lead, bad him lie still and sleep; she cast him into the jew's draw-well, was fifty fadom deep. she's tane her mantle about her head, her pike-staff in her hand; and prayed heaven to be her guide unto some uncouth land. his mither she cam to the jew's castle, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam into the jew's garden, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam unto the jew's draw-well, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' 'how can i speak, how dare i speak, how can i speak to thee? the jew's penknife sticks in my heart, i canna speak to thee. 'gang hame, gang hame, o mither dear, and shape my winding-sheet, and at the birks of mirryland town there you and i shall meet.' when bells were rung and mass was sung, and a' men bound for bed, every mither had her son, but sweet sir hugh was dead. the gypsy countess there come seven gypsies on a day, oh, but they sang bonny, o! and they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear, down cam the earl's ladie, o. they gave to her the nutmeg, and they gave to her the ginger; but she gave to them a far better thing, the seven gold rings off her fingers. when the earl he did come home, enquiring for his ladie, one of the servants made this reply, 'she's awa with the gypsie laddie.' 'come saddle for me the brown,' he said, 'for the black was ne'er so speedy, and i will travel night and day till i find out my ladie.' 'will you come home, my dear?' he said, oh will you come home, my honey? and by the point of my broad sword, a hand i'll ne'er lay on you.' 'last night i lay on a good feather-bed, and my own wedded lord beside me, and to-night i'll lie in the ash-corner, with the gypsies all around me. 'they took off my high-heeled shoes, that were made of spanish leather, and i have put on coarse lowland brogues, to trip it o'er the heather.' 'the earl of cashan is lying sick; not one hair i'm sorry; i'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips than all his gold and his money.' there were three ladies there were three ladies play'd at the ba', with a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay. bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a', whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the first o' them was clad in yellow: 'o fair may, will ye be my marrow?' whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the niest o' them was clad i' ried: o fair may, will ye be my bride?' the thrid o' them was clad i' green: he said, 'o fair may, will ye be my queen?' the heir of linne part i lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will begin: it is of a lord of faire scotlànd, which was the unthrifty heir of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the day with merry cheer, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i weep, his heart's delight. to ride, to run, to rant, to roar, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wot, an' it were the king himself, of gold and fee he mote be bare. so fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his lands so broad, his house, and lands, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewàrde, and john o' the scales was called he: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has got both gold and fee. says, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheer; if thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad, good store of gold i 'll give thee here. my gold is gone, my money is spent; my land now take it unto thee: give me the gold, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my land shall be. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie; but for every pound that john agreed, the land, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the bord, he was right glad his land to win: the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'll be the lord of linne. thus he bath sold his land so broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poor and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glen. for so he to his father hight. my son, when i am gone, said he, then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but swear me now upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heir of linne is full of gold: and come with me, my friends, said he, let 's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thin; and then his friends they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heir of linne. he had never a penny left in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white money. 'now well-aday,' said the heir of linne, 'now well-aday, and woe is me, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. 'but many a trusty friend have i, and why should i feel dole or care? i'll borrow of them all by turns, so need i not be never bare.' but one, i wis, was not at home; anther had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loon, and bade him sharply wend his way. now well-aday, said the heir of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me! for when i had my lands so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a burning shame: to rob and steal it were a sin: to work my limbs i cannot frame. now i'll away to that lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on me, i there shold find a trusty friend. part ii away then hied the heir of linne o'er hill and holt and moor and fen, untill he came to the lonesome lodge, that stud so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked down, in hope some comfort for to win: but bare and lothly were the walls. here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of linne. the little window dim and dark was hung with ivy, brere, and yew; no shimmering sun here ever shone; no wholesome breeze here ever blew. nor chair, nor table he mote spy, no cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, nought save a rope with a running noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad lettèrs, these words were written so plain to see: 'ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyself to penurie? 'and this my boding mind misgave i therefore left this trusty friend let it now shield thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end.' sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heir of lime; his heart, i wis, was near to burst with guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. never a word spake the heir of lime, never a word he spake but three: 'this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto me' then round his neck the cord he drew, and sprang aloft with his bodie: when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbing he. astonished lay the heir of linne nor knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and saw a bill, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: it told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten gold, the third was full of white monèy; and over them in broad lettèrs these words were written so plain to see: 'once more, my son, i set thee clear; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last.' and let it be,' said the heir of linne; 'and let it be, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this read shall guide me to the end.' away then went with a merry cheer, away then went the heir of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed, till john o' the scales' house he did win. and when he came to john o' the scales, up at the window then looked he: there sate three lords upon a row, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was he. 'i pray thee,' he said, 'good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend me.' 'away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not be: for a curse upon my head he said, if ever i trust thee one pennie.' then bespake the heir of linne, to john o' the scales' wife then spake he: 'madame, some alms on me bestow, i pray for sweet saint charitie.' 'away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no alms of me; for if we shold hang any losel here, the first we would begin with thee.' then bespake a good fellowe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord; sayd, 'turn again, thou heir of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord: 'some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold and fee: therefore i'll lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need be. 'and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee.' up then spake him john o' the scales, all hot he answered him againe: 'now a curse upon my head, he said, but i did lose by that bargaine. 'and here i proffer thee, heir of linne, before these lords so fair and free, thou shalt have it back again better cheap, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. 'i draw you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a god's pennie: now by my fay, sayd the heir of linne, and here, good john, is thy money.' and he pull'd forth three bags of gold, and layd them down upon the board: all woebegone was john o' the scales, soe sheet he could say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth with mickle dinne, the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'm again the lord of linne. sayes, 'have thou here, thou good fellowe, forty pence thou didst lend me: now i am again the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. 'i'll make thee keeper of my forest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for unless i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame.' 'now well-aday!' sayth john o' the scales: 'now well-aday! and woe is my life!' 'yesterday i was lady of linne, now i'm but john o' the scales his wife.' 'now fare thee well, said the heir of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said he. a curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy.' the old and young courtier an old song made by an aged old pate, of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greats estate, that kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, and an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; like an old courtier of the queen's and the queen's old courtier. with an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; they every quarter paid their old servants their wages, and never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages, but kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; like an old courtier... with an old study fill'd full of learned old books, with an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. with an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, and an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: like an old courtier... with an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows, with old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, and an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, and a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; like an old courtier... with a good old fashion, when christmasse was come, to call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, with good chear enough to furnish every old room, and old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, like an old courtier... with an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, that never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, and when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; like an old courtier... but to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, to be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: but in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; like a young courtier of the king's and the king's young courtier. like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, and takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, and gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; like a young courtier... with a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, who never knew what belong'd to good housekeeping, or care, who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, and seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair; like a young courtier... with a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, with a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, and a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; like a young courtier... with a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, and a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, with a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, and a new french cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; like a young courtier... with a new fashion, when christmas is drawing on, on a new journey to london straight we all must begone, and leave none to keep house, but our new porter john, who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; like a young courtier... with a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, with a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, with a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; like a young courtier... with new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, for which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; and this is the course most of our new gallants hold, which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, among the young courtiers of the king, among the king's young courtiers. the winning of cales long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, threatning our country with fyer and sword; often preparing their navy most sumptuous with as great plenty as spain could afford. dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums; tantara, tantara, the englishman comes. to the seas presentlye went our lord admiral, with knights couragious and captains full good; the brave earl of essex, a prosperous general, with him prepared to pass the salt flood. at plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, braver ships never were seen under sayle, with their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head. now bragging spaniards, take heed of your tayle. unto cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, ere any spaniards our coming descryde. great was the crying, the running and ryding, which at that season was made in that place; the beacons were fyred, as need then required; to hyde their great treasure they had little space. there you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, and how their men drowned themselves in the sea; there you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, when they saw no shift to 'scape thence away. the great st. philip, the pryde of the spaniards, was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; but the st. andrew, and eke the st. matthew, wee took in fight manfullye and brought away. the earl of essex, most valiant and hardye, with horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town; the spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. now, quoth the noble earl, courage my soldiers all, fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; and be well rewarded all from the great to the small; but look that the women and children you save. the spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne; wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, with english colours which purchas'd renowne. entering the houses then, of the most richest men, for gold and treasure we searched eche day; in some places we did find, pyes baking left behind, meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away. full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes, damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre: which soldiers measur'd out by the length of their swords; of all commodities eche had a share. thus cales was taken, and our brave general march'd to the market-place, where he did stand: there many prisoners fell to our several shares, many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd. when our brave general saw they delayed all, and would not ransome their towne as they said, with their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, their joint-stools and tables a fire we made; and when the town burned all in a flame, with tara, tantara, away we all came. the bailiff's daughter of islington there was a youth, a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son; he loved the bayliffe's daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy and would not believe that he did love her so, no nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bayliffe's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pulled off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour so redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, will ease me of much pain. before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, pray tell me where you were born. at islington, kind sir, said she, where i have had many a scorn. i prythe, sweet-heart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know, the bayliffe's daughter of islington. she is dead, sir, long ago. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will unto some far country, where no man shall me know. o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and ready to be thy bride. o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore; for now i have found mine own true love. whom i thought i should never see more. chevy chase part i god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful hunting once there did in chevy chase befall. to drive the deer, with hound and horn, earl percy took the way; the child may rue, that is unborn, the hunting of that day! the stout earl of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods, three summer days to take; the chiefest harts in chevy chase, to kill and bear away. these tidings to earl douglas came in scotland, where he lay. who sent earl percy present word, he would prevent his sport. the english earl, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bowmen bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well, in time of need, to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deer. on monday, they began to hunt, ere daylight did appear; and long before high noon they had a hundred fat bucks slain: then, having dined, the drovers went to rouse the deer again. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deer to take, that with their cries the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord percy, to the quarry went, to view the slaughtered deer, quoth he, 'earl douglas promiséd this day to meet me here: 'but if i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay!' with that, a brave young gentleman, thus to the earl did say: 'lo! yonder doth earl douglas come! his men in armour bright! full twenty hundred scottish spears all marching in our sight! 'all pleasant men of tividale, fast by the river tweed.' 'o, cease your sports!' earl percy said, and take your bows with speed; 'and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yet, in scotland, nor in france, 'that ever did on horseback come; and, if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear!' earl douglas, on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. 'show me,' said he, whose men you be, that hunt so boldly here? that, without my consent, do chase and kill my fallow deer?' the first man that did answer make, was noble percy he, who said, 'we list not to declare, nor show, whose men we be: 'yet we will spend our dearest blood thy chiefest harts to slay.' then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say: 'ere thus i will outbraved be, one of us two shall die: i know thee well! an earl thou art, lord percy. so am i. 'but, trust me, percy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these, our guiltless men! for they have done no ill. 'let thou and i, the battle try; and set our men aside.' 'accursed be he,' earl percy said, 'by whom it is denied!' then stepped a gallant squire forth, witherington was his name, who said, 'i would not have it told to henry our king, for shame, 'that e'er my captain fought on foot, and i stood looking on. you be two earls,' quoth witherington, 'and i a squire alone. 'i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand.' our english archers bent their bows, their hearts were good and true. at the first flight of arrows sent, full fourscore scots they slew. 'to drive the deer with hound and horn!' douglas bade on the bent. two captains moved, with mickle might, their spears to shivers went. they closed full fast on every side; no slackness there was found: but many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o, christ! it was a grief to see, and likewise for to hear, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last, these two stout earls did meet. like captains of great might, like lions wood, they laid on load, and made a cruel fight: they fought, until they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steel, till blood adown their cheeks, like rain, they trickling down did feel. 'yield thee, o percy,' douglas said, 'in faith! i will thee bring, where thou shalt high advanced be, by james, our scottish king! 'thy ransom i will freely give! and this report of thee, "thou art the most courageous knight that ever i did see!"' 'no, douglas,' quoth earl percy then, thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born!' with that, there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart, a deep and deadly blow. who never said more words than these, 'fight on, my merry men all! for why? my life is at an end, lord percy sees my fall!' then leaving life, earl percy took the dead man by the hand, who said, 'earl douglas, for thy sake, would i had lost my land! 'o, christ! my very heart doth bleed for sorrow, for thy sake, for, sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take!' a knight, amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas die; who straight in heart did vow revenge upon the lord percy. part ii sir hugh montgomery was he called; who, with a spear most bright, well mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight. and passed the english archers all, without or dread or fear; and through earl percy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a vehement force and might, he did his body gore: the staff ran through the other side, a large cloth-yard and more. thus did both those nobles die, whose courage none could stain. an english archer then perceived the noble earl was slain. he had a good bow in his hand, made of a trusty tree. an arrow of a cloth-yard long, up to the head drew he. against sir hugh montgomery, so right the shaft he set; the grey-goose wing that was thereon, in his heart's blood was wet. this fight did last from break of day till setting of the sun: for when they rang the evening bell, the battle scarce was done. with stout earl percy there were slain sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold baron. and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail, as one in doleful dumps, for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas there were slain sir hugh montgomery; and sir charles murray, that from field one foot would never flee. sir charles murray of ratcliff, too, his sister's son was he: sir david lamb, so well esteemed, but savèd he could not be. and the lord maxwell, in like case, did with earl douglas die. of twenty hundred scottish spears scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest in chevy chase were slain, under the greenwood tree. next day did many widows come their husbands to bewail: they washed their wounds in brinish tears; but all would not prevail! their bodies, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away. they kissed them, dead, a thousand times, ere they were clad in clay. the news was brought to edinborough, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. 'o, heavy news!' king james did say, scotland may witness be, i have not any captain more of such account as he!' like tidings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland, was slain in chevy chase. 'now, god be with him!' said our king, sith it will no better be; i trust i have, within my realm, five hundred as good as he! 'yet shall not scots, nor scotland, say but i will vengeance take; and be revengèd on them all, for brave earl percy's sake.' this vow the king did well perform after, on humbledown, in one day fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown; and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands die. thus endeth the hunting in chevy chase, made by the earl percy. god save our king; and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace! and grant henceforth, that foul debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! _michael drayton_ the battle of agincourt fair stood the wind for france when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry; but putting to the main, at kaux, the mouth of seine, with all his martial train, landed king harry. and taking many a fort, furnish'd in warlike sort march'd towards agincourt in happy hour; skirmishing day by day with those that stopp'd his way, where the french gen'ral lay with all his power. which in his height of pride, king henry to deride, his ransom to provide to the king sending; which he neglects the while, as from a nation vile yet with an angry smile, their fall portending. and turning to his men, quoth our brave henry then, though they to one be ten, be not amazed. yet, have we well begun, battles so bravely won have ever to the sun by fame been raised. and for myself, quoth he, this my full rest shall be, england ne'er mourn for me, nor more esteem me. victor i will remain, or on this earth lie slain, never shall she sustain loss to redeem me. poictiers and cressy tell, when most their pride did swell, under our swords they fell, no less our skill is, than when our grandsire great, claiming the regal seat, by many a warlike feat, lop'd the french lilies. the duke of york so dread, the eager vanward led; with the main henry sped, amongst his henchmen. excester had the rear, a braver man not there, o lord, how hot they were on the false frenchmen! they now to fight are gone, armour on armour shone, drum now to drum did groan, to hear, was wonder; that with cries they make, the very earth did shake, trumpet to trumpet spake, thunder to thunder. well it thine age became, o noble erpingham, which did the signal aim to our hid forces: when from a meadow by, like a storm suddenly, the english archery stuck the french horses. with spanish yew so strong, arrows a cloth-yard long, that like to serpents stung piercing the weather; none from his fellow starts, but playing manly parts, and like true english hearts, stuck close together. when down their bows they threw, and forth their bilbows drew, and on the french they flew, not one was tardy; arms were from shoulders sent, scalps to the teeth were rent, down the french peasants went, our men were hardy. this while our noble king, his broad sword brandishing, down the french host did ding, as to o'erwhelm it; and many a deep wound lent, his arms with blood besprent, and many a cruel dent bruised his helmet. glo'ster, that duke so good, next of the royal blood, for famous england stood, with his brave brother; clarence, in steel so bright, though but a maiden knight, yet in that furious fight scarce such another. warwick in blood did wade, oxford the foe invade, and cruel slaughter made, still as they ran up; suffolk his axe did ply, beaumont and willoughby bare them right doughtily, ferrers and fanhope. upon saint crispin's day fought was this noble fray, which fame did not delay to england to carry; o when shall englishmen with such acts fill a pen, or england breed again such a king harry? _anonymous_ song of the english bowmen agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, where english slew and hurt all their french foemen? with their pikes and bills brown, how the french were beat down, shot by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, never to be forgot, or known to no men? where english cloth-yard arrows killed the french like tame sparrows, slain by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? english of every sort, high men and low men, fought that day wondrous well, all our old stories tell, thanks to our bowmen! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? where our fifth harry taught frenchmen to know men: and, when the day was done, thousands there fell to one good english bowman! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? dear was the vict'ry bought by fifty yeomen. ask any english wench, they were worth all the french, rare english bowmen! _william shakespeare_ winter when icicles hang by the wall, and dick the shepherd blows his nail, and tom bears logs into the hall, and milk comes frozen home in pail; when blood is nipt, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. when all about the wind doth blow, and coughing drowns the parson's saw, and birds sit brooding in the snow, and marian's nose looks red and raw; when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. ingratitude brow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude; thy tooth is not so keen, because thou art not seen, although thy breath be rude. heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: then heigh, ho, the holly! this life is most jolly. freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, that dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot: though thou the waters warp, thy sting is not so sharp as friend remember'd not. heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: then heigh, ho, the holly! this life is most jolly. fidele fear no more the heat o' the sun nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta'en thy wages; golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke; care no more to clothe and eat; to thee the reed is as the oak: the sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this, and come to dust. fear no more the lightning-flash nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; fear not slander, censure rash; thou hast finish'd joy and moan: all lovers young, all lovers must consign to thee, and come to dust. under the greenwood tree under the greenwood tree who loves to lie with me, and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat, come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall he see no enemy, but winter and rough weather. who doth ambition shun, and loves to lie i' the sun, seeking the food he eats, and pleas'd with what he gets, come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall he see no enemy, but winter and rough weather. sylvia who is sylvia? what is she, that all our swains commend her? holy, fair, and wise is she; the heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admirèd be. is she kind as she is fair? for beauty lives with kindness, love doth to her eyes repair, to help him of his blindness, and, being help'd, inhabits there. then to sylvia let us sing, that sylvia is excelling; she excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling: to her let us garlands bring. song come away, come away, death, and in sad cypress let me be laid; fly away, fly away, breath; i am slain by a fair cruel maid. my shroud of white, stuck all with yew, o, prepare it; my part of death no one so true did share it. not a flower, not a flower sweet, on my black coffin let there be strown; not a friend, not a friend greet my poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. a thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me, o, where sad true lover ne'er find my grave to weep there. a sea dirge full fathom five thy father lies: of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes: nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: hark! now i hear them,-- ding, dong, bell. ophelia's song how should i your true love know from another one? by his cockle hat and staff, and his sandal shoon. he is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone. white his shroud as the mountain snow, larded with sweet flowers; which bewept to the grave did go with true-love showers. and will he not come again? and will he not come again? no, no, he is dead: go to thy death-bed: he never will come again. his beard was as white as snow, all flaxen was his poll: he is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan: god ha' mercy on his soul! when daisies pied when daisies pied and violets blue, and lady-smocks all silver-white, and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight, the cuckoo then, on every tree, mocks married men; for thus sings he, cuckoo; cuckoo, cuckoo: o word of fear, unpleasing to a married ear! when shepherds pipe on oaten straws, and merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, when turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, and maidens bleach their summer smocks, the cuckoo then, on every tree, mocks married men; for thus sings he, cuckob; cuckoo, cuckoo: o word of fear, unpleasing to a married ear! it was a lover it was a lover and his lass, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, that o'er the green cornfield did pass in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: sweet lovers love the spring. between the acres of the rye, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, these pretty country folks would lie, in spring time, etc. this carol they began that hour, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, how that a life was but a flower in spring time, etc. and therefore take the present time, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; for love is crowned with the prime in spring time, etc. sweet and twenty o mistress mine, where are you roaming? o, stay and hear; your true love 's coming, that can sing both high and low: trip no further, pretty sweeting; journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know. what is love? 'tis not hereafter; present mirth hath present laughter; what's to come is still unsure: in delay there lies no plenty; then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure. music orpheus with his lute made trees, and the mountain tops that freeze, bow themselves when he did sing: to his music plants and flowers ever sprung; as sun and showers there had made a lasting spring. every thing that heard him play, even the billows of the sea, hung their heads, and then lay by. in sweet music is such art, killing-care and grief-of-heart fall asleep, or hearing, die. the pedlar lawn as white as driven snow; cypress black as e'er was crow; gloves as sweet as damask roses; masks for faces and for noses; bugle bracelet, necklace amber, perfume for a lady's chamber; golden quoifs and stomachers, for my lads to give their dears: pins and poking-sticks of steel, what maids lack from head to heel: come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: come buy. soldier's song and let me the canakin clink, clink; and let me the canakin clink: a soldier's a man; a life's but a span; why, then, let a soldier drink. king stephen was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown; he held them sixpence all too dear, with that he call'd the tailor lown. he was a wight of high renown, and thou art but of low degree: 'tis pride that pulls the country down; then take thine auld cloak about thee. doubt not doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt i love. ariel where the bee sucks, there lurk i; in a cowslip's bell i lie; there i couch when owls do cry. on the bat's back i do fly after summer merrily. merrily, merrily shall i live now under the blossom that hangs on the bough. sigh no more, ladies sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; men were deceivers ever; one foot in sea, and one on shore; to one thing constant never; then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny; converting all your sounds of woe into, hey nonny, nonny. sing no more ditties, sing no mo of dumps so dull and heavy; the fraud of men was ever so, since summer first was leavy, then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny; converting all your sounds of woe, into, hey nonny, nonny. the sweet o' the year when daffodils begin to peer, with heigh! the doxy over the dale, why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; for the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. the white sheet bleaching on the hedge, with heigh! the sweet birds, o, how they sing! doth set my pugging tooth on edge; for a quart of ale is a dish for a king. the lark, that tirra-lyra chants, with heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, are summer songs for me and my aunts, while we lie tumbling in the hay. but shall i go mourn for that, my dear? the pale moon shines by night: and when i wander here and there, i then do most go right. if tinkers may have leave to live, and bear the sow-skin budget, then my account i well may give, and in the stocks avouch it. hark! hark! the lark! hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, and phoebus 'gins arise, his steeds to water at those springs, on chalic'd flowers that lies; and winking mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes; with every thing that pretty bin; my lady sweet, arise. over hill, over dale over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, i do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon's sphere; and i serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green. the cowslips tall her pensioners be: in their gold coats spots you see; those be rubies, fairy favours, in those freckles live their savours; i must go seek some dewdrops here, and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. one in ten was this fair face the cause, quoth she, why the grecians sacked troy? fond done, done fond, was this king priam's joy? with that she sighèd as she stood, with that she sighèd as she stood, and gave this sentence then; among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten. puck now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone. now the wasted brands do glow, while the screech-owl, screeching loud, puts the wretch, that lies in woe, in remembrance of a shroud. now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide; and we fairies, that do run by the triple hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallow'd house: i am sent with broom before, to sweep the dust behind the door. through the house give glimmering light, by the dead and drowsy fire: every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier; and this ditty, after me, sing, and dance it trippingly. first, rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note: hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing, and bless this place. lullaby you spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, come not near our fairy queen. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. weaving spiders, come not here; hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! beetles black, approach not near; worm nor snail, do no offence. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. song tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head how begot, how nourishèd? reply, reply. it is engender'd in the eyes, with gazing fed: and fancy dies in the cradle where it lies. let us all ring fancy's knell: i'll begin it,--ding, dong, bell. ding, dong, bell. _thomas campion_ cherry-ripe there is a garden in her face, where roses and white lilies grow; a heavenly paradise is that place, wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; there cherries grow that none may buy till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. those cherries fairly do enclose of orient pearl a double row, which, when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; yet them no peer nor prince may buy till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still, her brows like bended bows do stand, threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill all that approach with eye or hand these sacred cherries to come nigh, till cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. laura rose-cheeked laura, come; sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's silent music, either other sweetly gracing. lovely forms do flow from consent divinely framed; heaven is music, and thy beauty's birth is heavenly. these dull notes we sing discords need for helps to grace them, only beauty purely loving knows no discord, but still moves delight, like clear springs renewed by flowing, ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal. come, cheerful day come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; for while thou view'st me with thy fading light part of my life doth still depart with thee, and i still onward haste to my last night: time's fatal wings do ever forward fly so every day we live, a day we die. but o ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest, how are my days deprived of life in you when heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, by feignèd death life sweetly to renew; part of my life, in that, you life deny: so every day we live, a day we die. follow thy fair sun follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! though thou be black as night and she made all of light, yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! though here thou liv'st disgraced, and she in heaven is placed, yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth, that so have scorchèd thee as thou still black must be till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. follow her, while yet her glory shineth! there comes a luckless night that will dim all her light; --and this the black unhappy shade divineth. follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! the sun must have his shade, till both at once do fade, the sun still proved, the shadow still disdained. _ben jonson_ to celia drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss but in the cup and i'll not look for wine. the thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine; but might i of jove's nectar sup, i would not change for thine. i sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee as giving it a hope that there it could not wither'd be; but thou thereon didst only breathe and sent'st it back to me; since when it grows, and smells, i swear, not of itself, but thee! song from 'cynthia's revels' queen and huntress, chaste and fair, now the sun is laid to sleep, seated in thy silver chair, state in wonted manner keep. hesperus entreats thy light, goddess excellently bright! earth, let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose; cynthia's shining orb was made heaven to clear, when day did close. bless us then with wishèd sight, goddess excellently bright! lay thy bow of pearl apart, and thy crystal-shining quiver, give unto the flying hart space to breathe how short soever; thou that mak'st a day of night, goddess excellently bright! the sweet neglect still to be neat, still to be drest, as you were going to a feast: still to be poud'red, still perfum'd: lady, it is to be presum'd, though art's hid causes are not found, all is not sweet, all is not sound. give me a looke, give me a face, that makes simplicitie a grace; robes loosely flowing, haire as free: such sweet neglect more taketh me, than all th' adulteries of art, that strike mine eyes, but not my heart. _anonymous_ the weaver's song wren hercules did use to spin, and pallas wrought upon the loom, our trade to flourish did begin, while conscience went not selling broom; then love and friendship did agree to keep the bands of amity. when princes' sons kept sheep in field, and queens made cakes of wheated flour, the men to lucre did not yield, which brought good cheer in every bower; then love and friendship... but when the gyants huge and high, did fight with spears like weavers' beams, then they in iron beds did lye, and brought poor men to hard extreams; yet love and friendship... then david took his sling and stone, not fearing great goliah's strength, he pierc't his brains, and broke the bone, though he were fifty foot of length; for love and friendship... but while the greeks besieged troy, penelope apace did spin; and weavers wrought with mickle joy, though little gains were coming in; for love and friendship... had helen then sate carding wooll, (whose beauteous face did breed such strife), she had not been sir paris' trull, nor caused so many to lose their life; yet we by love did still agree to hold the bands of amity. or had king priam's wanton son been making quills with sweet content, he had not then his friends undone, when he to greece a-gadding went; for love and friendship... the cedar-trees endure more storms then little shrubs that sprout on high; the weavers live more void of harms then princes of great dignity; while love and friendship doth agree... the shepherd sitting in the field doth tune his pipe with heart's delight; when princes watch with spear and shield, the poor man soundly sleeps all night; while love and friendship doth agree... yet this by proof is daily try'd, for god's good gifts we are ingrate, and no man through the world so wide lives well contented with his state; no love and friendship we can see to hold the bands of amity. the honest fellow hang fear, cast away care, the parish is bound to find us thou and i, and all must die, and leave this world behind us. the bells shall ring, the clerk shall sing, and the good old wife shall winds us; and the sexton shall lay our bodies in the clay, where nobody shall find us. robin goodfellow from oberon, in fairy land, the king of ghosts and shadows there, mad robin i, at his command, am sent to view the night-sports here. what revel rout is kept about, in every corner where i go, i will o'ersee, and merry be, and make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! more swift than lightning can i fly about this airy welkin soon, and, in a minute's space, descry each thing that's done below the moon. there's not a hag or host shall wag, or cry, ware goblins! where i go; but robin i their feats will spy, and send them home with ho, ho, ho! whene'er such wanderers i meet, as from their night-sports they trudge home, with counterfeiting voice i greet, and call them on with me to roam: through woods, through lakes; through bogs, through brakes; or else, unseen, with them i go, all in the nick, to play some trick, and frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! sometimes i meet them like a man, sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; and to a horse i turn me can, to trip and trot about them round. but if to ride my back they stride, more swift than wind away i go, o'er hedge and lands, through pools and ponds, i hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when lads and lasses merry be, with possets and with junkets fine; unseen of all the company, i eat their cakes and sip their wine! and, to make sport, i puff and snort: and out the candles i do blow: the maids i kiss, they shriek--who's this? i answer nought but ho, ho, ho! yet now and then, the maids to please, at midnight i card up their wool; and, while they sleep and take their ease, with wheel to threads their flax i pull. i grind at mill their malt up still; i dress their hemp; i spin their tow; if any wake, and would me take, i wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when any need to borrow aught, we lend them what they do require: and, for the use demand we nought; our own is all we do desire. if to repay they do delay, abroad amongst them then i go, and night by night, i them affright, with pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho! when lazy queans have nought to do, but study how to cog and lie: to make debate and mischief too, 'twixt one another secretly: i mark their gloze, and it disclose to them whom they have wrongèd so: when i have done, i get me gone, and leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! when men do traps and engines set in loop-holes, where the vermin creep, who from their folds and houses get their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep; i spy the gin, and enter in, and seem a vermin taken so; but when they there approach me near, i leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! by wells and rills, in meadows green, we nightly dance our heyday guise; and to our fairy king and queen, we chant our moonlight minstrelsies. when larks 'gin sing, away we fling; and babes new born steal as we go; and elf in bed we leave in stead, and wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! from hag-bred merlin's time, have i thus nightly revelled to and fro; and for my pranks men call me by the name of robin good-fellow. fiends, ghosts, and sprites, who haunt the nights, the hags and goblins do me know and beldames old my feats have told, so vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! time's alteration when this old cap was new, 'tis since two hundred year no malice then we knew, but all things plenty were: all friendship now decays (believe me, this is true); which was not in those days, when this old cap was new. the nobles of our land were much delighted then, to have at their command a crew of lusty men, which by their coats were known, of tawny, red, or blue, with crests on their sleeves shewn, when this old cap was new. now pride hath banished all, unto our land's reproach, when he whose means is small, maintains both horse and coach: instead of a hundred men, the coach allows but two; this was not thought on then, when this old cap was new. good hospitality was cherished then of many now poor men starve and die, and are not helped by any: for charity waxeth cold, and love is found in few; this was not in time of old, when this old cap was new. where'er you travelled then, you might meet on the way brave knights and gentlemen, clad in their country gray; that courteous would appear, and kindly welcome you; no puritans then were, when this old cap was new. our ladies in those days in civil habit went; broad cloth was then worth praise, and gave the best content: french fashions then were scorned; fond fangles then none knew; then modesty women adorned, when this old cap was new. a man might then behold, at christmas, in each hall, good fires to curb the cold, and meat for great and small: the neighbours were friendly bidden, and all had welcome true; the poor from the gates were not chidden when this old cap was new. black jacks to every man were filled with wine and beer; no pewter pot nor can in those days did appear: good cheer in a nobleman's house was counted a seemly show; we wanted no brawn nor souse, when this old cap was new. we took not such delight in cups of silver fine; none under the degree of a knight in plate drank beer or wine: now each mechanical man hath a cupboard of plate for a show; which was a rare thing then, when this old cap was new. then bribery was unborn, no simony men did use; christians did usury scorn, devised among the jews. the lawyers to be fee'd at that time hardly knew; for man with man agreed, when this old cap was new. no captain then caroused, nor spent poor soldiers' pay; they were not so abused as they are at this day: of seven days they make eight, to keep from them their due; poor soldiers had their right, when this old cap was new. which made them forward still to go, although not prest; and going with good-will, their fortunes were the best. our english then in fight did foreign foes subdue, and forced them all to flight, when this old cap was new. god save our gracious king, and send him long to live: lord, mischief on them bring that will not their alms give, but seek to rob the poor of that which is their due: this was not in time of yore, when this old cap was new. _george wither_ shall i, wasting in despair shall i, wasting in despair, die because a woman's fair? or make pale my cheeks with care 'cause another's rosy are? be she fairer than the day, or the flow'ry meads in may, if she be not so to me, what care i how fair she be? should my heart be griev'd or pin'd 'cause i see a woman kind? or a well-disposed nature joinèd with a lovely feature? be she meeker, kinder than turtle-dove or pelican, if she be not so to me, what care i how kind she be? shall a woman's virtues move me to perish for her love? or her well-deservings, known, make me quite forget my own? be she with that goodness blest which may gain her name of best, if she be not such to me, what care i how good she be? 'cause her fortune seems too high, shall i play the fool and die? those that bear a noble mind, where they want of riches find think what with them they would do that without them dare to woo; and unless that mind i see, what care i how great she be? great, or good, or kind, or fair, i will ne'er the more despair; if she love me, this believe, i will die ere she shall grieve: if she slight me when i woo, i can scorn and let her go; for if she be not for me, what care i for whom she be? i loved a lass, a fair one i lov'd a lass, a fair one, as fair as e'er was seen; she was indeed a rare one, another sheba queen. but, fool as then i was, i thought she lov'd me too: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. her hair like gold did glister, each eye was like a star, she did surpass her sister, which pass'd all others far; she would me honey call, she'd, oh--she'd kiss me too: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. many a merry meeting my love and i have had; she was my only sweeting, she made my heart full glad; the tears stood in her eyes, like to the morning dew: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. her cheeks were like the cherry, her skin as white as snow; when she was blythe and merry, she angel-like did show; her waist exceeding small, the fives did fit her shoe: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. in summer time or winter she had her heart's desire; i still did scorn to stint her from sugar, sack, or fire; the world went round about, no cares we ever knew: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. to maidens' vows and swearing henceforth no credit give; you may give them the hearing, but never them believe; they are as false as fair, unconstant, frail, untrue: for mine, alas! hath left me, falero, lero, loo. christmas so now is come our joyfullest part; let every man be jolly; each room with ivy-leaves is dressed, and every post with holly. though some churls at our mirth repine, round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine, and let us all be merry! now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, and christmas-blocks are burning; their ovens they with baked meat choke, and all their spits are turning. without the door let sorrow lie; and, if for cold it hap to die, we'll bury it in a christmas pie and evermore be merry! rank misers now do sparing shun; their hall of music soundeth; and dogs thence with whole shoulders run; so all things there aboundeth. the country folks themselves advance with crowdy-muttons out of france; and jack shall pipe, and jill shall dance, and all the town be merry! good farmers in the country nurse the poor that else were undone; some landlords spend their money worse, on lust and pride in london. there the roysters they do play, drab and dice their lands away, which may be ours another day, and therefore let's be merry! the client now his suit forbears; the prisoner's heart is easèd; the debtor drinks away his cares, and for the time is pleasèd. though other's purses be more fat, why should we pine or grieve at that? hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, and therefore let's be merry! hark! now the wags abroad do call each other forth to rambling; anon you'll see them in the hall, for nuts and apples scrambling. hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; anon they'll think the house goes round, for they the cellar's depth have found, and there they will be merry! the wenches with their wassail bowls about the streets are singing; the boys are come to catch the owls; the wild mare in is bringing; our kitchen-boy hath broke his box; and to the dealing of the ox our honest neighbours come by flocks, and here they will be merry! now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, and mate with everybody; the honest now may play the knave, and wise men play the noddy. some youths will now a-mumming go, some others play at rowland-bo, and twenty other game, boys, mo, because they will be merry! then wherefore, in these merry days, should we, i pray, be duller? no, let us sing some roundelays to make our mirth the fuller: and, while we thus inspirèd sing, let all the streets with echoes ring; woods, and hills, and everything, bear witness we are merry! _thomas carew_ ask me no more ask me no more where jove bestows, when june is past, the fading rose; for in your beauties orient deep these flowers, as in their causes, sleep. ask me no more, whither do stray the golden atoms of the day; for, in pure love, heaven did prepare those powders to enrich your hair. ask me no more, whither doth haste the nightingale, when may is past; for in your sweet dividing throat she winters, and keeps warm her note. ask me no more, where those stars light, that downwards fall in dead of night; for in your eyes they sit, and there fixed become, as in their sphere. ask me no more, if east or west, the phoenix builds her spicy nest; for unto you at last she flies, and in your fragrant bosom dies. _robert herrick_ night-piece to julia her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, the shooting stars attend thee; and the elves also, whose little eyes glow like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! no will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, nor snake or slow-worm bite thee! but on, on thy way, not making a stay, since ghost there is none to affright thee. let not the dark thee cumber; what though the moon does slumber? the stars of the night will lend thee their light, like tapers clear without number. then julia let me woo thee, thus, thus to come unto me; and, when i shall meet thy silvery feet, my soul i'll pour into thee. the mad maid's song good-morrow to the day so fair, good-morrow, sir, to you; good-morrow to my own torn hair, bedabbled all with dew. good-morrow to this primrose too; good-morrow to each maid that will with flowers the tomb bestrew wherein my love is laid. ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me; alack and well-a-day! for pity, sir, find out that bee which bore my love away. i'll seek him in your bonnet brave; i'll seek him in your eyes; nay, now i think they've made his grave in the bed of strawberries. i'll seek him there, i know ere this the cold, cold earth doth shake him; but i will go, or send a kiss by you, sir, to awake him. pray hurt him not; though he be dead, he knows well who do love him, and who with green turfs rear his head, and who so rudely move him. he's soft and tender, pray take heed; with bands of cowslips bind him, and bring him home; but 'tis decreed that i shall never find him. to blossoms fair pledges of a fruitful tree, why do you fall so fast? your date is not so past, but you may stay yet here awhile, to blush and gently smile, and go at last. what! were ye born to be an hour or half's delight, and so to bid good-night? 'tis pity nature brought ye forth merely to show your worth, and lose you quite. but you are lovely leaves, where we may read how soon things have their end, though ne'er so brave: and after they have shown their pride, like you awhile, they glide into the grave. to daffodils fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon; as yet the early-rising sun has not attained his noon: stay, stay, until the hast'ning day has run but to the even-song; and having prayed together, we will go with you along! we have short time to stay as you; we have as short a spring; as quick a growth to meet decay, as you or any thing: we die, as your hours do; and dry away like to the summer's rain, or as the pearls of morning-dew, ne'er to be found again. julia some asked me where the rubies grew, and nothing did i say, but with my finger pointed to the lips of julia. some asked how pearls did grow, and where, then spake i to my girl, to part her lips, and show me there the quarelets of pearl. one asked me where the roses grew, i bade him not go seek; but forthwith bade my julia shew a bud in either cheek. to the virgins, to make much of their time gather the rose-buds while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying. the glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he s a-getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he's to setting. that age is best which is the first, when youth and blood are warmer; but, being spent, the worse, and worst time shall succeed the former. then be not coy, but use your time, and while you may, go marry; for, having lost but once your prime, you may for ever tarry. twelfth night, or king and queen now, now the mirth comes, with the cake full of plums, where bean's the king of the sport here; beside, we must know, the pea also must revel as queen in the court here. begin then to choose, this night, as ye use, who shall for the present delight here; be a king by the lot, and who shall not be twelfth-day queen for the night here. which known, let us make joy-sops with the cake; and let not a man then be seen here, who unurged will not drink, to the base from the brink, a health to the king and the queen here. next crown the bowl full with gentle lamb's-wool; add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, with store of ale, too; and thus ye must do to make the wassail a swinger. give them to the king and queen wassailing; and though with ale ye be wet here; yet part ye from hence, as free from offence, as when ye innocent met here. the bag of the bee about the sweet bag of a bee, two cupids fell at odds; and whose the pretty prize should be, they vowed to ask the gods. which venus hearing, thither came, and for their boldness stript them; and taking thence from each his flame, with rods of myrtle whipt them. which done, to still their wanton cries, when quiet grown she'ad seen them, she kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes and gave the bag between them. a thanksgiving for his house lord, thou hast given me a cell wherein to dwell; a little house, whose humble roof is weatherproof; under the spars of which i lie both soft and dry. where thou, my chamber for to ward, hast set a guard of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep me while i sleep. low is my porch, as is my fate, both void of state; and yet the threshold of my door is worn by the poor, who hither come, and freely get good words or meat. like as my parlour, so my hall, and kitchen small; a little buttery, and therein a little bin, which keeps my little loaf of bread unchipt, unflead. some brittle sticks of thorn or brier make me a fire, close by whose living coal i sit, and glow like it. lord, i confess, too, when i dine the pulse is thine, and all those other bits that be there placed by thee. the worts, the purslain, and the mess of water-cress, which of thy kindness thou hast sent: and my content makes those, and my beloved beet, to be more sweet. 'tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth with guiltless mirth; and giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, spiced to the brink. lord,'tis thy plenty-dropping hand that sows my land: all this, and better, dost thou send me for this end: that i should render for my part a thankful heart, which, fired with incense, i resign as wholly thine: but the acceptance--that must be, o lord, by thee. to primroses, filled with morning dew why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears speak grief in you, who were but born just as the modest morn teemed her refreshing dew? alas! you have not known that shower that mars a flower, nor felt the unkind breath of a blasting wind; nor are ye worn with years, or warped as we, who think it strange to see such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known the reason why ye droop and weep; is it for want of sleep, or childish lullaby? or that ye have not seen as yet the violet? or brought a kiss from that sweet heart to this? no, no; this sorrow shown by your tears shed, would have this lecture read-- 'that things of greatest, so of meanest worth, conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' delight in disorder a sweet disorder in the dress [a happy kind of carelessness;] a lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distraction; an erring lace, which here and there enthralls the crimson stomacher; a cuff neglectful, and thereby ribands that flow confusedly; a winning wave, deserving note in the tempestuous petticoat; a careless shoe-string, in whose tie i see a wild civility; do more bewitch me, than when art is too precise in every part. cherry ripe cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry, full and fair ones--come and buy; if so be you ask me where they do grow?--i answer: there, where my julia's lips do smile-- there's the land, or cherry-isle; whose plantations fully show all the year where cherries grow. _george herbert_ virtue sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright the bridal of the earth and sky; the dews shall weep thy fall to-night; for thou must die. sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; thy root is ever in its grave; and thou must die. sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses; a box where sweets compacted lie; thy music shows ye have your closes; and all must die. only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber never gives; but, though the whole world turn to coal, then chiefly lives. _anonymous_ the spanish armado some years of late, in eighty-eight, as i do well remember, it was, some say, the middle of may, and some say in september, and some say in september. the spanish train launch'd forth amain, with many a fine bravado, their (as they thought, but it prov'd not) invincible armado, invincible armado. there was a man that dwelt in spain who shot well with a gun a, don pedro hight, as black a wight as the knight of the sun a, as the knight of the sun a. king philip made him admiral, and bid him not to stay a, but to destroy both man and boy and so to come away a, and so to come away a. their navy was well victualled with bisket, pease, and bacon, they brought two ships, well fraught with whips, but i think they were mistaken, but i think they were mistaken. their men were young, munition strong, and to do us more harm a, they thought it meet to joyn their fleet all with the prince of parma, all with the prince of parma. they coasted round about our land, and so came in by dover: but we had men set on 'em then, and threw the rascals over, and threw the rascals over. the queen was then at tilbury, what could we more desire a? sir francis drake for her sweet sake did set them all on fire a, did set them all on fire a. then straight they fled by sea and land, that one man kill'd threescore a, and had not they all run away, in truth he had kill'd more a, in truth he had kill'd more a. then let them neither bray nor boast, but if they come again a, let them take heed they do not speed as they did you know when a, as they did you know when a. _sir john suckling_ a ballad upon a wedding i tell thee, dick, where i have been; where i the rarest things have seen; oh, things without compare! such sights again can not be found in any place on english ground, be it at wake or faer. at charing cross, hard by the way where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, there is a house with stairs; and there did i see coming down such folks as are not in our town; vorty at least, in pairs. amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (his beard no bigger tho' than thine) walk'd on before the rest; our landlord looks like nothing to him; the king (god bless him),'twould undo him, should he go still so drest. at course-a-park, without all doubt, he should have first been taken out by all the maids i' the town: though lusty roger there had been, or little george upon the green, or vincent of the crown. but wot you what? the youth was going to make an end of all his wooing: the parson for him staid: yet by his leave, for all his haste, he did not so much wish all past, perchance as did the maid. the maid (and thereby hangs a tale) for such a maid no whitson-ale could ever yet produce; no grape that's kindly ripe could be so round, so plump, so soft as she, nor half so full of juyce. her finger was so small, the ring would not stay on which they did bring; it was too wide a peck: and, to say truth (for out it must), it look'd like the great collar (just) about our young colt's neck. her feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice stole in and out, as if they fear'd the light: but oh! she dances such a way; no sun upon an easter day is half as fine a sight. her cheeks so rare, a white was on, no daisie make comparison (who sees them is undone); for streaks of red were mingled there, such as are on a kath'rine pear, the side that's next the sun. her lips were red; and one was thin, compared to what was next her chin (some bee had stung it newly); but, dick, her eyes so guard her face, i durst no more upon them gaze, than on a sun in july. her mouth so small, when she does speak, thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break that they might passage get; but she so handled still the matter, they came as good as ours, or better, and are not spent a whit. passion, oh me! how i run on! there's that that would be thought upon, i trow, beside the bride. the business of the kitchen's great; for it is fit that men should eat, nor was it there denied. just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, and all the waiters in a trice his summons did obey; each serving man, with dish in hand, march'd boldly up like our train'd band, presented, and away. when all the meat was on the table, what man of knife, or teeth, was able to stay to be entreated? and this the very reason was, before the parson could say grace the company was seated. now hats fly off, and youths carouse; healths first go round, and then the house, the bride's came thick and thick; and when 'twas named another's health, perhaps he made it her's by stealth, (and who could help it, dick?) o' th' sudden up they rise and dance; then sit again, and sigh, and glance: then dance again, and kiss: thus several ways the time did pass, till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, and ev'ry man wish'd his. by this time all were stolen aside to counsel and undress the bride; but that he must not know: but yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, and did not mean to stay behind above an hour or so. why so pale and wan? why so pale and wan, fond lover? prithee, why so pale? will, when looking well can't move her, looking ill prevail? prithee, why so pale? why so dull and mute, young sinner? prithee, why so mute? will, when speaking well can't win her, saying nothing do't? prithee, why so mute? quit, quit, for shame, this will not move, this cannot take her; if of herself she will not love, nothing can make her. the devil take her! _edmund waller_ go, lovely rose! go, lovely rose! tell her, that wastes her time and me, that now she knows, when i resemble her to thee how sweet and fair she seems to be. tell her that's young, and shuns to have her graces spied, that hadst thou sprung in deserts, where no men abide, thou must have uncommended died. small is the worth of beauty from the light retired: bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired, and not blush so to be admired. then die! that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee: how small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair! _anonymous_ the frog he would a-wooing ride it was the frog in the well, humble dum, humble dum, and the merry mouse in the mill, tweedle, tweedle, twino. the frog would a-wooing ride, humble dum, humble dum, sword and buckler by his side, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when upon his high horse set, humble dum, humble dum, his boots they shone as black as jet, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when he came to the merry mill pin, lady mouse beene you within? then came out the dusty mouse, i am lady of this house; hast thou any mind of me? i have e'en great mind of thee. who shall this marriage make? our lord, which is the rat. what shall we have to our supper? three beans in a pound of butter. but, when supper they were at, the frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat, then came in tib, our cat, and caught the mouse e'en by the back, then did they separate the frog leapt on the floor so flat; then came in dick, our drake, and drew the frog e'en to the lake, the rat he ran up the wall, and so the company parted all. _richard lovelace_ to althea, from prison when love with unconfinèd wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at my grates; when i lie tangled in her hair, and fetter'd to her eye, the birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty. when flowing cups run swiftly round, with no allaying thames, our careless heads with roses bound, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty grief in wine we steep, when healths and draughts are free,_-- fishes that tipple in the deep know no such liberty. when linnet-like confinèd, i with shriller throat shall sing the sweetness, mercy, majesty, and glories of my king: when i shall voice aloud how good he is, how great should be,-- enlarged winds that curl the flood know no such liberty. stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; minds innocent and quiet take that for a hermitage: if i have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free,-- angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty. to lucasta, on going to the wars tell me not, sweet, i am unkind,-- that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms i fly. true, a new mistress now i chase, the first foe in the field; and with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield. yet this inconstancy is such as you, too, shall adore; i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more. _martin parker_ ye gentlemen of england ye gentlemen of england that live at home at ease, ah! little do ye think upon the dangers of the seas. give ear unto the mariners, and they will plainly show all the cares and the fears when the stormy winds do blow. when the stormy winds do blow. if enemies oppose us when england is at war with any foreign nation, we fear not wound or scar; our roaring guns shall teach 'em our valour for to know, whilst they reel on the keel, and the stormy winds do blow. and the stormy winds do blow. then courage, all brave mariners, and never be dismay'd; while we have bold adventurers, we ne'er shall want a trade: our merchants will employ us to fetch them wealth, we know; then be bold--work for gold, when the stormy winds do blow. when the stormy winds do blow. _anonymous_ the fairy queen come follow, follow me, you, fairy elves that be: which circle on the greene, come follow mab your queene. hand in hand let's dance around, for this place is fairye ground. when mortals are at rest, and snoring in their nest; unheard, and unespy'd, through key-holes we do glide; over tables, stools, and shelves, we trip it with our fairy elves. and, if the house be foul with platter, dish, or bowl, upstairs we nimbly creep, and find the sluts asleep; there we pinch their armes and thighes; none escapes, nor none espies. but if the house be swept, and from uncleanness kept, we praise the houshold maid, and duely she is paid: for we use before we goe to drop a tester in her shoe. upon a mushroome's head our table-cloth we spread; a grain of rye, or wheat, is manchet, which we eat; pearly drops of dew we drink in acorn cups fill'd to the brink. the brains of nightingales, with unctuous fat of snailes, between two cockles stew'd, is meat that's easily chew'd; tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, do make a dish that's wondrous nice. the grasshopper, gnat, and fly, serve for our minstrelsie; grace said, we dance a while, and so the time beguile: and if the moon doth hide her head, the gloe-worm lights us home to bed. on tops of dewie grasse so nimbly do we passe; the young and tender stalk ne'er bends when we do walk: yet in the morning may be seen where we the night before have been. _john chalkhill_ the praise of a countryman's life oh, the sweet contentment the countryman doth find, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; that quiet contemplation possesseth all my mind: then care away, and wend along with me. for courts are full of flattery, as hath too oft been tried, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; the city full of wantonness, and both are full of pride; then care away, and wend along with me. but, oh! the honest countryman speaks truly from his heart, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; his pride is in his tillage, his horses and his cart: then care away, and wend along with me. our clothing is good sheep-skins, grey russet for our wives, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; 'tis warmth and not gay clothing that doth prolong our lives: then care away, and wend along with me. the ploughman, though he labour hard, yet on the holy day, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; no emperor so merrily does pass his time away: then care away, and wend along with me. to recompense our tillage the heavens afford us showers, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; and for our sweet refreshments the earth affords us bowers; then care away, and wend along with me. the cuckoo and the nightingale full merrily do sing, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; and with their pleasant roundelays bid welcome to the spring: then care away, and wend along with me. this is not half the happiness the countryman enjoys, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; though others think they have as much, yet he that says so lies: then care away, and wend along with me. _anonymous_ here's a health here's a health unto his majesty, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ confusion to his enemies, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ and he that will not drink his health, i wish him neither wit nor wealth, nor yet a rope to hang himself, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ _john gay_ black-eyed susan all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, the streamers waving in the wind, when black-eyed susan came on board, oh, where shall i my true-love find? tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, does my sweet william sail among your crew?' william, who high upon the yard rock'd by the billows to and fro, soon as the well-known voice he heard, he sigh'd and cast his eyes below; the cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, and quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 'o susan, susan, lovely dear, my vows shall always true remain, let me kiss off that falling tear,-- we only part to meet again; change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be the faithful compass that still points to thee. believe not what the landsmen say, who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; they tell thee sailors, when away, in every port a mistress find; yes, yes, believe them when they tell you so, for thou art present wheresoe'er i go.' the boatswain gave the dreadful word, the sails their swelling bosom spread; no longer she must stay on board, they kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head: her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 'adieu!' she cried, and wav'd her lily hand. _anonymous_ annie laurie maxwellton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew, and 'twas there that annie laurie gied me her promise true; gied me her promise true, which ne'er forgot shall be, and for bonnie annie laurie, i'd lay me doon and dee. her brow is like the snaw-flake, her neck is like the swan, her face it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on; that e'er the sun shone on, and dark blue is her e'e; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. like dew on the gowan lying, is the fa' of her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice is low and sweet; her voice is low and sweet, and she's a' the world to me; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. james thomson rule britannia when britain first at heaven's command arose from out the azure main, this was the charter of her land, and guardian angels sang the strain: rule britannia! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! the nations not so blest as thee must in their turn to tyrants fall, whilst thou shalt flourish great and free-- the dread and envy of them all! still more majestic shalt thou rise, more dreadful from each foreign stroke; as the last blast which tears the skies serves but to root thy native oak. thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; all their attempts to bend thee down will but arouse thy generous flame, and work their woe and thy renown. to thee belongs the rural reign; thy cities shall with commerce shine; all thine shall be the subject main, and every shore it circles thine. the muses, still with freedom found, shall to thy happy coast repair; blest isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, and manly hearts to guard the fair:-- rule britannia! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! _anonymous_ waly, waly, but love be bonny o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn-side, where i and my love wont to gae. i lean'd my back unto an aik, and thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lightly me. o waly, waly, but love is bonny, a little time while it is new, but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades away like morning dew. oh! wherefore should i busk my head? or wherefore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. now arthur seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, saint anton's well shall be my drink, since my true love's forsaken me. martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves off the tree? oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come? for of my life i am weary. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blowing snow's inclemency; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvet, and i mysel' in cramasie. but had i wist before i kiss'd that love had been so ill to win, i'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, and pinn'd it with a silver pin. and oh! if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i mysel' were dead and gane, wi' the green grass growin' over me! _henry carey_ sally in our alley of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. there's ne'er a lady in the land is half so sweet as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. her father he makes cabbage nets, and through the streets doth cry them; her mother she sells laces long to such as please to buy them: but sure such folk can have no part in such a girl as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when she is by, i leave my work, i love her so sincerely; my master comes, like any turk, and bangs me most severely: but let him bang, long as he will, i'll bear it all for sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. of all the days are in the week, i dearly love but one day, and that's the day that comes betwixt a saturday and monday; for then i'm dress'd, in all my best, to walk abroad with sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master carries me to church, and often i am blamèd, because i leave him in the lurch, soon as the text is namèd: i leave the church in sermon time, and slink away to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when christmas comes about again, o then i shall have money; i'll hoard it up and, box and all, i'll give unto my honey: i would it were ten thousand pounds, i'd give it all to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master and the neighbours all, make game of me and sally, and but for she i'd better be a slave, and row a galley: but when my seven long years are out, o then i'll marry sally, and then how happily we'll live-- but not in our alley. _william hamilton_ the braes of yarrow busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? where gat ye that winsome marrow? i gat her where i daurna weel be seen, pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; nor let thy heart lament to leive pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? and why daur ye nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow? lang mann she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, and lang maun i nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. for she has tint her luver, luver dear, her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; and i hae slain the comliest swain that eir pu'd birks on the braes of yarrow. why rins thy stream, o yarrow, yarrow, reid? why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? and why yon melancholious weids hung on the bonny birks of yarrow? what's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? what's yonder floats? o dule and sorrow! o 'tis he the comely swain i slew upon the duleful braes of yarrow. wash, o wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, his wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; and wrap his limbs in mourning weids, and lay him on the braes of yarrow. then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; and weep around in waeful wise his hapless fate on the braes of yarrow! curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, my arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, the fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, his comely breast, on the braes of yarrow. did i not warn thee, not to, not to luve? and warn from fight? but to my sorrow too rashly bauld a stronger arm thou mett'st, and fell on the braes of yarrow. sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, yellow on yarrow's bank the gowan; fair hangs the apple frae the rock, sweet the wave of yarrow flowin'! flows yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows tweed, as green its grass, its gowan as yellow, as sweet smells on its braes the birk, the apple frae its rocks as mellow. fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, in flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd again than me he never luv'd thee better. busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, and luve me on the banks of tweed, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. how can i busk a bonny bonny bride? how can i busk a winsome marrow? how luve him on the banks of tweed, that slew my luve on the braes of yarrow? o yarrow fields, may never never rain, nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, for there was basely slain my luve, my luve, as he had not been a lover. the boy put on his robes, his robes of green, his purple vest--'twas my awn sewing: ah! wretched me! i little, little kenn'd he was in these to meet his ruin. the boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, unheedful of my dule and sorrow: but ere the toofall of the night he lay a corpse on the braes of yarrow. much i rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; i sang, my voice the woods returning: but lang ere night the spear was flown, that slew my luve, and left me mourning. what can my barbarous barbarous father do, but with his cruel rage pursue me? my luver's blood is on thy spear how canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? my happy sisters may be, may be proud with cruel and ungentle scoffin', may bid me seek on yarrow braes my luver nailed in his coffin. my brother douglas may upbraid, upbraid, and strive with threatning words to muve me: my luver's blood is on thy spear how canst thou ever bid me luve thee? yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, with bridal sheets my body cover, unbar, ye bridal maids, the door! let in the expected husband-lover. but who the expected husband husband is? his hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter. ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, o lay his cold head on my pillow! take aff, take aff these bridal weids, and crown my careful head with willow. pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, o could my warmth to life restore thee! ye'd lye all night between my breasts-- no youth lay ever there before thee! pale, pale indeed, o luvely luvely youth, forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, and lye all night between my breists, no youth shall ever lye there after. a. return, return, o mournful, mournful bride return and dry thy useless sorrow! thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, he lyes a corpse on the braes of yarrow. _william shenstone_ the shepherd's home my banks they are furnished with bees, whose murmur invites one to sleep; my grottoes are shaded with trees, and my hills are white over with sheep. i seldom have met with a loss, such health do my fountains bestow; my fountains all bordered with moss, where the harebells and violets blow. not a pine in the grove is there seen, but with tendrils of woodbine is bound; not a beech's more beautiful green, but a sweet-briar entwines it around. not my fields in the prime of the year, more charms than my cattle unfold; not a brook that is limpid and clear, but it glitters with fishes of gold. i have found out a gift for my fair, i have found where the wood-pigeons breed; but let me such plunder forbear, she will say 'twas a barbarous deed; for he ne'er could be true, she averred, who would rob a poor bird of its young; and i loved her the more when i heard such tenderness fall from her tongue. _william cowper_ the diverting history of john gilpin john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear: 'though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. 'to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the bell at edmonton all in a chaise and pair. 'my sister, and my sister's child, myself and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we.' he soon replied: 'i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear; therefore, it shall be done. 'i am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend the calender will lend his horse to go.' quoth mrs. gilpin: 'that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear.' john gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find that, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in; six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folk so glad; the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty screaming came down stairs: the wine is left behind!' 'good lack!' quoth he--'et bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise.' now mrs. gilpin--careful soul!-- had two stone-bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones with caution and good heed. but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. so, 'fair and softly,' john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might. his horse, which never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt when he set out of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay, till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; and every soul cried out: 'well done!' as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around; he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound! and still, as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view how in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw. and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been. but still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist. thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. 'stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house'-- they all aloud did cry; the dinner waits, and we are tired! said gilpin: so am i!' but yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; for why? his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. away went gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still. the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him: 'what news? what news? your tidings tell-- tell me you must and shall say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?' now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus unto the calendar in merry guise he spoke: 'i came because your horse would come; and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here-- they are upon the road.' the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, returned him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came with hat and wig; a wig that flowed behind, a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind. he held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit: `my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit. but let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face: and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case.' said john: 'it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware.' so turning to his horse, he said: 'i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine.' ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and galloped off with all his might, as he had done before. away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first; for why?--they were too big. now mrs. gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the bell: 'this shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well.' the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein; but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels, the post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. six gentlemen upon the road thus seeing gilpin fly, with post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry: stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. and now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space; the tollmen thinking as before that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he; and, when he next doth ride abroad, may i be there to see! the' royal george' toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! all sunk beneath the wave fast by their native shore! eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, had made the vessel heel and laid her on her side. a land-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset; down went the _royal george_ with all her crew complete. toll for the brave! brave kempenfelt is gone; his last sea-fight is fought, his work of glory done. it was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock, she sprang no fatal leak, she ran upon no rock. his sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, when kempenfelt went down with twice four hundred men. weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes! and mingle with our cup the tear that england owes. her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again full charged with england's thunders and plough the distant main: but kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; and he and his eight hundred shall plough the wave no more. boadicea when the british warrior queen, bleeding from the roman rods, sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods, sage beneath the spreading oak sat the druid, hoary chief; every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief. 'princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. 'rome shall perish--write that word in the blood that she has spilt; perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, deep in ruin as in guilt. 'rome, for empire far renown'd, tramples on a thousand states; soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- hark! the gaul is at her gates! 'other romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name; sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. 'then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command. 'regions caesar never knew thy posterity shall sway; where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they.' such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire, bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. she, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; rush'd to battle, fought, and died; dying hurl'd them at the foe. 'ruffians, pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due empire is on us bestow'd, shame and ruin wait for you.' _david garrick_ hearts of oak come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, to add something more to this wonderful year, to honour we call you not press you like slaves, for who are so free as the sons of the waves? hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. we ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay, they never see us but they wish us away; if they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, for if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. still britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, her standard be justice, her watchword 'be free'; then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. _oliver goldsmith_ an elegy on the death of a mad dog good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song; and if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long. in islington there was a man, of whom the world might say, that still a godly race he ran whene'er he went to pray. a kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes; the naked every day he clad, when he put on his clothes. and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree. this dog and man at first were friends; but when a pique began, the dog, to gain his private ends, went mad, and bit the man. around from all the neighbouring streets the wondering neighbours ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits, to bite so good a man. the wound it seem'd both sore and sad to every christian eye: and while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. but soon a wonder came to light, that show'd the rogues they lied, the man recover'd of the bite, the dog it was that died. edwin and angelina 'turn, gentle hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way, to where yon taper cheers the vale with hospitable ray. 'for here forlorn and lost i tread, with fainting steps and slow; where wilds immeasurably spread, seem lengthening as i go.' 'forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'to tempt the dangerous gloom; for yonder phantom only flies to lure thee to thy doom. 'here, to the houseless child of want, my door is open still: and though my portion is but scant, i give it with goodwill. 'then turn to-night, and freely share whate'er my cell bestows; my rushy couch and frugal fare, my blessing and repose. 'no flocks that range the valley free, to slaughter i condemn; taught by that power that pities me, i learn to pity them. but from the mountain's grassy side, a guiltless feast i bring; a script, with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the spring. then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; all earth-born cares are wrong: man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long.' soft as the dew from heaven descends, his gentle accents fell; the modest stranger lowly bends, and follows to the cell. far in a wilderness obscure, the lonely mansion lay; a refuge to the neighbouring poor, and strangers led astray. no stores beneath its humble thatch required a master's care; the wicket, opening with a latch, received the harmless pair. and now, when busy crowds retire, to take their evening rest, the hermit trimmed his little fire, and cheered his pensive guest; and spread his vegetable store, and gaily pressed and smiled; and, skilled in legendary lore, the lingering hours beguiled. around, in sympathetic mirth, its tricks the kitten tries; the cricket chirrups in the hearth, the crackling fagot flies. but nothing could a charm impart, to soothe the stranger's woe; for grief was heavy at his heart, and tears began to flow. his rising cares the hermit spied, with answering care opprest: 'and whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 'the sorrows of thy breast? 'from better habitations spurned, reluctant dost thou rove? or grieve for friendship unreturned, or unregarded love? 'alas! the joys that fortune brings are trifling, and decay; and those who prize the paltry things more trifling still than they. 'and what is friendship but a name: a charm that lulls to sleep! a shade that follows wealth or fame, and leaves the wretch to weep! 'and love is still an emptier sound, the modern fair-one's jest; on earth unseen, or only found to warm the turtle's nest. 'for shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, and spurn the sex,' he said: but while he spoke, a rising blush his love-lorn guest betrayed. surprised he sees new beauties rise, swift mantling to the view, like colours o'er the morning skies, as bright, as transient too. the bashful look, the rising breast, alternate spread alarms; the lovely stranger stands confest a maid in all her charms. 'and ah! forgive a stranger rude, a wretch forlorn,' she cried, whose feet unhallowed thus intrude where heaven and you reside. 'but let a maid thy pity share, whom love has taught to stray: who seeks for rest, but finds despair companion of her way. 'my father lived beside the tyne, a wealthy lord was he; and all his wealth was marked as mine he had but only me. 'to win me from his tender arms, unnumbered suitors came; who praised me for imputed charms, and felt, or feigned, a flame. each hour a mercenary crowd with richest proffers strove; amongst the rest young edwin bowed, but never talked of love. 'in humblest, simplest habit clad, no wealth nor power had he; wisdom and worth were all he had; but these were all to me. 'the blossom opening to the day, the dews of heaven refined, could nought of purity display, to emulate his mind. 'the dew, the blossoms of the tree, with charms inconstant shine; their charms were his; but, woe to me, their constancy was mine. 'for still i tried each fickle art, importunate and vain; and while his passion touched my heart, i triumphed in his pain. 'till quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride; and sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he died! 'but mine the sorrow, mine the fault, and well my life shall pay: i'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay. 'and there, forlorn, despairing, hid, i'll lay me down and die: 'twas so for me that edwin did, and so for him will i.' forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried, and clasped her to his breast: the wondering fair one turned to chide 'twas edwin's self that prest! 'turn, angelina, ever dear, my charmer, turn to see thy own, thy long-lost edwin here, restored to love and thee. thus let me hold thee to my heart, and every care resign; and shall we never, never part, my life--my all that's mine? 'no, never from this hour to part, we'll live and love so true; the sigh that rends thy constant heart, shall break thy edwin's too.' _lady anne barnard_ auld robin gray when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, and a' the weary warld to rest are gane, the waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, but saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; to make the crown a pound my jamie gaed to sea, and the crown and the pound--they were baith for me. he hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, when my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; my mither she fell sick--my jamie was at sea, and auld robin gray came a courting me. my father couldna work--my mither couldna spin-- i toiled day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, said: 'jeanie, o for their sakes, will ye no marry me?' my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back, but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack, his ship was a wrack--why didna jamie die, or why am i spared to cry wae is me? my father urged me sair--my mither didna speak, but she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- and so robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife a week but only four, when, mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist, for i couldna think it he till he said: 'i'm come hame, love, to marry thee!' oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', i gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'-- i wish that i were dead, but i'm na like to die, for, though my heart is broken, i'm but young, wae is me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena much to spin, i darena think o' jamie, for that wad be a sin, but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for, oh! robin gray, he is kind to me. _alexander ross_ woo'd, and married, and a'. the bride cam' out o' the byre, and, oh, as she dighted her cheeks: 'sirs, i'm to be married the night, and have neither blankets nor sheets; have neither blankets nor sheets, nor scarce a coverlet too; the bride that has a' thing to borrow, has e'en right muckle ado.' woo'd, and married, and a', married, and woo'd, and a'! and was she nae very weel off, that was woo'd, and married, and a'? out spake the bride's father, as he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, and ye'se get gear eneugh; the stirk stands i' the tether, and our braw bawsint yaud, will carry ye hame your corn-- what wad ye be at, ye jaud?' out spake the bride's mither: what deil needs a' this pride? i hadna a plack in my pouch that night i was a bride; my gown was linsey-woolsey, and ne'er a sark ava; and ye hae ribbons and buskins, mae than ane or twa.' out spake the bride's brither, as he cam' in wi' the kye: 'poor willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, had he kent ye as weel as i; for ye're baith proud and saucy, and no for a poor man's wife; gin i canna get a better, i'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' _anonymous_ the british grenadiers some talk of alexander, and some of hercules, of hector and lysander, and such great names as these, but of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, with a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the british grenadier! those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; but our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers! whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, we throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the british grenadiers! and when the siege is over, we to the town repair, the townsmen cry, hurrah, boys, here comes a grenadier! here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!' then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the british grenadiers! then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, may they and their commanders live happy all their years, with a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers! _anonymous_ here 's to the maiden here 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; now to the widow of fifty; here's to the flaunting extravagant quean and here's to the housewife that 's thrifty. let the toast pass, drink to the lass, i'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, now to the damsel with none, sir, here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, and now to the nymph with but one, sir. here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, now to her that's as brown as a berry, here's to the wife with a face full of woe, and now to the damsel that's merry. for let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, young or ancient, i care not a feather, so fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, and let us e'en toast 'em together, let the toast pass, drink to the lass, i'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. _thomas chatterton_ bristow tragedy the feathered songster chanticleer had wound his bugle-horn, and told the early villager the coming of the morn: king edward saw the ruddy streaks of light eclipse the gray, and heard the raven's croaking throat, proclaim the fated day. 'thou'rt right,' quoth he, for by the god that sits enthroned on high! charles bawdin, and his fellows twain, to-day shall surely die.' then with a jug of nappy ale his knights did on him wait; 'go tell the traitor, that to-day he leaves this mortal state.' sir canterlone then bended low, with heart brimful of woe; he journeyed to the castle-gate, and to sir charles did go. but when he came, his children twain, and eke his loving wife, with briny tears did wet the floor, for good sir charles's life. 'o good sir charles,' said canterlone, 'bad tidings i do bring.' 'speak boldly, man,' said brave sir charles 'what says the traitor-king?' 'i grieve to tell: before yon sun does from the welkin fly, he hath upon his honour sworn, that thou shalt surely die.' 'we all must die,' said brave sir charles, of that i'm not afraid; what boots to live a little space? thank jesus, i'm prepared. 'but tell thy king, for mine he's not, i'd sooner die to-day, than live his slave, as many are, though i should live for aye.' then canterlone he did go out, to tell the mayor straight to get all things in readiness for good sir charles's fate. then mr. canynge sought the king, and fell down on his knee; 'i'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace, to move your clemency.' 'then,' quoth the king, your tale speak out, you have been much our friend: whatever your request may be, we will to it attend.' my noble liege, all my request is for a noble knight, who, though mayhap he has done wrong, he thought it still was right. he has a spouse and children twain; all ruined are for aye, if that you are resolved to let charles bawdin die to-day.' 'speak not of such a traitor vile,' the king in fury said; 'before the evening-star doth shine, bawdin shall lose his head: 'justice does loudly for him call, and he shall have his meed: speak, mr. canynge, what thing else at present do you need?' 'my noble liege,' good canynge said, leave justice to our god, and lay the iron rule aside; be thine the olive rod. 'was god to search our hearts and reins, the best were sinners great; christ's vicar only knows no sin, in all this mortal state. let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'twill fix thy crown full sure; from race to race thy family all sovereigns shall endure. but if with blood and slaughter thou begin thy infant reign, thy crown upon thy children's brows will never long remain.' 'canynge, away! this traitor vile has scorned my power and me; how canst thou, then, for such a man entreat my clemency?' 'my noble liege, the truly brave will valorous actions prize: respect a brave and noble mind, although in enemies.' 'canynge, away! by god in heaven that did me being give, i will not taste a bit of bread whilst this sir charles doth live! 'by mary, and all saints in heaven, this sun shall be his last!' then canynge dropped a briny tear, and from the presence passed. with heart brimful of gnawing grief, he to sir charles did go, and sat him down upon a stool, and tears began to flow. we all must die,' said brave sir charles; 'what boots it how or when? death is the sure, the certain fate, of all we mortal men. 'say why, my friend, thy honest soul runs over at thine eye; is it for my most welcome doom that thou dost child-like cry?' saith godly canynge: 'i do weep, that thou so soon must die, and leave thy sons and helpless wife 'tis this that wets mine eye.' 'then dry the tears that out thine eye from godly fountains spring; death i despise, and all the power of edward, traitor-king. 'when through the tyrant's welcome means i shall resign my life, the god i serve will soon provide for both my sons and wife. 'before i saw the lightsome sun, this was appointed me; shall mortal man repine or grudge what god ordains to be? 'how oft in battle have i stood, when thousands died around; when smoking streams of crimson blood imbrued the fattened ground? 'how did i know that every dart that cut the airy way, might not find passage to my heart, and close mine eyes for aye? 'and shall i now, for fear of death, look wan and be dismayed? no! from my heart fly childish fear; be all the man displayed. 'ah, godlike henry, god forefend, and guard thee and thy son, if 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, why, then his will be done. 'my honest friend, my fault has been to serve god and my prince; and that i no time-server am, my death will soon convince. 'in london city was i born, of parents of great note; my father did a noble arms emblazon on his coat: 'i make no doubt but he is gone where soon i hope to go, where we for ever shall be blest, from out the reach of woe. 'he taught me justice and the laws with pity to unite; and eke he taught me how to know the wrong cause from the right: 'he taught me with a prudent hand to feed the hungry poor, nor let my servants drive away the hungry from my door: 'and none can say but all my life i have his wordis kept; and summed the actions of the day each night before i slept. 'i have a spouse, go ask of her if i defiled her bed? i have a king, and none can lay black treason on my head. 'in lent, and on the holy eve, from flesh i did refrain; why should i then appear dismayed to leave this world of pain? 'no, hapless henry, i rejoice i shall not see thy death; most willingly in thy just cause do i resign my breath. 'oh, fickle people! ruined land! thou wilt ken peace no moe; while richard's sons exalt themselves, thy brooks with blood will flow. 'say, were ye tired of godly peace, and godly henry's reign, that you did chop your easy days for those of blood and pain? 'what though i on a sledge be drawn, and mangled by a hind, i do defy the traitor's power; he cannot harm my mind: 'what though, uphoisted on a pole, my limbs shall rot in air, and no rich monument of brass charles bawdin's name shall bear; 'yet in the holy book above, which time can't eat away, there with the servants of the lord my name shall live for aye. 'then welcome death, for life eterne i leave this mortal life: farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, my sons and loving wife! 'now death as welcome to me comes as e'er the month of may; now would i even wish to live, with my dear wife to stay. saith canynge 'tis a goodly thing to be prepared to die; and from this world of pain and grief to god in heaven to fly.' and now the bell began to toll, and clarions to sound; sir charles he heard the horses' feet a-prancing on the ground. and just before the officers, his loving wife came in, weeping unfeignèd tears of woe with loud and dismal din. 'sweet florence, now i pray forbear, in quiet let me die; pray god that every christian soul may look on death as i. 'sweet florence, why these briny tears? they wash my soul away, and almost make me wish for life, with thee, sweet dame, to stay. ''tis but a journey i shall go unto the land of bliss; now, as a proof of husband's love receive this holy kiss.' then florence, faltering in her say, trembling these wordis spoke: 'ah, cruel edward! bloody king! my heart is well-nigh broke. 'ah, sweet sir charles, why wilt thou go without thy loving wife? the cruel axe that cuts thy neck,' it eke shall end my life.' and now the officers came in to bring sir charles away, who turnèd to his loving wife, and thus to her did say: 'i go to life, and not to death; trust thou in god above, and teach thy sons to fear the lord, and in their hearts him love. 'teach them to run the noble race that i their father run. florence, should death thee take--adieu! ye officers, lead on.' then florence raved as any mad, and did her tresses tear; 'o stay, my husband, lord, and life!' sir charles then dropped a tear. till tirèd out with raving loud, she fell upon the floor; sir charles exerted all his might, and marched from out the door. upon a sledge he mounted then, with looks full brave and sweet; looks that enshone no more concern than any in the street. before him went the council-men, in scarlet robes and gold, and tassels spangling in the sun, much glorious to behold: the friars of saint augustine next appearèd to the sight, all clad in homely russet weeds, of godly monkish plight: in different parts a godly psalm most sweetly they did chant; behind their back six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then five-and-twenty archers came; each one the bow did bend, from rescue of king henry's friends sir charles for to defend. bold as a lion came sir charles, drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, by two black steeds in trappings white, with plumes upon their head. behind him five-and-twenty more of archers strong and stout, with bended bow each one in hand, marchèd in goodly rout. saint james's friars marchèd next, each one his part did chant; behind their backs six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then came the mayor and aldermen, in cloth of scarlet decked; and their attending men each one, like eastern princes tricked. and after them a multitude of citizens did throng; the windows were all full of heads, as he did pass along. and when he came to the high cross, sir charles did turn and say: o thou that savest man from sin, wash my soul clean this day.' at the great minster window sat the king in mickle state, to see charles bawdin go along to his most welcome fate. soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, that edward he might hear, the brave sir charles he did stand up, and thus his words declare: 'thou seest me, edward! traitor vile! exposed to infamy; but be assured, disloyal man, i'm greater now than thee. by foul proceedings, murder, blood, thou wearest now a crown; and hast appointed me to die by power not thine own. 'thou thinkest i shall die to-day; i have been dead till now, and soon shall live to wear a crown for aye upon my brow; 'whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, shalt rule this fickle land, to let them know how wide the rule 'twixt king and tyrant hand. 'thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! shall fall on thy own head'-- from out of hearing of the king departed then the sledde. king edward's soul rushed to his face, he turned his head away, and to his brother gloucester he thus did speak and say: 'to him that so-much-dreaded death no ghastly terrors bring; behold the man! he spake the truth; he's greater than a king!' 'so let him die!' duke richard said; 'and may each one our foes bend down their necks to bloody axe, and feed the carrion crows.' and now the horses gently drew sir charles up the high hill; the axe did glister in the sun, his precious blood to spill. sir charles did up the scaffold go, as up a gilded car of victory, by valorous chiefs gained in the bloody war. and to the people he did say: 'behold you see me die, for serving loyally my king, my king most rightfully. 'as long as edward rules this land, no quiet you will know; your sons and husbands shall be slain, and brooks with blood shall flow. 'you leave your good and lawful king when in adversity; like me, unto the true cause stick, and for the true cause die.' then he, with priests, upon his knees, a prayer to god did make, beseeching him unto himself his parting soul to take. then, kneeling down, he laid his head most seemly on the block; which from his body fair at once the able headsman stroke: and out the blood began to flow, and round the scaffold twine; and tears, enough to wash't away, did flow from each man's eyne. the bloody axe his body fair into four partis cut; and every part, and eke his head, upon a pole was put. one part did rot on kinwulph-hill, one on the minster-tower, and one from off the castle-gate the crowen did devour. the other on saint paul's good gate, a dreary spectacle; his head was placed on the high cross, in high street most noble. thus was the end of bawdin's fate: god prosper long our king, and grant he may, with bawdin's soul, in heaven god s mercy sing! minstrel's song in ella oh, sing unto my roundelay; oh, drop the briny tear with me; dance no more at holiday, like a running river be; my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. black his hair as the winter night, white his neck as summer snow, ruddy his face as the morning light, cold he lies in the grave below: my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. sweet his tongue as throstle's note, quick in dance as thought was he; deft his tabor, cudgel stout; oh! he lies by the willow-tree. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. hark! the raven flaps his wing, in the briered dell below; hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, to the nightmares as they go. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. see! the white moon shines on high; whiter is my true-love's shroud; whiter than the morning sky, whiter than the evening cloud. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. here, upon my true-love's grave, shall the garish flowers be laid, nor one holy saint to save all the sorrows of a maid. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. with my hands i'll bind the briers, round his holy corse to gre; elfin-fairy, light your fires, here my body still shall be. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. come with acorn cup and thorn, drain my heart's blood all away; life and all its good i scorn, dance by night, or feast by day, my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. water-witches, crowned with reytes, bear me to your deadly tide. i die--i come--my true-love waits. thus the damsel spake, and died. _william blake_ the piper piping down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud i saw a child, and he, laughing, said to me, 'pipe a song about a lamb,' so i piped with merry cheer; piper, pipe that song again,' so i piped: he wept to hear. drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of happy cheer.' so i sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. 'piper, sit thee down and write in a book that all may read.' so he vanish'd from my sight: and i plu ck'd a hollow reed, and i made a rural pen, and i stain'd the water clear, and i wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. the tiger tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the ardour of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire-- what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder, and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand form'd thy dread feet? what the hammer, what the chain, in what furnace was thy brain? did god smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? _robert burns_ scots wha hae scots, wha hae wi' wallace bled, scots, wham bruce has aften led; welcome to your gory bed, or to victorie! now's the day, and now's the hour; see the front of battle lour; see approach proud edward's power-- chains and slaverie! wha will be a traitor knave? wha can fill a coward's grave? wha sae base as be a slave? let him turn and flee! wha for scotland's king and law freedom's sword will strongly draw, free-man stand, or free-man fa'? let him follow me! by oppression's woes and pains! by your sons in servile chains! we will drain our dearest veins, but they shall be free! lay the proud usurpers low! tyrants fall in every foe! liberty's in every blow! let us do, or die! for a' that is there, for honest poverty, that hings his head, and a' that; the coward-slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for a' that! for a' that, and a' that; our toils obscure, and a' that; the rank is but the guinea's stamp: the man's the gowd for a' that. what tho' on hamely fare we dine, wear hoddin grey, and a' that; gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a' that. for a' that, and a' that, their tinsel show, and a' that; the honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that. ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,' wha struts, and stares, and a' that; tho' hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof for a' that: for a' that, and a' that, his riband, star, an' a' that, the man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at a' that. a prince can mak' a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, guid faith he mauna fa' that! for a' that, an' a' that, their dignities, and a' that, the pith o sense an' pride o' worth, are higher rank than a' that. then let us pray that come it may, as come it will for a' that; that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, may bear the gree, an' a' that. for a' that, and a' that, it's comin' yet, for a' that, that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that. a red, red rose o, my luve 's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june: o, my luve's like the melodie that's sweetly play'd in tune. as fair art thou, my bonie lass, so deep in luve am i: and i will luve thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry. till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun: i will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run. and fare thee weel, my only luve, and fare thee weel awhile! and i will come again, my luve tho' it were ten thousand mile! comin' thro' the rye o, jenny's a' weet, poor body, jenny's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. comin' thro' the rye, poor body, comin' thro' the rye, she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye! gin a body meet a body-- comin' thro' the rye; gin a body kiss a body-- need a body cry? gin a body meet a body comin' thro' the glen, gin a body kiss a body need the warld ken? jenny 's a' weet, poor body; jenny 's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. phillis the fair while larks with little wing fann'd the pure air, tasting the breathing spring, forth i did fare: gay the sun's golden eye peep'd o'er the mountains high; 'such thy morn,' did i cry, 'phillis the fair!' in each bird's careless song glad did i share; while yon wild flowers among, chance led me there: sweet to the opening day, rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 'such thy bloom,' did i say, 'phillis the fair!' down in a shady walk, doves cooing were, i mark'd the cruel hawk caught in a snare; so kind may fortune be, such make his destiny, he who would injure thee, phillis the fair! ae fond kiss ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee. who shall say that fortune grieves him, while the star of hope she leaves him? me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; dark despair around benights me. i'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, naething could resist my nancy; but to see her was to love her; love but her, and love for ever. had we never loved sae kindly, had we never loved sae blindly, never met--or never parted, we had ne'er been broken-hearted. fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! thine be ilka joy and treasure, peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee! my bonny mary go fetch to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a silver tassie; that i may drink, before i go, a service to my bonny lassie; the boat rocks at the pier o' leith, fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; the ship rides by the berwick law, and i maun leave my bonny mary. the trumpets sound, the banners fly, the glittering spears are ranked ready; the shouts o' war are heard afar, the battle closes thick and bloody; but it's not the roar o' sea or shore wad make me langer wish to tarry; nor shouts o' war that's heard afar it's leaving thee, my bonny mary. afton water flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, i'll sing thee a song in thy praise; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, i charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. how lofty, sweet afton, thy neighbouring hills, far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; there daily i wander as noon rises high, my flocks and my mary's sweet cot in my eye. how pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; there oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, the sweet-scented birk shades my mary and me. thy crystal stream, afton, how lovely it glides, and winds by the cot where my mary resides; how wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, as gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; my mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. for the sake of somebody my heart is sair, i daurna tell, my heart is sair for somebody; i could wake a winter night, for the sake o' somebody! oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i could range the world around, for the sake o' somebody. ye powers that smile on virtuous love, o, sweetly smile on somebody! frae ilka danger keep him free, and send me safe my somebody. oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i wad do--what wad i not? for the sake o' somebody! whistle, and i 'll come to ye, my lad o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. but warily tent, when ye come to court me, and come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, and come as ye were na comin' to me. at kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie but steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, and whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; but court na anither, tho jokin' ye be, for fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i 'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. the de'il's awa' wi' the exciseman the de'il cam fiddling thro' the town, and danc'd awa wi' the exciseman; and ilka wife cry'd 'auld mahoun, we wish you luck o' your prize, man. 'we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman. 'there's threesome reels, and foursome reels, there's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; but the ae best dance that cam to our lan', was--the de'il 's awa wi' the exciseman. we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.' lassie wi' the lint-white locks lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? now nature cleeds the flowery lea, and a' is young and sweet like thee; o wilt thou share its joys wi' me, and say thou'lt be my dearie o? lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . and when the welcome simmer-shower has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, we'll to the breathing woodbine bower at sultry noon, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . when cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, the weary shearer's hameward way, thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, and talk o' love, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . and when the howling wintry blast disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; enclasped to my faithfu' breast, i'll comfort thee, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? i love my jean of a' the airts the wind can blaw, i dearly like the west, for there the bonie lassie lives, the lassie i lo'e best: there wild woods grow, and rivers row, and monie a hill between; but day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my jean. i see her in the dewy flowers, i see her sweet and fair: i hear her in the tunefu' birds, i hear her charm the air: there's not a bonie flower that springs by fountain, shaw, or green; there's not a bonie bird that sings, but, minds me o' my jean. the happy trio o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, and rob and allan cam to pree; three blither hearts that lee-lang night, ye wad na find in christendie. we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. here are we met, three merry boys, three merry boys, i trove, are we; and monie a night we've merry been, and monie mae we hope to be! it is the moon, i ken her horn, that's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; she shines sae bright to wyle us hame, but by my sooth she'll wait a wee! wha first shall rise to gang awa, a cuckold, coward loun is he! wha first beside his chair shall fa', he is the king amang us three! we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. john anderson my jo john anderson my jo, john, when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, john, your locks are like the snaw; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson my jo. john anderson my jo, john we clamb the hill thegither; and monie a canty day, john, we've had wi' ane anither: now we maun totter down, john, but hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson my jo. my wife's a winsome wee thing she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. i never saw a fairer, i never lo'ed a dearer, and neist my heart i'll wear her, for fear my jewel tine. she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. the warld's wrack, we share o't, the warstle and the care o't; wi' her i'll blythely bear it, and think my lot divine. duncan gray duncan gray came here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o't, on blithe yule night when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't. maggie coost her head fu' high, look'd asklent and unco skeigh, gart poor duncan stand abeigh; ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan fleech'd, and duncan pray'd; ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg was deaf as ailsa craig, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan sigh'd baith out and in, grat his een baith bleer't and blin', spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; ha, ha, the wooing o't. time and chance are but a tide, ha, ha, the wooing o't, slighted love is sair to bide, ha, ha, the wooing o't. shall i, like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie die? she may gae to--france for me! ha, ha, the wooing o't. how it comes let doctors tell, ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg grew sick--as he grew well, ha, ha, the wooing o't. something in her bosom wrings, for relief a sigh she brings; and o, her een, they spak sic things! ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan was a lad o' grace, ha, ha, the wooing o't, maggie's was a piteous case, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan couldna be her death, swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; now they 're crouse and cantie baith! ha, ha, the wooing o't. my ain kind dearie o when o'er the hill the eastern star tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; and owsen frae the furrow'd field return sae dowf and wearie o; down by the burn, where scented birks wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, i 'll meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. in mirkest glen, at midnight hour, i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie o, if thro' that glen i gaed to thee, my ain kind dearie o. altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, and i were ne'er sae wearie o, i'd meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the hunter lo'es the morning sun, to rouse the mountain deer, my jo; at noon the fisher seeks the glen, along the burn to steer, my jo; gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, it maks my heart sae cheery o, to meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the thorn from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested a sprig her fair breast to adorn, from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested, a sprig her fair breast to adorn. no! by heav'n! i exclaimed, may i perish, if ever i plant in that bosom a thorn! when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn, when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn. yes! i'll consent, she replied, if you promise, that no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. john barleycorn there was three kings into the east, three kings both great and high, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn should die. they took a plough and plough'd him down, put clods upon his head, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn was dead. but the cheerful spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall; john barleycorn got up again, and sore surpris'd them all. the sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong, his head well-armed wi' pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. the sober autumn enter'd mild, when he grew wan and pale; his bending joints and drooping head show'd he began to fail. his colour sicken'd more and more, he faded into age; and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. they 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, and cut him by the knee; and tied him fast upon the cart, like a rogue for forgerie. they laid him down upon his back, and cudgell'd him full sore; they hung him up before the storm, and turn'd him o'er and o'er. they filled up a darksome pit with water to the brim, they heavèd in john barleycorn, there let him sink or swim. they laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still as signs of life appear'd, they toss'd him to and fro. they wasted, o'er a scorching flame, the marrow of his bones; but a miller used him worst of all, for he crush'd him between two stones. and they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. john barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise; for if you do but taste his blood, 'twill make your courage rise. 'twill make a man forget his woe; 'twill heighten all his joy; 'twill make the widow's heart to sing, tho' the tear were in her eye. then let us toast john barleycorn, each man a glass in hand; and may his great prosperity ne'er fail in old scotland! _anonymous_ the banks of allan water on the banks of allan water, when the sweet spring time did fall, was the miller's lovely daughter, fairest of them all. for his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he, on the banks of allan water, none so gay as she. on the banks of allan water, when brown autumn spread his store, there i saw the miller's daughter, but she smiled no more. for the summer grief had brought her, and the soldier false was he, on the banks of allan water, none so sad as she. on the banks of allan water, when the winter snow fell fast, still was seen the miller's daughter, chilling blew the blast. but the miller's lovely daughter, both from cold and care was free, on the banks of allan water, there a corse lay she. _samuel rogers_ dear is my little native vale dear is my little native vale, the ring-dove builds and murmurs there; close by my cot she tells her tale to every passing villager; the squirrel leaps from tree to tree, and shells his nuts at liberty. in orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, that breathe a gale of fragrance round, i charm the fairy-footed hours with my loved lute's romantic sound; or crowns of living laurel weave for those that win the race at eve. the shepherd's horn at break of day, the ballet danced in twilight glade, the canzonet and roundelay sung in the silent greenwood shade: these simple joys, that never fail, shall bind me to my native vale. a wish mine be a cot beside the hill; a bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; a willowy brook, that turns a mill, with many a fall, shall linger near. the swallow oft, beneath my thatch, shall twitter near her clay-built nest; oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, and share my meal, a welcome guest. around my ivied porch shall spring each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; and lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, in russet gown and apron blue. the village church beneath the trees, where first our marriage-vows were given, with merry peals shall swell the breeze, and point with taper spire to heaven. _robert bloomfield_ the fakenham ghost the lawns were dry in euston park; (here truth inspires my tale) the lonely footpath, still and dark, led over hill and dale. benighted was an ancient dame, and fearful haste she made to gain the vale of fakenham and hail its willow shade. her footsteps knew no idle stops, but followed faster still, and echoed to the darksome copse that whispered on the hill; where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, bespoke a peopled shade, and many a wing the foliage brushed, and hovering circuits made. the dappled herd of grazing deer, that sought the shades by day, now started from her path with fear, and gave the stranger way. darker it grew; and darker fears came o'er her troubled mind-- when now a short quick step she hears come patting close behind. she turned; it stopped; nought could she see upon the gloomy plain! but as she strove the sprite to flee, she heard the same again. now terror seized her quaking frame, for, where the path was bare, the trotting ghost kept on the same she muttered many a prayer. yet once again, amidst her fright, she tried what sight could do; when through the cheating glooms of night a monster stood in view. regardless of whate'er she felt, it followed down the plain! she owned her sins, and down she knelt and said her prayers again. then on she sped; and hope grew strong, the white park gate in view; which pushing hard, so long it swung that ghost and all passed through. loud fell the gate against the post! her heart-strings like to crack; for much she feared the grisly ghost would leap upon her back. still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, as it had done before; her strength and resolution spent, she fainted at the door. out came her husband, much surprised, out came her daughter dear; good-natured souls! all unadvised of what they had to fear. the candle's gleam pierced through the night, some short space o'er the green; and there the little trotting sprite distinctly might be seen. an ass's foal had lost its dam within the spacious park; and simple as the playful lamb had followed in the dark. no goblin he; no imp of sin; no crimes had ever known; they took the shaggy stranger in, and reared him as their own. his little hoofs would rattle round upon the cottage floor; the matron learned to love the sound that frightened her before. a favourite the ghost became, and 'twas his fate to thrive; and long he lived and spread his fame, and kept the joke alive. for many a laugh went through the vale; and some conviction too: each thought some other goblin tale, perhaps, was just as true. _anonymous_ the keel row as i came thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, as i came thro' sandgate i heard a lassie sing, o weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, o weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. o wha 's like my johnny, sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? he's foremost among the mony keel lads o' coaly tyne: he'll set and row so tightly, or in the dance--so sprightly-- he'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'tis true,--were he not mine. he wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet; he wears a blue bonnet, and a dimple in his chin: and weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row; and weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. the blue bell of scotland oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone? he's gone to fight the french for king george upon the throne; and it's oh, in my heart, how i wish him safe at home! oh where, and oh where, does your highland laddie dwell? he dwells in merry scotland, at the sign of the blue bell; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my laddie well. in what clothes, in what clothes is your highland laddie clad? his bonnet's of the saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my highland lad. suppose, oh, suppose that your highland lad should die? the bagpipes shall play over him, and i'll lay me down and cry; and it's oh, in my heart, i wish he may not die. _lady nairne_ the laird o' cockpen the laird o' cockpen he's proud an' he's great, his mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state; he wanted a wife his braw house to keep, but favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, at his table-head he thocht she 'd look well; m'cleish's ae dochter, o' clavers-ha' lee, a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. his wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; his waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; he put on a ring, a sword, an' cocked hat, an' wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that? he took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, an' rapped at the yett o' clavers-ha' lee; 'gae tell mistress jean to come speedily ben,-- she's wanted to speak wi' the laird o' cockpen.' mistress jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'an' what brings the laird at sic a like time?' she put aff her apron, an' on her silk goon, her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa doon. an' when she cam' ben he bowed fu' low, an' what was his errand he soon let her know; amazed was the laird when the lady said na!' an' wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'! dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, he mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; an' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'she's daft to refuse the laird o' cockpen!' caller herrin' wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; wha'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? when ye were sleepin' on your pillows, dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, darkling as they faced the billows, a' to fill the woven willows? buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they 're no brought here without brave darin'; buy my caller herrin', hauled thro' wind and rain. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . . wha'll buy my caller herrin'? oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; wives and mithers, maist despairin', ca' them lives o' men. wha ll buy my caller herrin'? . . . when the creel o' herrin' passes, ladies, clad in silks and laces, gather in their braw pelisses, cast their heads, and screw their faces. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . . caller herrin's no got lightlie, ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', gow has set you a' a-singin' wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . . neebour wives, now tent my tellin', when the bonnie fish ye're sellin', at ae word be in yer dealin'-- truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they 're bonnie fish and halesome farin' wha 'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? _charles dibdin_ tom bowling here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, the darling of our crew; no more he'll hear the tempest howling, for death has broach'd him to. his form was of the manliest beauty, his heart was kind and soft, faithful, below, he did his duty but now he's gone aloft. tom never from his word departed, his virtues were so rare; his friends were many and true-hearted, his poll was kind and fair: and then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, ah, many 's the time and oft! but mirth is turned to melancholy, for tom is gone aloft. yet shall poor tom find pleasant weather, when he, who all commands, shall give, to call life's crew together, the word to pipe all hands. thus death, who kings and tars despatches, in vain tom's life has doff'd, for, though his body's under hatches, his soul has gone aloft. blow high, blow low blow high, blow low, let tempests tear the mainmast by the board; my heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, and love, well stored, shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, the roaring winds, the raging sea, in hopes on shore to be once more safe moor'd with thee! aloft while mountains high we go, the whistling winds that scud along, and surges roaring from below, shall my signal be, to think on thee, and this shall be my song: blow high, blow low. and on that night when all the crew the mem'ry of their former lives o'er flowing cans of flip renew, and drink their sweethearts and their wives, i'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; and, as the ship rolls through the sea, the burthen of my song shall be blow high, blow low. the jolly young waterman and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, who at blackfriars bridge us'd for to ply, and he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, winning each heart and delighting each eye. he look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, the maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, and he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, that this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. what sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'twas cleaned out so nice and so painted withall, he always was first oars when the fine city ladies, in a party to ranelagh went, or vauxhall. and oft-times would they be giggling and leering, but 'twas all one to tom their jibing and jeering, for loving or liking he little did care, for this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. and yet but to see how strangely things happen, as he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, he was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, that she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. and would this young damsel e'en banish his sorrow, he'd wed her to-night, before even to-morrow, and how should this waterman ever know care, when he's married and never in want of a fare? _samuel taylor coleridge_ the rime of the ancient mariner part i [an ancient mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.] it is an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. 'by thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 'the bridegroom's doors are opened wide, and i am next of kin; the guests are met, the feast is set: may'st hear the merry din.' he holds him with his skinny hand, 'there was a ship,' quoth he. hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' eftsoons his hand dropt he. [the wedding-guest is spellbound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] he holds him with his glittering eye-- the wedding-guest stood still, and listens like a three years' child: the mariner hath his will. the wedding-guest sat on a stone: he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. 'the ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top. [the mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.] 'the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he! and he shone bright, and on the right, went down into the sea. higher and higher every day, till over the mast at noon'-- the wedding-guest here beat his breast, for he heard the loud bassoon. [the wedding-guest heareth the bridal music; but the mariner continueth his tale.] the bride hath paced into the hall, red as a rose is she; nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. the wedding-guest he beat his breast, yet he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. [the ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.] 'and now the storm-blast came, and he was tyrannous and strong: he struck with his o'ertaking wings, and chased us south along. with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe and forward bends his head, the ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, and southward aye we fled. and now there came both mist sand snow, and it grew wondrous cold: and ice, mast-high, came floating by, as green as emerald. [the land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.] and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- the ice was all between. the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around: it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound! [till a great sea-bird, called the albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.] at length did cross an albatross: thorough the fog it came; as if it had been a christian soul, we hailed it in god's name. it ate the food it ne'er had eat, and round and round it flew. the ice did split with a thunder-fit; the helmsman steered us through! [and lo! the albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice.] and a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow, and every day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! in mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perched for vespers nine; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, glimmered the white moon-shine.' [the ancient mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.] 'god save thee, ancient mariner! from the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- why look'st thou so?'--'with my cross-bow i shot the albatross! part ii 'the sun now rose upon the right: out of the sea came he, still hid in mist, and on the left went down into the sea. and the good south wind still blew behind, but no sweet bird did follow, nor any day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! [his shipmates cry out against the ancient mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.] and i had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe; for all averred, i had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow. "ah wretch," said they, "the bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow!" [but when the fog cleared off, they justify the same. and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.] nor dim nor red, like god's own head, the glorious sun uprist: then all averred, i had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist. "'twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist." [the fair breeze continues; the ship enters the pacific ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the line.] the fair breeze blew the white foam flew, the furrow streamed off free: we were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. [the ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea! all in a hot and copper sky, the bloody sun, at noon, right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the moon. day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. [and the albatross begins to be avenged.] water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. the very deep did rot: o christ that ever this should be! yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. about, about, in reel and rout the death-fires danced at night; the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue, and white. [a spirit had followed them: one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned jew, josephus, and the platonic constantinopolitan, michael psellus, may be consulted. they are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.] and some in dreams assurèd were of the spirit that plagued us so: nine fathom deep he had followed us from the land of mist and snow. and every tongue, through utter drought, was withered at the root; we could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. [the shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.] ah! well a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young! instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung. part iii [the ancient mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.] 'here passed a weary time. each throat was parched, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye! when looking westward i beheld a something in the sky. at first it seemed a little speck, and then it seemed a mist: it moved and moved, and took at last a certain shape, i wist. a speck, a mist, a shape, i wist! and still it neared and neared: as if it dodged a water-sprite, it plunged and tacked and veered. [at its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, we could nor laugh nor wail; through utter drought all dumb we stood! i bit my arm, i sucked the blood, and cried, "a sail! a sail!" [a flash of joy.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, agape they heard me call: gramercy! they for joy did grin, and all at once their breath drew in, as they were drinking all. [and horror follows. for can it be a _ship_ that comes onward without wind or tide?] "see! see!" (i cried) "she tacks no more! hither to work us weal; without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel!" the western wave was all a-flame, the day was well nigh done! almost upon the western wave rested the broad bright sun; when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the sun. [it seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.] and straight the sun was flecked with bars, (heaven's mother send us grace!) as if through a dungeon grate he peered, with broad and burning face. "alas!" (thought i, and my heart beat loud) "how fast she nears and nears! are those her sails that glance in the sun, like restless gossameres?" [and its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun. the spectre- woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. like vessel, like crew!] 'are those her ribs through which the sun did peer, as through a grate? and is that woman all her crew? is that a death? and are there two? is death that woman's mate?" her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold: her skin was as white as leprosy, the night-mare life-in-death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold. [death and life-in-death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient mariner.] the naked hulk alongside came, and the twain were casting dice; "the game is done! i 'ye won, i've won!" quoth she, and whistles thrice. the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride comes the dark; with far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, off shot the spectre-bark. we listened and looked sideways up! fear at my heart, as at a cup, my life-blood seemed to sip! the stars were dim, and thick the night, the steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; from the sails the dew did drip-- till clomb above the eastern bar the hornèd moon, with one bright star within the nether tip. [at the rising of the moon, one after another, his shipmates drop down dead.] one after one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, each turned his face with a ghastly pang, and cursed me with his eye. four times fifty living men, (and i heard nor sigh nor groan) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one. [but life-in-death begins her work on the ancient mariner.] the souls did from their bodies fly,-- they fled to bliss or woe! and every soul, it passed me by, like the whizz of my cross-bow! part iv [the wedding-guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him; but the ancient mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner! i fear thy skinny hand! and thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand. i fear thee and thy glittering eye, and thy skinny hand, so brown.'-- 'fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! this body dropt not down. alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide wide sea! and never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. [he despiseth the creatures of the calm, and envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.] the many men, so beautiful! and they all dead did lie: and a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did i. i looked upon the rotting sea, and drew my eyes away; i looked upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay. i looked to heaven, and tried to pray; but or ever a prayer had gusht, a wicked whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. i closed my lids, and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet. [but the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.] the cold sweat melted from their limbs, nor rot nor reek did they: the look with which they looked on me had never passed away. an orphan's curse would drag to hell a spirit from on high; but oh! more horrible than that is the curse in a dead man's eye! seven days, seven nights, i saw that curse, and yet i could not die. [in his loneliness and fixedness, he yearneth towards the moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.] the moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did abide: softly she was going up, and a star or two beside. her beams bemocked the sultry main, like april hoar-frost spread; but where the ship's huge shadow lay, the charmed water burnt alway a still and awful red. [by the light of the moon he beholdeth god's creatures of the great calm.] beyond the shadow of the ship, i watched the water-snakes: they moved in tracks of shining white, and when they reared, the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes. within the shadow of the ship i watched their rich attire: blue, glossy green, and velvet black, they coiled and swam; and every track was a flash of golden fire. [their beauty and their happiness. he blesseth them in his heart.] o happy living things! no tongue their beauty might declare: a spring of love gushed from my heart, and i blessed them unaware! sure my kind saint took pity on me, and i blessed them unaware. [the spell begins to break.] the selfsame moment i could pray; and from my neck so free the albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea. part v 'oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole! to mary queen the praise be given! she sent the gentle sleep from heaven, that slid into my soul. [by grace of the holy mother, the ancient mariner is refreshed with rain.] the silly buckets on the deck, that had so long remained, i dreamt that they were filled with dew; and when i awoke, it rained. my lips were wet, my throat was cold, my garments all were dank; sure i had drunken in my dreams, and still my body drank. i moved, and could not feel my limbs: i was so light--almost i thought that i had died in sleep and was a blessed ghost. [he heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.] and soon i heard a roaring wind: it did not come anear; but with its sound it shook the sails, that were so thin and sere. the upper air burst into life, and a hundred fire-flags sheen; to and fro they were hurried about; and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between. and the coming wind did roar more loud, and the sails did sigh like sedge; and the rain poured down from one black cloud; the moon was at its edge. the thick black cloud was cleft, and still the moon was at its side: like waters shot from some high crag, the, lightning fell with never a jag, a river steep and wide. [the bodies of the ship's crew are inspirited, and the ship moves on;] the loud wind never reached the ship, yet now the ship moved on! beneath the lightning and the moon the dead men gave a groan. they groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, nor spake, nor moved their eyes; it had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. the helmsman steered, the ship moved on; yet never a breeze up blew; the mariners all 'gan work the ropes, where they were wont to do: they raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- we were a ghastly crew. the body of my brother's son stood by me, knee to knee: the body and i pulled at one rope, but he said nought to me.' [but not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner!' 'be calm, thou wedding-guest! 'twas not those souls that fled in pain, which to their corses came again, but a troop of spirits blest: for when it dawned--they dropped their arms, and clustered round the mast; sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, and from their bodies passed. around, around, flew each sweet sound, then darted to the sun; slowly the sounds came back again, now mixed, now one by one. sometimes a-dropping from the sky i heard the sky-lark sing; sometimes all little birds that are, how they seemed to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning! and now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute. it ceased; yet still the sails made on a pleasant noise till noon, a noise like of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june, that to the sleeping woods all night singeth a quiet tune. till noon we quietly sailed on, yet never a breeze did breathe: slowly and smoothly went the ship, moved onward from beneath. [the lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.] under the keel nine fathom deep, from the land of mist and snow, the spirit slid; and it was he that made the ship to go. the sails at noon left off their tune, and the ship stood still also. the sun, right up above the mast, had fixed her to the ocean; but in a minute she 'gan stir, with a short uneasy motion-- backwards and forwards half her length, with a short uneasy motion. then like a pawing horse let go, she made a sudden bound: it flung the blood into my head, and i fell down in a swound. [the polar spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient mariner hath been accorded to the polar spirit, who returneth southward.] how long in that same fit i lay, i have not to declare; but ere my living life returned, i heard, and in my soul discerned two voices in the air. "is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? by him who died on cross, with his cruel bow he laid full low the harmless albatross. the spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, he loved the bird that loved the man who shot him with his bow." the other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: quoth he, "the man hath penance done, and penance more will do." part vi _first voice_ "but tell me, tell me! speak again, thy soft response renewing-- what makes that ship drive on so fast? what is the ocean doing?" _second voice_ "still as a slave before his lord, the ocean hath no blast; his great bright eye most silently up to the moon is cast-- if he may know which way to go; for she guides him smooth or grim. see, brother, see! how graciously she looketh down on him." [the mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure.] _first voice_ "but why drives on that ship so fast, without or wave or wind?" _second voice_ "the air is cut away before, and closes from behind. fly, brother, fly! more high, more high or we shall be belated: for slow and slow that ship will go, when the mariner's trance is abated." [the supernatural motion is retarded; the mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.] i woke, and we were sailing on as in a gentle weather: 'twas night, calm night, the moon was high the dead men stood together. all stood together on the deck, for a charnel-dungeon fitter: all fixed on me their stony eyes, that in the moon did glitter. the pang, the curse, with which they died, had never passed away: i could not draw my eyes from theirs, nor turn them up to pray. [the curse is finally expiated,] and now this spell was snapt: once more i viewed the ocean green, and looked far forth, yet little saw of what had else been seen. like one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread. but soon there breathed a wind on me nor sound nor motion made: its path was not upon the sea, in ripple or in shade. it raised my hair, it fanned my cheek like a meadow-gale of spring-- it mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming. swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, yet she sailed softly too: sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- on me alone it blew. [and the ancient mariner beholdeth his native country.] oh dream of joy! is this indeed the lighthouse top i see? is this the hill? is this the kirk? is this mine own countree? we drifted o'er the harbour-bar, and i with sobs did pray-- "o let me be awake, my god! or let me sleep alway." the harbour-bay was clear as glass, so smoothly it was strewn! and on the bay the moonlight lay, and the shadow of the moon. the rock shone bright, the kirk no less, that stands above the rock: the moonlight steeped in silentness the steady weathercock. [the angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, and appear in their own forms of light.] and the bay was white with silent light, till rising from the same, full many shapes, that shadows were, in crimson colours came. a little distance from the prow those crimson shadows were: i turned my eyes upon the deck-- oh, christ! what saw i there! each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, and, by the holy rood! a man all light, a seraph-man, on every corse there stood. this seraph-band, each waved his hand: it was a heavenly sight! they stood as signals to the land, each one a lovely light: this seraph-band, each waved his hand, no voice did they impart no voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart. but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilot's cheer; my head was turned perforce away, and i saw a boat appear. the pilot, and the pilot's boy, i heard them coming fast: dear lord in heaven! it was a joy the dead men could not blast. i saw a third--i heard his voice: it is the hermit good! he singeth loud his godly hymns that he makes in the wood. he'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away the albatross's blood. part vii [the hermit of the wood] 'this hermit good lives in that wood which slopes down to the sea. how loudly his sweet voice he rears! he loves to talk of marineres that come from a far countree. he kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- he hath a cushion plump: it is the moss that wholly hides the rotted old oak stump. the skiff-boat neared: i heard them talk, "why, this is strange, i trow! where are those lights so many and fair, that signal made but now?" [approacheth the ship with wonder.] "strange, by my faith!" the hermit said-- "and they answered not our cheer! the with the planks look warped and see those sails, how thin they are and sere! i never saw aught like to them, unless perchance it were brown skeletons of leaves that lag my forest-brook along: when the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, and the owlet whoops to the wolf below, that eats the she-wolf's young." "dear lord! it hath a fiendish look" (the pilot made reply) "i am a-feared"--"push on, push on!" said the hermit cheerily. the boat came closer to the ship, but i nor spake nor stirred; the boat came close beneath the ship, and straight a sound was heard. [the ship suddenly sinketh.] under the water it rumbled on, still louder and more dread: it reached the ship, it split the bay; the ship went down like lead. [the ancient mariner is saved in the pilot's boat.] stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, which sky and ocean smote, like one that hath been seven days drowned, my body lay afloat; but swift as dreams, myself i found within the pilot's boat. upon the whirl, where sank the ship, the boat spun round and round; and all was still, save that the hill was telling of the sound. i moved my lips--the pilot shrieked and fell down in a fit; the holy hermit raised his eyes, and prayed where he did sit. i took the oars: the pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go, laughed loud and long, and all the while his eyes went to and fro. "ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain i see, the devil knows how to row." and now, all in my own countree, i stood on the firm land! the hermit stepped forth from the boat, and scarcely he could stand. [the ancient mariner earnestly entreateth the hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.] "o shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" the hermit crossed his brow. "say quick," quoth he, "i bid thee say-- what manner of man art thou?" forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched with a woful agony, which forced me to begin my tale; and then it left me free. [and ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,] since then, at an uncertain hour, that agony returns; and till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. i pass, like night, from land to land; i have strange power of speech; that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me: to him my tale i teach. what loud uproar bursts from that door the wedding-guests are there; but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are; and hark the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! o wedding-guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company!-- to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends, old men, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! [and to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that god made and loveth.] farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all.' the mariner, whose eye is bright, whose beard with age is hoar, is gone; and now the wedding-guest turned from the bridegroom's door. he went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn: a sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. _anonymous_ the vicar of bray in good king charles's golden days, when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous high churchman was i, and so i got preferment; to teach my flock i never miss'd, kings were by god appointed; and damn'd are those who do resist, or touch the lord's anointed. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. when royal james obtained the crown, and pop'ry came in fashion, the penal laws i hooted down, and read the declaration; the church of rome i found would fit full well my constitution; and had become a jesuit, but' for the revolution. when william was our king declared, to ease the nation's grievance, with this new wind about i steered, and swore to him allegiance; old principles i did revoke, set conscience at a distance; passive obedience was a joke, a jest was non-resistance. when gracious anne became our queen, the church of england's glory, another face of things was seen, and i became a tory; occasional conformists base, i damn'd their moderation, and thought the church in danger was, by such prevarication. when george in pudding-time came o'er, and moderate men looked big, sir, i turned a cat-in-pan once more, and so became a whig, sir; and thus preferment i procured, from our new faith's defender, and almost every day abjured the pope and the pretender. the illustrious house of hanover, and protestant succession, to these i do allegiance swear, while they can keep possession; for in my faith and loyalty i never more will falter, and george my lawful king shall be, until the times do alter. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. _william julius mickle_ there 's nae luck about the house but are ye sure the news is true? and are ye sure he's weel? is this a time to think o' wark? ye jauds, fling by your wheel. there 's nae luck about the house, there 's nae luck at a', there's nae luck about the house, when our gudeman's awa'. is this a time to think o' wark, when colin 's at the door? rax down my cloak--i'll to the key, and see him come ashore. rise up and make a clean fireside, put on the mickle pat; gie little kate her cotton goun, and jock his sunday's coat. and mak their shoon as black as slaes, their stockins white as snaw; it's a' to pleasure our gudeman he likes to see them braw. there are twa hens into the crib, hae fed this month and mair, mak haste and thraw their necks about, that colin weel may fare. bring down to me my bigonet, my bishop's sattin gown, for i maun tell the bailie's wife, that colin's come to town. my turkey slippers i'll put on, my stockins pearl blue it's a' to pleasure our gudeman, for he's baith leal and true. sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; his breath's like caller air; his very fit has music in't as he comes up the stair. and will i see his face again? and will i hear him speak? i'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: in troth, i'm like to greet. _anonymous_ the girl i left behind me i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill, and o'er the moor and valley; such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, since parting with my sally. i seek no more the fine or gay, for each does but remind me how swift the hours did pass away, with the girl i've left behind me. oh, ne'er shall i forget the night the stars were bright above me, and gently lent their silv'ry light when first she vowed to love me. but now i'm bound to brighton camp kind heaven, then, pray guide me, and send me safely back again to the girl i've left behind me. my mind her form shall still retain, in sleeping, or in waking, until i see my love again, for whom my heart is breaking. if ever i return that way, and she should not decline me, i evermore will live and stay with the girl i've left behind me. _sir david dalrymple_ edward! edward! 'why does your brand so drop with blood? edward! edward! why does your brand so drop with blood? and why so sad go ye, o?' 'o! i have killed my hawk so good, mother! mother! o! i have killed my hawk so good, and i have no more but he, o!' 'your hawk's blood was never so red, edward! edward! your hawk's blood was never so red, my dear son, i tell thee, o!' 'o! i have killed my red roan steed, mother! mother! o! i have killed my red roan steed, that once was fair and free, o!' 'your steed was old and ye have got more, edward! edward! your steed was old and ye have got more,-- some other dule you drie, o!' 'o! i have killed my father dear, mother! mother! o! i have killed my father dear, alas, and woe is me, o!' 'and what penance will ye drie for that? edward! edward? and what penance will ye drie for that? my dear son, now tell me, o!' i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mother! mother! i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea, o!' 'and what will you do with your towers and your hall? edward! edward! and what will you do with your towers and your hall? they were so fair to see, o!' 'i'll let them stand till they down fall, mother! mother! i'll let them stand till they down fall, for here never more must i be, o!' 'and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? when you go over the sea, o!' 'the world's room, let them beg through life, mother! mother! the world's room, let them beg through life, for them never more will i see, o! 'and what will you leave to your own mother dear? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your own mother dear? my dear son, now tell me, o!' 'the curse of hell from me shall you bear, mother! mother! the curse of hell from me shall you bear, such counsels you gave to me, o!' _thomas percy_ nanny, wilt thou go with me? o nanny, wilt thou go with me, nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? can silent glens have charms for thee, the lowly cot and russet gown? no longer drest in silken sheen, no longer deck'd with jewels rare,-- say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, when thou'rt far away, wilt thou not cast a wish behind? say, canst thou face the parching ray, nor shrink before the wintry wind? oh, can that soft and gentle mien extremes of hardship learn to bear, nor sad, regret each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, canst thou love so true, through perils keen with me to go, or when thy swain mishap shall rue, to share with him the pang of woe? say, should disease or pain befall, wilt thou assume the nurse's care nor wistful those gay scenes recall, where thou wert fairest of the fair? and when at last thy love shall die, wilt thou receive his parting breath, wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, and cheer with smiles the bed of death? and wilt thou o'er his breathless clay strew flowers and drop the tender tear, nor then regret those scenes so gay, where thou wert fairest of the fair? the friar of orders gray it was a friar of orders gray walk'd forth to tell his beads; and he met with a lady fair clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 'now christ thee save, thou reverend friar, i pray thee tell to me, if ever at yon holy shrine my true love thou didst see.' 'and how should i know your true-love from many another one?' 'oh, by his cockle-hat and staff, and by his sandal shoon. 'but chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view; his flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyes of lovely blue.' 'o lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone! and at his head a green-grass turf, and at his heels a stone. within these holy cloisters long he languish'd, and he died lamenting of a lady's love, and 'plaining of her pride. they bore him barefaced on his bier six proper youths and tall, and many a tear bedew'd his grave within yon kirk-yard wall.' and art thou dead, thou gentle youth and art thou dead and gone; and didst thou die for love of me? break, cruel heart of stone!' 'oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, some ghostly comfort seek; let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, nor tears bedew thy cheek.' oh, do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove; for i have lost the sweetest youth that e'er won lady's love. and now, alas! for thy sad loss i'll ever weep and sigh; for thee i only wish'd to live, for thee i wish to die.' 'weep no more, lady, weep no more, thy sorrow is in vain; for violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower will ne'er make grow again. 'our joys as winged dreams do fly, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy loss, grieve not for what is past.' 'oh, say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not so; for since my true-love died for me, 'tis meet my tears should flow. 'and will he never come again? will he ne'er come again? ah no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain. 'his cheek was redder than the rose; the comeliest youth was he; but he is dead and laid in his grave: alas, and woe is me!' 'sigh no more, lady, sigh no more; men were deceivers ever; one foot on sea and one on land, to one thing constant never. 'hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy; for young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy.' 'now say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not so; my love he had the truest heart, oh, he was ever true! 'and art thou dead, thou much lov'd youth, and didst thou die for me? then farewell, home; for evermore a pilgrim i will be.' 'but first upon my true-love's grave my weary limbs i'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf that wraps his breathless clay.' 'yet stay, fair lady, rest a while beneath this cloister wall; see, through the thorn blows cold the wind and drizzly rain doth fall.' oh, stay me not, thou holy friar; oh, stay me not, i pray; no drizzly rain that falls on me can wash my fault away.' 'yet stay, fair lady, turn again, and dry those pearly tears' for see, beneath this gown of grey thy own true-love appears. 'here, forced by grief and hopeless love, these holy weeds i sought, and here amid these lonely walls to end my days i thought. 'but haply, for my year of grace is not yet pass'd away, might i still hope to win thy love, no longer would i stay.' 'now farewell grief, and welcome joy once more unto my heart; for since i have found thee, lovely youth, we never more will part.' robert southey the inchcape rock no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was still as she could be, her sails from heaven received no motion, her keel was steady in the ocean. without either sign or sound of their shock the waves how'd over the inchcape rock; so little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the inchcape bell. the worthy abbot of aberbrothock had placed that bell on the inchcape rock; on a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, and over the waves its warning rung. when the rock was hid by the surge's swell, the mariners heard the warning bell; and then they knew the perilous rock, and bless'd the abbot of aberbrothock. the sun in heaven was shining gay, all things were joyful on that day; the sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, and there was joyaunce in the sound. the buoy of the inchcape bell was seen, a darker speck on the ocean green; sir ralph the rover walk'd his deck, and he fixed his eye on the darker speck. he felt the cheering power of spring, it made him whistle, it made him sing; his heart was mirthful to excess, but the rover's mirth was wickedness. his eye was on the inchcape float, quoth he, 'my men, put out the boat, and row me to the inch cape rock, and i'll plague the abbot of aberbrothock.' the boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, and to the inchcape rock they go; sir ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the inchcape float. down sank the bell with a gurgling sound, the bubbles arose and burst around; quoth sir ralph, 'the next who comes to the rock won't bless the abbot of aberbrothock.' sir ralph the rover sail'd away, he scour'd the seas for many a day; and now grown rich with plunder'd store, he steers his course for scotland's shore. so thick a haze o'erspreads the sky they cannot see the sun on high; the wind hath blown a gale all day, at evening it hath died away. on deck the rover takes his stand, so dark it is they see no land; quoth sir ralph, it will be lighter soon, for there is the dawn of the rising moon.' canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? for methinks we should be near the shore.' 'now where we are i cannot tell, but i wish i could hear the inchcape bell.' they hear no sound, the swell is strong; though the wind hath fallen they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- 'oh christ! it is the inchcape rock!' sir ralph the rover tore his hair; he curst himself in his despair; but the waves rush in on every side, and the vessel sinks beneath the tide. the well of st. keyne a well there is in the west country, and a clearer one never was seen; there is not a wife in the west country but has heard of the well of st. keyne. an oak and an elm tree stand beside, and behind doth an ash-tree grow, and a willow from the bank above droops to the water below. a traveller came to the well of st. keyne; joyfully he drew nigh, for from cock-crow he had been travelling, and there was not a cloud in the sky. he drank of the water so cool and clear, for thirsty and hot was he, and he sat down upon the bank under the willow-tree. there came a man from the house hard by at the well to fill his pail; on the well-side he rested it, and he bade the stranger hail. 'now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, for an if thou hast a wife, the happiest draught thou hast drunk this day that ever thou didst in thy life. 'or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, ever here in cornwall been? for an if she have, i'll venture my life she has drunk of the well of st. keyne.' i have left a good woman who never was here,' the stranger he made reply, 'but that my draught should be the better for that, i pray you answer me why?' 'st. keyne,' quoth the cornish-man, 'many a time drank of this crystal well, and before the angel summon'd her, she laid on the water a spell. if the husband, of this gifted well, shall drink before his wife, a happy man thenceforth is he, for he shall be master for life. 'but if the wife shall drink of it first, god help the husband then!' the stranger stoopt to the well of st. keyne, and drank of the water again. 'you drank of the well i warrant betimes?' he to the cornish-man said: but the cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, and sheepishly shook his head. 'i hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, and left my wife in the porch; but i' faith she had been wiser than me, for she took a bottle to church.' the battle of blenheim it was a summer evening, old kaspar's work was done, and he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun, and by sported on the green his little grandchild wilhelmine. she saw her brother peterkin roll something large and round, which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found; he came to ask what he had found, that was so large, and smooth, and round. old kaspar took it from the boy, who stood expectant by; and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh, 'tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'who fell in that great victory. 'i find them in the garden, for there's many here about; and often when i go to plough, the ploughshare turns them out! for many thousand men,' said he, were slain in that great victory.' now tell us what 'twas all about,' young peterkin he cries; and little wilhelmine looks up with wonder-waiting eyes; now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for.' it was the english,' kaspar cried, who put the french to rout; but what they fought each other for, i could not well make out; but everybody said,' quoth he, that 'twas a famous victory. my father lived at blenheim then, yon little stream hard by; they burnt his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly; so with his wife and child he fled, nor had he where to rest his head. with fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide, and many a tender mother then, and new-born baby, died; but things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. they say it was a shocking sight after the field was won; for many thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun; but things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory; great praise the duke of marlbro' won, and our good prince eugene.'-- 'why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' said little wilhelmine. nay--nay--my little girl,' quoth he, it was a famous victory; 'and everybody praised the duke who this great fight did win.' 'but what good came of it at last?' quoth little peterkin. 'why, that i cannot tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory.' father william you are old, father william, the young man cried, the few locks that are left you are gray; you are hale, father william, a hearty old man, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth would fly fast, and abused not my health and my vigour at first, that i never might need them at last. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and pleasures with youth pass away, and yet you lament not the days that are gone, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth could not last; i thought of the future, whatever i did, that i never might grieve for the past. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and life must be hastening away; you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! now tell me the reason, i pray. i am cheerful, young man, father william replied; let the cause thy attention engage: in the days of my youth i remember'd my god! and he hath not forgotten my age. _mrs. cockburn_ the flowers of the forest i've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling; i've felt all its favours, and found its decay: sweet was its blessing, kind its caressing; but now it is fled--it is fled far away. i've seen the forest adorned the foremost with flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; sae bonny was their blooming! their scent the air perfuming! but now they are withered and weeded away. i've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, and loud tempest storming before the mid-day, i've seen tweed's silver streams, shining in the sunny beams, grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. o fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting? oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? nae mair your smiles can cheer me, nae mair your frowns can fear me; for the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. _william wordsworth_ lucy gray oft i had heard of lucy gray; and, when i crossed the wild, i chanced to see at break of day, the solitary child. no mate, no comrade, lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor, --the sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door! you yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green; but the sweet face of lucy gray will never more be seen. 'to-night will be a stormy night-- you to the town must go; and take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow.' 'that, father, will i gladly do! 'tis scarcely afternoon the minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon.' at this the father raised his hook and snapped a fagot band; he plied his work;--and lucy took the lantern in her hand. not blither is the mountain roe: with many a wanton stroke her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. the storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down: and many a hill did lucy climb; but never reached the town. the wretched parents all that night, went shouting far and wide; but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. at daybreak on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor; and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from the door. and, turning homeward, now they cried, 'in heaven we all shall meet!' --when in the snow the mother spied the print of lucy's feet. then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small; and through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall: and then an open field they crossed: the marks were still the same; they tracked them on, nor ever lost; and to the bridge they came. they followed from the snowy bank the footmarks, one by one, into the middle of the plank; and further there were none! --yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child; that you may see sweet lucy gray upon the lonesome wild. o'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind. we are seven a simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death? i met a little cottage girl: she was eight years old, she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. she had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; --her beauty made me glad. sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?' 'how many? seven in all,' she said, and wondering looked at me. 'and where are they? i pray you tell.' she answered, 'seven are we; and two of us at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. 'two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and, in the churchyard cottage, i dwell near them with my mother.' 'you say that two at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea, yet ye are seven!--i pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?' then did the little maid reply, 'seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree.' 'you run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five.' 'their graves are green, they may be seen,' the little maid replied, twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. 'my stockings there i often knit, my kerchief there i hem; and there upon the ground i sit-- i sit and sing to them. 'and often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, i take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. 'the first that died was little jane; in bed she moaning lay, till god released her of her pain: and then she went away. 'so in the churchyard she was laid; and all the summer dry, together round her grave we played, my brother john and i. 'and when the ground was white with snow, and i could run and slide, my brother john was forced to go, and he lies by her side.' 'how many are you, then,' said i, 'if they two are in heaven?' the little maiden did reply, 'o master! we are seven.' 'but they are dead: those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!' 'twas throwing words away: for still the little maid would have her will, and said, 'nay, we are seven!' she dwelt among untrodden ways she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove, a maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love: a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. she lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and oh, the difference to me! i travelled among unknown men i travell'd among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea; nor, england! did i know till then what love i bore to thee. 'tis past, the melancholy dream! nor will i quit thy shore a second time; for still i seem to love thee more and more. among thy mountains did i feel the joy of my desire; and she i cherish'd turn'd her wheel beside an english fire. thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, the bowers where lucy play'd; and thine too is the last green field that lucy's eyes survey'd. _sir walter scott_ lochinvar o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best, and save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but, ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?' 'i long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide-- and now i am come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar.' the bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'now tread we a measure!' said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whispered, ''twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar.' one touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong graemes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran: there was racing, and chasing, on cannobie lee, but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? coronach he is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest, like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest, the font, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow, but to us comes no cheering, to duncan no morrow! the hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. the autumn winds rushing, waft the leaves that are searest, but our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest. fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber! like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever! a weary lot is thine 'a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a weary lot is thine! to pull the thorn thy brow to braid, and press the rue for wine! a lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, a feather of the blue, a doublet of the lincoln green,-- no more of me you knew, my love! no more of me you knew. 'this morn is merry june, i trow, the rose is budding fain; but she shall bloom in winter snow, ere we two meet again.' he turned his charger as he spake, upon the river shore, he gave his bridle-reins a shake, said adieu for evermore, my love. and adieu for evermore.' allen-a-dale allen-a-dale has no fagot for burning, allen-a-dale has no furrow for turning, allen-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning, yet allen-a-dale has red gold for the winning. come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! and tell me the craft of bold allen-a-dale. the baron of ravensworth prances in pride, and he views his domains upon arkindale side. the mere for his net, and the land for his game, the chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, are less free to lord dacre than allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight, though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; and the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, who at rere-cross on stanmore meets allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale to his wooing is come; the mother, she asked of his household and home: 'though the castle of richmond stand fair on the hill, my hall,' quoth bold allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, and with all its bright spangles!' said allen-a-dale. the father was steel, and the mother was stone; they lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; but loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: he had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, and she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, and the youth it was told by was allen-a-dale. pibroch of donuil dhu pibroch of donuil dhu, pibroch of donuil, wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war array, gentles and commons! come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlochy. come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one; come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one! leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar. leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges; come with your fighting-gear, broadswords and targes. come as the winds come, when forests are rended: come as the waves come, when navies are stranded. faster come, faster come, faster and faster; chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set; pibroch of donuil dhu, knell for the onset! song from 'the pirate' love wakes and weeps while beauty sleeps! o for music's softest numbers, to prompt a theme for beauty's dream, soft as the pillow of her slumbers! through groves of palm sigh gales of balm, fire-flies on the air are wheeling; while through the gloom comes soft perfume, the distant beds of flowers revealing. o wake and live! no dreams can give a shadowed bliss, the real excelling; no longer sleep, from lattice peep, and list the tale that love is telling! rosabelle 'o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay that mourns the lovely rosabelle. 'moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! and, gentle ladye, deign to stay! rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. the blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ''tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my ladye-mother there sits lonely in her castle-hall. 'tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle.' --o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carvéd buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high saint clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold but the sea holds lovely rosabelle. and each saint clair was buried there, with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung the dirge of lovely rosabelle. proud maisie proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush, singing so rarely. 'tell me, thou bonny bird, when shall i marry me?'-- 'when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye.' 'who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?'-- 'the grey-headed sexton that delves the grave duly. the glowworm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing welcome, proud lady.' _thomas campbell_ lord ullin's daughter a chieftain to the highlands bound, cries,'boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry.' 'now, who be ye would cross lochgyle, this dark and stormy water?' 'oh, i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this lord ullin's daughter. 'and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together; for, should he find us in the glen my blood would stain the heather. 'his horsemen hard behind us ride; should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?' out spoke the hardy island wight, 'i'll go, my chief--i'm ready it is not for your silver bright; but for your winsome lady: 'and by my word, the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry; so, though the waves are raging white, i'll row you o'er the ferry.' by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode armed men, their trampling sounded nearer. oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.' the boat has left a stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when, oh! too strong for human hand, the tempest gathered o'er her. and still they rowed amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing; lord ullin reached that fatal shore, his wrath was changed to wailing. for sore dismayed through storm and shade, his child he did discover: one lovely hand she stretched for aid, and one was round her lover. come back! come back!' he cried in grief, across this stormy water; and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter!--oh! my daughter!' 'twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, return or aid preventing; the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. the soldier's dream our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; and thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. when reposing that night on my pallet of straw, by the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, at the dead of the night a sweet vision i saw, and thrice ere the morning i dreamt it again. methought from the battlefield's dreadful array, far, far i had roamed on a desolate track; 'twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young; i heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly i swore from my home and my weeping friends never to part; my little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn'; and fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; but sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. exile of erin there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, the dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: for his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing to wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. but the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, for it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, he sang the bold anthem of erin go bragh. sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, the wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; but i have no refuge from famine and danger, a home and a country remain not to me. never again in the green sunny bowers, where my forefathers lived, shall i spend the sweet hours, or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, and strike to the numbers of erin go bragh! erin my country! though sad and forsaken, in dreams i revisit thy sea-beaten shore; but alas! in a fair foreign land i awaken, and sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me in a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me? never again shall my brothers embrace me? they died to defend me, or live to deplore! where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? where is the mother that looked on my childhood? and where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, why did it doat on a fast fading treasure? tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, but rapture and beauty they cannot recall. yet all its sad recollection suppressing, one dying wish my lone bosom can draw: erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! land of my forefathers! erin go bragh! buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, green be thy fields--sweetest isle of the ocean! and thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion erin mavournin!--erin go bragh! ye mariners of england ye mariners of england, that guard our native seas; whose flag has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe; and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave; for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell, your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn, till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return; then, then, ye ocean warriors, our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. the battle of the baltic of nelson and the north sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone: by each gun the lighted brand in a bold, determined hand; and the prince of all the land led them on. like leviathans afloat, lay their bulwarks on the brine, while the sign of battle flew o'er the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime, as they drifted on their path; there was silence deep as death, and the boldest held his breath for a time. but the might of england flushed, to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rushed o'er the deadly space between. hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feebler cheer the dane to our cheering sent us back; their shots along the deep slowly boom: then ceased, and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail; or, in conflagration pale, light the gloom. out spoke the victor then, as he hailed them o'er the wave: 'ye are brothers! we are men! and we conquer but to save: so peace instead of death let us bring; but yield, proud foe, thy fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king.' then denmark blessed our chief, that he gave her wounds repose; and the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose, as death withdrew his shades from the day; while the sun looked smiling bright o'er a wide and woeful sight, where the fires of funeral light died away. now joy, old england raise, for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, whilst the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar let us think of them that sleep, full many a fathom deep, by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! brave hearts! to britain's pride once so faithful and so true, on the deck of fame that died, with the gallant good riou: soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave; while the billow mournful rolls, and the mermaid's song condoles, singing glory to the souls of the brave. napoleon and the sailor napoleon's banners at boulogne arm'd in our island every freeman, his navy chanced to capture one poor british seaman. they suffer'd him--i know not how-- unprison'd on the shore to roam; and aye was bent his longing brow on england's home. his eye, methinks, pursued the flight of birds to britain half-way over; with envy they could reach the white dear cliffs of dover. a stormy midnight watch, he thought, than this sojourn would have been dearer, if but the storm his vessel brought to england nearer. at last, when care had banish'd sleep, he saw one morning--dreaming--doating, an empty hogshead from the deep come shoreward floating; he hid it in a cave, and wrought the livelong day laborious; lurking until he launch'd a tiny boat by mighty working. heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond description wretched: such a wherry perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, or cross'd a ferry. for ploughing in the salt sea-field, it would have made the boldest shudder; untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, no sail--no rudder. from neighbouring woods he interlaced his sorry skiff with wattled willows; and thus equipp'd he would have pass'd the foaming billows-- but frenchmen caught him on the beach, his little argo sorely jeering; till tidings of him chanced to reach napoleon's hearing. with folded arms napoleon stood, serene alike in peace and danger; and in his wonted attitude, address'd the stranger:-- rash man that wouldst yon channel pass on twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; thy heart with some sweet british lass must be impassion'd.' 'i have no sweetheart,' said the lad; but--absent long from one another-- great was the longing that i had to see my mother!' 'and so thou shalt,' napoleon said, 'ye've both my favour fairly won; a noble mother must have bred so brave a son.' he gave the tar a piece of gold, and with a flag of truce commanded he should be shipp'd to england old, and safely landed. our sailor oft could scantly shift to find a dinner plain and hearty; but never changed the coin and gift of bonaparte. the parrot a parrot, from the spanish main, full young and early caged came o'er, with bright wings, to the bleak domain of mullah's shore. to spicy groves where he had won his plumage of resplendent hue, his native fruits, and skies, and sun, he bade adieu. for these he changed the smoke of turf, a heathery land and misty sky, and turned on rocks and raging surf his golden eye. but petted in our climate cold, he lived and chattered many a day: until with age, from green and gold his wings grew grey. at last when blind, and seeming dumb, he scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, a spanish stranger chanced to come to mullah's shore; he hail'd the bird in spanish speech, the bird in spanish speech replied; flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, dropt down, and died. hohenlinden on linden when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow; and dark as winter was the flow of iser rolling rapidly. but linden saw another sight when the drum beat at dead of night, commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery. by torch and trumpet fast arrayed, each horseman drew his battle blade, and furious every charger neighed to join the dreadful revelry. then shook the hill, with thunder riven; then rushed the steed, to battle driven; and louder than the bolts of heaven far flashed the red artillery. but redder yet that light shall glow on linden's hills of stained snow, and bloodier yet the torrent flow of iser rolling rapidly. 'tis morn, but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, where furious frank and fiery hun shout in their sulph'rous canopy. the combat deepens. on, ye brave, who rush to glory or the grave! wave, munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry. few, few shall part where many meet; the snow shall be their winding-sheet; and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sepulchre. men of england men of england! who inherit rights that cost your sires their blood men whose undegenerate spirit has been proved on land and flood: yours are hampden's, russell's glory, sidney's matchless shade is yours,-- martyrs in heroic story, worth a thousand agincourts! we're the sons of sires that baffled crown'd and mitred tyranny: they defied the field and scaffold, for their birthright--so will we. _james hogg_ when the kye comes hame come all ye jolly shepherds that whistle through the glen, i'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken; what is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name? 'tis to woo a bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. 'tis not beneath the coronet, nor canopy of state, 'tis not on couch of velvet, nor arbour of the great-- 'tis beneath the spreading birk, in the glen without the name, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. see yonder pawky shepherd that lingers on the hill-- his yowes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still; yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame to meet his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the little wee bit heart rises high in the breast, and the little wee bit stars rise bright in the east, o there's a joy sae dear, that the heart can hardly frame, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. then since all nature joins in this love without alloy, o' wha wad prove a traitor to nature's dearest joy? or wha wad choose a crown, wi' its pearls and its fame, and miss his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame? when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, 'tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. the skylark bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! wild is thy lay and loud, far in the downy cloud, love gives it energy, love gave it birth, where, on thy dewy wing, where art thou journeying? thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. o'er fell and fountain sheen, o'er moor and mountain green, o'er the red streamer that heralds the day, over the cloudlet dim, over the rainbow's rim, musical cherub, soar, singing, away! then, when the gloaming comes, low in the heather blooms, sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! _allan cunningham_ the young maxwell 'where gang ye, thou silly auld carle? and what do you carry there?' i'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, to shift my sheep their lair.' ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, an' a gude lang stride took he: 'i trow thou to be a feck auld carle, will ye shaw the way to me?' and he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, adown by the greenwood side; 'light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, for here ye canny ride.' he drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, an' lightly down he sprang: of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, whare the gowden tassels hang. he has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, an' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree; an' wha was it but the young maxwell! an' his gude brown sword drew he! 'thou killed my father, thou vile south'ron! an' ye killed my brethren three! whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, i loved as the light o' my e'e! 'draw out thy sword, thou vile south'ron red wat wi' blude o' my kin! that sword it crapped the bonniest flower e'er lifted its head to the sun! 'there's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! there's twa for my brethren three! an' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, wham i loved as the light o' my e'e.' hame, hame, hame hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! when the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, the larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', the bonny white rose it is withering an' a'; but i'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, an' green it will grow in my ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie! o there's naught frae ruin my country can save, but the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, that a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie, may rise again and fight for their ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, the new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; but the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'i'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.' hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie. a wet sheet and a flowing sea a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee. o for a soft and gentle wind! i heard a landsman cry; but give to me the snoring breeze, and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my boys, the good ship tight and free-- the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. there's tempest in yon hornèd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; and hark the music, mariners, the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashing free-- while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea. my nanie o red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae, mirk is the night and rainie o, though heaven and earth should mix in storm, i'll gang and see my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; my kind and winsome nanie o, she holds my heart in love's dear bands, and nane can do't but nanie o. in preaching-time sae meek she stands, sae saintly and sae bonny o, i cannot get ae glimpse of grace, for thieving looks at nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; the world's in love with nanie o; that heart is hardly worth the wear that wadna love my nanie o. my breast can scarce contain my heart, when dancing she moves finely o; i guess what heaven is by her eyes, they sparkle sae divinely o; my nanie o, my nanie o, the flower o' nithsdale's nanie o; love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, and says, i dwell with nanie o. tell not, thou star at grey daylight, o'er tinwald-tap sae bonny o, my footsteps 'mang the morning dew when coming frae my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; nane ken o' me and nanie o; the stars and moon may tell't aboon, they winna wrang my nanie o! _thomas moore_ canadian boat-song faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at st. ann's our parting hymn. row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! why should we yet our sail unfurl? there's not a breath the blue wave to curl! but, when the wind blows off the shore, oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! ottawa's tide! this trembling moon shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past. go where glory waits thee go where glory waits thee, but while fame elates thee, oh, still remember me. when the praise thou meetest to thine ear is sweetest, oh, then remember me. other arms may press thee, dearer friends caress thee, all the joys that bless thee sweeter far may be; but when friends are nearest, and when joys are dearest, oh, then remember me. when at eve thou rovest by the star thou lovest, oh, then remember me. think, when home returning, bright we've seen it burning. oh, thus remember me. oft as summer closes, when thine eye reposes on its lingering roses, once so loved by thee, think of her who wove them, her who made thee love them, oh, then remember me. when, around thee dying, autumn leaves are lying, oh, then remember me. and, at night, when gazing on the gay hearth blazing, oh, still remember me. then, should music, stealing all the soul of feeling, to thy heart appealing, draw one tear from thee; then let memory bring thee strains i used to sing thee, oh, then remember me. the harp that once through tara's halls the harp that once through tara's halls, the soul of music shed, now hangs as mute on tara's walls as if that soul were fled. so sleeps the pride of former days, so glory's thrill is o'er, and hearts, that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no more. no more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of tara swells: the chord alone, that breaks at night, its tale of ruin tells. thus freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives. rich and rare were the gems she wore rich and rare were the gems she wore, and a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; but, oh! her beauty was far beyond her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 'lady, dost thou not fear to stray, so lone and lovely, through this bleak way? are erin's sons so good or so cold, as not to be tempted by woman or gold?' sir knight! i feel not the least alarm, no son of erin will offer me harm: for, though they love women and golden store sir knight! they love honour and virtue more. on she went, and her maiden smile in safety lighted her round the green isle; and blest for ever is she who relied upon erin's honour and erin's pride. the meeting of the waters there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, as that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, oh! no--it was something more exquisite still. 'twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, and who felt how the best charms of nature improve, when we see them reflected from looks that we love. she is far from the land she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, and lovers are round her sighing; but coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, for her heart in his grave is lying. she sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, every note which he loved awaking;-- ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, how the heart of the minstrel is breaking. he had lived for his love, for his country he died, they were all that to life had entwined him; nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, nor long will his love stay behind him. oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest when they promise a glorious morrow; they'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, from her own loved island of sorrow. believe me, if all those endearing young charms believe me, if all those endearing young charms which i gaze on so fondly to-day, were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still. it is not while beauty and youth are thine own, and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, that the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, to which time will but make thee more dear; no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to the close, as the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, the same look which she turned when he rose. love's young dream oh, the days are gone, when beauty bright my heart's chain wove; when my dream of life from morn till night was love, still love. new hope may bloom, and days may come of milder, calmer beam, but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream; no, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. though the bard to purer fame may soar, when wild youth's past; though he wins the wise, who frown'd before, to smile at last; he'll never meet a joy so sweet, in all his noon of fame, as when first he sung to woman's ear his soul-felt flame, and, at every close, she blushed to hear the one loved name. no--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot which first love traced; still it lingering haunts the greenest spot on memory's waste. 'twas odour fled as soon as shed; 'twas morning's winged dream; 'twas a light there ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream: oh!'twas light that ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream. the last rose of summer 'tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone; no flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes, to give sigh for sigh. i'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem; since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them. thus kindly i scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. so soon may i follow, when friendships decay, and from love's shining circle the gems drop away! when true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? the minstrel-boy the minstrel-boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you'll find him; his father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.-- 'land of song!' said the warrior-bard, 'though all the world betrays thee, one sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!' the minstrel fell--but the foeman's chain could not bring his proud soul under; the harp he loved ne'er spoke again, for he tore its cords asunder; and said, 'no chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! thy songs were made for the brave and free, they shall never sound in slavery!' the time i've lost in wooing the time i've lost in wooing, in watching and pursuing the light that lies in woman's eyes, has been my heart's undoing. though wisdom oft has sought me, i scorned the lore she brought me, my only books were women's looks, and folly's all they'ye taught me. her smile when beauty granted, i hung with gaze enchanted, like him the sprite whom maids by night oft meet in glen that's haunted. like him, too, beauty won me; but while her eyes were on me, if once their ray was turned away, oh, winds could not outrun me. and are those follies going? and is my proud heart growing too cold or wise for brilliant eyes again to set it glowing? no--vain, alas! th'endeavour from bonds so sweet to sever;-- poor wisdom's chance against a glance is now as weak as ever. the light of other days oft in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, fond memory brings the light of other days around me: the smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, the words of love then spoken; the eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone, the cheerful hearts now broken! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. when i remember all the friends so link'd together, i've seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather, i feel like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted, whose lights are fled whose garlands dead and all but he departed! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. _lord byron_ the destruction of sennacherib the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen: like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! and there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. and there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal; and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! when we two parted when we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss; truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. the dew of the morning sank chill on my brow-- it felt like the warning of what i feel now. thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame; i hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame. they name thee before me, a knell to mine ear; a shudder comes o'er me why wert thou so dear? they know not i knew thee, who knew thee too well: long, long shall i rue thee, too deeply to tell. in secret we met-- in silence i grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. if i should meet thee after long years, how should i greet thee?-- with silence and tears. song there be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: when, as if its sound were causing the charmed ocean's pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull'd winds seem dreaming: and the midnight moon is weaving her bright chain o'er the deep; whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant's asleep: so the spirit bows before thee, to listen and adore thee; with a full but soft emotion, like the swell of summer's ocean. we'll go no more a-roving so, we'll go no more a-roving so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. for the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. she walks in beauty she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes, and starry skies: and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. and on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent. a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent! _b. w. procter_ king death king death was a rare old fellow, he sat where no sun could shine, and he lifted his hand so yellow, and poured out his coal-black wine! hurrah, for the coal-black wine! there came to him many a maiden whose eyes had forgot to shine, and widows with grief o'erladen, for a draught of his coal-black wine. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! the scholar left all his learning, the poet his fancied woes, and the beauty her bloom returning, like life to the fading rose. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! all came to the rare old fellow, who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, and he gave them his hand so yellow, and pledged them in death's black wine. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! song for twilight hide me, o twilight air, hide me from thought, from care, from all things foul or fair, until to-morrow! to-night i strive no more; no more my soul shall soar: come, sleep, and shut the door 'gainst pain and sorrow! if i must see through dreams, be mine elysian gleams, be mine by morning streams to watch and wander; so may my spirit cast (serpent-like) off the past, and my free soul at last have leave to ponder. and shouldst thou 'scape control, ponder on love, sweet soul; on joy, the end and goal of all endeavour: but if earth's pains will rise, (as damps will seek the skies,) then, night, seal thou mine eyes, in sleep for ever. _charles wolfe_ the burial of sir john moore at corunna nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling moonbeam's misty light and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring: and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory. _percy bysshe shelley_ i arise from dreams of thee i arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright; i arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet has led me--who knows how? to thy chamber-window, sweet. the wandering airs they faint on the dark, the silent stream,-- the champetre odours fail, like sweet thoughts in a dream, the nightingale's complaint it dies upon her heart, as i must die on thine, o beloved as thou art! o lift me from the grass! i die, i faint, i fail. let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale. my cheek is cold and white, alas! my heart beats loud and fast. oh! press it close to thine again, where it will break at last. lament o world! o life! o time! on whose last steps i climb, trembling at that where i had stood before; when will return the glory of your prime? no more--oh, never more! out of the day and night a joy has taken flight: fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, move my faint heart with grief, but with delight no more--oh, never more! love's philosophy the fountains mingle with the river, and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle-- why not i with thine? see the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another; no sister flower would be forgiven if it disdained its brother: and the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me? hymn of pan from the forests and highlands we come, we come; from the river-girt islands, where loud waves are dumb, listening to my sweet pipings. the wind in the reeds and the rushes, the bees on the bells of thyme, the birds on the myrtle bushes, the cicale above in the lime, and the lizards below in the grass, were as silent as ever old tmolus was, listening to my sweet pipings. liquid peneus was flowing, and all dark tempe lay in pelion's shadow, outgrowing the light of the dying day, speeded by my sweet pipings. the sileni and sylvans and fauns, and the nymphs of the woods and waves, to the edge of the moist river-lawns, and the brink of the dewy caves, and all that did then attend and follow, were silent with love, as you now, apollo, with envy of my sweet pipings. i sang of the dancing stars, i sang of the daedal earth, and of heaven, and the giant wars, and love, and death, and birth. and then i changed my pipings singing how down the vale of maenalus i pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: gods and men, we are all deluded thus; it breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. all wept--as i think both ye now would, if envy or age had not frozen your blood-- at the sorrow of my sweet pipings. _john keats_ la belle dame sans merci 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? the sedge has wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! so haggard and so woe-begone? the squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done. 'i see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever-dew. and on thy cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too.' 'i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful--a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. 'i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. 'i set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long, for sidelong would she bend, and sing a faery's song. 'she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna-dew, and sure in language strange she said, "i love thee true." 'she took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept and sigh'd full sore; and there i shut her wild wild eyes with kisses four. 'and there she lullèd me asleep, and there i dream'd--ah! woe betide the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill's side. 'i saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all: they cried--"la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!" 'i saw their starved lips in the gloam with horrid warning gaped wide, and i awoke and found me here on the cold hill's side. 'and this is why i sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing.' _thomas holcroft_ gaffer gray ho, why dost thou shiver and shake, gaffer gray? and why does thy nose look so blue? ''tis the weather that's cold, 'tis i'm grown very old, and my doublet is not very new, well-a-day!' then line thy worn doublet with ale, gaffer gray; and warm thy old heart with a glass. nay, but credit i've none, and my money's all gone; then say how may that come to pass? well-a-day!' hie away to the house on the brow, gaffer gray; and knock at the jolly priest's door. 'the priest often preaches against worldly riches, but ne'er gives a mite to the poor, well-a-day!' the lawyer lives under the hill, gaffer gray; warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'he will fasten his locks, and will threaten the stocks should he ever more find me in want, well-a-day!' the squire has fat beeves and brown ale, gaffer gray; and the season will welcome you there. 'his fat beeves and his beer, and his merry new year, are all for the flush and the fair, well-a-day!' my keg is but low, i confess, gaffer gray; what then? while it lasts, man, we'll live.' the poor man alone, when he hears the poor moan, of his morsel a morsel will give, well-a-day!' _felicia hemans_ the pilgrim fathers the breaking waves dash'd high on a stern and rock-bound coast; and the woods, against a stormy sky, their giant branches toss'd; and the heavy night hung dark, the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles moor'd their bark on the wild new england shore. not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came; not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame;-- not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear;-- they shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. amidst the storm they sang: till the stars heard, and the sea; and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, to the anthem of the free. the ocean-eagle soar'd from his nest, by the white wave's foam, and the rocking pines of the forest roar'd: such was their welcome home. there were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band: why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? there was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; there was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. what sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine? the wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- no--'twas a faith's pure shrine. yes, call it holy ground, which first their brave feet trod! they have left unstain'd what there they found-- freedom to worship god! the voice of spring i come, i come! ye have called me long, i come o'er the mountains with light and song; ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, by the winds which tell of the violet's birth, by the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, by the green leaves opening as i pass. i have breathed on the south, and the chestnut-flowers by thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; and the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, are veiled with wreaths on italian plains. --but it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, to speak of the ruin or the tomb! i have passed o'er the hills of the stormy north, and the larch has hung all his tassels forth, the fisher is out on the sunny sea, and the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, and the pine has a fringe of softer green, and the moss looks bright where my step has been. i have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, and called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, from the night-bird's lay through the starry time, in the groves of the soft hesperian clime, to the swan's wild note by the iceland lakes, when the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. from the streams and founts i have loosed the chain: they are sweeping on to the silvery main, they are flashing down from the mountain-brows, they are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, they are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, and the earth resounds with the joy of waves. come forth, o ye children of gladness, come! where the violets lie may now be your home. ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, and the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, with the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, come forth to the sunshine,--i may not stay. away from the dwellings of care-worn men, the waters are sparkling in wood and glen; away from the chamber and dusky hearth, the young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, and youth is abroad in my green domains. the homes of england the stately homes of england, how beautiful they stand, amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land! the deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny gleam, and the swan glides past them with the sound of some rejoicing stream. the merry homes of england-- around their hearths by night, what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! there woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is told; or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old. the blessed homes of england, how softly on their bowers, is laid the holy quietness that breathes from sabbath hours! solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime floats through their woods at morn, all other sounds in that still time of breeze and leaf are born. the cottage homes of england by thousands on her plains, they are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, and round the hamlet fanes. through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook of leaves, and fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their eaves. the free fair homes of england, long, long, in hut and hall, may hearts of native proof be reared to guard each hallowed wall. and green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod, where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its god. the child's first grief 'oh, call my brother back to me! i cannot play alone; the summer comes with flower and bee-- where is my brother gone? 'the butterfly is glancing bright across the sunbeam's track; i care not now to chase its flight oh, call my brother back! 'the flowers run wild-- the flowers we sow'd around our garden tree; our vine is drooping with its load oh, call him back to me!' 'he could not hear thy voice, fair child, he may not come to thee; the face that once like spring-time smiled, on earth no more thou'lt see. 'a rose's brief bright life of joy, such unto him was given; go--thou must play alone, my boy! thy brother is in heaven!' 'and has he left his birds and flowers, and must i call in vain? and, through the long, long summer hours, will he not come again? 'and by the brook, and in the glade, are all our wanderings o'er? oh, while my brother with me play'd, would i had loved him more!' the graves of a household they grew in beauty side by side, they filled one home with glee, their graves are severed far and wide, by mount, and stream, and sea. the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow, she had each folded flower in sight, where are those dreamers now? one midst the forests of the west, by a dark stream, is laid; the indian knows his place of rest far in the cedar's shade. the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, he lies where pearls lie deep, he was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. one sleeps where southern vines are drest above the noble slain; he wrapt his colours round his breast on a blood-red field of spain. and one, o'er her the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; she faded midst italian flowers, the last of that bright band. and, parted thus, they rest--who played beneath the same green tree, whose voices mingled as they prayed around one parent knee! they that with smiles lit up the hall, and cheered with song the hearth, alas for love, if thou wert all, and nought beyond, oh earth! casabianca the boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm; a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. the flames roll'd on--he would not go, without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he call'd aloud--'say, father, say if yet my task is done?' he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 'speak, father!' once again he cried, if i may yet be gone!' --and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames roll'd on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair; and look'd from that lone post of death, in still, yet brave despair: and shouted but once more aloud, 'my father! must i stay?' while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and stream'd above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder sound-- the boy--oh, where was he? --ask of the winds that far around with fragments strew'd the sea! _thomas hood_ the dream of eugene aram 'twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran, and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouch'd by sin; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in; pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of lynn. like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran-- turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can: but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man. his hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he lean'd his head on his hands, and read the book between his knees. leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, nor ever glanced aside; for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. at last he shut the ponderous tome; with a fast and fervent grasp he strain'd the dusky covers close, and fix'd the brazen hasp: 'o heav'n, could i so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!' then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took; now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook: and lo, he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. 'my gentle lad, what is't you read-- romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page of kings and crowns unstable?' the young boy gave an upward glance-- 'it is the death of abel.' the usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain; six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again: and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of cain; and long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves; of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod-- ay, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god. he told how murderers walk'd the earth beneath the curse of cain with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain. 'and well,' quoth he, 'i know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme-- wo, wo, unutterable wo-- who spill life's sacred stream! for why? methought last night i wrought a murder in a dream! 'one that had never done me wrong-- a feeble man, and old; i led him to a lonely field, the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said i, this man shall die, and i will have his gold! 'two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife, and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my feet, but lifeless flesh and bone! 'nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet i fear'd him all the more, for lying there so still: there was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill. 'and lo, the universal air seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame: i took the dead man by the hand, and call'd upon his name! 'oh me, it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when i touch'd the lifeless clay, the blood gush'd out amain! for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain! 'my head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice; my wretched, wretched soul, i knew, was at the devil's price: a dozen times i groan'd; the dead had never groan'd but twice. 'and now from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, i heard a voice--the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite: "thou guilty man, take up thy dead, and hide it from my sight!" 'i took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme. my gentle boy, remember, this is nothing but a dream! 'down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanish'd in the pool; anon i cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young that evening in the school. 'o heaven, to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! i could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit i seem'd, 'mid holy cherubim! 'and peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread; but guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed, and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red! 'all night i lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep; my fever'd eyes i dared not close, but star'd aghast at sleep; for sin had render'd unto her the keys of hell to keep! 'all night i lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that rack'd me all the time-- a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime. 'one stern tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave-- still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave. 'heavily i rose up--as soon as light was in the sky-- and sought the black accursed pool with a wild misgiving eye; and i saw the dead, in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry! 'merrily rose the lark, and shook the dew-drop from its wing; but i never mark'd its morning flight, i never heard it sing: for i was stooping once again under the horrid thing. 'with breathless speed, like a soul in chase, i took him up and ran-- there was no time to dig a grave before the day began: in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, i hid the murder'd man. 'and all that day i read in school, but my thought was otherwhere; as soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret i was there: and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! 'then down i cast me on my face, and first began to weep; for i knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep; or land, or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. so wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones; ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh the world shall see his bones. oh me--that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake! again, again, with a dizzy brain, the human life i take; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like cranmer's at the stake. 'and still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul-- it stands before me now the fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow. that very night, while gentle sleep the urchin's eyelids kiss'd, two stern-faced men set out from lynn. through the cold and heavy mist; and eugene aram walk'd between, with gyves upon his wrist. the song of the shirt with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-- stitch--stitch--stitch in poverty, hunger, and dirt, and still with a voice of dolorous pitch she sang the song of the shirt. 'work--work--work while the cock is crowing aloof; and work--work--work till the stars shine through the roof it 's o! to be a slave along with the barbarous turk, where woman has never a soul to save if this is christian work! 'work--work--work till the brain begins to swim; work--work--work till the eyes are heavy and dim i seam, and gusset, and band, band, and gusset, and seam, till over the buttons i fall asleep, and sew them on in a dream! 'o men with sisters dear! o men with mothers and wives! it is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures' lives! stitch--stitch--stitch, in poverty, hunger, and dirt, sewing at once with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt. but why do i talk of death? that phantom of grisly bone, i hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own-- it seems so like my own, because of the fasts i keep; oh god, that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap! 'work--work--work! my labour never flags; and what are its wages? a bed of straw, a crust of bread--and rags. that shattered roof--and this naked floor,-- a table,--a broken chair,-- and a wall so blank, my shadow i thank for sometimes falling there. 'work--work--work from weary chime to chime, work--work--work as prisoners work for crime! band, and gusset, and seam, seam, and gusset, and band, till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand. 'work--work--work, in the dull december light, and work--work--work, when the weather is warm and bright while underneath the eaves the brooding swallows cling, as if to show me their sunny backs and twit me with the spring. 'oh, but to breathe the breath of the cowslip and primrose sweet with the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet, for only one short hour to feel as i used to feel, before i knew the woes of want and the walk that costs a meal! 'oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief! no blessèd leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief! a little weeping would ease my heart, but in their briny bed my tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread!' with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-- stitch--stitch--stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt, and still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- would that its tone could reach the rich! she sang this 'song of the shirt!' the stars are with the voyager the stars are with the voyager, wherever he may sail; the moon is constant to her time, the sun will never fail, but follow, follow, round the world, the green earth and the sea; so love is with the lover's heart, wherever he may be. wherever he may be, the stars must daily lose their light, the moon will veil her in the shade, the sun will set at night; the sun may set, but constant love will shine when he's away, so that dull night is never night, and day is brighter day. ruth she stood breast high amid the corn, clasped by the golden light of morn, like the sweetheart of the sun, who many a glowing kiss had won. on her cheek an autumn flush deeply ripened--such a blush in the midst of brown was born-- like red poppies grown with corn. round her eyes her tresses fell, which were blackest none could tell, but long lashes veiled a light that had else been all too bright. and her hat, with shady brim, made her tressy forehead dim:-- hus she stood amid the stooks, praising god with sweetest looks:-- sure, i said, heav'n did not mean where i reap thou shouldst but glean, lay thy sheaf adown and come share my harvest and my home. _lord macaulay_ ivry now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! and glory to our sovereign liege, king henry of navarre! now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of france! and thou, rochelle, our own rochelle, proud city of the waters, again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. as thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, for cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, hurrah! hurrah! for ivry, and henry of navarre. oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, we saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; with all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, and appenzel's stout infantry, and egmont's flemish spears. there rode the brood of false lorraine, the curses of our land; and dark mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: and, as we looked on them, we thought of seine's empurpled flood, and good coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; and we cried unto the living god, who rules the fate of war, to fight for his own holy name, and henry of navarre. the king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. he looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; he looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, down all our line, a deafening shout, 'god save our lord the king.' 'and if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may for never saw i promise yet of such a bloody fray-- press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, and be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of navarre.' hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled din of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. the fiery duke is pricking fast across st. andre's plain, with all the hireling chivalry of guelders and almayne. now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! a thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding-star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of navarre. now, god be praised, the day is ours! mayenne hath turned his rein. d'aumale hath cried for quarter. the flemish count is slain. their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a biscay gale; the field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. and then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 'remember st. bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; but out spake gentle henry: no frenchman is my foe: down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign lord, king henry, the soldier of navarre! right well fought all the frenchmen who fought for france to-day; and many a lordly banner god gave them for a prey. but we of the religion have borne us best in fight; and the good lord of rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. our own true maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, the cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false lorraine. up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know how god hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for henry of navarre. ho! maidens of vienna! ho! matrons of lucerne! weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. ho! philip, send, for charity, thy mexican pistoles, that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; ho! burghers of saint genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. for our god hath crushed the tyrant, our god hath raised the slave, and mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; and glory to our sovereign lord, king henry of navarre. the armada attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise: i sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts in spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, there came a gallant merchant ship full sail to plymouth bay; the crew had seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgecombe's lofty hall; many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; and with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. with his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: the yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! so stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and caesar's eagle shield; so glared he when, at agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! our glorious _semper eadem_ the banner of our pride! the fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; such night in england ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; for swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread-- high on st. michael's mount it shone--it shone on beachy head. far o'er the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves, the rugged miners poured to war, from mendip's sunless caves; o'er longleat's towers, or cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, and roused the shepherds of stonehenge--the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from bristol town; and, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on clifton down. the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw, o erhanging richmond hill, that streak of blood-red light: the bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; at once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; at once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear, and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer: and from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; and eastward straight, for wild blackheath, the warlike errand went; and roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of kent: southward, for surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; high on black hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; all night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er derwent's rocky dales; till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of wales; till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height; till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the wrekin's crest of light; till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on ely's stately fane, and town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly towers the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of trent; till skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare on skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. _lord tennyson_ lady clare it was the time when lilies blow, and clouds are highest up in air, lord ronald brought a lily-white doe to give his cousin, lady clare. i trove they did not part in scorn: lovers long-betroth'd were they: they two will wed the morrow morn; god's blessing on the day! 'he does not love me for my birth, nor for my lands so broad and fair; he loves me for my own true worth, and that is well,' said lady clare. in there came old alice the nurse, said, who was this that went from thee?' 'it was my cousin,' said lady clare, to-morrow he weds with me.' o god be thank'd!' said alice the nurse, that all comes round so just and fair: lord ronald is heir of all your lands, and you are not the lady clare.' 'are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' said lady clare, that ye speak so wild?' as god's above,' said alice the nurse, i speak the truth: you are my child. 'the old earl's daughter died at my breast; i speak the truth, as i live by bread! i buried her like my own sweet child, and put my child in her stead.' falsely, falsely have ye done, o mother,' she said, 'if this be true, to keep the best man under the sun so many years from his due.' nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, but keep the secret for your life, and all you have will be lord ronald's, when you are man and wife' 'if i'm a beggar born,' she said, i will speak out, for i dare not lie. pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, and fling the diamond necklace by.' 'nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, 'but keep the secret all ye can.' she said, 'not so: but i will know if there be any faith in man.' 'nay now, what faith?' said alice the nurse, 'the man will cleave unto his right.' 'and he shall have it,' the lady replied, tho' i should die to-night.' 'yet give one kiss to your mother dear! alas, my child, i sinn'd for thee.' 'o mother, mother, mother,' she said, so strange it seems to me. 'yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, my mother dear, if this be so, and lay your hand upon my head, and bless me, mother, ere i go.' she clad herself in a russet gown, she was no longer lady clare: she went by dale, and she went by down, with a single rose in her hair. the lily-white doe lord ronald had brought leapt up from where she lay, ropt her head in the maiden's hand, and follow'd her all the way. down stept lord ronald from his tower: 'o lady clare, you shame your worth! why come you drest like a village maid, that are the flower of the earth?' 'if i come drest like a village maid, i am but as my fortunes are: i am a beggar born,' she said, and not the lady clare.' 'play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, for i am yours in word and in deed. play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, your riddle is hard to read.' o and proudly stood she up! her heart within her did not fail: she look'd into lord ronald's eyes, and told him all her nurse's tale. he laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: he turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, the next in blood-- 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, the lawful heir, we two will wed to-morrow morn, and you shall still be lady clare.' the lord of burleigh in her ear he whispers gaily, 'if my heart by signs can tell, maiden, i have watch'd thee daily, and i think thou lov'st me well.' she replies, in accents fainter, 'there is none i love like thee.' he is but a landscape-painter, and a village maiden she. he to lips, that fondly falter, presses his without reproof: leads her to the village altar, and they leave her father's roof. 'i can make no marriage present: little can i give my wife. love will make our cottage pleasant, and i love thee more than life.' they by parks and lodges going see the lordly castles stand: summer woods, about them blowing, made a murmur in the land. from deep thought himself he rouses, says to her that loves him well, 'let us see these handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.' so she goes by him attended, hears him lovingly converse, sees whatever fair and splendid lay betwixt his home and hers; parks with oak and chestnut shady, parks and order'd gardens great, ancient homes of lord and lady, built for pleasure and for state. all he shows her makes him dearer: evermore she seems to gaze on that cottage growing nearer, where they twain will spend their days. o but she will love him truly! he shall have a cheerful home; she will order all things duly, when beneath his roof they come. thus her heart rejoices greatly, till a gateway she discerns with armorial bearings stately, and beneath the gate she turns; sees a mansion more majestic than all those she saw before: many a gallant gay domestic bows before him at the door. and they speak in gentle murmur, when they answer to his call, while he treads with footstep firmer, leading on from hall to hall. and, while now she wonders blindly, nor the meaning can divine, proudly turns he round and kindly, 'all of this is mine and thine.' here he lives in state and bounty, lord of burleigh, fair and free, not a lord in all the county is so great a lord as he. all at once the colour flushes her sweet face from brow to chin: as it were with shame she blushes, and her spirit changed within. then her countenance all over pale again as death did prove: but he clasp'd her like a lover, and he cheer'd her soul with love. so she strove against her weakness, tho' at times her spirits sank: shaped her heart with woman's meekness to all duties of her rank: and a gentle consort made he, and her gentle mind was such that she grew a noble lady, and the people loved her much. but a trouble weigh'd upon her, and perplex'd her, night and morn, with the burthen of an honour unto which she was not born. faint she grew, and ever fainter, as she murmur'd, 'oh, that he were once more that landscape-painter, which did win my heart from me!' so she droop'd and droop'd before him, fading slowly from his side: three fair children first she bore him, then before her time she died. weeping, weeping late and early, walking up and pacing down, deeply mourn'd the lord of burleigh, burleigh-house by stamford-town. and he came to look upon her, and he look'd at her and said, 'bring the dress and put it on her, that she wore when she was wed.' then her people, softly treading, bore to earth her body, drest in the dress that she was wed in, that her spirit might have rest. edward gray sweet emma moreland of yonder town met me walking on yonder way, 'and have you lost your heart?' she said; and are you married yet, edward gray?' sweet emma moreland spoke to me: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: 'sweet emma moreland, love no more can touch the heart of edward gray. 'ellen adair she loved me well, against her father's and mother's will: to-day i sat for an hour and wept, by ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 'shy she was, and i thought her cold; thought her proud, and fled over the sea; fill'd i was with folly and spite, when ellen adair was dying for me. 'cruel, cruel the words i said! cruelly came they back to-day: "you're too slight and fickle," i said, "to trouble the heart of edward gray." 'there i put my face in the grass whisper'd, "listen to my despair: i repent me of all i did: speak a little, ellen adair!" 'then i took a pencil, and wrote on the mossy stone, as i lay, "here lies the body of ellen adair; and here the heart of edward gray!" 'love may come, and love may go, and fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: but i will love no more, no more, till ellen adair come back to me. 'bitterly wept i over the stone: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: there lies the body of ellen adair! and there the heart of edward gray!' the owl i when cats run home and light is come, and dew is cold upon the ground, and the far-off stream is dumb, and the whirring sail goes round, and the whirring sail goes round: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. ii when merry milkmaids click the latch, and rarely smells the new-mown hay, and the cock hath sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his roundelay, twice or thrice his roundelay: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. oriana my heart is wasted with my woe, oriana. there is no rest for me below, oriana. when the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, and loud the norland whirlwinds blow, oriana, alone i wander to and fro, oriana. ere the light on dark was growing, oriana, at midnight the cock was crowing, oriana: winds were blowing, waters flowing, we heard the steeds to battle going, oriana; aloud the hollow bugle blowing, oriana. in the yew-wood black as night, oriana, ere i rode into the fight, oriana, while blissful tears blinded my sight by star-shine and by moonlight, oriana, i to thee my troth did plight, oriana. she stood upon the castle wall, oriana: she watch'd my crest among them all, oriana: she saw me fight, she heard me call, when forth there stept a foeman tall, oriana, atween me and the castle wall, oriana. the bitter arrow went aside, oriana: the false, false arrow went aside, oriana: the damned arrow glanced aside, and pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, oriana! thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, oriana! oh, narrow, narrow was the space, oriana. loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, oriana. oh, deathful stabs were dealt apace, the battle deepen'd in its place, oriana; but i was down upon my face, oriana. they should have stabb'd me where i lay, oriana! how could i rise and come away, oriana? how could i look upon the day? they should have stabb'd me where i lay oriana-- they should have trod me into clay, oriana. o breaking heart that will not break, oriana! o pale, pale face so sweet and meek, oriana! thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, and then the tears run down my cheek, oriana: what wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, oriana? i cry aloud: none hear my cries, oriana. thou comest atween me and the skies, oriana. i feel the tears of blood arise up from my heart unto my eyes, oriana. within my heart my arrow lies, oriana. o cursed hand! o cursed blow! oriana! o happy thou that liest low, oriana! all night the silence seems to flow beside me in my utter woe, oriana. a weary, weary way i go, oriana. when norland winds pipe down the sea, oriana, i walk, i dare not think of thee, oriana. thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, i dare not die and come to thee, oriana. i hear the roaring of the sea, oriana. the lady of shalott part i on either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye, that clothe the wold and meet the sky; and thro' the field the road runs by to many-tower'd camelot; and up and down the people go, gazing where the lilies blow round an island there below, the island of shalott. willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver thro' the wave that runs for ever by the island in the river flowing down to camelot. four gray walls, and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle embowers the lady of shalott. by the margin, willow-veil'd, slide the heavy barges trail'd by slow horses; and unhail'd the shallop flitteth silken sail'd skimming down to camelot: but who hath seen her wave her hand? or at the casement seen her stand? or is she known in all the land, the lady of shalott? only reapers, reaping early in among the bearded barley, hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly, down to tower'd camelot: and by the moon the reaper weary, piling sheaves in uplands airy, listening, whispers 'tis the fairy lady of shalott.' part ii there she weaves by night and day a magic web with colours gay. she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay to look down to camelot. she knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care has she, the lady of shalott. and moving thro' a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear. there she sees the highway near winding down to camelot: there the river eddy whirls, and there the surly village-churls, and the red cloaks of market girls, pass onward from shalott. sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, goes by to tower'd camelot; and sometimes thro' the mirror blue the knights come riding two and two she hath no loyal knight and true, the lady of shalott. but in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights, for often thro' the silent nights a funeral, with plumes and lights, and music, went to camelot: or when the moon was overhead, came two young lovers lately wed; 'i am half sick of shadows,' said the lady of shalott. part iii a bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves, the sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold sir lancelot. a red-cross knight for ever kneel'd to a lady in his shield, that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote shalott. the gemmy bridle glitter'd free, like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy. the bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down to camelot: and from his blazon'd baldric slung a mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armour rung, beside remote shalott. all in the blue unclouded weather thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather the helmet and the helmet-feather burn'd like one burning flame together, as he rode down to camelot. as often thro' the purple night, below the starry clusters bright, some bearded meteor, trailing light, moves over still shalott. his broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; on burnish'd hooves his war-horse trod; from underneath his helmet flow'd his coal-black curls as on he rode, as he rode down to camelot. from the bank and from the river he flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'tirra lirra,' by the river sang sir lancelot. she left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces thro' the room, she saw the water-lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume, she look'd down to camelot. out flew the web and floated wide; the mirror crack'd from side to side; 'the curse is come upon me,' cried the lady of shalott. part iv in the stormy east-wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning, the broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily the low sky raining over tower'd camelot; down she came and found a boat beneath a willow left afloat, and round about the prow she wrote _the lady of shalott._ and down the river's dim expanse-- like some bold seer in a trance, seeing all his own mischance-- with a glassy countenance did she look to camelot. and at the closing of the day she loosed the chain, and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away, the lady of shalott. lying, robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right the leaves upon her falling light thro' the noises of the night she floated down to camelot. and as the boat-head wound along the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song, the lady of shalott. heard a carol, mournful, holy, chanted loudly, chanted lowly, till her blood was frozen slowly, and her eyes were darken'd wholly, turn'd to tower'd camelot; for ere she reach'd upon the tide the first house by the water-side, singing in her song she died, the lady of shalott. under tower and balcony, by garden-wall and gallery, a gleaming shape she floated by, dead-pale between the houses high, silent into camelot. out upon the wharfs they came, knight and burgher, lord and dame, and round the prow they read her name, _the lady of shalott._ who is this? and what is here? and in the lighted palace near died the sound of royal cheer; and they cross'd themselves for fear, all the knights at camelot: but lancelot mused a little space; he said, 'she has a lovely face; god in his mercy lend her grace, the lady of shalott.' song move eastward, happy earth, and leave yon orange sunset waning slow: from fringes of the faded eve, o, happy planet, eastward go; till over thy dark shoulder glow thy silver sister-world, and rise to glass herself in dewy eyes that watch me from the glen below. ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, dip forward under starry light, and move me to my marriage-morn, and round again to happy night. break, break, break break, break, break, on thy cold grey stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay. and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. the goose i knew an old wife lean and poor, her rags scarce held together; there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather. he held a goose upon his arm, he utter'd rhyme and reason, 'here, take the goose, and keep you warm it is a stormy season.' she caught the white goose by the leg, a goose--'twas no great matter. the goose let fall a golden egg with cackle and with clatter. she dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, and ran to tell her neighbours; and bless'd herself, and cursed herself, and rested from her labours. and feeding high, and living soft, grew plump and able-bodied; until the grave churchwarden doff'd, the parson smirk'd and nodded. so sitting, served by man and maid, she felt her heart grow prouder: but ah! the more the white goose laid it clack'd and cackled louder. it clutter'd here, it chuckled there; it stirr'd the old wife's mettle: she shifted in her elbow-chair, and hurl'd the pan and kettle. 'a quinsy choke thy cursed note!' then wax'd her anger stronger. 'go, take the goose, and wring her throat, i will not bear it longer.' then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; ran gaffer, stumbled gammer. the goose flew this way and flew that, and fill'd the house with clamour. as head and heels upon the floor they flounder'd all together, there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather: he took the goose upon his arm, he utter'd words of scorning; 'so keep you cold, or keep you warm, it is a stormy morning.' the wild wind rang from park and plain, and round the attics rumbled, till all the tables danced again, and half the chimneys tumbled. the glass blew in, the fire blew out, the blast was hard and harder. her cap blew off, her gown blew up, and a whirlwind clear'd the larder; and while on all sides breaking loose her household fled the danger, quoth she, 'the devil take the goose, and god forget the stranger!' in autumn i a spirit haunts the year's last hours dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: to himself he talks; for at eventide, listening earnestly, at his work you may hear him sob and sigh in the walks; earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the mouldering flowers: heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ii the air is damp, and hush'd, and close, as a sick man's room when he taketh repose an hour before death; my very heart faints and my whole soul grieves at the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, and the breath of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose. heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. as through the land at eve we went as thro' the land at eve we went, and plucked the ripened ears, we fell out, my wife and i, we fell out, i know not why, and kissed again with tears. and blessings on the falling out that all the more endears, when we fall out with those we love, and kiss again with tears! for when we came where lies the child we lost in other years, there above the little grave, o there above the little grave, we kissed again with tears. the bugle the splendour falls on castle walls and snowy summits, old in story: the long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o hark, o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o sweet and far from cliff and scar the horns of elfland faintly blowing! blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or river: our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. home they brought her warrior dead home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: all her maidens, watching, said, 'she must weep or she will die.' then they praised him, soft and low, call'd him worthy to be loved, truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved. stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stept, took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept. rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee like summer tempest came her tears-- 'sweet my child, i live for thee.' the brook i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. till last by philip's farm i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. with many a curve my bank i fret by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. i chatter, chatter, as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel, with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, and draw them all along and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers, i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. i murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses; i linger by my shingly bars; i loiter round my tresses; and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. sweet and low sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dropping moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon; rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. come into the garden, maud come into the garden, maud, for the black bat, night, has flown, come into the garden, maud, i am here at the gate alone; and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the roses blown. for a breeze of morning moves, and the planet of love is on high, beginning to faint in the light that she loves on a bed of daffodil sky, to faint in the light of the sun she loves, to faint in his light, and to die. all night have the roses heard the flute, violin, bassoon; all night has the casement jessamine stirr'd to the dancers dancing in tune; till a silence fell with the waking bird, and a hush with the setting moon. i said to the lily, 'there is but one with whom she has heart to be gay. when will the dancers leave her alone? she is weary of dance and play.' now half to the setting moon are gone, and half to the rising day; low on the sand and loud on the stone the last wheel echoes away. i said to the rose, 'the brief night goes in babble and revel and wine. o young lord-lover, what sighs are those, for one that will never be thine? but mine, but mine,' so i sware to the rose, 'for ever and ever, mine.' and the soul of the rose went into my blood, as the music clash'd in the hall; and long by the garden lake i stood, for i heard your rivulet fall from the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, our wood, that is dearer than all; from the meadow your walks have left so sweet that whenever a march-wind sighs he sets the jewel-print of your feet in violets blue as your eyes, to the woody hollows in which we meet and the valleys of paradise. the slender acacia would not shake one long milk-bloom on the tree; the white lake-blossom fell into the lake, as the pimpernel dozed on the lea; but the rose was awake all night for your sake, knowing your promise to me; the lilies and roses were all awake, they sigh'd for the dawn and thee. queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, come hither, the dances are done, in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, queen lily and rose in one; shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, to the flowers, and be their sun. there has fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate. she is coming, my dove, my dear; she is coming, my life, my fate; the red rose cries, she is near, she is near'; and the white rose weeps, 'she is late'; the larkspur listens, i hear, i hear '; and the lily whispers, 'i wait.' she is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so airy a tread, my heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed; my dust would hear her and beat, had i lain for a century dead; would start and tremble under her feet, and blossom in purple and red. ask me no more ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; the cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; but o too fond, when have i answer'd thee? ask me no more. ask me no more: what answer should i give? i love not hollow cheek or faded eye: yet, o my friend, i will not have thee die! ask me no more, lest i should bid thee live; ask me no more. ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd i strove against the stream and all in vain: let the great river take me to the main: no more, dear love, for at a touch i yield; ask me no more. the soldier when all among the thundering drums thy soldier in the battle stands, thy face across his fancy comes and gives the battle to his hands: a moment while the trumpets blow, he sees his brood about thy knee-- the next--like fire he meets the foe, and strikes him dead for them and thee! tara ta tantara! dusk now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: the fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, and like a ghost she glimmers on to me. now lies the earth all danaë to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me. now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake: so fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me. a farewell flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, thy tribute wave deliver: no more by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, a rivulet then a river: no where by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. but here will sigh thine alder-tree, and here thine aspen shiver; and here by thee will hum the bee, for ever and for ever. a thousand suns will stream on thee, a thousand moons will quiver; but not by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. the beggar maid her arms across her breast she laid; she was more fair than words can say: bare-footed came the beggar maid before the king cophetua. in robe and crown the king stept down, to meet and greet her on her way; 'it is no wonder,' said the lords, she is more beautiful than day.' as shines the moon in clouded skies, she in her poor attire was seen: one praised her ankles, one her eyes, one her dark hair and lovesome mien. so sweet a face, such angel grace, in all that land had never been cophetua sware a royal oath: 'this beggar maid shall be my queen!' come not, when i am dead come not, when i am dead, to drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, to trample round my fallen head, and vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. there let the wind sweep and the plover cry; but thou, go by. child, if it were thine error or thy crime i care no longer, being all unblest: wed whom thou wilt, but i am sick of time, and i desire to rest. pass on, weak heart, and leave me where i lie: go by, go by. o swallow, swallow 'o swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, and tell her, tell her what i tell to thee. 'o tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each, that bright and fierce and fickle is the south, and dark and true and tender is the north. 'o swallow, swallow, if i could follow, and light upon her lattice, i would pipe and trill, and cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 'o were i thou that she might take me in, and lay me on her bosom, and her heart would rock the snowy cradle till i died. 'why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, delaying as the tender ash delays to clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 'o tell her, swallow, that thy brood is flown: say to her, i do but wanton in the south but in the north long since my nest is made. 'o tell her, brief is life but love is long, and brief the sun of summer in the north, and brief the moon of beauty in the south. 'o swallow, flying from the golden woods, fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, and tell her, tell her, that i follow thee.' the miller's daughter it is the miller's daughter, and she is grown so dear, so dear, that i would be the jewel that trembles at her ear: for hid in ringlets day and night, i'd touch her neck so warm and white. and i would be the girdle about her dainty dainty waist, and her heart would beat against me, in sorrow and in rest: and i should know if it beat right, i'd clasp it round so close and tight. and i would be the necklace, and all day long to fall and rise upon her balmy bosom, with her laughter or her sighs, and i would lie so light, so light, i scarce should be unclasp'd at night. _william makepeace thackeray_ little billee there were three sailors of bristol city who took a boat and went to sea, but first with beef and captain's biscuits and pickled pork they loaded she. there was gorging jack and guzzling jimmy, and the youngest he was little billee. now when they got as far as the equator they'd nothing left but one split pea. says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'i am extremely hungaree.' to gorging jack says guzzling jimmy, 'we've nothing left; us must eat we.' says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'with one another we shouldn't agree! 'there's little bill, he's young and tender, we're old and tough, so let's eat he.' 'oh, bill, we're going to kill and eat you, so undo the button of your chemie.' when bill received this information he used his pocket handkerchie. 'first let me say my catechism, which my poor mammy taught to me.' 'make haste, make haste,' says guzzling jimmy, while jack pulled out his snickersnee. so billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, and down he fell on his bended knee. he scarce had come to the twelfth commandment when up he jumps. 'there's land i see: 'there's jerusalem and madagascar, and north and south amerikee: 'there's the british flag a-riding at anchor, with admiral napier, k.c.b.' so when they got aboard of the admiral's, he hanged fat jack and flogged jimmee: but as for little bill, he made him the captain of a seventy-three. _arthur hugh clough_ green fields of england green fields of england! wheresoe'er across this watery waste we fare, one image at our hearts we bear, green fields of england, everywhere. sweet eyes in england, i must flee past where the waves' last confines be, ere your loved smile i cease to see, sweet eyes in england, dear to me. dear home in england, safe and fast, if but in thee my lot lie cast, the past shall seem a nothing past to thee, dear home, if won at last; dear home in england, won at last. _robert browning_ how they brought the good news from ghent to aix i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he' i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so joris broke silence with 'yet there is time!' at aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, 'stay spur! your ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and 'gallop,' gasped joris, 'for aix is in sight!' 'how they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and crop over; lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. then i cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is, friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. marching along i kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. ii god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles. cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you 're-- marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. iii hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! iv then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. _lady dufferin_ the irish emigrant i'm sitting on the stile, mary, where we sat side by side, on a bright may morning long ago, when first you were my bride. the corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, and the red was on your lip, mary, and the love light in your eye. the place is little changed, mary, the day's as bright as then; the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again, but i miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your warm breath on my cheek, and i still keep listening for the words you never more may speak. 'tis but a step down yonder lane, the village church stands near, the church where we were wed, mary, i see the spire from here. but the grave-yard lies between, mary, and my step might break your rest, where i've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. i'm very lonely now, mary, for the poor make no new friends; but, oh, they love the better the few our father sends. and you were all i had, mary, my blessing and my pride; there's nothing left to care for now, since my poor mary died. i'm bidding you a long farewell, my mary kind and true, but i'll not forget you, darling, in the land i'm going to. they say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there, but i'll not forget old ireland, were it fifty times less fair. _lord houghton_ song i wander'd by the brook-side, i wander'd by the mill,-- i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still; there was no burr of grasshopper, nor chirp of any bird; but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. i sat beneath the elm-tree, i watch'd the long, long shade, and as it grew still longer i did not feel afraid; for i listen'd for a footfall, i listen'd for a word,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. he came not,--no, he came not; the night came on alone; the little stars sat one by one each on his golden throne; the evening air pass'd by my cheek, the leaves above were stirr'd,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. fast silent tears were flowing, when some one stood behind; a hand was on my shoulder, i knew its touch was kind: it drew me nearer, nearer; we did not speak a word,-- for the beating of our own hearts was all the sound we heard. the long-ago on that deep-retiring shore frequent pearls of beauty lie, where the passion-waves of yore fiercely beat and mounted high: sorrows that are sorrows still lose the bitter taste of woe; nothing's altogether ill in the griefs of long-ago. tombs where lonely love repines, ghastly tenements of tears, wear the look of happy shrines through the golden mist of years death, to those who trust in good, vindicates his hardest blow; oh! we would not, if we could, wake the sleep of long-ago! though the doom of swift decay shocks the soul where life is strong, though for frailer hearts the day lingers sad and overlong-- still the weight will find a leaven, still the spoiler's hand is slow, while the future has its heaven, and the past its long-ago. _rev. charles kingsley_ the sands of dee 'oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands of dee.' the western wind was wild and dank with foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land: and never home came she. 'oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drowned maiden's hair, above the nets at sea?' was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes of dee. they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea. but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands of dee. three fishers three fishers went sailing out into the west, out into the west, as the sun went down, each thought of the woman who loved him best, and the children stood watching them out of the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and there's little to earn, and many to keep, though the harbour-bar be moaning. three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, and they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, and the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; but men must work, and women must weep, though storms be sudden, and waters deep, and the harbour-bar be moaning. three corpses lie out on the shining sands, in the morning gleam, as the tide goes down, and the women are weeping and wringing their hands, for those who will never come home to the town. for men must work, and women must weep, and the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, and good-bye to the bar and its moaning. _robert burns_ auld lang syne for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min'? should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne. we twa hae run about the braes, and pou'd the gowans fine, but we've wander'd mony a weary fit sin' auld lang syne. we twa hae paidl'd i' the burn frae morning sun till dine, but seas between us braid hae roar'd sin' auld lang syne. and here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie 's a hand o' thine, and we 'll tak a right guid willie-waught for auld lang syne. and surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely i'll be mine, and we 'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! _henry carey_ god save the king god save our gracious king, long live our noble king, god save the king. send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, god save the king. o lord our god, arise! scatter his enemies, and make them fall! confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks; on thee our hopes we fix god save us all. thy choicest gifts in store on him be pleased to pour, long may he reign! may he defend our laws, and ever give us cause to sing, with heart and voice, god save the king! poems and ballads second series by algernon charles swinburne taken from the collected poetical works of algernon charles swinburne--vol. iii swinburne's poetical works i. poems and ballads (first series). ii. songs before sunrise and songs of two nations. iii. poems and ballads (second and third series), and songs of the springtides. iv. tristram of lyonesse, the tale of balen, atalanta in calydon, erechtheus. v. studies in song, a century of roundels, sonnets on english dramatic poets, the heptalogia, etc. vi. a midsummer holiday, astrophel, a channel passage and other poems london: william heinemann poems and ballads second series by algernon charles swinburne taken from the collected poetical works of algernon charles swinburne--vol. iii london: william heinemann _first printed (chatto), _ _reprinted , ' , ' , ' _ _(heinemann), _ london: william heinemann, contents poems and ballads second series the last oracle in the bay a forsaken garden relics at a month's end sestina the year of the rose a wasted vigil the complaint of lisa for the feast of giordano bruno ave atque vale memorial verses on the death of théophile gautier sonnet (with a copy of _mademoiselle de maupin_) age and song (to barry cornwall) in memory of barry cornwall epicede to victor hugo inferiae a birth-song ex-voto a ballad of dreamland cyril tourneur a ballad of françois villos pastiche before sunset song a vision of spring in winter choriambics at parting a song in season two leaders victor hugo in child's song triads four songs of four seasons:-- i. winter in northumberland ii. spring in tuscany iii. summer in auvergne iv. autumn in cornwall the white czar rizpah to louis kossuth translations from the french of villon:-- the complaint of the fair armouress a double ballad of good counsel fragment on death ballad of the lords of old time ballad of the women of paris ballad written for a bridegroom ballad against the enemies of france the dispute of the heart and body of françois villon epistle in form of a ballad to his friends the epitaph in form of a ballad from victor hugo nocturne théophile gautier ode in obitom theophili poetæ ad catullum dedication, poems and ballads second series vol. iii. inscribed to richard f. burton in redemption of an old pledge and in recognition of a friendship which i must always count among the highest honours of my life the last oracle (a.d. ) [greek: eipate tô basilêi, chamai pese daidalos aula; ouketi phoibos echei kaluban, ou mantida daphnên, ou pagan laleousan; apesbeto kai lalon hudôr.] years have risen and fallen in darkness or in twilight, ages waxed and waned that knew not thee nor thine, while the world sought light by night and sought not thy light, since the sad last pilgrim left thy dark mid shrine. dark the shrine and dumb the fount of song thence welling, save for words more sad than tears of blood, that said: _tell the king, on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling,_ _and the watersprings that spake are quenched and dead._ _not a cell is left the god, no roof, no cover_ _in his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more._ and the great king's high sad heart, thy true last lover, felt thine answer pierce and cleave it to the core. and he bowed down his hopeless head in the drift of the wild world's tide, and dying, _thou hast conquered_, he said, _galilean_; he said it, and died. and the world that was thine and was ours when the graces took hands with the hours grew cold as a winter wave in the wind from a wide-mouthed grave, as a gulf wide open to swallow the light that the world held dear. o father of all of us, paian, apollo, destroyer and healer, hear! age on age thy mouth was mute, thy face was hidden, and the lips and eyes that loved thee blind and dumb; song forsook their tongues that held thy name forbidden, light their eyes that saw the strange god's kingdom come. fire for light and hell for heaven and psalms for pæans filled the clearest eyes and lips most sweet of song, when for chant of greeks the wail of galileans made the whole world moan with hymns of wrath and wrong. yea, not yet we see thee, father, as they saw thee, they that worshipped when the world was theirs and thine, they whose words had power by thine own power to draw thee down from heaven till earth seemed more than heaven divine. for the shades are about us that hover when darkness is half withdrawn and the skirts of the dead night cover the face of the live new dawn. for the past is not utterly past though the word on its lips be the last, and the time be gone by with its creed when men were as beasts that bleed, as sheep or as swine that wallow, in the shambles of faith and of fear. o father of all of us, paian, apollo, destroyer and healer, hear! yet it may be, lord and father, could we know it, we that love thee for our darkness shall have light more than ever prophet hailed of old or poet standing crowned and robed and sovereign in thy sight. to the likeness of one god their dreams enthralled thee, who wast greater than all gods that waned and grew; son of god the shining son of time they called thee, who wast older, o our father, than they knew. for no thought of man made gods to love or honour ere the song within the silent soul began, nor might earth in dream or deed take heaven upon her till the word was clothed with speech by lips of man. and the word and the life wast thou, the spirit of man and the breath; and before thee the gods that bow take life at thine hands and death. for these are as ghosts that wane, that are gone in an age or twain; harsh, merciful, passionate, pure, they perish, but thou shalt endure; be their flight with the swan or the swallow, they pass as the flight of a year. o father of all of us, paian, apollo, destroyer and healer, hear! thou the word, the light, the life, the breath, the glory, strong to help and heal, to lighten and to slay, thine is all the song of man, the world's whole story; not of morning and of evening is thy day. old and younger gods are buried or begotten from uprising to downsetting of thy sun, risen from eastward, fallen to westward and forgotten, and their springs are many, but their end is one. divers births of godheads find one death appointed, as the soul whence each was born makes room for each; god by god goes out, discrowned and disanointed, but the soul stands fast that gave them shape and speech. is the sun yet cast out of heaven? is the song yet cast out of man? life that had song for its leaven to quicken the blood that ran through the veins of the songless years more bitter and cold than tears, heaven that had thee for its one light, life, word, witness, o sun, are they soundless and sightless and hollow, without eye, without speech, without ear? o father of all of us, paian, apollo, destroyer and healer, hear! time arose and smote thee silent at his warning, change and darkness fell on men that fell from thee; dark thou satest, veiled with light, behind the morning, till the soul of man should lift up eyes and see. till the blind mute soul get speech again and eyesight, man may worship not the light of life within; in his sight the stars whose fires grow dark in thy sight shine as sunbeams on the night of death and sin. time again is risen with mightier word of warning, change hath blown again a blast of louder breath; clothed with clouds and stars and dreams that melt in morning, lo, the gods that ruled by grace of sin and death! they are conquered, they break, they are stricken, whose might made the whole world pale; they are dust that shall rise not or quicken though the world for their death's sake wail. as a hound on a wild beast's trace, so time has their godhead in chase; as wolves when the hunt makes head, they are scattered, they fly, they are fled; they are fled beyond hail, beyond hollo, and the cry of the chase, and the cheer. o father of all of us, paian, apollo, destroyer and healer, hear! day by day thy shadow shines in heaven beholden, even the sun, the shining shadow of thy face: king, the ways of heaven before thy feet grow golden; god, the soul of earth is kindled with thy grace. in thy lips the speech of man whence gods were fashioned, in thy soul the thought that makes them and unmakes; by thy light and heat incarnate and impassioned, soul to soul of man gives light for light and takes. as they knew thy name of old time could we know it, healer called of sickness, slayer invoked of wrong, light of eyes that saw thy light, god, king, priest, poet, song should bring thee back to heal us with thy song. for thy kingdom is past not away, nor thy power from the place thereof hurled; out of heaven they shall cast not the day, they shall cast not out song from the world. by the song and the light they give we know thy works that they live; with the gift thou hast given us of speech we praise, we adore, we beseech, we arise at thy bidding and follow, we cry to thee, answer, appear, o father of all of us, paian, apollo, destroyer and healer, hear! in the bay i beyond the hollow sunset, ere a star take heart in heaven from eastward, while the west, fulfilled of watery resonance and rest, is as a port with clouds for harbour bar to fold the fleet in of the winds from far that stir no plume now of the bland sea's breast: ii above the soft sweep of the breathless bay southwestward, far past flight of night and day, lower than the sunken sunset sinks, and higher than dawn can freak the front of heaven with fire, my thought with eyes and wings made wide makes way to find the place of souls that i desire. iii if any place for any soul there be, disrobed and disentrammelled; if the might, the fire and force that filled with ardent light the souls whose shadow is half the light we see, survive and be suppressed not of the night; this hour should show what all day hid from me. iv night knows not, neither is it shown to day, by sunlight nor by starlight is it shown, nor to the full moon's eye nor footfall known, their world's untrodden and unkindled way. nor is the breath nor music of it blown with sounds of winter or with winds of may. v but here, where light and darkness reconciled hold earth between them as a weanling child between the balanced hands of death and birth, even as they held the new-born shape of earth when first life trembled in her limbs and smiled, here hope might think to find what hope were worth. vi past hades, past elysium, past the long slow smooth strong lapse of lethe--past the toil wherein all souls are taken as a spoil, the stygian web of waters--if your song be quenched not, o our brethren, but be strong as ere ye too shook off our temporal coil; vii if yet these twain survive your worldly breath, joy trampling sorrow, life devouring death, if perfect life possess your life all through and like your words your souls be deathless too, to-night, of all whom night encompasseth, my soul would commune with one soul of you. viii above the sunset might i see thine eyes that were above the sundawn in our skies, son of the songs of morning,--thine that were first lights to lighten that rekindling air wherethrough men saw the front of england rise and heard thine loudest of the lyre-notes there-- ix if yet thy fire have not one spark the less, o titan, born of her a titaness, across the sunrise and the sunset's mark send of thy lyre one sound, thy fire one spark, to change this face of our unworthiness, across this hour dividing light from dark. x to change this face of our chill time, that hears no song like thine of all that crowd its ears, of all its lights that lighten all day long sees none like thy most fleet and fiery sphere's outlightening sirius--in its twilight throng no thunder and no sunrise like thy song. xi hath not the sea-wind swept the sea-line bare to pave with stainless fire through stainless air a passage for thine heavenlier feet to tread ungrieved of earthly floor-work? hath it spread no covering splendid as the sun-god's hair to veil or to reveal thy lordlier head? xii hath not the sunset strewn across the sea a way majestical enough for thee? what hour save this should be thine hour--and mine, if thou have care of any less divine than thine own soul; if thou take thought of me, marlowe, as all my soul takes thought of thine? xiii before the moon's face as before the sun the morning star and evening star are one for all men's lands as england. o, if night hang hard upon us,--ere our day take flight, shed thou some comfort from thy day long done on us pale children of the latter light! xiv for surely, brother and master and lord and king, where'er thy footfall and thy face make spring in all souls' eyes that meet thee wheresoe'er, and have thy soul for sunshine and sweet air-- some late love of thine old live land should cling, some living love of england, round thee there. xv here from her shore across her sunniest sea my soul makes question of the sun for thee, and waves and beams make answer. when thy feet made her ways flowerier and their flowers more sweet with childlike passage of a god to be, like spray these waves cast off her foemen's fleet. xvi like foam they flung it from her, and like weed its wrecks were washed from scornful shoal to shoal, from rock to rock reverberate; and the whole sea laughed and lightened with a deathless deed that sowed our enemies in her field for seed and made her shores fit harbourage for thy soul. xvii then in her green south fields, a poor man's child, thou hadst thy short sweet fill of half-blown joy, that ripens all of us for time to cloy with full-blown pain and passion; ere the wild world caught thee by the fiery heart, and smiled to make so swift end of the godlike boy. xviii for thou, if ever godlike foot there trod these fields of ours, wert surely like a god. who knows what splendour of strange dreams was shed with sacred shadow and glimmer of gold and red from hallowed windows, over stone and sod, on thine unbowed bright insubmissive head? xix the shadow stayed not, but the splendour stays, our brother, till the last of english days. no day nor night on english earth shall be for ever, spring nor summer, junes nor mays, but somewhat as a sound or gleam of thee shall come on us like morning from the sea. xx like sunrise never wholly risen, nor yet quenched; or like sunset never wholly set, a light to lighten as from living eyes the cold unlit close lids of one that lies dead, or a ray returned from death's far skies to fire us living lest our lives forget. xxi for in that heaven what light of lights may be, what splendour of what stars, what spheres of flame sounding, that none may number nor may name, we know not, even thy brethren; yea, not we whose eyes desire the light that lightened thee, whose ways and thine are one way and the same. xxii but if the riddles that in sleep we read, and trust them not, be flattering truth indeed, as he that rose our mightiest called them,--he, much higher than thou as thou much higher than we-- there, might we say, all flower of all our seed, all singing souls are as one sounding sea. xxiii all those that here were of thy kind and kin, beside thee and below thee, full of love, full-souled for song,--and one alone above whose only light folds all your glories in-- with all birds' notes from nightingale to dove fill the world whither we too fain would win. xxiv the world that sees in heaven the sovereign light of sunlike shakespeare, and the fiery night whose stars were watched of webster; and beneath, the twin-souled brethren of the single wreath, grown in kings' gardens, plucked from pastoral heath, wrought with all flowers for all men's heart's delight. xxv and that fixed fervour, iron-red like mars, in the mid moving tide of tenderer stars, that burned on loves and deeds the darkest done, athwart the incestuous prisoner's bride-house bars; and thine, most highest of all their fires but one, our morning star, sole risen before the sun. xxvi and one light risen since theirs to run such race thou hast seen, o phosphor, from thy pride of place. thou hast seen shelley, him that was to thee as light to fire or dawn to lightning; me, me likewise, o our brother, shalt thou see, and i behold thee, face to glorious face? xxvii you twain the same swift year of manhood swept down the steep darkness, and our father wept. and from the gleam of apollonian tears a holier aureole rounds your memories, kept most fervent-fresh of all the singing spheres, and april-coloured through all months and years. xxviii you twain fate spared not half your fiery span; the longer date fulfils the lesser man. ye from beyond the dark dividing date stand smiling, crowned as gods with foot on fate. for stronger was your blessing than his ban, and earliest whom he struck, he struck too late. xxix yet love and loathing, faith and unfaith yet bind less to greater souls in unison, and one desire that makes three spirits as one takes great and small as in one spiritual net woven out of hope toward what shall yet be done ere hate or love remember or forget. xxx woven out of faith and hope and love too great to bear the bonds of life and death and fate: woven out of love and hope and faith too dear to take the print of doubt and change and fear: and interwoven with lines of wrath and hate blood-red with soils of many a sanguine year. xxxi who cannot hate, can love not; if he grieve, his tears are barren as the unfruitful rain that rears no harvest from the green sea's plain, and as thorns crackling this man's laugh is vain. nor can belief touch, kindle, smite, reprieve his heart who has not heart to disbelieve. xxxii but you, most perfect in your hate and love, our great twin-spirited brethren; you that stand head by head glittering, hand made fast in hand, and underfoot the fang-drawn worm that strove to wound you living; from so far above, look love, not scorn, on ours that was your land. xxxiii for love we lack, and help and heat and light to clothe us and to comfort us with might. what help is ours to take or give? but ye-- o, more than sunrise to the blind cold sea, that wailed aloud with all her waves all night, much more, being much more glorious, should you be. xxxiv as fire to frost, as ease to toil, as dew to flowerless fields, as sleep to slackening pain, as hope to souls long weaned from hope again returning, or as blood revived anew to dry-drawn limbs and every pulseless vein, even so toward us should no man be but you. xxxv one rose before the sunrise was, and one before the sunset, lovelier than the sun. and now the heaven is dark and bright and loud with wind and starry drift and moon and cloud, and night's cry rings in straining sheet and shroud, what help is ours if hope like yours be none? xxxvi o well-beloved, our brethren, if ye be, then are we not forsaken. this kind earth made fragrant once for all time with your birth, and bright for all men with your love, and worth the clasp and kiss and wedlock of the sea, were not your mother if not your brethren we. xxxvii because the days were dark with gods and kings and in time's hand the old hours of time as rods, when force and fear set hope and faith at odds, ye failed not nor abased your plume-plucked wings; and we that front not more disastrous things, how should we fail in face of kings and gods? xxxviii for now the deep dense plumes of night are thinned surely with winnowing of the glimmering wind whose feet are fledged with morning; and the breath begins in heaven that sings the dark to death. and all the night wherein men groaned and sinned sickens at heart to hear what sundawn saith. xxxix o first-born sons of hope and fairest, ye whose prows first clove the thought-unsounded sea whence all the dark dead centuries rose to bar the spirit of man lest truth should make him free, the sunrise and the sunset, seeing one star, take heart as we to know you that ye are. xl ye rise not and ye set not; we that say ye rise and set like hopes that set and rise look yet but seaward from a land-locked bay; but where at last the sea's line is the sky's and truth and hope one sunlight in your eyes, no sunrise and no sunset marks their day. a forsaken garden in a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, at the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, walled round with rocks as an inland island, the ghost of a garden fronts the sea. a girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses the steep square slope of the blossomless bed where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses now lie dead. the fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, to the low last edge of the long lone land. if a step should sound or a word be spoken, would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand? so long have the grey bare walks lain guestless, through branches and briars if a man make way, he shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless night and day. the dense hard passage is blind and stifled that crawls by a track none turn to climb to the strait waste place that the years have rifled of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. the thorns he spares when the rose is taken; the rocks are left when he wastes the plain. the wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, these remain. not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not; as the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; from the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, could she call, there were never a rose to reply. over the meadows that blossom and wither rings but the note of a sea-bird's song; only the sun and the rain come hither all year long. the sun burns sere and the rain dishevels one gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. only the wind here hovers and revels in a round where life seems barren as death. here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, haply, of lovers none ever will know, whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping years ago. heart handfast in heart as they stood, "look thither," did he whisper? "look forth from the flowers to the sea; for the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, and men that love lightly may die--but we?" and the same wind sang and the same waves whitened, and or ever the garden's last petals were shed, in the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened, love was dead. or they loved their life through, and then went whither? and were one to the end--but what end who knows? love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, as the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? what love was ever as deep as a grave? they are loveless now as the grass above them or the wave. all are at one now, roses and lovers, not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. not a breath of the time that has been hovers in the air now soft with a summer to be. not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, when as they that are free now of weeping and laughter we shall sleep. here death may deal not again for ever; here change may come not till all change end. from the graves they have made they shall rise up never, who have left nought living to ravage and rend. earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, while the sun and the rain live, these shall be; till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing roll the sea. till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble the fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, here now in his triumph where all things falter, stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, as a god self-slain on his own strange altar, death lies dead. relics this flower that smells of honey and the sea, white laurustine, seems in my hand to be a white star made of memory long ago lit in the heaven of dear times dead to me. a star out of the skies love used to know here held in hand, a stray left yet to show what flowers my heart was full of in the days that are long since gone down dead memory's flow. dead memory that revives on doubtful ways, half hearkening what the buried season says out of the world of the unapparent dead where the lost aprils are, and the lost mays. flower, once i knew thy star-white brethren bred nigh where the last of all the land made head against the sea, a keen-faced promontory, flowers on salt wind and sprinkled sea-dews fed. their hearts were glad of the free place's glory; the wind that sang them all his stormy story had talked all winter to the sleepless spray, and as the sea's their hues were hard and hoary. like things born of the sea and the bright day, they laughed out at the years that could not slay, live sons and joyous of unquiet hours, and stronger than all storms that range for prey. and in the close indomitable flowers a keen-edged odour of the sun and showers was as the smell of the fresh honeycomb made sweet for mouths of none but paramours. out of the hard green wall of leaves that clomb they showed like windfalls of the snow-soft foam, or feathers from the weary south-wind's wing, fair as the spray that it came shoreward from. and thou, as white, what word hast thou to bring? if my heart hearken, whereof wilt thou sing? for some sign surely thou too hast to bear, some word far south was taught thee of the spring. white like a white rose, not like these that were taught of the wind's mouth and the winter air, poor tender thing of soft italian bloom, where once thou grewest, what else for me grew there? born in what spring and on what city's tomb, by whose hand wast thou reached, and plucked for whom? there hangs about thee, could the soul's sense tell, an odour as of love and of love's doom. of days more sweet than thou wast sweet to smell, of flower-soft thoughts that came to flower and fell, of loves that lived a lily's life and died, of dreams now dwelling where dead roses dwell. o white birth of the golden mountain-side that for the sun's love makes its bosom wide at sunrise, and with all its woods and flowers takes in the morning to its heart of pride! thou hast a word of that one land of ours, and of the fair town called of the fair towers, a word for me of my san gimignan, a word of april's greenest-girdled hours. of the old breached walls whereon the wallflowers ran called of saint fina, breachless now of man, though time with soft feet break them stone by stone, who breaks down hour by hour his own reign's span. of the old cliff overcome and overgrown that all that flowerage clothed as flesh clothes bone, that garment of acacias made for may, whereof here lies one witness overblown. the fair brave trees with all their flowers at play, how king-like they stood up into the day! how sweet the day was with them, and the night! such words of message have dead flowers to say. this that the winter and the wind made bright, and this that lived upon italian light, before i throw them and these words away, who knows but i what memories too take flight? at a month's end the night last night was strange and shaken: more strange the change of you and me. once more, for the old love's love forsaken, we went out once more toward the sea. for the old love's love-sake dead and buried, one last time, one more and no more, we watched the waves set in, the serried spears of the tide storming the shore. hardly we saw the high moon hanging, heard hardly through the windy night far waters ringing, low reefs clanging, under wan skies and waste white light. with chafe and change of surges chiming, the clashing channels rocked and rang large music, wave to wild wave timing, and all the choral water sang. faint lights fell this way, that way floated, quick sparks of sea-fire keen like eyes from the rolled surf that flashed, and noted shores and faint cliffs and bays and skies. the ghost of sea that shrank up sighing at the sand's edge, a short sad breath trembling to touch the goal, and dying with weak heart heaved up once in death-- the rustling sand and shingle shaken with light sweet touches and small sound-- these could not move us, could not waken hearts to look forth, eyes to look round. silent we went an hour together, under grey skies by waters white. our hearts were full of windy weather, clouds and blown stars and broken light. full of cold clouds and moonbeams drifted and streaming storms and straying fires, our souls in us were stirred and shifted by doubts and dreams and foiled desires. across, aslant, a scudding sea-mew swam, dipped, and dropped, and grazed the sea: and one with me i could not dream you; and one with you i could not be. as the white wing the white wave's fringes touched and slid over and flashed past-- as a pale cloud a pale flame tinges from the moon's lowest light and last-- as a star feels the sun and falters, touched to death by diviner eyes-- as on the old gods' untended altars the old lire of withered worship dies-- (once only, once the shrine relighted sees the last fiery shadow shine, last shadow of flame and faith benighted, sees falter and flutter and fail the shrine) so once with fiery breath and flying your winged heart touched mine and went, and the swift spirits kissed, and sighing, sundered and smiled and were content. that only touch, that feeling only, enough we found, we found too much; for the unlit shrine is hardly lonely as one the old fire forgets to touch. slight as the sea's sight of the sea-mew, slight as the sun's sight of the star: enough to show one must not deem you for love's sake other than you are. who snares and tames with fear and danger a bright beast of a fiery kin, only to mar, only to change her sleek supple soul and splendid skin? easy with blows to mar and maim her, easy with bonds to bind and bruise; what profit, if she yield her tamer the limbs to mar, the soul to lose? best leave or take the perfect creature, take all she is or leave complete; transmute you will not form or feature, change feet for wings or wings for feet. strange eyes, new limbs, can no man give her; sweet is the sweet thing as it is. no soul she hath, we see, to outlive her; hath she for that no lips to kiss? so may one read his weird, and reason, and with vain drugs assuage no pain. for each man in his loving season fools and is fooled of these in vain. charms that allay not any longing, spells that appease not any grief, time brings us all by handfuls, wronging all hurts with nothing of relief. ah, too soon shot, the fool's bolt misses! what help? the world is full of loves; night after night of running kisses, chirp after chirp of changing doves. should love disown or disesteem you for loving one man more or less? you could not tame your light white sea-mew, nor i my sleek black pantheress. for a new soul let whoso please pray, we are what life made us, and shall be. for you the jungle and me the sea-spray, and south for you and north for me. but this one broken foam-white feather i throw you off the hither wing, splashed stiff with sea-scurf and salt weather, this song for sleep to learn and sing-- sing in your ear when, daytime over, you, couched at long length on hot sand with some sleek sun-discoloured lover, wince from his breach as from a brand: till the acrid hour aches out and ceases, and the sheathed eyeball sleepier swims, the deep flank smoothes its dimpling creases. and passion loosens all the limbs: till dreams of sharp grey north-sea weather fall faint upon your fiery sleep, as on strange sands a strayed bird's feather the wind may choose to lose or keep. but i, who leave my queen of panthers, as a tired honey-heavy bee gilt with sweet dust from gold-grained anthers leaves the rose-chalice, what for me? from the ardours of the chaliced centre, from the amorous anthers' golden grime, that scorch and smutch all wings that enter, i fly forth hot from honey-time. but as to a bee's gilt thighs and winglets the flower-dust with the flower-smell clings; as a snake's mobile rampant ringlets leave the sand marked with print of rings; so to my soul in surer fashion your savage stamp and savour hangs; the print and perfume of old passion, the wild-beast mark of panther's fangs. sestina i saw my soul at rest upon a day as a bird sleeping in the nest of night, among soft leaves that give the starlight way to touch its wings but not its eyes with light; so that it knew as one in visions may, and knew not as men waking, of delight. this was the measure of my soul's delight; it had no power of joy to fly by day, nor part in the large lordship of the light; but in a secret moon-beholden way had all its will of dreams and pleasant night, and all the love and life that sleepers may. but such life's triumph as men waking may it might not have to feed its faint delight between the stars by night and sun by day, shut up with green leaves and a little light; because its way was as a lost star's way, a world's not wholly known of day or night. all loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night made it all music that such minstrels may, and all they had they gave it of delight; but in the full face of the fire of day what place shall be for any starry light, what part of heaven in all the wide sun's way? yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way, watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night, and sought no strength nor knowledge of the day, nor closer touch conclusive of delight, nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may, nor more of song than they, nor more of light. for who sleeps once and sees the secret light whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way between the rise and rest of day and night, shall care no more to fare as all men may, but be his place of pain or of delight, there shall he dwell, beholding night as day. song, have thy day and take thy fill of light before the night be fallen across thy way; sing while he may, man hath no long delight. the year of the rose from the depths of the green garden-closes where the summer in darkness dozes till autumn pluck from his hand an hour-glass that holds not a sand; from the maze that a flower-belt encloses to the stones and sea-grass on the strand how red was the reign of the roses over the rose-crowned land! the year of the rose is brief; from the first blade blown to the sheaf, from the thin green leaf to the gold, it has time to be sweet and grow old, to triumph and leave not a leaf for witness in winter's sight how lovers once in the light would mix their breath with its breath, and its spirit was quenched not of night, as love is subdued not of death. in the red-rose land not a mile of the meadows from stile to stile, of the valleys from stream to stream, but the air was a long sweet dream and the earth was a sweet wide smile red-mouthed of a goddess, returned from the sea which had borne her and burned, that with one swift smile of her mouth looked full on the north as it yearned, and the north was more than the south. for the north, when winter was long, in his heart had made him a song, and clothed it with wings of desire, and shod it with shoon as of fire, to carry the tale of his wrong to the south-west wind by the sea. that none might bear it but he to the ear of the goddess unknown who waits till her time shall be to take the world for a throne. in the earth beneath, and above in the heaven where her name is love, she warms with light from her eyes the seasons of life as they rise, and her eyes are as eyes of a dove, but the wings that lift her and bear as an eagle's, and all her hair as fire by the wind's breath curled, and her passage is song through the air, and her presence is spring through the world. so turned she northward and came, and the white-thorn land was aflame with the fires that were shed from her feet, that the north, by her love made sweet, should be called by a rose-red name; and a murmur was heard as of doves, and a music beginning of loves in the light that the roses made, such light as the music loves, the music of man with maid. but the days drop one upon one, and a chill soft wind is begun in the heart of the rose-red maze that weeps for the roseleaf days and the reign of the rose undone that ruled so long in the light, and by spirit, and not by sight, through the darkness thrilled with its breath, still ruled in the viewless night, as love might rule over death. the time of lovers is brief; from the fair first joy to the grief that tells when love is grown old, from the warm wild kiss to the cold, from the red to the white-rose leaf, they have but a season to seem as roseleaves lost on a stream that part not and pass not apart as a spirit from dream to dream, as a sorrow from heart to heart. from the bloom and the gloom that encloses the death-bed of love where he dozes till a relic be left not of sand to the hour-glass that breaks in his hand; from the change in the grey garden-closes to the last stray grass of the strand, a rain and ruin of roses over the red-rose land a wasted vigil i couldst thou not watch with me one hour? behold, dawn skims the sea with flying feet of gold, with sudden feet that graze the gradual sea; couldst thou not watch with me? ii what, not one hour? for star by star the night falls, and her thousands world by world take flight; they die, and day survives, and what of thee? couldst thou not watch with me? iii lo, far in heaven the web of night undone, and on the sudden sea the gradual sun; wave to wave answers, tree responds to tree; couldst thou not watch with me? iv sunbeam by sunbeam creeps from line to line, foam by foam quickens on the brightening brine; sail by sail passes, flower by flower gets free; couldst thou not watch with me? v last year, a brief while since, an age ago, a whole year past, with bud and bloom and snow, o moon that wast in heaven, what friends were we! couldst thou not watch with me? vi old moons, and last year's flowers, and last year's snows! who now saith to thee, moon? or who saith, rose? o dust and ashes, once found fair to see! couldst thou not watch with me? vii o dust and ashes, once thought sweet to smell! with me it is not, is it with thee well? o sea-drift blown from windward back to lee! couldst thou not watch with me? viii the old year's dead hands are full of their dead flowers. the old days are full of dead old loves of ours, born as a rose, and briefer born than she; couldst thou not watch with me? ix could two days live again of that dead year, one would say, seeking us and passing here, _where is she?_ and one answering, _where is he?_ couldst thou not watch with me? x nay, those two lovers are not anywhere; if we were they, none knows us what we were, nor aught of all their barren grief and glee. couldst thou not watch with me? xi half false, half fair, all feeble, be my verse upon thee not for blessing nor for curse; for some must stand, and some must fall or flee; couldst thou not watch with me? xii as a new moon above spent stars thou wast; but stars endure after the moon is past. couldst thou not watch one hour, though i watch three? couldst thou not watch with me? xiii what of the night? the night is full, the tide storms inland, the most ancient rocks divide; yet some endure, and bow nor head nor knee; couldst thou not watch with me? xiv since thou art not as these are, go thy ways; thou hast no part in all my nights and days. lie still, sleep on, be glad--as such things be; thou couldst not watch with me. the complaint of lisa (_double sestina_) decameron, x. there is no woman living that draws breath so sad as i, though all things sadden her. there is not one upon life's weariest way who is weary as i am weary of all but death. toward whom i look as looks the sunflower all day with all his whole soul toward the sun; while in the sun's sight i make moan all day, and all night on my sleepless maiden bed weep and call out on death, o love, and thee, that thou or he would take me to the dead, and know not what thing evil i have done that life should lay such heavy hand on me. alas, love, what is this thou wouldst with me? what honour shall thou have to quench my breath, or what shall my heart broken profit thee? o love, o great god love, what have i done, that thou shouldst hunger so after my death? my heart is harmless as my life's first day: seek out some false fair woman, and plague her till her tears even as my tears fill her bed: i am the least flower in thy flowery way, but till my time be come that i be dead let me live out my flower-time in the sun though my leaves shut before the sunflower. o love, love, love, the kingly sunflower! shall he the sun hath looked on look on me, that live down here in shade, out of the sun, here living in the sorrow and shadow of death? shall he that feeds his heart full of the day care to give mine eyes light, or my lips breath? because she loves him shall my lord love her who is as a worm in my lord's kingly way? i shall not see him or know him alive or dead; but thou, i know thee, o love, and pray to thee that in brief while my brief life-days be done, and the worm quickly make my marriage-bed. for underground there is no sleepless bed: but here since i beheld my sunflower these eyes have slept not, seeing all night and day his sunlike eyes, and face fronting the sun. wherefore if anywhere be any death, i would fain find and fold him fast to me, that i may sleep with the world's eldest dead, with her that died seven centuries since, and her that went last night down the night-wandering way. for this is sleep indeed, when labour is done, without love, without dreams, and without breath, and without thought, o name unnamed! of thee. ah, but, forgetting all things, shall i thee? wilt thou not be as now about my bed there underground as here before the sun? shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead, thy moving vision without form or breath? i read long since the bitter tale of her who read the tale of launcelot on a day, and died, and had no quiet after death, but was moved ever along a weary way, lost with her love in the underworld; ah me, o my king, o my lordly sunflower, would god to me too such a thing were done! but if such sweet and bitter things be done, then, flying from life, i shall not fly from thee. for in that living world without a sun thy vision will lay hold upon me dead, and meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death. yet if being wroth god had such pity on her, who was a sinner and foolish in her day, that even in hell they twain should breathe one breath, why should he not in some wise pity me? so if i sleep not in my soft strait bed i may look up and see my sunflower as he the sun, in some divine strange way. o poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way this sore sweet evil unto us was done. for on a holy and a heavy day i was arisen out of my still small bed to see the knights tilt, and one said to me "the king," and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath, and if the girl spake more, i heard not her, for only i saw what i shall see when dead, a kingly flower of knights, a sunflower, that shone against the sunlight like the sun, and like a fire, o heart, consuming thee, the fire of love that lights the pyre of death. howbeit i shall not die an evil death who have loved in such a sad and sinless way, that this my love, lord, was no shame to thee. so when mine eyes are shut against the sun, o my soul's sun, o the world's sunflower, thou nor no man will quite despise me dead. and dying i pray with all my low last breath that thy whole life may be as was that day, that feast-day that made trothplight death and me, giving the world light of thy great deeds done; and that fair face brightening thy bridal bed, that god be good as god hath been to her. that all things goodly and glad remain with her, all things that make glad life and goodly death; that as a bee sucks from a sunflower honey, when summer draws delighted breath, her soul may drink of thy soul in like way, and love make life a fruitful marriage-bed where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day and night to night till days and nights be dead. and as she gives light of her love to thee, give thou to her the old glory of days long done; and either give some heat of light to me, to warm me where i sleep without the sun. o sunflower made drunken with the sun, o knight whose lady's heart draws thine to her, great king, glad lover, i have a word to thee. there is a weed lives out of the sun's way, hid from the heat deep in the meadow's bed, that swoons and whitens at the wind's least breath, a flower star-shaped, that all a summer day will gaze her soul out on the sunflower for very love till twilight finds her dead. but the great sunflower heeds not her poor death, knows not when all her loving life is done; and so much knows my lord the king of me. aye, all day long he has no eye for me; with golden eye following the golden sun from rose-coloured to purple-pillowed bed, from birthplace to the flame-lit place of death, from eastern end to western of his way. so mine eye follows thee, my sunflower, so the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee, the sick weak weed, not well alive or dead, trod underfoot if any pass by her, pale, without colour of summer or summer breath in the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done no work but love, and die before the day. but thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day, be glad and great, o love whose love slays me. thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun shall drop its golden seed in the world's way, that all men thereof nourished shall praise thee for grain and flower and fruit of works well done; till thy shed seed, o shining sunflower, bring forth such growth of the world's garden-bed as like the sun shall outlive age and death. and yet i would thine heart had heed of her who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead. come, love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath. song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead; from my sad bed of tears i send forth thee, to fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death down the sun's way after the flying sun, for love of her that gave thee wings and breath, ere day be done, to seek the sunflower. for the feast of giordano bruno, philosopher and martyr i son of the lightning and the light that glows beyond the lightning's or the morning's light, soul splendid with all-righteous love of right, in whose keen fire all hopes and fears and woes were clean consumed, and from their ashes rose transfigured, and intolerable to sight save of purged eyes whose lids had cast off night, in love's and wisdom's likeness when they close, embracing, and between them truth stands fast, embraced of either; thou whose feet were set on english earth while this was england yet, our friend that art, our sidney's friend that wast, heart hardier found and higher than all men's past, shall we not praise thee though thine own forget? ii lift up thy light on us and on thine own, o soul whose spirit on earth was as a rod to scourge off priests, a sword to pierce their god, a staff for man's free thought to walk alone, a lamp to lead him far from shrine and throne on ways untrodden where his fathers trod ere earth's heart withered at a high priest's nod and all men's mouths that made not prayer made moan. from bonds and torments and the ravening flame surely thy spirit of sense rose up to greet lucretius, where such only spirits meet, and walk with him apart till shelley came to make the heaven of heavens more heavenly sweet and mix with yours a third incorporate name. ave atque vale in memory of charles baudelaire nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs; les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, et quand octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres, son vent mélancolique à l'entour de leurs marbres, certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats. _les fleurs du mal._ i shall i strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, brother, on this that was the veil of thee? or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, such as the summer-sleepy dryads weave, waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat and full of bitter summer, but more sweet to thee than gleanings of a northern shore trod by no tropic feet? ii for always thee the fervid languid glories allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs where the sea sobs round lesbian promontories, the barren kiss of piteous wave to wave that knows not where is that leucadian grave which hides too deep the supreme head of song. ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, the wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, blind gods that cannot spare. iii thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; the hidden harvest of luxurious time, sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; and where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; and with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, seeing as men sow men reap. iv o sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, that were athirst for sleep and no more life and no more love, for peace and no more strife! now the dim gods of death have in their keeping spirit and body and all the springs of song, is it well now where love can do no wrong, where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang behind the unopening closure of her lips? is it not well where soul from body slips and flesh from bone divides without a pang as dew from flower-bell drips? v it is enough; the end and the beginning are one thing to thee, who art past the end. o hand unclasped of unbeholden friend, for thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, no triumph and no labour and no lust, only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. o quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought, whereto the day is dumb, nor any night with obscure finger silences your sight, nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, sleep, and have sleep for light. vi now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, hast thou found place at the great knees and feet of some pale titan-woman like a lover, such as thy vision here solicited, under the shadow of her fair vast head, the deep division of prodigious breasts, the solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, the weight of awful tresses that still keep the savour and shade of old-world pine-forests where the wet hill-winds weep? vii hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? o gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, hast thou found sown, what gathered in the gloom? what of despair, of rapture, of derision, what of life is there, what of ill or good? are the fruits grey like dust or bright like blood? does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, the faint fields quicken any terrene root, in low lands where the sun and moon are mute and all the stars keep silence? are there flowers at all, or any fruit? viii alas, but though my flying song flies after, o sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, some dim derision of mysterious laughter from the blind tongueless warders of the dead, some gainless glimpse of proserpine's veiled head, some little sound of unregarded tears wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, and from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- these only, these the hearkening spirit hears, sees only such things rise. ix thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, far too far off for thought or any prayer. what ails us with thee, who art wind and air? what ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, the low light fails us in elusive skies, still the foiled earnest ear is deaf, and blind are still the eluded eyes. x not thee, o never thee, in all time's changes, not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, the shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll i lay my hand on, and not death estranges my spirit from communion of thy song-- these memories and these melodies that throng veiled porches of a muse funereal-- these i salute, these touch, these clasp and fold as though a hand were in my hand to hold, or through mine ears a mourning musical of many mourners rolled. xi i among these, i also, in such station as when the pyre was charred, and piled the sods, and offering to the dead made, and their gods, the old mourners had, standing to make libation, i stand, and to the gods and to the dead do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, and what of honey and spice my seedlands bear, and what i may of fruits in this chilled air, and lay, orestes-like, across the tomb a curl of severed hair. xii but by no hand nor any treason stricken, not like the low-lying head of him, the king, the flame that made of troy a ruinous thing, thou liest, and on this dust no tears could quicken there fall no tears like theirs that all men hear fall tear by sweet imperishable tear down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. thee not orestes, not electra mourns; but bending us-ward with memorial urns the most high muses that fulfil all ages weep, and our god's heart yearns. xiii for, sparing of his sacred strength, not often among us darkling here the lord of light makes manifest his music and his might in hearts that open and in lips that soften with the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. thy lips indeed he touched with bitter wine, and nourished them indeed with bitter bread; yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, the fire that scarred thy spirit at his flame was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed who feeds our hearts with fame. xiv therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, god of all suns and songs, he too bends down to mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, and save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, mourns thee of many his children the last dead, and hallows with strange tears and alien sighs thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, and over thine irrevocable head sheds light from the under skies. xv and one weeps with him in the ways lethean, and stains with tears her changing bosom chill: that obscure venus of the hollow hill, that thing transformed which was the cytherean, with lips that lost their grecian laugh divine long since, and face no more called erycine; a ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. thee also with fair flesh and singing spell did she, a sad and second prey, compel into the footless places once more trod, and shadows hot from hell. xvi and now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, no choral salutation lure to light a spirit sick with perfume and sweet night and love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. there is no help for these things; none to mend and none to mar; not all our songs, o friend, will make death clear or make life durable. howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine and with wild notes about this dust of thine at least i fill the place where white dreams dwell and wreathe an unseen shrine. xvii sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, if sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; and to give thanks is good, and to forgive. out of the mystic and the mournful garden where all day through thine hands in barren braid wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants grey, sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, shall death not bring us all as thee one day among the days departed? xviii for thee, o now a silent soul, my brother, take at my hands this garland, and farewell. thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, and chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, with sadder than the niobean womb, and in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; there lies not any troublous thing before, nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, for whom all winds are quiet as the sun, all waters as the shore. memorial verses on the death of thÉophile gautier death, what hast thou to do with me? so saith love, with eyes set against the face of death; what have i done, o thou strong death, to thee, that mine own lips should wither from thy breath? though thou be blind as fire or as the sea, why should thy waves and storms make war on me? is it for hate thou hast to find me fair, or for desire to kiss, if it might be, my very mouth of song, and kill me there? so with keen rains vexing his crownless hair. with bright feet bruised from no delightful way, through darkness and the disenchanted air, lost love went weeping half a winter's day. and the armèd wind that smote him seemed to say, how shall the dew live when the dawn is fled, or wherefore should the mayflower outlast may? then death took love by the right hand and said, smiling: come now and look upon thy dead. but love cast down the glories of his eyes, and bowed down like a flower his flowerless head. and death spake, saying: what ails thee in such wise, being god, to shut thy sight up from the skies? if thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear? or is thy soul too as a leaf that dies? even as he spake with fleshless lips of fear, but soft as sleep sings in a tired man's ear, behold, the winter was not, and its might fell, and fruits broke forth of the barren year. and upon earth was largess of great light, and moving music winged for worldwide flight, and shapes and sounds of gods beheld and heard, and day's foot set upon the neck of night. and with such song the hollow ways were stirred as of a god's heart hidden in a bird, or as the whole soul of the sun in spring should find full utterance in one flower-soft word, and all the season should break forth and sing from one flower's lips, in one rose triumphing; such breath and light of song as of a flame made ears and spirits of them that heard it ring. and love beholding knew not for the same the shape that led him, nor in face nor name, for he was bright and great of thews and fair, and in love's eyes he was not death, but fame. not that grey ghost whose life is empty and bare and his limbs moulded out of mortal air, a cloud of change that shifts into a shower and dies and leaves no light for time to wear: but a god clothed with his own joy and power, a god re-risen out of his mortal hour immortal, king and lord of time and space, with eyes that look on them as from a tower. and where he stood the pale sepulchral place bloomed, as new life might in a bloodless face, and where men sorrowing came to seek a tomb with funeral flowers and tears for grief and grace, they saw with light as of a world in bloom the portal of the house of fame illume the ways of life wherein we toiling tread, and watched the darkness as a brand consume. and through the gates where rule the deathless dead the sound of a new singer's soul was shed that sang among his kinsfolk, and a beam shot from the star on a new ruler's head. a new star lighting the lethean stream, a new song mixed into the song supreme made of all souls of singers and their might, that makes of life and time and death a dream. thy star, thy song, o soul that in our sight wast as a sun that made for man's delight flowers and all fruits in season, being so near the sun-god's face, our god that gives us light. to him of all gods that we love or fear thou amongst all men by thy name wast dear, dear to the god that gives us spirit of song to bind and burn all hearts of men that hear. the god that makes men's words too sweet and strong for life or time or death to do them wrong, who sealed with his thy spirit for a sign and filled it with his breath thy whole life long. who made thy moist lips fiery with new wine pressed from the grapes of song, the sovereign vine, and with all love of all things loveliest gave thy soul power to make them more divine. that thou might'st breathe upon the breathless rest of marble, till the brows and lips and breast felt fall from off them as a cancelled curse that speechless sleep wherewith they lived opprest. who gave thee strength and heat of spirit to pierce all clouds of form and colour that disperse, and leave the spirit of beauty to remould in types of clean chryselephantine verse. who gave thee words more golden than fine gold to carve in shapes more glorious than of old, and build thy songs up in the sight of time as statues set in godhead manifold: in sight and scorn of temporal change and clime that meet the sun re-risen with refluent rhyme --as god to god might answer face to face-- from lips whereon the morning strikes sublime. dear to the god, our god who gave thee place among the chosen of days, the royal race, the lords of light, whose eyes of old and ears saw even on earth and heard him for a space. there are the souls of those once mortal years that wrought with fire of joy and light of tears in words divine as deeds that grew thereof such music as he swoons with love who hears. there are the lives that lighten from above our under lives, the spheral souls that move through the ancient heaven of song-illumined air whence we that hear them singing die with love. there all the crowned hellenic heads, and there the old gods who made men godlike as they were, the lyric lips wherefrom all songs take fire, live eyes, and light of apollonian hair. there, round the sovereign passion of that lyre which the stars hear and tremble with desire, the ninefold light pierian is made one that here we see divided, and aspire, seeing, after this or that crown to be won; but where they hear the singing of the sun, all form, all sound, all colour, and all thought are as one body and soul in unison. there the song sung shines as a picture wrought, the painted mouths sing that on earth say nought, the carven limbs have sense of blood and growth and large-eyed life that seeks nor lacks not aught. there all the music of thy living mouth lives, and all loves wrought of thine hand in youth and bound about the breasts and brows with gold and coloured pale or dusk from north or south. fair living things made to thy will of old, born of thy lips, no births of mortal mould, that in the world of song about thee wait where thought and truth are one and manifold. within the graven lintels of the gate that here divides our vision and our fate, the dreams we walk in and the truths of sleep, all sense and spirit have life inseparate. there what one thinks, is his to grasp and keep; there are no dreams, but very joys to reap, no foiled desires that die before delight, no fears to see across our joys and weep. there hast thou all thy will of thought and sight, all hope for harvest, and all heaven for flight; the sunrise of whose golden-mouthed glad head to paler songless ghosts was heat and light. here where the sunset of our year is red men think of thee as of the summer dead, gone forth before the snows, before thy day, with unshod feet, with brows unchapleted. couldst thou not wait till age had wound, they say, round those wreathed brows his soft white blossoms? nay, why shouldst thou vex thy soul with this harsh air, thy bright-winged soul, once free to take its way? nor for men's reverence hadst thou need to wear the holy flower of grey time-hallowed hair; nor were it fit that aught of thee grew old, fair lover all thy days of all things fair. and hear we not thy words of molten gold singing? or is their light and heat acold whereat men warmed their spirits? nay, for all these yet are with us, ours to hear and hold. the lovely laughter, the clear tears, the call of love to love on ways where shadows fall, through doors of dim division and disguise, and music made of doubts unmusical; the love that caught strange light from death's own eyes,[ ] and filled death's lips with fiery words and sighs, and half asleep let feed from veins of his her close red warm snake's mouth, egyptian-wise: and that great night of love more strange than this,[ ] when she that made the whole world's bale and bliss made king of all the world's desire a slave, and killed him in mid kingdom with a kiss; veiled loves that shifted shapes and shafts, and gave,[ ] laughing, strange gifts to hands that durst not crave, flowers double-blossomed, fruits of scent and hue sweet as the bride-bed, stranger than the grave; all joys and wonders of old lives and new that ever in love's shine or shadow grew, and all the grief whereof he dreams and grieves, and all sweet roots fed on his light and dew; all these through thee our spirit of sense perceives, as threads in the unseen woof thy music weaves, birds caught and snared that fill our ears with thee, bay-blossoms in thy wreath of brow-bound leaves. mixed with the masque of death's old comedy though thou too pass, have here our flowers, that we for all the flowers thou gav'st upon thee shed, and pass not crownless to persephone. blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy-red we wind with poppies for thy silent head, and on this margin of the sundering sea leave thy sweet light to rise upon the dead. [footnote : _la morte amoureuse._] [footnote : _une nuit de cléopâtre._] [footnote : _mademoiselle de maupin._] sonnet (with a copy of _mademoiselle de maupin_) this is the golden book of spirit and sense, the holy writ of beauty; he that wrought made it with dreams and faultless words and thought that seeks and finds and loses in the dense dim air of life that beauty's excellence wherewith love makes one hour of life distraught and all hours after follow and find not aught. here is that height of all love's eminence where man may breathe but for a breathing-space and feel his soul burn as an altar-fire to the unknown god of unachieved desire, and from the middle mystery of the place watch lights that break, hear sounds as of a quire, but see not twice unveiled the veiled god's face. age and song (to barry cornwall) i in vain men tell us time can alter old loves or make old memories falter, that with the old year the old year's life closes. the old dew still falls on the old sweet flowers, the old sun revives the new-fledged hours, the old summer rears the new-born roses. ii much more a muse that bears upon her raiment and wreath and flower of honour, gathered long since and long since woven, fades not or falls as fall the vernal blossoms that bear no fruit eternal, by summer or winter charred or cloven. iii no time casts down, no time upraises, such loves, such memories, and such praises, as need no grace of sun or shower, no saving screen from frost or thunder to tend and house around and under the imperishable and fearless flower. iv old thanks, old thoughts, old aspirations, outlive men's lives and lives of nations, dead, but for one thing which survives-- the inalienable and unpriced treasure, the old joy of power, the old pride of pleasure, that lives in light above men's lives. in memory of barry cornwall (october , ) i in the garden of death, where the singers whose names are deathless one with another make music unheard of men, where the dead sweet roses fade not of lips long breathless, and the fair eyes shine that shall weep not or change again, who comes now crowned with the blossom of snow-white years? what music is this that the world of the dead men hears? ii beloved of men, whose words on our lips were honey, whose name in our ears and our fathers' ears was sweet, like summer gone forth of the land his songs made sunny, to the beautiful veiled bright world where the glad ghosts meet, child, father, bridegroom and bride, and anguish and rest, no soul shall pass of a singer than this more blest. iii blest for the years' sweet sake that were filled and brightened, as a forest with birds, with the fruit and the flower of his song; for the souls' sake blest that heard, and their cares were lightened, for the hearts' sake blest that have fostered his name so long; by the living and dead lips blest that have loved his name, and clothed with their praise and crowned with their love for fame. iv ah, fair and fragrant his fame as flowers that close not, that shrink not by day for heat or for cold by night, as a thought in the heart shall increase when the heart's self knows not, shall endure in our ears as a sound, in our eyes as a light; shall wax with the years that wane and the seasons' chime, as a white rose thornless that grows in the garden of time. v the same year calls, and one goes hence with another, and men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake; the same year beckons, and elder with younger brother takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all shall take.[ ] they pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come; and the birds are loud, but the lips that outsang them dumb. vi time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous, to the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death; but the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us, nor the lips lack song for ever that now lack breath. for with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell, though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell. [footnote : sydney dobell died august , .] epicede (james lorimer graham died at florence, april , ) life may give for love to death little; what are life's gifts worth to the dead wrapt round with earth? yet from lips of living breath sighs or words we are fain to give, all that yet, while yet we live, life may give for love to death. dead so long before his day, passed out of the italian sun to the dark where all is done, fallen upon the verge of may; here at life's and april's end how should song salute my friend dead so long before his day? not a kindlier life or sweeter time, that lights and quenches men, now may quench or light again, mingling with the mystic metre woven of all men's lives with his not a clearer note than this, not a kindlier life or sweeter. in this heavenliest part of earth he that living loved the light, light and song, may rest aright, one in death, if strange in birth, with the deathless dead that make life the lovelier for their sake in this heavenliest part of earth. light, and song, and sleep at last-- struggling hands and suppliant knees get no goodlier gift than these. song that holds remembrance fast, light that lightens death, attend round their graves who have to friend light, and song, and sleep at last. to victor hugo he had no children, who for love of men, being god, endured of gods such things as thou, father; nor on his thunder-beaten brow fell such a woe as bows thine head again, twice bowed before, though godlike, in man's ken, and seen too high for any stroke to bow save this of some strange god's that bends it now the third time with such weight as bruised it then. fain would grief speak, fain utter for love's sake some word; but comfort who might bid thee take? what god in your own tongue shall talk with thee, showing how all souls that look upon the sun shall be for thee one spirit and thy son, and thy soul's child the soul of man to be? _january , ._ inferiae spring, and the light and sound of things on earth requickening, all within our green sea's girth; a time of passage or a time of birth fourscore years since as this year, first and last. the sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of very spring; and we live, love, and feed on our own hearts; but he whose heart fed mine has passed into the past. past, all things born with sense and blood and breath; the flesh hears nought that now the spirit saith. if death be like as birth and birth as death, the first was fair--more fair should be the last. fourscore years since, and come but one month more the count were perfect of his mortal score whose sail went seaward yesterday from shore to cross the last of many an unsailed sea. light, love and labour up to life's last height, these three were stars unsetting in his sight; even as the sun is life and heat and light and sets not nor is dark when dark are we. the life, the spirit, and the work were one that here--ah, who shall say, that here are done? not i, that know not; father, not thy son, for all the darkness of the night and sea. _march , _ a birth-song (for olivia frances madox rossetti, born september , ) out of the dark sweet sleep where no dreams laugh or weep borne through bright gates of birth into the dim sweet light where day still dreams of night while heaven takes form on earth, white rose of spirit and flesh, red lily of love, what note of song have we fit for the birds and thee, fair nestling couched beneath the mother-dove? nay, in some more divine small speechless song of thine some news too good for words, heart-hushed and smiling, we might hope to have of thee, the youngest of god's birds, if thy sweet sense might mix itself with ours, if ours might understand the language of thy land, ere thine become the tongue of mortal hours: ere thy lips learn too soon their soft first human tune, sweet, but less sweet than now, and thy raised eyes to read glad and good things indeed, but none so sweet as thou: ere thought lift up their flower-soft lids to see what life and love on earth bring thee for gifts at birth, but none so good as thine who hast given us thee: now, ere thy sense forget the heaven that fills it yet, now, sleeping or awake, if thou couldst tell, or we ask and be heard of thee, for love's undying sake, from thy dumb lips divine and bright mute speech such news might touch our ear that then would burn to hear too high a message now for man's to reach. ere the gold hair of corn had withered wast thou born, to make the good time glad; the time that but last year fell colder than a tear on hearts and hopes turned sad, high hopes and hearts requickening in thy dawn, even theirs whose life-springs, child, filled thine with life and smiled, but then wept blood for half their own withdrawn.[ ] if death and birth be one, and set with rise of sun, and truth with dreams divine, some word might come with thee from over the still sea deep hid in shade or shine, crossed by the crossing sails of death and birth, word of some sweet new thing fit for such lips to bring, some word of love, some afterthought of earth. if love be strong as death, by what so natural breath as thine could this be said? by what so lovely way could love send word to say he lives and is not dead? such word alone were fit for only thee, if his and thine have met where spirits rise and set, his whom we see not, thine whom scarce we see: his there new-born, as thou new-born among us now; his, here so fruitful-souled, now veiled and silent here, now dumb as thou last year, a ghost of one year old: if lights that change their sphere in changing meet, some ray might his not give to thine who wast to live, and make thy present with his past life sweet? let dreams that laugh or weep, all glad and sad dreams, sleep; truth more than dreams is dear. let thoughts that change and fly, sweet thoughts and swift, go by; more than all thought is here. more than all hope can forge or memory feign the life that in our eyes, made out of love's life, lies, and flower-like fed with love for sun and rain. twice royal in its root the sweet small olive-shoot here set in sacred earth; twice dowered with glorious grace from either heaven-born race first blended in its birth; fair god or genius of so fair an hour, for love of either name twice crowned, with love and fame, guard and be gracious to the fair-named flower. _october , ._ [footnote : oliver madox brown died november , , in his twentieth year.] ex-voto when their last hour shall rise pale on these mortal eyes, herself like one that dies, and kiss me dying the cold last kiss, and fold close round my limbs her cold soft shade as raiment rolled and leave them lying, if aught my soul would say might move to hear me pray the birth-god of my day that he might hearken, this grace my heart should crave, to find no landward grave that worldly springs make brave, world's winters darken, nor grow through gradual hours the cold blind seed of flowers made by new beams and showers from limbs that moulder, nor take my part with earth, but find for death's new birth a bed of larger girth, more chaste and colder. not earth's for spring and fall, not earth's at heart, not all earth's making, though men call earth only mother, not hers at heart she bare me, but thy child, o fair sea, and thy brother's care, the wind thy brother. yours was i born, and ye, the sea-wind and the sea, made all my soul in me a song for ever, a harp to string and smite for love's sake of the bright wind and the sea's delight, to fail them never: not while on this side death i hear what either saith and drink of either's breath with heart's thanksgiving that in my veins like wine some sharp salt blood of thine, some springtide pulse of brine, yet leaps up living. when thy salt lips wellnigh sucked in my mouth's last sigh, grudged i so much to die this death as others? was it no ease to think the chalice from whose brink fate gave me death to drink was thine--my mother's? thee too, the all-fostering earth, fair as thy fairest birth, more than thy worthiest worth, we call, we know thee, more sweet and just and dread than live men highest of head or even thy holiest dead laid low below thee. the sunbeam on the sheaf, the dewfall on the leaf, all joy, all grace, all grief, are thine for giving; of thee our loves are born, our lives and loves, that mourn and triumph; tares with corn, dead seed with living: all good and ill things done in eyeshot of the sun at last in thee made one rest well contented; all words of all man's breath and works he doth or saith, all wholly done to death, none long lamented. a slave to sons of thee, thou, seeming, yet art free; but who shall make the sea serve even in seeming? what plough shall bid it bear seed to the sun and the air, fruit for thy strong sons' fare, fresh wine's foam streaming? what oldworld son of thine, made drunk with death as wine, hath drunk the bright sea's brine with lips of laughter? thy blood they drink; but he who hath drunken of the sea once deeplier than of thee shall drink not after. of thee thy sons of men drink deep, and thirst again; for wine in feasts, and then in fields for slaughter; but thirst shall touch not him who hath felt with sense grown dim rise, covering lip and limb, the wan sea's water. all fire of thirst that aches the salt sea cools and slakes more than all springs or lakes, freshets or shallows; wells where no beam can burn through frondage of the fern that hides from hart and hern the haunt it hallows. peace with all graves on earth for death or sleep or birth be alway, one in worth one with another; but when my time shall be, o mother, o my sea, alive or dead, take me, me too, my mother. a ballad of dreamland i hid my heart in a nest of roses, out of the sun's way, hidden apart; in a softer bed than the soft white snow's is, under the roses i hid my heart. why would it sleep not? why should it start, when never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? what made sleep flutter his wings and part? only the song of a secret bird. lie still, i said, for the wind's wing closes, and mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; lie still, for the wind on the warm sea dozes, and the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart? does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? what bids the lids of thy sleep dispart? only the song of a secret bird. the green land's name that a charm encloses, it never was writ in the traveller's chart, and sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, it never was sold in the merchant's mart. the swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, and sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; no hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, only the song of a secret bird. envoi in the world of dreams i have chosen my part, to sleep for a season and hear no word of true love's truth or of light love's art, only the song of a secret bird. cyril tourneur a sea that heaves with horror of the night, as maddened by the moon that hangs aghast with strain and torment of the ravening blast, haggard as hell, a bleak blind bloody light; no shore but one red reef of rock in sight, whereon the waifs of many a wreck were cast and shattered in the fierce nights overpast wherein more souls toward hell than heaven took flight; and 'twixt the shark-toothed rocks and swallowing shoals a cry as out of hell from all these souls sent through the sheer gorge of the slaughtering sea, whose thousand throats, full-fed with life by death, fill the black air with foam and furious breath; and over all these one star--chastity. a ballad of franÇois villon prince of all ballad-makers bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years, first of us all and sweetest singer born whose far shrill note the world of new men hears cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears; when song new-born put off the old world's attire and felt its tune on her changed lips expire, writ foremost on the roll of them that came fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name! alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, that clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears, and gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn and plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears; till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire, when lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name! poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears! poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, that rings athwart the sea whence no man steers like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears! what far delight has cooled the fierce desire that like some ravenous bird was strong to tire on that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, but left more sweet than roses to respire, villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name? envoi prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire, a harlot was thy nurse, a god thy sire; shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame. but from thy feet now death has washed the mire, love reads out first at head of all our quire, villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name. pastiche now the days are all gone over of our singing, love by lover, days of summer-coloured seas blown adrift through beam and breeze. now the nights are all past over of our dreaming, dreams that hover in a mist of fair false things, nights afloat on wide wan wings. now the loves with faith for mother, now the fears with hope for brother, scarce are with us as strange words, notes from songs of last year's birds. now all good that comes or goes is as the smell of last year's roses, as the radiance in our eyes shot from summer's ere he dies. now the morning faintlier risen seems no god come forth of prison, but a bird of plume-plucked wing, pale with thoughts of evening. now hath hope, outraced in running, given the torch up of his cunning and the palm he thought to wear even to his own strong child--despair. before sunset in the lower lands of day on the hither side of night, there is nothing that will stay, there are all things soft to sight; lighted shade and shadowy light in the wayside and the way, hours the sun has spared to smite, flowers the rain has left to play. shall these hours run down and say no good thing of thee and me? time that made us and will slay laughs at love in me and thee; but if here the flowers may see one whole hour of amorous breath, time shall die, and love shall be lord as time was over death. song love laid his sleepless head on a thorny rosy bed; and his eyes with tears were red, and pale his lips as the dead. and fear and sorrow and scorn kept watch by his head forlorn, till the night was overworn and the world was merry with morn. and joy came up with the day and kissed love's lips as he lay, and the watchers ghostly and grey sped from his pillow away. and his eyes as the dawn grew bright, and his lips waxed ruddy as light: sorrow may reign for a night, but day shall bring back delight. a vision of spring in winter i o tender time that love thinks long to see, sweet foot of spring that with her footfall sows late snowlike flowery leavings of the snows, be not too long irresolute to be; o mother-month, where have they hidden thee? out of the pale time of the flowerless rose i reach my heart out toward the springtime lands, i stretch my spirit forth to the fair hours, the purplest of the prime; i lean my soul down over them, with hands made wide to take the ghostly growths of flowers; i send my love back to the lovely time. ii where has the greenwood hid thy gracious head? veiled with what visions while the grey world grieves, or muffled with what shadows of green leaves, what warm intangible green shadows spread to sweeten the sweet twilight for thy bed? what sleep enchants thee? what delight deceives? where the deep dreamlike dew before the dawn feels not the fingers of the sunlight yet its silver web unweave, thy footless ghost on some unfooted lawn whose air the unrisen sunbeams fear to fret lives a ghost's life of daylong dawn and eve. iii sunrise it sees not, neither set of star, large nightfall, nor imperial plenilune, nor strong sweet shape of the full-breasted noon; but where the silver-sandalled shadows are, too soft for arrows of the sun to mar, moves with the mild gait of an ungrown moon: hard overhead the half-lit crescent swims, the tender-coloured night draws hardly breath, the light is listening; they watch the dawn of slender-shapen limbs, virginal, born again of doubtful death, chill foster-father of the weanling spring. iv as sweet desire of day before the day, as dreams of love before the true love born, from the outer edge of winter overworn the ghost arisen of may before the may takes through dim air her unawakened way, the gracious ghost of morning risen ere morn. with little unblown breasts and child-eyed looks following, the very maid, the girl-child spring, lifts windward her bright brows, dips her light feet in warm and moving brooks, and kindles with her own mouth's colouring the fearful firstlings of the plumeless boughs. v i seek thee sleeping, and awhile i see, fair face that art not, how thy maiden breath shall put at last the deadly days to death and fill the fields and fire the woods with thee and seaward hollows where my feet would be when heaven shall hear the word that april saith to change the cold heart of the weary time, to stir and soften all the time to tears, tears joyfuller than mirth; as even to may's clear height the young days climb with feet not swifter than those fair first years whose flowers revive not with thy flowers on earth. vi i would not bid thee, though i might, give back one good thing youth has given and borne away; i crave not any comfort of the day that is not, nor on time's retrodden track would turn to meet the white-robed hours or black that long since left me on their mortal way; nor light nor love that has been, nor the breath that comes with morning from the sun to be and sets light hope on fire; no fruit, no flower thought once too fair for death, no flower nor hour once fallen from life's green tree, no leaf once plucked or once fulfilled desire. vii the morning song beneath the stars that fled with twilight through the moonless mountain air, while youth with burning lips and wreathless hair sang toward the sun that was to crown his head, rising; the hopes that triumphed and fell dead, the sweet swift eyes and songs of hours that were; these may'st thou not give back for ever; these, as at the sea's heart all her wrecks lie waste, lie deeper than the sea; but flowers thou may'st, and winds, and hours of ease, and all its april to the world thou may'st give back, and half my april back to me. choriambics love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love? what sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above? what strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave, lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave? ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the fire of day; now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them and hide away. ah, thy snow-coloured hands! once were they chains, mighty to bind me fast; now no blood in them burns, mindless of love, senseless of passion past. ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me; now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee. sweet, the kisses of death set on thy lips, colder are they than mine; colder surely than past kisses that love poured for thy lips as wine. lov'st thou death? is his face fairer than love's, brighter to look upon? seest thou light in his eyes, light by which love's pales and is overshone? lo the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller of leaf than snow! why let fall from thy hand love's that were thine, roses that loved thee so? large red lilies of love, sceptral and tall, lovely for eyes to see; thornless blossom of love, full of the sun, fruits that were reared for thee. now death's poppies alone circle thy hair, girdle thy breasts as white; bloodless blossoms of death, leaves that have sprung never against the light. nay then, sleep if thou wilt; love is content; what should he do to weep? sweet was love to thee once; now in thine eyes sweeter than love is sleep. at parting for a day and a night love sang to us, played with us, folded us round from the dark and the light; and our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us, made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight for a day and a night. from his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us, covered us close from the eyes that would smite, from the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us spirit and flesh growing one with delight for a day and a night. but his wings will not rest and his feet will not stay for us: morning is here in the joy of its might; with his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us; now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us; love can but last in us here at his height for a day and a night. a song in season i thou whose beauty knows no duty due to love that moves thee never; thou whose mercies are men's curses, and thy smile a scourge for ever; ii thou that givest death and livest on the death of thy sweet giving; thou that sparest not nor carest though thy scorn leave no love living; iii thou whose rootless flower is fruitless as the pride its heart encloses, but thine eyes are as may skies are, and thy words like spoken roses; iv thou whose grace is in men's faces fierce and wayward as thy will is; thou whose peerless eyes are tearless, and thy thoughts as cold sweet lilies; v thou that takest hearts and makest wrecks of loves to strew behind thee, whom the swallow sure should follow, finding summer where we find thee; vi thou that wakest hearts and breakest, and thy broken hearts forgive thee, that wilt make no pause and take no gift that love for love might give thee; vii thou that bindest eyes and blindest, serving worst who served thee longest; thou that speakest, and the weakest heart is his that was the strongest; viii take in season thought with reason; think what gifts are ours for giving; hear what beauty owes of duty to the love that keeps it living. ix dust that covers long dead lovers song blows off with breath that brightens; at its flashes their white ashes burst in bloom that lives and lightens. x had they bent not head or lent not ear to love and amorous duties, song had never saved for ever, love, the least of all their beauties. xi all the golden names of olden women yet by men's love cherished, all our dearest thoughts hold nearest, had they loved not, all had perished. xii if no fruit is of thy beauties, tell me yet, since none may win them, what and wherefore love should care for of all good things hidden in them? xiii pain for profit comes but of it, if the lips that lure their lover's hold no treasure past the measure of the lightest hour that hovers. xiv if they give not or forgive not gifts or thefts for grace or guerdon, love that misses fruit of kisses long will bear no thankless burden. xv if they care not though love were not, if no breath of his burn through them, joy must borrow song from sorrow, fear teach hope the way to woo them. xvi grief has measures soft as pleasure's, fear has moods that hope lies deep in, songs to sing him, dreams to bring him, and a red-rose bed to sleep in. xvii hope with fearless looks and tearless lies and laughs too near the thunder; fear hath sweeter speech and meeter for heart's love to hide him under. xviii joy by daytime fills his playtime full of songs loud mirth takes pride in; night and morrow weave round sorrow thoughts as soft as sleep to hide in. xix graceless faces, loveless graces, are but motes in light that quicken, sands that run down ere the sundown, roseleaves dead ere autumn sicken. xx fair and fruitless charms are bootless spells to ward off age's peril; lips that give not love shall live not, eyes that meet not eyes are sterile. xxi but the beauty bound in duty fast to love that falls off never love shall cherish lest it perish, and its root bears fruit for ever. two leaders [greek: bate domon, megaloi philotimoi nuktos paides apaides, hup euphroni pompa.] i o great and wise, clear-souled and high of heart, one the last flower of catholic love, that grows amid bare thorns their only thornless rose, from the fierce juggling of the priests' loud mart yet alien, yet unspotted and apart from the blind hard foul rout whose shameless shows mock the sweet heaven whose secret no man knows with prayers and curses and the soothsayer's art; one like a storm-god of the northern foam strong, wrought of rock that breasts and breaks the sea and thunders back its thunder, rhyme for rhyme answering, as though to outroar the tides of time and bid the world's wave back--what song should be theirs that with praise would bring and sing you home? ii with all our hearts we praise you whom ye hate, high souls that hate us; for our hopes are higher, and higher than yours the goal of our desire, though high your ends be as your hearts are great. your world of gods and kings, of shrine and state, was of the night when hope and fear stood nigher, wherein men walked by light of stars and fire till man by day stood equal with his fate. honour not hate we give you, love not fear, last prophets of past kind, who fill the dome of great dead gods with wrath and wail, nor hear time's word and man's: "go honoured hence, go home, night's childless children; here your hour is done; pass with the stars, and leave us with the sun." victor hugo in "dazzle mine eyes, or do i see three suns?" above the spring-tide sundawn of the year, a sunlike star, not born of day or night, filled the fair heaven of spring with heavenlier light, made of all ages orbed in one sole sphere whose light was as a titan's smile or tear; then rose a ray more flowerlike, starry white, like a child's eye grown lovelier with delight, sweet as a child's heart-lightening laugh to hear; and last a fire from heaven, a fiery rain as of god's wrath on the unclean cities, fell and lit the shuddering shades of half-seen hell that shrank before it and were cloven in twain; a beacon fired by lightning, whence all time sees red the bare black ruins of a crime. child's song what is gold worth, say, worth for work or play, worth to keep or pay, hide or throw away, hope about or fear? what is love worth, pray? worth a tear? golden on the mould lie the dead leaves rolled of the wet woods old, yellow leaves and cold, woods without a dove; gold is worth but gold; love's worth love. triads i i the word of the sun to the sky, the word of the wind to the sea, the word of the moon to the night, what may it be? ii the sense to the flower of the fly, the sense of the bird to the tree, the sense to the cloud of the light, who can tell me? iii the song of the fields to the kye, the song of the lime to the bee, the song of the depth to the height, who knows all three? ii i the message of april to may that may sends on into june and june gives out to july for birthday boon; ii the delight of the dawn in the day, the delight of the day in the noon, the delight of a song in a sigh that breaks the tune; iii the secret of passing away, the cost of the change of the moon, none knows it with ear or with eye, but all will soon. iii i the live wave's love for the shore, the shore's for the wave as it dies, the love of the thunder-fire that sears the skies, ii we shall know not though life wax hoar, till all life, spent into sighs, burn out as consumed with desire of death's strange eyes; iii till the secret be secret no more in the light of one hour as it flies, be the hour as of suns that expire or suns that rise. four songs of four seasons i. winter in northumberland i outside the garden the wet skies harden; the gates are barred on the summer side: "shut out the flower-time, sunbeam and shower-time; make way for our time," wild winds have cried. green once and cheery, the woods, worn weary, sigh as the dreary weak sun goes home: a great wind grapples the wave, and dapples the dead green floor of the sea with foam. ii through fell and moorland, and salt-sea foreland, our noisy norland resounds and rings; waste waves thereunder are blown in sunder, and winds make thunder with cloudwide wings; sea-drift makes dimmer the beacon's glimmer; nor sail nor swimmer can try the tides; and snowdrifts thicken where, when leaves quicken, under the heather the sundew hides. iii green land and red land, moorside and headland, are white as dead land, are all as one; nor honied heather, nor bells to gather, fair with fair weather and faithful sun: fierce frost has eaten all flowers that sweeten the fells rain-beaten; and winds their foes have made the snow's bed down in the rose-bed; deep in the snow's bed bury the rose. iv bury her deeper than any sleeper; sweet dreams will keep her all day, all night; though sleep benumb her and time o'ercome her, she dreams of summer, and takes delight, dreaming and sleeping in love's good keeping, while rain is weeping and no leaves cling; winds will come bringing her comfort, and singing her stories and songs and good news of the spring. v draw the white curtain close, and be certain she takes no hurt in her soft low bed; she feels no colder, and grows not older, though snows enfold her from foot to head; she turns not chilly like weed and lily in marsh or hilly high watershed, or green soft island in lakes of highland; she sleeps awhile, and she is not dead. vi for all the hours, come sun, come showers, are friends of flowers, and fairies all; when frost entrapped her, they came and lapped her in leaves, and wrapped her with shroud and pall; in red leaves wound her, with dead leaves bound her dead brows, and round her a death-knell rang; rang the death-bell for her, sang, "is it well for her, well, is it well with you, rose?" they sang. vii o what and where is the rose now, fairies, so shrill the air is, so wild the sky? poor last of roses, her worst of woes is the noise she knows is the winter's cry; his hunting hollo has scared the swallow; fain would she follow and fain would fly: but wind unsettles her poor last petals; had she but wings, and she would not die. viii come, as you love her, come close and cover her white face over, and forth again ere sunset glances on foam that dances, through lowering lances of bright white rain; and make your playtime of winter's daytime, as if the maytime were here to sing; as if the snowballs were soft like blowballs, blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring. ix each reed that grows in our stream is frozen, the fields it flows in are hard and black; the water-fairy waits wise and wary till time shall vary and thaws come back. "o sister, water," the wind besought her, "o twin-born daughter of spring with me, stay with me, play with me, take the warm way with me, straight for the summer and oversea." x but winds will vary, and wise and wary the patient fairy of water waits; all shrunk and wizen, in iron prison, till spring re-risen unbar the gates; till, as with clamour of axe and hammer, chained streams that stammer and struggle in straits burst bonds that shiver, and thaws deliver the roaring river in stormy spates. xi in fierce march weather white waves break tether, and whirled together at either hand, like weeds uplifted, the tree-trunks rifted in spars are drifted, like foam or sand, past swamp and sallow and reed-beds callow, through pool and shallow, to wind and lee, till, no more tongue-tied, full flood and young tide roar down the rapids and storm the sea. xii as men's cheeks faded on shores invaded, when shorewards waded the lords of fight; when churl and craven saw hard on haven the wide-winged raven at mainmast height; when monks affrighted to windward sighted the birds full-flighted of swift sea-kings; so earth turns paler when storm the sailor steers in with a roar in the race of his wings. xiii o strong sea-sailor, whose cheek turns paler for wind or hail or for fear of thee? o far sea-farer, o thunder-bearer, thy songs are rarer than soft songs be. o fleet-foot stranger, o north-sea ranger through days of danger and ways of fear, blow thy horn here for us, blow the sky clear for us, send us the song of the sea to hear. xiv roll the strong stream of it up, till the scream of it wake from a dream of it children that sleep, seamen that fare for them forth, with a prayer for them; shall not god care for them, angels not keep? spare not the surges thy stormy scourges; spare us the dirges of wives that weep. turn back the waves for us: dig no fresh graves for us, wind, in the manifold gulfs of the deep. xv o stout north-easter, sea-king, land-waster, for all thine haste, or thy stormy skill, yet hadst thou never, for all endeavour, strength to dissever or strength to spill, save of his giving who gave our living, whose hands are weaving what ours fulfil; whose feet tread under the storms and thunder; who made our wonder to work his will. xvi his years and hours, his world's blind powers, his stars and flowers, his nights and days, sea-tide and river, and waves that shiver, praise god, the giver of tongues to praise. winds in their blowing, and fruits in growing; time in its going, while time shall be; in death and living, with one thanksgiving, praise him whose hand is the strength of the sea. ii. spring in tuscany rose-red lilies that bloom on the banner; rose-cheeked gardens that revel in spring; rose-mouthed acacias that laugh as they climb, like plumes for a queen's hand fashioned to fan her with wind more soft than a wild dove's wing, what do they sing in the spring of their time? if this be the rose that the world hears singing, soft in the soft night, loud in the day, songs for the fire-flies to dance as they hear; if that be the song of the nightingale, springing forth in the form of a rose in may, what do they say of the way of the year? what of the way of the world gone maying, what of the work of the buds in the bowers, what of the will of the wind on the wall, fluttering the wall-flowers, sighing and playing, shrinking again as a bird that cowers, thinking of hours when the flowers have to fall? out of the throats of the loud birds showering, out of the folds where the flag-lilies leap, out of the mouths of the roses stirred, out of the herbs on the walls reflowering, out of the heights where the sheer snows sleep, out of the deep and the steep, one word. one from the lips of the lily-flames leaping, the glad red lilies that burn in our sight, the great live lilies for standard and crown; one from the steeps where the pines stand sleeping, one from the deep land, one from the height, one from the light and the might of the town. the lowlands laugh with delight of the highlands, whence may winds feed them with balm and breath from hills that beheld in the years behind a shape as of one from the blest souls' islands, made fair by a soul too fair for death, with eyes on the light that should smite them blind. vallombrosa remotely remembers, perchance, what still to us seems so near that time not darkens it, change not mars, the foot that she knew when her leaves were september's, the face lift up to the star-blind seer, that saw from his prison arisen his stars. and pisa broods on her dead, not mourning, for love of her loveliness given them in fee; and prato gleams with the glad monk's gift whose hand was there as the hand of morning; and siena, set in the sand's red sea, lifts loftier her head than the red sand's drift. and far to the fair south-westward lightens, girdled and sandalled and plumed with flowers, at sunset over the love-lit lands, the hill-side's crown where the wild hill brightens, saint fina's town of the beautiful towers, hailing the sun with a hundred hands. land of us all that have loved thee dearliest, mother of men that were lords of man, whose name in the world's heart works as a spell, my last song's light, and the star of mine earliest, as we turn from thee, sweet, who wast ours for a span, fare well we may not who say farewell. iii. summer in auvergne the sundawn fills the land full as a feaster's hand fills full with bloom of bland bright wine his cup; flows full to flood that fills from the arch of air it thrills those rust-red iron hills with morning up. dawn, as a panther springs, with fierce and fire-fledged wings leaps on the land that rings from her bright feet through all its lava-black cones that cast answer back and cliffs of footless track where thunders meet. the light speaks wide and loud from deeps blown clean of cloud as though day's heart were proud and heaven's were glad; the towers brown-striped and grey take fire from heaven of day as though the prayers they pray their answers had. higher in these high first hours wax all the keen church towers, and higher all hearts of ours than the old hills' crown, higher than the pillared height of that strange cliff-side bright with basalt towers whose might strong time bows down. and the old fierce ruin there of the old wild princes' lair whose blood in mine hath share gapes gaunt and great toward heaven that long ago watched all the wan land's woe whereon the wind would blow of their bleak hate. dead are those deeds; but yet their memory seems to fret lands that might else forget that old world's brand; dead all their sins and days; yet in this red clime's rays some fiery memory stays that sears their land. iv. autumn in cornwall the year lies fallen and faded on cliffs by clouds invaded, with tongues of storms upbraided, with wrath of waves bedinned; and inland, wild with warning, as in deaf ears or scorning, the clarion even and morning rings of the south-west wind. the wild bents wane and wither in blasts whose breath bows hither their grey-grown heads and thither, unblest of rain or sun; the pale fierce heavens are crowded with shapes like dreams beclouded, as though the old year enshrouded lay, long ere life were done. full-charged with oldworld wonders, from dusk tintagel thunders a note that smites and sunders the hard frore fields of air; a trumpet stormier-sounded than once from lists rebounded when strong men sense-confounded fell thick in tourney there. from scarce a duskier dwelling such notes of wail rose welling through the outer darkness, telling in the awful singer's ears what souls the darkness covers, what love-lost souls of lovers, whose cry still hangs and hovers in each man's born that hears. for there by hector's brother and yet some thousand other he that had grief to mother passed pale from dante's sight; with one fast linked as fearless, perchance, there only tearless; iseult and tristram, peerless and perfect queen and knight. a shrill-winged sound comes flying north, as of wild souls crying the cry of things undying, that know what life must be; or as the old year's heart, stricken too sore for hope to quicken by thoughts like thorns that thicken, broke, breaking with the sea. the white czar [in an english magazine of there appeared a version of some insolent lines addressed by "a russian poet to the empress of india." to these the first of the two following sonnets was designed to serve by way of counterblast. the writer will scarcely be suspected of royalism or imperialism; but it seemed to him that an insult levelled by muscovite lips at the ruler of england might perhaps be less unfitly than unofficially resented by an englishman who was also a republican.] i gehazi by the hue that chills thy cheek and pilate by the hue that sears thine hand whence all earth's waters cannot wash the brand that signs thy soul a manslayer's though thou speak all christ, with lips most murderous and most meek-- thou set thy foot where england's used to stand! thou reach thy rod forth over indian land! slave of the slaves that call thee lord, and weak as their foul tongues who praise thee! son of them whose presence put the snows and stars to shame in centuries dead and damned that reek below curse-consecrated, crowned with crime and flame, to them that bare thee like them shalt thou go forth of man's life--a leper white as snow. ii call for clear water, wash thine hands, be clean, cry, _what is truth?_ o pilate; thou shalt know haply too soon, and gnash thy teeth for woe ere the outer darkness take thee round unseen that hides the red ghosts of thy race obscene bound nine times round with hell's most dolorous flow, and in its pools thy crownless head lie low by his of spain who dared an english queen with half a world to hearten him for fight, till the wind gave his warriors and their might to shipwreck and the corpse-encumbered sea. but thou, take heed, ere yet thy lips wax white, lest as it was with philip so it be, o white of name and red of hand, with thee. rizpah how many sons, how many generations, for how long years hast thou bewept, and known nor end of torment nor surcease of moan, rachel or rizpah, wofullest of nations, crowned with the crowning sign of desolations, and couldst not even scare off with hand or groan those carrion birds devouring bone by bone the children of thy thousand tribulations? thou wast our warrior once; thy sons long dead against a foe less foul than this made head, poland, in years that sound and shine afar; ere the east beheld in thy bright sword-blade's stead the rotten corpse-light of the russian star that lights towards hell his bondslaves and their czar. to louis kossuth light of our fathers' eyes, and in our own star of the unsetting sunset! for thy name, that on the front of noon was as a flame in the great year nigh thirty years agone when all the heavens of europe shook and shone with stormy wind and lightning, keeps its fame and bears its witness all day through the same; not for past days and great deeds past alone, kossuth, we praise thee as our landor praised, but that now too we know thy voice upraised, thy voice, the trumpet of the truth of god, thine hand, the thunder-bearer's, raised to smite as with heaven's lightning for a sword and rod men's heads abased before the muscovite. translations from the french of villon the complaint of the fair armouress i meseemeth i heard cry and groan that sweet who was the armourer's maid; for her young years she made sore moan, and right upon this wise she said; "ah fierce old age with foul bald head, to spoil fair things thou art over fain; who holdeth me? who? would god i were dead! would god i were well dead and slain! ii "lo, thou hast broken the sweet yoke that my high beauty held above all priests and clerks and merchant-folk; there was not one but for my love would give me gold and gold enough, though sorrow his very heart had riven, to win from me such wage thereof as now no thief would take if given. iii "i was right chary of the same, god wot it was my great folly, for love of one sly knave of them, good store of that same sweet had he; for all my subtle wiles, perdie, god wot i loved him well enow; right evilly he handled me, but he loved well my gold, i trow. iv "though i gat bruises green and black, i loved him never the less a jot; though he bound burdens on my back, if he said 'kiss me and heed it not' right little pain i felt, god wot, when that foul thief's mouth, found so sweet, kissed me--much good thereof i got! i keep the sin and the shame of it. v "and he died thirty year agone. i am old now, no sweet thing to see; by god, though, when i think thereon, and of that good glad time, woe's me, and stare upon my changed body stark naked, that has been so sweet, lean, wizen, like a small dry tree, i am nigh mad with the pain of it. vi "where is my faultless forehead's white, the lifted eyebrows, soft gold hair, eyes wide apart and keen of sight, with subtle skill in the amorous air; the straight nose, great nor small, but fair, the small carved ears of shapeliest growth, chin dimpling, colour good to wear, and sweet red splendid kissing mouth? vii "the shapely slender shoulders small, long arms, hands wrought in glorious wise, round little breasts, the hips withal high, full of flesh, not scant of size, fit for all amorous masteries; *** ***** *****, *** *** ****** **** *** ******* ***** ** **** ***** ****** ** * ***** ****** ** **** *****? viii "a writhled forehead, hair gone grey, fallen eyebrows, eyes gone blind and red, their laughs and looks all fled away, yea, all that smote men's hearts are fled; the bowed nose, fallen from goodlihead; foul flapping ears like water-flags; peaked chin, and cheeks all waste and dead, and lips that are two skinny rags: ix "thus endeth all the beauty of us. the arms made short, the hands made lean, the shoulders bowed and ruinous, the breasts, alack! all fallen in; the flanks too, like the breasts, grown thin; ** *** *** ***** *****, *** ** **! for the lank thighs, no thighs but skin, they are specked with spots like sausage-meat. x "so we make moan for the old sweet days, poor old light women, two or three squatting above the straw-fire's blaze, the bosom crushed against the knee, like faggots on a heap we be, round fires soon lit, soon quenched and done; and we were once so sweet, even we! thus fareth many and many an one." a double ballad of good counsel now take your fill of love and glee, and after balls and banquets hie; in the end ye'll get no good for fee, but just heads broken by and by; light loves make beasts of men that sigh; they changed the faith of solomon, and left not samson lights to spy; good luck has he that deals with none! sweet orpheus, lord of minstrelsy, for this with flute and pipe came nigh the danger of the dog's heads three that ravening at hell's door doth lie; fain was narcissus, fair and shy, for love's love lightly lost and won, in a deep well to drown and die; good luck has he that deals with none! sardana, flower of chivalry, who conquered crete with horn and cry, for this was fain a maid to be and learn with girls the thread to ply; king david, wise in prophecy, forgot the fear of god for one seen washing either shapely thigh; good luck has he that deals with none! for this did amnon, craftily feigning to eat of cakes of rye, deflower his sister fair to see, which was foul incest; and hereby was herod moved, it is no lie, to lop the head of baptist john for dance and jig and psaltery; good luck has he that deals with none! next of myself i tell, poor me, how thrashed like clothes at wash was i stark naked, i must needs agree; who made me eat so sour a pie but katherine of vaucelles? thereby, noé took third part of that fun; such wedding-gloves are ill to buy; good luck has he that deals with none! but for that young man fair and free to pass those young maids lightly by, nay, would you burn him quick, not he; like broom-horsed witches though he fry, they are sweet as civet in his eye; but trust them, and you're fooled anon; for white or brown, and low or high, good luck has he that deals with none! fragment on death and paris be it or helen dying, who dies soever, dies with pain. he that lacks breath and wind for sighing, his gall bursts on his heart; and then he sweats, god knows what sweat!--again, no man may ease him of his grief; child, brother, sister, none were fain to bail him thence for his relief. death makes him shudder, swoon, wax pale, nose bend, veins stretch, and breath surrender, neck swell, flesh soften, joints that fail crack their strained nerves and arteries slender. o woman's body found so tender, smooth, sweet, so precious in men's eyes, must thou too bear such count to render? yes; or pass quick into the skies. [in the original here follows villon's masterpiece, the matchless _ballad of the ladies of old time_, so incomparably rendered in the marvellous version of d. g. rossetti; followed in its turn by the succeeding poem, as inferior to its companion as is my attempt at translation of it to his triumph in that higher and harder field.--a. c. s.] ballad of the lords of old time (after the former argument) what more? where is the third calixt, last of that name now dead and gone, who held four years the papalist? alphonso king of aragon, the gracious lord, duke of bourbon, and arthur, duke of old britaine? and charles the seventh, that worthy one? even with the good knight charlemain. the scot too, king of mount and mist, with half his face vermilion, men tell us, like an amethyst from brow to chin that blazed and shone; the cypriote king of old renown, alas! and that good king of spain, whose name i cannot think upon? even with the good knight charlemain. no more to say of them i list; 'tis all but vain, all dead and done: for death may no man born resist, nor make appeal when death comes on. i make yet one more question; where's lancelot, king of far bohain? where's he whose grandson called him son? even with the good knight charlemain. where is guesclin, the good breton? the lord of the eastern mountain-chain, and the good late duke of alençon? even with the good knight charlemain. ballad of the women of paris albeit the venice girls get praise for their sweet speech and tender air, and though the old women have wise ways of chaffering for amorous ware, yet at my peril dare i swear, search rome, where god's grace mainly tarries, florence and savoy, everywhere, there's no good girl's lip out of paris. the naples women, as folk prattle, are sweetly spoken and subtle enough: german girls are good at tattle, and prussians make their boast thereof; take egypt for the next remove, or that waste land the tartar harries, spain or greece, for the matter of love, there's no good girl's lip out of paris. breton and swiss know nought of the matter, gascony girls or girls of toulouse; two fishwives here with a half-hour's chatter would shut them up by threes and twos; calais, lorraine, and all their crews, (names enow the mad song marries) england and picardy, search them and choose, there's no good girl's lip out of paris. prince, give praise to our french ladies for the sweet sound their speaking carries; 'twixt rome and cadiz many a maid is, but no good girl's lip out of paris. ballad written for a bridegroom which villon gave to a gentleman newly married to send to his wife whom he had won with the sword at daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings, no whit for grief, but noble heart and high, with loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs, and takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh; such good i wish you! yea, and heartily i am fired with hope of true love's meed to get; know that love writes it in his book; for why, this is the end for which we twain are met. mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings you shall be always wholly till i die; and in my right against all bitter things sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try; seeing reason wills not that i cast love by (nor here with reason shall i chide or fret) nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly; this is the end for which we twain are met. and, which is more, when grief about me clings through fortune's fit or fume of jealousy, your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings as wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye. thus in your field my seed of harvestry thrives, for the fruit is like me that i set; god bids me tend it with good husbandry; this is the end for which we twain are met. princess, give ear to this my summary; that heart of mine your heart's love should forget shall never be: like trust in you put i: this is the end for which we twain are met. ballad against the enemies of france may he fall in with beasts that scatter fire, like jason, when he sought the fleece of gold, or change from man to beast three years entire, as king nebuchadnezzar did of old; or else have times as shameful and as bad as trojan folk for ravished helen had; or gulfed with proserpine and tantalus let hell's deep fen devour him dolorous, with worse to bear than job's worst sufferance, bound in his prison-maze with dædalus, who could wish evil to the state of france! may he four months, like bitterns in the mire, howl with head downmost in the lake-springs cold, or to bear harness like strong bulls for hire to the great turk for money down be sold; or thirty years like magdalen live sad, with neither wool nor web of linen clad; drown like narciss', or swing down pendulous like absalom with locks luxurious, or liker judas fallen to reprobance; or find such death as simon sorcerous, who could wish evil to the state of france! may the old times come of fierce octavian's ire, and in his belly molten coin be told; may he like victor in the mill expire, crushed between moving millstones on him rolled, or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad than in the whale's bulk jonas, when god bade: from phoebus' light, from juno's treasure-house driven, and from joys of venus amorous, and cursed of god most high to the utterance, as was the syrian king antiochus, who could wish evil to the state of france! prince, may the bright-winged brood of Æolus to sea-king glaucus' wild wood cavernous bear him bereft of peace and hope's least glance, for worthless is he to get good of us, who could wish evil to the state of france. the dispute of the heart and body of franÇois villon who is this i hear?--lo, this is i, thine heart, that holds on merely now by a slender string. strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart, the blood in me is turned to a bitter thing, seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering.-- yea, and for what?--for that thy sense found sweet.-- what irks it thee?--i feel the sting of it.-- leave me at peace.--why?--nay now, leave me at peace; i will repent when i grow ripe in wit.-- i say no more.--i care not though thou cease.-- what art thou, trow?--a man worth praise, perfay.-- this is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring.-- 'tis a mule's age.--art thou a boy still?--nay.-- is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting, grasping thy throat? know'st thou not anything?-- yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies, i can make out.--no more?--nay, in no wise. shall i begin again the count of these?-- thou art undone.--i will make shift to rise.-- i say no more.--i care not though thou cease.-- i have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart. wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, then might'st thou plead this pretext with thine heart; but if thou know not good from evil a whit, either thy head is hard as stone to hit, or shame, not honour, gives thee most content. what canst thou answer to this argument?-- when i am dead i shall be well at ease.-- god! what good hope!--thou art over eloquent.-- i say no more.--i care not though thou cease.-- whence is this ill?--from sorrow and not from sin. when saturn packed my wallet up for me i well believe he put these ills therein.-- fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee? hear now the wise king's counsel; thus saith he: all power upon the stars a wise man hath; there is no planet that shall do him scathe.-- nay, as they made me i grow and i decrease.-- what say'st thou?--truly this is all my faith.-- i say no more.--i care not though thou cease.-- wouldst thou live still?--god help me that i may!-- then thou must--what? turn penitent and pray?-- read always--what?--grave words and good to say; leave off the ways of fools, lest they displease.-- good; i will do it.--wilt thou remember?--yea.-- abide not till there come an evil day. i say no more.--i care not though thou cease. epistle in form of a ballad to his friends have pity, pity, friends, have pity on me, thus much at least, may it please you, of your grace! i lie not under hazel or hawthorn-tree down in this dungeon ditch, mine exile's place by leave of god and fortune's foul disgrace. girls, lovers, glad young folk and newly wed, jumpers and jugglers, tumbling heel o'er head, swift as a dart, and sharp as needle-ware, throats clear as bells that ring the kine to shed, your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there? singers that sing at pleasure, lawlessly, light, laughing, gay of word and deed, that race and run like folk light-witted as ye be and have in hand nor current coin nor base, ye wait too long, for now he's dying apace. rhymers of lays and roundels sung and read, ye'll brew him broth too late when he lies dead. nor wind nor lightning, sunbeam nor fresh air, may pierce the thick wall's bound where lies his bed; your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there? o noble folk from tithes and taxes free, come and behold him in this piteous case, ye that nor king nor emperor holds in fee, but only god in heaven; behold his face who needs must fast, sundays and holidays, which makes his teeth like rakes; and when he hath fed with never a cake for banquet but dry bread, must drench his bowels with much cold watery fare, with board nor stool, but low on earth instead; your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there? princes afore-named, old and young foresaid, get me the king's seal and my pardon sped, and hoist me in some basket up with care: so swine will help each other ill bested, for where one squeaks they run in heaps ahead. your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there? the epitaph in form of a ballad which villon made for himself and his comrades, expecting to be hanged along with them men, brother men, that after us yet live, let not your hearts too hard against us be; for if some pity of us poor men ye give, the sooner god shall take of you pity. here are we five or six strung up, you see, and here the flesh that all too well we fed bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred, and we the bones grow dust and ash withal; let no man laugh at us discomforted, but pray to god that he forgive us all. if we call on you, brothers, to forgive, ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we were slain by law; ye know that all alive have not wit alway to walk righteously; make therefore intercession heartily with him that of a virgin's womb was bred, that his grace be not as a dry well-head for us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; we are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, but pray to god that he forgive us all. the rain has washed and laundered us all five, and the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie, ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee our beards and eyebrows; never are we free, not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, drive at its wild will by the wind's change led, more pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall; men, for god's love, let no gibe here be said, but pray to god that he forgive us all. prince jesus, that of all art lord and head, keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed; we have nought to do in such a master's hall. be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, but pray to god that he forgive us all. from victor hugo take heed of this small child of earth; he is great: he hath in him god most high. children before their fleshly birth are lights alive in the blue sky. in our light bitter world of wrong they come; god gives us them awhile. his speech is in their stammering tongue, and his forgiveness in their smile. their sweet light rests upon our eyes. alas! their right to joy is plain. if they are hungry, paradise weeps, and, if cold, heaven thrills with pain. the want that saps their sinless flower speaks judgment on sin's ministers. man holds an angel in his power. ah! deep in heaven what thunder stirs, when god seeks out these tender things whom in the shadow where we sleep he sends us clothed about with wings, and finds them ragged babes that weep! nocturne la nuit écoute et se penche sur l'onde pour y cueillir rien qu'un souffle d'amour; pas de lueur, pas de musique au monde, pas de sommeil pour moi ni de séjour. o mère, ô nuit, de ta source profonde verse-nous, verse enfin l'oubli du jour. verse l'oubli de l'angoisse et du jour; chante; ton chant assoupit l'âme et l'onde: fais de ton sein pour mon âme un séjour, elle est bien lasse, ô mère, de ce monde, où le baiser ne veut pas dire amour, où l'âme aimée est moins que toi profonde. car toute chose aimée est moins profonde, o nuit, que toi, fille et mère du jour; toi dont l'attente est le répit du monde, toi dont le souffle est plein de mots d'amour, toi dont l'haleine enfle et réprime l'onde, toi dont l'ombre a tout le ciel pour séjour. la misère humble et lasse, sans séjour, s'abrite et dort sous ton aile profonde; tu fais à tous l'aumône de l'amour: toutes les soifs viennent boire à ton onde, tout ce qui pleure et se dérobe au jour, toutes les faims et tous les maux du monde. moi seul je veille et ne vois dans ce monde que ma douleur qui n'ait point de séjour où s'abriter sur ta rive profonde et s'endormir sous tes yeux loin du jour; je vais toujours cherchant au bord de l'onde le sang du beau pied blessé de l'amour. la mer est sombre où tu naquis, amour, pleine des pleurs et des sanglots du monde; on ne voit plus le gouffre où naît le jour luire et frémir sous ta lueur profonde; mais dans les coeurs d'homme où tu fais séjour la douleur monte et baisse comme une onde. envoi fille de l'onde et mère de l'amour, du haut séjour plein de ta paix profonde sur ce bas monde épands un peu de jour. thÉophile gautier pour mettre une couronne au front d'une chanson, il semblait qu'en passant son pied semât des roses, et que sa main cueillît comme des fleurs écloses les étoiles au fond du ciel en floraison. sa parole de marbre et d'or avait le son des clairons de l'été chassant les jours moroses; comme en thrace apollon banni des grands cieux roses, il regardait du coeur l'olympe, sa maison. le soleil fut pour lui le soleil du vieux monde, et son oeil recherchait dans les flots embrasés le sillon immortel d'où s'élança sur l'onde vénus, que la mer molle enivrait de baisers: enfin, dieu ressaisi de sa splendeur première, il trône, et son sépulcre est bâti de lumière. ode (le tombeau de thÉophile gautier) quelle fleur, ô mort, quel joyau, quel chant, quel vent, quel rayon de soleil couchant, sur ton front penché, sur ta main avide, sur l'âpre pâleur de ta lèvre aride, vibre encore et luit? ton sein est sans lait, ton oreille est vide, ton oeil plein de nuit. ta bouche est sans souffle et ton front sans ride; mais l'éclair voilé d'une flamme humide, flamme éclose au coeur d'un ciel pluvieux, rallume ta lèvre et remplit tes yeux de lueurs d'opale; ta bouche est vermeille et ton front joyeux, o toi qui fus pâle. comme aux jours divins la mère des dieux, reine au sein fécond, au corps radieux, tu surgis au bord de la tombe amère; tu nous apparais, ô mort, vierge et mère, effroi des humains, le divin laurier sur la tête altière et la lyre aux mains. nous reconnaissons, courbés vers la terre, que c'est la splendeur de ta face austère qui dore la nuit de nos longs malheurs; que la vie ailée aux mille couleurs, dont tu n'es que l'âme, refait par tes mains les prés et les fleurs, la rose et la femme. lune constante! astre ami des douleurs qui luis à travers la brume des pleurs! quelle flamme au fond de ta clarté molle Éclate et rougit, nouvelle auréole, ton doux front voilé? quelle étoile, ouvrant ses ailes, s'envole du ciel étoilé? pleurant ce rayon de jour qu'on lui vole, l'homme exècre en vain la mort triste et folle; mais l'astre qui fut à nos yeux si beau, là-haut, loin d'ici, dans un ciel nouveau plein d'autres étoiles, se lève, et pour lui la nuit du tombeau entr'ouvre ses voiles. l'âme est dans le corps comme un jeune oiseau dont l'aile s'agite au bord du berceau; la mort, déliant cette aile inquiète, quand nous écoutons la bouche muette qui nous dit adieu, fait de l'homme infime et sombre un poëte, du poëte un dieu. in obitum theophili poetÆ o lux pieridum et laurigeri deliciæ dei, vox leni zephyro lenior, ut veris amans novi tollit floridulis implicitum primitiis caput, ten' ergo abripuit non rediturum, ut redeunt novo flores vere novi, te quoque mors irrevocabilem? cur vatem neque te musa parens, te neque gratiæ, nec servare sibi te potuit fidum animi venus? quæ nunc ipsa magis vel puero te cinyreïo, te desiderium et flebilibus lumen amoribus, amissum queritur, sanguineis fusa comam genis. tantis tu lacrymis digne, comes dulcis apollini, carum nomen eris dîs superis atque sodalibus nobis, quîs eadem quæ tibi vivo patuit via non æquis patet, at te sequimur passibus haud tuis, at mæsto cinerem carmine non illacrymabilem tristesque exuvias floribus ac fletibus integris unà contegimus, nec citharâ nec sine tibiâ, votoque unanimæ vocis ave dicimus et vale. ad catullum catulle frater, ut velim comes tibi remota per vireta, per cavum nemus sacrumque ditis haud inhospiti specus, pedem referre, trans aquam stygis ducem secutus unum et unicum, catulle, te, ut ora vatis optimi reviserem, tui meique vatis ora, quem scio venustiorem adîsse vel tuo lacum, benigniora semper arva vel tuis, ubi serenus accipit suos deus, tegitque myrtus implicata laureâ, manuque mulcet halituque consecrat fovetque blanda mors amabili sinu, et ore fama fervido colit viros alitque qualis unus ille par tibi britannus unicusque in orbe præstitit amicus ille noster, ille ceteris poeta major, omnibusque floribus priore landor inclytum rosâ caput revinxit extulitque, quam tuâ manu recepit ac refovit integram suâ. dedication some nine years gone, as we dwelt together in the sweet hushed heat of the south french weather ere autumn fell on the vine-tressed hills or the season had shed one rose-red feather, friend, whose fame is a flame that fills all eyes it lightens and hearts it thrills with joy to be born of the blood which bred from a land that the grey sea girds and chills the heart and spirit and hand and head whose might is as light on a dark day shed, on a day now dark as a land's decline where all the peers of your praise are dead, in a land and season of corn and vine i pledged you a health from a beaker of mine but halfway filled to the lip's edge yet with hope for honey and song for wine. nine years have risen and eight years set since there by the wellspring our hands on it met: and the pledge of my songs that were then to be, i could wonder not, friend, though a friend should forget. for life's helm rocks to the windward and lee, and time is as wind, and as waves are we; and song is as foam that the sea-winds fret, though the thought at its heart should be deep as the sea. centre for reformation and renaissance studies victoria university toronto lyrics from the song-books of the elizabethan age. note.--_two hundred and fifty copies of this large paper edition printed, each of which is numbered._ _no. ._ lyrics from the song-books of the elizabethan age: edited by a.h. bullen. london: john c. nimmo, , king william street, strand, w.c. . chiswick press:--c. whittingham and co., tooks court, chancery lane. preface. the present anthology is intended to serve as a companion volume to the poetical miscellanies published in england at the close of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries. a few of the lyrics here collected are, it is true, included in "england's helicon," davison's "poetical rhapsody," and "the ph[oe]nix' nest"; and some are to be found in the modern collections of oliphant, collier, rimbault, mr. w.j. linton, canon hannah, and professor arber. but many of the poems in the present volume are, i have every reason to believe, unknown even to those who have made a special study of elizabethan poetry. i have gone carefully through all the old song-books preserved in the library of the british museum, and i have given extracts from two books of which there is no copy in our national library. a first attempt of this kind must necessarily be imperfect. were i to go over the ground again i should enlarge the collection, and i should hope to gain tidings of some song-books (mentioned by bibliographers) which i have hitherto been unable to trace. in elizabeth's days composers were not content to regard the words of a song as a mere peg on which to hang the music, but sought the services of true-born lyrists. it is not too much to say that, for delicate perfection of form, some of the elizabethan songs can compare with the choicest epigrams in the greek anthology. at least one composer, thomas campion, wrote both the words and the music of his songs; and there are no sweeter lyrics in english poetry than are to be found in campion's song-books. but it may be assumed that, as a rule, the composers are responsible only for the music. it was in the year of the spanish armada, , that william byrd published "psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety," the first elizabethan song-book of importance. few biographical particulars concerning byrd have come down. as he was senior chorister of st. paul's in , he is conjectured to have been born about . from to he was organist of lincoln cathedral. he and tallis were granted a patent, which must have proved fairly lucrative, for the printing of music and the vending of music-paper. in later life he appears to have become a convert to romanism. his last work was published in , and he died at a ripe old age on the th of july, . the "psalms, sonnets, and songs" are dedicated to sir christopher hatton. in the dedicatory epistle he terms the collection "this first printed work of mine _in english_;" in he had published with tallis "cantiones sacræ." from the title one would gather that byrd's first english collection was mainly of a sacred character, but in an epistle to the reader he hastens to set us right on that point:--"benign reader, here is offered unto thy courteous acceptance music of sundry sorts, and to content divers humours. if thou be disposed to pray, here are psalms; if to be merry, here are sonnets." there is, indeed, fare for all comers; and a reader has only himself to blame if he goes away dissatisfied. in those days, as in these, it was not uncommon for a writer to attribute all faults, whether of omission or commission, to the luckless printer. byrd, on the other hand, solemnly warns us that "in the expression of these songs either by voices or instruments, if there be any jar or dissonance," we are not to blame the printer, who has been at the greatest pains to secure accuracy. then the composer makes a modest appeal on behalf of himself, requesting those who find any fault in the composition "either with courtesy to let the same be concealed," or "in friendly sort" point out the errors, which shall be corrected in a future impression. this is the proper manner of dealing between gentlemen. his next publication was "songs of sundry natures," , which was dedicated to sir henry carey, who seems to have been as staunch a patron of byrd as his son, sir george carey, was of dowland. in appeared byrd's last work, "psalms, songs, and sonnets." the composer must have taken to heart the precepts set down by sir edward dyer in "my mind to me a kingdom is," (printed in "psalms, sonnets, and songs") for his dedicatory epistle and his address to the reader show him to have been a man who had laid up a large store of genial wisdom, upon which he could draw freely in the closing days of an honourable life. his earlier works had been well received, and in addressing "all true lovers of music" he knew that he could rely upon their cordial sympathy. "i am much encouraged," he writes, "to commend to you these my last labours, for mine _ultimum vale_;" and then follows a piece of friendly counsel: "only this i desire, that you will be as careful to hear them well expressed, as i have been both in the composing and correcting of them. otherwise the best song that ever was made will seem harsh and unpleasant; for that the well expressing of them either by voices or instruments is the life of our labours, which is seldom or never well performed at the first singing or playing." no musician of the elizabethan age was more famous than john dowland, whose "heavenly touch upon the lute" was commended in a well-known sonnet (long attributed to shakespeare) by richard barnfield. dowland was born at westminster in . at the age of twenty, or thereabouts, he started on his travels; and, after rambling through "the chiefest parts of france, a nation furnished with great variety of music," he bent his course "towards the famous province of germany," where he found "both excellent masters and most honourable patrons of music." in the course of his travels he visited venice, padua, genoa, ferrara, and florence, gaining applause everywhere by his musical skill. on his return to england he took his degree at oxford, as bachelor of music, in . in he published "the first book of songs or airs of four parts, with tableture for the lute." prefixed is a dedicatory epistle to sir george carey (second lord hunsdon), in which the composer alludes gracefully to the kindness he had received from lady elizabeth carey, the patroness of spenser. a "second book of songs or airs" was published in , when the composer was at the danish court, serving as lutenist to king christian the fourth. the work was dedicated to the famous countess of bedford, whom ben jonson immortalized in a noble sonnet. from a curious address to the reader by george eastland, the publisher, it would appear that in spite of dowland's high reputation the sale of his works was not very profitable. "if the consideration of mine own estate," writes eastland, "or the true worth of money, had prevailed with me above the desire of pleasing you and showing my love to my friends, these second labours of master dowland--whose very name is a large preface of commendation to the book--had for ever lain hid in darkness, or at the least frozen in a cold and foreign country." the expenses of publication were heavy, but he consoled himself with the thought that his high-spirited enterprise would be appreciated by a select audience. in appeared "the third and last book of songs or airs;" and, in , when he was acting as lutenist to lord walden, dowland issued his last work, "a pilgrime's solace." he is supposed to have died about , leaving a son, robert dowland, who gained some fame as a composer. modern critics have judged that dowland's music was somewhat overrated by his contemporaries, and that he is wanting in variety and originality. whether these critics are right or wrong, it would be difficult to overrate the poetry. in attempting to select representative lyrics one is embarrassed by the wealth of material. the rich clusters of golden verse hang so temptingly that it is difficult to cease plucking when once we have begun. in his charming collection of "rare poems" mr. linton quotes freely from the song-books of byrd and dowland, but gives only one lyric of dr. thomas campion. as mr. linton is an excellent judge of poetry, i can only suppose that he had no wide acquaintance with campion's writings, when he put together his dainty anthology. there is clear evidence[ ] that campion wrote not only the music but the words for his songs--that he was at once an eminent composer and a lyric poet of the first rank. he published a volume of latin verse, which displays ease and fluency (though the prosody is occasionally erratic); as a masque-writer he was inferior only to ben jonson; he was the author of treatises on the arts of music and poetry; and he practised as a physician. it would be interesting to ascertain some facts about the life of this highly-gifted man; but hitherto little information has been collected. the oxford historian, good old anthony-à-wood, went altogether wrong and confused our thomas campion with another person of the same name who took his degree in --five years after the poet's death. it is probable that our thomas campion was the second son of thomas campion of witham, essex, and that he was distantly related to edmund campion the famous jesuit. his first work was his "epigrammatum libri duo," published in , and republished in . the first edition is exceedingly rare; there is no copy in the british museum. francis meres, in his very valuable (and very tedious) "wit's treasury," , mentions campion among the "english men, being latin poets," who had "attained good report and honorable advancement in the latin empire." in campion and philip rosseter published jointly "a book of airs." the music was partly written by campion and partly by rosseter; but the whole of the poetry may be safely assigned to campion. from a dedicatory epistle, by rosseter, to sir thomas monson, we learn that campion's songs, "made at his vacant hours and privately imparted to his friends," had been passed from hand to hand and had suffered from the carelessness of successive transcribers. some impudent persons, we are told, had "unrespectively challenged" (_i.e._ claimed) the credit both of the music and the poetry. the address _to the reader_, which follows the dedicatory epistle, is unsigned, but appears to have been written by campion. "what epigrams are in poetry," it begins, "the same are airs in music: then in their chief perfection when they are short and well seasoned. but to clog a light song with a long preludium is to corrupt the nature of it. many rests in music were invented either for necessity of the fugue, or granted as an harmonical licence in songs of many parts; but in airs i find no use they have, unless it be to make a vulgar and trivial modulation seem to the ignorant strange, and to the judicial tedious." it is among the curiosities of literature that this true poet, who had so exquisite a sense of form, and whose lyrics are frequently triumphs of metrical skill, should have published a work (entitled "observations in the art of english poesy") to prove that the use of rhyme ought to be discontinued, and that english metres should be fashioned after classical models. "poesy," he writes, "in all kind of speaking is the chief beginner and maintainer of eloquence, not only helping the ear with the acquaintance of sweet numbers, but also raising the mind to a more high and lofty conceit. for this end have i studied to induce a true form of versifying into our language; for the vulgar and artificial custom of rhyming hath, i know, deterr'd many excellent wits from the exercise of english poesy." the work was published in , the year after he had issued the first collection of his charming lyrics. it was in answer to campion that samuel daniel wrote his "defence of rhyme" ( ), one of the ablest critical treatises in the english language. daniel was puzzled, as well he might be, that an attack on rhyme should have been made by one "whose commendable rhymes, albeit now himself an enemy to rhyme, have given heretofore to the world the best notice of his worth." it is pleasant to find daniel testifying to the fact that campion was "a man of fair parts and good reputation." ben jonson, as we are informed by drummond of hawthornden, wrote "a discourse of poesy both against campion and daniel;" but the discourse was never published. in his "observations" campion gives us a few specimen-poems written in the unrhymed metres that he proposed to introduce. the following verses are the least objectionable that i can find:-- "just beguiler, kindest love yet only chastest, royal in thy smooth denials, frowning or demurely smiling, still my pure delight. let me view thee with thoughts and with eyes affected, and if then the flames do murmur, quench them with thy virtue, charm them with thy stormy brows. heaven so cheerful laughs not ever; hoary winter knows his season, even the freshest summer morns from angry thunder yet not still secure." there is artful ease and the touch of a poet's hand in those verses; but the muses shield us from such innovations! campion's second collection, "two books of airs," is undated; but, from an allusion to the death of prince henry, we may conclude that it was published about the year . the first book consists of "divine and moral songs" and the second of "light conceits of lovers." in dealing with sacred themes, particularly when they venture on paraphrases of the psalms, our poets seldom do themselves justice; but i claim for campion that he is neither stiff nor awkward. henry vaughan is the one english poet whose devotional fervour found the highest lyrical expression; and campion's impassioned poem "awake, awake, thou heavy sprite!" (p. ) is not unworthy of the great silurist. among the sacred verses are some lines ("jack and joan they think no ill," p. ) in praise of a contented countryman and his good wife. a sweeter example of an old pastoral lyric could nowhere be found, not even in the pages of nicholas breton. the "third and fourth books of airs" are also undated, but they were probably published in . in this collection, where all is good, my favourite is "now winter nights enlarge" (p. ). others may prefer the melodious serenade, worthy even of shelley, "shall i come, sweet love, to thee" (p. ). but there is one poem of campion (printed in the collection of ) which, for strange richness of romantic beauty, could hardly be matched outside the sonnets of shakespeare:-- "when thou must home to shades of underground, and there arrived, a new admirèd guest, the beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, white iope, blithe helen, and the rest, to hear the stories of thy finish'd love from that smooth tongue whose music hell can move: then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, of tourneys and great challenges of knights, and all these triumphs for thy beauty sake: when thou hast told these honours done to thee, then tell, o tell, how thou didst murder me!" the mention of "white iope" was suggested by a passage of propertius:-- "sunt apud infernos tot millia formosarum; pulchra sit, in superis, si licet, una locis. vobiscum[ ] est _iope_, vobiscum candida tyro," &c. campion was steeped in classical feeling: his rendering of catullus' "vivamus, mea lesbia, atque amemus" (p. ) is, so far as it goes, delightful. it is time that campion should again take his rightful place among the lyric poets of england. in his own day his fame stood high. camden did not hesitate to couple his name with the names of spenser and sidney; but modern critics have persistently neglected him. the present anthology contains a large number of his best poems; and i venture to hope that my attempt to recall attention to the claims of this true poet will not be fruitless. there is much excellent verse hidden away in the song-books of robert jones, a famous performer on the lute. between and jones issued six musical works. two of these--"the first set of madrigals," , and "the muses' garden for delight," ,--i have unfortunately not been able to see, as i have not yet succeeded in discovering their present resting-place. of "ultimum vale, or the third book of airs" [ ], only one copy is known. it formerly belonged to rimbault, and is now preserved in the library of the royal college of music. the other publications of jones are of the highest rarity. by turns the songs are grave and gay. on one page is the warning to love-- "little boy, pretty knave, hence, i beseech you! for if you hit me, knave, in faith i'll breech you." (p. .) on another we read "love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly," (p. ); but the vain hopes, seeking to woo the sun's fair light, were scorched with fire and drown'd in woe, "and none but love their woeful hap did rue, for love did know that their desires were true; though fate frownèd. and now drownèd they in sorrow dwell, it was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell." the last line is superb. i have drawn freely from the madrigals of weelkes, morley, farmer, wilbye and others. thomas ford's "music of sundry kinds," , has yielded some very choice verse; and francis pilkington's collections have not been consulted in vain. from john attye's "first book of airs," , i have selected one song, (p. ), only one,--warm and tender and delicious. some pleasant verses have been drawn from the rare song-books of william corkine; and thomas vautor's "songs of divers airs and natures," , have supplied some quaint snatches, notably the address to the owl, (p. ) "sweet suffolk owl, so trimly dight." i have purposely refrained from giving many humorous ditties. had i been otherwise minded there was plenty of material to my hand in the rollicking rounds and catches of ravenscroft's admirable collections. as i have no technical knowledge of the subject, it would be impertinent for me to attempt to estimate the merits of the music contained in these old song-books; but i venture with all confidence to commend the poetry to the reader's attention. there is one poem which i have deliberately kept back. it occurs in "the first part of airs, french, polish, and others together, some in tableture and some in prick-song," . the composer was a certain captain tobias hume, but who the author of the poem was i know not. here is the first stanza:-- "fain would i change that note to which fond love hath charm'd me, long long to sing by rote, fancying that that harm'd me: yet when this thought doth come, 'love is the perfect sum of all delight,' i have no other choice either for pen or voice to sing or write." the other stanza shall occupy the place of honour in the front of my anthology; for among all the elizabethan song-books i have found no lines of more faultless beauty, of happier cadence or sweeter simplicity, no lines that more justly deserve to be treasured in the memory while memory lasts. [ ] in his address _to the reader_ prefixed to the "fourth book of airs" he writes:--"some words are in these books which have been clothed in music by others, and i am content they then served their turn: _yet give me leave to make use of mine own_." again, in the address _to the reader_ prefixed to the "third book of airs:"--"in these english airs i have chiefly aimed to _couple my words and notes lovingly together; which will be much for him to do that hath not power over both_." [ ] some editions read "vobiscum antiope." _in lavdem amoris._ o love, they wrong thee mvch that say thy sweet is bitter, when thy rich frvit is svch as nothing can be sweeter. fair hovse of joy and bliss, where trvest pleasvre is, i do adore thee; i know thee what thov art, i serve thee with my heart, and fall before thee. captain hume's _first part of airs_, . index of first lines a little pretty bonny lass was walking (farmer) a shepherd in a shade his plaining made (john dowland) a sparrow-hawk proud did hold in wicked jail (weelkes) a woman's looks (jones) about the maypole new, with glee and merriment (morley) adieu! sweet amaryllis (wilbye) april is in my mistress' face (morley) arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun (jones) awake, awake! thou heavy sprite (campion) awake, sweet love! 'tis time to rise (youll) ay me, can every rumour (wilbye) ay me, my mistress scorns my love (bateson) behold a wonder here (john dowland) brown is my love, but graceful (musica transalpina) by a fountain where i lay (john dowland) by the moon we sport and play (ravenscroft) canst thou love and lie alone (melismata) change thy mind since she doth change (robert dowland) cold winter's ice is fled and gone (weelkes) come away! come, sweet love! (john dowland) come, o come, my life's delight (campion) come, phyllis, come into these bowers (ford) come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing (wilbye) come, you pretty false-eyed wanton (campion) could my heart more tongues employ (campion) crownèd with flowers i saw fair amaryllis (byrd) dare you haunt our hallow'd green (ravenscroft) dear, if i with guilt would gild a true intent (campion) dear, if you change i'll never choose again (john dowland) do you not know how love lost first his seeing (morley) draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares (wilbye) each day of thine, sweet month of may (youll) every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be (campion) fair phyllis i saw sitting all alone (farmer) farewell, false love, the oracle of lies (byrd) farewell, my joy! (weelkes) fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new (john dowland) fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed (campion) flora gave me fairest flowers (wilbye) follow your saint, follow with accents sweet (campion and rosseter) fond wanton youths make love a god (jones) from citheron the warlike boy is fled (byrd) from fame's desire, from love's delight retired (john dowland) give beauty all her right (campion) go, crystal tears! like to the morning showers (john dowland) go, turn away those cruel eyes (egerton ms. ) good men, show! if you can tell (campion) ha! ha! ha! this world doth pass (weelkes) happy he (jones) happy, o! happy he, who not affecting (wilbye) have i found her? o rich finding (pilkington) heigh ho! chill go to plough no more (mundy) how many things as yet (maynard) how shall i then describe my love (ford) i always loved to call my lady rose (lichfild) i have house and land in kent (melismata) i joy not in no earthly bliss (byrd) i live and yet methinks i do not breathe (wilbye) i marriage would forswear (maynard) i only am the man (maynard) i saw my lady weep (john dowland) i sung sometime my thoughts and fancy's pleasure (wilbye) i weigh not fortune's frown nor smile (gibbons) i will no more come to thee (morley) if fathers knew but how to leave (jones) if i urge my kind desires (campion and rosseter) if my complaints could passions move (john dowland) if thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love (campion) if women could be fair and never fond (byrd) in crystal towers and turrets richly set (byrd) in darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be (coprario) in midst of woods or pleasant grove (mundy) in pride of may (weelkes) in sherwood lived stout robin hood (jones) in the merry month of may (este) inconstant laura makes me death to crave (greaves) injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me (lichfild) is love a boy,--what means he then to strike (byrd) it was the frog in the well (melismata) jack and joan they think no ill (campion) kind are her answers (campion) kind in unkindness, when will you relent (campion and rosseter) lady, the birds right fairly (weelkes) lady, the melting crystal of your eye (greaves) lady, when i behold the roses sprouting (wilbye) let not chloris think, because (danyel) let not the sluggish sleep (byrd) let us in a lovers' round (mason and earsden) like two proud armies marching in the field (weelkes) lo! country sport that seldom fades (weelkes) lo! when back mine eye (campion) long have i lived in court (maynard) love is a bable (jones) love not me for comely grace (wilbye) love's god is a boy (jones) love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly (jones) "maids are simple," some men say (campion) maids to bed and cover coal (melismata) more than most fair, full of all heavenly fire (peerson) mother, i will have a husband (vautor) my hope a counsel with my heart (este) my love bound me with a kiss (jones) my love is neither young nor old (jones) my mind to me a kingdom is (byrd) my prime of youth is but a frost of cares (mundy) my sweetest lesbia, let us live and love (campion) my thoughts are winged with hopes, my hopes with love (john dowland) never love unless you can (campion) now each creature joys the other (farmer) now every tree renews his summer's green (weelkes) now god be with old simeon (pammelia) now have i learn'd with much ado at last (jones) now i see thy looks were feignèd (ford) now is my chloris fresh as may (weelkes) now is the month of maying (morley) now let her change! and spare not (campion) now let us make a merry greeting (weelkes) now what is love, i pray thee tell (jones) now winter nights enlarge (campion) o say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries (ward) o stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting (farmer) o sweet, alas, what say you (morley) o sweet delight, o more than human bliss (campion) oft have i mused the cause to find (jones) on a time the amorous silvy (attye) once did i love and yet i live (jones) once i thought to die for love (youll) our country swains in the morris dance (weelkes) pierce did love fair petronel (farnaby) pour forth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears (pilkington) robin is a lovely lad (mason and earsden) round-a, round-a, keep your ring (ravenscroft) see, see, mine own sweet jewel (morley) shall a frown or angry eye (corkine) shall i abide this jesting (alison) shall i come, sweet love, to thee (campion) shall i look to ease my grief (jones) she whose matchless beauty staineth (jones) shoot, false love! i care not (morley) silly boy! 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly (campion) simkin said that sis was fair (farnaby) since first i saw your face i resolved to honour and renown ye (ford) sing we and chant it (morley) sister, awake! close not your eyes (bateson) sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me (campion) so light is love, in matchless beauty shining (wilbye) some can flatter, some can feign (corkine) sweet, come again (campion and rosseter) sweet cupid, ripen her desire (corkine) sweet heart, arise! why do you sleep (weelkes) sweet kate (jones) sweet love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory (wilbye) sweet love, i will no more abuse thee (weelkes) sweet love, my only treasure (jones) sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise (john dowland) sweet suffolk owl so trimly dight (vautor) take here my heart, i give it thee for ever (weelkes) take time while time doth last (farmer) the fly she sat in shamble-row (deuteromelia) the gods have heard my vows (weelkes) the lark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best (pammelia) the love of change hath changed the world throughout (carlton) the lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall (john dowland) the man of life upright (campion and rosseter) the greedy hawk with sudden sight of lure (byrd) the match that's made for just and true respects (byrd) the nightingale so pleasant and so gay (byrd) the nightingale so soon as april bringeth (bateson) the peaceful western wind (campion) there is a garden in her face (campion) there is a lady sweet and kind (ford) there were three ravens sat on a tree (melismata) think'st thou, kate, to put me down (jones) think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning (campion) thou art but young, thou say'st (wilbye) thou art not fair, for all thy red and white (campion and rosseter) thou pretty bird, how do i see (danyel) though amaryllis dance in green (byrd) though my carriage be but careless (weelkes) though your strangeness frets my heart (jones) thrice blessèd be the giver (farnaby) thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air (campion) thus i resolve and time hath taught me so (campion) thus saith my chloris bright (wilbye) thus saith my galatea (morley) to his sweet lute apollo sang the motions of the spheres (campion) to plead my faith, where faith hath no reward (robert dowland) to shorten winter's sadness (weelkes) toss not my soul, o love, 'twixt hope and fear (john dowland) turn all thy thoughts to eyes (campion) unto the temple of thy beauty (ford) upon a hill the bonny boy (weelkes) upon a summer's day love went to swim (byrd) vain men! whose follies make a god of love (campion) wake, sleepy thyrsis, wake (pilkington) we be soldiers three (deuteromelia) we be three poor mariners (deuteromelia) we must not part as others do (egerton ms. ) we shepherds sing, we pipe, we play (weelkes) wedded to will is witless (byrd) weep no more, thou sorry boy (tomkins) weep you no more, sad fountains (john dowland) welcome, sweet pleasure (weelkes) were i a king i might command content (mundy) were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me (campion) what hap had i to marry a shrow (pammelia) what is our life? a play of passion (gibbons) what needeth all this travail and turmoiling (wilbye) what pleasure have great princes (byrd) what poor astronomers are they (john dowland) what then is love, sings corydon (ford) when flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth (carlton) when i was otherwise than now i am (byrd) when thou must home to shades of underground (campion and rosseter) when younglings first on cupid fix their sight (byrd) where most my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking (wilbye) where shall a sorrow great enough be sought (peerson) whether men do laugh or weep (campion and rosseter) while that the sun with his beams hot (byrd) whilst youthful sports are lasting (weelkes) white as lilies was her face (john dowland) whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers (pilkington) who likes to love, let him take heed (byrd) who made thee, hob, forsake the plough (byrd) who prostrate lies at women's feet (bateson) who would have thought that face of thine (farmer) why are you ladies staying (weelkes) wilt thou, unkind! thus 'reave me (john dowland) wise men patience never want (campion) woeful heart with grief oppressèd (john dowland) ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes (greaves) you blessèd bowers whose green leaves now are spreading (farmer) you that wont to my pipe's sound (morley) your shining eyes and golden hair (bateson) lyrics from elizabethan song-books. _let well-tuned words amaze with harmony divine._ campion. lyrics from elizabethan song-books. from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . a little pretty bonny lass was walking in midst of may before the sun gan rise; i took her by the hand and fell to talking of this and that as best i could devise: i swore i would--yet still she said i should not; do what i would, and yet for all i could not. from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . a shepherd in a shade his plaining made of love and lover's wrong unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, and thus began his song: "since love and fortune will, i honour still your fair and lovely eye: what conquest will it be, sweet nymph, for thee if i for sorrow die? restore, restore my heart again which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, lest that, enforced by your disdain, i sing 'fie on love! it is a foolish thing.' "my heart where have you laid? o cruel maid, to kill when you might save! why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth, without a tomb or grave? o let it be entombed and lie in your sweet mind and memory, lest i resound on every warbling string 'fie, fie on love! that is a foolish thing.' restore, restore my heart again which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, lest that, enforced by your disdain, i sing 'fie on love! it is a foolish thing.'" from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of six parts_, . a sparrow-hawk proud did hold in wicked jail music's sweet chorister, the nightingale, to whom with sighs she said: "o set me free! and in my song i'll praise no bird but thee." the hawk replied, "i will not lose my diet to let a thousand such enjoy their quiet." from robert jones' _first book of airs_, . a woman's looks are barbèd hooks, that catch by art the strongest heart when yet they spend no breath; but let them speak, and sighing break forth into tears, their words are spears that wound our souls to death. the rarest wit is made forget, and like a child is oft beguiled with love's sweet-seeming bait; love with his rod so like a god commands the mind; we cannot find, fair shows hide foul deceit. time, that all things in order brings, hath taught me how to be more slow in giving faith to speech, since women's words no truth affords, and when they kiss they think by this us men to over-reach. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets to five voices_, . about the maypole new, with glee and merriment, while as the bagpipe tooted it, thyrsis and chloris fine together footed it: and to the joyous instrument still they went to and fro, and finely flaunted it, and then both met again and thus they chaunted it. fa la! the shepherds and the nymphs them round enclosèd had, wond'ring with what facility, about they turn'd them in such strange agility; and still when they unloosèd had, with words full of delight they gently kissed them, and thus sweetly to sing they never missed them. fa la! from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . adieu, sweet amaryllis! for since to part your will is, o heavy, heavy tiding! here is for me no biding. yet once again, ere that i part with you, adieu, sweet amaryllis; sweet, adieu! from thomas morley's _first book of madrigals_, . april is in my mistress' face, and july in her eyes hath place; within her bosom is september, but in her heart a cold december. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . arise, my thoughts, and mount you with the sun, call all the winds to make you speedy wings, and to my fairest maya see you run and weep your last while wantonly she sings; then if you cannot move her heart to pity, let _oh, alas, ay me_ be all your ditty. arise, my thoughts, no more, if you return denied of grace which only you desire, but let the sun your wings to ashes burn and melt your passions in his quenchless fire; yet, if you move fair maya's heart to pity, let smiles and love and kisses be your ditty. arise, my thoughts, beyond the highest star and gently rest you in fair maya's eye, for that is fairer than the brightest are; but, if she frown to see you climb so high, couch in her lap, and with a moving ditty, of smiles and love and kisses, beg for pity. from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). awake, awake! thou heavy sprite that sleep'st the deadly sleep of sin! rise now and walk the ways of light, 'tis not too late yet to begin. seek heaven early, seek it late; true faith finds still an open gate. get up, get up, thou leaden man! thy track, to endless joy or pain, yields but the model of a span: yet burns out thy life's lamp in vain! one minute bounds thy bane or bliss; then watch and labour while time is. from henry youll's _canzonets to three voices_, . awake, sweet love! 'tis time to rise: ph[oe]bus is risen in the east, spreading his beams on those fair eyes which are enclosed with nature's rest. awake, awake from heavy sleep which all thy thoughts in silence keep! from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . ay me, can every rumour thus start my lady's humour? name ye some galante to her, why straight forsooth i woo her. then burst[s] she forth in passion "you men love but for fashion;" yet sure i am that no man ever so lovèd woman. then alas, love, be wary, for women be contrary. from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . ay me, my mistress scorns my love; i fear she will most cruel prove. i weep, i sigh, i grieve, i groan; yet she regardeth not my moan. then, love, adieu! it fits not me to weep for her that laughs at thee. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . behold a wonder here! love hath receiv'd his sight! which many hundred year hath not beheld the light. such beams infusèd be by cynthia in his eyes, as first have made him see and then have made him wise. love now no more will weep for them that laugh the while! nor wake for them that sleep, nor sigh for them that smile! so powerful is the beauty that love doth now behold, as love is turned to duty that's neither blind nor bold. thus beauty shows her might to be of double kind; in giving love his sight and striking folly blind. from the second book of _musica transalpina_, . brown is my love, but graceful: and each renownèd whiteness match'd with thy lovely brown loseth its brightness. fair is my love, but scornful: yet have i seen despisèd dainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prizèd. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . by a fountain where i lay, (all blessèd be that blessèd day!) by the glimm'ring of the sun, (o never be her shining done!) when i might see alone my true love, fairest one! love's dear light! love's clear sight! no world's eyes can clearer see! a fairer sight, none can be! fair with garlands all addrest, (was never nymph more fairly blest!) blessèd in the highest degree, (so may she ever blessèd be!) came to this fountain near, with such a smiling cheer! such a face, such a grace! happy, happy eyes, that see such a heavenly sight as she! then i forthwith took my pipe, which i all fair and clean did wipe, and upon a heavenly ground, all in the grace of beauty found, play'd this roundelay: "welcome, fair queen of may! sing, sweet air! welcome, fair! welcome be the shepherds' queen, the glory of all our green!" from thomas ravenscroft's _brief discourse, &c._, . the urchins' dance. by the moon we sport and play, with the night begins our day: as we frisk the dew doth fall; trip it, little urchins all! lightly as the little bee, two by two, and three by three; and about, about go we. the elves' dance. round about in a fair ring-a, thus we dance and thus we sing-a; trip and go, to and fro, over this green-a; all about, in and out, over this green-a. from _melismata_, . the courtier's good morrow to his mistress. canst thou love and lie alone? love is so disgracèd, pleasure is best wherein is rest in a heart embracèd. rise, rise, rise! daylight do not burn out; bells do ring and birds do sing, only i that mourn out. morning-star doth now appear, wind is hushed and sky is clear; come, come away, come, come away! canst thou love and burn out day? rise, rise, rise! daylight do not burn out; bells do ring [and] birds do sing, only i that mourn out. from robert dowland's _musical banquet_, . (lines by the earl of essex.) change thy mind since she doth change, let not fancy still abuse thee, thy untruth cannot seem strange when her falsehood doth excuse thee: love is dead and thou art free, she doth live but dead to thee. whilst she loved thee best a while, see how she hath still delayed thee: using shows for to beguile, those vain hopes that have deceived thee: now thou seest, although too late, love loves truth which women hate. love no more since she is gone, she is gone and loves another: being once deceived by one, leave her love but love none other. she was false, bid her adieu, she was best but yet untrue. love, farewell, more dear to me than my life, which thou preservest. life, all joys are gone from thee; others have what thou deservest. oh my death doth spring from hence, i must die for her offence. die, but yet before thou die, make her know what she hath gotten, she in whom my hopes did lie now is changed, i quite forgotten. she is changed, but changèd base, baser in so vild a place. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . cold winter's ice is fled and gone, and summer brags on every tree, the red-breast peeps amidst the throng of wood-born birds that wanton be: each one forgets what they have been, and so doth phyllis, summer's queen. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . come away! come, sweet love! the golden morning breaks; all the earth, all the air, of love and pleasure speaks! teach thine arms then to embrace, and sweet rosy lips to kiss, and mix our souls in mutual bliss. eyes were made for beauty's grace viewing, ruing, love's long pain; procured by beauty's rude disdain. come away![ ] come, sweet love! the golden morning wastes while the sun from his sphere his fiery arrows casts: making all the shadows fly, playing, staying in the grove to entertain the stealth of love. thither, sweet love, let us hie, flying, dying in desire, wing'd with sweet hopes and heavenly fire. come away! come, sweet love! do not in vain adorn beauty's grace, that should rise like to our naked morn! lilies on the river's side, and fair cyprian flowers new-blown, desire no beauties but their own: ornament is nurse of pride. pleasure measure[s] love's delight: haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight! [ ] this stanza is not in the original, but is added in _england's helicon_. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). come, o come, my life's delight! let me not in languor pine! love loves no delay; thy sight the more enjoyed, the more divine! o come, and take from me the pain of being deprived of thee! thou all sweetness dost enclose, like a little world of bliss; beauty guards thy looks, the rose in them pure and eternal is: come, then, and make thy flight as swift to me as heavenly light! from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . come, phyllis, come into these bowers: here shelter is from sharpest showers, cool gales of wind breathe in these shades, danger none this place invades; here sit and note the chirping birds pleading my love in silent words. come, phyllis, come, bright heaven's eye cannot upon thy beauty pry; glad echo in distinguished voice naming thee will here rejoice; then come and hear her merry lays crowning thy name with lasting praise. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . come, shepherd swains, that wont to hear me sing, now sigh and groan! dead is my love, my hope, my joy, my spring; dead, dead, and gone! o, she that was your summer's queen, your days' delight, is gone and will no more be seen; o, cruel spite! break all your pipes that wont to sound with pleasant cheer, and cast yourselves upon the ground to wail my dear! come, shepherd swains, come, nymphs, and all a-row to help me cry: dead is my love, and, seeing she is so, lo, now i die! from _two books of airs_, by thomas campion (circ. ). come, you pretty false-eyed wanton, leave your crafty smiling! think you to escape me now with slipp'ry words beguiling? no; you mocked me th' other day; when you got loose, you fled away; but, since i have caught you now, i'll clip your wings for flying: smoth'ring kisses fast i'll heap and keep you so from crying. sooner may you count the stars and number hail down-pouring, tell the osiers of the thames, or goodwin sands devouring, than the thick-showered kisses here which now thy tired lips must bear. such a harvest never was so rich and full of pleasure, but 'tis spent as soon as reaped, so trustless is lore's treasure. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). could my heart more tongues employ than it harbours thoughts of grief, it is now so far from joy that it scarce could ask relief: truest hearts by deeds unkind to despair are most inclined. happy minds that can redeem their engagements how they please, that no joys or hopes esteem half so precious as their ease: wisdom should prepare men so, as if they did all foreknow. yet no art or caution can grown affections easily change; use is such a lord of man that he brooks worst what is strange: better never to be blest than to lose all at the best. from william byrd's _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . crownèd with flowers i saw fair amaryllis by thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of crystal, and with her hand more white than snow or lilies, on sand she wrote _my faith shall be immortal_: and suddenly a storm of wind and weather blew all her faith and sand away together. from thomas ravenscroft's _brief discourse_, . the fairies' dance. dare you haunt our hallow'd green? none but fairies here are seen. down and sleep, wake and weep, pinch him black, and pinch him blue, that seeks to steal a lover true! when you come to hear us sing, or to tread our fairy ring, pinch him black, and pinch him blue! o thus our nails shall handle you! from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). dear, if i with guile would gild a true intent, heaping flatt'ries that in heart were never meant, easily could i then obtain what now in vain i force; falsehood much doth gain, truth yet holds the better course. love forbid that through dissembling i should thrive, or, in praising you, myself of truth deprive! let not your high thoughts debase a simple truth in me; great is beauty's grace, truth is yet as fair as she. praise is but the wind of pride if it exceeds, wealth prized in itself no outward value needs: fair you are, and passing fair; you know it, and 'tis true; yet let none despair but to find as fair as you. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . dear, if you change, i'll never choose again; sweet, if you shrink, i'll never think of love; fair, if you fail, i'll judge all beauty vain; wise, if too weak, more wits i'll never prove. dear, sweet, fair, wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak; and, on my faith, my faith shall never break. earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn; heaven her bright stars through earth's dim globe shall move; fire heat shall lose, and frosts of flames be born; air, made to shine, as black as hell shall prove: earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view, ere i prove false to faith or strange to you. from thomas morley's _canzonets_, . do you not know how love lost first his seeing? because with me once gazing on those fair eyes where all powers have their being, she with her beauty blazing, which death might have revivèd, him of his sight and me of heart deprivèd. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . draw on, sweet night, best friend unto those cares that do arise from painful melancholy; my life so ill through want of comfort fares, that unto thee i consecrate it wholly. sweet night, draw on; my griefs, when they be told to shades and darkness, find some ease from paining; and while thou all in silence dost enfold, i then shall have best time for my complaining. from henry youll's _canzonets to three voices_, . each day of thine, sweet month of may, love makes a solemn holyday: i will perform like duty, since thou resemblest every way astræa, queen of beauty. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). every dame affects good fame, whate'er her doings be, but true praise is virtue's bays, which none may wear but she. borrowed guise fits not the wise, a simple look is best; native grace becomes a face though ne'er so rudely drest. now such new-found toys are sold these women to disguise, that before the year grows old the newest fashion dies. dames of yore contended more in goodness to exceed, than in pride to be envied for that which least they need. little lawn then serve[d] the pawn, if pawn at all there were; homespun thread and household bread then held out all the year. but th' attires of women now wear out both house and land; that the wives in silk may flow, at ebb the good men stand. once again, astræa! then from heaven to earth descend, and vouchsafe in their behalf these errors to amend. aid from heaven must make all even, things are so out of frame; for let man strive all he can, he needs must please his dame. happy man, content that gives and what he gives enjoys! happy dame, content that lives and breaks no sleep for toys! from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . fair phyllis i saw sitting all alone, feeding her flock near to the mountain-side; the shepherds knew not whither she was gone, but after her lover amyntas hied. up and down he wandered, whilst she was missing; when he found her, oh then they fell a-kissing! from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, a mortal foe and enemy to rest, an envious boy from whom all cares arise, a bastard vile, a beast with rage possest; a way of error, a temple full of treason, in all effects contrary unto reason. a poison'd serpent cover'd all with flowers, mother of sighs and murderer of repose; a sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers as moisture lend to every grief that grows; a school of guile, a net of deep deceit, a gilded hook that holds a poison'd bait. a fortress foiled which reason did defend, a siren song, a fever of the mind, a maze wherein affection finds no end, a raging cloud that runs before the wind; a substance like the shadow of the sun, a goal of grief for which the wisest run. a quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, a path that leads to peril and mishap, a true retreat of sorrow and despair, an idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap; a deep distrust of that which certain seems, a hope of that which reason doubtful deems. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . farewell, my joy! adieu, my love and pleasure! to sport and toy we have no longer leisure. fa la la! farewell, adieu until our next consorting! sweet love, be true! and thus we end our sporting. fa la la! from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave and new, good pennyworths,--but money cannot move: i keep a fair but for the fair to view,-- a beggar may be liberal of love. though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, the heart is true. great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again, my trifles come as treasures from my mind; it is a precious jewel to be plain; sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find: of others take a sheaf, of me a grain! of me a grain! within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves, and divers toys fitting a country fair, but my heart, wherein duty serves and loves, turtles and twins, court's brood, a heavenly pair-- happy the heart that thinks of no removes! of no removes! from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). fire that must flame is with apt fuel fed, flowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bred: how can a heart feel heat that no hope finds? or can he love on whom no comfort shines? fair, i confess there's pleasure in your sight; sweet, you have power, i grant, of all delight; but what is all to me if i have none? churl that you are t'enjoy such wealth alone! prayers move the heavens but find no grace with you, yet in your looks a heavenly form i view; then will i pray again, hoping to find, as well as in your looks, heaven in your mind. saint of my heart, queen of my life and love, o let my vows thy loving spirit move! let me no longer mourn through thy disdain, but with one touch of grace cure all my pain! from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . flora gave me fairest flowers, none so fair in flora's treasure; these i placed on phyllis' bowers, she was pleased, and she my pleasure: smiling meadows seem to say, "come, ye wantons, here to play." from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! there, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, and tell the ravisher of my soul i perish for her love: but, if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again. all that i sang still to her praise did tend, still she was first, still she my songs did end; yet she my love and music both doth fly, the music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! it shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. from robert jones' _first book of airs_, . {ouk esti gêmas hostis ou cheimazetai, legousi pantes; kai gamousin eidotes.} _anthol. græc._ fond wanton youths make love a god which after proveth age's rod; their youth, their time, their wit, their art they spend in seeking of their smart; and, which of follies is the chief, they woo their woe, they wed their grief. all find it so who wedded are, love's sweets, they find, enfold sour care; his pleasures pleasing'st in the eye, which tasted once with loathing die: they find of follies 'tis the chief, their woe to woo, to wed their grief. if for their own content they choose forthwith their kindred's love they lose; and if their kindred they content, for ever after they repent; o 'tis of all our follies chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. in bed, what strifes are bred by day, our puling wives do open lay; none friends, none foes we must esteem but whom they so vouchsafe to deem: o 'tis of all our follies chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. their smiles we want if aught they want, and either we their wills must grant or die they will, or are with child; their longings must not be beguiled: o 'tis of all our follies chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. foul wives are jealous, fair wives false, marriage to either binds us thrall; wherefore being bound we must obey and forcèd be perforce to say,-- of all our bliss it is the chief, our woe to woo, to wed our grief. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . from citheron the warlike boy is fled and smiling sits upon a virgin's lap,-- thereby to train poor misers to the trap, whom beauty draws with fancy to be fed: and when desire with eager looks is led, then from her eyes the arrow flies, feather'd with flame, arm'd with a golden head. her careless thoughts are freèd of that flame wherewith her thralls are scorchèd to the heart: if love would so, would god the enchanting dart might once return and burn from whence it came! not to deface of beauty's work the frame, but by rebound it might be found what secret smart i suffer by the same. if love be just, then just is my desire; and if unjust, why is he call'd a god? o god, o god, o just! reserve thy rod to chasten those that from thy laws retire! but choose aright (good love! i thee require) the golden head, not that of lead! her heart is frost and must dissolve by fire. from john dowland's _second book of songs and airs_, . to master hugh holland. from fame's desire, from love's delight retired, in these sad groves an hermit's life i lead: and those false pleasures, which i once admired, with sad remembrance of my fall, i dread. to birds, to trees, to earth, impart i this; for she less secret, and as senseless is. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! experience which repentance only brings, doth bid me, now, my heart from love estrange! love is disdained when it doth look at kings; and love low placèd base and apt to change. there power doth take from him his liberty, her[e] want of worth makes him in cradle die. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! you men that give false worship unto love, and seek that which you never shall obtain; the endless work of sisyphus you prove, whose end is this, to know you strive in vain. hope and desire, which now your idols be, you needs must lose, and feel despair with me. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! you woods, in you the fairest nymphs have walked: nymphs at whose sights all hearts did yield to love. you woods, in whom dear lovers oft have talked, how do you now a place of mourning prove? wanstead! my mistress saith this is the doom. thou art love's child-bed, nursery, and tomb. o sweet woods! the delight of solitariness! o how much do i love your solitariness! from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). give beauty all her right! she's not to one form tied; each shape yields fair delight where her perfections bide: helen, i grant, might pleasing be, and ros'mond was as sweet as she. some the quick eye commends, some swelling[ ] lips and red; pale looks have many friends, through sacred sweetness bred: meadows have flowers that pleasures move, though roses are the flowers of love. free beauty is not bound to one unmovèd clime; she visits every ground and favours every time. let the old loves with mine compare, my sovereign is as sweet and fair. [ ] old ed. "smelling." from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . go crystal tears! like to the morning showers, and sweetly weep into thy lady's breast! and as the dews revive the drooping flowers, so let your drops of pity be addrest! to quicken up the thoughts of my desert, which sleeps too sound whilst i from her depart. haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath dissolve the ice of her indurate heart! whose frozen rigour, like forgetful death, feels never any touch of my desert. yet sighs and tears to her i sacrifice both from a spotless heart and patient eyes. from egerton ms., . _the verses were set to music by dr. john wilson._ go, turn away those cruel eyes, for they have quite undone me; they used not so to tyrannize when first those glances won me. but 'tis the custom of you men,-- false men thus to deceive us! to love but till we love again, and then again to leave us. go, let alone my heart and me, which thou hast thus affrighted! i did not think i could by thee have been so ill requited. but now i find 'tis i must prove that men have no compassion; when we are won, you never love poor women, but for fashion, do recompense my love with hate, and kill my heart! i'm sure thou'lt one day say, when 'tis too late, thou never hadst a truer. from thomas campion's _second book of airs_ (circ. ). good men show! if you can tell, where doth human pity dwell? far and near her i would seek, so vexed with sorrow is my breast. "she," they say, "to all, is meek; and only makes th' unhappy blest." oh! if such a saint there be, some hope yet remains for me: prayer or sacrifice may gain from her implorèd grace, relief; to release me of my pain, or at the least to ease my grief. young am i, and far from guile, the more is my woe the while: falsehood, with a smooth disguise, my simple meaning hath abused: casting mists before mine eyes, by which my senses are confused. fair he is, who vowed to me, that he only mine would be; but alas, his mind is caught with every gaudy bait he sees: and, too late, my flame is taught that too much kindness makes men freeze. from me, all my friends are gone, while i pine for him alone; and not one will rue my case, but rather my distress deride: that i think, there is no place, where pity ever yet did bide. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . ha ha! ha ha! this world doth pass most merrily, i'll be sworn; for many an honest indian ass goes for an unicorn. farra, diddle dino; this is idle fino. ty hye! ty hye! o sweet delight! he tickles this age that can call tullia's ape a marmosyte and leda's goose a swan. farra diddle dino; this is idle fino. so so! so so! fine english days! when false play's no reproach: for he that doth the coachman praise, may safely use the coach. farra diddle dino; this is idle fino. from robert jones's _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). happy he who, to sweet home retired, shuns glory so admired, and to himself lives free, whilst he who strives with pride to climb the skies falls down with foul disgrace before he rise. let who will the active life commend and all his travels bend earth with his fame to fill: such fame, so forced, at last dies with his death, which life maintain'd by others' idle breath. my delights, to dearest home confined, shall there make good my mind not aw'd with fortune's spites: high trees heaven blasts, winds shake and honors[ ] fell, when lowly plants long time in safety dwell. all i can, my worldly strife shall be they one day say of me 'he died a good old man': on his sad soul a heavy burden lies who, known to all, unknown to himself dies. [ ] qy. "hammers"? from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . happy, o! happy he, who not affecting the endless toils attending worldly cares, with mind reposed, all discontents rejecting, in silent peace his way to heaven prepares, deeming this life a scene, the world a stage whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage. from francis pilkington's _first set of madrigals_, . have i found her? o rich finding! goddess-like for to behold, her fair tresses seemly binding in a chain of pearl and gold. chain me, chain me, o most fair, chain me to thee with that hair! from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . heigh ho! chill go to plough no more! sit down and take thy rest; of golden groats i have full store to flaunt it with the best. but i love and i love, and who thinks you? the finest lass that e'er you knew, which makes me sing when i should cry heigh ho! for love i die. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the bachelor. how many things as yet are dear alike to me! the field, the horse, the dog, love, arms, or liberty. i have no wife as yet that i may call mine own; i have no children yet that by my name are known. yet, if i married were, i would not wish to thrive if that i could not tame the veriest shrew alive. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . how shall i then describe my love? when all men's skilful art is far inferior to her worth, to praise the unworthiest part. she's chaste in looks, mild in her speech, in actions all discreet, of nature loving, pleasing most, in virtue all complete. and for her voice a philomel, her lips may all lips scorn; no sun more clear than is her eye, in brightest summer morn. a mind wherein all virtues rest and take delight to be, and where all virtues graft themselves in that most fruitful tree: a tree that india doth not yield, nor ever yet was seen, where buds of virtue always spring, and all the year grow green. that country's blest wherein she grows, and happy is that rock from whence she springs: but happiest he that grafts in such a stock. from henry lichfild's _first set of madrigals_, . i always loved to call my lady rose, for in her cheeks roses do sweetly glose, and from her lips she such sweet odours threw as roses do 'gainst ph[oe]bus' morning-view: but when i thought to pull't, hope was bereft me,-- my rose was gone and naught but prickles left me. from _melismata_, . a wooing song of a yeoman of kent's son. i have house and land in kent, and if you'll love me, love me now; twopence-halfpenny is my rent, i cannot come every day to woo. chorus. _twopence-halfpenny is his rent, and he cannot come every day to woo._ ich am my vather's eldest zonne, my mother eke doth love me well, for ich can bravely clout my shoone, and ich full well can ring a bell. chorus. _for he can bravely clout his shoone, and he full well can ring a bell._ my vather he gave me a hog, my mouther she gave me a zow; i have a god-vather dwels thereby, and he on me bestowed a plow. chorus. _he has a god-vather dwells thereby, and he on him bestowed a plough._ one time i gave thee a paper of pins, another time a tawdry-lace; and if thou wilt not grant me love, in truth ich die bevore thy face. chorus. _and if thou wilt not grant his love, in truth he'll die bevore thy vace._ ich have been twice our whitson-lord, ich have had ladies many vair, and eke thou hast my heart in hold and in my mind zeems passing rare. chorus. _and eke thou hast his heart in hold and in his mind seems passing rare._ ich will put on my best white slops and ich will wear my yellow hose, and on my head a good grey hat, and in't ich stick a lovely rose. chorus. _and on his head a good grey hat, and in't he'll stick a lovely rose._ wherefore cease off, make no delay, and if you'll love me, love me now; or else ich zeek zome oderwhere, for i cannot come every day to woo. chorus. _or else he'll zeek zome oderwhere, for he cannot come every day to woo._ from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety_, . i joy not in no earthly bliss, i force not cr[oe]sus' wealth a straw; for care i know not what it is i fear not fortune's fatal law: my mind is such as may not move for beauty bright nor force of love. i wish but what i have at will, i wander not to seek for more; i like the plain, i climb no hill; in greatest storms i sit on shore and laugh at them that toil in vain to get what must be lost again. i kiss not where i wish to kill; i feign not love where most i hate; i break no sleep to win my will; i wait not at the mighty's gate; i scorn no poor, nor fear no rich; i feel no want, nor have too much. the court and cart i like nor loath; extremes are counted worst of all; the golden mean between them both doth surest sit and fears no fall. this is my choice: for why? i find no wealth is like the quiet mind. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . i live, and yet methinks i do not breathe; i thirst and drink, i drink and thirst again; i sleep and yet do dream i am awake; i hope for that i have; i have and want: i sing and sigh; i love and hate at once. o, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar doth cause in store such want, in peace such war? _risposta._ there is a jewel which no indian mines can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit; it makes men rich in greatest poverty; makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, the homely whistle to sweet music's strain: seldom it come, to few from heaven sent, that much in little, all in nought,--content. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the maid. i marriage would forswear, but that i hear men tell that she that dies a maid must lead an ape in hell. therefore, if fortune come, i will not mock and play nor drive the bargain on till it be driven away. titles and lands i like, yet rather fancy can a man that wanteth gold than gold that wants a man. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the married man. i only am the man among all married men that do not wish the priest, to be unlinked again. and though my shoe did wring i would not make my moan, nor think my neighbours' chance more happy than mine own. yet court i not my wife, but yield observance due, being neither fond nor cross, nor jealous nor untrue. from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . i saw my lady weep, and sorrow proud to be advancèd so in those fair eyes where all perfections keep. her face was full of woe, but such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts than mirth can do with her enticing parts. sorrow was there made fair, and passion wise; tears a delightful thing; silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare; she made her sighs to sing, and all things with so sweet a sadness move as made my heart at once both grieve and love. o fairer than aught else the world can show, leave off in time to grieve. enough, enough; your joyful look excels; tears kill the heart, believe. o strive not to be excellent in woe, which only breeds your beauty's overthrow. from john wilbye's _first set of english madrigals_, . i sung sometime my thoughts and fancy's pleasure, where i did list, or time served best and leisure; while daphne did invite me to supper once, and drank to me to spite me. i smiled, but yet did doubt her, and drank where she had drunk before, to flout her; but, o! while i did eye her, mine eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire. from orlando gibbons' _first set of madrigals_, . i weigh not fortune's frown nor smile, i joy not much in earthly joys, i seek not state, i reak [_sic_] not style, i am not fond of fancy's toys. i rest so pleased with what i have i wish no more, no more i crave. i tremble not at noise of war, i quake not at the thunder's crack, i shrink not at a blazing star, i sound not at the news of wreck, i fear no loss, i hope no gain, i envy none, i none disdain. i see ambition never pleased, i see some tantals starve in store, i see gold's dropsy seldom eased, i see each midas gape for more: i neither want nor yet abound, enough's a feast, content is crowned. i feign not friendship where i hate, i fawn not on the great for grace, i prize, i praise a mean estate ne yet too lofty, nor too base, this is all my choice, my cheer-- a mind content and conscience clear. from thomas morley's _madrigals to four voices_, . i will no more come to thee that flout'st me when i woo thee; still ty hy thou criest and all my lovely rings and pins denyest. o say, alas, what moves thee to grieve him so that loves thee? leave, alas, then, ah leave tormenting and give my burning some relenting. from robert jones' _first book of songs and airs_, . if fathers knew but how to leave their children wit as they do wealth, and could constrain them to receive that physic which brings perfect health, the world would not admiring stand a woman's face and woman's hand. women confess they must obey, we men will needs be servants still; we kiss their hands, and what they say we must commend, be't ne'er so ill: thus we, like fools, admiring stand her pretty foot and pretty hand. we blame their pride, which we increase by making mountains of a mouse; we praise because we know we please; poor women are too credulous to think that we admiring stand or foot, or face, or foolish hand. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . if i urge my kind desires, she, unkind, doth them reject, women's hearts are painted fires, to deceive them that affect. i alone love's fires include: she alone doth them delude. she hath often vowed her love: but alas no fruit i find. that her fires are false i prove yet, in her, no fault i find. i was thus unhappy born, and ordained to be her scorn. yet if human care or pain, may the heavenly order change; she will hate her own disdain, and repent she was so strange: for a truer heart than i, never lived, nor loved to die. from john dowland's _first book of songs and airs_, . if my complaints could passions move, or make love see wherein i suffer wrong; my passions were enough to prove that my despairs had governed me too long. o love, i live and die in thee! thy wounds do freshly bleed in me. thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks, yet thou dost hope when i despair; my heart for thy unkindness breaks; thou say'st thou can'st my harms repair, and when i hope thou mak'st me hope in vain; yet for redress thou let'st me still complain. can love be rich, and yet i want? is love my judge, and yet am i condemned? thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant; thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned! that i do live, it is thy power; that i desire it is thy worth. if love doth make men's lives too sour, let me not love, nor live henceforth! die shall my hopes, but not my faith, that you, that of my fall may hearers be, may hear despair, which truly saith "i was more true to love, than love to me." from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). if thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love, do but fix thy thoughts on me and thou shalt quickly prove: little suit at first shall win way to thy abashed desire, but then will i hedge thee in, salamander-like, with fire. with thee dance i will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear; we the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there; other whiles we'll gather flowers, lying dallying on the grass; and thus our delightful hours, full of waking dreams, shall pass. when thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee, old acquaintance then should grow as strange, as strange might be: twenty rivals thou shouldst find, breaking all their hearts for me, while to all i'll prove more kind and more forward than to thee. thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy, but, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly. those sweet hours which we had past, called to thy mind, thy heart would burn; and couldst thou fly ne'er so fast, they would make thee straight return. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets and songs_, . if women could be fair and never fond, or that their beauty might continue still, i would not marvel though they made men bond by service long to purchase their goodwill: but when i see how frail these creatures are, i laugh that men forget themselves so far. to mark what choice they make and how they change, how, leaving best, the worst they choose out still; and how, like haggards wild, about they range, and scorning reason follow after will![ ] who would not shake such buzzards from the fist and let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list? yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both, to pass the time when nothing else can please: and train them on to yield by subtle oath the sweet content that gives such humour ease: and then we say, when we their follies try, "to play with fools, o, what a fool was i!" [ ] so oliphant.--old ed., "scorning after reason to follow will." from william byrd's _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . in crystal towers and turrets richly set with glitt'ring gems that shine against the sun, in regal rooms of jasper and of jet, content of mind not always likes to won;[ ] but oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay in simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay. [ ] dwell. from john coprario's _funeral tears, etc._, . in darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be, the roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me, the walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep, my music hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep: thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb o let me dying live till death doth come. my dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine, my sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine, my robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night, my study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight, pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be: o thus, my hapless joy, i haste to thee. from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . in midst of woods or pleasant grove, where all sweet birds do sing, methought i heard so rare a sound which made the heavens to ring. the charm was good, the noise full sweet, each bird did play his part; and i admired to hear the same, joy sprang into my heart. the black bird made the sweetest sound, whose tunes did far excel; full pleasantly, and most profound was all things placed well. thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird, done with so good a grace, extolls thy name, prefers the same abroad in every place. thy music grave, bedeckèd well with sundry points of skill, bewrays thy knowledge excellent ingrafted in thy will. my tongue shall speak, my pen shall write in praise of thee to tell; the sweetest bird that ever was, in friendly sort farewell. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . in pride of may the fields are gay, the birds do sweetly sing. fa la la! so nature would that all things should with joy begin the spring. fa la la! then, lady dear, do you appear in beauty like the spring: fa la la! i dare well say the birds that day more cheerfully will sing. fa la la! from robert jones's _musical dream_, . {pheugein dê ton erôta kenos ponos.}--_archias_. in sherwood lived stout robin hood, an archer great, none greater, his bow and shafts were sure and good, yet cupid's were much better; robin could shoot at many a hart and miss, cupid at first could hit a heart of his. hey, jolly robin hood, ho jolly robin hood, love finds out me as well as thee, to follow me to the green-wood. a noble thief was robin hood, wise was he could deceive him; yet marian in his bravest mood could of his heart bereave him: no greater thief lies hidden under skies, than beauty closely lodged in women's eyes. hey, jolly robin, &c. an outlaw was this robin hood, his life free and unruly, yet to fair marian bound he stood and love's debt paid her duly: whom curb of strictest law could not hold in, love[ ] to obedience with a wink could win. hey, jolly robin, &c. now wend we home, stout robin hood, leave we the woods behind us, love-passions must not be withstood, love everywhere will find us. i lived in field and town, and so did he; i got me to the woods, love followed me. hey, jolly robin, &c. [ ] old ed.,--"love with obeyednes and a winke could winne." from michael este's _madrigals of three, four and five parts_, . (by nicholas breton. originally published in .) in the merry month of may, on a morn by break of day, forth i walk'd by the wood-side, whereas may was in her pride: there i spyèd all alone phillida and corydon. much ado there was, god wot! he would love and she would not. she said, never man was true; he said, none was false to you. he said, he had loved her long; she said, love should have no wrong. corydon would kiss her then; she said, maids must kiss no men till they did for good and all; then she made the shepherd call all the heavens to witness truth never lov'd a truer youth. thus with many a pretty oath, yea and nay, and faith and troth, such as seely shepherds use when they will not love abuse, love, which had been long deluded, was with kisses sweet concluded; and phillida with garlands gay was made the lady of the may. from thomas greaves' _songs of sundry kinds_, . inconstant laura makes me death to crave, for wanting her i must embrace my grave; a little grave will ease my malady and set me free from love's fell tyranny. intomb me then and show her where i lie, and say i died through her inconstancy. from henry lichfild's _first set of madrigals_, . injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me, with speedy wings you fly and so release me; but if some sorrow do oppress my heart, you creep as if you never meant to part. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . is love a boy,--what means he then to strike? or is he blind,--why will he be a guide? is he a man,--why doth he hurt his like? is he a god,--why doth he men deride? no one of these, but one compact of all: a wilful boy, a man still dealing blows, of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall, a god that rules unruly--god, he knows. boy, pity me that am a child again; blind, be no more my guide to make me stray; man, use thy might to force away my pain; god, do me good and lead me to my way; and if thou beest a power to me unknown, power of my life, let here thy grace be shown. from _melismata_, . the marriage of the frog and the mouse. it was the frog in the well, humbledum, humbledum, and the merry mouse in the mill, tweedle, tweedle, twino. the frog would a wooing ride sword and buckler by his side. when he upon his high horse set, his boots they shone as black as jet. when he came to the merry mill-pin,-- "lady mouse, been you within?" then came out the dusty mouse: "i am lady of this house: hast thou any mind of me?" "i have e'en great mind of thee?" "who shall this marriage make?" "our lord which is the rat," "what shall we have to our supper?" "three beans in a pound of butter?" when supper they were at, the frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat; then came in gib our cat, and catched the mouse e'en by the back. then did they separate, and the frog leaped on the floor so flat. then came in dick our drake, and drew the frog e'en to the lake. the rat run up the wall, humbledum, humbledum; a goodly company, the devil go with all! tweedle tweedle twino. from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). jack and joan, they think no ill, but loving live, and merry still; do their week-days' work, and pray devoutly on the holy day: skip and trip it on the green, and help to choose the summer queen; lash out at a country feast their silver penny with the best. well can they judge of nappy ale, and tell at large a winter tale; climb up to the apple loft, and turn the crabs till they be soft. tib is all the father's joy, and little tom the mother's boy. all their pleasure is content; and care, to pay their yearly rent. joan can call by name her cows and deck her windows with green boughs; she can wreaths and tutties[ ] make, and trim with plums a bridal cake. jack knows what brings gain or loss; and his long flail can stoutly toss: makes the hedge which others break, and ever thinks what he doth speak. now, you courtly dames and knights, that study only strange delights; though you scorn the homespun gray and revel in your rich array; though your tongues dissemble deep, and can your heads from danger keep; yet, for all your pomp and train, securer lives the silly swain. [ ] nosegays. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). kind are her answers, but her performance keeps no day; breaks time, as dancers, from their own music when they stray. all her free favours and smooth words wing my hopes in vain. o, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? can true love yield such delay, converting joy to pain? lost is our freedom when we submit to women so: why do we need 'em when, in their best, they work our woe? there is no wisdom can alter ends by fate prefixt. o, why is the good of man with evil mixt? never were days yet callèd two but one night went betwixt. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . kind in unkindness, when will you relent and cease with faint love true love to torment? still entertained, excluded still i stand; her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand. in her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest: o might my fortunes with that hand be blest! no envious breaths then my deserts could shake, for they are good whom such true love doth make. o let not beauty so forget her birth that it should fruitless home return to earth! love is the fruit of beauty, then love one! not your sweet self, for such self-love is none. love one that only lives in loving you; whose wronged deserts would you with pity view, this strange distaste which your affection sways would relish love, and you find better days. thus till my happy sight your beauty views, whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews, let these poor lines solicit love for me, and place my joys where my desires would be. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . lady, the birds right fairly are singing ever early; the lark, the thrush, the nightingale, the make-sport cuckoo and the quail. these sing of love! then why sleep ye? to love your sleep it may not be. from thomas greaves' _songs of sundry kinds_, . lady, the melting crystal of your eye like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie; mine eye was dancing on them with delight, and saw love's flames within them burning bright, which did mine eye entice to play with burning ice; but o, my heart thus sporting with desire, my careless eye did set my heart on fire. o that a drop from such a sweet fount flying should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying! i burn, my tears can never drench it till in your eyes i bathe my heart and quench it: but there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping, and all conspire to burn my heart with weeping. from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . lady, when i behold the roses sprouting, which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, and then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, my eyes present me with a double doubting: for viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes whether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses. from j. danyel's _songs for the lute, viol and voice_, . let not chloris think, because she hath unvassel'd me, that her beauty can give laws to others that are free: i was made to be the prey and booty of her eyes! in my bosom, she may say. her greatest kingdom lies. though others may her brow adore, yet more must i that therein see far more than any other's eyes have power to see; she is to me more than to any others she can be. i can discern more secret notes that in the margin of her cheeks love quotes than any else besides have art to read; no looks proceed from those fair eyes but to me wonder breed. o then why should she fly from him to whom her sight doth add so much above her might? why should not she still joy to reign in me? from william byrd's _psalms, songs and sonnets_, . let not the sluggish sleep close up thy waking eye, until with judgment deep thy daily deeds thou try: he that one sin in conscience keeps when he to quiet goes, more vent'rous is than he that sleeps with twenty mortal foes. from george mason's and john earsden's _airs that were sung and played at brougham castle in westmoreland in the king's entertainment given by the earl of cumberland_, . let us in a lovers' round circle all this hallowed ground; softly, softly trip and go, the light-foot fairies jet it so. forward then, and back again, here and there and everywhere, winding to and fro, skipping high and louting low; and, like lovers, hand in hand, march around and make a stand. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of six parts_, . like two proud armies marching in the field,-- joining a thund'ring fight, each scorns to yield,-- so in my heart your beauty and my reason: one claims the crown, the other says 'tis treason. but oh! your beauty shineth as the sun; and dazzled reason yields as quite undone. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . lo! country sport that seldom fades; a garland of the spring, a prize for dancing, country maids with merry pipes we bring. then all at once _for our town_ cries! pipe on, for we will have the prize. from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). lo, when back mine eye pilgrim-like i cast, what fearful ways i spie which, blinded, i securely passed! but now heaven hath drawn from my brows that night; as when the day doth dawn, so clears my long-imprisoned sight. straight the caves of hell dressed with flowers i see, wherein false pleasures dwell, that, winning most, most deadly be. throngs of maskèd fiends, winged like angels, fly; even in the gates of friends, in fair disguise black dangers lie. straight to heaven i raised my restorèd sight, and with loud voice i praised the lord of ever-during light. and since i had strayed from his ways so wide, his grace i humbly prayed henceforth to be my guard and guide. from john maynard's _twelve wonders of the world_, . the courtier. long have i lived in court, yet learned not all this while to sell poor suiters smoke, nor where i hate to smile; superiors to adore, inferiors to despise, to flie from such as fall, to follow such as rise: to cloak a poor desire under a rich array, nor to aspire by vice, though 'twere the quicker way. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . love is a bable, no man is able to say 'tis this or 'tis that; so full of passions of sundry fashions, 'tis like i cannot tell what. love's fair in the cradle, foul in the fable, 'tis either too cold or too hot; an arrant liar, fed by desire, it is and yet it is not. love is a fellow clad oft in yellow,[ ] the canker-worm of the mind, a privy mischief, and such a sly thief no man knows which way to find. love is a wonder that's here and yonder, as common to one as to moe; a monstrous cheater, every man's debtor; hang him and so let him go. [ ] the colour of jealousy. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . love not me for comely grace, for my pleasing eye or face, nor for any outward part: no, nor for a constant heart! for these may fail or turn to ill: so thou and i shall sever. keep therefore a true woman's eye, and love me still, but know not why! so hast thou the same reason still to doat upon me ever. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . love's god is a boy, none but cowherds regard him, his dart is a toy, great opinion hath marred him: the fear of the wag hath made him so brag; chide him, he'll flie thee and not come nigh thee. little boy, pretty knave, shoot not at random, for if you hit me, slave, i'll tell your grandam. fond love is a child and his compass is narrow, young fools are beguiled with the fame of his arrow; he dareth not strike if his stroke do mislike: cupid, do you hear me? come not too near me. little boy, pretty knave, hence i beseech you, for if you hit me, knave, in faith i'll breech you. th' ape loves to meddle when he finds a man idle, else is he a-flirting where his mark is a-courting; when women grow true come teach me to sue, then i'll come to thee pray thee and woo thee. little boy, pretty knave, make me not stagger, for if you hit me, knave, i'll call thee, beggar. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly far from base earth, but not to mount too high; for true pleasure lives in measure, which if men forsake, blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take. but my vain hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, enamoured sought to woo the sun's fair light, whose rich brightness moved their lightness to aspire so high that all scorched and consumed with fire now drown'd in woe they lie. and none but love their woeful hap did rue, for love did know that their desires were true; though fate frownèd, and now drownèd they in sorrow dwell, it was the purest light of heaven for whose fair love they fell. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). "maids are simple," some men say, "they forsooth will trust no men." but should they men's wills obey, maids were very simple then. truth a rare flower now is grown, few men wear it in their hearts; lovers are more easily known by their follies than deserts. safer may we credit give to a faithless wandering jew, than a young man's vows believe when he swears his love is true. love they make a poor blind child, but let none trust such as he; rather than to be beguiled, ever let me simple be. from _melismata_, . the bellman's song. maids to bed and cover coal; let the mouse out of her hole; crickets in the chimney sing whilst the little bell doth ring; if fast asleep, who can tell when the clapper hits the bell? from martin peerson's _mottects or grave chamber-music_, . more than most fair, full of all heavenly fire, kindled above to shew the maker's glory; beauty's first-born, in whom all powers conspire to write the graces' life and muses' story; if in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd, honour the shrine where you alone are placèd. thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits, true character of honour in perfection, thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits, and glorious prison of men's pure affection: if in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd honour the shrine where you alone are placèd. from thomas vautor's _songs of divers airs and natures_, . mother, i will have a husband, and i will have him out of hand! mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. john-a-dun should have had me long ere this: he said i had good lips to kiss. mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. for i have heard 'tis trim when folks do love; by good sir john i swear now i will prove. for, mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. to the town, therefore, will i gad to get me a husband, good or bad. mother, i will sure have one in spite of her that will have none. from michael este's _madrigals of three, four and five parts_, . my hope a counsel with my heart hath long desired to be, and marvels much so dear a friend is not retain'd by me. she doth condemn my haste in passing the estate of my whole life into their hands who nought repays but hate: and not sufficed with this, she says, i did release the right of my enjoyèd liberties unto your beauteous sight. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . my love bound me with a kiss that i should no longer stay; when i felt so sweet a bliss i had less power to part away: alas, that women doth not know kisses make men loath to go. yes, she knows it but too well, for i heard when venus' dove in her ear did softly tell that kisses were the seals of love: o muse not then though it be so, kisses make men loath to go. wherefore did she thus inflame my desires heat my blood, instantly to quench the same and starve whom she had given food? i the common sense can show, kisses make men loath to go. had she bid me go at first it would ne'er have grieved my heart, hope delayed had been the worst; but ah to kiss and then to part! how deep it struck, speak, gods, you know kisses make men loath to go. from robert jones' _second book of songs and airs_, . my love is neither young nor old, not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold, but fresh and fair as springing briar blooming the fruit of love's desire; not snowy-white nor rosy-red, but fair enough for shepherd's bed; and such a love was never seen on hill or dale or country-green. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . my mind to me a kingdom is: such perfect joy therein i find that it excels all other bliss that god or nature hath assigned. though much i want, that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. no princely port, nor wealthy store, no force to win a victory, no wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to win a loving eye; to none of these i yield as thrall! for why? my mind despise them all. i see that plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soonest fall; i see that such as are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all. these get with toil, and keep with fear: such cares my mind can never bear. i press to bear no haughty sway, i wish no more than may suffice, i do no more, than well i may; look, what i want, my mind supplies. lo, thus i triumph like a king, my mind content with any thing. i laugh not at another's loss, nor grudge not at another's gain. no worldly waves my mind can toss, i brook that is another's bane; i fear no foe, nor fawn on friend, i loathe not life nor dread mine end. my wealth is health and perfect ease; and conscience clear my chief defence; i never seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to give offence, thus do i live, thus will i die: would all did so as well as i! from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . my prime of youth is but a frost of cares! my feast of joy is but a dish of pain! my crop of corn is but a field of tares! and all my good is but vain hope of gain! my life is fled, and yet i saw no sun! and now i live, and now my life is done! the spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung! the fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green! my youth is gone, and yet i am but young! i saw the world and yet i was not seen! my thread is cut, and yet it is not spun! and now i live, and now my life is done. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . _vivamus, mea lesbia, atque amemus._ my sweetest lesbia, let us live and love, and though the sager sort our deeds reprove let us not weigh them. heaven's great lamps do dive into their west, and straight again revive; but, soon as once is set our little light, then must we sleep one ever-during night. if all would lead their lives in love like me, then bloody swords and armour should not be; no drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move, unless alarm came from the camp of love: but fools do live and waste their little light, and seek with pain their ever-during night. when timely death my life and fortunes ends, let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends; but let all lovers, rich in triumph, come and with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb: and, lesbia, close up thou my little light and crown with love my ever-during night. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . my thoughts are winged with hopes, my hopes with love: mount love unto the moon in clearest night, and say, as she doth in the heavens move, in earth so wanes and waxeth my delight: and whisper this, but softly, in her ears, "hope oft doth hang the head and trust shed tears." and you, my thoughts, that some mistrust do carry, if for mistrust my mistress do you blame, say, though you alter, yet you do not vary, as she doth change and yet remain the same; distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect, and love is sweetest seasoned with suspect. if she for this with clouds do mask her eyes and make the heavens dark with her disdain, with windy sighs disperse them in the skies or with thy tears dissolve them into rain. thoughts, hopes, and love, return to me no more till cynthia shine as she hath done before. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). never love unless you can bear with all the faults of man: men sometimes will jealous be though but little cause they see; and hang the head as discontent, and speak what straight they will repent. men that but one saint adore make a show of love to more; beauty must be scorned in none, though but truly served in one: for what is courtship but disguise? true hearts may have dissembling eyes. men, when their affairs require, must awhile themselves retire; sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk, and not ever sit and talk: if these and such-like you can bear, then like, and love, and never fear! from john farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . (verses by samuel daniel.) now each creature joys the other, passing happy days and hours: one bird reports unto another by the fall of silver showers; whilst the earth, our common mother, hath her bosom decked with flowers. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals_, . now every tree renews his summer's green, why is your heart in winter's garments clad? your beauty says my love is summer's queen, but your cold love like winter makes me sad: then either spring with buds of love again or else congeal my thoughts with your disdain. from _pammelia_, . now god be with old simeon, for he made cans for many-a-one, and a good old man was he; and jinkin was his journeyman, and he could tipple of every can, and thus he said to me: "to whom drink you?" "sir knave, to you." then hey-ho, jolly jinkin! i spie a knave in drinking. from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). now have i learn'd with much ado at last by true disdain to kill desire; this was the mark at which i shot so fast, unto this height i did aspire: proud love, now do thy worst and spare not, for thee and all thy shafts i care not. what hast thou left wherewith to move my mind, what life to quicken dead desire? i count thy words and oaths as light as wind, i feel no heat in all thy fire: go, change thy bow and get a stronger, go, break thy shafts and buy thee longer. in vain thou bait'st thy hook with beauty's blaze, in vain thy wanton eyes allure; these are but toys for them that love to gaze, i know what harm thy looks procure: some strange conceit must be devised, or thou and all thy skill despised. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . now i see thy looks were feignèd quickly lost, and quickly gainèd; soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, heart inconstant, light as feathers, tongue untrusty, subtle sighted, wanton will with change delighted. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! of thine eye i made my mirror, from thy beauty came my error, all thy words i counted witty, all thy sighs i deemèd pity, thy false tears, that me aggrievèd first of all my trust deceivèd. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! feigned acceptance when i askèd, lovely words with cunning maskèd, holy vows, but heart unholy; wretched man, my trust was folly; lily white, and pretty winking, solemn vows but sorry thinking. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! now i see, o seemly cruel, others warm them at my fuel, wit shall guide me in this durance since in love is no assurance: change thy pasture, take thy pleasure, beauty is a fading treasure. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid, plague thee for thy treason! prime youth lasts not, age will follow and make white those tresses yellow; wrinkled face, for looks delightful, shall acquaint the dame despiteful. and when time shall date thy glory, then too late thou wilt be sorry. siren, pleasant foe to reason, cupid plague thee for thy treason! from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . now is my chloris fresh as may, clad all in green and flowers gay. fa la la! o might i think august were near that harvest joy might soon appear. fa la la! but she keeps may throughout the year, and august never comes the near. fa la la! yet will i hope, though she be may, august will come another day. fa la la! from thomas morley's _first book of ballets_, . now is the month of maying, when merry lads are playing each with his bonny lass upon the greeny grass. fa la la! the spring clad all in gladness doth laugh at winter's sadness, and to the bagpipe's sound the nymphs tread out their ground. fa la la! fie then, why sit we musing, youth's sweet delight refusing? say, dainty nymphs, and speak, shall we play barley-break. fa la la! from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). now let her change! and spare not! since she proves strange, i care not! feigned love charmed so my delight, that still i doted on her sight. but she is gone! new joys embracing, and my distress disgracing. when did i err in blindness? or vex her with unkindness? if my cares served her alone, why is she thus untimely gone? true love abides to th' hour of dying: false love is ever flying. false! then farewell for ever! once false proves faithful never! he that boasts now of thy love, shall soon, my present fortunes prove were he as fair as bright adonis: faith is not had where none is! from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, now let us make a merry greeting and thank god cupid for our meeting: my heart is full of joy and pleasure since thou art here, mine only treasure. now will we dance and sport and play and sing a merry roundelay. from robert jones's _second book of airs_, . (attributed to sir walter raleigh.) now what is love, i pray thee tell? it is that fountain and that well where pleasures and repentance dwell; it is perhaps that sancing-bell[ ] that tolls all in to heaven or hell: and this is love, as i hear tell. now what is love, i pray thee say? it is a work on holyday, it is december matched with may, when lusty bloods in fresh array hear ten months after of their play: and this is love, as i hear say. now what is love, i pray thee feign? it is a sunshine mixed with rain, it is a gentle pleasing pain, a flower that dies and springs again, it is a no that would full fain: and this is love as i hear sain. yet what is love, i pray thee say? it is a pretty shady way as well found out by night as day, it is a thing will soon decay; then take the vantage whilst you may: and this is love, as i hear say. now what is love, i pray thee show? a thing that creeps, it cannot go, a prize that passeth to and fro, a thing for one, a thing for mo, and he that proves shall find it so: and this is love, as i well know. [ ] saint's-bell; the little bell that called to prayers. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). now winter nights enlarge the number of their hours, and clouds their storms discharge upon the airy towers. let now the chimneys blaze, and cups o'erflow with wine; let well-tuned words amaze with harmony divine. now yellow waxen lights shall wait on honey love, while youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights sleep's leaden spells remove. this time doth well dispense with lovers' long discourse; much, speech hath some defence though beauty no remorse. all do not all things well; some measures comely tread, some knotted riddles tell, some poems smoothly read. the summer hath his joys and winter his delights; though love and all his pleasures are but toys, they shorten tedious nights. from john ward's _first set of english madrigals_, . o say, dear life, when shall these twin-born berries, so lovely-ripe, by my rude lips be tasted? shall i not pluck (sweet, say not _nay_) those cherries? o let them not with summer's heat be blasted. nature, thou know'st, bestow'd them free on thee; then be thou kind--bestow them free on me. from john farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . o stay, sweet love; see here the place of sporting; these gentle flowers smile sweetly to invite us, and chirping birds are hitherwards resorting, warbling sweet notes only to delight us: then stay, dear love, for though thou run from me, run ne'er so fast, yet i will follow thee. i thought, my love, that i should overtake you; sweet heart, sit down under this shadowed tree, and i will promise never to forsake you, so you will grant to me a lover's fee. whereat she smiled and kindly to me said-- i never meant to live and die a maid. from thomas morley's _madrigals_, . o sweet, alas, what say you? ay me, that face discloses the scarlet blush of sweet vermilion roses. and yet, alas, i know not if such a crimson staining be for love or disdaining; but if of love it grow not, be it disdain conceivèd to see us of love's fruits so long bereavèd. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). o sweet delight, o more than human bliss with her to live that ever loving is! to hear her speak whose words are so well placed that she by them, as they by her are graced! those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, how blest is he that may so live and die! such love as this the golden times did know, when all did reap and none took care to sow; such love as this an endless summer makes, and all distaste from frail affection takes. so loved, so blest in my beloved am i: which till their eyes ache let iron men envy! from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). oft have i mused the cause to find why love in lady's eyes should dwell; i thought, because himself was blind, he look'd that they should guide him well: and sure his hope but seldom fails, for love by ladies' eyes prevails. but time at last hath taught me wit, although i bought my wit full dear; for by her eyes my heart is hit, deep is the wound though none appear: their glancing beams as darts he throws, and sure he hath no shafts but those. i mused to see their eyes so bright, and little thought they had been fire; i gazed upon them with delight, but that delight hath bred desire: what better place can love desire than that where grow both shafts and fire? from john attye's _first book of airs_, . on a time the amorous silvy said to her shepherd, 'sweet, how do you? kiss me this once, and then god be wi' you, my sweetest dear! kiss me this once and then god be wi' you, for now the morning draweth near.' with that, her fairest bosom showing, opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing, she said, 'now kiss me and be going, my sweetest dear! kiss me this once and then be going, for now the morning draweth near.' with that the shepherd waked from sleeping, and, spying where the day was peeping, he said, 'now take my soul in keeping, my sweetest dear! kiss me, and take my soul in keeping, since i must go, now day is near.' from robert jones' _first book of songs and airs_, . once did i love and yet i live, though love and truth be now forgotten; then did i joy, now do i grieve that holy vows must now be broken. hers be the blame that caused it so, mine be the grief though it be mickle;[ ] she shall have shame, i cause to know what 'tis to love a dame so fickle. love her that list, i am content for that chameleon-like she changeth, yielding such mists as may prevent my sight to view her when she rangeth. let him not vaunt that gains my loss, for when that he and time hath proved her, she may him bring to weeping-cross: i say no more, because i loved her. [ ] old ed., "little" from henry youll's _canzonets to three voices_, . once i thought to die for love, till i found that women prove traitors in their smiling: they say men unconstant be, but they themselves jove change, we see, and all is but beguiling. from thomas weelkes' _madrigals_, our country-swains in the morris dance thus woo and win their brides, will for our town the hobby horse at pleasure frolic rides: i woo with tears and ne'er the near, i die in grief and live in fear. from giles farnaby's _canzonets_, . pierce did love fair petronel because she sang and dancèd well and gallantly could prank it; he pulled her and he haul'd her and oftentimes he call'd her primrose pearls prick'd in a blanket. from francis pilkington's _first set of madrigals and pastorals_, . pour forth, mine eyes, the fountains of your tears; break, heart, and die, for now no hope appears; hope, upon which before my thoughts were fed, hath left me quite forlorn and from me fled. yet, see, she smiles! o see, some hope appears! hold, heart, and live; mine eyes, cease off your tears. from _airs sung and played at brougham castle_, , by george mason and john earsden. robin is a lovely lad, no lass a smoother ever had; tommy hath a look as bright as is the rosy morning light; tib is dark and brown of hue, but like her colour firm and true; jenny hath a lip to kiss wherein a spring of nectar is; simkin well his mirth can place and words to win a woman's grace; sib is all in all to me, there is no queen of love but she. from thomas ravenscroft's _brief discourse_, . the satyrs' dance. round-a, round-a, keep your ring: to the glorious sun we sing,-- ho, ho! he that wears the flaming rays, and th' imperial crown of bays, him with shouts and songs we praise-- ho, ho! that in his bounty he'd vouchsafe to grace the humble sylvans and their shaggy race. from thomas morley's _canzonets_, . see, see, mine own sweet jewel, what i have for my darling: a robin-redbreast and a starling. these i give both in hope to move thee; yet thou say'st i do not love thee. from william corkine's _airs_, . shall a frown or angry eye, shall a word unfitly placèd, shall a shadow make me flie as if i were with tigers chasèd? love must not be so disgracèd. shall i woo her in despight? shall i turn her from her flying? shall i tempt her with delight? shall i laugh at her denying? no: beware of lovers' crying. shall i then with patient mind still attend her wayward pleasure? time will make her prove more kind, let her coyness then take leisure: she is worthy such a treasure. from richard alison's _an hours recreation in music_, . shall i abide this jesting? i weep, and she's a-feasting! o cruel fancy, that so doth blind me to love one that doth not mind me! can i abide this prancing? i weep, and she's a-dancing! o cruel fancy, so to betray me! thou goest about to slay me. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). shall i come, sweet love, to thee when the evening beams are set? shall i not excluded be, will you find no feignèd let? let me not, for pity, more tell the long hours at your door. who can tell what thief or foe, in the covert of the night, for his prey will work my woe, or through wicked foul despite? so may i die unredrest ere my long love be possest. but to let such dangers pass, which a lover's thoughts disdain, 'tis enough in such a place to attend love's joys in vain: do not mock me in thy bed, while these cold nights freeze me dead. from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). shall i look to ease my grief? no, my sight is lost with eying: shall i speak and beg relief? no, my voice is hoarse with crying: what remains but only dying? love and i of late did part, but the boy, my peace envying, like a parthian threw his dart backward, and did wound me flying: what remains but only dying? she whom then i lookèd on, my remembrance beautifying, stays with me though i am gone, gone and at her mercy lying: what remains but only dying? shall i try her thoughts and write? no i have no means of trying: if i should, yet at first sight she would answer with denying: what remains but only dying? thus my vital breath doth waste, and, my blood with sorrow drying, sighs and tears make life to last for a while, their place supplying: what remains but only dying? from robert jones' _first book of airs_, . she whose matchless beauty staineth what best judgment fair'st maintaineth, she, o she, my love disdaineth. can a creature, so excelling, harbour scorn in beauty's dwelling, all kind pity thence expelling? pity beauty much commendeth and th' embracer oft befriendeth when all eye-contentment endeth. time proves beauty transitory; scorn, the stain of beauty's glory, in time makes the scorner sorry. none adores the sun declining; love all love falls to resigning when the sun of love leaves shining. so, when flower of beauty fails thee, and age, stealing on, assails thee, then mark what this scorn avails thee. then those hearts, which now complaining feel the wounds of thy disdaining, shall contemn thy beauty waning. yea, thine own heart, now dear-prizèd, shall with spite and grief surprisèd burst to find itself despisèd. when like harms have them requited who in others' harms delighted, pleasingly the wrong'd are righted. such revenge my wrongs attending, hope still lives on time depending, by thy plagues thy torrents ending. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets to five voices_, . shoot, false love! i care not; spend thy shafts and spare not! fa la la! i fear not, i, thy might, and less i weigh thy spite; all naked i unarm me,-- if thou canst, now shoot and harm me! so lightly i esteem thee as now a child i dream thee. fa la la la! long thy bow did fear[ ] me, while thy pomp did blear me; fa la la! but now i do perceive thy art is to deceive; and every simple lover all thy falsehood can discover. then weep, love! and be sorry, for thou hast lost thy glory. fa la la la! [ ] frighten. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_, (circ. ). silly boy! 'tis full moon yet, thy night as day shines clearly; had thy youth but wit to fear, thou couldst not love so dearly. shortly wilt thou mourn when all thy pleasures be bereavèd, little knows he how to love that never was deceivèd. this is thy first maiden-flame that triumphs yet unstainèd, all is artless now you speak, not one word is feignèd; all is heaven that you behold, and all your thoughts are blessèd, but no spring can want his fall, each troilus hath his cressid. thy well-ordered locks ere long shall rudely hang neglected, and thy lively pleasant cheer read grief on earth dejected; much then wilt thou blame thy saint, that made thy heart so holy and with sighs confess, in love that too much faith is folly. yet be just and constant still, love may beget a wonder, not unlike a summer's frost or winter's fatal thunder: he that holds his sweetheart true unto his day of dying, lives, of all that ever breathed, most worthy the envying. from giles farnaby's _canzonets_, . simkin said that sis was fair, and that he meant to love her; he set her on his ambling mare,-- all this he did to prove her. when they came home sis floted cream and poured it through a strainer, but sware that simkin should have none because he did disdain her. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . since first i saw your face i resolved to honour and renown ye, if now i be disdained i wish my heart had never known ye. what? i that loved and you that liked shall we begin to wrangle? no, no no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle. if i admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me or if my hands had strayed but a touch, then justly might you leave me. i asked you leave, you bade me love; is't now a time to chide me? no no no, i'll love you still what fortune e'er betide me. the sun whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder, and your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder, where beauty moves, and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me there, o there! where'er i go i'll leave my heart behind me. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets_, . sing we and chant it while love doth grant it. fa la la! not long youth lasteth, and old age hasteth. fa la la! now is best leisure to take our pleasure. fa la la! all things invite us now to delight us. fa la la! hence care be packing, no mirth be lacking. fa la la! let spare no treasure to live in pleasure. fa la la! from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . sister, awake! close not your eyes! the day her light discloses, and the bright morning doth arise out of her bed of roses. see, the clear sun, the world's bright eye, in at our window peeping: lo! how he blusheth to espy us idle wenches sleeping. therefore, awake! make haste, i say, and let us, without staying, all in our gowns of green so gay into the park a-maying. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me! for who a sleeping lion dares provoke? it shall suffice me here to sit and see those lips shut up that never kindly spoke: what sight can more content a lover's mind than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind? my words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps, though guilty much of wrong done to my love; and in her slumber, see! she close-eyed weeps: dreams often more than waking passions move. plead, sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee: that she in peace may wake and pity me. from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . so light is love, in matchless beauty shining, when he revisits cypris' hallowed bowers, two feeble doves, harness'd in silken twining, can draw his chariot midst the paphian flowers, lightness in love! how ill it fitteth! so heavy on my heart he sitteth. from william corkine's _airs_, . some can flatter, some can feign, simple truth shall plead for me; let not beauty truth disdain, truth is even as fair as she. but since pairs must equal prove, let my strength her youth oppose, love her beauty, faith her love; on even terms so may we close. cork or lead in equal weight both one just proportion yield, so may breadth be peis'd[ ] with height, steepest mount with plainest field. virtues have not all one kind, yet all virtues merit be, divers virtues are combined; differing so, deserts agree. let then love and beauty meet, making one divine concent constant as the sounds and sweet, that enchant the firmament. [ ] balanced. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . sweet, come again! your happy sight, so much desired since you from hence are now retired, i seek in vain: still i must mourn, and pine in longing pain, till you, my life's delight, again vouchsafe your wish'd return. if true desire, or faithful vow of endless love, thy heart inflamed may kindly move with equal fire; o then my joys, so long distraught, shall rest, reposèd soft in thy chaste breast, exempt from all annoys. you had the power my wand'ring thoughts first to restrain, you first did hear my love speak plain; a child before, now it is grown confirmed, do you it[ ] keep! and let 't safe in your bosom sleep, there ever made your own! and till we meet, teach absence inward art to find, both to disturb and please the mind! such thoughts are sweet: and such remain in hearts whose flames are true; then such will i retain, till you to me return again. [ ] old ed. "do you keep it." from william corkine's _airs_, . sweet cupid, ripen her desire, thy joyful harvest may begin; if age approach a little nigher, 'twill be too late to get it in. cold winter storms lay standing corn, which once too ripe will never rise, and lovers wish themselves unborn, when all their joys lie in their eyes. then, sweet, let us embrace and kiss: shall beauty shale[ ] upon the ground? if age bereave us of this bliss, then will no more such sport be found. [ ] shell, husk (as peas). from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . sweet heart, arise! why do you sleep when lovers wanton sports do keep? the sun doth shine, the birds do sing, and may delight and joy doth bring: then join we hands and dance till night, 'tis pity love should want his right. from robert jones' _musical dream_, . sweet kate of late ran away and left me plaining. abide! (i cried) or i die with thy disdaining. te hee, quoth she; make no fool of me; men, i know, have oaths at pleasure, but, their hopes attainèd, they bewray they feignèd, and their oaths are kept at leisure. unkind, i find thy delight is in tormenting: abide! (i cried) or i die with thy consenting. te hee, quoth she, make no fool of me; men, i know, have oaths at pleasure, but, their hopes attainèd, they bewray they feignèd, and their oaths are kept at leisure. her words, like swords, cut my sorry heart in sunder, her flouts with doubts kept my heart-affections under. te hee, quoth she, what a fool is he stands in awe of once denying! cause i had enough to become more rough, so i did--o happy trying! from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . sweet love, if thou wilt gain a monarch's glory, subdue her heart who makes me glad and sorry; out of thy golden quiver, take thou thy strongest arrow that will through bone and marrow, and me and thee of grief and fear deliver: but come behind, for, if she look upon thee, alas! poor love, then thou art woe-begone thee. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . sweet love, i will no more abuse thee, nor with my voice accuse thee; but tune my notes unto thy praise and tell the world love ne'er decays. sweet love doth concord ever cherish: what wanteth concord soon must perish. from robert jones' _ultimum vale, or third book of airs_ ( ). sweet love, my only treasure, for service long unfeignèd wherein i nought have gainèd, vouchsafe this little pleasure, to tell me in what part my lady keeps her heart. if in her hair so slender, like golden nets entwinèd which fire and art have finèd, her thrall my heart i render for ever to abide with locks so dainty tied. if in her eyes she bind it, wherein that fire was framèd by which it is inflamèd, i dare not look to find it: i only wish it sight to see that pleasant light. but if her breast have deignèd with kindness to receive it, i am content to leave it though death thereby were gainèd: then, lady, take your own that lives by you alone. from john dowland's _pilgrim's solace_, . (the first stanza is found in a poem of donne.) sweet, stay awhile; why will you rise? the light you see comes from your eyes; the day breaks not, it is my heart, to think that you and i must part. o stay! or else my joys must die and perish in their infancy. dear, let me die in this fair breast, far sweeter than the ph[oe]nix nest. love raise desire by his sweet charms within this circle of thine arms! and let thy blissful kisses cherish mine infant joys that else must perish. from thomas vautor's _songs of divers airs and natures_, . _tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o._ sweet suffolk owl, so trimly dight with feathers like a lady bright, thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, te whit, te whoo! thy note, that forth so freely rolls, with shrill command the mouse controls, and sings a dirge for dying souls, te whit, te whoo! from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . take here my heart, i give it thee for ever! no better pledge can love to love deliver. fear not, my dear, it will not fly away, for hope and love command my heart to stay. but if thou doubt, desire will make it range: love but my heart, my heart will never change. from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . take time while time doth last, mark how fair fadeth fast; beware if envy reign, take heed of proud disdain; hold fast now in thy youth, regard thy vowèd truth, lest, when thou waxeth old, friends fail and love grow cold. from _deuteromelia_, . the fly she sat in shamble-row and shambled with her heels i trow; and then came in sir cranion with legs so long and many a one; and said "jove speed, dame fly, dame fly": "marry, you be welcome, sir," quoth she: "the master humble bee hath sent me to thee to wit and if you will his true love be." but she said "nay, that may not be, for i must have the butterfly, for and a greater lord there may not be." but at the last consent did she. and there was bid to this wedding all flies in the field and worms creeping. the snail she came crawling all over the plain, with all her jolly trinkets in her train. ten bees there came, all clad in gold, and all the rest did them behold; but the thornbud refused this sight to see, and to a cow-plat away flies she. but where now shall this wedding be?-- for and hey-nonny-no in an old ivy-tree. and where now shall we bake our bread?-- for and hey-nonny-no in an old horse-head. and where now shall we brew our ale?-- but even within one walnut-shale. and also where shall we our dinner make?-- but even upon a galled horse-back: for there we shall have good company with humbling and bumbling and much melody. when ended was this wedding-day, the bee he took his fly away, and laid her down upon the marsh between one marigold and the long grass. and there they begot good master gnat and made him the heir of all,--that's flat. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . _audivere, lyce_.--horace. the gods have heard my vows, fond lyce, whose fair brows wont scorn with such disdain my love, my tears, my pain. fa la! but now those spring-tide roses are turn'd to winter-posies, to rue and thyme and sage, fitting thy shrivell'd age. fa la! now, youths, with hot desire see, see, that flameless fire, which erst your hearts so burned, quick into ashes turned. fa la! from _pammelia_, _the household-bird with the red stomacher._--donne. the lark, linnet and nightingale to sing some say are best; yet merrily sings little robin, pretty robin with the red breast. from richard carlton's _madrigals_, . the love of change hath changed the world throughout, and what is counted good but that is strange? new things wax old, old new, all turns about, and all things change except the love of change. yet find i not that love of change in me, but as i am so will i always be. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs and airs_, . the lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall, the fly her spleen, the little spark his heat; and slender hairs cast shadows, though but small, and bees have stings, although they be not great; seas have their source, and so have shallow springs; and love is love, in beggars and in kings! where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords; the dial stirs, yet none perceives it move; the firmest faith is in the fewest words; the turtles cannot sing, and yet they love; true hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak; they hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break! from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . the man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free from all dishonest deeds, or thought of vanity; the man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent, whom hopes cannot delude nor sorrow discontent: that man needs neither towers nor armour for defence, nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence: he only can behold with unaffrighted eyes the horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies. thus scorning all the cares that fate or fortune brings, he makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things; good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age, the earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . the greedy hawk with sudden sight of lure doth stoop in hope to have her wishèd prey; so many men do stoop to sights unsure, and courteous speech doth keep them at the bay: let them beware lest friendly looks be like the lure whereat the soaring hawk did strike. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets and songs_, . the match that's made for just and true respects, with evenness both of years and parentage, of force must bring forth many good effects. pari jugo dulcis tractus. for where chaste love and liking sets the plant, and concord waters with a firm good-will, of no good thing there can be any want. pari jugo dulcis tractus. sound is the knot that chastity hath tied, sweet is the music unity doth make, sure is the store that plenty doth provide. pari jugo dulcis tractus. where chasteness fails there concord will decay, where concord fleets there plenty will decease, where plenty wants there love will wear away. pari jugo dulcis tractus. i, chastity, restrain all strange desires; i, concord, keep the course of sound consent; i, plenty, spare and spend as cause requires. pari jugo dulcis tractus. make much of us, all ye that married be; speak well of us, all ye that mind to be; the time may come to want and wish all three. pari jugo dulcis tractus. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . the nightingale so pleasant and so gay in greenwood groves delights to make his dwelling, in fields to fly, chanting his roundelay, at liberty, against the cage rebelling; but my poor heart with sorrows over swelling, through bondage vile, binding my freedom short, no pleasure takes in these his sports excelling, nor in his song receiveth no comfort. from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . (by sir philip sidney.) the nightingale, so soon as april bringeth unto her rested sense a perfect waking, white late-bare earth proud of her clothing springeth, sings out her woes, a thorn her songbook making; and mournfully bewailing, her throat in tunes expresseth: while grief her heart oppresseth, for tereus' force o'er her chaste will prevailing. from thomas campion's _second book of airs_ (circ. ). the peaceful western wind the winter storms hath tamed, and nature in each kind the kind heat hath inflamed: the forward buds so sweetly breathe out of their earthly bowers, that heaven, which views their pomp beneath, would fain be decked with flowers. see how the morning smiles on her bright eastern hill, and with soft steps beguiles them that lie slumbering still! the music-loving birds are come from cliffs and rocks unknown, to see the trees and briars bloom that late were overthrown.[ ] what saturn did destroy, love's queen revives again; and now her naked boy doth in the fields remain, where he such pleasing change doth view in every living thing, as if the world were born anew to gratify the spring. if all things life present, why die my comforts then? why suffers my content? am i the worst of men? o, beauty, be not thou accused too justly in this case! unkindly if true love be used, 'twill yield thee little grace. [ ] old ed. "overflown." from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). there is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow; a heavenly paradise is that place wherein all pleasant fruits doth flow. there cherries grow which none may buy, till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry. those cherries fairly do enclose of orient pearl a double row, which when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rose-buds filled with snow; yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still, her brows like bended bows do stand, threatening with piercing frowns to kill all that attempt with eye or hand those sacred cherries to come nigh till "cherry ripe" themselves do cry. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . there is a lady sweet and kind, was never face so pleased my mind; i did but see her passing by, and yet i love her till i die. her gesture, motion and her smiles her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, beguiles my heart, i know not why, and yet i love her till i die. her free behaviour, winning looks will make a lawyer burn his books; i touched her not, alas! not i, and yet i love her till i die. had i her fast betwixt mine arms, judge you that think such sports were harms; were't any harm? no, no, fie, fie, for i will love her till i die. should i remain confinèd there so long as ph[oe]bus in his sphere, i to request, she to deny, yet would i love her till i die. cupid is wingèd and doth range, her country so my love doth change: but change she earth, or change she sky, yet will i love her till i die. from _melismata_, . there were three ravens sat on a tree,-- down-a-down, hey down, hey down! there were three ravens sat on a tree,-- with a down! there were three ravens sat on a tree,-- they were as black as they might be: with a down, derry derry derry down down! the one of them said to his make[ ]-- where shall we our breakfast take? down in yonder greenè field there lies a knight slain under his shield. his hounds they lie down at his feet: so well they their master keep. his hawks they fly so eagerly, there's no fowl dare him come nigh. down there comes a fallow doe, great with young as she might go. she lift up his bloody head, and kist his wounds that were so red. she gat him upon her back and carried him to earthen lake. she buried him before the prime; she was dead ere even-time. god send every gentleman such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman! with a down, derry. [ ] old ed. "mate"; but "make," which is required for the rhyme, was a recognised form of "mate." from robert jones' _ultimum vale or third book of airs_ ( ). think'st thou, kate, to put me down with a 'no' or with a frown? since love holds my heart in bands i must do as love commands. love commands the hands to dare when the tongue of speech is spare, chiefest lesson in love's school,-- put it in adventure, fool! fools are they that fainting flinch for a squeak, a scratch, a pinch: women's words have double sense: 'stand away!'--a simple fence. if thy mistress swear she'll cry, fear her not, she'll swear and lie: such sweet oaths no sorrow bring till the prick of conscience sting. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). think'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning? parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning: nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning. learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth: he that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth, looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth. skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season; but with crooked pins fish thou, as babes do that want reason: gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason. ruth forgive me (if i erred) from human heart's compassion, when i laughed sometimes too much to see thy foolish fashion: but, alas, who less could do that found so good occasion! from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . thou art but young, thou say'st, and love's delight thou weigh'st not: o, take time while thou may'st, lest when thou would'st thou may'st not. if love shall then assail thee, a double anguish will torment thee; and thou wilt wish (but wishes all will fail thee,) "o me! that i were young again!" and so repent thee. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . (ascribed to dr. donne.) thou art not fair, for all thy red and white, for all those rosy ornaments in thee; thou art not sweet, tho' made of mere delight, nor fair, nor sweet--unless thou pity me. i will not soothe thy fancies, thou shalt prove that beauty is no beauty without love. yet love not me, nor seek not to allure my thoughts with beauty were it more divine; thy smiles and kisses i cannot endure, i'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine: now show it, if thou be a woman right,-- embrace and kiss and love me in despite. from john danyel's _songs for the lute, viol, and voice_, . thou pretty bird, how do i see thy silly state and mine agree! for thou a prisoner art; so is my heart. thou sing'st to her, and so do i address my music to her ear that's merciless; but herein doth the difference lie,-- that thou art grac'd, so am not i; thou singing liv'st, and i must singing die. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety_, . though amaryllis dance in green like fairy queen, and sing full clear; corinna can, with smiling cheer. yet since their eyes make heart so sore, hey ho! chil love no more. my sheep are lost for want of food and i so wood[ ] that all the day i sit and watch a herd-maid gay; who laughs to see me sigh so sore, hey ho! chil love no more. her loving looks, her beauty bright, is such delight! that all in vain i love to like, and lose my gain for her, that thanks me not therefore. hey ho! chil love no more. ah wanton eyes! my friendly foes and cause of woes; your sweet desire breeds flames of ice, and freeze in fire! ye scorn to see me weep so sore! hey ho! chil love no more. love ye who list, i force him not: since god is wot, the more i wail, the less my sighs and tears prevail. what shall i do? but say therefore, hey ho! chil love no more. [ ] distracted. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . though my carriage be but careless, though my looks be of the sternest, yet my passions are compareless; when i love, i love in earnest. no; my wits are not so wild, but a gentle soul may yoke me; nor my heart so hard compiled, but it melts, if love provoke me. from robert jones' _musical dream_, . (this song is also printed in thomas campion's _two books of airs_, circ. .) though your strangeness frets my heart, yet must i not complain; you persuade me 'tis but art which secret love must feign; if another you affect, 'tis but a toy, t' avoid suspect. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. when your wish'd sight i desire, suspicion you pretend, causeless you yourself retire whilst i in vain attend, thus a lover, as you say, still made more eager by delay. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. when another holds your hand you'll swear i hold your heart; whilst my rival close doth stand and i sit far apart, i am nearer yet than they, hid in your bosom, as you say. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. would a rival then i were or[ ] else a secret friend, so much lesser should i fear and not so much attend. they enjoy you, every one, yet must i seem your friend alone. is this fair excusing? o no, all is abusing. [ ] old ed. "some." from giles farnaby's _canzonets_, . thrice blessèd be the giver that gave sweet love that golden quiver, and live he long among the gods anointed that made the arrow-heads sharp-pointed: if either of them both had quailèd, she of my love and i of hers had failèd. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air, thrice sit thou mute in the enchanted chair, then thrice-three times tie up this true love's knot, and murmur soft "she will or she will not." go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire, these screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar, this cypress gathered at a dead man's grave, that all my fears and cares an end may have. then come, you fairies! dance with me a round! melt her hard heart with your melodious sound! --in vain are all the charms i can devise: she hath an art to break them with her eyes. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). thus i resolve and time hath taught me so: since she is fair and ever kind to me, though she be wild and wanton-like in show, those little stains in youth i will not see. that she be constant, heaven i oft implore; if prayers prevail not, i can do no more. palm-tree the more you press, the more it grows; leave it alone, it will not much exceed: free beauty, if you strive to yoke, you lose, and for affection strange distaste you breed. what nature hath not taught no art can frame; wild-born be wild still, though by force you tame. from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . thus saith my chloris bright when we of love sit down and talk together:-- "beware of love, dear; love is a walking sprite, and love is this and that and, o, i know not what, and comes and goes again i wot not whether."[ ] no, no, these are but bugs to breed amazing, for in her eyes i saw his torch-light blazing. [ ] old form of "whither." from thomas morley's _first book of ballets to five voices_, . thus saith my galatea: love long hath been deluded, when shall it be concluded? the young nymphs all are wedded: ah, then why do i tarry? oh, let me die or marry. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). to his sweet lute apollo sang the motions of the spheres, the wondrous orders of the stars whose course divides the years, and all the mysteries above; but none of this could midas move: which purchased him his ass's ears. then pan with his rude pipe began the country wealth t' advance, to boast of cattle, flocks of sheep, and goats on hills that dance, with much more of this churlish kind, that quite transported midas' mind, and held him wrapt in trance. this wrong the god of music scorned from such a sottish judge, and bent his angry bow at pan, which made the piper trudge: then midas' head he so did trim that every age yet talks of him and ph[oe]bus' right revengèd grudge. from robert dowland's _musical banquet_, . (the lines are assigned to robert deveureux, earl of essex.) to plead my faith, where faith hath no reward, to move remorse where favour is not borne, to heap complaints where she doth not regard, were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn. i lovèd her whom all the world admired, i was refused of her that can love none, and my vain hopes which far too high aspired is dead and buried and for ever gone. forget my name since you have scorned my love, and woman-like do not too late lament: since for your sake i do all mischief prove, i none accuse nor nothing do repent: i was as fond as ever she was fair, yet loved i not more than i now despair. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . to shorten winter's sadness see where the nymphs with gladness fa la la! disguisèd all are coming, right wantonly a-mumming. fa la la! though masks encloud their beauty, yet give the eye her duty. fa la la! when heaven is dark it shineth and unto love inclineth. fa la la! from john dowland's _second book of songs and airs_, . toss not my soul, o love, 'twixt hope and fear! show me some ground where i may firmly stand, or surely fall! i care not which appear, so one will close me in a certain band. when once of ill the uttermost is known; the strength of sorrow quite is overthrown! take me, assurance, to thy blissful hold! or thou despair, unto thy darkest cell! each hath full rest: the one, in joys enroll'd; th' other, in that he fears no more, is well. when once the uttermost of ill is known, the strength of sorrow quite is overthrown. from thomas campion's _fourth book of airs_ (circ. ). turn all thy thoughts to eyes, turn all thy hairs to ears, change all thy friends to spies and all thy joys to fears; true love will yet be free in spite of jealousy. turn darkness into day, conjectures into truth, believe what th' envious say, let age interpret youth: true love will yet be free in spite of jealousy. wrest every word and look, rack every hidden thought; or fish with golden hook, true love cannot be caught: for that will still be free in spite of jealousy. from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . unto the temple of thy beauty, and to the tomb where pity lies, i, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty, do offer up my heart, mine eyes. my heart, lo! in the quenchless fire, on love's burning altar lies, conducted thither by desire to be beauty's sacrifice. but pity on thy sable hearse, mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed; what though tears cannot fate reverse, yet are they duties to the dead. o, mistress, in thy sanctuary why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain to use his frozen cruelty, and gentle pity to be slain? pity that to thy beauty fled, and with thy beauty should have lived, ah, in thy heart lies burièd, and nevermore may be revived; yet this last favour, dear, extend, to accept these vows, these tears i shed, duties which i thy pilgrim send, to beauty living, pity dead. from thomas weelkes' _airs or fantastic spirits_, . upon a hill the bonny boy sweet thyrsis sweetly played, and called his lambs their master's joy, and more he would have said; but love that gives the lover wings withdrew his mind from other things. his pipe and he could not agree, for milla was his note; the silly pipe could never get this lovely name by rote: with that they both fell in a sound,[ ] he fell a-sleep, his pipe to ground. [ ] swoon. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . upon a summer's day love went to swim, and cast himself into a sea of tears; the clouds called in their light, and heaven waxed dim, and sighs did raise a tempest, causing fears; the naked boy could not so wield his arms, but that the waves were masters of his might, and threatened him to work far greater harms if he devisèd not to scape by flight: then for a boat his quiver stood instead, his bow unbent did serve him for a mast, whereby to sail his cloth of veil he spread, his shafts for oars on either board he cast: from shipwreck safe this wag got thus to shore, and sware to bathe in lovers' tears no more. from thomas campion's _second book of airs_ (circ. ). vain men! whose follies make a god of love; whose blindness, beauty doth immortal deem, praise not what you desire, but what you prove; count those things good that are, not those that seem. i cannot call her true, that's false to me; nor make of women, more than women be. how fair an entrance breaks the way to love! how rich the golden hope, and gay delight! what heart cannot a modest beauty move? who seeing clear day once will dream of night? she seemed a saint, that brake her faith with me; but proved a woman, as all other be. so bitter is their sweet that true content unhappy men _in_ them may never find: ah! but _without_ them, none. both must consent, else uncouth are the joys of either kind. let us then praise their good, forget their ill! men must be men, and women women still. from francis pilkington's _second set of madrigals_, . wake, sleepy thyrsis, wake for love and venus' sake! come, let us mount the hills which zephyrus with cool breath fills; or let us tread new alleys, in yonder shady valleys. rise, rise, rise, rise! lighten thy heavy eyes: see how the streams do glide and the green meads divide: but stream nor fire shall part this and this joinèd heart. from _deuteromelia_, . we be soldiers three, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, lately come forth of the low country with never a penny of money. fa la la la lantido dilly. here, good fellow, i drink to thee, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, to all good fellows wherever they be, with never a penny of money. and he that will not pledge me this, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, pays for the shot whatever it is, with never a penny of money. charge it again, boy, charge it again, _pardona moy je vous an pree_, as long as there is any ink in thy pen, with never a penny of money. from _deuteromelia_, . we be three poor mariners, newly come from the seas; we spend our lives in jeopardy while others live at ease. shall we go dance the round, the round, shall we go dance the round? and he that is a bully boy come pledge me on this ground! we care not for those martial men that do our states disdain; but we care for the merchant men who do our states maintain: to them we dance this round, around, to them we dance this round; and he that is a bully boy come pledge me on this ground! from _egerton ms., _. we must not part as others do, with sighs and tears, as we were two: though with these outward forms we part, we keep each other in our heart. what search hath found a being, where i am not, if that thou be there? true love hath wings, and can as soon survey the world as sun and moon, and everywhere our triumphs keep o'er absence which makes others weep: by which alone a power is given to live on earth, as they in heaven. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals to five voices_, . we shepherds sing, we pipe, we play, with pretty sport we pass the day: fa la! we care for no gold, but with our fold we dance and prance as pleasure would. fa la! from william byrd's _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . wedded to will is witless, and seldom he is skilful that bears the name of wise and yet is wilful. to govern he is fitless that deals not by election, but by his fond affection. o that it might be treason for men to rule by will and not by reason. from thomas tomkins' _songs of three, four, five, and six parts_, . weep no more, thou sorry boy; love's pleased and anger'd with a toy. love a thousand passion brings, laughs and weeps, and sighs and sings. if _she_ smiles, he dancing goes, and thinks not on his future woes: if _she_ chide with angry eye, sits down, and sighs "ah me, i die!" yet again, as soon revived, joys as much as late he grieved. change there is of joy and sadness, sorrow much, but more of gladness. then weep no more, thou sorry boy, turn thy tears to weeping joy. sigh no more "ah me! i die!" but dance, and sing, and ti-hy cry. from john rowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . weep you no more, sad fountains; what need you flow so fast? look how the snowy mountains heaven's sun doth gently waste! but my sun's heavenly eyes, view not your weeping, that now lies sleeping softly, now softly lies sleeping. sleep is a reconciling, a rest that peace begets; doth not the sun rise smiling when fair at ev'n he sets? rest you then, rest, sad eyes! melt not in weeping, while she lies sleeping, softly, now softly lies sleeping. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals to five voices_, . welcome, sweet pleasure, my wealth and treasure; to haste our playing there's no delaying, no no! this mirth delights me when sorrow frights me. then sing we all fa la la la la! sorrow, content thee, mirth must prevent thee: though much thou grievest thou none relievest. no no! joy, come delight me, though sorrow spite me. then sing we all fa la la la la! grief is disdainful, sottish and painful: then wait on pleasure, and lose no leisure. no no! heart's ease it lendeth and comfort sendeth. then sing we all fa la la la la! from john mundy's _songs and psalms_, . were i a king, i might command content; were i obscure, unknown should be my cares: and were i dead, no thoughts should me torment, nor words, nor wrongs, nor loves, nor hopes, nor fears. a doubtful choice, of three things one to crave; a kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave. from thomas campion's _third book of airs_ (circ. ). were my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me, but thy faults i curious find and speak because i love thee; patience is a thing divine, and far, i grant, above me. foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, than th' obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting; friendship is the glass of truth, our hidden stains detecting. while i use of eyes enjoy and inward light of reason, thy observer will i be and censor, but in season; hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason. from _pammelia_, . what hap had i to marry a shrow! for she hath given me many a blow, and how to please her alack i do not know. from morn to even her tongue ne'er lies, sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries, yet i can scarce keep her talents[ ] from mine eyes. if i go abroad and late come in,-- "sir knave," saith she, "where have you been?" and do i well or ill she claps me on the skin. [ ] old form of "talons." from orlando gibbons' _first set of madrigals_, . (ascribed to sir walter raleigh.) what is our life? a play of passion: our mirth? the music of division. our mothers' wombs the tyring-houses be where we are drest for this short comedy: heaven the judicious sharp spectator is that sits and marks whoe'er doth act amiss: our graves, that hide us from the searching sun, are like drawn curtains when the play is done: thus march we playing to our latest rest, only we die in earnest,--that's no jest. from john wilbye's _madrigals_, . what needeth all this travail and turmoiling, short'ning the life's sweet pleasure to seek this far-fetched treasure in those hot climates under ph[oe]bus broiling? o fools, can you not see a traffic nearer in my sweet lady's face, where nature showeth whatever treasure eye sees or heart knoweth? rubies and diamonds dainty and orient pearls such plenty, coral and ambergreece sweeter and dearer than which the south seas or moluccas lend us, or either indies, east or west, do send us! from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . what pleasure have great princes more dainty to their choice than herdsmen wild, who careless in quiet life rejoice, and fortune's fate not fearing sing sweet in summer morning? their dealings plain and rightful, are void of all deceit; they never know how spiteful, it is to kneel and wait on favourite presumptuous whose pride is vain and sumptuous. all day their flocks each tendeth; at night, they take their rest; more quiet than who sendeth his ship into the east, where gold and pearl are plenty; but getting, very dainty. for lawyers and their pleading, they 'steem it not a straw; they think that honest meaning is of itself a law: whence conscience judgeth plainly, they spend no money vainly. o happy who thus liveth! not caring much for gold; with clothing which sufficeth to keep him from the cold. though poor and plain his diet yet merry it is, and quiet. from john dowland's _third and last book of songs or airs_, . what poor astronomers are they, take women's eyes for stars! and set their thoughts in battle 'ray, to fight such idle wars; when in the end they shall approve 'tis but a jest drawn out of love. and love itself is but a jest devised by idle heads, to catch young fancies in the nest, and lay them in fool's beds; that being hatched in beauty's eyes they may be fledged ere they be wise. but yet it is a sport to see, how wit will run on wheels! while wit cannot persuaded be, with that which reason feels, that women's eyes and stars are odd and love is but a feignèd god! but such as will run mad with will, i cannot clear their sight but leave them to their study still, to look where is no light! till time too late, we make them try, they study false astronomy! from thomas ford's _music of sundry kinds_, . what then is love, sings corydon, since phyllida is grown so coy? a flattering glass to gaze upon, a busy jest, a serious toy, a flower still budding, never blown, a scanty dearth in fullest store yielding least fruit where most is sown. my daily note shall be therefore-- heigh ho, chil love no more. 'tis like a morning dewy rose spread fairly to the sun's arise, but when his beams he doth disclose that which then flourish'd quickly dies; it is a seld-fed dying hope, a promised bliss, a salveless sore, an aimless mark, and erring scope. my daily note shall be therefore,-- heigh ho, chil love no more. 'tis like a lamp shining to all, whilst in itself it doth decay; it seems to free whom it doth thrall, and lead our pathless thoughts astray. it is the spring of wintered hearts parched by the summer's heat before faint hope to kindly warmth converts. my daily note shall be therefore-- heigh ho, chil love no more. from richard carlton's _madrigals_, . when flora fair the pleasant tidings bringeth of summer sweet with herbs and flowers adornèd, the nightingale upon the hawthorn singeth and boreas' blasts the birds and beasts have scornèd; when fresh aurora with her colours painted, mingled with spears of gold, the sun appearing, delights the hearts that are with love acquainted, and maying maids have then their time of cheering; all creatures then with summer are delighted, the beasts, the birds, the fish with scale of silver; then stately dames by lovers are invited to walk in meads or row upon the river. i all alone am from these joys exilèd, no summer grows where love yet never smilèd. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . when i was otherwise than now i am, i lovèd more but skillèd not so much fair words and smiles could have contented then, my simple age and ignorance was such: but at the length experience made me wonder that hearts and tongues did lodge so far asunder. as watermen which on the thames do row, look to the east but west keeps on the way; my sovereign sweet her count'nance settled so, to feed my hope while she her snares might lay: and when she saw that i was in her danger, good god, how soon she provèd then a ranger! i could not choose but laugh, although too late, to see great craft decypher'd in a toy; i love her still, but such conditions hate which so profanes my paradise of joy. love whets the wits, whose pain is but a pleasure; a toy, by fits to play withal at leisure. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . when thou must home to shades of underground, and there arrived, a new admirèd guest, the beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, white iope, blithe helen, and the rest, to hear the stories of thy finished love from that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, of tourneys and great challenges of knights, and all these triumphs for thy beauty sake: when thou hast told these honours done to thee, then tell, o tell, how thou didst murder me. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . {deinos erôs, deinos; ti de to pleon, ên palin eipô, kai palin, oimôzôn pollaki, deinos erôs?} meleag. when younglings first on cupid fix their sight, and see him naked, blindfold, and a boy, though bow and shafts and firebrand be his might, yet ween they he can work them none annoy; and therefore with his purple wings they play, for glorious seemeth love though light as feather, and when they have done they ween to scape away, for blind men, say they, shoot they know not whither. but when by proof they find that he did see, and that his wound did rather dim their sight, they wonder more how such a lad as he should be of such surpassing power and might. but ants have galls, so hath the bee his sting: then shield me, heavens, from such a subtle thing! from john wilbye's _second set of madrigals_, . where most my thoughts, there least mine eye is striking; where least i come there most my heart abideth; where most i love i never show my liking; from what my mind doth hold my body slideth; i show least care where most my care dependeth; a coy regard where most my soul attendeth. despiteful thus unto myself i languish, and in disdain myself from joy i banish. these secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguish that life, i hope, will soon from body vanish, and to some rest will quickly be conveyèd that on no joy, while so i lived, hath stayèd. from martin pearson's _mottects or grave chamber-music_, . a mourning-song for the death of sir fulke greville, lord brooke. where shall a sorrow great enough be sought for this sad ruin which the fates have wrought, unless the fates themselves should weep and wish their curbless power had been controlled in this? for thy loss, worthiest lord, no mourning eye has flood enough; no muse nor elegy enough expression to thy worth can lend; no, though thy sidney had survived his friend. dead, noble brooke shall be to us a name of grief and honour still, whose deathless fame such virtue purchased as makes us to be unjust to nature in lamenting thee; wailing an old man's fate as if in pride and heat of youth he had untimely died. from campion and rosseter's _book of airs_, . {skênê pas ho bios, kai paignion.} pallad. whether men do laugh or weep, whether they do wake or sleep, whether they die young or old, whether they feel heat or cold; there is underneath the sun nothing in true earnest done. all our pride is but a jest, none are worst and none are best; grief and joy and hope and fear play their pageants everywhere: vain opinion all doth sway, and the world is but a play. powers above in clouds do sit, mocking our poor apish wit, that so lamely with such state their high glory imitate. no ill can be felt but pain, and that happy men disdain. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . while that the sun with his beams hot scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain, philon, the shepherd, late forgot sitting beside a chrystal fountain in shadow of a green oak-tree, upon his pipe this song play'd he: adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. so long as i was in your sight, i was your heart, your soul, your treasure; and evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd, burning in flames beyond all measure. three days endured your love for me, and it was lost in other three. adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. another shepherd you did see, to whom your heart was soon enchainèd; full soon your love was leapt from me, full soon my place he had obtainèd: soon came a third your love to win; and we were out, and he was in. adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. sure, you have made me passing glad that you your mind so soon removèd, before that i the leisure had to choose you for my best belovèd: for all my love was past and done two days, before it was begun. adieu, love! adieu, love! untrue love! untrue love, untrue love! adieu, love! your mind is light, soon lost for new love. from thomas weelkes' _ballets and madrigals_, . whilst youthful sports are lasting, to feasting turn our fasting. fa la la! with revels and with wassails make grief and care our vassals. fa la la! for youth it well beseemeth that pleasure he esteemeth. fa la la! and sullen age is hated that mirth would have abated. fa la la! from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . white as lilies was her face: when she smilèd she beguilèd, quitting faith with foul disgrace. virtue's service thus neglected. heart with sorrows hath infected. when i swore my heart her own, she disdainèd; i complainèd, yet she left me overthrown: careless of my bitter grieving, ruthless, bent to no relieving. vows and oaths and faith assured, constant ever, changing never,-- yet she could not be procured to believe my pains exceeding from her scant respect proceeding. o that love should have the art, by surmises, and disguises, to destroy a faithful heart; or that wanton-looking women should reward their friends as foemen. all in vain is ladies' love-- quickly choosèd. shortly loosèd; for their pride is to remove. out, alas! their looks first won us, and their pride hath straight undone us. to thyself, the sweetest fair! thou hast wounded, and confounded changeless faith with foul despair; and my service hast envièd and my succours hast denièd. by thine error thou hast lost heart unfeignèd, truth unstainèd. and the swain that lovèd most, more assured in love than many, move despised in love than any. for my heart, though set at nought, since you will it, spoil and kill it! i will never change my thought: but grieve that beauty e'er was born thus to answer love with scorn. from francis pilkington's _first book of songs or airs_, . whither so fast? see how the kindly flowers perfume the air, and all to make thee stay: the climbing wood-bine, clipping all these bowers, clips thee likewise for fear thou pass away; fortune our friend, our foe will not gainsay. stay but awhile, ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; she her endymion, i'll my ph[oe]be kiss. fear not, the ground seeks but to kiss thy feet; hark, hark, how philomela sweetly sings! whilst water-wanton fishes as they meet strike crotchet time amidst these crystal springs, and zephyrus amongst the leaves sweet murmur rings. stay but awhile, ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; she her endymion, i'll my ph[oe]be kiss. see how the helitrope, herb of the sun, though he himself long since be gone to bed, is not of force thine eye's bright beams to shun, but with their warmth his goldy leaves unspread, and on my knee invites thee rest thy head. stay but awhile, ph[oe]be no tell-tale is; she her endymion, i'll my ph[oe]be kiss. from william byrd's _psalms, sonnets, and songs_, . who likes to love, let him take heed! and wot you why? among the gods it is decreed that love shall die; and every wight that takes his part shall forfeit each a mourning heart. the cause is this, as i have heard: a sort of dames, whose beauty he did not regard nor secret flames, complained before the gods above that gold corrupts the god of love. the gods did storm to hear this news, and there they swore, that sith he did such dames abuse he should no more be god of love, but that he should both die and forfeit all his gold. his bow and shafts they took away before his eyes, and gave these dames a longer day for to devise who should them keep, and they be bound that love for gold should not be found. these ladies striving long, at last they did agree to give them to a maiden chaste, whom i did see, who with the same did pierce my breast: her beauty's rare, and so i rest. from william byrd's _songs of sundry natures_, . . who made thee, hob, forsake the plough and fall in love? . sweet beauty, which hath power to bow the gods above. . what dost thou serve? . a shepherdess; one such as hath no peer, i guess. . what is her name who bears thy heart within her breast? . silvana fair, of high desert, whom i love best. . o, hob, i fear she looks too high. . yet love i must, or else i die. from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . who prostrate lies at women's feet. and calls them darlings dear and sweet; protesting love, and craving grace, and praising oft a foolish face; are oftentimes deceived at last, then catch at nought and hold it fast. from john farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . who would have thought that face of thine had been so full of doubleness, or that within those crystal eyn had been so much unstableness? thy face so fair, thy look so strange! who would have thought of such a change? from thomas weelkes' _madrigals of five and six parts_, . why are you ladies staying, and your lords gone a-maying? run apace and meet them and with your garlands greet them. 'twere pity they should miss you, for they will sweetly kiss you. from john dowland's _first book of songs or airs_, . wilt thou, unkind! thus 'reave me of my heart and so leave me? farewell! but yet, or ere i part, o cruel, kiss me, sweet, my jewel! farewell! hope by disdain grows cheerless, fear doth love, love doth fear; beauty peerless, farewell! if no delays can move thee, life shall die, death shall live still to love thee. farewell! yet be thou mindful ever! heat from fire, fire from heat, none can sever. farewell! true love cannot be changèd, though delight from desert be estrangèd. farewell! from thomas campion's _two books of airs_ (circ. ). wise men patience never want, good men pity cannot hide; feeble spirits only vaunt of revenge, the poorest pride: he alone forgive that can bears the true soul of a man. some there are debate that seek, making trouble their content; happy if they wrong the meek, vex them that to peace are bent: such undo the common tie of mankind, society. kindness grown is lately cold, conscience hath forgot her part; blessèd times were known of old long ere law became an art: shame deterred, not statutes then; honest love was law to men. deeds from love, and words, that flow, foster like kind april showers; in the warm sun all things grow, wholesome fruits and pleasant flowers: all so thrives his gentle rays whereon human love displays. from john dowland's _second book of songs or airs_, . woeful heart, with grief oppressèd! since my fortunes most distressèd from my joys hath me removèd, follow those sweet eyes adorèd! those sweet eyes wherein are storèd all my pleasures best belovèd. fly my breast--leave me forsaken-- wherein grief his seat hath taken, all his arrows through me darting! thou mayst live by her sunshining: i shall suffer no more pining by thy loss than by her parting. from thomas greaves' _songs of sundry kinds_, . ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes to lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed, when as my dear this way her pleasure takes, tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed; and, philomel, report my timerous fears, and, echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears: but if she asks if i for love will die, tell her, good faith, good faith, good faith,--not i. from farmer's _first set of english madrigals_, . you blessèd bowers whose green leaves now are spreading, shadow the sunshine from my mistress' face, and you, sweet roses, only for her bedding when weary she doth take her resting-place; you fair white lilies and pretty flowers all, give your attendance at my mistress' call. from thomas morley's _first book of ballets_, . you that wont to my pipe's sound daintily to tread your ground, jolly shepherds and nymphs sweet, (lirum, lirum.) here met together under the weather, hand in hand uniting, the lovely god come greet. (lirum, lirum) lo, triumphing, brave comes he, all in pomp and majesty, monarch of the world and king. (lirum, lirum.) let whoso list him dare to resist him, we our voices uniting, of his high acts will sing. (lirum, lirum.) from thomas bateson's _first set of english madrigals_, . your shining eyes and golden hair, your lily-rosèd lips so fair; your various beauties which excel, men cannot choose but like them well: yet when for them they say they'll die, believe them not,--they do but lie. notes. _page_ . thomas weelkes was organist of winchester college in , and of chichester cathedral in . his first collection, "madrigals to three, four, five, or six voices," was published in . here first appeared the verses (fraudulently ascribed, in "the passionate pilgrim," , to shakespeare), "my flocks feed not." in weelkes published "ballets and madrigals to five voices," which was followed in by "madrigals of five and six parts." prefixed to the last-named work is the following dedicatory epistle:-- "to the truly noble, virtuous, and honorable, my very good lord henry, lord winsor, baron of bradenham. my lord, in the college at winchester, where i live, i have heard learned men say that some philosophers have mistaken the soul of man for an harmony: let the precedent of their error be a privilege for mine. i see not, if souls do not partly consist of music, how it should come to pass that so noble a spirit as your's, so perfectly tuned to so perpetual a _tenor_ of excellence as it is, should descend to the notice of a quality lying single in so low a personage as myself. but in music the _base_ part is no disgrace to the best ears' attendancy. i confess my conscience is untoucht with any other arts, and i hope my confession is unsuspected; many of us musicians think it as much praise to be somewhat more than musicians as it is for gold to be somewhat more than gold, and if _jack cade_ were alive, yet some of us might live, unless we should think, as the artisans in the universities of poland and germany think, that the latin tongue comes by reflection. i hope your lordship will pardon this presumption of mine; the rather, because i know before nobility i am to deal sincerely; and this small faculty of mine, because it is alone in me, and without the assistance of other more confident sciences, is the more to be favoured and the rather to be received into your honour's protection; so shall i observe you with as humble and as true an heart, as he whose knowledge is as large as the world's creation, and as earnestly pray for you to the world's creator. your honor's in all humble service, thomas weelkes." in appeared weelkes' last work, "airs or fantastic spirits for three voices," a collection of lively and humorous ditties. oliphant writes:--"for originality of ideas, and ingenuity of construction in part writing, (i allude more especially to his ballets,) weelkes in my opinion leaves all other composers of his time far behind." the verses in weelkes' song-books are never heavy or laboured; they are always bright, cheerful, and arch. _page_ . robert jones was a famous performer on the lute. he had a share in the management of the theatre in the whitefriars (collier's "annals of the stage," i. ). his works are of the highest rarity. the delightful lyrics in jones' song-books have escaped the notice of all the editors of anthologies. _page_ . thomas morley, who was a pupil of william byrd, was the author of the first systematic treatise on music published in this country--"a plain and easy introduction to practical music," , quaintly set down in form of a dialogue. the verses in his collections are mere airy trifles, and hardly bear to be separated from the music. "about the maypole new," &c., is a translation of some italian lines, beginning-- "al suon d'una sampogn' e d'una citera, sopra l'herbette floride dansava tirsi con l'amata cloride," &c. in morley's "canzonets to three voices," , we have the following pleasant description of the preparations for a country wedding:-- "arise, get up, my dear, make haste, begone thee: lo! where the bride, fair daphne, tarries on thee. hark! o hark! yon merry maidens squealing spice-cakes, sops-in-wine are a-dealing. run, then run apace and get a bride-lace and gilt rosemary branch the while there yet is catching and then hold fast for fear of old snatching. alas! my dear, why weep ye? o fear not that, dear love, the next day keep we. list, yon minstrels! hark how fine they firk it, and how the maidens jerk it! with kate and will, tom and gill, now a skip, then a trip, finely fet aloft, there again as oft; hey ho! blessed holiday! all for daphne's wedding day!" _page_ . john wilbye is styled by oliphant "the first of madrigal writers." he published his "first set of english madrigals" in , and his "second set" in . the second set was dedicated to the unfortunate lady arabella stuart. the composer concludes his dedicatory epistle with the prayer, "i beseech the almighty to make you in all the passages of your life truly happy, as you are in the world's true opinion, virtuous." in the very year when the epistle was written the gifted patroness of art and learning was accused before the privy council and ordered to be kept in close confinement. she made her escape, but after a few hours was captured at sea in her flight to dunkirk, brought back to london, and committed to the tower, where she died of a broken heart in . it is pleasant to think that the song-book dedicated to her honour may have cheered her in the long hours of solitude. the collection consists chiefly of love-lyrics; but such verses as "happy, o happy he," &c. (p. ) and "draw on, sweet night" (p. ), must have been carefully cherished by the poor captive. _page_ . "april is in my mistress' face."--compare robert greene's verses in "perimedes, the blacksmith," :-- "fair is my love, for april in her face, her lovely breasts september claims his part, and lordly july in her eyes takes place: but cold december dwelleth in her heart: blest be the months that set my thoughts on fire, accurs'd that month that hindereth my desire!" _page_ . "the urchins' dance" is from the anonymous play "the maid's metamorphosis," . in the same play are the following dainty verses;-- "_ fairy._ i do come about the copse leaping upon flowers' tops; then i get upon a fly, she carries me above the sky, and trip and go! _ fairy._ when a dew-drop falleth down and doth light upon my crown, then i shake my head and skip and about i trip. _ fairy._ when i feel a girl a-sleep, underneath her frock i peep, there to sport, and there i play; then i bite her like a flea, and about i skip." thomas ravenscroft, compiler of the "brief discourse," won his spurs at a very early age. he took his degree of bachelor of music before he had reached his fifteenth year, as we learn from some commendatory verses prefixed to the "brief discourse;"-- "non vidit tria lustra puer, quin arte probatus, vita laudatus, sumpsit in arte gradum." he was twenty-two when he published the "brief discourse" in : but in be had published "melismata, musical fancies fitting the court, city, and country humours," and he edited two collections that appeared in --"pammelia" and "deuteromelia." "pammelia" is the earliest english printed collection of catches, rounds, and canons; both words and music were for the most part older than the date of publication. "deuteromelia" was intended as a continuation of "pammelia." _page_ . robert dowland, editor of "a musical banquet," was a son of john dowland; he succeeded his father as one of the court musicians in , and was alive in . _page_ . thomas ford, when he published his "music of sundry kinds," , was a musician in the suite of prince henry. at the accession of charles i. he was appointed one of his musicians, and he died in --the year before his royal patron was beheaded. _page_ . "little lawn then serve[d] the pawn."--the pawn was a corridor, serving as a bazaar, in the royal exchange (gresham's). _page_ . "farewell, false love, the oracle of lies."--"j. c." in "alcilia," , writes:-- "love is honey mixed with gall, a thraldom free, a freedom thrall; a bitter sweet, a pleasant sour, got in a year, lost in an hour; a peaceful war, a warlike peace, whose wealth brings want, whose want increase; full long pursuit and little gain, uncertain pleasure, certain pain; regard of neither right nor wrong, for short delights repentance long. love is the sickness of the thought, conceit of pleasure dearly bought; a restless passion of the mind, a labyrinth of arrows blind: a sugared poison, fair deceit, a bait for fools, a furious heat; a chilling cold, a wondrous passion, exceeding man's imagination; which none can tell in whole or part, but only he that feels the smart." robert greene has a somewhat similar description of love ("what thing is love? it is a power divine," &c.) in "menaphon," . _page_ . "fond wanton youths."--this piece is also printed in "the golden garland of princely delights," , where it is headed "of the inconveniences by marriage," and is directed to be sung to the tune of "when troy town." _page_ , l. . "their _longings_ must not be beguiled."--the original gives "their _laughings_" (which is unintelligible). _page_ . it was at wanstead house, a seat of the earl of leicester, that sidney wrote his masque the "lady of the may" in honour of queen elizabeth's visit in . "was raleigh retired there," writes mr. w. j. linton (_rare poems_, p. ), "during some season of her displeasure? there is a look of him about this song, not unlike the lines to cynthia; and what mistress but majesty should appoint his place of retirement? 'wanstead, my mistress saith this is the doom.'" the two lines that close each stanza are from a song in sidney's "arcadia." _page_ . "who, known to all, unknown to himself dies." from seneca's "thyestes:"-- "qui notus nimis omnibus ignotus moritur sibi." _page_ . "how many things."--i have given four of john maynard's "twelve wonders of the world" (cf. pp. - , ); and, if i am not mistaken, the reader will like to see the remaining eight. there is much freshness and piquancy in these quaint old rhymes, which were written by no less a poet than sir john davies. "the divine. my calling is divine, and i from god am sent; i will no chop-church be, nor pay my patron rent, nor yield to sacrilege; but like the kind true mother, rather will lose all the child than part it with another. much wealth i will not seek, nor worldly masters serve, so to grow rich and fat while my poor flock doth starve. the soldier. my occupation is the noble trade of kings the trial that decides the highest right of things. though mars my master be, i do not venus love, nor honour bacchus oft, nor often swear by jove. of speaking of myself i all occasion shun, and rather love to do, than boast what i have done. the lawyer. the law my calling is; my robe, my tongue, my pen wealth and opinion gain and make me judge of men. the known dishonest cause, i never did defend nor spun out suits in length, but wish'd and sought an end; nor counsel did bewray, nor of both parties take, nor ever took i fee for which i never spake. the physician. i study to uphold the slippery state of man, who dies when we have done the best and all we can. from practice and from books i draw my learned skill, not from the known receipt or 'pothecary's bill. the earth my faults doth hide, the world my cures doth see, what youth and time effects is oft ascribed to me. the merchant. my trade doth everything to every land supply, discovers unknown coasts, strange countries doth ally. i never did forestall, i never did engross, nor custom did withdraw though i return'd with loss. i thrive by fair exchange, by selling and by buying, and not by jewish use, reprisal, fraud, or lying. the country gentleman. though strange outlandish spirits praise towns and countries scorn, the country is my home, i dwell where i was born. there profit and command with pleasure i partake, yet do not hawks and dogs my sole companions make. i rule, but not oppress; end quarrels, not maintain; see towns, but dwell not there to abridge my charge or train. the wife. the first of all our sex came from the side of man, i thither am return'd from whence our sex began. i do not visit oft, nor many when i do, i tell my mind to few and that in counsel too. i seem not sick in health, nor sullen but in sorrow; i care for somewhat else than what to wear to-morrow. the widow. my dying husband knew how much his death would grieve me, and therefore left me wealth to comfort and relieve me. though i no more will have, i must not love disdain; penelope her self did suitors entertain. and yet to draw on such as are of best esteem, nor younger than i am nor richer will i seem." _page_ . "i have house and land in kent."--this admirable song has been frequently reprinted. miss de vaynes, in her very valuable "kentish garland" (i., ), observes:--"we have met with no other song in the kentish dialect except jan ploughshare's" (printed on p. , vol. i., of the "garland"). rimbault in his "little book of songs and ballads" ( ), gives the following lines from an old ms. (temp. henry viii.):-- "joan, quoth john, when will this be? tell me when wilt thou marry me, my corn and eke my calf and rents, my lands and all my tenements? say, joan, quoth john, what wilt thou do? i cannot come every day to woo?" david herd printed a fragment of a scotch song that was founded on the english song:-- "i hae layen three herring a' sa't, bonny lass, gin ze'll take me, tell me now, and i hae brew'n three pickles o' ma't and i cannae cum ilka day to woo. _to woo, to woo, to lilt and to woo, and i cannae cum ilka day to woo_. i hae a wee ca'f that wad fain be a cow, bonny lassie, gin ye'll take me, tell me now, i hae a wee gryce that wad fain be a sow, and i cannae cum ilka day to woo. _to woo, to woo, to lilt and to woo, and i cannae cum ilka day to woo_." _page_ . "i joy not in no earthly bliss."--these stanzas are usually printed with "my mind to me a kingdom is" (p. ), and the whole poem has been attributed to sir edward dyer. _page_ . "i weigh not fortune's frown nor smile."--these lines (which seem to have been modelled on "i joy not in no earthly bliss") are by joshua sylvester. in the second stanza, "i sound not at the news of wreck," _sound_ is an old form of _swoon_. _page_ . "if women could be fair."--this poem is ascribed to edward, earl of oxford, in rawlinson, ms. , fol. . _page_ . "in darkness let me dwell."--these lines are also found in robert dowland's "musical banquet," , set to music by john dowland. _page_ . "in the merry month of may."--first printed in "the honorable entertainment given to the queen's majesty in progress at elvetham in hampshire, by the right honorable the earl of hertford," , under the title of "the ploughman's song." _page_ . "it was the frog in the well."--there are several versions of this old ditty: the following is from kirkpatrick sharpe's "ballad book," :-- "there lived a puddy in a well, and a merry mouse in a mill. puddy he'd a wooin ride, sword and pistol by his side. puddy came to the mouse's wonne, 'mistress mouse, are you within?' 'yes, kind sir, i am within; saftly do i sit and spin.' 'madam, i am come to woo; marriage i must have of you.' 'marriage i will grant you nane, until uncle rotten he comes hame.' 'uncle rotten's now come hame; fy! gar busk the bride alang.' lord rotten sat at the head o' the table, because he was baith stout and able. wha is't that sits next the wa', but lady mouse, baith jimp and sma'? what is't that sits next the bride, but the sola puddy wi' his yellow side? syne came the deuk, but and the drake; the deuk took puddy, and garred him squaik. then cam in the carl cat, wi' a fiddle on his back. 'want ye ony music here?' the puddy he swam doun the brook; the drake he catched him in his fluke. the cat he pu'd lord rotten doun; the kittens they did claw his croun. but lady mouse, baith jimp and sma', crept into a hole beneath the wa'; 'squeak!' quoth she, 'i'm weel awa.'" doubtless ravenscroft's version is more ancient. a ballad entitled "a most strange weddinge of the frogge and the mouse" was licensed for printing in . _page_ . "lady, when i behold."--gracefully paraphrased from an italian original:-- "quand' io miro le rose, ch'in voi natura pose; e quelle che v' ha l'arte nel vago seno sparte; non so conoscer poi se voi le rose, o sian le rose in voi." _page_ . john danyel is supposed to have been a brother of samuel daniel, the poet. he took his degree of bachelor of music in . "at the commencement of the reign of charles the first he was one of the court musicians, and his name occurs among the 'musicians for the lutes and voices' in a privy seal, dated december th, , exempting the musicians belonging to the court from the payment of subsidies" (rimbault). _page_ . "then all at once _for our town_ cries."--"i should imagine," says oliphant, "that there was occasionally a sort of friendly contention in the sports between neighbouring villages; which idea is rather corroborated by a passage from an old play called the 'vow-breaker' by samson, : 'let the major play the hobby-horse an' he will; i hope _our town lads_ cannot want a hobby-horse.'" in an old play. "the country girl," (first printed in ), attributed to that shadowy personage antony brewer, we have an allusion to this pleasant form of rivalry:-- "_abraham._ sister gillian,--i have the rarest news for you. _gillian._ for me? 'tis well. and what news have you got, sir? _abr._ skipping news, lipping news, tripping news. _gil._ how! dancing, brother abram, dancing? _abr._ prancing, advancing, dancing. nay, 'tis a match, a match upon a wager. _gil._ a match. who be they? _abr._ why all the wenches of _our town_ edmonton, and all the mad wenches of waltham. _gil._ a match, and leave me out! when, when is't, brother? _abr._ marry, e'en this morning:--they are now going to't helter-skelter. [_a treble plays within_. _gil._ and leave me out! where, brother, where? _abr._ why there, sister gillian; there, at our own door almost,--on the green there, close by the may-pole. hark! you may hear them hither." (sig. d.) the stage-direction at the entrance of the dancers runs thus:--"enter six country wenches, all red petticoats, white stitch'd bodies, in their smock-sleeves, the fiddler before them, and gillian with her tippet up in the midst of them dancing." _page_ . "it was the purest light of heaven" &c.--i am reminded of a fine passage in drayton's "barons' wars," canto vi.:-- "looking upon proud phaeton wrapped in fire, the gentle queen did much bewail his fall; but mortimer commended his desire to lose one poor life or to govern all. 'what though,' quoth he, 'he madly did aspire and his great mind made him proud fortune's thrall? yet, in despight when she her worst had done, _he perish'd in the chariot of the sun_.'" _page_ . "the bellman's song."--in "robin goodfellow; his mad pranks and merry jests," , we have another specimen of a bellman's song:-- "sometimes would he go like a bellman in the night, and with many pretty verses delight the ears of those that waked at his bell-ringing: his verses were these:-- maids in your smocks, look well to your locks, and your tinder-box, your wheels and your rocks, your hens and your cocks, your cows and your ox, and beware of the fox. when the bellman knocks put out your fire and candle-light, so they shall not you affright. may you dream of your delights, in your sleeps see pleasing sights! good rest to all, both old and young: the bellman now hath done his song. then would he go laughing _ho ho ho!_ as his use was." _page_ . "that kisses were the _seals of love_."--every reader will recall "but my kisses bring again, bring again. _seals of love_ but sealed in vain, sealed in vain." (the first stanza is found among the poems of sir philip sidney.) _page_ . "my prime of youth."--this song is also set to music in richard alison's "hour's recreation," , and michael este's "madrigals of three, four, and five parts," . it is printed in "reliquiæ: wottonianæ" as "by chidick tychborn, being young and then in the tower, the night before his execution." chidiock tychbourne of southampton was executed with ballard and babington in . _page_ . "my sweetest lesbia."--the first stanza is an elegant paraphrase from catullus, though the last line fails to render the rhythmical sweetness long-drawn-out of "nox est perpetua una dormienda." _page_ . "my thoughts are winged with hopes."--this piece is also found in "england's helicon." a ms. copy, in a commonplace book found at hamburg, is signed "w. s." i have frequently met with these initials in volumes of ms. poetry of the early part of the seventeenth century. the following pretty verses in add. ms. , , fol. , are subscribed "w. s.":-- "o when will cupid show such art to strike two lovers with one dart? i'm ice to him or he to me; two hearts alike there seldom be. if ten thousand meet together, scarce one face is like another: if scarce two faces can agree, two hearts alike there seldom be." there is not the slightest ground for identifying "w. s." with shakespeare. mr. linton ("rare poems," p. ) conjectures that "my thoughts are winged with hopes"--which has the heading "to cynthia" in "england's helicon"--may be by raleigh. _page_ . "now each creature."--the first stanza of "an ode" by samuel daniel, originally printed in the edition of "delia." "now god be with old simeon."--here is another round from "pammelia":-- "come drink to me, and i to thee. and then shall we full well agree. i've loved the jolly tankard, full seven winters and more; i loved it so long that i went upon the score. who loveth not the tankard, he is no honest man; and he is no right soldier, that loveth not the can. tap the cannikin, troll the cannikin, toss the cannikin, turn the cannikin! hold now, good son, and fill us a fresh can, that we may quaff it round from man to man." good honest verse, but ill-suited to these degenerate, tea-drinking days. _page_ . "now i see thy looks were feignèd."--first printed in "the ph[oe]nix nest," , subscribed "t. l. gent," _i.e._ thomas lodge, one of the most brilliant of elizabethan lyrists. _page_ . "shall we play barley-break."--the fullest description of the rustic game of barley-break is to be found in the first book of sidney's "arcadia." _page_ . "now let her change." this song is also set to music in robert jones' "ultimum vale" ( ). _page_ . "now what is love" &c.--this poem originally appeared in "the ph[oe]nix nest," ; it is also printed (in form of a dialogue) in "england's helicon," , and davison's "poetical rhapsody," . it is ascribed to raleigh in a ms. list of davison's. see canon hannah's edition of raleigh's poems. _page_ . "oft have i mused."--this poem was printed in davison's "poetical rhapsody," . _page_ . "our country-swains in the morris-dance."--in morley's "madrigals to four voices," , there is a lively description of the morris-dance:-- "ho! who comes here with bag-piping and drumming? o, 'tis i see the morris-dance a coming. come, ladies, out, o come, come quickly, and see about how trim they dance and trickly: hey! there again: hark! how the bells they shake it! now _for our town_! once there, now for our town and take it: soft awhile, not away so fast, they melt them! piper be hang'd, knave! look, the dancers swelt them. out, there, stand out!--you come too far (i say) in-- there give the hobby-horse more room to play in!" "i woo with tears and _ne'er the near_."--_ne'er the near_ (a proverbial expression) = never the nigher. _page_ . "when they came home sis _floted_ cream."--i suppose the meaning is that sis skimmed the cream from the milk. halliwell (_arch. dict._) gives "flotten-milk. same as flet-mitte" and "flet-mitte" is a north-country term for skimmed milk. "since first i saw."--this exquisite song is also found in "the golden garland of princely delights," . _page_ . "sweet love, my only treasure."--printed in davison's "poetical rhapsody," , where it is subscribed with the mysterious initials "a. w." _page_ . "sweet, stay awhile."--i suspect that this stanza does not really belong to donne's "break of day;" it is not found in ms. copies of donne's poems, nor in any edition prior to that of . probably donne's verses were written as a companion-piece to the present poem. _page_ . "yet merrily sings little robin."--the loveliest of all verses in praise of robin redbreast are in chapman's "tears of peace," :-- "whose face _the bird_ hid _that loves humans best, that hath the bugle eyes and rosy breast, and is the yellow autumn's nightingale_." _page_ . "the love of change."--this is the first stanza of a poem which is printed entire (in six stanzas) in davison's "poetical rhapsody," . _page_ . "the lowest trees have tops."--printed in davison's "poetical rhapsody" with the signature "incerto." _page_ . "the man of life upright."--in some old ms. copies this poem is ascribed to francis bacon: see hannah's "poems of raleigh and wotton," p. . canon hannah makes no mention of campion's claim. campion distinctly tells us that he wrote both the verses and the music of his songs: and i have no doubt that he was the author of the present lyric, which has more merit than any of bacon's poems. in an epigram printed in his "observations in the art of english poetry," , there is a striking image that reappears in the present poem:-- "a wise man wary lives yet most secure, sorrows move not him greatly, nor delights, fortune and death he scorning only makes _th' earth his sober inn_, but still heaven his home." (sig. c ). henceforward let nobody claim "the man of life upright" for bacon. _page_ . "the nightingale so pleasant and so gay."--"according to peacham," says oliphant ("_musa madrigalesca_," p. ), "there was a virtuous contention between w. byrd and ferrabosco who of the two should best set these words; in which according to his (peacham's) opinion, ferrabosco succeeded so well that 'it could not be bettered for sweetness of ayre and depth of judgment.'" _page_ . "the nightingale so soon as april bringeth."--from the first stanza of a poem printed in the third edition of sidney's "arcadia," . _page_ . "there is a garden in her face."--this poem is also set to music in alison's "hour's recreation," , and robert jones' "ultimum vale" ( ). herrick's dainty verses "cherry-ripe" are well-known:-- "cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe! i cry: full and fair ones, come and buy. if so be you ask me where they do grow, i answer,--there, where my julia's lips do smile, there's the land or cherry-isle, whose plantations fully show all the year where cherries grow." _page_ . "there is a lady sweet and kind."--printed also in "the golden garland of princely delights," . _page_ . "there were three ravens."--the north-country version of this noble dirge contains some verses of appalling intensity:-- "his horse is to the huntin gane his hounds to bring the wild deer hame; his lady's ta'en another mate, so we may mak our dinner sweet. "o we'll sit on his bonny breast-bane, and we'll pyke out his bonny gray een; wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, we'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. "_mony a ane for him makes mane, but none sall ken where he is gane: ower his banes when they are bare, the wind sall blaw for evermair_." _page_ . "think'st thou to seduce me," &c.--in william corkine's "airs," , this song is found with considerable variations. corkine gives only three stanzas. the first stanza agrees closely with campion's text; the second and third stanzas run thus:-- "learn to speak first, then to woo, to wooing much pertaineth; he that hath not art to hide, soon falters when he feigneth, and, as one that wants his wits, he smiles when he complaineth. "if with wit we be deceived our faults may be excusèd, seeming good with flattery graced is but of few refusèd, but of all accursed are they that are by fools abusèd." _page_ . "thou art not fair for all thy red and white."--these lines are printed in dr. grosart's edition of donne's poems, vol. ii. p. . they are ascribed to donne in an early ms.; but i see no reason for depriving campion of them. (the first stanza is also set to music in thomas vautor's "airs," .) _page_ . "though amaryllis dance in green."--also printed in "england's helicon," . _page_ . "we must not part as others do."--these lines are very much in donne's manner. the ms. from which they are taken (egerton ms. ) contains some undoubted poems of donne. _page_ . "were i a king."--canon hannah prints these verses (in his "poems of raleigh and wotton," p. ) from a ms. copy, in which they are assigned to edward earl of oxford. appended in the ms. are the following answers:-- "answered thus by sir p. s. wert thou a king, yet not command content, sith empire none thy mind could yet suffice; wert thou obscure, still cares would thee torment; but wert thou dead all care and sorrow dies. an easy choice, of these three which to crave: no kingdom, nor a cottage, but a grave. "another of another mind. a king? oh, boon for my aspiring mind, a cottage makes a country swad rejoice: and as for death, i like him in his kind but god forbid that he should be my choice! a kingdom or a cottage or a grave,-- nor last, nor next, but first and best i crave; the rest i can, whenas i list, enjoy, till then salute me thus--_vive le roy_! "another of another mind. the greatest kings do least command content; the greatest cares do still attend a crown; a grave all happy fortunes doth prevent making the noble equal with the clown: a quiet country life to lead i crave; a cottage then; no kingdom nor a grave." _page_ . "what is our life?"--a ms. copy of these verses is subscribed "s^r w. r.", _i.e._, sir walter raleigh. see hannah's "poems of raleigh and wotton," p. . compare the sombre verses, signed "ignoto," in "reliquiæ wottonianæ":-- "man's life's a tragedy; his mother's womb, from which he enters, is the tiring-room; this spacious earth the theatre, and the stage that country which he lives in: passions, rage, folly and vice are actors; the first cry the prologue to the ensuing tragedy; the former act consisteth of dumb shows; the second, he to more perfection grows; i' the third he is a man and doth begin to nurture vice and act the deeds of sin; i' the fourth declines; i' the fifth diseases clog and trouble him; then death's his epilogue." _page_ . "what needeth all this travail and turmoiling?"--suggested by spenser's fifteenth sonnet:-- "ye tradefull merchants that with weary toyle do seeke most pretious things to make your gain, and both the indias of their treasure spoile, what needeth you to seeke so farre in vaine? for loe! my love doth in her selfe containe all this worlds riches that may farre be found. if saphyres, loe! her eies be saphyres plaine; if rubies, loe! hir lips be rubies sound; if pearles, hir teeth be pearles, both pure and round; if yvorie, her forehead yvory weene; if gold, her locks are finest gold on ground; if silver, her faire hands are silver sheene: but that which fairest is but few behold, her mind, adornd with vertues manifold." _page_ , l. . "and fortune's fate not fearing."--oliphant boldly reads, for the sake of the rhyme, "and _fickle fortune scorning_."--in "england's helicon" the text is the same as in the song-book. _page_ , l. . "and when she saw that i was in her danger."--_within one's danger_ = to be in a person's power or control. l. . "white _iope_."--campion must have had in his mind a passage of propertius (ii. );-- "sunt apud infernos tot millia formosarum: pulchra sit in superis, si licet, una locis. vobiscum est _iope_, vobiscum candida tyro, vobiscum europe, nec proba pasiphae." see hertzberg's note on that passage. _page_ . "while that the sun."--also printed in "england's helicon," . list of song-books. alison, richard. _an hour's recreation in music_, . attye, john. _first book of airs of four parts_, . bateson, thomas. _first set of english madrigals_, . byrd, william. _psalms, sonnets, and songs of sadness and piety_, . _songs of sundry natures_, . _psalms, songs, and sonnets_, . campion, thomas. _see_ rosseter, philip. _two books of airs_ [circ. ]. _the third and fourth book of airs_ [circ. ]. carlton, richard. _madrigals to five voices_, . coprario, john. _funeral tears for the death of the right honourable the earl of devonshire_, . corkine, william. _airs to sing and play to the lute and bass-viol_, . _the second book of airs_, . danyel, john. _songs for the lute, viol, and voice_, . dowland, john. _the first book of songs or airs of four parts_, . _the second book of songs or airs, of two, four, and five parts_, . _the third and last book of songs or airs_, . _a pilgrims solace_, . dowland, robert. _a musical banquet furnished with variety of delicious airs_, . earsden, john and mason, george. _the airs that were sung and played at brougham castle in westmoreland_, . egerton, ms. . este, michael. _madrigals to three four and five parts_, . farmer, john. _the first set of english madrigals to four voices_, . farnaby, giles. _canzonets to four voices_, . ford, thomas. _music of sundry kinds_, . gibbons, orlando. _the first set of madrigals and mottets_, . greaves, thomas. _songs of sundry kinds_, . jones, robert. _the first took of airs_, . _the second book of songs and airs_, . _ultimum vale, or the third book of airs_, . _a musical dream, or the fourth book of airs_, . lichfild, henry. _the first set of madrigals to five parts_, . maynard, john. _the xii wonders of the world_, . morley, thomas. _canzonets or little short songs to three voices_, . _madrigals to four voices_, ; . _the first book of ballets to five voices_, . mundy, john. _songs and psalms_, . peerson, martin. _mottects, or grave chamber-music_, . pilkington, francis. _the first book of songs or airs_, . _the first set of madrigals and pastorals_, . _the second set of madrigals_, . ravenscroft, thomas. _pammelia; music's miscellany or mixed variety of pleasant roundelays_, . _deuteromelia; or the second part of music's melody_, . _melismata; musical fancies fitting the court, city, and country humours_, . _brief discourse of the true use of charact'ring the degrees, &c._, . rosseter, philip and campion, thomas. _a book of airs_, . tomkins, thomas. _songs of three, four, five, and six parts_, . vautor, thomas. _the first set: being songs of divers airs and natures, of five and six parts_, . ward, john. _the first set of english madrigals to three, four, five and six parts_, . weelkes, thomas. _madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . _ballets and madrigals to five voices_, . _madrigals of five and six parts_, . _madrigals of six parts_, . _airs or fantastic spirits for three voices_, . wilbye, john. _the first set of english madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . _the second set of english madrigals to three, four, five and six voices_, . yonge, nicholas. _musica transalpina: the second book of madrigals to five and six voices_, . youll, henry. _canzonets to three voices_, . chiswick press:--c. whittingham and co. tooks court, chancery lane. transcriber's notes greek has been transliterated in this version of the e-text, and is surrounded by braces, {like this}. a caret (^) is used to indicate a superscript in "s^r w. r." "... land in kent (malismata)" corrected to "melismata". "... full of all heavenby fire" corrected to "heavenly fire". "she of my love and i of hers had failed" corrected to "failèd". minor punctuation omissions have been silently corrected. inconsistencies in the spelling and hyphenation of words between different songs have been retained. [in the "tom thumb" article, latin "-que" was abbreviated with a notation similar to "-q;". it has been "unpacked" for this e-text as [que] in brackets. the original texts printed all names in italic type; italicized passages put names in roman type. to avoid ambiguity, these have been marked with *asterisks*. all verse citations were printed in italics.] the augustan reprint society _parodies of ballad criticism_ ( - ) william wagstaffe, _a comment upon the history of tom thumb_, george canning, _the knave of hearts_, selected, with an introduction, by william k. wimsatt, jr. publication number los angeles william andrews clark memorial library university of california * * * * * general editors richard c. boys, university of michigan ralph cohen, university of california, los angeles vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, clark memorial library assistant editor w. earl britton, university of michigan advisory editors emmett l. avery, state college of washington benjamin boyce, duke university louis bredvold, university of michigan john butt, king's college, university of durham james l. clifford, columbia university arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university samuel h. monk, university of minnesota ernest c. mossner, university of texas james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles corresponding secretary edna c. davis, clark memorial library * * * * * the augustan reprint society regrets to announce the death of one of its founders and editors, edward niles hooker. the editors hope, in the near future, to issue a volume in his memory. * * * * * introduction joseph addison's enthusiasm for ballad poetry (_spectators_ , , ) was not a sheer novelty. he had a ringing english precedent in sidney, whom he quotes. and he may have had one in jonson; at least he thought he had. he cited dryden and dorset as collectors and readers of ballads; and he might have cited others. he found comfort in the fact that molière's misanthrope was on his side. the modern or broadside version of _chevy chase_, the one which addison quoted, had been printed, with a latin translation, in the third volume of dryden's _miscellany_ ( ) and had been appreciated along with _the nut-brown maid_ in an essay _of the old english poets and poetry_ in _the muses mercury_ for june, . the feelings expressed in addison's essays on the ballads were part of the general patriotic archaism which at that time was moving in rapport with cyclic theories of the robust and the effete, as in temple's essays, and was complicating the issue of the classical ancients versus the moderns. again, these feelings were in harmony with the new longinianism of boldness and bigness, cultivated in one way by dennis and in another by addison himself in later _spectators_. the tribute to the old writers in rowe's prologue to _jane shore_ ( ) is of course not simply the result of addison's influence.[ ] those venerable ancient song-enditers soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers. it is true also that addison exhibits, at least in the first of the two essays on _chevy chase_, a degree of the normal augustan condescension to the archaic--the vision which informs the earlier couplet poem on the english poets. both in his quotation from sidney ("... being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of _pindar_?") and in his own apology for the "simplicity of the stile" there is sufficient prescription for all those improvements that either a ramsay or a percy were soon actually to undertake. and some of the virgilian passages in _chevy chase_ which addison picked out for admiration were not what sidney had known but the literary invention of the more modern broadside writer. nevertheless, the two _spectators_ on _chevy chase_ and the sequel on the _children in the wood_ were startling enough. the general announcement was ample, unabashed, soaring--unmistakable evidence of a new polite taste for the universally valid utterances of the primitive heart. the accompanying measurement according to the epic rules and models was not a qualification of the taste, but only a somewhat awkward theoretical dimension and justification. it is impossible that any thing should be universally tasted and approved by a multitude, tho' they are only the rabble of a nation, which hath not in it some peculiar aptness to please and gratify the mind of man.... an ordinary song or ballad that is the delight of the common people, cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unqualified for the entertainment by their affectation or ignorance. professor clarence d. thorpe is surely correct in his view of addison as a "grandfather" of such that would come in romantic aesthetics for the next hundred years.[ ] not that addison invents anything; but he catches every current whisper and swells it to the journalistic audibility. here, if we take addison at his word, are the key ideas for wordsworth's preface on the language of rustic life, for tolstoy's ruthless reduction of taste to the peasant norm. addison went on to urge what was perfectly just, that the old popular ballads ought to be read and liked; at the same time he pushed his praise to a rather wild extreme, and he made some comic comparisons between _chevy chase_ and virgil and homer. we know now that he was on the right track; he was riding the wave of the future. it will be sufficient here merely to allude to that well established topic of english literary history, the rise of the ballad during the eighteenth century--in _a collection of old ballads_ ( - ), in ramsay's _evergreen_ and _tea-table_, in percy's _reliques_, and in all the opinions, the critiques, the imitations, the modern ballads, and the forgeries of that era--in _henry and emma_, _colin and lucy_, and _hardyknute_, in gay, shenstone, and gray, in chatterton's rowley. all these in a sense testified to the influence of addison's essays. addison was often enough given honorable mention and quoted. on the other hand, neo-classic stalwart good sense and the canons of decorum did not collapse easily, and the cultivation of the ballads had, as we have suggested, a certain aspect of silliness. it is well known that addison's essays elicited the immediate objections of dennis. the spectator's "design is to see how far he can lead his reader by the nose." he wants "to put impotence and imbecility upon us for simplicity." later johnson in his _life of addison_ quoted dennis and added his own opinion of _chevy chase_: "the story cannot possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression on the mind." it was fairly easy to parody the ballads themselves, or at least the ballad imitations, as johnson would demonstrate _ex tempore_. "i put my hat upon my head and walked into the strand, and there i met another man whose hat was in his hand." and it was just as easy to parody ballad criticism. the present volume is an anthology of two of the more deserving mock-criticisms which addison's effort either wholly or in part inspired. an anonymous satirical writer who was later identified, on somewhat uncertain authority, as the tory dr. william wagstaffe was very prompt in responding. his _comment upon the history of tom thumb_ appeared in perhaps within a week or two of the third guilty _spectator_ (june ) and went into a second edition, "corrected," by august . an advertisement in the _post man_ of that day referred to yet a third "sham" edition, "full of errors."[ ] the writer alludes to the author of the _spectators_ covertly ("we have had an _enterprising genius_ of late") and quotes all three of the ballad essays repeatedly. the choice of _tom thumb_ as the _corpus vile_ was perhaps suggested by swift's momentary "handling" of it in _a tale of a tub_.[ ] the satirical method is broad and easy and scarcely requires comment. this is the attack which was supposed by addison's editor henry morley (_spectator_, , i, ) to have caused addison to "flinch" a little in his revision of the ballad essays. it is scarcely apparent that he did so. the last paragraph of the third essay, on the _children in the wood_, is a retort to some other and even prompter unfriendly critics--"little conceited wits of the age," with their "little images of ridicule." but addison is not the only target of "wagstaffe's" _comment_. "sir b------ b--------" and his "arthurs" are another, and "dr. b--tly" another. one of the most eloquent moments in the _comment_ occurs near the end in a paragraph on what the author conceives to be the follies of the historical method. the use of the slight vernacular poem to parody the bentleyan kind of classical scholarship was to be tried by addison himself in _spectator_ (august , ) and had a french counterpart in the _chef d'oeuvre d'un inconnu_, . a later example was executed by defoe's son-in-law henry baker in no. xix of his _universal spectator_, february , .[ ] and that year too provided the large-scale demonstration of the _dunciad variorum_. the very "matter" of tom thumb reappeared under the same light in fielding's _tragedy of tragedies or the life and death of tom thumb the great with the annotations of h. scriblerus secundus_, . addison's criticism of the ballads was scarcely a legitimate object for this kind of attack, but augustan satire and parody were free and hospitable genres, always ready to entertain more than one kind of "bard and blockhead side by side."[ ] no less a person than george canning (as a schoolboy) was the author of the second of the two parodies reproduced in the present volume. a group of precocious eton lads, canning, j. hookham frere, john smith, and robert (bobus) smith, during the years - produced forty octavo numbers of a weekly paper called _the microcosm_. they succeeded in exciting some interest among the literati,[ ] were coming out in a "second edition" as early as the christmas vacation of ,[ ] and in the end sold their copyright for fifty pounds to their publisher, charles knight of windsor.[ ] canning wrote nos. xi and xii (february , ), a critique of the "epic poem" concerning "the reformation of the knave of hearts."[ ] this essay in two parts, running for nearly as many pages as wagstaffe's archetypal pamphlet, is a much more systematic and theoretically ambitious effort than any predecessor. _the knave of hearts_ is praised for its _beginning_ (_in medias res_), its _middle_ (all "bustle and business"), and its _end_ (full of _poetical justice_ and superior _moral_). the earlier writers had directly labored the resemblance of the ballads to passages in homer and virgil. that method is now hardly invoked at all. criticism according to the epic rules of aristotle had been well enough illustrated by addison on _paradise lost_ (see especially _spectator_ ) if not by addison on ballads. the decline of simple respect for the "practice and authority" of the ancient models during the neo-classic era, the general advance of something like reasoning in criticism, finds one of its quainter testimonials in the eton schoolboy's cleverness. he would show by definition and strict deduction that _the knave of hearts_ is a "_due and proper epic poem_," having as "good right to that title, from its adherence to prescribed rules, as any of the celebrated master-pieces of antiquity." the post-ramblerian date of the performance and a further if incidental aim of the satire--a facetious removal from the augustan coffeehouse conversation--can be here and there felt in a heavy roll of the periods, a doubling and redoubling of the abstractions.[ ] the essay, nevertheless, shows sufficient continuity with the earlier tradition of parody ballad criticism--for it begins by alluding to the _spectator's_ critiques of shakespeare, milton, and _chevy chase_, and near the end of the first number slides into a remark that "one of the _scribleri_, a descendant of the famous _martinus_, has expressed his suspicions of the text being corrupted." a page or two of irony concerning the "plain and simple" opening of the poem seems to hark back to something more subtle in the augustans than the wagstaffian derision, no doubt to pope's victory over philips in a _guardian_ on pastorals. "there is no task more difficult to a poet, than that of _rejection_. ovid, among the ancients, and _dryden_, among the moderns, were perhaps the most remarkable for the want of it."[ ] the interest of these little pieces is historical[ ] in a fairly strict sense. their value is indirect, half accidental, a glancing revelation of ideas concerning simplicity, feeling, genius, the primitive, the historical which run steadily beneath all the ripples during the century that moves from "classic" to "romantic." not all of addison's parodists taken together muster as much fun, as such whimsical charm, as addison himself in a single paragraph such as the one on "accidental readings" which opens the _spectator_ on the _children in the wood_. but this passage, as it happens, requires only a slightly sophistical application to be taken as a cue to a useful attitude in our present reading. "i once met with a page of _mr. baxter_ under a christmas pye.... i might likewise mention a paper-kite, from which i have received great improvement." william k. wimsatt, jr. yale university notes to the introduction [footnote : the chief authorities for the history which i am summarizing are w. l. phelps, _the beginnings of the english romantic movement_, boston, , chapter vii; e. k. broadus, "addison's influence on the development of interest in folk-poetry in the eighteenth century," _modern philology_, viii (july, ), - ; s. b. hustvedt, _ballad criticism in scandinavia and great britain during the eighteenth century_, new york, .] [footnote : "addison's contribution to criticism," in r. f. jones _et al._, _the seventeenth century_ (stanford, ), p. .] [footnote : edward b. reed, "two notes on addison," _modern philology_, vi (october, ), . the attribution of _a comment upon tom thumb_ and other satirical pieces to the dr. william wagstaffe who died in as physician to st. bartholomew's hospital depends entirely upon the fact that a collection of such pieces was published, with an anonymous memoir, in under the title _miscellaneous works of dr. william wagstaffe_. charles dilke, _papers of a critic_ (london, ), i, - . argues that not wagstaffe but swift was the author of some of the pieces in the volume. the case for wagstaffe is put by nicholas moore in a letter to _the athenaeum_, june , and in his article on wagstaffe in the _dnb_. paul v. thompson, "swift and the wagstaffe papers," _notes and queries_, ( ), , supports the notion of wagstaffe as an understrapper of swift. the negative part of dilke's thesis is perhaps the more plausible. _a comment upon tom thumb_, as dilke himself confesses (_papers_, p. ), scarcely sounds very much like swift.] [footnote : text, p. . the nursery rhyme _tom thumb, his life and death_, , and the augmented _history of tom thumb_, c. , are printed with introductory remarks by w. c. hazlitt, _remains of the early popular poetry of england_, ii (london, ), - .] [footnote : cf. george r. potter, "henry baker, f.r.s. ( - )," _modern philology_, xxix ( ), . nathan drake, _the gleaner_, i (london, ), seems mistaken in his remark that baker's scriblerian commentary (upon the nursery rhyme "once i was a batchelor, and lived by myself") was the model for later mock-ballad-criticisms.] [footnote : for another early instance of our genre and a very pure one, see an anonymous cambridge correspondent's critique of the burlesque broadside ballad of "moor of moore-hall and the dragon of wantley," in nathaniel mist's _weekly journal_ (second series), september , , reproduced by roger p. mccutcheon, "another burlesque of addison's ballad criticism," _studies in philology_, xxxiii (october, ), - .] [footnote : _diary & letters of madame d'arblay_ (london, - ), iii, - , : november , ; july , ; william roberts, _memoirs of the life and correspondence of mrs. hannah more_ (london, ), ii, , letter from w. w. pepys, december , .] [footnote : advertisement inserted before no. i in a collected volume dated (yale . g).] [footnote : the source of the anecdote seems to be william jordan, _national portrait gallery_ (london, ), ii, , quoting a communication from charles knight the publisher, son of charles knight of windsor. the present reprint of nos. xi and xii of _the microcosm_ is from the "second" octavo collected edition, windsor, . _the microcosm_ had reappeared at least seven times by .] [footnote : iona and peter opie, _the oxford dictionary of nursery rhymes_ (oxford, ), are unable to find an earlier printed source for this rhyme than the _european magazine_, i (april, ), .] [footnote : no. xxxvi of _the microcosm_ is a letter from capel lofft defending the "middle style" of addison in contrast to the more modern johnsonian eloquence. robert bell, _the life of the rt. hon. george canning_ (london, ), pp. - , in a helpful account of _the microcosm_, stresses its general fidelity to _spectator_ style and themes.] [footnote : canning's critique closes with an appendix of three and a half pages alluding to the eton shrovetide custom of writing latin verses, known as the "bacchus." see h. c. maxwell lyte, _a history of eton college_ (london, ), pp. - .] [footnote : as late as the turn of the century the trick was still in a manner feasible. the anonymous author of _literary leisure, or the recreations of solomon saunter, esq._ ( - ) divides two numbers, viii and xv, between other affairs and a shandyesque argument about the nursery charm for the hiccup "peter piper picked a peck of pickled pepper." this author was most likely not byron's assailant hewson clarke (born , author of _the saunterer in _), as asserted in the _catalogue_ of the hope collection (oxford, ), p. . a historical interest may be not only retrospective but contemporary. the reader of the present volume will appreciate "how to criticize a poem (in the manner of certain contemporary poets)", a critique of the mnemonic rhyme "thirty days hath september," in the _new republic_, december , .] * * * * * * * * * a comment upon the history of tom thumb. ----juvat immemorata ferentem ingenuis oculis[que] legi manibus[que] teneri._ hor. _london_, printed for _j. morphew_ near _stationers-hall_. . price _d._ a comment upon the history of _tom thumb_. it is a surprising thing that in an age so polite as this, in which we have such a number of poets, criticks and commentators, some of the best things that are extant in our language shou'd pass unobserv'd amidst a croud of inferiour productions, and lie so long buried as it were, among those that profess such a readiness to give life to every thing that is valuable. indeed we have had an enterprising genius of late, that has thought fit to disclose the beauties of some pieces to the world, that might have been otherwise indiscernable, and believ'd to have been trifling and insipid, for no other reason but their unpolish'd homeliness of dress. and if we were to apply our selves, instead of the classicks, to the study of ballads and other ingenious composures of that nature, in such periods of our lives, when we are arriv'd to a maturity of judgment, it is impossible to say what improvement might be made to wit in general, and the art of poetry in particular: and certainly our passions are describ'd in them so naturally, in such lively, tho' simple, colours, that how far they may fall short of the artfulness and embellishments of the _romans_ in their way of writing, _yet cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unqualify'd for the entertainment by their affectation or ignorance_. it was my good fortune some time ago to have the library of a school-boy committed to my charge, where, among other undiscover'd valuable authors, i pitch'd upon _tom thumb_ and _tom hickathrift_, authors indeed more proper to adorn the shelves of _bodley_ or the _vatican_, than to be confin'd to the retirement and obscurity of a private study. i have perus'd the first of these with an infinite pleasure, and a more than ordinary application, and have made some observations on it, which may not, i hope, prove unacceptable to the publick; and however it may have been ridicul'd, and look'd upon as an entertainment only for children, and those of younger years, may be found perhaps a performance not unworthy the perusal of the judicious, and the model superiour to either of those incomparable poems of _chevy chase_, or _the children in the wood_. the design was undoubtedly to recommend virtue, and to shew that however any one may labour under the disadvantages of stature or deformity, or the meanness of parentage, yet if his mind and actions are above the ordinary level, those very disadvantages that seem to depress him, shall add a lustre to his character. there are variety of incidents, dispers'd thro' the whole series of this historical poem, that give an agreeable delight and surprise, _and are such as *virgil* himself wou'd have touch'd upon, had the like story been told by that divine poet_, viz. his falling into the pudding-bowl and others; which shew the courage and constancy, the intrepidity and greatness of soul of this little hero, amidst the greatest dangers that cou'd possibly befall him, and which are the unavoidable attendants of human life. si fractus illabatur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinæ. the author of this was unquestionably a person of an universal genius, and if we consider that the age he wrote in, must be an age of the most profound ignorance, as appears from the second stanza of the first _canto_, he was a miracle of a man. i have consulted monsieur _le clerk_, and my friend dr. _b--ly_ concerning the chronology of this author, who both assure me, tho' neither can settle the matter exactly, that he is the most ancient of our poets, and 'tis very probable he was a _druid_, who, as _julius cæsar_ mentions in his _commentaries_, us'd to deliver their precepts in poetry and metre. the author of _the tale of a tub_, believes he was a _pythagorean_ philosopher, and held the _metempsichosis_; and others that he had read _ovid's metamorphosis_, and was the first person that ever found out the philosopher's stone. a certain antiquary of my acquaintance, who is willing to forget every thing he shou'd remember, tells me, he can scarcely believe him to be genuine, but if he is, he must have liv'd some time before the _barons_ wars; which he proves, as he does the establishment of religion in this nation, upon the credit of an old monument. there is another matter which deserves to be clear'd, whether this is a fiction, or whether there was really such a person as _tom thumb_. as to this, my friends tell me, 'twas matter of fact, and that 'twas an unpardonable omission in a certain author never once to mention him in his _arthur_'s, when nothing is more certain than that he was the greatest favourite of that prince, and a person who had perform'd some very eminent services for his country. and indeed i can't excuse his taking no notice of our poet who has afforded him such helps, and to whom he is so much oblig'd for the model of those productions: besides it had been but a debt of gratitude, as sir _r---- b----_ was a member of the faculty, to have made honourable mention of him who has spoke so honourably of the profession, on the account of the sickness of his hero. i have an old edition of this author by me, the title of which is more sonorous and heroical, than those of later date, which for the better information of the reader, it may not be improper to insert in this place. _*tom thumb* his life and death, wherein is declar'd his many marvellous acts of manhood, full of wonder and strange merriment_: then he adds, _which little knight liv'd in king *arthur*'s time in the court of *great britain*_. indeed there are so many spurious editions of this piece upon one account or other, that i wou'd advise my readers to be very cautious in their choice, and it would be very wisely done, if they wou'd consult the curious _Ælianus_ concerning this matter, who has the choicest collection of any man in _england_, and understands the most correct editions of books of this nature. i have took a great deal of pains to set these matters of importance in as clear a light as we criticks generally do, and shall begin with the first _canto_, which treats of our hero's birth and parentage, and education, with some other circumstances which you'll find are carry'd on in a manner not very inelegant, _and cannot fail to please those who are not judges of language, or those who notwithstanding they are judges of language, have a genuine and unprejudic'd tast of nature_. in _arthur's_ court _tom thumb_ did live; a man of mickle might, the best of all the table round, and eke a doubty knight, in stature but an inch in height, or quarter of a span; then think you not this worthy knight was prov'd a valiant man. this beginning is agreeable to the best of the greek and latin poets; _homer_ and _virgil_ give an idea of the whole poem in a few of the first lines, and here our author draws the character of his hero, and shews what you may expect from a person so well qualify'd for the greatest undertakings. in the description of him, which is very fine, he insinuates, that tho' perhaps his person may appear despicable and little, yet you'll find him an hero of the most consummate bravery and conduct, and is almost the same account _statius_ gives of _tydeus_. --------totos infusa per artus, major in exiguo regnabat corpore virtus. if any suppose the notion of such an hero improbable, they'll find the character _virgil_ gives _camilla_ to be as far stretch'd: illa vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret gramina, nec teneras cursu læsisset aristas: vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti ferret iter: celeres nec tingeret æquore plantas. but to proceed, his father was a plowman plain, his mother milk'd the cow, and yet a way to get a son this couple knew not how, until such time the good old man to learned _merlin_ goes, and there to him in deep distress in secret manner shows, how in his heart he wish'd to have, a child in time to come, to be his heir, tho' it might be no bigger than his thumb. of which old _merlin_ was foretold, that he his wish should have, and so a son of stature small the charmer to him gave. there is nothing more common throughout the poets of the finest taste, than to give an account of the pedigree of their hero. so _virgil_, ----Æneas quem dardanio anchisæ alma venus phrygii genuit simoentis ad undas. and the manner of the countryman's going to consult _merlin_, is like that of _Æneas_'s approaching the oracle of _delphos_. ----egressi veneramur apollinis urbem. and how naturally and poetically does he describe the modesty of the man, who wou'd be content, if _merlin_ wou'd grant him his request, with a son no bigger than his thumb. the two next stanza's carry on the idea with a great deal of probability and consistence; and to convince the world that he was born to be something more than man, he produces a miracle to bring him into it. begot, and born in half an hour, to fit his father's will. the following stanza continues the miracle, and brings the _fairy queen_ and her subjects, who gives him his name, and makes him a present of his apparel. whereas she cloath'd him fine and brave, in garments richly fair, the which did serve him many years in seemly sort to wear. so _virgil_ of queen _dido_'s present to _ascanius_: hoc juvenem egregium præstanti munere donat. and again, --------quem candida dido esse sui dederat monumentum & pignus amoris. the description of his dress is very agreeable, and is not unlike what i have met with somewhere of a giant going a fishing, with an account of his implements equal to his proportion. his hat made of an oaken leaf, his shirt a spider's web, both light and soft for these his limbs that were so smally bred. his hose and doublet thistle down, together weav'd full fine; his stockings of an apple green, made of the outward rind; his garters were two little hairs pluck'd from his mothers eye; his shooes made of a mouse's skin, and tann'd most curiously. the next stanza's relate his diversions, bearing some analogy to those of _ascanius_ and other lads in _virgil_: thus like a valiant gallant he adventures forth to go, with other children in the street, his pretty tricks to show. una acies juvenum ducit quam parvus ovantem nomen avi referens priamus. there is a piece of revenge our little hero took upon a play-fellow, which proves, to what an height mechanical and experimental philosophy was arriv'd to in that age, and may be worth while to be considered by the _royal society_. of whom to be reveng'd, he took in mirth and pleasant game, black pots and glasses, which he hung upon a bright sun-beam. the third line is a demonstration of the antiquity of drinking out of black-pots, which still prevails in most counties of this nation, among the justices of peace at their petty and quarter sessions. the last four lines of this canto, and the beginning of the next, contain the miraculous adventure of the pudding-bowl: and, by the by, we may observe, that it was the custom of the _christians_ at that time, to make hog-puddings instead of minc'd-pies at _christmas_; a laudable custom very probably brought up to distinguish 'em more particularly from the _jews_. whereas about a _christmas_ time, his father an hog had kill'd, and _tom_ to see the pudding made, fear that it should be spill'd; he sat, the candle for to light, upon the pudding-bowl: of which there is unto this day a pretty pastime told: for _tom_ fell in---- perhaps some may think it below our hero to stoop to such a mean employment as the poet has here enjoyn'd him, of holding the candle, and that it looks too much like a _citizen_, or a _cot_, as the women call it: but if we reflect on the obedience due to parents, as our author undoubtedly did, and the necessities those people labour'd under, we cannot but admire at his ready compliance with what could by no means be agreeable to the heroical bent of his inclinations, and perceive what a tender regard he had for the wellfare of his family, when he took the strictest care imaginable for the preservation of the hog-pudding. and what can be more remarkable? what can raise the sentiments of pity and compassion to an higher pitch, than to see an hero fall into such an unforeseen disaster in the honourable execution of his office? _this certainly is conformable to the way of thinking among the ancient poets, and what a good-natur'd reader cannot but be affected with._ the following part of this canto is the relation of our hero's being put into a pudding, and convey'd away in a tinker's budget; which is design'd by our author to prove, if it is understood literally, that the greatest men are subject to misfortunes. but it is thought by dr. _b--tly_ to be all mythology, and to contain the doctrine of the transmutation of metals, and is design'd to shew, that all matter is the same, tho' very differently modified. he tells me, he intends to publish a distinct treatise of this canto; and i don't question, but he'll manage the dispute with the same learning, conduct, and good manners, he has done others, and as dr. _salmon_ uses in his corrections of dr. _sydenham_ and the _dispensatory_. the next canto is the story of _tom thumb_'s being swallow'd by a cow, and his deliverance out of her, which is treated of at large by _giordano bruno_ in his _spaccio de la bestia trionfante_; which book, tho' very scarce, yet a _certain gentleman_, who has it in his possession, has been so obliging as to let every body know where to meet with it. after this, you find him carried off by a raven, and swallow'd by a giant; and 'tis almost the same story as that of _ganimede_, and the eagle in _ovid_. now by a raven of great strength, away poor _tom_ was born. nec mora: percusso mendacibus aere pennis abripit iliaden. a certain great _critick_ and _schoolmaster_ who has publish'd such notes upon _horace_ as were never seen before, is of opinion, and has very good authority for what he says, that 'twas rather an owl than a raven; for, as he observes with a wonderful deal of penetration and sagacity, our hero's shoes were made of a mouse's skin which might induce the owl to run away with him. the giant, he owns, looks very probable, because we find 'em swallowing people very fast in almost all romances. this canto concludes with our hero's arrival at court; after he had spent a considerable part of his youth in labours and fatigues, had been inur'd to nothing else but hardships and adventures, we see him receive the recompence of his merit, and become the favourite of his prince: and here we may perceive all the fineness of the gentleman, mixt with all the resolution and courage of the warriour; we may behold him as ready to oblige the ladies with a dance, as he was to draw his sword in their defence. amongst the deeds of courtship done, his highness did command, that he shou'd dance a galliard brave upon the queen's left hand. the which he did---- this shews he had all the accomplishments of _achilles_ who was undoubtedly one of the best dancers in the age he liv'd, according to the character _homer_ gives him so frequently of the agility of his feet. i have consulted a master of the profession of dancing, who is excellently vers'd in the chronology of all dances, he tells me that this _galliard_ came into vogue about the latter end of the reign of _uter pendragon_, and continu'd during that of king _arthur_, which is demonstration to me that our poet liv'd about that age. it is asserted very positively in the later editions of this poem, that the four following lines are a relation of the king and _tom thumb_'s going together an hunting, but i have took indefatigable pains to consult all the _manuscripts_ in _europe_ concerning this matter, and i find it an _interpolation_. i have also an _arabick copy_ by me, which i got a _friend_ to translate, being unacquainted with the language, and it is plain by the translation that 'tis there also _interpolated_. now after that the king wou'd not abroad for pleasure go, but still _tom thumb_ must go with him plac'd on his saddle bow. ----ipse uno graditur comitatus achate. there is scarcely any scene more moving than this that follows, and is _such an one as wou'd have shined in *homer* or *virgil*_. when he was favour'd with his prince's ear, and might have ask'd the most profitable and important posts in the government, and been indemnified if guilty of a _peculatus_; he only used his interest to relieve the necessities of his parents, when another _person_ wou'd have scarcely own'd 'em for his _relations_. this discovers such a generosity of soul, such an humility in the greatest prosperity, such a tender affection for his parents, as is hardly to be met with, but in our author. and being near his highness heart he crav'd a wealthy boon, a noble gift, the which the king commanded to be done; to relieve his father's wants, and mother being old. the rest of this canto relates the visit to his father, in which there is something very soft and tender, something _that may move the mind of the most polite reader, with the inward meltings of humanity and compassion_. the next canto of the tilts and tournaments, is much like the fifth book of _virgil_, and tho' we can't suppose our poet ever saw that author, yet we may believe he was directed to almost the same passages, _by the same kind of poetical genius, and the same copyings after nature_. now he with tilts and tournaments, was entertained so, that all the rest of _arthur_'s knights did him much pleasure show; and good sir _lancelot_ of _lake_, sir _tristram_, and sir _guy_; but none like to _tom thumb_ for acts of chivalry. longeque ante omnia corpora nisus emicat---- and agen, post elymus subit, & nunc tertia palma diores. in honour of which noble day, and for his lady's sake, a challenge in king _arthur_'s court, _tom thumb_ did bravely make. talis prima dares caput altum in prælia tollit, ostendit[que] humeros latos, alterna[que] iactat brachia portendens, & verberat ictibus auras, quæritur huic alius:---- 'gainst whom those noble knights did run, sir _chion_ and the rest, but, still _tom thumb_ with all his might did bear away the best. et primum ante omnes victorem appellat acesten. at the same time our poet shews a laudable partiality for his hero, he represents sir _lancelot_ after a manner not unbecoming so bold and brave a knight. at last sir _lancelot_ of _lake_, in manly sort came in, and with this stout and hardy knight a battle to begin. huic contra Æneas, speculatus in agmine longo obvius ire parat---- which made the courtiers all aghast. obstupuere animi---- this canto concludes with the presents made by the king to the champion according to the custom of the _greeks_ and _romans_ in such cases; only his tumbling thro' the queen's ring is observable, and may serve to give some light into the original of that ingenious exercise so much practis'd by the moderns, of tumbling thro' an hoop. the last canto treats of the champion's sickness and death, and whoever considers the beauty, regularity and majestic simplicity of the relation, cannot but be surpris'd at the advances that may be made in poetry by the strength of an uncultivated genius, and may see how far nature can proceed without the ornamental helps and assistances of art. the poet don't attribute his sickness to a debauch, to the irregularity or intemperance of his life, but to an exercise becoming an hero; and tho' he dies quietly in his bed, he may be said in some measure to die in the bed of honour. and to shew the great affection the king had for him, he sends for his physicians, and orders all the care imaginable to be taken for the conservation of his life. he being slender and tall, this cunning doctor took a fine perspective glass, with which, he did in secret look. it is a wonder that the learned world shou'd differ so in their opinions concerning the invention and antiquity of optic glasses, and that any one should contend for _metius_ of _alcmaer_, or, as dr. _plot_ does, for _fryar bacon_, when, if this author had been consulted, matters might have been so easily adjusted. some great men indeed wou'd prove from hence, our knight was the inventor of 'em, that his valet might the more commodiously see to dress him; but if we consider there were no beau's in that age, or reflect more maturely on the epithet here given to the doctor, we may readily conclude, that the honour of this invention belongs more particularly to that ingenious profession. how lovely is the account of the departure of his soul from his body: and so with peace and quietness he left the world below. placida[que] demum ibi morte quievit. and up into the fairy land his soul did fleeting go. ----at Æthereas repetit mens ignea sedes. whereas the fairy queen receiv'd with happy mourning cheer the body of this valiant knight, whom she esteem'd so dear; for with her dancing nymphs in green she fetch'd him from his bed, with musick and with melody, as soon as life was fled. ----et fotum gremio dea tollit in altos idaliæ lucos---- so one of our modern poets; thither the fairys and their train resort, and leave their revels, and their midnight sport. we find in all the most celebrated poets some goddess that takes upon her to be the peculiar guardian of the hero, which has been carry'd on very elegantly in this author. but agen; for whom king _arthur_ and his knights, full forty days did mourn, and in remembrance of his name, who was so strangely born, he built a tomb of marble grey, and year by year did come, to celebrate the mournful day, and burial of _tom thumb_, whose fame lives here in _england_ still, among the country sort, of whom their wives and children small, tell tales of pleasant sport. so _ovid_; ----luctus monumenta manebunt semper adoni mei, repetita[que] mortis imago annua plangoris peragit simulamina nostri. nor is this conclusion unlike one of the best latin poems this age has produc'd. tu taffi Æternum vives, tua munera cambri nunc etiam celebrant, quoties[que] revolvitur annus te memorant, patrium gens tota tuetur honorem, et cingunt viridi redolentia tempora porro. and now, tho' i am very well satisfied with this performance, yet, according to the usual modesty of us authors, i am oblig'd to tell the world, _it will be a great satisfaction to me, knowing my own insufficiency_, if i have given but some hints of the beauties of this poem, which are capable of being improv'd by those of greater learning and abilities. and i am glad to find by a letter i have receiv'd from one of the _literati_ in _holland_, that the learned _huffius_, a great man of our nation, is about the translation of this piece into _latin_ verse, which he assures me will be done with a great deal of judgment, in case he has enough of that language to furnish out the undertaking. i am very well appris'd, that there has been publish'd two poems lately, intituled, the second and third parts of this author; which treat of our little hero's rising from the dead in the days of king _edgar_: but i am inform'd by my friend the _schoolmaster_, and others, that they were compos'd by an enthusiast in the last century, and have been since printed for the establishment of the doctrine of monsieur _marion_ and his followers, and the resurrection of dr. _ems_. i hope no body will be offended at my asserting things so positively, since 'tis the priviledge of us _commentators_, who understand the meaning of an author seventeen hundred years after he has wrote, much better than ever he cou'd be suppos'd to do himself. and certainly, a critick ought not only to know what his authors thoughts were when he was writing such and such passages, but how those thoughts came into his head, where he was when he wrote, or what he was doing of; whether he wrote in a garden, a garret, or a coach; upon a lady, or a milkmaid; whether at that time he was scratching his elbow, drinking a bottle, or playing at questions and commands. these are material and important circumstances so well known to the _true commentator_, that were _virgil_ and _horace_ to revisit the world at this time, they'd be wonderfully surpris'd to see the minutest of their perfections discover'd by the assistances of _modern criticism_. nor have the classicks only reap'd benefit from inquiries of this nature, but divinity it self seems to be render'd more intelligible. i know a divine, who understands what st. _paul_ meant by _higher powers_, much better than that apostle cou'd pretend to do; and another, that can unfold all the mysteries of the _revelations_ without spectacles. i know there are some people that cast an odium on me, and others, for pointing out the beauties of such authors, as have, they say, been hitherto unknown, and argue, that 'tis a sort of heresie in wit, and is like the fruitless endeavours of proving the apostolical constitutions _genuine_, that have been indisputably _spurious_ for so many ages: but let these gentlemen consider, whether they pass not the same judgment on an author, as a woman does on a man, by the gayety of his dress, or the gaudy equipage of his epithets. and however they may call me _second-sighted_, for discerning what they are blind to, i must tell them this poem has not been altogether so obscure, but that the most refin'd _writers_ of this age have been delighted with the reading it. mr. _tho. d'urfey_, i am told, is an admirer, and mr. _john dunton_ has been heard to say, more than once, he had rather be the author of it than all his works. how often, _says my author_, have i seen the tears trickle down the face of the polite _woodwardius_ upon reading some of the most pathetical encounters of _tom thumb_! how soft, how musically sorrowful was his voice! how good natur'd, how gentle, how unaffected was the ceremoniale of his gesture, and how unfit for a profession so merciless and inhumane! i was persuaded by a friend to write some copies of verses and place 'em in the frontispiece of this poem, in commendation of my self and my _comment_, suppos'd to be compos'd by _ag. ft. lm. rw._ and so forth. _to their very worthy and honour'd friend_ c. d. upon his admirable and useful _comment_ on the history of _tom thumb_; but my bookseller told me the trick was so common, 'twou'd not answer. then i propos'd a dedication to my lord _such an one_, or sir _thomas such an one_; but he told me the stock to be rais'd on dedications was so small now a days, and the discount to my lord's gentleman, _&c._ so high, that 'twou'd not be worth while; besides, says he, it is the opinion of some patrons, that a dinner now and then, with, _sir, i shall expect to see you sometimes_, is a suitable reward for a publick compliment in print. but if, continues my bookseller, you have a mind it shou'd turn to advantage, write treason or heresy, get censur'd by the parliament or convocation, and condemn'd to be burnt by the hands of the common hangman, and you can't fail having a multitude of readers, by the same reason, _a notorious rogue has such a number of followers to the gallows_. _finis._ * * * * * * * * * [illustration] the microcosm. by gregory griffin. no. xi. of the microcosm. monday, _february_ , . res gestæ regumque, ducumque, et tristia bella, _quo scribi possint numero, monstravit homerus_.--hor. by homer taught, the modern poet sings, _in epic strains, of heroes, wars, and kings_.--francis. there are certain forms and etiquettes in life, which, though the neglect of them does not amount to the commission of a crime, or the violation of a duty, are yet so established by example, and sanctioned by custom, as to pass into statutes, equally acknowledged by society, and almost equally binding to individuals, with the laws of the land, or the precepts of morality. a man guilty of breaking these, though he cannot be transported for a felon, or indicted for treasonable practices, is yet, in the high court of custom, branded as a flagrant offender against decorum, as notorious for an unprecedented infringement on propriety. there is no race of men on whom these laws are more severe than authors; and no species of authors more subject to them, than periodical essayists. _homer_ having prescribed the form, or to use a more modern phrase, _set the fashion_ of _epic poems_, whoever presumes to deviate from his plan, must not hope to participate his dignity: and whatever method, _the spectator_, _the guardian_, and others, who first adopted this species of writing, have pursued in their undertaking, is set down as a rule for the conduct of their followers; which, whoever is bold enough to transgress, is accused of a deviation from the original design, and a breach of established regulation. it has hitherto been customary for all periodical writers, to take some opportunity, in the course of their labours, to display their critical abilities, either by making observations on some popular author, and work of known character, or by bringing forth the performances of hidden merit, and throwing light on genius in obscurity. to the critiques of _the spectator_, _shakespear_, and more particularly, _milton_, are indebted, for no inconsiderable share of the reputation, which they now so universally enjoy; and by his means were the ruder graces, and more simple beauties of _chevy chace_ held up to public view, and recommended to general admiration. i should probably be accused of swerving from the imitation of so great an example, were not i to take occasion to shew that i too am not entirely destitute of abilities of this kind; but that by possessing a decent share of critical discernment, and critical jargon, i am capable of becoming a very tolerable commentator. for the proof of which, i shall rather prefer calling the attention of my readers to an object as yet untreated of by any of my immediate predecessors, than venture to throw in my observations on any work which has before passed the ordeal of frequent examination. and this i shall do for two reasons; partly, because were i to choose a field, how fertile soever, of which many others had before me been reaping the fruits, mine would be at best but the gleanings of criticism; and partly, from a more interested view, from a selfish desire of accumulated praise; since, by making a work, as yet almost wholly unknown, the subject of my consideration, i shall acquire the reputation of taste, as well as judgement;--of judiciousness in selection, as well as justness in observation;--of propriety in choosing the object, as well as skill in using the language, of commentary. the _epic poem_ on which i shall ground my present critique, has for its chief characteristics, brevity and simplicity. the author,--whose name i lament that i am, in some degree, prevented from consecrating to immortal fame, by not knowing what it is--the author, i say, has not branched his poem into excressences of episode, or prolixities of digression; it is neither variegated with diversity of unmeaning similitudes, nor glaring with the varnish of unnatural metaphor. the whole is plain and uniform; so much so indeed, that i should hardly be surprised, if some morose readers were to conjecture, that the poet had been thus simple rather from necessity than choice; that he had been restrained not so much by chastity of judgement, as sterility of imagination. nay, some there may be perhaps, who will dispute his claim to the title of an _epic poet_; and will endeavour to degrade him even to the rank of a _ballad-monger_. but i, as his commentator, will contend for the dignity of my author; and will plainly demonstrate his poem to be an _epic poem_, agreeable to the example of all poets, and the consent of all critics heretofore. first, it is universally agreed, that an _epic poem_ should have three component parts, _a beginning_, _a middle_, and _an end_;--secondly, it is allowed, that it should have one _grand action_, or _main design_, to the forwarding of which, all the parts of it should directly or indirectly tend; and that this design should be in some measure consonant with, and conducive to, the purposes of _morality_;--and thirdly, it is indisputably settled, that it should have _a hero_. i trust that in none of these points the poem before us will be found deficient. there are other inferior properties, which i shall consider in due order. not to keep my readers longer in suspense, the subject of the poem is "_the reformation of the knave of hearts_." it is not improbable, that some may object to me that a _knave_ is an unworthy hero for an epic poem; that a hero ought to be all that is great and good. the objection is frivolous. the greatest work of this kind that the world has ever produced, has "_the devil_" for its hero; and supported as my author is by so great a precedent, i contend, that his hero is a very decent hero; and especially as he has the advantage of _milton_'s, by reforming at the end, is evidently entitled to a competent share of celebrity. i shall now proceed in the more immediate examination of the poem in its different parts. the _beginning_, say the critics, ought to be plain and simple; neither embellished with the flowers of poetry, nor turgid with pomposity of diction. in this how exactly does our author conform to the established opinion! he begins thus, "the queen of hearts "she made some tarts"-- can any thing be more clear! more natural! more agreeable to the true spirit of simplicity! here are no tropes,--no figurative expressions,--not even so much as an invocation to the muse. he does not detain his readers by any needless circumlocution; by unnecessarily informing them, what he _is_ going to sing; or still more unnecessarily enumerating what he _is not_ going to sing: but according to the precept of horace, ----in medias res, non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit,---- that is, he at once introduces us, and sets us on the most easy and familiar footing imaginable, with her majesty of hearts, and interests us deeply in her domestic concerns. but to proceed, "the queen of hearts "she made some tarts, "all on a summer's day." here indeed the prospect brightens, and we are led to expect some liveliness of imagery, some warmth of poetical colouring;--but here is no such thing.--there is no task more difficult to a poet, than that of _rejection_. _ovid_, among the ancients, and _dryden_, among the moderns, were perhaps the most remarkable for the want of it. the latter from the haste in which he generally produced his compositions, seldom paid much attention to the "_limæ labor_," "the labour of correction," and seldom therefore rejected the assistance of any idea that presented itself. _ovid_, not content with catching the leading features of any scene or character, indulged himself in a thousand minutiæ of description, a thousand puerile prettinesses, which were in themselves uninteresting, and took off greatly from the effect of the whole; as the numberless suckers, and straggling branches of a fruit tree, if permitted to shoot out unrestrained, while they are themselves barren and useless, diminish considerably the vigour of the parent stock. _ovid_ had more genius, but less judgement than _virgil_; _dryden_ more imagination, but less correctness than _pope_; had they not been deficient in these points, the former would certainly have equalled, the latter infinitely outshone the merits of his countryman.--_our author_ was undoubtedly possessed of that power which they wanted; and was cautious not to indulge too far the sallies of a lively imagination. omitting therefore any mention of--sultry sirius,--silvan shade,--sequestered glade,--verdant hills,--purling rills,--mossy mountains,--gurgling fountains,--&c. &c.--he simply tells us that it was "_all on a summers day_." for my own part, i confess, that i find myself rather flattered than disappointed; and consider the poet as rather paying a compliment to the abilities of his readers, than baulking their expectations. it is certainly a great pleasure to see a picture well painted; but it is a much greater to paint it well oneself. this therefore i look upon as a stroke of excellent management in the poet. here every reader is at liberty to gratify his own taste; to design for himself just what sort of "_summer's day_" he likes best; to choose his own scenery; dispose his lights and shades as he pleases; to solace himself with a rivulet or a horse-pond,--a shower, or a sun-beam,--a grove, or a kitchen garden,--according to his fancy. how much more considerate this, than if the poet had, from an affected accuracy of description, thrown us into an unmannerly perspiration by the heat of the atmosphere; forced us into a landscape of his own planning, with perhaps a paltry good-for-nothing zephyr or two, and a limited quantity of wood and water.--all this _ovid_ would undoubtedly have done. nay, to use the expression of a learned brother-commentator, "_quovis pignore decertem_" "i would lay any wager," that he would have gone so far as to tell us what the tarts were made of; and perhaps wandered into an episode on the art of preserving cherries. but _our poet_, above such considerations, leaves every reader to choose his own ingredients, and sweeten them to his own liking; wisely foreseeing, no doubt, that the more palatable each had rendered them to his own taste, the more he would be affected at their approaching loss. "all on a summer's day." i cannot leave this line without remarking, that one of the _scribleri_, a descendant of the famous _martinus_, has expressed his suspicions of the text being corrupted here, and proposes, instead of "_all on_" reading "_alone_," alledging, in favour of this alteration, the effect of solitude in raising the passions. but _hiccius doctius_, a high dutch commentator, one nevertheless well versed in british literature, in a note of his usual length and learning, has confuted the arguments of _scriblerus_. in support of the present reading, he quotes a passage from a poem written about the same period with our author's, by the celebrated _johannes pastor_[*], intituled "_an elegiac epistle to the turnkey of newgate_," wherein the gentleman declares, that rather indeed in compliance with an old custom, than to gratify any particular will of his own, he is going --------"all hanged for to be "upon that fatal tyburn tree."---- [footnote *: more commonly known, i believe, by the appellation of "_jack shepherd_."] now as nothing throws greater light on an author, than the concurrence of a contemporary writer, i am inclined to be of _hiccius's_ opinion, and to consider the "_all_" as an elegant expletive, or, as he more aptly phrases it "_elegans expletivum_." the passage therefore must stand thus, "the queen of hearts "she made some tarts, "all on a summer's day." and thus ends the first part, or _beginning_; which is simple and unembellished; opens the subject in a natural and easy manner; excites, but does not too far gratify our curiosity: for a reader of accurate observation may easily discover, that the _hero_ of the poem has not, as yet, made his appearance. i could not continue my examination at present through the whole of this poem, without far exceeding the limits of a single paper. i have therefore divided it into two; but shall not delay the publication of the second to another week,--as that, besides breaking the connection of criticism, would materially injure the _unities_ of the poem. no. xii. of the microcosm. monday, _february , _. --------servetur ad imum, qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. horace. from his first entrance to the closing scene, let him one equal character maintain. francis. having thus gone through the first part, or _beginning_ of the poem, we may naturally enough proceed to the consideration of the second. the second part, or _middle_, is the proper place for bustle and business; for incident and adventure. "the knave of hearts "he stole those tarts." here attention is awakened; and our whole souls are intent upon the first appearance of the hero. some readers may perhaps be offended at his making his _entré_ in so disadvantageous a character as that of a _thief_. to this i plead precedent. the hero of the iliad, as i observed in a former paper, is made to lament very pathetically,--that "life is not like all other possessions, to be acquired by theft."--a reflection, in my opinion, evidently shewing, that, if he _did_ refrain from the practice of this ingenious art, it was not from want of an inclination that way. we may remember too, that in _virgil's_ poem, almost the first light in which the _pious Æneas_ appears to us, is a _deer-stealer_; nor is it much excuse for him, that the deer were wandering without keepers; for however he might, from this circumstance, have been unable to ascertain whose property they were; he might, i think, have been pretty well assured that they were not _his_. having thus acquitted our hero of misconduct, by the example of his betters, i proceed to what i think the master-stroke of the poet. "the knave of hearts "he stole those tarts, "and----took them----quite away!!" here, whoever has an ear for harmony, and a heart for feeling, must be touched! there is a desponding melancholy in the run of the last line! an air of tender regret in the addition of "_quite away!_" a something so expressive of irrecoverable loss! so forcibly intimating the "_ah nunquam reditura!_" "they never can return!" in short, such an union of sound and sense, as we rarely, if ever meet with in any author, ancient or modern. our feelings are all alive--but the poet, wisely dreading that our sympathy with the injured queen might alienate our affections from his hero, contrives immediately to awaken our fears for him, by telling us, that "the king of hearts "call'd for those tarts,"-- we are all conscious of the fault of our hero, and all tremble with him, for the punishment which the enraged monarch may inflict; "and beat the knave--full sore!" the fatal blow is struck! we cannot but rejoice that guilt is justly punished, though we sympathize with the guilty object of punishment. here _scriblerus_, who, by the bye, is very fond of making unnecessary alterations, proposes reading "_score_" instead of "_sore_," meaning thereby to particularize, that the beating bestowed by this monarch, consisted of _twenty_ stripes. but this proceeds from his ignorance of the genius of our language, which does not admit of such an expression as "_full score_," but would require the insertion of the particle "_a_," which cannot be, on account of the metre. and this is another great artifice of the poet: by leaving the quantity of beating indeterminate, he gives every reader the liberty to administer it, in exact proportion to the sum of indignation which he may have conceived against his hero; that by thus amply satisfying their resentment, they may be the more easily reconciled to him afterwards. "the king of hearts "call'd for those tarts, "and beat the knave full sore!" here ends the second part, or _middle_ of the poem; in which we see the character, and exploits of the hero, pourtrayed with the hand of a master. nothing now remains to be examined, but the third part, or _end_. in the _end_, it is a rule pretty well established, that the work should draw towards a conclusion, which our author manages thus. "the knave of hearts "brought back those tarts." here every thing is at length settled; the theft is compensated; the tarts restored to their right owner; and _poetical justice_, in every respect, strictly, and impartially administered. we may observe, that there is nothing in which our poet has better succeeded, than in keeping up an unremitted attention in his readers to the main instruments, the machinery of his poem, viz. the _tarts_; insomuch, that the aforementioned _scriblerus_ has sagely observed, that "he can't tell, but he doesn't know, but the tarts may be reckoned the heroes of the poem." _scriblerus_, though a man of learning, and frequently right in his opinion, has here certainly hazarded a rash conjecture. his arguments are overthrown entirely by his great opponent, _hiccius_, who concludes, by triumphantly asking, "had the tarts been eaten, how could the poet have compensated for the loss of his heroes?" we are now come to the _denouèment_, the setting all to rights: and our poet, in the management of his _moral_, is certainly superior to his great ancient predecessors. the moral of their fables, if any they have, is so interwoven with the main body of their work, that in endeavouring to unravel it, we should tear the whole. _our author_ has very properly preserved his whole and entire for the _end_ of his poem, where he completes his _main design_, the _reformation_ of his hero, thus, "and vow'd he'd steal no more." having in the course of his work, shewn the bad effects arising from theft, he evidently means this last moral reflection, to operate with his readers as a gentle and polite dissuasive from stealing. "the knave of hearts "brought back those tarts, "and vow'd he'd steal no more!" thus have i industriously gone through the several parts of this wonderful work; and clearly proved it, in every one of these parts, and in all of them together, to be a _due and proper epic poem_; and to have as good a right to that title, from its adherence to prescribed rules, as any of the celebrated master-pieces of antiquity. and here i cannot help again lamenting, that, by not knowing the name of the author, i am unable to twine our laurels together; and to transmit to posterity the mingled praises of genius, and judgment; of the poet, and his commentator. having some space left in this paper, i will now, with the permission of my readers of the _great world_, address myself more particularly to my fellow-citizens. to them, the essay which i have here presented, will, i flatter myself, be peculiarly serviceable at this time; and i would earnestly recommend an attentive perusal of it, to all of them whose muses are engaged in compositions of the epic kind.--i am very much afraid that i may run into the error, which i have myself pointed out, of becoming too _local_,--but where it is evidently intended for the good of my fellow citizens, it may, i hope, be now and then pardonable. at the present juncture, as many have applied for my assistance, i cannot find in my heart to refuse it them. were i to attempt fully explaining, why, at the _present juncture_, i fear it would be vain. would it not seem incredible to the ladies, were i to tell them, that the period approaches, when upwards of a hundred _epic poems_ will be exposed to public view, most of them nearly of equal length, and many of them nearly of equal merit, with the one which i have here taken into consideration; illustrated moreover with elegant etchings, designed either as _hieroglyphical_ explanations of the subject, or as _practical puns_ on the name of the author?--and yet in truth so it is,--and on this subject i wish to give a word of advice to my countrymen. many of them have applied to me by letter, to assist them with designs for prefixing to their poems; and this i should very willingly have done, had those gentlemen been kind enough to subscribe their real names to their requests: whereas, all that i have received have been signed, _tom long_, _philosophus_, _philalethes_, and such like. i have therefore been prevented from affording them the assistance i wished; and cannot help wondering, that the gentlemen did not consider, that it was impossible for me to provide _typical references_ for feigned names; as, for ought i know, the person who signs himself _tom long_ may not be four feet high; _philosophus_ may be possessed of a considerable share of folly; and _philalethes_ may be as arrant a liar as any in the kingdom. it may not however be useless to offer some general reflections for all who may require them. it is not improbable, that, as the subject of their poems is the _restoration_, many of my fellow-citizens may choose to adorn their _title-pages_ with the representation of his majesty, charles the second, escaping the vigilance of his pursuers in the _royal oak_. there are some particularities generally observable in this picture, which i shall point out to them, lest they fall into similar errors. though i am as far as any other briton can be, from wishing to "curtail" his majesty's wig "of its fair proportion;" yet i have sometimes been apt to think it rather improper, to make the wig, as is usually done, of larger dimensions than the tree in which it and his majesty are concealed. it is a rule in logic, and i believe may hold good in most other sciences, that "_omne majus continet in se minus_," that "every thing larger can hold any thing that is less;" but i own, i never heard the contrary advanced or defended with any plausible arguments, viz. "that every little thing can hold one larger." i therefore humbly propose, that there should be at least an edge of foliage round the outskirts of the said wig; and that its curls should not exceed in number the leaves of the tree. there is also another practice almost equally prevalent, of which i am sceptic enough to doubt the propriety. i own, i cannot think it by any means conducive to the more effectual concealment of his majesty, that there should be three regal crowns stuck on three different branches of the tree. horace says indeed, --------pictoribus atque poetis, quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas. painters and poets our indulgence claim, _their daring equal, and their art the same._--fran. and this may be reckoned a very allowable _poetical licence_; inasmuch as it lets the spectator into the secret, _who is in the tree_. but it is apt to make him at the same time throw the accusation of negligence and want of penetration on the three dragoons, who are usually depicted on the foreground, cantering along very composedly, with serene countenances, erect persons, and drawn swords, very little longer than themselves. * * * * * * * * * publications of the augustan reprint society [transcriber's note: many of the listed titles are or will be available from project gutenberg. where possible, the e-text number is given in brackets.] *first year ( - )* numbers - out of print. [titles: . richard blackmore's _essay upon wit_ ( ), and addison's _freeholder_ no. ( ). [ ] . anon., _essay on wit_ ( ), together with characters by flecknoe, and joseph warton's _adventurer_ nos. and . [ ] . anon., _letter to a. h. esq.; concerning the stage_ ( ), and richard willis' _occasional paper_ no. ix ( ). [ ] . samuel cobb's _of poetry_ and _discourse on criticism_ ( ). [ ] . samuel wesley's _epistle to a friend concerning poetry_ ( ) and _essay on heroic poetry_ ( ). [ ] . anon., _representation of the impiety and immorality of the stage_ ( ) and anon., _some thoughts concerning the stage_ ( ). [ ] ] *second year ( - )* . john gay's _the present state of wit_ ( ); and a section on wit from _the english theophrastus_ ( ). [# ] . rapin's _de carmine pastorali_, translated by creech ( ). [# ] . t. hanmer's (?) _some remarks on the tragedy of hamlet_ ( ). [# ] . corbyn morris' _essay towards fixing the true standards of wit, etc._ ( ). [# ] . thomas purney's _discourse on the pastoral_ ( ). [# ] . essays on the stage, selected, with an introduction by joseph wood krutch. [# ] *third year ( - )* . sir john falstaff (pseud.), _the theatre_ ( ). [# ] . edward moore's _the gamester_ ( ). [# ] . john oldmixon's _reflections on dr. swift's letter to harley_ ( ); and arthur mainwaring's _the british academy_ ( ). [in preparation] . nevil payne's _fatal jealousy_ ( ). [# ] . nicholas rowe's _some account of the life of mr. william shakespeare_ ( ). [# ] . "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. ( ); and aaron hill's preface to _the creation_ ( ). [# ] *fourth year ( - )* . susanna centlivre's _the busie body_ ( ). [# ] . lewis theobold's _preface to the works of shakespeare_ ( ). [# ] . _critical remarks on sir charles grandison, clarissa, and pamela_ ( ). . samuel johnson's _the vanity of human wishes_ ( ) and two _rambler_ papers ( ). [# ] . john dryden's _his majesties declaration defended_ ( ). [# ] . pierre nicole's _an essay on true and apparent beauty in which from settled principles is rendered the grounds for choosing and rejecting epigrams_, translated by j. v. cunningham. *fifth year ( - )* . thomas baker's _the fine lady's airs_ ( ). [# ] . charles macklin's _the man of the world_ ( ). [# ] . out of print. [frances reynolds' _an enquiry concerning the principles of taste, and of the origin of our ideas of beauty, etc._ ( ). [# ] ] . john evelyn's _an apologie for the royal party_ ( ); and _a panegyric to charles the second_ ( ). [# ] . daniel defoe's _a vindication of the press_ ( ). [# ] . essays on taste from john gilbert cooper's _letters concerning taste_, rd edition ( ), & john armstrong's _miscellanies_ ( ). [# ] *sixth year ( - )* . thomas gray's _an elegy wrote in a country church yard_ ( ); and _the eton college manuscript_. [# ] . prefaces to fiction; georges de scudéry's preface to _ibrahim_ ( ), etc. [# ] . henry gally's _a critical essay_ on characteristic-writings ( ). [# ] . thomas tyers' a biographical sketch of dr. samuel johnson ( ). . james roswell, andrew erskine, and george dempster. _critical strictures on the new tragedy of elvira, written by mr. david malloch_ ( ). [# ] . joseph harris's _the city bride_ ( ). [in preparation] *seventh year ( - )* . thomas morrison's _a pindarick ode on painting_ ( ). [in preparation] . john phillips' _a satyr against hypocrites_ ( ). . thomas warton's _a history of english poetry_. . edward bysshe's _the art of english poetry_ ( ). . bernard mandeville's "a letter to dion" ( ). . prefaces to four seventeenth-century romances. *eighth year ( - )* . john baillie's _an essay on the sublime_ ( ). . mathias casimire sarbiewski's _the odes of casimire_, translated by g. hils ( ). . john robert scott's _dissertation on the progress of the fine arts._ . selections from seventeenth century songbooks. . contemporaries of the _tatler_ and _spectator_. . samuel richardson's introduction to _pamela_. *ninth year ( - )* . two st. cecilia's day sermons ( - ). . hervey aston's _a sermon before the sons of the clergy_ ( ). . lewis maidwell's _an essay upon the necessity and excellency of education_ ( ). . pappity stampoy's _a collection of scotch proverbs_ ( ). [# ] . urian oakes' _the soveriegn efficacy of divine providence_ ( ). . mary davys' _familiar letters betwixt a gentleman and a lady_ ( ). *tenth year ( - )* . samuel say's _an essay on the harmony, variety, and power of numbers_ ( ). . _theologia ruris, sive schola & scala naturae_ ( ). . henry fielding's _shamela_ ( ). . eighteenth century book illustrations. . samuel johnson's _notes to shakespeare_. vol. i, comedies, part i. [# ] . samuel johnson's _notes to shakespeare_. vol. i, comedies, part ii. [# ] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * errors corrected by transcriber: the _spectator's_ critiques of shakespeare [not underlined in original] artfulness and embellishments of the _romans_ [text reads "embel/llishments" at line break] the first person that ever found out the philosopher's stone [text reads "that that"] but if, continues my bookseller [text reads "conti/tinues" at line break] _denouèment_ _accent unchanged (grave on second "e")_ every thing larger can hold any thing that is less [text reads "every think"] none file includes images generously made available by the internet archive.) [this e-text comes in two forms: latin- and ascii- . download the one that works best on your text reader. --in the latin- version, names like "aïdé" and words like "naïveté" have accents, and "æ" is a single letter. if any part of this paragraph displays as garbage, try changing your text reader's "character set" or "file encoding". if that doesn't work, proceed to: --the ascii- or rock-bottom version. all essential text will still be there; it just won't be as pretty. spacing of contractions such as _i 've_ follows the original.] victorian songs "'let some one sing to us, lightlier move the minutes fledged with music'." tennyson [illustration: full-page plate] victorian songs lyrics of the affections and nature [illustration] collected and illustrated by edmund h garrett with an introduction by edmund gosse [decoration] little brown and company boston _copyright, ._ by edmund h. garrett. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. [transcriber's note: some printings of the book have a two-page editor's note before the contents, acknowledging the "publishers and authors who have given permission for the use of many of the songs included in this volume". it has been omitted from this e-text.] [illustration] contents where are the songs i used to know? christina rossetti. aÏdÉ, hamilton ( ). page remember or forget oh, let me dream love, the pilgrim allingham, william ( - ). lovely mary donnelly song serenade across the sea arnold, sir edwin ( ). serenade a love song of henri quatre ashe, thomas ( - ). no and yes at altenahr marit austin, alfred ( ). a night in june beddoes, thomas lovell ( - ). dream-pedlary song from the ship song song song, by two voices song bennett, william cox ( ). cradle song my roses blossom the whole year round cradle song bourdillon, f. w. ( ). love's meinie the night has a thousand eyes a lost voice buchanan, robert ( ). serenade song collins, mortimer ( - ). to f. c. a game of chess multum in parvo violets at home my thrush craik, dinah maria mulock ( - ). too late a silly song darley, george ( - ). may day i 've been roaming sylvia's song serenade de tabley, lord ( ). a winter sketch the second madrigal de vere, aubrey ( - ). song song song dickens, charles ( - ). the ivy green dobson, austin ( ). the ladies of st. james's the milkmaid domett, alfred ( - ). a glee for winter a kiss dufferin, lady ( - ). song lament of the irish emigrant field, michael. winds to-day are large and free let us wreathe the mighty cup where winds abound gale, norman ( ). a song song gosse, edmund ( ). song for the lute hood, thomas ( - ). ballad song i remember, i remember ballad song houghton, lord (richard monckton milnes) ( - ). the brookside the venetian serenade from love and nature ingelow, jean ( ). the long white seam love sweet is childhood kingsley, charles ( - ). airly beacon the sands of dee three fishers went sailing a farewell landor, walter savage ( - ). rose aylmer rubies the fault is not mine under the lindens sixteen ianthe one lovely name forsaken locker-lampson, frederick ( - ). a garden lyric the cuckoo gertrude's necklace lover, samuel ( - ). the angel's whisper what will you do, love? mackay, charles ( - ). i love my love o ye tears! mahoney, francis ( - ). the bells of shandon massey, gerald ( ). song o'shaughnessy, arthur ( - ). a love symphony i made another garden procter, adelaide anne ( - ). the lost chord sent to heaven procter, b. w. (barry cornwall) ( - ). the poet's song to his wife a petition to time a bacchanalian song she was not fair nor full of grace the sea-king a serenade king death sit down, sad soul a drinking song peace! what do tears avail? the sea rossetti, christina g. ( - ). song song song three seasons rossetti, dante gabriel ( - ). a little while sudden light three shadows scott, william bell ( - ). parting and meeting again skipsey, joseph ( ). a merry bee the songstress the violet and the rose sterry, j. ashby. regrets daisy's dimples a lover's lullaby swinburne, algernon charles ( ). a match rondel song tennyson, alfred ( - ). the bugle song break, break, break tears, idle tears sweet and low turn, fortune, turn thy wheel vivien's song thackeray, william makepeace ( - ). at the church gate the mahogany tree thornbury, george walter ( - ). dayrise and sunset the three troopers the cuckoo [decoration] [illustration] an index to first lines listen--songs thou 'lt hear through the wide world ringing. barry cornwall. page a baby was sleeping _samuel lover_ "a cup for hope!" she said _christina g. rossetti_ a golden bee a-cometh _joseph skipsey_ a little shadow makes the sunrise sad _mortimer collins_ a little while a little love _dante gabriel rossetti_ a thousand voices fill my ears _f. w. bourdillon_ across the grass i see her pass _austin dobson_ ah, what avails the sceptered race! _walter savage landor_ airly beacon, airly beacon _charles kingsley_ all glorious as the rainbow's birth _gerald massey_ all through the sultry hours of june _mortimer collins_ along the garden ways just now _arthur o'shaughnessy_ although i enter not _william makepeace thackeray_ as gertrude skipt from babe to girl _frederick locker-lampson_ as i came round the harbor buoy _jean ingelow_ awake!--the starry midnight hour _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) awake thee, my lady-love! _george darley_ back flies my soul to other years _joseph skipsey_ break, break, break _alfred tennyson_ came, on a sabbath noon, my sweet _thomas ashe_ christmas is here _william makepeace thackeray_ come, rosy day! _sir edwin arnold_ come sing, come sing, of the great sea-king _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) could ye come back to me, douglas, douglas _dinah maria mulock craik_ drink, and fill the night with mirth! _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) every day a pilgrim, blindfold _hamilton aïdé_ fast falls the snow, o lady mine _mortimer collins_ first the fine, faint, dreamy motion _norman gale_ hence, rude winter! crabbed old fellow _alfred domett_ how many summers, love _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) how many times do i love thee, dear? _thomas lovell beddoes_ i bring a garland for your head _edmund gosse_ i had a message to send her _adelaide anne procter_ i have been here before _dante gabriel rossetti_ i leaned out of window, i smelt the white clover _jean ingelow_ i looked and saw your eyes _dante gabriel rossetti_ i made another garden, yea _arthur o'shaughnessy_ i remember, i remember _thomas hood_ i sat beside the streamlet _hamilton aïdé_ i wandered by the brook-side _lord houghton_ i walked in the lonesome evening _william allingham_ if i could choose my paradise _thomas ashe_ if love were what the rose is _algernon charles swinburne_ if there were dreams to sell _thomas lovell beddoes_ i 'm sitting on the stile, mary _lady dufferin_ in clementina's artless mien _walter savage landor_ in love, if love be love, if love be ours _alfred tennyson_ into the devil tavern _george walter thornbury_ it was not in the winter _thomas hood_ i 've been roaming! i 've been roaming! _george darley_ king death was a rare old fellow! _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) kissing her hair i sat against her feet. _algernon charles swinburne_ lady! in this night of june _alfred austin_ last time i parted from my dear _william bell scott_ let us wreathe the mighty cup _michael field_ little dimples so sweet and soft _j. ashby sterry_ lullaby! o lullaby! _william cox bennett_ lute! breathe thy lowest in my lady's ear _sir edwin arnold_ mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love _j. ashby sterry_ mother, i can not mind my wheel _walter savage landor_ my fairest child, i have no song to give you _charles kingsley_ my goblet's golden lips are dry _thomas lovell beddoes_ my love, on a fair may morning _thomas ashe_ my roses blossom the whole year round _william cox bennett_ o for the look of those pure gray eyes _j. ashby sterry_ o happy buds of violet! _mortimer collins_ "o heart, my heart!" she said, and heard _dinah maria mulock craik_ o lady, leave thy silken thread _thomas hood_ o lips that mine have grown into _algernon charles swinburne_ o love is like the roses _robert buchanan_ o may, thou art a merry time _george darley_ o roses for the flush of youth _christina g. rossetti_ o spirit of the summertime! _william allingham_ o ye tears! o ye tears! that have long refused to flow _charles mackay_ often i have heard it said _walter savage landor_ oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green _charles dickens_ oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear _william allingham_ oh! let me dream of happy days gone by _hamilton aïdé_ oh, lovely mary donnelly, my joy, my only best! _william allingham_ "oh, mary, go and call the cattle home" _charles kingsley_ one lovely name adorns my song _walter savage landor_ peace! what can tears avail? _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) seated one day at the organ _adelaide anne procter_ seek not the tree of silkiest bark _aubrey de vere_ she was not fair, nor full of grace _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) she 's up and gone, the graceless girl _thomas hood_ sing!--who sings _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) sit down, sad soul, and count _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet! _robert buchanan_ sleep! the bird is in its nest _william cox bennett_ softly, o midnight hours! _audrey de vere_ strew not earth with empty stars _thomas lovell beddoes_ sweet and low, sweet and low _alfred tennyson_ sweet is childhood--childhood 's over _jean ingelow_ sweet mouth! o let me take _alfred domett_ tears, idle tears, i know not what they mean _alfred tennyson_ terrace and lawn are white with frost _mortimer collins_ thank heaven, ianthe, once again _walter savage landor_ the fault is not mine if i love you too much _walter savage landor_ the ladies of st. james's _austin dobson_ the night has a thousand eyes _f. w. bourdillon_ the sea! the sea! the open sea! _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) the splendour falls on castle walls _alfred tennyson_ the stars are with the voyager _thomas hood_ the streams that wind amid the hills _george darley_ the sun came through the frosty mist _lord houghton_ the violet invited my kiss _joseph skipsey_ there is no summer ere the swallows come. _f. w. bourdillon_ three fishers went sailing away to the west _charles kingsley_ to sea, to sea! the calm is o'er _thomas lovell beddoes_ touch us gently, time! _b. w. procter_ (_barry cornwall_) turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud! _alfred tennyson_ two doves upon the selfsame branch _christina g. rossetti_ under the lindens lately sat _walter savage landor_ wait but a little while _norman gale_ we have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft _frederick locker-lampson_ we heard it calling, clear and low _frederick locker-lampson_ what is the meaning of the song _charles mackay_ "what will you do, love, when i am going" _samuel lover_ when a warm and scented steam _george walter thornbury_ when along the light ripple the far serenade _lord houghton_ when another's voice thou hearest _lady dufferin_ when i am dead, my dearest _christina g. rossetti_ when i was young, i said to sorrow _aubrey de vere_ when spring casts all her swallows forth _george walter thornbury_ when the snow begins to feather _lord de tabley_ where winds abound _michael field_ who is the baby, that doth lie _thomas lovell beddoes_ winds to-day are large and free _michael field_ with deep affection _francis mahoney_ woo thy lass while may is here _lord de tabley_ [decoration] [illustration] list of illustrations their songs wake singing echoes in my land. christina rossetti. sweet and low, sweet and low _frontispiece_ "oh! let me dream of happy days gone by" across the sea "my love on a fair may morning" song in the garden the night has a thousand eyes a game of chess "i 've been roaming, i 've been roaming" "a maid i know,--and march winds blow" "that bright may morning long ago" "i remember, i remember" i wandered by the brook-side "three fishers went sailing away to the west" ianthe gertrude's necklace "she turned back at the last to wait" king death "i looked and saw your eyes" break, break, break "when spring casts all her swallows forth" [decoration] [illustration] introduction the writer of prose, by intelligence taught, says the thing that will please, in the way that he ought. frederick locker-lampson. _no species of poetry is more ancient than the lyrical, and yet none shows so little sign of having outlived the requirements of human passion. the world may grow tired of epics and of tragedies, but each generation, as it sees the hawthorns blossom and the freshness of girlhood expand, is seized with a pang which nothing but the spasm of verse will relieve. each youth imagines that spring-tide and love are wonders which he is the first of human beings to appreciate, and he burns to alleviate his emotion in rhyme. historians exaggerate, perhaps, the function of music in awakening and guiding the exercise of lyrical poetry. the lyric exists, they tell us, as an accompaniment to the lyre; and without the mechanical harmony the spoken song is an artifice. quite as plausibly might it be avowed that music was but added to verse to concentrate and emphasize its rapture, to add poignancy and volume to its expression. but the truth is that these two arts, though sometimes happily allied, are, and always have been, independent. when verse has been innocent enough to lean on music, we may be likely to find that music also has been of the simplest order, and that the pair of them, like two delicious children, have tottered and swayed together down the flowery meadows of experience. when either poetry or music is adult, the presence of each is a distraction to the other, and each prefers, in the elaborate ages, to stand alone, since the mystery of the one confounds the complexity of the other. most poets hate music; few musicians comprehend the nature of poetry; and the combination of these arts has probably, in all ages, been contrived, not for the satisfaction of artists, but for the convenience of their public._ _this divorce between poetry and music has been more frankly accepted in the present century than ever before, and is nowadays scarcely opposed in serious criticism. if music were a necessary ornament of lyrical verse, the latter would nowadays scarcely exist; but we hear less and less of the poets devotion (save in a purely conventional sense) to the lute and the pipe. what we call the victorian lyric is absolutely independent of any such aid. it may be that certain songs of tennyson and christina rossetti have been with great popularity "set," as it is called, "to music." so far as the latter is in itself successful, it stultifies the former; and we admit at last that the idea of one art aiding another in this combination is absolutely fictitious. the beauty--even the beauty of sound--conveyed by the ear in such lyrics as "break, break, break," or "when i am dead, my dearest," is obscured, is exchanged for another and a rival species of beauty, by the most exquisite musical setting that a composer can invent._ _the age which has been the first to accept this condition, then, should be rich in frankly lyrical poetry; and this we find to be the case with the victorian period. at no time has a greater mass of this species of verse been produced, not even in the combined elizabethan and jacobean age. but when we come to consider the quality of this later harvest of song, we observe in it a far less homogeneous character. we can take a piece of verse, and decide at sight that it must be elizabethan, or of the age of the pléiade in france, or of a particular period in italy. even an ode of our own eighteenth century is hardly to be confounded with a fragment from any other school. the great georgian age introduced a wide variety into english poetry; and yet we have but to examine the selected jewels strung into so exquisite a carcanet by mr. palgrave in his "golden treasury" to notice with surprise how close a family likeness exists between the contributions of shelley, wordsworth, keats, and byron. the distinctions of style, of course, are very great; but the general character of the diction, the imagery, even of the rhythm, is more or less identical. the stamp of the same age is upon them,--they are hall-marked ._ _it is perhaps too early to decide that this will never be the case with the victorian lyrics. while we live in an age we see the distinction of its parts, rather than their co-relation. it is said that the japanese government once sent over a commission to report upon the art of europe; and that, having visited the exhibitions of london, paris, florence, and berlin, the commissioners confessed that the works of the european painters all looked so exactly alike that it was difficult to distinguish one from another. the japanese eye, trained in absolutely opposed conventions, could not tell the difference between a watts and a fortuny, a théodore rousseau and a henry moore. so it is quite possible, it is even probable, that future critics may see a close similarity where we see nothing but divergence between the various productions of the victorian age. yet we can judge but what we discern; and certainly to the critical eye to-day it is the absence of a central tendency, the chaotic cultivation of all contrivable varieties of style, which most strikingly seems to distinguish the times we live in._ _we use the word "victorian" in literature to distinguish what was written after the decline of that age of which walter scott, coleridge, and wordsworth were the survivors. it is well to recollect, however, that tennyson, who is the victorian writer_ par excellence, _had published the most individual and characteristic of his lyrics long before the queen ascended the throne, and that elizabeth barrett, henry taylor, william barnes, and others were by this date of mature age. it is difficult to remind ourselves, who have lived in the radiance of that august figure, that some of the most beautiful of tennyson's lyrics, such as "mariana" and "the dying swan" are now separated from us by as long a period of years as divided them from dr. johnson and the author of "night thoughts." the reflection is of value only as warning us of the extraordinary length of the epoch we still call "victorian." it covers, not a mere generation, but much more than half a century. during this length of time a complete revolution in literary taste might have been expected to take place. this has not occurred, and the cause may very well be the extreme license permitted to the poets to adopt whatever style they pleased. where all the doors stand wide open, there is no object in escaping; where there is but one door, and that one barred, it is human nature to fret for some violent means of evasion. how divine have been the methods of the victorian lyrists may easily be exemplified_:-- _"quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife to heart of neither wife nor maid, lead we not here a jolly life betwixt the shine and shade?_ _"quoth heart of neither maid nor wife to tongue of neither wife nor maid, thou wagg'st, but i am worn with strife, and feel like flowers that fade."_ _that is a masterpiece, but so is this:--_ _"nay, but you who do not love her, is she not pure gold, my mistress? holds earth aught--speak truth--above her? aught like this tress, see, and this tress, and this last fairest tress of all, --so fair, see, ere i let it fall?_ _"because, you spend your lives in praisings, to praise, you search the wide world over: then why not witness, calmly gazing, if earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? above this tress, and this i touch, but cannot praise, i love so much!"_ _and so is this:--_ _"under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie. glad did i live and gladly die, and i laid me down with a will._ _"this be the verse yon grave for me: here he lies where he longed to be; home is the sailor, home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill."_ _but who would believe that the writers of these were contemporaries?_ _if we examine more closely the forms which lyric poetry has taken since , we shall find that certain influences at work in the minds of our leading writers have led to the widest divergence in the character of lyrical verse. it will be well, perhaps, to consider in turn the leading classes of that work. it was not to be expected that in an age of such complexity and self-consciousness as ours, the pure song, the simple trill of bird-like melody, should often or prominently be heard. as civilization spreads, it ceases to be possible, or at least it becomes less and less usual, that simple emotion should express itself with absolute naïveté. perhaps burns was the latest poet in these islands whose passion warbled forth in perfectly artless strains; and he had the advantage of using a dialect still unsubdued and unvulgarized. artlessness nowadays must be the result of the most exquisitely finished art; if not, it is apt to be insipid, if not positively squalid and fusty. the obvious uses of simple words have been exhausted; we cannot, save by infinite pains and the exercise of a happy genius, recover the old spontaneous air, the effect of an inevitable arrangement of the only possible words._ _this beautiful direct simplicity, however, was not infrequently secured by tennyson, and scarcely less often by christina rossetti, both of whom have left behind them jets of pure emotional melody which compare to advantage with the most perfect specimens of greek and elizabethan song. tennyson did not very often essay this class of writing, but when he did, he rarely failed; his songs combine, with extreme naturalness and something of a familiar sweetness, a felicity of workmanship hardly to be excelled. in her best songs, miss rossetti is scarcely, if at all, his inferior; but her judgment was far less sure, and she was more ready to look with complacency on her failures. the songs of mr. aubrey de vere are not well enough known; they are sometimes singularly charming. other poets have once or twice succeeded in catching this clear natural treble,--the living linnet once captured in the elm, as tusitala puts it; but this has not been a gift largely enjoyed by our victorian poets._ _the richer and more elaborate forms of lyric, on the contrary, have exactly suited this curious and learned age of ours. the species of verse which, originally italian or french, have now so abundantly and so admirably been practised in england that we can no longer think of them as exotic, having found so many exponents in the victorian period that they are pre-eminently characteristic of it. "scorn not the sonnet," said wordsworth to his contemporaries; but the lesson has not been needed in the second half of the century. the sonnet is the most solid and unsingable of the sections of lyrical poetry; it is difficult to think of it as chanted to a musical accompaniment. it is used with great distinction by writers to whom skill in the lighter divisions of poetry has been denied, and there are poets, such as bowles and charles tennyson-turner, who live by their sonnets alone. the practice of the sonnet has been so extended that all sense of monotony has been lost. a sonnet by elizabeth barrett browning differs from one by d. g. rossetti or by matthew arnold to such excess as to make it difficult for us to realize that the form in each case is absolutely identical._ _with the sonnet might be mentioned the lighter forms of elaborate exotic verse; but to these a word shall be given later on. more closely allied to the sonnet are those rich and somewhat fantastic stanza-measures in which rossetti delighted. those in which keats and the italians have each their part have been greatly used by the victorian poets. they lend themselves to a melancholy magnificence, to pomp of movement and gorgeousness of color; the very sight of them gives the page the look of an ancient blazoned window. poems of this class are "the stream's secret" and the choruses in "love is enough." they satisfy the appetite of our time for subtle and vague analysis of emotion, for what appeals to the spirit through the senses; but here, again, in different hands, the "thing," the metrical instrument, takes wholly diverse characters, and we seek in vain for a formula that can include robert browning and gabriel rossetti, william barnes and arthur hugh clough._ _from this highly elaborated and extended species of lyric the transition is easy to the ode. in the victorian age, the ode, in its full pindaric sense, has not been very frequently used. we have specimens by mr. swinburne in which the dorian laws are closely adhered to. but the ode, in a more or less irregular form, whether pæan or threnody, has been the instrument of several of our leading lyrists. the genius of mr. swinburne, even to a greater degree than that of shelley, is essentially dithyrambic, and is never happier than when it spreads its wings as wide as those of the wild swan, and soars upon the very breast of tempest. in these flights mr. swinburne attains to a volume of sonorous melody such as no other poet, perhaps, of the world has reached, and we may say to him, as he has shouted to the mater triumphalis:--_ _"darkness to daylight shall lift up thy pæan, hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to vale, with wind-notes as of eagles Æschylean, and sappho singing in the nightingale."_ _nothing could mark more picturesquely the wide diversity permitted in victorian lyric than to turn from the sonorous and tumultuous odes of mr. swinburne to those of mr. patmore, in which stateliness of contemplation and a peculiar austerity of tenderness find their expression in odes of iambic cadence, the melody of which depends, not in their headlong torrent of sound, but in the cunning variation of catalectic pause. a similar form has been adopted by lord de tabley for many of his gorgeous studies of antique myth, and by tennyson for his "death of the duke of wellington." it is an error to call these iambic odes "irregular," although they do not follow the classic rules with strophe, antistrophe, and epode. the enchanting "i have led her home," in "maud," is an example of this kind of lyric at its highest point of perfection._ _a branch of lyrical poetry which has been very widely cultivated in the victorian age is the philosophical, or gnomic, in which a serious chain of thought, often illustrated by complex and various imagery, is held in a casket of melodious verse, elaborately rhymed. matthew arnold was a master of this kind of poetry, which takes its form, through wordsworth, from the solemn and so-called "metaphysical" writers of the seventeenth century. we class this interesting and abundant section of verse with the lyrical, because we know not by what other name to describe it; yet it has obviously as little as possible of the singing ecstasy about it. it neither pours its heart out in a rapture, nor wails forth its despair. it has as little of the nightingale's rich melancholy as of the lark's delirium. it hardly sings, but, with infinite decorum and sobriety, speaks its melodious message to mankind. this sort of philosophical poetry is really critical; its function is to analyze and describe; and it approaches, save for the enchantment of its form, nearer to prose than do the other sections of the art. it is, however, just this species of poetry which has particularly appealed to the age in which we live; and how naturally it does so may be seen in the welcome extended to the polished and serene compositions of mr. william watson._ _almost a creation, or at least a complete conquest, of the victorian age is the humorous lyric in its more delicate developments. if the past can point to prior and to praed, we can boast, in their various departments, of calverly, of locker-lampson, of mr. andrew lang, of mr. w. s. gilbert. the comic muse, indeed, has marvellously extended her blandishments during the last two generations, and has discovered methods of trivial elegance which were quite unknown to our forefathers. here must certainly be said a word in favor of those french forms of verse, all essentially lyrical, such as the ballad, the rondel, the triolet, which have been used so abundantly as to become quite a feature in our lighter literature. these are not, or are but rarely, fitted to bear the burden of high emotion; but their precision, and the deftness which their use demands fit them exceedingly well for the more distinguished kind of persiflage. no one has kept these delicate butterflies in flight with the agile movement of his fan so admirably as mr. austin dobson, that neatest of magicians._ _those who write hastily of victorian lyrical poetry are apt to find fault with its lack of spontaneity. it is true that we cannot pretend to discover on a greensward so often crossed and re-crossed as the poetic language of england many morning dewdrops still glistening on the grasses. we have to pay the penalty of our experience in a certain lack of innocence. the artless graces of a child seem mincing affectations in a grown-up woman. but the poetry of this age has amply made up for any lack of innocence by its sumptuous fulness, its variety, its magnificent accomplishment, its felicitous response to a multitude of moods and apprehensions. it has struck out no new field for itself; it still remains where the romantic revolution of placed it; its aims are not other than were those of coleridge and of keats. but within that defined sphere it has developed a surprising activity. it has occupied the attention and become the facile instrument of men of the greatest genius, writers of whom any age and any language might be proud. it has been tender and fiery, severe and voluminous, gorgeous and marmoreal, in turns. it has translated into words feelings so subtle, so transitory, moods so fragile and intangible, that the rough hand of prose would but have crushed them. and this, surely, indicates the great gift of victorian lyrical poetry to the race. during a time of extreme mental and moral restlessness, a time of speculation and evolution, when all illusions are tested, all conventions overthrown, when the harder elements of life have been brought violently to the front, and where there is a temptation for the emancipated mind roughly to reject what is not material and obvious, this art has preserved intact the lovelier delusions of the spirit, all that is vague and incorporeal and illusory. so that for victorian lyric generally no better final definition can be given than is supplied by mr. robert bridges in a little poem of incomparable beauty, which may fitly bring this essay to a close:--_ _"i have loved flowers that fade, within whose magic tents rich hues have marriage made with sweet immemorial scents: a joy of love at sight,-- a honeymoon delight, that ages in an hour:-- my song be like a flower._ _"i have loved airs that die before their charm is writ upon the liquid sky trembling to welcome it. notes that with pulse of fire proclaim the spirit's desire, then die, and are nowhere:-- my song be like an air."_ edmund gosse. victorian songs "short swallow-flights of song" tennyson [decoration] hamilton aÏdÉ. . _remember or forget._ i. i sat beside the streamlet, i watched the water flow, as we together watched it one little year ago; the soft rain pattered on the leaves, the april grass was wet, ah! folly to remember;-- 't is wiser to forget. ii. the nightingales made vocal june's palace paved with gold; i watched the rose you gave me its warm red heart unfold; but breath of rose and bird's song were fraught with wild regret. 't is madness to remember; 't were wisdom to forget. iii. i stood among the gold corn, alas! no more, i knew, to gather gleaner's measure of the love that fell from you. for me, no gracious harvest-- would god we ne'er had met! 't is hard, love, to remember, but 't is harder to forget. iv. the streamlet now is frozen, the nightingales are fled, the cornfields are deserted, and every rose is dead. i sit beside my lonely fire, and pray for wisdom yet-- for calmness to remember or courage to forget. [decoration] _oh, let me dream._ from "a nine days' wonder." oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, forgetting sorrows that have come between, as sunlight gilds some distant summit high, and leaves the valleys dark that intervene. the phantoms of remorse that haunt the soul, are laid beneath that spell; as, in the music of a chaunt is lost the tolling of a bell. oh! let me dream of happy days gone by, etc. in youth, we plucked full many a flower that died, dropped on the pathway, as we danced along; and now, we cherish each poor leaflet dried in pages which to that dear past belong. with sad crushed hearts they yet retain some semblance of their glories fled; like us, whose lineaments remain, when all the fires of life are dead. oh! let me dream, etc. [illustration: full-page plate] _love, the pilgrim._ suggested by a sketch by e. burne-jones. every day a pilgrim, blindfold, when the night and morning meet, entereth the slumbering city, stealeth down the silent street; lingereth round some battered doorway, leaves unblest some portal grand, and the walls, where sleep the children, toucheth, with his warm young hand. love is passing! love is passing!-- passing while ye lie asleep: in your blessèd dreams, o children, give him all your hearts to keep! blindfold is this pilgrim, maiden. though to-day he touched thy door, he may pass it by to-morrow-- --pass it--to return no more. let us then with prayers entreat him,-- youth! her heart, whose coldness grieves, may one morn by love be softened; prize the treasure that he leaves. love is passing! love is passing! all, with hearts to hope and pray, bid this pilgrim touch the lintels of your doorways every day. [decoration] [decoration] william allingham. - . _lovely mary donnelly._ oh, lovely mary donnelly, my joy, my only best! if fifty girls were round you, i 'd hardly see the rest; be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will, sweet looks o' mary donnelly, they bloom before me still. her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock, how clear they are, how dark they are! they give me many a shock; red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup, her hair 's the brag of ireland, so weighty and so fine; it 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. the dance o' last whit-monday night exceeded all before, no pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; but mary kept the belt o' love, and o but she was gay! she danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. when she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete the music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet; the fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, but bless'd his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised. and evermore i 'm whistling or lilting what you sung, your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; but you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands, and for myself there 's not a thumb or little finger stands. 't is you 're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; the higher i exalt you, the lower i 'm cast down. if some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, and you to be his lady, i 'd own it was but right. o might we live together in a lofty palace hall, where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! o might we live together in a cottage mean and small, with sods o' grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! o lovely mary donnelly, your beauty 's my distress. it 's far too beauteous to be mine, but i 'll never wish it less. the proudest place would fit your face, and i am poor and low; but blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! [decoration] _song._ o spirit of the summertime! bring back the roses to the dells; the swallow from her distant clime, the honey-bee from drowsy cells. bring back the friendship of the sun; the gilded evenings, calm and late, when merry children homeward run, and peeping stars bid lovers wait. bring back the singing; and the scent of meadowlands at dewy prime;-- oh, bring again my heart's content, thou spirit of the summertime! _serenade._ oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, the while we dare to call thee dear, so may thy dreams be good, altho' the loving power thou dost not know. as music parts the silence,--lo! through heaven the stars begin to peep, to comfort us that darkling pine because those fairer lights of thine have set into the sea of sleep. yet closèd still thine eyelids keep; and may our voices through the sphere of dreamland all as softly rise as through these shadowy rural dells, where bashful echo somewhere dwells, and touch thy spirit to as soft replies. may peace from gentle guardian skies, till watches of the dark are worn, surround thy bed, and joyous morn makes all the chamber rosy bright! good-night!--from far-off fields is borne the drowsy echo's faint 'good-night,'-- good-night! good-night! [decoration] _across the sea._ i walked in the lonesome evening, and who so sad as i, when i saw the young men and maidens merrily passing by. to thee, my love, to thee-- so fain would i come to thee! while the ripples fold upon sands of gold, and i look across the sea. i stretch out my hands; who will clasp them? i call,--thou repliest no word. oh, why should heart-longing be weaker than the waving wings of a bird! to thee, my love, to thee-- so fain would i come to thee! for the tide 's at rest from east to west, and i look across the sea. [illustration: full-page plate] there 's joy in the hopeful morning, there 's peace in the parting day, there 's sorrow with every lover whose true love is far away. to thee, my love, to thee-- so fain would i come to thee! and the water 's bright in a still moonlight, as i look across the sea. [decoration] [decoration] sir edwin arnold. . _serenade._ lute! breathe thy lowest in my lady's ear, sing while she sleeps, "ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?" till, dreaming still, she dream that i am here, and wake to find it, as my love is, true; then, when she listens in her warm white nest, say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet, that lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest, and my heart trembles when my lips are set. stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, shine through the roses for a lover's sake and send your silver to her lidded eyes, kissing them very gently till she wake; then while she wonders at the lay and light, tell her, though morning endeth star and song, that ye live still, when no star glitters bright, and my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue. [decoration] _a love song of henri quatre._ come, rosy day! come quick--i pray-- i am so glad when i thee see! because my fair, who is so dear, is rosy-red and white like thee. she lives, i think, on heavenly drink dawn-dew, which hebe pours for her; else--when i sip at her soft lip how smells it of ambrosia? she is so fair none can compare; and, oh, her slender waist divine! her sparkling eyes set in the skies the morning stars would far outshine! only to hear her voice so clear the village gathers in the street; and tityrus, grown one of us, leaves piping on his flute so sweet. the graces three, where'er she be, call all the loves to flutter nigh; and what she 'll say,-- speak when she may,-- is full of sense and majesty! [decoration] [decoration] thomas ashe. - . _no and yes._ if i could choose my paradise, and please myself with choice of bliss, then i would have your soft blue eyes and rosy little mouth to kiss! your lips, as smooth and tender, child, as rose-leaves in a coppice wild. if fate bade choose some sweet unrest, to weave my troubled life a snare, then i would say "her maiden breast and golden ripple of her hair;" and weep amid those tresses, child, contented to be thus beguiled. _at altenahr._ . _meet we no angels, pansie?_ came, on a sabbath noon, my sweet, in white, to find her lover; the grass grew proud beneath her feet, the green elm-leaves above her:-- meet we no angels, pansie? she said, "we meet no angels now;" and soft lights streamed upon her; and with white hand she touched a bough; she did it that great honour:-- what! meet no angels, pansie? o sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes down-dropped brown eyes so tender! then what said i?--gallant replies seem flattery, and offend her:-- but,--meet no angels, pansie? _marit._ - . _c'est un songe que d'y penser._ my love, on a fair may morning, would weave a garland of may: the dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er the grass at dawn of the day; on leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk, till the sun should charm it away. green as a leaf her kirtle, her bodice red as a rose: her white bare feet went softly and sweet by roots where the violet grows; where speedwells azure as heaven, their sleepy eyes half close. o'er arms as fair as the lilies no sleeve my love drew on: she found a bower of the wildrose flower, and for her breast culled one: and i laugh and know her breasts will grow or ever a year be gone. [illustration: full-page plate] o sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought, of a golden time to fall! she seemed to sing, in her wandering, till doves in the elm-tops tall grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear how love is the lord of all. [decoration] [decoration] alfred austin. . _a night in june._ lady! in this night of june, fair like thee and holy, art thou gazing at the moon that is rising slowly? i am gazing on her now: something tells me, so art thou. night hath been when thou and i side by side were sitting, watching o'er the moonlit sky fleecy cloudlets flitting. close our hands were linkèd then; when will they be linked again? what to me the starlight still, or the moonbeams' splendour, if i do not feel the thrill of thy fingers slender? summer nights in vain are clear, if thy footstep be not near. roses slumbering in their sheaths o'er my threshold clamber, and the honeysuckle wreathes its translucent amber round the gables of my home: how is it thou dost not come? if thou camest, rose on rose from its sleep would waken; from each flower and leaf that blows spices would be shaken; floating down from star and tree, dreamy perfumes welcome thee. i would lead thee where the leaves in the moon-rays glisten; and, where shadows fall in sheaves, we would lean and listen for the song of that sweet bird that in april nights is heard. and when weary lids would close, and thy head was drooping, then, like dew that steeps the rose, o'er thy languor stooping, i would, till i woke a sigh, kiss thy sweet lips silently. i would give thee all i own, all thou hast would borrow, i from thee would keep alone fear and doubt and sorrow. all of tender that is mine should most tenderly be thine. moonlight! into other skies, i beseech thee wander. cruel thus to mock mine eyes, idle, thus to squander love's own light on this dark spot;-- for my lady cometh not! [decoration] [decoration] thomas lovell beddoes. - . _dream-pedlary._ i. if there were dreams to sell, what would you buy? some cost a passing bell; some a light sigh, that shakes from life's fresh crown only a rose-leaf down. if there were dreams to sell, merry and sad to tell, and the crier rung the bell, what would you buy? ii. a cottage lone and still, with bowers nigh, shadowy, my woes to still, until i die. such pearl from life's fresh crown fain would i shake me down. were dreams to have at will, this would best heal my ill, this would i buy. iii. but there were dreams to sell ill didst thou buy; life is a dream, they tell, waking, to die. dreaming a dream to prize, is wishing ghosts to rise; and, if i had the spell to call the buried well, which one would i? iv. if there are ghosts to raise, what shall i call, out of hell's murky haze, heaven's blue pall? raise my loved long-lost boy to lead me to his joy.-- there are no ghosts to raise; out of death lead no ways; vain is the call. v. know'st thou not ghosts to sue no love thou hast. else lie, as i will do, and breathe thy last. so out of life's fresh crown fall like a rose-leaf down. thus are the ghosts to woo; thus are all dreams made true, ever to last! _song from the ship._ from "death's jest-book." to sea, to sea! the calm is o'er; the wanton water leaps in sport, and rattles down the pebbly shore; the dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, and unseen mermaids' pearly song comes bubbling up, the weeds among. fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: to sea, to sea! the calm is o'er. to sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark shall billowy cleave its sunny way, and with its shadow, fleet and dark, break the caved tritons' azure day, like mighty eagle soaring light o'er antelopes on alpine height. the anchor heaves, the ship swings free, the sails swell full. to sea, to sea! _song._ my goblet's golden lips are dry, and, as the rose doth pine for dew, so doth for wine my goblet's cup; rain, o! rain, or it will die; rain, fill it up! arise, and get thee wings to-night, Ætna! and let run o'er thy wines, a hill no more, but darkly frown a cloud, where eagles dare not soar, dropping rain down. _song._ from "the second brother." strew not earth with empty stars, strew it not with roses, nor feathers from the crest of mars, nor summer's idle posies. 't is not the primrose-sandalled moon, nor cold and silent morn, nor he that climbs the dusty noon, nor mower war with scythe that drops, stuck with helmed and turbaned tops of enemies new shorn. ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know, pour your music, let it flow, 't is bacchus' son who walks below. _song, by two voices._ from "the brides' tragedy." first voice. who is the baby, that doth lie beneath the silken canopy of thy blue eye? second. it is young sorrow, laid asleep in the crystal deep. both. let us sing his lullaby, heigho! a sob and a sigh. first voice. what sound is that, so soft, so clear, harmonious as a bubbled tear bursting, we hear? second. it is young sorrow, slumber breaking, suddenly awaking. both. let us sing his lullaby, heigho! a sob and a sigh. [decoration] _song._ from "torrismond." how many times do i love thee, dear? tell me how many thoughts there be in the atmosphere of a new-fall'n year, whose white and sable hours appear the latest flake of eternity:-- so many times do i love thee, dear. how many times do i love again? tell me how many beads there are in a silver chain of evening rain, unravelled from the tumbling main, and threading the eye of a yellow star:-- so many times do i love again. [illustration: full-page plate] [decoration] william cox bennett. _cradle song._ sleep! the bird is in its nest; sleep! the bee is hushed in rest; sleep! rocked on thy mother's breast! lullaby! to thy mother's fond heart pressed, lullaby! sleep! the waning daylight dies; sleep! the stars dream in the skies; daisies long have closed their eyes; lullaby! calm, how calm on all things lies! lullaby! sleep then, sleep! my heart's delight! sleep! and through the darksome night round thy bed god's angels bright lullaby! guard thee till i come with light! lullaby! [decoration] _my roses blossom the whole year round._ my roses blossom the whole year round; for, o they grow on enchanted ground; divine is the earth where they spring to birth; on dimpling cheeks with love and mirth, they 're found they 're ever found. my lilies no change of seasons heed; nor shelter from storms or frosts they need; for, o they grow on a neck of snow, nor all the wintry blasts that blow they heed, they ever heed. _cradle song._ lullaby! o lullaby! baby, hush that little cry! light is dying, bats are flying, bees to-day with work have done; so, till comes the morrow's sun, let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! lullaby! o lullaby! lullaby! o lullaby! hushed are all things far and nigh; flowers are closing, birds reposing, all sweet things with life have done; sweet, till dawns the morning sun, sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry! lullaby! o lullaby! [decoration] [decoration] f. w. bourdillon. . _love's meinie._ there is no summer ere the swallows come, nor love appears, till hope, love's light-winged herald, lifts the gloom of years. there is no summer left when swallows fly, and love at last, when hopes which filled its heaven droop and die, is past. _the night has a thousand eyes._ the night has a thousand eyes, and the day but one; yet the light of the bright world dies with the dying sun. the mind has a thousand eyes, and the heart but one; yet the light of a whole life dies when love is done. [decoration] [illustration: full-page plate] _a lost voice._ a thousand voices fill my ears all day until the light grows pale; but silence falls when night-time nears, and where art thou, sweet nightingale? was that thine echo, faint and far? nay, all is hushed as heaven above; in earth no voice, in heaven no star, and in my heart no dream of love. [decoration] [decoration] robert buchanan. _serenade._ sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet! without here night is growing, the dead leaf falls, the dark boughs meet, and a chill wind is blowing. strange shapes are stirring in the night, to the deep breezes wailing, and slow, with wistful gleams of light, the storm-tost moon is sailing. sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet! fold thy white hands, my blossom! thy warm limbs in thy lily sheet, thy hands upon thy bosom. though evil thoughts may walk the dark, not one shall near thy chamber; but shapes divine shall pause to mark, singing to lutes of amber. sleep sweet, belovëd one, sleep sweet! though, on thy bosom creeping, strange hands are laid, to feel the beat of thy soft heart in sleeping. the brother angels, sleep and death, stop by thy couch and eye thee; and sleep stoops down to drink thy breath, while death goes softly by thee! [decoration] _song._ from "love in winter." "o love is like the roses, and every rose shall fall, for sure as summer closes they perish one and all. then love, while leaves are on the tree, and birds sing in the bowers: when winter comes, too late 't will be to pluck the happy flowers." "o love is like the roses, love comes, and love must flee! before the summer closes love's rapture and love's glee!" [decoration] [decoration] mortimer collins. - . _to f. c._ th february . fast falls the snow, o lady mine, sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine, but by the gods we won't repine while we 're together, we 'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine, defying weather. so stir the fire and pour the wine, and let those sea-green eyes divine pour their love-madness into mine: i don't care whether 't is snow or sun or rain or shine if we 're together. _a game of chess._ terrace and lawn are white with frost, whose fretwork flowers upon the panes-- a mocking dream of summer, lost 'mid winter's icy chains. white-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam, veiled by a flickering flame of blue: i see my love as in a dream-- her eyes are azure, too. she puts her hair behind her ears (each little ear so like a shell), touches her ivory queen, and fears she is not playing well. for me, i think of nothing less: i think how those pure pearls become her-- and which is sweetest, winter chess or garden strolls in summer. [illustration: full-page plate] o linger, frost, upon the pane! o faint blue flame, still softly rise! o, dear one, thus with me remain, that i may watch thine eyes! [decoration] _multum in parvo._ a little shadow makes the sunrise sad, a little trouble checks the race of joy, a little agony may drive men mad, a little madness may the soul destroy: such is the world's annoy. ay, and the rose is but a little flower which the red queen of all the garden is: and love, which lasteth but a little hour, a moment's rapture and a moment's kiss, is what no man would miss. _violets at home._ i. o happy buds of violet! i give thee to my sweet, and she puts them where something sweeter yet must always be. ii. white violets find whiter rest: for fairest flowers how fair a fate! for me remain, o fragrant breast! inviolate. _my thrush._ all through the sultry hours of june, from morning blithe to golden noon, and till the star of evening climbs the gray-blue east, a world too soon, there sings a thrush amid the limes. god's poet, hid in foliage green, sings endless songs, himself unseen; right seldom come his silent times. linger, ye summer hours serene! sing on, dear thrush, amid the limes. · · · · · · · may i not dream god sends thee there, thou mellow angel of the air, even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes with music's soul, all praise and prayer? is that thy lesson in the limes? closer to god art thou than i: his minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly through silent æther's sunnier climes. ah, never may thy music die! sing on, dear thrush, amid the limes! [decoration] [decoration] dinah maria mulock craik. - . _too late._ _"dowglas, dowglas, tendir and treu."_ could ye come back to me, douglas, douglas, in the old likeness that i knew, i would be so faithful, so loving, douglas, douglas, douglas, tender and true. never a scornful word should grieve ye, i 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;-- sweet as your smile on me shone ever, douglas, douglas, tender and true. o to call back the days that are not! my eyes were blinded, your words were few: do you know the truth now up in heaven, douglas, douglas, tender and true? i never was worthy of you, douglas; not half worthy the like of you: now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- i love _you_, douglas, tender and true. stretch out your hand to me, douglas, douglas, drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; as i lay my heart on your dead heart, douglas, douglas, douglas, tender and true. [decoration] _a silly song._ "o heart, my heart!" she said, and heard his mate the blackbird calling, while through the sheen of the garden green may rain was softly falling,-- aye softly, softly falling. the buttercups across the field made sunshine rifts of splendour: the round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood peeped through its leafage tender, as the rain came softly falling. "o heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "there 's not a tree of the valley, or a leaf i wis which the rain's soft kiss freshens in yonder alley, where the drops keep ever falling,-- "there 's not a foolish flower i' the grass, or bird through the woodland calling, so glad again of the coming rain as i of these tears now falling,-- these happy tears down falling." [decoration] [decoration] george darley. - . _may day._ from "sylvia": _act iii. scene ii_. o may, thou art a merry time, sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! when hedge-pipes they begin to chime, and summer-flowers to sow the dale. when lasses and their lovers meet beneath the early village-thorn, and to the sound of tabor sweet bid welcome to the maying-morn! o may, thou art a merry time, sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! when hedge-pipes they begin to chime, and summer-flowers to sow the dale. when grey-beards and their gossips come with crutch in hand our sports to see, and both go tottering, tattling home, topful of wine as well as glee! o may, thou art a merry time, sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! when hedge-pipes they begin to chime, and summer-flowers to sow the dale. but youth was aye the time for bliss, so taste it, shepherds! while ye may: for who can tell that joy like this will come another holiday? o may, thou art a merry time, sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! when hedge-pipes they begin to chime, and summer-flowers to sow the dale. _i've been roaming._ from "lilian of the vale." i 've been roaming! i 've been roaming! where the meadow dew is sweet, and like a queen i 'm coming with its pearls upon my feet. i 've been roaming! i 've been roaming! o'er red rose and lily fair, and like a sylph i 'm coming with their blossoms in my hair. i 've been roaming! i 've been roaming! where the honeysuckle creeps, and like a bee i 'm coming with its kisses on my lips. i 've been roaming! i 've been roaming! over hill and over plain, and like a bird i 'm coming to my bower back again! [illustration: full-page plate] _sylvia's song._ the streams that wind amid the hills and lost in pleasure slowly roam, while their deep joy the valley fills,-- even these will leave their mountain home; so may it, love! with others be, but i will never wend from thee. the leaf forsakes the parent spray, the blossom quits the stem as fast; the rose-enamour'd bird will stray and leave his eglantine at last: so may it, love! with others be, but i will never wend from thee. _serenade._ from "sylvia": _act iv. scene i_. romanzo sings: awake thee, my lady-love! wake thee, and rise! the sun through the bower peeps into thine eyes! behold how the early lark springs from the corn! hark, hark how the flower-bird winds her wee horn! the swallow's glad shriek is heard all through the air! the stock-dove is murmuring loud as she dare! apollo's winged bugleman cannot contain, but peals his loud trumpet-call once and again! then wake thee, my lady-love, bird of my bower! the sweetest and sleepiest bird at this hour! [decoration] [decoration] lord de tabley. . _a winter sketch._ when the snow begins to feather, and the woods begin to roar clashing angry boughs together, as the breakers grind the shore nature then a bankrupt goes, full of wreck and full of woes. when the swan for warmer forelands leaves the sea-firth's icebound edge, when the gray geese from the morelands cleave the clouds in noisy wedge, woodlands stand in frozen chains, hung with ropes of solid rains. shepherds creep to byre and haven, sheep in drifts are nipped and numb; some belated rook or raven rocks upon a sign-post dumb; mere-waves, solid as a clod, roar with skaters, thunder-shod. all the roofs and chimneys rumble; roads are ridged with slush and sleet; down the orchard apples tumble; ploughboys stamp their frosty feet; millers, jolted down the lanes, hardly feel for cold their reins. snipes are calling from the trenches, frozen half and half at flow; in the porches servant wenches work with shovels at the snow; rusty blackbirds, weak of wing, clean forget they once could sing. dogs and boys fetch down the cattle, deep in mire and powdered pale; spinning-wheels commence to rattle; landlords spice the smoking ale. hail, white winter, lady fine, in a cup of elder wine! [decoration] _the second madrigal._ woo thy lass while may is here; winter vows are colder. have thy kiss when lips are near; to-morrow you are older. think, if clear the throstle sing, a month his note will thicken; a throat of gold in a golden spring at the edge of the snow will sicken. take thy cup and take thy girl, while they come for asking; in thy heyday melt the pearl at the love-ray basking. ale is good for careless bards, wine for wayworn sinners. they who hold the strongest cards rise from life as winners. [decoration] aubrey de vere. - . _song._ i. softly, o midnight hours! move softly o'er the bowers where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! for ye have power, men say, our hearts in sleep to sway, and cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. round ivory neck and arm enclasp a separate charm: hang o'er her poised; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: silently ye may smile, but hold your breath the while, and let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair! ii. bend down your glittering urns ere yet the dawn returns, and star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; upon the air rain balm; bid all the woods be calm; ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed. that so the maiden may with smiles your care repay when from her couch she lifts her golden head; waking with earliest birds, ere yet the misty herds leave warm 'mid the grey grass their dusky bed. [decoration] _song._ seek not the tree of silkiest bark and balmiest bud, to carve her name--while yet 't is dark-- upon the wood! the world is full of noble tasks and wreaths hard-won: each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, till day is done. sing not that violet-veinèd skin, that cheek's pale roses; the lily of that form wherein her soul reposes! forth to the fight, true man, true knight! the clash of arms shall more prevail than whispered tale to win her charms. the warrior for the true, the right, fights in love's name: the love that lures thee from that fight lures thee to shame. that love which lifts the heart, yet leaves the spirit free,-- that love, or none, is fit for one, man-shaped like thee. [decoration] _song._ i. when i was young, i said to sorrow, "come, and i will play with thee:"-- he is near me now all day; and at night returns to say, "i will come again to-morrow, i will come and stay with thee." ii. through the woods we walk together; his soft footsteps rustle nigh me; to shield an unregarded head, he hath built a winter shed; and all night in rainy weather, i hear his gentle breathings by me. [decoration] charles dickens. - . _the ivy green._ oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green, that creepeth o'er ruins old! of right choice food are his meals i ween, in his cell so lone and cold. the wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, to pleasure his dainty whim: and the mouldering dust that years have made is a merry meal for him. creeping where no life is seen, a rare old plant is the ivy green. fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, and a staunch old heart has he. how closely he twineth, how tight he clings, to his friend, the huge oak tree! and slily he traileth along the ground, and his leaves he gently waves, as he joyously hugs and crawleth round the rich mould of dead men's graves. creeping where grim death has been, a rare old plant is the ivy green. whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, and nations have scattered been; but the stout old ivy shall never fade from its hale and hearty green. the brave old plant in its lonely days shall fatten upon the past: for the stateliest building man can raise is the ivy's food at last. creeping on, where time has been, a rare old plant is the ivy green. [decoration] austin dobson. . _the ladies of st. james's._ a proper new ballad of the country and the town. the ladies of st. james's go swinging to the play; their footmen run before them, with a "stand by! clear the way!" but phyllida, my phyllida! she takes her buckled shoon, when we go out a-courting beneath the harvest moon. the ladies of st. james's wear satin on their backs; they sit all night at _ombre_, with candles all of wax: but phyllida, my phyllida! she dons her russet gown, and runs to gather may dew before the world is down. the ladies of st. james's they are so fine and fair, you 'd think a box of essences was broken in the air: but phyllida, my phyllida! the breath of heath and furze, when breezes blow at morning, is scarce so fresh as hers. the ladies of st. james's they 're painted to the eyes; their white it stays forever, their red it never dies: but phyllida, my phyllida! her color comes and goes; it trembles to a lily, it wavers to a rose. the ladies of st. james's, with "mercy!" and with "lud!" they season all their speeches (they come of noble blood): but phyllida, my phyllida! her shy and simple words are sweet as, after rain-drops, the music of the birds. the ladies of st. james's, they have their fits and freaks; they smile on you--for seconds, they frown on you--for weeks: but phyllida, my phyllida! come either storm or shine, from shrovetide unto shrovetide is always true--and mine. my phyllida, my phyllida! i care not though they heap the hearts of all st. james's, and give me all to keep; i care not whose the beauties of all the world may be, for phyllida--for phyllida is all the world to me! [decoration] _the milkmaid._ a new song to an old tune. across the grass i see her pass; she comes with tripping pace,-- a maid i know,--and march winds blow her hair across her face;-- with a hey, dolly! ho, dolly! dolly shall be mine, before the spray is white with may, or blooms the eglantine. the march winds blow. i watch her go: her eye is brown and clear; her cheek is brown and soft as down (to those who see it near!)-- with a hey, dolly! ho, dolly! dolly shall be mine, before the spray is white with may, or blooms the eglantine. what has she not that they have got,-- the dames that walk in silk! if she undo her 'kerchief blue, her neck is white as milk. with a hey, dolly! ho, dolly! dolly shall be mine, before the spray is white with may, or blooms the eglantine. let those who will be proud and chill! for me, from june to june, my dolly's words are sweet as curds,-- her laugh is like a tune;-- with a hey, dolly! ho, dolly! dolly shall be mine, before the spray is white with may, or blooms the eglantine. break, break to hear, o crocus-spear! o tall lent-lilies, flame! there 'll be a bride at easter-tide, and dolly is her name. [illustration: full-page plate] with a hey, dolly! ho, dolly! dolly shall be mine, before the spray is white with may, or blooms the eglantine. [decoration] [decoration] alfred domett. - . _a glee for winter._ hence, rude winter! crabbed old fellow, never merry, never mellow! well-a-day! in rain and snow what will keep one's heart aglow? groups of kinsmen, old and young, oldest they old friends among! groups of friends, so old and true, that they seem our kinsmen too! these all merry all together, charm away chill winter weather! what will kill this dull old fellow? ale that 's bright, and wine that 's mellow! dear old songs for ever new; some true love, and laughter too; pleasant wit, and harmless fun, and a dance when day is done! music--friends so true and tried-- whispered love by warm fireside-- mirth at all times all together-- make sweet may of winter weather! [decoration] _a kiss._ sappho to phaon. i. sweet mouth! o let me take one draught from that delicious cup! the hot sahara-thirst to slake that burns me up! ii. sweet breath!--all flowers that are, within that darling frame must bloom; my heart revives so at the rare divine perfume! iii. --nay, 't is a dear deceit, a drunkard's cup that mouth of thine; sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet, that fragrance fine! iv. i drank--the drink betrayed me into a madder, fiercer fever; the scent of those love-blossoms made me more faint than ever! v. yet though quick death it were that rich heart-vintage i must drain, and quaff that hidden garden's air, again--again! [decoration] [decoration] lady dufferin. - . _song._[a] april , . i. when another's voice thou hearest, with a sad and gentle tone, let its sound but waken, dearest, memory of _my_ love alone! when in stranger lands thou meetest warm, true hearts, which welcome thee, let each friendly look thou greetest seem a message, love, from _me_! ii. when night's quiet sky is o'er thee, when the pale stars dimly burn, dream that _one_ is watching for thee, who but lives for thy return! wheresoe'er thy steps are roving, night or day, by land or sea, think of her, whose life of loving is but one long thought of thee! [decoration] [footnote a: these lines were written to the author's husband, then at sea, in , and set to music by herself.] _lament of the irish emigrant._ i 'm sitting on the stile, mary, where we sat, side by side, that bright may morning long ago when first you were my bride. the corn was springing fresh and green, the lark sang loud and high, the red was on your lip, mary, the love-light in your eye. the place is little changed, mary, the day is bright as then, the lark's loud song is in my ear, the corn is green again; but i miss the soft clasp of your hand, your breath warm on my cheek, and i still keep list'ning for the words you never more may speak. [illustration: full-page plate] 't is but a step down yonder lane, the little church stands near-- the church where we were wed, mary,-- i see the spire from here; but the graveyard lies between, mary,-- my step might break your rest,-- where you, my darling, lie asleep with your baby on your breast. i 'm very lonely now, mary,-- the poor make no new friends;-- but, oh! they love the better still the few our father sends. and you were all i had, mary, my blessing and my pride; there 's nothing left to care for now since my poor mary died. yours was the good brave heart, mary, that still kept hoping on, when trust in god had left my soul, and half my strength was gone. there was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow. i bless you, mary, for that same, though you can't hear me now. i thank you for the patient smile when your heart was fit to break; when the hunger pain was gnawing there you hid it for my sake. i bless you for the pleasant word when your heart was sad and sore. oh! i 'm thankful you are gone, mary, where grief can't reach you more! i 'm bidding you a long farewell, my mary--kind and true! but i 'll not forget you, darling, in the land i 'm going to. they say there 's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there; but i 'll not forget old ireland, were it fifty times as fair. and when amid those grand old woods i sit and shut my eyes, my heart will travel back again to where my mary lies; i 'll think i see the little stile where we sat, side by side,-- and the springing corn and bright may morn, when first you were my bride. [decoration] [decoration] michael field. _winds to-day are large and free._ winds to-day are large and free, winds to-day are westerly; from the land they seem to blow whence the sap begins to flow and the dimpled light to spread, from the country of the dead. ah, it is a wild, sweet land where the coming may is planned, where such influences throb as our frosts can never rob of their triumph, when they bound through the tree and from the ground. great within me is my soul, great to journey to its goal, to the country of the dead; for the cornel-tips are red, and a passion rich in strife drives me toward the home of life. oh, to keep the spring with them who have flushed the cornel-stem, who imagine at its source all the year's delicious course, then express by wind and light something of their rapture's height! [decoration] _let us wreathe the mighty cup._ let us wreathe the mighty cup, then with song we 'll lift it up, and, before we drain the glow of the juice that foams below flowers and cool leaves round the brim, let us swell the praise of him who is tyrant of the heart, cupid with his flaming dart! pride before his face is bowed, strength and heedless beauty cowed; underneath his fatal wings bend discrowned the heads of kings; maidens blanch beneath his eye and its laughing mastery; through each land his arrows sound, by his fetters all are bound. _where winds abound._ where winds abound, and fields are hilly, shy daffadilly looks down on the ground. rose cones of larch are just beginning; though oaks are spinning no oak-leaves in march. spring 's at the core, the boughs are sappy: good to be happy so long, long before! [decoration] [decoration] norman gale. . _a song._ first the fine, faint, dreamy motion of the tender blood circling in the veins of children-- this is life, the bud. next the fresh, advancing beauty growing from the gloom, waking eyes and fuller bosom-- this is life, the bloom. then the pain that follows after, grievous to be borne, pricking, steeped in subtle poison-- this is love, the thorn. _song._ wait but a little while-- the bird will bring a heart in tune for melodies unto the spring, till he who 's in the cedar there is moved to trill a song so rare, and pipe her fair. wait but a little while-- the bud will break; the inner rose will ope and glow for summer's sake; fond bees will lodge within her breast till she herself is plucked and prest where i would rest. wait but a little while-- the maid will grow gracious with lips and hands to thee, with breast of snow. to-day love 's mute, but time hath sown a soul in her to match thine own, though yet ungrown. [decoration] [decoration] edmund gosse. . _song for the lute._ i bring a garland for your head of blossoms fresh and fair; my own hands wound their white and red to ring about your hair: here is a lily, here a rose, a warm narcissus that scarce blows, and fairer blossoms no man knows. so crowned and chapleted with flowers, i pray you be not proud; for after brief and summer hours comes autumn with a shroud;-- though fragrant as a flower you lie, you and your garland, bye and bye, will fade and wither up and die. [decoration] thomas hood. - . _ballad._ i. it was not in the winter our loving lot was cast; it was the time of roses,-- we plucked them as we passed; ii. that churlish season never frowned on early lovers yet:-- oh, no--the world was newly crowned with flowers when first we met! iii. 't was twilight, and i bade you go, but still you held me fast; it was the time of roses,-- we plucked them as we passed.-- [decoration] _song._ o lady, leave thy silken thread and flowery tapestrie: there 's living roses on the bush, and blossoms on the tree; stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand some random bud will meet; thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find the daisy at thy feet. 't is like the birthday of the world, when earth was born in bloom; the light is made of many dyes, the air is all perfume; there 's crimson buds, and white and blue-- the very rainbow showers have turned to blossoms where they fell, and sown the earth with flowers. there 's fairy tulips in the east, the garden of the sun; the very streams reflect the hues, and blossom as they run: while morn opes like a crimson rose, still wet with pearly showers; then, lady, leave the silken thread thou twinest into flowers! [decoration] _i remember, i remember._ i remember, i remember, the house where i was born, the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn; he never came a wink too soon, nor brought too long a day, but now, i often wish the night had borne my breath away! i remember, i remember, the roses, red and white, the vi'lets, and the lily-cups, those flowers made of light! the lilacs where the robin built, and where my brother set the laburnum on his birthday,-- the tree is living yet! [illustration: full-page plate] i remember, i remember where i was used to swing, and thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing; my spirit flew in feathers then, that is so heavy now, and summer pools could hardly cool the fever on my brow! i remember, i remember the fir trees dark and high; i used to think their slender tops were close against the sky: it was a childish ignorance, but now 't is little joy to know i 'm farther off from heav'n than when i was a boy. _ballad._ she 's up and gone, the graceless girl! and robbed my failing years; my blood before was thin and cold but now 't is turned to tears;-- my shadow falls upon my grave, so near the brink i stand, she might have stayed a little yet, and led me by the hand! ay, call her on the barren moor, and call her on the hill, 't is nothing but the heron's cry, and plover's answer shrill; my child is flown on wilder wings, than they have ever spread, and i may even walk a waste that widened when she fled. full many a thankless child has been, but never one like mine; her meat was served on plates of gold, her drink was rosy wine; but now she 'll share the robin's food, and sup the common rill, before her feet will turn again to meet her father's will! [decoration] _song._ i. the stars are with the voyager wherever he may sail; the moon is constant to her time; the sun will never fail; but follow, follow round the world, the green earth and the sea; so love is with the lover's heart, wherever he may be. ii. wherever he may be, the stars must daily lose their light; the moon will veil her in the shade; the sun will set at night. the sun may set, but constant love will shine when he 's away; so that dull night is never night, and day is brighter day. [decoration] richard monckton milnes (lord houghton). - . _the brookside._ i wandered by the brook-side, i wandered by the mill,-- i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still; there was no burr of grasshopper, no chirp of any bird, but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. i sat beside the elm-tree, i watched the long, long, shade, and as it grew still longer, i did not feel afraid; for i listened for a footfall, i listened for a word,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. he came not,--no, he came not,-- the night came on alone,-- the little stars sat one by one, each on his golden throne; the evening air passed by my cheek, the leaves above were stirred,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. fast silent tears were flowing, when something stood behind,-- a hand was on my shoulder, i knew its touch was kind: it drew me nearer--nearer,-- we did not speak one word, for the beating of our own hearts was all the sound we heard. [illustration: full-page plate] _the venetian serenade._ when along the light ripple the far serenade has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, she may open the window that looks on the stream,-- she may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream; half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, "i am coming--stalì[b]--but you know not for whom! stalì--not for whom!" now the tones become clearer,--you hear more and more how the water divided returns on the oar,-- does the prow of the gondola strike on the stair? do the voices and instruments pause and prepare? oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, "i am passing--premì--but i stay not for you! premì--not for you!" then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear, then awake not, fair sleeper--believe he is here; for the young and the loving no sorrow endures, if to-day be another's,--to-morrow is yours; may, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, "i am coming--sciàr--and for you and to you! sciàr--and to you!" [decoration] [footnote b: the words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, indicating the direction they are rowing. "sciàr" is to stop the boat.] _from love and nature._ the sun came through the frosty mist most like a dead-white moon; thy soothing tones i seemed to list, as voices in a swoon. still as an island stood our ship, the waters gave no sound, but when i touched thy quivering lip i felt the world go round. we seemed the only sentient things upon that silent sea: our hearts the only living springs of all that yet could be! [decoration] jean ingelow. . _the long white seam._ as i came round the harbor buoy, the lights began to gleam, no wave the land-locked water stirred, the crags were white as cream; and i marked my love by candle-light sewing her long white seam. it 's aye sewing ashore, my dear, watch and steer at sea, it 's reef and furl, and haul the line, set sail and think of thee. i climbed to reach her cottage door; o sweetly my love sings! like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, my soul to meet it springs as the shining water leaped of old, when stirred by angel wings. aye longing to list anew, awake and in my dream, but never a song she sang like this, sewing her long white seam. fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, that brought me in to thee, and peace drop down on that low roof for the sight that i did see, and the voice, my dear, that rang so clear all for the love of me. for o, for o, with brows bent low by the candle's flickering gleam, her wedding gown it was she wrought, sewing the long white seam. _love._ from "songs of seven." i leaned out of window, i smelt the white clover, dark, dark was the garden, i saw not the gate; "now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- hush, nightingale, hush! o, sweet nightingale, wait till i listen and hear if a step draweth near, for my love he is late! "the skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, a cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, the fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: to what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? let the star-clusters grow, let the sweet waters flow, and cross quickly to me. "you night moths that hover where honey brims over from sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; you glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover to him that comes darkling along the rough steep. ah, my sailor, make haste, for the time runs to waste, and my love lieth deep-- "too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, i 've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." by the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, then all the sweet speech i had fashioned took flight; but i 'll love him more, more than e'er wife loved before, be the days dark or bright. [decoration] _sweet is childhood._ sweet is childhood--childhood 's over, kiss and part. sweet is youth; but youth 's a rover-- so 's my heart. sweet is rest; but by all showing toil is nigh. we must go. alas! the going, say "good-bye." [decoration] [decoration] charles kingsley. - . _airly beacon._ airly beacon, airly beacon; oh the pleasant sight to see shires and towns from airly beacon, while my love climbed up to me! airly beacon, airly beacon; oh the happy hours we lay deep in fern on airly beacon, courting through the summer's day! airly beacon, airly beacon; oh the weary haunt for me, all alone on airly beacon, with his baby on my knee! _the sands of dee._ "oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home across the sands of dee;" the western wind was wild and dark with foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land: and never home came she. "oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drownèd maiden's hair above the nets at sea?" was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes on dee. they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea: but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home across the sands of dee. [decoration] _three fishers went sailing._ three fishers went sailing away to the west, away to the west as the sun went down; each thought on the woman who loved him the best, and the children stood watching them out of the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and there 's little to earn, and many to keep, though the harbor bar be moaning. three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, and they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, and the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. but men must work, and women must weep, though storms be sudden, and waters deep, and the harbor bar be moaning. [illustration: full-page plate] three corpses lay out on the shining sands in the morning gleam as the tide went down, and the women are weeping and wringing their hands for those who will never come home to the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep; and good-bye to the bar and its moaning. [decoration] _a farewell._ to c. e. g.-- . my fairest child, i have no song to give you; no lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray; yet, if you will, one quiet hint i 'll leave you, for every day. i 'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol than lark who hails the dawn of breezy down; to earn yourself a purer poet's laurel than shakespeare's crown. be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever; do lovely things, not dream them, all day long; and so make life, and death, and that for ever, one grand sweet song. [decoration] walter savage landor. - . _rose aylmer._ ah, what avails the sceptered race! ah, what the form divine! what every virtue, every grace! rose aylmer, all were thine. rose aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes may weep, but never see, a night of memories and of sighs i consecrate to thee. _rubies._ often i have heard it said that her lips are ruby-red. little heed i what they say, i have seen as red as they. ere she smiled on other men, real rubies were they then. when she kissed me once in play, rubies were less bright than they, and less bright were those which shone in the palace of the sun. will they be as bright again? not if kissed by other men. [decoration] _the fault is not mine._ the fault is not mine if i love you too much, i loved you too little too long, such ever your graces, your tenderness such, and the music the heart gave the tongue. a time is now coming when love must be gone, tho' he never abandoned me yet. acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown, our follies (ah can you?) forget. [decoration] _under the lindens._ under the lindens lately sat a couple, and no more, in chat; i wondered what they would be at under the lindens. i saw four eyes and four lips meet, i heard the words, _"how sweet! how sweet!"_ had then the faeries given a treat under the lindens? i pondered long and could not tell what dainty pleased them both so well: bees! bees! was it your hydromel under the lindens? [decoration] _sixteen._ in clementina's artless mien lucilla asks me what i see,-- and are the roses of sixteen enough for me? lucilla asks, if that be all, have i not culled as sweet before? ah yes, lucilla! and their fall i still deplore. i now behold another scene, where pleasure beams with heaven's own light,-- more pure, more constant, more serene, and not less bright: faith, on whose breast the loves repose, whose chain of flowers no force can sever, and modesty, who, when she goes, is gone forever! _ianthe._ thank heaven, ianthe, once again our hands and ardent lips shall meet, and pleasure, to assert his reign, scatter ten thousand kisses sweet: then cease repeating while you mourn, "i wonder when he will return." ah wherefore should you so admire the flowing words that fill my song, why call them artless, yet require "some promise from that tuneful tongue?" i doubt if heaven itself could part a tuneful tongue and tender heart. [decoration] [illustration: full-page plate] _one lovely name._ one lovely name adorns my song, and, dwelling in the heart, for ever falters at the tongue, and trembles to depart. _forsaken._ mother, i can not mind my wheel; my fingers ache, my lips are dry; oh! if you felt the pain i feel! but oh, who ever felt as i! no longer could i doubt him true, all other men may use deceit; he always said my eyes were blue, and often swore my lips were sweet. [decoration] frederick locker-lampson. - . _a garden lyric._ the flow of life is yet a rill that laughs, and leaps, and glistens; and still the woodland rings, and still the old damoetas listens. we have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, we have met under wintry skies; her voice is the dearest voice, and soft is the light in her gentle eyes; it is bliss in the silent woods, among gay crowds, or in any place to hear her voice, to gaze on her young confiding face. for ever may roses divinely blow, and wine-dark pansies charm by the prim box path where i felt the glow of her dimpled, trusting arm, and the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled a smile as pure as her pearls; the breeze was in love with the darling child, as it moved her curls. she showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, foxglove and jasmine stars, a mist of blue in the beds, a blaze of red in the celadon jars: and velvety bees in convolvulus bells, and roses of bountiful june-- oh, who would think their summer spells could die so soon! for a glad song came from the milking shed, on a wind of the summer south, and the green was golden above her head, and a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt; and the wings of time were fleet as i gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt life was so sweet! and the odorous limes were dim above as we leant on a drooping bough; and the darkling air was a breath of love, and a witching thrush sang "now!" for the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew as we listen'd and sigh'd, and leant; that day was the sweetest day--and we knew what the sweetness meant. [decoration] _the cuckoo._ we heard it calling, clear and low, that tender april morn; we stood and listened in the quiet wood, we heard it, ay, long years ago. it came, and with a strange, sweet cry, a friend, but from a far-off land; we stood and listened, hand in hand, and heart to heart, my love and i. in dreamland then we found our joy, and so it seemed as 't were the bird that helen in old times had heard at noon beneath the oaks of troy. o time far off, and yet so near! it came to her in that hush'd grove, it warbled while the wooing throve, it sang the song she loved to hear. and now i hear its voice again, and still its message is of peace, it sings of love that will not cease-- for me it never sings in vain. [decoration] _gertrude's necklace._ as gertrude skipt from babe to girl, her necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl; year after year it grew, and grew, for every birthday gave her two. her neck is lovely,--soft and fair, and now her necklace glimmers there. so cradled, let it fall and rise, and all her graces symbolize. perchance this pearl, without a speck, once was as warm on sappho's neck; where are the happy, twilight pearls that braided beatrice's curls? is gerty loved? is gerty loth? or, if she 's either, is she both? she 's fancy free, but sweeter far than many plighted maidens are: will gerty smile us all away, and still be gerty? who can say? but let her wear her precious toy, and i 'll rejoice to see her joy: her bauble 's only one degree less frail, less fugitive than we, for time, ere long, will snap the skein, and scatter all her pearls again. [decoration] [illustration: full-page plate] [decoration] samuel lover. - . _the angel's whisper._[c] a baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, for the husband was far on the wild raging sea; and the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling; and she cried, "dermot darling, oh come back to me!" her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, and smiled in her face as she bended her knee; "o blest be that warning, my child thy sleep adorning, for i know that the angels are whispering with thee! "and while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping, oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! and say thou wouldst rather they 'd watch o'er thy father; for i know that the angels are whispering with thee!" the dawn of the morning saw dermot returning, and the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; and closely caressing her child, with a blessing, said, "i knew that the angels were whispering with thee!" [footnote c: a superstition of great beauty prevails in ireland that when a child smiles in its sleep it is "talking with angels."] _what will you do, love?_ i. "what will you do, love, when i am going with white sail flowing, the seas beyond-- what will you do, love, when waves divide us, and friends may chide us for being fond?" "tho' waves divide us--and friends be chiding, in faith abiding, i 'll still be true! and i 'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, in deep devotion-- that 's what i 'll do!" ii. "what would you do, love, if distant tidings thy fond confidings should undermine?-- and i abiding 'neath sultry skies, should think other eyes were as bright as thine?" "oh, name it not:--tho' guilt and shame were on thy name i 'd still be true: but that heart of thine--should another share it-- i could not bear it! what would i do?" iii. "what would you do, love, when home returning with hopes high burning, with wealth for you, if my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, should be lost near home-- ah! what would you do?"-- "so thou wert spared--i 'd bless the morrow, in want and sorrow, that left me you; and i 'd welcome thee from the wasting billow, this heart thy pillow-- that 's what i 'd do!" [decoration] charles mackay. - . _i love my love._ i. what is the meaning of the song that rings so clear and loud, thou nightingale amid the copse-- thou lark above the cloud? what says the song, thou joyous thrush, up in the walnut-tree? "i love my love, because i know my love loves me." ii. what is the meaning of thy thought, o maiden fair and young? there is such pleasure in thine eyes, such music on thy tongue; there is such glory on thy face-- what can the meaning be? "i love my love, because i know my love loves me." iii. o happy words! at beauty's feet we sing them ere our prime; and when the early summers pass, and care comes on with time, still be it ours, in care's despite, to join the chorus free-- "i love my love, because i know my love loves me." _o ye tears!_ o ye tears! o ye tears! that have long refused to flow, ye are welcome to my heart,--thawing, thawing, like the snow; i feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drop spring, and the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing. o ye tears! o ye tears! i am thankful that ye run; though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun. the rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, and the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all. o ye tears! o ye tears! till i felt you on my cheek, i was selfish in my sorrow, i was stubborn, i was weak. ye have given me strength to conquer, and i stand erect and free, and know that i am human by the light of sympathy. o ye tears! o ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain: the barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; like the rock that moses smote, amid horeb's burning sand, it yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land. there is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, and the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago-- o ye tears! happy tears! i am thankful that ye flow! [decoration] francis mahoney. - . _the bells of shandon._ sabbata pango; funera plango; solemnia clango. --_inscription on an old bell._ with deep affection and recollection i often think of those shandon bells, whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood, fling round my cradle their magic spells. on this i ponder where'er i wander, and thus grow fonder, sweet cork, of thee,-- with thy bells of shandon, that sound so grand on the pleasant waters of the river lee. i 've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, tolling sublime in cathedral shrine, while at a glibe rate brass tongues would vibrate; but all their music spoke naught like thine. for memory, dwelling on each proud swelling of thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free, made the bells of shandon sound far more grand on the pleasant waters of the river lee. i 've heard bells tolling old adrian's mole in, their thunder rolling from the vatican,-- and cymbals glorious swinging uproarious in the gorgeous turrets of notre dame; but thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of peter flings o'er the tiber, pealing solemnly. oh! the bells of shandon sound far more grand on the pleasant waters of the river lee. there 's a bell in moscow; while on tower and kiosk o in st. sophia the turkman gets, and loud in air calls men to prayer, from the tapering summit of tall minarets. such empty phantom i freely grant them; but there 's an anthem more dear to me,-- 't is the bells of shandon, that sound so grand on the pleasant waters of the river lee. [decoration] [decoration] gerald massey. . _song._ all glorious as the rainbow's birth, she came in spring-tide's golden hours; when heaven went hand-in-hand with earth, and may was crowned with buds and flowers! the mounting devil at my heart clomb faintlier as my life did win the charmèd heaven, she wrought apart, to wake its slumbering angel in! with radiant mien she trod serene, and passed me smiling by! o! who that looked could chance but love? not i, sweet soul, not i. the dewy eyelids of the dawn ne'er oped such heaven as hers can show: it seemed her dear eyes might have shone as jewels in some starry brow. her face flashed glory like a shrine, or lily-bell with sunburst bright; where came and went love-thoughts divine, as low winds walk the leaves in light: she wore her beauty with the grace of summer's star-clad sky; o! who that looked could help but love? not i, sweet soul, not i. her budding breasts like fragrant fruit of love were ripening to be pressed: her voice, that shook my heart's red root, yet might not break a babe's soft rest! more liquid than the running brooks, more vernal than the voice of spring, when nightingales are in their nooks, and all the leafy thickets ring. the love she coyly hid at heart was shyly conscious in her eye; o! who that looked could help but love? not i, sweet soul, not i. [decoration] [decoration] arthur o'shaughnessy. - . _a love symphony._ along the garden ways just now i heard the flowers speak; the white rose told me of your brow, the red rose of your cheek; the lily of your bended head, the bindweed of your hair: each looked its loveliest and said you were more fair. i went into the wood anon, and heard the wild birds sing, how sweet you were; they warbled on, piped, trilled the self-same thing. thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause, the burden did repeat, and still began again because you were more sweet. and then i went down to the sea, and heard it murmuring too, part of an ancient mystery, all made of me and you. how many a thousand years ago i loved, and you were sweet-- longer i could not stay, and so i fled back to your feet. _i made another garden._ i made another garden, yea, for my new love; i left the dead rose where it lay, and set the new above. why did the summer not begin? why did my heart not haste? my old love came and walked therein, and laid the garden waste. she entered with her weary smile, just as of old; she looked around a little while, and shivered at the cold. her passing touch was death to all, her passing look a blight; she made the white rose-petals fall, and turned the red rose white. her pale robe, clinging to the grass, seemed like a snake that bit the grass and ground, alas! and a sad trail did make. [illustration: full-page plate] she went up slowly to the gate; and there, just as of yore, she turned back at the last to wait, and say farewell once more. [decoration] [decoration] adelaide anne procter. - . _the lost chord._ seated one day at the organ, i was weary and ill at ease, and my fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. i do not know what i was playing, or what i was dreaming then; but i struck one chord of music, like the sound of a great amen. it flooded the crimson twilight like the close of an angel's psalm, and it lay on my fevered spirit with a touch of infinite calm. it quieted pain and sorrow, like love overcoming strife; it seemed the harmonious echo from our discordant life. it linked all perplexèd meanings into one perfect peace, and trembled away into silence as if it were loth to cease. i have sought, but i seek it vainly, that one lost chord divine, which came from the soul of the organ, and entered into mine. it may be that death's bright angel will speak in that chord again,-- it may be that only in heaven i shall hear that grand amen. _sent to heaven._ i had a message to send her, to her whom my soul loved best; but i had my task to finish, and she was gone home to rest. to rest in the far bright heaven; oh, so far away from here, it was vain to speak to my darling, for i knew she could not hear! i had a message to send her, so tender, and true, and sweet, i longed for an angel to bear it, and lay it down at her feet. i placed it, one summer evening, on a cloudlet's fleecy breast; but it faded in golden splendour, and died in the crimson west. i gave it the lark next morning, and i watched it soar and soar; but its pinions grew faint and weary, and it fluttered to earth once more. to the heart of a rose i told it; and the perfume, sweet and rare, growing faint on the blue bright ether, was lost in the balmy air. i laid it upon a censer, and i saw the incense rise; but its clouds of rolling silver could not reach the far blue skies. i cried, in my passionate longing:-- "has the earth no angel-friend who will carry my love the message that my heart desires to send?" then i heard a strain of music, so mighty, so pure, so clear, that my very sorrow was silent, and my heart stood still to hear. and i felt, in my soul's deep yearning, at last the sure answer stir:-- "the music will go up to heaven, and carry my thought to her." it rose in harmonious rushing of mingled voices and strings, and i tenderly laid my message on the music's outspread wings. i heard it float farther and farther, in sound more perfect than speech; farther than sight can follow, farther than soul can reach. and i know that at last my message has passed through the golden gate: so my heart is no longer restless, and i am content to wait. [decoration] b. w. procter (barry cornwall). - . _the poet's song to his wife._ set to music by the chevalier neukomm. how many summers, love, have i been thine? how many days, thou dove, hast thou been mine? time, like the wingèd wind when 't bends the flowers, hath left no mark behind, to count the hours! some weight of thought, though loth, on thee he leaves; some lines of care round both perhaps he weaves; some fears,--a soft regret for joys scarce known; sweet looks we half forget;-- all else is flown! ah! with what thankless heart i mourn and sing! look, where our children start, like sudden spring! with tongues all sweet and low, like a pleasant rhyme, they tell how much i owe to thee and time! [decoration] _a petition to time._ . touch us gently, time! let us glide adown thy stream gently,--as we sometimes glide through a quiet dream! humble voyagers are we, husband, wife, and children three-- (one is lost,--an angel, fled to the azure overhead!) touch us gently, time! we 've not proud nor soaring wings: _our_ ambition, _our_ content lies in simple things. humble voyagers are we, o'er life's dim unsounded sea, seeking only some calm clime:-- touch us _gently_, gentle time! _a bacchanalian song._ set to music by mr. h. phillips. sing!--who sings to her who weareth a hundred rings? ah, who is this lady fine? the vine, boys, the vine! the mother of mighty wine. a roamer is she o'er wall and tree, and sometimes very good company. drink!--who drinks to her who blusheth and never thinks? ah, who is this maid of thine? the grape, boys, the grape! o, never let her escape until she be turned to wine! for better is she than vine can be, and very, very good company! dream!--who dreams of the god that governs a thousand streams? ah, who is this spirit fine? 't is wine, boys, 't is wine! god bacchus, a friend of mine. o better is he than grape or tree, and the best of all good company. [decoration] _she was not fair nor full of grace._ she was not fair, nor full of grace, nor crowned with thought or aught beside; no wealth had she, of mind or face, to win our love, or raise our pride: no lover's thought her cheek did touch; no poet's dream was 'round her thrown; and yet we miss her--ah, too much, now--she hath flown! we miss her when the morning calls, as one that mingled in our mirth; we miss her when the evening falls,-- a trifle wanted on the earth! some fancy small or subtle thought is checked ere to its blossom grown; some chain is broken that we wrought, now--she hath flown! no solid good, nor hope defined, is marred now she hath sunk in night; and yet the strong immortal mind is stopped in its triumphant flight! stern friend, what power is in a tear, what strength in one poor thought alone, when all we know is--"she was here," and--"she hath flown!" [decoration] _the sea-king._ set to music by the chevalier neukomm. come sing, come sing, of the great sea-king, and the fame that now hangs o'er him, who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep, and drove the world before him! his deck was a throne, on the ocean lone, and the sea was his park of pleasure, where he scattered in fear the human deer, and rested,--when he had leisure! come,--shout and sing of the great sea-king, and ride in the track he rode in! he sits at the head of the mighty dead, on the red right hand of odin! he sprang, from birth, like a god on earth, and soared on his victor pinions, and he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee, when they gaze on their blue dominions. his whole earth life was a conquering strife, and he lived till his beard grew hoary, and he died at last, by his blood-red mast, and now--he is lost in glory! so,--shout and sing, &c. [decoration] _a serenade._ set to music by the chevalier neukomm. awake!--the starry midnight hour hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight: in its own sweetness sleeps the flower; and the doves lie hushed in deep delight! awake! awake! look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake! awake!--soft dews will soon arise from daisied mead, and thorny brake; then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, and like the tender morning break! awake! awake! dawn forth, my love, for love's sweet sake! awake!--within the musk-rose bower i watch, pale flower of love, for thee; ah, come, and shew the starry hour what wealth of love thou hid'st from me! awake! awake! shew all thy love, for love's sweet sake! awake!--ne'er heed, though listening night steal music from thy silver voice: uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, and bid the world and me rejoice! awake! awake! she comes,--at last, for love's sweet sake! [decoration] _king death._ set to music by the chevalier neukomm. king death was a rare old fellow! he sate where no sun could shine; and he lifted his hand so yellow, and poured out his coal-black wine. hurrah! for the coal-black wine! there came to him many a maiden, whose eyes had forgot to shine; and widows, with grief o'erladen, for a draught of his sleepy wine. hurrah! for the coal-black wine! the scholar left all his learning; the poet his fancied woes; and the beauty her bloom returning, as the beads of the black wine rose. hurrah! for the coal-black wine! [illustration: full-page plate] all came to the royal old fellow, who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, as he gave them his hand so yellow, and pledged them in death's black wine. hurrah!--hurrah! hurrah! for the coal-black wine! [decoration] _sit down, sad soul._ sit down, sad soul, and count the moments flying: come,--tell the sweet amount that 's lost by sighing! how many smiles?--a score? then laugh, and count no more; for day is dying! lie down, sad soul, and sleep, and no more measure the flight of time, nor weep the loss of leisure; but here, by this lone stream, lie down with us, and dream of starry treasure! we dream: do thou the same: we love--for ever: we laugh; yet few we shame, the gentle, never. stay, then, till sorrow dies; _then_--hope and happy skies are thine for ever! [decoration] _a drinking song._ drink, and fill the night with mirth! let us have a mighty measure, till we quite forget the earth, and soar into the world of pleasure. drink, and let a health go round, ('t is the drinker's noble duty,) to the eyes that shine and wound, to the mouths that bud in beauty! here 's to helen! why, ah! why doth she fly from my pursuing? here 's to marian, cold and shy! may she warm before thy wooing! here 's to janet! i 've been e'er, boy and man, her staunch defender, always sworn that she was fair, always _known_ that she was tender! fill the deep-mouthed glasses high! let them with the champagne tremble, like the loose wrack in the sky, when the four wild winds assemble! here 's to all the love on earth, (love, the young man's, wise man's treasure!) drink, and fill your throats with mirth! drink, and drown the world in pleasure! [decoration] _peace! what do tears avail?_ peace! what can tears avail? she lies all dumb and pale, and from her eye, the spirit of lovely life is fading, and she must die! why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding? reply, reply! hath she not dwelt too long 'midst pain, and grief, and wrong? then, why not die? why suffer again her doom of sorrow, and hopeless lie? why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow? reply, reply! death! take her to thine arms, in all her stainless charms, and with her fly to heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness, the angels lie! wilt bear her there, o death! in all her whiteness? reply,--reply! [decoration] _the sea._ set to music by the chevalier neukomm. the sea! the sea! the open sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free! without a mark, without a bound, it runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; it plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; or like a cradled creature lies. i 'm on the sea! i 'm on the sea! i am where i would ever be; with the blue above, and the blue below, and silence wheresoe'er i go; if a storm should come and awake the deep, what matter? _i_ shall ride and sleep. i love (oh! _how_ i love) to ride on the fierce foaming bursting tide, when every mad wave drowns the moon, or whistles aloft his tempest tune, and tells how goeth the world below, and why the south-west blasts do blow. i never was on the dull tame shore, but i loved the great sea more and more, and backwards flew to her billowy breast, like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; and a mother she _was_, and _is_ to me; for i was born on the open sea! the waves were white, and red the morn, in the noisy hour when i was born; and the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, and the dolphins bared their backs of gold; and never was heard such an outcry wild as welcomed to life the ocean-child! i 've lived since then, in calm and strife, full fifty summers a sailor's life, with wealth to spend and a power to range, but never have sought, nor sighed for change; and death, whenever he come to me, shall come on the wild unbounded sea! [decoration] christina g. rossetti. - . _song._ when i am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me; plant thou no roses at my head, nor shady cypress-tree: be the green grass above me with showers and dewdrops wet; and if thou wilt, remember, and if thou wilt, forget. i shall not see the shadows, i shall not feel the rain; i shall not hear the nightingale sing on, as if in pain: and dreaming through the twilight that doth not rise nor set, haply i may remember, and haply may forget. [decoration] _song._ o roses for the flush of youth, and laurel for the perfect prime; but pluck an ivy branch for me grown old before my time. o violets for the grave of youth, and bay for those dead in their prime; give me the withered leaves i chose before in the old time. [decoration] _song._ two doves upon the selfsame branch, two lilies on a single stem, two butterflies upon one flower:-- o happy they who look on them. who look upon them hand in hand flushed in the rosy summer light; who look upon them hand in hand and never give a thought to night. [decoration] _three seasons._ "a cup for hope!" she said, in springtime ere the bloom was old: the crimson wine was poor and cold by her mouth's richer red. "a cup for love!" how low, how soft the words; and all the while her blush was rippling with a smile like summer after snow. "a cup for memory!" cold cup that one must drain alone: while autumn winds are up and moan across the barren sea. hope, memory, love: hope for fair morn, and love for day, and memory for the evening gray and solitary dove. [decoration] dante gabriel rossetti. - . _a little while._ a little while a little love the hour yet bears for thee and me who have not drawn the veil to see if still our heaven be lit above. thou merely, at the day's last sigh, hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; and i have heard the night-wind cry and deemed its speech mine own. a little while a little love the scattering autumn hoards for us whose bower is not yet ruinous nor quite unleaved our songless grove. only across the shaken boughs we hear the flood-tides seek the sea, and deep in both our hearts they rouse one wail for thee and me. a little while a little love may yet be ours who have not said the word it makes our eyes afraid to know that each is thinking of. not yet the end: be our lips dumb in smiles a little season yet: i 'll tell thee, when the end is come, how we may best forget. [decoration] _sudden light._ i have been here before, but when or how i cannot tell: i know the grass beyond the door, the sweet keen smell, the sighing sound, the lights around the shore. you have been mine before,-- how long ago i may not know: but just when at that swallow's soar your neck turned so, some veil did fall,--i knew it all of yore. has this been thus before? and shall not thus time's eddying flight still with our lives our loves restore in death's despite, and day and night yield one delight once more? _three shadows._ i looked and saw your eyes in the shadow of your hair, as a traveller sees the stream in the shadow of the wood; and i said, "my faint heart sighs, ah me! to linger there, to drink deep and to dream in that sweet solitude." i looked and saw your heart in the shadow of your eyes, as a seeker sees the gold in the shadow of the stream; and i said, "ah, me! what art should win the immortal prize, whose want must make life cold and heaven a hollow dream?" [illustration: full-page plate] i looked and saw your love in the shadow of your heart, as a diver sees the pearl in the shadow of the sea; and i murmured, not above my breath, but all apart,-- "ah! you can love, true girl, and is your love for me?" [decoration] [decoration] william bell scott. - . _parting and meeting again._ last time i parted from my dear the linnet sang from the briar-bush, the throstle from the dell; the stream too carolled full and clear, it was the spring-time of the year, and both the linnet and the thrush i love them well since last i parted from my dear. but when he came again to me the barley rustled high and low, linnet and thrush were still; yellowed the apple on the tree, 't was autumn merry as it could be, what time the white ships come and go under the hill; they brought him back again to me, brought him safely o'er the sea. [decoration] [decoration] joseph skipsey. _a merry bee._ a golden bee a-cometh o'er the mere, glassy mere, and a merry tale he hummeth in my ear. how he seized and kist a blossom, from its tree, thorny tree, plucked and placed in annie's bosom, hums the bee! _the songstress._ back flies my soul to other years, when thou that charming lay repeatest, when smiles were only chased by tears, yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest. thy music ends, and where are they? those golden times by memory cherished? o, syren, sing no more that lay, or sing till i like them have perished! [decoration] _the violet and the rose._ the violet invited my kiss,-- i kissed it and called it my bride; "was ever one slighted like this?" sighed the rose as it stood by my side. my heart ever open to grief, to comfort the fair one i turned; "of fickle ones thou art the chief!" frowned the violet, and pouted and mourned. then, to end all disputes, i entwined the love-stricken blossoms in one; but that instant their beauty declined, and i wept for the deed i had done! [decoration] j. ashby sterry. _regrets._ i. o for the look of those pure grey eyes-- seeming to plead and speak-- the parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs, the blush on the kissen cheek! ii. o for the tangle of soft brown hair, lazily blown by the breeze; the fleeting hours unshadowed by care, shaded by tremulous trees! iii. o for the dream of those sunny days, with their bright unbroken spell, and the thrilling sweet untutored praise-- from the lips once loved so well! iv. o for the feeling of days agone, the simple faith and the truth, the spring of time and life's rosy dawn-- o for the love and the youth! [decoration] _daisy's dimples._ i. little dimples so sweet and soft, love the cheek of my love: the mark of cupid's dainty hand, before he wore a glove. ii. laughing dimples of tender love smile on my darling's cheek; sweet hallowed spots where kisses lurk, and play at hide and seek. iii. fain would i hide my kisses there at morning's rosy light, to come and seek them back again in silver hush of night. _a lover's lullaby._ i. mirror your sweet eyes in mine, love, see how they glitter and shine! quick fly such moments divine, love, link your lithe fingers in mine! ii. lay your soft cheek against mine, love, pillow your head on my breast; while your brown locks i entwine, love, pout your red lips when they 're prest! iii. mirror your fate, then, in mine, love; sorrow and sighing resign: life is too short to repine, love, link your fair future in mine! [decoration] algernon charles swinburne. . _a match._ if love were what the rose is, and i were like the leaf, our lives would grow together in sad or singing weather, blown fields or flowerful closes, green pleasure or grey grief; if love were what the rose is, and i were like the leaf. if i were what the words are, and love were like the tune, with double sound or single delight our lips would mingle, with kisses glad as birds are that get sweet rain at noon; if i were what the words are, and love were like the tune. if you were life, my darling, and i your love were death, we 'd shine and snow together ere march made sweet the weather with daffodil and starling and hours of fruitful breath; if you were life, my darling, and i your love were death. if you were thrall to sorrow, and i were page to joy, we 'd play for lives and seasons with loving looks and treasons and tears of night and morrow and laughs of maid and boy; if you were thrall to sorrow, and i were page to joy. if you were april's lady, and i were lord in may, we 'd throw with leaves for hours and draw for days with flowers, till day like night were shady and night were bright like day; if you were april's lady, and i were lord in may. if you were queen of pleasure, and i were king of pain, we 'd hunt down love together, pluck out his flying-feather, and teach his feet a measure, and find his mouth a rein; if you were queen of pleasure, and i were king of pain. _rondel._ kissing her hair i sat against her feet, wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; with her own tresses bound and found her fair, kissing her hair. sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; what pain could get between my face and hers? what new sweet thing would love not relish worse? unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, kissing her hair? [decoration] _song._ from "felise." o lips that mine have grown into like april's kissing may, o fervent eyelids letting through those eyes the greenest of things blue, the bluest of things gray, if you were i and i were you, how could i love you, say? how could the roseleaf love the rue, the day love nightfall and her dew, though night may love the day? [decoration] alfred tennyson. - . _the bugle song._ from "the princess." the splendour falls on castle walls and snowy summits old in story: the long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o hark, o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o sweet and far from cliff and scar the horns of elfland faintly blowing! blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or river: our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. [decoration] _break, break, break._ break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay! and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. [illustration: full-page plate] _tears, idle tears._ from "the princess." tears, idle tears, i know not what they mean, tears from the depth of some divine despair rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, in looking on the happy autumn-fields, and thinking of the days that are no more. fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, that brings our friends up from the underworld, sad as the last which reddens over one that sinks with all we love below the verge; so sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns the earliest pipe of half-awakened birds to dying ears, when unto dying eyes the casement slowly grows a glimmering square; so sad, so strange, the days that are no more. dear as remembered kisses after death, and sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others; deep as love, deep as first love, and wild with all regret; o death in life, the days that are no more. [decoration] _sweet and low._ from "the princess." sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon; rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. _turn, fortune, turn thy wheel._ from "the marriage of geraint." turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. turn, fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; with that wild wheel we go not up or down; our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; for man is man and master of his fate. turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. _vivien's song._ from "merlin and vivien." in love, if love be love, if love be ours, faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. it is the little rift within the lute, that by and by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all. the little rift within the lover's lute or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, that rotting inward slowly moulders all. it is not worth the keeping: let it go: but shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. and trust me not at all or all in all. [decoration] william makepeace thackeray. - . _at the church gate._ from "pendennis." although i enter not, yet round about the spot ofttimes i hover: and near the sacred gate, with longing eyes i wait, expectant of her. the minster bell tolls out above the city's rout, and noise and humming: they 've hushed the minster bell: the organ 'gins to swell: she 's coming, she 's coming! my lady comes at last, timid, and stepping fast, and hastening hither, with modest eyes downcast: she comes--she 's here--she 's past-- may heaven go with her! kneel, undisturbed, fair saint! pour out your praise or plaint meekly and duly; i will not enter there, to sully your pure prayer with thoughts unruly. but suffer me to pace round the forbidden place, lingering a minute; like outcast spirits who wait and see through heaven's gate angels within it. _the mahogany tree._ christmas is here; winds whistle shrill, icy and chill, little care we: little we fear weather without sheltered about the mahogany tree. once on the boughs birds of rare plume sang, in its bloom; night-birds are we: here we carouse, singing like them, perched round the stem of the jolly old tree. here let us sport, boys, as we sit; laughter and wit flashing so free. life is but short-- when we are gone, let them sing on, round the old tree. evenings we knew, happy as this; faces we miss, pleasant to see. kind hearts and true, gentle and just, peace to your dust! we sing round the tree. care, like a dun, lurks at the gate: let the dog wait; happy we 'll be! drink, every one; pile up the coals, fill the red bowls, round the old tree. drain we the cup.-- friend, art afraid? spirits are laid in the red sea. mantle it up; empty it yet; let us forget, round the old tree. sorrows, begone! life and its ills, duns and their bills, bid we to flee. come with the dawn, blue-devil sprite, leave us to-night, round the old tree. [decoration] george walter thornbury. - . _dayrise and sunset._ when spring casts all her swallows forth into the blue and lambent air, when lilacs toss their purple plumes and every cherry-tree grows fair,-- through fields with morning tints a-glow i take my rod and singing go. where lilies float on broad green leaves below the ripples of the mill, when the white moth is hovering in the dim sky so hushed and still, i watch beneath the pollard ash the greedy trout leap up and splash. or down where golden water flowers are wading in the shallow tide, while still the dusk is tinged with rose like a brown cheek o'erflushed with pride-- i throw the crafty fly and wait; watching the big trout eye the bait. it is the lover's twilight-time, and there 's a magic in the hour, but i forget the sweets of love and all love's tyranny and power, and with my feather-hidden steel sigh but to fill my woven creel. then upward darkling through the copse i push my eager homeward way, through glades of drowsy violets that never see the golden day. yes! while the night comes soft and slow i take my rod and singing go. [illustration: full-page plate] _the three troopers._ during the protectorate. into the devil tavern three booted troopers strode, from spur to feather spotted and splashed with the mud of a winter road. in each of their cups they dropped a crust, and stared at the guests with a frown; then drew their swords, and roared for a toast, "god send this crum-well-down!" a blue smoke rose from their pistol locks, their sword blades were still wet; there were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, as the table they overset. then into their cups they stirred the crusts, and cursed old london town; they waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, "god send this crum-well-down!" the 'prentice dropped his can of beer, the host turned pale as a clout; the ruby nose of the toping squires grew white at the wild men's shout. then into their cups they flung their crusts, and shewed their teeth with a frown; they flashed their swords as they gave the toast, "god send this crum-well-down!" the gambler dropped his dog's-ear'd cards, the waiting-women screamed, as the light of the fire, like stains of blood, on the wild men's sabres gleamed. then into their cups they splashed their crusts, and cursed the fool of a town, and leapt on the table, and roared a toast, "god send this crum-well-down!" till on a sudden fire-bells rang, and the troopers sprang to horse; the eldest muttered between his teeth, hot curses--deep and coarse. in their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, and cried as they spurred through the town, with their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, "god send this crum-well-down!" away they dashed through temple bar, their red cloaks flowing free, their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone-- none liked to touch the three. the silver cups that held the crusts they flung to the startled town, shouting again, with a blaze of swords, "god send this crum-well-down!" [decoration] _the cuckoo._ when a warm and scented steam rises from the flowering earth; when the green leaves are all still, and the song birds cease their mirth; in the silence before rain comes the cuckoo back again. when the spring is all but gone-- tearful april, laughing may-- when a hush comes on the woods, and the sunbeams cease to play; in the silence before rain comes the cuckoo back again. [decoration] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * errors and inconsistencies: from "sylvia": _act iv. scene i_. [_should be "scene i"_] i watched the long, long, shade, [_all commas as printed_] _the long white seam._ [_final . missing or invisible_] [locker-lampson] _the cuckoo._ [_printed , for ._] [illustration: she was off and away to the lone plain of carterhaugh] stories from the ballads told to the children by mary macgregor with pictures by katharine cameron london: t. c. & e. c. jack new york: e. p. dutton & co. * * * * * to doris * * * * * about this book listen, children, for you will wish to hear where i found the tales which i have told you in this little book. it is long, oh! so long ago, that they were sung up hill and down dale by wandering singers who soon became known all over the country as minstrels, or ofttimes, because they would carry with them a harp, as harpers. in court, in cottage, by princes and by humble folk, everywhere, by every one the minstrels were greeted with delight. to such sweet music did they sing the songs or ballads which they made or perchance had heard, to such sweet music, that those who listened could forget nor tale nor tune. in those far-off days of minstrelsy the country was alive with fairies. over the mountains, through the glens, by babbling streams and across silent moors, the patter of tiny feet might be heard, feet which had strayed from elfinland. it was of these little folk and of their visits to the homes of mortals that the minstrels sang. sterner songs too were theirs, songs of war and bloodshed, when clan fought with clan and lives were lost and brave deeds were done. of all indeed that made life glad or sad, of these the minstrels sang. from town to village, from court to inn they wandered, singing the old songs, adding verses to them here, dropping lines from them there, singing betimes a strain unheard before, until at length the day came when the songs were written down. it was in the old books that thus came to be written that i first found these tales, and when you have read them perhaps you will wish to go yourself to the same old books, to find many another song of love and hate, of joy and sorrow. mary macgregor. * * * * * list of stories i. the young tamlane, ii. hynde etin, iii. hynde horn, iv. thomas the rhymer, v. lizzie lindsay, vi. the gay goshawk, vii. the laird o' logie, * * * * * list of pictures the young tamlane.-- she was off and away to the lone plain of carterhaugh.--_frontispiece._ 'in earth or air i dwell, as pleases me the best,' hynde etin.-- 'for twelve long years have i never been within the holy church, and i fear to enter now,' hynde horn.-- 'drink,' she said gently, 'drink,' thomas the rhymer.-- under the eildon tree thomas met the lady, lizzie lindsay.-- 'will ye come to the highlands with me, lizzie lindsay?' the gay goshawk.-- 'i go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds,' the laird o' logie.-- she stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young laird of logie, * * * * * the young tamlane the young tamlane had lived among mortals for only nine short years ere he was carried away by the queen of the fairies, away to live in fairyland. his father had been a knight of great renown, his mother a lady of high degree, and sorry indeed were they to lose their son. and this is how it happened. one day, soon after tamlane's ninth birthday, his uncle came to him and said, 'tamlane, now that ye are nine years old, ye shall, an ye like it, ride with me to the hunt.' and tamlane jumped for joy, and clapped his hands for glee. then he mounted his horse and rode away with his uncle to hunt and hawk. over the moors they rode, and the wind it blew cold from the north. over the moors they rode, and the cold north wind blew upon the young tamlane until he grew cold and stiff. then the reins they fell from his hands and down from his horse slipped tamlane, and laid himself down to rest, so weary, so cold was he. but no sooner had he lain down on the bare earth than he closed his eyes and fell fast asleep. and no sooner had he fallen fast asleep than the queen of the fairies came and carried tamlane off to fairyland. for long years tamlane dwelt among the little green folk, yet ofttimes he would come back to visit the land of his birth. now many were the hills and dells haunted by the fairy folk. yet neither hill nor dell pleased them more than the lone plain of carterhaugh, where the soft-flowing rivers of ettrick and yarrow met and mingled. many a long day after fairies were banished from the plain of carterhaugh would the peasant folk come to gaze at the circles which still marked the green grass of the lone moor. the circles had been made, so they said, by the tiny feet of the fairies as they danced round and round in a ring. well, in the days before the fairies were banished from the plain of carterhaugh, strange sights were to be seen there by the light of the moon. little folk, dressed all in green, would flit across the moor. they would form tiny rings and dance on their tiny toes until the moonlight failed. little horsemen dressed in green would go riding by, the bells on the fairy bridles playing magic music the while. sounds too, unknown to mortals, would tremble on the still night air. full of mischief too were these little elfin folk, and wise mortals feared to tread where fairy feet were tripping. wise mortals would warn the merry children and the winsome maidens lest they should venture too near the favourite haunts of fairydom. to carterhaugh came, as i have told you, many of the fairy folk; but more often than any other came a little elfin knight, and he was the young tamlane, who had been carried away to fairyland when he was only nine years old. beyond all other of the little green folk was the elf knight feared. and little was that to be wondered at, for well was it known that over many a fair-haired child, over many a beauteous maiden, he had used his magic power. nor would he let them go until they promised to come back another moonlit eve, and as a pledge of their promise he would seize from the children a toy, from the maidens a ring, or it might be their mantle of green. now about two miles from the plain of carterhaugh stood a castle, and in the castle there lived a fair maiden named janet. one day her father sent for his daughter and said, 'janet, ye may leave the castle grounds, an ye please, but never may ye cross the plain of carterhaugh. for there ye may be found by young tamlane, and he it is who ofttimes casts a spell o'er bonny maidens.' now janet was a wilful daughter. she answered her father never a word, but when she had left his presence she laughed aloud, she tossed her head. to her ladies she said, 'go to carterhaugh will i an i list, and come from carterhaugh will i an i please, and never will i ask leave of any one.' then when the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, the lady janet tucked up her green skirt, so that she might run, and she coiled her beautiful yellow hair as a crown above her brow. and she was off and away to the lone plain of carterhaugh. the moonlight stole across the moor, and janet laughed aloud in her glee. she ran across to the well, and there, standing alone, riderless, stood the steed of the little elfin knight. janet put out her hand to the rose-tree that grew by the well and plucked a dark red rose. sweet was its scent and janet put out her hand and plucked another rose, but ere she had pulled a third, close beside her stood a little wee man. he reached no higher than the knee of the lady janet. 'ye have come to carterhaugh, janet,' he cried, 'and yet ye have not asked my leave. ye have plucked my red roses and broken a branch of my bonny rose-tree. have ye no fear of me, janet?' the lady janet tossed her head, though over her she felt creeping slow the spell of the little elfin knight. she tossed her head and she cried, 'nay, i have no fear of you, ye little wee man. nor will i ever ask leave of you as i come to and fro across the plain of carterhaugh. ye shall know that the moor belongs to me, me!' and janet stamped her foot. 'my father made it all my own.' but the young tamlane took the white hand of the lady janet in his own, and so gentle were his words, so kind his ways, that soon the maiden had no wish to leave the little wee man. hand in hand they wandered through the red rose-bushes that grew by the side of the well. and in the light of the moon the elf knight wove his spell and made the lady janet his own. back to the castle sped janet when the moonlight failed, but all her smiles were gone. lone and sad was she, all with longing for her little elfin knight. little food would janet eat in these days, little heed would she take of the gowns she wore. her yellow hair hung down uncombed, unbraided around her sad, pale face. janet had been used to join in the games her four-and-twenty maidens played. she had run the quickest, tossed the ball the highest, nor had any been more full of glee than she. now the maidens might play as they listed, little did the lady janet care. when evening fell, her four-and-twenty ladies would play their games of chess. many a game had janet won in bygone days. now the ladies might win or lose as they pleased, little did the lady janet care. her heart was away on the plain of carterhaugh with her little wee elfin knight, and soon she herself would be there. once more the moonbeams peeped in at her lattice window, and janet smiled, put on her fairest gown, and combed her yellow locks. she was off and away to carterhaugh.[ ] [footnote : see frontispiece.] she reached the moor, she ran to the well, and there as before, there, stood the steed of the little elfin man. and janet put out her hand and plucked a red red rose, but ere she had plucked another, close beside her stood the young tamlane. 'why do ye pluck my roses?' asked the little elf man. but janet had not come to talk about the roses, and she paid no heed to his question. 'tell me, tamlane,' said the lady janet, 'tell me, have ye always been a little elfin man? have ye never, in days gone by, been to the holy chapel, and have ye never had made over you the sign of the holy cross?' 'indeed now, janet, the truth will i tell!' cried the young tamlane. then the lady janet listened, and the lady janet wept as the little wee knight told her how he had been carried away by the queen of the fairies. but yet a stranger tale he told to the maiden. 'ere i was carried off to fairyland, janet,' said young tamlane, 'we played as boy and girl in the old castle grounds, and well we loved each other as we played together in those merry merry days of long ago. ye do not forget, janet?' then back into the lady janet's mind stole the memory of her childhood's merry days, and of the little lad who had shared her toys and played her games. together they had made the walls of the old castle ring with their laughter. no, the lady janet had not forgotten, and she knew that now, as in the days of long ago, she loved the young tamlane. 'tell me,' she said, 'tell me how ye do spend your day in fairyland?' 'blithe and gay is the life we lead,' cried the little wee knight. 'there is no sickness, no pain of any kind in fairyland, janet. 'in earth or air i dwell as pleases me the best. i can leave this little body of mine an it pleases me, and come back to it an i will. i am small, as you see me now, but when i will, i grow so small that a nut-shell is my home, a rosebud my bed. but i can grow big as well, janet, so big that i needs must make my home in some lofty hall. 'hither and thither we flit, bathe in the streams, frolic in the wind, play with the sunbeams. 'never would i wish to leave fairyland, janet, were it not that at the end of each seven years an evil spirit comes to carry one of us off to his dark abode. and i, so fair and fat am i, i fear that i shall be chosen by the evil one. [illustration: 'in earth or air i dwell as pleases me the best,'] 'but weep not, janet; an you wish to bring me back to the land of mortals, i will e'en show you how that may be done. little time is there to lose, for to-night is hallowe'en, and this same night must the deed be done. 'on hallowe'en, at the midnight hour, the fairy court will ride a mile beyond carterhaugh to the cross at milestone. wait for me there, janet, and ye will win your own true knight.' 'but many a knight will ride amid the fairy train. how shall i know you, my little wee man?' cried janet. 'neither among the first nor among the second company shall ye seek for me,' said young tamlane. 'only when ye see the third draw nigh give heed, janet, for among them ye will find me. 'not on the black horse, nor yet on the brown horse, shall i ride. let them pass, and keep ye quiet. but as the milk-white steed goes by, seize ye the bridle, janet, and pull me down, and keep your arms ever around me. for on the milk-white steed i ride. 'on my right hand ye will see a glove, my left will be uncovered. now, by these signs, ye will know your own true knight. 'hold me fast, janet, hold me fast, as you pull me down from my milk-white steed. for while your arms are around me, the fairy folk will change me into fearful shapes. 'into an adder, and into a snake they will change me. yet, an ye love me, janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast. 'they will change me into a lion, and into a bear. yet, as i love you, janet, fear ye nought, but hold me fast. 'a toad, an eel i shall become, yet do not let me slide from your arms, janet, but hold me fast. 'but, an the fairy folk change me into a blazing fagot, or a bar of hot iron, then throw me far from you, janet, into the cold, clear well, throw me with all your speed. 'there will i change into your own true knight, janet, and ye shall throw over me your mantle of green velvet.' dark was the night and full of gloom as the lady janet hastened to the cross at milestone, but her heart was glad and full of light. she would see her own true knight in mortal form before the dawn of hallowday. it was between the hours of twelve and one o'clock when janet stood alone at the spot where the fairy train would pass. fearsome it was there alone in the gloom, but the lady janet was heedful of nought. she had but to wait, to listen. yet not a sound did she hear, save only the wind as it whistled through the long grass. not a sound save the wind did she hear? ah yes, now strange noises were blown to her eager ears. the bells on fairy bridles tinkled, the music of the tiny fairy band piped each moment more clear. janet looked, and by the light of will o' wisp she could just catch sight of their little oaten pipes. shrill were the notes they blew on these, but softer were the sounds they blew through tiny hemlock pipes. then deeper came the tones of the bog-reeds and large hemlock, and janet, looking, saw the little green folk draw nigh. how merry the music was, how glad and good! never was known a fairy yet who sang or played of aught but joy and mirth. the first company of the little folk passed janet as she stood patient, watchful by the cross; the second passed, and then there came the third. 'the black steed! let it go,' said janet to herself. 'the brown steed! it matters not to me, she whispered. 'the milk-white steed!' ah, janet had seized the bridle of the milk-white steed and pulled the little rider off into her strong young arms. a cry of little elfs, of angry little elfs, rang out on the chill night air. then as he lay in janet's arms the angry little imps changed their stolen elfin knight into an adder, a snake, a bear, a lion, a toad, an eel, and still, through all these changes, the lady janet held him fast. 'a blazing fagot! let him change into a blazing fagot!' cried the angry little folk. 'then this foolish mortal will let our favorite knight alone.' and as young tamlane changed into a blazing fagot the little folk thought they had got their will. for now the lady janet threw him from her, far into the clear, cold well. but the little angry imps were soon shrieking in dismay. no sooner was the fagot in the well than the little elfin knight was restored to his own true mortal form. then over the tall, strong knight janet threw her green mantle, and the power of the fairies over the young tamlane was for ever gone. their spell was broken. now, the queen of the fairies had hidden herself in a bush of broom to see what would happen. and when she saw her favourite knight change into his own true mortal shape, she was very cross, very cross indeed. the little fairy band was ordered to march home in silence, their pipes thrust into their tiny green girdles, and there were no more revels in the fairy court for many and many a long day to come. hynde etin may margaret did not love to sew, yet here in the doorway of her bower she sat, her silk seam in her hand. may margaret sat with her seam in her hand, but she did not sew, she dreamed, and her dream was all of elmond wood. she was there herself under the greenwood gay. the tall trees bowed, the little trees nodded to her. the flowers threw their sweetest scents after her as she passed along; the little birds sang their gladdest that she might hear. how fair and green and cool it was in the wood of elmond! on a sudden, margaret sat upright in the doorway of her bower. she dreamed no more. the sound of the hunting-horn rang in her ear. it was blown in elmond wood. then down on her lap slipped the silken seam, down to her feet the needle. may margaret was up and away to the greenwood. down by the hazel bushes she hastened, nor noticed that the evening shadows fell; on past the birch groves she ran, nor noticed that the dew fell fast. no one did may margaret meet until she reached a white-thorn tree. there, up from the grass on which he lay, sprang hynde etin. 'what do ye seek in the wood, may margaret?' said he. 'is it flowers, or is it for dew ye seek this bonny night of may?' but margaret did not care to answer. she only shook her head. then said hynde etin, 'i am forester of elmond wood, nor should ye enter it without my leave.' 'nay now,' cried the lady margaret, 'leave will i ask of no man, for my father is earl of all this land.' 'your father may be earl of all the land, may margaret, yet shall ye die, because ye will not ask my leave to come to elmond wood.' and he seized her fast and tied her to a tree by her long, yellow locks. yet did hynde etin not kill the maiden, but this is what he did. he pulled up by the root the tallest tree he could see, and in the hollow he dug a deep deep cave, and into the cave he thrust may margaret. 'now will ye wander no more in my woods!' cried hynde etin. 'here shall ye stay, or home shall ye come with me to be my wife.' 'nay, here will i rather stay!' cried may margaret, 'for my father will seek for me and will find me here.' but the cave was dark and cold, and the earl sought yet did not find his daughter. no bed was there in the cave for may margaret, no bed save the rough earth, no pillow save a stone. poor may margaret! she did not like the dark or the cold. ere many days had passed away, she thought it would be better to live with hynde etin than to stay longer alone in so dismal a cave. 'take me out, take me out!' then cried may margaret. hynde etin heard the maiden's call and he came and took her out of the cave. deep into the greenwood he carried her, where his own home had been built, and there he made may margaret, the earl's daughter, his wife. for twelve long years margaret lived in the greenwood. and hynde etin was kind to her and she grew to love him well. seven little sons had margaret, and happy and gay was their life in their woodland home. yet oft did margaret grieve that her little wee sons had never been taken to holy church. she wished that the priest might christen them there. now one day hynde etin slung his bow across his shoulder, placed a sheath of arrows in his belt, and was up and away to the hunt. with him he took his eldest wee son. under the gay greenwood they paced, hynde etin and his eldest son, and the thrush sang to them his morning song. upward over the hills they climbed, and they heard the chimes of church bells clear. then the little wee son said to his father, 'an ye would not be angry with me, father, there is somewhat i would ask.' 'ask what ye will, my bonny wee boy,' said hynde etin, 'for never will i be cross with you.' 'my mother ofttimes weeps, father. why is it that she sobs so bitterly?' 'your mother weeps, my little wee son, for sore she longs to see her own kin. twelve long years is it and more since last she saw them, or heard the church bells ring. 'an earl's daughter was your mother dear, and if i had not stolen her away one bonny night in may she might have wedded a knight of high degree. 'the forester of elmond wood was i, yet as i saw her standing by the white-thorn tree i loved her well. and ere many days had gone by thy mother loved me too, and i carried her away to our greenwood home. 'dear to your mother are her seven little sons, dear to her, too, am i. yet oft will the tears run down her cheek as she dreams of her old home and her father the earl.' then upward glanced the little wee son as he cried aloud, 'i will shoot the linnet there on the tree and the larks as they wing their flight, and i will carry them home to my mother dear that she may weep no more.' yet neither with linnet nor with lark could her little wee son woo the smiles back to his dear mother's face. now a day came when hynde etin in his greenwood home thought the hours passed but slow, and that same day he took his gun and his dog and off he went alone to hunt. his seven little wee sons he left at home with their mother. 'mother,' said the eldest little son, 'mother, will ye be angry with me an i tell you what i heard?' 'nay now, my little wee son,' said she, 'i will never be cross with you.' 'i heard the church bells ring as i went hunting over the hill, mother. clear did they ring and sweet.' 'ah, would i had heard them too, my little dear son,' cried margaret, 'for never have i been in the holy church for twelve long years and more, and never have i taken my seven bonny sons to be christened, as indeed i would they were. in the holy church will my father be, and there would i fain go too.' then the little young etin, for that was the name of margaret's eldest son, took his mother's hand and called his six little brothers, and together they went through elmond wood as fast as ever they could go. it may be that the mother led the way, it may be that so it chanced, but soon they had left the greenwood far behind and stood on an open heath. and there, before them, stood a castle. margaret looked and margaret smiled. she knew she was standing once again before her father's gate. she took three rings from her pocket and gave them to her eldest wee boy. 'give one,' she said, 'to the porter. he is proud, but so he sees the ring, he will open the gate and let you enter. 'give another to the butler, my little wee son, and he will show you where ye are to go. 'and the third ye shall hand to the minstrel. you will see him with his harp, standing in the hall. it may be he will play goodwill to my bonny wee son who has come from elmond wood.' then young etin did as his mother had said. the first ring he gave to the porter, and without a word the gate was opened for the little wee boy. he gave the second ring to the butler, and without a word the little wee boy was led into the hall. the third ring he gave to the minstrel, and without a word he took his harp and forthwith played goodwill to the bonny wee boy from the greenwood. now, when the little etin reached the earl, he fell on his knee before him. the old earl looked upon the little lad, and his eyes they were filled with tears. 'my little wee boy, ye must haste away,' he cried. 'an i look upon you long my heart will break into three pieces, for ye have the eyes, the hair of my lost may margaret.' 'my eyes are blue as my mother's eyes, and my yellow hair curls as does hers,' cried the little wee boy. 'where is your mother?' then cried the earl, and the tears rolled down his cheek. 'my mother is standing at the castle gate, and with her are my six little wee brothers,' said the bonny young etin. 'run, porter boys, run fast,' said the earl, 'and throw wide open the gates that my daughter may come in to me.' into the hall came margaret, her six little sons by her side. before the earl she fell upon her knee, but the earl he lifted her up and said, 'ye shall dine with me to-day, ye and your seven bonny little sons.' 'no food can i eat,' said margaret, 'until i see again my dear husband. for he knows not where he may find me and his seven dear little sons.' 'now will i send my hunters, and they shall search the forest high and low and bring hynde etin unto me,' said the earl. then up and spake the little wee etin. 'search for my father shall ye not, until ye do send to him a pardon full and free.' and the earl smiled at the young etin. 'in sooth a pardon shall your father have,' said he. with his own hand the earl wrote the pardon, and he sealed it with his own seal. then the hunters were off and away to search for hynde etin. they sought for him east and they sought for him west, they sought all over the countryside. and at length they found him sitting alone in his home in elmond wood. alone, and tearing his yellow locks, was hynde etin. 'get up, hynde etin, get up and come with us, for the earl has sent for you,' cried the merry hunters. 'the earl may do as he lists with me,' said etin. 'he may cut off my head, or he may hang me on a greenwood tree. little do i care to live,' moaned etin, 'now that i have lost my lady margaret.' 'the lady margaret is in her father's hall, hynde etin,' said the hunters, 'nor food will she eat until ye do come to her. there is a pardon for you here sealed by the earl's own hand.' then hynde etin smoothed his yellow locks, and gay was he as he went with the hunters to the castle. down on his knee before the earl fell hynde etin. 'rise, etin, rise!' cried the earl. 'this day shall ye dine with me.' around the earl's table sat the lady margaret, her husband dear, and her seven little wee sons. and the little etin looked and looked and never a tear did he see on his mother's face. 'a boon i have to ask,' cried then the little wee boy; 'i would we were all in the holy church that the good priest might christen me and my six little brothers. for in the greenwood gay never a church did we see, nor the sound of church bells did we hear.' 'soon shall your boon be granted,' cried the earl, 'for this very day to the church shall ye go, and your mother and your six little wee brothers shall be with you.' to the door of the holy church they came, but there did the lady margaret stay. 'for twelve long years and more,' she cried, and bowed her head, 'for twelve long years have i never been within the holy church, and i fear to enter now.' then out to her came the good priest, and his smile was sweet to see. come hither, come hither, my lily-white flower,' said he, 'and bring your babes with you that i may lay my hands upon their heads.' then did he christen the lady margaret's seven little wee sons. and their names, beginning with the tiniest, were these--charles, vincent, sam, dick, james, john. and the eldest little wee son was, as you already know, named after his father, etin. and back to the earl's gay castle went the lady margaret with hynde etin and her seven little new-christened sons. and there they lived happy for ever after. [illustration: 'for twelve long years have i never been within the holy church, and i fear to enter now'] hynde horn hynde horn was a little prince. it was because he was so courteous, so kind a little lad that prince horn was always called hynde horn. for hend or hynde in the days of long ago meant just all the beautiful things which these words, courteous, kind, mean in these days. hynde horn lived a happy life in his home in the distant east. for it was in the bright glowing land of the sun that his father, king allof, reigned. the queen godylt loved her little son too well to spoil him. she wished him to learn to share his toys, to play his games with other boys. thus, much to the delight of little prince horn, two boys, almost as old as he was, came to live with him in the palace. athulph and fykenyld were their names. they were merry playmates for the little prince, and, as the years rolled by, athulph and fykenyld thought there was no one to equal their prince hynde horn. they would serve him loyally when he was king and they were men. all went well in the palace of this far-off eastern land until hynde horn was fifteen years of age. then war came, without warning, into this country of blue sky and blazing sun. mury, king of the turks, landed in the kingdom of king allof, who was all unprepared for fight. and king mury, with his fierce soldiers, pillaged the land, killed the good king allof, seized his crown, and placed it on his own head. then poor queen godylt fled from the palace, taking with her hynde horn and his two playmates prince athulph and prince fykenyld. i cannot tell you what became of the beautiful queen, but mury, the cruel king, captured hynde horn and made him and his two playfellows prisoners. what should he do with prince horn, who was heir to the kingdom he had seized? should he kill the lad, he wondered. yet cruel as king mury was, he could not do so dastardly a deed. but hynde horn was tall and strong, and hynde horn was loved by the people. he must certainly be sent out of the country. so king mury planned, and king mury plotted, and at length he thought of a way, by which he hoped to be for ever rid of the gallant prince and his two companions. he ordered the prisoners to be brought down to the seashore, and there the lads were thrust into an open boat, and pushed out to sea. it seemed as though they must perish, for king mury had given orders that no provisions were to be placed in the boat. there was neither helm nor oar for the little craft. the lads could do nothing to guide her on her dangerous course. now they would drift gently on the swell of the quiet sea, now they would whirl giddily on the crest of a storm-tossed wave. faint and weary grew hynde horn and his two companions. it seemed to them that they would perish from hunger or be devoured by the storm. yet every day the little boat was drifted by soft breezes or driven by wild storm-clouds westward and always westward. at length one day a great wave came and lifted it high up on to the coast. the boys had reached scotland, the country over which king alymer ruled. now it chanced that king alymer was passing along the sea-coast, and seeing the lads lying there, pale and bruised, he ordered that they should be carried to the palace, that they might be fed and that their wounds might be bathed. so carefully were they tended in the palace of king alymer that soon roses bloomed again on the cheeks of hynde horn and his two companions, strength crept back to their bruised bodies. ere many weeks had passed all in the palace loved hynde horn and knew that he was a prince worthy of his name. when the prince was well, king alymer listened to the story the lad had to tell, the story of his ruined home, his lost kingdom, his suffering at the hands of the cruel king mury. and king alymer, for he was gentle at heart, shed a tear as he heard. 'thou shalt stay at our court, hynde horn,' he said, 'and learn all that a prince should learn. then, when thou art older, thou shalt go to war with mury, the cruel king of the turks. thou shalt win back thine own kingdom and rule over it.' then the king called for athelbras, his steward, and bade him care for prince horn and his two companions. a suite of rooms was given to the prince in the palace, and here he and his playfellows were trained in all courtly ways. when his studies were over, hynde horn would go out to hawk and hunt. often, too, he would wrestle and tilt with his companions, so that in days to come he would be able to take his place in battle and in tournament. but one day king alymer heard the young prince's voice as he sang. so pure, so sweet rang the voice that the king said to himself, 'hynde horn shall be trained by the best harpist in our land.' then happy days began for the young prince. rather would he sing, as he touched softly the cords of the harp, than would he fight or tilt; rather would he sing and play, than go to hunt and hawk. yet well had he loved these sports in former days. now, king alymer had one daughter, the princess jean. dearly did the king love his daughter, and ofttimes he stroked her hair and wished that she had a playfellow to cheer her in his absence. for when the king would journey from city to city to see that justice and right ruled throughout the land, his child was left alone. but now that hynde horn and his companions had come, the king knew that the princess jean would no longer be dull while he was away. she, too, in the early days after the prince came to the palace, would ride to hunt and hawk, hynde horn by her side. and later she would listen as he talked to her of his beautiful home under the eastern sky, of his dear lost mother, godylt, and his father, king allof, who was slain by the cruel mury. she would listen, her eyes dim with tears, for she knew how well he had loved his home in the far-off east. but her eyes would flash as he told of the cruel king mury, and of how one day he would go back to his kingdom and win it from the hand of the evil king. her eyes would flash and her heart would beat, yet when she was alone she would weep. for what would she do if hynde horn went away to the far east and she was left alone? to the princess jean it seemed that the palace would be empty were prince horn no longer dwelling there. well, the years rolled on and hynde horn was no longer a boy, princess jean no longer a girl. they both had changed in many ways, but in one way both were still as they had been when they were boy and girl together. they had loved each other then, they loved each other now. so well did they love one another that they went to king alymer and told him that they wished to marry, and that without delay. now the king was well pleased that hynde horn should marry his beautiful daughter the princess jean, but he was not willing that the wedding should be at once. 'thou must wait, my daughter,' said the king; 'thou must wait to wed hynde horn until he has journeyed to the far east and won back the kingdom mury so unjustly wrested from him. then, when he has shown himself as brave as he is courteous, then shall the wedding be without delay.' thus it was that a few days later hynde horn and princess jean stood together to say farewell one to another. hynde horn was going away to win his spurs, to show himself worthy of the lady whom he loved. before he left her, he gave her a beautiful silver wand, and on the wand were perched seven living larks. they would warble to the princess jean when hynde horn was no longer near to sing to her, as had been his wont, in his soft sweet voice. and the princess jean drew from her own finger a ring, and seven diamonds shone therein. she placed it on the finger of her dear hynde horn, and said, 'as long as the diamonds in this ring flash bright, thou wilt know i love thee as i do now. should the gleam of the diamonds fade and grow dim, thou wilt know, not that my love grows less, for that may never be, but thou wilt know that evil hath befallen me.' then sadly they parted and hynde horn, the ring on his finger, hastened down to the shore. swiftly he embarked in the ship that awaited him, and sailed away. on and on for many a long day he sailed, until he reached the kingdom which mury the king had seized when he killed king allof. here hynde horn warred against king mury until he overcame him and won again the kingdom of the east for himself, the rightful heir. and the people over whom he ruled rejoiced, for hynde horn, though he no longer was prince but king, did not forget his kind and courteous ways. for seven years king horn ruled in this distant land, doing many a deed of daring meanwhile, and winning both gold and glory for himself. ofttimes during these long years he would glance at the diamond ring which the princess jean had given to him, and always the diamonds flashed back bright. then one day, when his work was over and he knew he was free to go again to the princess, his heart wellnigh stopped for fear. he had looked downward at his ring, and lo! the diamonds were dull and dim. their lustre had vanished. the princess jean must be in trouble, or already evil had befallen her. hynde horn hastened down to the seashore, and there he hired a ship to sail speedily to scotland, where king alymer ruled. the ship sailed swiftly, yet the days seemed long to king horn. oft he would gaze at his ring, but only to find the diamonds growing always more dull, more dim. hynde horn longed as he had never longed before to be once more beside the princess jean that he might guard her from all harm. fair blew the wind, onward sailed the ship, and at length hynde horn saw land, and knew that he was drawing near to scotland. a little later he had reached the coast and had begun his journey towards the palace. as he hastened on, king horn met a beggar man. 'old man,' cried hynde horn, 'i have come from far across the sea. tell me what news there is in this country, for it is many a long day since i have been in scotland.' 'there is little news,' said the beggar, 'little news, for we dwell secure under our gracious king alymer. to be sure, in the palace there is rejoicing. the feast has already been spread for forty days and more. to-day is the wedding-day of the king's daughter, the princess jean.' ah, now hynde horn understood why his diamonds had grown dull and dim. his beautiful princess had not forgotten him. of that he was quite sure. but king alymer and his people had grown weary of waiting for his return. seven years had seemed a long, long time, and now the king was anxious that his daughter should marry and wait no longer for the return of hynde horn. and, but this king horn did not know, fykenyld, his old companion, loved the princess, and had wooed her long and was waiting to marry her. false to hynde horn was fykenyld, for ever did he say, 'hynde horn is dead,' or 'hynde horn hath forgotten the princess jean,' or 'hynde horn hath married one of the dark-haired princesses in the far-off east.' and never did he leave the palace to go in search of his old playfellow, whom he had once longed to serve. now king alymer had listened to fykenyld's words, and though he did not believe hynde horn would forget his daughter, he did believe that hynde horn might be dead. thus it was that he commanded princess jean to look no longer for the return of hynde horn, but without more delay to marry prince fykenyld. and the princess, pale and sad, worn out by long waiting, promised to look no more for hynde horn. to please her father and his people, she even promised to marry hynde horn's old playfellow, prince fykenyld. ah, but had they only known, king horn was already hastening towards the palace. already he had learned that the wedding had not yet taken place. now he was speaking to the beggar again, quickly, impatiently. 'old man, lend me your torn and tattered coat. thou shalt have my scarlet cloak in its place. thy staff, too, i must have. instead of it thou shalt have my horse.' you see the young king had made up his mind to go to the palace dressed as a beggar. but the old man was puzzled. could the young prince from across the sea really wish to dress in his torn rags? well, it was a strange wish, but right glad would he be to have the scarlet cloak, the gallant steed. when king horn had donned his disguise, he cried, 'tell me now, how dost thou behave thyself when thou comest to the palace to beg?' 'ah, sir,' said the old man, 'thou must not walk thus upright. thou must not look all men boldly in the face. as thou goest up the hill, thou must lean heavily on thy staff, thou must cast thine eyes low to the ground. when thou comest to the gate of the palace, thou must tarry there until the hour for the king to dine. then mayest thou go to the great gate and ask an alms for the sake of st. peter and st. paul, but none shalt thou take from any hand, save from the hand of the young bride herself.' hynde horn thanked the old beggar man, and, bidding him farewell, set off up the hill toward the palace gate. and no one looking at him in the tattered coat, bending half double over his staff, no one could have guessed that this beggar man was the brave and courteous hynde horn. now when at length king horn reached the palace gate, the wedding feast was spread. princess jean was sitting on the throne beside her father, prince fykenyld on her other side, smiling to himself. he would soon be wedded to the princess, he thought, and in days to come he would reign with her over king alymer's wide domains. fykenyld had no thought to spare for his old playmate, save to be glad that he had never returned from the far east to claim his bride. but though seven long years had rolled away, princess jean had not forgotten hynde horn. forgotten! nay, day and night he was in her thought, in her heart. yet was she sure that he would never now return. it is true that in her despair she had yielded to her father's wishes; she had promised to wed prince fykenyld that very day. it was no wonder then that she sat on the throne sad at heart, pale of face. hynde horn had knocked at the palace gate. it was no humble beggar's rap he gave, but a bold, impatient knock. king horn had forgotten for the moment that he was only a beggar man. the palace gate was flung wide. one of the noble guests had arrived, thought the porter. but when he saw a beggar standing before him, he wellnigh slammed the gate in the poor man's face. before he could do this hynde horn spoke, and his voice made the porter pause to listen, so sweet, so soft it was. it brought back to the rough old man the thought of hynde horn, for he had been used to speak in just such a tone. the porter cleared his voice, wiped his eyes, for he, as all others who dwelt in the palace, had loved hynde horn, and grieved sorely for his absence. for the sake of hynde horn it was that the porter listened to the beggar man's request. 'i have come to ask for alms, yet will i take them from none save from the hand of the princess jean herself, and from across the sea,' said the beggar man. still hearing the sound of the lost prince's voice, the porter bade the beggar wait, and stealing up into the hall unnoticed, he passed through the crowd of gay lords and ladies until he reached the princess. 'a beggar from across the sea begs alms, yet none will he have save from the hand of the princess jean herself,' said the porter boldly. then--for he had known the princess from the time that she was only a tiny little girl--then he added in a whisper: 'the man hath a voice soft and sweet as that of our lost prince horn.' princess jean heard, and not a moment did she pause. she stepped down from the throne, took a cup of red wine in her hand, and heeding not the astonished stare of lord and lady, she hastened out to the palace gate. very beautiful she looked in her long white robe, her gold combs glinting in her hair. 'drink,' she said gently, as she stood before the beggar, 'drink, and then haste to tell me what tidings thou dost bring from across the sea.' [illustration: 'drink,' she said gently, 'drink'] the beggar took the cup of wine and drank. as he handed back the cup to the princess he dropped into it the diamond ring, which had been dull and dim for many a long day now. princess jean saw the ring. she knew it was the very one she had given to hynde horn. her heart bounded. now at least she would hear tidings of her long-lost love. 'oh tell me, tell me quick,' she cried, 'where didst thou find this ring? was it on the sea or in a far-off country that thou didst find it, or was it on the finger of a dead man? tell me, oh tell me quick!' cried the princess jean. 'neither by sea nor by land did i find the ring,' answered the beggar, 'nor on a dead man's hand. it was given to me by one who loved me well, and i, i give it back to her on this her wedding-day.' as hynde horn spoke he stood up, straight and tall, and looked straight into the eyes of the princess jean. then, in a flash, she understood. in spite of the tattered coat, she knew her own hynde horn. her pale cheeks glowed, her dim eyes shone. 'hynde horn!' she cried, 'my own hynde horn, i will never let thee leave me again. i will throw away my golden combs, i will put on my oldest gown, and i will come with thee, and together we will beg for bread.' king horn smiled, and his voice was soft as he answered, 'no need is there to take the gold combs from thy hair or to change thy white robe for one less fair. this is thy wedding-day, and i have come to claim my bride.' and king horn flung aside the old torn coat, and the princess jean saw that beneath the rags hynde horn was clothed as one of kingly rank. then throughout the palace the tidings spread, 'hynde horn hath come back, hynde horn hath come back, and now is he king of his own country.' and that very day king horn was wedded to the beautiful princess jean, with her father's blessing, and amid the rejoicings of the people. and prince fykenyld slunk away, ashamed to look his old playmate in the face. not many months passed ere king horn and queen jean sailed away to reign together in the far east. and never again in the years to come did the diamonds on king horn's ring grow dull or dim. thomas the rhymer it is six hundred years ago since thomas the rhymer lived and rhymed, and in those far-off days little need was there to tell his tale. it was known far and wide throughout the countryside. thomas was known as thomas the rhymer because of the wonderful songs he sang. never another harper in all the land had so great a gift as he. but at that no one marvelled, no one, that is to say, who knew that he had gained his gift in elfland. when thomas took his harp in his hand and touched the strings, a hush would fall upon those who heard, were they princes or were they peasants. for the magic of his music reached the hearts of all who stood around him. were the strains merry, gleeful? the faces of those who heard were wreathed in smiles. were they sad, melancholy? the faces of those who looked upon the harpist were bathed in tears. truly thomas the rhymer held the hearts of the people in his hand. but the minstrel had another name, wonderful as the one i have already told to you. thomas the rhymer was named true thomas, and that was because, even had he wished it, thomas could not say or sing what was not true. this gift too, as you will hear, was given to him by the queen of elfland. and yet another name had this wonderful singer. he was born, so the folk said, in a little village called ercildoune. he lived there, so the folk knew, in a castle strongly built on the banks of a little river. thus to those who dwelt in the countryside the rhymer was known as thomas of ercildoune. the river which flowed past the castle was the leader. it flowed broader and deeper until two miles beyond the village it ran into the beautiful river tweed. and to-day the ruins of an old tower are visited by many folk who have heard that it was once the home of the ancient harpist. thomas of ercildoune, thomas the rhymer, and true thomas were thus only different names for one marvellous man who sang and played, never told an untruth, and who, moreover, was able to tell beforehand events that were going to take place. listen, and i will tell you how thomas of ercildoune came to visit elfland. it was one beautiful may morning that thomas felt something stirring in his heart. spring had come, spring was calling to him. he could stay no longer in the grim tower on the banks of the leader. he would away, away to the woods where the thrush and the jay were singing, where the violets were peeping forth with timid eyes, where the green buds were bursting their bonds for very joy. thomas hastened to the woods and threw himself down by the bank of a little brook. ah yes! spring has come. how the little birds sing, how the gentle breezes whisper! yet listen! what is it thomas hears beyond the song of the birds, the whisper of the breeze? on the air floats the sound of silver bells. thomas raises his head. tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! the sound draws nearer, clearer. it is music such as one might hear in elfland. beyond the wood, over the lonely moors, rode a lady. so fair a lady had thomas never seen. her palfrey was dapple-grey and she herself shone as the summer sun. her saddle was of pure ivory, bright with many precious stones and hung with cloth of richest crimson. the girths of her saddle were of silk and the buckles were each one a beryl. her stirrups of clear crystal and adorned with pearls hung ready for her fairy feet. the trappings of her palfrey were of finest embroidery, her bridle was a chain of gold. from the palfrey's mane hung little silver bells, nine-and-fifty little silver bells. it was the fairy music of the bells that had reached the ears of thomas as he lay dreaming on the bank of the little brook. the lady's skirt was green, green as the leaves of spring, her cloak was of fine velvet. her long black hair hung round her as a veil, and her brow was adorned with gems. by her side were seven greyhounds, other seven she led by a leash. from her neck hung a horn and in her belt was thrust a sheath of arrows. it seemed as though the lady gay were on her way to the hunting-field. now she would blow her horn until the echoes answered merrily, merrily; now she would trill her songs, until the wild birds answered gaily, gaily. thomas of ercildoune gazed, and thomas of ercildoune listened, and his heart gave a great bound as he said to himself, 'now, by my troth, the lady is none of mortal birth. she is none other than mary, the queen of heaven.' then up sprang thomas from the little woodland brook and away sped he over the mountain-side, that he might, so it were possible, reach her as she rode by the eildon tree, which tree grew on the side of the eildon hills. 'for certainly,' said thomas, 'if i do not speak with that lady bright, my heart will break in three.' and in sooth, as she dismounted under the eildon tree, thomas met the lady, and kneeling low beneath the greenwood, he spoke, thus eager was he to win a benison from the queen of heaven. 'lovely lady, have pity upon me, even as thou art mother of the child who died for me.' 'nay now, nay now,' said the lady gay, 'no queen of heaven am i. i come but from the country thou dost call elfland, though queen of that country in truth i am. i do but ride to the hunt with my hounds as thou mayest hear.' and she blew on her horn merrily, merrily. now thomas did not wish to lose sight of so fair a lady. 'go not back to elfland; stay by my side under the eildon tree,' he pleaded. 'nay,' said the queen of elfland, 'should i stay with thee, a mortal, my fairness would fade as fades a leaf.' but thomas did not believe her, and, for he was a bold man, he drew near and kissed the rosy lips of the elfland queen. alas, alas! no sooner had he kissed her than the lady fair changed into a tired old woman. she no longer wore a skirt of beautiful green, but a long robe of hodden grey covered her from head to foot. the light, bright as the summer sun that had shone around her, faded, and her face grew pale and thin. her eyes no longer danced for joy, they gazed dull and dim before her. and on one side of her head the long black hair had changed to grey. [illustration: under the eildon tree thomas met the lady] it was a sight to make one sad, and thomas, as he gazed, cried, as well he might, 'alas, alas!' 'thyself hast sealed thy doom, thomas,' cried the lady. 'thou must come with me to elfland. haste thou therefore to bid farewell to sun and moon, to trees and flowers, for, come weal, come woe, thou must e'en serve me for a twelvemonth.' then thomas fell upon his knees and prayed to mary mild that she would have pity upon him. but when he arose the queen of elfland bade him mount behind her, and thomas could do nought save obey her command. her steed flew forward, the eildon hills opened, and horse and riders were in the caverns of the earth. thomas felt darkness close around him. on they rode, on and yet on; swift as the wind they rode. water reached to his knee, above and around him was darkness, and ever and anon the booming of the waves. for three days they rode. then thomas grew faint with hunger and cried, 'woe is me, i shall die for lack of food.' as he cried, the darkness grew less thick, and they were riding forward into light. bright sunlight lay around them as they rode toward a garden. it was a garden such as thomas had never seen on earth. all manner of fruit was there, apples and pears, dates and damsons, figs and currants, all ripe, ready to be plucked. in this beautiful garden, too, there were birds, nightingales building their nests, gay popinjays flitting hither and thither among the trees, thrushes singing their sweetest songs. but these thomas neither saw nor heard. thomas had eyes only for the fruit, and he thrust forth his hand to pluck it, so hungry, so faint was he. 'let be the fruit, thomas,' cried the lady, 'let be the fruit. for dost thou pluck it, thy soul will go to an evil place, nor shall it escape until the day of doom. leave the fruit, thomas, and come lay thy head upon my knee, and i will show thee a sight fairer than ever mortal hath seen. and thomas, being fain to rest, lay down as he was bid, and closed his eyes. 'now open thine eyes, thomas,' said the lady, 'and thou shalt see three roads before thee. narrow and straight is the first, and hard is it to walk there, for thorns and briars grow thick, and spread themselves across the pathway. straight up over the mountain-tops on into the city of god runs this straight and narrow road. it is named the path of goodness. and ever will the thorns prick and the briars spread, for few there be who tread far on this rough and prickly road. 'look yet again, thomas,' said the lady. and thomas saw stretching before him a long white road. it ran smooth and broad across a grassy plain, and roses blossomed, and lilies bloomed by the wayside. 'that,' said the lady, 'is named the path of evil, and many there be who saunter along its broad and easy surface.' thomas said no word, but lay looking at the third pathway as it twisted and twined in and out amid the cool, green nooks of the woodland. tiny rills caught the sunlight and tossed it back to the cold, grey rock down which they trickled; tiny ferns waved a welcome from their sheltered crevices. 'this,' said the lady, 'this is the fair road to elfland, and along its beauteous way must thou and i ride this very night. but speak thou to none, thomas, when thou comest to elfland. though strange the sights you see, the sounds you hear, speak thou to none, for never mortal returns to his own country does he speak one word in the land of elfs.' then once again thomas mounted behind the lady, and hard and fast did they ride until they saw before them a castle. it stood on a high hill, fair and strong, and as it came in sight the lady reined in her white steed. 'see, thomas, see!' she cried, 'here is the castle that is mine and his who is king of this country. none like it is there, for beauty or for strength, in the land from which thou comest. my lord is waited on by knights, of whom there are thirty in this castle. a noble lord is mine, nor would he wish to hear how thou wert bold and kissed me under the eildon tree. bear thou in mind, thomas, that thou speak no word, nay, not though thou art commanded to tell thy tale. i will say to my courtiers that i took from thee the power of speech ere ever we crossed the sea.' thomas listened, and dared not speak. thomas stood still, still as a stone, and gazed upon the lady, and lo! a great wonder came to pass. once more the lady shone bright as the sun upon a summer's morn, once more she wore her skirt of green, green as the leaves of spring, and her velvet cloak hung around her shoulders. her eyes flashed and her long hair waved once more black in the breeze. and thomas, looking at his own garments, started to see that they too were changed. for he was now clothed in a suit of beautiful soft cloth, and on his feet were a pair of green velvet shoes. clear and loud the lady fair blew her horn, clear and loud, and forward she rode toward the castle gate. then down to welcome their queen trooped all the fairy court, and kneeling low before her, they did her reverence. into the hall she stepped, thomas following close at her side, silent as one who had no power to speak. they crowded around him, the knights and squires; they asked him questions about his own country, yet no word dared thomas answer. then arose great revelry and feasting in the castle of the elfin queen. harps and fiddles played their wildest and most gladsome tunes, knights and ladies danced, and all went merry as a marriage bell. across the hall thomas looked, and there a strange sight met his glance. thirty harts and as many deer lay on the oaken floor, and bending over them, their knives in their hands, were elfin cooks, making ready for the feast. thomas wondered if it were but a dream, so strange seemed the sights he saw. gaily passed the days, and thomas had no wish to leave the strange elfland. but a day came when the queen said to thomas, 'now must thou begone from elfland, thomas, and i, myself, will ride with you back to your own country.' 'nay now, but three days have i dwelt in thy realm,' said thomas, 'with but little cheer. give me leave to linger yet a little while.' 'indeed, indeed, thomas,' cried the queen of elfland, 'thou hast been with me for seven long years and more, but now thou must away ere the dawn of another day. to-morrow there comes an evil spirit from the land of darkness to our fair realm. he comes each year to claim our most favoured and most courteous guest, and it will be thou, thomas, thou, whom he will wish to carry to his dark abode. but we tarry not his coming. by the light of the moon we ride to-night to the land of thy birth.' once again the lady fair mounted her white palfrey, and thomas rode behind until she brought him safe back to the eildon tree. there, under the leaves of the greenwood, while the little birds sang their lays, the queen of elfland said farewell to thomas. 'farewell, thomas, farewell, i may no longer stay with thee.' 'give me a token,' pleaded thomas, 'a token ere thou leavest me, that mortals may know that i have in truth been with thee in elfland.' 'take with thee, then,' said the lady, 'take with thee the gift of harp and song, and likewise the power to tell that which will come to pass in future days. nor ever shall thy tales be false, thomas, for i have taken from thee the power to speak aught save only what is true.' she turned to ride away, away to elfland. then thomas was sad, and tears streamed from his grey eyes, and he cried, 'tell me, lady fair, shall i never meet thee more?' 'yea,' said the elf queen, 'we shall meet again, thomas. when thou art in thy castle of ercildoune and hearest of a hart and hind that come out of the forest and pace unafraid through the village, then come thou down to seek for me here, under the eildon tree.' then loud and clear blew she her horn and rode away. thus thomas parted from the elfin queen. on earth seven slow long years had passed away since thomas had been seen in the little village of ercildoune, and the villagers rubbed their eyes and stared with open mouth as they saw him once again in their midst. ofttimes now thomas was to be seen wandering down from his grim old castle down to the bonny greenwood. ofttimes was he to be found lying on the bank of the little brook that babbled to itself as it ran through the forest, or under the eildon tree, where he had met the elf queen so long before. he would be dreaming as he lay there of the songs he would sing to the country folk. so beautiful were these songs that people hearing them knew that thomas the rhymer had a gift that had been given to him by no mortal hand. he would be thinking, too, as he lay by the babbling brook, of the wars and dangers that in years to come would fall upon his country. and those who hearkened to the woes he uttered found that the words of true thomas never failed to come to pass. seven long years passed away since thomas had parted from the elfland queen, and yet another seven. war had raged here and there throughout the land, when on a time it chanced that the scottish army encamped close to the castle of ercildoune where thomas the rhymer dwelt. it was a time of truce, and thomas wished to give a feast to the gallant soldiers who had been fighting for their country. thus it was that the doors of the old castle were flung wide, and noise and laughter filled the banquet-hall. merry were the tales, loud the jests, bright the minstrel strains that night in the castle of ercildoune. but when the feast was over thomas himself arose, the harp he had brought from elfland in his hand, and a hush fell upon the throng, upon lords and ladies, and upon rough armed men. the cheeks of rugged warriors that day were wet ere ever thomas ceased to sing. nor ever in the years to come did those who heard forget the magic of his song. night fell, those who had feasted had gone to rest, when in the bright moonlight a strange sight was seen by the village folk. along the banks of the leader there paced side by side a hart and a hind, each white, white as newly fallen snow. slowly and with stately steps they moved, nor were they affrighted by the crowd which gathered to gaze at them. then, for true thomas would know the meaning of so strange a sight, then a messenger was sent in haste to the castle of ercildoune. as he listened to the tale the messenger brought, thomas started up out of bed and in haste he put on his clothes. pale and red did he grow in turn as he listened to the tale, yet all he said was this: 'my sand is run, my thread is spun, this token is for me.' thomas hung his elfin harp around his neck, his minstrel cloak across his shoulders, and out into the pale moonlight he walked. and as he walked the wind touched the strings of the elfin harp and drew forth a wail so full of dole that those who heard it whispered: 'it is a note of death.' on walked thomas, slow and sad, and oft he turned to look again at the grim walls of the castle, which he knew he would never see again. and the moonbeams fell upon the grey tower, and in the soft light the walls grew less grim, less stern, so thought thomas. 'farewell,' he cried, 'farewell. nor song nor dance shall evermore find place within thy walls. on thy hearthstone shall the wild hare seek a refuge for her young. farewell to leader, the stream i love, farewell to ercildoune, my home.' as thomas tarried for a last look, the hart and the hind drew near. onward then he went with them toward the banks of the leader, and there, before the astonished folk, he crossed the stream with his strange companions, and nevermore was thomas the rhymer seen again. for many a day among the hills and through the glens was thomas sought, but never was he found. there be some who say that he is living yet in elfland, and that one day he will come again to earth. meanwhile he is not forgotten. the eildon tree no longer waves its branches in the breeze, but a large stone named the eildon-tree stone marks the spot where once it grew. and near to the stone flows a little river which has been named the goblin brook, for by its banks it was believed that thomas the rhymer used to talk with little men from the land of elf. lizzie lindsay in the fair city of edinburgh there lived many many years ago a beautiful maiden named lizzie lindsay. her home was in the canongate, which is now one of the poorest parts of the city. but in the days when lizzie danced and sang, and made her father's and mother's heart rejoice, the canongate was the home of all the richest lords and ladies. for close to the canongate was holyrood, the palace where the king held his court. and it was well, thought the lords and ladies of long ago, to live near the palace where there were many gay sights to be seen. lizzie had been a bonny wee girl, and as she grew up she grew bonnier still, until, not only in edinburgh, but far and wide throughout the country, people would speak of her beauty. even the folk who dwelt away over the hills in the highlands heard of the beauty of lizzie lindsay. dame lindsay loved her daughter well, and gave her beautiful gowns of silk and velvet. her father, too, would bring her home many a sparkling jewel, many a brilliant gem. it seemed as though lizzie lindsay had all that her heart could wish. certainly she did not wish to leave her home in the canongate, for though lord after lord, noble after noble begged for her hand, lizzie but tossed her beautiful head high in the air as she said them nay. but though it was well known that the lovely maiden had kind looks and gentle words to spare for none save only her dear father and her doting mother, yet still the lords and nobles would dance more gladly with lizzie than with any other maiden. and a ball, even a ball given by the court at the palace of holyrood, seemed to be less gladsome were it known that the fair maiden would not be there. now, as i have told you, the fame of lizzie lindsay's beauty had spread even to the highlands. and donald, the young laird of kingcaussie, heard that she was fairer than any other maiden in the land, and that she was haughtier and more wilful as well. for she would have nought to say, to any of the rich suitors who surrounded her. then donald, who was tall and handsome, and who was used to have his own way, smiled as he heard of lizzie's wilful spirit and her great beauty. he made up his mind that he would go to edinburgh and try to win as his bride the bonnie lassie who would have nought to do with noble or with lord. the young laird lived with his father and mother in a castle built high amid the heather-covered hills, and little until now had donald cared for city ways or city walls. to hunt the deer, to chase the roe, to spend the long hours from early morn until even among the heathery moors which were all his own, had been happiness enough for him. but now, now the glory faded from the heather, and the hunt and chase lost their delight. sir donald's heart was in the fair city of edinburgh with beautiful lizzie lindsay, whom, though he had not seen, he loved. at length one day the young laird went to his lady mother and, kissing her hand right courteously, he begged her to grant him a boon. for donald had been well trained, and, though he was no longer a boy, he did not dream of leaving his home among the hills until he had gained his mother's consent. 'grant me a boon, lady mother,' said the young laird. 'send me away to the fair city of edinburgh, for it is there that my true love dwells. and if ye will do this i will bring you home a daughter more beautiful than any other maiden in the land.' now the young laird's mother had heard of lizzie lindsay, and it may be that she was glad that her son should wish to bring to the castle so beautiful a bride. yet she had no wish for the maiden to be won by aught save by love for her dear son alone. lizzie had refused to wed with lord or noble, it was true, yet the broad lands, the ancient castle of the macdonalds, might please her fancy. but the lady of kingcaussie determined that neither for land nor for castle should bonnie lizzie lindsay come to the highlands. when she saw young donald at her side, and heard him begging leave to go to the fair city of edinburgh, she smiled as she looked into his eager face, and answered slowly, 'my son, ye shall go to edinburgh an it please you, and so ye are able ye shall bring back with you lizzie lindsay as your bride. a fairer maiden, i can well believe, has never graced these walls. yet, if ye go, it shall not be as sir donald macdonald, the heir to broad lands and ancient castles, but as a simple stranger, without riches and without rank. then, if ye do win your bride, it will be through love alone,' said his mother gravely. but her eyes shone bright and glad, for she thought that there was not a maiden in all the land who would not be proud to wed her son, though he had neither riches nor lands. as for the old laird, he laughed when he heard why his son had grown weary at the hunt and listless at the chase. he laughed and cried, 'let the lad go to the city; before a year has passed away he will be home again and the beautiful lizzie lindsay with him.' for his old father, too, thought that no maiden could refuse to love his bonny self-willed son. well, young donald was too anxious to be off and away to edinburgh to be grieved to go as a simple highlander. before the day was over he had said farewell to his light-hearted old father and to his gentle lady mother, and clad in a rough tartan kilt and without a servant to follow him, the young laird was off to the fair city of edinburgh. when donald reached edinburgh he wondered how he would see the maiden of whose beauty and of whose cleverness he had so often heard. he had not long to wait, for he had scarce been a day in the city when he heard that a great ball was to be given and to be graced by the presence of the fair maiden whom he hoped to win as his bride. donald made up his mind that he too would go to the ball, and it was easy for him to do this, as there were many in the city who knew the young laird. when he entered the ballroom he saw that the lords and nobles were dressed in suits of velvet or silk and satins, while he wore only his kilt of rough tartan. the lords and ladies too stared at the tall handsome young highlander in his strange garments, and some, who did not know him, forgot their good manners and smiled and nudged each other as he passed down the room. but the young laird had no thought to spare for the crowd. he was making his way to the circle, in the midst of which stood lizzie lindsay. he had heard too often of the beautiful maiden not to be sure it was she as soon as his eyes fell upon her face. young donald, in his homespun tartan, stood on the outskirt of the little crowd that surrounded her, listening. the lords in their gay suits were doing their utmost to win the goodwill of the maiden, but their flattery and foolish words seemed to give her little pleasure. indeed she was too used to them to find them aught but a weariness. soon donald was bowing before the maiden he had left his home to win, and begging her to dance with him. and something in the bright eyes and gallant bearing of young donald pleased the petted maiden, and, despite his rough suit, she had nought but smiles for the young stranger from the highlands. the lords, in their silks and velvets, opened their eyes wide in astonishment as lizzie glided past them with young donald; the ladies smiled and flouted her, but the maiden paid no heed to their words or looks. donald was not flattering her as she was used to be flattered, he was telling her of the country in which he dwelt. and lizzie as she listened heard the hum of the bees, smelt the fragrance of the heather. nay, she even forgot the ballroom, and she was out on the silent moorland or climbing the steep mountains side by side with the young stranger whose face was so eager, whose eyes were so bright. she was stooping to pluck the wildflowers that grew in the nooks of some sheltered glen, or she was kilting her dainty gown and crossing the mountain streamlets, and ever the tall, young stranger was by her side. before the ball was over donald knew that lizzie lindsay's home was in the canongate, and he had begged to be allowed to see her there. lizzie had no wish to lose sight of the bright young highlander, and she told him gaily that if he came to the canongate to see her he should be welcome, both to her and her dear father and mother. when the dance ended the young laird went to his lodgings, and his heart was light and his dreams glad. his old father had thought he might be in edinburgh a year ere he won his bride. but young donald murmured to himself that it would scarce be twelve long months before he was back again to the highlands with his bonny lizzie lindsay. the next day donald was at the canongate betimes, and lizzie welcomed him merrily, and her father and mother looked in kindly fashion at the young stranger, for indeed donald had the gift of winning hearts. but neither father nor mother dreamed that the country clad youth would win their beautiful daughter's hand, for had she not refused it to many a lordly earl and noble knight. yet the more lizzie heard about the highlands, the more she longed to be there with young donald by her side. at length a day came when donald, with little fear and much hope in his heart, asked the maiden if she would go with him to the highlands. 'we will feed on curds and whey,' cried the daring young donald; 'your cheeks will grow more pink, and your brow more white with our simple fare. your bed shall be made on the fresh green bracken and my plaid shall wrap you round. will ye come to the highlands with me, lizzie lindsay?' now lizzie had listened to young donald's words with joy, but also with some fear. her food had been of the daintiest, her bed of the softest down, and the young stranger, who was indeed scarce a stranger now, had, it seemed, but little to offer her save his love. yet lizzie still wished to go to the highlands. [illustration: 'will ye come to the highlands with me, lizzie lindsay?'] but when dame lindsay heard what young donald had said she hardened her heart against the bonny young highlander. 'ye shall speak no more to my daughter,' she cried, 'until ye have told me where your home is, and how many broad lands are your own?' for it seemed to the old dame that a penniless lad would never dare to win her daughter, when lords and nobles had wooed her in vain. but donald's head was high, and he seemed to feel no shame as he answered the old dame bravely-- 'my name is donald macdonald, and i hold it high in honour. my father is an old shepherd and my mother a dairymaid. yet kind and gentle will they be to your beautiful daughter if she will come with me to the highlands.' dame lindsay could scarce believe she had heard aright. her daughter marry a shepherd lad! nay, that should never be, though indeed the lad was a bonny one and brave. then in her anger she bade young donald begone. 'if ye do steal away my daughter, then, without doubt ye shall hang for it!' she cried. the young laird turned haughtily on his heel. he had little patience, nor could his spirit easily brook such scorn as the old dame flung at him. he turned on his heel and he said, 'there is no law in edinburgh city this day which can hang me.' but before he could say more lizzie was by his side. 'come to my room, donald,' she pleaded; and as he looked at the beautiful girl the young laird's wrath vanished as quickly as it had come. 'come to my room for an hour until i draw a fair picture of you to hang in my bower. ye shall have ten guineas if you will but come.' 'your golden guineas i will not have!' cried donald quickly. 'i have plenty of cows in the highlands, and they are all my own. come with me, lizzie, and we will feed on curds and whey, and thou shalt have a bonnie blue plaid with red and green strips. come with me, lizzie lindsay; we will herd the wee lambs together.' yet, though lizzie loved young donald macdonald, she still hesitated to leave her kind parents and her beautiful home. she sat in her bower and she said to her maid, 'helen, what shall i do, for my heart is in the highlands with donald?' then the maid, who was wellnigh as beautiful as her mistress, cried, 'though i were a princess and sat upon a throne, yet would i leave all to go with young donald macdonald.' 'o helen!' cried lizzie, 'would ye leave your chests full of jewels and silk gowns, and would ye leave your father and mother, and all your friends to go away with a highland laddie who wears nought but a homespun kilt?' but before her maid could answer her, lizzie had sprung from her chair, saying, 'yet i think he must be a wizard, and have enchanted me, for, come good or come ill, i must e'en go to the highlands.' then early one morning lizzie tied up her silk robes in a bundle and clad herself in one of helen's plain gowns. with her bundle over her arm, lizzie lindsay was off to the highlands with donald macdonald. donald's heart was glad as he left the fair city of edinburgh behind him, lizzie by his side. he had so much to tell his beautiful bride, so much, too, to show her, that at first the road seemed neither rough nor long. but as the hours passed the way grew rougher, the hills steeper, and lizzie's strength began to fail. her shoes, too, which were not made for such rough journeys, were soon so worn that her feet grew hot and blistered. 'alas!' sighed lizzie lindsay, 'i would i were back in edinburgh, sitting alone in my bower.' 'we are but a few miles away from the city,' said donald; 'will you even now go back?' but the tears trickled slowly down the maiden's cheeks, and she sobbed, 'now would i receive no welcome from my father, no kiss from my mother, for sore displeased will they be that i have left them for you, donald macdonald.' on and on they trudged in silence, and as evening crept on donald cried aloud, 'dry your tears now, lizzie, for there before us is our home,' and he pointed to a tiny cottage on the side of the hill. an old woman stood at the door, gazing down the hill, and as they drew near she came forward with outstretched hands. 'welcome, sir donald,' she said, 'welcome home to your own.' 'she spoke in gaelic, as highlanders do, so lizzie did not know what she said. sir donald whispered quickly in the same language, 'hush, call me only donald, and pretend that i am your son.' the old woman, though sore dismayed at having to treat the young laird in so homely a way, promised to do his bidding. then donald turned to lizzie. 'here mother,' he said, 'is my lady-love, whom i have won in the fair city of edinburgh.' the old woman drew lizzie into the cottage, and spoke kindly to her, but the maiden's heart sank. for a peat fire smouldered on the hearth and the room was filled with smoke. there was no easy chair, no couch on which to rest her weary body, so lizzie dropped down on to a heap of green turf. her sadness did not seem to trouble donald. he seemed gayer, happier, every moment. 'we are hungry, mother,' he said; 'make us a good supper of curds and whey, and then make us a bed of green rushes and cover us with yonder grey plaids.' the old woman moved about eagerly as though overjoyed to do all that she could for her son and his young bride. curds and whey was a supper dainty enough for a queen, as lizzie whispered to her shepherd lad with a little sigh. even the bed of green rushes could not keep her awake. no sooner had she lain down than, worn out with her long journey, she fell fast asleep, nor did she awake until the sun was high in the sky. as she awoke she heard donald's voice. he was reproaching her, and she had not been used to reproach. 'it would have been well,' said donald, 'that you had risen an hour ago to milk the cows, to tend the flock.' the tears gathered in lizzie's eyes and trickled down her cheeks. 'alas, alas!' she sighed, 'i would i had never left my home, for here i am of little use. i have never milked a cow, nor do i know how to begin, and flocks have i never tended. alas that i ever came to the highlands! yet well do i love donald macdonald, and long and dull would the days have been had he left me behind him in edinburgh.' 'shed no more tears, lizzie,' said donald gently. 'get up and dress yourself in your silk gown, for to-day i will take you over the hills of kingcaussie and show you the glens and dales where i used to play when i was but a little lad.' then lizzie dried her tears and soon she was up and dressed in her finest gown, and leaning on donald's arm she wandered with him over the heathery hills until they reached a noble castle. joyously then laughed the young laird, as he bade lizzie gaze all around her and be glad. 'i am the lord of all you see, lizzie,' cried he, 'for this castle is my home and the mountains are my own broad lands.' then joyously too laughed lizzie lindsay, for she knew that her shepherd lad was none other than the far-famed sir donald macdonald. at that moment the castle gates were flung wide, and the old laird of kingcaussie came out to greet the bride. 'ye are welcome, lizzie lindsay, welcome to our castle,' he said right courteously. 'many were the lords and nobles who begged for your hand, but it is young donald, my son, who has won it, with no gift save the glance of his bonny blue eyes.' and the old laird laughed merrily as he looked up at his son. the laird's gracious mother too came down to greet her, and well was she pleased that her boy had won the beautiful maiden he loved. as for lizzie lindsay, she sent to edinburgh to fetch her father and mother, that they might see for themselves how wise their daughter had been to follow donald macdonald to the highlands. the gay goshawk lord william sat alone in his grey northern castle. he had come but lately from the sunny south, and the room in which he sat struck chill after the sun-warmed rooms to which he had grown used. little joy had lord william in his old grey castle, for his heart was far away in the sunny south. all alone he sat save for his favourite bird, the gay goshawk. and it, for it loved its master well, blinked a tear from its eye as it peered into lord william's gloomy face, blinked and peered again, so pale and lean had his master grown. 'now what ill has befallen,' thought the bird, and it ruffled its feathers in its distress. lord william looked up and stroked the glossy plumage of his gay goshawk. 'be still, my bonny bird, be still,' said lord william, 'and i will smooth your ruffled wings.' the goshawk blinked and peered more close into the tired face of his master. then he began to speak. 'have you lost your sword or spear in the tournament, have you lost them in sunny england?' asked the bird, 'or are you pale with grief because your true love is far away?' 'by my troth!' cried lord william, 'i have lost nor sword nor spear, yet do i mourn, for my true love whom i fain would see. 'you shall carry a message to her, my gay goshawk, for you can fly over hill and dale. you shall carry a letter to my love, and you shall e'en bring me an answer,' said lord william, 'for you can speak as well as fly, my bonny bird.' 'but how shall i know your true love?' said the bird. 'never have i seen her face or heard her voice.' 'o well will you know my true love,' cried lord william, 'for in all england lives there none so fair as she. the cheeks of my love are red as the red red rose, and her neck, it is whiter than new-fallen snow. 'near to her lattice window grows a birch, whose leaves tremble in the breeze. there shall you sit, my gay goshawk, and you shall sing to her as she goes to holy church. 'with four-and-twenty maidens will she go, yet well will you know my own true love, for she is the fairest of them all. you shall know her, too, by the gold that bedecks her skirt, by the light that glimmers in her hair.' then lord william sat down and wrote a letter to his love, and fastened it firm under the pinion of his gay goshawk. away flew the bird, swift did it fly to do its master's will. o'er hill and dale it winged its flight until at length it saw the birch-tree that grew near the lady's bower. there, on the birch-tree, did the goshawk perch, and there did he sing his song as the lady with her four-and-twenty maidens passed beneath its branches towards the church. the sharp eyes of the goshawk glanced at each beautiful maiden, and quick was he to see lord william's love, for sweet was she as the flowers that spring in may. gold was embroidered on her skirt, sunlight glistened in her beautiful yellow hair. when another day dawned the gay goshawk left the birch-tree and alighted on the gate, a little nearer to the lattice window where sat the beautiful lady to whom he had been sent. here again he sang his song. loud and clear he sang it first, loud and clear that all might hear. soft and sweet he sang it after, soft and sweet that only lord william's lady might catch the note of love. and ever, loud or soft, the last words of his song were these, 'your true love cannot come to you here.' then said the lady to her four-and-twenty maidens, 'eat, my merry maidens, eat and drink, for the feast is spread. i go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds, for hark! they are singing their evensong.' but in her heart the lady knew there was only one song she longed to hear. wide she opened her lattice window and, leaning out, she hearkened to the song of the gay goshawk. 'sing on, ye bonny bird,' she cried, 'sing on, for i know no song could be so sweet that came not from my own true love.' a little nearer flew the gay goshawk, and first his song was merry as a summer morn, and then it was sad as an autumn eve. as she listened, tears dropped from the eyes of the beautiful lady. she put out her hand and stroked the pinions of the gay goshawk, and lo! there dropped from beneath his wing lord william's letter. 'five letters has my master sent to you,' said the bird, 'and long has he looked for one from you, yet never has it come, and he is weary with long waiting.' then the lady sighed, for no letter had she ever had from her true love. 'my stepmother has hidden the letters, for never one have i seen,' she cried. [illustration: 'i go but to my lattice window to listen to the birds'] her fingers tore open the letter which had dropped from beneath the bird's wing, and she read, and as she read she laughed aloud. lord william had written a letter that was full of grief, because he could not come to the lady he loved, yet did the lady laugh. and this is why she laughed both long and glad. because she had made up her mind that as he could not come to her she herself would go to lord william. 'carry this message to my own true love,' said she then to the gay goshawk. 'since you cannot come to me, i myself will come to you in your cold northern country. and as a token of my love i send you by your gay goshawk a ring from off my finger, a wreath from off my yellow hair. and lest these should not please you i send my heart, and more than that can you not wish. 'prepare the wedding feast, invite the guests, and then haste you to meet me at st. mary's church, for there, ere long, will you find me. 'fly, gay goshawk, fly and carry with you my message to lord william.' and the bird flew o'er hill and dale until once again he reached the grey northern castle in which his master dwelt. and he saw his master's eye grow glad, his pale cheek glow as he listened to the message, as he held the tokens of his own true love. then the lady, left alone, closed her lattice window and went up to her own room followed by her maidens. here she began to moan and cry as though she were in great pain, or seized by sudden illness. so ill she seemed that those who watched her feared that she would die. 'my father!' moaned the lady, 'tell my father that i am ill; bid him come to me without delay.' up to her room hastened her father, and sorely did he grieve when he saw that his daughter was so ill. 'father, dear father,' she cried, holding his strong hand in her pale white one, 'grant me a boon ere i die.' 'an you ask not for the lord who lives in the cold north country, my daughter, you may ask for what you will, and it shall be granted.' 'promise me, then,' said his daughter, 'that though i die here in the sunny south, you will carry me when i am dead to the cold grey north. 'and at the first church to which we come, tarry, that a mass may be said for my soul. at the second let me rest until the bells be tolled slow and solemn. when you come to the third church, which is named st. mary's, grant that from thence you will not bear me until the night shades fall.' then her father pledged his word that all should be done as she wished. now as her father left her room, the lady sent her four-and-twenty maidens down to her bower that they might eat and drink. and when she was left alone she hastened to drink a sleeping draught which she had already prepared in secret. this draught would make her seem as one who was dead. and indeed no sooner had she drunk it than she grew pale and still. her cruel stepmother came up into the room. she did not love the beautiful maiden, and when she saw her lying thus, so white, so cold, she laughed, and said, 'we shall soon see if she be really dead.' then she lit a fire in the silent room, and placing some lead in a little goblet, she stirred it over the flames with an iron spoon until it melted. when the lead was melted the stepmother carried a spoonful carefully to the side of the bed, and stood there looking down upon the still white form. it neither moved nor moaned. 'she is not dead,' murmured the cruel woman to herself; 'she deceives us, that she may be carried away to the land of her own true love. she will not lie there silent long.' and she let some drops of the burning lead fall on to the heart of the quiet maiden. yet still the maiden never moved nor cried. 'send for her father,' shouted the cruel stepmother, going to the door of the little room, for now she believed the maiden was really dead. 'alas, alas!' cried her father when he came and saw his daughter lying on her white bed, so pale, so cold. 'alas, alas, my child is dead indeed!' then her seven brothers wept for their beautiful sister; but when they had dried their tears, they arose and went into the forest. there they cut down a tall oak-tree and made a bier for the maiden, and they covered the oak with silver. her seven sisters wept for their beautiful sister when they saw that she neither stirred nor moaned. they wept, but when they had dried their tears they arose and sewed a shroud for the maiden, and at each stitch they took they fastened into it a little silver bell. now the duke, her father, had pledged his word that his daughter should be carried, ere she was buried, to st. mary's church. her seven brothers therefore set out on the long sad journey toward the gloomy north country, carrying their sister in the silver-mounted bier. she was clad in the shroud her seven sisters had sewed, and the silver bells tinkled softly at each step her seven strong brothers took along the road. the stepmother had no tears to shed. indeed she had no time to weep, for she must keep strict watch over the dead maiden's seven sisters, lest they too grew ill and thus escaped her power. as for the poor old father, he shut himself up alone to grieve for his dear lost child. when the seven brothers reached the first church, they remembered their father's promise to their sister. they set down the bier and waited, that a mass might be sung for the lady's soul. then on again they journeyed until before them they saw another church. 'here will we rest until the bell has been tolled,' they said, and again the bier was placed in the holy church. 'we will come to st. mary's ere we tarry again,' said the seven brothers, and there they knew that their journey would be over. yet little did they know in how strange a way it would end. slow and careful were the brothers' steps as they drew near to the church of st. mary, slow and sad, for there they must part from their beautiful pale sister. the chime of the silver bells floated on the still air, dulling the sound of the seven strong brothers' footsteps. they were close to st. mary's now, and as they laid the bier down the brothers started, for out of the shadows crept tall armed men, and in their midst stood lord william. he had come as he had been bidden to meet his bride. the brothers knew him well, the lord from the cold grey country, who had stolen the heart of their beautiful sister. 'stand back,' commanded lord william, and his voice was stern, for not thus had he thought to meet the lady he loved. 'stand back and let me look once more upon the face of my own true love.' then the seven brothers, though they had but little goodwill for the northern lord, lifted the bier and laid it at his feet, that once again he might look upon the face of their pale cold sister. and lo! as lord william took the hand, the cold white hand, of his true love in his own, it grew warm, as his lips touched hers they grew rosy, and the colour crept into her cheeks. ere long she lay smiling back at her own true love with cheeks that bloomed and eyes that shone. the power of the sleeping draught was over. 'give me bread, dear lord,' cried the lady, 'for no food have i tasted for three long days and nights, and this have i done that i might come to you, my own true love.' when the lady had eaten she turned to her seven strong brothers. 'begone, my seven bold brothers,' she cried, 'begone to your home in the sunny south, and tell how your sister has reached her lord.' 'now woe betide you,' answered her bold brothers, 'for you have left your seven sisters and your old father at home to weep for you.' 'carry my love to my old father,' cried the lady, 'and to my sisters seven. bid them that they dry their tears nor weep for me, for i am come to my own true love.' then the seven brothers turned away in anger and went back to their home in the south. but lord william carried his own true love off to the old grey castle where they were married. and the gay goshawk sang their wedding song. the laird o' logie it was when james the sixth was king in scotland that the young wemyss of logie got into sore trouble. wemyss of logie was one of the king's courtiers; a tall, handsome lad he was, and a favourite with both king and queen. now king james had brought his wife, queen anne, across the sea to scotland. her home was in denmark, and when she came, a royal bride, to scotland, she brought with her a few fair danish maids. she thought it would be dull in her new home unless she had some of her own country-folk around her. among these maids was a tall, beautiful girl named margaret twynlace. her the queen loved well, and oft would she speak with margaret of their old free life in the country over the sea. it chanced on a day that the young laird of logie was in attendance upon the king, and the danish maid, margaret twynlace, in waiting upon the queen; and that day they two looked at each other, and yet another day they two talked to each other, indeed many were the times they met. and before long it was well known at court that the young laird of logie loved the danish maid margaret, and would marry her an he could. but now trouble befell the young laird. he had been seen talking with the earl of bothwell, and he a traitor to the king. nor was it alone that wemyss of logie had been seen to speak with bothwell. it was even said that he had letters written by the traitor in his room at holyrood. no sooner had this rumour reached the king than orders were given to search both young logie himself and the room in which he was used to sleep. on his person no letters were found, but in his room, flung carelessly into his trunk, lay a packet of letters tied and sealed. and the seal was that of the traitor, the earl of bothwell. the young laird was taken at once before the king. he spoke in his usual fearless tones. 'it is true,' said he, 'that i have ofttimes spoken to the earl of bothwell, and it is true that i received from him the sealed packet which was found in my trunk. but of that which is written in the packet know i nought. the seal is, as you see, unbroken. nor knew i that the earl was still acting as traitor,' added the lad, as he saw displeasure written on the face of the king. but despite all he could say, the young laird was arrested as a traitor and thrown into prison. margaret twynlace with her own eyes saw sir john carmichael, keeper of the prison, turn the key in the lock. margaret went quickly to the queen's house, but there did she neither sew nor sing. she sat twining her fingers in and out, while she cried, 'woe is me that ever i was born, or that ever i left my home in denmark. i would i had never seen the young laird of logie.' and then margaret wept bitterly, for having seen the young laird, she loved him well. when the queen came to her bower, she was grieved to see her favourite maid in tears. yet had she no comfort to offer her, for well she knew that, even should he wish it, little power had the king to save the young laird of logie. but the queen spoke kindly to the maid, and told her that she, margaret, might e'en go herself to king james to beg for the life of the young laird of logie. for it was well known that the sentence passed on him would be death. then margaret twynlace wiped from her face all traces of her tears. she put on her soft green silk gown, and she combed out her bonny yellow hair. thus she went into the presence of the king and fell on her knee before him. 'why, may margaret,' said the king, 'is it thou? what dost thou at my feet, my bonny maid?' 'ah, sire,' cried she, 'i have come to beg of thee a boon. nor ever since i came over the sea have i begged of thee until now. give me, i beseech of thee, the life of the young laird of logie.' 'alas, may margaret,' cried the king, 'that cannot i do! an thou gavest to me all the gold that is in scotland yet could i not save the lad.' then margaret twynlace turned away and crept back to the queen's bower. yet now no tears fell from her blue eyes, for if neither king nor queen could help the young laird of logie, she herself would save him from death. she would wait until night, when the king and queen slumbered, and then she would carry out her plan. a brave plan it was, for margaret twynlace was no coward maid. quiet and patient she waited in the little ante-room, close to the queen's bedchamber, waited until she felt sure the royal pair were fast asleep. then tripping lightly on tiptoe, she stole into the bedroom, where, as she had guessed, both king and queen were slumbering sound. she crossed the room, quiet as any mouse, and reached the toilet table. there lay the king's gold comb, and close to it the little pearl knife, the king's wedding gift to his queen. back tripped margaret, still on tiptoe, to the ante-room, and stood, her breath coming quick. had she roused the king or queen? was that the bed creaking? no, there was not a sound. the royal pair slept sound as before. then downstairs in the dark fled margaret, down to the room where sir john carmichael lay slumbering, without a thought of his prisoner, the young laird of logie. loud did the maiden knock at his door, loud and long, until at last sir john was roused. 'sir john,' cried the maid, 'haste thee and wake thy prisoner, the young laird of logie, for the king would speak to him this very moment. open the door, for here be the tokens he sends to thee,' and margaret held out to carmichael the gold comb and the pearl knife. now, when sir john had opened the door, he saw the tokens that the maid held out to him. he knew them well and hastened to do the king's will, rubbing his sleepy eyes the while, and muttering under his breath, 'the king holds audience at strange hours; yet must his orders be obeyed.' he took the great key in his hand and went to the prison door. margaret followed close, her heart bounding, not wholly in fear, nor yet wholly in hope. sir john turned the prison lock and roused the young laird of logie from his dreams, saying only, 'the king would speak with thee, without delay.' thus in the dead of night margaret led the captain and his prisoner to the door of the ante-room. 'wait thou here, sir john,' said the maid, until thy prisoner returns.' the young laird started as margaret spoke. he had not guessed that the maid wrapped in the rough cloak was his own dear margaret twynlace. but sir john noticed nothing. he was wondering how long it would be ere he would be again in his comfortable bed. margaret drew the prisoner into her own little room. he tried to speak, but not a word would she let him utter. she led him to the window, and shewed him a rope which she herself had fastened there. she pushed a purse of gold into his hand, a pistol into his belt, and bade him shoot when he was free, that she might know that he was safe. 'then haste,' said margaret, 'haste with all thy might to the pier at leith. ships wilt thou find there in plenty to carry thee into a safe haven.' the young laird of logie would fain have tarried with the brave danish maid, but not a moment was there to lose. the king might wake, sir john might grow impatient and come in search of his prisoner; thus whispered the maid as she urged young wemyss of logie to flee. he knew she spoke the truth, and he slipped down the rope, and in a moment was standing on the ground. he hastened to the palace gates, and getting safely through, he stayed only to fire his pistol that margaret twynlace might know that no evil had befallen. when margaret heard the shot she stole softly downstairs and stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young laird of logie. yet not long dare she tarry there, lest the queen should need her services. noiselessly she crept back into the ante-room. hark! what was that? the king was moving! indeed, the pistol-shot had roused king james, and he jumped out of bed crying, 'that pistol was fired by none other than the young laird of logie.' [illustration: she stood at the hall door gazing wistfully after the young lard of logie] he shouted for his guards and bade them go send their captain, sir john carmichael, to his presence. sir john, fearing nothing, came before the king, and falling on his knee before him he said, 'sire, what is thy will?' 'where is thy prisoner, where is the young laird of logie?' demanded the king. sir john stared. had not the king himself sent for his prisoner? 'the young laird of logie!' he said. 'sire, thou didst send thy tokens to me, a golden comb, a pearl knife. see, they are here,' and sir john drew them from his pocket and held them up before the bewildered king. 'and with the tokens came an order to send my prisoner at once to thy presence. i brought him to the door of the ante-room, where i was bidden to wait thy will.' 'if thou hast played me false, carmichael, if thou hast played me false,' said the king, 'thou shalt thyself be tried to-morrow in the court of justice in place of the prisoner, the young laird of logie.' then carmichael hastened to the door of the ante-room as fast as ever he could go. and he called out, 'o young wemyss of logie, an thou art within, come out, for i must speak to thee.' margaret twynlace smiled to herself as she opened the door of the ante-room. carmichael stepped into the room, stopped short, and stared. the open window, the rope that hung there, told him all he had come to ask. he stared, but never a word did he find to say. then maid margaret laughed aloud and clapped her hands for glee. 'dost wish thy prisoner, the laird of logie?' she cried. 'thou shalt not see him again for many a long day. long ere the morning dawned he was on board one of the ships at leith, and now he is sailing on the sea. he is free, he is free!' king james did not punish the brave danish maid. nor when he heard from queen anne all that the maid had done did he blame sir john carmichael. indeed ere many months had passed away the king sent a pardon to the young laird. then was he not long in coming back to bonny scotland to marry brave margaret twynlace, who had saved his life. * * * * * pike county ballads and other poems by john hay list of contents. introduction by henry morley. poems by john hay. the pike county ballads. jim bludso little breeches banty tim the mystery of gilgal golyer the pledge at spunky point wanderlieder. sunrise in the place de la concorde the sphinx of the tuileries the surrender of spain the prayer of the romans the curse of hungary the monks of basle the enchanted shirt a woman's love on pitz languard boudoir prophecies a triumph of order ernst of edelsheim my castle in spain sister saint luke new and old. miles keogh's horse the advance-guard love's prayer christine expectation to flora a haunted room dreams the light of love quand meme words the stirrup-cup a dream of bric-a-brac liberty the white flag the law of death mount tabor religion and doctrine sinai and calvary the vision of st. peter israel the crows at washington remorse esse quam videri when the boys come home lese-amour northward in the firelight in a graveyard the prairie centennial a winter night student-song how it happened god's vengeance too late love's doubt lagrimas on the bluff una "through the long days and years" a phylactery blondine distiches regardant guy of the temple translations. the way to heaven countess jutta a blessing to the young the golden calf the azra good and bad luck l'amour du mensonge amor mysticus introduction. pike county ballads and other poems in this volume by colonel john hay represent in the best manner the spirit of our strong and independent sister-land across the atlantic. pike county ballads do full justice to the raw material in the united states, and show a loyal temper in the rough. the other pieces show how the love of freedom speaks through finer spirits of the land, and, dealing with realities, can turn a life of action into music. colonel hay has lived always in vigorous relation with the full life of the people whose best mind his poems represent. he is descended from a scottish soldier, a john hay, who, at the beginning of the last century, left his country to take service under the elector-palatine, and whose son went afterwards with his family to settle among the kentucky pioneers. dr. charles hay was the father of john hay the poet, who was born on the th of october , in the heart of the united states, at salem in indiana. when twenty years old he graduated at the neighbouring brown university, where his fellow-students valued his skill as a writer. then he studied for the bar, and he was called to the bar three years later, at springfield, illinois. at springfield, abraham lincoln practised as a barrister. shrewd, lively, earnest, honest, he grudged help to a rogue. in a criminal case, when evidence threw unexpected light upon a client's character, abraham lincoln said suddenly to his junior, "swett, the man is guilty; you defend him, i can't." in another case, when a piece of rascality in his client came out, abraham lincoln left his junior in possession of the case and went to his hotel. to the judge, who sent for him, he replied that he had found his hands were very dirty, and had gone away to get them clean. almost immediately after john hay's call to the bar at springfield he was chosen by abraham lincoln, newly made president, to go with him to washington. at washington, hay acted as assistant-secretary, and was also, in the civil war, aide-de-camp to president lincoln. throughout that momentous struggle he was actively employed on the side of the north at the headquarters and on the field of battle. he served for a time under generals hunter and gillmore, became a colonel in the army of the north, and served also as assistant adjutant-general. john hay had in that struggle three brothers and two brothers-in-law serving also in the field. in there was published, in ten volumes, at new york, by the new york century company, "abraham lincoln, a history: by john g. nicolay and john hay." this was, with fresh material inserted, a collection of chapters that had been published in the century magazine from november to the beginning of . the friends, who worked equally together upon this large record, said, "we knew mr. lincoln intimately before his election to the presidency. we came from illinois to washington with him, and remained at his side and in his service--separately or together--until the day of his death." abroad, as at home, colonel hay has been active in the service of his country. in he went to paris as secretary of legation, and after remaining two years in that office he went as charge-d'affaires for the united states to vienna. after a year at vienna, colonel hay went to madrid as secretary of legation under general daniel sickles. in he returned to the united states, and was for the next five years an editorial writer for the new york tribune. during seven months, when whitelaw reid was in europe, colonel hay was editor in chief. it was for the tribune that hay wrote "the pike county ballads," which were first reprinted separately in , and are placed first in the collection of his poems. in the same year he published his "castilian days," inspired by residence in spain. in colonel hay removed from new york to cleveland, ohio. he then ceased to take part in the editing of the tribune, but continued friendly service as a writer. from to colonel hay served under president hayes as assistant-secretary of state in the government of the united states. in he was president of the international sanitary congress at washington. since that time he has been active, with john g. nicolay, in the preparation and production of the full memoir of abraham lincoln, now completed, that will take high rank among the records of a war which, in its issues, touched the future of the world, perhaps, more nearly than any war since waterloo, not even excepting the great struggle which ended at sedan. that is the life of a man, here is its music. h. m. the pike county ballads. jim bludso, of the "prairie belle." wall, no! i can't tell whar he lives, becase he don't live, you see; leastways, he's got out of the habit of livin' like you and me. whar have you been for the last three year that you haven't heard folks tell how jimmy bludso passed in his checks the night of the prairie belle? he weren't no saint,--them engineers is all pretty much alike,-- one wife in natchez-under-the-hill, and another one here, in pike; a keerless man in his talk was jim, and an awkward hand in a row, but he never flunked, and he never lied,-- i reckon he never knowed how. and this was all the religion he had,-- to treat his engine well; never be passed on the river; to mind the pilot's bell; and if ever the prairie belle took fire,-- a thousand times he swore, he'd hold her nozzle agin the bank till the last soul got ashore. all boats has their day on the mississip, and her day come at last,-- the movastar was a better boat, but the belle she wouldn't be passed. and so she come tearin' along that night-- the oldest craft on the line-- with a nigger squat on her safety-valve, and her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. the fire bust out as she clared the bar, and burnt a hole in the night, and quick as a flash she turned, and made for that willer-bank on the right. there was runnin' and cursin', but jim yelled out, over all the infernal roar, "i'll hold her nozzle agin the bank till the last galoot's ashore." through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat jim bludso's voice was heard, and they all had trust in his cussedness, and knowed he would keep his word. and, sure's you're born, they all got off afore the smokestacks fell,-- and bludso's ghost went up alone in the smoke of the prairie belle. he weren't no saint,--but at jedgment i'd run my chance with jim, 'longside of some pious gentlemen that wouldn't shook hands with him. he seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-- and went for it thar and then; and christ ain't a-going to be too hard on a man that died for men. little breeches. i don't go much on religion, i never ain't had no show; but i've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, on the handful o' things i know. i don't pan out on the prophets and free-will, and that sort of thing,-- but i b'lieve in god and the angels, ever sence one night last spring. i come into town with some turnips, and my little gabe come along,-- no four-year-old in the county could beat him for pretty and strong, peart and chipper and sassy, always ready to swear and fight,-- and i'd larnt him to chaw terbacker jest to keep his milk-teeth white. the snow come down like a blanket as i passed by taggart's store; i went in for a jug of molasses and left the team at the door. they scared at something and started,-- i heard one little squall, and hell-to-split over the prairie went team, little breeches and all. hell-to-split over the prairie! i was almost froze with skeer; but we rousted up some torches, and searched for 'em far and near. at last we struck hosses and wagon, snowed under a soft white mound, upsot, dead beat,--but of little gabe no hide nor hair was found. and here all hope soured on me, of my fellow-critters' aid,-- i jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. . . . . by this, the torches was played out, and me and isrul parr went off for some wood to a sheepfold that he said was somewhar thar. we found it at last, and a little shed where they shut up the lambs at night. we looked in and seen them huddled thar, so warm and sleepy and white; and thar sot little breeches and chirped, as peart as ever you see, "i want a chaw of terbacker, and that's what's the matter of me." how did he git thar? angels. he could never have walked in that storm; they jest scooped down and toted him to whar it was safe and warm. and i think that saving a little child, and fotching him to his own, is a derned sight better business than loafing around the throne. banty tim. remarks of sergeant tilmon joy to the white man's committee of spunky point, illinois. i reckon i git your drift, gents,-- you 'low the boy sha'n't stay; this is a white man's country; you're dimocrats, you say; and whereas, and seein', and wherefore, the times bein' all out o' j'int, the nigger has got to mosey from the limits o' spunky p'int! le's reason the thing a minute: i'm an old-fashioned dimocrat too, though i laid my politics out o' the way for to keep till the war was through. but i come back here, allowin' to vote as i used to do, though it gravels me like the devil to train along o' sich fools as you. now dog my cats ef i kin see, in all the light of the day, what you've got to do with the question ef tim shill go or stay. and furder than that i give notice, ef one of you tetches the boy, he kin check his trunks to a warmer clime than he'll find in illanoy. why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! you know that ungodly day when our left struck vicksburg heights, how ripped and torn and tattered we lay. when the rest retreated i stayed behind, fur reasons sufficient to me,-- with a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, i sprawled on that cursed glacee. lord! how the hot sun went for us, and br'iled and blistered and burned! how the rebel bullets whizzed round us when a cuss in his death-grip turned! till along toward dusk i seen a thing i couldn't believe for a spell: that nigger--that tim--was a crawlin' to me through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell! the rebels seen him as quick as me, and the bullets buzzed like bees; but he jumped for me, and shouldered me, though a shot brought him once to his knees; but he staggered up, and packed me off, with a dozen stumbles and falls, till safe in our lines he drapped us both, his black hide riddled with balls. so, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, and here stays banty tim: he trumped death's ace for me that day, and i'm not goin' back on him! you may rezoloot till the cows come home, but ef one of you tetches the boy, he'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, or my name's not tilmon joy! the mystery of gilgal. the darkest, strangest mystery i ever read, or heern, or see, is 'long of a drink at taggart's hall,-- tom taggart's of gilgal. i've heern the tale a thousand ways, but never could git through the maze that hangs around that queer day's doin's; but i'll tell the yarn to youans. tom taggart stood behind his bar, the time was fall, the skies was fa'r, the neighbours round the counter drawed, and ca'mly drinked and jawed. at last come colonel blood of pike, and old jedge phinn, permiscus-like, and each, as he meandered in, remarked, "a whisky-skin." tom mixed the beverage full and fa'r, and slammed it, smoking, on the bar. some says three fingers, some says two,-- i'll leave the choice to you. phinn to the drink put forth his hand; blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, "i ax yer parding, mister phinn-- jest drap that whisky-skin." no man high-toneder could be found than old jedge phinn the country round. says he, "young man, the tribe of phinns knows their own whisky-skins!" he went for his 'leven-inch bowie-knife:-- "i tries to foller a christian life; but i'll drap a slice of liver or two, my bloomin' shrub, with you." they carved in a way that all admired, tell blood drawed iron at last, and fired. it took seth bludso 'twixt the eyes, which caused him great surprise. then coats went off, and all went in; shots and bad language swelled the din; the short, sharp bark of derringers, like bull-pups, cheered the furse. they piled the stiffs outside the door; they made, i reckon, a cord or more. girls went that winter, as a rule, alone to spellin'-school. i've searched in vain, from dan to beer- sheba, to make this mystery clear; but i end with hit as i did begin,-- "who got the whisky-skin?" golyer. ef the way a man lights out of this world helps fix his heft for the other sp'ere, i reckon my old friend golyer's ben will lay over lots of likelier men for one thing he done down here. you didn't know ben? he driv a stage on the line they called the old sou'-west; he wa'n't the best man that ever you seen, and he wa'n't so ungodly pizen mean,-- no better nor worse than the rest. he was hard on women and rough on his friends; and he didn't have many, i'll let you know; he hated a dog and disgusted a cat, but he'd run off his legs for a motherless brat, and i guess there's many jess so. i've seed my sheer of the run of things, i've hoofed it a many and many a miled, but i never seed nothing that could or can jest git all the good from the heart of a man like the hands of a little child. well! this young one i started to tell you about,-- his folks was all dead, i was fetchin' him through,-- he was just at the age that's loudest for boys, and he blowed such a horn with his sarchin' small voice, we called him "the little boy blue." he ketched a sight of ben on the box, and you bet he bawled and kicked and howled, for to git 'long of ben, and ride thar too; i tried to tell him it wouldn't do, when suddingly golyer growled, "what's the use of making the young one cry? say, what's the use of being a fool? sling the little one up here whar he can see, he won't git the snuffles a-ridin' with me, the night ain't any too cool." the child hushed cryin' the minute he spoke; "come up here, major! don't let him slip." and jest as nice as a woman could do, he wropped his blanket around them two, and was off in the crack of a whip. we rattled along an hour or so, till we heerd a yell on the still night air. did you ever hear an apache yell? well, ye needn't want to, this side of hell; there's nothing more devilish there. caught in the shower of lead and flint, we felt the old stage stagger and plunge; then we heerd the voice and the whip of ben, as he gethered his critters up again, and tore away with a lunge. the passengers laughed. "old ben's all right, he's druv five year and never was struck." "now if _i_'d been thar, as sure as you live, they'd 'a' plugged me with holes as thick as a sieve; it's the reg'lar golyer luck." over hill and holler and ford and creek, jest like the hosses had wings, we tore; we got to looney's, and ben come in and laid down the baby and axed for his gin, and dropped in a heap on the floor. said he, "when they fired, i kivered the kid,-- although i ain't pretty, i'm middlin' broad; and look! he ain't fazed by arrow nor ball,-- thank god! my own carcase stopped them all." then we seen his eye glaze, and his lower jaw fall,-- and he carried his thanks to god. the pledge at spunky point. a tale of earnest effort and human perfidy. it's all very well for preachin', but preachin' and practice don't gee: i've give the thing a fair trial, and you can't ring it in on me. so toddle along with your pledge, squire, ef that's what you want me to sign; betwixt me and you, i've been thar, and i'll not take any in mine. a year ago last fo'th july a lot of the boys was here. we all got corned and signed the pledge for to drink no more that year. there was tilmon joy and sheriff mcphail and me and abner fry, and shelby's boy leviticus, and the golyers, luke and cy. and we anteed up a hundred in the hands of deacon kedge for to be divided the follerin' fo'th 'mongst the boys that kep' the pledge. and we knowed each other so well, squire, you may take my scalp for a fool, ef every man when he signed his name didn't feel cock-sure of the pool. fur a while it all went lovely; we put up a job next day fur to make joy b'lieve his wife was dead, and he went home middlin' gay; then abner fry he killed a man and afore he was hung mcphail jest bilked the widder outen her sheer by getting him slewed in jail. but chris'mas scooped the sheriff, the egg-nogs gethered him in; and shelby's boy leviticus was, new year's, tight as sin; and along in march the golyers got so drunk that a fresh-biled owl would 'a' looked 'longside o' them two young men, like a sober temperance fowl. four months alone i walked the chalk, i thought my heart would break; and all them boys a-slappin my back and axin', "what'll you take?" i never slep' without dreamin' dreams of burbin, peach, or rye, but i chawed at my niggerhead and swore i'd rake that pool or die. at last--the fo'th--i humped myself through chores and breakfast soon, then scooted down to taggart's store-- for the pledge was off at noon; and all the boys was gethered thar, and each man hilt his glass-- watchin' me and the clock quite solemn-like fur to see the last minute pass. the clock struck twelve! i raised the jug and took one lovin' pull-- i was holler clar from skull to boots. it seemed i couldn't git full. but i was roused by a fiendish laugh that might have raised the dead-- them ornary sneaks had sot the clock a half an hour ahead! "all right!" i squawked. "you've got me, jest order your drinks agin, and we'll paddle up to the deacon's and scoop the ante in." but when we got to kedge's, what a sight was that we saw! the deacon and parson skeeters in the tail of a game of draw. they had shook 'em the heft of the mornin', the parson's luck was fa'r, and he raked, the minute we got thar, the last of our pool on a pa'r. so toddle along with your pledge, squire, i 'low it's all very fine, but ez fur myself, i thank ye, i'll not take any in mine. wanderlieder. sunrise in the place de la concorde. (paris, august .) i stand at the break of day in the champs elysees. the tremulous shafts of dawning, as they shoot o'er the tuileries early, strike luxor's cold grey spire, and wild in the light of the morning with their marble manes on fire, ramp the white horses of marly. but the place of concord lies dead hushed 'neath the ashy skies. and the cities sit in council with sleep in their wide stone eyes. i see the mystic plain where the army of spectres slain in the emperor's life-long war march on with unsounding tread to trumpets whose voice is dead. their spectral chief still leads them,-- the ghostly flash of his sword like a comet through mist shines far,-- and the noiseless host is poured, for the gendarme never heeds them, up the long dim road where thundered the army of italy onward through the great pale arch of the star! the spectre army fades far up the glimmering hill, but, vaguely lingering still, a group of shuddering shades infects the pallid air, growing dimmer as day invades the hush of the dusky square. there is one that seems a king, as if the ghost of a crown still shadowed his jail-bleached hair; i can hear the guillotine ring, as its regicide note rang there, when he laid his tired life down and grew brave in his last despair. and a woman frail and fair who weeps at leaving a world of love and revel and sin in the vast unknown to be hurled; (for life was wicked and sweet with kings at her small white feet!) and one, every inch a queen, in life and in death a queen, whose blood baptized the place, in the days of madness and fear,-- her shade has never a peer in majesty and grace. murdered and murderers swarm; slayers that slew and were slain, till the drenched place smoked with the rain that poured in a torrent warm,-- till red as the riders of edom were splashed the white garments of freedom with the wash of the horrible storm! and liberty's hands were not clean in the day of her pride unchained, her royal hands were stained with the life of a king and queen; and darker than that with the blood of the nameless brave and good whose blood in witness clings more damning than queens' and kings'. has she not paid it dearly? chained, watching her chosen nation grinding late and early in the mills of usurpation? have not her holy tears, flowing through shameful years, washed the stains from her tortured hands? we thought so when god's fresh breeze, blowing over the sleeping lands, in 'forty-eight waked the world, and the burgher-king was hurled from that palace behind the trees. as freedom with eyes aglow smiled glad through her childbirth pain, how was the mother to know that her woe and travail were vain? a smirking servant smiled when she gave him her child to keep; did she know he would strangle the child as it lay in his arms asleep? liberty's cruellest shame! she is stunned and speechless yet, in her grief and bloody sweat shall we make her trust her blame? the treasure of 'forty-eight a lurking jail-bird stole, she can but watch and wait as the swift sure seasons roll. and when in god's good hour comes the time of the brave and true, freedom again shall rise with a blaze in her awful eyes that shall wither this robber-power as the sun now dries the dew. this place shall roar with the voice of the glad triumphant people, and the heavens be gay with the chimes ringing with jubilant noise from every clamorous steeple the coming of better times. and the dawn of freedom waking shall fling its splendours far like the day which now is breaking on the great pale arch of the star, and back o'er the town shall fly, while the joy-bells wild are ringing, to crown the glory springing from the column of july! the sphinx of the tuileries. out of the latin quarter i came to the lofty door where the two marble sphinxes guard the pavillon de flore. two cockneys stood by the gate, and one observed, as they turned to go, "no wonder he likes that sort of thing,-- he's a sphinx himself, you know." i thought as i walked where the garden glowed in the sunset's level fire, of the charlatan whom the frenchmen loathe and the cockneys all admire. they call him a sphinx,--it pleases him,-- and if we narrowly read, we will find some truth in the flunkey's praise,-- the man is a sphinx indeed. for the sphinx with breast of woman and face so debonair had the sleek false paws of a lion, that could furtively seize and tear. so far to the shoulders,--but if you took the beast in reverse you would find the ignoble form of a craven cur was all that lay behind. she lived by giving to simple folk a silly riddle to read, and when they failed she drank their blood in cruel and ravenous greed. but at last came one who knew her word, and she perished in pain and shame,-- this bastard sphinx leads the same base life and his end will be the same. for an oedipus-people is coming fast with swelled feet limping on, if they shout his true name once aloud his false foul power is gone. afraid to fight and afraid to fly, he cowers in an abject shiver; the people will come to their own at last,-- god is not mocked for ever. the surrender of spain. i. land of unconquered pelayo! land of the cid campeador! sea-girdled mother of men! spain, name of glory and power; cradle of world-grasping emperors, grave of the reckless invader, how art thou fallen, my spain! how art thou sunk at this hour! ii. once thy magnanimous sons trod, victors, the portals of asia, once the pacific waves rushed, joyful thy banners to see; for it was trajan that carried the battle-flushed eagles to dacia, cortes that planted thy flag fast by the uttermost sea. iii. hast thou forgotten those days illumined with glory and honour, when the far isles of the sea thrilled to the tread of castile? when every land under heaven was flecked by the shade of thy banner,-- when every beam of the sun flashed on thy conquering steel? iv. then through red fields of slaughter, through death and defeat and disaster, still flared thy banner aloft, tattered, but free from a stain,-- now to the upstart savoyard thou bendest to beg for a master! how the red flush of her shame mars the proud beauty of spain! v. has the red blood run cold that boiled by the xenil and darro? are the high deeds of the sires sung to the children no more? on the dun hills of the north hast thou heard of no plough-boy pizarro? roams no young swine-herd cortes hid by the tagus' wild shore? vi. once again does hispania bend low to the yoke of the stranger! once again will she rise, flinging her gyves in the sea! princeling of piedmont! unwitting thou weddest with doubt and with danger, king over men who have learned all that it costs to be free. the prayer of the romans. not done, but near its ending, is the work that our eyes desired; not yet fulfilled, but near the goal, is the hope that our worn hearts fired. and on the alban mountains, where the blushes of dawn increase, we see the flash of the beautiful feet of freedom and of peace! how long were our fond dreams baffled!-- novara's sad mischance, the kaiser's sword and fetter-lock, and the traitor stab of france; till at last came glorious venice, in storm and tempest home; and now god maddens the greedy kings, and gives to her people rome. lame lion of caprera! red-shirts of the lost campaigns! not idly shed was the costly blood you poured from generous veins. for the shame of aspromonte, and the stain of mentana's sod, but forged the curse of kings that sprang from your breaking hearts to god! we lift our souls to thee, o lord of liberty and of light! let not earth's kings pollute the work that was done in their despite; let not thy light be darkened in the shade of a sordid crown, nor pampered swine devour the fruit thou shook'st with an earthquake down! let the people come to their birthright, and crosier and crown pass away like phantasms that flit o'er the marshes at the glance of the clean, white day. and then from the lava of aetna to the ice of the alps let there be one freedom, one faith without fetters, one republic in italy free! the curse of hungary. king saloman looked from his donjon bars, where the danube clamours through sedge and sand, and he cursed with a curse his revolting land,-- with a king's deep curse of treason and wars. he said: "may this false land know no truth! may the good hearts die and the bad ones flourish, and a greed of glory but live to nourish envy and hate in its restless youth. "in the barren soil may the ploughshare rust, while the sword grows bright with its fatal labour, and blackens between each man and neighbour the perilous cloud of a vague distrust! "be the noble idle, the peasant in thrall, and each to the other as unknown things, that with links of hatred and pride the kings may forge firm fetters through each for all! "may a king wrong them as they wronged their king may he wring their hearts as they wrung mine, till they pour their blood for his revels like wine, and to women and monks their birthright fling!" the mad king died; but the rushing river still brawls by the spot where his donjon stands, and its swift waves sigh to the conscious sands that the curse of king saloman works for ever. for flowing by pressbourg they heard the cheers ring out from the leal and cheated hearts that were caught and chained by theresa's arts,-- a man's cool head and a girl's hot tears! and a star, scarce risen, they saw decline, where orsova's hills looked coldly down, as kossuth buried the iron crown and fled in the dark to the turkish line. and latest they saw in the summer glare the magyar nobles in pomp arrayed, to shout as they saw, with his unfleshed blade, a hapsburg beating the harmless air. but ever the same sad play they saw, the same weak worship of sword and crown, the noble crushing the humble down, and moulding wrong to a monstrous law. the donjon stands by the turbid river, but time is crumbling its battered towers; and the slow light withers a despot's powers, and a mad king's curse is not for ever! the monks of basle. i tore this weed from the rank, dark soil where it grew in the monkish time, i trimmed it close and set it again in a border of modern rhyme. i. long years ago, when the devil was loose and faith was sorely tried, three monks of basle went out to walk in the quiet eventide. a breeze as pure as the breath of heaven blew fresh through the cloister-shades, a sky as glad as the smile of heaven blushed rose o'er the minster-glades. but scorning the lures of summer and sense, the monks passed on in their walk; their eyes were abased, their senses slept, their souls were in their talk. in the tough grim talk of the monkish days they hammered and slashed about,-- dry husks of logic,--old scraps of creed,-- and the cold gray dreams of doubt,-- and whether just or justified was the church's mystic head,-- and whether the bread was changed to god, or god became the bread. but of human hearts outside their walls they never paused to dream, and they never thought of the love of god that smiled in the twilight gleam. ii. as these three monks went bickering on by the foot of a spreading tree, out from its heart of verdurous gloom a song burst wild and free,-- a wordless carol of life and love, of nature free and wild; and the three monks paused in the evening shade, looked up at each other and smiled. and tender and gay the bird sang on, and cooed and whistled and trilled, and the wasteful wealth of life and love from his happy heart was spilled. the song had power on the grim old monks in the light of the rosy skies; and as they listened the years rolled back, and tears came into their eyes. the years rolled back and they were young, with the hearts and hopes of men, they plucked the daisies and kissed the girls of dear dead summers again. iii. but the eldest monk soon broke the spell; "'tis sin and shame," quoth he, "to be turned from talk of holy things by a bird's cry from a tree. "perchance the enemy of souls hath come to tempt us so. let us try by the power of the awful word if it be he, or no!" to heaven the three monks raised their hands; "we charge thee, speak!" they said, "by his dread name who shall one day come to judge the quick and the dead,-- "who art thou? speak!" the bird laughed loud. "i am the devil," he said. the monks on their faces fell, the bird away through the twilight sped. a horror fell on those holy men (the faithful legends say), and one by one from the face of the earth they pined and vanished away. iv. so goes the tale of the monkish books, the moral who runs may read,-- he has no ears for nature's voice whose soul is the slave of creed. not all in vain with beauty and love has god the world adorned; and he who nature scorns and mocks, by nature is mocked and scorned. the enchanted shirt. fytte the first: wherein it shall be shown how the truth is too mighty a drug for such as be of feeble temper. the king was sick. his cheek was red and his eye was clear and bright; he ate and drank with a kingly zest, and peacefully snored at night. but he said he was sick, and a king should know, and doctors came by the score. they did not cure him. he cut off their heads and sent to the schools for more. at last two famous doctors came, and one was as poor as a rat,-- he had passed his life in studious toil, and never found time to grow fat. the other had never looked in a book; his patients gave him no trouble-- if they recovered they paid him well, if they died their heirs paid double. together they looked at the royal tongue, as the king on his couch reclined; in succession they thumped his august chest, but no trace of disease could find. the old sage said, "you're as sound as a nut." "hang him up!" roared the king in a gale,-- in a ten-knot gale of royal rage; the other leech grew a shade pale; but he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, and thus his prescription ran,-- the king will be well, if he sleeps one night in the shirt of a happy man. fytte the second: tells of the search for the shirt, and how it was nigh found, but was not, for reasons which are said or sung. wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, and fast their horses ran, and many they saw, and to many they spoke, but they found no happy man. they found poor men who would fain be rich and rich who thought they were poor; and men who twisted their waists in stays, and women that shorthose wore. they saw two men by the roadside sit, and both bemoaned their lot; for one had buried his wife, he said, and the other one had not. at last they came to a village gate, a beggar lay whistling there; he whistled and sang and laughed and rolled on the grass in the soft june air. the weary couriers paused and looked at the scamp so blithe and gay; and one of them said, "heaven save you, friend! you seem to be happy to-day." "o yes, fair sirs!" the rascal laughed, and his voice rang free and glad, "an idle man has so much to do that he never has time to be sad." "this is our man," the courier said "our luck has led us aright. i will give you a hundred ducats, friend, for the loan of your shirt to-night." the merry blackguard lay back on the grass, and laughed till his face was black; "i would do it, god wot," and he roared with the fun, "but i haven't a shirt to my back." fytte the third: shewing how his majesty the king came at last to sleep in a happy man his shirt. each day to the king the reports came in of his unsuccessful spies, and the sad panorama of human woes passed daily under his eyes. and he grew ashamed of his useless life, and his maladies hatched in gloom; he opened his windows and let the air of the free heaven into his room. and out he went in the world and toiled in his own appointed way; and the people blessed him, the land was glad, and the king was well and gay. a woman's love. a sentinel angel sitting high in glory heard this shrill wail ring out from purgatory: "have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! "i loved,--and, blind with passionate love, i fell. love brought me down to death, and death to hell. for god is just, and death for sin is well. "i do not rage against his high decree, nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; but for my love on earth who mourns for me. "great spirit! let me see my love again and comfort him one hour, and i were fain to pay a thousand years of fire and pain." then said the pitying angel, "nay, repent that wild vow! look, the dial-finger's bent down to the last hour of thy punishment!" but still she wailed, "i pray thee, let me go! i cannot rise to peace and leave him so. oh, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!" the brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, and upward, joyous, like a rising star, she rose and vanished in the ether far. but soon adown the dying sunset sailing, and like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, she fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. she sobbed, "i found him by the summer sea reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,-- she curled his hair and kissed him. woe is me!" she wept, "now let my punishment begin! i have been fond and foolish. let me in to expiate my sorrow and my sin." the angel answered, "nay, sad soul, go higher! to be deceived in your true heart's desire was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!" on pitz languard. i stood on the top of pitz languard, and heard three voices whispering low, where the alpine birds in their circling ward made swift dark shadows upon the snow. first voice. i loved a girl with truth and pain, she loved me not. when she said good-bye she gave me a kiss to sting and stain my broken life to a rosy dye. second voice. i loved a woman with love well tried,-- and i swear i believe she loves me still. but it was not i who stood by her side when she answered the priest and said "i will." third voice. i loved two girls, one fond, one shy, and i never divined which one loved me. one married, and now, though i can't tell why, of the four in the story i count but three. the three weird voices whispered low where the eagles swept in their circling ward; but only one shadow scarred the snow as i clambered down from pitz languard. boudoir prophecies. one day in the tuileries, when a south-west spanish breeze brought scandalous news of the queen, the fair, proud empress said, "my good friend loses her head; if matters go on this way, i shall see her shopping, some day, in the boulevard des capucines." the saying swiftly went to the place of the orient, and the stout queen sneered, "ah, well! you are proud and prude, ma belle! but i think i will hazard a guess i shall see you one day playing chess with the cure of carabanchel." both ladies, though not over wise, were lucky in prophecies. for the boulevard shopmen well know the form of stout isabel as she buys her modes de paris; and after sedan in despair the empress prude and fair went to visit madame sa mere in her villa at carabanchel-- but the queen was not there to see. a triumph of order. a squad of regular infantry, in the commune's closing days, had captured a crowd of rebels by the wall of pere-la-chaise. there were desperate men, wild women, and dark-eyed amazon girls, and one little boy, with a peach-down cheek and yellow clustering curls. the captain seized the little waif, and said, "what dost thou here?" "sapristi, citizen captain! i'm a communist, my dear!" "very well! then you die with the others!" --"very well! that's my affair; but first let me take to my mother, who lives by the wine-shop there, "my father's watch. you see it; a gay old thing, is it not? it would please the old lady to have it; then i'll come back here, and be shot." "that is the last we shall see of him," the grizzled captain grinned, as the little man skimmed down the hill like a swallow down the wind. for the joy of killing had lost its zest in the glut of those awful days, and death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake, from the arch to pere-la-chaise. but before the last platoon had fired the child's shrill voice was heard; "houp-la! the old girl made such a row i feared i should break my word." against the bullet-pitted wall he took his place with the rest, a button was lost from his ragged blouse, which showed his soft white breast. "now blaze away, my children! with your little one-two-three!" the chassepots tore the stout young heart, and saved society. ernst of edelsheim. i'll tell the story, kissing this white hand for my pains: no sweeter heart, nor falser, e'er filled such fine, blue veins. i'll sing a song of true love, my lilith, dear! to you; contraria contrariis-- the rule is old and true. the happiest of all lovers was ernst of edelsheim; and why he was the happiest, i'll tell you in my rhyme. one summer night he wandered within a lonely glade, and, couched in moss and moonlight, he found a sleeping maid. the stars of midnight sifted above her sands of gold; she seemed a slumbering statue, so fair and white and cold. fair and white and cold she lay beneath the starry skies; rosy was her waking beneath the ritter's eyes. he won her drowsy fancy, he bore her to his towers, and swift with love and laughter flew morning's purpled hours. but when the thickening sunbeams had drunk the gleaming dew, a misty cloud of sorrow swept o'er her eyes' deep blue. she hung upon the ritter's neck, she wept with love and pain, she showered her sweet, warm kisses like fragrant summer rain. "i am no christian soul," she sobbed, as in his arms she lay; "i'm half the day a woman, a serpent half the day. "and when from yonder bell-tower rings out the noonday chime, farewell! farewell for ever, sir ernst of edelsheim!" "ah! not farewell for ever!" the ritter wildly cried; "i will be saved or lost with thee, my lovely wili-bride!" loud from the lordly bell-tower rang out the noon of day, and from the bower of roses a serpent slid away. but when the mid-watch moonlight was shimmering through the grove, he clasped his bride thrice dowered with beauty and with love. the happiest of all lovers was ernst of edelsheim-- his true love was a serpent only half the time! my castle in spain. there was never a castle seen so fair as mine in spain: it stands embowered in green, crowning the gentle slope of a hill by the xenil's shore and at eve its shade flaunts o'er the storied vega plain, and its towers are hid in the mists of hope; and i toil through years of pain its glimmering gates to gain. in visions wild and sweet sometimes its courts i greet: sometimes in joy its shining halls i tread with favoured feet; but never my eyes in the light of day were blest with its ivied walls, where the marble white and the granite gray turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, when the soft day dimly falls. i know in its dusky rooms are treasures rich and rare; the spoil of eastern looms, and whatever of bright and fair painters divine have caught and won from the vault of italy's air: white gods in phidian stone people the haunted glooms; and the song of immortal singers like a fragrant memory lingers, i know, in the echoing rooms. but nothing of these, my soul! nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, nor the waves of the river that roil with a cadence faint and sweet in peace by its marble feet-- nothing of these is the goal for which my whole heart sighs. 'tis the pearl gives worth to the shell-- the pearl i would die to gain; for there does my lady dwell, my love that i love so well-- the queen whose gracious reign makes glad my castle in spain. her face so pure and fair sheds light in the shady places, and the spell of her girlish graces holds charmed the happy air. a breath of purity for ever before her flies, and ill things cease to be in the glance of her honest eyes. around her pathway flutter, where her dear feet wander free in youth's pure majesty, the wings of the vague desires; but the thought that love would utter in reverence expires. not yet! not yet shall i see that face which shines like a star o'er my storm-swept life afar, transfigured with love for me. toiling, forgetting, and learning with labour and vigils and prayers, pure heart and resolute will, at last i shall climb the hill and breathe the enchanted airs where the light of my life is burning most lovely and fair and free, where alone in her youth and beauty and bound by her fate's sweet duty, unconscious she waits for me. sister saint luke. she lived shut in by flowers and trees and shade of gentle bigotries. on this side lay the trackless sea, on that the great world's mystery; but all unseen and all unguessed they could not break upon her rest. the world's far splendours gleamed and flashed, afar the wild seas foamed and dashed; but in her small, dull paradise, safe housed from rapture or surprise, nor day nor night had power to fright the peace of god that filled her eyes. new and old. miles keogh's horse. on the bluff of the little big-horn, at the close of a woeful day, custer and his three hundred in death and silence lay. three hundred to three thousand! they had bravely fought and bled; for such is the will of congress when the white man meets the red. the white men are ten millions, the thriftiest under the sun; the reds are fifty thousand, and warriors every one. so custer and all his fighting-men lay under the evening skies, staring up at the tranquil heaven with wide, accusing eyes. and of all that stood at noonday in that fiery scorpion ring, miles keogh's horse at evening was the only living thing. alone from that field of slaughter, where lay the three hundred slain, the horse comanche wandered, with keogh's blood on his mane. and sturgis issued this order, which future times shall read, while the love and honour of comrades are the soul of the soldiers creed. he said-- let the horse comanche henceforth till he shall die, be kindly cherished and cared for by the seventh cavalry. he shall do no labour; he never shall know the touch of spur or rein; nor shall his back be ever crossed by living rider again. and at regimental formation of the seventh cavalry, comanche draped in mourning and led by a trooper of company i, shall parade with the regiment! thus it was commanded and thus done, by order of general sturgis, signed by adjutant garlington. even as the sword of custer, in his disastrous fall, flashed out a blaze that charmed the world and glorified his pall, this order, issued amid the gloom that shrouds our army's name, when all foul beasts are free to rend and tear its honest fame, shall prove to a callous people that the sense of a soldier's worth, that the love of comrades, the honour of arms, have not yet perished from earth. the advance-guard. in the dream of the northern poets, the braves who in battle die fight on in shadowy phalanx in the field of the upper sky; and as we read the sounding rhyme, the reverent fancy hears the ghostly ring of the viewless swords and the clash of the spectral spears. we think with imperious questionings of the brothers whom we have lost, and we strive to track in death's mystery the flight of each valiant ghost. the northern myth comes back to us, and we feel, through our sorrow's night, that those young souls are striving still somewhere for the truth and light. it was not their time for rest and sleep; their hearts beat high and strong; in their fresh veins the blood of youth was singing its hot, sweet song. the open heaven bent over them, 'mid flowers their lithe feet trod, their lives lay vivid in light, and blest by the smiles of women and god. again they come! again i hear the tread of that goodly band; i know the flash of ellsworth's eye and the grasp of his hard, warm hand; and putnam, and shaw, of the lion-heart, and an eye like a boston girl's; and i see the light of heaven which lay on ulric dahlgren's curls. there is no power in the gloom of hell to quench those spirits' fire; there is no power in the bliss of heaven to bid them not aspire; but somewhere in the eternal plan that strength, that life survive, and like the files on lookout's crest, above death's clouds they strive. a chosen corps, they are marching on in a wider field than ours; those bright battalions still fulfil the scheme of the heavenly powers; and high brave thoughts float down to us, the echoes of that far fight, like the flash of a distant picket's gun through the shades of the severing night. no fear for them! in our lower field let us keep our arms unstained, that at last we be worthy to stand with them on the shining heights they've gained. we shall meet and greet in closing ranks in time's declining sun, when the bugles of god shall sound recall and the battle of life be won. love's prayer. if heaven would hear my prayer, my dearest wish would be, thy sorrows not to share, but take them all on me; if heaven would hear my prayer. i'd beg with prayers and sighs that never a tear might flow from out thy lovely eyes, if heaven might grant it so; mine be the tears and sighs. no cloud thy brow should cover, but smiles each other chase from lips to eyes all over thy sweet and sunny face; the clouds my heart should cover. that all thy path be light let darkness fall on me; if all thy days be bright, mine black as night could be. my love would light my night. for thou art more than life, and if our fate should set life and my love at strife, how could i then forget i love thee more than life? christine. the beauty of the northern dawns, their pure, pale light is thine; yet all the dreams of tropic nights within thy blue eyes shine. not statelier in their prisoning seas the icebergs grandly move, but in thy smile is youth and joy, and in thy voice is love. thou art like hecla's crest that stands so lonely, proud, and high, no earthly thing may come between her summit and the sky. the sun in vain may strive to melt her crown of virgin snow-- but the great heart of the mountain glows with deathless fire below. expectation. roll on, o shining sun, to the far seas! bring down, ye shades of eve, the soft, salt breeze! shine out, o stars, and light my darling's pathway bright, as through the summer night she comes to me. no beam of any star can match her eyes; her smile the bursting day in light outvies. her voice--the sweetest thing heard by the raptured spring when waking wild-woods ring-- she comes to me. ye stars, more swiftly wheel o'er earth's still breast; more wildly plunge and reel in the dim west! the earth is lone and lorn, till the glad day be born, till with the happy morn she comes to me. to flora. when april woke the drowsy flowers, and vagrant odours thronged the breeze, and bluebirds wrangled in the bowers, and daisies flashed along the leas, and faint arbutus strove among dead winter's leaf-strewn wreck to rise, and nature's sweetly jubilant song went murmuring up the sunny skies, into this cheerful world you came, and gained by right your vernal name. i think the springs have changed of late, for "arctics" are my daily wear, the skies are turned to cold grey slate, and zephyrs are but draughts of air; but you make up whate'er we lack, when we, too rarely, come together, more potent than the almanac, you bring the ideal april weather; when you are with us we defy the blustering air, the lowering sky; in spite of winter's icy darts, we've spring and sunshine in our hearts. in fine, upon this april day, this deep conundrum i will bring: tell me the two good reasons, pray, i have, to say you are like spring? [you give it up?] because we love you-- and see so very little of you. a haunted room. in the dim chamber whence but yesterday passed my beloved, filled with awe i stand; and haunting loves fluttering on every hand whisper her praises who is far away. a thousand delicate fancies glance and play on every object which her robes have fanned, and tenderest thoughts and hopes bloom and expand in the sweet memory of her beauty's ray. ah! could that glass but hold the faintest trace of all the loveliness once mirrored there, the clustering glory of the shadowy hair that framed so well the dear young angel face! but no, it shows my own face, full of care, and my heart is her beauty's dwelling place. dreams. i love a woman tenderly, but cannot know if she loves me. i press her hand, her lips i kiss, but still love's full assurance miss. our waking life for ever seems cleft by a veil of doubt and dreams. but love and night and sleep combine in dreams to make her wholly mine. a sure love lights her eyes' deep blue, her hands and lips are warm and true. always the fact unreal seems, and truth i find alone in dreams. the light of love. each shining light above us has its own peculiar grace; but every light of heaven is in my darling's face. for it is like the sunlight, so strong and pure and warm, that folds all good and happy things, and guards from gloom and harm. and it is like the moonlight, so holy and so calm; the rapt peace of a summer night, when soft winds die in balm. and it is like the starlight; for, love her as i may, she dwells still lofty and serene in mystery far away. quand meme. i strove, like israel, with my youth, and said, "till thou bestow upon my life love's joy and truth, i will not let thee go." and sudden on my night there woke the trouble of the dawn; out of the east the red light broke, to broaden on and on. and now let death be far or nigh, let fortune gloom or shine, i cannot all untimely die, for love, for love is mine. my days are tuned to finer chords, and lit by higher suns; through all my thoughts and all my words a purer purpose runs. the blank page of my heart grows rife with wealth of tender lore; her image, stamped upon my life, gives value evermore. she is so noble, firm, and true, i drink truth from her eyes, as violets gain the heaven's own blue in gazing at the skies. no matter if my hands attain the golden crown or cross; only to love is such a gain that losing is not loss. and thus whatever fate betide of rapture or of pain, if storm or sun the future hide, my love is not in vain. so only thanks are on my lips; and through my love i see my earliest dreams, like freighted ships, come sailing home to me. words. when violets were springing and sunshine filled the day, and happy birds were singing the praises of the may, a word came to me, blighting the beauty of the scene, and in my heart was winter, though all the trees were green. now down the blast go sailing the dead leaves, brown and sere; the forests are bewailing the dying of the year; a word comes to me, lighting with rapture all the air, and in my heart is summer, though all the trees are bare. the stirrup-cup. my short and happy day is done, the long and dreary night comes on; and at my door the pale horse stands, to carry me to unknown lands. his whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, sound dreadful as a gathering storm; and i must leave this sheltering roof, and joys of life so soft and warm. tender and warm the joys of life,-- good friends, the faithful and the true; my rosy children and my wife, so sweet to kiss, so fair to view. so sweet to kiss, so fair to view,-- the night comes down, the lights burn blue; and at my door the pale horse stands, to bear me forth to unknown lands. a dream of bric-a-brac. [c. k. loquitur.] i dreamed i was in fair niphon. amid tea-fields i journeyed on, reclined in my jinrikishaw; across the rolling plains i saw the lordly fusi-yama rise, his blue cone lost in bluer skies. at last i bade my bearers stop before what seemed a china-shop. i roused myself and entered in. a fearful joy, like some sweet sin, pierced through my bosom as i gazed, entranced, transported, and amazed. for all the house was but one room, and in its clear and grateful gloom, filled with all odours strange and strong that to the wondrous east belong, i saw above, around, below, a sight to make the warm heart glow, and leave the eager soul no lack,-- an endless wealth of bric-a-brac. i saw bronze statues, old and rare, fashioned by no mere mortal skill, with robes that fluttered in the air, blown out by art's eternal will; and delicate ivory netsukes, richer in tone than cheddar cheese, of saints and hermits, cats and dogs, grim warriors and ecstatic frogs. and here and there those wondrous masks, more living flesh than sandal-wood, where the full soul in pleasure basks and dreams of love, the only good. the walls were all with pictures hung: gay villas bright in rain-washed air, trees to whose boughs brown monkeys clung, outlineless dabs of fuzzy hair. and all about the opulent shelves littered with porcelain beyond price: imari pots arrayed themselves beside ming dishes; grain-of-rice vied with the royal satsuma, proud of its sallow ivory beam; and kaga's thousand hermits lay tranced in some punch-bowl's golden gleam. over bronze censers, black with age, the five-clawed dragons strife engage; a curled and insolent dog of foo sniffs at the smoke aspiring through. in what old days, in what far lands, what busy brains, what cunning hands, with what quaint speech, what alien thought, strange fellow-men these marvels wrought! as thus i mused, i was aware there grew before my eager eyes a little maid too bright and fair, too strangely lovely for surprise. it seemed the beauty of the place had suddenly become concrete, so full was she of orient grace, from her slant eyes and burnished face down to her little gold-bronzed feet. she was a girl of old japan; her small hand held a gilded fan, which scattered fragrance through the room; her cheek was rich with pallid bloom, her eye was dark with languid fire, her red lips breathed a vague desire; her teeth, of pearl inviolate, sweetly proclaimed her maiden state. her garb was stiff with broidered gold twined with mysterious fold on fold, that gave no hint where, hidden well, her dainty form might warmly dwell,-- a pearl within too large a shell. so quaint, so short, so lissome, she, it seemed as if it well might be some jocose god, with sportive whirl, had taken up a long lithe girl and tied a graceful knot in her. i tried to speak, and found, oh, bliss! i needed no interpreter; i knew the japanese for kiss,-- i had no other thought but this; and she, with smile and blush divine, kind to my stammering prayer did seem; my thought was hers, and hers was mine, in the swift logic of my dream. my arms clung round her slender waist, through gold and silk the form i traced, and glad as rain that follows drouth, i kissed and kissed her bright red mouth. what ailed the girl? no loving sigh heaved the round bosom; in her eye trembled no tear; from her dear throat bubbled a sweet and silvery note of girlish laughter, shrill and clear, that all the statues seemed to hear. the bronzes tinkled laughter fine; i heard a chuckle argentine ring from the silver images; even the ivory netsukes uttered in every silent pause dry, bony laughs from tiny jaws; the painted monkeys on the wall waked up with chatter impudent; pottery, porcelain, bronze, and all broke out in ghostly merriment,-- faint as rain pattering on dry leaves, or cricket's chirp on summer eves. and suddenly upon my sight there grew a portent: left and right, on every side, as if the air had taken substance then and there, in every sort of form and face, a throng of tourists filled the place. i saw a frenchman's sneering shrug; a german countess, in one hand a sky-blue string which held a pug, with the other a fiery face she fanned; a yankee with a soft felt hat; a coptic priest from ararat; an english girl with cheeks of rose; a nihilist with socratic nose; paddy from cork with baggage light and pockets stuffed with dynamite; a haughty southern readjuster, wrapped in his pride and linen duster; two noisy new york stockbrokers, and twenty british globe-trotters. to my disgust and vast surprise, they turned on me lack-lustre eyes, and each with dropped and wagging jaw burst out into a wild guffaw: they laughed with huge mouths opened wide; they roared till each one held his side; they screamed and writhed with brutal glee, with fingers rudely stretched to me,-- till lo! at once the laughter died, the tourists faded into air; none but my fair maid lingered there, who stood demurely by my side. "who were your friends?" i asked the maid, taking a tea-cup from its shelf. "this audience is disclosed," she said, "whenever a man makes a fool of himself." liberty. what man is there so bold that he should say, "thus, and thus only, would i have the sea"? for whether lying calm and beautiful, clasping the earth in love, and throwing back the smile of heaven from waves of amethyst; or whether, freshened by the busy winds, it bears the trade and navies of the world to ends of use or stern activity; or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way to elemental fury, howls and roars at all its rocky barriers, in wild lust of ruin drinks the blood of living things, and strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore,-- always it is the sea, and men bow down before its vast and varied majesty. so all in vain will timorous ones essay to set the metes and bounds of liberty. for freedom is its own eternal law; it makes its own conditions, and in storm or calm alike fulfils the unerring will. let us not then despise it when it lies still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm of gnat-like evils hover round its head; nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times it shakes the torch of terror, and its cry shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flame of riot and war we see its awful form rise by the scaffold, where the crimson axe rings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings. for ever in thine eyes, o liberty, shines that high light whereby the world is saved, and though thou slay us, we will trust in thee! the white flag. i sent my love two roses,--one as white as driven snow, and one a blushing royal red, a flaming jacqueminot. i meant to touch and test my fate; that night i should divine, the moment i should see my love, if her true heart were mine. for if she holds me dear, i said, she'll wear my blushing rose; if not, she'll wear my cold lamarque as white as winter's snows. my heart sank when i met her: sure i had been over bold, for on her breast my pale rose lay in virgin whiteness cold. yet with low words she greeted me, with smiles divinely tender; upon her cheek the red rose dawned.-- the white rose meant surrender. the law of death. the song of kilvani: fairest she in all the land of savatthi. she had one child, as sweet and gay and dear to her as the light of day. she was so young, and he so fair, the same bright eyes and the same dark hair; to see them by the blossomy way, they seemed two children at their play. there came a death-dart from the sky, kilvani saw her darling die. the glimmering shade his eyes invades, out of his cheek the red bloom fades; his warm heart feels the icy chill, the round limbs shudder, and are still. and yet kilvani held him fast long after life's last pulse was past, as if her kisses could restore the smile gone out for evermore. but when she saw her child was dead, she scattered ashes on her head, and seized the small corpse, pale and sweet, and rushing wildly through the street, she sobbing fell at buddha's feet. "master, all-helpful, help me now! here at thy feet i humbly bow; have mercy, buddha, help me now!" she grovelled on the marble floor, and kissed the dead child o'er and o'er. and suddenly upon the air there fell the answer to her prayer: "bring me to-night a lotus tied with thread from a house where none has died." she rose, and laughed with thankful joy, sure that the god would save the boy. she found a lotus by the stream; she plucked it from its noonday dream, and then from door to door she fared, to ask what house by death was spared. her heart grew cold to see the eyes of all dilate with slow surprise: "kilvani, thou hast lost thy head; nothing can help a child that's dead. there stands not by the ganges' side a house where none hath ever died." thus, through the long and weary day, from every door she bore away within her heart, and on her arm, a heavier load, a deeper harm. by gates of gold and ivory, by wattled huts of poverty, the same refrain heard poor kilvani, the living are few, the dead are many. the evening came--so still and fleet-- and overtook her hurrying feet. and, heartsick, by the sacred fane she fell, and prayed the god again. she sobbed and beat her bursting breast: "ah, thou hast mocked me, mightiest! lo! i have wandered far and wide; there stands no house where none hath died." and buddha answered, in a tone soft as a flute at twilight blown, but grand as heaven and strong as death to him who hears with ears of faith: "child, thou art answered. murmur not! bow, and accept the common lot." kilvani heard with reverence meet, and laid her child at buddha's feet. mount tabor. on tabor's height a glory came, and, shrined in clouds of lambent flame, the awestruck, hushed disciples saw christ and the prophets of the law. moses, whose grand and awful face of sinai's thunder bore the trace, and wise elias,--in his eyes the shade of israel's prophecies,-- stood in that wide, mysterious light, than syrian noons more purely bright, one on each hand, and high between shone forth the godlike nazarene. they bowed their heads in holy fright,-- no mortal eyes could bear the sight,-- and when they looked again, behold! the fiery clouds had backward rolled, and borne aloft in grandeur lonely, nothing was left "save jesus only." resplendent type of things to be! we read its mystery to-day with clearer eyes than even they, the fisher-saints of galilee. we see the christ stand out between the ancient law and faith serene, spirit and letter; but above spirit and letter both was love. led by the hand of jacob's god, through wastes of eld a path was trod by which the savage world could move upward through law and faith to love. and there in tabor's harmless flame the crowning revelation came. the old world knelt in homage due, the prophets near in reverence drew, law ceased its mission to fulfil, and love was lord on tabor's hill. so now, while creeds perplex the mind and wranglings load the weary wind, when all the air is filled with words and texts that wring like clashing swords, still, as for refuge, we may turn where tabor's shining glories burn,-- the soul of antique israel gone, and nothing left but christ alone. religion and doctrine. he stood before the sanhedrim; the scowling rabbis gazed at him. he recked not of their praise or blame; there was no fear, there was no shame, for one upon whose dazzled eyes the whole world poured its vast surprise. the open heaven was far too near, his first day's light too sweet and clear, to let him waste his new-gained ken on the hate-clouded face of men. but still they questioned, "who art thou? what hast thou been? what art thou now? thou art not he who yesterday sat here and begged beside the way; for he was blind." --"and i am he; for i was blind, but now i see." he told the story o'er and o'er; it was his full heart's only lore: a prophet on the sabbath-day had touched his sightless eyes with clay, and made him see who had been blind. their words passed by him like the wind, which raves and howls, but cannot shock the hundred-fathom-rooted rock. their threats and fury all went wide; they could not touch his hebrew pride. their sneers at jesus and his band, nameless and homeless in the land, their boasts of moses and his lord, all could not change him by one word. "i know not what this man may be, sinner or saint; but as for me, one thing i know,--that i am he who once was blind, and now i see." they were all doctors of renown, the great men of a famous town, with deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise, beneath their wide phylacteries; the wisdom of the east was theirs, and honour crowned their silver hairs. the man they jeered and laughed to scorn was unlearned, poor, and humbly born; but he knew better far than they what came to him that sabbath-day; and what the christ had done for him he knew, and not the sanhedrim. sinai and calvary. there are two mountains hallowed by majesty sublime, which rear their crests unconquered above the floods of time. uncounted generations have gazed on them with awe,-- the mountain of the gospel, the mountain of the law. from sinai's cloud of darkness the vivid lightnings play; they serve the god of vengeance, the lord who shall repay. each fault must bring its penance, each sin the avenging blade, for god upholds in justice the laws that he hath made. but calvary stands to ransom the earth from utter loss, in shade than light more glorious, the shadow of the cross. to heal a sick world's trouble, to soothe its woe and pain, on calvary's sacred summit the paschal lamb was slain. the boundless might of heaven its law in mercy furled, as once the bow of promise o'erarched a drowning world. the law said, "as you keep me, it shall be done to you;" but calvary prays, "forgive them; they know not what they do." almighty god! direct us to keep thy perfect law! o blessed saviour, help us nearer to thee to draw! let sinai's thunders aid us to guard our feet from sin; and calvary's light inspire us the love of god to win. the vision of st. peter. to peter by night the faithfullest came and said, "we appeal to thee! the life of the church is in thy life; we pray thee to rise and flee. "for the tyrant's hand is red with blood, and his arm is heavy with power; thy head, the head of the church, will fall if thou tarry in rome an hour." through the sleeping town st. peter passed to the wide campagna plain; in the starry light of the alban night he drew free breath again: when across his path an awful form in luminous glory stood; his thorn-crowned brow, his hands and feet, were wet with immortal blood. the godlike sorrow which filled his eyes seemed changed to a godlike wrath as they turned on peter, who cried aloud, and sank to his knees in the path. "lord of my life, my love, my soul! say, what wilt thou with me?" a voice replied, "i go to rome to be crucified for thee." the apostle sprang, all flushed, to his feet,-- the vision had passed away; the light still lay on the dewy plain, but the sky in the east was gray. to the city walls st. peter turned, and his heart in his breast grew fire; in every vein the hot blood burned with the strength of one high desire. and sturdily back he marched to his death of terrible pain and shame; and never a shade of fear again to the stout apostle came. israel. when by jabbok the patriarch waited to learn on the morrow his doom, and his dubious spirit debated in darkness and silence and gloom, there descended a being with whom he wrestled in agony sore, with striving of heart and of brawn, and not for an instant forbore till the east gave a threat of the dawn; and then, as the awful one blessed him, to his lips and his spirit there came, compelled by the doubts that oppressed him, the cry that through questioning ages has been wrung from the hinds and the sages, "tell me, i pray thee, thy name!" most fatal, most futile, of questions! wherever the heart of man beats, in the spirit's most sacred retreats, it comes with its sombre suggestions, unanswered for ever and aye. the blessing may come and may stay, for the wrestlers heroic endeavour; but the question, unheeded for ever, dies out in the broadening day. in the ages before our traditions, by the altars of dark superstitions, the imperious question has come; when the death-stricken victim lay sobbing at the feet of his slayer and priest, and his heart was laid smoking and throbbing to the sound of the cymbal and drum on the steps of the high teocallis; when the delicate greek at his feast poured forth the red wine from his chalice with mocking and cynical prayer; when by nile egypt worshipping lay, and afar, through the rosy, flushed air the memnon called out to the day; where the muezzin's cry floats from his spire; in the vaulted cathedral's dim shades, where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire through arts highest miracles higher, this question of questions invades each heart bowed in worship or shame; in the air where the censers are swinging, a voice, going up with the singing, cries, "tell me, i pray thee, thy name!" no answer came back, not a word, to the patriarch there by the ford; no answer has come through the ages to the poets, the seers, and the sages who have sought in the secrets of science the name and the nature of god, whether cursing in desperate defiance or kissing his absolute rod; but the answer which was and shall be, "my name! nay, what is it to thee?" the search and the question are vain. by use of the strength that is in you, by wrestling of soul and of sinew the blessing of god you may gain. there are lights in the far-gleaming heaven that never will shine on our eyes; to mortals it may not be given to range those inviolate skies. the mind, whether praying or scorning, that tempts those dread secrets shall fail; but strive through the night till the morning, and mightily shalt thou prevail. the crows at washington. slow flapping to the setting sun by twos and threes, in wavering rows, as twilight shadows dimly close, the crows fly over washington. under the crimson sunset sky virginian woodlands leafless lie, in wintry torpor bleak and dun. through the rich vault of heaven, which shines like a warmed opal in the sun, with wide advance in broken lines the crows fly over washington. over the capitol's white dome, across the obelisk soaring bare to prick the clouds, they travel home, content and weary, winnowing with dusky vans the golden air, which hints the coming of the spring, though winter whitens washington. the dim, deep air, the level ray of dying sunlight on their plumes, give them a beauty not their own; their hoarse notes fail and faint away; a rustling murmur floating down blends sweetly with the thickening glooms; they touch with grace the fading day, slow flying over washington. i stand and watch with clouded eyes these dim battalions move along; out of the distance memory cries of days when life and hope were strong, when love was prompt and wit was gay; even then, at evening, as to-day, i watched, while twilight hovered dim over potomac's curving rim, this selfsame flight of homing crows blotting the sunset's fading rose, above the roofs of washington. remorse. sad is the thought of sunniest days of love and rapture perished, and shine through memory's tearful haze the eyes once fondliest cherished. reproachful is the ghost of toys that charmed while life was wasted. but saddest is the thought of joys that never yet were tasted. sad is the vague and tender dream of dead love's lingering kisses, to crushed hearts haloed by the gleam of unreturning blisses; deep mourns the soul in anguished pride for the pitiless death that won them,-- but the saddest wail is for lips that died with the virgin dew upon them. esse quam videri. the knightly legend of thy shield betrays the moral of thy life; a forecast wise, and that large honour that deceit defies, inspired thy fathers in the elder days, who decked thy scutcheon with that sturdy phrase, to be rather than seem. as eve's red skies surpass the morning's rosy prophecies, thy life to that proud boast its answer pays. scorning thy faith and purpose to defend the ever-mutable multitude at last will hail the power they did not comprehend,-- thy fame will broaden through the centuries; as, storm and billowy tumult overpast, the moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas. when the boys come home. there's a happy time coming, when the boys come home. there's a glorious day coming, when the boys come home. we will end the dreadful story of this treason dark and gory in a sunburst of glory, when the boys come home. the day will seem brighter when the boys come home, for our hearts will be lighter when the boys come home. wives and sweethearts will press them in their arms and caress them, and pray god to bless them, when the boys come home. the thinned ranks will be proudest when the boys come home, and their cheer will ring the loudest when the boys come home. the full ranks will be shattered, and the bright arms will be battered, and the battle-standards tattered, when the boys come home. their bayonets may be rusty, when the boys come home, and their uniforms dusty, when the boys come home. but all shall see the traces of battle's royal graces, in the brown and bearded faces, when the boys come home. our love shall go to meet them, when the boys come home, to bless them and to greet them, when the boys come home; and the fame of their endeavour time and change shall not dissever from the nation's heart for ever, when the boys come home. lese-amour. how well my heart remembers beside these camp-fire embers the eyes that smiled so far away,-- the joy that was november's. her voice to laughter moving, so merrily reproving,-- we wandered through the autumn woods, and neither thought of loving. the hills with light were glowing, the waves in joy were flowing,-- it was not to the clouded sun the day's delight was owing. though through the brown leaves straying, our lives seemed gone a-maying; we knew not love was with us there, no look nor tone betraying. how unbelief still misses the best of being's blisses! our parting saw the first and last of love's imagined kisses. now 'mid these scenes the drearest i dream of her, the dearest,-- whose eyes outshine the southern stars, so far, and yet the nearest. and love, so gaily taunted, who died, no welcome granted, comes to me now, a pallid ghost, by whom my life is haunted. with bonds i may not sever, he binds my heart for ever, and leads me where we murdered him,-- the hill beside the river. camp shaw, florida, february . northward. under the high unclouded sun that makes the ship and shadow one, i sail away as from the fort booms sullenly the noonday gun. the odorous airs blow thin and fine, the sparkling waves like emeralds shine, the lustre of the coral reefs gleams whitely through the tepid brine. and glitters o'er the liquid miles the jewelled ring of verdant isles, where generous nature holds her court of ripened bloom and sunny smiles. encinctured by the faithful seas inviolate gardens load the breeze, where flaunt like giant-warders' plumes the pennants of the cocoa-trees. enthroned in light and bathed in balm, in lonely majesty the palm blesses the isles with waving hands,-- high-priest of the eternal calm. yet northward with an equal mind i steer my course, and leave behind the rapture of the southern skies,-- the wooing of the southern wind. for here o'er nature's wanton bloom falls far and near the shade of gloom, cast from the hovering vulture-wings of one dark thought of woe and doom. i know that in the snow-white pines the brave norse fire of freedom shines, and fain for this i leave the land where endless summer pranks the vines. o strong, free north, so wise and brave! o south, too lovely for a slave! why read ye not the changeless truth,-- the free can conquer but to save? may god upon these shining sands send love and victory clasping hands, and freedom's banners wave in peace for ever o'er the rescued lands! and here, in that triumphant hour, shall yielding beauty wed with power; and blushing earth and smiling sea in dalliance deck the bridal bower. key west, . in the firelight. my dear wife sits beside the fire with folded hands and dreaming eyes, watching the restless flames aspire, and rapt in thralling memories. i mark the fitful firelight fling its warm caresses on her brow, and kiss her hands' unmelting snow, and glisten on her wedding-ring. the proud free head that crowns so well the neck superb, whose outlines glide into the bosom's perfect swell soft-billowed by its peaceful tide, the cheek's faint flush, the lip's red glow, the gracious charm her beauty wears, fill my fond eyes with tender tears as in the days of long ago. days long ago, when in her eyes the only heaven i cared for lay, when from our thoughtless paradise all care and toil dwelt far away; when hope in wayward fancies throve, and rioted in secret sweets, beguiled by passion's dear deceits,-- the mysteries of maiden love. one year had passed since first my sight was gladdened by her girlish charms, when on a rapturous summer night i clasped her in possessing arms. and now ten years have rolled away, and left such blessings as their dower; i owe her tenfold at this hour the love that lit our wedding-day. for now, vague-hovering o'er her form, my fancy sees, by love refined, a warmer and a dearer charm by wedlock's mystic hands entwined,-- a golden coil of wifely cares that years have forged, the loving joy that guards the curly-headed boy asleep an hour ago upstairs. a fair young mother, pure as fair, a matron heart and virgin soul! the flickering light that crowns her hair seems like a saintly aureole. a tender sense upon me falls that joy unmerited is mine, and in this pleasant twilight shine my perfect bliss myself appals. come back! my darling, strayed so far into the realm of fantasy,-- let thy dear face shine like a star in love-light beaming over me. my melting soul is jealous, sweet, of thy long silence' drear eclipse; o kiss me back with living lips, to life, love, lying at thy feet! in a graveyard. in the dewy depths of the graveyard i lie in the tangled grass, and watch, in the sea of azure, the white cloud-islands pass. the birds in the rustling branches sing gaily overhead; grey stones like sentinel spectres are guarding the silent dead. the early flowers sleep shaded in the cool green noonday glooms; the broken light falls shuddering on the cold white face of the tombs. without, the world is smiling in the infinite love of god, but the sunlight fails and falters when it falls on the churchyard sod. on me the joyous rapture of a heart's first love is shed, but it falls on my heart as coldly as sunlight on the dead. the prairie. the skies are blue above my head, the prairie green below, and flickering o'er the tufted grass the shifting shadows go, vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds fleck white the tranquil skies, black javelins darting where aloft the whirring pheasant flies. a glimmering plain in drowsy trance the dim horizon bounds, where all the air is resonant with sleepy summer sounds,-- the life that sings among the flowers, the lisping of the breeze, the hot cicala's sultry cry, the murmurous dream of bees. the butterfly--a flying flower-- wheels swift in flashing rings, and flutters round his quiet kin, with brave flame-mottled wings. the wild pinks burst in crimson fire the phlox' bright clusters shine, and prairie-cups are swinging free to spill their airy wine. and lavishly beneath the sun, in liberal splendour rolled, the fennel fills the dipping plain with floods of flowery gold; and widely weaves the iron-weed a woof of purple dyes where autumn's royal feet may tread when bankrupt summer flies. in verdurous tumult far away the prairie-billows gleam, upon their crests in blessing rests the noontide's gracious beam. low quivering vapours steaming dim the level splendours break where languid lilies deck the rim of some land-circled lake. far in the east like low-hung clouds the waving woodlands lie; far in the west the glowing plain melts warmly in the sky. no accent wounds the reverent air, no footprint dints the sod, lone in the light the prairie lies rapt in a dream of god. illinois, . centennial. a hundred times the bells of brown have rung to sleep the idle summers, and still to-day clangs clamouring down a greeting to the welcome comers. and far, like waves of morning, pours her call, in airy ripples breaking, and wanders to the farthest shores, her children's drowsy hearts awaking. the wild vibration floats along, o'er heart-strings tense its magic plying, and wakes in every breast its song of love and gratitude undying. my heart to meet the summons leaps at limit of its straining tether, where the fresh western sunlight steeps in golden flame the prairie heather. and others, happier, rise and fare to pass within the hallowed portal, and see the glory shining there shrined in her steadfast eyes immortal. what though their eyes be dim and dull, their heads be white in reverend blossom; our mothers smile is beautiful as when she bore them on her bosom! her heavenly forehead bears no line of time's iconolastic fingers, but o'er her form the grace divine of deathless youth and wisdom lingers. we fade and pass, grow faint and old, till youth and joy and hope are banished, and still her beauty seems to fold the sum of all the glory vanished. as while tithonus faltered on the threshold of the olympian dawnings, aurora's front eternal shone with lustre of the myriad mornings. so joys that slip like dead leaves down, and hopes burnt out that die in ashes, rise restless from their graves to crown our mother's brow with fadeless flashes. and lives wrapped in traditions mist these honoured halls to-day are haunting, and lips by lips long withered kissed the sagas of the past are chanting. scornful of absence' envious bar brown smiles upon the mystic meeting of those her sons, who, sundered far, in brotherhood of heart are greeting; her wayward children wandering on where setting stars are lowly burning, but still in worship toward the dawn that gilds their souls' dear mecca turning; or those who, armed for god's own fight, stand by his word through fire and slaughter, or bear our banner's starry light far-flashing through the gulf's blue water. for where one strikes for light and truth, the right to aid, the wrong redressing, the mother of his spirit's youth sheds o'er his soul her silent blessing. she gained her crown a gem of flame when kneass fell dead in victory gory; new splendour blazed upon her name when ives' young life went out in glory! thus bright for ever may she keep her fires of tolerant freedom burning, till war's red eyes are charmed to sleep and bells ring home the boys returning. and may she shed her radiant truth in largess on ingenuous comers, and hold the bloom of gracious youth through many a hundred tranquil summers! a winter night. the winter wind is raving fierce and shrill, and chides with angry moan the frosty skies; the white stars gaze with sleepless gorgon eyes that freeze the earth in terror fixed and still. we reck not of the wild night's gloom and chill, housed from its rage, dear friend; and fancy flies, lured by the hand of beckoning memories, back to those summer evenings on the hill where we together watched the sun go down beyond the gold-washed uplands, while his fires touched into glittering life the vanes and spires piercing the purpling mists that veiled the town. the wintry night thy voice and eyes beguile, till wake the sleeping summers in thy smile. student-song. when youth's warm heart beats high, my friend, and youth's blue sky is bright, and shines in youth's clear eye, my friend, love's early dawning light, let the free soul spurn care's control, and while the glad days shine, we'll use their beams for youth's gay dreams of love and song and wine. let not the bigot's frown, my friend, o'ercast thy brow with gloom, for autumn's sober brown, my friend, shall follow summer's bloom. let smiles and sighs and loving eyes in changeful beauty shine, and shed their beams on youth's gay dreams of love and song and wine. for in the weary years, my friend, that stretched before us lie, there'll be enough of tears, my friend, to dim the brightest eye. so let them wait, and laugh at fate, while youth's sweet moments shine,-- till memory gleams with golden dreams of love and song and wine. how it happened. i pray you, pardon me, elsie, and smile that frown away that dims the light of your lovely face as a thunder-cloud the day. i really could not help it,-- before i thought, 'twas done,-- and those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold, like an icicle in the sun. i was thinking of the summers when we were boys and girls, and wandered in the blossoming woods, and the gay winds romped with your curls. and you seemed to me the same little girl i kissed in the alder-path, i kissed the little girl's lips, and, alas! i have roused a woman's wrath. there is not so much to pardon,-- for why were your lips so red? the blond hair fell in a shower of gold from the proud, provoking head. and the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes, and played round the tender mouth, rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind that blows from the fragrant south. and where, after all, is the harm done? i believe we were made to be gay, and all of youth not given to love is vainly squandered away. and strewn through life's low labours, like gold in the desert sands, are love's swift kisses and sighs and vows and the clasp of clinging hands. and when you are old and lonely, in memory's magic shine you will see on your thin and wasting hands, like gems, these kisses of mine. and when you muse at evening at the sound of some vanished name, the ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips and kindle your heart to flame. god's vengeance. saith the lord, "vengeance is mine; i will repay," saith the lord; ours be the anger divine, lit by the flash of his word. how shall his vengeance be done? how, when his purpose is clear? must he come down from his throne? hath he no instruments here? sleep not in imbecile trust, waiting for god to begin, while, growing strong in the dust, rests the bruised serpent of sin. right and wrong,--both cannot live death-grappled. which shall we see? strike! only justice can give safety to all that shall be. shame! to stand paltering thus, tricked by the balancing odds; strike! god is waiting for us! strike! for the vengeance is god's. too late. had we but met in other days, had we but loved in other ways, another light and hope had shone on your life and my own. in sweet but hopeless reveries i fancy how your wistful eyes had saved me, had i known their power in fate's imperious hour; how loving you, beloved of god, and following you, the path i trod had led me, through your love and prayers, to god's love unawares: and how our beings joined as one had passed through checkered shade and sun, until the earth our lives had given, with little change, to heaven. god knows why this was not to be. you bloomed from childhood far from me. the sunshine of the favoured place that knew your youth and grace. and when your eyes, so fair and free, in fearless beauty beamed on me, i knew the fatal die was thrown, my choice in life was gone. and still with wild and tender art your child-love touched my torpid heart, gilding the blackness where it fell, like sunlight over hell. in vain, in vain! my choice was gone! better to struggle on alone than blot your pure life's blameless shine with cloudy stains of mine. a vague regret, a troubled prayer, and then the future vast and fair will tempt your young and eager eyes with all its glad surprise. and i shall watch you, safe and far, as some late traveller eyes a star wheeling beyond his desert sands to gladden happier lands. love's doubt. 'tis love that blinds my heart and eyes,-- i sometimes say in doubting dreams,-- the face that near me perfect seems cold memory paints in fainter dyes. 'twas but love's dazzled eyes--i say-- that made her seem so strangely bright; the face i worshipped yesternight, i dread to meet it changed to-day. as, when dies out some song's refrain, and leaves your eyes in happy tears, awake the same fond idle fears,-- it cannot sound so sweet again. you wait and say with vague annoy, "it will not sound so sweet again," until comes back the wild refrain that floods your soul with treble joy. so when i see my love again fades the unquiet doubt away, while shines her beauty like the day over my happy heart and brain. and in that face i see no more the fancied faults i idly dreamed, but all the charms that fairest seemed, i find them, fairer than before. lacrimas. god send me tears! loose the fierce band that binds my tired brain, give me the melting heart of other years, and let me weep again! before me pass the shapes of things inexorably true. gone is the sparkle of transforming dew from every blade of grass. in life's high noon aimless i stand, my promised task undone, and raise my hot eyes to the angry sun that will go down too soon. turned into gall are the sweet joys of childhood's sunny reign; and memory is a torture, love a chain that binds my life in thrall. and childhood's pain could to me now the purest rapture yield; i pray for tears as in his parching field the husbandman for rain. we pray in vain! the sullen sky flings down its blaze of brass; the joys of life all scorched and withering pass; i shall not weep again. on the bluff. o grandly flowing river! o silver-gliding river! thy springing willows shiver in the sunset as of old; they shiver in the silence of the willow-whitened islands, while the sun-bars and the sand-bars fill air and wave with gold. o gay, oblivious river! o sunset-kindled river! do you remember ever the eyes and skies so blue on a summer day that shone here, when we were all alone here, and the blue eyes were too wise to speak the love they knew? o stern, impassive river! o still, unanswering river! the shivering willows quiver as the night-winds moan and rave. from the past a voice is calling, from heaven a star is falling, and dew swells in the bluebells above her hillside grave. una. in the whole wide world there was but one; others for others, but she was mine, the one fair woman beneath the sun. from her gold-flax curls' most marvellous shine down to the lithe and delicate feet there was not a curve nor a waving line but moved in a harmony firm and sweet with all of passion my life could know. by knowledge perfect and faith complete i was bound to her,--as the planets go adoring around their central star, free, but united for weal or woe. she was so near and heaven so far-- she grew my heaven and law and fate, rounding my life with a mystic bar no thought beyond could violate. our love to fulness in silence nursed grew calm as morning, when through the gate of the glimmering east the sun has burst, with his hot life filling the waiting air. she kissed me once,--that last and first of her maiden kisses was placid as prayer. against all comers i sat with lance in rest, and, drunk with my joy, i sware defiance and scorn to the world's worst chance. in vain! for soon unhorsed i lay at the feet of the strong god circumstance-- and never again shall break the day, and never again shall fall the night, that shall light me, or shield me, on my way to the presence of my sad soul's delight. her dead love comes like a passionate ghost to mourn the body it held so light, and fate, like a hound with a purpose lost, goes round bewildered with shame and fright. through the long days. through the long days and years what will my loved one be, parted from me? through the long days and years. always as then she was, loveliest, brightest, best, blessing and blest,-- always as then she was. never on earth again shall i before her stand, touch lip or hand,-- never on earth again. but while my darling lives peaceful i journey on, not quite alone, not while my darling lives. a phylactery. wise men i hold those rakes of old who, as we read in antique story, when lyres were struck and wine was poured, set the white death's head on the board-- memento mori. love well! love truly! and love fast! true love evades the dilatory. life's bloom flares like a meteor past; a joy so dazzling cannot last-- memento mori. stop not to pluck the leaves of bay that greenly deck the path of glory, the wreath will wither if you stay, so pass along your earnest way-- memento mori. hear but not heed, though wild and shrill, the cries of faction transitory; cleave to your good, eschew your ill, a hundred years and all is still-- memento mori. when old age comes with muffled drums, that beat to sleep our tired life's story, on thoughts of dying (rest is good!), like old snakes coiled i' the sun, we brood-- memento mori. blondine. i wandered through a careless world deceived when not deceiving, and never gave an idle heart the rapture of believing. the smiles, the sighs, the glancing eyes, of many hundred comers swept by me, light as rose-leaves blown from long-forgotten summers. but never eyes so deep and bright and loyal in their seeming, and never smiles so full of light have shone upon my dreaming. the looks and lips so gay and wise, the thousand charms that wreathe them, --almost i dare believe that truth is safely shrined beneath them. ah! do they shine, those eyes of thine, but for our own misleading? the fresh young smile, so pure and fine, does it but mock our reading? then faith is fled, and trust is dead, and unbelief grows duty, if fraud can wield the triple arm of youth and wit and beauty. distiches. i. wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her. this one may love her some day, some day the lover will not. ii. there are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going, when they seem going they come: diplomates, women, and crabs. iii. pleasures too hastily tasted grow sweeter in fond recollection, as the pomegranate plucked green ripens far over the sea. iv. as the meek beasts in the garden came flocking for adam to name them, men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king. v. what is a first love worth, except to prepare for a second? what does the second love bring? only regret for the first. vi. health was wooed by the romans in groves of the laurel and myrtle. happy and long are the lives brightened by glory and love. vii. wine is like rain: when it falls on the mire it but makes it the fouler, but when it strikes the good soil wakes it to beauty and bloom. viii. break not the rose; its fragrance and beauty are surely sufficient: resting contented with these, never a thorn shall you feel. ix. when you break up housekeeping, you learn the extent of your treasures; till he begins to reform, no one can number his sins. x. maidens! why should you worry in choosing whom you shall marry? choose whom you may, you will find you have got somebody else. xi. unto each man comes a day when his favourite sins all forsake him, and he complacently thinks he has forsaken his sins. xii. be not too anxious to gain your next-door neighbour's approval: live your own life, and let him strive your approval to gain. xiii. who would succeed in the world should be wise in the use of his pronouns. utter the you twenty times, where you once utter the i. xiv. the best-loved man or maid in the town would perish with anguish could they hear all that their friends say in the course of a day. xv. true luck consists not in holding the best of the cards at the table: luckiest he who knows just when to rise and go home. xvi. pleasant enough it is to hear the world speak of your virtues; but in your secret heart 'tis of your faults you are proud. xvii. try not to beat back the current, yet be not drowned in its waters; speak with the speech of the world, think with the thoughts of the few. xviii. make all good men your well-wishers, and then, in the years' steady sifting, some of them turn into friends. friends are the sunshine of life. regardant. as i lay at your feet that afternoon, little we spoke,--you sat and mused, humming a sweet old-fashioned tune, and i worshipped you, with a sense confused of the good time gone and the bad on the way, while my hungry eyes your face perused, to catch and brand on my soul for aye the subtle smile which had grown my doom. drinking sweet poison hushed i lay till the sunset shimmered athwart the room. i rose to go. you stood so fair and dim in the dead day's tender gloom: all at once, or ever i was aware, flashed from you on me a warm strong wave of passion and power; in the silence there i fell on my knees, like a lover, or slave, with my wild hands clasping your slender waist; and my lips, with a sudden frenzy brave, a madman's kiss on your girdle pressed, and i felt your calm heart's quickening beat, and your soft hands on me one instant rest. and if god had loved me, how endlessly sweet had he let my heart in its rapture burst, and throb its last at your firm small feet! and when i was forth, i shuddered at first at my imminent bliss. as a soul in pain, treading his desolate path accursed, looks back and dreams through his tears' dim rain that by heaven's wide gate the angels smile, relenting, and beckon him back again, and goes on, thrice damned by that devil's wile,-- so sometimes burns in my weary brain the thought that you loved me all the while. guy of the temple. down the dim west slowly fails the stricken sun, and from his hot face fades the crimson flush veiled in death's herald-shadows sick and grey. silent and dark the sombre valley lies forgotten; happy in the late fond beams glimmer the constant waves of galilee. afar, below, in airy music ring the bugles of my host; the column halts, a wearied serpent glittering in the vale, where rising mist-like gleam the tented camps. pitch my pavilion here, where its high cross may catch the last light lingering on the hill. the savage shadows, struggling by the shore, have conquered in the valley; inch by inch the vanquished light fights bravely to these crags to perish glorious in the sunset fire; even as our hunted cause so pressed and torn in syrian valleys, and the trampled marge of consecrated streams, displays at last its narrowing glories from these steadfast walls. here in god's name we stand, and brighter far shines the stern virtue of my martyr-host through these invidious fortunes, than of old, when the still sunshine glinted on their helms, and dallying breezes woke their bridle-bells to tinkling music by the reedy shore of calm tiberias, where our angry lord, wroth at the deadly sin that cursed our camp, denied and blinded us, and gave us up to the avenging sword of saladin. yet would he not permit his truth to sink to utter loss amid that foundering fight, but led us, scarred and shattered from the spoil of paynim rage, the desert's thirsty death, to where beneath the sheltering crags we prayed and rested and grew strong. heroes and saints to alien peoples shall they be, my brave and patient warriors; for in their stout hearts god's spirit dwells for ever, and their hands are swift to do his service on his foes. the swelling music of their vesper-hymn is rising fragrant from the shadowed vale familiar to the welcoming gates of heaven. mother of god! as evening falls upon the silent sea, and shadows veil the mountain walls, we lift our souls to thee! from lurking perils of the night, the desert's hidden harms, from plagues that waste, from blasts that smite, defend thy men-at-arms! ay! heaven keep them! and ye angel-hosts that wait with fluttering plumes around the great white throne of god, guard them from scath and harm! for in your starry records never shone the memory of desert so great as theirs. i hold not first, though peerless else on earth, that knightly valour, born of gentle blood and war's long tutelage, which hath made their name blaze like a baleful planet o'er these lands; firm seat in saddle, lance unmoved, a hand wedding the hilt with death's persistent grasp; one-minded rush in fight that naught can stay. not these the highest, though i scorn not these, but rather offer heaven with humble heart the deeds that heaven hath given us arms to do. for when god's smile was with us we were strong to go like sudden lightning to our mark: as on that summer day when saladin-- passing in scorn our host at antioch, who spent the days in revel, and shamed the stars with nightly scandal--came with all his host, its gay battalia brave with saffron silks, flaunting the banners of the caliphate beneath the walls of fair jerusalem: and white and shaking came the leper-king, great baldwin's blasted scion, and tripoli and i, and twenty score of temple knights, to meet the myriads marshalled by the bright untarnished flower of eastern chivalry; a moment paused with level-fronting spears and moveless helms before that shining host, whose gay attire abashed the morning light, and then struck spur and charged, while from the mass of rushing terror burst the awful cry, god and the temple! as the avalanche slides down alpine slopes, precipitous, cold and dark, unpitying and unwrathful, grinds and crushes the mountain violets and the valley weeds, and drags behind a trail of chaos and death; so burst we on that field, and through and through the gay battalia brave with saffron silks, crushed and abolished every grace and gleam, and dragged where'er we rode a sinuous track of chaos and death, till all the plain was filled with battered armour, turbaned trunkless heads, with silken mantles blushing angry gules and bagdad's banners trampled and forlorn. and saladin, stunned and bewildered sore,-- the greatest prince, save in the grace of god, that now wears sword,--mounted his brother's barb, and, followed by a half-score followers, sped to his castle shaubec, over against the cliffs by ascalon, and there abode: and sullenly made order that no more the royal nouba should be played for him until he should erase the rusting stain upon his knightly honour; and no more the nouba sounded by the sultan's tent, morning nor evening by the silent tent, until the headlong greed of chatillon spread ruin on our cause from montreale. but greatest are my warriors, as i deem, in that their hearts, nearer than any else, keep true the pledge of perfect purity they pledged upon their sword-hilts long ago. for all is possible to the pure in heart. mother of god! thy starry smile still bless us from above! keep pure our souls from passion's guile, our hearts from earthly love! still save each soul from guilt apart as stainless as each sword, and guard undimmed in every heart the image of our lord! o goodliest fellowship that the world has known, true hearts and stalwart arms! above your breasts glitters no flash of wreathen amulet forged against sword-stroke by the chanted rhythm of charms accurst; but in each steadfast heart blazes the light of cloudless purity, that like a splendid jewel glorifies with restless fire the gold that spheres it round, and marks you children of our god, whose lives he guards with the awful jealousy of love. and even me that generous love has spared,-- me, trustless knight and miserable man,-- sad prey of dark and mutinous thoughts that tempt my sick soul into perjury and death-- since his great love had pity on my pain, has spared to lead these blameless warriors safe into the desert from the blazing towns, out of the desert to the inviolate hills where god has roofed them with his hollow shield. through all these days of tempest and eclipse his hand has led me and his wrath has flashed its lightnings in the pathway of my sword. and so i hope, and so my crescent faith gains daily power, that all my prayers and tears and toils and blood and anguish borne for him may blot the accusing of my deadly sin from heavens high compt, and give me rest in death; and lay the pallid ghost of mortal love, that fills with banned and mournful loveliness, unblest, the haunted chambers of my soul. my misery will atone,--my misery,-- dear god, will surely atone! for not the sting of lacerating thongs, nor the slow horror of crowns of thorny iron maddening the brows, nor all that else pale hermits have devised to scourge the rebel senses in their shade of caverned desolation, have the power to smart and goad and lash and mortify like the great love that binds my ruined heart relentless, as the insidious ivy binds the shattered bulk of some deserted tower, enlacing slow and riving with strong hands of pitiless verdure every seam and jut, till none may tear it forth and save the tower. so binds and masters me my hopeless love. so through the desert, in the silent hills, i' the current of the battle's storm and stress, one thought has driven me,--that though men may call me stainless paladin, knight leal and true to christ and our lady, still i know myself a knight not after god's own heart, a soul recreant, and whelmed in the forbidden sin. for dearer to my sad heart than the cross i give my heart's best blood for are the eyes that long ago, when youth and hope were mine, i loved in thy still valleys, far provence! and sweeter to my spirit than the bells of rescued salem are the loving tones of her dear voice, soft echoing o'er the years. they haunt me in the stillness and the glare of desert noontide when the horizon's line swims faintly throbbing, and my shadow hides skulking beneath me from the brassy sky. and when night comes to soothe with breath of balm and pomp of stars the worn and weary world, her eyes rise in my soul and make its day. and even into the battle comes my love, snatching the duty that i offer heaven. at closing of el-majed's awful day, when the last quivering sunbeams, choked with dust and fume of blood, failed on the level plain, in the last charge, when gathered all our knights the precious handful who from morn had stemmed the fury of the multitudinous hosts of islam, where in youth's hot fire and pride ramped the young lion-whelp, ben-saladin; as down the slope we rode at eventide, the dying sunlight faintly smiled to greet our tattered guidons and our dinted helms and lance-heads blooming with the battle's rose. into the vale, dusk with the shadow of death, with silent lips and ringing mail we rode. and something in the spirit of the hour, or fate, or memory, or sorrow, or sin, or love, which unto me is all of these, possessed and bound me; for when dashed our troop in stormy clangour on the paynim lines the soul of my dead youth came into me; faded away my oath; the woes of zion, god was forgot; blazed in my leaping heart, with instant flash, life's inextinguished fires; plunging along each tense limb poured the blood hot with its years of sleeping-smothered flame. and in a dream i charged, and in a dream i smote resistless; foemen in my path fell unregarded, like the wayside flowers clipped by the truant's staff in daisied lanes. for over me burned lustrous the dear eyes of my beloved; i strove as at a joust to gain at end the guerdon of her smile. and ever, as in the dense melee i dashed, her name burst from my lips, as lightning breaks out of the plunging wrack of summer storms. o my lost love! bright o'er the waste of years-- that bliss and beauty shines upon my soul; as far beyond yon desert hangs the sun, gilding with tender beam the barren stretch of sands that intervene. in this still light the old sweet memories glimmer back to me, fair summers of my youth,--the idle days i wandered in the bosky coverts hid in the dim woods that girt my ancient home; the blue young eyes i met and worshipped there; the love that growing turned those gloomy wilds to faery dells, and filled the vernal air with light that bathed the hills of paradise; the warm, long days of rapturous summer-time, when through the forests thick and lush we strayed, and love made our own sunshine in the shades. and all things fair and graceful in the woods i loved with liberal heart; the violets were dear for her dear eyes, the quiring birds that caught the musical tremble of her voice. o happy twilights in the leafy glooms! when in the glowing dusk the winsome arts and maiden graces that all day had kept us twain and separate melted away in blushing silence, and my love was mine utterly, utterly, with clinging arms and quick, caressing fingers, warm red lips, where vows, half uttered, drowned in kisses, died; mine, with the starlight in her passionate eyes; the wild wind of the woodland breathing low to wake the elfin music of the leaves, and free the prisoned odours of the flowers, in honour of young love come to his throne! while we under the stars, with twining arms and mutual lips insatiate, gave our souls-- madly forgetting earth and heaven--to love! in desert march or battle flame, in fortress and in field, our war-cry is thy holy name, thy love our joy and shield! and if we falter, let thy power thy stern avenger be, and god forget us in the hour we cease to think of thee! curse me not, god of justice and of love! pitiful god, let my long woe atone! i cannot deem but god has pitied me; else why with painful care have i been saved, whenever tossed and drenched in the fierce tide of saladin's victories by the walls profaned of jaffa, on the sands of far daroum, or in the battle thundering on the downs of ramlah, or the bloody day that shed red horrors on high gaza's parapets? for never a storm of fatal fight has raged in islam's track of rout and ruin swept from egypt to gebail, but when the ebb of battle came i and my host have lain, scarred, scorched, safe somewhere on its fiery shore. at marcab's lingering siege, where day by day we told the moslem legions toiling slow, planting their engines, delving in their mines to quench in our destruction this last light of christendom, our fortress in the crags, god's beacon swung defiant from the stars; one thunderous night i knew their miners groped below, and thought ere morn to die, in crush and tumult of the falling citadel. and pondering of my fate--the broken storm sobbing its life away--i was aware there grew between me and the quieting skies a face and form i knew,--not as in dreams, the sad dishevelled loveliness of earth, but lighter than the thin air where she swayed,-- gold hair flame-fluttered, eyes and mouth aglow with lambent light of spiritual joy. with sweet command she beckoned me away and led me vaguely dreaming, till i saw where the wild flood in sudden fury had burst a passage through the rocks: and thence i led my host unharmed, following her luminous eyes, until the east was grey, and with a smile wooing me heavenward still she passed away into the rosy trouble of the dawn. and i believe my love is shrived in heaven, and i believe that i shall soon be free. for ever, as i journey on, to me waking or sleeping come faint whisperings and fancies not of earth, as if the gates of near eternity stood for me ajar, and ghostly gales come blowing o'er my soul fraught with the amaranth odours of the skies. i go to join the lion-heart at acre, and there, after due homage to my liege, and after patient penance of the church, and after final devoir in the fight, if that my god be gracious, i shall die. and so i pray--lord, pardon if i sin!-- that i may lose in death's embittered wave the stain of sinful loving, and may find in glory again the love i lost below, with all of fair and bright and unattained, beautiful in the cherishing smile of god, by the glad waters of the river of life! night hangs above the valley; dies the day in peace, casting his last glance on my cross, and warns me to my prayers. ave maria! mother of god! the evening fades on wave and hill and lea, and in the twilight's deepening shades we lift our souls to thee! in passion's stress--the battle's strife, the desert's lurking harms, maid-mother of the lord of life protect thy men-at-arms! translations. the way to heaven. from the german. one day the sultan, grand and grim, ordered the mufti brought to him. "now let thy wisdom solve for me the question i shall put to thee. "the different tribes beneath my sway four several sects of priests obey; now tell me which of all the four is on the path to heaven's door." the sultan spake, and then was dumb. the mufti looked about the room, and straight made answer to his lord, fearing the bowstring at each word: "thou, godlike in thy lofty birth, who art our allah upon earth, illume me with thy favouring ray, and i will answer as i may. "here, where thou thronest in thy hall, i see there are four doors in all; and through all four thy slaves may gaze upon the brightness of thy face. "that i came hither safely through was to thy gracious message due, and, blinded by thy splendour's flame, i cannot tell the way i came." countess jutta. from the german of heinrich heine. the countess jutta passed over the rhine in a light canoe by the moon's pale shine. the handmaid rows and the countess speaks: "seest thou not there where the water breaks seven corpses swim in the moonlight dim? so sorrowful swim the dead! "they were seven knights full of fire and youth, they sank on my heart and swore me truth. i trusted them; but for truth's sweet sake, lest they should be tempted their oaths to break, i had them bound, and tenderly drowned! so sorrowful swim the dead!" the merry countess laughed outright! it rang so wild in the startled night! up to the waist the dead men rise and stretch lean fingers to the skies. they nod and stare with a glassy glare! so sorrowful swim the dead! a blessing. after heine. when i look on thee and feel how dear, how pure, and how fair thou art, into my eyes there steals a tear, and a shadow mingled of love and fear creeps slowly over my heart. and my very hands feel as if they would lay themselves on thy fair young head, and pray the good god to keep thee alway as good and lovely, as pure and gay,-- when i and my wild love are dead. to the young. after heine. let your feet not falter, your course not alter by golden apples, till victory's won! the sword's sharp clangour, the dart's shrill anger, swerve not the hero thundering on. a bold beginning is half the winning, an alexander makes worlds his fee. no long debating! the queens are waiting in his pavilion on beaded knee. thus swift pursuing his wars and wooing, he mounts old darius' bed and throne. o glorious ruin! o blithe undoing! o drunk death-triumph in babylon! the golden calf. after heine. double flutes and horns resound as they dance the idol round; jacob's daughters, madly reeling, whirl about the golden calf. hear them laugh! kettledrums and laughter pealing. dresses tucked above their knees, maids of noblest families, in the swift dance blindly wheeling, circle in their wild career round the steer,-- kettledrums and laughter pealing. aaron's self, the guardian grey of the faith, at last gives way, madness all his senses stealing; prances in his high priest's coat like a goat,-- kettledrums and laughter pealing. the azra. after heine. daily walked the fair and lovely sultan's daughter in the twilight,-- in the twilight by the fountain, where the sparkling waters plash. daily stood the young slave silent in the twilight by the fountain, where the plashing waters sparkle, pale and paler every day. once by twilight came the princess up to him with rapid questions: "i would know thy name, thy nation, whence thou comest, who thou art." and the young slave said, "my name is mahomet, i come from yemmen. i am of the sons of azra, men who perish if they love." good and bad luck. after heine. good luck is the gayest of all gay girls, long in one place she will not stay; back from your brow she strokes the curls, kisses you quick and flies away. but madame bad luck soberly comes and stays,--no fancy has she for flitting,-- snatches of true love-songs she hums, and sits by your bed, and brings her knitting. l'amour du mensonge. after charles baudelaire. when i behold thee, o my indolent love, to the sound of ringing brazen melodies, through garish halls harmoniously move, scattering a scornful light from languid eyes; when i see, smitten by the blazing lights, thy pale front, beauteous in its bloodless glow as the faint fires that deck the northern nights, and eyes that draw me wheresoe'er i go; i say, she is fair, too coldly strange for speech; a crown of memories, her calm brow above, shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach, ripe as her body for intelligent love. art thou late fruit of spicy savour and scent? a funeral vase awaiting tearful showers? an eastern odour, waste and oasis blent? a silken cushion or a bank of flowers? i know there are eyes of melancholy sheen to which no passionate secrets e'er were given; shrines where no god or saint has ever been, as deep and empty as the vault of heaven. but what care i if this be all pretence? 'twill serve a heart that seeks for truth no more. all one thy folly or indifference,-- hail, lovely mask, thy beauty i adore! amor mysticus. from the spanish of sor marcela de carpio. let them say to my lover that here i lie! the thing of his pleasure, his slave am i. say that i seek him only for love, and welcome are tortures my passion to prove. love giving gifts is suspicious and cold; i have all, my beloved, when thee i hold. hope and devotion the good may gain; i am but worthy of passion and pain. so noble a lord none serves in vain, for the pay of my love is my love's sweet pain. i love thee, to love thee,-- no more i desire; by faith is nourished my love's strong fire. i kiss thy hands when i feel their blows; in the place of caresses thou givest me woes. but in thy chastising is joy and peace. o master and love, let thy blows not cease. thy beauty, beloved, with scorn is rife, but i know that thou lovest me, better than life. and because thou lovest me, lover of mine, death can but make me utterly thine. i die with longing thy face to see; oh! sweet is the anguish of death to me! a book of old ballads selected and with an introduction by beverley nichols acknowledgments the thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the following: to messrs. b. feldman & co., shaftesbury avenue, w.c. , for "it's a long way to tipperary"; to mr. rudyard kipling and messrs. methuen & co. for "mandalay" from _barrack room ballads_; and to the executors of the late oscar wilde for "the ballad of reading gaol." "the earl of mar's daughter", "the wife of usher's well", "the three ravens", "thomas the rhymer", "clerk colvill", "young beichen", "may collin", and "hynd horn" have been reprinted from _english and scottish ballads_, edited by mr. g. l. kittredge and the late mr. f. j. child, and published by the houghton mifflin company. the remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "john brown's body", are from _percy's reliques_, volumes i and ii. contents foreword mandalay the frolicksome duke the knight and shepherd's daughter king estmere king john and the abbot of canterbury barbara allen's cruelty fair rosamond robin hood and guy of gisborne the boy and the mantle the heir of linne king cophetua and the beggar maid sir andrew barton may collin the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green thomas the rhymer young beichan brave lord willoughbey the spanish lady's love the friar of orders gray clerk colvill sir aldingar edom o' gordon chevy chace sir lancelot du lake gil morrice the child of elle child waters king edward iv and the tanner of tamworth sir patrick spens the earl of mar's daughter edward, edward king leir and his three daughters hynd horn john brown's body tipperary the bailiff's daughter of islington the three ravens the gaberlunzie man the wife of usher's well the lye the ballad of reading gaol _the source of these ballads will be found in the appendix at the end of this book._ list of colour plates hynd horn king estmere barbara allen's cruelty fair rosamond the boy and the mantle king cophetua and the beggar maid may collin thomas the rhymer young beichan clerk colvill gil morrice child waters the earl of mar's daughter the bailiff's daughter of islington the three ravens the wife of usher's well foreword by beverley nichols these poems are the very essence of the british spirit. they are, to literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the scot, and the smell of the sea to the englishman. all that is beautiful in the old word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures. but it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the modern spirit. it is rather for their tonic qualities that they should be prescribed in . the post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest and the most watery that england has ever produced. but here, in these ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their sparkle and none of their bouquet. it is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns sour overnight. and though all generalizations are dangerous i believe there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely, that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards. the authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a personal god, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest doubt, in the valleys over the river. in such a world, what could a man do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song? but now--the mysteries have gone. we know, all too well, what lies on the other side of the hill. the scientists have long ago puffed out, scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost darkness. the giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular press. and so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares into his own heart. that way madness lies. all madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all modern lyric-writers. that is the first and most vital difference between these ballads and their modern counterparts. the old ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. the modern lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else. ii this is really such an important point that it is worth labouring. why is ballad-making a lost art? that it _is_ a lost art there can be no question. nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling, egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern "ballads", will deny it. ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. which is, that we are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. if we are wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. no--we must needs go into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its effect upon our souls. it is not "we" who have changed. it is life that has changed. "we" are still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. but life has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor great causes, nor black enemies. and the flags do not know which way to flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. all is doubt. and doubt's colour is grey. grey is no colour for a ballad. ballads are woven from stuff of primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green grass growing, the white snow falling. never will you find grey in a ballad. you will find the black of the night and the raven's wing, and the silver of a thousand stars. you will find the blue of many summer skies. but you will not find grey. iii that is why ballad-making is a lost art. or almost a lost art. for even in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of himself. and a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves. such a song was once written by a master at my old school, marlborough. he was a scot. but he loved marlborough with the sort of love which the old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on wings, far from his foolish little body. he wrote a song called "the scotch marlburian". here it is:-- oh marlborough, she's a toun o' touns we will say that and mair, we that ha' walked alang her douns and snuffed her wiltshire air. a weary way ye'll hae to tramp afore ye match the green o' savernake and barbery camp and a' that lies atween! the infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! the infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in unison! for in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in march, the tolling of the chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep in a long white dormitory. but you may say "what is all this to me? i wasn't at maryborough. i don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually foul-minded. why should i go into raptures about such a song, which seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of education?" if you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. for after you have read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it. iv i go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to distraction. for it is a point which has much more "to" it than the average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so. you remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look _out_, but now look _in_? well, listen to this.... _i'm_ feeling blue, _i_ don't know what to do, 'cos _i_ love you and you don't love _me_. the above masterpiece is, as far as i am aware, imaginary. but it represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics which have been echoing over the post-war world. nearly all these lyrics are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro swamp, and they are all violently egotistical. now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one would be inclined at first to admit. if countless young men, every night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate over countless dancing-floors, muttering "i'm feeling blue ... _i_ don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves. anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied to the human temperament. the late m. coué "conditioned" people into happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "every day in every way i grow better and better and better." the modern lyric-monger exactly reverses m. coué's doctrine. he makes the patient repeat "every night, with all my might, i grow worse and worse and worse." of course the "i" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary "i", but if any man sings "_i'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that "i" to himself. but the "blueness" is really beside the point. it is the _egotism_ of the modern ballad which is the trouble. even when, as they occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. it is not, like the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. it is not an emotion so sweet and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the butterfly of the spirit flutters free. no ... the chrysalis is never left behind, the "i", "i", "i", continues, in a maddening monotone. and we get this sort of thing.... _i_ want to be happy, but _i_ can't be happy till _i've_ made you happy too. and that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last decade! that was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet dancing! even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. read the tale of the beggar's daughter of bethnal green. one shudders to think what a modern lyric-writer would make of it. we should all be in tears before the end of the first chorus. but here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune. she has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. the ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words which ring with the true tone of happiness:-- thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte a bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte in joy and felicitie long lived hee all with his faire ladye, the pretty bessee. i said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. but the student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and radiance is gained. you may think the words are artless, but just ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are collected into that tiny verse. there are only four lines. but those lines contain these words ... feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair, pretty. is that quite so artless, after all? is it not rather like an old and primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one of happy simplicity? v how were the early ballads born? who made them? one man or many? were they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally copied out? to answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks which the detective in letters could set himself. grimm, listening in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them, pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at large. _das volk dichtet_, he said. and that phrase got him into a lot of trouble. people told him to get back to his fairyland and not make such ridiculous suggestions. for how, they asked, could a whole people make a poem? you might as well tell a thousand men to make a tune, limiting each of them to one note! to invest grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair. [footnote: for a discussion of grimm's theories, together with much interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should study the admirable introduction to _english and scottish popular ballads_, published by george harrap & co., ltd.] obviously a multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture, one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. such a suggestion is grotesque, and grimm never meant it. if i might guess at what he meant, i would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man). the dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy by art. it may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ... that doesn't matter. the point is that it gave to a group of people an ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about and making loud cries, like the animals. and you may be sure that as the primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or wriggled his body in an amusing way. and the rest of them copied him, and incorporated his step into their own. apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. it fits perfectly. there has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. and now that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to make merry. the wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. and someone says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth. and then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born. for there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive. there is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo. and once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you have the genesis of the whole thing. it may not be worked out that night, nor even by the men who first made it. the fire may long have died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the men and women who were the first to tell the tale. but rhyme and rhythm are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "not marble nor the gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme." and so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever remain anonymous. needless to say, _all_ the poems are not anonymous. as society became more civilized it was inevitable that the peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should become less frequent. nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so much beauty is distilled. vi but though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang them. and it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed. the modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from court to court with dignity and ceremony. yet this was actually the case. in the ballad of king estmere, for example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a harpist, who sings his songs for him. this minstrel, too, moves among kings without any ceremony. as percy has pointed out, "the further we carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the professors of poetry and music among all the celtic and gothic nations. their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous king alfred made no scruple to enter the danish camp, and was at once admitted to the king's headquarters." _and even so late as the time of froissart, we have minstrels and heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an enemy's country._ the reader will perhaps forgive me if i harp back, once more, to our present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national psychology which that revelation implies. minstrels and heralds were once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. yet, in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested that never again should a note of german music, of however great antiquity, be heard in england! we are supposed to have progressed towards internationalism, nowadays. whereas, in reality, we have grown more and more frenziedly national. we are very far behind the age of froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism of art. to some of us that is still a very real internationalism. when we hear a beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a "teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds list nothing of frontiers. man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. moreover, he needs communal song, for he is a social animal. the military authorities realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the war, to sing on every possible occasion. crazy pacifists, like myself, may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers. and crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas, in the wars of the present. but even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the ballads of the last war. to me, "tipperary" is still the most moving tune in the world. it happens to be a very good tune, from the musician's point of view, a tune that handel would not have been ashamed to write, but that is not the point. its emotional qualities are due to its associations. perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads. from the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider "associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like "tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. we all have our "associations" with this particular tune. for me, it recalls a window in hampstead, on a grey day in october . i had been having the measles, and had not been allowed to go back to school. then suddenly, down the street, that tune echoed. and they came marching, and marching, and marching. and they were all so happy. so happy. vii "tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book. so is "john brown's body". they were not written as ballads but they have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote. it will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century, through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at all. swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a hawker's barrow. they were lovely patterns of words, woven like some exquisite, foaming lace, but they were swinburne, swinburne all the time. they had nothing to do with the common people. the common people would not have understood a word of them. ballads _must_ be popular. and that is why it will always remain one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them, from his little gilded niche in piccadilly. i refer, of course, to oscar wilde's "ballad of reading gaol." it was a true ballad, and it was the best thing he ever wrote. for it was written _de profundis_, when his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower ... to the gutter itself. and in the gutter, with agony, he learned the meaning of song. ballads begin and end with the people. you cannot escape that fact. and therefore, if i wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in the next century), i should not rake through the contemporary poets, in the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. no. i should go to the music-halls. i should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "now then, boys, all together!" unless you can write the words "now then, boys, all together", at the top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. that may sound a sweeping statement, but it is true. in the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined for immortality. one of these is "don't 'ave any more, mrs. moore." do you remember it? don't 'ave any more, mrs. moore! mrs. moore, oh don't 'ave any more! too many double gins give the ladies double chins, so don't 'ave any more, mrs. moore! the whole of english "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of english life) is in that lyric. it is as vivid as a rowlandson cartoon. how well we know mrs. moore! how plainly we see her ... the amiable, coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes staring, a little vacantly, about her. some may think it is a sordid picture, but i am sure that they cannot know mrs. moore very well if they think that. they cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent heroisms, nor her sardonic humour. lyrics such as these will, i believe, endure long after many of the most renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. they all have the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence, "now then, boys--all together!" or to put it another way, as in the ballad of george barnwell, all youths of fair england that dwell both far and near, regard my story that i tell and to my song give ear. that may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing! viii but if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole people! these ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be recognised. it has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. we give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores. thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. you could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with such things as the elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an english home was like, what they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they paid their servants? in other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch in the great background, the life of the common people? how many even realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national disaster, such as the black plague? a proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this defect. thomas percy, whose _reliques_ must ever be the main source of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later, found their way into the country's song-book. but it is not only the resounding names that are celebrated. in the ballads we hear the echoes of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. sometimes these ring so plainly that they need no explanation. at other times, we have to go to percy or to some of his successors to realize the true significance of the song. for example, the famous ballad "john anderson my jo" seems, at first sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. but it was written during the reformation when, as percy dryly observes, "the muses were deeply engaged in religious controversy." the zeal of the scottish reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil discharged at popery. it caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the latin service. "john anderson my jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion. and percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious offspring of mother church. thus it was in a thousand cases. the ballads, even the lightest and most blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of english history. how different from anything that we possess to-day! great causes do not lead men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers. a national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar of music. who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the great war? who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred coming of peace? very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating armistice day was by a two minutes silence. no song. no music. nothing. the best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet. [illustration] mandalay by the old moulmein pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, there's a burma girl a-settin', and i know she thinks o' me; for the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: 'come you back, you british soldier; come you back to mandalay!' come you back to mandalay, where the old flotilla lay: can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from rangoon to mandalay? on the road to mandalay, where the flyin'-fishes play, an' the dawn comes up like thunder outer china 'crost the bay! 'er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, an' 'er name was supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as theebaw's queen, an' i seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, an' a-wastin' christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: bloomin' idol made o' mud-- wot they called the great gawd budd-- plucky lot she cared for idols when i kissed 'er where she stud! on the road to mandalay... when the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, she'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'kulla-lo-lo!'_ with 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek we useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak. elephints a-pilin' teak in the sludgy, squdgy creek, where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! on the road to mandalay... but that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, an' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the bank to mandalay; an' i'm learnin' 'ere in london what the ten-year soldier tells: 'if you've 'eard the east a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.' no! you won't 'eed nothin' else but them spicy garlic smells, an' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; on the road to mandalay... i am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, an' the blasted henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; tho' i walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer chelsea to the strand, an' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? beefy face an' grubby 'and-- law! wot do they understand? i've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! on the road to mandalay ... ship me somewheres east of suez, where the best is like the worst, where there aren't no ten commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; for the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that i would be-- by the old moulmein pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; on the road to mandalay, where the old flotilla lay, with our sick beneath the awnings when we went to mandalay! o the road to mandalay, where the flyin'-fishes play, an' the dawn comes up like thunder outer china 'crost the bay! [illustration] the frolicksome duke or the tinker's good fortune now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, one that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: but amongst all the rest, here is one i protest, which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: a poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, as secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. the duke said to his men, william, richard, and ben, take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. o'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd to the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, and they put him to bed for to take his repose. having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, they did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: on a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, they did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. in the morning when day, then admiring he lay, for to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; and the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, he desired to know what apparel he'd ware: the poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd, and admired how he to this honour was rais'd. tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, which he straitways put on without longer dispute; with a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, and it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride; for he said to himself, where is joan my sweet wife? sure she never did see me so fine in her life. from a convenient place, the right duke his good grace did observe his behaviour in every case. to a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, with commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. a fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, he was plac'd at the table above all the rest, in a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red, with a rich golden canopy over his head: as he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, with the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. while the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, till at last he began for to tumble and roul from his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, being seven times drunker than ever before. then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, and restore him his old leather garments again: 't was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, and they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; there he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; but when he did waken, his joys took their flight. for his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem, that he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought for a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; but his highness he said, thou 'rt a jolly bold blade, such a frolick before i think never was plaid. then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, crying old brass to mend, for i'll be thy good friend, nay, and joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend. then the tinker reply'd, what! must joan my sweet bride be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? then i shall be a squire i well understand: well i thank your good grace, and your love i embrace, i was never before in so happy a case. [illustration] [illustration] the knight & shepherd's daughter there was a shepherd's daughter came tripping on the waye; and there by chance a knighte shee mett, which caused her to staye. good morrowe to you, beauteous maide, these words pronounced hee: o i shall dye this daye, he sayd, if ive not my wille of thee. the lord forbid, the maide replyde, that you shold waxe so wode! "but for all that shee could do or saye, he wold not be withstood." sith you have had your wille of mee, and put me to open shame, now, if you are a courteous knighte, tell me what is your name? some do call mee jacke, sweet heart, and some do call mee jille; but when i come to the kings faire courte they call me wilfulle wille. he sett his foot into the stirrup, and awaye then he did ride; she tuckt her girdle about her middle, and ranne close by his side. but when she came to the brode water, she sett her brest and swamme; and when she was got out againe, she tooke to her heels and ranne. he never was the courteous knighte, to saye, faire maide, will ye ride? "and she was ever too loving a maide to saye, sir knighte abide." when she came to the kings faire courte, she knocked at the ring; so readye was the king himself to let this faire maide in. now christ you save, my gracious liege, now christ you save and see, you have a knighte within your courte, this daye hath robbed mee. what hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? of purple or of pall? or hath he took thy gaye gold ring from off thy finger small? he hath not robbed mee, my liege, of purple nor of pall: but he hath gotten my maiden head, which grieves mee worst of all. now if he be a batchelor, his bodye he give to thee; but if he be a married man, high hanged he shall bee. he called downe his merrye men all, by one, by two, by three; sir william used to bee the first, but nowe the last came hee. he brought her downe full fortye pounde, tyed up withinne a glove: faire maide, he give the same to thee; go, seeke thee another love. o ile have none of your gold, she sayde, nor ile have none of your fee; but your faire bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee. sir william ranne and fetched her then five hundred pound in golde, saying, faire maide, take this to thee, thy fault will never be tolde. tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, these words then answered shee, but your own bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee. would i had dranke the water cleare, when i did drinke the wine, rather than any shepherds brat shold bee a ladye of mine! would i had drank the puddle foule, when i did drink the ale, rather than ever a shepherds brat shold tell me such a tale! a shepherds brat even as i was, you mote have let me bee, i never had come to the kings faire courte, to crave any love of thee. he sett her on a milk-white steede, and himself upon a graye; he hung a bugle about his necke, and soe they rode awaye. but when they came unto the place, where marriage-rites were done, she proved herself a dukes daughtèr, and he but a squires sonne. now marrye me, or not, sir knight, your pleasure shall be free: if you make me ladye of one good towne, he make you lord of three. ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd, if thou hadst not been trewe, i shold have forsaken my sweet love, and have changed her for a newe. and now their hearts being linked fast, they joyned hand in hande: thus he had both purse, and person too, and all at his commande. king estmere hearken to me, gentlemen, come and you shall heare; ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren that ever borne y-were. the tone of them was adler younge, the tother was kyng estmere; the were as bolde men in their deeds, as any were farr and neare. as they were drinking ale and wine within kyng estmeres halle: when will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr, a wyfe to glad us all? then bespake him kyng estmere, and answered him hastilee: i know not that ladye in any land that's able to marrye with mee. kyng adland hath a daughter, brother, men call her bright and sheene; if i were kyng here in your stead, that ladye shold be my queene. saies, reade me, reade me, deare brother, throughout merry englànd, where we might find a messenger betwixt us towe to sende. saies, you shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr, ile beare you companye; many throughe fals messengers are deceived, and i feare lest soe shold wee. thus the renisht them to ryde of twoe good renisht steeds, and when the came to kyng adlands halle, of redd gold shone their weeds. and when the came to kyng adlands hall before the goodlye gate, there they found good kyng adlànd rearing himselfe theratt. now christ thee save, good kyng adland; now christ you save and see. sayd, you be welcome, kyng estmere, right hartilye to mee. you have a daughter, said adler younge, men call her bright and sheene, my brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, of englande to be queene. yesterday was att my deere daughter syr bremor the kyng of spayne; and then she nicked him of naye, and i doubt sheele do you the same. the kyng of spayne is a foule paynim, and 'leeveth on mahound; and pitye it were that fayre ladye shold marrye a heathen hound. but grant to me, sayes kyng estmere, for my love i you praye; that i may see your daughter deere before i goe hence awaye. although itt is seven yeers and more since my daughter was in halle, she shall come once downe for your sake to glad my guestes alle. downe then came that mayden fayre, with ladyes laced in pall, and halfe a hundred of bold knightes, to bring her from bowre to hall; and as many gentle squiers, to tend upon them all. the talents of golde were on her head sette, hanged low downe to her knee; and everye ring on her small fingèr shone of the chrystall free. saies, god you save, my deere madam; saies, god you save and see. said, you be welcome, kyng estmere, right welcome unto mee. and if you love me, as you saye, soe well and hartilye, all that ever you are comin about sooner sped now itt shal bee. then bespake her father deare: my daughter, i saye naye; remember well the kyng of spayne, what he sayd yesterday. he wold pull downe my hales and castles, and reeve me of my life. i cannot blame him if he doe, if i reave him of his wyfe. your castles and your towres, father, are stronglye built aboute; and therefore of the king of spaine wee neede not stande in doubt. plight me your troth, nowe, kyng estmère, by heaven and your righte hand, that you will marrye me to your wyfe, and make me queene of your land. then kyng estmere he plight his troth by heaven and his righte hand, that he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, and make her queene of his land. and he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, to goe to his owne countree, to fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, that marryed the might bee. they had not ridden scant a myle, a myle forthe of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne, with kempès many one. but in did come the kyng of spayne, with manye a bold barone, tone day to marrye kyng adlands daughter, tother daye to carrye her home. shee sent one after kyng estmere in all the spede might bee, that he must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and loose his ladye. one whyle then the page he went, another while he ranne; tull he had oretaken king estmere, i wis, he never blanne. tydings, tydings, kyng estmere! what tydinges nowe, my boye? o tydinges i can tell to you, that will you sore annoye. you had not ridden scant a mile, a mile out of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne with kempès many a one: but in did come the kyng of spayne with manye a bold barone, tone daye to marrye king adlands daughter, tother daye to carry her home. my ladye fayre she greetes you well, and ever-more well by mee: you must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and loose your ladyè. saies, reade me, reade me, deere brother, my reade shall ryde at thee, whether it is better to turne and fighte, or goe home and loose my ladye. now hearken to me, sayes adler yonge, and your reade must rise at me, i quicklye will devise a waye to sette thy ladye free. my mother was a westerne woman, and learned in gramaryè, and when i learned at the schole, something she taught itt mee. there growes an hearbe within this field, and iff it were but knowne, his color, which is whyte and redd, it will make blacke and browne: his color, which is browne and blacke, itt will make redd and whyte; that sworde is not in all englande, upon his coate will byte. and you shall be a harper, brother, out of the north countrye; and he be your boy, soe faine of fighte, and beare your harpe by your knee. and you shal be the best harpèr, that ever tooke harpe in hand; and i wil be the best singèr, that ever sung in this lande. itt shal be written on our forheads all and in grammaryè, that we towe are the boldest men, that are in all christentyè. and thus they renisht them to ryde, on tow good renish steedes; and when they came to king adlands hall, of redd gold shone their weedes. and whan they came to kyng adlands hall, untill the fayre hall yate, there they found a proud portèr rearing himselfe thereatt. sayes, christ thee save, thou proud portèr; sayes, christ thee save and see. nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr, of whatsoever land ye bee. wee beene harpers, sayd adler younge, come out of the northe countrye; wee beene come hither untill this place, this proud weddinge for to see. sayd, and your color were white and redd, as it is blacke and browne, i wold saye king estmere and his brother, were comen untill this towne. then they pulled out a ryng of gold, layd itt on the porters arme: and ever we will thee, proud porter, thow wilt saye us no harme. sore he looked on king estmere, and sore he handled the ryng, then opened to them the fayre hall yates, he lett for no kind of thyng. king estmere he stabled his steede soe fayre att the hall bord; the froth, that came from his brydle bitte, light in kyng bremors beard. saies, stable thy steed, thou proud harper, saies, stable him in the stalle; it doth not beseeme a proud harper to stable 'him' in a kyngs halle. my ladde he is no lither, he said, he will doe nought that's meete; and is there any man in this hall were able him to beate thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of spaine, thou harper, here to mee: there is a man within this halle will beate thy ladd and thee. o let that man come downe, he said, a sight of him wold i see; and when hee hath beaten well my ladd, then he shall beate of mee. downe then came the kemperye man, and looketh him in the eare; for all the gold, that was under heaven, he durst not neigh him neare. and how nowe, kempe, said the kyng of spaine, and how what aileth thee? he saies, it is writt in his forhead all and in gramaryè, that for all the gold that is under heaven i dare not neigh him nye. then kyng estmere pulld forth his harpe, and plaid a pretty thinge: the ladye upstart from the borde, and wold have gone from the king. stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, for gods love i pray thee, for and thou playes as thou beginns, thou'lt till my bryde from mee. he stroake upon his harpe againe, and playd a pretty thinge; the ladye lough a loud laughter, as shee sate by the king. saies, sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper, and thy stringes all, for as many gold nobles 'thou shall have' as heere bee ringes in the hall. what wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,' if i did sell itt yee? "to playe my wiffe and me a fitt, when abed together wee bee." now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay, as shee sitts by thy knee, and as many gold nobles i will give, as leaves been on a tree. and what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, iff i did sell her thee? more seemelye it is for her fayre bodye to lye by mee then thee. hee played agayne both loud and shrille, and adler he did syng, "o ladye, this is thy owne true love; noe harper, but a kyng. "o ladye, this is thy owne true love, as playnlye thou mayest see; and he rid thee of that foule paynim, who partes thy love and thee." the ladye looked, the ladye blushte, and blushte and lookt agayne, while adler he hath drawne his brande, and hath the sowdan slayne. up then rose the kemperye men, and loud they gan to crye: ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, and therefore yee shall dye. kyng estmere threwe the harpe asyde, and swith he drew his brand; and estmere he, and adler yonge right stiffe in slodr can stand. and aye their swordes soe sore can byte, throughe help of gramaryè, that soone they have slayne the kempery men, or forst them forth to flee. kyng estmere took that fayre ladye, and marryed her to his wiffe, and brought her home to merry england with her to leade his life. [illustration] [illustration] king john and the abbot of canterbury an ancient story ile tell you anon of a notable prince, that was called king john; and he ruled england with maine and with might, for he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. and ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, concerning the abbot of canterbùrye; how for his house-keeping, and high renowne, they rode poste for him to fair london towne. an hundred men, the king did heare say, the abbot kept in his house every day; and fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, in velvet coates waited the abbot about. how now, father abbot, i heare it of thee, thou keepest a farre better house than mee, and for thy house-keeping and high renowne, i feare thou work'st treason against my crown. my liege, quo' the abbot, i would it were knowne, i never spend nothing, but what is my owne; and i trust, your grace will doe me no deere, for spending of my owne true-gotten geere. yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, and now for the same thou needest must dye; for except thou canst answer me questions three, thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. and first, quo' the king, when i'm in this stead, with my crowne of golde so faire on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worthe. secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, how soone i may ride the whole world about. and at the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think. o, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, nor i cannot answer your grace as yet: but if you will give me but three weekes space, ile do my endeavour to answer your grace. now three weeks space to thee will i give, and that is the longest time thou hast to live; for if thou dost not answer my questions three, thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee. away rode the abbot all sad at that word, and he rode to cambridge, and oxenford; but never a doctor there was so wise, that could with his learning an answer devise. then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, and he mett his shepheard a going to fold: how now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; what newes do you bring us from good king john? "sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, i must give; that i have but three days more to live: for if i do not answer him questions three, my head will be smitten from my bodie. the first is to tell him there in that stead, with his crowne of golde so fair on his head, among all his liege men so noble of birth, to within one penny of all what he is worth. the seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, how soon he may ride this whole world about: and at the third question i must not shrinke, but tell him there truly what he does thinke." now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, that a fool he may learn a wise man witt? lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, and i'll ride to london to answere your quarrel. nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, i am like your lordship, as ever may bee: and if you will but lend me your gowne, there is none shall knowe us at fair london towne. now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, with sumptuous array most gallant and brave; with crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope. now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say, 'tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; for and if thou canst answer my questions three, thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. and first, when thou seest me here in this stead, with my crowne of gold so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, tell me to one penny what i am worth. "for thirty pence our saviour was sold amonge the false jewes, as i have bin told; and twenty nine is the worth of thee, for i thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." the king he laughed, and swore by st. bittel, i did not thinke i had been worth so littel! --now secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soon i may ride this whole world about. "you must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, until the next morning he riseth againe; and then your grace need not make any doubt, but in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." the king he laughed, and swore by st. jone, i did not think, it could be gone so soone! --now from the third question thou must not shrinke, but tell me here truly what i do thinke. "yea, that shall i do, and make your grace merry: you thinke i'm the abbot of canterbùry; but i'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, that am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." the king he laughed, and swore by the masse, he make thee lord abbot this day in his place! "now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, for alacke i can neither write ne reade." four nobles a weeke, then i will give thee, for this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; and tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, thou hast brought him a pardon from good king john. barbara allen's cruelty in scarlet towne where i was borne, there was a faire maid dwellin, made every youth crye, wel-awaye! her name was barbara allen. all in the merrye month of may, when greene buds they were swellin, yong jemmye grove on his death-bed lay, for love of barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the town where shee was dwellin; you must come to my master deare, giff your name be barbara alien. for death is printed on his face, and ore his harte is stealin: then haste away to comfort him, o lovelye barbara alien. though death be printed on his face, and ore his harte is stealin, yet little better shall he bee for bonny barbara alien. so slowly, slowly, she came up, and slowly she came nye him; and all she sayd, when there she came, yong man, i think y'are dying. he turned his face unto her strait, with deadlye sorrow sighing; o lovely maid, come pity mee, ime on my death-bed lying. if on your death-bed you doe lye, what needs the tale you are tellin; i cannot keep you from your death; farewell, sayd barbara alien. he turned his face unto the wall, as deadlye pangs he fell in: adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, adieu to barbara allen. as she was walking ore the fields, she heard the bell a knellin; and every stroke did seem to saye, unworthye barbara allen. she turned her bodye round about, and spied the corps a coming: laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd, that i may look upon him. with scornful eye she looked downe, her cheeke with laughter swellin; whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, unworthye barbara allen. when he was dead, and laid in grave, her harte was struck with sorrowe, o mother, mother, make my bed, for i shall dye to-morrowe. hard-harted creature him to slight, who loved me so dearlye: o that i had beene more kind to him when he was alive and neare me! she, on her death-bed as she laye, beg'd to be buried by him; and sore repented of the daye, that she did ere denye him. farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, and shun the fault i fell in: henceforth take warning by the fall of cruel barbara allen. [illustration] fair rosamond when as king henry rulde this land, the second of that name, besides the queene, he dearly lovde a faire and comely dame. most peerlesse was her beautye founde, her favour, and her face; a sweeter creature in this worlde could never prince embrace. her crisped lockes like threads of golde appeard to each mans sight; her sparkling eyes, like orient pearles, did cast a heavenlye light. the blood within her crystal cheekes did such a colour drive, as though the lillye and the rose for mastership did strive. yea rosamonde, fair rosamonde, her name was called so, to whom our queene, dame ellinor, was known a deadlye foe. the king therefore, for her defence, against the furious queene, at woodstocke builded such a bower, the like was never scene. most curiously that bower was built of stone and timber strong, an hundred and fifty doors did to this bower belong: and they so cunninglye contriv'd with turnings round about, that none but with a clue of thread, could enter in or out. and for his love and ladyes sake, that was so faire and brighte, the keeping of this bower he gave unto a valiant knighte. but fortune, that doth often frowne where she before did smile, the kinges delighte and ladyes so full soon shee did beguile: for why, the kinges ungracious sonne, whom he did high advance, against his father raised warres within the realme of france. but yet before our comelye king the english land forsooke, of rosamond, his lady faire, his farewelle thus he tooke: "my rosamonde, my only rose, that pleasest best mine eye: the fairest flower in all the worlde to feed my fantasye: the flower of mine affected heart, whose sweetness doth excelle: my royal rose, a thousand times i bid thee nowe farwelle! for i must leave my fairest flower, my sweetest rose, a space, and cross the seas to famous france, proud rebelles to abase. but yet, my rose, be sure thou shalt my coming shortlye see, and in my heart, when hence i am, ile beare my rose with mee." when rosamond, that ladye brighte, did heare the king saye soe, the sorrowe of her grieved heart her outward lookes did showe; and from her cleare and crystall eyes the teares gusht out apace, which like the silver-pearled dewe ranne downe her comely face. her lippes, erst like the corall redde, did waxe both wan and pale, and for the sorrow she conceivde her vitall spirits faile; and falling down all in a swoone before king henryes face, full oft he in his princelye armes her bodye did embrace: and twentye times, with watery eyes, he kist her tender cheeke, untill he had revivde againe her senses milde and meeke. why grieves my rose, my sweetest rose? the king did often say. because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres my lord must part awaye. but since your grace on forrayne coastes amonge your foes unkinde must goe to hazard life and limbe, why should i staye behinde? nay rather, let me, like a page, your sworde and target beare; that on my breast the blowes may lighte, which would offend you there. or lett mee, in your royal tent, prepare your bed at nighte, and with sweete baths refresh your grace, ar your returne from fighte. so i your presence may enjoye no toil i will refuse; but wanting you, my life is death; nay, death ild rather chuse! "content thy self, my dearest love; thy rest at home shall bee in englandes sweet and pleasant isle; for travell fits not thee. faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; soft peace their sexe delights; not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; gay feastes, not cruell fights.' my rose shall safely here abide, with musicke passe the daye; whilst i, amonge the piercing pikes, my foes seeke far awaye. my rose shall shine in pearle, and golde, whilst ime in armour dighte; gay galliards here my love shall dance, whilst i my foes goe fighte. and you, sir thomas, whom i truste to bee my loves defence; be careful of my gallant rose when i am parted hence." and therewithall he fetcht a sigh, as though his heart would breake: and rosamonde, for very grief, not one plaine word could speake. and at their parting well they mighte in heart be grieved sore: after that daye faire rosamonde the king did see no more. for when his grace had past the seas, and into france was gone; with envious heart, queene ellinor, to woodstocke came anone. and forth she calls this trustye knighte, in an unhappy houre; who with his clue of twined thread, came from this famous bower. and when that they had wounded him, the queene this thread did gette, and went where ladye rosamonde was like an angell sette. but when the queene with stedfast eye beheld her beauteous face, she was amazed in her minde at her exceeding grace. cast off from thee those robes, she said, that riche and costlye bee; and drinke thou up this deadlye draught, which i have brought to thee. then presentlye upon her knees sweet rosamonde did fall; and pardon of the queene she crav'd for her offences all. "take pitty on my youthfull yeares," faire rosamonde did crye; "and lett mee not with poison stronge enforced bee to dye. i will renounce my sinfull life, and in some cloyster bide; or else be banisht, if you please, to range the world soe wide. and for the fault which i have done, though i was forc'd thereto, preserve my life, and punish mee as you thinke meet to doe." and with these words, her lillie handes she wrunge full often there; and downe along her lovely face did trickle many a teare. but nothing could this furious queene therewith appeased bee; the cup of deadlye poyson stronge, as she knelt on her knee, shee gave this comelye dame to drinke; who tooke it in her hand, and from her bended knee arose, and on her feet did stand: and casting up her eyes to heaven, she did for mercye calle; and drinking up the poison stronge, her life she lost withalle. and when that death through everye limbe had showde its greatest spite, her chiefest foes did plaine confesse shee was a glorious wight. her body then they did entomb, when life was fled away, at godstowe, neare to oxford towne, as may be scene this day. robin hood and guy of gisborne when shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, and leaves both large and longe, itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest to heare the small birdes songe. the woodweele sang, and wold not cease, sitting upon the spraye, soe lowde, he wakened robin hood, in the greenwood where he lay. now by my faye, sayd jollye robin, a sweaven i had this night; i dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, that fast with me can fight. methought they did mee beate and binde, and tooke my bow mee froe; if i be robin alive in this lande, he be wroken on them towe. sweavens are swift, master, quoth john, as the wind that blowes ore a hill; for if itt be never so loude this night, to-morrow itt may be still. buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, and john shall goe with mee, for ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, in greenwood where the bee. then the cast on their gownes of grene, and tooke theyr bowes each one; and they away to the greene forrest a shooting forth are gone; until they came to the merry greenwood, where they had gladdest bee, there were the ware of a wight yeoman, his body leaned to a tree. a sword and a dagger he wore by his side, of manye a man the bane; and he was clad in his capull hyde topp and tayll and mayne. stand you still, master, quoth litle john, under this tree so grene, and i will go to yond wight yeoman to know what he doth meane. ah! john, by me thou settest noe store, and that i farley finde: how offt send i my men beffore and tarry my selfe behinde? it is no cunning a knave to ken, and a man but heare him speake; and itt were not for bursting of my bowe. john, i thy head wold breake. as often wordes they breeden bale, so they parted robin and john; and john is gone to barnesdale; the gates he knoweth eche one. but when he came to barnesdale, great heavinesse there hee hadd, for he found tow of his owne fellòwes were slaine both in a slade. and scarlette he was flyinge a-foote fast over stocke and stone, for the sheriffe with seven score men fast after him is gone. one shoote now i will shoote, quoth john, with christ his might and mayne: ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, to stopp he shall be fayne. then john bent up his long bende-bowe, and fetteled him to shoote: the bow was made of a tender boughe, and fell down to his foote. woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, that ere thou grew on a tree; for now this day thou art my bale, my boote when thou shold bee. his shoote it was but loosely shott, yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, for itt mett one of the sheriffes men, good william a trent was slaine. it had bene better of william a trent to have bene abed with sorrowe, than to be that day in the green wood slade to meet with little johns arrowe. but as it is said, when men be mett fyve can doe more than three, the sheriffe hath taken little john, and bound him fast to a tree. thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, and hanged hye on a hill. but thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth john, if itt be christ his will. let us leave talking of little john, and thinke of robin hood, how he is gone to the wight yeoman, where under the leaves he stood. good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd robin so fayre, good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he: methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande a good archere thou sholdst bee. i am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman, and of my morning tyde. he lead thee through the wood, sayd robin; good fellow, he be thy guide. i seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd, men call him robin hood; rather ild meet with that proud outlawe, than fortye pound so good. now come with me, thou wighty yeman, and robin thou soone shalt see: but first let us some pastime find under the greenwood tree. first let us some masterye make among the woods so even, wee may chance to meet with robin hood here att some unsett steven. they cut them downe two summer shroggs, that grew both under a breere, and sett them threescore rood in twaine to shoot the prickes y-fere: lead on, good fellowe, quoth robin hood, lead on, i doe bidd thee. nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd, my leader thou shalt bee. the first time robin shot at the pricke, he mist but an inch it froe: the yeoman he was an archer good, but he cold never shoote soe. the second shoote had the wightye yeman, he shote within the garlànde: but robin he shott far better than hee, for he clave the good pricke wande. a blessing upon thy heart, he sayd; good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; for an thy hart be as good as thy hand, thou wert better then robin hoode. now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he, under the leaves of lyne. nay by my faith, quoth bolde robin, till thou have told me thine. i dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee, and robin to take ime sworne; and when i am called by my right name i am guye of good gisborne. my dwelling is in this wood, sayes robin, by thee i set right nought: i am robin hood of barnèsdale, whom thou so long hast sought. he that hath neither beene kithe nor kin, might have scene a full fayre sight, to see how together these yeomen went with blades both browne and bright. to see how these yeomen together they fought two howres of a summers day: yet neither robin hood nor sir guy them fettled to flye away. robin was reachles on a roote, and stumbled at that tyde; and guy was quick and nimble with-all, and hitt him ore the left side. ah deere lady, sayd robin hood, 'thou that art both mother and may,' i think it was never mans destinye to dye before his day. robin thought on our ladye deere, and soone leapt up againe, and strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, and he sir guy hath slayne. he took sir guys head by the hayre, and sticked itt on his bowes end: thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, which thing must have an ende. robin pulled forth an irish kniffe, and nicked sir guy in the face, that he was never on woman born, cold tell whose head it was. saies, lye there, lye there, now sir guye, and with me be not wrothe, if thou have had the worst stroked at my hand, thou shalt have the better clothe. robin did off his gowne of greene, and on sir guy did it throwe, and hee put on that capull hyde, that cladd him topp to toe. the bowe, the arrowes, and litle home, now with me i will beare; for i will away to barnesdale, to see how my men doe fare. robin hood sett guyes horne to his mouth. and a loud blast in it did blow. that beheard the sheriffe of nottingham, as he leaned under a lowe. hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe, i heare now tydings good, for yonder i heare sir guyes horne blowe, and he hath slaine robin hoode. yonder i heare sir guyes home blowe, itt blowes soe well in tyde, and yonder comes that wightye yeoman, cladd in his capull hyde. come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir guy, aske what thou wilt of mee. o i will none of thy gold, sayd robin, nor i will none of thy fee: but now i have slaine the master, he sayes, let me go strike the knave; this is all the rewarde i aske; nor noe other will i have. thou art a madman, said the sheriffe, thou sholdest have had a knights fee: but seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, well granted it shale be. when litle john heard his master speake, well knewe he it was his steven: now shall i be looset, quoth litle john, with christ his might in heaven. fast robin hee hyed him to litle john, he thought to loose him belive; the sheriffe and all his companye fast after him did drive. stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd robin; why draw you mee soe neere? itt was never the use in our countrye, ones shrift another shold heere. but robin pulled forth an irysh kniffe, and losed john hand and foote, and gave him sir guyes bow into his hand, and bade it be his boote. then john he took guyes bow in his hand, his boltes and arrowes eche one: when the sheriffe saw little john bend his bow, he fettled him to be gone. towards his house in nottingham towne he fled full fast away; and soe did all his companye: not one behind wold stay. but he cold neither runne soe fast, nor away soe fast cold ryde, but litle john with an arrowe soe broad he shott him into the 'back'-syde. the boy & the mantle [illustration: boy and mantle] in carleile dwelt king arthur, a prince of passing might; and there maintain'd his table round, beset with many a knight. and there he kept his christmas with mirth and princely cheare, when, lo! a straunge and cunning boy before him did appeare. a kirtle and a mantle this boy had him upon, with brooches, rings, and owches, full daintily bedone. he had a sarke of silk about his middle meet; and thus, with seemely curtesy, he did king arthur greet. "god speed thee, brave king arthur, thus feasting in thy bowre; and guenever thy goodly queen, that fair and peerlesse flowre. "ye gallant lords, and lordings, i wish you all take heed, lest, what ye deem a blooming rose, should prove a cankred weed." then straitway from his bosome a little wand he drew; and with it eke a mantle of wondrous shape and hew. "now have you here, king arthur, have this here of mee, and give unto thy comely queen, all-shapen as you see. "no wife it shall become, that once hath been to blame." then every knight in arthur's court slye glaunced at his dame. and first came lady guenever, the mantle she must trye. this dame, she was new-fangled, and of a roving eye. when she had tane the mantle, and all was with it cladde, from top to toe it shiver'd down, as tho' with sheers beshradde. one while it was too long, another while too short, and wrinkled on her shoulders in most unseemly sort. now green, now red it seemed, then all of sable hue. "beshrew me," quoth king arthur, "i think thou beest not true." down she threw the mantle, ne longer would not stay; but, storming like a fury, to her chamber flung away. she curst the whoreson weaver, that had the mantle wrought: and doubly curst the froward impe, who thither had it brought. "i had rather live in desarts beneath the green-wood tree; than here, base king, among thy groomes, the sport of them and thee." sir kay call'd forth his lady, and bade her to come near: "yet, dame, if thou be guilty, i pray thee now forbear." this lady, pertly gigling, with forward step came on, and boldly to the little boy with fearless face is gone. when she had tane the mantle, with purpose for to wear; it shrunk up to her shoulder, and left her b--- side bare. then every merry knight, that was in arthur's court, gib'd, and laught, and flouted, to see that pleasant sport. downe she threw the mantle, no longer bold or gay, but with a face all pale and wan, to her chamber slunk away. then forth came an old knight, a pattering o'er his creed; and proffer'd to the little boy five nobles to his meed; "and all the time of christmass plumb-porridge shall be thine, if thou wilt let my lady fair within the mantle shine." a saint his lady seemed, with step demure and slow, and gravely to the mantle with mincing pace doth goe. when she the same had taken, that was so fine and thin, it shrivell'd all about her, and show'd her dainty skin. ah! little did her mincing, or his long prayers bestead; she had no more hung on her, than a tassel and a thread. down she threwe the mantle, with terror and dismay, and, with a face of scarlet, to her chamber hyed away. sir cradock call'd his lady, and bade her to come neare: "come, win this mantle, lady, and do me credit here. "come, win this mantle, lady, for now it shall be thine, if thou hast never done amiss, sith first i made thee mine." the lady, gently blushing, with modest grace came on, and now to trye the wondrous charm courageously is gone. when she had tane the mantle, and put it on her backe, about the hem it seemed to wrinkle and to cracke. "lye still," shee cryed, "o mantle! and shame me not for nought, i'll freely own whate'er amiss, or blameful i have wrought. "once i kist sir cradocke beneathe the green-wood tree: once i kist sir cradocke's mouth before he married mee." when thus she had her shriven, and her worst fault had told, the mantle soon became her right comely as it shold. most rich and fair of colour, like gold it glittering shone: and much the knights in arthur's court admir'd her every one. then towards king arthur's table the boy he turn'd his eye: where stood a boar's head garnished with bayes and rosemarye. when thrice he o'er the boar's head his little wand had drawne, quoth he, "there's never a cuckold's knife can carve this head of brawne." then some their whittles rubbed on whetstone, and on hone: some threwe them under the table, and swore that they had none. sir cradock had a little knife, of steel and iron made; and in an instant thro' the skull he thrust the shining blade. he thrust the shining blade full easily and fast; and every knight in arthur's court a morsel had to taste. the boy brought forth a horne, all golden was the rim: saith he, "no cuckolde ever can set mouth unto the brim. "no cuckold can this little horne lift fairly to his head; but or on this, or that side, he shall the liquor shed." some shed it on their shoulder, some shed it on their thigh; and hee that could not hit his mouth, was sure to hit his eye. thus he, that was a cuckold, was known of every man: but cradock lifted easily, and wan the golden can. thus boar's head, horn and mantle, were this fair couple's meed: and all such constant lovers, god send them well to speed. then down in rage came guenever, and thus could spightful say, "sir cradock's wife most wrongfully hath borne the prize away. "see yonder shameless woman, that makes herselfe so clean: yet from her pillow taken thrice five gallants have been. "priests, clarkes, and wedded men, have her lewd pillow prest: yet she the wonderous prize forsooth must beare from all the rest." then bespake the little boy, who had the same in hold: "chastize thy wife, king arthur, of speech she is too bold: "of speech she is too bold, of carriage all too free; sir king, she hath within thy hall a cuckold made of thee. "all frolick light and wanton she hath her carriage borne: and given thee for a kingly crown to wear a cuckold's horne." the heir of linne part the first lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will beginne: it is of a lord of faire scotland, which was the unthrifty heire of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the daye with merry cheare, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i ween, his hearts delighte. to ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wott, an' it were the king himselfe, of gold and fee he mote be bare. soe fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his landes so broad, his house, and landes, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewarde, and john o' the scales was called hee: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has gott both gold and fee. sayes, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheere; iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, good store of gold ile give thee heere, my gold is gone, my money is spent; my lande nowe take it unto thee: give me the golde, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my lande shall bee. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie; but for every pounde that john agreed, the lande, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the borde, he was right glad his land to winne; the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ile be the lord of linne. thus he hath sold his land soe broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poore and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glenne. for soe he to his father hight. my sonne, when i am gonne, sayd hee, then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but sweare me nowe upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heire of linne is full of golde: and come with me, my friends, sayd hee, let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thinne; and then his friendes they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heire of linne. he had never a penny in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white money. nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of linne, nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. but many a trustye friend have i, and why shold i feel dole or care? ile borrow of them all by turnes, soe need i not be never bare. but one, i wis, was not at home; another had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loone, and bade him sharpely wend his way. now well-aday, sayd the heire of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me; for when i had my landes so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a brenning shame: to rob and steale it were a sinne: to worke my limbs i cannot frame. now ile away to lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on mee i there shold find a trusty friend. part the second away then hyed the heire of linne oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, untill he came to lonesome lodge, that stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked downe, in hope some comfort for to winne: but bare and lothly were the walles. here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of linne. the little windowe dim and darke was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; no shimmering sunn here ever shone; no halesome breeze here ever blew. no chair, ne table he mote spye, no cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, nought save a rope with renning noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad letters, these words were written so plain to see: "ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyselfe to penurie? "all this my boding mind misgave, i therefore left this trusty friend: let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end." sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heire of linne, his heart, i wis, was near to brast with guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. never a word spake the heire of linne, never a word he spake but three: "this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto mee." then round his necke the corde he drewe, and sprung aloft with his bodie: when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbling hee. astonyed lay the heire of linne, ne knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and saw a bille, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: it told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten golde, the third was full of white money; and over them in broad letters these words were written so plaine to see: "once more, my sonne, i sette thee clere; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last." and let it bee, sayd the heire of linne; and let it bee, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this reade shall guide me to the end. away then went with a merry cheare, away then went the heire of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, till john o' the scales house he did winne. and when he came to john o' the scales, upp at the speere then looked hee; there sate three lords upon a rowe, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was hee. i pray thee, he said, good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend mee. away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not bee: for christs curse on my head, he sayd, if ever i trust thee one pennìe. then bespake the heire of linne, to john o' the scales wife then spake he: madame, some almes on me bestowe, i pray for sweet saint charitìe. away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no almes of mee; for if we shold hang any losel heere, the first we wold begin with thee. then bespake a good fellòwe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord sayd, turn againe, thou heire of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord; some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold nor fee; therefore he lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need bee. and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee. up then spake him john o' the scales, all wood he answer'd him againe: now christs curse on my head, he sayd, but i did lose by that bargàine. and here i proffer thee, heire of linne, before these lords so faire and free, thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. i draw you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a gods pennie: now by my fay, sayd the heire of linne, and here, good john, is thy monèy. and he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, and layd them down upon the bord: all woe begone was john o' the scales, soe shent he cold say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth with mickle dinne. the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ime againe the lord of linne. sayes, have thou here, thou good fellòwe, forty pence thou didst lend me: now i am againe the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. he make the keeper of my forrest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for but i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame. now welladay! sayth joan o' the scales: now welladay! and woe is my life! yesterday i was lady of linne, now ime but john o' the scales his wife. now fare thee well, sayd the heire of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said hee: christs curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy. king cophetua and the beggar maid i read that once in affrica a princely wight did raine, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did faine: from natures lawes he did decline, for sure he was not of my mind. he cared not for women-kinde, but did them all disdaine. but, marke, what hapened on a day, as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in gray, the which did cause his paine. the blinded boy, that shootes so trim, from heaven downe did hie; he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lye: which soone did pierse him to the quicke. and when he felt the arrow pricke, which in his tender heart did sticke, he looketh as he would dye. what sudden chance is this, quoth he, that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defie? then from the window he did come, and laid him on his bed, a thousand heapes of care did runne within his troubled head: for now he meanes to crave her love, and now he seekes which way to proove how he his fancie might remoove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poor begger must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or els he would be dead. and, as he musing thus did lye, he thought for to devise how he might have her companye, that so did 'maze his eyes. in thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife the gods shall sure suffice. then from his bed he soon arose, and to his pallace gate he goes; full little then this begger knowes when she the king espies. the gods preserve your majesty, the beggers all gan cry: vouchsafe to give your charity our childrens food to buy. the king to them his pursse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hye. the king he cal'd her back againe, and unto her he gave his chaine; and said, with us you shal remaine till such time as we dye: for thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, and honoured for my queene; with thee i meane to lead my life, as shortly shall be seene: our wedding shall appointed be, and every thing in its degree: come on, quoth he, and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee cleane. what is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. penelophon, o king, quoth she; with that she made a lowe courtsey; a trim one as i weene. thus hand in hand along they walke unto the king's pallace: the king with curteous comly talke this beggar doth imbrace: the begger blusheth scarlet red, and straight againe as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voyce, and said, o king, i doe rejoyce that you wil take me from your choyce, and my degree's so base. and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded strait the noblemen both all and some upon the queene to wait. and she behaved herself that day, as if she had never walkt the way; she had forgot her gown of gray, which she did weare of late. the proverbe old is come to passe, the priest, when he begins his masse, forgets that ever clerke he was; he knowth not his estate. here you may read, cophetua, though long time fancie-fed, compelled by the blinded boy the begger for to wed: he that did lovers lookes disdaine, to do the same was glad and faine, or else he would himselfe have slaine, in storie, as we read. disdaine no whit, o lady deere, but pitty now thy servant heere, least that it hap to thee this yeare, as to that king it did. and thus they led a quiet life duringe their princely raigne; and in a tombe were buried both, as writers sheweth plaine. the lords they tooke it grievously, the ladies tooke it heavily, the commons cryed pitiously, their death to them was paine, their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did flye to every princes realme. [illustration: decorative ] [illustration] sir andrew barton 'when flora with her fragrant flowers bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, and neptune with his daintye showers came to present the monthe of maye;' king henrye rode to take the ayre, over the river of thames past hee; when eighty merchants of london came, and downe they knelt upon their knee. "o yee are welcome, rich merchants; good saylors, welcome unto mee." they swore by the rood, they were saylors good, but rich merchànts they cold not bee: "to france nor flanders dare we pass: nor bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; and all for a rover that lyes on the seas, who robbs us of our merchant ware." king henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, and swore by the lord, that was mickle of might, "i thought he had not beene in the world, durst have wrought england such unright." the merchants sighed, and said, alas! and thus they did their answer frame, he is a proud scott, that robbs on the seas, and sir andrewe barton is his name. the king lookt over his left shoulder, and an angrye look then looked hee: "have i never a lorde in all my realme, will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" yea, that dare i; lord howard sayes; yea, that dare i with heart and hand; if it please your grace to give me leave, myselfe wil be the only man. thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: yond scott hath numbered manye a yeare. "trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, or before my prince i will never appeare." then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, and chuse them over my realme so free; besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, to guide the great shipp on the sea. the first man, that lord howard chose, was the ablest gunner in all the realm, thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; good peter simon was his name. peter, sais hee, i must to the sea, to bring home a traytor live or dead: before all others i have chosen thee; of a hundred gunners to be the head. if you, my lord, have chosen mee of a hundred gunners to be the head, then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, if i misse my marke one shilling bread. my lord then chose a boweman rare, "whose active hands had gained fame." in yorkshire was this gentleman borne, and william horseley was his name. horseley, said he, i must with speede go seeke a traytor on the sea, and now of a hundred bowemen brave to be the head i have chosen thee. if you, quoth hee, have chosen mee of a hundred bowemen to be the head on your main-mast he hanged bee, if i miss twelvescore one penny bread. with pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, this noble howard is gone to the sea; with a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, out at thames mouth sayled he. and days he scant had sayled three, upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, but there he mett with a noble shipp, and stoutely made itt stay and stand. thou must tell me, lord howard said, now who thou art, and what's thy name; and shewe me where they dwelling is: and whither bound, and whence thou came. my name is henry hunt, quoth hee with a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; i and my shipp doe both belong to the newcastle, that stands upon tyne. hast thou not heard, nowe, henrye hunt, as thou hast sayled by daye and by night, of a scottish rover on the seas; men call him sir andrew barton, knight! then ever he sighed, and said alas! with a grieved mind, and well away! but over-well i knowe that wight, i was his prisoner yesterday. as i was sayling uppon the sea, a burdeaux voyage for to fare; to his hach-borde he clasped me, and robd me of all my merchant ware: and mickle debts, god wot, i owe, and every man will have his owne; and i am nowe to london bounde, of our gracious king to beg a boone. that shall not need, lord howard sais; lett me but once that robber see, for every penny tane thee froe it shall be doubled shillings three. nowe god forefend, the merchant said, that you should seek soe far amisse! god keepe you out of that traitors hands! full litle ye wott what a man hee is. hee is brasse within, and steele without, with beames on his topcastle stronge; and eighteen pieces of ordinance he carries on each side along: and he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, st. andrewes crosse that is his guide; his pinnace beareth ninescore men, and fifteen canons on each side. were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; i sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; he wold overcome them everye one, if once his beames they doe downe fall. this is cold comfort, sais my lord, to wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: yet he bring him and his ship to shore, or to scottland hee shall carrye mee. then a noble gunner you must have, and he must aim well with his ee, and sinke his pinnace into the sea, or else hee never orecome will bee: and if you chance his shipp to borde, this counsel i must give withall, let no man to his topcastle goe to strive to let his beams downe fall. and seven pieces of ordinance, i pray your honour lend to mee, on each side of my shipp along, and i will lead you on the sea. a glasse he sett, that may be seene whether you sail by day or night; and to-morrowe, i sweare, by nine of the clocke you shall meet with sir andrewe barton knight. the second part the merchant sett my lorde a glasse soe well apparent in his sight, and on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, he shewed him sir andrewe barton knight. his hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold, soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: nowe by my faith, lord howarde sais, this is a gallant sight to see. take in your ancyents, standards eke, so close that no man may them see; and put me forth a white willowe wand, as merchants use to sayle the sea. but they stirred neither top, nor mast; stoutly they past sir andrew by. what english churles are yonder, he sayd, that can soe little curtesye? now by the roode, three yeares and more i have beene admirall over the sea; and never an english nor portingall without my leave can passe this way. then called he forth his stout pinnace; "fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: i sweare by the masse, yon english churles shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." with that the pinnace itt shot off, full well lord howard might it ken; for itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, and killed fourteen of his men. come hither, simon, sayes my lord, looke that thy word be true, thou said; for at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, if thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; his ordinance he laid right lowe; he put in chaine full nine yardes long, with other great shott lesse, and moe; and he lette goe his great gunnes shott: soe well he settled itt with his ee, the first sight that sir andrew sawe, he see his pinnace sunke in the sea. and when he saw his pinnace sunke, lord, how his heart with rage did swell! "nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." when my lord sawe sir andrewe loose, within his heart he was full faine: "now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes, sound all your trumpetts out amaine." fight on, my men, sir andrewe sais, weale howsoever this geere will sway; itt is my lord admirall of england, is come to seeke mee on the sea. simon had a sonne, who shott right well, that did sir andrewe mickle scare; in att his decke he gave a shott, killed threescore of his men of warre. then henrye hunt with rigour hott came bravely on the other side, soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, and killed fourscore men beside. nowe, out alas! sir andrewe cryed, what may a man now thinke, or say? yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, he was my prisoner yesterday. come hither to me, thou gordon good, that aye wast readye att my call: i will give thee three hundred markes, if thou wilt let my beames downe fall. lord howard hee then calld in haste, "horseley see thou be true in stead; for thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, if thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." then gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with might and maine; but horseley with a bearing arrowe, stroke the gordon through the braine; and he fell unto the haches again, and sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: then word went through sir andrews men, how that the gordon hee was dead. come hither to mee, james hambilton, thou art my only sisters sonne, if thou wilt let my beames downe fall six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. with that he swarved the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with nimble art; but horseley with a broad arròwe pierced the hambilton thorough the heart: and downe he fell upon the deck, that with his blood did streame amaine: then every scott cryed, well-away! alas! a comelye youth is slaine. all woe begone was sir andrew then, with griefe and rage his heart did swell: "go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, for i will to the topcastle mysell." "goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; that gilded is with gold soe cleare: god be with my brother john of barton! against the portingalls hee it ware; and when he had on this armour of proofe, he was a gallant sight to see: ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, my deere brother, could cope with thee." come hither horseley, sayes my lord, and looke your shaft that itt goe right, shoot a good shoote in time of need, and for it thou shalt be made a knight. ile shoot my best, quoth horseley then, your honour shall see, with might and maine; but if i were hanged at your maine-mast, i have now left but arrowes twaine. sir andrew he did swarve the tree, with right good will he swarved then: upon his breast did horseley hitt, but the arrow bounded back agen. then horseley spyed a privye place with a perfect eye in a secrette part; under the spole of his right arme he smote sir andrew to the heart. "fight on, my men," sir andrew sayes, "a little ime hurt, but yett not slaine; he but lye downe and bleede a while, and then he rise and fight againe. fight on, my men," sir andrew sayes, "and never flinch before the foe; and stand fast by st. andrewes crosse until you heare my whistle blowe." they never heard his whistle blow-- which made their hearts waxe sore adread: then horseley sayd, aboard, my lord, for well i wott sir andrew's dead. they boarded then his noble shipp, they boarded it with might and maine; eighteen score scots alive they found, the rest were either maimed or slaine. lord howard tooke a sword in hand, and off he smote sir andrewes head, "i must have left england many a daye, if thou wert alive as thou art dead." he caused his body to be cast over the hatchboard into the sea, and about his middle three hundred crownes: "wherever thou land this will bury thee." thus from the warres lord howard came, and backe he sayled ore the maine, with mickle joy and triumphing into thames mouth he came againe. lord howard then a letter wrote, and sealed it with scale and ring; "such a noble prize have i brought to your grace, as never did subject to a king: "sir andrewes shipp i bring with mee; a braver shipp was never none: nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, before in england was but one." king henryes grace with royall cheere welcomed the noble howard home, and where, said he, is this rover stout, that i myselfe may give the doome? "the rover, he is safe, my liege, full many a fadom in the sea; if he were alive as he is dead, i must have left england many a day: and your grace may thank four men i' the ship for the victory wee have wonne, these are william horseley, henry hunt, and peter simon, and his sonne." to henry hunt, the king then sayd, in lieu of what was from thee tane, a noble a day now thou shalt have, sir andrewes jewels and his chayne. and horseley thou shalt be a knight, and lands and livings shalt have store; howard shall be erle surrye hight, as howards erst have beene before. nowe, peter simon, thou art old, i will maintaine thee and thy sonne: and the men shall have five hundred markes for the good service they have done. then in came the queene with ladyes fair to see sir andrewe barton knight: they weend that hee were brought on shore, and thought to have seen a gallant sight. but when they see his deadlye face, and eyes soe hollow in his head, i wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, this man were alive as hee is dead: yett for the manfull part hee playd, which fought soe well with heart and hand, his men shall have twelvepence a day, till they come to my brother kings high land. may collin may collin ... ... was her father's heir, and she fell in love with a false priest, and she rued it ever mair. he followd her butt, he followd her benn, he followd her through the hall, till she had neither tongue nor teeth nor lips to say him naw. "we'll take the steed out where he is, the gold where eer it be, and we'll away to some unco land, and married we shall be." they had not riden a mile, a mile, a mile but barely three, till they came to a rank river, was raging like the sea. "light off, light off now, may collin, it's here that you must die; here i have drownd seven king's daughters, the eight now you must be. "cast off, cast off now, may collin, your gown that's of the green; for it's oer good and oer costly to rot in the sea-stream. "cast off, cast off now, may collin, your coat that's of the black; for it's oer good and oer costly to rot in the sea-wreck. "cast off, cast off now, may collin, your stays that are well laced; for thei'r oer good and costly in the sea's ground to waste. "cast [off, cast off now, may collin,] your sark that's of the holland; for [it's oer good and oer costly] to rot in the sea-bottom." "turn you about now, falsh mess john, to the green leaf of the tree; it does not fit a mansworn man a naked woman to see." he turnd him quickly round about, to the green leaf of the tree; she took him hastly in her arms and flung him in the sea. "now lye you there, you falsh mess john, my mallasin go with thee! you thought to drown me naked and bare, but take your cloaths with thee, and if there be seven king's daughters there bear you them company" she lap on her milk steed and fast she bent the way, and she was at her father's yate three long hours or day. up and speaks the wylie parrot, so wylily and slee: "where is the man now, may collin, that gaed away wie thee?" "hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, and tell no tales of me, and where i gave a pickle befor it's now i'll give you three." [illustration] the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green part the first itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; and many a gallant brave suiter had shee, for none was soe comelye as pretty bessee. and though shee was of favour most faire, yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye bessee. wherefore in great sorrow faire bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me goe away to seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. this suite then they granted to prettye bessee. then bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, all cladd in gray russett, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted shee; who sighed and sobbed for prettye bessee. shee went till shee came to stratford-le-bow; then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: with teares shee lamented her hard destinie, so sadd and soe heavy was pretty bessee. shee kept on her journey untill it was day, and went unto rumford along the hye way; where at the queenes armes entertained was shee; soe faire and wel favoured was pretty bessee. shee had not beene there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straight-way enamoured of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daylye her love was extold; her beawtye was blazed in every degree; soe faire and soe comelye was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; and at her commandment still wold they bee; soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty bessee. foure suitors att once unto her did goe; they craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; i wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. yett ever they honored prettye bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguisde in the night; the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for prettye bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suiter, and proper withall: her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, who swore he would dye for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; my hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, that soone i shall dye for prettye bessee. the gentleman sayd, come, marry with mee, as fine as a ladye my bessy shal bee: my life is distressed: o heare me, quoth hee; and grant me thy love, my prettye bessee. let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, my father and mother i meane to obey; first gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, and you shall enjoye your prettye bessee. to every one this answer shee made, wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, this thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; but where dwells thy father, my prettye besse? my father, shee said, is soone to be seene: the seely blind beggar of bednall-greene, that daylye sits begging for charitie, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his markes and his tokens are knowen very well; he alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: a seely olde man, god knoweth, is hee, yett hee is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: i lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, and therefore, adewe, my pretty bessee! why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, and bewtye is bewtye in every degree; then welcome unto me, my prettye bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will goe. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; a poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, then take thy adew of pretty bessee. but soone after this, by breake of the day, the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the younge men of rumford, as thicke might bee, rode after to feitch againe pretty bessee. as swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, untill they came neare unto bednall-greene; and as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescew came speedilye over the plaine, or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. this fray being ended, then straitway he see his kinsmen come rayling at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i bee poore, yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, yett will i dropp angells with you for my girle. and then, if my gold may better her birthe, and equall the gold that you lay on the earth, then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see the blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. but first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, the gold that you drop shall all be your owne. with that they replyed, contented bee wee. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angell he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentime itt was proved most plaine, for the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne: soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, with gold it was covered every whitt. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, sayd, now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; and heere, added hee, i will now throwe you downe a hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, admired the beggar of bednall-greene: and all those, that were her suitors before, their fleshe for very anger they tore. thus was faire besse matched to the knight, and then made a ladye in others despite: a fairer ladye there never was seene, than the blind beggars daughter of bednall-greene. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. part the second off a blind beggars daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a younge knight; all the discourse therof you did see; but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they cold have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties, and delicates sweete were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, soe that a great number therto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of prettye bessee. to church then went this gallant younge knight; his bride followed after, an angell most bright, with troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene as went with sweete bessy of bednall-greene. this marryage being solempnized then, with musicke performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, each one admiring the beautiful bryde. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talke, and to reason a number begunn: they talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, "much marveil have wee, this jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. "the prayse of a woman in question to bringe before her own face, were a flattering thinge; but wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, "might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." they had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; a faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, and now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. he had a daintye lute under his arme, he touched the strings, which made such a charme, saies, please you to heare any musicke of mee, ile sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon begann most sweetlye to play; and after that lessons were playd two or three, he strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe. "a poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: a blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, and many one called her pretty bessee. "her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. "and if any one here her birth doe disdaine, her father is ready, with might and with maine, to proove shee is come of noble degree: therfore never flout att prettye bessee." with that the lords and the companye round with harty laughter were readye to swound; att last said the lords, full well wee may see, the bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, that throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. if this be thy father, the nobles did say, well may he be proud of this happy day; yett by his countenance well may wee see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: and therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee. "then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that itt may not winn good report, then doe not give me a groat for my sport. "sir simon de montfort my subject shal bee; once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. "when the barons in armes did king henrye oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was hee, and oft-times he made their enemyes flee. "at length in the battle on eveshame plaine the barons were routed, and montford was slaine; moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye bessee! "along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, his eldest son henrye, who fought by his side, was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! a blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. "among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, till evening drewe on of the following daye, when by a yong ladye discovered was hee; and this was thy mother, my prettye bessee! "a barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he laye, was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. "in secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, while he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine at lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, and made him glad father of prettye bessee. "and nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, we clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: all our comfort and care was our prettye bessee. "and here have we lived in fortunes despite, thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: full forty winters thus have i beene a silly blind beggar of bednall-greene. "and here, noble lordes, is ended the song of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: and thus have you learned a secrette from mee, that ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye bessee." now when the faire companye everye one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, they all were amazed, as well they might bee, both at the blinde beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the faire bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race, thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to bee. thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, a bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, in joy and felicitie long lived hee, all with his faire ladye, the pretty bessee. [illustration: hand dropping gold coins] thomas the rhymer thomas lay on the huntlie bank, a spying ferlies wi his eee, and he did spy a lady gay, come riding down by the lang lee. her steed was o the dapple grey, and at its mane there hung bells nine; he thought he heard that lady say, "they gowden bells sall a' be thine." her mantle was o velvet green, and a' set round wi jewels fine; her hawk and hounds were at her side, and her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine. thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, for to salute this gay lady: "o save ye, save ye, fair queen o heavn, and ay weel met ye save and see!" "i'm no the queen o heavn, thomas; i never carried my head sae hee; for i am but a lady gay, come out to hunt in my follee. "now gin ye kiss my mouth, thomas, ye mauna miss my fair bodee; then ye may een gang hame and tell that ye've lain wi a gay ladee." "o gin i loe a lady fair, nae ill tales o her wad i tell, and it's wi thee i fain wad gae, tho it were een to heavn or hell." "then harp and carp, thomas," she said, "then harp and carp alang wi me; but it will be seven years and a day till ye win back to yere ain countrie." the lady rade, true thomas ran, until they cam to a water wan; o it was night, and nae delight, and thomas wade aboon the knee. it was dark night, and nae starn-light, and on they waded lang days three, and they heard the roaring o a flood, and thomas a waefou man was he. then they rade on, and farther on, untill they came to a garden green; to pu an apple he put up his hand, for the lack o food he was like to tyne. "o haud yere hand, thomas," she cried, "and let that green flourishing be; for it's the very fruit o hell, beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie. "but look afore ye, true thomas, and i shall show ye ferlies three; yon is the gate leads to our land, where thou and i sae soon shall be. "and dinna ye see yon road, thomas, that lies out-owr yon lilly lee? weel is the man yon gate may gang, for it leads him straight to the heavens hie. "but do you see yon road, thomas, that lies out-owr yon frosty fell? ill is the man yon gate may gang, for it leads him straight to the pit o hell. "now when ye come to our court, thomas, see that a weel-learned man ye be; for they will ask ye, one and all, but ye maun answer nane but me. "and when nae answer they obtain, then will they come and question me, and i will answer them again that i gat yere aith at the eildon tree. * * * * * "ilka seven years, thomas, we pay our teindings unto hell, and ye're sae leesome and sae strang that i fear, thomas, it will be yeresell." young beichan in london city was bicham born, he longd strange countries for to see, but he was taen by a savage moor, who handld him right cruely. for thro his shoulder he put a bore, an thro the bore has pitten a tree, an he's gard him draw the carts o wine, where horse and oxen had wont to be. he's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, where he coud neither hear nor see; he's shut him up in a prison strong, an he's handld him right cruely. o this moor he had but ae daughter, i wot her name was shusy pye; she's doen her to the prison-house, and she's calld young bicham one word "o hae ye ony lands or rents, or citys in your ain country, coud free you out of prison strong, an coud mantain a lady free?" "o london city is my own, an other citys twa or three, coud loose me out o prison strong, an coud mantain a lady free." o she has bribed her father's men wi meikle goud and white money, she's gotten the key o the prison doors, an she has set young bicham free. she's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, but an a flask o spanish wine, an she bad him mind on the ladie's love that sae kindly freed him out o pine. "go set your foot on good ship-board, an haste you back to your ain country, an before that seven years has an end, come back again, love, and marry me." it was long or seven years had an end she longd fu sair her love to see; she's set her foot on good ship-board, and turnd her back on her ain country. she's saild up, so has she doun, till she came to the other side; she's landed at young bicham's gates, an i hop this day she sal be his bride. "is this young bicham's gates?" says she, "or is that noble prince within?" "he's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, an monny a lord and lady wi him." "o has he taen a bonny bride, an has he clean forgotten me!" an sighing said that gay lady, i wish i were in my ain country! but she's pitten her han in her pocket, an gin the porter guineas three; says, take ye that, ye proud porter, an bid the bridegroom speak to me. o whan the porter came up the stair, he's fa'n low down upon his knee: "won up, won up, ye proud porter, an what makes a' this courtesy?" "o i've been porter at your gates this mair nor seven years an three, but there is a lady at them now the like of whom i never did see. "for on every finger she has a ring, an on the mid-finger she has three, an there's a meikle goud aboon her brow as woud buy an earldome o lan to me." then up it started young bicham, an sware so loud by our lady, "it can be nane but shusy pye, that has come oer the sea to me." o quickly ran he down the stair, o fifteen steps he has made but three; he's tane his bonny love in his arms, an a wot he kissd her tenderly. "o hae you tane a bonny bride? an hae you quite forsaken me? an hae ye quite forgotten her that gae you life an liberty? " she's lookit oer her left shoulder to hide the tears stood in her ee; "now fare thee well, young bicham," she says, "i'll strive to think nae mair on thee." "take back your daughter, madam," he says, "an a double dowry i'll gi her wi; for i maun marry my first true love, that's done and suffered so much for me." he's take his bonny love by the ban, and led her to yon fountain stane; he's changd her name frae shusy pye, an he's cald her his bonny love, lady jane. [illustration] brave lord willoughbey the fifteenth day of july, with glistering spear and shield, a famous fight in flanders was foughten in the field: the most couragious officers were english captains three; but the bravest man in battel was brave lord willoughbèy. the next was captain norris, a valiant man was hee: the other captain turner, from field would never flee. with fifteen hundred fighting men, alas! there were no more, they fought with fourteen thousand then, upon the bloody shore. stand to it, noble pikemen, and look you round about: and shoot you right, you bow-men, and we will keep them out: you musquet and callìver men, do you prove true to me, i'le be the formost man in fight, says brave lord willoughbèy. and then the bloody enemy they fiercely did assail, and fought it out most furiously, not doubting to prevail: the wounded men on both sides fell most pitious for to see, yet nothing could the courage quell of brave lord willoughbèy. for seven hours to all mens view this fight endured sore, until our men so feeble grew that they could fight no more; and then upon dead horses full savourly they eat, and drank the puddle water, they could no better get. when they had fed so freely, they kneeled on the ground, and praised god devoutly for the favour they had found; and beating up their colours, the fight they did renew, and turning tow'rds the spaniard, a thousand more they slew. the sharp steel-pointed arrows, and bullets thick did fly, then did our valiant soldiers charge on most furiously; which made the spaniards waver, they thought it best to flee, they fear'd the stout behaviour of brave lord willoughbey. then quoth the spanish general, come let us march away, i fear we shall be spoiled all if here we longer stay; for yonder comes lord willoughbey with courage fierce and fell, he will not give one inch of way for all the devils in hell. and then the fearful enemy was quickly put to flight, our men persued couragiously, and caught their forces quite; but at last they gave a shout, which ecchoed through the sky, god, and st. george for england! the conquerors did cry. this news was brought to england with all the speed might be, and soon our gracious queen was told of this same victory. o this is brave lord willoughbey, my love that ever won, of all the lords of honour 'tis he great deeds hath done. to the souldiers that were maimed, and wounded in the fray, the queen allowed a pension of fifteen pence a day; and from all costs and charges she quit and set them free: and this she did all for the sake of brave lord willoughbey. then courage, noble englishmen, and never be dismaid; if that we be but one to ten, we will not be afraid to fight with foraign enemies, and set our nation free. and thus i end the bloody bout of brave lord willoughbey. [illustration] the spanish lady's love will you hear a spanish lady, how shed wooed an english man? garments gay and rich as may be decked with jewels she had on. of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lye! cupid's bands did tye them faster by the liking of an eye. in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in any thing she was not coy. but at last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorned, none to do them injury. then said this lady mild, full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! gallant captain, shew some pity to a ladye in distresse; leave me not within this city, for to dye in heavinesse: thou hast this present day my body free, but my heart in prison still remains with thee. "how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou knowest thy country's foe? thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: serpents lie where flowers grow." all the harme i wishe to thee, most courteous knight, god grant the same upon my head may fully light. blessed be the time and season, that you came on spanish ground; if our foes you may be termed, gentle foes we have you found: with our city, you have won our hearts eche one, then to your country bear away, that is your owne. "rest you still, most gallant lady; rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there is plenty, spain doth yield a wonderous store." spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, but englishmen through all the world are counted kind. leave me not unto a spaniard, you alone enjoy my heart: i am lovely, young, and tender, love is likewise my desert: still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; the wife of every englishman is counted blest. "it wold be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence." i'll quickly change myself, if it be so, and like a page he follow thee, where'er thou go. "i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel is great charges, as you know in every place." my chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, and eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown. "on the seas are many dangers, many storms do there arise, which wil be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from watery eyes." well in troth i shall endure extremity, for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee. "courteous ladye, leave this fancy, here comes all that breeds the strife; i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain." o how happy is that woman that enjoys so true a friend! many happy days god send her; of my suit i make an end: on my knees i pardon crave for my offence, which did from love and true affection first commence. commend me to thy lovely lady, bear to her this chain of gold; and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold: all my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, for they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. i will spend my days in prayer, love and all her laws defye; in a nunnery will i shroud mee far from any companye: but ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, to pray for thee and for thy love i will not miss. thus farewell, most gallant captain! farewell too my heart's content! count not spanish ladies wanton, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! "the like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." the friar of orders gray [illustration] it was a friar of orders gray walkt forth to tell his beades; and he met with a lady faire, clad in a pilgrime's weedes. now christ thee save, thou reverend friar, i pray thee tell to me, if ever at yon holy shrine my true love thou didst see. and how should i know your true love from many another one? o by his cockle hat, and staff, and by his sandal shoone. but chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view; his flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyne of lovely blue. o lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone! and at his head a green grass turfe, and at his heels a stone. within these holy cloysters long he languisht, and he dyed, lamenting of a ladyes love, and 'playning of her pride. here bore him barefac'd on his bier six proper youths and tall, and many a tear bedew'd his grave within yon kirk-yard wall. and art thou dead, thou gentle youth! and art thou dead and gone! and didst thou die for love of me! break, cruel heart of stone! o weep not, lady, weep not soe; some ghostly comfort seek: let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, ne teares bedew thy cheek. o do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove; for i have lost the sweetest youth, that e'er wan ladyes love. and nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, i'll evermore weep and sigh; for thee i only wisht to live, for thee i wish to dye. weep no more, lady, weep no more, thy sorrowe is in vaine: for violets pluckt the sweetest showers will ne'er make grow againe. our joys as winged dreams doe flye, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy losse, grieve not for what is past. o say not soe, thou holy friar; i pray thee, say not soe: for since my true-love dyed for mee, 'tis meet my tears should flow. and will he ne'er come again? will he ne'er come again? ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain. his cheek was redder than the rose; the comliest youth was he! but he is dead and laid in his grave: alas, and woe is me! sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever: one foot on sea and one on land, to one thing constant never. hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy; for young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy. now say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not soe; my love he had the truest heart: o he was ever true! and art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, and didst thou dye for mee? then farewell home; for ever-more a pilgrim i will bee. but first upon my true-loves grave my weary limbs i'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf, that wraps his breathless clay. yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile beneath this cloyster wall: see through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, and drizzly rain doth fall. o stay me not, thou holy friar; o stay me not, i pray; no drizzly rain that falls on me, can wash my fault away. yet stay, fair lady, turn again, and dry those pearly tears; for see beneath this gown of gray thy own true-love appears. here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, these holy weeds i sought; and here amid these lonely walls to end my days i thought. but haply for my year of grace is not yet past away, might i still hope to win thy love, no longer would i stay. now farewell grief, and welcome joy once more unto my heart; for since i have found thee, lovely youth, we never more will part. clerk colvill [illustration] clerk colvill and his lusty dame were walking in the garden green; the belt around her stately waist cost clerk colvill of pounds fifteen. "o promise me now, clerk colvill, or it will cost ye muckle strife, ride never by the wells of slane, if ye wad live and brook your life." "now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, now speak nae mair of that to me; did i neer see a fair woman, but i wad sin with her body?" he's taen leave o his gay lady, nought minding what his lady said, and he's rode by the wells of slane, where washing was a bonny maid. "wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, that wash sae clean your sark of silk;" "and weel fa you, fair gentleman, your body whiter than the milk." * * * * * then loud, loud cry'd the clerk colvill, "o my head it pains me sair;" "then take, then take," the maiden said, "and frae my sark you'll cut a gare." then she's gied him a little bane-knife, and frae her sark he cut a share; she's ty'd it round his whey-white face, but ay his head it aked mair. then louder cry'd the clerk colville, "o sairer, sairer akes my head;" "and sairer, sairer ever will," the maiden crys, "till you be dead." out then he drew his shining blade, thinking to stick her where she stood, but she was vanished to a fish, and swam far off, a fair mermaid. "o mother, mother, braid my hair; my lusty lady, make my bed; o brother, take my sword and spear, for i have seen the false mermaid." [illustration] sir aldingar our king he kept a false stewàrde, sir aldingar they him call; a falser steward than he was one, servde not in bower nor hall. he wolde have layne by our comelye queene, her deere worshippe to betraye: our queene she was a good womàn, and evermore said him naye. sir aldingar was wrothe in his mind, with her hee was never content, till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, in a fyer to have her brent. there came a lazar to the kings gate, a lazar both blinde and lame: he tooke the lazar upon his backe, him on the queenes bed has layne. "lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, looke thou goe not hence away; he make thee a whole man and a sound in two howers of the day." then went him forth sir aldingar, and hyed him to our king: "if i might have grace, as i have space, sad tydings i could bring." say on, say on, sir aldingar, saye on the soothe to mee. "our queene hath chosen a new new love, and shee will have none of thee. "if shee had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had beene her shame; but she hath chose her a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame." if this be true, thou aldingar, the tyding thou tellest to me, then will i make thee a rich rich knight, rich both of golde and fee. but if it be false, sir aldingar, as god nowe grant it bee! thy body, i sweare by the holye rood, shall hang on the gallows tree. he brought our king to the queenes chambèr, and opend to him the dore. a lodlye love, king harry says, for our queene dame elinore! if thou were a man, as thou art none, here on my sword thoust dye; but a payre of new gallowes shall be built, and there shalt thou hang on hye. forth then hyed our king, i wysse, and an angry man was hee; and soone he found queen elinore, that bride so bright of blee. now god you save, our queene, madame, and christ you save and see; heere you have chosen a newe newe love, and you will have none of mee. if you had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had been your shame; but you have chose you a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame. therfore a fyer there shalt be built, and brent all shalt thou bee.-- now out alacke! said our comly queene, sir aldingar's false to mee. now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, my heart with griefe will brast. i had thought swevens had never been true; i have proved them true at last. i dreamt in my sweven on thursday eve, in my bed whereas i laye. i dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast had carryed my crowne awaye; my gorgett and my kirtle of golde, and all my faire head-geere: and he wold worrye me with his tush and to his nest y-beare: saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, a merlin him they call, which untill the grounde did strike the grype, that dead he downe did fall. giffe i were a man, as now i am none, a battell wold i prove, to fight with that traitor aldingar, att him i cast my glove. but seeing ime able noe battell to make, my liege, grant me a knight to fight with that traitor sir aldingar, to maintaine me in my right. "now forty dayes i will give thee to seeke thee a knight therein: if thou find not a knight in forty dayes thy bodye it must brenn." then shee sent east, and shee sent west, by north and south bedeene: but never a champion colde she find, wolde fight with that knight soe keene. now twenty dayes were spent and gone, noe helpe there might be had; many a teare shed our comelye queene and aye her hart was sad. then came one of the queenes damsèlles, and knelt upon her knee, "cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, i trust yet helpe may be: and here i will make mine avowe, and with the same me binde; that never will i return to thee, till i some helpe may finde." then forth she rode on a faire palfràye oer hill and dale about: but never a champion colde she finde, wolde fighte with that knight so stout. and nowe the daye drewe on a pace, when our good queene must dye; all woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, when she found no helpe was nye. all woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, and the salt teares fell from her eye: when lo! as she rode by a rivers side, she met with a tinye boye. a tinye boye she mette, god wot, all clad in mantle of golde; he seemed noe more in mans likenèsse, then a childe of four yeere old. why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, and what doth cause you moane? the damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, but fast she pricked on. yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle and greete thy queene from mee: when bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, nowe helpe enoughe may bee. bid her remember what she dreamt in her bedd, wheras shee laye; how when the grype and grimly beast wolde have carried her crowne awaye, even then there came the little gray hawke, and saved her from his clawes: then bidd the queene be merry at hart, for heaven will fende her cause. back then rode that faire damsèlle, and her hart it lept for glee: and when she told her gracious dame a gladd woman then was shee: but when the appointed day was come, no helpe appeared nye: then woeful, woeful was her hart, and the teares stood in her eye. and nowe a fyer was built of wood; and a stake was made of tree; and now queene elinor forth was led, a sorrowful sight to see. three times the herault he waved his hand, and three times spake on hye: giff any good knight will fende this dame, come forth, or shee must dye. no knight stood forth, no knight there came, no helpe appeared nye: and now the fyer was lighted up, queen elinor she must dye. and now the fyer was lighted up, as hot as hot might bee; when riding upon a little white steed, the tinye boy they see. "away with that stake, away with those brands, and loose our comelye queene: i am come to fight with sir aldingar, and prove him a traitor keene." forthe then stood sir aldingar, but when he saw the chylde, he laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, and weened he had been beguylde. "now turne, now turne thee, aldingar, and eyther fighte or flee; i trust that i shall avenge the wronge, thoughe i am so small to see." the boy pulld forth a well good sworde so gilt it dazzled the ee; the first stroke stricken at aldingar, smote off his leggs by the knee. "stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr, and fight upon thy feete, for and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, of height wee shall be meete." a priest, a priest, sayes aldingàr, while i am a man alive. a priest, a priest, sayes aldingàr, me for to houzle and shrive. i wolde have laine by our comlie queene, bot shee wolde never consent; then i thought to betraye her unto our kinge in a fyer to have her brent. there came a lazar to the kings gates, a lazar both blind and lame: i tooke the lazar upon my backe, and on her bedd had him layne. then ranne i to our comlye king, these tidings sore to tell. but ever alacke! sayes aldingar, falsing never doth well. forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, the short time i must live. "nowe christ forgive thee, aldingar, as freely i forgive." here take thy queene, our king harryè, and love her as thy life, for never had a king in christentye. a truer and fairer wife. king henrye ran to claspe his queene, and loosed her full sone: then turned to look for the tinye boye; --the boye was vanisht and gone. but first he had touched the lazar man, and stroakt him with his hand: the lazar under the gallowes tree all whole and sounde did stand. the lazar under the gallowes tree was comelye, straight and tall; king henrye made him his head stewàrde to wayte withinn his hall. [illustration] edom o' gordon [illustration] it fell about the martinmas, quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, said edom o' gordon to his men, we maun draw till a hauld. and quhat a hauld sall we draw till, my mirry men and me? we wul gae to the house o' the rodes, to see that fair ladie. the lady stude on her castle wa', beheld baith dale and down: there she was ware of a host of men cum ryding towards the toun. o see ze nat, my mirry men a'? o see za nat quhat i see? methinks i see a host of men: i marveil quha they be. she weend it had been hir luvely lord, as he cam ryding hame; it was the traitor edom o' gordon, quha reckt nae sin nor shame. she had nae sooner buskit hirsel, and putten on hir goun, but edom o' gordon and his men were round about the toun. they had nae sooner supper sett, nae sooner said the grace, but edom o' gordon and his men were light about the place. the lady ran up to hir towir head, sa fast as she could hie, to see if by hir fair speechès she could wi' him agree. but quhan he see this lady saif, and hir yates all locked fast, he fell into a rage of wrath, and his look was all aghast. cum doun to me, ze lady gay, cum doun, cum doun to me: this night sall ye lig within mine armes, to-morrow my bride sall be. i winnae cum doun ze fals gordòn, i winnae cum doun to thee; i winna forsake my ain dear lord, that is sae far frae me. give owre zour house, ze lady fair, give owre zour house to me, or i sall brenn yoursel therein, bot and zour babies three. i winnae give owre, ze false gordòn, to nae sik traitor as zee; and if ze brenn my ain dear babes, my lord sall make ze drie. but reach my pistoll, glaud my man, and charge ze weil my gun: for, but an i pierce that bluidy butcher, my babes we been undone. she stude upon hir castle wa', and let twa bullets flee: she mist that bluidy butchers hart, and only raz'd his knee. set fire to the house, quo' fals gordòn, all wood wi' dule and ire: fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, as ze bren in the fire. wae worth, wae worth ze, jock my man, i paid ze weil zour fee; quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, lets in the reek to me? and ein wae worth ze, jock my man, i paid ze weil zour hire; quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, to me lets in the fire? ze paid me weil my hire, lady; ze paid me weil my fee: but now i'm edom o' gordons man, maun either doe or die. o than bespaik hir little son, sate on the nurses knee: sayes, mither deare, gi' owre this house, for the reek it smithers me. i wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, say wald i a' my fee, for ane blast o' the western wind, to blaw the reek frae thee. o then bespaik hir dochter dear, she was baith jimp and sma; o row me in a pair o' sheits, and tow me owre the wa. they rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, and towd hir owre the wa: but on the point of gordons spear she gat a deadly fa. o bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, and cherry were her cheiks, and clear clear was hir zellow hair, whereon the reid bluid dreips. then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, o gin hir face was wan! he sayd, ze are the first that eir i wisht alive again. he turnd hir owre and owre againe, o gin hir skin was whyte! i might ha spared that bonnie face to hae been sum mans delyte. busk and boun, my merry men a', for ill dooms i doe guess; i cannae luik in that bonnie face, as it lyes on the grass. thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, then freits wil follow thame: let neir be said brave edom o' gordon was daunted by a dame. but quhen the ladye see the fire cum flaming owre hir head, she wept and kist her children twain, sayd, bairns, we been but dead. the gordon then his bougill blew, and said, awa', awa'; this house o' the rodes is a' in flame, i hauld it time to ga'. o then bespyed hir ain dear lord, as hee cam owr the lee; he sied his castle all in blaze sa far as he could see. then sair, o sair his mind misgave, and all his hart was wae; put on, put on, my wighty men, so fast as ze can gae. put on, put on, my wighty men, sa fast as ze can drie; for he that is hindmost of the thrang sall neir get guid o' me. than sum they rade, and sum they rin, fou fast out-owr the bent; but eir the foremost could get up, baith lady and babes were brent. he wrang his hands, he rent his hair, and wept in teenefu' muid: o traitors, for this cruel deid ze sall weep tiers o' bluid. and after the gordon he is gane, sa fast as he might drie. and soon i' the gordon's foul hartis bluid he's wroken his dear ladie. [illustration] chevy chase [illustration] god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safetyes all; a woefull hunting once there did in chevy-chace befall; to drive the deere with hound and horne, erle percy took his way, the child may rue that is unborne, the hunting of that day. the stout erle of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers days to take; the cheefest harts in chevy-chace to kill and beare away. these tydings to erle douglas came, in scotland where he lay: who sent erle percy present word, he wold prevent his sport. the english erle, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bow-men bold; all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of neede to ayme their shafts arright. the galland greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deere: on munday they began to hunt, ere day-light did appeare; and long before high noone they had an hundred fat buckes slaine; then having dined, the drovyers went to rouze the deare againe. the bow-men mustered on the hills, well able to endure; theire backsides all, with speciall care, that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deere to take, that with their cryes the hills and dales an eccho shrill did make. lord percy to the quarry went, to view the slaughter'd deere; quoth he, erle douglas promised this day to meet me heere: but if i thought he wold not come, noe longer wold i stay. with that, a brave younge gentleman thus to the erle did say: loe, yonder doth erle douglas come, his men in armour bright; full twenty hundred scottish speres all marching in our sight; all men of pleasant tivydale, fast by the river tweede: o cease your sports, erle percy said, and take your bowes with speede: and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yett, in scotland nor in france, that ever did on horsebacke come, but if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spere. erle douglas on his milke-white steede, most like a baron bolde, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, that hunt soe boldly heere, that, without my consent, doe chase and kill my fallow-deere. the first man that did answer make was noble percy hee; who sayd, wee list not to declare, nor shew whose men wee bee: yet wee will spend our deerest blood, thy cheefest harts to slay. then douglas swore a solempne oathe, and thus in rage did say, ere thus i will out-braved bee, one of us two shall dye: i know thee well, an erle thou art; lord percy, soe am i. but trust me, percy, pittye it were, and great offence to kill any of these our guiltlesse men, for they have done no ill. let thou and i the battell trye, and set our men aside. accurst bee he, erle percy sayd, by whome this is denyed. then stept a gallant squier forth, witherington was his name, who said, i wold not have it told to henry our king for shame, that ere my captaine fought on foote, and i stood looking on. you be two erles, sayd witherington, and i a squier alone: he doe the best that doe i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to weeld my sword he fight with hart and hand. our english archers bent their bowes, their harts were good and trew; att the first flight of arrowes sent, full four-score scots they slew. yet bides earl douglas on the bent, as chieftain stout and good. as valiant captain, all unmov'd the shock he firmly stood. his host he parted had in three, as leader ware and try'd, and soon his spearmen on their foes bare down on every side. to drive the deere with hound and horne, douglas bade on the bent two captaines moved with mickle might their speres to shivers went. throughout the english archery they dealt full many a wound: but still our valiant englishmen all firmly kept their ground: and throwing strait their bows away, they grasp'd their swords so bright: and now sharp blows, a heavy shower, on shields and helmets light. they closed full fast on every side, noe slackness there was found: and many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was a griefe to see; and likewise for to heare, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last these two stout erles did meet, like captaines of great might: like lyons wood, they layd on lode, and made a cruell fight: they fought untill they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steele; untill the blood, like drops of rain, they tricklin downe did feele. yeeld thee, lord percy, douglas sayd in faith i will thee bringe, where thou shalt high advanced bee by james our scottish king: thy ransome i will freely give, and this report of thee, thou art the most couragious knight, that ever i did see. noe, douglas, quoth erle percy then, thy proffer i doe scorne; i will not yeelde to any scott, that ever yett was borne. with that, there came an arrow keene out of an english bow, which struck erle douglas to the heart, a deepe and deadlye blow: who never spake more words than these, fight on, my merry men all; for why, my life is at an end; lord percy sees my fall. then leaving liffe, erie percy tooke the dead man by the hand; and said, erle douglas, for thy life wold i had lost my land. o christ! my verry hart doth bleed with sorrow for thy sake; for sure, a more redoubted knight mischance cold never take. a knight amongst the scotts there was which saw erle douglas dye, who streight in wrath did vow revenge upon the lord percye: sir hugh mountgomery was he call'd, who, with a spere most bright, well-mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight; and past the english archers all, without all dread or feare; and through earl percyes body then he thrust his hatefull spere; with such a vehement force and might he did his body gore, the staff ran through the other side a large cloth-yard and more. so thus did both these nobles dye, whose courage none could staine: an english archer then perceiv'd the noble erle was slaine; he had a bow bent in his hand, made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth-yard long up to the head drew hee: against sir hugh mountgomerye, so right the shaft he sett, the grey goose-winge that was thereon, in his harts bloode was wette. this fight did last from breake of day, till setting of the sun; for when they rang the evening-bell, the battel scarce was done. with stout erle percy there was slaine sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james that bold barròn: and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slaine, whose prowesse did surmount. for witherington needs must i wayle, as one in doleful dumpes; for when his leggs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumpes. and with erle douglas, there was slaine sir hugh montgomerye, sir charles murray, that from the feeld one foote wold never flee. sir charles murray, of ratcliff, too, his sisters sonne was hee; sir david lamb, so well esteem'd, yet saved cold not bee. and the lord maxwell in like case did with erle douglas dye: of twenty hundred scottish speres, scarce fifty-five did flye. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest were slaine in chevy-chace, under the greene woode tree. next day did many widowes come, their husbands to bewayle; they washt their wounds in brinish teares, but all wold not prevayle. theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, they bare with them away: they kist them dead a thousand times, ere they were cladd in clay. the news was brought to eddenborrow, where scottlands king did raigne, that brave erle douglas suddenlye was with an arrow slaine: o heavy newes, king james did say, scotland may witnesse bee, i have not any captaine more of such account as hee. like tydings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland was slaine in chevy-chace: now god be with him, said our king, sith it will noe better bee; i trust i have, within my realme, five hundred as good as hee: yett shall not scotts nor scotland say, but i will vengeance take: i'll be revenged on them all, for brave erle percyes sake. this vow full well the king perform'd after, at humbledowne; in one day, fifty knights were slayne, with lords of great renowne: and of the rest, of small acount, did many thousands dye: thus endeth the hunting of chevy-chase, made by the erle percy. god save our king, and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace; and grant henceforth, that foule debate 'twixt noblemen may cease. [illustration] sir lancelot du lake [illustration] when arthur first in court began, and was approved king, by force of armes great victorys wanne, and conquest home did bring, then into england straight he came with fifty good and able knights, that resorted unto him, and were of his round table: and he had justs and turnaments, whereto were many prest, wherein some knights did far excell and eke surmount the rest. but one sir lancelot du lake, who was approved well, he for his deeds and feats of armes all others did excell. when he had rested him a while, in play, and game, and sportt, he said he wold goe prove himselfe in some adventurous sort. he armed rode in a forrest wide, and met a damsell faire, who told him of adventures great, whereto he gave great eare. such wold i find, quoth lancelott: for that cause came i hither. thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, and i will bring thee thither. wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, that now is of great fame: therefore tell me what wight thou art, and what may be thy name. "my name is lancelot du lake." quoth she, it likes me than: here dwelles a knight who never was yet matcht with any man: who has in prison threescore knights and four, that he did wound; knights of king arthurs court they be, and of his table round. she brought him to a river side, and also to a tree, whereon a copper bason hung, and many shields to see. he struck soe hard, the bason broke; and tarquin soon he spyed: who drove a horse before him fast, whereon a knight lay tyed. sir knight, then sayd sir lancelett, bring me that horse-load hither, and lay him downe, and let him rest; weel try our force together: for, as i understand, thou hast, so far as thou art able, done great despite and shame unto the knights of the round table. if thou be of the table round, quoth tarquin speedilye, both thee and all thy fellowship i utterly defye. that's over much, quoth lancelott tho, defend thee by and by. they sett their speares unto their steeds, and eache att other flie. they coucht theire speares (their horses ran, as though there had beene thunder), and strucke them each immidst their shields, wherewith they broke in sunder. their horsses backes brake under them, the knights were both astound: to avoyd their horsses they made haste and light upon the ground. they tooke them to their shields full fast, their swords they drewe out than, with mighty strokes most eagerlye each at the other ran. they wounded were, and bled full sore, they both for breath did stand, and leaning on their swords awhile, quoth tarquine, hold thy hand, and tell to me what i shall aske. say on, quoth lancelot tho. thou art, quoth tarquine, the best knight that ever i did know: and like a knight, that i did hate: soe that thou be not hee, i will deliver all the rest, and eke accord with thee. that is well said, quoth lancelott; but sith it must be soe, what knight is that thou hatest thus i pray thee to me show. his name is lancelot du lake, he slew my brother deere; him i suspect of all the rest: i would i had him here. thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, i am lancelot du lake, now knight of arthurs table round; king hauds son of schuwake; and i desire thee to do thy worst. ho, ho, quoth tarquin tho' one of us two shall ende our lives before that we do go. if thou be lancelot du lake, then welcome shalt thou bee: wherfore see thou thyself defend, for now defye i thee. they buckled them together so, like unto wild boares rashing; and with their swords and shields they ran at one another slashing: the ground besprinkled was with blood: tarquin began to yield; for he gave backe for wearinesse, and lowe did beare his shield. this soone sir lancelot espyde, he leapt upon him then, he pull'd him downe upon his knee, and rushing off his helm, forthwith he strucke his necke in two, and, when he had soe done, from prison threescore knights and four delivered everye one. [illustration] gil morrice gil morrice was an erles son, his name it waxed wide; it was nae for his great riches, nor zet his mickle pride; bot it was for a lady gay, that livd on carron side. quhair sail i get a bonny boy, that will win hose and shoen; that will gae to lord barnards ha', and bid his lady cum? and ze maun rin my errand, willie; and ze may rin wi' pride; quhen other boys gae on their foot on horse-back ze sail ride. o no! oh no! my master dear! i dare nae for my life; i'll no gae to the bauld baròns, for to triest furth his wife. my bird willie, my boy willie; my dear willie, he sayd: how can ze strive against the stream? for i sall be obeyd. bot, o my master dear! he cryd, in grene wod ze're zour lain; gi owre sic thochts, i walde ze rede, for fear ze should be tain. haste, haste, i say, gae to the ha', bid hir cum here wi speid: if ze refuse my heigh command, ill gar zour body bleid. gae bid hir take this gay mantel, 'tis a' gowd hot the hem; bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, and bring nane bot hir lain: and there it is a silken sarke, hir ain hand sewd the sleive; and bid hir cum to gill morice, speir nae bauld barons leave. yes, i will gae zour black errand, though it be to zour cost; sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, in it ze sail find frost. the baron he is a man of might, he neir could bide to taunt, as ze will see before its nicht, how sma' ze hae to vaunt. and sen i maun zour errand rin sae sair against my will, i'se mak a vow and keip it trow, it sall be done for ill. and quhen he came to broken brigue, he bent his bow and swam; and quhen he came to grass growing, set down his feet and ran. and quhen he came to barnards ha', would neither chap nor ca': bot set his bent bow to his breist, and lichtly lap the wa'. he wauld nae tell the man his errand, though he stude at the gait; bot straiht into the ha' he cam, quhair they were set at meit. hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! my message winna waite; dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod before that it be late. ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl, tis a' gowd bot the hem: zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, ev'n by your sel alane. and there it is, a silken sarke, your ain hand sewd the sleive; ze maun gae speik to gill morice: speir nae bauld barons leave. the lady stamped wi' hir foot, and winked wi' hir ee; bot a' that she coud say or do, forbidden he wad nae bee. its surely to my bow'r-womàn; it neir could be to me. i brocht it to lord barnards lady; i trow that ze be she. then up and spack the wylie nurse, (the bairn upon hir knee) if it be cum frae gill morice, it's deir welcum to mee. ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, sae loud i heird zee lee; i brocht it to lord barnards lady; i trow ze be nae shee. then up and spack the bauld baròn, an angry man was hee; he's tain the table wi' his foot, sae has he wi' his knee; till siller cup and 'mazer' dish in flinders he gard flee. gae bring a robe of zour clidìng, that hings upon the pin; and i'll gae to the gude grene wode, and speik wi' zour lemmàn. o bide at hame, now lord barnàrd, i warde ze bide at hame; neir wyte a man for violence, that neir wate ze wi' nane. gil morice sate in gude grene wode, he whistled and he sang: o what mean a' the folk comìng, my mother tarries lang. his hair was like the threeds of gold, drawne frae minerva's loome: his lipps like roses drapping dew, his breath was a' perfume. his brow was like the mountain snae gilt by the morning beam: his cheeks like living roses glow: his een like azure stream. the boy was clad in robes of grene, sweete as the infant spring: and like the mavis on the bush, he gart the vallies ring. the baron came to the grene wode, wi' mickle dule and care, and there he first spied gill morice kameing his zellow hair: that sweetly wavd around his face, that face beyond compare: he sang sae sweet it might dispel a' rage but fell despair. nae wonder, nae wonder, gill morìce, my lady loed thee weel, the fairest part of my bodie is blacker than thy heel. zet neir the less now, gill morìce, for a' thy great beautiè, ze's rew the day ze eir was born; that head sall gae wi' me. now he has drawn his trusty brand, and slaited on the strae; and thro' gill morice' fair body he's gar cauld iron gae. and he has tain gill morice's head and set it on a speir; the meanest man in a' his train has gotten that head to bear. and he has tain gill morice up, laid him across his steid, and brocht him to his painted bowr, and laid him on a bed. the lady sat on castil wa', beheld baith dale and doun; and there she saw gill morice' head cum trailing to the toun. far better i loe that bluidy head, both and that zellow hair, than lord barnard, and a' his lands, as they lig here and thair. and she has tain her gill morice, and kissd baith mouth and chin: i was once as fow of gill morice, as the hip is o' the stean. i got ze in my father's house, wi' mickle sin and shame; i brocht thee up in gude grene wode, under the heavy rain. oft have i by thy cradle sitten, and fondly seen thee sleip; but now i gae about thy grave, the saut tears for to weip. and syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, and syne his bluidy chin: o better i loe my gill morice than a' my kith and kin! away, away, ze ill womàn, and an il deith mait ze dee: gin i had kend he'd bin zour son, he'd neir bin slain for mee. obraid me not, my lord barnard! obraid me not for shame! wi' that saim speir o pierce my heart! and put me out o' pain. since nothing bot gill morice head thy jelous rage could quell, let that saim hand now tak hir life, that neir to thee did ill. to me nae after days nor nichts will eir be saft or kind; i'll fill the air with heavy sighs, and greet till i am blind. enouch of blood by me's been spilt, seek not zour death frae mee; i rather lourd it had been my sel than eather him or thee. with waefo wae i hear zour plaint; sair, sair i rew the deid, that eir this cursed hand of mine had gard his body bleid. dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, ze neir can heal the wound; ze see his head upon the speir, his heart's blude on the ground. i curse the hand that did the deid, the heart that thocht the ill; the feet that bore me wi' sik speid, the comely zouth to kill. i'll ay lament for gill morice, as gin he were mine ain; i'll neir forget the dreiry day on which the zouth was slain. [illustration] [illustration] the child of elle on yondre hill a castle standes with walles and towres bedight, and yonder lives the child of elle, a younge and comely knighte. the child of elle to his garden went, and stood at his garden pale, whan, lo! he beheld fair emmelines page come trippinge downe the dale. the child of elle he hyed him thence, y-wis he stoode not stille, and soone he mette faire emmelines page come climbinge up the hille. nowe christe thee save, thou little foot-page, now christe thee save and see! oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, and what may thy tydinges bee? my ladye shee is all woe-begone, and the teares they falle from her eyne; and aye she laments the deadlye feude betweene her house and thine. and here shee sends thee a silken scarfe bedewde with many a teare, and biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, who loved thee so deare. and here shee sends thee a ring of golde the last boone thou mayst have, and biddes thee weare it for her sake, whan she is layde in grave. for, ah! her gentle heart is broke, and in grave soone must shee bee, sith her father hath chose her a new new love, and forbidde her to think of thee. her father hath brought her a carlish knight, sir john of the north countràye, and within three dayes she must him wedde, or he vowes he will her slaye. nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and greet thy ladye from mee, and telle her that i her owne true love will dye, or sette her free. nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and let thy fair ladye know this night will i bee at her bowre-windòwe, betide me weale or woe. the boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, he neither stint ne stayd untill he came to fair emmelines bowre, whan kneeling downe he sayd, o ladye, i've been with thine own true love, and he greets thee well by mee; this night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe, and dye or sett thee free. nowe daye was gone, and night was come, and all were fast asleepe, all save the ladye emmeline, who sate in her bowre to weepe: and soone shee heard her true loves voice lowe whispering at the walle, awake, awake, my deare ladyè, tis i thy true love call. awake, awake, my ladye deare, come, mount this faire palfràye: this ladder of ropes will lette thee downe he carrye thee hence awaye. nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, nowe nay, this may not bee; for aye shold i tint my maiden fame, if alone i should wend with thee. o ladye, thou with a knighte so true mayst safelye wend alone, to my ladye mother i will thee bringe, where marriage shall make us one. "my father he is a baron bolde, of lynage proude and hye; and what would he saye if his daughtèr awaye with a knight should fly "ah! well i wot, he never would rest, nor his meate should doe him no goode, until he hath slayne thee, child of elle, and scene thy deare hearts bloode." o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and a little space him fro, i would not care for thy cruel fathèr, nor the worst that he could doe. o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and once without this walle, i would not care for thy cruel fathèr nor the worst that might befalle. faire emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe: at length he seized her lilly-white hand, and downe the ladder he drewe: and thrice he clasped her to his breste, and kist her tenderlìe: the teares that fell from her fair eyes ranne like the fountayne free. hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, and her on a fair palfràye, and slung his bugle about his necke, and roundlye they rode awaye. all this beheard her owne damsèlle, in her bed whereas shee ley, quoth shee, my lord shall knowe of this, soe i shall have golde and fee. awake, awake, thou baron bolde! awake, my noble dame! your daughter is fledde with the child of elle to doe the deede of shame. the baron he woke, the baron he rose, and called his merrye men all: "and come thou forth, sir john the knighte, thy ladye is carried to thrall." faire emmeline scant had ridden a mile, a mile forth of the towne, when she was aware of her fathers men come galloping over the downe: and foremost came the carlish knight, sir john of the north countràye: "nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure, nor carry that ladye awaye. "for she is come of hye lineàge, and was of a ladye borne, and ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, to carrye her hence to scorne." nowe loud thou lyest, sir john the knight, nowe thou doest lye of mee; a knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, soe never did none by thee but light nowe downe, my ladye faire, light downe, and hold my steed, while i and this discourteous knighte doe trye this arduous deede. but light now downe, my deare ladyè, light downe, and hold my horse; while i and this discourteous knight doe trye our valour's force. fair emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe, while twixt her love and the carlish knight past many a baleful blowe. the child of elle hee fought so well, as his weapon he waved amaine, that soone he had slaine the carlish knight, and layd him upon the plaine. and nowe the baron and all his men full fast approached nye: ah! what may ladye emmeline doe twere nowe no boote to flye. her lover he put his horne to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill, and soone he saw his owne merry men come ryding over the hill. "nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn, i pray thee hold thy hand, nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts fast knit in true love's band. thy daughter i have dearly loved full long and many a day; but with such love as holy kirke hath freelye sayd wee may. o give consent, shee may be mine, and blesse a faithfull paire: my lands and livings are not small, my house and lineage faire: my mother she was an earl's daughtèr, and a noble knyght my sire-- the baron he frowned, and turn'd away with mickle dole and ire. fair emmeline sighed, faire emmeline wept, and did all tremblinge stand: at lengthe she sprang upon her knee, and held his lifted hand. pardon, my lorde and father deare, this faire yong knyght and mee: trust me, but for the carlish knyght, i never had fled from thee. oft have you called your emmeline your darling and your joye; o let not then your harsh resolves your emmeline destroye. the baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, and turned his heade asyde to whipe awaye the starting teare he proudly strave to hyde. in deepe revolving thought he stoode, and mused a little space; then raised faire emmeline from the grounde, with many a fond embrace. here take her, child of elle, he sayd, and gave her lillye white hand; here take my deare and only child, and with her half my land: thy father once mine honour wrongde in dayes of youthful pride; do thou the injurye repayre in fondnesse for thy bride. and as thou love her, and hold her deare, heaven prosper thee and thine: and nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, my lovelye emmeline. [illustration] child waters childe waters in his stable stoode and stroakt his milke white steede: to him a fayre yonge ladye came as ever ware womans weede. sayes, christ you save, good childe waters; sayes, christ you save, and see: my girdle of gold that was too longe, is now too short for mee. and all is with one chyld of yours, i feel sturre att my side: my gowne of greene it is too straighte; before, it was too wide. if the child be mine, faire ellen, he sayd, be mine, as you tell mee; then take you cheshire and lancashire both, take them your owne to bee. if the childe be mine, fair ellen, he sayd, be mine, as you doe sweare; then take you cheshire and lancashire both, and make that child your heyre. shee saies, i had rather have one kisse, child waters, of thy mouth; than i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, that laye by north and south. and i had rather have one twinkling, childe waters, of thine ee; then i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, to take them mine owne to bee. to morrow, ellen, i must forth ryde farr into the north countrie; the fairest lady that i can find, ellen, must goe with mee. 'thoughe i am not that lady fayre, 'yet let me go with thee:' and ever i pray you, child watèrs, your foot-page let me bee. if you will my foot-page be, ellen, as you doe tell to mee; then you must cut your gowne of greene, an inch above your knee: soe must you doe your yellow lockes, an inch above your ee: you must tell no man what is my name; my foot-page then you shall bee. shee, all the long day child waters rode, ran barefoote by his side; yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, to say, ellen, will you ryde? shee, all the long day child waters rode, ran barefoote thorow the broome; yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, to say, put on your shoone. ride softlye, shee sayd, o childe waters, why doe you ryde soe fast? the childe, which is no mans but thine, my bodye itt will brast. hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, ellen, that flows from bank to brimme?-- i trust to god, o child waters, you never will see mee swimme. but when shee came to the waters side, shee sayled to the chinne: except the lord of heaven be my speed, now must i learne to swimme. the salt waters bare up her clothes; our ladye bare upp her chinne: childe waters was a woe man, good lord, to see faire ellen swimme. and when shee over the water was, shee then came to his knee: he said, come hither, thou fair ellèn, loe yonder what i see. seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of redd gold shines the yate; of twenty foure faire ladyes there, the fairest is my mate. seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of redd gold shines the towre: there are twenty four fair ladyes there, the fairest is my paramoure. i see the hall now, child waters, of redd golde shines the yate: god give you good now of yourselfe, and of your worthye mate. i see the hall now, child waters, of redd gold shines the towre: god give you good now of yourselfe, and of your paramoure. there twenty four fayre ladyes were a playing att the ball: and ellen the fairest ladye there, must bring his steed to the stall. there twenty four fayre ladyes were a playinge at the chesse; and ellen the fayrest ladye there, must bring his horse to gresse. and then bespake childe waters sister, these were the wordes said shee: you have the prettyest foot-page, brother, that ever i saw with mine ee. but that his bellye it is soe bigg, his girdle goes wonderous hie: and let him, i pray you, childe watères, goe into the chamber with mee. it is not fit for a little foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to go into the chamber with any ladye, that weares soe riche attyre. it is more meete for a litle foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to take his supper upon his knee, and sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. but when they had supped every one, to bedd they tooke theyr waye: he sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, and hearken what i saye. goe thee downe into yonder towne, and low into the street; the fayrest ladye that thou can finde, hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, and take her up in thine armes twaine, for filinge of her feete. ellen is gone into the towne, and low into the streete: the fairest ladye that she cold find, shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; and tooke her up in her armes twayne, for filing of her feete. i pray you nowe, good child watèrs, let mee lye at your bedds feete: for there is noe place about this house, where i may 'saye a sleepe. 'he gave her leave, and faire ellèn 'down at his beds feet laye:' this done the nighte drove on apace, and when it was neare the daye, hee sayd, rise up, my litle foot-page, give my steede corne and haye; and soe doe thou the good black oats, to carry mee better awaye. up then rose the faire ellèn, and gave his steede corne and hay: and soe shee did the good blacke oats, to carry him the better away. shee leaned her backe to the manger side, and grievouslye did groane: shee leaned her backe to the manger side, and there shee made her moane. and that beheard his mother deere, shee heard her there monand. shee sayd, rise up, thou childe watèrs, i think thee a cursed man. for in thy stable is a ghost, that grievouslye doth grone: or else some woman laboures of childe, she is soe woe-begone. up then rose childe waters soon, and did on his shirte of silke; and then he put on his other clothes, on his body as white as milke. and when he came to the stable dore, full still there he did stand, that hee mighte heare his fayre ellèn howe shee made her monànd. shee sayd, lullabye, mine owne deere child, lullabye, dere child, dere; i wold thy father were a king, thy mother layd on a biere. peace now, he said, good faire ellèn, be of good cheere, i praye; and the bridal and the churching both shall bee upon one day. [image] king edward iv & the tanner of tamworth in summer time, when leaves grow greene, and blossoms bedecke the tree, king edward wolde a hunting ryde, some pastime for to see. with hawke and hounde he made him bowne, with horne, and eke with bowe; to drayton basset he tooke his waye, with all his lordes a rowe. and he had ridden ore dale and downe by eight of clocke in the day, when he was ware of a bold tannèr, come ryding along the waye. a fayre russet coat the tanner had on fast buttoned under his chin, and under him a good cow-hide, and a marc of four shilling. nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, under the grene wood spraye; and i will wend to yonder fellowe, to weet what he will saye. god speede, god speede thee, said our king. thou art welcome, sir, sayd hee. "the readyest waye to drayton basset i praye thee to shew to mee." "to drayton basset woldst thou goe, fro the place where thou dost stand? the next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, turne in upon thy right hand." that is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, thou doest but jest, i see; nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, and i pray thee wend with mee. away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: i hold thee out of thy witt: all daye have i rydden on brocke my mare, and i am fasting yett. "go with me downe to drayton basset, no daynties we will spare; all daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, and i will paye thy fare." gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, thou payest no fare of mine: i trowe i've more nobles in my purse, than thou hast pence in thine. god give thee joy of them, sayd the king, and send them well to priefe. the tanner wolde faine have beene away, for he weende he had beene a thiefe. what art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, of thee i am in great feare, for the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, might beseeme a lord to weare. i never stole them, quoth our king, i tell you, sir, by the roode. "then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, and standest in midds of thy goode." what tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, as you ryde farre and neare? "i heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse, but that cowe-hides are deare." "cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? i marvell what they bee?" what, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; i carry one under mee. what craftsman art thou, said the king, i pray thee tell me trowe. "i am a barker, sir, by my trade; nowe tell me what art thou?" i am a poor courtier, sir, quoth he, that am forth of service worne; and faine i wolde thy prentise bee, thy cunninge for to learne. marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, that thou my prentise were: thou woldst spend more good than i shold winne by fortye shilling a yere. yet one thinge wolde i, sayd our king, if thou wilt not seeme strange: thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, yet with thee i fain wold change. "why if with me thou faine wilt change, as change full well maye wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe i will have some boot of thee." that were against reason, sayd the king, i sweare, so mote i thee: my horse is better than thy mare, and that thou well mayst see. "yea, sir, but brocke is gentle and mild, and softly she will fare: thy horse is unrulye and wild, i wiss; aye skipping here and theare." what boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; now tell me in this stound. "noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, but a noble in gold so round. "here's twentye groates of white moneye, sith thou will have it of mee." i would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, thou hadst not had one pennie. but since we two have made a change, a change we must abide, although thou hast gotten brocke my mare, thou gettest not my cowe-hide. i will not have it, sayd the kynge, i sweare, so mought i thee; thy foule cowe-hide i wolde not beare, if thou woldst give it to mee. the tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, that of the cow was bilt; and threwe it upon the king's sadelle, that was soe fayrelye gilte. "now help me up, thou fine fellowe, 'tis time that i were gone: when i come home to gyllian my wife, sheel say i am a gentilmon." the king he tooke him up by the legge; the tanner a f----- lett fall. nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, thy courtesye is but small. when the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, and his foote in the stirrup was; he marvelled greatlye in his minde, whether it were golde or brass. but when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, and eke the blacke cowe-horne; he stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, as the devill had him borne. the tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, and held by the pummil fast: at length the tanner came tumbling downe; his necke he had well-nye brast. take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, with mee he shall not byde. "my horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, but he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. yet if againe thou faine woldst change, as change full well may wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, i will have some boote of thee." what boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, nowe tell me in this stounde. "noe pence nor halfpence, sir, by my faye, but i will have twentye pound." "here's twentye groates out of my purse; and twentye i have of thine: and i have one more, which we will spend together at the wine." the king set a bugle home to his mouthe, and blewe both loude and shrille: and soone came lords, and soone came knights, fast ryding over the hille. nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, that ever i sawe this daye! thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes will beare my cowe-hide away. they are no thieves, the king replyde, i sweare, soe mote i thee: but they are the lords of the north countrèy, here come to hunt with mee. and soone before our king they came, and knelt downe on the grounde: then might the tanner have beene awaye, he had lever than twentye pounde. a coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, a coller he loud gan crye: then woulde he lever than twentye pound, he had not beene so nighe. a coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, i trowe it will breed sorrowe: after a coller cometh a halter, i trow i shall be hang'd to-morrowe. be not afraid, tanner, said our king; i tell thee, so mought i thee, lo here i make thee the best esquire that is in the north countrie. for plumpton-parke i will give thee, with tenements faire beside: 'tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, to maintaine thy good cowe-hide. gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, for the favour thou hast me showne; if ever thou comest to merry tamwòrth, neates leather shall clout thy shoen. [illustration] sir patrick spens the king sits in dumferling toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: o quhar will i get guid sailòr, to sail this schip of mine. up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the kings richt kne: sir patrick spens is the best sailòr, that sails upon the se. the king has written a braid letter, and signd it wi' his hand; and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the sand. the first line that sir patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he: the next line that sir patrick red, the teir blinded his ee. o quha is this has don this deid, this ill deid don to me; to send me out this time o' the zeir, to sail upon the se. mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, our guid schip sails the morne, o say na sae, my master deir, for i feir a deadlie storme. late late yestreen i saw the new moone wi' the auld moone in hir arme; and i feir, i feir, my deir master, that we will com to harme. o our scots nobles wer richt laith to weet their cork-heild schoone; bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, thair hats they swam aboone. o lang, lang, may thair ladies sit wi' thair fans into their hand, or eir they se sir patrick spens cum sailing to the land. o lang, lang, may the ladies stand wi' thair gold kems in their hair, waiting for thair ain deir lords, for they'll se thame na mair. have owre, have owre to aberdour, it's fiftie fadom deip: and thair lies guid sir patrick spens, wi' the scots lords at his feit. the earl of mar's daughter it was intill a pleasant time, upon a simmer's day, the noble earl of mar's daughter went forth to sport and play. as thus she did amuse hersell, below a green aik tree, there she saw a sprightly doo set on a tower sae hie. "o cow-me-doo, my love sae true, if ye'll come down to me, ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd instead o simple tree: "i'll put growd hingers roun your cage, and siller roun your wa; i'll gar ye shine as fair a bird as ony o them a'." but she hadnae these words well spoke, nor yet these words well said, till cow-me-doo flew frae the tower and lighted on her head. then she has brought this pretty bird hame to her bowers and ba, and made him shine as fair a bird as ony o them a'. when day was gane, and night was come, about the evening tide, this lady spied a sprightly youth stand straight up by her side. "from whence came ye, young man?" she said; "that does surprise me sair; my door was bolted right secure, what way hae ye come here?" "o had your tongue, ye lady fair, lat a' your folly be; mind ye not on your turtle-doo last day ye brought wi thee?" "o tell me mair, young man," she said, "this does surprise me now; what country hae ye come frae? what pedigree are you?" "my mither lives on foreign isles, she has nae mair but me; she is a queen o wealth and state, and birth and high degree. "likewise well skilld in magic spells, as ye may plainly see, and she transformd me to yon shape, to charm such maids as thee. "i am a doo the live-lang day, a sprightly youth at night; this aye gars me appear mair fair in a fair maiden's sight. "and it was but this verra day that i came ower the sea; your lovely face did me enchant; i'll live and dee wi thee." "o cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; that's never my intent, my luve, as ye said, it shall be sae." "o cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, it's time to gae to bed;" "wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, it's be as ye hae said." then he has staid in bower wi her for sax lang years and ane, till sax young sons to him she bare, and the seventh she's brought hame. but aye as ever a child was born he carried them away, and brought them to his mither's care, as fast as he coud fly. thus he has staid in bower wi her for twenty years and three; there came a lord o high renown to court this fair ladie. but still his proffer she refused, and a' his presents too; says, i'm content to live alane wi my bird, cow-me-doo. her father sware a solemn oath amang the nobles all, "the morn, or ere i eat or drink, this bird i will gar kill." the bird was sitting in his cage, and heard what they did say; and when he found they were dismist, says, wae's me for this day! "before that i do langer stay, and thus to be forlorn, i'll gang unto my mither's bower, where i was bred and born." then cow-me-doo took flight and flew beyond the raging sea, and lighted near his mither's castle, on a tower o gowd sae hie. as his mither was wauking out, to see what she coud see, and there she saw her little son, set on the tower sae hie. "get dancers here to dance," she said, "and minstrells for to play; for here's my young son, florentine, come here wi me to stay." "get nae dancers to dance, mither, nor minstrells for to play, for the mither o my seven sons, the morn's her wedding-day." "o tell me, tell me, florentine, tell me, and tell me true, tell me this day without a flaw, what i will do for you." "instead of dancers to dance, mither, or minstrells for to play, turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men like storks in feathers gray; "my seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and i mysell a gay gos-hawk, a bird o high degree." then sichin said the queen hersell, "that thing's too high for me;" but she applied to an auld woman, who had mair skill than she. instead o dancers to dance a dance, or minstrells for to play, four-and-twenty wall-wight men turnd birds o feathers gray; her seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and he himsell a gay gos-hawk, a bird o high degree. this flock o birds took flight and flew beyond the raging sea, and landed near the earl mar's castle, took shelter in every tree. they were a flock o pretty birds, right comely to be seen; the people viewed them wi surprise, as they dancd on the green. these birds ascended frae the tree and lighted on the ha, and at the last wi force did flee amang the nobles a'. the storks there seized some o the men, they coud neither fight nor flee; the swans they bound the bride's best man below a green aik tree. they lighted next on maidens fair, then on the bride's own head, and wi the twinkling o an ee the bride and them were fled. there's ancient men at weddings been for sixty years or more, but sic a curious wedding-day they never saw before. for naething coud the companie do. nor naething coud they say but they saw a flock o pretty birds that took their bride away. when that earl mar he came to know where his dochter did stay, he signd a bond o unity, and visits now they pay. edward, edward. quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, edward, edward? quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid? and quhy sae sad gang zee, o? o, i hae killed my hauke sae guid, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my hauke sae guid: and i had nae mair bot hee, o. zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, edward, edward. zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, my deir son i tell thee, o. o, i hae killed my reid-roan steid, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my reid-roan steid, that erst was sae fair and free, o. zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, edward, edward; zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, sum other dule ze drie, o. o, i hae killed my fadir deir, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my fadir deir, alas! and wae is mee, o! and quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, edward, edward? and quhatten penance will ze drie for that? my deir son, now tell mee, o. he set my feit in zonder boat, mither, mither: he set my feit in zonder boat, and he fare ovir the sea, o. and quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', edward, edward? and quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', that were sae fair to see, o? he let thame stand til they doun fa', mither, mither: he let thame stand til they doun fa', for here nevir mair maun i bee, o. and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, edward, edward? and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, quhan ze gang ovir the sea, o? the warldis room, let thame beg throw life, mither, mither; the warldis room, let thame beg throw life, for thame nevir mair wul i see, o. and quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, edward, edward? and quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? my deir son, now tell me, o. the curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, mither, mither: the curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, sic counseils ze gave to me, o. king leir & his three daughters king leir once ruled in this land with princely power and peace; and had all things with hearts content, that might his joys increase. amongst those things that nature gave, three daughters fair had he, so princely seeming beautiful, as fairer could not be. so on a time it pleas'd the king a question thus to move, which of his daughters to his grace could shew the dearest love: for to my age you bring content, quoth he, then let me hear, which of you three in plighted troth the kindest will appear. to whom the eldest thus began; dear father, mind, quoth she, before your face, to do you good, my blood shall render'd be: and for your sake my bleeding heart shall here be cut in twain, ere that i see your reverend age the smallest grief sustain. and so will i, the second said; dear father, for your sake, the worst of all extremities i'll gently undertake: and serve your highness night and day with diligence and love; that sweet content and quietness discomforts may remove. in doing so, you glad my soul, the aged king reply'd; but what sayst thou, my youngest girl, how is thy love ally'd? my love (quoth young cordelia then) which to your grace i owe, shall be the duty of a child, and that is all i'll show. and wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, than doth thy duty bind? i well perceive thy love is small, when as no more i find. henceforth i banish thee my court, thou art no child of mine; nor any part of this my realm by favour shall be thine. thy elder sisters loves are more then well i can demand, to whom i equally bestow my kingdome and my land, my pompal state and all my goods, that lovingly i may with those thy sisters be maintain'd until my dying day. thus flattering speeches won renown, by these two sisters here; the third had causeless banishment, yet was her love more dear: for poor cordelia patiently went wandring up and down, unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, through many an english town: untill at last in famous france she gentler fortunes found; though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd the fairest on the ground: where when the king her virtues heard, and this fair lady seen, with full consent of all his court he made his wife and queen. her father king leir this while with his two daughters staid: forgetful of their promis'd loves, full soon the same decay'd; and living in queen ragan's court, the eldest of the twain, she took from him his chiefest means, and most of all his train. for whereas twenty men were wont to wait with bended knee: she gave allowance but to ten, and after scarce to three; nay, one she thought too much for him; so took she all away, in hope that in her court, good king, he would no longer stay. am i rewarded thus, quoth he, in giving all i have unto my children, and to beg for what i lately gave? i'll go unto my gonorell: my second child, i know, will be more kind and pitiful, and will relieve my woe. full fast he hies then to her court; where when she heard his moan return'd him answer, that she griev'd that all his means were gone: but no way could relieve his wants; yet if that he would stay within her kitchen, he should have what scullions gave away. when he had heard, with bitter tears, he made his answer then; in what i did let me be made example to all men. i will return again, quoth he, unto my ragan's court; she will not use me thus, i hope, but in a kinder sort. where when he came, she gave command to drive him thence away: when he was well within her court (she said) he would not stay. then back again to gonorell the woeful king did hie, that in her kitchen he might have what scullion boy set by. but there of that he was deny'd, which she had promis'd late: for once refusing, he should not come after to her gate. thus twixt his daughters, for relief he wandred up and down; being glad to feed on beggars food, that lately wore a crown. and calling to remembrance then his youngest daughters words, that said the duty of a child was all that love affords: but doubting to repair to her, whom he had banish'd so, grew frantick mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe: which made him rend his milk-white locks, and tresses from his head, and all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread. to hills and woods and watry founts he made his hourly moan, till hills and woods and sensless things, did seem to sigh and groan. even thus possest with discontents, he passed o're to france, in hopes from fair cordelia there, to find some gentler chance; most virtuous dame! which when she heard, of this her father's grief, as duty bound, she quickly sent him comfort and relief: and by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort, she gave in charge he should be brought to aganippus' court; whose royal king, with noble mind so freely gave consent, to muster up his knights at arms, to fame and courage bent. and so to england came with speed, to repossesse king leir and drive his daughters from their thrones by his cordelia dear. where she, true-hearted noble queen, was in the battel slain; yet he, good king, in his old days, possest his crown again. but when he heard cordelia's death, who died indeed for love of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battle move; he swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted: but on her bosom left his life, that was so truly hearted. the lords and nobles when they saw the end of these events, the other sisters unto death they doomed by consents; and being dead, their crowns they left unto the next of kin: thus have you seen the fall of pride, and disobedient sin. [illustration] hynd horn "hynde horn's bound, love, and hynde horn's free; whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?" "in gude greenwud whare i was born, and all my friends left me forlorn. "i gave my love a gay gowd wand, that was to rule oure all scotland. "my love gave me a silver ring, that was to rule abune aw thing. "whan that ring keeps new in hue, ye may ken that your love loves you. "whan that ring turns pale and wan, ye may ken that your love loves anither man." he hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he till he cam to a foreign cuntree. whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan; says, i wish i war at hame again. he hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he until he cam till his ain cuntree. the first ane that he met with, it was with a puir auld beggar-man. "what news? what news, my puir auld man? what news hae ye got to tell to me?" "na news, na news," the puir man did say, "but this is our queen's wedding-day." "ye'll lend me your begging-weed, and i'll lend you my riding-steed." "my begging-weed is na for thee, your riding-steed is na for me." he has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man. "what is the way that ye use to gae? and what are the words that ye beg wi?" "whan ye come to yon high hill, ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until. "whan ye come to yon town-end, ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun. "ye'll seek meat for st peter, ask for st paul, and seek for the sake of your hynde horn all. "but tak ye frae nane o them aw till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel o." whan he cam to yon high hill, he drew his bent bow nigh until. and when he cam to yon toun-end, he loot his bent bow low fall doun. he sought for st peter, he askd for st paul, and he sought for the sake of his hynde horn all. but he took na frae ane o them aw till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel o. the bride cam tripping doun the stair, wi the scales o red gowd on her hair. wi a glass o red wine in her hand, to gie to the puir beggar-man. out he drank his glass o wine, into it he dropt the ring. "got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?" "i got na't by sea, i got na't by land, nor gat i it aff a drownd man's hand; "but i got it at my wooing, and i'll gie it to your wedding." "i'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head, i'll follow you, and beg my bread. "i'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair, i'll follow you for evermair." she has tane the scales o gowd frae her head, she's followed him, to beg her bread. she has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair, and she has followd him evermair. atween the kitchen and the ha, there he loot his cloutie cloak fa. the red gowd shined oure them aw, and the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa. john brown's body old john brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, because he fought for freedom and the stricken negro slave; old john brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, but his soul is marching on. _chorus_ glory, glory, hallelujah! glory, glory, hallelujah! glory, glory, hallelujah! his soul is marching on. he was a noble martyr, was old john brown the true; his little patriot band into a noble army grew; he was a noble martyr, was old john brown the true, and his soul is marching on. 'twas not till john brown lost his life, arose in all its might, the army of the union men that won the fearful fight; but tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight, still his soul is marching on. john brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love, john brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, and his soul is marching on. tipperary up to mighty london came an irishman one day, as the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; singing songs of piccadilly, strand and leicester square, till paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:-- _chorus_ "it's a long way to tipperary, it's a long way to go; it's a long way to tipperary, to the sweetest girl i know! good-bye piccadilly, farewell, leicester square, it's a long, long way to tipperary, but my heart's right there!" paddy wrote a letter to his irish molly o', saying, "should you not receive it, write and let me know! "if i make mistakes in 'spelling,' molly dear,' said he, "remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me." molly wrote a neat reply to irish paddy o', saying, "mike maloney wants to marry me, and so leave the strand and piccadilly, or you'll be to blame, for love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!" the bailiff's daughter of islington there was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, and he was a squires son: he loved the bayliffes daughter deare, that lived in islington. yet she was coye, and would not believe that he did love her soe, noe nor at any time would she any countenance to him showe. but when his friendes did understand his fond and foolish minde, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to binde. and when he had been seven long yeares, and never his love could see: many a teare have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of mee. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and playe, all but the bayliffes daughter deare; she secretly stole awaye. she pulled off her gowne of greene, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would goe her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and drye, she sat her downe upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour soe redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd, will ease me of much paine. before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, praye tell me where you were borne: at islington, kind sir, sayd shee, where i have had many a scorne. i prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, o tell me, whether you knowe the bayliffes daughter of islington: she is dead, sir, long agoe. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some far countrye, where noe man shall me knowe. o staye, o staye, thou goodlye youthe, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and readye to be thy bride. o farewell griefe, and welcome joye, ten thousand times therefore; for nowe i have founde mine owne true love, whom i thought i should never see more. the three ravens there were three rauens sat on a tree, downe a downe, hay down, hay downe there were three rauens sat on a tree, with a downe there were three rauens sat on a tree, they were as blacke as they might be with a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe the one of them said to his mate, "where shall we our breakefast take?" "downe in yonder greene field, there lies a knight slain vnder his shield. "his hounds they lie downe at his feete, so well they can their master keepe. "his haukes they flie so eagerly, there's no fowle dare him come nie." downe there comes a fallow doe, as great with yong as she might goe. she lift up his bloudy hed, and kist his wounds that were so red. she got him up upon her backe, and carried him to earthen lake. she buried him before the prime, she was dead herselfe ere even-song time. god send every gentleman, such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. the gaberlunzie man the pauky auld carle come ovir the lee wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, saying, good wife, for zour courtesie, will ze lodge a silly poor man? the night was cauld, the carle was wat, and down azont the ingle he sat; my dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, and cadgily ranted and sang. o wow! quo he, were i as free, as first when i saw this countrie, how blyth and merry wad i bee! and i wad nevir think lang. he grew canty, and she grew fain; but little did her auld minny ken what thir slee twa togither were say'n, when wooing they were sa thrang. and o! quo he, ann ze were as black, as evir the crown of your dadyes hat, tis i wad lay thee by my backe, and awa wi' me thou sould gang. and o! quoth she, ann i were as white, as evir the snaw lay on the dike, ild dead me braw, and lady-like, and awa with thee ild gang. between them twa was made a plot; they raise a wee before the cock, and wyliely they shot the lock, and fast to the bent are they gane. up the morn the auld wife raise, and at her leisure put on her claiths, syne to the servants bed she gaes to speir for the silly poor man. she gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, the strae was cauld, he was away, she clapt her hands, cryd, dulefu' day! for some of our geir will be gane. some ran to coffer, and some to kist, but nought was stown that could be mist. she dancid her lane, cryd, praise be blest, i have lodgd a leal poor man. since naithings awa, as we can learn, the kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, and bid her come quickly ben. the servant gaed where the dochter lay, the sheets was cauld, she was away, and fast to her goodwife can say, shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man. o fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, and haste ze, find these traitors agen; for shees be burnt, and hees be slein, the wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. some rade upo horse, some ran a fit the wife was wood, and out o' her wit; she could na gang, nor yet could sit, but ay did curse and did ban. mean time far hind out owre the lee, for snug in a glen, where nane could see, the twa, with kindlie sport and glee cut frae a new cheese a whang. the priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, to lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. quo she, to leave thee, i will laith, my winsome gaberlunzie-man. o kend my minny i were wi' zou, illfardly wad she crook her mou, sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. my dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; and hae na learnt the beggars tonge, to follow me frae toun to toun, and carrie the gaberlunzie on. wi' kauk and keel, ill win zour bread, and spindles and whorles for them wha need, whilk is a gentil trade indeed the gaberlunzie to carrie--o. ill bow my leg and crook my knee, and draw a black clout owre my ee, a criple or blind they will cau me: while we sail sing and be merrie--o. the wife of usher's well there lived a wife at usher's well, and a wealthy wife was she; she had three stout and stalwart sons, and sent them oer the sea. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely ane, whan word came to the carline wife that her three sons were gane. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely three, whan word came to the carlin wife that her sons she'd never see. "i wish the wind may never cease, nor fashes in the flood, till my three sons come hame to me, in earthly flesh and blood." it fell about the martinmass, when nights are lang and mirk, the carlin wife's three sons came hame, and their hats were o the birk. it neither grew in syke nor ditch, nor yet in ony sheugh; but at the gates o paradise, that birk grew fair eneugh. * * * * * "blow up the fire, my maidens, bring water from the well; for a' my house shall feast this night, since my three sons are well." and she has made to them a bed, she's made it large and wide, and she's taen her mantle her about, sat down at the bed-side. * * * * * up then crew the red, red cock, and up and crew the gray; the eldest to the youngest said, 'tis time we were away. the cock he hadna crawd but once, and clappd his wings at a', when the youngest to the eldest said, brother, we must awa. "the cock doth craw, the day doth daw, the channerin worm doth chide; gin we be mist out o our place, a sair pain we maun bide. "fare ye weel, my mother dear! fareweel to barn and byre! and fare ye weel, the bonny lass that kindles my mother's fire!" the lye goe, soule, the bodies guest, upon a thanklesse arrant; feare not to touche the best, the truth shall be thy warrant: goe, since i needs must dye, and give the world the lye. goe tell the court, it glowes and shines like rotten wood; goe tell the church it showes what's good, and doth no good: if church and court reply, then give them both the lye. tell potentates they live acting by others actions; not lov'd unlesse they give, not strong but by their factions; if potentates reply, give potentates the lye. tell men of high condition, that rule affairs of state, their purpose is ambition, their practise onely hate; and if they once reply, then give them all the lye. tell them that brave it most, they beg for more by spending, who in their greatest cost seek nothing but commending; and if they make reply, spare not to give the lye. tell zeale, it lacks devotion; tell love, it is but lust; tell time, it is but motion; tell flesh, it is but dust; and wish them not reply, for thou must give the lye. tell age, it daily wasteth; tell honour, how it alters: tell beauty, how she blasteth; tell favour, how she falters; and as they shall reply, give each of them the lye. tell wit, how much it wrangles in tickle points of nicenesse; tell wisedome, she entangles herselfe in over-wisenesse; and if they do reply, straight give them both the lye. tell physicke of her boldnesse; tell skill, it is pretension; tell charity of coldness; tell law, it is contention; and as they yield reply, so give them still the lye. tell fortune of her blindnesse; tell nature of decay; tell friendship of unkindnesse; tell justice of delay: and if they dare reply, then give them all the lye. tell arts, they have no soundnesse, but vary by esteeming; tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; and stand too much on seeming: if arts and schooles reply. give arts and schooles the lye. tell faith, it's fled the citie; tell how the countrey erreth; tell, manhood shakes off pitie; tell, vertue least preferreth: and, if they doe reply, spare not to give the lye. so, when thou hast, as i commanded thee, done blabbing, although to give the lye deserves no less than stabbing, yet stab at thee who will, no stab the soule can kill. the ballad of reading gaol i. he did not wear his scarlet coat, for blood and wine are red, and blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead, the poor dead woman whom he loved, and murdered in her bed. he walked amongst the trial men in a suit of shabby grey; a cricket cap was on his head, and his step seemed light and gay; but i never saw a man who looked so wistfully at the day. i never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky, and at every drifting cloud that went with sails of silver by. i walked, with other souls in pain, within another ring, and was wondering if the man had done a great or little thing, when a voice behind me whispered low, _"that fellow's got to swing."_ dear christ! the very prison walls suddenly seemed to reel, and the sky above my head became like a casque of scorching steel; and, though i was a soul in pain, my pain i could not feel. i only knew what hunted thought quickened his step, and why he looked upon the garish day with such a wistful eye; the man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die. * * * * * yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word. the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword! some kill their love when they are young, and some when they are old; some strangle with the hands of lust, some with the hands of gold: the kindest use a knife, because the dead so soon grow cold. some love too little, some too long, some sell, and others buy; some do the deed with many tears, and some without a sigh: for each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die. he does not die a death of shame on a day of dark disgrace, nor have a noose about his neck, nor a cloth upon his face, nor drop feet foremost through the floor into an empty space. he does not sit with silent men who watch him night and day; who watch him when he tries to weep, and when he tries to pray; who watch him lest himself should rob the prison of its prey. he does not wake at dawn to see dread figures throng his room, the shivering chaplain robed in white, the sheriff stern with gloom, and the governor all in shiny black, with the yellow face of doom. he does not rise in piteous haste to put on convict-clothes, while some coarse-mouthed doctor gloats, and notes each new and nerve-twitched pose, fingering a watch whose little ticks are like horrible hammer-blows. he does not feel that sickening thirst that sands one's throat, before the hangman with his gardener's gloves comes through the padded door, and binds one with three leathern thongs, that the throat may thirst no more. he does not bend his head to hear the burial office read, nor, while the anguish of his soul tells him he is not dead, cross his own coffin, as he moves into the hideous shed. he does not stare upon the air through a little roof of glass: he does not pray with lips of clay for his agony to pass; nor feel upon his shuddering cheek the kiss of caiaphas. ii six weeks the guardsman walked the yard in the suit of shabby grey: his cricket cap was on his head, and his step seemed light and gay, but i never saw a man who looked so wistfully at the day. i never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky, and at every wandering cloud that trailed its ravelled fleeces by. he did not wring his hands, as do those witless men who dare to try to rear the changeling in the cave of black despair: he only looked upon the sun, and drank the morning air. he did not wring his hands nor weep, nor did he peek or pine, but he drank the air as though it held some healthful anodyne; with open mouth he drank the sun as though it had been wine! and i and all the souls in pain, who tramped the other ring, forgot if we ourselves had done a great or little thing, and watched with gaze of dull amaze the man who had to swing. for strange it was to see him pass with a step so light and gay, and strange it was to see him look so wistfully at the day, and strange it was to think that he had such a debt to pay. * * * * * for oak and elm have pleasant leaves that in the spring-time shoot: but grim to see is the gallows-tree, with its adder-bitten root, and, green or dry, a man must die before it bears its fruit! the loftiest place is that seat of grace for which all worldlings try: but who would stand in hempen band upon a scaffold high, and through a murderer's collar take his last look at the sky? it is sweet to dance to violins when love and life are fair: to dance to flutes, to dance to lutes is delicate and rare: but it is not sweet with nimble feet to dance upon the air! so with curious eyes and sick surmise we watched him day by day, and wondered if each one of us would end the self-same way, for none can tell to what red hell his sightless soul may stray. at last the dead man walked no more amongst the trial men, and i knew that he was standing up in the black dock's dreadful pen, and that never would i see his face for weal or woe again. like two doomed ships that pass in storm we had crossed each other's way: but we made no sign, we said no word, we had no word to say; for we did not meet in the holy night, but in the shameful day. a prison wall was round us both, two outcast men we were: the world had thrust us from its heart, and god from out his care: and the iron gin that waits for sin had caught us in its snare. iii. in debtors' yard the stones are hard, and the dripping wall is high, so it was there he took the air beneath the leaden sky, and by each side a warder walked, for fear the man might die. or else he sat with those who watched his anguish night and day; who watched him when he rose to weep, and when he crouched to pray; who watched him lest himself should rob their scaffold of its prey. the governor was strong upon the regulations act: the doctor said that death was but a scientific fact: and twice a day the chaplain called, and left a little tract. and twice a day he smoked his pipe, and drank his quart of beer: his soul was resolute, and held no hiding-place for fear; he often said that he was glad the hangman's day was near. but why he said so strange a thing no warder dared to ask: for he to whom a watcher's doom is given as his task, must set a lock upon his lips and make his face a mask. or else he might be moved, and try to comfort or console: and what should human pity do pent up in murderer's hole? what word of grace in such a place could help a brother's soul? with slouch and swing around the ring we trod the fools' parade! we did not care: we knew we were the devil's own brigade: and shaven head and feet of lead make a merry masquerade. we tore the tarry rope to shreds with blunt and bleeding nails; we rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, and cleaned the shining rails: and, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, and clattered with the pails. we sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, we turned the dusty drill: we banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, and sweated on the mill: but in the heart of every man terror was lying still. so still it lay that every day crawled like a weed-clogged wave: and we forgot the bitter lot that waits for fool and knave, till once, as we tramped in from work, we passed an open grave. with yawning mouth the yellow hole gaped for a living thing; the very mud cried out for blood to the thirsty asphalte ring: and we knew that ere one dawn grew fair some prisoner had to swing. right in we went, with soul intent on death and dread and doom: the hangman, with his little bag, went shuffling through the gloom: and i trembled as i groped my way into my numbered tomb. * * * * * that night the empty corridors were full of forms of fear, and up and down the iron town stole feet we could not hear, and through the bars that hide the stars white faces seemed to peer. he lay as one who lies and dreams in a pleasant meadow-land, the watchers watched him as he slept, and could not understand how one could sleep so sweet a sleep with a hangman close at hand. but there is no sleep when men must weep who never yet have wept: so we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- that endless vigil kept, and through each brain on hands of pain another's terror crept. alas! it is a fearful thing to feel another's guilt! for, right, within, the sword of sin pierced to its poisoned hilt, and as molten lead were the tears we shed for the blood we had not spilt. the warders with their shoes of felt crept by each padlocked door, and peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, grey figures on the floor, and wondered why men knelt to pray who never prayed before. all through the night we knelt and prayed, mad mourners of a corse! the troubled plumes of midnight shook the plumes upon a hearse: and bitter wine upon a sponge was the savour of remorse. * * * * * the grey cock crew, the red cock crew, but never came the day: and crooked shapes of terror crouched, in the corners where we lay: and each evil sprite that walks by night before us seemed to play. they glided past, they glided fast, like travellers through a mist: they mocked the moon in a rigadoon of delicate turn and twist, and with formal pace and loathsome grace the phantoms kept their tryst. with mop and mow, we saw them go, slim shadows hand in hand: about, about, in ghostly rout they trod a saraband: and the damned grotesques made arabesques, like the wind upon the sand! with the pirouettes of marionettes, they tripped on pointed tread: but with flutes of fear they filled the ear, as their grisly masque they led, and loud they sang, and long they sang, for they sang to wake the dead. _"oho!" they cried, "the world is wide, but fettered limbs go lame! and once, or twice, to throw the dice is a gentlemanly game, but he does not win who plays with sin in the secret house of shame."_ no things of air these antics were, that frolicked with such glee: to men whose lives were held in gyves, and whose feet might not go free, ah! wounds of christ! they were living things, most terrible to see. around, around, they waltzed and wound; some wheeled in smirking pairs; with the mincing step of a demirep some sidled up the stairs: and with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, each helped us at our prayers. the morning wind began to moan, but still the night went on: through its giant loom the web of gloom crept till each thread was spun: and, as we prayed, we grew afraid of the justice of the sun. the moaning wind went wandering round the weeping prison-wall: till like a wheel of turning steel we felt the minutes crawl: o moaning wind! what had we done to have such a seneschal? at last i saw the shadowed bars, like a lattice wrought in lead, move right across the whitewashed wall that faced my three-plank bed, and i knew that somewhere in the world god's dreadful dawn was red. at six o'clock we cleaned our cells, at seven all was still, but the sough and swing of a mighty wing the prison seemed to fill, for the lord of death with icy breath had entered in to kill. he did not pass in purple pomp, nor ride a moon-white steed. three yards of cord and a sliding board are all the gallows' need: so with rope of shame the herald came to do the secret deed. we were as men who through a fen of filthy darkness grope: we did not dare to breathe a prayer, or to give our anguish scope: something was dead in each of us, and what was dead was hope. for man's grim justice goes its way, and will not swerve aside: it slays the weak, it slays the strong, it has a deadly stride: with iron heel it slays the strong, the monstrous parricide! we waited for the stroke of eight: each tongue was thick with thirst: for the stroke of eight is the stroke of fate that makes a man accursed, and fate will use a running noose for the best man and the worst. we had no other thing to do, save to wait for the sign to come: so, like things of stone in a valley lone, quiet we sat and dumb: but each man's heart beat thick and quick, like a madman on a drum! with sudden shock the prison-clock smote on the shivering air, and from all the gaol rose up a wail of impotent despair, like the sound that frightened marches hear from some leper in his lair. and as one sees most fearful things in the crystal of a dream, we saw the greasy hempen rope hooked to the blackened beam, and heard the prayer the hangman's snare strangled into a scream. and all the woe that moved him so that he gave that bitter cry, and the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, none knew so well as i: for he who lives more lives than one more deaths than one must die. iv there is no chapel on the day on which they hang a man: the chaplain's heart is far too sick, or his face is far too wan, or there is that written in his eyes which none should look upon. so they kept us close till nigh on noon, and then they rang the bell, and the warders with their jingling keys opened each listening cell, and down the iron stair we tramped, each from his separate hell. out into god's sweet air we went, but not in wonted way, for this man's face was white with fear, and that man's face was grey, and i never saw sad men who looked so wistfully at the day. i never saw sad men who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue we prisoners called the sky, and at every happy cloud that passed in such strange freedom by. but there were those amongst us all who walked with downcast head, and knew that, had each got his due, they should have died instead: he had but killed a thing that lived, whilst they had killed the dead. for he who sins a second time wakes a dead soul to pain, and draws it from its spotted shroud, and makes it bleed again, and makes it bleed great gouts of blood, and makes it bleed in vain! * * * * * like ape or clown, in monstrous garb with crooked arrows starred, silently we went round and round the slippery asphalte yard; silently we went round and round, and no man spoke a word. silently we went round and round, and through each hollow mind the memory of dreadful things rushed like a dreadful wind, and horror stalked before each man, and terror crept behind. * * * * * the warders strutted up and down, and watched their herd of brutes, their uniforms were spick and span, and they wore their sunday suits, but we knew the work they had been at, by the quicklime on their boots. for where a grave had opened wide, there was no grave at all: only a stretch of mud and sand by the hideous prison-wall, and a little heap of burning lime, that the man should have his pall. for he has a pall, this wretched man, such as few men can claim: deep down below a prison-yard, naked for greater shame, he lies, with fetters on each foot, wrapt in a sheet of flame! and all the while the burning lime eats flesh and bone away, it eats the brittle bone by night, and the soft flesh by day, it eats the flesh and bone by turns, but it eats the heart alway. * * * * for three long years they will not sow or root or seedling there: for three long years the unblessed spot will sterile be and bare, and look upon the wondering sky with unreproachful stare. they think a murderer's heart would taint each simple seed they sow. it is not true! god's kindly earth is kindlier than men know, and the red rose would but blow more red, the white rose whiter blow. out of his mouth a red, red rose! out of his heart a white! for who can say by what strange way, christ brings his will to light, since the barren staff the pilgrim bore bloomed in the great pope's sight? but neither milk-white rose nor red may bloom in prison-air; the shard, the pebble, and the flint, are what they give us there: for flowers have been known to heal a common man's despair. so never will wine-red rose or white, petal by petal, fall on that stretch of mud and sand that lies by the hideous prison-wall, to tell the men who tramp the yard that god's son died for all. yet though the hideous prison-wall still hems him round and round, and a spirit may not walk by night that is with fetters bound, and a spirit may but weep that lies in such unholy ground. he is at peace-this wretched man-- at peace, or will be soon: there is no thing to make him mad, nor does terror walk at noon, for the lampless earth in which he lies has neither sun nor moon. they hanged him as a beast is hanged: they did not even toll a requiem that might have brought rest to his startled soul, but hurriedly they took him out, and hid him in a hole. the warders stripped him of his clothes, and gave him to the flies: they mocked the swollen purple throat, and the stark and staring eyes: and with laughter loud they heaped the shroud in which the convict lies. the chaplain would not kneel to pray by his dishonoured grave: nor mark it with that blessed cross that christ for sinners gave, because the man was one of those whom christ came down to save. yet all is well; he has but passed to life's appointed bourne: and alien tears will fill for him pity's long-broken urn, for his mourners will be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn. v i know not whether laws be right, or whether laws be wrong; all that we know who lie in gaol is that the wall is strong; and that each day is like a year, a year whose days are long. but this i know, that every law that men have made for man, since first man took his brother's life, and the sad world began, but straws the wheat and saves the chaff with a most evil fan. this too i know--and wise it were if each could know the same-- that every prison that men build is built with bricks of shame, and bound with bars lest christ should see how men their brothers maim. with bars they blur the gracious moon, and blind the goodly sun: and they do well to hide their hell, for in it things are done that son of god nor son of man ever should look upon! * * * * * the vilest deeds like poison weeds, bloom well in prison-air; it is only what is good in man that wastes and withers there: pale anguish keeps the heavy gate, and the warder is despair. for they starve the little frightened child till it weeps both night and day: and they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, and gibe the old and grey, and some grow mad, and all grow bad, and none a word may say. each narrow cell in which we dwell is a foul and dark latrine, and the fetid breath of living death chokes up each grated screen, and all, but lust, is turned to dust in humanity's machine. the brackish water that we drink creeps with a loathsome slime, and the bitter bread they weigh in scales is full of chalk and lime, and sleep will not lie down, but walks wild-eyed, and cries to time. * * * * * but though lean hunger and green thirst like asp with adder fight, we have little care of prison fare, for what chills and kills outright is that every stone one lifts by day becomes one's heart by night. with midnight always in one's heart, and twilight in one's cell, we turn the crank, or tear the rope, each in his separate hell, and the silence is more awful far than the sound of a brazen bell. and never a human voice comes near to speak a gentle word: and the eye that watches through the door is pitiless and hard: and by all forgot, we rot and rot, with soul and body marred. and thus we rust life's iron chain degraded and alone: and some men curse and some men weep, and some men make no moan: but god's eternal laws are kind and break the heart of stone. and every human heart that breaks, in prison-cell or yard, is as that broken box that gave its treasure to the lord, and filled the unclean leper's house with the scent of costliest nard. ah! happy they whose hearts can break and peace of pardon win! how else man may make straight his plan and cleanse his soul from sin? how else but through a broken heart may lord christ enter in? * * * * * and he of the swollen purple throat, and the stark and staring eyes, waits for the holy hands that took the thief to paradise; and a broken and a contrite heart the lord will not despise. the man in red who reads the law gave him three weeks of life, three little weeks in which to heal his soul of his soul's strife, and cleanse from every blot of blood the hand that held the knife. and with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, the hand that held the steel: for only blood can wipe out blood, and only tears can heal: and the crimson stain that was of cain became christ's snow-white seal. vi in reading gaol by reading town there is a pit of shame, and in it lies a wretched man eaten by teeth of flame, in a burning winding-sheet he lies, and his grave has got no name. and there, till christ call forth the dead, in silence let him lie: no need to waste the foolish tear, or heave the windy sigh: the man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die. and all men kill the thing they love, by all let this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word, the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword! appendix _from "percy's reliques"--volume i._ the frolicksome duke printed from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection. king estmere this ballad is given from two versions, one in the percy folio manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. the original version was probably written at the end of the fifteenth century. robin hood and guy of gisborne one of the earliest known ballads about robin hood--from the percy folio manuscript. king cophetua and the beggar maid this ballad is printed from richard johnson's _crown garland of goulden roses,_ . the friar of orders gray this ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient ballads found throughout the plays of shakespeare, which thomas percy formed into one. sir aldingar given from the percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas added by thomas percy to complete the story. edom o'gordon a scottish ballad--this version was printed at glasgow in by robert and andrew foulis. it has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered from a fragment of the same ballad, from the percy folio manuscript. the ballad of chevy chace from the percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed in black-letter. written about the time of elizabeth. sir lancelot du lake given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the percy folio manuscript. the child of elle partly from the percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas by percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated. king edward iv and the tanner of tam worth the text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. one in the bodleian library, printed at london by john danter in . the other copy, without date, is from the pepys collection. sir patrick spens printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from scotland. it is possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact. edward, edward an old scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from scotland. king leir and his three daughters version from an old copy in the _golden garland,_ black-letter, entitled _a lamentable song of the death of king lear and his three daughters._ the gaberlunzie man this ballad is said to have been written by king james v of scotland. _from "percy's reliques"--volume ii._ the knight and shepherd's daughter printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections. king john and the abbot of canterbury this ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of james i from one much older, entitled _king john and the bishop of canterbury._ the version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy. barbara allen's cruelty given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled _barbara alien's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy._ fair rosamond the version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in black-letter: two of them in the pepys' library. it is by thomas delone. first printed in . the boy and the mantle this is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad. the heir of linne given from the percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas supplied by thomas percy. sir andrew barton this ballad is from the percy folio manuscript with additions and amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys' collection. it was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century. the beggar's daughter of bednall green given from the percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and alterations from two ancient printed copies. brave lord willoughbey given from an old black-letter copy. the spanish lady's love the version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the percy folio manuscript. gil morrice the version of this ballad given here was printed at glasgow in . since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added to the original ballad. child waters from the percy folio manuscript, with corrections. the bailiff's daughter of islington from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys' collection. the lye by sir walter raleigh. this poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled _davison's poems, or a poeticall rapsodie divided into sixe books ... the th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme more pleasing to the reader._ lond. . _from "english and scottish ballads."_ may collin from a manuscript at abbotsford in the sir walter scott collection, _scotch ballads, materials for border minstrelsy._ thomas the rhymer _scotch ballads, materials for border minstrelsy,_ no. , abbotsford. from the sir walter scott collection. communicated to sir walter by mrs. christiana greenwood, london, may th, . young beichan taken from the jamieson-brown manuscript, . clerk colvill from a transcript of no. of william tytler's brown manuscript. the earl of mar's daughter from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland,_ . hynd horn from motherwell's manuscript, and after. the three ravens _melismate. musicall phansies. fitting the court, cittie and country humours._ london, . (t. ravenscroft.) the wife of usher's well printed from _ministrelsy of the scottish border_, . * * * * * mandalay by rudyard kipling. john brown's body it's a long way to tipperary by jack judge and harry williams. the ballad of reading gaol by oscar wilde. transcribed by linda cantoni. [transcriber's note: this e-book is volume of thomas d'urfey's _wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy_, published in six volumes in - by j. tonson, london. it was prepared from a facsimile reprint by folklore library publishers, inc., new york, of an reprint (publisher unidentified). the - edition was published in two issues. the first issue was published under the title _songs compleat, pleasant and divertive_; the second, under the _wit and mirth_ title. the reprint apparently used a combination of the two issues, and volume bears the _songs compleat_ title. moreover, the reprint was not an exact facsimile of the - edition, as the typography and music notation were modernized. for more information on the various editions, see cyrus l. day, "pills to purge melancholy," _the review of english studies_, vol. , no. (apr. ), pp. - , available at http://www.jstor.org/stable/ (login required). archaic and inconsistent spellings and hyphenation have been preserved as they appear in the original, except that "vv" is rendered as "w." the original order of titles in the alphabetical table has also been preserved. obvious printer errors have been corrected. some words are rendered in the original in blackletter font. they are rendered here in uppercase letters. italics are indicated with underscores.] wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy edited by thomas d'urfey in six volumes volume v folklore library publishers, inc. new york _this edition is a facsimile reproduction of the reprint of the original edition of - ._ copyright © printed in the u.s.a. by noble offset printers, inc. new york , new york songs compleat, pleasant and divertive; set to musick by dr. john blow, mr. henry purcell, and other excellent masters of the town. ending with some orations, made and spoken by me several times upon the publick stage in the theater. together with some copies of verses, prologues, and epilogues, as well as for my own plays as those of other poets, being all humerous and comical. vol. v. _london:_ printed by _w. pearson_, for _j. tonson_, at shakespear's head, against _catherine_ street in the _strand_, . an alphabetical table of the songs and poems contain'd in this book. page a _all christians and_ lay-elders _too_, _as i went by an hospital_, _a shepherd kept sheep on a_, _as i was a walking under a grove_, _a councel grave our king did hold_, _a heroe of no small renown_, _as the fryer he went along_, _a bonny lad came to the court_, _a pox on those fools, who exclaim_, _amongst the pure ones all_, _as oyster_ nan _stood by her tub_, _ah!_ cælia _how can you be_, _are you grown so melancholy_, _as_ collin _went from his sheep_, _a wife i do hate_, _a thousand several ways i try'd_, _a_ whig _that's full_, _as_ cupid _roguishly one day_, _a young man sick and like to die_, _at noon in a sultry summer's day_, _ah! how lovely sweet and dear_, _advance, advance, advance gay_, _ah! foolish lass, what mun i do_, b _bold impudent_ fuller _invented_, _by moon-light on the green_, _bonny_ peggy ramsey _that any_, _by shady woods and purling_, belinda! _why do you distrust_, _born to surprize the world_, _bring out your coney-skins_, _bonny_ scottish _lads that keens_, c _come bring us wine in plenty_, _come pretty birds present your_, _come fill up the bowl with_, _cease lovely_ strephon, _cease to_, _cease whining_ damon _to complain_, cælia _my heart has often rang'd_, corinna, _if my fate's to love you_, cælia's _charms are past expressing_, _come beaus, virtuoso's, rich heirs_, _cease, cease of_ cupid _to complain_, _come, come ye nymphs_, chloe _blush'd, and frown'd, and swore_, cælia _hence with affectation_, d _did you not hear of a gallant_, _divine_ astrea _hither flew_, _draw_ cupid _draw, and make_, damon _if you will believe me_, _drunk i was last night that's_, delia _tir'd_ strephon _with her_, f _fair_ cælia _too fondly contemns_, _fly_ damon _fly, 'tis death to stay_, _fear not mortal, none shall harm_, _farewel ungrateful traytor_, g gilderoy _was a bonny boy_, _good neighbour why do you_, h _how now sister_ betteris, _why look_, _heaven first created woman to_, _hears not my_ phillis _how_, _how happy's the mortal whose_, _he himself courts his own ruin_, _how happy and free is the_, _how charming_ phillis _is_, _hither turn thee, hither turn thee_, _here lies_ william de valence, _ho my dear joy, now what dost_, _here's a health to the tackers_, _here are people and sports of_, _hark! now the drums beat up again_, _how often have i curs'd that sable deceit_, i _i am a young lass of_ lynn, _i am a jovial cobler bold and_, _it was a rich merchant man_, _if sorrow the tyrant invade_, _in the pleasant month of_ may, _it was a happy golden day_, _i prithee send me back my heart_, _in_ chloris _all soft charms agree_, _i lik'd, but never lov'd before_, iris _beware when_ strephon _pursues_, _i am one in whom nature has_, _in vain, in vain, the god i ask_, _in the devil's country there_, _in elder time, there was of_ yore, ianthia _the lovely, the joy of_, jockey _met with_ jenny _fair_, _i met with the devil in the_, _jilting is in such a fashion_, jockey _loves his_ moggy _dearly_, l _let the females attend_, _let's be jolly, fill our glasses_, _let's sing of stage-coaches_, _last_ christmas _'twas my chance_, _lately as thorough the fair_, _let soldiers fight for pay and praise_, _long had_ damon _been admir'd_, laurinda, _who did love disdain_, _let ambition fire thy mind_, _long was the day e'er_ alexis, _let's be merry, blith and jolly_, m _my friend if you would understand_, _marriage it seems is for better_, n _no more let_ damon's _eyes pursue_, _nay pish, nay pish, nay pish sir_, _no, no every morning my_, _now my freedom's regain'd_, _no_, phillis, _tho' you've all the charms_, _now to you ye dry wooers_, o _once more to these arms my_, _one night in my ramble i_, _oh! let no eyes be dry_, _old_ lewis le grand, _he raves like_, _of old soldiers, the song you_, _of late in the park a fair fancy_, _oh! how you protest and solemnly_, p philander _and_ sylvia, _a gentle_, _poor_ jenny _and i we toiled_, _pretty_ floramel, _no tongue can_, _plague us not with idle stories_, _poor_ mountfort _is gone, and the_, _pretty parrot say, when i was_, s _state and ambition, all joy to_, _stay, stay, shut the gates_, _slaves to_ london _i'll deceive you_, _stay, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither_, _see how fair and fine she lies_, _since_ cælia _only has the art_, _some brag of their_ chloris, _see, sirs, see here! a doctor rare_, _swain thy hopeless passion smother_, t _there was an old woman liv'd_, _the suburbs is a fine place_, _there can be no glad man_, _then_ jockey _wou'd a wooing away_, _there was a lass of_ islington, _there was a lord of worthy fame_, _there was a jovial tinker_, _there is a fine doctor now come_, _there was a knight and he_, _think wretched mortal, think_, _to the wars i must alass_, _though the pride of my passion fair_, _tell me ye_ sicilian _swains_, _to the grove, gentle love, let_, _tell me no more of flames in_, _tho' fortune and love may be_, _that little patch upon your face_, _tho' over all mankind, besides my_, _there lives an ale-draper near_, _the caffalier was gone, and the_, _the_ devil _he pull'd off his jacket_, _the jolly, jolly breeze_, _the jolly, jolly bowl_, ib. u _upon a holiday, when nymphs_, w _where gott'st thou the_ haver-mill, _when first_ mardyke _was made_, _when maids live to thirty, yet never_, _what life can compare, with the_, _with my strings of small wire_, _when that young_ damon _bless'd_, _would you be a man in fashion_, _when first i fair_ celinda _knew_, _when busy fame o'er all the_, _why am i the only creature_, _where would coy_ amyntas _run_, _when gay_ philander _left the plain_, _wealth breeds care, love, hope_, _when first_ amyntas _charmed my_, _why so pale and wan fond lover_, _when i languish'd and wish'd you_, _when first i saw her charming face_, _while the love is thinking_, _when_ jemmy _first began to love_, y _you master colours pray_, _ye brave boys and tars_, _young_ coridon _and_ phillis, _your hay it is mow'd, and your_, _you happy youths, whose hearts_, _young ladies that live in the_, _you i love by all that's true_, _you've been with dull prologues_, songs compleat, pleasant and divertive, &c. vol. v. _the_ four-legg'd elder: _or a horrible relation of a_ dog _and an_ elder's maid. _by sir_ john burtonhead. [music] all christians and _lay-elders_ too, for shame amend your lives; i'll tell you of a dog-trick now, which much concerns you wives: an _elder's_ maid near _temple-bar_, (ah! what a quean was she?) did take an ugly mastiff cur, where christians use to be. _help house of commons, house of peers,_ _oh now or never help!_ _th' assembly hath not sat four years,_ _yet hath brought forth a whelp._ one evening late she stept aside, pretending to fetch eggs; and there she made her self a bride, to one that had four legs: her master heard a rumblement, and wonder she did tarry; not dreaming (without his consent) his dog would ever marry. _help house of commons_, &c. he went to peep, but was afraid, and hastily did run, to fetch a staff to help his maid, not knowing what was done: he took his _ruling elders_ cane, and cry'd out _help, help, here_; for _swash_ our mastiff, and poor _jane_, are now fight dog, fight bear. _help house of commons_, &c. but when he came he was full sorry, for he perceiv'd their strife; that according to the _directory_, they two were dog and wife: ah! (then said he) thou cruel quean, why hast thou me beguil'd? i wonder _swash_ was grown so lean, poor dog he's almost spoil'd. _help house of commons_, &c. i thought thou hadst no carnal sense, but what's in our lasses: and could have quench'd thy cupiscence, according to the _classes_: but all the parish see it plain, since thou art in this pickle; thou art an independent quean, and lov'st a conventicle. _help house of commons_, &c. alas now each _malignant_ rogue, will all the world perswade; that she that's spouse unto a dog, may be an _elder's_ maid: they'll jeer us if abroad we stir, good master _elder_ stay; sir, of what _classis_ is your cur? and then what can we say? _help house of commons_, &c. they'll many graceless ballads sing, of a presbyterian; that a _lay elder_ is a thing made up half dog, half man: out, out, said he, (and smote her down) was mankind grown so scant? there's scarce another dog in town, had took the covenant. _help house of commons_, &c. then _swash_ began to look full grim, and _jane_ did thus reply; sir, you thought nought too good for him, you fed your dog too high: 'tis true he took me in the lurch, and leap'd into my arms; but (as i hope to come at church) i did your dog no harm. _help house of commons_, &c. then she was brought to _newgate_ gaol, and there was naked stripp'd; they whipp'd her till the cords did fail, as dogs us'd to be whipp'd: poor city maids shed many a tear, when she was lash'd and bang'd; and had she been a _cavalier_, surely she had been hang'd. _help house of commons_, &c. hers was but _fornication_ found, for which she felt the lash: but his was _bugg'ry_ presum'd, therefore they hanged _swash_: what will become of _bishops_ then, or _independency_? for now we find both dogs and men, stand up for presbytry. _help house of commons_, &c. she might have took a _sow-gelder_, with _synod-men_ good store, but she would have a _lay-elder_, with two legs and two more: go tell the _assembly_ of divines, tell adoniram blue; tell _burgess_, _marshall_, _case_ and _vines_, tell _now-and-anon_ too. _help house of commons_, &c. some say she was a _scottish_ girl, or else (at least) a witch; but she was born in _colchester_, was ever such a bitch: take heed all christian virgins now, the _dog-star_ now prevails; ladys beware your monkeys too, for monkeys have long tails. _help house of commons_, &c. bless _king_ and _queen_, and send us peace, as we had seven years since: for we remember no _dog-days_, while we enjoy'd our prince: bless sweet prince _charles_, two _dukes_, three girls, lord save his _majesty_; grant that his _commons_, _lords_, and _earls_, may lead such lives as _he_. _help house of commons_, &c. _plain proof ruin'd: or, a grand_ cheat _discover'd._ [music] bold impudent _fuller_ invented a plot, and all to discover the devil knows what; about a young bantling strangely begot. _which no body can deny._ the better to cheat both the fools and the wise, he impos'd on a nation a hundred of lies; that none but a knight of the post could devise. _which no body can deny._ he tells us he had the honour to peep, in the warming-pan where the _welch_ infant did sleep; and found out a plot which was damnable deep, _which no body can believe._ then to the wise senate he suddenly went, where he told all the lies that he then could invent, for which he was voted a rogue by consent, _which no body can deny._ and tho' he was punish'd for that his offence, he has almost forgot it, it was so long since, therefore the whole game he began to commence, _which no body can deny._ then he to the lords his bold letters did send, and told the high peers, that the plot he could mend, and make it as plain, as he first did pretend, _which no body can deny._ he told them his witnesses were mighty men, that wou'd come to the town, tho' the devil knows when, and make _william fuller_ once famous agen, _which no body can deny._ the lords they were generous, noble and kind, and allowed him freedom his 'squires to find, the which he will do when the devil is blind, _which no body can deny._ so the peers they declared him a scandalous sot, and none thinks him fit to manage a plot, if _newgate_ and _tyburn_ does fall to his lot, _there's no body will deny._ they gave him no more time than himself did require, to find out his _jones_ and the wandering 'squire, but the time being come, they were never the nigher, _which no body can deny._ the brave house of _commons_ next for him did send, to hear what the block-headly fool wou'd pretend, who humbly request, that they wou'd him befriend, _which no body can deny._ one day he declar'd they were near _london_ town, but the very next day into _wales_ they were flown, such nimble heel'd witnessess never were known, _which no body can deny._ when being examin'd about his sham plot, he answer'd as though he had minded them not, perhaps the young rogue had his lesson forgot, _which no body can deny._ but after some study and impudent tales, ask'd for a commission to march into _wales_, and be chang'd to a herse, as rogues goes to gaols, _which no body can deny._ but seeing his impudence still to abound, to go search for the men who were not to be found, they immediately sent him back to _fleet_ pound, _which no body can deny._ from the _fleet_ to the cart may he quickly advance to learn the true steps of old _oates's_ new dance, and something beside, or it is a great chance, _which no body can deny._ he has made it a trade to be doing of wrong, in swearing, and lying, and cheating so long, for all his life time, he's been at it ding dong, _which no body can deny._ _welch taffy_ he raves and crys splutterdenails, he's abused hur highness with lies and with tales, hur will hang hur if e'er hur can catch hur in _wales_, _which no body will deny._ _the woman warrior._ _who liv'd in_ cow-cross _near_ west-smithfield; _who changing her apparrel, entered her self on board in quality of a soldier, and sailed to_ ireland, _where she valiantly behaved her self, particularly at the siege of_ cork, _where she lost her toes, and received a mortal wound in her body, of which she since died in her return to_ london. [music] let the females attend, to the lines which are penn'd, for here i shall give a relation; of a young marry'd wife, who did venture her life, for a soldier, a soldier she went from the nation. she her husband did leave, and did likewise receive her arms, and on board she did enter; and right valiantly went, with a resolution bent, to the ocean, the ocean her life there to venture. yet of all the ships crew, not a seaman that knew, they then had a woman so near 'em; on the ocean so deep, she her council did keep, ay, and therefore, and therefore she never did fear 'em. she was valiant and bold, and would not be controul'd, by any that dare to offend her; if a quarrel arose, she would give him dry blows, and the captain, the captain did highly commend her. for he took her to be, then of no mean degree, a gentleman's son or a 'squire; with a hand white and fair, there was none could compare, which the captain, the captain did often admire. on the _irish_ shore, where the cannons did roar, with many stout lads she was landed; there her life to expose, she lost two of her toes, and in battle, in battle was daily commended. under _grafton_ she fought, like a brave hero stout, and made the proud tories retire; she in field did appear, with a heart void of fear, and she bravely, she bravely did charge and give fire. while the battering balls, did assault the strong walls, of _cork_ and the sweet trumpets sounded; she did bravely advance, where by unhappy chance, this young female, young female alass she was wounded. at the end of the fray, still she languishing lay, then over the ocean they brought her; to her own native shore, now they ne'er knew before, that a woman, a woman had been in that slaughter. what she long had conceal'd, now at length she reveal'd, that she was a woman that ventur'd; then to _london_ with care, she did straitways repair, but she dy'd, oh she dy'd e'er the city she enter'd. when her parents beheld, they with sorrow was fill'd, for why they did dearly adore her: in her grave now she lies, 'tis not watery eyes, no nor sighing, nor sighing that e'er can restore her. _a medly, compos'd out of several_ songs. [music] state and ambition, all joy to great _cæsar_, _sawney_ shall ne'er be my colly my cow; all hail to the shades, all joy to the bridegroom, and call upon _dobbin_ with hi, je, ho. remember ye whigs, what was formerly done; and _jenny_ come tye my bonny cravat, if i live to grow old for i find i go down, for i cannot come every day to wooe. _jove_ in his throne was a fumbler, _tom farthing_, and _jockey_ and _jenny_ together did lie; oh mother _roger_: boys, fill us a bumper, for why will ye die my poor _cælia_, ah why? hark! how thundring cannons do roar, ladies of _london_ both wealthy and fair; _charon_ make hast and ferry me over, lilli burlero bullen a lah. _chloris_ awake, four-pence-half-penny-farthing, give me the lass that is true country bred; like _john_ of _gaunt_ i walk in _covent-garden_, i am a maid and a very good maid: twa bonny lads was _sawney_ and _jockey_, the delights of the bottle and charms of good wine; wading the water so deep my sweet _moggy_, cold and raw, let it run in the right line. old _obadiah_ sings _ave-maria_, sing lulla-by-baby with a dildo; the old woman and her cat sat by the fire, now this is my love d'y' like her ho? old _charon_ thus preached to his pupil _achilles_, and under this stone here lies _gabriel john_; happy was i at the fight of fair _phillis_, what should a young woman do with an old man? there's old father _peters_ with his romish creatures, there was an old woman sold pudding and pies, cannons with thunder shall fill them with wonder, i once lov'd a lass that had bright rowling eyes: there's my maid _mary_, she does mind her dairy, i took to my heels and away i did run; and bids him prepare to be happy to morrow, alass! i don't know the right end of a gun. my life and death does lye both in your power, and every man to his mind, _shrewsbury_ for me; on the bank of a brook as i sat fishing, shall i die a maid and never married be: uds bobs let _oliver_ now be forgotten, _joan_ is as good as my lady in the dark; cuckolds are christians boys all the world over, and here's a full bumper to _robin john clark_. _the_ trooper _watering his_ nagg. [music] there was an old woman liv'd under a hill, sing trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo; she had good beer and ale for to sell, ho, ho, had she so, had she so, had she so; she had a daughter her name was _siss_, sing trolly lolly, lolly, lolly, lo; she kept her at home for to welcome her guest, ho, ho, did she so, did she so, did she so. there came a trooper riding by, sing trolly, _&c._ he call'd for drink most plentifully, ho, ho, did he so, _&c._ when one pot was out he call'd for another, sing trolly, _&c._ he kiss'd the daughter before the mother, ho, ho, did he so, _&c._ and when night came on to bed they went, sing trolly, _&c._ it was with the mother's own consent, ho, ho, was it so, _&c._ quoth she what is this so stiff and warm, sing trolly _&c._ 'tis ball my nag he will do you no harm, ho, ho, wont he so, _&c._ but what is this hangs under his chin, sing trolly, _&c._ 'tis the bag he puts his provender in, ho, ho, is it so, _&c._ quoth he what is this? quoth she 'tis a well, sing trolly, _&c._ where ball your nag may drink his fill, ho, ho, may he so, _&c._ but what if my nag should chance to slip in, sing trolly, _&c._ then catch hold of the grass that grows on the brim, ho, ho, must i so, _&c._ but what if the grass should chance to fail, sing trolly, _&c._ shove him in by the head, pull him out by the tail, ho, ho, must i so, _&c._ _a trip to the_ jubilee. _the tune by mr._ r. loe. [music] come bring us wine in plenty, we've money enough to spend; i hate to see the pots empty, a man cannot drink to's friend: then drawer bring up more wine, and merrily let it pass; we'll drink till our faces do shine, he that wont may look like an ass: and we'll tell him so to his face, if he offers to baulk his glass, for we defy all such dull society. 'tis drinking makes us merry, and mirth diverts all care; a song of hey down derry, is better than heavy air: make ready quickly my boys, and fill up your glasses higher; for we'll present with huzzas, and merrily all give fire; since drinking's our desire, and friendship we admire, for here we'll stay, ne'er call drawer what's to pay. _the_ good fellow. [music] let's be jolly, fill our glasses, madness 'tis for us to think, how the world is rul'd by asses, that o'ersway the wise with chink: let not such vain thoughts oppress us, riches prove to them a snare; we are all as rich as _croesus_, drink your glasses, take no care. wine will make us fresh as roses, and our sorrows all forgot; let us fuddle well our noses, drink ourselves quite out of debt: when grim death is looking for us, whilst we're singing o'er our bowls; _bacchus_ joyning in our chorus, death depart, here's none but souls. jockey's _escape from_ dundee; _and the parsons daughter whom he had mow'd._ [music] where gott'st thou the _haver-mill bonack_? blind booby can'st thou not see; ise got it out of the _scotch-man's_ wallet, as he lig lousing him under a tree: _come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,_ _come saddle my horse, and call up my man;_ _come open the gates, and let me go free,_ _and shew me the way to bonny_ dundee. for i have neither robbed nor stole, nor have i done any injury; but i have gotten a fair maid with child, the minister's daughter of bonny _dundee_: _come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,_ _come saddle my horse and call up my man,_ _come open the gates and let me go free,_ _and ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. altho' ise gotten her maiden-head, geud feth ise given her mine in lieu; for when at her daddy's ise gang to bed, ise mow'd her without any more to do? ise cuddle her close, and gave her a kiss, pray tell now where is the harm of this, _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _and ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. all _scotland_ ne'er afforded a lass, so bonny and blith as _jenny_ my dear; ise gave her a gown of green on the grass, but now ise no longer must tarry here: then saddle my nag that's bonny and gay, for now it is time to gang hence away, _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _she's ken me no more to bonny_ dundee. in liberty still i reckon to reign, for why i have done no honest man wrong; the parson may take his daughter again, for she'll be a mammy before it is long: and have a young lad or lass of my breed, ise think i have done her a generous deed; _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _for ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. since _jenny_ the fair was willing and kind, and came to my arms with a ready good will; a token of love ise left her behind, thus i have requited her kindness still: tho' _jenny_ the fair i often had mow'd, another may reap the harvest i sow'd, _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _she's ken me no more to bonny_ dundee. her daddy would have me to make her my bride, but have and to hold i ne'er could endure; from bonny _dundee_ this day i will ride, it being a place not safe and secure: then _jenny_ farewel my joy and my dear, with sword in my hand the passage i'se clear; _then open the gates and let me go free,_ _for ise gang no more to bonny_ dundee. my father he is a muckle good leard, my mother a lady bonny and gay; then while i have strength to handle a sweard, the parson's request ise never obey: then _sawny_ my man be thou of my mind, in bonny _dundee_ we'se ne'er be confin'd, _the gates we will force to set ourselves free,_ _and never come more to bonny_ dundee. the _sawny_ reply'd ise never refuse, to fight for a leard so valiant and bold; while i have a drop of blood for to lose, e'er any fickle loon shall keep us in hold: this sweard in my hand i'll valiantly weild, and fight by your side to kill or be kill'd, _for forcing the gates and set ourselves free,_ _and so bid adieu to bonny_ dundee. with sweard ready drawn they rid to the gate, where being denied an entrance thro' the master and man they fought at that rate, that some ran away, and others they slew: thus _jockey_ the leard and _sawny_ the man, they valiantly fought as highlanders can, _in spight of the loons they set themselves free,_ _and so bid adieu to bonny_ dundee. _a_ song. _sung by mr._ dogget. [music: let's sing of stage-coaches, and fear no reproaches; for riding in one, but daily be jogging, while whistling, and flogging, while whistling and flogging, the coachman drives on; with a hey geeup, geeup hey ho, with a hey gee dobin hey ho, hey, geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho, geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho, with a hey, gee dobin hey ho.] in coaches thus strowling, who wou'd not be rowling; with nymphs on each side, still pratling and playing; our knees interlaying, we merrily ride. _with a hey_, &c. here chance kindly mixes, all sorts and all sexes, more females than men, we squeese 'em, we ease 'em, the jolting does please 'em, drive jollily then, _with a hey_, &c. the harder you're driving, the more 'tis reviving, nor fear we to tell, for if the coach tumble, we'll have a rare jumble, and then up tails all, _with a hey_, &c. _the crafty cracks of_ east-smith-field, _who pick't up a master colour upon_ tower-hill, _whom they plundred of a purse of_ silver, _with above threescore_ guineas. [music] you master colours pray draw near, and listen to my report; my grief is great, for lo of late, two ladies i chanc'd to court: who did meet me on _tower-hill_, their beauties i did behold: _those crafty jades have learnt their trades,_ _and plunder'd me of my gold._ i'll tell you how it came to pass, this sorrowful story is thus: of guineas bright a glorious sight, i had in a cat-skin purse: the value of near fourscore pounds, as good as e'er i had told, _those crafty jades have learnt their trades,_ _and plunder'd me of my gold._ i saw two poor distressed men, who lay upon _tower-hill_, to whom in brief i gave relief, according to my good will: two wanton misses drawing near, my guineas they did behold; they laid a plot by which they got, my silver and yellow gold. they both address'd themselves to me, and thus they was pleas'd to say; kind sir, indeed, we stand in need, altho' we are fine and gay: of some relief which you may give, i thought they were something bold; the plot was laid, i was betray'd, and plunder'd of all my gold. alas 'tis pity, then i cry'd, such ladies of good repute, should want relief, therefore in brief, i gave 'em a kind salute: thought i of them i'll have my will, altho' i am something old; they were i see too wise for me, they plunder'd me of my gold. then to _east-smithfield_ was i led, and there i was entertain'd: with kisses fine and brandy wine, in merriment we remain'd: methought it was the happiest day, that ever i did behold; sweet meat alass! had sower sauce, they plunder'd me of my gold. time after time to pay their shot, my guineas i would lug out; those misses they wou'd make me stay, and rally the other bout: i took my fill of pleasures then altho' i was something old; those joys are past, they would not last, i'm plunder'd of all my gold. as i was at the wanton game, my pocket they fairly pick'd; and all my wealth they took by stealth, thus was a poor colour trick'd: let me therefore a warning be, to merchants both young and old; for now of late hard was my fate, i'm plunder'd of all my gold. they got three pounds in silver bright, and guineas above threescore, such sharping cracks breaks merchants backs, i'll never come near them more: sure now i have enough of them, my sorrow cannot be told; that crafty crew makes me look blew, i'm plunder'd of all my gold. _the dance of the_ usurer _and the_ devil. [music] last _christmas_ 'twas my chance, to be in _paris_ city; where i did see a dance, in my conceit was very pretty--by men of france. first came the lord of _pool_, and he begun his measure; the next came in a fool, and danc'd with him for pleasure--with his tool. the next a knight came in, who look'd as he would swagger; and after follow'd him a merry needy beggar--dancing in. the next a gentleman, on him a servant tending, and there the dance began, with nimble bodies bending--like two friends. then in a lawyer came, with him a knave came leaping; and as they danc'd in frame, so hand in hand went skipping--to the term. the next a citizen, and he a cuckold leading; so round about the room, their masque they fell a treading--and fain they would. the next an usurer, old fat guts he came grunting; the devil left all care, for joy he fell a jumping--to see him there. and ending then their masque, the fool his lord he carries upon his back in hast, no longer there he tarries--but left the place. the beggar took the knight, who took it in derision; the searjeant took in spite, the gentleman to prison--for all his might. the cuckold, silly man, altho' he was abhorred: he took the citizen, and led him by the forehead--and out he ran. the devil lik'd it well, his lot it was to carry; the usurer to hell, and there with him to tarry. _the_ suburbs _is a fine place: to the_ tune _of_ london _is a fine town._ [music] the suburbs is a fine place belonging to the city, it has no government at all, alack the more the pity; a wife, a silly animal, esteemed in that same place, for there a civil woman's now asham'd to shew her face: the misses there have each man's time, his money, nay, his heart, then all in all, both great and small, and all in ev'ry part. which part it is a thorough-fair so open and so large, one well might sail through ev'ry tail even in a western barge; these cracks that coach it now, when first they came to town, did turn up tail for a pot of ale in linsey wolsey gown. the bullies first debauch'd 'em, in baudy _covent-garden_, that filthy place, where ne'er a wench was ever worth a farthing; and when their maiden-heads are sold to sneaking lords, which lords are clapt at least nine-fold for taking of their words. and then my lord, that many tries, she looks so innocent, believing he infected her, he makes a settlement; these are your cracks, who skill'd in all kind of debauches, do daily piss, spue and whore in their own glass coaches. now miss turn night-walker, till lord-mayor's men she meets, o'er night she's drunk, next day she's finely flogged thro' _london_ streets; after their rooms of state are chang'd to bulks or coblers stalls, 'till poverty and pox agree they dying in hospitals. this suburbs gallant fop that takes delight in roaring, he spends his time in huffing, swearing, drinking, and in whoring; and if an honest man and his wife meet them in the dark, makes nothing to run the husband through to get the name of spark. but when the constable appears, the gallant, let me tell ye, his heart denies his breeches, and sinks into his belly; these are the silly rogues that think it fine and witty, to laugh and joak at aldermen, the rulers of the city. they'd kiss our wives, but hold, for all their plotting pates, while they would get us children, we are getting their estates; and still in vain they court pretending in their cares, that their estates may thus descend unto the lawful heirs. their play-houses i hate, are shops to set off wenches, where fop and miss, like dog and bitch, do couple under benches; that i might advise the chiefest play-house monger, i have a sister of my own both handsomer and younger. she lives not far off in the parish of st. _clements_, she never liv'd in cellar nor sold oranges and lemons: then why should play-house trulls with paint and such temptations, be an eye sore to me & more to the best part o'th' nation. now you that all this while have listened to my dity, with streightened hands pray drink a health unto this noble city: and let us pray to _jove_, these suburb folks to mend, and having now no more to say, i think it fit to end. _the old woman's_ wish. [music] as i went by an hospital, i heard an old woman cry, kind sir, quoth she, be kind to me, once more before i die, and grant to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. i find an itching in my blood, altho' it be something cold, therefore good man do what you can, to comfort me now i'm old. and grant to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. altho' i cannot see the day, nor never a glance of light; kind sir, i swear and do declare, i honour the joys of night: then grant to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward you love, to an old woman poor and blind. when i was in my blooming youth, my vigorous love was hot; now in my age i dare engage, a fancy i still have got: then give to me those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. you shall miss of a reward, if readily you comply; then do not blush but touch my flesh. this minute before i die: o let me tast those joys, that belong to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. i forty shillings would freely give, 'tis all the mony i have; which i full long have begged for, to carry me to my grave: this i would give to have the bliss, that belongs to woman-kind, and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. i had a husband in my youth, as very well 'tis known, the truth to tell he pleased me well, but now i am left alone; and long to tast the good old game, that belongs to woman-kind: and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. if forty shillings will not do, my petticoat and my gown; nay smock also shall freely go, to make up the other crown: then sir, pray grant that kind request, that belongs to woman-kind; and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. tho' i am fourscore years of age, i love with a right good will; and what in truth i want in youth, i have it in perfect skill: then grant to me that charming bliss, that belongs to woman-kind; and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. now if you do not pleasure me, and give me the thing i crave; i do protest i shall not rest, when i am laid in my grave: therefore kind sir, grant me the joys, that belong to woman-kind; and the fates above reward your love, to an old woman poor and blind. _the mad-man's_ song. [music] there can be no glad-man compar'd to the mad-man, his mind is still void of care; his fits and his fancies, are above all mischances, and mirth is his ordinary fare. _then be thou mad, mad, mad let's be,_ _nor shall the foul fiend be madder than we._ the wise and the witty, in court and in city, are subject to sorrow and pain; while he that is mad, knows not why to be sad, nor has any cause to complain: _then be thou mad_, &c. we laugh at you wise men, that thus do despise men, whose senses you think to decline; mark well and you'll see, what you count but frenzy, is indeed but raptures divine. _then be thou mad_, &c. let the grave and the wise, pluck out their eyes, to set forth a book worth a groat; we mad-men are quicker, grow learn'd with good liquor, and chirp a merry note. _then be thou mad_, &c. hast thou lost thy estate man, why, care not for that man, what wealth may'st not fancy thy own; more than queen _dido_, or her ass-ear'd _midas_, that great philosopher's stone. _then be thou mad_, &c. _pompey_ was a mad-man, and so long a glad-man; but at length he was forc'd to flee; for _cæsar_ from _gallia_ beat him in _pharsalia_, 'cause a madder fellow then he. _then be thou mad_, &c. 'twas this extasie brave, that the great courage gave, if your eyes were but ope'd and would see; to great _alexander_, that mighty commander, as mad a fellow as could be. _then be thou mad_, &c. then around goes a health to the lady o'th' house, if any man here does forsake it; for a fool let him go, we know better manners, and so we mean to take it. _then be thou mad_, &c. there's no night mirth's going, nor any lad wooing, but mad-men are privy unto it; for the stars so peep, into every such thing, and wink upon us as you do it. _then be thou mad_, &c. when the frost, ice and snow, do benumb things below, we chirp as merry as larks; our sack and our madness, consumes cold and sadness, and we are the jovial sparks. _then be thou mad_, &c. has thy mistress frown'd on thee, or thy rival out-gone thee? let sober and wise fellows pine; whilst bright _miralind_ and goodly _dulcind_, and the rest of the fairies are thine. _then be thou mad_, &c. a mad-man needs baulk no manner of talk, his tongues never guilty with treason; but a wise knave would suffer, if the same he should utter, for a wise man's guilt is his reason. _then be thou mad_, &c. _a_ song. [music] a shepherd kept sheep on a hill so high, _fa, la, la_, &c. and there came a pretty maid passing by, _fa, la_, &c. shepherd, quoth she, dost thou want e'er a wife, no by my troth i'm not weary of my life, _fa, la, la_, &c. shepherd for thee i care not a fly, _fa, la, la_, for thou'st not the face with a fair maid to lie, _fa, la_, how now my damsel, say'st thou me so, thou shalt tast of my bottle before thou dost go, _fa, la_. then he took her and laid her upon the ground, _fa, la_, and made her believe that the world went round, _fa, la_, look yonder my shepherd, look yonder i spy, there are fine pretty babies that dance in the sky, _fa, la_. and now they are vanisht, and now they appear, _fa, la_, sure they will tell stories of what we do here, _fa, la, la_, lie still my dear _chloris_, enjoy thy conceit, for the babes are too young and too little to prate, _fa, la, la_. see how the heavens fly swifter than day, _fa, la, la_, rise quickly, or they will all run away, _fa, la, la_, rise quickly my shepherd, quickly i tell ye, for the sun, moon and stars are got all in my belly, _fa, la_. o dear, where am i? pray shew me the way, _fa, la, la_, unto my father's house hard by, _fa, la, la_, if he chance to chide me for staying so long, i'll tell him the fumes of your bottle were strong, _fa, la, la_. and now thou hast brought my body to shame, _fa, la_, i prithee now tell me what is thy name, _fa, la, la_, why _robin_ in the rushes my name is, quoth he, but i think i told her quite contrary, _fa, la, la_. then for _robin_ in the rushes, she did enquire, _fa, la, la_, but he hung down his head, and he would not come nigh her, _fa, la, la_, he wink'd with one eye, as if he had been blind, and he drew one leg after a great way behind, _fa, la, la_. _a_ song. [music] as i was a walking under a grove, within my self, as i suppos'd; my mind did oftentimes remove, and by no means could be disclosed: at length by chance a friend i met, which caused me long time to tarry; and thus of me she did intreat, to tell her when i meant to marry. sweet-heart, quoth i, if you would know, then hear the words, and i'll reveal it; since in your mind you bear it so, and in your heart you will conceal it: she promis'd me she'd make no words, but of such things she would be wary; and thus in brief i did begin, to tell her when i meant to marry. when _shrove-tide_ falls in _easter_ week, and _christmas_ in the midst of _july_; when lawyers for no fees will plead, and taylors they prove just and truly: when all deceits are quite put down, and truth by all men is preferred; and _indigo_ dies red and brown, o then my love and i'll be married. when men and beasts in the ocean flow, and fishes in green fields are feeding; when muscle-shells in the streets grow, and swans upon dry rocks be breeding: when cockle-shells are diamond rings, and glass to pearl may be compared; gold is made of a grey-goose wings, oh then my love and i'll be married. when hostesses do reckon true, and _dutchmen_ leave off drinking brandy; when cats do bark, and dogs do mew, and brimstone is took for sugar-candy: or when that _whitsontide_ do fall, within the month of _january_; and a cobler works without an awl, o then my, _&c._ when women know not how to scold, and maids on sweet-hearts ne'er are thinking; when men in the fire complain of cold, and ships on _salisbury_ plain fear sinking: or when horse-coursers turn honest men, and _london_ into _york_ is carried; and out of one you can take ten, oh then, _&c._ when candlesticks do serve for bells, and frying-pans they do use for ladles; when in the sea they dig for wells, and porridge-pots they use for cradles: when maids forget to go a _maying_, and a man on his back an ox can carry; or when the mice with the cat be playing, oh then, _&c._ good sir, since you have told me when, that you're resolv'd for to marry; i wish with all my heart till then, that for a wife you still may tarry: but if all young men were of your mind, and maids no better were preferred; i think it were when the d----l were blind, that we and our lovers should be married. gilderoys _last farewel. to a new tune._ [music] _gilderoy_ was a bonny boy, had roses tull his shun, his stockings were made of the finest silk, his garters hanging down: it was a comely sight to see, he was so trim a boy; he was my joy and heart's delight, _my handsom_ gilderoy. oh sike a charming eye he had, a breath as sweet as a rose, he never wore a hiland plad, but costly silken cloaths: he gain'd the love of ladies gay, there's none to him was coy; ah, wa's me, ise mourn this day, _for my dear_ gilderoy. my _gilderoy_ and i was born, both in one town together; not past seven years of age, since one did love each other: our daddies and our mammies both, were cloath'd with mickle joy, to think upon the bridal day, _betwixt i and my_ gilderoy. for _gilderoy_, that love of mine, geud faith ise freely bought: a wedding-sark of holland fine, with silk in flowers wrought: and he gave me a wedding ring, which i receiv'd with joy; no lads or lasses e'er could sing, _like my sweet_ gilderoy. in mickle joy we spent our time, till we was both fifteen; then gently he did lay me down, amongst the leaves so green: when he had done what he could do, he rose and he gang'd his way; but ever since i lov'd the man, _my handsome_ gilderoy. while we did both together play, he kiss'd me o'er and o'er; geud faith it was as blith a day, as e'er i saw before: he fill'd my heart in every vein, with love and mickle joy; who was my love and hearts delight, _mine own sweet_ gilderoy. oh never, never shall i see, the cause of past delight; or sike a lovely lad as he, transport my ravish'd sight: the law forbids what love enjoyns, and does prevent our joy; though just and fair were the designs, _of me and_ gilderoy. 'cause _gilderoy_ had done amiss, must he be punish'd then; what kind of cruelty is this to hang such handsom men? the flower of the _scotish_ land, a sweet and lovely boy; he likewise had a lady's hand, _my handsom_ gilderoy. at _leith_ they took my _gilderoy_, and there god wot they bang'd him: carry'd him to fair _edenburgh_, and there god wot they hang'd him: they hang'd him up above the rest, he was so trim a boy; my only love and heart's delight, _my handsom_ gilderoy. thus having yielded up his breath, in _cypress_ he was laid; then for my dearest, after death, a funeral i made: over his grave a marble-stone, i fixed for my joy; now i am left to weep alone, _for my dear_ gilderoy. _the_ scotch _wedding_ _between_ jockey _and_ jenny. [music] then _jockey_ wou'd a wooing away, on our feast-day when he was foo; then _jenny_ put on her best array, when she thought _jockey_ would come to woo. if i thought _jockey_ were come to town, it wad be for the leve of me; then wad i put on beth hat and goown, because i'd seem worstsome in his eye. then _jenny_ prick'd up a brant breeght broow, she was as breeght as onny clock; as _moggy_ always used to do, for fear her sweet-heart shou'd her mock. then _jenny_ shoo tripped up the stairs, and secretly to shift her smock; but leard how loud her mother swears, o hast away _jenny_, and come to _jock_. then _jenny_ came tripping down the stairs, oh leard so nimbly tripped she; but oh how _jockey_ began to stare, when he beheld hur fair beauty! then _jenny_ made a curtshy low, until the stairs did touch her dock; but leard how loud her mother did lough, when shoo _jenny_ was come to _jock_. then _jockey_ tuke _jenny_ by the nease, saying my dear lovey canst thou loof me? my father is dead and has left me land, some fair ould houses twa or three. thou shalt be the lady o'er them aw, i doot, quod _jenny_ you do me mock; ad ta my saw, quoth _jockey_, then, i come to woo thee _jenny_, quoth _jock_. _this to be said after the_ song. sea then they gang'd to the kirk to be wad; noow they den't use to wad in _scotchland_ as they wad in _england_, for they gang to the kirk, and they take the donkin by the rocket, and say, good morn sir donkin, says sir donkin, ah _jockey_ sen ater me, wit ta ha _jenny_ to thy wadded wife? ay by her lady quoth _jockey_ and thanka twa, we aw my heart; ah _jenny_ sen ater me, wit ta ha _jockey_ to thy wadded loon, to have and to hold for aver and aver, forsaking aw other loons, lubberloons, black lips, blue nases, an aw swiggbell'd caves? ah, an these twa be'nt as weel wadded as e'er i wadded twa in _scotchland_, the deel and st. _andrew_ part ye. _a_ scotch song _made to the_ irish jigg, _and sung to the king at_ whitehall. [music] lately as thorough the fair _edinborough_, to view the fair meadows as i was ganging; _jockey_ and _moggy_ were walking and talking, of love and religion, thus closely haranguing; never says _moggy_, come near me false _jockey_, for thou art a _whig_, and i mean to abhor thee; ize be no bride, nor will lig by thy side, for no sneaking rebel shall lift a leg o'er me. _jockey._ fairest and dearest, and to my heart nearest, to live with thy frowns i no longer am able; i am so loving, and thou art so moving, each hair of thy head ties me fast as a cable: thou hast that in thee, ise sure to win me, to _jew_, _turk_ or _atheist_, so much i adore thee; nothing i'd shun, that is under the sun, so i have the pleasure to lift a leg o'er thee. _moggy._ plotters and traytors, and associators, in every degree thou shalt swear to oppose 'em; swimmers and trimmers, the nations redeemers, and for thy reward thou shalt sleep in my bosom; i had a dad, was a royal brave lad, and as true as the sun to his monarch before me; _moggy_ he cry'd, the same hour that he dy'd, let no sneaking rebel e'er lift a leg o'er thee. _jockey._ adieu then ye crew then, of protestant blue men, no faction his _moggy_ from _jockey_ shall sever; thou shalt at court, my conversion report, i am not the first whig by his wife brought in favour; ise never deal, for the dull common weal, to fight for true monarchy shall be my glory; lull'd with thy charms, then i die in your arms, when i have the pleasure to lift a leg o'er thee. _the fair lass of_ islington. [music] there was a lass of _islington_, as i have heard many tell; and she would to fair _london_ go, fine apples and pears to sell: and as along the streets she flung, with her basket on her arm: her pears to sell, you may know it right well, this fair maid meant no harm. but as she tript along the street, her pleasant fruit to sell; a vintner did with her meet, who lik'd this maid full well: quoth he, fair maid, what have you there? in basket decked brave; fine pears, quoth she, and if it please ye a taste sir you shall have. the vintner he took a taste, and lik'd it well, for why; this maid he thought of all the rest, most pleasing to his eye: quoth he, fair maid i have a suit, that you to me must grant; which if i find you be so kind, nothing that you shall want. thy beauty doth so please my eye, and dazles so my sight; that now of all my liberty, i am deprived quite: then prithee now consent to me, and do not put me by; it is but one small courtesie, all night with you to lie. sir, if you lie with me one night, as you propound to me; i do expect that you should prove, both courteous, kind and free: and for to tell you all in short, it will cost you five pound, a match, a match, the vintner said, and so let this go round. when he had lain with her all night, her money she did crave, o stay, quoth he, the other night, and thy money thou shalt have: i cannot stay, nor i will not stay, i needs must now be gone, why then thou may'st thy money go look, for money i'll pay thee none. this maid she made no more ado, but to a justice went; and unto him she made her moan, who did her case lament: she said she had a cellar let out, to a vintner in the town; and how that he did then agree five pound to pay her down. but now, quoth she, the case is thus, no rent that he will pay; therefore your worship i beseech, to send for him this day: then strait the justice for him sent, and asked the reason why; that he would pay this maid no rent? to which he did reply, although i hired a cellar of her, and the possession was mine? i ne'er put any thing into it, but one poor pipe of wine: therefore my bargain it was hard, as you may plainly see; i from my freedom was debarr'd, then good sir favour me. this fair maid being ripe of wit, she strait reply'd again; there were two butts more at the door, why did you not roul them in? you had your freedom and your will, as is to you well known; therefore i do desire still, for to receive my own. the justice hearing of their case, did then give order strait; that he the money should pay down, she should no longer wait: withal he told the vintner plain if he a tennant be; he must expect to pay the same, for he could not sit rent-free. but when the money she had got, she put it in her purse: and clapt her hand on the cellar door, and said it was never the worse: which caused the people all to laugh, to see this vintner fine: out-witted by a country girl, about his pipe of wine. _the most famous_ ballad _of king_ henry _the th; his victory over the_ french _at_ agencourt. [music] a councel grave our king did hold, with many a lord and knight: that he might truly understand, that _france_ did hold his right. unto the king of _france_ therefore, embassadors he sent; that he might truly understand, his mind and whole intent. desiring him in friendly sort, his lawful right to yield; or else he swore by dint of sword, to win it in the field. the king of _france_ with all his lords, did hear this message plain; and to our brave embassador, did answer with disdain. and said our king was yet too young, and of but tender age; therefore they pass not for his threats, nor fear not his courage. his knowledge yet in feats of arms, as yet is very small; his tender joints more fitter are, to toss a tennis-ball. a tun of tennis-balls therefore, in pride and great disdain; he sent unto this royal king, to recompence his pain. which answer when our king did hear, he waxed wroth in heart; and swore he would provide such balls, should make all _france_ to smart. an army then our king did hold, which was both good and strong; and from _southampton_ is our king, with all his navy gone. in _france_ he landed safe and sound, both he and all his train; and to the town of _husle_ then he marched up amain. which when he had besieg'd the town, against the fenced walls; to batter down the stately towers, he sent his _english_ balls. when this was done our king did march, then up and down the land; and not a _frenchman_ for his life, durst once his force withstand. until he came to _agencourt_, whereas it was his chance; to find the king in readiness, with all the power of _france_. a mighty host he had prepar'd, of armed soldiers then; which were no less by just account, than forty thousand men. which sight did much amaze our king, for he and all his host; not passing fifteen thousand had, accounted with the most. the king of _france_ who well did know, the number of our men; in vaunting pride and great disdain, did send an herald then: to understand what he would give, for ransom of his life, when they in field had taken him, amongst the bloody strife. and when our king with cheerful heart, this answer then did make; before that it does come to pass, some of your hearts will ake. and to your proud presumptuous king, declare this thing, quoth he; my own heart's-blood will pay the price, nought else he gets of me. then spake the noble duke of _york_, o noble king, quoth he, the leading of this battle brave, it doth belong to me. god-a-mercy cousin _york_, he said, i grant thee thy request; then lead thou on couragiously, and i will lead the rest. then came the bragging _frenchmen_ down, with cruel force and might; with whom our noble king began, a fierce and dreadful fight. the archers they discharg'd their shafts, as thick as hail from skie; and many a _frenchman_ in the field, that happy day did die. their horses tumbled on the stakes, and so their lives they lost; and many a _frenchman_ there was ta'en, as prisoners to their cost. ten thousand men that day was slain, as enemies in the field: and eke as many prisoners, were forc'd that day to yield. thus had our king a happy day, and victory over _france_; and brought them quickly under foot that late in pride did prance. god save our king, and bless this land, and grant to him likewise; the upper-hand and victory, of all his enemies. _the lady_ isabella's _tragedy: or, the step-mother's cruelty._ _to the foregoing tune._ there was a lord of worthy fame, and a hunting he would ride, attended by a noble train, of gentry on each side. and whilst he did in chace remain, to see both sport and play; his lady went as she did feign, unto the church to pray. this lord he had a daughter fair, whose beauty shin'd so bright; she was belov'd both far and near, of many a lord and knight. fair _isabella_ was she call'd, a creature fair was she; she was her father's only joy, as you shall after see. but yet her cruel step-mother, did envy her so much; that day by day she sought her life, her malice it was such. she bargain'd with the master-cook, to take her life away; and taking of her daughter's book, she thus to her did say. go home, sweet daughter, i thee pray. go hasten presently; and tell unto the master-cook, these words which i tell thee. and bid him dress to dinner straight, that fair and milk-white doe; that in the park doth shine so bright, there's none so fair to show. this lady fearing of no harm, obey'd her mother's will; and presently she hasted home, her mind for to fulfil. she straight into the kitchin went, her message for to tell, and there the master-cook she spy'd, who did with malice swell. now master-cook it must be so, do that which i thee tell; you needs must dress the milk-white doe, which you do know full well. then straight his cruel bloody hands, he on the lady laid; who quivering and shaking stands, while thus to her he said: thou art the doe that i must dress, see here, behold my knife; for it is pointed presently, to rid thee of thy life. o then cry'd out the scullion boy, as loud as loud might be; o save her life, good master-cook, and make your pies of me? for pity sake do not destroy my lady with your knife; you know she is her father's joy, for christ's sake save her life. i will not save her life he said, nor make my pies of thee; yet if thou dost this deed betray, thy butcher i will be; now when this lord he did come home, for to sit down to meat; he called for his daughter dear, to come and carve his meat. now sit you down, his lady said, o sit you down to meat; into some nunnery she's gone, your daughter dear forget. then solemnly he made a vow, before the company; that he would neither eat nor drink, until he did her see. o then bespoke the scullion boy, with a loud voice so high; if that you will your daughter see my lord cut up the pye. wherein her flesh is minced small, and parched with the fire; all caused by her step-mother, who did her death desire. and cursed be the master-cook, o cursed may he be! i proffer'd him my own heart's blood, from death to set her free. then all in black this lord did mourn, and for his daughter's sake; he judged for her step-mother, to be burnt at a stake. likewise he judg'd the master-cook, in boyling lead to stand; he made the simple scullion boy, the heir to all his land. _a_ ballad _in praise of a certain commander in the city._ [music] a heroe of no small renown, but noted for a man of mettle; thro' all the parts of _london_ town, no gentleman, nor yet a clown, no grave wise man, nor stupid beetle. by many deeds of prowess done, he's gain'd a matchless reputation; perform'd by neither sword nor gun, but by what means you'll know anon, and how he work'd his preservation. well mounted on a noble steed, with sword and pistol charg'd before him; altho' we must confess indeed, of either arms there was no need, his conduct did alone secure him. with's wife upon a single horse, t'wards _eppin_ both rid out together; but what than ill luck can be worse, a high-way-man of equal force, alass, obstructed both their pleasure. with pistol cock'd he made demand, and told them he must have their money; the major wisely would not stand, nor on his pistols clap a hand, he was not such a fighting tony. but spur'd away as swift as wind, no elk or tyger could run faster; was ever man so stout and kind, to leave his frighted wife behind, expos'd to such a sad disaster. her necklace, cloaths and diamond ring, the greedy robber quickly fell to; one petticoat he let her bring away with smock, and t'other thing, to let her noble heroe smell to. this slight bred sad domestick strife, altho' the man's to be commended; for what's a loving handsome wife, to a man's money or his life, for all is lost when that is ended. _a_ song. [music] as the fryer he went along, and a poring in his book, at last he spy'd a jolly brown wench a washing of her buck, sing, _stow the fryer, stow the fryer_ _some good man, and let this fair maid go_. the fryer he pull'd out and a jolly brown t----d as much as he could handle, fair maid, quoth he, if thou earnest fire in thy a---- come light me this same candle. sing, _stow the fryer_, &c. the maid she sh---- and a jolly brown t---- out of her jolly brown hole, good sir, quoth she, if you will a candle light come blow me this same cole. sing, _stow the fryer_, &c. part of the sparks flew into the _north_, and part into the _south_, and part of this jolly brown t---- flew into the fryer's mouth. sing, _stow the fryer, stow the fryer_ _some good man, and let this fair maid go_. _the lass of_ lynn's _sorrowful lamentation for the loss of her maiden-head._ [music] i am a young lass of _lynn_, who often said thank you too; my belly's now almost to my chin, _i cannot tell what to do_. my being so free and kind, does make my heart to rue; the sad effects of this i find, _and cannot tell what to do_. my petticoats which i wore, and likewise my aprons too; alass, they are all too short before, _i cannot_, &c. was ever young maid so crost, as i who thank'd him too: for why, my maiden-head is lost, _i cannot tell what to do_. in sorrowful sort i cry'd, and may now for ever rue; the pain lies in my back and side, _i cannot tell what to do_. alass i was kind and mild, but now the same i rue; having no father for my child, _i cannot_, &c. i took but a touch in jest, believe me this is true; yet i have proved, i protest, _and cannot_, &c. he crav'd my virginity, and gave me his own in lieu; in this i find i was too kind, _and cannot_, &c. each damsel will me degrade, and so will the young men too; i'm neither widow, wife, nor maid, _i cannot_, &c. a cradle i must provide, a chair and posset too; nay, likewise twenty things beside, _i cannot_, &c. when i was a maiden fair, such sorrows i never knew; but now my heart is full of care, _i cannot_, &c. oh what will become of me, my belly's as big as two; 'tis with a two-legg'd tympany, _i cannot tell what to do_. you lasses that hear my moan, if you will your joys renew; besure, while married, lye alone, _or else you at length may rue_. i came of as good a race, as most is in _lynn_'s fair town; and cost a great deal bringing up, _but a little thing laid me down_. _the jovial tinker._ [music] there was a jovial tinker, which was a good ale drinker; he never was a shrinker, believe me this is true; and he came from the wild of _kent_, when all his money was gone and spent, which made him look like a _jack-a-lent_, _and joan's ale is new,_ _and joan's ale is new boys,_ _and joan's ale is new._ the tinker he did settle, most like a man of mettle, and vow'd to pawn his kettle, now mark what did ensue; his neighbours they flock'd in apace, to see _tom tinker's_ comely face, where they drank soundly for a space, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. the cobler and the broom man, came next into the room, man, and said they would drink for boon man, let each one take his due; but when good liquor they had found, they cast their caps upon the ground, and so the tinker he drank round, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. the rag-man being weary, with the burden he did carry, he swore he would be merry, and spend a shilling or two; and he told his hostess to her face, the chimney-corner was his place, and he began to drink apace, _and_ joan's _ale_, &c. the pedlar he drew nigher, for it was his desire, to throw the rags i'th' fire, and burn the bundle blue; so whilst they drank whole flashes, and threw about the glasses, the rags were burnt to ashes, _and_ joan's _ale_, &c. _the second_ part. and then came in a hatter, to see what was the matter, he scorn'd to drink cold water, amongst that jovial crew; and like a man of courage stout, he took the quart-pot by the snout, and never left till all was out, _o_ joan's _ale_, &c. the taylor being nimble, with bodkin, shears and thimble, he did no whit dissemble, i think his name was _true_; he said that he was like to choak, and he call'd so fast for lap and smoak, until he had pawn'd the vinegar cloak, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. then came a pitiful porter, which often did resort there, quoth he, i'll shew some sport here, amongst the jovial crew; the porter he had very bad luck, before that it was ten a clock, the fool got drunk, and lost his frock, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. the bonny brave shoe-maker, a brave tobacco taker, he scorn'd to be a quaker, i think his name was _hugh_; he call'd for liquor in so fast, till he forgot his awl and last, and up the reckoning he did cast, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. and then came in the weaver, you never saw a braver, with a silk man and a glover, _tom tinker_ for to view; and so to welcom him to town, they every man spent half a crown, and so the drink went merrily down, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. then came a drunken _dutchman_, and he would have a touch, man, but he soon took too much, man, which made them after rue; he drank so long as i suppose, 'till greasie drops fell from his nose, and like a beast befoul'd his hose, _whilst_ joan's _ale_, &c. a _welchman_ he came next, sir, with joy and sorrow mixt, sir, who being partly vex'd, sir, he out his dagger drew; cuts-plutter-a-nails, quoth _taffy_ then, a _welchman_ is a shentleman, come hostess fill's the other cann, _for_ joan's _ale_, &c. thus like to men of courage stout, couragiously they drank about, till such time all the ale was out, as i may tell to you; and when the business was done, they every man departed home, and promis'd _joan_ again to come, _when she had brew'd anew_. _the soldiers fortune: or, the taking_ mardyke. [music] when first _mardyke_ was made a prey, 'twas courage that carry'd the fort away, then do not lose your valours prize, by gazing on your mistresses eyes; but put off your petticoat-parley, potting and sotting, and laughing and quaffing canary, will make a good soldier miscarry: and never travel for true renown: then turn to your marshal mistress, fair _minerva_ the soldier's sister is; rallying and sallying, with gashing and slashing of wounds sir, with turning and burning of towns, sir, is a high step to a great man's throne. let bold _bellona's_ brewer frown, and his tunn shall overflow the town; and give the cobler sword and fate: and a tinker may trapan the state; such fortunate foes as these be, turn'd the crown to a cross at _naseby_: father and mother, sister and brother confounded, and many a good family wounded; by a terrible turn of fate, he that can kill a man, thunder and plunder the town, sir, and pull his enemies down, sir, in time may be an officer great. it is the sword does order all, makes peasants rise, and princes fall; all sylogisms in vain are spilt, no logick like a basket-hilt: it handles 'em joint by joint sir, quilling and drilling, and spilling, and killing profoundly, until the disputers on ground lie, and have never a word to say; unless it be quarter, quarter, truth is confuted by a carter, by stripping and nipping, and ripping and quipping evasions, doth conquer a power of perswasions, _aristotle_ hath lost the day. the musket bears so great a force, to learning it has no remorse; the priest, the layman, the lord, find no distinction from the sword; tan tarra, tan tarra the trumpet, now the walls begin to crack, the councellors struck dumb too, by the parchment upon the drum too; dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub an alarum, each corporal now can out-dare 'em, learned _littleton_ goes to rack. then since the sword so bright doth shine, we'll leave our wenches and our wine, and follow _mars_ where-e'er he runs, and turn our pots and pipes to guns. the bottles shall be grenadoes, we'll bounce about the bravado's by huffing and puffing, and snuffing and cuffing the _french_ boys, whose brows have been dy'd in a trench boys; well got fame is a warriour's wife, the drawer shall be the drummer, we'll be colonels all next summer by hiking and tilting, and pointing and jointing like brave boys, we shall have gold or a grave, boys, and there's an end of a soldier's life. _the_ misses _complaint._ _tune_, packington's pound. [music] how now sister _betteris_, why look you so sad? _gillian._ the times are so hard and our trading so bad, that we in our function no money can gain, our pride and our bravery for to maintain. _bett._ true sister, _gillian_, i know it full well, but what will you say if such news i do tell? and how't will rejoyce you, i'll make it out plain, will make our trade quick, and more money will gain. there's none of the pitiful tribe we'll be for, and six-penny customers we will abhor; for all those that will our dominions invade, must pay for their sauce, we must live by our trade. _gil._ good sister if you can make this but appear, my spirit and senses you greatly will chear, but a famine of flesh will bring all things to pass, or else we are as bad still as ever we was. _bett._ lately a counsel of bauds there did meet, in _cock_ and _pye_ alley, near _do-little_ street: and who was the counsel, and what was there done; i'll make it out to you as clear as the sun. from _ratcliffe-highway_, and from _nightingale-lane_, their deputies come with a very fine train: unto these two couple come long sided _sue_, is as good as e'er twang'd, if you give her her due. then _tower-ditch_ and _hatton-wall_ sent in their prayers, and drest as compleatly as horses to fairs; with them jumping _jenny_ appear'd, as 'tis said, who ne'er in her life of a man was afraid. the two metropolitans came from the park, as arch at the game, as e'er plaid in the dark; then _lutener's_-lane a gay couple did bring, two better, i think, was ne'er stretch'd in hemp-string. there was many others from places remote, the which were too tedious for me here to note; and what was their business i here will declare, how to keep our trade in repute they take care. and first for those ladies that walk in the night, their aprons and handkerchiefs they should be white, and that they do walk more in town than in fields, for that is the place most variety yields. and those that are over-much worn by their trade, shall go in a vessel, their passage being paid; the venture of cuckolds, 'tis called by name, and this is the way for to keep up our fame. and this is the ship which the cuckolds have brought, it lies at their haven, and is to be frought: and thither whores rampant, that please may repair, with master and captain to truck for their ware. and for a supply that our trade may increase, for wanton commodity it will grow less; we'll visit the carriers, and take them up there, and then for their tutering we will take care. in this we shall ease all the countries to do't, and do our selves pleasure and profit to boot; for one that is crack'd in the country before, in _london_ will make a spick and span whore. there's many more precepts which they did advise, but these which i'll give you here shall suffice: and when you have heard them, i think you will say, we ne'er were more likely to thrive in our way. _some orders agreed upon at a general consultation of the_ sisterhood _of_ nightingale-lane, ratcliff-high-way, tower-ditch, rose-mary-lane, hatton-wall, saffron-hill, wetstone's-park, lutener's-lane, _and other places adjacent, for the general encouragement and advancement of their occupation._ i. _that no_ night-walker _presume to go without a white apron and handkerchief, the better to be seen._ ii. _to keep due time and hours, for fear of the constable and his watch._ iii. _that those which are over-worn, cast off and cashier'd, do repair to the ship called_ (the cuckolds venture) _now riding at_ cuckolds haven, _thence to be transported over-sea, to have their breeches repaired._ iv. _that a due care be taken to visit the carriers for crack'd maidenheads, for the use and increase of our occupation._ v. _that all honest women belonging to either_ wittals _or_ cuckolds, _be admitted to the principal places in this ship._ vi. _and lastly, for the better state and magnificence of the honourable corporation of_ w----es, _'tis order'd that a chariot be made to be drawn by_ cuckolds, _the_ cuckold-makers _to drive, and the_ wittals _to ride._ _the well approved doctor:_ _or, an infallible cure for_ cuckolds. _to the foregoing tune._ there is a fine doctor now come to town, whose practice in physick hath gain'd him renown, in curing of cuckolds he hath the best skill, by giving one dose of his approved pill. his skill is well known, and his practice is great, then come to the doctor before 'tis too late; his med'cines are safe, and the doctor is sure, he takes none in hand but he perfects, the cure. the doctor himself he doth freely unfold, that he can cure cuckolds tho' never so old; he helps this distemper in all sorts of men, at forty and fifty, yea, threescore and ten. there was an old man lived near to the _strand_, decripid and feeble, scarce able to stand; who had been a cuckold full forty long years, but hearing of this how he prick'd up his ears. away to the doctor he went with all speed, where he struck a bargain, they soon were agreed; he cured his forehead that nothing was seen, and now he's as brisk as a youth of fifteen. now this being known, how his fame it did ring, and unto the doctor much trading did bring; they came to the doctor out of e'ery shire, from all parts and places, yea both far and near. both _dutchmen_ and _scotchmen_ to _london_ did ride, with _shonny-ap-morgan_, and thousands beside; thus all sorts and sizes, both rich men and poor, they came in whole cart-loads to this doctor's door. some whining, some weeping, some careful and sad, and some was contented, and others born mad; some crooked, some straight horns, and some overgrown, the like in all ages i think was ne'er known. some rich and brave flourishing cuckolds were there, that came in whole droves, sir, as if to _horn-fair_; for now there is hopes to be cur'd of their grief, the doctor declares in the fall of the leaf. let none be so foolish as now to neglect, this doctor's great kindness and civil respect; tho' rich men may pay, yet the poor may go free, so kind and so courteous a doctor is he. 'tis known he so worthy a conscience doth make, poor cuckolds he'll cure them for charity sake; nay, farther than this still his love does enlarge, providing for them at his own cost and charge. but some are so wicked, that they will exclaim against their poor wives, making 'em bare the blame; and will not look out in the least for a cure, but all their sad pains and their tortures endure. but 'tis without reason, for he that is born under such a planet, is heir to the horn: then come to the doctor both rich men and poor, he'll carefully cure you, what would you have more? the term of his time here the doctor does write, from six in the morning 'till seven at night; where in his own chamber he still will remain, at the sign of the _woodcock_ in _vinegar-lane_. _the doctor doth here likewise present you with the receipt of his infallible medicine, that those which have no occasion for it themselves, may do good to their neighbours and acquaintances: and take it here as followeth._ take five pound of brains of your _december_ flies, and forty true tears from a _crocodile's_ eyes; the wit of a _weasel_, the wool of a _frog_, with an ounce of conserve of _michaelmas_ fog. and make him a poultis when he goes to bed, to bind to his temples behind of his head; as hot as the patient he well can endure, and this is for cuckolds an absolute cure. _a_ song. good neighbour why do you look awry, you are a wond'rous stranger; you walk about, you huff and pout, as if you'd burst with anger: is it for that your fortune's great, or you so wealthy are? or live so high there's none a-nigh that can with you compare? but t'other day i heard one say, your husband durst not show his ears, but like a lout does walk about, so full of sighs and fears: good mrs. _tart_, i caren't a fart, for you nor all your jears. my husband's known for to be one, that is most chast and pure; and so would be continually, but for such jades as you are: you wash, you lick, you smug, you trick, you toss a twire a grin; you nod and wink, and in his drink, you strive to draw him in: you lie you punck, you're always drunk, and now you scold and make a strife, and like a whore you run o' th' score, and lead him a weary life; tell me so again you dirty quean, and i'll pull you by the quoif. go dress those brats, those nasty rats, that have a lear so drowzy; with vermin spread they look like dead, good faith they're always lousie: pray hold you there, and do not swear, you are not half so sweet; you feed yours up with bit and sup, and give them a dirty teat: my girls, my boys, my only joys, are better fed and taught than yours; you lie you flirt, you look like dirt, and i'll kick you out of doors; a very good jest, pray do your best, and faith i'll quit your scores. go, go you are a nasty bear, your husband cannot bear it; a nasty quean as e'er was seen, your neighbours all can swear it: a fulsome trot and good for nought, unless it be to chat; you stole a spoon out of the room, last christning you were at: you lye you bitch you've got the itch, your neighbours know you are not sound; look how you claw with your nasty paw, and i'll fell you to the ground; you've tore my hood, you shall make it good if it cost me forty pound. _the jovial_ cobler _of st._ hellens. [music] i am a jovial cobler bold and brave, and as for employment enough i have: for to keep jogging my hammer and awl, _whilst i sit singing and whistling in my stall,_ _stall, stall, whilst i sit singing and whistling in my stall._ but there's _dick_ the carman, and _hodge_ who drives the dray for sixteen, or eighteen pence a day, slave in the dirt, whilst i with my awl, _get more money, sitting, sitting in my stall_, &c. and there's _tom_ the porter, companion of the pot, who stands in the street with his rope and knot, waiting at a corner to hear who will him call, _whilst i am getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's the jolly broom-man, his bread for to get, crys brooms up and down in the open street, and one crys broken glasses tho' ne'er so small, _whilst i am getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's another gang of poor smutty souls, doth trudge up and down to cry small-coals; with a sack on their back, at a door stand and call, _whilst i am getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's another sort of notes, who crys up and down old suits and coats; and perhaps some days get nothing at all, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's the jolly cooper with his hoops at his back, who trudgeth up and down to see who lack their casks to be made tite, with hoops great and small, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's a jolly tinker that loves a bonny lass, who trudges up and down to mend old brass; with his long smutty punch to force holes withal, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there is another old _tom terrah_, who up and down the city drives his barrow; to sell his fruit both great and small, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there is the blind and lame, with a wooden leg, who up and down the city they forced are to beg some crumbs of comfort, the which are but small, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's a gang of wenches who oysters sell, and powder _moll_ with her sweet smell; she trudges up and down with powder and ball, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. and there's the jovial girls with their milking-pails, who trudge up and down with their draggle tails: flip flapping at their heels for custom they call, _whilst i sit getting money, money in my stall_, &c. 'tis these are the gang who take great pain, and it is those who do me maintain; but when it blows and rains i do pity them all, _to see them trudge about while i am in my stall_, &c. and there's many more who slave and toil, their living to get, but it is not worth while, to mention them, so i'll sing in my stall, _i am the happiest mortal, mortal of them all,_ _all, all, i am the happiest mortal, mortal of them all._ _the merchant and the fidler's_ wife. [music] it was a rich merchant man, that had both ship and all; and he would cross the salt seas, tho' his cunning it was but small. the fidler and his wife, they being nigh at hand; would needs go sail along with him, from _dover_ unto _scotland_. the fidler's wife look'd brisk, which made the merchant smile; he made no doubt to bring it about, the fidler to beguile. is this thy wife the merchant said, she looks like an honest spouse; ay that she is, the fidler said, that ever trod on shoes. thy confidence is very great, the merchant then did say; if thou a wager darest to bet, i'll tell thee what i will lay. i'll lay my ship against thy fiddle, and all my venture too; so _peggy_ may gang along with me, my cabin for to view. if she continues one hour with me, thy true and constant wife; then shalt thou have my ship and be, a merchant all thy life. the fidler was content, he danc'd and leap'd for joy; and twang'd his fiddle in merriment, for _peggy_ he thought was coy. then _peggy_ she went along, his cabin for to view; and after her the merchant-man, did follow, we found it true. when they were once together, the fidler was afraid; for he crep'd near in pitious fear, and thus to _peggy_ he said. hold out, sweet _peggy_ hold out, for the space of two half hours; if thou hold out, i make no doubt, but the ship and goods are ours. in troth, sweet _robin_, i cannot, he hath got me about the middle; he's lusty and strong, and hath laid me along, o _robin_ thou'st lost thy fiddle. if i have lost my fiddle, then am i a man undone; my fiddle whereon i so often play'd, away i needs must run. o stay the merchant said, and thou shalt keep thy place; and thou shalt have thy fiddle again, but _peggy_ shall carry the case. poor _robin_ hearing that, he look'd with a merry-chear; his wife she was pleas'd, and the merchant was eas'd, and jolly and brisk they were. the fidler he was mad, but valu'd it not a fig; then _peggy_ unto her husband said, kind _robin_ play us a jigg. then he took up his fiddle, and merrily he did play; the _scottish jigg_ and the _horn pipe_, and eke the _irish hey_. it was but in vain to grieve, the deed it was done and past; poor _robin_ was born to carry the horn, for _peggy_ could not be chast. then fidlers all beware, your wives are kind you see; and he that's made for the fidling trade, must never a merchant be. for _peggy_ she knew right well, although she was but a woman; that gamesters drink, and fidlers wives, they are ever free and common. _the unconstant_ woman. [music] did you not hear of a gallant sailor, whose pockets they were lin'd with gold; he fell in love with a pretty creature, as i to you the truth unfold: with a kind salute, and without dispute, he thought to gain her for his own, _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she has gone and left me all alone._ don't you remember my pretty _peggy_, the oaths and vows which you made to me: all in the chamber we were together, that you would ne'er unconstant be: but you prove strange love, and from me range, and leave me here to sigh and moan; _unconstant woman is true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me all alone._ as i have gold you shall have treasure, or any dainty kind of thing; thou may'st command all delights and pleasure, and what you'd have, love, i would you bring: but you prove shy, and at last deny, him that admires you alone; _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she's left me here to make my moan._ when first i saw your charming beauty, i stood like one all in amaze; i study'd only how to pay duty, and could not speak but only gaze, at last said i, fair maid comply, and ease a wretched lover's moan; _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me here alone._ i made her presents of rings and jewels, with diamond stones i gave her too; she took them kindly, and call'd me jewel, and said her love to me was true: but in the end she prov'd unkind, when i thought she had been my own; _unconstant woman_, &c. for three months time we saw each other, and she oft said she'd be my wife; i had her father's consent and mother, i thought to have liv'd a happy life: she'd laugh and toy both night and day, but at length she chang'd her tone; _unconstant woman, proves true to no man,_ _she's left me now to make my moan._ many a time we have walk'd together, both hand in hand to an arbour green; where tales of love in sun-shiny weather, we did discourse and were not seen: with a kind salute we did dispute, while we together were alone: _unconstant woman she's true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me here alone._ since _peggy_ has my kindness slighted, i'll never trust a woman more; 'twas in her alone i e'er delighted, but since she's false i'll leave the shoar: in ship i'll enter, on seas i'll venture, and sail the world where i'm not known: _unconstant woman proves true to no man,_ _she's gone and left me here alone._ _sorrow banish'd in a_ mug. _the words_ _by sir_ edward morgan. [music] if sorrow the tyrant invade thy breast, haul out the foul fiend by the lug, the lug, let nought of to morrow disturb thy rest, but dash out his brains with a mug, a mug. if business unluckily goes not well, let the fond fools their affections hug, to shew our allegiance we'll go to the bell, and banish despair in a mug, a mug. if thy wife proves not one of the best, the best, but admits no time but to think, to think; or the weight of thy forehead bow down thy crest, divert the dull _damon_ with drink, with drink, if miss prove peevish and will not gee, ne'er pine, ne'er pine at the wanton pug, but find out a fairer, a kinder than she, and banish dispair in a mug, a mug. if dear assignation be crost, be crost, and mistress go home in a rage, a rage; let not thy poor heart like a ship be tost, but with a brisk brimmer engage, engage: what if the fine fop and the mask fall out. and the one hug, and t'other tug, while they pish and fie, we will frolick in stout, and banish all care in a mug, a mug. if toying young _damon_ by _sylvia's_ charms, at length should look pale and perplexed be; to cure the distemper and ease those harms, go straight to the _globe_ and ask number three: there beauties like _venus_ thou canst not lack, be kind to them, they will sweetly hug; there's choice of the fairest, the brown or the black. then banish despair in a mug, a mug. let then no misfortune e'er make thee dull, but drink away care in a jug, a jug; then let not thy tide steal away, but pull, carouse away though in a mug, a mug: while others for greatness and fortune's doom, while they for their ambition tug; we'll sit close and snug in a sea-coal room, and banish despair in a mug, a mug. let zealots o'er coffee new plots devise, and lace with fresh treason the pagan drug; whilst our loyal blood flows our veins shall shine, like our faces inspir'd with a mug, a mug: let sectaries dream of alarms, alarms, and fools still for new changes tug; while fam'd for our loyalty we'll stand to our arms, and drink the king's health in a mug, a mug. come then to the queen let the next advance, and all loyal lads of true _english_ race; who hate the stum poison of _spain_ and _france_, or to _bourdeux_ or _burgundy_ do give place; the flask and the bottle breeds ach and gout, whilst we, we all the season lie snug; neither _spaniard_ nor _flemming_, can vie with our stout, and shall submit to the mug, the mug. _the good fellow. words by mr._ alex. brome. [music] stay, stay, shut the gates, t'other quart, faith, it is not so late as you're thinking, those stars which you see, in this hemisphere be, but the studs in your cheeks by your drinking: the sun is gone to tiple all night in the sea boys, to morrow he'll blush that he's paler than we boys, drink wine, give him water, 'tis sack makes us jee boys. fill, fill up the glass, to the next merry lad let it pass, come away with't: come set foot to foot, and but give our minds to't, 'tis heretical six that doth slay wit, no helicon like to the juice of the vine is, for _phoebus_ had never had wit, nor diviness, had his face been bow dy'd as thine, his, and mine is. drink, drink off your bowls, we'll enrich both our heads and our souls with canary; a carbuncled face, saves a tedious race, for the _indies_ about us we carry: then hang up good faces, we'll drink till our noses give freedom to speak what our fancy disposes, beneath whose protection is under the roses. this, this must go round, off your hats, till that the pavement be crown'd with your beavers; a red-coated face, frights a searjeant at mace, and the constable trembles to shivers: in state march our faces like those of the _quorum_, when the wenches fall down and the vulgar adore'em, and our noses, like link-boys, run shining before'em. _the nymphs holiday. the tune of the nightingale._ [music] upon a holiday, when nymphs had leave to play, i walk'd unseen, on a pleasant green, where i heard a maid in an angry spleen, complaining to a swain, to leave his drudging pain, and sport with her upon the plain; but he the silly clown, regardless of her moan, did leave her all alone, still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny lad come away, i cannot come, i will not come, i cannot come, my work's not done, was all the words this clown did say. she vex'd in her mind to hear this lad's reply, to _venus_ she went, in great discontent, to desire her boy with his bow ready bent, to take a nimble dart, and strike him to the heart, for disobeying her commandment: _cupid_ then gave the swain such a bang, as made him to gang with this bonny lass along, still she cry'd, come away, come away bonny lad, come hither, i come, i come, i come, i come, i come, i come, so they gang'd along together. _good honest trooper take warning by_ donald cooper. _to the tune of_ daniel cooper. [music] a bonny lad came to the court, his name was _donald cooper_, and he petition'd to the king, that he might be a trooper: he said that he, by land and sea, had fought to admiration, and with _montross_ had many blows, both for his king and nation. the king did his petition grant, and said he lik'd him dearly, which gave to _donald_ more content, than twenty shillings yearly: this wily leard rode in the guard, and lov'd a strong beer barrel; yet stout enough, to fight and cuff, but was not given to quarrel. till on a _saturday_ at night, he walked in the park, sir; and there he kenn'd a well fair lass, when it was almost dark, sir; poor _donald_ he drew near to see, and kist her bonny mow, sir; he laid her flat upon her back, and bang'd her side weam too, sir. he took her by the lilly white hand, and kiss'd his bonny _mary_, then they did to the tavern go, where they did drink canary; when he was drunk, in came a punck, and ask'd gan he would mow her; then he again, with might and main, did bravely lay her o'er, sir. poor _donald_ he rose up again, as nothing did him ail, sir; but little kenn'd this bonny lass, had fire about her tail, sir: when night was spent then home he went, and told it with a hark, sir; how he did kiss a dainty miss, and lifted up the sark, sir. but e'er a month had gone about, poor _donald_ walked sadly: and every yean enquir'd of him, what gar'd him leuk so badly: a wench, quoth he, gave snuff to me, out of her placket box, sir; and i am sure, she prov'd a whore, and given to me the pox, sir. poor _donald_ he being almost dead, was turn'd out of the guard, sir; and never could get in again, although he was a leard, sir: when _mars_ doth meet, with _venus_ sweet, and struggles to surrender; the triumph's lost, then never trust a feminine commander. poor _donald_ he went home again, because he lost his place, sir; for playing of a game at whisk, and turning up an ace, sir; ye soldiers all, both great and small, a foot-man or a trooper; when you behold, a wench that's bold remember _donald cooper_. _the jovial drinker._ [music] a pox on those fools, who exclaim against wine, and fly the dear sweets that the bottle doth bring; it heightens the fancy, the wit does refine, and he that was first drunk was made the first king. by the help of good claret old age becomes youth, and sick men still find this the only physitian; drink largely, you'll know by experience, the truth, that he that drinks most is the best politician. to victory this leads on the brave cavalier, and makes all the terrors of war, but delight; this flushes his courage, and beats off base fear, 'twas that taught _cæsar_ and _pompey_ to fight. this supports all our friends, and knocks down our foes, this makes us all loyal men from courtier to clown; like _dutchmen_ from brandy, from this our strength grows so 'tis wine, noble wine, that's a friend to the crown. _the sexton's_ song. _sung by_ ben. johnson, _in the play of_ hamlet _prince of_ denmark, _acting the_ _grave maker._ [music] once more to these arms my lov'd pick-ax and spade, with the rest of the tools that belong to my trade; i that buried others am rose from the dead, _with a ring, a ring, ring, a ring, and dig a dig, dig._ my thoughts are grown easie, my mind is at rest, since things at the worst are now grown to the best, and i and the worms that long fasted shall feast, _with a ring_, &c. how i long to be measuring and cleaving the ground, and commending the soil for the sculls shall be found, whose thickness alone, not the soil makes them sound, _with a ring_, &c. look you masters, i'll cry, may the saints ne'er me save, if this ben't as well contriv'd sort of a grave, as a man could wish on such occasion to have, _with a ring_, &c. observe but the make of't, i'll by you be try'd, and the coffin so fresh there that lies on that side, it's fifty years since he that owns it has dy'd. _with a ring_, &c. i hope to remember your friend in a bowl, an honest good gentleman, god rest his soul, he has that for a ducket is worth a pistole, _with a ring_, &c. at marriages next i'll affirm it and swear, if the bride would be private so great was my care, that not a soul knew that the priest joyn'd the pair, _with a ring_, &c. when i myself whisper'd and told it about what door they'd go in at, what door they'd go out, to receive the salutes of the rabble and rout, _with a ring_, &c. at chris'nings i'll sit with abundance of joy, and drink to the health of the girl or the boy, at the same i wish that fate both would destroy, _that i may ring_, &c. what e'er's my religion, my meaning's to thrive, so the child that is born, to the font but survive, no matter how short it's continuance alive, _that i may ring_, &c. hear then my good neighbours attend to my cry, and bravely get children, and decently die, no sexton now breathing shall use you as i, _with a ring a ring, ring a ring, dig a dig, dig._ _the great_ boobee. [music] my friend if you would understand, my fortunes what they are; i once had cattle house and land, but now i am never the near: my father left a good estate, as i may tell to thee; i couzened was of all i had, _like a great boobee_. i went to school with a good intent, and for to learn my book; and all the day i went to play, in it i never did look: full seven years, or very nigh, as i may tell to thee; i could hardly say my criss-cross-row, _like a great boobee_. my father then in all the hast, did set me to the plow; and for to lash the horse about, indeed i knew not how: my father took his whip in hand, and soundly lashed me; he called me fool and country clown, _and a great boobee_. but i did from my father run, for i would plow no more; because he had so lashed me, and made my sides so sore: but i will go to _london_ town, some fashions for to see; when i came there they call'd me clown, _and a great boobee_. but as i went along the street, i carried my hat in my hand, and to every one that i did meet, i bravely buss'd my hand: some did laugh, and some did scoff, and some did mock at me; and some did say i was a woodcock, _and a great boobee_. then i did walk in hast to _paul's_ the steeple for to view; because i heard some people say, it should be builded new; then i got up unto the top, the city for to see; it was so high it made me cry, _like a great boobee_. from thence i went to _westminster_, and for to see the tombs: oh, said i, what a house is here, with an infinite sight of rooms: sweetly the abby bells did ring, it was a fine sight to see; methought i was going to heav'n in a string, _like a great boobee_. but as i went along the street, the most part of the day; many gallants i did meet, methought they were very gay: i blew my nose and pist my hose, some people did me see: they said i was a beastly fool: _and a great boobee_. next day i thro' _pye-corner_ past, the roast-meat on the stall; invited me to take a taste, my money was but small: the meat i pickt, the cook me kickt, as i may tell to thee; he beat me sore and made me roar, _like a great boobee_. as i thro' _smithfield_ lately walkt, a gallant lass i met: familiarly with me she talk't, which i cannot forget: she proferr'd me a pint of wine, methought she was wondrous free, to the tavern then i went with her, _like a great boobee_. she told me we were near of kin, and call'd for wine good store; before the reckoning was brought in, my cousin prov'd a whore: my purse she pickt, and went away, my cousin couzened me, the vintner kickt me out of door; _like a great boobee_. at the _exchange_ when i came there, i saw most gallant things; i thought the pictures living were, of all our english kings: i doft my hat and made a leg, and kneeled on my knee; the people laugh'd and call'd me fool, _and a great boobee_. to _paris-garden_ then i went, where there is great resort; my pleasure was my punishment, i did not like the sport: the garden-bull with his stout horns, on high then tossed me; i did bewray my self with fear, _like a great boobee_. the bearward went to save me then, the people flock'd about; i told the bear-garden-men, my guts they were almost out: they said i stunk most grievously, no man would pity me; they call'd me witless fool and ass, _and a great boobee_. then o'er the water i did pass, as you shall understand; i dropt into the thames, alass, before i came to land: the waterman did help me out, and thus did say to me; 'tis not thy fortune to be drown'd, _like a great boobee_. but i have learned so much wit, shall shorten all my cares; if i can but a licence get, to play before the bears: 'twould be a gallant place indeed, as i may tell to thee: then who dares call me fool or ass, _or great boobee_. _set by mr._ jeremiah clark, _sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] when maids live to thirty, yet never repented, when _europe's_ at peace and all _england_ contented, when gamesters won't swear, and no bribery thrives, young wives love old husbands, young husbands old wives; when landlords love taxes, and soldiers love peace: and lawyers forget a rich client to fleece: when an old face shall please as well as a new, wives, husbands, and lovers will ever be true. when bullies leave huffing and cowards their trembling, and courtiers and women and priests their dissembling, when these shall do nothing against what they teach, pluralities hate, and we mind what they preach: when vintners leave brewing to draw the wine pure, and quacks by their medicines kill less than they cure, when an old face shall please as well as a new, wives, husbands and lovers will ever be true. _words to a tune of_ mr. barret's, _call'd the_ catherine. [music] in the pleasant month of _may_, when the merry, merry birds began to sing; and the blossoms fresh and gay; usher'd in the welcome spring, when the long cold winter's gone, and the bright enticing moon, in the evening sweetly shon: when the bonny men and maids tript it on the grass; at a jolly country fair, when the nymphs in the best appear; we resolv'd to be free, with a fiddle and a she, e'ery shepherd and his lass. in the middle of the sport, when the fiddle went brisk and the glass went round, and the pretty gay nymphs for court, with their merry feet beat the ground; little _cupid_ arm'd unseen, with a bow and dart stole in, with a conquering air and mien, and empty'd his bow thro' the nymphs and the swains; e'ery shepherd and his mate, soon felt their pleasing fate, and longing to try in enjoyment to die, love reign'd o'er all the plains. now the sighing swain gave o'er, and the wearied nymphs could dance no more, there were other thoughts that mov'd, e'ery pretty kind pair that lov'd: in the woods the shepherds lay, and mourn'd the time away, and the nymphs as well as they, long'd to taste what it is that their senses cloys, till at last by consent of eyes, e'ery swain with his pretty nymph flies, e'ery buxom she retires with her he, to act love's solid joys. _a_ scotch song. _sung by mrs._ lucas _at the old_ theatre. [music] by moon-light on the green, our bonny lasses cooing; and dancing there i've seen, who seem'd alone worth wooing: her skin like driven snow, her hair brown as a berry: her eyes black as a slow, her lips red as a cherry. oh how she tript it, skipt it, leapt it, stept it, whiskt it, friskt it, whirld it, twirl'd it, swimming, springing, starting: so quick, the tune to nick, with a heave and a toss: and a jerk at parting, with a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting. as she sat down i bowed, and veil'd my bonnet to her; then took her from the crowd, with honey words to woo her; sweet blithest lass, quoth i, it being bleaky weather: i prithee let us try, another dance together; _oh how she_, &c. whilst suing thus i stood, quoth she, pray leave your fooling; some dancing heats the blood, but yours i fear lacks cooling: still for a dance i pray'd, and we at last had seven; and whilst the fiddle play'd, she thought her self in heaven, _oh how she_, &c. at last she with a smile, to dance again desir'd me; quoth i, pray stay a while, for now good faith ye've tir'd me: with that she look'd on me, and sigh'd with muckle sorrow; than gang ye'ar gate, quoth she, but dance again to morrow. _the_ quaker's song. _sung by mrs._ willis _at the new play-house._ [music] amongst the pure ones all, which conscience doth profess; and yet that sort of conscience, doth practice nothing less: i mean the sect of those elect, that loath to live by merit; that leads their lives with other mens wives, according unto the spirit. one met with a holy sister of ours, a saint who dearly lov'd him: and fain he would have kiss'd her, because the spirit mov'd him: but she deny'd, and he reply'd, you're damn'd unless you do it; therefore consent, do not repent, for the spirit doth move me to it. she not willing to offend, poor soul, yielded unto his motion; and what these two did intend, was out of pure devotion: to lye with a friend and a brother, she thought she shou'd die no sinner, but e'er five months were past, the spirit was quick within her. but what will the wicked say, when they shall here of this rumour; they'd laugh at us every day, and scoff us in every corner: let 'em do so still if that they will, we mean not to follow their fashion, they're none of our sect, nor of our elect, nor none of our congregation. but when the time was come, that she was to be laid; it was no very great crime, committed by her they said: 'cause they did know, and she did show, 'twas done by a friend and a brother, but a very great sin they said it had been, if it had been done by another. _a_ song. [music] as oyster _nan_ stood by her tub, to shew her vicious inclination; she gave her noblest parts a scrub, and sigh'd for want of copulation: a vintner of no little fame, who excellent red and white can sell ye, beheld the little dirty dame, as she stood scratching of her belly. come in, says he, you silly slut, 'tis now a rare convenient minute; i'll lay the itching of your scut, except some greedy devil be in it: with that the flat-capt fusby smil'd, and would have blush'd, but that she cou'd not; alass! says she, we're soon beguil'd, by men to do those things we shou'd not. from door they went behind the bar, as it's by common fame reported; and there upon a turkey chair, unseen the loving couple sported: but being call'd by company, as he was taking pains to please her; i'm coming, coming sir, says he, my dear, and so am i, says she, sir. her mole-hill belly swell'd about, into a mountain quickly after; and when the pretty mouse crept out, the creature caus'd a mighty laughter: and now she has learnt the pleasing game, altho' much pain and shame it cost her; she daily ventures at the same, and shuts and opens like an oyster. _the_ irish _jigg: or, the night ramble._ [music] one night in my ramble i chanc'd to see, a thing like a spirit, it frightened me; i cock'd up my hat and resolv'd to look big, and streight fell a tuning the _irish jigg_. the devil drew nearer and nearer in short, i found it was one of the petticoat sort; my fears being over, i car'd not a fig, but still i kept tuning the _irish jigg_. and then i went to her, resolving to try her; i put her agog of a longing desire; i told her i'd give her a whip for her gig, and a scourge to the tune of the _irish jigg_. then nothing but dancing our fancy could please, we lay on the grass and danc'd at our ease; i down'd with my breeches and off with my whigg, and we fell a dancing the _irish jigg_. i thank you, kind sir, for your kindness, said she, the scholar's as wise as the master can be; for if you should chance to get me with kid, i'll lay the poor brat to the _irish jigg_. the dance being ended as you may see, we rose by consent and we both went away; i put on my cloaths and left her to grow big, and so i went roaring the _irish jigg_. _a_ song. [music] it was a happy golden day, when fair _althea_ kind and gay, put all but love and me away; i arm'd with soft words did address, sweet and kind kisses far express, a greater joy and happiness. nature the best instructeress cry'd, her ivory pillows to divide, that love might sail with wind and tide; she rais'd the mast and sail'd by it, that day two tides together met, drove him on shore soon dropping wet. _a_ song. [music] ah! _cælia_ how can you be cruel and fair? since removing, the charms that are loving, 'twould make a poor lover despair; 'tis true, i have lov'd you these seven long years & more, too long for a man that ne'er was in love before: and if longer you my caresses deny, i then am resolv'd to give over my flames and die. love fires the heart of him that is brave, charms the spirit of him that is merit, and makes the poor lover a slave; dull sordid souls that never knew how to love, where nature is plung'd, 'tis a shame to the best above: and if any longer you my caresses deny, i then am resolv'd to give over my flames and die. _a_ song. [music] there was a knight and he was young, a riding along the way, sir; and there he met a lady fair, among the cocks of hay, sir: quoth he, shall you and i lady, among the grass lye down a; and i will have a special care, of rumpling of your gown a. if you will go along with me, unto my father's hall, sir; you shall enjoy my maiden-head, and my estate and all, sir: so he mounted her on a milk-white steed, himself upon another; and then they rid upon the road, like sister and like brother. and when she came to her father's house, which was moated round about, sir; she stepped streight within the gate, and shut this young knight out, sir, here is a purse of gold, she said, take it for your pains, sir; and i will send my father's man, to go home with you again, sir. and if you meet a lady fair, as you go thro' the next town, sir; you must not fear the dew of the grass, nor the rumpling of her gown, sir: and if you meet a lady gay, as you go by the hill, sir; if you will not when you may, you shall not when you will, sir. there is a dew upon the grass, will spoil your damask gown a; which has cost your father dear, many shilling and a crown a: there is a wind blows from the _west_, soon will dry the ground a; and i will have a special care, of the rumpling of my gown a. _a_ song. [music] slaves to _london_ i'll deceive you, for the country now i leave you: who can bear, and not be mad, wine so dear, and yet so bad: such a noise and air so smoaky, that to stun, this to choak ye; men so selfish, false and rude, nymphs so young and yet so lew'd. quiet harmless country pleasure, shall at home engross my leisure; farewel _london_, i'll repair, to my native country air: i leave all thy pleasures behind me, but at home my wife will find me; oh the gods! 'tis ten times worse, _london_ is a milder curse. _the duke of_ ormond's _march._ _set by mr._ church. [music] ye brave boys and tars, that design for the wars, remember the action at _vigo_; and where ormond commands, let us all joyn our hands, _and where he goes, may you go, and i go_. let conquest and fame, the honour proclaim, great ormond has gotten at _vigo_; let the trumpets now sound, and the ecchoes around, _where he goes, may you go, and i go_. let the glories be sung, which the ormonds have won, long before this great action at _vigo_; they're so loyal and just, and so true to their trust, _that where he goes, may you go, and i go_. old records of fame, of the ormonds great name, their actions, like these were of _vigo_; and since this prince exceeds, in his fore-father's deeds, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. 'tis the praise of our crown, that such men of renown, shou'd lead on the van, as at _vigo_; where such lives and estates are expos'd for our sakes, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. 'twas the whole nation's voice, and we all did rejoyce, when we heard he commanded for _vigo_; to anna so true, all her foes to pursue, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. 'tis the voice of the town, and our zeal for the crown, to serve ormond to _france_, _spain_, or _vigo_; so noble and brave, both to conquer and save, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. to the soldiers so kind, and so humbly inclin'd, to wave his applause gain'd at _vigo_; yet so kind and so true, he gave all men their due, _then where he goes, may you go, and i go_. we justly do own, all the honour that's won, in _flanders_, as well as at _vigo_; but our subject and theme, is of ormond's great name, _and where he goes, may you go, and i go_. then take off the bowl, to that generous soul, that commanded so bravely at _vigo_; and may anna approve, of our duty and love, _and where he goes, may you go, and i go_. _a cure for melancholy._ [music] are you grown so melancholy, that you think on nought but folly; are you sad, are you mad, are you worse; do you think, want of chink is a curse: do you wish for to have, longer life, or a grave, _thus would i cure ye_. first i would have a bag of gold, that should ten thousand pieces hold, and all that, in thy hat, would i pour; for to spend, on thy friend, or thy whore: for to cast away at dice, or to shift you of your lice, _thus would i cure ye_. next i would have a soft bed made, wherein a virgin should be laid; that would play, any way you'll devise; that would stick like a tick, to your thighs, that would bill like a dove, lye beneath or above, _thus would i cure ye_. next that same bowl, where _jove_ divine, drank _nectar_ in, i'd fill with wine; that whereas, you should pause, you should quaff; like a _greek_, till your cheek, to _ceres_ and to _venus_, to _bacchus_ and _silenus_, _thus would i cure ye_. last of all there should appear, seven eunuchs sphere-like singing here, in the praise, of those ways, of delights; _venus_ can, use with man, in the night; when he strives to adorn, _vulcan's_ head with a horn, _thus would i cure ye_. but if not gold, nor woman can, nor wine, nor songs, make merry then; let the batt, be thy mate, and the owl; let a pain, in thy brain, make thee howl; let the pox be thy friend, and the plague work thy end, _thus i would cure you_. _to his fairest_ valentine _mrs._ a.l. [music] come pretty birds present your lays, and learn to chaunt a goddess praise; ye wood-nymphs let your voices be, employ'd to serve her deity: and warble forth, ye virgins nine, _some musick to my_ valentine. her bosom is loves paradise, there is no heav'n but in her eyes; she's chaster than the turtle-dove, and fairer than the queen of love; yea, all perfections do combine, to beautifie my valentine. she's nature's choicest cabinet, where honour, beauty, worth and wit, are all united in her breast, the graces claim an interest: all vertues that are most divine, shine clearest in my valentine. _a_ ballad, _or_, collin's _adventure._ [music] as _collin_ went from his sheep to unfold, in a morning of _april_, as grey as 'twas cold, in a thicket he heard a voice it self spread; which was, o, o, _i am almost dead_. he peep'd in the bushes, and spy'd where there lay his mistress, whose countenance made _april may_; but in her looks some sadness was read, crying o, o, _i am almost dead_. he rush'd in to her, and cry'd what's the matter, ah! _collin_, quoth she, why will you come at her, who by the false swain, hath often been misled, for which o, o, _i am almost dead_. he turn'd her milk-pail, and there down he sat, his hands stroak'd his beard, on his knee lay his coat, but, o, still _mopsa_ cry'd, before ought was said, _collin_, o, o, _i am almost dead_. no more, quoth stout _collin_! i ever was true, thou gav'st me a handkerchief all hemm'd with blue: a pin-box i gave thee, and a girdle so red, yet still she cry'd, o, o, _i am almost dead_. delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus ill, for i never fear'd _sarah_ that dwelt at the mill, since in the ev'ning late her hogs thou hast fed, for which, o, o, _i am almost dead_. _collin_ then chuck'd her under the chin, cheer up for to love thee i never will lin, says she, i'll believe it when the parson has read, 'till then, o, o, _i am almost dead_. uds boars, quoth _collin_, i'll new my shon, and e'er the week pass, by the mass it shall be done: you might have done this before, then she said, but now, o, o, _i am almost dead_. he gave her a twitch that quite turn'd her round, and said, i'm the truest that e'er trod on ground, come settle thy milk-pail fast on thy head, no more o, o, _i am almost dead_. why then i perceive thoul't not leave me in the lurch, i'll don my best cloths and streight to the church: jog on, merry _collin_, jog on before, for i faith, i faith, _i'll dye no more_. _the_ town-rakes, _a_ song: _set by mr._ daniel purcell: _sung by mr._ edwards. [music] what life can compare with the jolly town rakes, when in his full swing of all pleasure he takes? at noon he gets up for a wet and to dine, and wings the swift hours with mirth, musick, and wine, then jogs to the play-house and chats with the masques, and thence to the _rose_ where he takes his three flasks, there great as a _cæsar_ he revels when drunk, and scours all he meets as he reels, as he reels to his punk, and finds the dear girl in his arms when he wakes, what life can compare to the jolly town-rakes, the jolly town-rakes. he like the great turk has his favourite she, but the town's his _seraglio_, and still he lives free; sometimes she's a lady, but as he must range, black _betty_, or oyster _moll_ serve for a change: as he varies his sports his whole life is a feast, he thinks him that is soberest is most like a beast: all houses of pleasure, breaks windows and doors, kicks bullies and cullies, then lies with their whores: rare work for the surgeon and midwife he makes, what life can compare with the jolly town-rakes. thus in _covent-garden_ he makes his campaigns, and no coffee-house haunts but to settle his brains; he laughs at dry mortals, and never does think, unless 'tis to get the best wenches and drink: he dwells in a tavern, and lives ev'ry where, and improving his hour, lives an age in a year: for as life is uncertain, he loves to make haste, and thus he lives longest because he lives fast: then leaps in the dark, and his _exit_ he makes, what death can compare with the jolly town-rakes. _a_ song: _set by mr._ clarke. [music] young _coridon_ and _phillis_ sate in a lovely grove; contriving crowns of lillies, repeating tales of love: _and something else, but what i dare not_, &c. but as they were a playing, she oagled so the swain; it say'd her plainly saying, let's kiss to ease our pain: _and something else_, &c. a thousand times he kiss'd her, laying her on the green; but as he farther press'd her, her pretty leg was seen: _and something else_, &c. so many beauties removing, his ardour still increas'd; and greater joys pursuing, he wander'd o'er her breast: _and something else_, &c. a last effort she trying, his passion to withstand; cry'd, but it was faintly crying, pray take away your hand: _and something else_, &c. young _coridon_ grown bolder, the minute would improve; this is the time he told her, to shew you how i love; _and something else_, &c. the nymph seem'd almost dying, dissolv'd in amorous heat; she kiss'd, and told him sighing, my dear your love is great: _and something else_, &c. but _phillis_ did recover much sooner than the swain; she blushing ask'd her lover, shall we not kiss again: _and something else_, &c. thus love his revels keeping, 'till nature at a stand; from talk they fell to sleeping, holding each others hand; _and something else_, &c. _the amorous_ barber's _passion of love for his dear_ bridget. [music] with my strings of small wire lo i come, and a cittern made of wood; and a song altho' you are deaf and dumb, may be heard and understood. _dumb, dumb_---- oh! take pity on me, my dear, me thy slave, and me thy vassal, and be not cruel, as it were, like to some strong and well built old castle. _dumb, dumb_---- lest as thou passest along the street, braver every day and braver; every one that does thee meet, will say there goes a woman-shaver. _dumb, dumb_---- and again will think fit, and to say they will determine; there goes she that with tongue killed clip-chops, as a man with his thumbs kill vermine. _dumb, dumb_---- for if thou dost then, farewel pelf, farewel _bridget_, for i vow i'll: either in my bason hang my self, or drown me in my towel, _dumb, dumb_---- _a_ ballad, _made by a gentleman in_ ireland, _who could not have access to a lady whom he went to visit, because the maid the night before had over-laid her pretty bitch. to the tune of_, o hone, o hone. [music] oh! let no eyes be dry, _oh hone, oh hone_, but let's lament and cry, _oh hone, o hone_, we're quite undone almost, for _daphne_ on this coast, has yielded up the ghost, _oh hone, o hone_. _daphne_ my dearest bitch, _oh hone, o hone_, who did all dogs bewitch, _oh hone_, &c. was by a careless maid, pox take her for a jade, in the night over-laid, _oh hone_, &c. oh may she never more _oh hone_, &c. sleep quietly, but snore, _oh hone_, &c. may never irish lad, sue for her maiden-head, until it stinks i gad, _oh hone_, &c. oh may she never keep _oh hone, oh hone_; her water in her sleep, _oh hone, oh hone_: may never pence nor pounds, come more within the bounds, of her pocket ad-sounds, _oh hone, oh hone_. damon _forsaken. set by mr._ wroth. [music] when that young _damon_ bless'd my heart, and in soft words did move; how did i hug the pleasing dart, and thank'd the god of love: _cupid_, said i, my best lov'd lamb, that in my bosom lives: to thee, for kindling this dear flame, to thee, kind god, i'll give. but prying friends o'er-heard my vow, and murmur'd in my ear; _damon_ hath neither flocks nor plough, girl what thou dost beware: they us'd so long their cursed art, and damn'd deluding sham; that i agreed with them to part, nor offer'd up my lamb. _cupid_ ask'd for his offering, 'cause i refus'd to pay; he took my _damon_ on his wing, and carry'd him quite away: pitch'd him before _olinda's_ charms, those wonders of the plain; commanding her into her arms, to take the dearest swain. the envy'd nymph, soon, soon obey'd, and bore away the prize; 'tis well she did, for had she stay'd, i'd snatch'd him from her eyes: my lamb was with gay garlands dress'd, the pile prepar'd to burn; hoping that if the god appeas'd, my _damon_ might return. but oh! in vain he's gone, he's gone, _phillis_ he can't be thine; i by obedience am undone, was ever fate like mine: _olinda_ do, try all thy charms, yet i will have a part; for whilst you have him in your arms, i'll have him in my heart. _the apparition to the jilted lover. set by mr._ wroth. [music] think wretched mortal, think no more, how to prolong thy breath: for thee there are no joys in store, but in a welcome death: then seek to lay thee under ground, the grave cures all despair; and healeth every bitter wound, giv'n by th' ungrateful fair. how cou'dst thou faith in woman think, women are _syrens_ all; and when men in loves ocean sink, take pride to see 'em fall: women were never real yet, but always truth despise: constant to nothing but deceit, false oaths and flattering lies. ah! _coridon_ bid life adieu, the gods will thee prefer; their gates are open'd wide for you, but bolted against her: do thou be true, you vow'd to love, _phillis_ or death you'll have; now since the nymph doth perjured prove, be just unto the grave. _a_ song. [music] heaven first created woman to be kind, both to be belov'd, and for to love; if you contradict what heav'n has design'd, you'll be contemn'd by all the pow'rs above: then no more dispute me, for i am rashly bent, to subject your beauty to kind nature's duty, let me than salute you by consent. arguments and fair intreats did i use, but with her consent could not prevail; she the blessing modestly would still refuse, seeming for to slight my amorous tale: sometimes she would cry sir, prithee dear be good, oh sir, pray sir, why sir? pray now, nay now, fye sir, i would sooner die sir, than be rude. i began to treat her then another way, modestly i melted with a kiss; she then blushing look'd like the rising day, fitting for me to attempt the bliss: i gave her a fall sir, she began to tear, crying she would call sir, as loud as she could baul sir, but is prov'd as false, sir, as she's fair. ralph's _going to the wars._ [music] to the wars i must alass, though i do not like the game, for i hold him to be an ass, that will lose his life for fame: _for these guns are such pestilent things, to pat a pellet in ones brow; four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, ch'ill kill a man he knows not how._ when the bow, bill, zword and dagger, were us'd all in vighting; ch've heard my father swear and swagger, that it was but a flea-biting: _but these guns_, &c. ise would vight with the best of our parish, and play at whisters with _mary_; cou'd thump the vootball, yerk the morrie, and box at visticuffs with any: _but these guns_, &c. varewel _dick_, _tom_, _ralph_ and _hugh_, my maypoles make all heretofore; varewel _doll_, _kate_, _zis_ and _zue_, for i shall never zee you more: _for these guns are such pestilent things, to pat a pellet in ones brow; four vurlongs off ch've heard zome zay, ch'ill kill a man he knows not how._ _a_ song _in praise of punch._ [music] come fill up the bowl with the liquor that fine is, and much more divine is, than now a-days wine is, with all their art, none here can controul: the vintner despising, tho' brandy be rising, 'tis punch that must chear the heart: the lovers complaining, 'twill cure in a trice, and _cælia_ disdaining, shall cease to be nice, _come fill up the bowl_, &c. thus soon you'll discover, the cheat of each lover, when free from all care you'll quickly find, as nature intended 'em willing and kind: _come fill up the bowl_, &c. _a_ song. [music] bonny _peggy ramsey_ that any man may see, and bonny was her face, with a fair freckel'd eye, neat is her body made, and she hath good skill, and square is her wethergig made like a mill: _with a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _bonny_ peggy ramsey _she gives weel her mill._ _peggy_ to the mill is gone to grind a bowl of mault, the mill it wanted water, and was not that a fault; up she pull'd her petticoats and piss'd into the dam, for six days and seven nights she made the mill to gang; _with a hey_, &c. some call her _peggy_, and some call her _jean_, but some calls her midsummer, but they all are mista'en; for _peggy_ is a bonny lass, and grinds well her mill, for she will be occupied when others they lay still: _with a hey_, &c. _peg_, thee and ise grin a poke, and we to war will leanes, ise lay thee flat upon thy back and then lay to the steanes; ise make hopper titter totter, haud the mouth as still, when twa sit, and eane stand, merrily grind the mill: _with a hey_, &c. up goes the clap, and in goes the corn, betwixt twa rough steans _peggy_ not to learn; with a dam full of water that she holdeth still, to pour upon the clap for burning of the mill: _with a hey_, &c. up she pull'd the dam sure and let the water in, the wheel went about, and the mill began to grind: the spindle it was hardy, and the steanes were they well pickt, and the meal fell in the mill trough, and ye may all come lick: _with a hey trolodel, hey trolodel, hey trolodel lill,_ _bonny_ peggy ramsey _she gives weel her mill._ _a_ song. _writ by the famous mr._ nat. lee. _philander_ and _sylvia_, a gentle soft pair, whose business was loving, and kissing their care; in a sweet smelling grove went smiling along, 'till the youth gave a vent to his heart with his tongue: ah _sylvia_! said he, (and sigh'd when he spoke) your cruel resolves will you never revoke? no never, she said, how never, he cry'd, 'tis the damn'd that shall only that sentence abide. she turn'd her about to look all around, then blush'd, and her pretty eyes cast on the ground; she kiss'd his warm cheeks, then play'd with his neck, and urg'd that his reason his passion would check: ah _philander_! she said, 'tis a dangerous bliss, ah! never ask more and i'll give thee a kiss; how never? he cry'd, then shiver'd all o'er, no never, she said, then tripp'd to a bower. she stopp'd at the wicket, he cry'd let me in, she answer'd, i wou'd if it were not a sin; heav'n sees, and the gods will chastise the poor head of _philander_ for this; straight trembling he said, heav'n sees, i confess, but no tell-tales are there, she kiss'd him and cry'd, you're an atheist my dear; and shou'd you prove false i should never endure: how never? he cry'd, and straight down he threw her. her delicate body he clasp'd in his arms, he kiss'd her, he press'd her, heap'd charms upon charms; he cry'd shall i now? no never, she said, your will you shall never enjoy till i'm dead: then as if she were dead, she slept and lay still, yet even in death bequeath'd him a smile: which embolden'd the youth his charms to apply, which he bore still about him to cure those that die. _a_ song. [music] your hay it is mow'd, and your corn is reap'd, your barns will be full, and your hovels heap'd; come, my boys come, come, my boys come, and merrily roar our harvest home: harvest home, harvest home, and merrily roar our harvest home. _come, my boys come_, &c. we ha' cheated the parson, we'll cheat him agen, for why should a blockhead ha' one in ten: one in ten, one in ten, for why should a blockhead ha' one in ten, _one in ten_, &c. for prating too long, like a book learnt sot, 'till pudding and dumpling are burnt to pot: burnt to pot, burnt to pot, 'till pudding and dumpling are burnt to pot. _burnt to pot_, &c. we'll toss off our ale till we cannot stand, and hey for the honour of old _england_; old _england_, old _england_, and hey for the honour of old _england_, _old_ england, _&c._ _a_ song. [music] i prithee send me back my heart, since i cannot have thine: for if from yours you will not part, why then should you have mine. yet now i think on't, let it be, to send it me is vain; thou hast a thief in either eye, will steal it back again. why should two hearts in one breast be, and yet not be together; or love, where is thy sympathy, if thou our hearts do sever? but love is such a mystery, i cannot find it out; for when i think i am best resolv'd, then i am most in doubt. then farewel care, then farewel woe, i will no longer pine; but i'll believe i have her heart, as well as she hath mine. bacchus _turn'd doctor. the words by_ ben. johnson. [music] let soldiers fight for pay and praise, and money be misers wish; poor scholars study all their days, and gluttons glory in their dish: _'tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,_ _therefore give us chearing bowls._ let minions marshal in their hair, and in a lover's lock delight; and artificial colours wear, we have the native red and white. _'tis wine_, &c. your pheasant, pout, and culver salmon, and how to please your palates think: give us a salt _westphalia-gammon_, not meat to eat, but meat to drink. _'tis wine_, &c. it makes the backward spirits brave, that lively, that before was dull; those grow good fellows that are grave, and kindness flows from cups brim full, _'tis wine_, &c. some have the ptysick, some the rhume, some have the palsie, some the gout; some swell with fat, and some consume, but they are sound that drink all out. _'tis wine_, &c. some men want youth, and some want health, some want a wife, and some a punk; some men want wit, and some want wealth, but he wants nothing that is drunk. _'tis wine, pure wine, revives sad souls,_ _therefore give us chearing bowls._ jenny _making hay._ [music] poor _jenny_ and i we toiled, in a long summer's day; till we were almost foiled, with making of the hay; her kerchief was of holland clear, bound low upon her brow; ise whisper'd something in her ear, _but what's that to you?_ her stockings were of kersey green, well stitcht with yellow silk; oh! sike a leg was never seen, her skin as white as milk: her hair as black as any crow, and sweet her mouth was too; oh _jenny_ daintily can mow, _but_, &c. her petticoats were not so low, as ladies they do wear them; she needed not a page i trow, for i was by to bear them: ise took them up all in my hand, and i think her linnen too; which made me for to make a stand; _but_, &c. king _solomon_ had wives enough, and concubines a number; yet ise possess more happiness, and he had more of cumber; my joys surmount a wedded life, with fear she lets me mow her; a wench is better than a wife, _but_, &c. the lilly and the rose combine, to make my _jenny_ fair; there's no contentment sike as mine; i'm almost void of care: but yet i fear my _jenny's_ face, will cause more men to woe; which if she should, as i do fear, _still, what is that to you?_ _the knotting_ song. _the words by sir_ charles sydney. [music] hears not my _phillis_ how the birds, their feather'd mates salute: they tell their passion in their words, must i alone, must i alone be mute: phillis _without a frown or smile,_ _sat & knotted, & knotted, & knotted, and knotted all the while._ the god of love in thy bright eyes, does like a tyrant reign; but in thy heart a child he lies, without a dart or flame. _phillis_, &c. so many months in silence past, and yet in raging love; might well deserve one word at last, my passion should approve. _phillis_, &c. must then your faithful swain expire, and not one look obtain; which to sooth his fond desire, might pleasingly explain. _phillis_, &c. _the_ french king _in a foaming passion for the loss of his potent army in the_ netherlands, _which were routed by his grace the duke of_ marlborough. [music] old _lewis le grand_, he raves like a fury, and calls for _mercury_; quoth he, if i can, i'll finish my days; for why should i live? since the fates will not give one affable smile: great _marlborough_ conquers, great _marlborough_ conquers, i'm ruin'd the while. the flower of _france_, and troops of my palace which march'd from _versales_ who vow'd to advance, with conquering sword, are cut, hack'd and hew'd, i well may conclude, they're most of them slain: oh! what will become of, oh! what will become of, my grand-son in _spain_. my fortify'd throne, propt up by oppression, must yield at discretion, for needs must i own, my glory decays: bold _marlborough_ comes with ratling drums, and thundering shot, he drives all before him, he drives all before him, oh! where am i got? he pushes for crowns, and slays my commanders, and forces in _flanders_; great capital towns, for _charles_ has declar'd: these things like a dart, has pierced my heart, and threatens my death; here do i lye sighing, here do i lye sighing, and panting for breath. this passionate grief, draws on my diseases, which fatally ceases my spirits in chief, a fit of the gout, the gravel and stone, i have 'tis well known, at this horrid news, of _marlborough's_ triumph, of _marlborough's_ triumph, all battles i lose. wherever he comes, he is bold and victorious, successful and glorious, my two royal thumbs with anguish i bite: to hear his success; yet nevertheless, my passion's in vain: i pity my darling, i pity my darling, young _philip_ in _spain_. i am out of my wits, if e'er i had any; my foes they are many, which plagues me by fits, in _flanders_ and _spain_: i'm sick at my heart, to think we must part, with what we enjoy'd, towns, castles, are taken, towns, castles, are taken, my troops are destroy'd. i am i declare, in a weak condition, go call my physician, and let him prepare some comfort with speed, without all delay, assist me i pray, and hear my complaint, a dram of the bottle, a dram of the bottle, or else i shall faint. should i slip my breath, at this dreadful season, i think it but reason, i should lay my death, to the daring foes, whose fire and smoak, has certainly broke, the heart in my breast: oh! bring me a cordial, oh! bring me a cordial, and lay me to rest. _a_ song. _set by captain_ pack. [music] would you be a man in fashion? would you lead a life divine? take a little dram of passion, (a little dram of passion) in a lusty dose of wine if the nymph has no compassion, vain it is to sigh and groan: love was but put in for fashion, wine will do the work alone. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. farmer. [music] though the pride of my passion fair _sylvia_ betrays, and frowns at the love i impart; though kindly her eyes twist amorous rays, to tye a more fortunate heart: yet her charms are so great, i'll be bold in my pain, his heart is too tender, too tender, that's struck with disdain. still my heart is so just to my passionate eyes, it dissolves with delight while i gaze: and he that loves on, though _sylvia_ denies, his love but his duty obeys: i no more can refrain her neglects to pursue, than the force, the force of her beauty can cease to subdue. _a_ song. [music] when first i fair _celinda_ knew, her kindness then was great: her eyes i cou'd with pleasure view, and friendly rays did meet: in all delights we past the time, that could diversion move; she oft would kindly hear me rhime upon some others love: _she oft would kindly hear me rhime,_ _upon some others love._ but ah! at last i grew too bold, prest by my growing flame; for when my passion i had told, she hated ev'n my name: thus i that cou'd her friendship boast, and did her love pursue; and taught contentment at the cost, of love and friendship too. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburne. [music] long had _damon_ been admir'd, by the beauties of the plain; ev'ry breast warm love inspir'd, for the proper handsome swain: the choicest nymph _sicilia_ bred, was won by his resistless charms: soft looks, and verse as smooth, had led and left the captive in his arms. but our _damon's_ soul aspires, to a goddess of his race; though he sues with chaster fires, this his glories does deface: the fatal news no sooner blown in whispers up the chesnut row; the god _sylvanus_ with a frown, blasts all the lawrels on his brow. swains be wise, and check desire in it's soaring, when you'll woe: _damon_ may in love require _thestyles_ and _laura_ too: when shepherds too ambitious are, and court _astrea_ on a throne; like to the shooting of a star, they fall, and thus their shining's gone. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] pretty _floramel_, no tongue can ever tell, the charms that in thee dwell; those soul-melting pleasures, shou'd the mighty _jove_ once view, he'd be in love, and plunder all above, to rain down his treasure: ah! said the nymph in the shepherd's arms, had you half so much love as you say i have charms; there's not a soul, created for man and love, more true than _floramel_ wou'd prove, i'd o'er the world with thee rove. love that's truly free, had never jealousie, but artful love may be both doubtful and wooing; ah! dear shepherdess, ne'er doubt, for you may guess, my heart will prove no less, than ever endless loving: then cries the nymph, like the sun thou shalt be, and i, like kind earth, will produce all to thee; of ev'ry flower in love's garden i'll off'rings pay to my saint. nay then pray take not those dear eyes away. _a_ song. _set by mr._ robert king. [music] by shady woods and purling streams, i spend my life in pleasing dreams; and would not for the world be thought to change my false delightful thought: for who, alas! can happy be, that does the truth of all things see? _for who, alas! can happy be,_ _that does the truth of all things see._ _a_ song. _sett by mr._ henry purcell. [music] in _chloris_ all soft charms agree, enchanting humour pow'rful wit; beauty from affectation free, and for eternal empire fit: where-e'er she goes, love waits her eyes, the women envy, men adore; tho' did she less the triumph prize, she wou'd deserve the conquest more. but vanity so much prevails, she begs what else none can deny her; and with inviting treach'rous smiles gives hopes which ev'n prevent desire: reaches at every trifling heart, grows warm with ev'ry glimm'ring flame: and common prey so deads her dart, it scarce can wound a noble game. i could lye ages at her feet, adore her careless of my pain; with tender vows her rigour meet, despair, love on, and not complain: my passion from all change secur'd, favours may rise, no frown controuls; i any torment can endure, but hoping with a crowd of fools. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. farmer. [music] when busie fame o'er all the plain, _velinda's_ praises rung; and on their oaten pipes each swain her matchless beauty sung: the envious nymphs were forc'd to yield she had the sweetest face; no emulous disputes were held, but for the second place. young _coridon_, whose stubborn heart no beauty e'er could move; but smil'd at _cupid's_ bow and dart, and brav'd the god of love: would view this nymph, and pleas'd at first, such silent charms to see: with wonder gaz'd, then sigh'd, and curs'd his curiosity. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburne. [music] why am i the only creature, must a ruin'd love pursue; other passions yield to nature, mine there's nothing can subdue: not the glory of possessing, monarch wishes gave me ease, more and more the mighty blessings did my raging pains encrease. nor could jealousie relieve me, tho' it ever waited near; cloath'd in gawdy pow'r to grieve me, still the monster would appear: that, nor time, nor absence neither, nor despair removes my pain; i endure them all together, yet my torments still remain. had alone her matchless beauty, set my amorous heart on fire, age at last would do its duty, fuel ceasing, flames expire. but her mind immortal grows, makes my love immortal too; nature ne'er created faces, can the charms of souls undoe. and to make my loss the greater, she laments it as her own; could she scorn me, i might hate her, but alas! she shews me none: then since fortune is my ruin, in retirement i'll complain; and in rage for my undoing, ne'er come in its power again. _a_ song. [music] _laurinda_, who did love disdain, for whom had languish'd many a swain: leading her bleating flocks to drink, she 'spy'd upon a river's brink a youth, whose eyes did well declare, how much he lov'd, but lov'd not her. at first she laugh'd, but gaz'd a while, which soon it lessen'd to a smile; thence to surprize and wonder came, her breast to heave, her heart to flame: then cry'd she out, ah! now i prove thou art a god most mighty _jove_. she would have spoke, but shame deny'd, and bid her first consult her pride; but soon she found that aid was gone, for _jove_, alass! had left her none: ah! now she burns! but 'tis too late, for in his eyes she reads her fate. _a_ song. [music] fair _cælia_ too fondly contemns those delights, wherewith gentle nature hath soften'd the nights; if she be so kind to present us with pow'r, the fault is our own to neglect the good hour: who gave thee this beauty, ordain'd thou should'st be, as kind to thy slaves, as the gods were to thee. then _cælia_ no longer reserve the vain pride, of wronging thy self, to see others deny'd; if love be a pleasure, alass! you will find, we both are not happy, when both are most kind: but women, like priests, do in others reprove, and call that thing lust, which in them is but love. what they thro' their madness and folly create, we poor silly slaves still impute to our fate; but in such distempers where love is the grief, 'tis _cælia_, not heaven, must give us relief: then away with those titles of honour and cause, which first made us sin, by giving us laws. _a_ song. _set by mr._ william turner. [music] i lik'd, but never lov'd before i saw that charming face; now every feature i adore, and doat on ev'ry grace: she ne'er shall know that kind desire, which her cold looks denies, unless my heart that's all on fire, should sparkle through my eyes: then if no gentle glance return, a silent leave to speak; my heart which would for ever burn, alass! must sigh and break. _a_ song _in_ valentinian. [music] where would coy _amyntas_ run, from a despairing lover's story? when her eyes have conquest won, why should her ear refuse the glory: shall a slave, whose racks constrain, be forbidden to complain; let her scorn me, let her fly me, let her looks, her love deny me: ne'er shall my heart yield to despair, or my tongue cease to tell my care, or my tongue cease to tell my care: much to love, and much to pray, is to heav'n the only way. _a_ song. _set by mr._ pelham humphreys. [music] a wife i do hate, for either she's false, or she's jealous; but give me a mate, who nothing will ask us or tell us: she stands at no terms, nor chaffers by way of indenture: or loves for the farms, but takes the kind man at a venture. if all prove not right, without an act, process or warning, from wife for a night, you may be divorc'd the next morning, where parents are slaves, their brats can't be any other; great wits and great braves, have always a punk to their mother. _a_ song. [music] tell me ye _sicilian_ swains, why this mourning's o'er your plains; where's your usual melody? why are all your shepherds mad, and your shepherdesses sad? what can the mighty meaning be? _chorus._ _sylvia_ the glory of our plains; _sylvia_ the love of all our swains; that blest us with her smiles: where ev'ry shepherd had a heart, and ev'ry shepherdess a part; slights our gods, and leaves our isle, slights our gods, and leaves our isle. _a_ song. [music] when gay _philander_ left the plain, the love, the life of ev'ry swain; his pipe the mournful _strephon_ took, by some sad bank and murm'ring brook: whilst list'ning flocks forsook their food, and melancholy by him stood; on the cold ground himself he laid, and thus the mournful shepherd play'd. farewel to all that's bright and gay, no more glad night and chearing day; no more the sun will gild our plain, 'till the lost youth return again: then every pensive heart that now, with mournful willow shades his brow; shall crown'd with chearful garlands sing, and all shall seem eternal spring. say, mighty _pan_, if you did know, say all ye rural gods below; 'mongst all youths that grac'd your plain, so gay so beautiful a swain: in whose sweet air and charming voice, our list'ning swains did all rejoyce; him only, o ye gods! restore your nymphs, and shepherds ask no more. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. kingsley. [music] how happy's the mortal whose heart is his own, and for his own quiet's beholden to none, (_eccho._ beholden to none, to none;) that to love's enchantments ne'er lendeth an ear, which a frown or a smile can equally bear, (_eccho._ can equally bear, can bear,) nor on ev'ry frail beauty still fixes an eye, but from those sly felons doth prudently fly, (_eccho._ doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;) for the heart that still wanders is pounded at last, and 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast, (_eccho._ when once it is fast, is fast.) by sporting with dangers still longer and longer, the fetters and chains of the captive grows stronger; he drills on his evil, then curses his fate, and bewails those misfortunes himself did create: like an empty camelion he lives on the air, and all the day lingers 'twixt hope and despair; like a fly in the candle he sports and he games, 'till a victim in folly, he dies in the flames. if love, so much talk'd of, a heresie be, of all it enslaves few true converts we see; if hectoring and huffing would once do the feat, there's few that would fail of a vict'ry compleat; but with gain to come off, and the tyrant subdue, is an art that is hitherto practis'd by few; how easie is freedom once had to maintain, but liberty lost is as hard to regain. this driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in parts, this wining and pining, and breaking of hearts; all pensive and silent in corners to sit, are pretty fine pastimes for those that want wit: when this passion and fashion doth so far abuse 'em, it were good the state should for pendulums use 'em; for if reason it seize on, and make it give o'er, no labour can save, or reliev't any more. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] a thousand several ways i try'd, to hide my passion from your view; conscious that i should be deny'd, because i cannot merit you: absence, the last and worst of all, did so encrease my wretched pain, that i return'd, rather to fall by the swift fate, by the swift fate of your disdain. _a_ song. [music] to the grove, gentle love, let us be going, where the kind spring and wind all day are woing; he with soft sighing blasts strives to o'er-take her, she would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her, but in circling rings returning, and in purling whispers mourning; she swells and pants, as if she'd say, fain i would, but dare not stay. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] tell me no more of flames in love, that common dull pretence, fools in romances use to move soft hearts of little sense: no, _strephon_, i'm not such a slave, love's banish'd power to own; since interest and convenience have so long usurp'd his throne. no burning hope or cold despair, dull groves or purling streams, sighing and talking to the air in love's fantastick dreams, can move my pity or my hate, but satyrist i'll prove, and all ridiculous create that shall pretend to love. love was a monarch once, 'tis true, and god-like rul'd alone, and tho' his subjects were but few, their hearts were all his own; but since the slaves revolted are, and turn'd into a state, their int'rest is their only care, and love grows out of date. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] wealth breeds care, love, hope and fear; what does love our business hear? while _bacchus_ merry does appear, fight on and fear no sinking, charge it briskly to the brim, 'till the flying top-sails swim, we owe the great discovery to him of this new world of drinking. grave cabals that states refine, mingle their debates with wine; _ceres_ and the god o'th' wine; makes every great commander. let sober sots small-beer subdue, the wise and valiant wine does woe; the _stagyrite_ had the honour to be drunk with _alexander_. stand to your arms, and now advance a health to the _english_ king of _france_; on to the next a _bon speranze_, by _bacchus_ and _apollo_. thus in state i lead the van, fall in your place by your right-hand man, beat drum! now march! dub a dub, ran dan, he's a _whig_ that will not follow. _a_ song. _set by mr._ fishburn. [music] tho' fortune and love may be deities still, to those they oblige by their pow'r; for my part, they ever have us'd me so ill, they cannot expect i'll adore: hereafter a temple to friendship i'll raise, and dedicate there all the rest of my days, to the goddess accepted my vows, _to the goddess accepted my vows_. thou perfectest image of all things divine, bright center of endless desires, may the glory be yours, and the services mine, when i light at your altars the fires. i offer a heart has devotion so pure, it would for your service all torments endure, might you but have all things you wish, _might you_, &c. but yet the goddess of fools to despise, i find i'm too much in her power; she makes me go where 'tis in vain to be wise, in absence of her i adore: if love then undoes me before i get back, i still with resignment receive the attack, or languish away in despair, _or languish_, &c. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] he himself courts his own ruin, that with too great passion sues 'em: when men whine too much in wooing, women with like coquets use 'em: some by this way of addressing have the sex so far transported, that they'll fool away the blessing for the pride of being courted. jilt and smile when we adore 'em, while some blockhead buys the favour; presents have more power o'er 'em than all our soft love and labour, thus, like zealots, with screw'd faces, we our fooling make the greater, while we cant long winded graces, others they fall to the creature. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damasene. [music] cease lovely _strephon_, cease to charm; useless, alas! is all this art; it's needless you should strongly arm, to take a too, too willing heart: i hid my weakness all i could, and chid my pratling tell-tale eyes, for fear the easie conquest should take from the value of the prize. but oh! th' unruly passion grew so fast, it could not be conceal'd, and soon, alas! i found to you i must without conditions yield, tho' you have thus surpriz'd my heart, yet use it kindly, for you know, it's not a gallant victor's part to insult o'er a vanquish'd foe. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damasene. [music] you happy youths, whose hearts are free from love's imperial chain, henceforth be warn'd and taught by me, and taught by me to avoid inchanting pain, fatal the wolves to trembling flocks, sharp winds to blossoms prove: to careless seamen, hidden rocks; to human quiet love. fly the fair-sex, if bliss you prize, the snake's beneath the flow'r: whoever gaz'd on beauties eyes, that tasted quiet more? the kind with restless jealousie, the cruel fill with care; with baser falshood those betray, these kill us with despair. _a_ song. _set by dr._ staggins. [music] when first _amyntas_ charm'd my heart, the heedless sheep began to stray; the wolves soon stole the greatest part, and all will now be made a prey: ah! let not love your thoughts possess, 'tis fatal to a shepherdess; the dangerous passion you must shun, or else like me, be quite undone. a song. _set by mr._ richard croone. [music] how happy and free is the resolute swain, that denies to submit to the yoak of the fair; free from excesses of pleasure and pain, neither dazl'd with hope, nor deprest with despair. he's safe from disturbance, and calmly enjoys all the pleasures of love, without clamour and noise. poor shepherds in vain their affections reveal, to a nymph that is peevish, proud sullen and coy; vainly do virgins their passions conceal, for they boil in their grief, 'till themselves they destroy, and thus the poor darling lies under a curse: to be check'd in the womb, or o'erlaid by the nurse. _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ cross _in the_ mock-astrologer, _set by mr._ ramondon. [music] why so pale and wan fond lover? prithee, prithee, prithee why so pale: will, when looking well can't move her, looking ill, looking ill prevail? why so dull and mute young sinner? prithee, prithee why so mute; will, when speaking well can't win her, saying nothing, nothing do't? quit, quit for shame, this will not move, this cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot take her; if of her self she will not love, nothing can, nothing can make her, the devil, the devil, the devil, the devil take her. _a_ song _occasioned by a lady's wearing a patch upon a becoming place on her face. set by mr._ john weldon. [music] that little patch upon your face wou'd seem a foil on one less fair, wou'd seem a foil, wou'd seem a foil, wou'd seem a foil on one less fair: on you it hides a charming grace, and you in pity, you in pity, you in pity plac'd it there; on you it hides a charming grace, and you in pity, you in pity, in pity plac'd it there. _and you in pity, pity,_ _and you in pity plac'd it there._ _a_ song. _set and sung by mr._ leveridge _at the_ theater. [music] _iris_ beware when _strephon_ pursues you, 'tis but to boast a conquest won: all his designs are aim'd to undo you, break off the love he has begun: when he's addressing, and prays for the blessing, which none but his _iris_ can give alone; o then beware, 'tis all to undo you, 'tis but to boast a conquest won: she that's believing, while he is deceiving, like many already, will be undone; _iris_ beware when _strephon_ pursues you, 'tis but to boast a conquest won. _a_ song. _set by mr._ ramondon, _sung at the_ theatre. [music] how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, o that she were as willing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing; to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing; to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing; to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing. i sigh, i sigh, i languish now, and love will not let me rest; i drive about the park and bow, where-e'er i meet my dearest. _a_ song. _set by mr._ anthony young. [music] cease whining _damon_ to complain, of thy unhappy fate; that _sylvia_ should thy love disdain, which lasting was and great. for love so constant flames so bright, more unsuccessful prove: than cold neglect and sudden slight, to gain the nymph you love. then only you'll obtain the prize, when you her coyness use; if you pursue the fair, she flies, but if you fly, pursues. had _phoebus_ not pursu'd so fast the seeming cruel she; the god a virgin had embrac'd, and not a lifeless tree. _a_ song _in the_ opera _call'd the_ brittish enchanters. _set by mr._ j. eccles. [music] plague us not with idle stories, whining loves, whining loves, whining loves, and senceless glories. what are lovers? what are kings? what, at best, but slavish things? what are lovers? what are kings? what, at best, but slavish things? what, at best, but slavish things? free i liv'd as nature made me, love nor beauty durst invade me, no rebellious slaves betray'd me, free i liv'd as nature made me, each by turns as sence inspired me, _bacchus_, _ceres_, _venus_ fir'd me, i alone have learnt true pleasure, freedom, freedom, freedom is the only, only treasure. juno _in the prize._ _set by mr._ john weldon. [music] let ambition fire thy mind, thou wert born o'er men to reign; not to follow flocks design'd, scorn thy crook, and leave the plain: not to follow flocks design'd, scorn thy crook, and leave the plain. crowns i'll throw beneath thy feet, thou on necks of kings shalt tread, joys in circles, joys shall meet, which way e're thy fancy leads. _the beau's character in the comedy call'd_ hampstead-heath. _set and sung by mr._ ramondon. [music] a whig that's full, an empty scull, a box of _burgamot_; a hat ne'er made to fit his head no more than that to plot. a hand that's white, a ring that's right, a sword, knot, patch and feather; a gracious smile, and grounds and oyl, do very well together. a smatch of _french_, and none of sence, all conquering airs and graces; a tune that thrills, a lear that kills, stoln flights and borrow'd phrases. a chariot gilt, to wait on jilt, an awkward pace and carriage; a foreign tower, domestick whore, and mercenary marriage. a limber ham, g---- d---- ye m'am, a smock-face, tho' a tann'd one; a peaceful sword, not one wise word, but state and prate at random. duns, bastards, claps, and am'rous scraps, of _cælia_ and _amadis_; toss up a beau, that grand ragou, that hodge-podge for the ladies. _a_ song _in the innocent mistress. set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mrs._ hodgson. [music] when i languish'd and wish'd you wou'd something bestow, you bad me to give it a name; but by heav'n i know it as little as you, tho' my ignorance passes for shame: you take for devotion each passionate glance, and think the dull fool is sincere; but never believe that i spake in romance, on purpose to tickle, on purpose, on purpose, on purpose to tickle your ear: to please me than more, think still i am true, and hug each apocryphal text; tho' i practice a thousand false doctrines on you, i shall still have enough, i shall still have enough, shall still have enough for the next. venus _to_ paris _in the prize musick. set by mr._ john weldon. [music] hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle swain, hither turn thee, hither turn thee, hither turn thee gentle swain, let not _venus_, let not _venus_, let not _venus_ sue in vain; _venus_ rules, _venus_ rules, _venus_ rules the gods above, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, and she rules love? _venus_ rules the gods above, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, love rules them, and she rules love. love rules them, and she rules love. _a_ song. _the words by mr._ ward, _set by mr._ harris. [music] _belinda_! why do you distrust, so faithful and so kind a heart: which cannot prove to you unjust, but must it self endure the smart: no, no, no, no the wandring stars, shall sooner cease their motion; and nature reconcile the jars, 'twixt _boreas_ and the ocean: the fixed poles shall seem to move, and ramble from their places; e'er i'll from fair _belinda_ rove, or slight her charming graces. _a_ song. _set by mr._ william turner. [music] long was the day e're _alexis_ my lover, to finish my hopes would his passion reveal; he could not speak, nor i could not discover, what my poor aking heart was so loath to conceal: till the strength of his passion his fear had remov'd, then we mutually talk'd, and we mutually lov'd. groves for umbrella's did kindly o'er-shade us, from _phoebus_ hot rages, who like envy in strove; had not kind fate this provision made us, all the nymphs of the air would have envy'd our love: but we stand below envy that ill-natur'd fate, and above cruel scorn is happy estate. _a_ song. _set to musick by mr._ john eccles. [music] as _cupid_ roguishly one day, had all alone stole out to play; the _muses_ caught the little, little, little knave, and captive love to beauty gave: the _muses_ caught the little, little, little knave, and captive love to beauty gave: the laughing dame soon miss'd her son, and here and there, and here and there, and here and there distracted run; distracted run, and here and there, and here and there, and here and there distracted run: and still his liberty to gain, his liberty to gain, offers his ransom, but in vain, in vain, in vain; the willing, willing prisoner still hugs his chain, and vows he'll ne'er be free, and vows he'll ne'er be free, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no he'll ne'er be free again. _old_ soldiers. [music] of old soldiers, the song you would hear, and we old fidlers have forgot who they were, but all we remember shall come to your ear, _that we are old soldiers of the queens,_ _and the queens old soldiers._ with the _old drake_, that was the next man to _old franciscus_, who first it began, to sail through the streights of _magellan_, _like an old soldier_, &c. that put the proud _spanish armado_ to wrack, and travell'd all o'er the old world, and came back, in his old ship, laden with gold and old sack, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old cavendish_, that seconded him, and taught his old sails the same passage to swim, and did them therefore with cloth of gold trim, _like an old soldier_, &c. like an _old rawleigh_, that twice and again, sailed over most part of the _seas_, and then travell'd all o'er the world with his pen, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old john norris_, the general, that at old _gaunt_, made his fame immortal, in spight of his foes, with no loss at all, _like an old soldier_, &c. like _old brest fort_, an invincible thing, when the old _queen_ sent him to help the _french_ king, took from the proud _fox_, to the world's wond'ring, _like an old soldier_, &c. where an old stout _fryer_, as goes the story, came to push of pike with him in vain-glory, but he was almost sent to his own _purgatory_, _by this old soldier_, &c. with an _old ned norris_, that kept _ostend_, a terror to foe, and a refuge to friend, and left it impregnable to his last end, _like an old soldier_, &c. that in the old unfortunate voyage of all, march'd o'er the old bridge, and knock'd at the wall, of _lisbon_, the mistress of _portugal_, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old tim norris_, by the old _queen_ sent, of _munster_ in _ireland_, lord president, where his days and his blood in her service he spent, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old harry norris_, in battle wounded, in his knee, whose leg was cut off, and he said, you have spoil'd my dancing, and dy'd in his bed, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old will norris_, the oldest of all, who went voluntary, without any call, to th' old _irish_ wars, to's fame immortal, _like an old soldier_, &c. with an _old dick wenman_, the first in his prime, that over the walls of old _cales_ did clime, and there was knighted, and liv'd all his time, _like an old soldier_, &c. with _old nando wenman_, when _brest_ was o'er thrown, into the air, into the seas, with gunpowder blown, yet bravely recovering, long after was known, _for an old soldier_, &c. when an _old tom wenman_, whose bravest delight, was in a good cause for his country to fight, and dy'd in _ireland_, a good old knight, _and an old soldier_, &c. with a young _ned wenman_, so valiant and bold, in the wars of _bohemia_, as with the old, deserves for his valour to be enroll'd, _an old soldier_, &c. and thus of old soldiers, ye hear the fame, but ne'er so many of one house and name, and all of old _john lord viscount_ of _thame_, _an old soldier of the queens,_ _and the queens old soldier._ _on the tombs in_ westminster abby. _you must suppose it to be_ easter _holy-days: at what time_ sisly _and_ dol, kate _and_ peggy, moll _and_ nan, _are marching to_ westminster, _with a leash of prentices before 'em; who go rowing themselves along with their right arms to make more hast, and now and then with a greasie muckender wipe away the dripping that bastes their foreheads. at the door they meet a crowd of_ wapping _sea-men_, southwark _broom-men, the inhabitants of the_ bank-side, _with a butcher or two prickt in among them. there a while they stand gaping for the master of the show, staring upon the suburbs of their dearest delight, just as they stand gaping upon the painted cloth before they go into the puppet play. by and by they hear the bunch of keys, which rejoyces their hearts like the sound of the_ pancake-bell. _for now the man of comfort peeps over the spikes, and beholding such a learned auditory, opens the gate of_ paradise, _and by that time they are half got into the first chapel, (for time is very precious) he lifts up his voice among the tombs, and begins his lurrey in manner and form following._ _to the foregoing tune; in imitation of the old soldiers._ here lies _william de valence_, a right good earl of _pembroke_, and this is his monument which you see, i'll swear upon a book. he was high marshal of _england_, when _henry_ the third did reign; but this you take upon my word, that he'll ne'er be so again. here the lord _edward talbot_ lies, the town of _shrewsbury's_ earl; together with his countess fair, that was a most delicate girl. the next to him there lyeth one, sir _richard peckshall_ hight; of whom we only this do say, he was a _hampshire_ knight. but now to tell you more of him, there lies beneath this stone: two wives of his, and daughters four, to all of us unknown. sir _bernard brockhurst_ there doth lie, lord chamberlain to queen _ann_; queen _ann_ was _richard_ the second's queen, and was king of _england_. sir _francis hollis_, the lady _frances_, the same was _suffolk's_ dutchess; two children of _edward_ the third, lie here in death's cold clutches. this is the third king _edward's_ brother, of whom our records tell nothing of note, nor say they whether, he be in heaven or hell. this same was _john_ of _eldeston_, he was no costermonger; but _cornwall's_ earl, and here's one dy'd, 'cause he could live no longer. the lady _mohun_, dutchess of _york_, and duke of _york's_ wife also; but death resolv'd to horn the duke, she lies now with death below. the lady _ann ross_, but wot ye well, that she in childbed dy'd; the lady marquiss of _winchester_, lies buried by her side. now think your penny well spent good folks, and that you're not beguil'd; within this cup doth lie the heart of a _french embassador's_ child. but how the devil it came to pass, on purpose, or by chance; the bowels they lie underneath, the body is in _france_. [sidenote: dol. _i warrant ye the_ pharises _carried it away._] there's _oxford's_ countess, and there also the lady _burleigh_ her mother; and there her daughter, a countess too, lie close by one another. these once were bonny dames, and tho' there were no coaches then, yet could they jog their tails themselves, or had them jogg'd by men. [sidenote: dick. _ho, ho, ho, i warrant ye they did as other women did, ha_ ralf. ralf. _oy, oy._] but woe is me! those high born sinners; that went to pray so stoutly; are now laid low, and 'cause they can't, their statues pray devoutly. this is the dutchess of _somerset_, by name the lady _ann_; her lord _edward_ the sixth protected, oh! he was a gallant man. [sidenote: tom. _i have heard a ballad of him sang at_ ratcliff cross. mol. _i believe we have it at home over our kitchin mantle-tree._] in this fair monument which you see, adorn'd with so many pillars; doth lie the countess of _buckingham_, and her husband, sir _george villers_. this old sir _george_ was grandfather, and the countess she was granny; to the great duke of _buckingham_, who often topt king _jammy_. sir _robert eatam_, a _scotch_ knight, this man was secretary; and scribl'd compliments for two queens, queen _ann_, and eke queen _mary_. this was the countess of _lenox_, yclep'd the lady _marget_: king _james's_ grandmother, and yet 'gainst death she had no target. this was queen _mary_, queen of _scots_, whom _buchanan_ doth bespatter; she lost her head at _tottingham_, what ever was the matter. [sidenote: dol. _how came she here then?_ will. _why ye silly oafe could not she be brought here, after she was dead?_] the mother of our seventh _henry_, this is that lyeth hard by; she was the countess wot ye well, of _richmond_ and of _derby_. _henry_ the seventh lieth here, with his fair queen beside him, he was the founder of this chapel, oh! may no ill betide him. therefore his monument's in brass, you'll say that very much is; the duke of _richmond_ and _lenox_, there lieth with his dutchess. [sidenote: rog. _i warrant ye these were no small fools in those days._] and here they stand upright in a press with bodies made of wax; with a globe and a wand in either hand, and their robes upon their backs. here lies the duke of _buckingham_, and the dutchess his wife; him _felton_ stabb'd at _portsmouth_ town, and so he lost his life. two children of king _james_ these are, whom death keeps very chary; _sophia_ in the cradle lies, and this is the lady _mary_. [sidenote: bess. _good woman pray still your child, it keeps such a bawling, we can't hear what the man says._] and this is queen _elizabeth_, how the _spaniards_ did infest her? here she lies buried, with queen _mary_, and now agrees with her sister. to another chapel now we come, the people follow and chat; this is the lady _cottington_, and the people cry, who's that? this is the lady _frances sidney_, the countess of _suffolk_ was she; and this the lord _dudley carleton_ is, and then they look up and see. sir _thomas brumley_ lieth here, death would him not reprieve; with his four sons, and daughters four, that once were all alive. the next is sir _john fullerton_, and this is his lady i trow; and this is sir _john puckering_, whom none of you did know. that's the earl of _bridgwater_ in the middle, who makes no use of his bladder; although his lady lie so near him, and so we go up a ladder. [sidenote: kate. _he took more pains, than i would ha done for a hundred such._] _edward_ the first, that gallant blade, lies underneath this stone; and this is the chair which he did bring, a good while ago from _scone_. in this same chair, till now of late, our kings and queens were crown'd; under this chair another stone doth lie upon the ground. [sidenote: ralf. _gad i warrant there has been many a maiden-head got in that chair._ tom. _gad and i'll come hither and try one of these days, an't be but to get a prince._ dol. _a_ papist _i warrant him._] on that same stone did _jacob_ sleep, instead of a down pillow; and after that 'twas hither brought, by some good honest fellow. _richard_ the second lieth here, and his first queen, queen _ann_; _edward_ the third lies here hard by, oh! there was a gallant man. for this was his two handed sword, a blade both true and trusty; the _french_ men's blood was ne'er wip'd off, which makes it look so rusty. here he lies again, with his queen _philip_, a _dutch_ woman by record, but that's all one, for now alass! his blade's not so long as his sword. king _edward_ the confessor lies within this monument fine; i'm sure, quoth one, a worser tomb must serve both me and mine. _harry_ the fifth lies there, and there doth lie queen _eleanor_; to our first _edward_ she was wife, which was more than ye knew before. _henry_ the third lies there entomb'd, he was herb _john_ in pottage; little he did, but still reign'd on, although his sons were at age. fifty six years he reigned king, e'er he the crown would lay by; only we praise him, 'cause he was last builder of the _abby_. here _thomas cecil_ lies, who's that? why 'tis the earl of _exeter_; and this his countess is, to die how it perplexed her. [sidenote: dol. _ay, ay, i warrant her, rich folks are as unwilling to die as poor folks._] here _henry cary_, lord _hunsdon_ rests, what a noise he makes with his name? lord chamberlain was he unto queen _elizabeth_ of great fame. [sidenote: sisly. _that's he for whom our bells ring so often, is it not_ mary? mol. _ay, ay, the very same._] and here's one _william colchester_ lies of a certainty; an abbot was he of _westminster_, and he that saith no, doth lie. this is the bishop of _durham_, by death here lay'd in fetters; _henry_ the seventh lov'd him well, and so he wrote his letters. sir _thomas bacchus_, what of him? poor gentleman not a word; only they buried him here; but now behold that man with a sword. _humphry de bohun_, who though he were not born with me i'the same town; yet i can tell he was earl of _essex_, of _hertford_, and _northampton_. he was high constable of _england_, as history well expresses; but now pretty maids be of good chear, we're going up to the presses. and now the presses open stand, and ye see them all arow; but never no more are said of these then what is said below. now down the stairs come we again, the man goes first with a staff; some two or three tumble down the stairs, and then the people laugh. this is the great sir _francis vere_, that so the _spaniards_ curry'd; four colonels support his tomb, and here his body's buried. that _statue_ against the _wall_ with one eye, is major general _norris_; he beat the _spaniards_ cruelly, as is affirm'd in stories. [sidenote: dick. _i warrant ye he had two, if he could have but kep'd 'em._] his six sons there hard by him stand, each one was a commander; to shew he could a lady serve, as well as the _hollander_. and there doth sir _john hollis_ rest, who was the major general; to sir _john norris_, that brave blade, and so they go to dinner all. for now the shew is at an end, all things are done and said; the citizen pays for his wife, the prentice for the maid. _a_ song _sung by mrs._ campion, _in the comedy call'd_, she wou'd and she wou'd not. _by mr._ john weldon. [music] _cælia_ my heart has often rang'd, like bees o'er gaudy flowers; and many thousand loves have chang'd, 'till it was fix'd, 'till it was fix'd on yours; but _cælia_ when i saw those eyes, 'twas soon, 'twas soon determin'd there; stars might as well forsake the skies, and vanish into air: stars might as well forsake the skies, and vanish into air. now if from the great rules i err, new beauties, new beauties to admire; may i again, again turn wanderer, and never, never, never, never, never, no, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, settle more: may i again, again turn wanderer, and never, never, never, never, never, no, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, settle more. _a_ song _made for the entertainment of her royal highness. set by mr._ leveridge. _sung by mrs._ lindsey _in_ caligula. [music] tho' over all mankind, besides my conquering beauty, conquering beauty, my conquering beauty reigns; my conquering beauty reigns; from him i love, from him i love when i meet disdain, a killing damp, a killing damp comes o'er my pride: i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young in vain: i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young, i'm fair and young in vain; no, no, no, let him wander where he will, let him wander, let him wander, let him wander, let him wander where he will, i shall have youth and beauty, youth and beauty, youth and beauty, i shall have youth and beauty, youth and beauty still; i shall have beauty that can charm a _jove_, can charm a _jove_, and no fault, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no fault, no, no, no fault, but constant love: from my arms then let him fly, fly, fly, from my arms then let him fly; shall i languish, pine, and dye? no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no not i. _a_ song _in the fair_ penitent. _set by mr._ eccles. _sung by mrs._ hudson. [music] stay, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? whither, whither wou'd you fly? too charming, too charming, too relentless maid, i follow not to conquer, not to conquer, i follow not to conquer, but to dye: you of the fearful, of the fearful are afraid, ah stay, ah turn, ah whither wou'd you fly? whither, whither, whither, whither, ah whither wou'd you fly? in vain, in vain i call, in vain, in vain i call, while she like fleeting, fleeting air; when press'd by some tempestuous wind, flys swifter from the voice of my despair: nor cast a pitying, pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, no not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying look, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, no not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind, no not one, no not one, not one pitying, pitying, pitying look behind. _a new_ song. _the words by mr._ tho. wall. _set to musick by mr._ henry eccles, _junior._ [music] no more let _damon's_ eyes pursue, no more let _damon's_ eyes pursue, the bright enchanting fair; _almira_ thousands, thousands, thousands can undo, and thousands more, and thousands more, and thousands more may still despair, and thousands more may still despair. for oh her bright alluring eyes, and graces all admire; for her the wounded lover dies, and ev'ry breast, and ev'ry heart, and ev'ry breast is set on fire. then oh poor _damon_, see thy fate, but never more complain; for all a thousand hearts will stake, and all may sigh, and all may die, and all may sigh and die in vain. _the_ dear joy's _lamentation._ [music] ho my dear joy, now what dost thou think? hoop by my shoul our country-men stink; to _ireland_ they can never return, the hereticks there our houses will burn: _ah hone, ah hone, ah hone a cree._ a pox on _t----l_ for a son of a w----, he was the cause of our coming o'er; and when to _dublin_ we came to put on our coats, he told us his business was cutting of throats. _ah hone_, &c. our devil has left us now in the lurch, a plague light upon the _protestant_ c---- if _p----s_ had let but the bishops alone, o then the nation had all been our own. _ah hone_, &c. and i wish other measures had been taken, for now i fear we shan't save our bacon; now _orange_ to _london_ is coming down-right, and the soldiers against him resolve not to fight _ah hone_, &c. what we shall do, the lord himself knows, our army is beaten without any blows; our m----r begins to feel some remorse, for the grey mare has proved the better horse. _ah hone_, &c. if the _french_ do but come, which is all our hopes, we'll bundle the hereticks all up with ropes; if _london_ stands to us as _bristol_ has done, we need not fear but _orange_ must run. _ah hone_, &c. but if they prove false, and to _orange_ they scower, by g---- all the m---- shall play from the _tower_; our massacree fresh in their memories grown, the devil tauk me, we all shall go down. _a hone, a hone, a hone a cree._ _the character of a_ seat's-man; _written by one of the_ craft: _to be sung on_ crispin-night. _tune_ packington's pound. [music] i am one in whom nature has fix'd a decree, ordaining my life to happy and free; with no cares of the world i am never perplex'd, and never depending, i never am vex'd: i'm neither of so high nor so low a degree, but ambition and want are both strangers to me; my life is a compound of freedom and ease, i go where i will, and i work when i please: i live above envy, and yet above spight, and have judgment enough for to do my self right; some greater and richer i own there may be, yet as many live worse, as live better than me, and few that from cares live so quiet and free. when money comes in i live well 'till it's gone, so with it i'm happy, content when i've none: i spend it genteelly, and never repent, if i lose it at play, why i count it but lent: for that which at one time i lose among friends, another night's winnings still makes me amends: and though i'm without the first day of the week, i still make it out by shift or by tick: in mirth at my work the swift hours do pass, and by _saturday_ night, i'm as rich as i was. then let masters drudge on, and be slaves to their trade, let their hours of pleasure by business be stay'd; let them venture their stocks to be ruin'd by trust, let clickers bark on the whole day at their post: let 'em tire all that pass with their rotified cant, "will you buy any shoes, pray see what you want"; let the rest of the world still contend to be great, let some by their losses repine at their fate: let others that thrive, not content with their store, be plagu'd with the trouble and thoughts to get more. let wise men invent, 'till the world be deceived, let fools thrive thro' fortune, and knaves be believed; let such as are rich know no want, but content, let others be plagu'd to pay taxes and rent: with more freedom and pleasure my time i'll employ, and covet no blessings but what we enjoy. then let's celebrate _crispin_ with bumpers and songs, and they that drink foul, may it blister their tongues, here's two in a hand, and let no one deny 'em, since _crispin_ in youth was a _seat's-man_ as i am. _the female scuffle. to the foregoing tune._ of late in the park a fair fancy was seen, betwixt an old _baud_ and a lusty young _quean_; their parting of money began the uproar, i'll have half says the _baud_, but you shan't says the _whore_: why 'tis my own house, i care not a louse, i'll ha' three parts in four, or you get not a souse. 'tis i, says the _whore_, must take all the pains, and you shall be damn'd e'er you get all the gains; the _baud_ being vex'd, straight to her did say, come off wi' your _duds_, and i pray pack away, and likewise your _ribbonds_, your _gloves_, and your _hair_, for naked you came, and so out you go bare; then _buttocks_ so bold, began for to scold, _hurrydan_ was not able her _clack_ for to hold. both _pell-mell_ fell to't, and made this uproar, with these compliments, th'art a _baud_, th'art a _whore_: the _bauds_ and the _buttocks_ that liv'd there around, came all to the case, both _pockey_ and _sound_, to see what the reason was of this same fray, that did so disturb them before it was day; if i tell you amiss, let me never more piss, this _buttocks_ so bold she named was _siss_. by _quiffing_ with _cullies_ three pound she had got, and but one part of four must fall to her lot; yet all the _bauds_ cry'd, let us turn her out bare, unless she will yield to return her half share; if she will not, we'll help to strip off her cloaths, and turn her abroad with a slit o' the nose: who when she did see, there was no remedy, for her from the tyranous _bauds_ to get free; the _whore_ from the money was forced to yield, and in the conclusion the _baud_ got the field. _an elegy on_ mountfort. _to the foregoing tune._ poor _mountfort_ is gone, and the ladies do all break their hearts for this beau, as they did for _duvall_; and they the two brats for this tragedy damn at _kensington_ court, and the court of _bantam_, they all vow and swear, that if any peer, should acquit this young lord, he shou'd pay very dear; nor will they be pleased with him who on the throne is, if he do's not his part to revenge their _adonis_. with the widow their amorous bowels do yearn, there are divers pretend to an equal concern; and by her perswasion their hearts they reveal, in case if not guilty, to bring an appeal: they all will unite, the young blade to indite, and in prosecution will joyn day and night; in the mean time full many a tear and a groan is, wherever they meet, for their departed _adonis_. with the ladies foul murther's a horrible sin of one handsome without, tho' a coxcomb within; for not being a beau, the sad fate of poor _crab_, tho' himself hang'd for love, was a jest to each drab; then may _jering_ live long, and may _risby_ among the fair with _jack barkley_, and _culpepper_ throng: may no ruffin whose heart as hard as a stone is, kill any of those for a brother _adonis_. no lady henceforth can be safe with her beau, they think if this slaughter unpunish'd should go; their gallants, for whose persons they most are in pain, must no sooner be envy'd, but strait must be slain: for all _b----_ shape, none car'd for the rape, nor whether the virtuous their lust did escape; their trouble of mind, and their anguish alone is, for the too sudden fate of departed _adonis_. let not every vain spark think that he can engage, the heart of a female, like one on the stage; his flute, and his voice, and his dancing are rare, and wherever they meet, they prevail with the fair: but no quality fop, charms like mr. _hop_, adorn'd on the stage, and in _east-india_ shop; so that each from _miss felton_, to ancient _drake joan_ is, bemoaning the death of the player _adonis_. yet _adonis_ in spight of this new abjuration, did banter the lawful king of this great nation: who call'd god's anointed a foolish old prig, was both a base and unmannerly _whigg_: but since he is dead no more shall be said, for he in repentance has laid down his head; so i wish each lady, who in mournful tone is, in charity grieve for the death of _adonis_. _a_ song. _set by mr._ james townshend, _organist of_ lyn riges. _the words by_ j.r. [music] fly _damon_ fly, 'tis death to stay, nor listen to the _syren's_ song; nor hear her warbling fingers play, that kills in consort with her tongue: oft to despairing shepherds verse, unmov'd she tunes the trembling strings; oft does some pitying words rehearse, but little means the thing she sings. cease on her lovely looks to gaze, nor court your ruin in her eyes; her looks too 's dangerous as her face, at once engages and destroys: speak not if you'd avoid your fate, for then she darts resentment home; but fly, fly _damon_ e'er too late, or else be deaf, be blind, be dumb. mercury _to_ paris, _in the prize musick, compos'd by mr._ john eccles. [music] fear not mortal, none shall harm thee, with this sacred rod i'll charm thee; freely gaze, and view all over, thou mayst every grace discover: though a thousand darts fly round thee, fear not mortal, none can wound thee; _though a thousand darts fly round thee,_ _fear not mortal, none can wound thee._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ w. morley. [music] born to surprize the world, born to surprize the world, and teach the great, the slippery danger of exalted state; victorious _marlborough_, victorious _marlborough_, to battle flies, arm'd, arm'd with new lightning from bright _anna's_ eyes: wonders, wonders like these no former age has seen, the subjects heroes, the subjects heroes, and a saint the queen. _a_ song. _set by mr._ j. isum. [music] in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain, in vain the god i ask, he'll ne'er remove the dart; and still i love the pretty, pretty boy, altho', altho' he wound my heart: henceforth i'll be contented then, no more will i desire; no, no, no more, no, no, no more will i desire, to slight her whom i love so much, that but creates the fire: well might i expect the fate, as well as any other; since he ne'er spares the gods themselves, nor does he spare his mother. _an amorous_ song. _to the tune of_, the bonny christ-church bells. [music] see how fair and fine she lies, upon her bridal bed; no lady at the court, so fit for the sport, oh she look'd so curiously white and red: after the first and second time, the weary bridegroom slacks his pace; but oh! she cries, come, come my joy, and cling thy cheek close to my face: tinkle, tinkle, goes the bell under the bed, whilst time and touch they keep; then with a kiss, they end their bliss, and so fall fast asleep. _a_ song. _set by mr._ j. isum. [music] _corinna_ if my fate's to love you, _corinna_ if my fate's to love you, where's the harm in saying so? _corinna_ if my fate's to love you, where's the harm in saying so? why shou'd my sighs, why shou'd my sighs, why shou'd my sighs and fondness move you? to encrease, to encrease your shepherd's woe: flame pent in still burns and scorches, 'till it burns a lover's heart: love declar'd like lighted torches, wastes it self and gives less pain: love declar'd like lighted torches, wastes it self, wastes it self, wastes it self, and gives less smart. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john isum. [music] _cælia's_ charms are past expressing, were she kind as she is fair; _cælia's_ charms are past expressing, were she kind as she is fair: heav'ns cou'd grant no greater blessing, nor earth a nymph more worth our care; heav'ns cou'd grant no greater blessing, nor earth a nymph, nor earth a nymph more worth our care. but unkindness, unkindness mars her beauty, and useless makes that heav'nly, that heav'nly, that heav'nly frame; but unkindness mars her beauty, and useless makes that heav'nly, heav'nly frame: while she mistakes and calls that duty, which ill nature others name: while she mistakes and calls that duty, which ill nature others name. _the hopeful bargain: or a fare for a hackney-coachman, giving a comical relation, how an_ ale-draper _at the sign of the_ double-tooth'd rake _in or near the new_ palace-yard, westminster, _sold his wife for a shilling, and how she was sold a second time for five shillings to_ judge; _my lord ---- coachman, and how her husband receiv'd her again after she had lain with other folks three days and nights_, &c. _the tune_ lilly bullero. [music] there lives an ale-draper near _new-palace-yard_, who used to jerk the bum of his wife; and she was forced to stand on her guard, to keep his clutches from her quoiff: she poor soul the weaker vessel, to be reconcil'd was easily won; he held her in scorn, but she crown'd him with horn, _without hood or scarff, and rough as she run._ he for a shilling sold his spouse, and she was very willing to go; and left the poor cuckold alone in the house, that he by himself his horn might blow: a hackney coachman he did buy her, and was not this a very good fun; with a dirty pinner, as i am a sinner, _without hood or scarff, but rough as she run._ the woman gladly did depart, between three men was handed away; he for her husband did care not a fart, he kept her one whole night and day: then honest _judge_ the coachman bought her, and was not this most cunningly done? gave for her five shilling, to take her was willing, _without hood or scarff_, &c. the cuckold to _judge_, a letter did send, wherein he did most humbly crave; quoth he, i prithee, my rival friend, my spouse again i fain would have: and if you will but let me have her, i'll pardon what she e'er has done; i swear by my maker, again i will take her, _without hood and scarff_, &c. he sent an old baud to interceed, and to perswade her to come back; that he might have one of her delicate breed, and he would give her a ha'p'uth of sack: therefore prithee now come to me, or else poor i shall be undone: then do not forgo me, but prithee come to me, _without hood or scarff, tho' rough_, &c. the coachman then with much ado, did suffer the baud to take her out; upon the condition that she would be true, and let him have now and then a bout: but he took from her forty shillings, and gave her a parting glass at the _sun_; and then with good buyt' ye, discharged his duty, _and turn'd her a grazing, rough as she run._ the cuckold invited the coachman to dine, and gave him a treat at his own expence; they drown'd all cares in full brimmers of wine, he made him as welcome as any prince: there was all the hungregation, which from _cuckolds-point_ was come; they kissed and fumbled, they touzed and tumbled, _he was glad to take her rough as she run._ _judge_ does enjoy her where he list, he values not the old cuckold's pouts; and she is as good for the game as e'er pist, fudge on his horns sits drying of clouts: she rants and revels when she pleases, and to end as i begun, the horned wise-acre, is forced to take her _without hood or scarff, and rough as she run._ _the_ maiden lottery: _containing thousand tickets, at a guinea each; the prizes being rich and loving husbands, from three thousand to one hundred a year, which lottery will begin to draw on next_ valentine's _day._ _then pretty lasses venture now,_ _kind_ fortune _may her smiles alow._ [music] young ladies that live in the city, sweet beautiful proper and tall; and country maids who dabling wades, here's happy good news for you all: a lottery now out of hand, erected will be in the _strand_; young husbands with treasure, and wealth out of measure will fairly be at your command: _of her that shall light of a fortunate lot,_ _there's six of three thousand a year to be got._ i tell you the price of each ticket, it is but a guinea, i'll vow; then hasten away, and make no delay, and fill up the lottery now: if _gillian_ that lodges in straw, shall have the good fortune to draw a knight or a 'squire, he'll never deny her, 'tis fair and according to law; _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there's ten of two thousand a year to be got._ the number is seventy thousand, when all the whole lot is compleat; five hundred of which, are prizes most rich, believe me for this is no cheat: there's drapers and taylors likewise, brave men that you cannot despise; come _bridget_ and _jenny_, and throw in your guinea, a husband's a delicate prize: _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there's ten of one thousand a year to be got._ suppose you should win for your guinea, a man of three thousand a year; would this not be brave; what more would you have? you soon might in glory appear: in glittering coach you may ride, with lackeys to run by your side; for why should you spare it? faith win gold and wear it; now who would not be such a bride? _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there's sixty, five hundreds a year to be got._ old widows, and maids above forty, shall not be admitted to draw: there's five hundred and ten, as proper young men, indeed, as your eyes ever saw: who scorns for one guinea of gold, to lodge with a woman that's old; young maids are admitted, in hopes to be fitted, with husbands couragious and bold: _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there are wealthy kind husbands now, now to be got._ kind men that are full of good nature, the flaxen, the black, and the brown; both lusty and stout, and fit to hold out, the prime and the top of the town: so clever in every part, they'll please a young girl to the heart; nay, kiss you, and squeese you, and tenderly please you, for love has a conquering dart: _then come pretty lasses and purchase a lot,_ _there are wealthy kind husbands now, now to be got._ then never be fearful to venture, but girls bring you guineas away; come merrily in, for we shall begin, to draw upon _valentine's_ day: the prizes are many and great, each man with a worthy estate; then come away _mary_, _sib_, _susan_, and _sarah_, _joan_, _nancy_, and pretty fac'd _kate_: _for now is the time if you'll purchase a lot,_ _while wealthy kind husbands they are to be got._ amongst you i know there is many, will miss of a capital prize: yet nevertheless, no sorrows express, but dry up your watry eyes: young lasses it is but in vain, in sorrowful sighs to complain; then ne'er be faint hearted, tho' luck be departed, for all cannot reckon to gain: _yet venture young lasses, your guineas bring in,_ _the lucky will have the good fortune to win._ _a_ song _on the_ jubilee. [music] come beaus, virtuoso's, rich heirs and musicians away, and in troops to the _jubile_ jog; leave discord and death, to the college physicians, let the vig'rous whore on, and the impotent flog: already _rome_ opens her arms to receive ye, and ev'ry transgression her lord will forgive ye. indulgences, pardons, and such holy lumber, as cheap there is now as our cabbages grown; while musty old relicks of saints without number, for barely the looking upon, shall be shown: these, were you an atheist, must needs overcome ye, that first were made martyrs, and afterwards mummy. they'll shew ye the river, so sung by the poets, with the rock from whence, mortals were knockt o'th' head; they'll shew ye the place too, as some will avow it, where once a she pope was brought fairly to bed: for which, ever since, to prevent interloping, in a chair her successors still suffer a groping. what a sight 'tis to see the gay idol accoutred, with mitre and cap, and two keys by his side; be his inside what 'twill, yet the pomp of his outward, shows _servus servorum_, no hater of pride, these keys into heav'n will as surely admit ye, as clerks of a parish to a pew in the city. what a sight 'tis to see the old man in procession, through _rome_ in such pomp as here _cæsar_ did ride, now scattering of pardons, here crossing, there blessing, with all his shav'd spiritual train'd-bans by his side; as, _confessors_, _cardinals_, _monks_ fat as bacons, from rev'rend _arch-bishops_, to rosie _arch-deacons_. then for your diversion the more to regale ye, fine music you'll hear, and high dancing you'll see; men who much shall out-warble your famous _fideli_, and make ye meer fools, of _balloon_ and _l'abbe_: and to shew ye how fond they're to kiss _vostre manos_, each _padre_ turns pimp, all _nuns_ courtezana's. and when you've some months at old _babylon_ been-_a_, and on pardons, and punks, all your _rhino_ is spent; and when you have seen all, that there is to be seen-_a_, you'll return not so rich, tho' as wise as you went: and 'twill be but small comfort after so much expence-_a_, that your heirs will do just so an hundred years hence-_a_. _a young man's_ will. [music] a _young man_ sick and like to die, his last _will_ being written found; i give my _soul_ to _god_ on high, and my _body_ to the ground: unto some _church-men_ do i give, base minds to greedy lucre bent; _pride_ and _ambition_ whilst they live, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. _item._ poor folks _brown bread_ i give, and eke _bare bones_, with hungry cheeks; _toil_ and _travel_ whilst they live, and to feed on _roots_ and _leeks_: _item._ to rich men i bestow, high _looks_, low _deeds_, and hearts of flint; and that themselves they seldom know, _by this_, &c. proud stately _courtiers_ do i _will_, two faces in one head to wear, for great men _bribes_, i think most fit, _pride_ and _oppression_ through the year: _tenants_ i give them leave to lose, and _landlords_ for to raise their _rent_; _rogues_ to fawn, collogue and glose, _by this_, &c. _item._ to _soldiers_ for their _fees_, i give them _wounds_ their bodies full; and for to beg on bended knees, with cap in hand to every _gull_: _item_. i will poor _scholars_ have, for all their pains and travel spent: _raggs_, _jaggs_, and _taunts_ of every knave, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to _shoemakers_ i grant this boon, which _mercury_ gave them once before; altho' they earn two pence by noon, to spend e'er night two groats and more: and _blacksmiths_ when the work is done, i give to them incontinent, to drink two barrels with a bun, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to _weavers_ swift, this do i leave, against that may beseem them well: that they their good wives do deceive, bring home a yard and steal an ell: and _taylors_ too must be set down, a _gift_ to give them i am bent; to cut four sleeves to every gown, _by this_, &c. to tavern haunters grant i more, red eyes, red nose, and stinking breath; and doublets foul with drops before, and foul shame until their _death_: and _gamesters_ that will never leave, before their substance be all spent; the wooden _dagger_ i bequeath, _by this_, &c. to common fidlers i _will_ that they, shall go in poor and thread-bare coats; and at most places where they play, to carry away more _tunes_ than _groats_: to wand'ring _players_ i do give, before their _substance_ be all spent; proud silk'n _beggars_ for to live, _by this_, &c. to _wenching_ smell-smocks give i these, dead looks, gaunt purrs, and crasy back; and now and then the foul _disease_, such as _gill_ gave to _jack_; to _parretors_ i give them clear, for all their _toil_ and _travel_ spent; the _devil_ away such _knaves_ to bear, by _this my_ will _and_ testament. i _will_ that _cutpurses_ haunt all _fairs_, and thrust among the thickest throng; that neither _purse_ nor _pocket_ spare, but what they get to bear along: but if they falter in their trade, and so betray their bad intent; i give them _tyburn_ for their share, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to serving men i give this gift, that when their strength is once decay'd; the master of such men do shift, as horsemen do a toothless _jade_: _item._ i give them leave to _pine_, for all their service so ill spent: and with _duke humphry_ for to dine, _by this_, &c. _item._ to _millers_ i grant withal, that they spare, nor poke, nor sack; but with _grist_, so e'er befal, they grind a strike, and steal a peck: i _will_ that _butchers_ huff their meat, and sell a lump of _ramish_ scent; for weather mutton good and sweet, _by this_, &c. i _will_ ale wives punish their guests, with hungry cakes and little canns; and barm their drink with new found _yeest_, such as is made of _pispot_ grounds: and she that meaneth for to gain, and in her house have money spent, i _will_ she keep a pretty punck, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. to jealous husbands i do grant, lack of pleasure, want of sleep; that lanthorn horns they never want, tho' ne'er so close their wives they keep: and for their wives, i _will_ that they, the closer up that they are pent; the closer still they seek to play, _by this my_ will _and_ testament. for swearing _swaggerers_ nought is left, to give them for a parting blow; but leaving off of damned oaths, and that of them i will bestow: _item._ i give them for their pain, that when all hope and livelihood's spent, a wallet or a hempen chain, _by this_ &c. time and longest livers do i make, the supervisor of my _will_: my gold and silver let them take, that will dig for't in _malvein_ hill. _a new_ song, _sung at the playhouse. by mr._ dogget. [music] in the devil's country there lately did dwell, a crew of such whores as was ne'er bred in hell, the devil himself he knows it full well, _which no body can deny, deny;_ _which no body can deny._ there were six of the gang, and all of a bud, which open'd as soon as got into the blood, there are five to be hang'd, when the other proves good, _which no body_, &c. but it seems they have hitherto sav'd all their lives, since they cou'd not live honest, there's four made wives, the other two they are not marry'd but sw----s, _which no body_, &c. the eldest the matron of t'other five imps, though as chast as _diana_, or any o'th' nymphs, yet rather than daughter shall want it, she pimps, _which no body_, &c. damn'd proud and ambitious both old and the young, and not fit for honest men to come among, a damn'd itch in their tail, and a sting in their tongue, _sing tantara rara whores all, whores all,_ _sing tantara rara whores all._ _a_ song. [music] marriage it seems is for better for worse, some count it a blessing and others a curse; the cuckolds are blest if the proverb prove true, and then there's no doubt but in heav'n there's enough: of honest rich rogues who ne'er had got there, if their wives had not sent them thro' trembling and fear. some women are honest, tho' rare in a wife, yet with scolding and brawling they'll shorten your life, you ne'er can enjoy your bottle and friend; but your wife like an imp, is at your elbow's end: crying fie, fie you sot, come, come, come, come, so these are unhappy abroad and at home. we find the batchelor liveth best, tho' drunk or sober he takes his rest; he never is troubl'd with scolding or strife, 'tis the best can be said of a very good wife: but merrily day and night does spend, enjoying his mistress, bottle, and friend. a woman out-wits us, do what we can, she'll make a fool of ev'ry wise man; old mother _eve_ did the _serpent_ obey, and has taught all her sex that damnable way: of cheating and couzening all mankind, 'twere better if _adam_ had still been blind. the poor man that marries he thinks he does well, i pity's condition, for sure he's in hell; the fool is a sotting and spends all he gets, the child is a bawling, the wife daily frets: that marriage is pleasant we all must agree, consider it well, there's none happier can be. _a_ song. [music] the _caffalier_ was gone, and the _roundhead_ he was come, was the greatest blessing under the sun; before the devil in hell sally'd out, and ript the placket of letter, ay, and take her money too, _cot bless hur master_ roundhead, _and send hur well to do._ now hur can go to _shrewsperry_ her flannel for to sell, hur can carry a creat sharge of money about hur, thirty or forty groats lap'd in a _welsh_ carter, ay, and think hur self rich too, _cot bless_, &c. now hur can coe to shurch, or hur can stay at home, hur can say hur _lord's prayer_, or hur can let it alone: hur can make a prayer of hur own head, lye with hur holy sister, ay, and say a long crace too, _cot bless_, &c. but yet for all the great cood that you for hur have done, would you wou'd made peace with our king, and let hur come home, put off the military charge, impost, and excise, ay, and free quarter too. _then cot shall bless you master_ roundhead, _and send hur well to do._ _a_ song _sung by mrs._ cross. _set by mr._ jeremiah clark. [music] divine _astrea_ hither flew, to _cynthia's_ brighter throne; she left the iron world below, to bless the silver moon: _she left the iron world below,_ _to bless the silver moon._ tho' _phoebus_ with his hotter beams, do's gold in earth create; that leads those wretches to extreams, of av'rice, lust, and hate. _a_ song _in the_ surpriz'd lovers. _set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mr._ bowman. [music] when first i saw her charming face, her taking shape and moving grace; my rosie cheeks, my rosie cheeks did glow with heat, my heart and my pulse did beat, beat, beat, my heart and my pulse did beat; i wish'd for a, i wish'd for a, do you, do you guess what, do you guess what makes soldiers fight, soldiers fight, and states-men plot. subdues us all in every thing, and makes, makes a subject of a king; still she deny'd, and i reply'd, away she flew, i did pursue, at last i catch'd her fast; but oh! had you seen, but oh! had you seen, had you seen what had past between; oh! i fear, i fear, oh! i fear, i fear, oh! i fear, i fear, i fear, i have spoil'd her wast. _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyd. [music] the _devil_ he pull'd of his jacket of flame, the _fryer_ he pull'd off his cowle; the _devil_ took him for a dunce of the game, and the _fryer_ took him for a fool: he piqu'd, and repiqu'd so oft, that at last, he swore by the jolly fat _nuns_; if cards came no better than those that are past, oh! oh! i shall lose all my _buns_. _a new_ song. _translated from the_ french. [music] pretty parret say, when i was away, and in dull absence pass'd the day; what at home was doing; with chat and play, we are gay, night and day, good chear and mirth renewing; _singing, laughing all, singing laughing all, like pretty pretty_ poll. was no fop so rude, boldly to intrude, and like a sawcy lover wou'd, court, and teaze my lady: a thing you know, made for show, call'd a beau, near her was always ready, _ever at her call, like pretty, pretty_ poll. tell me with what air, he approach'd the fair, and how she could with patience bear, all he did and utter'd; he still address'd, still caress'd, kiss'd and press'd, sung, prattl'd, laugh'd, and flutter'd: _well receiv'd in all, like pretty, pretty_ poll. did he go away, at the close of the day, or did he ever use to stay in a corner dodging; the want of light, when 'twas night, spoil'd my sight, but i believe his lodging, _was within her call, like pretty, pretty_ poll. _a_ song _by a person of honour. set by mr._ john weldon. [music] at noon in a sultry summer's day, the brightest lady of the _may_, young _chloris_ innocent and gay, sat knotting in a shade: each slender finger play'd its part, with such activity and art; as wou'd inflame a youthful heart, and warm the most decay'd. her fav'rite swain by chance came by; she had him quickly in her eye, yet when the bashful boy drew nigh, she wou'd have seem'd afraid, she let her iv'ry needle fall, and hurl'd away the twisted ball; then gave her _strephon_ such a call, as wou'd have wak'd the dead. dear gentle youth is't none but thee? with innocence i dare be free; by so much trust and modesty, no nymph was e'er betray'd, come lean thy head upon my lap, while thy soft cheeks i stroak and clap; thou may'st securely take a nap, which he poor fool, obey'd. she saw him yawn, and heard him snore, and found him fast a sleep all o're; she sigh'd ---- and cou'd no more, but starting up she said, such vertue shou'd rewarded be, for this thy dull fidelity; i'll trust thee with my flocks, not me, pursue thy grazing trade. go milk thy goats, and sheer thy sheep, and watch all night thy flocks, to keep; thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep, by me mistaken maid. _a_ song. _set by mr._ jeremy clark. [music] while the lover is thinking, with my friend i'll be drinking and with vigour pursue my delight; while the fool is designing, his fatal confining, with _bacchus_ i'll spend the whole night: with the god i'll be jolly, without madness or folly. fickle woman to marry implore, leave my bottle and friend, for so foolish an end, when i do, may i never drink more. _a health to the_ tackers. [music] here's a health to the tackers, my boys, but mine a----se for the tackers about; may the brave _english_ spirits come in, and the knaves and _fanaticks_ turn out: since the _magpyes_ of late, are confounding the state, and wou'd pull our establishments down; let us make 'em a jest, for they shit in their nest, and be true to the church and the crown. let us chuse such parliament men as have stuck to their principles tight; and wou'd not their country betray in the story of _ashby_ and _white_: who care not a t----d, for a _whig_, or a lord, that won't see our accounts fairly stated; for _c----ll_ ne'er fears, the address of those peers, who the nation of millions have cheated. the next thing adviseable is, since _schism_ so strangely abounds; to oppose e'ery man that's set up by _dissenters_, in corporate towns: for _high-church_, and _low-church_, has brought us to no _church_, and conscience so bubbl'd the nation; for who is not still for conformity bill, will be surely a r---- on occasion. _a_ song. _set by mr._ anthony young. [music] since _cælia_ only has the art, and only she can captivate, and wanton in my breast; all other pleasure i despise, than what are from my _cælia's_ eyes, in her alone i'm blest. whene'er she smiles, new life she gives, and happy, happy who receives, from her inchanting breath; then prithee _cælia_ smile once more, since i no longer must adore, for when you frown 'tis death. _a_ song. [music] ah! how lovely sweet and dear, is the kind relenting fair, who reprieve us in despair; oh! that thus my nymph wou'd say, come, come my dear thy cares repay, be blest my love, be mine to day: _come, come my dear, thy cares repay,_ _be blest my love, be mine to day._ _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] advance, advance, advance gay tenants of the plain, advance, advance, advance, gay tenants of the plain, loud eccho spread my voice, loud eccho spread my voice, loud eccho, loud eccho, loud eccho, loud eccho, loud eccho, spread my voice, advance, advance, advance, gay tenants of the plain, advance, advance, advance, gay tenants of the plain. _the_ king _and the shepherd, and_ gillian _the shepherd's wife, with her churlish answer to the_ king. [music] in elder time, there was of yore, when guides of churlish glee; were us'd among our country earls, though no such thing now be. the which king _alfred_ liking well, forsook his stately court; and in disguise unknown went forth, to see that jovial sport. how _dick_ and _tom_, in clouted shoon, and coats of russet grey, esteem'd themselves more brave than them, that went in golden ray. in garments fit for such a life, the good king _alfred_ went, all ragg'd and torn, as from his back the beggar his cloaths had rent. a sword and buckler good and strong, to give _jack sauce_ a rap; and on his head, instead of crown, he wore a _monmouth_ cap. thus coasting through _somersetshire_, near _newton_ court he met a shepherd swain of lusty limb, that up and down did jet. he wore a bonnet of good grey, close buttoned to his chin; and at his back a leather scrip, with much good meat therein. god speed, good shepherd, quoth the king, i come to be thy guest; to taste of thy good victuals here, and drink that's of the best. thy scrip i know, hath cheer good store, what then the shepherd said? thou seem'st to be some sturdy thief, and mak'st me sore afraid. yet if thou wilt thy dinner win, the sword and buckler take; and if thou canst into my scrip, therewith an entrance make. i tell thee, roister, it hath store of beef, and bacon fat; with sheafs of barly-bread to make thy mouth to water at. here stands my bottle, here my bag, if thou canst win them roister; against the sword and buckler here, my sheep-hook is my master. _benedicit_ now, quoth our good king, it never shall be said; that _alfred_ of the shepherd's hook, will stand a whit afraid. so soundly thus they both fell to't, and giving bang for bang; at every blow the shepherd gave, king _alfred's_ sword cry'd twang. his buckler prov'd his chiefest fence, for still the shepherd's hook; was that the which king _alfred_ could, in no good manner brook. at last when they had fought four hours, and it grew just mid-day; and wearied both, with right good will, desir'd each others stay. king, truce i cry, quoth _alfred_ then, good shepherd hold thy hand: a sturdier fellow than thy self, lives not within this land. nor a lustier roister than thou art, the churlish shepherd said, to tell thee plain, thy thievish looks, now makes my heart afraid. else sure thou art some prodigal, which hast consum'd thy store; and now com'st wand'ring in this place, to rob and steal for more. deem not of me, then quoth our king, good shepherd in this sort; a gentleman well known i am, in good king _alfred's_ court. the devil thou art, the shepherd said, thou goest in rags all torn; thou rather seem'st, i think to be, some beggar basely born. but if thou wilt mend thy estate, and here a shepherd be; at night to _gillian_ my sweet wife, thou shalt go home with me. for she's as good a toothless dame, as mumbleth on brown bread; where thou shalt lie on hurden sheets, upon a fresh straw bed. of whig and whey, we have good store, and keep good pease-straw fires; and now and then good barly cakes, as better days requires. but for my master which is chief, and lord of _newton_ court; he keeps i say, his shepherds swains, in far more braver sort. we there have curds, and clouted cream, of red cows morning milk; and now and then fine buttered cakes, as soft as any silk. of beef and reised bacon store, that is most fat and greasy; we have likewise to feast our chaps, and make them glib and easie. thus if thou wilt my man become, this usage thou shalt have; if not, adieu, go hang thy self, and so farewel sir knave. king _alfred_ hearing of this glee, the churlish shepherd said; was well content to be his man, so they a bargain made. a penny round, the shepherd gave, in earnest of this match; to keep his sheep in field and fold, as shepherds use to watch. his wages shall be full ten groats, for service of a year; yet was it not his use, old lad, to hire a man so dear. for did the king himself (quoth he) unto my cottage come; he should not for a twelvemonths pay, receive a greater sum. hereat the bonny king grew blith, to hear the clownish jest; how silly sots, as custom is, do discant at the best. but not to spoil the foolish sport, he was content good king; to fit the shepherd's humour right, in every kind of thing. a sheep-hook then, with _patch_ his dog, and tar-box by his side; he with his master, jig by jowl, unto old _gillian_ hy'd. into whose sight no sooner came, whom have you here (quoth she) a fellow i doubt, will cut our throats, so like a knave looks he. not so old dame, quoth _alfred_ strait, of me you need not fear; my master hir'd me for ten groats, to serve you one whole year. so good dame _gillian_ grant me leave, within your house to stay; for by st. _ann_, do what you can, i will not yet away. her churlish usage pleas'd him still, put him to such a proof, that he at night was almost choak'd, within that smoaky roof. but as he sat with smiling cheer, the event of all to see; his dame brought forth a piece of dow, which in the fire throws she. where lying on the hearth to bake, by chance the cake did burn; what can'st thou not, thou lout (quoth she) take pains the same to turn: thou art more quick to take it out, and eat it up half dow, than thus to stay till't be enough, and so thy manners show. but serve me such another trick, i'll thwack thee on the snout; which made the patient king, good man, of her to stand in doubt: but to be brief, to bed they went, the good old man and's wife; but never such a lodging had king _alfred_ in his life: for he was laid in white sheeps wool, new pull'd from tanned fells, and o'er his head hang'd spiders webbs, as if they had been bells. is this the country guise, thought he, then here i will not stay; but hence be gone as soon as breaks the peeping of the day. the cackling hens and geese kept roost, and perched at his side; whereat the last the watchful cock, made known the morning tide. then up got _alfred_ with his horn, and blew so long a blast, that made _gillian_ and her groom, in bed full sore agast. arise, quoth she, we are undone, this night, we lodged have, at unawares within our house, a false dissembling knave; rise husband, rise, he'll cut our throats, he calleth for his mates, i'd give old _will_ our good cade lamb, he would depart our gates. but still king _alfred_ blew his horn before them, more and more, 'till that a hundred lords and knights, all lighted at the door: which cry'd all hail, all hail good king, long have we look'd your grace; and here you find (my merry men all) your sovereign in this place. we shall surely be hang'd up both, old _gillian_ i much fear, the shepherd said, for using thus our good king _alfred_ here: o pardon, my liege, quoth _gillian_ then, for my husband and for me, by these ten bones i never thought the same that now i see: and by my hook, the shepherd said, an oath both good and true, before this time, o noble king, i never your highness knew: then pardon me and my old wife, that we may after say, when first you came into our house, it was a happy day. it shall be done, said _alfred_ streight, and _gillian_ thy old dame, for this thy churlish using me, deserveth not much blame. for this thy country guise i see, to be thus bluntish still, and where the plainest meaning is, remains the smallest ill. and master, lo i tell thee now, for thy low manhood shown, a thousand weathers i'll bestow upon thee for thy own. and pasture ground, as much as will suffice to feed them all, and this thy cottage i will change into a stately hall. as for the same, as duty binds, the shepherd said, good king, a milk white lamb once every year, i'll to your highness bring. and _gillian_ my wife likewise, of wool to make you coats, will give you as much at new year's tide, as shall be worth ten groats: and in your praise my bagpipe shall sound sweetly once a year, how _alfred_ our renowned king, most kindly hath been here. thanks shepherd, thanks, quoth he again the next time i come hither, my lords with me here in this house, will all be merry together. _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] cease, cease of _cupid_ to complain, love, love's a joy even while a pain; oh! then think! oh! then think; oh! then think how great his blisses, moving glances, balmy kisses, charming raptures, matchless sweets, love, love alone, love, love alone, love, love alone, all joys compleats. _a_ song. _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] come, come ye nymphs, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, _galatea_ leaves the main, to revive us on the plain, to revive us, to revive us, to revive us on the plain; come, come, come, come ye nymphs, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain, _galatea_ leaves the main, to revive us on the plain, to revive us on the plain, come ye nymphs and ev'ry swain. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john barret. [music] _ianthia_ the lovely, the joy of her swain, by _iphis_ was lov'd, and lov'd _iphis_ again; she liv'd in the youth, and the youth in the fair, their pleasure was equal, and equal their care; no time, no enjoyment their dotage withdrew; but the longer they liv'd, but the longer they liv'd, still the fonder they grew. a passion so happy alarm'd all the plain, some envy'd the nymph, but more envy'd the swain; some swore 'twould be pity their loves to invade, that the lovers alone for each other was made: but all, all consented, that none ever knew, a nymph yet so kind, a nymph yet so kind, or a shepherd so true. love saw 'em with pleasure, and vow'd to take care of the faithful, the tender, the innocent pair; what either did want, he bid either to move, but they wanted nothing, but ever to love: said, 'twas all that to bless him his god-head cou'd do, that they still might be kind, that they still might be kind, and they still might be true. _a_ song. [music] bring out your coney-skins bring out your coney-skins maids to me, and hold them fair that i may see, grey, black and blue, for the smaller skins i'll give you bracelets, laces, pins, and for your whole coney here's ready money, come gentle _joan_, do thou begin with thy black coney, thy black coney-skin, and _mary_ and _joan_ will follow, with their silver-hair'd skins and yellow; the white coney-skin i will not lay by, for tho' it be faint, it is fair to the eye: the grey it is worn, but yet for my money, give me the bonny, bonny black coney; come away fair maids, your skins will decay, come and take money maids, put your wares away: ha'ye any coney-skins, ha'ye any coney-skins, ha'ye any coney-skins here to sell? _a_ song. _the words by mr._ clossold, _set by mr._ john wilford. [music] nay pish, nay pish, nay pish sir, what ails you; lord! what is't you do? i ne'er met with one so uncivil as you; you may think as you please, but if evil it be, i wou'd have you to know, you're mistaken in me. you men now so rude, and so boistrous are grown, a woman can't trust her self with you alone: i cannot but wonder what 'tis that shou'd move ye; if you do so again, i swear, i swear, i swear, i swear, i swear i won't love ye. _a_ song. _set by mr._ motley. [music] draw _cupid_ draw, and make fair _sylvia_ know; the mighty pain her suff'ring swain does for her undergo; convey this dart into her heart, and when she's set on fire, do thou return and let her burn, like me in chast desire; that by experience she, may learn to pity me, whene'er her eyes do tyrannize o'er my captivity: but when in love we jointly move, and tenderly imbrace, like angels shine, and sweetly join to one another's face. _a_ song; _the words by a person of a quality. set to musick by mr._ robert cary. [music] some brag of their _chloris_, and some of their _phillis_, some cry up their _cælia_, and bright _amaryllis_: thus poets and lovers their mistresses dub, and goddesses fram'd from the wash-bowl and tub; but away with these fictions, and counterfeit folly: there's a thousand more charms in the name of my _dolly_. i cannot describe you her beauty and wit, like manna to each she's a relishing bit; she alone by enjoyment, the more does prevail, and still with fresh pleasures does hoist up your sail: nay, had you a surfeit, but took of all others, one look from my _dolly_ your stomach recovers. _the mountebank_ song. _sung by dr._ leverigo, _and his merry andrew_ pinkanello, _in_ farewel to folly. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music: here are people and sports of all sizes and sorts, coach'd damsel with squire, and mob in the mire, tarpaulins, trugmallions, lords, ladys, sows, babies, and loobys in scores. some howling, some bawling, some leering, some fleering, some loving, some shoving, with legions of furbelow'd whores. to the tavern, some go, and some to a show, see poppets for moppets, jack-puddings, for cuddens, rope dancing, mares prancing, boats flying, quacks lying, pick-pockets, pick plackets, beasts, butchers, and beaus. fops prat'ling, dies rat'ling, rooks shaming, puts daming, whores painted, mask's tainted, in tallymans furbelow'd cloaths. the mobs joys would you know to yon musick-house go, see tailors, and saylors, whores oily in doily, hear musick, makes you sick: cows skipping, clowns tripping, some joaking, some smoaking, like spiggit and tap; short measure, strange pleasure thus billing, and swilling, some yearly, get fairly, for fairings pig, pork, and a clap.] _the mountebank_ song. _set and sung by mr._ leveridge, _in a new play call'd_, farewel to folly. [music: see, sirs, see here! a doctor rare, who travels much at home! here take my bills, take my bills, i cure all ills, past, present, and to come; the cramp, the stitch, the squirt, the itch, the gout, the stone, the pox, the mulligrubs, the bonny scrubs, and all, all, all, all, all, _pandora's_ box; thousands i've dissected, thousands new erected, and such cures effected, as none e'er can tell. let the palsie shake ye, let the chollick rack ye, let the crinkums break ye, let the murrain take ye; take this, take this and you are well. thousands, &c. come wits so keen, devour'd with spleen; come beaus who sprain'd your backs, great-belly'd maids, old founder'd jades, and pepper'd vizard cracks. i soon remove the pains of love, and cure the love-sick maid; the hot, the cold, the young, the old, the living and the dead. i clear the lass with wainscot face, and from pim-ginets free, plump ladies red, like _saracen's_-head, with toaping rattafe. this with a jirk, will do your work, and scour you o're and o're, read, judge and try, and if you die, never believe me more, never, never, never, never, never believe me more.] _a_ song _in the_ mock marriage. _sung by mrs._ knight. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] oh! how you protest and solemnly swear, look humble, and fawn like an ass; i'm pleas'd, i must own, when ever i see a lover that's brought to this pass. keep, keep further off, you're naughty i fear, i vow i will never, will never, will never yield to't; you ask me in vain; for never i swear, i never, no never, i never, no never, i never, no never will do't. for when the deed's done, how quickly you go, no more of the lover remains, in hast you depart, whate'er we can do, and stubbornly throw off your chains: desist then in time, let's hear on't no more, i vow i will never yield to't; you promise in vain, in vain you adore, for i will never, no never will do't. jockey's _lamentation._ [music] _jockey_ met with _jenny_ fair betwixt the dawning and the day, and _jockey_ now is full of care, for _jenny_ stole his heart away: altho' she promis'd to be true, yet she, alas, has prov'd unkind, that which do make poor _jenny_ rue, for _jenny's_ fickle as the wind: and, _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _the wind has blown my plad away._ _jockey_ was a bonny lad, as e'er was born in _scotland_ fair; but now poor _jockey_ is run mad, for _jenny_ causes his despair; _jockey_ was a piper's son, and fell in love while he was young: but all the tunes that he could play, was, _o'er the hills, and far away,_ and, _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills and far away,_ _the wind has blown my plad away._ when first i saw my _jenny's_ face, she did appear with sike a grace, with muckle joy my heart was fill'd; but now alas with sorrow kill'd. oh! was she but as true as fair, 'twou'd put an end to my despair; but ah, alass! this is unkind, which sore does terrify my mind; _'twas o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'twas o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'twas o'er the hills, and far away,_ _that_ jenny _stole my heart away._ did she but feel the dismal woe that for her sake i undergo, she surely then would grant relief, and put an end to all my grief: but oh, she is as false as fair, which causes all my sad despair; she triumphs in a proud disdain, and takes delight to see my pain; _'tis o'er the hills_, &c. hard was my hap to fall in love, with one that does so faithless prove; hard was my fate to court the maid, that has my constant heart betray'd: a thousand times to me she swore, she would be true for evermore: but oh! alas, with grief i say, she's stole my heart, and ran away; _'twas o'er the hills_, &c. good gentle _cupid_ take my part, and pierce this false one to the heart, that she may once but feel the woe, as i for her do undergo; oh! make her feel this raging pain, that for her love i do sustain; she sure would then more gentle be, and soon repent her cruelty; _'tis o'er the hills_, &c. i now must wander for her sake, since that she will no pity take, into the woods and shady grove, and bid adieu to my false love: since she is false whom i adore, i ne'er will trust a woman more, from all their charms i'll fly away, and on my pipe will sweetly play; _'tis o'er the hills_, &c. there by my self i'll sing and say, _'tis o'er the hills, and far away_, that my poor heart is gone astray, which makes me grieve both night and day; farewel, farewel, thou cruel she, i fear that i shall die for thee: but if i live, this vow i'll make, to love no other for your sake. _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _'tis o'er the hills, and far away,_ _the wind has blown my plad away._ the recruiting officer: _or_, the merry volunteers: _being an excellent new copy of verses upon raising recruits._ _to the foregoing tune._ hark! now the drums beat up again, for all true soldiers gentlemen, then let us list, and march i say, over the hills and far away; over the hills and o'er the main, to _flanders_, _portugal_ and _spain_, queen _ann_ commands, and we'll obey, _over the hills and far away_. all gentlemen that have a mind, to serve the queen that's good and kind; come list and enter into pay, then o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. here's forty shillings on the drum, for those that volunteers do come, with shirts, and cloaths, and present pay, when o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. hear that brave boys, and let us go, or else we shall be prest you know; then list and enter into pay, and o'er the hills and far away, _over the hills_, &c. the constables they search about, to find such brisk young fellows out; then let's be volunteers i say, over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. since now the _french_ so low are brought, and wealth and honour's to be got, who then behind wou'd sneaking stay? when o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. no more from sound of drum retreat, while _marlborough_, and _gallaway_ beat, the _french_ and _spaniards_ every day, when over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. he that is forc'd to go and fight, will never get true honour by't, while volunteers shall win the day, when o'er the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. what tho' our friends our absence mourn, we all with honour shall return; and then we'll sing both night and day, over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. the prentice _tom_ he may refuse, to wipe his angry master's shoes; for then he's free to sing and play, over the hills and far away; _over the hills_, &c. over rivers, bogs, and springs, we all shall live as great as kings, and plunder get both night and day, when over the hills and far away, _over the hills_, &c. we then shall lead more happy lives, by getting rid of brats and wives, that scold on both night and day, when o'er the hills and far away: _over the hills_, &c. come on then boys and you shall see, we every one shall captains be, to whore and rant as well as they, when o'er the hills and far away: _over the hills_, &c. for if we go 'tis one to ten, but we return all gentlemen, all gentlemen as well as they, when o'er the hills and far away: _over the hills_, &c. _a_ scotch song. _set by mr._ john barrett. [music] ah! foolish lass, what mun i do? my modesty i well may rue, which of my joy bereft me; for full of love he came, but out of silly shame, with pish and phoo i play'd, to muckle the coy maid, and the raw young loon has left me. wou'd _jockey_ knew how muckle i lue, did i less art, or did he shew, more nature, how bleast i'd be; i'd not have reason to complain, that i lue'd now in vain, gen he more a man was, i'd be less a coy lass, had the raw young loon weel try'd me. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_ justice buisy, _or the_ gentleman quack: _set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mrs._ bracegirdle. [music] no, no ev'ry morning my beauties renew, where-ever i go, i have lovers enough; i dress and i dance, and i laugh and i sing, am lovely and lively, and gay as the spring: i visit, i game, and i cast away care, mind lovers no more, than the birds of the air, mind lovers no more, than the birds of the air. _a_ song. _set by mr._ willis. [music] now my freedom's regain'd, and by _bacchus_ i swear, all whining dull whimsys of love i'll cashire: the charm's more engaging in bumpers of wine, then let _chloe_ be damn'd, but let this be divine: whilst youth warms thy veins, boy embrace thy full glasses, damn _cupid_ and all his poor proselyte asses; let this be thy rule _tom_, to square out thy life, and when old in a friend, thou'lt live free from all strife, only envied by him that is plagu'd with a wife. _a_ scotch song, _the words by mr._ peter noble, _set by mr._ john wilford. [music] bonny _scottish_ lads that keens me weel, lith ye what, ye what good luck ise fun; _moggey_ is mine own in spight o'th' de'el, i alone her heart has won: near st. _andrew's_ kirk in _london_ town, there ise, ise met my dearest joy; shinening in her silken hued and gown, but ne'er ack, ne'er ack she prov'd not coy. then after many compliments, streight we gang'd into the kirk; there full weel she tuck the documents, and flang me many pleasing smirk: weel i weat that i have gear enough, she's have a yode to ride ont; she's neither drive the swine, nor the plough, whatever does betide ont. _a new_ song _in the play call'd_, a duke and no duke. _sung by mrs._ cibber. [music] _damon_ if you will believe me, 'tis not sighing o'er the plain; songs nor sonnets can't relieve ye, faint attempts in love are vain: urge but home the fair occasion, and be master of the field; to a powerful kind invasion, 'twere a madness not to yield. tho' she vow's she'll ne'er permit ye, says you're rude, and much to blame; and with tears implores your pity, be not merciful for shame: when the first assault is over, _chloris_ time enough will find; this so fierce and cruel lover, much more gentle, not so kind. _a_ song. _the words made to a tune of the late mr._ henry purcell's. [music] drunk i was last night that's poss, my wife began to scold; say what i cou'd for my heart's blood, her clack she wou'd not hold: thus her chat she did begin, is this your time of coming in; the clock strikes one, you'll be undone, if thus you lead your life: my dear said i, i can't deny, but what you say is true; i do intend, my life to mend, pray lends the pot to spew. fye, you sot, i ne'er can bear, to rise thus e'ery night; tho' like a beast you never care, what consequence comes by't: the child and i may starve for you, we neither can have half our due; with grief i find, you're so unkind, in time you'll break my heart: at that i smil'd, and said dear child, i believe your in the wrong; but if't shou'd be you're destiny, i'll sing a merry song. _the gelding the devil. set by mr._ tho. wroth. [music] i met with the devil in the shape of a ram, then over and over the sow-gelder came; i rose and halter'd him fast by the horns, and pick'd out his stones, as you would pick out corns; maa, quoth the devil, with that out he slunk, and left us a carkass of mutton that stunk. i chanc'd to ride forth a mile and a half, where i heard he did live in disguise of a calf; i bound him and gelt him e'er he did any evil, for he was at the best but a young sucking devil: maa, yet he cries, and forth he did steal, and this was sold after for excellent veal. some half a year after in the form of a pig, i met with the rogue, and he look'd very big; i caught at his leg, laid him down on a log, e'er a man could fart twice, i made him a hog: huh, huh quoth the devil, and gave such a jerk, that a _jew_ was converted and eat of that pork. in woman's attire i met him most fine, at first sight i thought him some angel divine; but viewing his crab face i fell to my trade, i made him forswear ever acting a maid: meaw, quoth the devil, and so ran away, hid himself in a fryer's old weeds as they say. i walked along and it was my good chance, to meet with a black-coat that was in a trance; i speedily grip'd him and whip'd off his cods, 'twixt his head and his breech, i left little odds: o, quoth the devil, and so away ran, thou oft will be curst by many a woman. _a_ song. [music] when _jemmy_ first began to love, he was the finest swain; that ever yet a flock had drove, or danc'd upon the plain: 'twas then that i, woe's me poor heart, my freedom threw away; and finding sweets in every part, i could not say him nay. for ever when he spake of love, he wou'd his eyes decline; each sigh he gave a heart wou'd move, good faith, and why not mine: he'd press my hand, and kiss it oft, his silence spoke his flame; and whilst he treated me thus soft, i wish'd him more to blame. sometimes to feed my flock with his, _jemmy_ wou'd me invite; where he the finest songs would sing, me only to delight: then all his graces he display'd, which were enough i trow; to conquer any princely maid, so did he me i trow. but now for _jemmy_ i must mourn, he to the wars must go; his sheephook to a sword must turn, alack what shall i do? his bagpipes into warlike sounds, must now converted be; his garlands into fearful wounds, oh! what becomes of me? _a_ song; _to the tune of_ woobourn _fair._ vol. . pag. . jilting is in such a fashion, and such a fame, runs o'er the nation, there's never a dame of highest rank, or of fame, sir, but will stoop to your caresses, if you do but put home your addresses: it's for that she paints, and she patches, all she hopes to secure is her name, sir. but when you find the love fit comes upon her, never trust much to her honour; tho' she may very high stand on't, yet when her love is ascendant, her vertue's quite out of doors high breeding, rank feeding, with lazy lives leading, in ease and soft pleasures, and taking loose measures, with play-house diversions, and midnight excursions, with balls masquerading, and nights serenading, debauch the sex into whores, sir. _a_ song. _set by mr._ pack. [music] farewel ungrateful traytor, farewel my perjur'd swain: let never injur'd creature, believe a man again: the pleasure of possessing, surpasses all expressing; but joys too short a blessing, and love too long a pain: _but joys too short a blessing,_ _and love too long a pain._ 'tis easie to deceive us, in pity of your pain; but when we love, you leave us, to rail at you in vain: before we have descry'd it, there is no bliss beside it; but she that once has try'd it, will never love again. the passion you pretended, was only to obtain; but when the charm is ended, the charmer you disdain: your love by ours we measure, 'till we have lost our treasure; but dying is a pleasure, when living is a pain. _a_ song. [music] you i love by all that's true, more than all things here below; with a passion far more great, than e'er creature loved yet: and yet still you cry forbear, love no more, or love not here. bid the miser leave his ore, bid the wretched sigh no more; bid the old be young again, bid the _nun_ not think of man: _sylvia_ thus when you can do, bid me then not think on you. love's not a thing of choice, but fate, what makes me love, that makes you hate: _sylvia_ you do what you will, ease or cure, torment or kill: be kind or cruel, false or true, love i must, and none but you. _a_ song. note: _you must sing lines to the first strain._ [music] let's be merry blith and jolly, stupid dulness is a folly; 'tis the spring that doth invite us, hark, the chirping birds delight us: let us dance and raise our voices, every creature now rejoyces; airy blasts and springing flowers, verdant coverings, pleasant showers: each plays his part to compleat this our joy, and can we be so dull as to deny. here's no foolish surly lover, that his passions will discover; no conceited fopish creature, that is proud of cloaths or feature: all things here serene and free are, they're not wise, are not as we are; who acknowledge heavens blessings, in our innocent caressings: then let us sing, let us dance, let us play, 'tis the time is allow'd, 'tis the month of _may_. _a new_ song, _the words by mr._ j.c. _set to musick by dr._ prettle. [music] no _phillis_, tho' you've all the charms, ambitious woman can desire; all beauty, wit, and youth that warms, or sets our foolish hearts on fire: yet you may practice all your arts, in vain to make a slave of me; you ne'er shall re-engage my heart, revolted from your tyranny: _you ne'er shall re-engage my heart,_ _revolted from your tyranny._ when first i saw those dang'rous eyes, they did my liberty betray; but when i knew your cruelties, i snatch'd my simple heart away: now i defy your smiles to win, my resolute heart, no pow'r th'ave got; tho' once i suck'd their poyson in, your rigour prov'd an antidote. _the epilogue to the_ island princes, _set by mr._ clark, _sung by mrs._ lindsey, _and the boy._ [music] now to you ye dry wooers, old beaus, and no doers, so doughty, so gouty, so useless and toothless, your blindless, cold kindness, has nothing of man; still doating, or gloating, still stumbling, or fumbling, still hawking, still baulking, you flash in the pan: unfit like old brooms, for sweeping our rooms, you're sunk and you're shrunk, then repent and look to't; in vain you're so upish, in vain you're so upish. you're down ev'ry foot. _a_ scotch song, _set by mr._ r. brown. [music] _jockey_ loves his _moggy_ dearly, he gang'd with her to _perth_ fair; there we sung and pip'd together, and when done, then down i'd lay her: i so pull'd her, and so lull'd her, both o'erwhelm'd with muckle joy; _mog._ kiss'd _jockey_, _jockey_ _moggy_, from long night to break of day. i told _mog._ 'twas muckle pleasing, _moggey_ cry'd she'd do again such; i reply'd i'd glad gang with thee, but 'twould wast my muckle coyn much: she lamented, i relented, both wish'd bodies might increase; then we'd gang next year together, and my pipe shall never cease. _a_ song, _in the_ lucky younger brother, _or, the_ beau defeated; _set by mr._ john eccles, _and sung by mr._ bowman. [music] _delia_ tir'd _strephon_ with her flame, while languishing, while languishing she view'd him; the well dress'd youth despis'd the dame, but still, still; but still the old fool pursu'd him: some pity on a wretch bestow, that lyes at your devotion; perhaps near fifty years ago, perhaps near fifty years ago, i might have lik'd the motion. if you, proud youth, my flame despise, i'll hang me in my garters; why then make hast to win the prize, among loves foolish martyrs: can you see _delia_ brought so low, and make her no requitals? _delia_ may to the devil go, _delia_ may to the devil, devil go, to the devil, devil, devil, devil, devil, devil go for _strephon_; stop my vitals, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop my vitals. _a_ song, _set by mr._ john weldon. [music] swain thy hopeless passion smother, perjur'd _cælia_ loves another; in his arms i saw her lying, panting, kissing, trembling, dying: there the fair deceiver swore, as once she did to you before. oh! said you, when she deceives me, when that constant creatures leave me; _isis_ waters back shall fly, and leave their _ouzy_ channels dry: turn your waters, leave your shore, for perjur'd _cælia_ loves no more. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd the_ biter, _set by mr._ john eccles, _and sung by mr._ cook. [music] _chloe_ blush'd and frown'd and swore, and push'd me rudely from her; i call'd her faithless, jilting whore, to talk to me of honour: but when i rose and wou'd be gone, she cry'd nay, whither go ye? young _damon_ saw, now we're alone, do, do, do what you will, do what you will with _chloe_: do what you will, what you will, what you will with _chloe_, do what you will, what you will, what you will with _chloe_. _a_ song _in_ rinaldo _and_ armida: _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mr._ gouge. [music] the jolly, jolly breeze, that comes whistling through the trees; from all the blissful regions brings, perfumes upon its spicy wings: with its wanton motion curling, curling, curling, curling the crystal rills, which down, down, down, down the hills, run, run, run, run, run o'er golden gravel purling. _a_ song _on the_ punch bowl. _to the foregoing tune._ the jolly, jolly bowl, that does quench my thirsty soul; when all the mingling juice is thrown, perfum'd with fragrant goar stone: with it's wanton toast too, curling, curling, curling, curling, curling the nut-brown riles, which down, down, down, down by the gills, run through ruby swallows purling. _the_ prologue _in the_ island-princess, _set and sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] you've been with dull prologues here banter'd so long, they signify nothing, or less than a song; to sing you a ballad this tune we thought fit, for sound has oft nickt you, when sence could not hit: then ladies be kind, and gentlemen mind, wit capers, play sharpers, loud bullies, tame cullies, sow grumblers, wench fumblers give ear ev'ry man: mobb'd sinners in pinners, kept foppers, bench-hoppers, high-flyers, pit-plyers, be still if you can: you're all in damnation, you're all in damnation for leading the van. ye side-box gallants, whom the vulgar call beaus, admirers of self, and nice judges of cloaths; who now the war's over cross boldly the main, yet ne'er were at seiges, unless at campaign: spare all on the stage, love in every age, young tattles, wild rattles, fan-tearers, mask-fleerers, old coasters, love boasters, who set up for truth: young graces, black faces, some faded, some jaded, old mothers, and others, who've yet a colt's tooth: see us act that in winter, you'd all act in youth. you gallery haunters, who love to lye snug, and maunch apples or cakes, while some neighbour you hugg; ye lofties, genteels, who above us all sit, and look down with contempt, on the mob in the pit, here's what you like best, jigg, song and the rest, free laughers, close graffers, dry jokers, old soakers, kind cousins, by dozens, your customs don't break: sly spouses with blouses, grave horners, in corners, kind no-wits, save poets, clap 'till your hands ake, and tho' the wits damn us, we'll say the whims take. _a_ song _set by mr._ john barrett, _and sung by mrs._ lindsey. [music] _cælia_ hence with affectation, hence with all this careless air; hypocrisy is out of fashion, with the witty and the fair: nature all thy arts discloses, while the pleasures she supplies; paint thy glowing cheeks with roses, and inflame thy sparkling eyes. foolish _cælia_ not to know, love thy int'rest and thy duty; thou to love alone dost owe, all thy joy, and all thy beauty: mark the tuneful feather'd kind, at the coming of the spring; all in happy pairs are joyn'd, and because they love they sing. _a_ song, _set by mr._ clark. [music] how often have i curs'd that sable deceit, for making me wish and admire; and rifle poor _ovid_ to learn to intreat, when reason might check my desire: for sagely of late it has been disclos'd, there's nothing, nothing conceal'd uncommon; no miracles under a mask repos'd, when knowing _cynthia's_ a woman. tho' beauty's great charms our sences delude, 'tis the centre attracts our needle; and love's a jest when thought to intrude, the design of it to unriddle: a virgin may show strange coyness in love, and tell you chimera's of honour; but give her her wish, the man she approves, no labour he'll have to win her. finis. proofreading team. the kiltartan history book. by lady gregory. illustrated by robert gregory _by the same author_ seven short plays cuchulain of muirthemne gods and fighting men poets and dreamers a book of saints and wonders dedicated and recommended to the history classes in the new university contents the ancient times goban, the builder a witty wife an advice she gave shortening the road the goban's secret the scotch rogue the danes the battle of clontarf the english the queen of breffny king henry viii. elizabeth her death the trace of cromwell cromwell's law cromwell in connacht a worse than cromwell the battle of aughrim the stuarts another story patrick sarsfield queen anne carolan's song 'ninety-eight denis browne the union robert emmet o'connell's birth the tinker a present his strategy the man was going to be hanged the cup of the sassanach the thousand fishers what the old women saw o'connell's hat the change he made the man he brought to justice the binding his monument a praise made for daniel o'connell by old women and they begging at the door richard shiel the tithe war the fight at carrickshock the big wind the famine the cholera a long remembering the terry alts the ' time a thing mitchell said the fenian rising a great wonder another wonder father mathew the war of the crimea garibaldi the buonapartes the zulu war the young napoleon parnell mr. gladstone queen victoria's religion her wisdom war and misery the present king the old age pension another thought a prophecy notes the kiltartan history book the ancient times "as to the old history of ireland, the first man ever died in ireland was partholan, and he is buried, and his greyhound along with him, at some place in kerry. the nemidians came after that and stopped for a while, and then they all died of some disease. and then the firbolgs came, the best men that ever were in ireland, and they had no law but love, and there was never such peace and plenty in ireland. what religion had they? none at all. and there was a low-sized race came that worked the land of ireland a long time; they had their time like the others. many would tell you grania slept under the cromlechs, but i don't believe that, and she a king's daughter. and i don't believe she was handsome either. if she was, why would she have run away? in the old time the people had no envy, and they would be writing down the stories and the songs for one another. but they are too venemous now to do that. and as to the people in the towns, they don't care for such things now, they are too corrupted with drink." goban, the builder "the goban was the master of sixteen trades. there was no beating him; he had got the gift. he went one time to quin abbey when it was building, looking for a job, and the men were going to their dinner, and he had poor clothes, and they began to jibe at him, and the foreman said 'make now a cat-and-nine-tails while we are at our dinner, if you are any good.' and he took the chisel and cut it in the rough in the stone, a cat with nine tails coming from it, and there it was complete when they came out from their dinner. there was no beating him. he learned no trade, but he was master of sixteen. that is the way, a man that has the gift will get more out of his own brain than another will get through learning. there is many a man without learning will get the better of a college-bred man, and will have better words too. those that make inventions in these days have the gift, such a man now as edison, with all he has got out of electricity." a witty wife "the goban saor was a mason and a smith, and he could do all things, and he was very witty. he was going from home one time and he said to the wife 'if it is a daughter you have this time i'll kill you when i come back'; for up to that time he had no sons, but only daughters. and it was a daughter she had; but a neighbouring woman had a son at the same time, and they made an exchange to save the life of the goban's wife. but when the boy began to grow up he had no wit, and the goban knew by that he was no son of his. that is the reason he wanted a witty wife for him. so there came a girl to the house one day, and the goban saor bade her look round at all that was in the room, and he said 'do you think a couple could get a living out of this?' 'they could not,' she said. so he said she wouldn't do, and he sent her away. another girl came another day, and he bade her take notice of all that was in the house, and he said 'do you think could a couple knock a living out of this?' 'they could if they stopped in it,' she said. so he said that girl would do. then he asked her could she bring a sheepskin to the market and bring back the price of it, and the skin itself as well. she said she could, and she went to the market, and there she pulled off the wool and sold it and brought back the price and the skin as well. then he asked could she go to the market and not be dressed or undressed. and she went having only one shoe and one stocking on her, so she was neither dressed or undressed. then he sent her to walk neither on the road or off the road, and she walked on the path beside it. so he said then she would do as a wife for his son." an advice she gave "one time some great king or lord sent for the goban to build a _caislean_ for him, and the son's wife said to him before he went 'be always great with the women of the house, and always have a comrade among them.' so when the goban went there he coaxed one of the women the same as if he was not married. and when the castle was near built, the woman told him the lord was going to play him a trick, and to kill him or shut him up when he had the castle made, the way he would not build one for any-other lord that was as good. and as she said, the lord came and bade the goban to make a cat and two-tails, for no one could make that but himself, and it was meaning to kill him on it he was. and the goban said he would do that when he had finished the castle, but he could not finish it without some tool he had left at home. and they must send the lord's son for it--- for he said it would not be given to any other one. so the son was sent, and the goban sent a message to the daughter-in-law that the tool he was wanting was called 'when you open it shut it.' and she was surprised, for there was no such tool in the house; but she guessed by the message what she had to do, and there was a big chest in the house and she set it open. 'come now,' she said to the young man,' look in the chest and find it for yourself.' and when he looked in she gave him a push forward, and in he went, and she shut the lid on him. she wrote a letter to the lord then, saying he would not get his son back till he had sent her own two men, and they were sent back to her." shortening the road "himself and his son were walking the road together one day, and the goban said to the son 'shorten the road for me.' so the son began to walk fast, thinking that would do it, but the goban sent him back home when he didn't understand what to do. the next day they were walking again, and the goban said again to shorten the road for him, and this time he began to run, and the goban sent him home again. when he went in and told the wife he was sent home the second time, she began to think, and she said, 'when he bids you shorten the road, it is that he wants you to be telling him stories.' for that is what the goban meant, but it took the daughter-in-law to understand it. and it is what i was saying to that other woman, that if one of ourselves was making a journey, if we had another along with us, it would not seem to be one half as long as if we would be alone. and if that is so with us, it is much more with a stranger, and so i went up the hill with you to shorten the road, telling you that story." the goban's secret "the goban and his son were seven years building the castle, and they never said a word all that time. and at the end of seven years the son was at the top, and he said 'i hear a cow lowing.' and the goban said then 'make all strong below you, for the work is done,' and they went home. the goban never told the secret of his building, and when he was on the bed dying they wanted to get it from him, and they went in and said 'claregalway castle is after falling in the night.' and the goban said 'how can that be when i put a stone in and a stone out and a stone across.' so then they knew the way he built so well." the scotch rogue "one time he was on the road going to the town, and there was a scotch rogue on the road that was always trying what could he pick off others, and he saw the connemara man--that was the goban--had a nice cravat, and he thought he would get a hold of that. so he began talking with him, and he was boasting of all the money he had, and the goban said whatever it was he had three times as much as it, and he with only thirty pounds in the world. and the scotch rogue thought he would get some of it from him, and he said he would go to a house in the town, and he gave him some food and some drink there, and the goban said he would do the same for him on the morrow. so then the goban went out to three houses, and in each of them he left ten pounds of his thirty pounds, and he told the people in every house what they had to do, and that when he would strike the table with his hat three times they would bring out the money. so then he asked the scotch rogue into the first house, and ordered every sort of food and drink, ten pounds worth in all. and when they had used all they could of it, he struck with his hat on the table, and the man of the house brought out the ten pounds, and the goban said 'keep that to pay what i owe you.' the second day he did the same thing in another house. and in the third house they went to he ordered ten pounds worth of food and drink in the same way. and when the time came to pay, he struck the table with the hat, and there was the money in the hand of the man of the house before them. 'that's a good little caubeen,' said the scotch rogue, 'when striking it on the table makes all that money appear.' 'it is a wishing hat,' said the goban; 'anything i wish for i can get as long as i have that.' 'would you sell it?' said the scotch rogue. 'i would not,' said the goban. 'i have another at home, but i wouldn't sell one or the other.' 'you may as well sell it, so long as you have another at home,' said the scotch rogue. 'what will you give for it?' says the goban. 'will you give three hundred pounds for it?' 'i will give that,' says the scotch rogue, 'when it will bring me all the wealth i wish for.' so he went out and brought the three hundred pound, and gave it to the goban, and he got the caubeen and went away with it, and it not worth three halfpence. there was no beating the goban. wherever he got it, he had got the gift." the danes "the reason of the wisps and the fires on saint john's eve is that one time long ago the danes came and took the country and conquered it, and they put a soldier to mind every house through the whole country. and at last the people made up their mind that on one night they would kill its soldiers. so they did as they said, and there wasn't one left, and that is why they light the wisps ever since. it was brian boroihme was the first to light them. there was not much of an army left to the danes that time, for he made a great scatter of them. a great man he was, and his own son was as good, that is murrough. it was the wife brought him to his end, gormleith. she was for war, and he was all for peace. and he got to be very pious, too pious, and old and she got tired of that." the battle of clontarf "clontarf was on the head of a game of chess. the generals of the danes were beaten at it, and they were vexed; and cennedigh was killed on a hill near fermoy. he put the holy gospels in his breast as a protection, but he was struck through them with a reeking dagger. it was brodar, that the brodericks are descended from, that put a dagger through brian's heart, and he attending to his prayers. what the danes left in ireland were hens and weasels. and when the cock crows in the morning the country people will always say 'it is for denmark they are crowing. crowing they are to be back in denmark.'" the english "it was a long time after that, the pope encouraged king henry to take ireland. it was for a protection he did it, henry being of his own religion, and he fearing the druids or the danes might invade ireland." the queen of breffny "dervorgilla was a red-haired woman, and it was she put the great curse on ireland, bringing in the english through macmurrough, that she went to from o'rourke. it was to henry the second macmurrough went, and he sent strongbow, and they stopped in ireland ever since. but who knows but another race might be worse, such as the spaniards that were scattered along the whole coast of connacht at the time of the armada. and the laws are good enough. i heard it said the english will be dug out of their graves one day for the sake of their law. as to dervorgilla, she was not brought away by force, she went to macmurrough herself. for there are men in the world that have a coaxing way, and sometimes women are weak." king henry viii. "henry the eighth was crying and roaring and leaping out of the bed for three days and nights before his death. and he died cursing his children, and he that had eight millions when he came to the throne, coining leather money at the end." elizabeth "queen elizabeth was awful. beyond everything she was. when she came to the turn she dyed her hair red, and whatever man she had to do with, she sent him to the block in the morning, that he would be able to tell nothing. she had an awful temper. she would throw a knife from the table at the waiting ladies, and if anything vexed her she would maybe work upon the floor. a thousand dresses she left after her. very superstitious she was. sure after her death they found a card, the ace of hearts, nailed to her chair under the seat. she thought she would never die while she had it there. and she bought a bracelet from an old woman out in wales that was over a hundred years. it was superstition made her do that, and they found it after her death tied about her neck." her death "it was a town called calais brought her to her death, and she lay chained on the floor three days and three nights. the archbishop was trying to urge her to eat, but she said 'you would not ask me to do it if you knew the way i am,' for nobody could see the chains. after her death they waked her for six days in whitehall, and there were six ladies sitting beside the body every night. three coffins were about it, the one nearest the body of lead, and then a wooden one, and a leaden one on the outside. and every night there came from them a great bellow. and the last night there came a bellow that broke the three coffins open, and tore the velvet, and there came out a stench that killed the most of the ladies and a million of the people of london with the plague. queen victoria was more honourable than that. it would be hard to beat queen elizabeth." the trace of cromwell "i'll tell you now about the trace of cromwell. there was a young lady was married to a gentleman, and she died with her first baby, and she was brought away into a forth by the fairies, the good people, as i suppose. she used to be sitting on the side of it combing her hair, and three times her husband saw her there, but he had not the courage to go and to bring her away. but there was a man of the name of howley living near the forth, and he went out with his gun one day and he saw her beside the forth, and he brought her away to his house, and a young baby sprang between them at the end of a year. one day the husband was out shooting and he came in upon howley's land, and when young howley heard the shooting he rose up and went out and he bade the gentleman to stop, for this was his land. so he stopped, and he said he was weary and thirsty, and he asked could he rest in the house. so young howley said as long as he asked pardon he had leave to use what he liked. so he came in the house and he sat at the table, and he put his two eyes through the young lady. 'if i didn't see her dead and buried,' he said, 'i'd say that to be my own wife.' 'oh!' said she, 'so i am your wife, and you are badly worthy of me, and you have the worst courage ever i knew, that you would not come and bring me away out of the forth as young howley had the courage to bring me,' she said. so then he asked young howley would he give him back his wife. 'i will give her,' he said, 'but you never will get the child.' so the child was reared, and when he was grown he went travelling up to dublin. and he was at a hunt, and he lost the top of his boot, and he went into a shoemaker's shop and he gave him half a sovereign for nothing but to put the tip on the boot, for he saw he was poor and had a big family. and more than that, when he was going away he took out three sovereigns and gave them to the blacksmith, and he looked at one of the little chaps, and he said 'that one will be in command of the whole of england.' 'oh, that cannot be,' said the blacksmith, 'where i am poor and have not the means to do anything for him.' 'it will be as i tell you,' said he, 'and write me out now a docket,' he said, 'that if ever that youngster will come to command ireland, he will give me a free leg.' so the docket was made out, and he brought it away with him. and sure enough, the shoemaker's son listed, and was put at the head of soldiers, and got the command of england, and came with his soldiers to put down ireland. and howley saw them coming and he tied his handkerchief to the top of his stick, and when cromwell saw that, he halted the army, 'for there is some poor man in distress,' he said. then howley showed him the docket his father had written. 'i will do some good thing for you on account of that,' said cromwell; 'and go now to the top of that high cliff,' he said, 'and i'll give as much land as you can see from it.' and so he did give it to him. it was no wonder howley to have known the shoemaker's son would be in command and all would happen him, because of his mother that got knowledge in the years she was in the forth. that is the trace of cromwell. i heard it at a wake, and i would believe it, and if i had time to put my mind to it, and if i was not on the road from loughrea to ballyvaughan, i could give you the foundations of it better." cromwell's law "i'll tell you about cromwell and the white friars. there was a white friar at that time was known to have knowledge, and cromwell sent word to him to come see him. it was of a saturday he did that, of an easter saturday, but the friar never came. on the sunday cromwell sent for him again, and he didn't come. and on the monday he sent for him the third time, and he did come. 'why is it you did not come to me when i sent before?' said cromwell. 'i'll tell you that,' said the white friar. 'i didn't come on saturday,' he said, 'because your passion was on you. and i didn't come on the sunday,' he said, 'because your passion was not gone down enough, and i thought you would not give me my steps. but i came to-day,' he said, 'because your passion is cool.' when cromwell heard his answer, 'that is true,' he said, 'and tell me how long my law will last in ireland.' 'it will last,' says the white friar, 'till yesterday will come (that was easter sunday) the same day as our lady day.' cromwell was satisfied then, and he gave him a free leg, and he went away. and so that law did last till now, and it's well it did, for without that law in the country you wouldn't be safe walking the road having so much as the price of a pint of porter in your pocket." cromwell in connacht "cromwell cleared the road before him. if any great man stood against him he would pull down his castle the same as he pulled down that castle of your own, ballinamantane, that is down the road. he never got more than two hours sleep or three, or at the most four, but starting up fearing his life would be peppered. there was a word he sounded out to the catholics, 'to hell or connacht,' and the reason he did that was that connacht was burned bare, and he that thought to pass the winter there would get no lodging at all. himself and his men travelled it, and they never met with anything that had human breath put in it by god till they came to breffny, and they saw smoke from a chimney, and they surrounded the house and went into it. and what they saw was a skeleton over the fire roasting, and the people of the house picking flesh off it with the bits of a hook. and when they saw that, they left them there. it was a clare man that burned connacht so bare; he was worse than cromwell, and he made a great slaughter in the house of god at clonmel. the people have it against his family yet, and against the whole county of clare." a worse than cromwell "cromwell was very bad, but the drink is worse. for a good many that cromwell killed should go to heaven, but those that are drunken never see heaven. and as to drink, a man that takes the first glass is as quiet and as merry as a pet lamb; and after the second glass he is as knacky as a monkey; and after the third glass he is as ready for battle as a lion; and after the fourth glass he is like a swine as he is. 'i am thirsty' [irish: ta tart orm], that was one of our lord's seven words on the cross, where he was dry. and a man far off would have given him drink; but there was a drunkard at the foot of the cross, and he prevented him." the battle of aughrim "that was a great slaughter at aughrim. st. ruth wanted to do all himself, he being a foreigner. he gave no plan of the battle to sarsfield, but a written command to stop where he was, and sarsfield knew no more than yourself or myself in the evening before it happened. it was colonel merell's wife bade him not go to the battle, where she knew it would go bad with him through a dream. but he said that meant that he would be crowned, and he went out and was killed. that is what the poem says: if caesar listened to calpurnia's dream he had not been by pompey's statue slain. all great men gave attention to dreams, though the church is against them now. it is written in scripture that joseph gave attention to his dream. but colonel merell did not, and so he went to his death. aughrim would have been won if it wasn't for the drink. there was too much of it given to the irish soldiers that day--drink and spies and traitors. the english never won a battle in ireland in fair fight, but getting spies and setting the people against one another. i saw where aughrim was fought, and i turned aside from the road to see the tree where st ruth was killed. the half of it is gone like snuff. that was spies too, a colonel's daughter that told the english in what place st. ruth would be washing himself at six o'clock in the morning. and it was there he was shot by one o'donnell, an englishman. he shot him from six miles off. the danes were dancing in the raths around aughrim the night after the battle. their ancestors were driven out of ireland before; and they were glad when they saw those that had put them out put out themselves, and every one of them skivered." [illustration: william iii] the stuarts "as to the stuarts, there are no songs about them and no praises in the west, whatever there may be in the south. why would there, and they running away and leaving the country the way they did? and what good did they ever do it? james the second was a coward. why didn't he go into the thick of the battle like the prince of orange? he stopped on a hill three miles away, and rode off to dublin, bringing the best of his troops with him. there was a lady walking in the street at dublin when he got there, and he told her the battle was lost, and she said 'faith you made good haste; you made no delay on the road.' so he said no more after that. the people liked james well enough before he ran; they didn't like him after that." another story "seumus salach, dirty james, it is he brought all down. at the time of the battle there was one of his men said, 'i have my eye cocked, and all the nations will be done away with,' and he pointing his cannon. 'oh!' said james, 'don't make a widow of my daughter.' if he didn't say that, the english would have been beat. it was a very poor thing for him to do." patrick sarsfield "sarsfield was a great general the time he turned the shoes on his horse. the english it was were pursuing him, and he got off and changed the shoes the way when they saw the tracks they would think he went another road. that was a great plan. he got to limerick then, and he killed thousands of the english. he was a great general." queen anne "the georges were fair; they left all to the government; but anne was very bad and a tyrant. she tyrannised over the irish. she died broken-hearted with all the bad things that were going on about her. for queen anne was very wicked; oh, very wicked, indeed!" carolan's song "carolan that could play the fiddle and the harp used to be going about with cahil-a-corba, that was a tambourine man. but they got tired of one another and parted, and carolan went to the house of the king of mayo, and he stopped there, and the king asked him to stop for his lifetime. there came a grand visitor one time, and when he heard carolan singing and playing and his fine pleasant talk, he asked him to go with him on a visit to dublin. so carolan went, and he promised the king of mayo he would come back at the end of a month. but when he was at the gentleman's house he liked it so well that he stopped a year with him, and it wasn't till the christmas he came back to mayo. and when he got there the doors were shut, and the king was at his dinner, and queen mary and the three daughters, and he could see them through the windows. but when the king saw him he said he would not let him in. he was vexed with him and angry he had broken his promise and his oath. so carolan began to give out a song he had made about the king of mayo and all his family, and he brought queen mary into it and the three daughters. then the queen asked leave of the king to bring him in, because he made so good a song, but the king would not give in to it. then carolan began to draw down the king of mayo's father and his grandfather into the song. and queen mary asked again for forgiveness for him, and the king gave it that time because of the song that had in it the old times, and the old generations went through him. but as to cahil-a-corba, he went to another gentleman's house and he stopped too long in it and was driven out. but he came back, having changed his form, that the gentleman did not know him, and he let him in again, and then he was forgiven." 'ninety-eight "in the year ' there were the yeomanry that were the worst of all. the time father murphy was killed there was one of them greased his boots in his heart. there was one of them was called micky the devil in irish; he never went out without the pitchcap and the triangle, and any rebel he would meet he would put gunpowder in his hair and set a light to it. the north cork militia were the worst; there are places in ireland where you would not get a drink of water if they knew you came from cork. and it was the very same, the north cork, that went of their own free will to the boer war, volunteered, asked to go that is. they had the same sting in them always. a great many of them were left dead in that war, and a great many better men than themselves. there was one battle in that war there was no quarter given, the same as aughrim; and the english would kill the wounded that would be left upon the field of battle. there is no christianity in war." denis browne "there is a tree near denis browne's house that used to be used for hanging men in the time of ' , he being a great man in that time, and high sheriff of mayo, and it is likely the gentlemen were afeared, and that there was bad work at nights. but one night denis browne was lying in his bed, and the lord put it in his mind that there might be false information given against some that were innocent. so he went out and he brought out one of his horses into the lawn before the house, and he shot it dead and left it there. in the morning one of the butlers came up to him and said, 'did you see that one of your horses was shot in the night?' 'how would i see that?' says he, 'and i not rose up or dressed?' so when he went out they showed him the horse, and he bade the men to bury it, and it wasn't two hours after before two of them came to him. 'we can tell you who it was shot the horse,' they said. 'it was such a one and such a one in the village, that were often heard to speak bad of you. and besides that,' they said, 'we saw them shooting it ourselves.' so the two that gave that false witness were the last two denis browne ever hung. he rose out of it after, and washed his hands of it all. and his big house is turned into a convent, and the tree is growing there yet. it is in the time of ' that happened, a hundred years ago." the union "as to the union, it was bought with titles. look at the binghams and the rest, they went to bed nothing, and rose up lords in the morning. the day it was passed lady castlereagh was in the house of parliament, and she turned three colours, and she said to her husband, 'you have passed your treaty, but you have sold your country.' he went and cut his throat after that. and it is what i heard from the old people, there was no priest in ireland but voted for it, the way they would get better rights, for it was only among poor persons they were going at that time. and it was but at the time of the parliament leaving college green they began to wear the soutane that they wear now. up to that it was a bodycoat they wore and knee-breeches. it was their vote sent the parliament to england, and when there is a row between them or that the people are vexed with the priest, you will hear them saying in the house in irish 'bad luck on them, it was they brought misfortune to ireland.' they wore the soutane ever since that time." robert emmet "the government had people bribed to swear against robert emmet, and the same men said after, they never saw him till he was in the dock. he might have got away but for his attention to that woman. she went away after with a sea captain. there are some say she gave information. curran's daughter she was. but i don't know. he made one request, his letters that she wrote to him in the gaol not to be meddled with, but the government opened them and took the presents she sent in them, and whatever was best of them they kept for themselves. he made the greatest speech from the dock ever was made, and lord norbury on the bench, checking and clogging him all the time. ten hours he was in the dock, and they gave him no more than one dish of water all that time; and they executed him in a hurry, saying it was an attack they feared on the prison. there is no one knows where is his grave." o'connell's birth "o'connell was a grand man, and whatever cause he took in hand, it was as good as won. but what wonder? he was the gift of god. his father was a rich man, and one day he was out walking he took notice of a house that was being built. well, a week later he passed by the same place, and he saw the walls of the house were no higher than before. so he asked the reason, and he was told it was a priest that was building it, and he hadn't the money to go on with. so a few days after he went to the priest's house and he asked was that true, and the priest said it was. 'would you pay back the money to the man that would lend it to you?' says o'connell. 'i would,' says the priest. so with that o'connell gave him the money that was wanting--£ --for it was a very grand house. well, after some time the priest came to o'connell's house, and he found only the wife at home, so says he, 'i have some money that himself lent me.' but he had never told the wife of what he had done, so she knew nothing about it, and says she, 'don't be troubling yourself about it, he'll bestow it on you.' 'well,' says the priest, i'll go away now and i'll come back again.' so when o'connell came, the wife told him all that had happened, and how a priest had come saying he owed him money, and how she had said he would bestow it on him. 'well,' says o'connell, 'if you said i would bestow it, i will bestow it.' and so he did. then the priest said, 'have you any children?' 'ne'er a child,' said o'connell. 'well you will have one,' said he. and that day nine months their young son was born. so what wonder if he was inspired, being, as he was, the gift of god." [illustration: o'connell] the tinker "o'connell was a great man. i never saw him, but i heard of his name. one time i saw his picture in a paper, where they were giving out meal, where mrs. gaynor's is and i kissed the picture of him. they were laughing at me for doing that, but i had heard of his good name. there was some poor man, a tinker, asked help of him one time in dublin, and he said, 'i will put you in a place where you will get some good thing.' so he brought him to a lodging in a very grand house and put him in it. and in the morning he began to make saucepans, and he was making them there, and the shopkeeper that owned the house was mad at him to be doing that, and making saucepans in so grand a house, and he wanted to get him out of it, and he gave him a good sum of money to go out. he went back and told that to o'connell, and o'connell said, 'didn't i tell you i would put you in the way to get some good thing?'" a present "there was a gentleman sent him a present one time, and he bade a little lad to bring it to him. shut up in a box it was, and he bade the boy to give it to himself, and not to open the box. so the little lad brought it to o'connell to give it to him. 'let you open it yourself,' says o'connell. so he opened it, and whatever was in it blew up and made an end of the boy, and it would have been the same with o'connell if he had opened it." his strategy "o'connell was a grand man; the best within the walls of the world. he never led anyone astray. did you hear that one time he turned the shoes on his horses? there were bad members following him. i cannot say who they were, for i will not tell what i don't know. he got a smith to turn the shoes, and when they came upon his track, he went east and they went west. parnell was no bad man, but dan o'connell's name went up higher in praises." the man was going to be hanged "i saw o'connell in galway one time, and i couldn't get anear him. all the nations of the world were gathered there to see him. there were a great many he hung and a great many he got off from death, the dear man. he went into a town one time, and into a hotel, and he asked for his dinner. and he had a frieze dress, for he was very simple, and always a clerk along with him. and when the dinner was served to him, 'is there no one here,' says he, 'to sit along with me; for it is seldom i ever dined without company.' 'if you think myself good enough to sit with you,' says the man of the hotel, 'i will do it.' so the two of them sat to the dinner together, and o'connell asked was there any news in the town. 'there is,' says the hotel man, 'there is a man to be hung to-morrow.' 'oh, my!' says o'connell, 'what was it he did to deserve that?' 'himself and another that had been out fowling,' says he, 'and they came in here and they began to dispute, and the one of them killed the other, and he will be hung to-morrow.' 'he will not,' says o'connell. 'i tell you he will,' says the other, 'for the judge is come to give the sentence.' well, o'connell kept to it that he would not, and they made a bet, and the hotel man bet all he had on the man being hung. in the morning o'connell was in no hurry out of bed, and when the two of them walked into the court, the judge was after giving the sentence, and the man was to be hung. '_maisead_,' says the judge when he saw o'connell, 'i wish you had been here a half an hour ago, where there is a man going to be hung.' 'he is not,' says o'connell. 'he is,' says the judge. 'if he is,' says o'connell, 'that one will never let anyone go living out of his hotel, and he making money out of the hanging.' 'what do you mean saying that?' says the judge. then o'connell took the instrument out of his pocket where it was written down all the hotel-keeper had put on the hanging. and when the judge saw that, he set the man free, and he was not hanged." the cup of the sassanach "he was over in england one time, and he was brought to a party, and tea was made ready and cups. and as they were sitting at the table, a servant girl that was in it, and that was irish, came to o'connell and she said, 'do you understand irish?' [irish: 'an tuigeann tu gaedilge, o'connell?' 'tuigim,'] says he, 'i understand it.' 'have a care,' says she, 'for there is in your cup what would poison the whole nation!' 'if that is true, girl, you will get a good fortune,' said he. it was in irish they said all that, and the people that were in it had no ears. then o'connell quenched the candle, and he changed his cup for the cup of the man that was next him. and it was not long till the man fell dead. they were always trying to kill o'connell, because he was a good man. the sassanach it was were against him. terrible wicked they were, and god save us, i believe they are every bit as wicked yet!" the thousand fishers "o'connell came to galway one time, and he sent for all the trades to come out with the sign of their trade in their hand, and he would see which was the best. and there came ten hundred fishers, having all white flannel clothes and black hats and white scarves about them, and he gave the sway to them. it wasn't a year after that, the half of them were lost, going through the fogs at newfoundland, where they went for a better way of living." what the old women saw "the greatest thing i ever saw was o'connell driving through gort, very plain, and an oiled cap on him, and having only one horse; and there was no house in gort without his picture in it." "o'connell rode up crow lane and to church street on a single horse, and he stopped there and took a view of gort." "i saw o'connell after he left gort going on the road to kinvara, and seven horses in the coach--they could not get in the eighth. he stopped, and he was talking to hickman that was with me. shiel was in the coach along with him." o'connell's hat "o'connell wore his hat in the english house of commons, what no man but the king can do. he wore it for three days because he had a sore head, and at the end of that they bade him put it off, and he said he would not, where he had worn it three days." the change he made "o'connell was a great councillor. at that time if there was a catholic, no matter how high or great or learned he was, he could not get a place. but if a protestant came that was a blockhead and ignorant, the place would be open to him. there was a revolution rising because of that, and o'connell brought it into the house of commons and got it changed. he was the greatest man ever was in ireland. he was a very clever lawyer; he would win every case, he would put it so strong and clear and clever. if there were fifteen lawyers against him--five and ten--he would win it against them all, whether the case was bad or good." the man he brought to justice "corly, that burned his house in burren, was very bad, and it was o'connell brought him to the gallows. the only case o'connell lost was against the macnamaras, and he told them he would be even with them, and so when corly, that was a friend of theirs, was brought up he kept his word. there was no doubt about him burning the house, it was to implicate the hynes he did it, to lay it on them. there was a girl used to go out milking at daybreak, and she awoke, and the moon was shining, and she thought it was day, and got up and looked out, and she saw him doing it." the binding "o'connell was a great man, wide big arms he had. it was he left us the cheap tea; to cheapen it he did, that was at that time a shilling for one bare ounce. his heart is in rome and his body in glasnevin. a lovely man, he would put you on your guard; he was for the country, he was all for ireland." his monument "there is a nice monument put up to o'connell in ennis, in a corner it is of the middle of a street, and himself high up on it, holding a book. it was a poor shoe-maker set that going. i saw him in gort one time, a coat of o'connell's he had that he chanced in some place. only for him there would be no monument; it was he gathered money for it, and there was none would refuse him." a praise made for daniel o'connell by old women and they begging at the door "dan o'connell was the best man in the world, and a great man surely; and there could not be better than what o'connell was. "it was from him i took the pledge and i a child, and kept it ever after. he would give it to little lads and children, but not to any aged person. pilot trousers he had and a pilot coat, and a grey and white waistcoat. "o'connell was all for the poor. see what he did at saint patrick's island--he cast out every bad thing and every whole thing, to england and to america and to every part. he fought it well for every whole body. "a splendid monument there is to him in ennis, and his fine top coat upon him. a lovely man; you'd think he was alive and all, and he having his hat in his hand. everyone kneels down on the steps of it and says a few prayers and walks away. it is as high as that tree below. if he was in ireland now the pension would go someway right. "he was the best and the best to everyone; he got great sway in the town of gort, and in every other place. "i suppose he has the same talk always; he is able to do for us now as well as ever he was; surely his mercy and goodness are in the town of gort. "he did good in the world while he was alive; he was a great man surely; there couldn't be better in this world i believe, or in the next world; there couldn't be better all over the world. "he used to go through all nations and to make a fight for the poor; he gave them room to live, and used to fight for them too. there is no doubt at all he did help them, he was well able to do it." richard shiel "as to shiel, he was small, dressed very neat, with knee-breeches and a full vest and a long-skirted coat. he had a long nose, and was not much to look at till he began to speak, and then you'd see genius coming out from him. his voice was shrill, and that spoiled his speech sometimes, when he would get excited, and would raise it at the end. but o'connell's voice you would hear a mile off, and it sounded as if it was coming through honey," the tithe war "and the tithes, the tenth of the land that st. patrick and his bishops had settled for their own use, it was to protestants it was given. and there would have been a revolution out of that, but it was done away with, and it is the landlord has to pay it now. the pope has a great power that is beyond all. there is one day and one minute in the year he has that power if it pleases him to use it. at that minute it runs through all the world, and every priest goes on his knees and the pope himself is on his knees, and that request cannot be refused, because they are the grand jury of the world before god. a man was talking to me about the burying of the tithes; up on the top of the devil's bit it was, and if you looked around you could see nothing but the police. then the boys came riding up, and white rods in their hands, and they dug a grave, and the tithes, some image of them, was buried. it was a wrong thing for one religion to be paying for the board of the clergy of another religion." the fight at carrickshock "the tithe war, that was the time of the fight at carrickshock. a narrow passage that was in it, and the people were holding it against the police that came with the proctor. there was a captain defending the proctor that had been through the battle of waterloo, and it was the proctor they fired at, but the captain fell dead, and fourteen police were killed with him. but the people were beat after, and were brought into court for the trial, and the counsel for the crown was against them, dougherty. they were tried in batches, and every batch was condemned, dougherty speaking out the case against them. but o'connell, that was at that time at cork assizes, heard of it, and he came, and when he got to the door the pony that brought him dropped dead. he came in and he took refreshment--bread and milk--the same as i am after taking now, and he looked up and he said 'that is no law.' then the judge agreed with him, and he got every one of them off after that; but only for him they would swing. the tithes were bad, a farmer to have three stacks they's take the one of them. and that was the first time of the hurling matches, to gather the people against the tithes. but there was hurling in the ancient times in ireland, and out in greece, and playing at the ball, and that is what is called the olympian games." the big wind "as to the big wind, i was on my elder sister's back going to a friend beyond, and when i was coming back it was slacked away, and i was wondering at the holes in the houses." "i was up to twelve year at the time of the big wind that was in ' , and i was over at roxborough with my father that was clearing timber from the road, and your father came out along the road, and he was wild seeing the trees and rocks whipped up into the sky the way they were with the wind. but what was that to the bitter time of the famine that came after?" the famine "the famine; there's a long telling in that, it is a thing will be remembered always. that little graveyard above, at that time it was filled full up of bodies; the union had no way to buy coffins for them. there would be a bag made, and the body put into it, that was all; and the people dying without priest, or bishop, or anything at all. but over in connemara it was the dogs brought the bodies out of the houses, and asked no leave." the cholera "the cholera was worse again. it came from foreign, and it lasted a couple of years, till god drove it out of the country. it is often i saw a man ploughing the garden in the morning till dinner time, and before evening he would be dead. it was as if on the wind it came, there was no escape from it; on the wind, the same as it would come now and would catch on to pigs. sheds that would be made out in the haggards to put the sick in, they would turn as black as your coat. there was no one could go near them without he would have a glass of whiskey taken, and he wouldn't like it then." a long remembering "the longest thing i remember is the time of the sickness, and my father that was making four straw mats for four brothers that died, and that couldn't afford coffins. the bodies were put in the mats and were tied up in them. and the second thing i remember is the people digging in the stubble after the oats and the wheat; to see would they meet a potato, and sometimes they did, for god sent them there." the terry alts "the terry alts were a bad class; everything you had they'd take from you. it was against herding they began to get the land, the same as at the present time. and women they would take; a man maybe that hadn't a perch of land would go to a rich farmer's house and bring away his daughter. and i, supposing, to have some spite against you, i'd gather a mob and do every bad thing to destroy you. that is the way they were, a bad class and doing bad deeds." the ' time "thomas davis was a great man where poetry is concerned, and a better than thomas moore. all over ireland his poetry is, and he would have done other things but that he died young. that was the ' time. the ' men were foolish men; they thought to cope with the english government. they went to o'connell to get from him all the money he had gathered, for they had it in their head to use that to make a rise against england. but when they asked o'connell for it he told them there was none of it left, not one penny. buying estates for his children he used it, and he said he spent it on a monastery. i don't know was he speaking truth. mahon made a great speech against him, and it preyed on o'connell, and he left the country and went away and died in some place called genoa. he was a very ambitious man, like napoleon. he got emancipation; but where is the use of that? there's judge o'brien, peter the packer, was calling out and trying to do away with trial by jury. and he would not be in his office or in his billet if it wasn't for o'connell. they didn't do much after, where they didn't get the money from o'connell. and the night they joined under smith o'brien they hadn't got their supper. a terrible cold night it was, no one could stand against it. some bishop came from dublin, and he told them to go home, for how could they reach with their pikes to the english soldiers that had got muskets. the soldiers came, and there was some firing, and they were all scattered. as to smith o'brien, there was ten thousand pounds on his head, and he hid for a while. then at the last he went into the town of clonmel, and there was a woman there in the street was a huckster, and he bade her give him up to the government, for she would never earn money so easy. but for all she was worth she wouldn't do that. so then he went and gave himself up, and he was sent to australia, and the property was given to his brother." a thing mitchell said "mitchell was kept in clonmel gaol two years before he was sent to australia. he was a protestant, and a very good man. he said in a speech, where was the use of meetings and of talking? it was with the point of their bayonet the english would have to be driven out of ireland. it was mitchell said that." the fenian rising "it was a man from america it came with. there was one mackie was taken in a publichouse in cork, and there was a policeman killed in the struggle. judge o'hagan was the judge when he was in the dock, and he said, 'mr. mackie, i see you are a gentleman and an educated man; and i'm sorry,' he said, 'that you did not read irish history.' mackie cried when he heard that, for indeed it was all spies about him, and it was they gave him up." a great wonder "the greatest wonder i ever saw was one time near kinvara at a funeral, there came a car along the road and a lady on it having a plaid cloak, as was the fashion then, and a big hat, and she kept her head down and never looked at the funeral at all. i wondered at her when i saw that, and i said to my brother it was a strange thing a lady to be coming past a funeral and not to look on at it at all. and who was on the car but o'gorman mahon, escaping from the government, and dressed up as a lady! he drove to father arthur's house at kinvara, and there was a boat waiting, and a cousin of my own in it, to bring him out to a ship, and so he made his escape." another wonder "i saw clerkenwell prison in london broken up in the time of the fenians, and every ship and steamer in the whole of the ocean stopped. the prison was burned down, and all the prisoners consumed, and seven doctors' shops along with it." father mathew "father mathew was a great man, plump and red in the face. there couldn't be better than what he was. i knew one kane in gort he gave a medal to, and he kept it seventy years. kane was a great totaller, and he wouldn't drink so much as water out of a glass, but out of a cup; the glass might have been used for porter at some time. he lost the medal, and was in a great way about it, but he found it five years after in a dung-heap. a great totaller he was. them that took the medal from father mathew and that kept it, at their death they would be buried by men dressed in white clothes." the war of the crimea "my husband was in the war of the crimea. it is terrible the hardships he went through, to be two months without going into a house, under the snow in trenches. and no food to get, maybe a biscuit in the day. and there was enough food there, he said, to feed all ireland; but bad management, they could not get it. coffee they would be given, and they would be cutting a green bramble to strive to make a fire to boil it. the dead would be buried every morning; a big hole would be dug, and the bodies thrown in, and lime upon them; and some of the bodies would be living when they were buried. my husband used to try to revive them if he saw there was life in them, but other lads wouldn't care--just to put them down and have done. and they were allowed to take nothing--money, gold watches, and the like, all thrown in the ground. sure they did not care much about such things, they might be lying in the same place themselves to-morrow. but the soldiers would take the money sometimes and put it in their stocking and tie the stocking below the ankle and below the knee. but if the officer knew that, they would be courtmartialed and punished. he got two medals--one from the english and one from the emperor of turkey. fighting for the queen, and bad pay she gave him. he never knew what was the war for, unless it might be for diminishing the population. we saw in the paper a few years ago there was a great deal of money collected for soldiers that had gone through hardship in the war, and we wrote to the war office asking some of it for him. but they wrote back that there were so many young men crippled in the boer war there was nothing to be spared for the old. my husband used to be saying the queen cared nothing for the army, but that the king, even before he was king, was better to it. but i'm thinking from this out the king will get very few from ireland for his army." [illustration: w.e. gladstone] garibaldi "there was one of my brothers died at lyons in france. he had a place in guinness's brewery, and earning £ s. a week, and it was the time garibaldi, you might have heard of, was out fighting. there came a ship to dublin from france, calling for soldiers, and he threw up his place, and there were many others threw up their place, and they went off, eleven hundred of them, in the french ship, to go fighting for their religion, and a hundred of them never came back. when they landed in france they were made much of and velvet carpets spread before them. but the war was near over then, and when it had ended they were forgotten, and nothing done for them, and he was in poverty at lyons and died. it was the nuns there wrote a letter in french telling that to my mother." "and napoleon the third fought for the pope in the time of garibaldi. a great many irishmen went out at that time, and the half of them never came back. i met with one of them that was in russell's flour stores, and he said he would never go out again if there were two hundred popes. bad treatment they got--black bread, and the troops in the vatican well fed; and it wasn't long till victor emanuel's troops made a breach in the wall." the buonapartes "napoleon the third was not much. he died in england, and was buried in a country church-yard much the same as kiltartan. but napoleon the first was a great man; it was given out of him there never would be so great a man again. but he hadn't much education, and his penmanship was bad. every great man gave in to superstition. he gave into it when he went to ask the gipsy woman to divine, and she told him his fate. through fire and a rock she said that he would fall. i suppose the rock was st. helena, and the fire was the fire of waterloo. napoleon was the terror of england, and he would have beat the english at waterloo but for treachery, the treachery of grouchy. it was, maybe, not his fault he was treacherous, he might be the same as judas, that had his treachery settled for him four thousand years before his birth. there was a curse on napoleon the third because of what napoleon the first had done against the church. he took malta one time and landed there, and by treachery with the knights he robbed a church that was on the shore, and carried away the golden gates. in an ironclad he put them that was belonging to the english, and they sank that very day, and were never got up after, unless it might be by divers. and two popes he brought into exile. but he was the friend of ireland, and when he was dying he said that. his heart was smashed, he said, with all the ruling princes that went against him; and if he had made an attack on ireland, he said, instead of going to moscow the time he did, he would have brought england low. and the prince imperial was trapped. it was the english brought him out to the war, and that made the nations go against him, and it was an english officer led him into the trap the way he never would come to the throne." [illustration: louis napoleon] the zulu war "i was in the army the time of the zulu war. great hardship we got in it and plenty of starvation. it was the dutch called in the english to help them against the zulus, that were tricky rogues, and would do no work but to be driving the cattle off the fields. a pound of raw flour we would be given out at seven o'clock in the morning, and some would try to make a cake, and some would put it in a pot with water and be stirring it, and it might be eleven o'clock before you would get what you could eat, and not a bit of meat maybe for two days." the young napoleon "there was a young napoleon there, the grandson of napoleon the first, that was a great man indeed. i was in the island where he was interred; it is a grand place, and what is not natural in those parts, there are two blackthorn bushes growing in it where you go into the place he was buried. and as to that great napoleon, the fear of him itself was enough to kill people. if he was living till now it is hard to say what way would the world be. it is likely there'd be no english left in it, and it would be all france. the young napoleon was at the zulu war was as fine a young man as you'd wish to lay an eye on; six feet four, and shaped to match. as to his death, there was things might have been brought to light, but the enquiry was stopped. there was seven of them went out together, and he was found after, lying dead in the ground, and his top coat spread over him. there came a shower of hailstones that were as large as the top of your finger, and as square as diamonds, and that would enter into your skull. they made out it was to save himself from them that he lay down. but why didn't they lift him in the saddle and bring him along with them? and the bullet was taken out of his head was the same every bit as our bullets; and where would a zulu get a bullet like that? very queer it was, and a great deal of talk about it, and in my opinion he was done away with because the english saw the grandfather in him, and thought he would do away with themselves in the time to come. sure if he spoke to one of them, he would begin to shake before him, officers the same as men. we had often to be laughing seeing that." parnell "parnell was a very good man, and a just man, and if he had lived to now, ireland would be different to what it is. the only thing ever could be said against him was the influence he had with that woman. and how do we know but that was a thing appointed for him by god? parnell had a back to him, but o'connell stood alone. he fought a good war in the house of commons. parnell did a great deal, getting the land. i often heard he didn't die at all--it was very quick for him to go. i often wondered there were no people smart enough to dig up the coffin and to see what is in it, at night they could do that. no one knows in what soil robert emmet was buried, but he was made an end of sure enough. parnell went through gort one day, and he called it the fag-end of ireland, just as lady morgan called the north the athens of ireland." mr. gladstone "gladstone had the name of being the greatest statesman of england, and he wasn't much after all. at the time of his death he had it on his mind that it was he threw the first stone at parnell, and he confessed that, and was very sorry for it. but sure there is no one can stand all through. look at solomon that had ten hundred wives, and some of them the finest of women, and that spent all the money laid up by father david. and gladstone encouraged garibaldi the time he attacked the vatican, and gave him arms, parnell charged him with that one time in the house of commons, and said he had the documents, and he hadn't a word to say. but he was sorry at parnell's death, and what was the use of that when they had his heart broke? parnell did a great deal for the irish, and they didn't care after; they are the most displeasing people god ever made, unless it might be the ancient jews." queen victoria's religion "queen victoria was loyal and true to the pope; that is what i was told, and so is edward the seventh loyal and true, but he has got something contrary in his body. it is when she was a girl she put on clothes like your own--lady's clothes--and she went to the pope. did she turn catholic? she'd be beheaded if she did; the government would behead her; it is the government has power in england." her wisdom "as to the last queen, we thought her bad when we had her, but now we think her good. she was a hard woman, and she did nothing for ireland in the bad years; but i'll give you the reason she had for that. she had it in her mind always to keep ireland low, it being the place she mostly got her soldiers. that might not be good for ireland, but it was good for her own benefit. the time the lads have not a bit to eat, that is the time they will go soldiering." war and misery "there was war and misery going on all through victoria's reign. it was the boer war killed her, she being aged, and seeing all her men going out, and able to do nothing. ten to one they were against the boers. that is what killed her. it is a great tribute to the war it did that." the present king "the present king is very good. he is a gentleman very fond of visiting, and well pleased with every class of people he will meet." the old age pensions "the old age pension is very good, and as to taxes, them can't pay it that hasn't it. it is since the boer war there is coin sent back from africa every week that is dug from the goldpits out there. that is what the english wanted the time they went to war; they want to close up the minerals for themselves. if it wasn't for the war, that pension would never be given to ireland. they'd have been driven home by the boers if it wasn't for the irish that were in the front of every battle. and the irish held out better too, they can starve better than the rest, there is more bearing in them. it wasn't till all the irish were killed that the english took to bribing. bribed botha they did with a bag of gold. for all the generals in england that are any good are irish. buller was the last they had, and he died. they can find no good generals at all in england, unless they might get them very young." another thought "it was old money was in the treasury idle, and the king and queen getting old wanted to distribute it in the country it was taken from. but some say it was money belonging to captains and big men that died in the war and left no will after them. anyway it is likely it will not hold; and it is known that a great many of those that get it die very soon." a prophecy "it is likely there will be a war at the end of the two thousand, that was always foretold. and i hear the english are making ships that will dive the same as diving ducks under the water. but as to the irish americans, they would sweep the entire world; and england is afraid of america, it being a neighbour." notes i have given this book its name because it is at my own door, in the barony of kiltartan, i have heard a great number of the stories from beggars, pipers, travelling men, and such pleasant company. but others i have heard in the workhouse, or to the north of galway bay, in connemara, or on its southern coast, in burren. i might, perhaps, better have called the little book myths in the making. a sociable people given to conversation and belief; no books in the house, no history taught in the schools; it is likely that must have been the way of it in old greece, when the king of highly civilised crete was turned by tradition into a murderous tyrant owning a monster and a labyrinth. it was the way of it in old france too, one thinks, when charlemagne's height grew to eight feet, and his years were counted by centuries: "he is three hundred years old, and when will he weary of war?" anyhow, it has been the way of modern ireland--the ireland i know--and when i hear myth turned into history, or history into myth, i see in our stonebreakers and cattle drivers greek husbandmen or ancient vinedressers of the loire. i noticed some time ago, when listening to many legends of the fianna, that is about finn, their leader, the most exaggerated of the tales have gathered; and i believe the reason is that he, being the greatest of the "big men," the heroic race, has been most often in the mouths of the people. they have talked of him by their fire-sides for two thousand years or so; at first earlier myths gathered around him, and then from time to time any unusual feats of skill or cunning shown off on one or another countryside, till many of the stories make him at the last grotesque, little more than a clown. so in bible history, while lesser kings keep their dignity, great solomon's wit is outwitted by the riddles of some countryman; and lucifer himself, known in kiltartan as "the proudest of the angels, thinking himself equal with god," has been seen in sligo rolling down a road in the form of the _irish times_. the gods of ancient ireland have not escaped. mananaan, son of the sea, rider of the horses of the sea, was turned long ago into a juggler doing tricks, and was hunted in the shape of a hare. brigit, the "fiery arrow," the nurse of poets, later a saint and the foster-mother of christ, does her healing of the poor in the blessed wells of to-day as "a very civil little fish, very pleasant, wagging its tail." giobniu, the divine smith of the old times, made a new sword and a new spear for every one that was broken in the great battle between the gods and the mis-shapen fomor. "no spearpoint that is made by my hand," he said, "will ever miss its mark; no man it touches will ever taste life again." it was his father who, with a cast of a hatchet, could stop the inflowing of the tide; and it was he himself whose ale gave lasting youth: "no sickness or wasting ever comes on those who drink at giobniu's feast." later he became a saint, a master builder, builder of a house "more shining than a garden; with its stars, with its sun, with its moon." to-day he is known as the builder of the round towers of the early christian centuries, and of the square castles of the anglo-normans. and the stories i have given of him, called as he now is, "the goban saor," show that he has fallen still farther in legend from his high origin. as to o'connell, perhaps because his name, like that of finn and the goban, is much in the mouths of the people, there is something of the absurd already coming into his legend. the stories of him show more than any others how swiftly myths and traditions already in the air may gather around a memory much loved and much spoken of. he died only sixty years ago, and many who have seen and heard him are still living; and yet he has already been given a miraculous birth, and the power of a saint is on its way to him. i have charged my son, and should i live till he comes to sensible years, i will charge my grandson, to keep their ears open to the growth of legend about him who was once my husband's friendly enemy, and afterwards his honoured friend. i do not take the credit or the discredit of the opinions given by the various speakers, nor do i go bail for the facts; i do but record what is already in "the book of the people." the history of england and ireland was shut out of the schools and it became a passion. as to why it was shut out, well, i heard someone whisper "eugene aram hid the body away, being no way anxious his scholars should get a sight of it." but this also was said in the barony of kiltartan. the illustrations are drawn from some delft figures, ornaments in a kiltartan house. a. gregory. coole park, _november_, . charles franks and the online distributed proofreading team. text version by al haines. ` a book of old ballads selected and with an introduction by beverley nichols [illustration: title page art] contents clerk colvill sir aldingar edom o' gordon chevy chace sir lancelot du lake gil morrice the child of elle child waters king edward iv and the tanner of tamworth sir patrick spens the earl of mar's daughter list of colour plates clerk colvill gil morrice child waters the earl of mar's daughter clerk colvill [illustration: clerk colvill headpiece] [illustration: clerk colvill] clerk colvill and his lusty dame were walking in the garden green; the belt around her stately waist cost clerk colvill of pounds fifteen. "o promise me now, clerk colvill, or it will cost ye muckle strife, ride never by the wells of slane, if ye wad live and brook your life." "now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, now speak nae mair of that to me; did i neer see a fair woman, but i wad sin with her body?" he's taen leave o his gay lady, nought minding what his lady said, and he's rode by the wells of slane, where washing was a bonny maid. "wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, that wash sae clean your sark of silk;" "and weel fa you, fair gentleman, your body whiter than the milk." * * * * * then loud, loud cry'd the clerk colvill, "o my head it pains me sair;" "then take, then take," the maiden said, "and frae my sark you'll cut a gare." then she's gied him a little bane-knife, and frae her sark he cut a share; she's ty'd it round his whey-white face, but ay his head it aked mair. then louder cry'd the clerk colville, "o sairer, sairer akes my head;" "and sairer, sairer ever will," the maiden crys, "till you be dead." out then he drew his shining blade, thinking to stick her where she stood, but she was vanished to a fish, and swam far off, a fair mermaid. "o mother, mother, braid my hair; my lusty lady, make my bed; o brother, take my sword and spear, for i have seen the false mermaid." sir aldingar [illustration: sir aldingar headpiece] our king he kept a false stewàrde, sir aldingar they him call; a falser steward than he was one, servde not in bower nor hall. he wolde have layne by our comelye queene, her deere worshippe to betraye: our queene she was a good womàn, and evermore said him naye. sir aldingar was wrothe in his mind, with her hee was never content, till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, in a fyer to have her brent. there came a lazar to the kings gate, a lazar both blinde and lame: he tooke the lazar upon his backe, him on the queenes bed has layne. "lye still, lazar, whereas thou lyest, looke thou goe not hence away; he make thee a whole man and a sound in two howers of the day." then went him forth sir aldingar, and hyed him to our king: "if i might have grace, as i have space, sad tydings i could bring." say on, say on, sir aldingar, saye on the soothe to mee. "our queene hath chosen a new new love, and shee will have none of thee. "if shee had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had beene her shame; but she hath chose her a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame." if this be true, thou aldingar, the tyding thou tellest to me, then will i make thee a rich rich knight, rich both of golde and fee. but if it be false, sir aldingar, as god nowe grant it bee! thy body, i sweare by the holye rood, shall hang on the gallows tree. he brought our king to the queenes chambèr, and opend to him the dore. a lodlye love, king harry says, for our queene dame elinore! if thou were a man, as thou art none, here on my sword thoust dye; but a payre of new gallowes shall be built, and there shalt thou hang on hye. forth then hyed our king, i wysse, and an angry man was hee; and soone he found queen elinore, that bride so bright of blee. now god you save, our queene, madame, and christ you save and see; heere you have chosen a newe newe love, and you will have none of mee. if you had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had been your shame; but you have chose you a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame. therfore a fyer there shalt be built, and brent all shalt thou bee.-- now out alacke! said our comly queene, sir aldingar's false to mee. now out alacke! sayd our comlye queene, my heart with griefe will brast. i had thought swevens had never been true; i have proved them true at last. i dreamt in my sweven on thursday eve, in my bed whereas i laye. i dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast had carryed my crowne awaye; my gorgett and my kirtle of golde, and all my faire head-geere: and he wold worrye me with his tush and to his nest y-beare: saving there came a little 'gray' hawke, a merlin him they call, which untill the grounde did strike the grype, that dead he downe did fall. giffe i were a man, as now i am none, a battell wold i prove, to fight with that traitor aldingar, att him i cast my glove. but seeing ime able noe battell to make, my liege, grant me a knight to fight with that traitor sir aldingar, to maintaine me in my right. "now forty dayes i will give thee to seeke thee a knight therein: if thou find not a knight in forty dayes thy bodye it must brenn." then shee sent east, and shee sent west, by north and south bedeene: but never a champion colde she find, wolde fight with that knight soe keene. now twenty dayes were spent and gone, noe helpe there might be had; many a teare shed our comelye queene and aye her hart was sad. then came one of the queenes damsèlles, and knelt upon her knee, "cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, i trust yet helpe may be: and here i will make mine avowe, and with the same me binde; that never will i return to thee, till i some helpe may finde." then forth she rode on a faire palfràye oer hill and dale about: but never a champion colde she finde, wolde fighte with that knight so stout. and nowe the daye drewe on a pace, when our good queene must dye; all woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, when she found no helpe was nye. all woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, and the salt teares fell from her eye: when lo! as she rode by a rivers side, she met with a tinye boye. a tinye boye she mette, god wot, all clad in mantle of golde; he seemed noe more in mans likenèsse, then a childe of four yeere old. why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, and what doth cause you moane? the damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, but fast she pricked on. yet turne againe, thou faire damsèlle and greete thy queene from mee: when bale is att hyest, boote is nyest, nowe helpe enoughe may bee. bid her remember what she dreamt in her bedd, wheras shee laye; how when the grype and grimly beast wolde have carried her crowne awaye, even then there came the little gray hawke, and saved her from his clawes: then bidd the queene be merry at hart, for heaven will fende her cause. back then rode that faire damsèlle, and her hart it lept for glee: and when she told her gracious dame a gladd woman then was shee: but when the appointed day was come, no helpe appeared nye: then woeful, woeful was her hart, and the teares stood in her eye. and nowe a fyer was built of wood; and a stake was made of tree; and now queene elinor forth was led, a sorrowful sight to see. three times the herault he waved his hand, and three times spake on hye: giff any good knight will fende this dame, come forth, or shee must dye. no knight stood forth, no knight there came, no helpe appeared nye: and now the fyer was lighted up, queen elinor she must dye. and now the fyer was lighted up, as hot as hot might bee; when riding upon a little white steed, the tinye boy they see. "away with that stake, away with those brands, and loose our comelye queene: i am come to fight with sir aldingar, and prove him a traitor keene." forthe then stood sir aldingar, but when he saw the chylde, he laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, and weened he had been beguylde. "now turne, now turne thee, aldingar, and eyther fighte or flee; i trust that i shall avenge the wronge, thoughe i am so small to see." the boy pulld forth a well good sworde so gilt it dazzled the ee; the first stroke stricken at aldingar, smote off his leggs by the knee. "stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr, and fight upon thy feete, for and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, of height wee shall be meete." a priest, a priest, sayes aldingàr, while i am a man alive. a priest, a priest, sayes aldingàr, me for to houzle and shrive. i wolde have laine by our comlie queene, bot shee wolde never consent; then i thought to betraye her unto our kinge in a fyer to have her brent. there came a lazar to the kings gates, a lazar both blind and lame: i tooke the lazar upon my backe, and on her bedd had him layne. then ranne i to our comlye king, these tidings sore to tell. but ever alacke! sayes aldingar, falsing never doth well. forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, the short time i must live. "nowe christ forgive thee, aldingar, as freely i forgive." here take thy queene, our king harryè, and love her as thy life, for never had a king in christentye. a truer and fairer wife. king henrye ran to claspe his queene, and loosed her full sone: then turned to look for the tinye boye; --the boye was vanisht and gone. but first he had touched the lazar man, and stroakt him with his hand: the lazar under the gallowes tree all whole and sounde did stand. the lazar under the gallowes tree was comelye, straight and tall; king henrye made him his head stewàrde to wayte withinn his hall. edom o' gordon [illustration: edom o' gordon headpiece] it fell about the martinmas, quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, said edom o' gordon to his men, we maun draw till a hauld. and quhat a hauld sall we draw till, my mirry men and me? we wul gae to the house o' the rodes, to see that fair ladie. the lady stude on her castle wa', beheld baith dale and down: there she was ware of a host of men cum ryding towards the toun. o see ze nat, my mirry men a'? o see za nat quhat i see? methinks i see a host of men: i marveil quha they be. she weend it had been hir luvely lord, as he cam ryding hame; it was the traitor edom o' gordon, quha reckt nae sin nor shame. she had nae sooner buskit hirsel, and putten on hir goun, but edom o' gordon and his men were round about the toun. they had nae sooner supper sett, nae sooner said the grace, but edom o' gordon and his men were light about the place. the lady ran up to hir towir head, sa fast as she could hie, to see if by hir fair speechès she could wi' him agree. but quhan he see this lady saif, and hir yates all locked fast, he fell into a rage of wrath, and his look was all aghast. cum doun to me, ze lady gay, cum doun, cum doun to me: this night sall ye lig within mine armes, to-morrow my bride sall be. i winnae cum doun ze fals gordòn, i winnae cum doun to thee; i winna forsake my ain dear lord, that is sae far frae me. give owre zour house, ze lady fair, give owre zour house to me, or i sall brenn yoursel therein, bot and zour babies three. i winnae give owre, ze false gordòn, to nae sik traitor as zee; and if ze brenn my ain dear babes, my lord sall make ze drie. but reach my pistoll, glaud my man, and charge ze weil my gun: for, but an i pierce that bluidy butcher, my babes we been undone. she stude upon hir castle wa', and let twa bullets flee: she mist that bluidy butchers hart, and only raz'd his knee. set fire to the house, quo' fals gordòn, all wood wi' dule and ire: fals lady, ze sall rue this deid, as ze bren in the fire. wae worth, wae worth ze, jock my man, i paid ze weil zour fee; quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, lets in the reek to me? and ein wae worth ze, jock my man, i paid ze weil zour hire; quhy pu' ze out the ground-wa' stane, to me lets in the fire? ze paid me weil my hire, lady; ze paid me weil my fee: but now i'm edom o' gordons man, maun either doe or die. o than bespaik hir little son, sate on the nurses knee: sayes, mither deare, gi' owre this house, for the reek it smithers me. i wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, say wald i a' my fee, for ane blast o' the western wind, to blaw the reek frae thee. o then bespaik hir dochter dear, she was baith jimp and sma; o row me in a pair o' sheits, and tow me owre the wa. they rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, and towd hir owre the wa: but on the point of gordons spear she gat a deadly fa. o bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, and cherry were her cheiks, and clear clear was hir zellow hair, whereon the reid bluid dreips. then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, o gin hir face was wan! he sayd, ze are the first that eir i wisht alive again. he turnd hir owre and owre againe, o gin hir skin was whyte! i might ha spared that bonnie face to hae been sum mans delyte. busk and boun, my merry men a', for ill dooms i doe guess; i cannae luik in that bonnie face, as it lyes on the grass. thame, luiks to freits, my master deir, then freits wil follow thame: let neir be said brave edom o' gordon was daunted by a dame. but quhen the ladye see the fire cum flaming owre hir head, she wept and kist her children twain, sayd, bairns, we been but dead. the gordon then his bougill blew, and said, awa', awa'; this house o' the rodes is a' in flame, i hauld it time to ga'. o then bespyed hir ain dear lord, as hee cam owr the lee; he sied his castle all in blaze sa far as he could see. then sair, o sair his mind misgave, and all his hart was wae; put on, put on, my wighty men, so fast as ze can gae. put on, put on, my wighty men, sa fast as ze can drie; for he that is hindmost of the thrang sall neir get guid o' me. than sum they rade, and sum they rin, fou fast out-owr the bent; but eir the foremost could get up, baith lady and babes were brent. he wrang his hands, he rent his hair, and wept in teenefu' muid: o traitors, for this cruel deid ze sall weep tiers o' bluid. and after the gordon he is gane, sa fast as he might drie. and soon i' the gordon's foul hartis bluid he's wroken his dear ladie. [illustration: edom o' gordon tailpiece] chevy chace [illustration: chevy chace headpiece] god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safetyes all; a woefull hunting once there did in chevy-chace befall; to drive the deere with hound and horne, erle percy took his way, the child may rue that is unborne, the hunting of that day. the stout erle of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers days to take; the cheefest harts in chevy-chace to kill and beare away. these tydings to erle douglas came, in scotland where he lay: who sent erle percy present word, he wold prevent his sport. the english erle, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bow-men bold; all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of neede to ayme their shafts arright. the galland greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deere: on munday they began to hunt, ere day-light did appeare; and long before high noone they had an hundred fat buckes slaine; then having dined, the drovyers went to rouze the deare againe. the bow-men mustered on the hills, well able to endure; theire backsides all, with speciall care, that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deere to take, that with their cryes the hills and dales an eccho shrill did make. lord percy to the quarry went, to view the slaughter'd deere; quoth he, erle douglas promised this day to meet me heere: but if i thought he wold not come, noe longer wold i stay. with that, a brave younge gentleman thus to the erle did say: loe, yonder doth erle douglas come, his men in armour bright; full twenty hundred scottish speres all marching in our sight; all men of pleasant tivydale, fast by the river tweede: o cease your sports, erle percy said, and take your bowes with speede: and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yett, in scotland nor in france, that ever did on horsebacke come, but if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spere. erle douglas on his milke-white steede, most like a baron bolde, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, that hunt soe boldly heere, that, without my consent, doe chase and kill my fallow-deere. the first man that did answer make was noble percy hee; who sayd, wee list not to declare, nor shew whose men wee bee: yet wee will spend our deerest blood, thy cheefest harts to slay. then douglas swore a solempne oathe, and thus in rage did say, ere thus i will out-braved bee, one of us two shall dye: i know thee well, an erle thou art; lord percy, soe am i. but trust me, percy, pittye it were, and great offence to kill any of these our guiltlesse men, for they have done no ill. let thou and i the battell trye, and set our men aside. accurst bee he, erle percy sayd, by whome this is denyed. then stept a gallant squier forth, witherington was his name, who said, i wold not have it told to henry our king for shame, that ere my captaine fought on foote, and i stood looking on. you be two erles, sayd witherington, and i a squier alone: he doe the best that doe i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to weeld my sword he fight with hart and hand. our english archers bent their bowes, their harts were good and trew; att the first flight of arrowes sent, full four-score scots they slew. yet bides earl douglas on the bent, as chieftain stout and good. as valiant captain, all unmov'd the shock he firmly stood. his host he parted had in three, as leader ware and try'd, and soon his spearmen on their foes bare down on every side. to drive the deere with hound and horne, douglas bade on the bent two captaines moved with mickle might their speres to shivers went. throughout the english archery they dealt full many a wound: but still our valiant englishmen all firmly kept their ground: and throwing strait their bows away, they grasp'd their swords so bright: and now sharp blows, a heavy shower, on shields and helmets light. they closed full fast on every side, noe slackness there was found: and many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was a griefe to see; and likewise for to heare, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last these two stout erles did meet, like captaines of great might: like lyons wood, they layd on lode, and made a cruell fight: they fought untill they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steele; untill the blood, like drops of rain, they tricklin downe did feele. yeeld thee, lord percy, douglas sayd in faith i will thee bringe, where thou shalt high advanced bee by james our scottish king: thy ransome i will freely give, and this report of thee, thou art the most couragious knight, that ever i did see. noe, douglas, quoth erle percy then, thy proffer i doe scorne; i will not yeelde to any scott, that ever yett was borne. with that, there came an arrow keene out of an english bow, which struck erle douglas to the heart, a deepe and deadlye blow: who never spake more words than these, fight on, my merry men all; for why, my life is at an end; lord percy sees my fall. then leaving liffe, erie percy tooke the dead man by the hand; and said, erle douglas, for thy life wold i had lost my land. o christ! my verry hart doth bleed with sorrow for thy sake; for sure, a more redoubted knight mischance cold never take. a knight amongst the scotts there was which saw erle douglas dye, who streight in wrath did vow revenge upon the lord percye: sir hugh mountgomery was he call'd, who, with a spere most bright, well-mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight; and past the english archers all, without all dread or feare; and through earl percyes body then he thrust his hatefull spere; with such a vehement force and might he did his body gore, the staff ran through the other side a large cloth-yard and more. so thus did both these nobles dye, whose courage none could staine: an english archer then perceiv'd the noble erle was slaine; he had a bow bent in his hand, made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth-yard long up to the head drew hee: against sir hugh mountgomerye, so right the shaft he sett, the grey goose-winge that was thereon, in his harts bloode was wette. this fight did last from breake of day, till setting of the sun; for when they rang the evening-bell, the battel scarce was done. with stout erle percy there was slaine sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james that bold barròn: and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slaine, whose prowesse did surmount. for witherington needs must i wayle, as one in doleful dumpes; for when his leggs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumpes. and with erle douglas, there was slaine sir hugh montgomerye, sir charles murray, that from the feeld one foote wold never flee. sir charles murray, of ratcliff, too, his sisters sonne was hee; sir david lamb, so well esteem'd, yet saved cold not bee. and the lord maxwell in like case did with erle douglas dye: of twenty hundred scottish speres, scarce fifty-five did flye. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest were slaine in chevy-chace, under the greene woode tree. next day did many widowes come, their husbands to bewayle; they washt their wounds in brinish teares, but all wold not prevayle. theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore, they bare with them away: they kist them dead a thousand times, ere they were cladd in clay. the news was brought to eddenborrow, where scottlands king did raigne, that brave erle douglas suddenlye was with an arrow slaine: o heavy newes, king james did say, scotland may witnesse bee, i have not any captaine more of such account as hee. like tydings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland was slaine in chevy-chace: now god be with him, said our king, sith it will noe better bee; i trust i have, within my realme, five hundred as good as hee: yett shall not scotts nor scotland say, but i will vengeance take: i'll be revenged on them all, for brave erle percyes sake. this vow full well the king perform'd after, at humbledowne; in one day, fifty knights were slayne, with lords of great renowne: and of the rest, of small acount, did many thousands dye: thus endeth the hunting of chevy-chase, made by the erle percy. god save our king, and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace; and grant henceforth, that foule debate 'twixt noblemen may cease. [illustration: chevy chace tailpiece] sir lancelot du lake [illustration: sir lancelot du lake headpiece] when arthur first in court began, and was approved king, by force of armes great victorys wanne, and conquest home did bring, then into england straight he came with fifty good and able knights, that resorted unto him, and were of his round table: and he had justs and turnaments, whereto were many prest, wherein some knights did far excell and eke surmount the rest. but one sir lancelot du lake, who was approved well, he for his deeds and feats of armes all others did excell. when he had rested him a while, in play, and game, and sportt, he said he wold goe prove himselfe in some adventurous sort. he armed rode in a forrest wide, and met a damsell faire, who told him of adventures great, whereto he gave great eare. such wold i find, quoth lancelott: for that cause came i hither. thou seemest, quoth shee, a knight full good, and i will bring thee thither. wheras a mighty knight doth dwell, that now is of great fame: therefore tell me what wight thou art, and what may be thy name. "my name is lancelot du lake." quoth she, it likes me than: here dwelles a knight who never was yet matcht with any man: who has in prison threescore knights and four, that he did wound; knights of king arthurs court they be, and of his table round. she brought him to a river side, and also to a tree, whereon a copper bason hung, and many shields to see. he struck soe hard, the bason broke; and tarquin soon he spyed: who drove a horse before him fast, whereon a knight lay tyed. sir knight, then sayd sir lancelett, bring me that horse-load hither, and lay him downe, and let him rest; weel try our force together: for, as i understand, thou hast, so far as thou art able, done great despite and shame unto the knights of the round table. if thou be of the table round, quoth tarquin speedilye, both thee and all thy fellowship i utterly defye. that's over much, quoth lancelott tho, defend thee by and by. they sett their speares unto their steeds, and eache att other flie. they coucht theire speares (their horses ran, as though there had beene thunder), and strucke them each immidst their shields, wherewith they broke in sunder. their horsses backes brake under them, the knights were both astound: to avoyd their horsses they made haste and light upon the ground. they tooke them to their shields full fast, their swords they drewe out than, with mighty strokes most eagerlye each at the other ran. they wounded were, and bled full sore, they both for breath did stand, and leaning on their swords awhile, quoth tarquine, hold thy hand, and tell to me what i shall aske. say on, quoth lancelot tho. thou art, quoth tarquine, the best knight that ever i did know: and like a knight, that i did hate: soe that thou be not hee, i will deliver all the rest, and eke accord with thee. that is well said, quoth lancelott; but sith it must be soe, what knight is that thou hatest thus i pray thee to me show. his name is lancelot du lake, he slew my brother deere; him i suspect of all the rest: i would i had him here. thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, i am lancelot du lake, now knight of arthurs table round; king hauds son of schuwake; and i desire thee to do thy worst. ho, ho, quoth tarquin tho' one of us two shall ende our lives before that we do go. if thou be lancelot du lake, then welcome shalt thou bee: wherfore see thou thyself defend, for now defye i thee. they buckled them together so, like unto wild boares rashing; and with their swords and shields they ran at one another slashing: the ground besprinkled was with blood: tarquin began to yield; for he gave backe for wearinesse, and lowe did beare his shield. this soone sir lancelot espyde, he leapt upon him then, he pull'd him downe upon his knee, and rushing off his helm, forthwith he strucke his necke in two, and, when he had soe done, from prison threescore knights and four delivered everye one. gil morrice [illustration: gil morrice headpiece] [illustration: gil morrice] gil morrice was an erles son, his name it waxed wide; it was nae for his great riches, nor zet his mickle pride; bot it was for a lady gay, that livd on carron side. quhair sail i get a bonny boy, that will win hose and shoen; that will gae to lord barnards ha', and bid his lady cum? and ze maun rin my errand, willie; and ze may rin wi' pride; quhen other boys gae on their foot on horse-back ze sail ride. o no! oh no! my master dear! i dare nae for my life; i'll no gae to the bauld baròns, for to triest furth his wife. my bird willie, my boy willie; my dear willie, he sayd: how can ze strive against the stream? for i sall be obeyd. bot, o my master dear! he cryd, in grene wod ze're zour lain; gi owre sic thochts, i walde ze rede, for fear ze should be tain. haste, haste, i say, gae to the ha', bid hir cum here wi speid: if ze refuse my heigh command, ill gar zour body bleid. gae bid hir take this gay mantel, 'tis a' gowd hot the hem; bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, and bring nane bot hir lain: and there it is a silken sarke, hir ain hand sewd the sleive; and bid hir cum to gill morice, speir nae bauld barons leave. yes, i will gae zour black errand, though it be to zour cost; sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, in it ze sail find frost. the baron he is a man of might, he neir could bide to taunt, as ze will see before its nicht, how sma' ze hae to vaunt. and sen i maun zour errand rin sae sair against my will, i'se mak a vow and keip it trow, it sall be done for ill. and quhen he came to broken brigue, he bent his bow and swam; and quhen he came to grass growing, set down his feet and ran. and quhen he came to barnards ha', would neither chap nor ca': bot set his bent bow to his breist, and lichtly lap the wa'. he wauld nae tell the man his errand, though he stude at the gait; bot straiht into the ha' he cam, quhair they were set at meit. hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! my message winna waite; dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod before that it be late. ze're bidden tak this gay mantèl, tis a' gowd bot the hem: zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, ev'n by your sel alane. and there it is, a silken sarke, your ain hand sewd the sleive; ze maun gae speik to gill morice: speir nae bauld barons leave. the lady stamped wi' hir foot, and winked wi' hir ee; bot a' that she coud say or do, forbidden he wad nae bee. its surely to my bow'r-womàn; it neir could be to me. i brocht it to lord barnards lady; i trow that ze be she. then up and spack the wylie nurse, (the bairn upon hir knee) if it be cum frae gill morice, it's deir welcum to mee. ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, sae loud i heird zee lee; i brocht it to lord barnards lady; i trow ze be nae shee. then up and spack the bauld baròn, an angry man was hee; he's tain the table wi' his foot, sae has he wi' his knee; till siller cup and 'mazer' dish in flinders he gard flee. gae bring a robe of zour clidìng, that hings upon the pin; and i'll gae to the gude grene wode, and speik wi' zour lemmàn. o bide at hame, now lord barnàrd, i warde ze bide at hame; neir wyte a man for violence, that neir wate ze wi' nane. gil morice sate in gude grene wode, he whistled and he sang: o what mean a' the folk comìng, my mother tarries lang. his hair was like the threeds of gold, drawne frae minerva's loome: his lipps like roses drapping dew, his breath was a' perfume. his brow was like the mountain snae gilt by the morning beam: his cheeks like living roses glow: his een like azure stream. the boy was clad in robes of grene, sweete as the infant spring: and like the mavis on the bush, he gart the vallies ring. the baron came to the grene wode, wi' mickle dule and care, and there he first spied gill morice kameing his zellow hair: that sweetly wavd around his face, that face beyond compare: he sang sae sweet it might dispel a' rage but fell despair. nae wonder, nae wonder, gill morìce, my lady loed thee weel, the fairest part of my bodie is blacker than thy heel. zet neir the less now, gill morìce, for a' thy great beautiè, ze's rew the day ze eir was born; that head sall gae wi' me. now he has drawn his trusty brand, and slaited on the strae; and thro' gill morice' fair body he's gar cauld iron gae. and he has tain gill morice's head and set it on a speir; the meanest man in a' his train has gotten that head to bear. and he has tain gill morice up, laid him across his steid, and brocht him to his painted bowr, and laid him on a bed. the lady sat on castil wa', beheld baith dale and doun; and there she saw gill morice' head cum trailing to the toun. far better i loe that bluidy head, both and that zellow hair, than lord barnard, and a' his lands, as they lig here and thair. and she has tain her gill morice, and kissd baith mouth and chin: i was once as fow of gill morice, as the hip is o' the stean. i got ze in my father's house, wi' mickle sin and shame; i brocht thee up in gude grene wode, under the heavy rain. oft have i by thy cradle sitten, and fondly seen thee sleip; but now i gae about thy grave, the saut tears for to weip. and syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, and syne his bluidy chin: o better i loe my gill morice than a' my kith and kin! away, away, ze ill womàn, and an il deith mait ze dee: gin i had kend he'd bin zour son, he'd neir bin slain for mee. obraid me not, my lord barnard! obraid me not for shame! wi' that saim speir o pierce my heart! and put me out o' pain. since nothing bot gill morice head thy jelous rage could quell, let that saim hand now tak hir life, that neir to thee did ill. to me nae after days nor nichts will eir be saft or kind; i'll fill the air with heavy sighs, and greet till i am blind. enouch of blood by me's been spilt, seek not zour death frae mee; i rather lourd it had been my sel than eather him or thee. with waefo wae i hear zour plaint; sair, sair i rew the deid, that eir this cursed hand of mine had gard his body bleid. dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, ze neir can heal the wound; ze see his head upon the speir, his heart's blude on the ground. i curse the hand that did the deid, the heart that thocht the ill; the feet that bore me wi' sik speid, the comely zouth to kill. i'll ay lament for gill morice, as gin he were mine ain; i'll neir forget the dreiry day on which the zouth was slain. [illustration: gil morrice tailpiece] the child of elle [illustration: the child of elle headpiece] on yondre hill a castle standes with walles and towres bedight, and yonder lives the child of elle, a younge and comely knighte. the child of elle to his garden went, and stood at his garden pale, whan, lo! he beheld fair emmelines page come trippinge downe the dale. the child of elle he hyed him thence, y-wis he stoode not stille, and soone he mette faire emmelines page come climbinge up the hille. nowe christe thee save, thou little foot-page, now christe thee save and see! oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, and what may thy tydinges bee? my ladye shee is all woe-begone, and the teares they falle from her eyne; and aye she laments the deadlye feude betweene her house and thine. and here shee sends thee a silken scarfe bedewde with many a teare, and biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, who loved thee so deare. and here shee sends thee a ring of golde the last boone thou mayst have, and biddes thee weare it for her sake, whan she is layde in grave. for, ah! her gentle heart is broke, and in grave soone must shee bee, sith her father hath chose her a new new love, and forbidde her to think of thee. her father hath brought her a carlish knight, sir john of the north countràye, and within three dayes she must him wedde, or he vowes he will her slaye. nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and greet thy ladye from mee, and telle her that i her owne true love will dye, or sette her free. nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and let thy fair ladye know this night will i bee at her bowre-windòwe, betide me weale or woe. the boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, he neither stint ne stayd untill he came to fair emmelines bowre, whan kneeling downe he sayd, o ladye, i've been with thine own true love, and he greets thee well by mee; this night will hee bee at thy bowre-windòwe, and dye or sett thee free. nowe daye was gone, and night was come, and all were fast asleepe, all save the ladye emmeline, who sate in her bowre to weepe: and soone shee heard her true loves voice lowe whispering at the walle, awake, awake, my deare ladyè, tis i thy true love call. awake, awake, my ladye deare, come, mount this faire palfràye: this ladder of ropes will lette thee downe he carrye thee hence awaye. nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, nowe nay, this may not bee; for aye shold i tint my maiden fame, if alone i should wend with thee. o ladye, thou with a knighte so true mayst safelye wend alone, to my ladye mother i will thee bringe, where marriage shall make us one. "my father he is a baron bolde, of lynage proude and hye; and what would he saye if his daughtèr awaye with a knight should fly "ah! well i wot, he never would rest, nor his meate should doe him no goode, until he hath slayne thee, child of elle, and scene thy deare hearts bloode." o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and a little space him fro, i would not care for thy cruel fathèr, nor the worst that he could doe. o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and once without this walle, i would not care for thy cruel fathèr nor the worst that might befalle. faire emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe: at length he seized her lilly-white hand, and downe the ladder he drewe: and thrice he clasped her to his breste, and kist her tenderlìe: the teares that fell from her fair eyes ranne like the fountayne free. hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, and her on a fair palfràye, and slung his bugle about his necke, and roundlye they rode awaye. all this beheard her owne damsèlle, in her bed whereas shee ley, quoth shee, my lord shall knowe of this, soe i shall have golde and fee. awake, awake, thou baron bolde! awake, my noble dame! your daughter is fledde with the child of elle to doe the deede of shame. the baron he woke, the baron he rose, and called his merrye men all: "and come thou forth, sir john the knighte, thy ladye is carried to thrall." faire emmeline scant had ridden a mile, a mile forth of the towne, when she was aware of her fathers men come galloping over the downe: and foremost came the carlish knight, sir john of the north countràye: "nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure, nor carry that ladye awaye. "for she is come of hye lineàge, and was of a ladye borne, and ill it beseems thee, a false churl's sonne, to carrye her hence to scorne." nowe loud thou lyest, sir john the knight, nowe thou doest lye of mee; a knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, soe never did none by thee but light nowe downe, my ladye faire, light downe, and hold my steed, while i and this discourteous knighte doe trye this arduous deede. but light now downe, my deare ladyè, light downe, and hold my horse; while i and this discourteous knight doe trye our valour's force. fair emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe, while twixt her love and the carlish knight past many a baleful blowe. the child of elle hee fought so well, as his weapon he waved amaine, that soone he had slaine the carlish knight, and layd him upon the plaine. and nowe the baron and all his men full fast approached nye: ah! what may ladye emmeline doe twere nowe no boote to flye. her lover he put his horne to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill, and soone he saw his owne merry men come ryding over the hill. "nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn, i pray thee hold thy hand, nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts fast knit in true love's band. thy daughter i have dearly loved full long and many a day; but with such love as holy kirke hath freelye sayd wee may. o give consent, shee may be mine, and blesse a faithfull paire: my lands and livings are not small, my house and lineage faire: my mother she was an earl's daughtèr, and a noble knyght my sire-- the baron he frowned, and turn'd away with mickle dole and ire. fair emmeline sighed, faire emmeline wept, and did all tremblinge stand: at lengthe she sprang upon her knee, and held his lifted hand. pardon, my lorde and father deare, this faire yong knyght and mee: trust me, but for the carlish knyght, i never had fled from thee. oft have you called your emmeline your darling and your joye; o let not then your harsh resolves your emmeline destroye. the baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, and turned his heade asyde to whipe awaye the starting teare he proudly strave to hyde. in deepe revolving thought he stoode, and mused a little space; then raised faire emmeline from the grounde, with many a fond embrace. here take her, child of elle, he sayd, and gave her lillye white hand; here take my deare and only child, and with her half my land: thy father once mine honour wrongde in dayes of youthful pride; do thou the injurye repayre in fondnesse for thy bride. and as thou love her, and hold her deare, heaven prosper thee and thine: and nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, my lovelye emmeline. [illustration: the child of elle tailpiece] child waters [illustration: the child waters headpiece] [illustration: the child waters] childe waters in his stable stoode and stroakt his milke white steede: to him a fayre yonge ladye came as ever ware womans weede. sayes, christ you save, good childe waters; sayes, christ you save, and see: my girdle of gold that was too longe, is now too short for mee. and all is with one chyld of yours, i feel sturre att my side: my gowne of greene it is too straighte; before, it was too wide. if the child be mine, faire ellen, he sayd, be mine, as you tell mee; then take you cheshire and lancashire both, take them your owne to bee. if the childe be mine, fair ellen, he sayd, be mine, as you doe sweare; then take you cheshire and lancashire both, and make that child your heyre. shee saies, i had rather have one kisse, child waters, of thy mouth; than i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, that laye by north and south. and i had rather have one twinkling, childe waters, of thine ee; then i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, to take them mine owne to bee. to morrow, ellen, i must forth ryde farr into the north countrie; the fairest lady that i can find, ellen, must goe with mee. 'thoughe i am not that lady fayre, 'yet let me go with thee:' and ever i pray you, child watèrs, your foot-page let me bee. if you will my foot-page be, ellen, as you doe tell to mee; then you must cut your gowne of greene, an inch above your knee: soe must you doe your yellow lockes, an inch above your ee: you must tell no man what is my name; my foot-page then you shall bee. shee, all the long day child waters rode, ran barefoote by his side; yett was he never soe courteous a knighte, to say, ellen, will you ryde? shee, all the long day child waters rode, ran barefoote thorow the broome; yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, to say, put on your shoone. ride softlye, shee sayd, o childe waters, why doe you ryde soe fast? the childe, which is no mans but thine, my bodye itt will brast. hee sayth, seeth thou yonder water, ellen, that flows from bank to brimme?-- i trust to god, o child waters, you never will see mee swimme. but when shee came to the waters side, shee sayled to the chinne: except the lord of heaven be my speed, now must i learne to swimme. the salt waters bare up her clothes; our ladye bare upp her chinne: childe waters was a woe man, good lord, to see faire ellen swimme. and when shee over the water was, shee then came to his knee: he said, come hither, thou fair ellèn, loe yonder what i see. seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of redd gold shines the yate; of twenty foure faire ladyes there, the fairest is my mate. seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of redd gold shines the towre: there are twenty four fair ladyes there, the fairest is my paramoure. i see the hall now, child waters, of redd golde shines the yate: god give you good now of yourselfe, and of your worthye mate. i see the hall now, child waters, of redd gold shines the towre: god give you good now of yourselfe, and of your paramoure. there twenty four fayre ladyes were a playing att the ball: and ellen the fairest ladye there, must bring his steed to the stall. there twenty four fayre ladyes were a playinge at the chesse; and ellen the fayrest ladye there, must bring his horse to gresse. and then bespake childe waters sister, these were the wordes said shee: you have the prettyest foot-page, brother, that ever i saw with mine ee. but that his bellye it is soe bigg, his girdle goes wonderous hie: and let him, i pray you, childe watères, goe into the chamber with mee. it is not fit for a little foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to go into the chamber with any ladye, that weares soe riche attyre. it is more meete for a litle foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to take his supper upon his knee, and sitt downe by the kitchen fyer. but when they had supped every one, to bedd they tooke theyr waye: he sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, and hearken what i saye. goe thee downe into yonder towne, and low into the street; the fayrest ladye that thou can finde, hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, and take her up in thine armes twaine, for filinge of her feete. ellen is gone into the towne, and low into the streete: the fairest ladye that she cold find, shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; and tooke her up in her armes twayne, for filing of her feete. i pray you nowe, good child watèrs, let mee lye at your bedds feete: for there is noe place about this house, where i may 'saye a sleepe. 'he gave her leave, and faire ellèn 'down at his beds feet laye:' this done the nighte drove on apace, and when it was neare the daye, hee sayd, rise up, my litle foot-page, give my steede corne and haye; and soe doe thou the good black oats, to carry mee better awaye. up then rose the faire ellèn, and gave his steede corne and hay: and soe shee did the good blacke oats, to carry him the better away. shee leaned her backe to the manger side, and grievouslye did groane: shee leaned her backe to the manger side, and there shee made her moane. and that beheard his mother deere, shee heard her there monand. shee sayd, rise up, thou childe watèrs, i think thee a cursed man. for in thy stable is a ghost, that grievouslye doth grone: or else some woman laboures of childe, she is soe woe-begone. up then rose childe waters soon, and did on his shirte of silke; and then he put on his other clothes, on his body as white as milke. and when he came to the stable dore, full still there he did stand, that hee mighte heare his fayre ellèn howe shee made her monànd. shee sayd, lullabye, mine owne deere child, lullabye, dere child, dere; i wold thy father were a king, thy mother layd on a biere. peace now, he said, good faire ellèn, be of good cheere, i praye; and the bridal and the churching both shall bee upon one day. king edward iv & the tanner of tamworth [illustration: king edward iv headpiece] in summer time, when leaves grow greene, and blossoms bedecke the tree, king edward wolde a hunting ryde, some pastime for to see. with hawke and hounde he made him bowne, with horne, and eke with bowe; to drayton basset he tooke his waye, with all his lordes a rowe. and he had ridden ore dale and downe by eight of clocke in the day, when he was ware of a bold tannèr, come ryding along the waye. a fayre russet coat the tanner had on fast buttoned under his chin, and under him a good cow-hide, and a marc of four shilling. nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, under the grene wood spraye; and i will wend to yonder fellowe, to weet what he will saye. god speede, god speede thee, said our king. thou art welcome, sir, sayd hee. "the readyest waye to drayton basset i praye thee to shew to mee." "to drayton basset woldst thou goe, fro the place where thou dost stand? the next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, turne in upon thy right hand." that is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, thou doest but jest, i see; nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, and i pray thee wend with mee. away with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: i hold thee out of thy witt: all daye have i rydden on brocke my mare, and i am fasting yett. "go with me downe to drayton basset, no daynties we will spare; all daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, and i will paye thy fare." gramercye for nothing, the tanner replyde, thou payest no fare of mine: i trowe i've more nobles in my purse, than thou hast pence in thine. god give thee joy of them, sayd the king, and send them well to priefe. the tanner wolde faine have beene away, for he weende he had beene a thiefe. what art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellowe, of thee i am in great feare, for the clothes, thou wearest upon thy back, might beseeme a lord to weare. i never stole them, quoth our king, i tell you, sir, by the roode. "then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, and standest in midds of thy goode." what tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, as you ryde farre and neare? "i heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse, but that cowe-hides are deare." "cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? i marvell what they bee?" what, art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; i carry one under mee. what craftsman art thou, said the king, i pray thee tell me trowe. "i am a barker, sir, by my trade; nowe tell me what art thou?" i am a poor courtier, sir, quoth he, that am forth of service worne; and faine i wolde thy prentise bee, thy cunninge for to learne. marrye heaven forfend, the tanner replyde, that thou my prentise were: thou woldst spend more good than i shold winne by fortye shilling a yere. yet one thinge wolde i, sayd our king, if thou wilt not seeme strange: thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, yet with thee i fain wold change. "why if with me thou faine wilt change, as change full well maye wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe i will have some boot of thee." that were against reason, sayd the king, i sweare, so mote i thee: my horse is better than thy mare, and that thou well mayst see. "yea, sir, but brocke is gentle and mild, and softly she will fare: thy horse is unrulye and wild, i wiss; aye skipping here and theare." what boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; now tell me in this stound. "noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye, but a noble in gold so round. "here's twentye groates of white moneye, sith thou will have it of mee." i would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, thou hadst not had one pennie. but since we two have made a change, a change we must abide, although thou hast gotten brocke my mare, thou gettest not my cowe-hide. i will not have it, sayd the kynge, i sweare, so mought i thee; thy foule cowe-hide i wolde not beare, if thou woldst give it to mee. the tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, that of the cow was bilt; and threwe it upon the king's sadelle, that was soe fayrelye gilte. "now help me up, thou fine fellowe, 'tis time that i were gone: when i come home to gyllian my wife, sheel say i am a gentilmon." the king he tooke him up by the legge; the tanner a f----- lett fall. nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the king, thy courtesye is but small. when the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, and his foote in the stirrup was; he marvelled greatlye in his minde, whether it were golde or brass. but when the steede saw the cows taile wagge, and eke the blacke cowe-horne; he stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, as the devill had him borne. the tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, and held by the pummil fast: at length the tanner came tumbling downe; his necke he had well-nye brast. take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, with mee he shall not byde. "my horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, but he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. yet if againe thou faine woldst change, as change full well may wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, i will have some boote of thee." what boote wilt thou have? the tanner replyd, nowe tell me in this stounde. "noe pence nor halfpence, sir, by my faye, but i will have twentye pound." "here's twentye groates out of my purse; and twentye i have of thine: and i have one more, which we will spend together at the wine." the king set a bugle home to his mouthe, and blewe both loude and shrille: and soone came lords, and soone came knights, fast ryding over the hille. nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, that ever i sawe this daye! thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes will beare my cowe-hide away. they are no thieves, the king replyde, i sweare, soe mote i thee: but they are the lords of the north countrèy, here come to hunt with mee. and soone before our king they came, and knelt downe on the grounde: then might the tanner have beene awaye, he had lever than twentye pounde. a coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, a coller he loud gan crye: then woulde he lever than twentye pound, he had not beene so nighe. a coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, i trowe it will breed sorrowe: after a coller cometh a halter, i trow i shall be hang'd to-morrowe. be not afraid, tanner, said our king; i tell thee, so mought i thee, lo here i make thee the best esquire that is in the north countrie. for plumpton-parke i will give thee, with tenements faire beside: 'tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, to maintaine thy good cowe-hide. gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, for the favour thou hast me showne; if ever thou comest to merry tamwòrth, neates leather shall clout thy shoen. [illustration: king edward iv tailpiece] sir patrick spens [illustration: sir patrick spens headpiece] the king sits in dumferling toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: o quhar will i get guid sailòr, to sail this schip of mine. up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the kings richt kne: sir patrick spens is the best sailòr, that sails upon the se. the king has written a braid letter, and signd it wi' his hand; and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the sand. the first line that sir patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he: the next line that sir patrick red, the teir blinded his ee. o quha is this has don this deid, this ill deid don to me; to send me out this time o' the zeir, to sail upon the se. mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, our guid schip sails the morne, o say na sae, my master deir, for i feir a deadlie storme. late late yestreen i saw the new moone wi' the auld moone in hir arme; and i feir, i feir, my deir master, that we will com to harme. o our scots nobles wer richt laith to weet their cork-heild schoone; bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, thair hats they swam aboone. o lang, lang, may thair ladies sit wi' thair fans into their hand, or eir they se sir patrick spens cum sailing to the land. o lang, lang, may the ladies stand wi' thair gold kems in their hair, waiting for thair ain deir lords, for they'll se thame na mair. have owre, have owre to aberdour, it's fiftie fadom deip: and thair lies guid sir patrick spens, wi' the scots lords at his feit. [illustration: sir patrick spens tailpiece] the earl of mar's daughter [illustration: the earl of mar's daughter headpiece] [illustration: the earl of mar's daughter] it was intill a pleasant time, upon a simmer's day, the noble earl of mar's daughter went forth to sport and play. as thus she did amuse hersell, below a green aik tree, there she saw a sprightly doo set on a tower sae hie. "o cow-me-doo, my love sae true, if ye'll come down to me, ye 'se hae a cage o guid red gowd instead o simple tree: "i'll put growd hingers roun your cage, and siller roun your wa; i'll gar ye shine as fair a bird as ony o them a'." but she hadnae these words well spoke, nor yet these words well said, till cow-me-doo flew frae the tower and lighted on her head. then she has brought this pretty bird hame to her bowers and ba, and made him shine as fair a bird as ony o them a'. when day was gane, and night was come, about the evening tide, this lady spied a sprightly youth stand straight up by her side. "from whence came ye, young man?" she said; "that does surprise me sair; my door was bolted right secure, what way hae ye come here?" "o had your tongue, ye lady fair, lat a' your folly be; mind ye not on your turtle-doo last day ye brought wi thee?" "o tell me mair, young man," she said, "this does surprise me now; what country hae ye come frae? what pedigree are you?" "my mither lives on foreign isles, she has nae mair but me; she is a queen o wealth and state, and birth and high degree. "likewise well skilld in magic spells, as ye may plainly see, and she transformd me to yon shape, to charm such maids as thee. "i am a doo the live-lang day, a sprightly youth at night; this aye gars me appear mair fair in a fair maiden's sight. "and it was but this verra day that i came ower the sea; your lovely face did me enchant; i'll live and dee wi thee." "o cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, nae mair frae me ye 'se gae; that's never my intent, my luve, as ye said, it shall be sae." "o cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, it's time to gae to bed;" "wi a' my heart, my dear marrow, it's be as ye hae said." then he has staid in bower wi her for sax lang years and ane, till sax young sons to him she bare, and the seventh she's brought hame. but aye as ever a child was born he carried them away, and brought them to his mither's care, as fast as he coud fly. thus he has staid in bower wi her for twenty years and three; there came a lord o high renown to court this fair ladie. but still his proffer she refused, and a' his presents too; says, i'm content to live alane wi my bird, cow-me-doo. her father sware a solemn oath amang the nobles all, "the morn, or ere i eat or drink, this bird i will gar kill." the bird was sitting in his cage, and heard what they did say; and when he found they were dismist, says, wae's me for this day! "before that i do langer stay, and thus to be forlorn, i'll gang unto my mither's bower, where i was bred and born." then cow-me-doo took flight and flew beyond the raging sea, and lighted near his mither's castle, on a tower o gowd sae hie. as his mither was wauking out, to see what she coud see, and there she saw her little son, set on the tower sae hie. "get dancers here to dance," she said, "and minstrells for to play; for here's my young son, florentine, come here wi me to stay." "get nae dancers to dance, mither, nor minstrells for to play, for the mither o my seven sons, the morn's her wedding-day." "o tell me, tell me, florentine, tell me, and tell me true, tell me this day without a flaw, what i will do for you." "instead of dancers to dance, mither, or minstrells for to play, turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men like storks in feathers gray; "my seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and i mysell a gay gos-hawk, a bird o high degree." then sichin said the queen hersell, "that thing's too high for me;" but she applied to an auld woman, who had mair skill than she. instead o dancers to dance a dance, or minstrells for to play, four-and-twenty wall-wight men turnd birds o feathers gray; her seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and he himsell a gay gos-hawk, a bird o high degree. this flock o birds took flight and flew beyond the raging sea, and landed near the earl mar's castle, took shelter in every tree. they were a flock o pretty birds, right comely to be seen; the people viewed them wi surprise, as they dancd on the green. these birds ascended frae the tree and lighted on the ha, and at the last wi force did flee amang the nobles a'. the storks there seized some o the men, they coud neither fight nor flee; the swans they bound the bride's best man below a green aik tree. they lighted next on maidens fair, then on the bride's own head, and wi the twinkling o an ee the bride and them were fled. there's ancient men at weddings been for sixty years or more, but sic a curious wedding-day they never saw before. for naething coud the companie do. nor naething coud they say but they saw a flock o pretty birds that took their bride away. when that earl mar he came to know where his dochter did stay, he signd a bond o unity, and visits now they pay. [illustration: the earl of mar's daughter tailpiece] a bundle of ballads edited by henry morley contents. introduction chevy chase chevy chase (the later version) the nut-brown maid adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie binnorie king cophetua and the beggar maid take thy old cloak about thee willow, willow, willow the little wee man the spanish lady's love edward, edward robin hood king edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth sir patrick spens edom o' gordon the children in the wood the beggar's daughter of bethnal green the bailiff's daughter of islington barbara allen's cruelty sweet william's ghost the braes o' yarrow kemp owyne o'er the water to charlie admiral hosier's ghost jemmy dawson william and margaret elfinland wood casabianca auld robin gray glossary introduction by the editor. recitation with dramatic energy by men whose business it was to travel from one great house to another and delight the people by the way, was usual among us from the first. the scop invented and the glee-man recited heroic legends and other tales to our anglo-saxon forefathers. these were followed by the minstrels and other tellers of tales written for the people. they frequented fairs and merrymakings, spreading the knowledge not only of tales in prose or ballad form, but of appeals also to public sympathy from social reformers. as late as the year , allan cunningham, in publishing a collection of "traditional tales of the english and scottish peasantry," spoke from his own recollection of itinerant story-tellers who were welcomed in the houses of the peasantry and earned a living by their craft. the earliest story-telling was in recitative. when the old alliteration passed on into rhyme, and the crowd or rustic fiddle took the place of the old "gleebeam" for accentuation of the measure and the meaning of the song, we come to the ballad-singer as philip sidney knew him. sidney said, in his "defence of poesy," that he never heard the old song of percy and douglas, that he found not his heart moved more than with a trumpet; and yet, he said, "it is sung but by some blind crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style; which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of pindar?" many an old ballad, instinct with natural feeling, has been more or less corrupted, by bad ear or memory, among the people upon whose lips it has lived. it is to be considered, however, that the old broader pronunciation of some letters developed some syllables and the swiftness of speech slurred over others, which will account for many an apparent halt in the music of what was actually, on the lips of the ballad-singer, a good metrical line. "chevy chase" is, most likely, a corruption of the french word chevauchee, which meant a dash over the border for destruction and plunder within the english pale. chevauchee was the french equivalent to the scottish border raid. close relations between france and scotland arose out of their common interest in checking movements towards their conquest by the kings of england, and many french words were used with a homely turn in scottish common speech. even that national source of joy, "great chieftain of the pudding-race," the haggis, has its name from the french hachis. at the end of the old ballad of "chevy chase," which reads the corrupted word into a new sense, as the hunting on the cheviot hills, there is an identifying of the hunting of the cheviot with the battle of otterburn:-- "old men that knowen the ground well enough call it the battle of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurn upon a monenday; there was the doughty douglas slain, the percy never went away." the battle of otterburn was fought on the th of august . the scots were to muster at jedburgh for a raid into england. the earl of northumberland and his sons, learning the strength of the scottish gathering, resolved not to oppose it, but to make a counter raid into scotland. the scots heard of this and divided their force. the main body, under archibald douglas and others, rode for carlisle. a detachment of three or four hundred men-at-arms and two thousand combatants, partly archers, rode for newcastle and durham, with james earl of douglas for one of their leaders. these were already pillaging and burning in durham when the earl of northumberland first heard of them, and sent against them his sons henry and ralph percy. in a hand-to-hand fight between douglas and henry percy, douglas took percy's pennon. at otterburn the scots overcame the english but douglas fell, struck by three spears at once, and henry was captured in fight by lord montgomery. there was a scots ballad on the battle of otterburn quoted in in a book--"the complaynt of scotland"--that also referred to the hunttis of chevet. the older version of "chevy chase" is in an ashmole ms. in the bodleian, from which it was first printed in by thomas hearne in his edition of william of newbury's history. its author turns the tables on the scots with the suggestion of the comparative wealth of england and scotland in men of the stamp of douglas and percy. the later version, which was once known more widely, is probably not older than the time of james i., and is the version praised by addison in nos. and of "the spectator." "the nut-brown maid," in which we can hardly doubt that a woman pleads for women, was first printed in in richard arnold's chronicle. nut-brown was the old word for brunette. there was an old saying that "a nut-brown girl is neat and blithe by nature." "adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie" was first printed by copland about . a fragment has been found of an earlier impression. laneham, in , in his kenilworth letter, included "adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie" among the light reading of captain cox. in the books of the stationers' company (for the printing and editing of which we are deeply indebted to professor arber), there is an entry between july and july , "to john kynge to prynte this boke called adam bell etc. and for his lycense he giveth to the howse." on the th of january - "adam bell" is included in a list of forty or more copyrights transferred from sampson awdeley to john charlewood; "a hundred merry tales" and gower's "confessio amantis" being among the other transfers. on the th of august the company of stationers "alowed vnto edward white for his copies these fyve ballades so that they be tollerable:" four only are named, one being "a ballad of william clowdisley, never printed before." drayton wrote in the "shepheard's garland" in :-- "come sit we down under this hawthorn tree, the morrow's light shall lend us day enough-- and tell a tale of gawain or sir guy, of robin hood, or of good clem of the clough." ben jonson, in his "alchemist," acted in , also indicates the current popularity of this tale, when face, the housekeeper, brings dapper, the lawyer's clerk, to subtle, and recommends him with-- "'slight, i bring you no cheating clim o' the clough or claribel." "binnorie," or "the two sisters," is a ballad on an old theme popular in scandinavia as well as in this country. there have been many versions of it. dr. rimbault published it from a broadside dated . the version here given is sir walter scott's, from his "minstrelsy of the scottish border," with a few touches from other versions given in professor francis james child's noble edition of "the english and scottish popular ballads," which, when complete, will be the chief storehouse of our ballad lore. "king cophetua and the beggar maid" is referred to by shakespeare in "love's labour's lost," act iv. sc i; in "romeo and juliet," act ii. sc. i; and in "ii. henry iv.," act iii. sc. . it was first printed in in richard johnson's "crown garland of goulden roses gathered out of england's royall garden. being the lives and strange fortunes of many great personages of this land, set forth in many pleasant new songs and sonnets never before imprinted." "take thy old cloak about thee," was published in by allan ramsay in his "tea-table miscellany," and was probably a sixteenth century piece retouched by him. iago sings the last stanza but one--"king stephen was a worthy peer," etc.--in "othello," act ii. sc. . in "othello," act iv. sc. , there is also reference to the old ballad of "willow, willow, willow." "the little wee man" is a wee ballad that is found in many forms with a little variation. it improves what was best in the opening of a longer piece which introduced popular prophecies, and is to be found in cotton ms. julius a. v. it was printed by thomas wright in his edition of langtoft's chronicle (ii. ). "the spanish lady's love" was printed by thomas deloney in "the garland of goodwill," published in the latter half of the sixteenth century. the hero of this ballad was probably one of essex's companions in the cadiz expedition, and various attempts have been made to identify him, especially with a sir john bolle of thorpe hall, lincolnshire. "edward, edward," is from percy's "reliques." percy had it from lord hailes. "robin hood" is the "lytell geste of robyn hood," printed in london by wynken de worde, and again in edinburgh by chepman and myllar in , in the first year of the establishment of a printing-press in scotland. "king edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth" is a ballad of a kind once popular; there were "king alfred and the neatherd," "king henry and the miller," "king james i. and the tinker," "king henry vii. and the cobbler," with a dozen more. "the tanner of tamworth" in another, perhaps older, form, as "the king and the barker," was printed by joseph ritson in his "ancient popular poetry." "sir patrick spens" was first published by percy in his "reliques of ancient english poetry" ( ). it was given by sir walter scott in his "minstrelsy of the border," and with more detail by peter buchan in his "ancient ballads of the north." buchan took it from an old blind ballad-singer who had recited it for fifty years, and learnt it in youth from another very old man. the ballad is upon an event in scottish history of the thirteenth century, touching marriage of a margaret, daughter of the king of scotland, to haningo, son of the king of norway. the perils of a winter sea-passage in ships of the olden time were recognised by an act of the reign of james iii. of scotland, prohibiting all navigation "frae the feast of st. simon's day and jude unto the feast of the purification of our lady, called candlemas." "edom o' gordon" was first printed at glasgow by robert and andrew foulis in . percy ascribed its preservation to sir david dalrymple, who gave it from the memory of a lady. the incident was transferred to the border from the north of scotland. edom o' gordon was sir adam gordon of auchindown, lieutenant-depute for queen mary in the north in . he sent captain ker with soldiers against the castle of towie, which was set on fire, and the lady of towie, with twenty-six other persons, "was cruelly brint to the death." other forms of the ballad ascribe the deed, with incidents of greater cruelty, to captain carr, the lord of estertowne. "the children in the wood" was entered in the books of the stationers' company on the th of october to thomas millington as, "for his copie vnder th[e h]andes of bothe the wardens a ballad intituled, the norfolk gent his will and testament and how he commytted the keepinge of his children to his owne brother whoe delte moste wickedly with them and howe god plagued him for it." it was printed as a black-letter ballad in . addison wrote a paper on it in "the spectator" (no. ), praising it as "one of the darling songs of the common people." "the blind beggar of bednall green" is in many collections, and was known in elizabeth's time, another elizabethan ballad having been set to the tune of it. "this very house," wrote samuel pepys in june of sir william rider's house at bethnal green, "was built by the blind beggar of bednall green, so much talked of and sung in ballads; but they say it was only some outhouses of it." the angels that abounded in the beggar's stores were gold coins, so named from the figure on one side of the archangel michael overcoming the dragon. this coin was first struck in , and it was used until the time of charles the first. "the bailiff's daughter of islington," or "true love requited," is a ballad in pepys's collection, now in the bodleian. the islington of the ballad is supposed to be an islington in norfolk. "barbara allen's cruelty" was referred to by pepys in his diary, january , - as "the little scotch song of barbary allen." it was first printed by allan ramsay (in ) in his "tea-table miscellany." in the same work allan ramsay was also the first printer of "sweet william's ghost." fragments of "the braes o' yarrow" are in old collections. the ballad has been given by scott in his "minstrelsy of the border," and another version is in peter buchan's "ancient ballads of the north." "kemp owyne" is here given from buchan's "ballads of the north of scotland." here also professor f. j. child has pointed to many icelandic, danish, and german analogies. allied to "kemp owyne" is the modern ballad of "the laidley worm of spindleston heughs," written before by the rev. mr. lamb of norham; but the "laily worm and the machrel of the sea" is an older cousin to "kemp owyne." "o'er the water to charlie" is given by buchan as the original form of this one of the many songs made when prince charles edward made his attempt in - . the songs worked scraps of lively old tunes, with some old words of ballad, into declaration of goodwill to the pretender. "admiral hosier's ghost" was written by richard glover in to rouse national feeling. vice-admiral vernon with only six men-of-war had taken the town of portobello, and levelled its fortifications. the place has so dangerous a climate that it is now almost deserted. admiral hosier in had been, in the same port, with twenty ships, restrained from attack, while he and his men were dying of fever. he was to blockade the spanish ports in the west indies and capture any spanish galleons that came out. he left porto bello for carthagena, where he cruised about while his men were being swept away by disease. his ships were made powerless through death of his best officers and men. he himself at last died, it was said, of a broken heart. dyer's ballad pointed the contrast as a reproach to the government for half-hearted support of the war, and was meant for suggestion of the success that would reward vigorous action. "jemmy dawson" was a ballad written by william shenstone on a young officer of manchester volunteers who was hanged, drawn, and quartered in on kennington common for having served the pretender. he was engaged to a young lady, who came to the execution, and when it was over fell back dead in her coach. "william and margaret," by david mallet, published in , is another example of the tendency to the revival of the ballad in the eighteenth century. "elfinland wood," by the scottish poet william motherwell, who died in , aged thirty-seven, is a modern imitation of the ancient scottish ballad. mrs. hemans, who wrote "casabianca," died also in . but the last ballad in this bundle, lady anne barnard's "auld robin gray," was written in , and owes its place to a desire that this volume, which begins with the best of the old ballads, should end with the best of the new. lady anne, eldest daughter of the fifth earl of balcarres, married sir andrew barnard, librarian to george iii., and survived her husband eighteen years. while the authorship of the piece remained a secret there were some who attributed it to rizzio, the favourite of mary queen of scots. lady anne barnard acknowledged the authorship to walter scott in , and told how she came to write it to an old air of which she was passionately fond, "bridegroom grat when the sun gaed down." when she had heaped many troubles on her heroine, and called to a little sister to suggest another, the suggestion came promptly, "steal the cow, sister anne." and the cow was stolen. h. m. chevy chase the percy out of northumberland, and avow to god made he that he would hunt in the mountains of cheviot within days three, in the maugre of doughty douglas and all that ever with him be, the fattest harts in all cheviot he said he would kill and carry them away. "by my faith," said the doughty douglas again, "i will let that hunting if that i may!" then the percy out of bamborough came, with him a mighty mean-y; with fifteen hundred archers, bold of blood and bone, they were chosen out of shires three. this began on a monday, at morn, in cheviot, the hillis so hie, the child may rue that is unborn, it was the more pitie. the drivers thorough the wood-es went for to raise the deer; bowmen bickered upon the bent with their broad arrows clear, then the wild thorough the wood-es went on every sid-e shear; greyhounds thorough the grov-es glent for to kill their deer. this began in cheviot, the hills abone, early on a monnynday; by that it drew to the hour of noon a hundred fat harts dead there lay. they blew a mort upon the bent; they sembled on sidis shear, to the quarry then the percy went, to see the brittling of the deer. he said, "it was the douglas' promise this day to meet me here; but i wist he would fail, verament"--a great oath the percy sware. at the last a squire of northumberland looked, at his hand full nigh he was ware of the doughty douglas coming, with him a mighty mean-y, both with spear, bill, and brand, it was a mighty sight to see. hardier men both of heart nor hand were not in christiant-e. they were twenty hundred spearmen good without any fail; they were borne along by the water of tweed, i'th' bounds of tividale. "leave off the brittling of the deer," he said, "and to your bows look ye take good heed, for never sith ye were of your mothers born had ye never so mickle need." the doughty douglas on a steed he rode all his men beforn, his armour glittered as did a glede, a bolder barn was never born. "tell me whose men ye are," he says, "or whose men that ye be; who gave you leave to hunt in this cheviot chase in the spite of mine and of me?" the first man that ever him an answer made, it was the good lord perc- y, "we will not tell thee whose men we are," he says, "nor whose men that we be; but we will hunt here in this chase in the spite of thine and of thee. the fattest harts in all cheviot we have killed, and cast to carry them away." "by my troth," said the doughty douglas again, "therefore the tone of us shall die this day." then said the doughty douglas unto the lord perc-y, "to kill all these guiltless men, alas! it were great pit-y. but, percy, thou art a lord of land, i am an earl called within my countr-y. let all our men upon a parti stand, and do the battle of thee and of me." "now christ's curse on his crown," said the lord percy, "whosoever thereto says nay! by my troth, doughty douglas," he says, "thou shalt never see that day! neither in england, scotland, nor france, nor for no man of a woman born, but and fortune be my chance, i dare meet him, one man for one." then bespake a squire of northumberland, richard witherington was his name, "it shall never be told in south england," he says, "to king harry the fourth, for shame. i wot you ben great lord-es two, i am a poor squire of land; i will never see my captain fight on a field, and stand myself and look on; but while i may my weapon wield i will fight both heart and hand." that day, that day, that dreadful day: the first fytte here i find, an you will hear any more of the hunting of the cheviot, yet is there more behind. second fytte. the english men had their bows ybent, their hearts were good enow; the first of arrows that they shot off, sevenscore spearmen they slowe. yet bides the earl douglas upon the bent, a captain good enow, and that was seene verament, for he wrought them both wo and wough. the douglas parted his host in three like a chief chieftain of pride, with suar spears of mighty tree they come in on every side, through our english archery gave many a wound full wide; many a doughty they gard to die, which gain-ed them no pride. the englishmen let their bows be, and pulled out brands that were bright; it was a heavy sight to see bright swords on basnets light. thorough rich mail and manople many stern they struck down straight, many a freke that was full free there under foot did light. at last the douglas and the percy met, like to captains of might and of main; they swapt together till they both swat, with swords that were of fine milan. these worthy frekis for to fight thereto they were full fain, till the blood out of their basnets sprent as ever did hail or rain. "yield thee, percy," said the douglas, "and in faith i shall thee bring where thou shalt have an earl's wagis of jamy our scottish king. thou shalt have thy ransom free, i hight thee here this thing, for the manfullest man yet art thou that ever i conquered in field fighting." "nay," said the lord percy, "i told it thee beforn, that i would never yielded be to no man of a woman born." with that there came an arrow hastily forth of a mighty wone; it hath stricken the earl douglas in at the breastbone. through liver and lung-es both the sharp arrow is gone, that never after in all his life-days he spake mo word-es but one, that was, "fight ye, my merry men, whilis ye may, for my life-days ben gone!" the percy lean-ed on his brand and saw the douglas dee; he took the dead man by the hand, and said, "wo is me for thee! to have saved thy life i would have parted with my lands for years three, for a better man of heart nor of hand was not in all the north countree." of all that see, a scottish knight, was called sir hugh the montgomer- y, he saw the douglas to the death was dight, he spended a spear a trusty tree, he rode upon a coursiere through a hundred archer-y, he never stinted nor never blane till he came to the good lord perc-y. he set upon the lord percy a dint that was full sore; with a suar spear of a mighty tree clean thorough the body he the percy bore on the tother side that a man might see a large cloth yard and more. two better captains were not in christiant-e than that day slain were there. an archer of northumberland saw slain was the lord perc-y, he bare a bent bow in his hand was made of trusty tree, an arrow that a cloth yard was long to the hard steel hal-ed he, a dint that was both sad and sore he sat on sir hugh the montgomer-y. the dint it was both sad and sore that he on montgomery set, the swan-feathers that his arrow bare, with his heart-blood they were wet. there was never a freke one foot would flee, but still in stour did stand, hewing on each other while they might dree with many a baleful brand. this battle began in cheviot an hour before the noon, and when evensong bell was rang the battle was not half done. they took on either hand by the light of the moon, many had no strength for to stand in cheviot the hillis aboon. of fifteen hundred archers of england went away but seventy and three, of twenty hundred spearmen of scotland but even five and fift-y; but all were slain cheviot within, they had no strength to stand on hy: the child may rue that is unborn, it was the more pity. there was slain with the lord percy sir john of agerstone, sir roger the hinde hartley, sir william the bold herone, sir george the worthy lumley, a knight of great renown, sir ralph the rich rugby, with dints were beaten down; for witherington my heart was wo, that ever he slain should be, for when both his leggis were hewen in two, yet he kneeled and fought on his knee. there was slain with the doughty douglas sir hugh the montgomer-y; sir davy lewdale, that worthy was, his sister's son was he; sir charles of murray in that place that never a foot would flee; sir hugh maxwell, a lord he was, with the douglas did he dee. so on the morrow they made them biers of birch and hazel so gay; many widows with weeping tears came to fetch their makis away. tivydale may carp of care, northumberland may make great moan, for two such captains as slain were there on the march parti shall never be none. word is comen to edinborough to jamy the scottish king, that doughty douglas, lieutenant of the marches, he lay slain cheviot within. his hand-es did he weal and wring; he said, "alas! and woe is me: such another captain scotland within," he said, "yea faith should never be." word is comen to lovely london, to the fourth harry our king, that lord perc-y, lieutenant of the marches, he lay slain cheviot within. "god have mercy on his soul," said king harry, "good lord, if thy will it be, i have a hundred captains in england," he said, "as good as ever was he; but percy, an i brook my life, thy death well quite shall be." as our noble king made his avow, like a noble prince of renown, for the death of the lord perc-y he did the battle of homildoun, where six and thirty scottish knights on a day were beaten down; glendale glittered on their armour bright, over castle, tower, and town. this was the hunting of the cheviot; that tear began this spurn; old men that knowen the ground well enough call it the battle of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurn upon a monenday; there was the doughty douglas slain, the percy never went away. there was never a time on the march part-es sen the douglas and the percy met, but it is marvel an the red blood run not as the rain does in the stret. jesu christ our balis bete, and to the bliss us bring! thus was the hunting of the cheviot. god send us all good ending! chevy chase (the later version.) god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful hunting once there did in chevy chase befall. to drive the deer with hound and horn earl piercy took the way; the child may rue that is unborn the hunting of that day! the stout earl of northumberland, a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers' days to take, the chiefest harts in chevy chase to kill and bear away; these tidings to earl douglas came in scotland where he lay, who sent earl piercy present word he would prevent his sport. the english earl, not fearing that, did to the woods resort, with fifteen hundred bowmen bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of need to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran to chase the fallow deer; on monday they began to hunt ere daylight did appear; and long before high noon they had a hundred fat bucks slain. then having dined, the drivers went to rouse the deer again. the bowmen mustered on the hills, well able to endure; their backsides all with special care that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods the nimble deer to take, that with their cries the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord piercy to the quarry went to view the tender deer; quoth he, "earl douglas promised once this day to meet me here; "but if i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay." with that a brave young gentleman thus to the earl did say, "lo, yonder doth earl douglas come, his men in armour bright, full twenty hundred scottish spears all marching in our sight, "all men of pleasant tividale fast by the river tweed." "o cease your sports!" earl piercy said, "and take your bows with speed, "and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance! for there was never champion yet in scotland nor in france "that ever did on horseback come, but if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear." earl douglas on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold: "show me," said he, "whose men you be that hunt so boldly here; that without my consent do chase and kill my fallow deer." the first man that did answer make was noble piercy, he, who said, "we list not to declare, nor show whose men we be; "yet we will spend our dearest blood thy chiefest harts to slay." then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say, "ere thus i will outbrav-ed be, one of us two shall die! i know thee well! an earl thou art, lord piercy! so am i. "but trust me, piercy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these our guiltless men for they have done no ill; "let thou and i the battle try, and set our men aside." "accurst be he," earl piercy said, "by whom it is denied." then stepped a gallant squire forth,-- witherington was his name,-- who said, "i would not have it told to henry our king, for shame, "that e'er my captain fought on foot, and i stand looking on: you be two earls," quoth witherington, "and i a squire alone. "i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand! while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand!" our english archers bent their bows-- their hearts were good and true,-- at the first flight of arrows sent, full fourscore scots they slew. to drive the deer with hound and horn, douglas bade on the bent; two captains moved with mickle might, their spears to shivers went. they closed full fast on every side, no slackness there was found, but many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was great grief to see how each man chose his spear, and how the blood out of their breasts did gush like water clear! at last these two stout earls did meet like captains of great might; like lions wood they laid on load, they made a cruel fight. they fought, until they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steel, till blood adown their cheeks like rain they trickling down did feel. "o yield thee, piercy!" douglas said, "and in faith i will thee bring where thou shalt high advanc-ed be by james our scottish king; "thy ransom i will freely give, and this report of thee, thou art the most courageous knight that ever i did see." "no, douglas!" quoth earl piercy then, "thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born!" with that there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart a deep and deadly blow; who never said more words than these, "fight on; my merry men all! for why? my life is at an end, lord piercy sees my fall." then leaving life, earl piercy took the dead man by the hand; who said, "earl douglas! for thy life would i had lost my land! "o christ! my very heart doth bleed for sorrow for thy sake! for sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take!" a knight amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas die, who straight in heart did vow revenge upon the lord pierc-y; sir hugh montgomery he was called, who, with a spear full bright, well mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight, and past the english archers all without all dread or fear, and through earl piercy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a vehement force and might his body he did gore, the staff ran through the other side a large cloth yard and more. so thus did both those nobles die, whose courage none could stain. an english archer then perceived the noble earl was slain; he had a good bow in his hand made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth yard long to the hard head hal-ed he, against sir hugh montgomery his shaft full right he set; the grey goose-wing that was thereon, in his heart's blood was wet. this fight from break of day did last till setting of the sun; for when they rung the evening bell, the battle scarce was done. with stout earl piercy there was slain sir john of egerton, sir robert harcliffe and sir william, sir james that bold bar-on; and with sir george and sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail as one in doleful dumps, for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas there was slain sir hugh montgomery, and sir charles morrel that from the field one foot would never fly; sir roger hever of harcliffe too,-- his sister's son was he,-- sir david lambwell, well esteemed, but saved he could not be; and the lord maxwell in like case with douglas he did die; of twenty hundred scottish spears, scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen went home but fifty-three; the rest in chevy chase were slain, under the greenwood tree. next day did many widows come their husbands to bewail; they washed their wounds in brinish tears, but all would not prevail. their bodies, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away; they kissed them dead a thousand times ere they were clad in clay. this news was brought to edinburgh, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. "o heavy news!" king james did say, "scotland may witness be i have not any captain more of such account as he!" like tidings to king henry came within as short a space, that piercy of northumberland was slain in chevy chase. "now god be with him!" said our king, "sith 'twill no better be, i trust i have within my realm five hundred as good as he! "yet shall not scots nor scotland say but i will vengeance take, and be reveng-ed on them all for brave earl piercy's sake." this vow the king did well perform after on humble down; in one day fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown, and of the rest of small account, did many hundreds die: thus ended the hunting in chevy chase made by the earl piercy. god save our king, and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace, and grant henceforth that foul debate twixt noble men may cease! the nut-brown maid be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain to love them wele; for never a dele they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new to them pursue, their first true lover than laboureth for naught; and from her thought he is a banished man. i say not nay, but that all day it is both writ and said that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but nevertheless, right good witn-ess in this case might be laid. that they love true, and contin-ue, record the nut-brown maid: which from her love, when her to prove he came to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. then between us let us discuss what was all the manere between them two: we will also tell all the pain in fere that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answere: wher-efore, ye, that present be i pray you give an ear. i am the knight. i come by night, as secret as i can; saying, "alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man." and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trusting to shew, in word-es few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse: therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse,-- "mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? i pray you, tell anone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "it standeth so: a deed is do whereof much harm shall grow; my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow; or else to flee. the one must be. none other way i know, but to withdraw as an out-law, and take me to my bow. wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "o lord, what is this world-es bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is darked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay! we de-part not so soon. why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas! what have ye done? all my welf-are to sorrow and care should change, if ye were gone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your pain-es hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take com-fort to you again. why should ye nought? for, to make thought, your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you, lo, as heartily as i can: for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "now, sith that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i will not leave behind. shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you read-y, for so am i, although it were anone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "yet i you re-de, take good heed when men will think and say: of young, of old, it shall be told, that ye be gone away your wanton will for to fulfil, in green wood you to play; and that ye might from your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill wom-an, yet would i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove, that faithful love it is devoid of shame in your distress and heaviness to part with you the same: and sure all tho that do not so, true lovers are they none: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "i counsel you, remember how it is no maiden's law nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an out-law; for ye must there in your hand bear a bow to bear and draw; and, as a thief, thus must ye live, ever in dread and awe; by which to you great harm might grow: yet had i liever than that i had to the green wood go alone, a banished man." she. "i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore; but love may make me for your sake, as ye have said before, to come on foot, to hunt and shoot to get us meat and store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more; from which to part, it maketh mine heart as cold as any stone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "for an out-law, this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pit-ie, hang-ed to be, and waver with the wind. if i had nede (as god forbede!) what rescues could ye find? forsooth, i trow, you and your bow should draw for fear behind. and no mervayle: for little avail were in your counsel than: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she "full well know ye, that women be full feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight; yet, in such fear if that ye were among enemies day and night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death many a one: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "yet take good hede; for ever i drede that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep vall-eys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, none other roof but a brake bush or twain: which soon should grieve you, i believe: and ye would gladly than that i had to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "sith i have here been partynere with you of joy and bliss, i must al-so part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleas-ure; and, shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, perde, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "if ye go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for to gete, nor drink, beer, ale, ne wine. ne sheet-es clean, to lie between, ymade of thread and twine; none other house, but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine; lo mine heart sweet, this ill di-ete should make you pale and wan: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she. "among the wild deer, such an archere, as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plent-y: and water clear of the rivere shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, ere we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "lo yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee, with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night, before daylight, to woodward will i flee. an ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to short my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother! before all other for you have i most drede! but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye. now let us flee; the day comes fast upon: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell you why,-- your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for, right as ye have said to me, in like wise hardily ye would answere whosoever it were, in way of company, it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold; and so is a wom-an: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she. "if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i you loved, pard-e; and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved. a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "a baron's child to be beguiled! it were a curs-ed dede; to be fel-aw with an out-law almighty god forbede! yet better were, the poor squyere alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that by my wicked dede ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." she. "whatsoever befall, i never shall of this thing you upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you wele, how that ye dele, for if ye, as ye said, be so unkind to leave behind your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me tru-ly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purveyed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another fairer than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both, each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can: wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man." she. "though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be your: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteis every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me, to my power: for had ye, lo! an hundred mo, yet would i be that one: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "mine own dear love, i see the proof that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad; be no more sad; the case is chang-ed new; for it were ruth that for your truth you should have cause to rue. be not dismayed, whatsoever i said to you, when i began: i will not to the green wood go; i am no banished man." she. "these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure: but it is often seen, when men will break promise they speak the wordis on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then were the case worse than it was and i more wo-begone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." he. "ye shall not nede further to drede: i will not dispar-age you (god defend!), sith you descend of so great a lin-age. now understand: to westmoreland, which is my heritage, i will you bring; and with a ring by way of marri-age i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can: thus have ye won an earl-es son and not a banished man." here may ye see, that women be in love, meek, kind, and stable; let never man reprove them than, or call them vari-able; but, rather, pray god that we may to them be comfort-able, which sometime proveth such as he loveth, if they be charit-able. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone. adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie. the first fytte. merry it was in green for-est, among the leav-es green, where that men walk both east and west with bows and arrows keen, to raise the deer out of their den, such sights as hath oft been seen; as by three yeomen of the north countrey: by them is as i mean. the one of them hight adam bell, the other clym of the clough, the third was william of cloudeslie, an archer good enough. they were outlawed for venison, these three yeomen every one; they swore them brethren upon a day, to ingle wood for to gone. now lith and listen, gentlemen, and that of mirths love to hear: two of them were single men, the third had a wedded fere. william was the wedded man, much more then was his care; he said to his brethren upon a day, to carlisle he would fare, for to speak with fair alice his wife, and with his children three. "by my troth," said adam bell, "not by the counsel of me: for if ye go to carlisle, brother, and from this wild wood wend, if the justice may you take, your life were at an end."-- "if that i come not to-morrow, brother, by prime to you again, trust not else but that i am take, or else that i am slain."-- he took his leave of his brethren two, and to carlisle he is gone. there he knocked at his own wind-ow shortly and anon. "where be you, fair alice, my wife? and my children three? lightly let in thine husb-and, william of cloudeslie."-- "alas," then saide fair al-ice, and sigh-ed wondrous sore, "this place hath been beset for you, this half-e year and more." "now am i here," said cloudeslie, "i would that i in were;-- now fetch us meat and drink enough, and let us make good cheer." she fetched him meat and drink plent-y, like a true wedded wife, and pleas-ed him with that she had, whom she loved as her life. there lay an old wife in that place, a little beside the fire, which william had found of charity mor-e than seven year; up she rose, and walked full still, evil mote she speed therefore: for she had not set no foot on ground in seven year before. she went unto the justice hall, as fast as she could hie: "this night is come unto this town william of cloudeslie." thereof the justice was full fain, and so was the sheriff also; "thou shalt not travel hither, dame, for nought, thy meed thou shalt have, ere thou go." they gave to her a right good gown, of scarlet it was, as i heard sain; she took the gift and home she went, and couched her down again. they raised the town of merry carlisle, in all the haste that they can, and came throng-ing to william's house, as fast as they might gan. there they beset that good yeo-man, round about on every side; william heard great noise of folks, that hitherward hied. alice opened a shot wind-ow, and look-ed all about she was ware of the justice and the sheriff both, with a full great rout. "alas, treason!" cried alice, "ever woe may thou be!-- go into my chamber, my husband," she said, "sweet william of cloudeslie." he took his sword and his buckl-er, his bow and his children three, and went into his strongest chamber, where he thought surest to be. fair al-ice followed him as a lover true, with a poleaxe in her hand: "he shall be dead that here cometh in this door, while i may stand." cloudeslie bent a well-good bow, that was of trusty tree, he smote the justice on the breast, that his arrow burst in three. "god's curse on his heart!" said william, "this day thy coat did on, if it had been no better than mine, it had gone near thy bone!" "yield thee, cloudeslie," said the justice, "and thy bow and thy arrows thee fro!" "god's curse on his heart," said fair al-ice, "that my husband counselleth so!" "set fire on the house," said the sheriff, "sith it will no better be, and burn we therein william," he said, "his wife and his children three!" they fired the house in many a place, the fire flew up on high; "alas," then cried fair al-ice, "i see we shall here die!" william opened his back wind-ow, that was in his chamber on high, and with shet-es let his wif-e down, and his children three. "have here my treasure," said willi-am, "my wife and my children three; for christ-es love do them no harm, but wreak you all on me." william shot so wondrous well, till his arrows were all gone, and the fire so fast upon him fell, that his bowstring burnt in two. the sparkles burnt, and fell upon, good william of cloudeslie! but then was he a woeful man, and said, "this is a coward's death to me. "liever i had," said willi-am, "with my sword in the rout to run, than here among mine enemies' wood, thus cruelly to burn." he took his sword and his buckler then, and among them all he ran, where the people were most in press, he smote down many a man. there might no man abide his stroke, so fiercely on them he ran; then they threw windows and doors on him, and so took that good yeom-an. there they bound him hand and foot, and in a deep dungeon him cast: "now, cloudeslie," said the high just-ice, "thou shalt be hanged in haste!" "one vow shall i make," said the sheriff, "a pair of new gallows shall i for thee make, and all the gates of carlisle shall be shut, there shall no man come in thereat. then shall not help clym of the clough nor yet adam bell, though they came with a thousand mo, nor all the devils in hell." early in the morning the justice uprose, to the gates fast gan he gone, and commanded to shut close lightly every one; then went he to the market-place, as fast as he could hie, a pair of new gallows there he set up, beside the pillor-y. a little boy stood them among, and asked what meant that gallows tree; they said-e, "to hang a good yeoman, called william of cloudeslie." that little boy was the town swineherd, and kept fair alice' swine, full oft he had seen william in the wood, and given him there to dine. he went out at a crevice in the wall, and lightly to the wood did gone; there met he with these wight yeomen, shortly and anon. "alas!" then said that little boy, "ye tarry here all too long! cloudeslie is taken and damned to death, and ready for to hong." "alas!" then said good adam bell, "that ever we see this day! he might here with us have dwelled, so oft as we did him pray. he might have tarried in green for-est, under the shadows sheen, and have kept both him and us at rest, out of all trouble and teen." adam bent a right good bow, a great hart soon had he slain: "take that, child," he said, "to thy dinner, and bring me mine arrow again." "now go we hence," said these wight yeomen, "tarry we no longer here; we shall him borrow, by god's grace, though we abye it full dear." to carlisle went these good yeom-en on a merry morning of may. here is a fytte of cloudeslie, and another is for to say. the second fytte. and when they came to merry carlisle, all in a morning tide, they found the gates shut them until, round about on every side. "alas," then said good adam bell, "that ever we were made men! these gates be shut so wonderly well, that we may not come here in." then spake him clym of the clough: "with a wile we will us in bring; let us say we be messengers, straight comen from our king." adam said: "i have a letter written well, now let us wisely werk; we will say we have the king-e's seal, i hold the porter no clerk." then adam bell beat on the gate, with strok-es great and strong; the porter heard such noise thereat, and to the gate he throng. "who is there now," said the porter, "that maketh all this knocking?" "we be two messengers," said clym of the clough, "be comen straight from our king." "we have a letter," said adam bell, "to the justice we must it bring; let us in our message to do, that we were again to our king." "here cometh no man in," said the porter, "by him that died on a tree, till that a false thief be hanged, called william of cloudeslie!" then spake the good yeoman clym of the clough, and swore by mary free, "if that we stand-e long without, like a thief hanged shalt thou be. lo here we have the king-es seal; what, lourdain, art thou wood?" the porter weened it had been so, and lightly did off his hood. "welcome be my lord's seal," said he, "for that shall ye come in." he opened the gate right shortelie, an evil open-ing for him. "now are we in," said adam bell, "thereof we are full fain, but christ he knoweth, that harrowed hell, how we shall come out again." "had we the keys," said clym of the clough, "right well then should we speed; then might we come out well enough when we see time and need." they called the porter to a couns-el, and wrung his neck in two, and cast him in a deep dunge-on, and took the keys him fro. "now am i porter," said adam bell; "see, brother, the keys have we here; the worst port-er to merry carlisle they have had this hundred year: and now will we our bow-es bend, into the town will we go, for to deliver our dear broth-er, that lieth in care and woe." they bent their good yew bow-es, and looked their strings were round, the market-place of merry carlisle they beset in that stound; and as they look-ed them beside, a pair of new gallows there they see, and the justice with a quest of squires, that judged william hang-ed to be. and cloudeslie lay ready there in a cart, fast bound both foot and hand, and a strong rope about his neck, all ready for to be hanged. the justice called to him a lad, cloudeslie's clothes should he have to take the measure of that yeom-an, thereafter to make his grave. "i have seen as great marvel," said cloudeslie, "as between this and prime; he that maketh this grave for me, himself may lie therein."-- "thou speakest proudly," said the justice; "i shall hang thee with my hand." full well that heard his brethren two, there still as they did stand. then cloudeslie cast his eyen aside, and saw his two brethren at a corner of the market-place, ready the justice to slain. "i see good comfort," said cloudeslie, "yet hope i well to fare; if i might have my hands at will, right little would i care." then spake good adam bell to clym of the clough so free, "brother, see ye mark the justice well; lo, yonder ye may him see; and at the sheriff shoot i will strongly with arrow keen." a better shot in merry carlisle this seven year was not seen. they loosed their arrows both at once, of no man had they drede; the one hit the justice, the other the sheriff, that both their sides gan bleed. all men voided, that them stood nigh, when the justice fell to the ground, and the sheriff fell nigh him by, either had his death's wound. all the citizens fast gan flee, they durst no longer abide; then lightly they loos-ed cloudeslie, where he with ropes lay tied. william stert to an officer of the town, his axe out of his hand he wrong, on each-e side he smote them down, him thought he tarried too long. william said to his brethren two: "together let us live and dee; if e'er you have need, as i have now, the same shall ye find by me." they shot so well in that tide, for their strings were of silk full sure, that they kept the streets on every side, that battle did long endure. they fought together as brethren true, like hardy men and bold; many a man to the ground they threw, and many an heart made cold. but when their arrows were all gone, men pressed to them full fast; they drew their sword-es then anon, and their bow-es from them cast. they went lightly on their way, with swords and bucklers round; by that it was the middes of the day, they had made many a wound. there was many a neat-horn in carlisle blown, and the bells back-ward did ring; many a woman said "alas!" and many their hands did wring. the mayor of carlisle forth come was, and with him a full great rout; these three yeomen dread him full sore, for their lives stood in doubt. the mayor came armed a full great pace, with a poleaxe in his hand; many a strong man with him was, there in that stour to stand. the mayor smote cloudeslie with his bill, his buckler he burst in two; full many a yeoman with great ill, "alas! treason!" they cried for woe. "keep we the gat-es fast," they bade, "that these traitors thereout not go!" but all for nought was that they wrought, for so fast they down were laid, till they all three that so manfully fought, were gotten without at a braid. "have here your keys," said adam bell, "mine office i here forsake; if you do by my coun-sel, a new port-er do ye make." he threw the keys there at their heads, and bade them evil to thrive, and all that letteth any good yeo-man to come and comfort his wife. thus be these good yeomen gone to the wood, as light as leaf on linde; they laugh and be merry in their mood, their en'mies were far behind. when they came to inglewood, under their trysting tree, there they found bow-es full good, and arrows great plent-y. "so help me god," said adam bell, and clym of the clough so free, "i would we were now in merry carlisle, before that fair meynie!" they sit them down and make good cheer, and eat and drink full well.-- here is a fytte of these wight yeomen, and another i shall you tell. the third fytte. as they sat in inglewood under their trysting tree, they thought they heard a woman weep, but her they might not see. sore there sigh-ed fair al-ice, and said, "alas that e'er i see this day! for now is my dear husband slain: alas, and well away! "might i have spoken with his dear brethren, with either of them twain, to show-e them what him befell, my heart were out of pain." cloudeslie walked a little beside, and looked under the greenwood linde; he was ware of his wife and his children three, full woe in heart and mind. "welcome, wife," then said willi-am, "under this trysting tree! i had weened yesterday, by sweet saint john, thou should me never have see." "now well is me," she said, "that ye be here! my heart is out of woe."-- "dame," he said, "be merry and glad, and thank my brethren two." "hereof to speak," said adam bell, "iwis it is no boot; the meat that we must sup withal it runneth yet fast on foot." then went they down into the launde, these noble archers all three; each of them slew a hart of grease, the best that they could see. "have here the best, al-ice, my wife," said william of cloudeslie, "because ye so boldly stood me by when i was slain full nie." and then they went to their supp-er with such meat as they had, and thanked god of their fort-une; they were both merry and glad. and when that they had supp-ed well, certain withouten lease, cloudeslie said: "we will to our king, to get us a charter of peace; al-ice shall be at our sojourning, in a nunnery here beside, and my two sons shall with her go, and there they shall abide. "mine eldest son shall go with me, for him have i no care, and he shall bring you word again how that we do fare." thus be these yeomen to london gone, as fast as they may hie, till they came to the king's pal-ace, where they would needs be. and when they came to the king-es court, unto the palace gate, of no man would they ask no leave, but boldly went in thereat. they press-ed prestly into the hall, of no man had they dread; the porter came after, and did them call, and with them gan to chide. the usher said: "yeomen, what would ye have? i pray you tell to me; you might thus make officers shent, good sirs, of whence be ye?" "sir, we be outlaws of the for-est, certain without any lease, and hither we be come to our king, to get us a charter of peace."-- and when they came before the king, as it was the law of the land, they kneel-ed down without lett-ing, and each held up his hand. they said: "lord, we beseech thee here, that ye will grant us grace: for we have slain your fat fallow deer in many a sundry place."-- "what be your names?" then said our king, "anon that you tell me." they said: "adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie."-- "be ye those thieves," then said our king, "that men have told of to me? here to god i make avowe ye shall be hanged all three! "ye shall be dead without merc-y, as i am king of this land." he commanded his officers every one fast on them to lay hand. there they took these good yeomen; and arrested them all three. "so may i thrive," said adam bell, "this game liketh not me. "but, good lord, we beseech you now, that ye will grant us grace, insomuch as we be to you comen; or else that we may fro you pace with such weapons as we have here, till we be out of your place; and if we live this hundred year, of you we will ask no grace."-- "ye speak proudly," said the king; "ye shall be hanged all three." "that were great pity," then said the queen, "if any grace might be. my lord, when i came first into this land, to be your wedded wife, ye said the first boon that i would ask, ye would grant it me belife. "and i asked never none till now: therefore, good lord, grant it me." "now ask it, madam," said the king, "and granted shall it be."-- "then, good my lord, i you beseech, these yeomen grant ye me."-- "madam, ye might have asked a boon, that should have been worth them all three: "ye might have ask-ed towers and towns, parks and for-ests plent-y."-- "none so pleasant to my pay," she said, "nor none so lief to me."-- "madam, sith it is your desire, your asking granted shall be; but i had liever have given you good market town-es three." the queen she was a glad wom-an, and said: "lord, gramerc-y, i dare well undertake for them that true men shall they be. but, good lord, speak some merry word, that comfort they may see."-- "i grant you grace," then said our king; "wash, fellows, and to meat go ye." they had not sitten but a while, certain, without leas-ing, there came two messengers out of the north, with letters to our king. and when they came before the king, they kneeled down upon their knee, and said: "lord, your officers greet you well of carlisle in the north countree."-- "how fareth my justice?" said the king, "and my sheriff also?"-- "sir, they be slain, without leas-ing, and many an officer mo."-- "who hath them slain?" then said the king, "anon thou tell-e me."-- "adam bell, and clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslie."-- "alas, for ruth!" then said our king, "my heart is wondrous sore; i had liever than a thousand pound i had known of this before; for i have y-granted them grace, and that forthinketh me: but had i known all this before, they had been hanged all three."-- the king he opened the letter anon, himself he read it tho, and found how these three outlaws had slain three hundred men and mo; first the justice and the sheriff, and the mayor of carlisle town, of all the const-ables and catchipolls alive were left but one; the bailiffs and the bedels both, and the serjeants of the law, and forty fosters of the fee, these outlaws have they slaw; and broken his parks, and slain his deer, over all they chose the best, so perilous outlaws as they were, walked not by east nor west. when the king this letter had read, in his heart he sigh-ed sore: "take up the table," anon he bade: "for i may eat no more." the king called his best archers to the butts with him to go; "i will see these fellows shoot," he said, "that in the north have wrought this woe." the king-es bowmen busk them blive, and the queen's archers also, so did these three wight yeomen; with them they thought to go. there twice or thrice they shot about, for to assay their hand; there was no shot these yeomen shot, that any prick might them stand. then spake william of cloudeslie: "by him that for me died, i hold him never no good archer, that shooteth at butts so wide."-- "whereat, then?" said our king, "i pray thee tell to me."-- "at such a butt, sir," he said, "as men use in my countree."-- william went into the field, and his two brothers with him, there they set up two hazel rods, twenty score paces between. "i hold him an archer," said cloudeslie, "that yonder wand cleaveth in two."-- "here is none such," said the king, "for no man that can so do." "i shall assay, sir," said cloudeslie, "ere that i farther go." cloudeslie with a bearing arrow clave the wand in two. "thou art the best archer," said the king, "forsooth that ever i see."-- "and yet for your love," said william, "i will do more mastrie. "i have a son is seven year old; he is to me full dear; i will tie him to a stake, all shall see him that be here, and lay an apple upon his head, and go six score paces him fro, and i myself with a broad arrow shall cleave the apple in two."-- "now haste thee, then," said the king, "by him that died on a tree, but if thou do not as thou hast said, hang-ed shalt thou be. an thou touch his head or gown, in sight that men may see, by all the saints that be in heaven, i shall you hang all three."-- "that i have promised," said william, "that i will never forsake;" and there even, before the king, in the earth he drove a stake, and bound thereto his eldest son, and bade him stand still thereat, and turn-ed the child's face him fro, because he should not start. an apple upon his head he set, and then his bow he bent, six score paces they were out met, and thither cloudeslie went; there he drew out a fair broad arrow; his bow was great and long; he set that arrow in his bow, that was both stiff and strong. he prayed the people that was there, that they would still stand: for he that shooteth for such a wag-er hath need of a steady hand. much people prayed for cloudeslie, that his life saved might be; and when he made him ready to shoot, there was many a weeping ee. thus cloudeslie cleft the apple in two, as many a man might see. "now god forbid," then said the king, "that ever thou shoot at me! i give thee eighteen pence a day, and my bow shalt thou bear, and over all the north countree i make thee chief rid-er."-- "and i give thee seventeen pence a day," said the queen, "by god and by my fay, come fetch thy payment when thou wilt, no man shall say thee nay. william, i make thee a gentleman of clothing and of fee, and thy two brethren yeomen of my chamber: for they are seemly to see; "your son, for he is tender of age, of my wine-cellar shall he be, and when he cometh to man's estate, better preferred shall he be. and, william, bring me your wife," said the queen, "me longeth her sore to see; she shall be my chief gentlewoman, to govern my nursery." the yeomen thanked them full courteously, and said: "to some bishop we'll wend, of all the sins that we have done to be assoiled at his hand." so forth be gone these good yeomen, as fast as they might hie; and after came and dwelt with the king, and died good men all three. thus ended the lives of these good yeomen, god send them eternal bliss; and all that with a hand-bow shooteth, that of heaven they may never miss! binnorie. there were two sisters sat in a bour; binnorie, o binnorie! there came a knight to be their wooer by the bonny mill-dams of binnorie. he courted the eldest with glove and ring, but he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing. he courted the eldest with brooch and knife, but he lo'ed the youngest aboon his life. the eldest she was vex-ed sair, and sore envi-ed her sister fair. upon a morning fair and clear she cried upon her sister dear: "o, sister, come to yon river strand, and see our father's ships come to land." she's ta'en her by the lily hand, and led her down to the river strand. and as they walk-ed by the linn, the eldest dang the youngest in. "o, sister, sister, reach your hand, and ye'll be heir to a' my land!"-- "foul fa' the hand that i wad take to twin me o' my warld's make!"-- "o, sister, reach me but your glove, and sweet william shall be your love!"-- "sink on, nor hope for hand or glove, and sweet william shall be my love: "your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair garr'd me gang maiden evermair." she clasped her hands about a broom root, but her cruel sister she loosed them out. sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, until she came to the miller's dam. the miller's daughter was baking bread, she went for water as she had need. "o father, father, draw your dam! there's either a maid or a milk-white swan!" the miller hasted and drew his dam, and there he found a drowned wom-an. you couldna see her yellow hair for gowd and pearls that were sae rare; you couldna see her middle sma', her gowden girdle was sae bra'. a famous harper passing by, the sweet pale face he chanced to spy; and when he looked that ladye on, he sighed and made a heavy moan. he made a harp of her breast-bone, whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; he's ta'en three locks of her yellow hair, and wi' them strung his harp sae fair. he brought it to her father's hall, and there was the court assembled all. he laid this harp upon a stone, and straight it began to play alone: "oh, yonder sits my father, the king, and yonder sits my mother, the queen, and yonder stands my brother, hugh, and yonder my william, sweet and true." but the last tune that the harp played then binnorie! o binnorie! was, "wae to my sister, false ellen, by the bonny mill-dams of binnorie!" king cophetua and the beggar-maid. i read that once in africa a princely wight did reign, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did feign: from nature's laws he did decline, for sure he was not of my mind, he car-ed not for women-kind, but did them all disdain. but mark what happened on a day: as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in gray, the which did cause his pain. the blinded boy, that shoots so trim, from heaven down did hie; he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lie: which soon did pierce him to the quick, and when he felt the arrow prick, which in his tender heart did stick, he looked as he would die. "what sudden chance is this," quoth he, "that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defy?" then from the window he did come, and laid him on his bed, a thousand heaps of care did run within his troubled head: for now he means to crave her love, and now he seeks which way to prove how he his fancy might remove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poor beggar must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or else he would be dead. and, as he musing thus did lie, he thought for to devise how he might have her company, that so did 'maze his eyes. "in thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife the gods shall sure suffice!" then from his bed he soon arose, and to his palace gate he goes; full little then this beggar knows when she the king espies. "the gods preserve your majesty!" the beggars all gan cry: "vouchsafe to give your charity our children's food to buy!" the king to them his purse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hie. the king he called her back again, and unto her he gave his chain; and said, "with us thou shalt remain till such time as we die: "for thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, and honoured for my queen; with thee i mean to lead my life, as shortly shall be seen: our wedding shall appointed be, and every thing in its degree; come on," quoth he, "and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee clean. what is thy name, fair maid?" quoth he. "zenelophon, o king," quoth she: with that she made a low courts-ey, a trim one as i ween. thus hand in hand along they walk unto the king's pal-ace: the king with courteous comely talk this beggar doth embrace: the beggar blusheth scarlet red, and straight again as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voice and said, "o king, i do rejoice that you will take me for your choice, and my degree's so base." and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded straight the noblemen both all and some upon the queen to wait. and she behaved herself that day, as if she had never walked the way; she had forgot her gown of gray, which she did wear of late. the proverb old is come to pass, the priest, when he begins his mass, forgets that ever clerk he was; he knoweth not his estate. here you may read, cophetua, though long time fancy-fed, compell-ed by the blinded boy the beggar for to wed: he that did lovers' looks disdain, to do the same was glad and fain, or else he would himself have slain, in story as we read. disdain no whit, o lady dear, but pity now thy servant here, lest that it hap to thee this year, as to that king it did. and thus they led a quiet life during their princely reign; and in a tomb were buried both, as writers showeth plain. the lords they took it grievously, the ladies took it heavily, the commons cri-ed piteously, their death to them was pain. their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did fly to every prince's realm. take thy old cloak about thee. this winter's weather it waxeth cold, and frost doth freeze on every hill, and boreas blows his blasts so bold, that all our cattle are like to spill; bell my wife, who loves no strife, she said unto me quietly, "rise up, and save cow crumbock's life; man, put thine old cloak about thee." he. "o bell, why dost thou flyte and scorn? thou ken'st my cloak is very thin: it is so bare and overworn a crick he thereon cannot renn: then i'll no longer borrow nor lend, for once i'll new apparelled be, to-morrow i'll to town and spend, for i'll have a new cloak about me." she. "cow crumbock is a very good cow, she ha' been always true to the pail, she's helped us to butter and cheese, i trow, and other things she will not fail: i wad be loth to see her pine, good husband, counsel take of me, it is not for us to go so fine; man, take thine old cloak about thee." he. "my cloak it was a very good cloak, it hath been always true to the wear, but now it is not worth a groat; i have had it four and forty year: sometime it was of cloth in grain, 'tis now but a sigh-clout, as you may see, it will neither hold out wind nor rain; and i'll have a new cloak about me." she. "it is four and forty years ago since the one of us the other did ken, and we have had betwixt us two of children either nine or ten; we have brought them up to women and men; in the fear of god i trow they be; and why wilt thou thyself misken? man, take thine old cloak about thee." he. "o bell my wife, why dost thou flout? now is now, and then was then: seek now all the world throughout, thou ken'st not clowns from gentlemen. they are clad in black, green, yellow, or gray, so far above their own degree: once in my life i'll do as they, for i'll have a new cloak about me." she. "king stephen was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown, he held them sixpence all too dear; therefore he called the tailor lown. he was a wight of high renown, and thou's but of a low degree: it's pride that puts this country down; man, take thine old cloak about thee." he. bell my wife she loves not strife, yet she will lead me if she can; and oft, to live a quiet life, i am forced to yield, though i'm good-man; it's not for a man with a woman to threap, unless he first gave o'er the plea: as we began we now will leave, and i'll take mine old cloak about me. willow, willow, willow. a poor soul sat sighing under a sycamore tree; "o willow, willow, willow!" with his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee: "o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." he sighed in his singing, and after each groan, "come willow, willow, willow! i am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone; o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "my love she is turned; untrue she doth prove: o willow, willow, willow! she renders me nothing but hate for my love. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "o pity me," cried he, "ye lovers, each one; o willow, willow, willow! her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my moan. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." the cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace; "o willow, willow, willow!" the salt tears fell from him, which drown-ed his face: "o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." the mute birds sat by him, made tame by his moans: "o willow, willow, willow!" the salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones. "o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "let nobody blame me, her scorns i do prove; o willow, willow, willow! she was born to be fair; i, to die for her love. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "o that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard! sing willow, willow, willow! my true love rejecting without all regard. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "let love no more boast him in palace or bower; o willow, willow, willow! for women are trothless, and fleet in an hour. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "but what helps complaining? in vain i complain: o willow, willow, willow! i must patiently suffer her scorn and disdain. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me, o willow, willow, willow! he that plains of his false love, mine's falser than she. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "the willow wreath wear i, since my love did fleet; o willow, willow, willow! a garland for lovers forsaken most meet. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." part the second. "low laid by my sorrow, begot by disdain; o willow, willow, willow! against her too cruel, still still i complain, o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and! "o love too injurious, to wound my poor heart! o willow, willow, willow! to suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "o willow, willow, willow! the willow garl-and, o willow, willow, willow! a sign of her falseness before me doth stand: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "as here it doth bid to despair and to die, o willow, willow, willow! so hang it, friends, o'er me in grave where i lie: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "in grave where i rest me, hang this to the view, o willow, willow, willow! of all that do know her, to blaze her untrue. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "with these words engraven, as epitaph meet, o willow, willow, willow! 'here lies one drank poison for potion most sweet,' o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "though she thus unkindly hath scorn-ed my love, o willow, willow, willow! and carelessly smiles at the sorrows i prove; o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "i cannot against her unkindly exclaim, o willow, willow, willow! 'cause once well i loved her, and honoured her name: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "the name of her sounded so sweet in mine ear, o willow, willow, willow! it raised my heart lightly, the name of my dear; o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "as then 'twas my comfort, it now is my grief; o willow, willow, willow! it now brings me anguish; then brought me relief. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and. "farewell, fair false-hearted: plaints end with my breath! o willow, willow, willow! thou dost loathe me, i love thee, though cause of my death. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the green willow shall be my garl-and." the little wee man. as i gaed out to tak the air between midmar and bonny craigha', there i met a little wee man, the less o' him i never saw. his legs were but a finger lang, and thick and nimble was his knee; between his brows there was a span, between his shoulders ell-es three. he lifted a stane sax feet in height, he lifted it up till his right knee, and fifty yards and mair i'm sure, i wite he made the stane to flee. "o, little wee man, but ye hae power! and o, where may your dwelling be?"-- "i dwell beneath yon bonny bower. o, will ye gae wi' me and see?"-- sae on we lap, and awa' we rade till we come to yon little ha', the kipples were o' the gude red gowd, the roof was o' the proseyla. there were pipers playing in every neuk, and ladies dancing, jimp and sma'; and aye the owre-turn o' their tune was, "our wee wee man has been long awa!" out gat the lights, on cam the mist ladies nor mannie mair could see, i turned about, and ga'e a look just at the foot o' benachie. the spanish lady's love. after the taking of cadiz. will you hear a spanish lady, how she wooed an englishman? garments gay and rich as may be decked with jewels she had on. of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lie; cupid's bands did tie them faster by the liking of an eye. in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in anything she was not coy. but at last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorn-ed, none to do them injury. then said this lady mild, "full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! "gallant captain, show some pity to a lady in distress; leave me not within this city, for to die in heaviness: thou hast set this present day my body free, but my heart in prison still remains with thee." "how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou know'st thy country's foe? thy fair words make me suspect thee: serpents lie where flowers grow."-- "all the harm i wish to thee, most courteous knight: god grant the same upon my head may fully light. "blessed be the time and season, that ye came on spanish ground; if our foes ye may be term-ed, gentle foes we have you found: with our city ye have won our hearts each one; then to your country bear away that is your own."-- "rest you still, most gallant lady; rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there is plenty, spain doth yield a wondrous store."-- "spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, but englishmen through all the world are counted kind. "leave me not unto a spaniard, you alone enjoy my heart; i am lovely, young, and tender, love is likewise my desert: still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; the wife of every englishman is counted blest."-- "it would be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence."-- "i'll quickly change myself, if it be so, and like a page i'll follow thee, where'er thou go."-- "i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel is great charges, as you know in every place."-- "my chains and jewels every one shall be thy own, and eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown." "on the seas are many dangers; many storms do there arise, which will be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from watery eyes."-- "well in troth i shall endure extremity, for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee."-- "courteous lady, leave this fancy; here comes all that breeds the strife. i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain." "o how happy is that woman, that enjoys so true a friend! many happy days god send her! of my suit i make an end: on my knees i pardon crave for my offence, which did from love and true affection first commence. "commend me to thy lovely lady. bear to her this chain of gold, and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold: all my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, for they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. "i will spend my days in prayer; love and all her laws defy; in a nunnery will i shroud me far from any compan-y: but ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, to pray for thee and for thy love i will not miss. "thus farewell, most gallant captain! farewell, too, my heart's content! count not spanish ladies wanton, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity go still with thee!" "the like fall ever to thy share, most fair lad-ie!" edward, edward. "why does your brand sae drop wi' bluid, edward, edward? why does your brand sae drop wi' bluid, and why sae sad gang ye, o?"-- "o, i ha'e kill-ed my hawk sae guid, mither, mither! o, i ha'e kill-ed my hawk sae guid, and i had nae mair but he, o."-- "your hawkis bluid was never sae reid, edward, edward: your hawkis bluid was never sae reid, my dear son, i tell thee, o."-- "o, i ha'e kill-ed my reid-roan steed, mither, mither! o, i ha'e kill-ed my reid-roan steed that erst was so fair and free, o."-- "your steed was auld, and ye ha'e got mair, edward, edward: your steed was auld, and ye ha'e got mair, some other dule ye dree, o."-- "o, i ha'e kill-ed my father dear, mither, mither! o, i ha'e kill-ed my father dear, alas, and wae is me, o!"-- "and whatten pen-ance will ye dree for that, edward, edward? and whatten pen-ance will ye dree for that? my dear son, now tell me, o!"-- "i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mither, mither i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea, o."-- "and what'll ye do wi' your towers and your ha', edward, edward? and what'll ye do wi' your towers and your ha', that were so fair to see, o?"-- "i'll let them stand till they down fa', mither, mither: i'll let them stand till they down fa', for here never mair maun i be, o!"-- "and what'll ye leave to your bairns and your wife, edward, edward? and what'll ye leave to your bairns and your wife, when ye gang over the sea, o?"-- "the warldis room, let them beg through life, mither, mither: the warldis room, let them beg through life, for they never mair will i see, o!" "and what'll ye leave to your ain mother dear, edward, edward? and what'll ye leave to your ain mother dear? my dear son, now tell me, o."-- "the curse of hell fra me sall ye bear, mither, mither! the curse of hell fra me sall ye bear,-- sic counsels ye gave to me, o." robin hood. lithe and listen, gentlemen, that be of freeborn blood; i shall you tell of a good yeom-an, his name was robin hood. robin was a proud outlaw, whil-es he walked on ground, so curteyse an outlawe as he was one was never none yfound. robin stood in barnysdale, and leaned him to a tree, and by h-im stood little john, a good yeom-an was he; and also did good scath-elock, and much the miller's son; there was no inch of his bod-y, but it was worth a groom. then bespake him little john all unto robin hood, "master, if ye would dine betime, it would do you much good." then bespak-e good rob-in, "to dine i have no lust, till i have some bold bar-on, or some unketh gest, that may pay for the best; or some knight or some squy-ere that dwelleth here by west." a good mann-er then had robin in land where that he were, every day ere he would dine three masses would he hear: the one in the worship of the father, the other of the holy ghost, the third was of our dear lady, that he loved of all other most. robin loved our dear lad-y, for dout of deadly sin; would he never do company harm that any woman was in. "master," then said little john, "an we our board shall spread, tell us whither we shall gon, and what life we shall lead; where we shall take, where we shall leave, where we shall bide behind, where we shall rob, where we shall reve, where we shall beat and bind." "thereof no force," then said rob-in, "we shall do well enow; but look ye do no housbonde harm that tilleth with his plow; no more ye shall no good yeoman, that walk'th by green wood shaw, ne no knight, ne no squy-er, that would be a good fel-aw. these bishops, and these archbishops, ye shall them beat and bind; the high sheriff of nottingham, him hold in your mind." "this word shall be holde," said little john, "and this lesson shall we lere; it is ferr-e days, god send us a geste, that we were at our dinere!" "take thy good bow in thy hand," said robin, "let much wend-e with thee, and so shall william scath-elock, and no man abide with me: and walk up to the sa-yl-es, and so to watling street, and wait after some unketh gest, up-chance ye mowe them meet. be he earl or any bar-on, abb-ot or any knight, bring him to lodge to me, his dinner shall be dight." they went unto the sa-yl-es, these yeomen all three, they look-ed east, they look-ed west, they might-e no man see. but as they looked in barnisdale, by a dern-e street, then came th-ere a knight rid-ing, full soon they gan him meet. all drear-y was his semblaunce, and little was his pride, his one foot in the stirrup stood, that other waved beside. his hood hanging over his eyen two, he rode in simple array; a sorrier man than he was one rode never in summer's day. little john was full curt-eyse, and set him on his knee: "welcome be ye, gentle knight, welc-ome are ye to me, welcome be thou to green wood, hende knight and free; my master hath abiden you fast-ing, sir, all these hour-es three." "who is your master?" said the knight. john said, "robin hood." "he is a good yeoman," said the knight, "of him i have heard much good. i grant," he said, "with you to wend, my brethren all in-fere; my purpose was to have dined to-day at blyth or doncastere." forth then went this gentle knight, with a careful cheer, the tears out of his eyen ran, and fell down by his lere. they brought him unto the lodge door, when robin gan him see, full curteysly he did off his hood, and set him on his knee. "welc-ome, sir knight," then said rob-in, "welc-ome thou art to me; i have abiden you fasting, sir, all these hour-es three." then answered the gentle knight, with word-es fair and free, "god thee sav-e, good rob-in, and all thy fair meyn-e." they washed together and wip-ed both, and set to their dinere; bread and wine they had enough, and numbles of the deer; swans and pheasants they had full good, and fowls of the rivere; there fail-ed never so little a bird, that ever was bred on brere. "do gladly, sir knight," said rob-in. "gram-ercy, sir," said he, "such a dinner had i not of all these week-es three; if i come again, rob-in, here b-y this countr-e, as good a dinner i shall thee make, as thou hast made to me." "gramerc-y, knight," said rob-in, "my dinner when i have; i was never so greedy, by dere-worthy god, my dinner for to crave. but pay ere ye wend," said rob-in, "me thinketh it is good right; it was never the manner, by dere-worthy god, a yeoman to pay for a knight." "i have nought in my coffers," said the knight, "that i may proffer for shame." "little john, go look," said robin, "ne let not for no blame. tell me truth," then said rob-in, "so god have part of thee." "i have no more but ten shillings," said the knight, "so god have part of me!" "if thou have no more," said rob-in, "i will not one penn-y; and if thou have need of any more, more shall i lend thee. go now forth, little john, the truth tell thou me, if there be no more but ten shillings no penny of that i see." little john spread down his mantle full fair upon the ground, and there he found in the knight's coff-er but even half a pound. little john let it lie full still, and went to his master full low. "what tiding-e, john?" said rob-in. "sir, the knight is true enow." "fill of the best wine," said rob-in, "the knight shall begin; much wonder thinketh me thy clothing is so thin. tell me one word," said rob-in, "and counsel shall it be; i trow thou were made a knight of force, or else of yeomanry; or else thou hast been a sorry housband and lived in stroke and strife; an okerer, or lechour," said rob-in, "with wrong hast thou led thy life." "i am none of them," said the knight, "by him that mad-e me; an hundred winter here before, mine aunsetters knights have be. but oft it hath befal, rob-in, a man hath be disgrate; but god that sitteth in heaven above may amend his state. within two or three year, robin," he said, "my neighbours well it kend, four hundred pound of good mon-ey full well then might i spend. now have i no good," said the knight, "but my children and my wife; god hath shapen such an end, till he it may amend." "in what manner," said rob-in, "hast thou lore thy rich-esse?" "for my great folly," he said, "and for my kind-enesse. i had a son, for sooth, rob-in, that should have been my heir, when he was twenty winter old, in field would joust full fair; he slew a knight of lancashire, and a squyer bold; for to save him in his right my goods beth set and sold; my lands beth set to wed, rob-in, until a certain day, to a rich abbot here beside, of saint mar-y abbay." "what is the summ-e?" said rob-in, "truth then tell thou me." "sir," he said, "four hundred pound, the abb-ot told it to me." "now, an thou lose thy land," said robin, "what shall fall of thee?" "hastily i will me busk," said the knight, "over the salt-e sea, and see where christ was quick and dead, on the mount of calvar-y. fare well, friend, and have good day, it may no better be"-- tears fell out of his eyen two, he would have gone his way-- "fare well, friends, and have good day, i ne have more to pay." "where be thy friends?" said rob-in. "sir, never one will me know; while i was rich enow at home great boast then would they blow, and now they run away from me, as beast-es on a row; they take no more heed of me than they me never saw." for ruth-e then wept little john, scathelocke and much also. "fill of the best wine," said rob-in, "for here is a simple cheer. hast thou any friends," said robin, "thy borowes that will be?" "i have none," then said the knight, "but him that died on a tree." "do way thy jap-es!" said rob-in, "thereof will i right none; weenest thou i will have god to borowe? peter, paul, or john? nay, by him that me made, and shope both sun and moon, find a better borowe," said robin, "or money gettest thou none." "i have none other," said the knight, "the sooth for to say, but if it be our dear lad-y, she failed me ne'er ere this day." "by dere-worthy god," then said rob-in, "to seek all england thorowe, yet found i never to my pay, a much better borowe. come now forth, little john, and go to my treasur-y, and bring me fo-ur hundred pound, and look that it well told be." forth then went little john, and scathelock went before, he told out fo-ur hundred pound, by eighteen-e score. "is this well told?" said little much. john said, "what grieveth thee? it is alms to help a gentle knight that is fall in povert-y. master," then said little john, "his clothing is full thin, ye must give the knight a liver-ay, to wrap his bod-y therein. for ye have scarl-et and green, mast-er, and many a rich array, there is no merch-ant in merry engl-and so rich, i dare well say." "take him three yards of every colo-ur, and look that well mete it be." little john took none other meas-ure but his bow-e tree, and of every handfull that he met he leapt ouer foot-es three. "what devilkyns draper," said little much, "thinkest thou to be?" scathelock stood full still and lough, and said, "by god allmight, john may give him the better meas-ure, for it cost him but light." "master," then said little john, all unto robin hood, "ye must give that knight an horse, to lead home all this good." "take him a gray cours-er," said robin, "and a saddle new; he is our lady's messengere, god lend that he be true!" "and a good palfr-ey," said little much, "to maintain him in his right." "and a pair of boots," said scath-elock, "for he is a gentle knight." "what shalt thou give him, little john?" said robin. "sir, a paire of gilt spurs clene, to pray for all this company: god bringe him out of tene!" "when shall my day be," said the knight, "sir, an your will be?" "this day twelve month," said rob-in, "under this green wood tree. it were great sham-e," said rob-in, "a knight alone to ride, without squy-er, yeoman or page, to walk-e by his side. i shall thee lend little johan my man, for he shall be thy knave; in a yeoman's stead he may thee stand if thou great need have." the seconde fytte. now is the knight went on his way, this game he thought full good, when he looked on barnisdale, he bless-ed robin hood; and when he thought on barnisdale on scathelock, much, and john, he blessed them for the best compan-y that ever he in come. then spake that gentle knight, to little john gan he say, "to-morrow i must to york town, to saint mar-y abbay; and to the abbot of that place four hundred pound i must pay: and but i be there upon this night my land is lost for aye." the abbot said to his conv-ent, there he stood on ground, "this day twelve month came there a knight and borrowed four hundred pound upon all his land free, but he come this ilk-e day disherited shall he be." "it is full early," said the prior, "the day is not yet far gone, i had liever to pay an hundred pound, and lay it down anone. the knight is far beyond the sea, in england is his right, and suffereth hung-er and cold and many a sorry night: it were great pity," said the prior, "so to have his lond; an ye be so light of your consci-ence, ye do to him much is wrong." "thou art ever in my beard," said the abb-ot, "by god and saint rich-ard!" with that came in a fat-headed monk, the high cellarer; "he is dead or hang-ed," said the monk, "by him that bought me dear, and we shall have to spend in this place four hundred pound by year." the abbot and the high cellarer, stert-e forth full bold. the high justice of englond the abb-ot there did hold; the high just-ice and many mo had take into their hond wholly all the knight-es debt, to put that knight to wrong. they deemed the knight wonder sore, the abb-ot and his meyn-e: "but he come this ilk-e day disherited shall he be." "he will not come yet," said the just-ice, "i dare well undertake." but in sorrow-e tim-e for them all the knight came to the gate. then bespake that gentle knight unto his meyn-e, "now put on your simple weeds that ye brought from the sea." and cam-e to the gates anone, the porter was ready himself, and welcom-ed them every one. "welc-ome, sir knyght," said the port-er, "my lord to meat is he, and so is many a gentle man, for the love of thee." the porter swore a full great oath, "by him that mad-e me, here be the best cores-ed horse that ever yet saw i me. lead them into the stable," he said, "that eas-ed might they be." "they shall not come therein," said the knight, "by him that died on a tree." lord-es were to meat iset in that abb-ot-es hall, the knight went forth and kneel-ed down, and salved them great and small. "do gladly, sir abb-ot," said the knight, "i am come to hold my day." the first word the abbot spake, "hast th-ou brought m-y pay?" "not one penny," said the knight, "by him that mak-ed me." "thou art a shrewd debtor!" said the abb-ot; "sir justice, drink to me! what dost thou here," said the abb-ot, "but thou hadst brought thy pay?" "for-e god," then said the knight, "to pray of a longer day." "thy day is broke," said the justice, "land gettest thou none." "now, good sir justice, be my friend, and fend me of my fone." "i am hold with the abbot," said the justice, "both with cloth and fee." "now, good sir sheriff, be my friend." "nay, for-e god," said he. "now, good sir abbot, be my friend, for thy curteys-e, and hold my land-es in thy hand till i have made thee gree; and i will be thy true serv-ant, and truly serv-e thee, till ye have fo-ur hundred pound of money good and free." the abbot sware a full great oath, "by him that died on a tree, get the land where thou may, for thou gettest none of me." "by dere-worthy god," then said the knight, "that all this world wrought, but i have my land again, full dear it shall be bought; god, that was of a maiden borne, lene us well to speed! for it is good to assay a friend ere that a man have need." the abb-ot loathl-y on him gan look, and villainousl-y gan call; "out," he said, "thou fals-e knight! speed thee out of my hall!" "thou liest," then said the gentle knight, "abbot in thy hall; fals-e knight was i nev-er, by him that made us all." up then stood that gentle knight, to the abb-ot said he, "to suffer a knight to kneel so long, thou canst no courtes-y. in joust-es and in tournem-ent full far then have i be, and put myself as far in press as any that e'er i see." "what will ye give more?" said the just-ice, "and the knight shall make a release; and ell-es dare i safely swear ye hold never your land in peace." "an hundred pound," said the abb-ot. the justice said, "give him two." "na-y, by god," said the knight, "yet get ye it not so: though ye would give a thousand more, yet were thou never the nere; shall there never be mine heir, abb-ot, just-ice, ne frere." he stert him to a board anon, to a table round, and there he shook out of a bag even fo-ur hundred pound. "have here thy gold, sir abb-ot," said the knight, "which that thou lentest me; haddest thou been curteys at my com-ing, rewarded shouldst thou have be." the abb-ot sat still, and ate no more. for all his royal cheer, he cast his hood on his should-er, and fast began to stare. "take me my gold again," said the abb-ot, "sir just-ice, that i took thee." "not a penny," said the just-ice, "by him that died on a tree." "sir abbot, and ye men of law, now have i held my day, now shall i have my land again, for aught that you can say." the knight stert out of the door, away was all his care, and on he put his good cloth-ing, the other he left there. he went him forth full merry sing-ing, as men have told in tale, his lady met him at the gate, at home in uterysdale. "welc-ome, my lord," said his lady; "sir, lost is all your good?" "be merry, dam-e," said the knight, "and pray for robin hood, that ever his soul-e be in bliss, he holp me out of my tene; ne had not be his kind-enesse, beggars had we been. the abb-ot and i accorded ben, he is served of his pay, the good yeoman lent it me, as i came by the way." this knight then dwell-ed fair at home, the sooth for to say, till he had got four hundred pound, all ready for to pay. he p-urveyed him an hundred bows, the string-es well ydight, an hundred sheaf of arrows good, the heads burn-ished full bright, and every arrow an ell-e long, with peacock well ydight, i-nock-ed all with white silv-er, it was a seemly sight. he p-urveyed him an hundred men, well harneysed in that stead, and h-imself in that sam-e set, and clothed in white and red. he bare a launsgay in his hand, and a man led his male, and ridden with a light song, unto barnisdale. as he went at a bridge there was a wresteling, and there tarried was he, and there was all the best yeom-en of all the west countree. a full fair game there was upset, a white bull up i-pight; a great cours-er with saddle and bridle, with gold burn-ished full bright; a pair of gloves, a red gold ring, a pipe of wine, in good fay: what man beareth him best, i-wis, the prize shall bear away. there was a yeoman in that place, and best worth-y was he. and for he was ferre and fremd bestad, i-slain he should have be. the knight had ruth of this yeom-an, in place where that he stood, he said that yeoman should have no harm, for love of robin hood. the knight press-ed into the place, an hundred followed him free, with bow-es bent, and arrows sharp, for to shend that company. they shouldered all, and made him room, to wete what he would say, he took the yeoman by the hand, and gave him all the play; he gave him five mark for his wine, there it lay on the mould, and bade it should be set abroach, drink-e who so would. thus long tarried this gentle knight, till that play was done, so long abode rob-in fasting, three hours after the none. the thyrde fytte. lithe and listen, gentle men, all that now be here, of little john, that was the knight's man, good mirth ye shall hear. it was upon a merry day, that young men would go shete, little john fet his bow anon, and said he would them meet. three times little john shot about, and always cleft the wand, the proud sher-iff of nottingham by the marks gan stand. the sheriff swore a full great oath, "by him that died on a tree, this man is the best arch-er that ever yet saw i me. sa-y me now, wight young man, what is now thy name? in what country were thou born, and where is thy wonning wan?" "in hold-ernesse i was bore, i-wis all of my dame, men call me reynold greenleaf, whan i am at hame." "say me, reynold greenleaf, wilt thou dwell with me? and every year i will thee give twent-y mark to thy fee." "i have a master," said little john, "a curteys knight is he, ma-y ye get leave of him, the better may it be." the sher-iff gat little john twelve months of the knight, theref-ore he gave him right anon a good horse and a wight. now is little john the sheriff's man, he give us well to speed, but alw-ay thought little john to quite him well his meed. "now so god me help," said little john, "and by my true lewt-e, i sh-all be the worst serv-ant to him that ever yet had he!" it befell upon a wednesday, the sheriff a-hunting was gone, and little john lay in his bed, and was forgot at home. therefore he was fast-ing till it was past the none. "good sir steward, i pray thee, give me to dine," said little john; "it is too long for greenleaf, fast-ing so long to be; therefore i pray thee, stew-ard, my dinner give thou me!" "shalt thou never eat ne drink," said the stew-ard, "till my lord be come to town." "i make mine avow," said little john, "i had liever to crack thy crown!" the butler was full uncurteys, there he stood on floor, he stert to the buttery, and shut fast the door. little john gave the butler such a stroke his back yede nigh in two, though he lived an hundred winter, the worse he should-e go. he spurned the door with his foot, it went up well and fine, and there he made a large liveray both of ale and wine. "sith ye will not dine," said little john, "i shall give you to drink, and though ye live an hundred winter, on little john ye shall think!" little john ate, and little john drank, the whil-e that he would. the sheriff had in his kitchen a cook, a stout man and a bold. "i make mine avow to god," said the cook, "thou art a shrewd-e hind, in an household to dwell, for to ask thus to dine." and there he lent little john, good strok-es three. "i make mine avow," said little john, "these strok-es liketh well me. thou art a bold man and an hardy, and so thinketh me; and ere i pass from this place, assayed better shalt thou be." little john drew a good sword, the cook took another in hand; they thought nothing for to flee, but stiffly for to stand. there they fought sor-e together, two mile way and more, might neither other harm don, the mountenance of an hour. "i make mine avow," said little john, "and by my true lewt-e, thou art one of the best swordmen that ever yet saw i me. couldest thou shoot as well in a bow, to green wood thou shouldest with me, and two times in the year thy clothing i-changed should-e be; and every year of robin hood twent-y mark to thy fee." "put up thy sword," said the cook, "and fellows will we be." then he fet to little john the numbles of a doe, good bread and full good wine, they ate and drank thereto. and when they had drunken well, their troths together they plight, that they would be with rob-in that ilke same day at night. they hied them to the treasure-house, as fast as they might gone, the locks that were of good steel they brake them every one; they took away the silver vessel, and all that they might get, pi-eces, mas-ars, and spoons, would they none forget; also they took the good pence, three hundred pound and three; and did them straight to robin hood, under the green wood tree. "god thee save, my dear mast-er, and christ thee save and see." and then said rob-in to little john, "welcome might thou be; and also be that fair yeom-an thou bringest there with thee. what tiding-es from nottingham? little john, tell thou me." "well thee greeteth the proud sher-iff, and sendeth thee here by me, his cook and his silv-er vessel, and three hundred pound and three." "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "and to the trinit-y, it was never by his good will, this good is come to me." little john him there bethought, on a shrewed wile, five mile in the for-est he ran, him happ-ed at his will; then be met the proud sher-iff, hunt-ing with hound and horn, little john coud his curteysye, and kneel-ed him beforn: "god thee save, my dear mast-er, and christ thee save and see." "raynold greenleaf," said the sher-iff, "where hast thou now be?" "i have be in this for-est, a fair sight can i see, it was one of the fairest sights that ever yet saw i me; yonder i see a right fair hart, his colour is of green, seven score of deer upon an herd, be with him all bedene; his tynde are so sharp, mast-er, of sixty and well mo, that i durst not shoot for drede lest they wold me slo." "i make mine avow to god," said the sheriff, "that sight would i fain see." "busk you thitherward, my dear mast-er, anon, and wend with me." the sheriff rode, and little john of foot he was full smart, and when they came afore robin: "lo, here is the master hart!" still stood the proud sher-iff, a sorry man was he: "wo worth thee, raynold greenleaf! thou hast now betray-ed me." "i make mine avow," said little john, "mast-er, ye be to blame, i was misserved of my dinere, when i was with you at hame." soon he was to supper set, and served with silver white; and when the sher-iff see his vess-el, for sorrow he might not eat. "make good cheer," said robin hood, "sher-iff, for charit-y, and for the love of little john; thy life is granted to thee." when they had supp-ed well, the day was all agone, robin commanded little john to draw off his hosen and his shone, his kirtle and his coat a pye, that was furr-ed well fine, and take him a green mant-ell, to lap his body therein. robin commanded his wight young men, under the green wood tree, they shall lie in that same sort, that the sheriff might them see. all night lay that proud sher-iff in his breche and in his sherte, no wonder it was, in green wood, though his sides do smerte. "make glad cheer," said robin hood, "sher-iff, for charit-e, for this is our ord-er i-wis, under the green wood tree." "this is harder order," said the sheriff, "than any anker or frere; for all the gold in merry engl-and i would not long dwell here." "all these twelve months," said rob-in, "thou shalt dwell with me; i shall thee teach, thou proud sher-iff, an outlaw for to be." "ere i here another night lie," said the sheriff, "robin, now i pray thee, smite off my head rather to-morn, and i forgive it thee. let me go," then said the sher-iff, "for saint charit-e, and i will be thy best friend that ever yet had thee." "thou shalt swear me an oath," said robin, "on my bright brand, thou shalt never awayte me scathe, by water ne by land; and if thou find any of my men, by night or by day, upon thine oath thou shalt swear, to help them that thou may." now hath the sheriff i-swore his oath, and home he gan to gone, he was as full of green wood as ever was heap of stone. the fourth fytte. the sheriff dwelled in nottingham, he was fain that he was gone, and robin and his merry men went to wood anone. "go we to dinner," said little john. robin hood said, "nay; for i dread our lady be wroth with me, for she sent me not my pay." "have no doubt, master," said little john, "yet is not the sun at rest, for i dare say, and safely sware, the knight is true and trust." "take thy bow in thy hand," said robin, "let much wende with thee, and so shall william scathelock, and no man abide with me, and walk up into the sa-yl-es, and to watling street, and wait after such unketh gest, up-chance ye may them meet. whether he be messeng-er, or a man that mirth-es can, or if he be a poor man, of my good he shall have some." forth then stert little john, half in tray and teen, and girded him with a full good sword, under a mantle of green. they went up to the sa-yl-es, these yeomen all three; they look-ed east, they look-ed west, they might no man see. but as he looked in barnisdale, by the high way, then were they ware of two black monks, each on a good palfray. then bespak-e little john, to much he gan say, "i dare lay my life to wed, that these monks have brought our pay. make glad cheer," said little john, "and frese our bows of yew, and look your hearts be sicker and sad, your strings trust-y and true. the monk hath fifty-two men, and seven som-ers full strong, there rideth no bishop in this land so royally, i understond. brethren," said little john, "here are no more but we three; but we bring them to dinn-er, our master dare we not see. bend your bows," said little john, "make all yon press to stand! the foremost monk, his life and his death is clos-ed in my hand! abide, churl monk," said little john, "no farther that thou gone; if thou dost, by dere-worthy god, thy death is in my hond. and evil thrift on thy head," said little john, "right under thy hat's bond, for thou hast made our master wroth, he is fast-ing so long." "who is your master?" said the monk. little john said, "robin hood." "he is a strong thief," said the monk, "of him heard i never good." "thou liest!" then said little john, "and that shall rew-e thee; he is a yeoman of the for-est, to dine hath bod-e thee." much was ready with a bolt, redly and anon, he set the monk tofore the breast, to the ground that he can gon. of fifty-two wight young men, there abode not one, save a little page, and a groom to lead the somers with little john. they brought the monk to the lodge door, whether he were loth or lief, for to speak with robin hood, maugr-e in their teeth. robin did adown his hood, the monk when that he see; the monk was not so courteyous, his hood then let he be. "he is a churl, master, by dere-worthy god," then said little john. "thereof no force," said rob-in, "for courtesy can he none. how man-y men," said rob-in, "had this monk, john?" "fifty and two when that we met, but many of them be gone." "let blow a horn," said robin, "that fellowship may us know." seven score of wight yeomen, came pricking on a row, and everich of them a good mant-ell, of scarlet and of ray, all they came to good rob-in, to wite what he would say. they made the monk to wash and wipe, and sit at his dinere, robin hood and little john they served them both infere. "do gladly, monk," said robin. "gram-ercy, sir," said he. "where is your abbey, whan ye are at home, and who is your avow-e?" "saint mary abbey," said the monk, "though i be simple here." "in what offic-e?" said rob-in. "sir, the high cellarer." "ye be the more welcome," said rob-in, "so ever mote i thee. fill of the best wine," said rob-in, "this monk shall drink to me. but i have great marvel," said rob-in, "of all this long-e day, i dread our lady be wroth with me, she sent me not my pay." "have no doubt, master," said little john, "ye have no need i say, this monk it hath brought, i dare well swear, for he is of her abbay." "and she was a borow," said robin, "between a knight and me, of a little money that i him lent, under the green wood tree; and if thou hast that silver i-brought, i pray thee let me see, and i shall help thee eftsoons, if thou have need of me." the monk swore a full great oath, with a sorry cheer, "of the borowhood thou speakest to me, heard i never ere!" "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "monk, thou art to blame, for god is hold a righteous man, and so is his dame. thou toldest with thine own tongue, thou may not say nay, how that thou art her serv-ant and servest her every day, and thou art made her messenger, my money for to pay, therefore i con thee more thank, thou art come at thy day. what is in your coffers?" said robin, "true then tell thou me." "sir," he said, "twenty mark, all so mote i thee." "if there be no more," said robin, "i will not one penny; if thou hast mister of any more, sir, more i shall lend to thee; and if i find more," said robin, "i-wis thou shalt it forgone; for of thy spending silver, monk, thereof will i right none. go now forth, little john, and the truth tell thou me; if there be no more but twenty mark, no penny of that i see." little john spread his mantle down, as he had done before, and he told out of the monk-es mail, eight hundred pound and more. little john let it lie full still, and went to his master in haste; "sir," he said, "the monk is true enow, our lady hath doubled your cost." "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "monk, what told i thee? our lady is the truest woman, that ever yet found i me. by dere-worthy god," said robin, "to seek all england thorowe, yet found i never to my pay a much better borowe. fill of the best wine, do him drink," said robin; "and greet well thy lady hend, and if she have need of robin hood, a friend she shall him find; and if she needeth any more silv-er, come thou again to me, and, by this token she hath me sent, she shall have such three!" the monk was going to london ward, there to hold great mote, the knight that rode so high on horse, to bring him under foot. "whither be ye away?" said robin. "sir, to manors in this lond, to reckon with our rev-es, that have done much wrong." "come now forth, little john, and hearken to my tale, a better yeoman i know none, to search a monk-es mail. how much is in yonder other courser?" said robin, "the sooth must we see." "by our lady," then said the monk, "that were no courtes-y to bid a man to dinner, and sith him beat and bind." "it is our old manner," said rob-in, "to leave but little behind." the monk took the horse with spur, no longer would he abide. "ask to drink," then said rob-in, "ere that ye further ride." "nay, fore god," then said the monk, "me reweth i came so near, for better cheap i might have dined, in blyth or in doncastere." "greet well your abbot," said rob-in, "and your prior, i you pray, and bid him send me such a monk to dinner every day!" now let we that monk be still, and speak we of that knight, yet he came to hold his day while that it was light. he did him straight to barnisdale, under the green wood tree, and he found there robin hood, and all his merry meyn-e. the knight light downe of his good palfr-ey, rob-in when he gan see. so courteysly he did adown his hood, and set him on his knee. "god thee save, good robin hood, and all this company." "welcome be thou, gentle knight, and right welc-ome to me." then bespake him robin hood, to that knight so free, "what need driveth thee to green wood? i pray thee, sir knight, tell me. and welcome be thou, gentle knight, why hast thou be so long?" "for the abbot and the high justice would have had my lond." "hast thou thy land again?" said robin, "truth then tell thou me." "yea, fore god," said the knight, "and that thank i god and thee. but take not a grief," said the knight, "that i have been so long; i came by a wresteling, and there i did help a poor yeom-an, with wrong was put behind." "nay, fore god," said rob-in, "sir knight, that thank i thee; what man that helpeth a good yeom-an, his friend then will i be." "have here four hundred pound," then said the knight, "the which ye lent to me; and here is also twenty mark for your courtes-y." "nay, fore god," then said robin, "thou brook it well for aye, for our lady, by her cellarer, hath sent to me my pay; and if i took it twice, a shame it were to me: but truly, gentle knight, welc-ome art thou to me." when rob-in had told his tale, he laughed and had good cheer. "by my troth," then said the knight, "your money is ready here." "brook it well," said rob-in, "thou gentle knight so free; and welcome be thou, gentle knight, under my trystell tree. but what shall these bows do?" said robin, "and these arrows i-feathered free?" "it is," then said the knight, "a poor pres-ent to thee." "come now forth, little john, and go to my treasur-y, and bring me there four hundred pound, the monk over-told it to me. have here four hundred pound, thou gentle knight and true, and buy horse and harness good, and gild thy spurs all new: and if thou fail an-y spend-ing, come to robin hood, and by my troth thou shalt none fail the whiles i have any good. and brook well thy four hundred pound, which i lent to thee, and make thyself no more so bare, by the counsel of me." thus then holp him good rob-in, the knight of all his care. god, that sitteth in heaven high, grant us well to fare. the fifth fytte. now hath the knight his leave i-take, and went him on his way; robin hood and his merry men dwelled still full many a day. lithe and listen, gentle men, and hearken what i shall say, how the proud sheriff of nottingham did cry a full fair play; that all the best archers of the north should come upon a day, and they that shoot all of the best the game shall bear away. 'he that shooteth all of the best furthest fair and law, at a pair of fynly butts, under the green wood shaw, a right good arrow he shall have, the shaft of silver white, the head and the feathers of rich red gold, in england is none like.' this then heard good rob-in, under his trystell tree: "make you ready, ye wight young men, that shooting will i see. busk you, my merr-y young men, ye shall go with me; and i will wete the sheriff's faith, true an if he be." when they had their bows i-bent, their tackles feathered free, seven score of wight young men stood by robin's knee. when they came to nottingham, the butts were fair and long, many was the bold arch-er that shooted with bow-es strong. "there shall but six shoot with me, the other shall keep my head, and stand with good bow-es bent that i be not deceived." the fourth outlaw his bow gan bend, and that was robin hood, and that beheld the proud sher-iff, all by the butt he stood. thri-es robin shot about, and alway he cleft the wand, and so did good gilbert, with the whit-e hand. little john and good scathelock were archers good and free; little much and good reynold, the worst would they not be. when they had shot about, these archers fair and good, evermore was the best, for sooth, robin hood. him was delivered the good arr-ow, for best worthy was he; he took the gift so courteysly to green wood wold-e he. they cri-ed out on robin hood, and great horns gan they blow. "wo worth thee! treason!" said rob-in, "full evil thou art to know! and woe be thou, thou proud sher-iff, thus gladding thy guest, otherwise thou behot-e me in yonder wild for-est; but had i thee in green wood, under my trystell tree, thou shouldest leave me a better wed than thy true lewt-e." full many a bow there was bent, and arrows let they glide, many a kirtle there was rent, and hurt man-y a side. the outlaw-es shot was so strong, that no man might them drive, and the proud sherif-es men they fled away full blive. robin saw the busshement to-broke, in green wood he would have be, many an arrow there was shot among that company. little john was hurt full sore, with an arrow in his knee, that he might neither go nor ride: it was full great pit-e. "master," then said little john, "if ever thou lovest me, and for that ilk-e lord-es love, that died upon a tree, and for the meeds of my serv-ice, that i have serv-ed thee, let nev-er the proud sher-iff aliv-e now find me; but take out thy brown sword, and smite all off my head, and give me wound-es dead and wide, that i after eat no bread." "i wold-e not that," said rob-in, "john, that thou wer-e slawe, for all the gold in merry england, though it lay now on a rawe." "god forbid," said little much, "that died on a tree, that thou shouldest, little john, part our company!" up he took him on his back, and bare him well a mile, many a time he laid him down, and shot another while. then was there a fair cast-ell, a little within the wood, double-ditched it was about, and wall-ed, by the rood; and there dwelled that gentle knight, sir richard at the lee, that rob-in had lent his good, under the green wood tree. in he took good rob-in, and all his compan-y: "welcome be thou, robin hood, welc-ome art thou me; and much thank thee of thy comf-ort, and of thy courtesy, and of thy great kind-eness, under the green wood tree; i love no man in all this world so much as i do thee; for all the proud sheriff of nottingham, right here shalt thou be. shut the gates, and draw the bridge, and let no man come in; and arm you well, and make you read-y, and to the wall ye win. for one thing, rob-in, i thee behote, i swear by saint quin-tin, these twelve days thou wonest with me, to sup, eat, and dine." boards were laid, and cloth-es spread, readily and anon; robin hood and his merry men to meat gan they gon. the sixth fytte. lithe and listen, gentle men, and hearken unto your song; how the proud sheriff of nottingham, and men of arm-es strong, full fast came to the high sher-iff, the country up to rout, and they beset the knight's cast-ell, the wall-es all about. the proud sher-iff loud-e gan cry, and said, "thou traitor knight, thou keepest here the king's enemy, against the laws and right!" "sir, i will avow that i have done, the deeds that here be dight, upon all the land-es that i have, as i am a true knight. wend-e forth, sirs, on your way, and doth no more to me, till ye wite our king-es will what he will say to thee." the sheriff thus had his answ-er, without an-y leas-ing, forth he yode to london town, all for to tell our king. there he told him of that knight, and eke of robin hood, and also of the bold arch-ers, that noble were and good. "he would avow that he had done, to maintain the outlaws strong; he would be lord, and set you at nought, in all the north lond." "i will be at nottingham," said the king, "within this fortnight, and take i will robin hood, and so i will that knight. go home, thou proud sher-iff, and do as i bid thee, and ordain good arch-ers enow, of all the wide countree." the sheriff had his leave i-take, and went him on his way; and robin hood to green wood upon a certain day; and little john was whole of the arrow, that shot was in his knee, and did him straight to robin hood, under the green wood tree. robin hood walked in the for-est, under the leav-es green, the proud sher-iff of nottingham, therefore he had great teen. the sheriff there failed of robin hood, he might not have his prey, then he awaited that gentle knight, both by night and by day. ever he awaited that gentle knight, sir richard at the lee. as he went on hawking by the river side, and let his hawk-es flee, took he there this gentle knight, with men of arm-es strong, and led him home to nottingham ward, i-bound both foot and hond. the sheriff swore a full great oath, by him that died on a tree, he had liever than an hundred pound, that robin hood had he. then the lad-y, the knight-es wife, a fair lad-y and free, she set her on a good palfr-ey, to green wood anon rode she. when she came to the for-est, under the green wood tree, found-e she there robin hood, and all his fair meyn-e. "god thee save, good robin hood, and all thy compan-y; for our deare ladyes love, a boon grant thou to me. let thou never my wedded lord shamefully slain to be; he is fast i-bounde to nottingham ward, for the love of thee." anon then said good rob-in, to that lad-ye free, "what man hath your lord i-take?" "the proud sheriff," then said she. "forsooth as i thee say; he is not yet three mil-es pass-ed on your way." up then stert-e good rob-in, as a man that had be wode: "busk you, my merr-y young men, for him that died on a rode; and he that this sorrow forsaketh, by him that died on a tree, shall he never in green wood be, nor longer dwell with me." soon there were good bows i-bent, more than seven score, hedge ne ditch spar-ed they none, that was them before. "i make mine avow," said robin, "the knight would i fain see, and if i ma-y him take, iquit then shall he be." and when they came to nottingham, they walk-ed in the street, and with the proud sheriff, i-wis, soon-e gan they meet. "abide, thou proud sher-iff," he said, "abide and speak with me, of some tidings of our king, i would fain hear of thee. this seven year, by dere-worthy god, ne yede i so fast on foot, i make mine avow, thou proud sheriff, is not for thy good." robin bent a good bow-e, an arrow he drew at his will, he hit so the proud sher-iff, on the ground he lay full still; and ere he might up arise, on his feet to stand, he smote off the sheriff's head, with his bright brand. "lie thou there, thou proud sher-iff, evil mote thou thrive; there might no man to thee trust, the whiles thou were alive." his men drew out their bright swords that were so sharp and keen, and laid on the sher-iff's men, and drived them down bidene. robin stert to that knight, and cut atwo his band, and took him in his hand a bow, and bade him by him stand. "leav-e thy horse thee behind, and learn for to ren; thou shalt with me to green wood, through mire, moss, and fen; thou shalt with me to green wood, without an-y leas-ing, till that i have get us grace, of edward our comely king." the seventh fytte. the king came to nottingham, with knights in great array, for to take that gentle knight, and robin hood, if he may. he asked men of that countr-e, after robin hood, and after that gentle knight, that was so bold and stout. when they had told him the case, our king understood their tale, and seised in his hand the knight-es landes all, all the pass of lancashire, he went both far and near, till he came to plompton park, he failed many of his deer. where our king was wont to see herd-es many one he could unneth find one deer, that bare an-y good horn. the king was wonder wroth withal, and swore by the trinit-e, "i would i had robin hood, with eyen i might him see; and he that would smite off the knight-es head. and bring it to me, he shall have the knight-es lands, sir rychard at the lee; i give it him with my chart-er, and seal it with my hand, to have and hold for ever-more, in all merr-y engl-and." then bespake a fair old knight, that was true in his fay, "ah, my lieg-e lord the king, one word i shall you say: there is no man in this countr-y may have the knight-es lands, while robin hood may ride or gon, and bear a bow in his hands, that he ne shall lose his head, that is the best ball in his hood: give it no man, my lord the king, that ye will any good!" half a year dwelled our comely king, in nottingham, and well more, could he not hear of robin hood, in what country that he were; but alw-ay went good rob-in by halk and eke by hill, and alway slew the king-es deer, and welt them at his will. then bespake a proud forstere, that stood by our king's knee, "if ye will see good rob-in, ye must do after me. take five of the best knyght-es that be in your lede, and walk down by your abb-ey, and get you monk-es weed. and i will be your led-es man, and led-e you the way, and ere ye come to nottingham, mine head then dare i lay, that ye shall meet with good rob-in, alive if that he be, ere ye come to nottingham, with eyen ye shall him see." full hastily our king was dight, so were his knight-es five, each of them in monk-es weed, and hasted them thither blithe. our king was great above his cowl, a broad hat on his crown, right as he were abbot-like, they rode up into the town. stiff boots our king had on, forsooth as i you say, he rode sing-ing to green wood, the convent was clothed in gray, his mail horse, and his great som-ers, followed our king behind, till they came to green-e wood, a mile under the lind: there they met with good rob-in, standing on the way, and so did many a bold arch-er, for sooth as i you say. robin took the king-es horse, hastily in that stead, and said, "sir abbot, by your leave, a while ye must abide; we be yeom-en of this for-est, under the green wood tree, we live by our king-es deer, other shift have not we; and ye have churches and rent-es both, and gold full great plent-y; give us some of your spend-ing, for saint charity." than bespake our comely king, anon then said he, "i brought no more to green-e wood, but forty pound with me. i have lain at nottingham, this fortnight with our king, and spent i have full much good, on many a great lording; and i have but forty pound, no more then have i me; but if i had an hundred pound, i would give it to thee." robin took the forty pound, and departed it in two part-ye, halfendell he gave his merry men, and bade them merr-y to be. full courteously rob-in gan say, "sir, have this for your spend-ing, we shall meet another day." "gramerc-y," then said our king, "but well thee greeteth edw-ard our king, and sent to thee his seal, and biddeth thee come to nottingham, both to meat and meal." he took out the broad tarpe, and soon he let him see; robin coud his courtesy, and set him on his knee: "i love no man in all the world so well as i do my king, welcome is my lord-es seal; and, monk, for thy tid-ing, sir abbot, for thy tiding-es, to-day thou shalt dine with me, for the love of my king, under my trystell tree." forth he led our comely king, full fair by the hand, many a deer there was slain, and full fast dightand. robin took a full great horn, and loud he gan blow; seven score of wight young men, came ready on a row, all they kneel-ed on their knee, full fair before rob-in. the king said himself unto, and swore by saint austin, "here is a wonder seemly sight, me thinketh, by goddes pine; his men are more at his bidd-ing, than my men be at mine!" full hastily was their dinner i-dight, and thereto gan they gon, they served our king with all their might, both robin and little john. anon before our king was set the fatt-e venison, the good white bread, the good red wine, and thereto the fine ale brown. "mak-e good cheer," said rob-in, "abb-ot, for charit-y; and for this ilk-e tiding-e, bless-ed mote thou be. now shalt thou see what life we lead, or thou henn-es wend, then thou may inform our king, when ye together lend." up they stert all in haste, their bows were smartly bent, our king was never so sore agast, he weened to have be shent. two yard-es there were up set, thereto gan they gang; but fifty pace, our king said, the mark-es were too long. on every side a rose garl-and, they shot under the line. "whoso faileth of the rose garland," said robin, "his tackle he shall tine, and yield it to his master, be it never so fine,-- for no man will i spare, so drinke i ale or wine,-- and bear a buffet on his head i-wys right all bare." and all that fell in robin's lot, he smote them wonder sair. twi-es robin shot about, and ever he cleaved the wand, and so did good gilb-ert, with the lily white hand; little john and good scath-elock, for nothing would they spare, when they failed of the garl-and, robin smote them fall sair. at the last shot that robin shot, for all his friends fair, yet he failed of the garl-and, three fingers and mair. then bespak-e good gilb-ert, and thus he gan say, "master," he said, "your tackle is lost, stand forth and take your pay." "if it be so," said rob-in, "that may no better be: sir abbot, i deliver thee mine arrow, i pray thee, sir, serve thou me." "it falleth not for mine order," said our king; "robin, by thy leave, for to smite no good yeom-an, for doubt i should him grieve." "smite on boldly!" said rob-in, "i give thee larg-e leave." anon our king, with that word, he fold up his sleeve, and such a buffet he gave rob-in, to ground he yede full near. "i make mine avow to god," said robin, "thou art a stalworthy frere; there is pith in thine arm," said rob-in, "i trow thou canst well shoot!" thus our king and robin hood together then they met. robin beheld our comely king wistly in the face, so did sir richard at the lee, and kneeled down in that place; and so did all the wild outl-aws, when they see them kneel. "my lord the king of engl-and, now i know you well. merc-y," then robin said to our king, "under your trystal tree, of thy goodness and thy grace, for my men and me! yes, fore god," said robin, "and also god me save; i ask merc-y, my lord the king, and for my men i crave." "yes, fore god," then said our king, "thy petition i grant thee, with that thou leave the green wood, and all thy compan-y; and come home, sir, to my court, and there dwell with me." "i make mine avow," said rob-in, "and right so shall it be; i will come to your court, your service for to see, and bring with me of my men seven score and three. but me like well your serv-ice, i come again full soon, and shoot at the donn-e deer, as i am wont to doon." the eighth fytte. "hast thou any green cloth," said our king, "that thou wilt sell now to me?" "yea, fore god," said robin. "thirty yards and three." "robin," said our king, "now pray i thee, to sell me some of that cloth, to me and my meyn-e." "yes, fore god," then said rob-in, "or else i were a fool; another day ye will me clothe, i trow, against the yule." the king cast off his cot-e then, a green garment he did on, and every knight had so, i-wis, they cloth-ed them full soon. when they were clothed in lincoln green, they cast away their gray. now we shall to nottingham, all thus our king gan say. their bows they bent and forth they went, shooting all in-fere, toward the town of nottingham, outlaws as they were. our king and robin rode together, for sooth as i you say, and they shot pluck-buffet, as they went by the way; and many a buffet our king wan, of robin hood that day: and nothing spar-ed good rob-in our king in his pay. "so god me help-e," said our king, "thy name is nought to lere, i should not get a shot of thee, though i shot all this year." all the people of nottingham they stood and beheld, they saw nothing but mantles of green, they covered all the feld; then every man to other gan say, "i dread our king be slone; come robin hood to the town, i-wis, on live he leaveth not one." full hastily they began to flee, both yeomen and knaves, and old wives that might evil go, they hopp-ed on their staves. the king be lough full fast, and commanded them again; when they see our comely king, i-wis they were full fain. they ate and drank, and made them glad, and sang with not-es hie. then bespake our comely king to sir richard at the lee: he gave him there his land again, a good man he bade him be. robin thanked our comely king, and set him on his knee. had robin dwelled in the king's court but twelv-e months and three, that he had spent an hundred pound, and all his menn-es fee, in every place where robin came, ever more he laid down, both for knights and squires, to get him great renown. by then the year was all agone, he had no man but twain, little john and good scathlocke, with him all for to gane. robin saw yong-e men to shoot, full fair upon a day, "alas!" then said good rob-in, "my wealth is went away. sometime i was an archer good, a stiff and eke a strong, i was committed the best arch-er that was in merry englond. alas!" then said good rob-in, "alas and well away! if i dwell longer with the king, sorrow will me slay!" forth then went robin hood, till he came to our king: "my lord the king of englond, grant me mine ask-ing. i made a chapel in barnysdale, that seemly is to see, it is of mary magdalene, and thereto would i be; i might never in this seven-night, no time to sleep ne wink, neither all these seven days, neither eat ne drink. me longeth sore to barnysdale, i may not be therefro, barefoot and woolward i have hight thither for to go." "if it be so," then said our king, "it may no better be; seven-night i give thee leave, no longer, to dwell fro me." "gram-ercy, lord," then said rob-in, and set him on his knee; he took his leave full courteously, to green wood then went he. when he came to green-e wood, in a merr-y morning, there he heard the not-es small of bird-es merry sing-ing. "it is ferre gone," said rob-in, "that i was last here, me list a little for to shoot at the dunne deer." robin slew a full great hart, his horn then gan he blow, that all the outlaws of that for-est, that horn could they know, and gathered them together, in a little throw, seven score of wight young men, came ready on a row; and fair did off their hoods, and set them on their knee: "welcome," they said, "our mast-er, under this green wood tree!" robin dwelled in green wood, twenty year and two, for all dread of edward our king, again would he not go. yet he was beguiled, i-wis, through a wicked wom-an, the prioress of kirklees, that nigh was of his kin, for the love of a knight, sir roger of doncaster, that was her own special, full evil mote they thee, they took together their couns-el, robin hood for to sle, and how they might best do that deed, his banis for to be. then bespak-e good rob-in, in place whereas he stood, "to-morrow i must to kirklees, craftily to be letten blood." sir roger of doncaster, by the prioress he lay, and there they betrayed good robin hood, through their fals-e play. christ have mercy on his soul, that di-ed on the rood! for he was a good outlaw, and did poor men much good. king edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth. in summer time, when leaves grow green, and blossoms bedeck the tree, king edward would a hunting ride, some pastime for to see. with hawk and hound he made him boun, with horn, and eke with bow; to drayton basset he took his way, with all his lords arow. and he had ridden o'er dale and down by eight of clock in the day, when he was ware of a bold tann-er, come riding along the way. a fair russet coat the tanner had on, fast buttoned under his chin, and under him a good cow-hide, and a mare of four shill-ing. "now stand you still, my good lords all under the green wood spray; and i will wend to yonder fell-ow, to weet what he will say."-- "god speed, god speed thee," said our king.-- "thou art welcome, sir," said he.-- "the readiest way to drayton basset i pray thee to show to me."-- "to drayton basset wouldst thou go, fro the place where thou dost stand? the next pair of gallows thou comest unto turn in upon thy right hand."-- "that is an unready way," said our king, "thou doest but jest, i see; now show me out the nearest way, and i pray thee wend with me."-- "away with a vengeance!" quoth the tanner: "i hold thee out of thy wit: all day have i ridden on brock my mare, and i am fasting yet."-- "go with me down to drayton basset, no dainties we will spare; all day shalt thou eat and drink of the best, and i will pay thy fare."-- "gram-ercy for nothing," the tanner replied, "thou payest no fare of mine: i trow i've more nobles in my purse, than thou hast pence in thine."-- "god give thee joy of them," said the king, "and send them well to prief."-- the tanner would fain have been away, for he weened he had been a thief. "what art thou," he said, "thou fine fell-ow? of thee i am in great fear, for the clothes thou wearest upon thy back might beseem a lord to wear."-- "i never stole them," quoth our king, "i tell you, sir, by the rood."-- "then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, and standest in midst of thy good."-- "what tidings hear you," said the king. "as you ride far and near?"-- "i hear no tidings, sir, by the mass, but that cow-hides are dear."-- "cow-hides! cow-hides! what things are those? i marvel what they be!"-- "what, art thou a fool?" the tanner replied; "i carry one under me."-- "what craftsman art thou?" said the king, "i pray thee tell me trow."-- "i am a barker, sir, by my trade. now tell me what art thou?"-- "i am a poor courtier, sir," quoth he, "that am forth of service worn; and fain i would thy 'prentice be, thy cunning for to learn."-- "marry, heaven forfend," the tanner replied, "that thou my 'prentice were! thou'dst spend more good than i should win, by forty shilling a year."-- "yet one thing would i," said our king, "if thou wilt not seem strange: though my horse be better than thy mare, yet with thee i fain would change."-- "why, if with me thou fain wilt change, as change full well may we, by the faith of my body, thou proud fell-ow i will have some boot of thee."-- "that were against reason," said the king, "i swear, so mote i thee: my horse is better than thy mare, and that thou well may'st see."-- "yea, sir, but brock is gentle and mild, and softly she will fare; thy horse is unruly and wild, i-wis; aye skipping here and there."-- "what boot wilt thou have?" our king replied; "now tell me in this stound."-- "no pence, nor halfpence, by my fay, but a noble in gold so round."-- "here's twenty groats of white mon-ey, sith thou wilt have it of me."-- "i would have sworn now," quoth the tanner, "thou hadst not had one penni-e. "but since we two have made a change, a change we must abide; although thou hast gotten brock my mare, thou gettest not my cow-hide."-- "i will not have it," said the king, "i swear, so mote i thee; thy foul cow-hide i would not bear, if thou wouldst give it to me." the tanner he took his good cow-hide that of the cow was hilt; and threw it upon the king's sad-elle, that was so fairly gilt. "now help me up, thou fine fell-ow, 'tis time that i were gone: when i come home to gyllian my wife, she'll say i am a gentilmon." when the tanner he was in the king's sad-elle, and his foot in the stirrup was; he marvelled greatly in his mind, whether it were gold or brass. but when his steed saw the cow's tail wag, and eke the black cow-horn; he stamped, and stared, and away he ran, as the devil had him borne. the tanner he pulled, the tanner he sweat, and held by the pummel fast: at length the tanner came tumbling down; his neck he had well-nigh brast. "take thy horse again with a vengeance!" he said, "with me he shall not bide!"-- "my horse would have borne thee well enough, but he knew not of thy cow-hide. "yet if again thou fain wouldst change, as change full well may we, by the faith of my body, thou jolly tann-er, i will have some boot of thee."-- "what boot wilt thou have?" the tanner replied, "now tell me in this stound."-- "no pence nor halfpence, sir, by my fay, but i will have twenty pound."-- "here's twenty groats out of my purse; and twenty i have of thine: and i have one more, which we will spend together at the wine." the king set a bugle horn to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill: and soon came lords, and soon came knights, fast riding over the hill. "now, out alas!" the tanner he cried, "that ever i saw this day! thou art a strong thief, yon come thy fell-ows will bear my cow-hide away!"-- "they are no thieves," the king replied, "i swear, so mote i thee: but they are the lords of the north countr-y, here come to hunt with me." and soon before our king they came, and knelt down on the ground: then might the tanner have been away, he had liever than twenty pound. "a collar, a collar, here!" said the king, "a collar!" he loud gan cry; then would he liever than twenty pound, he had not been so nigh. "a collar, a collar," the tanner he said, "i trow it will breed sorrow; after a collar cometh a halter, i trow i'll be hanged to-morrow."-- "be not afraid, tanner," said our king; "i tell thee, so mote i thee, lo here i make thee the best esquire that is in the north countrie. "for plumpton park i will give thee, with tenements fair beside: 'tis worth three hundred marks by the year, to maintain thy good cow-hide."-- "gram-ercy, my liege," the tanner replied "for the favour thou hast me shown; if ever thou comest to merry tam-worth, neat's leather shall clout thy shoon." sir patrick spens. the king sits in dumferling toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: "o whare will i get a skeely skipper to sail this new ship of mine?" up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the king's right knee: "sir patrick spens is the best sail-or that ever sailed the sea." our king has written a braid letter, and sealed it with his hand; and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the sand. "to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis thou maun bring her hame." the first word that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he: the neist word that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. "o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me; to send us out this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea? "be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail the faem, the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis we must fetch her hame." they hoysed their sails on monenday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; they hae landed in noroway, upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway, but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say,-- "ye scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, and a' our queenis fee."-- "ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, fu' loud i hear ye lie; "for i brought as much white monie as gane my men and me, and i brought a half-fou of gude red goud, out o'er the sea wi' me. "make ready, make ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn!"-- "now, ever alack, my master dear, i fear a deadly storm! "i saw the new moon, late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm." they hadna sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, it was sic a deadly storm; and the waves cam o'er the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. "o where will i get a gude sail-or to take my helm in hand, till i get up to the tall topmast to see if i can spy land?"-- "o here am i, a sailor gude, to take the helm in hand, till you go up to the tall topmast, but i fear you'll ne'er spy land." he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bolt flew out of our goodly ship, and the salt sea it came in. "gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and let nae the sea come in." they fetched a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and they wapped them round that gude ship's side, but still the sea cam in. o laith, laith, were our gude scots lords to wet their cork-heeled shoon! but lang or a' the play was played they wat their hats aboon. and mony was the feather bed that flattered on the faem; and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam hame. the ladies wrang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair, a' for the sake of their true loves; for them they'll see nae mair. o lang, lang, may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! and lang, lang, may the maidens sit, wi' their gold combs in their hair, awaiting for their ain dear loves! for them they'll see nae mair. o forty miles off aberdeen 'tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens, wi' the scots lords at his feet. edom o' gordon. it fell about the martinmas, when the wind blew shrill and cauld, said edom o' gordon to his men, "we maun draw till a hauld. "and what a hauld sall we draw till, my merry men and me? we wull gae to the house o' the rode, to see that fair lad-ie." the ladie stude on her castle wa', beheld baith dale and down: there she was ware of a host of men come riding towards the toun. "o see ye nat, my merry men a'? o see ye nat what i see? methinks i see a host of men: i marvel wha they be!" she weened it had been her luvely lord, as he came riding hame; it was the traitor edom o' gordon, wha recked nae sin nor shame. she had nae sooner buskit hersel, and putten on her goun, but edom o' gordon and his men were round about the toun. they had nae sooner supper set, nae sooner said the grace, but edom o' gordon and his men were light about the place. the lady ran up to her tower head, sae fast as she could hie, to see if by her fair speech-es she could wi' him agree. but whan he see this lady saif, and her gat-es all locked fast, he fell into a rage of wrath, and his look was all aghast. "come down to me, ye lady gay, come down, come down to me! this night sall ye lig within mine arms to-morrow my bride sall be."-- "i winna come down, ye false gord-on, i winna come down to thee; i winna forsake my ain dear lord, that is sae far frae me."-- "give o'er your house, ye lady fair, give o'er your house to me, or i sall bren yoursel therein, bot and your babies three."-- "i winna give o'er, ye false gord-on to nae sic traitor as ye; and if ye bren my ain dear babes, my lord sall make you dree. "but reach my pistol, glaud, my man, and charge ye weel my gun: for, but an i pierce that bluidy butcher my babes we been undone." she stude upon her castle wa', and let twa bullets flee: she missed that bluidy butcher's heart and only rased his knee. "set fire to the house!" quo' false gord-on, all wood wi' dule and ire: "false lady, ye sall rue this deed, as ye bren in the fire!"-- "wae worth, wae worth ye, jock my man, i paid ye weel your fee: why pu' ye out the ground-wa' stane, lets in the reek to me? "and e'en wae worth ye, jock my man, i paid ye weel your hire; why pu' ye out the ground-wa' stane, to me lets in the fire?"-- "ye paid me weel my hire, lady; ye paid me weel my fee; but now i'm edom o' gordon's man, maun either do or dee." o then bespake her little son, sate on the nurse's knee: says, "mither dear, gi'e o'er this house, for the reek it smithers me."-- "i wad gi'e a' my gowd, my child, sae wad i a' my fee, for ane blast o' the western wind to blaw the reek frae thee." o then bespake her dochter dear, she was baith jimp and sma', "o row me in a pair o' sheets, and tow me o'er the wa'." they rowd her in a pair o' sheets, and towd her o'er the wa': but on the point of gordon's spear she gat a deadly fa'. o bonnie bonnie was her mouth, and cherry were her cheeks, and clear clear was her yellow hair, whereon the reid bluid dreeps. then wi' his spear he turned her o'er,-- o gin her face was wan! he said, "ye are the first that e'er i wished alive again." he turned her o'er and o'er again,-- o gin her skin was white! "i might ha' spared that bonnie face to hae been some man's delite. "busk and boun, my merry men a', for ill dooms i do guess; i canna luik in that bonnie face, as it lies on the grass."-- "tham luiks to freits, my master dear, then freits will follow thame: let it neir be said brave edom o' gordon was daunted by a dame!"-- but when the ladie see the fire come flaming o'er her head, she wept and kissed her children twain, said, "bairns, we been but dead!" the gordon then his bugle blew, and said, "awa', awa'; this house o' the rodes is a' in flame, i hauld it time to ga'." o then bespied her ain dear lord, as he came o'er the lee; he spied his castle all in blaze sae far as he could see. then sair, o sair his mind misgave, and all his heart was wae; "put on! put on! my wighty men, so fast as ye can gae! "put on! put on! my wighty men, sae fast as ye can dree; for he that is hindmost of the thrang sall neir get guid o' me!" then some they rade, and some they rin, fou fast out-o'er the bent, but ere the foremost could get up, baith ladie and babes were brent. he wrang his hands, he rent his hair, and wept in teenefu' muid: "o traitors! for this cruel deed ye sall weep tears o' bluid!" and after the gordon he is gane, so fast as he might dree; and soon i' the gordon's foul heart's bluid he's wroken his dear ladie. the children in the wood. now ponder well, you parents dear, these words which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possessed one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind; in love they lived, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three years old; the other a girl more young than he, and framed in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appear, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a year. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controlled: but if the children chance to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possess their wealth; for so the will did run. "now, brother," said the dying man, "look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this day; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. "you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone." with that bespake their mother dear, "o brother kind," quoth she, "you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or misery: "and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard." with lips as cold as any stone, they kissed their children small: "god bless you both, my children dear!" with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there,-- "the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not fear: god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, when you are laid in grave!" the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straight unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargained with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in fair lond-on, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoicing at that tide, rejoicing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch that hir-ed him had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: "stay here," quoth he, "i'll bring you bread, when i come back again." these pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town: their pretty lips with black-berries, were all besmeared and dyed; and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cried. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief; in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-red-breast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fired, his goods consumed, his lands were barren made, his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him staid. and in a voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and miser-y: he pawned and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about; and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judged to die; such was god's blessed will; who did confess the very truth, as here hath been displayed: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overse-ers eke of children that be fatherless and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. the beggar's daughter of bethnal green. part the first. it was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a fair daughter of beauty most bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, for none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was truly of favour most fair, yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heir, of ancient housekeepers despis-ed was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessy did say, "good father, and mother, let me go away to seek out my fortune, whatever it be." this suit then they granted to pretty bessee. then bessy, that was of a beauty so bright, all clad in grey russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she; who sigh-ed and sobb-ed for pretty bessee. she went till she came into stratford-le-bow; then knew she not whither, nor which way to go: with tears she lamented her hard destin-ie, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the highway; where at the queen's arms entertain-ed was she: so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straightway enamoured of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love was extolled; her beauty was blaz-ed in every degree, so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; she showed herself courteous, and modestly coy, and at her command-ement still would they be; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go; they crav-ed her favour, but still she said no; i would not wish gentles to marry with me; yet ever they honour-ed pretty bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who woo-ed and su-ed for pretty bessee: a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suitor, and proper withal: her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. "and, if thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight, "i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart's so inthrall-ed by thy beaut-ie, that soon i shall die for pretty bessee." the gentleman said, "come, marry with me, as fine as a lady my bessy shall be: my life is distress-ed: o hear me," quoth he; "and grant me thy love, my pretty bessee." "let me be thy husband," the merchant could say, "thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee." then bessy she sigh-ed, and thus she did say, "my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their good will, and be faithful to me, and you shall enjoy your pretty bessee." to every one this answer she made, wherefore unto her they joyfully said,-- "this thing to fulfil we all do agree: but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee?" "my father," she said, "is soon to be seen: the seely blind beggar of bethnal green, that daily sits begging for charit-ie, he is the good father of pretty bessee." "his marks and his tokens are known very well; he always is led with a dog and a bell: a seely old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the father of pretty bessee." "nay then," quoth the merchant, "thou art not for me:" "nor," quoth the innholder, "my wife thou shalt be:" "i loathe," said the gentle, "a beggar's degree, and therefore adieu, my pretty bessee!" "why then," quoth the knight, "hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee: "with thee to thy father forthwith i will go." "nay soft," quoth his kinsmen, "it must not be so; a poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be; then take thy adieu of pretty bessee." but soon after this, by the break of the day, the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the young men of rumford, as thick as might be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ride they were seen, until they came near unto bethnal green; and as the knight lighted most courteouslie, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came speedily over the plain, or else the young knight for his love had been slain. this fray being ended, then straightway he see his kinsmen come railing at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, "although i be poor, yet rail not against my child at my own door: though she be not deck-ed in velvet and pearl, yet will i drop angels with you for my girl. "and then, if my gold may better her birth, and equal the gold that you lay on the earth, then neither rail nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. "but first you shall promise, and have it well known, the gold that you drop shall all be your own." with that they repli-ed, "contented be we." "then here's," quoth the beggar, "for pretty bessee!" and with that an angel he cast on the ground, and dropp-ed in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it was prov-ed most plain, for the gentlemen's one the beggar dropped twain: so that the place, wherein they did sit, with gold it was cover-ed every whit. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, said, "now, beggar, hold; for we have no more. "thou hast fulfill-ed thy promise aright." "then marry," quoth he, "my girl to this knight; and here," added he, "i will now throw you down a hundred pounds more to buy her a gown." the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, admir-ed the beggar of bethnal green: and all those, that were her suitors before, their flesh for very anger they tore. thus the fair bess was matched to the knight, and then made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen than the blind beggar's daughter of bethnal green. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marvellous pleasure, and wish-ed delight. the second fytte. of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, that late was betroth-ed unto a young knight; all the discourse thereof you did see; but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorn-ed with all the cost they could have, this wedding was kept most sumptuousl-ie, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties, and delicates sweet were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then went this gallant young knight, his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with gay troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen as went with sweet bessy of bethnal green. this marriage being sol-emniz-ed then, with music performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sate down at that tide, each one admiring the beautiful bride. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk and to reason a number begun; they talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, "much marvel have we, this jolly blind beggar we cannot here see." "my lords," quoth the bride, "my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace." "the praise of a woman in question to bring before her own face, were a flattering thing; but we think thy father's baseness," quoth they, "might by thy beauty be clean put away." they had no sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak; a fair velvet cap and a feather had he, and now a musician forsooth he would be. he had a dainty lute under his arm, he touch-ed the strings, which made such a charm, says, "please you to hear any music of me, i'll sing you a song of pretty bessee." with that his lute he twang-ed straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play; and after that lessons were played two or three, he strained out this song most delicatel-ie. "a poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, who for her fairness might well be a queen: a blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she, and many one call-ed her pretty bessee. "her father he had no goods, nor no land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yet to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. "and if any one here her birth do disdain, her father is ready, with might and with main, to prove she is come of a noble degree, therefore never flout at pretty bessee." with that the lords and the company round with hearty laughter were ready to swound. at last said the lords, "full well we may see, the bride and the beggar's beholden to thee." on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearly drops standing within her fair eyes. "o pardon my father, grave nobles," quoth she, "that through blind affection thus doteth on me." "if this be thy father," the nobles did say, "well may he be proud of this happy day; yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: "and therefore, blind man, we bid thee bewray, (and look that the truth thou to us do say) thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee." "then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that it may not win good report, then do not give me a groat for my sport. "sir simon de montfort my subject shall be; once chief of all the great barons was he, yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase, now lost and forgotten are he and his race. "when the barons in arms did king henry oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was he, and oft-times he made their bold enemies flee. "at length in the battle on evesham plain, the barons were routed, and montfort was slain; most fatal that battle did prove unto thee, though thou wast not born then, my pretty bessee! "along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, his eldest son henry, who fought by his side, was felled by a blow he received in the fight: a blow that deprived him for ever of sight. "among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay, till evening drew on of the following day. when by a young lady discovered was he; and this was thy mother, my pretty bessee! "a baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he lay, was mov-ed with pity, and brought him away. "in secret she nursed him, and swag-ed his pain, while he through the realm was believed to be slain: at length his fair bride she consented to be, and made him glad father of pretty bessee. "and now, lest our foes our lives should betray, we cloth-ed ourselves in beggar's array; her jewels she sold, and hither came we: all our comfort and care was our pretty bessee. "and here have we liv-ed in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented with humble delight: full forty winters thus have i been a silly blind beggar of bethnal green. "and here noble lord-es, is ended the song of one that once to your own rank did belong: and thus have you learn-ed a secret from me, that ne'er had been known but for pretty bessee." now when the fair company every one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, they all were amaz-ed, as well they might be, both at the blind beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all did embrace, saying, "sure thou art come of an honourable race, thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to be." thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, a bridegroom most happy then was the young knight, in joy and felicity long liv-ed he, all with his fair lady, the pretty bessee. the bailiff's daughter of islington. there was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son: he loved the bailiffs daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy, and would not believe that he did love her so; no, nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to fair lond-on an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: "many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me." then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bailiff's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pull-ed off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to fair london she would go her true love to inquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding by. she started up, with a colour so red, catching hold of his bridle-rein; "one penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "will ease me of much pain."-- "before i give you one penny, sweetheart, pray tell me where you were born."-- "at islington, kind sir," said she, "where i have had many a scorn."-- "i pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know the bailiffs daughter of islington."-- "she is dead, sir, long ago."-- "if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some far countrie, where no man shall me know."-- "o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side: she is here alive, she is not dead,-- and ready to be thy bride."-- "o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore! for now i have found mine own true love, whom i thought i should never see more." barbara allen's cruelty. in scarlet town, where i was born, there was a fair maid dwellin', made every youth cry, well away! her name was barbara allen. all in the merry month of may, when green buds they were swellin', young jemmy grove on his death-bed lay for love of barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the town where she was dwellin'; "you must come to my master dear, gif your name be barbara allen. "for death is printed on his face, and o'er his heart is stealin': then haste away to comfort him, o lovely barbara allen." though death be printed on his face and o'er his heart is stealin', yet little better shall he be for bonny barbara allen. so slowly, slowly, she came up, and slowly she came nigh him; and all she said, when there she came, "young man, i think y'are dying." he turned his face unto her straight, with deadly sorrow sighing; "o lovely maid, come pity me, i'm on my deathbed lying."-- "if on your deathbed you do lie, what needs the tale you are tellin'; i cannot keep you from your death: farewell," said barbara allen. he turned his face unto the wall, as deadly pangs he fell in: "adieu! adieu! adieu to you all! adieu to barbara allen!" as she was walking o'er the fields, she heard the bell a knellin'; and every stroke did seem to say,-- unworthy barbara allen. she turned her body round about, and spied the corpse a coming: "lay down, lay down the corpse," she said, "that i may look upon him." with scornful eye she look-ed down, her cheek with laughter swellin'; whilst all her friends cried out amain, unworthy barbara allen. when he was dead, and laid in grave, her heart was struck with sorrow, "o mother, mother, make my bed, for i shall die to-morrow! "hard-hearted creature him to slight, who lov-ed me so dearly: o that i had been more kind to him, when he was alive and near me!" she, on her deathbed as she lay, begged to be buried by him; and sore repented of the day, that she did e'er deny him. "farewell," she said, "ye maidens all, and shun the fault i fell in: henceforth take warning by the fall of cruel barbara allen." sweet william's ghost. there came a ghost to margaret's door, with many a grievous groan, and aye he tirl-ed at the pin; but answer made she none. "is this my father philip? or is't my brother john? or is't my true love willie, from scotland new come home?" "'tis not thy father philip; nor yet thy brother john: but 'tis thy true love willie from scotland new come home. "o sweet margret! o dear margret! i pray thee speak to me: give me my faith and troth, margret, as i gave it to thee." "thy faith and troth thou'se never get, of me shalt never win, till that thou come within my bower, and kiss my cheek and chin." "if i should come within thy bower, i am no earthly man: and should i kiss thy rosy lip, thy days will not be lang. "o sweet margret, o dear margret, i pray thee speak to me: give me my faith and troth, margret, as i gave it to thee."-- "thy faith and troth thou'se never get, of me shalt never win, till thou take me to yon kirkyard, and wed me with a ring."-- "my bones are buried in a kirkyard afar beyond the sea, and it is but my sprite, margret, that's speaking now to thee." she stretch-ed out her lily-white hand, as for to do her best: "hae there your faith and troth, willie, god send your soul good rest!" now she has kilted her robes of green, a piece below her knee: and a' the live-lang winter night the dead corpse followed she. "is there any room at your head, willie? or any room at your feet? or any room at your side, willie, wherein that i may creep?" "there's nae room at my head, margret, there's nae room at my feet, there's nae room at my side, margret, my coffin is made so meet." then up and crew the red red cock, and up then crew the gray: "'tis time, 'tis time, my dear margret, that i were gane away." no more the ghost to margret said, but, with a grievous groan, evanished in a cloud of mist, and left her all alone. "o stay, my only true love, stay!" the constant margret cried: wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, stretched her saft limbs, and died. the braes o' yarrow. ten lords sat drinking at the wine, intill a morning early; there fell a combat them among, it must be fought,--nae parly. --"o stay at hame, my ain gude lord, o stay, my ain dear marrow."-- "sweetest mine, i will be thine, and dine wi' you to-morrow." she's kissed his lips, and combed his hair, as she had done before, o; gied him a brand down by his side, and he is on to yarrow. as he gaed ower yon dowie knowe, as aft he'd dune before, o; nine arm-ed men lay in a den, upo' the braes o' yarrow. "o came ye here to hunt or hawk, as ye hae done before, o? or came ye here to wiel' your brand, upo' the braes o' yarrow."-- "i came nae here to hunt nor hawk, as i hae dune before, o; but i came here to wiel' my brand, upon the braes o' yarrow."-- four he hurt, and five he slew, till down he fell himsell, o; there stood a fause lord him behin', who thrust him thro' body and mell, o. "gae hame, gae hame, my brother john, and tell your sister sorrow; your mother to come take up her son, aff o' the braes o' yarrow." as he gaed ower yon high, high hill, as he had dune before, o; there he met his sister dear, came rinnin' fast to yarrow. "i dreamt a dream last night," she says, "i wish it binna sorrow; i dreamt i was pu'ing the heather green, upo' the braes o' yarrow."-- "i'll read your dream, sister," he says, "i'll read it into sorrow; ye're bidden gae take up your love, he's sleeping sound on yarrow." she's torn the ribbons frae her head, they were baith thick and narrow; she's kilted up her green claithing, and she's awa' to yarrow. she's taen him in her arms twa, and gien him kisses thorough, and wi' her tears she bathed his wounds, upo' the braes o' yarrow. her father looking ower his castle wa', beheld his daughter's sorrow; "o haud yer tongue, daughter," he says, "and let be a' your sorrow; i'll wed you wi' a better lord, than he that died on yarrow."-- "o haud your tongue, father," she says, "and let be till to-morrow; a better lord there coudna be than he that died on yarrow." she kissed his lips, and combed his hair, as she had dune before, o; then wi' a crack her heart did brack upon the braes o' yarrow. kemp owyne. her mother died when she was young, which gave her cause to make great moan; her father married the warst woman that ever lived in christendom. she serv-ed her with foot and hand, in every thing that she could dee; till once in an unlucky time, she threw her in ower craigy's sea. says, "lie you there, dove isabel, and all my sorrows lie with thee; till kemp owyne come ower the sea, and borrow you with kisses three, let all the warld do what they will, oh! borrowed shall you never be." her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, and twisted thrice about the tree; and all the people far and near, thought that a savage beast was she; these news did come to kemp owyne, where he lived far beyond the sea. he hasted him to craigy's sea, and on the savage beast looked he; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted was about the tree; and with a swing she came about, "come to craigy's sea and kiss with me. "here is a royal belt," she cried, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me tail or fin, i vow my belt your death shall be." he stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, the royal belt he brought him wi' her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted twice about the tree; and with a swing she came about, "come to craigy's sea and kiss with me. "here is a royal ring," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your finger it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me tail or fin, i swear my ring your death shall be." he stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, the royal ring he brought him wi'; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted ance about the tree; and with a swing she came about, "come to craigy's sea and kiss with me. "here is a royal brand," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me tail or fin, i swear my brand your death shall be." he stepp-ed in, gave her a kiss, the royal brand he brought him wi'; her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, and twisted nane about the tree: and smilingly she came about, as fair a woman, as fair could be. o'er the water to charlie. as i came by the shore o' forth, and in by the craigs o' bernie; there i spied a ship on the sea, and the skipper o' her was charlie. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john ross another bawbie, to boat me o'er to charlie. charlie keeps nae needles nor pins, and charlie keeps nae trappin'; but charlie keeps twa bonnie black een, would haud the lasses waukin'. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john ross another bawbie, to boat me o'er to charlie. o charlie is neither laird nor lord, nor charlie is a caddie; but charlie has twa bonnie red cheeks, and he's my juggler laddie. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john ross another bawbie, to boat me o'er to charlie. a pinch o' snuff to poison the whigs, a gill o' geneva to drown them; and he that winna drink charlie's health, may roaring seas surround him. o'er the water, and o'er the sea, and o'er the water to charlie; i'll gie john brown another half-crown, to boat me o'er to charlie. admiral hosier's ghost. as near porto-bello lying on the gently swelling flood, at midnight with streamers flying our triumphant navy rode; there while vernon sate all-glorious from the spaniards' late defeat: and his crews, with shouts victorious, drank success to england's fleet: on a sudden shrilly sounding, hideous yells and shrieks were heard; then each heart with fear confounding, a sad troop of ghosts appeared, all in dreary hammocks shrouded, which for winding-sheets they wore, and with looks by sorrow clouded frowning on that hostile shore. on them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, when the shade of hosier brave his pale bands were seen to muster rising from their watery grave. o'er the glimmering wave he hied him, where the burford reared her sail, with three thousand ghosts beside him, and in groans did vernon hail. "heed, oh heed our fatal story; i am hosier's injured ghost, you who now have purchased glory at this place where i was lost! though in porto-bello's ruin you now triumph free from fears, when you think on our undoing, you will mix your joy with tears. "see these mournful spectres sweeping ghastly o'er this hated wave, whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; these were english captains brave. mark those numbers pale and horrid, those were once my sailors bold: lo, each hangs his drooping forehead while his dismal tale is told. "i, by twenty sail attended, did this spanish town affright; nothing then its wealth defended but my orders not to fight. oh! that in this rolling ocean i had cast them with disdain, and obeyed my heart's warm motion to have quelled the pride of spain! "for resistance i could fear none, but with twenty ships had done what thou, brave and happy vernon hast achieved with six alone. then the bastimentos never had our foul dishonour seen; nor the sea the sad receiver of this gallant train had been. "thus, like thee, proud spain dismaying, and her galleons leading home, though condemned for disobeying, i had met a traitor's doom, to have fallen, my country crying he has played an english part; had been better far than dying of a grieved and broken heart. "unrepining at thy glory, thy successful arms we hail; but remember our sad story, and let hosier's wrongs prevail. sent in this foul clime to languish, think what thousands fell in vain, wasted with disease and anguish, not in glorious battle slain. "hence with all my train attending from their oozy tombs below, through the hoary foam ascending, here i feed my constant woe: here the bastimentos viewing, we recall our shameful doom, and our plaintive cries renewing, wander through the midnight gloom. "o'er these waves for ever mourning shall we roam deprived of rest, if to britain's shores returning you neglect my just request; after this proud foe subduing, when your patriot friends you see, think on vengeance for my ruin, and for england shamed in me." jemmy dawson. come listen to my mournful tale, ye tender hearts, and lovers dear; nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, nor will you blush to shed a tear. and thou, dear kitty, peerless maid, do thou a pensive ear incline; for thou canst weep at every woe, and pity every plaint but mine. young dawson was a gallant youth, a brighter never trod the plain; and well he loved one charming maid, and dearly was he loved again. one tender maid she loved him dear, of gentle blood the damsel came, and faultless was her beauteous form, and spotless was her virgin fame. but curse on party's hateful strife, that led the faithful youth astray the day the rebel clans appeared: oh had he never seen that day! their colours and their sash he wore, and in the fatal dress was found; and now he must that death endure, which gives the brave the keenest wound. how pale was then his true love's cheek, when jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! for never yet did alpine snows so pale nor yet so chill appear. with faltering voice she weeping said, "oh, dawson, monarch of my heart, think not thy death shall end our loves, for thou and i will never part. "yet might sweet mercy find a place, and bring relief to jemmy's woes, o george, without a prayer for thee my orisons should never close. "the gracious prince that gives him life would crown a never-dying flame, and every tender babe i bore should learn to lisp the giver's name. "but though, dear youth, thou should'st be dragged to yonder ignominious tree, thou shalt not want a faithful friend to share thy bitter fate with thee." o then her mourning-coach was called, the sledge moved slowly on before; though borne in a triumphal car, she had not loved her favourite more. she followed him, prepared to view the terrible behests of law; and the last scene of jemmy's woes with calm and stedfast eye she saw. distorted was that blooming face, which she had fondly loved so long: and stifled was that tuneful breath, which in her praise had sweetly sung: and severed was that beauteous neck, round which her arms had fondly closed: and mangled was that beauteous breast, on which her love-sick head reposed: and ravished was that constant heart, she did to every heart prefer; for though it could his king forget, 'twas true and loyal still to her. amid those unrelenting flames she bore this constant heart to see; but when 'twas mouldered into dust, "now, now," she cried, "i'll follow thee. "my death, my death alone can show the pure and lasting love i bore: accept, o heaven, of woes like ours, and let us, let us weep no more." the dismal scene was o'er and past, the lover's mournful hearse retired; the maid drew back her languid head, and sighing forth his name expired. though justice ever must prevail, the tear my kitty sheds is due; for seldom shall she hear a tale so sad, so tender, and so true. william and margaret. 'twas at the silent, solemn hour when night and morning meet; in glided margaret's grimly ghost and stood at william's feet. her face was like an april morn, clad in a wintry cloud: and clay-cold was her lily-hand, that held her sable shroud. so shall the fairest face appear, when youth and years are flown: such is the robe that kings must wear, when death has reft their crown. her bloom was like the springing flower, that sips the silver dew; the rose was budded in her cheek, just opening to the view. but love had, like the canker-worm, consumed her early prime: the rose grew pale, and left her cheek; she died before her time. "awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, come from her midnight grave; now let thy pity hear the maid thy love refused to save. "this is the dumb and dreary hour when injured ghosts complain; when yawning graves give up their dead to haunt the faithless swain. "bethink thee, william, of thy fault, thy pledge and broken oath: and give me back my maiden vow, and give me back my troth. "why did you promise love to me, and not that promise keep? why did you swear my eyes were bright, yet leave those eyes to weep? "how could you say my face was fair, and yet that face forsake? how could you win my virgin heart, yet leave that heart to break? "why did you say my lip was sweet, and made the scarlet pale? and why did i, young witless maid! believe the flattering tale? "that face, alas! no more is fair; those lips no longer red: dark are my eyes, now closed in death, and every charm is fled. "the hungry worm my sister is; this winding sheet i wear: and cold and weary lasts our night, till that last morn appear. "but hark! the cock has warned me hence; a long and late adieu! come, see, false man, how low she lies, who died for love of you." the lark sung loud; the morning smiled, with beams of rosy red: pale william quaked in every limb, and raving left his bed. he hied him to the fatal place where margaret's body lay: and stretched him on the grass-green turf that wrapped her breathless clay. and thrice he called on margaret's name, and thrice he wept full sore: then laid his cheek to her cold grave, and word spoke never more. elfinland wood. erl william has muntit his gude grai stede, (merrie lemis munelicht on the sea,) and graithit him in ane cumli weid, (swa bonilie blumis the hawthorn tree.) erl william rade, erl william ran,-- (fast they ryde quha luve trewlie,) quhyll the elfinland wud that gude erl wan-- (blink ower the burn, sweit may, to mee.) elfinland wud is dern and dreir, (merrie is the grai gowkis sang,) but ilk ane leaf is quhyt as silver cleir, (licht makis schoirt the road swa lang.) it is undirnith ane braid aik tree, (hey and a lo, as the leavis grow grein,) thair is kythit ane bricht ladie, (manie flouris blume quhilk ar nocht seen.) around hir slepis the quhyte muneschyne, (meik is mayden undir kell,) her lips bin lyke the blude reid wyne; (the rois of flouris hes sweitest smell.) it was al bricht quhare that ladie stude, (far my luve fure ower the sea.) bot dern is the lave of elfinland wud, (the knicht pruvit false that ance luvit me.) the ladie's handis were quhyte als milk, (ringis my luve wore mair nor ane.) her skin was safter nor the silk; (lilly bricht schinis my luvis halse bane.) save you, save you, fayr ladie, (gentil hert schawis gentil deed.) standand alane undir this auld tree; (deir till knicht is nobil steid.) burdalane, if ye dwall here, (my hert is layed upon this land.) i wuld like to live your fere; (the schippis cum sailin to the strand.) nevir ane word that ladie sayd; (schortest rede hes least to mend.) bot on hir harp she evir playd; (thare nevir was mirth that had nocht end.) gang ye eist, or fare ye wast, (ilka stern blinkis blythe for thee,) or tak ye the road that ye like best, (al trew feeris ryde in cumpanie.) erl william loutit doun full lowe. (luvis first seid bin courtesie.) and swung hir owir his saddil bow, (ryde quha listis, ye'll link with mee.) scho flang her harp on that auld tree, (the wynd pruvis aye ane harpir gude.) and it gave out its music free; (birdis sing blythe in gay green wud.) the harp playde on its leeful lane, (lang is my luvis yellow hair.) quhill it has charmit stock and stane, (furth by firth, deir lady fare.) quhan scho was muntit him behynd, (blyth be hertis quhilkis luve ilk uthir,) awa thai flew like flaucht of wind; (kin kens kin, and bairnis thair mither.) nevir ane word that ladie spak; (mim be maydens men besyde.) but that stout steid did nicher and schaik; (small thingis humbil hertis of pryde.) about his breist scho plet her handis; (luvand be maydens quhan thai lyke.) bot they were cauld as yron bandis. (the winter bauld bindis sheuch and syke.) your handis ar cauld, fayr ladie, sayd hee, (the caulder hand the trewer hairt.) i trembil als the leif on the tree; (licht caussis muve ald friendis to pairt.) lap your mantil owir your heid, (my luve was clad in the red scarlett,) and spredd your kirtil owir my stede; (thair nevir was joie that had nae lett.) the ladie scho wald nocht dispute; (nocht woman is scho that laikis ane tung.) but caulder her fingeris about him cruik. (some sangis ar writt, bot nevir sung.) this elfinland wud will neir haif end; (hunt quha listis, daylicht for mee.) i wuld i culd ane strang bow bend, (al undirneth the grene wood tree.) thai rade up, and they rade doun (wearilie wearis wan nicht away.) erl william's heart mair cauld is grown; (hey, luve mine, quhan dawis the day?) your hand lies cauld on my breist-bane, (smal hand hes my ladie fair,) my horss he can nocht stand his lane, (for cauldness of this midnicht air.) erl william turnit his heid about; (the braid mune schinis in lift richt cleir.) twa elfin een are glentin owt, (my luvis een like twa sternis appere.) twa brennand eyne, sua bricht and full, (bonnilie blinkis my ladeis ee,) flang fire flaughtis fra ane peelit skull; (sum sichts ar ugsomlyk to see.) twa rawis of quhyt teeth then did say, (cauld the boysteous windis sal blaw,) oh, lang and weary is our way, (and donkir yet the dew maun fa'.) far owir mure, and far owir fell, (hark the sounding huntsmen thrang;) thorow dingle, and thorow dell, (luve, come, list the merlis sang.) thorow fire, and thorow flude, (mudy mindis rage lyk a sea;) thorow slauchtir, thorow blude, (a seamless shrowd weird schaipis for me!) and to rede aricht my spell, eerilie sal night wyndis moan, quhill fleand hevin and raikand hell, ghaist with ghaist maun wandir on. casabianca. the boy stood on the burning deck whence all but he had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm-- a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. the flames rolled on--he would not go without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he called aloud, "say, father! say if yet my task is done!" he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. "speak, father!" once again he cried, "if i may yet be gone!" and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, and looked from that lone post of death in still yet brave despair; and shouted but once more aloud, "my father! must i stay?" while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder-sound-- the boy--oh! where was he? ask of the winds that far around with fragments strewed the sea,-- with mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part:-- but the noblest thing which perished there was that young faithful heart. auld robin gray. first part. when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's a' at hame, and a' the weary warld to rest are gane, the woes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, but saving a crown he had naething else beside; to mak the crown a pound my jamie gaed to sea, and the crown and the pound--they were baith for me. he hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day when my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away; my mother she fell sick--my jamie was at sea-- and auld robin gray came a-courting me. my father couldna work, my mother couldna spin, i toiled day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, said, "jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back, but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; his ship was a wrack--why didna jamie dee? or why am i spared to cry, "woe is me?" my father urged me sair--my mother didna speak, but she looket in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- and so robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife a week but only four, when, mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist, for i couldna think it he, till he said, "i'm come hame, love, to marry thee." oh! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say o' a', i gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'. i wish that i were dead, but i'm no like to dee, for tho' my heart is broken, i'm young, woe's me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena to spin, i darena think on jamie, for that would be a sin; but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for oh! robin gray he is kind to me. second part. the winter was come, 'twas simmer nae mair, and, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' th' air; "o winter," says jeanie, "we kindly agree, for the sun he looks wae when he shines upon me." nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' spent; despair it was come, and she thought it content-- she thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale, and she bent like a lily broke down by the gale. her father and mother observed her decay; "what ails ye, my bairn?" they ofttimes would say; "ye turn round your wheel, but you come little speed, for feeble's your hand and silly's your thread." she smiled when she heard them, to banish their fear, but wae looks the smile that is seen through a tear, and bitter's the tear that is forced by a love which honour and virtue can never approve. her father was vexed and her mother was wae, but pensive and silent was auld robin gray; he wandered his lane, and his face it grew lean, like the side of a brae where the torrent had been. nae questions he spiered her concerning her health, he looked at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth; when his heart it grew grit, and often he feigned to gang to the door to see if it rained. he took to his bed--nae physic he sought, but ordered his friends all around to be brought; while jeanie supported his head in its place, her tears trickled down, and they fell on his face. "oh, greet nae mair, jeanie," said he wi' a groan, "i'm no worth your sorrow--the truth maun be known; send round for your neighbours, my hour it draws near, and i've that to tell that it's fit a' should hear. "i've wronged her," he said, "but i kent it owre late; i've wronged her, and sorrow is speeding my date; but a' for the best, since my death will soon free a faithfu' young heart that was ill matched wi' me. "i lo'ed and i courted her mony a day, the auld folks were for me, but still she said nay; i kentna o' jamie, nor yet of her vow, in mercy forgive me--'twas i stole the cow. "i cared not for crummie, i thought but o' thee-- i thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me; while she fed your parents, oh, did you not say you never would marry wi' auld robin gray? "but sickness at hame and want at the door-- you gied me your hand, while your heart it was sore; i saw it was sore,--why took i her hand? oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land! "how truth soon or late comes to open daylight! for jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white-- white, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me-- ay, jeanie, i'm thankfu'--i'm thankfu' to dee. "is jamie come here yet?"--and jamie they saw-- "i've injured you sair, lad, so leave you my a'; be kind to my jeanie, and soon may it be; waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for me." they kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace; "oh, doubtna," said jamie, "forgi'en he will be-- wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to win thee?" ***** the first days were dowie while time slipt awa', but saddest and sairest to jeanie o' a' was thinkin' she couldna be honest and right, wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae light. but nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, the wife of her jamie, the tear couldna stay; a bonnie wee bairn--the auld folks by the fire-- oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire. ***** glossary. abye: first english - abicgan, pay for. assoiled: absolved. avowe: "i make avowe," i declare; not "i make a vow." avow-e: advocate. awayte: "awayte me scathe," watch for opportunity of doing hurt to me. balis: evils. banis: slayers. first english - bana, whence "bane," destruction or harm. barker: tanner. bedene: all bedene: bidene: promptly, altogether. belife: blive: quickly. bent: coarse grass. bete: make better, amend. bewray: disclose. bickered: skirmished. blave: stayed. first english - belaf (allied to german blieb.) boot: help, remedy. first english - bot. borrow: borowe: (noun) security. (verb) give security for. borowhood: state of being security. borrowed: redeemed, released by the fulfilment of conditions. bra': braw: fine; french - brave. braid: at a braid, with a sudden start. brittling: breaking up (of the deer) and distribution of its parts according to the usual custom. brook: broke: have use of, enjoy. busshement: ambush. busk: make self ready. icelandic - bua, prepare; sik, oneself; sk, for sik, was in old norse or icelandic a suffix marking the reflexive form of a verb. caddie: younger brother. french - cadet, a young fellow who runs on errands. clim: clement. clough: a cliff or fissure of rock, a glen between steep banks. con thank: know thanks to be owing; therefore, pay thanks. coresed: cuirassed, harnessed. dang: struck, forced. dauties: darlings. dee: as in kemp owyne; do. dele: division, "never a dele," never a bit. dereworthy: precious. derne: secret. devilkins: of the devil's kind. dight: made ready; dightand: being made ready. do gladly: make good cheer. do him drink: make him drink. donkir: moister. dowie: dull, sorrowful. dree: suffer, endure. dule: sorrow. french - deuil. eftsoons: again soon, soon after. fause: false. fay: faith. fend of: defend from. fere: companion. in fere: in companionship, together. ferre and fremd bestad: one from afar and among strangers. fet: fetched. flattered: floated to and fro. flyte: scold. fone: foes. force: no force: of no importance, no matter. forthinketh: repenteth. fosters of the fee: foresters in charge of the stock of deer. fou: bushel. freke: fighting-man. frese: curl, bend. fynly: substantial, heavy. first english - findig; prov. scot. - findy. fytte: canto, song. first english - fitt (fem.) a song, poem. gane: (as in sir patrick spens) convenient, proper for. garred me gang: made me go; gang maiden: remain unmarried. gest: deed, adventure. gif: if. glede: live-coal. glent: passed suddenly, flashed. goodman: the master of the "good" or little property of house and field. there is the same sense of "good" in the first use of "goodwife," or "goody." gowk: cuckoo. grain, cloth in: cloth of special quality with a fast purple dye. graithit him: dressed himself. gramercy: great thanks. french - grand merci. gree: satisfaction. gurly: gurgly. halfendell: the half part. halk: flat ground by a river. halse bane: neck bone. haud: hold. hie: high. first english - heah. hie: make haste. first english - higan. hilt: covering. ilke: same. iwis: certainly. first english - gewis. for the prefix i-, answering to first english and german ge-, see y-. this old adverb is often printed as if the prefix were the pronoun i and wis were a verb. japes: trivial mockings. jimp: slender. kell: coif, woman's headdress. kipples: rafters. knowe: knoll, little hill. lap: started, were rent. launsgay: lancegay, a form of spear. lease: leasing: falsehood. leeful: "its leeful lane," "its lane," alone; a scottish idiom joins to "lane" the genitive pronoun, "his lane," "their lane," etc. "leeful," compassionate, the harp played of itself compassionately. lemes: gleams. lend: give. see robin hood - god lend. first english - laenan, to give, lend. lend: dwell, come into contact. see robin hood - "when ye together lend." icelandic - lenda, to land; lendir saman, come close together. lere: learn, teach. first english - laeran. see robin hood - "this lesson shall we lere;" lere: face. first english - hleor. see robin hood - "fell down by his lere." let: hinder. letting: hindrance. lewte: loyalty. lift: sky. linde: lime-tree. linn: torrent; also the pool under a torrent of water. lithe: listen. icelandic - alyoa, to listen. liveray: what is 'livre,' or delivered, as a 'livree' of clothes, food, etc. lodge: dwelling in a forest, as originally made of boughs and leaves. lough: laughed. lourdain: blockhead. lown: loon, dull, base fellow. makis: husbands. male: bag. manople: a large gauntlet protecting hand and fore-arm. march parti: border side. masars: bowls or goblets. may: maid. meany: meynie: body of retainers, or domestic following. meet: narrow. first english - maete, little. met: mete: measured. mister: need. mo: more. mort: the note sounded at death of the deer. mote i thee: may i thrive. first english - theon, to thrive. mote: meeting for decision of cases in ecclesiastical or civil law, or for other public purposes, as ward-mote, etc. strong men were said to oppress the weak by being "mighty to mote." nicher: neigh. numbles: liver, kidneys, etc. french - nombles. the word was often written in english umbles and humbles. the umbles, with skin, head, chine, and shoulders of the deer, were the keepers' share in the brittling. there was a receipt for "umble pie" in the old cookery. to "eat humble pie" was to dine with the servants instead of from the haunch at the high table. okerer: usurer. pace: pass. pay: satisfaction. the old sense of the word in the phrase "it does not pay"--does not give satisfaction. a man could be served "to his pay," meaning in a way that satisfied or pleased him. pieces: drinking-cups. pluck-buffet: whichever made a bad shot drew on himself a buffet from his competitor. prest: ready. prestly: readily. french - pret. prief: proof. proseyla: venus' shells, porcelain. pye: coat a py: a rough coarse cloth. dutch - py, or a coat made from it. the word remains in our "pea-coat." quarry: the skin of the deer on which entrails, etc. were piled as the dogs' share of the spoil. french - cuiree, from cuir, hide. to be distinguished from the quarry, a square bolt for the crossbow, or the quarry or squared stones, both from latin - quadratus. quh: = wh. quite: requite. ray: striped cloth. raikand: ranging. rawe: row. rede: counsel. reve: plunder. room: space or spacious. "the warldis room," the space of the world; or "the warld is room," the world is wide. salved: saluted. scheuch and syke: furrow and rill. seid: seed. shaw: covert of the wood. shear: in different directions. first english - sciran, to divide. shend: blame; shent: blamed. shete: shoot. shot-window: according to ritson, is a window that opens and shuts. sicker and sad: sure and firm. sigh-clout: sieve-cloth. somers: sumpter horses. spleen, on the: in anger or discontent. the spleen was once supposed to be the seat of anger and discontent. spurn: strife, as a kicking against. "that tear began this spurn," that rent began this strife. stalworthy: stalwart. stound: space of time. stour: conflict. stown: stolen. suar: heavy. first english - swaer. tarpe: probably a misprint for targe. in the promptorium parvulorum we have the "targe, or chartyr--carta." tene: vexation, sorrow. thee, mote i: may i thrive. see mote. threap: argue back pertinaciously. throw: space of time. tine: lose. tirled: twirled. to-broke: "to" is intensive. told: counted. tone: the tone = that one, as the tother = that other; "that" being the old neuter of "the." tray: surly, unwillingly. icelandic - thra, obstinate. first english - thrafian, to blame. tynde: horns of hart. unketh: unknown, unexpected. unneth: not easily. voided: quitted the place. wap: throw quickly. weal: twist. wed: pledge. weird: fate. well away: wo, alas, wo! first english - wa, eala, wa! welt them: tumbled them over. first english waeltan, to roll or tumble. wight: a being. wite: wete: weet: know. wone: crowd. wonning wan: where is thy, in what direction is thy home? "wan" is an adverbial affix with the sense of latin versus. wood: wode: mad. woolward: clothed only in wool. wough: "wo and wough." first english - wo, wa, the cry of lament for evil. wough, first english - woh, is the evil done; the first sense of the word is a swerving from the right line, then wrong and evil. y- and i- as prefix = the participial prefix ge- (g being pronounced like y before the weak vowel e). so y-dight: y-granted: y-slaw: i-nocked. yede: yode: first english - eode, went. charles franks and the online distributed proofreading team. text version by al haines. a book of old ballads selected and with an introduction by beverley nichols [illustration: title page art] contents edward, edward king leir and his three daughters hynd horn john brown's body tipperary the bailiff's daughter of islington the three ravens the gaberlunzie man the wife of usher's well the lye the ballad of reading gaol _the source of these ballads will be found in the appendix at the end of this book._ list of colour plates hynd horn the bailiff's daughter of islington the three ravens the wife of usher's well edward, edward [illustration: edward, edward headpiece] quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, edward, edward? quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid? and quhy sae sad gang zee, o? o, i hae killed my hauke sae guid, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my hauke sae guid: and i had nae mair bot hee, o. zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, edward, edward. zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, my deir son i tell thee, o. o, i hae killed my reid-roan steid, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my reid-roan steid, that erst was sae fair and free, o. zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, edward, edward; zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, sum other dule ze drie, o. o, i hae killed my fadir deir, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my fadir deir, alas! and wae is mee, o! and quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, edward, edward? and quhatten penance will ze drie for that? my deir son, now tell mee, o. he set my feit in zonder boat, mither, mither: he set my feit in zonder boat, and he fare ovir the sea, o. and quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', edward, edward? and quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', that were sae fair to see, o? he let thame stand til they doun fa', mither, mither: he let thame stand til they doun fa', for here nevir mair maun i bee, o. and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, edward, edward? and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, quhan ze gang ovir the sea, o? the warldis room, let thame beg throw life, mither, mither; the warldis room, let thame beg throw life, for thame nevir mair wul i see, o. and quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, edward, edward? and quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? my deir son, now tell me, o. the curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, mither, mither: the curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, sic counseils ze gave to me, o. [illustration: edward, edward tailpiece] king leir & his three daughters [illustration: king leir & his three daughters headpiece] king leir once ruled in this land with princely power and peace; and had all things with hearts content, that might his joys increase. amongst those things that nature gave, three daughters fair had he, so princely seeming beautiful, as fairer could not be. so on a time it pleas'd the king a question thus to move, which of his daughters to his grace could shew the dearest love: for to my age you bring content, quoth he, then let me hear, which of you three in plighted troth the kindest will appear. to whom the eldest thus began; dear father, mind, quoth she, before your face, to do you good, my blood shall render'd be: and for your sake my bleeding heart shall here be cut in twain, ere that i see your reverend age the smallest grief sustain. and so will i, the second said; dear father, for your sake, the worst of all extremities i'll gently undertake: and serve your highness night and day with diligence and love; that sweet content and quietness discomforts may remove. in doing so, you glad my soul, the aged king reply'd; but what sayst thou, my youngest girl, how is thy love ally'd? my love (quoth young cordelia then) which to your grace i owe, shall be the duty of a child, and that is all i'll show. and wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, than doth thy duty bind? i well perceive thy love is small, when as no more i find. henceforth i banish thee my court, thou art no child of mine; nor any part of this my realm by favour shall be thine. thy elder sisters loves are more then well i can demand, to whom i equally bestow my kingdome and my land, my pompal state and all my goods, that lovingly i may with those thy sisters be maintain'd until my dying day. thus flattering speeches won renown, by these two sisters here; the third had causeless banishment, yet was her love more dear: for poor cordelia patiently went wandring up and down, unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, through many an english town: untill at last in famous france she gentler fortunes found; though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd the fairest on the ground: where when the king her virtues heard, and this fair lady seen, with full consent of all his court he made his wife and queen. her father king leir this while with his two daughters staid: forgetful of their promis'd loves, full soon the same decay'd; and living in queen ragan's court, the eldest of the twain, she took from him his chiefest means, and most of all his train. for whereas twenty men were wont to wait with bended knee: she gave allowance but to ten, and after scarce to three; nay, one she thought too much for him; so took she all away, in hope that in her court, good king, he would no longer stay. am i rewarded thus, quoth he, in giving all i have unto my children, and to beg for what i lately gave? i'll go unto my gonorell: my second child, i know, will be more kind and pitiful, and will relieve my woe. full fast he hies then to her court; where when she heard his moan return'd him answer, that she griev'd that all his means were gone: but no way could relieve his wants; yet if that he would stay within her kitchen, he should have what scullions gave away. when he had heard, with bitter tears, he made his answer then; in what i did let me be made example to all men. i will return again, quoth he, unto my ragan's court; she will not use me thus, i hope, but in a kinder sort. where when he came, she gave command to drive him thence away: when he was well within her court (she said) he would not stay. then back again to gonorell the woeful king did hie, that in her kitchen he might have what scullion boy set by. but there of that he was deny'd, which she had promis'd late: for once refusing, he should not come after to her gate. thus twixt his daughters, for relief he wandred up and down; being glad to feed on beggars food, that lately wore a crown. and calling to remembrance then his youngest daughters words, that said the duty of a child was all that love affords: but doubting to repair to her, whom he had banish'd so, grew frantick mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe: which made him rend his milk-white locks, and tresses from his head, and all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread. to hills and woods and watry founts he made his hourly moan, till hills and woods and sensless things, did seem to sigh and groan. even thus possest with discontents, he passed o're to france, in hopes from fair cordelia there, to find some gentler chance; most virtuous dame! which when she heard, of this her father's grief, as duty bound, she quickly sent him comfort and relief: and by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort, she gave in charge he should be brought to aganippus' court; whose royal king, with noble mind so freely gave consent, to muster up his knights at arms, to fame and courage bent. and so to england came with speed, to repossesse king leir and drive his daughters from their thrones by his cordelia dear. where she, true-hearted noble queen, was in the battel slain; yet he, good king, in his old days, possest his crown again. but when he heard cordelia's death, who died indeed for love of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battle move; he swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted: but on her bosom left his life, that was so truly hearted. the lords and nobles when they saw the end of these events, the other sisters unto death they doomed by consents; and being dead, their crowns they left unto the next of kin: thus have you seen the fall of pride, and disobedient sin. hynd horn [illustration: hynd horn headpiece] [illustration: hynd horn] "hynde horn's bound, love, and hynde horn's free; whare was ye born? or frae what cuntrie?" "in gude greenwud whare i was born, and all my friends left me forlorn. "i gave my love a gay gowd wand, that was to rule oure all scotland. "my love gave me a silver ring, that was to rule abune aw thing. "whan that ring keeps new in hue, ye may ken that your love loves you. "whan that ring turns pale and wan, ye may ken that your love loves anither man." he hoisted up his sails, and away sailed he till he cam to a foreign cuntree. whan he lookit to his ring, it was turnd pale and wan; says, i wish i war at hame again. he hoisted up his sails, and hame sailed he until he cam till his ain cuntree. the first ane that he met with, it was with a puir auld beggar-man. "what news? what news, my puir auld man? what news hae ye got to tell to me?" "na news, na news," the puir man did say, "but this is our queen's wedding-day." "ye'll lend me your begging-weed, and i'll lend you my riding-steed." "my begging-weed is na for thee, your riding-steed is na for me." he has changed wi the puir auld beggar-man. "what is the way that ye use to gae? and what are the words that ye beg wi?" "whan ye come to yon high hill, ye'll draw your bent bow nigh until. "whan ye come to yon town-end, ye'll lat your bent bow low fall doun. "ye'll seek meat for st peter, ask for st paul, and seek for the sake of your hynde horn all. "but tak ye frae nane o them aw till ye get frae the bonnie bride hersel o." whan he cam to yon high hill, he drew his bent bow nigh until. and when he cam to yon toun-end, he loot his bent bow low fall doun. he sought for st peter, he askd for st paul, and he sought for the sake of his hynde horn all. but he took na frae ane o them aw till he got frae the bonnie bride hersel o. the bride cam tripping doun the stair, wi the scales o red gowd on her hair. wi a glass o red wine in her hand, to gie to the puir beggar-man. out he drank his glass o wine, into it he dropt the ring. "got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, or got ye't aff a drownd man's hand?" "i got na't by sea, i got na't by land, nor gat i it aff a drownd man's hand; "but i got it at my wooing, and i'll gie it to your wedding." "i'll tak the scales o gowd frae my head, i'll follow you, and beg my bread. "i'll tak the scales o gowd frae my hair, i'll follow you for evermair." she has tane the scales o gowd frae her head, she's followed him, to beg her bread. she has tane the scales o gowd frae her hair, and she has followd him evermair. atween the kitchen and the ha, there he loot his cloutie cloak fa. the red gowd shined oure them aw, and the bride frae the bridegroom was stown awa. john brown's body [illustration: john brown's body headpiece] old john brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, because he fought for freedom and the stricken negro slave; old john brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave, but his soul is marching on. _chorus_ glory, glory, hallelujah! glory, glory, hallelujah! glory, glory, hallelujah! his soul is marching on. he was a noble martyr, was old john brown the true; his little patriot band into a noble army grew; he was a noble martyr, was old john brown the true, and his soul is marching on. 'twas not till john brown lost his life, arose in all its might, the army of the union men that won the fearful fight; but tho' the glad event, oh! it never met his sight, still his soul is marching on. john brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, where live the happy spirits in their harmony and love, john brown is now a soldier in that heavenly land above, and his soul is marching on. tipperary [illustration: tipperary headpiece] up to mighty london came an irishman one day, as the streets are paved with gold, sure everyone was gay; singing songs of piccadilly, strand and leicester square, till paddy got excited, then he shouted to them there:-- _chorus_ "it's a long way to tipperary, it's a long way to go; it's a long way to tipperary, to the sweetest girl i know! good-bye piccadilly, farewell, leicester square, it's a long, long way to tipperary, but my heart's right there!" paddy wrote a letter to his irish molly o', saying, "should you not receive it, write and let me know! "if i make mistakes in 'spelling,' molly dear,' said he, "remember it's the pen that's bad, don't lay the blame on me." molly wrote a neat reply to irish paddy o', saying, "mike maloney wants to marry me, and so leave the strand and piccadilly, or you'll be to blame, for love has fairly drove me silly--hoping you're the same!" the bailiff's daughter of islington [illustration: the bailiff's daughter of islington headpiece] [illustration: the bailiff's daughter of islington] there was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, and he was a squires son: he loved the bayliffes daughter deare, that lived in islington. yet she was coye, and would not believe that he did love her soe, noe nor at any time would she any countenance to him showe. but when his friendes did understand his fond and foolish minde, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to binde. and when he had been seven long yeares, and never his love could see: many a teare have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of mee. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and playe, all but the bayliffes daughter deare; she secretly stole awaye. she pulled off her gowne of greene, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would goe her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and drye, she sat her downe upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour soe redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd, will ease me of much paine. before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, praye tell me where you were borne: at islington, kind sir, sayd shee, where i have had many a scorne. i prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, o tell me, whether you knowe the bayliffes daughter of islington: she is dead, sir, long agoe. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some far countrye, where noe man shall me knowe. o staye, o staye, thou goodlye youthe, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and readye to be thy bride. o farewell griefe, and welcome joye, ten thousand times therefore; for nowe i have founde mine owne true love, whom i thought i should never see more. the three ravens [illustration: the three ravens headpiece] [illustration: the three ravens] there were three rauens sat on a tree, downe a downe, hay down, hay downe there were three rauens sat on a tree, with a downe there were three rauens sat on a tree, they were as blacke as they might be with a downe derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe the one of them said to his mate, "where shall we our breakefast take?" "downe in yonder greene field, there lies a knight slain vnder his shield. "his hounds they lie downe at his feete, so well they can their master keepe. "his haukes they flie so eagerly, there's no fowle dare him come nie." downe there comes a fallow doe, as great with yong as she might goe. she lift up his bloudy hed, and kist his wounds that were so red. she got him up upon her backe, and carried him to earthen lake. she buried him before the prime, she was dead herselfe ere even-song time. god send every gentleman, such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman. the gaberlunzie man [illustration: the gaberlunzie headpiece] the pauky auld carle come ovir the lee wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, saying, good wife, for zour courtesie, will ze lodge a silly poor man? the night was cauld, the carle was wat, and down azont the ingle he sat; my dochtors shoulders he gan to clap, and cadgily ranted and sang. o wow! quo he, were i as free, as first when i saw this countrie, how blyth and merry wad i bee! and i wad nevir think lang. he grew canty, and she grew fain; but little did her auld minny ken what thir slee twa togither were say'n, when wooing they were sa thrang. and o! quo he, ann ze were as black, as evir the crown of your dadyes hat, tis i wad lay thee by my backe, and awa wi' me thou sould gang. and o! quoth she, ann i were as white, as evir the snaw lay on the dike, ild dead me braw, and lady-like, and awa with thee ild gang. between them twa was made a plot; they raise a wee before the cock, and wyliely they shot the lock, and fast to the bent are they gane. up the morn the auld wife raise, and at her leisure put on her claiths, syne to the servants bed she gaes to speir for the silly poor man. she gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, the strae was cauld, he was away, she clapt her hands, cryd, dulefu' day! for some of our geir will be gane. some ran to coffer, and some to kist, but nought was stown that could be mist. she dancid her lane, cryd, praise be blest, i have lodgd a leal poor man. since naithings awa, as we can learn, the kirns to kirn, and milk to earn, gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, and bid her come quickly ben. the servant gaed where the dochter lay, the sheets was cauld, she was away, and fast to her goodwife can say, shes aff with the gaberlunzie-man. o fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, and haste ze, find these traitors agen; for shees be burnt, and hees be slein, the wearyfou gaberlunzie-man. some rade upo horse, some ran a fit the wife was wood, and out o' her wit; she could na gang, nor yet could sit, but ay did curse and did ban. mean time far hind out owre the lee, for snug in a glen, where nane could see, the twa, with kindlie sport and glee cut frae a new cheese a whang. the priving was gude, it pleas'd them baith, to lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. quo she, to leave thee, i will laith, my winsome gaberlunzie-man. o kend my minny i were wi' zou, illfardly wad she crook her mou, sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, aftir the gaberlunzie-mon. my dear, quo he, zee're zet owre zonge; and hae na learnt the beggars tonge, to follow me frae toun to toun, and carrie the gaberlunzie on. wi' kauk and keel, ill win zour bread, and spindles and whorles for them wha need, whilk is a gentil trade indeed the gaberlunzie to carrie--o. ill bow my leg and crook my knee, and draw a black clout owre my ee, a criple or blind they will cau me: while we sail sing and be merrie--o. the wife of usher's well [illustration: the wife of usher's well headpiece] [illustration: the wife of usher's well] there lived a wife at usher's well, and a wealthy wife was she; she had three stout and stalwart sons, and sent them oer the sea. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely ane, whan word came to the carline wife that her three sons were gane. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely three, whan word came to the carlin wife that her sons she'd never see. "i wish the wind may never cease, nor fashes in the flood, till my three sons come hame to me, in earthly flesh and blood." it fell about the martinmass, when nights are lang and mirk, the carlin wife's three sons came hame, and their hats were o the birk. it neither grew in syke nor ditch, nor yet in ony sheugh; but at the gates o paradise, that birk grew fair eneugh. * * * * * "blow up the fire, my maidens, bring water from the well; for a' my house shall feast this night, since my three sons are well." and she has made to them a bed, she's made it large and wide, and she's taen her mantle her about, sat down at the bed-side. * * * * * up then crew the red, red cock, and up and crew the gray; the eldest to the youngest said, 'tis time we were away. the cock he hadna crawd but once, and clappd his wings at a', when the youngest to the eldest said, brother, we must awa. "the cock doth craw, the day doth daw, the channerin worm doth chide; gin we be mist out o our place, a sair pain we maun bide. "fare ye weel, my mother dear! fareweel to barn and byre! and fare ye weel, the bonny lass that kindles my mother's fire!" [illustration: the wife of usher's well tailpiece] the lye [illustration: the lye headpiece] goe, soule, the bodies guest, upon a thanklesse arrant; feare not to touche the best, the truth shall be thy warrant: goe, since i needs must dye, and give the world the lye. goe tell the court, it glowes and shines like rotten wood; goe tell the church it showes what's good, and doth no good: if church and court reply, then give them both the lye. tell potentates they live acting by others actions; not lov'd unlesse they give, not strong but by their factions; if potentates reply, give potentates the lye. tell men of high condition, that rule affairs of state, their purpose is ambition, their practise onely hate; and if they once reply, then give them all the lye. tell them that brave it most, they beg for more by spending, who in their greatest cost seek nothing but commending; and if they make reply, spare not to give the lye. tell zeale, it lacks devotion; tell love, it is but lust; tell time, it is but motion; tell flesh, it is but dust; and wish them not reply, for thou must give the lye. tell age, it daily wasteth; tell honour, how it alters: tell beauty, how she blasteth; tell favour, how she falters; and as they shall reply, give each of them the lye. tell wit, how much it wrangles in tickle points of nicenesse; tell wisedome, she entangles herselfe in over-wisenesse; and if they do reply, straight give them both the lye. tell physicke of her boldnesse; tell skill, it is pretension; tell charity of coldness; tell law, it is contention; and as they yield reply, so give them still the lye. tell fortune of her blindnesse; tell nature of decay; tell friendship of unkindnesse; tell justice of delay: and if they dare reply, then give them all the lye. tell arts, they have no soundnesse, but vary by esteeming; tell schooles, they want profoundnesse; and stand too much on seeming: if arts and schooles reply. give arts and schooles the lye. tell faith, it's fled the citie; tell how the countrey erreth; tell, manhood shakes off pitie; tell, vertue least preferreth: and, if they doe reply, spare not to give the lye. so, when thou hast, as i commanded thee, done blabbing, although to give the lye deserves no less than stabbing, yet stab at thee who will, no stab the soule can kill. the ballad of reading gaol [illustration: the ballad of reading gaol headpiece] i. he did not wear his scarlet coat, for blood and wine are red, and blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead, the poor dead woman whom he loved, and murdered in her bed. he walked amongst the trial men in a suit of shabby grey; a cricket cap was on his head, and his step seemed light and gay; but i never saw a man who looked so wistfully at the day. i never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky, and at every drifting cloud that went with sails of silver by. i walked, with other souls in pain, within another ring, and was wondering if the man had done a great or little thing, when a voice behind me whispered low, _"that fellow's got to swing."_ dear christ! the very prison walls suddenly seemed to reel, and the sky above my head became like a casque of scorching steel; and, though i was a soul in pain, my pain i could not feel. i only knew what hunted thought quickened his step, and why he looked upon the garish day with such a wistful eye; the man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die. * * * * * yet each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word. the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword! some kill their love when they are young, and some when they are old; some strangle with the hands of lust, some with the hands of gold: the kindest use a knife, because the dead so soon grow cold. some love too little, some too long, some sell, and others buy; some do the deed with many tears, and some without a sigh: for each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die. he does not die a death of shame on a day of dark disgrace, nor have a noose about his neck, nor a cloth upon his face, nor drop feet foremost through the floor into an empty space. he does not sit with silent men who watch him night and day; who watch him when he tries to weep, and when he tries to pray; who watch him lest himself should rob the prison of its prey. he does not wake at dawn to see dread figures throng his room, the shivering chaplain robed in white, the sheriff stern with gloom, and the governor all in shiny black, with the yellow face of doom. he does not rise in piteous haste to put on convict-clothes, while some coarse-mouthed doctor gloats, and notes each new and nerve-twitched pose, fingering a watch whose little ticks are like horrible hammer-blows. he does not feel that sickening thirst that sands one's throat, before the hangman with his gardener's gloves comes through the padded door, and binds one with three leathern thongs, that the throat may thirst no more. he does not bend his head to hear the burial office read, nor, while the anguish of his soul tells him he is not dead, cross his own coffin, as he moves into the hideous shed. he does not stare upon the air through a little roof of glass: he does not pray with lips of clay for his agony to pass; nor feel upon his shuddering cheek the kiss of caiaphas. ii six weeks the guardsman walked the yard in the suit of shabby grey: his cricket cap was on his head, and his step seemed light and gay, but i never saw a man who looked so wistfully at the day. i never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky, and at every wandering cloud that trailed its ravelled fleeces by. he did not wring his hands, as do those witless men who dare to try to rear the changeling in the cave of black despair: he only looked upon the sun, and drank the morning air. he did not wring his hands nor weep, nor did he peek or pine, but he drank the air as though it held some healthful anodyne; with open mouth he drank the sun as though it had been wine! and i and all the souls in pain, who tramped the other ring, forgot if we ourselves had done a great or little thing, and watched with gaze of dull amaze the man who had to swing. for strange it was to see him pass with a step so light and gay, and strange it was to see him look so wistfully at the day, and strange it was to think that he had such a debt to pay. * * * * * for oak and elm have pleasant leaves that in the spring-time shoot: but grim to see is the gallows-tree, with its adder-bitten root, and, green or dry, a man must die before it bears its fruit! the loftiest place is that seat of grace for which all worldlings try: but who would stand in hempen band upon a scaffold high, and through a murderer's collar take his last look at the sky? it is sweet to dance to violins when love and life are fair: to dance to flutes, to dance to lutes is delicate and rare: but it is not sweet with nimble feet to dance upon the air! so with curious eyes and sick surmise we watched him day by day, and wondered if each one of us would end the self-same way, for none can tell to what red hell his sightless soul may stray. at last the dead man walked no more amongst the trial men, and i knew that he was standing up in the black dock's dreadful pen, and that never would i see his face for weal or woe again. like two doomed ships that pass in storm we had crossed each other's way: but we made no sign, we said no word, we had no word to say; for we did not meet in the holy night, but in the shameful day. a prison wall was round us both, two outcast men we were: the world had thrust us from its heart, and god from out his care: and the iron gin that waits for sin had caught us in its snare. iii. in debtors' yard the stones are hard, and the dripping wall is high, so it was there he took the air beneath the leaden sky, and by each side a warder walked, for fear the man might die. or else he sat with those who watched his anguish night and day; who watched him when he rose to weep, and when he crouched to pray; who watched him lest himself should rob their scaffold of its prey. the governor was strong upon the regulations act: the doctor said that death was but a scientific fact: and twice a day the chaplain called, and left a little tract. and twice a day he smoked his pipe, and drank his quart of beer: his soul was resolute, and held no hiding-place for fear; he often said that he was glad the hangman's day was near. but why he said so strange a thing no warder dared to ask: for he to whom a watcher's doom is given as his task, must set a lock upon his lips and make his face a mask. or else he might be moved, and try to comfort or console: and what should human pity do pent up in murderer's hole? what word of grace in such a place could help a brother's soul? with slouch and swing around the ring we trod the fools' parade! we did not care: we knew we were the devil's own brigade: and shaven head and feet of lead make a merry masquerade. we tore the tarry rope to shreds with blunt and bleeding nails; we rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, and cleaned the shining rails: and, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, and clattered with the pails. we sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, we turned the dusty drill: we banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, and sweated on the mill: but in the heart of every man terror was lying still. so still it lay that every day crawled like a weed-clogged wave: and we forgot the bitter lot that waits for fool and knave, till once, as we tramped in from work, we passed an open grave. with yawning mouth the yellow hole gaped for a living thing; the very mud cried out for blood to the thirsty asphalte ring: and we knew that ere one dawn grew fair some prisoner had to swing. right in we went, with soul intent on death and dread and doom: the hangman, with his little bag, went shuffling through the gloom: and i trembled as i groped my way into my numbered tomb. * * * * * that night the empty corridors were full of forms of fear, and up and down the iron town stole feet we could not hear, and through the bars that hide the stars white faces seemed to peer. he lay as one who lies and dreams in a pleasant meadow-land, the watchers watched him as he slept, and could not understand how one could sleep so sweet a sleep with a hangman close at hand. but there is no sleep when men must weep who never yet have wept: so we--the fool, the fraud, the knave-- that endless vigil kept, and through each brain on hands of pain another's terror crept. alas! it is a fearful thing to feel another's guilt! for, right, within, the sword of sin pierced to its poisoned hilt, and as molten lead were the tears we shed for the blood we had not spilt. the warders with their shoes of felt crept by each padlocked door, and peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, grey figures on the floor, and wondered why men knelt to pray who never prayed before. all through the night we knelt and prayed, mad mourners of a corse! the troubled plumes of midnight shook the plumes upon a hearse: and bitter wine upon a sponge was the savour of remorse. * * * * * the grey cock crew, the red cock crew, but never came the day: and crooked shapes of terror crouched, in the corners where we lay: and each evil sprite that walks by night before us seemed to play. they glided past, they glided fast, like travellers through a mist: they mocked the moon in a rigadoon of delicate turn and twist, and with formal pace and loathsome grace the phantoms kept their tryst. with mop and mow, we saw them go, slim shadows hand in hand: about, about, in ghostly rout they trod a saraband: and the damned grotesques made arabesques, like the wind upon the sand! with the pirouettes of marionettes, they tripped on pointed tread: but with flutes of fear they filled the ear, as their grisly masque they led, and loud they sang, and long they sang, for they sang to wake the dead. _"oho!" they cried, "the world is wide, but fettered limbs go lame! and once, or twice, to throw the dice is a gentlemanly game, but he does not win who plays with sin in the secret house of shame."_ no things of air these antics were, that frolicked with such glee: to men whose lives were held in gyves, and whose feet might not go free, ah! wounds of christ! they were living things, most terrible to see. around, around, they waltzed and wound; some wheeled in smirking pairs; with the mincing step of a demirep some sidled up the stairs: and with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, each helped us at our prayers. the morning wind began to moan, but still the night went on: through its giant loom the web of gloom crept till each thread was spun: and, as we prayed, we grew afraid of the justice of the sun. the moaning wind went wandering round the weeping prison-wall: till like a wheel of turning steel we felt the minutes crawl: o moaning wind! what had we done to have such a seneschal? at last i saw the shadowed bars, like a lattice wrought in lead, move right across the whitewashed wall that faced my three-plank bed, and i knew that somewhere in the world god's dreadful dawn was red. at six o'clock we cleaned our cells, at seven all was still, but the sough and swing of a mighty wing the prison seemed to fill, for the lord of death with icy breath had entered in to kill. he did not pass in purple pomp, nor ride a moon-white steed. three yards of cord and a sliding board are all the gallows' need: so with rope of shame the herald came to do the secret deed. we were as men who through a fen of filthy darkness grope: we did not dare to breathe a prayer, or to give our anguish scope: something was dead in each of us, and what was dead was hope. for man's grim justice goes its way, and will not swerve aside: it slays the weak, it slays the strong, it has a deadly stride: with iron heel it slays the strong, the monstrous parricide! we waited for the stroke of eight: each tongue was thick with thirst: for the stroke of eight is the stroke of fate that makes a man accursed, and fate will use a running noose for the best man and the worst. we had no other thing to do, save to wait for the sign to come: so, like things of stone in a valley lone, quiet we sat and dumb: but each man's heart beat thick and quick, like a madman on a drum! with sudden shock the prison-clock smote on the shivering air, and from all the gaol rose up a wail of impotent despair, like the sound that frightened marches hear from some leper in his lair. and as one sees most fearful things in the crystal of a dream, we saw the greasy hempen rope hooked to the blackened beam, and heard the prayer the hangman's snare strangled into a scream. and all the woe that moved him so that he gave that bitter cry, and the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, none knew so well as i: for he who lives more lives than one more deaths than one must die. iv there is no chapel on the day on which they hang a man: the chaplain's heart is far too sick, or his face is far too wan, or there is that written in his eyes which none should look upon. so they kept us close till nigh on noon, and then they rang the bell, and the warders with their jingling keys opened each listening cell, and down the iron stair we tramped, each from his separate hell. out into god's sweet air we went, but not in wonted way, for this man's face was white with fear, and that man's face was grey, and i never saw sad men who looked so wistfully at the day. i never saw sad men who looked with such a wistful eye upon that little tent of blue we prisoners called the sky, and at every happy cloud that passed in such strange freedom by. but there were those amongst us all who walked with downcast head, and knew that, had each got his due, they should have died instead: he had but killed a thing that lived, whilst they had killed the dead. for he who sins a second time wakes a dead soul to pain, and draws it from its spotted shroud, and makes it bleed again, and makes it bleed great gouts of blood, and makes it bleed in vain! * * * * * like ape or clown, in monstrous garb with crooked arrows starred, silently we went round and round the slippery asphalte yard; silently we went round and round, and no man spoke a word. silently we went round and round, and through each hollow mind the memory of dreadful things rushed like a dreadful wind, and horror stalked before each man, and terror crept behind. * * * * * the warders strutted up and down, and watched their herd of brutes, their uniforms were spick and span, and they wore their sunday suits, but we knew the work they had been at, by the quicklime on their boots. for where a grave had opened wide, there was no grave at all: only a stretch of mud and sand by the hideous prison-wall, and a little heap of burning lime, that the man should have his pall. for he has a pall, this wretched man, such as few men can claim: deep down below a prison-yard, naked for greater shame, he lies, with fetters on each foot, wrapt in a sheet of flame! and all the while the burning lime eats flesh and bone away, it eats the brittle bone by night, and the soft flesh by day, it eats the flesh and bone by turns, but it eats the heart alway. * * * * for three long years they will not sow or root or seedling there: for three long years the unblessed spot will sterile be and bare, and look upon the wondering sky with unreproachful stare. they think a murderer's heart would taint each simple seed they sow. it is not true! god's kindly earth is kindlier than men know, and the red rose would but blow more red, the white rose whiter blow. out of his mouth a red, red rose! out of his heart a white! for who can say by what strange way, christ brings his will to light, since the barren staff the pilgrim bore bloomed in the great pope's sight? but neither milk-white rose nor red may bloom in prison-air; the shard, the pebble, and the flint, are what they give us there: for flowers have been known to heal a common man's despair. so never will wine-red rose or white, petal by petal, fall on that stretch of mud and sand that lies by the hideous prison-wall, to tell the men who tramp the yard that god's son died for all. yet though the hideous prison-wall still hems him round and round, and a spirit may not walk by night that is with fetters bound, and a spirit may but weep that lies in such unholy ground. he is at peace-this wretched man-- at peace, or will be soon: there is no thing to make him mad, nor does terror walk at noon, for the lampless earth in which he lies has neither sun nor moon. they hanged him as a beast is hanged: they did not even toll a requiem that might have brought rest to his startled soul, but hurriedly they took him out, and hid him in a hole. the warders stripped him of his clothes, and gave him to the flies: they mocked the swollen purple throat, and the stark and staring eyes: and with laughter loud they heaped the shroud in which the convict lies. the chaplain would not kneel to pray by his dishonoured grave: nor mark it with that blessed cross that christ for sinners gave, because the man was one of those whom christ came down to save. yet all is well; he has but passed to life's appointed bourne: and alien tears will fill for him pity's long-broken urn, for his mourners will be outcast men, and outcasts always mourn. v i know not whether laws be right, or whether laws be wrong; all that we know who lie in gaol is that the wall is strong; and that each day is like a year, a year whose days are long. but this i know, that every law that men have made for man, since first man took his brother's life, and the sad world began, but straws the wheat and saves the chaff with a most evil fan. this too i know--and wise it were if each could know the same-- that every prison that men build is built with bricks of shame, and bound with bars lest christ should see how men their brothers maim. with bars they blur the gracious moon, and blind the goodly sun: and they do well to hide their hell, for in it things are done that son of god nor son of man ever should look upon! * * * * * the vilest deeds like poison weeds, bloom well in prison-air; it is only what is good in man that wastes and withers there: pale anguish keeps the heavy gate, and the warder is despair. for they starve the little frightened child till it weeps both night and day: and they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, and gibe the old and grey, and some grow mad, and all grow bad, and none a word may say. each narrow cell in which we dwell is a foul and dark latrine, and the fetid breath of living death chokes up each grated screen, and all, but lust, is turned to dust in humanity's machine. the brackish water that we drink creeps with a loathsome slime, and the bitter bread they weigh in scales is full of chalk and lime, and sleep will not lie down, but walks wild-eyed, and cries to time. * * * * * but though lean hunger and green thirst like asp with adder fight, we have little care of prison fare, for what chills and kills outright is that every stone one lifts by day becomes one's heart by night. with midnight always in one's heart, and twilight in one's cell, we turn the crank, or tear the rope, each in his separate hell, and the silence is more awful far than the sound of a brazen bell. and never a human voice comes near to speak a gentle word: and the eye that watches through the door is pitiless and hard: and by all forgot, we rot and rot, with soul and body marred. and thus we rust life's iron chain degraded and alone: and some men curse and some men weep, and some men make no moan: but god's eternal laws are kind and break the heart of stone. and every human heart that breaks, in prison-cell or yard, is as that broken box that gave its treasure to the lord, and filled the unclean leper's house with the scent of costliest nard. ah! happy they whose hearts can break and peace of pardon win! how else man may make straight his plan and cleanse his soul from sin? how else but through a broken heart may lord christ enter in? * * * * * and he of the swollen purple throat, and the stark and staring eyes, waits for the holy hands that took the thief to paradise; and a broken and a contrite heart the lord will not despise. the man in red who reads the law gave him three weeks of life, three little weeks in which to heal his soul of his soul's strife, and cleanse from every blot of blood the hand that held the knife. and with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, the hand that held the steel: for only blood can wipe out blood, and only tears can heal: and the crimson stain that was of cain became christ's snow-white seal. vi in reading gaol by reading town there is a pit of shame, and in it lies a wretched man eaten by teeth of flame, in a burning winding-sheet he lies, and his grave has got no name. and there, till christ call forth the dead, in silence let him lie: no need to waste the foolish tear, or heave the windy sigh: the man had killed the thing he loved, and so he had to die. and all men kill the thing they love, by all let this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word, the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword! appendix _from "percy's reliques"--volume i._ the frolicksome duke printed from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection. king estmere this ballad is given from two versions, one in the percy folio manuscript, and of considerable antiquity. the original version was probably written at the end of the fifteenth century. robin hood and guy of gisborne one of the earliest known ballads about robin hood--from the percy folio manuscript. king cophetua and the beggar maid this ballad is printed from richard johnson's _crown garland of goulden roses,_ . the friar of orders gray this ballad is composed of innumerable small fragments of ancient ballads found throughout the plays of shakespeare, which thomas percy formed into one. sir aldingar given from the percy folio manuscript, with some additional stanzas added by thomas percy to complete the story. edom o'gordon a scottish ballad--this version was printed at glasgow in by robert and andrew foulis. it has been enlarged with several stanzas, recovered from a fragment of the same ballad, from the percy folio manuscript. from the percy folio manuscript, amended by two or three others printed in black-letter. written about the time of elizabeth. sir lancelot du lake given from a printed copy, corrected in part by an extract from the percy folio manuscript. the child of elle partly from the percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas by percy as the original copy was defective and mutilated. king edward iv and the tanner of tam worth the text in this ballad is selected from two copies in black-letter. one in the bodleian library, printed at london by john danter in . the other copy, without date, is from the pepys collection. sir patrick spens printed from two manuscript copies transmitted from scotland. it is possible that this ballad is founded on historical fact. edward, edward an old scottish ballad--from a manuscript copy transmitted from scotland. king leir and his three daughters version from an old copy in the _golden garland,_ black-letter, entitled _a lamentable song of the death of king lear and his three daughters._ the gaberlunzie man this ballad is said to have been written by king james v of scotland. _from "percy's reliques"--volume ii._ the knight and shepherd's daughter printed from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections. king john and the abbot of canterbury this ballad was abridged and modernized in the time of james i from one much older, entitled _king john and the bishop of canterbury._ the version given here is from an ancient black-letter copy. barbara allen's cruelty given, with some corrections, from an old black-letter copy, entitled _barbara alien's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy._ fair rosamond the version of this ballad given here is from four ancient copies in black-letter: two of them in the pepys' library. it is by thomas delone. first printed in . the boy and the mantle this is a revised and modernized version of a very old ballad. the heir of linne given from the percy folio manuscript, with several additional stanzas supplied by thomas percy. sir andrew barton this ballad is from the percy folio manuscript with additions and amendments from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys' collection. it was written probably at the end of the sixteenth century. the beggar's daughter of bednall green given from the percy folio manuscript, with a few additions and alterations from two ancient printed copies. brave lord willoughbey given from an old black-letter copy. the spanish lady's love the version of an ancient black-letter copy, edited in part from the percy folio manuscript. gil morrice the version of this ballad given here was printed at glasgow in . since this date sixteen additional verses have been discovered and added to the original ballad. child waters from the percy folio manuscript, with corrections. the bailiff's daughter of islington from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys' collection. the lye by sir walter raleigh. this poem is from a scarce miscellany entitled _davison's poems, or a poeticall rapsodie divided into sixe books ... the th impression newly corrected and augmented and put into a forme more pleasing to the reader._ lond. . _from "english and scottish ballads."_ may collin from a manuscript at abbotsford in the sir walter scott collection, _scotch ballads, materials for border minstrelsy._ thomas the rhymer _scotch ballads, materials for border minstrelsy,_ no. , abbotsford. from the sir walter scott collection. communicated to sir walter by mrs. christiana greenwood, london, may th, . young beichan taken from the jamieson-brown manuscript, . clerk colvill from a transcript of no. of william tytler's brown manuscript. the earl of mar's daughter from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland,_ . hynd horn from motherwell's manuscript, and after. the three ravens _melismate. musicall phansies. fitting the court, cittie and country humours._ london, . (t. ravenscroft.) the wife of usher's well printed from _ministrelsy of the scottish border_, . * * * * * mandalay by rudyard kipling. john brown's body it's a long way to tipperary by jack judge and harry williams. the ballad of reading gaol by oscar wilde. old ballads _illustrated by john eyre r.b.a._ contents. come, lasses and lads comin' thro' the rye cherry-ripe annie laurie robin adair molly bawn go, happy rose! the anchor's weigh'd alice gray home, sweet home john anderson, my jo my pretty jane rock'd in the cradle of the deep the minstrel boy on the banks of allan water auld lang syne within a mile of edinburgh town the night-piece to julia tom bowling my love is like the red red rose widow malone the jolly young waterman caller herrin' a hunting we will go hearts of oak the fine old english gentleman the bay of biscay o! black-eyed susan duncan gray the bailiff's daughter of islington the miller of dee the angel's whisper simon the cellarer auld robin gray bonnie dundee sally in our alley kitty of coleraine here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen the leather bottel woodman, spare that tree the token o wert thou in the cauld blast the passionate shepherd to his love lovely nan the lass of richmond hill tell me not, sweet she wore a wreath of roses o nanny, wilt thou go with me? d'ye ken john peel? * * * * * come, lasses and lads. come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads, and away to the maypole hie, for ev'ry fair has a sweetheart there, and the fiddler's standing by; for willy shall dance with jane, and johnny has got his joan, to trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it up and down! "you're out," says dick; "not i," says nick, "'twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;" "'tis true," says hugh, and so says sue, and so says ev'ry one. the fiddler than began to play the tune again, and ev'ry girl did trip it, trip it, trip it to the men! then, after an hour, they went to a bow'r, and play'd for ale and cakes; and kisses too,--until they were due, the lasses held the stakes. the girls did then begin to quarrel with the men, and bade them take their kisses back, and give them their own again! "good-night," says harry; "good-night," says mary; "good-night," says poll to john; "good-night," says sue to her sweetheart hugh; "good-night," says ev'ry one. some walk'd and some did run, some loiter'd on the way, and bound themselves by kisses twelve, to meet the next holiday. _anon._ coming thro' the rye. gin a body meet a body comin' thro' the rye, gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry? ilka lassie has her laddie, nane, they say, hae i, yet a' the lads they smile at me when comin' thro' the rye. gin a body meet a body comin' frae the town, gin a body meet a body, need a body frown? ilka lassie has, etc. amang the train there is a swain i dearly lo'e mysel'; but what his name, or whaur his hame, i dinna care to tell. ilka lassie has, etc. _anon._ cherry-ripe. cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry, full and fair ones, come and buy; if so be you ask me where they do grow? i answer, there, where my julia's lips do smile, there's the land or cherry isle, whose plantations fully show all the year, where cherries grow. _herrick_. annie laurie. maxwelton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew; and it's there that annie laurie gied me her promise true; gied me her promise true, which ne'er forgot will be; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doun and dee. her brow is like the snaw-drift, her throat is like the swan, her face it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on; that e'er the sun shone on, and dark blue is her ee; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doun and dee. like dew on the gowan lying, is the fa' o' her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice is low and sweet; her voice is low and sweet, and she's all the world to me; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doun and dee. _trad._ robin adair. what's this dull town to me? robin's not near. what was't i wish'd to see, what wish'd to hear? where's all the joy and mirth made this town a heav'n on earth? oh, they're all fled with thee, robin adair. what made th' assembly shine? robin adair. what made the ball so fine? robin was there. what when the play was o'er, what made my heart so sore? oh, it was parting with robin adair. but now thou'rt cold to me, robin adair. but now thou'rt cold to me, robin adair. yet he i lov'd so well still in my heart shall dwell; oh, i can ne'er forget robin adair. _anon._ molly bawn. oh, molly bawn, why leave me pining, all lonely, waiting here for you? while the stars above are brightly shining, because they've nothing else to do. the flowers late were open keeping, to try a rival blush with you; but their mother, nature, set them sleeping, with their rosy faces wash'd with dew. oh, molly bawn, why leave me pining, all lonely, waiting here for you? now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, and the pretty stars were made to shine; and the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, and may be you were made for mine: the wicked watch-dog here is snarling, he takes me for a thief, you see; for he knows i'd steal you, molly, darling, and then transported i should be. oh, molly bawn, why leave me pining, all lonely, waiting here for you? _samuel lover_. go, happy rose! go, happy rose! and interwove with other flowers, bind my love. tell her, too, she must not be longer flowing, longer free, that so oft has fetter'd me. say, it she's fretful, i have bands of pearl and gold to bind her hands; tell her, if she struggle still, i have myrtle rods at will, for to tame though not to kill. take thou my blessing thus, and go, and tell her this,--but do not so! lest a handsome anger fly like a lightning from her eye, and burn thee up as well as i. _herrick._ the anchor's weigh'd. the tear fell gently from her eye, when last we parted on the shore; my bosom heav'd with many a sigh, to think i ne'er might see her more. "dear youth," she cried, "and canst thou haste away? my heart will break; a little moment stay. alas, i cannot, i cannot part from thee. the anchor's weigh'd, farewell! remember me." "weep not, my love," i trembling said, "doubt not a constant heart like mine; i ne'er can meet another maid, whose charms can fix that heart like thine!" "go, then," she cried, "but let thy constant mind oft think of her you leave in tears behind." "dear maid, this last embrace my pledge shall be! the anchor's weigh'd! farewell! remember me." _s.j. arnold._ alice gray. she's all my fancy painted her, she's lovely, she's divine; but her heart it is another's, she never can be mine; yet lov'd i as man never lov'd, a love without decay, oh! my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of alice gray! her dark brown hair is braided o'er a brow of spotless white; her soft blue eye now languishes, now flashes with delight; her hair is braided not for me, the eye is turned away; yet, my heart, my heart is breaking for the love of alice gray. i've sunk beneath the summer's sun, and trembled in the blast; but my pilgrimage is nearly done, the weary conflict's past: and when the green sod wraps my grave, may pity haply say, oh! his heart, his heart is broken for the love of alice gray. _william mee_. home, sweet home. 'mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! a charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, which, seek thro' the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. home! home! sweet, sweet home! there's no place like home! there's no place like home! an exile from home splendour dazzles in vain, oh i give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again! the birds singing gaily that came at my call, give me them with the peace of mind dearer than all. home! home! sweet, sweet home! there's no place like home! there's no place like home! _j. howard payne._ john anderson, my jo. john anderson, my jo, john, when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, john, your locks are like the snaw; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson, my jo. john anderson, my jo, john, we clamb the hill thegither; and monie a canty day, john, we've had wi' ane anither: now we maun totter down, john, but hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson, my jo. _burns (new version)_. my pretty jane. my pretty jane, my pretty jane! ah! never, never look so shy; but meet me in the evening, while the bloom is on the rye. the spring is waning fast, my love, the corn is in the ear, the summer nights are coming, love, the moon shines bright and clear. then, pretty jane, my dearest jane! ah! never look so shy, but meet me in the evening, while the bloom is on the rye. but name the day, the wedding day, and i will buy the ring; the lads and maids in favours white and village bells shall ring. the spring is waning fast, my love, the corn is in the ear, the summer nights are coming, love, the moon shines bright and clear. then, pretty jane, my dearest jane! ah! never look so shy, but meet me in the evening, while the bloom is on the rye. _edward fitzball_. rocked in the cradle of the deep. rock'd in the cradle of the deep, i lay me down in peace to sleep; secure, i rest upon the wave, for thou, o lord, hast pow'r to save. i know thou wilt not slight my call, for thou dost note the sparrow's fall, and calm and peaceful is my sleep, rock'd in the cradle of the deep. and such the trust that still were mine, tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine; or though the tempest's fiery breath rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death! in ocean cave still safe with thee, the germ of immortality; and calm and peaceful is my sleep, rock'd in the cradle of the deep. _mrs. willard._ the minstrel boy. the minstrel boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you'll find him; his father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.-- "land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "though all the world betrays thee, _one_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, _one_ faithful harp shall praise thee!" the minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain could not bring his proud soul under; the harp he loved ne'er spoke again, for he tore its cords asunder; and said, "no chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! thy songs were made for the brave and free, they shall never sound in slavery!" _thomas moore_. on the banks of allan water. on the banks of allan water, when the sweet springtime did fall, was the miller's lovely daughter, the fairest of them all. for his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he: on the banks of allan water, none so gay as she. on the banks of allan water, when brown autumn spreads its store, then i saw the miller's daughter, but she smiled no more; for the summer grief had brought her, and the soldier false was he; on the banks of allan water, none so sad as she. on the banks of allan water, when the winter snow fell fast, still was seen the miller's daughter, chilling blew the blast. but the miller's lovely daughter, both from cold and care was free: on the banks of allan water, there a corpse lay she. _m.g. lewis._ auld lang syne. should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min'? should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days o' auld lang syne? chorus. for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak' a cup' o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne. we twa hae run about the braes, and pu'd the gowans fine; but we've wandered mony a weary foot sin auld lang syne. for auld, etc. we twa hae paidl't i' the burn, from mornin' sun till dine; but seas between us braid hae roar'd sin auld lang syne. for auld, etc. and here's a hand, my trusty frien', and gie's a hand o' thine; and we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, for auld lang syne. for auld, etc. and surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, and surely i'll be mine; and we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. for auld, etc. _burns._ within a mile of edinburgh town. 'twas within a mile of edinburgh town, in the rosy time of the year; sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down, and each shepherd woo'd his dear. bonnie jocky, blythe and gay, kiss'd sweet jenny making hay: the lassie blush'd, and frowning cried, "no, no, it will not do; i canna, canna, wonna, wonna, manna buckle to." jocky was a wag that never would wed, though long he had follow'd the lass: contented she earn'd and eat her brown bread, and merrily turn'd up the grass. bonnie jocky, blythe and free, won her heart right merrily: yet still she blush'd, and frowning cried, "no, no, it will not do; i canna, canna, wonna, wonna, manna buckle to." but when he vow'd he would make her his bride, though his flocks and herds were not few, she gave him her hand, and a kiss beside, and vow'd she'd for ever be true. bonnie jocky, blythe and free, won her heart right merrily: at church she no more frowning cried, "no, no, it will not do; i canna, canna, wonna, wonna, manna buckle to." _anon._ the night-piece to julia. her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, the shooting stars attend thee; and the elves also, whose little eyes glow, like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. no will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee, nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; but on, on thy way, not making a stay, since ghost there's none to affright thee. let not the dark thee cumber; what though the moon does slumber? the stars of the night will lend thee their light, like tapers clear, without number. then, julia, let me woo thee, thus, thus to come unto me; and when i shall meet thy silv'ry feet, my soul i'll pour into thee. _herrick_. tom bowling. here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, the darling of our crew; no more he'll hear the tempest howling, for death has broach'd him to. his form was of the manliest beauty, his heart was kind and soft; faithful below he did his duty. but now he's gone aloft. tom never from his word departed, his virtues were so rare; his friends were many and true-hearted, his poll was kind and fair: and then he'd sing so blithe and jolly; ah, many's the time and oft! but mirth is turn'd to melancholy, for tom is gone aloft. yet shall poor tom find pleasant weather, when he who all commands, shall give, to call life's crew together, the word to pipe all hands. thus death, who kings and tars dispatches, in vain tom's life has doff'd; for though his body's under hatches, his soul is gone aloft. _charles dibdin._ my love is like the red red rose. my love is like the red red rose that's newly sprung in june; my love is like the melody that's sweetly played in tune. as fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am i; and i will love thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry. till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun; and i will love thee still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run. but, fare thee weel, my only love, and fare thee weel awhile; and i will come again, my dear, though 'twere ten thousand mile. _burns_. widow malone. did you hear of the widow malone, ohone! who lived in the town of athlone! ohone! oh, she melted the hearts of the swains in them parts, so lovely the widow malone, ohone! so lovely the widow malone. of lovers she had a full score, or more, and fortunes they all had galore, in store; from the minister down to the clerk of the crown, all were courting the widow malone, ohone! all were courting the widow malone. but so modest was mistress malone, 'twas known, that no one could see her alone, ohone! let them ogle and sigh, they could ne'er catch her eye, so bashful the widow malone, ohone! so bashful the widow malone. till one mister o'brien, from clare,-- how quare! it's little for blushing they care down there, put his arm round her waist-- gave ten kisses at laste-- "oh," says he, "you're my molly malone, my own!" "oh," says he, "you're my molly malone." and the widow they all thought so shy, my eye! ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, for why? but "lucius," says she, "since you've now made so free, you may marry your mary malone, ohone! you may marry your mary malone." there's a moral contained in my song, not wrong, and one comfort, it's not very long, but strong,-- if for widows you die, learn to kiss, not to sigh, for they're all like sweet mistress malone, ohone! oh, they're all like sweet mistress malone. _charles lever_. the jolly young waterman. and did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman, who at blackfriars bridge used for to ply? and he feathered his oars with such skill and dexterity, winning each heart and delighting each eye. he look'd so neat, and he row'd so steadily, the maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily; and he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, that this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. what sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry! 'twas clean'd out so nice, and so painted withal; he was always first oars when the fine city ladies in a party to ranelagh went, or vauxhall. and oftentimes would they be giggling and leering, but 'twas all one to tom their gibing and jeering; for loving or liking he little did care, for this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. and yet but to see how strangely things happen, as he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all, he was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, that she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. and would this young damsel but banish his sorrow, he'd wed her to-night, and not wait till to-morrow; and how should this waterman ever know care, when, married, was never in want of a _fair_. _charles dibdin_. caller herrin'. wha'll buy caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. when ye were sleeping on your pillows, dreamt ye aught o' our puir fellows, darkling as they face the billows, a' to fill our woven willows. buy my caller herrin', they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. caller herrin', caller herrin'. an' when the creel o' herrin' passes, ladies clad in silks and laces, gather in their braw pelisses, toss their heads and screw their faces; buy my caller herrin', they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. noo neebor wives, come, tent my tellin', when the bonnie fish ye're sellin' at a word be aye your dealin', truth will stand when a' things failin'; buy my caller herrin', they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're no brought here without brave darin', buy my caller herrin', ye little ken their worth. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? o ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; wives and mithers maist despairin', ca' them lives o' men. caller herrin', caller herrin'. _lady nairne_. a hunting we will go. the dusky night rides down the sky, and ushers in the morn; the hounds all join in glorious cry, the huntsman winds his horn. and a hunting we will go. the wife around her husband throws her arms to make him stay: "my dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; you cannot hunt to-day." yet a hunting we will go. away they fly to 'scape the rout, their steeds they soundly switch; some are thrown in, and some thrown out, and some thrown in the ditch. yet a hunting we will go. sly reynard now like lightning flies, and sweeps across the vale; and when the hounds too near he spies, he drops his bushy tail. then a hunting we will go. fond echo seems to like the sport, and join the jovial cry; the woods, the hills the sound retort, and music fills the sky. when a hunting we do go. at last his strength to faintness worn, poor reynard ceases flight; then hungry, homeward we return, to feast away the night. and a drinking we do go. ye jovial hunters, in the morn prepare then for the chase; rise at the sounding of the horn and health with sport embrace. when a hunting we do go. _henry fielding_. hearts of oak. come, cheer up, my lads! 'tis to glory we steer, to add something more to this wonderful year: to honour we call you, not press you like slaves: for who are so free as the sons of the waves? hearts of oak are our ships, gallant tars are our men; we always are ready: steady, boys, steady! we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. we ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay; they never see us but they wish us away; if they run, why, we follow, or run them ashore; for if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. hearts of oak, etc. britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea; her standard is justice-- her watchword, "be free!" then cheer up, my lads! with one heart let us sing, "our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king." hearts of oak, etc. _david garrick_. the fine old english gentleman. i'll sing you a good old song, made by a good old pate, of a fine old english gentleman, who had an old estate; and who kept up his old mansion at a bountiful old rate, with a good old porter to relieve the old poor at his gate-- like a fine old english gentleman, all of the olden time. his hall so old was hung around with pikes, and guns, and bows, and swords and good old bucklers that had stood against old foes; 'twas there "his worship" sat in state, in doublet and trunk hose, and quaff'd his cup of good old sack to warm his good old nose-- like a fine old english gentleman, all of the olden time. when winter's cold brought frost and snow, he open'd his house to all; and though three-score and ten his years, he featly led the ball. nor was the houseless wanderer e'er driven from his hall; for while he feasted all the great, he ne'er forgot the small-- like a fine old english gentleman, all of the olden time. but time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll swiftly by; and autumn's falling leaves proclaim'd the old man--he must die! he laid him down quite tranquilly, gave up his latest sigh; and mournful stillness reign'd around, and tears bedew'd each eye-- for this good old english gentleman, all of the olden time. now, surely this is better far than all the new parade of theatres and fancy balls, "at home" and masquerade! and much more economical, for all his bills were paid, then leave your new vagaries quite, and take up the old trade-- of a fine old english gentleman, all of the olden time. _anon_. the bay of biscay o! loud roared the dreadful thunder! the rain a deluge showers! the clouds were rent asunder by lightning's vivid powers! the night, both drear and dark, our poor devoted bark, till next day, there she lay, in the bay of biscay o! now dashed upon the billow, our op'ning timbers creak; each fears a wat'ry pillow, none stop the dreadful leak! to cling to slipp'ry shrouds, each breathless seaman crowds, as she lay, till the day, in the bay of biscay o! at length the wished-for morrow broke through the hazy sky; absorbed in silent sorrow, each heaved the bitter sigh; the dismal wreck to view, struck horror to the crew, as she lay, on that day, in the bay of biscay o! her yielding timbers sever, her pitchy seams are rent; when heaven, all-bounteous ever, its boundless mercy sent! a sail in sight appears, we hail her with three cheers! now we sail, with the gale, from the bay of biscay o! _andrew cherry._ black-eyed susan. all in the downs the fleet was moored, the streamers waving in the wind, when black-eyed susan came on board: "oh! where shall i my true love find? tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, if my sweet william sails among your crew?" william, who high upon the yard, rocked by the billows to and fro, soon as her well-known voice he heard, he sighed, and cast his eyes below: the cord glides swiftly through his glowing hands, and, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. so the sweet lark, high poised in air, shuts close his pinions to his breast (if, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear), and drops at once into her nest: the noblest captain in the british fleet might envy william's lips those kisses sweet. oh, susan! susan! lovely dear! my vows shall ever true remain; let me kiss off that falling tear, we only part to meet again: change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be the faithful compass that still points to thee. believe not what the landsmen say, who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; they tell thee--sailors when away in every port a mistress find! yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, for thou art present wheresoe'er i go. if to fair india's coast we sail, thine eyes are seen in diamonds bright; thy breath in afric's spicy gale, thy skin in ivory so white: thus every beauteous object that i view wakes in my soul some charm of lovely sue. though battle call me from thy arms, let not my pretty susan mourn; though cannons roar, yet free from harms, william shall to his dear return: love turns aside the balls that round me fly, lest precious tears should drop from susan's eye. the boatswain gave the dreadful word, the sails their swelling bosoms spread; no longer must she stay on board: they kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. her lessening boat, unwilling, rows to land; "adieu!" she cried, and waved her lily hand. _j. gay._ duncan gray. duncan grey came here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o't, on blythe yule night when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't. maggie coost' her head fu' high, look'd asklent and unco skeigh, gart poor duncan stand abeigh; ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan fleech'd, and duncan pray'd; ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg was deaf' as ailsa craig, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan sigh'd baith out and in, grat his een baith bleer't and blin', spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; ha, ha, the wooing o't. time and chance are but a tide, ha, ha, the wooing o't, slighted love is sair to bide, ha, ha, the wooing o't. shall i, like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie dee? she may gae to--france for me, ha, ha, the wooing o't. how it comes let doctors tell. ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg grew sick--as he grew well, ha, ha, the wooing o't. something in her bosom wrings, for relief a sigh she brings; and o, her een, they spak sic things! ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan was a lad o' grace, ha, ha, the wooing o't, maggie's was a piteous case, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan couldna be her death, swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; now they're crouse and cantie baith, ha, ha, the wooing o't. _burns_. the bailiff's daughter of islington. there was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son; he loved the bailiff's daughter dear that lived in islington. yet she was coy, and would not believe that he did love her so. no; nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to fair london an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: "many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me." then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bailiff's daughter dear-- she secretly stole away. she pulled off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to fair london she would go, her true love to inquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding by. she started up, with a colour so red, catching hold of his bridle-rein; "one penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "will ease me of much pain." "before i give you one penny, sweetheart, pray tell me where you were born?" "at islington, kind sir," said she, "where i have had many a scorn." "i pr'ythee, sweetheart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know the bailiff's daughter of islington?" "she is dead, sir, long ago." "if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some far countrie, where no man shall me know." o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side: she is here alive, she is not dead-- and ready to be thy bride. o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore! for now i have found my own true love, whom i thought i should never see more. the miller of dee. there was a jolly miller once lived on the river dee, he danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he; and this the burden of his song for ever used to be: "i care for nobody, no, not i, if nobody cares for me. "i live by my mill, god bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife; i would not change my station for any other in life. no lawyer, surgeon, or doctor, e'er had a groat from me, i care for nobody, no, not i, if nobody cares for me." when spring begins his merry career, oh! how his heart grows gay; no summer's drought alarms his fears, nor winter's cold decay; no foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say: "let others toil from year to year, i live from day to day." thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing, the days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing; this song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring, let heart and voice and all agree to say, "long live the king!" _isaac bickerstaffe._ the angel's whisper. a baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, for her husband was far on the wild raging sea, and the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling, and she cried, "dermot, darling, oh come back to me." her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered. and smiled in her face, as she bended her knee; oh! bless'd be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, for i know that the angels are whispering with thee. and while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping, oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me, and say thou would'st rather they watch'd o'er thy father! for i know that the angels are whispering with thee. the dawn of the morning saw dermot returning, and the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see, and closely caressing her child with a blessing, said, "i knew that the angels were whispering with thee." _samuel lover_. simon the cellarer. old simon the cellarer keeps a large store of malmsey and malvoisie, and cyprus and who can say how many more? for a chary old soul is he, a chary old soul is he; of sack and canary he never doth fail, and all the year round there is brewing of ale; yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say, while he keeps to his sober six flagons a day: but ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew how oft the black jack to his lips doth go; but ho! ho! ho! his nose doth shew how oft the black jack to his lips doth go. dame margery sits in her own still-room. and a matron sage is she; from thence oft at curfew is wafted a fume, she says it is rosemarie, she says it is rosemarie; but there's a small cupboard behind the back stair, and the maids say they often see margery there. now, margery says that she grows very old and must take a something to keep out the cold! but ho! ho! ho! old simon doth know where many a flask of his best doth go; but ho! ho! ho! old simon doth know where many a flask of his best doth go. old simon reclines in his high-back'd chair, and talks about taking a wife; and margery often is heard to declare she ought to be settled in life, she ought to be settled in life; but margery has (so the maids say) a tongue, and she's not very handsome, and not very young; so somehow it ends with a shake of the head, and simon he brews him a tankard instead; while ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow, what! marry old margery? no no, no! while ho! ho! ho! he will chuckle and crow, what! marry old margery? no, no, no! _w. h. bellamy_. auld robin gray. when the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, and a' the warld to sleep are gane, the waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, when my gudeman lies sound by me. young jamie loo'd me wed, and socht me for his bride; but, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. to mak that croun a pund young jamie gaed to sea, and the croun and the pund were baith for me. he hadna been awa a week but only twa, when my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa; my father brak his arm, and young jamie at the sea, and auld robin gray cam' a-courtin' me. my father couldna work and my mother couldna spin; i toiled day and nicht, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, said "jennie, for their sakes, oh, marry me!" my heart it said nay, for i look'd for jamie back; but the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck; the ship it was a wreck--why didna jamie dee? or why do i live to say, wae's me? my father argued sair, my mother didna speak, but she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break; sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; and auld robin gray was gudeman to me. i hadna been a wife a week but only four, when, sitting sae mournfully at the door, i saw my jamie's wraith, for i couldna think it he, till he said, "i'm come back for to marry thee." oh, sair did we greet and muckle did we say, we took but ae kiss and we tore ourselves away; i wish i were dead! but i'm no like to dee; and why do i live to say, wae's me? i gang like a ghaist, and i carena to spin; i daurna think on jamie, for that wad be a sin. but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for auld robin gray is kind unto me. _lady anne lindsay._ bonnie dundee. to the lords of convention, 'twas claverhouse spoke, ere the king's crown go down there are crowns to be broke; then each cavalier who loves honour and me, let him follow the bonnets of bonnie dundee. come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, come saddle my horses and call out my men, unhook the west port, and let us gae free, for it's up with the bonnets of bonnie dundee. dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, the bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat, but the provost (douce man) said, "just e'en let it be, for the town is well rid o' that deil o' dundee." come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc. there are hills beyond pentland, and lands beyond forth; if there's lords in the south, there are chiefs in the north, there are brave dunevassals, three thousand times three, will cry hey! for the bonnets of bonnie dundee. come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc. then awa' to the hills, to the lea, to the rocks: ere i own an usurper i'll crouch wi' the fox; and tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee ye hae no seen the last of my bonnets and me. come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, etc. _sir walter scott._ sally in our alley. of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty sally; she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. there is no lady in the land that's half so sweet as sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. her father he makes cabbage-nets, and through the streets does cry 'em; her mother she sells laces long to such as please to buy 'em. but sure such folks could ne'er beget so sweet a girl as sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. when she is by, i leave my work (i love her so sincerely), my master comes, like any turk, and bangs me most severely. but let him bang his belly full, i'll bear it all for sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. of all the days that's in the week, i dearly love but one day; and that's the day that comes betwixt a saturday and monday. for then i'm dress'd all in my best, to walk abroad with sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. my master carries me to church, and often am i blamed because i leave him in the lurch as soon as text is named. i leave the church in sermon time, and slink away to sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. when christmas comes about again, oh! then i shall have money; i'll hoard it up, and box and all i'll give it to my honey. i would it were ten thousand pounds, i'd give it all to sally: she is the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley. my master and the neighbours all make game of me and sally; and (but for her) i'd better be a slave, and row a galley. but when my seven long years are out, oh! then i'll marry sally: oh! then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, but not in our alley. _henry carey._ kitty of coleraine. as beautiful kitty one morning was tripping with a pitcher of milk from the fair of coleraine, when she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, and all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain. "oh, what shall i do now? 'twas looking at you, now; sure, sure, such a pitcher i'll ne'er meet again. 'twas the pride of my dairy, o barnay m'leary, you're sent as a plague to the girls of coleraine! i sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, that such a misfortune should give her such pain. a kiss then i gave her, before i did leave her, she vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'twas haymaking season, i can't tell the reason-- misfortunes will never come single, that's plain-- for very soon after poor kitty's disaster the devil a pitcher was whole in coleraine. _edward lysaght._ here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen. here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, now to the widow of fifty; here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, and here's to the housewife that's thrifty: let the toast pass, drink to the lass-- i warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, now to the damsel with none, sir; here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, and now to the nymph with but one, sir: let the toast pass, drink to the lass-- i warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, now to her that's as brown as a berry; here's to the wife with a face full of woe, and now to the damsel that's merry: let the toast pass, drink to the lass-- i warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. for let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, young or ancient, i care not a feather; so fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, and let us e'en toast 'em together: let the toast pass, drink to the lass-- i warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. _r. b. sheridan._ the leather bottÃ�l. 'twas god above that made all things, the heav'ns, the earth, and all therein: the ships that on the sea do swim to guard from foes that none come in; and let them all do what they can, 'twas for one end--the use of man. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. now, what do you say to these cans of wood? oh, no, in faith they cannot be good; for if the bearer fall by the way, why, on the ground your liquor doth lay; but had it been in a leather bottèl, although he had fallen all had been well. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. then what do you say to these glasses fine? oh, they shall have no praise of mine; for if you chance to touch the brim, down falls the liquor and all therein. but had it been in a leather bottèl, and the stopple in, all had been well. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. then what do you say to these black pots three? if a man and his wife should not agree, why, they'll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill; in a leather bottèl they may tug their fill, and pull away till their hearts do ake, and yet their liquor no harm can take. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. then what do you say to these flagons fine? oh, they shall have no praise of mine; for when a lord is about to dine, and sends them to be filled with wine, the man with the flagon doth run away, because it is silver most gallant and gay so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. a leather bottèl we know is good, far better than glasses or cans of wood; for when a man's at work in the field your glasses and pots no comfort will yield; but a good leather bottèl standing by will raise his spirits whenever he's dry. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. at noon the haymakers sit them down, to drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown; in summer, too, when the weather is warm, a good bottle full will do them no harm. then the lads and the lasses begin to tottle, but what would they do without this bottle? so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. there's never a lord, an earl, or knight, but in this bottle doth take delight; for when he's hunting of the deer he oft doth wish for a bottle of beer. likewise the man that works in the wood, a bottle of beer will oft do him good. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. and when the bottle at last grows old, and will good liquor no longer hold, out of the side you may take a clout, to mend your shoes when they're worn out; or take and hang it up on a pin, 'twill serve to put hinges and old things in. so i wish in heav'n his soul may dwell that first found out the leather bottèl. woodman, spare that tree. woodman, spare that tree, touch not a single bough-- in youth it shelter'd me, and i'll protect it now. twas my forefather's hand that placed it near his cot. there, woodman, let it stand, thy axe shall harm it not. that old familiar tree, whose glory and renown are spread o'er land and sea, say, wouldst thou hack it down? woodman, forbear thy stroke, cut not its earth-bound ties-- oh, spare that aged oak, now, towering to the skies. oft, when a careless child, beneath its shade i heard the wood-notes sweet and wild, of many a forest bird. by mother kiss'd me here, my father press'd my hand, i ask thee, with a tear, oh, let that old oak stand. my heart-strings round thee cling, close at thy bark, old friend-- here shall the wild bird sing, and still thy branches bend. old tree, the storm still brave, and, woodman, leave the spot-- while i've a hand to save thy axe shall harm it not. _general g.p. morris._ the token the breeze was fresh, the ship in stays, each breaker hush'd, the shore a haze. when jack no more on duty call'd, his true love's tokens overhaul'd; the broken gold, the braided hair, the tender motto, writ so fair, upon his 'bacco-box he views, nancy the poet, love the muse. "if you loves i, as i loves you, no pair so happy as we two." the storm, that like a shapeless wreck, had strew'd with rigging all the deck, that tars for sharks had giv'n a feast, and left the ship a hulk--had ceas'd: when jack, as with his messmates dear, he shared the grog their hearts to cheer, took from his 'bacco-box a quid, and spell'd for comfort on the lid "if you loves i, as i loves you, no pair so happy as we two." the voyage,--that had been long and hard, but that had yielded full reward, and brought each sailor to his friend happy and rich--was at an end: when jack, his toils and perils o'er, beheld his nancy on the shore: he then the 'bacco-box display'd, and cried, and seized the yielding maid, "if you loves i, as i loves you, no pair so happy as we two." _c. dibdin._ o, wert thou in the cauld blast. o wert thou in the cauld blast, on yonder lea, my plaidie to the angry airt, i'd shelter thee. or did misfortune's bitter storms around thee blaw, thy bield should be my bosom, to share it a'. or were i in the wildest waste, she bleak and bare, the desert were a paradise, if thou wert there, or were i monarch o' the globe, wi' thee to reign, the brightest jewel in my crown, wad be my queen. _burns._ the passionate shepherd to his love. come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that valleys, groves, and hills and fields, the woods or steepy mountains yields. and we will sit upon the rocks, seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. and i will make thee beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies; a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd o'er with leaves of myrtle; a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull; fair lined slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold; a belt of straw and ivy-buds, with coral clasps and amber studs, and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. the shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may morning, if these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love. _christopher marlowe._ lovely nan. sweet is the ship, that, under sail spreads her white bosom to the gale; sweet, oh! sweet's the flowing can; sweet to poise the lab'ring oar that tugs us to our native shore, when the boatswain pipes the barge to man; sweet sailing with a fav'ring breeze; but oh! much sweeter than all these, is jack's delight, his lovely nan. the needle faithful to the north, to show of constancy the worth, a curious lesson teaches man; the needle time may rust, a squall capsize the binnacle and all, let seamanship do all it can; my love in worth shall higher rise! nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize, my faith and truth to lovely nan. i love my duty, love my friend, love truth and merit to defend, to moan their loss who hazard ran; i love to take an honest part. love beauty with a spotless heart, by manners love to show the man, to sail through life by honour's breeze; 'twas all along of loving these first made me doat on lovely nan. _c. dibdin._ the lass of richmond hill. on richmond hill there lives a lass more bright than may-day morn, whose charms all other maids surpass-- a rose without a thorn. this lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. has won my right good-will; i'd crowns resign to call her mine-- sweet lass of richmond hill. ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, and wanton through the grove, oh, whisper to my charming fair, i'd die for her i love! how happy will the shepherd be who calls this nymph his own! oh, may her choice be fix'd on me? mine's fix'd on her alone. _james upton._ tell me not, sweet. tell me not, sweet, i am unkind, that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, to war and arms i fly. true, a new mistress now i chase, the first foe in the field; and with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield. yet this inconstancy is such, as you, too, shall adore; i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more. _richard lovelace._ she wore a wreath of roses. she wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met, her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet; her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone, the tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown. i saw her but a moment, yet methinks i see her now, with a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow. a wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore, the expression of her features was more thoughtful than before, and standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain, to soothe her leaving that dear home she ne'er might view again. i saw her but a moment, yet methinks i see her now, with a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow. and once again i saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there, the widow's sombre cap conceal'd her once luxuriant hair; she weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near, to press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear! i see her broken-hearted, and methinks i see her now, in the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow. _thomas haynes bayly._ o nanny, wilt thou go with me? o nanny, wilt thou go with me, nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? can silent glens have charms for thee, the lowly cot and russet gown? no longer drest in silken sheen, no longer deck'd with jewels rare, say, can'st thou quit each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, when thou'rt far away, wilt thou not cast a wish behind? say, can'st thou face the parching ray, nor shrink before the wintry wind? oh, can that soft and gentle mien extremes of hardship learn to bear, nor sad regret each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, can'st thou love so true, through perils keen with me go; or when thy swain mishap shall rue, to share with him the pang of woe? say, should disease or pain befall, wilt thou assume the nurse's care, nor wistful those gay scenes recall, where thou wert fairest of the fair? and when at last thy love shall die, wilt thou receive his parting breath, wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, and cheer with smiles the bed of death? and wilt thou o'er his breathless clay strew flowers, and drop the tender tear, nor then regret those scenes so gay, where thou wert fairest of the fair? _thomas percy d.d._ d'ye ken john peel? d'ye ken john peel with his coat so gay? d'ye ken john peel at the break of the day? d'ye ken john peel when he's far, far away, with his hounds and his horn in the morning? chorus.--d'ye ken, etc. 'twas the sound of his horn brought me from my bed, and the cry of his hounds has me ofttimes led; for peel's view holloa would 'waken the dead, or a fox from his lair in the morning. chorus.--d'ye ken, etc. d'ye ken that hound whose voice is death? d'ye ken her sons of peerless faith? d'ye ken that a fox with his last breath cursed them all as he died in the morning! chorus.--d'ye ken, etc. yes, i ken john peel and auld ruby too, ranter and royal and bellman so true; from the drag to the chase, from the chase to the view, from the view to the death in the morning. chorus.--d'ye ken, etc. and i've follow'd john peel both often and far. o'er the rasper-fence, the gate, and the bar, from low denton side up to scratchmere scar, when we vied for the brush in the morning. chorus.--d'ye ken, etc. then here's to john peel with my heart and soul. come fill, fill to him a brimming bowl: for we'll follow john peel thro' fair or thro' foul, while we're wak'd by his horn in the morning. chorus.--d'ye ken, etc. _john woodstock graves._ charles franks and the online distributed proofreading team. text version by al haines. a book of old ballads selected and with an introduction by beverley nichols [illustration: title page art] acknowledgments the thanks and acknowledgments of the publishers are due to the following: to messrs. b. feldman & co., shaftesbury avenue, w.c. , for "it's a long way to tipperary"; to mr. rudyard kipling and messrs. methuen & co. for "mandalay" from _barrack room ballads_; and to the executors of the late oscar wilde for "the ballad of reading gaol." "the earl of mar's daughter", "the wife of usher's well", "the three ravens", "thomas the rhymer", "clerk colvill", "young beichen", "may collin", and "hynd horn" have been reprinted from _english and scottish ballads_, edited by mr. g. l. kittredge and the late mr. f. j. child, and published by the houghton mifflin company. the remainder of the ballads in this book, with the exception of "john brown's body", are from _percy's reliques_, volumes i and ii. contents foreword mandalay the frolicksome duke the knight and shepherd's daughter king estmere king john and the abbot of canterbury barbara allen's cruelty fair rosamond robin hood and guy of gisborne the boy and the mantle _the source of these ballads will be found in the appendix at the end of this book._ list of colour plates king estmere barbara allen's cruelty fair rosamond the boy and the mantle foreword by beverley nichols these poems are the very essence of the british spirit. they are, to literature, what the bloom of the heather is to the scot, and the smell of the sea to the englishman. all that is beautiful in the old word "patriotism" ... a word which, of late, has been twisted to such ignoble purposes ... is latent in these gay and full-blooded measures. but it is not only for these reasons that they are so valuable to the modern spirit. it is rather for their tonic qualities that they should be prescribed in . the post-war vintage of poetry is the thinnest and the most watery that england has ever produced. but here, in these ballads, are great draughts of poetry which have lost none of their sparkle and none of their bouquet. it is worth while asking ourselves why this should be--why these poems should "keep", apparently for ever, when the average modern poem turns sour overnight. and though all generalizations are dangerous i believe there is one which explains our problem, a very simple one.... namely, that the eyes of the old ballad-singers were turned outwards, while the eyes of the modern lyric-writer are turned inwards. the authors of the old ballads wrote when the world was young, and infinitely exciting, when nobody knew what mystery might not lie on the other side of the hill, when the moon was a golden lamp, lit by a personal god, when giants and monsters stalked, without the slightest doubt, in the valleys over the river. in such a world, what could a man do but stare about him, with bright eyes, searching the horizon, while his heart beat fast in the rhythm of a song? but now--the mysteries have gone. we know, all too well, what lies on the other side of the hill. the scientists have long ago puffed out, scornfully, the golden lamp of the night ... leaving us in the uttermost darkness. the giants and the monsters have either skulked away or have been tamed, and are engaged in writing their memoirs for the popular press. and so, in a world where everything is known (and nothing understood), the modern lyric-writer wearily averts his eyes, and stares into his own heart. that way madness lies. all madmen are ferocious egotists, and so are all modern lyric-writers. that is the first and most vital difference between these ballads and their modern counterparts. the old ballad-singers hardly ever used the first person singular. the modern lyric-writer hardly ever uses anything else. ii this is really such an important point that it is worth labouring. why is ballad-making a lost art? that it _is_ a lost art there can be no question. nobody who is painfully acquainted with the rambling, egotistical pieces of dreary versification, passing for modern "ballads", will deny it. ballad-making is a lost art for a very simple reason. which is, that we are all, nowadays, too sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought to receive emotions directly, without self-consciousness. if we are wounded, we are no longer able to sing a song about a clean sword, and a great cause, and a black enemy, and a waving flag. no--we must needs go into long descriptions of our pain, and abstruse calculations about its effect upon our souls. it is not "we" who have changed. it is life that has changed. "we" are still men, with the same legs, arms and eyes as our ancestors. but life has so twisted things that there are no longer any clean swords nor great causes, nor black enemies. and the flags do not know which way to flutter, so contrary are the winds of the modern world. all is doubt. and doubt's colour is grey. grey is no colour for a ballad. ballads are woven from stuff of primitive hue ... the red blood gushing, the gold sun shining, the green grass growing, the white snow falling. never will you find grey in a ballad. you will find the black of the night and the raven's wing, and the silver of a thousand stars. you will find the blue of many summer skies. but you will not find grey. iii that is why ballad-making is a lost art. or almost a lost art. for even in this odd and musty world of phantoms which we call the twentieth century, there are times when a man finds himself in a certain place at a certain hour and something happens to him which takes him out of himself. and a song is born, simply and sweetly, a song which other men can sing, for all time, and forget themselves. such a song was once written by a master at my old school, marlborough. he was a scot. but he loved marlborough with the sort of love which the old ballad-mongers must have had-the sort of love which takes a man on wings, far from his foolish little body. he wrote a song called "the scotch marlburian". here it is:-- oh marlborough, she's a toun o' touns we will say that and mair, we that ha' walked alang her douns and snuffed her wiltshire air. a weary way ye'll hae to tramp afore ye match the green o' savernake and barbery camp and a' that lies atween! the infinite beauty of that phrase ... "and a' that lies atween"! the infinite beauty as it is roared by seven hundred young throats in unison! for in that phrase there drifts a whole pageant of boyhood--the sound of cheers as a race is run on a stormy day in march, the tolling of the chapel bell, the crack of ball against bat, the sighs of sleep in a long white dormitory. but you may say "what is all this to me? i wasn't at maryborough. i don't like schoolboys ... they strike me as dirty, noisy, and usually foul-minded. why should i go into raptures about such a song, which seems only to express a highly debatable approval of a certain method of education?" if you are asking yourself that sort of question, you are obviously in very grave need of the tonic properties of this book. for after you have read it, you will wonder why you ever asked it. iv i go back and back to the same point, at the risk of boring you to distraction. for it is a point which has much more "to" it than the average modern will care to admit, unless he is forced to do so. you remember the generalization about the eyes ... how they used to look _out_, but now look _in_? well, listen to this.... _i'm_ feeling blue, _i_ don't know what to do, 'cos _i_ love you and you don't love _me_. the above masterpiece is, as far as i am aware, imaginary. but it represents a sort of _reductio ad absurdum_ of thousands of lyrics which have been echoing over the post-war world. nearly all these lyrics are melancholy, with the profound and primitive melancholy of the negro swamp, and they are all violently egotistical. now this, in the long run, is an influence of far greater evil than one would be inclined at first to admit. if countless young men, every night, are to clasp countless young women to their bosoms, and rotate over countless dancing-floors, muttering "i'm feeling blue ... _i_ don't know what to do", it is not unreasonable to suppose that they will subconsciously apply some of the lyric's mournful egotism to themselves. anybody who has even a nodding acquaintance with modern psychological science will be aware of the significance of "conditioning", as applied to the human temperament. the late m. coué "conditioned" people into happiness by making them repeat, over and over again, the phrase "every day in every way i grow better and better and better." the modern lyric-monger exactly reverses m. coué's doctrine. he makes the patient repeat "every night, with all my might, i grow worse and worse and worse." of course the "i" of the lyric-writer is an imaginary "i", but if any man sings "_i'm_ feeling blue", often enough, to a catchy tune, he will be a superman if he does not eventually apply that "i" to himself. but the "blueness" is really beside the point. it is the _egotism_ of the modern ballad which is the trouble. even when, as they occasionally do, the modern lyric-writers discover, to their astonishment, that they are feeling happy, they make the happiness such a personal issue that half its tonic value is destroyed. it is not, like the old ballads, just an outburst of delight, a sudden rapture at the warmth of the sun, or the song of the birds, or the glint of moonlight on a sword, or the dew in a woman's eyes. it is not an emotion so sweet and soaring that self is left behind, like a dull chrysalis, while the butterfly of the spirit flutters free. no ... the chrysalis is never left behind, the "i", "i", "i", continues, in a maddening monotone. and we get this sort of thing.... _i_ want to be happy, but _i_ can't be happy till _i've_ made you happy too. and that, if you please, is one of the jolliest lyrics of the last decade! that was a song which made us all smile and set all our feet dancing! even when their tale was woven out of the stuff of tragedy, the old ballads were not tarnished with such morbid speculations. read the tale of the beggar's daughter of bethnal green. one shudders to think what a modern lyric-writer would make of it. we should all be in tears before the end of the first chorus. but here, a lovely girl leaves her blind father to search for fortune. she has many adventures, and in the end, she marries a knight. the ballad ends with words of almost childish simplicity, but they are words which ring with the true tone of happiness:-- thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte a bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte in joy and felicitie long lived hee all with his faire ladye, the pretty bessee. i said that the words were of almost childish simplicity. but the student of language, and the would-be writer, might do worse than study those words, if only to see how the cumulative effect of brightness and radiance is gained. you may think the words are artless, but just ponder, for a moment, the number of brilliant verbal symbols which are collected into that tiny verse. there are only four lines. but those lines contain these words ... feast, joy, delight, bridegroom, happy, joy, young, felicity, fair, pretty. is that quite so artless, after all? is it not rather like an old and primitive plaque, where colour is piled on colour till you would say the very wood will burst into flame ... and yet, the total effect is one of happy simplicity? v how were the early ballads born? who made them? one man or many? were they written down, when they were still young, or was it only after the lapse of many generations, when their rhymes had been sharpened and their metres polished by constant repetition, that they were finally copied out? to answer these questions would be one of the most fascinating tasks which the detective in letters could set himself. grimm, listening in his fairyland, heard some of the earliest ballads, loved them, pondered on them, and suddenly startled the world by announcing that most ballads were not the work of a single author, but of the people at large. _das volk dichtet_, he said. and that phrase got him into a lot of trouble. people told him to get back to his fairyland and not make such ridiculous suggestions. for how, they asked, could a whole people make a poem? you might as well tell a thousand men to make a tune, limiting each of them to one note! to invest grimm's words with such an intention is quite unfair. [footnote: for a discussion of grimm's theories, together with much interesting speculation on the origin of the ballads, the reader should study the admirable introduction to _english and scottish popular ballads_, published by george harrap & co., ltd.] obviously a multitude of people could not, deliberately, make a single poem any more than a multitude of people could, deliberately, make a single picture, one man doing the nose, one man an eye and so on. such a suggestion is grotesque, and grimm never meant it. if i might guess at what he meant, i would suggest that he was thinking that the origin of ballads must have been similar to the origin of the dance, (which was probably the earliest form of aesthetic expression known to man). the dance was invented because it provided a means of prolonging ecstasy by art. it may have been an ecstasy of sex or an ecstasy of victory ... that doesn't matter. the point is that it gave to a group of people an ordered means of expressing their delight instead of just leaping about and making loud cries, like the animals. and you may be sure that as the primitive dance began, there was always some member of the tribe a little more agile than the rest--some man who kicked a little higher or wriggled his body in an amusing way. and the rest of them copied him, and incorporated his step into their own. apply this analogy to the origin of ballads. it fits perfectly. there has been a successful raid, or a wedding, or some great deed of daring, or some other phenomenal thing, natural or supernatural. and now that this day, which will ever linger in their memories, is drawing to its close, the members of the tribe draw round the fire and begin to make merry. the wine passes ... and tongues are loosened. and someone says a phrase which has rhythm and a sparkle to it, and the phrase is caught up and goes round the fire, and is repeated from mouth to mouth. and then the local wit caps it with another phrase and a rhyme is born. for there is always a local wit in every community, however primitive. there is even a local wit in the monkey house at the zoo. and once you have that single rhyme and that little piece of rhythm, you have the genesis of the whole thing. it may not be worked out that night, nor even by the men who first made it. the fire may long have died before the ballad is completed, and tall trees may stand over the men and women who were the first to tell the tale. but rhyme and rhythm are indestructible, if they are based on reality. "not marble nor the gilded monuments of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme." and so it is that some of the loveliest poems in the language will ever remain anonymous. needless to say, _all_ the poems are not anonymous. as society became more civilized it was inevitable that the peculiar circumstances from which the earlier ballads sprang should become less frequent. nevertheless, about nearly all of the ballads there is "a common touch", as though even the most self-conscious author had drunk deep of the well of tradition, that sparkling well in which so much beauty is distilled. vi but though the author or authors of most of the ballads may be lost in the lists of time, we know a good deal about the minstrels who sang them. and it is a happy thought that those minstrels were such considerable persons, so honourably treated, so generously esteemed. the modern mind, accustomed to think of the singer of popular songs either as a highly paid music-hall artist, at the top of the ladder, or a shivering street-singer, at the bottom of it, may find it difficult to conceive of a minstrel as a sort of ambassador of song, moving from court to court with dignity and ceremony. yet this was actually the case. in the ballad of king estmere, for example, we see the minstrel finely mounted, and accompanied by a harpist, who sings his songs for him. this minstrel, too, moves among kings without any ceremony. as percy has pointed out, "the further we carry our enquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the professors of poetry and music among all the celtic and gothic nations. their character was deemed so sacred that under its sanction our famous king alfred made no scruple to enter the danish camp, and was at once admitted to the king's headquarters." _and even so late as the time of froissart, we have minstrels and heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an enemy's country._ the reader will perhaps forgive me if i harp back, once more, to our present day and age, in view of the quite astonishing change in national psychology which that revelation implies. minstrels and heralds were once allowed safe conduct into the enemy's country, in time of war. yet, in the last war, it was considered right and proper to hiss the work of beethoven off the stage, and responsible newspapers seriously suggested that never again should a note of german music, of however great antiquity, be heard in england! we are supposed to have progressed towards internationalism, nowadays. whereas, in reality, we have grown more and more frenziedly national. we are very far behind the age of froissart, when there was a true internationalism--the internationalism of art. to some of us that is still a very real internationalism. when we hear a beethoven sonata we do not think of it as issuing from the brain of a "teuton" but as blowing from the eternal heights of music whose winds list nothing of frontiers. man _needs_ song, for he is a singing animal. moreover, he needs communal song, for he is a social animal. the military authorities realized this very cleverly, and they encouraged the troops, during the war, to sing on every possible occasion. crazy pacifists, like myself, may find it almost unbearably bitter to think that on each side of various frontiers young men were being trained to sing themselves to death, in a struggle which was hideously impersonal, a struggle of machinery, in which the only winners were the armament manufacturers. and crazy pacifists might draw a very sharp line indeed between the songs which celebrated real personal struggles in the tiny wars of the past, and the songs which were merely the prelude to thousands of puzzled young men suddenly finding themselves choking in chlorine gas, in the wars of the present. but even the craziest pacifist could not fail to be moved by some of the ballads of the last war. to me, "tipperary" is still the most moving tune in the world. it happens to be a very good tune, from the musician's point of view, a tune that handel would not have been ashamed to write, but that is not the point. its emotional qualities are due to its associations. perhaps that is how it has always been, with ballads. from the standard of pure aesthetics, one ought not to consider "associations" in judging a poem or a tune, but with a song like "tipperary" you would be an inhuman prig if you didn't. we all have our "associations" with this particular tune. for me, it recalls a window in hampstead, on a grey day in october . i had been having the measles, and had not been allowed to go back to school. then suddenly, down the street, that tune echoed. and they came marching, and marching, and marching. and they were all so happy. so happy. vii "tipperary" is a true ballad, which is why it is included in this book. so is "john brown's body". they were not written as ballads but they have been promoted to that proud position by popular vote. it will now be clear, from the foregoing remarks, that there are thousands of poems, labelled "ballads" from the eighteenth century, through the romantic movement, and onwards, which are not ballads at all. swinburne's ballads, which so shocked our grandparents, bore about as much relation to the true ballads as a vase of wax fruit to a hawker's barrow. they were lovely patterns of words, woven like some exquisite, foaming lace, but they were swinburne, swinburne all the time. they had nothing to do with the common people. the common people would not have understood a word of them. ballads _must_ be popular. and that is why it will always remain one of the weirdest paradoxes of literature that the only man, except kipling, who has written a true ballad in the last fifty years is the man who despised the people, who shrank from them, and jeered at them, from his little gilded niche in piccadilly. i refer, of course, to oscar wilde's "ballad of reading gaol." it was a true ballad, and it was the best thing he ever wrote. for it was written _de profundis_, when his hands were bloody with labour and his tortured spirit had been down to the level of the lowest, to the level of the pavement ... nay, lower ... to the gutter itself. and in the gutter, with agony, he learned the meaning of song. ballads begin and end with the people. you cannot escape that fact. and therefore, if i wished to collect the ballads of the future, the songs which will endure into the next century (if there _is_ any song in the next century), i should not rake through the contemporary poets, in the hope of finding gems of lasting brilliance. no. i should go to the music-halls. i should listen to the sort of thing they sing when the faded lady with the high bust steps forward and shouts, "now then, boys, all together!" unless you can write the words "now then, boys, all together", at the top of a ballad, it is not really a ballad at all. that may sound a sweeping statement, but it is true. in the present-day music-halls, although they have fallen from their high estate, we should find a number of these songs which seem destined for immortality. one of these is "don't 'ave any more, mrs. moore." do you remember it? don't 'ave any more, mrs. moore! mrs. moore, oh don't 'ave any more! too many double gins give the ladies double chins, so don't 'ave any more, mrs. moore! the whole of english "low life" (which is much the most exciting part of english life) is in that lyric. it is as vivid as a rowlandson cartoon. how well we know mrs. moore! how plainly we see her ... the amiable, coarse-mouthed, generous-hearted tippler, with her elbow on countless counters, her damp coppers clutched in her rough hands, her eyes staring, a little vacantly, about her. some may think it is a sordid picture, but i am sure that they cannot know mrs. moore very well if they think that. they cannot know her bitter struggles, her silent heroisms, nor her sardonic humour. lyrics such as these will, i believe, endure long after many of the most renowned and fashionable poets of to-day are forgotten. they all have the same quality, that they can be prefaced by that inspiring sentence, "now then, boys--all together!" or to put it another way, as in the ballad of george barnwell, all youths of fair england that dwell both far and near, regard my story that i tell and to my song give ear. that may sound more dignified, but it amounts to the same thing! viii but if the generation to come will learn a great deal from the few popular ballads which we are still creating in our music-halls, how much more shall we learn of history from these ballads, which rang through the whole country, and were impregnated with the spirit of a whole people! these ballads _are_ history, and as such they should be recognised. it has always seemed to me that we teach history in the wrong way. we give boys the impression that it is an affair only of kings and queens and great statesmen, of generals and admirals, and such-like bores. thousands of boys could probably draw you a map of many pettifogging little campaigns, with startling accuracy, but not one in a thousand could tell you what the private soldier carried in his knapsack. you could get sheaves of competent essays, from any school, dealing with such things as the elizabethan ecclesiastical settlement, but how many boys could tell you, even vaguely, what an english home was like, what they ate, what coins were used, how their rooms were lit, and what they paid their servants? in other words, how many history masters ever take the trouble to sketch in the great background, the life of the common people? how many even realize their _existence_, except on occasions of national disaster, such as the black plague? a proper study of the ballads would go a long way towards remedying this defect. thomas percy, whose _reliques_ must ever be the main source of our information on all questions connected with ballads, has pointed out that all the great events of the country have, sooner or later, found their way into the country's song-book. but it is not only the resounding names that are celebrated. in the ballads we hear the echoes of the street, the rude laughter and the pointed jests. sometimes these ring so plainly that they need no explanation. at other times, we have to go to percy or to some of his successors to realize the true significance of the song. for example, the famous ballad "john anderson my jo" seems, at first sight, to be innocent of any polemical intention. but it was written during the reformation when, as percy dryly observes, "the muses were deeply engaged in religious controversy." the zeal of the scottish reformers was at its height, and this zeal found vent in many a pasquil discharged at popery. it caused them, indeed, in their frenzy, to compose songs which were grossly licentious, and to sing these songs in rasping voices to the tunes of some of the most popular hymns in the latin service. "john anderson my jo" was such a ballad composed for such an occasion. and percy, who was more qualified than any other man to read between the lines, has pointed out that the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy, while the second, which makes an apparently light reference to "seven bairns", is actually concerned with the seven sacraments, five of which were the spurious offspring of mother church. thus it was in a thousand cases. the ballads, even the lightest and most blossoming of them, were deep-rooted in the soil of english history. how different from anything that we possess to-day! great causes do not lead men to song, nowadays they lead them to write letters to the newspapers. a national thanksgiving cannot call forth a single rhyme or a single bar of music. who can remember a solitary verse of thanksgiving, from any of our poets, in commemoration of any of the victories of the great war? who can recall even a fragment of verse in praise of the long-deferred coming of peace? very deeply significant is it that our only method of commemorating armistice day was by a two minutes silence. no song. no music. nothing. the best thing we could do, we felt, was to keep quiet. mandalay [illustration: mandalay headpiece] by the old moulmein pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, there's a burma girl a-settin', and i know she thinks o' me; for the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: 'come you back, you british soldier; come you back to mandalay!' come you back to mandalay, where the old flotilla lay: can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from rangoon to mandalay? on the road to mandalay, where the flyin'-fishes play, an' the dawn comes up like thunder outer china 'crost the bay! 'er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, an' 'er name was supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as theebaw's queen, an' i seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, an' a-wastin' christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: bloomin' idol made o' mud-- wot they called the great gawd budd-- plucky lot she cared for idols when i kissed 'er where she stud! on the road to mandalay... when the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, she'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing _'kulla-lo-lo!'_ with 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek we useter watch the steamers an' the _hathis_ pilin' teak. elephints a-pilin' teak in the sludgy, squdgy creek, where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! on the road to mandalay... but that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, an' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the bank to mandalay; an' i'm learnin' 'ere in london what the ten-year soldier tells: 'if you've 'eard the east a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.' no! you won't 'eed nothin' else but them spicy garlic smells, an' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; on the road to mandalay... i am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, an' the blasted henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; tho' i walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer chelsea to the strand, an' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? beefy face an' grubby 'and-- law! wot do they understand? i've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! on the road to mandalay ... ship me somewheres east of suez, where the best is like the worst, where there aren't no ten commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; for the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that i would be-- by the old moulmein pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; on the road to mandalay, where the old flotilla lay, with our sick beneath the awnings when we went to mandalay! o the road to mandalay, where the flyin'-fishes play, an' the dawn comes up like thunder outer china 'crost the bay! the frolicksome duke or the tinker's good fortune [illustration: the frolicksome duke headpiece] now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, one that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: but amongst all the rest, here is one i protest, which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: a poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, as secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. the duke said to his men, william, richard, and ben, take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. o'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd to the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, and they put him to bed for to take his repose. having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, they did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: on a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, they did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. in the morning when day, then admiring he lay, for to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; and the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, he desired to know what apparel he'd ware: the poor tinker amaz'd on the gentleman gaz'd, and admired how he to this honour was rais'd. tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, which he straitways put on without longer dispute; with a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, and it seem'd for to swell him "no" little with pride; for he said to himself, where is joan my sweet wife? sure she never did see me so fine in her life. from a convenient place, the right duke his good grace did observe his behaviour in every case. to a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, with commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. a fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, he was plac'd at the table above all the rest, in a rich chair "or bed," lin'd with fine crimson red, with a rich golden canopy over his head: as he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, with the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. while the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, till at last he began for to tumble and roul from his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, being seven times drunker than ever before. then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, and restore him his old leather garments again: 't was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, and they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; there he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; but when he did waken, his joys took their flight. for his glory "to him" so pleasant did seem, that he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought for a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; but his highness he said, thou 'rt a jolly bold blade, such a frolick before i think never was plaid. then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, crying old brass to mend, for i'll be thy good friend, nay, and joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend. then the tinker reply'd, what! must joan my sweet bride be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? then i shall be a squire i well understand: well i thank your good grace, and your love i embrace, i was never before in so happy a case. [illustration: the frolicksome duke tailpiece] the knight & shepherd's daughter [illustration: the knight & shepherd's daughter headpiece] there was a shepherd's daughter came tripping on the waye; and there by chance a knighte shee mett, which caused her to staye. good morrowe to you, beauteous maide, these words pronounced hee: o i shall dye this daye, he sayd, if ive not my wille of thee. the lord forbid, the maide replyde, that you shold waxe so wode! "but for all that shee could do or saye, he wold not be withstood." sith you have had your wille of mee, and put me to open shame, now, if you are a courteous knighte, tell me what is your name? some do call mee jacke, sweet heart, and some do call mee jille; but when i come to the kings faire courte they call me wilfulle wille. he sett his foot into the stirrup, and awaye then he did ride; she tuckt her girdle about her middle, and ranne close by his side. but when she came to the brode water, she sett her brest and swamme; and when she was got out againe, she tooke to her heels and ranne. he never was the courteous knighte, to saye, faire maide, will ye ride? "and she was ever too loving a maide to saye, sir knighte abide." when she came to the kings faire courte, she knocked at the ring; so readye was the king himself to let this faire maide in. now christ you save, my gracious liege, now christ you save and see, you have a knighte within your courte, this daye hath robbed mee. what hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? of purple or of pall? or hath he took thy gaye gold ring from off thy finger small? he hath not robbed mee, my liege, of purple nor of pall: but he hath gotten my maiden head, which grieves mee worst of all. now if he be a batchelor, his bodye he give to thee; but if he be a married man, high hanged he shall bee. he called downe his merrye men all, by one, by two, by three; sir william used to bee the first, but nowe the last came hee. he brought her downe full fortye pounde, tyed up withinne a glove: faire maide, he give the same to thee; go, seeke thee another love. o ile have none of your gold, she sayde, nor ile have none of your fee; but your faire bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee. sir william ranne and fetched her then five hundred pound in golde, saying, faire maide, take this to thee, thy fault will never be tolde. tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, these words then answered shee, but your own bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee. would i had dranke the water cleare, when i did drinke the wine, rather than any shepherds brat shold bee a ladye of mine! would i had drank the puddle foule, when i did drink the ale, rather than ever a shepherds brat shold tell me such a tale! a shepherds brat even as i was, you mote have let me bee, i never had come to the kings faire courte, to crave any love of thee. he sett her on a milk-white steede, and himself upon a graye; he hung a bugle about his necke, and soe they rode awaye. but when they came unto the place, where marriage-rites were done, she proved herself a dukes daughtèr, and he but a squires sonne. now marrye me, or not, sir knight, your pleasure shall be free: if you make me ladye of one good towne, he make you lord of three. ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd, if thou hadst not been trewe, i shold have forsaken my sweet love, and have changed her for a newe. and now their hearts being linked fast, they joyned hand in hande: thus he had both purse, and person too, and all at his commande. king estmere [illustration: the king estmere headpiece] [illustration: king estmere] hearken to me, gentlemen, come and you shall heare; ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren that ever borne y-were. the tone of them was adler younge, the tother was kyng estmere; the were as bolde men in their deeds, as any were farr and neare. as they were drinking ale and wine within kyng estmeres halle: when will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr, a wyfe to glad us all? then bespake him kyng estmere, and answered him hastilee: i know not that ladye in any land that's able to marrye with mee. kyng adland hath a daughter, brother, men call her bright and sheene; if i were kyng here in your stead, that ladye shold be my queene. saies, reade me, reade me, deare brother, throughout merry englànd, where we might find a messenger betwixt us towe to sende. saies, you shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr, ile beare you companye; many throughe fals messengers are deceived, and i feare lest soe shold wee. thus the renisht them to ryde of twoe good renisht steeds, and when the came to kyng adlands halle, of redd gold shone their weeds. and when the came to kyng adlands hall before the goodlye gate, there they found good kyng adlànd rearing himselfe theratt. now christ thee save, good kyng adland; now christ you save and see. sayd, you be welcome, kyng estmere, right hartilye to mee. you have a daughter, said adler younge, men call her bright and sheene, my brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, of englande to be queene. yesterday was att my deere daughter syr bremor the kyng of spayne; and then she nicked him of naye, and i doubt sheele do you the same. the kyng of spayne is a foule paynim, and 'leeveth on mahound; and pitye it were that fayre ladye shold marrye a heathen hound. but grant to me, sayes kyng estmere, for my love i you praye; that i may see your daughter deere before i goe hence awaye. although itt is seven yeers and more since my daughter was in halle, she shall come once downe for your sake to glad my guestes alle. downe then came that mayden fayre, with ladyes laced in pall, and halfe a hundred of bold knightes, to bring her from bowre to hall; and as many gentle squiers, to tend upon them all. the talents of golde were on her head sette, hanged low downe to her knee; and everye ring on her small fingèr shone of the chrystall free. saies, god you save, my deere madam; saies, god you save and see. said, you be welcome, kyng estmere, right welcome unto mee. and if you love me, as you saye, soe well and hartilye, all that ever you are comin about sooner sped now itt shal bee. then bespake her father deare: my daughter, i saye naye; remember well the kyng of spayne, what he sayd yesterday. he wold pull downe my hales and castles, and reeve me of my life. i cannot blame him if he doe, if i reave him of his wyfe. your castles and your towres, father, are stronglye built aboute; and therefore of the king of spaine wee neede not stande in doubt. plight me your troth, nowe, kyng estmère, by heaven and your righte hand, that you will marrye me to your wyfe, and make me queene of your land. then kyng estmere he plight his troth by heaven and his righte hand, that he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, and make her queene of his land. and he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, to goe to his owne countree, to fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, that marryed the might bee. they had not ridden scant a myle, a myle forthe of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne, with kempès many one. but in did come the kyng of spayne, with manye a bold barone, tone day to marrye kyng adlands daughter, tother daye to carrye her home. shee sent one after kyng estmere in all the spede might bee, that he must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and loose his ladye. one whyle then the page he went, another while he ranne; tull he had oretaken king estmere, i wis, he never blanne. tydings, tydings, kyng estmere! what tydinges nowe, my boye? o tydinges i can tell to you, that will you sore annoye. you had not ridden scant a mile, a mile out of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne with kempès many a one: but in did come the kyng of spayne with manye a bold barone, tone daye to marrye king adlands daughter, tother daye to carry her home. my ladye fayre she greetes you well, and ever-more well by mee: you must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and loose your ladyè. saies, reade me, reade me, deere brother, my reade shall ryde at thee, whether it is better to turne and fighte, or goe home and loose my ladye. now hearken to me, sayes adler yonge, and your reade must rise at me, i quicklye will devise a waye to sette thy ladye free. my mother was a westerne woman, and learned in gramaryè, and when i learned at the schole, something she taught itt mee. there growes an hearbe within this field, and iff it were but knowne, his color, which is whyte and redd, it will make blacke and browne: his color, which is browne and blacke, itt will make redd and whyte; that sworde is not in all englande, upon his coate will byte. and you shall be a harper, brother, out of the north countrye; and he be your boy, soe faine of fighte, and beare your harpe by your knee. and you shal be the best harpèr, that ever tooke harpe in hand; and i wil be the best singèr, that ever sung in this lande. itt shal be written on our forheads all and in grammaryè, that we towe are the boldest men, that are in all christentyè. and thus they renisht them to ryde, on tow good renish steedes; and when they came to king adlands hall, of redd gold shone their weedes. and whan they came to kyng adlands hall, untill the fayre hall yate, there they found a proud portèr rearing himselfe thereatt. sayes, christ thee save, thou proud portèr; sayes, christ thee save and see. nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr, of whatsoever land ye bee. wee beene harpers, sayd adler younge, come out of the northe countrye; wee beene come hither untill this place, this proud weddinge for to see. sayd, and your color were white and redd, as it is blacke and browne, i wold saye king estmere and his brother, were comen untill this towne. then they pulled out a ryng of gold, layd itt on the porters arme: and ever we will thee, proud porter, thow wilt saye us no harme. sore he looked on king estmere, and sore he handled the ryng, then opened to them the fayre hall yates, he lett for no kind of thyng. king estmere he stabled his steede soe fayre att the hall bord; the froth, that came from his brydle bitte, light in kyng bremors beard. saies, stable thy steed, thou proud harper, saies, stable him in the stalle; it doth not beseeme a proud harper to stable 'him' in a kyngs halle. my ladde he is no lither, he said, he will doe nought that's meete; and is there any man in this hall were able him to beate thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of spaine, thou harper, here to mee: there is a man within this halle will beate thy ladd and thee. o let that man come downe, he said, a sight of him wold i see; and when hee hath beaten well my ladd, then he shall beate of mee. downe then came the kemperye man, and looketh him in the eare; for all the gold, that was under heaven, he durst not neigh him neare. and how nowe, kempe, said the kyng of spaine, and how what aileth thee? he saies, it is writt in his forhead all and in gramaryè, that for all the gold that is under heaven i dare not neigh him nye. then kyng estmere pulld forth his harpe, and plaid a pretty thinge: the ladye upstart from the borde, and wold have gone from the king. stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, for gods love i pray thee, for and thou playes as thou beginns, thou'lt till my bryde from mee. he stroake upon his harpe againe, and playd a pretty thinge; the ladye lough a loud laughter, as shee sate by the king. saies, sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper, and thy stringes all, for as many gold nobles 'thou shall have' as heere bee ringes in the hall. what wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,' if i did sell itt yee? "to playe my wiffe and me a fitt, when abed together wee bee." now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay, as shee sitts by thy knee, and as many gold nobles i will give, as leaves been on a tree. and what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, iff i did sell her thee? more seemelye it is for her fayre bodye to lye by mee then thee. hee played agayne both loud and shrille, and adler he did syng, "o ladye, this is thy owne true love; noe harper, but a kyng. "o ladye, this is thy owne true love, as playnlye thou mayest see; and he rid thee of that foule paynim, who partes thy love and thee." the ladye looked, the ladye blushte, and blushte and lookt agayne, while adler he hath drawne his brande, and hath the sowdan slayne. up then rose the kemperye men, and loud they gan to crye: ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, and therefore yee shall dye. kyng estmere threwe the harpe asyde, and swith he drew his brand; and estmere he, and adler yonge right stiffe in slodr can stand. and aye their swordes soe sore can byte, throughe help of gramaryè, that soone they have slayne the kempery men, or forst them forth to flee. kyng estmere took that fayre ladye, and marryed her to his wiffe, and brought her home to merry england with her to leade his life. [illustration: the king estmere tailpiece] king john and the abbot of canterbury [illustration: king john and the abbot of canterbury headpiece] an ancient story ile tell you anon of a notable prince, that was called king john; and he ruled england with maine and with might, for he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. and ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, concerning the abbot of canterbùrye; how for his house-keeping, and high renowne, they rode poste for him to fair london towne. an hundred men, the king did heare say, the abbot kept in his house every day; and fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, in velvet coates waited the abbot about. how now, father abbot, i heare it of thee, thou keepest a farre better house than mee, and for thy house-keeping and high renowne, i feare thou work'st treason against my crown. my liege, quo' the abbot, i would it were knowne, i never spend nothing, but what is my owne; and i trust, your grace will doe me no deere, for spending of my owne true-gotten geere. yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, and now for the same thou needest must dye; for except thou canst answer me questions three, thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. and first, quo' the king, when i'm in this stead, with my crowne of golde so faire on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worthe. secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, how soone i may ride the whole world about. and at the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think. o, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, nor i cannot answer your grace as yet: but if you will give me but three weekes space, ile do my endeavour to answer your grace. now three weeks space to thee will i give, and that is the longest time thou hast to live; for if thou dost not answer my questions three, thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee. away rode the abbot all sad at that word, and he rode to cambridge, and oxenford; but never a doctor there was so wise, that could with his learning an answer devise. then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, and he mett his shepheard a going to fold: how now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; what newes do you bring us from good king john? "sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, i must give; that i have but three days more to live: for if i do not answer him questions three, my head will be smitten from my bodie. the first is to tell him there in that stead, with his crowne of golde so fair on his head, among all his liege men so noble of birth, to within one penny of all what he is worth. the seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, how soon he may ride this whole world about: and at the third question i must not shrinke, but tell him there truly what he does thinke." now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, that a fool he may learn a wise man witt? lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, and i'll ride to london to answere your quarrel. nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, i am like your lordship, as ever may bee: and if you will but lend me your gowne, there is none shall knowe us at fair london towne. now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, with sumptuous array most gallant and brave; with crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope. now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say, 'tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; for and if thou canst answer my questions three, thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. and first, when thou seest me here in this stead, with my crowne of gold so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, tell me to one penny what i am worth. "for thirty pence our saviour was sold amonge the false jewes, as i have bin told; and twenty nine is the worth of thee, for i thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." the king he laughed, and swore by st. bittel, i did not thinke i had been worth so littel! --now secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soon i may ride this whole world about. "you must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, until the next morning he riseth againe; and then your grace need not make any doubt, but in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." the king he laughed, and swore by st. jone, i did not think, it could be gone so soone! --now from the third question thou must not shrinke, but tell me here truly what i do thinke. "yea, that shall i do, and make your grace merry: you thinke i'm the abbot of canterbùry; but i'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, that am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." the king he laughed, and swore by the masse, he make thee lord abbot this day in his place! "now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, for alacke i can neither write ne reade." four nobles a weeke, then i will give thee, for this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; and tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, thou hast brought him a pardon from good king john. barbara allen's cruelty [illustration: the barbara allen's cruelty headpiece] [illustration: barbara allen's cruelty] in scarlet towne where i was borne, there was a faire maid dwellin, made every youth crye, wel-awaye! her name was barbara allen. all in the merrye month of may, when greene buds they were swellin, yong jemmye grove on his death-bed lay, for love of barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the town where shee was dwellin; you must come to my master deare, giff your name be barbara alien. for death is printed on his face, and ore his harte is stealin: then haste away to comfort him, o lovelye barbara alien. though death be printed on his face, and ore his harte is stealin, yet little better shall he bee for bonny barbara alien. so slowly, slowly, she came up, and slowly she came nye him; and all she sayd, when there she came, yong man, i think y'are dying. he turned his face unto her strait, with deadlye sorrow sighing; o lovely maid, come pity mee, ime on my death-bed lying. if on your death-bed you doe lye, what needs the tale you are tellin; i cannot keep you from your death; farewell, sayd barbara alien. he turned his face unto the wall, as deadlye pangs he fell in: adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, adieu to barbara allen. as she was walking ore the fields, she heard the bell a knellin; and every stroke did seem to saye, unworthye barbara allen. she turned her bodye round about, and spied the corps a coming: laye down, lay down the corps, she sayd, that i may look upon him. with scornful eye she looked downe, her cheeke with laughter swellin; whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, unworthye barbara allen. when he was dead, and laid in grave, her harte was struck with sorrowe, o mother, mother, make my bed, for i shall dye to-morrowe. hard-harted creature him to slight, who loved me so dearlye: o that i had beene more kind to him when he was alive and neare me! she, on her death-bed as she laye, beg'd to be buried by him; and sore repented of the daye, that she did ere denye him. farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, and shun the fault i fell in: henceforth take warning by the fall of cruel barbara allen. fair rosamond [illustration: fair rosamond headpiece] [illustration: fair rosamond] when as king henry rulde this land, the second of that name, besides the queene, he dearly lovde a faire and comely dame. most peerlesse was her beautye founde, her favour, and her face; a sweeter creature in this worlde could never prince embrace. her crisped lockes like threads of golde appeard to each mans sight; her sparkling eyes, like orient pearles, did cast a heavenlye light. the blood within her crystal cheekes did such a colour drive, as though the lillye and the rose for mastership did strive. yea rosamonde, fair rosamonde, her name was called so, to whom our queene, dame ellinor, was known a deadlye foe. the king therefore, for her defence, against the furious queene, at woodstocke builded such a bower, the like was never scene. most curiously that bower was built of stone and timber strong, an hundred and fifty doors did to this bower belong: and they so cunninglye contriv'd with turnings round about, that none but with a clue of thread, could enter in or out. and for his love and ladyes sake, that was so faire and brighte, the keeping of this bower he gave unto a valiant knighte. but fortune, that doth often frowne where she before did smile, the kinges delighte and ladyes so full soon shee did beguile: for why, the kinges ungracious sonne, whom he did high advance, against his father raised warres within the realme of france. but yet before our comelye king the english land forsooke, of rosamond, his lady faire, his farewelle thus he tooke: "my rosamonde, my only rose, that pleasest best mine eye: the fairest flower in all the worlde to feed my fantasye: the flower of mine affected heart, whose sweetness doth excelle: my royal rose, a thousand times i bid thee nowe farwelle! for i must leave my fairest flower, my sweetest rose, a space, and cross the seas to famous france, proud rebelles to abase. but yet, my rose, be sure thou shalt my coming shortlye see, and in my heart, when hence i am, ile beare my rose with mee." when rosamond, that ladye brighte, did heare the king saye soe, the sorrowe of her grieved heart her outward lookes did showe; and from her cleare and crystall eyes the teares gusht out apace, which like the silver-pearled dewe ranne downe her comely face. her lippes, erst like the corall redde, did waxe both wan and pale, and for the sorrow she conceivde her vitall spirits faile; and falling down all in a swoone before king henryes face, full oft he in his princelye armes her bodye did embrace: and twentye times, with watery eyes, he kist her tender cheeke, untill he had revivde againe her senses milde and meeke. why grieves my rose, my sweetest rose? the king did often say. because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres my lord must part awaye. but since your grace on forrayne coastes amonge your foes unkinde must goe to hazard life and limbe, why should i staye behinde? nay rather, let me, like a page, your sworde and target beare; that on my breast the blowes may lighte, which would offend you there. or lett mee, in your royal tent, prepare your bed at nighte, and with sweete baths refresh your grace, ar your returne from fighte. so i your presence may enjoye no toil i will refuse; but wanting you, my life is death; nay, death ild rather chuse! "content thy self, my dearest love; thy rest at home shall bee in englandes sweet and pleasant isle; for travell fits not thee. faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; soft peace their sexe delights; not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; gay feastes, not cruell fights.' my rose shall safely here abide, with musicke passe the daye; whilst i, amonge the piercing pikes, my foes seeke far awaye. my rose shall shine in pearle, and golde, whilst ime in armour dighte; gay galliards here my love shall dance, whilst i my foes goe fighte. and you, sir thomas, whom i truste to bee my loves defence; be careful of my gallant rose when i am parted hence." and therewithall he fetcht a sigh, as though his heart would breake: and rosamonde, for very grief, not one plaine word could speake. and at their parting well they mighte in heart be grieved sore: after that daye faire rosamonde the king did see no more. for when his grace had past the seas, and into france was gone; with envious heart, queene ellinor, to woodstocke came anone. and forth she calls this trustye knighte, in an unhappy houre; who with his clue of twined thread, came from this famous bower. and when that they had wounded him, the queene this thread did gette, and went where ladye rosamonde was like an angell sette. but when the queene with stedfast eye beheld her beauteous face, she was amazed in her minde at her exceeding grace. cast off from thee those robes, she said, that riche and costlye bee; and drinke thou up this deadlye draught, which i have brought to thee. then presentlye upon her knees sweet rosamonde did fall; and pardon of the queene she crav'd for her offences all. "take pitty on my youthfull yeares," faire rosamonde did crye; "and lett mee not with poison stronge enforced bee to dye. i will renounce my sinfull life, and in some cloyster bide; or else be banisht, if you please, to range the world soe wide. and for the fault which i have done, though i was forc'd thereto, preserve my life, and punish mee as you thinke meet to doe." and with these words, her lillie handes she wrunge full often there; and downe along her lovely face did trickle many a teare. but nothing could this furious queene therewith appeased bee; the cup of deadlye poyson stronge, as she knelt on her knee, shee gave this comelye dame to drinke; who tooke it in her hand, and from her bended knee arose, and on her feet did stand: and casting up her eyes to heaven, she did for mercye calle; and drinking up the poison stronge, her life she lost withalle. and when that death through everye limbe had showde its greatest spite, her chiefest foes did plaine confesse shee was a glorious wight. her body then they did entomb, when life was fled away, at godstowe, neare to oxford towne, as may be scene this day. robin hood and guy of gisborne [illustration: robin hood and guy of gisborne headpiece] when shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, and leaves both large and longe, itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrest to heare the small birdes songe. the woodweele sang, and wold not cease, sitting upon the spraye, soe lowde, he wakened robin hood, in the greenwood where he lay. now by my faye, sayd jollye robin, a sweaven i had this night; i dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, that fast with me can fight. methought they did mee beate and binde, and tooke my bow mee froe; if i be robin alive in this lande, he be wroken on them towe. sweavens are swift, master, quoth john, as the wind that blowes ore a hill; for if itt be never so loude this night, to-morrow itt may be still. buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, and john shall goe with mee, for ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, in greenwood where the bee. then the cast on their gownes of grene, and tooke theyr bowes each one; and they away to the greene forrest a shooting forth are gone; until they came to the merry greenwood, where they had gladdest bee, there were the ware of a wight yeoman, his body leaned to a tree. a sword and a dagger he wore by his side, of manye a man the bane; and he was clad in his capull hyde topp and tayll and mayne. stand you still, master, quoth litle john, under this tree so grene, and i will go to yond wight yeoman to know what he doth meane. ah! john, by me thou settest noe store, and that i farley finde: how offt send i my men beffore and tarry my selfe behinde? it is no cunning a knave to ken, and a man but heare him speake; and itt were not for bursting of my bowe. john, i thy head wold breake. as often wordes they breeden bale, so they parted robin and john; and john is gone to barnesdale; the gates he knoweth eche one. but when he came to barnesdale, great heavinesse there hee hadd, for he found tow of his owne fellòwes were slaine both in a slade. and scarlette he was flyinge a-foote fast over stocke and stone, for the sheriffe with seven score men fast after him is gone. one shoote now i will shoote, quoth john, with christ his might and mayne: ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, to stopp he shall be fayne. then john bent up his long bende-bowe, and fetteled him to shoote: the bow was made of a tender boughe, and fell down to his foote. woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, that ere thou grew on a tree; for now this day thou art my bale, my boote when thou shold bee. his shoote it was but loosely shott, yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, for itt mett one of the sheriffes men, good william a trent was slaine. it had bene better of william a trent to have bene abed with sorrowe, than to be that day in the green wood slade to meet with little johns arrowe. but as it is said, when men be mett fyve can doe more than three, the sheriffe hath taken little john, and bound him fast to a tree. thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, and hanged hye on a hill. but thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth john, if itt be christ his will. let us leave talking of little john, and thinke of robin hood, how he is gone to the wight yeoman, where under the leaves he stood. good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd robin so fayre, good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he: methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande a good archere thou sholdst bee. i am wilfull of my waye, quo' the yeman, and of my morning tyde. he lead thee through the wood, sayd robin; good fellow, he be thy guide. i seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd, men call him robin hood; rather ild meet with that proud outlawe, than fortye pound so good. now come with me, thou wighty yeman, and robin thou soone shalt see: but first let us some pastime find under the greenwood tree. first let us some masterye make among the woods so even, wee may chance to meet with robin hood here att some unsett steven. they cut them downe two summer shroggs, that grew both under a breere, and sett them threescore rood in twaine to shoot the prickes y-fere: lead on, good fellowe, quoth robin hood, lead on, i doe bidd thee. nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd, my leader thou shalt bee. the first time robin shot at the pricke, he mist but an inch it froe: the yeoman he was an archer good, but he cold never shoote soe. the second shoote had the wightye yeman, he shote within the garlànde: but robin he shott far better than hee, for he clave the good pricke wande. a blessing upon thy heart, he sayd; good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; for an thy hart be as good as thy hand, thou wert better then robin hoode. now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he, under the leaves of lyne. nay by my faith, quoth bolde robin, till thou have told me thine. i dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee, and robin to take ime sworne; and when i am called by my right name i am guye of good gisborne. my dwelling is in this wood, sayes robin, by thee i set right nought: i am robin hood of barnèsdale, whom thou so long hast sought. he that hath neither beene kithe nor kin, might have scene a full fayre sight, to see how together these yeomen went with blades both browne and bright. to see how these yeomen together they fought two howres of a summers day: yet neither robin hood nor sir guy them fettled to flye away. robin was reachles on a roote, and stumbled at that tyde; and guy was quick and nimble with-all, and hitt him ore the left side. ah deere lady, sayd robin hood, 'thou that art both mother and may,' i think it was never mans destinye to dye before his day. robin thought on our ladye deere, and soone leapt up againe, and strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, and he sir guy hath slayne. he took sir guys head by the hayre, and sticked itt on his bowes end: thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, which thing must have an ende. robin pulled forth an irish kniffe, and nicked sir guy in the face, that he was never on woman born, cold tell whose head it was. saies, lye there, lye there, now sir guye, and with me be not wrothe, if thou have had the worst stroked at my hand, thou shalt have the better clothe. robin did off his gowne of greene, and on sir guy did it throwe, and hee put on that capull hyde, that cladd him topp to toe. the bowe, the arrowes, and litle home, now with me i will beare; for i will away to barnesdale, to see how my men doe fare. robin hood sett guyes horne to his mouth. and a loud blast in it did blow. that beheard the sheriffe of nottingham, as he leaned under a lowe. hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe, i heare now tydings good, for yonder i heare sir guyes horne blowe, and he hath slaine robin hoode. yonder i heare sir guyes home blowe, itt blowes soe well in tyde, and yonder comes that wightye yeoman, cladd in his capull hyde. come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir guy, aske what thou wilt of mee. o i will none of thy gold, sayd robin, nor i will none of thy fee: but now i have slaine the master, he sayes, let me go strike the knave; this is all the rewarde i aske; nor noe other will i have. thou art a madman, said the sheriffe, thou sholdest have had a knights fee: but seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, well granted it shale be. when litle john heard his master speake, well knewe he it was his steven: now shall i be looset, quoth litle john, with christ his might in heaven. fast robin hee hyed him to litle john, he thought to loose him belive; the sheriffe and all his companye fast after him did drive. stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd robin; why draw you mee soe neere? itt was never the use in our countrye, ones shrift another shold heere. but robin pulled forth an irysh kniffe, and losed john hand and foote, and gave him sir guyes bow into his hand, and bade it be his boote. then john he took guyes bow in his hand, his boltes and arrowes eche one: when the sheriffe saw little john bend his bow, he fettled him to be gone. towards his house in nottingham towne he fled full fast away; and soe did all his companye: not one behind wold stay. but he cold neither runne soe fast, nor away soe fast cold ryde, but litle john with an arrowe soe broad he shott him into the 'back'-syde. the boy & the mantle [illustration: the boy and the mantle headpiece] [illustration: the boy and the mantle] in carleile dwelt king arthur, a prince of passing might; and there maintain'd his table round, beset with many a knight. and there he kept his christmas with mirth and princely cheare, when, lo! a straunge and cunning boy before him did appeare. a kirtle and a mantle this boy had him upon, with brooches, rings, and owches, full daintily bedone. he had a sarke of silk about his middle meet; and thus, with seemely curtesy, he did king arthur greet. "god speed thee, brave king arthur, thus feasting in thy bowre; and guenever thy goodly queen, that fair and peerlesse flowre. "ye gallant lords, and lordings, i wish you all take heed, lest, what ye deem a blooming rose, should prove a cankred weed." then straitway from his bosome a little wand he drew; and with it eke a mantle of wondrous shape and hew. "now have you here, king arthur, have this here of mee, and give unto thy comely queen, all-shapen as you see. "no wife it shall become, that once hath been to blame." then every knight in arthur's court slye glaunced at his dame. and first came lady guenever, the mantle she must trye. this dame, she was new-fangled, and of a roving eye. when she had tane the mantle, and all was with it cladde, from top to toe it shiver'd down, as tho' with sheers beshradde. one while it was too long, another while too short, and wrinkled on her shoulders in most unseemly sort. now green, now red it seemed, then all of sable hue. "beshrew me," quoth king arthur, "i think thou beest not true." down she threw the mantle, ne longer would not stay; but, storming like a fury, to her chamber flung away. she curst the whoreson weaver, that had the mantle wrought: and doubly curst the froward impe, who thither had it brought. "i had rather live in desarts beneath the green-wood tree; than here, base king, among thy groomes, the sport of them and thee." sir kay call'd forth his lady, and bade her to come near: "yet, dame, if thou be guilty, i pray thee now forbear." this lady, pertly gigling, with forward step came on, and boldly to the little boy with fearless face is gone. when she had tane the mantle, with purpose for to wear; it shrunk up to her shoulder, and left her b--- side bare. then every merry knight, that was in arthur's court, gib'd, and laught, and flouted, to see that pleasant sport. downe she threw the mantle, no longer bold or gay, but with a face all pale and wan, to her chamber slunk away. then forth came an old knight, a pattering o'er his creed; and proffer'd to the little boy five nobles to his meed; "and all the time of christmass plumb-porridge shall be thine, if thou wilt let my lady fair within the mantle shine." a saint his lady seemed, with step demure and slow, and gravely to the mantle with mincing pace doth goe. when she the same had taken, that was so fine and thin, it shrivell'd all about her, and show'd her dainty skin. ah! little did her mincing, or his long prayers bestead; she had no more hung on her, than a tassel and a thread. down she threwe the mantle, with terror and dismay, and, with a face of scarlet, to her chamber hyed away. sir cradock call'd his lady, and bade her to come neare: "come, win this mantle, lady, and do me credit here. "come, win this mantle, lady, for now it shall be thine, if thou hast never done amiss, sith first i made thee mine." the lady, gently blushing, with modest grace came on, and now to trye the wondrous charm courageously is gone. when she had tane the mantle, and put it on her backe, about the hem it seemed to wrinkle and to cracke. "lye still," shee cryed, "o mantle! and shame me not for nought, i'll freely own whate'er amiss, or blameful i have wrought. "once i kist sir cradocke beneathe the green-wood tree: once i kist sir cradocke's mouth before he married mee." when thus she had her shriven, and her worst fault had told, the mantle soon became her right comely as it shold. most rich and fair of colour, like gold it glittering shone: and much the knights in arthur's court admir'd her every one. then towards king arthur's table the boy he turn'd his eye: where stood a boar's head garnished with bayes and rosemarye. when thrice he o'er the boar's head his little wand had drawne, quoth he, "there's never a cuckold's knife can carve this head of brawne." then some their whittles rubbed on whetstone, and on hone: some threwe them under the table, and swore that they had none. sir cradock had a little knife, of steel and iron made; and in an instant thro' the skull he thrust the shining blade. he thrust the shining blade full easily and fast; and every knight in arthur's court a morsel had to taste. the boy brought forth a horne, all golden was the rim: saith he, "no cuckolde ever can set mouth unto the brim. "no cuckold can this little horne lift fairly to his head; but or on this, or that side, he shall the liquor shed." some shed it on their shoulder, some shed it on their thigh; and hee that could not hit his mouth, was sure to hit his eye. thus he, that was a cuckold, was known of every man: but cradock lifted easily, and wan the golden can. thus boar's head, horn and mantle, were this fair couple's meed: and all such constant lovers, god send them well to speed. then down in rage came guenever, and thus could spightful say, "sir cradock's wife most wrongfully hath borne the prize away. "see yonder shameless woman, that makes herselfe so clean: yet from her pillow taken thrice five gallants have been. "priests, clarkes, and wedded men, have her lewd pillow prest: yet she the wonderous prize forsooth must beare from all the rest." then bespake the little boy, who had the same in hold: "chastize thy wife, king arthur, of speech she is too bold: "of speech she is too bold, of carriage all too free; sir king, she hath within thy hall a cuckold made of thee. "all frolick light and wanton she hath her carriage borne: and given thee for a kingly crown to wear a cuckold's horne." poems and ballads first series by algernon charles swinburne taken from the collected poetical works of algernon charles swinburne--vol i swinburne's poetical works i. poems and ballads (first series). ii. songs before sunrise, and songs of two nations. iii. poems and ballads (second and third series), and songs of the spring-tides. iv. tristram of lyonesse, the tale of balen, atalanta in calydon, erechtheus. v. studies in song, a century of roundels, sonnets on english dramatic poets, the heptalogia, etc. vi. a midsummer holiday, astrophel, a channel passage and other poems. london: william heinemann poems & ballads (first series) by algernon charles swinburne london: william heinemann _first printed_ (_chatto_), _reprinted_ , ' , ' , ' (_heinemann_), _london_: _william heinemann_ to theodore watts-dunton dedicatory epistle to my best and dearest friend i dedicate the first collected edition of my poems, and to him i address what i have to say on the occasion. you will agree with me that it is impossible for any man to undertake the task of commentary, however brief and succinct, on anything he has done or tried to do, without incurring the charge of egoism. but there are two kinds of egoism, the furtive and the frank: and the outspoken and open-hearted candour of milton and wordsworth, corneille and hugo, is not the least or the lightest of their claims to the regard as well as the respect or the reverence of their readers. even if i were worthy to claim kinship with the lowest or with the highest of these deathless names, i would not seek to shelter myself under the shadow of its authority. the question would still remain open on all sides. whether it is worth while for any man to offer any remarks or for any other man to read his remarks on his own work, his own ambition, or his own attempts, he cannot of course determine. if there are great examples of abstinence from such a doubtful enterprise, there are likewise great examples to the contrary. as long as the writer can succeed in evading the kindred charges and the cognate risks of vanity and humility, there can be no reason why he should not undertake it. and when he has nothing to regret and nothing to recant, when he finds nothing that he could wish to cancel, to alter, or to unsay, in any page he has ever laid before his reader, he need not be seriously troubled by the inevitable consciousness that the work of his early youth is not and cannot be unnaturally unlike the work of a very young man. this would be no excuse for it, if it were in any sense bad work: if it be so, no apology would avail; and i certainly have none to offer. it is now thirty-six years since my first volume of miscellaneous verse, lyrical and dramatic and elegiac and generally heterogeneous, had as quaint a reception and as singular a fortune as i have ever heard or read of. i do not think you will differ from my opinion that what is best in it cannot be divided from what is not so good by any other line of division than that which marks off mature from immature execution--in other words, complete from incomplete conception. for its author the most amusing and satisfying result of the clatter aroused by it was the deep diversion of collating and comparing the variously inaccurate verdicts of the scornful or mournful censors who insisted on regarding all the studies of passion or sensation attempted or achieved in it as either confessions of positive fact or excursions of absolute fancy. there are photographs from life in the book; and there are sketches from imagination. some which keen-sighted criticism has dismissed with a smile as ideal or imaginary were as real and actual as they well could be: others which have been taken for obvious transcripts from memory were utterly fantastic or dramatic. if the two kinds cannot be distinguished, it is surely rather a credit than a discredit to an artist whose medium or material has more in common with a musician's than with a sculptor's. friendly and kindly critics, english and foreign, have detected ignorance of the subject in poems taken straight from the life, and have protested that they could not believe me were i to swear that poems entirely or mainly fanciful were not faithful expressions or transcriptions of the writer's actual experience and personal emotion. but i need not remind you that all i have to say about this book was said once for all in the year of its publication: i have nothing to add to my notes then taken, and i have nothing to retract from them. to parade or to disclaim experience of passion or of sorrow, of pleasure or of pain, is the habit and the sign of a school which has never found a disciple among the better sort of english poets, and which i know to be no less pitifully contemptible in your opinion than in mine. in my next work it should be superfluous to say that there is no touch of dramatic impersonation or imaginary emotion. the writer of 'songs before sunrise,' from the first line to the last, wrote simply in submissive obedience to sir philip sidney's precept--'look in thine heart, and write.' the dedication of these poems, and the fact that the dedication was accepted, must be sufficient evidence of this. they do not pretend and they were never intended to be merely the metrical echoes, or translations into lyric verse, of another man's doctrine. mazzini was no more a pope or a dictator than i was a parasite or a papist. dictation and inspiration are rather different things. these poems, and others which followed or preceded them in print, were inspired by such faith as is born of devotion and reverence: not by such faith, if faith it may be called, as is synonymous with servility or compatible with prostration of an abject or wavering spirit and a submissive or dethroned intelligence. you know that i never pretended to see eye to eye with my illustrious friends and masters, victor hugo and giuseppe mazzini, in regard to the positive and passionate confidence of their sublime and purified theology. our betters ought to know better than we: they would be the last to wish that we should pretend to their knowledge, or assume a certitude which is theirs and is not ours. but on one point we surely cannot but be at one with them: that the spirit and the letter of all other than savage and barbarous religions are irreconcilably at variance, and that prayer or homage addressed to an image of our own or of other men's making, be that image avowedly material or conventionally spiritual, is the affirmation of idolatry with all its attendant atrocities, and the negation of all belief, all reverence, and all love, due to the noblest object of human worship that humanity can realise or conceive. thus much the exercise of our common reason might naturally suffice to show us: but when its evidence is confirmed and fortified by the irrefragable and invariable evidence of history, there is no room for further dispute or fuller argument on a subject now visibly beyond reach and eternally beyond need of debate or demonstration. i know not whether it may or may not be worth while to add that every passing word i have since thought fit to utter on any national or political question has been as wholly consistent with the principles which i then did my best to proclaim and defend as any apostasy from the faith of all republicans in the fundamental and final principle of union, voluntary if possible and compulsory if not, would have been ludicrous in the impudence of its inconsistency with those simple and irreversible principles. monarchists and anarchists may be advocates of national dissolution and reactionary division: republicans cannot be. the first and last article of their creed is unity: the most grinding and crushing tyranny of a convention, a directory, or a despot, is less incompatible with republican faith than the fissiparous democracy of disunionists or communalists. if the fortunes of my lyrical work were amusingly eccentric and accidental, the varieties of opinion which have saluted the appearance of my plays have been, or have seemed to my humility, even more diverting and curious. i have been told by reviewers of note and position that a single one of them is worth all my lyric and otherwise undramatic achievements or attempts: and i have been told on equal or similar authority that, whatever i may be in any other field, as a dramatist i am demonstrably nothing. my first if not my strongest ambition was to do something worth doing, and not utterly unworthy of a young countryman of marlowe the teacher and webster the pupil of shakespeare, in the line of work which those three poets had left as a possibly unattainable example for ambitious englishmen. and my first book, written while yet under academic or tutorial authority, bore evidence of that ambition in every line. i should be the last to deny that it also bore evidence of the fact that its writer had no more notion of dramatic or theatrical construction than the authors of 'tamburlaine the great,' 'king henry vi.,' and 'sir thomas wyatt.' not much more, you may possibly say, was discernible in 'chastelard': a play also conceived and partly written by a youngster not yet emancipated from servitude to college rule. i fear that in the former volume there had been little if any promise of power to grapple with the realities and subtleties of character and of motive: that whatever may be in it of promise or of merit must be sought in the language and the style of such better passages as may perhaps be found in single and separable speeches of catherine and of rosamond. but in 'chastelard' there are two figures and a sketch in which i certainly seem to see something of real and evident life. the sketch of darnley was afterwards filled out and finished in the subsequent tragedy of 'bothwell.' that ambitious, conscientious, and comprehensive piece of work is of course less properly definable as a tragedy than by the old shakespearean term of a chronicle history. the radical difference between tragic history and tragedy of either the classic or the romantic order, and consequently between the laws which govern the one and the principles which guide the other, you have yourself made clear and familiar to all capable students. this play of mine was not, i think, inaccurately defined as an epic drama in the french verses of dedication which were acknowledged by the greatest of all french poets in a letter from which i dare only quote one line of olympian judgment and godlike generosity. 'occuper ces deux cimes, cela n'est donné qu'à vous.' nor will i refrain from the confession that i cannot think it an epic or a play in which any one part is sacrificed to any other, any subordinate figure mishandled or neglected or distorted or effaced for the sake of the predominant and central person. and, though this has nothing or less than nothing to do with any question of poetic merit or demerit, of dramatic success or unsuccess, i will add that i took as much care and pains as though i had been writing or compiling a history of the period to do loyal justice to all the historic figures which came within the scope of my dramatic or poetic design. there is not one which i have designedly altered or intentionally modified: it is of course for others to decide whether there is one which is not the living likeness of an actual or imaginable man. the third part of this trilogy, as far as i know or remember, found favour only with the only man in england who could speak on the subject of historic drama with the authority of an expert and a master. the generally ungracious reception of 'mary stuart' gave me neither surprise nor disappointment: the cordial approbation or rather the generous applause of sir henry taylor gave me all and more than all the satisfaction i could ever have looked for in recompense of as much painstaking and conscientious though interesting and enjoyable work as can ever, i should imagine, have been devoted to the completion of any comparable design. private and personal appreciation i have always thought and often found more valuable and delightful than all possible or imaginable clamour of public praise. this preference will perhaps be supposed to influence my opinion if i avow that i think i have never written anything worthier of such reward than the closing tragedy which may or may not have deserved but which certainly received it. my first attempt to do something original in english which might in some degree reproduce for english readers the likeness of a greek tragedy, with possibly something more of its true poetic life and charm than could have been expected from the authors of 'caractacus' and 'merope,' was perhaps too exuberant and effusive in its dialogue, as it certainly was too irregular in the occasional license of its choral verse, to accomplish the design or achieve the success which its author should have aimed at. it may or may not be too long as a poem: it is, i fear, too long for a poem of the kind to which it belongs or aims at belonging. poetical and mathematical truth are so different that i doubt, however unwilling i may naturally be to doubt, whether it can truthfully be said of 'atalanta in calydon' that the whole is greater than any part of it. i hope it may be, and i can honestly say no more. of 'erechtheus' i venture to believe with somewhat more confidence that it can. either poem, by the natural necessity of its kind and structure, has its crowning passage or passages which cannot, however much they may lose by detachment from their context, lose as much as the crowning scene or scenes of an english or shakespearean play, as opposed to an Æschylean or sophoclean tragedy, must lose and ought to lose by a similar separation. the two best things in these two greek plays, the antiphonal lamentation for the dying meleager and the choral presentation of stormy battle between the forces of land and sea, lose less by such division from the main body of the poem than would those scenes in 'bothwell' which deal with the turning-point in the life of mary stuart on the central and conclusive day of carberry hill. it might be thought pedantic or pretentious in a modern poet to divide his poems after the old roman fashion into sections and classes; i must confess that i should like to see this method applied, were it but by way of experiment in a single edition, to the work of the leading poets of our own country and century: to see, for instance, their lyrical and elegiac works ranged and registered apart, each kind in a class of its own, such as is usually reserved, i know not why, for sonnets only. the apparent formality of such an arrangement as would give us, for instance, the odes of coleridge and shelley collected into a distinct reservation or division might possibly be more than compensated to the more capable among students by the gain in ethical or spiritual symmetry and æsthetic or intellectual harmony. the ode or hymn--i need remind no probable reader that the terms are synonymous in the speech of pindar--asserts its primacy or pre-eminence over other forms of poetry in the very name which defines or proclaims it as essentially the song; as something above all less pure and absolute kinds of song by the very nature and law of its being. the greek form, with its regular arrangement of turn, return, and aftersong, is not to be imitated because it is greek, but to be adopted because it is best: the very best, as a rule, that could be imagined for lyrical expression of the thing conceived or lyrical aspiration towards the aim imagined. the rhythmic reason of its rigid but not arbitrary law lies simply and solely in the charm of its regular variations. this can be given in english as clearly and fully, if not so sweetly and subtly, as in greek; and should, therefore, be expected and required in an english poem of the same nature and proportion. the sapphic or alcaic ode, a simple sequence of identical stanzas, could be imitated or revived in latin by translators or disciples: the scheme of it is exquisitely adequate and sufficient for comparatively short flights of passion or emotion, ardent or contemplative and personal or patriotic; but what can be done in english could not be attempted in latin. it seems strange to me, our language being what it is, that our literature should be no richer than it is in examples of the higher or at least the more capacious and ambitious kind of ode. not that the full pindaric form of threefold or triune structure need be or should be always adopted: but without an accurately corresponsive or antiphonal scheme of music even the master of masters, who is coleridge, could not produce, even through the superb and enchanting melodies of such a poem as his 'dejection,' a fit and complete companion, a full and perfect rival, to such a poem as his ode on france. the title of ode may more properly and fairly be so extended as to cover all lyrical poems in stanzas or couplets than so strained as to include a lawless lyric of such irregular and uneven build as coleridge only and hardly could make acceptable or admissible among more natural and lawful forms of poetry. law, not lawlessness, is the natural condition of poetic life; but the law must itself be poetic and not pedantic, natural and not conventional. it would be a trivial precision or restriction which would refuse the title of ode to the stanzas of milton or the heptameters of aristophanes; that glorious form of lyric verse which a critic of our own day, as you may not impossibly remember, has likened with such magnificent felicity of comparison to the gallop of the horses of the sun. nor, i presume, should this title be denied to a poem written in the more modest metre--more modest as being shorter by a foot--which was chosen for those twin poems of antiphonal correspondence in subject and in sound, the 'hymn to proserpine' and the 'hymn of man': the deathsong of spiritual decadence and the birthsong of spiritual renascence. perhaps, too, my first stanzas addressed to victor hugo may be ranked as no less of an ode than that on the insurrection in candia: a poem which attracted, whether or not it may have deserved, the notice and commendation of mazzini: from whom i received, on the occasion of its appearance, a letter which was the beginning of my personal intercourse with the man whom i had always revered above all other men on earth. but for this happy accident i might not feel disposed to set much store by my first attempt at a regular ode of orthodox or legitimate construction; i doubt whether it quite succeeded in evading the criminal risk and the capital offence of formality; at least until the change of note in the closing epode gave fuller scope and freer play of wing to the musical expression. but in my later ode on athens, absolutely faithful as it is in form to the strictest type and the most stringent law of pindaric hymnology, i venture to believe that there is no more sign of this infirmity than in the less classically regulated poem on the armada; which, though built on a new scheme, is nevertheless in its way, i think, a legitimate ode, by right of its regularity in general arrangement of corresponsive divisions. by the test of these two poems i am content that my claims should be decided and my station determined as a lyric poet in the higher sense of the term; a craftsman in the most ambitious line of his art that ever aroused or ever can arouse the emulous aspiration of his kind. even had i ever felt the same impulse to attempt and the same ambition to achieve the enterprise of epic or narrative that i had always felt with regard to lyric or dramatic work, i could never have proposed to myself the lowly and unambitious aim of competition with the work of so notable a contemporary workman in the humbler branch of that line as william morris. no conception could have been further from my mind when i undertook to rehandle the deathless legend of tristram than that of so modest and preposterous a trial of rivalry. my aim was simply to present that story, not diluted and debased as it had been in our own time by other hands, but undefaced by improvement and undeformed by transformation, as it was known to the age of dante wherever the chronicles of romance found hearing, from ercildoune to florence: and not in the epic or romantic form of sustained or continuous narrative, but mainly through a succession of dramatic scenes or pictures with descriptive settings or backgrounds: the scenes being of the simplest construction, duologue or monologue, without so much as the classically permissible intervention of a third or fourth person. it is only in our native northern form of narrative poetry, on the old and unrivalled model of the english ballad, that i can claim to have done any work of the kind worth reference: unless the story of balen should be considered as something other than a series or sequence of ballads. a more plausible objection was brought to bear against 'tristram of lyonesse' than that of failure in an enterprise which i never thought of undertaking: the objection of an irreconcilable incongruity between the incidents of the old legend and the meditations on man and nature, life and death, chance and destiny, assigned to a typical hero of chivalrous romance. and this objection might be unanswerable if the slightest attempt had been made to treat the legend as in any possible sense historical or capable of either rational or ideal association with history, such as would assimilate the name and fame of arthur to the name and fame of any actual and indisputable alfred or albert of the future. but the age when these romances actually lived and flourished side by side with the reviving legends of thebes and troy, not in the crude and bloodless forms of celtic and archaic fancy but in the ampler and manlier developments of teutonic and mediæval imagination, was the age of dante and of chaucer: an age in which men were only too prone to waste their time on the twin sciences of astrology and theology, to expend their energies in the jungle of pseudosophy or the morass of metaphysics. there is surely nothing more incongruous or anachronic in the soliloquy of tristram after his separation from iseult than in the lecture of theseus after the obsequies of arcite. both heroes belong to the same impossible age of an imaginary world: and each has an equal right, should it so please his chronicler, to reason in the pauses of action and philosophise in the intervals of adventure. after all, the active men of the actual age of chivalry were not all of them mere muscular machines for martial or pacific exercise of their physical functions or abilities. you would agree, if the point were worth discussion, that it might savour somewhat of pretention, if not of affectation, to be over particular in arrangement of poems according to subject rather than form, spirit rather than method, or motive rather than execution: and yet there might be some excuse for the fancy or the pedantry of such a classification as should set apart, for example, poems inspired by the influence of places, whether seen but once or familiar for years or associated with the earliest memories within cognisance or record of the mind, and poems inspired by the emotions of regard or regret for the living or the dead; above all, by the rare and profound passion of reverence and love and faith which labours and rejoices to find utterance in some tributary sacrifice of song. mere descriptive poetry of the prepense and formal kind is exceptionally if not proverbially liable to incur and to deserve the charge of dullness: it is unnecessary to emphasise or obtrude the personal note, the presence or the emotion of a spectator, but it is necessary to make it felt and keep it perceptible if the poem is to have life in it or even a right to live: felt as in wordsworth's work it is always, perceptible as it is always in shelley's. this note is more plain and positive than usual in the poem which attempts--at once a simple and an ambitious attempt--to render the contrast and the concord of night and day on loch torridon: it is, i think, duly sensible though implicitly subdued in four poems of the west undercliff, born or begotten of sunset in the bay and moonlight on the cliffs, noon or morning in a living and shining garden, afternoon or twilight on one left flowerless and forsaken. not to you or any other poet, nor indeed to the very humblest and simplest lover of poetry, will it seem incongruous or strange, suggestive of imperfect sympathy with life or deficient inspiration from nature, that the very words of sappho should be heard and recognised in the notes of the nightingales, the glory of the presence of dead poets imagined in the presence of the glory of the sky, the lustre of their advent and their passage felt visible as in vision on the live and limpid floorwork of the cloudless and sunset-coloured sea. the half-brained creature to whom books are other than living things may see with the eyes of a bat and draw with the fingers of a mole his dullard's distinction between books and life: those who live the fuller life of a higher animal than he know that books are to poets as much part of that life as pictures are to painters or as music is to musicians, dead matter though they may be to the spiritually still-born children of dirt and dullness who find it possible and natural to live while dead in heart and brain. marlowe and shakespeare, Æschylus and sappho, do not for us live only on the dusty shelves of libraries. it is hardly probable that especial and familiar love of places should give any special value to verses written under the influence of their charm: no intimacy of years and no association with the past gave any colour of emotion to many other studies of english land and sea which certainly are no less faithful and possibly have no less spiritual or poetic life in them than the four to which i have just referred, whose localities lie all within the boundary of a mile or so. no contrast could be stronger than that between the majestic and exquisite glory of cliff and crag, lawn and woodland, garden and lea, to which i have done homage though assuredly i have not done justice in these four poems--'in the bay,' 'on the cliffs,' 'a forsaken garden,' the dedication of 'the sisters'--and the dreary beauty, inhuman if not unearthly in its desolation, of the innumerable creeks and inlets, lined and paven with sea-flowers, which make of the salt marshes a fit and funereal setting, a fatal and appropriate foreground, for the supreme desolation of the relics of dunwich; the beautiful and awful solitude of a wilderness on which the sea has forbidden man to build or live, overtopped and bounded by the tragic and ghastly solitude of a headland on which the sea has forbidden the works of human charity and piety to survive: between the dense and sand-encumbered tides which are eating the desecrated wreck and ruin of them all away, and the matchless magic, the ineffable fascination of the sea whose beauties and delights, whose translucent depths of water and divers-coloured banks of submarine foliage and flowerage, but faintly reflected in the stanzas of the little ode 'off shore,' complete the charm of the scenes as faintly sketched or shadowed forth in the poems just named, or the sterner and stranger magic of the seaboard to which tribute was paid in 'an autumn vision,' 'a swimmer's dream,' 'on the south coast,' 'neap-tide': or, again, between the sterile stretches and sad limitless outlook of the shore which faces a hitherto undetermined and interminable sea, and the joyful and fateful beauty of the seas off bamborough and the seas about sark and guernsey. but if there is enough of the human or personal note to bring into touch the various poems which deal with these various impressions, there may perhaps be no less of it discernible in such as try to render the effect of inland or woodland solitude--the splendid oppression of nature at noon which found utterance of old in words of such singular and everlasting significance as panic and nympholepsy. the retrospect across many years over the many eulogistic and elegiac poems which i have inscribed or devoted to the commemoration or the panegyric of the living or the dead has this in it of pride and pleasure, that i find little to recant and nothing to repent on reconsideration of them all. if ever a word of tributary thanksgiving for the delight and the benefit of loyal admiration evoked in the spirit of a boy or aroused in the intelligence of a man may seem to exceed the limit of demonstrable accuracy, i have no apology to offer for any such aberration from the safe path of tepid praise or conventional applause. i can truly say with shelley that i have been fortunate in friendships: i might add if i cared, as he if he had cared might have added, that i have been no less fortunate in my enemies than in my friends; and this, though by comparison a matter of ineffable insignificance, can hardly be to any rational and right-minded man a matter of positive indifference. rather should it be always a subject for thankfulness and self-congratulation if a man can honestly and reasonably feel assured that his friends and foes alike have been always and at almost all points the very men he would have chosen, had choice and foresight been allowed him, at the very outset of his career in life. i should never, when a boy, have dared to dream that as a man i might possibly be admitted to the personal acquaintance of the three living gods, i do not say of my idolatry, for idolatry is a term inapplicable where the gods are real and true, but of my whole-souled and single-hearted worship: and yet, when writing of landor, of mazzini, and of hugo, i write of men who have honoured me with the assurance and the evidence of their cordial and affectionate regard. however inadequate and unworthy may be my tribute to their glory when living and their memory when dead, it is that of one whose gratitude and devotion found unforgettable favour in their sight. and i must be allowed to add that the redeeming quality of entire and absolute sincerity may be claimed on behalf of every line i have written in honour of friends, acquaintances, or strangers. my tribute to richard burton was not more genuine in its expression than my tribute to christina rossetti. two noble human creatures more utterly unlike each other it would be unspeakably impossible to conceive; but it was as simply natural for one who honoured them both to do honest homage, before and after they had left us, to the saintly and secluded poetess as to the adventurous and unsaintly hero. wherever anything is worthy of honour and thanksgiving it is or it always should be as natural if not as delightful to give thanks and do honour to a stranger as to a friend, to a benefactor long since dead as to a benefactor still alive. to the kindred spirits of philip sidney and aurelio saffi it was almost as equal a pleasure to offer what tribute i could bring as if sidney also could have honoured me with his personal friendship. to tennyson and browning it was no less fit that i should give honour than that i should do homage to the memory of bruno, the martyred friend of sidney. and i can hardly remember any task that i ever took more delight in discharging than i felt in the inadequate and partial payment of a lifelong debt to the marvellous and matchless succession of poets who made the glory of our country incomparable for ever by the work they did between the joyful date of the rout of the armada and the woful date of the outbreak of civil war. charles lamb, as i need not remind you, wrote for antiquity: nor need you be assured that when i write plays it is with a view to their being acted at the globe, the red bull, or the black friars. and whatever may be the dramatic or other defects of 'marino faliero' or 'locrine,' they do certainly bear the same relation to previous plays or attempts at plays on the same subjects as 'king henry v.' to 'the famous victories'--if not as 'king lear,' a poem beyond comparison with all other works of man except possibly 'prometheus' and 'othello,' to the primitive and infantile scrawl or drivel of 'king leir and his three daughters.' the fifth act of 'marino faliero,' hopelessly impossible as it is from the point of view of modern stagecraft, could hardly have been found too untheatrical, too utterly given over to talk without action, by the audiences which endured and applauded the magnificent monotony of chapman's eloquence--the fervent and inexhaustible declamation which was offered and accepted as a substitute for study of character and interest of action when his two finest plays, if plays they can be called, found favour with an incredibly intelligent and an inconceivably tolerant audience. the metrical or executive experiment attempted and carried through in 'locrine' would have been improper to any but a purely and wholly romantic play or poem: i do not think that the life of human character or the lifelikeness of dramatic dialogue has suffered from the bondage of rhyme or has been sacrificed to the exigence of metre. the tragedy of 'the sisters,' however defective it may be in theatrical interest or progressive action, is the only modern english play i know in which realism in the reproduction of natural dialogue and accuracy in the representation of natural intercourse between men and women of gentle birth and breeding have been found or made compatible with expression in genuine if simple blank verse. it is not for me to decide whether anything in the figures which play their parts on my imaginary though realistic stage may be worthy of sympathy, attention, or interest: but i think they talk and act as they would have done in life without ever lapsing into platitude or breaking out of nature. in 'rosamund, queen of the lombards,' i took up a subject long since mishandled by an english dramatist of all but the highest rank, and one which in later days alfieri had commemorated in a magnificent passage of a wholly unhistoric and somewhat unsatisfactory play. the comparatively slight deviation from historic records in the final catastrophe or consummation of mine is not, i think, to say the least, injurious to the tragic effect or the moral interest of the story. a writer conscious of any natural command over the musical resources of his language can hardly fail to take such pleasure in the enjoyment of this gift or instinct as the greatest writer and the greatest versifier of our age must have felt at its highest possible degree when composing a musical exercise of such incomparable scope and fullness as 'les djinns.' but if he be a poet after the order of hugo or coleridge or shelley, the result will be something very much more than a musical exercise; though indeed, except to such ears as should always be kept closed against poetry, there is no music in verse which has not in it sufficient fullness and ripeness of meaning, sufficient adequacy of emotion or of thought, to abide the analysis of any other than the purblind scrutiny of prepossession or the squint-eyed inspection of malignity. there may perhaps be somewhat more depth and variety of feeling or reflection condensed into the narrow frame of the poems which compose 'a century of roundels' than would be needed to fulfil the epic vacuity of a choerilus or a coluthus. and the form chosen for my only narrative poem was chosen as a test of the truth of my conviction that such work could be done better on the straitest and the strictest principles of verse than on the looser and more slippery lines of mediæval or modern improvisation. the impulsive and irregular verse which had been held sufficient for the stanza selected or accepted by thornton and by tennyson seemed capable of improvement and invigoration as a vehicle or a medium for poetic narrative. and i think it has not been found unfit to give something of dignity as well as facility to a narrative which recasts in modern english verse one of the noblest and loveliest old english legends. there is no episode in the cycle of arthurian romance more genuinely homeric in its sublime simplicity and its pathetic sublimity of submission to the masterdom of fate than that which i have rather reproduced than recast in 'the tale of balen': and impossible as it is to render the text or express the spirit of the iliad in english prose or rhyme--above all, in english blank verse--it is possible, in such a metre as was chosen and refashioned for this poem, to give some sense of the rage and rapture of battle for which homer himself could only find fit and full expression by similitudes drawn like mine from the revels and the terrors and the glories of the sea. it is nothing to me that what i write should find immediate or general acceptance: it is much to know that on the whole it has won for me the right to address this dedication and inscribe this edition to you. algernon charles swinburne. poems and ballads to my friend edward burne jones these poems are affectionately and admiringly dedicated contents poems and ballads page a ballad of life a ballad of death laus veneris phÆdra the triumph of time les noyades a leave-taking itylus anactoria hymn to proserpine ilicet hermaphroditus fragoletta rondel satia te sanguine a litany a lamentation anima anceps in the orchard a match faustine a cameo song before death rococo stage love the leper a ballad of burdens rondel before the mirror erotion in memory of walter savage landor a song in time of order. a song in time of revolution. . to victor hugo before dawn dolores the garden of proserpine hesperia love at sea april before parting the sundew fÉlise an interlude hendecasyllabics sapphics at eleusis august a christmas carol the masque of queen bersabe st. dorothy the two dreams aholibah love and sleep madonna mia the king's daughter after death may janet the bloody son the sea-swallows the year of love dedication, a ballad of life i found in dreams a place of wind and flowers, full of sweet trees and colour of glad grass, in midst whereof there was a lady clothed like summer with sweet hours. her beauty, fervent as a fiery moon, made my blood burn and swoon like a flame rained upon. sorrow had filled her shaken eyelids' blue, and her mouth's sad red heavy rose all through seemed sad with glad things gone. she held a little cithern by the strings, shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-coloured hair of some dead lute-player that in dead years had done delicious things. the seven strings were named accordingly; the first string charity, the second tenderness, the rest were pleasure, sorrow, sleep, and sin, and loving-kindness, that is pity's kin and is most pitiless. there were three men with her, each garmented with gold and shod with gold upon the feet; and with plucked ears of wheat the first man's hair was wound upon his head: his face was red, and his mouth curled and sad; all his gold garment had pale stains of dust and rust. a riven hood was pulled across his eyes; the token of him being upon this wise made for a sign of lust. the next was shame, with hollow heavy face coloured like green wood when flame kindles it. he hath such feeble feet they may not well endure in any place. his face was full of grey old miseries, and all his blood's increase was even increase of pain. the last was fear, that is akin to death; he is shame's friend, and always as shame saith fear answers him again. my soul said in me; this is marvellous, seeing the air's face is not so delicate nor the sun's grace so great, if sin and she be kin or amorous. and seeing where maidens served her on their knees, i bade one crave of these to know the cause thereof. then fear said: i am pity that was dead. and shame said: i am sorrow comforted. and lust said: i am love. thereat her hands began a lute-playing and her sweet mouth a song in a strange tongue; and all the while she sung there was no sound but long tears following long tears upon men's faces, waxen white with extreme sad delight. but those three following men became as men raised up among the dead; great glad mouths open and fair cheeks made red with child's blood come again. then i said: now assuredly i see my lady is perfect, and transfigureth all sin and sorrow and death, making them fair as her own eyelids be, or lips wherein my whole soul's life abides; or as her sweet white sides and bosom carved to kiss. now therefore, if her pity further me, doubtless for her sake all my days shall be as righteous as she is. forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms, even till the top rose touch thee in the throat where the least thornprick harms; and girdled in thy golden singing-coat, come thou before my lady and say this; borgia, thy gold hair's colour burns in me, thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes; therefore so many as these roses be, kiss me so many times. then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, that she will stoop herself none otherwise than a blown vine-branch doth, and kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, ballad, and on thy mouth. a ballad of death kneel down, fair love, and fill thyself with tears, girdle thyself with sighing for a girth upon the sides of mirth, cover thy lips and eyelids, let thine ears be filled with rumour of people sorrowing; make thee soft raiment out of woven sighs upon the flesh to cleave, set pains therein and many a grievous thing, and many sorrows after each his wise for armlet and for gorget and for sleeve. o love's lute heard about the lands of death, left hanged upon the trees that were therein; o love and time and sin, three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath, three lovers, each one evil spoken of; o smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine came softer with her praise; abide a little for our lady's love. the kisses of her mouth were more than wine, and more than peace the passage of her days. o love, thou knowest if she were good to see. o time, thou shalt not find in any land till, cast out of thine hand, the sunlight and the moonlight fail from thee, another woman fashioned like as this. o sin, thou knowest that all thy shame in her was made a goodly thing; yea, she caught shame and shamed him with her kiss, with her fair kiss, and lips much lovelier than lips of amorous roses in late spring. by night there stood over against my bed queen venus with a hood striped gold and black, both sides drawn fully back from brows wherein the sad blood failed of red, and temples drained of purple and full of death. her curled hair had the wave of sea-water and the sea's gold in it. her eyes were as a dove's that sickeneth. strewn dust of gold she had shed over her, and pearl and purple and amber on her feet. upon her raiment of dyed sendaline were painted all the secret ways of love and covered things thereof, that hold delight as grape-flowers hold their wine; red mouths of maidens and red feet of doves, and brides that kept within the bride-chamber their garment of soft shame, and weeping faces of the wearied loves that swoon in sleep and awake wearier, with heat of lips and hair shed out like flame. the tears that through her eyelids fell on me made mine own bitter where they ran between as blood had fallen therein, she saying; arise, lift up thine eyes and see if any glad thing be or any good now the best thing is taken forth of us; even she to whom all praise was as one flower in a great multitude, one glorious flower of many and glorious, one day found gracious among many days: even she whose handmaiden was love--to whom at kissing times across her stateliest bed kings bowed themselves and shed pale wine, and honey with the honeycomb, and spikenard bruised for a burnt-offering; even she between whose lips the kiss became as fire and frankincense; whose hair was as gold raiment on a king, whose eyes were as the morning purged with flame, whose eyelids as sweet savour issuing thence. then i beheld, and lo on the other side my lady's likeness crowned and robed and dead. sweet still, but now not red, was the shut mouth whereby men lived and died. and sweet, but emptied of the blood's blue shade, the great curled eyelids that withheld her eyes. and sweet, but like spoilt gold, the weight of colour in her tresses weighed. and sweet, but as a vesture with new dyes, the body that was clothed with love of old. ah! that my tears filled all her woven hair and all the hollow bosom of her gown-- ah! that my tears ran down even to the place where many kisses were, even where her parted breast-flowers have place, even where they are cloven apart--who knows not this? ah! the flowers cleave apart and their sweet fills the tender interspace; ah! the leaves grown thereof were things to kiss ere their fine gold was tarnished at the heart. ah! in the days when god did good to me, each part about her was a righteous thing; her mouth an almsgiving, the glory of her garments charity, the beauty of her bosom a good deed, in the good days when god kept sight of us; love lay upon her eyes, and on that hair whereof the world takes heed; and all her body was more virtuous than souls of women fashioned otherwise. now, ballad, gather poppies in thine hands and sheaves of brier and many rusted sheaves rain-rotten in rank lands, waste marigold and late unhappy leaves and grass that fades ere any of it be mown; and when thy bosom is filled full thereof seek out death's face ere the light altereth, and say "my master that was thrall to love is become thrall to death." bow down before him, ballad, sigh and groan, but make no sojourn in thy outgoing; for haply it may be that when thy feet return at evening death shall come in with thee. laus veneris lors dit en plourant; hélas trop malheureux homme et mauldict pescheur, oncques ne verrai-je clémence et miséricorde de dieu. ores m'en irai-je d'icy et me cacherai dedans le mont horsel, en requérant de faveur et d'amoureuse merci ma doulce dame vénus, car pour son amour serai-je bien à tout jamais damné en enfer. voicy la fin de tous mes faicts d'armes et de toutes mes belles chansons. hélas, trop belle estoyt la face de ma dame et ses yeulx, et en mauvais jour je vis ces chouses-là. lors s'en alla tout en gémissant et se retourna chez elle, et là vescut tristement en grand amour près de sa dame. puis après advint que le pape vit un jour esclater sur son baston force belles fleurs rouges et blanches et maints boutons de feuilles, et ainsi vit-il reverdir toute l'escorce. ce dont il eut grande crainte et moult s'en esmut, et grande pitié lui prit de ce chevalier qui s'en estoyt départi sans espoir comme un homme misérable et damné. doncques envoya force messaigers devers luy pour le ramener, disant qu'il aurait de dieu grace et bonne absolution de son grand pesché d'amour. mais oncques plus ne le virent; car toujours demeura ce pauvre chevalier auprès de vénus la haulte et forte déesse ès flancs de la montagne amoureuse. _livre des grandes merveilles d'amour, escript en latin et en françoys par maistre antoine gaget._ . laus veneris asleep or waking is it? for her neck, kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck wherein the pained blood falters and goes out; soft, and stung softly--fairer for a fleck. but though my lips shut sucking on the place, there is no vein at work upon her face; her eyelids are so peaceable, no doubt deep sleep has warmed her blood through all its ways. lo, this is she that was the world's delight; the old grey years were parcels of her might; the strewings of the ways wherein she trod were the twain seasons of the day and night. lo, she was thus when her clear limbs enticed all lips that now grow sad with kissing christ, stained with blood fallen from the feet of god, the feet and hands whereat our souls were priced. alas, lord, surely thou art great and fair. but lo her wonderfully woven hair! and thou didst heal us with thy piteous kiss; but see now, lord; her mouth is lovelier. she is right fair; what hath she done to thee? nay, fair lord christ, lift up thine eyes and see; had now thy mother such a lip--like this? thou knowest how sweet a thing it is to me. inside the horsel here the air is hot; right little peace one hath for it, god wot; the scented dusty daylight burns the air, and my heart chokes me till i hear it not. behold, my venus, my soul's body, lies with my love laid upon her garment-wise, feeling my love in all her limbs and hair and shed between her eyelids through her eyes. she holds my heart in her sweet open hands hanging asleep; hard by her head there stands, crowned with gilt thorns and clothed with flesh like fire, love, wan as foam blown up the salt burnt sands-- hot as the brackish waifs of yellow spume that shift and steam--loose clots of arid fume from the sea's panting mouth of dry desire; there stands he, like one labouring at a loom. the warp holds fast across; and every thread that makes the woof up has dry specks of red; always the shuttle cleaves clean through, and he weaves with the hair of many a ruined head. love is not glad nor sorry, as i deem; labouring he dreams, and labours in the dream, till when the spool is finished, lo i see his web, reeled off, curls and goes out like steam. night falls like fire; the heavy lights run low, and as they drop, my blood and body so shake as the flame shakes, full of days and hours that sleep not neither weep they as they go. ah yet would god this flesh of mine might be where air might wash and long leaves cover me, where tides of grass break into foam of flowers, or where the wind's feet shine along the sea. ah yet would god that stems and roots were bred out of my weary body and my head, that sleep were sealed upon me with a seal, and i were as the least of all his dead. would god my blood were dew to feed the grass, mine ears made deaf and mine eyes blind as glass, my body broken as a turning wheel, and my mouth stricken ere it saith alas! ah god, that love were as a flower or flame, that life were as the naming of a name, that death were not more pitiful than desire, that these things were not one thing and the same! behold now, surely somewhere there is death: for each man hath some space of years, he saith, a little space of time ere time expire, a little day, a little way of breath. and lo, between the sundawn and the sun, his day's work and his night's work are undone; and lo, between the nightfall and the light, he is not, and none knoweth of such an one. ah god, that i were as all souls that be, as any herb or leaf of any tree, as men that toil through hours of labouring night, as bones of men under the deep sharp sea. outside it must be winter among men; for at the gold bars of the gates again i heard all night and all the hours of it the wind's wet wings and fingers drip with rain. knights gather, riding sharp for cold; i know the ways and woods are strangled with the snow; and with short song the maidens spin and sit until christ's birthnight, lily-like, arow. the scent and shadow shed about me make the very soul in all my senses ache; the hot hard night is fed upon my breath, and sleep beholds me from afar awake. alas, but surely where the hills grow deep, or where the wild ways of the sea are steep, or in strange places somewhere there is death, and on death's face the scattered hair of sleep. there lover-like with lips and limbs that meet they lie, they pluck sweet fruit of life and eat; but me the hot and hungry days devour, and in my mouth no fruit of theirs is sweet. no fruit of theirs, but fruit of my desire, for her love's sake whose lips through mine respire; her eyelids on her eyes like flower on flower, mine eyelids on mine eyes like fire on fire. so lie we, not as sleep that lies by death, with heavy kisses and with happy breath; not as man lies by woman, when the bride laughs low for love's sake and the words he saith. for she lies, laughing low with love; she lies and turns his kisses on her lips to sighs, to sighing sound of lips unsatisfied, and the sweet tears are tender with her eyes. ah, not as they, but as the souls that were slain in the old time, having found her fair; who, sleeping with her lips upon their eyes, heard sudden serpents hiss across her hair. their blood runs round the roots of time like rain: she casts them forth and gathers them again; with nerve and bone she weaves and multiplies exceeding pleasure out of extreme pain. her little chambers drip with flower-like red, her girdles, and the chaplets of her head, her armlets and her anklets; with her feet she tramples all that winepress of the dead. her gateways smoke with fume of flowers and fires, with loves burnt out and unassuaged desires; between her lips the steam of them is sweet, the languor in her ears of many lyres. her beds are full of perfume and sad sound, her doors are made with music, and barred round with sighing and with laughter and with tears, with tears whereby strong souls of men are bound. there is the knight adonis that was slain; with flesh and blood she chains him for a chain; the body and the spirit in her ears cry, for her lips divide him vein by vein. yea, all she slayeth; yea, every man save me; me, love, thy lover that must cleave to thee till the ending of the days and ways of earth, the shaking of the sources of the sea. me, most forsaken of all souls that fell; me, satiated with things insatiable; me, for whose sake the extreme hell makes mirth, yea, laughter kindles at the heart of hell. alas thy beauty! for thy mouth's sweet sake my soul is bitter to me, my limbs quake as water, as the flesh of men that weep, as their heart's vein whose heart goes nigh to break. ah god, that sleep with flower-sweet finger-tips would crush the fruit of death upon my lips; ah god, that death would tread the grapes of sleep and wring their juice upon me as it drips. there is no change of cheer for many days, but change of chimes high up in the air, that sways rung by the running fingers of the wind; and singing sorrows heard on hidden ways. day smiteth day in twain, night sundereth night, and on mine eyes the dark sits as the light; yea, lord, thou knowest i know not, having sinned, if heaven be clean or unclean in thy sight. yea, as if earth were sprinkled over me, such chafed harsh earth as chokes a sandy sea, each pore doth yearn, and the dried blood thereof gasps by sick fits, my heart swims heavily, there is a feverish famine in my veins; below her bosom, where a crushed grape stains the white and blue, there my lips caught and clove an hour since, and what mark of me remains? i dare not always touch her, lest the kiss leave my lips charred. yea, lord, a little bliss, brief bitter bliss, one hath for a great sin; nathless thou knowest how sweet a thing it is. sin, is it sin whereby men's souls are thrust into the pit? yet had i a good trust to save my soul before it slipped therein, trod under by the fire-shod feet of lust. for if mine eyes fail and my soul takes breath, i look between the iron sides of death into sad hell where all sweet love hath end, all but the pain that never finisheth. there are the naked faces of great kings, the singing folk with all their lute-playings; there when one cometh he shall have to friend the grave that covets and the worm that clings. there sit the knights that were so great of hand, the ladies that were queens of fair green land, grown grey and black now, brought unto the dust, soiled, without raiment, clad about with sand. there is one end for all of them; they sit naked and sad, they drink the dregs of it, trodden as grapes in the wine-press of lust. trampled and trodden by the fiery feet. i see the marvellous mouth whereby there fell cities and people whom the gods loved well, yet for her sake on them the fire gat hold, and for their sakes on her the fire of hell. and softer than the egyptian lote-leaf is, the queen whose face was worth the world to kiss, wearing at breast a suckling snake of gold; and large pale lips of strong semiramis, curled like a tiger's that curl back to feed; red only where the last kiss made them bleed; her hair most thick with many a carven gem, deep in the mane, great-chested, like a steed. yea, with red sin the faces of them shine; but in all these there was no sin like mine; no, not in all the strange great sins of them that made the wine-press froth and foam with wine. for i was of christ's choosing, i god's knight, no blinkard heathen stumbling for scant light; i can well see, for all the dusty days gone past, the clean great time of goodly fight. i smell the breathing battle sharp with blows, with shriek of shafts and snapping short of bows; the fair pure sword smites out in subtle ways, sounds and long lights are shed between the rows of beautiful mailed men; the edged light slips, most like a snake that takes short breath and dips sharp from the beautifully bending head, with all its gracious body lithe as lips that curl in touching you; right in this wise my sword doth, seeming fire in mine own eyes, leaving all colours in them brown and red and flecked with death; then the keen breaths like sighs, the caught-up choked dry laughters following them, when all the fighting face is grown a flame for pleasure, and the pulse that stuns the ears, and the heart's gladness of the goodly game. let me think yet a little; i do know these things were sweet, but sweet such years ago, their savour is all turned now into tears; yea, ten years since, where the blue ripples blow, the blue curled eddies of the blowing rhine, i felt the sharp wind shaking grass and vine touch my blood too, and sting me with delight through all this waste and weary body of mine that never feels clear air; right gladly then i rode alone, a great way off my men, and heard the chiming bridle smite and smite, and gave each rhyme thereof some rhyme again, till my song shifted to that iron one; seeing there rode up between me and the sun some certain of my foe's men, for his three white wolves across their painted coats did run. the first red-bearded, with square cheeks--alack, i made my knave's blood turn his beard to black; the slaying of him was a joy to see: perchance too, when at night he came not back, some woman fell a-weeping, whom this thief would beat when he had drunken; yet small grief hath any for the ridding of such knaves; yea, if one wept, i doubt her teen was brief. this bitter love is sorrow in all lands, draining of eyelids, wringing of drenched hands, sighing of hearts and filling up of graves; a sign across the head of the world he stands, an one that hath a plague-mark on his brows; dust and spilt blood do track him to his house down under earth; sweet smells of lip and cheek, like a sweet snake's breath made more poisonous with chewing of some perfumed deadly grass, are shed all round his passage if he pass, and their quenched savour leaves the whole soul weak, sick with keen guessing whence the perfume was. as one who hidden in deep sedge and reeds smells the rare scent made where a panther feeds, and tracking ever slotwise the warm smell is snapped upon by the sweet mouth and bleeds, his head far down the hot sweet throat of her-- so one tracks love, whose breath is deadlier, and lo, one springe and you are fast in hell, fast as the gin's grip of a wayfarer. i think now, as the heavy hours decease one after one, and bitter thoughts increase one upon one, of all sweet finished things; the breaking of the battle; the long peace wherein we sat clothed softly, each man's hair crowned with green leaves beneath white hoods of vair; the sounds of sharp spears at great tourneyings, and noise of singing in the late sweet air. i sang of love too, knowing nought thereof; "sweeter," i said, "the little laugh of love than tears out of the eyes of magdalen, or any fallen feather of the dove. "the broken little laugh that spoils a kiss, the ache of purple pulses, and the bliss of blinded eyelids that expand again-- love draws them open with those lips of his, "lips that cling hard till the kissed face has grown of one same fire and colour with their own; then ere one sleep, appeased with sacrifice, where his lips wounded, there his lips atone." i sang these things long since and knew them not; "lo, here is love, or there is love, god wot, this man and that finds favour in his eyes," i said, "but i, what guerdon have i got? "the dust of praise that is blown everywhere in all men's faces with the common air; the bay-leaf that wants chafing to be sweet before they wind it in a singer's hair." so that one dawn i rode forth sorrowing; i had no hope but of some evil thing, and so rode slowly past the windy wheat and past the vineyard and the water-spring, up to the horsel. a great elder-tree held back its heaps of flowers to let me see the ripe tall grass, and one that walked therein, naked, with hair shed over to the knee. she walked between the blossom and the grass; i knew the beauty of her, what she was, the beauty of her body and her sin, and in my flesh the sin of hers, alas! alas! for sorrow is all the end of this. o sad kissed mouth, how sorrowful it is! o breast whereat some suckling sorrow clings, red with the bitter blossom of a kiss! ah, with blind lips i felt for you, and found about my neck your hands and hair enwound, the hands that stifle and the hair that stings, i felt them fasten sharply without sound. yea, for my sin i had great store of bliss: rise up, make answer for me, let thy kiss seal my lips hard from speaking of my sin, lest one go mad to hear how sweet it is. yet i waxed faint with fume of barren bowers, and murmuring of the heavy-headed hours; and let the dove's beak fret and peck within my lips in vain, and love shed fruitless flowers. so that god looked upon me when your hands were hot about me; yea, god brake my bands to save my soul alive, and i came forth like a man blind and naked in strange lands that hears men laugh and weep, and knows not whence nor wherefore, but is broken in his sense; howbeit i met folk riding from the north towards rome, to purge them of their souls' offence, and rode with them, and spake to none; the day stunned me like lights upon some wizard way, and ate like fire mine eyes and mine eyesight; so rode i, hearing all these chant and pray, and marvelled; till before us rose and fell white cursed hills, like outer skirts of hell seen where men's eyes look through the day to night, like a jagged shell's lips, harsh, untunable, blown in between by devils' wrangling breath; nathless we won well past that hell and death, down to the sweet land where all airs are good, even unto rome where god's grace tarrieth. then came each man and worshipped at his knees who in the lord god's likeness bears the keys to bind or loose, and called on christ's shed blood, and so the sweet-souled father gave him ease. but when i came i fell down at his feet, saying, "father, though the lord's blood be right sweet, the spot it takes not off the panther's skin, nor shall an ethiop's stain be bleached with it. "lo, i have sinned and have spat out at god, wherefore his hand is heavier and his rod more sharp because of mine exceeding sin, and all his raiment redder than bright blood "before mine eyes; yea, for my sake i wot the heat of hell is waxen seven times hot through my great sin." then spake he some sweet word, giving me cheer; which thing availed me not; yea, scarce i wist if such indeed were said; for when i ceased--lo, as one newly dead who hears a great cry out of hell, i heard the crying of his voice across my head. "until this dry shred staff, that hath no whit of leaf nor bark, bear blossom and smell sweet, seek thou not any mercy in god's sight, for so long shalt thou be cast out from it." yea, what if dried-up stems wax red and green, shall that thing be which is not nor has been? yea, what if sapless bark wax green and white, shall any good fruit grow upon my sin? nay, though sweet fruit were plucked of a dry tree, and though men drew sweet waters of the sea, there should not grow sweet leaves on this dead stem, this waste wan body and shaken soul of me. yea, though god search it warily enough, there is not one sound thing in all thereof; though he search all my veins through, searching them he shall find nothing whole therein but love. for i came home right heavy, with small cheer, and lo my love, mine own soul's heart, more dear than mine own soul, more beautiful than god, who hath my being between the hands of her-- fair still, but fair for no man saving me, as when she came out of the naked sea making the foam as fire whereon she trod, and as the inner flower of fire was she. yea, she laid hold upon me, and her mouth clove unto mine as soul to body doth, and, laughing, made her lips luxurious; her hair had smells of all the sunburnt south, strange spice and flower, strange savour of crushed fruit, and perfume the swart kings tread underfoot for pleasure when their minds wax amorous, charred frankincense and grated sandal-root. and i forgot fear and all weary things, all ended prayers and perished thanksgivings, feeling her face with all her eager hair cleave to me, clinging as a fire that clings to the body and to the raiment, burning them; as after death i know that such-like flame shall cleave to me for ever; yea, what care, albeit i burn then, having felt the same? ah love, there is no better life than this; to have known love, how bitter a thing it is, and afterward be cast out of god's sight; yea, these that know not, shall they have such bliss high up in barren heaven before his face as we twain in the heavy-hearted place, remembering love and all the dead delight, and all that time was sweet with for a space? for till the thunder in the trumpet be, soul may divide from body, but not we one from another; i hold thee with my hand, i let mine eyes have all their will of thee, i seal myself upon thee with my might, abiding alway out of all men's sight until god loosen over sea and land the thunder of the trumpets of the night. explicit laus veneris. phÆdra hippolytus; phÆdra; chorus of troezenian women hippolytus. lay not thine hand upon me; let me go; take off thine eyes that put the gods to shame; what, wilt thou turn my loathing to thy death? phÆdra. nay, i will never loosen hold nor breathe till thou have slain me; godlike for great brows thou art, and thewed as gods are, with clear hair: draw now thy sword and smite me as thou art god, for verily i am smitten of other gods, why not of thee? chorus. o queen, take heed of words; why wilt thou eat the husk of evil speech? wear wisdom for that veil about thy head and goodness for the binding of thy brows. phÆdra. nay, but this god hath cause enow to smite; if he will slay me, baring breast and throat, i lean toward the stroke with silent mouth and a great heart. come, take thy sword and slay; let me not starve between desire and death, but send me on my way with glad wet lips; for in the vein-drawn ashen-coloured palm death's hollow hand holds water of sweet draught to dip and slake dried mouths at, as a deer specked red from thorns laps deep and loses pain. yea, if mine own blood ran upon my mouth, i would drink that. nay, but be swift with me; set thy sword here between the girdle and breast, for i shall grow a poison if i live. are not my cheeks as grass, my body pale, and my breath like a dying poisoned man's? o whatsoever of godlike names thou be, by thy chief name i charge thee, thou strong god, and bid thee slay me. strike, up to the gold, up to the hand-grip of the hilt; strike here; for i am cretan of my birth; strike now; for i am theseus' wife; stab up to the rims, i am born daughter to pasiphae. see thou spare not for greatness of my blood, nor for the shining letters of my name: make thy sword sure inside thine hand and smite, for the bright writing of my name is black, and i am sick with hating the sweet sun. hippolytus. let not this woman wail and cleave to me, that am no part of the gods' wrath with her; loose ye her hands from me lest she take hurt. chorus. lady, this speech and majesty are twain; pure shame is of one counsel with the gods. hippolytus. man is as beast when shame stands off from him. phÆdra. man, what have i to do with shame or thee? i am not of one counsel with the gods. i am their kin, i have strange blood in me, i am not of their likeness nor of thine: my veins are mixed, and therefore am i mad, yea therefore chafe and turn on mine own flesh, half of a woman made with half a god. but thou wast hewn out of an iron womb and fed with molten mother-snow for milk. a sword was nurse of thine; hippolyta, that had the spear to father, and the axe to bridesman, and wet blood of sword-slain men for wedding-water out of a noble well, even she did bear thee, thinking of a sword, and thou wast made a man mistakingly. nay, for i love thee, i will have thy hands, nay, for i will not loose thee, thou art sweet, thou art my son, i am thy father's wife, i ache toward thee with a bridal blood, the pulse is heavy in all my married veins, my whole face beats, i will feed full of thee, my body is empty of ease, i will be fed, i am burnt to the bone with love, thou shalt not go, i am heartsick, and mine eyelids prick mine eyes, thou shalt not sleep nor eat nor say a word till thou hast slain me. i am not good to live. chorus. this is an evil born with all its teeth, when love is cast out of the bound of love. hippolytus. there is no hate that is so hateworthy. phÆdra. i pray thee turn that hate of thine my way, i hate not it nor anything of thine. lo, maidens, how he burns about the brow, and draws the chafing sword-strap down his hand. what wilt thou do? wilt thou be worse than death? be but as sweet as is the bitterest, the most dispiteous out of all the gods, i am well pleased. lo, do i crave so much? i do but bid thee be unmerciful, even the one thing thou art. pity me not: thou wert not quick to pity. think of me as of a thing thy hounds are keen upon in the wet woods between the windy ways, and slay me for a spoil. this body of mine is worth a wild beast's fell or hide of hair, and spotted deeper than a panther's grain. i were but dead if thou wert pure indeed; i pray thee by thy cold green holy crown and by the fillet-leaves of artemis. nay, but thou wilt not. death is not like thee. albeit men hold him worst of all the gods. for of all gods death only loves not gifts,[ ] nor with burnt-offering nor blood-sacrifice shalt thou do aught to get thee grace of him; he will have nought of altar and altar-song, and from him only of all the lords in heaven persuasion turns a sweet averted mouth. but thou art worse: from thee with baffled breath back on my lips my prayer falls like a blow, and beats upon them, dumb. what shall i say? there is no word i can compel thee with to do me good and slay me. but take heed; i say, be wary; look between thy feet, lest a snare take them though the ground be good. hippolytus. shame may do most where fear is found most weak; that which for shame's sake yet i have not done, shall it be done for fear's? take thine own way; better the foot slip than the whole soul swerve. phÆdra. the man is choice and exquisite of mouth; yet in the end a curse shall curdle it. chorus. he goes with cloak upgathered to the lip, holding his eye as with some ill in sight. phÆdra. a bitter ill he hath i' the way thereof, and it shall burn the sight out as with fire. chorus. speak no such word whereto mischance is kin. phÆdra. out of my heart and by fate's leave i speak. chorus. set not thy heart to follow after fate. phÆdra. o women, o sweet people of this land, o goodly city and pleasant ways thereof, and woods with pasturing grass and great well-heads, and hills with light and night between your leaves, and winds with sound and silence in your lips, and earth and water and all immortal things, i take you to my witness what i am. there is a god about me like as fire, sprung whence, who knoweth, or who hath heart to say? a god more strong than whom slain beasts can soothe, or honey, or any spilth of blood-like wine, nor shall one please him with a whitened brow nor wheat nor wool nor aught of plaited leaf. for like my mother am i stung and slain, and round my cheeks have such red malady and on my lips such fire and foam as hers. this is that ate out of amathus that breeds up death and gives it one for love. she hath slain mercy, and for dead mercy's sake (being frighted with this sister that was slain) flees from before her fearful-footed shame, and will not bear the bending of her brows and long soft arrows flown from under them as from bows bent. desire flows out of her as out of lips doth speech: and over her shines fire, and round her and beneath her fire. she hath sown pain and plague in all our house, love loathed of love, and mates unmatchable, wild wedlock, and the lusts that bleat or low, and marriage-fodder snuffed about of kine. lo how the heifer runs with leaping flank sleek under shaggy and speckled lies of hair, and chews a horrible lip, and with harsh tongue laps alien froth and licks a loathlier mouth. alas, a foul first steam of trodden tares, and fouler of these late grapes underfoot. a bitter way of waves and clean-cut foam over the sad road of sonorous sea the high gods gave king theseus for no love, nay, but for love, yet to no loving end. alas the long thwarts and the fervent oars, and blown hard sails that straightened the scant rope! there were no strong pools in the hollow sea to drag at them and suck down side and beak, no wind to catch them in the teeth and hair, no shoal, no shallow among the roaring reefs, no gulf whereout the straining tides throw spars, no surf where white bones twist like whirled white fire. but like to death he came with death, and sought and slew and spoiled and gat him that he would. for death, for marriage, and for child-getting, i set my curse against him as a sword; yea, and the severed half thereof i leave pittheus, because he slew not (when that face was tender, and the life still soft in it) the small swathed child, but bred him for my fate. i would i had been the first that took her death out from between wet hoofs and reddened teeth, splashed horns, fierce fetlocks of the brother bull? for now shall i take death a deadlier way, gathering it up between the feet of love or off the knees of murder reaching it. [ ] Æsch. fr. niobe:-- [greek: monos theôn gar thanatos ou dôrôn era, k.t.l.] the triumph of time before our lives divide for ever, while time is with us and hands are free, (time, swift to fasten and swift to sever hand from hand, as we stand by the sea) i will say no word that a man might say whose whole life's love goes down in a day; for this could never have been; and never, though the gods and the years relent, shall be. is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, to think of things that are well outworn? of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, the dream foregone and the deed forborne? though joy be done with and grief be vain, time shall not sever us wholly in twain; earth is not spoilt for a single shower; but the rain has ruined the ungrown corn. it will grow not again, this fruit of my heart, smitten with sunbeams, ruined with rain. the singing seasons divide and depart, winter and summer depart in twain. it will grow not again, it is ruined at root, the bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit; though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart, with sullen savour of poisonous pain. i have given no man of my fruit to eat; i trod the grapes, i have drunken the wine. had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet, this wild new growth of the corn and vine, this wine and bread without lees or leaven, we had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven, souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet, one splendid spirit, your soul and mine. in the change of years, in the coil of things, in the clamour and rumour of life to be, we, drinking love at the furthest springs, covered with love as a covering tree, we had grown as gods, as the gods above, filled from the heart to the lips with love, held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings, o love, my love, had you loved but me! we had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved as the moon moves, loving the world; and seen grief collapse as a thing disproved, death consume as a thing unclean. twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast soul to soul while the years fell past; had you loved me once, as you have not loved; had the chance been with us that has not been. i have put my days and dreams out of mind, days that are over, dreams that are done. though we seek life through, we shall surely find there is none of them clear to us now, not one. but clear are these things; the grass and the sand, where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand, with lips wide open and face burnt blind, the strong sea-daisies feast on the sun. the low downs lean to the sea; the stream, one loose thin pulseless tremulous vein, rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream, works downward, sick of the sun and the rain; no wind is rough with the rank rare flowers; the sweet sea, mother of loves and hours, shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam, turning her smile to a fugitive pain. mother of loves that are swift to fade, mother of mutable winds and hours. a barren mother, a mother-maid, cold and clean as her faint salt flowers. i would we twain were even as she, lost in the night and the light of the sea, where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade, break, and are broken, and shed into showers. the loves and hours of the life of a man, they are swift and sad, being born of the sea. hours that rejoice and regret for a span, born with a man's breath, mortal as he; loves that are lost ere they come to birth, weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth. i lose what i long for, save what i can, my love, my love, and no love for me! it is not much that a man can save on the sands of life, in the straits of time, who swims in sight of the great third wave that never a swimmer shall cross or climb. some waif washed up with the strays and spars that ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars; weed from the water, grass from a grave, a broken blossom, a ruined rhyme. there will no man do for your sake, i think, what i would have done for the least word said. i had wrung life dry for your lips to drink, broken it up for your daily bread: body for body and blood for blood, as the flow of the full sea risen to flood that yearns and trembles before it sink, i had given, and lain down for you, glad and dead. yea, hope at highest and all her fruit, and time at fullest and all his dower, i had given you surely, and life to boot, were we once made one for a single hour. but now, you are twain, you are cloven apart, flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart; and deep in one is the bitter root, and sweet for one is the lifelong flower. to have died if you cared i should die for you, clung to my life if you bade me, played my part as it pleased you--these were the thoughts that stung, the dreams that smote with a keener dart than shafts of love or arrows of death; these were but as fire is, dust, or breath, or poisonous foam on the tender tongue of the little snakes that eat my heart. i wish we were dead together to-day, lost sight of, hidden away out of sight, clasped and clothed in the cloven clay, out of the world's way, out of the light, out of the ages of worldly weather, forgotten of all men altogether, as the world's first dead, taken wholly away, made one with death, filled full of the night. how we should slumber, how we should sleep, far in the dark with the dreams and the dews! and dreaming, grow to each other, and weep, laugh low, live softly, murmur and muse; yea, and it may be, struck through by the dream, feel the dust quicken and quiver, and seem alive as of old to the lips, and leap spirit to spirit as lovers use. sick dreams and sad of a dull delight; for what shall it profit when men are dead to have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might, to have looked for day when the day was fled? let come what will, there is one thing worth, to have had fair love in the life upon earth: to have held love safe till the day grew night, while skies had colour and lips were red. would i lose you now? would i take you then, if i lose you now that my heart has need? and come what may after death to men, what thing worth this will the dead years breed? lose life, lose all; but at least i know, o sweet life's love, having loved you so, had i reached you on earth, i should lose not again, in death nor life, nor in dream or deed. yea, i know this well: were you once sealed mine, mine in the blood's beat, mine in the breath, mixed into me as honey in wine, not time, that sayeth and gainsayeth, nor all strong things had severed us then; not wrath of gods, nor wisdom of men, nor all things earthly, nor all divine, nor joy nor sorrow, nor life nor death. i had grown pure as the dawn and the dew, you had grown strong as the sun or the sea. but none shall triumph a whole life through: for death is one, and the fates are three. at the door of life, by the gate of breath, there are worse things waiting for men than death; death could not sever my soul and you, as these have severed your soul from me. you have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you, life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer. but will it not one day in heaven repent you? will they solace you wholly, the days that were? will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss, meet mine, and see where the great love is, and tremble and turn and be changed? content you; the gate is strait; i shall not be there. but you, had you chosen, had you stretched hand, had you seen good such a thing were done, i too might have stood with the souls that stand in the sun's sight, clothed with the light of the sun; but who now on earth need care how i live? have the high gods anything left to give, save dust and laurels and gold and sand? which gifts are goodly; but i will none. o all fair lovers about the world, there is none of you, none, that shall comfort me. my thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled round and round in a gulf of the sea; and still, through the sound and the straining stream, through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream, the bright fine lips so cruelly curled, and strange swift eyes where the soul sits free. free, without pity, withheld from woe, ignorant; fair as the eyes are fair. would i have you change now, change at a blow, startled and stricken, awake and aware? yea, if i could, would i have you see my very love of you filling me, and know my soul to the quick, as i know the likeness and look of your throat and hair? i shall not change you. nay, though i might, would i change my sweet one love with a word? i had rather your hair should change in a night, clear now as the plume of a black bright bird; your face fail suddenly, cease, turn grey, die as a leaf that dies in a day. i will keep my soul in a place out of sight, far off, where the pulse of it is not heard. far off it walks, in a bleak blown space, full of the sound of the sorrow of years. i have woven a veil for the weeping face, whose lips have drunken the wine of tears; i have found a way for the failing feet, a place for slumber and sorrow to meet; there is no rumour about the place, nor light, nor any that sees or hears. i have hidden my soul out of sight, and said "let none take pity upon thee, none comfort thy crying: for lo, thou art dead, lie still now, safe out of sight of the sun. have i not built thee a grave, and wrought thy grave-clothes on thee of grievous thought, with soft spun verses and tears unshed, and sweet light visions of things undone? "i have given thee garments and balm and myrrh, and gold, and beautiful burial things. but thou, be at peace now, make no stir; is not thy grave as a royal king's? fret not thyself though the end were sore; sleep, be patient, vex me no more. sleep; what hast thou to do with her? the eyes that weep, with the mouth that sings?" where the dead red leaves of the years lie rotten, the cold old crimes and the deeds thrown by, the misconceived and the misbegotten, i would find a sin to do ere i die, sure to dissolve and destroy me all through, that would set you higher in heaven, serve you and leave you happy, when clean forgotten, as a dead man out of mind, am i. your lithe hands draw me, your face burns through me, i am swift to follow you, keen to see; but love lacks might to redeem or undo me; as i have been, i know i shall surely be; "what should such fellows as i do?" nay, my part were worse if i chose to play; for the worst is this after all; if they knew me, not a soul upon earth would pity me. and i play not for pity of these; but you, if you saw with your soul what man am i, you would praise me at least that my soul all through clove to you, loathing the lives that lie; the souls and lips that are bought and sold, the smiles of silver and kisses of gold, the lapdog loves that whine as they chew, the little lovers that curse and cry. there are fairer women, i hear; that may be; but i, that i love you and find you fair, who are more than fair in my eyes if they be, do the high gods know or the great gods care? though the swords in my heart for one were seven, would the iron hollow of doubtful heaven, that knows not itself whether night-time or day be, reverberate words and a foolish prayer? i will go back to the great sweet mother, mother and lover of men, the sea. i will go down to her, i and none other, close with her, kiss her and mix her with me; cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast: o fair white mother, in days long past born without sister, born without brother, set free my soul as thy soul is free. o fair green-girdled mother of mine, sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, thy large embraces are keen like pain. save me and hide me with all thy waves, find me one grave of thy thousand graves, those pure cold populous graves of thine wrought without hand in a world without stain. i shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, change as the winds change, veer in the tide; my lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, i shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside; sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, filled full with life to the eyes and hair, as a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips with splendid summer and perfume and pride. this woven raiment of nights and days, were it once cast off and unwound from me, naked and glad would i walk in thy ways, alive and aware of thy ways and thee; clear of the whole world, hidden at home, clothed with the green and crowned with the foam, a pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, a vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. fair mother, fed with the lives of men, thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say. thou hast taken, and shalt not render again; thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. but death is the worst that comes of thee; thou art fed with our dead, o mother, o sea, but when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when, having given us love, hast thou taken away? o tender-hearted, o perfect lover, thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. the hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, shall they not vanish away and apart? but thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth; thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth; thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; from the first thou wert; in the end thou art. and grief shall endure not for ever, i know. as things that are not shall these things be; we shall live through seasons of sun and of snow, and none be grievous as this to me. we shall hear, as one in a trance that hears, the sound of time, the rhyme of the years; wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow as tender things of a spring-tide sea. sea-fruit that swings in the waves that hiss, drowned gold and purple and royal rings. and all time past, was it all for this? times unforgotten, and treasures of things? swift years of liking and sweet long laughter, that wist not well of the years thereafter till love woke, smitten at heart by a kiss, with lips that trembled and trailing wings? there lived a singer in france of old by the tideless dolorous midland sea. in a land of sand and ruin and gold there shone one woman, and none but she. and finding life for her love's sake fail, being fain to see her, he bade set sail, touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, and praised god, seeing; and so died he. died, praising god for his gift and grace: for she bowed down to him weeping, and said "live;" and her tears were shed on his face or ever the life in his face was shed. the sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung once, and her close lips touched him and clung once, and grew one with his lips for a space; and so drew back, and the man was dead. o brother, the gods were good to you. sleep, and be glad while the world endures. be well content as the years wear through; give thanks for life, and the loves and lures; give thanks for life, o brother, and death, for the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, for gifts she gave you, gracious and few, tears and kisses, that lady of yours. rest, and be glad of the gods; but i, how shall i praise them, or how take rest? there is not room under all the sky for me that know not of worst or best, dream or desire of the days before, sweet things or bitterness, any more. love will not come to me now though i die, as love came close to you, breast to breast. i shall never be friends again with roses; i shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, as a wave of the sea turned back by song. there are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, face to face with its own desire; a delight that rebels, a desire that reposes; i shall hate sweet music my whole life long. the pulse of war and passion of wonder, the heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine, the stars that sing and the loves that thunder, the music burning at heart like wine, an armed archangel whose hands raise up all senses mixed in the spirit's cup till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder-- these things are over, and no more mine. these were a part of the playing i heard once, ere my love and my heart were at strife; love that sings and hath wings as a bird, balm of the wound and heft of the knife. fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep than overwatching of eyes that weep, now time has done with his one sweet word, the wine and leaven of lovely life. i shall go my ways, tread out my measure, fill the days of my daily breath with fugitive things not good to treasure, do as the world doth, say as it saith; but if we had loved each other--o sweet, had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet, the heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure to feel you tread it to dust and death-- ah, had i not taken my life up and given all that life gives and the years let go, the wine and honey, the balm and leaven, the dreams reared high and the hopes brought low? come life, come death, not a word be said; should i lose you living, and vex you dead? i never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven, if i cry to you then, will you hear or know? les noyades whatever a man of the sons of men shall say to his heart of the lords above, they have shown man verily, once and again, marvellous mercies and infinite love. in the wild fifth year of the change of things, when france was glorious and blood-red, fair with dust of battle and deaths of kings, a queen of men, with helmeted hair, carrier came down to the loire and slew, till all the ways and the waves waxed red: bound and drowned, slaying two by two, maidens and young men, naked and wed. they brought on a day to his judgment-place one rough with labour and red with fight, and a lady noble by name and face, faultless, a maiden, wonderful, white. she knew not, being for shame's sake blind, if his eyes were hot on her face hard by. and the judge bade strip and ship them, and bind bosom to bosom, to drown and die. the white girl winced and whitened; but he caught fire, waxed bright as a great bright flame seen with thunder far out on the sea, laughed hard as the glad blood went and came. twice his lips quailed with delight, then said, "i have but a word to you all, one word; bear with me; surely i am but dead;" and all they laughed and mocked him and heard. "judge, when they open the judgment-roll, i will stand upright before god and pray: 'lord god, have mercy on one man's soul, for his mercy was great upon earth, i say. "'lord, if i loved thee--lord, if i served-- if these who darkened thy fair son's face i fought with, sparing not one, nor swerved a hand's-breadth, lord, in the perilous place-- "'i pray thee say to this man, o lord, _sit thou for him at my feet on a throne_. i will face thy wrath, though it bite as a sword, and my soul shall burn for his soul, and atone. "'for, lord, thou knowest, o god most wise, how gracious on earth were his deeds towards me. shall this be a small thing in thine eyes, that is greater in mine than the whole great sea?' "i have loved this woman my whole life long, and even for love's sake when have i said 'i love you'? when have i done you wrong, living? but now i shall have you dead. "yea, now, do i bid you love me, love? love me or loathe, we are one not twain. but god be praised in his heaven above for this my pleasure and that my pain! "for never a man, being mean like me, shall die like me till the whole world dies. i shall drown with her, laughing for love; and she mix with me, touching me, lips and eyes. "shall she not know me and see me all through, me, on whose heart as a worm she trod? you have given me, god requite it you, what man yet never was given of god." o sweet one love, o my life's delight, dear, though the days have divided us, lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight, not twice in the world shall the gods do thus. had it been so hard for my love? but i, though the gods gave all that a god can give, i had chosen rather the gift to die, cease, and be glad above all that live. for the loire would have driven us down to the sea, and the sea would have pitched us from shoal to shoal; and i should have held you, and you held me, as flesh holds flesh, and the soul the soul. could i change you, help you to love me, sweet, could i give you the love that would sweeten death, we should yield, go down, locked hands and feet, die, drown together, and breath catch breath; but you would have felt my soul in a kiss, and known that once if i loved you well; and i would have given my soul for this to burn for ever in burning hell. a leave-taking let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. let us go hence together without fear; keep silence now, for singing-time is over, and over all old things and all things dear. she loves not you nor me as all we love her. yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, she would not hear. let us rise up and part; she will not know. let us go seaward as the great winds go, full of blown sand and foam; what help is here? there is no help, for all these things are so, and all the world is bitter as a tear. and how these things are, though ye strove to show, she would not know. let us go home and hence; she will not weep. we gave love many dreams and days to keep, flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, saying 'if thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.' all is reaped now; no grass is left to mow; and we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, she would not weep. let us go hence and rest; she will not love. she shall not hear us if we sing hereof, nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep. come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; and though she saw all heaven in flower above, she would not love. let us give up, go down; she will not care. though all the stars made gold of all the air, and the sea moving saw before it move one moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair; though all those waves went over us, and drove deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, she would not care. let us go hence, go hence; she will not see. sing all once more together; surely she, she too, remembering days and words that were, will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we, we are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there. nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, she would not see. itylus swallow, my sister, o sister swallow, how can thine heart be full of the spring? a thousand summers are over and dead. what hast thou found in the spring to follow? what hast thou found in thine heart to sing? what wilt thou do when the summer is shed? o swallow, sister, o fair swift swallow, why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, the soft south whither thine heart is set? shall not the grief of the old time follow? shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? hast thou forgotten ere i forget? sister, my sister, o fleet sweet swallow, thy way is long to the sun and the south; but i, fulfilled of my heart's desire, shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, from tawny body and sweet small mouth feed the heart of the night with fire. i the nightingale all spring through, o swallow, sister, o changing swallow, all spring through till the spring be done, clothed with the light of the night on the dew, sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, take flight and follow and find the sun. sister, my sister, o soft light swallow, though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, how hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? for where thou fliest i shall not follow, till life forget and death remember, till thou remember and i forget. swallow, my sister, o singing swallow, i know not how thou hast heart to sing. hast thou the heart? is it all past over? thy lord the summer is good to follow, and fair the feet of thy lover the spring: but what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover? o swallow, sister, o fleeting swallow, my heart in me is a molten ember and over my head the waves have met. but thou wouldst tarry or i would follow, could i forget or thou remember, couldst thou remember and i forget. o sweet stray sister, o shifting swallow, the heart's division divideth us. thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; but mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow to the place of the slaying of itylus, the feast of daulis, the thracian sea. o swallow, sister, o rapid swallow, i pray thee sing not a little space. are not the roofs and the lintels wet? the woven web that was plain to follow, the small slain body, the flowerlike face, can i remember if thou forget? o sister, sister, thy first-begotten! the hands that cling and the feet that follow, the voice of the child's blood crying yet _who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten?_ thou hast forgotten, o summer swallow, but the world shall end when i forget. anactoria [greek: tinos au ty peithoi maps sagêneusas philotata?] sappho. my life is bitter with thy love; thine eyes blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound, and my blood strengthens, and my veins abound. i pray thee sigh not, speak not, draw not breath; let life burn down, and dream it is not death. i would the sea had hidden us, the fire (wilt thou fear that, and fear not my desire?) severed the bones that bleach, the flesh that cleaves, and let our sifted ashes drop like leaves. i feel thy blood against my blood: my pain pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein. let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower, breast kindle breast, and either burn one hour. why wilt thou follow lesser loves? are thine too weak to bear these hands and lips of mine? i charge thee for my life's sake, o too sweet to crush love with thy cruel faultless feet, i charge thee keep thy lips from hers or his, sweetest, till theirs be sweeter than my kiss. lest i too lure, a swallow for a dove, erotion or erinna to my love. i would my love could kill thee; i am satiated with seeing thee live, and fain would have thee dead. i would earth had thy body as fruit to eat, and no mouth but some serpent's found thee sweet. i would find grievous ways to have thee slain, intense device, and superflux of pain; vex thee with amorous agonies, and shake life at thy lips, and leave it there to ache; strain out thy soul with pangs too soft to kill, intolerable interludes, and infinite ill; relapse and reluctation of the breath, dumb tunes and shuddering semitones of death. i am weary of all thy words and soft strange ways, of all love's fiery nights and all his days, and all the broken kisses salt as brine that shuddering lips make moist with waterish wine, and eyes the bluer for all those hidden hours that pleasure fills with tears and feeds from flowers, fierce at the heart with fire that half comes through, but all the flowerlike white stained round with blue; the fervent underlid, and that above lifted with laughter or abashed with love; thine amorous girdle, full of thee and fair, and leavings of the lilies in thine hair. yea, all sweet words of thine and all thy ways, and all the fruit of nights and flower of days, and stinging lips wherein the hot sweet brine that love was born of burns and foams like wine, and eyes insatiable of amorous hours, fervent as fire and delicate as flowers, coloured like night at heart, but cloven through like night with flame, dyed round like night with blue, clothed with deep eyelids under and above-- yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love; thy girdle empty of thee and now not fair, and ruinous lilies in thy languid hair. ah, take no thought for love's sake; shall this be, and she who loves thy lover not love thee? sweet soul, sweet mouth of all that laughs and lives, mine is she, very mine; and she forgives. for i beheld in sleep the light that is in her high place in paphos, heard the kiss of body and soul that mix with eager tears and laughter stinging through the eyes and ears; saw love, as burning flame from crown to feet, imperishable, upon her storied seat; clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south, a mind of many colours, and a mouth of many tunes and kisses; and she bowed, with all her subtle face laughing aloud, bowed down upon me, saying, "who doth thee wrong, sappho?" but thou--thy body is the song, thy mouth the music; thou art more than i, though my voice die not till the whole world die; though men that hear it madden; though love weep, though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep. ah, wilt thou slay me lest i kiss thee dead? yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said: "even she that flies shall follow for thy sake, and she shall give thee gifts that would not take, shall kiss that would not kiss thee" (yea, kiss me) "when thou wouldst not"--when i would not kiss thee! ah, more to me than all men as thou art, shall not my songs assuage her at the heart? ah, sweet to me as life seems sweet to death, why should her wrath fill thee with fearful breath? nay, sweet, for is she god alone? hath she made earth and all the centuries of the sea, taught the sun ways to travel, woven most fine the moonbeams, shed the starbeams forth as wine, bound with her myrtles, beaten with her rods, the young men and the maidens and the gods? have we not lips to love with, eyes for tears, and summer and flower of women and of years? stars for the foot of morning, and for noon sunlight, and exaltation of the moon; waters that answer waters, fields that wear lilies, and languor of the lesbian air? beyond those flying feet of fluttered doves, are there not other gods for other loves? yea, though she scourge thee, sweetest, for my sake, blossom not thorns and flowers not blood should break. ah that my lips were tuneless lips, but pressed to the bruised blossom of thy scourged white breast! ah that my mouth for muses' milk were fed on the sweet blood thy sweet small wounds had bled! that with my tongue i felt them, and could taste the faint flakes from thy bosom to the waist! that i could drink thy veins as wine, and eat thy breasts like honey! that from face to feet thy body were abolished and consumed, and in my flesh thy very flesh entombed! ah, ah, thy beauty! like a beast it bites, stings like an adder, like an arrow smites. ah sweet, and sweet again, and seven times sweet, the paces and the pauses of thy feet! ah sweeter than all sleep or summer air the fallen fillets fragrant from thine hair! yea, though their alien kisses do me wrong, sweeter thy lips than mine with all their song; thy shoulders whiter than a fleece of white, and flower-sweet fingers, good to bruise or bite as honeycomb of the inmost honey-cells, with almond-shaped and roseleaf-coloured shells and blood like purple blossom at the tips quivering; and pain made perfect in thy lips for my sake when i hurt thee; o that i durst crush thee out of life with love, and die, die of thy pain and my delight, and be mixed with thy blood and molten into thee! would i not plague thee dying overmuch? would i not hurt thee perfectly? not touch thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light? strike pang from pang as note is struck from note, catch the sob's middle music in thy throat, take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these a lyre of many faultless agonies? feed thee with fever and famine and fine drouth, with perfect pangs convulse thy perfect mouth, make thy life shudder in thee and burn afresh, and wring thy very spirit through the flesh? cruel? but love makes all that love him well as wise as heaven and crueller than hell. me hath love made more bitter toward thee than death toward man; but were i made as he who hath made all things to break them one by one, if my feet trod upon the stars and sun and souls of men as his have alway trod, god knows i might be crueller than god. for who shall change with prayers or thanksgivings the mystery of the cruelty of things? or say what god above all gods and years with offering and blood-sacrifice of tears, with lamentation from strange lands, from graves where the snake pastures, from scarred mouths of slaves, from prison, and from plunging prows of ships through flamelike foam of the sea's closing lips-- with thwartings of strange signs, and wind-blown hair of comets, desolating the dim air, when darkness is made fast with seals and bars, and fierce reluctance of disastrous stars, eclipse, and sound of shaken hills, and wings darkening, and blind inexpiable things-- with sorrow of labouring moons, and altering light and travail of the planets of the night, and weeping of the weary pleiads seven, feeds the mute melancholy lust of heaven? is not his incense bitterness, his meat murder? his hidden face and iron feet hath not man known, and felt them on their way threaten and trample all things and every day? hath he not sent us hunger? who hath cursed spirit and flesh with longing? filled with thirst their lips who cried unto him? who bade exceed the fervid will, fall short the feeble deed, bade sink the spirit and the flesh aspire, pain animate the dust of dead desire, and life yield up her flower to violent fate? him would i reach, him smite, him desecrate, pierce the cold lips of god with human breath, and mix his immortality with death. why hath he made us? what had all we done that we should live and loathe the sterile sun, and with the moon wax paler as she wanes, and pulse by pulse feel time grow through our veins? thee too the years shall cover; thou shalt be as the rose born of one same blood with thee, as a song sung, as a word said, and fall flower-wise, and be not any more at all, nor any memory of thee anywhere; for never muse has bound above thine hair the high pierian flower whose graft outgrows all summer kinship of the mortal rose and colour of deciduous days, nor shed reflex and flush of heaven about thine head, nor reddened brows made pale by floral grief with splendid shadow from that lordlier leaf. yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spilt wine, except these kisses of my lips on thine brand them with immortality; but me-- men shall not see bright fire nor hear the sea, nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold cast forth of heaven, with feet of awful gold and plumeless wings that make the bright air blind, lightning, with thunder for a hound behind hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown, but in the light and laughter, in the moan and music, and in grasp of lip and hand and shudder of water that makes felt on land the immeasurable tremor of all the sea, memories shall mix and metaphors of me. like me shall be the shuddering calm of night, when all the winds of the world for pure delight close lips that quiver and fold up wings that ache; when nightingales are louder for love's sake, and leaves tremble like lute-strings or like fire; like me the one star swooning with desire even at the cold lips of the sleepless moon, as i at thine; like me the waste white noon, burnt through with barren sunlight; and like me the land-stream and the tide-stream in the sea. i am sick with time as these with ebb and flow, and by the yearning in my veins i know the yearning sound of waters; and mine eyes burn as that beamless fire which fills the skies with troubled stars and travailing things of flame; and in my heart the grief consuming them labours, and in my veins the thirst of these, and all the summer travail of the trees and all the winter sickness; and the earth, filled full with deadly works of death and birth, sore spent with hungry lusts of birth and death, has pain like mine in her divided breath; her spring of leaves is barren, and her fruit ashes; her boughs are burdened, and her root fibrous and gnarled with poison; underneath serpents have gnawn it through with tortuous teeth made sharp upon the bones of all the dead, and wild birds rend her branches overhead. these, woven as raiment for his word and thought, these hath god made, and me as these, and wrought song, and hath lit it at my lips; and me earth shall not gather though she feed on thee. as a shed tear shalt thou be shed; but i-- lo, earth may labour, men live long and die, years change and stars, and the high god devise new things, and old things wane before his eyes who wields and wrecks them, being more strong than they-- but, having made me, me he shall not slay. nor slay nor satiate, like those herds of his who laugh and live a little, and their kiss contents them, and their loves are swift and sweet, and sure death grasps and gains them with slow feet, love they or hate they, strive or bow their knees-- and all these end; he hath his will of these. yea, but albeit he slay me, hating me-- albeit he hide me in the deep dear sea and cover me with cool wan foam, and ease this soul of mine as any soul of these, and give me water and great sweet waves, and make the very sea's name lordlier for my sake, the whole sea sweeter--albeit i die indeed and hide myself and sleep and no man heed, of me the high god hath not all his will. blossom of branches, and on each high hill clear air and wind, and under in clamorous vales fierce noises of the fiery nightingales, buds burning in the sudden spring like fire, the wan washed sand and the waves' vain desire, sails seen like blown white flowers at sea, and words that bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds violently singing till the whole world sings-- i sappho shall be one with all these things, with all high things for ever; and my face seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place, cleave to men's lives, and waste the days thereof with gladness and much sadness and long love. yea, they shall say, earth's womb has borne in vain new things, and never this best thing again; borne days and men, borne fruits and wars and wine, seasons and songs, but no song more like mine. and they shall know me as ye who have known me here, last year when i loved atthis, and this year when i love thee; and they shall praise me, and say "she hath all time as all we have our day, shall she not live and have her will"--even i? yea, though thou diest, i say i shall not die. for these shall give me of their souls, shall give life, and the days and loves wherewith i live, shall quicken me with loving, fill with breath, save me and serve me, strive for me with death. alas, that neither moon nor snow nor dew nor all cold things can purge me wholly through, assuage me nor allay me nor appease, till supreme sleep shall bring me bloodless ease; till time wax faint in all his periods; till fate undo the bondage of the gods, and lay, to slake and satiate me all through, lotus and lethe on my lips like dew, and shed around and over and under me thick darkness and the insuperable sea. hymn to proserpine (after the proclamation in rome of the christian faith) _vicisti, galilæe._ i have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end; goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or that weep; for these give joy and sorrow; but thou, proserpina, sleep. sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove; but a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love. yea, is not even apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, a bitter god to follow, a beautiful god to behold? i am sick of singing: the bays burn deep and chafe: i am fain to rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain. for the gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath, we know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death. o gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day! from your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains, men say. new gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods; they are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate gods. but for me their new device is barren, the days are bare; things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were. time and the gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof, draining a little life from the barren breasts of love. i say to you, cease, take rest; yea, i say to you all, be at peace, till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall cease. wilt thou yet take all, galilean? but these thou shalt not take, the laurel, the palms and the pæan, the breasts of the nymphs in the brake; breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer breath; and all the wings of the loves, and all the joy before death; all the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre, dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that flicker like fire. more than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these things? nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings. a little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may? for no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day. and grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears: why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years? thou hast conquered, o pale galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath; we have drunken of things lethean, and fed on the fullness of death. laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day; but love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not may. sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the end; for the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend. fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides; but her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the tides. o lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods! o ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted gods! though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend, i kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end. all delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are cast far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the past: where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates, waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits: where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with wings, and impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things, white-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled, rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world. the depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away; in the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey; in its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's tears; with light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years: with travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour; and bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour: and its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be; and its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of the sea: and the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air: and the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare. will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea with rods? will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye gods? all ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past; ye are gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last. in the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things, ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings. though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords and our forefathers trod, though these that were gods are dead, and thou being dead art a god, though before thee the throned cytherean be fallen, and hidden her head, yet thy kingdom shall pass, galilean, thy dead shall go down to thee dead. of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace clad around; thou art throned where another was king; where another was queen she is crowned. yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say these. not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom of flowering seas, clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment, and fair as the foam, and fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of rome. for thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but ours, her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of flowers, white rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame, bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her name. for thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; but she came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her foot on the sea. and the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and the viewless ways, and the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of the bays. ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not fall. ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all. but i turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in the end; goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. o daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth, i am also, i also, thy brother; i go as i came unto earth. in the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night where thou art, where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from the heart, where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose is white, and the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of the night, and the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of gods from afar grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star, in the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun, let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and undone. thou art more than the gods who number the days of our temporal breath: for these give labour and slumber; but thou, proserpina, death. therefore now at thy feet i abide for a season in silence. i know i shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so. for the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; a little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.[ ] so long i endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep. for there is no god found stronger than death; and death is a sleep. [ ] [greek: psycharion ei bastazon nekron]. epictetus. ilicet there is an end of joy and sorrow; peace all day long, all night, all morrow, but never a time to laugh or weep. the end is come of pleasant places, the end of tender words and faces, the end of all, the poppied sleep. no place for sound within their hearing, no room to hope, no time for fearing, no lips to laugh, no lids for tears. the old years have run out all their measure; no chance of pain, no chance of pleasure, no fragment of the broken years. outside of all the worlds and ages, there where the fool is as the sage is, there where the slayer is clean of blood, no end, no passage, no beginning, there where the sinner leaves off sinning, there where the good man is not good. there is not one thing with another, but evil saith to good: my brother, my brother, i am one with thee: they shall not strive nor cry for ever: no man shall choose between them: never shall this thing end and that thing be. wind wherein seas and stars are shaken shall shake them, and they shall not waken; none that has lain down shall arise; the stones are sealed across their places; one shadow is shed on all their faces, one blindness cast on all their eyes. sleep, is it sleep perchance that covers each face, as each face were his lover's? farewell; as men that sleep fare well. the grave's mouth laughs unto derision desire and dread and dream and vision, delight of heaven and sorrow of hell. no soul shall tell nor lip shall number the names and tribes of you that slumber; no memory, no memorial. "thou knowest"--who shall say thou knowest? there is none highest and none lowest: an end, an end, an end of all. good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow to these that shall not have good morrow; the gods be gentle to all these. nay, if death be not, how shall they be? nay, is there help in heaven? it may be all things and lords of things shall cease. the stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes; the bronzèd brims are deep in ashes; the pale old lips of death are fed. shall this dust gather flesh hereafter? shall one shed tears or fall to laughter, at sight of all these poor old dead? nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it; thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit, thy laughter shall not give thee ease; cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying, sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing, thou shalt not raise up one of these. burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses, the breathing flame's mouth curls and kisses the small dried rows of frankincense; all round the sad red blossoms smoulder, flowers coloured like the fire, but colder, in sign of sweet things taken hence; yea, for their sake and in death's favour things of sweet shape and of sweet savour we yield them, spice and flower and wine; yea, costlier things than wine or spices, whereof none knoweth how great the price is, and fruit that comes not of the vine. from boy's pierced throat and girl's pierced bosom drips, reddening round the blood-red blossom, the slow delicious bright soft blood, bathing the spices and the pyre, bathing the flowers and fallen fire, bathing the blossom by the bud. roses whose lips the flame has deadened drink till the lapping leaves are reddened and warm wet inner petals weep; the flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure, barren of balm and purple pleasure, fumes with no native steam of sleep. why will ye weep? what do ye weeping? for waking folk and people sleeping, and sands that fill and sands that fall, the days rose-red, the poppied hours, blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers, there is one end of one and all. shall such an one lend love or borrow? shall these be sorry for thy sorrow? shall these give thanks for words or breath? their hate is as their loving-kindness; the frontlet of their brows is blindness, the armlet of their arms is death. lo, for no noise or light of thunder shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder; he that hath taken, shall he give? he hath rent them: shall he bind together? he hath bound them: shall he break the tether? he hath slain them: shall he bid them live? a little sorrow, a little pleasure, fate metes us from the dusty measure that holds the date of all of us; we are born with travail and strong crying, and from the birth-day to the dying the likeness of our life is thus. one girds himself to serve another, whose father was the dust, whose mother the little dead red worm therein; they find no fruit of things they cherish; the goodness of a man shall perish, it shall be one thing with his sin. in deep wet ways by grey old gardens fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens; they know not what fruits wane or grow; red summer burns to the utmost ember; they know not, neither can remember, the old years and flowers they used to know. ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken, for theirs, forgotten and forsaken, watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer. nay, where the heart of wrath is broken, where long love ends as a thing spoken, how shall thy crying enter there? though the iron sides of the old world falter, the likeness of them shall not alter for all the rumour of periods, the stars and seasons that come after, the tears of latter men, the laughter of the old unalterable gods. far up above the years and nations, the high gods, clothed and crowned with patience, endure through days of deathlike date; they bear the witness of things hidden; before their eyes all life stands chidden, as they before the eyes of fate. not for their love shall fate retire, nor they relent for our desire, nor the graves open for their call. the end is more than joy and anguish, than lives that laugh and lives that languish, the poppied sleep, the end of all. hermaphroditus i lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love, blind love that comes by night and casts out rest; of all things tired thy lips look weariest, save the long smile that they are wearied of. ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough, choose of two loves and cleave unto the best; two loves at either blossom of thy breast strive until one be under and one above. their breath is fire upon the amorous air, fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire: and whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair, two things turn all his life and blood to fire; a strong desire begot on great despair, a great despair cast out by strong desire. ii where between sleep and life some brief space is, with love like gold bound round about the head, sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed, turning the fruitful feud of hers and his to the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss; yet from them something like as fire is shed that shall not be assuaged till death be dead, though neither life nor sleep can find out this. love made himself of flesh that perisheth a pleasure-house for all the loves his kin; but on the one side sat a man like death, and on the other a woman sat like sin. so with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath love turned himself and would not enter in. iii love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light that lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes? like a flower laid upon a flower it lies, or like the night's dew laid upon the night. love stands upon thy left hand and thy right, yet by no sunset and by no moonrise shall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs, or make thee woman for a man's delight. to what strange end hath some strange god made fair the double blossom of two fruitless flowers? hid love in all the folds of all thy hair, fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers, given all the gold that all the seasons wear to thee that art a thing of barren hours? iv yea, love, i see; it is not love but fear. nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, i know; or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow so sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear thy gracious eyes that never made a tear-- though for their love our tears like blood should flow, though love and life and death should come and go, so dreadful, so desirable, so dear? yea, sweet, i know; i saw in what swift wise beneath the woman's and the water's kiss thy moist limbs melted into salmacis, and the large light turned tender in thine eyes, and all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; but love being blind, how should he know of this? _au musée du louvre, mars ._ fragoletta o love! what shall be said of thee? the son of grief begot by joy? being sightless, wilt thou see? being sexless, wilt thou be maiden or boy? i dreamed of strange lips yesterday and cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood was like a rose's--yea, a rose's when it lay within the bud. what fields have bred thee, or what groves concealed thee, o mysterious flower, o double rose of love's, with leaves that lure the doves from bud to bower? i dare not kiss it, lest my lip press harder than an indrawn breath, and all the sweet life slip forth, and the sweet leaves drip, bloodlike, in death. o sole desire of my delight! o sole delight of my desire! mine eyelids and eyesight feed on thee day and night like lips of fire. lean back thy throat of carven pearl, let thy mouth murmur like the dove's; say, venus hath no girl, no front of female curl, among her loves. thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, thy virginal strange air, are these not over fair for love to greet? how should he greet thee? what new name, fit to move all men's hearts, could move thee, deaf to love or shame, love's sister, by the same mother as love? ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold, her breast-blossoms are simply red, her hair mere brown or gold, fold over simple fold binding her head. thy mouth is made of fire and wine, thy barren bosom takes my kiss and turns my soul to thine and turns thy lip to mine, and mine it is. thou hast a serpent in thine hair, in all the curls that close and cling; and ah, thy breast-flower! ah love, thy mouth too fair to kiss and sting! cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, satiate thy lips with loving me; nay, for thou shalt not rise; lie still as love that dies for love of thee. mine arms are close about thine head, my lips are fervent on thy face, and where my kiss hath fed thy flower-like blood leaps red to the kissed place. o bitterness of things too sweet! o broken singing of the dove! love's wings are over fleet, and like the panther's feet the feet of love. rondel these many years since we began to be, what have the gods done with us? what with me, what with my love? they have shown me fates and fears, harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers, these many years. with her, my love, with her have they done well? but who shall answer for her? who shall tell sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears? may no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, from eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres these many years! but if tears ever touched, for any grief, those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers, let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears these many years. satia te sanguine if you loved me ever so little, i could bear the bonds that gall, i could dream the bonds were brittle; you do not love me at all. o beautiful lips, o bosom more white than the moon's and warm, a sterile, a ruinous blossom is blown your way in a storm. as the lost white feverish limbs of the lesbian sappho, adrift in foam where the sea-weed swims, swam loose for the streams to lift, my heart swims blind in a sea that stuns me; swims to and fro, and gathers to windward and lee lamentation, and mourning, and woe. a broken, an emptied boat, sea saps it, winds blow apart, sick and adrift and afloat, the barren waif of a heart. where, when the gods would be cruel, do they go for a torture? where plant thorns, set pain like a jewel? ah, not in the flesh, not there! the racks of earth and the rods are weak as foam on the sands; in the heart is the prey for gods, who crucify hearts, not hands. mere pangs corrode and consume, dead when life dies in the brain; in the infinite spirit is room for the pulse of an infinite pain. i wish you were dead, my dear; i would give you, had i to give some death too bitter to fear; it is better to die than live. i wish you were stricken of thunder and burnt with a bright flame through, consumed and cloven in sunder, i dead at your feet like you. if i could but know after all, i might cease to hunger and ache, though your heart were ever so small, if it were not a stone or a snake. you are crueller, you that we love, than hatred, hunger, or death; you have eyes and breasts like a dove, and you kill men's hearts with a breath as plague in a poisonous city insults and exults on her dead, so you, when pallid for pity comes love, and fawns to be fed. as a tame beast writhes and wheedles, he fawns to be fed with wiles; you carve him a cross of needles, and whet them sharp as your smiles. he is patient of thorn and whip, he is dumb under axe or dart; you suck with a sleepy red lip the wet red wounds in his heart. you thrill as his pulses dwindle, you brighten and warm as he bleeds, with insatiable eyes that kindle and insatiable mouth that feeds. your hands nailed love to the tree, you stript him, scourged him with rods, and drowned him deep in the sea that hides the dead and their gods. and for all this, die will he not; there is no man sees him but i; you came and went and forgot; i hope he will some day die. a litany [greek: en ouranô phaennas krypsô par' hymin augas, mias pro nyktos hepta nyktas hexete, k.t.l.] _anth. sac._ first antiphone all the bright lights of heaven i will make dark over thee; one night shall be as seven that its skirts may cover thee; i will send on thy strong men a sword, on thy remnant a rod; ye shall know that i am the lord, saith the lord god. second antiphone all the bright lights of heaven thou hast made dark over us; one night has been as seven that its skirt might cover us; thou hast sent on our strong men a sword, on our remnant a rod; we know that thou art the lord, o lord our god. third antiphone as the tresses and wings of the wind are scattered and shaken, i will scatter all them that have sinned, there shall none be taken; as a sower that scattereth seed, so will i scatter them; as one breaketh and shattereth a reed, i will break and shatter them. fourth antiphone as the wings and the locks of the wind are scattered and shaken, thou hast scattered all them that have sinned, there was no man taken; as a sower that scattereth seed, so hast thou scattered us; as one breaketh and shattereth a reed, thou hast broken and shattered us. fifth antiphone from all thy lovers that love thee i god will sunder thee; i will make darkness above thee, and thick darkness under thee; before me goeth a light, behind me a sword; shall a remnant find grace in my sight? i am the lord. sixth antiphone from all our lovers that love us thou god didst sunder us; thou madest darkness above us, and thick darkness under us; thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light, and made ready thy sword; let a remnant find grace in thy sight, we beseech thee, o lord. seventh antiphone wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment for sins on this wise? for the glittering of raiment and the shining of eyes, for the painting of faces and the sundering of trust, for the sins of thine high places and delight of thy lust? for your high things ye shall have lowly, lamentation for song; for, behold, i god am holy, i the lord am strong; ye shall seek me and shall not reach me till the wine-press be trod; in that hour ye shall turn and beseech me, saith the lord god. eighth antiphone not with fine gold for a payment, but with coin of sighs, but with rending of raiment and with weeping of eyes, but with shame of stricken faces and with strewing of dust, for the sin of stately places and lordship of lust; with voices of men made lowly, made empty of song, o lord god most holy, o god most strong, we reach out hands to reach thee ere the wine-press be trod; we beseech thee, o lord, we beseech thee, o lord our god. ninth antiphone in that hour thou shalt say to the night, come down and cover us; to the cloud on thy left and thy right, be thou spread over us; a snare shall be as thy mother, and a curse thy bride; thou shalt put her away, and another shall lie by thy side. thou shalt neither rise up by day nor lie down by night; would god it were dark! thou shalt say; would god it were light! and the sight of thine eyes shall be made as the burning of fire; and thy soul shall be sorely afraid for thy soul's desire. ye whom your lords loved well, putting silver and gold on you, the inevitable hell shall surely take hold on you; your gold shall be for a token, your staff for a rod; with the breaking of bands ye are broken, saith the lord god. tenth antiphone in our sorrow we said to the night, fall down and cover us; to the darkness at left and at right, be thou shed over us; we had breaking of spirit to mother and cursing to bride; and one was slain, and another stood up at our side. we could not arise by day, nor lie down by night; thy sword was sharp in our way, thy word in our sight; the delight of our eyelids was made as the burning of fire; and our souls became sorely afraid for our soul's desire. we whom the world loved well, laying silver and gold on us, the kingdom of death and of hell riseth up to take hold on us; our gold is turned to a token, our staff to a rod; yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken, o lord our god. a lamentation i who hath known the ways of time or trodden behind his feet? there is no such man among men. for chance overcomes him, or crime changes; for all things sweet in time wax bitter again. who shall give sorrow enough, or who the abundance of tears? mine eyes are heavy with love and a sword gone thorough mine ears, a sound like a sword and fire, for pity, for great desire; who shall ensure me thereof, lest i die, being full of my fears? who hath known the ways and the wrath, the sleepless spirit, the root and blossom of evil will, the divine device of a god? who shall behold it or hath? the twice-tongued prophets are mute, the many speakers are still; no foot has travelled or trod, no hand has meted, his path. man's fate is a blood-red fruit, and the mighty gods have their fill and relax not the rein, or the rod. ye were mighty in heart from of old, ye slew with the spear, and are slain. keen after heat is the cold, sore after summer is rain, and melteth man to the bone. as water he weareth away, as a flower, as an hour in a day, fallen from laughter to moan. but my spirit is shaken with fear lest an evil thing begin, new-born, a spear for a spear, and one for another sin. or ever our tears began, it was known from of old and said; one law for a living man, and another law for the dead. for these are fearful and sad, vain, and things without breath; while he lives let a man be glad, for none hath joy of his death. ii who hath known the pain, the old pain of earth, or all the travail of the sea, the many ways and waves, the birth fruitless, the labour nothing worth? who hath known, who knoweth, o gods? not we. there is none shall say he hath seen, there is none he hath known. though he saith, lo, a lord have i been, i have reaped and sown; i have seen the desire of mine eyes, the beginning of love, the season of kisses and sighs and the end thereof. i have known the ways of the sea, all the perilous ways, strange winds have spoken with me, and the tongues of strange days. i have hewn the pine for ships; where steeds run arow, i have seen from their bridled lips foam blown as the snow. with snapping of chariot-poles and with straining of oars i have grazed in the race the goals, in the storm the shores; as a greave is cleft with an arrow at the joint of the knee, i have cleft through the sea-straits narrow to the heart of the sea. when air was smitten in sunder i have watched on high the ways of the stars and the thunder in the night of the sky; where the dark brings forth light as a flower, as from lips that dissever; one abideth the space of an hour, one endureth for ever. lo, what hath he seen or known, of the way and the wave unbeholden, unsailed on, unsown, from the breast to the grave? or ever the stars were made, or skies, grief was born, and the kinless night, mother of gods without form or name. and light is born out of heaven and dies, and one day knows not another's light, but night is one, and her shape the same. but dumb the goddesses underground wait, and we hear not on earth if their feet rise, and the night wax loud with their wings; dumb, without word or shadow of sound; and sift in scales and winnow as wheat men's souls, and sorrow of manifold things. iii nor less of grief than ours the gods wrought long ago to bruise men one by one; but with the incessant hours fresh grief and greener woe spring, as the sudden sun year after year makes flowers; and these die down and grow, and the next year lacks none. as these men sleep, have slept the old heroes in time fled, no dream-divided sleep; and holier eyes have wept than ours, when on her dead gods have seen thetis weep, with heavenly hair far-swept back, heavenly hands outspread round what she could not keep, could not one day withhold, one night; and like as these white ashes of no weight, held not his urn the cold ashes of heracles? for all things born one gate opens, no gate of gold; opens; and no man sees beyond the gods and fate. anima anceps till death have broken sweet life's love-token, till all be spoken that shall be said, what dost thou praying, o soul, and playing with song and saying, things flown and fled? for this we know not-- that fresh springs flow not and fresh griefs grow not when men are dead; when strange years cover lover and lover, and joys are over and tears are shed. if one day's sorrow mar the day's morrow-- if man's life borrow and man's death pay-- if souls once taken, if lives once shaken, arise, awaken, by night, by day-- why with strong crying and years of sighing, living and dying, fast ye and pray? for all your weeping, waking and sleeping, death comes to reaping and takes away. though time rend after roof-tree from rafter, a little laughter is much more worth than thus to measure the hour, the treasure, the pain, the pleasure, the death, the birth; grief, when days alter, like joy shall falter; song-book and psalter, mourning and mirth. live like the swallow; seek not to follow where earth is hollow under the earth. in the orchard (provenÇal burden) leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see; let the dew-fall drench either side of me; clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. the grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie. kissed upon either cheek and either eye, i turn to thee as some green afternoon turns toward sunset, and is loth to die; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. lie closer, lean your face upon my side, feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried, hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon; the pleasure lives there when the sense has died; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. o my fair lord, i charge you leave me this: is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss? nay take it then, my flower, my first in june, my rose, so like a tender mouth it is: ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire, dividing my delight and my desire, the crescent life and love the plenilune, love me though dusk begin and dark retire; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; i know, when life runs over, life is near to go; and with the slain of love love's ways are strewn, and with their blood, if love will have it so; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt; there is no building now the walls are built, no quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn, no drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. nay, slay me now; nay, for i will be slain; pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain, break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune, slay me ere day can slay desire again; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea, take life and all, for i will die, i say; love, i gave love, is life a better boon? for sweet night's sake i will not live till day; ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. nay, i will sleep then only; nay, but go. ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, i know love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune; hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so. ah god, ah god, that day should be so soon. a match if love were what the rose is, and i were like the leaf, our lives would grow together in sad or singing weather, blown fields or flowerful closes, green pleasure or grey grief; if love were what the rose is, and i were like the leaf. if i were what the words are, and love were like the tune, with double sound and single delight our lips would mingle, with kisses glad as birds are that get sweet rain at noon; if i were what the words are, and love were like the tune. if you were life, my darling, and i your love were death, we'd shine and snow together ere march made sweet the weather with daffodil and starling and hours of fruitful breath; if you were life, my darling, and i your love were death. if you were thrall to sorrow, and i were page to joy, we'd play for lives and seasons with loving looks and treasons and tears of night and morrow and laughs of maid and boy; if you were thrall to sorrow, and i were page to joy. if you were april's lady, and i were lord in may, we'd throw with leaves for hours and draw for days with flowers, till day like night were shady and night were bright like day; if you were april's lady, and i were lord in may. if you were queen of pleasure, and i were king of pain, we'd hunt down love together, pluck out his flying-feather, and teach his feet a measure, and find his mouth a rein; if you were queen of pleasure, and i were king of pain. faustine _ave faustina imperatrix, morituri te salutant._ lean back, and get some minutes' peace; let your head lean back to the shoulder with its fleece of locks, faustine. the shapely silver shoulder stoops, weighed over clean with state of splendid hair that droops each side, faustine. let me go over your good gifts that crown you queen; a queen whose kingdom ebbs and shifts each week, faustine. bright heavy brows well gathered up: white gloss and sheen; carved lips that make my lips a cup to drink, faustine, wine and rank poison, milk and blood, being mixed therein since first the devil threw dice with god for you, faustine. your naked new-born soul, their stake, stood blind between; god said "let him that wins her take and keep faustine." but this time satan throve, no doubt; long since, i ween, god's part in you was battered out; long since, faustine. the die rang sideways as it fell, rang cracked and thin, like a man's laughter heard in hell far down, faustine, a shadow of laughter like a sigh, dead sorrow's kin; so rang, thrown down, the devil's die that won faustine. a suckling of his breed you were, one hard to wean; but god, who lost you, left you fair, we see, faustine. you have the face that suits a woman for her soul's screen-- the sort of beauty that's called human in hell, faustine. you could do all things but be good or chaste of mien; and that you would not if you could, we know, faustine. even he who cast seven devils out of magdalene could hardly do as much, i doubt, for you, faustine. did satan make you to spite god? or did god mean to scourge with scorpions for a rod our sins, faustine? i know what queen at first you were, as though i had seen red gold and black imperious hair twice crown faustine. as if your fed sarcophagus spared flesh and skin, you come back face to face with us, the same faustine. she loved the games men played with death, where death must win; as though the slain man's blood and breath revived faustine. nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net; lithe limbs and lean from drained-out pores dripped thick red sweat to soothe faustine. she drank the steaming drift and dust blown off the scene; blood could not ease the bitter lust that galled faustine. all round the foul fat furrows reeked, where blood sank in; the circus splashed and seethed and shrieked all round faustine. but these are gone now: years entomb the dust and din; yea, even the bath's fierce reek and fume that slew faustine. was life worth living then? and now is life worth sin? where are the imperial years? and how are you faustine? your soul forgot her joys, forgot her times of teen; yea, this life likewise will you not forget, faustine? for in the time we know not of did fate begin weaving the web of days that wove your doom, faustine. the threads were wet with wine, and all were smooth to spin; they wove you like a bacchanal, the first faustine. and bacchus cast your mates and you wild grapes to glean; your flower-like lips were dashed with dew from his, faustine. your drenched loose hands were stretched to hold the vine's wet green, long ere they coined in roman gold your face, faustine. then after change of soaring feather and winnowing fin, you woke in weeks of feverish weather, a new faustine. a star upon your birthday burned, whose fierce serene red pulseless planet never yearned in heaven, faustine. stray breaths of sapphic song that blew through mitylene shook the fierce quivering blood in you by night, faustine. the shameless nameless love that makes hell's iron gin shut on you like a trap that breaks the soul, faustine. and when your veins were void and dead, what ghosts unclean swarmed round the straitened barren bed that hid faustine? what sterile growths of sexless root or epicene? what flower of kisses without fruit of love, faustine? what adders came to shed their coats? what coiled obscene small serpents with soft stretching throats caressed faustine? but the time came of famished hours, maimed loves and mean, this ghastly thin-faced time of ours, to spoil faustine. you seem a thing that hinges hold, a love-machine with clockwork joints of supple gold-- no more, faustine. not godless, for you serve one god, the lampsacene, who metes the gardens with his rod; your lord, faustine. if one should love you with real love (such things have been, things your fair face knows nothing of, it seems, faustine); that clear hair heavily bound back, the lights wherein shift from dead blue to burnt-up black; your throat, faustine, strong, heavy, throwing out the face and hard bright chin and shameful scornful lips that grace their shame, faustine, curled lips, long-since half kissed away, still sweet and keen; you'd give him--poison shall we say? or what, faustine? a cameo there was a graven image of desire painted with red blood on a ground of gold passing between the young men and the old, and by him pain, whose body shone like fire, and pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire. of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold, the insatiable satiety kept hold, walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire. the senses and the sorrows and the sins, and the strange loves that suck the breasts of hate till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture, followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins. death stood aloof behind a gaping grate, upon whose lock was written _peradventure_. song before death (from the french) sweet mother, in a minute's span death parts thee and my love of thee; sweet love, that yet art living man, come back, true love, to comfort me. back, ah, come back! ah wellaway! but my love comes not any day. as roses, when the warm west blows, break to full flower and sweeten spring, my soul would break to a glorious rose in such wise at his whispering. in vain i listen; wellaway! my love says nothing any day. you that will weep for pity of love on the low place where i am lain, i pray you, having wept enough, tell him for whom i bore such pain that he was yet, ah! wellaway! my true love to my dying day. rococo take hands and part with laughter; touch lips and part with tears; once more and no more after, whatever comes with years. we twain shall not remeasure the ways that left us twain; nor crush the lees of pleasure from sanguine grapes of pain. we twain once well in sunder, what will the mad gods do for hate with me, i wonder, or what for love with you? forget them till november, and dream there's april yet; forget that i remember, and dream that i forget. time found our tired love sleeping, and kissed away his breath; but what should we do weeping, though light love sleep to death? we have drained his lips at leisure, till there's not left to drain a single sob of pleasure, a single pulse of pain. dream that the lips once breathless might quicken if they would; say that the soul is deathless; dream that the gods are good; say march may wed september, and time divorce regret; but not that you remember, and not that i forget. we have heard from hidden places what love scarce lives and hears: we have seen on fervent faces the pallor of strange tears: we have trod the wine-vat's treasure, whence, ripe to steam and stain, foams round the feet of pleasure the blood-red must of pain. remembrance may recover and time bring back to time the name of your first lover, the ring of my first rhyme; but rose-leaves of december the frosts of june shall fret, the day that you remember, the day that i forget. the snake that hides and hisses in heaven we twain have known; the grief of cruel kisses, the joy whose mouth makes moan; the pulse's pause and measure, where in one furtive vein throbs through the heart of pleasure the purpler blood of pain. we have done with tears and treasons and love for treason's sake; room for the swift new seasons, the years that burn and break, dismantle and dismember men's days and dreams, juliette; for love may not remember, but time will not forget. life treads down love in flying, time withers him at root; bring all dead things and dying, reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, where, crushed by three days' pressure, our three days' love lies slain; and earlier leaf of pleasure, and latter flower of pain. breathe close upon the ashes, it may be flame will leap; unclose the soft close lashes, lift up the lids, and weep. light love's extinguished ember, let one tear leave it wet for one that you remember and ten that you forget. stage love when the game began between them for a jest, he played king and she played queen to match the best; laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter, these were things she sought for years and sorrowed after. pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night; all the sting and all the stain of long delight; these were things she knew not of, that knew not of her, when she played at half a love with half a lover. time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry; they would kill, befool, amuse him, let him die; set him webs to weave to-day and break to-morrow, till he died for good in play, and rose in sorrow. what the years mean; how time dies and is not slain; how love grows and laughs and cries and wanes again; these were things she came to know, and take their measure, when the play was played out so for one man's pleasure. the leper nothing is better, i well think, than love; the hidden well-water is not so delicate to drink: this was well seen of me and her. i served her in a royal house; i served her wine and curious meat. for will to kiss between her brows, i had no heart to sleep or eat. mere scorn god knows she had of me, a poor scribe, nowise great or fair, who plucked his clerk's hood back to see her curled-up lips and amorous hair. i vex my head with thinking this. yea, though god always hated me, and hates me now that i can kiss her eyes, plait up her hair to see how she then wore it on the brows, yet am i glad to have her dead here in this wretched wattled house where i can kiss her eyes and head. nothing is better, i well know, than love; no amber in cold sea or gathered berries under snow: that is well seen of her and me. three thoughts i make my pleasure of: first i take heart and think of this: that knight's gold hair she chose to love, his mouth she had such will to kiss. then i remember that sundawn i brought him by a privy way out at her lattice, and thereon what gracious words she found to say. (cold rushes for such little feet-- both feet could lie into my hand. a marvel was it of my sweet her upright body could so stand.) "sweet friend, god give you thank and grace; now am i clean and whole of shame, nor shall men burn me in the face for my sweet fault that scandals them." i tell you over word by word. she, sitting edgewise on her bed, holding her feet, said thus. the third, a sweeter thing than these, i said. god, that makes time and ruins it and alters not, abiding god, changed with disease her body sweet, the body of love wherein she abode. love is more sweet and comelier than a dove's throat strained out to sing. all they spat out and cursed at her and cast her forth for a base thing. they cursed her, seeing how god had wrought this curse to plague her, a curse of his. fools were they surely, seeing not how sweeter than all sweet she is. he that had held her by the hair, with kissing lips blinding her eyes, felt her bright bosom, strained and bare, sigh under him, with short mad cries out of her throat and sobbing mouth and body broken up with love, with sweet hot tears his lips were loth her own should taste the savour of, yea, he inside whose grasp all night her fervent body leapt or lay, stained with sharp kisses red and white, found her a plague to spurn away. i hid her in this wattled house, i served her water and poor bread. for joy to kiss between her brows time upon time i was nigh dead. bread failed; we got but well-water and gathered grass with dropping seed. i had such joy of kissing her, i had small care to sleep or feed. sometimes when service made me glad the sharp tears leapt between my lids, falling on her, such joy i had to do the service god forbids. "i pray you let me be at peace, get hence, make room for me to die." she said that: her poor lip would cease, put up to mine, and turn to cry. i said, "bethink yourself how love fared in us twain, what either did; shall i unclothe my soul thereof? that i should do this, god forbid." yea, though god hateth us, he knows that hardly in a little thing love faileth of the work it does till it grow ripe for gathering. six months, and now my sweet is dead a trouble takes me; i know not if all were done well, all well said, no word or tender deed forgot. too sweet, for the least part in her, to have shed life out by fragments; yet, could the close mouth catch breath and stir, i might see something i forget. six months, and i sit still and hold in two cold palms her cold two feet. her hair, half grey half ruined gold, thrills me and burns me in kissing it. love bites and stings me through, to see her keen face made of sunken bones. her worn-off eyelids madden me, that were shot through with purple once. she said, "be good with me; i grow so tired for shame's sake, i shall die if you say nothing:" even so. and she is dead now, and shame put by. yea, and the scorn she had of me in the old time, doubtless vexed her then. i never should have kissed her. see what fools god's anger makes of men! she might have loved me a little too, had i been humbler for her sake. but that new shame could make love new she saw not--yet her shame did make. i took too much upon my love, having for such mean service done her beauty and all the ways thereof, her face and all the sweet thereon. yea, all this while i tended her, i know the old love held fast his part: i know the old scorn waxed heavier, mixed with sad wonder, in her heart. it may be all my love went wrong-- a scribe's work writ awry and blurred, scrawled after the blind evensong-- spoilt music with no perfect word. but surely i would fain have done all things the best i could. perchance because i failed, came short of one, she kept at heart that other man's. i am grown blind with all these things: it may be now she hath in sight some better knowledge; still there clings the old question. will not god do right?[ ] [ ] en ce temps-là estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et de meseaulx, ce dont le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que dieu dust en estre moult griefvement courroucé. ores il advint qu'une noble damoyselle appelée yolande de sallières estant atteincte et touste guastée de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant devant leurs yeux la paour de dieu la firent issir fors de leurs maisons et oncques ne voulurent recepvoir ni reconforter chose mauldicte de dieu et à tous les hommes puante et abhominable. ceste dame avoyt esté moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de son corps elle estoyt large et de vie lascive. pourtant nul des amans qui l'avoyent souventesfois accollée et baisée moult tendrement ne voulust plus héberger si laide femme et si détestable pescheresse. ung seul clerc qui feut premièrement son lacquays et son entremetteur en matière d'amour la reçut chez luy et la récéla dans une petite cabane. là mourut la meschinette de grande misère et de male mort: et après elle décéda ledist clerc qui pour grand amour l'avoyt six mois durant soignée, lavée, habillée et deshabillée tous les jours de ses mains propres. mesme dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict clerc se remémourant de la grande beauté passée et guastée de ceste femme se délectoyt maintesfois à la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lépreuse et l'accoller doulcement de ses mains amoureuses. aussy est-il mort de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. cecy advint près fontainebellant en gastinois. et quand ouyt le roy philippe ceste adventure moult en estoyt esmerveillé. _grandes chroniques de france, ._ a ballad of burdens the burden of fair women. vain delight, and love self-slain in some sweet shameful way, and sorrowful old age that comes by night as a thief comes that has no heart by day, and change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them grey, and weariness that keeps awake for hire, and grief that says what pleasure used to say; this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of bought kisses. this is sore, a burden without fruit in childbearing; between the nightfall and the dawn threescore, threescore between the dawn and evening. the shuddering in thy lips, the shuddering in thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire, makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing, this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of sweet speeches. nay, kneel down, cover thy head, and weep; for verily these market-men that buy thy white and brown in the last days shall take no thought for thee. in the last days like earth thy face shall be, yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire, sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea. this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of long living. thou shalt fear waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed; and say at night "would god the day were here," and say at dawn "would god the day were dead." with weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed, and wear remorse of heart for thine attire, pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head; this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of bright colours. thou shalt see gold tarnished, and the grey above the green; and as the thing thou seest thy face shall be, and no more as the thing beforetime seen. and thou shalt say of mercy "it hath been," and living, watch the old lips and loves expire, and talking, tears shall take thy breath between; this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of sad sayings. in that day thou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tell thy times and ways and words of love, and say how one was dear and one desirable, and sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell, but now with lights reverse the old hours retire and the last hour is shod with fire from hell; this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of four seasons. rain in spring, white rain and wind among the tender trees; a summer of green sorrows gathering, rank autumn in a mist of miseries, with sad face set towards the year, that sees the charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre, and winter wan with many maladies; this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of dead faces. out of sight and out of love, beyond the reach of hands, changed in the changing of the dark and light, they walk and weep about the barren lands where no seed is nor any garner stands, where in short breaths the doubtful days respire, and time's turned glass lets through the sighing sands; this is the end of every man's desire. the burden of much gladness. life and lust forsake thee, and the face of thy delight; and underfoot the heavy hour strews dust, and overhead strange weathers burn and bite; and where the red was, lo the bloodless white, and where truth was, the likeness of a liar, and where day was, the likeness of the night; this is the end of every man's desire. l'envoy princes, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth, heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire; for life is sweet, but after life is death. this is the end of every man's desire. rondel kissing her hair i sat against her feet, wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; with her own tresses bound and found her fair, kissing her hair. sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; what pain could get between my face and hers? what new sweet thing would love not relish worse? unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, kissing her hair? before the mirror (verses written under a picture) inscribed to j. a. whistler i white rose in red rose-garden is not so white; snowdrops that plead for pardon and pine for fright because the hard east blows over their maiden rows grow not as this face grows from pale to bright. behind the veil, forbidden, shut up from sight, love, is there sorrow hidden, is there delight? is joy thy dower or grief, white rose of weary leaf, late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light? soft snows that hard winds harden till each flake bite fill all the flowerless garden whose flowers took flight long since when summer ceased, and men rose up from feast, and warm west wind grew east, and warm day night. ii "come snow, come wind or thunder high up in air, i watch my face, and wonder at my bright hair; nought else exalts or grieves the rose at heart, that heaves with love of her own leaves and lips that pair. "she knows not loves that kissed her she knows not where. art thou the ghost, my sister, white sister there, am i the ghost, who knows? my hand, a fallen rose, lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care. "i cannot see what pleasures or what pains were; what pale new loves and treasures new years will bear; what beam will fall, what shower, what grief or joy for dower; but one thing-knows the flower; the flower is fair." iii glad, but not flushed with gladness, since joys go by; sad, but not bent with sadness, since sorrows die; deep in the gleaming glass she sees all past things pass, and all sweet life that was lie down and lie. there glowing ghosts of flowers draw down, draw nigh; and wings of swift spent hours take flight and fly; she sees by formless gleams, she hears across cold streams, dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh. face fallen and white throat lifted, with sleepless eye she sees old loves that drifted, she knew not why, old loves and faded fears float down a stream that hears the flowing of all men's tears beneath the sky. erotion sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet, o love, to lay down fear at love's fair feet; shall not some fiery memory of his breath lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death? yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee. love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and i, one thing i can, and one love cannot--die. pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair, feed my desire and deaden my despair. yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak, yet once more ere thou hate me, one full kiss; keep other hours for others, save me this. yea, and i will not (if it please thee) weep, lest thou be sad; i will but sigh, and sleep. sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong: i shall not lack thee, as i loved thee, long. hast thou not given me above all that live joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give? what even though fairer fingers of strange girls pass nestling through thy beautiful boy's curls as mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine; and though i were not, though i be not, best, i have loved and love thee more than all the rest. o love, o lover, loose or hold me fast, i had thee first, whoever have thee last; fairer or not, what need i know, what care? to thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair. why am i fair at all before thee, why at all desired? seeing thou art fair, not i. i shall be glad of thee, o fairest head, alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead; i shall remember while the light lives yet, and in the night-time i shall not forget. though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave, i will not, for thy love i will not, grieve; not as they use who love not more than i, who love not as i love thee though i die; and though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest to many another brow and balmier breast, and sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind, lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find. in memory of walter savage landor back to the flower-town, side by side, the bright months bring, new-born, the bridegroom and the bride, freedom and spring. the sweet land laughs from sea to sea, filled full of sun; all things come back to her, being free; all things but one. in many a tender wheaten plot flowers that were dead live, and old suns revive; but not that holier head. by this white wandering waste of sea, far north, i hear one face shall never turn to me as once this year: shall never smile and turn and rest on mine as there, nor one most sacred hand be prest upon my hair. i came as one whose thoughts half linger, half run before; the youngest to the oldest singer that england bore. i found him whom i shall not find till all grief end, in holiest age our mightiest mind, father and friend. but thou, if anything endure, if hope there be, o spirit that man's life left pure, man's death set free, not with disdain of days that were look earthward now; let dreams revive the reverend hair, the imperial brow; come back in sleep, for in the life where thou art not we find none like thee. time and strife and the world's lot move thee no more; but love at least and reverent heart may move thee, royal and released, soul, as thou art. and thou, his florence, to thy trust receive and keep, keep safe his dedicated dust, his sacred sleep. so shall thy lovers, come from far, mix with thy name as morning-star with evening-star his faultless fame a song in time of order. push hard across the sand, for the salt wind gathers breath; shoulder and wrist and hand, push hard as the push of death. the wind is as iron that rings, the foam-heads loosen and flee; it swells and welters and swings, the pulse of the tide of the sea. and up on the yellow cliff the long corn flickers and shakes; push, for the wind holds stiff, and the gunwale dips and rakes. good hap to the fresh fierce weather, the quiver and beat of the sea! while three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three. out to the sea with her there, out with her over the sand; let the kings keep the earth for their share! we have done with the sharers of land. they have tied the world in a tether, they have bought over god with a fee; while three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three. we have done with the kisses that sting, the thief's mouth red from the feast, the blood on the hands of the king and the lie at the lips of the priest. will they tie the winds in a tether, put a bit in the jaws of the sea? while three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three. let our flag run out straight in the wind! the old red shall be floated again when the ranks that are thin shall be thinned, when the names that were twenty are ten; when the devil's riddle is mastered and the galley-bench creaks with a pope, we shall see buonaparte the bastard kick heels with his throat in a rope. while the shepherd sets wolves on his sheep and the emperor halters his kine, while shame is a watchman asleep and faith is a keeper of swine, let the wind shake our flag like a feather, like the plumes of the foam of the sea! while three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three. all the world has its burdens to bear, from cayenne to the austrian whips; forth, with the rain in our hair and the salt sweet foam in our lips; in the teeth of the hard glad weather, in the blown wet face of the sea; while three men hold together, the kingdoms are less by three. a song in time of revolution. the heart of the rulers is sick, and the high-priest covers his head: for this is the song of the quick that is heard in the ears of the dead. the poor and the halt and the blind are keen and mighty and fleet: like the noise of the blowing of wind is the sound of the noise of their feet. the wind has the sound of a laugh in the clamour of days and of deeds: the priests are scattered like chaff, and the rulers broken like reeds. the high-priest sick from qualms, with his raiment bloodily dashed; the thief with branded palms, and the liar with cheeks abashed. they are smitten, they tremble greatly, they are pained for their pleasant things: for the house of the priests made stately, and the might in the mouth of the kings. they are grieved and greatly afraid; they are taken, they shall not flee: for the heart of the nations is made as the strength of the springs of the sea. they were fair in the grace of gold, they walked with delicate feet: they were clothed with the cunning of old, and the smell of their garments was sweet. for the breaking of gold in their hair they halt as a man made lame: they are utterly naked and bare; their mouths are bitter with shame. wilt thou judge thy people now, o king that wast found most wise? wilt thou lie any more, o thou whose mouth is emptied of lies? shall god make a pact with thee, till his hook be found in thy sides? wilt thou put back the time of the sea, or the place of the season of tides? set a word in thy lips, to stand before god with a word in thy mouth: that "the rain shall return in the land, and the tender dew after drouth." but the arm of the elders is broken, their strength is unbound and undone: they wait for a sign of a token; they cry, and there cometh none. their moan is in every place, the cry of them filleth the land: there is shame in the sight of their face, there is fear in the thews of their hand. they are girdled about the reins with a curse for the girdle thereon: for the noise of the rending of chains the face of their colour is gone. for the sound of the shouting of men they are grievously stricken at heart: they are smitten asunder with pain, their bones are smitten apart. there is none of them all that is whole; their lips gape open for breath; they are clothed with sickness of soul, and the shape of the shadow of death. the wind is thwart in their feet; it is full of the shouting of mirth; as one shaketh the sides of a sheet, so it shaketh the ends of the earth. the sword, the sword is made keen; the iron has opened its mouth; the corn is red that was green; it is bound for the sheaves of the south. the sound of a word was shed, the sound of the wind as a breath, in the ears of the souls that were dead, in the dust of the deepness of death; where the face of the moon is taken, the ways of the stars undone, the light of the whole sky shaken, the light of the face of the sun: where the waters are emptied and broken, the waves of the waters are stayed; where god has bound for a token the darkness that maketh afraid; where the sword was covered and hidden, and dust had grown in its side, a word came forth which was bidden, the crying of one that cried: the sides of the two-edged sword shall be bare, and its mouth shall be red, for the breath of the face of the lord that is felt in the bones of the dead. to victor hugo in the fair days when god by man as godlike trod, and each alike was greek, alike was free, god's lightning spared, they said, alone the happier head whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee, to whom the high gods gave of right their thunders and their laurels and their light. sunbeams and bays before our master's servants wore, for these apollo left in all men's lands; but far from these ere now and watched with jealous brow lay the blind lightnings shut between god's hands, and only loosed on slaves and kings the terror of the tempest of their wings. born in those younger years that shone with storms of spears and shook in the wind blown from a dead world's pyre, when by her back-blown hair napoleon caught the fair and fierce republic with her feet of fire, and stayed with iron words and hands her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands: thou sawest the tides of things close over heads of kings, and thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee laurels and lightnings were as sunbeams and soft air mixed each in other, or as mist with sea mixed, or as memory with desire, or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre. for thee man's spirit stood disrobed of flesh and blood, and bare the heart of the most secret hours; and to thine hand more tame than birds in winter came high hopes and unknown flying forms of powers, and from thy table fed, and sang till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang. even all men's eyes and ears with fiery sound and tears waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelid light, at those high songs of thine that stung the sense like wine, or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, or wailed as in some flooded cave sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave. but we, our master, we whose hearts, uplift to thee, ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, we ask not nor await from the clenched hands of fate, as thou, remission of the world's old wrong; respite we ask not, nor release; freedom a man may have, he shall not peace. though thy most fiery hope storm heaven, to set wide ope the all-sought-for gate whence god or chance debars all feet of men, all eyes-- the old night resumes her skies, her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, where nought save these is sure in sight; and, paven with death, our days are roofed with night. one thing we can; to be awhile, as men may, free; but not by hope or pleasure the most stern goddess, most awful-eyed, sits, but on either side sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn, sad faith that cannot hope or fear, and memory grey with many a flowerless year. not that in stranger's wise i lift not loving eyes to the fair foster-mother france, that gave beyond the pale fleet foam help to my sires and home, whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save whom from her nursing breasts and hands their land cast forth of old on gentler lands. not without thoughts that ache for theirs and for thy sake, i, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; i whose young song took flight toward the great heat and light on me a child from thy far splendour shed, from thine high place of soul and song, which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong. ah, not with lessening love for memories born hereof, i look to that sweet mother-land, and see the old fields and fair full streams, and skies, but fled like dreams the feet of freedom and the thought of thee; and all between the skies and graves the mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves. she, killed with noisome air, even she! and still so fair, who said "let there be freedom," and there was freedom; and as a lance the fiery eyes of france touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made pass forth of men's heavier ears and eyes smitten with fire and thunder from new skies. are they men's friends indeed who watch them weep and bleed? because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee? thou, first of men and friend, seest thou, even thou, the end? thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be? evils may pass and hopes endure; but fate is dim, and all the gods obscure. o nursed in airs apart, o poet highest of heart, hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things? are not the years more wise, more sad than keenest eyes, the years with soundless feet and sounding wings? passing we hear them not, but past the clamour of them thrills us, and their blast. thou art chief of us, and lord; thy song is as a sword keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; thou art lord and king; but we lift younger eyes, and see less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; hours that have borne men down so long, seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong. but thine imperial soul, as years and ruins roll to the same end, and all things and all dreams with the same wreck and roar drift on the dim same shore, still in the bitter foam and brackish streams tracks the fresh water-spring to be and sudden sweeter fountains in the sea. as once the high god bound with many a rivet round man's saviour, and with iron nailed him through, at the wild end of things, where even his own bird's wings flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew, from caucasus beheld below past fathoms of unfathomable snow; so the strong god, the chance central of circumstance, still shows him exile who will not be slave; all thy great fame and thee girt by the dim strait sea with multitudinous walls of wandering wave; shows us our greatest from his throne fate-stricken, and rejected of his own. yea, he is strong, thou say'st, a mystery many-faced, the wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee; the blind night sees him, death shrinks beaten at his breath, and his right hand is heavy on the sea: we know he hath made us, and is king; we know not if he care for anything. thus much, no more, we know; he bade what is be so, bade light be and bade night be, one by one; bade hope and fear, bade ill and good redeem and kill, till all men be aweary of the sun and his world burn in its own flame and bear no witness longer of his name. yet though all this be thus, be those men praised of us who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned for fame or fear or gold, nor waxed for winter cold, nor changed for changes of the worldly wind; praised above men of men be these, till this one world and work we know shall cease. yea, one thing more than this, we know that one thing is, the splendour of a spirit without blame, that not the labouring years blind-born, nor any fears, nor men nor any gods can tire or tame; but purer power with fiery breath fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death. praised above men be thou, whose laurel-laden brow, made for the morning, droops not in the night; praised and beloved, that none of all thy great things done flies higher than thy most equal spirit's flight; praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend earth's loftiest head, found upright to the end. before dawn sweet life, if life were stronger, earth clear of years that wrong her, then two things might live longer, two sweeter things than they; delight, the rootless flower, and love, the bloomless bower; delight that lives an hour, and love that lives a day. from evensong to daytime, when april melts in maytime, love lengthens out his playtime, love lessens breath by breath, and kiss by kiss grows older on listless throat or shoulder turned sideways now, turned colder than life that dreams of death. this one thing once worth giving life gave, and seemed worth living; sin sweet beyond forgiving and brief beyond regret: to laugh and love together and weave with foam and feather and wind and words the tether our memories play with yet. ah, one thing worth beginning, one thread in life worth spinning, ah sweet, one sin worth sinning with all the whole soul's will; to lull you till one stilled you, to kiss you till one killed you, to feed you till one filled you, sweet lips, if love could fill; to hunt sweet love and lose him between white arms and bosom, between the bud and blossom, between your throat and chin; to say of shame--what is it? of virtue--we can miss it, of sin--we can but kiss it, and it's no longer sin: to feel the strong soul, stricken through fleshly pulses, quicken beneath swift sighs that thicken, soft hands and lips that smite; lips that no love can tire, with hands that sting like fire, weaving the web desire to snare the bird delight. but love so lightly plighted, our love with torch unlighted, paused near us unaffrighted, who found and left him free; none, seeing us cloven in sunder, will weep or laugh or wonder; light love stands clear of thunder, and safe from winds at sea. as, when late larks give warning of dying lights and dawning, night murmurs to the morning, "lie still, o love, lie still;" and half her dark limbs cover the white limbs of her lover, with amorous plumes that hover and fervent lips that chill; as scornful day represses night's void and vain caresses, and from her cloudier tresses unwinds the gold of his, with limbs from limbs dividing and breath by breath subsiding; for love has no abiding, but dies before the kiss; so hath it been, so be it; for who shall live and flee it? but look that no man see it or hear it unaware; lest all who love and choose him see love, and so refuse him; for all who find him lose him, but all have found him fair. dolores (notre-dame des sept douleurs) cold eyelids that hide like a jewel hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; the heavy white limbs, and the cruel red mouth like a venomous flower; when these are gone by with their glories, what shall rest of thee then, what remain, o mystic and sombre dolores, our lady of pain? seven sorrows the priests give their virgin; but thy sins, which are seventy times seven, seven ages would fail thee to purge in, and then they would haunt thee in heaven: fierce midnights and famishing morrows, and the loves that complete and control all the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows that wear out the soul. o garment not golden but gilded, o garden where all men may dwell, o tower not of ivory, but builded by hands that reach heaven from hell; o mystical rose of the mire, o house not of gold but of gain, o house of unquenchable fire, our lady of pain! o lips full of lust and of laughter, curled snakes that are fed from my breast, bite hard, lest remembrance come after and press with new lips where you pressed. for my heart too springs up at the pressure, mine eyelids too moisten and burn; ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure, ere pain come in turn. in yesterday's reach and to-morrow's, out of sight though they lie of to-day, there have been and there yet shall be sorrows that smite not and bite not in play. the life and the love thou despisest, these hurt us indeed, and in vain, o wise among women, and wisest, our lady of pain. who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories that stung thee, what visions that smote? wert thou pure and a maiden, dolores, when desire took thee first by the throat? what bud was the shell of a blossom that all men may smell to and pluck? what milk fed thee first at what bosom? what sins gave thee suck? we shift and bedeck and bedrape us, thou art noble and nude and antique; libitina thy mother, priapus thy father, a tuscan and greek. we play with light loves in the portal, and wince and relent and refrain; loves die, and we know thee immortal, our lady of pain. fruits fail and love dies and time ranges; thou art fed with perpetual breath, and alive after infinite changes, and fresh from the kisses of death; of languors rekindled and rallied, of barren delights and unclean, things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid and poisonous queen. could you hurt me, sweet lips, though i hurt you? men touch them, and change in a trice the lilies and languors of virtue for the raptures and roses of vice; those lie where thy foot on the floor is, these crown and caress thee and chain, o splendid and sterile dolores, our lady of pain. there are sins it may be to discover, there are deeds it may be to delight. what new work wilt thou find for thy lover, what new passions for daytime or night? what spells that they know not a word of whose lives are as leaves overblown? what tortures undreamt of, unheard of, unwritten, unknown? ah beautiful passionate body that never has ached with a heart! on thy mouth though the kisses are bloody, though they sting till it shudder and smart, more kind than the love we adore is, they hurt not the heart or the brain, o bitter and tender dolores, our lady of pain. as our kisses relax and redouble, from the lips and the foam and the fangs shall no new sin be born for men's trouble, no dream of impossible pangs? with the sweet of the sins of old ages wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore? too sweet is the rind, say the sages, too bitter the core. hast thou told all thy secrets the last time, and bared all thy beauties to one? ah, where shall we go then for pastime, if the worst that can be has been done? but sweet as the rind was the core is; we are fain of thee still, we are fain, o sanguine and subtle dolores, our lady of pain. by the hunger of change and emotion, by the thirst of unbearable things, by despair, the twin-born of devotion, by the pleasure that winces and stings, the delight that consumes the desire, the desire that outruns the delight, by the cruelty deaf as a fire and blind as the night, by the ravenous teeth that have smitten through the kisses that blossom and bud, by the lips intertwisted and bitten till the foam has a savour of blood, by the pulse as it rises and falters, by the hands as they slacken and strain, i adjure thee, respond from thine altars, our lady of pain. wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining the light fire in the veins of a boy? but he comes to thee sad, without feigning, who has wearied of sorrow and joy; less careful of labour and glory than the elders whose hair has uncurled; and young, but with fancies as hoary and grey as the world. i have passed from the outermost portal to the shrine where a sin is a prayer; what care though the service be mortal? o our lady of torture, what care? all thine the last wine that i pour is, the last in the chalice we drain, o fierce and luxurious dolores, our lady of pain. all thine the new wine of desire, the fruit of four lips as they clung till the hair and the eyelids took fire, the foam of a serpentine tongue, the froth of the serpents of pleasure, more salt than the foam of the sea, now felt as a flame, now at leisure as wine shed for me. ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen, marked cross from the womb and perverse! they have found out the secret to cozen the gods that constrain us and curse; they alone, they are wise, and none other; give me place, even me, in their train, o my sister, my spouse, and my mother, our lady of pain. for the crown of our life as it closes is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; no thorns go as deep as a rose's, and love is more cruel than lust. time turns the old days to derision, our loves into corpses or wives; and marriage and death and division make barren our lives. and pale from the past we draw nigh thee, and satiate with comfortless hours; and we know thee, how all men belie thee, and we gather the fruit of thy flowers; the passion that slays and recovers, the pangs and the kisses that rain on the lips and the limbs of thy lovers, our lady of pain. the desire of thy furious embraces is more than the wisdom of years, on the blossom though blood lie in traces, though the foliage be sodden with tears. for the lords in whose keeping the door is that opens on all who draw breath gave the cypress to love, my dolores, the myrtle to death. and they laughed, changing hands in the measure, and they mixed and made peace after strife; pain melted in tears, and was pleasure; death tingled with blood, and was life. like lovers they melted and tingled, in the dusk of thine innermost fane; in the darkness they murmured and mingled, our lady of pain. in a twilight where virtues are vices, in thy chapels, unknown of the sun, to a tune that enthralls and entices, they were wed, and the twain were as one. for the tune from thine altar hath sounded since god bade the world's work begin, and the fume of thine incense abounded, to sweeten the sin. love listens, and paler than ashes, through his curls as the crown on them slips, lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes, and laughs with insatiable lips. thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses, with music that scares the profane; thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses, our lady of pain. thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle, thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive; in his lips all thy serpents shall nestle, in his hands all thy cruelties thrive. in the daytime thy voice shall go through him, in his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him asleep and awake. thou shalt touch and make redder his roses with juice not of fruit nor of bud; when the sense in the spirit reposes, thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood. thine, thine the one grace we implore is, who would live and not languish or feign, o sleepless and deadly dolores, our lady of pain. dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber, in a lull of the fires of thy life, of the days without name, without number, when thy will stung the world into strife; when, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion smote kings as they revelled in rome; and they hailed thee re-risen, o thalassian, foam-white, from the foam? when thy lips had such lovers to flatter; when the city lay red from thy rods, and thine hands were as arrows to scatter the children of change and their gods; when the blood of thy foemen made fervent a sand never moist from the main, as one smote them, their lord and thy servant, our lady of pain. on sands by the storm never shaken, nor wet from the washing of tides; nor by foam of the waves overtaken, nor winds that the thunder bestrides; but red from the print of thy paces, made smooth for the world and its lords, ringed round with a flame of fair faces, and splendid with swords. there the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure, drew bitter and perilous breath; there torments laid hold on the treasure of limbs too delicious for death; when thy gardens were lit with live torches; when the world was a steed for thy rein; when the nations lay prone in thy porches, our lady of pain. when, with flame all around him aspirant, stood flushed, as a harp-player stands, the implacable beautiful tyrant, rose-crowned, having death in his hands; and a sound as the sound of loud water smote far through the flight of the fires, and mixed with the lightning of slaughter a thunder of lyres. dost thou dream of what was and no more is, the old kingdoms of earth and the kings? dost thou hunger for these things, dolores, for these, in a world of new things? but thy bosom no fasts could emaciate, no hunger compel to complain those lips that no bloodshed could satiate, our lady of pain. as of old when the world's heart was lighter, through thy garments the grace of thee glows, the white wealth of thy body made whiter by the blushes of amorous blows, and seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers, and branded by kisses that bruise; when all shall be gone that now lingers, ah, what shall we lose? thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion, and thy limbs are as melodies yet, and move to the music of passion with lithe and lascivious regret. what ailed us, o gods, to desert you for creeds that refuse and restrain? come down and redeem us from virtue, our lady of pain. all shrines that were vestal are flameless, but the flame has not fallen from this; though obscure be the god, and though nameless the eyes and the hair that we kiss; low fires that love sits by and forges fresh heads for his arrows and thine; hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies with kisses and wine. thy skin changes country and colour, and shrivels or swells to a snake's. let it brighten and bloat and grow duller, we know it, the flames and the flakes, red brands on it smitten and bitten, round skies where a star is a stain, and the leaves with thy litanies written, our lady of pain. on thy bosom though many a kiss be, there are none such as knew it of old. was it alciphron once or arisbe, male ringlets or feminine gold, that thy lips met with under the statue, whence a look shot out sharp after thieves from the eyes of the garden-god at you across the fig-leaves? then still, through dry seasons and moister, one god had a wreath to his shrine; then love was the pearl of his oyster,[ ] and venus rose red out of wine. we have all done amiss, choosing rather such loves as the wise gods disdain; intercede for us thou with thy father, our lady of pain. in spring he had crowns of his garden, red corn in the heat of the year, then hoary green olives that harden when the grape-blossom freezes with fear; and milk-budded myrtles with venus and vine-leaves with bacchus he trod; and ye said, "we have seen, he hath seen us, a visible god." what broke off the garlands that girt you? what sundered you spirit and clay? weak sins yet alive are as virtue to the strength of the sins of that day. for dried is the blood of thy lover, ipsithilla, contracted the vein; cry aloud, "will he rise and recover, our lady of pain?" cry aloud; for the old world is broken: cry out; for the phrygian is priest, and rears not the bountiful token and spreads not the fatherly feast. from the midmost of ida, from shady recesses that murmur at morn, they have brought and baptized her, our lady, a goddess new-born. and the chaplets of old are above us, and the oyster-bed teems out of reach; old poets outsing and outlove us, and catullus makes mouths at our speech. who shall kiss, in thy father's own city, with such lips as he sang with, again? intercede for us all of thy pity, our lady of pain. out of dindymus heavily laden her lions draw bound and unfed a mother, a mortal, a maiden, a queen over death and the dead. she is cold, and her habit is lowly, her temple of branches and sods; most fruitful and virginal, holy, a mother of gods. she hath wasted with fire thine high places, she hath hidden and marred and made sad the fair limbs of the loves, the fair faces of gods that were goodly and glad. she slays, and her hands are not bloody; she moves as a moon in the wane, white-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy, our lady of pain. they shall pass and their places be taken, the gods and the priests that are pure. they shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken? they shall perish, and shalt thou endure? death laughs, breathing close and relentless in the nostrils and eyelids of lust, with a pinch in his fingers of scentless and delicate dust. but the worm shall revive thee with kisses; thou shalt change and transmute as a god, as the rod to a serpent that hisses, as the serpent again to a rod. thy life shall not cease though thou doff it; thou shalt live until evil be slain, and good shall die first, said thy prophet, our lady of pain. did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it, now he lies out of reach, out of breath, thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet, sin's child by incestuous death? did he find out in fire at his waking, or discern as his eyelids lost light, when the bands of the body were breaking and all came in sight? who has known all the evil before us, or the tyrannous secrets of time? though we match not the dead men that bore us at a song, at a kiss, at a crime-- though the heathen outface and outlive us, and our lives and our longings are twain-- ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us, our lady of pain. who are we that embalm and embrace thee with spices and savours of song? what is time, that his children should face thee? what am i, that my lips do thee wrong? i could hurt thee--but pain would delight thee; or caress thee--but love would repel; and the lovers whose lips would excite thee are serpents in hell. who now shall content thee as they did, thy lovers, when temples were built and the hair of the sacrifice braided and the blood of the sacrifice spilt, in lampsacus fervent with faces, in aphaca red from thy reign, who embraced thee with awful embraces, our lady of pain? where are they, cotytto or venus, astarte or ashtaroth, where? do their hands as we touch come between us? is the breath of them hot in thy hair? from their lips have thy lips taken fever, with the blood of their bodies grown red? hast thou left upon earth a believer if these men are dead? they were purple of raiment and golden, filled full of thee, fiery with wine, thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden, in marvellous chambers of thine. they are fled, and their footprints escape us, who appraise thee, adore, and abstain, o daughter of death and priapus, our lady of pain. what ails us to fear overmeasure, to praise thee with timorous breath, o mistress and mother of pleasure, the one thing as certain as death? we shall change as the things that we cherish, shall fade as they faded before, as foam upon water shall perish, as sand upon shore. we shall know what the darkness discovers, if the grave-pit be shallow or deep; and our fathers of old, and our lovers, we shall know if they sleep not or sleep. we shall see whether hell be not heaven, find out whether tares be not grain, and the joys of thee seventy times seven, our lady of pain. [ ] nam te præcipuè in suis urbibus colit ora hellespontia, cæteris ostreosior oris. catull. _carm._ xviii. the garden of proserpine here, where the world is quiet; here, where all trouble seems dead winds' and spent waves' riot in doubtful dreams of dreams; i watch the green field growing for reaping folk and sowing, for harvest-time and mowing, a sleepy world of streams. i am tired of tears and laughter, and men that laugh and weep; of what may come hereafter for men that sow to reap: i am weary of days and hours, blown buds of barren flowers, desires and dreams and powers and everything but sleep. here life has death for neighbour, and far from eye or ear wan waves and wet winds labour, weak ships and spirits steer; they drive adrift, and whither they wot not who make thither; but no such winds blow hither, and no such things grow here. no growth of moor or coppice, no heather-flower or vine, but bloomless buds of poppies, green grapes of proserpine, pale beds of blowing rushes where no leaf blooms or blushes save this whereout she crushes for dead men deadly wine. pale, without name or number, in fruitless fields of corn, they bow themselves and slumber all night till light is born; and like a soul belated, in hell and heaven unmated, by cloud and mist abated comes out of darkness morn. though one were strong as seven, he too with death shall dwell, nor wake with wings in heaven, nor weep for pains in hell; though one were fair as roses, his beauty clouds and closes; and well though love reposes, in the end it is not well. pale, beyond porch and portal, crowned with calm leaves, she stands who gathers all things mortal with cold immortal hands; her languid lips are sweeter than love's who fears to greet her to men that mix and meet her from many times and lands. she waits for each and other, she waits for all men born; forgets the earth her mother, the life of fruits and corn; and spring and seed and swallow take wing for her and follow where summer song rings hollow and flowers are put to scorn. there go the loves that wither, the old loves with wearier wings; and all dead years draw thither, and all disastrous things; dead dreams of days forsaken, blind buds that snows have shaken, wild leaves that winds have taken, red strays of ruined springs. we are not sure of sorrow, and joy was never sure; to-day will die to-morrow; time stoops to no man's lure; and love, grown faint and fretful, with lips but half regretful sighs, and with eyes forgetful weeps that no loves endure. from too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, we thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be that no life lives for ever; that dead men rise up never; that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea. then star nor sun shall waken, nor any change of light: nor sound of waters shaken, nor any sound or sight: nor wintry leaves nor vernal, nor days nor things diurnal; only the sleep eternal in an eternal night. hesperia out of the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is, full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy, as a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of stories, blows with a perfume of songs and of memories beloved from a boy, blows from the capes of the past oversea to the bays of the present, filled as with shadow of sound with the pulse of invisible feet, far out to the shallows and straits of the future, by rough ways or pleasant, is it thither the wind's wings beat? is it hither to me, o my sweet? for thee, in the stream of the deep tide-wind blowing in with the water, thee i behold as a bird borne in with the wind from the west, straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose as a daughter venus thy mother, in years when the world was a water at rest. out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that abides after slumber, strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, when the moon overhead wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, and stars without number die without sound, and are spent like lamps that are burnt by the dead, comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with touch of forgotten caresses, one warm dream clad about with a fire as of life that endures; the delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses, and all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that allures. but thy bosom is warm for my face and profound as a manifold flower, thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour that fades in a flame; not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy mouth, and the bountiful hour that makes me forget what was sin, and would make me forget were it shame. thine eyes that are quiet, thine hands that are tender, thy lips that are loving, comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon like a dream; and my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly toward thee, and moving as the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant stream, fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water in prison, that stretches and swings to the slow passionate pulse of the sea, closed up from the air and the sun, but alive, as a ghost rearisen, pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen in me. from the bountiful infinite west, from the happy memorial places full of the stately repose and the lordly delight of the dead, where the fortunate islands are lit with the light of ineffable faces, and the sound of a sea without wind is about them, and sunset is red, come back to redeem and release me from love that recalls and represses, that cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the serpent has eaten his fill; from the bitter delights of the dark, and the feverish, the furtive caresses that murder the youth in a man or ever his heart have its will. thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot weep; thou art pale as a rose is, paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the blush of the bud; and the heart of the flower is compassion, and pity the core it encloses, pity, not love, that is born of the breath and decays with the blood. as the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge of it bruises her bosom, so love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens and burns as a flame; i have loved overmuch in my life; when the live bud bursts with the blossom, bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the wine thereof shame. as a heart that its anguish divides is the green bud cloven asunder; as the blood of a man self-slain is the flush of the leaves that allure; and the perfume as poison and wine to the brain, a delight and a wonder; and the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too slight for a man, to endure. too soon did i love it, and lost love's rose; and i cared not for glory's: only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure were mixed in my hair. was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven with, o my dolores? was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, that i found in thee fair? for desire is a respite from love, and the flesh not the heart is her fuel; she was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped from the rage of her reign; who behold as of old time at hand as i turn, with her mouth growing cruel, and flushed as with wine with the blood of her lovers, our lady of pain. low down where the thicket is thicker with thorns than with leaves in the summer, in the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hissing of tongues that i knew; and the lithe long throats of her snakes reach round her, their mouths overcome her, and her lips grow cool with their foam, made moist as a desert with dew. with the thirst and the hunger of lust though her beautiful lips be so bitter, with the cold foul foam of the snakes they soften and redden and smile; and her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax wide and her eyelashes glitter, and she laughs with a savour of blood in her face, and a savour of guile. she laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair blows hither and hisses, as a low-lit flame in a wind, back-blown till it shudder and leap; let her lips not again lay hold on my soul, nor her poisonous kisses, to consume it alive and divide from thy bosom, our lady of sleep. ah daughter of sunset and slumber, if now it return into prison, who shall redeem it anew? but we, if thou wilt, let us fly; let us take to us, now that the white skies thrill with a moon unarisen, swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and depart and not die. they are swifter than dreams, they are stronger than death; there is none that hath ridden, none that shall ride in the dim strange ways of his life as we ride; by the meadows of memory, the highlands of hope, and the shore that is hidden, where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonorous invisible tide; by the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt pools bitter and sterile, by the thundering reef and the low sea-wall and the channel of years, our wild steeds press on the night, strain hard through pleasure and peril, labour and listen and pant not or pause for the peril that nears; and the sound of them trampling the way cleaves night as an arrow asunder, and slow by the sand-hill and swift by the down with its glimpses of grass, sudden and steady the music, as eight hoofs trample and thunder, rings in the ear of the low blind wind of the night as we pass; shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air that was mute as a maiden, stung into storm by the speed of our passage, and deaf where we past; and our spirits too burn as we bound, thine holy but mine heavy-laden, as we burn with the fire of our flight; ah love, shall we win at the last? love at sea we are in love's land to-day; where shall we go? love, shall we start or stay, or sail or row? there's many a wind and way, and never a may but may; we are in love's hand to-day; where shall we go? our landwind is the breath of sorrows kissed to death and joys that were; our ballast is a rose; our way lies where god knows and love knows where. we are in love's hand to-day-- our seamen are fledged loves, our masts are bills of doves, our decks fine gold; our ropes are dead maids' hair, our stores are love-shafts fair and manifold. we are in love's land to-day-- where shall we land you, sweet? on fields of strange men's feet, or fields near home? or where the fire-flowers blow, or where the flowers of snow or flowers of foam? we are in love's hand to-day-- land me, she says, where love shows but one shaft, one dove, one heart, one hand. --a shore like that, my dear, lies where no man will steer, no maiden land. _imitated from théophile gautier._ april from the french of the vidame de chartres --? when the fields catch flower and the underwood is green, and from bower unto bower the songs of the birds begin, i sing with sighing between. when i laugh and sing, i am heavy at heart for my sin; i am sad in the spring for my love that i shall not win, for a foolish thing. this profit i have of my woe, that i know, as i sing, i know he will needs have it so who is master and king, who is lord of the spirit of spring. i will serve her and will not spare till her pity awake who is good, who is pure, who is fair, even her for whose sake love hath ta'en me and slain unaware. o my lord, o love, i have laid my life at thy feet; have thy will thereof, do as it please thee with it, for what shall please thee is sweet. i am come unto thee to do thee service, o love; yet cannot i see thou wilt take any pity thereof, any mercy on me. but the grace i have long time sought comes never in sight, if in her it abideth not, through thy mercy and might, whose heart is the world's delight. thou hast sworn without fail i shall die, for my heart is set on what hurts me, i wot not why, but cannot forget what i love, what i sing for and sigh. she is worthy of praise, for this grief of her giving is worth all the joy of my days that lie between death's day and birth, all the lordship of things upon earth. nay, what have i said? i would not be glad if i could; my dream and my dread are of her, and for her sake i would that my life were fled. lo, sweet, if i durst not pray to you, then were i dead; if i sang not a little to say to you, (could it be said) o my love, how my heart would be fed; ah sweet who hast hold of my heart, for thy love's sake i live, do but tell me, ere either depart, what a lover may give for a woman so fair as thou art. the lovers that disbelieve, false rumours shall grieve and evil-speaking shall part. before parting a month or twain to live on honeycomb is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, and that strong purple under juice and foam where the wine's heart has burst; nor feel the latter kisses like the first. once yet, this poor one time; i will not pray even to change the bitterness of it, the bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, to make your tears fall where your soft hair lay all blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise over my face and eyes. and yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat makes of its foolish poppies' mouths of red? these were not sown, these are not harvested, they grow a month and are cast under feet and none has care thereof, as none has care of a divided love. i know each shadow of your lips by rote, each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; the fashion of fair temples tremulous with tender blood, and colour of your throat; i know not how love is gone out of this, seeing that all was his. love's likeness there endures upon all these: but out of these one shall not gather love. day hath not strength nor the night shade enough to make love whole and fill his lips with ease, as some bee-builded cell feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. i know not how this last month leaves your hair less full of purple colour and hid spice, and that luxurious trouble of closed eyes is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; and love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet worth patience to regret. the sundew a little marsh-plant, yellow green, and pricked at lip with tender red. tread close, and either way you tread some faint black water jets between lest you should bruise the curious head. a live thing maybe; who shall know? the summer knows and suffers it; for the cool moss is thick and sweet each side, and saves the blossom so that it lives out the long june heat. the deep scent of the heather burns about it; breathless though it be, bow down and worship; more than we is the least flower whose life returns, least weed renascent in the sea. we are vexed and cumbered in earth's sight with wants, with many memories; these see their mother what she is, glad-growing, till august leave more bright the apple-coloured cranberries. wind blows and bleaches the strong grass, blown all one way to shelter it from trample of strayed kine, with feet felt heavier than the moorhen was, strayed up past patches of wild wheat. you call it sundew: how it grows, if with its colour it have breath, if life taste sweet to it, if death pain its soft petal, no man knows: man has no sight or sense that saith. my sundew, grown of gentle days, in these green miles the spring begun thy growth ere april had half done with the soft secret of her ways or june made ready for the sun. o red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower, i have a secret halved with thee. the name that is love's name to me thou knowest, and the face of her who is my festival to see. the hard sun, as thy petals knew, coloured the heavy moss-water: thou wert not worth green midsummer nor fit to live to august blue, o sundew, not remembering her. fÉlise _mais où sont les neiges d'antan?_ what shall be said between us here among the downs, between the trees, in fields that knew our feet last year, in sight of quiet sands and seas, this year, félise? who knows what word were best to say? for last year's leaves lie dead and red on this sweet day, in this green may, and barren corn makes bitter bread. what shall be said? here as last year the fields begin, a fire of flowers and glowing grass; the old fields we laughed and lingered in, seeing each our souls in last year's glass, félise, alas! shall we not laugh, shall we not weep, not we, though this be as it is? for love awake or love asleep ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss, a song like this. i that have slept awake, and you sleep, who last year were well awake, though love do all that love can do, my heart will never ache or break for your heart's sake. the great sea, faultless as a flower, throbs, trembling under beam and breeze, and laughs with love of the amorous hour. i found you fairer once, félise, than flowers or seas. we played at bondsman and at queen; but as the days change men change too; i find the grey sea's notes of green, the green sea's fervent flakes of blue, more fair than you. your beauty is not over fair now in mine eyes, who am grown up wise. the smell of flowers in all your hair allures not now; no sigh replies if your heart sighs. but you sigh seldom, you sleep sound, you find love's new name good enough. less sweet i find it than i found the sweetest name that ever love grew weary of. my snake with bright bland eyes, my snake grown tame and glad to be caressed, with lips athirst for mine to slake their tender fever! who had guessed you loved me best? i had died for this last year, to know you loved me. who shall turn on fate? i care not if love come or go now, though your love seek mine for mate. it is too late. the dust of many strange desires lies deep between us; in our eyes dead smoke of perishable fires flickers, a fume in air and skies, a steam of sighs. you loved me and you loved me not; a little, much, and overmuch. will you forget as i forgot? let all dead things lie dead; none such are soft to touch. i love you and i do not love, too much, a little, not at all; too much, and never yet enough. birds quick to fledge and fly at call are quick to fall. and these love longer now than men, and larger loves than ours are these. no diver brings up love again dropped once, my beautiful félise, in such cold seas. gone deeper than all plummets sound, where in the dim green dayless day the life of such dead things lies bound as the sea feeds on, wreck and stray and castaway. can i forget? yea, that can i, and that can all men; so will you, alive, or later, when you die. ah, but the love you plead was true? was mine not too? i loved you for that name of yours long ere we met, and long enough. now that one thing of all endures-- the sweetest name that ever love waxed weary of. like colours in the sea, like flowers, like a cat's splendid circled eyes that wax and wane with love for hours, green as green flame, blue-grey like skies, and soft like sighs-- and all these only like your name, and your name full of all of these. i say it, and it sounds the same-- save that i say it now at ease, your name, félise. i said "she must be swift and white, and subtly warm, and half perverse, and sweet like sharp soft fruit to bite, and like a snake's love lithe and fierce." men have guessed worse. what was the song i made of you here where the grass forgets our feet as afternoon forgets the dew? ah that such sweet things should be fleet, such fleet things sweet! as afternoon forgets the dew, as time in time forgets all men, as our old place forgets us two, who might have turned to one thing then but not again. o lips that mine have grown into like april's kissing may, o fervent eyelids letting through those eyes the greenest of things blue, the bluest of things grey, if you were i and i were you, how could i love you, say? how could the roseleaf love the rue, the day love nightfall and her dew, though night may love the day? you loved it may be more than i; we know not; love is hard to seize. and all things are not good to try; and lifelong loves the worst of these for us, félise. ah, take the season and have done, love well the hour and let it go: two souls may sleep and wake up one, or dream they wake and find it so, and then--you know. kiss me once hard as though a flame lay on my lips and made them fire; the same lips now, and not the same; what breath shall fill and re-inspire a dead desire? the old song sounds hollower in mine ear than thin keen sounds of dead men's speech-- a noise one hears and would not hear; too strong to die, too weak to reach from wave to beach. we stand on either side the sea, stretch hands, blow kisses, laugh and lean i toward you, you toward me; but what hears either save the keen grey sea between? a year divides us, love from love, though you love now, though i loved then. the gulf is strait, but deep enough; who shall recross, who among men shall cross again? love was a jest last year, you said, and what lives surely, surely dies. even so; but now that love is dead, shall love rekindle from wet eyes, from subtle sighs? for many loves are good to see; mutable loves, and loves perverse; but there is nothing, nor shall be, so sweet, so wicked, but my verse can dream of worse. for we that sing and you that love know that which man may, only we. the rest live under us; above, live the great gods in heaven, and see what things shall be. so this thing is and must be so; for man dies, and love also dies. though yet love's ghost moves to and fro the sea-green mirrors of your eyes, and laughs, and lies. eyes coloured like a water-flower, and deeper than the green sea's glass; eyes that remember one sweet hour-- in vain we swore it should not pass; in vain, alas! ah my félise, if love or sin, if shame or fear could hold it fast, should we not hold it? love wears thin, and they laugh well who laugh the last. is it not past? the gods, the gods are stronger; time falls down before them, all men's knees bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb like incense towards them; yea, for these are gods, félise. immortal are they, clothed with powers, not to be comforted at all; lords over all the fruitless hours; too great to appease, too high to appal, too far to call. for none shall move the most high gods, who are most sad, being cruel; none shall break or take away the rods wherewith they scourge us, not as one that smites a son. by many a name of many a creed we have called upon them, since the sands fell through time's hour-glass first, a seed of life; and out of many lands have we stretched hands. when have they heard us? who hath known their faces, climbed unto their feet, felt them and found them? laugh or groan, doth heaven remurmur and repeat sad sounds or sweet? do the stars answer? in the night have ye found comfort? or by day have ye seen gods? what hope, what light, falls from the farthest starriest way on you that pray? are the skies wet because we weep, or fair because of any mirth? cry out; they are gods; perchance they sleep; cry; thou shalt know what prayers are worth, thou dust and earth. o earth, thou art fair; o dust, thou art great; o laughing lips and lips that mourn, pray, till ye feel the exceeding weight of god's intolerable scorn, not to be borne. behold, there is no grief like this; the barren blossom of thy prayer, thou shalt find out how sweet it is. o fools and blind, what seek ye there, high up in the air? ye must have gods, the friends of men, merciful gods, compassionate, and these shall answer you again. will ye beat always at the gate, ye fools of fate? ye fools and blind; for this is sure, that all ye shall not live, but die. lo, what thing have ye found endure? or what thing have ye found on high past the blind sky? the ghosts of words and dusty dreams, old memories, faiths infirm and dead. ye fools; for which among you deems his prayer can alter green to red or stones to bread? why should ye bear with hopes and fears till all these things be drawn in one, the sound of iron-footed years, and all the oppression that is done under the sun? ye might end surely, surely pass out of the multitude of things, under the dust, beneath the grass, deep in dim death, where no thought stings, no record clings. no memory more of love or hate, no trouble, nothing that aspires, no sleepless labour thwarting fate, and thwarted; where no travail tires, where no faith fires. all passes, nought that has been is, things good and evil have one end. can anything be otherwise though all men swear all things would mend with god to friend? can ye beat off one wave with prayer, can ye move mountains? bid the flower take flight and turn to a bird in the air? can ye hold fast for shine or shower one wingless hour? ah sweet, and we too, can we bring one sigh back, bid one smile revive? can god restore one ruined thing, or he who slays our souls alive make dead things thrive? two gifts perforce he has given us yet, though sad things stay and glad things fly; two gifts he has given us, to forget all glad and sad things that go by, and then to die. we know not whether death be good, but life at least it will not be: men will stand saddening as we stood, watch the same fields and skies as we and the same sea. let this be said between us here, one love grows green when one turns grey; this year knows nothing of last year; to-morrow has no more to say to yesterday. live and let live, as i will do, love and let love, and so will i. but, sweet, for me no more with you: not while i live, not though i die. goodnight, goodbye. an interlude in the greenest growth of the maytime, i rode where the woods were wet, between the dawn and the daytime; the spring was glad that we met. there was something the season wanted, though the ways and the woods smelt sweet; the breath at your lips that panted, the pulse of the grass at your feet. you came, and the sun came after, and the green grew golden above; and the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, and the meadow-sweet shook with love. your feet in the full-grown grasses moved soft as a weak wind blows; you passed me as april passes, with face made out of a rose. by the stream where the stems were slender, your bright foot paused at the sedge; it might be to watch the tender light leaves in the springtime hedge, on boughs that the sweet month blanches with flowery frost of may: it might be a bird in the branches, it might be a thorn in the way. i waited to watch you linger with foot drawn back from the dew, till a sunbeam straight like a finger struck sharp through the leaves at you. and a bird overhead sang _follow_, and a bird to the right sang _here_; and the arch of the leaves was hollow, and the meaning of may was clear. i saw where the sun's hand pointed, i knew what the bird's note said; by the dawn and the dewfall anointed, you were queen by the gold on your head. as the glimpse of a burnt-out ember recalls a regret of the sun, i remember, forget, and remember what love saw done and undone. i remember the way we parted, the day and the way we met; you hoped we were both broken-hearted, and knew we should both forget. and may with her world in flower seemed still to murmur and smile as you murmured and smiled for an hour; i saw you turn at the stile. a hand like a white wood-blossom you lifted, and waved, and passed, with head hung down to the bosom, and pale, as it seemed, at last. and the best and the worst of this is that neither is most to blame if you've forgotten my kisses and i've forgotten your name. hendecasyllabics in the month of the long decline of roses i, beholding the summer dead before me, set my face to the sea and journeyed silent, gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions half divided the eyelids of the sunset; till i heard as it were a noise of waters moving tremulous under feet of angels multitudinous, out of all the heavens; knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage, shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow; and saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels, long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight, sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel, blown about by the lips of winds i knew not, winds not born in the north nor any quarter, winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine; heard between them a voice of exultation, "lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded, even like as a leaf the year is withered, all the fruits of the day from all her branches gathered, neither is any left to gather. all the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms, all are taken away; the season wasted, like an ember among the fallen ashes. now with light of the winter days, with moonlight, light of snow, and the bitter light of hoarfrost, we bring flowers that fade not after autumn, pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons, fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were falser), woven under the eyes of stars and planets when low light was upon the windy reaches where the flower of foam was blown, a lily dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows and green fields of the sea that make no pasture: since the winter begins, the weeping winter, all whose flowers are tears, and round his temples iron blossom of frost is bound for ever." sapphics all the night sleep came not upon my eyelids, shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather, yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron stood and beheld me. then to me so lying awake a vision came without sleep over the seas and touched me, softly touched mine eyelids and lips; and i too, full of the vision, saw the white implacable aphrodite, saw the hair unbound and the feet unsandalled shine as fire of sunset on western waters; saw the reluctant feet, the straining plumes of the doves that drew her, looking always, looking with necks reverted, back to lesbos, back to the hills whereunder shone mitylene; heard the flying feet of the loves behind her make a sudden thunder upon the waters, as the thunder flung from the strong unclosing wings of a great wind. so the goddess fled from her place, with awful sound of feet and thunder of wings around her; while behind a clamour of singing women severed the twilight. ah the singing, ah the delight, the passion! all the loves wept, listening; sick with anguish, stood the crowned nine muses about apollo; fear was upon them, while the tenth sang wonderful things they knew not. ah the tenth, the lesbian! the nine were silent, none endured the sound of her song for weeping; laurel by laurel, faded all their crowns; but about her forehead, round her woven tresses and ashen temples white as dead snow, paler than grass in summer, ravaged with kisses, shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. yea, almost the implacable aphrodite paused, and almost wept; such a song was that song. yea, by her name too called her, saying, "turn to me, o my sappho;" yet she turned her face from the loves, she saw not tears for laughter darken immortal eyelids, heard not about her fearful fitful wings of the doves departing, saw not how the bosom of aphrodite shook with weeping, saw not her shaken raiment, saw not her hands wrung; saw the lesbians kissing across their smitten lutes with lips more sweet than the sound of lute-strings, mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, her chosen, fairer than all men; only saw the beautiful lips and fingers, full of songs and kisses and little whispers, full of music; only beheld among them soar, as a bird soars newly fledged, her visible song, a marvel, made of perfect sound and exceeding passion, sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thunders, clothed with the wind's wings. then rejoiced she, laughing with love, and scattered roses, awful roses of holy blossom; then the loves thronged sadly with hidden faces round aphrodite, then the muses, stricken at heart, were silent; yea, the gods waxed pale; such a song was that song. all reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion, fled from before her. all withdrew long since, and the land was barren, full of fruitless women and music only. now perchance, when winds are assuaged at sunset, lulled at the dewfall, by the grey sea-side, unassuaged, unheard of, unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twilight, ghosts of outcast women return lamenting, purged not in lethe, clothed about with flame and with tears, and singing songs that move the heart of the shaken heaven, songs that break the heart of the earth with pity, hearing, to hear them. at eleusis men of eleusis, ye that with long staves sit in the market-houses, and speak words made sweet with wisdom as the rare wine is thickened with honey; and ye sons of these who in the glad thick streets go up and down for pastime or grave traffic or mere chance; and all fair women having rings of gold on hands or hair; and chiefest over these i name you, daughters of this man the king, who dipping deep smooth pitchers of pure brass under the bubbled wells, till each round lip stooped with loose gurgle of waters incoming, found me an old sick woman, lamed and lean, beside a growth of builded olive-boughs whence multiplied thick song of thick-plumed throats-- also wet tears filled up my hollow hands by reason of my crying into them-- and pitied me; for as cold water ran and washed the pitchers full from lip to lip, so washed both eyes full the strong salt of tears. and ye put water to my mouth, made sweet with brown hill-berries; so in time i spoke and gathered my loose knees from under me. moreover in the broad fair halls this month have i found space and bountiful abode to please me. i demeter speak of this, who am the mother and the mate of things: for as ill men by drugs or singing words shut the doors inward of the narrowed womb like a lock bolted with round iron through, thus i shut up the body and sweet mouth of all soft pasture and the tender land, so that no seed can enter in by it though one sow thickly, nor some grain get out past the hard clods men cleave and bite with steel to widen the sealed lips of them for use. none of you is there in the peopled street but knows how all the dry-drawn furrows ache with no green spot made count of in the black: how the wind finds no comfortable grass nor is assuaged with bud nor breath of herbs; and in hot autumn when ye house the stacks, all fields are helpless in the sun, all trees stand as a man stripped out of all but skin. nevertheless ye sick have help to get by means and stablished ordinance of god; for god is wiser than a good man is. but never shall new grass be sweet in earth till i get righted of my wound and wrong by changing counsel of ill-minded zeus. for of all other gods is none save me clothed with like power to build and break the year. i make the lesser green begin, when spring touches not earth but with one fearful foot; and as a careful gilder with grave art soberly colours and completes the face, mouth, chin and all, of some sweet work in stone, i carve the shapes of grass and tender corn and colour the ripe edges and long spikes with the red increase and the grace of gold, no tradesman in soft wools is cunninger to kill the secret of the fat white fleece with stains of blue and purple wrought in it. three moons were made and three moons burnt away while i held journey hither out of crete comfortless, tended by grave hecate whom my wound stung with double iron point; for all my face was like a cloth wrung out with close and weeping wrinkles, and both lids sodden with salt continuance of tears. for hades and the sidelong will of zeus and that lame wisdom that has writhen feet, cunning, begotten in the bed of shame, these three took evil will at me, and made such counsel that when time got wing to fly this hades out of summer and low fields forced the bright body of persephone: out of pure grass, where she lying down, red flowers made their sharp little shadows on her sides, pale heat, pale colour on pale maiden flesh-- and chill water slid over her reddening feet, killing the throbs in their soft blood; and birds, perched next her elbow and pecking at her hair, stretched their necks more to see her than even to sing. a sharp thing is it i have need to say; for hades holding both white wrists of hers unloosed the girdle and with knot by knot bound her between his wheels upon the seat, bound her pure body, holiest yet and dear to me and god as always, clothed about with blossoms loosened as her knees went down. let fall as she let go of this and this by tens and twenties, tumbled to her feet, white waifs or purple of the pasturage. therefore with only going up and down my feet were wasted, and the gracious air, to me discomfortable and dun, became as weak smoke blowing in the under world. and finding in the process of ill days what part had zeus herein, and how as mate he coped with hades, yokefellow in sin, i set my lips against the meat of gods and drank not neither ate or slept in heaven. nor in the golden greeting of their mouths did ear take note of me, nor eye at all track my feet going in the ways of them. like a great fire on some strait slip of land between two washing inlets of wet sea that burns the grass up to each lip of beach and strengthens, waxing in the growth of wind, so burnt my soul in me at heaven and earth, each way a ruin and a hungry plague, visible evil; nor could any night put cool between mine eyelids, nor the sun with competence of gold fill out my want. yea so my flame burnt up the grass and stones, shone to the salt-white edges of thin sea, distempered all the gracious work, and made sick change, unseasonable increase of days and scant avail of seasons; for by this the fair gods faint in hollow heaven: there comes no taste of burnings of the twofold fat to leave their palates smooth, nor in their lips soft rings of smoke and weak scent wandering; all cattle waste and rot, and their ill smell grows alway from the lank unsavoury flesh that no man slays for offering; the sea and waters moved beneath the heath and corn preserve the people of fin-twinkling fish, and river-flies feed thick upon the smooth; but all earth over is no man or bird (except the sweet race of the kingfisher) that lacks not and is wearied with much loss. meantime the purple inward of the house was softened with all grace of scent and sound in ear and nostril perfecting my praise; faint grape-flowers and cloven honey-cake and the just grain with dues of the shed salt made me content: yet my hand loosened not its gripe upon your harvest all year long. while i, thus woman-muffled in wan flesh and waste externals of a perished face, preserved the levels of my wrath and love patiently ruled; and with soft offices cooled the sharp noons and busied the warm nights in care of this my choice, this child my choice, triptolemus, the king's selected son: that this fair yearlong body, which hath grown strong with strange milk upon the mortal lip and nerved with half a god, might so increase outside the bulk and the bare scope of man: and waxen over large to hold within base breath of yours and this impoverished air, i might exalt him past the flame of stars, the limit and walled reach of the great world. therefore my breast made common to his mouth immortal savours, and the taste whereat twice their hard life strains out the coloured veins and twice its brain confirms the narrow shell. also at night, unwinding cloth from cloth as who unhusks an almond to the white and pastures curiously the purer taste, i bared the gracious limbs and the soft feet, unswaddled the weak hands, and in mid ash laid the sweet flesh of either feeble side, more tender for impressure of some touch than wax to any pen; and lit around fire, and made crawl the white worm-shapen flame, and leap in little angers spark by spark at head at once and feet; and the faint hair hissed with rare sprinkles in the closer curl, and like scaled oarage of a keen thin fish in sea-water, so in pure fire his feet struck out, and the flame bit not in his flesh, but like a kiss it curled his lip, and heat fluttered his eyelids; so each night i blew the hot ash red to purge him to full god. ill is it when fear hungers in the soul for painful food, and chokes thereon, being fed; and ill slant eyes interpret the straight sun, but in their scope its white is wried to black: by the queen metaneira mean i this; for with sick wrath upon her lips, and heart narrowing with fear the spleenful passages, she thought to thread this web's fine ravel out, nor leave her shuttle split in combing it; therefore she stole on us, and with hard sight peered, and stooped close; then with pale open mouth as the fire smote her in the eyes between cried, and the child's laugh, sharply shortening as fire doth under rain, fell off; the flame writhed once all through and died, and in thick dark tears fell from mine on the child's weeping eyes, eyes dispossessed of strong inheritance and mortal fallen anew. who not the less from bud of beard to pale-grey flower of hair shall wax vinewise to a lordly vine, whose grapes bleed the red heavy blood of swoln soft wine, subtle with sharp leaves' intricacy, until full of white years and blossom of hoary days i take him perfected; for whose one sake i am thus gracious to the least who stands filleted with white wool and girt upon as he whose prayer endures upon the lip and falls not waste: wherefore let sacrifice burn and run red in all the wider ways; seeing i have sworn by the pale temples' band and poppied hair of gold persephone sad-tressed and pleached low down about her brows, and by the sorrow in her lips, and death her dumb and mournful-mouthèd minister, my word for you is eased of its harsh weight and doubled with soft promise; and your king triptolemus, this celeus dead and swathed purple and pale for golden burial, shall be your helper in my services, dividing earth and reaping fruits thereof in fields where wait, well-girt, well-wreathen, all the heavy-handed seasons all year through; saving the choice of warm spear-headed grain, and stooping sharp to the slant-sided share all beasts that furrow the remeasured land with their bowed necks of burden equable. august there were four apples on the bough, half gold half red, that one might know the blood was ripe inside the core; the colour of the leaves was more like stems of yellow corn that grow through all the gold june meadow's floor. the warm smell of the fruit was good to feed on, and the split green wood, with all its bearded lips and stains of mosses in the cloven veins, most pleasant, if one lay or stood in sunshine or in happy rains. there were four apples on the tree, red stained through gold, that all might see the sun went warm from core to rind; the green leaves made the summer blind in that soft place they kept for me with golden apples shut behind. the leaves caught gold across the sun, and where the bluest air begun thirsted for song to help the heat; as i to feel my lady's feet draw close before the day were done; both lips grew dry with dreams of it. in the mute august afternoon they trembled to some undertune of music in the silver air; great pleasure was it to be there till green turned duskier and the moon coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair. that august time it was delight to watch the red moons wane to white 'twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees; a sense of heavy harmonies grew on the growth of patient night, more sweet than shapen music is. but some three hours before the moon the air, still eager from the noon, flagged after heat, not wholly dead; against the stem i leant my head; the colour soothed me like a tune, green leaves all round the gold and red. i lay there till the warm smell grew more sharp, when flecks of yellow dew between the round ripe leaves had blurred the rind with stain and wet; i heard a wind that blew and breathed and blew, too weak to alter its one word. the wet leaves next the gentle fruit felt smoother, and the brown tree-root felt the mould warmer: i too felt (as water feels the slow gold melt right through it when the day burns mute) the peace of time wherein love dwelt. there were four apples on the tree, gold stained on red that all might see the sweet blood filled them to the core: the colour of her hair is more like stems of fair faint gold, that be mown from the harvest's middle floor. a christmas carol[ ] [ ] suggested by a drawing of mr. d. g. rossetti's. three damsels in the queen's chamber, the queen's mouth was most fair; she spake a word of god's mother as the combs went in her hair. mary that is of might, bring us to thy son's sight. they held the gold combs out from her, a span's length off her head; she sang this song of god's mother and of her bearing-bed. mary most full of grace, bring us to thy son's face. when she sat at joseph's hand, she looked against her side; and either way from the short silk band her girdle was all wried. mary that all good may, bring us to thy son's way. mary had three women for her bed, the twain were maidens clean; the first of them had white and red, the third had riven green. mary that is so sweet, bring us to thy son's feet. she had three women for her hair, two were gloved soft and shod; the third had feet and fingers bare, she was the likest god. mary that wieldeth land, bring us to thy son's hand. she had three women for her ease, the twain were good women: the first two were the two maries, the third was magdalen. mary that perfect is, bring us to thy son's kiss. joseph had three workmen in his stall, to serve him well upon; the first of them were peter and paul, the third of them was john. mary, god's handmaiden, bring us to thy son's ken. "if your child be none other man's, but if it be very mine, the bedstead shall be gold two spans, the bedfoot silver fine." mary that made god mirth, bring us to thy son's birth. "if the child be some other man's, and if it be none of mine, the manger shall be straw two spans, betwixen kine and kine." mary that made sin cease, bring us to thy son's peace. christ was born upon this wise, it fell on such a night, neither with sounds of psalteries, nor with fire for light. mary that is god's spouse, bring us to thy son's house. the star came out upon the east with a great sound and sweet: kings gave gold to make him feast and myrrh for him to eat. mary, of thy sweet mood, bring us to thy son's good. he had two handmaids at his head, one handmaid at his feet; the twain of them were fair and red, the third one was right sweet. mary that is most wise, bring us to thy son's eyes. amen. the masque of queen bersabe a miracle-play king david knights mine, all that be in hall, i have a counsel to you all, because of this thing god lets fall among us for a sign. for some days hence as i did eat from kingly dishes my good meat, there flew a bird between my feet as red as any wine. this bird had a long bill of red and a gold ring above his head; long time he sat and nothing said, put softly down his neck and fed from the gilt patens fine: and as i marvelled, at the last he shut his two keen eyën fast and suddenly woxe big and brast ere one should tell to nine. primus miles sir, note this that i will say; that lord who maketh corn with hay and morrows each of yesterday, he hath you in his hand, secundus miles (_paganus quidam_) by satan i hold no such thing; for if wine swell within a king whose ears for drink are hot and ring, the same shall dream of wine-bibbing whilst he can lie or stand. queen bersabe peace now, lords, for godis head, ye chirk as starlings that be fed and gape as fishes newly dead; the devil put your bones to bed, lo, this is all to say. secundus miles by mahound, lords, i have good will this devil's bird to wring and spill; for now meseems our game goes ill, ye have scant hearts to play. tertius miles lo, sirs, this word is there said, that urias the knight is dead through some ill craft; by poulis head, i doubt his blood hath made so red this bird that flew from the queen's bed whereof ye have such fear. king david yea, my good knave, and is it said that i can raise men from the dead? by god i think to have his head who saith words of my lady's bed for any thief to hear. _et percutiat eum in capite._ queen bersabe i wis men shall spit at me, and say, it were but right for thee that one should hang thee on a tree; ho! it were a fair thing to see the big stones bruise her false body; fie! who shall see her dead? king david i rede you have no fear of this, for, as ye wot, the first good kiss i had must be the last of his; now are ye queen of mine, i wis, and lady of a house that is full rich of meat and bread. primus miles i bid you make good cheer to be so fair a queen as all men see. and hold us for your lieges free; by peter's soul that hath the key, ye have good hap of it. secundus miles i would that he were hanged and dead who hath no joy to see your head with gold about it, barred on red; i hold him as a sow of lead that is so scant of wit. _tunc dicat nathan propheta_ o king, i have a word to thee; the child that is in bersabe shall wither without light to see; this word is come of god by me for sin that ye have done. because herein ye did not right, to take the fair one lamb to smite that was of urias the knight; ye wist he had but one. full many sheep i wot ye had, and many women, when ye bade, to do your will and keep you glad, and a good crown about your head with gold to show thereon. this urias had one poor house with low-barred latoun shot-windows and scant of corn to fill a mouse; and rusty basnets for his brows, to wear them to the bone. yea the roofs also, as men sain, were thin to hold against the rain; therefore what rushes were there lain grew wet withouten foot of men; the stancheons were all gone in twain as sick man's flesh is gone. nathless he had great joy to see the long hair of this bersabe fall round her lap and round her knee even to her small soft feet, that be shod now with crimson royally and covered with clean gold. likewise great joy he had to kiss her throat, where now the scarlet is against her little chin, i wis, that then was but cold. no scarlet then her kirtle had and little gold about it sprad; but her red mouth was always glad to kiss, albeit the eyes were sad with love they had to hold. secundus miles how! old thief, thy wits are lame; to clip such it is no shame; i rede you in the devil's name, ye come not here to make men game; by termagaunt that maketh grame, i shall to-bete thine head. _hìc diabolus capiat eum._ this knave hath sharp fingers, perfay; mahound you thank and keep alway, and give you good knees to pray; what man hath no lust to play, the devil wring his ears, i say; there is no more but wellaway, for now am i dead. king david certes his mouth is wried and black, full little pence be in his sack; this devil hath him by the back, it is no boot to lie. nathan sitteth now still and learn of me; a little while and ye shall see the face of god's strength presently. all queens made as this bersabe, all that were fair and foul ye be, come hither; it am i. _et hìc omnes cantabunt._ herodias i am the queen herodias. this headband of my temples was king herod's gold band woven me. this broken dry staff in my hand was the queen's staff of a great land betwixen perse and samarie. for that one dancing of my feet, the fire is come in my green wheat, from one sea to the other sea. aholibah i am the queen aholibah. my lips kissed dumb the word of _ah_ sighed on strange lips grown sick thereby. god wrought to me my royal bed; the inner work thereof was red, the outer work was ivory. my mouth's heat was the heat of flame for lust towards the kings that came with horsemen riding royally. cleopatra i am the queen of ethiope. love bade my kissing eyelids ope that men beholding might praise love. my hair was wonderful and curled; my lips held fast the mouth o' the world to spoil the strength and speech thereof. the latter triumph in my breath bowed down the beaten brows of death, ashamed they had not wrath enough. abihail i am the queen of tyrians. my hair was glorious for twelve spans, that dried to loose dust afterward. my stature was a strong man's length: my neck was like a place of strength built with white walls, even and hard, like the first noise of rain leaves catch one from another, snatch by snatch, is my praise, hissed against and marred. azubah i am the queen of amorites. my face was like a place of lights with multitudes at festival. the glory of my gracious brows was like god's house made glorious with colours upon either wall. between my brows and hair there was a white space like a space of glass with golden candles over all. aholah i am the queen of amalek. there was no tender touch or fleck to spoil my body or bared feet. my words were soft like dulcimers, and the first sweet of grape-flowers made each side of my bosom sweet. my raiment was as tender fruit whose rind smells sweet of spice-tree root, bruised balm-blossom and budded wheat. ahinoam i am the queen ahinoam. like the throat of a soft slain lamb was my throat, softer veined than his: my lips were as two grapes the sun lays his whole weight of heat upon like a mouth heavy with a kiss: my hair's pure purple a wrought fleece, my temples therein as a piece of a pomegranate's cleaving is. atarah i am the queen sidonian. my face made faint the face of man, and strength was bound between my brows spikenard was hidden in my ships, honey and wheat and myrrh in strips, white wools that shine as colour does, soft linen dyed upon the fold, split spice and cores of scented gold, cedar and broken calamus. semiramis i am the queen semiramis. the whole world and the sea that is in fashion like a chrysopras, the noise of all men labouring, the priest's mouth tired through thanksgiving, the sound of love in the blood's pause, the strength of love in the blood's beat, all these were cast beneath my feet and all found lesser than i was. hesione i am the queen hesione. the seasons that increased in me made my face fairer than all men's. i had the summer in my hair; and all the pale gold autumn air was as the habit of my sense. my body was as fire that shone; god's beauty that makes all things one was one among my handmaidens. chrysothemis i am the queen of samothrace. god, making roses, made my face as a rose filled up full with red. my prows made sharp the straitened seas from pontus to that chersonese whereon the ebbed asian stream is shed. my hair was as sweet scent that drips; love's breath begun about my lips kindled the lips of people dead. thomyris i am the queen of scythians. my strength was like no strength of man's, my face like day, my breast like spring. my fame was felt in the extreme land that hath sunshine on the one hand and on the other star-shining. yea, and the wind there fails of breath; yea, and there life is waste like death; yea, and there death is a glad thing. harhas i am the queen of anakim. in the spent years whose speech is dim, whose raiment is the dust and death, my stately body without stain shone as the shining race of rain whose hair a great wind scattereth. now hath god turned my lips to sighs, plucked off mine eyelids from mine eyes, and sealed with seals my way of breath. myrrha i am the queen arabian. the tears wherewith mine eyelids ran smelt like my perfumed eyelids' smell. a harsh thirst made my soft mouth hard, that ached with kisses afterward; my brain rang like a beaten bell. as tears on eyes, as fire on wood, sin fed upon my breath and blood, sin made my breasts subside and swell. pasiphae i am the queen pasiphae. not all the pure clean-coloured sea could cleanse or cool my yearning veins; nor any root nor herb that grew, flag-leaves that let green water through, nor washing of the dews and rains. from shame's pressed core i wrung the sweet fruit's savour that was death to eat, whereof no seed but death remains. sappho i am the queen of lesbians. my love, that had no part in man's, was sweeter than all shape of sweet. the intolerable infinite desire made my face pale like faded fire when the ashen pyre falls through with heat. my blood was hot wan wine of love, and my song's sound the sound thereof, the sound of the delight of it. messalina i am the queen of italy. these were the signs god set on me; a barren beauty subtle and sleek, curled carven hair, and cheeks worn wan with fierce false lips of many a man, large temples where the blood ran weak, a mouth athirst and amorous and hungering as the grave's mouth does that, being an-hungred, cannot speak. amestris i am the queen of persians. my breasts were lordlier than bright swans. my body as amber fair and thin. strange flesh was given my lips for bread, with poisonous hours my days were fed, and my feet shod with adder-skin. in shushan toward ecbatane i wrought my joys with tears and pain, my loves with blood and bitter sin. ephrath i am the queen of rephaim. god, that some while refraineth him, made in the end a spoil of me. my rumour was upon the world as strong sound of swoln water hurled through porches of the straining sea. my hair was like the flag-flower, and my breasts carven goodlier than beryl with chalcedony. pasithea i am the queen of cypriotes. mine oarsmen, labouring with brown throats, sang of me many a tender thing. my maidens, girdled loose and braced with gold from bosom to white waist, praised me between their wool-combing. all that praise venus all night long with lips like speech and lids like song praised me till song lost heart to sing. alaciel i am the queen alaciel. my mouth was like that moist gold cell whereout the thickest honey drips. mine eyes were as a grey-green sea; the amorous blood that smote on me smote to my feet and finger-tips. my throat was whiter than the dove, mine eyelids as the seals of love, and as the doors of love my lips. erigone i am the queen erigone. the wild wine shed as blood on me made my face brighter than a bride's. my large lips had the old thirst of earth, mine arms the might of the old sea's girth bound round the whole world's iron sides. within mine eyes and in mine ears were music and the wine of tears, and light, and thunder of the tides. _et hìc exeant, et dicat bersabe regina_; alas, god, for thy great pity and for the might that is in thee, behold, i woful bersabe cry out with stoopings of my knee and thy wrath laid and bound on me till i may see thy love. behold, lord, this child is grown within me between bone and bone to make me mother of a son, made of my body with strong moan; there shall not be another one that shall be made hereof. king david lord god, alas, what shall i sain? lo, thou art as an hundred men both to break and build again: the wild ways thou makest plain, thine hands hold the hail and rain, and thy fingers both grape and grain; of their largess we be all well fain, and of their great pity: the sun thou madest of good gold, of clean silver the moon cold, all the great stars thou hast told as thy cattle in thy fold every one by his name of old; wind and water thou hast in hold, both the land and the long sea; both the green sea and the land, lord god, thou hast in hand, both white water and grey sand; upon thy right or thy left hand there is no man that may stand; lord, thou rue on me. o wise lord, if thou be keen to note things amiss that been, i am not worth a shell of bean more than an old mare meagre and lean; for all my wrong-doing with my queen, it grew not of our heartès clean, but it began of her body. for it fell in the hot may i stood within a paven way built of fair bright stone, perfay, that is as fire of night and day and lighteth all my house. therein be neither stones nor sticks, neither red nor white bricks, but for cubits five or six there is most goodly sardonyx and amber laid in rows. it goes round about my roofs, (if ye list ye shall have proofs) there is good space for horse and hoofs, plain and nothing perilous. for the fair green weather's heat, and for the smell of leavès sweet, it is no marvel, well ye weet, a man to waxen amorous. this i say now by my case that spied forth of that royal place; there i saw in no great space mine own sweet, both body and face, under the fresh boughs. in a water that was there she wesshe her goodly body bare and dried it with her owen hair: both her arms and her knees fair, both bosom and brows; both shoulders and eke thighs tho she wesshe upon this wise; ever she sighed with little sighs, and ever she gave god thank. yea, god wot i can well see yet both her breast and her sides all wet and her long hair withouten let spread sideways like a drawing net; full dear bought and full far fet was that sweet thing there y-set; it were a hard thing to forget how both lips and eyen met, breast and breath sank. so goodly a sight as there she was, lying looking on her glass by wan water in green grass, yet saw never man. so soft and great she was and bright with all her body waxen white, i woxe nigh blind to see the light shed out of it to left and right; this bitter sin from that sweet sight between us twain began. nathan now, sir, be merry anon, for ye shall have a full wise son, goodly and great of flesh and bone; there shall no king be such an one, i swear by godis rood. therefore, lord, be merry here, and go to meat withouten fear, and hear a mass with goodly cheer; for to all folk ye shall be dear, and all folk of your blood. _et tunc dicant laudamus._ st. dorothy it hath been seen and yet it shall be seen that out of tender mouths god's praise hath been made perfect, and with wood and simple string he hath played music sweet as shawm-playing to please himself with softness of all sound; and no small thing but hath been sometime found full sweet of use, and no such humbleness but god hath bruised withal the sentences and evidence of wise men witnessing; no leaf that is so soft a hidden thing it never shall get sight of the great sun; the strength of ten has been the strength of one, and lowliness has waxed imperious. there was in rome a man theophilus of right great blood and gracious ways, that had all noble fashions to make people glad and a soft life of pleasurable days; he was a goodly man for one to praise, flawless and whole upward from foot to head; his arms were a red hawk that alway fed on a small bird with feathers gnawed upon, beaten and plucked about the bosom-bone whereby a small round fleck like fire there was: they called it in their tongue lampadias; this was the banner of the lordly man. in many straits of sea and reaches wan full of quick wind, and many a shaken firth, it had seen fighting days of either earth, westward or east of waters gaditane (this was the place of sea-rocks under spain called after the great praise of hercules) and north beyond the washing pontic seas, far windy russian places fabulous, and salt fierce tides of storm-swoln bosphorus. now as this lord came straying in rome town he saw a little lattice open down and after it a press of maidens' heads that sat upon their cold small quiet beds talking, and played upon short-stringèd lutes; and other some ground perfume out of roots gathered by marvellous moons in asia; saffron and aloes and wild cassia, coloured all through and smelling of the sun; and over all these was a certain one clothed softly, with sweet herbs about her hair and bosom flowerful; her face more fair than sudden-singing april in soft lands: eyed like a gracious bird, and in both hands she held a psalter painted green and red. this theophile laughed at the heart, and said, now god so help me hither and st. paul, as by the new time of their festival i have good will to take this maid to wife. and herewith fell to fancies of her life and soft half-thoughts that ended suddenly. this is man's guise to please himself, when he shall not see one thing of his pleasant things, nor with outwatch of many travailings come to be eased of the least pain he hath for all his love and all his foolish wrath and all the heavy manner of his mind. thus is he like a fisher fallen blind that casts his nets across the boat awry to strike the sea, but lo, he striketh dry and plucks them back all broken for his pain and bites his beard and casts across again and reaching wrong slips over in the sea. so hath this man a strangled neck for fee, for all his cost he chuckles in his throat. this theophile that little hereof wote laid wait to hear of her what she might be: men told him she had name of dorothy, and was a lady of a worthy house. thereat this knight grew inly glorious that he should have a love so fair of place. she was a maiden of most quiet face, tender of speech, and had no hardihood but was nigh feeble of her fearful blood; her mercy in her was so marvellous from her least years, that seeing her school-fellows that read beside her stricken with a rod, she would cry sore and say some word to god that he would ease her fellow of his pain. there is no touch of sun or fallen rain that ever fell on a more gracious thing. in middle rome there was in stone-working the church of venus painted royally. the chapels of it were some two or three, in each of them her tabernacle was and a wide window of six feet in glass coloured with all her works in red and gold. the altars had bright cloths and cups to hold the wine of venus for the services, made out of honey and crushed wood-berries that shed sweet yellow through the thick wet red, that on high days was borne upon the head of venus' priest for any man to drink; so that in drinking he should fall to think on some fair face, and in the thought thereof worship, and such should triumph in his love. for this soft wine that did such grace and good was new trans-shaped and mixed with love's own blood, that in the fighting trojan time was bled; for which came such a woe to diomed that he was stifled after in hard sea. and some said that this wine-shedding should be made of the falling of adonis' blood, that curled upon the thorns and broken wood and round the gold silk shoes on venus' feet; the taste thereof was as hot honey sweet and in the mouth ran soft and riotous. this was the holiness of venus' house. it was their worship, that in august days twelve maidens should go through those roman ways naked, and having gold across their brows and their hair twisted in short golden rows, to minister to venus in this wise: and twelve men chosen in their companies to match these maidens by the altar-stair, all in one habit, crowned upon the hair. among these men was chosen theophile. this knight went out and prayed a little while, holding queen venus by her hands and knees; i will give thee twelve royal images cut in glad gold, with marvels of wrought stone for thy sweet priests to lean and pray upon, jasper and hyacinth and chrysopras, and the strange asian thalamite that was hidden twelve ages under heavy sea among the little sleepy pearls, to be a shrine lit over with soft candle-flame burning all night red as hot brows of shame, so thou wilt be my lady without sin. goddess that art all gold outside and in, help me to serve thee in thy holy way. thou knowest, love, that in my bearing day there shone a laughter in the singing stars round the gold-ceilèd bride-bed wherein mars touched thee and had thee in your kissing wise. now therefore, sweet, kiss thou my maiden's eyes that they may open graciously towards me; and this new fashion of thy shrine shall be as soft with gold as thine own happy head. the goddess, that was painted with face red between two long green tumbled sides of sea, stooped her neck sideways, and spake pleasantly: thou shalt have grace as thou art thrall of mine. and with this came a savour of shed wine and plucked-out petals from a rose's head: and softly with slow laughs of lip she said, thou shalt have favour all thy days of me. then came theophilus to dorothy, saying: o sweet, if one should strive or speak against god's ways, he gets a beaten cheek for all his wage and shame above all men. therefore i have no will to turn again when god saith "go," lest a worse thing fall out. then she, misdoubting lest he went about to catch her wits, made answer somewhat thus: i have no will, my lord theophilus, to speak against this worthy word of yours; knowing how god's will in all speech endures, that save by grace there may no thing be said, then theophile waxed light from foot to head, and softly fell upon this answering. it is well seen you are a chosen thing to do god service in his gracious way. i will that you make haste and holiday to go next year upon the venus stair, covered none else, but crowned upon your hair, and do the service that a maiden doth. she said: but i that am christ's maid were loth to do this thing that hath such bitter name. thereat his brows were beaten with sore shame and he came off and said no other word. then his eyes chanced upon his banner-bird, and he fell fingering at the staff of it and laughed for wrath and stared between his feet, and out of a chafed heart he spake as thus: lo how she japes at me theophilus, feigning herself a fool and hard to love; yet in good time for all she boasteth of she shall be like a little beaten bird. and while his mouth was open in that word he came upon the house janiculum, where some went busily, and other some talked in the gate called the gate glorious. the emperor, which was one gabalus, sat over all and drank chill wine alone. to whom is come theophilus anon, and said as thus: _beau sire, dieu vous aide_. and afterward sat under him, and said all this thing through as ye have wholly heard. this gabalus laughed thickly in his beard. yea, this is righteousness and maiden rule. truly, he said, a maid is but a fool. and japed at them as one full villainous, in a lewd wise, this heathen gabalus, and sent his men to bind her as he bade. thus have they taken dorothy the maid, and haled her forth as men hale pick-purses: a little need god knows they had of this, to hale her by her maiden gentle hair. thus went she lowly, making a soft prayer, as one who stays the sweet wine in his mouth, murmuring with eased lips, and is most loth to have done wholly with the sweet of it. christ king, fair christ, that knowest all men's wit and all the feeble fashion of my ways, o perfect god, that from all yesterdays abidest whole with morrows perfected, i pray thee by thy mother's holy head thou help me to do right, that i not slip: i have no speech nor strength upon my lip, except thou help me who art wise and sweet. do this too for those nails that clove thy feet, let me die maiden after many pains. though i be least among thy handmaidens, doubtless i shall take death more sweetly thus. now have they brought her to king gabalus, who laughed in all his throat some breathing-whiles: by god, he said, if one should leap two miles, he were not pained about the sides so much. this were a soft thing for a man to touch. shall one so chafe that hath such little bones? and shook his throat with thick and chuckled moans for laughter that she had such holiness. what aileth thee, wilt thou do services? it were good fare to fare as venus doth. then said this lady with her maiden mouth, shamefaced, and something paler in the cheek: now, sir, albeit my wit and will to speak give me no grace in sight of worthy men, for all my shame yet know i this again, i may not speak, nor after downlying rise up to take delight in lute-playing, nor sing nor sleep, nor sit and fold my hands, but my soul in some measure understands god's grace laid like a garment over me. for this fair god that out of strong sharp sea lifted the shapely and green-coloured land, and hath the weight of heaven in his hand as one might hold a bird, and under him the heavy golden planets beam by beam building the feasting-chambers of his house, and the large world he holdeth with his brows, and with the light of them astonisheth all place and time and face of life and death and motion of the north wind and the south, and is the sound within his angel's mouth of singing words and words of thanksgiving, and is the colour of the latter spring and heat upon the summer and the sun, and is beginning of all things begun and gathers in him all things to their end, and with the fingers of his hand doth bend the stretched-out sides of heaven like a sail, and with his breath he maketh the red pale and fills with blood faint faces of men dead, and with the sound between his lips are fed iron and fire and the white body of snow, and blossom of all trees in places low, and small bright herbs about the little hills, and fruit pricked softly with birds' tender bills, and flight of foam about green fields of sea, and fourfold strength of the great winds that be moved always outward from beneath his feet, and growth of grass and growth of sheavèd wheat and all green flower of goodly-growing lands; and all these things he gathers with his hands and covers all their beauty with his wings; the same, even god that governs all these things, hath set my feet to be upon his ways. now therefore for no painfulness of days i shall put off this service bound on me. also, fair sir, ye know this certainly, how god was in his flesh full chaste and meek and gave his face to shame, and either cheek gave up to smiting of men tyrannous. and here with a great voice this gabalus cried out and said: by god's blood and his bones, this were good game betwixen night and nones for one to sit and hearken to such saws: i were as lief fall in some big beast's jaws as hear these women's jaw-teeth clattering; by god a woman is the harder thing, one may not put a hook into her mouth. now by st. luke i am so sore adrouth for all these saws i must needs drink again. but i pray god deliver all us men from all such noise of women and their heat. that is a noble scripture, well i weet, that likens women to an empty can; when god said that he was a full wise man, i trow no man may blame him as for that. and herewithal he drank a draught, and spat, and said: now shall i make an end hereof. come near all men and hearken for god's love, and ye shall hear a jest or twain, god wot. and spake as thus with mouth full thick and hot; but thou do this thou shalt be shortly slain. lo, sir, she said, this death and all this pain i take in penance of my bitter sins. yea now, quoth gabalus, this game begins. lo, without sin one shall not live a span. lo, this is she that would not look on man between her fingers folded in thwart wise. see how her shame hath smitten in her eyes that was so clean she had not heard of shame. certes, he said, by gabalus my name, this two years back i was not so well pleased. this were good mirth for sick men to be eased and rise up whole and laugh at hearing of. i pray thee show us something of thy love, since thou wast maid thy gown is waxen wide. yea, maid i am, she said, and somewhat sighed, as one who thought upon the low fair house where she sat working, with soft bended brows watching her threads, among the school-maidens. and she thought well now god had brought her thence she should not come to sew her gold again. then cried king gabalus upon his men to have her forth and draw her with steel gins. and as a man hag-ridden beats and grins and bends his body sidelong in his bed, so wagged he with his body and knave's head, gaping at her, and blowing with his breath. and in good time he gat an evil death out of his lewdness with his cursèd wives: his bones were hewn asunder as with knives for his misliving, certes it is said. but all the evil wrought upon this maid, it were full hard for one to handle it. for her soft blood was shed upon her feet, and all her body's colour bruised and faint. but she, as one abiding god's great saint, spake not nor wept for all this travail hard. wherefore the king commanded afterward to slay her presently in all men's sight. and it was now an hour upon the night and winter-time, and a few stars began. the weather was yet feeble and all wan for beating of a weighty wind and snow. and she came walking in soft wise and slow, and many men with faces piteous. then came this heavy cursing gabalus, that swore full hard into his drunken beard; and faintly after without any word came theophile some paces off the king. and in the middle of this wayfaring full tenderly beholding her he said: there is no word of comfort with men dead nor any face and colour of things sweet; but always with lean cheeks and lifted feet these dead men lie all aching to the blood with bitter cold, their brows withouten hood beating for chill, their bodies swathed full thin: alas, what hire shall any have herein to give his life and get such bitterness? also the soul going forth bodiless is hurt with naked cold, and no man saith if there be house or covering for death to hide the soul that is discomforted. then she beholding him a little said: alas, fair lord, ye have no wit of this; for on one side death is full poor of bliss and as ye say full sharp of bone and lean: but on the other side is good and green and hath soft flower of tender-coloured hair grown on his head, and a red mouth as fair as may be kissed with lips; thereto his face is as god's face, and in a perfect place full of all sun and colour of straight boughs and waterheads about a painted house that hath a mile of flowers either way outward from it, and blossom-grass of may thickening on many a side for length of heat, hath god set death upon a noble seat covered with green and flowered in the fold, in likeness of a great king grown full old and gentle with new temperance of blood; and on his brows a purfled purple hood, they may not carry any golden thing; and plays some tune with subtle fingering on a small cithern, full of tears and sleep and heavy pleasure that is quick to weep and sorrow with the honey in her mouth; and for this might of music that he doth are all souls drawn toward him with great love and weep for sweetness of the noise thereof and bow to him with worship of their knees; and all the field is thick with companies of fair-clothed men that play on shawms and lutes and gather honey of the yellow fruits between the branches waxen soft and wide: and all this peace endures in either side of the green land, and god beholdeth all. and this is girdled with a round fair wall made of red stone and cool with heavy leaves grown out against it, and green blossom cleaves to the green chinks, and lesser wall-weed sweet, kissing the crannies that are split with heat, and branches where the summer draws to head. and theophile burnt in the cheek, and said: yea, could one see it, this were marvellous. i pray you, at your coming to this house, give me some leaf of all those tree-branches; seeing how so sharp and white our weather is, there is no green nor gracious red to see. yea, sir, she said, that shall i certainly. and from her long sweet throat without a fleck undid the gold, and through her stretched-out neck the cold axe clove, and smote away her head: out of her throat the tender blood full red fell suddenly through all her long soft hair. and with good speed for hardness of the air each man departed to his house again. lo, as fair colour in the face of men at seed-time of their blood, or in such wise as a thing seen increaseth in men's eyes, caught first far off by sickly fits of sight, so a word said, if one shall hear aright, abides against the season of its growth. this theophile went slowly, as one doth that is not sure for sickness of his feet; and counting the white stonework of the street, tears fell out of his eyes for wrath and love, making him weep more for the shame thereof than for true pain: so went he half a mile. and women mocked him, saying: theophile, lo, she is dead; what shall a woman have that loveth such an one? so christ me save, i were as lief to love a man new-hung. surely this man has bitten on his tongue, this makes him sad and writhled in his face. and when they came upon the paven place that was called sometime the place amorous there came a child before theophilus bearing a basket, and said suddenly: fair sir, this is my mistress dorothy that sends you gifts; and with this he was gone. in all this earth there is not such an one for colour and straight stature made so fair. the tender growing gold of his pure hair was as wheat growing, and his mouth as flame. god called him holy after his own name; with gold cloth like fire burning he was clad. but for the fair green basket that he had, it was filled up with heavy white and red; great roses stained still where the first rose bled, burning at heart for shame their heart withholds: and the sad colour of strong marigolds that have the sun to kiss their lips for love; the flower that venus' hair is woven of, the colour of fair apples in the sun, late peaches gathered when the heat was done and the slain air got breath; and after these the fair faint-headed poppies drunk with ease, and heaviness of hollow lilies red. then cried they all that saw these things, and said it was god's doing, and was marvellous. and in brief while this knight theophilus is waxen full of faith, and witnesseth before the king of god and love and death, for which the king bade hang him presently. a gallows of a goodly piece of tree this gabalus hath made to hang him on. forth of this world lo theophile is gone with a wried neck, god give us better fare than his that hath a twisted throat to wear; but truly for his love god hath him brought there where his heavy body grieves him nought nor all the people plucking at his feet; but in his face his lady's face is sweet, and through his lips her kissing lips are gone: god send him peace, and joy of such an one. this is the story of st. dorothy. i will you of your mercy pray for me because i wrote these sayings for your grace, that i may one day see her in the face. the two dreams (from boccaccio) i will that if i say a heavy thing your tongues forgive me; seeing ye know that spring has flecks and fits of pain to keep her sweet, and walks somewhile with winter-bitten feet. moreover it sounds often well to let one string, when ye play music, keep at fret the whole song through; one petal that is dead confirms the roses, be they white or red; dead sorrow is not sorrowful to hear as the thick noise that breaks mid weeping were; the sick sound aching in a lifted throat turns to sharp silver of a perfect note; and though the rain falls often, and with rain late autumn falls on the old red leaves like pain, i deem that god is not disquieted. also while men are fed with wine and bread, they shall be fed with sorrow at his hand. there grew a rose-garden in florence land more fair than many; all red summers through the leaves smelt sweet and sharp of rain, and blew sideways with tender wind; and therein fell sweet sound wherewith the green waxed audible, as a bird's will to sing disturbed his throat and set the sharp wings forward like a boat pushed through soft water, moving his brown side smooth-shapen as a maid's, and shook with pride his deep warm bosom, till the heavy sun's set face of heat stopped all the songs at once. the ways were clean to walk and delicate; and when the windy white of march grew late, before the trees took heart to face the sun with ravelled raiment of lean winter on, the roots were thick and hot with hollow grass. some roods away a lordly house there was, cool with broad courts and latticed passage wet from rush-flowers and lilies ripe to set, sown close among the strewings of the floor; and either wall of the slow corridor was dim with deep device of gracious things; some angel's steady mouth and weight of wings shut to the side; or peter with straight stole and beard cut black against the aureole that spanned his head from nape to crown; thereby mary's gold hair, thick to the girdle-tie wherein was bound a child with tender feet; or the broad cross with blood nigh brown on it. within this house a righteous lord abode, ser averardo; patient of his mood, and just of judgment; and to child he had a maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing, and unbound the brows of hate; and where she came, the lips that pain made strait waxed warm and wide, and from untender grew tender as those that sleep brings patience to. such long locks had she, that with knee to chin she might have wrapped and warmed her feet therein. right seldom fell her face on weeping wise; gold hair she had, and golden-coloured eyes, filled with clear light and fire and large repose like a fair hound's; no man there is but knows her face was white, and thereto she was tall; in no wise lacked there any praise at all to her most perfect and pure maidenhood; no sin i think there was in all her blood. she, where a gold grate shut the roses in, dwelt daily through deep summer weeks, through green flushed hours of rain upon the leaves; and there love made him room and space to worship her with tender worship of bowed knees, and wrought such pleasure as the pained sense palates not for weariness, but at one taste undoes the heart of its strong sweet, is ravenous of all the hidden honey; words and sense fail through the tune's imperious prevalence. in a poor house this lover kept apart, long communing with patience next his heart if love of his might move that face at all, tuned evenwise with colours musical; then after length of days he said thus: "love, for love's own sake and for the love thereof let no harsh words untune your gracious mood; for good it were, if anything be good, to comfort me in this pain's plague of mine; seeing thus, how neither sleep nor bread nor wine seems pleasant to me, yea no thing that is seems pleasant to me; only i know this, love's ways are sharp for palms of piteous feet to travel, but the end of such is sweet: now do with me as seemeth you the best." she mused a little, as one holds his guest by the hand musing, with her face borne down: then said: "yea, though such bitter seed be sown, have no more care of all that you have said; since if there is no sleep will bind your head, lo, i am fain to help you certainly; christ knoweth, sir, if i would have you die; there is no pleasure when a man is dead." thereat he kissed her hands and yellow head and clipped her fair long body many times; i have no wit to shape in written rhymes a scanted tithe of this great joy they had. they were too near love's secret to be glad; as whoso deems the core will surely melt from the warm fruit his lips caress, hath felt some bitter kernel where the teeth shut hard: or as sweet music sharpens afterward, being half disrelished both for sharp and sweet; as sea-water, having killed over-heat in a man's body, chills it with faint ache; so their sense, burdened only for love's sake, failed for pure love; yet so time served their wit, they saved each day some gold reserves of it, being wiser in love's riddle than such be whom fragments feed with his chance charity. all things felt sweet were felt sweet overmuch; the rose-thorn's prickle dangerous to touch, and flecks of fire in the thin leaf-shadows; too keen the breathed honey of the rose, its red too harsh a weight on feasted eyes; they were so far gone in love's histories, beyond all shape and colour and mere breath, where pleasure has for kinsfolk sleep and death, and strength of soul and body waxen blind for weariness, and flesh entailed with mind, when the keen edge of sense foretasteth sin. even this green place the summer caught them in seemed half deflowered and sick with beaten leaves in their strayed eyes; these gold flower-fumèd eves burnt out to make the sun's love-offering, the midnoon's prayer, the rose's thanksgiving, the trees' weight burdening the strengthless air, the shape of her stilled eyes, her coloured hair, her body's balance from the moving feet-- all this, found fair, lacked yet one grain of sweet it had some warm weeks back: so perisheth on may's new lip the tender april breath: so those same walks the wind sowed lilies in all april through, and all their latter kin of languid leaves whereon the autumn blows-- the dead red raiment of the last year's rose-- the last year's laurel, and the last year's love, fade, and grow things that death grows weary of. what man will gather in red summer-time the fruit of some obscure and hoary rhyme heard last midwinter, taste the heart in it, mould the smooth semitones afresh, refit the fair limbs ruined, flush the dead blood through with colour, make all broken beauties new for love's new lesson--shall not such find pain when the marred music labouring in his brain frets him with sweet sharp fragments, and lets slip one word that might leave satisfied his lip-- one touch that might put fire in all the chords? this was her pain: to miss from all sweet words some taste of sound, diverse and delicate-- some speech the old love found out to compensate for seasons of shut lips and drowsiness-- some grace, some word the old love found out to bless passionless months and undelighted weeks. the flowers had lost their summer-scented cheeks, their lips were no more sweet than daily breath: the year was plagued with instances of death. so fell it, these were sitting in cool grass with leaves about, and many a bird there was where the green shadow thickliest impleached soft fruit and writhen spray and blossom bleached dry in the sun or washed with rains to white: her girdle was pure silk, the bosom bright with purple as purple water and gold wrought in. one branch had touched with dusk her lips and chin, made violet of the throat, abashed with shade the breast's bright plaited work: but nothing frayed the sun's large kiss on the luxurious hair. her beauty was new colour to the air and music to the silent many birds. love was an-hungred for some perfect words to praise her with; but only her low name "andrevuola" came thrice, and thrice put shame in her clear cheek, so fruitful with new red that for pure love straightway shame's self was dead. then with lids gathered as who late had wept she began saying: "i have so little slept my lids drowse now against the very sun; yea, the brain aching with a dream begun beats like a fitful blood; kiss but both brows, and you shall pluck my thoughts grown dangerous almost away." he said thus, kissing them: "o sole sweet thing that god is glad to name, my one gold gift, if dreams be sharp and sore shall not the waking time increase much more with taste and sound, sweet eyesight or sweet scent? has any heat too hard and insolent burnt bare the tender married leaves, undone the maiden grass shut under from the sun? where in this world is room enough for pain?" the feverish finger of love had touched again her lips with happier blood; the pain lay meek in her fair face, nor altered lip nor cheek with pallor or with pulse; but in her mouth love thirsted as a man wayfaring doth, making it humble as weak hunger is. she lay close to him, bade do this and this, say that, sing thus: then almost weeping-ripe crouched, then laughed low. as one that fain would wipe the old record out of old things done and dead, she rose, she heaved her hands up, and waxed red for wilful heart and blameless fear of blame; saying "though my wits be weak, this is no shame for a poor maid whom love so punisheth with heats of hesitation and stopped breath that with my dreams i live yet heavily for pure sad heart and faith's humility. now be not wroth and i will show you this. "methought our lips upon their second kiss met in this place, and a fair day we had and fair soft leaves that waxed and were not sad with shaken rain or bitten through with drouth; when i, beholding ever how your mouth waited for mine, the throat being fallen back, saw crawl thereout a live thing flaked with black specks of brute slime and leper-coloured scale, a devil's hide with foul flame-writhen grail fashioned where hell's heat festers loathsomest; and that brief speech may ease me of the rest, thus were you slain and eaten of the thing. my waked eyes felt the new day shuddering on their low lids, felt the whole east so beat, pant with close pulse of such a plague-struck heat, as if the palpitating dawn drew breath for horror, breathing between life and death, till the sun sprang blood-bright and violent." so finishing, her soft strength wholly spent, she gazed each way, lest some brute-hoovèd thing, the timeless travail of hell's childbearing, should threat upon the sudden: whereat he, for relish of her tasted misery and tender little thornprick of her pain, laughed with mere love. what lover among men but hath his sense fed sovereignly 'twixt whiles with tears and covered eyelids and sick smiles and soft disaster of a painèd face? what pain, established in so sweet a place, but the plucked leaf of it smells fragrantly? what colour burning man's wide-open eye but may be pleasurably seen? what sense keeps in its hot sharp extreme violence no savour of sweet things? the bereaved blood and emptied flesh in their most broken mood fail not so wholly, famish not when thus past honey keeps the starved lip covetous. therefore this speech from a glad mouth began, breathed in her tender hair and temples wan like one prolonged kiss while the lips had breath. "sleep, that abides in vassalage of death and in death's service wears out half his age, hath his dreams full of deadly vassalage, shadow and sound of things ungracious; fair shallow faces, hooded bloodless brows, and mouths past kissing; yea, myself have had as harsh a dream as holds your eyelids sad. "this dream i tell you came three nights ago; in full mid sleep i took a whim to know how sweet things might be; so i turned and thought; but save my dream all sweet availed me not. first came a smell of pounded spice and scent such as god ripens in some continent of utmost amber in the syrian sea; and breaths as though some costly rose could be spoiled slowly, wasted by some bitter fire to burn the sweet out leaf by leaf, and tire the flower's poor heart with heat and waste, to make strong magic for some perfumed woman's sake. then a cool naked sense beneath my feet of bud and blossom; and sound of veins that beat as if a lute should play of its own heart and fearfully, not smitten of either part; and all my blood it filled with sharp and sweet as gold swoln grain fills out the huskèd wheat; so i rose naked from the bed, and stood counting the mobile measure in my blood some pleasant while, and through each limb there came swift little pleasures pungent as a flame, felt in the thrilling flesh and veins as much as the outer curls that feel the comb's first touch thrill to the roots and shiver as from fire; and blind between my dream and my desire i seemed to stand and held my spirit still lest this should cease. a child whose fingers spill honey from cells forgotten of the bee is less afraid to stir the hive and see some wasp's bright back inside, than i to feel some finger-touch disturb the flesh like steel. i prayed thus; let me catch a secret here so sweet, it sharpens the sweet taste of fear and takes the mouth with edge of wine; i would have here some colour and smooth shape as good as those in heaven whom the chief garden hides with low grape-blossom veiling their white sides and lesser tendrils that so bind and blind their eyes and feet, that if one come behind to touch their hair they see not, neither fly; this would i see in heaven and not die. so praying, i had nigh cried out and knelt, so wholly my prayer filled me: till i felt in the dumb night's warm weight of glowing gloom somewhat that altered all my sleeping-room, and made it like a green low place wherein maids mix to bathe: one sets her small warm chin against a ripple, that the angry pearl may flow like flame about her: the next curl dips in some eddy coloured of the sun to wash the dust well out; another one holds a straight ankle in her hand and swings with lavish body sidelong, so that rings of sweet fierce water, swollen and splendid, fail all round her fine and floated body pale, swayed flower-fashion, and her balanced side swerved edgeways lets the weight of water slide, as taken in some underflow of sea swerves the banked gold of sea-flowers; but she pulls down some branch to keep her perfect head clear of the river: even from wall to bed, i tell you, was my room transfigured so. sweet, green and warm it was, nor could one know if there were walls or leaves, or if there was no bed's green curtain, but mere gentle grass. there were set also hard against the feet gold plates with honey and green grapes to eat, with the cool water's noise to hear in rhymes: and a wind warmed me full of furze and limes and all hot sweets the heavy summer fills to the round brim of smooth cup-shapen hills. next the grave walking of a woman's feet made my veins hesitate, and gracious heat made thick the lids and leaden on mine eyes: and i thought ever, surely it were wise not yet to see her: this may last (who knows?) five minutes; the poor rose is twice a rose because it turns a face to her, the wind sings that way; hath this woman ever sinned, i wonder? as a boy with apple-rind, i played with pleasures, made them to my mind, changed each ere tasting. when she came indeed, first her hair touched me, then i grew to feed on the sense of her hand; her mouth at last touched me between the cheek and lip and past over my face with kisses here and there sown in and out across the eyes and hair. still i said nothing; till she set her face more close and harder on the kissing-place, and her mouth caught like a snake's mouth, and stung so faint and tenderly, the fang scarce clung more than a bird's foot: yet a wound it grew, a great one, let this red mark witness you under the left breast; and the stroke thereof so clove my sense that i woke out of love and knew not what this dream was nor had wit; but now god knows if i have skill of it." hereat she laid one palm against her lips to stop their trembling; as when water slips out of a beak-mouthed vessel with faint noise and chuckles in the narrowed throat and cloys the carven rims with murmuring, so came words in her lips with no word right of them, a beaten speech thick and disconsolate, till his smile ceasing waxed compassionate of her sore fear that grew from anything-- the sound of the strong summer thickening in heated leaves of the smooth apple-trees: the day's breath felt about the ash-branches, and noises of the noon whose weight still grew on the hot heavy-headed flowers, and drew their red mouths open till the rose-heart ached; for eastward all the crowding rose was slaked and soothed with shade: but westward all its growth seemed to breathe hard with heat as a man doth who feels his temples newly feverous. and even with such motion in her brows as that man hath in whom sick days begin, she turned her throat and spake, her voice being thin as a sick man's, sudden and tremulous; "sweet, if this end be come indeed on us, let us love more;" and held his mouth with hers. as the first sound of flooded hill-waters is heard by people of the meadow-grass, or ever a wandering waif of ruin pass with whirling stones and foam of the brown stream flaked with fierce yellow: so beholding him she felt before tears came her eyelids wet, saw the face deadly thin where life was yet, heard his throat's harsh last moan before it clomb: and he, with close mouth passionate and dumb, burned at her lips: so lay they without speech, each grasping other, and the eyes of each fed in the other's face: till suddenly he cried out with a little broken cry this word, "o help me, sweet, i am but dead." and even so saying, the colour of fair red was gone out of his face, and his blood's beat fell, and stark death made sharp his upward feet and pointed hands; and without moan he died. pain smote her sudden in the brows and side, strained her lips open and made burn her eyes: for the pure sharpness of her miseries she had no heart's pain, but mere body's wrack; but at the last her beaten blood drew back slowly upon her face, and her stunned brows suddenly grown aware and piteous gathered themselves, her eyes shone, her hard breath came as though one nigh dead came back from death; her lips throbbed, and life trembled through her hair. and in brief while she thought to bury there the dead man that her love might lie with him in a sweet bed under the rose-roots dim and soft earth round the branchèd apple-trees, full of hushed heat and heavy with great ease, and no man entering divide him thence. wherefore she bade one of her handmaidens to be her help to do upon this wise. and saying so the tears out of her eyes fell without noise and comforted her heart: yea, her great pain eased of the sorest part began to soften in her sense of it. there under all the little branches sweet the place was shapen of his burial; they shed thereon no thing funereal, but coloured leaves of latter rose-blossom, stems of soft grass, some withered red and some fair and fresh-blooded; and spoil splendider of marigold and great spent sunflower. and afterward she came back without word to her own house; two days went, and the third went, and she showed her father of this thing. and for great grief of her soul's travailing he gave consent she should endure in peace till her life's end; yea, till her time should cease, she should abide in fellowship of pain. and having lived a holy year or twain she died of pure waste heart and weariness. and for love's honour in her love's distress this word was written over her tomb's head; "here dead she lieth, for whose sake love is dead." aholibah in the beginning god made thee a woman well to look upon, thy tender body as a tree whereon cool wind hath always blown till the clean branches be well grown. there was none like thee in the land; the girls that were thy bondwomen did bind thee with a purple band upon thy forehead, that all men should know thee for god's handmaiden. strange raiment clad thee like a bride, with silk to wear on hands and feet and plates of gold on either side: wine made thee glad, and thou didst eat honey, and choice of pleasant meat. and fishers in the middle sea did get thee sea-fish and sea-weeds in colour like the robes on thee; and curious work of plaited reeds, and wools wherein live purple bleeds. and round the edges of thy cup men wrought thee marvels out of gold, strong snakes with lean throats lifted up, large eyes whereon the brows had hold, and scaly things their slime kept cold. for thee they blew soft wind in flutes and ground sweet roots for cunning scent; made slow because of many lutes, the wind among thy chambers went wherein no light was violent. god called thy name aholibah, his tabernacle being in thee, a witness through waste asia; thou wert a tent sewn cunningly with gold and colours of the sea. god gave thee gracious ministers and all their work who plait and weave: the cunning of embroiderers that sew the pillow to the sleeve, and likeness of all things that live. thy garments upon thee were fair with scarlet and with yellow thread; also the weaving of thine hair was as fine gold upon thy head, and thy silk shoes were sewn with red. all sweet things he bade sift, and ground as a man grindeth wheat in mills with strong wheels alway going round; he gave thee corn, and grass that fills the cattle on a thousand hills. the wine of many seasons fed thy mouth, and made it fair and clean; sweet oil was poured out on thy head and ran down like cool rain between the strait close locks it melted in. the strong men and the captains knew thy chambers wrought and fashioned with gold and covering of blue, and the blue raiment of thine head who satest on a stately bed. all these had on their garments wrought the shape of beasts and creeping things, the body that availeth not, flat backs of worms and veinèd wings, and the lewd bulk that sleeps and stings. also the chosen of the years, the multitude being at ease, with sackbuts and with dulcimers and noise of shawms and psalteries made mirth within the ears of these. but as a common woman doth, thou didst think evil and devise; the sweet smell of thy breast and mouth thou madest as the harlot's wise, and there was painting on thine eyes. yea, in the woven guest-chamber and by the painted passages where the strange gracious paintings were, state upon state of companies, there came on thee the lust of these. because of shapes on either wall sea-coloured from some rare blue shell at many a tyrian interval, horsemen on horses, girdled well, delicate and desirable, thou saidest: i am sick of love: stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples for my pain thereof till my hands gather in his tree that fruit wherein my lips would be. yea, saidest thou, i will go up when there is no more shade than one may cover with a hollow cup, and make my bed against the sun till my blood's violence be done. thy mouth was leant upon the wall against the painted mouth, thy chin touched the hair's painted curve and fall; thy deep throat, fallen lax and thin, worked as the blood's beat worked therein. therefore, o thou aholibah, god is not glad because of thee; and thy fine gold shall pass away like those fair coins of ore that be washed over by the middle sea. then will one make thy body bare to strip it of all gracious things, and pluck the cover from thine hair, and break the gift of many kings, thy wrist-rings and thine ankle-rings. likewise the man whose body joins to thy smooth body, as was said, who hath a girdle on his loins and dyed attire upon his head-- the same who, seeing, worshipped, because thy face was like the face of a clean maiden that smells sweet, because thy gait was as the pace of one that opens not her feet and is not heard within the street-- even he, o thou aholibah, made separate from thy desire, shall cut thy nose and ears away and bruise thee for thy body's hire and burn the residue with fire. then shall the heathen people say, the multitude being at ease; lo, this is that aholibah whose name was blown among strange seas. grown old with soft adulteries. also her bed was made of green, her windows beautiful for glass that she had made her bed between: yea, for pure lust her body was made like white summer-coloured grass. her raiment was a strong man's spoil; upon a table by a bed she set mine incense and mine oil to be the beauty of her head in chambers walled about with red. also between the walls she had fair faces of strong men portrayed; all girded round the loins, and clad with several cloths of woven braid and garments marvellously made. therefore the wrath of god shall be set as a watch upon her way; and whoso findeth by the sea blown dust of bones will hardly say if this were that aholibah. love and sleep lying asleep between the strokes of night i saw my love lean over my sad bed, pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, too wan for blushing and too warm for white, but perfect-coloured without white or red. and her lips opened amorously, and said-- i wist not what, saving one word--delight. and all her face was honey to my mouth, and all her body pasture to mine eyes; the long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, the quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south, the bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs and glittering eyelids of my soul's desire. madonna mia under green apple-boughs that never a storm will rouse, my lady hath her house between two bowers; in either of the twain red roses full of rain; she hath for bondwomen all kind of flowers. she hath no handmaid fair to draw her curled gold hair through rings of gold that bear her whole hair's weight; she hath no maids to stand gold-clothed on either hand; in all the great green land none is so great. she hath no more to wear but one white hood of vair drawn over eyes and hair, wrought with strange gold, made for some great queen's head, some fair great queen since dead; and one strait gown of red against the cold. beneath her eyelids deep love lying seems asleep, love, swift to wake, to weep, to laugh, to gaze; her breasts are like white birds, and all her gracious words as water-grass to herds in the june-days. to her all dews that fall and rains are musical; her flowers are fed from all, her joy from these; in the deep-feathered firs their gift of joy is hers, in the least breath that stirs across the trees. she grows with greenest leaves, ripens with reddest sheaves, forgets, remembers, grieves, and is not sad; the quiet lands and skies leave light upon her eyes; none knows her, weak or wise, or tired or glad. none knows, none understands, what flowers are like her hands; though you should search all lands wherein time grows, what snows are like her feet, though his eyes burn with heat through gazing on my sweet, yet no man knows. only this thing is said; that white and gold and red, god's three chief words, man's bread and oil and wine, were given her for dowers, and kingdom of all hours, and grace of goodly flowers and various vine. this is my lady's praise: god after many days wrought her in unknown ways, in sunset lands; this was my lady's birth; god gave her might and mirth and laid his whole sweet earth between her hands. under deep apple-boughs my lady hath her house; she wears upon her brows the flower thereof; all saying but what god saith to her is as vain breath; she is more strong than death, being strong as love. the king's daughter we were ten maidens in the green corn, small red leaves in the mill-water: fairer maidens never were born, apples of gold for the king's daughter. we were ten maidens by a well-head, small white birds in the mill-water: sweeter maidens never were wed, rings of red for the king's daughter. the first to spin, the second to sing, seeds of wheat in the mill-water; the third may was a goodly thing, white bread and brown for the king's daughter. the fourth to sew and the fifth to play, fair green weed in the mill-water; the sixth may was a goodly may, white wine and red for the king's daughter. the seventh to woo, the eighth to wed, fair thin reeds in the mill-water; the ninth had gold work on her head, honey in the comb for the king's daughter. the ninth had gold work round her hair, fallen flowers in the mill-water; the tenth may was goodly and fair, golden gloves for the king's daughter. we were ten maidens in a field green, fallen fruit in the mill-water; fairer maidens never have been, golden sleeves for the king's daughter. by there comes the king's young son, a little wind in the mill-water; "out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one," a crown of red for the king's daughter. "out of ten mays ye'll give me the best," a little rain in the mill-water; a bed of yellow straw for all the rest, a bed of gold for the king's daughter. he's ta'en out the goodliest, rain that rains in the mill-water; a comb of yellow shell for all the rest, a comb of gold for the king's daughter. he's made her bed to the goodliest, wind and hail in the mill-water; a grass girdle for all the rest, a girdle of arms for the king's daughter. he's set his heart to the goodliest, snow that snows in the mill-water; nine little kisses for all the rest, an hundredfold for the king's daughter. he's ta'en his leave at the goodliest, broken boats in the mill-water; golden gifts for all the rest, sorrow of heart for the king's daughter. "ye'll make a grave for my fair body," running rain in the mill-water; "and ye'll streek my brother at the side of me," the pains of hell for the king's daughter. after death the four boards of the coffin lid heard all the dead man did. the first curse was in his mouth, made of grave's mould and deadly drouth. the next curse was in his head, made of god's work discomfited. the next curse was in his hands, made out of two grave-bands. the next curse was in his feet, made out of a grave-sheet. "i had fair coins red and white, and my name was as great light; i had fair clothes green and red, and strong gold bound round my head. but no meat comes in my mouth, now i fare as the worm doth; and no gold binds in my hair, now i fare as the blind fare. my live thews were of great strength, now am i waxen a span's length; my live sides were full of lust, now are they dried with dust." the first board spake and said: "is it best eating flesh or bread?" the second answered it: "is wine or honey the more sweet?" the third board spake and said: "is red gold worth a girl's gold head?" the fourth made answer thus: "all these things are as one with us." the dead man asked of them: "is the green land stained brown with flame? have they hewn my son for beasts to eat, and my wife's body for beasts' meat? have they boiled my maid in a brass pan, and built a gallows to hang my man?" the boards said to him: "this is a lewd thing that ye deem. your wife has gotten a golden bed, all the sheets are sewn with red. your son has gotten a coat of silk, the sleeves are soft as curded milk. your maid has gotten a kirtle new, all the skirt has braids of blue. your man has gotten both ring and glove, wrought well for eyes to love." the dead man answered thus: "what good gift shall god give us?" the boards answered him anon: "flesh to feed hell's worm upon." may janet (breton) "stand up, stand up, thou may janet, and go to the wars with me." he's drawn her by both hands with her face against the sea. "he that strews red shall gather white, he that sows white reap red, before your face and my daughter's meet in a marriage-bed. "gold coin shall grow in the yellow field, green corn in the green sea-water, and red fruit grow of the rose's red, ere your fruit grow in her." "but i shall have her by land," he said, "or i shall have her by sea, or i shall have her by strong treason and no grace go with me." her father's drawn her by both hands, he's rent her gown from her, he's ta'en the smock round her body, cast in the sea-water. the captain's drawn her by both sides out of the fair green sea; "stand up, stand up, thou may janet, and come to the war with me." the first town they came to there was a blue bride-chamber; he clothed her on with silk and belted her with amber. the second town they came to the bridesmen feasted knee to knee; he clothed her on with silver, a stately thing to see. the third town they came to the bridesmaids all had gowns of gold; he clothed her on with purple, a rich thing to behold. the last town they came to he clothed her white and red, with a green flag either side of her and a gold flag overhead. the bloody son (finnish) "o where have ye been the morn sae late, my merry son, come tell me hither? o where have ye been the morn sae late? and i wot i hae not anither." "by the water-gate, by the water-gate, o dear mither." "and whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make, my merry son, come tell me hither? and whatten kin' o' wark had ye there to make? and i wot i hae not anither." "i watered my steeds with water frae the lake, o dear mither." "why is your coat sae fouled the day, my merry son, come tell me hither? why is your coat sae fouled the day? and i wot i hae not anither." "the steeds were stamping sair by the weary banks of clay, o dear mither." "and where gat ye thae sleeves of red, my merry son, come tell me hither? and where gat ye thae sleeves of red? and i wot i hae not anither." "i have slain my ae brither by the weary waterhead, o dear mither." "and where will ye gang to mak your mend, my merry son, come tell me hither? and where will ye gang to mak your mend? and i wot i hae not anither." "the warldis way, to the warldis end, o dear mither." "and what will ye leave your father dear, my merry son, come tell me hither? and what will ye leave your father dear? and i wot i hae not anither." "the wood to fell and the logs to bear, for he'll never see my body mair, o dear mither." "and what will ye leave your mither dear, my merry son, come tell me hither? and what will ye leave your mither dear? and i wot i hae not anither." "the wool to card and the wool to wear, for ye'll never see my body mair, o dear mither." "and what will ye leave for your wife to take, my merry son, come tell me hither? and what will ye leave for your wife to take? and i wot i hae not anither." "a goodly gown and a fair new make, for she'll do nae mair for my body's sake, o dear mither." "and what will ye leave your young son fair, my merry son, come tell me hither? and what will ye leave your young son fair? and i wot ye hae not anither." "a twiggen school-rod for his body to bear, though it garred him greet he'll get nae mair, o dear mither." "and what will ye leave your little daughter sweet, my merry son, come tell me hither? and what will ye leave your little daughter sweet? and i wot ye hae not anither." "wild mulberries for her mouth to eat, she'll get nae mair though it garred her greet, o dear mither." "and when will ye come back frae roamin', my merry son, come tell me hither? and when will ye come back frae roamin'? and i wot i hae not anither." "when the sunrise out of the north is comen, o dear mither." "when shall the sunrise on the north side be, my merry son, come tell me hither? when shall the sunrise on the north side be? and i wot i hae not anither." "when chuckie-stanes shall swim in the sea, o dear mither." "when shall stanes in the sea swim, my merry son, come tell me hither? when shall stanes in the sea swim? and i wot i hae not anither." "when birdies' feathers are as lead therein, o dear mither." "when shall feathers be as lead, my merry son, come tell me hither? when shall feathers be as lead? and i wot i hae not anither." "when god shall judge between the quick and dead, o dear mither." the sea-swallows this fell when christmas lights were done, (red rose leaves will never make wine) but before the easter lights begun; the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. two lovers sat where the rowan blows and all the grass is heavy and fine, by the gathering-place of the sea-swallows when the wind brings them over tyne. blossom of broom will never make bread, red rose leaves will never make wine; between her brows she is grown red, that was full white in the fields by tyne. "o what is this thing ye have on, show me now, sweet daughter of mine?" "o father, this is my little son that i found hid in the sides of tyne. "o what will ye give my son to eat, red rose leaves will never make wine?" "fen-water and adder's meat." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "or what will ye get my son to wear?" (red rose leaves will never make wine.) "a weed and a web of nettle's hair." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "or what will ye take to line his bed?" (red rose leaves will never make wine.) "two black stones at the kirkwall's head." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "or what will ye give my son for land?" (red rose leaves will never make wine.) "three girl's paces of red sand." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "or what will ye give me for my son?" (red rose leaves will never make wine.) "six times to kiss his young mouth on." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "but what have ye done with the bearing-bread, and what have ye made of the washing-wine? or where have ye made your bearing-bed, to bear a son in the sides of tyne?" "the bearing-bread is soft and new, there is no soil in the straining wine; the bed was made between green and blue, it stands full soft by the sides of tyne. "the fair grass was my bearing-bread, the well-water my washing-wine; the low leaves were my bearing-bed, and that was best in the sides of tyne." "o daughter, if ye have done this thing, i wot the greater grief is mine; this was a bitter child-bearing, when ye were got by the sides of tyne. "about the time of sea-swallows that fly full thick by six and nine, ye'll have my body out of the house, to bury me by the sides of tyne. "set nine stones by the wall for twain," (red rose leaves will never make wine) "for the bed i take will measure ten." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "tread twelve girl's paces out for three," (red rose leaves will never make wine) "for the pit i made has taken me." the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. the year of love there were four loves that one by one, following the seasons and the sun, passed over without tears, and fell away without farewell. the first was made of gold and tears, the next of aspen-leaves and fears, the third of rose-boughs and rose-roots, the last love of strange fruits. these were the four loves faded. hold some minutes fast the time of gold when our lips each way clung and clove to a face full of love. the tears inside our eyelids met, wrung forth with kissing, and wept wet the faces cleaving each to each where the blood served for speech. the second, with low patient brows bound under aspen-coloured boughs and eyes made strong and grave with sleep and yet too weak to weep-- the third, with eager mouth at ease fed from late autumn honey, lees of scarce gold left in latter cells with scattered flower-smells-- hair sprinkled over with spoilt sweet of ruined roses, wrists and feet slight-swathed, as grassy-girdled sheaves hold in stray poppy-leaves-- the fourth, with lips whereon has bled some great pale fruit's slow colour, shed from the rank bitter husk whence drips faint blood between her lips-- made of the heat of whole great junes burning the blue dark round their moons (each like a mown red marigold) so hard the flame keeps hold-- these are burnt thoroughly away. only the first holds out a day beyond these latter loves that were made of mere heat and air. and now the time is winterly the first love fades too: none will see, when april warms the world anew, the place wherein love grew. dedication the sea gives her shells to the shingle, the earth gives her streams to the sea: they are many, but my gift is single, my verses, the firstfruits of me. let the wind take the green and the grey leaf, cast forth without fruit upon air; take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf blown loose from the hair. the night shakes them round me in legions, dawn drives them before her like dreams; time sheds them like snows on strange regions, swept shoreward on infinite streams; leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, dead fruits of the fugitive years; some stained as with wine and made bloody, and some as with tears. some scattered in seven years' traces, as they fell from the boy that was then; long left among idle green places, or gathered but now among men; on seas full of wonder and peril, blown white round the capes of the north; or in islands where myrtles are sterile and loves bring not forth. o daughters of dreams and of stories that life is not wearied of yet, faustine, fragoletta, dolores, félise and yolande and juliette, shall i find you not still, shall i miss you, when sleep, that is true or that seems, comes back to me hopeless to kiss you, o daughters of dreams? they are past as a slumber that passes, as the dew of a dawn of old time; more frail than the shadows on glasses, more fleet than a wave or a rhyme. as the waves after ebb drawing seaward, when their hollows are full of the night, so the birds that flew singing to me-ward recede out of sight. the songs of dead seasons, that wander on wings of articulate words; lost leaves that the shore-wind may squander, light flocks of untameable birds; some sang to me dreaming in class-time and truant in hand as in tongue; for the youngest were born of boy's pastime, the eldest are young. is there shelter while life in them lingers, is there hearing for songs that recede, tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers or blown with boy's mouth in a reed? is there place in the land of your labour, is there room in your world of delight, where change has not sorrow for neighbour and day has not night? in their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, will you spare not a space for them there made green with the running of rivers and gracious with temperate air; in the fields and the turreted cities, that cover from sunshine and rain fair passions and bountiful pities and loves without stain? in a land of clear colours and stories, in a region of shadowless hours, where earth has a garment of glories and a murmur of musical flowers; in woods where the spring half uncovers the flush of her amorous face, by the waters that listen for lovers, for these is there place? for the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle their music as clouds do their fire: for the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle wild wings in a wind of desire; in the stream of the storm as it settles blown seaward, borne far from the sun, shaken loose on the darkness like petals dropt one after one? though the world of your hands be more gracious and lovelier in lordship of things clothed round by sweet art with the spacious warm heaven of her imminent wings, let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, for the love of old loves and lost times; and receive in your palace of painting this revel of rhymes. though the seasons of man full of losses make empty the years full of youth, if but one thing be constant in crosses, change lays not her hand upon truth; hopes die, and their tombs are for token that the grief as the joy of them ends ere time that breaks all men has broken the faith between friends. though the many lights dwindle to one light, there is help if the heaven has one; though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight and the earth dispossessed of the sun, they have moonlight and sleep for repayment, when, refreshed as a bride and set free, with stars and sea-winds in her raiment, night sinks on the sea. printed at the complete press west norwood london songs of the cattle trail and cow camp the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto songs of the cattle trail and cow camp collected by john a. lomax, b.a., m.a. executive secretary ex-students' association, the university of texas. for three years sheldon fellow from harvard university for the collection of american ballads; ex-president american folk-lore society. collector of "cowboy songs and other frontier ballads"; joint author with dr. h. y. benedict of "the book of texas." with a foreword by william lyon phelps new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ copyright, by the macmillan company set up and electrotyped. published november, . "that these dear friends i leave behind may keep kind hearts' remembrance of the love we had." _solon._ in affectionate gratitude to a group of men, my intimate friends during college days (brought under one roof by a "fraternity"), whom i still love not less but more, _will prather_, _hammett hardy_, _penn hargrove_ and _harry steger_, of precious and joyous memory; _norman crozier_, not yet quite emerged from presbyterianism; _eugene barker_, cynical, solid, unafraid; _"cap'en" duval_, a gentleman of virginia, sah; _ed miller_, red-headed and royal-hearted; _bates macfarland_, calm and competent without camouflage; _jimmie haven_, who has put 'em over every good day since; _charley johnson_, "the swede"--the fattest, richest and dearest of the bunch; _edgar witt_, whose loyal devotion and pertinacious energy built the "frat" house; _roy bedichek_, too big for any job he has yet tackled; _"curley" duncan_, who possesses all the virtues of the old time cattleman and none of the vices of the new; _rom rhome_, the quiet and canny counter of coin; _gavin hunt_, student and lover of all things beautiful; _dick kimball_, the soldier; every inch of him a handsome man; _alex_ and _bruce_ and _dave_ and _george_ and _"freshman" mathis_ and _clarence_, the six freshmen we "took in"; while _ike macfarland_, _alfred pierce ward_, and _guy_ and _charlie witt_ were still in the process of assimilation,-- to this group of god's good fellows, i dedicate this little book. no loopholes now are framing lean faces, grim and brown, no more keen eyes are aiming to bring the redskin down; but every wind careening seems here to breathe a song-- a song of brave careering, a saga of the strong. foreword in collecting, arranging, editing, and preserving the "songs of the cattle trail and cow camp," my friend john lomax has performed a real service to american literature and to america. no verse is closer to the soil than this; none more realistic in the best sense of that much-abused word; none more truly interprets and expresses a part of our national life. to understand and appreciate these lyrics one should hear mr. lomax talk about them and sing them; for they were made for the voice to pronounce and for the ears to hear, rather than for the lamplit silence of the library. they are as oral as the chants of vachel lindsay; and when one has the pleasure of listening to mr. lomax--who loves these verses and the men who first sang them--one reconstructs in imagination the appropriate figures and romantic setting. for nothing is so romantic as life itself. none of our illusions about life is so romantic as the truth. hence the purest realism appeals to the mature imagination more powerfully than any impossible prettiness can do. the more we _know_ of individual and universal life, the more we are excited and stimulated. and the collection of these poems is an addition to american scholarship as well as to american literature. it was a wise policy of the faculty of harvard university to grant mr. lomax a traveling fellowship, that he might have the necessary leisure to discover and to collect these verses; it is really "original research," as interesting and surely as valuable as much that passes under that name; for it helps every one of us to understand our own country. wm. lyon phelps. yale university, july , . introduction "look down, look down, that weary road, 'tis the road that the sun goes down." * * * "'twas way out west where the antelope roam, and the coyote howls 'round the cowboy's home, where the mountains are covered with chaparral frail, and the valleys are checkered with the cattle trail, where the miner digs for the golden veins, and the cowboy rides o'er the silent plains,--" the "songs of the cattle trail and cow camp" does not purport to be an anthology of western verse. as its title indicates, the contents of the book are limited to attempts, more or less poetic, in translating scenes connected with the life of a cowboy. the volume is in reality a by-product of my earlier collection, "cowboy songs and other frontier ballads." in the former book i put together what seemed to me to be the best of the songs created and sung by the cowboys as they went about their work. in making the collection, the cowboys often sang or sent to me songs which i recognized as having already been in print; although the singer usually said that some other cowboy had sung the song to him and that he did not know where it had originated. for example, one night in new mexico a cowboy sang to me, in typical cowboy music, larry chittenden's entire "cowboys' christmas ball"; since that time the poem has often come to me in manuscript form as an original cowboy song. the changes--usually, it must be confessed, resulting in bettering the verse--which have occurred in oral transmission, are most interesting. of one example, charles badger clark's "high chin bob," i have printed, following mr. clark's poem, a cowboy version, which i submit to mr. clark and his admirers for their consideration. in making selections for this volume from a large mass of material that came into my ballad hopper while hunting cowboy songs as a traveling fellow from harvard university, i have included the best of the verse given me directly by the cowboys; other selections have come in through repeated recommendation of these men; others are vagrant verses from western newspapers; and still others have been lifted from collections of western verse written by such men as charles badger clark, jr., and herbert h. knibbs. to these two authors, as well as others who have permitted me to make use of their work, the grateful thanks of the collector are extended. as will be seen, almost one-half of the selections have no assignable authorship. i am equally grateful to these unknown authors. all those who found "cowboy songs" diverting, it is believed, will make welcome "the songs of the cattle trail and cow camp." many of these have this claim to be called songs: they have been set to music by the cowboys, who, in their isolation and loneliness, have found solace in narrative or descriptive verse devoted to cattle scenes. herein, again, through these quondam songs we may come to appreciate something of the spirit of the big west--its largeness, its freedom, its wholehearted hospitality, its genuine friendship. here again, too, we may see the cowboy at work and at play; hear the jingle of his big bell spurs, the swish of his rope, the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of thousands of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from texas to montana; and know something of the life that attracted from the east some of its best young blood to a work that was necessary in the winning of the west. the trails are becoming dust covered or grass grown or lost underneath the farmers' furrow; but in the selections of this volume, many of them poems by courtesy, men of today and those who are to follow, may sense, at least in some small measure, the service, the glamour, the romance of that knight-errant of the plains--the american cowboy. j. a. l. the university of texas, austin, july , . contents part i. cowboy yarns out where the west begins the shallows of the ford the dance at silver valley the legend of boastful bill the texas cowboy and the mexican greaser broncho versus bicycle riders of the stars lasca the transformation of a texas girl the glory trail high chin bob to hear him tell it the clown's baby the drunken desperado marta of milrone jack dempsey's grave the cattle round-up part ii. the cowboy off guard a cowboy's worrying love the cowboy and the maid a cowboy's love song a border affair snagtooth sal love lyrics of a cowboy the bull fight the cowboy's valentine a cowboy's hopeless love the chase riding song our little cowgirl i want my time who's that calling so sweet? song of the cattle trail a cowboy's son a cowboy song a nevada cowpuncher to his beloved the cowboy to his friend in need when bob got throwed cowboy versus broncho when you're throwed pardners the bronc that wouldn't bust the ol' cow hawse the bunk-house orchestra the cowboys' dance song the cowboys' christmas ball a dance at the ranch at a cowboy dance the cowboys' ball part iii. cowboy types the cowboy bar-z on a sunday night a cowboy race the habit a ranger the insult "the road to ruin" the outlaw the desert whiskey bill,--a fragment denver jim the vigilantes the bandit's grave the old mackenzie trail the sheep-herder a cowboy at the carnival the old cowman the gila monster route the call of the plains where the grizzly dwells a cowboy toast ridin' up the rocky trail from town the disappointed tenderfoot a cowboy alone with his conscience just a-ridin'! the end of the trail part i cowboy yarns _the centipede runs across my head, the vinegaroon crawls in my bed, tarantulas jump and scorpions play, the broncs are grazing far away, the rattlesnake gives his warning cry, and the coyotes sing their lullaby, while i sleep soundly beneath the sky._ out where the west begins out where the handclasp's a little stronger, out where the smile dwells a little longer, that's where the west begins; out where the sun is a little brighter, where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter, where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, that's where the west begins. out where the skies are a trifle bluer, out where friendship's a little truer, that's where the west begins; out where a fresher breeze is blowing, where there's laughter in every streamlet flowing, where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, that's where the west begins. out where the world is in the making, where fewer hearts in despair are aching, that's where the west begins; where there's more of singing and less of sighing, where there's more of giving and less of buying, and a man makes friends without half trying, that's where the west begins. _arthur chapman._ the shallows of the ford did you ever wait for daylight when the stars along the river floated thick and white as snowflakes in the water deep and strange, till a whisper through the aspens made the current break and shiver as the frosty edge of morning seemed to melt and spread and change? once i waited, almost wishing that the dawn would never find me; saw the sun roll up the ranges like the glory of the lord; was about to wake my pardner who was sleeping close behind me, when i saw the man we wanted spur his pony to the ford. saw the ripples of the shallows and the muddy streaks that followed, as the pony stumbled toward me in the narrows of the bend; saw the face i used to welcome, wild and watchful, lined and hollowed; and god knows i wished to warn him, for i once had called him friend. but an oath had come between us--i was paid by law and order; he was outlaw, rustler, killer--so the border whisper ran; left his word in caliente that he'd cross the rio border-- call me coward? but i hailed him--"riding close to daylight, dan!" just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning, caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name, reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning, back across the sunlit rio up the trail on which he came. he had passed his word to cross it--i had passed my word to get him-- we broke even and we knew it; 'twas a case of give and take for old times. i could have killed him from the brush; instead, i let him ride his trail--i turned--my pardner flung his arm and stretched awake; saw me standing in the open; pulled his gun and came beside me; asked a question with his shoulder as his left hand pointed toward muddy streaks that thinned and vanished--not a word, but hard he eyed me as the water cleared and sparkled in the shallows of the ford. _henry herbert knibbs._ the dance at silver valley _don't you hear the big spurs jingle?_ _don't you feel the red blood tingle?_ _be it smile or be it frown,_ _be it dance or be it fight,_ _broncho bill has come to town_ _to dance a dance tonight._ chaps, sombrero, handkerchief, silver spurs at heel; "hello, gil!" and "hello, pete!" "how do you think you feel?" "drinks are mine. come fall in, boys; crowd up on the right. here's happy days and honey joys. i'm going to dance tonight." (on his hip in leathern tube, a case of dark blue steel.) bill, the broncho buster, from the ranch at beaver bend, ninety steers and but one life in his hands to spend; ready for a fight or spree; ready for a race; going blind with bridle loose every inch of space. down at johnny schaeffer's place, see them trooping in, up above the women laugh; down below is gin. belle mcclure is dressed in blue, ribbon in her hair; broncho bill is shaved and slick, all his throat is bare. round and round with belle mcclure he whirls a dizzy spin. jim kershaw, the gambler, waits,--white his hands and slim. bill whispers, "belle, you know it well; it is me or him. jim kershaw, so help me god, if you dance with belle it is either you or me must travel down to hell." jim put his arm around her waist, her graceful waist and slim. don't you hear the banjo laugh? hear the fiddles scream? broncho bill leaned at the door, watched the twirling stream. twenty fiends were at his heart snarling, "kill him sure." (out of hell that woman came.) "i love you, belle mcclure." broncho bill, he laughed and chewed and careless he did seem. the dance is done. shots crack as one. the crowd shoves for the door. broncho bill is lying there and blood upon the floor. "you've finished me; you've gambler's luck; you've won the trick and belle. mine the soul that here tonight is passing down to hell. and i must ride the trail alone. goodbye to belle mcclure." downstairs on the billiard cloth, something lying white, upstairs still the dance goes on, all the lamps are bright. round and round in merry spin--on the floor a blot; laugh, and chaff and merry spin--such a little spot. broncho bill has come to town and danced his dance tonight. _don't you hear the fiddle shrieking?_ _don't you hear the banjo speaking?_ _don't you hear the big spurs jingle?_ _don't you feel the red blood tingle?_ _faces dyed with desert brown,_ _(one that's set and white);_ _broncho bill has come to town_ _and danced his dance tonight._ _william maxwell._ the legend of boastful bill at a round-up on the gila one sweet morning long ago, ten of us was throwed quite freely by a hoss from idaho. an' we 'lowed he'd go a-beggin' for a man to break his pride till, a-hitchin' up one leggin', boastful bill cut loose an' cried: "i'm a ornery proposition for to hurt, i fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt, i can ride the highest liver 'twixt the gulf an' powder river, an' i'll break this thing as easy as i'd flirt." so bill climbed the northern fury an' they mangled up the air till a native of missouri would have owned the brag was fair. though the plunges kept him reelin' an' the wind it flapped his shirt, loud above the hoss's squealin' we could hear our friend assert: "i'm the one to take such rockin's as a joke; someone hand me up the makin's of a smoke. if you think my fame needs brightnin', why, i'll rope a streak o' lightnin' an' spur it up an' quirt it till it's broke." then one caper of repulsion broke that hoss's back in two, cinches snapped in the convulsion, skyward man and saddle flew, up they mounted, never flaggin', and we watched them through our tears, while this last, thin bit o' braggin' came a-floatin' to our ears: "if you ever watched my habits very close, you would know i broke such rabbits by the gross. i have kept my talent hidin', i'm too good for earthly ridin', so i'm off to bust the lightnin'--adios!" years have passed since that ascension; boastful bill ain't never lit; so we reckon he's a-wrenchin' some celestial outlaw's bit. when the night wind flaps our slickers, and the rain is cold and stout, and the lightnin' flares and flickers, we can sometimes hear him shout: "i'm a ridin' son o' thunder o' the sky, i'm a broncho twistin' wonder on the fly. hey, you earthlin's, shut your winders, we're a-rippin' clouds to flinders. if this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die." star-dust on his chaps and saddle, scornful still of jar and jolt, he'll come back sometime a-straddle of a bald-faced thunderbolt; and the thin-skinned generation of that dim and distant day sure will stare with admiration when they hear old boastful say: "i was first, as old raw-hiders all confest, i'm the last of all rough riders, and the best. huh! you soft and dainty floaters with your aeroplanes and motors, huh! are you the greatgrandchildren of the west?" _from recitation, original, by charles badger clark, jr._ the texas cowboy and the mexican greaser i think we can all remember when a greaser hadn't no show in palo pinto particular,--it ain't very long ago; a powerful feelin' of hatred ag'in the whole greaser race that murdered bold crockett and bowie pervaded all in the place. why, the boys would draw on a greaser as quick as they would on a steer; they was shot down without warnin' often, in the memory of many here. one day the bark of pistols was heard ringin' out in the air, and a greaser, chased by some ranchmen, tore round here into the square. i don't know what he's committed,--'tain't likely anyone knew,-- but i wouldn't bet a check on the issue; if you knew the gang, neither would you. breathless and bleeding, the greaser fell down by the side of the wall; and a man sprang out before him,--a man both strong and tall,-- by his clothes i should say a cowboy,--a stranger in town, i think,-- with his pistol he waved back the gang, who was wild with rage and drink. "i warn ye, get back!" he said, "or i'll blow your heads in two! a dozen on one poor creature, and him wounded and bleeding, too!" the gang stood back for a minute; then up spoke poker bill: "young man, yer a stranger, i reckon. we don't wish yer any ill; but come out of the range of the greaser, or, as sure as i live, you'll croak;" and he drew a bead on the stranger. i'll tell yer it wa'n't no joke. but the stranger moven' no muscle as he looked in the bore of bill's gun; he hadn't no thought to stir, sir; he hadn't no thought to run; but he spoke out cool and quiet, "i might live for a thousand year and not die at last so nobly as defendin' this greaser here; for he's wounded, now, and helpless, and hasn't had no fair show; and the first of ye boys that strikes him, i'll lay that first one low." the gang respected the stranger that for another was willing to die; they respected the look of daring they saw in that cold, blue eye. they saw before them a hero that was glad in the right to fall; and he was a texas cowboy,--never heard of rome at all. don't tell me of yer romans, or yer bridge bein' held by three; true manhood's the same in texas as it was in rome, d'ye see? did the greaser escape? why certain. i saw the hull crowd over thar at the ranch of bill simmons, the gopher, with their glasses over the bar. _from recitation. anonymous._ broncho versus bicycle the first that we saw of the high-tone tramp war over thar at our pecos camp; he war comin' down the santa fe trail astride of a wheel with a crooked tail, a-skinnin' along with a merry song an' a-ringin' a little warnin' gong. he looked so outlandish, strange and queer that all of us grinned from ear to ear, and every boy on the round-up swore he never seed sich a hoss before. wal, up he rode with a sunshine smile an' a-smokin' a cigarette, an' i'll be kicked in the neck if i ever seen sich a saddle as that on his queer machine. why, it made us laugh, fer it wasn't half big enough fer the back of a suckin' calf. he tuk our fun in a keerless way, a-venturin' only once to say thar wasn't a broncho about the place could down that wheel in a ten-mile race. i'd a lightnin' broncho out in the herd that could split the air like a flyin' bird, an' i hinted round in an off-hand way, that, providin' the enterprize would pay, i thought as i might jes' happen to light on a hoss that would leave him out er sight. in less'n a second we seen him yank a roll o' greenbacks out o' his flank, an' he said if we wanted to bet, to name the limit, an' he would tackle the game. jes' a week before we had all been down on a jamboree to the nearest town, an' the whiskey joints and the faro games an' a-shakin' our hoofs with the dance hall dames, made a wholesale bust; an', pard, i'll be cussed if a man in the outfit had any dust. an' so i explained, but the youth replied that he'd lay the money matter aside, an' to show that his back didn't grow no moss he'd bet his machine against my hoss. i tuk him up, an' the bet war closed, an' me a-chucklin', fer i supposed i war playin' in dead-sure, winnin' luck in the softest snap i had ever struck. an' the boys chipped in with a knowin' grin, fer they thought the fool had no chance to win. an' so we agreed fer to run that day to the navajo cross, ten miles away,-- as handsome a track as you ever seed fer testin' a hosses prettiest speed. apache johnson and texas ned saddled up their hosses an' rode ahead to station themselves ten miles away an' act as judges an' see fair play; while mexican bart and big jim hart stayed back fer to give us an even start. i got aboard of my broncho bird an' we came to the scratch an' got the word; an' i laughed till my mouth spread from ear to ear to see that tenderfoot drop to the rear. the first three miles slipped away first-rate; then bronc began fer to lose his gait. but i warn't oneasy an' didn't mind with tenderfoot more'n a mile behind. so i jogged along with a cowboy song till all of a sudden i heard that gong a-ringin' a warnin' in my ear-- _ting, ting, ting, ting,_--too infernal near; an' lookin' backwards i seen that chump of a tenderfoot gainin' every jump. i hit old bronc a cut with the quirt an' once more got him to scratchin' dirt; but his wind got weak, an' i tell you, boss, i seen he wasn't no ten-mile hoss. still, the plucky brute took another shoot an' pulled away from the wheel galoot. but the animal couldn't hold his gait; an' the idea somehow entered my pate that if tenderfoot's legs didn't lose their grip he'd own that hoss at the end of the trip. closer an' closer come tenderfoot, an' harder the whip to the hoss i put; but the eastern cuss, with a smile on his face ran up to my side with his easy pace-- rode up to my side, an' dern his hide, remarked 'twere a pleasant day fer a ride; then axed, onconcerned, if i had a match, an' on his britches give it a scratch, lit a cigarette, said he wished me good-day, an' as fresh as a daisy scooted away. ahead he went, that infernal gong a-ringin' "good-day" as he flew along, an' the smoke from his cigarette came back like a vaporous snicker along his track. on an' on he sped, gettin' further ahead, his feet keepin' up that onceaseable tread, till he faded away in the distance, an' when i seed the condemned eastern rooster again he war thar with the boys at the end of the race, that same keerless, onconsarned smile on his face. now, pard, when a cowboy gits licked he don't swar nor kick, if the beatin' are done on the squar; so i tuck that easterner right by the hand an' told him that broncho awaited his brand. then i axed him his name, an' where from he came, an' how long he'd practiced that wheel-rollin' game. tom stevens he said war his name, an' he come from a town they call bosting, in old yankeedom. then he jist paralyzed us by sayin' he'd whirled that very identical wheel round the world. wal, pard, that's the story of how that smart chap done me up w'en i thought i had sich a soft snap, done me up on a race with remarkable ease, an' lowered my pride a good many degrees. did i give him the hoss? w'y o' course i did, boss, an' i tell you it warn't no diminutive loss. he writ me a letter from back in the east, an' said he presented the neat little beast to a feller named pope, who stands at the head o' the ranch where the cussed wheel hosses are bred. _anonymous._ riders of the stars twenty abreast down the golden street ten thousand riders marched; bow-legged boys in their swinging chaps, all clumsily keeping time; and the angel host to the lone, last ghost their delicate eyebrows arched as the swaggering sons of the open range drew up to the throne sublime. gaunt and grizzled, a texas man from out of the concourse strode, and doffed his hat with a rude, rough grace, then lifted his eagle head; the sunlit air on his silvered hair and the bronze of his visage glowed; "marster, the boys have a talk to make on the things up here," he said. a hush ran over the waiting throng as the cherubim replied: "he that readeth the hearts of men he deemeth your challenge strange, though he long hath known that ye crave your own, that ye would not walk but ride, oh, restless sons of the ancient earth, ye men of the open range!" then warily spake the texas man: "a petition and no complaint we here present, if the law allows and the marster he thinks it fit; we-all agree to the things that be, but we're longing for things that ain't, so we took a vote and we made a plan and here is the plan we writ:-- "_'give us a range and our horses and ropes, open the pearly gate, and turn us loose in the unfenced blue riding the sunset rounds, hunting each stray in the milky way and running the rancho straight; not crowding the dogie stars too much on their way to the bedding-grounds._ "_'maverick comets that's running wild, we'll rope 'em and brand 'em fair, so they'll quit stampeding the starry herd and scaring the folks below, and we'll save 'em prime for the round-up time, and we riders'll all be there, ready and willing to do our work as we did in the long ago._ "_'we've studied the ancient landmarks, sir; taurus, the bear, and mars, and venus a-smiling across the west as bright as a burning coal, plain to guide as we punchers ride night-herding the little stars, with saturn's rings for our home corral and the dipper our water hole._ "_'here, we have nothing to do but yarn of the days that have long gone by, and our singing it doesn't fit in up here though we tried it for old time's sake; our hands are itching to swing a rope and our legs are stiff; that's why we ask you, marster, to turn us loose--just give us an even break!'_" then the lord he spake to the cherubim, and this was his kindly word: "he that keepeth the threefold keys shall open and let them go; turn these men to their work again to ride with the starry herd; my glory sings in the toil they crave; 'tis their right. i would have it so." have you heard in the starlit dusk of eve when the lone coyotes roam, the _yip! yip! yip!_ of a hunting cry and the echo that shrilled afar, as you listened still on a desert hill and gazed at the twinkling dome, and a viewless rider swept the sky on the trail of a shooting star? _henry herbert knibbs._ lasca i want free life, and i want fresh air; and i sigh for the canter after the cattle, the crack of the whips like shots in battle, the medley of hoofs and horns and heads that wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; the green beneath and the blue above, and dash and danger, and life and love-- and lasca! lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustang close to my side, with blue serape and bright-belled spur; i laughed with joy as i looked at her! little knew she of books or creeds; an ave maria sufficed her needs; little she cared save to be at my side, to ride with me, and ever to ride, from san saba's shore to lavaca's tide. she was as bold as the billows that beat, she was as wild as the breezes that blow: from her little head to her little feet, she was swayed in her suppleness to and fro by each gust of passion; a sapling pine that grows on the edge of a kansas bluff and wars with the wind when the weather is rough, is like this lasca, this love of mine. she would hunger that i might eat, would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; but once, when i made her jealous for fun at something i whispered or looked or done, one sunday, in san antonio, to a glorious girl in the alamo, she drew from her garter a little dagger, and--sting of a wasp--it made me stagger! an inch to the left, or an inch to the right, and i shouldn't be maundering here tonight; but she sobbed, and sobbing, so quickly bound her torn rebosa about the wound that i swiftly forgave her. scratches don't count in texas, down by the rio grande. her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown; her hair was darker than her eye; and something in her smile and frown, curled crimson lip and instep high, showed that there ran in each blue vein, mixed with the milder aztec strain, the vigorous vintage of old spain. she was alive in every limb with feeling, to the finger tips; and when the sun is like a fire, and sky one shining, soft sapphire one does not drink in little sips. · · · · · · · the air was heavy, the night was hot, i sat by her side and forgot, forgot; forgot the herd that were taking their rest, forgot that the air was close oppressed, that the texas norther comes sudden and soon, in the dead of the night or the blaze of the noon; that, once let the herd at its breath take fright, nothing on earth can stop their flight; and woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, that falls in front of their mad stampede! · · · · · · · was that thunder? i grasped the cord of my swift mustang without a word. i sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. away! on a hot chase down the wind! but never was fox-hunt half so hard, and never was steed so little spared. for we rode for our lives. you shall hear how we fared in texas, down by the rio grande. the mustang flew, and we urged him on; there was one chance left, and you have but one-- halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; and if the steers in their frantic course don't batter you both to pieces at once, you may thank your star; if not, goodbye to the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, and the open air and the open sky, in texas, down by the rio grande. the cattle gained on us, and, just as i felt for my old six-shooter behind in my belt, down came the mustang, and down came we, clinging together--and, what was the rest? a body that spread itself on my breast, two arms that shielded my dizzy head, two lips that hard to my lips were prest; then came thunder in my ears, as over us surged the sea of steers, blows that beat blood into my eyes, and when i could rise-- lasca was dead! · · · · · · · i gouged out a grave a few feet deep, and there in the earth's arms i laid her to sleep; and there she is lying, and no one knows; and the summer shines, and the winter snows; for many a day the flowers have spread a pall of petals over her head; and the little grey hawk hangs aloft in the air, and the sly coyote trots here and there, and the black snake glides and glitters and slides into the rift of a cottonwood tree; and the buzzard sails on, and comes and is gone, stately and still, like a ship at sea. and i wonder why i do not care for the things that are, like the things that were. does half my heart lie buried there in texas, down by the rio grande? _frank desprez._ the transformation of a texas girl she was a texas maiden, she came of low degree, her clothes were worn and faded, her feet from shoes were free; her face was tanned and freckled, her hair was sun-burned, too, her whole darned _tout ensemble_ was painful for to view! she drove a lop-eared mule team attached unto a plow, the trickling perspiration exuding from her brow; and often she lamented her cruel, cruel fate, as but a po' white's daughter down in the lone star state. no courtiers came to woo her, she never had a beau, her misfit face precluded such things as that, you know,-- she was nobody's darling, no feller's solid girl, and poets never called her an uncut texas pearl. her only two companions was those two flea-bit mules, and these she but regarded as animated tools to plod along the furrows in patience up and down and pull the ancient wagon when pap'd go to town. no fires of wild ambition were flaming in her soul, her eyes with tender passion she'd never upward roll; the wondrous world she'd heard of, to her was but a dream as walked she in the furrows behind that lop-eared team. born on that small plantation, 'twas there she thought she'd die; she never longed for pinions that she might rise and fly to other lands far distant, where breezes fresh and cool would never shake and tremble from brayings of a mule. · · · · · · · but yesterday we saw her dressed up in gorgeous style! a half a dozen fellows were basking in her smile! she'd jewels on her fingers, and jewels in her ears-- great sparkling, flashing brilliants that hung as frozen tears! the feet once nude and soil-stained were clad in frenchy boots, the once tanned face bore tintings of miscellaneous fruits; the voice that once admonished the mules to move along was tuned to new-born music, as sweet as siren's song! her tall and lanky father, one knows as "sleepy jim," is now addressed as colonel by men who honor him; and youths in finest raiment now take him by the paw, each in the hope that some day he'll call him dad-in-law. their days of toil are over, their sun has risen at last, a gold-embroidered curtain now hides their rocky past; for was it not discovered their little patch of soil had rested there for ages above a flow of oil? _james barton adams._ the glory trail 'way high up the mogollons,[ ] among the mountain tops, a lion cleaned a yearlin's bones and licked his thankful chops, when on the picture who should ride, a-trippin' down the slope, but high-chin bob, with sinful pride and mav'rick-hungry rope. _"oh, glory be to me," says he, "and fame's unfadin' flowers! all meddlin' hands are far away; i ride my good top-hawse today and i'm top-rope of the lazy j-- hi! kitty cat, you're ours!"_ that lion licked his paw so brown and dreamed soft dreams of veal-- and then the circlin' loop sung down and roped him 'round his meal. he yowled quick fury to the world till all the hills yelled back; the top-hawse gave a snort and whirled and bob caught up the slack. _"oh, glory be to me," laughs he. "we hit the glory trail. no human man as i have read darst loop a ragin' lion's head, nor ever hawse could drag one dead until we told the tale."_ 'way high up the mogollons that top-hawse done his best, through whippin' brush and rattlin' stones, from canyon-floor to crest but ever when bob turned and hoped a limp remains to find, a red-eyed lion, belly roped but healthy, loped behind. _"oh, glory be to me," grunts he, "this glory trail is rough, yet even till the judgment morn i'll keep this dally 'round the horn, for never any hero born could stoop to holler: 'nuff!'"_ three suns had rode their circle home beyond the desert's rim, and turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim; yet up and down and round and 'cross bob pounded, weak and wan, for pride still glued him to his hawse and glory drove him on. _"oh, glory be to me," sighs he. "he kaint be drug to death, but now i know beyond a doubt them heroes i have read about was only fools that stuck it out to end of mortal breath."_ 'way high up the mogollons a prospect man did swear that moon dreams melted down his bones and hoisted up his hair: a ribby cow-hawse thundered by, a lion trailed along, a rider, ga'nt, but chin on high, yelled out a crazy song. _"oh, glory be to me!" cries he, "and to my noble noose! o stranger, tell my pards below i took a rampin' dream in tow, and if i never lay him low, i'll never turn him loose!"_ _charles badger clark._ [ ] pronounced by the natives "muggy-yones." high chin bob 'way high up in the mokiones, among the mountain tops, a lion cleaned a yearling's bones and licks his thankful chops; and who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope, but high chin bob of sinful pride and maverick-hungry rope. "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "an' fame's unfadin' flowers; i ride my good top hoss today and i'm top hand of lazy-j, so, kitty-cat, you're ours!" the lion licked his paws so brown, and dreamed soft dreams of veal, as high chin's rope came circlin' down and roped him round his meal; she yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills yelled back; that top horse gave a snort and whirled and bob took up the slack. "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "we'll hit the glory trail. no man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag the critter dead till i shall tell the tale." 'way high up in the mokiones that top hoss done his best, 'mid whippin' brush and rattlin' stones from canon-floor to crest; up and down and round and cross bob pounded weak and wan, but pride still glued him to his hoss and glory spurred him on. "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "this glory trail is rough! but i'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot of judgment morn before i'll holler 'nough!" three suns had rode their circle home, beyond the desert rim, and turned their star herds loose to roam the ranges high and dim; and whenever bob turned and hoped the limp remains to find, a red-eyed lion, belly roped, but healthy, loped behind! "oh, glory be to me," says bob, "he caint be drug to death! these heroes that i've read about were only fools that stuck it out to the end of mortal breath." 'way high up in the mokiones, if you ever camp there at night, you'll hear a rukus among the stones that'll lift your hair with fright; you'll see a cow-hoss thunder by--a lion trail along, and the rider bold, with his chin on high, sings forth his glory song: "oh, glory be to me!" says he, "and to my mighty noose. oh, pardner, tell my friends below i took a ragin' dream in tow, and if i didn't lay him low, i never turned him loose!" _from oral rendition._ to hear him tell it i was just about to take a drink-- i was mighty dry-- so i hailed an old time cowman who was passing by, "come in, ole timer! have a drink! kinda warm today!" as we leaned across the bar-rail-- "how's things up your way?" "stock is doin' fairly good, range is gettin' fine; i jes dropped down to meetin' here to spend a little time. con'sidable stuff a-movin' now-- cows an' hosses, too, prices high an' a big demand-- now i'm tellin' you! "i've loaded out my feeders, got a good price all aroun'; sold 'em in kansas city to a commission man named brown. a thousand told o' mixed stuff, in pretty fair shape, too," said the old texas cowman, "now i'm tellin' you! "i've been in this yere country since late in fifty-nine, i know every foot o' sage brush clear to the southern line. got my first bunch started up long in seventy-two, had to ride range with a long rope-- now i'm tellin' you! "lordy, i kin remember them good ole early days when we ust t' trail the herds north 'n forty different ways. jes'n point 'em from the beddin' groun' an' let 'em drift right through," said the reminiscent cowman, "now i'm tellin' you! "yessir, trailed 'em up to wichita, cross the kansas line, made deliveries at benton as early as fifty-nine. turned 'em most to soldiers, some went to injuns, too, beef wasn't nigh so high then-- now i'm tellin' you! "son, i've fit nigh every injun that ever roamed the plains, 'n i was one o' the best hands that ever pulled bridle reins. why, you boys don't know range life-- you don't seem to git the ways, like we did down in texas in them good ol' early days! "yes, thing's a heap sight diff'rent now! 'tain't like in them ol' days when cowmen trailed their herds north 'n forty diff'rent ways. we ship 'em on the railroad now, load out on the big s. p.," says the relic of texas cowman as he takes a drink with me. "i figger on buyin' more feeders, from down across the line-- chihuahua an' sonora stuff, an' hold 'em till they're prime. so here's to the steers an' yearlin's!" as we clink our glasses two, "things ain't the same as they used to be, now i'm tellin' you! "i got t' git out an' hustle, i ain't got time t' stay; jes' want t' see some uh the boys 'n then i'm on my way. there's many a hand here right now that i know'd long, long ago, when ranch land was free an' open an' the plowman had a show. "'tain't often we git together to swap yarns an' tell our lies," said the old time texas cowman as a mist comes to his eyes. "so let's drink up; here's how!" as we drain our glasses two, "them was good ol' days an' good ol' ways-- now i'm tellin' you!" he talked and talked and yarned away, he harped on days of yore-- my head it ached and i grew faint; my legs got tired and sore. then a woman yelled, "you come here, john!" and lordy! how he flew! and the last i heard as he broke and ran was, "now i'm tellin' you!" i won't never hail old timers to have a drink with me, to learn the history of the range as far back as seventy-three. and the next time that i'm thirsty and feeling kind of blue, i'll step right up and drink alone-- now i'm tellin' you! _from the wild bunch._ the clown's baby it was on the western frontier,-- the miners, rugged and brown, were gathered round the posters, the circus had come to town! the great tent shone in the darkness like a wonderful palace of light, and rough men crowded the entrance,-- shows didn't come every night! not a woman's face among them; many a face that was bad, and some that were only vacant, and some that were very sad. and behind a canvas curtain, in a corner of the place, the clown, with chalk and vermillion, was "making up" his face. a weary looking woman with a smile that still was sweet, sewed on a little garment, with a cradle at her feet. pantaloon stood ready and waiting, it was time for the going on; but the clown in vain searched wildly,-- the "property baby" was gone! he murmured, impatiently hunting, "it's strange that i cannot find-- there, i've looked in every corner; it must have been left behind!" the miners were stamping and shouting, they were not patient men; the clown bent over the cradle,-- "i must take you, little ben." the mother started and shivered, but trouble and want were near; she lifted the baby gently, "you'll be very careful, dear?" "careful? you foolish darling!" how tenderly it was said! what a smile shone through the chalk and paint! "i love each hair of his head!" the noise rose into an uproar, misrule for the time was king; the clown with a foolish chuckle bolted into the ring. but as, with a squeak and flourish, the fiddles closed their tune "you'll hold him as if he were made of glass?" said the clown to the pantaloon. the jovial fellow nodded, "i've a couple myself," he said. "i know how to handle 'em, bless you! old fellow, go ahead!" the fun grew fast and furious, and not one of all the crowd had guessed that the baby was alive, when he suddenly laughed aloud. oh, that baby laugh! it was echoed from the benches with a ring, and the roughest customer there sprang up with, "boys, it's the real thing." the ring was jammed in a minute, not a man that did not strive for a "shot at holding the baby,"-- the baby that was alive! he was thronged with kneeling suitors in the midst of the dusty ring, and he held his court right royally,-- the fair little baby king,-- till one of the shouting courtiers,-- a man with a bold, hard face, the talk, for miles, of the country, and the terror of the place, raised the little king to his shoulder and chuckled, "look at that!" as the chubby fingers clutched his hair; then, "boys, hand round the hat!" there never was such a hatful of silver and gold and notes; people are not always penniless because they don't wear coats. and then, "three cheers for the baby!" i tell you those cheers were meant, and the way that they were given was enough to raise the tent. and then there was sudden silence and a gruff old miner said, "come boys, enough of this rumpus; it's time it was put to bed." so, looking a little sheepish, but with faces strangely bright, the audience, somewhat lingering, flocked out into the night. and the bold-faced leader chuckled, "he wasn't a bit afraid! he's as game as he's good-looking! boys, that was a show that _paid_!" _margaret vandergrift._ the drunken desperado i'm wild and woolly and full of fleas, i'm hard to curry below the knees, i'm a she-wolf from shamon creek, for i was dropped from a lightning streak and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! i stayed in texas till they runned me out, then in bull frog they chased me about, i walked a little and rode some more, for i've shot up a town before and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! give me room and turn me loose i'm peaceable without excuse. i never killed for profit or fun, but riled, i'm a regular son of a gun and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! good-eye jim will serve the crowd; the rule goes here no sweetnin' 'lowed. and we'll drink now the nixon kid, for i rode to town and lifted the lid and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! you can guess how quick a man must be, for i killed eleven and wounded three; and brothers and daddies aren't makin' a sound though they know where the kid is found and it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! when i get old and my aim aint true and it's three to one and wounded, too, i won't beg and claw the ground; for i'll be dead before i'm found when it's my night to hollow--whoo-pee! _baird boyd._ marta of milrone i shot him where the rio flows; i shot him when the moon arose; and where he lies the vulture knows along the tinto river. in schools of eastern culture pale my cloistered flesh began to fail; they bore me where the deserts quail to winds from out the sun. i looked upon the land and sky, nor hoped to live nor feared to die; and from my hollow breast a sigh fell o'er the burning waste. but strong i grew and tall i grew; i drank the region's balm and dew,-- it made me lithe in limb and thew,-- how swift i rode and ran! and oft it was my joy to ride over the sand-blown ocean wide while, ever smiling at my side, rode marta of milrone. a flood of horned heads before, the trampled thunder, smoke and roar, of full four thousand hoofs, or more-- a cloud, a sea, a storm! oh, wonderful the desert gleamed, as, man and maid, we spoke and dreamed of love in life, till white wastes seemed like plains of paradise. her eyes with love's great magic shone. "be mine, o marta of milrone,-- your hand, your heart be all my own!" her lips made sweet response. "i love you, yes; for you are he who from the east should come to me-- and i have waited long!" oh, we were happy as the sun. there came upon a hopeless quest, with hell and hatred in his breast, a stranger, who his love confessed to marta long in vain. to me she spoke: "chosen mate, his eyes are terrible with fate,-- i fear his love, i fear his hate,-- i fear some looming ill!" then to the church we twain did ride, i kissed her as she rode beside. how fair--how passing fair my bride with gold combs in her hair! before the spanish priest we stood of san gregorio's brotherhood-- a shot rang out!--and in her blood my dark-eyed darling lay. o god! i carried her beside the virgin's altar where she cried,-- smiling upon me ere she died,-- "adieu, my love, adieu!" i knelt before st. mary's shrine and held my dead one's hand in mine, "vengeance," i cried, "o lord, be thine, but i thy minister!" i kissed her thrice and sealed my vow,-- her eyes, her sea-cold lips and brow,-- "farewell, my heart is dying now, o marta of milrone!" then swift upon my steed i lept; my streaming eyes the desert swept; i saw the accursed where he crept against the blood-red sun. i galloped straight upon his track, and never more my eyes looked back; the world was barred with red and black; my heart was flaming coal. through the delirious twilight dim and the black night i followed him; hills did we cross and rivers swim,-- my fleet foot horse and i. the morn burst red, a gory wound, o'er iron hills and savage ground; and there was never another sound save beat of horses' hoofs. unto the murderer's ear they said, "_thou'rt of the dead! thou'rt of the dead!_" still on his stallion black he sped while death spurred on behind. fiery dust from the blasted plain burnt like lava in every vein; but i rode on with steady rein though the fierce sand-devils spun. then to a sullen land we came, whose earth was brass, whose sky was flame; i made it balm with her blessed name in the land of mexico. with gasp and groan my poor horse fell,-- last of all things that loved me well! i turned my head--a smoking shell veiled me his dying throes. but fast on vengeful foot was i; his steed fell, too, and was left to die; he fled where a river's channel dry made way to the rolling stream. red as my rage the huge sun sank. my foe bent low on the river's bank and deep of the kindly flood he drank while the giant stars broke forth. then face to face and man to man i fought him where the river ran, while the trembling palm held up its fan and the emerald serpents lay. the mad, remorseless bullets broke from tongues of flame in the sulphur smoke; the air was rent till the desert spoke to the echoing hills afar. hot from his lips the curses burst; he fell! the sands were slaked of thirst; a stream in the stream ran dark at first, and the stones grew red as hearts. i shot him where the rio flows; i shot him when the moon arose; and where he lies the vulture knows along the tinto river. but where she lies to none is known save to my poor heart and a lonely stone on which i sit and weep alone where the cactus stars are white. where i shall lie, no man can say; the flowers all are fallen away; the desert is so drear and grey, o marta of milrone! _herman scheffauer._ jack dempsey's grave far out in the wilds of oregon, on a lonely mountain side, where columbia's mighty waters roll down to the ocean's tide; where the giant fir and cedar are imaged in the wave, o'ergrown with ferns and lichens, i found poor dempsey's grave. i found no marble monolith, no broken shaft nor stone, recording sixty victories this vanquished victor won; no rose, no shamrock could i find, no mortal here to tell where sleeps in this forsaken spot the immortal nonpareil. a winding, wooded canyon road that mortals seldom tread leads up this lonely mountain to this desert of the dead. and the western sun was sinking in pacific's golden wave; and these solemn pines kept watching over poor jack dempsey's grave. that man of honor and of iron, that man of heart and steel, that man who far out-classed his class and made mankind to feel that dempsey's name and dempsey's fame should live in serried stone, is now at rest far in the west in the wilds of oregon. forgotten by ten thousand throats that thundered his acclaim-- forgotten by his friends and foes that cheered his very name; oblivion wraps his faded form, but ages hence shall save the memory of that irish lad that fills poor dempsey's grave. o fame, why sleeps thy favored son in wilds, in woods, in weeds? and shall he ever thus sleep on-- interred his valiant deeds? 'tis strange new york should thus forget its "bravest of the brave," and in the wilds of oregon unmarked, leave dempsey's grave. _macmahon._ the cattle round-up once more are we met for a season of pleasure, that shall smooth from our brows every furrow of care, for the sake of old times shall we each tread a measure and drink to the lees in the eyes of the fair. once more let the hand-clasp of years past be given; let us once more be boys and forget we are men; let friendships the chances of fortune have riven be renewed and the smiling past come back again. the past, when the prairie was big and the cattle were as "scary" as ever the antelope grew-- when to carry a gun, to make our spurs rattle, and to ride a blue streak was the most that we knew; the past when we headed each year for dodge city and punched up the drags on the old chisholm trail; when the world was all bright and the girls were all pretty, and a feller could "mav'rick" and stay out of jail. then here's to the eyes that like diamonds are gleaming, and make the lamps blush that their duties are o'er; and here's to the lips where young love lies a-dreaming; and here's to the feet light as air on the floor; and here's to the memories--fun's sweetest sequel; and here's to the night we shall ever recall; and here's to the time--time shall know not its equal when we danced the day in at the cattlemen's ball. _h. d. c. mclaclachlan._ part ii the cowboy off guard _i am the plain, barren since time began. yet do i dream of motherhood, when man one day at last shall look upon my charms and give me towns, like children, for my arms._ a cowboy's worrying love i ust to read in the novel books 'bout fellers that got the prod from an arrer shot from his hidin' place by the hand o' the cupid god, an' i'd laugh at the cussed chumps they was a-wastin' their breath in sighs an' goin' around with a locoed look a-campin' inside their eyes. i've read o' the gals that broke 'em up a-sailin' in airy flight on angel pinions above their beds as they dreampt o' the same at night, an' a sort o' disgusted frown'd bunch the wrinkles acrost my brow, an' i'd call 'em a lot o' sissy boys--but i'm seein' it different now. i got the jab in my rough ol' heart, an' i got it a-plenty, too, a center shot from a pair o' eyes of the winninest sort o' blue, an' i ride the ranges a-sighin' sighs, as cranky as a locoed steer-- a durned heap worse than the novel blokes that the narrative gals'd queer. just hain't no energy left no mo', go 'round like a orphant calf a-thinkin' about that sagehen's eyes that give me the cupid gaff, an' i'm all skeered up when i hit the thought some other rider might cut in ahead on a faster hoss an' rope her afore my sight. there ain't a heifer that ever run in the feminine beauty herd could switch a tail on the whole durned range 'long-side o' that little bird; a figger plump as a prairy dog's that's feedin' on new spring grass, an' as purty a face as was ever flashed in front of a lookin' glass. she's got a smile that 'd raise the steam in the icyist sort o' heart, a couple o' soul inspirin' eyes, an' the nose that keeps 'em apart is the cutest thing in the sassy line that ever occurred to act as a ornament stuck on a purty face, an' that's a dead open fact. i'm a-goin' to brace her by an' by to see if there's any hope, to see if she's liable to shy when i'm ready to pitch the rope; to see if she's goin' to make a stand, or fly like a skeered up dove when i make a pass with the brandin' iron that's het in the fire o' love. i'll open the little home corral an' give her the level hunch to make a run fur the open gate when i cut her out o' the bunch, fur there ain't no sense in a-jammin' round with a heart that's as soft as dough an' a-throwin' the breath o' life away bunched up into sighs. heigh-ho! _james barton adams._ the cowboy and the maid funny how it come about! me and texas tom was out takin' of a moonlight walk, fillin' in the time with talk. every star up in the sky seemed to wink the other eye at each other, 'sif they smelt a mouse around our way! me and tom had never grew spoony like some couples do; never billed and cooed and sighed; he was bashful like and i'd notions of my own that it wasn't policy to git too abundant till i'd got of my feller good and caught. as we walked along that night he got talkin' of the bright prospects that he had, and i somehow felt, i dunno why, that a-fore we cake-walked back to the ranch he'd make a crack fer my hand, and i was plum achin' fer the shock to come. by and by he says, "i've got fifty head o' cows, and not one of 'em but, on the dead, is a crackin' thoroughbred. got a daisy claim staked out, and i'm thinkin' it's about time fer me to make a shy at a home." "o tom!" says i. "bin a-lookin' round," says he, "quite a little while to see 'f i could git a purty face fer to ornament the place. plenty of 'em in the land; but the one 'at wears my brand must be sproutin' wings to fly!" "you deserve her, tom," says i. "only one so fur," says he, "fills the bill, and mebbe she might shy off and bust my hope if i should pitch the poppin' rope. mebbe she'd git hot an' say that it was a silly play askin' her to make a tie." "she would be a fool," says i. 'tain't nobody's business what happened then, but i jist thought i could see the moon-man smile cutely down upon us, while me and him was walkin' back,-- stoppin' now and then to smack lips rejoicin' that at last the dread crisis had been past. _anonymous._ a cowboy's love song oh, the last steer has been branded and the last beef has been shipped, and i'm free to roam the prairies that the round-up crew has stripped; i'm free to think of susie,-- fairer than the stars above,-- she's the waitress at the station and she is my turtle dove. biscuit-shootin' susie,-- she's got us roped and tied; sober men or woozy look on her with pride. susie's strong and able, and not a one gits rash when she waits on the table and superintends the hash. oh, i sometimes think i'm locoed an' jes fit fer herdin' sheep, 'cause i only think of susie when i'm wakin' or i'm sleep. i'm wearin' cupid's hobbles, an' i'm tied to love's stake-pin, and when my heart was branded the irons sunk deep in. chorus:-- i take my saddle, sundays,-- the one with inlaid flaps,-- and don my new sombrero and my white angora chaps; then i take a bronc for susie and she leaves her pots and pans and we figure out our future and talk o'er our homestead plans. chorus:-- _anonymous._ a border affair spanish is the lovin' tongue, soft as music, light as spray; 'twas a girl i learnt it from livin' down sonora way. i don't look much like a lover, yet i say her love-words over often, when i'm all alone-- "_mi amor, mi corazón._" nights when she knew where i'd ride she would listen for my spurs, throw the big door open wide, raise them laughin' eyes of hers, and my heart would nigh stop beatin' when i'd hear her tender greetin' whispered soft for me alone-- "_mi amor! mi corazón!_" moonlight in the patio, old señora noddin' near, me and juana talkin' low so the "madre" couldn't hear-- how those hours would go a-flyin', and too soon i'd hear her sighin', in her little sorry-tone-- "_adiós, mi corazón._" but one time i had to fly for a foolish gamblin' fight, and we said a swift good-bye on that black, unlucky night. when i'd loosed her arms from clingin', with her words the hoofs kept ringin', as i galloped north alone-- "_adiós, mi corazón._" never seen her since that night; i kaint cross the line, you know. she was mex. and i was white; like as not it's better so. yet i've always sort of missed her since that last, wild night i kissed her, left her heart and lost my own-- "_adiós, mi corazón._" _charles b. clark, jr._ snagtooth sal i was young and happy and my heart was light and gay, singin', always singin' through the sunny summer day; happy as a lizard in the wavin' chaparral, walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. sal, sal, my heart is broke today-- broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay; i would give creation to be walkin' with my gal-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. bury me tomorrow where the lily blossoms spring underneath the willows where the little robins sing. you will yearn to see me--but ah, nevermore you shall-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. refrain:-- plant a little stone above the little mound of sod; write: "here lies a lovin' an' a busted heart, begod! nevermore you'll see him walkin' proudly with his gal-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal." sal, sal, my heart is broke today-- broke in two forever when they laid you in the clay; i would give creation to be walkin' with my gal-- walkin' down through laramie with snagtooth sal. _lowell o. reese, in the saturday evening post._ love lyrics of a cowboy it hain't no use fer me to say there's others with a style an' way that beats hers to a fare-you-well, fer, on the square, i'm here to tell i jes can't even start to see but what she's perfect as kin be. fer any fault i finds excuse-- i'll tell you, pard, it hain't no use fer me to try to raise a hand, when on my heart she's run her brand. the bunk-house ain't the same to me; the bunch jes makes me weary--gee! i never knew they was so coarse-- i warps my face to try to force a smile at each old gag they spring; fer i'd heap ruther hear her sing "sweet adeline," or softly play the "dream o' heaven" that-a-way. besides this place, most anywhere i'd ruther be--so she was there. she called me "dear," an' do you know, my heart jes skipped a beat, an' tho' i'm hard to feaze, i'm free to yip my reason nearly lost its grip. she called me "dear," jes sweet an' slow, an' lookin' down an' speakin' low; an' if i had ten lives to live, with everything the world could give, i'd shake 'em all without one fear if 'fore i'd go she'd call me "dear." you wonders why i slicks up so on sundays, when i gits to go to see her--well, i'm free to say she's like religion that-a-way. jes sort o' like some holy thing, as clean as young grass in the spring; an' so before i rides to her i looks my best from hat to spur-- but even then i hain't no right to think i look good in her sight. if she should pass me up--say, boy, you jes put hobbles on your joy; first thing you know, you gits so gay your luck stampedes and gits away. an' don't you even start a guess that you've a cinch on happiness; fer few e'er reach the promised land if they starts headed by a band. ride slow an' quiet, humble, too, or fate will slap its brand on you. the old range sleeps, there hain't a stir. less it's a night-hawk's sudden whir, or cottonwoods a-whisperin while the red moon smiles a lovin' smile. an' there i set an' hold her hand so glad i jes can't understand the reason of it all, or see why all the world looks good to me; or why i sees in it heap more of beauty than i seen before. fool talk, perhaps, but it jes seems we're ridin' through a range o' dreams; where medder larks the year round sing, an' it's jes one eternal spring. an' time--why time is gone--by gee! there's no such thing as time to me until she says, "here, boy, you know you simply jes have got to go; it's nearly twelve." i rides away, "dog-gone a clock!" is what i say. _r. v. carr._ the bull fight the couriers from chihuahua go to distant cusi and santavo, announce the feast of all the year the crown-- _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. the rancherias on the mountain side, the haciendas of the llano wide, are quickened by the matador's renown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. the women that on ambling burros ride, the men that trudge behind or close beside make groups of dazzling red and white and brown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. or else the lumbering carts are brought in play, that jolt and scream and groan along the way, but to their happy tenants cause no frown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. the plaza de los toros offers seats, some deep in shade, on some the fierce sun beats; these for the don, those for the rustic clown. _se corren los toros!_ and juan brings his pepita into town. pepita sits, so young and sweet and fresh, the sun shines on her hair's dusky mesh. her day of days, how soon it will be flown! _se corren los toros!_ and juan's brought his pepita into town. the bull is harried till the governor's word bids the diestro give the agile sword; then shower the bravos and the roses down! _'sta muerto el toro!_ and juan takes his pepita back from the town. _l. worthington green._ the cowboy's valentine say, moll, now don't you 'llow to quit a-playin' maverick? sech stock should be corralled a bit an' hev a mark 't 'll stick. old val's a-roundin'-up today upon the sweetheart range, 'n me a-helpin', so to say, though this yere herd is strange to me--'n yit, ef i c'd rope jes _one_ to wear my brand i'd strike f'r home ranch on a lope, the happiest in the land. yo' savvy who i'm runnin' so, yo' savvy who i be; now, can't yo' take that brand--yo' know,-- the [symbol: heart] m-i-n-e. _c. f. lummis._ a cowboy's hopeless love i've heard that story ofttimes about that little chap a-cryin' for the shiney moon to fall into his lap, an' jes a-raisin' merry hell because he couldn't git the same to swing down low so's he could nab a-holt of it, an' i'm a-feelin' that-a-way, locoed i reckon, wuss than that same kid, though maybe not a-makin' sich a fuss,-- a-goin' round with achin' eyes a-hankerin' fer a peach that's hangin' on the beauty tree, too high fer me to reach. i'm jes a rider of the range, plumb rough an' on-refined, an' wild an' keerless in my ways, like others of my kind; a reckless cuss in leather chaps, an' tanned an' blackened so you'd think i wuz a greaser from the plains of mexico. i never learnt to say a prayer, an' guess my style o' talk, if fired off in a sunday school would give 'em all a shock; an' yet i got a-mopin' round as crazy as a loon an' actin' like the story kid that bellered fer the moon. i wish to god she'd never come with them bright laughin' eyes,-- had never flashed that smile that seems a sunburst from the skies,-- had stayed there in her city home instead o' comin' here to visit at the ranch an' knock my heart plumb out o' gear. i wish to god she'd talk to me in a way to fit the case,-- in words t'd have a tendency to hold me in my place,-- instead o' bein' sociable an' actin' like she thought us cowboys good as city gents in clothes that's tailor bought. if i would hint to her o' love, she'd hit that love a jar an' laugh at sich a tough as me a-tryin' to rope a star; she'd give them fluffy skirts a flirt, an' skate out o' my sight, an' leave me paralyzed,--an' it'd serve me cussed right. i wish she'd pack her pile o' trunks an' hit the city track, an' maybe i'd recover from this violent attack; an' in the future know enough to watch my feedin' ground an' shun the loco weed o' love when there's an angel round. _james barton adams._ the chase here's a moccasin track in the drifts, it's no more than the length of my hand; an' her instep,--just see how it lifts! if that ain't the best in the land! for the maid ran as free as the wind and her foot was as light as the snow. why, as sure as i follow, i'll find me a kiss where her red blushes grow. here's two small little feet and a skirt; here's a soft little heart all aglow. see me trail down the dear little flirt by the sign that she left in the snow! did she run? 'twas a sign to make haste. an' why bless her! i'm sure she won't mind. if she's got any kisses to waste, why, she knew that a man was behind. did she run 'cause she's only afraid? no! for sure 'twas to set me the pace! an' i'll follow in love with a maid when i ain't had a sight of her face. there she is! an' i knew she was near. will she pay me a kiss to be free? will she hate? will she love? will she fear? why, the darling! she's waiting to see! _pocock in "curley."_ riding song let us ride together,-- blowing mane and hair, careless of the weather, miles ahead of care, ring of hoof and snaffle, swing of waist and hip, trotting down the twisted road with the world let slip. let us laugh together,-- merry as of old to the creak of leather and the morning cold. break into a canter; shout to bank and tree; rocking down the waking trail, steady hand and knee. take the life of cities,-- here's the life for me. 'twere a thousand pities not to gallop free. so we'll ride together, comrade, you and i, careless of the weather, letting care go by. _anonymous._ our little cowgirl thar she goes a-lopin', stranger, khaki-gowned, with flyin' hair, talk about your classy ridin',-- wal, you're gettin' it right thar. jest a kid, but lemme tell you when she warms a saddle seat on that outlaw bronc a-straddle she is one that can't be beat! every buckaroo that sees her tearin' cross the range astride has some mighty jealous feelin's wishin' he knowed how to ride. why, she'll take a deep barranca six-foot wide and never peep; that 'ere cayuse she's a-forkin' sure's somethin' on the leap. ride? why, she can cut a critter from the herd as neat as pie, read a brand out on the ranges just as well as you or i. ain't much yet with the riata, but you give her a few years and no puncher with the outfit will beat her a-ropin' steers. proud o' her? say, lemme tell you, she's the queen of all the range; got a grip upon our heart-strings mighty strong, but that ain't strange; 'cause she loves the lowin' cattle, loves the hills and open air, dusty trails on blossomed canons god has strung around out here. hoof-beats poundin' down the mesa, chicken-time in lively tune, jest below the trail to keeber's,-- wait, you'll see her pretty soon. you kin bet i know that ridin',-- now she's toppin' yonder swell. thar she is; that's her a-smilin' at the bars of the corral. _anonymous._ i want my time i'm night guard all alone tonight, dead homesick, lonely, tired and blue; and none but you can make it right; my heart is hungry, girl, for you. i've longed all night to hug you, dear; to speak my love i'm at a loss. but just as soon as daylight's here i'm goin' straight to see the boss. "how long's the round-up goin' to run? another week, or maybe three? give me my time, then, i am done. no, i'm not sick. three weeks? oh gee!" i know, though, when i've had enough. i will not work,--darned if i will. i'm goin' to quit, and that's no bluff. say, gimme some tobacco, bill. _anonymous._ who's that calling so sweet? the herds are gathered in from plain and hill, who's that a-calling? the boys are sleeping and the boys are still, who's that a-calling? 'twas the wind a-sighing in the prairie grass, who's that a-calling? or wild birds singing overhead as they pass. who's that a-calling? making heart and pulse to beat. no, no, it wasn't earthly sound i heard, who's that a-calling? it was no sigh of breeze or song of bird, who's that a-calling? for the tone i heard was softer far than these, that a-calling? 'twas loved ones' voices from far off across the seas _deveen._ song of the cattle trail the dust hangs thick upon the trail and the horns and the hoofs are clashing, while off at the side through the chaparral the men and the strays go crashing; but in right good cheer the cowboy sings, for the work of the fall is ending, and then it's ride for the old home ranch where a maid love's light is tending. then it's crack! crack! crack! on the beef steer's back, and it's run, you slow-foot devil; for i'm soon to turn back where through the black love's lamp gleams along the level. he's trailed them far o'er the trackless range, has this knight of the saddle leather; he has risked his life in the mad stampede, and has breasted all kinds of weather. but now is the end of the trail in sight, and the hours on wings are sliding; for it's back to the home and the only girl when the foreman o k's the option. then it's quirt! quirt! quirt! and it's run or git hurt, you hang-back, bawling critter. for a man who's in love with a turtle dove ain't got no time to fritter. _anonymous._ a cowboy's son whar y'u from, little stranger, little boy? y'u was ridin' a cloud on that star-strewn plain, but y'u fell from the skies like a drop of rain to this world of sorrow and long, long pain. will y'u care fo' yo' mothah, little boy? when y'u grows, little varmint, little boy, y'u'll be ridin' a hoss by yo' fathah's side with yo' gun and yo' spurs and yo' howstrong pride. will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide? will y'u wish for yo' mothah, little boy? when y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy,-- when y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair,-- when the stars are her eyes and the wind is her hair,-- when the sun is her smile and yo' heaven's there,-- will y'u care for yo' mothah, little boy? _pocock in "curley."_ a cowboy song i could not be so well content, so sure of thee, señorita, but well i know you must relent and come to me, lolita! the caballeros throng to see thy laughing face, señorita, lolita. but well i know thy heart's for me, thy charm, thy grace, lolita! i ride the range for thy dear sake, to earn thee gold, señorita, lolita; and steal the gringo's cows to make a ranch to hold lolita! _pocock in "curley."_ a nevada cowpuncher to his beloved lonesome? well, i guess so! this place is mighty blue; the silence of the empty rooms jes' palpitates with--you. the day has lost its beauty, the sun's a-shinin' pale; i'll round up my belongin's an' i guess i'll hit the trail. out there in the sage-brush a-harkin' to the "coo-oo" of the wild dove in his matin' i can think alone of you. perhaps a gaunt coyote will go a-lopin' by an' linger on the mountain ridge an' cock his wary eye. an' when the evenin' settles, a-waitin' for the dawn perhaps i'll hear the ground owl: "she's gone--she's gone--she's gone!" _anonymous._ the cowboy to his friend in need you're very well polished, i'm free to confess, well balanced, well rounded, a power for right; but cool and collected,--no steel could be less; you're primed for continual fight. your voice is a bellicose bark of ill-will, on hatred and choler you seem to have fed; but when i control you, your temper is nil; in fact, you're most easily led. though lead is your diet and fight is your fun, i simply can't give you the jolt; for i love you, you blessed old son-of-a-gun,-- you forty-five caliber colt! _burke jenkins._ when bob got throwed that time when bob got throwed i thought i sure would bust. i like to died a-laffin' to see him chewin' dust. he crawled on that andy bronc and hit him with a quirt. the next thing that he knew he was wallowin' in the dirt. yes, it might a-killed him, i heard the old ground pop; but to see if he was injured you bet i didn't stop. i just rolled on the ground and began to kick and yell; it like to tickled me to death to see how hard he fell. 'twarn't more than a week ago that i myself got throwed, (but 'twas from a meaner horse than old bob ever rode). d'you reckon bob looked sad and said, "i hope that you ain't hurt!" naw! he just laffed and laffed and laffed to see me chewin' dirt. i've been prayin' ever since for his horse to turn his pack; and when he done it, i'd a laffed if it had broke his back. so i was still a-howlin' when bob, he got up lame; he seen his horse had run clean off and so for me he came. he first chucked sand into my eyes, with a rock he rubbed my head, then he twisted both my arms,-- "now go fetch that horse," he said. so i went and fetched him back, but i was feelin' good all day; for i sure enough do love to see a feller get throwed that way. _ray._ cowboy versus broncho haven't got no special likin' fur the toney sorts o' play, chasin' foxes or that hossback polo game, jumpin' critters over hurdles--sort o' things that any jay could accomplish an' regard as rather tame. none o' them is worth a mention, to my thinkin' p'int o' view, which the same i hold correct without a doubt, as a-toppin' of a broncho that has got it in fur you an' concludes that's just the time to have it out. don't no sooner hit the saddle than the exercises start, an' they're lackin' in perliminary fuss; you kin hear his j'ints a-crackin' like he's breakin' 'em apart, an' the hide jes' seems a-rippin' off the cuss, an' you sometimes git a joltin' that makes everything turn blue, an' you want to strictly mind what you're about, when you're fightin' with a broncho that has got it in fur you an' imagines that's the time to have it out. bows his back when he is risin', sticks his nose between his knees, an' he shakes hisself while a-hangin' in the air; then he hits the earth so solid that it somewhat disagrees with the usual peace an' quiet of your hair. you imagine that your innards are a-gittin' all askew, an' your spine don't feel so cussed firm an' stout, when you're up agin a broncho that has got it in fur you doin' of his level best to have it out. he will rise to the occasion with a lightnin' jump, an' then when he hits the face o' these united states doesn't linger half a second till he's in the air agin-- occupies the earth an' then evacuates. isn't any sense o' comfort like a-settin' in a pew listenin' to hear a sleepy parson spout when you're up on top a broncho that has got it in fur you an' is desputly a-tryin' to have it out. always feel a touch o' pity when he has to give it up after makin' sich a well intentioned buck an' is standin' broken hearted an' as gentle as a pup a reflectin' on the rottenness o' luck. puts your sympathetic feelin's, as you might say, in a stew, though you're lame as if a-sufferin' from the gout, when you're lightin' off a broncho that has had it in fur you an' mistook the proper time to have it out. _james barton adams._ when you're throwed if a feller's been a-straddle since he's big enough to ride, and has had to sling his saddle on most any colored hide,-- though it's nothin' they take pride in, still most fellers i have knowed, if they ever done much ridin', has at different times got throwed. all the boys start out together for the round-up some fine day when you're due to throw your leather on a little wall-eyed bay, an' he swells to beat the nation when you're cinchin' up the slack, an' he keeps an elevation in your saddle at the back. he stands still with feet a-sprawlin', an' his eye shows lots of white, an' he kinks his spinal column, an' his hide is puckered tight, he starts risin' an' a-jumpin', an' he strikes when you get near, an' you cuss him an' you thump him till you get him by the ear,-- then your right hand grabs the saddle an' you ketch your stirrup, too, an' you try to light a-straddle like a woolly buckaroo; but he drops his head an' switches, then he makes a backward jump, out of reach your stirrup twitches but your right spur grabs his hump. an' "stay with him!" shouts some feller; though you know it's hope forlorn, yet you'll show that you ain't yeller an' you choke the saddle horn. then you feel one rein a-droppin' an' you know he's got his head; an' your shirt tail's out an' floppin'; an' the saddle pulls like lead. then the boys all yell together fit to make a feller sick: "hey, you short horn, drop the leather! fan his fat an' ride him slick!" seems you're up-side-down an' flyin'; then your spurs begin to slip. there's no further use in tryin', for the horn flies from your grip, an' you feel a vague sensation as upon the ground you roll, like a violent separation 'twixt your body an' your soul. then you roll agin a hummock where you lay an' gasp for breath, an' there's somethin' grips your stomach like the finger-grips o' death. they all offers you prescriptions for the grip an' for the croup, an' they give you plain descriptions how you looped the spiral loop; they all swear you beat a circus or a hoochy-koochy dance, moppin' up the canon's surface with the bosom of your pants. then you'll get up on your trotters, but you have a job to stand; for the landscape round you totters an' your collar's full o' sand. lots of fellers give prescriptions how a broncho should be rode, but there's few that gives descriptions of the times when they got throwed. _anonymous._ pardners you bad-eyed, tough-mouthed son-of-a-gun, ye're a hard little beast to break, but ye're good for the fiercest kind of a run an' ye're quick as a rattlesnake. ye jolted me good when we first met in the dust of that bare corral, an' neither one of us will forget the fight we fit, old pal. but now--well, say, old hoss, if john d. rockefeller shud come with all the riches his paws are on and want to buy you, you bum, i'd laugh in his face an' pat your neck an' say to him loud an' strong: "i wouldn't sell you this derned old wreck for all your wealth--so long!" for we have slept on the barren plains an' cuddled against the cold; we've been through tempests of drivin' rains when the heaviest thunder rolled; we've raced from fire on the lone prairee an' run from the mad stampede; an' there ain't no money could buy from me a pard of your style an' breed. so i reckon we'll stick together, pard, till one of us cashes in; ye're wirey an' tough an' mighty hard, an' homlier, too, than sin. but yer head's all there an' yer heart's all right, an' you've been a good pardner, too, an' if ye've a soul it's clean an' white, you ugly ol' scoundrel, you! _berton braley._ the bronc that wouldn't bust i've busted bronchos off and on since first i struck their trail, and you bet i savvy bronchos from nostrils down to tail; but i struck one on powder river, and say, hands, he was the first and only living broncho that your servant couldn't burst. he was a no-count buckskin, wasn't worth two-bits to keep, had a black stripe down his backbone, and was woolly like a sheep. that hoss wasn't built to tread the earth; he took natural to the air; and every time he went aloft he tried to leave me there. he went so high above the earth lights from jerusalem shone. right thar we parted company and he came down alone. i hit terra firma, the buckskin's heels struck free, and brought a bunch of stars along to dance in front of me. i'm not a-riding airships nor an electric flying beast; ain't got no rich relation a-waitin' me back east; so i'll sell my chaps and saddle, my spurs can lay and rust; for there's now and then a digger that a buster cannot bust. _anonymous._ the ol' cow hawse when it comes to saddle hawses, there's a difference in steeds: there is fancy-gaited critters that will suit some feller's needs; there is nags high-bred an' tony, with a smooth an' shiny skin, that will capture all the races that you want to run 'em in. but fer one that never tires; one that's faithful, tried and true; one that allus is a "stayer" when you want to slam him through, there is but one breed o' critters that i ever came across that will allus stand the racket: 'tis the ol' cow hawse no, he ain't so much fer beauty, fer he's scrubby an' he's rough, an' his temper's sort o' sassy, but you bet he's good enough! fer he'll take the trail o' mornin's, be it up or be it down, on the range a-huntin' cattle or a-lopin' into town, an' he'll leave the miles behind him, an' he'll never sweat a hair, 'cuz he's a willin' critter when he's goin' anywhere. oh, your thoroughbred at runnin' in a race may be the boss, but fer all day ridin' lemme have the ol' cow hawse! when my soul seeks peace and quiet on the home ranch of the blest, where no storms or stampedes bother, an' the trails are trails o' rest, when my brand has been inspected an' pronounced to be o k, an' the boss has looked me over an' has told me i kin stay, oh, i'm hopin' when i'm lopin' off across that blessed range that i won't be in a saddle on a critter new an' strange, but i'm prayin' every minnit that up there i'll ride across that big heaven range o' glory on an ol' cow hawse _e. a. brinninstool._ the bunk-house orchestra wrangle up your mouth-harps, drag your banjo out, tune your old guitarra till she twangs right stout, for the snow is on the mountains and the wind is on the plain, but we'll cut the chimney's moanin' with a livelier refrain. _shinin' dobe fire-place, shadows on the wall (see old shorty's friv'lous toes a-twitchin' at the call:) it's the best grand high that there is within the law when seven jolly punchers tackle "turkey in the straw."_ freezy was the day's ride, lengthy was the trail, ev'ry steer was haughty with a high-arched tail, but we held 'em and we shoved 'em for our longin' hearts were tried by a yearnin' for tobaccer and our dear fireside. _swing 'er into stop-time, don't you let 'er droop (you're about as tuneful as a coyote with the croup!) ay, the cold wind bit when we drifted down the draw, but we drifted on to comfort and to "turkey in the straw."_ snarlin' when the rain whipped, cussin' at the ford-- ev'ry mile of twenty was a long discord, but the night is brimmin' music and its glory is complete when the eye is razzle-dazzled by the flip o' shorty's feet! _snappy for the dance, now, till she up and shoots! (don't he beat the devil's wife for jiggin' in his boots?) shorty got throwed high and we laughed till he was raw, but tonight he's done forgot it prancin' "turkey in the straw."_ rainy dark or firelight, bacon rind or pie, livin' is a luxury that don't come high; oh, be happy and onruly while our years and luck allow, for we all must die or marry less than forty years from now! _lively on the last turn! lope'er to the death! (reddy's soul is willin' but he's gettin' short o' breath.) ay, the storm wind sings and old trouble sucks his paw when we have an hour of firelight set to "turkey in the straw."_ _charles badger clark._ the cowboy's dance song you can't expect a cowboy to agitate his shanks in etiquettish manner in aristocratic ranks when he's always been accustomed to shake the heel and toe at the rattling rancher dances where much etiquet don't go. you can bet i set them laughing in quite an excited way, a-giving of their squinters an astonished sort of play, when i happened into denver and was asked to take a prance in the smooth and easy mazes of a high-toned dance. when i got among the ladies in their frocks of fleecy white, and the dudes togged out in wrappings that were simply out of sight, tell you what, i was embarrassed, and somehow i couldn't keep from feeling like a burro in a pretty flock of sheep. every step i made was awkward and i blushed a fiery red like the principal adornment of a turkey gobbler's head. the ladies said 'twas seldom that they had had the chance to see an old-time puncher at a high-toned dance. i cut me out a heifer from a bunch of pretty girls and yanked her to the center to dance the dreamy whirls. she laid her head upon my bosom in a loving sort of way and we drifted into heaven as the band began to play. i could feel my neck a-burning from her nose's breathing heat, and she do-ce-doed around me, half the time upon my feet; she peered up in my blinkers with a soul-dissolving glance quite conducive to the pleasures of a high-toned dance. every nerve just got a-dancing to the music of delight as i hugged the little sagehen uncomfortably tight; but she never made a bellow and the glances of her eyes seemed to thank me for the pleasure of a genuine surprise. she snuggled up against me in a loving sort of way, and i hugged her all the tighter for her trustifying play,-- tell you what the joys of heaven ain't a cussed circumstance to the hug-a-mania pleasures of a high-toned dance. when they struck the old cotillion on the music bill of fare, every bit of devil in me seemed to burst out on a tear. i fetched a cowboy whoop and started in to rag, and cut her with my trotters till the floor began to sag; swung my pardner till she got sea-sick and rushed for a seat; i balanced to the next one but she dodged me slick and neat.-- tell you what, i shook the creases from my go-to-meeting pants when i put the cowboy trimmings on that high-toned dance. _james barton adams._ the cowboys' christmas ball way out in western texas, where the clear fork's waters flow, where the cattle are "a-browzin'" and the spanish ponies grow; where the norther "comes a-whistlin'" from beyond the neutral strip and the prairie dogs are sneezin', as if they had "the grip"; where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the ranches after dark, and the mocking-birds are singin' to the lovely "medder lark"; where the 'possum and the badger, and rattle-snakes abound, and the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilderness profound; where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy streams, while the double mountains slumber in heavenly kinds of dreams; where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers call-- it was there that i attended "the cowboys' christmas ball." the town was anson city, old jones's county seat, where they raise polled angus cattle, and waving whiskered wheat; where the air is soft and "bammy," an' dry an' full of health, and the prairies is explodin' with agricultural wealth; where they print the _texas western_, that hec. mccann supplies, with news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' size; where frank smith "pulls the badger," on knowin' tender feet, and democracy's triumphant, and mighty hard to beat; where lives that good old hunter, john milsap from lamar, who "used to be the sheriff, back east, in paris, sah!" 'twas there, i say, at anson, with the lively "widder wall," that i went to that reception, "the cowboys' christmas ball." the boys had left the ranches and come to town in piles; the ladies--"kinder scatterin'"--had gathered in for miles. and yet the place was crowded, as i remember well, 'twas got for the occasion at "the morning star hotel." the music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, and a "viol come imported," by stage from abilene. the room was togged out gorgeous--with mistletoe and shawls, and candles flickered frescoes around the airy walls. the "wimmin folks" looked lovely--the boys looked kinder treed, till their leader commenced yellin': "whoa, fellers, let's stampede." the music started sighin' and a-wailin' through the hall, as a kind of introduction to "the cowboys' christmas ball." the leader was a fellow that came from swenson's ranch, they called him "windy billy," from "little dead-man's branch." his rig was "kinder keerless," big spurs and high-heeled boots; he had the reputation that comes when "fellers shoots." his voice was like the bugle upon the mountain's height; his feet were animated, an' a _mighty movin' sight_, when he commenced to holler, "neow, fellers, stake yer pen! lock horns to all them heifers, an' russle 'em like men. saloot yer lovely critters; neow swing an' let 'em go, climb the grape vine round 'em--all hands do-ce-do! and mavericks, jine the round-up--jest skip her waterfall," huh! hit wuz gittin' happy, "the cowboys' christmas ball!" the boys were tolerable skittish, the ladies powerful neat, that old bass viol's music _just got there with both feet_. that wailin' frisky fiddle, i never shall forget; and windy kept a singin'--i think i hear him yet-- "o xes, chase your squirrels, an' cut 'em to one side, spur treadwell to the center, with cross p charley's bride, doc. hollis down the middle, an' twine the ladies' chain, varn andrews pen the fillies in big t. diamond's train. all pull yer freight tergether, neow swallow fork an' change, 'big boston' lead the trail herd, through little pitchfork's range. purr round yer gentle pussies, neow rope 'em! balance all!" huh! hit wuz gittin' active--"the cowboys' christmas ball!" the dust riz fast an' furious, we all just galloped round, till the scenery got so giddy, that z bar dick was downed. we buckled to our partners, an' told 'em to hold on, then shook our hoofs like lightning until the early dawn. don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans. no sir 'ee! that whirl at anson city just takes the cake with me. i'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them i've had my fill, give me a fronteer breakdown, backed up by windy bill. mcallister ain't nowhere! when windy leads the show, i've seen 'em both in harness, an' so i sorter know-- oh, bill, i sha'n't forget yer, and i'll oftentimes recall, that lively-gaited sworray--"the cowboys' christmas ball." _larry chittenden in_ "_ranch verses."_ a dance at the ranch from every point they gaily come, the broncho's unshod feet pat at the green sod of the range with quick, emphatic beat; the tresses of the buxom girls as banners stream behind-- like silken, castigating whips cut at the sweeping wind. the dashing cowboys, brown of face, sit in their saddle thrones and sing the wild songs of the range in free, uncultured tones, or ride beside the pretty girls, like gallant cavaliers, and pour the usual fairy tales into their list'ning ears. within the "best room" of the ranch the jolly gathered throng buzz like a hive of human bees and lade the air with song; the maidens tap their sweetest smiles and give their tongues full rein in efforts to entrap the boys in admiration's chain. the fiddler tunes the strings with pick of thumb and scrape of bow, finds one string keyed a note too high, another one too low; then rosins up the tight-drawn hairs, the young folks in a fret until their ears are greeted with the warning words, "all set! s'lute yer pardners! let 'er go! balance all an' do-ce-do! swing yer girls an' run away! right an' left an' gents sashay! gents to right an' swing or cheat! on to next gal an' repeat! balance next an' don't be shy! swing yer pard an' swing 'er high! bunch the gals an' circle round! whack yer feet until they bound! form a basket! break away! swing an' kiss an' all git gay! al'man left an' balance all! lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall! swing yer op'sites! swing agin! kiss the sagehens if you kin!" an' thus the merry dance went on till morning's struggling light in lengthening streaks of grey breaks down the barriers of the night, and broncs are mounted in the glow of early morning skies by weary-limbed young revelers with drooping, sleepy eyes. the cowboys to the ranges speed to "work" the lowing herds, the girls within their chambers hide their sleep like weary birds, and for a week the young folks talk of what a jolly spree they had that night at jackson's ranch down on the owyhee. _anonymous._ at a cowboy dance git yo' little sagehens ready; trot 'em out upon the floor-- line up there, you critters! steady! lively, now! one couple more. shorty, shed that ol' sombrero; broncho, douse that cigaret; stop yer cussin', casimero, 'fore the ladies. now, all set: s'lute yer ladies, all together; ladies opposite the same; hit the lumber with yer leather; balance all an' swing yer dame; bunch the heifers in the middle; circle stags an' do-ce-do; keep a-steppin' to the fiddle; swing 'em 'round an' off you go. first four forward. back to places. second foller. shuffle back-- now you've got it down to cases-- swing 'em till their trotters crack. gents all right a-heel an' toein'; swing 'em--kiss 'em if yo' kin-- on to next an' keep a-goin' till yo' hit yer pards agin. gents to center. ladies 'round 'em; form a basket; balance all; swing yer sweets to where yo' found 'em; all p'mnade around the hall. balance to yer pards an' trot 'em 'round the circle double quick; grab an' squeeze 'em while you've got 'em-- hold 'em to it if they kick. ladies, left hand to yer sonnies; alaman; grand right an' left; balance all an' swing yer honies-- pick 'em up an' feel their heft. all p'mnade like skeery cattle; balance all an' swing yer sweets; shake yer spurs an' make 'em rattle-- keno! promenade to seats. _james barton adams._ the cowboys' ball _yip! yip! yip! yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; you an' take yo'r pardner there, standin' by the wall! _say "how!" make a bow, and sashay down the middle_; shake yo'r leg lively at the cowboys' ball. big feet, little feet, all the feet a-clickin'; everybody happy an' the goose a-hangin' high; lope, trot, hit the spot, like a colt a-kickin'; keep a-stompin' leather while you got one eye. yah! hoo! larry! would you watch his wings a-floppin' jumpin' like a chicken that's a-lookin' for its head; hi! yip! never slip, and never think of stoppin', just keep yo'r feet a-movin' till we all drop dead! high heels, low heels, moccasins and slippers; real old rally round the dipper and the keg! uncle ed's gettin' red--had too many dippers; better get him hobbled or he'll break his leg! _yip! yip! yip! yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; pass him up another for his arm is gettin' slow. _bow down! right in town--and sashay down the middle_; got to keep a-movin' for to see the show! yes, mam! warm, mam? want to rest a minute? like to get a breath of air lookin' at the stars? all right! fine night--dance? there's nothin' in it! that's my pony there, peekin' through the bars. bronc, mam? no, mam! gentle as a kitten! here, boy! shake a hand! now, mam, you can see; night's cool. what a fool to dance, instead of sittin' like a gent and lady, same as you and me. _yip! yip! yip! yip! tunin' up the fiddle_; well, them as likes the exercise sure can have it all! _right wing, lady swings, and sashay down the middle..._ but this beats dancin' at the cowboys' ball. _henry herbert knibbs._ part iii cowboy types _down where the rio grande ripples-- when there's water in its bed; where no man is ever drunken-- all prefer mescal instead; where no lie is ever uttered-- there being nothin' one can trade; where no marriage vows are broken 'cause the same are never made._ the cowboy he wears a big hat and big spurs and all that, and leggins of fancy fringed leather; he takes pride in his boots and the pistol he shoots, and he's happy in all kinds of weather; he's fond of his horse, it's a broncho, of course, for oh, he can ride like the devil; he is old for his years and he always appears like a fellow who's lived on the level; he can sing, he can cook, yet his eyes have the look of a man that to fear is a stranger; yes, his cool, quiet nerve will always subserve for his wild life of duty and danger. he gets little to eat, and he guys tenderfeet, and for fashion, oh well! he's not in it; he can rope a gay steer when he gets on its ear at the rate of two-forty a minute; his saddle's the best in the wild, woolly west, sometimes it will cost sixty dollars; ah, he knows all the tricks when he brands mavericks, but his knowledge is not got from your scholars; he is loyal as steel, but demands a square deal, and he hates and despises a coward; yet the cowboy, you'll find, to women is kind though he'll fight till by death overpowered. hence i say unto you,--give the cowboy his due and be kind, my friends, to his folly; for he's generous and brave though he may not behave like your dudes, who are so melancholy. _anonymous._ bar-z on a sunday night we ain't no saints on the bar-z ranch, 'tis said--an' we know who 'tis-- "th' devil's laid hold on us, tooth an' branch, an' uses us in his biz." still, we ain't so bad but we might be wuss, an' you'd sure admit that's right, if you happened--an' unbeknown to us-- around, of a sunday night. th' week-day manners is stowed away, th' jokes an' the card games halts, when dick's ol' fiddle begins to play a toon--an' it ain't no waltz. it digs fer th' things that are out o' sight, it delves through th' toughest crust, it grips th' heart-strings, an' holds 'em tight, till we've got ter sing--er bust! with pipin' treble the kid starts in, an' hell! how that kid kin sing! "yield not to temptation, fer yieldin' is sin," he leads, an' the rafters ring; "fight manfully onward, dark passions subdue," we shouts it with force an' vim; "look ever to jesus, he'll carry you through,"-- that's puttin' it up to him! we ain't no saints on the ol' bar-z, but many a time an' oft when ol' fiddle's a-pleadin', "abide with me," our hearts gets kinder soft. an' we makes some promises there an' then which we keeps--till we goes to bed,-- that's the most could be ast o' a passel o' men what ain't no saints, as i said. _percival combes._ a cowboy race a pattering rush like the rattle of hail when the storm king's wild coursers are out on the trail, a long roll of hoofs,--and the earth is a drum! the centaurs! see! over the prairies they come! a rollicking, clattering, battering beat; a rhythmical thunder of galloping feet; a swift-swirling dust-cloud--a mad hurricane of swarthy, grim faces and tossing, black mane; hurrah! in the face of the steeds of the sun the gauntlet is flung and the race is begun! _j. c. davis._ the habit i've beat my way wherever any winds have blown; i've bummed along from portland down to san antone; from sandy hook to frisco, over gulch and hill,-- for once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. i settled down quite frequent, and i says, says i, "i'll never wander further till i come to die." but the wind it sorter chuckles, "why, o' course you will." an' sure enough i does it 'cause i can't keep still. i've seen a lot o' places where i'd like to stay, but i gets a-feelin' restless an' i'm on my way. i was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, an', once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. i've been in rich men's houses an' i've been in jail, but when it's time for leavin' i jes hits the trail. i'm a human bird of passage and the song i trill is, "once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still." the sun is sorter coaxin' an' the road is clear, an' the wind is singin' ballads that i got to hear. it ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; for, once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still. _berton braley._ a ranger he never made parade of tooth or claw; he was plain as us that nursed the bawlin' herds. though he had a rather meanin'-lookin' jaw, he was shy of exercisin' it with words. as a circus-ridin' preacher of the law, all his preachin' was the sort that hit the nail; he was just a common ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger, and he labored with the sinners of the trail. once a yaqui knifed a woman, jealous mad, then hit southward with the old, old killer's plan, and nobody missed the woman very bad, while they'd just a little rather missed the man. but the ranger crossed his trail and sniffed it glad, and then loped away to bring him back again, for he stood for peace and order on the lonely, sunny border and his business was to hunt for sinful men! so the trail it led him southward all the day, through the shinin' country of the thorn and snake, where the heat had drove the lizards from their play to the shade of rock and bush and yucca stake. and the mountains heaved and rippled far away and the desert broiled as on the devil's prong, but he didn't mind the devil if his head kept clear and level and the hoofs beat out their clear and steady song. came the yellow west, and on a far off rise something black crawled up and dropped beyond the rim, and he reached his rifle out and rubbed his eyes while he cussed the southern hills for growin' dim. down a hazy 'royo came the coyote cries, like they laughed at him because he'd lost his mark, and the smile that brands a fighter pulled his mouth a little tighter as he set his spurs and rode on through the dark. came the moonlight on a trail that wriggled higher through the mountains that look into mexico, and the shadows strung his nerves like banjo wire and the miles and minutes dragged unearthly slow. then a black mesquite spit out a thread of fire and the canyon walls flung thunder back again, and he caught himself and fumbled at his rifle while he grumbled that his bridle arm had weight enough for ten. though his rifle pointed wavy-like and slack and he grabbed for leather at his hawse's shy, yet he sent a soft-nosed exhortation back that convinced the sinner--just above the eye. so the sinner sprawled among the shadows black while the ranger drifted north beneath the moon, wabblin' crazy in his saddle, workin' hard to stay a-straddle while the hoofs beat out a slow and sorry tune. when the sheriff got up early out of bed, how he stared and vowed his soul a total loss, as he saw the droopy thing all blotched with red that came ridin' in aboard a tremblin' hawse. but "i got 'im" was the most the ranger said and you couldn't hire him, now, to tell the tale; he was just a quiet ranger, just a ridin' pilgrim stranger and he labored with the sinners of the trail. _charles badger clark, jr._ the insult i've swum the colorado where she runs close down to hell; i've braced the faro layouts in cheyenne; i've fought for muddy water with a bunch of howlin' swine an' swallowed hot tamales and cayenne; i've rode a pitchin' broncho till the sky was underneath; i've tackled every desert in the land; i've sampled xx whiskey till i couldn't hardly see an' dallied with the quicksands of the grande; i've argued with the marshals of a half a dozen burgs; i've been dragged free and fancy by a cow; i've had three years' campaignin' with the fightin', bitin' ninth, an' i never lost my temper till right now. i've had the yeller fever and been shot plum full of holes; i've grabbed an army mule plum by the tail; but i've never been so snortin', really highfalutin' mad as when you up and hands me ginger ale. _anonymous._ "the road to ruin"[ ] i went into the grog-shop, tom, and stood beside the bar, and drank a glass of lemonade and smoked a bad seegar. the same old kegs and jugs was thar, the same we used to know when we was on the round-up, tom, some twenty years ago. the bar-tender is not the same. the one who used to sell corroded tangle-foot to us, is rotting now in hell. this one has got a plate-glass front, he combs his hair quite low, he looks just like the one we knew some twenty years ago. old soak came up and asked for booze and had the same old grin while others burned their living forms and wet their coats with gin. outside the doorway women stood, their faces seamed with woe and wept just like they used to weep some twenty years ago. i asked about our old-time friends, those cheery, sporty men; and some was in the poor-house, tom, and some was in the pen. you know the one you liked the best?--the hang-man laid him low,-- oh, few are left that used to booze some twenty years ago. you recollect our favorite, whom pride claimed for her own,-- he used to say that he could booze or leave the stuff alone. he perished for the james fitz james, out in the rain and snow,-- yes, few survive who used to booze some twenty years ago. i visited the old church yard and there i saw the graves of those who used to drown their woes in old fermented ways. i saw the graves of women thar, lying where the daisies grow, who wept and died of broken hearts some twenty years ago. _anonymous._ [ ] a famous saloon in west texas carried this unusual sign. the outlaw when my loop takes hold on a two-year-old, by the feet or the neck or the horn, he kin plunge and fight till his eyes go white, but i'll throw him as sure as you're born. though the taut rope sing like a banjo string and the latigoes creak and strain, yet i've got no fear of an outlaw steer and i'll tumble him on the plain. _for a man is a man and a steer is a beast, and the man is the boss of the herd; and each of the bunch, from the biggest to least, must come down when he says the word._ when my leg swings 'cross on an outlaw hawse and my spurs clinch into his hide, he kin r'ar and pitch over hill and ditch, but wherever he goes i'll ride. let 'im spin and flop like a crazy top, or flit like a wind-whipped smoke, but he'll know the feel of my rowelled heel till he's happy to own he's broke. _for a man is a man and a hawse is a brute, and the hawse may be prince of his clan, but he'll bow to the bit and the steel-shod boot and own that his boss is the man._ when the devil at rest underneath my vest gets up and begins to paw, and my hot tongue strains at its bridle-reins, then i tackle the real outlaw; when i get plumb riled and my sense goes wild, and my temper has fractious growed, if he'll hump his neck just a triflin' speck, then it's dollars to dimes i'm throwed. _for a man is a man, but he's partly a beast-- he kin brag till he makes you deaf, but the one, lone brute, from the west to the east, that he kaint quite break, is himse'f._ _charles b. clark, jr._ the desert 'twas the lean coyote told me, baring his slavish soul, as i counted the ribs of my dead cayuse and cursed at the desert sky, the tale of the upland rider's fate while i dug in the water hole for a drop, a taste of the bitter seep; but the water hole was dry! "he came," said the lean coyote, "and he cursed as his pony fell; and he counted his pony's ribs aloud; yea, even as you have done. he raved as he ripped at the clay-red sand like an imp from the pit of hell, shriveled with thirst for a thousand years and craving a drop--just one." "his name?" i asked, and he told me, yawning to hide a grin: "his name is writ on the prison roll and many a place beside; last, he scribbled it on the sand with a finger seared and thin, and i watched his face as he spelled it out--laughed as i laughed, and died. "and thus," said the lean coyote, "his need is the hungry's feast, and mine." i fumbled and pulled my gun--emptied it wild and fast, but one of the crazy shots went home and silenced the waiting beast; there lay the shape of the liar, dead! 'twas i that should laugh the last. laugh? nay, now i would write my name as the upland rider wrote; write? what need, for before my eyes in a wide and wavering line i saw the trace of a written word and letter by letter float into a mist as the world grew dark; and i knew that the name was mine. dreams and visions within the dream; turmoil and fire and pain; hands that proffered a brimming cup--empty, ere i could take; then the burst of a thunder-head--rain! it was rude, fierce rain! blindly down to the hole i crept, shivering, drenched, awake! dawn--and the edge of the red-rimmed sun scattering golden flame, as stumbling down to the water hole came the horse that i thought was dead; but never a sign of the other beast nor a trace of a rider's name; just a rain-washed track and an empty gun--and the old home trail ahead. _henry herbert knibbs._ whiskey bill,--a fragment a-down the road and gun in hand comes whiskey bill, mad whiskey bill; a-lookin' for some place to land comes whiskey bill. an' everybody'd like to be ten miles away behind a tree when on his joyous, aching spree starts whiskey bill. the times have changed since you made love, o whiskey bill, o whiskey bill! the happy sun grinned up above at whiskey bill. and down the middle of the street the sheriff comes on toe and feet a-wishin' for one fretful peek at whiskey bill. the cows go grazing o'er the lea,-- poor whiskey bill! poor whiskey bill! an' aching thoughts pour in on me of whiskey bill. the sheriff up and found his stride; bill's soul went shootin' down the slide,-- how are things on the great divide, o whiskey bill? _anonymous._ denver jim "say, fellers, that ornery thief must be nigh us, for i jist saw him across this way to the right; ah, there he is now right under that burr-oak as fearless and cool as if waitin' all night. well, come on, but jist get every shooter all ready fur him, if he's spilin' to give us a fight; the birds in the grove will sing chants to our picnic an' that limb hangin' over him stands about right. "say, stranger, good mornin'. why, dog blast my lasso, boys, if it ain't denver jim that's corralled here at last. right aside for the jilly. well, jim, we are searchin' all night for a couple about of your cast. an' seein' yer enter this openin' so charmin' we thought perhaps yer might give us the trail. haven't seen anything that would answer description? what a nerve that chap has, but it will not avail. "want to trade hosses fur the one i am stridin'! will you give me five hundred betwixt fur the boot? say, jim, that air gold is the strongest temptation an' many a man would say take it and scoot. but we don't belong to that denomination; you have got to the end of your rope, denver jim. in ten minutes more we'll be crossin' the prairie, an' you will be hangin' there right from that limb. "have you got any speakin' why the sentence ain't proper? here, take you a drink from the old whiskey flask. ar' not dry? well, i am, an' will drink ter yer, pard, an' wish that this court will not bungle this task. there, the old lasso circles your neck like a fixture; here, boys, take the line an' wait fer the word; i am sorry, old boy, that your claim has gone under; fer yer don't meet yer fate like the low, common herd. "what's that? so yer want me to answer a letter,-- well, give it to me till i make it all right, a moment or two will be only good manners, the judicious acts of this court will be white. 'long point, arkansas, the thirteenth of august, my dearest son james, somewhere out in the west, for long, weary months i've been waiting for tidings since your last loving letter came eastward to bless. "'god bless you, my son, for thus sending that money, remembering your mother when sorely in need. may the angels from heaven now guard you from danger and happiness follow your generous deed. how i long so to see you come into the doorway, as you used to, of old, when weary, to rest. may the days be but few when again i can greet you, my comfort and staff, is your mother's request.' "say, pard, here's your letter. i'm not good at writin', i think you'd do better to answer them lines; an' fer fear i might want it i'll take off that lasso, an' the hoss you kin leave when you git to the pines. an' jim, when yer see yer old mother jist tell her that a wee bit o' writin' kinder hastened the day when her boy could come eastward to stay with her always. come boys, up and mount and to denver away." o'er the prairies the sun tipped the trees with its splendor, the dew on the grass flashed the diamonds so bright, as the tenderest memories came like a blessing from the days of sweet childhood on pinions of light. not a word more was spoken as they parted that morning, yet the trail of a tear marked each cheek as they turned; for higher than law is the love of a mother,-- it reversed the decision,--the court was adjourned. _sherman d. richardson._ the vigilantes we are the whirlwinds that winnow the west-- we scatter the wicked like straw! we are the nemeses, never at rest-- we are justice, and right, and the law! moon on the snow and a blood-chilling blast, sharp-throbbing hoofs like the heart-beat of fear, a halt, a swift parley, a pause--then at last a stiff, swinging figure cut darkly and sheer against the blue steel of the sky; ghastly white every on-looking face. men, our duty was clear; yet ah! what a soul to send forth to the night! ours is a service brute-hateful and grim; little we love the wild task that we seek; are they dainty to deal with--the fear-rigid limb, the curse and the struggle, the blasphemous shriek? nay, but men must endure while their bodies have breath; god made us strong to avenge him the weak-- to dispense his sure wages of sin--which is death. we stand for our duty: while wrong works its will, our search shall be stern and our course shall be wide; retribution shall prove that the just liveth still, and its horrors and dangers our hearts can abide, that safety and honor may tread in our path; the vengeance of heaven shall speed at our side, as we follow unwearied our mission of wrath. we are the whirlwinds that winnow the west-- we scatter the wicked like straw! we are the nemeses, never at rest-- we are justice, and right, and the law! _margaret ashmun._ the bandit's grave 'mid lava rock and glaring sand, 'neath the desert's brassy skies, bound in the silent chains of death a border bandit lies. the poppy waves her golden glow above the lowly mound; the cactus stands with lances drawn,-- a martial guard around. his dreams are free from guile or greed, or foray's wild alarms. no fears creep in to break his rest in the desert's scorching arms. he sleeps in peace beside the trail, where the twilight shadows play, though they watch each night for his return a thousand miles away. from the mesquite groves a night bird calls when the western skies grow red; the sand storm sings his deadly song above the sleeper's head. his steed has wandered to the hills and helpless are his hands, yet peons curse his memory across the shifting sands. the desert cricket tunes his pipes when the half-grown moon shines dim; the sage thrush trills her evening song-- but what are they to him? a rude-built cross beside the trail that follows to the west casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow across the sleeper's breast. a lone coyote comes by night and sits beside his bed, sobbing the midnight hours away with gaunt, up-lifted head. the lizard trails his aimless way across the lonely mound, when the star-guards of the desert their pickets post around. the winter snows will heap their drifts among the leafless sage; the pallid hosts of the blizzard will lift their voice in rage; the gentle rains of early spring will woo the flowers to bloom, and scatter their fleeting incense o'er the border bandit's tomb. _charles pitt._ the old mackenzie trail see, stretching yonder o'er that low divide which parts the falling rain,--the eastern slope sends down its waters to the southern sea through double mountain's winding length of stream; the western side spreads out into a plain, which sinks away o'er tawny, rolling leagues at last into the rushing rio grande,-- see, faintly showing on that distant ridge, the deep-cut pathways through the shelving crest, sage-matted now and rimmed with chaparral, the dim reminders of the olden times, the life of stir, of blood, of indian raid, the hunt of buffalo and antelope; the camp, the wagon train, the sea of steers; the cowboy's lonely vigil through the night; the stampede and the wild ride through the storm; the call of california's golden flood; the impulse of the saxon's "westward ho" which set our fathers' faces from the east, to spread resistless o'er the barren wastes, to people all the regions 'neath the sun-- those vikings of the old mackenzie trail. it winds--this old forgotten cattle trail-- through valleys still and silent even now, save when the yellow-breasted desert lark cries shrill and lonely from a dead mesquite, in quivering notes set in a minor key; the endless round of sunny days, of starry nights, the desert's blank immutability. the coyote's howl is heard at dark from some low-lying hill; companioned by the loafer wolf they yelp in concert to the far off stars, or gnaw the bleachèd bones in savage rage that lie unburied by the grass-grown paths. the prairie dogs play sentinel by day and backward slips the badger to his den; the whir, the fatal strike of rattlesnake, a staring buzzard floating in the blue, and, now and then, the curlew's eerie call,-- lost, always lost, and seeking evermore. all else is mute and dormant; vacantly the sun looks down, the days run idly on, the breezes whirl the dust, which eddying falls smothering the records of the westward caravans, where silent heaps of wreck and nameless graves make milestones for the old mackenzie trail. across the brazos, colorado, through concho's broad, fair valley, sweeping on by abilene it climbs upon the plains, the llano estacado (beyond lie wastes of alkali and hunger gaunt and death),-- and here is lost in shifting rifts of sand. anon it lingers by a hidden spring that bubbles joy into the wilderness; its pathway trenched that distant mountain side, now grown to gulches through torrential rain. de vaca gathered pinons by the way, long ere the furrows grew on yonder hill, cut by the creaking prairie-schooner wheels; la salle, the gentle frenchman, crossed this course, and went to death and to a nameless grave. for ages and for ages through the past comanches and apaches from the north came sweeping southward, searching for the sun, and charged in mimic combat on the sea. the scions of montezuma's low-browed race perhaps have seen that knotted, thorn-clad tree; or sucked the cactus apples growing there. all these have passed, and passed the immigrants, who bore the westward fever in their brain, the norseman tang for roving in their veins; who loved the plains as sailors love the sea, braved danger, death, and found a resting place while traveling on the old mackenzie trail. brave old mackenzie long has laid him down to rest beyond the trail that bears his name; a granite mountain makes his monument; the northers, moaning o'er the low divide, go gently past his long deserted camps. no more his rangers guard the wild frontier, no more he leads them in the border fight. no more the mavericks, winding stream of horns to kansas bound; the dust, the cowboy songs and cries, the pistol's sharp report,--the free, wild days in texas by the rio grande. and some men say when dusky night shuts down, dark, cloudy nights without a kindly star, one sees dim horsemen skimming o'er the plain hard by mackenzie's trail; and keener ears have heard from deep within the bordering hills the tramp of ghostly hoofs, faint cattle lows, the rumble of a moving wagon train, sometimes far echoes of a frontier song; then sounds grow fainter, shadows troop away,-- on westward, westward, as they in olden time went rangeing o'er the old mackenzie trail. _john a. lomax._ the sheep-herder[ ] all day across the sagebrush flat, beneath the sun of june, my sheep they loaf and feed and bleat their never changin' tune. and then, at night time, when they lay as quiet as a stone, i hear the gray wolf far away, "alo-one!" he says, "alo-one!" a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! the tune the woollies sing; it's rasped my ears, it seems, for years, though really just since spring; and nothin', far as i can see around the circle's sweep, but sky and plain, my dreams and me and them infernal sheep. i've got one book--it's poetry-- a bunch of pretty wrongs an eastern lunger gave to me; he said 'twas "shepherd songs." but, though that poet sure is deep and has sweet things to say, he never seen a herd of sheep or smelt them, anyway. a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! my woollies greasy gray, an awful change has hit the range since that old poet's day. for you're just silly, on'ry brutes and i look like distress, and my pipe ain't the kind that toots and there's no "shepherdess." yet 'way down home in kansas state, bliss township, section five, there's one that's promised me to wait, the sweetest girl alive; that's why i salt my wages down and mend my clothes with strings, while others blow their pay in town for booze and other things. a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! my minnie, don't be sad; next year we'll lease that splendid piece that corners on your dad. we'll drive to "literary," dear, the way we used to do and turn my lonely workin' here to happiness for you. suppose, down near that rattlers' den, while i sit here and dream, i'd spy a bunch of ugly men and hear a woman scream. suppose i'd let my rifle shout and drop the men in rows, and then the woman should turn out-- my minnie!--just suppose. a-a! ma-a! ba-a! eh-eh-eh! the tune would then be gay; there is, i mind, a parson kind just forty miles away. why, eden would come back again, with sage and sheep corrals, and i could swing a singin' pen to write her "pastorals." i pack a rifle on my arm and jump at flies that buzz; there's nothin' here to do me harm; i sometimes wish there was. if through that brush above the pool a red should creep--and creep-- wah! cut down on 'im!--stop, you fool! that's nothin' but a sheep. a-a! ma-a! ba-a!--hell! oh, sky and plain and bluff! unless my mail comes up the trail i'm locoed, sure enough. what's that?--a dust-whiff near the butte right where my last trail ran, a movin' speck, a--wagon! hoot! thank god! here comes a man. _charles badger clark, jr._ [ ] only such cowboys as are in desperate need of employment ever become sheep-herders. a cowboy at the carnival yes, o' cose it's interestin' to a feller from the range, mighty queerish, too, i tell you,--sich a racket fer a change; from a life among the cattle, from a wool shirt and the chaps to the biled shirt o' the city and the other tony traps. never seed sich herds o' people throwed together, every brand o' humanity, i reckon, in this big mountain land rounded up right here in denver, runnin' on new sort o' feed. actin' restless an' oneasy, like they threatened to stampede. mighty curious to a rider comin' from the range, he feels what you'd call a lost sensation from sombrero clar to heels; like a critter stray that drifted in a windstorm from its range to another run o' grazin' where the brands it sees are strange. then i see a city herder, a policeman, don't you know, sort o' think he's got men spotted an' is 'bout to make a throw fer to catch me an' corral me fer a stray till he can talk on the wire an' tell the owner fer to come an' get his stock. yes, it's mighty strange an' funny fer a cowboy, as you say, fer to hit a camp like this one, so unanimously gay; but i want to tell you, pardner, that a rider sich as me isn't built fer feedin' on sich crazy jamboree. every bone i got's a-achin', an' my feet as sore as if i had hit a bed o' cactus, an' my hinges is as stiff from a-hittin' these hot pavements as a feller's jints kin git,-- 'taint like holdin' down a broncho on the range, a little bit. i'm hankerin', i tell you, fer to hit the trail an' run like a crazy, locoed yearlin' from this big cloud-burst o' fun back toward the cattle ranches, where a feller's breath comes free an' he wears the clothes that fits him, 'stead o' this slick toggery. where his home is in the saddle, an' the heavens is his roof, an' his ever'day companions wears the hide an' cloven hoof, where the beller of the cattle is the only sound he hears, an' he never thinks o' nothin' but his grub an' hoss an' steers. _anonymous._ the old cowman i rode across a valley range i hadn't seen for years. the trail was all so spoilt and strange it nearly fetched the tears. i had to let ten fences down,-- (the fussy lanes ran wrong) and each new line would make me frown and hum a mournin' song. oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! hear 'em stretchin' of the wire! the nester brand is on the land; i reckon i'll retire. while progress toots her brassy horn and makes her motor buzz, i thank the lord i wasn't born no later than i wuz! 'twas good to live when all the sod, without no fence nor fuss, belonged in partnership to god, the government and us. with skyline bounds from east to west and room to go and come, i loved my fellowman the best when he was scattered some. oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! close and closer cramps the wire! there's hardly play to back away and call a man a liar. their house has locks on every door; their land is in a crate. there ain't the plains of god no more, they're only real estate. there's land where yet no ditchers dig nor cranks experiment; it's only lovely, free and big and isn't worth a cent. i pray that them who come to spoil may wait till i am dead before they foul that blessed soil with fence and cabbage head. yet it's squeak! squeak! squeak! far and farther crawls the wire! to crowd and pinch another inch is all their heart's desire. the world is over-stocked with men, and some will see the day when each must keep his little pen, but i'll be far away. when my old soul hunts range and rest beyond the last divide, just plant me in some stretch of west that's sunny, lone and wide. let cattle rub my tombstone down and coyotes mourn their kin, let hawses paw and tramp the moun',-- but don't you fence it in! oh, it's squeak! squeak! squeak! and they pen the land with wire. they figure fence and copper cents where we laughed round the fire. job cussed his birthday, night and morn in his old land of uz, but i'm just glad i wasn't born no later than i wuz! _charles badger clark, jr._ the gila monster route the lingering sunset across the plain kissed the rear-end door of an east-bound train, and shone on a passing track close by where a ding-bat sat on a rotting tie. he was ditched by a shock and a cruel fate. the con high-balled, and the manifest freight pulled out on the stem behind the mail, and she hit the ball on a sanded rail. as she pulled away in the falling light he could see the gleam of her red tail-light. then the moon arose and the stars came out-- he was ditched on the gila monster route. nothing in sight but sand and space; no chance for a gink to feed his face; not even a shack to beg for a lump, or a hen-house to frisk for a single gump. he gazed far out on the solitude; he drooped his head and began to brood; he thought of the time he lost his mate in a hostile burg on the nickle plate. they had mooched the stem and threw their feet, and speared four-bits on which to eat; but deprived themselves of daily bread and shafted their coin for "dago red." down by the track in the jungle's glade, in the cool green grass, in the tules' shade, they shed their coats and ditched their shoes and tanked up full of that colored booze. then they took a flop with their skins plumb full, and they did not hear the harnessed bull, till he shook them out of their boozy nap, with a husky voice and a loaded sap. they were charged with "vag," for they had no kale, and the judge said, "sixty days in jail." but the john had a bindle,--a worker's plea,-- so they gave him a floater and set him free. they had turned him up, but ditched his mate, so he grabbed the guts of an east-bound freight, he flung his form on a rusty rod, till he heard the shack say, "hit the sod!" the john piled off, he was in the ditch, with two switch lamps and a rusty switch,-- a poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo on a hostile pike, without a show. from away off somewhere in the dark came the sharp, short notes of a coyote's bark. the bo looked round and quickly rose and shook the dust from his threadbare clothes. off in the west through the moonlit night he saw the gleam of a big head-light-- an east-bound stock train hummed the rail; she was due at the switch to clear the mail. as she drew up close, the head-end shack threw the switch to the passenger track, the stock rolled in and off the main, and the line was clear for the west-bound train. when she hove in sight far up the track, she was workin' steam, with her brake shoes slack, she hollered once at the whistle post, then she flitted by like a frightened ghost. he could hear the roar of the big six-wheel, and her driver's pound on the polished steel, and the screech of her flanges on the rail as she beat it west o'er the desert trail. the john got busy and took the risk, he climbed aboard and began to frisk, he reached up high and began to feel for the end-door pin--then he cracked the seal. 'twas a double-decked stock-car, filled with sheep, old john crawled in and went to sleep. she whistled twice and high-balled out,-- they were off, down the gila monster route. _l. f. post and glenn norton._ the call of the plains ho! wind of the far, far prairies! free as the waves of the sea! your voice is sweet as in alien street the cry of a friend to me! you bring me the breath of the prairies, known in the days that are sped, the wild geese's cry and the blue, blue sky and the sailing clouds o'er head! my eyes are weary with longing for a sight of the sage grass gray, for the dazzling light of a noontide bright and the joy of the open day! oh, to hear once more the clanking of the noisy cowboy's spur, and the south wind's kiss like a mild caress making the grasses stir. i dream of the wide, wide prairies touched with their glistening sheen, the coyotes' cry and the wind-swept sky and the waving billows of green! and oh, for a night in the open where no sound discordant mars, and the marvelous glow, when the sun is low, and the silence under the stars! ho, wind from the western prairies! ho, voice from a far domain! i feel in your breath what i'll feel till death, the call of the plains again! the call of the spirit of freedom to the spirit of freedom in me; my heart leaps high with a jubilant cry and i answer in ecstasy! _ethel macdiarmid._ where the grizzly dwells[ ] i admire the artificial art of the east; but i love more the inimitable art of the west, where nature's handiwork lies in virginal beauty. amidst the hum of city life i saunter back to dreams of home. astride the back of my trusty steed i wander away, losing myself in the foothills of the rockies. away from human habitations, up the rugged slopes, through the timbered stretches, i hear the frightful cry of wolves and see a bear sneaking up behind. many nights ago, while herding a bunch of cattle during the round-up season, i lay upon the grass looking at the mated stars; i wondered if a cowboy could go to the unknown place, the happy hunting ground, when this short life is over. but, here or there, i shall always live in the land of mountain air where the grizzly dwells and sage brush grows; where mountain trout are not a few; in the land of the bitterroot,-- the indian land,--land of the golden west. _james fox._ [ ] fox is a halfbreed indian who sent me a lot of verse. although he had never heard of walt whitman, these stanzas suggest that poet. the spelling and punctuation are mine. a cowboy toast here's to the passing cowboy, the plowman's pioneer; his home, the boundless mesa, he of any man the peer; around his wide sombrero was stretched the rattler's hide, his bridle sporting conchos, his lasso at his side. all day he roamed the prairies, at night he, with the stars, kept vigil o'er thousands held by neither posts nor bars; with never a diversion in all the lonesome land, but cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sage and sand. sometimes the hoot-owl hailed him, when scudding through the flat; and prairie dogs would sauce him, as at their doors they sat; the rattler hissed its warning when near its haunts he trod some texas steer pursuing o'er the pathless waste of sod. with lasso, quirt, and 'colter the cowboy knew his skill; they pass with him to history and naught their place can fill; while he, bold broncho rider, ne'er conned a lesson page,-- but cattle, cattle, cattle, and sun and sand and sage. and oh! the long night watches, with terror in the skies! when lightning played and mocked him till blinded were his eyes; when raged the storm around him, and fear was in his heart lest panic-stricken leaders might make the whole herd start. that meant a death for many, perhaps a wild stampede, when none could stem the fury of the cattle in the lead; ah, then life seemed so little and death so very near,-- with cattle, cattle, cattle, and darkness everywhere. then quaff with me a bumper of water, clear and pure, to the memory of the cowboy whose fame must e'er endure from the llano estacado to dakota's distant sands, where were herded countless thousands in the days of fenceless lands. let us rear for him an altar in the temple of the brave, and weave of texas grasses a garland for his grave; and offer him a guerdon for the work that he has done with cattle, cattle, cattle, and sage and sand and sun. _james barton adams._ ridin' up the rocky trail from town "billy leamont rode out of the town-- _close at his shoulder rode jack lorell--_ over the leagues of the prairies brown, into the hills where the sun goes down-- _billy leamont and jack lorell!_ * * * billy leamont looked down the dell-- _dead below; him lay jack lorell--_ with his gun at his forehead he fired and fell, then rode they two through the streets of hell-- _billy leamont and jack lorell!_" the ballad of billy leamont.[ ] we're the children of the open and we hate the haunts o' men, but we had to come to town to get the mail. and we're ridin' home at daybreak--'cause the air is cooler then-- all 'cept one of us that stopped behind in jail. shorty's nose won't bear paradin', bill's off eye is darkly fadin', all our toilets show a touch of disarray, for we found that city life is a constant round of strife and we aint the breed for shyin' from a fray. _chant your warhoops, pardners, dear, while the east turns pale with fear and the chaparral is tremblin' all aroun' for we're wicked to the marrer; we're a midnight dream of terror when we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_ we acquired our hasty temper from our friend, the centipede. from the rattlesnake we learnt to guard our rights. we have gathered fightin' pointers from the famous bronco steed and the bobcat teached us reppertee that bites. so when some high-collared herrin' jeered the garb that i was wearin' 'twasn't long till we had got where talkin' ends, and he et his ill-bred chat, with a sauce of derby hat, while my merry pardners entertained his friends. _sing 'er out, my buckeroos! let the desert hear the news. tell the stars the way we rubbed the haughty down. we're the fiercest wolves a-prowlin' and it's just our night for howlin' when we're ridin' up the rocky trail from town._ since the days that lot and abram split the jordan range in halves, just to fix it so their punchers wouldn't fight, since old jacob skinned his dad-in-law of six years' crop of calves and then hit the trail for canaan in the night, there has been a taste for battle 'mong the men that follow cattle and a love of doin' things that's wild and strange. and the warmth of laban's words when he missed his speckled herds still is useful in the language of the range. _sing 'er out, my bold coyotes! leather fists and leather throats, for we wear the brand of ishm'el like a crown. we're the sons o' desolation, we're the outlaws of creation-- ee-yow! a-ridin' up the rocky trail from town!_ [ ] this fragment is not included in mr. clark's poem. the disappointed tenderfoot he reached the west in a palace car where the writers tell us the cowboys are, with the redskin bold and the centipede and the rattlesnake and the loco weed. he looked around for the buckskin joes and the things he'd seen in the wild west shows-- the cowgirls gay and the bronchos wild and the painted face of the injun child. he listened close for the fierce war-whoop, and his pent-up spirits began to droop, and he wondered then if the hills and nooks held none of the sights of the story books. he'd hoped he would see the marshal pot some bold bad man with a pistol shot, and entered a low saloon by chance, where the tenderfoot is supposed to dance while the cowboy shoots at his bootheels there and the smoke of powder begrims the air, but all was quiet as if he'd strayed to that silent spot where the dead are laid. not even a faro game was seen, and none flaunted the long, long green. 'twas a blow for him who had come in quest of a touch of the real wild woolly west. he vainly sought for a bad cayuse and the swirl and swish of the flying noose, and the cowboy's yell as he roped a steer, but nothing of this fell on his ear. not even a wide-brimmed hat he spied, but derbies flourished on every side, and the spurs and the "chaps" and the flannel shirts, the high-heeled boots and the guns and the quirts, the cowboy saddles and silver bits and fancy bridles and swell outfits he'd read about in the novels grim, were not on hand for the likes of him. he peered about for a stagecoach old, and a miner-man with a bag of gold, and a burro train with its pack-loads which he'd read they tie with the diamond hitch. the rattler's whir and the coyote's wail ne'er sounded out as he hit the trail; and no one knew of a branding bee or a steer roundup that he longed to see. but the oldest settler named six-gun sim rolled a cigarette and remarked to him: "the west hez gone to the east, my son, and it's only in tents sich things is done." _e. a. brinninstool._ a cowboy alone with his conscience when i ride into the mountains on my little broncho bird, whar my ears are never pelted with the bawlin' o' the herd, an' a sort o' dreamy quiet hangs upon the western air, an' thar ain't no animation to be noticed anywhere; then i sort o' feel oneasy, git a notion in my head i'm the only livin' mortal--everybody else is dead-- an' i feel a queer sensation, rather skeery like, an' odd, when thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' god. every rabbit that i startle from its shaded restin' place, seems a furry shaft o' silence shootin' into noiseless space, an' a rattlesnake a crawlin' through the rocks so old an' gray helps along the ghostly feelin' in a rather startlin' way. every breeze that dares to whisper does it with a bated breath, every bush stands grim an' silent in a sort o' livin' death-- tell you what, a feller's feelin's give him many an icy prod, when thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' god. somehow allus git to thinkin' o' the error o' my ways, an' my memory goes wingin' back to childhood's happy days, when a mother, now a restin' in the grave so dark an' deep, used to listen while i'd whisper, "now i lay me down to sleep." then a sort o' guilty feelin' gits a surgin' in my breast, an' i wonder how i'll stack up at the final judgment test, conscience allus welts it to me with a mighty cuttin' rod, when thar ain't nobody near me, 'ceptin' god. take the very meanest sinner that the nation ever saw, one that don't respect religion more'n he respects the law, one that never does an action that's commendable or good, an' immerse him fur a season out in nature's solitude, an' the cog-wheels o' his conscience 'll be rattled out o' gear, more'n if he 'tended preachin' every sunday in the year, fur his sins 'ill come a ridin' through his cranium rough shod, when thar ain't nobody near him, 'ceptin' god. _james barton adams._ just a-ridin'! oh, for me a horse and saddle every day without a change; with the desert sun a-blazin' on a hundred miles o' range, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', desert ripplin' in the sun, mountains blue along the skyline,-- i don't envy anyone. when my feet are in the stirrups and my horse is on the bust; when his hoofs are flashin' lightnin' from a golden cloud o' dust; and the bawlin' of the cattle is a-comin' down the wind,-- oh, a finer life than ridin' would be mighty hard to find, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', splittin' long cracks in the air, stirrin' up a baby cyclone, rootin' up the prickly pear. i don't need no art exhibits when the sunset does his best, paintin' everlastin' glories on the mountains of the west. and your operas look foolish when the night bird starts his tune and the desert's silver-mounted by the kisses of the moon, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', i don't envy kings nor czars when the coyotes down the valley are a-singin' to the stars. when my earthly trail is ended and my final bacon curled, and the last great round up's finished at the home ranch of the world, i don't want no harps or haloes, robes or other dress-up things,-- let me ride the starry ranges on a pinto horse with wings, just a-ridin', just a-ridin', splittin' chunks o' wintry air, with your feet froze to your stirrups and a snowdrift in your hair. _(as sent by elwood adams, a colorado cowpuncher.) see "sun and saddle leather," by charles badger clark, jr._ the end of the trail soh, bossie, soh! the water's handy heah, the grass is plenty neah, an' all the stars a-sparkle bekaze we drive no mo'-- we drive no mo'. the long trail ends today,-- the long trail ends today, the punchers go to play and all you weary cattle may sleep in peace for sure,-- may sleep in peace for sure,-- sleep, sleep for sure. the moon can't bite you heah, nor punchers fright you heah. an' you-all will be beef befo' we need you any mo',-- we need you any mo'! _from pocock's "curley."_ the end printed in the united states of america +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | transcriber's notes: obvious spelling/typographical and | | punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison | | with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external | | sources. | | inconsistent spelling and inline hyphenation occurs across poems | | and songs and is retained. | | introduction: original shows "travelling" printed across a line | | break. | | page : "adios" appears once, "adiós" elsewhere. | | page : "good-bye" appears once, "goodbye" elsewhere. | | page : "sage-brush" appears once, "sagebrush" elsewhere. | | page : original illegible. "you" in the author's transcription | | of the song in john avery lomax, cowboy songs and other frontier | | ballads, , (macmillan ), | | http://www.archive.org/details/cowboysongsother lomarich | | (accessed march , ). | | page : "hang-man" hyphenation retained. | | page : "roundup" appears once, "round-up" elsewhere. | | | +---------------------------------------------------------------------+ generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as they appear in the original. with the exception of minor changes to format or punctuation, any changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. in this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the ascii and latin- character sets only are used. the following substitutions are made for other symbols in the text: [oe] and [oe] = oe-ligature (upper and lower case). [hand] = a right pointing hand symbol. other conventions used to represent the original text are as follows: italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. small caps typeface is represented by upper case. footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears. notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad and are indicated in the form [lnn] at line number nn. * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. volume iv. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. book iv. continued. contents of volume fourth. book iv. (continued.) page a. young beichan and susie pye b. young bekie a. hynd horn, [motherwell] b. hynd horn, [buchan] a. katharine janfarie b. catherine johnstone . bonny baby livingston . the broom of cowdenknows . johnie scot . brown adam a. lizie lindsay, [jamieson] b. lizzie lindsay, [whitelaw] . lizae baillie . glasgow peggy . glenlogie . john o'hazelgreen . the fause lover . the gardener . the duke of athol . the rantin' laddie . the duke of gordon's daughter . the laird o'logie . the gypsie laddie . laird of drum a. lady anne bothwell's lament, [ramsay] b. lady anne bothwell's lament, [percy] a. waly, waly, but love be bonny b. lord jamie douglas . the nutbrowne maide . the bailiff's daughter of islington . the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green . the famous flower of serving men . the fair flower of northumberland . gentle herdsman, tell to me . as i came from walsingham . king cophetua and the beggar maid . the spanish lady's love . patient grissel . the king of france's daughter . constance of cleveland . willow, willow, willow . greensleeves . robene and makyne appendix. lord beichan and susie pye sweet william young child dyring barbara livingston lang johnny moir lizie baillie johnnie faa and the countess o'cassilis jamie douglas laird of blackwood the provost's dochter blancheflour and jellyflorice chil ether young bearwell lord thomas of winesberry and the king's daughter lady elspat the lovers quarrel the merchant's daughter of bristow glossary young beichan and susie pye. an inspection of the first hundred lines of robert of gloucester's _life and martyrdom of thomas beket_, (edited for the percy society by w. h. black, vol. xix,) will leave no doubt that the hero of this ancient and beautiful tale is veritably gilbert becket, father of the renowned saint thomas of canterbury. robert of gloucester's story coincides in all essential particulars with the traditionary legend, but susie pye is, unfortunately, spoken of in the chronicle by no other name than the daughter of the saracen prince admiraud. we have thought it well to present the three best versions of so popular and interesting a ballad. the two which are given in the body of this work are jamieson's, from _popular ballads_, ii. , and ii. . in the appendix is kinloch's, from _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . other printed copies are _lord beichan_, in richardson's _borderer's table book_, vii. , communicated by j. h. dixon, who has inserted the same in _ancient poems, ballads, and songs_, percy society, vol. xvii. p. ; _lord bateman_, the common english broadside (at p. of the collection just cited); and _young bondwell_, published from buchan's ms. in _scottish traditionary versions of ancient ballads_, p. , (percy soc. vol. xvii.) identical, we suppose, with the copy referred to by motherwell in _scarce ancient ballads_, peterhead, . there is a well-known burlesque of the ordinary english ballad, called _the loving ballad of lord bateman_, with comical illustrations by cruikshank. on this was founded a burlesque drama, produced some years ago at the strand theatre, london, with great applause. "this ballad, and that which succeeds it in this collection, (both on the same subject,) are given from copies taken from mrs. brown's recitation, collated with two other copies procured from scotland, one in ms., another very good one printed for the stalls; a third, in the possession of the late reverend jonathan boucher of epsom, taken from recitation in the north of england; and a fourth, about one third as long as the others, which the editor picked off an old wall in piccadilly." jamieson's interpolations have been omitted. in london was young beichan born, he longed strange countries for to see; but he was taen by a savage moor, who handled him right cruellie; for he viewed the fashions of that land; their way of worship viewed he; but to mahound, or termagant, would beichan never bend a knee. so in every shoulder they've putten a bore; in every bore they've putten a tree; and they have made him trail the wine and spices on his fair bodie. they've casten him in a dungeon deep, where he could neither hear nor see; for seven years they kept him there, till he for hunger's like to die. this moor he had but ae daughter, her name was called susie pye; and every day as she took the air, near beichan's prison she passed by. o so it fell, upon a day she heard young beichan sadly sing; "my hounds they all go masterless; my hawks they flee from tree to tree; my younger brother will heir my land; fair england again i'll never see!" all night long no rest she got, young beichan's song for thinking on; she's stown the keys from her father's head, and to the prison strong is gone. and she has open'd the prison doors, i wot she open'd two or three, ere she could come young beichan at, he was locked up so curiouslie. but when she came young beichan before, sore wonder'd he that may to see; he took her for some fair captive;-- "fair lady, i pray, of what countrie?" "o have ye any lands," she said, "or castles in your own countrie, that ye could give to a lady fair, from prison strong to set you free?" "near london town i have a hall, with other castles two or three; i'll give them all to the lady fair that out of prison will set me free." "give me the truth of your right hand, the truth of it give unto me, that for seven years ye'll no lady wed, unless it be along with me." "i'll give thee the truth of my right hand, the truth of it i'll freely gie, that for seven years i'll stay unwed, for the kindness thou dost show to me." and she has brib'd the proud warder wi' mickle gold and white monie; she's gotten the keys of the prison strong, and she has set young beichan free. she's gi'en him to eat the good spice-cake, she's gi'en him to drink the blood-red wine; she's bidden him sometimes think on her, that sae kindly freed him out of pine. she's broken a ring from her finger, and to beichan half of it gave she: "keep it, to mind you of that love the lady bore that set you free. "and set your foot on good ship-board, and haste ye back to your own countrie; and before that seven years have an end, come back again, love, and marry me." but long ere seven years had an end, she long'd full sore her love to see; for ever a voice within her breast said, "beichan has broke his vow to thee." so she's set her foot on good ship-board, and turn'd her back on her own countrie. she sailed east, she sailed west, till to fair england's shore she came; where a bonny shepherd she espied, feeding his sheep upon the plain. "what news, what news, thou bonny shepherd? what news hast thou to tell to me?" "such news i hear, ladie," he says, "the like was never in this countrie. "there is a wedding in yonder hall, has lasted these thirty days and three; young beichan will not bed with his bride, for love of one that's yond the sea." she's put her hand in her pocket, gi'en him the gold and white monie; "hae, take ye that, my bonny boy, for the good news thou tell'st to me." when she came to young beichan's gate, she tirled softly at the pin; so ready was the proud porter to open and let this lady in. "is this young beichan's hall," she said, "or is that noble lord within?" "yea, he's in the hall among them all, and this is the day o' his weddin." "and has he wed anither love? and has he clean forgotten me?" and, sighin', said that gay ladie, "i wish i were in my own conntrie." and she has taen her gay gold ring, that with her love she brake so free; says, "gie him that, ye proud porter, and bid the bridegroom speak to me." when the porter came his lord before,[l ] he kneeled down low on his knee---- "what aileth thee, my proud porter, thou art so full of courtesie?" "i've been porter at your gates, it's thirty long years now and three; but there stands a lady at them now, the like o' her did i never see; "for on every finger she has a ring, and on her mid finger she has three; and as meickle gold aboon her brow as would buy an earldom to me." its out then spak the bride's mother, aye and an angry woman was shee; "ye might have excepted our bonny bride, and twa or three of our companie." "o hold your tongue, thou bride's mother; of all your folly let me be; she's ten times fairer nor the bride, and all that's in your companie. "she begs one sheave of your white bread, but and a cup of your red wine; and to remember the lady's love, that last reliev'd you out of pine." "o well-a-day!" said beichan then, "that i so soon have married thee! for it can be none but susie pye, that sailed the sea for love of me." and quickly hied he down the stair; of fifteen steps he made but three; he's ta'en his bonny love in his arms, and kist, and kist her tenderlie. "o hae ye ta'en anither bride? and hae ye quite forgotten me? and hae ye quite forgotten her, that gave you life and libertie?" she looked o'er her left shoulder, to hide the tears stood in her e'e: "now fare thee well, young beichan," she says, "i'll try to think no more on thee." "o never, never, susie pye, for surely this can never be; nor ever shall i wed but her that's done and dree'd so much for me." then out and spak the forenoon bride,-- "my lord, your love it changeth soon; this morning i was made your bride, and another chose ere it be noon." "o hold thy tongue, thou forenoon bride; ye're ne'er a whit the worse for me; and whan ye return to your own countrie, a double dower i'll send with thee." he's taen susie pye by the white hand, and gently led her up and down; and ay as he kist her red rosy lips, "ye're welcome, jewel, to your own." he's taen her by the milk-white hand, and led her to yon fountain stane; he's changed her name from susie pye, and he's call'd her his bonny love, lady jane. - . but when he came lord jockey before, he kneeled lowly on his knee: "what news, what news, thou tommy pots, thou art so full of courtesie?" _the lovers' quarrel_, v. - . young bekie. young bekie was as brave a knight as ever sail'd the sea; and he's doen him to the court o' france,[l ] to serve for meat and fee. he hadna been in the court o' france a twelvemonth nor sae lang, till he fell in love wi' the king's daughter, and was thrown in prison strang. the king he had but ae daughter, burd isbel was her name; and she has to the prison gane, to hear the prisoner's mane. "o gin a lady wad borrow me, at her stirrup i wad rin; or gin a widow wad borrow me, i wad swear to be her son. "or gin a virgin wad borrow me, i wad wed her wi' a ring; i'd gi'e her ha's, i'd gi'e her bowers, the bonny towers o' linne." o barefoot barefoot gaed she but, and barefoot cam she ben; it wasna for want o' hose and shoon, nor time to put them on; but a' for fear that her father had heard her makin' din; for she's stown the keys of the prison, and gane the dungeon within. and when she saw him, young bekie, wow, but her heart was sair! for the mice, but and the bald rattons, had eaten his yellow hair. she's gotten him a shaver for his beard, a comber till his hair; five hundred pound in his pocket, to spend, and nae to spare. she's gi'en him a steed was good in need, and a saddle o' royal bane; a leash o' hounds o' ae litter, and hector called ane. atween thir twa a vow was made, 'twas made full solemnlie, that or three years were come and gane, weel married they should be. he hadna been in's ain countrie a twelvemonth till an end, till he's forced to marry a duke's daughter, or than lose a' his land. "ochon, alas!" says young bekie, "i kenna what to dee; for i canna win to burd isbel, and she canna come to me." o it fell out upon a day burd isbel fell asleep, and up it starts the billy blin, and stood at her bed feet. "o waken, waken, burd isbel; how can ye sleep so soun'; when this is bekie's wedding day, and the marriage gaing on? "ye do ye till your mither's bower, as fast as ye can gang; and ye tak three o' your mother's marys, to haud ye unthocht lang. "ye dress yoursel i' the red scarlet, and your marys in dainty green; and ye put girdles about your middle wad buy an earldome. "syne ye gang down by yon sea-side, and down by yon sea-strand; and bonny will the hollans boats come rowin' till your hand. "ye set your milk-white foot on board, cry, 'hail ye, domine!' and i will be the steerer o't, to row you o'er the sea." she's ta'en her till her mither's bower, as fast as she could gang; and she's ta'en twa o' her mither's marys, to haud her unthocht lang. she's drest hersel i' the red scarlet, her marys i' the dainty green; and they've put girdles about their middle would buy an earldome. and they gaed down by yon sea-side, and down by yon sea-strand; and sae bonny as the hollans boats come rowin' till their hand. she set her milk-white foot on board, cried, "hail ye, domine!" and the billy blin was the steerer o't, to row her o'er the sea. whan she cam to young bekie's gate, she heard the music play; and her mind misgae by a' she heard, that 'twas his wedding day. she's pitten her hand in her pocket, gi'en the porter markis three; "hae, take ye that, ye proud porter, bid your master speake to me." o whan that he cam up the stair, he fell low down on his knee: he hail'd the king, and he hail'd the queen, and he hail'd him, young bekie. "o i have been porter at your gates this thirty years and three; but there are three ladies at them now, their like i did never see. "there's ane o' them drest in red scarlet, and twa in dainty green; and they hae girdles about their middles would buy an earldome." then out and spak the bierdly bride, "was a' goud to the chin; "gin she be fine without," she says, "we's be as fine within." then up it starts him, young bekie, and the tear was in his e'e: "i'll lay my life it's burd isbel, come o'er the sea to me." o quickly ran he down the stair; and whan he saw 'twas she, he kindly took her in his arms, and kist her tenderlie. "o hae ye forgotten now, young bekie, the vow ye made to me, when i took you out of prison strang, when ye was condemned to die? "i gae you a steed was good in need, and a saddle o' royal bane; a leash o' hounds o' ae litter; and hector called ane." it was weel kent what the lady said, that it was nae a lie; for at the first word the lady spak, the hound fell at her knee. "tak hame, tak hame your daughter dear; a blessing gang her wi'; for i maun marry my burd isbel, that's come o'er the sea to me." "is this the custome o' your house, or the fashion o' your land, to marry a maid in a may morning, send her back a maid at e'en?" . _court o' france._ "and first, here to omit the programe of him and his mother, named rose, whom polyd. virgilius falsely nameth to be a saracen, when indeed she came out of the parts bordering neere to _normandy_." fox, _acts and monuments_, cited by motherwell, p. xvi. hynd horn. those metrical romances, which in the chivalrous ages, constituted the most refined pastime of a rude nobility, are known in many cases to have been adapted for the entertainment of humbler hearers, by abridgment in the form of ballads. such was the case with the ancient _gest_ of _king horn_. preserved in several mss., both french and english, in something of its original proportions, an epitome of it has also descended to us through the mouths of the people. an imperfect copy of the following piece was inserted by cromek in his _select scottish songs_, (london, , vol. ii. p. - .) better editions have since been furnished by kinloch, _ancient scottish ballads_, p. ; motherwell, _minstrelsy_, p. ; and buchan, _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . of these, we reprint the last two. all the poems relating to horn, in french and english, including the scottish ballads above mentioned, are collected by michel in a beautiful volume of the bannatyne club, _horn et rimenhild_, paris, . from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . near edinburgh was a young child born, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and his name it was called young hynd horn, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. seven lang years he served the king, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and it's a' for the sake of his dochter jean, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. the king an angry man was he, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; he sent young hynd horn to the sea, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "o i never saw my love before, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; till i saw her thro' an augre bore, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "and she gave to me a gay gold ring, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; with three shining diamonds set therein, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "and i gave to her a silver wand, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; with three singing laverocks set thereon, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "what if those diamonds lose their hue, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; just when my love begins for to rew, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_?" "for when your ring turns pale and wan, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; then i'm in love with another man, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." he's left the land, and he's gone to the sea, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and he's stayed there seven years and a day, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. seven lang years he has been on the sea, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and hynd horn has looked how his ring may be, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. but when he looked this ring upon, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; the shining diamonds were both pale and wan, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. o the ring it was both black and blue, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and she's either dead, or she's married, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. he's left the seas, and he's come to the land, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and the first he met was an auld beggar man, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "what news, what news, my silly auld man? _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; for it's seven years since i have seen land, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "what news, what news, thou auld beggar man? _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; what news, what news, by sea or land? _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "no news at all," said the auld beggar man, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; "but there is a wedding in the king's hall, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "there is a king's dochter in the west, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and she has been married thir nine nights past, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "into the bride-bed she winna gang, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; till she hears tell of her ain hynd horn, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "wilt thou give to me thy begging coat? _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and i'll give to thee my scarlet cloak, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "wilt thou give to me thy begging staff? _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and i'll give to thee my good gray steed, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." the auld beggar man cast off his coat, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and he's ta'en up the scarlet cloak, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. the auld beggar man threw down his staff, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and he has mounted the good gray steed, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. the auld beggar man was bound for the mill, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; but young hynd horn for the king's hall, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. the auld beggar man was bound for to ride, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; but young hynd horn was bound for the bride, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. when he came to the king's gate, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; he asked a drink for young hynd horn's sake, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. these news unto the bonnie bride came, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; that at the yett there stands an auld man, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "there stands an auld man at the king's gate, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; he asketh a drink for young hynd horn's sake, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "i'll go through nine fires so hot, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; but i'll give him a drink for young hynd horn's sake, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." she went to the gate where the auld man did stand, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and she gave him a drink out of her own hand, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. she gave him a cup out of her own hand, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; he drunk out the drink, and dropt in the ring, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "got thou it by sea, or got thou it by land? _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; or got thou it off a dead man's hand? _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "i got it not by sea, but i got it by land, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; for i got it out of thine own hand, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "i'll cast off my gowns of brown, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and i'll follow thee from town to town, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "i'll cast off my gowns of red, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; and along with thee i'll beg my bread, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." "thou need not cast off thy gowns of brown, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; for i can make thee lady of many a town, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. "thou need not cast off thy gowns of red, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; for i can maintain thee with both wine and bread, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_." the bridegroom thought he had the bonnie bride wed, _with a hey lillelu and a how lo lan_; but young hynd horn took the bride to the bed, _and the birk and the brume blooms bonnie_. hynd horn. from buchan's ballads of the north of scotland, ii. . "hynd horn fair, and hynd horn free, o where were you born, in what countrie?" "in gude greenwood, there i was born, and all my forbears me beforn. "o seven years i served the king, and as for wages, i never gat nane; but ae sight o' his ae daughter, and that was thro' an augre bore. "my love gae me a siller wand, 'twas to rule ower a' scotland; and she gae me a gay gowd ring, the virtue o't was above a' thing." "as lang's this ring it keeps the hue, ye'll know i am a lover true; but when the ring turns pale and wan, ye'll know i love another man." he hoist up sails, and awa' sail'd he, and sail'd into a far countrie; and when he look'd upon his ring, he knew she loved another man. he hoist up sails and home came he, home unto his ain countrie; the first he met on his own land, it chanc'd to be a beggar man. "what news, what news, my gude auld man? what news, what news, hae ye to me?" "nae news, nae news," said the auld man, "the morn's our queen's wedding day." "will ye lend me your begging weed, and i'll lend you my riding steed?" "my begging weed will ill suit thee, and your riding steed will ill suit me." but part be right, and part be wrang, frae the beggar man the cloak he wan; "auld man, come tell to me your leed, what news ye gie when ye beg your bread." "as ye walk up unto the hill, your pike staff ye lend ye till; but whan ye come near by the yett, straight to them ye will upstep. "take nane frae peter, nor frae paul, nane frae high or low o' them all; and frae them all ye will take nane, until it comes frae the bride's ain hand." he took nane frae peter, nor frae paul, nane frae the high nor low o' them all; and frae them all he would take nane, until it came frae the bride's ain hand. the bride came tripping down the stair, the combs o' red gowd in her hair; a cup o' red wine in her hand, and that she gae to the beggar man. out o' the cup he drank the wine, and into the cup he dropt the ring; "o got ye't by sea, or got ye't by land, or got ye't on a drown'd man's hand?" "i got it not by sea, nor got it by land, nor got i it on a drown'd man's hand; but i got it at my wooing gay, and i'll gie't you on your wedding day." "i'll take the red gowd frae my head, and follow you, and beg my bread; i'll take the red gowd frae my hair, and follow you for evermair." atween the kitchen and the ha', he loot his cloutie cloak down fa'; and wi' red gowd shone ower them a', and frae the bridegroom the bride he sta'. katharine janfarie. a story similar to this occurs in various forms both in scotland and the scandinavian kingdoms. scott inserted the ballad in his first edition under the title of _the laird of laminton_; the present copy is an improved one obtained by him from several recitations. (_minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. .) other versions are motherwell's, printed with this, maidment's, in his _north countrie garland_, p. , (_catharine jaffery_), and buchan's, in his _gleanings_, p. , (_loch-in-var._) _sweet william_, in motherwell's collection, (see appendix,) is still another variety. jamieson has translated a danish ballad which, though not cognate with these, exhibits nearly the same incidents, and we have inserted it in the appendix. it need hardly be remarked that the spirited ballad of _lochinvar_ in _marmion_ is founded on this ancient legend. there was a may, and a weel-far'd may, lived high up in yon glen: her name was katharine janfarie, she was courted by mony men. up then came lord lauderdale, up frae the lawland border; and he has come to court this may, a' mounted in good order. he told na her father, he told na her mother, and he told na ane o' her kin; but he whisper'd the bonnie lassie hersell, and has her favour won. but out then cam lord lochinvar, out frae the english border, all for to court this bonny may, weel mounted, and in order. he told her father, he told her mother, and a' the lave o' her kin; but he told na the bonnie may hersell, till on her wedding e'en. she sent to the lord o' lauderdale, gin he wad come and see; and he has sent word back again, weel answer'd she suld be. and he has sent a messenger, right quickly through the land, and raised mony an armed man to be at his command. the bride looked out at a high window, beheld baith dale and down, and she was aware of her first true love, with riders mony a one. she scoffed him, and scorned him, upon her wedding day; and said--it was the fairy court, to see him in array! "o come ye here to fight, young lord, or come ye here to play, or come ye here to drink good wine upon the wedding day?" "i come na here to fight," he said, "i come na here to play; i'll but lead a dance wi' the bonny bride, and mount, and go my way." it is a glass of the blood-red wine was filled up them between, and aye she drank to lauderdale, wha her true love had been. he's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass-green sleeve; he's mounted her hie behind himsell, at her kinsmen speir'd na leave. "now take your bride, lord lochinvar, now take her, if you may! but if you take your bride again, we'll call it but foul play." there were four-and-twenty bonnie boys, a' clad in the johnstone grey; they said they would take the bride again, by the strong hand, if they may. some o' them were right willing men, but they were na willing a'; and four-and-twenty leader lads bid them mount and ride awa'. then whingers flew frae gentles' sides, and swords flew frae the shea's, and red and rosy was the blood ran down the lily braes. the blood ran down by caddon bank, and down by caddon brae; and, sighing, said the bonnie bride, "o wae's me for foul play!" my blessing on your heart, sweet thing, wae to your wilfu' will! there's mony a gallant gentleman whae's bluid ye have garr'd to spill. now a' you lords of fair england, and that dwell by the english border, come never here to seek a wife, for fear of sic disorder. they'll haik ye up, and settle ye bye, till on your wedding day, then gie ye frogs instead of fish, and play ye foul foul play. catherine johnstone. obtained from recitation, in the west of scotland. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . there was a lass, as i heard say, liv'd low doun in a glen; her name was catherine johnstone, weel known to many men. doun came the laird o' lamington, doun from the south countrie; and he is for this bonnie lass, her bridegroom for to be. he's ask'd her father and mother, the chief of a' her kin; and then he ask'd the bonnie lass, and did her favour win. doun came an english gentleman, doun from the english border; he is for this bonnie lass, to keep his house in order. he ask'd her father and mother, as i do hear them say; but he never ask'd the lass hersell, till on her wedding day. but she has wrote a long letter, and sealed it with her hand; and sent it to lord lamington, to let him understand. the first line o' the letter he read, he was baith glad and fain; but or he read the letter o'er, he was baith pale and wan. then he has sent a messenger, and out through all his land; and four-and-twenty armed men was all at his command. but he has left his merry men all, left them on the lee; and he's awa to the wedding house, to see what he could see. but when he came to the wedding house, as i do understand, there were four-and-twenty belted knights sat at a table round. they rose all to honour him, for he was of high renown; they rose all for to welcome him, and bade him to sit down. o meikle was the good red wine in silver cups did flow; but aye she drank to lamington, for with him would she go. o meikle was the good red wine in silver cups gaed round; at length they began to whisper words, none could them understand. "o came ye here for sport, young man, or came ye here for play? or came ye for our bonnie bride, on this her wedding day?" "i came not here for sport," he said, "neither did i for play; but for one word o' your bonnie bride, i'll mount and go away." they set her maids behind her, to hear what they would say; but the first question he ask'd at her was always answered nay; the next question he ask'd at her was, "mount and come away?" it's up the couden bank, and doun the couden brae; and aye she made the trumpet sound, it's a weel won play. o meikle was the blood was shed upon the couden brae; and aye she made the trumpet sound, it's a' fair play. come, a' ye english gentlemen, that is of england born, come na doun to scotland, for fear ye get the scorn. they'll feed ye up wi' flattering words, and that's foul play; and they'll dress you frogs instead of fish, just on your wedding day. bonny baby livingston. jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. , from mrs. brown's recitation. _barbara livingston_, a shorter piece, with a different catastrophe, is given in the appendix, from motherwell's collection. o bonny baby livingstone gaed out to view the hay; and by it cam him glenlyon, staw bonny baby away. and first he's taen her silken coat, and neist her satten gown; syne row'd her in his tartan plaid, and happ'd her round and roun'. he's mounted her upon a steed, and roundly rade away; and ne'er loot her look back again the lee-lang simmer day. he's carried her o'er yon hich hich hill, intill a highland glen, and there he met his brother john wi' twenty armed men. and there were cows, and there were ewes, and there were kids sae fair; but sad and wae was bonny baby, her heart was fu' o' care. he's taen her in his arms twa, and kist her cheek and chin; "i wad gi'e a' my flocks and herds, ae smile frae thee to win." "a smile frae me ye'se never win; i'll ne'er look kind on thee; ye've stown me awa frae a' my kin, frae a' that's dear to me. "dundee, kind sir, dundee, kind sir, tak me to bonny dundee; for ye sall ne'er my favour win till it ance mair i see." "dundee, baby! dundee, baby! dundee ye ne'er shall see; but i will carry you to glenlyon, where you my bride shall be. "or will ye stay at achingour, and eat sweet milk and cheese; or gang wi' me to glenlyon, and there we'll live at our ease?" "i winna stay at achingour; i care neither for milk nor cheese; nor gang wi' thee to glenlyon; for there i'll ne'er find ease." then out it spak his brother john; "if i were in your place, i'd send that lady hame again, for a' her bonny face. "commend me to the lass that's kind, though nae sae gently born; and, gin her heart i coudna win, to take her hand i'd scorn." "o haud your tongue, my brother john; ye wisna what ye say; for i hae lued that bonny face this mony a year and day. "i've lued her lang, and lued her weel, but her love i ne'er could win; and what i canna fairly gain, to steal i think nae sin." whan they cam to glenlyon castle, they lighted at the yett; and out they cam, his three sisters, their brother for to greet. and they have taen her, bonny baby, and led her o'er the green; and ilka lady spak a word, but bonny baby spake nane. then out it spak her, bonny jane, the youngest o' the three: "o lady, why look ye sae sad? come tell your grief to me." "o wharefore should i tell my grief, since lax i canna find? i'm far frae a' my kin and friends, and my love i left behind. "but had i paper, pen, and ink, afore that it were day, i yet might get a letter wrate, and sent to johnie hay. "and gin i had a bonny boy, to help me in my need, that he might rin to bonny dundee, and come again wi' speed!" and they hae gotten a bonny boy their errand for to gang; and bade him run to bonny dundee, and nae to tarry lang. the boy he ran o'er muir and dale, as fast as he could flee; and e'er the sun was twa hours hight, the boy was at dundee. whan johnie lookit the letter on, a hearty laugh leuch he; but ere he read it till an end, the tear blinded his e'e. "o wha is this, or wha is that, has stown my love frae me? although he were my ae brither, an ill dead sall he die. "gae, saddle to me the black," he says; "gae, saddle to me the brown; gae, saddle to me the swiftest steed, that ever rade frae the town." he's call'd upon his merry men a', to follow him to the glen; and he's vow'd he'd neither eat nor sleep till he got his love again. he's mounted him on a milk-white steed, and fast he rade away; and he's come to glenlyon's yett, about the close o' day. as baby at her window stood, and the west-wind saft did blaw, she heard her johnie's well-kent voice aneath the castle wa'. "o baby, haste, the window loup; i'll kep you in my arm; my merry men a' are at the yett to rescue you frae harm." she to the window fix'd her sheets, and slipped safely down; and johnie catched her in his arms, ne'er loot her touch the groun'. glenlyon and his brother john were birling in the ha', when they heard johnie's bridle ring as fast he rade awa'. "rise, jock; gang out and meet the priest; i hear his bridle ring; my baby now shall be my wife, before the laverock sing." "o brother, this is nae the priest; i fear he'll come o'er late; for armed men wi' shining brands stand at the castle yett." "haste, donald, duncan, dugald, hugh, haste, tak your sword and spear; we'll gar these traytors rue the hour that e'er they ventured here." the highlandmen drew their claymores, and gae a warlike shout; but johnie's merry men kept the yett, nae ane durst venture out. the lovers rade the lee-lang night, and safe got on their way; and bonny baby livingstone has gotten johny hay. "awa, glenlyon! fy for shame! gae hide you in some den; you've latten your bride be stown frae you, for a' your armed men." the broom of cowdenknows. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . for other versions, see _bonny may_, herd's _scottish songs_, i. , and johnson's _museum_, p. ; _broom o' the cowdenknowes_, buchan, i. ; _laird of ochiltree_, kinloch, ; _laird of lochnie_, kinloch, . o the broom, and the bonny bonny broom, and the broom of the cowdenknows! and aye sae sweet as the lassie sang, i' the bought, milking the ewes. the hills were high on ilka side, an' the bought i' the lirk o' the hill, and aye, as she sang, her voice it rang, out o'er the head o' yon hill. there was a troup o' gentlemen came riding merrilie by, and one of them has rode out o' the way, to the bought to the bonny may. "weel may ye save an' see, bonny lass, an' weel may ye save an' see."-- "an' sae wi' you, ye weel-bred knight, and what's your will wi' me?"-- "the night is misty and mirk, fair may, and i have ridden astray, and will you be so kind, fair may, as come out and point my way?"-- "ride out, ride out, ye ramp rider! your steed's baith stout and strang; for out of the bought i dare na come, for fear 'at ye do me wrang."-- "o winna ye pity me, bonny lass, o winna ye pity me? an' winna ye pity my poor steed, stands trembling at yon tree?"-- "i wadna pity your poor steed, though it were tied to a thorn; for if ye wad gain my love the night, ye wad slight me ere the morn. "for i ken you by your weel-busket hat, and your merrie twinkling ee, that ye're the laird o' the oakland hills, an' ye may weel seem for to be."-- "but i am not the laird o' the oakland hills, ye're far mista'en o' me; but i'm ane o' the men about his house, an' right aft in his companie."-- he's ta'en her by the middle jimp, and by the grass-green sleeve; he's lifted her over the fauld-dyke, and speer'd at her sma' leave. o he's ta'en out a purse o' gowd, and streek'd her yellow hair; "now, take ye that, my bonny may, of me till you hear mair."-- o he's leapt on his berry-brown steed, an' soon he's o'erta'en his men; and ane and a' cried out to him, "o master, ye've tarry'd lang!"-- "o i hae been east, and i hae been west, an' i hae been far o'er the knowes, but the bonniest lass that ever i saw is i' the bought, milking the ewes."-- she set the cog upon her head, an' she's gane singing hame; "o where hae ye been, my ae daughter? ye hae na been your lane."-- "o naebody was wi' me, father, o naebody has been wi' me; the night is misty and mirk, father, yee may gang to the door and see. "but wae be to your ewe-herd, father, and an ill deed may he die; he bug the bought at the back o' the knowe, and a tod has frighted me. "there came a tod to the bought door, the like i never saw; and ere he had ta'en the lamb he did, i had lourd he had ta'en them a'."-- o whan fifteen weeks was come and gane, fifteen weeks and three, that lassie began to look thin and pale, an' to long for his merry-twinkling ee. it fell on a day, on a het simmer day, she was ca'ing out her father's kye, bye came a troop o' gentlemen, a' merrilie riding bye. "weel may ye save an' see, bonny may, weel may ye save and see! weel i wat, ye be a very bonny may, but whae's aught that babe ye are wi'?"-- never a word could that lassie say, for never a ane could she blame, an' never a word could the lassie say, but "i have a gudeman at hame."-- "ye lied, ye lied, my very bonny may, sae loud as i hear you lie; for dinna ye mind that misty night i was i' the bought wi' thee? "i ken you by your middle sae jimp, an' your merry-twinkling ee, that ye're the bonny lass i' the cowdenknow, an' ye may weel seem for to be."-- then he's leapt off his berry-brown steed, an' he's set that fair may on-- "ca' out your kye, gude father, yoursell, for she's never ca' them out again. "i am the laird of the oakland hills, i hae thirty plows and three; an' i hae gotten the bonniest lass that's in a' the south countrie." johnie scot. the edition of this ballad here printed was prepared by motherwell from three copies obtained from recitation, (_minstrelsy_, p. .) other versions have been published in kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. , buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. , and his _gleanings_, p. . the proper names which occur in the course of the piece vary considerably in the different copies. in two of motherwell's, the hero's designation was johnie scot, in a third, johnie m'nauchton. in one of buchan's he is styled love john, in the other, lang johnny moir. in kinloch's copy, "buneftan is his name," and he is also called "jack that little scot," which seems to have been the title of the ballad in an unpublished collection quoted by ritson in his _dissertation on scottish song_, p. lxxxi. in like manner, for the king of aulsberry, (v. ,) we have the various readings, duke of marlborough, duke of mulberry, duke of york, and duke of winesberrie, and in the following verse, james the scottish king, for the king of spain. the following passage, illustrative of the feat of arms accomplished by johnie scot, was pointed out to motherwell by mr. sharpe:--james macgill, of lindores, having killed sir robert balfour, of denmiln, in a duel, "immediately went up to london in order to procure his pardon, which, it seems, the king (charles the second) offered to grant him, upon condition of his fighting an italian gladiator, or bravo, or, as he was called, a bully, which, it is said, none could be found to do. accordingly, a large stage was erected for the exhibition before the king and court. sir james, it is said, stood on the defensive till the bully had spent himself a little; being a taller man than sir james, in his mighty gasconading and bravadoing, he actually leapt over the knight as if he would swallow him alive; but, in attempting to do this a second time, sir james ran his sword up through him, and then called out, 'i have spitted him, let them roast him who will.' this not only procured his pardon, but he was also knighted on the spot."--small's _account of roman antiquities recently discovered in fife_, p. . from buchan's _lang johnny moir_, printed in the appendix, it will be seen that the title of little scot is not to be taken literally, but that the doughty champion was a man of huge stature. o johnie scot 's to the hunting gane, unto the woods sae wild; and earl percy's ae daughter to him goes big wi' child. o word is to the kitchen gane, and word is to the ha', and word is to the highest towers, among the nobles a'. "if she be wi' child," her father said, "as woe forbid it be! i'll put her into a prison strang, and try the veritie." "but if she be wi' child," her mother said, "as woe forbid it be! i'll put her intill a dungeon dark, and hunger her till she die." o johnie 's called his waiting man, his name was germanie: "it 's thou must to fair england gae, bring me that gay ladie. "and here it is a silken sark, her ain hand sewed the sleeve; bid her come to the merry green wood, to johnie her true love." he rode till he came to earl percy's gate, he tirled at the pin: "o wha is there?" said the proud porter; "but i daurna let thee in." it's he rode up, and he rode down, he rode the castle about, until he spied a fair ladie at a window looking out. "here is a silken sark," he said, "thy ain hand sewed the sleeve; and ye must gae to the merry green woods, to johnie scot thy love." "the castle it is high, my boy, and walled round about; my feet are in the fetters strong, and how can i get out? "my garters are o' the gude black iron, and o but they be cold; my breast-plate's o' the sturdy steel, instead of beaten gold. "but had i paper, pen, and ink, wi' candle at my command, it's i would write a lang letter to john in fair scotland." then she has written a braid letter, and sealed it wi' her hand, and sent it to the merry green wood, wi' her own boy at command. the first line of the letter johnie read, a loud, loud lauch leuch he; but he had not read ae line but twa, till the saut tears did blind his ee. "o i must up to england go, whatever me betide, for to relieve mine own fair ladie, that lay last by my side." then up and spak johnie's auld mither, a weel spoke woman was she: "if you do go to england, johnie, i may take fareweel o' thee." and out and spak his father then, and he spak well in time: "if thou unto fair england go, i fear ye'll ne'er come hame." but out and spak his uncle then, and he spak bitterlie: "five hundred of my good life-guards shall bear him companie." when they were all on saddle set, they were comely to behold; the hair that hung owre johnie's neck shined like the links o' yellow gold. when they were all marching away, most pleasant for to see, there was not so much as a married man in johnie's companie. johnie scot himsell was the foremost man in the company that did ride; his uncle was the second man, wi' his rapier by his side. the first gude town that johnie came to, he made the bells be rung; and when he rode the town all owre, he made the psalms be sung. the next gude town that johnie came to, he made the drums beat round; and the third gude town that he came to, he made the trumpets sound, till king henry and all his merry men a-marvelled at the sound. and when they came to earl percy's yates, they rode them round about; and who saw he but his own true love at a window looking out? "o the doors are bolted with iron and steel, so are the windows about; and my feet they are in fetters strong; and how can i get out? "my garters they are of the lead, and o but they be cold; my breast-plate's of the hard, hard steel, instead of beaten gold." but when they came to earl percy's yett, they tirled at the pin; none was so ready as earl percy himsell to open and let them in. "art thou the king of aulsberry, or art thou the king of spain? or art thou one of our gay scots lords, m'nachton be thy name?" "i'm not the king of aulsberry, nor yet the king of spain; but am one of our gay scots lords, johnie scot i am called by name." when johnie came before the king, he fell low down on his knee: "if johnie scot be thy name," he said, "as i trew weel it be, then the brawest lady in a' my court gaes big wi' child to thee." "if she be with child," fair johnie said, "as i trew weel she be, i'll make it heir owre a' my land, and her my gay ladie." "but if she be wi' child," her father said, "as i trew weel she be, to-morrow again eight o'clock, high hanged thou shalt be." out and spoke johnie's uncle then, and he spak bitterlie: "before that we see fair johnie hanged, we'll a' fight till we die." "but is there ever an italian about your court,[l ] that will fight duels three? for before that i be hanged," johnie said, "on the italian's sword i'll die." "say on, say on," said then the king, "it is weel spoken of thee; for there is an italian in my court shall fight you three by three." o some is to the good green wood, and some is to the plain, the queen with all her ladies fair, the king with his merry men, either to see fair johnie flee, or else to see him slain. they fought on, and johnie fought on, wi' swords o' temper'd steel, until the draps o' red, red blood ran trinkling down the field. they fought on, and johnie fought on, they fought right manfullie; till they left not alive, in a' the king's court, a man only but three. and they begoud at eight of the morn, and they fought on till three; when the italian, like a swallow swift,[l ] owre johnie's head did flee: but johnie being a clever young boy, he wheeled him round about; and on the point of johnie's broad-sword, the italian he slew out. "a priest, a priest," fair johnie cried, "to wed my love and me;" "a clerk, a clerk," her father cried, "to sum her tocher free." "i'll hae none of your gold," fair johnie cried, "nor none of your other gear; but i will have my own fair bride, for this day i've won her dear." he's ta'en his true love by the hand, he led her up the plain: "have you any more of your english dogs you want for to have slain?" he put a little horn to his mouth, he blew 't baith loud and shill; and honour is into scotland gone, in spite of england's skill. he put his little horn to his mouth, he blew it owre again; and aye the sound the horn cryed was "johnie and his men!" , , , taillant. , taillant. brown adam. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "there is a copy of this ballad in mrs. brown's collection. the editor has seen one, printed on a single sheet. the epithet, "smith," implies, probably, the sirname, not the profession, of the hero, who seems to have been an outlaw. there is, however, in mrs. brown's copy, a verse of little merit, here omitted, alluding to the implements of that occupation." scott. o wha wad wish the wind to blaw, or the green leaves fa' therewith? or wha wad wish a lealer love than brown adam the smith? but they hae banished him, brown adam, frae father and frae mother; and they hae banish'd him, brown adam, frae sister and frae brother. and they hae banish'd him, brown adam, the flower o' a' his kin; and he's bigged a bour in gude green-wood atween his ladye and him. it fell upon a summer's day, brown adam he thought lang; and, for to hunt some venison, to green-wood he wald gang. he has ta'en his bow his arm o'er, his bolts and arrows lang; and he is to the gude green-wood as fast as he could gang. o he's shot up, and he's shot down, the bird upon the brier; and he sent it hame to his ladye, bade her be of gude cheir. o he's shot up, and he's shot down, the bird upon the thorn; and sent it hame to his ladye, said he'd be hame the morn. when he cam to his lady's bour door he stude a little forbye, and there he heard a fou fause knight tempting his gay ladye. for he's ta'en out a gay goud ring, had cost him many a poun', "o grant me love for love, ladye, and this sall be thy own."-- "i lo'e brown adam weel," she said; "i trew sae does he me; i wadna gie brown adam's love for nae fause knight i see."-- out has he ta'en a purse o' gowd, was a' fou to the string, "o grant me love for love, ladye, and a' this sall be thine."-- "i lo'e brown adam weel," she says; "i wot sae does he me: i wadna be your light leman, for mair than ye could gie."-- then out he drew his lang bright brand, and flash'd it in her een; "now grant me love for love, ladye, or thro' ye this sall gang!"-- then, sighing, says that ladye fair, "brown adam tarries lang!"-- then in and starts him brown adam, says--"i'm just at your hand."-- he's gar'd him leave his bonny bow, he's gar'd him leave his brand, he's gar'd him leave a dearer pledge-- four fingers o' his right hand. lizie lindsay. complete copies of this pretty ballad are given in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , and in whitelaw's _book of scottish ballads_, p. . the latter we have printed with the present version, which, though lacking a stanza or two, is better in some respects than either of the others.--robert allan has made a song out of this ballad, smith's _scottish minstrel_, ii. . "transmitted to the editor by professor scott of aberdeen, as it was taken down from the recitation of an old woman. it is very popular in the north-east of scotland, and was familiar to the editor in his early youth; and from the imperfect recollection which he still retains of it, he has corrected the text in two or three unimportant passages." jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. . "will ye go to the highlands, lizie lindsay, will ye go to the highlands wi' me? will ye go to the highlands, lizie lindsay, and dine on fresh cruds and green whey?" then out spak lizie's mother, a good old lady was she, "gin ye say sic a word to my daughter, i'll gar ye be hanged high." "keep weel your daughter frae me, madam; keep weel your daughter frae me; i care as little for your daughter, as ye can care for me." then out spak lizie's ain maiden, a bonny young lassie was she; says,--"were i the heir to a kingdom, awa' wi' young donald i'd be." "o say you sae to me, nelly? and does my nelly say sae? maun i leave my father and mother, awa' wi' young donald to gae?" and lizie's ta'en till her her stockings, and lizie's ta'en till her her shoen; and kilted up her green claithing, and awa' wi' young donald she's gane. the road it was lang and weary; the braes they were ill to climb; bonny lizie was weary wi' travelling, and a fit furder coudna win. and sair, o sair did she sigh, and the saut tear blin'd her e'e; "gin this be the pleasures o' looing, they never will do wi' me!" "now, haud your tongue, bonny lizie; ye never shall rue for me; gi'e me but your love for my love, it is a' that your tocher will be. "and haud your tongue, bonny lizie; altho' that the gait seem lang, and you's ha'e the wale o' good living whan to kincawsen we gang. "there my father he is an auld cobler, my mother she is an auld dey; and we'll sleep on a bed o' green rashes, and dine on fresh cruds and green whey." "you're welcome hame, sir donald, you're welcome hame to me." "o ca' me nae mair sir donald; there's a bonny young lady to come; sae ca' me nae mair sir donald, but ae spring donald your son." "ye're welcome hame, young donald; ye're welcome hame to me; ye're welcome hame, young donald, and your bonny young lady wi' ye." she's made them a bed of green rashes, weel cover'd wi' hooding o' grey; bonny lizie was weary wi' travelling, and lay till 'twas lang o' the day. "the sun looks in o'er the hill-head, and the laverock is liltin' gay; get up, get up, bonny lizie, you've lain till its lang o' the day. "you might ha'e been out at the shealin, instead o' sae lang to lye, and up and helping my mother to milk baith her gaits and kye." then out spak lizie lindsay, the tear blindit her eye; "the ladies o' edinburgh city they neither milk gaits nor kye." then up spak young sir donald, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "for i am the laird o' kincawsyn, and you are the lady free; and * * * * * * * * * * * lizzie lindsay. "this version of _lizzie lindsay_ is given from the recitation of a lady in glasgow, and is a faithful transcript of the ballad as it used to be sung in the west of scotland." whitelaw's _book of scottish ballads_, p. .--a very good copy, from mr. kinloch's ms., is printed in aytoun's _ballads of scotland_, i. , (_donald of the isles_.) there was a braw ball in edinburgh and mony braw ladies were there, but nae ane at a' the assembly could wi' lizzie lindsay compare. in cam' the young laird o' kincassie, an' a bonnie young laddie was he-- "will ye lea' yere ain kintra, lizzie, an' gang to the hielands wi' me?" she turned her roun' on her heel, an' a very loud laughter gaed she-- "i wad like to ken whar i was ganging, and wha i was gaun to gang wi'." "my name is young donald m'donald, my name i will never deny; my father he is an auld shepherd, sae weel as he can herd the kye! "my father he is an auld shepherd, my mother she is an auld dame; if ye'll gang to the hielands, bonnie lizzie, ye's neither want curds nor cream." "if ye'll call at the canongate port, at the canongate port call on me, i'll give you a bottle o' sherry, and bear you companie." he ca'd at the canongate port, at the canongate port called he; she drank wi' him a bottle o' sherry, and bore him guid companie. "will ye go to the hielands, bonnie lizzie, will ye go to the hielands wi' me? if ye'll go to the hielands, bonnie lizzie, ye shall not want curds nor green whey." in there cam' her auld mither, a jolly auld lady was she-- "i wad like to ken whar she was ganging, and wha she was gaun to gang wi'." "my name is young donald m'donald, my name i will never deny, my father he is an auld shepherd, sae weel as he can herd the kye! "o but i would give you ten guineas, to have her one hour in a room, to get her fair body a picture to keep me from thinking long." "o i value not your ten guineas, as little as you value mine; but if that you covet my daughter, take her with you, if you do incline." "pack up my silks and my satins, and pack up my hose and my shoon, and likewise my clothes in small bundles, and away wi' young donald i'll gang." they pack'd up her silks and her satins, they pack'd up her hose and her shoon, and likewise her clothes in small bundles, and away with young donald she's gane. when that they cam' to the hielands, the braes they were baith lang and stey; bonnie lizzie was wearied wi' ganging-- she had travell'd a lang summer day. "o are we near hame, sir donald, o are we near hame, i pray?" "we're no near hame, bonnie lizzie, nor yet the half o' the way." they cam' to a homely poor cottage, an auld man was standing by; "ye're welcome hame, sir donald, ye've been sae lang away." "o call me no more sir donald, but call me young donald your son; for i have a bonnie young lady behind me for to come in." "come in, come in, bonnie lizzie, come in, come in," said he, "although that our cottage be little, perhaps the better we'll 'gree. "o make us a supper, dear mother, and make it of curds an' green whey; and make us a bed o' green rushes, and cover it o'er wi' green hay." "rise up, rise up, bonnie lizzie, why lie ye so long in the day; ye might ha'e been helping my mother to make the curds and green whey." "o haud your tongue, sir donald, o haud your tongue i pray; i wish i had ne'er left my mother, i can neither make curds nor whey." "rise up, rise up, bonnie lizzie, and put on your satins so fine; for we maun to be at kincassie before that the clock strikes nine." but when they came to kincassie the porter was standing by;-- "ye're welcome home, sir donald, ye've been so long away." it's down then came his auld mither, with all the keys in her hand, saying, "take you these, bonnie lizzie, all under them's at your command." lizae baillie. from herd's _scottish songs_, ii. . a longer version, from buchan's larger collection, is in the appendix. mr. chambers, assuming that the foregoing ballad of _lizie lindsay_ was originally the same as _lizie baillie_, has made out of various copies of both one story in two parts: _the scottish ballads_, p. . smith has somewhat altered the language of this ballad: _scottish minstrel_, iv. . lizae baillie's to gartartan gane, to see her sister jean; and there she's met wi' duncan græme, and he's convoy'd her hame. "my bonny lizae baillie, i'll row ye in my plaidie, and ye maun gang alang wi' me, and be a highland lady." "i'm sure they wadna ca' me wise, gin i wad gang wi' you, sir; for i can neither card nor spin, nor yet milk ewe or cow, sir." "my bonny lizae baillie, let nane o' these things daunt ye; ye'll hae nae need to card or spin, your mither weel can want ye." now she's cast aff her bonny shoen, made o' the gilded leather, and she's put on her highland brogues, to skip amang the heather: and she's cast aff her bonny gown, made o' the silk and sattin, and she's put on a tartan plaid, to row amang the braken. she wadna hae a lawland laird, nor be an english lady; but she wad gang wi' duncan græme, and row her in his plaidie. she was nae ten miles frae the town, when she began to weary; she aften looked back, and said, "farewell to castlecarry. "the first place i saw my duncan græme, was near yon holland bush; my father took frae me my rings, my rings but and my purse. "but i wadna gie my duncan græme for a' my father's land, though it were ten times ten times mair, and a' at my command." * * * * * * * * * now wae be to you, loggerheads, that dwell near castlecarry, to let awa' sic a bonny lass, a highlandman to marry. glasgow peggy. from recitation, in kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . other copies are printed in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , (_donald of the isles_,) sharpe's _ballad book_, p. , (and chambers's _popular rhymes_, p. ,) smith's _scottish minstrel_, iv. . the lawland lads think they are fine, but the hieland lads are brisk and gaucy; and they are awa near glasgow toun, to steal awa a bonnie lassie. "i wad gie my gude brown steed, and sae wad i my gude grey naigie, that i war fifty miles frae the toun, and nane wi' me but my bonnie peggy." but up then spak the auld gudman, and vow but he spak wondrous saucie;-- "ye may steal awa our cows and ewes, but ye sanna get our bonnie lassie." "i have got cows and ewes anew, i've got gowd and gear already; sae i dinna want your cows nor ewes, but i will hae your bonnie peggy." "i'll follow you oure moss and muir, i'll follow you oure mountains many, i'll follow you through frost and snaw, i'll stay na langer wi' my daddie." he set her on a gude brown steed, himself upon a gude grey naigie; they're oure hills, and oure dales, and he's awa wi' his bonnie peggy. as they rade out by glasgow toun, and doun by the hills o' achildounie, there they met the earl of hume, and his auld son, riding bonnie. out bespak the earl of hume, and o but he spak wondrous sorry,-- "the bonniest lass about a' glasgow toun, this day is awa wi' a hieland laddie." as they rade bye auld drymen toun, the lassies leuch and lookit saucy, that the bonniest lass they ever saw, sud be riding awa wi' a hieland laddie. they rode on through moss and muir, and so did they owre mountains many, until they cam to yonder glen, and she's lain doun wi' her hieland laddie. gude green hay was peggy's bed, and brakens war her blankets bonnie; wi' his tartan plaid aneath her head, and she's lain doun wi' her hieland laddie. "there's beds and bowsters in my father's house, there's sheets and blankets, and a' thing ready, and wadna they be angry wi' me, to see me lie sae wi' a hieland laddie." "tho' there's beds and beddin in your father's house, sheets and blankets and a' made ready, yet why sud they be angry wi' thee, though i be but a hieland laddie? "it's i hae fifty acres of land, it's a' plow'd and sawn already; i am donald the lord of skye, and why sud na peggy be call'd a lady? "i hae fifty gude milk kye, a' tied to the staws already; i am donald the lord of skye, and why sud na peggy be call'd a lady! "see ye no a' yon castles and tow'rs? the sun sheens owre them a sae bonnie; i am donald the lord of skye, i think i'll mak ye as blythe as onie. "a' that peggy left behind was a cot-house and a wee kail-yardie; now i think she is better by far, than tho' she had got a lawland lairdie." glenlogie. first published in the fourth volume of smith's _scottish minstrel_. great liberties, says motherwell, have been taken with the songs in that work. other versions are given in sharpe's _ballad book_, and in buchan's larger collection, i. , (_jean o' bethelnie's love for sir g. gordon._) three score o' nobles rade up the king's ha', but bonnie glenlogie's the flower o' them a'; wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e, "glenlogie, dear mither, glenlogie for me!" "o haud your tongue, dochter, ye'll get better than he;" "o say nae sae, mither, for that canna be; though drumlie is richer, and greater than he, yet if i maun tak him, i'll certainly dee. "where will i get a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, will gae to glenlogie, and cum again shun?"[l ] "o here am i, a bonnie boy, to win hose and shoon, will gae to glenlogie, and cum again shun." when he gaed to glenlogie, 'twas "wash and go dine;" 'twas "wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and go dine;" "o 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it ne'er shall be mine, to gar a lady's hasty errand wait till i dine. "but there is, glenlogie, a letter for thee;" the first line that he read, a low smile ga'e he, the next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e; but the last line that he read, he gart the table flee. "gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown; gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town;" but lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green, o bonnie glenlogie was twa mile his lane. "when he cam' to glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there; bonnie jean's mother was tearing her hair; "ye're welcome, glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she, "ye're welcome, glenlogie, your jeanie to see." pale and wan was she, when glenlogie gaed ben, but red and rosy grew she whene'er he sat down; she turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, "o binna feared, mither, i'll maybe no dee." , shun again. john o' hazelgreen. neither the present version of this ballad, (taken from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. ,) nor that furnished by kinloch, (_jock o' hazelgreen_, p. ,) is at all satisfactory. another, much superior in point of taste, but made up from four different copies, is given in chambers's _scottish ballads_, p. . sir w. scott's song of _jock o' hazeldean_ was suggested by a single stanza of this ballad, which he had heard as a fragment, thus: "'why weep ye by the tide ladye, why weep ye by the tide? i'll wed ye to my youngest son, and ye shall be his bride; and ye shall be his bride, ladye, sae comely to be seen:' but aye she loot the tears down fa' for jock o' hazeldean." as i went forth to take the air intill an evening clear, and there i spied a lady fair making a heavy bier. making a heavy bier, i say, but and a piteous meen; and aye she sigh'd, and said, alas! for john o' hazelgreen. the sun was sinking in the west, the stars were shining clear; when thro' the thickets o' the wood, a gentleman did appear. says, "who has done you the wrong, fair maid, and left you here alane; or who has kiss'd your lovely lips, that ye ca' hazelgreen?" "hold your tongue, kind sir," she said, "and do not banter so; how will ye add affliction unto a lover's woe? for none's done me the wrong," she said, "nor left me here alane; nor none has kiss'd my lovely lips, that i ca' hazelgreen." "why weep ye by the tide, lady? why weep ye by the tide? how blythe and happy might he be gets you to be his bride! gets you to be his bride, fair maid, and him i'll no bemean; but when i take my words again, whom call ye hazelgreen? "what like a man was hazelgreen? will ye show him to me?" "he is a comely proper youth, i in my sleep did see; wi' arms tall, and fingers small,-- he's comely to be seen;" and aye she loot the tears down fall for john o' hazelgreen. "if ye'll forsake young hazelgreen, and go along with me, i'll wed you to my eldest son, make you a lady free." "it's for to wed your eldest son i am a maid o'er mean; i'll rather stay at home," she says, "and die for hazelgreen." "if ye'll forsake young hazelgreen, and go along with me, i'll wed you to my second son, and your weight o' gowd i'll gie." "it's for to wed your second son i am a maid o'er mean; i'll rather stay at home," she says, "and die for hazelgreen." then he's taen out a siller comb, comb'd down her yellow hair; and looked in a diamond bright, to see if she were fair. "my girl, ye do all maids surpass that ever i have seen; cheer up your heart, my lovely lass, and hate young hazelgreen." "young hazelgreen he is my love, and ever mair shall be; i'll nae forsake young hazelgreen for a' the gowd ye'll gie." but aye she sigh'd, and said, alas! and made a piteous meen; and aye she loot the tears down fa', for john o' hazelgreen. he looked high, and lighted low, set her upon his horse; and they rode on to edinburgh, to edinburgh's own cross. and when she in that city was, she look'd like ony queen; "'tis a pity such a lovely lass shou'd love young hazelgreen." "young hazelgreen, he is my love, and ever mair shall be; i'll nae forsake young hazelgreen for a' the gowd ye'll gie." and aye she sigh'd, and said, alas! and made a piteous meen; and aye she loot the tears down fa', for john o' hazelgreen. "now hold your tongue, my well-far'd maid, lat a' your mourning be, and a' endeavours i shall try, to bring that youth to thee; if ye'll tell me where your love stays, his stile and proper name." "he's laird o' taperbank," she says, "his stile, young hazelgreen." then he has coft for that lady a fine silk riding gown; likewise he coft for that lady a steed, and set her on; wi' menji feathers in her hat, silk stockings and siller sheen; and they are on to taperbank, seeking young hazelgreen. they nimbly rode along the way, and gently spurr'd their horse, till they rode on to hazelgreen, to hazelgreen's own close. then forth he came, young hazelgreen, to welcome his father free; "you're welcome here, my father dear, and a' your companie." but when he look'd o'er his shoulder, a light laugh then gae he; says, "if i getna this lady, it's for her i must die; i must confess this is the maid i ance saw in a dream, a walking thro' a pleasant shade, as fair's a cypress queen." "now hold your tongue, young hazelgreen, lat a' your folly be; if ye be wae for that lady, she's thrice as wae for thee. she's thrice as wae for thee, my son; as bitter doth complain; well is she worthy o' the rigs that lie on hazelgreen." he's taen her in his arms twa, led her thro' bower and ha'; "cheer up your heart, my dearest dear, ye're flower out o'er them a'. this night shall be our wedding e'en, the morn we'll say, amen; ye'se never mair hae cause to mourn,-- ye're lady o' hazelgreen." the fause lover. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . the fourth and fifth stanzas are found as a fragment in herd's _scottish songs_, ii. , (ed. ,) thus: "false luve, and hae ze played me this, in the simmer, mid the flowers? i sall repay ze back again, in the winter mid the showers. "bot again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, will ze not turn again? as ze look to ither women shall i to ither men." sir walter scott, also, as chambers has pointed out, has, in _waverley_, put two similar stanzas into the mouth of davie gellatley. "false love, and hast thou played me this, in summer, among the flowers? i will repay thee back again, in winter, amid the showers. "unless again, again, my love, unless ye turn again, as you with other maidens rove, i'll smile on other men." a fair maid sat in her bower door, wringing her lily hands; and by it came a sprightly youth, fast tripping o'er the strands. "where gang ye, young john," she says, "sae early in the day? it gars me think, by your fast trip, your journey's far away." he turn'd about wi' surly look, and said, "what's that to thee? i'm gaen to see a lovely maid, mair fairer far than ye." "now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, in simmer, 'mid the flowers? i sall repay ye back again, in winter, 'mid the showers. "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye not turn again? for as ye look to ither women, shall i to ither men." "make your choose o' whom you please, for i my choice will have; i've chosen a maid mair fair than thee, i never will deceive." but she's kilt up her claithing fine, and after him gaed she; but aye he said, "ye'll turn back, nae farder gang wi' me." "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? alas! for loving you sae well, and you nae me again." the first an' town that they came till, he bought her brooch and ring; but aye he bade her turn again, and gang nae farder wi' him. "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? alas! for loving you sae well, and you nae me again." the niest an' town that they came till, his heart it grew mair fain; and he was deep in love wi' her, as she was ower again. the niest an' town that they came till, he bought her wedding gown; and made her lady o' ha's and bowers, in bonny berwick town. the gardener. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . the last stanza but one is found in the preceding ballad. another copy is given by buchan, _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . the gard'ner stands in his bouer door, wi' a primrose in his hand, and bye there cam a leal maiden, as jimp as a willow wand; and bye there cam a leal maiden, as jimp as a willow wand. "o ladie can ye fancy me, for to be my bride; ye'se get a' the flowers in my garden, to be to you a weed. "the lily white sall be your smock; it becomes your body best; your head sall be buskt wi' gelly-flower, wi' the primrose in your breist. "your goun sall be the sweet william; your coat the camovine; your apron o' the sallads neat, that taste baith sweet and fine. "your hose sall be the brade kail-blade, that is baith brade and lang; narrow, narrow, at the cute, and brade, brade at the brawn. "your gloves sall be the marigold, all glittering to your hand, weel spread owre wi' the blue blaewort, that grows amang corn-land." "o fare ye weil, young man," she says, "fareweil, and i bid adieu; sin ye've provided a weed for me amang the simmer flowers, it's i'se provide anither for you, amang the winter-showers: "the new fawn snaw to be your smock; it becomes your bodie best; your head sall be wrapt wi' the eastern wind, and the cauld rain on your breist." the duke of athol. "taken down from the recitation of an idiot boy in wishaw." kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . "i am gaing awa, jeanie, i am gaing awa, i am gaing ayont the saut seas, i'm gaing sae far awa." "what will ye buy to me, jamie, what will ye buy to me?" "i'll buy to you a silken plaid, and send it wi' vanitie." "that's na love at a', jamie, that's na love at a'; all i want is love for love, and that's the best ava. "whan will ye marry me, jamie, whan will ye marry me? will ye tak me to your countrie,-- or will ye marry me?" "how can i marry thee, jeanie, how can i marry thee? whan i've a wife and bairns three,-- twa wad na weill agree." "wae be to your fause tongue, jamie, wae be to your fause tongue; ye promised for to marry me, and has a wife at hame! "but if your wife wad dee, jamie, and sae your bairns three, wad ye tak me to your countrie,-- or wad ye marry me? "but sin they're all alive, jamie, but sin they're all alive, we'll tak a glass in ilka hand, and drink, 'weill may they thrive.'" "if my wife wad dee, jeanie, and sae my bairns three, i wad tak ye to my ain countrie, and married we wad be." "o an your head war sair, jamie, o an your head war sair, i'd tak the napkin frae my neck, and tie doun your yellow hair." "i hae na wife at a', jeanie, i hae na wife at a', i hae neither wife nor bairns three; i said it to try thee." "licht are ye to loup, jamie, licht are ye to loup, licht are ye to loup the dyke, whan i maun wale a slap." "licht am i to loup, jeanie, licht am i to loup; but the hiest dyke that we come to, i'll turn and tak you up. "blair in athol is mine, jeanie, blair in athol is mine; bonnie dunkel is whare i dwell, and the boats o' garry's mine. "huntingtower is mine, jeanie, huntingtower is mine, huntingtower, and bonnie belford, and a' balquhither's mine." the rantin' laddie. an imperfect copy of this ballad was printed in johnson's _museum_, (p. ,) contributed, mr. stenhouse informs us, by burns. the present copy is from the _thistle of scotland_, p. . another, shorter than either, is given in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , _lord aboyne_. (also in smith's _scottish minstrel_, iv. .) "aft hae i playd at cards and dice for the love o' a bonny rantin' laddie, but now i maun sit i' my father's kitchen nook, and sing, 'hush, balow, my baby.' "if i had been wise, and had ta'en advice, and dane as my bonny love bade me, i would hae been married at martinmas, and been wi' my rantin' laddie. "but i was na wise, i took nae advice, did not as my bonny love bade me, and now i maun sit by mysel' i' the nook, and rock my bastard baby. "if i had horse at my command, as often i had many, i would ride on to the castle o' aboyne, wi' a letter to my rantin' laddie." down the stair her father came, and looked proud and saucy; "who is the man, and what is his name, that ye ca' your rantin' laddie? "is he a lord, or is he a laird, or is he but a caddie? or is it the young earl o' aboyne, that ye ca' your rantin' laddie?" "he is a young and noble lord, he never was a caddie; it is the noble earl o' aboyne that i ca' my rantin' laddie." "ye shall hae a horse at your command, as ye had often many, to go to the castle o' aboyne, wi' a letter to your rantin' laddie." "where will i get a little page, where will i get a caddie, that will run quick to bonny aboyne, wi' this letter to my rantin' laddie?" then out spoke the young scullion boy, said, "here am i, a caddie; i will run on to bonny aboyne wi' the letter to your rantin' laddie." "now when ye come to bonny deeside, where woods are green and bonny, then will ye see the earl o' aboyne, among the bushes mony. "and when ye come to the lands o' aboyne, where all around is bonny, ye'll take your hat into your hand, gie this letter to my rantin' laddie." when he came near the banks of dee, the birks were blooming bonny, and there he saw the earl o' aboyne among the bushes mony. "where are ye going, my bonny boy, where are ye going, my caddie?" "i am going to the castle o' aboyne wi' a letter to the rantin' laddie." "see yonder is the castle there, my young and handsome caddie, and i myself am the earl o' aboyne, tho they ca' me the rantin' laddie." "o pardon, my lord, if i've done wrong; forgive a simple caddie; o pardon, pardon, earl o' aboyne, i said but what she bade me." "ye've done no wrong, my bonny boy, ye've done no wrong, my caddie;" wi' hat in hand he bowed low, gave the letter to the rantin' laddie. when young aboyne looked the letter on, o but he blinkit bonny; but ere he read four lines on end, the tears came trickling mony. "my father will no pity shew, my mother still does slight me, and a' my friends have turned from me, and servants disrespect me." "who are they dare be so bold to cruelly use my lassie? but i'll take her to bonny aboyne, where oft she did caress me. "go raise to me five hundred men, be quick and make them ready; each on a steed, to haste their speed, to carry home my lady." as they rode on thro' buchanshire, the company were many, wi' a good claymore in every hand, that glanced wondrous bonny. when he came to her father's gate he called for his lady; "come down, come down, my bonny maid, and speak wi' your rantin' laddie." when she was set on high horseback, row'd in the highland plaidie, the bird i' the bush sung not so sweet, as sung this bonny lady. as they rode on thro' buchanshire, he cried, "each lowland lassie, lay your love on some lowland lown, and soon will he prove fause t' ye. "but take my advice, and make your choice of some young highland laddie, wi' bonnet and plaid, whose heart is staid, and he will not beguile ye." as they rode on thro' garioch land, he rode up in a fury, and cried, "fall back each saucy dame, let the countess of aboyne before ye." the duke of gordon's daughter. ritson's _scottish songs_, ii. . "alexander, third earl of huntly, was succeeded, in , by his grandson alexander, lord gordon, who actually had three daughters. i. lady elizabeth, the eldest, married to john, earl of athol. ii. lady margaret, married to john, lord forbes. iii. lady jean, the youngest, married _first_, to james, earl of bothwell, from whom she was divorced in ; she married, _secondly_, alexander, earl of southerland, who died in ; and surviving him, she married, _thirdly_, captain alexander ogilvie, son and successor of sir walter ogilvie of boym, who died in without issue." stenhouse, _musical museum_, iv. . the dukedom of gordon was not created until , and therefore the first line should probably run as quoted by burns,-- "the _lord_ of gordon had three daughters." the duke of gordon has three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and jean; they would not stay in bonny castle-gordon, but they would go to bonny aberdeen. they had not been in aberdeen a twelvemonth and a day, till lady jean fell in love with captain ogilvie, and away with him she would gae. word came to the duke of gordon, in the chamber where he lay, lady jean has fell in love with captain ogilvie, and away with him she would gae. "go saddle me the black horse, and you'll ride on the grey; and i will ride to bonny aberdeen, where i have been many a day." they were not a mile from aberdeen, a mile but only three, till he met with his two daughters walking, but away was lady jean. "where is your sister, maidens? where is your sister, now? where is your sister, maidens, that she is not walking with you?" "o pardon us, honoured father, o pardon us," they did say; "lady jean is with captain ogilvie, and away with him she will gae." when he came to aberdeen, and down upon the green, there did he see captain ogilvie, training up his men. "o wo to you, captain ogilvie, and an ill death thou shalt die; for taking to my daughter, hanged thou shalt be." duke gordon has wrote a broad letter, and sent it to the king, to cause hang captain ogilvie, if ever he hanged a man. "i will not hang captain ogilvie, for no lord that i see; but i'll cause him to put off the lace and scarlet, and put on the single livery." word came to captain ogilvie, in the chamber where he lay, to cast off the gold lace and scarlet, and put on the single livery. "if this be for bonny jeany gordon, this pennance i'll take wi'; if this be bonny jeany gordon, all this i will dree." lady jean had not been married, not a year but three, till she had a babe in every arm, another upon her knee. "o but i'm weary of wandering! o but my fortune is bad! it sets not the duke of gordon's daughter to follow a soldier lad. "o but i'm weary of wandering! o but i think lang! it sets not the duke of gordon's daughter, to follow a single man." when they came to the highland hills, cold was the frost and snow; lady jean's shoes they were all torn, no farther could she go. "o wo to the hills and the mountains! wo to the wind and the rain! my feet is sore with going barefoot, no further am i able to gang. "wo to the hills and the mountains! wo to the frost and the snow! my feet is sore with going barefoot, no farther am i able for to go. "o! if i were at the glens of foudlen, where hunting i have been, i would find the way to bonny castle-gordon, without either stockings or shoon." when she came to castle-gordon, and down upon the green, the porter gave out a loud shout, "o yonder comes lady jean." "o you are welcome, bonny jeany gordon, you are dear welcome to me; you are welcome, dear jeany gordon, but away with your captain ogilvie." now over seas went the captain, as a soldier under command; a message soon followed after, to come and heir his brother's land. "come home, you pretty captain ogilvie, and heir your brother's land; come home, ye pretty captain ogilvie, be earl of northumberland." "o what does this mean?" says the captain; "where's my brother's children three?" "they are dead and buried, and the lands they are ready for thee." "then hoist up your sails, brave captain, let's be jovial and free; i'll to northumberland, and heir my estate, then my dear jeany i'll see." he soon came to castle-gordon, and down upon the green; the porter gave out with a loud shout, "here comes captain ogilvie." "you're welcome, pretty captain ogilvie, your fortune's advanced i hear; no stranger can come unto my gates, that i do love so dear." "sir, the last time i was at your gates, you would not let me in; i'm come for my wife and children, no friendship else i claim." "come in, pretty captain ogilvie, and drink of the beer and the wine; and thou shalt have gold and silver, to count till the clock strike nine." "i'll have none of your gold and silver, nor none of your white money; but i'll have bonny jeany gordon; and she shall go now with me." then she came tripping down the stair, with the tear into her eye; one babe was at her foot, another upon her knee. "you're welcome, bonny jeany gordon, with my young family; mount and go to northumberland, there a countess thou shalt be." the laird o'logie. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . an edition of this ballad was published in herd's _scottish songs_, (i. ,) and there is styled _the young laird of ochiltrie_. scott recovered the following copy from recitation, which is to be preferred to the other, as agreeing more closely with the real fact, both in the name and the circumstances. the incident here celebrated occurred in the year . francis, earl bothwell, being then engaged in a wild conspiracy against james vi., succeeded in obtaining some followers even among the king's personal attendants. among these was a gentleman named weymis of logie. accused of treasonable converse with bothwell, he confessed to the charge, and was, of course, in danger of expiating his crime by death. but he was rescued through the address and courage of margaret twynstoun, a lady of the court, to whom he was attached. it being her duty to wait on the queen the night of logie's accusation, she left the royal chamber while the king and queen were asleep, passed to the room where he was kept in custody, and ordered the guard to bring the prisoner into the presence of their majesties. she received her lover at the chamber door, commanding the guard to wait there, and conveyed him to a window, from which he escaped by a long cord. this is the story as related in _the historie of king james the sext_, quoted by scott. i will sing, if ye will hearken, if ye will hearken unto me; the king has ta'en a poor prisoner, the wanton laird o' young logie. young logie's laid in edinburgh chapel, carmichael's the keeper o' the key; and may margaret's lamenting sair, a' for the love of young logie. may margaret sits in the queen's bouir,[l ] knicking her fingers ane by ane, cursing the day that she e'er was born, or that she e'er heard o' logie's name. "lament, lament na, may margaret, and of your weeping let me be; for ye maun to the king himsell, to seek the life o' young logie." may margaret has kilted her green cleiding, and she has curl'd back her yellow hair,-- "if i canna get young logie's life, farewell to scotland for evermair." when she came before the king, she knelit lowly on her knee. "o what's the matter, may margaret? and what need's a' this courtesie?" "a boon, a boon, my noble liege, a boon, a boon, i beg o' thee! and the first boon that i come to crave is to grant me the life o' young logie." "o na, o na, may margaret, forsooth, and so it mauna be; for a' the gowd o' fair scotland shall not save the life o' young logie." but she has stown the king's redding kaim, likewise the queen her wedding knife; and sent the tokens to carmichael, to cause young logie get his life. she sent him a purse o' the red gowd, another o' the white monie; she sent him a pistol for each hand, and bade him shoot when he gat free. when he came to the tolbooth stair, there he let his volley flee; it made the king in his chamber start, e'en in the bed where he might be. "gae out, gae out, my merrymen a', and bid carmichael come speak to me; for i'll lay my life the pledge o' that, that yon's the shot o' young logie." when carmichael came before the king, he fell low down upon his knee; the very first word that the king spake was,--"where's the laird of young logie?" carmichael turn'd him round about, (i wot the tear blinded his e'e,)-- "there came a token frae your grace has ta'en away the laird frae me." "hast thou play'd me that, carmichael? and hast thou play'd me that?" quoth he; "the morn the justice court's to stand, and logie's place ye maun supplie." carmichael's awa to margaret's bower, even as fast as he may drie,-- "o if young logie be within, tell him to come and speak with me!" may margaret turn'd her round about, (i wot a loud laugh laughed she,)-- "the egg is chipp'd, the bird is flown, ye'll see nae mair of young logie." the tane is shipped at the pier of leith, the tother at the queen's ferrie; and she's gotten a father to her bairn, the wanton laird of young logie. v. - . this stanza was obtained by motherwell from recitation. the gypsie laddie. this ballad first appeared in print in the _tea-table miscellany_, (ii. ,) from which it was adopted into herd's and pinkerton's collections, johnson's _museum_, and ritson's _scottish songs_. the version here selected, that of finlay, (_scottish ballads_, ii. ,) is nearly the same, but has two more stanzas, the third and the fourth. different copies are given in motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. , smith's _scottish minstrel_, iii. , _the songs of england and scotland_, (by peter cunningham,) ii. , and sheldon's _minstrelsy of the english border_, p. , (see our appendix;) others, which we have not seen, in mactaggart's _gallovidian dictionary_, chambers's _scottish gypsies_, and _the scot's magazine_ for november, . there is a popular tradition, possessing, we believe, no foundation in fact, that the incidents of this ballad belong to the history of the noble family of cassilis. the lady jean hamilton, daughter of the earl of waddington, is said to have been constrained to marry a grim covenanter, john, earl of cassilis, though her affections were already engaged to sir john faa of dunbar. in , several years after their union, when the countess had given birth to two or three children, her husband being absent from home on a mission to the assembly of divines at westminster, sir john presented himself at cassilis castle, attended by a small band of gypsies, and himself disguised as one. the recollection of her early passion proved stronger than the marriage vow, and the lady eloped with her former lover. but before she had got far from home, the earl happened to return. learning what had occurred, he set out in pursuit with a considerable body of followers, and, arresting the fugitives, brought them back to his castle, where he hanged sir john and his companions on a great tree before the gate. the countess was obliged to witness the execution from a chamber window, and after a short confinement in the castle, was shut up for the rest of her life in a house at maybole, four miles distant, which had been fitted up for her, with a staircase on which were carved a set of heads representing her lover and his troop. unfortunately for the truth of the story, letters are in existence, written by the earl of cassilis to the lady jean after the date of these events, which prove the subsistence of a high degree of mutual affection and confidence; and finlay assures us that after a diligent search, he had been able to discern nothing that in the slightest confirmed the popular tale. the whole story is perhaps the malicious invention of an enemy of the house of cassilis, and as such would not be unparalleled in the history of ballad poetry. see dauney's _ancient scottish melodies_, p. , and chambers's _scottish ballads_, p. . the gypsies came to our good lord's gate, and wow but they sang sweetly; they sang sae sweet and sae very complete, that down came the fair lady. and she came tripping doun the stair, and a' her maids before her; as soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, they coost the glamer o'er her. "o come with me," says johnie faw, "o come with me, my dearie; for i vow and i swear by the hilt of my sword, that your lord shall nae mair come near ye." then she gied them the beer and the wine, and they gied her the ginger; but she gied them a far better thing, the goud ring aff her finger. "gae tak frae me this gay mantle, and bring to me a plaidie; for if kith and kin and a' had sworn, i'll follow the gypsie laddie. "yestreen i lay in a weel-made bed, wi' my good lord beside me; but this night i'll lye in a tennant's barn, whatever shall betide me." "come to your bed," says johnie faw, "o come to your bed, my dearie; for i vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, that your lord shall nae mair come near ye." "i'll go to bed to my johnie faw, i'll go to bed to my dearie; for i vow and i swear by the fan in my hand, that my lord shall nae mair come near me. "i'll mak a hap to my johnie faw, i'll mak a hap to my dearie; and he's get a' the coat gaes round, and my lord shall nae mair come near me." and when our lord came hame at e'en, and spier'd for his fair lady, the tane she cry'd, and the other replied, "she's away wi' the gypsie laddie." "gae saddle to me the black black steed, gae saddle and make him ready; before that i either eat or sleep, i'll gae seek my fair lady." and we were fifteen weel-made men, altho' we were na bonny; and we were a' put down but ane, for a fair young wanton lady. laird of drum. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. , obtained from recitation. another copy is furnished by buchan, _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , which, with some variations, is printed again in _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, percy society, vol. xvii. p. . "this ballad," says kinloch, was composed on the marriage of alexander irvine of drum to his second wife, margaret coutts, a woman of inferior birth and manners, which step gave great offence to his relations. he had previously, in , married mary, fourth daughter of george, second marquis of huntly. the laird o' drum is a wooing gane, it was on a morning early, and he has fawn in wi' a bonnie may a-shearing at her barley. "my bonnie may, my weel-faur'd may, o will ye fancy me, o; and gae and be the lady o' drum, and lat your shearing abee, o?" "it's i canna fancy thee, kind sir, i winna fancy thee, o, i winna gae and be lady o' drum, and lat my shearing abee, o. "but set your love on anither, kind sir, set it not on me, o, for i am not fit to be your bride, and your hure i'll never be, o. "my father he is a shepherd mean, keeps sheep on yonder hill, o, and ye may gae and speir at him, for i am at his will, o." drum is to her father gane, keeping his sheep on yon hill, o; and he has gotten his consent that the may was at his will, o. "but my dochter can neither read nor write, she was ne'er brought up at scheel, o; but weel can she milk cow and ewe, and mak a kebbuck weel, o. "she'll win in your barn at bear-seed time, cast out your muck at yule, o, she'll saddle your steed in time o' need, and draw aff your boots hersell, o." "have not i no clergymen? pay i no clergy fee, o? i'll scheel her as i think fit, and as i think weel to be, o. "i'll learn your lassie to read and write, and i'll put her to the scheel, o; she'll neither need to saddle my steed, nor draw aff my boots hersell, o. "but wha will bake my bridal bread, or brew my bridal ale, o; and wha will welcome my bonnie bride, is mair than i can tell, o." drum is to the hielands gane, for to mak a' ready, and a' the gentry round about, cried, "yonder's drum and his lady! "peggy coutts is a very bonnie bride, and drum is a wealthy laddie, but he micht hae chosen a hier match, than onie shepherd's lassie." then up bespak his brither john, says, "ye've deen us meikle wrang, o; ye've married een below our degree, a lake to a' our kin, o." "hold your tongue, my brither john, i have deen you na wrang, o; for i've married een to wirk and win, and ye've married een to spend, o. "the first time that i had a wife, she was far abeen my degree, o; i durst na come in her presence, but wi' my hat upo' my knee, o. "the first wife that i did wed, she was far abeen my degree, o; she wadna hae walk'd to the yetts o' drum, but the pearls abeen her bree, o. "but an she was ador'd for as much gold, as peggy's for beautie, o, she micht walk to the yetts o' drum, amang gueed companie, o." there war four and twenty gentlemen stood at the yetts o' drum, o; there was na ane amang them a' that welcom'd his lady in, o. he has tane her by the milk-white hand, and led her in himsel, o, and in thro' ha's, and in thro' bouers,-- "and ye're welcome, lady o' drum, o." thrice he kissed her cherry cheek, and thrice her cherry chin, o; and twenty times her comely mou',-- "and ye're welcome, lady o' drum, o. "ye sall be cook in my kitchen, butler in my ha', o; ye sall be lady in my command, whan i ride far awa, o."-- "but i told ye afore we war wed, i was owre low for thee, o; but now we are wed, and in ae bed laid, and ye maun be content wi' me, o. "for an i war dead, and ye war dead, and baith in ae grave laid, o, and ye and i war tane up again, wha could distan your mouls frae mine, o?" lady anne bothwell's lament. the unhappy lady into whose mouth some unknown poet has put this lament, is now ascertained to have been anne, daughter to bothwell, bishop of orkney. her faithless lover was her cousin, alexander erskine, son to the earl of mar. lady anne is said to have possessed great beauty, and sir alexander was reputed the handsomest man of his age. he was first a colonel in the french army, but afterwards engaged in the service of the covenanters, and came to his death by being blown up, with many other persons of rank, in douglass castle, on the th of august, . the events which occasioned the ballad seem to have taken place early in the seventeenth century. of the fate of the lady subsequent to this period nothing is known. see chambers, _scottish ballads_, p. , and _the scots musical museum_, ( ,) iv. *. in brome's comedy of _the northern lass, or the nest of fools_, acted in , occur the two following stanzas. they are, perhaps, a part of the original lament, which certainly has undergone great alterations in its progress down to our times. "peace, wayward barne! oh cease thy moan! thy farre more wayward daddy's gone, and never will recalled be, by cryes of either thee or me: for should wee cry until we dye, wee could not scant his cruelty. _ballow, ballow, &c._ "he needs might in himselfe foresee what thou successively might'st be; and could hee then (though me foregoe) his infant leave, ere hee did know how like the dad would be the lad, in time to make fond maydens glad? _ballow, ballow, &c._" the first professed edition of this piece is in the third part of watson's _collection of comic and serious scots poems_, p. ; the next in the _tea-table miscellany_, i. . both of these copies have been modernized, but ramsay's is the better of the two, and equally authentic. we therefore select ramsay's, and add to it percy's, which contains three stanzas not found in the others, and preserves somewhat more of the air of antiquity. there is a version extending to fifteen stanzas, arranged in a very different order, in evans's _old ballads_, i. . herd, ritson, &c., have followed ramsay. balow, my boy, ly still and sleep, it grieves me sore to hear thee weep: if thou'lt be silent, i'll be glad, thy mourning makes my heart full sad. balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, thy father bred me great annoy. _balow, my boy, ly still and sleep_, _it grieves me sore to hear thee weep_. balow, my darling, sleep a while, and when thou wak'st, then sweetly smile; but smile not as thy father did, to cozen maids, nay, god forbid; for in thine eye his look i see, the tempting look that ruin'd me, _balow, my boy, &c._ when he began to court my love, and with his sugar'd words to move, his tempting face, and flatt'ring chear in time to me did not appear; but now i see that cruel he cares neither for his babe nor me. _balow, my boy, &c._ fareweel, fareweel, thou falsest youth that ever kist a woman's mouth; let never any after me submit unto thy courtesy! for, if they do, o! cruel thou wilt her abuse, and care not how. _balow, my boy, &c._ i was too cred'lous at the first, to yield thee all a maiden durst; thou swore for ever true to prove, thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love; but quick as thought the change is wrought, thy love's no mair, thy promise nought. _balow, my boy, &c._ i wish i were a maid again! from young men's flatt'ry i'd refrain; for now unto my grief i find they all are perjur'd and unkind; bewitching charms bred all my harms;-- witness my babe lies in my arms. _balow, my boy, &c._ i take my fate from bad to worse, that i must needs be now a nurse, and lull my young son on my lap: from me, sweet orphan, take the pap. balow, my child, thy mother mild shall wail as from all bliss exil'd. _balow, my boy, &c._ balow, my boy, weep not for me, whose greatest grief's for wronging thee; nor pity her deserved smart, who can blame none but her fond heart; for, too soon trusting latest finds with fairest tongues are falsest minds. _balow, my boy, &c._ balow, my boy, thy father's fled, when he the thriftless son has played; of vows and oaths forgetful, he preferr'd the wars to thee and me. but now, perhaps, thy curse and mine make him eat acorns with the swine. _balow, my boy, &c._ but curse not him; perhaps now he, stung with remorse, is blessing thee: perhaps at death; for who can tell, whether the judge of heaven or hell, by some proud foe has struck the blow, and laid the dear deceiver low? _balow, my boy, &c._ i wish i were into the bounds where he lies smother'd in his wounds, repeating, as he pants for air, my name, whom once he call'd his fair; no woman's yet so fiercely set, but she'll forgive, though not forget. _balow, my boy, &c._ if linen lacks, for my love's sake, then quickly to him would i make my smock, once for his body meet, and wrap him in that winding-sheet ah me! how happy had i been, if he had ne'er been wrapt therein. _balow, my boy, &c._ balow, my boy, i'll weep for thee: too soon, alake, thou'lt weep for me: thy griefs are growing to a sum, god grant thee patience when they come; born to sustain thy mother's shame, a hapless fate, a bastard's name. _balow, my boy, ly still and sleep_, _it grieves me sore to hear thee weep_. lady anne bothwell's lament. from percy's _reliques_, ii. . "from a copy in the editor's folio ms., corrected by another in allan ramsay's _miscellany_." balow, my babe, lye still and sleipe! it grieves me sair to see thee weipe: if thoust be silent, ise be glad, thy maining maks my heart ful sad. balow, my boy, thy mothers joy, thy father breides me great annoy. _balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _it grieves me sair to see thee weepe_. whan he began to court my luve, and with his sugred wordes to muve, his faynings fals and flattering cheire to me that time did not appeire: but now i see, most cruell hee cares neither for my babe nor mee. _balow, &c._ lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, and when thou wakest, sweitly smile: but smile not, as thy father did, to cozen maids; nay, god forbid! but yett i feire, thou wilt gae neire thy fatheris hart and face to beire. _balow, &c._ i cannae chuse, but ever will be luving to thy father still: whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, my luve with him doth still abyde: in weil or wae, whaireir he gae, mine hart can neire depart him frae. _balow, &c._ but doe not, doe not, pretty mine, to faynings fals thine hart incline; be loyal to thy luver trew, and nevir change her for a new: if gude or faire, of hir have care, for womens banning 's wonderous sair. _balow, &c._ bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; my babe and i'll together live, he'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: my babe and i right saft will ly, and quite forgeit man's cruelty. _balow, &c._ fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, that evir kist a womans mouth! i wish all maides be warned by mee nevir to trust mans curtesy; for if we doe bot chance to bow, they'll use us then they care not how. _balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe_, _it grieves me sair to see thee weipe_. waly, waly, but love be bonny. these beautiful verses are thought to be only a part of _lord jamie douglas_, (see the next piece,) in one copy or another of which, according to motherwell, nearly all of them are to be found. they were first published in the _tea-table miscellany_, (i. ,) and are here given as they there appear, separate from an explicit story. although in this condition they must be looked upon as a fragment, still, they are too awkwardly introduced in the ballad above mentioned, and too superior to the rest of the composition, to allow of our believing that they have as yet found their proper connection. in johnson's _museum_, (i. ,) besides several trifling variations from ramsay's copy, the fourth is replaced by the following: when cockle shells turn siller bells, and mussels grow on every tree, when frost and snaw shall warm us a', then shall my love prove true to me. the third stanza stands thus in a christmas medley, quoted by leyden from a "ms. cantus of the latter part of the th century:" hey troly loly, love is joly, a whyle whill it is new; when it is old, it grows full cold,-- woe worth the love untrue! _complaynt of scotland_, i. . o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn side, where i and my love wont to gae. i lean'd my back unto an aik, i thought it was a trusty tree; but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lightly me! o waly, waly, but love be bonny, a little time while it is new; but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades away like the morning dew. o wherefore should i busk my head? or wherfore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. now arthur-seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be fyl'd by me: saint anton's well shall be my drink, since my true love has forsaken me. martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves off the tree? o gentle death, when wilt thou come? for of my life i'm weary. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvet, and i my sell in cramasie. but had i wist, before i kiss'd, that love had been sae ill to win, i'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, and pin'd it with a silver pin. oh, oh, if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i my sell were dead and gane! for a maid again i'll never be. lord jamie douglas. from the appendix to motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. v. an imperfect copy of this ballad was printed in finlay's collection, vol. ii. p. ; another, called the _laird of blackwood_, in kinloch's, p. . both of them may be seen at the end of this volume. chambers has compiled a ballad in four parts from these three versions, another in manuscript, furnished by kinloch, and the verses just given from ramsay's _miscellany_; and aytoun, more recently, has made up a ballad from two copies obtained from recitation by kinloch, and called it _the marchioness of douglas. ballads of scotland_, d ed. i. . the circumstances which gave rise to the ballad are thus stated by chambers: "james, second marquis of douglas, when aged twenty-four, married at edinburgh, on the th of september, , lady barbara erskine, eldest daughter of john, ninth earl of mar. this lady is said to have been previously wooed, without success, by a gentleman of the name of lowrie, who on account of his afterwards marrying mariotte weir, heiress of blackwood, in lanarkshire, was commonly called, according to the custom of scotland, the tutor, and sometimes the laird, of blackwood. lowrie, who seems to have been considerably advanced in life at the time, was chamberlain or factor to the marquis of douglas; a circumstance which gave him peculiar facilities for executing an atrocious scheme of vengeance he had projected against the lady. by a train of proceedings somewhat similar to those of iago, and in particular, by pretending to have discovered a pair of men's shoes underneath the marchioness's bed, he completely succeeded in breaking up the affection of the unfortunate couple. lord douglas, who, though a man of profligate conduct, had hitherto treated his wife with some degree of politeness, now rendered her life so miserable, that she was obliged to seek refuge with her father. the earl came with a large retinue to carry her off, when, according to the ballad, as well as the tradition of the country, a most affecting scene took place. the marquis himself was so much overcome by the parting of his wife and child--for she had now borne a son--that he expressed, even in that last hour, a desire of being reconciled to her. but the traitorous lowrie succeeded in preventing him from doing so, by a well-aimed sarcasm at his weakness.... regarding the ultimate fate of the marchioness i am altogether ignorant. it is, however, very improbable that any reconciliation ever took place between her and her husband, such as is related in the ballad." _scottish ballads_, p. . o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly by yon burn side, where me and my lord was wont to gae. hey nonny nonnie, but love is bonnie, a little while when it is new; but when love grows auld it grows mair cauld, and fades away like the morning dew. i lean'd my back against an aik, i thocht it was a trustie tree; but first it bowed, and syne it break, and sae did my fause luve to me. my mother tauld me when i was young, that young man's love was ill to trow; but untill her i would give nae ear, and alace my ain wand dings me now! o wherefore need i busk my head? o wherefore should i kaim my hair? for my good lord has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. gin i had wist or i had kisst that young man's love was sae ill to win, i would hae lockt my hert wi' a key o' gowd, and pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. an i had kent what i ken now, i'd never crosst the water tay, but stayed still at athole's gates;-- he would have made me his lady gay. when lords and lairds cam to this toun, and gentlemen o' a high degree, i took my auld son in my arms, and went to my chamber pleasantlie. but when lords and lairds come through this toun,[l ] and gentlemen o' a high degree, i must sit alane intill the dark, and the babie on the nurse's knee. i had a nurse, and she was fair; she was a dearly nurse to me; she took my gay lord frae my side, and used him in her companie. awa, awa, thou fause blackwood, aye, and an ill death may thou die! thou wert the first and occasion last of parting my gay lord and me. when i lay sick, and very sick, sick i was and like to die, a gentleman, a friend of mine, he came on purpose to visit me; but blackwood whisper'd in my lord's ear he was ower lang in chamber with me. when i was sick, and very sick, sick i was and like to die, i drew me near to my stairhead, and i heard my ain lord lichtly me. "come down, come down, o jamie douglas, and drink the orange wine with me; i'll set thee on a chair of gold, and daut thee kindly on my knee." "when sea and sand turn far inland, and mussels grow on ilka tree, when cockle shells turn siller bells, i'll drink the orange wine wi' thee." "what ails you at our youngest son, that sits upon the nurse's knee? i'm sure he's never done any harm, an it's not to his ain nurse and me." if i had kent what i ken now, that love it was sae ill to win, i should ne'er hae wet my cherry cheek for onie man or woman's son. when my father came to hear that my gay lord had forsaken me, he sent five score of his soldiers bright to take me safe to my ain countrie. up in the mornin' when i arose, my bonnie palace for to lea', i whispered in at my lord's window, but the never a word he would answer me. "fare ye weel, then, jamie douglas, i need care as little as ye care for me; the earl of mar is my father dear, and i soon will see my ain countrie. "ye thought that i was like yoursell, and loving ilk ane i did see; but here i swear by the heavens clear, i never loved a man but thee." slowly, slowly rose i up, and slowly, slowly i cam down; and when he saw me sit in my coach, he made his drums and trumpets sound. when i into my coach was set, my tenants all were with me tane; they set them down upon their knees, and they begg'd me to come back again. it's "fare ye weel, my bonnie palace; and fare ye weel, my children three: god grant your father may get mair grace, and love thee better than he has done me." it's "fare ye weel, my servants all; and you, my bonnie children three: god grant your father grace to be kind till i see you safe in my ain countrie. "but wae be to you, fause blackwood, aye, and ill death may you die! ye are the first, and i hope the last, that put strife between my good lord and me." when i came in through edinburgh town, my loving father came to meet me, with trumpets sounding on every side; but it was no comfort at all to me: for no mirth nor music sounds in my ear, since the earl of march has forsaken me. "hold your tongue, my daughter dear, and of your weeping pray let abee; for i'll send to him a bill of divorce, and i'll get as good a lord to thee." "hold your tongue, my father dear, and of your scoffing pray let abee; i would rather hae a kiss of my ain lord's mouth as all the lords in the north countrie." when she came to her father's land, the tenants a' cam her to see; never a word she could speak to them, but the buttons aff her clothes did flee.[l ] "the linnet is a bonnie bird, and aften flees far frae its nest; so all the world may plainly see they 're far awa that i love best!" she looked out at her father's window, to take a view of the countrie; who did she see but jamie douglas, and along with him her children three. there came a soldier to the gate, and he did knock right hastilie: "if lady douglas be within, bid her come down and speak to me." "o come away, my lady fair, come away, now, alang with me: for i have hanged fause blackwood at the very place where he told the lie." , cam. . see _andrew lammie_, vol. ii. . the nutbrowne maide. we owe the preservation of this beautiful old ballad to _arnold's chronicle_, of which the earliest edition is thought to have been printed in . in laneham's account of elizabeth's visit to kenilworth, the _nut-brown maid_ is mentioned as a book by itself, and there is said to be at oxford a list of books offered for sale at that place in , among which is the _not-broon mayd_, price one penny; still, the ballad is not known to exist at present in any other ancient form than that of the chronicle. we have no means of determining the date of the composition, but percy has justly remarked that it is not probable that an antiquary would have inserted a piece in his historical collections which he knew to be modern. the language is that of the time at which it was printed. the ballad seems to have been long forgotten, when it was revived in _the muse's mercury_ for june, , (percy.) there prior met with it, and, charmed with its merit, he took the story for the foundation of his _henry and emma_. capel, in , published a collated text from two different editions of the chronicle,--we suppose that of , and the second, which was printed in , and exhibits some differences. percy adopted capel's text with a few alterations, (_reliques_, ii. .) the text of the edition of has been twice reprinted since percy's time: in the _censura literaria_, vol. i. p. , and by mr. wright, in a little black-letter volume, london, . we have adopted mr. wright's text, not neglecting to compare it with that of sir egerton brydges. it will be interesting to compare with this matchless poem a ballad in other languages, which has the same drift;--_die lind im thale_, or _liebesprobe_, erk, _deutscher liederhort_, p. , ; uhland, no. ; hoffmann, _schlesische_ v. l., no. , _niederländische v. l._, no. ; haupt and schmaler, _v. l. der wenden_, i. (hoffmann). in the sixteenth century a ridiculous attempt was made to supplant the popular ballads in the mouths and affections of the people by turning them into pious parodies. _the nut-brown maid_ was treated in this way, and the result may be seen in _the new not-borune mayd_, printed by the roxburghe club, and by the percy society, vol. vi. "be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complaine, affermyng this, how that it is a labour spent in vaine to love them wele, for never a dele they love a man agayne: for lete a man do what he can ther favour to attayne, yet yf a newe do them pursue,[l ] ther furst trew lover than laboureth for nought, and from her thought he is a bannished man." "i say not nay, but that all day it is bothe writ and sayde, that womans fayth is, as who sayth, all utterly decayed: but nevertheles, right good witnes in this case might be layde, that they love trewe, and contynew,-- recorde the nutbrowne maide; whiche from her love, whan her to prove he cam to make his mone, wolde not departe, for in her herte she lovyd but hym allone." "than betwene us lete us discusse what was all the manér betwene them too; we wyl also telle all the peyne and fere[l ] that she was in; nowe i begynne, see that ye me answére:[l ] wherfore [all] ye that present be, i pray you geve an eare. i am the knyght, i cum be nyght, as secret as i can, sayng 'alas! thus stondyth the case,[l ] i am a bannisshed man!'" "and i your wylle for to fulfylle in this wyl not refuse, trusting to shewe, in wordis fewe, that men have an ille use, to ther owne shame, wymen to blame, and causeles them accuse: therfore to you i answere now, alle wymen to excuse, 'myn owne hert dere, with you what chiere? i prey you telle anoon: for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you allon.'" "it stondith so: a deed is do wherof moche harme shal growe.[l ] my desteny is for to dey a shamful dethe, i trowe, or ellis to flee,--the ton must be: none other wey i knowe, but to withdrawe as an outlaw, and take me to my bowe. wherfore, adew, my owne hert trewe, none other red i can; for i muste to the grene wode goo, alone, a bannysshed man." "o lorde, what is this worldis blisse that chaungeth as the mone! my somers day in lusty may is derked before the none. i here you saye farwel: nay, nay, we departe not soo sone. why say ye so? wheder wyl ye goo? alas, what have ye done? alle my welfare to sorow and care shulde chaunge, yf ye were gon: for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "i can beleve it shal you greve, and somewhat you distrayne; but aftyrwarde your paynes harde, within a day or tweyne, shal sone aslake, and ye shal take confort to you agayne. why shuld ye nought? for, to make thought your labur were in vayne: and thus i do, and pray you, too, as hertely as i can: for i muste too the grene wode goo, alone, a banysshed man." "now syth that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mynde, i shal be playne to you agayne, lyke as ye shal me fynde: syth it is so that ye wyll goo, i wol not leve behynde; shal never be sayd the nutbrowne mayd was to her love unkind. make you redy, for soo am i, all though it were anoon; for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "yet i you rede to take good hede what men wyl thinke and sey;[l ] of yonge and olde it shal be told, that ye be gone away your wanton wylle for to fulfylle, in grene wood you to play; and that ye myght from your delyte noo lenger make delay. rather than ye shuld thus for me be called an ylle woman, yet wolde i to the grene wodde goo alone, a banysshed man." "though it be songe of olde and yonge that i shuld be to blame, theirs be the charge that speke so large in hurting of my name. for i wyl prove that feythful love it is devoyd of shame, in your distresse and hevynesse, to parte wyth you the same; and sure all thoo that doo not so, trewe lovers ar they noon; but in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "i counsel yow remembre how it is noo maydens lawe, nothing to dought, but to renne out to wod with an outlawe. for ye must there in your hande bere a bowe to bere and drawe, and as a theef thus must ye lyeve, ever in drede and awe; by whiche to yow gret harme myght grow;-- yet had i lever than that i had too the grenewod goo alone, a banysshyd man." "i thinke not nay; but, as ye saye, it is noo maydens lore; but love may make me for your sake, as ye have said before, to com on fote, to hunte and shote to gete us mete and store; for soo that i your company may have, i aske noo more; from whiche to parte, it makith myn herte as colde as ony ston: for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "for an outlawe this is the lawe, that men hym take and binde, without pytee hanged to bee, and waver with the wynde. yf i had neede, as god forbede, what rescous coude ye finde? for sothe, i trowe, you and your bowe shuld drawe for fere behynde:[l ] and noo merveyle; for lytel avayle were in your councel than; wherfore i too the woode wyl goo alone, a banysshed man." "ful wel knowe ye that wymen bee ful febyl for to fyght; noo womanhed is it indeede, to bee bolde as a knight. yet in suche fere yf that ye were, amonge enemys day and nyght, i wolde wythstonde, with bowe in hande, to greeve them as i myght, and you to save, as wymen have, from deth many one: for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "yet take good hede; for ever i drede that ye coude not sustein the thorney wayes, the depe valeis, the snowe, the frost, the reyn, the colde, the hete; for, drye or wete, we must lodge on the playn; and us aboove noon other rove but a brake bussh or twayne; whiche sone shulde greve you, i beleve, and ye wolde gladly than that i had too the grenewode goo alone, a banysshyd man." "syth i have here been partynere with you of joy and blysse, i must also parte of your woo endure, as reason is; yet am i sure of oo plesure, and shortly, it is this; that where ye bee, mesemeth, perdé, i coude not fare amysse. wythout more speche, i you beseche that we were soon agone; for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "yf ye goo thedyr, ye must consider, whan ye have lust to dyne, ther shel no mete be fore to gete, nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wine; ne shetis clene to lye betwene, made of thred and twyne: noon other house but levys and bowes to kever your hed[ ] and myn.[l ] loo, myn herte swete, this ylle dyet shuld make you pale and wan: wherfore i to the wood wyl goo alone, a banysshid man." "amonge the wylde dere suche an archier as men say that ye bee ne may not fayle of good vitayle, where is so grete plente; and watir cleere of the ryvere shal be ful swete to me, wyth whiche in hele i shal right wele endure, as ye shall see: and er we go, a bed or too i can provide anoon; for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "loo, yet before, ye must doo more, yf ye wyl goo with me, as cutte your here up by your ere, your kirtel by the knee; wyth bowe in hande, for to withstonde your enmys, yf nede bee; and this same nyght, before daylight, to woodward wyl i flee; and [if] ye wyl all this fulfylle, doo it shortely as ye can: ellis wil i to the grene wode goo alone, a banysshyd man." "i shal as now do more for you than longeth to womanhede,[l ] to short my here, a bowe to bere, to shote in tyme of nede: o my swete moder, before all other, for you have i most drede! but now, adiew! i must ensue wher fortune duth me leede. all this make ye; now lete us flee; the day cums fast upon;[l ] for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "nay, nay, not soo; ye shal not goo; and i shal telle you why; your appetyte is to be lyght of love, i wele aspie: for right as ye have sayd to me, in lyke wyse, hardely, ye wolde answere, who so ever it were, in way of company. it is sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde, and so is a woman; wherfore i too the woode wyl goo alone, a banysshid man." "yef ye take hede, yt is noo nede[l ] suche wordis to say bee me; for ofte ye preyd, and longe assayed, or i you lovid, perdé. and though that i of auncestry a barons doughter bee, yet have you proved how i you loved, a squyer of lowe degree; and ever shal, what so befalle, to dey therfore anoon; for in my mynde, of al mankynde i love but you alone." "a barons childe to be begyled, it were a curssed dede! to be felow with an outlawe, almyghty god forbede! yet bettyr were the power squyer alone to forest yede, than ye shal saye another day, that be [my] wyked dede ye were betrayed; wherfore, good maide, the best red that i can is that i too the greene wode goo alone, a banysshed man." "whatsoever befalle, i never shal of this thing you upbraid; but yf ye goo, and leve me soo, than have ye me betraied. remembre you wele, how that ye dele, for yf ye, as ye sayde, be so unkynde to leve behynd your love, the notbrowne maide, trust me truly, that i shal dey, sone after ye be gone; for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "yef that ye went, ye shulde repent, for in the forest now i have purveid me of a maide, whom i love more than you: another fayrer than ever ye were, i dare it wel avowe; and of you bothe eche shulde be wrothe with other, as i trowe. it were myn ease to lyve in pease; so wyl i, yf i can; wherfore i to the wode wyl goo alone, a banysshid man." "though in the wood i undirstode ye had a paramour, all this may nought remeve my thought, but that i wil be your; and she shal fynde me softe and kynde, and curteis every our, glad to fulfylle all that she wylle commaunde me, to my power; for had ye, loo, an hundred moo, yet wolde i be that one.[l ] for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "myn oune dere love, i see the prove that ye be kynde and trewe; of mayde and wyf, in all my lyf, the best that ever i knewe. be mery and glad, be no more sad, the case is chaunged newe; for it were ruthe that for your trouth you shuld have cause to rewe. be not dismayed: whatsoever i sayd to you whan i began, i wyl not too the grene wod goo; i am noo banysshyd man." "theis tidingis be more glad to me than to be made a quene, yf i were sure they shuld endure; but it is often seen, when men wyl breke promyse, they speke the wordis on the splene. ye shape some wyle me to begyle, and stele fro me, i wene; then were the case wurs than it was, and i more woo-begone; for in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone." "ye shal not nede further to drede: i wyl not disparage you, god defende! sith you descende of so grete a lynage. nou understonde, to westmerlande, which is my herytage, i wyl you bringe, and wyth a rynge, be wey of maryage, i wyl you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can: thus have ye wone an erles son, and not a banysshyd man." here may ye see, that wymen be in love meke, kinde, and stable: late never man repreve them than, or calle them variable; but rather prey god that we may to them be comfortable, whiche somtyme provyth suche as loveth, yf they be charitable. for sith men wolde that wymen sholde be meke to them echeon, moche more ought they to god obey, and serve but hym alone. , to. , they. , soe. , cause. . wherfore. v. , whan. v. , shul. , bed, wright. v. , that, womanhod. , cum. v. , yet is. v. , of them i wolde be one. percy ms. the bailiff's daughter of islington. from _reliques of ancient english poetry_, iii. . another copy is in ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. . "from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys collection, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. the full title is, _true love requited: or, the bailiff's daughter of islington_."--percy. there was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, and he was a squires son: he loved the bayliffes daughter deare, that lived in islington. yet she was coye, and would not believe that he did love her soe, noe nor at any time would she any countenance to him showe. but when his friendes did understand his fond and foolish minde, they sent him up to faire london, an apprentice for to binde. and when he had been seven long yeares, and never his love could see,-- "many a teare have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of mee." then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and playe, all but the bayliffes daughter deare; she secretly stole awaye. she pulled off her gowne of greene, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go, her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and drye, she sat her downe upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour soe redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; "one penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "will ease me of much paine." "before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, praye tell me where you were borne." "at islington, kind sir," sayd shee, "where i have had many a scorne." "i prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, o tell me, whether you knowe the bayliffes daughter of islington." "she is dead, sir, long agoe." "if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some farr countrye, where noe man shall me knowe." "o staye, o staye, thou goodlye youthe, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and readye to be thy bride." "o farewell griefe, and welcome joye, ten thousand times therefore; for nowe i have founde mine owne true love, whom i thought i should never see more." the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green. the copy here given of this favorite popular ballad is derived from _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, percy society, xvii. . it is there printed from a modern broadside, "carefully collated" with a copy in the bagford collection. in percy's edition, (_reliques_, ii. ,) besides many trivial emendations, eight modern stanzas (said to be the work of robert dodsley) are substituted for the first five of the beggar's second song, "to remove absurdities and inconsistencies," and to reconcile the story to probability and true history! the copy in _a collection of old ballads_, ii. , is not very different from the present, and the few changes that have been made in the text selected, unless otherwise accounted for, are adopted from that. "pepys, in his diary, th june, , speaks of going with sir william and lady batten, and sir j. minnes, to sir w. rider's at bednall green, to dinner, 'a fine place;' and adds, 'this very house was built by the blind beggar of bednall green, so much talked of and sung in ballads; but they say it was only some outhouses of it.'" chappell, _popular musk of the olden time_, p. . this song's of a beggar who long lost his sight, and had a fair daughter, most pleasant and bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, and none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was of complexion most fair, yet seeing she was but a beggar his heir,[l ] of ancient housekeepers despised was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessee did say, "good father and mother, let me now go away, to seek out my fortune, whatever it be;" this suit then was granted to pretty bessee. this bessee, that was of a beauty most bright, they clad in gray russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she, who sighed and sobbed for pretty bessee. she went till she came to stratford-at-bow, then she knew not whither or which way to go; with tears she lamented her sad destiny, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the highway; and at the king's arms entertained was she, so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there one month at an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend; and every brave gallant that once did her see was straightway in love with pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love they extoll'd; her beauty was blazed in every degree, so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; she shewed herself courteous, but never too coy, and at their commandment still she would be, so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go, they craved her favour, but still she said no; "i would not have gentlemen marry with me,"-- yet ever they honoured pretty bessee. now one of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night; the second, a gentleman of high degree, who wooed and sued for pretty bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, was then the third suitor, and proper withal; her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. "if that thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight, "i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart is enthralled in thy fair beauty, then grant me thy favour, my pretty bessee." the gentleman said, "come marry with me, in silks and in velvets my bessee shall be; my heart lies distracted, oh hear me!" quoth he, "and grant me thy love, my dear pretty bessee." "let me be thy husband," the merchant did say, "thou shalt live in london most gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee." then bessee she sighed, and thus she did say; "my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their goodwill, and be faithful to me, and you shall enjoy your dear pretty bessee." to every one of them that answer she made; therefore unto her they joyfully said, "this thing to fulfill we all now agree; but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee?" "my father," quoth she, "is soon to be seen; the silly blind beggar of bednall green, that daily sits begging for charity, he is the kind father of pretty bessee. "his marks and his token are knowen full well; he always is led by a dog and a bell; a poor silly old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the true father of pretty bessee." "nay, nay," quoth the merchant, "thou art not for me;" "she," quoth the innholder, "my wife shall not be;" "i loathe," said the gentleman, "a beggars degree, therefore, now farewell, my pretty bessee." "why then," quoth the knight, "happ better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome to me, my dear pretty bessee. "with thee to thy father forthwith i will go." "nay, forbear," quoth his kinsman, "it must not be so: a poor beggars daughter a lady sha'nt be; then take thy adieu of thy pretty bessee." as soon then as it was break of the day, the knight had from rumford stole bessee away; the young men of rumford, so sick as may be,[l ] rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ride they were seen, until they came near unto bednall green, and as the knight lighted most courteously, they fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came presently over the plain, or else the knight there for his love had been slain; the fray being ended, they straightway did see his kinsman come railing at pretty bessee. then bespoke the blind beggar, "altho' i be poor, rail not against my child at my own door; though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, yet i will drop angels with thee for my girl; "and then if my gold should better her birth, and equal the gold you lay on the earth, then neither rail you, nor grudge you to see the blind beggars daughter a lady to be. "but first, i will hear, and have it well known, the gold that you drop it shall be all you own;" "with that," they replied, "contented we be;" "then heres," quoth the beggar, "for pretty bessee." with that an angel he dropped on the ground, and dropped, in angels, full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it proved most plain, for the gentlemans one, the beggar dropped twain. so that the whole place wherein they did sit with gold was covered every whit; the gentleman having dropt all his store, said, "beggar, your hand hold, for i have no more. "thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright;" "then marry my girl," quoth he to the knight; "and then," quoth he, "i will throw you down, an hundred pound more to buy her a gown." the gentlemen all, who his treasure had seen, admired the beggar of bednall green. and those that had been her suitors before, their tender flesh for anger they tore. thus was the fair bessee matched to a knight, and made a lady in others despite: a fairer lady there never was seen than the blind beggars daughter of bednall green. but of her sumptuous marriage and feast, and what fine lords and ladies there prest, the second part shall set forth to your sight, with marvellous pleasure, and wished for delight. . and seeing. . percy has _thicke_. part ii. of a blind beggars daughter so bright,[l ] that late was betrothed to a young knight, all the whole discourse therof you did see, but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. it was in a gallant palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they could have, this wedding it was kept most sumptuously, and all for the love of pretty bessee. and all kind of dainties and delicates sweet was brought to their banquet, as it was thought meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. the wedding thro' england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort, of nobles and gentles of every degree, and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then away went this gallant young knight, his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with troops of ladies, the like was ne'er seen, as went with sweet bessee of bednall green. this wedding being solemnized then, with music performed by skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sat down at that tide,[l ] each one beholding the beautiful bride. but after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk and to reason a number begun, and of the blind beggars daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spoke the nobles, "much marvel have we this jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see!" "my lords," quoth the bride, "my father so base is loathe with his presence these states to disgrace." "the praise of a woman in question to bring, before her own face, is a flattering thing; but we think thy fathers baseness," quoth they, "might by thy beauty be clean put away." they no sooner this pleasant word spoke, but in comes the beggar in a silken cloak, a velvet cap and a feather had he, and now a musician, forsooth, he would be. and being led in, from catching of harm, he had a dainty lute under his arm; said, "please you to hear any music of me, a song i will give you of pretty bessee." with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play, and after a lesson was played two or three, he strained out this song most delicately:-- _"a beggars daughter did dwell on a green, who for her beauty might well be a queen,[l ] a blythe bonny lass, and dainty was she, and many one called her pretty bessee._ _"her father he had no goods nor no lands, but begged for a penny all day with his hands, and yet for her marriage gave thousands three, yet still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee._ _"and here if any one do her disdain, her father is ready with might and with main, to prove she is come of noble degree, therefore let none flout at my pretty bessee."_ with that the lords and the company round with a hearty laughter were ready to swound; at last said the lords, "full well we may see, the bride and the bridegroom's beholden to thee." with that the fair bride all blushing did rise, with chrystal water all in her bright eyes; "pardon my father, brave nobles," quoth she, "that through blind affection thus doats upon me." "if this be thy father," the nobles did say, "well may he be proud of this happy day, yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth with his fortune could never agree. "and therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee bewray, and look that the truth to us thou dost say,[l ] thy birth and thy parentage what it may be, e'en for the love thou bearest to pretty bessee." "then give me leave, ye gentles each one, a song more to sing and then i'll begone; and if that i do not win good report, then do not give me one groat for my sport:-- _"when first our king his fame did advance, and sought his title in delicate france, in many places great perils past he, but then was not born my pretty bessee._ _"and at those wars went over to fight, many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight, and with them young monford of courage so free, but then was not born my pretty bessee._ _"and there did young monford with a blow on the face lose both his eyes in a very short space; his life had been gone away with his sight, had not a young woman gone forth in the night._ _"among the slain men, her fancy did move[l ] to search and to seek for her own true love, who seeing young monford there gasping to die, she saved his life through her charity._ _"and then all our victuals in beggars attire, at the hands of good people we then did require; at last into england, as now it is seen, we came, and remained in bednall green._ _"and thus we have lived in fortune's despyght, though poor, yet contented, with humble delight, and in my old years, a comfort to me, god sent me a daughter, called pretty bessee._ _"and thus, ye nobles, my song i do end, hoping by the same no man to offend; full forty long winters thus i have been, a silly blind beggar of bednall green."_ now when the company every one did hear the strange tale he told in his song, they were amazed, as well as they might be, both at the blind beggar and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all bid embrace, saying, "you are come of an honourable race; thy father likewise is of high degree, and thou art right worthy a lady to be." thus was the feast ended with joy and delight; a happy bridegroom was made the young knight, who lived in great joy and felicity, with his fair lady, dear pretty bessee. - . this stanza is wrongly placed at the end of the first part in the copy from which we reprint. in ed. it does not occur. v. . therof you did, percy, for, _therefore you may_. . gentlemen down at the side. . may. . look to us then the truth. . said men. the famous flower of serving-men or, the lady turned serving-man. from _a collection of old ballads_, i. . percy's edition, (iii. ,) was from a written copy, "containing some improvements, (perhaps modern ones.") mr. kinloch has printed a fragment of this piece in its scottish dress, as taken down from the recitation of an old woman in lanark,--_sweet willie_, p. . several of the verses in the following are found also in _the lament of the border widow_; see _ante_, iii. . a similar story is found in swedish and danish: _liten kerstin_, or _stolts botelid, stalldräng, svenska folk-visor_, ii. , , arwidsson, ii. : _stolt ingeborgs forklædning, danske viser_, no. . you beauteous ladies, great and small, i write unto you one and all, whereby that you may understand what i have suffer'd in this land. i was by birth a lady fair, my father's chief and only heir, but when my good old father died, then i was made a young knight's bride. and then my love built me a bower, bedeck'd with many a fragrant flower; a braver bower you ne'er did see, than my true love did build for me. but there came thieves late in the night, they robb'd my bower, and slew my knight, and after that my knight was slain, i could no longer there remain. my servants all from me did fly, in the midst of my extremity, and left me by myself alone, with a heart more cold than any stone. yet, though my heart was full of care, heaven would not suffer me to despair; wherefore in haste i chang'd my name from fair elise to sweet william. and therewithall i cut my hair, and dress'd myself in man's attire, my doublet, hose, and beaver hat, and a golden band about my neck. with a silver rapier by my side, so like a gallant i did ride; the thing that i delighted on, it was to be a serving-man. thus in my sumptuous man's array i bravely rode along the way; and at the last it chanced so, that i to the king's court did go. then to the king i bow'd full low, my love and duty for to show; and so much favour i did crave, that i a serving-man's place might have. "stand up, brave youth," the king replied, "thy service shall not be denied; but tell me first what thou canst do; thou shalt be fitted thereunto. "wilt thou be usher of my hall, to wait upon my nobles all? or wilt thou be taster of my wine, to wait on me when i do dine? "or wilt thou be my chamberlain, to make my bed both soft and fine? or wilt thou be one of my guard? and i will give thee thy reward." sweet william, with a smiling face, said to the king, "if't please your grace to show such favour unto me, your chamberlain i fain would be." the king then did the nobles call, to ask the counsel of them all; who gave consent sweet william he the king's own chamberlain should be. now mark what strange thing came to pass: as the king one day a hunting was, with all his lords and noble train, sweet william did at home remain. sweet william had no company then with him at home, but an old man; and when he saw the house was clear, he took a lute which he had there: upon the lute sweet william play'd, and to the same he sung and said, with a sweet and noble voice, which made the old man to rejoice: "my father was as brave a lord as ever europe did afford, my mother was a lady bright, my husband was a valiant knight: "and i myself a lady gay, bedeck'd with gorgeous rich array; the bravest lady in the land had not more pleasure at command. "i had my music every day, harmonious lessons for to play; i had my virgins fair and free, continually to wait on me. "but now, alas! my husband's dead, and all my friends are from me fled; my former joys are pass'd and gone, for i am now a serving-man." at last the king from hunting came, and presently, upon the same, he called for this good old man, and thus to speak the king began: "what news, what news, old man?" quoth he; "what news hast thou to tell to me?" "brave news," the old man he did say, "sweet william is a lady gay." "if this be true thou tell'st to me i'll make thee lord of high degree; but if thy words do prove a lie, thou shall be hang'd up presently." but when the king the truth had found, his joys did more and more abound: according as the old man did say, sweet william was a lady gay. therefore the king without delay put on her glorious rich array, and upon her head a crown of gold, which was most famous to behold. and then, for fear of further strife, he took sweet william for his wife: the like before was never seen,-- a serving-man to be a queen. the fair flower of northumberland. _ritson's ancient songs and ballads_, ii. . preserved in thomas deloney's _history of jack of newbery_, whence it was extracted by ritson. in that extraordinary book, _the minstrelsy of the english border_, (p. ,) ritson's copy is inserted without acknowledgment, and with a few alterations for the worse. scottish versions of this ballad are given by kinloch, (_the provost's dochter_, p. ,) and by buchan, (_the betrayed lady_, ii. .) the former of these is printed in our appendix. it was a knight in scotland born, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, was taken prisoner, and left forlorn, even by the good earl of northumberland. then was he cast in prison strong, _follow, my love, 'come' over the strand_, where he could not walk nor lye along, even by the good earl of northumberland. and as in sorrow thus he lay, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, the earl [s] sweet daughter walks that way, and she is the fair flower of northumberland. and passing by like an angel bright, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, the prisoner had of her a sight, and she the fair flower of northumberland. and aloud to her this knight did cry, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, the salt tears standing in his eye, and she the fair flower of northumberland. "fair lady," he said, "take pity on me, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and let me not in prison die, and you the fair flower of northumberland." "fair sir, how should i take pity on thee, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, thou being a foe to our country, and i the fair flower of northumberland." "fair lady, i am no foe," he said, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, "through thy sweet love here was i stay'd, for thee, the fair flower of northumberland." "why shouldst thou come here for love of me, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, having wife and children in thy country, and i the fair flower of northumberland." "i swear by the blessed trinity, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, i have no wife nor children, i, nor dwelling at home in merry scotland. "if courteously thou wilt set me free, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, i vow that i will marry thee, so soon as i come in fair scotland. "thou shalt be a lady of castles and towers, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and sit like a queen in princely bowers, were i at home in fair scotland." then parted hence this lady gay, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and got her fathers ring away, to help this knight into fair scotland. likewise much gold she got by sleight, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and all to help this forlorn knight, to wend from her father to fair scotland. two gallant steeds, both good and able, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, she likewise took out of the stable, to ride with the knight into fair scotland. and to the jaylor she sent this ring, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, the knight from prison forth 'to' bring, to wend with her into fair scotland. this token set the prisoner free, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, who straight went to this fair lady, to wend with her into fair scotland. a gallant steed he did bestride, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and with the lady away did ride, and she the fair flower of northumberland. they rode till they came to a water clear, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, "good sir, how should i follow you here, and i the fair flower of northumberland? "the water is rough and wonderful deep, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and on my saddle i shall not keep, and i the fair flower of northumberland." "fear not the foard, fair lady," quoth he, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, "for long i cannot stay for thee, and thou the fair flower of northumberland." the lady prickt her wanton steed, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and over the river swom with speed, and she the fair flower of northumberland. from top to toe all wet was she, _follow, my love, come over the strand_; "thus have i done for love of thee, and i the fair flower of northumberland." thus rode she all one winters night, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, till edenborough they saw in sight, the fairest town in all scotland. "now chuse," quoth he, "thou wanton flower, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, 'whether' thou wilt be my paramour, or get thee home to northumberland. "for i have wife, and children five, _follow, my love, come over the strand_; in edenborough they be alive, then get thee home to fair england. "this favour thou shalt have to boot, _follow, my love, come over the strand_; i'le have 'thy' horse, go thou on foot, go, get thee home to northumberland." "o false and faithless knight," quoth she, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, "and canst thou deal so bad with me, and i the fair flower of northumberland? "dishonour not a ladies name, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, but draw thy sword and end my shame, and i the fair flower of northumberland." he took her from her stately steed, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and left her there in extream need, and she the fair flower of northumberland. then sat she down full heavily, _follow, my love, come over the strand_; at length two knights came riding by, two gallant knights of fair england. she fell down humbly on her knee, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, saying, "courteous 'knights,' take pity on me, and i the fair flower of northumberland. "i have offended my father dear, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and by a false knight, who brought me here from the good earl of northumberland." they took her up behind them then _follow, my love, come over the strand_, and brought her to her father again, and he the good earl of northumberland. all you fair maidens be warned by me, _follow, my love, come over the strand_, scots never were true, nor never will be, to lord, nor lady, nor fair england. gentle herdsman, tell to me. from _reliques of ancient english poetry_, ii. . "the scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near walsingham, in norfolk, where was anciently an image of the virgin mary, famous over all europe for the numerous pilgrimages made to it, and the great riches it possessed. erasmus has given a very exact and humorous description of the superstitions practised there in his time. see his account of the virgo parathalassia, in his colloquy entitled, _peregrinatio religionis ergo_. he tells us, the rich offerings in silver, gold, and precious stones that were there shown him were incredible, there being scarce a person of any note in england, but what some time or other paid a visit or sent a present to our lady of walsingham. at the dissolution of the monasteries in , this splendid image, with another from ipswich, was carried to chelsea, and there burnt in the presence of commissioners; who, we trust, did not burn the jewels and the finery. "this poem is printed from a copy in the editor's folio ms. which had greatly suffered by the hand of time; but vestiges of several of the lines remaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by italics." percy. gentle heardsman, tell to me, of curtesy i thee pray, unto the towne of walsingham which is the right and ready way. "unto the towne of walsingham the way is hard for to be gon; and verry crooked are those pathes for you to find out all alone." weere the miles doubled thrise, and the way never soe ill, itt were not enough for mine offence, itt is soe grievous and soe ill. "thy yeeares are young, thy face is faire, thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene; time hath not given thee leave, as yett, for to committ so great a sinne." yes, heardsman, yes, soe woldest thou say, if thou knewest soe much as i; my witts, and thoughts, and all the rest, have well deserved for to dye. i am not what i seeme to bee, my clothes and sexe doe differ farr: i am a woman, woe is me! _born_ to greeffe and irksome care. _for_ my beloved, and well-beloved, _my wayward cruelty could kill: and though my teares will nought avail, most dearely i bewail him_ still. _he was the flower of n_oble wights, _none ever more sincere colde_ bee; _of comely mien and shape_ hee was, _and tenderlye he_e loved mee. _when thus i saw he lo_ved me well, _i grewe so proud his pa_ine to see, _that i, who did not_ know myselfe, _thought scorne_ of _such a youth_ as hee. and grew soe coy and nice to please, as women's lookes are often soe, he might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, unlesse i willed him soe to doe. thus being wearyed with delayes[l ] to see i pittyed not his greeffe, he gott him to a secrett place, and there he dyed without releeffe. and for his sake these weeds i weare, and sacriffice my tender age; and every day ile begg my bread, to undergoe this pilgrimage. thus every day i fast and pray, and ever will doe till i dye; and gett me to some secrett place, for soe did hee, and soe will i. now, gentle heardsman, aske no more, but keepe my secretts i thee pray: unto the towne of walsingham show me the right and readye way. "now goe thy wayes, and god before! for he must ever guide thee still: turne downe that dale, the right hand path, and soe, faire pilgrim, fare thee well!" - . stanzas , , , have been paraphrased by goldsmith in his ballad of _edwin and emma_. as i came from walsingham. from _the garland of good will_, as reprinted by the percy society, vol. xxx. p. . percy's copy was communicated to him by shenstone, and was retouched by that poet. "the pilgrimage to walsingham," remarks the bishop, "suggested the plan of many popular pieces. in the pepys collection, vol. i. p. , is a kind of interlude in the old ballad style, of which the first stanza alone is worth reprinting. as i went to walsingham, to the shrine with speede, met i with a jolly palmer in a pilgrimes weede. 'now god you save, you jolly palmer!' 'welcome, lady gay! oft have i sued to thee for love.' 'oft have i said you nay.' the pilgrimages undertaken on pretence of religion were often productive of affairs of gallantry, and led the votaries to no other shrine than that of venus.[ ]" "the following ballad was once very popular; it is quoted in fletcher's '_knight of the burning pestle_,' act ii. sc. ult., and in another old play, called "_hans beer-pot, his invisible comedy_, &c. to , act i." "_as i went to walsingham_ is quoted in nashe's _have with you to saffron-walden_, , sign. l." chappell. [ ] 'hermets on a heape, with hoked staves, wenten to walsingham, and her wenches after.' _visions of pierce plowman_, fo. i. "as you came from the holy-land of walsingham, met you not with my true love by the way as you came?" "how should i know your true love, that have met many a one, as i came from the holy-land, that have come, that have gone?" "she is neither white nor brown, but as the heavens fair; there is none hath a form so divine, on the earth, in the air." "such a one did i meet, good sir, with angellike face, who like a queen did appear in her gait, in her grace." "she hath left me here all alone, all alone and unknown, who sometime lov'd me as her life, and call'd me her own." "what's the cause she hath left thee alone, and a new way doth take, that sometime did love thee as her life, and her joy did thee make?" "i loved her all my youth, but now am old, as you see; love liketh not the fallen fruit, nor the withered tree. "for love is a careless child, and forgets promise past; he is blind, he is deaf, when he list, and in faith never fast. "for love is a great delight, and yet a trustless joy; he is won with a word of despair, and is lost with a toy. "such is the love of womankind, or the word abus'd, under which many childish desires and conceits are excus'd. "but love is a durable fire, in the mind ever burning; never sick, never dead, never cold, from itself never turning." king cophetua and the beggar-maid. from richard johnson's _crowne-garland of goulden roses_, ( ,) as reprinted by the percy society, vi. . it is there simply entitled _a song of a beggar and a king_. given in percy's _reliques_, i. , "corrected by another copy." this story, and it would appear this very ballad, is alluded to by shakespeare and others of the dramatists. thus, the th verse is partly quoted in _romeo and juliet_, a. ii. sc. : "young adam cupid, he that shot so trim, when king cophetua loved the beggar-maid." again in _love's labour's lost_, (printed in ,) a. i. sc. . _arm._ is there not a ballad, boy, of the king and the beggar? _moth._ the world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but, i think, now 'tis not to be found. see also _henry fourth_, p. ii. a. v. sc. , _richard second_, a. v. sc. , and ben jonson's _every man in his humour_, a. iii. sc. ,--all these cited by percy. in _a collection of old ballads_, i. , is a _rifacimento_ of this piece, in a different stanza, but following the story closely and preserving much of the diction. it is also printed in evans's _old ballads_, ii. . i read that once in affrica a prince that there did raine, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did faine. from natures workes he did incline, for sure he was not of my minde, he cared not for women-kind, but did them all disdain. but marke what happen'd by the way; as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in grey, which did increase his paine. the blinded boy that shootes so trim from heaven downe so high, he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lye: which soone did pierce him to the quick, for when he felt the arrow prick, which in his tender heart did stick, he looketh as he would dye. "what sudden change is this," quoth he, "that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defie?" then from his window he did come, and laid him on his bed; a thousand heapes of care did runne within his troubled head. for now he means to crave her love, and now he seeks which way to proove how he his fancie might remove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poore beggar must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or els he would be dead. and as he musing thus did lie, he thought for to devise how he might have her company, that so did maze his eyes. "in thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife, the gods shall sure suffice." then from his bed he 'soon' arose, and to his pallace gate he goes; full little then this beggar knowes when she the king espies[l ]. "the gods preserve your majesty," the beggars all gan cry; "vouchsafe to give your charity, our childrens food to buy!" the king to them his purse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hye. the king he cal'd her back again, and unto her he gave his chaine; and said, "with us you shall remain till such time as we dye. "for thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, and honoured like the queene; with thee i meane to lead my life, as shortly shall be seene: our wedding day shall appointed be, and every thing in their degree; come on," quoth he, "and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee cleane. what is thy name?--go on," quoth he. "penelophon, o king!" quoth she; with that she made a lowe courtsey; a trim one as i weene. thus hand in hand along they walke unto the kings palace: the king with courteous, comly talke this beggar doth embrace. the beggar blusheth scarlet read, and straight againe as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voyce, and said, "o king, i do rejoyce that you will take me for your choice, and my degree so base!" and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded straight the noblemen, both all and some, upon the queene to waight. and she behavd herself that day as if she had never walkt the way; she had forgot her gowne of gray, which she did wear of late. the proverb old is come to passe, the priest, when he begins the masse, forgets that ever clarke he was; he knowth not his estate. here you may read cophetua, through fancie long time fed, compelled by the blinded boy the beggar for to wed: he that did lovers lookes disdaine, to do the same was glad and fain, or else he would himself have slaine, in stories as we read. disdaine no whit, o lady deere, but pitty now thy servant heere, lest that it hap to thee this yeare, as to the king it did. and thus they lead a quiet life during their princely raigne, and in a tombe were buried both, as writers shew us plaine. the lords they tooke it grievously, the ladies tooke it heavily, the commons cryed pittiously, their death to them was pain. their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did flye to every princes realme. , espied. the spanish lady's love. from _the garland of good-will_, as reprinted by the percy society, xxx. . other copies, slightly different, in _a collection of old ballads_, ii. , and in percy's _reliques_, ii. . percy conjectures that this ballad "took its rise from one of those descents made on the spanish coasts in the time of queen elizabeth." the weight of tradition is decidedly, perhaps entirely, in favor of the hero's having been one of essex's comrades in the cadiz expedition, but _which_ of his gallant captains achieved the double conquest of the spanish lady is by no means satisfactorily determined. among the candidates put forth are sir richard levison of trentham, staffordshire, sir john popham of littlecot, wilts, sir urias legh of adlington, cheshire, and sir john bolle of thorpe hall, lincolnshire. the right of the last to this distinction has been recently warmly contended for, and, as is usual in similar cases, strong circumstantial evidence is urged in his favor. the reader will judge for himself of its probable authenticity. "on sir john bolle's departure from cadiz," it is said, "the spanish lady sent as presents to his wife a profusion of jewels and other valuables, among which was her portrait drawn in green; plate, money, and other treasures." some of these articles are maintained to be still in possession of the family, and also a portrait of sir john, drawn in , at the age of thirty-six, in which he wears the gold chain given him by his enamored prisoner. see _the times_ newspaper of april and may , , (the latter article cited in _notes and queries_, ix. ,) and the _quarterly review_, sept. , art. iii. the literary merits of the ballad are also considered in the _edinburgh review_, of april, . shenstone has essayed in his _moral tale of love and honour_ to bring out "the spanish ladye and her knight in less grovelling accents than the simple guise of ancient record," while wordsworth, in a more reverential spirit, has taken this noble old romance as the model of his _armenian lady's love_. will you hear a spanish lady, how she woo'd an english man? garments gay as rich as may be, decked with jewels, had she on; of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lie; cupid's bands did tie her faster, by the liking of an eye; in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in any thing she was not coy. at the last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorned, none to do them injury: "alas," then said this lady gay, "full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! "o gallant captain, shew some pity to a lady in distress; leave me not within the city, for to die in heaviness; thou hast set this present day my body free, but my heart in prison strong remains with thee." "how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou know'st thy country's foe? thy fair words make me suspect thee; serpents are where flowers grow." "all the evil i think to thee, most gracious knight, god grant unto myself the same may fully light! "blessed be the time and season, that you came on spanish ground; if you may our foes be termed, gentle foes we have you found. with our city, you have won our hearts each one; then to your country bear away that is your own." "rest you still, most gallant lady, rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there are plenty; spain doth yield a wondrous store." "spaniards fraught with jealousie we often find; but english men throughout the world are counted kind. "leave me not unto a spaniard; you alone enjoy my heart; i am lovely, young, and tender, and so love is my desert. still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; the wife of every english man is counted blest." "it would be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence." "i will quickly change myself, if it be so, and like a page i'll follow thee, where'er thou go." "i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel, 'tis great charges, as you know, in every place." "my chains and jewels every one shall be thine own, and eke ten thousand pounds in gold that lies unknown." "on the seas are many dangers; many storms do there arise, which will be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from wat'ry eyes." "well in worth i could endure extremity, for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee." "courteous lady, be contented; here comes all that breeds the strife; i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsifie my vow for gold or gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain." "oh how happy is that woman that enjoys so true a friend! many days of joy god send you! of my suit i'll make an end: on my knees i pardon crave for this offence, which love and true affection did first commence. "commend me to thy loving lady; bear to her this chain of gold, and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold. all my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee, for these are fitting for thy wife, and not for me. "i will spend my days in prayer, love and all her laws defie; in a nunnery will i shroud me, far from other company: but ere my prayers have end, be sure of this, [to pray] for thee and for thy love i will not miss. "thus farewell, most gentle captain, and farewell my heart's content! count not spanish ladies wanton, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity goe still with thee!" "the like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady." patient grissel. the story of griselda was first told in the _decameron_. boccaccio derived the incidents from petrarch, and petrarch seems to have communicated them also to chaucer, who (in his _clerk of oxenford's tale_) first made known the tale to english readers. the theme was subsequently treated in a great variety of ways.[ ] two plays upon the subject are known to have been written, one of which (by dekker, chettle and haughton) has been printed by the shakespeare society, while the other, an older production of the close of henry viii.'s reign, is lost. about the middle of the sixteenth century, ( ,) a _song of patient grissell_ is entered in the stationers' registers, and a prose history the same year. the earliest edition of the popular prose history as yet recovered, dated , has been reprinted in the third volume of the percy society's publications. the ballad here given is taken from thomas deloney's _garland of good will_, a collection which was printed some time before . it was circulated after that time, and probably even before the compilation of the garland, as a broadside, in black-letter, and also, with the addition of a prose introduction and conclusion, as a tract or chap-book. in this last form it is printed in the above-mentioned volume of the percy society. the ballad in its proper simplicity is inserted in _a collection of old ballads_, i. . percy's _patient countess_ (_reliques_, i. ) is extracted from _albion's england_. the title in _the garland of good will_ is, _of patient grissel and a noble marquess_. _to the tune of the bride's good morrow._ percy society, vol. xxx. p. . [ ] for the bibliography see grässe's _sagenkreise_, p. . the story is also found, says some one, in the swedish saga of _hakon borkenbart_. a noble marquess, as he did ride a-hunting, hard by a river side, a proper maiden, as she did sit a-spinning, his gentle eye espy'd: most fair and lovely, and of comely grace was she, although in simple attire; she sang most sweetly, with pleasant voice melodiously, which set the lord's heart on fire. the more he lookt, the more he might; beauty bred his hearts delight, and to this damsel he went. "god speed," quoth he, "thou famous flower, fair mistress of this homely bower, where love and vertue live with sweet content." with comely gesture and modest mild behaviour she bad him welcome then; she entertain'd him in a friendly manner, and all his gentlemen. the noble marquess in his heart felt such flame which set his senses all at strife; quoth he, "fair maiden, shew soon what is thy name: i mean to take thee to my wife." "grissel is my name," quoth she, "far unfit for your degree; a silly maiden, and of parents poor." "nay, grissel, thou art rich," he said, "a vertuous, fair, and comely maid; grant me thy love, and i will ask no more." at length she consented, and being both contented, they married were with speed; her country russet was turn'd to silk and velvet, as to her state agreed: and when that she was trimly attired in the same, her beauty shin'd most bright, far staining every other brave and comely dame that did appear in sight.[l ] many envied her therefore, because she was of parents poor, and twixt her lord and her great strife did raise: some said this, and some said that, some did call her beggar's brat, and to her lord they would her oft dispraise. "o noble marquess," quoth they, "why do you wrong us, thus basely for to wed, that might have got an honourable lady into your princely bed? who will not now your noble issue still deride, which shall be hereafter born, that are of blood so base by the mother's side, the which will bring them to scorn? put her, therefore, quite away; take to you a lady gay, whereby your lineage may renownèd be." thus every day they seem'd to prate at malic'd grissel's good estate, who took all this most mild and patiently. when that the marquess did see that they were bent thus against his faithful wife, whom most dearly, tenderly, and intirely he loved as his life; minding in secret for to prove her patient heart, thereby her foes to disgrace; thinking to play a hard discourteous part, that men might pity her case,-- great with child this lady was, and at length it came to pass, two lovely children at one birth she had; a son and daughter god had sent, which did their father well content, and which did make their mothers heart full glad. great royal feasting was at the childrens christ'ning, and princely triumph made; six weeks together, all nobles that came thither were entertain'd and staid. and when that these pleasant sportings quite were done, the marquess a messenger sent for his young daughter and his pretty smiling son, declaring his full intent, how that the babes must murthered be, for so the marquess did decree. "come, let me have the children," he said: with that fair grissel wept full sore, she wrung her hands, and said no more; "my gracious lord must have his will obey'd." she took the babies from the nursing-ladies, between her tender arms; she often wishes, with many sorrowful kisses, that she might help their harms. "farewel," quoth she, "my children dear; never shall i see you again; 'tis long of me, your sad and woful mother dear, for whose sake you must be slain. had i been born of royal race, you might have liv'd in happy case; but now you must die for my unworthiness. "come, messenger of death," quoth she, "take my despised babes to thee, and to their father my complaints express." he took the children, and to his noble master he brought them forth with speed; who secretly sent them unto a noble lady, to be nurst up indeed. then to fair grissel with a heavy heart he goes, where she sat mildly all alone; a pleasant gesture and a lovely look she shows, as if grief she had never known. quoth he, "my children now are slain; what thinks fair grissel of the same? sweet grissel, now declare thy mind to me." "since you, my lord, are pleas'd with it, poor grissel thinks the action fit; both i and mine at your command will be." "the nobles murmur, fair grissel, at thine honour, and i no joy can have till thou be banisht from my court and presence, as they unjustly crave. thou must be stript out of thy stately garments; and as thou camest to me, in homely gray, instead of silk and purest pall, now all thy cloathing must be. my lady thou must be no more, nor i thy lord, which grieves me sore; the poorest life must now content thy mind: a groat to thee i may not give, thee to maintain, while i do live; 'gainst my grissel such great foes i find." when gentle grissel heard these woful tidings, the tears stood in her eyes; she nothing said, no words of discontentment did from her lips arise. her velvet gown most patiently she stript off, her girdle of silk with the same; her russet gown was brought again with many a scoff; to bear them all, herself [she] did frame. when she was drest in this array, and ready was to part away, "god send long life unto my lord," quoth she; "let no offence be found in this, to give my lord a parting kiss." with wat'ry eyes, "farewel, my dear!" quoth he. from stately palace, unto her father's cottage, poor grissel now is gone; full fifteen winters she lived there contented, no wrong she thought upon; and at that time thro' all the land the speeches went, the marquess should married be unto a noble lady of high descent, and to the same all parties did agree. the marquess sent for grissel fair the bride's bed-chamber to prepare, that nothing should therein be found awry; the bride was with her brother come, which was great joy to all and some; and grissel took all this most patiently. and in the morning when that they should be wedded, her patience now was try'd; grissel was charged in princely manner for to attire the bride. most willingly she gave consent unto the same; the bride in her bravery was drest, and presently the noble marquess thither came, with all the ladies at his request. "oh grissel, i would ask of thee if to this match thou wouldst agree? methinks thy looks are waxed wondrous coy." with that they all began to smile, and grissel she replies the while, "god send lord marquess many years of joy!" the marquis was movèd to see his best belovèd thus patient in distress; he stept unto her, and by the hand he took her; these words he did express: "thou art the bride, and all the brides i mean to have; these two thy own children be." the youthful lady on her knees did blessing crave, the brother as willing as she. "and you that envy her estate, whom i have made my loving mate, now blush for shame, and honour vertuous life; the chronicles of lasting fame shall evermore extol the name of patient grissel, my most constant wife." , g. g. w., in her sight. the king of france's daughter. from thomas deloney's _garland of good will_, as reprinted by the percy society, vol. xxx. p. . other copies are in _old ballads_, ( ,) i. , ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. , and percy's _reliques_, iii. ,--the last altered by the editor. in the days of old, when fair france did flourish, stories plainly told lovers felt annoy. the king a daughter had, beauteous, fair, and lovely, which made her father glad, she was his only joy. a prince of england came, whose deeds did merit fame, he woo'd her long, and lo, at last, look, what he did require,[l ] she granted his desire, their hearts in one were linked fast. which when her father proved, lord, how he was moved and tormented in his mind; he sought for to prevent them, and to discontent them,-- fortune crosses lovers kind. whenas these princely twain were thus debarr'd of pleasure, through the king's disdain, which their joys withstood, the lady lockt up close her jewels and her treasure, having no remorse of state or royal blood. in homely poor array, she went from court away,[l ] to meet her love and heart's delight; who in a forest great, had taken up his seat, to wait her coming in the night. but lo, what sudden danger, to this princely stranger, chancèd as he sat alone, by outlaws he was robbed, and with poinard stabbed, uttering many a dying groan. the princess, armed by him, and by true desire, wandering all that night, without dread at all, still unknown, she past in her strange attire, coming at the last within echo's call. "you fair woods," quoth she, "honoured may you be, harbouring my heart's delight, which doth encompass here, my joy and only dear, my trusty friend, and comely knight. sweet, i come unto thee, sweet, i come to wooe thee, that thou may'st not angry be; for my long delaying, and thy courteous staying, amends for all i make to thee." passing thus alone through the silent forest, many a grievous groan sounded in her ear; where she heard a man to lament the sorest chance that ever came, forc'd by deadly fear. "farewel, my dear!" quoth he, "whom i shall never see, for why, my life is at an end; for thy sweet sake i die, through villain's cruelty, to shew i am a faithful friend. here lie i a-bleeding, while my thoughts are feeding on the rarest beauty found; o hard hap that may be, little knows my lady my heart-blood lies on the ground!" with that he gave a groan that did break asunder all the tender strings of his gentle heart: she, who knew his voice, at his tale did wonder; all her former joys did to grief convert. straight she ran to see who this man should be, that so like her love did speak; and found, whenas she came, her lovely lord lay slain, smeer'd in blood which life did break. which when that she espied, lord, how sore she cried! her sorrows could not counted be; her eyes like fountains running, while she cryed out, "my darling, would god that i had dy'd for thee!" his pale lips, alas! twenty times she kisséd, and his face did wash with her brinish tears; every bleeding wound her fair face bedewed, wiping off the blood with her golden hairs. ["speak, my love," quoth she,][l ] "speak, fair prince, to me; one sweet word of comfort give; lift up thy fair eyes, listen to my cries, think in what great grief i live." all in vain she sued, all in vain she wooed, the prince's life was fled and gone; there stood she still mourning 'till the sun's returning, and bright day was coming on. in this great distress quoth this royal lady, "who can now express what will become of me? to my father's court never will i wander, but some service seek where i may placed be." whilst she thus made her moan, weeping all alone, in this deep and deadly fear, a forester all in green, most comely to be seen, ranging the wood did find her there, round beset with sorrow. "maid," quoth he, "good morrow. what hard hap hath brought you here?" "harder hap did never chance to a maiden ever; here lies slain my brother dear. "where might i be plac'd, gentle forester tell me; where might i procure a service in my need? pains i will not spare, but will do my duty; ease me of my care, help my extream need." the forester all amazed on her beauty gazed, 'till his heart was set on fire: "if, fair maid," quoth he, "you will go with me, you shall have your heart's desire." he brought her to his mother, and above all other he set forth this maiden's praise: long was his heart inflamed, at length her love he gained, so fortune did his glory raise. thus unknown he matcht with the king's fair daughter; children seven he had, ere she to him was known. but when he understood she was a royal princess, by this means at last he shewèd forth her fame: he cloath'd his children then[l ] not like other men, in party colours strange to see; the right side cloth of gold, the left side to behold of woollen cloth still framèd he. men thereat did wonder, golden fame did thunder this strange deed in every place; the king of france came thither[l ] being pleasant weather, in the woods the hart to chase. the children there did stand, as their mother willèd, where the royal king must of force come by; their mother richly clad in fair crimson velvet, their father all in gray, most comely to the eye. when this famous king, noting every thing, did ask him how he durst be so bold, to let his wife to wear, and deck his children there, in costly robes of pearl and gold,-- the forester bold replièd, and the cause descrièd, and to the king he thus did say: "well may they by their mother wear rich gold like other, being by birth a princess gay." the king upon these words more heedfully beheld them, till a crimson blush his conceit did cross. "the more i look," quoth he, "upon thy wife and children, the more i call to mind my daughter whom i lost." "i am that child," quoth she, falling on her knee; "pardon me my soveraign liege!" the king perceiving this his daughter dear did kiss, till joyful tears did stop his speech. with his train he turnèd, and with her sojournèd; straight he dubb'd her husband knight; he made him earl of flanders, one of his chief commanders;-- thus was their sorrow put to flight. , took. , to court. , from _old ballads_, . - . "this will remind the reader of the livery and device of charles brandon, a private gentleman, who married the queen dowager of france, sister of henry viii. at a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half cloth of gold, and half frieze, with the following motto: 'cloth of gold, do not despise, tho' thou art matcht with cloth of frize; cloth of frize, be not too bold, tho' thou art matcht with cloth of gold.' see sir w. temple's misc. vol. iii. p. ." percy. , king he coming. constance of cleveland. from collier's _book of roxburghe ballads_, p. . "this romantic ballad, in a somewhat plain and unpretending style, relates incidents that may remind the reader of the old story of titus and gisippus, which was told in english verse by edw. lewicke, as early as : the ballad is not so ancient by, perhaps, thirty or forty years; and the printed copy that has come down to our day is at least fifty years more recent than the date when we believe the ballad to have been first published. the title the broadside ('printed for f. coles, j. w., t. vere, w. gilbertson,') bears is, '_constance of cleveland: a very excellent sonnet of the most fair lady constance of cleveland, and her disloyal knight_.' we conclude that the incidents are mere invention, but _constance of rome_ is the name of a play, by drayton, munday and hathway, mentioned in henslowe's diary under the year , (p. .) the tune of _crimson velvet_ was highly popular in the reigns of elizabeth and her successor." to the tune of _crimson velvet_. it was a youthfull knight lov'd a gallant lady; fair she was and bright, and of vertues rare: herself she did behave so courteously as may be; wedded they were brave; joy without compare. here began the grief, pain without relief: her husband soon her love forsook, to women lewd of mind, being bad inclin'd, he only lent a pleasant look. the lady she sate weeping, while that he was keeping company with others moe: her words, "my love, beleeve not, come to me, and grieve not; wantons will thee overthrow." his fair ladie's words nothing he regarded; wantonnesse affords such delightfull sport. while they dance and sing, with great mirth prepared, she her hands did wring in most grievous sort. "o what hap had i thus to wail and cry, unrespected every day, living in disdain, while that others gain all the right i should enjoy! i am left forsaken, others they are taken: ah my love! why dost thou so? her flatteries beleeve not, come to me, and grieve not; wantons will thee overthrow." the knight with his fair peece at length the lady spied, who did him daily fleece of his wealth and store: secretly she stood, while she her fashions tryed, with a patient mind, while deep the strumpet swore. "o sir knight, o sir knight," quoth she, "so dearly i love thee, my life doth rest at thy dispose: by day, and eke by night, for thy sweet delight, thou shalt me in thy arms inclose. i am thine for ever; still i will persever true to thee, where ere i go." "her flatteries believe not, come to me, and grieve not; wantons will thee overthrow." the vertuous lady mild enters then among them, being big with child as ever she might be: with distilling tears she looked then upon them; filled full of fears, thus replyed she: "ah, my love and dear! wherefore stay you here, refusing me, your loving wife, for an harlot's sake, which each one will take; whose vile deeds provoke much strife? many can accuse her: o my love, o my love, refuse her! with thy lady home return. her flatteries beleeve not, come to me, and grieve not; wantons will thee overthrow." all in a fury then the angry knight up started, very furious when he heard his ladie's speech. with many bitter terms his wife he ever thwarted, using hard extreams, while she did him beseech. from her neck so white he took away in spite her curious chain of purest gold, her jewels and her rings, and all such costly things as he about her did behold. the harlot in her presence he did gently reverence, and to her he gave them all: he sent away his lady, full of wo as may be, who in a swound with grief did fall. at the ladie's wrong the harlot fleer'd and laughed; enticements are so strong, they overcome the wise. the knight nothing regarded to see the lady scoffed: thus was she rewarded for her enterprise. the harlot, all this space, did him oft embrace; she flatters him, and thus doth say: "for thee ile dye and live, for thee my faith ile give, no wo shall work my love's decay; thou shalt be my treasure, thou shalt be my pleasure, thou shalt be my heart's delight: i will be thy darling, i will be thy worldling, in despight of fortune's spight." thus he did remain in wastfull great expences, till it bred his pain, and consumed him quite. when his lands were spent, troubled in his sences, then he did repent of his late lewd life. for relief he hies, for relief he flyes to them on whom he spent his gold: they do him deny, they do him defie; they will not once his face behold. being thus distressed, being thus oppressed, in the fields that night he lay; which the harlot knowing, through her malice growing, sought to take his life away. a young and proper lad they had slain in secret for the gold he had, whom they did convey by a ruffian lewd to that place directly, where the youthful knight fast a sleeping lay. the bloody dagger than, wherewith they kill'd the man, hard by the knight he likewise laid, sprinkling him with blood, as he thought it good, and then no longer there he stayd. the knight, being so abused, was forthwith accused for this murder which was done; and he was condemned that had not offended; shamefull death he might not shun. when the lady bright understood the matter, that her wedded knight was condemn'd to dye, to the king she went with all the speed that might be, where she did lament her hard destiny. "noble king!" quoth she, "pitty take on me, and pardon my poor husbands life; else i am undone, with my little son: let mercy mitigate this grief." "lady fair, content thee; soon thou wouldst repent thee, if he should be saved so: sore he hath abus'd thee, sore he hath misus'd thee; therefore, lady, let him go." "o my liege!" quoth she, "grant your gracious favour: dear he is to me, though he did me wrong." the king reply'd again, with a stern behaviour, "a subject he hath slain, dye he shall ere long: except thou canst find any one so kind, that will dye and set him free." "noble king!" she said, "glad am i apaid; that same person will i be. i will suffer duly, i will suffer truly, for my love and husbands sake." the king thereat amazed, though he her beauty praised, he bad from thence they should her take. it was the king's command, on the morrow after she should out of hand to the scaffold go: her husband was to bear the sword before her; he must eke, alas! give the deadly blow. he refus'd the deed; she bid him to proceed, with a thousand kisses sweet. in this wofull case they did both imbrace, which mov'd the ruffians in that place straight for to discover this concealed murder; whereby the lady saved was. the harlot then was hanged, as she well deserved: this did vertue bring to passe. willow, willow, willow. from percy's _reliques_, i. . this is the "song of willow" from which desdemona sings snatches in the fourth act of _othello_, (sc. .) the portions which occur in shakespeare are the first stanza, and fragments of the fifth, sixth, and seventh; he also introduces a couplet which does not belong to the ballad as here given. the second part is very likely a separate composition. songs upon this model or with the same burden were not infrequent. see one in park's _heliconia_, part i. , and another in _the moral play of wit and science_, (shakespeare society,) p. . percy gave this song from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection, entitled _a lover's complaint, being forsaken of his love_. another version, differing principally in arrangement, is printed in the above cited publication of the shakespeare society, p. , from a ms. in the british museum, "written about the year ." a poore soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree; _o willow, willow, willow!_ with his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee. _o willow, willow, willow!_ _o willow, willow, willow!_ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._ he sigh'd in his singing, and after each grone, _come willow, &c._ "i am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._ "my love she is turned; untrue she doth prove; _o willow, &c._ she renders me nothing but hate for my love. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "o pitty me," cried he, "ye lovers, each one; _o willow, &c._ her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my mone. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c."_ the cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace; _o willow, &c._ the salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ the mute birds sate by him, made tame by his mones; _o willow, &c._ the salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._ "let nobody blame me, her scornes i do prove; _o willow, &c._ she was borne to be faire; i, to die for her love. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "o that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard! _sing willow, &c._ my true love rejecting without all regard. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "let love no more boast him in palace or bower; _o willow, &c._ for women are trothles, and flote in an houre. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "but what helps complaining? in vaine i complaine: _o willow, &c._ i must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me, _o willow, &c._ he that 'plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._ "the willow wreath weare i, since my love did fleet; _o willow, &c._ a garland for lovers forsaken most meete. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland!_" part the second. "lowe lay'd by my sorrow, begot by disdaine, _o willow, willow, willow!_ against her too cruell, still, still i complaine. _o willow, willow, willow!_ _o willow, willow, willow!_ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland!_ "o love too injurious, to wound my poore heart, _o willow, &c._ to suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart! _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "o willow, willow, willow! the willow garlànd, _o willow, &c._ a sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._ "as here it doth bid to despair and to dye, _o willow, &c._ so hang it, friends, ore me in grave where i lye. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "in grave where i rest mee, hang this to the view, _o willow, &c._ of all that doe knowe her, to blaze her untrue. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "with these words engraven, as epitaph meet, _o willow, &c._ 'here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet.' _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "though she thus unkindly hath scorned my love, _o willow, &c._ and carelesly smiles at the sorrowes i prove; _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "i cannot against her unkindly exclaim, _o willow, &c._ cause once well i loved her, and honoured her name. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._ "the name of her sounded so sweete in mine eare, _o willow, &c._ it rays'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare; _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "as then 'twas my comfort, it now is my griefe; _o willow, &c._ it now brings me anguish; then brought me reliefe. _o willow, &c._ _sing, o the greene willow, &c._ "farewell, faire false hearted, plaints end with my breath! _o willow, willow, willow!_ thou dost loath me, i love thee, though cause of my death. _o willow, willow, willow!_ _o willow, willow, willow!_ _sing, o the greene willow shall be my garland._" greensleeves. from _a handefull of pleasant delites_, &c., london, , as reprinted in park's _heliconia_, vol. ii. p. . it is there entitled _a new courtly sonet of the lady greensleeves. to the new tune of greensleeves_. "the earliest mention of the ballad of _green sleeves_, in the registers of the stationers' company, is in september, , when richard jones had licensed to him _a new northern dittye of the lady green sleeves_." "_green sleeves_, or _which nobody can deny_, has been a favorite tune from the time of elizabeth to the present day, and is still frequently to be heard in the streets of london to songs with the old burden, _which nobody can deny_. it will also be recognized as the air of _christmas comes but once a year_, and many another merry ditty." chappell's _popular music of the olden time_, p. . _greensleeves_ is twice alluded to by shakespeare in _the merry wives of windsor_; act ii. sc. ; act v. sc. . alas, my love, ye do me wrong to cast me oft discurteously, and i have loved you so long, delighting in your companie. _greensleeves was all my joy_, _greensleeves was my delight_, _greensleeves was my heart of gold_, _and who but ladie greensleeves_. i have been readie at your hand to grant what ever you would crave; i have both waged life and land, your love and good will for to have. _greensleeves was all my joy, &c._ i bought thee kerchers to thy head that were wrought fine and gallantly; i kept thee both at boord and bed, which cost my purse well favouredly. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ i bought thee peticotes of the best, the cloth so fine as fine might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ thy smock of silke, both faire and white, with gold embrodered gorgeously, thy peticote of sendall right, and this i bought thee gladly.[l ] _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ thy girdle of gold so red, with pearles bedecked sumtuously,-- the like no other lasses had,-- and yet thou wouldest not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ thy purse, and eke thy gay guilt knives, thy pincase, gallant to the eie,-- no better wore the burgesse wives,-- and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joy, &c._ thy crimson stockings, all of silk, with golde all wrought above the knee; thy pumps, as white as was the milk, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ thy gown was of the grassie green, thy sleeves of satten hanging by, which made thee be our harvest queen, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ thy garters fringed with the golde, and silver aglets hanging by, which made thee blithe for to beholde,-- and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ my gayest gelding i thee gave, to ride where ever liked thee, no ladie ever was so brave, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ my men were clothed all in green, and they did ever wait on thee; all this was gallant to be seen, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ they set thee up, they took thee downe, they served thee with humilitie; thy foote might not once touch the ground, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ for everie morning, when thou rose, i sent thee dainties, orderly, to cheare thy stomack from all woes, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ thou couldst desire no earthly thing but stil thou hadst it readily; thy musicke still to play and sing, and yet thou wouldst not love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ and who did pay for all this geare, that thou didst spend when pleased thee? even i that am rejected here, and thou disdainst to love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ wel, i wil pray to god on hie that thou my constancie maist see, and that yet once before i die thou will vouchsafe to love me. _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ greensleeves, now farewel, adue! god i pray to prosper thee, for i am stil thy lover true; come once againe, and love me! _greensleeves was all my joie, &c._ , and thus. robene and makyne. this exceedingly pretty pastoral, the earliest poem of the kind in the scottish language, is ascribed in the bannatyne ms., where it is preserved, to robert henryson, who appears to have written in the latter half of the fifteenth century. all that is certainly known of the author is that he was chief schoolmaster of dunfermline. _robene and makyne_ was first printed by ramsay in his _evergreen_, (i. ,) and afterwards by lord hailes, in _ancient scottish poems published from the ms. of george bannatyne_, (p. .) some freedoms were taken with the text by ramsay, and one line was altered by lord hailes. our copy is given from sibbald's _chronicle of scottish poetry_, (i. ,) where the manuscript is faithfully adhered to. robene sat on gud grene hill, keipand a flok of fie: mirry makyne said him till, "robene, thow rew on me; i haif thé luvit, lowd and still, thir yeiris two or thré; my dule in dern bot gif thow dill, doutles bot dreid i dé." robene answerit, "be the rude, na thing of lufe i knaw, bot keipis my scheip undir yone wud; lo quhair thay raik on raw. quhat hes marrit thé in thy mude, makyne, to me thow schaw; or quhat is love, or to be lude? faine wald i leir that law." "at luvis lair gife thow will leir, tak thair ane a, b, c; be kynd, courtas, and fair of feir, wyse, hardy, and fré. sé that no denger do thé deir, quhat dule in dern thow dré; preiss thé with pane at all poweir, be patient and previe." robene answerit her agane: "i wait nocht quhat is luve, bot i haif mervell in certaine, quhat makis thé this wanrufe; the weddir is fair, and i am fane, my scheip gois haill aboif, and we wald play us in this plane, they wald us bayth reproif." "robene, tak tent unto my taill, and wirk all as i reid, and thow sall haif my hairt all haill, eik and my madinheid. sen god sendis bute for baill, and for murning remeid, i dern with thé bot gif i daill, dowbtles i am bot deid." "makyne, to morne this ilka tyde, and ye will meit me heir; perventure my scheip ma gang besyd, quhyll we haif liggit full neir: bot maugre haif i, and i byd, fra they begin to steir; quhat lyis on hairt i will nocht hyd; makyne, than mak gud cheir." "robene, thou reivis me roiss and rest; i luve bot thé allone." "makyne, adew, the sone gois west, the day is neirhand gone." "robene, in dule i am so drest, that lufe will be my bone." "ga lufe, makyne, quhair evir thou list, for leman i lue none." "robene, i stand in sic a style, i sicht, and that full sair." "makyne, i haif bene heir this quyle: at hame god gif i wair!" "my hinny, robene, talk ane quhyle, gif thou wilt do na mair." "makyne, sum uthir man begyle, for hamewart i will fair." robene on his wayis went, as licht as leif of tré; makyne murnit in her intent, and trowd him nevir to sé. robene brayd attour the bent; than makyne cryit on hie, "now ma thow sing, for i am schent! quhat alis lufe with me?" makyne went hame withouttin faill, full werry eftir cowth weip: than robene in a ful fair daill assemblit all his scheip. be that sum parte of makyne's ail out throw his hairt cowd creip; he followit hir fast thair till assail, and till her tuke gude keep. "abyd, abyd, thou fair makyne, a word for ony thing; for all my luve it sall be thyne, withouttin departing. all haill! thy harte for till haif myne, is all my cuvating; my scheip to morn, quhill houris nyne, will neid of no keping." "robene, thou hes hard soung and say, in gestis and storeis auld, _the man that will not quhen he may, sall haif nocht quhen he wald._ i pray to jesu every day, mot eik thair cairis cauld, that first preissis with thé to play, be firth, forrest, or fawld." "makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, the wedder is warme and fair, and the grene woud rycht neir us by to walk attour all quhair: thair ma na janglour us espy, that is to lufe contrair; thairin, makyne, bath ye and i, unsene we ma repair." "robene, that warld is all away, and quyt brocht till ane end, and nevir again thereto, perfay, sall it be as thou wend; for of my pane thou maide it play, and all in vane i spend: as thou hes done, sa sall i say, murne on, i think to mend." "makyne, the howp of all my heill, my hairt on thé is sett, and evir mair to thé be leill, quhile i may leif but lett; nevir to faill, as utheris faill, quhat grace that evir i gett." "robene, with thé i will not deill; adew, for thus we mett." makyne went hame blyth anewche, attoure the holtis hair; robene murnit, and makyne lewche; scho sang, he sichit sair: and so left him, bayth wo and wreuch, in dolour and in cair, kepand his hird under a huche, amang the holtis hair. appendix. lord beichan and susie pye. see p. . _from kinloch's ancient scottish ballads_, p. . young beichan was in london born, he was a man of hie degree; he past thro' monie kingdoms great, until he cam unto grand turkie. he view'd the fashions of that land, their way of worship viewed he; but unto onie of their stocks he wadna sae much as bow a knee: which made him to be taken straight, and brought afore their hie jurie; the savage moor did speak upricht, and made him meikle ill to dree. in ilka shoulder they've bor'd a hole, and in ilka hole they've put a tree; they've made him to draw carts and wains, till he was sick and like to dee. but young beichan was a christian born, and still a christian was he; which made them put him in prison strang, and cauld and hunger sair to dree; and fed on nocht but bread and water, until the day that he mot dee. in this prison there grew a tree, and it was unco stout and strang; where he was chained by the middle, until his life was almaist gane. the savage moor had but ae dochter, and her name it was susie pye; and ilka day as she took the air, the prison door she passed bye. but it fell ance upon a day, as she was walking, she heard him sing; she listen'd to his tale of woe, a happy day for young beichan! "my hounds they all go masterless, my hawks they flee frae tree to tree, my youngest brother will heir my lands, my native land i'll never see." "o were i but the prison-keeper, as i'm a ladie o' hie degree, i soon wad set this youth at large, and send him to his ain countrie." she went away into her chamber, all nicht she never clos'd her ee; and when the morning begoud to dawn, at the prison door alane was she. she gied the keeper a piece of gowd, and monie pieces o' white monie, to tak her thro' the bolts and bars; the lord frae scotland she lang'd to see;-- she saw young beichan at the stake, which made her weep maist bitterlie. "o hae ye got onie lands," she says, "or castles in your ain countrie? it's what wad ye gie to the ladie fair wha out o' prison wad set you free?" "it's i hae houses, and i hae lands, wi' monie castles fair to see, and i wad gie a' to that ladie gay, wha out o' prison wad set me free." the keeper syne brak aff his chains, and set lord beichan at libertie:-- she fill'd his pockets baith wi' gowd, to tak him till his ain countrie. she took him frae her father's prison, and gied to him the best o' wine; and a brave health she drank to him; "i wish, lord beichan, ye were mine! "it's seven lang years i'll mak a vow, and seven lang years i'll keep it true; if ye'll wed wi' na ither woman, it's i will wed na man but you." she's tane him to her father's port, and gien to him a ship o' fame:-- "farewell, farewell, my scottish lord, i fear i'll ne'er see you again." lord beichan turn'd him round about, and lowly, lowly, loutit he:-- "ere seven lang years come to an end, i'll tak you to mine ain countrie." * * * * then when he cam to glasgow town, a happy, happy man was he; the ladies a' around him thrang'd, to see him come frae slaverie. his mother she had died o' sorrow, and a' his brothers were dead but he; his lands they a' were lying waste, in ruins were his castles free. na porter there stood at his yett na human creature he could see, except the screeching owls and bats, had he to bear him companie. but gowd will gar the castles grow, and he had gowd and jewels free; and soon the pages around him thrang'd, to serve him on their bended knee. his hall was hung wi' silk and satin, his table rung wi' mirth and glee; he soon forgot the lady fair, that lows'd him out o' slaverie. lord beichan courted a lady gay, to heir wi' him his lands sae free, ne'er thinking that a lady fair was on her way frae grand turkie. for susie pye could get na rest, nor day nor nicht could happy be, still thinking on the scottish lord, till she was sick and like to dee. but she has builded a bonnie ship, weel mann'd wi' seamen o' hie degree; and secretly she stept on board, and bid adieu to her ain countrie. but whan she cam to the scottish shore, the bells were ringing sae merrilie; it was lord beichan's wedding day, wi' a lady fair o' hie degree. but sic a vessel was never seen; the very masts were tapp'd wi' gold; her sails were made o' the satin fine, maist beautiful for to behold. but whan the lady cam on shore, attended wi' her pages three, her shoon were of the beaten gowd, and she a lady of great beautie. then to the skipper she did say, "can ye this answer gie to me-- where are lord beichan's lands sae braid? he surely lives in this countrie." then up bespak the skipper bold,-- for he could speak the turkish tongue,-- "lord beichan lives not far away; this is the day of his wedding." "if ye will guide me to beichan's yetts, i will ye well reward," said she,-- then she and all her pages went, a very gallant companie. when she cam to lord beichan's yetts, she tirl'd gently at the pin; sae ready was the proud porter to let the wedding guests come in. "is this lord beichan's house," she says, "or is that noble lord within?" "yes, he is gane into the hall, with his brave bride and monie ane." "ye'll bid him send me a piece of bread, bot and a cup of his best wine; and bid him mind the lady's love that ance did lowse him out o' pyne." then in and cam the porter bold,-- i wat he gae three shouts and three,-- "the fairest lady stands at your yetts that ever my twa een did see." then up bespak the bride's mither,-- i wat an angry woman was she,-- "you micht hae excepted our bonnie bride, tho' she'd been three times as fair as she." "my dame, your daughter's fair enough, and aye the fairer mot she be! but the fairest time that e'er she was, she'll na compare wi' this ladie. "she has a gowd ring on ilka finger, and on her mid-finger she has three; she has as meikle gowd upon her head, as wad buy an earldom o' land to thee. "my lord, she begs some o' your bread, bot and a cup o' your best wine, and bids you mind the lady's love that ance did lowse ye out o' pyne." then up and started lord beichan,-- i wat he made the table flee,-- "i wad gie a' my yearlie rent 'twere susie pye come owre the sea." syne up bespak the bride's mother,-- she was never heard to speak sae free,-- "ye'll no forsake my ae dochter, tho' susie pye has cross'd the sea?" "tak hame, tak hame, your dochter, madam, for she is ne'er the waur o' me; she cam to me on horseback riding, and she sall gang hame in chariot free." he's tane susie pye by the milk-white hand, and led her thro' his halls sae hie: "ye're now lord beichan's lawful wife, and thrice ye're welcome unto me." lord beichan prepar'd for another wedding, wi' baith their hearts sae fu' o' glee;-- says, "i'll range na mair in foreign lands, sin susie pye has cross'd the sea. "fy! gar a' our cooks mak ready; and fy! gar a' our pipers play; and fy! gar trumpets gae thro' the toun, that lord beichan's wedded twice in a day!" sweet william. see p. . "given from the chanting of an old woman. it has never been before printed." motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . other versions may be seen in that careless publication of the percy society, _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, vol. xvii. p. , _lord william_, and in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , _lord lundy_. sweet william's gane over seas, some unco lair to learn, and our gude bailie's ae dochter is awa to learn the same. in ae braid buik they learned baith, in ae braid bed they lay; but when her father cam to know, he gart her come away. "it's you must marry that southland lord, his lady for to be; it's ye maun marry that southland lord, or nocht ye'll get frae me." "i must marry that southland lord, father, an it be your will; but i'd rather it were my burial day, my grave for to fill." she walked up, she walked down, had nane to mak her moan, nothing but the pretty bird sat on the causey stone. "if thou could speak, wee bird," she says, "as weel as thou can flee, i would write a lang letter to will ayont the sea." "what thou wants wi' will," it says, "thou'll seal it wi' thy ring; tak a thread o' silk, and anither o' twine, and about my neck it hing." what she wanted wi' willie she sealed it wi' a ring; took a thread o' silk, anither of twine, about its neck did hing. this bird flew high, this bird flew low, this bird flew owre the sea, until it entered the same chamber wherein was sweet willie. this bird flew high, this bird flew low,-- poor bird, it was mista'en,-- it loot the letter fa' on baldie's breast, instead of sweet william. "here's a letter, william," he says, "i'm sure it's not to me; and gin the morn gin twelve o'clock your love shall married be." "come saddle to me my horse," he said, "the brown and a' that's speedie, and i'll awa' to old england, to bring hame my ladie." awa he gade, awa he rade, awa wi' meikle speed; he lichtit at every twa miles' end, lichtit and changed his steed. when she entered the church style, the tear was in her e'e; but when she entered the church door, a blythe sight did she see. "o hold your hand, you minister, hold it a little wee, till i speak wi' the bonnie bride, for she's a friend to me. "stand off, stand off, you braw bridegroom, stand off a little wee; stand off, stand off, you braw bridegroom, for the bride shall join wi' me." up and spak the bride's father, and an angry man was he,-- "if i had pistol, powther and lead, and all at my command, it's i would shoot thee stiff and dead, in the place where thou dost stand." up and spoke then sweet william, and a blithe blink from his e'e: "if ye ne'er be shot till i shoot you, ye'se ne'er be shot for me. "come out, come out, my foremost man, and lift my lady on; commend me all to my goodmother, at night when you gang home." young child dyring. see p. . translated from the _kj[oe]mpeviser_, in _illustrations of northern antiquities_, p. . it was the young child dyring, wi' his mither rede did he: "i will me out ride sir magnus's bride to see." _his leave the page takes to-day from his master._ "will thou thee out ride, sir magnus's bride to see? sae beg i thee by almighty god thou speed thee home to me." _his leave, &c._ syne answer'd young child dyrè; he rode the bride to meet; the silk but and the black sendell hang down to his horse feet. _his leave, &c._ all rode they there, the bride-folk, on row sae fair to see, excepting sir svend dyrè, and far about rode he. _his leave, &c._ it was the young child dyrè rode alone along the strand; the bridle was of the red gold that glitter'd in his hand. _his leave, &c._ 'twas then proud lady ellensborg, and under weed smil'd she; "and who is he, that noble child that rides sae bold and free?" _his leave, &c._ syne up and spak the maiden fair was next unto the bride; "it is the young child dyrè that stately steed does ride." _his leave, &c._ "and is't the young child dyrè that rides sae bold and free? god wot, he's dearer that rides that steed nor a' the lave to me!" _his leave, &c._ all rode they there, the bridal train, each rode his steed to stall; all but child dyrè, that look'd whare he should find his seat in the hall. _his leave, &c._ "sit whare ye list, my lordings; for me, whate'er betide, here i shall sickerly sit the day, to hald the sun frae the bride." _his leave, &c._ then up spak the bride's father, and an angry man was he; "whaever sits by my dochter the day, ye better awa' wad be." _his leave, &c._ "it's i have intill paris been, and well my drift can spell; and ay, whatever i have to say, i tell it best my sell." _his leave, &c._ "sooth thou hast intill paris lear'd a worthless drift to spell, and ay, whatever thou hast to say, a rogue's tale thou must tell." _his leave, &c._ ben stept he, young child dyrè, nor reck'd he wha might chide; and he has ta'en a chair in hand, and set him by the bride. _his leave, &c._ 'twas lang i' the night; the bride-folk ilk ane look'd for his bed; and young child dyrè amang the lave speer'd whare he should be laid. _his leave, &c._ "without, afore the stair steps, or laigh on the cawsway stane, and there may lye sir dyrè, for ither bed we've nane." _his leave, &c._ 'twas ate intill the evening; the bride to bed maun ga; and out went he, child dyring, to rouse his menyie a'. _his leave, &c._ "now busk and d'on your harnass, but and your brynies blae, and boldly to the bride-bower full merrily we'll gae." _his leave, &c._ sae follow'd they to the bride-bower that bride sae young and bright, and forward stept child dyrè, and quenched the marriage light. _his leave, &c._ the cresset they've lit up again, but and the taper clear, and followed to the bride-bower that bride without a peer. _his leave, &c._ * * * * * * and up child dyrè snatch'd the bride, all in his mantle blae, and swung her all so lightly upon his ambler gray. _his leave, &c._ they lock'd the bower, they lit the torch, 'twas hurry-scurry a', while merrily ay the lovers gay rode roundly to the shaw. _his leave, &c._ in rosen-wood they turn'd about to pray their bridal prayer; "good night and joy, sir magnus! for us ye'll see nae mair." _his leave, &c._ sae rode he to the green wood, and o'er the meadow green, till he came to his mither's bower, ere folks to bed were gane. _his leave, &c._ out came proud lady metelild, in menevair sae free; she welcom'd him, child dyring, and his young bride him wi'. _his leave, &c._ now joys attend child dyring, sae leal but and sae bold; he's ta'en her to his ain castell, his bride-ale there to hold. _his leave the page takes to-day frae his master._ barbara livingston. see p. . motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. , from recitation. four-and-twenty ladies fair were playing at the ba', and out cam barbara livingston, the flower amang them a'. out cam barbara livingston, the flower amang them a';-- the lusty laird of linlyon[l ] has stoun her clean awa'. "the hielands is no for me, kind sir, the hielands is no for me; but if you would my favour win, ye 'll tak me to dundee." "the hielands 'll be for thee, my dear, the hielands will be for thee; to the lusty laird o' linlyon a-married ye shall be." when they cam to linlyon's yetts, and lichtit on the green, every ane spak earse to her,-- the tears cam trickling down. when they went to bed at nicht, to linlyon she did say, "och and alace! a weary nicht, oh! but it's lang till day." "your father's steed 's in my stable, he 's eating corn and hay, and you 're lying in my twa arms; what need you lang for day?" "if i had paper, pen, and ink, and candle for to see, i would write a lang letter to my love in dundee." they brocht her paper, pen, and ink, and candle for to see, and she did write a lang letter to her love in dundee. when he cam to linlyon's yetts, and lichtit on the green; but lang or he wan up the stair his love was dead and gane. woe be to thee, linlyon, an ill death may thou die! thou might hae ta'en anither woman, and let my lady be. . mr. jamieson has "glenlyon," which is probably the right name. m. lang johnny moir. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . there lives a man in rynie's land, anither in auchindore; the bravest lad amo' them a', was lang johnny moir. young johnny was an airy blade, fu' sturdy, stout, and strang; the sword that hang by johnny's side, was just full ten feet lang. young johnny was a clever youth, fu' sturdy, stout, and wight; just full three yards around the waist, and fourteen feet in hight. but if a' be true they tell me now, and a' be true i hear, young johnny's on to lundan gane, the king's banner to bear. he hadna been in fair lundan but twalmonths twa or three, till the fairest lady in a' lundan fell in love wi' young johnny. this news did sound thro' lundan town, till it came to the king, that the muckle scot had fa'in in love wi' his daughter, lady jean. when the king got word o' that, a solemn oath sware he; "this weighty scott sall strait a rope, and hanged he shall be." when johnny heard the sentence past, a light laugh then gae he; "while i hae strength to yield my blade, ye darena a' hang me." the english dogs were cunning rogues; about him they did creep, and ga'e him draps o' lodomy that laid him fast asleep. whan johnny waken'd frae his sleep, a sorry heart had he; his jaws and hands in iron bands, his feet in fetters three. "o whar will i get a little wee boy will work for meat and fee, that will rin on to my uncle, at the foot of benachie?" "here am i, a little wee boy, will work for meat and fee, that will rin on to your uncle, at the foot of benachie." "whan ye come whar grass grows green, slack your shoes and rin; and whan ye come whar water's strong, ye'll bend your bow and swim. "and whan ye come to benachie, ye'll neither chap nor ca'; sae well's ye'll ken auld johnny there, three feet abeen them a'. "ye'll gie to him this braid letter, seal'd wi' my faith and troth; and ye'll bid him bring alang wi' him the body, jock o' noth." "whan he came whar grass grew green, he slack't his shoes and ran; and whan he came whar water's strong, he bent his bow and swam. and whan he came to benachie, did neither chap nor ca'; sae well's he kent auld johnny there, three feet abeen them a'. "what news, what news, my little wee boy? ye never were here before;" "nae news, nae news, but a letter from your nephew, johnny moir. "ye'll take here this braid letter, seal'd wi' his faith and troth; and ye're bidden bring alang wi' you the body, jock o' noth." benachie lyes very low, the tap o' noth lyes high; for a' the distance that's between, he heard auld johnny cry. whan on the plain these champions met, twa grizly ghosts to see, there were three feet between her brows, and shoulders were yards three. these men they ran ower hills and dales, and ower mountains high; till they came on to lundan town, at the dawn o' the third day. and whan they came to lundan town, the yetts were lockit wi' bands; and wha were there but a trumpeter, wi' trumpet in his hands. "what is the matter, ye keepers all, or what's the matter within, that the drums do beat, and bells do ring, and make sic dolefu' din?" "there's naething the matter," the keeper said, "there's naething the matter to thee; but a weighty scot to strait the rope, and the morn he maun die." "o open the yetts, ye proud keepers, ye'll open without delay;" the trembling keeper smiling said, "o i hae not the key." "ye'll open the yetts, ye proud keepers, ye'll open without delay; or here is a body at my back frae scotland hae brought the key." "ye'll open the yetts," says jock o' noth, "ye'll open them at my call;" then wi' his foot he has drove in three yards braid o' the wall. as they gaed in by drury-lane, and down by the town's hall; and there they saw young johnny moir, stand on their english wall. "ye're welcome here, my uncle dear, ye're welcome unto me; ye'll loose the knot, and slack the rope, and set me frae the tree." "is it for murder, or for theft? or is it for robberie? if it is for ony heinous crime, there's nae remeid for thee." "it's nae for murder, nor for theft, nor yet for robberie; a' is for the loving a gay lady, they're gaun to gar me die." "o whar's thy sword," says jock o' noth, "ye brought frae scotland wi' thee? i never saw a scotsman yet, but coud wield a sword or tree." "a pox upo' their lodomy on me had sic a sway; four o' their men, the bravest four, they bore my blade away." "bring back his blade," says jock o' noth, "and freely to him it gie; or i hae sworn a black scot's oath, i'll gar five million die." "now whar's the lady?" says jock o' noth, "sae fain i would her see;" "she's lock'd up in her ain chamber, the king he keeps the key." so they hae gane before the king, with courage bauld and free; their armour bright cast sic a light, that almost dim'd his e'e. "o whar's the lady," says jock o' noth, "sae fain as i wou'd her see; for we are come to her wedding, frae the foot o' benachie." "o take the lady," said the king, "ye welcome are for me; i never thought to see sic men frae the foot o' benachie." "if i had ken'd," said jock o' noth, "ye'd wonder'd sae muckle at me, i wou'd hae brought ane larger far by sizes three times three." "likewise if i had thought i'd been sic a great fright to thee, i'd brought sir john o' erskine park; he's thretty feet and three." "wae to the little boy," said the king, "brought tidings unto thee; let all england say what they will, high hanged shall he be." "o if ye hang the little wee boy brought tidings unto me, we shall attend his burial, and rewarded ye shall be." "o take the lady," said the king, "and the boy shall be free:" "a priest, a priest," then johnny cried, "to join my love and me." "a clerk, a clerk," the king replied, "to seal her tocher wi' thee." out it speaks auld johnny then, these words pronounced he: "i wantnae lands and rents at hame, i'll ask nae gowd frae thee; i am possess'd o' riches great, hae fifty ploughs and three; likewise fa's heir to ane estate at the foot o' benachie. "hae ye ony masons in this place, or ony at your call, that ye may now send some of them, to build your broken wall?" "yes, there are masons in this place, and plenty at my call; but ye may gang frae whence ye came, never mind my broken wall." they've ta'en the lady by the hand, and set her prison free; wi' drums beating, and fifes playing, they spent the night wi' glee. now auld johnny moir, and young johnny moir, and jock o' noth, a' three, the english lady, and little wee boy, went a' to benachie. lizie baillie. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . it fell about the lammas time, when flowers were fresh and green, lizie baillie to gartartan went, to see her sister jean. she meant to go unto that place, to stay a little while; but mark what fortune her befell, when she went to the isle.[l ] it fell out upon a day, sheep-shearing at an end, lizie baillie she walk'd out, to see a distant friend. but going down in a low glen, she met wi' duncan græme, who courted her along the way, likewise convoyed her hame. "my bonny lizie baillie, i'll row you in my plaidie, if ye'll gang ower the hills wi' me, and be a highland ladie." "i winna gang alang wi' you; indeed i maun confess, i can neither milk cow nor ewe, nor yet can i speak earse." "o never fear, lizie," he said, "if ye will gang wi' me, all that is into my place, can speak as gude scotch as thee. "but for a time we now maun part; i hinna time to tarry; next when we twa meet again, will be in castlecarry." when lizie tarried out her time, unto her father's came, the very first night she arrived, wha comes but duncan græme. says, "bonny lizie baillie, a gude deed mat ye die; altho' to me ye brake your tryst, now i am come for thee." "o stay at hame," her father said, "your mither cannot want thee; and gin ye gang awa' this night, we'll hae a killycrankie." "my bonny lizie baillie, o come to me without delay; o wou'd ye hae sae little wit, as mind what odd folks wad say?" she wou'dna hae the lowlandman, that wears the coat sae blue; but she wou'd hae the highlandman, that wears the plaid and trews. out it spake her mother then, a sorry heart had she; says, "wae be to his highland face, that's taen my lass frae me!" . the island of inchmahome, in the lake of menteith. the rare ballad of johnnie faa and the countess o'cassilis. see p. . from sheldon's _minstrelsy of the english border_, p. . the editor (or author, as he styles himself, indifferently) of that audacious work, asserts that he has "heard this ballad sung repeatedly by willie faa," and has "endeavored to preserve as much of his version as recollection would allow." there were seven gipsies in a gang, they were both brisk and bonny o, they rode till they came to the earl of castle's house, and there they sung so sweetly o. the earl of castle's lady came down, with her waiting maid beside her o; as soon as her handsome face they saw, they cast the glamour o'er her o. they gave to her a nutmeg brown, which was of the belinger o; she gave to them a far better thing, the ring from off her finger o. the earl he flang his purse to them, for wow! but they sung bonny o; gied them red wine and manchet cake, and all for the gipsy laddie o. the earl wad gae hunt in maybole woods, for blythsome was the morning o, to hunt the deer wi' the yelping curs, wi' the huntsman bugle sounding o. the countess went doun to the ha', to hae a crack at them fairly o; "and och," she cried, "i wad follow thee, to the end o' the world or nearly o." he kist the countess lips sae red, and her jimp white waist he cuddled o; she smoothed his beard wi' her luvely hand, and a' for her gipsy laddie o. "and och," she cried, "that i should love thee, and ever wrong my earlie o; i ken there's glamour in mine e'ee, to follow a gipsy laddie o." quo he, "thou art ane earl's ladye, and that is kent fu' fairly o; but if thou comest awa wi' me, thou'lt be a queen so rarely o. "i'm johnny faa o' yetholm town,[l ] there dwall my min and daddie o; and sweet countess, i'm nothing less than king o' the gipsy laddies o." she pull'd off her high heel'd shoes,-- they were made of spanish leather o,-- she put on her highland brogues, to follow the gipsy laddie o. at night, when my lord came riding home, enquiring for his lady o, the waiting maid made this reply-- "she's following the gipsy laddie o." "o now then," quo' the bonny earl, "that ever siccan a thing suld be; all ye that love, oh never build your nest upon the topmost tree. "for oh the green leaves they will fall, and roots and branches wither o; but the virtue o' a leal woman, i trow wad never swither o. "go saddle me my mylk white steed, go saddle it so sadly o, and i will ride out oure the lea, to follow her gipsy laddie o. "go saddle me my bonny black, and eke my gray cowt quickly o; gin i hae not johnny faa his head, the de'il may claw me tightly o. "have you been east, or have you been west, or have you been brisk and bonny o, or have you seen a gay lady following a gipsy laddie o?" he rode all the summer's night, and part of the next morning o; at length he espied his own wedded wife, she was cold, wet, and weary o. the leddy sabbed, the leddy cried, and wrung her hands sae sadly o; and aye her moan was to the earl, to spare her gipsy laddie o. "why did you leave your houses and lands, or why did you leave your money o, or why did you leave your own wedded lord, to follow the gipsy laddie o?" "o what care i for houses and lands, or what care i for money o? so as i have brew'd, so i will drink, so fare you well, my honey o." they marched them to the gallows tree, whilst the earl stood at the window o; and aye the smile was on his lip, as he thocht on the gipsy laddie o. there were seven gipsies in a gang, they were so brisk and bonny o, and they're to be hang'd all in a row, for the earl o' castle's leddy o. . "yetholm, on the borders of northumberland, situated among the recesses of the cheviots, has ever been the headquarters of the gipsy tribes. the faas, (a corruption of fall, their original designation,) the youngs, armstrongs, and gordons still look up to this straggling village as their city of refuge." sheldon. jamie douglas. see p. . from finlay's _scottish ballads_, ii. . when i fell sick, an' very sick, an' very sick, just like to die, a gentleman of good account he cam on purpose to visit me; but his blackie whispered in my lord's ear, he was owre lang in the room wi' me. "gae little page, an' tell your lord, gin he will come and dine wi' me, i'll set him on a chair of gold, and serve him on my bended knee." the little page gaed up the stair,-- "lord douglass, dine wi' your ladie: she'll set ye on a chair of gold, and serve you on her bended knee." "when cockle shells turn silver bells, when wine drieps red frae ilka tree, when frost and snaw will warm us a', then i'll cum down an' dine wi' thee." but whan my father gat word o' this, o what an angry man was he! he sent fourscore o' his archers bauld to bring me safe to his countrie. when i rose up then in the morn, my goodly palace for to lea', i knocked at my lord's chamber door, but ne'er a word wad he speak to me. but slowly, slowly, rose he up, and slowly, slowly, cam he down, and when he saw me set on my horse, he caused his drums and trumpets soun. "now fare ye weel my goodly palace, and fare ye weel, my children three; god grant your father grace to love you, far more than ever he loved me." he thocht that i was like himsel, that had a woman in every hall; but i could swear by the heavens clear, i never loved man but himsel. as on to embro' town we cam, my guid father he welcomed me; he caused his minstrels meet to sound,-- it was nae music at a' to me. "now haud your tongue, my daughter dear, leave off your weeping, let it be; for jamie's divorcement i'll send over; far better lord i'll provide for thee." "o haud your tongue, my father dear, and of such talking let me be; for never a man shall come to my arms, since my lord has sae slighted me." o an' i had ne'er crossed the tweed, nor yet been owre the river dee, i might hae staid at lord orgul's gate, where i wad hae been a gay ladie. the ladies they will cum to town, and they will cum and visit me; but i'll set me down now in the dark, for ochanie! who'll comfort me? an' wae betide ye, black fastness,[l ] ay, and an ill deid may ye die! ye was the first and foremost man wha parted my true lord and me. : fastness, printed fastness by finlay, is, says motherwell, merely falsetness, falseness. laird of blackwood. see p. . kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . "i lay sick, and very sick, and i was bad, and like to die, a friend o' mine cam to visit me;-- and blackwood whisper'd in my lord's ear, that he was owre lang in chamber wi' me. "o what need i dress up my head, nor what need i kaim doun my hair, whan my gude lord has forsaken me, and says he will na love me mair! "but o! an my young babe was born, and set upon some nourice knee, and i mysel war dead and gane,-- for a maid again i'll never be."-- "na mair o' this, my dochter dear, and of your mourning let abee; for a bill of divorce i'll gar write for him, a mair better lord i'll get for thee." "na mair o' this, my father dear, and of your folly let abee; for i wad na gie ae look o' my lord's face, for a' the lords in the haill countrie. "but i'll cast off my robes o' red, and i'll put on my robes o' blue; and i will travel to some other land, to see gin my love will on me rue. "there sall na wash come on my face, there sall na kaim come on my hair; there sall neither coal nor candle licht be seen intil my bouer na mair. "o! wae be to thee blackwood, and an ill death may ye die, for ye've been the haill occasion of parting my lord and me." the provost's dochter. see p. . kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . the provost's dochter went out a walking, _a may's love whiles is easie won_; she heard a puir prisoner making his meane, and she was the fair flow'r o' northumberland. "gif onie ladie wad borrow me out into this prison strang, i wad make her a ladie o' hie degree, for i am a gret lard in fair scotland." she has dune her to her father's bed-stock, _a may's love whiles is easie won_! she has stown the keys o' monie braw lock, and she has lows'd him out o' prison strang. she has dune her to her father's stable, _a may's love whiles is easie won_! she has tane out a steed, baith swift and able, to carry them baith to fair scotland. whan they cam to the scottish corss, _a may's love whiles is easie won_! "ye brazen-faced hure, licht aff o' my horse, and go, get ye back to northumberland." whan they cam to the scottish muir, _a may's love whiles is easie won_! "get aff o' my horse, ye brazen-fac'd hure, so, go, get ye back to northumberland." "o pity on me! o pity!" said she, "o that my love was so easie won! have pity on me, as i had upon thee, whan i lows'd ye out o' prison strang." "o how can i hae pity on thee? o why was your love sae easie won? whan i hae a wife and children three, mair worthy than a' in northumberland." "cook in your kitchen i will be,-- o that my love was sae easie won! and serve your lady maist reverentlie, for i darna gang back to northumberland." "cook in my kitchen, ye sall not be,-- why was your love so easie won? for i will hae na sic servants as thee, so, get ye back to northumberland. but laith was he the lassie to tyne, _a may's love whiles is easie won_! he hired an auld horse, and fee'd an auld man, to carry her back to northumberland. whan she cam her father afore, _a may's love whiles is easie won_! she fell at his feet on her knees sae low,-- she was the fair flow'r o' northumberland. "o dochter, dochter, why was ye bauld, o why was your love sae easie won! to be a scot's hure in your fifteen year auld, and ye the fair flow'r o' northumberland!" her mother on her sae gentlie smil'd,-- "o that her love was sae easie won! she's na the first that the scots hae beguil'd, and she's still the fair flow'r o' northumberland. "she shanna want gowd, she shanna want fee, although her love was easie won; she shanna want gowd to gain a man wi', and she'll still be the fair flow'r o' northumberland." blancheflour, and jellyflorice. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . a fragment of the ancient english romance of _florice and blancheflour_ is printed in hartshorne's _metrical tales_, p. . for the complete story (hardly a trace of which is retained in the following ballad) see ellis's _early english metrical romances_. there was a maid, richly array'd, in robes were rare to see; for seven years and something mair, she serv'd a gay ladie. but being fond o' a higher place, in service she thought lang; she took her mantle her about, her coffer by the band. and as she walk'd by the shore side, as blythe's a bird on tree, yet still she gaz'd her round about, to see what she could see. at last she spied a little castle, that stood near by the sea; she spied it far, and drew it near, to that castle went she. and when she came to that castle, she tirled at the pin; and ready stood a little wee boy to lat this fair maid in. "o who's the owner of this place, o porter boy, tell me?" "this place belongs unto a queen o' birth and high degree." she put her hand in her pocket, and ga'e him shillings three; "o porter bear my message well, unto the queen frae me." the porter's gane before the queen, fell low down on his knee; "win up, win up, my porter boy, what makes this courtesie?" "i ha'e been porter at your yetts, my dame, these years full three, but see a ladie at your yetts, the fairest my eyes did see." "cast up my yetts baith wide and braid, lat her come in to me; and i'll know by her courtesie, lord's daughter if she be." when she came in before the queen, fell low down on her knee; "service frae you, my dame, the queen, i pray you grant it me." "if that service ye now do want, what station will ye be? can ye card wool, or spin, fair maid, or milk the cows to me?" "no, i can neither card nor spin, nor cows i canno' milk; but sit into a lady's bower, and sew the seams o' silk." "what is your name, ye comely dame? pray tell this unto me: "o blancheflour, that is my name, born in a strange countrie." "o keep ye well frae jellyflorice; my ain dear son is he; when other ladies get a gift, o' that ye shall get three." it wasna tald into the bower, till it went thro' the ha', that jellyflorice and blancheflour were grown ower great witha'. when the queen's maids their visits paid, upo' the gude yule day, when other ladies got horse to ride, she boud take foot and gae. the queen she call'd her stable groom, to come to her right seen; says, "ye'll take out yon wild waith steed, and bring him to the green. "ye'll take the bridle frae his head, the lighters frae his e'en; ere she ride three times roun' the cross, her weel days will be dune." jellyflorice his true love spy'd, as she rade roun' the cross; and thrice he kiss'd her lovely lips, and took her frae her horse. "gang to your bower, my lily flower, for a' my mother's spite; there's nae other amang her maids, in whom i take delight. "ye are my jewel, and only ane, nane's do you injury; for ere this-day-month come and gang, my wedded wife ye'se be." chil ether. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . chil ether and lady maisry were baith born at ae birth; they lov'd each other tenderlie, boon every thing on earth. "they ley likes na the summer shower, nor girse the mornin' dew, better, dear lady maisry, than chil ether loves you." "the bonny doo likes na its mate, nor babe at breast its mither, better, my dearest chil ether, than maisry loves her brither." but he needs gae to gain renown, into some far countrie; and chil ether has gaen abroad, to fight in paynimie. and he has been in paynimie a twalvemonth and a day; but never nae tidings did there come, of his welfare to say. then she's ta'en ship, awa' to sail, out ower the roaring faem; a' for to find him, chil ether, and for to bring him hame. she hadna sail'd the sea a month, a month but barely three, until she landit on ciper's shore, by the meen-licht sae lie. lady maisry did on her green mantle, took her purse in her hand, and call'd to her her mariners, syne walk'd up thro' the land. she walked up, sae did she down, till she came till castell high; there she sat down on the door stane, and weepit bitterlie. then out it spake a sweet, sweet voice, out ower the castell wa', "now isna that lady maisry that makes sic a dolefu' fa'? "but gin that be lady maisry, lat her make mirth and glee; for i'm her brother, chil ether, that loves her tenderlie. "but gin that be lady maisry, lat her take purse in hand; and gang to yonder castell wa',-- they call it gorinand. "spier for the lord o' that castell, gie'm dollars thirty-three; tell him to ransom chil ether, that loves you tenderlie." she's done her up to that castell, paid down her gude monie; and sae she's ransom'd chil ether, and brought him hame her wi'. young bearwell. "a fragment, and now printed in the hope that the remainder of it may hereafter be recovered. from circumstances, one would almost be inclined to trace it to a danish source; or it may be an episode of some forgotten metrical romance: but this cannot satisfactorily be ascertained, from its catastrophe being unfortunately wanting." _motherwell's minstrelsy_, p. . the same is in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . when two lovers love each other weel, great sin it were them to twinn; and this i speak from young bearwell; he loved a lady ying, the mayor's daughter of birktoun-brae, that lovely leesome thing. one day when she was looking out, when washing her milk-white hands, then she beheld him young bearwell,[l ] as he came in the sands. says,--"wae 's me for you, young bearwell, such tales of you are tauld; they 'll cause you sail the salt sea so far as beyond yorkisfauld." "o shall i bide in good green wood, or stay in bower with thee?" * * * * * * * * * * * * "the leaves are thick in good green wood, would hold you from the rain; and if you stay in bower with me, you will be taken and slain. "but i caused build a ship for you, upon saint innocent's day; i 'll bid saint innocent be your guide, and our lady, that meikle may. you are a lady's first true love; god carry you weel away!" then he sailed east and he sailed west, by many a comely strand; at length a puff of northern wind did blow him to the land. when he did see the king and court, were playing at the ba'; gave him a harp into his hand, says,--"stay, bearwell, and play." he had not been in the king's court a twelvemonth and a day, till there came lairds and lords enew, to court that lady gay. they wooed her with broach and ring, they nothing could keep back; the very charters of their lands into her hands they pat. she 's done her down to heyvalin, with the light of the mune: says,--"will ye do this deed for me, and will ye do it sune? "will ye go seek him young bearwell, on seas wherever he be? and if i live and bruik my life, rewarded ye shall be." "alas, i am too young a skipper, so far to sail the faem; but if i live and bruik my life, i 'll strive to bring him hame." so he has sail'd east and then sail'd west, by many a comely strand; till there came a blast of northern wind, and blew him to the land. and there the king and all his court were playing at the ba'; gave him a harp into his hand, says,--"stay, heyvalin, and play." he has tane up the harp in hand, and unto play went he; and young bearwell was the first man in all that companie. , that. lord thomas of winesberry and the king's daughter. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . another version is given in buchan's _gleanings_, p. , and a third by kinloch, p. . kinloch considers that the ballad may relate to the secret expedition of james v. to france, in , in search of a wife. in the last verse of his copy of the ballad, lord thomas turns out to be no less a man than the king of scotland. seven years the king he staid into the land of spain, and seven years true thomas was his daughter's chamberlain. but it fell ance upon a day the king he did come home; she beked and she benjed ben, and did him there welcome. "what aileth you, my daughter, janet, you look sae pale and wan? there is a dreder in your heart, or else ye love a man." "there is no dreder in my heart, nor do i love a man; but it is for your long byding into the land of spain." "ye'll cast aff your bonny brown gown, and lay it on a stane; and i'll tell you, my jelly janet, if ever ye loved a man." she's cast off her bonny brown gown, and laid it on a stane; her belly was big, her twa sides high, her colour it was quite gane. "o is it to a man o' might, janet? or is it till a man that's mean? or is it to one of my poor soldiers, that i've brought hame frae spain?" "it's not till a man o' might," she says, "nor yet to a man that's mean; but it is to thomas o' winesberry, that cannot langer len'." "o where are all my wall-wight men, that i pay meat and fee; that will gae for him, true thomas, and bring him here to me? for the morn, ere i eat or drink, high hanged shall he be." she's turn'd her right and round about, the tear blindet her e'e; "if ye do any ill to true thomas, ye'se never get guid o' me." when thomas came before the king, he glanced like the fire; his hair was like the threads o' gowd, his eyes like crystal clear. "it was nae wonder, my daughter, janet, altho' ye loved this man; if he were a woman, as he is a man, my bed-fellow he would been. "o will ye marry my daughter janet? the truth's in your right hand; ye'se hae some o' my gowd, and some o' my gear, and the twalt part o' my land." "it's i will marry your daughter janet; the truth's in my right hand; i'll hae nane o' your gowd, nor nane o' your gear, i've enough in my own land. "but i will marry your daughter janet, with thirty ploughs and three, and four an' twenty bonny breast-mills, all on the water of dee. lady elspat. jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. . from the recitation of mrs. brown. "how brent's your brow, my lady elspat? how gouden yellow is your hair? o' a' the maids o' fair scotland, there's nane like lady elspat fair." "perform your vows, sweet william," she says, "the vows which ye ha' made to me; and at the back o' my mither's castell, this night i'll surely meet wi' thee." but wae be to her brother's page, that heard the words thir twa did say; he's tald them to her lady mither, wha wrought sweet william mickle wae. for she has ta'en him, sweet william, and she's gar'd bind him wi' his bow string, till the red bluid o' his fair body frae ilka nail o' his hand did spring. o it fell ance upon a time that the lord-justice came to town; out has she ta'en him, sweet william, brought him before the lord-justice boun'. "and what is the crime, now, lady," he says, "that has by this young man been dane?" "o he has broken my bonny castell, that was weel biggit wi' lime and stane. "and he has broken my bonny coffers, that was weel bandit wi' aiken ban; and he has stown my rich jewels; i wot he has stown them every ane." then out it spak her lady elspat, as she sat by lord-justice' knee; "now ye hae told your tale, mither, i pray, lord-justice, ye'll now hear me. "he hasna broken her bonny castell, that was weel biggit wi' lime and stane; nor has he stown her rich jewels, for i wat she has them every ane. "but though he was my first true love, and though i had sworn to be his bride, 'cause he hadna a great estate, she would this way our loves divide." syne out and spak the lord-justice, i wat the tear was in his e'e; "i see nae faut in this young man; sae loose his bands, and set him free. "and tak your love, now, lady elspat, and my best blessin' you baith upon; for gin he be your first true love, he is my eldest sister's son. "there stands a steed in my stable, cost me baith gold and white mony; ye's get as mickle o' my free land as he'll ride about in a summer's day." the lovers quarrel; or, cupids triumph. "this 'pleasant history,' which 'may be sung to the tune of floras farewell,' is here republished from a copy printed at london for f. cotes and others, , mo. bl. ., preserved in the curious and valuable collection of that excellent and most respected antiquary antony à wood, in the ashmolean museum; compared with another impression, for the same partners, without date, in the editor's possession. a different copy of the poem, more in the ballad form, was published, and may be found among the king's pamphlets in the british museum. both copies are conjectured to have been modernized, by different persons, from some common original, which has hitherto eluded the vigilance of collectors, but is strongly suspected to have been the composition of an old north country minstrel. "the full title is, _the lovers quarrel: or cupids triumph: being the pleasant history of fair rosamond of scotland. being daughter to the lord arundel, whose love was obtained by the valour of tommy pots: who conquered the lord phenix, and wounded him, and after obtained her to be his wife. being very delightful to read_." ritson, _pieces of ancient popular poetry_, p. . of all the lords in scotland fair, and ladies that been so bright of blee, there is a noble lady among them all, and report of her you shall hear by me. for of her beauty she is bright, and of her colour very fair, she's daughter to lord arundel, approv'd his parand and his heir. "ile see this bride," lord phenix said, "that lady of so bright a blee, and if i like her countenance well, the heir of all my lands she'st be." but when he came the lady before, before this comely maid came he, "o god thee save, thou lady sweet, my heir and parand thou shalt be." "leave off your suit," the lady said, "as you are a lord of high degree; you may have ladies enough at home, and i have a lord in mine own country: "for i have a lover true of mine own, a serving-man of low degree, one tommy pots it is his name, my first love, and last that ever shall be." "if that tom pots [it] is his name, i do ken him right verily; i am able to spend fourty pounds a week, where he is not able to spend pounds three." "god give you good of your gold," she said, "and ever god give you good of your fee, tom pots was the first love that ever i had, and i do mean him the last to be." with that lord phenix soon was mov'd; towards the lady did he threat; he told her father, and so it was prov'd, how his [fair] daughters mind was set. "o daughter dear, thou art my own, the heir of all my lands to be; thou shalt be bride to the lord phenix, if that thou mean to be heir to me." "o father dear, i am your own, and at your command i needs must be, but bind my body to whom you please, my heart, tom pots, shall go with thee." alas! the lady her fondness must leave, and all her foolish wooing lay aside; the time is come her friends have appointed, that she must be lord phenix bride. with that the lady began to weep; she knew not well then what to say, how she might lord phenix deny, and escape from marriage quite away. she call'd unto her little foot-page, saying, "i can trust none but thee; go carry tom pots this letter fair, and bid him on guildford-green meet me: "for i must marry against my mind, or in faith well proved it shall be; and tell to him i am loving and kind, and wishes him this wedding to see. "but see that thou note his countenance well, and his colour, and shew it to me; and go thy way and hie thee again,[l ] and forty shillings i will give thee. "for if he smile now with his lips, his stomach will give him to laugh at the heart; then may i seek another true love, for of tom pots small is my part. "but if he blush now in his face, then in his heart he will sorry be; then to his vow he hath some grace, and false to him i'le never be." away this lacky-boy he ran, and a full speed forsooth went he, till he came to strawberry-castle, and there tom pots came he to see. he gave him the letter in his hand; before that he began to read, he told him plainly by word of mouth, his love was forc'd to be lord phenix bride. when he look'd on the letter fair, the salt tears blemished his eye; says, "i cannot read this letter fair, nor never a word to see or spy. "my little boy, be to me true, here is five marks i will give thee; and all these words i must peruse; and tell my lady this from me: "by faith and troth she is my own, by some part of promise, so it's to be found; lord phenix shall not have her night nor day, except he can win her with his own hand. "on guildford-green i will her meet; say that i wish her for me to pray, for there i'le lose my life so sweet, or else the wedding i mean to stay." away this lackey-boy he ran, then as fast as he could hie; the lady she met him two miles of the way; says, "why hast thou staid so long, my boy? "my little boy, thou art but young, it gives me at heart thou'l mock and scorn; ile not believe thee by word of mouth, unless on this book thou wilt be sworn." "now by this book," the boy did say, "and jesus christ be as true to me, tom pots could not read the letter fair, nor never a word to spy or see. "he says, by faith and troth you are his own, by some part of promise, so it's to be found; lord phenix shall not have you night nor day, except he win you with his own hand. "on guildford-green he will you meet; he wishes you for him to pray, for there he'l lose his life so sweet, or else the wedding he means to stay." "if this be true, my little boy, these tidings which thou tellest to me, forty shillings i did thee promise, here is ten pounds i will give thee. "my maidens all," the lady said, "that ever wish me well to prove, now let us all kneel down and pray, that tommy pots may win his love. "if it be his fortune the better to win, as i pray to christ in trinity, ile make him the flower of all his kin, for the young lord arundel he shall be." , high. the second part. let's leave talking of this lady fair, in prayers full good where she may be; now let us talk of tommy pots; to his lord and master for aid went he. but when he came lord jockey before, he kneeled lowly on his knee; "what news, what news, thou tommy pots, thou art so full of courtesie? "what tydings, what tydings, thou tommy pots, thou art so full of courtesie? thou hast slain some of thy fellows fair, or wrought to me some villany." "i have slain none of my fellows fair, nor wrought to you no villany, but i have a love in scotland fair, and i fear i shall lose her with poverty. "if you'l not believe me by word of mouth, but read this letter, and you shall see, here by all these suspitious words that she her own self hath sent to me." but when he had read the letter fair, of all the suspitious words in it might be, "o tommy pots, take thou no care, thou'st never lose her with poverty. "for thou'st have forty pounds a week, in gold and silver thou shalt row, and harvy town i will give thee, as long as thou intend'st to wooe. "thou'st have forty of thy fellows fair, and forty horses to go with thee, forty of the best spears i have, and i myself in thy company." "i thank you, master," said tommy pots, "that proffer is too good for me; but, if jesus christ stand on my side, my own hands shall set her free. "god be with you, master," said tommy pots, "now jesus christ you save and see; if ever i come alive again, staid the wedding it shall be." "o god be your speed, thou tommy pots, thou art well proved for a man; see never a drop of blood thou spil, nor yonder gentleman confound. "see that some truce with him thou take, and appoint a place of liberty; let him provide him as well as he can, as well provided thou shalt be." but when he came to guildford-green, and there had walkt a little aside, there he was ware of lord phenix come, and lady rosamond his bride. away by the bride then tommy pots went, but never a word to her he did say, till he the lord phenix came before; he gave him the right time of the day. "o welcome, welcome, thou tommy pots, thou serving-man of low degree; how doth thy lord and master at home, and all the ladies in that country?" "my lord and master is in good health, i trust since that i did him see; will you walk with me to an out-side, two or three words to talk with me? "you are a noble man," said tom, "and born a lord in scotland free; you may have ladies enough at home, and never take my love from me." "away, away, thou tommy pots; thou serving-man, stand thou aside; it is not a serving-man this day, that can hinder me of my bride." "if i be a serving-man," said tom, "and you a lord of high degree, a spear or two with you i'le run, before i'le lose her cowardly. "appoint a place, i will thee meet, appoint a place of liberty; for there i'le lose my life so sweet, or else my lady i'le set free." "on guildford-green i will thee meet; no man nor boy shall come with me." "as i am a man," said tommy pots, "i'le have as few in my company." and thus staid the marriage was, the bride unmarried went home again; then to her maids fast did she laugh, and in her heart she was full fain. "my maidens all," the lady said, "that ever wait on me this day, now let us all kneel [lowly] down, and for tommy pots let us all pray. "if it be his fortune the better to win, as i trust to god in trinity, ile make him the flower of all his kin, for the young lord arundel he shall be." the third part. when tom pots came home again, to try for his love he had but a week; for sorrow, god wot, he need not care, for four days that he fel sick. with that his master to him came, says, "pray thee, tom pots, tell me if thou doubt whether thou hast gotten thy gay lady, or thou must go thy love without." "o master, yet it is unknown; within these two days well try'd it must be; he is a lord, i am but a serving-man, i fear i shall lose her with poverty." "i prethee, tom pots, get thee on thy feet, my former promises kept shall be; as i am a lord in scotland fair, thou'st never lose her with poverty. "for thou'st have the half of my lands a year, and that will raise thee many a pound; before thou shalt out-braved be, thou shalt drop angels with him on the ground." "i thank you, master," said tommy pots, "yet there is one thing of you i would fain; if that i lose my lady sweet, how i'st restore your goods again?" "if that thou win the lady sweet, thou mayst well forth thou shalt pay me: if thou losest thy lady, thou losest enough; thou shalt not pay me one penny." "you have thirty horses in one close, you keep them all both frank and free; amongst them all there's an old white horse this day would set my lady free. "that is an old horse with a cut tail, full sixteen years of age is he; if thou wilt lend me that old horse, then could i win her easily." "that's a foolish opinion," his master said, "and a foolish opinion thou tak'st to thee; thou'st have a better then ever he was, though forty pounds more it should cost me." "o your choice horses are wild and tough, and little they can skill of their train; if i be out of my saddle cast, they are so wild they'l ne'r be tain." "thou'st have that horse," his master said, "if that one thing thou wilt tell me;[l ] why that horse is better than any other, i pray thee, tom pots, shew thou to me." "that horse is old, of stomach bold, and well can he skill of his train; if i be out of my saddle cast, he'l either stand still, or turn again." "thou'st have the horse with all my heart, and my plate coat of silver free; an hundred men to stand at thy back, to fight if he thy master be." "i thank you master," said tommy pots, "that proffer is too good for me; i would not for ten thousand pounds, have man or boy in my company. "god be with you, master," said tommy pots, "now, as you are a man of law, one thing let me crave at your hand; let never a one of my fellows know. "for if that my fellows they did wot, or ken of my extremity, except you keep them under a lock, behind me i'm sure they would not be." but when he came to guildford-green, he waited hours two or three; there he was ware of lord phenix come, and four men in his company. "you have broken your vow," said tommy pots, "the vow which you did make to me; you said you would bring neither man nor boy, and now has brought more than two or three." "these are my men," lord phenix said, "which every day do wait on me; if any of them dare proffer to strike, i'le run my spear through his body." "i'le run no race now," said tommy pots, "except now this may be; if either of us be slain this day, the other shall forgiven be." "i'le make that vow with all my heart, my men shall bear witness with me; and if thou slay me here this day, in scotland worse belov'd thou never shalt be." they turn'd their horses thrice about, to run the race so eagerly; lord phenix he was fierce and stout, and ran tom pots through the thick o' th' thigh. he bor'd him out of the saddle fair, down to the ground so sorrowfully: "for the loss of my life i do not care, but for the loss of my fair lady. "now for the loss of my lady sweet, which once i thought to have been my wife, i pray thee, lord phenix, ride not away, for with thee i would end my life." tom pots was but a serving-man, but yet he was a doctor good; he bound his handkerchief on his wound, and with some kind of words he stancht his blood.[l ] he leapt into his saddle again, the blood in his body began to warm; he mist lord phenix body fair, and ran him through the brawn of the arm. he bor'd him out of his saddle fair, down to the ground most sorrowfully; says, "prethee, lord phenix, rise up and fight, or yield my lady unto me." "now for to fight i cannot tell, and for to fight i am not sure; thou hast run me throw the brawn o' the arm, that with a spear i may not endure. "thou'st have the lady with all my heart; it was never likely better to prove with me, or any nobleman else, that would hinder a poor man of his love." "seeing you say so much," said tommy pots, i will not seem your butcher to be; but i will come and stanch your blood, if any thing you will give me." as he did stanch lord phenix blood, lord! in his heart he did rejoice; "i'le not take the lady from you thus, but of her you'st have another choice. "here is a lane of two miles long; at either end we set will be; the lady shall stand us among, her own choice shall set her free." "if thou'l do so," lord phenix said, "to lose her by her own choice it's honesty; chuse whether i get her, or go her without, forty pounds i will give thee." but when they in that lane was set, the wit of a woman for to prove, "by the faith of my body," the lady said, "then tom pots must needs have his love." towards tom pots the lady did hie, to get behind him hastily; "nay stay, nay stay," lord phenix said, "better proved it shall be. "stay you with your maidens here, in number fair they are but three; tom pots and i will go behind yonder wall, that one of us two be proved to dye." but when they came behind the wall, the one came not the other nigh; for the lord phenix had made a vow, that with tom pots he would never fight. "o give me this choice," lord phenix said, "to prove whether true or false she be, and i will go to the lady fair, and tell her tom pots slain is he." when he came from behind the wall, with his face all bloody as it might be, "o lady sweet, thou art my own, for tom pots slain is he. "now have i slain him, tommy pots, and given him deaths wounds two or three; o lady sweet, thou art my own; of all loves, wilt thou live with me?" "if thou hast slain him, tommy pots, and given him deaths wounds two or three, i'le sell the state of my fathers lands, but hanged shall lord phenix be." with that the lady fell in a swound, for a grieved woman, god wot, was she; lord phenix he was ready then, to take her up so hastily. "o lady sweet, stand thou on thy feet, tom pots alive this day may be; i'le send for thy father, lord arundel, and he and i the wedding will see. "i'le send for thy father, lord arundel, and he and i the wedding will see; if he will not maintain you well, both lands and livings you'st have of me." "i'le see this wedding," lord arundel said, "of my daughters luck that is so fair; seeing the matter will be no better, of all my lands tom pots shall be the heir." with that the lady began for to smile, for a glad woman, god wot, was she; "now all my maids," the lady said, "example you may take by me. "but all the ladies of scotland fair, and lasses of england that well would prove, neither marry for gold nor goods, nor marry for nothing but only love. "for i had a lover true of my own, a serving-man of low degree; now from tom pots i'le change his name, for the young lord arundel he shall be." v. , me tell. , _i. e._ he made use of a charm for that purpose. the merchant's daughter of bristow. from collier's _book of roxburghe ballads_, p. . "this narrative ballad, which is full of graceful but unadorned simplicity, is mentioned in fletcher's _monsieur thomas_, (act iii. sc. ,) by the name of _maudlin the merchant's daughter_. two early editions of it are known: one without printer's name, (clearly much older than the other,) is that which we have used; we may conclude that it was written considerably before james i. came to the throne. it was last reprinted in , but in that impression it was much modernized and corrupted." behold the touchstone of true love, maudlin the merchant's daughter of bristow towne, whose firme affection nothing could move; this favour beares the lovely browne. a gallant youth was dwelling by, which many yeares had borne this lady great good will; shee loved him so faithfully, but all her friends withstood it still. the young man now, perceiving well he could not get nor win the favour of her friends, the force of sorrow to expell to view strange countreys hee intends. and now, to take his last farewell of his true love, his faire and constant maudlen, with musicke sweete that did excell hee plaies under her window then. "farewell," quoth he, "mine owne true love, farewell, my deare, and chiefest treasure of my heart! through fortune's spight, that false did prove, i am inforc'd from thee to part, "into the land of italy: there wil i waile, and weary out my dayes in wo; seeing my true love is kept from mee, i hold my life a mortal fo. "faire bristow towne, therefore, adieu, for padua shall bee my habitation now; although my love doth lodge in thee, to whom alone my heart i vow." with trickling teares this hee did sing, with sighs and sobs descending from his heart full sore: hee said, when he his hands did wring, "farewell, sweet love, for evermore!" fair maudlin, from a window high beholding her true love with musicke where hee stood, but not a word she durst reply, fearing her parents angry mood. in teares she spent this dolefull night, wishing (though naked) with her faithfull friend: she blames her friends, and fortune's spight, that wrought their loves such lucklesse end. and in her heart shee made a vow cleane to forsake her country and her kinsfolkes all, and for to follow her true love, to bide all chance that might befall. the night is gone, and the day is come, and in the morning very early shee did rise: she gets her downe in a lower roome, where sundrie seamen she espies. a gallant master amongst them all, (the master of a faire and goodlie ship was he) who there stood waiting in the hall, to speake with her father, if it might be. she kindly takes him by the hand: "good sir," said shee, "would you speake with any heere?" quoth he, "faire maid, therefore i stand:" "then, gentle sir, i pray you draw neere." into a pleasant parlour by, with hand in hand she brings the seaman all alone; sighing to him most piteously, she thus to him did make her moane. shee falls upon her tender knee: "good sir," she said, "now pittie you a woman's woe, and prove a faithfull friend to me, that i my griefe to you may shew." "sith you repose your trust," he said, "to me that am unknowne, and eke a stranger heere, be you assur'd, most proper maid, most faithfull still i will appeare." "i have a brother, then," quoth shee, "whom as my life i love and favour tenderlie: in padua, alas! is he, full sicke, god wot, and like to die. "and faine i would my brother see, but that my father will not yeeld to let me goe; wherefore, good sir, be good to mee, and unto me this favour shew. "some ship-boye's garment bring to mee, that i disguis'd may goe away from hence unknowne; and unto sea ile goe with thee, if thus much favour may be showne." "faire maid," quoth he, "take heere my hand: i will fulfill each thing that you desire, and set you safe in that same land, and in that place that you require." she gave him then a tender kisse, and saith, "your servant, gallant master, will i be, and prove your faithfull friend for this: sweet master, then, forget not me." this done, as they had both decreed, soone after (early) before the breake of day, he brings her garments then with speed, wherein she doth her selfe array: and ere her father did arise, shee meets her master as he walkes in the hall: shee did attend on him likewise, even till her father did him call. but ere the merchant made an end of all the matters to the master he could say, his wife came weeping in with speed, saying, "our daughter is gone away!" the merchant, thus amaz'd in mind, "yonder vile wretch intic'd away my child," quoth he; "but, well i wot, i shall him find at padua, in italy." with that bespake the master brave: "worshipfull master, thither goes this pretty youth, and any thing that you would have, he will performe it, and write the truth." "sweet youth," quoth hee, "if it be so, beare me a letter to the english merchants there, and gold on thee i will bestow: my daughter's welfare i do feare." her mother takes her by the hand; "faire youth," qd she, "if there thou dost my daughter see, let me thereof soone understand, and there is twenty crownes for thee." thus, through the daughter's strange disguise, the mother knew not when shee spake unto her child; and after her master straightway shee hies, taking her leave with countenance milde. thus to the sea faire maudlin is gone with her gentle master; god send them a merry wind; where wee a while must let them alone, till you the second part doe find. the second part. "welcome, sweete maudlin, from the sea, where bitter stormes and tempests doe arise: the plesant bankes of italy wee may behold with mortal eyes." "thankes, gentle master," then quoth shee; "a faithfull friend in sorrow hast thou beene; if fortune once doth smile on mee, my thankfull heart shall well bee seene. "blest be the land that feedes my love! blest be the place where as his person doth abide! no triall will i sticke to prove, whereby my true love may be tride. "nowe will i walke with joyful heart, to viewe the towne where as my darlinge doth remaine, and seeke him out in every part, untill i doe his sight attaine." "and i," quoth he, "will not forsake sweete maudlin in her sorrow up and downe: in wealth and woe thy part ile take, and bring thee safe to padua towne." and after many wearie steps in padua they safely doe arrive at last: for very joy her heart it leapes; she thinkes not of her sorrowes past. condemned to dye hee was, alas! except he would from his religion turne; but rather then hee would to masse, in fiery flames he vow'd to burne. now doth maudlin weepe and waile: her joy is chang'd to weeping, sorrow, griefe and care; but nothing could her plaints prevaile, for death alone must be his share. shee walkes under the prison walls, where her true love doth lye and languish in distresse; most wofully for foode he calls, when hunger did his heart oppresse. he sighs and sobs and makes great moane: "farewell," hee said, "sweete england, now for evermore, and all my friends that have me knowne in bristow towne with wealth and store. "but most of all farewell," quoth hee, "my owne true love, sweet maudlin, whom i left behind; for never more shall i see thee. woe to thy father most unkind! "how well were i, if thou wert here, with thy faire hands to close these wretched eyes: my torments easie would appeare; my soule with joy shall scale the skies." when maudlin heard her lover's moane, her eyes with teares, her heart with sorrow filled was: to speake with him no meanes is knowne, such grievous doome on him did passe. then she cast off her lad's attire; a maiden's weede upon her back she seemely set; to the judge's house shee did enquire, and there shee did a service get. shee did her duty there so well, and eke so prudently she did her selfe behave, with her in love her master fell; his servant's favour hee doth crave. "maudlin," quoth hee, "my heart's delight, to whom my heart is in affection tied, breed not my death through thy despight; a faithfull friend i will be tryed. "grant me thy love, faire maid," quoth hee, "and at my hands require what thou canst devise, and i will grant it unto thee, whereby thy credit may arise." "i have a brother, sir," she said, "for his religion is now condemned to dye: in loathsome prison hee is layd, opprest with griefe and misery. "grant me my brother's life," shee said, "and to you my love and liking i will give." "that may not be," quoth hee, "faire maid; except he turne, he cannot live." "an english frier there is," shee said, "of learning great and passing pure of life, let him to my brother be sent, and he will finish soone the strife." her master hearing this request, the marriner in frier's weed she did array, and to her love, that lay distrest, shee did a letter straight convey. when hee had read these gentle lines, his heart was ravished with sudden joy; where now shee was full well hee knew: the frier likewise was not coy; but did declare to him at large the enterprise for him his love had taken in hand. the young man did the frier charge, his love should straight depart the land. "here is no place for her," hee said, "but woefull death and danger of her harmlesse life: professing truth i was betraid, and fearfull flames must end my strife. "for, ere i will my faith deny, and sweare my selfe to follow damned antichrist, ile yeeld my body for to die, to live in heaven with the highest." "o sir!" the gentle frier said, "for your sweet love recant, and save your wished life. a wofull match," quoth hee, "is made where christ is lost to win a wife." when she had wrought all meanes that might to save her friend, and that she saw it would not bee, then of the judge shee claimed her right, to die the death as well as hee. when no perswasion could prevaile, nor change her mind in any thing that shee had said, she was with him condemned to die, and for them both one fire was made. and arme in arme most joyfully these lovers twaine unto the fire they did goe: the marriner most faithfully was likewise partner of their woe. but when the judges understood the faithfull friendship did in them remaine, they saved their lives; and afterward to england sent them home againe. now was their sorrow turned to joy, and faithfull lovers had now their heart's desire: their paines so well they did imploy, god granted that they did require. and when they were to england come, and in merry bristow arrived at the last, great joy there was to all and some that heard the dangers they had past. her gentle master shee desired to be her father, and at the church to give her then: it was fulfilled as shee required, unto the joy of all good men. glossary. [hand] figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a', _all_. abee, _be_. abeen, aboif, _above_. ae, _one_. aglets, _tags to laces_. airy, ery, _fearful_, _inspiring dread_. among, , _from time to time_. and, _if_. anew, _enough_. anewche, _enough_. angel, _a gold coin, varying in value from about six shillings and eight pence to ten shillings_.--halliwell's _dict._ apaid, _satisfied_. as who sayeth, _so to speak_. at, _that_. attour, _over_, _across_. auld son, _a relative term for a boy older than the youngest_. ava, _of all_. ayont, _beyond_. baill, _sorrow_. balow, _a word used in lulling children_. ban, _band_. banning, _cursing_. bed-stock, _the side of the bed further from the wall_. begoud, _began_. beked, , _made warm_? belinger, ? bemean, , _disparage_. ben, _in_. benjed, , _received hospitably_, _made preparations for his comfort_? besyd, , _astray_. be that, _by that_. bewray, _discord_. bier, _cry_. bierdly, _stately_. bigged, biggit, _built_. billy blin, _a benignant household fairy, like the lubber fiend_. binna, _be not_. birk, _birch_. birling, _drinking_. blae, _blue_. blaewort, _blue bottle_, _witch bells_. blee, _complexion_. blin'd, _blinded_. bone, , _bane_. boon, _above_. borrow, _ransom_, _rescue_. bot dreid, , _without doubt_. boud, ? bought, _a pen in the corner of a fold, into which the ewes are driven to be milked_. bower, _chamber_, _dwelling_. brae, _hill-side_. braken, _female fern_. braw, _brave_, _fine_, _handsome_. brawn, , _calf of the leg_. brayd attour the bent, , _strode across the grass or field_. brent, , _high_, _straight_. bride-ale, _a wedding festival so called from the brides selling ale on the wedding day, in return for which she received a large price by way of present_. bruik, _enjoy_. brynies, _cuirasses_. bug, _built_. burd, _lady_. burn, _brook_. busk, _dress_, _adorn_, _make ready_. but, _out_. but and, _but also_. bute [boot], _help_. ca', _called_. caddie, _errand-boy_. cairis, _cares_. camovine, _camomile_. can, _know_. chap, _rap_. certaine, in, _certainly_. close, _enclosure_, _an enclosed field_. coffer, _coif_, _a woman's head-dress_? coft, _bought_. cog, _milking-pail_. confound, _destroy_. corss, _cross_. cowt, _colt_. cowth, cowd, , _could_, _used as an auxiliary to form the preterit tense_. crack, _merry talk_. cramasie, _crimson_. cruds, _curds_. cute, _ancle_. cuvating, _coveting_. daurna, _dare not_. daut, _fondle_. dead, _death_. dearly, _dear_. dee, _die_. dee, _do_. deed, _death_. deill, , _deal_; , _dally_? deir, , _frighten_. dele, , _particle_, _bit_. departe, , _separate_; departing, , _dividing_. dern, _secret_. dey, _dairy woman_. dill, _assuage_, _soothe_. dings, _beats_. disparage, , _cause to match unequally_. distan, _distinguish_. distrayne, _distress_. d'on, _do on_, _don_. dought, _dread_. dre, _suffer_. dreder, _dread_. dreed, _suffered_. drest, , _placed_; in dule i am so drest, _i am so plunged in sorrow_. drie, _bear_, _endure_. dule, _sorrow_. dyke, _wall_. echeon, _each one_. een, _eyes_. een, _one_. enew, _enough_. eik, _increase_. fa', ? fair, _go_. fa's [fa as], _i have my lot as_. fauld-dyke, _wall of the fold_. fawn, _fallen_. fee, _money_, _possessions_. feir, , _appearance_, _demeanor_. fie, _cattle of any kind_, _sheep_. firth, _an enclosed wood_, _a field within a wood_. fit, _foot_. forbears, _ancestors_. forbye, _on one side_. fou, _full_. fra, , _from the time that_. fre, free, _noble_. fy, , _haste_! gait, _way_. gaits, _goats_. gar, _cause_, _make_. gare, below her, _below the gore in the edge of her skirt? or below her dress merely?_ gaucy, , _burly_, _strong_. gear, _goods_. girse, _grass_. glamer, glamour, _a charm exercised on the eye_. god before, _god guide you_! haill, _healthy_; , _whole_. haik up, , _carry off by force_, jamieson. (?) hald, _hold_, _heep_. hap, _covering_; happed, _covered_. hard, _heard_. hardely, _assuredly_. haud, _hold_; haud unthocht lang, _keep from growing weary_. her, _their_. heill, hele, _health_. hes, _hast_. het, _hot_. hich, _high_. hie, on, _aloud_. hinna, _have not_. hinny, _darling_. his alane, _alone by himself_. hollans boats, . qy. _holly-boats_? holland, _holly_. hooding o' grey, , _hodden-grey_, _cloth with the natural color of the wool_. holtis hair, , _uplands bleak_. howp, _hope_. huche, _crag_, _steep bank_. i dern with the bot gif i daill, ; _unless i secretly dally with thee_? i'st, _i shall_. ilke, _each_; this ilka, _this same_. intill, , _upon_. intent, , _thought_, _mind_. in worth, , _gladly_, _contentedly_. janglour, _prater_. jimp, _slender_. kail-blade, _leaf of colewort_. kail-yardie, _kitchen garden_. kebbuck, _cheese_. keep, _heed_. keipand, _keeping_. kenna, _know not_. kep, _catch_. kilt, kilted, _tucked up_. kintra, _country_. knicking, , _wringing_, _so as to make snap_. knowe, _knoll_. kye, _cows_. laigh, _low_. lair, lore, _doctrine_. lake, , _reproach_. lauch, _laugh_. lave, _rest_. laverock, _lark_. lawe, , _custom_. lax, _relief_, _release_. lea', _leave_. leal, _true_. lear'd, _learned_. lee-lang, _live-long_. leed, _language_. leesome, _pleasant_, _amiable_. leif, , _live_. leir, _learn_. lend ye till, , _lean upon_. len, , _lie concealed_. leuch, _laughed_. leve, , _remain_. lewche, _laughed_. ley, _lea_. lichtit, _lighted_. lichtly, _undervalue_. lie, _lonely_, _sad_. liggit, _lain_. lighters, _blinders_. liltin, _singing_. lirk, _hollow_ (_of a hill_). lodomy, _laudanum_. long of, , _on account of_. looing, _loving_. loot, _let_. lore, , _doctrine_. loup, _leap_. lourd, _liefer_, _rather_. loutit, _bowed_. lown, _loon_, _worthless fellow_. lowse, _loose_. lue, _love_; lude, , _loved_. maining, _moaning_, _crying_. manchet, _the finest kind of white bread_. mane, _moan_. marrit, , _marred_, _disordered_. marys, _maids_. maugre, , _ill-will_, _blame_. maun, _must_. may, _maid_. meen, _moon_; meen-licht, _moon-light_. menji, , _many_; menyie, _company of followers_. min, _mother_. mot, _may_, _might_. mouls, _dust of the dead_. muckle, _big_, _much_. mude, _mood_, _mind_. murnit, _mourned_. nae, _not_. neirhand, _nearly_. niest, _next_. nocht, _nought_. och, ochanie, _interjections of grief_. odd, , _old_. oo, _one_. ower great, _too familiar_. pall, _rich cloth_. parand; heir and parand, _heir apparent_. pat, _put_. perde, _par dieu_. perfay, _par foi_. pine, _pain_, _grief_. pitten, _put_. plow, _as much land as can properly be tilled by one plough in a day_. prest, , _ready_. previe, _secret_. put down, , _hung_. pyne, _pain_. quhair, &c., _where, &c._; all quhair, _every where_. quhill, , _until_. raik on raw, , _range or extend themselves in a row_. ramp, _rude_, _wild_, _violent_. rantin', _boisterously gay_, _rollicking_. rattons, _rats_. recorde, _witness_. red, _advice_, _plan_. redding-comb, _comb for redding_, _or combing out, the hair_. rede, reid, _advise_. reivis, _deprivest of_. remeve, , _remove or trouble_. repreve, _reprove_. rescous, _rescue_. rew, _take pity_. rigs, _ridges_. roiss, _rest_. rove, _roof_. row, _roll_; row'd, _rolled_. royal bane, , _the same as_ ruel bone, _an unknown material often mentioned in romances_. rude, _rood_, _cross_. rue, _take pity_; ruthe, _pity_. sanna, _shall not_. sark, _shirt_. scant, _lessen_. scheel, _school_. schent, _shamed_, _disgraced_. see, _protect_. sen, _since_. sendall, _a rich thin silk_. sets, , _sits_, _fits_. shaw, _thicket_, _wood_. shealin, , _shed for sheep_. she'as, _sheaths_. sheave, _slice_. sheens, _shines_. she'st, _she shall_. shill, , _shrill_. shun, _soon_. sic, siccan, _such_. sicht, _sigh_; sichit, _sighed_. sickerly, _certainly_. silly, _simple_. sith, _since_. skill of their train, _understand their training_. slap, , _a breach in a wall or hedge_. speer'd, speir'd, _asked_. spell; drift can spell, , _tell my meaning or story_. splene, on the, ? spring, , _youth_, _young_. sta', _stole_. states, , _people of high rank_. staw, _stole_. staws, _stalls_. steir, _stir_. stey, _steep_. stown, _stolen_. streek'd, _stroaked_. suspitious, "_significant_."--ritson. swither, _waver_. syne, _then_. tane, _taken_. tapp'd, _topped_. tent, _heed_. termagant, _an imaginary false god of the heathen_. thair, _there_. than, _then_. thinking long, see _thought lang_. thir, _these_. this, _thus_. thoo, _those_. thought, , _trouble_. thought lang, _felt the time hang heavily_, _felt ennui_. thoust, _thou wilt_. till, _to_, _for_; , _to_; till assail , _to assail_; till haif, , _to have_. tirled at the pin, _trilled_, or _rattled, at the door-pin, or latch, to obtain entrance_. tocher, _dowry_. tod, _fox_. tomorne, _to-morrow_. ton, _one_ (_after the_). tree, , , _stick_, _pole_, or perhaps, _whipple-tree_; , _staff_. trew, _trow_. trinkling, _trickling_. trow, _believe_. twalt, _twelfth_. twinn, _part_. tyne, _lose_. unco, _strange_, _foreign_. upricht, , _straightway_? wae, _sad_. waged, _staked_. wait, _wot_, _know_. waith, _wandering_. wald, _would_. wale, _choice_. wall-wight, , _picked_ (waled) _strong men_, or _warriors_. waly, _an interjection of lamentation_. wanrufe, , _disquietude_. wan up, _got up_. wat, _wot_, _know_. waur, _worse_. wee, , _short time_. weed, _clothes_. weel, _well_. weel-busket, _well trimmed_. weel-far'd, weel-faurd, _well-favored_. wend, , _weened_. werry, , _weary_, _sorrowful_. whae's aught, _who is it owns_. whingers, "_a short hanger, used as a knife at meals and as a sword in broils_." wight, _strong or nimble_. win, _get_, _go_; win to, _attain or get to_; win up, _get up_. win, _to make the harvest_. winna, _will not_. winsome, _pleasant_. wisna, _know not_. worldling, , _pet_? wow, _exclamation of admiration, or surprise_. wreuch, _wretched_. yede, _went_. yef, _if_. ye'se, _ye shall_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_. ying, _young_. your lane, _alone by yourself_. ze, _ye_. * * * * * transcriber's notes page , line : added missing apostrophe (in simmer, 'mid the flowers?) page , line : added missing end quotation mark (and the cauld rain on your breist.") page , line : added missing open quotation mark ("o come to your bed, my dearie; ...) page , line : added missing open quotation mark ("but wha will bake my bridal bread, ...) page , line : added missing (or uninked) comma ("she is dead, sir, long agoe.") page , line : changed period to comma (against the brave wedding of pretty bessee.) page , final paragraph: added closing quotation mark ( ... to no other shrine than that of venus.[a]") page , second paragraph: open quotation mark moved to start of paragraph ("_as i went to walsingham_ is quoted in nashe's _have with you to saffron-walden_, ...) note that the corrections to punctuation on pages and are consistent with interpreting the three paragraphs as attributed to "chappell". page , line : added missing open quotation mark ("upon thy wife and children,) page , line : deleted erroneous opening quotation mark (so they hae gane before the king,) page , line : added missing period ("to seal her tocher wi' thee.") page , line : changed "be" to "he" (for the young lord arundel he shall be.") page , line : changed "merehants" to "merchants" (beare me a letter to the english merchants there,) a book of old english ballads with an accompaniment of decorative drawings by george wharton edwards and an introduction by hamilton w. mabie [ ] contents introduction chevy chace king cophetua and the beggar-maid king leir and his three daughters fair rosamond phillida and corydon fair margaret and sweet william annan water the bailiff's daughter of islington barbara allen's cruelty the douglas tragedy young waters flodden field helen of kirkconnell robin hood and allen-a-dale robin hood and guy of gisborne robin hood's death and burial the twa corbies waly, waly, love be bonny the nut-brown maid the fause lover the mermaid the battle of otterburn the lament of the border widow the banks o' yarrow hugh of lincoln sir patrick spens introduction goethe, who saw so many things with such clearness of vision, brought out the charm of the popular ballad for readers of a later day in his remark that the value of these songs of the people is to be found in the fact that their motives are drawn directly from nature; and he added, that in the art of saying things compactly, uneducated men have greater skill than those who are educated. it is certainly true that no kind of verse is so completely out of the atmosphere of modern writing as the popular ballad. no other form of verse has, therefore, in so great a degree, the charm of freshness. in material, treatment, and spirit, these bat lads are set in sharp contrast with the poetry of the hour. they deal with historical events or incidents, with local traditions, with personal adventure or achievement. they are, almost without exception, entirely objective. contemporary poetry is, on the other hand, very largely subjective; and even when it deals with events or incidents it invests them to such a degree with personal emotion and imagination, it so modifies and colours them with temperamental effects, that the resulting poem is much more a study of subjective conditions than a picture or drama of objective realities. this projection of the inward upon the outward world, in such a degree that the dividing line between the two is lost, is strikingly illustrated in maeterlinck's plays. nothing could be in sharper contrast, for instance, than the famous ballad of "the hunting of the cheviot" and maeterlinck's "princess maleine." there is no atmosphere, in a strict use of the word, in the spirited and compact account of the famous contention between the percies and the douglases, of which sir philip sidney said "that i found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet." it is a breathless, rushing narrative of a swift succession of events, told with the most straight-forward simplicity. in the "princess maleine," on the other hand, the narrative is so charged with subjective feeling, the world in which the action takes place is so deeply tinged with lights that never rested on any actual landscape, that all sense of reality is lost. the play depends for its effect mainly upon atmosphere. certain very definite impressions are produced with singular power, but there is no clear, clean stamping of occurrences on the mind. the imagination is skilfully awakened and made to do the work of observation. the note of the popular ballad is its objectivity; it not only takes us out of doors, but it also takes us out of the individual consciousness. the manner is entirely subordinated to the matter; the poet, if there was a poet in the case, obliterates himself. what we get is a definite report of events which have taken place, not a study of a man's mind nor an account of a man's feelings. the true balladist is never introspective; he is concerned not with himself but with his story. there is no self-disclosure in his song. to the mood of senancour and amiel he was a stranger. neither he nor the men to whom he recited or sang would have understood that mood. they were primarily and unreflectively absorbed in the world outside of themselves. they saw far more than they meditated; they recorded far more than they moralized. the popular ballads are, as a rule, entirely free from didacticism in any form; that is one of the main sources of their unfailing charm. they show not only a childlike curiosity about the doings of the day and the things that befall men, but a childlike indifference to moral inference and justification. the bloodier the fray the better for ballad purposes; no one feels the necessity of apology either for ruthless aggression or for useless blood-letting; the scene is reported as it was presented to the eye of the spectator, not to his moralizing faculty. he is expected to see and to sing, not to scrutinize and meditate. in those rare cases in which a moral inference is drawn, it is always so obvious and elementary that it gives the impression of having been fastened on at the end of the song, in deference to ecclesiastical rather than popular feeling. the social and intellectual conditions which fostered self-unconsciousness,--interest in things, incidents, and adventures rather than in moods and inward experiences,--and the unmoral or non moralizing attitude towards events, fostered also that delightful naivete which contributes greatly to the charm of many of the best ballads; a naivete which often heightens the pathos, and, at times, softens it with touches of apparently unconscious humour; the naivete of the child which has in it something of the freshness of a wildflower, and yet has also a wonderful instinct for making the heart of the matter plain. this quality has almost entirely disappeared from contemporary verse among cultivated races; one must go to the peasants of remote parts of the continent to discover even a trace of its presence. it has a real, but short-lived charm, like the freshness which shines on meadow and garden in the brief dawn which hastens on to day. this frank, direct play of thought and feeling on an incident, or series of incidents, compensates for the absence of a more perfect art in the ballads; using the word "art" in its true sense as including complete, adequate, and beautiful handling of subject-matter, and masterly working out of its possibilities. these popular songs, so dear to the hearts of the generations on whose lips they were fashioned, and to all who care for the fresh note, the direct word, the unrestrained emotion, rarely touch the highest points of poetic achievement. their charm lies, not in their perfection of form, but in their spontaneity, sincerity, and graphic power. they are not rivers of song, wide, deep, and swift; they are rather cool, clear springs among the hills. in the reactions against sophisticated poetry which set in from lime to time, the popular ballad--the true folk-song--has often been exalted at the expense of other forms of verse. it is idle to attempt to arrange the various forms of poetry in an order of absolute values; it is enough that each has its own quality, and, therefore, its own value. the drama, the epic, the ballad, the lyric, each strikes its note in the complete expression of human emotion and experience. each belongs to a particular stage of development, and each has the authority and the enduring charm which attach to every authentic utterance of the spirit of man under the conditions of life. in this wide range of human expression the ballad follows the epic as a kind of aftermath; a second and scattered harvest, springing without regularity or nurture out of a rich and unexhausted soil. the epic fastens upon some event of such commanding importance that it marks a main current of history; some story, historic, or mythologic; some incident susceptible of extended narrative treatment. it is always, in its popular form, a matter of growth it is direct, simple, free from didacticism; representing, as aristotle says, "a single action, entire and complete." it subordinates character to action; it delights in episode and dialogue; it is content to tell the story as a story, and leave the moralization to hearers or readers. the popular ballad is so closely related to the popular epic that it may be said to reproduce its qualities and characteristics within a narrower compass, and on a smaller scale. it also is a piece of the memory of the people, or a creation of the imagination of the people; but the tradition or fact which it preserves is of local, rather than national importance. it is indifferent to nice distinctions and delicate gradations or shadings; its power springs from its directness, vigour, and simplicity. it is often entirely occupied with the narration or description of a single episode; it has no room for dialogue, but it often secures the effect of the dialogue by its unconventional freedom of phrase, and sometimes by the introduction of brief and compact charge and denial, question and reply. sometimes the incidents upon which the ballad makers fastened, have a unity or connection with each other which hints at a complete story. the ballads which deal with robin hood are so numerous and so closely related that they constantly suggest, not only the possibility, but the probability of epic treatment. it is surprising that the richness of the material, and its notable illustrative quality, did not inspire some earlier chaucer to combine the incidents in a sustained narrative. but the epic poet did not appear, and the most representative of english popular heroes remains the central figure in a series of detached episodes and adventures, preserved in a long line of disconnected ballads. this apparent arrest, in the ballad stage, of a story which seemed destined to become an epic, naturally suggests the vexed question of the author ship of the popular ballads. they are in a very real sense the songs of the people; they make no claim to individual authorship; on the contrary, the inference of what may be called community authorship is, in many instances, irresistible. they are the product of a social condition which, so to speak, holds song of this kind in solution; of an age in which improvisation, singing, and dancing are the most natural and familiar forms of expression. they deal almost without exception with matters which belong to the community memory or imagination; they constantly reappear with variations so noticeable as to indicate free and common handling of themes of wide local interest. all this is true of the popular ballad; but all this does not decisively settle the question of authorship. what share did the community have in the making of these songs, and what share fell to individual singers? herder, whose conception of the origin and function of literature was so vitalizing in the general aridity of thinking about the middle of the last century, and who did even more for ballad verse in germany than bishop percy did in england, laid emphasis almost exclusively on community authorship. his profound instinct for reality in all forms of art, his deep feeling for life, and the immense importance he attached to spontaneity and unconsciousness in the truest productivity made community authorship not only attractive but inevitable to him. in his pronounced reaction against the superficial ideas of literature so widely held in the germany of his time, he espoused the conception of community authorship as the only possible explanation of the epics, ballads, and other folk-songs. in nature and popular life, or universal experience, he found the rich sources of the poetry whose charm he felt so deeply, and whose power and beauty he did so much to reveal to his contemporaries. genius and nature are magical words with him, because they suggested such depths of being under all forms of expression; such unity of the whole being of a race in its thought, its emotion, and its action; such entire unconsciousness of self or of formulated aim, and such spontaneity of spirit and speech. the language of those times, when words had not yet been divided into nobles, middle-class, and plebeians, was, he said, the richest for poetical purposes. "our tongue, compared with the idiom of the savage, seems adapted rather for reflection than for the senses or imagination. the rhythm of popular verse is so delicate, so rapid, so precise, that it is no easy matter to defect it with our eyes; but do not imagine it to have been equally difficult for those living populations who listened to, instead of reading it; who were accustomed to the sound of it from their infancy; who themselves sang it, and whose ear had been formed by its cadence." this conception of poetry as arising in the hearts of the people and taking form on their lips is still more definitely and strikingly expressed in two sentences, which let us into, the heart of herder's philosophy of poetry: "poetry in those happy days lived in the ears of the people, on the lips and in the harps of living bards; it sang of history, of the events of the day, of mysteries, miracles, and signs. it was the flower of a nation's character, language, and country; of its occupations, its prejudices, its passions, its aspirations, and its soul." in these words, at once comprehensive and vague, after the manner of herder, we find ourselves face to face with that conception not only of popular song in all its forms, but with literature as a whole, which has revolutionized literary study in this century, and revitalized it as well. for herder was a man of prophetic instinct; he sometimes felt more clearly than he saw; he divined where he could not reach results by analysis. he was often vague, fragmentary, and inconclusive, like all men of his type; but he had a genius for getting at the heart of things. his statements often need qualification, but he is almost always on the tight track. when he says that the great traditions, in which both the memory and the imagination of a race were engaged, and which were still living in the mouths of the people, "of themselves took on poetic form," he is using language which is too general to convey a definite impression of method, but he is probably suggesting the deepest truth with regard to these popular stories. they actually were of community origin; they actually were common property; they were given a great variety of forms by a great number of persons; the forms which have come down to us are very likely the survivors of a kind of in formal competition, which went on for years at the fireside and at the festivals of a whole country side. barger, whose "lenore" is one of the most widely known of modern ballads, held the same view of the origin of popular song, and was even more definite in his confession of faith than herder. he declared in the most uncompromising terms that all real poetry must have a popular origin; "can be and must be of the people, for that is the seal of its perfection." and he comments on the delight with which he has listened, in village street and home, to unwritten songs; the poetry which finds its way in quiet rivulets to the remotest peasant home. in like manner, helene vacaresco overheard the songs of the roumanian people; hiding in the maize to catch the reaping songs; listening at spinning parties, at festivals, at death-beds, at taverns; taking the songs down from the lips of peasant women, fortune-tellers, gypsies, and all manner of humble folk who were the custodians of this vagrant community verse. we have passed so entirely out of the song-making period, and literature has become to us so exclusively the work of a professional class, that we find it difficult to imagine the intellectual and social conditions which fostered improvisation on a great scale, and trained the ear of great populations to the music of spoken poetry. it is almost impossible for us to disassociate literature from writing. there is still, however, a considerable volume of unwritten literature in the world in the form of stories, songs, proverbs, and pithy phrases; a literature handed down in large part from earlier times, but still receiving additions from contemporary men and women. this unwritten literature is to be found, it is hardly necessary to say, almost exclusively among country people remote from towns, and whose mental attitude and community feeling reproduce, in a way, the conditions under which the english and scotch ballads were originally composed. the roumanian peasants sing their songs upon every occasion of domestic or local interest; and sowing and harvesting, birth, christening, marriage, the burial, these notable events in the life of the country side are all celebrated by unknown poets; or, rather, by improvisers who give definite form to sentiments, phrases, and words which are on many lips. the russian peasant tells his stories as they were told to him; those heroic epics whose life is believed, in some cases, to date back at least a thousand years. these great popular stories form a kind of sacred inheritance bequeathed by one generation to another as a possession of the memory, and are almost entirely unrelated to the written literature of the country. miss hapgood tells a very interesting story of a government official, stationed on the western shore of lake onega, who became so absorbed in the search for this literature of the people that he followed singers and reciters from place to place, eager to learn from their lips the most widely known of these folk tales. on such an expedition of discovery he found himself, one stormy night, on an island in the lake. the hut of refuge was already full of stormbound peasants when he entered. having made himself some tea, and spread his blanket in a vacant place, he fell asleep. he was presently awakened by a murmur of recurring sounds. sitting up, he found the group of peasants hanging on the words of an old man, of kindly face, expressive eyes, and melodious voice, from whose lips flowed a marvellous song; grave and gay by turns, monotonous and passionate in succession; but wonderfully fresh, picturesque, and fascinating. the listener soon became aware that he was hearing, for the first time, the famous story of "sadko, the merchant of novgorod." it was like being present at the birth of a piece of literature! the fact that unwritten songs and stories still exist in great numbers among remote country-folk of our own time, and that additions are still made to them, help us to understand the probable origin of our own popular ballads, and what community authorship may really mean. to put ourselves, even in thought, in touch with the ballad-making period in english and scotch history, we must dismiss from our minds all modern ideas of authorship; all notions of individual origination and ownership of any form of words. professor ten brink tells us that in the ballad-making age there was no production; there was only reproduction. there was a stock of traditions, memories, experiences, held in common by large populations, in constant use on the lips of numberless persons; told and retold in many forms, with countless changes, variations, and modifications; without conscious artistic purpose, with no sense of personal control or possession, with no constructive aim either in plot or treatment; no composition in the modern sense of the term. such a mass of poetic material in the possession of a large community was, in a sense, fluid, and ran into a thousand forms almost without direction or premeditation. constant use of such rich material gave a poetic turn of thought and speech to countless persons who, under other conditions, would have given no sign of the possession of the faculty of imagination. there was not only the stimulus to the faculty which sees events and occurrences with the eyes of the imagination, but there was also constant and familiar use of the language of poetry. to speak metrically or rhythmically is no difficult matter if one is in the atmosphere or habit of verse-making; and there is nothing surprising either in the feats of memory or of improvisation performed by the minstrels and balladists of the old time. the faculty of improvising was easily developed and was very generally used by people of all classes. this facility is still possessed by rural populations, among whom songs are still composed as they are sting, each member of the company contributing a new verse or a variation, suggested by local conditions, of a well-known stanza. when to the possession of a mass of traditions and stories and of facility of improvisation is added the habit of singing and dancing, it is not difficult to reconstruct in our own thought the conditions under which popular poetry came into being, nor to understand in what sense a community can make its own songs. in the brave days when ballads were made, the rustic peoples were not mute, as they are to-day; nor sad, as they have become in so many parts of england. they sang and they danced by instinct and as an expression of social feeling. originally the ballads were not only sung, but they gave measure to the dance; they grew from mouth to mouth in the very act of dancing; individual dancers adding verse to verse, and the frequent refrain coming in as a kind of chorus. gesture and, to a certain extent, acting would naturally accompany so free and general an expression of community feeling. there was no poet, because all were poets. to quote professor ten brink once more:-- "song and playing were cultivated by peasants, and even by freedmen and serfs. at beer-feasts the harp went from hand to hand. herein lies the essential difference between that age and our own. the result of poetical activity was not the property and was not the production of a single person, but of the community. the work of the individual endured only as long as its delivery lasted. he gained personal distinction only as a virtuoso. the permanent elements of what he presented, the material, the ideas, even the style and metre, already existed. 'the work of the singer was only a ripple in the stream of national poetry. who can say how much the individual contributed to it, or where in his poetical recitation memory ceased and creative impulse began! in any case the work of the individual lived on only as the ideal possession of the aggregate body of the people, and it soon lost the stamp of originality. in view of such a development of poetry, we must assume a time when the collective consciousness of a people or race is paramount in its unity; when the intellectual life of each is nourished from the same treasury of views and associations, of myths and sagas; when similar interests stir each breast; and the ethical judgment of all applies itself to the same standard. in such an age the form of poetical expression will also be common to all, necessarily solemn, earnest, and simple." when the conditions which produced the popular ballads become clear to the imagination, their depth of rootage, not only in the community life but in the community love, becomes also clear. we under stand the charm which these old songs have for us of a later age, and the spell which they cast upon men and women who knew the secret of their birth; we understand why the minstrels of the lime, when popular poetry was in its best estate, were held in such honour, why taillefer sang the song of roland at the head of the advancing normans on the day of hastings, and why good bishop aldhelm, when he wanted to get the ears of his people, stood on the bridge and sang a ballad! these old songs were the flowering of the imagination of the people; they drew their life as directly from the general experience, the common memory, the universal feelings, as did the greek dramas in those primitive times, when they were part of rustic festivity and worship. the popular ballads have passed away with the conditions which produced them. modern poets have, in several instances, written ballads of striking picturesqueness and power, but as unlike the ballad of popular origin as the world of to-day is unlike the world in which "chevy chase" was first sung. these modern ballads are not necessarily better or worse than their predecessors; but they are necessarily different. it is idle to exalt the wild flower at the expense of the garden flower; each has its fragrance, its beauty, its sentiment; and the world is wide! in the selection of the ballads which appear in this volume, no attempt has been made to follow a chronological order or to enforce a rigid principle of selection of any kind. the aim has been to bring within moderate compass a collection of these songs of the people which should fairly represent the range, the descriptive felicity, the dramatic power, and the genuine poetic feeling of a body of verse which is still, it is to be feared, unfamiliar to a large number of those to whom it would bring refreshment and delight. hamilton wright mabie chevy chace god prosper long our noble king, our liffes and safetyes all; a woefull hunting once there did in chevy-chace befall. to drive the deere with hound and horne, erle percy took his way; the child may rue that is unborne the hunting of that day. the stout erle of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers days to take; the cheefest harts in chevy-chace to kill and beare away: these tydings to erle douglas came, in scotland where he lay. who sent erie percy present word, he wold prevent his sport; the english erle not fearing that, did to the woods resort, with fifteen hundred bow-men bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of neede to ayme their shafts arright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deere; on munday they began to hunt, ere day-light did appeare; and long before high noone they had an hundred fat buckes slaine; then having din'd, the drovyers went to rouze the deare againe. the bow-men mustered on the hills, well able to endure; theire backsides all, with speciall care, that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deere to take, that with their cryes the hills and dales an eccho shrill did make. lord percy to the quarry went, to view the tender deere; quoth he, "erle douglas promised this day to meet me heere; "but if i thought he wold not come, noe longer wold i stay." with that, a brave younge gentleman thus to the erle did say: "loe, yonder doth erle douglas come, his men in armour bright; full twenty hundred scottish speres, all marching in our sight. "all men of pleasant tivydale, fast by the river tweede:" "o cease your sport," erle percy said, "and take your bowes with speede. "and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for never was there champion yett in scotland or in france, "that ever did on horsebacke come, but, if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to breake a spere." erle douglas on his milke-white steede, most like a baron bold, rode formost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. "show me," sayd hee, "whose men you bee, that hunt soe boldly heere, that, without my consent, doe chase and kill my fallow-deere." the man that first did answer make was noble percy hee; who sayd, "wee list not to declare, nor shew whose men wee bee. "yet will wee spend our deerest blood, thy cheefest harts to slay;" then douglas swore a solempne oathe, and thus in rage did say; "ere thus i will out-braved bee, one of us two shall dye: i know thee well, an erle thou art; lord percy, soe am i. "but trust me, percy, pittye it were, and great offence, to kill any of these our guiltlesse men, for they have done no ill. "let thou and i the battell trye, and set our men aside." "accurst bee he," erle percy sayd, "by whome this is denyed." then stept a gallant squier forth, witherington was his name, who said, "i wold not have it told to henry our king for shame, "that ere my captaine fought on foote, and i stood looking on: you bee two erles," sayd witherington, "and i a squier alone. "ile doe the best that doe i may, while i have power to stand; while i have power to weeld my sword, ile fight with hart and hand." our english archers bent their bowes, their harts were good and trew; att the first flight of arrowes sent, full four-score scots they slew. [yet bides earl douglas on the bent, as chieftain stout and good, as valiant captain, all unmov'd the shock he firmly stood. his host he parted had in three, as leader ware and try'd, and soon his spearmen on their foes bare down on every side. throughout the english archery they dealt full many a wound; but still our valiant englishmen all firmly kept their ground. and throwing strait their bows away, they grasp'd their swords so bright: and now sharp blows, a heavy shower, on shields and helmets light.] they clos'd full fast on everye side, noe slacknes there was found; and many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was a griefe to see, and likewise for to heare, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last these two stout erles did meet, like captaines of great might; like lyons wood they layd on lode, and made a cruell fight. they fought, untill they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steele; until the blood, like drops of rain, they trickling downe did feele. "yeeld thee, lord percy," douglas sayd "in faith i will thee bringe, where thou shalt high advanced bee by james our scottish king. "thy ransom i will freely give, and thus report of thee, thou art the most couragious knight that ever i did see." "noe, douglas," quoth erle percy then, "thy proffer i doe scorne i will not yeelde to any scott, that ever yett was borne." with that, there came an arrow keene out of an english bow, which struck erle douglas to the heart, a deepe and deadlye blow: who never spake more words than these, "fight on, my merry men all; for why, my life is at an end: lord percy sees my fall." then leaving liffe, erle percy tooke the dead man by the hand; and said, "erle douglas, for thy life wold i had lost my land! "o christ! my verry hart doth bleed with sorrow for thy sake; for sure, a more renowned knight mischance cold never take." a knight amongst the scotts there was, which saw erle douglas dye, who streight in wrath did vow revenge upon the lord percye; sir hugh mountgomerye was he call'd, who, with a spere most bright, well-mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight; and past the english archers all, without all dread or feare, and through earl percyes body then he thrust his hatefull spere with such a vehement force and might he did his body gore, the speare ran through the other side a large cloth-yard, and more. so thus did both these nobles dye, whose courage none could staine; an english archer then perceiv'd the noble erle was slaine. he had a bow bent in his hand, made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth-yard long up to the head drew hee. against sir hugh mountgomerye, so right the shaft he sett, the grey goose-wing that was thereon in his harts bloode was wett. this fight did last from breake of day till setting of the sun; for when they rung the evening bell, the battel scarce was done. with stout erle percy, there was slaine, sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold bar n. and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph rabby there was slaine, whose prowesse did surmount. for witherington needs must i wayle, as one in doleful dumpes; for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumpes. and with erle douglas, there was slaine sir hugh mountgomerye, sir charles murray, that from the feeld one foote wold never flee. sir charles murray of ratcliff, too, his sisters sonne was hee; sir david lamb, so well esteem'd, yet saved cold not bee. and the lord maxwell in like case did with erle douglas dye; of twenty hundred scottish speres, scarce fifty-five did flye. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest were slaine in chevy-chace, under the greene wood tree. next day did many widowes come, their husbands to bewayle; they washt their wounds in brinish teares, but all wold not prevayle. theyr bodyes, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away: they kist them dead a thousand times, ere they were cladd in clay. this newes was brought to eddenborrow, where scotlands king did raigne, that brave erle douglas suddenlye was with an arrow slaine. "o heavy newes," king james did say; "scottland can witnesse bee, i have not any captaine more of such account as hee." like tydings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland was slaine in chevy-chace. "now god be with him," said our king, "sith it will noe better bee; i trust i have, within my realme, five hundred as good as hee. "yett shall not scotts nor scotland say, but i will vengeance take, i'll be revenged on them all, for brave erle percyes sake." this vow full well the king perform'd after, at humbledowne; in one day, fifty knights were slayne, with lordes of great renowne. and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands dye: thus endeth the hunting in chevy-chace, made by the erle percy. god save our king, and bless this land in plentye, joy, and peace; and grant henceforth, that foule debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! king cophetua and the beggar-maid i read that once in affrica a princely wight did raine, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did faine. from natures lawes he did decline, for sure he was not of my minde, he cared not for women-kind but did them all disdaine. but marke what hapned on a day; as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in gray. the which did cause his paine. the blinded boy that shootes so trim from heaven downe did hie, he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lye: which soone did pierse him to the quicke, and when he felt the arrow pricke, which in his tender heart did sticke, he looketh as he would dye. "what sudden chance is this," quoth he, "that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defie?" then from the window he did come, and laid him on his bed; a thousand heapes of care did runne within his troubled head. for now he meanes to crave her love, and now he seekes which way to proove how he his fancie might remoove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poor begger must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or els he would be dead. and as he musing thus did lye, he thought for to devise how he might have her companye, that so did 'maze his eyes. "in thee," quoth he, "doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife, the gods shall sure suffice." then from his bed he soon arose, and to his pallace gate he goes; full little then this begger knowes when she the king espies. "the gods preserve your majesty," the beggers all gan cry; "vouchsafe to give your charity, our childrens food to buy." the king to them his purse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hye. the king he cal'd her back againe, and unto her he gave his chaine; and said, "with us you shal remaine till such time as we dye. "for thou," quoth he, "shalt be my wife, and honoured for my queene; with thee i meane to lead my life, as shortly shall be seene: our wedding shall appointed be, and every thing in its degree; come on," quoth he, "and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee cleane. what is thy name, faire maid?" quoth he. "penelophon, o king," quoth she; with that she made a lowe courtsey; a trim one as i weene. thus hand in hand along they walke unto the king's pallace: the king with courteous, comly talke this begger doth embrace. the begger blusheth scarlet red, and straight againe as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voyce, and said, "o king, i doe rejoyce that you wil take me for your choyce, and my degree so base." and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded strait the noblemen, both all and some, upon the queene to wait. and she behaved herself that day as if she had never walkt the way; she had forgot her gowne of gray, which she did weare of late. the proverbe old is come to passe, the priest, when he begins his masse, forgets that ever clerke he was he knowth not his estate. here you may read cophetua, through long time fancie-fed, compelled by the blinded boy the begger for to wed: he that did lovers lookes disdaine, to do the same was glad and faine, or else he would himselfe have slaine, in storie, as we read. disdaine no whit, o lady deere, but pitty now thy servant heere, least that it hap to thee this yeare, as to that king it did. and thus they led a quiet life during their princely raine, and in a tombe were buried both, as writers sheweth plaine. the lords they tooke it grievously, the ladies tooke it heavily, the commons cryed pitiously, their death to them was paine. their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did flye to every princes realme. king leir and his three daughters king leir once ruled in this land with princely power and peace, and had all things with hearts content, that might his joys increase. amongst those things that nature gave, three daughters fair had he, so princely seeming beautiful, as fairer could not be. so on a time it pleas'd the king a question thus to move, which of his daughters to his grace could shew the dearest love: "for to my age you bring content," quoth he, "then let me hear, which of you three in plighted troth the kindest will appear." to whom the eldest thus began: "dear father, mind," quoth she, "before your face, to do you good, my blood shall render'd be. and for your sake my bleeding heart shall here be cut in twain, ere that i see your reverend age the smallest grief sustain." "and so will i," the second said; "dear father, for your sake, the worst of all extremities i'll gently undertake: and serve your highness night and day with diligence and love; that sweet content and quietness discomforts may remove." "in doing so, you glad my soul," the aged king reply'd; "but what sayst thou, my youngest girl, how is thy love ally'd?" "my love" (quoth young cordelia then), "which to your grace i owe, shall be the duty of a child, and that is all i'll show." "and wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, "than doth thy duty bind? i well perceive thy love is small, when as no more i find. henceforth i banish thee my court; thou art no child of mine; nor any part of this my realm by favour shall be thine. "thy elder sisters' loves are more than well i can demand; to whom i equally bestow my kingdome and my land, my pompal state and all my goods, that lovingly i may with those thy sisters be maintain'd until my dying day." thus flattering speeches won renown, by these two sisters here; the third had causeless banishment, yet was her love more dear. for poor cordelia patiently went wandring up and down, unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, through many an english town: untill at last in famous france she gentler fortunes found; though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd the fairest on the ground: where when the king her virtues heard, and this fair lady seen, with full consent of all his court he made his wife and queen. her father, old king leir, this while with his two daughters staid; forgetful of their promis'd loves, full soon the same decay'd; and living in queen ragan's court, the eldest of the twain, she took from him his chiefest means, and most of all his train. for whereas twenty men were wont to wait with bended knee, she gave allowance but to ten, and after scarce to three, nay, one she thought too much for him; so took she all away, in hope that in her court, good king, he would no longer stay. "am i rewarded thus," quoth he, "in giving all i have unto my children, and to beg for what i lately gave? i'll go unto my gonorell: my second child, i know, will be more kind and pitiful, and will relieve my woe." full fast he hies then to her court; where when she heard his moan, return'd him answer, that she griev'd that all his means were gone, but no way could relieve his wants; yet if that he would stay within her kitchen, he should have what scullions gave away. when he had heard, with bitter tears, he made his answer then; "in what i did, let me be made example to all men. i will return again," quoth he, "unto my ragan's court; she will not use me thus, i hope, but in a kinder sort." where when he came, she gave command to drive him thence away: when he was well within her court, (she said) he would not stay. then back again to gonorel the woeful king did hie, that in her kitchen he might have what scullion boys set by. but there of that he was deny'd which she had promis'd late for once refusing, he should not, come after to her gate. thus twixt his daughters for relief he wandred up and down, being glad to feed on beggars' food that lately wore a crown. and calling to remembrance then his youngest daughters words, that said, the duty of a child was all that love affords-- but doubting to repair to her, whom he had ban'sh'd so, grew frantic mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe. which made him rend his milk-white locks and tresses from his head, and all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread. to hills and woods and watry founts, he made his hourly moan, till hills and woods and senseless things did seem to sigh and groan. even thus possest with discontents, he passed o'er to france, in hopes from fair cordelia there to find some gentler chance. most virtuous dame! which, when she heard of this her father's grief, as duty bound, she quickly sent him comfort and relief. and by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort, she gave in charge he should be brought to aganippus' court; whose royal king, with noble mind, so freely gave consent to muster up his knights at arms, to fame and courage bent. and so to england came with speed, to repossesse king leir, and drive his daughters from their thrones by his cordelia dear. where she, true-hearted, noble queen, was in the battel stain; yet he, good king, in his old days, possest his crown again. but when he heard cordelia's death, who died indeed for love of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battle move, he swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted; but on her bosom left his life that was so truly hearted. the lords and nobles, when they saw the end of these events, the other sisters unto death they doomed by consents; and being dead, their crowns they left unto the next of kin: thus have you seen the fall of pride, and disobedient sin. fair rosamond when as king henry rulde this land, the second of that name, besides the queene, he dearly lovde a faire and comely dame. most peerlesse was her beautye founde, her favour, and her face; a sweeter creature in this worlde could never prince embrace. her crisped lockes like threads of golde, appeard to each man's sight; her sparkling eyes, like orient pearles, did cast a heavenlye light. the blood within her crystal cheekes did such a colour drive, as though the lillye and the rose for mastership did strive. yea rosamonde, fair rosamonde, her name was called so, to whom our queene, dame ellinor, was known a deadlye foe. the king therefore, for her defence against the furious queene, at woodstocke builded such a bower, the like was never seene. most curiously that bower was built, of stone and timber strong; an hundered and fifty doors did to this bower belong: and they so cunninglye contriv'd, with turnings round about, that none but with a clue of thread could enter in or out. and for his love and ladyes sake, that was so faire and brighte, the keeping of this bower he gave unto a valiant knighte. but fortune, that doth often frowne where she before did smile, the kinges delighte and ladyes joy full soon shee did beguile: for why, the kinges ungracious sonne, whom he did high advance, against his father raised warres within the realme of france. but yet before our comelye king the english land forsooke, of rosamond, his lady faire, his farewelle thus he tooke: "my rosamonde, my only rose, that pleasest best mine eye, the fairest flower in all the worlde to feed my fantasye,-- "the flower of mine affected heart, whose sweetness doth excelle, my royal rose, a thousand times i bid thee nowe farwelle! "for i must leave my fairest flower, my sweetest rose, a space, and cross the seas to famous france, proud rebelles to abase. "but yet, my rose, be sure thou shalt my coming shortlye see, and in my heart, when hence i am, ile beare my rose with mee." when rosamond, that ladye brighte, did heare the king saye soe, the sorrowe of her grieved heart her outward lookes did showe. and from her cleare and crystall eyes the teares gusht out apace, which, like the silver-pearled dewe, ranne downe her comely face. her lippes, erst like the corall redde, did waxe both wan and pale, and for the sorrow she conceivde her vitall spirits faile. and falling downe all in a swoone before king henryes face, full oft he in his princelye armes her bodye did embrace. and twentye times, with watery eyes, he kist her tender cheeke, untill he had revivde againe her senses milde and meeke. "why grieves my rose, my sweetest rose?" the king did often say: "because," quoth shee, "to bloodye warres my lord must part awaye. "but since your grace on forrayne coastes, amonge your foes unkinde, must goe to hazard life and limbe, why should i staye behinde? "nay, rather let me, like a page, your sworde and target beare; that on my breast the blowes may lighte, which would offend you there. "or lett mee, in your royal tent, prepare your bed at nighte, and with sweete baths refresh your grace, at your returne from fighte. "so i your presence may enjoye no toil i will refuse; but wanting you, my life is death: nay, death ild rather chuse." "content thy self, my dearest love, thy rest at home shall bee, in englandes sweet and pleasant isle; for travell fits not thee. "faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; soft peace their sexe delightes; not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; gay feastes, not cruell fightes. "my rose shall safely here abide, with musicke passe the daye, whilst i amonge the piercing pikes my foes seeke far awaye. "my rose shall shine in pearle and golde, whilst ime in armour dighte; gay galliards here my love shall dance, whilst i my foes goe fighte. "and you, sir thomas, whom i truste to bee my loves defence, be carefull of my gallant rose when i am parted hence." and therewithall he fetcht a sigh, as though his heart would breake; and rosamonde, for very griefe, not one plaine word could speake. and at their parting well they mighte in heart be grieved sore: after that daye, faire rosamonde the king did see no more. for when his grace had past the seas, and into france was gone, with envious heart, queene ellinor to woodstocke came anone. and forth she calls this trustye knighte in an unhappy houre, who, with his clue of twined-thread, came from this famous bower. and when that they had wounded him, the queene this thread did gette, and wente where ladye rosamonde was like an angell sette. but when the queene with stedfast eye beheld her beauteous face, she was amazed in her minde at her exceeding grace. "cast off from thee those robes," she said, "that riche and costlye bee; and drinke thou up this deadlye draught which i have brought to thee." then presentlye upon her knees sweet rosamonde did falle; and pardon of the queene she crav'd for her offences all. "take pitty on my youthfull yeares," faire rosamonde did crye; "and lett mee not with poison stronge enforced bee to dye. "i will renounce my sinfull life, and in some cloyster bide; or else be banisht, if you please, to range the world soe wide. "and for the fault which i have done, though i was forc'd theretoe, preserve my life, and punish mee as you thinke meet to doe." and with these words, her lillie handes she wrunge full often there; and downe along her lovely face did trickle many a teare. but nothing could this furious queene therewith appeased bee; the cup of deadlye poyson stronge, as she knelt on her knee, she gave this comelye dame to drinke; who tooke it in her hand, and from her bended knee arose, and on her feet did stand, and casting up her eyes to heaven, shee did for mercye calle; and drinking up the poison stronge, her life she lost withalle. and when that death through everye limbe had showde its greatest spite, her chiefest foes did plain confesse shee was a glorious wight. her body then they did entomb, when life was fled away, at godstowe, neare to oxford towne, as may be seene this day. phillida and corydon in the merrie moneth of maye, in a morne by break of daye, with a troope of damselles playing forthe 'i yode' forsooth a maying; when anon by a wood side, where that maye was in his pride, i espied all alone phillida and corydon. much adoe there was, god wot: he wold love, and she wold not. she sayde, "never man was trewe;" he sayes, "none was false to you." he sayde, hee had lovde her longe; she sayes, love should have no wronge. corydon wold kisse her then; she sayes, "maydes must kisse no men, "tyll they doe for good and all." when she made the shepperde call all the heavens to wytnes truthe, never loved a truer youthe. then with manie a prettie othe, yea and nay, and faithe and trothe, suche as seelie shepperdes use when they will not love abuse, love, that had bene long deluded, was with kisses sweete concluded; and phillida with garlands gaye was made the lady of the maye. fair margaret and sweet william as it fell out on a long summer's day, two lovers they sat on a hill; they sat together that long summer's day, and could not talk their fill. "i see no harm by you, margaret, and you see none by mee; before to-morrow at eight o' the clock a rich wedding you shall see." fair margaret sat in her bower-wind w, combing her yellow hair; there she spyed sweet william and his bride, as they were a riding near. then down she layd her ivory combe, and braided her hair in twain: she went alive out of her bower, but ne'er came alive in't again. when day was gone, and night was come, and all men fast asleep, then came the spirit of fair marg'ret, and stood at william's feet. "are you awake, sweet william?" shee said, "or, sweet william, are you asleep? god give you joy of your gay bride-bed, and me of my winding sheet." when day was come, and night was gone, and all men wak'd from sleep, sweet william to his lady sayd, "my dear, i have cause to weep. "i dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, such dreames are never good: i dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,' and my bride-bed full of blood." "such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, they never do prove good; to dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,' and thy bride-bed full of blood." he called up his merry men all, by one, by two, and by three; saying, "i'll away to fair marg'ret's bower, by the leave of my ladie." and when he came to fair marg'ret's bower, he knocked at the ring; and who so ready as her seven brethren to let sweet william in. then he turned up the covering-sheet; "pray let me see the dead; methinks she looks all pale and wan. she hath lost her cherry red. "i'll do more for thee, margaret, than any of thy kin: for i will kiss thy pale wan lips, though a smile i cannot win." with that bespake the seven brethren, making most piteous mone, "you may go kiss your jolly brown bride, and let our sister alone." "if i do kiss my jolly brown bride, i do but what is right; i ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, by day, nor yet by night. "deal on, deal on, my merry men all, deal on your cake and your wine: for whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." fair margaret dyed to-day, to-day, sweet william dyed the morrow: fair margaret dyed for pure true love, sweet william dyed for sorrow. margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, and william in the higher: out of her brest there sprang a rose, and out of his a briar. they grew till they grew unto the church top, and then they could grow no higher; and there they tyed in a true lover's knot, which made all the people admire. then came the clerk of the parish, as you the truth shall hear, and by misfortune cut them down, or they had now been there. annan water "annan water's wading deep, and my love annie's wondrous bonny; i will keep my tryst to-night, and win the heart o' lovely annie." he's loupen on his bonny grey, he rade the right gate and the ready', for a' the storm he wadna stay, for seeking o' his bonny lady. and he has ridden o'er field and fell, through muir and moss, and stones and mire; his spurs o' steel were sair to bide, and frae her four feet flew the fire. "my bonny grey, noo play your part! gin ye be the steed that wins my dearie, wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, and never spur sail mak' you wearie." the grey was a mare, and a right gude mare: but when she wan the annan water, she couldna hae found the ford that night had a thousand merks been wadded at her. "o boatman, boatman, put off your boat, put off your boat for gouden money!" but for a' the goud in fair scotland, he dared na tak' him through to annie. "o i was sworn sae late yestreen, not by a single aith, but mony. i'll cross the drumly stream to-night, or never could i face my honey." the side was stey, and the bottom deep, frae bank to brae the water pouring; the bonny grey mare she swat for fear, for she heard the water-kelpy roaring. he spurred her forth into the flood, i wot she swam both strong and steady; but the stream was broad, her strength did fail, and he never saw his bonny lady. o wae betide the frush saugh wand! and wae betide the bush of brier! that bent and brake into his hand, when strength of man and horse did tire. and wae betide ye, annan water! this night ye are a drumly river; but over thee we'll build a brig, that ye nae mair true love may sever. the bailiff's daughter of islington there was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, and he was a squire's son; he loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, that lived in islington. yet she was coye, and would not believe that he did love her soe, noe nor at any time would she any countenance to him showe. but when his friendes did understand his fond and foolish minde, they sent him up to faire london, an apprentice for to binde. and when he had been seven long yeares, and never his love could see,-- "many a teare have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of mee." then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and playe, all but the bayliffe's daughter deare; she secretly stole awaye. she pulled off her gowne of greene, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and drye, she sat her downe upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour soe redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; "one penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "will ease me of much paine." "before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, praye tell me where you were borne." "at islington, kind sir," sayd shee, "where i have had many a scorne." "i prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, o tell me, whether you knowe the bayliffes daughter of islington." "she is dead, sir, long agoe." "if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some farr countrye, where noe man shall me knowe." "o staye, o staye, thou goodlye youthe, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and readye to be thy bride." "o farewell griefe, and welcome joye, ten thousand times therefore; for nowe i have founde mine owne true love, whom i thought i should never see more." barbara allen's cruelty all in the merry month of may, when green buds they were swelling, young jemmy grove on his death-bed lay for love o' barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the town where she was dwelling: "o haste and come to my master dear, if your name be barbara allen." slowly, slowly rase she up, and she cam' where he was lying; and when she drew the curtain by, says, "young man, i think you're dying." "o it's i am sick, and very, very sick, and it's a' for barbara allen." "o the better for me ye'se never be, tho' your heart's blude were a-spilling! "o dinna ye min', young man," she says, "when the red wine ye were filling, that ye made the healths gae round and round and ye slighted barbara allen?" he turn'd his face unto the wa', and death was wi' him dealing: "adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'; be kind to barbara allen." as she was walking o'er the fields, she heard the dead-bell knelling; and every jow the dead-bell gave, it cried, "woe to barbara allen!" "o mother, mother, mak' my bed, to lay me down in sorrow. my love has died for me to-day, i'll die for him to-morrow." the douglas tragedy "rise up, rise up, now, lord douglas," she says, "and put on your armour so bright; sweet william will hae lady margaret awi' before that it be light. "rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, and put on your armour so bright, and take better care of your youngest sister, for your eldest's awa' the last night." he's mounted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a buglet horn hung down by his side and lightly they rode away. lord william lookit o'er his left shoulder, to see what he could see, and there he spied her seven brethren bold come riding o'er the lea. "light down, light down, lady margaret," he said, "and hold my steed in your hand, until that against your seven brethren bold, and your father i make a stand." she held his steed in her milk-white hand, and never shed one tear, until that she saw her seven brethren fa' and her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. "o hold your hand, lord william!" she said, "for your strokes they are wondrous sair; true lovers i can get many a ane, but a father i can never get mair." o, she's ta'en out her handkerchief, it was o' the holland sae fine, and aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, that were redder than the wine. "o chuse, o chuse, lady margaret," he said, "o whether will ye gang or bide?" "i'll gang, i'll gang, lord william," she said, "for you have left me nae other guide." he's lifted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a buglet horn hung down by his side, and slowly they baith rade away. o they rade on, and on they rade, and a' by the light of the moon, until they came to yon wan water, and there they lighted down. they lighted down to tak a drink of the spring that ran sae clear; and down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, and sair she 'gan to fear. "hold up, hold up, lord william," she says, "for i fear that you are slain!" "'tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, that shines in the water sae plain." o they rade on, and on they rade, and a' by the light of the moon, until they came to his mother's ha' door, and there they lighted down. "get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "get up, and let me in! get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "for this night my fair lady i've win. "o mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "o mak it braid and deep! and lay lady margaret close at my back, and the sounder i will sleep." lord william was dead lang ere midnight, lady margaret lang ere day: and all true lovers that go thegither, may they have mair luck than they! lord william was buried in st. marie's kirk, lady margaret in marie's quire; out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, and out o' the knight's a brier. and they twa met, and they twa plat and fain they wad be near; and a' the world might ken right weel, they were twa lovers dear. but bye and rade the black douglas and wow but he was rough! for he pulled up the bonny brier, and flanged in st. marie's loch. young waters about yule, when the wind blew cool; and the round tables began, a' there is come to our king's court mony a well-favoured man. the queen looked o'er the castle wa', beheld baith dale and down, and then she saw young waters come riding to the town. his footmen they did rin before, his horsemen rade behind; ane mantle of the burning gowd did keep him frae the wind. gowden graith'd[fn# ] his horse before, and siller shod behind; the horse young waters rade upon was fleeter than the wind. [fn# ] graitih'd, girthed. out then spake a wily lord, unto the queen said he: "o tell me wha's the fairest face rides in the company?" "i've seen lord, and i've seen laird, and knights of high degree, but a fairer face than young waters mine eyen did never see." out then spake the jealous king and an angry man was he: "o if he had been twice as fair, you might have excepted me." "you're neither laird nor lord," she says, "but the king that wears the crown; there is not a knight in fair scotland, but to thee maun bow down." for a' that she could do or say, appeased he wad nae be; but for the words which she had said, young waters he maun dee. they hae ta'en young waters, and put fetters to his feet; they hae ta'en young waters, and thrown him in dungeon deep. "aft i have ridden thro' stirling town, in the wind but and the weet; but i ne'er rade thro' stirling town wi' fetters at my feet. "aft have i ridden thro' stirling town, in the wind but and the rain; but i ne'er rade thro' stirling town ne'er to return again." they hae ta'en to the heading-hill his young son in his cradle; and they hae ta'en to the heading-hill his horse but and his saddle. they hae ta'en to the heading-hill his lady fair to see; and for the words the queen had spoke young waters he did dee. flodden field king jamie hath made a vow, keepe it well if he may: that he will be at lovely london upon saint james his day. upon saint james his day at noone, at faire london will i be, and all the lords in merrie scotland, they shall dine there with me. "march out, march out, my merry men, of hie or low degree; i'le weare the crowne in london towne, and that you soon shall be." then bespake good queene margaret, the teares fell from her eye: "leave off these warres, most noble king, keepe your fidelitie. "the water runnes swift, and wondrous deepe, from bottome unto the brimme; my brother henry hath men good enough; england is hard to winne." "away" quoth he "with this silly foole! in prison fast let her lie: for she is come of the english bloud, and for these words she shall dye." with that bespake lord thomas howard, the queenes chamberlaine that day: "if that you put queene margaret to death, scotland shall rue it alway." then in a rage king jamie did say, "away with this foolish mome; he shall be hanged, and the other be burned, so soone as i come home." at flodden field the scots came in, which made our english men faine; at bramstone greene this battaile was seene, there was king jamie slaine. his bodie never could be found, when he was over throwne, and he that wore faire scotland's crowne that day could not be knowne. then presently the scot did flie, their cannons they left behind; their ensignes gay were won all away, our souldiers did beate them blinde. to tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine, that to the fight did stand, and many prisoners tooke that day, the best in all scotland. that day made many [a] fatherlesse child, and many a widow poore, and many a scottish gay lady sate weeping in her bower. jack with a feather was lapt all in leather, his boastings were all in vaine; he had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance he never went home againe. -------- this was written to adapt the ballad to the seventeenth century. now heaven we laude that never more such biding shall come to hand; our king, by othe, is king of both england and faire scotland. helen of kirkconnell i wad i were where helen lies; night and day on me she cries; o that i were where helen lies, on fair kirkconnell lea! curst be the heart that thought the thought, and curst the hand that fired the shot, when in my arms burd helen dropt, and died to succour me! o think na but my heart was sair when my love dropt and spak nae mair! i laid her down wi' meikle care, on fair kirkconnell lea. as i went down the water side, nane but my foe to be my guide, nane but my foe to be my guide, on fair kirkconnell lea. i lighted down my sword to draw, i hacked him in pieces sma', i hacked him in pieces sma', for her sake that died for me. o helen fair, beyond compare! i'll make a garland of thy hair, shall bind my heart for evermair, until the day i dee! o that i were where helen lies night and day on me she cries; out of my bed she bids me rise, says, "haste, and come to me!" o helen fair! o helen chaste! if i were with thee, i were blest, where thou lies low and takes thy rest, on fair kirkconnell lea. i wad my grave were growing green, a winding-sheet drawn ower my een, and i in helen's arms lying, on fair kirkconnell lea. i wad i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries, and i am weary of the skies, since my love died for me. robin hood and allen-a-dale come listen to me, you gallants so free, all you that love mirth for to hear, and i will tell you of a bold outlaw, that lived in nottinghamshire. as robin hood in the forest stood all under the greenwood tree, there he was aware of a brave young man, as fine as fine might be. the youngster was clad in scarlet red, in scarlet fine and gay and he did frisk it over the plain, and chaunted a roundelay. as robin hood next morning stood amongst the leaves so gay, there did he espy the same young man come drooping along the way. the scarlet he wore the day before it was clean cast away; and at every step he fetched a sigh, "alas! and a well-a-day!" then stepped forth brave little john, and midge, the miller's son; which made the young man bend his bow, when as he see them come. "stand off! stand off!" the young man said, "what is your will with me?" "you must come before our master straight, under yon greenwood tree." and when he came bold robin before, robin asked him courteously, o, hast thou any money to spare, for my merry men and me? "i have no money," the young man said, "but five shillings and a ring; and that i have kept this seven long years, to have at my wedding. "yesterday i should have married a maid, but she was from me ta'en, and chosen to be an old knight's delight, whereby my poor heart is slain." "what is thy name?" then said robin hood, "come tell me, without any fail." "by the faith of my body," then said the young man, "my name it is allen-a-dale." "what wilt thou give me," said robin hood, "in ready gold or fee, to help thee to thy true love again, and deliver her unto thee?" "i have no money," then quoth the young man, "no ready gold nor fee, but i will swear upon a book thy true servant for to be." "how many miles is it to thy true love? come tell me without guile." "by the faith of my body," then said the young man, "it is but five little mile." then robin he hasted over the plain, he did neither stint nor lin, until he came unto the church where allen should keep his weddin'. "what hast thou here?" the bishop then said, "i prithee now tell unto me." "i am a bold harper," quoth robin hood, "and the best in the north country." "o welcome, o welcome," the bishop he said, "that music best pleaseth me." "you shall have no music," quoth robin hood, "till the bride and bridegroom i see." with that came in a wealthy knight, which was both grave and old; and after him a finikin lass, did shine like the glistering gold. "this is not a fit match," quoth robin hood, "that you do seem to make here; for since we are come into the church, the bride shall chuse her own dear." then robin hood put his horn to his mouth, and blew blasts two and three; when four-and-twenty bowmen bold came leaping over the lea. and when they came into the church-yard, marching all in a row, the first man was allen-a-dale, to give bold robin his bow. "this is thy true love," robin he said, young allen, as i hear say; and you shall be married this same time, before we depart away." "that shall not be," the bishop he cried, "for thy word shall not stand; they shall be three times asked in the church, as the law is of our land." robin hood pulled off the bishop's coat, and put it upon little john; "by the faith of my body," then robin said, "this cloth doth make thee a man." when little john went into the quire, the people began to laugh; he asked them seven times into church, lest three times should not be enough. "who gives me this maid?" said little john, quoth robin hood, "that do i; and he that takes her from allen-a-dale, full dearly he shall her buy." and then having ended this merry wedding, the bride looked like a queen; and so they returned to the merry greenwood, amongst the leaves so green. robin hood and guy of gisborne when shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre, and leaves both large and longe, itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrest to heare the small birdes songe. the woodweele sang, and wold not cease, sitting upon the spraye, soe lowde, he wakened robin hood, in the greenwood where he lay. "now, by my faye," sayd jollye robin, "a sweaven i had this night; i dreamt me of tow wighty yemen, that fast with me can fight. "methought they did mee beate and binde, and tooke my bow mee froe; iff i be robin alive in this lande, ile be wroken on them towe." "sweavens are swift, master," quoth john, "as the wind that blowes ore the hill; for if itt be never so loude this night, to-morrow it may be still." "buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, and john shall goe with mee, for ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, in greenwood where the bee." then they cast on their gownes of grene, and tooke theyr bowes each one; and they away to the greene forrest a shooting forth are gone; untill they came to the merry greenwood, where they had gladdest to bee; there were they ware of a wight yeoman, his body leaned to a tree. a sword and a dagger he wore by his side, of manye a man the bane; and he was clad in his capull hyde, topp and tayll and mayne. "stand you still, master," quoth little john, "under this tree so grene, and i will go to yond wight yeoman to know what he doth meane." "ah! john, by me thou settest noe store, and that i farley finde: how offt send i my men beffore, and tarry my selfe behinde! "it is no cunning a knave to ken, and a man but heare him speake; and itt were not for bursting of my bowe, john, i thy head wold breake." as often wordes they breeden bale, so they parted robin and john; and john is gone to barnesdale; the gates he knoweth eche one. but when he came to barnesdale, great heavinesse there hee hadd, for he found tow of his owne fell wes were slaine both in a slade. and scarlette he was flying a-foote faste over stocke and stone, for the sheriffe with seven score men fast after him is gone. "one shoote now i will shoote," quoth john, "with christ his might and mayne; ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, to stopp he shall be fayne." then john bent up his long bende-bowe, and fetteled him to shoote: the bow was made of tender boughe, and fell down to his foote. "woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, that ere thou grew on a tree; for now this day thou art my bale, my boote when thou shold bee." his shoote it was but loosely shott, yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, for itt mett one of the sherriffes men, good william a trent was slaine. it had bene better of william a trent to have bene abed with sorrowe, than to be that day in the green-wood slade to meet with little johns arrowe. but as it is said, when men be mett fyve can doe more than three, the sheriffe hath taken little john, and bound him fast to a tree. "thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, and hanged hye on a hill." "but thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth john, "if itt be christ his will." lett us leave talking of little john, and thinke of robin hood, how he is gone to the wight yeoman, where under the leaves he stood. "good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd robin so fayre, "good morrowe, good fellow," quoth he. "methinks by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, a good archere thou sholdst bee." "i am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yeoman, "and of my morning tyde:" "ile lead thee through the wood," sayd robin, "good fellow, ile be thy guide." "i seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, "men call him robin hood; rather ild meet with that proud outlawe than fortye pound soe good." "now come with me, thou wight yeman, and robin thou soone shalt see; but first let us some pastime find under the greenwood tree. "first let us some masterye make among the woods so even; we may chance to meet with robin hood here att some unsett steven." they cutt them down two summer shroggs, that grew both under a breere, and set them threescore rood in twaine, to shoote the prickes y-fere. "leade on, good fellowe," quoth robin hood, "leade on, i doe bidd thee." "nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, "my leader thou shalt bee." the first time robin shot at the pricke, he mist but an inch it fro; the yeoman he was an archer good, but he cold never shoote soe. the second shoote had the wightye yeoman, he shote within the garlande; but robin he shott far better than hee, for he clave the good pricke-wande. "a blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, "good fellowe, thy shooting is goode for an thy hart be as good as thy hand, thou wert better then robin hoode. now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, "under the leaves of lyne." "nay, by my faith," quoth bolde robin, "till thou have told me thine." "i dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, "and robin to take ime sworne; and when i am called by my right name, i am guy of good gisbrne." "my dwelling is in this wood," sayes robin, "by thee i set right nought: i am robin hood of barnesdale, whom thou so long hast sought." he that had neither beene kithe nor kin, might have seen a full fayre sight, to see how together these yeomen went with blades both browne and bright: to see how these yeomen together they fought two howres of a summers day, yett neither robin hood nor sir guy them fettled to flye away. robin was reachles on a roote, and stumbled at that tyde; and guy was quicke and nimble with-all, and hitt him ore the left side. "ah, deere lady," sayd robin hood tho, "thou art but mother and may'; i think it was never mans destinye to dye before his day." robin thought on our ladye deere, and soone leapt up againe, and strait he came with a 'backward' stroke, and he sir guy hath slayne. he took sir guy's head by the hayre, and stuck itt upon his bowes end: "thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, which thing must have an end." robin pulled forth an irish kniffe, and nicked sir guy in the face, that he was never on woman born cold tell whose head it was. sayes, "lye there, lye there now, sir guy, and with me be not wrothe; iff thou have had the worst strokes at my hand, thou shalt have the better clothe." robin did off his gowne of greene, and on sir guy did throwe, and hee put on that capull hyde, that cladd him topp to toe. "the bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, now with me i will beare; for i will away to barnesdale, to see how my men doe fare." robin hood sett guy's horne to his mouth, and a loud blast in it did blow: that beheard the sheriffe of nottingham, as he leaned under a lowe. "hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, "i heare nowe tydings good, for yonder i heare sir guy's horne blowe, and he hath slaine robin hoode. "yonder i heare sir guy's horne blowe, itt blowes soe well in tyde, and yonder comes that wightye yeoman, cladd in his capull hyde. "come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir guy, aske what thou wilt of mee." "o i will none of thy gold," sayd robin, "nor i will none of thy fee. "but now i have slaine the master," he sayes, "let me goe strike the knave; for this is all the rewarde i aske. nor noe other will i have." "thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, "thou sholdst have had a knightes fee; but seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, well granted it shale be." when little john heard his master speake, well knewe he it was his steven; "now shall i be looset," quoth little john, "with christ his might in heaven." fast robin hee hyed him to little john, he thought to loose him belive: the sheriffe and all his companye fast after him can drive. "stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd robin; "why draw you mee so neere? itt was never the use in our countrye, ones shrift another shold heere." but robin pulled forth an irysh knife, and losed john hand and foote, and gave him sir guy's bow into his hand, and bade it be his boote. then john he took guy's bow in his hand, his boltes and arrowes eche one: when the sheriffe saw little john bend his bow, he fettled him to be gone. towards his house in nottingham towne he fled full fast away, and soe did all the companye, not one behind wold stay. but he cold neither runne soe fast, nor away soe fast cold ryde, but little john with an arrowe soe broad he shott him into the 'backe'-syde. robin hood's death and burial when robin hood and little john down a down, a down, a down, went o'er yon bank of broom, said robin hood to little john, "we have shot for many a pound: hey down, a down, a down. "but i am not able to shoot one shot more, my arrows will not flee; but i have a cousin lives down below, please god, she will bleed me." now robin is to fair kirkley gone, as fast as he can win; but before he came there, as we do hear, he was taken very ill. and when that he came to fair kirkley-hall, he knocked all at the ring, but none was so ready as his cousin herself for to let bold robin in. "will you please to sit down, cousin robin," she said, "and drink some beer with me?" "no, i will neither eat nor drink, till i am blooded by thee." "well, i have a room, cousin robin," she said, "which you did never see; and if you please to walk therein, you blooded by me shall be." she took him by the lily-white hand, and led him to a private room; and there she blooded bold robin hood, whilst one drop of blood would run. she blooded him in the vein of the arm, and locked him up in the room; there did he bleed all the live-long day, until the next day at noon. he then bethought him of a casement door, thinking for to begone; he was so weak he could not leap, nor he could not get down. he then bethought him of his bugle-horn, which hung low down to his knee, he set his horn unto his mouth, and blew out weak blasts three. then little john, when hearing him, as he sat under the tree, "i fear my master is near dead, he blows so wearily." then little john to fair kirkley is gone, as fast as he can dree; but when he came to kirkley-hall, he broke locks two or three; until he came bold robin to, then he fell on his knee; "a boon, a boon," cries little john, "master, i beg of thee." "what is that boon," quoth robin hood, "little john, thou begst of me?" "it is to burn fair kirkley-hall, and all their nunnery." "now nay, now nay," quoth robin hood, "that boon i'll not grant thee; i never hurt woman in all my life, nor man in woman's company. "i never hurt fair maid in all my time, nor at my end shall it be; but give me my bent bow in my hand, and a broad arrow i'll let flee; and where this arrow is taken up, there shall my grave digged be. "lay me a green sod under my head, and another under my feet; and lay my bent bow by my side, which was my music sweet; and make my grave of gravel and green, which is most right and meet. "let me have length and breadth enough, with a green sod under my head; that they may say when i am dead, here lies bold robin hood." these words they readily promised him, which did bold robin please; and there they buried bold robin hood, near to the fair kirkleys. the twa corbies as i was walking all alane, i heard twa corbies making a maen: the tane unto the t'ither did say, "whaur shall we gang and dine the day?" "o doun beside yon auld fail dyke, i wot there lies a new-slain knight; and naebody kens that he lies there but his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. "his hound is to the hunting gane, his hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, his lady's ta'en another mate, sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. "o we'll sit on his white hause bane, and i'll pyke out his bonny blue e'en; wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair we'll theek our nest when it blaws bare. "mony a ane for him makes maen, but nane shall ken whaur he is gane. over his banes when they are bare, the wind shall blaw for evermair." waly, waly, love be bonny a scottish song o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn side, where i and my love were wont to gae. i leant my back unto an aik, i thought it was a trusty tree; but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lichtly me. o waly, waly, but gin love be bonny, a little time while it is new; but when its auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades awa' like morning dew. o wherfore shuld i busk my head? or wherfore shuld i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never loe me mair. now arthur-seat sall be my bed, the sheets shall neir be prest by me: saint anton's well sall be my drink, since my true love has forsaken me. marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves aff the tree? o gentle death, when wilt thou cum? for of my life i am wearýe. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blawing snaws inclemencýe; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. whan we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in black velvet, and i myself in cramasýe. but had i wist, before i kist, that love had been sae ill to win, i had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, and pinnd it with a siller pin. and, oh! that my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i myself were dead and gane! and the green grass growing over me. the nut-brown maid be it right, or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain to love them wele; for never a dele they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new do them pursue, their first true lover then laboureth for nought; for from her thought he is a banished man. i say not nay, but that all day it is both writ and said that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but, nevertheless, right good witness in this case might be laid, that they love true, and continue, record the nut-brown maid: which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. then between us let us discuss what was all the manere between them two: we will also tell all the pain, and fere, that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answere; wherefore, all ye, that present be i pray you, give an ear. i am the knight; i come by night, as secret as i can; saying,' alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man.' she and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trusting to shew, in wordes few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse: therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse,-- mine own heart dear, with you what chere? i pray you, tell anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he it standeth so; a dede is do whereof great harm shall grow my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trowe; or else to flee: the one must be. none other way i know, but to withdraw as an outlaw, and take me to my bow. wherefore, adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she o lord, what is this worldys bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is darked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay, we depart not so soon. why say ye so? wheder will ye go? alas! what have ye done? all my welfare to sorrow and care should change, if ye were gone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your paines hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take comfort to you again. why should ye ought? for, to make thought your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you to, as heartily as i can; for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she now, sith that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i wolle not leave behind; shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you ready, for so am i, although it were anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he yet i you rede to take good heed what men will think and say: of young and old it shall be told, that ye be gone away, your wanton will for to fulfil, in green wood you to play; and that ye might from your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill woman, yet would i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge, that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove, that, faithful love it is devoid of shame; in your distress, and heaviness, to part with you, the same: and sure all tho, that do not so, true lovers are they none; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he i counsel you, remember how, it is no maiden's law, nothing to doubt, but to renne out to wood with an outlaw: for ye must there in your hand bear a bow, ready to draw; and, as a thief, thus must you live, ever in dread and awe; whereby to you great harm might grow: yet had i lever than, that i had to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore; but love may make me for your sake, as i have said before, to come on foot, to hunt, and shoot to get us meat in store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more: from which to part, it maketh my heart as cold as any stone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he for an outlaw this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pity, hanged to be, and waver with the wind. if i had nede, (as god forbede!) what rescue could ye find? forsooth, i trow, ye and your bow for fear would draw behind: and no mervayle: for little avail were in your counsel then: wherefore i will to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she right well know ye, that women be but feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight: yet, in such fear if that ye were with enemies day or night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to greve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death men many a one: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he yet take good hede; for ever i drede that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep valleys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, none other roof but a brake bush, or twain; which soon should grieve you, i believe, and ye would gladly then that i had to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she sith i have here been partynere with you of joy and bliss, i must als part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleasure; and, shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, parde, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he if ye go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for you gete, nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine. no shetes clean, to lie between, made of thread and twine; none other house, but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine; o mine heart sweet, this evil diete should make you pale and wan; wherefore i will to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she among the wild dere, such an archere, as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plenty: and water clear of the ryvere shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, or we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he lo! yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee; with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night before day-light, to wood-ward will i flee. if that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can else will i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to shorte my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother, before all other for you i have most drede: but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye: now let us flee; the day cometh fast upon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell ye why,-- your appetite is to be light of love, i wele espy: for, like as ye have said to me, in like wise hardely ye would answere whosoever it were in way of company. it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold and so is a woman. wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. she if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i you loved, parde: and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he a baron's child to be beguiled! it were a cursed dede; to be felawe with an outlawe! almighty god forbede! yet better were, the poor squyere alone to forest yede, than ye should say another day, that, by my cursed dede, ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green wood go, alone, a banished man. she whatever befall, i never shall of this thing you upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you wele, how that ye dele; for, if ye, as ye said, be so unkind, to leave behind, your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me truly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purvayed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another fayrere, than ever ye were, i dare it wele avow; and of you both each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease, to live in peace; so will i, if i can; wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. she though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be your: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteys every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power: for had ye, lo! an hundred mo, of them i would be one; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he mine own dear love, i see the proof that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changed new; for it were ruth, that, for your truth, ye should have cause to rue. be not dismayed, whatsoever i said to you, when i began; i will not to the green wood go, i am no banished man. she these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure: but it is often seen, when men will break promise, they speak the wordes on the splene. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then, were the case worse than it was, and i more wo-begone: for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. he ye shall not nede further to drede; i will not disparage you, (god defend!) sith ye descend of so great a lineage. now understand; to westmoreland, which is mine heritage, i will you bring; and with a ring, by way of marriage i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can: thus have you won an erly's son, and not a banished man. author here may ye see, that women be in love, meek, kind, and stable; let never man reprove them then, or call them variable; but, rather, pray god that we may to them be comfortable; which sometime proveth such, as he loveth, if they be charitable. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone. the fause lover a fair maid sat in her bower door, wringing her lily hands; and by it came a sprightly youth, fast tripping o'er the strands. "where gang ye, young john," she says, "sae early in the day? it gars me think, by your fast trip, your journey's far away." he turn'd about wi' surly look, and said, "what's that to thee? i'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, mair fairer far than ye." "now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, in simmer, 'mid the flowers? i shall repay ye back again, in winter, 'mid the showers." "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye not turn again? for as ye look to ither women, i shall do to other men." "make your choice o' whom you please, for i my choice will have; i've chosen a maid more fair than thee, i never will deceive." but she's kilt up her claithing fine, and after him gaed she; but aye he said, "ye'll turn again, nae farder gae wi' me." "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? alas! for loving you sae well, and you na me again." the firstan' town that they came till, he bought her brooch and ring; but aye he bade her turn again, and gang nae farder wi' him. "but again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. the nextan' town that they came till, he bought her muff and gloves; but aye he bade her turn again, and choose some other loves. "but again, dear love, and again, dear love," etc. the nextan' town that they came till, his heart it grew mair fain; and he was deep in love wi' her. as she was ower again. the nextan' town that they came till, he bought her wedding gown; and made her lady o' ha's and bowers, in sweet berwick town. the mermaid to yon fause stream that, near the sea, hides mony an elf and plum, and rives wi' fearful din the stanes, a witless knicht did come. the day shines clear--far in he's gane whar shells are silver bright, fishes war loupin' a' aroun', and sparklin' to the light. whan, as he laved, sounds cam sae sweet frae ilka rock an' tree; the brief was out, 'twas him it doomed the mermaid's face to see. frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rose, and stately on she swam, stopped i' the midst, and becked and sang to him to stretch his han'. gowden glist the yellow links that round her neck she'd twine; her een war o' the skyie blue, her lips did mock the wine; the smile upon her bonnie cheek was sweeter than the bee; her voice excelled the birdie's sang upon the birchen tree. sae couthie, couthie did she look, and meikle had she fleeched; out shot his hand--alas! alas! fast in the swirl he screeched. the mermaid leuch, her brief was gane, and kelpie's blast was blawin', fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, for deep, deep was the fawin'. aboon the stream his wraith was seen, warlochs tirled lang at gloamin'; that e'en was coarse, the blast blew hoarse, ere lang the waves war foamin'. the battle of otterburn the first fytte it fell about the lammas tide, when husbands winn their hay, the doughty douglas bound him to ride into england to take a prey. the earl of fife, withouten strife, he bound him over solway; the great would ever together ride that race they may rue for aye. over ottercap hill they came in, and so down by rotheley crag, upon green leighton they lighted down, styrande many a stag; and boldly brente northumberland, and harried many a town; they did our englishmen great wrong to battle that were not bown. then spake a berne upon the bent, of comfort that was not cold, and said, "we have brente northumberland, we have all wealth in holde. "now we have harried all bamborough shire all the wealth in the world have we; i rede we ride to newcastle, so still and stalworthlye." upon the morrow, when it was day, the standards shone full bright; to the newcastle they took the way, and thither they came full right. sir henry percy lay at the newcastle, i tell you, withouten dread; he has been a march-man all his days, and kept berwick upon tweed. to the newcastle when they came, the scots they cried on hyght: "sir harry percy, an thou bist within, come to the field and fight: "for we have brente northumberland, thy heritage good and right; and syne my lodging i have take, with my brand dubbed many a knight." sir harry percy came to the walls, the scottish host for to see: "and thou hast brente northumberland, full sore it rueth me. "if thou hast harried all bamborough shire, thou hast done me great envy; for the trespass thou hast me done, the one of us shall die." "where shall i bide thee?" said the douglas; "or where wilt thou come to me?" "at otterburn in the high way, there mayst thou well lodged be. "the roe full reckless there she runs, to make thee game and glee; the falcon and the pheasant both, among the holtes on hee. "there mayst thou have thy wealth at will, well lodged there mayst thou be; it shall not be long ere i come thee till," said sir harry percye. "there shall i bide thee," said the douglas, "by the faith of my body." "thither shall i come," said sir harry percy, "my troth i plight to thee." a pipe of wine he gave them over the walls, for sooth, as i you say; there he made the douglas drink, and all his host that day. the douglas turned him homeward again, for sooth withouten nay; he took his lodging at otterburn upon a wednesday; and there he pyght his standard down. his getting more and less; and syne he warned his men to go and get their geldings gress. a scottish knight hoved upon the bent, a watch i dare well say; so was he ware on the noble percy in the dawning of the day. he pricked to his pavilion door, as fast as he might ronne; "awaken, douglas!" cried the knight, "for his love that sits in throne. "awaken, douglas!" cried the knight, "for thou mayst waken with wynne; yonder have i spied the proud percy, and seven standards with him." "nay, by my troth," the douglas said, "it is but a feigned tale; he durst not look on my broad banner, for all england so hayle. "was i not yesterday at the newcastle, that stands so fair on tyne? for all the men the percy had, he could not garre me once to dyne." he stepped out at his pavilion door, to look, and it were less; "array you, lordyngs, one and all, for here begins no peace. "the earl of menteith, thou art my eme, the forward i give to thee; the earl of huntley cawte and keen, he shall with thee be. "the lord of buchan, in armour bright, on the other hand he shall be; lord johnstone, and lord maxwell, they two shall be with me. "swynton fair field upon your pride to battle make you bowen; sir davy scot, sir walter steward, sir john of agerstone." the second fytte the percy came before his host, which ever was a gentle knight, upon the douglas loud did he cry, "i will hold that i have hight; "for thou hast brente northumberland, and done me great envy; for this trespass thou hast me done the one of us shall die." the douglas answered him again, with great words up on hee, and said, "i have twenty against thy one, behold, and thou mayst see." with that the percy was grieved sore, for sooth as i you say; he lighted down upon his foot, and shot his horse clean away. every man saw that he did so, that ryall was ever in rout; every man shot his horse him fro, and light him round about. thus sir harry percy took the field, for sooth as i you say, jesu christ in heaven on high, did help him well that day. but nine thousand, there was no more, if chronicle will not layne; forty thousand scots and four that day fought them again, but when the battle began to join, in haste there came a knight, then letters fair forth hath he ta'en, and thus he said full right: "my lord, your father he greets you well, with many a noble knight; he desires you to bide, that he may see this fight. "the baron of grastock is come out of the west, with him a noble company; all they lodge at your father's this night, and the battle fain would they see." "for jesu's love," said sir harry percy, "that died for you and me, wend to my lord, my father, again, and say thou saw me not with ee; "my troth is plight to yon scottish knight, it needs me not to layne, that i should bide him upon this bent, and i have his troth again; "and if that i wend off this ground, for sooth unfoughten away, he would me call but a coward knight, in his land another day. "yet had i lever to be rynde and rent, by mary that mykel may, than ever my manhood should be reproved with a scot another day. "wherefore shoot, archers, for my sake, and let sharp arrows flee; minstrels, play up for your warison, and well quit it shall be. "every man think on his true love, and mark him to the trinity; for to god i make mine a-vow this day will i not flee." the bloody heart in the douglas' arms, his standard stood on high, that every man might full well know; beside stood starres three. the white li n on the english part, for sooth as i you sayne, the luces and the crescents both the scots fought them again. upon saint andrew loud did they cry, and thrice they shout on hyght, and syne marked them on our englishmen, as i have told you right. saint george the bright, our lady's knight, to name they were full fain, our englishmen they cried on hyght, and thrice they shout again. with that sharp arrows began to flee, i tell you in certain; men of arms began to join; many a doughty man was there slain. the percy and the douglas met, that either of them was fain; they schapped together, while that they sweat, with swords of fine collayne; till the blood from their basenets ran as the roke doth in the rain. "yield thee to me," said the douglas, "or else thou shalt be slain; "for i see by thy bright basenet, thou art some man of might; and so i do by thy burnished brand, thou art an earl, or else a knight." "by my good faith," said the noble percy, "now hast thou rede full right; yet will i never yield me to thee, while i may stand and fight." they swapped together, while that they sweat, with swordes sharp and long; each on other so fast they beat, till their helms came in pieces down. the percy was a man of strength, i tell you in this stound he smote the douglas at the sword's length, that he felled him to the ground. the sword was sharp, and sore did byte, i tell you in certain; to the heart he did him smite, thus was the douglas slain. the standards stood still on each side; with many a grievous groan, there they fought the day, and all the night, and many a doughty man was slone. there was no freyke that there would fly, but stiffly in stour did stand, echone hewing on other while they might dry, with many a baleful brand. there was slain upon the scottes side, for sooth and certainly, sir james of douglas there was slain, that day that he did die. the earl of menteith he was slain. grysely groaned upon the ground; sir davy scot, sir walter steward, sir john of agerstone. sir charles murray in that place, that never a foot would fly; sir hugh maxwell, a lord he was, with the douglas did he die. there was slain upon the scottes side, for sooth as i you say, of four and forty thousand scots, went but eighteen away. there was slain upon the english side, for sooth and certainly, a gentle knight, sir john fitzhugh, it was the more pity. sir james harebotell there was slain, for him their hearts were sore the gentle lovel there was slain, that the percy's standard bore. there was slain upon the english side, for sooth as i you say, of nine thousand englishmen, five hundred came away; the others were slayne in the field, christ keep their souls from woe, seeing there were so few friends against so many a foe! then on the morn they made them biers of birch and hazel gray; many a widow with weeping tears their makes they fetch away. this fray began at otterburn, between the night and the day; there the douglas lost his life, and the percy was led away. then was there a scottish prisoner ta'en, sir hugh montgomery was his name, for sooth as i you say, he borrowed the percy home again. now let us all for the percy pray, to jesu most of might, to bring his soul to the bliss of heaven, for he was a gentle knight. the lament of the border widow my love he built me a bonny bower, and clad it a' wi' a lilye flower, a brawer bower ye ne'er did see, than my true love he built for me. there came a man, by middle day, he spied his sport and went away, and brought the king that very night, who brake my bower, and slew my knight. he slew my knight, to me so dear; he slew my knight, and poined his gear; my servants all for life did flee, and left me in extremitie. i sewed his sheet, making my mane; i watched the corpse, myself alane; i watched his body, night and day; no living creature came that way. i took his body on my back, and whiles i gaed, and whiles i sat, i digged a grave, and laid him in, and happed him with the sod so green. but think na ye my heart was sair, when i laid the moul' on his yellow hair; think na ye my heart was wae, when i turned about, away to gae? nae living man i'll love again, since that my lovely knight is slain; w? ae lock of his yellow hair i'll chain my heart for evermair. the banks o' yarrow late at e'en, drinking the wine, and ere they paid the lawing, they set a combat them between, to fight it in the dawing. "what though ye be my sister's lord, we'll cross our swords to-morrow." "what though my wife your sister be, i'll meet ye then on yarrow." "o stay at hame, my ain gude lord! o stay, my ain dear marrow! my cruel brither will you betray on the dowie banks o' yarrow." "o fare ye weel, my lady dear! and put aside your sorrow; for if i gae, i'll sune return frae the bonny banks o' yarrow." she kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, as oft she'd done before, o; she belted him wi' his gude brand, and he's awa' to yarrow. when he gaed up the tennies bank, as he gaed mony a morrow, nine armed men lay in a den, on the dowie braes o' yarrow. "o come ye here to hunt or hawk the bonny forest thorough? or come ye here to wield your brand upon the banks o' yarrow?" "i come not here to hunt or hawk, as oft i've dune before, o, but i come here to wield my brand upon the banks o' yarrow. "if ye attack me nine to ane, then may god send ye sorrow!-- yet will i fight while stand i may, on the bonny banks o' yarrow." two has he hurt, and three has slain, on the bloody braes o' yarrow; but the stubborn knight crept in behind, and pierced his body thorough. "gae hame, gae hame, you brither john, and tell your sister sorrow,-- to come and lift her leafu' lord on the dowie banks o' yarrow." her brither john gaed ower yon hill, as oft he'd dune before, o; there he met his sister dear, cam' rinnin' fast to yarrow. "i dreamt a dream last night," she says, "i wish it binna sorrow; i dreamt i pu'd the heather green wi' my true love on yarrow." "i'll read your dream, sister," he says, "i'll read it into sorrow; ye're bidden go take up your love, he's sleeping sound on yarrow." she's torn the ribbons frae her head that were baith braid and narrow; she's kilted up her lang claithing, and she's awa' to yarrow. she's ta'en him in her arms twa, and gi'en him kisses thorough; she sought to bind his mony wounds, but he lay dead on yarrow. "o haud your tongue," her father says, "and let be a' your sorrow; i'll wed you to a better lord than him ye lost on yarrow." "o haud your tongue, father," she says, "far warse ye mak' my sorrow; a better lord could never be than him that lies on yarrow." she kiss'd his lips, she kaim'd his hair, as aft she had dune before, o; and there wi' grief her heart did break, upon the banks o' yarrow. hugh of lincoln showing the cruelty of a jew's daughter four and twenty bonny boys were playing at the ba', and up it stands him sweet sir hugh, the flower among them a'. he kicked the ba' there wi' his foot, and keppit it wi' his knee, till even in at the jew's window he gart the bonny ba' flee. "cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, cast out the ba' to me." "never a bit," says the jew's daughter, till ye come up to me." "come up, sweet hugh, come up, dear hugh, come up and get the ba'." "i winna come, i mayna come, without my bonny boys a'." she's ta'en her to the jew's garden, where the grass grew lang and green, she's pu'd an apple red and white, to wyle the bonny boy in. she's wyled him in through ae chamber, she's wyled him in through twa, she's wyled him into the third chamber, and that was the warst o' a'. she's tied the little boy, hands and feet, she's pierced him wi' a knife, she's caught his heart's blood in a golden cup, and twinn'd him o' his life. she row'd him in a cake o' lead, bade him lie still and sleep, she cast him in a deep draw-well was fifty fathom deep. when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and every bairn went hame, then ilka lady had her young son, but lady helen had nane. she row'd her mantle her about, and sair, sair 'gan she weep; and she ran unto the jew's house, when they were all asleep. "my bonny sir hugh, my pretty sir hugh, i pray thee to me speak!" "lady helen, come to the deep draw-well 'gin ye your son wad seek." lady helen ran to the deep draw-well, and knelt upon her knee: "my bonny sir hugh, an ye be here, i pray thee speak to me!" "the lead is wondrous heavy, mither, the well is wondrous deep; a keen penknife sticks in my heart, it is hard for me to speak. "gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, fetch me my winding-sheet; and at the back o' merry lincoln, it's there we twa sall meet." now lady helen she's gane hame, made him a winding-sheet; and at the back o' merry lincoln, the dead corpse did her meet. and a' the bells o' merry lincoln without men's hands were rung; and a' the books o' merry lincoln were read without men's tongue: never was such a burial sin' adam's days begun. sir patrick spens the king sits in dunfermline town, drinking the blude-red wine; "o whare will i get a skeely skipper, to sail this new ship of mine?" o up and spak' an eldern knight, sat at the king's right knee, "sir patrick spens is the best sailor, that ever sailed the sea." our king has written a braid letter, and seated it with his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the strand. "to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter of noroway 'tis thou maun bring her hame." the first word that sir patrick read, sae loud loud laughed he; the neist word that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. "o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me, to send us out at this time of the year, to sail upon the sea? "be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail the faem; the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis we must fetch her hame." they hoysed their sails an moneday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; they hae landed in noroway, upon a wednesday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway, but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say: "ye scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, and a' our queen's fee." "ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! fu' loud i hear ye lie; "for i brought as much white monie, as gane my men and me, and i brought a half-fou of gude red goud, out o'er the sea wi' me. "make ready, make ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn." "now, ever alake, my master dear, i fear a deadly storm! "i saw the new moon, late yestreen, wi' the old moon in her arm; and, if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm." they hadna sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, it was sic a deadly storm; and the waves cam o'er the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. "o where will i get a gude sail'r, to take my helm in hand, till i get up to the tall top-mast, to see if i can spy land?" "o here am i, a sailor gude, to take the helm in hand, till you go up to the tall top-mast; but i fear you'll ne'er spy land." he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bout flew out of our goodly ship, and the salt sea it cam in. "gae, fetch a web of the silken claith, another o' the twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and let nae the sea come in." they fetched a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and they wapped them round that gude ship's side, but still the sea cam in. o laith, laith, were our gude scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shoon! but lang or a' the play was played, they wat their hats aboon. and mony was the feather bed, that flattered on the faem; and mony was the gude lord's son, that never mair cam hame. the ladies wrang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair, a' for the sake of their true loves for them they'll see nae mair. o lang, lang, may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! and lang, lang, may the maidens sit, with their goud kaims in their hair a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair! o forty miles off aberdeen, 'tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy edited by thomas d'urfey in six volumes volume vi folklore library publishers, inc. new york an alphabetical table of the songs contain'd in this book. a pag. _as_ amoret _and_ thyrsis _lay,_ _as unconcern'd and free as air,_ _as i am a sailor,_ _and now, now the duke's march,_ aurelia _now one moment lost,_ _after the pangs of fierce desire,_ _a pox on the fool,_ _a young man lately in our town,_ _all joy to mortals,_ _a pox on the times,_ _a pox on such fools! let the,_ _as cupid many ages past,_ _all christians that have ears to hear,_ _as at noon_ dulcina _rested,_ _a dean and prebendary,_ _a world that's full of fools and mad-men,_ astutus constabularius, amor est pegma, _abroad as i was walking, i'spy'd,_ _a pedlar proud as i heard tell,_ _a young man and a maid,_ _all own the young_ sylvia _is,_ _a swain in despair,_ _as i came down the hey land town,_ _a jolly young_ grocer _of_ london town, _as it befel upon one time,_ _a taylor good lord, in the time of vacation,_ _a comely dame of_ islington, _ah! how happy's he,_ _a little love may prove a pleasure,_ _at the change as i was a walking,_ _all you that must take a leap in the dark,_ alphonzo, _if you sir,_ _a worthy_ london _prentice,_ _at the break of morning light,_ b _belinda's pretty, pretty pleasing form,_ _blush not redder than the morning,_ _banish my_ lydia _these,_ _beauty, like kingdoms not for one,_ _beneath a cool shade_ amaryllis, _boasting fops who court the fair,_ c _come here's a good health,_ cupid _make your virgins tender,_ corinna _i excuse thy face,_ chloe _found love for his_ psyche, _coy_ belinda _may discover,_ corinna _'tis you that i love,_ _come buy my greens and flowers,_ cælia's _bright beauty all others transcend,_ _come from the temple, away to the bed,_ _come all that are dispos'd,_ chloris, _can you,_ cælia _be not too complying,_ _clasp'd in my dear_ melinda's _arms,_ _come_ cælia _come, let's sit and,_ d _do not rumple my top-knot,_ _day was spent and night,_ _dear_ catholick _brother,_ _dear mother i am transported,_ _despairing besides a clear stream,_ e _ere_ phillis _with her looks did kill,_ f _fly, fly ye lazy hours,_ _fye_ amaryllis, _cease to grieve,_ _fairest isle, all isles excelling,_ _fye_ jockey, _never prattle,_ _forgive me_ cloe _if i dare,_ _fortune is blind and beauty unkind,_ _from father_ hopkins, _fickle bliss, fantastick treasure,_ _fill the glass fill, fill,_ _farewel my useless scrip,_ _fates i defie, i defie your advances,_ _farewel_ chloe, _o farewel,_ g _god prosper long our gracious queen,_ _go, go, go, go falsest of thy sex,_ _good morrow gossip_ joan, h _how long, how long shall i pine,_ _hang this whining way of wooing,_ _here's the summer sprightly, gay,_ _how happy's the husband,_ _having spent all my coin,_ _how happy, how happy is she,_ _hang the presbyters gill,_ _honest shepherd, since,_ _how happy's that husband who after,_ _how is the world transform'd,_ _hub ub, ub, boo;_ _had i but love,_ _how happy are we,_ _hear_ chloe _hear,_ _how happy's he who weds a wife,_ _how charming_ phillis _is, how fair,_ i _if i hear_ orinda _swear,_ _just coming from sea,_ _if ever you mean to be kind,_ _i know her false,_ _i am come to lock all fast,_ _in vain_ clemene _you bestow,_ _if wine be a cordial,_ _i fain wou'd find a passing,_ _if i should go seek the,_ _i seek no more to shady coverts,_ _i try'd in parks and plays,_ _in a flowry myrtle _grove, _i am a jolly toper,_ _i'll tell you all, both great,_ _i am a cunning constable,_ _i courted and writ,_ _i'll tell thee_ dick _where i have,_ _i am a poor shepherd undone,_ _i love to madness, rave t' enjoy,_ _i'll press, i'll bless thee charming,_ _i'm vext to think that_ damon, _i have a tenement to let,_ k _ken you, who comes here,_ l _let not love, let not love on me,_ liberia's _all my thought,_ _let_ mary _live long,_ lerinda _complaineth that,_ _lay by your pleading,_ _love's pow'r in my heart,_ _let's wet the whistle of the,_ _let's sing as one may say,_ lucinda _has the de'el and all,_ _love is a bauble,_ lais _when you,_ lorenzo _you amuse the town,_ _love's passion never knew,_ _let those youths who freedom_ lavia _would, but dare not venture,_ _love, the sweets of love,_ m marlborough's _a brave commander,_ _my dear_ corinna _give me leave,_ _may her blest example chace,_ _my dear and only love,_ _my nose is the largest of all,_ _my nose is the flattest of all,_ _mortals learn your lives to,_ mirtillo, _whilst you patch,_ _my friend thy beauty,_ _must love, that tyrant of the,_ _my_ theodora _can those eyes,_ n _now dry up thy tears,_ _no, no, poor suffering heart,_ _new pyramid's raise,_ _never sigh, but think of kissing,_ _now, now the queen's health,_ _noble king_ lud, _now i'm resolv'd to love no more,_ _not your eyes_ melania _move me,_ _now, now the night's come,_ _now_ jockey _and_ moggy _are ready,_ o _oh! my panting, panting heart,_ _over the mountains,_ _oh how happy's he, who from,_ _oh! the mighty pow'r of love,_ _oh the charming month of_ may, _oh_ roger _i've been to see_ eugene, _of all the handsome ladies,_ p phillis _lay aside your thinking,_ _pish fye, you're rude sir,_ phillis, _i can ne'er forgive it,_ _poor_ sawney _had marry'd a wife,_ r _room for gentlemen,_ _retire old miser,_ _richest gift of lavish nature,_ s _she met with a country-man,_ _stand, clear, my masters,_ _sometimes i am a tapster new,_ _she went apparell'd neat and fine,_ _say cruel_ amoret, _how long,_ _such command o'er my fate,_ _sit you merry gallants,_ _since_ phillis _swears inconstancy,_ _some in the town go betimes,_ _suppose a man does all he can,_ sors sine visu, _see bleeding at your feet,_ _since_ tom's _in the chair, and every one here,_ _such a happy, happy, life,_ t _to meet her_ mars _the queen of love,_ _thus_ damon _knock'd at _cælia's _door,_ _the world is a bubble and full of,_ _through the cold shady woods,_ _the gordian knot,_ _there dwelt a widow in this town,_ _there was an old man,_ _there is a thing which in the light,_ _there's not a swain,_ _tormenting beauty leave my breast,_ _tell me why so long,_ _'tis a foolish mistake,_ _tell me, tell me, charming,_ _tho' thou'rt ugly and old,_ _tho' you make no return,_ _the king is gone to_ oxon _town,_ _tho' i love and she knows it,_ _there was three travellers,_ troy _had a breed of brave,_ _there's none so pretty,_ _the ordinance a-board,_ _that scornful_ sylvia's _chains,_ tom _tinker's my true love,_ _to you fair ladies now at land,_ _then come kind_ damon _come,_ _the night is come that will,_ _there's a new set of rakes,_ _tho' begging is an honest trade,_ _the rosey morn lukes blith and gay,_ _the restauration now's the word,_ u _underneath the castle wall,_ _unguarded lies the wishing maid,_ vobis magnis parvis dicam, w _whilst_ phillis _is drinking,_ _war, war and battle now no more,_ _what shall i do, i am undone,_ _when wit and beauty,_ _when_ sylvia _was kind,_ _what, love a crime,_ _when i have often heard young maids,_ _what state of life can be,_ _when_ jockey _first i saw,_ _when_ dido _was a_ carthage _queen,_ _we merry wives of_ windsor, _wo'as me poor lass! what mun,_ _when on her eyes,_ _with sighing and wishing,_ _what sayest thou,_ _what shall i do, i've lost my heart,_ _when i was in the low country,_ _walk up to virtue strait,_ _when first i lay'd siege to my_ chloris, _why alas do you now leave me,_ _when beauty such as yours,_ _when crafty fowlers would,_ _who can_ dorinda's _beauty view,_ _when embracing my friends,_ _why will_ clemene _when i gaze,_ y _ye commons and peers,_ _you guess by my wither'd face,_ _you friends to reformation,_ _young_ strephon _and_ phillis, _young_ strephon _he has woo'd_ _you ladies draw near,_ _you tell me_ dick _you've lately,_ _your melancholy's all a folly,_ z _z--ds madam return me my heart,_ pills to purge melancholy. vol. vi. _a_ ballad _on the battle of_ audenard. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music] ye commons and peers, pray lend me your ears, i'll sing you a song if i can; how _lewis le grand_, was put to a stand, by the arms of our gracious queen ann. how his army so great, had a total defeat, not far from the river of _dender_; where his grand-children twain, for fear of being slain, gallop'd off with the popish pretender. to a steeple on high, the battle to spy, up mounted these clever young men; and when from the spire they saw so much fire, they cleverly came down again. then a horse-back they got, all upon the same spot, by advice of their cousin _vendosme_; o lord! cry'd out he unto young _burgundy_, wou'd your brother and you were at home. just so did he say when without more delay, away the young gentry fled; whose heels for that work were much lighter than cork, but their hearts were more heavy than lead. not so did behave the young _hannover_ brave in this bloody field i assure ye; when his war-horse was shot, yet he matter'd it not, but charg'd still on foot like a fury. when death flew about aloud he call'd out, ho! you chevalier of st. george; if you'll never stand by sea nor by land, pretender, that title you forge. thus boldly he stood, as became that high blood, which runs in his veins so blue; this gallant young man being kin to queen ann, fought as were she a man, she wou'd do. what a racket was here, (i think 'twas last year) for a little ill fortune in _spain_; when by letting 'em win, we have drawn the putts in to lose all they are worth this campaign. tho' _bruges_ and _ghent_, to the monsieur we lent, with interest he soon shall repay 'em; while _paris_ may sing, with her sorrowful king _de profundis_, instead of _te deum_. from their dream of success, they'll awaken we guess at the sound of great _marlborough's_ drums; they may think if they will of _almanza_ still, but 'tis _blenheim_ wherever he comes. o _lewis_ perplex'd, what general's next? thou hast hitherto chang'd 'em in vain; he has beat 'em all round, if no new ones are found, he shall beat the old over again. we'll let _tallard_ out if he'll take t'other bout; and much he's improv'd let me tell ye, with _nottingham_ ale, at every meal, and good pudding and beef in his belly. as losers at play, their dice throw away, while the winner he still wins on; let who will command, thou hadst better disband, for old bully thy doctors are gone. a happy memorable ballad, _on the fight near_ audenard, _between the duke of_ marlborough, _of_ great-britain; _and the duke of_ vendosme, _of_ france. _as also the strange and wonderful manner how the princes of the blood royal of_ france, _were found in a wood. in allusion to the_ unhappy memorable song _commonly call'd_ chevy-chace. [music] god prosper long our gracious queen, our lives and safeties all: a woful fight of late their did near _audenard_ befal. to drive the _french_ with sword and gun, brave _marlborough_ took his way; ah! woe the time that _france_ beheld the fighting of that day. the valiant duke to heaven had swore, _vendosme_ shou'd pay full dear, for _ghent_ and _bruges_, e'er his fame should reach his master's ear. and now with eighty thousand bold, and chosen men of might; he with the _french_ began to wage a sharp and bloody fight. the gallant _britains_ swiftly ran, the _french_ away to chase; on _wednesday_ they began to fight, when day-light did decrease. and long before high-night, they had ten thousand _frenchmen_ slain; and all the rivers crimson flow'd, as they were dy'd in grain. the _britains_ thro' the woods pursu'd, the nimble _french_ to take; and with their cries the hills and dales, and every tree did shake. the duke then to the wood did come, in hopes _vendosme_ to meet; when lo! the prince of _carignan_ fell at his grace's feet. oh! gentle duke forbear, forbear, into that wood to shoot; if ever pity mov'd your grace, but turn your eyes and look: see where the royal line of _france_, great _lewis's_ heirs do lie; and sure a sight more pitious was ne'er seen by mortal eye. what heart of flint but must relent, like wax before the sun: to see their glory at an end, e'er yet it was begun. whenas our general found your grace, wou'd needs begin to fight: as thinking it wou'd please the boys, to see so fine a sight. he straightway sent them to the top of yonder church's spire; where they might see, and yet be safe from swords and guns, and fire. but first he took them by the hand, and kiss'd them e'er they went; whilst tears stood in their little eyes, as if they knew th' event. then said, he would with speed return, soon as the fight was done; but when he saw his men give ground, away he basely run, and left these children all alone, as babes wanting relief; and long they wandred up and down, no hopes to chear their grief. thus hand in hand they walk'd, 'till at last this wood they spy'd; and when they saw the night grow dark, they here lay down and cry'd. at this the duke was inly mov'd, his breast soft pity beat; and so he straightway ordered his men for to retreat. and now, but that my pen is blunt, i might with ease relate; how fifteen thousand _french_ were took, besides what found their fate. nor should the prince of _hannover_ in silence be forgot; who like a lyon fought on foot, after his horse was shot. and what strange chance likewise befel, unto these children dear: but that your patience is too much already tir'd, i fear. and so god bless the queen and duke, and send a lasting peace: that wars and foul debate henceforth in all the world may cease. _the duke of_ marlborough's _health. set by mr._ r. cox. [music] come, here's a good health, the duke i do mean, that bravely fought, that bravely fought for his nation and queen, may his fate still be, that conquer shall he till the nation with peace it be crown'd; come lads never think, but his health let's drink, and sing his great praise, and sing his great praise whilst bumpers pass round. _the duke of_ marlborough's _health._ [music] _marlborough's_ a brave commander, he conducts us into the field; as bold as _alexander_, he'll dye before he'll yield: sound the trumpet sound, boys, let each man stand his ground, boys; ne'er let us flinch, nor give back an inch, and so let his health go round, boys. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john eccles, _and sung by mr._ gouge, _in the farce call'd_, women will have their wills. [music] _belinda's_ pretty, pretty, pleasing form, does my happy, happy, happy, happy fancy charm: her prittle-prattle, tittle-tattle's all engaging, most obliging; whilst i'm pressing, clasping, kissing, oh! oh! how she does my soul alarm: there is such magick in her eyes, such magick in her eyes, in her eyes, does my wond'ring heart surprise: her prinking, nimping, twinking, pinking, whilst i'm courting, for transporting, how like an angel, she panting lies, she panting lies. _a_ song _on a ladies drinking._ [music] whilst _phillis_ is drinking, love and wine in alliance, with forces united, bids resistless defiance; each touch of her lip, makes wine sparkle higher, and her eyes by her drinking, redouble the fire: her cheeks grow the brighter, recruiting their colour, as flowers by sprinkling revive with fresh odour; each dart dipt in wine, love wounds beyond curing, and the liquor like oil makes the flame more enduring. _the first_ song, _sung by mr._ prince, _in the_ maid in the mill. [music] how long, how long shall i pine for love? how long shall i sue in vain? how long, how long like the turtle dove, must i heavily thus complain? shall the sails of my love stand still, shall the grist of my hopes be unground? oh fye, oh fye, oh fye, oh fye let the mill, let the mill go round, let the mill, let the mill go round. _a_ song _sung at_ holmse's _booth in_ bartholomew fair, _set by mr._ john barrett. [music] war, war and battle now no more, shall your thun'dring cannons roar; no more, no more of war complain, peace begins, peace begins her _halcyon_ reign: for now the tow'ring bird of _jove_, stoops, stoops to the gentle billing _dove_. _a_ song _set by mr._ daniel purcell, _and sung at the_ theatre _royal in_ drury-lane. [music] _cupid_ make your virgins tender, make 'em easy to be won; let 'em presently surrender, when the treaty's once begun: such as like a tedious wooing, let 'em cruel damsels find: but let such as wou'd, as wou'd be doing, prithee, prithee, prithee _cupid_ make 'em kind, prithee, prithee _cupid_ make 'em kind. _a_ scotch song, _sung by mrs._ willis _at the_ theatre. [music] ken you, who comes here, the laird of aw the clan; whom ise love but fear, because a muckle man: but what if he's great, he descends from his state, and receive him, receive him as you can. come my bonny blith lads, shew your best lukes and plads, our laird is here; whom we shou'd love, and who shou'd approve, our respect as well as fear, for the laird is here whom we love and fear. _a_ song _in the loves of_ mars _and_ venus _set by mr._ j. eccles, _sung by mrs._ hudson. [music] to meet her _mars_ the queen of love, comes here adorn'd with all her charms; the warriour best the fair can move, and crowns his toils in beauty's arms: the warriour best the fair can move, and crowns his toils in beauty's arms. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd love betray'd, sung by mrs._ bracegirdle, _set by mr._ john eccles. [music] if i hear _orinda_ swear, she cures my jealous smart; if i hear _orinda_ swear, she cures my jealous smart: the treachery becomes the fair, and doubly fires my heart; the treachery becomes the fair, and doubly fires my heart. beauty's strength and treasure, in falshood still remain; she gives the greatest pleasure, that gives the greatest pain, that gives the greatest pain: she gives the greatest pleasure, she gives the greatest pleasure, that gives the greatest pain: she gives the greatest pleasure, she gives the greatest pleasure, that gives the greatest pain, that gives the greatest pain. _a_ song _in the_ funeral, _sung by mrs._ harris, _set by mr._ daniel purcel. [music] let not love, let not love on me, on me bestow, soft distress, soft distress and tender woe; i know none, no, no, no, none but substantial blisses, eager glances, eager glances, solid kisses: i know not what the lover feign, of finer pleasure mixt with pain: then prithee, prithee give me gentle boy, none of thy grief, but all, all, all, all, but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy; but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy. prithee give me, prithee give me gentle boy, none of thy grief, but all, all, all, all, but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy, but all, all, all, all, all, all the joy. _a_ song _in the loves of_ mars _and_ venus, _set by mr._ j. eccles, _sung by mr._ morgan. [music] fly, fly ye lazy hours, hast, bring him here, swift, swift as my fond wishes are; when we love, and love to rage, ev'ry moment seems an age: when we love, and love to rage, ev'ry moment seems an age. _a_ scotch song, _sung by mrs._ ballden. [music] oh! my panting, panting heart, why so young, and why so sad? why does pleasure seem a smart, or i wretched while i'm glad? oh! lovers goddess, who wert form'd, from cold and icy, icy seas; instruct me why i am thus warm'd! and darts at once can wound and please. _a_ song _set by mr._ john eccles, _sung by mrs._ hodgson. [music] fye _amarillis_, cease to grieve, fye, fye, fye, fye cease, cease to grieve, fye, fye, fye, fye, cease, cease to grieve, for him thou never canst retrieve; wilt thou sigh for one that flies thee, wilt thou sigh for one that flies thee, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, scorn the wretch, scorn the wretch, that love denies thee, scorn the wretch, scorn the wretch, that love, that love denies thee. call pride to thy aid, and be not afraid, of meeting a swain that is kind; as handsome as he, perhaps he may be, at least, at least a more generous mind: as handsome as he, perhaps he may be, at least a more generous mind, at least a more generous mind. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_, the old batchelour, _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] as _amoret_ and _thyrsis_ lay, as _amoret_ and _thyrsis_ lay; melting, melting, melting, melting the hours in gentle play, joyning, joyning, joyning faces, mingling kisses, mingling kisses, mingling kisses, and exchanging harmless blisses: he trembling cry'd with eager, eager hast, let me, let me, let me feed, oh! oh! let me, let me, let me, let me feed, oh! oh! oh! oh! let me, let me, let me, let me feed as well as tast, i dye, dye, dye, i dye, dye, i dye, i dye, if i'm not wholly blest. the fearful nymph reply'd forbear, i cannot, dare not, must not hear; dearest _thyrsis_ do not move me, do not, do not, if you love me: o let me still, the shepherd said, but while she fond resistance made, the hasty joy in struggling fled. vex'd at the pleasure she had miss'd, she frown'd and blush'd, and sigh'd and kiss'd, and seem'd to moan, in sullen cooing, the sad miscarriage of their wooeing: but vain alass! were all her charms, for _thyrsis_ deaf to love's alarms, baffled and fenceless, tir'd her arms. _a_ song. [music] she met with a country-man, in the middle of all the green; and _peggy_ was his delight, and good sport was to be seen. but ever she cry'd brave _roger_, i'll drink a whole glass to thee; but as for _john_ of the green, i care not a pin for him. bulls and bears, and lyons, and dragons, and o brave _roger_ a _cauverly_; piggins and wiggins, pints and flaggons, o brave, _&c._ he took her by the middle, and taught her by the flute; well done brave _roger_ quoth she, thou hast not left thy old wont. but ever she cry'd, _&c._ he clap'd her upon the buttock, and forth she let a fart; my belly quoth she is eased by thee, and i thank thee _roger_ for't. _love's conquest._ [music] as unconcern'd and free as air, i did retain my liberty; laugh'd at the fetters of the fair, and scorn'd a beauties slave to be: 'till your bright eyes surpriz'd my heart, and first inform'd me how to love; then pleasure did invade each part, yet to conceal my flame i strove. as _indians_ at a distance pay, their awful reverence to the sun: and dare not 'till he'll bless the day, seem to have any thing begun: thus i rest, 'till your smiles invite, my looks and thoughts i do constrain; and tremble to express delight, unless you please to ease my pain. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd, the_ wife's excuse. _by_ h. p. [music] _corinna_ i excuse thy face, those erring lines, which nature drew; when i reflect that ev'ry grace, thy mind adorns, is just and true: but oh! thy wit what god hast sent, surprising, airy, unconfin'd; some wonder sure _apollo_ meant, and shot himself into thy mind. _the_ sailors song _in the subscription_ musick, _set by mr._ weldon, _sung by mr._ dogget. [music] just coming from sea, our spouses and we, we punch it, we punch it, we punch it, we punch it, we punch it a board with couragio; we sing laugh and cling, and in hammocks we swing, and hey, hey, hey, hey, hey my brave boys bonviago: we sing laugh and cling, and in hammocks we swing, we sing laugh and cling, and in hammocks we swing, and hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, my brave boys bonviago. _the serenading_ song _in the_ constant couple, _or a trip to the_ jubilee; _written by mr._ g. farquhar, _set by mr._ d. purcell, _sung by mr._ freeman. [music] thus _damon_ knock'd at _cælia's_ door, thus _damon_ knock'd at _cælia's_ door, he sigh'd and begg'd, and wept and swore, the sign was so, she answer'd no, the sign was so, she answer'd no, no, no, no. again he sigh'd, again he pray'd, no _damon_ no, no, no, no, no, i am afraid; consider _damon_ i'm a maid, consider _damon_ no, no, no, no, no, no, no, i'm a maid. at last his sighs and tears made way, she rose and softly turn'd the key; come in said she, but do not, do not stay, i may conclude, you will be rude; but if you are you may: i may conclude, you will be rude, but if you are you may. _a 'squire's choice; or the coy lady's beauty by him admir'd._ [music] the world is a bubble and full of decoys, her glittering pleasures are flattering toys; the which in themselves no true happiness brings, rich rubies, nay diamonds, chains, jewels and rings: they are but as dross, and in time will decay, so will virgin beauty, so will virgin beauty, tho' never so gay. then boast not young _phillis_ because thou art fair, soft roses and lillies more beautiful are, than ever thou wast, when they in their prime, and yet do they fade in a very short time: all temporal glories in time will decay, so will virgin beauty, so will virgin beauty, tho' never so gay. since all things are changing and nothing will last, since years, months, and minutes thy beauty will blast, like flowers that fade in the fall of the leaf, afford me thy favour and pity my grief: e'er thy youth and beauty does clearly depart, for thou art my jewel, for thou art my jewel, the joy of my heart. i value not riches, for riches i have, i value not honour, no honour i crave; but what thou art able to bless me withal, and if by thy frowns to despair i should fall: then farewel those joys which so long i have sought, to languish in sorrow, to languish in sorrow, alass! i am brought. i come not to flatter, as many have done, afford me a smile, or my dear i shall run distracted, as being disturbed in mind, then now, now, or never be loving and kind: this day thou canst cherish my sorrowful state, to morrow sweet jewel, to morrow sweet jewel, it may be too late. you know that young women has rail'd against men, and counted them false and base flatterers, when we find that your sexs are as cruel to us, or else you would never have tortur'd me thus: as now you have done by your darts of disdain, you know that i love you, you know that i love you, yet all is in vain. _the damsels answer, to the same tune._ now dry up thy tears, and no longer exclaim, against thy fair beautiful _phillis_ by name; who never as yet was acquainted with love, yet here i declare by the powers above: i cannot be cruel to one that is true, wherefore bid thy sorrows, wherefore bid thy sorrows for ever adieu. with all the affections that words can express, i freely surrender, and can do no less; when as i consider in e'ery degree, how loyal and faithful thou hast been to me, i cannot be cruel to one that is true, and so bid thy sorrows, and so bid thy sorrows for ever adieu. _the jolly sailor's resolution._ [music] as i am a sailor, 'tis very well known, and i've never as yet had a wife of my own; but now i am resolved to marry if i can, to show my self a jolly, jolly brisk young man, man, man, to show my self a jolly, jolly brisk young man. abroad i have been, and since home i am come, my wages i have took, 'tis a delicate sum; and now mistress hostess begins to flatter me, but i have not forgot her former cruelty, ty, ty, but i have not forgot her former cruelty. near _lymehouse_ she liv'd, where i formerly us'd, i'll show you in brief how i once was abus'd, after in her house i had quite consumed my store, but kick me if i ever, ever feast her more, more, more, but kick me if i ever, ever feast her more. i came to her once with abundance of gold, and as she that beautiful sight did behold; she said with a kiss thou art welcome _john_ to me, for i have shed a thousand, thousand tears for thee, thee, thee, for i have shed a thousand, thousand tears for thee. her flattering words i was apt to believe, and then at my hands she did freely receive; a ring which she said she would keep for _johnny's_ sake, she wept for joy as if her very heart wou'd break: break, break, she wept for joy as if her very heart wou'd break. we feasted on dainties and drank of the best, thought i with my friends i am happily blest; for punch, beer and brandy they night and day did call, and i was honest _johnny_, _johnny_ pay for all: all, all, and i was honest _johnny_, _johnny_ pay for all. they ply'd me so warm, that in troth i may say, that i scarce in a month knew the night from the day; my hostess i kiss'd, tho' her husband he was by, for while my gold and silver lasted, who but i: i, i, for while my gold and silver lasted, who but i. they said i should marry their dear daughter _kate_, and in token of love i presented her strait: with a chain of gold, and a rich costly head, thus _johnny_, _johnny_, _johnny_ by the nose was lead: lead, lead, thus _johnny_, _johnny_, _johnny_ by the nose was lead. this life i did lead for a month and a day, and then all my glory begun to decay: my money was gone, i quite consum'd my store, my hostess told me in a word, she would not score, score, score, my hostess told me in a word, she would not score. she frown'd like a fury, and _kate_ was coy, a kiss or a smile i no more must enjoy, nay, if that i call'd but for a mug of beer, my hostess she was very deaf and could not hear, hear, hear, my hostess she was very deaf and could not hear. but that which concern'd me more than the rest, my money it was gone, and she'd needs have me prest; aboard of the fleet, then i in a passion flew, and ever since i do abhor the canting crew, crew, crew, and ever since i do abhor the canting crew. now having replenish'd my stock once again, my hostess and daughter i vow to refrain their company quite, and betake my self to a wife, with whom i hope to live a sober life, life, life, with whom i hope to live a sober life. then in came a damsel as fresh as a rose, he gave her a kiss, and began for to close, in courting, and said, canst love an honest tar, who for this six or seven years has travell'd far, far, far, who for this six or seven years has travell'd far. his offer was noble, his guineas was good, and therefore the innocent maid never stood to make a denial, but granted his request, and now she's with a jolly sailor, sailor blest. blest, blest, and now she's with a jolly sailor, sailor blest. cupid's _courtesie._ [music] through the cold shady woods, as i was ranging, i heard the pretty birds, notes sweetly changing: down by the meadow's side, there runs a river a little boy i spy'd with bow and quiver. little boy tell me why thou art here diving? art thou some run-away; and hast no abiding? i am no run-away, _venus_ my mother, she gave me leave to play, when i came hither. little boy go with me, and be my servant, i will take care to see for thy preferment: if i with thee should go, _venus_ would chide me, and take away my bow, and never abide me. little boy let me know, what's thy name termed, that thou dost wear a bow, and go so arm'd: you may perceive the same, with often changing; _cupid_ it is my name, i live by ranging. if _cupid_ be thy name, that shoot at rovers; i have heard of thy fame, by wounded lovers: should any languish that are set on fire; by such a naked brat, i much admire. if thou dost but the least, at my laws grumble; i'll pierce thy stubborn breast, and make thee humble, if i with golden dart, wound thee but surely, there's no physitians art, that e're can cure thee. little boy with thy bow, why dost thou threaten; it is not long ago since thou wast beaten: thy wanton mother, fair _venus_ will chide thee; when all thy arrows are gone, thou may'st go hide thee. of powerful shafts you see, i am well stored; which makes my deity, so much adored: with one poor arrow now, i'll make thee shiver; and bend unto my bow, and fear my quiver. dear little _cupid_ be, courteous and kindly; i know thou can'st not see, but shootest blindly: altho' thou call'st me blind, surely i'll hit thee; that thou shalt quickly find, i'll not forget thee. then little _cupid_ caught, his bow so nimble; and shot a fatal shaft, which made him tremble: go tell thy mistress dear, thou canst discover; what all the passions are, of a dying lover. and now this gallant heart sorely lies bleeding; he felt the greatest smart, from love proceeding; he did her help implore, whom he affected, but found that more and more, him she rejected. for _cupid_ with his craft, quickly had chosen, and with a leaden shaft, her heart had frozen: which caus'd this lover more, daily to languish; and _cupid's_ aid implore, to heal this anguish. he humble pardon crav'd for his offence past; and vow'd himself a slave, and to love stedfast; his prayers so ardent were, whilst his heart panted, that _cupid_ lent an ear, and his suit granted. for by his present plaint, he was regarded; and his adored saint, his love rewarded: and now they live in joy, sweetly embracing, and left the little boy, in the woods chasing. _the duke of_ gloucester's _march, set by dr._ blow. [music] and now, now the duke's march, let the haut-boys play; and his troops in the close, shall huzza, huzza, huzza: and now, now the duke's march, let the haut-boys play; and his troops in the close, shall huzza, huzza, huzza. _a_ song _sung at_ richmond _new wells, the words by_ m. s. _set by mr._ morgan. [music] _aurelia_ now one moment lost, a thousand sighs may after cost; desires may oft return in vain, but youth will ne'er return again: desires may oft return in vain, but youth will ne'er return again. the fragrant sweets which do adorn, the glowing blushes of the morn; by noon are vanish'd all away, then let _aurelia_ live to day. _a_ song _sung by mrs._ prince _in the_ agreeable disappointment. _sett by mr._ john eccles. [music] _chloe_ found love for his _psyche_ in tears, she play'd with his dart, and smil'd at his fears, fears; 'till feeling at length the poison it keeps, _cupid_ he smiles, and _chloe_ she weeps: 'till feeling at length the poison it keeps, _cupid_ he smiles, and _chloe_ she weeps. _cupid_ he smiles, and _chloe_ she weeps. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john barrett. [music] _liberia's_ all my thought and dream, she's all, all, all, she's all, all, all, my pleasure and my pain: _liberia's_ all that i esteem, and all i fear is her disdain, her wit, her humour and her face, please beyond all i felt before: oh! why can't i admire her less, or dear _liberia_, or dear _liberia_ love me more! like stars all other female charms, ne'er touch my heart, but feast my eyes; for she's the only sun that warms, with her alone i'd live and dye: immortal pow'rs whose work divine, inspires my soul with so much love; grant your _liberia_ may be mine, and then, then, then, then, and then, then i share your joys above. _coy_ belinda, _and false_ amindor. [music] coy _belinda_ may discover, love is nothing but a name; 'tis not beauty warms the lover, when he tells her of his flame: but she keeps a greater treasure, binds and bonds inflame his heart; charms that flow with tides of pleasure, more obey'd than _cupid's_ dart. false _amintor_ leave dissembling, tell her plainly you are poor; hence are all your sighs and tremblings, when you talk of your amour: tho' you sigh, and tho' you languish, 'till she gives herself away; then you soon forget your anguish, and _belinda_ must obey. _an amorous address to the charming_ corinna. [music] _corinna_ 'tis you that i love, and love with a passion, a passion so great; that death a less torment would prove, than either your frown or your hate: so soft and prevailing your charms, in vain i should strive to retreat; oh! then let me live in your arms, or dye in despair at your feet. in vain i may pray to love's powers, to ease me and pity my pain; since the heart that i sue for is yours, who all other powers disdain: like a _goddess_ you absolute reign, you alone 'tis can save or kill; to whom else then should i complain, since my fate must depend on your will. _the coy lass dress'd up in her best commode and top-knot._ [music] do not rumple my top-knot, i'll not be kiss'd to day; i'll not be hawl'd and pull'd about, thus on a holy-day: then if your rudeness you don't leave, no more is to be said; see this long pin upon my sleeve, i'll run up to the head: and if you rumple my head gear, i'll give you a good flurt on the ear. come upon a worky-day, when i have my old cloaths on; i shall not be so nice nor coy, nor stand so much upon: then hawl and pull, and do your best, yet i shall gentle be: kiss hand, and mouth, and feel my breast, and tickle to my knee: i won't be put out of my rode, you shall not rumple my commode. _a_ song _in the dramatick_ opera _of_ king arthur. _written by mr._ dryden. [music] fairest isle, all isles excelling, seat of pleasures, and of love; _venus_ here, will chuse her dwelling, and forsake her _cyprian grove_. _cupid_ from his fav'rite nation, care and envy will remove; jealousy that poisons passion, and despair that dies for love. gentle murmurs sweet complaining, sighs that blow the fire of love; soft repulses, kind disdaining, shall be all the pains you prove. every swain shall pay his duty, grateful every nymph shall prove; and as these excel in beauty, those shall be renown'd for love. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd the_ (wives excuse: _or_, cuckolds make themselves.) _sung by mrs._ butler. [music] hang this whining way of wooing, loving was design'd a sport; sighing, talking without doing, makes a sily idol court: don't believe that words can move her, if she be not well inclin'd; she herself must be the lover, to perswade her to be kind: if at last she grants the favour, and consents to be undone; never think your passion gave her, to your wishes, but her own. _a_ song _in the opera call'd the_ (fairy queen,) _sung by mr._ pate. [music] here's the summer sprightly, gay, smiling, wanton, fresh and fair: adorn'd with all the flowers of _may_, whose various sweets perfume the air, adorn'd with all the flowers of _may_, whose various sweets perfume the air. _a_ dog _of_ war: _or, the travels of _drunkard, _the famous curr of the round _woolstaple _in_ westminster. _his services in the_ netherlands, _and lately in _france, _with his return home._ _the_ argument. _an honest, well-knowing, and well-known souldier, (whose name for some reasons i conceal) dwelt lately in _westminster, _in the round woolstaple, he was a man only for action, but such actions as loyalty did always justifie, either for his prince, country, or their dear and near friends or allies, in such noble designs he would and did often with courage and good approvement employ himself in the low-countries, having always with him a little black dog, whom he called_ drunkard; _which curr would (by no means) ever forsake or leave him. but lately in these french wars, the dog being in the isle of_ rhea, _where his master (valiantly fighting) was unfortunately slain, whose death was griev'd for by as many as knew him; and as the corps lay dead, the poor loving masterless dog would not forsake it, until an english souldier pull'd off his masters coat, whom the dog followed to a boat, by which means he came back to_ westminster, _where he now remains. upon whose fidelity, (for the love i owed his deceased master) i have writ these following lines, to express my addiction to the proverb,_ love me and love my dog. to the reader. _reader if you expect_ _from hence_, _an overplus of wit_ _or sence_, _i deal with no such_ _traffique:_ heroicks _and_ iambicks _i_, _my buskinde muse hath_ _laid them by_, _pray be content with_ saphicke. drunkard _the dog my_ _patron is_, _and he doth love me_ _well for this_, _whose love i take for_ _guerdon_; _and he's a dog of_ mars _his train_ _who hath seen men and_ _horses slain_, _the like was never_ _heard on._ drunkard _or the faithful dog of war._ [music] stand clear, my masters 'ware your shins, for now to bark my muse begins, tis of a dog, i write now: yet let me tell you for excuse, that muse or dog, or dog or muse, have no intent to bite now. in doggrel rhimes my lines are writ, as for a dog i thought it fit, and fitting best his carkass. had i been silent as a stoick, or had i writ in verse heroick, then had i been a stark ass. old _homer_ wrote of frogs and mice, and _rabblaies_ wrote of nits and lice, and _virgil_ of a flye: one wrote the treatise of the fox, another prais'd the frenchman's pox, whose praise was but a lye. great _alexander_ had a horse, a famous beast of mighty force yecleap'd _buce-_ _phalus_: he was a stout and sturdy steed, and of an exc'lent race and breed, but that concerns not us. i list not write the baby praise of apes, or owls, or popingeys, or of the cat _grammalkin:_ but of a true and trusty dog, who well could fawn, but never cog, his praise my pen must walk in. and _drunkard_ he is falsely nam'd, for which that vice he ne'er was blam'd, for he loves not god _bacchus_: the kitchin he esteems more dear, than cellars full of wine or beer, which oftentimes doth wreck us. he is no mastiff, huge of lim, or water-spaniel, that can swim, nor blood-hound nor no setter: no bob-tail tyke, or trundle-tayl, nor can he partridge spring or quail, but yet he is much better. no dainty ladies fisting-hound, that lives upon our _britain_ ground, nor mungrel cur or shogh: should litters or whole kennels dare, with honest _drunkard_ to compare, my pen writes, _marry fough_. the otter-hound, the fox-hound, nor the swift foot grey-hound car'd he for, nor _cerberus_ hell's bandogg; his service proves them curs and tikes, and his renown a terror strikes, in water-dog and land-dog. 'gainst brave _buquoy_ or stout _dampiere_, he durst have bark'd without fear, or 'gainst the hot count _tilly_: at _bergen_ leaguer and _bredha_, against the noble _spinola_, he shew'd himself not silly. he serv'd his master at commands, in the most warlike _netherlands_, in _holland_, _zeeland_, _brabant_: he to him still was true and just, and if his fare were but a crust, he patiently would knab on't. he durst t have stood stern _ajax_ frown, when wise _ulysses_ talk'd him down in grave _diebus_ _illis_; when he by cunning prating won the armour from fierce tellamon, that 'longed to _achilles_. brave _drunkard_, oft on god's dear ground, took such poor lodging as he found, in town, field, camp or cottage; his bed but cold, his dyet thin, he oft in that poor case was in, to want both meat and pottage. two rows of teeth for arms he bore, which in his mouth he always wore, which serv'd to fight and feed too: his grumbling for his drum did pass, and barking (lowd) his ordnance was, which help'd in time of need too. his tail his ensign he did make, which he would oft display and shake, fast in his poop uprear'd: his powder hot, but somewhat dank, his shot in (scent) most dangerous rank, which sometimes made him feared. thus hath he long serv'd near and far, well known to be a _dog of war_, though he ne'er shot with musket: yet cannons roar or culverings, that whizzing through the welkin sings, he slighted as a pus-cat. for guns, nor drums, nor trumpets clang. nor hunger, cold, nor many a pang, could make him leave his master: in joy, and in adversity, in plenty, and in poverty, he often was a taster. thus serv'd he on the _belgia_ coast, yet ne'er was heard to brag or boast, of services done by him: he is no pharisee to blow, a trumpet, his good deeds to show, 'tis pity to bely him. at last he home return'd in peace, till wars, and jars, and scars increase 'twixt us, and _france_, in malice: away went he and crost the sea, with's master, to the isle of _rhea_, a good way beyond _callice_. he was so true, so good, so kind, he scorn'd to stay at home behind, and leave his master frustrate; for which could i like _ovid_ write, or else like _virgil_ could indite, i would his praise illustrate. i wish my hands could never stir, but i do love a thankful curr, more than a man ingrateful: and this poor dog's fidelity, may make a thankless knave descry, how much that vice is hateful. for why, of all the faults of men, which they have got from hell's black den, ingratitude the worst is: for treasons, murders, incests, rapes, nor any sin in any shapes, so bad, nor so accurst is. i hope i shall no anger gain, if i do write a word or twain, how this dog was distressed; his master being wounded dead, shot, cut and slash'd, from heel to head, think how he was oppressed. to lose him that he loved most, and be upon a foreign coast, where no man would relieve him: he lick'd his masters wounds in love, and from his carkass would not move, altho' the sight did grieve him. by chance a souldier passing by, that did his masters coat espy, and quick away he took it: but _drunkard_ followed to a boat, to have again his master's coat, such theft he could not brook it. so after all his wo and wrack, to _westminster_ he was brought back, a poor half starved creature; and in remembrance of his cares, upon his back he closely wears a mourning coat by nature. live _drunkard_, sober _drunkard_ live, i know thou no offence wilt give, thou art a harmless dumb thing; and for thy love i'll freely grant, rather than thou shouldst ever want, each day to give thee something. thou shalt be _stellifide_ by me, i'll make the _dog-star_ wait on thee, and in his room i'll seat thee: when _sol_ doth in his progress swing, and in the dog-days hotly sing, he shall not over- heat thee. i lov'd thy master, so did all that knew him, great and small, and he did well deserve it: for he was honest, valiant, good, and one that manhood understood, and did till death preserve it. for whose sake, i'll his dog prefer, and at the dog at _westminster_, shall _drunkard_ be a bencher; where i will set a work his chops, not with bare bones, or broken scraps, but victuals from my trencher. so honest _drunkard_ now adieu, thy praise no longer i'll pursue, but still my love is to thee: and when thy life is gone and spent, these lines shall be thy monument, and shall much service do thee. _a_ song _sung by mrs._ ayliff _in the play call'd_ love triumphant: _or_, nature will prevail, _sett by mr._ henry purcell. [music] how happy's the husband, how happy's the husband, whose wife has been try'd, has been try'd, not damn'd to the bed, not damn'd to the bed of an ignorant bride; secure of what's left, secure of what's left, he ne'er misses the rest, but where there's enough, enough, enough, but where there's enough, supposes a feast: so foreknowing the cheat, he escapes the deceit; and in spight of the curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest. and in spight of the curse he resolves, he resolves to be blest. he resolves to be blest, he resolves, he resolves to be blest. if children are blessings, his comfort's the more, whose spouse has been known to be fruitful before; and the boy that she brings ready made to his hand, may stand him in stead for an heir to his land: shou'd his own prove a sot, when 'tis lawfully got as when e'er it is so, if it won't i'll be hang'd. _a new_ song, _to the tune of the old batchelor._ [music] if ever you mean to be kind, to me the favour, the favour allow; for fear that to morrow should alter my mind, oh! let me now, now, now, if in hand then a guinea you'll give, and swear by this kind embrace; that another to morrow, as you hope to live, oh! then i will strait unlace: for why should we two disagree, since we have, we have opportunity. _a_ song, _set to musick by mr._ will. richardson. [music] i know her false, i know her base, i know that gold alone can move; i know she jilts me to my face, and yet good gods, and yet good gods i know i love. i see too plain and yet am blind, wou'd think her true, while she forsooth; to me and to my rival's kind, courts him, courts me, courts him, courts me, and jilts us both. _a_ scotch song. [music] fye _jockey_ never prattle more so like a _loon_, no rebel e'er shall gar my heart to love: _sawney_ was a loyal _scot_ tho' dead and gone, and _jenny_ in her _daddy's_ way with muckle joy shall move: laugh at the _kirk-apostles_ & the canting swarms, and fight with bonny lads that love their monarchy and king, then _jenny_ fresh and blith shall take thee in her arms, and give thee twanty kisses, and perhaps a better thing. _a_ song _in the_ fairy queen. _sung by mrs._ dyer. [music] i am come to lock all fast, love without me cannot last: love, like counsels of the wise, must be hid from vulgar eyes; 'tis holy, 'tis holy, and we must, we must conceal it, they prophane it, they prophane it, who reveal it, they prophane it, they profane it, who reveal it. _a new_ song, _set to the flute._ [music] after the pangs of fierce desire, the doubts and hopes that wait on love; and feed by turns the raging fire, how charming must fruition prove: when the triumphant lover feels, none of those pains which once he bore; or when reflecting on his ills, he makes his pleasure, pleasure more, he makes his pleasure, pleasure more. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_ sir anthony love: _or_, the rambling lady, _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] in vain _clemene_, you bestow, the promis'd empire of your heart; if you refuse to let me know, the wealthy charms of every part. my passion with your kindness grew, tho' beauty gave the first desire, but beauty only to pursue, is following a wandring fire. as hills in perspective, suppress, the free enquiry of the sight: restraint makes every pleasure less, and takes from love the full delight. faint kisses may in part supply, those eager longings of my soul; but oh! i'm lost, if you deny, a quick possession of the whole. _a_ song, _set to musick by mr._ graves. [music] my dear _corinna_ give me leave, to gaze, to gaze on her i love; the gods cou'd never, never yet conceive, her worth, tho' from above; there's none on earth can equalize, so sweet, so sweet a soul as she; who ever gains so great a prize, has all, has all that heav'n can be. curse on my fate, who plac'd me here, in a sphere, a sphere, so much below, my love, my life, my all that's dear; and yet she must not know: the torment for her i sustain, shall ill, shall ill rewarded be; when loving, when loving, and not lov'd again, does prove, does prove, a hell to me. _a mock song to_ if love's a sweet passion. [music] if wine be a cordial why does it torment? if a poison oh! tell me whence comes my content? since i drink it with pleasure, why should i complain? or repent ev'ry morn when i know 'tis in vain: yet so charming the glass is, so deep is the quart, that at once it both drowns and enlivens my heart. i take it off briskly and when it is down, by my jolly complexion i make my joy known; but oh! how i'm blest when so strong it does prove, by its soveraign heat to expel that of love: when in quenching the old, i creat a new flame, and am wrapt in such pleasures that still want a name. _the_ loyal _subject's wish. by mrs._ anne morcott. [music] let _mary_ live long, she's vertuous and witty, all charmingly pretty; let _mary_ live long, and reign many years: wou'd the cloud was gone o'er, that troubles us sore, when the sun-shine appears; we shall be deliver'd, we shall be deliver'd, from fury and fears. heavens send the king home, with laurels to crown him, each rebel to own him; and may he live long, and reign many years: when the conquest is plain, and three kingdoms regain'd; let his enemies fall, then _cæsar_ shall flourish, then _cæsar_ shall flourish, in spight of them all. all glorious and gay, let the king live for ever: may he languish never, never: like flowers in _may_, his actions smell sweet: when the wars are all done, and he safe in his throne; trophies lay at his feet, with loud acclamations, with loud acclamations, his majesty greet. _the shepherdess_ lerinda's _complaint, by_ walter overbury, _gent._ [music] _lerinda_ complaineth that _strephon_ is dull, and that nothing diverting proceeds from his skull; but when once _lerinda_ vouchsafes to be kind, to her long admirer she'll then quickly find: such strange alteration as will her confute, that _strephon's_ transported, that _strephon's_ transported, that _strephon's_ transported and grown more acute. _love will find out the way._ [music] over the mountains, and over the waves; over the fountains, and under the graves: over rocks which are steepest, which do _neptune_ obey; over floods which are the deepest, love will find out the way. where there is no place, for the glow-worm to lie: where there is no space, for receipt of a flye: where the gnat she dares not venture, lest her self fast she lay: but if love come he will enter, and will find out the way. you may esteem him a child by his force; or you may deem him a coward, which is worse: but if he whom love doth honour, be conceal'd from the day; set a thousand guards upon him love will find out the way. some think to lose him, which is too unkind; and some do suppose him, poor heart to be blind: but if ne'er so close you wall him, do the best that you may; blind love, if so you call him, will find out the way. well may the eagle stoop down to the fist; or you may inveagle, the phenix of the east: with tears the tyger's moved, to give over his prey; but never stop a lover, he will post on his way. from _dover_ to _barwick_, and nations thro'out; brave _guy_ of _warwick_, that champion stout: with his warlike behaviour, thro' the world he did stray; to win his _phillis's_ favour, love will find out the way. in order next enters, _bevis_ so brave; after adventures, and policy grave: to see whom he desired, his _josian_ so gay, for whom his heart was fired, love found out the way. _the second part, to the same tune._ the gordian knot, which true lovers knit; undo you cannot, nor yet break it: make use of your inventions, their fancies to betray; to frustrate your intentions, love will find out the way. from court to cottage, in bower and in hall; from the king unto the beggar, love conquers all: tho' ne'er so stout and lordly, strive do what you may; yet be you ne'er so hardy, love will find out the way. love hath power over princes, or greatest emperor; in any provinces, such is love's power: there is no resisting, but him to obey; in spight of all contesting, love will find out the way. if that he were hidden, and all men that are; were strictly forbidden, that place to declare: winds that have no abiding, pitying their delay; will come and bring him tydings, and direct him the way. if the earth should part him. he would gallop it o're: if the seas should overthwart him, he would swim to the shore: should his love become a swallow, thro' the air to stray; love would lend wings to follow, and would find out the way. there is no striving, to cross his intent: there is no contriving, his plots to prevent: but if once the message greet him, that his true love doth stay; if death should come and meet him, love will find out the way. _a_ song, _in the play call'd the tragedy of_ cleomenes _the spartan heroe: sung by mrs._ butler, _set by mr._ h. purcell. [music] no, no, poor suffering heart, no change endeavour; chuse to sustain the smart rather than leave her: my ravish'd eyes behold such charms about her, i can dye with her, but not live without her, one tender sigh of her to see me languish: will more than pay the price of my past anguish, beware, oh cruel fair how you smile on me, 'twas a kind look of yours that has undone me. love has in store for me one happy minute, and she will end my pain who did begin it; then no day void of bliss and pleasures leaving, ages shall slide away without perceiving: _cupid_ shall guard the door, the more to please us, and keep out time and death when they would seaze us; time and death shall depart, and say in flying; love has found out a way to live by dying. _the jolly trades-men._ [music] sometimes i am a tapster new, and skilful in my trade sir, i fill my pots most duly, without deceit or froth sir: a spicket of two handfuls long, i use to occupy sir: and when i set a butt abroach, then shall no beer run by sir. sometimes i am a butcher, and then i feel fat ware sir; and if the flank be fleshed well, i take no farther care sir: but in i thrust my slaughtering-knife, up to the haft with speed sir; for all that ever i can do, i cannot make it bleed sir. sometimes i am a baker, and bake both white and brown sir; i have as fine a wrigling-pole, as any is in all this town sir: but if my oven be over-hot, i dare not thrust in it sir; for burning of my wrigling-pole, my skill's not worth a pin sir. sometimes i am a glover, and can do passing well sir; in dressing of a doe-skin, i know i do excel sir: but if by chance a flaw i find, in dressing of the leather; i straightway whip my needle out, and i tack 'em close together. sometimes i am a cook, and in _fleet-street_ i do dwell sir: at the sign of the sugar-loaf, as it is known full well sir: and if a dainty lass comes by, and wants a dainty bit sir; i take four quarters in my arms, and put them on my spit sir. in weavering and in fulling, i have such passing skill sir; and underneath my weavering-beam, there stands a fulling-mill sir: to have good wives displeasure, i would be very loath sir; the water runs so near my hand, it over-thicks my cloath sir. sometimes i am a shoe-maker, and work with silly bones sir: to make my leather soft and moist, i use a pair of stones sir: my lasts for and my lasting sticks, are fit for every size sir; i know the length of lasses feet, by handling of their thighs sir. the tanner's trade i practice, sometimes amongst the rest sir; yet i could never get a hair, of any hide i dress'd sir; for i have been tanning of a hide, this long seven years and more sir; and yet it is as hairy still, as ever it was before sir. sometimes i am a taylor, and work with thread that's strong sir; i have a fine great needle, about two handfulls long sir: the finest sempster in this town, that works by line or leisure; may use my needle at a pinch, and do themselves great pleasure. _the slow men of_ london: _or, the widow_ brown. _to the same tune._ there dwelt a widow in this town, that was both fair and lovely; her face was comely neat and brown, to pleasure she would move thee: her lovely tresses shin'd like gold, most neat is her behaviour; for truth it has of late been told, there's many strove to have her. there were three young men of this town; slow men of _london_; and they'd go wooe the widow _brown_, because they would be undone. the one a taylor was by trade, an excellent occupation; but widows love doth waste and fade, i find by observation: the second was a farrier bold, a man of excellent metal; his love to her was never cold, so firm his thoughts did settle, there were, _&c._ the third a weaver was that came, a suitor to this widow; her beauty did his heart inflame, her thoughts deceit doth shadow, widows can dissemble still, when young men come a wooing; yet they were guided by her will, that prov'd to their undoing. there were three, _&c._ this widow had a dainty tongue, and words as sweet as honey; which made her suitors to her throng, till they had spent their money: the taylor spent an hundred pound, that he took up on credit; but now her knavery he hath found, repents that are he did it. these were three, _&c._ threescore pounds the farrier had, left him by his father; to spend this money he was mad, his dad so long did gather: this widow often did protest, she lov'd him best of any; thus would she swear, when she did least, to make them spend their money. these were three, _&c._ the weaver spent his daily gains, that he got by his labour; some thirty pounds he spent in vain, he borrow'd of his neighbour: she must have sack and muscadine, and claret brew'd with sugar: each day they feed her chops with wine, for which they all might hug her. these were three, _&c._ _the second part, to the same tune._ she went apparell'd neat and fine, people well might wonder; to see how she in gold did shine, her fame abroad did thunder: a water'd camlet gown she had, a scarlet coat belaced with gold, which made her suitors glad, to see how she was graced. these were, _&c._ the taylor was the neatest lad, his cloaths were oft perfum'd; kind entertainment still he had, till he his 'state consum'd: the farrier likewise spent his 'state, the weaver often kiss'd her: but when that they in 'state were poor, they sought but still they miss'd her. these were, _&c._ the farrier and the weaver too, were fain to fly the city: the widow did them quite undoe, in faith more was the pity: she of her suitors being rid, a welchman came unto her: by night and day his suit he ply'd, most roughly he did woo her; for wooing tricks he quite put down, the slow-men of _london_; he over-reach'd the widow _brown_, that had so many undone. he swore he was a gentleman, well landed in the country: and liv'd in reputation there, his name sir _rowland humphry_. the widow did believe him then, and love unto him granted; thus he her favour did obtain, welchmen will not be daunted. by cunning tricks he quite put down, the slow-men of _london_: that came to woo this widow _brown_, because they would be undone. the welchman ply'd her night and day, till to his bow he brought her; and bore away the widow quite, from all that ever sought her: she thought to be a lady gay, but she was sore deceiv'd: thus the welchman did put down, the slow-men of _london_: for they would wooe the widow _brown_, because they would be undone. thus she was fitted in her kind, for all her former knavery; the welchman did deceive her mind, and took down all her bravery: it had been better she had ta'en, the weaver, smith, or taylor; for when she sought for state and pomp, the welchman quite did fail her: then learn you young men of this town, you slow-men of _london_: which way to take the widow _brown_, for least you all be undone. _the royal example. by mr._ henry purcell. [music] may her blest example chace vice, in troops out of the land; flying from her awful face, like trembling ghost when day's at hand: may her hero bring us peace, won with honour in the field: and our home-bred factions cease, he still our sword, and she our shield. _the royal triumph of_ britain's _monarch_. [music] new pyramid's raise, bring the poplar and bayes, to crown our triumphant commander; the _french_ too shall run, as the _irish_ have done, like the _persians_, the _persians_; like the _persians_, the _persians_, like the _persians_ before _alexander_. had the _rubicon_ been, such a stream as the _boyn_, not _cæsar_, not _cæser_ himself had gone on: king _william_ exceeds, great _cæsar_ in deeds, more than he did, more than he did, more than he did, great _pompey_ before. tho' born in a state, fore-told was his fate, that he should be a monarch ador'd: one globe was too small, to contain such a soul, new worlds must submit to his sword. so great and benign, is our sov'reign queen, made to share his empire and bed; may she still fill his arms, with her lovely soft charms, and a race of king _william's_ succeed. _the jolly_ broom-man: _or, the unhappy boy turn'd thrifty._ [music] there was an old man, and he liv'd in a wood, and his trade it was making of broom, and he had a naughty boy, _jack_ to his son, and he lay in bed till 'twas noon, 'twas noon, and he lay in bed till 'twas noon. no father e'er had, so lazy a lad, with sleep he his time did consume, in bed where he lay, still every day, and would not go cut his green broom, green broom, and would not go cut his green broom. the father was vext, and sorely perplext, with passion he entered the room; come sirrah, he cry'd, i'll liquor your hide, if you will not go gather green broom, green broom, if you will not go gather green broom. _jack_ lay in his nest, still taking his rest, and valu'd not what was his doom, but now you shall hear, his mother drew near, and made him go gather green broom, green broom, and made him go gather green broom. _jack's_ mother got up, and fell in a rage, and swore she would fire the room, if _jack_ did not rise, and go to the wood, and fetch home a bundle of broom, green broom, and fetch home a bundle of broom. this wakened him straight, before it was late, as fearing the terrible doom, dear mother, quoth he, have pity on me, i'll fetch home a bundle of broom, green broom, i'll fetch home a bundle of broom. then _jack_ he arose, and he slipt on his cloaths, and away to the wood very soon; to please the old wife, he took a sharp knife, and fell to the cutting of broom, green broom, and fell to the cutting of broom. _jack_ follow'd his trade and readily made, his goods up for country grooms: this done, honest _jack_ took them at his back, and cry'd, will you buy any brooms, green brooms, and cry'd, will you buy any brooms. then _jack_ he came by a gentleman's house, in which was abundance of rooms; he stood at the door, and began for to roar, crying, maids will you buy any brooms, green brooms, crying, maids will you buy any brooms. i tell you they're good, just fetch'd from the wood, and fitted for sweeping of rooms; come handle my ware, for girls i declare, you never had better green brooms, green brooms, you never had better green brooms. the maiden did call, the steward of the hall, who came in his silks and perfumes, he gave _jack_ his price, and thus in a trice, he sold all his bundle of brooms, green brooms, he sold all his bundle of brooms. likewise to conclude, they gave him rich food, with liquor of spicy perfumes; the hot boyl'd and roast, did cause _jack_ to boast, no trade was like making of brooms, green brooms, no trade was like making of brooms. for first i am paid, and then i am made, right welcome by stewards and grooms, here's money, meat and drink, what trade do you think compares with the making of brooms, green brooms, compares with the making of brooms. i have a good trade, more goods must be made, to furnish young lasses and grooms, wherefore i shall lack a prentice, quoth _jack_, i'll teach him the making of brooms, green brooms, i'll teach him the making of brooms. _a_ song, _the words and tune by mr._ witt green. [music] never sigh, but think of kissing, more, and more, and more of wishing; to possess the mighty blessing, while they enjoy it they are true, they'll hug, they'll cling, and heave up too, but liberty when once regain'd, the favour's to another feign'd. why should we then the sex admire, for 'twas never their desire, to maintain a constant fire; if oagling, wheedling you'll believe, they'll hourly study to deceive, but we will find out better ways, in musick, singing, spend our days. _the loyal delights of a contented mind. the words by mr._ mumford, _set by mr._ h. purcell. [music] oh how happy's he, who from business free, can enjoy his mistress, bottle, and his friend: not confin'd to state, nor the pride of the great; only on himself, not others doth depend: change can never vex him, faction ne'er perplex him; if the world goes well, a bumper crowns his joys, if it be not so than he takes of two; till succeeding glasses, thinking doth destroy. when his noddle reels, he to _cælia_ steals; and by pleasures unconfin'd runs o'er the night; in the morning wakes, a pleasing farewel takes, ready for fresh tipling, and for new delight: when his table's full, oh, then he hugs his soul; and drinking all their healths, a welcome doth express: when the cloth's removed, then by all approv'd, comes the full grace cup, queen _anna's_ good success. _a_ riddle. [music] there is a thing which in the light is seldom us'd, but in the night, it serves the maiden female crew, the ladies, and the good wives too: they us'd to take it in their hand, and then it will uprightly stand; and to a hole they it apply, where by it's good will it could dye: it wasts, goes out, and still within, it leaves it's moisture thick and thin. _on a_ lady _drinking the waters, the words by sir_ george etherige. _set by mr._ james hart. [music] _phillis_ lay aside your thinking, youth and beauty shou'd be gay, laugh and talk, and mind your drinking: whilst we pass the time away, laugh and talk, and mind your drinking, whilst we pass the time away. they ought only to be pensive, who dare not their grief declare, lest their story be offensive, but still languish in despair, lest their, _&c._ yet what more torments your lovers, they are jealous, they obey, one whose restless minds discovers, she's no less a slave than they, one whose, _&c._ _the lascivious lover and the coy lass._ [music] pish fye, you're rude sir, i never saw such idle fooling; you're grown so lewd sir, so debauch'd i hate your ways; leave, what are you doing? i see you seek my ruin, i'll cry out, pray make no delay, but take your hand away; ah! good sir, pray sir, don't you do so, never was i thus abus'd so, by any man, but you alone, therefore sir, pray begone. _advice to a miser. set by mr._ james graves. [music] retire old miser, and learn to be wiser, in looking o'er books ne'er spend all thy time; but rather be thinking, of roaring and drinking, for by those to promotion thou'lt speedily climb. then prithee be jolly, desert this thy folly, make welcome thy friends, and ne'er repine; for when thou art hurl'd into the next world, thy heir i'll engage it in splendor will shine. when thy breath is just vanish'd, his care will be banisht, and scarce will he follow thy corps to the grave; then be cautious and wary, for nought but canary, he's a fool that for others himself do's enslave. _a_ song _in the play call'd_, rule a wife and have wife. _set by mr._ henry purcell. _sung by mrs._ hudson. there's not a swain on the plain, wou'd be blest like me, oh! cou'd you but, cou'd you but, cou'd you but, on me smile; but you appear so severe, that trembling with fear, my heart goes pit a pat, pit a pat, pit a pat, all the while. if i cry must i die, you make no reply, but look shy, and with a scornful eye, kill me by your cruelty; oh! can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you be, can you, can you, can you be too hard to me. _a_ song _in the play call'd the_ lancashire witches. _sung by mrs._ hudson, _and set by mr._ john eccles. [music] tormenting beauty leave my breast, in spight of _cloe_ i'll have rest; in vain is all her syren art, still longer to hold my troubled heart: for i'm resolv'd to break the chain, and o'er her charms the conquest gain, and o'er her charms the conquest gain. insulting beauty i have born, too long your female pride and scorn; too long have been your publick jest, your common theme at ev'ry feast: let others thee, vain fair, pursue, whilst i for ever bid adieu, whilst i for ever bid adieu. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_, the wives excuse: _or_, cuckolds make themselves. _sung by mr._ mountford. _set by mr._ henry purcell. say cruel _amoret_, how long, how long, in billet-doux, and humble song; shall poor _alexis_, shall poor _alexis_, poor _alexis_ wooe? if neither writing, sighing, sighing, dying, reduce you to a soft complying, oh, oh, oh, oh, when will you come too. full thirteen moons are now past o'er, since first those stars i did adore, that set my heart on fire: the conscious play-house, parks and court, have seen my sufferings made your sport, yet i am ne'er the nigher. a faithful lover shou'd deserve, a better face, than thus to starve: in sight of such a feast; but oh! if you'll not think it fit, your hungry slave shou'd taste on bit; gives some kind looks at least. _the double lover's request._ [music] such command o'er my fate has your love or your hate, that nothing can make me more wretched or great: whilst expiring i lie, to live or to die, thus doubtful the sentence of such i rely: your tongue bids me go, tho' your eyes say not so, but much kinder words from their language do flow. then leave me not here, thus between hope and fear, tho' your love cannot come, let your pity appear; but this my request, you must grant me at least, and more i'll not ask, but to you leave the rest; if my fate i must meet, let it be at your feet, death there with more joy, than else-where i wou'd greet. _a_ song, _set by mr._ rob. king. [music] tell me why so long you try me, still i follow, still you fly me; will the race be never done, will it be ever but begun: could i quit my love for you, i'd ne'er love more what e'er i do; when i speak truth, you think i lie, you think me false, but say not why. _a_ song, _set by mr._ barincloe. tis a foolish mistake, that riches can speak, or e'er for good rhetoric pass: to a fool i confess, your gold may address, or else where the master's an ass: to a woman of sense, 'tis a sordid pretence, that a golden effigies can move her; no face on the coin, is half so divine, as that of a faithful young lover. but men when they love, their passion to prove, from the court to the dull country novice; to the fair they're so kind, first to fathom their mind, next search the prerogative office: no _imprimis_ i give, then the fair one they give, notwithstanding their strong protestations; till the lady discover, no fortune, no lover, then draws off her fond inclination, _the valiant_ soldier's, _and_ sailor's _loyal subjects health, to the_ queen, prince _and noble_ commanders. [music] now, now the queen's health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the troops on their march shall huzza, huzza, huzza, now now the queen's health, and let the haut-boys play, whilst the drums and the trumpets, sound from the shore, huzza, huzza, huzza. now now the prince's health, and let the haut-boys play, whilst the troops on their march, shall huzza, huzza, huzza: now now the prince's health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore huzza, huzza, huzza. now the brave _eugene's_ health, who shews the _french_ brave play; and does march over rocks, let's huzza, huzza, huzza, now the brave _eugene's_ health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the drums and the trumpets sounds as they march, huzza, huzza, huzza. now now the duke's health, brave _marlborough_ i say, whilst the cannon do roar, let's huzza, huzza, huzza, now now the duke's health, and let the haut-boys play; whilst the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore, huzza, huzza, huzza. now brave _ormond's_ health boys, whilst colours do display: and the _britains_ in fight, shall huzza, huzza, huzza; now brave _ormond's_ health boys, whilst colours do display: and the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore huzza, huzza, huzza. now sir _cloudsly's_ health boys and trumpets sound each day, whilst the tars with their caps shall huzza, huzza, huzza. now sir _cloudsly's_ health boys, and trumpets sound each day, whilst the thundring cannon loudly do roar huzza, huzza, huzza. brave _peterborough's_ health boys, who boldly makes his way, while the _french_ run let's huzza, huzza, huzza; brave _peterborough's_ health boys, and let the haut-boys play, while the drums and the trumpets sound as they march huzza, huzza, huzza. now now brave _leak's_ health, who is sailed away, for to find the _french_ fleet let's huzzza, huzza, huzza, now now brave _leak's_ health, who'll shew the _french_ fair play, while the drums and the trumpets, sound from on board, huzza, huzza, huzza. _the_ beau's _ballad. occasioned by the sight of a white marble_ side-table. [music] a pox on the fool, who could be so dull, to contrive such a table for glasses: which at the first sight, the guests must affright, more by half than their liquor rejoyces. 'tis so like a tomb, that whoever does come can't look on't without thus reflecting; heaven knows how soon, we must lye under one, and such thoughts must needs be perplexing. then away with that stone. break it, throw it down, to some church or other, else fling't in: 'tis fitter by far, to have a place there, than stand here to spoil mirth and good drinking. there death let it show, to those who will go, and monuments there gaze and stare at; we come here to live, and sad thoughts away drive, with good store of immortal claret. tho' the glasses stand there, they shan't do so here, 'tis the only kind lesson that teaches; whilst it seems to say, life's short, drink away, no time o'er your liquor to preach is. then fill up the glass, about let it pass, tho' the marble of death doth remind us; the wine shall ne'er die, tho' you must and i, we'll not leave a drop of't behind us. _a_ song. [music] underneath the castle wall, the queen of love sat mourning, tearing of her golden locks, her red rose, cheeks adorning; with her lilly white hand she smote her breasts, and said she was forsaken, with that the mountains they did skip, and the hills fell all a quaking. underneath the rotten hedge, the tinkers wife sat shiting, tearing of a cabbage leaf, her shitten a-- a wiping; with her cole black hands she scratch'd her a-- and swore she was beshitten, with that the pedlars all did skip, and the fidlers fell a spitting. _the unfortunate lover. set by mr._ willis. [music] what shall i do, i am undone, where shall i fly my self to shun; ah! me my self, my self must kill, and yet i die against my will. in starry letters i behold, my death is in the heavens inroll'd, there find i writ in skies above, that i, poor i, must die for love. 'twas not my love deserv'd to die, oh no, it was unworthy i; i for her love should not have dy'd, but that i had no worth beside. ah me! that love such woe procures, for without her no life endures; i for her virtues did her serve, doth such a love a death deserve. _a_ song. [music] my dear and only love take heed, how thou thy self expose; and let not longing lovers feed, upon such looks as those i'll marble wall thee round about, and build without a door; but if my love doth once break out, i'll never love thee more. if thou hast love that thou refine, and tho' thou seest me not; yet paralell'd that heart of thine shall never be forgot: but if unconstancy admit, a stranger to bear sway; my treasure that proves counterfeit, and he may gain the day. i'll lock my self within a cell, and wander under ground; for there is no such faith in her, as there is to be found: i'll curse the day that e'er thy face, my soul did so betray; and so for ever, evermore, i'll sing oh well-a-day! like _alexander_ i will prove, for i will reign alone; i'll have no partners in my love, nor rivals in my throne: i'll do by thee as _nero_ did, when _rome_ was set on fire; not only all relief forbid, but to the hills retire. i'll fold my arms like ensigns up, thy falshood to deplore; and after such a bitter cup, i'll never love thee more. yet for the love i bore thee once, and lest that love should die; a marble tomb of stone i'll write, the truth to testifie: that all the pilgrims passing by, may see and so implore; and stay and read the reason why, i'll never love thee more. _the second part of the trader's medly: or, the cries of_ london. [music] come buy my greens and flowers fine, your houses to adorn; i'll grind your knives, to please your wives, and bravely cut your corns: ripe straw-berries here i have to sell, with taffity-tarts and pies; i've brooms to sell will please you well, if you'll believe your eyes. here's salop brought from foreign parts, with dainty pudding-pyes; and shrewsbury-cakes, with wardens bak'd, i scorn to tell you lies: with laces long and ribbons broad, the best that e'er you see; if you do lack an almanack, come buy it now of me. the tinker's come to stop your holes, and sauder all your cracks; what e'er you think here's dainty ink, and choice of sealing-wax: come maids bring out your kitchin-stuff, old rags, or women's hair; i'll sell you pins for coney-skins, come buy my earthen-ware. here's limmons of the biggest size, with eggs and butter too; brave news they say is come to day, if _jones's_ news be true: here's spiggot and fine wooden-wares, with fossets to put in; i'll bottom all your broken chairs, then pray let me begin. a rabbit fat and plump i have, young maidens love the same; come buy a bird, i'm at a word, or pullet of the game: i sell the best spice ginger-bread, you ever did eat before; while madam _king_ her dumplings, she crys from door to door. come buy a comb, or buckle fine, for girdle of your lass; my oysters too are very new, with trumpet sounding glass: your lanthorn-horns i'll make them shine, and mend them very well; there's no jack-line so good as mine, as i have here to sell. come buy my honey and my book, for cuckolds to peruse; your turnip-man is come again, to tell his dames some news: i've plumbs and damsons very fine, with very good mellow pears; come buy a charming dish of fish, and give it to your heirs. come buy my figs, before they're gone, here's custards of the best; and mustard too, that's very new, tho' you may think i jest: my holland-socks are very strong, here's eels to skip and play; my hot grey-pease buy if you please, for i come no more to day. old suits or cloaks, or campaign wigs, with rusty guns or swords: when whores or pimps do buy my shrimps, i never take their words: your chimney clean my boy shall sweep, while i do him command; card matches cheap by lump or heap, the best in all the land. come taste and buy my brandy-wine, 'tis newly come from _france_: this powder now is good i vow, which i have got by chance; new mackerel the best i have, of any in the town; here's cloath to sell will please you well, as soft as any down. work for the cooper, maids give ear, i'll hoop your tubs and pails: and if your sight it is not right, here's that that never fails: milk that is new come from the cow, with flounders fresh and fair; here's elder-buds to purge your bloods, and onions keen and rare. small-coal young maids i've brought you here, the best that e'er you us'd; here's cherries round and very sound, if they are not abus'd; here's pippings lately come from _kent_, pray taste and then you'll buy; but mind my song, and then e'er long, you'll sing it as well as i. _the lover's_ charm. [music] tell me, tell me, charming fair, why so cruel and severe; is't not you, ah! you alone, is't not you, ah! you alone, secures my wandering heart your own: change, which once the most did please, now wants the power to give me ease; you've fixt me as the centure sure, and you who kill alone can cure, and you who kill alone can cure. if refusing what was granted, be to raise my passion higher; nymph believe me, i ne'er wanted, art for to inflame desire: calm my thoughts, serene my mind, still increasing was my joy, till _lavinia_ prov'd unkind, nothing could my peace destroy. _a_ song _in the_ royal mischief. _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] unguarded lies the wishing maid, distrusting not to be betray'd; ready to fall with all her charms, a shining treasure to your arms: who hears this story must believe, no heart can truer joy receive; since to take love and give it too, is all that love for hearts can do. _a ligg of good noses set forth in a jest. most fitly compared to whom you think best._ [music: _first nose._] [music: _cho. of all._] [music: _ n._, _ d._ _ d._ _ th._] [music: _all shake hands._] _the largest._ my nose is the largest of all in this place, mark how it becometh the midst of my face; by measure i take it from the end to the brow, four inches by compass, the same doth allow. likewise it is forged of passing good metal, all of right copper, the best in the kettle; for redness and goodness the virtue is such, that all other metal it serveth to touch. old smug, nor the tinker that made us so merry, with their brave noses more red than a cherry; none here to my challenge can make a denial, when my nose cometh thus bravely to tryal. _all sing._ room for good noses the best in our town, come fill the pot hostess, your ale it is brown; for his nose, and thy nose, and mine shall not quarrel, so long as one gallon remains in the barrel. _the longest._ my nose is the longest no man can deny, for 'tis a just handful right, mark from mine eye; most seemly down hanging full low to my chin, as into my belly it fain would look in. it serves for a weapon my mouth to defend, my teeth it preserveth still like a good friend; where if so i happen to fall on the ground, my nose takes the burthen and keeps my face sound. it likewise delighteth to peep in the cup, searching there deeply 'till all be drank up; then let my nose challenge of noses the best, the longest with ladies are still in request. _all sing._ room for, _&c._ _the thickest._ my nose it is thickest and roundest of all, inriched with rubies the great with the small; no goldsmith of jewels can make the like show, see how they are planted here all on a row. how like a round bottle it also doth hang, well stuffed with liquor will make it cry twang; with all, it is sweating in the midst of the cold, more worth to the honour than ransoms of gold. you see it is gilded with claret and sack, a food and fit cloathing for belly and back: then let my nose challenge of all that be here, to sit at this table as chiefest in cheer. _all sing._ room for, _&c._ _the second part._ _we have the best noses that be in our town, if any bring better come let him sit down._ _the flatest._ my nose is the flatest of all that be here, devoid of all danger and bodily fear; when other long noses let fly at a post, my nose hath the advantage, well known to my host. for 'tis of the making of _dunstable_ way, plain without turning as travellers say, though no nose but approveth to some disgrace, it bringeth less trouble unto a good face. then let me do homage to them that have best, for all nose and no nose, are both but a jest; yet my nose shall challenge although it be flat, a place with my neighbours at whiping the cat. _all sing._ room for good noses the best in our town, come fill the pot hostess, your ale it is brown: for his nose, and thy nose, and mine shall not quarrel, so long as one gallon remains in the barrel. _the sharpest._ my nose is the sharpest good neighbours mark well, the smoak of a banquet three mile i can smell; forged and shaped so sharp at the end, makes known that i pass not what others do spend. yet must my nose spiced most orderly be, with nutmegs and ginger, or else 'tis not for me; and so to the bottom the same i commit, of every man's cup whereas i do sit. my nose is the foremost you see at each feast, of all other noses the principal guest: then let my nose challenge as sharp as it shows, the chiefest of every good and bad nose. _all sing._ room for, _&c._ _the broadest._ my nose is the broadest how like you sir, that, it feeds on good liquor and grows very fat; for like to a panack it covers my face, to make other noses the more in disgrace. and look how it glisters like copper-smith's hall, to which our good noses are summoned all; when if that the colours hold out not good red, a fine must be levied and set on their head. for having the broadest and fairest to the eye, the sergeant of noses appointed am i; then let my nose challenge the chiefest from the rest, of all other noses the broadest is best. _all sing._ room for good noses the best in our town, come fill the pot hostess, your ale it is brown; for his nose, and thy nose, and mine shall not quarrel, so long as one gallon remains in the barrel. _the_ ludgate _prisoners._ [music] noble king _lud_, full long hast thou stood, not framed of wood, but of stone of stone sure thou art, like our creditors heart, that regards not our sorrowful moan. within the gate, they cry at the grate, pray remember our fate and shew pity; the poor and distress'd, who in bonds are oppress'd, entreat the relief of the city in threadbare coats, we tear our throats, with pitiful notes that would move all creatures, but brutes, to give ear to our suits, and themselves like true christians approve. but in vain we cry, with a box hanging by, good sirs cast an eye on our case; no beau nor town mistress, are touched with our distress, but hold up their nose at the place. the lawyer jogs on, without looking upon th' afflicted, whose moans he gives being; nor thinks on us cits, but breviates and writs, and demurrs on exorbitant feeing, the _serjeants_ and _yeomen_, who seek to undo men, though good-men and true-men ne'er mind us; but rejoyce they get, by our being in debt, and that where they have brought us, they find us. the merchant alone, makes our sorrows his own, and allows there is none but may fail; since that is free, by losses at sea, may be immurr'd in a gaol. his purse and his board, with plenty are stor'd, due relief to afford to the needy; while the priest in his coach, joggs on to debauch, to cloath us or feed us too greedy. others go by, and hearing our cry, they cast up their eye in disdain; affirming that we, if once get free, should quickly be prisoners again, but let 'em take heed, that reproach us indeed, and thus at our need go by grinning; since it is so man, that there is no man, knows his end, that may know his beginning. _room for gentlemen._ [music] room for gentlemen, here comes a company, room for gentlemen, here comes my lord-mayor; you barons, you knights, and also you 'squires, give room for gentlemen, here comes my lord mayor. first comes the worshipful company, of gallant _mercers_ into this place; with their worthy caps of maintenance, upon their shoulders to their great grace: side by side do they go as you see here, _room for_, &c. next to them here comes the _grocers_, a company of gallants bold; who willingly do give attendance, as all the people may behold: in their gowns and their caps with gallant cheer. room for, _&c._ then the _drapers_ they come next, with their streamers flying so fair; and their trumpets sounding most loudly, attending still upon my lord mayor: their whifflers, their batchelors, and all they have there, give room, _&c._ then comes the company of gallant _fishmongers_, attending his lordship's coming here; as duty bindeth they do still wait, until his lordship doth appear: then they rise, and go with lusty cheer, with loving hearts before the lord mayor. the _goldsmiths_ they are next to them, a braver company there cannot be; all in their liveries going most bravely, and colours spread most gallantly: they do wait, they attend, and then they stay there, until the coming of my lord mayor. the _merchant-taylors_ now they come in, a company both stout and bold; most willing to perform their duties, scorning of any to be controul'd: in their gowns and their caps, and ancient affairs, all attend, _&c._ the _haberdashers_ a company be, of gentlemen both grave and wise; to all good orders they do agree, for the city's good they still devise: they set to their helping as you may hear, still to the comfort of city and mayor. the _skinners_ they a company be, as gallant men as be the rest; their duties they perform truly, as honestly as do the best: their antients, then drums, then trumpets be there, attending still, _&c._ truly the _salters_ a company grave, of understanding be good and wise; and to perform all godly orders, within the city they devise: when occasion doth serve they present themselves there, with all the company, _&c._ the _iron-mongers_ a company be, who know their duties every one; and willingly they do obey, and wait his lordship still upon: from the morning they rise they still do stay there, until the departing of, _&c._ the company of worthy _vintners_, his lordship still do wait upon; with all their furniture along most gallantly, in order they go every one: until the companys do appear, and then they go before, _&c._ a company there is of worthy _cloth-workers_, who wait and give attendance still: when his lordship hath any occasion, they ready are to obey his will; for fear any service should be wanting there, they will present themselves before the lord mayor. god bless our king and counsel all, and all his true subjects in this land; and cut down all those false hereticks, that would the gospel still withstand: god prosper this city, and all that are here, and i wish you to say god bless my lord-mayor. _the batchelor's choice._ [music] i fain wou'd find a passing good wife, that i may live merry all days of my life, but that i do fear much sorrow and strife, then i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry a maid that is fair, with her round cherry cheeks and her flaxen hair, many close meetings i must forbear, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that is foul, the best of my pleasure will be but a scoul. she'll sit in a corner like to an owl, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry a maid that's a slut, my diet a dressing abroad i must put, for fear of distempers to trouble my gut, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry a maid that's a fool, to learn her more wit i must put her to school, or else fool-hardy keep in good rule, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that's a scold, my freedom at home is evermore sold, her mouth is too little her tongue for to hold, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that's a whore, i must keep open for her my back door, and so a kind wittal be called therefore, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that is proud, she'll look for much more than can be allow'd, no wife of that making i'll have i have vow'd, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry a maid that is meek, the rule of my household i might go seek, for such a kind soul i care not a leek, and i'll, _&c._ i would have a wife to come at a call, too fat, nor too lean, too low, nor too tall, but such a good wife as may please all, else i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, else i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. _the second part._ if i should go seek the whole world about, to find a kind and loving wife out, that labour were lost, i am in great doubt, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i marry with one that is young, with a false heart and flattering tongue, sorrow and care may be my song, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is old, i never should have the pleasures i would, but arm full of bones frozen with cold, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is poor, by me my best friends will set little store and so go a begging from door to door, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is rich, she'll ever upbraid me she brought me too much, and make me her drudge, but i'll have none such, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is blind, all for to seek and worse for to find, i then should have nothing to please my mind, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is dumb, how could she welcome my friends that come, for her best language is to say mum, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. if i should marry with one that is deaf, hard of belief, and jealous 'till death, to the jawm of a chimney spend i my breath, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is fine, she will spend all in ale and in wine, spend she her own, she shall not spend mine, and i'll, _&c._ if i should marry with one that is tall, i having but little she would have it all, then will i live single, whate'er it befal, and i'll, _&c._ for when i am married i must be glad, to please my wife though never so bad, then farewel the joys that lately i had, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet, and i'll not be married yet, yet, yet. _maids that will not when you may, when you would, you shall have nay._ _the power of verse._ [music] tho' thou'rt ugly and old, a damn'd slut and a scold, yet if you will tip me a guinea; by the help of my rhimes, to the latest of times, thou shalt have thy adorers dear _jenny_. we bards have a knack, to turn white into black, and make vice seem vertue, which odd is; true poetical cant, dubbs a rebel a saint, and refines a jilt into a goddess. these trick rhiming sages, observ'd in all ages, to dress naked truth in a fable; and tho' ev'ry story, out-did purgatory, they still were believ'd by the rabble. pray what was _acteon_, whom dogs made a prey on, but a sportsman undone by his chasing; or the fam'd _diomede_, of whom his nags fled, but a jockey quite ruin'd by racing? _medæa_, 'tis sung, could make old women young. tho' she nought but a true waiting-maid is; who with comb of black lead, with paint white and red, with patch and wash, vamps up grey ladies. _vulcan_ left the bellows, and sooty left good fellows, that he might take of _nectar_ a cann full; _venus_ was a gay trull, to the cuckoldly fool, _mars_ a bully that beat on her anvil. _neptune_ was a tarpawling, and _ph[oe]bus_ by calling, a mountebank, wizard, and harper; jolly _bacchus_ a lad, of the wine-drawing trade, and _mercury_ a pimp and a sharper. _pallas_ was a stale maid, with a grim _gorgon's_ head, whose ugliness made her the chaster, a scold great was _juno_, as i know, or you know, and _jove_ was as great a whore-master. then prithee dear creature, now show thy good nature, this once be my female _mac[oe]nas_; and times yet unknown, my _jenny_ shall own, chast as _pallas_, but fairer than _venus_. _the bonny lass: or, the button'd_ smock. [music] sit you merry gallants, for i can tell you news, of a fashion call'd the button'd smock, the which our wenches use: because that in the city, in troth it is great pity; our gallants hold it much in scorn. they should put down the city: but is not this a bouncing wench, and is not this a bonny; in troth she wears a _holland_ smock, if that she weareth any. a bonny lass in a country town, unto her commendation; she scorns a _holland_ smock, made after the old fashion: but she will have it _holland_ fine, as fine as may be wore; hem'd and stitch'd with _naples_ silk, and button'd down before: but is not, _&c._ our gallants of the city, new fashions do devise; and wear such new found fangle things, which country folk despise: as for the button'd smock, none can hold it in scorn; nor none can think the fashion ill, it is so closely worn: although it may be felt, it's seldom to be seen; it passeth all the fashions yet, that heretofore hath been. but is not, _&c._ our wenches of the city, that gains the silver rare; sometimes they wear a canvass smock, that's torn or worn thread-bare: perhaps a smock of lockrum, that dirty, foul, or black: or else a smock of canvass course, as hard as any sack. but is not, _&c._ but she that wears the _holland_ smock, i commend her still that did it; to wear her under parts so fine, the more 'tis for her credit: for some will have the out-side fine, to make the braver show; but she will have her _holland_ smock that's button'd down below. but is not, _&c._ but if that i should take in hand, her person to commend; i should vouchsafe a long discourse, the which i could not end: for her vertues they are many, her person likewise such; but only in particular, some part of them i'll touch. but is not, _&c._ those fools that still are doing, with none but costly dames; with tediousness of wooing, makes cold their hottest flames: give me the country lass, that trips it o'er the field; and ope's her forest at the first. and is not coy to yield. who when she dons her vesture, she makes the spring her glass; and with her comely gesture, doth all the meadows pass: who knows no other cunning, but when she feels it come; to gripe your back, if you be slack, and thrust your weapon home. 'tis not their boasting humour, their painted looks nor state; nor smells of the perfumer, the creature doth create: shall make me unto these, such slavish service owe; give me the wench that freely takes, and freely doth bestow. who far from all beguiling, doth not her beauty mask; but all the while lye smiling, while you are at your task: who in the midst of pleasure, will beyond active strain; and for your pranks, will con you thanks, and cursey for your pain. _a_ song. _set by mr._ ackeroyd. z----ds madam return me my heart, or by the lord _harry_ i'll make ye; tho' you sleep when i talk of my smart, as i hope to be knighted i'll wake ye; if you rant, why by _jove_, then i'll rant as well as you; there's no body cares for your puffing, you're mistaken in me; nay prithee, prithee, prithee pish, we'll try who's the best at a huffing. but if you will your heart surrender, and confess yourself uncivil; 'tis probable i may grow tender, and recal what i purpos'd of evil, but if you persist in rigour, 'tis a thousand to one but i teeze you; for you'll find so much heat and such vigour, as may trouble you forsooth or please you. _a_ song _in the comedy call'd_ the maid's last prayer: _or_, any thing rather than fail. [music] tho' you make no return to my passion, still, still i presume to adore; 'tis in love but an odd reputation, when faintly repuls'd to give o'er: when you talk of your duty, i gaze at your beauty; nor mind the dull maxim at all, let it reign in _cheapside_, with the citizens bride: it will ne'er be receiv'd, it will ne'er, ne'er, it will ne'er be receiv'd at _white-hall_. what apochryphal tales are you told, by one who wou'd make you believe; that because of _to have_ and _to hold_, you still must be pinn'd to his sleeve: 'twere apparent high-treason, 'gainst love and 'gainst reason, shou'd one such a treasure engross; he who knows not the joys, that attend such a choice, shou'd resign to another that does. _the cruel fair requited, written by_ j. r. _set by mr._ james hart. [music] when wit and beauty meet in one, that acts an amorous part; what nymph its mighty power can shun, or 'scape a wounded heart: those potent, wondrous potent charms, where-e'er they bless a swain; he needs not sleep with empty arms, he needs not sleep with empty arms, nor dread severe disdain. _astrea_ saw the shepherds bleed, regardless of their pain; unmov'd she hear'd their oaten reed, they dance and sung in vain; at length _amintor_ did appear, that miracle of man; he pleas'd her eyes and charm'd her ear, he pleas'd her eyes and charm'd her ear, she lov'd and call'd him pan. but he as tho' design'd by fate, revenger of the harms, which others suffer'd from her hate, rifl'd and left her charms; then nymphs no longer keep in pain, a plain well-meaning heart; lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain, lest you shou'd joyn for such disdain, in poor _astrea's_ smart. _a_ song, _sung at the_ theatre-royal, _in the play call'd_ alphonso _king of_ naples. _set by mr._ eagles. [music] when _sylvia_ was kind, and love play'd in her eyes, we thought it no morning till _sylvia_ did rise; of _sylvia_ the hills and the vallies all rang, for she was the subject of every song. but now, oh how little her glories do move, that us'd to inflame us, with raptures of love; thy rigour, oh _sylvia_, will shorten thy reign, and make our bright goddess a mortal again. love heightens our joys, he's the ease of our care, a spur to the valiant, a crown to the fair; oh seize his soft wings then before 'tis too late, or cruelty quickly will hasten thy fate. 'tis kindness, my _sylvia_, 'tis kindness alone, will add to thy lovers, and strengthen thy throne; in love, as in empire, tyrannical sway, will make loyal subjects forget to obey. _the_ shepherd's _complaint. set by mr._ williams. [music] what, love a crime, inhumane fair? repeal that rash decree, as well may pious anthems bear; the name of blasphemy: 'tis bleeding hearts and weeping eyes, uphold your sexes pride; nor could you longer tyrannize, my fetters laid aside. then from your haughty vision wake, and listen to my moan; tho' you refuse me for my sake, yet pity for your own; for know proud shepherdess you owe, the victim you despise, more to the strictness of my vow, than glories of your eyes. _a_ song _in the_ opera _call'd_ the fairy queen. _sung by mrs._ butler. _set by mr._ h. purcell. [music] when i have often heard young maids complaining, that when men promise most they most deceive; then i thought none of them worthy my gaining. and what they swore i would never believe: but when so humbly one made his addresses, with looks so soft, and with language so kind, i thought it a sin to refuse his caresses, nature o'ercame, and i soon chang'd my mind. should he employ all his arts in deceiving, stretch his invention, and quite crack his brain, i find such charms, such true joys in believing, i'll have the pleasure, let him have the pain: if he proves perjur'd, i shall not be cheated, he may deceive himself, but never me; 'tis what i look for, and shan't be defeated, for i'm as false, and inconstant as he. _a_ song. _the words and tune by mr._ edward keen. _sung by mrs._ willis, _in the play call'd_ the heiress: _or_, the salamanca doctor. [music] _cÆlia's_ bright beauty all others transcend, like lovers sprightly goddess she's flippant and gay; her rival admirers in crouds do attend, to her their devoirs and addresses to pay: pert gaudy coxcombs the fair one adore, grave dons of the law and quere prigs of the gown; close misers who brood o'er their treasure in store, and heroes for plundring of modern renown, but men of plunder can ne'er get her under, and misers all women despise, she baulks the pert fops in the midst of their hopes, and laughs at the grave and precise. next she's caress'd by a musical crew, shrill singing and fidling, beaus warbles o'th' flute, and poets whom poverty still will pursue, that's a just cause for rejecting their suit: impudent fluters the nymph does abhor, and lovers with fiddle at neck she disdains; for these thought to have her for whistling for, they courting with guts shew'd defect in their brains. and to the pretender to make her surrender, by singing no favour she'll show; for she'll not make choice of a shrill capons voice, for a politick reason you know. _a_ song. [music: the king is gone to _oxon_ town, with all his might and main a; the nobles they attending on, with all their gallant train a: the may'r of the town in his furr gown, gave the king such a thing, the like was never seen; _a pair of gloves, i say a pair of gloves_, made of the stags good leather: _a pair of gloves i say, a pair of gloves_, to keep his hands from the weather; nay, some do say they gave him gold, _that's a lye, then said i_, as soon as i heard it told; for why shou'd they go give their gold away, to him that has so much of his own a?] _a_ song _in_ love's a jest. _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mrs._ hudson. [music] mortal's learn your lives to measure, not by length of time, but pleasure; now the hours invite comply, whilst you idly pass they flye: blest whilst a nimble pace they keep, but in torment, in torment when they creep. mortals learn your lives to measure, not by length of time, but pleasure; soon your spring must have a fall, losing youth is losing all; then you'll ask, but none will give, and may linger, but not live. _a_ song, _in the play call'd_ self-conceit: _or_, the mother made a property. _set by mr._ john eccles. _sung by mrs._ bowman. [music] oh! the mighty pow'r of love, what art against such force can move; the harmless swain is ever blest, beneath some silent, shady grove; until some nymph invade his breast, and disapprove his eager love. oh! the mighty power of love, what art against such force can move; the greatest hero who in arms, has gain'd a thousand victories: submits to _cælia's_ brighter charms, and dreads a killing from her eyes. _a_ song, _sung by mrs._ hudson, _in the play call'd_ love triumphant: _or_, nature will prevail. _set by mr._ john eccles. what state of life can be so blest, as love that warms a lover's breast; two souls in one the same desire, to grant the bliss and to require: but if in heaven a hell we find, 'tis all from thee, oh jealousy! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! jealousy, thou tyrant, tyrant jealousy, thou tyrant, jealousy, oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! jealousy, oh! oh! oh! jealousy, thou tyrant of the mind. all other ills tho' sharp they prove, serve to refine and sweeten love; in absence or unkind disdain, sweet hope relieves the lovers pain: but oh! no cure but death we find, to set us free from jealousy, oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! _&c._ false in thy glass all objects are, some set too near, and some too far; thou art the fire of endless night, the fire that burns and gives no light, all torments of the damn'd we find, in only thee, oh jealousy! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! _&c._ _a_ scotch song. _set by mr._ robert cox. [music] when _jockey_ first i saw, my soul was charm'd, to see the bonny lad so blith, so blith and gay; my heart did beat it being alarm'd, that i to _jockey_ nought, nought could say: at last i courage took and passion quite forsook, and told the bonny lad his charms i felt; he then did smile with a pleasing look, and told me _jenny_ in his arms, his arms should melt. _a song. sung by mrs._ temple. _set by mr._ j. clark. [music] i seek no more to shady coverts, _jockey's_ eyn are all my joy; beauty's there i ken, that cannot, must not, shall not, steal away: what wou'd _jockey_ now do to me, surely you're to me unkind; ise ne'er see you, nay you fly me, yet are ne'er from out my mind. tell me why 'tis thus you use me, take me quickly to your arms; where in blisses blithly basking, each may rival others charms: oh but fye, my _jockey_ pray now, what d'ye, do not, let me go; o i vow you will undoe me, what to do i do not know. _a_ song. _set by mr._ phill. hart. [music] tho' i love and she knows it, she cares not, she regards not my passion at all; but to tell me she hates me she spares not, as often as on her i call: 'tis her pleasure to see me in pain, 'tis her pain to grant my desire; then if ever i love her again, may i never, never, never, never, may i never, be free from love's fire. mirtillo. _a_ song. _set by mr._ tho. clark. [music] _mirtillo_, whilst you patch your face, by nature form'd so fair, we know each spot conceals a grace, and wish, and wish to see it bare: but since our wish you've gratifi'd, we find, we find, 'twas rashly made, and that those spots were but to hide, to hide excess of lustre laid: and that those spots were but to hide, to hide excess of lustre laid. _the rambling_ rake. [music] having spent all my coin, upon women and wine, i went to the c----h out of spite; but what the priest said, is quite out of my head, i resolv'd not to edify by't. while he open'd his text, i was plaguily vext, to see such a sly canting crew, of _satan's_ disciples, with p----r books and b----s, enough to have made a man spew. all the women i view'd, both religious and lewd, from the sable top-knots to the scarlets; but a wager i'll lay, that at a full play, the house does not swarm so with harlots. lady _f----_ there sits, almost out of her wits, 'twixt lust and devotion debating; she's as vicious as fair, and has more business there, than to hear mr. _tickle-text's_ prating. madam _l----l_ saw, with her daughters-in-law, whom she offers to sale ev'ry sunday; in the midst of her prayers, she'll negociate affairs, and make assignations for monday. next a lady much fam'd, therefore must not be nam'd, 'cause she'll give you no trouble in teaching; she has a very fine book, but does ne'er in it look, nor regard neither praying nor preaching. there's a _baronet's_ daughter, her own mother taught her, by precept and practical notion; that to wear gaudy cloaths, and to ogle the beaus, was at church two sure signs of devotion. from the corner o' th' square, comes a hopeful young pair, religious as they see occasion; but if patches and paint, be true signs of a saint, we've no reason to doubt their damnation. when the sermon was done, he blest ev'ry one, and they like good christians retir'd; tho' they view'd ev'ry face, each head and each dress, yet each one her self most admir'd. i had view'd all the rest, but the parson had blest, with his benediction the people; so i ran to the crown, least the church should fall down, and beat out my brains with the steeple. _the_ airy _old woman_. [music] you guess by my wither'd face, and eyes no longer shining; that i can't dance with a grace, nor keep my pipes from whining: yet i am still gay and bold, to be otherwise were a folly; methinks my blood is grown cold, i'll warm it then thus and be jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, _&c._ methinks my blood is grown cold, grown cold, grown cold, grown cold, _&c._ i'll warm it then thus and be jolly. i find by the slighting beau's, that nature is declining; yet will i not knit my brows, nor end my days in pining: let other dames fret and scold, as they pass to the stygian ferry; you see, though i am grown old, my temper is youthful and merry, merry, merry, merry, merry, _&c._ you see though i am grown old, grown old, grown old, grown old, _&c._ my temper is youthful and merry. _a_ song _set by mr._ anthony young. [music] i try'd in parks and plays to find, an object to appease my mind; but still in vain it does appear, since fair _hyrtuilia_ is not there: in vain alass i hope for ease, since none but she alone can please. _a_ song; _the words by captain_ danvers, _set by mr._ t. willis. [music] forgive me _cloe_ if i dare your conduct disapprove; the gods have made you wond'rous fair, not to disdain, but love; those nice pernicious forms despise, that cheat you of your bliss; let love instruct you to be wise, whilst youth and beauty is. too late you will repent the time, you lose by your disdain; the slaves you scorn now in your prime, you'll ne'er retrieve again: but when those charms shall once decay, and lovers disappear; despair and envy shall repay, your being now severe. _a_ song _in the_ rival sisters, _set by mr._ henry purcell, _sung by miss_ cross. [music] how happy, how happy is she, how happy, how happy is she, that early, that early her passion begins, and willing, and willing with love to agree, does not stay till she comes to her teens: then, then she's all pure and chast, then, then she's all pure and chast, like angels her smiles to be priz'd; pleasure is seen cherub fac'd, and nature appears, and nature appears undisguis'd. from twenty to thirty, and then set up for a lover in vain; by that time we study how men, may be wrack'd with neglect and disdain: love dwells where we meet with desire, desire which nature has given: she's a fool then that feeling the fire, begins not to warm at eleven. _the three merry travellers, who paid their shot wherever they came, without ever a stiver of money._ [music] there was three travellers, travellers three, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, and they would go travel the _north_ country, _without ever a stiver of money_. they travelled _east_, and they travelled _west_, _with a hey down_, &c. wherever they came still they drank of the best, _without ever_, &c. at length by good fortune they came to an inn, _with a hey down_, &c. and they were as merry as e'er they had been, _without ever_, &c. a jolly young widdow did smiling appear, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, who drest them a banquet of delicate cheer, _without ever a penny of money_. both chicken and sparrow-grass she did provide, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, you're welcome kind gentlemen, welcome she cry'd, _without ever a stiver of money_. they called for liquor, both beer, ale, and wine, _with a hey down_, &c. and every thing that was curious and fine, _without ever_, &c. they drank to their hostess a merry full bowl, _with a hey down_, &c. she pledg'd them in love, like a generous soul, _without ever_, &c. the hostess, her maid, and cousin all three, _with a hey down_, &c. they kist and was merry, as merry cou'd be, _without ever_, &c. full bottles and glasses replenish'd the board, _with a hey down_, &c. no liquors was wanting the house could afford, _without ever_, &c. when they had been merry good part of the day, _with a hey down_, &c. they called their hostess to know what's to pay, _without ever_, &c. there's thirty good shillings, and six pence, she cry'd, _with a hey down_, &c. they told her that she should be soon satisfy'd, _without ever_, &c. the handsomest man of the three up he got; _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, he laid her on her back, and paid her the shot, _without ever a stiver of money_. the middlemost man to her cousin he went, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down derry_, she being handsome, he gave her content, _without ever a stiver of money_. the last man of all he took up with the maid, _with a hey down_, &c. and thus the whole shot it was lovingly paid, _without ever_, &c. the hostess, the cousin, and servant, we find, _with a hey down_, &c. made courtesies, and thank'd them for being so kind, _without ever_, &c. the hostess said, welcome kind gentleman all, _with a hey down_, &c. if you chance to come this way be pleased to call, _without ever_, &c. then taking their leaves they went merrily out, _with a hey down, ho down, lanktre down, derry_, and they're gone for to travel the nation about, _without ever a stiver of money_. _the maids_ conjuring _book_. [music] a young man lately in our town, he went to bed one night; he had no sooner lay'd him down, but was troubled with a sprite: so vigorously the spirit stood, let him do what he can, sure then he said it must be lay'd, by woman, not by man. a handsome maid did undertake, and into bed she leap'd; and to allay the spirits power, full close to him she crep'd: she having such a guardian care, her office to discharge; she open'd wide her conjuring book, and lay'd the leaves at large. her office she did well perform, within a little space; then up she rose, and down he lay, and durst not shew his face; she took her leave, and away she went, when she had done the deed; saying, if't chance to come again, then send for me with speed. _a_ song. [music] all joy to mortals, joy and mirth, eternal _io's_ sing; the gods of love descend to earth, their darts have lost their sting. the youth shall now complain no more, on _sylvia's_ needless scorn; but she shall love if he adore, and melt when he shall burn. the nymph no longer shall be shy, but leave the jilting road; and _daphne_ now no more shall fly, the wounded painted god. but all shall be serene and fair, no sad complaints of love, shall fill the gentle whispering air, no ecchoing sighs, the grove. beneath the shades young _strephon_ lies, of all his wish possess'd; gazing on _sylvia's_ charming eyes, whose soul is there confess'd. all soft and sweet the maid appears, with looks that know no art; and though she yields with trembling fears, she yields with all her heart. _the_ presbyters _gill_. [music] hang the presbyters gill, bring a pint of sack, _will_, more orthodox of the two; though a slender dispute, will strike the elf mute, he's one of the honester crew. in a pint there's small heart, sirrah, bring us a quart, there's substance and vigour met; 'twill hold us in play, some part of the day, but we'll sink him before sun-set. the daring old pottle, does now bid us battle, let's try what his strength can do; keep your ranks, and your files, and for all his wiles, we'll tumble him down stairs too. the stout brested _lombard_, his brains ne'er incumbred, with drinking of gallons three; _trycongius_ was named, and by _cæsar_ famed, who dubbed him knight cap-a-pee. if then honour be in't, why a pox should be stint, our selves of the fulness it bears? h'has less wit than an ape in the blood of a grape, will not plunge himself o'er head and ears. then summon the gallon, a stout foe, and a tall one, and likely to hold us to't; keep but coyn in your purse, the word is disburse, i'll warrant he'll sleep at your foot. see the bold foe appears, may he fall that him fears, keep you but close order, and then, we will give him the rout, be he never so stout, and prepare for his rallying agen. let's drain the whole cellar, pipes, buts, and the dweller, if the wine floats not the faster; _will_, when thou do'st slack us, by warrant from _bacchus_, we will cane thy tun-belly'd master. _the good_ fellow. [music] a pox on the times, let 'em go as they will, tho' the taxes are grown so heavy; our hearts are our own, and shall be so still, drink about, my boys, and be merry: let no man despair, but drive away care, and drown all our sorrow in claret; we'll never repine, so they give us good wine, let 'em take all our dross, we can spare it. we value not chink, unless to buy drink, or purchase us innocent pleasure; when 'tis gone we ne'er fret, so we liquor can get, for mirth of it self is a treasure: no miser can be, so happy as we, tho' compass'd with riches he wallow; day and night he's in fear, and ne'er without care, while nothing disturbs the good fellow. come fill up the glass, and about let it pass, for nature doth vacuums decline! down the spruce formal ass, that's afraid of his face, we'll drink 'till our noses do _ph[oe]bus_ out-shine: while we've plenty of this, we can ne'er do amiss, 'tis an antidote 'gainst our ruin; and the lad that drinks most, with honour may boast, he fears neither death, nor undoing. _the jovial_ prisoner, _by_ s. p. [music] a pox on such fools! let the scoundrels rail, let 'em boast of their liberty; they're no freer than we, for the world's a jayl, and all men prisoners be. the drunkard's confin'd to his claret, the miser to his store; the wit to his muse and a garret, and the cully-cit to his whore. the parson's confin'd to his piggs, the lawyer to hatred and strife; the fidler to's borees and jiggs, and the quack to his glister-pipe. the church-man's confin'd to be civil, the quaker's a prisoner too light; the papist is bound by the devil, and the puritan's fetter'd with spite. since old _adam's_ race are all prisoners like us, let us merrily quaff and sing; z----s why shou'd we pine for liberty thus, when we're each of's as free as a king. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] _phillis_, i can ne'er forgive it, nor i think, shall e're out-live it; thus to treat me so severely, who have always lov'd sincerely. _damon_, you so fondly cherish, whilst poor i, alass! may perish; i that love, which he did never, me you slight, and him you favour. love given over: _being a young lady's reply to her parents, who would have forc'd her to marry one she had an aversion against._ [music] as cupid many ages past, went out to take the air; and on the rosy morning feast, he met _ophelia_ there. a while he gaz'd, a while survey'd her shape and every part; but as his eyes run o'er the maid, hers reach'd his little heart. his quiver straight and bow he took, and bent it for a flight; and then by chance she cast a look, which spoil'd his purpose quite. disarm'd he knew not what to do, nor how to crown his love; at last resolv'd, away he flew, another shape to prove. a lustful satyr straight return'd, in hopes his form wou'd take: for many nymphs for them have burn'd, burn'd 'cause they could not speak. _ophelia_ had no sooner spy'd, his godship, goat and man; but loudly for assistance cry'd, and fleetly homeward ran. perplex'd at her affright, but more at's own defeat, he shook the monster off; then fled before, and straight man's aspect took. he smil'd, intreated, ly'd, and vow'd, nay, offer'd her a sum; and grew importunate and rude, as she drew nearer home. at last when tears, nor ought cou'd move, he thus bespoke the fair; know cruel maid, i'm god of love, and can command despair. yet dame to sue, oh! bless me then, as you regard your ease; for i am king of gods and men, i give and banish peace. or be thou love, or be thou hate, enrag'd _ophelia_ swore; i'll never change my virgin state, nor ever see thee more. exploded love resisted so, in pity to mankind; his arrows broke, and burnt his bow, and left his name behind. _a_ song. [music] lay by your pleading, the law lies a bleeding, burn all your studies down, and throw away your reading; small power the world has, and doth afford us, not half so many privileges as the sword does; it fosters our masters, it plaisters disasters, and makes the servants quickly greater than their masters; it ventures, it enters, it circles, it centres, and sets a prentice free despite of his indenters. this takes up all things, and sets up small things, this masters money, tho' money masters all things. it's not in season, to talk of reason, or count it loyalty, when the sword will have it treason: this conquers a crown too, the cloak and the gown too, this sets up a presbyter, and this doth pull him down too; this subtile deceiver, turn'd bonnet into beaver, down drops a bishop, and up steps a weaver. it's this makes a lay-man, to preach and to pray man, and this made a lord of him, which was before a drayman; for from this dull-pit, of _saxbey's_ pulpit, this brought a holy iron-monger to the pulpit: no gospel can guide it, no law can decide it, no church or state can debate it, 'till the sword hath sanctify'd it; such pitiful things be, happier than kings be, this brought in the heraldry of _thimblesby_ and _slingsby_. down goes the law-trix, for from this matrix, sprang holy _hewson's_ power, and tumbl'd down st. _patrick's_. it batter'd the gun-kirk, so did it the dum-kirk, that he is fled and gone to the devil in _dunkirk_; in _scotland_ this waster, did work such disaster, this brought the money back for which they sold their master: this frighted the _flemming_, and made him so beseeming, that he doth never think of his lost lands redeeming. but he that can tower, over him that is lower, would be counted but a fool to give away his power: take books and rent them, who would invent them, when as the sword replys _negatur argumentur_: the grand college butlers, must vail to the sutlers, there's not a library like to the cutlers; the blood that is spilt, sir, hath gain'd all the guilt, sir, thus have you seen me run the sword up to the hilt, sir. _queen_ dido. [music] when _dido_ was a _carthage_ queen, she lov'd a _trojan_ knight; who sail'd about from coast to coast, of metal brave in fight: as they hunting rid, a shower, did on their heads with fury pour, drove 'em to a lonely cave, where _Æneas_ with his charms, caught fair _dido_ in his arms, and got what he would have. then _dido hymen's_ rites forgot, her love was won in hast; her honour she consider'd not, but in her breast him plac'd; now when their loves were just began, great _jove_ sent down his winged son, to fright _Æneas'_ sleep: make him by the break of day, from queen _dido_ steal away, which caus'd her wail and weep. poor _dido_ wept, but what of that? the gods would have it so; _Æneas_ nothing did amiss, when he was forc'd to go: cease lovers, cease your vows to keep, with your true loves, but let 'em weep, 'tis folly to be true; let this comfort serve your turn, that tho' wretched _dido's_ mourn, you'll daily court anew. _false_ phillis, _set by mr._ james hart. [music] since _phillis_ swears inconstancy, then i'll e'en do so too; i careless am as well as she, she values not her vow. to sigh, to languish, and protest, let feeble fops approve; the women's way i like the best, enjoyment is their love. when i my _phillis_ do embrace, there's none can happier be; but when she's gone, the next fair face, is _phillis_ then to me. i find her absence cools desire, as well as her disdain; when hope denys to feed my fire, despair shall ease my pain. _a_ song. [music] blush not redder than the morning, though the virgins give you warning; sigh not at the chance befel you, though they smile, and dare not tell you; _sigh not at_, &c. maids like turtles, love the cooing, bill and murmur in their wooing; thus like you they start and tremble, and their troubled joys dissemble: _thus like you_, &c. grasp the pleasure while 'tis coming, though your beauty's now a blooming; lest old time our joys should sever, ah! ah! they part, they part for ever: _lest old time_, &c. _the power of_ beauty. [music] in a flowry myrtle _grove_, the solitary scene of love, on beds of vi'lets, all the day, the charming _floriana_ lay; the little _cupids_ hover'd in the air, they peep'd and smil'd, and thought their mother there. _ph[oe]bus_ delay'd his course a while, charm'd with the spell of such a smile, whilst weary _plough-men_ curs'd the stay, of the too _uxorious_ day: the little _cupids_ hover'd in the air, they peep'd and smil'd, and thought their mother there. but thus the _nymph_ began to chide, "that eye, you owe the world beside, you fix on me", then with a frown she sent her drooping lover down; with modest blushes from the _grove_ she fled, painting the evening with unusual red. _the_ hunt. [music] some in the town go betimes to the _downs_, to pursue the fearful hare; some in the dark love to hunt in a _park_, for to chace all the deer that are there: some love to see the faulcon to flee, with a joyful rise against the air; but all my delight is a cunny in the night, when she turns up her silver hair. when she is beset, with a bow, gun, or net, and finding no shelter for to cover her; she falls down flat, or in a tuft does squat, 'till she lets the hunter get over her: with her breast she does butt, and she bubs up her scut, when the bullets fly close by her ear; she strives not to escape, but she mumps like an ape, and she turns up, _&c._ the ferret he goes in, through flaggs thick and thin, whilst mettle pursueth his chace; the cunny she shows play, and in the best of her way, like a cat she does spit in his face: tho' she lies in the dust, she fears not his nest, with her full bound up sir, career; with the strength that she shows, she gapes at the nose, and she turns up, _&c._ the sport is so good, that in town or in wood, in a hedge, or a ditch you may do it; in kitchen or in hall, in a barn or in a stall, or wherever you please you may go to it: so pleasing it is that you can hardly miss, of so rich game in all our shire; for they love so to play, that by night or by day, they will turn up their silver hair. bridal _night. to the foregoing tune._ come from the temple, away to the bed, as the merchant transports home his treasure; be not so coy lady, since we are wed, 'tis no sin to taste of the pleasure: then come let us be blith, merry and free, upon my life all the waiters are gone; and 'tis so, that they know where you go, say not so, for i mean to make bold with my own. what is it to me, if our hands joyned be, if our bodies are still kept asunder: it shall not be said, there goes a married maid, indeed we will have no such wonder: therefore let's embrace, there's none sees thy face, the bride-maids that waited are gone; none can spy how you lye, ne'er deny, but say ay, for i mean to make bold with my own. sweet love do not frown, but pull off thy gown, 'tis a garment unfit for the night; some say that black, hath a relishing smack, i had rather be dealing with white: then be not afraid, for you are not betray'd, since we two are together alone; i invite you this night, to do me right in my delight, for i mean to make bold with my own. then come let us kiss, and tast of our bliss, which brave lords and ladies enjoy'd; if all maids should be of the humour of thee, generations would soon be destroy'd: then where were the joys, the girls and the boys, would'st live in the world all alone; don't destroy, but enjoy, seem not coy for a toy, for indeed i'll make bold with my own. prithee begin, don't delay but unpin, for my humour i cannot prevent it; you are so streight lac'd, and your top-knot so fast, undo it, or i straitway will rent it: or to end all the strife, i'll cut it with a knife, 'tis too long to stay 'till it's undone; let thy wast be unlac'd, and in hast be embrac'd, for i long to make bold with my own. as thou art fair, and sweeter than the air, that dallies on _july's_ brave roses; now let me be to thy garden a key, that the flowers of virgins incloses: and i will not be too rough unto thee, for my nature to mildness is prone; do no less than undress, and unlace all apace, for this night i'll make bold with my own. _a toping_ song. [music] i am a jolly toper, i am a raged soph, known by the pimples in my face, with taking bumpers off, and a toping we will go, we'll go, we'll go, and a toping we will go. come let's sit down together, and take our fill of beer, away with all disputes, for we'll have no wrangling here, and a toping, _&c._ with clouds of tobacco we'll make our noddles clear, we'll be as great as princes, when our heads are full of beer, and a toping, _&c._ with juggs, muggs, and pitchers, and bellarmines of stale, dash'd lightly with a little, a very little ale, and a toping, _&c._ a fig for the _spaniard_, and for the king of _france_, and heaven preserve our juggs, and muggs, and q----n from all mischance, and a toping, _&c._ against the presbyterians, pray give me leave to rail, who ne'er had thirsted for kings blood, had they been drunk with stale, and a toping, _&c._ and against the low-church saints, who slily play their part, who rail at the dissenters, yet love them in their heart, and a toping, _&c._ here's a health to the queen, let's bumpers take in hand, and may prince _g----'s_ roger grow stiff again and stand, and a toping, _&c._ oh how we toss about the never-failing cann, we drink and piss, and piss and drink, and drink to piss again and a toping, _&c._ oh that my belly it were a tun of stall, my cock were turn'd into a tap, to run when i did call, and a toping, _&c._ of all sorts of topers, a soph is far the best, for 'till he can neither go nor stand, by _jove_ he's ne'er at rest, and a toping, _&c._ we fear no wind or weather, when good liquor dwells within, and since a soph does live so well, then who would be a king, and a toping, _&c._ then dead drunk we'll march boys, and reel into our tombs, that jollier sophs (if such their be) may come and take our rooms, sir and a toping may they go, _&c._ _sir_ john johnson's _farewell, by_ jo. hains. [music] all christians that have ears to hear, and hearts inclin'd to pity; some of you all bestow one tear, upon my mournful ditty: in _queen-street_ did an heiress live, whose downfall when i sing; 'twill make the very stones to grieve, god prosper long our king. for her a _scotish_ knight did die, was ever the like seen; i shame to tell place, how, or why, and so god bless the queen: some say indeed she swore a rape, but god knows who was wrong'd; for he that did it did escape, and he did not was hang'd. some say another thing beside, if true? it was a vice; that _campbell_ when she was his bride, did trouble her but thrice: 'twas this the young girls choler mov'd, and in a rage she swore; e'er she'd be a wife but three times lov'd, she'd sooner be a whore. but don't you pity now her case, was forc'd to send for surgeon, to show the man that very place, where once she was a virgin. parents take warning by her fall, when girls are in their teens; to marry them soon, or they will all, know what the business means. for girls like nuts (excuse my rhimes) at bottom growing brown; if you don't gather them betimes, will of themselves fall down: god bless king _william_, and queen _mary_, and plenty and peace advance; and hang up those wish the contrary, and then a fig for _france_. _a_ song, _set by mr._ king. banish my _lydia_ these sad thoughts, why sets thou musing so; to hear the ugly rail at faults, they wou'd, they wou'd, but cannot do: for let the guilt be what it will. so small, so small account they bear; that none yet thought it worth their while, on such, on such to be severe, on such, on such to be severe. with far more reason thou may'st pine, thy self for being fair; for hadst thou but less glorious been, thou of no faults wou'dst hear: so the great light that shines from far, has had its spots set down; while many a little useless star, has not been tax'd with one. _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] love's pow'r in my heart shall find no compliance, i'll stand to my guard, and bid open defiance: to arms i will muster my reason and senses, _ta ra ra ra, ta ra ra ra_, a war now commences. keep, keep a strict watch, and observe ev'ry motion, your care to his cunning exactly proportion; fall on, he gives ground, let him never recover, _victoria! victoria!_ the battle is over. _a_ song. _set by mr._ james hart. [music] honest shepher'd, since you're poor, think of loving me no more, take advice in time, give o're your solicitations: nature does in vain dispense, to your vertue, courage, sense, wealth can only influence, a woman's inclinations. what fond nymph can e'er be kind, to a swain, but rich in mind, if as well she does not find gold within his coffers? gold alone does scorn remove, gold alone incites to love, gold can most perswasive prove, and make the fairest offers. _the_ shepherd's _wooing of fair_ dulcina. [music] as at noon _dulcina_ rested, in her sweet and shady bow'r, came a shepherd and requested, in her lap to sleep an hour; but from her look a wound he took, so deep that for a further boon, the swain he prays, whereto she says, forgo me now, come to me soon. but in vain she did conjure him, for to leave her presence so; having a thousand means to allure him, and but one to let him go: where lips invite, and eyes delight, and cheeks as fresh as rose in _june_, perswades to stay, what boot to say, forgo me now, come to me soon. words whose hoops have now injoyned, him to let _dulcina_ sleep; could a man's love be confined, or a maid her promise keep? no, for her wast he held her fast, as she was constant to her tune; and she speaks, for _cupid's_ sake forgo me, _&c._ he demands what time and leisure, can there be more fit than now; she says men may say their pleasure, yet i of it do not allow: the sun's clear light shineth more bright, quoth he, more fairer than the moon: for her to praise, she loves, she says, forgo me, _&c._ but no promise, nor profession, from his hands could purchase scope; who would sell the sweet possession, of such beauty for a hope; or for the sight of lingring night, forgo the pleasant joys of noon, tho' none so fair, her speeches were, forgo me, _&c._ now at last agreed these lovers, she was fair, and he was young, if you'll believe me i will tell you, true love fixed lasteth long: he said my dear and only phear, bright ph[oe]bus beams out-shin'd the moon; _dulcina_ prays, and to him says, forgo me now, come to me soon. _the second part._ day was spent and night approached, _venus_ fair was lovers friend, she intreated bright _apollo_, that his steeds their race should end: he could not say the goddess nay, but granted love's fair queen her boon; the shepherd came to his fair dame, forgo me now, come to me soon. sweet (he said) as i did promise, i am now return'd again; long delay you know breeds danger, and to lovers breadeth pain: the nymph said then, above all men, still welcome shepherd morn and noon, the shepherd prays, _dulcina_ says, shepherd i doubt thou'rt come too soon. when that bright _aurora_ blushed, came the shepherd to his dear; pretty birds most sweetly warbled, and the noon approached near: yet still away the nymph did say, the shepherd he fell in a swoon; at length she said, be not afraid, forgo me, _&c._ with grief of heart the shepherd hasted up the mountains to his flocks; then he took a reed and piped, eccho sounded thro' the rocks: thus did he play, and wish'd the day, were spent, and night were come e'er noon; the silent night, love's delight, i'll go to fair _dulcina_ soon. beauties darling, fair _dulcina_, like to _venus_ for her love, spent away the day in passion, mourning like the turtle-dove: melodiously, notes low and high, she warbled forth this doleful tune; oh come again sweet shepherd swain, thou can'st not be with us too soon. when as _thetis_ in her place, had receiv'd the prince of light; came in _coridon_ the shepherd, to his love and heart's delight: then _pan_ did play, the wood-nymphs they did skip and dance to hear the tune; _hymen_ did say 'tis holy-day, forgo me now, come to me soon. _the scolding wife._ [music] suppose a man does all he can, to unslave himself from a scolding wife; he can't get out, but hops about, like a marry'd bird in the cage of life: she on mischief bent is ne'er content, which makes the poor man cry out, rigid fate, marriage state, no reprieve but the grave, oh 'tis hard condition. come i'll tell you how this wife to bow, and quickly bring her to her last; your senses please, indulge your ease, but resist no joy and each humour taste, then let her squal, and tear and bawl, and with whining cry her eyes out, take a flask, double flask, whip it up, sip it up, that's your physician. _a_ song. [music] we merry wives of _windsor_, whereof you make your play, and act us on your stages, in _london_ day by day: alass it doth not hurt us, we care not what you do; for all you scoff, we'll sing and laugh, and yet be honest too. alass we are good fellows, we hate dishonesty; we are not like your city dames, in sport of venery: we scorn to punk, or to be drunk, but this we dare to do; to sit and chat, laugh and be fat, but yet be honest too. but should you know we _windsor_ dames, are free from haughty pride: and hate the tricks you wenches have, in _london_ and _bankside_: but we can spend, and money lend, and more than that we'll do, we'll sit and chat, laugh and be fat, and yet be honest too. it grieves us much to see your wants, of things that we have store, in forests wide and parks beside, and other places more: pray do not scorn the _windsor_ horn, that is both fair and new; altho' you scold, we'll sing and laugh, and yet be honest too. and now farewel unto you all, we have no more to say; be sure you imitate us right, in acting of your play: if that you miss, we'll at you hiss, as others us'd to do; and at you scoff, and sing and laugh, and yet be honest too. _the_ battle-royal. [music] a dean and prebendary, had once a new vagary, and were at doubtful strife sir, who led the better life sir, and was the better man: the dean he said that truly, since bluff was so unruly, he'd prove it to his face, sir, that he had the more grace, sir, and so the fight began. when preb. reply'd like thunder, and roar'd out, 'twas no wonder, for gods the dean had three, sir, and more by two than he, sir, since he had got but one; now while these two were raging, and in disputes engaging, the master of the charter, said both had got a tartar, for gods that there were none. for all the books of _moses_, were nothing but supposes, and he deserv'd rebuke, sir, who wrote the pentateuch, sir, 'twas nothing but a sham; and as for father _adam_, with mrs. _eve_ his madam, and what the serpent spoke, sir, was nothing but a joke, sir, and well invented flam. thus in this battle royal, as none would take denial, the dame for which they strove, sir, could neither of them love, sir, for all had giv'n offence; she therefore slily waiting, left all three fools a prating, and being in a fright, sir, religion took her flight, sir, and ne'er was heard on since. _the saint turn'd sinner, or the dissenting parson's text under the_ quaker's _petticoats. to the foregoing tune._ you friends to reformation, give ear to my relation, for i shall now declare, sir, before you are aware, sir, the matter very plain, the matter very plain; a gospel cushion thumper, who dearly lov'd a bumper, and something else beside, sir, if he is not bely'd, sir, this was a holy guide, sir, for the dissenting train. and for to tell you truly, his flesh was so unruly, he could not for his life, sir, pass by the draper's wife, sir, the spirit was so faint, _&c._ this jolly handsome quaker, as he did overtake her, she made his mouth to water, and thought long to be at her, such sin is no great matter, accounted by a saint. says he _my pretty creature_, _your charming handsome feature_, _has set me all on fire_, _you know what i desire_, _there is no harm to love_; quoth she if that's your notion, to preach up such devotion, such hopeful guides as you, sir, will half the world undo, sir, a halter is your due, sir, if you such tricks approve. the parson still more eager, than lustful _turk_ or _neger_, took up her lower garment, and said there was no harm in't, according to the text; for _solomon_ more wiser, than any dull adviser, had many hundred misses, to crown his royal wishes, and why shou'd such as this is, make you so sadly vext. the frighted female quaker, perceiv'd what he would make her, was forc'd to call the watch in, and stop what he was hatching, to spoil the light within, _&c._ they came to her assistance, and she did make resistance, against the priest and devil, the actors of all evil, who were so grand uncivil, to tempt a saint to sin. the parson then confounded, to see himself surrounded, with mob and sturdy watch-men, whose business 'tis to catch men, in lewdness with a punk, _&c._ he made some faint excuses, and all to hide abuses, in taking up the linnen, against the saints opinion, within her soft dominion, alledging he was drunk. but tho' he feigned reeling, they made him pay for feeling, and lugg'd him to a prison, to bring him to his reason, which he had lost before; and thus we see how preachers, that should be gospel-teachers, how they are strangely blinded, and are so fleshly minded, like carnal men inclined, to lye with any whore. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damascene. beauty, like kingdoms not for one, was made to be possest alone; by bounteous nature 'twas design'd, to be the joy of human-kind. so the bright planet of the day, doth unconfin'd his beams display; and generous heat to all dispence, which else would dye without that influence. nor is your mighty empire less, on you depends man's happiness; if you but frown, we cease to be, and only live by your decree. but sure a tyrant cannot rest, nor harbour in so fair a breast; in monsters cruelty we find, an angel's face, must have an angel's mind. _the_ ballad _of the true_ trojan. [music: _troy_ had a breed of brave stout men, yet _greece_ made shift to rout her; cause each man drank as much as ten, and thence grew ten times stouter: tho' _hector_ was a _trojan_ true as ever pist 'gain wall sir, _achilles_ bang'd him black and blue, for he drank more than all sir, for he drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all sir, for he drank more, for he drank more, for he drank more than all sir.] let _bacchus_ be our god of war, we shall fear nothing then boys; we'll drink all dead, and lay 'em to bed, and if they wake not conquered, we'll drink 'em dead again boys: nor were the _grecians_ only fam'd, for drinking and for fighting; for he that drank and wan't asham'd, was ne'er asham'd on's writing. he that will be a souldier then, or wit, must drink good liquor; it makes base cowards fight like men, and roving thoughts fly quicker: let _bacchus_ be both god of war, and god of wit, and then boys, we'll drink and fight, and drink and write, and if the sun set with his light, we'll drink him up again boys. _young_ strephon _and_ phillis. [music] young _strephon_ and _phillis_, they sat on a hill; but the shepherd was wanton, and wou'd not sit still: his head on her bosom, and arms round her wast; he hugg'd her, and kiss'd her, and clasp'd her so fast: 'till playing and jumbling, at last they fell tumbling; and down they got 'em, but oh! they fell soft on the grass at the bottom. as the shepherdess tumbled, the rude wind got in, and blew up her cloaths, and her smock to her chin: the shepherd he saw the bright _venus_, he swore, for he knew her own dove, by the feathers she wore: 'till furious love sallying, at last he fell dallying, and down, down he got him, but oh! oh how sweet, and how soft at the bottom. the shepherdess blushing, to think what she'd done; away from the shepherd, she fain wou'd have run: which _strephon_ perceiving, the wand'rer did seize; and cry'd do be angry, fair nymph if you please: 'tis too late to be cruel, thy frowns my dear jewel, now no more stings have got 'em, for oh! thou'rt all kind, and all soft at the bottom. _the yielding_ lass. [music] there's none so pretty, as my sweet _betty_, she bears away the bell; for sweetness and neatness, and all compleatness, all other girls doth excell. whenever we meet, she'll lovingly greet, me still, with a how d'ye do; well i thank you, quoth i, then she will reply, so am i sir, the better for you. then i ask'd her how, she told me, not now, for walls, and ears, and eyes; nay, she bid me take heed, what ever i did, 'tis good to be merry and wise. i took her by th' hand, she did not withstand, and i gave her a smirking kiss; she gave me another, just like the tother, quoth i, what a comfort is this? this put me in heart, to play o'er my part, that i had intended before; she bid me to hold, and not be too bold, until she had fastned the door. she went to the hatch, to see that the latch, and cranies were all cock-sure; and when she had done, she bid me come on, for now we were both secure. and what we did there, i dare not declare, but think that silence is best; and if you will know, why i kiss'd her, or so, i'll leave you to guess at the rest. _the praise of_ hull _ale_. [music] let's wet the whistle of the muse, that sings the praise of every juice, this house affords for mortal use, _which no body can deny_. here's ale of _hull_, which 'tis well known, kept _king_ and _keyser_ out of town, now in, will never hurt the crown, _which no body_, &c. here's _lambeth_ ale to cool the maw, and beer as spruce as e'er you saw, but mum as good as man can draw, _which no body_, &c. if reins be loose as some mens lives, whereat the purling female grieves, here's stitch-back that will please your wives, _which no body_, &c. here's cyder too, ye little wot, how oft 'twill make ye go to pot, 'tis red-streak all, or it is not, _which no body_, &c. here's scholar that has doft his gown, and donn'd his cloak and come to town, 'till all's up drink his college down, _which no body_, &c. here's _north_-down, which in many a case, pulls all the blood into the face, which blushing is a sign of grace, _which no body_, &c. if belly full of ale doth grow, and women runs in head you know, old _pharoah_ will not let you go, _which no body can deny._ here's that by some bold brandy hight, which _dutch-men_ use in case of fright, will make a coward for to fight, _which no body_, &c. here's _china_ ale surpasseth far, what _munden_ vents at _temple-bar_, 'tis good for lords and ladies ware, _which no body_, &c. here's of _epsom_ will not fox you, more than what's drawn out of cocks of _middleton_, yet cures the pox, _which no body_, &c. for ease of heart, here's that will do't, a liquor you may have to boot, invites you or the devil to't, _which no body_, &c. for bottle ale, though it be windy, whereof i cannot chuse but mind ye, i would not have it left behind ye, _which no body_, &c. take scurvy-grass, or radish ale, 'twill make you like a horse to stale, and cures whatsoever you ail, _which no body_, &c. for country ales, as that of _chess_, or of _darby_ you'll confess, the more you drink, you'll need the less, _which no body_, &c. but one thing must be thought upon, for morning-draught when all is done, a pot of purl for _harrison_, _which no body can deny_. _the_ news _monger. to the same tune._ let's sing as one may say the fate of those that meddle with this and that, and more than comes to their shares do prate, _which no body can deny._ such, who their wine and coffee sip, and let fall words 'twixt cup and lip, to scandal of good fellowship, _which no body_, &c. those clubbers who when met and sate, where every seat is chair of state, as if they only knew what's what, _which no body_, &c. d---- me says one, were i so and so, or as the king, i know what i know, the devil to wood with the _french_ should go, _which no body_, &c. would the king commission grant to me, were _lewis_, _john_ of _gaunt_, i'd beat him, or know why i shant, _which no body_, &c. i'd undertake bring scores to ten, of mine at hours-warning-men, to make _france_ tremble once again, _which no body_, &c. the claret takes, yet e'er he drinks, cries pox o'th' _french-men_, but methinks it must go round to my brother, _which no body_, &c. he's the only citizen of sence, and liberty is his pretence, and has enough of conscience, _which no body_, &c. the bully that next to him sat, with a green livery in his hat, cry'd what a plague would the _french_ be at, _which no body_, &c. z---- had the king without offence, been rul'd by me, you'd seen long since, chastisement for their insolence, _which no body_, &c. they take our ships, do what they please, were ever play'd such pranks as these, as if we were not lord o'th' seas, _which no body_, &c. i told the king on't th' other day, and how th' intrigues o'th' matter lay, but princes will have their own way, _which no body_, &c. the next man that did widen throat, was wight in half pil'd velvet coat, but he, and that not worth a groat, _which no body_, &c. who being planted next the door, (pox on him for a son of whore) inveighs against the embassador, _which no body_, &c. had the king (quoth he) put me upon't, you should have found how i had don't, but now you see what has come on't, _which no body_, &c. quoth he if such an act had stood, that was designed for publick good, 'thad pass'd more than is understood, _which no body_, &c. but now forsooth our strictest laws, are 'gainst the friends o'th' good old cause, and if one hangs, the other draws, _which no body_, &c. but had i but so worthy been, to sit in place that some are in, i better had advis'd therein, _which no body_, &c. i am one that firm doth stand, for manufactures of the land, then cyder takes in, out of hand, _which no body_, &c. this _english_ wine (quoth he) and ale, our fathers drank before the sale of sack on pothecarys stall _which no body_, &c. these outlandish drinks, quoth he, the _french_, and _spanish_ foppery, they tast too much of popery, _which no body_, &c. and having thus their verdicts spent, concerning king and parliament, they scandalize a government, _which no body_, &c. an hierarchy by such a prince, as may be said without offence, none e'er could boast more excellence, _which no body_, &c. god bless the king, the queen and peers, our parliament and overseers, and rid us of such mutineers, _which no body can deny_. _a_ satyr _on the times. to the foregoing tune._ a world that's full of fools and mad-men, of over-glad, and over-sad men, with a few good, but many bad men, _which no body can deny_. so many cheats and close disguises, so many down for one that rises, so many fops for one that wise is, _which no body_, &c. so many women ugly fine, their inside foul, their outside shine, so many preachers few divines, _which no body_, &c. so many of religious sect, who quite do mis-expound the text, about ye know not what perplext, _which no body_, &c. many diseases that do fill ye, many doctors that do kill ye, few physicians that do heal ye, _which no body_, &c. many lawyers that undo ye, but few friends who will stick to ye, and other ills that do pursue ye, _which no body_, &c. so many tradesmen lyars, so many cheated buyers, as even numeration tyers, _which no body_, &c. so many loose ones and high-flying, who live as if there were no dying, heaven and hell, and all defying, _which no body_, &c. so many under scanty fates, who yet do live at lofty rates, and make show of great estates, _which no body_, &c. and if they will not take offence, many great men of little sense, who yet to politicks make pretence, _which no body_, &c. many meriting lower fate, have title, office, and estate, their betters waiting at their gate, _which no body_, &c. the worthless meet with higher advances, as the wise bestower fancies, to the worthy nothing chances, _which no body_, &c. the worthy and the worthless train, modest, silent, nothing gain, impudent begging all obtain, _which no body_, &c. a world wherein is plenteous store, of foppish, rich, ingenious poor, neglected beg from door to door, _which no body_, &c. a world compos'd, 'tis strange to tell, of seeming paradise, yet real hell, yet all agree to lov't too well, _which no body_, &c. where pious, lew'd, the fool, the wise, the one like to the other dies, and leaves a world of vanities, _which no body_, &c. proud and covetous, beaus and bullies, like one o'your musing melanchollies, i cry for their ill's, and laugh at their follies, _which no body can deny_. lucinda _has the devil and all. by mr._ h. hall. [music] _lucinda_ has the de'el and all, the de'el and all, the de'el and all, of that bright thing we beauty call; but if she won't come to my arms, what care i, why, what care i, what, what care i for all her charms? beauty's the sauce to love's high meat, but who minds sauce that must not eat: it is indeed a mighty treasure, but in using lies the pleasure; bullies thus, that only see't, damn all the gold, damn all the gold, all, all the gold in _lombard-street_. _queen_ elizabeth's _farewel_. [music] i'll tell you all, both great and small, i tell you all truly; that we have cause, and very great cause, for to lament and cry, fye, oh! fye, oh! fye, oh! fye! fye on thee cruel death! for thou hast ta'en away from us! our queen _elizabeth_. thou mayst have taken other folks, that better might be mist; and have let our queen alone, who lov'd no popish priest: in peace she rul'd all this land, beholding unto no man, and did the pope of _rome_ withstand, and yet was but a woman. a woman said i? nay, that is more, than any one can tell; so fair she was, so chast she was, that no one knew it well! with that, from _france_ came _monsieur_ o'er, a purpose for to wooe her; yet still she liv'd and dy'd a maid, do what they could unto her. she never acted any ill thing, which made her conscience prick her; nor never would submit to him, that call'd is christ's vicar: but rather chose couragiously, to fight under christ's banner; 'gainst _pope_ and _turk_, and king of _spain_, and all that durst withstand her. but if that i had _argus's_ eyes, they were too few to weep; for our queen _elizabeth_, that now is fall'n asleep: asleep indeed, where she shall rest, until the day of doom: and then she shall rise unto the shame of the great pope of _rome_. _the same in_ latin. _vobis magnis parvis dicam, et sum veredicus; offerri causam maximam, esse in tristibus, væ tibi mors! malum tibi! pro mortem tetricam! tu enim nobis dempsisti, reginam_ elizam. _poteras plures capere, citra injuriam; reginamq; non rapere, anti-sacri-colam:_ _quietè gentem hæc rexit, nulliq; devincta, papamque_ romæ _despexit, et tandem fæmella_. _ah, ah, quid dixi fæmella? de hoc fama silet; adeo fuit casta-bella, ut nemini liquet: en dux_ andinus _adiit, illam petiturus; virgo vixit & obiit, hæc nihilominus_. _nec mali quid hæc effecit, conscientiæ stimulo; nec semet ipsam subjecit, christi-vicario: at maluit magnamimis, sub christi vexellis, pugnare cum_ papâ, turcis, _ac multis aliis_. _sin mihi_ argi _oculi, deessent lachrymæ_; elizabethæ _fletui, nuper demortuæ, de nata hic obdormiet, die novissimo: et tunc expergefaciet, papâ propudio_. _the pressing constable. set by mr._ leveridge. [music] i am a cunning constable, and a bag of warrants i have here, to press sufficient men, and able, at _horn-castle_ to appear: but now-a-days they're grown so cunning, that hearing of this martial strife; they all away from hence are running, _where i miss the man, i'll press the wife._ ho, who's at home? lo, here am i, good-morrow neighbour. welcome, sir; where is your husband? why truly he's gone abroad, a journey far: do you not know when he comes back? see how these cowards fly for life! the king for soldiers must not lack, _if i miss the man, i'll take the wife._ shew me by what authority you do it? pray sir, let me know; it is sufficient for to see, the warrant hangs in bag below: then pull it out, if it be strong, with you i will not stand at strife: my warrant is as broad as long, _if i miss the man, i'll press the wife._ now you have prest me and are gone, please you but let me know your name; that when my husband he comes home, i may declare to him the same: my name is captain _ward_, i say, i ne'er fear'd man in all my life: the king for soldiers must not stay, _missing the man, i'll press the wife._ _the same in_ latin. _astutus constabularius, mandata gero in tergore: cincturos evocaturus_, cornu-castello _affore: at hodiè adeò sapiunt, auditâ lite bellicâ, omnes abhinc profugiunt_, virum supplebit f[oe]mina. _ecquisnam domi en ego salve. sis salvus, domine: ubinam vir est? haud nego, procul abest in itinere: nàm es ignara reditûs? ut fugiunt pro tutamine! non egeat rex militibus_, viros supplebunt f[oe]minæ. _hæc quo guaranto factitas, ambò dicas, domine? sufficiat ut videas, quod pendet abdomine; educas, si vim habeat, tecum nolam certamina, pro ratione, voluntas stat_, virum supplebit f[oe]minæ. _compressâ me, ituro te, si placet, reddas nomina. sic ut reverso conjuge, illi declarem omnia_, ward _ducor capitaneus, sat notus pro magnanime non egeat rex milibus_, viros supplebunt f[oe]minæ. _a_ song. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music] love is a bauble, no man is able, to say, it is this, or 'tis that; an idle passion, of such a fashion, 'tis like i cannot tell what. fair in the cradle, foul in the saddle, always too cold, or too hot; an errant lyar, fed by desire, it is, and yet it is not. love is a fellow, clad all in yellow, the canker-worm of the mind; a privy mischief, and such a sly thief, no man knows where him to find. love is a wonder, 'tis here, and 'tis yonder, 'tis common to all men, we know; a very cheater, ev'ry ones better, then hang him, and let him go. _the same in_ latin. _amor est pegma, merum Ænigma, quid sit nemo detegat: vesana passio, cui nulla ratio, parem natura negat_. _cunis formosus, sellâ c[oe]nosus, calor, aut frigiditas: furens libido, dicta cupido, est, & non est entitas_. _amor amasius, totus silaceus, est eruca animi; deditus malis, ac prædo qualis, non inventus ullibi_. _hic & ubiq; compar utriq; ad stuporem agitat: nullus deterior, quovis superior, in malam rem abeat._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ henry purcell. [music] young _strephon_ he has woo'd me long, and courted me with pipe and song; but i a silly, silly peevish twit, for want of sense, for want of wit, have phoo'd, and cry'd, have pish'd, and fy'd, and play'd the fool, and lost my time, and almost slipp'd, and almost slipp'd, and almost slipp'd my maiden prime. but now i thank my gracious heav'n, i hope my faults are all forgiven; i've struck the bargain, eas'd my pain, and am resolv'd to take my swain: to phoo, and cry, and pish, and fye, and make a virgin's coy pretence, is all, all, all, is all, all, all, is all, all, all, for want of sense. _a_ song. tune, _how happy's the lover_. how happy's that husband who after few years, of railing and brawling, confusion and folly, shall see his lantipley drown'd in her tears, then prithee _alexis_ be jolly, be jolly, then prithee _alexis_ be jolly. _a_ song. _set by mr._ leveridge. [music: fortune is blind and beauty unkind, the devil take 'em both, one is a witch, & tothere's a bitch in neither's faith or troth: there's hazard in hap, deceit in a lap, but no fraud in a brimmer; if truth in the bottom lye, thence to redeem her we'll drain, we'll drain, we'll drain, we'll drain the whole ocean dry.] honour's a toy, for fools a decoy, beset with care and fear; and that (i wuss) kills many a puss, before her clymacht year: but freedom and mirth, create a new birth, while sack's the _aqua vitæ_, that vigour and spirit gives, liquor almighty! whereby the poor mortal lives. let us be blith, in spight of death's syth, and with an heart and half, drink to our friends, and think of no ends, but keep us sound and safe: while healths do go round, no malady's found, the maw-sick in the morning, for want of his wonted strain; is as a warning, to double it over again. let us maintain our traffique with _spain_, and both the _indies_ slight; give us their wines, let them keep their mines, we'll pardon eighty eight: there's more certain wealth secur'd from stealth, in one pipe of canary, than in an unfortunate isle; let us be wary, we do not our selves beguile. _the_ latin _to the foregoing_ song. _sors sine visu, formáq; risu, sint pro dæmone; hæc malefica, ita venefica, fallax utraque; sors mea est fors, sinùsque vecors, sed fraus nulla; tu toto in fundo si veritas sit, potu epoto, oceanus situs fit._ _honor & lusus, stultis illusus, carâ catenatâ, hâcque (ut fatur) catus necatur, morte non paratâ: dum vero græcamur, non renovamur, nam aqua vitæ vinum, vires spiritúsque dat, idque dicunum, a morte nos elevat._ _fam simus læti, spretâ vi lethi, cordatissime: ut combibones (non ut gnathones) saxti-rectique: dum proculæ spument, morbi absument: ac manè corpus onustum, præ alienatione, acuit gustum, pro iteratione_. _prestet quotannis, merks cum_ hispanis, india _sit sola; vinum præbeant, aurum teneant, absit spinola: sunt opes, pro certo, magis à furto, in vini potione, quam terra incognitâ; pro cautione, ne nobis fit subdola._ _the raree-show, from father_ hopkins. [music] from father _hopkins_, whose vein did inspire him, _bays_ sends this raree-show publick to view; prentices, fops and their footmen admire him, thanks patron, painter, and monsieur _grabeau_. each actor on the stage his luck bewailing, finds that his loss is infallibly true; _smith_, _nokes_, and _leigh_ in a feaver with railing, curse poet, painter, and monsieur _grabeau_. _betterton_, _betterton_, thy decorations, and the machines were well written we knew; but all the words were such stuff we want patience, and little better is monsieur _grabeu_. d---- me says _underhill_, i'm out two hundred, hoping that rain-bows and peacocks would do; who thought infallible _tom_ could have blunder'd, a plague upon him and monsieur _grabeu_. _lane_ thou hast no applause for thy capers, tho' all without thee would make a man spew; and a month hence will not pay for the tapers, spite of _jack laureat_ and monsieur _grabeu_. _bays_ thou wouldst have thy skill thought universal, tho' thy dull ear be to musick untrue; then whilst we strive to confute the _rehearsal_, prithee learn thrashing of monsieur _grabeu_. with thy dull prefaces still thou wouldst treat us, striving to make thy dull bauble look fair; so the horn'd herd of the city do cheat us, still most commending the worst of their ware. leave making _opera's_, and writing _lyricks_, 'till thou hast ears and canst alter thy strain; stick to thy talent of bold panegyricks, and still remember the breathing the vein. yet if thou thinkest the town will extol 'em, print thy dull notes, but be thrifty and wise; instead of angels subscrib'd for the volume, take a round shilling, and thank my advice. in imitating thee this may be charming, gleaning from laureats is no shame at all; and let this song be sung the next performing, else ten to one but the prices will fall. _a_ song. [music] abroad as i was walking, i spy'd two maids a wrestling, the one threw the other unto the ground; one maid she let a fart, struck the other to the heart, was not this a grievous wound? this fart it was heard into mr. _bowman's_ yard, with a great and a mighty power; for ought that i can tell, it blew down _bridwell_, and so overcame the _tower_. it blew down _paul's_ steeple, and knock'd down many people, alack was the more the pity; it blew down _leaden-hall_, and the meal-sacks and all, and the meal flew about the city. it blew down the _exchange_, was not this very strange, and the merchants of the city did wound; this maid she like a beast, turn'd her fugo to the _east_, and it roar'd in the air like thunder. _the jolly_ pedlar's _pretty thing_. [music] a pedlar proud as i heard tell, he came into a town: with certain wares he had to sell, which he cry'd up and down: at first of all he did begin, with ribbonds, or laces, points, or pins, gartering, girdling, tape, or filleting, _maids any cunny-skins_. i have of your fine perfumed gloves, and made of the best doe-skin; such as young men do give their loves, when they their favour win: besides he had many a prettier thing _than ribbonds_, &c. i have of your fine necklaces, as ever you did behold; and of your silk handkerchiefs, that are lac'd round with gold: besides he had many a prettier thing _than ribbonds_, &c. good fellow, says one, and smiling sat, your measure does somewhat pinch; beside you measure at that rate, it wants above an inch: and then he shew'd her a prettier thing, _than ribbonds_, &c. the lady was pleas'd with what she had seen, and vow'd and did protest; unless he'd shew it her once again, she never shou'd be at rest: with that he shew'd her his prettier thing _than ribbonds_, &c. with that the pedlar began to huff, and said his measure was good, if that she pleased to try his stuff, and take it whilst it stood: and than he gave her a prettier thing, _than ribbonds_, &c. good fellow said she, when you come again, pray bring good store of your ware; and for new customers do not sing, for i'll take all and to spare: with that she hugg'd his prettier thing _than ribbonds, or laces, points, or pins, gartering, girdling, tape, or filleting, maids any cunny-skins_. _a_ song, _by mr._ escourt, _to a tune of mr._ weldon's. [music] the ordinance a-board, such joys does afford, as no mortal, no mortal, no mortal, no mortal, no mortal e'er more can desire; each member repairs, from the _tower_ to the stairs, and by water, by water, by water, they all go to fire. of each piece that's a-shore, they search from the bore, and to proving, to proving, to proving, to proving, to proving, they go in fair weather; their glasses are large, and whene'er they discharge, there's a boo huzza, a boo huzza, a boo huzza, guns and bumpers go off together. old _vulcan_ for _mars_, fitted tools for his wars, to enable him, enable him, enable him, enable him, enable him to conquer the faster; but had _mars_ ever been upon our _wolwich_ green, to have heard boo, huzza, boo, huzza, boo, huzza, he'd have own'd great _marlborough_ his master. _a_ song. [music] a young man and a maid, _put in all, put in all_, together lately play'd, _put in all_; the young man was in jest, o the maid she did protest: she bid him do his best, _put in all, put in all_. with that her rowling eyes, _put_, &c. turn'd upward to the skies, _put_, &c. my skin is white you see, my smock above my knee, what wou'd you more of me, _put_, &c. i hope my neck and breast, _put_, &c. lie open to your chest, _put in all_, the young man was in heat, the maid did soundly sweat, a little farther get, _put_, &c. according to her will, _put_, &c. this young man try'd his skill, _put in all_; but the proverb plain does tell, that use them ne'er so well, for an inch they'd take an ell, _put_, &c. when they had ended sport, _put_, &c. she found him all too short, _put in all_; for when he'd done his best, the maid she did protest, 'twas nothing but a jest, _put in all, put in all_. _a_ song. _the words by_ jo. hains, _set by mr._ church. [music] i courted and writ, shew'd my love and my wit, and still pretty _flavia_ deny'd; 'twas her virtue i thought, made me prove such a sot, to adore her the more for her pride: 'till i happen'd to sit, by her mask'd in a pit, whilst a crowd of gay beaus held her play; when so wantonly free, was her smart repartee, i was cur'd and went blushing, went blushing away. how lovers mistake, the addresses they make, when they swear to be constant and true; for all the nymphs hold, tho' the sport be still old, that their play-mates must ever be new: each pretty new toy, how they'll long to enjoy, and then for a newer will pine; but when they perceive, others like what they leave, then they cry for their bauble again. perkin _in a_ cole-sack: _or, the_ collier's _buxome wife of st._ james's. [music] come all that are disposed a while, and listen to my story; i shall not you of ought beguile, but plainly lay before ye: how buxome _ruth_ had often strove, with no small pains and labour; her own sufficiency to prove, by many a brawny neighbour. she oft was heard for to complain, but still with little profit; that nature made her charms in vain, unless some good come of it: her booby seldom was at home, and therefore could not please her; which made more welcome guest to come, in charity to ease her. her wishes all were for an heir, tho' _venus_ still refus'd her; which made the pensive sinner swear the goddess had abus'd her: and since her suit she did deny, to shew her good intention; she was resolv'd her self to try an old, but rare invention. abroad by known example taught, to one with child she hasts her; whereby five guineas which she brought, the bargain is made fast, sir: the infant soon as brought to light, (for so they had agreed it) must fall to buxome _ruth_ by right, to save her sinking credit. her petticoats with cushions rear'd, her belly struts before her; her _ben's_ abilitys are prais'd, and he poor fool adores her. her stomach sick, and squeamish grown, she pewkes like breeding woman, while he is proud to make it known, that he has prov'd a true man. nine months compleat, the trusty dame, her pain she finds increases; while _ruth_ affected with the same, makes ugly and wry faces: and now a coach must needs be had, the brat to shake about, sir; but e'er return'd _ben_ was a dad, for _perkin_ had crept out, sir. the good ale firkin strait is tapp'd, and women all are jolly; while no one in her round is 'scap'd, for fear of melancholy: and _ruth_ in bed could in her turn, tho' modest of behaviour; with all her heart a bob have born, had she not fear'd a feaver. thus jovially the time they spend, in merriment and quaffing; whilst each one does the brat commend, as _ben_ did still keep laughing: and now to tell is my intent, how fortune to distaste her; _ruth's_ future boasting did prevent, by one most sad disaster. a search was made at t'other home, by overseers quick sighted; the mother to confession comes, by threats being much affrighted; thus all their mirth at once was cool, fate all their hopes did hamper; so _ben_ lives on the self same fool, tho' _ruth_ was forc'd to scamper. _and if the truth of this you doubt, the overseers can make it out._ _the man of_ honour: _or, the unconstant world turn'd upside down: to the foregoing_ tune. how is the world transform'd of late, in country, court, and city; as if we were decreed by fate, to sing a mournful ditty: about the dismal change of things, there was no sooth in fauner; in the blest reigns of former kings, _when i was a man of honour_. i kept a castle of my own, with land five thousand acres; when old king _harry_ grac'd the throne, before the time of quakers: my doors and gates stood open wide, i lackt no ring nor runner; an ox each day i did provide, _when i was_, &c. my guess all day went in and out, to feast and cheer their senses; could i but bring the year about, i grudg'd not my expences: my talent was to feast the poor, i valu'd no court fauner; of cooks i kept full half a score, _when i was_, &c. when _christmas_ day was drawing near, to cheer and make them merry; i broach'd my humming stout _march_ beer, as brown as the hawthorn berry: of which there was not any lack, i was my self the donor; 'twas fetch'd up in a leathern _jack_, _when i was_, &c. i never lay in trades-mens books, for gaudy silks or sattins; nor did i pay with frowning looks, or broken scraps of _latin_: they had my gold and silver free, i fear'd not any dunner; all men was glad to deal with me, _when i was a man of honour_. i never kept my _hawkes_ and _hounds_, or lew'd and wanton misses; i'd never sell or mortgage towns, to purchase charming kisses: of those that seek their prey by night, each cunning female fauner; my lady was my hearts delight, _when i was_, &c. i never hid my noble head, for any debt contracted; nor from the nation have i fled, for treasons basely acted: nor did i in the least rebel, to make my self a runner: my loyalty was known full well, _when i was_, &c. i never did betray my trust, for bribes more sweet than honey; nor was i false, or so unjust, to sink the nations money: my _lands_ and _livings_ to enlarge, by wronging each good donor: i built not at the nation's charge, _when i was_, &c. we find now in these latter days, some men hath delegated; from truth, and found out greedy ways, this should be regulated: and act henceforth with heart and hand, oppose the sons of _bonner_; i lov'd my king and serv'd my land, _when i was_, &c. for bounty, love and large relief, for noble conversation; for easing the poor widows grief, in times of lamentation: for house of hospitality, i'll challenge any donor; there's few or none that can outvey, _king_ henry's _man of honour_. _a_ song, _set by mr._ frank. fickle bliss, fantastick treasure, love how soon, how soon, how soon thy joys, are past? since we soon must lose the pleasure, oh! 'twere better ne'er to tast: gods! how sweet would be possessing, did not time its charms destroy; or could lovers with the blessing, lose the thoughts of _cupid's_ joy: lose the thoughts, the thoughts, the thoughts of _cupid's_ joy. cruel thoughts, that pain yet please me, ah! no more my rest destroy; shew me still if you would ease me, love's deceits, but not it's joy: gods what kind, yet cruel powers, force my will to rack my mind! ah! too long we wait for flowers, too, too soon, to fade design'd. _a_ song, _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] that scornful _sylvia's_ chains i wear, the groves and streams can tell; those blasted with my sighs appear, these with my tears my tears, o're swell. but sighs and tears bring no redress, and love that sees, that sees me grieve; conspires with _sylvia_ to oppress, the heart he should relieve. the god that should reward my pain, makes _sylvia_ more my foe: as she encreases in disdain, he makes my passion grow: and must i, must i still admire, those eyes that cause my grief? 'tis just, since i my self conspire against my own relief. _a_ song, _set by mr._ robert king. all own the young _sylvia_ is fatally fair; all own the young _sylvia_ is pretty; confess her good nature, and easie soft air, nay more, that's she's wanton and witty. yet all the keen arrows at _damon_ still cast, cou'd never, cou'd never, his quiet destroy, 'till the cunning _coquett_, shot me flying at last; _by a jene say, jene say, quoy_, _by a jene say, jene say, quoy._ so tho' the young _sylvia_ were not very fair, tho' she were but indifferently pretty; much wanting _aurelia's_, or _cælia's_ soft air, but not the dull sence of the city: yet still the dear creature wou'd please without doubt, and give me abundance of joy; since all that is missing is plainly made out, _by a jene say, jene say quoy._ _a_ song, _set by mr._ frank. [music] a swain in despair, cryed women ne'er trust, alass they are all unkind or unjust. a nymph who was by, soon thus did reply; the men we all find more false and unkind. except me he cryed, and me she replyed, then try me said he, i dare not said she: the swain did pursue, each alter'd their mind: she vow'd he was true, he swore she was kind. _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] wo'as me poor lass! what mun i do? gin i did my bonny _sawney_ slight, he now gangs a blither lass to woo, and i alene poor lass ligs ev'ry night. curse on fickleness and pride, by which we silly women are undone: what my _sawney_ begg'd and i deny'd alass! i long to grant, but now he's gone. when he was kind i made a strife, yet i then deny'd with mickle woe; for he su'd as gin, he begg'd for life, and almost dy'd poor lad! when i said no: well i keen'd, he woo'd to wed, yet fear'd to own, i lov'd the canny loon; ah would he have stay'd he might have sped, waa's me! why would my _sawney_ gang so soon. _a_ song. [music] richest gift of lavish nature, matchless darling of my heart; ah! too dear, too charming creature, you on earth a heav'n impart. rapt in pleasure past expressing, i with bliss almost expire; cou'd we still be thus possessing, god's who would your state desire. kindling glances quickning kisses, that like time so soon are past; crowding joys to eager blisses, still renewing may you last: nor by a fantastick fashion, being lawful please the less; but may i indulge my passion, blest in none but her i bless. tom _tinker_. [music] _tom_ tinker's my true love, and i am his dear, and i will go with him his budget to bear; for of all the young men he has the best luck, all the day he will fuddle, at night he will ---- this way, that way, which way you will, i am sure i say nothing that you can take ill. with hammer on kettle he tabbers all day, at night he will tumble on strumil or hay; he calls me his jewel, his delicate duck, and then he will take up my smicket to ---- _this way_, &c. _tom tinker_ i say was a jolly stout lad, he tickled young _nancy_ and made her stark mad; to have a new rubbers with him on the grass, by reason she knew that he had a good ---- _this way_, &c. there was an old woman on crutches she came, to lusty _tom tinker_, _tom tinker_ by name; and tho' she was aged near threescore and five, she kickt up her heels and resolved to ---- _this way_, &c. a beautiful damsel came out of the west, and she was as jolly and brisk as the best; she'd dance and she'd caper as wild as a buck, and told _tom_ the _tinker_, she would have some ---- _this way_, &c. a lady she call'd him her kettle to mend, and she resolved her self to attend; now as he stood stooping and mending the brass, his breeches was torn and down hung his ---- _this way_, &c. something she saw that pleased her well, she call'd in the _tinker_ and gave him a spell; with pig, goose and capon, and good store of suck, that he might be willing to give her some ---- _this way_, &c. he had such a trade that he turn'd me away, yet as i was going he caus'd me to stay; so as towards him i was going to pass, he gave me a slap in the face with his ---- _this way_, &c. i thought in my heart he had struck off my nose, i gave him as good as he brought i suppose; my words they were ready and wonderful blunt, quoth i, i had rather been stobb'd in my ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a butcher a killing a calf, i then stepp'd to him and cryed out half: at his first denial i fell very sick, and he said it was all for a touch of his ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a fencer a going to school, i told him at fencing he was but a fool; he had but three rapiers and they were all blunt, and told him he should no more play at my ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a barber with razor and balls, he fligger'd and told me for all my brave alls; he would have a stroke, and his words they were blunt, i could not deny him the use of my ---- _this way_, &c. i met with a fidler a fidling aloud, he told me he had lost the case of his croud; i being good natur'd as i was wont, told him he should make a case of my ---- _this way, and that way, and which way you can, for the fairest of women will lye with a man._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ king. when on her eyes, when on her eyes, my happy stars i gaze, a strange commotion seizes every part. fain would i speak, fain would i speak, the cause of my disease; but fear to tell the story of my heart. her look severe, her look severe, yet o endearing awes, yet o endearing awes, the women's envy, the women's envy, but mankind's applause, but mankind's applause. _miss_ cuddy. [music] poor _sawney_ had marry'd a wife, and he knew not what to do with her; for she'd eat more barly-bread, then he knew how to give her: we'll all sup together, we'll all sup, _&c._ we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather. we'll all lig together, we'll all lig together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather. we'll put the sheep's-head in the pot, the wool and the horns together; and we will make broth of that, and we'll all sup together, we'll all sup together, we'll all sup together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, we'll all lig together, _&c._ the wool shall thicken the broth, the horns shall serve for bread, by this you may understand, the virtue that's in a sheep's-head: and we'll all sup together, we'll all sup together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, and we'll all lig together, _&c._ some shall lig at the head, and some shall lig at the feet, miss _cuddy_ wou'd lig in the middle, because she'd have all the sheet: we'll all lig together, we'll all lig together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, and we'll all lig together, _&c._ miss _cuddy_ got up in the loft, and _sawney_ wou'd fain have been at her, miss _cuddy_ fell down in her smock, and made the glass windows to clatter: we'll all lig together, we'll all lig together, we'll make no more beds than one, 'till _jove_ sends warmer weather, we'll all lig together, _&c._ the bride she went to bed, the bridegroom followed after, the fidler crepp'd in at the feet, and they all lig'd together, we'll all lig together, _&c._ _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] beneath a cool shade _amaryllis_ was sate, complaining of love and bemoaning her fate; ah! she cry'd, why must maids be so formal and coy, to deny what they think is their only true joy? and custom impose on us so much ado, when our hearts are on fire, and love bids us fall too; and custom impose on us so much ado, when our hearts are on fire, and love bids us fall too. young _strephon_ was near her, and heard the complaint, he easily guest what the damsel did want; he rush'd in upon her, in kisses reply'd, caught her fast in his arms, she faintly deny'd: what they did without study, we soon may divine, 'twas _strephon's_ luck then, the next minute be mine. clarinda's _complaint_. _tune of_ ianthe _the lovely_. with sighing and wishing, and green-sickness diet, with nothing of pleasure, and little of quiet; with a granum's inspection, and doctor's direction, but not the specifick, that suits my complexion: the flower of my age is full blown in my face, yet no man considers, yet no man considers my comfortless case. young women were valued, as i have been told, in the late times of peace, above mountains of gold; but now there is fighting, we are nothing but sliting, few gallants in conjugal matters delighting: 'tis a shame that mankind, should love killing and slaying and mind not supplying the stock that's decaying. unlucky _clarinda_, to love in a season, when _mars_ has forgotten to do _venus_ reason; had i any hand in rule and command, i'd certainly make it a law of the land: that killers of men, to replenish the store, be bound to the wedlock, and made to get more. enacted moreover for better dispatch, that where a good captain meets with an o'ermatch, his honest lieutenant with soldier-like grace, shall relieve him on duty, and serve in his place: thus killers and slayers of able good men, without beat of drum may recruit 'em agen. _a_ ballad _by the late lord_ dorset, _when at sea_. [music] to you fair ladies now at land, we men at sea indite; but first wou'd have you understand, how hard it is to write: the muses now, and _neptune_ too, we must implore to write to you; _with a fa la, la, la, la_, the muses now, _&c._ but tho' the muses should be kind, and fill our empty brain; yet if rough _neptune_ cause the wind, to rouse the _azure_ main: our paper, pens, and ink and we, rowl up and down our ships at sea, _with a fa la_, &c. then if we write not by each post, think not that we're unkind; nor yet conclude that we are lost, by _dutch_, by _french_, or wind, our grief will find a speedier way, the tide shall bring them twice a day, _with a fa la_, &c. the king with wonder and surprize, will think the seas grown bold; for that the tide does higher rise, then e'er it did of old: but let him know that 'tis our tears, sends floods of grief to _white-hall_ stairs, _with a fa la_, &c. shou'd count _thoulouse_ but come to know, our sad and dismal story; the _french_ wou'd scorn so weak a foe, where they can get no glory: for what resistance can they find, from men as left their hearts behind, _with a fa la_, &c. to pass our tedious time away, we throw the merry main; or else at serious _ombra_ play, but why shou'd we in vain, each others ruin thus pursue, we were undone when we left you, _with a fa la_, &c. when any mournful tune you hear, that dyes in e'ery note; as if it sigh'd for each man's care, for being so remote: think then how often love we've made, to you while all those tunes were play'd, _with a fa la._, &c. let wind and weather do its worst, be you to us but kind; let _french-men_ vapour, _dutch-men_ curse, no sorrows we shall find: 'tis then no matter how things go, nor who's our friend, nor who our foe, _with a fa la._, &c. thus having told you all our loves, and likewise all our fears; in hopes this declaration moves, some pity to our tears: let's hear of no inconstancy, we have too much of that at sea, _with a fa, la, la, la, la._ _bonny_ kathern loggy. _a_ scotch song. [music] as i came down the hey land town, there was lasses many, sat in a rank, on either bank, and ene more gay than any; ise leekt about for ene kind face, and ise spy'd _willy scroggy_; ise spir'd of him what was her name, and he caw'd her _kathern loggy_. a sprightly bonny gurl sha was, and made my heart to rise _joe_; sha was so fair sa blith a lass, and love was in her eyes so: ise walkt about like ene possest, and quite forgot poor _moggy_; for nothing now could give me rest, but bonny _kathern loggy_. my pratty _katy_ then quoth i, and many a sigh i gave her; let not a leard for _katy_ die, but take him to great favour: sha laught aloud, and sa did aw, and bad me hemward to ge; and still cry'd out awaw, awaw, fro bonny _kathern loggy_. a fardel farther i would see, and some began to muse me; the lasses they sat wittally, and the lads began to rooze me: the blades with beaus came down she knows, like ring rooks fro _strecy boggy_; and four and twanty _highland_ lads, were following _kathern loggy_. when i did ken this muckle trame, and every ene did know her; i spir'd of _willy_ what they mean, quo he they aw do mow her: there's ne'er a lass in aw _scotland_, from _dundee_ to _strecy boggy_; that has her fort so bravely mann'd, as bonny _kathern loggy_. at first indeed i needs must tell, ise could not well believe it; but when ise saw how fow they fell, ise could not but conceive it. there was ne'er a lad of any note, or any deaf young roguey; but he did lift the welly coat, of bonny _kathern loggy_. had i kenn'd on kittleness, as i came o'er the moore _joe_; ise had n'er ban as ise ha dun, nor e'er out-stankt my seln so: for i was then so stankt with stint, i spurr'd my aw'd nagg _fogey_; and had i kenn'd sha had been a whore, i had ne'er lov'd _kathern loggy_. (_the_ catholick _brother_) _a_ song. [music] dear _catholick_ brother are you come from the wars, so lame of your foots and your face full of scars; to see your poor _shela_ who with great grief was fill'd, for you my dear joy when i think you were kill'd. _with a fa la, la._ o my shoul my dear _shela_, i'm glad you see me, for if i were dead now, i could not see thee; the cuts in my body, and the scars in my face, i got them in fighting for her majesty's grace. but oh my dear _shela_ dost thou now love me, so well as you did, e're i went to the sea; by _cri----_ and st. _pa----_ my dear joy i do, and we shall be married to morrow just now. i'll make a cabin for my dearest to keep off the cold, and i have a guinea of yellow red gold; to make three halfs of it i think will be best, give two to my _shela_ and the tird to the _priest_. old _philemy_ my father was full fourscore years old, and tho' he be dead he'll be glad to be told; that we two are married, my dear spare no cost, but send him some letter, upon the last post. _the triumphs of_ peace, _or the_ widdows _and_ maids _rejoycing_. [music] dear mother i am transported, to think of the boon comrades; they say we shall all be courted, kind widows as well as maids, oh! this will be joyful news: _we'll dress up our houses with holly, we'll broach a tub of humming bub, to treat those that come with a rub a dub dub, for dear mother they'll make us jolly._ dear mother to see them mounted, 'twou'd tickle your heart with joy; by me they all shall be counted, heroical sons of _troy_: the bells in the steeples shall ring, _we'll stick all our houses with holly_, _we'll broach a tub of humming bub_, _to treat those that comes with a rub a dub dub_, _for dear mother they'll make us jolly_. i'll dress me as fine as a lady, against they come into the town; my ribbonds are all bought ready, my furbelow-scarf and gown; to pleasure the warlike boys, _we'll dress up our houses_, &c. they are delicate brisk and brawny, troth neither too lean nor fat; no matter for being tawny, they're never the worse for that; we'll give them a welcome home, _and dress up our houses_, &c. they come from the field of battle, to quarter in ladies arms; 'tis pretty to hear them prattle, and tell of their loud alarms: we'll crown them with garlands gay, _and dress up our houses_, &c. those boys are the pride of _britain_, they love us and so they may; dear mother it is but fitting, we shou'd be as kind as they: the conduits shall run with wine, _we'll dress up our houses_, &c. those battling sons of thunder, now at their returning back; i know they will be for plunder, virginities go to wrack: but let them do what they please, _we'll dress up our houses_, &c. _a_ song. _set and sung by mr._ leveridge _at the_ theatre. [music] fill the glass, fill, fill, fill the glass, let hautboys sound, whilst bright _celinda_, bright _celinda's_ health go round. fill the glass, fill, fill, fill the glass, let hautboys sound, whilst bright _celinda_, bright _celinda's_ health goes round. with eternal beauty blest, ever blooming, ever blooming still be best; drink your glass, drink your glass, drink your glass and think, think, think the rest, drink your glass and think, think, think the rest. _an_ irish song. hub ub, ub, boo; hub ub, ub, boo; dish can't be true, de war dees cease, but der's no peash, i know and find, 'tis sheal'd and sign'd, but won't believe 'tis true, hub, ub, ub, boo, hub ub, ub, boo. _a hone, a hone_, poor _teague's_ undone, i dare not be, a rapparee, i ne'er shall see, _magraw macree_, nor my more dear garone, _a hone, a hone._ awa, awa, i must huzza, 'twill hide my fears, and save my ears, the mob appears, her'sh to _nassau_, dear joy 'tis _usquebaugh_, huzza, huzza, huzza. _the_ bath _teazers: or a comical description of the diversions at_ bath. [music] i'll tell thee _dick_ where i have lately been, _there's rare doings at_ bath, amongst beauties divine, the like was ne'er seen, _there's rare doings at_ bath, and some dismal wits that were eat up with spleen, _there's rare doings at_ bath. _there's rare doings at_ bath. _raffling and fidling, and piping and singing,_ _there's rare doings at_ bath. where all drink the waters to recover health, and some sort of fools there throw off their wealth, and now and then kissing, and that's done by stealth, _there's rare doings_, &c. and now for the crew that pass in the throng, that live by the gut, or the pipe, or the song, and teaze all the gentry as they pass along, _there's rare doings_, &c. first _corbet_ began my lord pray your crown, you'll hear a new boy i've just brought to town, i'm sure he will please you, or else knock me down, _there's rare doings_, &c. besides i can boast of my self and two more, and _leveridge_ the bass, that sweetly will roar, 'till all the whole audience joins in an ancore, _there's rare doings_, &c. next _h----b l----r_ and _b----r_ too, with hautboy, one fidle, and tenor so bleu, and fusty old musick, not one note of new, _there's rare doings_, &c. next _morphew_ the harper with his pigg's face, lye tickling a treble and vamping a bass, and all he can do 'tis but musick's disgrace, _there's rare doings_, &c. then comes the eunuch to teaze them the more, subscribe your two guineas to make up fourscore, i never perform'd at so low rate before, _there's rare doings_, &c. then come the strolers among the rest, and little punch _powel_ so full of his jest, with pray sir, good madam, it's my show is best, _there's rare doings_, &c. thus being tormented, and teaz'd to their souls, they thought the best way to get rid of these fools, the case they referr'd to the master of the r----ls, _there's rare doings_, &c. says his honour, and then he put on a frown, and since you have left it to my thoughts alone, i'll soon have them all whipp'd out of the town, o _rare doings at_ bath, _raffling, and fidling_, &c. _the distress'd_ shepherd, _a_ song. [music] i am a poor shepherd undone, and cannot be cur'd by art; for a nymph as bright as the sun, has stole away my heart: and how to get it again, there's none but she can tell; to cure me of my pain, by saying she loves me well: and alass poor shepherd, alack and a welladay; before i was in love, oh every month was _may_. if to love she cou'd not incline, i told her i'd die in an hour; to die says she 'tis in thine, but to love 'tis not in my power. i askt her the reason why, she could not of me approve; she said 'twas a task too hard, to give any reason for love: _and alass poor shepherd_, &c. she ask'd me of my estate, i told her a flock of sheep; the grass whereon they graze, where she and i might sleep: besides a good ten pound, in old king _harry's_ groats; with hooks and crooks abound, and birds of sundry notes: _and alass poor shepherd_, &c. _a_ song. i love to madness, rave t'enjoy, but heaps of wealth my progress bar; curse on the load that stops my way, my love's more rich and brighter far: were i prest under hills of gold, my furious sighs should make my escape; i'd sigh and blow up all the mould, and throw the oar in _cælia's_ lap. were thou some peasant mean and small, and all the spacious globe were mine; i'd give the world, the sun and all, for one kind brighter glance of thine: this hour let _cælia_ with me live, and gods cou'd i but of you borrow, i'd give what only you can give, for that dear hour, i'd give to morrow. _the loving couple: or the merry_ wedding. [music] a jolly young _grocer_ of _london town_, fell deeply in love with his maid: and often he courted her to lye down, but she told him she was afraid: sometimes he would struggle, but still she would boggle, and never consent to his wicked will; but said he must tarry, until he would marry, and then he should have his fill. but when that he found he could not obtain, the blessing he thus pursu'd; for tho' he had try'd her again and again, she vow'd she would not be leud: at last he submitted, to be so outwitted, as to be catch'd in the nuptial snare; altho' the young hussie, before had been busie, with one that she lov'd more dear. the morning after they marry'd were, the drums and the fiddles came; then oh what a thumping and scraping was there, to please the new marry'd dame: there was fiddle come fiddle, with hey diddle diddle, and all the time that the musick play'd; there was kissing and loving, and heaving and shoving, for fear she should rise a maid. but e'er three months they had marry'd been, a thumping boy popp'd out; ads---- says he you confounded queen, why what have you been about? you're a strumpet cries he, you're a cuckold cries she, and when he found he was thus betray'd; there was fighting and scratching, and rogueing and bitching, because she had prov'd a jade. _a_ song, _tune of chickens and sparrow-grass._ what sayest thou, if one should thrust thee thro'? what sayest thou, if one shou'd plough? i say sir, you may do what you please, i shall scarce stir, tho' you ne'er cease, thro', thro', you may thrust me thro'. such death is a pleasure, when life's a disease. _the precaution'd_ nymph, _set by_ l. ramondon. [music] go, go, go, go falsest of thy sex be gone, leave, leave, oh leave, leave me to my self alone; why wou'd you strive by fond pretence, thus to destroy my innocence. know, _cælia_ you too late betray'd, then thus you did the nymph upbraid; love like a dream usher'd by night, flyes the approach of morning light. go falsest of your sex begone, oh! leave me to my self alone; she that believes man when he swears, or but regards his oaths or pray'rs, may she, fond she, be most accurst, nay more, be subject to his lust. _the life and death of sir_ hugh _of the_ grime. _to the tune of_ chevy-chace. as it befel upon one time, about _mid-summer_ of the year; every man was taxt of his crime, for stealing the good lord bishop's mare. the good lord _screw_ sadled a horse, and rid after the same serime; before he did get over the moss, there was he aware of sir _hugh_ of the _grime_. turn, o turn, thou false traytor, turn and yield thy self unto me; thou hast stol'n the lord bishop's mare, and now thinkest away to flee. no, soft lord _screw_, that may not be, here is a broad sword by my side; and if that thou canst conquer me, the victory will soon be try'd. i ne'er was afraid of a traytor bold, altho' thy name be _hugh_ in the _grime_; i'll make thee repent thy speeches foul, if day and life but give me time. then do thy worst, good lord _screw_, and deal your blows as fast as you can; it will be try'd between me and you, which of us two shall be the best man. thus as they dealt their blows so free, and both so bloody at that time; over the moss ten yeomen they see, come for to take sir _hugh_ in the _grime_. sir _hugh_ set his back again a tree, and then the men compast him round; his mickle sword from his hand did flee, and then they brought sir _hugh_ to the ground. sir _hugh_ of the _grime_ now taken is, and brought back to _garland_ town; then cry'd the good wives all in _garland_ town, sir _hugh_ in the _grime_, thou'st ne'er gang down. the good lord bishop is come to town, and on the bench is set so high; and every man was tax'd to his crime, at length he call'd sir _hugh_ in the _grime_. here am i, thou false bishop, thy humours all to fulfil; i do not think my fact so great, but thou may'st put into thy own will. the quest of jury-men was call'd, the best that was in _garland_ town; eleven of them spoke all in a-breast, sir _hugh_ in the _grime_ thou'st ne'er gang down. then other questry-men was call'd, the best that was in _rumary_; twelve of them spoke all in a-breast, sir _hugh_ in the _grime_ thou'st now guilty. then came down my good lord _boles_, falling down upon his knee; five hundred pieces of gold will i give, to grant sir _hugh_ in the _grime_ to me. peace, peace, my good lord _boles_, and of your speeches set them by; if there be eleven _grimes_ all of a name, then by my own honour they all should dye. then came down my good lady _ward_, falling low upon her knee; five hundred measures of gold i'll give, and grant sir _hugh_ of the _grime_ to me. peace, peace, my good lady _ward_, none of your proffers shall him buy, for if there be twelve _grimes_ all of a name, by my own honour all should dye. sir _hugh_ of the _grime's_ condemn'd to dye, and of his friends he had no lack; fourteen foot he leapt in his ward, his hands bound fast upon his back. then he look'd over his left shoulder, to see whom he could see or 'spye; there was he aware of his father dear, came tearing his hair most pitifully. peace, peace, my father dear, and of your speeches set them by; tho' they have bereav'd me of my life, they cannot bereave me of heaven so high. he look'd over his right shoulder, to see whom he could see or 'spye; there was he aware of his mother dear, came tearing her hair most pitifully. pray have me remember'd to _peggy_ my wife, as she and i walk'd over the moor; she was the cause of the loss of my life, and with the old bishop she play'd the whore. here _johnny armstrong_, take thou my sword; that is made of the metal so fine; and when thou com'st to the border side, remember the death of sir _hugh_ of the _grime_. _the disappointed_ taylor: _or good work done for nothing._ [music] a taylor good lord, in the time of vacation, when cabbage was scarce and when pocket was low, for the sale of good liquor pretended a passion, to one that sold ale in a cuckoldy row: now a louse made him itch, here a scratch, there a stitch, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. one day she came up, when at work in his garret, to tell what he ow'd, that his store he might know; says he it is all very right i declare it, says she then i hope you will pay e'er i go? now a louse, _&c._ says prick-louse my jewel, i love you most dearly, my breast every minute still hotter does grow, i'll only says she for the juice of my barly, and other good drink in my cellar below: now a louse made him itch, here a scratch, there a stitch, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. says he you mistake, 'tis for something that's better, which i dare not name, and you care not to show; says she i'm afraid you are given to flatter, what is it you mean, and pray where does it grow: now a louse, _&c._ says he 'tis a thing that has never a handle, 'tis hid in the dark, and it lies pretty low; says she then i fear that you must have a candle, or else the wrong way you may happen to go: now a louse, _&c._ says he was it darker than ever was charcole, tho' i never was there, yet the way do i know; says she if it be such a terrible dark hole, don't offer to grope out your way to it so: now a louse, _&c._ says he you shall see i will quickly be at it, for this is, oh this is the way that i'll go; says she do not tousle me so for i hate it, i vow by and by you will make me cry oh: so they both went to work, now a kiss, then a jirk, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. the taylor arose when the business was over, says he you will rub out the score e'er you go; says she i shall not pay so dear for a lover, i'm not such a fool i would have you to know: now a louse made him itch, here a scratch, there a stitch, and sing cucumber, cucumber ho. _the penurious_ quaker: _or, the high priz'd_ harlot. [music] _quaker._ my friend thy beauty seemeth good, we righteous have our failings; i'm flesh and blood, methinks i cou'd, wert thou but free from ailings. _harlot._ believe me sir i'm newly broach'd, and never have been in yet; i vow and swear i ne'er was touch'd, by man 'till this day sennight. _quaker._ then prithee friend, now prithee do, nay, let us not defer it; and i'll be kind to thee when thou hast laid the evil spirit. _harlot._ i vow i won't, indeed i shan't, unless i've money first, sir; for if i ever trust a saint, i wish i may be curst, sir. _quaker._ i cannot like the wicked say, i love thee and adore thee, and therefore thou wilt make me pay, so here is six pence for thee. _harlot._ confound you for a stingy whig, do ye think i live by stealing; farewel you puritannick prig, i scorn to take your shilling. _a_ song. _tune of the_ old rigadoon: _lais_ when you lye wrapp'd in charms, in your spouses arms, how can you deny, the youth to try, what is his due. sure you ne'er have been touch'd by man, that you ne'er can, admit the slave. come let him in, and if he does not pay what he owes, ne'er trust the fool again. let another spark supply his place, for a woman should not want; and nature sure ne'er made a man so base, but with asking he would grant: but if all mankind were agreed to spoil your race, by _jove_ my dear they shan't. _the travelling_ tinker, _and the country_ ale-wife: _or, the lucky mending of the leaky_ copper. [music] a comely dame of _islington_, had got a leaky copper; the hole that let the liquor run, was wanting of a stopper: a jolly _tinker_ undertook, and promised her most fairly; with a thump thump thump, and knick knack knock, to do her business rarely. he turn'd the vessel to the ground, says he a good old copper; but well may't leak, for i have found a hole in't that's a whopper: but never doubt a _tinkers_ stroke, altho' he's black and surly, with a thump thump thump, _&c._ he'll do your business purely. the man of mettle open'd wide, his budget's mouth to please her, says he this tool we oft employ'd, about such jobbs as these are: with that the jolly _tinker_ took, a stroke or two most kindly; with a thump thump thump, _&c._ he did her business finely. as soon as crock had done the feat, he cry'd 'tis very hot ho; this thrifty labour makes me sweat, here, gi's a cooling pot ho: says she bestow the other stroke, before you take your farewel; with a thump thump thump, _&c._ and you may drink a barrel. _a_ song. _set by mr._ john abell. i'll press, i'll bless thee charming fair, thou darling of my heart; i'll press, i'll bless thee charming fair, thou darling of my heart: i'll clasp, i'll grasp thee close my dear, and doat on every part. i'll clasp, i'll grasp thee close my dear, and doat on every part! i'll bless thee now thou darling, thou darling of my heart; i'll bless thee now, _&c._ with fond excess of pleasure, i'll make the panting cry, panting cry; then wisely use your treasure, then wisely use your treasure, refusing, still comply. _a_ song. [music] what shall i do, i've lost my heart, 'tis gone, 'tis gone i know not whither; love cut its strings, then lent it wings and both are flown together: fair ladies tell for love's sweet sake, did any of you find it? come, come it lies, in your lips or eyes, tho' you'll not please to mind it. but if't be lost, then farewel frost, i will enquire no more; for ladies they steal hearts away, but only to restore: _for ladies they_, &c. tune, _si votr' epousa_. _chloris_ can you forgive the fault that i have done; _chloris_ can you forgive me when i sue, faith it is true, that had you let me farther gone, i had ruin'd you, and mischiev'd my self too: yet i ne'er should have ventur'd on a maid so chast, had not your eye, shot thro' my soul, and conjur'd all the sense away, that there did lye. _lumps of_ pudding. [music] when i was in the low country, when i was in the low country; what slices of pudding and pieces of bread, my mother gave me when i was in need. my mother she killed a good fat hog, she made such puddings would choak a dog; and i shall ne'er forget 'till i dee, what lumps of pudding my mother gave me. she hung them up upon a pin, the fat run out and the maggots crept in; if you won't believe me you may go and see, what lumps, _&c._ and every day my mother would cry, come stuff your belly girl until you die; 'twou'd make you to laugh if you were to see, what lumps, _&c._ i no sooner at night was got into bed, but she all in kindness would come with speed; she gave me such parcels i thought i should dee, with eating of pudding, _&c._ at last i rambled abroad and then, i met in my frolick an honest man; quoth he my dear _philli_ i'll give unto thee, such pudding you never did see. said i honest man, i thank thee most kind, and as he told me indeed i did find; he gave me a lump which did so agree, one bit was worth all my mother gave me. _the_ quaker's song. [music] walk up to virtue strait, and from all vice retire; turn not on this hand nor on that, to compass thy desire. side not with wicked ones, nor such as are prophane; but side with good and goodly ones, that come from _amsterdam_. arm not thy self with pride, that's not the way to bliss; but arm thy self with holy zeal, and take this loving kiss. _a_ song. [music] _lorenzo_ you amuse the town, and with your charms undo, sir; _laurinda_ can resist a frown, but must not be from you, sir: you make them all resign their hearts, and fix their eyes a gazing; the _porcupine_ has not more darts, from every part amazing. you bill and cooe when you are kind, and happy's the nymph believes you; you are true, but you are not blind, for never a nymph deceives you; tho' she were naught, you'll ne'er be caught, but still have your wits about you; you're a hero, and you have fought, there's ne'er a hector can flout you. you are good, and you are bad, and you can be what you please, sir; you are an honest trusty lad, and i'll wager ne'er had the disease, sir: then here's to you, a glass or two, for farther i dare not venture; and then my dear i bid thee adieu, for i must be now a dissenter. _a_ song. _tune of_ oh! how happy's he. _pag._ . ah! how happy's he, lives from drinking free, can enjoy his humour, paper and his pen; nor ensnar'd with wine, or some whores design, but in harmless sonnets thinking does ever mend; prigs shall never vex him, pox shall ne'er perplex him, if his pocket's full, sits down and counts his joy; if it be not so, takes a tune or two, 'till by wise content, his trouble does destroy. when a monarch reels, he his thoughts conceals, whether whig or _tory_, never does express; with a sober dose of _coffee_ funks his nose, and reading all the news does leave the world to guess: but when his noddle's full, o then he hugs his soul, and homeward flush'd with joy does trudge apace, when on pillow laid, then with mind display'd argues with himself the queen and nation's case. _a_ song. [music] had i but love, i'd quit all treasure, had i but love, i'd envy none above: camp and court, have no such pleasure; camp and court, have both such pretty sport. _wo_. let me alone, let me alone, says the fool, or i'll cry out, sir; _man_. prithee do, prithee do, with all my soul, but you shan't stir. such is love, and such is living, such is love, and such was mighty _jove_: gods and kings, have both been contriving, gods and kings, to catch these pretty things. _wo_. let me go, what d'ye do, pray forbear, alass i cannot bear it; _man_. hold your tongue, hold your tongue, never fear you peevish chit. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. love's passion never knew 'till this, a blissful happiness like mine; with joy now _cælia_ crowns my wish, and _cupid_ both our hearts does joyn: with joy now _cælia_ crowns my wish. and _cupid_ both our hearts does joyn. whene'er our hearts dart fiery beams, fierce as the pangs of our desires; the meeting glances kindle flames more pure than fancyed fires: then _cælia_ let's no pleasure want, to perfect the most happy state; the bliss you fear too soon to grant, you'll rather think enjoyed too late. _a_ song. _set by mr._ abell. [music] _cælia_ be not too complying, ease not soon a lovers pain; love increases by denying, soon we leave what soon we gain. cælia _be not too complying_, &c. if in courtship you're delighting, and wou'd no adorer loose; let your looks be still inviting, but your vertue still refuse. _let your looks be still inviting_, &c. _a_ song. _set by mr._ abell. [music] a little love may prove a pleasure, too great a passion is a pain; when we our flame by reason measure, blest is our fate, and light our chain: who then would long a slave remain? true hearts are like a fairy treasure, talk'd of, but ever sought in vain; a little love may prove a pleasure, too great a passion is a pain. _a_ song. [music] when first i lay'd siege to my _chloris_, when first i lay'd siege to my _chloris_: cannon oaths i brought down, to batter the town, and boom'd her with amorous stories. billet deux like small shot did so ply her, billet deux like small shot did so ply her; and sometimes a song, went whistling along, yet still i was never the nigher. at length she sent word by a trumpet, at length she sent word by a trumpet, that if i lik'd the life, she would be my wife, but she would be no man's strumpet. i told her that _mars_ wou'd ne'er marry, i told her that _mars_ wou'd ne'er marry; i swore by my scars, got in combates and wars, that i'd rather dig stones in a quarry. at length she granted the favour, at length she granted the favour; with the dull curse, for better for worse, and saved the parson the labour. _a_ song. _set by seignor_ baptist. [music] why alas do you now leave me, you who vow'd a love so true; can you hope whilst you deceive me, others will be just to you? oh you know what you forsake, you're pursuing, my undoing, but you know not what you take. is your fit of passion over, will you kill me dear unkind; is your heart then such a rover, as no vows, no oaths can bind: hear at least my last adieu, see me lying, see me dying, and remember 'tis for you. _a_ song. _set by mr._ akeroyde. [music] when beauty such as yours has mov'd desires, a kind return, a kind return, should raise the glowing fires; but tho' you hate me, i am still devoted wholly to your will: not all your frowns can quench my flame, my love is something more than name, and as it ought, will ever, ever be the same. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. [music] see bleeding at your feet there lies, one murder'd by disdain; that heart you wounded with your eyes, is by your rigour slain: expiring now i cannot live, death no delay will brook, unless some pitying word you give, or kind relenting look, or kind relenting look. for then from fate by rapture born, and taken from your arms; the heart thus rescued from your scorn, i'll offer to your charms: love's eager rites, i'll then pursue, and sacrificing dye; altar and beauteous goddess you, and priest, and victim i. _the good fellow's resolve_: _tune_ as _may_ was in her youthful dress. _vol._ . _p._ . now i'm resolv'd to love no more, but sleep by night, and drink by day; your coyness _chloris_ pray give o'er, and turn your tempting eyes away: i'll place no happiness of mine, on fading beauty still to court; and say she's glorious and divine, when there's in drinking better sport. love has no more prerogative, to make me desperate courses take; nor me of _bacchus_ joys deprive, for them i _venus_ will forsake: despise the feeble nets she lays, and scorn the man she can o'ercome; in drinking we see happy days, but in a fruitless passion none. 'tis wine alone that cheers the soul, but love and women make us sad; i'm merry while i court the bowl, whilst he that courts his madam's mad. then fill it up boys to the brim, since in it we refreshment find; come here's a bumper unto him, that courts good wine, not woman-kind. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. [music] when crafty fowlers would surprize, the harmonious lark that soars on high it is by glancing in his eyes, the sun-shine rays which draws him nigh: _it is by_, &c. charm'd with reflections from the glase, he flies with eager hasty speed; ceasing the musick of his lays, into the nets the fowler spread. so when _clemelia_ would obtain, the prey her fancy most desires; she spreads her dress like nets in vain, and all her youthful gay attires. 'till watching opportunity, she throws an amorous charming glance, then to her net the youth does flie, and lies entangled in a trance. _a_ song. _set by dr._ blow. [music] boasting fops who court the fair, for the fame of being lov'd; you who daily prating are of the hearts your charms have mov'd, still be vain in talk and dress, but while shadows you pursue; own that some who boast it less, may be blest as much as you. love and birding are ally'd, baits and nets alike they have; the same arts in both are try'd, the unwary to inslave; if in each you'd happy prove, without noise still watch your way; for in birding and in love, while we talk it flies away. _a_ song. must love, that tyrant of the breast, have all our songs, have all our hours; whilst he alone disturbs our rest, and with his cares our hearts devours, and with his cares our hearts devours: no more let's blame ignoble souls, who doat on arbitrary powers; since cruel love our wills controuls, yet all the world, yet all the world the toy adores. for shame let's break the feeble bonds, and our old liberty regain; love against reason seldom stands, whenever that sways, its power is vain: when man the prize of freedom knows, _cupid_ is easily out-brav'd; the bug-bear only conquers those, who fondly seek to be enslav'd. _the woman's complaint to her neighbour._ [music] good morrow gossip _joan_, where have you been a walking? i have for you at home, a budget full of talking, gossip _joan_. my sparrow's flown away, and will no more come to me; i've broke a glass to day, the price will quite undo me, gossip _joan_. i've lost a _harry_ groat, was left me by my granny; i cannot find it out, i've search'd in every cranny, gossip _joan_. my goose has laid away, i know not what's the reason; my hen has hatch'd to day, a week before the season, gossip _joan_. i've lost my wedding-ring, that was made of silver gilt; i had drink would please a king, and the whorish cat has spill'd it, gossip _joan_. my duck has eat a snail, and is not that a wonder; the horns bud out at tail, and have split her rump asunder, gossip _joan_. my pocket is cut off, that was full of sugar-candy; i cannot stop my cough, without a gill of brandy, gossip _joan_. o i am sick at heart, therefore pray give me some ginger; i cannot sneeze or fart, therefore pray put in finger, gossip _joan_. o pitty, pitty me, or i shall go distracted; i have cry'd 'till i can't see, to think how things are acted, gossip _joan_. let's to the ale-house go, and wash down all my sorrow; my griefs you there shall know, and we'll meet again to morrow, gossip _joan_. _a_ song, _set by mr._ jer. clark. [music] i'm vext to think that _damon_ wooes me, who with sighs and tears pursues me; he still whining and repining, of my rigour does complain: i'd not see him, yet wou'd free him, and my self, my self from pain: i'll enjoy him, and so cloy him, love cures love, more, more than disdain. _a_ song, _by mr._ burkhead. [music] claspt in my dear _melinda's_ arms, soft engaging, oh how she charms; graces more divine, in her person shine, then _venus_ self cou'd ever boast. in the softest moments of love, melting, panting, oh how she moves; come, come, come my dear, now we've nought to fear, mortal sure was never so blest, come, come, come, _&c._ pray don't trifle, my dearest forbear, i shall die with transports i fear; clasp me fast my life, 'twill more pleasure give, both our stocks of love let's joyn, clasp me, _&c._ now our souls are charm'd in bliss, raptures flow from every kiss; words cannot reveal, the fierce joys i feel, 'tis too much to bear and live, words cannot, _&c._ _a_ song, _in the_ play _call'd the ladies fine aires: sung by mr._ pack, _in the figure of a_ bawd. _set by mr._ barrett. [music] how happy are we, who from thinking are free, that curbing disease o'the mind: can indulge every tast, love where we like best, not by dull reputation confin'd. when we're young fit to toy, gay delights we enjoy, and have crowds of new lovers wooing; when we're old and decay'd, we procure for the trade, still in ev'ry age we're doing. if a cully we meet, we spend what we get, e'ery day for the next never think: when we dye where we go, we have no sense to know, for a bawd always dyes in her drink. _a_ song. _set by mr._ forcer. [music] farewel my useless scrip, and poor unheeded flocks; no more you'll round me trip, nor cloath me with your locks: feed by yon purling stream, where _jockey_, where _jockey_ first i knew: i only think, i only think, i only think on him, i cannot, cannot, cannot think on you. farewel each shepherdess, the bonny lads adieu; may each his wish possess, and to that wish be true: your oaten pipes cou'd please, but _jockey_ then was kind; your bonny tunes may cease, the lad has chang'd his mind. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. [music] ere _phillis_ with her looks did kill, my heart resisting, my heart resisting them was ill; now in its wounds it finds a cure, when most they bleed, i least endure. for tho' 'tis death those looks to meet, there's life in dying at her feet; kill _phillis_ then, kill with your eyes, if you let _strephon_ live he dyes. _a_ song. _set by mr._ king. [music] not your eyes _melania_ move me, not your flowring charms or wit; not your daily vows to love me, make my easy soul submit. shape nor dress can never sway me, nor the softest looks betray me; _shape nor face can never sway me,_ _nor the softest looks betray me._ but your mind, my dear, subdues me, where a thousand graces shine; goodness, love, and honour moves me, and my passion's all divine. goodness as a boundless treasure, yields the purest sweetest pleasure. _a_ song. [music] then come kind _damon_, come away, to _cynthia's_ power advance: the _sylvians_ they shall pipe and play, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up the dance: the _sylvians_ they shall pipe and play, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up, and we'll lead up the dance; the _sylvians_ they, _&c._ smile then with a beam divine, we'll be blest if you but shine; happy then our pains and toils, wit only lives when beauty smiles: happy then our pains and toils, wit only lives, wit only lives, when beauty smiles; wit only lives, _&c._ _the soldiers return from the wars, or the maids and widdows rejoycing._ _tune page_ . at the change as i was walking, i heard a discourse of peace; the people all were a talking, that the tedious wars will cease: and if it do prove but true, the maids will run out of their houses, _to see the troopers all come home,_ _and the grenadiers with their drum a drum drum,_ _then the widdows shall all have spouses._ the scarlet colour is fine, sir, all others it doth excel; the trooper has a carbine, sir, that will please the maidens well: and when it is cock'd and prim'd, sir, the maids will run out of their houses, _to see the troopers come come come_, &c. there's _joan_, and _betty_, and _nelly_, and the rest of the female crew; each has an itch in her belly, to play with the scarlet hue: and _marg'ret_ too must be peeping, _to see the troopers_, &c. the landladys are preparing, her maids are shifting their smocks; each swears she'll buy her a fairing, and opens her _christmas-box_: she'll give it all to the red-coats, _when as the troopers_, &c. _jenny_ she lov'd a trooper, and she shew'd her all her gear; _doll_ has turn'd off the cooper, and now for a grenadier: his hand grenadoes they will please her, _when as the troopers_, &c. old musty maids that have money, although no teeth in their heads; may have a bit for their bunny, to pleasure them in their beds: their hearts will turn to the red-coats, _when as the troopers_, &c. the widdows now are a singing, and have thrown their peaks aside; for they have been us'd to stinging, when their garters were unty'd: but the red-coats they will tye 'em, _when as the troopers_, &c. wives and widdows and maidens, i'm sure this news will please ye; if any with maiden-heads laden, the red-coats they will ease ye: then all prepare to be happy, _to see the troopers all come home_, &c. _a_ song. _tune of_ old boree. come _cælia_ come, let's sit and talk a while, about the affairs of loving: let a mutual kiss our cares and fears beguile, far distant from this grove: let's pass our time in mirth away, now we're remov'd from the noisy, noisy court, now we're got out of the stormy sea, into the safer port. _a_ song. _set by mr._ damascene. [music] who can _dorinda's_ beauty view, and not her captive be; _apollo_, _daphne_ did pursue, embraced the maid, though chang'd to a tree: if god's could love at such a rate, poor mortals must adore: _dorinda's_ merit is as great; 'tis just, 'tis just to love her more. _a_ hymn _upon the execution of two_ criminals, _by mr._ ramondon. [music] all you that must take a leap in the dark, pity the fate of _lawson_ and _clark_; cheated by hope, by mercy amus'd, betray'd by the sinful ways we us'd: cropp'd in our prime of strength and youth, who can but weep at so sad a truth; _cropp'd in our prime_, &c. once we thought 'twould never be night, but now alass 'twill never be light; heavenly mercy shine on our souls, death draws near, hark, _sepulchres_ bell toles: nature is stronger in youth than in age, grant us thy spirit lord grief to assuage: courses of evil brought us to this, sinful pleasure, deceitful bliss: we ne'er shou'd have cause so much to repent, could we with our callings have been but content: the snares of wine and women fair, first were the cause that we now despair. you that now view our fatal end, warn'd by our case your carriage mend; soon or late grim death will come, who'd not prepare for a certain doom: span long life with lifeless joys, what's in this world but care and noise. youth, tho' most blest by being so, as vast thy joy, as great thy woe; ev'ry sin that gives delight, will in the end the soul affright: 'tis not thy youth, thy wealth nor strength, can add to life one moments length. god is as merciful as just, cleanse our hearts, since die we must: sweet temptations of worldly joys, makes for our grief, and our peace destroys, think then when man his race has run, death is the prize which he has won. sure there's none so absurd and odd, to think with the fool there is no god; what is't we fear when death we meet, where't not t' account at the judgment-seat: that providence we find each hour, proves a supernatural power; in mercy open thy bright abode, receive our souls tremendous god. _the_ british accountant. [music] you ladies draw near, i can tell you good news, if you please to give ear, or else you may choose; of a _british accountant_ that's frolick and free, who does wondrous feats by the rule of three. _addition_, _division_, and other such rules, i'll leave to be us'd by your scribling fools; this art is improv'd unto such a degree, that he manages all by the rule of three. you dames that are wed who can make it appear, that you lose an estate for want of an heir: this _accountant_ will come without e'er a fee, and warrants a boy by his rule of three. is the widdow distress'd for the loss of her spouse, tho' to have him again she cares not a louse; her wants he supplys whatsoever they be, and all by his art in the rule of three. do you dream in the night and fret at your fate, for want of the man when you happen to wake; you may presently send and satisfy'd be, that he pacifies all by the rule of three. you ladies who are with a husband unblest, and are minded to make him a delicate beast; he'll fix the brow-antlers just where they should be, and all by his art in the rule of three. you lasses at large of the true female race, who are glad of the men who will lye on their face; do but try the bold _britton_, you all will agree, that you never did know such a rule of three. _a_ song. _set by mr._ frank. the night is come that will allow, no longer any coyness now, but every freedom must to love be given; what tho' the shadows of the night, withdraw her beauty from his sight, the youth another way, another way, another way will find his heav'n. see, see the charming nymph is lay'd, never again to rise a maid, the vigorous bridegroom now impatient grown; thrown himself by her side, with eager joy, and amourous pride, ready to seize the prey that's now his own. and now that all have left the place, transporting joys crowd on apace, the nymph contends like one that would not win; entrain'd with pleasure now she lies, the youth has gain'd the noble prize, and now her fears are past, and joys begin. _a_ song. _the words by mr._ escourt. [music] you tell me _dick_ you've lately read that we are beaten in _spain_; but prithee boy hold up thy head, we'll beat 'em twice for it again _with a fal la la la la la la la._ is this the courage you us'd to boast, why thou art quite cast down; you can reflect on what we've lost, but ne'er think what we've won, _with a fal_, &c. what tho' _jack spaniard_ crack and bounce, he ne'er shall do so again; we took last year as many towns, as they have now took men, _with a fal_, &c. in war and gaming it is the same, according to the old saying; who's sure to conquer ev'ry game, quite loses the pleasure of playing: _with a fal_, &c. i think we have a man of our own, a man if i may call him so; for after those great deeds he has done, i may question if he's so or no, _with a fal_, &c. but now if you wou'd know his name, 'tis _johnny marlborough_; the beaten _french_ has felt his fame, and so shall the spaniards too, _with a fal_, &c. and since we cannot justice do, to ev'ry victory; in a full glass our zeal let's show, to our general's family, _with a fal_, &c. for he has eight fair daughters, and each of them is a charmer; there's lady _railton_, _bridgwater_, fine _sunderland_, lady _mount-hermer_, _with a fal_, &c. the other four so charming are, they will with raptures fill ye; there's lady _hochstet_, _schellenburgh_, bright _blenheim_, and lady _ramillie_, _with a fal_, &c. the last were got so fair and strong, as in story ne'er was told; the first four always will be young, and the last will never be old, _with a fal_, &c. at ev'ry feast, e'er we are all deceas'd, and the service begins to be hard; 'tis surely your duty, to toast a young beauty, call'd madamosel _audenard_, _with a fal_, &c. all joy to his grace, for the ninth of his race, she's as fair as most of the former; but where is that he, dare so impudent be, to compare her to lady _mount-hermer_, _with a fal_, &c. and now to make thy hopes more strong, and make you look like a man; remember that all these belong, to the queen of great _britain_, _with a fal_, &c. then prithee _dick_ hold up thy head, altho' we were beaten in _spain_; as sure as scarlet colour is red, we'll beat them twice for it again: _with a fal_, &c. _a_ song. let those youths who freedom prize, far from the conquering _sylvia_ run, never see her killing eyes, or hear her soft enchanting tongue: for such sure destruction waits, on those darts with which she wounds; no shepherd ever can escape, but falls if _sylvia_ does but frown. _damon_ to his cost has prov'd, all resistance is but vain; heaven has form'd her to be lov'd, and made her queen of all the plain: _damon_ when he saw her face, from her beauty would have fled; but the charmer turn'd her voice, and with a song she struck him dead. _a_ song. [music] your melancholy's all a folly, the peace i'm sure is sign'd; the _french_ are for't, so is our court, and the _dutch_ must be inclin'd: what is't to us who's king of _spain_, so we are masters of the main, our fleet must always the trade maintain, if we are not banter'd and bubbl'd. and cheated and banter'd and bubbl'd. we very well know when _marlborough_, did take the towns in _flanders_; 'twas _english-men_, did pay for them, tho' they put in _dutch_ commanders; so that while we were humbling _france_, _hollands_ power we did advance, and made 'em great at our expence, and so we were banter'd, _&c._ we must suppose, the whigs are foes, when treatys they will sign a; to give the _dutch_ so plaguy much, and call it the barrier line a: for how can we great _europe_ sway, or keep the ballance every way, i fear we shall pay for't another day, for we have been banter'd, _&c._ for liberty, and property, 'twas once we us'd to fight; 'gainst popery, and slavery, we did it with our might: but now the taxes make us poor, the emperor may swear and roar, we neither can nor will do more, for we have been banter'd, _&c._ fanaticks then, are now the men, who kingly pow'r divide; their villany to monarchy, 'tis makes 'em _france_ deride: if _hollanders_ wou'd choose a king, as much as now their praises sing, they wou'd curse, and damn, and fling, and cry they were banter'd, _&c._ i swear adsnigs, the canting whigs, have run their knavish race; the church and queen, are flourishing, now they are in disgrace: great _harly_ he has set us right, and _france_ will banish _perkenite_, so we're no more the _holland_ bite, nor will we be banter'd and bubbl'd, and cheated and banter'd and bubbl'd. _the_ mohocks. _a_ song. [music] there's a new set of rakes, entitled mohocks, who infest her majesties subjects; he who meets 'em at night, must be ready for flight, or withstanding he many a drub gets. in their nightly patrole, they up and down rowle, to the bodily fear of the nation; some say they are gentle- men, otherwise simple, and their sense like their reputation. others say that the van's led by noblemen, tho' to forreigners this will but sound ill; but let 'em take care, how they manage th' affair; for a lord may be kill'd by a scoundrel. some count it a plot, and the lord knows what, contriv'd by the whigs out of season; but shou'd it be so, by the _high-church_ or _low_, rebellion was always high treason. fie, curb the disgrace, 'tis imprudent and base, pray take the advice of a stranger; but if you go on, like fools as ye've done, when ye're hang'd ye'll be quite out of danger. tune _of joy to the bridegroom_. my _theodora_ can those eyes, from whence those glories always shine: give light to every soul that prys, and only be obscure to mine: _give light to every soul that prys_, _and only be obscure to mine._ send out one beam t' enrich my soul, that doth in clouds of darkness roul; and chase away this gloomy shade, that in my breast a hell has made: _and chase away this gloomy shade_, _that in my breast a hell has made._ where fire burns, where flame is bright, yet i the comfort want of light: o shine, then shine upon the man, that else in darkness is undone: _o shine, then shine upon the man_, _that else in darkness is undone._ _a_ song _in praise of_ begging: _or, the beggars rivall'd._ [music] tho' begging is an honest trade, which wealthy knaves despise; yet rich men may be beggars made, and we that beg may rise: the greatest kings may be betray'd, and lose their sov'raign power, but he that stoops to ask his bread, but he that stoops to ask his bread, can never fall much lower. what lazy foreigns swarm'd of late, has spoil'd our begging-trade; yet still we live and drink good beer, tho' they our rights invade: some say they for religion fled, but wiser people tell us, they were forc'd abroad to seek their bread, for being too rebellious. let heavy taxes greater grow, to make our army fight; where 'tis not to be had you know, the king must lose his right: let one side laugh, the other mourn, we nothing have to fear; but that great lords will beggars be, to be as great as we are. what tho' we make the world believe, that we are sick or lame; 'tis now a virtue to deceive, our teachers do the same: in trade dissembling is no crime, and we may live to see; that begging in a little time, the only trade will be. tune, _let_ cÆsar _rejoyce_. _alphonzo_, if you sir, your heart have resign'd; take care what you do, sir, for a lover is blind. beware of the snare, that for lovers is laid: beware of the fair, but more treacherous maid: for when tir'd with the joy, of a minutes delight; you'll repent the next morn, what you did over night. _a new_ ballad, _sung at_ messieurs brook _and_ hellier's _club, at the_ temple-_tavern in_ fleet-street. [music] since _tom's_ in the chair, and e'ery one here appears in gay humour and easie; say, why shou'd not i, a new ballad try, bright brethren o'th' bottle to please ye. this wine is my theme, this is all on's esteem, for _brook_ and _hellier_ cannot wrong us; let them get wealth, who keeps us in health, by bringing neat liquors among us, _let them get wealth_, &c. each vintner of late, has got an estate, by brewing and sophistication: with syder and sloes, they've made a damn'd dose, has poisoned one half of the nation: but _hellier_ and _brook_, a method have took, to prove them all scoundrels and noddys; and shew'd us a way which (if we don't stray) will save both our pockets and bodies. this generous juice, brisk blood will produce, and stupid ones raise to the bonny'st: make poets and wits, of you that are cits, and lawyers (if possible) honest: if any are sick, or find themselves weak, with symptoms of gout or the scurvy; this will alone, the doctor must own, _probatum est_ healthy preserve ye. have any here wives, that lead 'em sad lives, for you know what pouting and storming; then drink of this wine, and it will incline, the weakest to vig'rous performing: each spouse will say then, pray go there agen, tho' money for the reck'ning you borrow; nay, for so much bub, here i'll pay your club, so go there agen dear to morrow. tho' one drinks red port, another's not for't, but chuses _vienna_ or white-wine; each takes what suits best, his stomach or tast, yet e'ery one's sure he drinks right wine; thus pledg'd we all sit, and thus we are knit, in friendship together the longer; as musick in parts, enlivens our hearts, and renders the harmony stronger. now god bless the queen, peers, parliament men, and keep 'em like us in true concord; and grant that all those, who dare be her foes, at _tyburn_ may swing in a strong cord; we'll loyalists be, and bravely agree, with lives and estates to defend her; so then she'll not care, come peace or come war, for _lewis_, the _pope_, or _pretender_. _the_ london prentice. [music] a worthy _london_ prentice, came to his love by night; the candles were lighted, the moon did shine so bright: he knocked at the door, to ease him of his pain; she rose and let him in love, and went to bed again. he went into the chamber, where his true love did lye; she quickly gave consent, for to have his company: she quickly gave consent, the neighbours peeping out; so take away your hand, love let's blow the candle out. i would not for a crown love, my mistress should it know; i'll in my smock step down love, and i'll out the candle blow; the streets they are so nigh, and the people walk about; some may peep in and spy love, let's blow the candle out. my master and my mistress, upon the bed do lye; injoying one another, why should not you and i: my master kiss'd my mistress, without any fear or doubt; and we'll kiss one another, let's blow the candle out. i prithee speak more softly, of what we have to do; least that our noise of talking, should make our pleasure rue: for kissing one another, will make no evil rout; then let us now be silent, and blow the candle out. but yet he must be doing, he could no longer stay; she strove to blow the candle out, and push'd his hand away: the young man was so hasty, to lay his arms about; but she cryed i pray love, let's blow the candle out. as this young couple sported, the maiden she did blow; but how the candle went out, alas i do not know: said she i fear not now, sir, my master nor my dame; and what this couple did, sir, alas i dare not name. _a_ song _out of the_ guardian. [music] oh the charming month of _may_, when the breezes fan the trees, is full of blossoms fresh and gay, full of blossoms fresh and gay: oh the charming month of _may_, charming, charming month of _may_. oh what joys our prospect yields, in a new livery when we see every, bush and meadow, tree and field, _&c._ oh what joys, _&c._ charming joys, _&c._ oh how fresh the morning air, when the zephirs and the hephirs, their odoriferous breaths compare, oh how fresh, _&c._ charming fresh, _&c._ oh how fine our evenings walk, when the nightingale delighting, with her songs suspends our talk, oh how fine, _&c._ charming fine, _&c._ oh how sweet at night to dream, on mossy pillows by the trillows, of a gentle purling stream, oh how sweet, _&c._ charming sweet, _&c._ oh how kind the country lass, who her cows bilking, leaves her milking, for a green gown upon the grass, oh how kind, _&c._ charming kind, _&c._ oh how sweet it is to spy, at the conclusion, her deep confusion, blushing cheeks and down cast eye, oh how sweet, _&c._ charming sweet, _&c._ oh the charming curds and cream, when all is over she gives her lover, who on her skimming-dish carves her name, oh the charming curds and cream, charming, charming curds and cream. tune, _hopes farewel_. fates i defie, i defie your advances, since _cælia_ has crown'd my true love with a smile; i'll laugh at your darts, your arrows and lances, since her bosom abounds, with the pleasures of nile. you shall never, me from her sever, since that my _cælia_ has thrown by her scorn: then forbear, to come so near, for i from _cælia_ can never be torn. _the country_ farmer's _campaign_: _by the author of_ banter'd and bubbl'd, _&c._ [music] oh _roger_ i've been to see _eugene_, by _villars_ over-reach'd; and that _dutch_ earl, great _albermarle_, so foolishly detach'd: for _phil_ of _spain_, saw _doway_ tain, and _quesnoy_ close beset; saw _frenchmen_ grin, at count _rechstrin_, and _dutchmen_ in a sweat. with both my eyes _auxiliaries_, i saw desert our cause; old _zinzendorf_ did buy 'em off, but never stopp'd their maws: whilst ormond he most orderly, did march them towards _ghent_; the _german_ dogs, with great _dutch_ hogs, their towns against him pent. were not we mad to spend our blood, and weighty treasure so; do they deserve, that we should serve, adad we'll make them know: they'll be afraid, of peace and trade, and downfal of the whigs; our glorious ann, with _france_ and _spain_, will dance then many a jigg. if they have a mind, 'fore peace be sign'd, to own great anna's power; such terms she'll get, as she thinks fit, and they shall have no more: great _oxford's_ earl, that weighty pearl, and minister of state: with _bollingbrook_, i swear adzooks, old _england_ will be great. we farmers then, shall be fine men, and money have good store; their whigish tax they'll have with a pox, when monarchy's no more: my son i'm sure, will ne'er endure, to pay their plaguy funds; 'tis with reproach, they ride in coach, it makes me mad ads-- for twenty years, with popish fears, we have been banter'd much; with liberty, and property, and our very good friends the _dutch_: but now i hope, our eyes are ope, and _france_ is more sincere; then _emperor_ with all his stir, _or dounders divil myn heir._ strawbery. [music] of all the handsome ladies, of whom the town do talk; who do frequent the _opera's_, and in the park do walk: the many lovely beauties, there are who do excel; yet my _strawbery_, my _strawbery_, does bear away the bell. some cry up madam _mar----_ for this thing and for that; and some her grace of _sh----_ tho' she grows something fat: and tho' i love her _ma----_ and all her ladies well, yet my _strawbery_, &c. the kit cat and the toasters, did never care a fig; for any other beauty, besides the little whig: but for all that sir _harry_, that witty knight can tell, 'tis my _strawbery_, &c. the red coats think the _ch----ls_, the fairest in the land; because the d. their father, the ar----y does command: but the noble d. of _b----_ who does all dukes excel, says my _strawbery_, &c. tune, _now the fight's done_. now, now the night's come, and the great god of love lyes lurking in shades, his bright arrows to prove: he laughs at our rest, and he darts at our hearts; and a will that won't still, to each lover imparts. he smiles when he feels the sharp point of his dart; and tho' our breast's steel, yet he drives to the heart. whilst we court and we play, he makes a full pass; and ne'er does delay, 'till we're link'd on the grass. _the_ scotch _wedding: or, lass with the golden hair._ [music] now _jockey_ and _moggy_ are ready, to gang to the kirk to sped; as fine as a laird or lady, for they are resolv'd to wed: come aw let's awa to the wedding, for there will be lilting there; _jockey'll_ be married to _moggy_, the lass with the golden hair, and for a whole month together, brisk _jockey_ a wooing went; 'till _moggy's_ mother and vather, at last gave their consent, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be long keel and pottage, and bannarks of barly meal; and ther'll be good sawt herring, to relish a cogue of good ale, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be _sawney_ the soater, and _will_ with muckle mow; and there'll be _tommy_ the blutter, and _andrew_ the tinker i trow, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be bow-legg'd _bobby_, and thumbless _kate's_ geud man; and there'll be blue cheek'd _dolly_, and _luwry_ the laird of the land, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be low lipper _betty_, and pluggy fac'd _wat_ of the mill; and there'll be farnicled _huggy_, that wins at the ho of the hill, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be _annester dowgale_, that splay footed _betty_ did wooe; and mincing _bessey_ and _tibely_, and _chrisly_, the belly gut sow, _come aw let's_, &c. and _craney_ that marry'd _steney_, that lost him his brick till his arse; and after was hang'd for stealing, it's well that it happen'd no worse, _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be hopper-ars'd _nancy_, and _sarey_ fac'd _jenny_ by name; glud _kate_ and fat legg'd _lissey_, the lass with the codling wem. _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be _jenny_ go gibby, and his glack'd wife _jenny bell_; and messed skin blosen _jordy_, the lad that went scipper himsel. _come aw let's_, &c. there'll be all the lads and lasses, set down in the middle of the hall; to sybouse, and rastack, and carlings, they are both sodden and raw. _come aw let's_, &c. there'll be tart perry and catham, and fish of geud gabback and skate; prosody, and dramuck and brandy, and collard, neats-feet in a plate. _come aw let's_, &c. and there'll be meal, kell and castocks, and skink to sup 'till you rive; and roaches to roast on the gridiron, and flukes that were tane alive, _come aw let's_, &c. cropt head wilks and pangles, and a meal of good sweting to ney; and when you're all burst with eating, we'll rise up and dance 'till we dey: _come aw let's awaw to the wedding, for there will be lilting there;_ jockey'll _be marry'd to_ moggy, _the lass with the golden hair._ _the mistresses: a_ song _set by mr._ james townsend, _the words by mr._ rolfe. [music] _lavia_ would, but dare not venture, fear so much o'er-rules her passion; _chloe_ suffers all to enter, subjects fame to inclination: neither's method i admire, either is in love displeasing; _chloe's_ fondness gluts desire _lavia's_ cowardise is teazing. _cælia_ by a wiser measure, in one faithful swains embraces; pays a private debt to pleasure, yet for chast in publick passes: fair ones follow _cælia's_ notion, free from fear and censure wholly; love, but let it be with caution, for extreams are shame or folly. _a_ song. _set by an eminent master._ when embracing my friends, and quaffing champain; dull phlegmatick spleen, thou assault'st me in vain; dull phlegmatick spleen, thou assault'st me in vain: my pleasures flow pure, without taint or allay; and each glass that i drink, inspires with new joy. my pleasures thus heighten'd, no improvement receive; but what the dear sight of my _phillis_ can give: the charms of her eyes, the force of my wine, do then in harmonious confed'racy joyn: to wrap me with joys, to wrap me with joys, seraphick, seraphick, and divine. _a_ tenement _to let_. [music] i have a tenement to let, i hope will please you all, and if you'd know the name of it, 'tis called _cunny hall_. it's seated in a pleasant vale, beneath a rising hill; this tenement is to be let, to whosoe'er i will. for years, for months, for weeks or days, i'll let this famous bow'r; nay rather than a tennant want, i'd let it for an hour. there's round about a pleasant grove, to shade it from the sun; and underneath is well water that pleasantly does run. where if you're hot you may be cool'd, if cold you may find heat; it is a well contrived spring, not little nor too great. the place is very dark by night, and so it is by day; but when you once are enter'd in, you cannot lose your way. and when you're in, go boldly on, as far as e'er you can; and if you reach to the house top, you'll be where ne'er was man. tune, _draw_ cupid _draw_. here, _chloe_ hear, and do not turn away, from my desire, but quench my fire. and my love's flames allay: and let my song go along, unto compassion move; and make you kind, and bend your mind, and melt you into love. if _chloe_ loves, and constant proves, oh! happy, happy then am i; but if that she unconstant be, and do's delight to rove: as sure as gun, i am undone, and shan't have power to move. _fashionable_ shepherdess, _set by mr._ ramondon. [music] at the break of morning light, when the marbled sky look gay; nature self all perfect bright, smil'd to see the god of day: charming prospect, verdant trees, azure hill, enamell'd sky; birds with warbling throats to please, striving each which shall outvey. _lisbea_ then with wond'rous hast, o'er a green sword plain she flew; thus my angel as she past, the eyes of ev'ry shepherd drew: when they had the nymph espyed, all amazed cry'd there she goes; thus by blooming beauty tryed, thought a second sun arose. ev'ry swain the sun mistook. dazled by refulgent charms; and with joy their flocks forsook, for to follow love's alarms: all 'till now were perfect friends, bound by innocence and truth; 'till sly love to gain his ends, made a difference 'twixt each youth. each expected which should be, made the happy man by love; while for want of liberty, none could truly happy prove: but at length they all arriv'd, to a charming easie grove; where the nymph had well contriv'd, to be happy with her love. there in amorous folding twin'd, _strephon_ with his _lisbea_ lay; both to mutual joys enclin'd, let their inclinations stray: as the curling vines embracing, fondly of the oak around; so the blooming nymphs caressing, of her swain with pleasure crown'd. how surpriz'd were ev'ry swain, when they found the nymph engaged; disappointment heighten'd pain, 'till it made them more enraged: arm your self with resolution, cry'd the most revengeful he; we'll contrive her swains confusion, let him fall as much as we. several punishments they invented, for to torture helpless he; all revengeful, ne'er contented, cruel to a vast degree: one more envious in the rear, thus his sentiments let slip; make him like the cavalier, and for the _opera_ him equip. _a_ scotch song _in the play call'd_ love at first sight: _set by the late mr._ jer. clark. [music] the rosey morn lukes blith and gay, the lads and lasses on the plain; her bonny, bonny sports pass o'er the day, and leave poor _jenny_ tol complain: my _sawndy's_ grown a faithless loon, and given, given _moggy_ that wild heart; which eance he swore was aw my own, but now weese me i've scarce a part. gang thy gate then perjur'd _sawndy_, ise nea mere will mon believe; wou'd ise nere had trusted any, they faw thieves will aw deceive: but gin ere ise get mere lovers, ise dissemble as they do; for since lads are grown like rovers, pray why may na lasses too. _the_ restauration: _or the_ coventry song. . [music] the restauration now's the word, a blessed revolution; that has secur'd the church, the crown, and _england's_ constitution: may ev'ry loyal soul rejoice, may whigs and canters mourn, sir; who ever thought that _coventry_, shou'd make a due return, sir. we rally'd the church-militant, and fell to work ding-dong, sir; _craven_ and _gery_ are the names, that do adorn our song, sir: _beaufort_, _ormond_, _rochester_, and more than we can tell, sir; are themes that well deserve the pen, of brave _sacheverell_, sir. the glorious sons of _warwickshire_, may justly be commended; there's ne'er a member now elect, that ever has offended: _denbigh_ and _craven_ we esteem, a loyal noble pair, sir; and hope to see our worthy friend, great _bromly_ in the chair, sir. _a_ song. such an happy, happy life, ne'er had any other wife; as the loose _corinna_ knows, between her spark, her spark and spouse: the husband lies and winks his eyes, the valiant makes addresses, the wanton lady soon complies, with tenderest caresses. the wife is pleas'd, the husband eas'd, the lover made a drudge, his body's drain'd, his pocket's squeez'd; and who'll his pleasure grudge, _such an happy_, &c. _corinna's_ gay, as flow'rs in _may_, and struts with slanting ayre; the lovers for her pride doth pay, the cuckold's free from care, _such an happy_, &c. collin's _complaint_. [music] despairing besides a clear stream, a shepherd forsaken was laid; and whilst a false nymph was his theme, a willow supported his head: the winds that blew over the plain, to his sighs with a sigh did reply; and the brook in return of his pain, ran mournfully murmuring by. alas silly swain that i was, thus sadly complaining he cry'd; when first i beheld that fair face, 'twere better by far i had dy'd: she talk'd, and i blest the dear tongue, when she smil'd 'twas a pleasure too great; i listned, and cry'd when she sung, was nightingale ever so sweet. how foolish was i to believe, she cou'd doat on so lowly a clown; or that a fond heart wou'd not grieve, to forsake the fine folk of the town: to think that a beauty so gay, so kind and so constant wou'd prove; or go clad like our maidens in gray, or live in a cottage on love. what tho' i have skill to complain, tho' the muses my temples have crown'd; what tho' when they hear my soft strains, the virgins sit weeping around: ah _collin_ thy hopes are in vain, thy pipe and thy lawrel resign; thy false one inclines to a swain, whose musick is sweeter than thine. and you my companions so dear, who sorrow to see me betray'd; whatever i suffer forbear, forbear to accuse my false maid, tho' thro' the wide world we shou'd range, 'tis in vain from our fortunes to fly; 'twas hers to be false and to change, 'tis mine to be constant and die. if whilst my hard fate i sustain, in her breast any pity is found; let her come with the nymphs of the plain, and see me laid low in the ground; the last humble boon that i crave, is to shade me with _cypress_ and _yew_; and when she looks down on my grave, let her own that her shepherd was true. then to her new love let her go, and deck her in golden array; be finest at every fine show, and frolick it all the long day: whilst _collin_ forgotten and gone, no more shall be talk'd of or seen; unless that beneath the pale moon, his ghost shall glide over the green. _the constant_ warrior: _set by mr._ ramondon. farewel _chloe_, o farewel, i'll repair to wars alarms; and in foreign nations tell, of your cruelty and charms: come ye briny billows rowl, and convey me from my soul, come ye briny billows rowl, and convey me from my soul: since the cruel fair, the cause of my despair, has forc'd me hence to go, where stormy winds do blow; where raging seas do toss and mount, with dangers that i can't recount, forgive me showing thus my woe; _where raging seas do toss_, &c. when you hear of deeds in war, acted by your faithful swain; think, oh think, that from afar, 'twas you conquer'd all were slain: for by calling on your name, i conquer'd whereso'er i came; shou'd my fate not be, to keep my body free, from wounds and bruises too, whilst honour i pursue; 'twou'd raise my reputation, my pain i'd lose in passion, and glory that 'twas done for you. shou'd grim death once assail me, it cou'd never fright your slave, fortune self cou'd never fail me, only you can make my grave: my destiny shou'd grant reprieve, i cou'd not die, if you said live: were it to be found, in all the world around, an instance of such love, as you in me may prove: i'd never ask return, but patiently wou'd burn, nor more your generous pity move. o my guardian angel say, can such proofs your passion gain; if it can i'll bless the day, that i venture on the main: then with joy cry billows rowl, and convey me to my soul: return with glory crown'd, upon the lowly ground, kneel at your feet a while, and there my fears beguile: and think my toyl repaid, if you'd vouchsafe dear maid, to crown my labours with a smile. _the true use of the_ bottle. [music] love, the sweets of love, are the joys i most admire, kind and active fire, of a fierce desire, indulge my soul, compleat my bliss; but th' affected coldness of _cælia_ damps my boldness, i must bow, protest and vow, and swear aloud, i wou'd be proud, when she with equal ardour longs to kiss: bring a bowl, then bring a jolly bowl, i'll quench fond love within it; with flowing cups i'll raise my soul, and here's to the happy minute: for flush'd with brisk wine, when she's panting and warm; and nature unguarded lets loose her mind, in the amorous moment the gipsie i'll find, oblige her and take her by storm. _a_ song _in the_ farce _call'd the_ younger _the_ wiser: _set by mr._ daniel purcell. _sung by mr._ leveridge. [music] how happy's he who weds a wife, well practis'd, well practis'd in the _london_ life; dull country brides a sense may want, to hide the favours which they grant. how happy's he who weds a wife, we'll practis'd, well practis'd in the _london_ life; but _london_ wives coquet by rule, discreetly please the men they fool. how happy's he who weds a wife, well practis'd, well practis'd in the _london_ life. _a_ song. _set by mr._ ramondon. _sung at the_ theatre. [music] how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, how charming _phillis_ is, how fair, o that she were as willing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing: to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing, to ease my wounded heart of care, and make her eyes less killing: i sigh, i sigh, i languish now, and love will not let me rest; i drive about the park and bow, where'er i meet my dearest. _a_ song. _set by mr._ berenclow. why will _clemene_, when i gaze, my ravish'd eyes reprove; and chide 'em from the only face, that they were made to love: was not i born to wear your chain, i should delight to rove; from your cold province of disdain, to some warm land of love. but shou'd a gentle nymph when try'd, to me prove well inclin'd; my destin'd heart must yet reside, with you the most unkind; so destin'd exiles as they roam, while kindly us'd elsewhere; still languish after native home, tho' death, death is threatned there. finis. transcriber's note publication date: / author lifespan: - [from english song-books by day and murrie: the origins of wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy, the most famous song book of its day, may be traced back to a single volume of 'witty ballads, jovial songs, and merry catches' by an earlier generation of lyricists, published without music in under the title an antidote against melancholy: made up in pills. for the third edition, still without music but livened up by more recent songs, the title was changed to wit and mirth: an antidote against melancholy ( ), and in , still in one volume, it was published by henry playford with music. over the course of the next two decades it was expanded and republished again and again, eventually to become this six-volume 'standard edition' of contemporary popular comic and bawdy ballads, with an increasing emphasis on the work of the stammering dramatist and lyricist thomas d'urfey, whose songs were sung by all the town. among the composers were dr. john blow and henry purcell.] [from wikipedia: thomas d'urfey ( - ) was an english dramatist and songwriter. he wrote the plays the fond husband in , madame fickle in and the virtuous wife in . he also wrote the song collection wit and mirth, or pills to purge melancholy between and .] the book is not always gramatically correct, e.g.: "there was three travellers". odd spellings, and odd grammatical constructions, if they make sense, have been preserved. there is some dialect, which has also been preserved. (e.g.: "wo'as me poor lass! what mun i do?") apostrophes of ownership are conspicuous by their absence. spelling is sometimes quaint...'spight' for 'spite', 'dye' for 'die', 'chuse' for choose', 'seaze' for 'seize', 'quere' for 'queer', etc. where a spelling makes sense, and is merely discretional and not obviously incorrect, it has been retained. 'their' instead of 'there' has appeared twice (page and page ), retained, and 'pharoah' (page ), retained: it _is_ a drinking song. pp. - : 'monsieur grabeau' (twice) on page becomes monsieur grabeu (four times) on page . [note (from wikipedia): louis grabu, grabut, grabue, or grebus (fl. - , died after ) was a catalan-born, french-trained composer and violinist who was mainly active in england. while he was probably born in catalonia--he was later referred to as 'lodovicus grabeu of shalon in catalunnia' --details of his early life are lacking. sometime in his youth he moved to paris, where he was most likely trained by lully. at the time of the restoration he went to england, where french music, especially opera, was much in vogue. charles ii of england appointed him as a composer for his own private music in , and with the death of nicholas lanier in he became the second person to hold the title master of the king's musick. he adapted robert cambert's opera ariadne for a london performance in , and wrote music for john dryden's albion and albanius in . in he left england, the only land where he had achieved any kind of fame, and completely disappeared from historical record.] consonants were not necessarily doubled where we would now expect. standardised modern spelling is a fairly recent (mid th century) imposition, probably coinciding with the various public education acts. some spellings may be left over from middle english, e.g. 'sily' from 'sely', dialect 'seely', from oe 'sælig' (luck, happiness); thus 'sily' (p. ) may have meant 'lucky' or 'happy' instead of the modern 'silly'. or 'sily' may be our modern 'silly', with an undoubled middle consonant. damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired and sundry indents have been adjusted for consistency. errata page : 'vvidow' corrected to 'widow'. (possibly a printer's error....). ... "which way to take the widow brown," page : 'do' corrected to 'to': "they'll hourly study to deceive," page : 'vvho' corrected to 'who': "who dare not their grief declare," (... or maybe the printer was short of 'w's). sundry other instances of 'vv' have been corrected to 'w'. page : 'ny' corrected to 'my': "my nose takes the burthen...." page : 'mortal's' corrected to 'mortals': "mortals learn your lives to measure," page : 'maguanime' corrected to 'magnanime': "sat notus pro magnanime" page : missing 'i' added to last line to complete rhyme: "and priest and victim i." page : 'i'ye' corrected to "i've": "i've lost a harry groat," [note: harry was king henry; a groat was an old english silver coin, first coined by henry iii in , and by edward iii in . originally worth one penny, it later rose to the value of fourpence. the groat was revived between and , and withdrawn from circulation in (from collins new age encyclopedia, )]. generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings and hyphenation have been retained as in the original. minor corrections to format and punctuation together with regularisation of poetry line numbering have been made without comment. any other changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. in this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the ascii character set only are used. other characters and symbols are substituted as follows: [oe], [oe] for upper and lower case oe-ligature respectively [=u] for u with macron. italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. small caps typeface is represented by upper case. a pointing hand symbol is represented as [right pointing hand]. notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad. the presence of a note is indicated at the end of line number ## by "[l##]". * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. volume vii. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. contents of volume seventh. book vii. (continued.) page a. the battle of otterbourne [percy] b. the battle of otterbourne [scott] a. the hunting of the cheviot b. chevy-chace . sir andrew barton . flodden field a. queen jeanie b. the death of queen jane . the murder of the king of scots . the rising in the north . northumberland betrayed by douglas . king of scots and andrew browne . mary ambree . brave lord willoughbey a. the bonny earl of murray [ramsay] b. the bonnie earl of murray [finlay] . the winning of cales . sir john suckling's campaign . the battle of philiphaugh . the gallant grahams . the battle of loudon hill . the battle of bothwell bridge . the battle of killiecrankie . the battle of sheriff-muir . lord derwentwater . the battle of tranent-muir, or of preston-pans appendix. the battle of otterburn the battle of harlaw king henrie the fifth's conquest jane shore sir andrew barton the battle of corichie the battle of balrinnes (or glenlivet) bonny john seton the haws of cromdale the battle of alford the battle of pentland hills the reading skirmish undaunted londonderry pr[oe]lium gillicrankianum the boyne water the woman warrior the battle of sheriff-muir up and war them a', willie the marquis of huntley's retreat johnie cope king leir and his three daughters fair rosamond queen eleanor's fall the duchess of suffolk's calamity the life and death of thomas stukely lord delaware the battle of harlaw (traditional version) glossary book vii. continued. the battle of otterbourne. in the twelfth year of richard ii. ( ,) the scots assembled an extensive army, with the intention of invading england on a grand scale, in revenge for a previous incursion made by that sovereign. but information having been received that the northumbrians were gathering in considerable force for a counter-invasion, it was thought prudent not to attempt to carry out the original enterprise. while, therefore, the main body of the army, commanded by the earl of fife, the scottish king's second son, ravaged the western borders of england, a detachment of three or four thousand chosen men, under the earl of douglas, penetrated by a swift march into the bishopric of durham, and laid waste the country with fire and sword. returning in triumph from this inroad, douglas passed insultingly before the gates of newcastle, where sir harry percy lay in garrison. this fiery warrior, though he could not venture to cope with forces far superior to his own, sallied out to break a lance with his hereditary foe. in a skirmish before the town he lost his spear and pennon, which douglas swore he would plant as a trophy on the highest tower of his castle, unless it should be that very night retaken by the owner. hotspur was deterred from accepting this challenge immediately, by the apprehension that douglas would be able to effect a union with the main body of the scottish army before he could be overtaken, but when he learned, the second day, that the earl was retreating with ostentatious slowness, he hastily got together a company of eight or ten thousand men, and set forth in pursuit. the english forces, under the command of hotspur and his brother, sir ralph percy, came up with the scots at otterbourne, a small village about thirty miles from newcastle, on the evening of the th of august. their numbers were more than double the scots, but they were fatigued with a long march. percy fell at once on the camp of douglas, and a desperate action ensued. the victory seemed to be inclining to the english, when the scottish leader, as the last means of reanimating his followers, rushed on the advancing enemy with heroic daring, and cleared a way with his battle-axe into the middle of their ranks. all but alone and unsupported, douglas was overpowered by numbers, and sunk beneath three mortal wounds. the scots, encouraged by the furious charge of their chieftain, and ignorant of his fate, renewed the struggle with vigor. ralph percy was made prisoner by the earl mareschal, and soon after hotspur himself by lord montgomery. many other englishmen of rank had the same fate. after a long fight, maintained with extraordinary bravery on both sides, the english retired and left the scots masters of the field. (see sir w. scott's _history of scotland_, i. .) the ballad which follows, printed from the fourth or revised edition of percy's _reliques_ (vol. i. p. ), was derived from a manuscript in the cotton library (cleopatra, c. iv. fol. ), thought to be written about the middle of the sixteenth century. in the earlier editions, a less perfect copy, from the harleian collection, had been used. hume of godscroft, speaking of the songs made on the battle of otterbourne, says, "the scots song made of otterbourne telleth the time--about lammas; and also the occasion--to take preys out of england; also the dividing armies betwixt the earls of fife and douglas, and their several journeys, almost as in the authentic history," and proceeds to quote the first stanza of the present ballad. again, it is said that at lammas, when the scotch husbandmen are busy at getting in their hay, the season has been over for a month in most parts of england. from these circumstances, and the occurrence of certain scottish words, the first part of _the battle of otterbourne_ has been regarded as a scottish composition, retouched by an english hand. a somewhat mutilated version of this ballad was published in herd's _scottish songs_. this, though defective, well deserves a place in our appendix. sir walter scott inserted in the _minstrelsy_ another edition made up by him from two copies obtained from the recitation of old persons residing in ettrick forest, and it is here subjoined to percy's version. genealogical notices of the personages mentioned in this and the following ballad will be found in percy's _reliques_ and in scott's _minstrelsy_. yt felle abowght the lamasse tyde, whan husbonds wynn ther haye, the dowghtye dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde, in ynglond to take a praye. the yerlle of fyffe, withowghten stryffe, he bowynd hym over sulway:[l ] the grete wolde ever together ryde; that race they may rue for aye. over ottercap hyll they came in,[l ] and so dowyn by rodelyffe cragge, upon grene leyton they lyghted dowyn, styrande many a stagge;[l ] and boldely brent northomberlonde, and haryed many a towyn; they dyd owr ynglyssh men grete wrange, to battell that were not bowyn. than spake a berne upon the bent, of comforte that was not colde, and sayd, "we have brent northomberlond, we have all welth in holde. "now we have haryed all bamboroweshyre, all the welth in the worlde have wee; i rede we ryde to newe castell, so styll and stalwurthlye." uppon the morowe, when it was daye, the standards schone fulle bryght; to the newe castelle the toke the waye, and thether they cam fulle ryght. sir henry percy laye at the newe castelle, i telle yow withowtten drede; he had byn a march-man all hys dayes, and kepte barwyke upon twede. to the newe castell when they cam, the skottes they cryde on hyght, "syr harye percy, and thow byste within, com to the fylde, and fyght: "for we have brente northomberlonde, thy eritage good and ryght; and syne my logeyng i have take, with my brande dubbyd many a knyght." sir harry percy cam to the walles, the skottyssh oste for to se; "and thow hast brente northomberlond, full sore it rewyth me. "yf thou hast haryed all bambarowe shyre, thow hast done me grete envye; for the trespasse thow hast me done, the tone of us schall dye." "where schall i byde the?" sayd the dowglas, "or where wylte thow come to me?" "at otterborne in the hygh way, ther maist thow well logeed be. "the roo full rekeles ther sche rinnes, to make the game and glee; the fawkon and the fesaunt both, amonge the holtes on hye. "ther maist thow have thy welth at wyll, "well looged ther maist be; yt schall not be long or i com the tyll," sayd syr harry percye. "ther schall i byde the," sayd the dowglas, "by the fayth of my bodye:" "thether schall i com," sayd syr harry percy "my trowth i plyght to the." a pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, for soth, as i yow saye; ther he mayd the douglas drynke, and all hys oste that daye. the dowglas turnyd hym homewarde agayne, for soth withowghten naye; he tooke his logeyng at oterborne uppon a wedynsday. and there he pyght hys standerd dowyn, hys gettyng more and lesse, and syne he warned hys men to goo to chose ther geldyngs gresse. a skottysshe knyght hoved upon the bent,[l ] a wache i dare well saye; so was he ware on the noble percy in the dawnynge of the daye. he prycked to his pavyleon dore, as faste as he myght ronne; "awaken, dowglas," cryed the knyght, "for hys love, that syttes yn trone. "awaken, dowglas," cryed the knyght, "for thow maiste waken wyth wynne; yender have i spyed the prowde percy, and seven standardes wyth hym." "nay by my trowth," the douglas sayed, "it ys but a fayned taylle; he durste not loke on my bred banner, for all ynglonde so haylle. "was i not yesterdaye at the newe castell, that stonds so fayre on tyne? for all the men the percy hade, he cowde not garre me ones to dyne." he stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore, to loke and it were lesse; "araye yow, lordyngs, one and all, for here bygynnes no peysse. "the yerle of mentayne, thow art my eme,[l ] the forwarde i gyve to the: the yerlle of huntlay cawte and kene,[l ] he schall wyth the be. "the lorde of bowghan, in armure bryght,[l ] on the other hand he schall be; lord jhonstone and lorde maxwell, they to schall be wyth me. "swynton, fayre fylde upon your pryde! to batell make yow bowen, syr davy scotte, syr walter stewarde, syr jhon of agurstone!" . i. e. over solway frith. this evidently refers to the other division of the scottish army, which came in by way of carlisle.--percy. - . sc. the earl of douglas and his party.--the several stations here mentioned are well-known places in northumberland. ottercap-hill is in the parish of kirk-whelpington, in tynedale-ward. rodeliffe--(or, as it is more usually pronounced, rodeley--) cragge is a noted cliff near rodeley, a small village in the parish of hartburn, in morpeth-ward. green leyton is another small village in the same parish of hartburn, and is southeast of rodeley. both the original mss. read here, corruptly, hoppertop and lynton.--p. . many a styrande stage, in both mss. motherwell would retain this reading, because stagge signifies in scotland a young stallion, and by supplying "off" the line would make sense. it was one of the border laws, he remarks, that the scottish array of battle should be on foot (see v. of the second part). horses were used but for a retreat or pursuit. . the best bent, ms. . the earl of menteith. at the time of the battle the earldom of menteith was possessed by robert earl of fife, who was in command of the main body of the army, and consequently not with douglas. . the reference is to sir john gordon. the use of this designation shows, says percy, that the ballad was not composed before . in that year the title of earl of huntly was first conferred on alexander seaton, who married the grand-daughter of the gordon of otterbourne. . the earl of buchan, fourth son of king robert ii. a fytte. [the second part.] the perssy came byfore hys oste, wych was ever a gentyll knyght; upon the dowglas lowde can he crye, "i wyll holde that i have hyght. "for thow haste brente northumberlonde, and done me grete envye; for thys trespasse thou hast me done, the tone of us schall dye." the dowglas answerde hym agayne with grete wurds up on hye, and sayd, "i have twenty agaynst the one, byholde, and thow maiste see." wyth that the percye was grevyd sore, for sothe as i yow saye; he lyghted dowyn upon his fote, and schoote his horsse clene away. every man sawe that he dyd soo, that ryall was ever in rowght; every man schoote hys horsse him froo, and lyght hym rowynde abowght. thus syr hary percye toke the fylde, for soth, as i yow saye; jesu cryste in hevyn on hyght dyd helpe hym well that daye. but nyne thowzand, ther was no moo, the cronykle wyll not layne; forty thowsande skottes and fowre that day fowght them agayne. but when the batell byganne to joyne, in hast ther came a knyght; 'then' letters fayre furth hath he tayne, and thus he sayd full ryght: "my lorde, your father he gretes yow well, wyth many a noble knyght; he desyres yow to byde that he may see thys fyght. "the baron of grastoke ys com owt of the west, with him a noble companye; all they loge at your fathers thys nyght, and the battell fayne wold they see. "for jesus love," sayd syr harye percy, "that dyed for yow and me, wende to my lorde my father agayne, and saye thou saw me not with yee. "my trowth ys plyght to yonne skottysh knyght, it nedes me not to layne, that i schulde byde hym upon thys bent, and i have hys trowth agayne. "and if that i wende off thys grownde, for soth, unfoughten awaye, he wolde me call but a kowarde knyght in hys londe another daye. "yet had i lever to be rynde and rente, by mary, that mykel maye, then ever my manhod schulde be reprovyd wyth a skotte another daye. "wherefore schote, archars, for my sake, and let scharpe arowes flee; mynstrells, play up for your waryson, and well quyt it schall be. "every man thynke on hys trewe love, and marke hym to the trenite; for to god i make myne avowe thys day wyll i not fle." the blodye harte in the dowglas armes, hys standerde stode on hye; that every man myght full well knowe; by syde stode starres thre. the whyte lyon on the ynglysh parte, forsoth, as i yow sayne, the lucetts and the cressawnts both; the skotts faught them agayne. uppon sent andrewe lowde cane they crye, and thrysse they schowte on hyght, and syne marked them one owr ynglysshe men, as i have tolde yow ryght. sent george the bryght, owr ladyes knyght, to name they were full fayne; owr ynglysshe men they cryde on hyght, and thrysse the schowtte agayne. wyth that, scharpe arowes bygan to flee, i tell yow in sertayne; men of armes byganne to joyne, many a dowghty man was ther slayne. the percy and the dowglas mette, that ether of other was fayne; they schapped together, whyll that the swette, with swords of fyne collayne; tyll the bloode from ther bassonnetts ranne, as the roke doth in the rayne; "yelde the to me," sayd the dowglas, "or ells thow schalt be slayne. "for i see by thy bryght bassonet, thow art sum man of myght; and so i do by thy burnysshed brande; thow art an yerle, or ells a knyght."[l ] "by my good faythe," sayd the noble percy, "now haste thou rede full ryght; yet wyll i never yelde me to the, whyll i may stonde and fyght." they swapped together, whyll that they swette, wyth swordes scharpe and long; ych on other so faste they beette, tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. the percy was a man of strenghth, i tell yow in thys stounde; he smote the dowglas at the swordes length, that he felle to the growynde. the sworde was scharpe, and sore can byte, i tell yow in sertayne; to the harte he cowde hym smyte, thus was the dowglas slayne. the stonderds stode styll on eke syde, with many a grevous grone; ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght, and many a dowghty man was slayne. ther was no freke that ther wolde flye, but styffly in stowre can stond, ychone hewyng on other whyll they myght drye, wyth many a bayllefull bronde. ther was slayne upon the skottes syde, for soth and sertenly, syr james a dowglas ther was slayne, that daye that he cowde dye. the yerle of mentaye he was slayne, grysely groned uppon the growynd; syr davy scotte, syr walter steward, syr john of agurstonne.[l ] syr charlles morrey in that place, that never a fote wold flye; sir hughe maxwelle, a lorde he was, with the dowglas dyd he dye. ther was slayne upon the skottes syde, for soth as i yow saye, of fowre and forty thowsande scotts went but eyghtene awaye. ther was slayne upon the ynglysshe syde, for soth and sertenlye, a gentell knyght, sir john fitz-hughe, yt was the more petye. syr james harebotell ther was slayne, for hym ther hartes were sore; the gentyll lovelle ther was slayne,[l ] that the percyes standerd bore. ther was slayne uppon the ynglyssh perte, for soth as i yow saye, of nyne thowsand ynglyssh men fyve hondert cam awaye. the other were slayne in the fylde; cryste kepe their sowles from wo! seying ther was so few fryndes agaynst so many a foo. then one the morne they mayd them beeres of byrch, and haysell graye; many a wydowe with wepyng teyres ther makes they fette awaye. thys fraye bygan at otterborne, bytwene the nyghte and the day: ther the dowglas lost hys lyfe, and the percy was lede awaye. then was ther a scottyshe prisoner tayne, syr hughe mongomery was hys name;[l ] for soth as i yow saye, he borowed the percy home agayne. now let us all for the percy praye to jesu most of myght, to bryng hys sowle to the blysse of heven, for he was a gentyll knyght. . being all in armour he could not know him.--p. . both the mss. read here _sir james_, but see above, pt. i. ver. .--p. . covelle, ms. . supposed to be son of lord john montgomery, who took hotspur prisoner. in _the hunting of the cheviot_ this sir hugh is said to have been slain with an arrow. the battle of otterbourne. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, i. . in the _complaynt of scotland_ ( ), "the persee and the mongumrye met," (v. of this piece,) occurs as the title, or rather the catchword, of one of the popular songs of the time. it fell about the lammas tide, when the muir-men win their hay, the doughty douglas bound him to ride into england, to drive a prey. he chose the gordons and the græmes, with them the lindesays, light and gay;[l ] but the jardines wald not with him ride,[l ] and they rue it to this day. and he has burn'd the dales of tyne, and part of bambroughshire; and three good towers on reidswire fells, he left them all on fire. and he march'd up to newcastle, and rode it round about; "o wha's the lord of this castle, or wha's the lady o't?" but up spake proud lord percy then, and o but he spake hie! "i am the lord of this castle, my wife's the lady gay." "if thou'rt the lord of this castle, sae weel it pleases me! for, ere i cross the border fells, the tane of us shall die." he took a lang spear in his hand, shod with the metal free, and for to meet the douglas there, he rode right furiouslie. but o how pale his lady look'd, frae aff the castle wa', when down before the scottish spear she saw proud percy fa'. "had we twa been upon the green, and never an eye to see, i wad hae had you, flesh and fell;[l ] but your sword sall gae wi' me." "but gae ye up to otterbourne, and wait there dayis three; and if i come not ere three dayis end, a fause knight ca' ye me." "the otterbourne's a bonnie burn; 'tis pleasant there to be; but there is nought at otterbourne, to feed my men and me. "the deer rins wild on hill and dale, the birds fly wild from tree to tree; but there is neither bread nor kale, to fend my men and me. "yet i will stay at otterbourne, where you shall welcome be; and if ye come not at three dayis end, a fause lord i'll ca' thee." "thither will i come," proud percy said, "by the might of our ladye!" "there will i bide thee," said the douglas, "my troth i plight to thee." they lighted high on otterbourne, upon the bent sae brown; they lighted high on otterbourne, and threw their pallions down. and he that had a bonnie boy, sent out his horse to grass; and he that had not a bonnie boy, his ain servant he was. but up then spake a little page, before the peep of dawn-- "o waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, for percy's hard at hand." "ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! sae loud i hear ye lie: for percy had not men yestreen to dight my men and me. "but i have dream'd a dreary dream, beyond the isle of sky; i saw a dead man win a fight, and i think that man was i." he belted on his guid braid sword, and to the field he ran; but he forgot the helmet good, that should have kept his brain. when percy wi' the douglas met, i wat he was fu' fain; they swakked their swords, till sair they swat, and the blood ran down like rain. but percy with his good broad sword, that could so sharply wound, has wounded douglas on the brow, till he fell to the ground. then he call'd on his little foot-page, and said--"run speedilie, and fetch my ain dear sister's son, sir hugh montgomery. "my nephew good," the douglas said, "what recks the death of ane! last night i dream'd a dreary dream, and i ken the day's thy ain. "my wound is deep; i fain would sleep; take thou the vanguard of the three, and hide me by the braken bush, that grows on yonder lilye lee. "o bury me by the braken bush, beneath the blooming brier, let never living mortal ken that ere a kindly scot lies here." he lifted up that noble lord, wi' the saut tear in his ee; he hid him in the braken bush, that his merrie-men might not see. the moon was clear, the day drew near, the spears in flinders flew, but mony a gallant englishman ere day the scotsmen slew. the gordons good, in english blood they steep'd their hose and shoon; the lindsays flew like fire about, till all the fray was done. the percy and montgomery met, that either of other were fain; they swapped swords, and they twa swat, and aye the blood ran down between. "now yield thee, yield thee, percy," he said, "or else i vow i'll lay thee low!" "to whom must i yield," quoth earl percy, "now that i see it must be so?" "thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, nor yet shalt thou yield to me; but yield thee to the braken bush, that grows upon yon lilye lee." "i will not yield to a braken bush, nor yet will i yield to a brier; but i would yield to earl douglas, or sir hugh the montgomery, if he were here." as soon as he knew it was montgomery, he struck his sword's point in the gronde; the montgomery was a courteous knight, and quickly took him by the honde. this deed was done at the otterbourne, about the breaking of the day; earl douglas was buried at the braken bush, and the percy led captive away.[l ] * * * * * . "light" is the appropriated designation of the lindsays, as "gay" is that of the gordons. . the jardines were a clan of hardy west-border men. their chief was jardine of applegirth. their refusal to ride with douglas was, probably, the result of one of those perpetual feuds, which usually rent to pieces a scottish army.--s. . douglas insinuates that percy was rescued by his soldiers.--s. . douglas was really buried in melrose abbey, where his tomb is still to be seen. the hunting of the cheviot. in _the battle of otterbourne_ the story is told with all the usual accuracy of tradition, and the usual fairness of partizans. not so with the following ballad, which is founded on the same event. "that which is commonly sung of the _hunting of cheviot_," says hume of godscroft truly, "seemeth indeed poetical, and a mere fiction, perhaps to stir up virtue; yet a fiction whereof there is no mention either in the scottish or english chronicle." when this ballad arose we do not know, but we may suppose that a considerable time would elapse before a minstrel would venture to treat an historical event with so much freedom. we must, however, allow some force to these remarks of percy: "with regard to the subject of this ballad, although it has no countenance from history, there is room to think it had originally some foundation in fact. it was one of the laws of the marches, frequently renewed between the nations, that neither party should hunt in the other's borders, without leave from the proprietors or their deputies. there had long been a rivalship between the two martial families of percy and douglas, which, heightened by the national quarrel, must have produced frequent challenges and struggles for superiority, petty invasions of their respective domains, and sharp contests for the point of honour; which would not always be recorded in history. something of this kind, we may suppose, gave rise to the ancient ballad of the _hunting a' the cheviat_. percy earl of northumberland had vowed to hunt for three days in the scottish border, without condescending to ask leave from earl douglas, who was either lord of the soil, or lord warden of the marches. douglas would not fail to resent the insult, and endeavour to repel the intruders by force: this would naturally produce a sharp conflict between the two parties; something of which, it is probable, did really happen, though not attended with the tragical circumstances recorded in the ballad: for these are evidently borrowed from the battle of otterbourn, a very different event, but which aftertimes would easily confound with it."[ ] the ballad as here printed is of the same age as the preceding. it is extracted from hearne's preface to the _history_ of guilielmus neubrigensis, p. lxxxii. hearne derived his copy from a manuscript in the ashmolean collection at oxford, and printed the text in long lines, which, according to custom, are now broken up into two. the manuscript copy is subscribed at the end "expliceth quoth rychard sheale." richard sheale (it has been shown by a writer in the _british bibliographer_, vol. iv. p. - ) was a minstrel by profession, and several other pieces in the same ms. have a like signature with this. on this ground it has been very strangely concluded that sheale was not, as percy and ritson supposed, the transcriber, but the actual author of this noble ballad. the glaring objection of the antiquity of the language has been met, first, by the supposition that the author belonged to the north of england, and afterwards, when it appeared that sheale lived at tamworth, about a hundred miles from london, by the allegation that the language of a person in humble life in warwickshire or staffordshire would be very far behind the current speech of the metropolis. it happens, however, that the language of the ballad is very much older than the other compositions of sheale, as a moment's inspection will show. besides, sheale's poetical abilities were manifestly of the lowest order, and although he styles himself "minstrel," we have no reason to think that he ever composed ballads. he speaks of his memory being at one time so decayed that he "could neither sing nor talk." being a mere ballad-_singer_ and story-teller, he would naturally be dependent on that faculty. the fact is very obvious, that richard sheale was a mere reciter of songs and tales; at any rate, that all we have to thank him for in the matter of _chevy chase_ is for committing to paper the only old copy that has come down to our times.[ ] the _hunting of the cheviot_ is mentioned in the _complaynt of scotland_ with other, very ancient, ballads. it was consequently popular in scotland in , ten years before the time that we _know_ sheale to have written anything. the mention of james the scottish king forbids us to assign this piece an earlier date than the reign of henry vi. it has been customary to understand sidney's saying of the "old song of percy and douglas"--that it moved his heart more than a trumpet--exclusively of _chevy chase_. there is no question which ballad would stand higher in the estimation of the gentle knight, but the terms by which the war-song he admired is described are of course equally applicable to _the battle of otterbourne_. by the way we may remark that if we do understand sidney to have meant _chevy chase_, then, whatever opinion writers of our day may have of its antiquity, and however probable it may seem to them that _chevy chase_ was written by a contemporary of sir philip, it appeared to the author of the _defence of poetry_ to be "evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of an uncivil age"! * * * * * [ ] the editor of the _reliques_ afterwards met with the following passage in collins's _peerage_, which he thought might throw some light on the question of the origin of the ballad. "in this ... year, , according to hector boethius, was fought the battle of pepperden, not far from the cheviot hills, between the earl of northumberland [iid earl, son of hotspur], and earl william douglas, of angus, with a small army of about four thousand men each, in which the latter had the advantage. as this seems to have been a private conflict between these two great chieftains of the borders, rather than a national war, it has been thought to have given rise to the celebrated old ballad of chevy-chase; which to render it more pathetic and interesting, has been heightened with tragical incidents wholly fictitious." [ ] we regret that even dr. rimbault has hastily sanctioned this ascription of _chevy-chase_ to the "sely" minstrel of tamworth. the first fit. the persè owt off northombarlande, and a vowe to god mayd he, that he wold hunte in the mountayns off chyviat within days thre, in the mauger of doughtè dogles,[l ] and all that ever with him be. the fattiste hartes in all cheviat he sayd he wold kill, and cary them away: "be my feth," sayd the dougheti doglas agayn, "i wyll let that hontyng yf that i may." then the persè owt of banborowe cam,[l ] with him a myghtee meany; with fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone,[l ] the wear chosen owt of shyars thre.[l ] this begane on a monday at morn, in cheviat the hillys so he; the chyld may rue that ys un-born, it was the mor pittè. the dryvars throrowe the woodès went, for to reas the dear; bomen byckarte uppone the bent with ther browd aras cleare. then the wyld thorowe the woodès went, on every sydè shear; grea-hondes thorowe the grevis glent, for to kyll thear dear. the begane in chyviat the hyls above, yerly on a monnyn day; be that it drewe to the oware off none, a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. the blewe a mort uppone the bent,[l ] the semblyd on sydis shear; to the quyrry then the persè went, to se the bryttlynge off the deare. he sayd, "it was the duglas promys this day to met me hear; but i wyste he wold faylle, verament:" a great oth the persè swear. at the laste a squyar of northombelonde lokyde at his hand full ny; he was war a' the doughetie doglas comynge,[l ] with him a myghttè meany; both with spear, byll, and brande;[l ] yt was a myghti sight to se; hardyar men, both off hart nar hande, wear not in christiantè. the wear twenty hondrith spear-men good, withowtè any feale; the wear borne along be the watter a twyde, yth' bowndes of tividale. "leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayde, "and to your bowys lock ye tayk good heed;[l ] for never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne had ye never so mickle ned." the dougheti dogglas on a stede he rode att his men beforne; his armor glytteryde as dyd a glede; a bolder barne was never born. "tell me whos men ye ar," he says, "or whos men that ye be: who gave youe leave to hunte in this chyviat chays, in the spyt of me?" the first mane that ever him an answear mayd, yt was the good lord persè: "we wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says, "nor whos men that we be; but we wyll hount hear in this chays, in the spyt of thyne and of the. "the fattiste hartes in all chyviat we have kyld, and cast to carry them a-way:" "be my troth," sayd the doughtè dogglas agayn,[l ] "ther-for the ton of us shall de this day." then sayd the doughtè doglas unto the lord persè: "to kyll all thes giltles men, alas, it wear great pittè! "but, persè, thowe art a lord of lande, i am a yerle callyd within my contrè; let all our men uppone a parti stande, and do the battell off the and of me." "nowe cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord persè,[l ] "whosoever ther-to says nay; be my troth, doughttè doglas," he says, "thow shalt never se that day. "nethar in ynglonde, skottlonde, nar france, nor for no man of a woman born, but, and fortune be my chance, i dar met him, on man for on." then bespayke a squyar off northombarlonde, richard wytharyngton was him nam; "it shall never be told in sothe-ynglonde," he says, "to kyng herry the fourth for sham. "i wat youe byn great lordes twaw, i am a poor squyar of lande; i wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, and stande myselffe, and loocke on, but whyll i may my weppone welde, i wyll not [fayl] both hart and hande." that day, that day, that dredfull day![l ] the first fit here i fynde; and youe wyll here any mor a' the hountyng a' the chyviat, yet ys ther mor behynd. . magger. . the the. . archardes. . by these _shyars thre_ is probably meant three districts in northumberland, which still go by the name of _shires_, and are all in the neighbourhood of cheviot. these are _islandshire_, being the district so named from holy-island: _norehamshire_, so called from the town and castle of noreham (or norham): and _bamboroughshire_, the ward or hundred belonging to bamborough-castle and town.--percy. . blwe a mot. . ath the. . brylly. . boys. . agay. . sayd the the. . "that day, that day, that gentil day," is cited in _the complaynt of scotland_, (ii. ,) not, we imagine, as the _title_ of a ballad (any more than "the persee and the mongumrye met," _ante_, p. ,) but as a line by which the song containing it might be recalled. the second fit. the yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,[l ] ther hartes were good yenoughe; the first off arros that the shote off, seven skore spear-men the sloughe. yet byddys the yerle doglas uppon the bent, a captayne good yenoughe, and that was sene verament, for he wrought hom both woo and wouche. the dogglas pertyd his ost or thre, lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, with suar spears off myghttè tre, the cum in on every syde: thrughe our yngglyshe archery gave many a wounde full wyde; many a doughete the garde to dy, which ganyde them no pryde. the ynglyshe men let thear bowys be,[l ] and pulde owt brandes that wer bright;[l ] it was a hevy syght to se bryght swordes on basnites lyght. throrowe ryche male and myneyeple, many sterne the stroke downe streght;[l ] many a freyke that was full fre, ther undar foot dyd lyght. at last the duglas and the persè met, lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;[l ] the swapte togethar tyll the both swat, with swordes that wear of fyn myllàn. thes worthè freckys for to fyght, ther-to the wear full fayne, tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, as ever dyd heal or rayne.[l ] "holde the, persè," sayde the doglas,[l ] "and i' feth i shall the brynge wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis of jamy our scottish kynge.[l ] "thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, i hight the hear this thinge, for the manfullyste man yet art thowe, that ever i conqueryd in filde fightyng." "nay," sayd the lord persè, "i tolde it the beforne, that i wolde never yeldyde be to no man of a woman born." with that ther cam an arrowe hastely,[l ] forthe off a myghttè wane; hit hathe strekene the yerle duglas in at the brest bane. throroue lyvar and longs, bathe the sharp arrowe ys gane, that never after in all his lyffe-days, he spayke mo wordes but ane: that was, "fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, for my lyff-days ben gan." the persè leanyde on his brande, and sawe the duglas de; he tooke the dede mane be the hande, and sayd, "wo ys me for the! "to have savyde thy lyffe, i wolde have pertyde with my landes for years thre, for a better man, of hart nare of hande, was not in all the north contrè." off all that se a skottishe knyght, was callyd sir hewe the monggonbyrry; he sawe the duglas to the deth was dyght, he spendyd a spear, a trusti tre:-- he rod uppon a corsiare throughe a hondrith archery: he never stynttyde, nar never blane, tyll he cam to the good lord persè. he set uppone the lord persè a dynte that was full soare; with a suar spear of a myghttè tre clean thorow the body he the persè ber, a' the tothar syde that a man myght se a large cloth yard and mare: towe bettar captayns wear nat in cristiantè, then that day slain wear ther. an archar off northomberlonde say slean was the lord persè; he bar a bende-bowe in his hand, was made off trusti tre. an arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, to th' harde stele haylde he; a dynt that was both sad and soar, he sat on sir hewe the monggonbyrry. the dynt yt was both sad and soar,[l ] that he on monggonberry sete;[l ] the swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, with his hart-blood the wear wete. ther was never a freak wone foot wolde fle, but still in stour dyd stand, heawyng on yche othar, whyll the myght dre, with many a balfull brande. this battell begane in chyviat an owar befor the none, and when even-song bell was rang, the battell was nat half done. the tooke on ethar hand[l ] be the lyght off the mone; many hade no strength for to stande, in chyviat the hillys aboun.[l ] of fifteen hondrith archars of ynglonde went away but fifti and thre; of twenty hondrith spear-men of skotlonde, but even five and fifti: but all wear slayne cheviat within; the hade no strenge to stand on hy; the chylde may rue that ys unborne, it was the mor pittè. thear was slayne withe the lord persè, sir john of agerstone, sir rogar, the hinde hartly, sir wyllyam, the bolde hearone. sir jorg, the worthè lovele,[l ] a knyght of great renowen, sir raff, the ryche rugbè, with dyntes wear beaten dowene. for wetharryngton my harte was wo, that ever he slayne shulde be; for when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. ther was slayne with the dougheti duglas, sir hewe the monggonbyrry, sir davy lwdale, that worthè was,[l ] his sistars son was he: his charls a murrè in that place, that never a foot wolde fle; sir hewe maxwell, a lorde he was, with the doglas dyd he dey. so on the morrowe the mayde them byears off birch and hasell so gray;[l ] many wedous with wepyng tears cam to fach ther makys away. tivydale may carpe off care, northombarlond may mayk grat mon, for towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, on the march-perti shall never be non. word ys commen to eddenburrowe, to jamy the skottishe kyng, that dougheti duglas, lyff-tenant of the merches, he lay slean chyviot with-in. his handdes dyd he weal and wryng, he sayd, "alas, and woe ys me!" such an othar captayn skotland within, he sayd, ye-feth shuld never be. worde ys commyn to lovly londone, till the fourth harry our kyng, that lord persè, leyff-tenante of the merchis,[l ] he lay slayne chyviat within. "god have merci on his soll," sayd kyng harry, "good lord, yf thy will it be! i have a hondrith captayns in ynglonde," he sayd, "as good as ever was he: but persè, and i brook my lyffe, thy deth well quyte shall be." as our noble kyng mayd his a-vowe, lyke a noble prince of renowen, for the deth of the lord persè he dyde the battell of hombyll-down: wher syx and thritté skottishe knyghtes on a day wear beaten down: glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght,[l ] over castill, towar, and town. this was the hontynge off the cheviat; that tear begane this spurn: old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, call it the battell of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurne uppon a monnyn day:[l ] ther was the dougghtè doglas slean, the persè never went away. ther was never a tym on the march-partes sen the doglas and the persè met, but yt was marvele, and the rede blude ronne not, as the reane doys in the stret. jhesue christ our ballys bete, and to the blys us brynge! thus was the hountynge of the chivyat: god send us all good endyng! - . it is well known that the ancient english weapon was the long-bow, and that this nation excelled all others in archery, while the scottish warriors chiefly depended on the use of the spear. this characteristic difference never escapes our ancient bard.--percy. . boys. . briggt. . done. . to, i. e. tow. . ran. . helde. . scottih. . a narrowe. so again in v. , and a nowar in v. . this transference of final n to the succeeding word is of common occurrence in old poetry. . sar. . of. . a word has dropped out. . abou. . lo[=u]le. . lwdale, i. e. liddel. . gay. . cheyff. . glendale is one of the seven wards of northumberland. in this district the village of homildown is situated, about a mile from wooler. on the th of september, , a battle was fought at this place between the percys and archibald, earl of douglas, in which the scots were totally routed, and douglas taken prisoner. . nonnyn. chevy-chace. the text of this later ballad of _chevy-chace_ is given as it appears in _old ballads_ ( ), vol. i. p. , and in durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, vol. iv. p. , and differs very slightly from that of the _reliques_ (i. ), where the ballad was printed from the folio ms., compared with two other black-letter copies. the age of this version of the story is not known, but it is certainly not later, says dr. rimbault, than the reign of charles the second. addison's papers in the _spectator_ (nos. and ) evince so true a perception of the merits of this ballad, shorn as it is of the most striking beauties of the grand original, that we cannot but deeply regret his never having seen the ancient and genuine copy, which was published by hearne only a few days after addison died. well might the spectator dissent from the judgment of sidney, if _this_ were the rude and ill-apparelled song of a barbarous age. god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all; a woful hunting once there did in chevy-chace befall. to drive the deer with hound and horn, erle piercy took his way; the child may rue that is unborn, the hunting of that day. the stout earl of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summer's days to take; the chiefest harts in chevy-chace to kill and bear away: the tidings to earl douglas came, in scotland where he lay. who sent earl piercy present word, he would prevent his sport; the english earl not fearing this, did to the woods resort, with fifteen hundred bow-men bold all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of need to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deer; on monday they began to hunt, when day-light did appear. and long before high noon they had an hundred fat bucks slain; then having din'd, the drovers went to rouze them up again. the bow-men muster'd on the hills, well able to endure; their backsides all, with special care, that day were guarded sure. the hounds ran swiftly thro' the woods, the nimble deer to take, and with their cries the hills and dales an eccho shrill did make. lord piercy to the quarry went, to view the tender deere; quoth he, "earl douglas promised this day to meet me heer. "if that i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay." with that, a brave young gentleman thus to the earl did say: "lo, yonder doth earl douglas come, his men in armour bright; full twenty hundred scottish spears, all marching in our sight. "all men of pleasant tividale, fast by the river tweed:" "then cease your sport," erle piercy said, "and take your bows with speed. "and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yet in scotland or in france, "that ever did on horseback come, but, if my hap it were,[l ] i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear." earl douglas on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of the company, whose armour shone like gold. "show me," he said, "whose men you be, that hunt so boldly here, that, without my consent, do chase and kill my fallow-deer." the man that first did answer make was noble piercy he; who said, "we list not to declare, nor show whose men we be. "yet we will spend our dearest blood, thy chiefest hart to slay;" then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say; "ere thus i will out-braved be, one of us two shall dye: i know thee well, an earl thou art; lord piercy, so am i. "but trust me, piercy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these our harmless men, for they have done no ill. "let thou and i the battel try, and set our men aside: "accurs'd be he," lord piercy said, "by whom this is deny'd." then stept a gallant squire forth, (witherington was his name) who said, "i would not have it told to henry our king for shame, "that ere my captaine fought on foot, and i stood looking on: you be two earls," said witherington, "and i a squire alone. "i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand; while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand." our english archers bent their bows, their hearts were good and true; at the first flight of arrows sent, full three score scots they slew. to drive the deer with hound and horn, earl douglas had the bent; a captain mov'd with mickle pride the spears to shivers sent. they clos'd full fast on every side, no slacknes there was found; and many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was a grief to see, and likewise for to hear, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scatter'd here and there. at last these two stout earls did meet, like captains of great might; like lions mov'd they laid on load,[l ] and made a cruel fight. they fought until they both did sweat, with swords of temper'd steel; until the blood, like drops of rain, they trickling down did feel. "yield thee, lord piercy," douglas said; "in faith i will thee bring, where thou shalt high advanced be by james, our scottish king. "thy ransom i will freely give, and thus report of thee, thou art the most couragious knight that ever i did see. "no, douglas," quoth earl piercy then,[l ] "thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born." with that, there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart, a deep and deadly blow: who never spoke more words than these, "fight on, my merry men all; for why, my life is at an end, lord piercy sees my fall." then leaving life, earl piercy took the dead man by the hand; and said, "earl douglas, for thy life would i had lost my land! "o christ! my very heart doth bleed with sorrow for thy sake; for sure, a more renowned knight mischance did never take." a knight amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas dye, who straight in wrath did vow revenge upon the earl piercy. sir hugh montgomery was he call'd, who, with a spear most bright, well-mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely thro' the fight; and pass'd the english archers all, without all dread or fear, and through earl piercy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a veh'ment force and might he did his body gore, the spear ran through the other side a large cloth-yard, and more. so thus did both these nobles dye, whose courage none could stain; an english archer then perceiv'd the noble earl was slain. he had a bow bent in his hand, made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth-yard long up to the head drew he. against sir hugh montgomery so right his shaft he set, the grey goose-wing that was thereon in his heart's blood was wet. this fight did last from break of day till setting of the sun; for when they rung the evening-bell,[l ] the battel scarce was done. with the earl piercy, there was slain sir john of ogerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold baron. and with sir george and good sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph rabby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail, as one in doleful dumps;[l ] for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas, there was slain sir hugh montgomery, sir charles currel, that from the field one foot would never fly. sir charles murrel, of ratcliff, too, his sister's son was he; sir david lamb, so well esteem'd, yet saved could not bee. and the lord maxwell in like wise did with earl douglas dye; of twenty hundred scottish spears scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest were slain in chevy-chace, under the green-wood tree. next day did many widows come, their husbands to bewail; they wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, but all would not prevail.[l ] their bodies, bath'd in purple blood, they bore with them away: they kiss'd them dead a thousand times, when they were clad in clay. this news was brought to edinburgh, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. "o heavy news," king james did say; "scotland can witness be, i have not any captain more of such account as he." like tidings to king henry came, within as short a space, that piercy of northumberland was slaine in chevy-chace. "now god be with him," said our king, "sith 't will no better be; i trust i have within my realm five hundred as good as he. "yet shall not scot nor scotland say, but i will vengeance take, and be revenged on them all, for brave earl piercy's sake." this vow full well the king perform'd, after, on humbledown; in one day, fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown. and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands dye: thus endeth the hunting of chevy-chace, made by the earl piercy. god save the king, and bless the land in plenty, joy, and peace; and grant henceforth, that foul debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! . since.--o. b. . percy has _lions wood_. . to. . sc. the curfew bell, usually rung at eight o'clock; to which the modernizer apparently alludes, instead of the "evensong bell," or bell for vespers of the original author, before the reformation.--percy. . "i, as one in deep concern, must lament." the construction here has generally been misunderstood.--p. this phrase may help us to determine the date of the authorship of the ballad. "doleful dumps" suggested nothing ludicrous to a writer of the age of elizabeth, but not long after became burlesque. the observation is percy's. . they.--o. b. sir andrew barton. from percy's _reliques_, ii. . "the transactions which did the greatest honour to the earl of surrey and his family at this time [a. d. ], was their behaviour in the case of barton, a scotch sea-officer. this gentleman's father having suffered by sea from the portuguese, he had obtained letters of marque for his two sons to make reprisals upon the subjects of portugal. it is extremely probable, that the court of scotland granted these letters with no very honest intention. the council-board of england, at which the earl of surrey held the chief place, was daily pestered with complaints from the sailors and merchants, that barton, who was called sir andrew barton, under pretence of searching for portuguese goods, interrupted the english navigation. henry's situation at that time rendered him backward from breaking with scotland, so that their complaints were but coldly received. the earl of surrey, however, could not smother his indignation, but gallantly declared at the council-board, that while he had an estate that could furnish out a ship, or a son that was capable of commanding one, the narrow seas should not be infested. "sir andrew barton, who commanded the two scotch ships, had the reputation of being one of the ablest sea officers of his time. by his depredations, he had amassed great wealth, and his ships were very richly laden. henry, notwithstanding his situation, could not refuse the generous offer made by the earl of surrey. two ships were immediately fitted out, and put to sea with letters of marque, under his two sons, sir thomas and sir edward howard. after encountering a great deal of foul weather, sir thomas came up with the lion, which was commanded by sir andrew barton in person; and sir edward came up with the union, barton's other ship [called by hall, the bark of scotland]. the engagement which ensued was extremely obstinate on both sides; but at last the fortune of the howards prevailed. sir andrew was killed, fighting bravely, and encouraging his men with his whistle, to hold out to the last; and the two scotch ships, with their crews, were carried into the river thames [aug. , ]." (guthrie's _peerage_, as quoted by percy.) an old copy in the precious manuscript furnished the foundation for percy's edition of this noble ballad. the editor states that the text of the original was so incorrect as to require emendations from black-letter copies and from conjecture. these emendations, where they are noted, we have for the most part disregarded. we would fain believe that nothing except a defect in the manuscript could have reconciled the bishop to adopting the four lines with which the ballad now begins. the common, or black-letter copies, are somewhat abridged as well as modernized. one of these is given in the appendix. the first part. when flora with her fragrant flowers[l ] bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, and neptune with his daintye showers came to present the monthe of maye, king henrye rode to take the ayre, over the river of thames past hee; when eighty merchants of london came, and downe they knelt upon their knee. "o yee are welcome, rich merchànts, good saylors, welcome unto mee:" they swore by the rood, they were saylors good, but rich merchànts they cold not bee. "to france nor flanders dare we pass, nor bordeaux voyage dare we fare; and all for a robber that lyes on the seas, who robbs us of our merchant ware." king henrye frownd, and turned him rounde, and swore by the lord that was mickle of might, "i thought he had not beene in the world, durst have wrought england such unright." the merchants sighed, and said, "alas!" and thus they did their answer frame; "he is a proud scott, that robbs on the seas, and sir andrewe barton is his name." the king lookt over his left shoulder, and an angrye look then looked hee; "have i never a lorde in all my realme, will feitch yond traytor unto mee?" "yea, that dare i," lord charles howard sayes; "yea, that dare i, with heart and hand; if it please your grace to give me leave, myselfe will be the only man." "thou art but yong," the kyng replyed, "yond scott hath numbred manye a yeare:" "trust me, my liege, ile make him quail, or before my prince i will never appeare." "then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, and chuse them over my realme so free; besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, to guide the great shipp on the sea." the first man that lord howard chose, was the ablest gunner in all the realm, thoughe he was threescore yeeres and ten; good peter simon was his name. "peter," sais hee, "i must to the sea, to bring home a traytor live or dead; before all others i have chosen thee, of a hundred gunners to be the head." "if you, my lord, have chosen mee of a hundred gunners to be the head, then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, if i misse my marke one shilling bread." my lord then chose a boweman rare, whose active hands had gained fame;[l ] in yorkshire was this gentleman borne, and william horseley was his name. "horsley," sayd he, "i must with speede go seeke a traytor on the sea, and now of a hundred bowemen brave to be the head i have chosen thee." "if you," quoth hee, "have chosen mee of a hundred bowemen to be the head, on your main-mast ile hanged bee, if i miss twelvescore one penny bread." with pikes, and gunnes, and bowemen bold, this noble howard is gone to the sea; with a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, out at thames mouth sayled he. and days he scant had sayled three, upon the journey he tooke in hand, but there he mett with a noble shipp, and stoutely made itt stay and stand. "thou must tell me," lord howard said, "now who thou art, and what's thy name; and shewe me where thy dwelling is, and whither bound, and whence thou came." "my name is henry hunt," quoth hee, with a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; "i and my shipp doe both belong to the newcastle that stands upon tyne." "hast thou not heard, nowe, henrye hunt, as thou hast sayled by daye and by night, of a scottish robber on the seas; men call him sir andrew barton, knight?" then ever he sighed, and sayd "alas!" with a grieved mind, and well-away, "but over-well i knowe that wight; i was his prisoner yesterday. "as i was sayling uppon the sea, a burdeaux voyage for to fare, to his hach-borde he clasped me,[l ] and robd me of all my merchant ware. and mickle debts, god wot, i owe, and every man will have his owne, and i am nowe to london bounde, of our gracious king to beg a boone." "that shall not need," lord howard sais; "lett me but once that robber see, for every penny tane thee froe it shall be doubled shillings three." "nowe gode forefend," the merchant said, "that you shold seek soe far amisse! god keepe you out of that traitors hands! full litle ye wott what a man hee is. "hee is brasse within, and steele without, with beames on his topcastle stronge; and eighteen pieces of ordinance he carries on each side along. and he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, st. andrewes crosse, that is his guide; his pinnace beareth ninescore men, and fifteen canons on each side. "were ye twentye shippes, and he but one, i sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall, he wold overcome them everye one,[l ] if once his beames they doe downe fall." "this is cold comfort," sais my lord, "to wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: yet ile bring him and his shipp to shore, or to scotland hee shall carrye mee." "then a noble gunner you must have, and he must aim well with his ee, and sinke his pinnace into the sea, or else hee never orecome will bee. and if you chance his shipp to borde, this counsel i must give withall, let no man to his topcastle goe to strive to let his beams downe fall. "and seven pieces of ordinance, i pray your honour lend to mee, on each side of my shipp along, and i will lead you on the sea. a glasse ile sett, that may be seene, whether you sayle by day or night; and to-morrowe, i sweare, by nine of the clocke, you shall meet with sir andrewe barton, knight." - . from the printed copy. . from the printed copy. . the ms. has here archborde, but in part ii. v. , hachebord. . it should seem from hence, that before our marine artillery was brought to its present perfection, some naval commanders had recourse to instruments or machines, similar in use, though perhaps unlike in construction, to the heavy dolphins made of lead or iron used by the ancient greeks; which they suspended from beams or yards fastened to the mast, and which they precipitately let fall on the enemies' ships, in order to sink them, by beating holes through the bottoms of their undecked triremes, or otherwise damaging them.--percy. the second part. the merchant sett my lorde a glasse, soe well apparent in his sight, and on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, he shewed him sir andrewe barton, knight. his hachebord it was hached with gold, soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee; "nowe by my faith," lord howarde sais, "this is a gallant sight to see. "take in your ancyents, standards eke, so close that no man may them see; and put me forth a white willowe wand, as merchants use to sayle the sea." but they stirred neither top nor mast;[l ] stoutly they past sir andrew by; "what english churles are yonder," he sayd, "that can soe litle curtesye? "now by the roode, three yeares and more i have been admirall over the sea, and never an english nor portingall without my leave can passe this way." then called he forth his stout pinnàce; "fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: i sweare by the masse, yon english churles shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." with that the pinnace itt shott off; full well lord howard might it ken; for itt stroke down my lord's fore-mast, and killed fourteen of his men. "come hither, simon," sayes my lord, "looke that thy word be true, thou said; for at my main-mast thou shalt hang, if thou misse thy marke one shilling bread." simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; his ordinance he laid right lowe, he put in chaine full nine yardes long, with other great shott, lesse and moe, and he lette goe his great gunnes shott; soe well he settled itt with his ee, the first sight that sir andrew sawe, he see his pinnace sunke in the sea. and when he saw his pinnace sunke, lord, how his heart with rage did swell! "nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." when my lord sawe sir andrewe loose, within his heart hee was full faine; "nowe spread your ancyents, strike up drummes, sound all your trumpetts out amaine." "fight on, my men," sir andrewe sais, "weale, howsoever this geere will sway; itt is my lord admirall of englànd, is come to seeke mee on the sea." simon had a sonne, who shott right well, that did sir andrewe mickle scare; in att his decke he gave a shott, killed threescore of his men of warre. then henrye hunt, with rigour hott, came bravely on the other side; soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, and killed fourscore men beside. "nowe, out alas!" sir andrewe cryed, "what may a man now thinke or say? yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, he was my prisoner yesterday. "come hither to me, thou gordon good, that aye wast readye att my call; i will give thee three hundred pounds, if thou wilt let my beames downe fall." lord howard hee then calld in haste, "horselye, see thou be true in stead; for thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, if thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." then gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with might and maine; but horseley with a bearing arrowe, stroke the gordon through the braine; and he fell unto the haches again, and sore his deadlye wounde did bleede: then word went through sir andrews men, how that the gordon hee was dead. "come hither to mee, james hambilton, thou art my only sisters sonne; if thou wilt let my beames downe fall, six hundred nobles thou hast wonne."[l ] with that he swarved the main-mast tree, he swarved it with nimble art; but horseley with a broad arrowe pierced the hambilton thorough the heart. and downe he fell upon the deck, that with his blood did streame amaine: then every scott cryed, "well-away! alas a comelye youth is slaine!" all woe begone was sir andrew then, with griefe and rage his heart did swell; "go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, for i will to the topcastle mysell. "goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe, that gilded is with gold soe cleare; god be with my brother john of barton! against the portingalls hee it ware. and when he had on this armour of proofe, he was a gallant sight to see; ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, my deere brothèr, could cope with thee." "come hither, horseley," sayes my lord, "and looke your shaft that itt goe right; shoot a good shoote in time of need, and for it thou shalt be made a knight." "ile shoot my best," quoth horseley then, "your honour shall see, with might and maine; but if i were hanged at your maine-mast, i have now left but arrowes twaine." sir andrew he did swarve the tree, with right good will he swarved then, upon his breast did horseley hitt, but the arrow bounded back agen. then horseley spyed a privye place, with a perfect eye, in a secrette part; under the spole of his right arme he smote sir andrew to the heart. "fight on, my men," sir andrew sayes,[l ] "a little ime hurt, but yett not slaine; ile but lye downe and bleede a while, and then ile rise and fight againe. fight on, my men," sir andrew sayes, "and never flinche before the foe; and stand fast by st. andrewes crosse, untill you heare my whistle blowe." they never heard his whistle blow, which made their hearts waxe sore adread: then horseley sayd, "aboard, my lord, for well i wott sir andrew's dead." they boarded then his noble shipp, they boarded it with might and maine; eighteen score scots alive they found, the rest were either maimed or slaine. lord howard tooke a sword in hand, and off he smote sir andrewes head; "i must have left england many a daye, if thou wert alive as thou art dead." he caused his body to be cast over the hatchbord into the sea, and about his middle three hundred crownes: "wherever thou land, this will bury thee." thus from the warres lord howard came, and backe he sayled ore the maine; with mickle joy and triumphìng into thames mouth he came againe. lord howard then a letter wrote, and sealed it with seale and ring; "such a noble prize have i brought to your grace as never did subject to a king. "sir andrewes shipp i bring with mee, a braver shipp was never none; nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, before in england was but one."[l ] king henryes grace with royall cheere welcomed the noble howard home; "and where," said he, "is this rover stout, that i myselfe may give the doome?" "the rover, he is safe, my leige, full many a fadom in the sea; if he were alive as he is dead, i must have left england many a day. and your grace may thank four men i' the ship for the victory wee have wonne; these are william horseley, henry hunt, and peter simon, and his sonne." "to henry hunt," the king then sayd, "in lieu of what was from thee tane, a noble a day now thou shalt have, sir andrewes jewels and his chayne. and horseley thou shalt be a knight, and lands and livings shalt have store; howard shall be erle surrye hight,[l ] as howards erst have beene before. "nowe, peter simon, thou art old, i will maintaine thee and thy sonne; and the men shall have five hundred markes for the good service they have done." then in came the queene with ladyes fair, to see sir andrewe barton, knight; they weend that hee were brought on shore, and thought to have seen a gallant sight. but when they see his deadlye face, and eyes soe hollow in his head, "i wold give," quoth the king, "a thousand markes, this man were alive as hee is dead. yett for the manfull part hee playd, which fought soe well with heart and hand, his men shall have twelvepence a day, till they come to my brother kings high land." . i.e. did not salute. . pounds. ms. - . this stanza occurs also in _johnie armstrang_, vol. vi. p. . . that is the great harry, built in , at an expense of fourteen thousand pounds. "she was," says hume, "properly speaking, the first ship in the english navy. before this period, when the prince wanted a fleet, he had no other expedient than hiring or pressing ships from the merchants." - . ... erle of nottingham, and soe was never, &c. ms. flodden field. from ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. . "the battle of flodden, in northumberland, was fought the th of september, , being the fifth year of king henry the eighth (who, with a great army, was then before terouen in france), between thomas howard, earl of surrey, commander-in-chief of the english forces, and james the fourth, king of scots, with an inferior army of , men, who were entirely routed with great slaughter, their heroic sovereign being left dead upon the field. "the following ballad may possibly be as ancient as any thing we have on the subject. it is given from _the most pleasant and delectible history of john winchcomb, otherwise called jack of newberry_, written by thomas deloney, who thus speaks of it: 'in disgrace of the scots, and in remembrance of the famous atchieved victory, the commons of england made this song, which to this day is not forgotten of many.'" this ballad is very evidently not the work of deloney, but derived by him from tradition. there is a piece called _flodden field_ in herd's _scottish songs_, i. . it is made up of certain ridiculous anonymous verses, and of the stanzas written by miss jane elliot and by mrs. cockburn to the old air _the flowers of the forest_,--"i've heard them lilting," and "i've seen the smiling." the first and last lines of the first stanza of miss elliot's verses are from an ancient and now forgotten song. "i've heard them lilting at the ewes milking ......... ......... the flowers of the forest are a' wede away." a lady repeated to sir walter scott another fragment of the original ballad. "i ride single on my saddle, for the flowers of the forest are a' wede away." _minstrelsy_, iii. . king jamie hath made a vow, keep it well if he may! that he will be at lovely london upon saint james his day. "upon saint james his day at noon, at fair london will i be, and all the lords in merry scotland, they shall dine there with me." then bespake good queen margaret, the tears fell from her eye: "leave off these wars, most noble king, keep your fidelity. "the water runs swift and wondrous deep from bottom unto the brim; my brother henry hath men good enough, england is hard to win." "away," quoth he, "with this silly fool! in prison fast let her lye: for she is come of the english blood, and for these words she shall die." with that bespake lord thomas howard, the queens chamberlain that day; "if that you put queen margaret to death, scotland shall rue it alway." then in a rage king jamie did say, "away with this foolish mome! he shall be hang'd, and the other burn'd, so soon as i come home." at flodden-field the scots came in, which made our englishmen fain; at bramstone-green this battel was seen, there was king jamie slain. then presently the scots did fly, their cannons they left behind; their ensigns gay were won all away, our souldiers did beat them blind. to tell you plain, twelve thousand were slain that to the fight did stand, and many a prisoner took that day, the best in all scotland. that day made many a fatherless child,[l ] and many a widow poor, and many a scottish gay lady sate weeping in her bower.[l ] jack with a fether was lapt all in lether, his boastings were all in vain; he had such a chance with [a] new morrice-dance, he never went home again. - . this stanza is the sixth in deloney's copy, and is there clearly misplaced. . sweeping. queen jeanie. jane seymour, queen of henry viii., died shortly after giving birth to prince edward (oct. ). there was a report that the cæsarian operation had been necessary to effect the delivery, and on this story the present ballad is founded. there is a woful ditty on this subject in _the crown garland of golden roses_, percy society, vol. vi. p. (or _collection of old ballads_, ii. ). the following piece is popular throughout scotland. it is taken from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . a fragment had been previously published in jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . we have added another, but imperfect, version from a recent publication. queen jeanie, queen jeanie, travel'd six weeks and more, till women and midwives had quite gi'en her o'er; "o if ye were women as women should be, ye would send for a doctor, a doctor to me!" the doctor was called for and set by her bedside, "what aileth thee, my ladie, thine eyes seem so red?" "o doctor, o doctor, will ye do this for me, to rip up my two sides, and save my babie?" "queen jeanie, queen jeanie, that's the thing i'll ne'er do, to rip up your two sides to save your babie:" queen jeanie, queen jeanie, travel'd six weeks and more, till midwives and doctors had quite gi'en her o'er. "o if ye were doctors as doctors should be, ye would send for king henry, king henry to me:" king henry was called for, and sat by her bedside, "what aileth thee, jeanie, what aileth my bride?" "king henry, king henry, will ye do this for me, to rip up my two sides, and save my babie?" "queen jeanie, queen jeanie, that's what i'll never do, to rip up your two sides to save your babie." but with sighing and sobbing she's fallen in a swoon, her side it was ript up, and her babie was found; at this bonie babie's christ'ning there was meikle joy and mirth, but bonnie queen jeanie lies cold in the earth. six and six coaches, and six and six more, and royal king henry went mourning before; o two and two gentlemen carried her away, but royal king henry went weeping away. o black were their stockings, and black were their bands, and black were the weapons they held in their hands; o black were their mufflers, and black were their shoes, and black were the cheverons they drew on their luves. they mourned in the kitchen, and they mourn'd in the ha', but royal king henry mourn'd langest of a'. farewell to fair england, farewell for evermore, for the fair flower of england will never shine more! the death of queen jane. from _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, edited by robert bell, p. . taken down from the singing of a young gipsy girl. queen jane was in travail for six weeks or more, till the women grew tired and fain would give o'er, "o women, o women, good wives if ye be, go send for king henrie, and bring him to me!" king henrie was sent for, he came with all speed, in a gownd of green velvet from heel to the head; "king henrie, king henrie, if kind henrie you be, send for a surgeon, and bring him to me!" the surgeon was sent for, he came with all speed, in a gownd of black velvet from heel to the head; he gave her rich caudle, but the death-sleep slept she, then her right side was opened, and the babe was set free. the babe it was christened, and put out and nursed, while the royal queen jane she lay cold in the dust. * * * * * so black was the mourning, and white were the wands, yellow, yellow the torches they bore in their hands; the bells they were muffled, and mournful did play, while the royal queen jane she lay cold in the clay. six knights and six lords bore her corpse through the grounds, six dukes followed after, in black mourning gownds, the flower of old england was laid in cold clay, whilst the royal king henrie came weeping away. the murder of the king of scots. _reliques of ancient english poetry_, ii. . "the catastrophe of henry stewart, lord darnley, the unfortunate husband of mary queen of scots, is the subject of this ballad. it is here related in that partial imperfect manner, in which such an event would naturally strike the subjects of another kingdom, of which he was a native. henry appears to have been a vain, capricious, worthless young man, of weak understanding, and dissolute morals. but the beauty of his person, and the inexperience of his youth, would dispose mankind to treat him with an indulgence, which the cruelty of his murder would afterwards convert into the most tender pity and regret: and then imagination would not fail to adorn his memory with all those virtues he ought to have possessed. "darnley, who had been born and educated in england, was but in his st year when he was murdered, feb. , - . this crime was perpetrated by the earl of bothwell, not out of respect to the memory of riccio, but in order to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen. "this ballad (printed, with a few corrections, from the editor's folio ms.) seems to have been written soon after mary's escape into england in , see v. .--it will be remembered, at v. , that this princess was queen dowager of france, having been first married to francis ii., who died dec. , ."--percy. woe worth, woe worth thee, false scotlànde! for thou hast ever wrought by sleight; the worthyest prince that ever was borne, you hanged under a cloud by night. the queene of france a letter wrote, and sealed itt with harte and ringe; and bade him come scotland within, and shee wold marry and crowne him kinge. to be a king is a pleasant thing, to bee a prince unto a peere: but you have heard, and soe have i too, a man may well buy gold too deare. there was an italyan in that place, was as well beloved as ever was hee, lord david [rizzio] was his name, chamberlaine to the queene was hee. if the king had risen forth of his place, he wold have sate him downe in the cheare, and tho itt beseemed him not so well, altho the kinge had beene present there. some lords in scotlande waxed wrothe, and quarrelled with him for the nonce; i shall you tell how it befell, twelve daggers were in him att once. when the queene saw her chamberlaine was slaine, for him her faire cheeks shee did weete, and made a vowe, for a yeare and a day the king and shee wold not come in one sheete. then some of the lords they waxed wrothe, and made their vow all vehementlye, for the death of the queenes chamberlaine, the king himselfe, how he shall dye. with gun-powder they strewed his roome, and layd greene rushes in his way; for the traitors thought that very night this worthye king for to betray. to bedd the king he made him bowne; to take his rest was his desire; he was noe sooner cast on sleepe, but his chamber was on a blasing fire. up he lope, and the window brake, and hee had thirtye foote to fall; lord bodwell kept a privy watch, underneath his castle wall. "who have wee here?" lord bodwell sayd; "now answer me, that i may know." "king henry the eighth my uncle was; for his sweete sake some pitty show." "who have we here?" lord bodwell sayd; "now answer me when i doe speake." "ah, lord bodwell, i know thee well; some pitty on me i pray thee take." "ile pitty thee as much," he sayd, "and as much favor show to thee, as thou didst to the queenes chamberlaine, that day thou deemedst him to die." through halls and towers the king they ledd, through towers and castles that were nye, through an arbor into an orchàrd, there on a peare-tree hanged him hye. when the governor of scotland heard how that the worthye king was slaine, he persued the queen so bitterlye, that in scotland shee dare not remaine. but shee is fledd into merry england, and here her residence hath taine, and through the queene of englands grace, in england now shee doth remaine. the rising in the north. percy's _reliques_, i. . the subject of this ballad is the insurrection of the earls of northumberland and westmoreland, in the twelfth year of queen elizabeth, . these two noblemen were the leaders of the catholic party in the north of england, and interested themselves warmly in various projects to restore mary stuart to her liberty. when a marriage was proposed between the duke of norfolk and the scottish queen, they, with many of the first persons in the kingdom, entered zealously into the scheme, having the ulterior view, according to hume, of placing mary on the throne of england. norfolk endeavored to conceal his plans from elizabeth, until he should form a combination powerful enough to extort her consent, but the queen received information betimes, and committed the duke to the tower. several of his abettors were also taken into custody, and the two northern earls were summoned to appear at court, to answer to the charge of an intended rebellion. they had proceeded too far to trust themselves willingly in the hands of their enraged sovereign, and the summons precipitated them into an insurrection for which they were not prepared. they hastily gathered their followers, and published a manifesto, in which they declared that they maintained an unshaken allegiance to the queen, and sought only to reëstablish the religion of their ancestors, and to restore the duke of norfolk to liberty and to the queen's favor. "their common banner (on which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of christ,) was borne by an ancient gentleman, richard norton, esq., of norton-conyers: who with his sons (among whom, christopher, marmaduke, and thomas, are expressly named by camden) distinguished himself on this occasion. having entered durham, they tore the bible, &c, and caused mass to be said there: they then marched on to clifford moor near wetherbye, where they mustered their men. their intention was to have proceeded on to york; but, altering their minds, they fell upon barnard's castle, which sir george bowes held out against them for eleven days."--percy. the insurgents' army amounted to about six thousand men. the earl of sussex, supported by lord hunsdon and others, marched against them with seven thousand, and the earl of warwick with still greater forces. before these superior numbers the rebels dispersed without striking a blow. northumberland fled to the scots, by whom, as we shall see in the next ballad, he was betrayed to elizabeth. the earl of westmoreland escaped to flanders, and died there in penury. another outbreak following close upon the above was suppressed by lord hunsdon. great cruelties were exercised by the victorious party, no less than eight hundred having, it is said, suffered by the hands of the executioner. the ballad was printed by percy from two ms. copies, one of them in the editor's folio collection. "they contained considerable variations, out of which such readings were chosen as seemed most poetical and consonant to history." "the fate of the nortons," we need hardly say, forms the subject of wordsworth's _white doe of rylstone_. listen, lively lordlings all, lithe and listen unto mee, and i will sing of a noble earle, the noblest earle in the north countrìe. earle percy is into his garden gone, and after him walkes his faire ladìe: "i heard a bird sing in mine eare, that i must either fight or flee." "now heaven forefend, my dearest lord, that ever such harm should hap to thee; but goe to london to the court, and faire fall truth and honestìe." "now nay, now nay, my ladye gay, alas! thy counsell suits not mee; mine enemies prevail so fast, that at the court i may not bee." "o goe to the court yet, good my lord, and take thy gallant men with thee; if any dare to doe you wrong, then your warrant they may bee." "now nay, now nay, thou lady faire, the court is full of subtiltie; and if i goe to the court, lady, never more i may thee see." "yet goe to the court, my lord," she sayes, "and i myselfe will ride wi' thee: at court then for my dearest lord, his faithfull borrowe i will bee." now nay, now nay, my lady deare; far lever had i lose my life, than leave among my cruell foes my love in jeopardy and strife. "but come thou hither, my little foot-page, come thou hither unto mee; to maister norton thou must goe in all the haste that ever may bee. "commend me to that gentleman, and beare this letter here fro mee; and say that earnestly i praye, he will ryde in my companie." one while the little foot-page went, and another while he ran; untill he came to his journeys end the little foot-page never blan. when to that gentleman he came, down he kneeled on his knee, and tooke the letter betwixt his hands, and lett the gentleman it see. and when the letter it was redd affore that goodlye companye, i-wis, if you the truthe wold know, there was many a weepynge eye. he sayd, "come hither, christopher norton, a gallant youth thou seemst to bee; what doest thou counsell me, my sonne, now that good erle's in jeopardy?" "father, my counselle's fair and free; that erle he is a noble lord, and whatsoever to him you hight, i wold not have you breake your word." "gramercy, christopher, my sonne, thy counsell well it liketh mee, and if we speed and scape with life, well advanced shalt thou bee." "come you hither, mine nine good sonnes,[l ] gallant men i trowe you bee: how many of you, my children deare, will stand by that good erle and mee?" eight of them did answer make, eight of them spake hastilie, "o father, till the daye we dye we'll stand by that good erle and thee." "gramercy now, my children deare, you showe yourselves right bold and brave; and whethersoe'er i live or dye, a fathers blessing you shal have." "but what sayst thou, o francis norton? thou art mine oldest sonn and heire; somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast; whatever it bee, to mee declare." "father, you are an aged man; your head is white, your bearde is gray; it were a shame at these your yeares for you to ryse in such a fray." "now fye upon thee, coward francis, thou never learnedst this of mee; when thou wert yong and tender of age, why did i make soe much of thee?" "but, father, i will wend with you, unarm'd and naked will i bee; and he that strikes against the crowne, ever an ill death may he dee." then rose that reverend gentleman, and with him came a goodlye band, to join with the brave erle percy, and all the flower o' northumberland. with them the noble nevill came, the erle of westmorland was hee: at wetherbye they mustred their host, thirteen thousand faire to see. lord westmorland his ancyent raisde, the dun bull he rays'd on hye,[l ] and three dogs with golden collars were there sett out most royallye. erie percy there his ancyent spred, the halfe-moone shining all soe faire:[l ] the nortons ancyent had the crosse, and the five wounds our lord did beare. then sir george bowes he straitwaye rose, after them some spoyle to make; those noble erles turn'd backe againe, and aye they vowed that knight to take. that baron he to his castle fled to barnard castle then fled hee; the uttermost walles were eathe to win, the earles have won them presentlìe. the uttermost walles were lime and bricke, but thoughe they won them soon anone, long e'er they wan the innermost walles, for they were cut in rocke of stone. then newes unto leeve london came, in all the speede that ever might bee, and word is brought to our royall queene of the rysing in the north countrie. her grace she turned her round about, and like a royall queene shee swore, "i will ordayne them such a breakfast, as never was in the north before." shee caus'd thirty thousand men be rays'd, with horse and harneis faire to see; she caused thirty thousand men be raised, to take the earles i' th' north countrie. wi' them the false erle warwick went, th' erle sussex and the lord hunsden; untill they to yorke castle came, i-wiss they never stint ne blan. now spred thy ancyent, westmorland, thy dun bull faine would we spye: and thou, the erle o' northumberland, now rayse thy half moone up on hye. but the dun bulle is fled and gone, and the halfe moone vanished away: the erles, though they were brave and bold, against soe many could not stay. thee, norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, they doom'd to dye, alas for ruth! thy reverend lockes thee could not save, nor them their faire and blooming youthe. wi' them full many a gallant wight they cruellye bereav'd of life: and many a childe made fatherlesse, and widowed many a tender wife. . the act of attainder, th elizabeth, only mentions richard norton, the father, and _seven_ sons, and in "a list of the rebels in the late northern rebellion that are fled beyond seas," the same seven sons are named. richard norton, the father, was living long after the rebellion in spanish flanders. see sharp's _bishoprick garland_, p. . . the supporters of the nevilles earls of westmoreland were two bulls argent, ducally collar'd gold, armed or, &c. but i have not discovered the device mentioned in the ballad, among the badges, &c., given by that house. this however is certain, that, among those of the nevilles, lord abergavenny (who were of the same family), is a dun cow with a golden collar; and the nevilles of chyte in yorkshire (of the westmoreland branch), gave for their crest, in , a dog's (greyhound's) head erased.--so that it is not improbable but charles neville, the unhappy earl of westmoreland here mentioned, might on this occasion give the above device on his banner.--after all, our old minstrel's verses here may have undergone some corruption; for, in another ballad in the same folio ms., and apparently written by the same hand, containing the sequel of this lord westmoreland's history, his banner is thus described, more conformable to his known bearings: "_sett me up my faire dun bull, with gilden hornes, hee beares all soe hye_."--p. . the silver crescent is a well-known crest or badge of the northumberland family. it was probably brought home from some of the crusades against the sarazens.--p. northumberland betrayed by douglas. percy's _reliques_, i. . the earls of northumberland and westmoreland, after the dispersion of their forces took refuge with the scots on the borders. the elliots drove them from liddesdale, and they sought the protection of the armstrongs in the debatable land. northumberland took up his residence with a man of that tribe called hector of harlaw, relying on his plighted faith and on his gratitude for many past favors. by this miscreant the earl was betrayed for money to the regent murray. he was confined in lochleven castle until , when he was handed over to lord hunsden, and executed at york. we are assured that this hector, who had been rich, fell into poverty after his treachery, and became so infamous that "to take hector's cloak" was a proverb for a man who betrayed his friend. in pinkerton's _poems from the maitland ms_. (pp. - ) are three bitter invectives on this subject. in one of these we are told that the traitor eckie of harlaw said he sold the earl "to redeem his pledge," that is, says scott, the pledge which had been exacted from him for his peaceable demeanor. "the interposal of the witch-lady (v. )" hath some countenance from history; for, about twenty-five years before, the lady jane douglas, lady glamis, sister of the earl of angus, and nearly related to douglas of lough-leven, had suffered death for the pretended crime of witchcraft; who, it is presumed, is the witch-lady alluded to in verse . "the following is selected (like the former) from two copies, which contained great variations; one of them in the editor's folio ms. in the other copy some of the stanzas at the beginning of this ballad are nearly the same with what in that ms. are made to begin another ballad on the escape of the earl of westmoreland, who got safe into flanders, and is feigned in the ballad to have undergone a great variety of adventures."--percy. "how long shall fortune faile me nowe, and harrowe me with fear and dread? how long shall i in bale abide, in misery my life to lead? "to fall from my bliss, alas the while! it was my sore and heavye lott; and i must leave my native land, and i must live a man forgot. "one gentle armstrong i doe ken, a scot he is, much bound to mee; he dwelleth on the border side, to him i'll goe right privilie." thus did the noble percy 'plaine, with a heavy heart and wel-away, when he with all his gallant men on bramham moor had lost the day. but when he to the armstrongs came, they dealt with him all treacherouslye; for they did strip that noble earle, and ever an ill death may they dye! false hector to earl murray sent, to shew him where his guest did hide, who sent him to the lough-levèn, with william douglas to abide. and when he to the douglas came, he halched him right courteouslie; say'd, "welcome, welcome, noble earle, here thou shalt safelye bide with mee." when he had in lough-leven been many a month and many a day, to the regent the lord warden sent, that bannisht earle for to betray. he offered him great store of gold, and wrote a letter fair to see, saying, "good my lord, grant me my boon, and yield that banisht man to mee." earle percy at the supper sate, with many a goodly gentleman; the wylie douglas then bespake, and thus to flyte with him began. "what makes you be so sad, my lord, and in your mind so sorrowfullye? to-morrow a shootinge will bee held among the lords of the north countrye. "the butts are sett, the shooting's made, and there will be great royaltye; and i am sworne into my bille, thither to bring my lord percye." "i'll give thee my hand, thou gentle douglas, and here by my true faith," quoth hee, "if thou wilt ryde to the worldes end i will ryde in thy companye." and then bespake a lady faire, mary à douglas was her name; "you shall byde here, good english lord, my brother is a traiterous man. "he is a traitor stout and stronge, as i tell you in privitie; for he hath tane liverance of the erle,[l ] into england nowe to 'liver thee." "now nay, now nay, thou goodly lady, the regent is a noble lord: ne for the gold in all englànd the douglas wold not break his word. "when the regent was a banisht man, with me he did faire welcome find; and whether weal or woe betide, i still shall find him true and kind. "between england and scotland it wold breake truce, and friends againe they wold never bee, if they shold 'liver a banisht erle, was driven out of his own countrie." "alas! alas! my lord," she sayes, "nowe mickle is their traitorie; then lett my brother ryde his wayes, and tell those english lords from thee, "how that you cannot with him ryde, because you are in an ile of the sea,[l ] then ere my brother come againe, to edenborow castle ile carry thee. "to the lord hume i will thee bring; he is well knowne a true scots lord, and he will lose both land and life, ere he with thee will break his word." "much is my woe," lord percy sayd, "when i thinke on my own countrìe, when i thinke on the heavye happe my friends have suffered there for mee. "much is my woe," lord percy sayd, "and sore those wars my minde distresse; where many a widow lost her mate, and many a child was fatherlesse. "and now that i a banisht man shold bring such evil happe with mee, to cause my faire and noble friends to be suspect of treacherie, "this rives my heart with double woe; and lever had i dye this day, than thinke a douglas can be false, or ever he will his guest betray." "if you'll give me no trust, my lord, nor unto mee no credence yield, yet step one moment here aside, ile showe you all your foes in field." "lady, i never loved witchcraft, never dealt in privy wyle; but evermore held the high-waye of truth and honour, free from guile." "if you'll not come yourselfe, my lorde, yet send your chamberlaine with mee, let me but speak three words with him, and he shall come again to thee." james swynard with that lady went, she showed him through the weme of her ring how many english lords there were waiting for his master and him. "and who walkes yonder, my good lady, so royallye on yonder greene?" "o yonder is the lord hunsden:[l ] alas! he'll doe you drie and teene." "and who beth yonder, thou gay ladye, that walkes so proudly him beside?" "that is sir william drury," shee sayd,[l ] "a keene captaine hee is and tryde." "how many miles is itt, madàme, betwixt yond english lords and mee?" "marry, it is thrice fifty miles, to saile to them upon the sea. "i never was on english ground, ne never sawe it with mine eye, but as my book it sheweth mee, and through my ring i may descrye. "my mother shee was a witch ladye, and of her skille she learned mee; she wold let me see out of lough-leven what they did in london citìe." "but who is yond, thou lady faire, that looketh with sic an austerne face?" "yonder is sir john foster," quoth shee,[l ] "alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace." he pulled his hatt downe over his browe; he wept, in his heart he was full of woe; and he is gone to his noble lord, those sorrowful tidings him to show. "now nay, now nay, good james swynàrd, i may not believe that witch ladìe; the douglasses were ever true, and they can ne'er prove false to mee. "i have now in lough-leven been the most part of these years three, yett have i never had noe outrake, ne no good games that i cold see. "therefore i'll to yond shooting wend, as to the douglas i have hight: betide me weale, betide me woe, he ne'er shall find my promise light." he writhe a gold ring from his finger, and gave itt to that gay ladìe: sayes, "it was all that i cold save, in harley woods where i cold bee." "and wilt thou goe, thou noble lord? then farewell truth and honestìe, and farewell heart, and farewell hand, for never more i shall thee see." the wind was faire, the boatmen call'd, and all the saylors were on borde; then william douglas took to his boat, and with him went that noble lord. then he cast up a silver wand, says, "gentle lady, fare thee well!" the lady fett a sigh soe deep, and in a dead swoone down shee fell. "now let us goe back, douglas," he sayd, "a sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe; if ought befall yond lady but good, then blamed for ever i shall bee." "come on, come on, my lord," he sayes, "come on, come on, and let her bee; there's ladyes enow in lough-leven for to cheere that gay ladìe." "if you'll not turne yourself, my lord, let me goe with my chamberlaine; we will but comfort that faire lady, and wee will return to you againe." "come on, come on, my lord," he sayes, "come on, come on, and let her bee; my sister is craftye, and wold beguile a thousand such as you and mee." "when they had sayled fifty myle, now fifty mile upon the sea, hee sent his man to ask the douglas, when they shold that shooting see." "faire words," quoth he, "they make fooles faine, and that by thee and thy lord is seen; you may hap to thinke itt soone enough, ere you that shooting reach, i ween." jamye his hatt pulled over his browe, he thought his lord then was betray'd; and he is to erle percy againe, to tell him what the douglas sayd. "hold upp thy head, man," quoth his lord, "nor therefore lett thy courage fayle; he did it but to prove thy heart, to see if he cold make it quail." when they had other fifty sayld, other fifty mile upon the sea, lord percy called to douglas himselfe, sayd, "what wilt thou nowe doe with mee?" "looke that your brydle be wight, my lord, and your horse goe swift as shipp att sea; looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe, that you may pricke her while shee'll away." "what needeth this, douglas?" he sayth; "what needest thou to flyte with mee? for i was counted a horseman good before that ever i mett with thee. "a false hector hath my horse, who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe; a false armstrong hath my spurres, and all the geere belongs to mee." when they had sayled other fifty mile, other fifty mile upon the sea, they landed low by berwicke side, a deputed laird landed lord percye.[l ] then he at yorke was doomde to die, it was, alas! a sorrowful sight; thus they betrayed that noble earle, who ever was a gallant wight. . of the earl of morton, the regent.--p. . i. e. lake of leven, which hath communication with the sea. edinburgh was at that time in the hands of the opposite faction.--p. . the lord warden of the east marches.--p. . governor of berwick.--p. . warden of the middle-march.--p. . fol. ms. reads _land_, and has not the following stanza. king of scots and andrew browne. from _reliques of english poetry_, ii. . "this ballad is a proof of the little intercourse that subsisted between the scots and english, before the accession of james i. to the crown of england. the tale which is here so circumstantially related, does not appear to have had the least foundation in history, but was probably built upon some confused hearsay report of the tumults in scotland during the minority of that prince, and of the conspiracies formed by different factions to get possession of his person. it should seem from ver. to have been written during the regency, or at least before the death, of the earl of morton, who was condemned and executed june , ; when james was in his fifteenth year. "the original copy (preserved in the archives of the antiquarian society, london,) is entitled, _a new ballad, declaring the great treason conspired against the young king of scots, and how one andrew browne, an english-man, which was the king's chamberlaine, prevented the same. to the tune of milfield, or els to green-sleeves_. at the end is subjoined the name of the author, w. elderton. 'imprinted at london for yarathe james, dwelling in newgate market, over against ch. church,' in black-letter folio."--percy. this ballad was licensed to james on the th of may, . out alas! what a griefe is this, that princes subjects cannot be true, but still the devill hath some of his, will play their parts whatsoever ensue; forgetting what a grievous thing it is to offend the anointed king! alas for woe, why should it be so? this makes a sorrowful heigh ho. in scotland is a bonnie kinge, as proper a youth as neede to be, well given to every happy thing, that can be in a kinge to see: yet that unluckie country still, hath people given to craftie will. alas for woe, &c. on whitsun eve it so befell, a posset was made to give the king, whereof his ladie nurse hard tell, and that it was a poysoned thing: she cryed, and called piteouslie, "now help, or else the king shall die!" alas for woe, &c. one browne, that was an english man, and hard the ladies piteous crye, out with his sword, and bestir'd him than, out of the doores in haste to flie; but all the doores were made so fast, out of a window he got at last. alas for woe, &c. he met the bishop coming fast, having the posset in his hande: the sight of browne made him aghast, who bad him stoutly staie and stand. with him were two that ranne awa, for feare that browne would make a fray. alas, for woe, &c. "bishop," quoth browne, "what hast thou there?" "nothing at all, my friend," sayde he, "but a posset to make the king good cheere." "is it so?" sayd browne, "that will i see. first i will have thyself begin, before thou go any further in; be it weale or woe, it shall be so. this makes a sorrowful heigh ho." the bishop sayde, "browne, i doo know, thou art a young man poore and bare; livings on thee i will bestowe; let me go on, take thou no care." "no, no," quoth browne, "i will not be a traitour for all christiantie: happe well or woe, it shall be so. drink now with a sorrowfull," &c. the bishop dranke, and by and by his belly burst and he fell downe: a just rewarde for his traitery! "this was a posset indeed," quoth brown. he serched the bishop, and found the keyes, to come to the kinge when he did please. alas for woe, &c. as soon as the king got word of this, he humbly fell uppon his knee, and praysed god that he did misse to tast of that extremity: for that he did perceive and know, his clergie would betray him so: alas for woe, &c. "alas," he said, "unhappie realme, my father, and grandfather slaine:[l ] my mother banished, o extreame unhappy fate, and bitter bayne! and now like treason wrought for me-- what more unhappie realme can be!" alas for woe, &c. the king did call his nurse to his grace, and gave her twenty poundes a yeere; and trustie browne too in like case, he knighted him with gallant geere, and gave him lands and livings great, for dooing such a manly feat, as he did showe, to the bishop's woe, which made, &c. when all this treason done and past tooke not effect of traytery, another treason at the last, they sought against his majestie; how they might make their kinge away by a privie banket on a daye. alas for woe, &c. 'another time' to sell the king beyonde the seas they had decreede: three noble earles heard of this thing, and did prevent the same with speede. for a letter came, with such a charme, that they should doo their king no harme: for further woe, if they did soe, would make a sorrowful heigh hoe. the earle mourton told the douglas then, "take heede you do not offend the king; but shew yourselves like honest men obediently in every thing; for his godmother will not see[l ] her noble child misus'd to be with any woe; for if it be so, she will make," &c. god graunt all subjects may be true, in england, scotland, every where, that no such daunger may ensue, to put the prince or state in feare: that god, the highest king, may see obedience as it ought to be. in wealth or woe, god graunt it be so, to avoide the sorrowful heigh ho. . his father was henry lord darnley. his grandfather, the old earl of lenox, regent of scotland, and father of lord darnley, was murdered at stirling, sept. , .--p. . queen elizabeth. mary ambree. _reliques of ancient english poetry_, ii. . "in the year , the spaniards, under the command of alexander farnese, prince of parma, began to gain great advantages in flanders and brabant, by recovering many strongholds and cities from the hollanders, as ghent (called then by the english gaunt), antwerp, mechlin, &c. see stow's _annals_, p. . some attempt made with the assistance of english volunteers to retrieve the former of those places, probably gave occasion to this ballad. i can find no mention of our heroine in history, but the following rhymes rendered her famous among our poets. ben jonson often mentions her, and calls any remarkable virago by her name. see his _epic[oe]ne_, first acted in , act , sc. : his _tale of a tub_, act , sc. : and his masque entitled _the fortunate isles_, , where he quotes the very words of the ballad, ---- mary ambree, (who marched so free to the siege of gaunt, and death could not daunt, as the ballad doth vaunt) were a braver wight, &c. she is also mentioned in fletcher's _scornful lady_, act , _sub finem_. "this ballad is printed from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection, improved from the editor's folio ms., and by conjecture. the full title is, "_the valourous acts performed at gaunt by the brave bonnie lass mary ambree, who, in revenge of her lovers death, did play her part most gallantly_". _the tune is_, the blind beggar, &c."--percy. when captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte, did march to the siege of the citty of gaunt, they mustred their souldiers by two and by three, and the formost in battle was mary ambree. when [the] brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,[l ] who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, because he was slaine most treacherouslìe, then vowd to revenge him mary ambree. she clothed herselfe from the top to the toe, in buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; a faire shirt of male then slipped on shee: was not this a brave bonny lass, mary ambree? a helmett of proofe shee strait did provide, a stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side, on her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee: was not this a brave bonny lass, mary ambree? then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, bidding all such, as wold, [to] bee of her band; to wayte on her person came thousand and three: was not this a brave bonny lass, mary ambree? "my soldiers," she saith, "soe valliant and bold, nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; still formost in battell myselfe will i bee:" was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, "soe well thou becomest this gallant array, thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree, noe mayden was ever like mary ambree." shee cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, with ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife, with brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free; was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? "before i will see the worst of you all to come into danger of death or of thrall, this hand and this life i will venture so free:" was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array, gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; seven howers in skirmish continued shee: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? she filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, and her enemyes bodyes with bullets so hott; for one of her owne men a score killed shee: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? and when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, away all her pellets and powder had sent, straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, at length she was forced to make a retyre; then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee: was not this a brave bonny lassee, mary ambree? her foes they besett her on everye side, as thinking close siege shee cold never abide; to beate down the walles they all did decree: but stoutlye deffyd them brave mary ambree. then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, and mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, there daring their captaines to match any three: o what a brave captaine was mary ambree! "now saye, english captaine, what woldest thou give to ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:" then smiled sweetlye brave mary ambree. "ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?" "a knight, sir, of england, and captaine soe free, who shortleye with us a prisoner must bee." "no captaine of england; behold in your sight two brests in my bosome, and therfore no knight: noe knight, sirs, of england, nor captaine you see, but a poor simple mayden called mary ambree." "but art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre? if england doth yield such brave mayden as thee, full well may they conquer, faire mary ambree." the prince of great parma heard of her renowne who long had advanced for englands faire crowne; hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, and offerd rich presents to mary ambree. but this virtuous mayden despised them all: "ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall; a mayden of england, sir, never will bee the whore of a monarcke," quoth mary ambree. then to her owne country shee backe did returne, still holding the foes of faire england in scorne; therfore english captaines of every degree sing forth the brave valours of mary ambree. . so p. c. sir john major in ms. brave lord willoughbey. percy's _reliques_, ii. . "peregrine bertie, lord willoughby of eresby, had, in the year , distinguished himself at the siege of zutphen, in the low countries. he was the year after made general of the english forces in the united provinces, in room of the earl of leicester, who was recalled. this gave him an opportunity of signalizing his courage and military skill in several actions against the spaniards. one of these, greatly exaggerated by popular report, is probably the subject of this old ballad, which, on account of its flattering encomiums on english valour, hath always been a favourite with the people. "lord willoughbie died in .--both norris and turner were famous among the military men of that age. "the subject of this ballad (which is printed from an old black-letter copy, with some conjectural emendations) may possibly receive illustration from what chapman says in the dedication to his version of homer's _frogs and mice_, concerning the brave and memorable retreat of sir john norris, with only men, through the whole spanish army, under the duke of parma, for three miles together." percy. lord willoughby was son of that duchess of suffolk, whose extraordinary adventures, while in exile on the continent during the reign of queen mary, are the subject of an often-printed ballad called the _duchess of suffolk's calamity_. see _strange histories_, percy society, iii. , and the appendix to this volume. the fifteenth day of july, with glistering spear and shield, a famous fight in flanders was foughten in the field: the most couragious officers were english captains three; but the bravest man in battel was brave lord willoughbèy. the next was captain norris, a valiant man was hee; the other captain turner, from field would never flee. with fifteen hundred fighting men, alas! there were no more, they fought with fourteen thousand then, upon the bloody shore. "stand to it, noble pikemen, and look you round about: and shoot you right, you bow-men, and we will keep them out. you musquet and calìver men, do you prove true to me: i'le be the formost man in fight," says brave lord willoughbèy. and then the bloody enemy they fiercely did assail, and fought it out most furiously, not doubting to prevail. the wounded men on both sides fell, most pitious for to see, yet nothing could the courage quell of brave lord willoughbèy. for seven hours, to all mens view, this fight endured sore, until our men so feeble grew that they could fight no more; and then upon dead horses, full savourly they eat, and drank the puddle water, they could no better get. when they had fed so freely, they kneeled on the ground, and praised god devoutly for the favour they had found; and beating up their colours, the fight they did renew, and turning tow'rds the spaniard, a thousand more they slew. the sharp steel-pointed arrows, and bullets thick did fly; then did our valiant soldiers charge on most furiously: which made the spaniards waver; they thought it best to flee; they fear'd the stout behaviour of brave lord willoughbèy. then quoth the spanish general, "come, let us march away; i fear we shall be spoiled all if here we longer stay; for yonder comes lord willoughbey, with courage fierce and fell; he will not give one inch of way for all the devils in hell." and then the fearful enemy was quickly put to flight, our men persued couragiously, and caught their forces quite; but at [the] last they gave a shout, which ecchoed through the sky; "god and st. george for england!" the conquerers did cry. this news was brought to england with all the speed might be, and soon our gracious queen was told of this same victory. "o this is brave lord willoughbey, my love that ever won; of all the lords of honour, 'tis he great deeds hath done." to the souldiers that were maimed and wounded in the fray, the queen allowed a pension of fifteen pence a day; and from all costs and charges she quit and set them free: and this she did all for the sake of brave lord willoughbèy. then courage, noble englishmen, and never be dismaid; if that we be but one to ten, we will not be afraid to fight with foraign enemies, and set our nation free: and thus i end the bloody bout of brave lord willoughbèy. the bonny earl of murray. from _the tea-table miscellany_, ii. . in consequence of a suspicion that the earl of murray had been party to an attempt of his cousin, the notorious bothwell, against the person of the king (james vi.), a commission was issued for bringing murray before the sovereign for examination. the arrest was inconsiderately entrusted to the earl of huntly, murray's mortal enemy. the young earl was at that time peacefully residing at dunnibirsel, the house of his mother, lady downe. huntly surrounded the place and summoned the inmates to surrender, and the demand not being complied with, set fire to the mansion. murray escaped from the flames, but was overtaken by his foes and savagely slain. the event took place on the night of the th of february, . the youth, beauty, and accomplishments of the victim of this outrage made him a favourite with the people, and there was a universal clamor for revenge. on the th of the month, proclamation was made for all noblemen and barons, in a great number of shires, to rise in arms, to join the king for the pursuit of the earl of huntly, who, however, surrendered himself, and was dismissed, on security for his appearance to answer for the crime. the moderation of james gave rise to a scandalous report, that the king countenanced the murderer, out of jealousy for the favor with which the bonny earl was regarded by the queen. the ballad of _young waters_ (vol. iii. p. ) has, without convincing reasons, been supposed to be founded on the story of the earl of murray. the first of the two pieces which follow is from ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_. the second, which may perhaps be a part of the same ballad, was first printed in finlay's collection. ye highlands, and ye lawlands, o where have you been? they have slain the earl of murray, and they laid him on the green. "now wae be to thee, huntly! and wherefore did you sae? i bade you bring him wi' you, but forbade you him to slay." he was a braw gallant, and he rid at the ring; and the bonny earl of murray, o he might hae been a king. he was a braw gallant, and he play'd at the ba'; and the bonny earl of murray was the flower amang them a'. he was a braw gallant, and he play'd at the glove; and the bonny earl of murray, o he was the queen's love. o lang will his lady look o'er the castle down, ere she see the earl of murray come sounding thro' the town. the bonnie earl o' murray. from finlay's _scottish ballads_, ii. . "open the gates, and let him come in; he is my brother huntly, he'll do him nae harm." the gates they were opent, they let him come in; but fause traitor huntly, he did him great harm. he's ben and ben, and ben to his bed; and with a sharp rapier he stabbed him dead. the lady came down the stair, wringing her hands; "he has slain the earl o' murray, the flower o' scotland." but huntly lap on his horse, rade to the king: "ye're welcome hame, huntly, and whare hae ye been? "whare hae ye been? and how hae ye sped?" "i've killed the earl o' murray, dead in his bed." "foul fa' you, huntly! and why did ye so? you might have ta'en the earl o' murray and saved his life too." "her bread it's to bake, her yill is to brew; my sister's a widow, and sair do i rue. "her corn grows ripe, her meadows grow green, but in bonny dinnibristle i darena be seen." the winning of cales. this is one of many exulting effusions which were called forth by the taking of cadiz (vulgarly called cales). the town was captured on the st of june, , the earl of effingham being high-admiral of the fleet, and essex general of the land forces. sir w. raleigh, lord thomas howard, and other distinguished soldiers had commands in the expedition. the praise here bestowed on essex's humanity was richly deserved, and the booty taken by the conquerors is not exaggerated. the whole loss of the spaniards, in their city and their fleet, was estimated at twenty millions of ducats. we give this ballad from deloney's _garland of good will_, as reprinted by the percy society, vol. xxx. p. . the copy in the _reliques_ (ii. ), which was corrected by the editor, differs but slightly from the present. long had the proud spaniards advancèd to conquer us, threatening our country with fire and sword; often preparing their navy most sumptuous, with all the provision that spain could afford. dub a-dub, dub, thus strike the drums, tan-ta-ra, ta-ra-ra, the englishman comes. to the seas presently went our lord admiral, with knights couragious, and captains full good; the earl of essex, a prosperous general, with him preparèd to pass the salt flood. dub a-dub, &c. at plymouth speedily, took they ships valiantly; braver ships never were seen under sail; with their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head; now, bragging spaniards, take heed of your tail. dub a-dub, &c. unto cales cunningly, came we most happily, where the kings navy did secretly ride; being upon their backs, piercing their buts of sack, ere that the spaniards our coming descry'd. tan-ta-ra, ta-ra-ra, the englishman comes; bounce a-bounce, bounce a-bounce, off went the guns. great was the crying, running and riding, which at that season was made at that place; then beacons were firèd, as need was requirèd; to hide their great treasure, they had little space: "alas!" they cryèd, "english men comes." there you might see the ships, how they were firèd fast, and how the men drown'd themselves in the sea; there you may hear them cry, wail and weep piteously; when as they saw no shift to escape thence away. dub a-dub, &c. the great saint philip, the pride of the spaniards, was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; but the saint andrew, and eke the saint matthew, we took in fight manfully, and brought them away. dub a-dub, &c. the earl of essex, most valiant and hardy, with horsemen and footmen march'd towards the town; the enemies which saw them, full greatly affrighted, did fly for their safeguard, and durst not come down. dub a-dub, &c. "now," quoth the noble earl, "courage, my soldiers all! fight, and be valiant, and spoil you shall have; and well rewarded all, from the great to the small; but look that the women and children you save." dub a-dub, &c. the spaniards at that sight, saw 'twas in vain to fight, hung up their flags of truce, yielding the town; we march'd in presently, decking the walls on high with our english colours, which purchas'd renown. dub a-dub, &c. ent'ring the houses then, and of the richest men, for gold and treasure we searchèd each day; in some places we did find pye baking in the oven, meat at the fire roasting, and men run away. dub a-dub, &c. full of rich merchandise, every shop we did see, damask and sattins and velvet full fair; which soldiers measure out by the length of their swords; of all commodities, each one hath share. dub a-dub, &c. thus cales was taken, and our brave general march'd to the market-place, there he did stand; there many prisoners of good account were took; many crav'd mercy, and mercy they found. dub a-dub, &c. when as our general saw they delayèd time, and would not ransom the town as they said, with their fair wainscots, their presses and bedsteads, their joint-stools and tables, a fire we made: and when the town burnt in a flame, with tan-ta-ra, tan-ta-ra-ra, from thence we came. sir john suckling's campaign. "when the scottish covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the english borders in , many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expense. among these none were more distinguished than the gallant sir john suckling, who raised a troop of horse, so richly accoutred, that it cost him , _l._ the like expensive equipment of other parts of the army made the king remark, that "the scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the englishmen's fine cloaths." when they came to action, the rugged scots proved more than a match for the fine showy english: many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of sir john suckling's." percy. this scoffing ballad, sometimes attributed to suckling himself, is taken from the _musarum deliciæ_ of sir john mennis and dr. james smith (p. of the reprint, _upon sir john sucklings most warlike preparations for the scotish warre_). the former is said by wood to have been the author. percy's copy (_reliques_, ii. ) has one or two different readings.--the first stanza is a parody on _john dory_. sir john got him an ambling nag, to scotland for to ride-a, with a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, to guard him on every side-a. no errant-knight ever went to fight with halfe so gay a bravado, had you seen but his look, you'ld have sworn on a book, hee'ld have conquer'd a whole armado. the ladies ran all to the windowes to see so gallant and warlike a sight-a, and as he pass'd by, they began to cry, "sir john, why will you go fight-a?" but he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on, his heart did not relent-a; for, till he came there, he shew'd no fear;[l ] till then why should he repent-a? the king (god bless him!) had singular hopes of him and all his troop-a: the borderers they, as they met him on the way, for joy did hollow and whoop-a. none lik'd him so well as his own colonel, who took him for john de weart-a;[l ] but when there were shows of gunning and blows, my gallant was nothing so peart-a. for when the scots army came within sight, and all men prepared to fight-a, he ran to his tent; they ask'd what he meant; he swore he must needs goe s----- a. the colonel sent for him back agen, to quarter him in the van-a, but sir john did swear, he came not there to be kill'd the very first man-a. to cure his fear, he was sent to the rere, some ten miles back, and more-a; where he did play at tre trip for hay, and ne'er saw the enemy more-a. but now there is peace, he's returned to increase his money, which lately he spent-a; but his lost honor must still lye in the dust; at barwick away it went-a. . for till he came there, what had he to fear; or why should he repent-a? percy. . john de wert was a german general of reputation, and the terror of the french in the reign of louis xiii. hence his name became proverbial in france, where he was called de vert. percy. the battle of philiphaugh. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . by a rapid series of extraordinary victories, (see _the haws of cromdale_, and _the battle of alford_ in the appendix,) montrose had subdued scotland to the royal arms, from the grampians to edinburgh. after taking possession of the capital, he marched forward to the frontiers, with the intention of completing the subjugation of the southern provinces, and even of leading his wild array into england to the support of king charles. having traversed the border, and strengthened his army (greatly diminished by the departure of the irish and many of the highlanders) with some small reinforcements, montrose encamped on the th of september, , at philiphaugh, a large plain, separated by the river ettrick from the town of selkirk, and extending in an easterly direction from a wooded hill, called the harehead-wood, to a high ground which forms the banks of the river tweed. here the infantry were very conveniently disposed, while the general took up his quarters with all his cavalry at selkirk, thus interposing a river between his horse and foot. this extraordinary error, whether rashness or oversight, was destined to be severely expiated. the very next morning, the covenanters, under general david lesly, recalled from england by the danger threatened their cause by the victories of montrose, crossed the ettrick and fell on the encampment of the infantry, unperceived by a single scout. a hopeless discomfiture was the natural consequence. montrose, roused by the firing, arrived with a few of his cavalry too late to redeem the day, and beheld his army slaughtered, or scattered in a retreat in which he was himself fain to join. the fruit of all his victories was lost in this defeat, and he was never again able to make head in scotland against the covenanters. the following ballad was first printed by sir walter scott, with prefatory remarks which we have here abridged. it is preserved by tradition in selkirkshire, and coincides closely with historical fact. on philiphaugh a fray began, at hairhead-wood it ended; the scots out o'er the græmes they ran, sae merrily they bended. sir david frae the border came, wi' heart an' hand came he; wi' him three thousand bonny scots, to bear him company. wi' him three thousand valiant men, a noble sight to see! a cloud o' mist them weel conceal'd, as close as e'er might be. when they came to the shaw burn,[l ] said he, "sae weel we frame, i think it is convenient that we should sing a psalm."[l ] when they came to the lingly burn,[l ] as daylight did appear, they spy'd an aged father, and he did draw them near. "come hither, aged father!" sir david he did cry, "and tell me where montrose lies, with all his great army." "but first you must come tell to me, if friends or foes you be; i fear you are montrose's men, come frae the north country." "no, we are nane o' montrose's men, nor e'er intend to be; i am sir david lesly, that's speaking unto thee." "if you're sir david lesly, as i think weel ye be, i am sorry ye hae brought so few into your company. "there's fifteen thousand armed men[l ] encamped on yon lee; ye'll never be a bite to them, for aught that i can see. "but halve your men in equal parts, your purpose to fulfill; let ae half keep the water side, the rest gae round the hill. "your nether party fire must, then beat a flying drum; and then they'll think the day's their ain, and frae the trench they'll come. "then, those that are behind them, maun gie shot, baith grit and sma'; and so, between your armies twa, ye may make them to fa'." "o were ye ever a soldier?" sir david lesly said; "o yes; i was at solway flow,[l ] where we were all betray'd. "again i was at curst dunbar, and was a pris'ner ta'en; and many weary night and day in prison i hae lien." "if ye will lead these men aright, rewarded shall ye be; but, if that ye a traitor prove, i'll hang thee on a tree." "sir, i will not a traitor prove; montrose has plunder'd me; i'll do my best to banish him away frae this country." he halved his men in equal parts, his purpose to fulfill; the one part kept the water side, the other gaed round the hill. the nether party fired brisk, then turn'd and seem'd to rin; and then they a' came frae the trench, and cry'd, "the day's our ain!" the rest then ran into the trench, and loosed their cannons a': and thus, between his armies twa, he made them fast to fa'. now let us a' for lesly pray, and his brave company, for they hae vanquish'd great montrose, our cruel enemy. . a small stream that joins the ettrick near selkirk, on the south side of the river. s. . various reading: "that we should take a dram." s. . a brook which falls into the ettrick, from the north, a little above the shaw burn. s. . montrose's forces amounted to twelve or fifteen hundred foot, and about a thousand cavalry. lesly had five or six thousand men, mostly horse. . it is a strange anachronism, to make this aged father state himself to have been at the battle of solway flow, which was fought a hundred years before philiphaugh; and a still stranger, to mention that of dunbar, which did not take place till five years after montrose's defeat. s. the gallant grahams. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. in this lament for the melancholy fate of montrose and his heroic companions, it was clearly the humble minstrel's aim to sketch the chief incidents in the great marquis's career as the champion and the martyr of royalty. the derangements and omissions which may be found in the verses as they now stand are but the natural effects of time. the ballad was first published in scott's _minstrelsy_, as obtained from tradition, with enlargements and corrections from an old printed copy (entitled _the gallant grahams of scotland_) furnished by ritson. the summer following the rout at philiphaugh, king charles committed himself to the treacherous protection of the presbyterians. they required of him that his faithful lieutenant should at once disband his forces and leave the country. during three years of exile, montrose resided at various foreign courts, either quite inactive, or cultivating the friendship of the continental sovereigns, by whom he was overwhelmed with attentions and honors. the execution of the king drew from him a solemn oath "before god, angels, and men," that he would devote the rest of his life to the avenging the death of his master and reëstablishing his son on the throne. he received from charles ii. a renewal of his commission as captain-general in scotland, and while charles was treating with the commissioners of the estates concerning his restoration (negotiations which montrose regarded with no favor), set out for the orkneys with a few hundred men, mostly germans. his coming, even with this feeble band, struck a great terror into the estates, and lesly was ordered to march against him with four thousand men. destitute of horse to bring him intelligence, montrose was surprised at corbiesdale, on the confines of ross-shire, by a body of covenanting cavalry under colonel strachan, which had been sent forward to check his progress. the whole of his little army was destroyed or made prisoners. montrose escaped from the field after a desperate resistance, and finally gave himself up to macleod of assaint, who sold him to his enemies for four hundred bolls of meal! "he was tried," says scott, "for what was termed treason against the estates of the kingdom; and, despite the commission of charles for his proceedings, he was condemned to die by a parliament who acknowledged charles to be their king, and whom, on that account only, montrose acknowledged to be a parliament." (see scott's _minstrelsy_, hume, ch. lx., and napier's _montrose and the covenanters_.) now, fare thee well, sweet ennerdale[l ] baith kith and countrie i bid adieu; for i maun away, and i may not stay, to some uncouth land which i never knew. to wear the blue i think it best,[l ] of all the colours that i see; and i'll wear it for the gallant grahams, that are banished from their countrie. i have no gold, i have no land, i have no pearl nor precious stane; but i wald sell my silken snood, to see the gallant grahams come hame. in wallace days, when they began, sir john the graham did bear the gree[l ] through all the lands of scotland wide: he was a lord of the south countrie. and so was seen full many a time; for the summer flowers did never spring, but every graham, in armour bright, would then appear before the king. they were all drest in armour sheen, upon the pleasant banks of tay; before a king they might be seen, these gallant grahams in their array. at the goukhead our camp we set, our leaguer down there for to lay; and, in the bonny summer light, we rode our white horse and our gray. * * * * * our false commander sold our king unto his deadly enemie, who was the traitor, cromwell, then; so i care not what they do with me. they have betray'd our noble prince, and banish'd him from his royal crown; but the gallant grahams have ta'en in hand for to command those traitors down. * * * * * in glen-prosen we rendezvous'd,[l ] march'd to glenshie by night and day, and took the town of aberdeen, and met the campbells in their array. five thousand men, in armour strong, did meet the gallant grahams that day at inverlochie, where war began, and scarce two thousand men were they. gallant montrose, that chieftain bold, courageous in the best degree, did for the king fight well that day; the lord preserve his majestie! nathaniel gordon, stout and bold,[l ] did for king charles wear the blue; but the cavaliers they all were sold, and brave harthill, a cavalier too.[l ] and newton-gordon, burd-alone,[l ] and dalgatie, both stout and keen,[l ] and gallant veitch upon the field,[l ] a braver face was never seen. now, fare ye weel, sweet ennerdale! countrie and kin i quit ye free; cheer up your hearts, brave cavaliers, for the grahams are gone to high germany. * * * * * now brave montrose he went to france, and to germany, to gather fame; and bold aboyne is to the sea, young huntly is his noble name.[l ] montrose again, that chieftain bold, back unto scotland fair he came, for to redeem fair scotland's land, the pleasant, gallant, worthy graham! at the water of carron he did begin, and fought the battle to the end; where there were kill'd, for our noble king, two thousand of our danish men.[l ] gilbert menzies, of high degree,[l ] by whom the king's banner was borne; for a brave cavalier was he, but now to glory he is gone. then woe to strachan, and hacket baith![l ] and, leslie, ill death may thou die! for ye have betray'd the gallant grahams, who aye were true to majestie. and the laird of assaint has seized montrose, and had him into edinburgh town; and frae his body taken the head, and quarter'd him upon a trone. and huntly's gone the self-same way,[l ] and our noble king is also gone; he suffer'd death for our nation, our mourning tears can ne'er be done. but our brave young king is now come home, king charles the second in degree; the lord send peace into his time, and god preserve his majestie! . a corruption of endrickdale. the principal and most ancient possessions of the montrose family lie along the water of endrick, in dumbartonshire. s. . about the time when montrose first occupied aberdeen ( ) the covenanters began to wear a blue ribbon, first as a scarf, afterwards in bunches in their caps. hence the phrase of a true blue whig. the blue ribbon was one of "montrose's whimsies," and seems to have been retained by his followers (see v. ) after he had left the covenanters for the king. . the faithful friend and adherent of the immortal wallace, slain at the battle of falkirk. s. . glen-prosen is in angus-shire. s. . of the family of gicht in aberdeenshire. he was taken at philiphaugh, and executed the th of january, . . leith, of harthill, was a determined loyalist, and hated the covenanters, by whom he had been severely treated. s. . newton, for obvious reasons, was a common appellation of an estate, or barony, where a new edifice had been erected. hence, for distinction's sake, it was anciently compounded with the name of the proprietor; as, newton-edmonstone, newton-don, newton-gordon, &c. of newtown, i only observe, that he was, like all his clan, a steady loyalist, and a follower of montrose. s. . sir francis hay, of dalgatie, a steady cavalier, and a gentleman of great gallantry and accomplishments. he was a faithful follower of montrose, and was taken prisoner with him at his last fatal battle. he was condemned to death with his illustrious general. s. . i presume this gentleman to have been david veitch, brother to veitch of dawick, who, with many other of the peebles-shire gentry, was taken at philiphaugh. s. . james, earl of aboyne, who fled to france, and there died heart-broken. it is said his death was accelerated by the news of king charles's execution. he became representative of the gordon family (or young huntly, as the ballad expresses it) in consequence of the death of his elder brother, george, who fell in the battle of alford. s. . montrose's foreign auxiliaries, who, by the way, did not exceed in all. s. . gilbert menzies, younger of pitfoddells, carried the royal banner in montrose's last battle. it bore the headless corpse of charles i., with this motto, "_judge and revenge my cause, o lord!_" menzies proved himself worthy of this noble trust, and, obstinately refusing quarter, died in defence of his charge. montrose's _memoirs_. s. . sir charles hacket, an officer in the service of the estates. s. . george gordon, second marquis of huntly, one of the very few nobles in scotland who had uniformly adhered to the king from the very beginning of the troubles, was beheaded by the sentence of the parliament of scotland (so calling themselves) upon the d march, , one month and twenty-two days after the martyrdom of his master. s. the battle of loudon hill. graham of claverhouse and balfour of kinloch, commonly called burly, the principal persons mentioned in this ballad, are characters well known to the readers of _old mortality_, in the earlier chapters of which the skirmish at loudon hill is described. a few weeks after the memorable assassination of archbishop sharpe, robert hamilton, a fierce cameronian, burly, and a few others of the proscribed "westlan' men" resolved to take up arms against the government. they began their demonstrations by entering the royal burgh of rutherglen, on the th of may, (which, as the anniversary of the restoration, was appointed by parliament to be kept as a holyday) extinguishing the bonfires made in honor of the occasion, and burning at the cross certain acts in favor of prelacy and for the suppression of conventicles. after this exploit, and affixing to the cross a solemn protest against the obnoxious acts, they encamped at loudon hill, being by this time increased to the number of five or six hundred men. claverhouse was in garrison at glasgow, and immediately marched against the insurgents, with about a hundred and fifty cavalry. hamilton, the commander of the whigs, had skilfully posted his men in a boggy strait with a broad ditch in front, and the dragoons in attempting to charge were thrown into utter disorder. at this critical moment they were vigorously attacked by the rebels and easily routed. claverhouse barely escaped being taken prisoner, and lost some twenty of his troopers, among them his cornet, robert graham, whose fate is alluded to in the ballad. burly, though not the captain, was a prominent leader in this action. see scott's _minstrelsy_, vol. ii. , _et seq._ you'l marvel when i tell ye o' our noble burly and his train, when last he march'd up through the land, wi' sax-and-twenty westland men. than they i ne'er o' braver heard, for they had a' baith wit and skill; they proved right well, as i heard tell, as they cam up o'er loudon hill. weel prosper a' the gospel lads, that are into the west countrie, aye wicked claver'se to demean, and aye an ill deid may he die! for he's drawn up i' battle rank, an' that baith soon an' hastilie; but they wha live till simmer come, some bludie days for this will see. but up spak cruel claver'se, then, wi' hastie wit, an' wicked skill; "gae fire on yon westlan' men; i think it is my sov'reign's will." but up bespake his cornet, then, "it's be wi' nae consent o' me! i ken i'll ne'er come back again, an' mony mae as weel as me. "there is not ane of a' yon men, but wha is worthy other three; there is na ane amang them a', that in his cause will stap to die. "an' as for burly, him i knaw; he's a man of honour, birth, and fame; gie him a sword into his hand, he'll fight thysell an' other ten." but up spake wicked claver'se, then, i wat his heart it raise fu' hie! and he has cried that a' might hear, "man, ye hae sair deceived me. "i never ken'd the like afore, na, never since i came frae hame, that you sae cowardly here suld prove, an' yet come of a noble græme." but up bespake his cornet then, "since that it is your honour's will, mysell shall be the foremost man that shall gie fire on loudon hill. "at your command i'll lead them on, but yet wi' nae consent o' me; for weel i ken i'll ne'er return, and mony mae as weel as me." then up he drew in battle rank; i wat he had a bonny train! but the first time that bullets flew, aye he lost twenty o' his men. then back he came the way he gaed, i wat right soon and suddenly! he gave command amang his men, and sent them back, and bade them flee. then up came burly, bauld an' stout, wi's little train o' westland men, wha mair than either aince or twice in edinburgh confined had been. they hae been up to london sent, an' yet they're a' come safely down; sax troop o' horsemen they hae beat, and chased them into glasgow town. the battle oe bothwell bridge. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . the success of the cameronians at loudon hill induced a considerable number of the moderate presbyterians to join the army of the insurgents. but though increased numbers gave the revolt a more formidable appearance, they cannot be said to have added much to the strength of the rebels, since there was no concert between the two factions, each having its own set of officers, and issuing contrary orders at the same time. an army of ten thousand men under the duke of monmouth advanced from edinburgh against these distracted allies, who, in all not more than four thousand, were encamped near hamilton, on the western side of the clyde, and had possession of the bridge between that point and the village of bothwell. while the duke was preparing to force a passage, the more moderate of the whigs offered terms, and while they were debating the duke's reply, the cameronians, who bravely defended the bridge, were compelled to abandon their post. the duke's army then crossed the river without opposition, because the rebels were at that juncture occupied with cashiering their officers and electing new ones. the first discharge of monmouth's cannon caused the cavalry of the covenanters to wheel about, and their flight threw the foot into irrecoverable disorder. four hundred of the rebels were killed, and a body of twelve hundred surrendered at discretion, and were preserved from death by the clemency of the duke. this action took place on the d of june, . scott informs us that there were two gordons of earlstoun engaged in the rebellion, a father and son. the former was not in the battle, but was met hastening to it by english dragoons, and was killed on his refusing to surrender. the son, who is supposed to be the person mentioned in the ballad, was of the milder presbyterians, and fought only for freedom of conscience and relief from the tyrannical laws against non-conformists. he escaped from the battle, and after being several times condemned to die, was finally set at liberty, and restored to his forfeited estates. in this ballad claverhouse's unsparing pursuit of the fugitives is imputed to a desire to revenge the death of his kinsman at loudon hill, and his anger at being thwarted is, with great simplicity, asserted to have led to the execution of monmouth. scott's copy of this ballad was given from recitation. in the first series of laing's _fugitive scottish poetry_, there is an amusingly prosaic covenanting ditty upon this subject, called _bothwell lines_, and in the second series, a cavalier song, entitled the _battell of bodwell bridge, or the kings cavileers triumph_. "o, billie, billie, bonny billie, will ye go to the wood wi' me? we'll ca' our horse hame masterless, an' gar them trow slain men are we." "o no, o no!" says earlstoun, "for that's the thing that mauna be; for i am sworn to bothwell hill, where i maun either gae or die." so earlstoun rose in the morning, an' mounted by the break o' day; an' he has joined our scottish lads, as they were marching out the way. "now, farewell, father, and farewell, mother, and fare ye weel, my sisters three; an' fare ye weel, my earlstoun, for thee again i'll never see!" so they're awa' to bothwell hill, an' waly they rode bonnily! when the duke o' monmouth saw them comin', he went to view their company. "ye're welcome, lads," the monmouth said, "ye're welcome, brave scots lads, to me; and sae are you, brave earlstoun, the foremost o' your company! "but yield your weapons ane an a', o yield your weapons, lads, to me; for gin ye'll yield your weapons up, ye'se a' gae hame to your country." out then spak a lennox lad, and waly but he spoke bonnily! "i winna yield my weapons up, to you nor nae man that i see." then he set up the flag o' red, a' set about wi' bonny blue; "since ye'll no cease, and be at peace, see that ye stand by ither true." they stell'd their cannons on the height, and showr'd their shot down in the howe; an' beat our scots lads even down, thick they lay slain on every knowe. as e'er you saw the rain down fa', or yet the arrow frae the bow,-- sae our scottish lads fell even down, an' they lay slain on every knowe. "o hold your hand," then monmouth cry'd, "gie quarters to yon men for me!" but wicked claver'se swore an oath, his cornet's death revenged sud be. "o hold your hand," then monmouth cry'd, "if onything you'll do for me; hold up your hand, you cursed græme, else a rebel to our king ye'll be." then wicked claver'se turn'd about, i wot an angry man was he; and he has lifted up his hat, and cry'd, "god bless his majesty!" than he's awa' to london town, aye e'en as fast as he can dree; fause witnesses he has wi' him ta'en, and ta'en monmouth's head frae his body. alang the brae, beyond the brig, mony brave man lies cauld and still; but lang we'll mind, and sair we'll rue, the bloody battle of bothwell hill. the battle of killiecrankie. this battle was fought on the evening of the th of july, , a little to the north of the pass of killiecrankie, in the highlands of perthshire, between king william's army under general mackay, and a body of highlanders under the renowned claverhouse, the bravest and most faithful adherent of the house of stuart. mackay's troops, which were partly dutch and partly english, amounted to , foot and two companies of horse. the highlanders were not much more than half as numerous. they consisted of the followers of maclean, macdonald of sky, clanronald, sir evan cameron of lochiel, and others, with a few irish. the left wing of mackay's army was almost instantly routed by a furious charge of the macleans. the right wing stood their ground manfully, and even repulsed the assault of the macdonalds, but being taken in flank by the camerons and a part of the macleans, they were forced to retire and suffered great loss. while directing the oblique movement of the camerons, claverhouse received a mortal wound under the arm, and with him fell the cause of king james. this ballad, which is taken from herd's _scottish songs_, i. , was printed as a broadside near the time of the battle. the author is unknown. there was an old song called _killiecrankie_, which, with some alterations, was inserted in johnson's _museum_ (p. ). it is also found in hogg's _jacobite relics_, i. , with an additional stanza. a contemporary latin ballad on the same event by herbert kennedy, a professor in the university of edinburgh, is given in the _museum_, and may be seen in our appendix. clavers and his highlandmen came down upo' the raw, man, who being stout, gave mony a clout; the lads began to claw then. with sword and terge into their hand, wi which they were nae slaw, man, wi mony a fearful heavy sigh, the lads began to claw then. o'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, she flang amang them a', man; the butter-box got mony knocks, their riggings paid for a' then. they got their paiks, wi sudden straiks, which to their grief they saw, man: wi clinkum clankum o'er their crowns, the lads began to fa' then. hur skipt about, hur leapt about,[l ] and flang amang them a', man; the english blades got broken heads, their crowns were cleav'd in twa then. the durk and door made their last hour, and prov'd their final fa', man; they thought the devil had been there, that play'd them sic a paw then. the solemn league and covenant came whigging up the hills, man; thought highland trews durst not refuse for to subscribe their bills then. in willie's name, they thought nae ane durst stop their course at a', man, but hur-nane-sell, wi mony a knock, cry'd, "furich-whigs awa'," man. sir evan du, and his men true, came linking up the brink, man; the hogan dutch they feared such, they bred a horrid stink then. the true maclean and his fierce men came in amang them a' man; nane durst withstand his heavy hand, all fled and ran awa' then. _oh' on a ri, oh' on a ri,_ why should she lose king shames, man? _oh' rig in di, oh' rig in di,_ she shall break a' her banes then; with _furichinish_, an' stay a while, and speak a word or twa, man, she's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck, before ye win awa' then. o fy for shame, ye're three for ane, hur-nane-sell's won the day, man; king shames' red-coats should be hung up, because they ran awa' then. had bent their brows, like highland trows, and made as lang a stay, man, they'd sav'd their king, that sacred thing, and willie'd ran awa' then. . the highlanders have only one pronoun, and as it happens to resemble the english _her_, it has caused the lowlanders to have a general impression that they mistake the feminine for the masculine gender. it has even become a sort of nickname for them, as in the present case, and in a subsequent verse, ( ,) where it is extended to _her-nain-sell_. chambers, _scottish songs_, p. . the battle of sheriff-muir. fought on the th of november, , between the duke of argyle, general of the forces of king george the first, and the earl of mar, for the chevalier de st. george. the right wing of both armies, led by the respective commanders, was successful, and the left wing of both was routed. hence the victory was claimed by both sides. the chevalier's army was much the larger of the two, and all the advantages of the contest remained with the other party. this ballad is printed in herd's _scottish songs_, i. , and in many subsequent collections. it is ascribed by burns to the "rev. murdoch m'lellan, minister of crathie, dee-side." our copy is taken from hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. , where the stanzas in brackets appear for the first time. the notes are from chambers's _scottish songs_, p. . there are several other ballads upon this battle: _up and war them a', willie_, johnson's _museum_, p. , and (different) herd's _scottish songs_, ii. : _from bogie side, or, the marquis's raide_, a false and scurrilous party song, hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. : _a dialogue between will lick-ladle and tom clean-cogue_, &c., written by the rev. john barclay of edinburgh, many years after the event: and _the battle of sherramoor_, altered and abridged by burns from this last, for johnson's _museum_, (p. .) see appendix. there's some say that we wan, and some say that they wan, and some say that nane wan at a', man; but one thing i'm sure, that at sherra-muir a battle there was that i saw, man. _and we ran, and they ran, and they ran, and we ran_, _but florence ran fastest of a', man_.[l ] argyle and belhaven, not frighted like leven,[l ] which rothes and haddington saw, man; for they all, with wightman, advanc'd on the right, man, while others took flight, being raw, man. _and we ran, &c._ lord roxburgh was there, in order to share[l ] with douglas, who stood not in awe, man; volunteerly to ramble with lord loudon campbell, brave ilay did suffer for a', man. _and we ran, &c._ sir john schaw, that great knight, with broad sword most bright,[l ] on horseback he briskly did charge, man; a hero that's bold, none could him withhold,[l ] he stoutly encounter'd the targemen. _and we ran, &c._ for the cowardly whittam, for fear they should cut him, seeing glittering broad swords with a pa', man, and that in such thrang, made baird edicang, and from the brave clans ran awa, man. _and we ran, &c._ [the great colonel dow gade foremost, i trow, when whittam's dragoons ran awa, man; except sandy baird, and naughtan the laird, their horse shaw'd their heels to them a', man. _and we ran, &c._] brave mar and panmure were firm, i am sure:[l ] the latter was kidnapt awa, man; with brisk men about, brave harry retook his brother, and laugh'd at them a', man. _and we ran, &c._ brave marshall, and lithgow, and glengary's pith, too,[l ] assisted by brave loggia, man, and gordons the bright, so boldly did fight, that the redcoats took flight and awa, man. _and we ran, &c._ strathmore and clanronald cried still, "advance, donald,"[l ] till both of these heroes did fa', man; for there was such hashing, and broad swords a-clashing, brave forfar himsel got a claw, man. _and we ran, &c._ lord perth stood the storm, seaforth but lukewarm,[l ] kilsyth, and strathallan not slaw, man; and hamilton pled the men were not bred, for he had no fancy to fa', man. _and we ran, &c._ brave gen'rous southesk, tullibardin was brisk,[l ] whose father indeed would not draw, man, into the same yoke, which serv'd for a cloak, to keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. _and we ran, &c._ lord rollo not fear'd, kintore and his beard,[l ] pitsligo and ogilvie, a', man, and brothers balflours they stood the first show'rs, clackmannan and burleigh did claw, man. _and we ran, &c._ but cleppan fought pretty, and strowan the witty,[l ] a poet that pleases us a', man; for mine is but rhyme in respect of what's fine, or what he is able to draw, man. _and we ran &c._ for huntly and sinclair, they both play'd the tinkler,[l ] with consciences black as a craw, man; some angus and fife men, they ran for their life, man, and ne'er a lot's wife there at a', man. _and we ran, &c._ then laurie the traitor, who betray'd his master,[l ] his king, and his country, an' a', man, pretending mar might give orders to fight, to the right of the army awa, man. _and we ran, &c._ then laurie, for fear of what he might hear, took drummond's best horse, and awa, man: 'stead of going to perth, he crossed the firth, alongst stirling bridge, and awa, man. _and we ran, &c._ to london he press'd, and there he profess'd that he behav'd best o' them a', man, and so, without strife, got settled for life, a hundred a-year to his fa', man. _and we ran, &c._ in borrowstounness he resides with disgrace, till his neck stand in need of a thraw, man; and then in a tether he'll swing from a ladder, and go off the stage with a pa', man. _and we ran, &c._ rob roy there stood watch on a hill, for to catch[l ] the booty, for ought that i saw, man; for he ne'er advanc'd from the place he was stanc'd, till no more was to do there at a', man. _and we ran, &c._ so we all took the flight, and moubray the wright, and lethem the smith was a braw man, for he took a fit of the gout, which was wit, by judging it time to withdraw, man. _and we ran, &c._ and trumpet maclean, whose breeks were not clean, through misfortune he happen'd to fa', man; by saving his neck, his trumpet did break, and came off without music at a', man. _and we ran, &c._ so there such a race was as ne'er in that place was, and as little chace was at a', man; from each other they run without touk of drum, they did not make use of a paw, man. _and we ran, &c._ [whether we ran, or they ran, or we wan, or they wan, or if there was winning at a', man, there no man can tell, save our brave genarell,[l ] who first began running of a', man. _and we ran, &c._ wi' the earl o' seaforth, and the cock o' the north;[l ] but florence ran fastest of a', man, save the laird o' phinaven, who sware to be even w' any general or peer o' them a', man.] _and we ran, &c._ . florence was the marquis of huntly's horse. hogg. - . lord belhaven, the earl of leven, and the earls of rothes and haddington, who all bore arms as volunteers in the royal army. major-general joseph wightman, who commanded the centre of the royal army. - . john, fifth duke of roxburgh, a loyal volunteer. archibald, duke of douglas, who commanded a body of his vassals in the royal army. hugh campbell, third earl of loudoun, of the royal army. the earl of ilay, brother to the duke of argyle. he came up to the field only a few hours before the battle, and had the misfortune to be wounded. . sir john shaw of greenock, an officer in the troop of volunteers, noted for his keen whiggish spirit. . major-general whitham, who commanded the left wing of the king's army. - . james, lord drummond, eldest son of the earl of perth, was lieutenant-general of horse under mar, and behaved with great gallantry. william mackenzie, fifth earl of seaforth. the viscount kilsyth. the viscount strathallan. lieutenant-general george hamilton, commanding under the earl of mar. - . james, earl of panmure. the honourable harry maule of kellie, brother to the foregoing, whom he recaptured after the engagement. - . the earls of marischal and linlithgow. the chief of glengary. thomas drummond of logie almond. - . the earl of strathmore, killed in the battle. the chief of clanranald. the earl of forfar--on the king's side--wounded in the engagement. . james, fifth earl of southesk. the marquis of tullibardine, eldest son of the duke of athole. - . lord rollo. the earl of kintore. lord pitsligo. lord ogilvie, son of the earl of airly. bruce, laird of clackmannan--the husband, i believe, of the old lady who knighted robert burns with the sword of bruce, at clackmannan tower. lord burleigh. . major william clephane. alexander robertson of struan, chief of the robertsons. . alexander, marquis of huntly, afterwards duke of gordon. the master of sinclair. - . these four stanzas seem to refer to a circumstance reported at the time; namely, that a person had left the duke of argyle's army, and joined the earl of mar's, before the battle, intending to act as a spy; and that, being employed by mar to inform the left wing that the right was victorious, he gave a contrary statement, and, after seeing them retire accordingly, went back again to the royal army. . the celebrated rob roy. this redoubted hero was prevented, by mixed motives, from joining either party. he could not fight against the earl of mar, consistent with his conscience, nor could he oppose the duke of argyle, without forfeiting the protection of a powerful friend. . this point is made at the expense of a contradiction. see v. . - . _the cock of the north_ is an honorary popular title of the duke of gordon. carnegy of finhaven. lord derwentwater. james radcliff, earl of derwentwater, fell into the hands of the whigs at the surrender of preston, on the very day of the battle of sheriff-muir, and suffered death in february, , for his participation in the rebellion. smollet has described him as an amiable youth,--brave, open, generous, hospitable, and humane. "his fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a great misfortune to the country in which he lived. he gave bread to multitudes of people whom he employed on his estate;--the poor, the widow, and the orphan rejoiced in his bounty." (_history of england_, quoted by cromek.) we are told that the _aurora borealis_ was remarkably vivid on the night of the earl's execution, and that this phenomenon is consequently still known in the north by the name of "lord derwentwater's lights." although this ballad is said to have been extremely popular in the north of england for a long time after the event which gave rise to it, no good copy has as yet been recovered. the following was obtained by motherwell (_minstrelsy_, p. ) from the recitation of an old woman. another copy, also from recitation but "restored to poetical propriety," is given in the _gentleman's magazine_, for june, (p. ), and fragments of a third in _notes and queries_, vol. xii. p. . two spurious ballads on the death of lord derwentwater have been sometimes received as genuine: one by allan cunningham, first published in cromek's _nithsdale and galloway song_, p. , another (_lord derwentwater's goodnight_) by surtees, printed in hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. . still another modern imitation is _young ratcliffe_, in sheldon's _minstrelsy of the english border_, p. . there is a ballad on the disgraceful capitulation of preston in hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. , also, _northumberland garland_, p. , beginning "mackintosh was a soldier brave." our king has wrote a long letter, and sealed it ower with gold; he sent it to my lord dunwaters, to read it if he could. he has not sent it with a boy, nor with any scots lord; but he's sent it with the noblest knight e'er scotland could afford. the very first line that my lord did read, he gave a smirkling smile; before he had the half of it read, the tears from his eyes did fall. "come saddle to me my horse," he said, "come saddle to me with speed; for i must away to fair london town, for to me there was ne'er more need." out and spoke his lady gay, in childbed where she lay: "i would have you make your will, my lord dunwaters, before you go away." "i leave to you, my eldest son, my houses and my land; i leave to you, my youngest son, ten thousand pounds in hand. "i leave to you, my lady gay, -- you are my wedded wife, -- i leave to you, the third of my estate, that'll keep you in a lady's life." they had not rode a mile but one, till his horse fell owre a stane: "it's a warning good enough," my lord dunwaters said, "alive i'll ne'er come hame." when they came to fair london town, into the courtiers' hall, the lords and knights of fair london town did him a traitor call. "a traitor! a traitor!" says my lord, "a traitor! how can that be? an it be nae for the keeping five thousand men, to fight for king jamie. "o all you lords and knights in fair london town, come out and see me die; o all you lords and knights in fair london town, be kind to my ladie. "there's fifty pounds in my right pocket, divide it to the poor; there's other fifty in my left pocket, divide it from door to door." the battle of tranent-muir, or of preston-pans herd's _scottish songs_, i. : ritson's _scotish songs_, ii. . this ballad is the work of adam skirving, a clever and opulent farmer, father of archibald skirving, the portrait painter. it was printed shortly after the battle as a broadside, and next appeared in _the charmer_, vol. ii. p. , edinb. . neither of those editions contains the eleventh stanza. the foot-notes commonly attached to the subsequent reprints are found in _the charmer_. (laing in johnson's _museum_, iv. *.) to skirving is also attributed with great probability the excellent satirical song of _johnnie cope_, or _cope are you waking yet_. the original words are in ritson, _scotish songs_, ii. : another set at p. : a third, with alterations and additions by burns, in johnson's _museum_, p. . allan cunningham once heard a peasant boast that he could sing _johnnie cope_ with all its _nineteen_ variations. see appendix. the battle took place on the d of september, , between the villages of tranent and prestonpans, a few miles from edinburgh. the king's lieutenant-general, sir john cope, was disgracefully defeated by the highlanders under charles edward, and nearly all his army killed or taken. the details of the conflict are vividly described in the th and th chapters of waverley. the chevalier, being void of fear, did march up birsle brae, man, and thro' tranent, e'er he did stent, as fast as he could gae, man: while general cope did taunt and mock, wi' mony a loud huzza, man; but e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, we heard another craw, man. the brave lochiel, as i heard tell, led camerons on in clouds, man; the morning fair, and clear the air, they loos'd with devilish thuds, man. down guns they threw, and swords they drew and soon did chace them aff, man; on seaton-crafts they buft their chafts, and gart them rin like daft, man. the bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons, they'd make the rebels run, man; and yet they flee when them they see, and winna fire a gun, man: they turn'd their back, the foot they brake, such terror seiz'd them a', man; some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeks, and some for fear did fa', man. the volunteers prick'd up their ears, and vow gin they were crouse, man; but when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, they were not worth a louse man. maist feck gade hame; o fy for shame! they'd better stay'd awa', man, than wi' cockade to make parade, and do nae good at a', man. menteith the great, when hersell sh--,[l ] un'wares did ding him o'er man; yet wad nae stand to bear a hand, but aff fou fast did scour, man; o'er soutra hill, e'er he stood still, before he tasted meat, man: troth he may brag of his swift nag, that bare him aff sae fleet, man. and simpson keen, to clear the een[l ] of rebels far in wrang, man, did never strive wi' pistols five, but gallop'd with the thrang, man: he turn'd his back, and in a crack was cleanly out of sight man; and thought it best; it was nae jest w' highlanders to fight, man. 'mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang but twa, and ane was tane, man; for campbell rade, but myrie staid,[l ] and sair he paid the kain, man; fell skelps he got, was war than shot, frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man; frae many a spout came running out his reeking-het red gore, man. but gard'ner brave did still behave like to a hero bright, man; his courage true, like him were few that still despised flight, man; for king and laws, and country's cause, in honour's bed he lay, man; his life, but not his courage, fled, while he had breath to draw, man. and major bowle, that worthy soul, was brought down to the ground, man; his horse being shot, it was his lot for to get mony a wound, man: lieutenant smith, of irish birth,[l ] frae whom he call'd for aid, man, being full of dread, lap o'er his head, and wadna be gainsaid, man. he made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 'twas little there he saw, man; to berwick rade, and safely said, the scots were rebels a', man. but let that end, for well 'tis kend his use and wont to lie, man; the teague is naught, he never faught, when he had room to flee, man. and caddell drest, amang the rest, with gun and good claymore, man, on gelding grey he rode that way, with pistols set before, man; the cause was good, he'd spend his blood, before that he would yield, man; but the night before, he left the cor, and never fac'd the field, man. but gallant roger, like a soger, stood and bravely fought, man; i'm wae to tell, at last he fell, but mae down wi' him brought, man: at point of death, wi' his last breath, (some standing round in ring, man,) on's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat, and cry'd, god save the king, man. some highland rogues, like hungry dogs, neglecting to pursue, man, about they fac'd, and in great haste upon the booty flew, man; and they, as gain for all their pain, are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man; fu' bald can tell how hernainsell was ne'er sae pra before, man. at the thorn-tree, which you may see bewest the meadow-mill, man, there mony slain lay on the plain, the clans pursuing still, man. sick unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, i never saw the like, man; lost hands and heads cost them their deads, that fell near preston-dyke, man. that afternoon, when a was done, i gaed to see the fray, man; but had i wist what after past, i'd better staid away, man: on seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, they pick'd my pockets bare, man; but i wish ne'er to drie sick fear, for a' the sum and mair, man. . the minister of longformacus, a volunteer; who, happening to come, the night before the battle, upon a highlander easing nature at preston, threw him over, and carried his gun as a trophy to cope's camp. . another volunteer presbyterian minister, who said he would convince the rebels of their error by the dint of his pistols; having, for that purpose, two in his pockets, two in his holsters, and one in his belt. . mr. myrie was a student of physic, from jamaica; he entered as a volunteer in cope's army, and was miserably mangled by the broad-swords. . lieutenant smith, who left major bowle when lying on the field of battle, and unable to move with his wound, was of irish extraction. it is reported that after the publication of the ballad, he sent mr. skirving a challenge to meet him at haddington, and answer for his conduct in treating him with such opprobrium. "gang awa back," said mr. skirving to the messenger, "and tell mr. smith, i have nae leisure to gae to haddington, but if he likes to come here, i'll tak a look o' him, and if i think i can fecht him, i'll fecht him, and if no--i'll just do as he did at preston--i'll rin awa'." stenhouse. appendix. the battle of otterburn. see p. . in the versions of this ballad given in the body of this work, the earl of douglas is represented as falling by the hand of harry percy. in the ballad which follows, taken from herd's _scottish songs_, i. , his death is ascribed to the revenge of an offended servant. though there is not the slightest reason to give credence to this story, it has a certain foundation in tradition. hume of godscroft writes "there are that say, that he [douglas] was not slain by the enemy, but by one of his own men, a groom of his chamber, whom he had struck the day before with a truncheon, in ordering of the battle, because he saw him make somewhat slowly to. and they name this man john bickerton of luffness, who left a part of his armour behind unfastened, and when he was in the greatest conflict, this servant of his came behind his back, and slew him thereat." wintown says that the earl was so intent on marshalling his forces, and so eager to be at the foe, that he neglected to arm himself carefully.--scott's _minstrelsy_, i. . it fell, and about the lammas time, when husbandmen do win their hay, earl douglas is to the english woods, and a' with him to fetch a prey. he has chosen the lindsays light, with them the gallant gordons gay, and the earl of fyfe, withouten strife, and sir hugh montgomery upon a grey. they hae taken northumberland, and sae hae they the north-shire, and the otter-dale, they burnt it hale, and set it a' into the fire. out then spack a bonny boy,[l ] that serv'd ane o' earl douglas kin, "methinks i see an english host, a-coming branken us upon." "if this be true, my little boy, an it be troth that thou tells me, the brawest bower in otterburn this day shall be thy morning fee. "but if it be false, my little boy, but and a lie that thou tells me, on the highest tree that's in otterburn with my awin hands i'll hing thee hie." the boy's taen out his little penknife, that hanget low down by his gare, and he gae earl douglas a deadly wound, alas, a deep wound and a sare! earl douglas said to sir hugh montgomery, "tack thou the vanguard o' the three, and bury me at yon bracken bush, that stands upon yon lilly lee." then percy and montgomery met, and weel i wat they war na fain; they swapped swords, and they twa swat, and ay the blood ran down between. "o yield thee, yield thee, percy," he said, "or else i vow i'll lay thee low; "whom to shall i yield," said earl percy, "now that i see it maun be so?" "o yield thee to yon braken bush, that grows upon yon lilly lee; for there lies aneth yon braken bush[l ] what aft has conquer'd mae than thee." "i winna yield to a braken bush, nor yet will i unto a brier; but i wald yield to earl douglas, or sir hugh montgomery, if he was here." as soon as he knew it was montgomery, he stuck his sword's point in the ground, and sir hugh montgomery was a courteous knight. and he quickly caught him by the hand. this deed was done at otterburn, about the breaking o' the day; earl douglas was buried at the braken bush, and percy led captive away. . at this place a recited copy, quoted by finlay (_scottish ballads_, i. p. xviii.), has the following stanzas:-- then out an spak a little wee boy, and he was near o' percy's kin, "methinks i see the english host, a-coming branking us upon; wi' nine waggons scaling wide, and seven banners bearing high; it wad do any living gude to see their bonny colours fly. , . supplied by motherwell from a recited copy. the battle of harlaw. from ramsay's _evergreen_, i. . this battle took place at harlaw, near aberdeen, on the th of july, . the conflict was occasioned by a dispute concerning the succession to the earldom of ross, between donald, lord of the isles, and the son of the regent, robert, duke of albany, whose claim was supported by alexander stewart, earl of mar. the consequences of this battle were of the highest importance, inasmuch as the wild celts of the highlands and islands received such a check that they never again combined for the conquest of the civilized parts of scotland. the _battle of harlaw_ is one of the old ballads whose titles occur in the _complaynt of scotland_ ( ). a bag-pipe tune of that name is mentioned in drummond of hawthornden's mock-heroic poem, the _polemo middinia_: "interea ante alios dux piper laius heros, præcedens, magnamque gerens cum burdine pypam incipit harlai cunctis sonare batellum." mr. laing, in his _early metrical tales_ (p. xlv.) speaks of an edition printed in the year as being "in the curious library of old robert myln." no copy is now known to exist of a date anterior to that which was published in ramsay's _evergreen_. of the age of this copy the most opposite opinions have been maintained, some regarding the ballad as contemporary with the event, and others insinuating that ramsay, or one of his friends, is chargeable with the authorship. this last notion has no other ground than the freedom which ramsay notoriously took with his texts, and that freedom has very likely been exercised in the present case. we shall, perhaps, be going quite as far as is prudent, if we acknowledge that this may be one of "the scots poems wrote by the ingenious before ." most readers will agree with lord hailes that the language is as recent as the days of queen mary, or of james the sixth. sibbald, in his _chronicle of scottish poetry_, iii. , has stated other objections to receiving this ballad for ancient, which seem, however, to be satisfactorily answered by finlay, _scottish ballads_, i. . the copy of this ballad in _the thistle of scotland_, p. , is only ramsay's, imperfectly remembered, or, what is quite as probable, here and there altered according to the taste of the illiterate editor. at page of the same book, three stanzas are given of a burlesque song on this battle. a traditional ballad, recently recovered, is inserted at the end of this volume. frae dunidier as i cam throuch, doun by the hill of banochie, allangst the lands of garioch, grit pitie was to heir and se the noys and dulesum hermonie, that evir that dreiry day did daw, cryand the corynoch on hie, alas! alas! for the harlaw. i marvlit quhat the matter meint, all folks war in a fiery-fairy; i wist nocht quha was fae or freind, zit quietly i did me carrie. but sen the days of auld king hairy, sic slauchter was not hard nor sene, and thair i had nae tyme to tairy, for bissiness in aberdene. thus as i walkit on the way, to inverury as i went, i met a man and bad him stay, requeisting him to mak me quaint of the beginning and the event, that happenit thair at the harlaw: then he entreited me tak tent, and he the truth sould to me schaw. grit donald of the yles did claim unto the lands of ross sum richt, and to the governour he came, them for to haif, gif that he micht: quha saw his interest was but slicht, and thairfore answerit with disdain; he hastit hame baith day and nicht, and sent nae bodward back again. but donald richt impatient of that answer duke robert gaif, he vowed to god omnipotent, all the hale lands of ross to haif, or ells be graithed in his graif: he wald not quat his richt for nocht, nor be abusit lyk a slaif; that bargin sould be deirly bocht. then haistylie he did command, that all his weir-men should convene, ilk an well harnisit frae hand, to meit and heir quhat he did mein: he waxit wrath, and vowit tein, sweirand he wald surpryse the north, subdew the brugh of aberdene, mearns, angus, and all fyfe to forth. thus with the weir-men of the yles, quha war ay at his bidding bown, with money maid, with forss and wyls, richt far and neir, baith up and doun, throw mount and muir, frae town to town, allangst the lands of ross he roars, and all obey'd at his bandown, evin frae the north to suthren shoars. then all the countrie men did zield; for nae resistans durst they mak, nor offer battill in the feild, be forss of arms to beir him bak. syne they resolvit all and spak, that best it was for thair behoif, they sould him for thair chiftain tak, believing weil he did them luve. then he a proclamation maid, all men to meet at inverness, throw murray land to mak a raid, frae arthursyre unto spey-ness. and further mair, he sent express, to schaw his collours and ensenzie, to all and sindry, mair and less, throchout the bounds of byne and enzie. and then throw fair straithbogie land his purpose was for to pursew, and quhasoevir durst gainstand, that race they should full sairly rew. then he bad all his men be trew, and him defend by forss and slicht, and promist them rewardis anew, and mak them men of mekle micht. without resistans, as he said, throw all these parts he stoutly past, quhair sum war wae, and sum war glaid, but garioch was all agast. throw all these feilds he sped him fast, for sic a sicht was never sene; and then, forsuith, he langd at last to se the bruch of aberdene. to hinder this prowd enterprise, the stout and michty erle of marr with all his men in arms did ryse, even frae curgarf to craigyvar: and down the syde of don richt far, angus and mearns did all convene to fecht, or donald came sae nar the ryall bruch of aberdene. and thus the martial erle of marr marcht with his men in richt array; befoir the enemie was aware, his banner bauldly did display. for weil enewch they kend the way, and all their semblance weil they saw: without all dangir, or delay, come haistily to the harlaw. with him the braif lord ogilvy, of angus sheriff principall, the constabill of gude dundè, the vanguard led before them all. suppose in number they war small, thay first richt bauldlie did pursew, and maid thair faes befor them fall, quha then that race did sairly rew. and then the worthy lord salton, the strong undoubted laird of drum, the stalwart laird of lawristone, with ilk thair forces, all and sum. panmuir with all his men did cum, the provost of braif aberdene, with trumpets and with tuick of drum, came schortly in thair armour schene. these with the earle of marr came on, in the reir-ward richt orderlie, thair enemies to sett upon; in awfull manner hardily, togither vowit to live and die, since they had marchit mony mylis, for to suppress the tyrannie of douted donald of the yles. but he in number ten to ane, richt subtilè alang did ryde, with malcomtosch and fell maclean, with all thair power at thair syde; presumeand on thair strenth and pryde, without all feir or ony aw, richt bauldie battill did abyde, hard by the town of fair harlaw. the armies met, the trumpet sounds, the dandring drums alloud did touk, baith armies byding on the bounds, till ane of them the feild sould bruik. nae help was thairfor, nane wald jouk, ferss was the fecht on ilka syde, and on the ground lay mony a bouk of them that thair did battill byd. with doutsum victorie they dealt, the bludy battil lastit lang; each man his nibours forss thair felt, the weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang: thair was nae mowis thair them amang, naithing was hard but heavy knocks, that eccho mad a dulefull sang, thairto resounding frae the rocks. but donalds men at last gaif back, for they war all out of array: the earl of marris men throw them brak, pursewing shairply in thair way, thair enemys to tak or slay, be dynt of forss to gar them yield; quha war richt blyth to win away, and sae for feirdness tint the feild. then donald fled, and that full fast, to mountains hich for all his micht; for he and his war all agast, and ran till they war out of sicht; and sae of ross he lost his richt, thocht mony men with hem he brocht; towards the yles fled day and nicht, and all he wan was deirlie bocht. this is (quod he) the richt report of all that i did heir and knaw; thocht my discourse be sumthing schort, tak this to be a richt suthe saw: contrairie god and the kings law, thair was spilt mekle christian blude, into the battil of harlaw: this is the sum, sae i conclude. but zit a bonny quhyle abyde, and i sall mak thee cleirly ken quhat slauchter was on ilkay syde, of lowland and of highland men: quha for thair awin haif evir bene; these lazie lowns micht weil be spaird, chessit lyke deirs into their dens, and gat thair waiges for reward. malcomtosh, of the clan heid cheif, macklean, with his grit hauchty heid, with all thair succour and relief, war dulefully dung to the deid: and now we are freid of thair feid, they will not lang to cum again; thousands with them, without remeid, on donald's syd that day war slain. and on the uther syde war lost, into the feild that dismal day, chief men of worth, of mekle cost, to be lamentit sair for ay. the lord saltoun of rothemay, a man of micht and mekle main; grit dolour was for his decay, that sae unhappylie was slain. of the best men amang them was the gracious gude lord ogilvy, the sheriff principal of angus, renownit for truth and equitie, for faith and magnanimitie: he had few fallows in the field, zet fell by fatall destinie, for he nae ways wad grant to zield. sir james scrimgeor of duddap, knicht, grit constabill of fair dundè, unto the dulefull deith was dicht: the kingis cheif banner man was he, a valziant man of chevalrie, quhais predecessors wan that place at spey, with gude king william frie, gainst murray and macduncans race. gude sir allexander irving, the much renownit laird of drum, nane in his days was bettir sene, quhen they war semblit all and sum. to praise him we sould not be dumm, for valour, witt, and worthyness; to end his days he ther did cum, quhois ransom is remeidyless. and thair the knicht of lawriston was slain into his armour schene, and gude sir robert davidson, quha provest was of aberdene: the knicht of panmure, as was sene, a mortall man in armour bricht, sir thomas murray, stout and kene, left to the warld thair last gude nicht. thair was not sen king keneths days sic strange intestine crewel stryf in scotland sene, as ilk man says, quhair mony liklie lost thair lyfe; quhilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe, and mony childrene fatherless, quhilk in this realme has bene full ryfe: lord help these lands, our wrangs redress. in july, on saint james his even, that four and twenty dismall day, twelve hundred, ten score and eleven of zeirs sen chryst, the suthe to say, men will remember, as they may, quhen thus the veritie they knaw, and mony a ane may murn for ay, the brim battil of the harlaw. king henrie the fifth's conquest. _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england._ percy society, vol. xvii. p. . "from the singing of the late francis king, of skipton in craven, an eccentric character, who was well known in the western dales of yorkshire as 'the skipton minstrel.' king's version does not contain the third verse, which is obtained, as is also the title, from a modern broadside, from whence also one or two verbal corrections are made, of too trifling a nature to particularize. the tune to which king used to sing it, is the same as that of _the bold pedlar and robin hood_." another ballad, much inferior in spirit to this, on the battle of agincourt, is to be found in _the crown garland of golden roses_ (ed. ), percy soc. vol. xv. p. . percy inserted in the _reliques_, ii. , a song on this battle. another, quoted in heywood's _edward fourth_, and therefore popular before , is printed in mr. collier's preface to shakespeare's _henry fifth_ (new edition). the story of the tennis-balls is adopted from the chronicles by shakespeare. "it is reported by some historians," says hume, "that the dauphin, in derision of henry's claims and dissolute character, sent him a box of tennis-balls, intimating that mere implements of play were better adapted to him than the instruments of war. but this story is by no means credible; the great offers made by the court of france show that they had already entertained a just idea of henry's character, as well as of their own situation." _history of england_, ch. xix. as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. _down, a-down, a-down, a-down_, _down, a-down, a-down._ he callèd on his trusty page, his trusty page then callèd he, "o you must go to the king of france, o you must go right speedilie. "and tell him of my tribute due, ten ton of gold that's due to me, that he must send me my tribute home, or in french land he soon will me see." o then away went the trusty page, away, away, and away went he, until he came to the king of france; lo! he fell down on his bended knee. "my master greets you, worthy sire; ten ton of gold there is due, says he; you must send him his tribute home, or in french land you will soon him see." "your master's young, and of tender years, not fit to come into my degree; but i will send him three tennis balls, that with them learn to play may he." o then away came the trusty page, away, and away, and away came he, until he came to our gracious king; lo! he fell down on his bended knee. "what news, what news, my trusty page, what news, what news, hast thou brought to me?" "i've brought such news from the king of france, that you and he will ne'er agree. "he says you're young, and of tender years, not fit to come into his degree; but he will send you three tennis balls, that with them you may learn to play." o then bespoke our noble king, a solemn vow then vowèd he; "i'll promise him such tennis balls, as in french lands he ne'er did see. "go, call up cheshire and lancashire, and derby hills, that are so free; not a married man, nor a widow's son, for the widow's cry shall not go with me." they called up cheshire and lancashire, and derby lads that were so free; not a married man, nor a widow's son, yet they were a jovial bold companie. o then he sailed to fair french land, with drums and trumpets so merrilie; o then bespoke the king of france, "yonder comes proud king henrie." the first fire that the frenchmen gave, they killed our englishmen so free; we killed ten thousand of the french, and the rest of them they were forced to flee. and then we marched to paris gates, with drums and trumpets so merrilie; o then bespoke the king of france, "lord have mercy on my poor men and me! "go! tell him i'll send home his tribute due, ten ton of gold that is due from me; and the fairest flower that is in our french land to the rose of england it shall go free." jane shore. the story and character of jane shore can best be read in a charmingly written passage of sir thomas more's _history of edward fifth_, quoted in percy's _reliques_, ii. . the ballad adheres to matter of fact with a fidelity very uncommon. in drayton's _england's heroical epistles_ is one from jane shore to king edward, and in the notes he thus gives her portrait: "her stature was meane, her haire of a dark yellow, her face round and full, her eye gray, delicate harmony being betwixt each part's proportion, and each proportion's colour, her body fat, white, and smooth, her countenance cheerfull and like to her condition." (cited by percy.) this ballad is taken from the collection of , vol. i. p. . the full title is: _the woeful lamentation of jane shore, a goldsmith's wife in london, sometime king edward the fourth's concubine_. the same version, with trifling variations, is found in percy's _reliques_, ii. , and ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. . in the _garland of good will_ there is another piece on the same subject, (percy society, vol. xxx. p. , _the lamentation of shore's wife_,) and in the collection of , a burlesque song, called _king edward and jane shore_ (vol. i. p. ). if rosamond, that was so fair, had cause her sorrow to declare, then let jane shore with sorrow sing, that was beloved of a king. then, wanton wives, in time amend, for love and beauty will have end. in maiden years my beauty bright was loved dear by lord and knight; but yet the love that they requir'd, it was not as my friends desir'd. my parents they, for thirst of gain, a husband for me did obtain; and i, their pleasure to fulfil, was forc'd to wed against my will. to matthew shore i was a wife, till lust brought ruin to my life; and then my life i lewdly spent, which makes my soul for to lament. in lombard-street i once did dwell, as london yet can witness well; where many gallants did behold my beauty in a shop of gold. i spread my plumes, as wantons do, some sweet and secret friende to wooe, because my love i did not find agreeing to my wanton mind. at last my name in court did ring into the ears of england's king, who came and lik'd, and love requir'd, but i made coy what he desir'd. yet mistress blague, a neighbour near, whose friendship i esteemed dear, did say, "it is a gallant thing to be beloved of a king." by her perswasions i was led for to defile my marriage-bed, and wronge my wedded husband shore, whom i had lov'd ten years before. in heart and mind i did rejoyce, that i had made so sweet a choice; and therefore did my state resign, to be king edward's concubine. from city then to court i went, to reap the pleasures of content; there had the joys that love could bring, and knew the secrets of a king. when i was thus advanc'd on high, commanding edward with mine eye, for mistress blague i in short space obtain'd a living from his grace. no friend i had, but in short time i made unto promotion climb; but yet for all this costly pride, my husbande could not me abide. his bed, tho' wronged by a king, his heart with deadly grief did sting; from england then he goes away to end his life beyond the sea.[l ] he could not live to see his name impaired by my wanton shame; altho' a prince of peerless might did reap the pleasure of his right. long time i lived in the court, with lords and ladies of great sort; and when i smil'd, all men were glad, but when i mourn'd, my prince grew sad. but yet an honest mind i bore to helpless people, that were poor; i still redress'd the orphan's cry, and sav'd their lives condemn'd to dye. i still had ruth on widows tears, i succour'd babes of tender years; and never look'd for other gain but love and thanks, for all my pain. at last my royal king did dye, and then my days of woe grew nigh; when crook-back'd richard got the crown, king edward's friends were soon put down. i then was punish'd for my sin, that i so long had lived in; yea, every one that was his friend, this tyrant brought to shameful end. then for my lewd and wanton life,[l ] that made a strumpet of a wife, i penance did in lombard-street, in shameful manner in a sheet: where many thousands did me view, who late in court my credit knew; which made the tears run down my face, to think upon my foul disgrace. not thus content, they took from mee my goods, my livings, and my fee, and charg'd that none should me relieve, nor any succour to me give. then unto mistress blague i went, to whom my jewels i had sent, in hope thereby to ease my want, when riches fail'd, and love grew scant. but she deny'd to me the same, when in my need for them i came; to recompence my former love, out of her doors she did me shove. so love did vanish with my state, which now my soul repents too late; therefore example take by me, for friendship parts in poverty. but yet one friend among the rest, whom i before had seen distress'd, and sav'd his life, condemn'd to dye, did give me food to succour me: for which, by law it was decreed that he was hanged for that deed; his death did grieve me so much more, than had i dy'd myself therefore. then those to whom i had done good durst not afford mee any food;[l ] whereby in vain i begg'd all day, and still in streets by night i lay. my gowns beset with pearl and gold, were turn'd to simple garments old; my chains and jems and golden rings, to filthy rags and loathsome things. thus was i scorn'd of maid and wife, for leading such a wicked life; both sucking babes and children small, did make a pastime at my fall. i could not get one bit of bread, whereby my hunger might be fed: nor drink, but such as channels yield, or stinking ditches in the field. thus, weary of my life, at length i yielded up my vital strength, within a ditch of loathsome scent, where carrion dogs do much frequent: the which now since my dying day, is shoreditch call'd, as writers say;[l ] which is a witness of my sin, for being concubine to a king. you wanton wives, that fall to lust, be you assur'd that god is just; whoredom shall not escape his hand, nor pride unpunish'd in this land. if god to me such shame did bring, that yielded only to a king, how shall they scape that daily run to practise sin with every man? you husbands, match not but for love, lest some disliking after prove; women, be warn'd when you are wives, what plagues are due to sinful lives: then, maids and wives, in time amend, for love and beauty will have end. . upon. . rude. . restore. . but it had this name long before; being so called from its being a common sewer (vulgarly shore) or drain.--percy. a true relation oe the life and death of sir andrew barton, a pyrate and rover on the seas. this copy of _sir andrew barton_ is to be found in _old ballads_ ( ) vol. i. , ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. , moore's _pictorial book of ancient ballad poetry_, p. , and _early naval ballads of england_, percy society, vol. ii. p. , with only exceedingly trifling variations. we have followed the last, where the ballad is given from a black-letter copy in the british museum, "printed by and for w. o., and sold by the booksellers." when flora with her fragrant flowers, bedeckt the earth so trim and gay, and neptune with his dainty showers, came to present the month of may, king henry would a-hunting ride; over the river thames passed he, unto a mountain-top also did walk, some pleasure for to see. where forty merchants he espy'd, with fifty sail came towards him, who then no sooner were arriv'd, but on their knees did thus complain; "an't please your grace, we cannot sail to france no voyage to be sure, but sir andrew barton makes us quail, and robs us of our marchant ware." vext was the king, and turning him, said to the lords of high degree, "have i ne'er a lord within my realm, dare fetch that traytor unto me?" to him reply'd charles lord howard, "i will, my liege, with heart and hand; if it will please you grant me leave," he said, "i will perform what you command." to him then spoke king henry, "i fear, my lord, you are too young." "no whit at all, my liege," quoth he; "i hope to prove in valour strong. the scotch knight i vow to seek, in what place soever he be, and bring ashore with all his might, or into scotland he shall carry me." "a hundred men," the king then said, "out of my realm shall chosen be, besides sailors and ship-boys, to guide a great ship on the sea. bowmen and gunners of good skill, shall for this service chosen be, and they at thy command and will in all affairs shall wait on thee." lord howard call'd a gunner then, who was the best in all the realm, his age was threescore years and ten, and peter simon was his name. my lord call'd then a bow-man rare, whose active hands had gained fame a gentleman born in yorkshire, and william horsely was his name. "horsely!" quoth he, "i must to sea, to seek a traytor, with good speed: of a hundred bow-men brave," quoth he, "i have chosen thee to be the head." "if you, my lord, have chosen me of a hundred men to be the head, upon the mainmast i'll hanged be, if twelve-score i miss one shilling's breadth." lord howard then of courage bold, went to the sea with pleasant cheer, not curbed with winter's piercing cold, tho' it was the stormy time of year. not long had he been on sea, more in days than number three, but one henry hunt then he espy'd, a merchant of newcastle was he. to him lord howard call'd out amain, and strictly charged him to stand; demanding then from whence he came, or where he did intend to land. the merchant then made answer soon, with heavy heart and careful mind, "my lord, my ship it doth belong unto new-castle upon tine." "canst thou show me," the lord did say, "as thou didst sail by day and night, a scottish rover on the sea, his name is andrew barton, knight?" then the merchant sighed and said, with grieved mind and well-a-way, "but over well i know that wight, i was his prisoner yesterday. "as i, my lord, did sail from france, a burdeaue voyage to take so far, i met with sir andrew barton thence, who robb'd me of my merchant ware. and mickle debts god knows i owe, and every man doth crave his own; and i am bound to london now, of our gracious king to beg a boon." "show me him," said lord howard then, "let me once the villain see, and every penny he hath from thee ta'en, i'll double the same with shillings three." "now, god forbid," the merchant said, "i fear your aim that you will miss; god bless you from his tyranny, for little you think what man he is. "he is brass within and steel without, his ship most huge and mighty strong, with eighteen pieces of ordinance, he carrieth on each side along. with beams for his top-castle, as also being huge and high, that neither english nor portugal can sir andrew barton pass by." "hard news thou shewst," then said the lord, "to welcome stranger to the sea; but as i said, i'll bring him aboard, or into scotland he shall carry me." the merchant said, "if thou will do so, take councel, then, i pray withal: let no man to his top-castle go, nor strive to let his beams downfall. "lend me seven pieces of ordnance then, of each side of my ship," said he, "and to-morrow, my lord, again i will your honour see. a glass i set as may be seen, whether you sail by day or night; and to-morrow, be sure before seven, you shall see sir andrew barton, knight." the merchant set my lord a glass, so well apparent in his sight, that on the morrow, as his promise was, he saw sir andrew barton, knight: the lord then swore a mighty oath, "now by the heavens that be of might, by faith, believe me, and my troth, i think he is a worthy knight." "fetch me my lyon out of hand,"[l ] saith the lord, "with rose and streamer high; set up withal a willow-wand, that merchant like, i may pass by:" thus bravely did lord howard pass, and on anchor rise so high; no top-sail at last he cast, but as a foe did him defie. sir andrew barton seeing him thus scornfully to pass by, as tho' he cared not a pin for him and his company; then called he his men amain, "fetch back yon pedlar now," quoth he, "and ere this way he comes again, i'll teach him well his courtesie." a piece of ordnance soon was shot by this proud pirate fiercely then, into lord howard's middle deck, which cruel shot killed fourteen men. he called then peter simon, he: "look how thy word do stand instead, for thou shall be hanged on main-mast, if thou miss twelve score one penny breadth." then peter simon gave a shot, which did sir andrew mickle scare, in at his deck it came so hot, killed fifteen of his men of war. "alas," then said the pirate stout, "i am in danger now i see; this is some lord, i greatly fear, that is set on to conquer me." then henry hunt, with rigour hot, came bravely on the other side, who likewise shot in at his deck, and killed fifty of his men beside. then "out alas," sir andrew cryd, "what may a man now think or say! yon merchant thief that pierceth me, he was my prisoner yesterday." then did he on gordion call unto the top castle for to go, and bid his beams he should let fall, for he greatly fear'd an overthrow. the lord call'd horsely now in haste: "look that thy word stand in stead, for thou shall be hanged on main mast, if thou miss twelve score a shilling's breadth." then up [the] mast tree swerved he, this stout and mighty gordion; but horsely he most happily shot him under his collar-bone: then call'd he on his nephew then, said, "sister's son, i have no mo, three hundred pound i will give thee, if thou will to top-castle go." then stoutly he began to climb, from off the mast scorn'd to depart; but horsely soon prevented him, and deadly pierced him to the heart. his men being slain, then up amain did this proud pirate climb with speed, for armour of proof he had on, and did not dint of arrows dread. "come hither, horseley," said the lord, "see thou thy arrows aim aright; great means to thee i will afford, and if thou speedst, i'll make thee knight." sir andrew did climb up the tree, with right good will and all his main; then upon the breast hit horsley he, till the arrow did return again. then horsley spied a private place, with a perfect eye, in a secret part; his arrow swiftly flew apace, and smote sir andrew to the heart. "fight on, fight on, my merry men all, a little i am hurt, yet not slain; i'll but lie down and bleed awhile, and come and fight with you again. "and do not," said he, "fear english rogues, and of your foes stand not in awe, but stand fast by st. andrew's crosse, until you hear my whistle blow." they never heard this whistle blow, which made them all full sore afraid. then horsely said, "my lord, aboard, for now sir andrew barton's dead." thus boarded they his gallant ship, with right good will and all their main; eighteen score scots alive in it, besides as many more was slain. the lord went where sir andrew lay, and quickly thence cut off his head; "i should forsake england many a day, if thou wert alive as thou art dead." thus from the wars lord howard came, with mickle joy and triumphing; the pirate's head he brought along for to present unto our king: who haply unto him did say, before he well knew what was done, "where is the knight and pirate gay, that i myself may give the doom?" "you may thank god," then said the lord, "and four men in the ship," quoth he, "that we are safely come ashore, sith you never had such an enemy; that is henry hunt, and peter simon, william horsely, and peter's son;[l ] therefore reward them for their pains, for they did service at their turn." to the merchant therefore the king he said, "in lieu of what he hath from thee tane, i give thee a noble a-day, sir andrew's whistle and his chain: to peter simon a crown a-day, and half-a-crown a-day to peter's son, and that was for a shot so gay, which bravely brought sir andrew down. "horsely, i will make thee a knight, and in yorkshire thou shalt dwell: lord howard shall earl bury hight, for this act he deserveth well. ninety pound to our englishmen, who in this fight did stoutly stand; and twelve-pence a-day to the scots, till they come to my brother king's high land." - . in some copies this stanza is wrongly placed after the next. . the services of peter's son, not mentioned in this ballad, are duly recorded in the older, unabridged copy. see v. - , on p. . the battle of corichie on the hill of fair, fought oct. , . from evans's _old ballads_, iii. . the favor shown by queen mary to her brother lord james stuart, on her first coming to scotland, excited a violent jealousy in gordon, earl of huntly, who, as a catholic, and the head of a loyal and powerful family in the north, expected no slight distinction from his sovereign. this jealousy broke out into open hostility when the queen, in , conferred on her brother the earldom of murray, the honors and revenues of which had been enjoyed by huntly since . mary was at this time on a progress in the northern part of her kingdom, attended by the new earl and a small escort. huntly collected his vassals and posted himself at a place called the fair bank, or corichie, near aberdeen. murray having increased his forces by seven or eight hundred of the forbeses and leslies, who, although attached to the huntly faction, dared not disobey the queen's summons, marched to the attack. as little confidence could be placed in the good faith of the northern recruits, he ordered them to begin the battle. in obedience to this command, they advanced against the enemy, but instantly recoiled and retreated in a pretended panic on murray's reserve, followed by the gordons in disorder. the queen's party received both the flying and the pursuers with an impenetrable front of lances. huntly was repulsed, and the other northern clans, seeing how the victory was going, turned their swords upon their friends. many of the gordons were slain, and the earl, who was old and fat, being thrown from his horse, was smothered in the retreat. his sons john and adam were taken prisoners, and the former was put to death at aberdeen the day after the battle. the following ballad, it will be perceived, is utterly at variance with the facts of history. it was first printed in evans's _old ballads_, and is said to be the composition of one forbes, schoolmaster at mary-culter, on dee-side. the dialect is broad aberdeen. murn ye heighlands, and murn ye leighlands, i trow ye hae meikle need; for thi bonny burn o' corichie his run this day wi' bleid. thi hopefu' laird o' finliter,[l ] erle huntly's gallant son, for thi love hi bare our beauteous quine his gar't fair scotland mone. hi his braken his ward in aberdene, throu dreid o' thi fause murry, and his gather't the gentle gordone clan, an' his father, auld huntly. fain wid he tak our bonny guide quine, an' beare hir awa' wi' him; but murry's slee wyles spoil't a' thi sport, an' reft him o' lyfe and lim. murry gar 't rayse thi tardy merns men, an' angis, an' mony ane mair, erle morton, and the byres lord linsay, an' campit at thi hill o' fare. erle huntlie came wi' haddo gordone, an' countit ane thusan men; but murry had abien twal hunder, wi' sax score horsemen and ten. they soundit thi bougills an' the trumpits, an' marchit on in brave array, till the spiers an' the axis forgatherit, an' than did begin thi fray. thi gordones sae fercelie did fecht it, withouten terrer or dreid, that mony o' murry's men lay gaspin, an' dyit thi grund wi theire bleid. then fause murry feingit to flee them, an' they pursuit at his backe, whan thi haf o' thi gordones desertit, an' turnit wi' murray in a crack. wi hether i' thir bonnits they turnit, the traiter haddo o' their heid, an' slaid theire brithers an' their fatheris, an' spoilit an' left them for deid. then murry cried to tak thi auld gordone, an' mony ane ran wi' speid; but stuart o' inchbraik had him stickit, an' out gushit thi fat lurdane's bleid. then they teuke his twa sones quick an' hale, an' bare them awa' to aberdene; but fair did our guide quine lament thi waeful chance that they were tane. erle murry lost mony a gallant stout man; thi hopefu' laird o' thornitune, pittera's sons, an egli's far fearit laird, an mair to mi unkend, fell doune. erle huntly mist ten score o' his bra' men, sum o' heigh an' sum o' leigh degree; skeenis youngest son, thi pryde o' a' the clan, was ther fun' dead, he widna flee. this bloody fecht wis fercely faucht octobri's aught an' twinty day, crystis' fyfteen hundred thriscore yeir an' twa will merk thi deidlie fray. but now the day maist waefu' came, that day the quine did grite her fill, for huntly's gallant stalwart son, wis heidit on thi heidin hill. fyve noble gordones wi' him hangit were upon thi samen fatal playne; crule murry gar't thi waefu' quine luke out, and see hir lover an' liges slayne. i wis our quine had better frinds, i wis our country better peice; i wis our lords wid na' discord, i wis our weirs at hame may ceise. . this. the battle of balrinnes, (otherwise called the battle of glenlivet.) when philip the second was preparing his armada for the conquest of england, he spared no pains to induce james of scotland to favor his enterprise. elizabeth, on her part, was not less active to secure the friendship of a neighbor, who, by opening or closing his ports, might do so much to assist or to counteract the projects of her enemy. james had the wisdom to see that it was not for his interest to ally himself with a power that sought the extinction of the faith which he professed, and the subjugation of a kingdom to which he was the heir. the spanish overtures were rejected, and the great body of the people, warmly applauding the king's decision, entered into a combination to resist an attempt to land at any point on the scottish coast. there was, nevertheless, a small party in scotland which favoured the designs of philip. at the head of this faction were the catholic earls of huntly, errol, and angus. even after the dispersion of the armada, they kept up negotiations with the prince of parma and the king of spain, in the hope of restoring the ancient religion, or at least of obtaining for themselves an equality of privileges with the protestants. more than once were the leaders of this party committed to prison for overt acts of treason, and released by the clemency of the sovereign, but suffering as the romanists did under the oppression of a fanatical majority, rebellion was their natural condition. after various acts of insubordination, continued for a series of years, it was proved beyond question that the catholic earls had signed papers for an invasion of britain by , foreigners. a convention of estates, summoned to consider the affair, finally determined that the three earls should be exempt from further inquiry on account of this conspiracy, but that before the first day of february, , they should either renounce the errors of popery, or remove from the kingdom. the catholic leaders, relying on the number of their supporters, and not less on the inaccessible nature of the country in which their estates lay, scornfully rejected the choice proposed to them, renewed their connections with spain, and were accordingly declared guilty of high treason and subjected to the doom of forfeiture. king james's exchequer was at this time so low that it was impossible for him to undertake the enforcing of this sentence in person. he was obliged to delegate the office to the young earl of argyle, who was induced to accept the appointment by the promise of a portion of huntly's forfeited estates. the prospect of booty and the authority of the chief of the campbells drew together six or seven thousand highlanders, to whom were joined some hundreds of men from the western islands, under the chief of maclean. with this body, one fourth of whom carried firelocks, while the rest were armed after the gaelic fashion, argyle descended from the hills towards huntly's castle of strathbogie. the chief of the gordons, suddenly assailed, had no time to procure assistance from angus. he collected about a thousand gentlemen of his own name, and errol came to his aid with two or three hundred of the hays. all these were men of birth, well armed and mounted, and to this small, but powerful, troop of cavalry, was added a train of six field pieces (engines very terrible to highlanders), under the management of an excellent soldier, the very same captain ker, who has figured already in the ballad of _edom o' gordon_. the armies encountered at a place called belrinnes in a district called glenlivet. the highlanders were posted on a mountain-side, so steep that footmen could barely keep their hold. notwithstanding this obstacle, the earls determined to attempt the ascent, and errol, supported by sir patrick gordon, led the hays up the hill in the very face of the foe. while the vanguard was advancing, ker brought some of his artillery to bear on argyle's front, which threw the highlanders into confusion, and caused some of them to fly. errol's horsemen, however, were soon forced by the steepness of the mountain to wheel and move obliquely, and their flank being thus exposed, their horses suffered considerable damage from a volley of bullets and arrows. upon this huntly made a fierce attack upon argyle's centre, and bore down his banner, and his cavalry soon after attaining to more even ground, where their horses could operate with efficiency, the highlanders, who were destitute of lances, and so unable to withstand the shock, were driven down the other side of the hill, and put to utter rout. the chief of maclean alone withstood the assault of the horsemen, and performed marvellous feats of bravery, but was at last forced off the field by his own soldiers, and argyle himself was compelled to fly, weeping with anger. of the catholics, sir patrick gordon, huntley's uncle, was slain, with only twelve others. the loss of the other party was several hundred soldiers, besides some men of note, among them campbell of lochinzell. this battle was fought on the third of october, . the action is called the battle of glenlivet, or of balrinnes, and also of strath-aven.--see the th chapter of sir w. scott's _history of scotland_, and the contemporary narrative in dalzell's _scotish poems of the sixteenth century_, i. . the ballad which follows is taken from the publication of dalzell just mentioned, vol. ii. p. . there is a copy in the pepys collection, and another in the advocates' library, printed at edinburgh in . the ballad is also printed, undoubtedly from a stall copy, in _scarce ancient ballads_, p. . the first four stanzas had previously been given in jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. . the older version of dalzell is somewhat defective, and abounds in errors, which, as well as the vitiated orthography, are attributed to the ignorance of an english transcriber. the omissions are here supplied in the margin from the other copies. betuixt dunother and aberdein, i rais and tuik the way, beleiuing weill it had not beine nought halff ane hour to day. the lift was clad with cloudis gray, and owermaskit was the moone, quhilk me deceaued whair i lay, and maid me ryss ouer soone. on towie mounth i mett a man, weill grathed in his gear: quoth i, "quhat neues?" then he begane to tell a fitt of warre. quoth he, "of lait i heir,[l ] ane bloodie broust there was brouine, zesterday, withouten moir, upone ane hill at strathdoune." * * * * * then i, as any man wold be, desyrous for to know mair of that taill he told to me, the quhilk he said he sawe-- be then the day began to daw, and back with him i red; then he began the soothe to schaw, and on this wayis he said. macallenmore cam from the wast with many a bow and brand; to wast the rinnes he thought best, the earll of huntlies land.[l ] he swore that none should him gainestand, except that he war fay; bot all sould be at his comand that dwelt be northen tay. then huntlie, for to prevent that perrill, directit hastilie unto the noble erll of erroll, besought him for supplie. quha said, "it is my deutie for to giue huntlie support; for if he lossis strabolgie, my slaines will be ill hurt. "thairfoir i hald the subject vaine, wold rave us of our right; first sall one of us be slaine, the uther tak the flight. suppose argyll be muche of might, be force of heigheland men; we's be a motte into his sight, or he pas hame againe. "be blaithe, my mirrie men, be blaithe, argyll sall have the worse, give he into this countrie kaithe, i houpe in god[i]s cross." then leap this lord upon his horss, ane warrlyk troupe at torray; to meit with huntlie and his force, they ryde to elgine of murray. the samen night thir lordis meit; for utheris, who thought long, (to tell zow all, i haue forgot) the mirthe was them amonge. then playeris played, and songsters song, to gled the mirrie host, quho feared not thair foes strong, nor zet argylles boste. they for two dayes wold not remove, bot blaithlie dranck the wyne, some to his lass, some to his loue, some to his ladeis fyne. and he that thought not for to blyne, his mistres tockin tackes; they kist it first, and set it syne upone thair helmes and jackes. they past thair tyme right wantonly, quhill word cam at ye last, argyll, with ane great armie, approached wondrous fast. then [out] of the toune thir barrones past, and huntlie to them said, "good gentillmen, we will us cast to strathbolgie but bed."[l ] quhen they unto strathbolgie came,[l ] to that castell but dreid, then to forsee how thingis might frame,[l ] for they had meikle neid, they woned them unto the dead, as kirkmen could devys; syne prayed to god that they might speed off thair guid enterpryse. then evirie man himself did arme, to meit mackallanmorne, unto strathdoune quho did great harme the wednesday beforne. as lyounes does poore lambes devoure, with bloodie teethe and naillis, they burnt the biggingis, tuik the store, syne slewe the peopillis sellis. besyd all this hie crueltie, he said, ere he should ceass, the standing stonnes of strathbolgie schould be his palione place. bot huntlie said, "with godis grace, first we sall fight them ones; perchance that they may tak the chess, ere they come to the stonnes." thir lordis keipt on at afternoone, with all thair warrmen wight; then sped up to cabrach sone, whair they bed all that night. upone the morne, quhen day was light, they rose and maid them boune intill ane castell that stood on hight, they call it auchindoune. besyd that castell, on a croft, they stended pallionis ther; then spak a man that had bein oft in jeopardie of warr: "my lord, zour foes they ar to fear, thoughe we war neuir so stoute; thairfoir comand some man of warre to watche the rest about." be this was done, some gentillmen of noble kin and blood, to counsell with thir lordis begane, of matteris to concluide: for weill aneughe they understood the matter was of weght, they had so manie men of good in battell for to fight. the firstin man in counsall spak, good errol it was he; who sayis, "i will the vaneguard tack and leiding upone me. my lord huntlie, come succour me, when ze sie me opprest; for fra the feild i will not flie so long as i may last." thair at some gordones waxed wraithe, and said he did them wrong; to lat this lord then they warre leath first to [the] battell gange. the meiting that was them amonge,[l ] was no man that it hard, bot huntlie, with ane troupe full stronge, bed into the reir guarde. thir wer the number of thair force thir lordis to battell led: ane thousand gentillmen on horss, and some fotemen they had; thrie hundreth that schot arrowes bred, four scorr that hagbutis bore: thir war the number that they had of footmen with them suire. this worthy chevalrie[l ] all merchand to the field; argyll, with ane great armie, upone ane hill had tane beild, aboyding them [with] speare and scheild,[l ] with bullettis, dartis, and bowes; the men could weill thair wapones weild;[l ] to meit them was no mowes. when they so near uther war come, that ilk man saw his foe, "goe to, and assay the gaime," said some; bot capitane ker said, "no: first lat the gunes befoir us goe, that they may break the order": quoth both the lordis, "lat it be so, or euer we goe forder." then androw gray, upone ane horss, betuixt the battillis red; makand the signe of holy cross, _in manus tuas_ he said.[l ] he lighted thair [the] gunes to led, quhill they cam to the rest; then capitane ker unto him sped, and bad him shuit in haist. "i will not [shuit]," quothe androw gray, "quhill they cum over zonder hill; we have an ower guid caus this dey,[l ] through misgydins to spill. goe back, and bid our men byd still, quhill they cum to the plaine; then sall my shuitting doe them ill, i will not shuit in vaine." "shuit up, shuit up," quothe capitane ker, "shuit up, to our comfort!" the firsten shot [it] was to neir, it lighted all to schort. the nixtin shot thair foes hurt, it lighted wounderous weill: quoth androw gray, "i sie ane sport, quhen they began to reill. "goe toe, good mattes, and say the game, zonder folkis ar in a fray; lat sie how we can well with them, into thair disaray. goe, goe, it is not tyme to stay, all for my bennisoune; saue non this day ze may gar dye, quhill ze the feild haue wonne."[l ] then errol haisted to the hight, whair he did battell byd; with him went auchindoune and gight,[l ] and bonnitoune by his syd: whair manie gentillman did with him byd, whos prais sould not be smored; bot capitane ker, that was thair gyde, red ay befoir my lord. they war not manie men of werre, bot they war wonder trewe; with hagbutis, pistolet, bowe, and speare, they did thair foes persewe, quhair bullettis, dartis, and arrowes flew, als thick as haill or raine, quhilk manie hurt, and some they slew, of horss and gentillmen. huntlie maid haist to succour him, and charged furiouslie, quhair manie menis sight grew dim, the shottis so thick did flie; quhilk gart right manie doghtie die, of some on euerie syd; argyll with his tald hoste did flie, bot macklenne did abyd. macklene had one ane habershoune, ilk lord had one ane jack; togidder feirc[e]lie are they rune, with manie a gunes crack. the splenderis of thair spearis they break, flewe up into the air, quhilk boore doune maney on thair back, againe ros neuer mair.[l ] "alace, i sie ane soré sight," said the laird of macklenne; "our feible folkis is tenne the flight, and left me myne allaine. now must i flie, or els be slaine, since they will not returne;" with that he ran ouer ane dyne, endlongis ane lytill burne. then after great argylles hoste some horssmen tuik the chess, quha turned their backes for all thair bost, contrair the fooles say[s]. they cried "oh," with manie "alace," bot neuir for mercie sought; thairfoir the gordones gaue no grace, becaus they craved it nought. then some guidman perseiued sharpe,[l ] with erroll and huntlie, and thai with [a] capitane did carpe, quhais name was ogilvie. he sayis, "gentillmen, lat see who maniest slaine slaydis;[l ] save non this day ze may gar die, for pleadis, nor ransome paynes."[l ] lyk hartes, up howes and hillis thei ranne, quhair horsmen might not winn: "reteir againe," quoth huntlie then, "quhair we did first begin. heir lyes manie carved skinnes, with manie ane bloodie beard, for anie helpe, with litell dinne, sall rotte aboue the eard." when they cam to the hill againe, the sett doune one thair knees, syne thanked god that they had slaine soe manie enimies. they ros befor argylles eyis, maid capitane ker ane knight; syne bed among the dead bodies, whill they war out of sight. [l - ] [l - ] this deid so doughtilie was done, as i hard trewe men tell, upone ane thursday afternoone, st. franecis ewill befell.[l ] guid auchindoune was slaine himself, with uther seven in battéll; so was the laird of lochinzell, grate pitie was to tell. - . saying, "the ministers, i fear, a bloody browst have brown, for yesterday, withouthen mair, on the hill at stradown, i saw three lords in battle fight right furiously awhile, huntlie and errol, as they hight, were both against argyle. turn back with me and ride a mile, and i shall make it kend, how they began, the form and stile, and of the battles end." jamieson. . landis. . beed. . fraine. - . this stanza is unintelligible in dalzell. it stands thus in laing's copy. when they unto strathboggy came, to council soon they geed, for to see how things might frame, for they had meikle need. they voted then to do a deed as kirkmen do devise, and pray'd that they might find good speed in that great interprise. . this line seems to be corrupted. . some words are lost. thus with their noble cavalry they marched to the field. laing. . speares and scheildis. . weild thair wapones weill. . mannis. . then ower. - . then awful erroll he can say "good fellows, follow me: i hope it shall be ours this day, or else therefore to die. tho they in number many be,[l ] set on, withoutten words; let ilk brave fellow brake his tree, and then pursue with swords." . many were. . within went. - . then some men said, "we will be sure and take maclean by course; go to, for we are men anew to bear him down by force." but noble errol had remorse, and said, "it is not best, for tho argyle has got the worst, let him gang with the rest. - . "what greater honour could ye wish in deeds of chivalry, or brave victory than this, where one has chac'd thrice three? therefore, good fellows, let him be; he'll die before he yield; for he with his small company bade langest in the field." . perceiued. , . corrupted. - . now i have you already tauld, huntly and errol's men could scarce be thirteen hundred called, the truth if ye would ken.[l ] and yet argyle his thousands ten[l ] were they that took the race, and tho that they were nine to ane, they caused [them] take the chace. . he. . has. - . sae argyle's boast it was in vain, (he thought sure not to tyne) that if he durst cum to the plain, he would gar every nine of his lay hold upon ilk man huntly and errol had: but yet for all his odds he ran[l ] to tell how ill he sped. . fled. . should be _eve_, or _vigil_. bonny john seton. this ballad is taken from maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. . there is another version in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. (_the death of john seton_). john seton of pitmedden, a young and brave cavalier, was shot through the middle by a cannon ball, during the skirmish at the bridge of dee, while engaged, under the viscount of aboyne, in resisting the advance of montrose upon the town of aberdeen, in june, . it was the hard fate of aberdeen to suffer from the arms of montrose, first, when he was general of the covenanters, and again while he was lieutenant for the king. the murder and pillage perpetrated in the town by the irish after the defeat of lord burleigh, in , have been made the subject of violent reproach by his enemies, but it may perhaps be said, that for all that exceeded the usual horrors of war, the heroic commander was not responsible. in buchan's version of the present ballad, the clemency shown by montrose on taking possession of the city in is commemorated in three stanzas worthy of preservation. the covenanters were "resolved to have sacked it orderly." out it speeks the gallant montrose, (grace on his fair body!) "we winna burn the bonny burgh, we'll even lat it be." then out it speaks the gallant montrose, "your purpose i will break; we winna burn the bonny burgh, we'll never build its make. "i see the women and their children climbing the craigs sae hie; we'll sleep this night in the bonny burgh, and even lat it be." * * * * * upon the eighteenth day of june, a dreary day to see, the southern lords did pitch their camp just at the bridge of dee. bonny john seton of pitmeddin, a bold baron was he, he made his testament ere he went out, the wiser man was he. he left his land to his young son, his lady her dowry, a thousand crowns to his daughter jean, yet on the nurse's knee. then out came his lady fair, a tear into her e'e; says "stay at home, my own good lord, o stay at home with me!" he looked over his left shoulder, cried, "souldiers, follow me!" o then she looked in his face, an angry woman was she: "god send me back my steed again, but ne'er let me see thee!" his name was major middleton that manned the bridge of dee; his name was colonel henderson that let the cannons flee. his name was major middleton that manned the bridge of dee; and his name was colonel henderson that dung pitmeddin in three. some rode on the black and gray, and some rode on the brown, but the bonny john seton lay gasping on the ground. then bye there comes a false forbes, was riding from driminere; says "here there lies a proud seton, this day they ride the rear." cragievar said to his men,[l ] "you may play on your shield; for the proudest seton in all the lan' this day lies on the field." "o spoil him, spoil him," cried cragievar, "him spoiled let me see; for on my word," said cragievar, "he had no good will at me." they took from him his armour clear, his sword, likewise his shield; yea they have left him naked there upon the open field. the highland men, they're clever men at handling sword and shield, but yet they are too naked men to stay in battle field. the highland men are clever men[l ] at handling sword or gun, but yet they are too naked men to bear the cannon's rung. for a cannon's roar in a summer night is like thunder in the air; there's not a man in highland dress can face the cannon's fire. . sir william forbes of cragievar. - . the highlanders were thrown into great consternation by cannon shot, to which they were not accustomed. at the raid of stonehaven, just previous to the affair of the bridge of dee, the first volley made them wheel about and fly in disorder. they declared that they could not abide "the musket's mother." the haws of cromdale. ritson's _scottish songs_, ii. . johnson's _museum_, p. . this ballad, very popular in scotland, was long sold on the stalls before it was received into the collections. a glance will show that it has at best been very imperfectly transmitted by oral tradition. in fact, the ettrick shepherd seems to be right in maintaining that two widely separated events are here jumbled together. the first five stanzas apparently refer to an action in may, , when sir thomas livingston surprised fifteen hundred highlanders in their beds at cromdale, and the remainder to the lost battle of auldern, where montrose, with far inferior forces, defeated sir john hurry with prodigious slaughter, on the th of may, . mr. stenhouse states, indeed, that after that imprudent division of the army of the covenant which opened the way to the disaster at auldern, hurry surprised and routed at cromdale a body of highlanders under the lion-hearted allaster macdonald. but this check appears, by his own language, to have been too slight an affair to call forth such verses as those with which the ballad begins. see hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. , johnson's _museum_ ( ), iv. . as i came in by achendown, a little wee bit frae the town, when to the highlands i was bown, to view the haws of cromdale, i met a man in tartan trews, i spier'd at him what was the news: quoth he, "the highland army rues that e'er we came to cromdale." "we were in bed, sir, every man, when the english host upon us came; a bloody battle then began upon the haws of cromdale. "the english horse they were so rude, they bath'd their hoofs in highland blood, but our brave clans they boldly stood, upon the haws of cromdale. "but alas! we could no longer stay, for o'er the hills we came away, and sore we do lament the day that e'er we came to cromdale." * * * * * thus the great montrose did say, "can you direct the nearest way? for i will o'er the hills this day, and view the haws of cromdale." "alas, my lord, you're not so strong; you scarcely have two thousand men, and there's twenty thousand on the plain, stand rank and file on cromdale." thus the great montrose did say, "i say, direct the nearest way, for i will o'er the hills this day, and see the haws of cromdale." they were at dinner, every man, when great montrose upon them came; a second battle then began upon the haws of cromdale. the grants, mackenzies, and m'kys, soon as montrose they did espy, o then they fought most vehemently, upon the haws of cromdale. the m'donalds, they return'd again, the camerons did their standard join, m'intosh play'd a bonny game, upon the haws of cromdale. the m'gregors fought like lyons bold, m'phersons, none could them controul, m'lauchlins fought like loyal souls, upon the haws of cromdale. [m'leans, m'dougals, and m'neals, so boldly as they took the field, and made their enemies to yield, upon the haws of cromdale.] the gordons boldly did advance, the fraziers [fought] with sword and lance, the grahams they made their heads to dance, upon the haws of cromdale. the loyal stewarts, with montrose, so boldly set upon their foes, and brought them down with highland blows, upon the haws of cromdale of twenty thousand cromwells men five hundred went to aberdeen, the rest of them lyes on the plain, upon the haws of cromdale. the battle of alford. two months after the defeat of sir john hurry at auldern, montrose utterly destroyed the other division of the covenanting army, under general baillie, at alford on the don. on the d of july, the king's forces marched from drumminor, and crossed the don to alford, montrose and the earl of aboyne taking up their quarters in the castle of asloun. baillie, who was now in pursuit of the royalists, moved southward, and encamped on the day just mentioned, at lesly. the next morning he crossed the river (halting on the way near a farm called mill hill), whereupon the battle took place. montrose dearly purchased this new victory by the loss of lord george gordon, who commanded the _right_ wing, not the left. these fragmentary verses are from _the thistle of scotland_, p. . the graham[s and] gordons of aboyne camp'd at drumminor bog; at the castle there they lay all night, and left them scarce a hog. the black baillie, that auld dog, appeared on our right; we quickly raise up frae the bog, to alford march'd that night. we lay at lesly all night, they camped at asloun; and up we raise afore daylight, to ding the beggars doun. before we was in battle rank, we was anent mill hill; i wat full weel they gar'd us rue,[l ] we gat fighting our fill. they hunted us and dunted us, they drave us here and there, untill three hundred of our men lay gasping in their lair. the earl of mar the right wing guided, the colours stood him by; lord george gordon the left wing guided, who well the sword could ply. there came a ball shot frae the west that shot him through the back; although he was our enemy, we grieved for his wreck. we cannot say 'twas his own men, but yet it came that way; in scotland there was not a match to that man where he lay. . fell. the battle of pentland hills. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. "the insurrection commemorated and magnified in the following ballad, as indeed it has been in some histories, was, in itself, no very important affair. it began in dumfries-shire, where sir james turner, a soldier of fortune, was employed to levy the arbitrary fines imposed for not attending the episcopal churches. the people rose, seized his person, disarmed his soldiers, and, having continued together, resolved to march towards edinburgh, expecting to be joined by their friends in that quarter. in this they were disappointed; and, being now diminished to half their numbers, they drew up on the pentland hills, at a place called rullien green. they were commanded by one wallace; and here they awaited the approach of general dalziel, of binns; who, having marched to calder, to meet them on the lanark road, and finding, that, by passing through collington, they had got to the other side of the hills, cut through the mountains and approached them. wallace showed both spirit and judgment: he drew up his men in a very strong situation, and withstood two charges of dalziel's cavalry; but, upon the third shock, the insurgents were broken and utterly dispersed. there was very little slaughter, as the cavalry of dalziel were chiefly gentlemen, who pitied their oppressed and misguided countrymen. there were about fifty killed, and as many made prisoners. the battle was fought on the th november, ; a day still observed by the scattered remnant of the cameronian sect, who regularly hear a field-preaching upon the field of battle. "i am obliged for a copy of the ballad to mr. livingston of airds, who took it down from the recitation of an old woman residing on his estate. "the gallant grahams, mentioned in the text, are graham of claverhouse's horse." scott. the gallant grahams cam from the west, wi' their horses black as ony craw; the lothian lads they marched fast, to be at the rhyns o' gallowa. betwixt dumfries town and argyle, the lads they marched mony a mile; souters and tailors unto them drew, their covenants for to renew. the whigs, they, wi' their merry cracks, gar'd the poor pedlars lay down their packs; but aye sinsyne they do repent the renewing o' their covenant. at the mauchline muir, where they were review'd, ten thousand men in armour show'd; but, ere they came to the brockie's burn, the half of them did back return. general dalyell, as i hear tell, was our lieutenant-general; and captain welsh, wi' his wit and skill, was to guide them on to the pentland hill. general dalyell held to the hill, asking at them what was their will; and who gave them this protestation, to rise in arms against the nation? "although we all in armour be, it's not against his majesty; nor yet to spill our neighbour's bluid, but wi' the country we'll conclude." "lay down your arms, in the king's name, and ye shall a' gae safely hame;" but they a' cried out wi' ae consent, "we'll fight for a broken covenant." "o well," says he, "since it is so, a wilfu' man never wanted woe:" he then gave a sign unto his lads, and they drew up in their brigades. the trumpets blew, and the colours flew, and every man to his armour drew; the whigs were never so much aghast, as to see their saddles toom sae fast. the cleverest men stood in the van, the whigs they took their heels and ran; but such a raking was never seen, as the raking o' the rullien green. the reading skirmish. several companies, principally irish, belonging to the army of king james, and stationed at reading, had quitted the town in consequence of a report that the prince of orange was advancing in that direction with the main body of his forces. on the departure of the garrison, the people of reading at once invited the prince to take possession of the place, and secure them against the irish. but the king's troops, having learned that it was only a small detachment of william's soldiers, and not the main army, by whom they were threatened, returned and reoccupied their post. here they were attacked by two hundred and fifty of the dutch, and though numbering six hundred, were soon put to flight, with the loss of their colors and of fifty men, the assailants losing but five. this skirmish occurred on sunday, the th of december, . this piece is extracted from croker's _historical songs of ireland_, p. , percy society, vol. i., and was there given from a collection of printed ballads in the british museum. the burden seems to be derived from the following stanza of _lilli burlero_: "now, now de heretics all go down, _lilli, &c._ by chreist and st. patrick de nation's our own, _lilli, &c._ the reading skirmish; or, the bloody irish routed by the victorious dutch. five hundred papishes came there, to make a final end of all the town, in time of prayer, but god did them defend. to the tune of _lilli borlero_. licensed according to order. printed for j. d. in the year . we came into brave reading by night, five hundred horsemen proper and tall; yet not resolved fairly to fight, but for to cut the throats of them all. most of us was irish papists, who vowed to kill, then plunder the town; we this never doubted, but soon we were routed, by chreest and st. patrick, we all go down. in reading town we ne'er went to bed; every soul there mounted his horse, hoping next day to fill them with dread; yet i swear by st. patrick's cross, we most shamefully was routed: fortune was pleased to give us a frown, and blasted our glory: i'll tell you the story, by chreest and st. patrick we all go down. we thought to slay them all in their sleep, but by my shoul, were never the near, the hereticks their guard did so keep, which put us in a trembling fear. we concluded something further, to seize the churches all in the town, with killing and slaying, while they were a praying, but we were routed, and soon run down. nay, before noon, we vowed to despatch every man, nay, woman and child; this in our hearts we freely did hatch, vowing to make a prey of the spoil. but we straightways was prevented, when we did hope for fame and renown; in less than an hour we [are] forcéd to scoure; by chreest and st. patrick, we are run down. we were resolved reading to clear, having in hand the flourishing sword; the bloody sceen was soon to appear, for we did then but wait for the word: while the ministers were preaching, we were resolved to have at their gown; but straight was surrounded, and clearly confounded, by chreest and st. patrick, we all go down. just as we all were fit to fall on, in came the dutch with fury and speed; and amongst them there was not a man, but what was rarely mounted indeed; and rid up as fierce as tygers, knitting their brows, they on us did frown; not one of them idle, their teeth held their bridle, by chreest and st. patrick, we were run down. they never stood to use many words, but in all haste up to us they flocked, in their right hands their flourishing swords, and their left carbines ready cock'd. we were forced to fly before them, thorow the lanes and streets of the town; while they pursued after, and threaten'd a slaughter, by chreest and st. patrick, we were run down. then being fairly put to the rout, hunted and drove before 'um like dogs, our captain bid us then face about, but we wisht for our irish bogs. having no great mind for fighting, the dutch did drive us thorow the town; our foreheads we crossed, yet still was unhorsed, by chreest and st. patrick, we're all run down. we threw away our swords and carbines, pistols and cloaks lay strow'd on the lands; cutting off boots for running, uds-doyns, one pair of heels was worth two pair of hands. then we called on sweet st. coleman,[l ] hoping he might our victory crown; but dutchmen pursuing poor teagues to our ruin, by chreest and st. patrick, we're all run down. never was teagues in so much distress, as the whole world may well understand; when we came here, we thought to possess worthy estates of houses and land: but we find 'tis all a story, fortune is pleased on us to frown: instead of our riches, we stink in our breeches, by chreest and st. patrick, we're all run down. they call a thing a three-legged mare, where they will fit each neck with a nooze, then with our beads to say our last prayer, after all this to die in our shoes. thence we pack to purgatory; for us let all the jesuits pray; farewell, father peters, here's some of your creatures would have you to follow the self-same way. , edward coleman, hanged at tyburn in , for his participation in the popish plot.--croker. undaunted londonderry. the story of the siege of londonderry, "the most memorable in the annals of the british isles," is eloquently told in the twelfth chapter of macaulay's _history of england_. it lasted one hundred and five days, from the middle of april to the first of august ( ). during that time the garrison had been reduced from about seven thousand men to about three thousand. famine and pestilence slew more than the fire of the enemy. in the last month of the siege, there was scarcely any thing left to eat in the city but salted hides and tallow. the price of a dog's paw was five shillings and sixpence, and rats that had fed on the bodies of the dead were eagerly hunted and slain. the courage and self-devotion of the defenders, animated by a lofty public spirit and sustained by religious zeal, were at last rewarded by a glorious triumph, and will never cease to be celebrated with pride and enthusiasm by the protestants of ireland. the ballad is here given as printed in croker's _historical songs of ireland_, p. , from a black letter copy in the british museum. the whole title runs thus: _undaunted londonderry; or, the victorious protestants' constant success against the proud french and irish forces_. _to the tune of lilli borlero._ protestant boys, both valliant and stout, fear not the strength and frown of rome, thousands of them are put to the rout, brave londonderry tells 'um their doom. for their cannons roar like thunder, being resolved the town to maintain for william and mary, still brave londonderry will give the proud french and tories their bane. time after time, with powder and balls, protestant souls they did 'um salute, that before londonderry's stout walls many are slain and taken to boot. nay, their noble duke of berwick,[l ] many reports, is happily tane, where still they confine him, and will not resign him, till they have given the tories their bane. into the town their bombs they did throw, being resolved to fire the same, hoping thereby to lay it all low, could they but raise it into a flame. but the polititious walker,[l ] by an intreague did quail them again, and blasted the glory of french, teague, and tory; by policy, boys, he gave them their bane. thundering stones they laid on the wall, ready against the enemy came, with which they vow'd the tories to mawl, whene'er they dare approach but the same. and another sweet invention, the which in brief i reckon to name; a sharp, bloody slaughter did soon follow after, among the proud french, and gave them their bane. stubble and straw in parcels they laid, the which they straightways kindled with speed; by this intreague the french was betrayed, thinking the town was fired indeed. then they placed their scaling ladders, and o'er the walls did scour amain; yet strait, to their wonder, they were cut in sunder, thus frenchmen and tories met with their bane. suddenly then they opened their gate, sallying forth with vigor and might; and, as the truth i here may relate, protestant boys did valliantly fight, taking many chief commanders, while the sharp fray they thus did maintain, with vigorous courses, they routed their forces, and many poor teagues did meet with their bane. while with their blood the cause they have sealed, heaven upon their actions did frown; protestants took the spoil of the field, cannons full five they brought to the town. with a lusty, large, great mortar, thus they returned with honor and gain, while papists did scour from protestant power, as fearing they all should suffer their bane. in a short time we hope to arrive with a vast army to ireland, and the affairs so well we'll contrive that they shall ne'er have power to stand gainst king william and queen mary, who on the throne does flourish and reign; we'll down with the faction that make the distraction, and give the proud french and tories their bane. . in a sally which was made by the garrison towards the end of april, the duke of berwick is said to have received a slight wound in the back. . the rev. george walker, rector of the parish of donaghmore, the hero of the defence. his statue now stands on a lofty pillar, rising from a bastion which for a long time sustained the heaviest fire of the besiegers. pr[oe]lium gillicrankianum. see p. . from johnson's _museum_, p. . grahamius notabilis coegerat montanos, qui clypeis et gladiis fugarunt anglicanos; fugerant vallicolæ, atque puritani, cacavere batavi et cameroniani. grahamius mirabilis, fortissimus alcides, cujus regi fuerat intemerata fides, agiles monticolas marte inspiravit, et duplicatum numerum hostium profligavit. nobilis apparuit fermilodunensis, cujus in rebelles stringebatur ensis; nobilis et sanguine, nobilior virtute, regi devotissimus intus et in cute. pitcurius heroicus, hector scoticanus, cui mens fidelis fuerat et invicta manus, capita rebellium, is excerebravit, hostes unitissimos ille dimicavit. glengarius magnanimus atque bellicosus, functus ut eneas, pro rege animosus, fortis atque strenuus, hostes expugnavit, sanguine rebellium campos coloravit. surrexerat fideliter donaldus insulanus, pugnaverat viriliter, cum copiis skyanis, pater atque filii non dissimularunt, sed pro rege proprio unanimes pugnarunt. macleanius, circumdatus tribo martiali, semper, devinctissimus familiæ regali, fortiter pugnaverat, more atavorum, deinde dissipaverat turmas batavorum. strenuus lochielius, multo camerone, hostes ense peremit, et abrio pugione; istos et intrepidos orco dedicavit, impedimenta hostium blaro reportavit. macneillius de bara, glencous kepochanus, ballechinus, cum fratre, stuartus apianus, pro jacobo septimo fortiter gessere, pugiles fortissimi, feliciter vicere. canonicus clarissimus gallovidianus, acer et indomitus, consilioque sanus, ibi dux adfuerat, spectabilis persona, nam pro tuenda patria, hunc peperit bellona. ducalidoni dominum spreverat gradivus, nobilis et juvenis, fortis et activus: nam cum nativum principem exulem audiret, redit ex hungaria ut regi inserviret. illic et adfuerat tutor ranaldorum, qui strenue pugnaverat cum copiis virorum; et ipse capetaneus, aetate puerili, intentus est ad pr[oe]lium, spiritu virili. glenmoristonus junior, optimus bellator subito jam factus, hactenus venator, perduelles whiggeos ut pecora prostravit, ense et fulmineo mackaium fugavit. regibus et legibus, scotici constantes, vos clypeis et gladiis pro principe pugnantes, vestra est victoria, vestra est et gloria, in cantis et historia perpes est memoria! the boyne water. this momentous battle was fought on the st of july, . james had a strong position and thirty thousand men, two thirds of whom were a worthless rabble. william had thirty-six thousand splendid soldiers. the loss on neither side was great. of james's troops there fell fifteen hundred, the flower of his army; of the conqueror's not more than five, but with them the great duke of schomberg. the present version of this ballad is from croker's _historical songs of ireland_, p. , given from a ms. copy in the editor's possession. july the first, in oldbridge town,[l ] there was a grievous battle, where many a man lay on the ground, by the cannons that did rattle, king james he pitched his tents between the lines for to retire; but king william threw his bomb-balls in, and set them all on fire. thereat enraged, they vow'd revenge, upon king william's forces; and often did cry vehemently, that they would stop their courses. a bullet from the irish came, which grazed king william's arm; they thought his majesty was slain, yet it did him little harm. duke schomberg then, in friendly care, his king would often caution to shun the spot where bullets hot retain'd their rapid motion. but william said--"he don't deserve the name of faith's defender, that would not venture life and limb to make a foe surrender." when we the boyne began to cross, the enemy they descended; but few of our brave men were lost, so stoutly we defended. the horse was the first that marchéd o'er, the foot soon followed a'ter, but brave duke schomberg was no more, by venturing over the water. when valiant schomberg he was slain, king william thus accosted his warlike men, for to march on, and he would be the foremost. "brave boys," he said, "be not dismayed for the losing of one commander; for god will be our king this day, and i'll be general under." then stoutly we the boyne did cross, to give our enemies battle; our cannon, to our foes great cost, like thundering claps did rattle, in majestic mien our prince rode o'er, his men soon followed a'ter; with blows and shouts put our foes to the route, the day we crossed the water. the protestants of drogheda have reasons to be thankful, that they were not to bondage brought, they being but a handful. first to the tholsel they were brought, and tied at milmount a'ter,[l ] but brave king william set them free, by venturing over the water. the cunning french, near to duleek[l ] had taken up their quarters, and fenced themselves on every side, still waiting for new orders. but in the dead time of the night, they set the field on fire; and long before the morning light, to dublin they did retire. then said king william to his men, after the french departed, "i'm glad," said he, "that none of ye seeméd to be faint-hearted. so sheath your swords, and rest awhile, in time we'll follow a'ter:" these words he uttered with a smile, the day he crossed the water. come, let us all, with heart and voice, applaud our lives' defender, who at the boyne his valour shewed, and made his foes surrender, to god above the praise we'll give, both now and ever a'ter, and bless the glorious memory of king william that crossed the boyne water. . the dutch guards first entered the river boyne at a ford opposite to the little village of oldbridge.--croker. . "after the battle of the boyne, the popish garrison of drogheda took the protestants out of prison, into which they had thrown them, and carried them to the mount; where they expected the cannon would play, if king william's forces besieged the town. _they tied them together_, and set them to receive the shot; but their hearts failed them who were to defend the place, and so it pleased god to preserve the poor protestants."--_memoirs of ireland, &c._, cited by croker. . "when, in the course of the day, the battle approached james's position on the hill of donore, the warlike prince retired to a more secure distance at duleek, where he soon put himself at the head of his french allies, and led the retreat; the king and the french coming off without a scar."--o'driscol, cited by croker. the woman warrior, who liv'd in cow-cross, near west-smithfield; who, changing her apparel, entered herself on board in quality of a soldier, and sailed to ireland, where she valiantly behaved herself, particularly at the siege of cork, where she lost her toes, and received a mortal wound in her body, of which she since died in her return to london. from durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, v. . cork was taken september - , , by the duke (then earl) of marlborough, with the coöperation of the duke of wirtemberg. the duke of grafton, then serving as a volunteer, was mortally wounded while advancing to the assault. croker suggests that this lamentation for the heroine of cow-cross, "the mary ambree of her age," was one of the many indirect efforts made to bring the military skill of marlborough into popular notice. let the females attend to the lines which are penn'd, for here i shall give a relation of a young marry'd wife, who did venture her life, for a soldier, a soldier she went from the nation. she her husband did leave, and did likewise receive her arms, and on board she did enter, and right valiantly went, with a resolution bent to the ocean, the ocean, her life there to venture. yet of all the ship's crew, not a seaman that knew they then had a woman so near 'em; on the ocean so deep she her council did keep, ay, and therefore, and therefore she never did fear 'em. she was valiant and bold, and would not be controul'd by any that dare to offend her; if a quarrel arose, she would give him dry blows, and the captain, the captain did highly commend her. for he took her to be then of no mean degree, a gentleman's son, or a squire; with a hand white and fair, there was none could compare, which the captain, the captain did often admire. on the irish shore, where the cannons did roar, with many stout lads she was landed; there her life to expose, she lost two of her toes, and in battle, in battle was daily commended. under grafton she fought like a brave hero stout, and made the proud tories retire; she in field did appear with a heart void of fear, and she bravely, she bravely did charge and give fire. while the battering balls did assault the strong walls of cork, and sweet trumpets sounded, she did bravely advance where by unhappy chance this young female, young female, alas! she was wounded. at the end of the fray still she languishing lay, then over the ocean they brought her, to her own native shore: now they ne'er knew before that a woman, a woman had been in that slaughter. what she long had conceal'd now at length she reveal'd, that she was a woman that ventur'd; then to london with care she did straitways repair, but she dy'd, oh she dy'd, e'er the city she enter'd. when her parents beheld, they with sorrow was fill'd, for why, they did dearly adore her; in her grave now she lies, tis not watery eyes, no, nor sighing, nor sighing that e'er can restore her. a dialogue between will lick-ladle and tom clean-cogue, twa shepherds, wha were feeding their flocks on the ochil-hills on the day the battle of sheriff-moor was fought. (see p. . from ritson's _scottish songs_, ii. .) _w._ pray came you here the fight to shun, or keep the sheep with me, man? or was you at the sheriff-moor, and did the battle see, man? pray tell whilk of the parties won? for well i wat i saw them run, both south and north, when they begun, to pell and mell, and kill and fell, with muskets snell, and pistols knell, and some to hell did flee, man. _t._ but, my dear will, i kenna still, whilk o' the twa did lose, man; for well i wat they had good skill to set upo' their foes, man: the red-coats they are train'd, you see, the clans always disdain to flee, wha then should gain the victory? but the highland race, all in a brace, with a swift pace, to the whigs disgrace, did put to chace their foes, man. _w._ now how diel, tam, can this be true? i saw the chace gae north, man. _t._ but well i wat they did pursue them even unto forth, man. frae dumblain they ran in my own sight, and got o'er the bridge with all their might, and those at stirling took their flight; gif only ye had been wi' me, you had seen them flee, of each degree, for fear to die wi' sloth, man. _w._ my sister kate came o'er the hill, wi' crowdie unto me, man; she swore she saw them running still frae perth unto dundee, man. the left wing gen'ral had na skill, the angus lads had no good will that day their neighbours blood to spill; for fear by foes that they should lose their cogues of brose, all crying woes-- yonder them goes, d'ye see, man? _t._ i see but few like gentlemen amang yon frighted crew, man; i fear my lord panmure be slain, or that he's ta'en just now, man: for tho' his officers obey, his cowardly commons run away, for fear the red-coats them should slay; the sodgers hail make their hearts fail; see how they scale, and turn their tail, and rin to flail and plow, man. _w._ but now brave angus comes again into the second fight, man; they swear they'll either dye or gain, no foes shall them affright, man: argyle's best forces they'll withstand, and boldly fight them sword in hand, give them a general to command, a man of might, that will but fight, and take delight to lead them right, and ne'er desire the flight, man. but flandrekins they have no skill[l ] to lead a scotish force, man; their motions do our courage spill, and put us to a loss, man. you'll hear of us far better news, when we attack like highland trews, to hash, and slash, and smash and bruise, till the field, tho' braid, be all o'erspread, but coat or plaid, wi' corpse that's dead in their cold bed, that's moss, man. _t._ twa gen'rals frae the field did run, lords huntley and seaforth, man; they cry'd and run grim death to shun, those heroes of the north, man; they're fitter far for book or pen, than under mars to lead on men; ere they came there they might well ken that female hands could ne'er gain lands; 'tis highland brands that countermands argathlean bands frae forth, man. _w._ the camerons scow'r'd as they were mad, lifting their neighbours cows, man, m'kenzie and the stewart fled, without phil'beg or trews, man: had they behav'd like donald's core, and kill'd all those came them before, their king had gone to france no more: then each whig saint wad soon repent, and strait recant his covenant, and rent it at the news, man. _t._ m'gregors they far off did stand, badenach and athol too, man; i hear they wanted the command, for i believe them true, man. perth, fife, and angus, wi' their horse, stood motionless, and some did worse, for, tho' the red-coats went them cross, they did conspire for to admire clans run and fire, left wings retire, while rights intire pursue, man. _w._ but scotland has not much to say, for such a fight as this is, where baith did fight, baith run away; the devil take the miss is that every officer was not slain that run that day, and was not ta'en, either flying from or to dumblain; when whig and tory, in their 'fury,' strove for glory, to our sorrow, the sad story hush is. . by flanderkins are meant lieutenant-general fanderbeck and colonels rantzaw and cromstrom.--hogg. up and war them a', willie. see p. . from herd's _scotish songs_, ii. . the same in ritson's _scotish songs_, ii. . burns furnished a somewhat different version to johnson's _museum_ (p. , also in cromek's _select scotish songs_, ii. ), which he obtained from one tom neil, a carpenter in edinburgh, who was famous for his singing of scottish songs. the title and burden to this version is _up and warn a', willie_, an allusion, says burns, to the _crantara_, or warning of a highland clan to arms, which the lowlanders, not understanding, have corrupted. there is another copy in hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. , which is nearly the same as the following. when the earl of mar first raised his standard, and proclaimed the chevalier, the ornamental ball on the top of the staff fell off, and the superstitious highlanders interpreted the circumstance as ominous of ill for their cause. this is the incident referred to in the third stanza. when we went to the field of war, and to the weapon-shaw, willie, with true design to stand our ground, and chace our faes awa', willie, lairds and lords came there bedeen, and vow gin they were pra', willie: _up and war 'em a', willie,_ _war 'em, war 'em a', willie._ and when our army was drawn up, the bravest e'er i saw, willie, we did not doubt to rax the rout, and win the day and a', willie; pipers play'd frae right to left, "fy, fourugh whigs awa'," willie. _up and war, &c._ but when our standard was set up, so fierce the wind did bla', willie, the golden knop down from the top unto ground did fa', willie: then second-sighted sandy said, "we'll do nae good at a', willie." _up and war, &c._ when bra'ly they attack'd our left, our front, and flank, and a', willie, our bald commander on the green, our faes their left did ca', willie, and there the greatest slaughter made that e'er poor tonald saw, willie. _up and war, &c._ first when they saw our highland mob, they swore they'd slay us a', willie; and yet ane fyl'd his breiks for fear, and so did rin awa', willie: we drave him back to bonnybrigs, dragoons, and foot, and a', willie. _up and war, &c._ but when their gen'ral view'd our lines, and them in order saw, willie, he straight did march into the town, and back his left did draw, willie: thus we taught them the better gate, to get a better fa', willie. _up and war, &c._ and then we rally'd on the hills, and bravely up did draw, willie; but gin ye spear wha wan the day, i'll tell you what i saw, willie: we baith did fight, and baith were beat, and baith did run awa', willie. so there's my canty highland sang about the thing i saw, willie. the marquis of huntley's retreat from the battle of sheriffmuir. see p. . from _a new book of old ballads_, p. . hogg inserted this ballad in the _jacobite relics_, ii. , using, says maidment, the editor of the publication cited above, a very imperfect manuscript copy. the following version was taken from the original broad-side, supposed to be unique. there are very considerable variations in the language of the two copies, and the order of the stanzas is quite different. this says hogg, "is exclusively a party song, made by some of the grants, or their adherents, in obloquy of their more potent neighbours, the gordons. it is in a great measure untrue; for, though the marquis of huntley was on the left wing at the head of a body of horse, and among the gentlemen that fled, yet two battalions of gordons, or at least of gordon's vassals, perhaps mostly of the clan chattan, behaved themselves as well as any on the field, and were particularly instrumental in breaking the whig cavalry, or the left wing of their army, and driving them back among their foot. on this account, as well as that of the bitter personalities that it contains, the "song is only curious as an inveterate party song, and not as a genuine humorous description of the fight that the marquis and his friends were in. the latter part of the [third] stanza seems to allude to an engagement that took place at dollar, on the th october, a fortnight previous to the battle of sheriffmuir. mar had despatched a small body of cavalry to force an assessment from the town of dunfermline, of which argyle getting notice, sent out a stronger party, who surprised them early in the morning before daylight, and arrested them, killing some and taking seventeen prisoners, several of whom were gordons. the last stanza [but one] evidently alludes to the final submission of the marquis and the rest of the gordons to king george's government, which they did to the grants and the earl of sutherland. the former had previously taken possession of castle gordon; of course, the malicious bard of the grants, with his ill-scraped pen, was not to let that instance of the humiliation of his illustrious neighbours pass unnoticed.--jacobite relics, vol. ii. p. . from bogie side to bogie gight, the gordons all conveen'd, man, with all their might, to battle wight,[l ] together close they join'd, man,[l ] to set their king upon the throne, and to protect the church, man; but fy for shame! they soon ran hame, and left him in the lurch, man. _vow as the marquis ran, coming from dumblane, man! strabogie did b--t itself, and enzie was not clean, man._ their chieftain was a man of fame, and doughty deeds had wrought, man, which future ages still shall name, and tell how well he fought, man. for when the battle did begin, immediately his grace, man, put spurs to florance, and so ran[l ] by all, and wan the race, man. _vow, &c._ the marquis' horse was first sent forth, glenbucket's foot to back them, to give a proof what they were worth, if rebels durst attack them. with loud huzzas to huntly's praise, they near'd dumfermling green, man, but fifty horse, and de'il ane mair, turn'd many a highland clan, man. _vow, &c._ the second chieftain of that clan, for fear that he should die, man, to gain the honour of his name, rais'd first the mutinie, man. and then he wrote unto his grace, the great duke of argyle, man, and swore, if he would grant him peace, the tories he'd beguile, man. _vow, &c._ the master with the bullie's face,[l ] and with the coward's heart, man, who never fails, to his disgrace, to act a traitor's part, man, he join'd drumboig, the greatest knave in all the shire of fife, man. he was the first the cause did leave, by council of his wife, man. _vow, &c._ a member of the tricking trade, an ogilvie by name, man, consulter of the grumbling club, to his eternal shame, man, who would have thought, when he came out, that ever he would fail, man? and like a fool, did eat the cow, and worried on the tail, man. _vow, &c._ meffan smith, at sheriff muir,[l ] gart folk believe he fought, man; but well it's known, that all he did, that day it serv'd for nought, man. for towards night, when mar march'd off, smith was put in the rere, man; he curs'd, he swore, he baul[lè]d out, he would not stay for fear, man. _vow, &c._ but at the first he seem'd to be a man of good renown, man; but when the grumbling work began, he prov'd an arrant lown, man. against mar, and a royal war, a letter he did forge, man; against his prince, he wrote nonsense, and swore by royal george, man.[l ] _vow, &c._ at poineth boat, mr. francis stewart,[l ] a valiant hero stood, man, in acting of a royal part, cause of the royal blood, man. but when at sheriff moor he found that bolting would not do it, he, brother like, did quite his ground, and ne're came back unto it. _vow, &c._ brunstane said it was not fear that made him stay behind, man; but that he had resolv'd that day to sleep in a whole skin, man. the gout, he said, made him take [bed], when battle first began, man; but when he heard his marquis fled, he took his heels and ran, man. _vow, &c._ sir james of park, he left his horse in the middle of a wall, man; and durst not stay to take him out, for fear a knight should fall, man; and maien he let such a crack, and shewed a pantick fear, man; and craigieheads swore he was shot, and curs'd the chance of wear, man. _vow, &c._ when they march'd on the sheriff moor, with courage stout and keen, man; who would have thought the gordons gay that day should quite the green, man? auchleacher and auchanachie, and all the gordon tribe, man, like their great marquis, they could not the smell of powder bide, man. _vow, &c._ glenbuicket cryed, "plague on you all, for gordons do no good, man; for all that fled this day, it is them of the seaton blood, man." clashtirim said it was not so, and that he'd make appear, man; for he, a seaton, stood that day, when gordons ran for fear, man. _vow, &c._ the gordons they are kittle flaws, they'll fight with heart and hand, man; when they met in strathbogie raws on thursday afternoon, man; but when the grants came doun the brae, their enzie shook for fear, man; and all the lairds rode up themselves, with horse and riding gear, man. _vow, &c._ cluny plays his game of chess,[l ] as sure as any thing, man; and like the royal gordons race, gave check unto the king, man. without a queen, its clearly seen, this game cannot recover; i'd do my best, then in great haste play up the rook hanover. _vow, &c._ . weight. . closs. . his horse, so called from having been a present from the grand duke of tuscany.--m. . master of sinclair, whose court-martial has been printed with an exceedingly interesting preface by sir walter scott, as his contribution to the roxburgh club. . david smith was then proprietor of methven, an estate in perthshire. he died in . douglas, in his baronage, terms him, "a man of good parts, great sagacity, and economy."--m. . altered in ms. to "german george."--m. . brother to charles, th earl of moray. upon his brother's death, th october, , he became the th earl. he died in the th year of his age, on the th december, .--m. . this seems rather gordon of cluny than cluny macpherson. the estate of cluny has passed from the ancient race, though still possessed by a gordon.--m. johnie cope. see p. . johnson's _museum_ ( ), vol. iv. p. , ritson's _scottish songs_, ii. . cope sent a challenge frae dunbar, "charlie meet me, an ye daur, and i'll learn you the airt of war, if you'll meet wi' me in the morning." _hey, johnie cope! are ye waking yet? or are your drums a-beating yet? if ye were waking, i would wait to gang to the coals i' the morning._ when charlie looked the letter upon, he drew his sword the scabbard from, "come, follow me, my merry men, and we'll meet johnie cope i' the morning." _hey, johnie cope! &c._ "now, johnie, be as good as your word, come let us try baith fire and sword, and dinna flee like a frighted bird, that's chased frae its nest i' the morning." _hey, johnie cope! &c._ when johnie cope he heard of this, he thought it wadna be amiss to hae a horse in readiness, to flee awa i' the morning. _hey, johnie cope! &c._ "fye now, johnie, get up and rin, the highland bagpipes mak a din; it's best to sleep in a hale skin, for 'twill be a bluddie morning." _hey, johnie cope! &c._ when johnie cope to dunbar came they spear'd at him, "where's a' your men?" "the deil confound me gin i ken, for i left them a' i' the morning." _hey, johnie cope! &c._ "now johnie, troth, ye were na blate to come wi' the news o' your ain defeat, and leave your men in sic a strait, so early in the morning." _hey, johnie cope! &c._ "in faith," quo johnie, "i got sic flegs wi' their claymores and filabegs, if i face them [again], deil break my legs, so i wish you a' good morning." _hey, johnie cope! &c._ king leir and his three daughters. from _a collection of old ballads_, ii. . the same, with one or two trifling verbal differences, in percy's _reliques_, i. . this story was originally told by geoffrey of monmouth, _historia britonum_, lib. ii. c. . it occurs in two forms in the _gesta romanorum_: see madden's _old english versions_, p. , p. . shakespeare's _king lear_ was first printed in , and is supposed to have been written between and . another drama on the subject was printed in , called _the true chronicle history of king leir and his three daughters, gonorill, ragan, and cordella_. this was probably only a new impression of a piece entered in the stationers' registers as early as . the ballad which follows agrees with shakespeare's play in several particulars in which shakespeare varies from the older drama and from holinshed, the authority of both dramas. the name cordelia is also found in place of the cordella of the _chronicle history_; but, on the other hand, we have ragan instead of shakespeare's regan. in the absence of a date, we are unable to determine whether the ballad was written prior to the play of _king lear_, or was founded upon it. king leir once ruléd in this land with princely power and peace, and had all things, with hearts content, that might his joys increase. amongst those things that nature gave, three daughters fair had he, so princely seeming beautiful, as fairer could not be. so on a time it pleas'd the king a question thus to move, which of his daughters to his grace could shew the dearest love: "for to my age you bring content," quoth he, "then let me hear, which of you three in plighted troth the kindest will appear." to whom the eldest thus began: "dear father, mind," quoth she, "before your face, to do you good, my blood shall rendred be. and for your sake my bleeding heart shall here be cut in twain, ere that i see your reverend age the smallest grief sustain." "and so will i," the second said; "dear father, for your sake, the worst of all extremities i'll gently undertake: and serve your highness night and day with diligence and love; that sweet content and quietness discomforts may remove." "in doing so, you glad my soul," the aged king reply'd; "but what say'st thou, my youngest girl? how is thy love ally'd?" "my love," quoth young cordelia then, "which to your grace i owe, shall be the duty of a child, and that is all i'll show." "and wilt thou shew no more," quoth he, "than doth thy duty bind? i well perceive thy love is small, when as no more i find. henceforth i banish thee my court; thou art no child of mine; nor any part of this my realm by favour shall be thine. "thy elder sisters' loves are more than well i can demand; to whom i equally bestow my kingdom and my land, my pompous state and all my goods, that lovingly i may with those thy sisters be maintain'd until my dying day." thus flattering speeches won renown, by these two sisters here; the third had causeless banishment, yet was her love more dear. for poor cordelia patiently went wandring up and down, unhelp'd, unpitied, gentle maid, through many an english town. until at last in famous france she gentler fortunes found; though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd the fairest on the ground: where when the king her virtues heard, and this fair lady seen, with full consent of all his court he made his wife and queen. her father, old king leir, this while with his two daughters staid; forgetful of their promis'd loves, full soon the same decay'd;[l ] and living in queen ragan's court, the eldest of the twain, she took from him his chiefest means, and most of all his train. for whereas twenty men were wont to wait with bended knee, she gave allowance but to ten, and after scarce to three, nay, one she thought too much for him; so took she all away, in hope that in her court, good king, he would no longer stay. "am i rewarded thus," quoth he, "in giving all i have unto my children, and to beg for what i lately gave? i'll go unto my gonorel: my second child, i know, will be more kind and pitiful, and will relieve my woe." full fast he hies then to her court; where, when she hears his moan, return'd him answer, that she griev'd that all his means were gone; but no way could relieve his wants; yet if that he would stay within her kitchen, he should have what scullions gave away. when he had heard, with bitter tears, he made his answer then; "in what i did, let me be made example to all men. i will return again," quoth he, "unto my ragan's court; she will not use me thus, i hope, but in a kinder sort." where when he came, she gave command to drive him thence away: when he was well within her court, she said, he would not stay. then back again to gonorell the woeful king did hie, that in her kitchen he might have what scullion boys set by. but there of that he was deny'd which she had promis'd late: for once refusing, he should not come after to her gate. thus twixt his daughters for relief he wandred up and down, being glad to feed on beggars food, that lately wore a crown. and calling to remembrance then his youngest daughter's words, that said, the duty of a child was all that love affords-- but doubting to repair to her, whom he had banish'd so, grew frantick mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe. which made him rend his milk-white locks and tresses from his head, and all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread. to hills and woods and watry founts he made his hourly moan, till hills and woods and senseless things did seem to sigh and groan. ev'n thus posses'd with discontents, he passed o'er to france, in hopes from fair cordelia there to find some gentler chance. most virtuous dame! which, when she heard of this her father's grief, as duty bound, she quickly sent him comfort and relief. and by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort, she gave in charge he should be brought to aganippus' court; whose royal king, with noble mind,[l ] so freely gave consent to muster up his knights at arms, to fame and courage bent. and so to england came with speed, to repossess king leir, and drive his daughters from their thrones by his cordelia dear. where she, true-hearted, noble queen, was in the battel slain; yet he, good king, in his old days, possess'd his crown again. but when he heard cordelia's death, who died indeed for love of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battel move, he swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted; but on her bosom left his life that was so truly hearted. the lords and nobles, when they saw the end of these events, the other sisters unto death they doomed by consents; and being dead, their crowns they left unto the next of kin: thus have you seen the fall of pride, and disobedient sin. deny'd. . whose noble. fair rosamond. the celebrated mistress of henry the second was daughter to walter clifford, a baron of herefordshire. she bore the king two sons, one of them while he was still duke of normandy. before her death she retired to the convent of godstow, and there she was buried; but hugh, bishop of lincoln, not courtly enough to distinguish between royal and vulgar immoralities, caused her body to be removed, and interred in the common cemetery, "lest christian religion should grow in contempt." the story of queen eleanor's poisoning her rival is not confirmed by the old writers, though they mention the labyrinth. all the romance in rosamond's history appears to be the offspring of popular fancy. percy has collected the principal passages from the chronicles in his preface to the ballad. _fair rosamond_ is the work of thomas deloney, a well-known ballad-maker who died about . our copy is the earliest that is known, and is taken from deloney's _strange histories_, ed. of , as reprinted by the percy society, vol. iii. p. . the same is found in the _crown garland of golden roses_, ed. (per. soc. vol. vi. p. ), and in the _garland of good will_, ed. (per. soc. vol. xxx. p. .): and besides, with trifling variations, in _a collection of old ballads_, i. , percy's _reliques_, ii. , and ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. , from black-letter copies. another ballad with the title of the _unfortunate concubine, or, rosamond's overthrow_, is given in the collection of , vol. i. p. . the story is also treated in the forty-first chapter of warner's _albion's england_. warner has at least one good stanza,[ ] which is more than can be said of this wretched, but very popular, production. some corrections have been adopted from the _crown garland of golden roses_. [ ] with that she dasht her on the lips, so dyèd double red; hard was the heart that gave the blow, soft were those lips that bled. * * * * * when as king henrie rul'd this land,[l ] the second of that name, beside the queene, he dearly loved a faire and princely dame. most peerelesse was her beautie found, her favour, and her face; a sweeter creature in this world did never prince imbrace. her crisped locks like threades of gold appeared to each mans sight; her comely eyes, like orient pearles, did cast a heavenly light. the blood within her cristall cheekes did such a cullour drive, as though the lilly and the rose for maistership did strive. yea rosamond, fair rosamond, her name was called so, to whome dame elinor, our queene, was knowne a cruell foe. the king therefore, for her defence against the furious queene, at woodstocke buylded such a bower, the like was never seene. most curiously that bower was buylt, of stone and timber strong; a hundred and fiftie doores did to that bower belong: and they so cunningly contriv'd, with turning round about, that none but by a clew of thread could enter in or out. and for his love and ladyes sake, that was so fair and bright, the keeping of this bower he gave unto a valiant knight. but fortune, that doth often frowne where she before did smile, the kinges delight, the ladyes joy full soone she did beguile. for why, the kings ungracious sonne, whom he did high advance, against his father raised warres within the realme of france. but yet before our comely king the english land forsooke, of rosamond, his ladye faire, his farewell thus he tooke: "my rosamond, my onely rose, that pleaseth best mine eye, the fairest rose in all the world to feed my fantasie,-- "the flower of my affected heart, whose sweetness doth excell, my royall rose, a hundred times i bid thee now farewell! "for i must leave my fairest flower, my sweetest rose, a space, and crosse the seas to famous france, proude rebels to abace. "but yet, my rose, be sure thou shalt my comming shortly see, and in my heart, while hence i am, ile beare my rose with mee." when rosamond, that lady bright, did heare the king say so, the sorrow of her greeved heart her outward lookes did show. and from her cleare and cristall eyes the teares gusht out apace, which, like the silver-pearled deaw, ran downe her comely face. her lippes, like to a corrall red, did waxe both wan and pale, and for the sorrow she conceived her vitall spirits did fayle. and falling downe all in a swound[l ] before king henries face, full oft betweene his princely armes her corpes he did imbrace. and twenty times, with waterie eyes, he kist her tender cheeke, untill she had received againe[l ] her senses milde and meeke. "why grieves my rose, my sweetest rose?" the king did ever say: "because," quoth she, "to bloody warres my lord must part away. "but sithe your grace in forraine coastes, among your foes unkind, must go to hazard life and limme, why should i stay behind? "nay, rather let me, like a page, your sword and target beare;[l ] that on my breast the blow may light, which should annoy you there. "o let me, in your royall tent, prepare your bed at night, and with sweet baths refresh your grace, at your returne from fight. "so i your presence may enjoy, no toyle i will refuse;[l ] but wanting you, my life is death: which doth true love abuse." "content thy selfe, my dearest friend, thy rest at home shall bee, in england's sweete and pleasant soyle;[l ] for travaile fits not thee. "faire ladyes brooke not bloody warres; sweete peace their pleasures breede, the nourisher of hearts content, which fancie first doth feede. "my rose shall rest in woodstocke bower, with musickes sweete delight, while i among the pierceing pikes against my foes do fight. "my rose in robes of pearl and gold,[l ] with diamonds richly dight, shall daunce the galliards of my love, while i my foes do smite. "and you, sir thomas, whom i trust to be my loves defence,[l ] be carefull of my gallant rose when i am parted hence." and therewithall he fetcht a sigh, as though his heart would breake: and rosamond, for inward griefe, not one plaine word could speake. and at their parting well they might in heart be grieved sore: after that day, faire rosamond the king did see no more. for when his grace had past the seas, and into france was gone, queene elinor, with envious heart, to woodstocke came anone. and foorth she cald this trusty knight which kept the curious bower, who, with his clew of twined threed, came from that famous flower. and when that they had wounded him, the queene his threed did get, and went where lady rosamond was like an angell set. and when the queene with stedfast eye beheld her heavenly face, she was amazed in her minde at her exceeding grace. "cast off from thee thy robes," she sayd, "that rich and costly be; and drinke thou up this deadly draught, which i have brought for thee." but presently upon her knees sweet rosamond did fall; and pardon of the queene she crav'd for her offences all. "take pittie on my youthfull yeares," faire rosamond did cry; "and let me not with poyson strong inforcèd be to die. "i will renounce this sinfull life, and in a cloyster bide; or else be banisht, if you please, to range the world so wide. "and for the fault which i have done, though i was forst thereto, preserve my life, and punish me as you thinke good to do." and with these words, her lilly hands she wrang full often there; and downe along her lovely cheekes proceeded many a teare. but nothing could this furious queene therewith appeased bee; the cup of deadly poyson filld, as she sat on her knee, she gave the comely dame to drinke; who tooke it in her hand, and from her bended knee arose, and on her feet did stand. and casting up her eyes to heaven, she did for mercy call; and drinking up the poyson then, her life she lost withall. and when that death through every lim had done his greatest spite, her chiefest foes did plaine confesse she was a glorious wight. her body then they did intombe, when life was fled away, at godstow, neere [to] oxford towne, as may be seene this day. . sound. . he had reviv'd.--_c. g._ . shield: sword, _garl. g. w._ . must refuse. . england. . robes and pearls of gold. . beare. queen eleanor's fall. _a collection of old ballads_, i. . "i never was more surprised," says the editor of the collection of , "than at the sight of the following ballad; little expecting to see pride and wickedness laid to the charge of the most affable and most virtuous of women: whose glorious actions are not recorded by _our_ historians only; for no foreign writers, who have touched upon those early times, have in silence passed over this illustrious princess, and every nation rings with the praise of eleonora isabella of castile, king edward's queen. father le monie, who (in his _gallérie des femmes fortes_) has searched all christendom round, from its very infancy to the last age, for five heroines, very partially bestows the first place upon one of his own country-women, but gives the second, with a far superior character, to this queen." in this absurdly false and ignorant production, the well-beloved eleonora of castile is no doubt confounded with her most unpopular mother-in-law, eleanor of provence, the wife of henry the third, whose luxurious habits, and quarrels with the city of london, might afford some shadow of a basis for the impossible slanders of the ballad-singer. queenhithe was a quay, the tolls of which formed part of the revenue of the queen, and eleanor of provence rendered herself extremely odious by compelling vessels, for the sake of her fees, to unlade there. charing-cross was one of thirteen monuments raised by edward the first at the stages, where his queen's body rested, on its progress from the place of her decease to westminster. in the connection of both these places with the name of a queen eleanor may be found (as miss strickland suggests in her _lives of the queens_) the germ of the marvellous story of the disappearance at charing-cross and the resurrection at queenhithe. that portion of the story which relates to the cruelty exercised by the queen towards the lord mayor's wife is borrowed from the _gesta romanorum_. see madden's _old english versions_, &c. p. , _olimpus the emperour_. peele's _chronicle history of edward the first_ exhibits the same misrepresentations of eleanor of castile. see what is said of this play in connection with the ballad of _queen eleanor's confession_, vol. vi. p. . the whole title of the ballad is:-- a warning piece to england against pride and wickedness: being the fall of queen eleanor, wife to edward the first, king of england; who, for her pride, by god's judgments, sunk into the ground at charing-cross and rose at queenhithe. when edward was in england king, the first of all that name, proud ellinor he made his queen, a stately spanish dame: whose wicked life, and sinful pride, thro' england did excel: to dainty dames, and gallant maids, this queen was known full well. she was the first that did invent in coaches brave to ride; she was the first that brought this land to deadly sin of pride. no english taylor here could serve to make her rich attire; but sent for taylors into spain, to feed her vain desire. they brought in fashions strange and new, with golden garments bright; the farthingale, and mighty ruff, with gowns of rich delight: the london dames, in spanish pride, did flourish every where; our english men, like women then, did wear long locks of hair. both man and child, both maid and wife, were drown'd in pride of spain: and thought the spanish taylors then our english men did stain: whereat the queen did much despite, to see our english men in vestures clad, as brave to see as any spaniard then. she crav'd the king, that ev'ry man that wore long locks of hair, might then be cut and polled all, or shaved very near. whereat the king did seem content, and soon thereto agreed; and first commanded, that his own should then be cut with speed: and after that, to please his queen, proclaimed thro' the land, that ev'ry man that wore long hair should poll him out of hand. but yet this spaniard, not content, to women bore a spite, and then requested of the king, against all law and right, that ev'ry womankind should have their right breast cut away; and then with burning irons sear'd, the blood to stanch and stay! king edward then, perceiving well her spite to womankind, devised soon by policy to turn her bloody mind. he sent for burning irons straight, all sparkling hot to see; and said, "o queen, come on thy way; "i will begin with thee." which words did much displease the queen, that penance to begin; but ask'd him pardon on her knees; who gave her grace therein. but afterwards she chanc'd to pass along brave london streets, whereas the mayor of london's wife in stately sort she meets; with music, mirth, and melody, unto the church they went, to give god thanks, that to th' lord mayor a noble son had sent. it grieved much this spiteful queen, to see that any one should so exceed in mirth and joy, except herself alone: for which, she after did devise within her bloody mind, and practis'd still more secretly, to kill this lady kind. unto the mayor of london then she sent her letters straight, to send his lady to the court, upon her grace to wait. but when the london lady came before proud el'nor's face, she stript her from her rich array, and kept her vile and base. she sent her into wales with speed, and kept her secret there, and us'd her still more cruelly than ever man did hear. she made her wash, she made her starch, she made her drudge alway; she made her nurse up children small, and labour night and day. but this contented not the queen, but shew'd her most despite; she bound this lady to a post, at twelve a clock at night; and as, poor lady, she stood bound, the queen, in angry mood, bid set two snakes unto her breast, that suck'd away her blood. thus died the mayor of london's wife, most grievous for to hear; which made the spaniard grow more proud, as after shall appear. the wheat that daily made her bread was bolted twenty times; the food that fed this stately dame, was boil'd in costly wines. the water that did spring from ground, she would not touch at all; but wash'd her hands with the dew of heav'n, that on sweet roses fall. she bath'd her body many a time in fountains fill'd with milk; and ev'ry day did change attire, in costly median silk. but coming then to london back, within her coach of gold, a tempest strange within the skies this queen did there behold: out of which storm she could not go, but there remain'd a space; four horses could not stir the coach a foot out of the place. a judgment lately sent from heav'n, for shedding guiltless blood, upon this sinful queen, that slew the london lady good! king edward then, as wisdom will'd, accus'd her of that deed; but she denied, and wish'd that god would send his wrath with speed,-- if that upon so vile a thing her heart did ever think, she wish'd the ground might open wide, and she therein might sink! with that, at charing-cross she sunk into the ground alive, and after rose with life again, in london, at queenhithe. when, after that, she languish'd sore full twenty days in pain, at last confess'd the lady's blood her guilty hand had slain: and likewise, how that by a fryar she had a base-born child; whose sinful lusts and wickedness her marriage bed defil'd. thus have you heard the fall of pride, a just reward of sin; for those who will forswear themselves, god's vengeance daily win. beware of pride, ye courtly dames, both wives and maidens all; bear this imprinted on your mind, that pride must have a fall. the duchess of suffolk's calamity. from _strange histories_, p. (percy society, vol. iii). other copies, with variations, are in _the crown-garland of golden roses_, part ii. p. (percy society, vol. xv.), and _a collection of old ballads_, iii. . the editor of _strange histories_ informs us that a play on the same subject as the ballad was written by thomas drew, or drue, early in the reign of james i., and printed in , under the title of _the duchess of suffolk, her life_. he remarks further that both play and ballad was founded upon the narrative of fox, anno [_acts and monuments_, iii. , ed. ]; but the differences between fox's account and the story which follows are altogether too great for this supposition to be true. katharine, daughter of lord willoughby of eresby, was first married to charles brandon, duke of suffolk, and after his death to richard bertie, esq., with whom she was forced to fly from persecution in , taking refuge first in the low countries, and afterwards in poland. when god had taken for our sinne that prudent prince, king edward, away, then bloudy bonner did begin his raging mallice to bewray; all those that did the gospell professe he persecuted more or lesse. thus, when the lord on us did lower, many in pryson did he throw, tormenting them in lollards tower,[l ] whereby they might the trueth forgoe: then cranmer, ridley, and the rest, were burnt in fire, that christ profest. smithfield was then with faggots fild, and many places more beside; at coventry was sanders kild, at glocester eke good hooper dyde; and to escape this bloudy day, beyond-seas many fled away. among the rest that sought reliefe and for their faith in daunger stood, lady elizabeth was chiefe, king henries daughter of royall blood; which in the tower prisoner did lie, looking each day when she should die. the dutchesse of suffolke, seeing this, whose life likewise the tyrant sought, who in the hope of heavenly blisse within god's word her comfort wrought,[l ] for feare of death was faine to flie, and leave her house most secretly. that for the love of christ alone, her lands and goods she left behind, seeking still for that pretious stone, the worde of trueth, so rare to find: she with her nurse, her husband, and child, in poor array their sights beguild. thus through london they passed along, each one did passe a severall streete; thus all unknowne, escaping wrong, at billings-gate they all did meete: like people poore, in gravesend barge, they simply went with all their charge. and all along from gravesend towne with easie journeyes on foote they went; unto the sea-coast they came downe, to passe the seas was their intent; and god provided so that day, that they tooke shippe and sayld away. and with a prosperous gale of wind in flanders safe they did arive; this was to their great ease of minde, which from their hearts much woe did drive; and so with thanks to god on hie, they tooke their way to germanie. thus as they traveld, thus disguisde, upon the high way sodainely by cruell theeves they were surprisde, assaulting their small companie; and all their treasure and their store they tooke away, and beate them sore. the nurse in middest of their fight laid downe the child upon the ground; she ran away out of their sight, and never after that was found: then did the dutchesse make great mone with her good husband all alone. the theeves had there their horses kilde, and all their money quite had tooke; the pretty babie, almost spild, was by their nurse likewise forsooke, and they farre from their friends did stand, all succourlesse in a strange land. the skies likewise began to scowle; it hayld and raind in pittious sort; the way was long and wonderous foule; then may i now full well report their griefe and sorrow was not small, when this unhappy chaunce did fall. sometime the dutchesse bore the child, as wet as ever she could be, and when the lady kind and mild was wearie, then the child bore hee; and thus they one another easde, and with their fortunes were well pleasde. and after many wearied steppes, all wet-shod both in durt and myre, after much griefe, their hearts yet leapes, (for labour doth some rest require); a towne before them they did see, but lodgd therein they could not bee. from house to house they both did goe, seeking where they that night might lie, but want of money was their woe, and still the babe with cold did crie; with capp and knee they courtsey make, but none on them would pittie take. loe here a princesse of great blood did pray a peasant for reliefe, with tears bedewed as she stood! yet few or none regardes her griefe; her speech they could not understand, but gave her a pennie in her hand. when all in vaine the paines was spent, and that they could not house-roome get, into a church-porch then they went, to stand out of the raine and wet: then said the dutchesse to her deare, "o that we had some fier heere!" then did her husband so provide that fire and coales he got with speede; she sate downe by the fiers side, to dresse her daughter, that had neede; and while she drest it in her lapp, her husband made the infant papp. anone the sexton thither came, and finding them there by the fire, the drunken knave, all voyde of shame, to drive them out was his desire: and spurning forth this noble dame, her husbands wrath it did inflame. and all in furie as he stood, he wroung the church-keies out of his hand, and strooke him so, that all of blood his head ran downe where he did stand; wherefor the sexton presently for helpe and ayde aloude did cry. then came the officers in hast, and tooke the dutchesse and her child, and with her husband thus they past, like lambes beset with tygers wild, and to the governour were they brought, who understood them not in ought. then maister bartue, brave and bold, in latine made a gallant speech, which all their miserie did unfold, and their high favour did beseech: with that, a doctor sitting by did know the dutchesse presently. and thereupon arising straight, with minde abashed at their sight, unto them all that there did waight, he thus brake forth, in wordes aright: "behold within your sight," quoth hee, "a princesse of most high degree." with that the governour and the rest were all amazde the same to heare, and welcomméd these new-come guestes with reverence great and princely cheare; and afterward conveyd they were unto their friend prince cassemere. a sonne she had in germanie, peregrine bartue cald by name, surnamde the good lord willobie, of courage great and worthie fame. her daughter young, which with her went, was afterward countesse of kent. for when queene mary was deceast, the dutchesse home returnde againe, who was of sorrow quite releast by queene elizabeth's happie raigne: for whose life and prosperitie we may prayse god continually. . there is said to be a place so called in the archiepiscopal palace at lambeth. . _so_, c. g. g. r., for which in. the life and death of famous tho. stukely, an english gallant in the time of queene elizabeth, who ended his dayes in a battaile of kings in barbarie. thomas stuckley, says fuller, "was a younger brother, of an ancient, wealthy, and worshipful family, nigh ilfracombe in this county [devon], being one of good parts; but valued the less by others, because overprized by himself. having prodigally mis-spent his patrimony, he entered on several projects (the issue general of all decayed estates); and first pitched on the peopling of florida, then newly found out, in the west indies. so confident his ambition, that he blushed not to tell queen elizabeth, 'that he preferred rather to be sovereign of a mole-hill, than the highest subject to the greatest king in christendom;' adding, moreover, 'that he was assured he should be a prince before his death.' 'i hope,' said queen elizabeth, 'i shall hear from you, when you are stated in your principality.' 'i will write unto you,' quoth stuckley. 'in what language?' said the queen. he returned, 'in the style of princes: to our dear sister.' "his fair project of florida being blasted for lack of money to pursue it, he went over into ireland, where he was frustrated of the preferment he expected, and met such physic that turned his fever into frenzy; for hereafter resolving treacherously to attempt what he could not loyally achieve, he went over into italy. "it is incredible how quickly he wrought himself through the notice into the favour, through the court into the chamber, yea closet, yea bosom of pope pius quintus; so that some wise men thought his holiness did forfeit a parcel of his infallibility in giving credit to such a _glorioso_, vaunting that with three thousand soldiers he would beat all the english out of ireland. "the pope finding it cheaper to fill stuckley's swelling sails with airy titles than real gifts, created him baron of ross, viscount murrough, earl of wexford, marquis of leinster; and then furnished this title-top-heavy general with eight hundred soldiers, paid by the king of spain, for the irish expedition. "in passage thereunto, stuckley lands at portugal, just when sebastian, the king thereof, with two moorish kings, were undertaking a voyage into africa. stuckley, scorning to attend, is persuaded to accompany them. some thought he wholly quitted his irish design, partly because loath to be pent up in an island (the continent of africa affording more elbow-room for his achievements); partly because so mutable his mind, he ever loved the last project (as mothers the youngest child) best. others conceive he took this african in order to his irish design; such his confidence of conquest, that his breakfast on the turks would the better enable him to dine on the english in ireland. "landing in africa, stuckley gave council which was safe, seasonable, and necessary; namely, that for two or three days they should refresh their land soldiers; whereof some were sick, and some were weak, by reason of their tempestuous passage. this would not be heard; so furious was don sebastian to engage; as if he would pluck up the bays of victory out of the ground, before they were grown up; and so, in the battle of alcaser, their army was wholly defeated: where stuckley lost his life. 'a fatal fight, where in one day was slain, three kings that were, and one that would be fain!' "this battle was fought anno , where stuckley, with his eight hundred men, behaved himself most valiantly, till overpowered with multitude." _worthies of england_, by nuttall, i. . mr. dyce, in his prefatory note to peele's _battle of alcazar_, having cited the above extract with several poetical notices of stukeley, mentions another play founded on this adventurer's exploits (_the famous historye of the life and death of captaine thomas stukely_), acted in , and printed in (peele's _works_, ii. ). the ballad is from _the crown-garland of golden roses_ (percy society, vol. vi.) p. . there are some verses on stukeley's projected voyage to florida in mr. collier's _old ballads_, in the first volume of the percy society, p. . in the west of england borne there was, i understand, a famous gallant in his dayes, by birth a wealthy clothier's sonne; deeds of wonder he hath done, to purchase him a long and lasting praise. if i should tell his story, pride was all his glory, and lusty stukely he was call'd in court; he serv'd a bishop of the west, and did accompany the best, maintaining still himselfe in gallant sort. being thus esteemed, and every where well deemed, he gain'd the favour of a london dame, daughter to an alderman, curtis he was called then, to whom a sutor gallantly he came. when she his person spied, he could not be denied, so brave a gentleman he was to see; she was quickly made his wife, in weale or woe to lead her life, her father willingly did so agree. thus, in state and pleasure, full many daies they measure; till cruell death, with his regardles spight, bore old curtis to his grave, a thing which stukely wisht to have, that he might revell all in gold so bright. he was no sooner tombed, but stukely presumed to spend a hundred pound that day in waste: the bravest gallants of the land had stukelies purse at their command; thus merrily the time away he pass'd. taverns and ordinaries were his cheefest braveries,[l ] goulden angells flew there up and downe; riots were his best delight,[l ] with stately feastings day and night; in court and citty thus he won renowne. thus wasting land and living by this lawlesse giving, at last he sold the pavements of his yard, which covered were with blocks of tin; old curtis left the same to him, which he consumed vainely, as you heard. whereat his wife sore greeved, desir'd to be releeved; "make much of me, dear husband," she did say: "i'll make much more of thee," quoth he, "than any one shall, verily: i'll sell thy clothes, and so will go away." cruelly thus hearted, away from her he parted, and travelled into italy with speed: there he flourisht many a day in his silkes and rich array, and did the pleasures of a lady feed. it was the ladies pleasure to give him gold and treasure, and to maintaine him in great pomp and fame; at last came newes assuredly of a battaile fought in barbary, and he would valiantly go see the same. many a noble gallant sold both land and talent to follow stukely in this famous fight; whereas three kings in person would adventurously, with courage bould, within the battaile shew themselves in sight.[l ] stukely and his followers all, of the king of portugall had entertainement like to gentlemen: the king affected stukely so, that he his secrets all did know, and bore his royall standard now and then. upon this day of honour each king did shew his banner; morocco, and the king of barbery, portugall, with all his train, bravely glister'd in the plain, and gave the onset there most valiantly. the cannons they resounded, thund'ring drums rebounded, "kill, kill!" as then was all the soldiers cry; mangled men lay on the ground, and with blood the earth was dround, the sun was likewise darken'd in the skye. heaven was sore displeased, and would not be appeased, but tokens of god's heavy wrath did show that he was angry at this war; he sent a fearfull blazing star, whereby these kings might their misfortunes know. bloody was this slaughter, or rather wilfull murther, where six score thousand fighting men were slain; three kings within this battaile died, with forty dukes and earles beside, the like will never more be fought again. with woful armes enfoulding, stukely stood beholding this bloody sacrifice of soules that day: he, sighing, said, "i, wofull wight, against my conscience heere did fight, and brought my followers all unto decay." being thus molested, and with greefes oppressed, those brave italians that did sell their lands, with stukely thus to travel forth, and venture life for little worth, upon him all did lay their murthering hands. unto death thus wounded, his heart with sorrow swounded, and to them all he made this heavy mone: "thus have i left my country deere, to be so vilely murthered heere, even in this place whereas i am not known. "my life i have much wronged; of what to her belonged i vainely spent in idle course of life. what i have done is past, i see, and bringeth nought but greef to me, therefore grant now thy pardon, gentle wife! "life, i see, consumeth, and death, i feel, presumeth to change this life of mine into a new: yet this me greatest comfort brings, i liv'd and died in love of kings, and so brave stukely bids the world adew." stukelys life thus ended, was after death befrended, and like a soldier buried gallantly; where now there stands upon his grave a stately temple, builded brave, with golden turrets piercing in the skye. , where. . fight. lord delaware. no plausible foundation for this ballad has as yet been found in history. it has been suggested that delaware is a corruption of de la mare, a speaker of the house of commons, and a great advocate of popular rights, in the reign of edward the third! but there is no accounting for the dutch lord and the welsh duke of devonshire on this or any other supposition. the ballad is given from lyle's _ancient ballads and songs_, p. , as "noted down from the singing of a gentleman," and then "remodelled and smoothed down" by the editor. the same copy is printed in dixon's _ancient poems, ballads and songs_ (percy society, vol. xvii.), p. , and in bell's volume with the same title, p. . in the parliament house, a great rout has been there, betwixt our good king and the lord delaware: says lord delaware to his majesty full soon, "will it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon?" "what's your boon?" says the king, "now let me understand." "it's, give me all the poor men we've starving in this land; and without delay, i'll hie me to lincolnshire, to sow hemp-seed and flax-seed, and hang them all there. "for with hempen cord it's better to stop each poor man's breath, than with famine you should see your subjects starve to death." up starts a dutch lord, who to delaware did say, "thou deservest to be stabb'd!" then he turned himself away: "thou deservest to be stabb'd, and the dogs have thine ears, for insulting our king in this parliament of peers." up sprang a welsh lord, the brave duke of devonshire, "in young delaware's defence, i'll fight this dutch lord, my sire. "for he is in the right, and i'll make it so appear: him i dare to single combat, for insulting delaware." a stage was soon erected, and to combat they went, for to kill, or to be kill'd, it was either's full intent. but the very first flourish, when the heralds gave command, the sword of brave devonshire bent backward on his hand; in suspense he paused awhile, scann'd his foe before he strake, then against the king's armour, his bent sword he brake. then he sprang from the stage, to a soldier in the ring, saying, "lend your sword, that to an end this tragedy we bring: though he's fighting me in armour, while i am fighting bare, even more than this i'd venture for young lord delaware." leaping back on the stage, sword to buckler now resounds, till he left the dutch lord a bleeding in his wounds: this seeing, cries the king to his guards without delay, "call devonshire down,-- take the dead man away!" "no," says brave devonshire, "i've fought him as a man; since he's dead, i will keep the trophies i have won. for he fought me in your armour, while i fought him bare, and the same you must win back, my liege, if ever you them wear." god bless the church of england, may it prosper on each hand, and also every poor man now starving in this land; and while i pray success may crown our king upon his throne, i'll wish that every poor man may long enjoy his own. the battle of harlaw. (see p. .) traditionary version, from aytoun's _scottish ballads_, i. . "i am indebted to the kindness of lady john scott for the following extremely spirited ballad, which was taken down some years ago in aberdeenshire, where it is still very popular. it is sung to a beautiful air, with the following refrain to each stanza:-- "_wi' a drie, drie, dredidronilie drie._" as i cam in by garioch land, and doun by netherha', there was fifty thousand hielandmen, a' marching to harlaw. as i cam on, and further on, and doun and by balquhaim, o there i met sir james the ross, wi' him sir john the græme. "o cam ye frae the highlands, man? o cam ye a' the way? saw ye mac donnell and his men, as they cam frae the skye?" "yes, we cam frae the highlands, man, and we cam a' the way, and we saw mac donnell and his men, as they cam in frae skye." "o was ye near mac donnell's men? did ye their number see? come, tell to me, john hielandman, what might their numbers be?" "yes, we was near, and near eneugh, and we their number saw; there was fifty thousand hielandmen, a' marching to harlaw." "gin that be true," said james the ross, "we'll no come meikle speed; we'll cry upon our merry men, and turn our horses' head." "o na, o na!" says john the græme, "that thing maun never be; the gallant græmes were never beat, we'll try what we can dee." as i cam on, and further on, and doun and by harlaw, they fell fu' close on ilka side, sic straiks ye never saw. they fell fu' close on ilka side, sic straiks ye never saw; for ilka sword gaed clash for clash, at the battle o' harlaw. the hielandmen wi' their lang swords, they laid on as fu' sair, and they drave back our merry men, three acres breadth and mair. brave forbés to his brother did say, "o brother, dinna ye see? they beat us back on ilka side, and we'll be forced to flee." "o na! o na! my brother dear, o na! that mauna be! you'll tak your gude sword in your hand, and ye'll gang in wi' me." then back to back the brothers brave gaed in amang the thrang, and they swept doun the hielandmen, wi' swords baith sharp and lang. the first ae straik that forbés strack, he gar'd mac donnell reel; and the neist ae straik that forbés strack, the brave mac donnell fell. and siccan a pitlarichie i'm sure ye never saw, as was amang the hielandmen, when they saw mac donnell fa'. and when they saw that he was dead, they turn'd and ran awa', and they buried him in legate's den, a large mile frae harlaw. some rade, some ran, and some did gang, they were o' sma' record, but forbés and his merry men they slew them a' the road. on mononday at morning, the battle it began; on saturday at gloamin', ye'd scarce ken'd wha had wan. and sic a weary buryin' i'm sure ye never saw, as was the sunday after that, on the muirs aneath harlaw. gin onybody speer at ye for them we took awa', ye may tell them plain, and very plain, they're sleeping at harlaw. glossary. [right pointing hand]figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a, _of_. abien, aboun, _above_. aboyding, _abiding_. accompany, , _keep the company of_. ae, _one_. affected, _enamored_. all and sum, _all and several_, _one and all_. allangst, , _along_. ancyents, , _ensigns_. anent, _over against_. aneughe, _enough_. aras, _arrows_. arminge-sword, _a two-handed sword_. austerne, , _austere_. avowe, _vow_. awin, _own_. bade, _abode_. bald, _bold_. bale, _sorrow_; ballys bete, , _better_, _amend_, _our evils_. bandoun, _command_, _orders_. banket, _banquet_. barne, (a. sax. _beorn_,) _chief_, _man_. basnites, bassonetts, _helmets_. battellis, , _divisions of the army_, or, _the armies_. be, _by_, _at_, _by the time that_. bearing arrow, , "an arrow that carries well:" percy, who also suggests birring, i.e. _whirring_, _whizzing_. see boucher's _glossary_. bed, , , _abode_, _remained_. bedeen, , _in numbers_, _one after another_? beild, _shelter_; , _position of safety_. ben, _in_. bende-bow, _bent bow_. bended, , _bounded_? bent, _coarse grass_, _ground on which this grass grows_, _field_. berne (a. sax. _beorn_), _chief_, _man_. ber, _bare_. beth, , _is_. be-west, _to the west of_. biggingis, _buildings_. bille, see sworne. billie, _comrade_. bla', _blow_. blaithe, _blithe_. blan, blane, _ceased_, _stopped_. blate, _silly_, _stupid_. bleid, _blood_. bodward, , _message_. borrowe, _security_, _hostage_, _ransom_; borowed, , _ransomed_. bouk, _body_, _carcase_. bowne, bowyn, _ready_, _prepared_; , _going_; bound, bowynd, , , , _made ready_, _went_. brace, , same as breeze, _hurry_? bracken, braken, _fern_. brae, _side of a hill_. braid, _broad_. bra'ly, _bravely_. branken, branking, _prancing_, _capering_. braveries, _displays_. braw, _brave_, _handsome_. bread, , _breadth_; bred, _broad_. breeks, _breeches_. brent, _burned_. brim, _fierce_. bronde, _brand_, _sword_. brook, _enjoy_; , _take_ (_possession of_). brose, , _pottage_. brouine, brown, _brewed_. broust, _brewage_. bruch, brugh, _burgh_, _city_. bryttlynge, _cutting up_ (_of game_.) buft, _buffeted_, _beat_. burd-alone, _alone_. burn, _brook_. but, _without_, ; but bed, _before we sleep_. butter-box, , "dutchmen." ritson. byckarte, , _moved quickly, rattling their weapons_. byddys, _abides_. byears, _biers_. byll, _halbert_, _battle-axe_. ca', _call_; , _drive_, _beat_. caliver, , _large pistol_, or _blunderbuss_. can, could, used as auxiliaries to form the past tenses. canty, _merry_. carefull, _anxious_. carpe, _tell_, _discourse_. cast, _propose_, _intend_. cawte, _cautious_. chafts, _chaps_. chess, _chace_. chessit, _chased_. cheverons, _gloves_. christiantè, _christendom_. claw, _scratch_, _fight_. clinkum clankum, a phrase for _smart blows_. cogue, _wooden pail_. cold bee, , _was_; see can. collayne, _cologne_, i. e. _steel, or manufacture_: see i. . cor, core, _corps_. corpes, , _living body_. cors, _curse_. corynoch, _lamentation for the dead_. cowde dye, , _did die_; see can. crouse, , _brisk_, _brave_. crowdie, _gruel_, _porridge_. cryand, _crying_. daft, _mad_. dandering, _an epithet expressing the noise of drums_, like tantara, p. . de, _die_; deid, dead, _death_. decay, _destruction_, _death_. dee, _do_. deemedst, _doomedst_. demean, _punish_, _put down_. deputed, , used of a fugitive _carried back for trial_. diel, _devil_. dight, dicht; , _furnished_; , , to deth, "_done_," _wounded_; , _dispose of_, _handle_, _encounter_. ding, pr. dung, _strike_, _knock_, _beat_, _overcome_. dinne, _noise_. discord, _quarrel_. doghtie, _doughty_. door, ? dorlach, which jamieson says is a short-sword, means a _wallet_. douted, _redoubtable_, _feared_. doutsum, _doubtful_. drede, _doubt_. dre, drye, _endure_, _bear_; drie, , as noun, _suffering_. dulesum, _doleful_. dunted, _beat_. durk, _dirk_. dyne, garre, , _give one his fill of fighting_. dyne, , _valley_. dynte, _blow_, _stroke_. eathe, _easy_. ee, _eye_. edicang, _aide-de-camp_. eme, _uncle_. endlongis, _along_. enewch, _enough_. ensenzie, enzie, _ensign_. envye (to do), _ill-will_, _injury_. ewill, ; qy, eve, or vigil? fa', _fall_; , _share_, _portion_. fach, _fetch_. fallows, _fellows_, _equals_. fare, _go_. fay, , _on the verge of death_, _doomed_. fayne, _glad_. feale, _fail_. fearit, _feared_. fecht, _fight_. fee, _property_, _reward_. feck, maist, _greatest part_. feid, _feud_, _enmity_. feingit, _feigned_. feirdness, _cowardice_. fell, _hide_. fells, _hills_, also, _moors_. fend, _keep_, _support_. fett, _fetched_. fiery-fairy, _confusion and consternation_. filabeg, _kilt, or short petticoat, worn by highlanders instead of breeches_. firstin, _first_. fit, _song_, _division of a song_, _story_. flegs, _frights_. flinders, _fragments_. flyte, _scold_, _remonstrate_; , _rally_. forder, _further_. forefend, _forbid_. forgatherit, _met together_. forwarde, _van_. fou, _full_. fourugh, see furich. frame, , _succeed_. freck, freke, freyke (a. s. _one who is bold_) _warrior_, _man_. fun', _found_. furich, furichinish, gaelic; fuirich means _wait_, _stop_; fearach is an old irish warcry. "fy, furich, whigs, awa'!" was a jacobite pipe air, says chambers. free, frie, _noble_; , of metal, _precious_ (?) gade, _went_. galliards, _quick and lively dances_. gare, _gore_. see glossary to vol. . garre, _make_; gart, _garde_, _made_. gate, _way_. geed, _went_. geere, , _business_, _affair_. gettyng, , _plunder_. gled, _gladden_. glede, _live coal_. glent, _glanced_, _passed swiftly_. gloamin', _dusk_, _night-fall_. glove, ; to claim a glove worn as a lady's favor, was a form of challenge,--which is perhaps the reference here. graif, _grave_. graithed, grathed, _prepared_, _dressed_, _armed_; , _laid_, or _laid out_. gree, bear the, _bore the palm_. gresse, _grass_. grevis, _groves_, _bushes_. grite, _weep_. grysely, _dreadfully_. guide, _good_. habershoune, _coat of mail_. hach-borde, , , , (ms. has in one place, "archborde,") seems to be used for the _side of the ship_. hached, _inlaid_ or _gilded_. hagbutis, _a kind of muskets_. halched, _greeted_. hale, _whole_. hard, _heard_. harneis, _armor_. haryed, _plundered_. haws, _low grounds on the border of a river_. haylde, _hauled_. haylle, , _healthy_. he, _high_. heal, _hail_. heidit, _beheaded_. heidin, _beheading_. hernainsell, see note p. . hich, _high_. hight, _promise_, _be called_. hinde, _gentle_. hing, _hang_. his, _has_. hogan dutch, ? holtes, , _woods_. hoved, , _hovered_, _hung about_, _tarried_. howe, _hollow_, _valley_. husbonds, _husbandmen_. hye, hyght, (on,) _on high_, _aloud_. hyght, _promised_. ilk, ilkay, _each_. into, _in_. is, _has_. i-wis, _certainly_. jack, _a coat of mail_, _a leather jacket_. jouk, _avoid a blow by bending the body forward_. kain, , _rent paid in kind_; here, paid the kain is _suffered sorely_. kaithe, _appear_, _come_. ken, _know_; kenna, _know not_. kindly, , _native born_. kith, _acquaintance_. kittle flaws, _variable winds_, i.e. not to be depended on for courage. knop, _knob_. knowe, _knoll_. lair, , _place where they were lying_. lang, _long_. lap, _leapt_. layne, _deceive_; , _break word_. leaguer, _camp_. leath, _loath_. leeve, _dear_, _pleasant_; lever, _rather_. lesse, , _lying_. let, _prevent_. lift, _air_. lifting, _stealing_. liges, _lieges_. liklie, _handsome_, _promising_. lilye, , lilly, , _covered with lilies_? lilting, _singing cheerfully_. linking, _walking quickly_. list, _please_. lithe, _list_. liverance, , "_money for delivering up._" percy. logeying, _lodging_. lope, _leapt_. lucetts, , _luces_, _pikes_. lurdane, _a heavy, stupid fellow_. luves, _palms_, _hands_. maker, makys, _mates_. march-man, _warden of the marches_. march-perti, , _the border parts or region_. marke hym to the trenité, , _commit himself to god by making the sign of the cross_? marked, , _fixed their eyes on_, _took aim at_? maugre, _spite_. may, _maid_. meany, _company_. merchand, _marching_. mickle, _great_. mind, _remember_. miss, , _evil_, _fault_, _trouble_. moe, moo, _more_, _greater_. mome, _fool_. mort, _death_ (_of the deer_.) mowes, mowis, (_mouths_,) _joke_. muir, _moor_. mykel, _great_. myllàn, , _milan_, i. e. _steel or manufacture_. myne-allaine, _alone by myself_. myneyeple, , _maniple_ (i. e. _many folds_), _a name for a close dress with sleeves worn under the armor_. nare, _nor_. naye, _denial_. near, _nearer_. neist ae, _next_. nixtin, _next_. northen, be, _to the north of_. oh'on a ri, gaelic, _oh, my heart!_ oh' rig in di, ? one, _on_. ones, _once_. outrake, , _riding out_, _excursion_. oware, _hour_. owermaskit, _overcast_. paiks, , _drubbing_. palione, , pallion, _pavilion_, _tent_. pall, _a rich cloth_. parti, _part_. paw, pa', , _swift motion_; one's _part_ in a performance, ; of the _contortions_ of a person hanged, ; of the _movement of weapons_, . peart, _pert_. perseiued, _pursued_. philibeg, _kilt, or short petticoat_, worn by highlanders instead of breeches. pitlarichie, ? pleadis, _prayers_. polititious, _politic_, _ingenious_. pompous, , _proud_, _magnificent_. pra, , _brave_, _fine_. presumand, _presuming_. prycked, _rode_. pyght, _pitched_. quaint, _acquaint_. quat, _quit_. quhat, &c. _what_, _&c._ quhill, _while_, _until_. quhois, _whose_. quite, _quit_. quyrry, _quarry_, _slaughtered game_. quyt, _paid_, _repaid_. race, , _course_. raid, _a predatory incursion_. rais, _rose_. raking, , _running_, _scouring along_. rave, _bereave_. raw, _row_, _rank_; upo' the raw, _in rank of battle_. rax, _reach_, _stretch_; , _beat_? rear, ride the, , _ride behind_, _have the worse_. recks, , _matters_. rede, _advise_; , _guessed_. red, _rode_. reidswire, see vol. vi. p. . remeid, _remedy_. rent, _rend_. rewyth, _regrets_. riggings, , _backs_? rinnes, _runs_. rise on anchor, ? roke, _reek_, _steam_. rout, _company_, _crowd_. rowght, _rout_, _strife_. rowynde, _round_. rung, _cudgel_; canon's, _figuratively_, _for shot_? ryall, _royal_. ryght, , _straight_. rynde, , _flayed_? rinde, _to destroy_, halliwell's _dict._ saw, _saying_, _statement_. say, _saw_. say, _assay_. sayne, _say_. scale, , , _scatter_, _spread_. schapped, , apparently should be "swapped;" see _post_. schoote, , _shot_, _let go_. sen, _since_. sene, , _skilled_, _experienced_. shear, , , _quickly_, _at once_. (?) halliwell. she, used of _highlanders in general_. siccan, _such_. sinsyne, _since_. sith, _since_. skelps, _blows_. silver wand, ? slaydis, ; the passage is corrupt. slicht, _slight_. sloughe, _slew_. smirkling, _smirking_, _smiling_. smored, _smothered_. snell, , _sharp_, _loud_. snood, _a band with which a young woman ties up her hair_. sould, _should_. souters, _cobblers_. spear, speir, _ask_. spendyd, , probably the same as spanned, _grasped_. splenderis, _splinters_. spole, _shoulder_. spuente, , _spirited_, _sprung out_. spurne, _kick_; , _retaliation_? stain, _outdo_, _excel_. stalwurthlye, _stoutly_, _boldly_. stane'd, _stationed_. stank, , _pool_. stead, , _place_, _post_. stell'd, _placed_. stent, _stop_. stounde, _time_. stour, stowre, (_turmoil of_) _fight_. straiks, _strokes_. stynttyde, _stopped_. styrande, , see note: according to percy's reading, _driving_ the deer _from their retreats_; but adopting motherwell's, _prancing_, _spirited_. suar, , , _sure_, _trusty_. suthe, _true_. swakked, , swapped, swapte, , , , _struck_, _smote_. swat, _sweat_. sweirand, _swearing_. sworne into my bille, , "_i have delivered a promise in writing, confirmed by an oath._" percy. syne, _since_, _then_, _afterward_. tackes, _takes_. tald, , _tall_? talent, , seems to be used for property in general. tear, , possibly the same as dere, _injury_. teene, tene, _injury_. tenne, _taken_. tent, _heed_. the, _thee_, _they_. thi, _the_. thir, _these_, _those_. thought long, _found the time drag_. thrang, _throng_. thraw, _twist_. thrysse, _thrice_. thuds, , sound of blows, _noises_, _strokes_. tinkler, played the, , _played the coward_. tint, _lost_. tockin, _token_. ton, tone, the, _the one_. tooke, ; supply an omitted word, as "rest." toom, _empty_. top-castle, , _a kind of turret built round the mast-head_. topsail, to cast, _a kind of salute_. tre-trip for hay, ; tray-trip was a _game at dice_. tree, , _spear-shaft_? _cudgel_? trews, , _highland pantaloons_, consisting of breeches and stockings in one piece; here used for highlanders. trone, , _pillory_. trows, , see trews. touk, tuick, _beat_. tyll, _to_. tyne, _lose_. uds-doyns, an oath. uncouth, _unknown_. uttermost, _outmost_. valziant, _valiant_. verament, _truly_. vow, , _exclamation of admiration or surprise_. vowit, _vowed_. wae, _sad_, _sorry_. wald, _would_. waly, _interjection of lamentation_. wane, ? war, _worse_; verb, _to worst_, _overcome_. war, _aware_. ward, _word_. waryson, _reward_. wast, _west_. wat, _know_. weal, (of hands), to _wring_? weale, , qy, _well_? or _good luck_! the word is probably corrupted. weapon-shaw, _inspection of arms_, _military review_. wed, _would_. wede, , _shorn_? weir, _war_. well, , qy. mell, _meddle or fight with_. weme, , _belly_, _hollow_. wend, _go_. whigging, _moving fast_, _marching briskly_. whilk, _which_. whyll, , _till_. wid, _would_. wight, , _strong_, _quick_. win, _go_, _get_. win (hay), _make_, _get in_. winna, _will not_. wis, , _wish_. woned unto the dead, , qy. vowed? _devoted themselves to death_? wood, _mad_, _furious_. worried, , _choked at_. worthe, woe, _woe be to_. wouche, _injury_. wraithe, _wroth_. writhe, _twisted_. wyld, , seems to be used absolutely for _deer_. wynn, (hay), _make_, _get in_. ychone, _each one_. yebent, _bent_. yee, _eye_. ye-feth, _i-faith_. yender, _yonder_. yerlle, _earl_. yerly, _early_. ye'se, _ye shall_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yill, _ale_. yth' _in the_. zield, _yield_. zit, _yet_. * * * * * transcriber's notes page , line : changed "strenght" to "strength" (many hade no strength for to stande,) page : line note anchor moved from line to line . page , line : changed "orher" to "order" (lord roxburgh was there, in order to share) page , line - : changed indentation of this verse to be consistent with the rest of the ballad. [transcriber's note: printer errors as well as inconsistencies in punctuation and diacriticals have been corrected without note. inconsistencies in song titles as listed in the contents and the alphabetical index have been left as they appear in the original.] songs of the west folk songs of devon & cornwall collected from the mouths of the people by s. baring-gould, m.a. h. fleetwood sheppard, m.a. and f.w. bussell, mus. doc. d.d. under the musical editorship of cecil j. sharp principal of the hampstead conservatoire fifth edition in one volume methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london _originally issued in four parts in _ _first published in one volume in _ _new and revised edition october _ _reprinted april _ to the memory of the late d. radford, esq., j.p., of mount tavy, at whose hospitable table the making of this collection was first planned also to that of the rev. h. fleetwood sheppard, m.a., my fellow worker in this field for twelve years contents preface--introduction. . by chance it was. . the hunting of arscott of tetcott. . upon a sunday morning. . the trees they are so high. . parson hogg. . cold blows the wind. . the sprig of thyme. . roving jack the journeyman. . brixham town. . green broom. . as johnny walked out. . the miller and his sons. . ormond the brave. . john barleycorn. . sweet nightingale. . widdecombe fair. . ye maidens pretty. . the silly old man. . the months of the year. . the chimney sweep. . the saucy sailor. . blue muslin. . the death of parker. . the helston furry dance. . blow away ye morning breezes. . the hearty good fellow. . the bonny bunch of roses. . the last of the singers. . the tythe pig. . old wichet. . jan's courtship. . the drowned lover. . childe the hunter. . the cottage well thatch'd with straw. . cicely sweet. . a sweet pretty maiden sat under a tree. . the white cockade. . the sailor's farewell. . a maiden sat a weeping. . the blue kerchief. . come to my window. . tommy a lynn. . the green bushes. . the broken token. . the mole catcher. . the keenly lode. . may-day carol. . the lover's tasks. . lullabye. . the gipsy countess. _in two parts._ . the grey mare. . the wreck off scilly. . henry martyn. . plymouth sound. . the fox. . furze bloom. . the oxen ploughing. . flora, the lily of the west. _in f_ [transcriber's note: d minor.] " " " " " " _in g_ . fair lady pity me. . the painful plough. . at the setting of the sun. . all jolly fellows that follow the plough. . the golden vanity. . the bold dragoon. . trinity sunday. . the blue flame. . strawberry fair. . the country farmer's son. . the hostess' daughter. . the jolly goss-hawk. . the song of the moor. . on a may morning so early. . the spotted cow. . three jovial welshmen. . well met, well met, my own true love. . poor old horse. . the dilly song. . a country dance. . constant johnny. . the duke's hunt. . the bell-ringing. . a nutting we will go. . down by a river-side. . the barley-rakings. . a ship came sailing over the sea. . the rambling sailor. . willie combe. . midsummer carol. . the blackbird. . the green bed. . the loyal lover. . the streams of nantsian. . three drunken maidens. . tobacco is an indian weed. . fair susan slumbered. . the false bride. . barley straw. . death and the lady. . both sexes give ear to my fancy. . i rode my little horse. . among the new-mown hay. . i'll build myself a gallant ship. . colly, my cow. . within a garden. . the bonny bird. . the lady and apprentice. . paul jones. . the merry haymakers. . in bibberly town. . the marigold. . arthur le bride. . the keeper. . the queen of hearts. . the owl. . my mother did so before me. . a week's work well done. . the old man can't keep his wife at home. . sweet, farewell! . old adam, the poacher. . evening prayer. notes on the songs. alphabetical index of songs no. page a maiden sat a weeping among the new mown hay all jolly fellows that follow the plough a nutting we will go arthur le bride a ship came sailing as johnny walked out a sweet pretty maiden at the setting of the sun a week's work well done barley raking, the barley straw, the bell ringing, the bibberly town, in blackbird, the blow away ye morning breezes blue flame, the blue kerchief blue muslin bold dragoon, the bonny bird, the bonny bunch of roses, the both sexes give ear to my fancy brixham town broken token, the by chance it was childe the hunter chimney sweep, the cicely sweet cold blows the wind colly, my cow come to my window constant johnny cottage well thatched with straw, the country dance, a country farmer's son, the death and the lady death of parker dilly song, the down by a river side drowned lover, the drunken maidens duke's hunt, the evening prayer, the fair lady pity me fair susan slumbered false bride, the flora, the lily of the west , fox, the furze bloom gipsy countess, the golden vanity, the green bed, the green broom green bushes, the grey mare, the hearty good fellow, the helston furry dance, the henry martyn hostess' daughter, the hunting of arscott, the i'll build myself a gallant ship in bibberly town i rode my little horse jan's courtship john barleycorn jolly fellows that follow the plough jolly goss-hawk, the keenly lode, the keeper, the lady and apprentice, the last of the singers, the lover's tasks, the loyal lover, the lullaby maiden sat a-weeping, a marigold, the may day carol merry haymakers, the midsummer carol, a miller and his sons, the mole catcher, the months of the year, the my mother did so before me old adam the poacher old man can't keep his wife at home, the old wichet on a may morning ormond the brave owl, the oxen ploughing, the painful plough, the parson hogg paul jones plymouth sound poor old horse queen of hearts, the rambling sailor, the roving jack sailor's farewell, the saucy sailor, the silly old man, the simple ploughboy, the song of the moor, the spotted cow, the sprig of thyme, the strawberry fair streams of nantsian, the sweet farewell sweet nightingale three drunken maidens, the three jovial welshmen tobacco tommy a lynn trees they are so high, the trinity sunday tythe pig, the upon a sunday morning well met! well met! white cockade, the widdecombe fair willy combe within a garden wreck off scilly, the week's work well done, a ye maidens pretty preface in this edition of "songs of the west," some considerable changes have been made. when the first edition was issued, we had to catch the public taste, and to humour it. accordingly the choruses were arranged in four parts, and some of the songs were set as duets and quartettes. but now that real interest in folk airs has been awakened, we have discarded this feature. moreover, a good many accompanists complained that the arrangements were too elaborate, except for very skilled pianoforte players. we have now simplified the settings. then, we have omitted twenty-two songs, and have supplied their places with others, either because the others are intrinsically better, or that they have earlier and more characteristic melodies, or again because the songs though sung by the people, did not seem to us to have been productions of the folk-muse. again, when our first edition was published, modal melodies were not appreciated, and we had regretfully to put many aside and introduce more of the airs of a modern character. public taste is a little healthier now, and musicians have multiplied who can value these early melodies. consequently we have not felt the same reserve now that we did in . introduction dorothy osborne, in a letter to sir william temple, in , thus describes her daily home life. "the heat of the day is spent in reading or working, and about six or seven o'clock i walk out into a common that lies hard by the house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep or cows, and sit in the shade singing ballads. i go to them and compare their voices and beauties to some ancient shepherdesses that i have read of, and find a vast difference there; but trust me these are as innocent as those could be. i talk to them, and find they want nothing to make them the happiest people in the world but the knowledge that they are so. most commonly, when we are in the midst of our discourse, one looks about her, and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away they all run as if they had wings to their heels." ("letters of dorothy osborne," london, , p. .) before that sir thomas overbury, in his "character of a milkmaid," had written: "she dares go alone and unfold her sheep in the night, and fears no manner of ill, because she means none: yet, to say truth, she is never alone, she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones." during the reign of queen mary, the princess elizabeth was kept under close guard and restraint, but was suffered to walk in the palace grounds. "in this situation," says holinshed, "no marvel if she, hearing upon a time, out of her garden at woodstock, a certain milkmaid singing pleasantlie, wished herself to be a milkmaid as she was; saying that her case was better, and life merrier." so viola, in fletcher's play, "the coxcombe," : "would to god, my father had lived like one of these, and bred me up to milk, and do as they do! methinks 'tis a life that i would chuse, if i were now to tell my time again, above a prince's." the milkmaid, and the girls guarding sheep and cows are things of the past, and with them have largely departed their old ballads and songs. tusser, in his "points on huswifry," in , recommends the country housewife to select her maids from those who sing at their work as being usually the most painstaking and the best. "such servants are oftenest painsfull and good, that sing at their labours, like birds in a wood." nowadays, domestic servants sing nothing but hymns, and the use of ballads and folksongs has died out among farm girls, and these are to be recovered only where there are village industries as basket weaving, glove sewing, and the like. but the old men sing their ancient ditties, or did so till within the last fifty years. now they are no longer called on for them, but they remember them, and with a little persuasion can be induced to render them up. when i was a boy, i was wont to ride over and about dartmoor, and to put up at little village taverns. there i was sure in the evening to hear one or two men sing, and should it be a pay day, sing hour after hour, one song following another with little intermission. there was an institution at mines and quarries called a _fetching_. it occurred every fortnight. the men left work early, and went to the changing room; stone jars of ale were brought thither from the nearest public house. each man filled his mug, and each in turn, before emptying it, was required to sing. on such occasions many a fine old ballad was to be picked up. there was also the farm-supper after harvest, at which the workmen sang. now the suppers have been discontinued. ringer's feasts, happily, still remain, and at them a good old ditty may be heard. but most of the old singers with their traditional ballads set to ancient modal melodies have passed away. in "poems, etc.," by henry incledon johns, published by subscription, devonport, , is the following interesting passage. he is describing a night spent in an inn on the borders of dartmoor; he met farmers and labourers. "one of the party i observed never took any share in the conversation, but appeared to have been invited there for the sole purpose of singing to them. he sang a great number of ballads, making up in loudness for what he lacked in melody. i thought it betrayed rather a want of courtesy that his auditors continued to talk while he sang, and no less remarkable, that they never expressed either applause or disapprobation of his strains. now and then, one or two of them would join in a line of chorus, but it seemed to be done in a sort of parenthesis, and the thread of the conversation was immediately resumed as vehemently as ever.... i gleaned the following scraps of the border minstrelsy of dartmoor: 'there was an old man as blind as blind could be, he swore he saw the fox go up a great tree.' 'there was one among them all that's slender, fair and tall, with a black and rolling eye, and a skin of lily dye.' 'a bonny lass i courted full many a long day, and dearly i loved to be in her sweet company.' (the lover then describes the progress of his suit, which proves unsuccessful, and concludes thus:--) 'go, dig me a pit, that is long, large, and deep, and i'll lay myself down, and take a long sleep. and that's the way to forget her.' "the air to the latter was rather plaintive, and from the lips of some siren might have been entitled to an _encore_, but the voice which now gave it utterance only added another to many previous proofs that the english are not a musical people. the minstrel was in appearance one of the most athletic men i have ever seen, and although seventy-five years of age, would still, as i subsequently learnt, perform a day's work better than most of the young men of the parish. he was a pauper, but in great respect among the neighbouring rustics for his vocal powers. his auditory were moor-farmers with countenances as rugged and weather-beaten as the rocks among which they live." it is not a little interesting to know that some seventy years after this recorded evening we were able to recover two of the songs which mr. johns gives somewhat inaccurately; and both are included in this collection. the first is "the three jovial welshmen," no. ; and the last is "the false bride," no. . one of my old singers, james olver, was the son of very strict wesleyans. when he was a boy, he was allowed to hear no music save psalm and hymn tunes. but he was wont to creep out of his window at night, and start away to the tavern where the miners congregated, and listen to and heap up in his memory the songs he there heard. as these were forbidden fruit they were all the more dearly prized and surely remembered, and when he was a white-haired old man, he poured them out to us. some forty or fifty years ago, it was customary when the corn was cut, for the young men of a parish to agree together, and without telling the farmer of their intention, to invade his harvest field, work all night and stack his corn, whilst he slept. it was allowed to leak out who had done him this favour, and in return, he invited them with their lasses to sup and dance and make merry in a lighted barn. then famous old songs were sung. but all that good feeling is at an end, and in its place exists a rankling hostility between the tiller of the soil and his employer. blame assuredly attaches to the farmer for this condition of affairs, in that he has done away with the farmhouse festivities in which workmen and employer took part. one evening in , i was dining with the late mr. daniel radford, of mount tavy, when the conversation turned to old devonshire songs. some of those present knew "widdecombe fair," others remembered "arscott of tetcott"; and all had heard many and various songs sung at hunt-suppers, at harvest and sheep-shearing feasts. my host turned to me and said: "it is a sad thing that our folk-music should perish. i wish you would set to work and collect it--gather up the fragments that remain before all is lost!" i undertook the task. i found that it was of little use going to most farmers and yeoman. they sang the compositions of hooke, hudson, and dibden. but i learned that there were two notable old singing men at south brent, and i was aware that there was one moorland singing farmer at belstone, i was informed of this by j.d. prickman, esq., of okehampton. this man, harry westaway, knew many old songs. moreover, in my own neighbourhood was a totally illiterate hedger, in fact, he could neither read nor write. he enjoyed no little local celebrity as a song-man. his name was james parsons, aged seventy-four, and a son of a still more famous singer called "the singing-machine," and grandson of another of the same fame. in fact, the profession of song-man was hereditary in the family. at every country entertainment, in olden times, at the public-house almost nightly, for more than a century, one of these men of the parsons' family had not failed to attend, to sing as required for the entertainment of the company. the _repertoire_ of the grandfather had descended to old james. for how many generations before him the profession had been followed i could not learn. james parsons' ballad tunes were of an early and archaic character. in fact, with few exceptions his melodies were in the gregorian modes. at one time parsons and a man named voysey were working on the fringe of dartmoor, and met in the evening at the moorland tavern. parsons boasted of the number of songs he knew, and voysey promised to give him a glass of ale for every fresh one he sang. parsons started with "the outlandish knight," one song streamed forth after another, one glass after another was emptied, and these men sat up the whole night, till the sun rose, and the song-man's store was not then exhausted, but voysey's pocket was. i could hardly credit this tale when told me, so i questioned voysey, who had worked for my father and was working for me. he laughed and confirmed the tale. "i ought to remember it," he said, "for he cleared me clean out." many a pleasant evening have i spent with old parsons, he in the settle, sitting over the hall fire, i taking down the words of his ballads, mr. sheppard or mr. bussell noting down his melodies. but one day i heard that an accident had befallen parsons. in cutting "spears," _i.e._, pegs for thatching, on his knee he had cut into the joint; and the village doctor told me he feared parsons at his age would never get over it. i sent for mr. bussell, and said to him: "we shall lose our old singer, before we have quite drained him. come with me, and we will visit his cottage, and see what more we can get from him." we went, and very pleased he was to sing to us from his bed. "old wichet," no. , was one of the songs we then acquired from him. happily, the sturdy constitution of the man caused his recovery, and he lived on for three years after this accident. one day in november, i got a letter from the vicar of south brent, in which he informed me that robert hard, a crippled stone-breaker there, and one of my song-men, was growing very feeble. without delay i took the train, and arrived at south brent vicarage, just as the party had finished breakfast. "now," said i to the vicar, "lend me your drawing room and the piano, and send for old hard." the stone breaker arrived, and i spent almost the whole day, that is, till the dusk of evening fell, taking down his songs and melodies. from him then, i had "the cuckoo," that i have published in my "garland of country songs." a month later, poor old hard was found dead in a snowdrift by the roadside. i had enlisted the services of such excellent musicians as the late rev. h. fleetwood sheppard, of thurnscoe, yorkshire, and mr., now the rev. doctor bussell, mus. doc., and vice-principal of brazennose [transcriber's note: brasenose] college, oxford, and we worked at collecting, at south brent, where besides robert hard, was john helmore, a miller, who died in the ivy bridge workhouse in ; also at belstone, and we worked through the length and breadth of dartmoor. james coaker,[ ] a blind man of , in the heart of the moor, very infirm, and able to leave his bed for a few hours of the day only, was unable to sing, but could recite the words of ballads; but mr. j. webb, captain of a mine hard by, knew his tunes, and could very sweetly pipe them. on blackdown, mary tavy, lived a mason, samuel fone, he died in . he had an almost inexhaustible supply. further songs were yielded by a singing blacksmith, john woodrich, of woolacott moor, thrushleton, commonly known as "ginger jack"; also by roger luxton, of halwell, by james olver, tanner, launceston, a native of s. kewe, cornwall; by john masters, of bradstone, aged ; by william rice and john rickards, both of lamerton; by william friend, labourer, lydford; edmund fry, thatcher, a native of lezant, cornwall; roger hannaford, widdecombe; will and roger huggins, lydford; w. bickle, bridestowe; matthew baker, a poor cripple, lew down; john dingle, coryton; j. peake, tanner, liskeard; and mr. s. gilbert, the aged innkeeper of the "falcon," mawgan, in pyder. more were obtained from old singers at two bridges and post bridge on dartmoor, from others at chagford, at holne, and at south brent. from others again at menheniot, cornwall, and at fowey. some songs taken down from moor men on dartmoor, in or about , were sent me by w. crossing, esq., who knows dartmoor better than any man living; others by t.s. cayzer, esq., taken down in . miss bidder, of stoke flemming, most kindly searched her neighbourhood for old women who knew ancient songs, and sent me what she obtained. we had several rare old melodies from sally satterley,[ ] now dead, of huccaby bridge, dartmoor. she had acquired them from her father, a crippled fiddler. [footnote : i have given a memoir of this old man in my "dartmoor idylls." (methuen & co., ).] [footnote : i have told the romantic story of the building of her house in one day, "jolly lane cott" in my "dartmoor idylls." the old house has recently been pulled down and replaced by an ugly modern cottage.] of the vast quantities of tunes that we have collected, perhaps a third are very good, a third are good, and the remainder indifferent. the singers are almost invariably illiterate and aged, and when they die the tradition will be lost, for the present generation will have nothing to do with these songs, especially such as are modal, and supplant them with the vulgarest music hall compositions. the melodies are far more precious than the words, and we have been more concerned to rescue these than the words, which are often common-place, and may frequently be found on broadside ballad sheets. the words are less frequently of home growth than the airs, and over and over again we came upon ballads already in print, but not to the tunes to which they are sung elsewhere. there are, in fact, only a few, such as "cupid's garden," "bold general wolf," "lord thomas and the fair eleanor," "barbara allen," "outward bound," "the mermaid," that retain the melodies to which sung in other parts of england. but, "tobacco is an indian weed," "joans' ale is new," "the fox," and many others have tunes to which sung in devon and cornwall that are quite different and local. a remarkable instance is that of "sweet nightingale." this appeared in with music by dr. arne. the words travelled down to cornwall, not so arne's tune, and they were there set to an entirely independent melody. then again, when a tune did travel west, and was heard by some of the peasant singers, if it did not commend itself to their taste, they altered it, perhaps quite unconsciously into a form more satisfactory to their minds. i have given a very curious example of this, "upon a sunday morning." our folk music is a veritable moraine of rolled and ground fragments from musical strata far away. it contains melodies of all centuries from the days of the minstrels down to the present time, all thrown together in one heap. it must be borne well in mind that to the rustic singer, melody is everything. it was so in the days before elizabeth. the people then did not want harmony; to them harmony is quite a modern invention and need. at the present day, we are so accustomed to choral and concerted music that we have come to care little for formal melody, and wagner has taught us to be content with musical phrases alone. melody is a musical idea worked out in successive notes of our scale. modern music is constructed in but two of the seven diatonic modes, in which melodies may be cast, the major and the minor; with the result that the modern ear entertains no appreciation of an air that is not in the ionian scale, the "tonus lascivus" of the ancients. the jongleur or minstrel had but the rudest of instruments; the peasant singer had none at all. what interest he can create, what effect he can produce, must be through melody alone. now, i venture to assert that the folk music of the english peasantry has been surpassingly rich in melodiousness, and that no tune has had a chance of living and being transmitted from generation to generation, unless it have a distinct individuality in it, in a word, contains a melodious idea. moreover, not having been framed only in the common major or minor key, it is abundantly varied. it has been a well-spring from which hitherto we have not drawn. in former times, that strongly defined dividing line which separates the cultured from the uncultured did not exist. the music of the peasant was also the music of the court; the ballad was the delight of the cottager and of the noble lady in her bower. but the separation began, in music, in the elizabethan days; in ballads, in those of james i., when nearly every old ballad was re-written to fresh metres, unsingable to the traditional airs. the skilled musician scorned folk melodies, and revelled in counter-point. it is a mistake to suppose that all mediæval music was in the gregorian modes other than our major and minor. even in the th century, the modern major mode was used, so that some of our traditional airs, which seem to be modern may really be old. m. tiersot notes that among the melodies extant of three trouvères of the thirteenth century, a certain number are modern in character. of twenty-two airs by the chatelain de coucy, three are frankly in the major; five others in the th or the th tone, give the impression of the major. of nine melodies by the king of navarre, four are in the major, a fifth in the th tone, is of the same nature as those of de coucy. of thirty-four _chansons_ by adam de la hall, twenty-one are in the major. the folk airs that we give in our collection may not please at first, certainly will not please all; but when once a relish for them has been acquired, then hearers will turn with weariness from the ordinary concert hall feebleness, as we turn from the twaddle of a vacuous female. we have found it necessary to take down all the variants of the same air that we have come across. m. bourgault ducoudray, in his introduction to "mélodies populaires de basse bretagne," paris, , says: "when a song has been transmitted from mouth to mouth, without having been fixed by notation, it is exposed to alterations. one is sometimes obliged to collect as many as twenty variants of the same air, before finding one that is good. this is the greatest difficulty to the seeker; it is as hard to lay the hand on the veritable typal form of a melody as it is to meet with an intact specimen among the shells that have been rolled on the sea shore." when a party of singers is assembled, or when one man sings a succession of ballads, the memory becomes troubled; the first few melodies are given correctly, but after that, the airs become deflected and influenced by the airs last sung. at two bridges one old singer, g. kerswell, after giving us "the bell-ringers," sang us half-a-dozen ballads but the melody of the bells went through them all, and vitiated them all so as to render them worthless. on another occasion, we took down four or five airs all beginning alike, because one singer had impressed this beginning on the minds of the others. at another time, when this impression was worn off, they would sing correctly, and then the beginnings would be different. experience taught us never to take down too much at one sitting. in a very few years all this heritage of traditional folk music will be gone; and this is the supreme moment at which such a collection can be made. already, nearly every one of my old singers from whom these melodies were gathered, is dead. they are passing away everywhere. few counties of england have been worked. sussex has been well explored by the late rev. john broadwood, and then by miss lucy broadwood[ ]; yorkshire, by mr. frank kidson; northumberland, by dr. collingwood bruce and mr. john stokoe. mr. cecil sharp is now engaged on somersetshire, and dr. vaughan williams on essex. who will undertake lincolnshire, dorset, hampshire, and other counties? the purely agricultural districts are most auriferous. in manufacturing counties modern music has driven out the traditional folk melodies. [footnote : the rev. j. broadwood, of lyne, sussex, printed his collection "for private circulation only," in . it was reprinted later, with additions, by miss l. broadwood, under the title of "sussex songs." (leonard & co., oxford street.)] with regard to the approximate dates of the airs we give, all that we can say is that such as are in the ancient modes are not later than the reign of james i. how much more ancient they may be, it is impossible to determine. the melodies of the handel and arne, and then those of the hooke and dibden periods can be at once detected. some few of the melodies we have taken down were certainly originally in one or other of the ancient modes, but in process of time have been subjected to alteration, to accommodate them to the modern ear. although some seventy per cent. of the airs noted from the very old singers are modal, we have not given too many of these, as the popular taste is not sufficiently educated to relish them. but such as can not perceive the beauty of the tunes that go, for instance, to "the trees they are so high," in the rarely used phrygian mode, "flora, the flower of the west," in f, "henry martyn," "on a may morning so early," etc., are indeed to be pitied. we have not been able to give those lengthy ballads, such as, "the outlandish knight," "the brown girl," "by the banks of green willow," "the baffled knight," "william and the shepherd's daughter," "captain ward," "the golden glove," "the maid and the box," "the death of queen jane," etc., which are too long to be sung and listened to with patience now-a-days. in some instances we have set other words to a ballad tune, as xxxvi. one of my old singers said to me concerning this ballad, "when my little sister, now dead, these twenty years, was a child, and went up from exeter to london with me in a carrier's van, lor bless'y, afore railways was invented, i mind that she sang this here ballet in the waggon all the way up. we was three days about it. she was then about six years old." the ballet, by the way, is not particularly choice and suitable for a child or a grown-up girl to sing, according to our ideas. in giving these songs to the public, we have been scrupulous to publish the airs precisely as noted down, choosing among the variants those which commended themselves to us as the soundest. but we have not been so careful with regard to the _words_. these are sometimes in a fragmentary condition, or are coarse, contain _double entendres_, or else are mere doggerel. accordingly, we have re-written the songs wherever it was not possible to present them in their original form. this was done by the scotch. many an old ballad is gross, and many a broadside is common-place. songs that were thought witty in the caroline and early georgian epochs, are no longer sufferable; and broadside ballads are in many cases vulgarised versions of earlier ballads that have been lost in their original forms. what a change has taken place in public feeling with regard to decency may be judged by the way in which addison speaks of d'urfey in "the guardian," , no. . "a _judicious_ author, some years since, published a collection of sonnets, which he very successfully called "laugh and be fat; or, pills to purge melancholy." i can not sufficiently admire the facetious title of these volumes, and must censure the world of ingratitude, while they are so negligent in rewarding the jocose labours of my friend, mr. d'urfey, who was so large a contributor to this treatise, and to whose numerous productions so many rural squires in the remotest parts of the island are obliged for the dignity and state which corpulency gives them." and again, in no. , "i must heartily recommend to all young ladies, my disciples, the case of my old friend, who has often made their grand-mothers merry, and whose sonnets have perhaps lulled to sleep many a present toast, when she lay in her cradle." why--d'urfey's pills must now-a-days be kept under lock and key. the fun so commended by the pious and grave addison is filth of the most revolting description. and yet the grand-mothers of the ladies of his day, according to him, were wont to sing them over the cradles of their grand-children! so when a "collection of old ballads" was published - , the editor, after giving a series of historical and serious pieces, in a later volume apologises to the ladies for their gravity, and for their special delectation furnishes an appendix of songs that are simply dirty. a good many of the ditties in favour with our rural song-men, are, it must be admitted, of the d'urfey type; and what is more some of the very worst are sung to the daintiest early melodies. two courses lay open to us. one that adopted dr. barrett and mr. kidson to print the words exactly as given on the broadsides, with asterisks for the undesirable stanzas. but this would simply have killed the songs. no one would care to warble what was fragmentary. on the other hand, there is that adopted by the scotch and irish collectors, which consists in re-writing or modifying where objectionable or common-place. this has been the course we have pursued. it seemed a pity to consign the lovely old melodies to the antiquary's library, by publishing them with words which were fatal to the success of the songs in the drawing room or the concert hall. we resolved where the old words were good, or tolerable, to retain them. where bad, to re-write, adhering as closely as possible to the original. where the songs were mere broadside ballads, we have had no scruple in doing this, for we give reference to the press-mark in the british museum, where the original text may be found. but the broadside itself is often a debased form of a fine early ballad. the broadside publishers were wont to pay a shilling to any ballad mongers who could furnish them with a new ditty. these men were destitute of the poetic faculty and illiterate, and they contented themselves with taking old ballads and recomposing them, so as to give to them a semblance of novelty, sufficient to qualify their authors to claim the usual fee. here are some lines by one of the fraternity: "i'm billy nuts wot always cuts a dash through all the town, sir, with lit'rary men, my clever pen in grammar gains renown, sir, in song, and catch, and ditty. and then to each, with dying speech i do excite their pity. so all agree to welcome me, with drum and fife and whiols, (_sic_ for viols) a cause my name stands fast in fame, the bard of seven dials." (b.m., , , k. ) our object was not to furnish a volume for consultation by the musical antiquary alone, but to resuscitate, and to popularise the traditional music of the english people. as, however, to the antiquary everything is important, exactly as obtained, uncleansed from rust and unpolished, i have deposited a copy of the songs and ballads with their music exactly as taken down, for reference, in the municipal free library, plymouth. the rev. h.f. sheppard, who worked with me for twelve years in rescuing these old songs, and in bringing them before the public, is now no more. a new edition has been called for, and in this some exclusions and some additions have been made. we do not think that the pieces we have removed are not good, but that we are able to supply their places with others that are better. mr. sheppard entertained a very strong objection to arranging any song he had not himself "pricked down" from the lips of the singers, and as mr. bussell had noted down hundreds as well, these, for the most part, had to be laid on one side. mr. sheppard was, doubtless, right in his assertion, that unless he had himself heard the song sung, he could not catch its special character, and so render it justly. acting on the advice of mr. cecil sharp, of the conservatoire, hampstead, who has kindly undertaken the musical editorship of this edition, i have introduced several interesting ballads and songs that, for the reason above given, were excluded from the first. mr. f. kidson has kindly afforded us information relative to such songs as he has come across in yorkshire. in conclusion i give a few particulars relative to the rev. h.f. sheppard, my fellow-worker, and mr. d. radford, the instigator of the collection, both of whom have passed away. henry fleetwood sheppard was a graduate of trinity hall, cambridge, and had been appointed travelling batchelor to the university. through the whole of his clerical career he was closely associated with sacred music, especially with plain-song, of which he was an enthusiastic admirer. as precentor of the doncaster choral union from to , he became the pioneer of improved church music in that part of yorkshire. in the year he was presented to the rectory of thurnscoe, which at that time was an agricultural village numbering about inhabitants, where he remained until , when he resigned his living on account of his advancing years which precluded his coping satisfactorily with the population swelling to , souls, owing to the opening of coal mines in the parish. in , as already intimated, he was associated along with myself in the collection of devon and cornish folk songs. when he resigned the incumbency of thurnscoe, he retired to oxford, where, in his declining years, he might, at his leisure, dip into those store houses of classical and musical literature in which his soul delighted. three days before christmas, , a slight stroke of paralysis gave warning of possibly serious mischief. a sudden and fatal collapse ensued on s. john's day, without further warning. he was laid to rest at oxford on new year's eve. an inscription in the vestry wall at thurnscoe, was cut by one who was in mr. sheppard's choir for nearly forty years before his death. "pray for the peace of henry fleetwood sheppard, rector of this parish church, - , who went to rest, december th, , aged years." mr. daniel radford, of mount tavy, was an enthusiastic lover of all that pertained to his county. he knew that a number of traditional songs and ballads still floated about, and he saw clearly that unless these were at once collected, they would be lost irretrievably, and he pressed on me the advisability of making a collection, and of setting about it at once. i began to do so in , and continued at it, working hard for twelve years, assisted by mr. sheppard and mr. bussell. mr. radford was one for whom i entertained the deepest affection, inspired by his high character; and i knew that what he judged to be advisable should be undertaken in no perfunctory way. mr. radford died january rd, , at the age of seventy-two, and was buried in lydford churchyard. the beautiful rood-screen in the church has been erected by his sons to his memory. in the collection, the music initialed h.f.s. has the accompaniment arranged for the piano by mr. sheppard, that initialed c.j.s. by mr. c.j. sharp; that f.w.b. by dr. bussell. [illustration] no. by chance it was h.f.s. [music] by chance it was i met my love, it did me much surprise, down by a shady myrtle grove, just as the sun did rise. the birds they sang right gloriously, and pleasant was the air; and there was none, save she and i, among the flowers fair. in dewy grass and green we walk'd, she timid was and coy; "how can'st thou choose but pity me, my pretty pearl, my joy? how comes it that thou stroll'st this way? sweet maiden, tell me true, before bright phoebus' glittering ray has supped the morning dew?" "i go to tend the flocks i love the ewes and tender lambs, that pasture by the myrtle grove, that gambol by their dams; there i enjoy a pure content at dawning of the day," then, hand in hand, we lovers went to see the flock at play. and as we wended down the road, i said to her, "sweet maid, three years i in my place abode and three more must be stayed. the three that i am bound so fast, o fairest wait for me. and when the weary years are past then married we will be." "three years are long, three times too long, too lengthy the delay." o then i answered in my song, "hope wastes them quick away. where love is fervent, fain and fast, and knoweth not decay. there nimbly fleet the seasons past accounted as one day." no. the hunting of arscott of tetcott c.j.s. [music] in the month of november, in the year fifty-two, three jolly fox-hunters, all sons of the blue, they rode from pencarrow, not fearing a wet coat, to take their diversion with arscott of tetcott. sing fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, la-de, heigh-ho! sing fol-de-rol, lol-de-rol, la-de, heigh-ho! the day-light was dawning, right radiant the morn, when arscott of tetcott he winded his horn; he blew such a flourish, so loud in the hall, the rafters re-sounded, and danced to the call. sing fol-de-rol, &c. in the kitchen the servants, in kennel the hounds, in the stable the horses were roused by the sounds, on black-bird in saddle sat arscott, "to day i will show you good sport, lads, hark! follow, away!" sing fol-de-rol, &c. they tried in the coppice, from becket to thorn, there were ringwood and rally, and princess and scorn; then out bounded reynard, away they all went, with the wind in their tails, on a beautiful scent. sing fol-de-rol, &c. "hark, vulcan!" said arscott, "the best of good hounds! heigh venus!" he shouted, "how nimbly she bounds! and nothing re-echoes so sweet in the valley, as the music of rattler, of fill-pot, and rally." sing fol-de-rol, &c. they hunted o'er fallow, o'er field and on moor, and never a hound, man or horse would give o'er. sly reynard kept distance for many a mile, and no one dismounted for gate or for stile. sing fol-de-rol, &c. "how far do you make it?" said simon, the son, "the day that's declining will shortly be done." "we'll follow till doom's day," quoth arscott. before they hear the atlantic with menacing roar. sing fol-de-rol, &c. thro' whitstone and poundstock, st. gennys they run, as a fireball, red, in the sea set the sun. then out on penkenner--a leap, and they go, full five hundred feet to the ocean be-low. sing fol-de-rol, &c. when the full moon is shining as clear as the day, john arscott still hunteth the country, they say; you may see him on black-bird, and hear, in full cry the pack from pencarrow to dazard go by. sing fol-de-rol, &c. when the tempest is howling, his horn you may hear, and the bay of his hounds in their headlong career; for arscott of tetcott loves hunting so well, that he breaks for the pastime from heaven--or hell. sing fol-de-rol, &c. no. upon a sunday morning h.f.s. [music] upon a sunday morning, when spring was in its prime, along the church-lane tripping, i heard the church-bells chime, and there encountered reuben, astride upon the stile, he blocked the way, so saucy, upon his lips a smile. upon a sunday morning, there came a rush of bells, the wind was music-laden, in changeful fall and swells; he would not let me over, he held, he made me stay, and promise i would meet him again at close of day. upon a sunday evening, the ringers in the tower, were practising their changes, they rang for full an hour; and reuben by me walking, would never let me go, until a yes i answered, he would not take a no. again a sunday morning, and reuben stands by me, not now in lane, but chancel, where all the folks may see. a golden ring he offers, as to his side i cling, o happy sunday morning, for us the church-bells ring. no. the trees they are so high c.j.s. [music] all the trees they are so high, the leaves they are so green, the day is past and gone, sweet-heart, that you and i have seen. it is cold winter's night, you and i must bide alone: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. in a garden as i walked, i heard them laugh and call; there were four and twenty playing there, they played with bat and ball. o the rain on the roof, here and i must make my moan: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. i listened in the garden, i looked o'er the wall; amidst five and twenty gallants there my love exceeded all. o the wind on the thatch, here and i alone must weep: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. o father, father dear, great wrong to me is done, that i should married be this day, before the set of sun. at the huffle of the gale, here i toss and cannot sleep: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. [ ] my daughter, daughter dear, if better be, more fit, i'll send him to the court awhile, to point his pretty wit. but the snow, snowflakes fall, o and i am chill as dead: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. [ ] to let the lovely ladies know they may not touch and taste, i'll bind a bunch of ribbons red about his little waist. but the raven hoarsely croaks, and i shiver in my bed; whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. i married was, alas, a lady high to be, in court and stall and stately hall, and bower of tapestry, but the bell did only knell, and i shuddered as one cold: when i wed the pretty lad not done growing. at seventeen he wedded was, a father at eighteen, at nineteen his face was white as milk, and then his grave was green; and the daisies were outspread, and buttercups of gold, o'er my pretty lad so young now ceased growing. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. parson hogg c.j.s. [music] mess parson hogg shall now maintain, the burden of my song, sir, a single life, perforce he led, of constitution strong, sir. sing, tally-ho! sing, tally-ho! sing, tally-ho! why zounds, sir, he mounts his mare, to hunt the hare, sing tally-ho! the hounds, sir. and every day he goes to mass, he first draws on the boot, sir, that should the beagles chance to pass, he might join in pursuit, sir! sing tally-ho! &c. that parson little loveth prayer, and pater, night and morn, sir, for bell and book, hath little care but dearly loves the horn, sir. sing tally-ho! &c. s. stephen's day, this holy man he went a pair to wed, sir, when as the service he began puss by the church-yard sped, sir. sing tally-ho! &c. he shut his book, come on, he said, i'll pray and bless no more, sir, he drew his surplice o'er his head and started for the door, sir sing tally-ho! &c. in pulpit parson hogg was strong, he preached without a book, sir, and to the point, and never long, and this the text he took, sir, "o tally-ho! o tally-ho! dearly beloved--zounds, sir i mount my mare to hunt the hare, singing tally-ho! the hounds, sir!" no. "cold blows the wind, sweet-heart" c.j.s. [music] "cold blows the wind of night, sweet-heart, cold are the drops of rain; the very first love that ever i had, in green-wood he was slain. "i'll do as much for my true-love as any fair maiden may; i'll sit and mourn upon his grave a twelvemonth and a day." a twelvemonth and a day being up, the ghost began to speak; "why sit you here by my grave-side from dusk till dawning break?" "o think upon the garden, love, where you and i did walk. the fairest flower that blossomed there is withered on its stalk." "what is it that you want of me, and will not let me sleep? your salten tears they trickle down my winding sheet to steep." "oh i will now redeem the pledge the pledge that once i gave; a kiss from off thy lily white lips is all of you i crave." "cold are my lips in death, sweet-heart, my breath is earthy strong. if you do touch my clay-cold lips, your time will not be long." then through the mould he heaved his head, and through the herbage green. there fell a frosted bramble leaf, it came their lips between. "now if you were not true in word, as now i know you be, i'd tear you as the withered leaves, are torn from off the tree. "and well for you that bramble-leaf betwixt our lips was flung. the living to the living hold, dead to the dead belong." no. the sprig of thyme c.j.s. [music] in my garden grew plenty of thyme, it would flourish by night and by day; o'er the wall came a lad, he took all that i had, and stole my thyme away. my garden with heartsease was bright, the pansy so pied and so gay; one slipped through the gate, and alas! cruel fate, my heartsease took away. my garden grew self-heal and balm, and speedwell that's blue for an hour, then blossoms again, o grievous my pain! i'm plundered of each flower. there grows in my garden the rue, and love-lies-a-bleeding droops there, the hyssop and myrrh, the teazle and burr, in place of blossoms fair. the willow with branches that weep, the thorn and the cypress tree, o why were the seeds of such dolorous weeds, thus scattered there by thee? no. roving jack c.j.s. [music] young jack he was a journey-man that roved from town to town, and when he'd done a job of work, he lightly sat him down. with his kit upon his shoulder, and a grafting knife in hand, he roved the country round about, a merry journey-man. and when he came to exeter, the maidens leaped for joy; said one and all, both short and tall, here comes a gallant boy. the lady dropt her needle, and the maid her frying-pan, each plainly told her mother, that she loved the journey-man. he had not been in exeter, the days were barely three, before the mayor, his sweet daughter. she loved him desperately; she bid him to her mother's house, she took him by the hand, said she, "my dearest mother, see i love the journey-man!" now out on thee, thou silly maid! such folly speak no more: how can'st thou love a roving man, thou ne'er hast seen before? "o mother sweet, i do entreat, i love him all i can; around the country glad i'll rove with this young journey-man. "he need no more to trudge afoot, he'll travel coach and pair; my wealth with me--or poverty with him, content i'll share." now fill the horn with barleycorn, and flowing fill the can: here let us toast the mayor's daughter and the roving journey-man. no. brixham town h.f.s. [music] all ye that love to hear music performed in air, pray listen, and give ear, to what i shall perpend. concerning music, who'd,-- if rightly understood-- not find 'twould do him good to hearken and attend. in brixham town so rare for singing sweet and fair, few can with us compare, we bear away the bell. extolled up and down by men of high renown, we go from town to town; and none can us excell. there's a man in brixham town of office, and in gown, strove to put singing down, which most of men adore. for house of god unmeet, the voice and organ sweet! when pious men do meet, to praise their god before. go question holy writ, and you will find in it, that seemly 'tis and fit, to praise and hymn the lord. on cymbal and on lute, on organ and on flute, with voices sweet, that suit; all in a fair concord. in samuel you may read how one was troubled, was troubled indeed, who crown and sceptre bore; an evil spirit lay on his mind both night and day, that would not go away, and vexed him very sore. then up and uttered one, said, "jesse hath a son, of singers next to none; david his name they say." "so send for david, fleet, to make me music sweet, that the spirit may retreat, and go from me away." now when that david, he king saul had come to see, and playèd merrily. upon his stringèd harp, the devil in all speed, with music ill agreed, from saul the king, he fleed, impatient to depart. now there be creatures three as you may plainly see with music can't agree upon this very earth the swine, the fool, the ass, and so we let it pass and sing, o lord, thy praise whilst we have breath. so now, my friends, adieu! i hope that all of you will pull most strong and true, in strain to serve the lord. god prosper us, that we like angels may agree, in singing merrily in tune and in accord. no. green broom c.j.s. [music] there was an old man lived out in the wood, his trade was a-cutting of broom, green broom; he had but one son without thrift, without good, who lay in his bed till 'twas noon, bright noon. the old man awoke, one morning and spoke, he swore he would fire the room, that room, if his john would not rise and open his eyes, and away to the wood to cut broom, green broom. so johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes, and away to the wood to cut broom, green broom, he sharpened his knives, for once he contrives to cut a great bundle of broom, green broom. when johnny passed under a lady's fine house, passed under a lady's fine room, fine room, she called to her maid, "go fetch me," she said, "go fetch me the boy that sells broom, green broom." when johnny came into the lady's fine house, and stood in the lady's fine room, fine room, "young johnny," she said, "will you give up your trade, and marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?" johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went, and he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom. at market and fair, all folks do declare, there is none like the boy that sold broom, green broom. no. as johnny walked out c.j.s. [music] as johnny walked out one day it was a summer morn, himself he laid beneath the shade all of a twisted thorn, and as he there lay lazily a shepherdess pass'd by; and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. "o have you seen a pretty ewe that hath a tender lamb, a strayed from the orchard glade that little one and dam?" "o pretty maid" he answered, "they passed as here i lie!" and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. [ ] she wandered o'er the country wide the sheep she could not find; and many times she did upbraid young johnny in her mind. she sought in leafy forest green she sought them low and high, and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. "oh silly maid," young johnny said, "alone why did you seek?" her heart was full of anger, and the flush was in her cheek. "where one alone availeth not, there two your sheep may spie, and 'tis down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by." then lo! they both forgot their quest, they found what neither sought, two loving hearts long kept apart together now were brought. he found the words he long had lacked, he found and held her eye; and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. [ ] now married were this loving pair, and joined in holy band, no more they go a seeking sheep, together hand in hand. around her feet play children sweet, beneath the summer sky, and 'tis down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. [footnote : these verses may be omitted in singing.] [footnote : these verses may be omitted in singing.] no. the miller and his sons c.j.s. [music] there was a miller, as you shall hear, long time he lived in devonshire, he was took sick and deadly ill, and had no time to write his will! he was took sick and deadly ill, and had no time to write his will. so he call'd up his eldest son, said he, "my glass is almost run. if i to thee my mill shall give, tell me what toll thou'lt take to live?" "father," said he, "my name is jack, from every bushel i'll take a peck. from every grist that i do grind, that i may thus good living find." "thou art a fool," the old man said, "thou hast not half acquired thy trade. my mill to thee i ne'er will give for by such toll no man can live." then he call'd up his second son, said he, "my glass is almost run. if i to thee my mill shall make, tell me what toll to live thou'lt take?" "father you know my name is ralph, from every bushel i'll take a half from every grist that i do grind, that i may thus a living find." "thou art a fool," the old man said; "thou hast not half acquired thy trade. my mill to thee i will not give, for by such toll no man may live." then he call'd up his youngest son, says he, "my glass is almost run. if i to thee my mill shall make tell me what toll, to live, thou'lt take?" "father i am your youngest boy. in taking toll is all my joy. before i would good living lack, i'd take the whole--forswear the sack." "thou art the boy," the old man said, "for thou hast full acquired the trade. the mill is thine," the old man cried, he laugh'd, gave up the ghost, and died. no. ormond the brave c.j.s. [music] i am ormond the brave, did ye never hear of me? who lately was driven from my own country. they tried me, condemned me, they plundered my estate, for being so loyal to queen anne the great, crying, o! i am ormond, you know. o to vict'ry i led, and i vanquished every foe, some do call me james butler, i'm ormond, you know, i am queen anne's darling, and old england's delight, a friend to the church, in fanatic's despite, crying, o! i am ormond, you know. then awake devon dogs, and arise you cornish cats, and follow me a chasing the hanoverian rats, they shall fly from the country, we'll guard the british throne, have no german electors with a king, sirs, of our own. crying, o! i am ormond, you know. o i wronged not my country as scottish peers do, nor my soldiers defrauded, of that which is their due. all such deeds i do abhor, by the powers that are above, i've bequeath'd all my fortune to the country i love. crying, o! i am ormond, you know. no. sir john barleycorn c.j.s. [music] there came three men from out the west their victory to try; and they have ta'en a solemn oath, poor barleycorn should die. with a ri-fol-lol-riddle-diddle-dol ri fol, ri fol dee. they took a plough and ploughed him in, clods harrowed on his head; and then they took a solemn oath john barleycorn was dead. with a ri-fol &c. there he lay sleeping in the ground till rain did on him fall; then barleycorn sprung up his head, and so amazed them all. with a ri-fol &c. there he remained till midsummer and look'd both pale and wan; then barleycorn he got a beard and so became a man. with a ri-fol &c. then they sent men with scythes so sharp to cut him off at knee; and then poor johnny barleycorn they served most barbarouslie. with a ri-fol &c. then they sent men with pitch forks strong to pierce him through the heart; and like a doleful tragedy they bound him in a cart. with a ri-fol &c. and then they brought him to a barn a prisoner to endure; and so they fetched him out again, and laid him on the floor. with a ri-fol &c. then they set men with holly clubs, to beat the flesh from th' bones; but the miller served him worse than that he ground him 'twixt two stones. with a ri-fol &c. o! barleycorn is the choicest grain that 'ere was sown on land it will do more than any grain, by the turning of your hand. with a ri-fol &c. it will make a boy into a man, a man into an ass; to silver it will change your gold, your silver into brass. with a ri-fol &c. it will make the huntsman hunt the fox, that never wound a horn; it will bring the tinker to the stocks that people may him scorn. with a ri-fol &c. o! barleycorn is th' choicest grain, that e'er was sown on land. and it will cause a man to drink till he neither can go nor stand. with a ri-fol &c. no. sweet nightingale c.j.s. [music] my sweet-heart, come along. don't you hear the fond song the sweet notes of the nightingale flow? don't you hear the fond tale, of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in the valleys below? pretty betty, don't fail, for i'll carry your pail safe home to your cot as we go; you shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in the valleys below. pray let me alone, i have hands of my own, along with you sir, i'll not go, to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in the valleys below. pray sit yourself down with me on the ground, on this bank where the primroses grow, you shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale, as she sings in the valleys below. the couple agreed, and were married with speed, and soon to the church they did go; no more is she afraid for to walk in the shade, nor sit in those valleys below. no. widdecombe fair c.j.s. [music] "tom pearce, tom pearce, lend me your grey mare, all along, down along, out along, lee. for i want for to go to widdecombe fair, wi' bill brewer, jan stewer, peter gurney, peter davy, dan'l whiddon, harry hawk, old uncle tom cobbley and all," _chorus_: old uncle tom cobbley and all. "and when shall i see again my grey mare?" all along, &c. "by friday soon, or saturday noon, wi' bill brewer, jan stewer, &c." then friday came, and saturday noon, all along, &c. but tom pearce's old mare hath not trotted home, wi' bill brewer, &c. so tom pearce he got up to the top o' the hill all along, &c. and he seed his old mare down a making her will wi' bill brewer, &c. so tom pearce's old mare, her took sick and died. all along, &c. and tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried wi' bill brewer, &c. but this isn't the end o' this shocking affair, all along, &c. nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career of bill brewer, &c. when the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night all along, &c. tom pearce's old mare doth appear, gashly white, wi' bill brewer, &c. and all the long night be heard skirling and groans, all along, &c. from tom pearce's old mare in her rattling bones, and from bill brewer, jan stewer, peter gurney, peter davy, dan'l whiddon, harry hawk, old uncle tom cobbley and all. _chorus_: old uncle tom cobbley and all. no. ye maidens pretty c.j.s. [music] ye maidens pretty in town and city, i pray you pity my mournful strain. a maiden weeping, her night-watch keeping, in grief unsleeping makes her complain: in tower i languish in cold and sadness, heart full of anguish, eye full of tear. whilst glades are ringing with maidens singing, sweet roses bringing to crown the year. thro' hills and vallies thro' shaded alleys, and pleached palis-- ading of grove; among fair bowers, midst fragrant flowers, pass sunny hours, and sing of love. in tower i languish, &c. my cruel father gave straitest order, by watch and warder, i barr'd should be. all in my chamber, high out of danger, from eye of ranger, in misery. in tower i languish, &c. enclosed in mortar, by wall and water, a luckless daughter all white and wan; till day is breaking my bed forsaking, i all night waking sing like the swan. in tower i languish, in cold and sadness, heart full of anguish, eye full of tear, whilst glades are ringing with maidens singing sweet roses bringing, to crown the year. no. the silly old man h.f.s. [music] aw! come now, i'll sing you a song, 'tis a song of right merry intent, concerning a silly old man, who went for to pay his rent, singing, too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo. and as this here silly old man, was riding along the lane, a gentleman thief overtook him, saying "well over-taken old man." "what! well over-taken, do'y say?" "yes, well over-taken," quoth he. "no, no," said the silly old man. "i don't want thy company. "i am only a silly old man, i farm but a parcel of ground. and i am going to the landlord to pay, my rent which is just forty pound." "but supposing a highway-man stopped you? for the rascals are many, men say, and take all the money from off you as you ride on the king's highway?" "what! supposing some fellow should stop me? why badly the thief would be sped. for the money i carry about me in the quilt o' my saddle is hid." and as they were riding along, along and along the green lane, the gentleman thief rode afore him and summoned the old man to stand. but the old man was crafty and cunning, as, i wot, in the world there be many, pitched his saddle clean over the hedge, saying, "fetch'n if thou would'st have any," singing, too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo. then the thief being thirsty for gold, and eager to get at his bags, he dra'ed out his rusty old sword, and chopped up the saddle to rags. the old man slipped off his old mare, and mounted the thief's horse astride, clapp'd spur, and put him in a gallop, saying "i, without teaching, can ride." when he to his landlord's had come, that old man was almost a-spent, says he, "landlord, provide me a room. i be come for to pay up my rent." he opened the thief, his portmantle and there was a sight to behold, there were five hundred pounds in silver, and five hundred pounds in gold. and as he was on his way home, and riding along the same lane, he seed--his silly old mare, tied up to the hedge by the mane. he loosed his old mare from the hedge, as she of the grass there did crib, he gi'ed her a whack o' the broad o' the back, saying "follow me home, old tib." aw! when to his home he were come his daughter he dress'd like a duchess, and his ol' woman kicked and she capered for joy, and at christmas danced jigs on her crutches. singing, too-ra-la-loo-ra-loo. no. the months of the year c.j.s. [music] first comes january when the sun lies very low; i see in the farmer's yard the cattle feed on stro'; the weather being so cold while the snow lies on the ground, there will be another change of moon before the year comes round. next is february, so early in the spring; the farmer ploughs the fallows the rooks their nests begin. the little lambs appearing now frisk in pretty play. i think upon the increase, and thank my god, to-day. march it is the next month, so cold and hard and drear. prepare we now for harvest, by brewing of strong beer. god grant that we who labour, may see the reaping come, and drink and dance and welcome the happy harvest home. next of months is april, when early in the morn the cheery farmer soweth to right and left the corn. the gallant team come after, a-smoothing of the land. may heaven the farmer prosper whate'er he takes in hand. in may i go a walking to hear the linnets sing. the blackbird and the throstle a-praising god the king. it cheers the heart to hear them to see the leaves unfold, the meadows scattered over with buttercups of gold. full early in the morning awakes the summer sun, the month of june arriving, the cold and night are done, the cuckoo is a fine bird she whistles as she flies, and as she whistles, cuckoo, the bluer grow the skies. six months i now have named, the seventh is july. come lads and lasses gather the scented hay to dry, all full of mirth and gladness to turn it in the sun, and never cease till daylight sets and all the work is done. august brings the harvest, the reapers now advance, against their shining sickles the field stands little chance. well done! exclaims the farmer. this day is all men's friend. we'll drink and feast in plenty when we the harvest end. by middle of september, the rake is laid aside. the horses wear the breeching rich dressing to provide, all things to do in season, me-thinks is just and right. now summer season's over the frosts begin at night. october leads in winter. the leaves begin to fall. the trees will soon be naked no flowers left at all. the frosts will bite them sharply the elm alone is green. in orchard piles of apples red for cyder press are seen. the eleventh month, november, the nights are cold and long, by day we're felling timber, and spend the night in song. in cozy chimney corner we take our toast and ale, and kiss and tease the maidens, or tell a merry tale. then comes dark december, the last of months in turn. with holly, box, and laurel, we house and church adorn. so now, to end my story, i wish you all good cheer. a merry, happy christmas, a prosperous new year. no. the chimney sweep c.j.s. [music] oh! sweep chimney, sweep! you maidens shake off sleep if you my cry can follow. i climb the chimney top, without ladder without rope; aye and there! aye and there! aye and there you shall hear me halloo! arise! maids, arise! unseal and rub your eyes. arise and do your duty. i summon yet again and do not me disdain, that my call--that my call--that my calling's poor and sooty. behold! here i stand! with brush and scrape in hand. as a soldier that stands on his sentry. i work for the better sort, and well they pay me for't. o i work, o i work, o i work for the best of gentry. oh! sweep chimney, sweep! the hours onward creep. as the lark i am alert, i clear away, and take the smut that others make. o i clean, o i clean, o i clean what others dirty. no. the saucy sailor (for two voices) c.j.s. [music] _he_: "come my fairest, come my dearest love with me. come and you shall wed a sailor from the sea." _she_: faith i want none of your sailors, i must say. so begone you saucy creature. so begone from me, i pray. "you are ragged, you are dirty, smell of tar. get you gone to foreign countries, hence afar." _he_: "if i'm ragged, if i'm dirty, of tar i smell, yet there's silver in my pockets, and of gold, a store as well." _she_: "now i see the shining silver, see the gold; down i kneel, and very humbly hands will fold; saying o forgive the folly from me fell, tarry, dirty, ragged sailors, i love more than words can tell." _he_: "do not think, you changeful maiden, i am mad. that i'll take you, when there's others to be had. not the outside coat and waistcoat make the man. you have lost the chance that offered. maidens snap--when e'er you can." no. blue muslin (for two voices) h.f.s. [music] "o will you accept of the mus-e-lin so blue, to wear all in the morning, and to dabble in the dew?" "no, i will not accept of the mus-e-lin so blue, to wear all in the morning, and to dabble in the dew, nor i'll walk, nor i'll talk with you." "o will you accept of the pretty silver pin, to pin your golden hair with the fine mus-e-lin?" "no, i will not accept of the pretty silver pin, to pin my golden hair with the fine mus-e-lin. nor i'll walk, nor i'll talk with you." "o will you accept of a pair of shoes of cork, the one is made in london, the other's made in york?" "no, i will not accept of a pair of shoes of cork, the one that's made in london, the other's made in york, nor i'll walk, nor i'll talk with you." "o will you accept of the keys of canterbury, that all the bells of england may ring, and make us merry?" "no, i will not accept of the keys of canterbury, that all the bells of england may ring, and make us merry, nor i'll walk, nor i'll talk with you." "o will you accept of a kiss from loving heart; that we may join together and never more may part?" "yes, i will accept of a kiss from loving heart, that we may join together and never more may part, and i'll walk, and i'll talk with you." "when you might you would not; now you will you shall not, so fare you well, my dark eyed sue." the song then turns back in reverse order, with the "shoes of cork" the "silver pin" and the "blue muslin," always with to each "when you could you would not," &c. no. the death of parker c.j.s. [music] ye powers above protect the widow, and with pity look on me! o help me, help me out of trouble and out of my calamity. for by the death of my brave parker fortune to me has prov'd unkind. tho' doomed by law his death to suffer, i can not cast him from my mind. o parker was the truest husband, best of friends, whom i love dear. yet when he was a-called to suffer, to him i might not then draw near. again i ask'd, again i pleaded, three times entreating, all in vain, they ever that request refused me, and ordered me ashore again. the yellow flag i saw was flying, a signal for my love to die, the gun was fir'd, as was requir'd to hang him on the yardarm high. the boatswain did his best endeavour, i on the shore was put straightway, there i tarried, watching, weeping, my husband's corpse to bear away. then farewell parker best belov-ed that was once the navy's pride. and since we might not die together, we separate henceforth abide. his sorrows now are past and over, now he resteth free from pain. grant o god his soul may enter, where one day we may meet again. no. the hal-an-tow or helston furry dance arranged by j. matthews. [music] robin hood and little john they both are gone to the fair, o! and we will to the merry green-wood, to see what they do there o! and for to chase, o, to chase the buck and doe! with hal-an-tow, jolly rumble, o, to chase the buck and doe! chorus. and we were up as soon as the day, for to fetch the summer home, o! the summer, and the may, now the winter is a gone, o! where are those spaniards, that make so great a boast, o! why, they shall eat the grey goose feathers, and we will eat the roast, o! in every land, o, the land where'er we go, with hal-an-tow, jolly rumble o, the land where'er we go. chorus. and we were up, &c. as for that good knight, s. george, s. george he was a knight, o! of all the knights in christendom! s. george he is the right, o! in every land, o! the land where'er we go, with hal-an-tow, jolly rumble, o, the land where'er we go. chorus. and we were up, &c. god bless aunt mary moses[ ] and all her power and might, o! and send us peace in merry england, send peace by day and night, o! to merry england, o! both now and ever mo' with hal-an-tow, jolly rumble, o, both now and ever mo! chorus. and we were up, &c. [footnote : "aunt" and "uncle" are titles of reverence given in cornwall quite irrespective of relationship.] no. blow away ye morning breezes c.j.s. [music] blow away, ye morning breezes, blow, ye winds, heigh-ho! blow away the morning kisses, blow, blow, blow. "o thou shalt rue the very hour, that e'er thou knew'st the man, for i will bake the wheaten flour, and thou shalt bake the bran." chorus. blow away, ye morning breezes, &c. "o thou shalt sorrow thro' thy soul thou stood'st to him so near. for thou shalt drink the puddle foul, and i the crystal clear." chorus. blow away ye morning breezes, &c. "o thou shalt rue that e'er thou wo'ld behold a love of mine. for thou shalt sup the water cold, but i will sup red wine." chorus. blow away ye morning breezes, &c. "thou shalt lament in grief and doubt, thou spake'st with him at all, for thou shalt wear the sorry clout, and i the purple pall." chorus. blow away ye morning breezes, &c. "o thou shalt curse thy day of birth, and curse thy dam and sire, for i shall warm me at the hearth, and thou shalt feed the fire." chorus. blow away ye morning breezes, &c. note. in the original of the above ballad each verse is repeated with the variation of "i shall not," for "i shall" &c. thus after the first verse comes, i shall _not_ rue the very hour that e'er i knew the man but _i_ will bake the wheaten flour and _thou_ shalt bake the bran. it seems unnecessary to print these repetitions. no. the hearty good fellow c.j.s. [music] i saddled my horse, and away i did ride till i came to an ale-house hard by the road-side, i call'd for a pot of ale frothing and brown, and close by the fireside i sat myself down, singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee! and i in my pocket had one penny. i saw there two gentlemen playing at dice, they took me to be some nobleman nice. with my swagger, and rapier, and countenance bold, they thought that my pockets were well lined with gold, singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee! and i in my pocket had one penny. "a hearty good fellow," they said, "loveth play." "that lies with the stakes, pretty sirs, that you lay." then one said "a guinea," but i said "five pound," the bet it was taken--no money laid down, singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee! and i in my pocket had one penny. i took up the dice, and i threw them the main, it was my good fortune, that evening, to gain; if they had a won, sirs, there'd been a loud curse, when i threw in naught save a moneyless purse. singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee! and i in my pocket had one penny. was ever a mortal a quarter as glad, with the little of money at first that i had! a hearty good fellow, as most men opine i am; so my neighbours pray pour out the wine, singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee! and i in my pocket had five pounds, free. i tarried all night, and i parted next day, thinks i to myself, i'll be jogging away! i asked of the landlady what was my bill, "o naught save a kiss of your lips, if you will." singing, whack, fal-de-dee, whack, fal-de-dee! and i in my pocket had five pounds, free. no. the bonny bunch of roses h.f.s. [music] beside the rolling ocean one morning in the month of june, the feathered warbling songsters were sweetly changing note and tune. i overheard a damsel fair complain in words of bitter woe, with tear on cheek, she thus did speak, o for the bonny bunch of roses, o! then up and spake her lover and grasped the maiden by the hand, have patience, fairest, patience! a legion i will soon command. i'll raise ten thousand soldiers brave thro' pain and peril i will go a branch will break, for thy sweet sake, a branch of the bonny bunch of roses, o! then sadly said his mother, as tough as truest heart of oak, that stem that bears the roses, and is not easy bent or broke thy father he essayed it first and now in france his head lies low; for sharpest thorn, is ever borne o by the bonny bunch of roses, o! he raised a mighty army and many nobles joined his throng with pipe and banner flying to pluck the rose, he march'd along: the stem he found was far too tough and piercing sharp, the thorn, i trow. no blossom he rent from the tree all of the bonny bunch of roses, o! o mother, dearest mother! i lie upon my dying bed, and like my gallant father must hide an uncrowned, humbled head. let none henceforth essay to touch that rose so red, or full of woe, with bleeding hand he'll fly the land the land of the bonny bunch of roses, o! no. the last of the singers c.j.s. [music] i reckon the days is departed, when folks 'ud a listened to me, and i feels like as one broken-hearted, a-thinking o' what used to be. and i don't know as much be amended, than was in them merry old times, when, wi' pipes and good ale, folks attended, to me and my purty old rhymes, chorus: to me and my purty old rhymes. 'tis true, i be cruel asthmatic i've lost every tooth i' my head; and my limbs be that crim'd wi' rheumatic d'rsay i were better in bed. oh my! all the world be for reading newspapers, and books and what not; sure--'tis only conceitedness breeding, and the old singing man is forgot. chorus: and the old singing man is forgot. i reckon that wi' my brown fiddle i'd go from this cottage to that; all the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle, their pulses and feet, pit-a-pat. i cu'd zing, if you'd stand me the liquor, all the night, and 'ud never give o'er my voice--i don't deny it getting thicker, but never exhausting my store. chorus: but never exhausting my store. 'tis politics now is the fashion as sets folks about by the ear. and slops makes the poorest of lushing, no zinging for me wi'out beer. i reckon the days be departed for such jolly gaffers as i, folks never will be so light-hearted as they was in the days that's gone by. chorus: as they was in the days that's gone by. o lor! what wi' their edication, and me--neither cypher nor write; but in zinging the best in the nation and give the whole parish delight. i be going, i reckon, full mellow to lay in the churchyard my head; so say--god be wi' you, old fellow! the last o' the zingers is dead. chorus: the last o' the zingers is dead. no. the tythe pig c.j.s. [music] all you that love a bit of fun, come listen here awhile, i'll tell you of a droll affair, will cause you all to smile. the parson dress'd, all in his best, cock'd hat and bushy wig, he went into a farmer's house, to choose a sucking pig. good morning, said the parson; good morning, sir, to you! i'm come to take a sucking pig, a pig that is my due. then went the farmer to the stye, amongst the piglings small, he chose the very wee-est pig, the wee-est of them all; but when the parson saw the choice, how he did stamp and roar! he snorted loud, he shook his wig, he almost-cursed and swore. good morning &c. o then out spake the farmer, since my offer you refuse pray step into the stye yourself, that you may pick and choose. so to the stye the priest did hie, and there without ado, the old sow ran with open mouth, and grunting at him flew. good morning &c. she caught him by the breeches black, that loudly he did cry o help me! help me from the sow! or surely i shall die. the little pigs his waistcoat tore, his stockings and his shoes, the farmer said, with bow and smile, you're welcome, sir, to choose. good morning &c. away the parson scamper'd home, as fast as he could run, his wife was standing at the door, expecting his return, but when she saw him in such plight she fainted clean away, alas! alas! the parson said, i bitter rue this day. good morning &c. go fetch me down a suit of clothes, a sponge and soap, i pray, and bring me, too, my greasy wig, and rub me down with hay. another time, i won't be nice, when a gathering my dues; another time in sucking pigs, i will not pick and choose. good morning, said the parson, good morning, sirs, to you, i will not pick a sucking pig--i leave the choice to you. no. old wichet c.j.s. [music] i went into my stable to see what i might see, and there i saw three horses stand, by one, by two, by three. i call'd unto my loving wife, and "coming sir!" said she, "o what do these three horses here without the leave of me?" "why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see, that these are three milking cows my mother sent to me?" "hey boys! fill the cup! milking cows with saddles up, the like was never known, the like was never known." old wichet went a noodle out, a noodle he came home. i went into the kitchen, to see what i might see, and there i saw three swords hung up, by one, by two, by three. i call'd unto my loving wife, and "coming sir!" said she, "o what do these three swords hang here without the leave of me?" "why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see, that these are three toasting forks, my mother sent to me?" "hey boys! well done! toasting forks with scabbards on! the like," &c. i went into the pantry, to see what i might see, and there i saw three pair of boots, by one, by two, by three. i called unto my loving wife, and "coming sir!" said she, "o what do these three pair of boots without the leave of me?" "why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see, that these are three pudding bags, my mother sent to me?" "hey boys! well done! pudding bags with steel spurs on, the like," &c. i went into the dairy, to see what i might see, and there i saw three beavers, by one, by two, by three. i call'd unto my kind wife, and "coming sir!" said she, "o what do these three beavers here without the leave of me?" "why, old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see, that these are three milking pails, my mother sent to me?" "hey boys! well done! milking pails with ribbons on, the like," &c. i went into the chamber, to see what i might see, and there i saw three men in bed, by one, by two, by three. i called unto my kind wife, and "coming sir!" said she, "o why sleep here three gentlemen without the leave of me?" "why old fool, blind fool! can't you very well see, that these are three milking maids, my mother sent to me?" "hey boys! well done! milking maids with beards on, the like," &c. i went about the chamber, as quick as quick might be, i kicked the three men down the stairs, by one, by two, by three. "without your hats and boots be off, your horses leave and flee, your purses 'neath your pillows left; they too belong to me. why old wife, blind wife! can't you very well see, that these are three highwaymen from justice hid by thee?" "hey boys! purses left! knaves they be, and away are flown. the like was never known, the like was never known." old wichet went a noodle out, a wise man he came home. no. jan's courtship c.j.s. [music] come hither, son jan! since thou art a man, i'll gi'e the best counsel in life, come, sit down by me, and my story shall be, i'll tell how to get thee a wife. iss, i will! man, i will! zure i will! i'll tell how to get thee a wife! iss, i will! thy self thou must dress in thy sunday-go-best; they'll at first turn away and be shy. but boldly, kiss each purty maid that thou see'st, they'll call thee their love, by-and-bye. iss, they will! man, they will! zure they will! they'll call thee their love by-and-bye! iss, they will! so a courting jan goes in his holiday clothes, all trim, nothing ragged and torn, from his hat to his hose; with a sweet yellow rose, he looked like a gentleman born. iss, he did! man he did! zure he did! he looked like a gentleman born! iss he did! the first pretty lass that jan did see pass, a farmer's fat daughter called grace. he'd scarce said 'how do?' and a kind word or two, her fetched him a slap in the face. iss, her did! man, her did! zure her did! her fetched him a slap in the face! iss, her did! as jan, never fearing o' nothing at all was walking adown by the locks, he kiss'd the parson's wife, which stirred up a strife and jan was put into the stocks. iss, he was! man, he was! zure he was! and jan was put into the stocks! iss, he was! 'if this be the way, how to get me a wife,' quoth jan, 'i will never have none. i'd rather live single the whole of my life and home to my mammy i'll run. iss, i will! man, i will zure i will! and home to my mammy i'll run! iss, i will.' no. the drowned lover h.f.s. [music] as i was a-walking down by the sea-shore, where the winds whistled high, and the waters did roar, where the winds whistled high, and the waves raged around, i heard a fair maid make a pitiful sound, crying, o! my love is drowned! my love must i deplore! and i never, o! never shall see my love more! i never a nobler, a truer did see a lion in courage, but gentle to me, an eye like an eagle, a heart like a dove, and the song that he sang me was ever of love. now i cry, o! my love is drowned! my love must i deplore! and i never, o! never shall see my love more! he is sunk in the waters, there lies he asleep, i will plunge there as well, i will kiss his cold feet, i will kiss the white lips, once coral-like red, and die at his side, for my true love is dead. now i cry, o! my love is drowned. my love must i deplore and i never, o! never shall see my love more! no. childe the hunter c.j.s. [music] come, listen all, both great and small to you a tale i'll tell, what on this bleak and barren moor, in ancient days befell. it so befell, as i've heard tell, there came the hunter childe, all day he chased on heath and waste, on dart-a-moor so wild. the winds did blow, then fell the snow, he chased on fox-tor mire; he lost his way, and saw the day, and winter's sun expire. cold blew the blast, the snow fell fast, and darker grew the night; he wandered high, he wandered low, and nowhere saw a light. in darkness blind, he could not find where he escape might gain, long time he tried, no track espied, his labours all in vain. his knife he drew, his horse he slew, as on the ground it lay; he cut full deep, therein to creep, and tarry till the day. the winds did blow, fast fell the snow, and darker grew the night, then well he wot, he hope might not again to see the light. so with his finger dipp'd in blood, he scrabbled on the stones,-- "this is my will, god it fulfil, and buried be my bones. "whoe'er he be that findeth me and brings me to a grave, the lands that now to me belong, in plymstock he shall have." there was a cross erected then, in memory of his name; and there it stands, in wild waste lands, to testify the same. no. the cottage thatched with straw f.w.b. [music] in the days of yore, there sat at his door, an old farmer and thus sang he, 'with my pipe and my glass, i wish every class on the earth were as well as me!' for he en-vi-ed not any man his lot, the richest, the proudest, he saw, for he had home-brew'd--brown bread, and a cottage well thatch'd with straw, a cottage well thatch'd with straw, and a cottage well thatch'd with straw; for he had home-brew'd, brown bread, and a cottage well thatch'd with straw. 'my dear old dad this snug cottage had, and he got it, i'll tell you how. he won it, i wot, with the best coin got, with the sweat of an honest brow. then says my old dad, be careful lad to keep out of the lawyer's claw. so you'll have home-brew'd--brown bread, and a cottage well thatch'd with straw. a cottage well thatch'd with straw, &c. 'the ragged, the torn, from my door i don't turn, but i give them a crust of brown; and a drop of good ale, my lad, without fail, for to wash the brown crust down. tho' rich i may be, it may chance to me, that misfortune should spoil my store, so--i'd lack home-brew'd--brown bread, and a cottage well thatch'd with straw, a cottage well thatch'd with straw, &c. 'then in frost and snow to the church i go, no matter the weather how. and the service and prayer that i put up there, is to him who speeds the plough. sunday saints, i' feck, who cheat all the week, with a ranting and a canting jaw, not for them is my home-brew'd--brown bread, and my cottage well thatch'd with straw. my cottage well thatch'd with straw my cottage well thatch'd with straw. not for them is my home-brew'd--brown bread, and my cottage well thatch'd with straw.' no. cicely sweet c.j.s. [music] _he:_ cicely sweet, the morn is fair, wilt thou drive me to despair? oft have i sued in vain and now i'm come again, wilt thou be mine, or yes or no? wilt thou be mine, or no? _she:_ prithee, simon quit thy suit, all thy pains will yield no fruit; go booby, get a sack, to stop thy ceaseless clack. go for a booby, go, go, go! go for a booby, go! _he:_ cicely sweet, if thou'lt love me, mother'll do a deal for thee. her'd rather sell her cow, than i should die for thou. wilt thou be mine, or yes or no? wilt thou be mine, or no? _she:_ mother thine had best by half, keep her cow and sell her calf; no, never for a crown; will i marry with a clown; go for a booby, go, go, go! go for a booby, go! _he:_ cicely sweet, you do me wrong, my legs be straight, my arms be strong i'll carry thee about, thou'lt go no more afoot, wilt thou be mine or yes, or no? wilt thou be mine, or no? _she_: keep thy arms to fight in fray, keep thy legs to run away; ne'er will i--as i'm a lass, care to ride upon an ass. go for a booby, go, go, go! go for a booby, go! no. a sweet pretty maiden sat under a tree h.f.s. [music] a sweet pretty maiden sat under a tree, she sighed and said, 'oh! that i married might be, my daddy is so crabbed and my mammy is so cross, that a husband for certain could never be worse.' young johnny he heard what the damsel did say. he came to her side, and said smiling, 'today i have a little cottage and i have a little horse i have a pleasant temper that will not grow worse. 'if you will be mine, and to that will agree, we'll travel together in sweet amity. there never will be wrangle, there never can be strife, between a good husband and his pretty wife.' the maiden replied, 'i am not very sure, that fond matrimony my trouble will cure, from daddy and from mammy i quickly run away and go into service for a year and a day. 'the ring that you hold is a link in a chain, will fetter my freedom, my tongue will restrain i cannot run away, and i never shall be free, so take your kind offer to others than me.' no. the white cockade c.j.s. [music] alas! my love's enlisted, he wears a white cockade, he is as gay a gallant, as any roving blade. he's gone the king a serving, the white cockade to wear, whilst my poor heart is breaking, for the love to him i bear. "leave off your grief and sorrow, and quit this doleful strain, the white cockade adorns me whilst marching o'er the plain. when i return i'll marry, by this cockade i swear. your heart from grief must rally, and my departure bear." "fair maid, i bring bad tidings." so did the sergeant say; "your love was slain in battle, he sends you this to-day, the white cockade he flourished now dabbled in his gore. with his last kiss he sends it, the white cockade he wore." she spoke no word--her tears, they fell a salten flood; and from the draggled ribbons washed out the stains of blood. "o mother i am dying! and when in grave i'm laid, upon my bosom, mother! then pin the white cockade." no. the sailor's farewell c.j.s. [music] farewell! farewell, my polly dear! a thousand times adieu! 'tis sad to part; but never fear, your sailor will be true. and must i go, and leave you so-- while thund'ring billows roar? i am afraid, my own sweet maid, your face i'll see no more. the weavers and the tailors are snoring fast asleep, while we poor 'jolly sailors' are tossing on the deep: are tossing on the deep, dear girl, in tempest rage and foam; when seas run high, and dark the sky, we think on those at home. when jack's ashore, safe home once more, we lead a merry life; with pipe and glass, and buxom lass, a sweetheart or a wife; we call for liquor merrily, we spend our money free, and when our money's spent and gone, again we go to sea. you'll not know where i am, dear girl, but when i'm on the sea, my secret thoughts i will unfurl in letters home to thee. the secrets, aye! of heart, i say, and best of my good will. my body may lay just where it may my heart is with you still. no. a maiden sat a weeping c.j.s. [music] a maiden sat a-weeping down by the sea shore, what ails my pretty mistress? what ails my pretty mistress? and makes her heart sore! because i am a-weary, a-weary in mind, no comfort, and no pleasure, love, no comfort, and no pleasure, love, henceforth can i find. i'll spread my sail of silver, i'll loose my rope of silk, my mast is of the cypress-tree, my mast is of the cypress-tree, my track is as milk. i'll spread my sail of silver i'll steer toward the sun and thou, false love wilt weep for me, and thou, false love wilt weep for me, for me--when i am gone. no. the blue kerchief f.w.b. [music] i saw a sweet maiden trip over the lea, her eyes were as loadstones attracting of me. her cheeks were the roses, that cupid lurks in, with a bonny blue kerchief tied under her chin. o where are you going, my fair pretty maid? o whither so swift through the dew drops? i said, i go to my mother, kind sir, for to spin. o the bonny blue kerchief tied under her chin. [ ] why wear you that kerchief tied over your head? 'tis the country girls' fashion, kind sir, then she said. and the fashion young maidens will always be in so i wear a blue kerchief tied under my chin. to kiss her sweet lips then i sought to begin, o nay sir! she said, 'ere a kiss you would win, pray show me a ring, tho' of gold the most thin. o slyest blue kerchief tied under the chin! why wear a _blue_ kerchief, sweet maiden, i said, because the blue colour is one not to fade, as a sailor's blue jacket who fights for the king, so's my bonny blue kerchief tied under the chin. the love that i value is certain to last, not fading and changing, but ever set fast, that only the colour, my love sir to win, so goodbye from the kerchief tied under the chin. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. come to my window c.j.s. [music] come to my window, my love, o my love, come to my window, my dear. for my mammy is asleep, and my daddy snoreth deep, then come, e'er the day-light appear. come to my window, my love, o my love, come to my window, i pray. o the hours so quickly pass, and the dew falls on the grass. dear love come, e'er dawneth the day. come to my window, my love, o my love, come or my heart strings will break. for the night is speeding by, soon will morning streak the sky, and my dad and my mam will awake. come to my window, my love, o my love, come e'er the stars cease to shine. for my heart is full of fears, and my voice is chok'd with tears, i am thine, o thou know'st i am thine. no. tommy a' lynn c.j.s. [music] tommy a' lynn was a dutchman born, his head was bald and his chin was shorn; he wore a cap made of rabbit's skin with the skin side out and the wool within. all to my tooth and my link-a-lum-lee tommy a ranter and a rover, tommy a bone of my stover, brew, screw, rivet the tin, o a rare old man was tommy a' lynn. tommy a' lynn had no boots to put on, but two calves hides with the hair all gone. they were split at the side and the water ran in, i must wear wet feet, said tommy a' lynn. all to my tooth, &c. tommy a' lynn has a hunting gone. a saddle of urchin's skins he put on. the urchin's prickles were sharp as a pin, i've got a sore seat, said tommy a' lynn. all to my tooth, &c. tommy a' lynn has a hunting gone. a bridle of mouse tails has he put on. the bridle broke and the horse ran away, i'm not well bridled, said tommy, to-day. all to my tooth, &c.[ ] tom a' lynn's daughter, she sat on the stair, o father i fancy i'm wondrous fair! the stairs they broke, and the maid fell in, you're fair enough now, said tommy a' lynn. all to my tooth, &c. tommy a' lynn, his wife and her mother they all fell into the fire together. ow yow! said the upper-most, i've a hot skin, it's hotter below! said tommy a' lynn. all to my tooth, &c. [footnote : there is another verse, but it would make the song over long to sing it. tommy a' lynn had no watch to put on, so he scooped out a turnip to make himself one; he caught a cricket, and put it within. it's a rare old ticker, said tommy a' lynn.] no. the green bushes h.f.s. [music] as i was a walking one morning in may, to hear the birds whistle, see lambkins at play, i spied a fair damsel, o sweetly sang she-- 'down by the green bushes he thinks to meet me.' 'o where are you going, my sweet pretty maid?' 'my lover i'm seeking, kind sir', she said. 'shall i be your lover, and will you agree, to forsake the old love, and forgather with me? 'i'll buy you fine beavers, a gay silken gown, with furbelowed petticoats flounced to the ground, if you'll leave your old love, and following me, forsake the green bushes, where he waits for thee?' 'quick, let us be moving, from under the trees, quick, let us be moving, kind sir, if you please; for yonder my true love is coming, i see, down by the green bushes he thinks to meet me.' the old love arrived, the maiden was gone he sighed very deeply, he sighed all alone, 'she is on with another, before off with me, so, adieu ye green bushes for ever!' said he. 'i'll be as a schoolboy, i'll frolic and play, no false hearted maiden shall trouble my day, untroubled at night, i will slumber and snore, so, adieu, ye green bushes! i'll fool it no more.' no. the broken token c.j.s. [music] one summer evening, a maiden fair was walking forth in the balmy air, she met a sailor upon the way; 'maiden stay' he whispered, 'maiden stay' he whispered 'o pretty maiden, stay!' 'why art thou walking abroad alone? the stars are shining, the day is done,' o then her tears they began to flow; for a dark eyed sailor, for a dark eyed sailor had filled her heart with woe. 'three years are pass'd since he left this land, a ring of gold he took off my hand, he broke the token, a half to keep, half he bade me treasure, half he bade me treasure, then crossed the briny deep.' 'o drive him damsel from out your mind, for men are changeful as is the wind, and love, inconstant will quickly grow cold as winter morning cold as winter morning when lands are white with snow.' 'above the snow is the holly seen, in bitter blast it abideth green, and blood-red drops it as berries bears so my aching bosom, so my aching bosom, its truth and sorrow wears.' then half the ring did the sailor show, away with weeping and sorrow now! 'in bands of marriage united we like the broken token like the broken token in one shall welded be.' no. the mole-catcher. c.j.s. [music] a mole-catcher am i, and that is my trade, i potters about wi' my spunt and my spade, on a moon-shiny night, o! 'tis my delight, a-catching o' moles. the traps that i set for the mole in his run, there's never a night, sirs, but i catches one. on a moon-shiny night, o! 'tis my delight, a-catching o' moles. along of the lanes as by night-time i go, there's things that i see, as the folks don't know, on a moon-shiny night, &c. there's frolic and lark in the field and the park, for others than moles will be out in the dark, on a moon-shiny night, &c. the maiden by day that's too modest to speak is gadding abroad, by the night all the week, on a moon-shiny night, &c. the 'prentice who should be a lying in bed is rambling over the meadows instead, on a moon-shiny night, &c. [ ] i light on the poacher wi' sniggle and snare, but that i'll not peach he is surely aware, on a moon-shiny night, &c. the doctor and lawyer as drunk as a dog, are wallowing into a ditch or a bog, on a moon-shiny night, &c. there's many a sight; and there's many a sound wot maketh me laugh as i'm making my round, on a moon-shiny night, &c. but nothing i sez for i'm mum as a bell, you certainly know that no tales will i tell, on a moon-shiny night, o! 'tis my delight, a-catching o' moles not human souls. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the keenly lode c.j.s. [music] old uncle pengerric a captain was, a dowser shrewd was he; who feathered his nest from the keenly lode that ruined you and me. the captain was traversing brandy moor, with hazel twig in hand, the hazel twisted and turned about and brought him to a stand. chorus. oh! the keenly lode, the keenly lode of bâlls the best, my boys; old uncle pengerric very well know'd how to feather his nest, my boys. old uncle pengerric so big did brag of ore in brandy bâll, "come fork out your money my christian friends, your fortunes treble all." now uncle was reckoned a preacher stout, a burning and shining light. the people all said, "what he has in head will surely turn out right." chorus. oh! the keenly lode, &c. the company floated, the shares up paid, the gold came flowing in. he set up a whim, and began to sink for the keenly lode of tin. he had not burrowed but five foot six 'ere he came to a buried hoss. said uncle pengerric, "no fault of mine, tho't turn out some one's loss." chorus. oh! the keenly lode, &c. the shaft descended, but ne'er a grain of ore was brought to ground. and presently uncle pengerric too, was not in cornwall found. but wherever he goes, and whenever he talks, he says:--"the rod told true, it brought to me luck, but it turn'd and struck at nought but an old horse-shoe." chorus. oh! the keenly lode, &c. note: a keenly lode is a lode that promises well. a bâll is the cornish for a mine. no. may-day carol c.j.s. [music] awake, ye pretty maids, awake, refreshed from drowsy dream, and haste to dairy house, and take for us a dish of cream. if not a dish of yellow cream, then give us kisses three; the woodland bower is white with flower, and green is every tree. a branch of may we bear about before the door it stands; there's not a sprout unbudded out, the work of god's own hands. awake, awake ye pretty maids, and take the may-bush in, or 'twill be gone ere tomorrow morn, and you'll have none within. throughout the night, before the light, there fell the dew or rain, it twinkles bright on may bush white, it sparkles on the plain. the heavenly gates are open wide to let escape the dew, and heavenly grace falls on each place it drops on us and you. the life of man is but a span, he blossoms as a flower, he makes no stay, is here to-day, and vanish'd in an hour.[ ] my song is done, i must be gone, nor make a longer stay. god bless you all, both great and small, and send you gladsome may. [footnote : verses & , and there have been others of like moralising nature, were added when the character of the may-day visit was altered from one of lovers to their sweet-hearts into one of children seeking may-gifts. then the 'kisses three' were changed to 'pennies one or three.'] no. the lover's tasks c.j.s. [music] _he:_ o buy me, my lady, a cambric shirt whilst every grove rings with a merry antine (_antienne anthem_) and stitch it without any needle work and thou shalt be a true lover of mine. o thou must wash it in yonder well, whilst every grove &c. where never a drop of water in fell, and thou shalt &c. and thou must bleach it on yonder grass, whilst every grove &c. where never a foot or hoof did pass. and thou shalt &c. and thou must hang it upon a white thorn, whilst every grove &c. that never blossom'd since adam was born and thou shalt &c. and when these works are finished and done whilst every grove &c. i'll take and marry thee under the sun. and thou shalt &c. [ ] _she:_ thou must buy for me an acre of land, whilst every grove &c. between the salt sea and the yellow sand and thou shalt &c. thou must plough it o'er with a horses horn whilst every grove &c. and sow it over with a pepper corn, and thou shalt &c. thou must reap it, too, with a piece of leather, whilst every grove &c. and bind it up with a peacock's feather, and thou shalt &c. thou must take it up in a bottomless sack, whilst every grove &c. and bear it to the mill on a butterfly's back. and thou shalt &c. and when these works are finished and done whilst every grove &c. i'll take and marry thee under the sun. and thou shalt &c. [footnote : all the second part may be omitted.] no. lullaby h.f.s. [music] sleep, baby sleep! dad is not nigh, tossed on the deep, lul-lul-a-by! moon shining bright, dropping of dew. owls hoot all night to-whit! to-whoo! sleep, baby sleep! dad is away, tossed on the deep, looking for day. in the hedge row glow-worms alight, rivulets flow, all through the night. sleep, baby sleep! dad is afar, tossed on the deep, watching a star. clock going--tick, tack--in the dark. on the hearth-brick, dies the last spark. sleep, baby sleep! what! not a wink! dad on the deep, what will he think? baby dear, soon daddy will come, bringing red shoon for baby at home. no. the gipsy countess part i. c.j.s. [music] there came an earl a riding by, a gipsy maid espyed he; "o nut-brown maid, from green-wood glade, o prithee come along with me." "in green-wood glade, fair sir!" she said, "i am so blythe, as bird so gay. in thy castle tall, in bower and hall, i fear for grief i'd pine away." "thou shalt no more be set in stocks, and tramp about from town to town, but thou shalt ride in pomp and pride in velvet red and broidered gown." "my brothers three no more i'd see, if that i went with thee, i trow. they sing me to sleep, with songs so sweet, they sing as on our way we go." "thou shalt not be torn by thistle and thorn, with thy bare feet all in the dew. but shoes shall wear of spanish leather and silken stockings all of blue." "i will not go to thy castle high, for thou wilt weary soon, i know, of the gipsy maid, from green-wood glade, and drive her forth in rain and snow." "all night you lie neath the starry sky in rain and snow you trudge all day, but thy brown head, in a feather bed, when left the gipsies, thou shalt lay." "i love to lie 'neath the starry sky, i do not heed the snow and rain, but fickle as wind, i fear to find the man who now my heart would gain." "i will thee wed, sweet maid," he said, "i will thee wed with a golden ring, thy days shall be spent in merriment; for us the marriage bells shall swing." the dog did howl, and screech'd the owl, the raven croaked, the night-wind sighed; the wedding bell from the steeple fell, as home the earl did bear his bride. no. the gipsy countess part ii. c.j.s. [music] three gipsies stood at the castle gate, they sang so high, they sang so low, the lady sate in her chamber late, her heart it melted away as snow, away as snow, her heart it melted away as snow. they sang so sweet; they sang so shrill, that fast her tears began to flow. and she laid down her silken gown, her golden rings, and all her show, all her show &c. [ ] she plucked off her high-heeled shoes, a-made of spanish leather, o. she would in the street; with her bare, bare feet; all out in the wind and weather, o. weather, o! &c. she took in hand but a one posie, the wildest flowers that do grow. and down the stair went the lady fair, to go away with the gipsies, o! the gipsies, o! &c. at past midnight her lord came home, and where his lady was would know; the servants replied on every side, she's gone away with the gipsies, o! the gipsies, o! &c. [ ] then he rode high, and he rode low, and over hill and vale, i trow, until he espied his fair young bride, who'd gone away with the gipsies, o! the gipsies, o! &c. [ ] o will you leave your house and lands, your golden treasures for to go, away from your lord that weareth a sword, to follow along with the gipsies, o! the gipsies, o! &c. o i will leave my house and lands, my golden treasures for to go, i love not my lord that weareth a sword, i'll follow along with the gipsies, o! the gipsies, o! &c. 'nay, thou shalt not!' then he drew, i wot, the sword that hung at his saddle bow, and once he smote on her lily-white throat, and there her red blood down did flow down did flow, &c. then dipp'd in blood was the posie good, that was of the wildest flowers that blow. she sank on her side, and so she died, for she would away with the gipsies, o! the gipsies, o! for she would away with the gipsies o! [footnote : in singing, these may be omitted.] [footnote : in singing, these may be omitted.] [footnote : in singing, these may be omitted.] no. the grey mare c.j.s. [music] young roger, the miller, went courting of late a farmer's sweet daughter called beautiful kate; now kitty was buxom, and bonny and fair, had plenty of humour, of frolic a share, and her father possessed an uncommon grey mare, a grey mare, a grey mare, an uncommon grey mare. so roger he dressed himself up as a beau, he comb'd down his locks, and in collars of snow, he went to the farmer, and said, "how d'y do? i love pretty kitty, to her i'll prove true; will you give me the grey mare and katherine too, the grey mare, the grey mare &c. "she's a very nice maiden, a-courting i'm come. lawks! how i would like the grey mare to ride home! i love your sweet daughter so much i declare, i'm ready my mill--and my stable--to share, with kitty the charming, and with the grey mare, the grey mare, the grey mare &c." "you're welcome to her, to her hand and her heart, but from the grey mare, man, i never will part." so said the old farmer,--then roger, "i swear, it is up with my courting, for kate i don't care, unless i be given as well the grey mare. the grey mare, the grey mare &c." the years had pass'd swiftly, when withered and grey, old roger, the miller, met katherine one day, said he, "i remember you, buxom and fair, as roses your cheeks and as broom was your hair and i came a courting!--ah, kate! the grey mare, the grey mare, the grey mare &c." "i remember your coming to court the grey mare very well, mr. roger, when golden my hair, and cheeks were as roses that bloom on the wall. but, lawks! mr. roger,--i can not recall that e'er you came sweet-hearting _me_, man, at all, but the mare, the grey mare that uncommon grey mare." no. the wreck off scilly h.f.s. [music] come all you brisk young sailors bold that plough the raging main, a tragedy i will unfold in story sad and plain. from my true love 'twas pressed was i the gallant ship to steer to indies west,--each heart beat high with confidence and cheer. a year was gone, and home at last, we turn'd with swelling sail, when--'ere the scilly over-passed there broke on us a gale. the boatswain up aloft did go. he went aloft so high. more angry did the ocean grow, more menacing the sky. to make the stripe in vain we tried the scilly rocks to clear, the thunder of the furious tide was filling every ear. there came a sharp and sudden shock,-- each thought of wife and home! the gallant ship was on a rock, and swept with wave and foam. of eighty seamen 'prised the crew, but one did reach the shore, the gallant vessel, good and true, was shattered aft and fore. the news to plymouth swift did fly, that our good ship was gone; and wet with tears was many an eye, and many a widow lone. and when i came to plymouth sound alive, of eighty dead, my pretty love, then false i found and to a landsman wed. o gentles all that live on land be-think the boys at sea, lo! here i stand with cap in hand, and crave your charity. no. henry martyn c.j.s. [music] in merry scotland, in merry scotland, there lived brothers three, they all did cast lots which of them should go, a robbing upon the salt sea. the lot it fell upon henry martyn, the youngest of the three, that he should go rob on the salt, salt sea, to maintain his brothers and he. he had not a sailed a long winter's night, nor yet a short winter's day, before he espied the king's gallant ship, come sailing along that way. how far, how far, cried henry martyn, how far are you going? said he for i am a robber upon the salt seas, to maintain my brothers and me. stand off, stand off! the captain he cried, the lifeguards they are aboard. my cannons are loaden with powder and shot; and every man hath a sword. for three long hours they merrily fought, for hours they fought full three. and many a blow it dealt many a wound, as they fought on the salt, salt sea. twas broadside against a broadside then, and at it, the which should win, a shot in the gallant ship bored a hole, and then did the water rush in. bad news! bad news, for old england bad news has come to the town, the king his vessel is wrecked and lost, an all his brave soldiers drown. bad news! bad news through the london street! bad news has come to the king, the lives of his guard they be all a lost, o the tidings be sad that i bring. o had i a twisted rope of hemp, a bowstring strong though thin; i'd soon hang him up to his middle yard arm, and have done with henry martyn. no. plymouth sound h.f.s. [music] o the fair town of plymouth is by the sea-side, the sound is so blue, and so still and so wide, encircled with hills and with forests all green, as a crown of fresh leaves on the head of a queen, o dear plymouth town, and o blue plymouth sound! o where is your equal on earth to be found. o the maidens of plymouth are comely and sweet, so mirthful of eye and so nimble of feet, i love all the lasses of plymouth so well, that the which i love best not a prophet can tell. o dear plymouth town, &c. o the bells of old plymouth float over the bay, my heart it does melt, as i'm sailing away. o be they a ringing when i do return, with thoughts matrimonial my bosom will burn. o dear plymouth town, &c. for the maidens of plymouth my love is so hot, with a bushel of rings i would marry the lot. but as i can't marry them all, well-a-day! perhaps it's as well that i'm sailing away. o dear plymouth town, &c. no. the fox c.j.s. [music] the fox went out one winter night, and prayed the moon to give him light, for he'd many a mile to go that night, before he reached his den, o! den, o! den, o! for he'd many a mile to go that night, for he'd many a mile to go that night, before he reached his den, o! at last he came to a farmer's yard, where ducks and geese were all afear'd, "the best of you all shall grease my beard, before i leave the town o! town, o! town, o! the best of you all &c." he took the grey goose by the neck, he laid a duck across his back, and heeded not their quack! quack! quack! the legs of all dangling down, o! down, o! down, o! and heeded not &c. then old mother slipper slopper jump'd out of bed and out of the window she pop't her head, crying "oh! john, john! the grey goose is dead, and the fox is over the down, o!" down, o! down, o! crying "o john, john &c." then john got up to the top o' the hill, and blew his horn both loud and shrill, "blow on" said reynard, "your music still, whilst i trot home to my den, o!" den, o! den, o! "blow on" said reynard &c. at last he came to his cosy den, where sat his young ones, nine or ten. quoth they, "daddy, you must go there again, for sure, 'tis a lucky town, o!" town, o! town, o! quoth they, "daddy, &c." the fox and wife without any strife, they cut up the goose without fork or knife, and said 'twas the best they had eat in their life, and the young ones pick'd the bones, o! bones, o! bones, o! and said 'twas the best, &c. no. furze bloom h.f.s. [music] there's not a cloud a sailing by, that does not hold a shower; there's not a furze-bush on the moor, that doth not put forth flower. about the roots we need not delve, the branches need not prune, the yellow furze will ever flower, and ever love's in tune! when the furze is out of flower, then love is out of tune. there's not a season of the year, nor weather hot nor cold, in windy spring, in watery fall, but furze is clad in gold. it blossoms in the falling snow, it blazes bright in june, and love, like it, is always here, and ever opportune. when the furze is out of flower, then love is out of tune. [ ] there's not a saucy lad i wot, with light and roguish eye, that doth not love a pretty lass, and kiss her on the sly, there's not a maiden in the shire from hartland point to brent, in velvet, or in cotton gown, that will his love resent. when the furze is out of flower, then love is out of tune. beside the fire with toasted crabs, we sit and love is there, in merry spring, with apple flowers, it flutters in the air. at harvest when we toss the sheaves, then love with them is toss't. at fall when nipp'd and sere the leaves, unnipp't is love by frost. when the furze is out of flower, then love is out of tune. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the oxen ploughing h.f.s. [music] prithee lend your jocund voices, for to listen we're agreed: come sing of songs the choicest, of the life the ploughboys lead. there are none that live so merry as the ploughboy does in spring when he hears the sweet birds whistle and the nightingales to sing. with my hump-a-long! jump-a-long! here drives my lad along! pretty, sparkle, berry good-luck, speedwell, cherry! we are the lads that can follow the plough. for it's, o my little ploughboy come awaken in the morn, when the cock upon the dunghill is a-blowing of his horn. soon the sun above brown willy,[ ] with his golden face will show; therefore hasten to the linney yoke the oxen to the plough. with my hump-a-long! &c. in the heat of the daytime it's but little we can do. we will lie beside our oxen for an hour, or for two. on the banks of sweet violets, i'll take my noontide rest, and it's i can kiss a pretty girl as hearty as the best. with my hump a long! &c. when the sun at eve is setting and the shadows fill the vale, then our throttles we'll be wetting, with the farmer's humming ale. and the oxen home returning we will send into the stall. where the logs and turf are burning, we'll be merry ploughboys all. with my hump a long! &c. o the farmer must have seed, sirs, or i swear he cannot sow. and the miller with his mill wheel is an idle man also. and the huntsman gives up hunting, and the tradesman stands aside, and the poor man bread is wanting, so 'tis we for all provide. with my hump a long! &c. [footnote : or any other suitable hill.] no. flora, the lily of the west c.j.s. [music: in d minor] 'twas when i came to england, some pleasures for to find, there i espied a damsel most pleasing to my mind; her rosy cheeks and shining eyes as arrows pierced my breast, her name was lovely flora, the lily of the west. her golden hair in ringlets hung, her dress was spangled o'er; she'd rings on every finger, brought from a foreign shore; 'twould ruin kings and princes, so richly was she dress'd, she far excelleth venus, this lily of the west. i courted her a fortnight, in hopes her love to gain, but soon she turn'd against me, which caused all my pain. she robb'd me of my freedom, she robb'd me of my rest, i roam, forsook of flora, the lily of the west. alas! where'er i wander, however much i will, the thought of that fair maiden abideth with me still; for ever i am downcast, for ever sore oppress'd, an outcast e'er from flora, the lily of the west. no. flora, the lily of the west c.j.s. [music: in g major] 'twas when i came to england, some pleasure for to find, there i espied a damsel most pleasing to my mind; her rosy cheeks and shining eyes as arrows pierced my breast, her name was lovely flora, the lily of the west. her golden hair in ringlets hung, her dress was spangled o'er; she'd rings on every finger, brought from a foreign shore; 'twould ruin kings and princes, so richly was she dress'd, she far excelleth venus, this lily of the west. i courted her a fortnight, in hopes her love to gain, but soon she turn'd against me, which caused all my pain. she robb'd me of my freedom, she robb'd me of my rest, i roam, forsook of flora, the lily of the west. alas! where'er i wander, however much i will the thought of that fair maiden abideth with me still; for ever i am downcast, for ever am oppress'd, an outcast e'er from flora, the lily of the west. no. the simple ploughboy c.j.s. [music] o the ploughboy was a ploughing with his horses on the plain, and was singing of a song as on went he. "since that i have fall'n in love, if the parents disapprove, 'tis the first thing that will send me to the sea." when the parents came to know that their daughter loved him so, then they sent a gang, and pressed him for the sea. and they made of him a tar, to be slain in cruel war; of the simple ploughboy singing on the lea. the maiden sore did grieve, and without a word of leave, from her father's house she fled secretlie, in male attire dress'd, with a star upon her breast, all to seek her simple ploughboy on the sea. then she went o'er hill and plain, and she walked in wind and rain, till she came to the brink of the blue sea. saying, "i am forced to rove, for the loss of my true love, who is but a simple ploughboy from the lea." [ ] now the first she did behold, o it was a sailor bold, "have you seen my simple ploughboy?" then said she. "they have press'd him to the fleet, sent him tossing on the deep, who is but a simple ploughboy from the lea." then she went to the captain, and to him she made complain, "o a silly ploughboy's run away from me!" then the captain smiled and said, "why sir! surely you're a maid! so the ploughboy i will render up to thee." then she pullèd out a store, of five hundred crowns and more, and she strewed them on the deck, did she, then she took him by the hand, and she rowed him to the land, where she wed the simple ploughboy back from sea. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. fair lady, pity me c.j.s. [music] dear love, regard my grief, do not my suit disdain; o yield me some relief, that am with sorrows slain. pity my grievous pain long suffer'd for thy sake, do not my suit disdain no time i rest can take. these seven long years and more still have i loved thee; do thou my joys restore fair lady, pity me. while that i live i love so fancy urgeth me; my mind can not remove such is my constancy. my mind is nobly bent tho' i'm of low degree; sweet lady, give consent to love and pity me. these seven long years and more still have i loved thee; do thou my joys restore fair lady, pity me. no. the painful plough h.f.s. [music] o adam was a ploughboy, when ploughing first begun, the next that did succeed him was cain, his eldest son; some of the generation the calling still pursue, that bread may not be wanting, they labour at the plough. samson was the strongest man, and solomon was wise, and alexander conquering, he made the world his prize, king david was a valiant man, and many thousands slew, yet none of all these heroes bold could live without the plough. behold the wealthy merchant, that trades on foreign seas, and brings home gold and treasure, for such as live at ease, with spices and with cinnamon, and oranges also, they're brought us from the indies, by virtue of the plough. i hope there's none offended at me for singing this, for never i intended to sing you ought amiss. and if you well consider, you'll find the saying true, that all mankind dependeth upon the painful plough. no. at the setting of the sun c.j.s. [music] come all you young fellows that carry a gun, beware of late shooting when daylight is done; for 'tis little you reckon what hazards you run, i shot my true love at the setting of the sun in a shower of rain as my darling did hie all under the bushes to keep herself dry, with her head in her apron i thought her a swan, and i shot my true love at the setting of the sun. i'll fly from my country, i nowhere find rest i've shot my true love, like a bird in her nest. like lead on my heart lies the deed i have done, i shot my true love at the setting of the sun. in a shower, etc. in the night the fair maid as a white swan appears, she says, o my true love, quick dry up your tears, i freely forgive you, i have paradise won, i was shot by my love at the setting of the sun. in a shower, etc. o the years as they pass leave me lonely and sad, i can ne'er love another, and naught makes me glad. i wait and expect till life's little span done i meet my true love at the rising of the sun in a shower, etc. no. jolly fellows that follow the plough c.j.s. [music] 'twas early one morning at breaking of day, the cocks were a crowing, the farmer did say, come, arise, my good fellows, arise with good will, for your horses want something their bellies to fill. with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. we jump'd out of bed and slipp'd into our clothes, away to the stable each merrily goes. when six o'clock cometh, to breakfast we go, to good bread and cheese and the best of stingo. with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. when seven o'clock soundeth to work we do go, we hitch up our horses and halloo wee woo! at eight o' clock, lads, we are merry and bold, to see of us which the best furrow can hold. with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. the farmer came to us, and thus did he say, "what have you been doing lads, all the long day? you've not ploughed your acre, i swear and i vow, you are all lazy fellows that follow the plough." with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. the carter turns round with a twinkling eye, "we have all ploughed our acre, i tell you no lie, we have all ploughed our acre, i swear and i vow, so we're the right fellows that follow the plough." with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. the farmer he laughed for he lovèd a joke "it is past two o'clock, boys, 'tis time to unyoke. unharness your horses and rub them down well, and so i will give you a jug of brown ale." with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. so, all my fine fellows, wherever you be, come take my advice and be rulèd by me. draw your furrows aright; plough your acre and know that such are the fellows to follow the plough. with rubbing and scrubbing, i swear and i vow, that we're all jolly fellows that follow the plough. no. the golden vanity c.j.s. [music] a ship i have got in the north country and she goes by the name of the golden vanity, o i fear she'll be taken by a spanish ga-la-lie, as she sails by the low-lands low. to the captain then upspake the little cabin-boy, he said, what is my fee, if the galley i destroy? the spanish ga-la-lie, if no more it shall annoy, as you sail by the low-lands low. of silver and gold i will give to you a store; and my pretty little daughter that dwelleth on the shore, of treasure and of fee as well, i'll give to thee galore, as we sail by the low-lands low. then the boy bared his breast, and straightway leaped in, and he held all in his hand, an augur sharp and thin, and he swam until he came to the spanish galleon, as she lay by the low-lands low. he bored with the augur, he bored once and twice, and some were playing cards, and some were playing dice, when the water flowed in it dazzled their eyes, and she sank by the low-lands low. [ ] so the cabin-boy did swim all to the larboard side, saying captain! take me in, i am drifting with the tide! i will shoot you! i will kill you! the cruel captain cried, you may sink by the low-lands low. then the cabin-boy did swim all to the starboard side saying, messmates take me in, i am drifting with the tide! then they laid him on the deck, and he closed his eyes and died, as they sailed by the low-lands low. [ ] they sewed his body up, all in an old cow's hide, and they cast the gallant cabin-boy, over the ship's side, and left him without more ado adrifting with the tide, and to sink by the low-lands low. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the bold dragoon h.f.s. [music] a bold dragoon from out of the north, to a lady's house came riding; with clank of steel, and spur at his heel, his consequence noways hiding. "bring forth good cheer, tap claret and beer, for here i think of abiding, abiding, abiding. "the chamber best with arras be dress'd i intend to be comfortable. such troopers as we always make ourselves free, heigh!--lead my horse to the stable! give him corn and hay, but for me tockay, we'll eat and drink whilst able, able, aye! able. "the daintiest meat upon silver plate, and wine that sparkles and fizzes. wax candles light, make the chamber bright, and--as soldiers love sweet misses, my moustache i curl with an extra twirl, the better to give you kisses, kisses, aye! kisses." "there's cake and wine," said the lady fine, "there's oats for the horse, and litter. there's silver plate, there are servants to wait, and drinks, sweet, sparkling, bitter. tho, bacon and pease, aye! and mouldy cheese, for such as you were fitter, fitter aye! fitter. "your distance keep, i esteem you cheap tho' your wishes i've granted, partly. but no kisses for me from a chimpanzee," the lady responded tartly. "why! a rude dragoon is a mere baboon." and she boxed his ears full smartly, smartly, aye! smartly. no. trinity sunday h.f.s. [music] when bites the frost and winds are a blowing, i do not heed, i do not care; if johnny's by me, what if it be snowing. 'tis summer time with me all the year. the icicles they may hang on the fountain, and frozen over the farm yard pool. the bleak wind whistle across the mountain, no wintry blast our love can cool. o what to me the wind and the weather? o what to me the wind and the rain? my johnny loves me, and being together, why let it bluster--it blows in vain. i never tire, i never am weary, i drudge and think it is only play; as johnny loves me, and i am his deary, why--all the year it is holiday. i shall be wed upon trinity sunday, and then adieu to my holiday. come frost and frown the following monday. why then beginneth my workaday. if drudge and smudge begins on the monday, if scold and grumble--i do not care, my winter follow trinity sunday. i can't have summertime all the year. no. the blue flame c.j.s. [music] all under the stars, and beneath the green tree, all over the sward, and along the cold lea, a little blue flame a fluttering came, it came from the churchyard for you or for me. i sit by the cradle, my baby's asleep, and rocking the cradle, i wonder and weep. o little blue light, in the dead of the night, o prithee, o prithee no nearer to creep. why follow the church path, why steal you this way? why halt in your journey, on threshold why stay? with flicker and flare, why dance up my stair! o i would, o i would, it were dawning of day. all under the stars, and along the green lane, unslaked by the dew, and unquenched by the rain, of little flames blue to the churchyard steal two, the soul of my baby! now from me is ta'en. no. strawberry fair h.f.s. [music] as i was going to strawberry fair, singing, singing, butter-cups and daisies i met a maiden taking her ware, fol-de-dee! her eyes were blue and golden her hair, as she went on to strawberry fair, ri-fol, ri-fol, tol-de-riddle-li-do, ri-fol, ri-fol, tol-de-riddle-dee. "kind sir, pray pick of my basket!" she said, singing, &c. "my cherries ripe, or my roses red, fol-de-dee! my strawberries sweet, i can of them spare, as i go on to strawberry fair." ri-fol &c. your cherries soon will be wasted away, singing, &c. your roses wither and never stay, tol-de-dee! 'tis not to seek such perishing ware, that i am tramping to strawberry fair. ri-fol &c. i want to purchase a generous heart, singing, &c. a tongue that neither is nimble nor tart. tol-de-dee! an honest mind, but such trifles are rare i doubt if they're found at strawberry fair. ri-fol &c. the price i offer, my sweet pretty maid singing, &c. a ring of gold on your finger displayed, tol-de-dee! so come make over to me your ware, in church today at strawberry fair. ri-fol &c. no. the country farmer's son h.f.s. [music] i would not be a monarch great; with crown upon my head, and earls to wait upon my state, in broidered robes of red. for he must bear full many a care, his toil is never done, 'tis better i trow behind the plough, a country farmer's son. [ ] i would not be the pope of rome, and sit in peter's chair; with priests to bow and kiss my toe, no wife my throne to share. and never know what 'tis to go, with beagles for a run; 'tis better for me at liberty a country farmer's son. i would not be a merchant rich, and eat off silver plate. and ever dread, when laid abed some freakish turn of fate. one day on high, then ruin nigh, now wealthy, now undone, 'tis better for me at ease to be a country farmer's son. i trudge about the farm, all day, to know that all things thrive. a maid i see that pleaseth me, why then i'm fain to wive. not over rich, i do not itch, for wealth, but what is won, by honest toil, from out the soil, a country farmer's son. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the hostess' daughter h.f.s. [music] the hostess of the ring of bells a daughter hath with auburn hair; go where i will, o'er plain and hill, i do not find a maid more fair; she welcomes me with dimpled smiles, and e'en a kiss will not deny o! would for us the bells did ring! and we were wed--that maid and i! but as i travelled down the road, there went by me a packer-train; 'twas roger rawle, and sandy paul, and hunchback joe, and philip mayne. says roger, i have had a kiss, from that sly maiden at the bell, and i, said joe, and paul said so, and so did philip mayne as well. till weather-beaten as the sign that doth before the tavern swing, that maid will stay, and none essay, to make her his with bell and ring. methinks i'll take another road, where hap some modest maiden dwells, no saucy miss, with ready kiss, and then for us shall ring the bells. no. the jolly goss-hawk h.f.s. [music] i sat on a bank in trifle and play, with my jolly goss-hawk, and her wings were grey; she flew to my breast, and she there built her nest, i am sure pretty bird you with me will stay. she builded within, and she builded without, my jolly goss-hawk, and her wings were grey; she fluttered her wings, and she jingled her rings, so merry was she, and so fond of play. i got me a bell, to tie to her foot, my jolly goss-hawk, and her wings were grey; she mounted in flight, and she flew out of sight, my bell and my rings she carried away. i ran up the street, with nimblest feet, my jolly goss-hawk, and her wings were grey; i whooped and hallo'd, but never she shewed, and i lost my pretty goss-hawk that day. in a meadow so green, the hedges between, my jolly goss-hawk, and her wings were grey; upon a man's hand, she perch'd did stand, in sport, and trifle, and full array. who's got her may keep her as best he can, my jolly goss-hawk, and her wings were grey; to every man she is frolic and free, i'll cast her off if she come my way. no. the song of the moor c.j.s. [music] 'tis merry in the spring-time 'tis blithe upon the moor, where every man is equal, for every man is poor. i do what i've a mind to, and none can say me nay, i go where i'm inclin'd to, on all sides right of way. o the merry dartamoor! o the merry moor! i would not be where i'm not free, as i am upon the moor. 'tis merry in the summer, when furze is out and sweet, the bees about it humming, in honey bathe their feet. the plover and the peewit how cheerily they pipe, and underfoot the whortle is waxing blue and ripe. o the merry &c. 'tis merry in the fall-time when snipe and cock appear, and never see a keeper to say, no shooting here! the turf we stock for fuel and ask no better fire, and never pay a farthing, for all that we require. o the merry &c. 'tis merry in the winter the wind is on the moor, for twenty miles to leeward the people hear the roar. 'tis merry in the ingle beside a moorland lass, when watching turves a-glowing, the brimming bumpers pass. o the merry &c. no. on a may morning so early c.j.s. [music] as i walked out one may morning, one may morning so early; i there espied a fair pretty maid, all on the dew so pearly. o! 'twas sweet, sweet spring, merry birds did sing, all in the morning early. stay, fair one, stay! thus did i say, on a may morning so early; my tale of love, your heart will move, all on the dew so pearly. o! 'tis sweet, sweet spring, merry birds do sing, all in the morning early. no tales for me, kind sir, said she on a may morning so early; my swain is true, i don't want two all on the dew so pearly. o! 'twas sweet, sweet spring, merry birds did sing, all in the morning early. with lightsome tread, away she sped, this may morning so early; to meet her lad, and left me sad, all on the dew so pearly. o! 'twas sweet, sweet spring, merry birds did sing, all in the morning early. no. the spotted cow h.f.s. [music] one morning so gay, in the glad month of may, when i from my cottage strayed; as broke the ray of awakening day, i met a pretty maid. a neat little lass on the twinkling grass, to see, my foot i stayed. "my fair pretty maid, why wander?" i said, "so early, tell me now?" the maid replied, "pretty sir!" and sighed, "i've lost my spotted cow. she's stolen," she said, many tears she shed, "or lost, i can't tell how." "no further complain in dolorous strain, i've tidings will you cheer. i know she's strayed, in yonder green glade, come, love! i'll shew you where. so dry up your tears and banish fears, and bid begone despair." "i truly confess in my bitter distress, you are most good," said she. "with help so kind, i am certain to find my cow, so i'll with thee. four eyes, it is true, are better than two, and friend, four eyes have we." through meadow and grove, we together did rove, we crossed the flow'ry dale, both morn and noon, we strayed till the moon above our heads did sail. the old spotted cow, clean forgotten was now, for love was all our tale. now never a day, do i go my way, to handle flail or plough. she comes again, and whispers, "sweet swain, i've lost my spotted cow." i pretend not to hear, she shouts, "my dear, i've lost my spotted cow." no. three jovial welshmen c.j.s. [music] there were three jovial welshmen they would go hunt the fox. they swore they saw old reynard run over yonder rocks; with a whoop, whoop, whoop and a hel-lo, and a blast of my bugle horn; with my twank, twank, twank and my twank-i-diddle o, and thro' the woods we'll ride, brave boys, and thro' the woods we'll ride. with my bugle, bugle, bugle, and a blast of my bugle horn; with my fal-lal-lal and my fal-de-riddle o, and thro' the woods we'll ride, brave boys, and thro' the woods we'll ride. the first they espied was a woman, a combing up her locks. she swore she saw old reynard among the geese and ducks. with a &c. the second he was a parson, and he was dressed in black, he swore he saw old reynard hang on a huntsman's back. with a &c. the third he was a miller was grinding at his mill, he swore he saw old reynard run over yonder hill. with a &c. the fourth he was a blind man, as blind as blind could be, he swore he saw old reynard run up a hollow tree. with a &c. there never was a reynard run out that day at all, 'twas naught but one grey pussy sat purring on a wall. with a &c. o what a world of liars this is, as well appears. henceforth i'll trust my own eyes, and none but mine own ears. with a &c. no. well met! well met c.j.s. [music] well met, well met, my own true love! long time am i seeking of thee. i am lately come from the salt, salt wave, and all for the sake, sweet love, of thee. i might have had a king's daughter, she fain would have married me, but i did not hold for her crown of gold, and all for the sake, sweet love, of thee. i have seven ships that sail on the sea, it was one brought me to the land; i have mariners many to wait on thee to be all, sweet love, at thy command. a pair of slippers, love, thou shalt have, they are made of the beaten gold, they are lined within with a coney's skin, to keep thy feet, sweet love, from cold. a gilded boat thou too shalt have, and the oars be gilded also, and the mariners they shall pipe and sing as through the salt waves, sweet love, we go. a way of gold lies over the sea where the sun doth set in the west. and along that way thou shalt sail with me, to the land of lands, sweet love, that's best. no. poor old horse c.j.s. [music] o once i lay in stable, a hunter, well and warm, i had the best of shelter, from cold and rain and harm; but now in open meadow, a hedge i'm glad to find, to shield my sides from tempest, from driving sleet and wind. poor old horse, let him die! my shoulders once were sturdy, were glossy, smooth and round, but now, alas! they're rotten, i'm not accounted sound. as i have grown so aged, my teeth gone to decay, my master frowns upon me; i often hear him say, poor old horse, let him die! [ ] a groom upon me waited, on straw i snugly lay, when fields were full of flowers, the air was sweet with hay; but now there's no good feeding prepared for me at all, i'm forced to munch the nettles upon the kennel wall. poor old horse, let him die! my shoes and skin, the huntsman, that covets them shall have, my flesh and bones the hounds, sir! i very freely give, i've followed them full often, aye! many a score of miles, o'er hedges, walls and ditches, nor blinked at gates and stiles. poor old horse, let him die! ye gentlemen of england, ye sportsmen good and bold, all you that love a hunter, remember him when old, o put him in your stable, and make the old boy warm, and visit him and pat him, and keep him out of harm, poor old horse, till he die! [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the dilly song c.j.s. [music] come, and i will sing you. what will you sing me? i will sing you one, o! what is your one, o? one of them is all alone, and ever will remain so. come, and i will sing you. what will you sing me? i will sing you two, o! what is your two, o? two of them are lily-white babes, and dress'd all in green, o. come, &c. i will sing you three, o! what is your three, o? three of them are strangers, o'er the wide world they are rangers. come, &c. i will sing you four, o! what is your four, o? four it is the dilly hour, when blooms the gilly flower. come, &c. i will sing you five, o! what is your five, o? five it is the dilly bird, that's never seen, but heard, o! come, &c. i will sing you six, o! what is your six, o? six the ferryman in the boat, that doth on the river float, o! come, &c. i will sing you seven, o! what is your seven, o? seven it is the crown of heaven, the shining stars be seven, o! come, &c. i will sing you eight, o! what is your eight, o? eight it is the morning break, when all the world's awake, o! come, &c. i will sing you nine, o! what is your nine, o? nine it is the pale moonshine, the pale moonlight is nine, o! come, &c. i will sing you ten, o! what is your ten, o? ten forbids all kind of sin, from ten again begin, o! no. a country dance c.j.s. [music] when lambkins skip, and apples are growing, grass is green, and roses ablow, when pigeons coo, and cattle are lowing, mist lies white in valleys below, why should we be all the day toiling? lads and lasses, along with me! done with drudgery, dust and moiling haste away to the green-wood tree. the cows are milked, the team's in the stable, work is over, and play begun, ye farmer lads all lusty and able, ere the moon rises, we'll have our fun, why should we, &c. [ ] the glow-worm lights, as day is afailing, dew is falling over the field, the meadow-sweet its scent is exhaling, honeysuckles their fragrance yield. why should we, &c. there's jack o'lantern lustily dancing in the marsh with flickering flame, and daddy-long-legs, spinning and prancing, moth and midge are doing the same, why should we, &c. so bet and prue, and dolly and celie, with milking pail 'tis time to have done. and ralph and phil, and robin and willie, the threshing flail must sleep with the sun. why should we, &c. upon the green beginneth our pleasure, whilst we dance we merrily sing. a country dance, a jig, and a measure, hand in hand we go in a ring. why should we, &c. o sweet it is to foot on the clover, ended work and revel begun. aloft the planets never give over, dancing, circling round of the sun. why should we, &c. so ralph and phil, and robin and willie, take your partners each of you now. and bet and prue, and dolly and celie, make a curtsey; lads! make a bow. why should we, &c. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. constant johnny c.j.s. [music] charming molly, i do love thee, there's none other i adore; pierced by your beauteous eyes, my heart transfixed lies, say, dearest molly, you'll be mine for evermore. constant johnny, i reject thee, i thy fruitless suit deplore, your love i do decline, i will be no love of thine no, johnny, constant johnny, ne'er i'll see thee more. canst thou see young johnny bleeding down in cupid's rosy bower, see his transfixed heart, full of grief and full of smart, say, dearest molly, thou'lt be mine for evermore. now the lovers are united, fast in wedlock's chains secure, happy as the livelong day, often she to him doth say, o! johnny, dearest johnny, now we part no more. no. the duke's hunt c.j.s. [music] all in a morning very fair as i rode out to take the air i heard some to halloo clearly. there rode the duke of buckingham, and many a squire and yeoman came, dull sleep they had banished so early. there was dido, spendigo gentry too, and hero, and traveller that never looks behind him countess and towler, bonny-lass and jowler, were some of the hounds that did find him. old jack he courses o'er the plain, unwearied tries it back again, his horse and his hounds fail never. our hearty huntsman he will say, for ever and for e'er a day, hark! forward! gallant hounds together. there was dido, &c. the fox we followed, being young, our sport today is scarce begun, ere out of the cover breaking, away he runs o'er hill and dale, away we followed without fail. hark! forward! sleeping echoes awaking! there was dido, &c. shy reynard being well nigh spent, his way he to the water bent, and speedily crossed the river. to save his life he sought to swim, but dido sharp went after him, heigh! traveller destroyed his life for ever. there was dido, &c. so, whoo-too-hoo! we did proclaim god bless the duke of buckingham, our hounds they have gained great glory. this maketh now the twentieth fox, we've killed in river, dale and rocks, so here's an end to my story. there was dido, &c. no. the bell ringing h.f.s. [music] one day in october, neither drunken nor sober, o'er broadbury down i was wending my way. when i heard of some ringing, some dancing and singing, i ought to remember that jubilee day. _refrain_ 'twas in ashwater town, the bells they did soun' they rang for a belt and a hat laced with gold. but the men of north lew rang so steady and true, that never were better in devon, i hold. 'twas misunderstood, for the men of broadwood, gave a blow on the tenor should never have been. but the men of north lew, rang so faultlessly true, a difficult matter to beat them i ween. 'twas in ashwater town &c. they of broadwood being naughty then said to our party, we'll ring you a challenge again in a round, we'll give you the chance, at st. stephen's or launce- -ston the prize to the winner's a note of five pound. 'twas in callington town the bells next did soun' they rang, &c. when the match it came on, at good callington, the bells they rang out o'er the valleys below. then old and young people, the hale and the feeble, they came out to hear the sweet bell music flow. 'twas at callington town the bells then did soun' they rang, &c. those of broadwood once more, were obliged to give o'er, they were beaten completely and done in a round. for the men of north lew pull so steady and true, that no better then they in the west can be found. 'twas at ashwater town then at callington town they rang, &c. no. a nutting we will go h.f.s. [music] 'tis of a jolly ploughing-man, was ploughing of his land, he called, ho! he called, wo! and bade his horses stand. upon his plough he sat, i trow, and loud began to sing, his voice rang out, so clear and stout, it made the horse bells ring. for a nutting we will go, my boys, a nutting we will go, from hazel bush, loud sings the thrush, a nutting we will go! a maiden sly was passing by with basket on her arm, she stood to hear his singing clear, to listen was no harm. the ploughboy stayed that pretty maid, and clasped her middle small, he kissed her twice, he kissed her thrice ere she could cry or call. for a nutting &c. now all you pretty maidens that go nutting o'er the grass attend my rede, and give good heed, of ploughboys that you pass. when lions roar, on afric's shore, no mortal ventures near, when hoots the owl, and bears do growl, the heart is full of fear. for a nutting &c. and yet, 'tis said, to pretty maid, there is a graver thing, in any clime, at any time,-- a ploughboy that doth sing. so all you maidens, young and fair take lesson from my lay, when you do hear a ploughman sing, then lightly run away. for a nutting &c. no. down by a river side c.j.s. [music] down by a river-side, a fair maid i espied, lamenting for her own true love; lamenting, crying, sighing, dying; dying for her own true love. [music] did you not promise me, that i your wife should be? yet i deserted here must mourn; i who believed, now bereaved, grieved; i who believed, now bereaved, tarry here in tears forlorn. dry up your briny tears, and banish all your fears, for faithful i to you will prove; so now she's singing, clinging, church bells ringing, so now she's singing, church bells ringing, married to her own true love. no. the barley raking c.j.s. [music] 'twas in the prime of summer time, when hay it was a making; and harvest tide was coming on, and barley wanted raking; two woeful lovers met one day, with sighs their sad farewell to say, for john to place must go away, and betty's heart was breaking. lovers oft have proved untrue; 'las! what can poor maidens do? but hardly was her sweet-heart gone, with vows of ne'er forsaking; the foolish wench did so take on, to ease her bosom's aching-- she sent a letter to her love, invoking all the powers above, if he should e'er inconstant prove, to her and the barley raking. lovers oft have proved untrue; 'las! what can poor maidens do? now when this letter reached the youth, it put him in a taking; sure of each other's love and truth, why such a fuss be making? but being a tender hearted swain, from hasty words he did refrain, and wrote to her in gentle strain, to bid her cease from quaking. lovers oft have proved untrue; 'las! what can poor maidens do? "i've got as good a pair of shoes as e'er were made of leather; i'll pull my beaver o'er my nose, and face all wind and weather; and when the year has run its race, i'll seek a new and nearer place; and hope to see your bonnie face at time of the barley raking." lovers oft have proved untrue; 'las! what can poor maidens do? so when the year was past and gone, and hay once more was making; back to his love came faithful john, to find a rude awaking: for betty thought it long to wait, so she had ta'en another mate, and left her first love to his fate, in spite of the barley raking. damsels oft have proved untrue; 'las! what can poor lovers do? no. a ship came sailing h.f.s. [music] a ship came sailing over the sea as deeply laden as she could be; my sorrows fill me to the brim, i care not if i sink or swim. [ ] ten thousand ladies in the room, but my true love's the fairest bloom, of stars she is my brightest sun, i said i would have her or none. i leaned my back against an oak, but first it bent and then it broke, untrusty as i found that tree, so did my love prove false to me. down in a mead the other day, as carelessly i went my way, and plucked flowers red and blue, i little thought what love could do. i saw a rose with ruddy blush, and thrust my hand into the bush, i pricked my fingers to the bone, i would i'd left that rose alone! i wish! i wish! but 'tis in vain, i wish i had my heart again! with silver chain and diamond locks, i'd fasten it in a golden box. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the rambling sailor h.f.s. [music] i toss my cap up into the air, and away whil'st all are sleeping, the host may swear, and the hostess stare, and the pretty maids be weeping: there is never a place that i do grace, which a second time shall see my face; for i travel the world from place to place, and still am a rambling sailor. o when i come to london town, or enter any city, i settle down at the bell or crown, and court each lass that's pretty. and i say, "my dear, be of good cheer, i'll never depart, you need not fear!" but i traveled the country far and near and still am a rambling sailor. and if that you would know my name, i've any that you fancy, 'tis never the same, as i change my flame, from bet, to joan, or nancy. i court maids all, marry none at all, my heart is round, and rolls as a ball, and i travel the land from spring to fall, and still am a rambling sailor. no. willy coombe c.j.s. [music] 'twas in the month of may, when flowers spring, when pretty lambkins play, and thrushes sing. when young men do resort to walk about in sport not thinking any harm, at crantock games. crantock and newlyn men, all in one room, the first mark that was made, it proved my doom. my name is willy coombe, just twenty, in my bloom; just twenty in my bloom when i was shot. 'twas by a musket ball so swift did fly which pierced my body through, so i must die. my brother swift did ride; to truro town he hied. alas! alack-a-day, my cruel lot! the surgeon said 'twas o'er, none could me cure, bleeding all night, great pains i did endure. coroner and jury true my body well did view. and from this wound i die at crantock games. father, your son is dead, your sorrow bear mother, don't break your heart, o mother dear! sister, don't cry nor grieve, it will not you relieve no warning was i giv'n when i was shot. no. midsummer carol c.j.s. [music] 'twas early i walked on a midsummer morning, the fields and the meadows were deckèd and gay, the small birds were singing, the woodlands a-ringing, 'twas early in the morning, at breaking of day, i will play on my pipes, i will sing thee my lay! it is early in the morning, at breaking of day. o hark! and o hark! to the nightingales wooing, the lark is aloft piping shrill in the air. in every green bower the turtle-doves cooing, the sun is just gleaming, arise up my fair! arise, love, arise! none fairer i spie! arise, love, arise! o why should i die? arise, love, arise! go and get your love posies, the fairest of flowers in garden that grows, go gather me lilies, carnations and roses, i'll wear them with thoughts of the maiden i chose. i stand at thy door, pretty love, full of care, o why should i languish so long in despair? [ ] o why love, o why, should i banished be from thee? o why should i see my own chosen no more? o why look your parents so slightingly on me? it is all for the rough ragged garments i wore, but dress me with flowers, i'm gay as a king, i'm glad as a bird, when my carol i sing. arise, love, arise! in song and in story, to rival thy beauty was never a may, i will play thee a tune on my pipes of ivory, it is early in the morning, at breaking of day, i will play on my pipes, i will sing thee my lay! it is early in the morning, at breaking of day. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the blackbird in the bush h.f.s. [music] three fair maidens a milking did go, three maidens a milking did go, and the wind it did blow high, and the wind it did blow low, and it tossed their pails to and fro. then they met with a man they did know, o they met with a man they did know, and they said, have you the skill, and they said, have you the will, for to catch us a small bird or two? here's a health to the blackbird in the bush, likewise to the merry wood-do'e (dove). if you'll go along with me unto yonder flow'ring tree, i will catch you a small bird or two. so they went till they stayèd at a bush, so they went till they stayèd at two. and the birds they flew about, pretty birds flew in and out and he caught them by one and by two. so my boys we will drink down the sun, so my boys we will drink down the moon! for we birds are of one feather, and we surely flock together, let the people say little or none. no. the green bed h.f.s. [music] young sailor dick, as he stepped on shore, to his quarters of old return'd, the hostess glad, cries "dick my lad! what prize money have you earn'd?" "poor luck! poor luck! yet molly, my duck, your daughter i've come to see: get ready some supper, with pipes and grog, and the best green bed for me." "my daughter, she's gone out for a walk; my beds are all bespoken; my larder's bare, like the rum-keg there, and my baccy pipes all are broken." says dick, "i'll steer for another berth, i fear i have made too bold: but i'll pay for the beer that i've just drunk here," and he pulled out a hand-ful of gold. "come down molly, quick! here's your sweetheart dick has just come back from sea: he wants his supper, his grog and a bed, the best green bed it must be." "no bed," cries dick, "no supper, no grog, no sweetheart for me i swear! you shewed me the door when you thought me poor, so i'll carry my gold elsewhere." no. the loyal lover c.j.s. [music] i'll weave my love a garland, it shall be dressed so fine; i'll set it round with roses, with lilies, pinks and thyme. and i'll present it to my love when he comes back from sea, for i love my love, and i love my love, because my love loves me. blow summer breeze, o'er the sea bring my pretty love to me. i wish i were an arrow, that sped into the air; to seek him as a sparrow, and if he was not there, then quickly i'd become a fish to search the raging sea; for i love my love, and i love my love, because my love loves me. blow &c. i would i were a reaper, i'd seek him in the corn; i would i were a keeper, i'd hunt him with my horn. i'd blow a blast, when found at last, beneath the green-wood tree, for i love my love, and i love my love, because my love loves me. blow &c. no. the streams of nantsian c.j.s. [music] o the streams of nant-si-an in two parts divide, where the young men in dancing meet sweetheart and bride. they will take no denial, we must frolic and sing. and the sound of the viol o it makes my heart ring. on the rocky cliff yonder a castle up-stands; to the seamen a wonder above the black sands. 'tis of ivory builded with diamonds glazed bright, and with gold it is gilded, to shine in the night. over yonder high mountain the wild fowl do fly; and in ocean's deep fountain, the fairest pearls lie. on eagle's wings soaring, i'll speed as the wind; ocean's fountain exploring, my true love i'll find. o the streams of nant-si-an divide in two parts, and rejoin as in dancing do lads their sweethearts. so the streams, bright and shining tho' parted in twain, re-unite, intertwining, one thenceforth remain. no. the drunken maidens f.w.b. [music] there were three drunken maidens, came from the isle of wight. they drank from monday morning, nor stayed till saturday night. when saturday night did come, sirs! they would not then go out; not the three drunken maidens, as they pushed the jug about. then came in bouncing sally, with cheeks as red as bloom. "make space, my jolly sisters, now make for sally room. for that i will be your equal, before that i go out." so now four drunken maidens, they pushed the jug about. it was woodcock and pheasant, and partridges and hare, it was all kinds of dainties, no scarcity was there. it was four quarts of malaga, each fairly did drink out, so the four drunken maidens, they pushed the jug about. then down came the landlord, and asked for his pay. o! a forty-pound bill, sirs! the damsels drew that day. it was ten pounds apiece, sirs! but yet, they would not out. so the four drunken maidens, they pushed the jug about. "o where be your spencers? your mantles rich and fine?" "they all be a swallowed in tankards of good wine." "o where be your characters ye maidens brisk and gay?" "o they be a swallowed! we've drunk them clean away." no. tobacco is an indian weed c.j.s. [music] tobacco is an indian weed, grows green at morn, is cut down at eve; it shows our decay; we fade as hay. think on this,--when you smoke tobacco. the pipe that is so lily-white, wherein so many take delight, gone with a touch; man's life is such, think on this,--when you smoke tobacco. the pipe that is so foul within, shews how the soul is stained with sin; it doth require the purging fire. think on this,--when you smoke tobacco. the ashes that are left behind, do serve to put us all in mind, that unto dust, return we must. think on this,--when you smoke tobacco. the smoke that doth so high ascend, shows that our life must have an end; the vapours' gone, man's life is done. think on this,--when you smoke tobacco. no. fair susan c.j.s. [music] fair susan slumbered in shady bower, safe hid, she thought, from every eye; nor dreamed she in that tranquil hour her own true love was passing by. he gazed in rapture upon her beauty, sleep did her charms but more reveal; he deemed it sure a lover's duty from those sweet lips a kiss to steal. in shame and anger poor susan started, with eyes aflame she bade him go; "return no more!--for ever parted; cruel and base to use me so!" "by too much love i have offended, forgive me if i cause you pain; but if indeed our love be ended, pray give me back my kiss again." no. the false bride h.f.s. [music] i courted a maiden both buxom and gay, unheeding what people against her did say, i thought her as constant and true as the day. but now she is going to be married. o when to the church i my fair love saw go, i followed her up with a heart full of woe, and eyes that with tears of grief did o'erflow, to see how my suit had miscarried. o when in the chancel i saw my love stan', with ring on her finger, and true love in han', i thought that for certain 'twas not the right man, although 'twas the man she was taking. o when i my fair love saw sit in her seat i sat myself by her, but nothing could eat; her company, thought i, was better than meat, although my heart sorely was aching. o woe be the day that i courted the maid, that ever i trusted a word that she said, that with her i wander'd along the green glade, accurs'd be the day that i met her. o make me a grave that is long, wide and deep, and cover me over with flowers so sweet, that there i may lie, and may take my last sleep; for that is the way to forget her. no. the barley straw h.f.s. [music] as jan was hurrying down the glade, he met his sweetheart kit; "o whither so fast?" the maiden ask'd, "let's bide and talk a bit." "i'm going to the barn, and if you'll come, and help me thresh the stro', that task complete, why then my sweet, a ramble we will go." she gave consent, to work they went, as if 'twere only play; the flail he plied, whilst kit untied, the sheaves, and cleared away. o willing hands made labour light, and 'ere the sun was low, with arms entwined, these lovers kind, did down the vallies go. said jan, "thou art a helpful lass, wilt thou be mine for life?" "for sure!" she said. to church they sped, and soon were man and wife. a lesson then, for all young men who would a courting go, your sweetheart ask to share your task, and thresh the barley stro'. now many a year, this couple dear, they lived in harmony; and children had, both lass and lad, i think 'twas thirty-three. the sons so hale did wield the flail, and like their father grow; the maidens sweet, like mother were neat: and clean as the barley stro'. no. death and the lady c.j.s. [music] as i walked out one day, one day, all in the merry month of may, when lambs did skip and thrushes sing, and ev'ry bush with buds did spring. i met an old man by the way, his head was bald, his beard was grey, his coat was of the myrtle-green, but underneath his ribs were seen. he in his hand a glass did hold, he shook as one that shakes with cold. i asked of him what was his name, and what strange place from which he came. "my name is death, fair maiden, see lords, dukes and squires bow down to me; for of the branchy tree[ ] am i and you, fair maid, with me must hie." "i'll give you gold, if me you'll spare, i'll give you costly robes to wear!" "o no, sweet maid, make no delay your sand is run, you must away!" alas! alack! the fair maid died, and these the last sad words she cried: "here lies a poor, distressed maid, by death--and death alone betrayed." [footnote : what is meant by the "branchy tree" i do not know, but so the words run in all versions.] no. both sexes give ear h.f.s. [music] both sexes give ear to my fancy, in praise of sweet woman i sing, confined not to doll, sue, or nancy, the mate of the beggar or king. when adam was first a-created, and lord of the universe crown'd, his happiness was not completed, until that a helpmate was found. a garden was planted by nature, man could not produce in his life, but no rest had he till his creator discovered he wanted a wife. he had horses and foxes for hunting which most men love dearly as life, no relishsome food was a wanting but still--he was short of a wife. as adam was resting in slumber, he lost a small rib from his side, and when he awoke--'twas in wonder, to see a most beautiful bride. in transport he gazèd upon her, his happiness now was complete. he praisèd the bountiful donor, who to him had given a mate. she was not taken out of his head, sir, to rule and to triumph in man. nor was she took out of his foot, sir, by him to be trampled upon. but she was took out of his side, sir, his equal co-partner to be; so, united is man with his bride, sir, yet man is the top of the tree. then let not the fair be despisèd by man, as she's part of himself. let woman by man be a-prizèd as more than the world full of wealth. a man without woman's a beggar, tho' by him the world were possess'd but a beggar that's got a good woman with more than the world is he bless'd. no. i rode my little horse f.w.b. [music] i rode my little horse, from london town i came, i rode into the country, to seek myself a dame, and if i meet a pretty maid, be sure i'll kiss her then; and swear that i will marry her--but will not tell her _when_! i found a buxom widow, with many tons of gold, i lived upon her fortune, as long as it would hold. of pounds i took five hundred, bestrode my horse, and then, i promised i would marry her--but never told her _when_! a vintner had a daughter, the golden sun his sign, i tarried at his tavern, i drank his choicest wine; i drank out all his cellar, bestrode my horse, and then, i said the maid i'd marry,--but never told him _when_! the guineas are expended, the wine is also spent; the widow and the maiden, they languish and lament. and if they come to seek me, i'll pack them back again, with promises of marriage,--but never tell them _when_. my little horse i mounted, the world that i might see, i found a pretty maiden--as poor as poor could be. my little horse neglected, to london ran away, i asked if she would marry, and bade her name the day. no. among the new-mown hay c.j.s. [music] as i walked out one morn betime, to view the fields in may, sir, there i espied a fair sweet maid, among the new-mown hay, sir. among the new-mown hay. i said: 'good morning, pretty maid, how come you here so soon, say?' 'to keep my father's sheep,' she said, 'a thing that must be done, aye! among the new-mown hay. 'while they be feeding mid the dew, to pass the time away, sir! i sit me down to knit and sew, among the new-mown hay, sir! among the new-mown hay.' i ask'd if she would wed with me, all on that sunny day, sir! the answer that she gave to me was surely not a nay, sir! among the new-mown hay. then to the church we sped with speed and hymen join'd our hands, sir! no more the ewes and lambs she'll feed since she did make her answer, among the new-mown hay. a lord i be, a lady she, to town we sped straightway, sir! to bless the day, we both agree, we met among the hay, sir! among the new-mown hay. no. i'll build myself a gallant ship (solo or quartette) f.w.b. [music] i'll build myself a gallant ship, a ship of noble fame; and four and twenty mariners, shall box and man the same; and i will stand, with helm in hand, to urge them o'er the main. no scarf shall o'er my shoulders go, i will not comb my hair; the pale moonlight, the candle bright shall neither tell i'm fair. beside the mast i stand so fast, unresting in despair. the rain may beat, and round my feet the waters wash and foam, o thou north wind lag not behind but bear me far from home! my hands i wring, and sobbing sing, as over seas i roam. the moon so pale shall light my sail, as o'er the sea i fly, to where afar the eastern star is twinkling in the sky. i would i were with my love fair, ere ever my love die! no. colly, my cow c.j.s. [music] a story, a story, i'll tell you just now, it's all about killing of colly, my cow. ah! my pretty colly, poor colly, my cow! poor colly will give no more milk to me now. and that is the way my fortune doth go! says little tom dicker, pray what do you mean, by killing your colly when she was so lean? ah! my pretty colly, &c. then cometh the tripeman so trim and so neat, he bids me three ha'pence for belly and feet; ah! my pretty colly, &c. then cometh the tanner with sword at his side, he bids me three shillings for colly, her hide; ah! my pretty colly, &c. then cometh the horner who roguery scorns, he bids me three ha'pence for colly, her horns; ah! my pretty colly, &c. the skin of my colly was softer than silk, and three times a day did my colly give milk; ah! my pretty colly, &c. here's an end to my colly, she's gone past recall, i have sold my poor colly, hide, horns, feet and all. ah! my pretty colly, &c. three shillings and three pence are all for my pains, i've lost my poor colly, my milk and my gains. ah! my pretty colly, &c. no. within a garden h.f.s. [music] within a garden a maiden lingered, when soft the shades of evening fell, expecting, fearing, a footstep hearing, her love appearing, to say farewell. with sighs and sorrow their vows they plighted one more embrace, one last adieu; tho' seas divide, love, in this confide, love, whate'er betide, love, to thee i'm true. long years are over, and still the maiden seeks oft at eve the trysting tree; her promise keeping, and, faithful, weeping, her lost love sleeping across the sea. no. the bonny bird c.j.s. [music] i once lov'd a bird, and a bonny bird, and i thought to make him my own; but he loves a she far better than me, and has taken his flight and is flown. i once lov'd a bird, and a bonny bird, o i lovèd i vow and protest. i lovèd him well, and o! so very well i built him a nest in my breast. o since he is gone, i will let him alone, although that i ache and i burn. if he loves a she far better than me, then i hope he will not return. i lookèd to east and i lookèd to west the weather was hot and was calm. and then i did spy my own bonny bird was perch'd on another maid's arm. then up the green valley and down the green grove, as one distracted in mind, with whoop and halloo, in sorrow i rove no other such bird will i find. now if she have gotten my bonny bird, i never shall get him again. but though i have lost him for ever a day, i'll think of him still in my pain. no. the lady and prentice c.j.s. [music] 'twas of a brisk young lady and of a 'prentice boy. they courted one another, and he was all her joy; the 'prentice boy was banish'd unto a foreign shore, and sad at heart he fancied he'd never see her more. there came that way a squire a man of high degree, said he: 'i'll give you wages be servant unto me.' but oh! the fair young lady she piteously did cry all for the love she bore him she thought that she must die. now first he was in stable, with horses at the stall, and then advanced to table, and servèd in the hall. and next he was advancèd as butler to the same and for his good behaviour a steward last became. o then into a lottery he put his money down, he drew a prize and gainèd full twenty thousand pound. 'farewell, farewell my master! farewell, my lady kind! for i must seek my own true love that tarrieth behind.' he dress'd himself in velvet, in gold and silver braid; and so returned to england to his true love with speed. and when he did espy her t'embrace her did essay, but from his arms she started and frightened drew away. 'your gold and shining silver your velvets i defy i love a humble 'prentice i'll love him till i die.' 'o lady fair! my only, return unto my arms. i many years was banish'd and might not see your charms.' then closely she observed him, and knew him now again. her smiles dispelled her fears as sun disperseth rain. with kisses out of measure she clasped him to her heart, 'o now we meet together, we never more shall, part.' no. paul jones c.j.s. [music] an american frigate, the "richard" by name, mounted guns forty four and from new york she came, to cruise in the channel of old english fame, with a noble commander, paul jones was his name. we had not cruised long ere two sails we espies, a large forty four, and a twenty likewise. some fifty bright shippers, well loaden with store, and the convoy stood in for the old yorkshire shore. ['bout twelve was the hour when we came alongside, with long speaking trumpet: 'whence came you?' he cried. 'ho! answer me quickly, i'll hail you no more, or a thundering broadside i'll into you pour.'][ ] we fought them four glasses, four glasses so hot, till forty bold seamen lay dead on the spot. and fifty five wounded lay drenched in their gore, while loudly the cannons of paul jones did roar. [our carpenter frightened, to paul jones he came, our ship she leaks water, is likewise aflame. paul jones he made answer, thus to him replied, 'if we can do no better, we'll sink alongside.'][ ] the serapis wore round, our vessel to rake o then the proud hearts of the english did ache. the shot flew so frequent, so fierce and so fast, that the bold british colours were haul'd down at last. oh! now my brave boys, we have taken a prize, a large forty four, and a twenty likewise. god help the poor mothers, bereavèd who weep for the loss of their sons in the unfathom'd deep. [footnote : may be omitted when singing.] [footnote : may be omitted when singing.] no. the merry haymakers h.f.s. [music] the golden sun is shining bright, the dew is off the field; to us it is our main delight, the fork and rake to wield. the pipe and tabor both shall play, the viols loudly ring, from morn till eve each summer day, as we go hay-making. chorus: the pipe and tabor, &c. as we my boys hay-making go, all in the month of june, both tom and bet, and jess and joe their happy hearts in tune. o up come lusty jack and will, with pitchfork and with rake, and up come dainty doll and jill, the sweet, sweet hay to make. chorus: the pipe and tabor, &c. o when the haysel all is done, then in the arish grass, the lads shall have their fill of fun, each dancing with his lass. the good old farmer and his wife, shall bring the best of cheer, i would it were, aye, odds my life! hay-making all the year. chorus: the pipe and tabor, &c. no. in bibberley town c.j.s. [music] in bibberley town a maid did dwell, a buxom lass, as i've heard tell; as straight as a wand, just twenty two, and many a bachelor had her in view. ri fal de ral diddle, ri fal de ral dee, what ups and downs in the world there be! this maid so beautiful fair and free, was sought by a squire of high degree; he courted her honestly for his wife, but she couldn't venture so high in life. ri fal de ral &c. a tinker there came to mend the kettle, she fell in love with the man of metal; his songs and his jokes won her heart and her hand, and she promised with him in the church to stand. ri fal de ral &c. they wed, and this jovial mender of pots proved only a brute and the prince of sots; he beat her, he starved her, she gave him the slip, and back to bibberley town did trip. ri fal de ral &c. she found that the squire her former flame had wooed and married a wealthy dame; but a vacant place in the house she took, and, instead of his wife, she became his cook. ri fal de ral diddle, ri fal de ral dee; what ups and downs in the world there be! no. the marigold c.j.s. [music] 'twas east north east, so near the line so near as we could lie, we'd had scarcely left our loading port, 'ere ten sail of turks we spy. "come strike your colours ye english dogs, strike colours presently, come strike your colours ye english dogs, or they shall be struck by we." our captain being a valiant man, on quarterdeck did stand, "it ne'er shall be said that we did run while we have aboard a hand." o! then out spake our boatswain bold, to the gunner then spake he, "come plant your guns while they are cold both powder and shot are free." broadside to broadside we return'd from morn till day was done till three we sank, and three we burn'd and three away did run, till three we sank, and three we burn'd and three did sail away; and one we brought to merry england to show we'd won the day. now if you'd know our goodly ship and know our captain's name; sir thomas merrifield captain was of the marigold, ship of fame. a gallant man sir thomas was of famous bristow town a gallant crew were we aboard we gained us great renown. no. arthur le bride c.j.s. [music] i once had a cousin called arthur le bride, and he and i wandered adown the sea side, for our pleasure and pastime a watching the tide; o the weather was pleasant and charming. so gaily and gallant we went on a tramp, we met sergeant napier and corp'ral demant, and the neat little drummer that tended the camp, to beat the row-dow in the morning. good morning young fellows, the sergeant did cry, and the same to you sergeant we made a reply, there was nothing more spoken, we made to pass by. 'twas all on a christmas day morning. come! come my fine fellows, i pray you enlist, ten guineas in gold i will slap in your fist, and a crown in the bargain to kick up a dust, for to drink the king's health in the morning. [ ] o, no! mr. sergeant, we are not for sale we make no such bargain--your bribe won't avail, not tired of our country we care not to sail, tho' your offers look pleasant and charming. [ ] hah! if you insult me, without other words i swear by the king we will draw out our swords, and thrust thro' your bodies, as strength us affords, and leave you without further warning. we beat the bold drummer as flat as his shoe, we made a football of his row-de-dow-do, and the sergeant and corporal, knocked down the two, o we were the boys in the morning. the two little weapons that hung at their side, as we trotted away we threw into the tide, may old harry be with you, said arthur le bride for staying our walk in the morning. [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] [footnote : may be omitted in singing.] no. the keeper c.j.s. [music] o there was a keeper, a shooting did go, and under his arm he did carry a bow, and that for to bring down the buck and the doe; all in the green forest, the forest so green, where the red roses blossom to crown my queen. the very first doe that he shot at he miss'd, the second escaped by the breadth of his fist. the third doe was young, so he caught her and kiss'd; all in the green forest, the forest so green, where the red roses blossom to crown my queen. "my fair pretty doe, you no longer shall roam, for certainly henceforth with me you shall come, to tarry securely in my little home; all in the green forest, the forest so green, where the red roses blossom to crown my queen. "aside i will cast now my billets and bow, i'll tarry at home with my own pretty doe, as proud as a king of his sceptre, i trow; all in the green forest, the forest so green, where the red roses blossom to crown my queen." no. the queen of hearts c.j.s. [music] to the queen of hearts he's the ace of sorrow, he is here to-day, he is gone to-morrow; young men are plenty, but sweet-hearts few, if my love leave me, what shall i do? when my love comes in i gaze not around, when my love goes out, i fall in a swound; to meet is pleasure, to part is sorrow, he is here to-day, he is gone to-morrow. had i the store in yonder mountain, where gold and silver is had for counting, i could not count, for the thought of thee, my eyes so full that i could not see. i love my father, i love my mother, i love my sister, i love my brother; i love my friends, my relations too, but i'd leave them all for the love of you. my father left me both house and land, and servants many at my command; at my commandment they ne'er shall be, i'll forsake them all for to follow thee. an ace of sorrow to the queen of hearts, o how my bosom bleeds and smarts; young men are plenty, but sweet-hearts few, if my love leave me, what shall i do? no. the owl c.j.s. [music] of all the birds that ever i see, the owl is the fairest in her degree. for all the day long she sits in a tree, and when the night cometh, away flies she. to-whit! to-who! says she, to-who! cinamon, ginger, nutmegs and cloves, and brandy gave me my jolly red nose. the lark in the morn ascendeth on high and leaves the poor owl to sob and to sigh; and all the day long, the owl is asleep, while little birds blithely are singing, cheep! cheep! to-whit! to-who! says she, to-who! cinamon, ginger, &c. there's many a brave bird boasteth awhile, and proves himself great, let providence smile, be hills and be vallies all covered with snow, the poor owl will shiver and mock with ho! ho! to-whit! to-who! says she, to-who! cinamon, ginger, &c. no. my mother did so before me c.j.s. [music] i am a brisk and bonny lass, a little over twenty. and by my comely air and dress, of sweethearts i've got plenty. but i'll beware of wedlock's snare, tho' dying swains adore me, the men i'll tease, myself to please, my mother did so before me. with fine brocade and diamonds bright, like merry spring delighting, my heart, my humours all delight, for my sweet face's inviting. i take delight, both day and night, to be talked of in story. i'll have it said: here shines a maid! my mother did so before me. to parks and plays i often go, i'll waste each leasure hour; i'll walk and talk with every beau, and make them feel my power. if e'er a spark should fire my heart, from one who does adore me, i'll wed and kiss, in married bliss, my mother did so before me. so well i'll manage when i'm wed, my husband to perfection, and as good wives have always said, keep husbands in subjection. no snarling fool me e'er shall rule, nor e'er eclipse my glory, i'll let him see, mistress i'll be, my mother did so before me. no. a week's work well done c.j.s. [music] on monday morn i married a wife, i thought to live a sober life. as it fell out i were better dead, than mark the time when i was wed. laddy-heigh-ho! laddy-heigh-ho! fal-de-ral-li-do! laddy-heigh-ho! on tuesday morning to my surprise, a little before the sun did rise, she rattled her clapper, and scolded more, than ever i heard in my life before. laddy-heigh-ho! &c. on wednesday morning i went to the wood, i thought to do my wife some good. i cut me a twig of holly green, i trust the toughest i'd ever seen. laddy-heigh-ho! &c. i hung the stick up well to dry, i thought on thursday it to try, i laid it about her head and back, before my twig began to crack. laddy-heigh-ho! &c. on friday morning to my surprise, a little before the sun did rise, she rattled her clapper in scolding tone, i turn'd my back and left her alone. laddy-heigh-ho! &c. on saturday morn, as i may say, as she on her pillow consulting lay, a bogie arrived in fume and flame, and carried her off both blind and lame. laddy-heigh-ho! &c. on sunday, neighbours, i dine without a scolding wife and a brawling rout; enjoy my bottle, and my best friend, and surely this is a brave week's end. laddy-heigh-ho! &c. no. the old man can't keep his wife at home c.j.s. [music] the old man can't keep his wife at home, she dearly loves abroad to roam, she will but eat the choicest meat, and leave th'old man the bone. herself must have good cheer, herself drink humming beer. a merry life lives she, for her heart is full of glee. chorus: the old man can't keep his wife at home, she dearly loves abroad to roam, &c. the old man's wife went out to dine, and left him tuck'd in bed at home. she dressed so fine, drank red red wine, her face with pleasure shone. she capered and she danc'd, she like an ostrich pranc'd, and sang there's none so free, as old men's wives may be. chorus: the old man can't keep his wife at home, she dearly loves abroad to roam, &c. the old man began to crawl and cough'd; above the door he set a stone, then sat and quaff'd thin beer and laugh'd, till spasms made him groan. his wife so late came home, then clatter'd down the stone, it fell upon her head, it knocked her flat and dead. chorus: the old man don't keep a wife at home, not one who dearly loves to roam. odds bobs, of strife, and gadding wife the old man now has none. no. sweet farewell c.j.s. [music] will by mary sad reposes on a bank of prim-a-roses. sore is william's heart at leaving, tears that flow tell mary's grieving, sweet, farewell! dearest, farewell, farewell! i'm in the marching order. hark! i hear the colonel crying, drums are beating, colours flying. colours flying, drums are beating, boys! advance, there's no retreating sweet, farewell! &c. gallant boys! be stiff and steady, each man have his flint-lock ready! each man have his flask and powder! and his fire stock o'er his shoulder! sweet, farewell! &c. mary said, do not bereave me! do not break my heart and leave me! if you do, i will torment you, when i'm dead, my ghost will ha'nt you sweet, farewell! &c. nay, said william, my dear mary i with you nowise can tarry. duty calls--that naught can alter at its summons none must falter. sweet, farewell! &c. no. old adam the poacher c.j.s. [music] old adam was a poacher, went out one day at fall, to catch a hare for roasting and eating bones and all, in the sun expecting fun old adam smiling lay. o hare it is good eating, thus did old adam say. old adam was a poacher, went out one day at fall, to catch a hare for roasting, and eating, bones and all. a keeper that was passing, peer'd slyly through the brake saw adam with his springle; proceeded both to take. hare not his'n, so in prison old adam groaning lay. o hare it is good eating but not for him to-day, old adam was a poacher went out one day at fall went out that morning looking big returnèd, looking small. no. the evening prayer c.j.s. [music] matthew, mark and luke and john bless the bed that i lie on. four angels to my bed two to bottom, two to head, two to hear me when i pray, two to bear my soul away. monday morn the week begin, christ deliver our souls from sin. tuesday morn, nor curse nor swear, christes body that will tear. wednesday, middle of the week, woe to the soul christ does not seek. thursday morn, saint peter wrote joy to the soul that heaven hath bote, friday christ died on the tree to save other men as well as me. saturday, sure, the evening dead, sunday morn, the book's outspread. god is the branch and i the flower, pray god send me a blessed hour. i go to bed, some sleep to take, the lord, he knows if i shall wake. sleep i ever, sleep i never, god receive my soul for ever. notes on the songs . by chance it was. music and words dictated by james parsons, hedger, lew down; he had learned it from his father, "the singing machine." a second version of the melody was obtained from bruce tyndall, esq., of exmouth, who had learned it from a devonshire nurse in or . the melody was but a variant. it had lost the e[natural] that comes in so pleasantly. the tune was certainly originally in the dorian mode, the e[flat] being an alteration of a modern singer. we did not, however, feel justified in restoring the air to its early form, as we had no authority for so doing. the words of the song are to be found in a collection of early ballad books in the british museum, entitled "the court of apollo." there it consists of six verses, the first three of which are almost word for word the same as ours. in "the songster's favourite companion," a later collection, the same song occurs. there it is in three verses only, and in a very corrupt form. we are inclined to think that the song dates from the time of james i. or charles i. . the hunting of arscott of tetcott. this song, once vastly popular in north devon, and at all hunting dinners, is now nearly forgotten. the words have been published in "john arscott of tetcott" by luke, plymouth, n.d. a great many variations of the text exist. an early copy, dating from the end of the th century, was supplied me by r. kelly, esq., of kelly; another by a gentleman, now dead, in his grandmother's handwriting ( ), with explanatory notes. the date given in the song varies; sometimes it is set down as , sometimes as . john arscott, the last of his race, died in . the "sons of the blue" are taken to have been sir john molesworth of pencarrow, bart., william morshead of blisland, and braddon clode of skisdon. but neither sir john molesworth nor mr. morshead was, as it happens, a naval man. if the date were either or , it would fit john arscott of tetcott, who died in , and sir john molesworth of pencarrow, who was vice-admiral of cornwall; and the "sons of the blue" would be hender, sparke, and john, sons of sir john. the second john molesworth married jane, daughter of john arscott of tetcott, in . it seems probable, accordingly, that the song belonged originally to the elder john arscott, and was adapted a century later to the last john arscott. the date is not given with precision in the song; it is left vague as to the century--"in the year ' ." the author of the version of the song as now sung is said to have been one dogget, who was wont to run after the foxhounds of the last arscott. he probably followed the habit of all rural bards of adapting an earlier ballad to his purpose, and spoiling it in so doing. i think this, because along with much wretched stuff there occur traces of something better, and smacking of an earlier period. as dogget's doggerel has been printed, and as i have taken down a dozen variants, i have retained only what i deemed worthy of retention, and have entirely recast the conclusion of the song. john arscott is still believed to hunt the country, and there are men alive who declare positively that they have seen him and his hounds go by, and have heard the winding of his horn, at night, in the park at tetcott. mr. frank abbott, gamekeeper at pencarrow, but born at tetcott, informed me, concerning dogget: "once they unkennelled in the immediate neighbourhood of tetcott, and killed at hatherleigh. this runner was in at the death, as was his wont. john arscott ordered him a bed at hatherleigh, but to his astonishment, when he returned to tetcott, his wife told him all the particulars of the run. 'then,' said arscott, 'this must be the doing of none other than dogget; where is he?' dogget was soon found in the servants' hall, drinking ale, having outstripped his master and run all the way home." in the ms. copy of , the names of the "sons of the blue" were bob (robt. dennis of s. breock), bill (bill tickell), and britannia (sir j. molesworth). the tune, which is in the Ã�olian mode, was obtained through the assistance of mr. w.c. richards, schoolmaster at tetcott. we also had it from john benney, labourer, menheniot. mr. richards writes:--"this song is sung annually at the rent-audit of the molesworth estate at tetcott. thirty years ago an old man sang it, and the version i send you is as near the original, as sung by him, as can be secured. workmen on the estate often hum the air, and always sing it at their annual treats." the arscott property at tetcott passed by inheritance to the molesworths. half of the tune was employed by d'urfey, a devonshire man, in his "pills to purge melancholy," to the words, "dear catholic brother" (vi. p. , ed. - ). from d'urfey it passed into the "musical miscellany," , vi. p. , to the words, "come take up your burden, ye dogs, and away." from england the same half-tune was carried into wales, and jones, in his "musical relicks of the welsh bards," , i. p. , gives it set to the words of "difarwch gwyn dyfl." as benny's variant is interesting, i give it here-- [music: and sing fol-de-rol.] . upon a sunday morning. the melody taken down from robert hard, south brent. this is the song to which reference has been made in the introduction. it is not a genuine folk melody, but it is an interesting example of the way in which the folk muse reshapes an air. hard sang the words of charles swan-- "'twas on a sunday morning, before the bells did peal, a note came through the window, with cupid as the seal." these words were set to music by francis mori in . i give mori's tune, and advise that with it should be compared hard's variation of it. i have written fresh words to this variation-- [music: f. mori.] . the trees they are so high. words and melody taken down in first from james parsons, then from matthew baker. again in from richard broad, aged , of herodsfoot, near s. keyne, cornwall. again, the words, to a different air, from roger hannaford. another version from william aggett, a paralysed labourer of years, at chagford. mr. sharp has also obtained it in somersetshire. a fragment was sung at the folk-song competition at frome in april . mr. kidson has noted a version in yorkshire, miss broadwood another in surrey, see _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. . apparently there exist two distinct variants of the ballad, each to its proper melody. johnson, in his "museum," professed to give a scottish version-- "o lady mary ann looks owre the castle wa', she saw three bonny boys playing at the ba', the youngest he was the flower among them a'; my bonny laddie's young, but he's growing yet." but of his version only three of the stanzas are genuine, and they are inverted; the rest are a modern composition. a more genuine scottish form is in maidment's "north country garland," edinburgh, ; but there the young man is fictitiously converted into a laird of craigstoun. it begins-- "father, said she, you have done me wrong, for ye have married me on a childe young man, and my bonny love is long agrowing, growing, deary, growing, growing, said the bonny maid." but the most genuine form is on an aberdeen broadside, b.m., , f. this, the real scottish ballad, has verses not in the english, and the english ballad has a verse or two not in the scottish. i have received an irish version as sung in co. tipperary; it is in six verses, but that about the "trees so high" is lacking. the rhyme is more correct than that of any of the printed versions, and the lines run in triplets. one verse is-- "o father, dear father, i'll tell you what we'll do, we'll send him off to college for another year or two, and we'll tie round his college cap a ribbon of the blue, to let the maidens know he is married." in one of the versions i have taken down (hannaford's and aggett's) there were traces of the triplet very distinct, and the tune was akin to the irish melody sent me, as sung by mary o'bryan, cahir, tipperary. portions of the ballad have been forced into that of "the cruel mother" in motherwell's ms., child's "british and scottish ballads," i. p. . in this a mother gives birth to three sons at once and murders them; but after they are murdered-- "she lookit over her father's wa', and saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba'." our melody is in the phrygian mode, a scale which is extremely scarce in english folk-song. the only other example we know is in ducoudray's book of the "folk melodies of brittany." the scotch have two airs, one in johnson's "museum," the other in "the british minstrel," glasgow, , vol. ii. p. , both totally distinct from ours. that the ballad is english and not originally scotch is probable, for fletcher quotes it in "the two noble kinsmen," . he makes the crazy jailer's daughter sing us a snatch of an old ballad-- "for i'll cut my green coat, a foot above my knee, and i'll clip my yellow locks, an inch below my eye, hey ninny, ninny, ninny; he's buy me a white cut (stick) forth for to ride, and i'll go seek him, through the world that is so wide, hey ninny, ninny, ninny." in the ballad as taken down from aggett-- "i'll cut my yellow hair away by the root, and i will clothe myself all in a boy's suit, and to the college high, i will go afoot." i have had versions also from mary langworthy, stoke flemming, in the hypodorian mode, and from w.s. vance, penarth, as sung by an old woman at padstow in , now dead. mr. sharp gives a version in "folk songs from somerset," no. . . parson hogg. this was sung by my great-uncle, thomas snow, esq., of franklyn, near exeter, when i was a child. i have received it also from mr. h. whitfeld, brushmaker, plymouth. the words may be found, not quite the same, but substantially so, in "the new cabinet of love," _circ._ , as "doctor mack." in oliver's "comic songs," _circ._ , it is "parson ogg, the cornish vicar." it is also in "the universal songster" ( ), ii. p. . it is found on broadsides. . cold blows the wind. the words originally reached me as taken down by the late mrs. gibbons, daughter of sir w.l. trelawney, bart., from an old woman, who, in , was nurse in her father's house. since then we have heard it repeatedly, indeed there are few old singers who do not know it. there are two melodies to which it is sung, that we give here, and that to which "childe the hunter" is set in this collection. the ballad is always in a fragmentary condition. the ballad, under the title of "the unquiet grave," is in professor child's "british ballads," no. . he gives various forms of it. the idea on which it is based is that if a woman has plighted her oath to a man, she is still bound to him, after he is dead, and that he can claim her to follow him into the world of spirits, unless she can redeem herself by solving riddles he sets her. see further on this topic under "the lover's tasks," no. . verses and are not in the original ballad. i have supplied them to reduce the length and give a conclusion. . the sprig of thyme. taken down from james parsons. after the second verse he broke away into "the seeds of love." joseph dyer, of mawgan in pyder, sang the same ballad or song to the same tune, and in what i believe to be the complete form of words-- "o once i had plenty of thyme, it would flourish by night and by day, till a saucy lad came, return'd from the sea, and stole my thyme away. "o and i was a damsel fair, but fairer i wish't to appear; so i wash'd me in milk, and i clothed me in silk, and put the sweet thyme in my hair. "with june is the red rose in bud, but that was no flower for me, i plucked the bud, and it prick'd me to blood, and i gazed on the willow tree. "o the willow tree it will twist, and the willow tree it will twine, i would i were fast in my lover's arms clasp't, for 'tis he that has stolen my thyme. "o it's very good drinking of ale, but it's better far drinking of wine, i would i were clasp't in my lover's arms fast, for 'tis he that has stolen my thyme." the song, running as it does on the same theme and in the same metre as "the seeds of love," is very generally mixed up with it, and miss broadwood calls her version of it, in "english county songs," p. , "the seeds of love, _or_ the sprig of thyme." the "seeds of love" is attributed by dr. whittaker, in his "history of whalley," to mrs. fleetwood habergham, who died in . he says: "ruined by the extravagance and disgraced by the vices of her husband, she soothed her sorrows by some stanzas yet remembered among the old people of her neighbourhood." see "the new lover's garland," b.m. ( , , b ); a northumbrian version in "northumbrian minstrelsy," , p. ; a scottish version in "albyn's anthology," , i. p. ; a somersetshire in "folk songs from somerset," no. ; a yorkshire in kidson's "traditional tunes," p. . as the two songs are so mixed up together, i have thought it best to re-write the song. the melody was almost certainly originally in the Ã�olian mode, but has got altered. . roving jack. taken down, words and melody, from william aggett, chagford, and from james parsons, lew down. an inferior version of the words is to be found among catnach's broadsheets, ballads, b.m. ( , b, vol. vii.), also one printed in edinburgh, ballads ( - ), b.m. ( , f). note what has been said relative to this tune, which is in the Ã�olian mode, under , "by chance it was," with which it is closely related. . brixham town. words taken down from jonas coaker, aged , and blind. the melody was given us by mr. john webb, who had heard him sing it in former years. another version to the same air was obtained from north tawton. again, another was given me by the hon. a.f. northcote, who took it down in from an itinerant pedlar of years at buckingham. the words and tune were clearly composed at the time of the commonwealth, - . . green broom. words and melody taken down from john woodrich, blacksmith; he learned both from his grandmother when he was a child. the hon. j.s. northcote sent me another version taken down from an old woman at upton pyne. again, another from mr. james ellis of chaddlehanger, lamerton; another from bruce tyndall, esq., of exmouth, as taken down from a devonshire cook in or . this, the same melody as that from upton pyne. woodrich's tune is the brightest, the other the oldest. the same ballad to different tune in "northumbrian minstrelsy," , p. . the song is in d'urfey's "pills to purge melancholy," , vi. p. , in verses, with a different conclusion. broadside versions by disley and such. also in "the broom man's garland," in "lxxxii. old ballads" collected by j. bell, b.m. ( , , c ). bell was librarian to the society of antiquaries, newcastle-on-tyne, - . mr. kidson has obtained a version in north yorkshire. another is in "english county songs," p. . in "gammer gurton's garland," _circ._ , are three verses. . as johnny walked out. words and melody from james parsons. the original words are in six stanzas, and these i have compressed. the words with some verbal differences as "set by mr. dunn" are in "six english songs and dialogues, as they are performed in the public gardens," n.d., but about . then in _the london magazine_, ; in "apollo's cabinet," liverpool, ; in "clio and euterpe," london, . our melody was obtained also by mr. t.s. cayzer, at post bridge, in , and we have taken down four or five versions. the tune is totally different from that by "mr. dunn." . the miller and his sons. taken down, music and words, from j. helmore, miller, south brent. the words occur in the roxburgh collection, iii. p. . it is included in bell's "songs of the english peasantry," p. ; and is in the "northumbrian minstrelsy," newcastle, . in the north of england it is sung to the air of "the oxfordshire tragedy," chappell, p. . our air bears no resemblance to this. . ormond the brave. this very interesting ballad was taken down, words and music, from j. peake, tanner, liskeard; it was sung by his father about . it refers to the duke of ormond's landing in devon in . ormond fled to france in the first days of july, "a duke without a duchy," as lord oxford termed him, when it was manifest that the country was resolved on having the hanoverian elector as king, and was unwilling to summon the chevalier of st. george to the throne. at the end of october the duke of ormond landed in devon at the head of a few men, hoping that the west would rise in the jacobite cause, but not a single adherent joined his standard, and he returned to france. the devonshire squires were ready to plant scotch pines in token of their jacobite sympathies, but not to jeopardise their heads and acres in behalf of a cause which their good sense told them was hopeless. i have met with the ballad in a garland, b.m. ( , , b ). this, however, is imperfect. it runs thus-- "i am ormond the brave, did you ever hear of me? who lately was banished from my own country. they sought for my life and plundered my estate, for being so loyal to queen anne the great. i am ormond, etc. "says ormond, if i did go, with berwick i stood, and for the crown of england i ventured my blood, to the boyne i advanced, to tingney (quesnoy?) also, i preserved king william from berwick his foe. "i never sold my country as cut-purses do, nor never wronged my soldiers of what was their due. such laws i do hate, you're witness above, i left my estate for the country i love. "although they degrade me, i value it not a straw, some call me jemmy butler, i'm ormond you know. (_rest of verse missing._) "but in the latter days our late mistress anne, disprove my loyalty if you can, i was queen anne's darling, old england's delight, sacheverel's friend, and fanatic's spite." when peake sang the song to mr. sheppard and me, he converted german elector into german lecturers. the impeachment and attainder of the duke in was a cruel and malicious act. when he was in the netherlands acting in concert with prince eugene, he was hindered from prosecuting the war by secret instructions from queen anne. when quesnoy was on the point of capitulating, he was forced to withdraw, as he had received orders to proclaim a cessation of arms for two months. after the death of queen anne, the new whig ministry was resolved on his destruction, and he fled to france, where, although he had been loyal to william of orange, and had fought under him at the boyne, and had also been one of the first to welcome george i., he threw himself into the cause of the pretender, in a fit of resentment at the treatment he had received. he died on th november at avignon, but his body was brought to england and buried in henry vii.'s chapel, westminster. swift, writing in the hour of his persecution, gives his character at great length. "the attainder," says he, "now it is done, looks like a dream to those who will consider the nobleness of his birth; the great merits of his ancestors, and his own; his long, unspotted loyalty; his affability, generosity, and sweetness of nature.... i have not conversed with a more faultless person; of great justice and charity; a true sense of religion, without ostentation; of undoubted valour; thoroughly skilled in his trade of a soldier; a quick and ready apprehension; with a good share of understanding, and a general knowledge of men and history." mackay, in his "characters of the court of great britain," says of him when governor in ireland:--"he governs in ireland with more affection from the people, and his court is in the greatest splendour ever known in that country. he certainly is one of the most generous, princely, brave men that ever was, but good-natured to a fault." . john barleycorn. this famous old song has gone through several recastings. the earliest known copy is of the age of james i. in the pepysian collection, i. , printed in black letter by h. gosson ( - ). other copies of charles ii.'s reign in the same collection, i. , and the ewing collection, by the publishers clarke, thackeray, and passenger, to the tune of "shall i lye beyond thee." chappell concludes that this was a very early ballad. "the language is not that of london and its neighbourhood during james's reign. it is either northern dialect--which, according to puttenham, would commence about miles from london--or it is much older than the date of the printers," roxburgh ballads, ii. p. . this ballad begins-- "as i went through the north country i heard a merry greeting, a pleasant toy and full of joy-- two noblemen were meeting." these two noblemen are sir john barleycorn and thomas goodale. the sixth verse runs-- "sir john barlycorne fought in a boule who wonne the victorie, and made them all to fume and sweare that barlycorne should die. "some said kill him, some said drowne, others wisht to hang him hie; for as many as follow barlycorne shall surely beggars die. "then with a plough they plow'd him up, and thus they did devise, to burie him quicke within the earth, and sware he should not rise. "with harrowes strong they combèd him and burst clods on his head, a joyfull banquet then they made when barlycorne was dead." then the ballad runs on the same as ours. burns got hold of this ballad, and tinkered it up into the shape in which it appears in his collected works, altering some expressions, and adding about six stanzas. he in no way improved it. jameson, in his "popular ballads," edinburgh, , tells us that he had heard it sung in morayshire before that burns' songs were published. dixon, in his collection of the "songs of the english peasantry," , says that "john barleycorn" was sung throughout england to the tune of "stingo, or oil of barley," which may be found in chappell, from the "dancing master," in which it occurs from to . but this is not the air to which it is set in the broadsides above referred to, nor is it that to which it is sung in the west of england. dr. barrett has given a different "john barleycorn" in his "english folk-songs," and another is in the _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. . the words as now sung may be found in "the mountain of hair garland," b.m. ( , c ), _circ._ . it is also among such's broadsides. words and air were taken down by mr. bussell, from james mortimore, a cripple, at princetown, in . a version taken down in sussex, to a different tune, is seen in the _folk-song journal_. this begins-- "there were three men came out of the west, they sold their wheat for rye; they made an oath and a solemn oath, john barleycorn should die." one verse is not in our version-- "and in the mash-tub he was put, and they scalded him stark blind. and then they served him worse than that they cast him to the swine." . sweet nightingale. in "ballads and songs of the peasantry of england," by robert bell, london, , the author says: "this curious ditty, which may be confidently assigned to the th century ... we first heard in germany at marienberg on the moselle. the singers were four cornish miners, who were at that time, , employed at some lead mines near the town of zell. the leader, or captain, john stocker, said that the song was an established favourite with the miners of cornwall and devonshire, and was always sung on the pay-days and at the wakes; and that his grandfather, who died thirty years before, at the age of a hundred years, used to sing the song, and say it was very old. the tune is plaintive and original." unfortunately mr. bell does not give the tune. the air was first sent me by e.f. stevens, esq., of the terrace, st. ives, who wrote that the melody "had run in his head any time these eight and thirty years." we have since had it from a good many old men in cornwall, and always to the same air. they assert that it is a duet, and was so set in our first edition. mr. bell did not know much of the subject, or he would have been aware that so far from the song being of the th century, it was composed by bickerstaff for "thomas and sally" in , and was set to music by dr. arne. i have, however, adopted bell's words instead of those of bickerstaff, as shorter. the cornish melody is quite distinct from that by arne, and is not earlier or later than the second half of the th century. . widdecombe fair. at present the best known and most popular of devonshire songs, though the melody is without particular merit. the original "uncle tom cobley" lived in a house near yeoford junction, in the parish of spreyton. his will was signed on january , , and was proved on march , . he was a genial old bachelor. mr. samuel peach, his oldest relation living, tells me, "my great-uncle, who succeeded him, with whom i lived for some years, died in , over eighty years of age; he married, but left no children." we have obtained numerous variants of the air, one taken down from r. bickle, two bridges, is an early form of the melody; but as that we give is familiar to most devonshire men, we have retained it. the names in the chorus all belonged to residents at sticklepath. mr. c. sharp has taken down a variant as "midsummer fair" in somersetshire. the words so far as they went were the same, but each verse ended in a jingle instead of names. . ye maidens pretty. the words and melody from james parsons. the fullest broadside version, but very corrupt, is one published at aberdeen, ballads, b.m. ( , f, p. ); another, shorter, by williams of portsea. in both great confusion has been made by some ignorant poetaster in enlarging and altering, so that in many of the verses the rhymes have been lost. this is how the aberdeen broadside copy begins-- "you maidens pretty in country and city with pity hear, my mournful tale; a maid confounded, in sorrow drownded, and deeply wounded, with grief and pain." in the third line the "pity" has got misplaced, and "sad complain" has been turned into "mournful tale," to the loss of the rhyme. verse has fared even worse. it runs-- "my hardened parents gave special order that i should be close confined be (_sic._) within my chamber far from all danger, or lest that i should my darling see." a parody on the song was written by ashley, of bath, and sung in "bombastes furioso," rhodes' burlesque, in , to the irish tune of "paddy o'carrol." this appears also in "the london warbler," vols., n.d., but about , vol. i. p. -- "my love is so pretty, so gay, and so witty, all in town, court, and city, to her must give place. my lord on the woolsack, his coachman did pull back, to have a look, full smack, at her pretty face," etc. a catnach broadside, "the cruel father and the affectionate lovers," is a new version of the original ballad. words and melody are probably of the elizabethan age; an air to which this ballad has been recovered from tradition in surrey resembles ours, and is a corruption of the earlier melody. the ballad goes back to a remote antiquity. the french have it, a "complainte romanesque," of which tiersot says: "it was known in past ages, as is shown by a semi-literary imitation, published in a song-book of the beginning of the th century. and in our own day, poets and literary men, such as gerard de nerval, prosper mérimée, m. auguste vitu, have given their names to it, having picked it up as a precious thing from oral recitations by the peasants of our provinces." it is the ballad of a princess loving a knight, "qu' n'a pas vaillant six deniers." the king loys, her father, has imprisoned her in the highest of his towers-- "elle y fut bien sept ans passés sans qu' son pèr' vint la visiter; et quand l'y eut sept ans passés, son père la fut visiter."--tiersot, _op. cit._ p. . there can, i think, be no doubt that it is an old troubadour lay which has been re-composed in elizabethan times, and has since been somewhat degraded. . the silly old man. a ballad that was sung by the late rev. g. luscombe something over half a century ago. he was curate of bickleigh, and by ancestry belonged to a good old devonshire family, and he was particularly fond of ancient west of england songs. another version, from old suey stephens, a charwoman at stowford; another, as sung in , received from dr. reed in tiverton. miss mason, in her "nursery rhymes and country songs," , gives a slight variant, also from devonshire. the ballad is in dixon's "songs of the english peasantry," , as taken down by him from oral recitation in yorkshire in . it exists in a chap-book, under the title of "the crafty farmer," published in . in yorkshire the song goes by the name of "saddle to rags"; there, and elsewhere in the north of england, it is sung to the tune of "the rant," better known as "how happy could i be with either." it has been published as a scottish ballad in maidment's "ballads and songs," edinburgh, . it is given in kidson's "traditional tunes." the words also in "a pedlar's pack," by logan, edinburgh, . the tune to which this ballad is sung in devonshire is quite distinct. . the months of the year. still a popular song among farm labourers. three versions of the air and words were taken down--one at south brent, one at belstone, one at post bridge. the air is clearly an old dance tune. the version we preferred was that given us by j. potter, farmer, of merripit, post bridge. for like songs, see "english county songs," p. , and barrett's "folk-songs." barrett has the same air as ours, but in triple time. that a similar song should be found on the continent is not wonderful; see "les douze mois de l'année" in coussemaker: "les flamands de france," p. . . the chimney sweep. taken down from j. helmore, miller, south brent. the first verse occurs in one of james catnach's chap-books: "the cries of london," _circ._ . the tune is possibly based on one used by the savoyard sweeps, for tiersot refers to one such: "avec sa bizarre vocalise descendante, d'un accent si étrange dans sa rudesse montagnarde-- "ramonez-ci, ramonez-là, sh-a-a-a-ah la cheminée du haut en bas." and this corresponds with the passage, "aye and there," with its curious descent in our tune: tiersot, "hist. de la chanson populaire en france," paris, , p. . . the saucy sailor. words and melody taken from james parsons. a broadside with a different ending printed by disley, pitts, such & hodges. also tozer's "forty sailors' songs," boosey, no. . the usual air to which this song is sung in devon is of a much earlier character; but we give this as more agreeable to modern ears. barrett gives the song in his "english folk-songs," no. , to a different tune. . blue muslin. taken down, words and music, from john woodrich, blacksmith. muslin was introduced into england in , and cork in . both are spoken of as novelties, and muslin is sung to the old form of the word, mous-el-ine. miss f. crossing sent me another version of the words, taken down from an old woman in south devon, in or about -- "'my man john, what can the matter be?' 'i love a lady, and she won't love me.' 'peace, sir, peace, and don't despair, the lady you love will be your only care; and it must be gold to win her.' "'madam, will you accept of this pretty golden ball, to walk all in the garden, or in my lady's hall?' 'sir, i'll accept of no pretty golden ball,' etc. "'madam, will you accept of a petticoat of red, with six golden flounces around it outspread?' "'madam, will you accept of the keys of my heart, that we may join together, and never, never part?' "'madam, will you accept of the keys of my chest, to get at all my money, and to buy what you think best?' "'sir, i will accept of the keys of your chest, to get at all your money, and to buy what i think best; and i'll walk and i'll talk with you.' "'my man john, there's a box of gold for you, for that which you told me has come true, and 'twas gold, 'twas gold that did win her.'" another version comes from yorkshire ("halliwell nursery rhymes," th ed., ); another from cheshire (broadwood, "english county songs," p. ); another in mason's "nursery rhymes" (metzler, , p. ). melodies different from ours. . the death of parker. words and melody taken down from samuel fone, mason, blackdown. it is identical with one obtained in yorkshire by mr. kidson. "the death of parker" is found on broadsides, and is in "the lover's harmony," n.d., printed by pitts, of seven dials. it is in logan's "pedlar's pack," p. , and in ashton's "modern street ballads," london, , p. . on april , , when admiral bridport, commanding the line-of-battle ships at portsmouth and spithead, signalled for the fleet to prepare for sea, the men, by a preconcerted agreement, refused to raise anchors till they had obtained redress for their grievances, which had been sent in the form of a petition to lord howe, two months before, and which had remained unnoticed. the lords of the admiralty endeavoured for some days, but ineffectually, to reduce the men to obedience. at last the grievances complained of were redressed by the action of lord bridport, who also obtained his majesty's pardon for the offenders. however, in may, the sailors at portsmouth, thinking that the government did not intend to keep faith with them, came ashore and committed great excesses. shortly after this the fleet at sheerness exhibited a mutinous spirit, and this broke out into open mutiny at the nore. at the head of the men was richard parker, a devonshire man. the obnoxious officers were sent ashore, and the red flag was hoisted. altogether twenty-five ships were included in the mutiny. the mutineers seized certain store-ships, fired on some frigates that were about to put to sea, and blockaded the mouth of the thames. all attempts at conciliation having failed, it became necessary to resort to stringent measures. ships and gunboats were armed, batteries were erected on shore; the mutineers were prevented from landing to obtain fresh water and provisions; and all buoys and beacons were removed, so as to render egress from the thames impossible. one by one the ships engaged in the mutiny began to drop off, and at last the _sandwich_, parker's flagship, ran in under the batteries and delivered up the ringleader. parker was hung at the yard-arm on june . the ballad was composed at the time, and obtained a wide circulation by appearing on broadsides. at the exeter assizes in , john c. parker, son of richard parker, obtained a verdict against his aunts for the possession of an estate called shute, which had belonged to his father's elder brother. the question turned upon the legitimacy of the plaintiff, which was proved by his mother, a woman who exhibited the remains of uncommon beauty, and who was a scottish woman, married to richard parker in . . the helston furry dance. on may , annually, a festival is held at helston, in cornwall, to celebrate the incoming of spring. very early in the morning a party of youths and maidens go into the country, and return dancing through the streets to a quaint tune, peculiar to the day, called the "furry dance." at eight o'clock the "hal-an-tow" is sung by a party of from twenty to thirty men and boys who come into the town bearing green branches, with flowers in their hats, preceded by a single drum, on which a boy beats the furry dance. they perambulate the town for many hours, stopping at intervals at some of the principal houses. at one o'clock a large party of ladies and gentlemen, in summer attire--the ladies decorated with garlands of flowers, the gentlemen with nosegays and flowers in their hats, assemble at the town hall, and proceed to dance after the band, playing the traditional air. they first trip in couples, hand in hand, during the first part of the tune, forming a string of from thirty to forty couples, or perhaps more; at the second part of the tune the first gentleman turns with both hands the lady behind him, and her partner turns in like manner with the first lady; then each gentleman turns his own partner, and then they trip on as before. the other couples, of course, pair and turn in the same way, and at the same time. the dancing is not confined to the streets; the house doors are thrown open, and the train of dancers enters by the front, dances through the house, and out at the back, through the garden, and back again. it is considered a slight to omit a house. finally the train enters the assembly room and there resolves itself into an ordinary waltz. as soon as the first party is finished, another goes through the same evolutions, and then another, and so on, and it is not till late at night that the town returns to its peaceful propriety. there is a general holiday in the town on flora day, and so strictly was this formerly adhered to, that anyone found working on that day was compelled to jump across pengella, a wide stream that discharges its waters into loo pool. as this feat was almost impracticable, it involved a sousing. the festival has by no means ceased to be observed; it has rather, of late years, been revived in energetic observance. the "helston furry dance" is a relic of part of the old english may games. these originally comprised four entirely distinct parts. st. the election and procession of the king and queen of the may, who were called the summer king and queen. nd. the morris dance, performed by men disguised, with swords in their hands. rd. the "hobby horse." th. the "robin hood." in the helston performance we have a fragment only of the original series of pageants; at padstow the hobby-horse still figures. i have given the two padstow songs in "a garland of country song," , no. . the helston furry dance tune was printed in davies gilbert's "christmas carols," nd ed., . his form is purer than ours, which is as now sung. edward jones had already published it in his "bardic museum," vol. ii. ( ) as "the cornish may song," and george johnson in his "welsh airs," vol. ii. ( ). . blow away, ye morning breezes. taken down, words and music, from robert hard. this curious song was to be sung by two sopranos; that is to say, one voice taunts the other, and the second replies, then both unite in the chorus. we have omitted the retort, which consists simply in the application of the same words to the first singer. it is certainly an early composition. one passage in it occurs in "the knight and the shepherd's daughter," in percy's "relicks," and child's "english and scotch ballads"-- "would i had drunk the water cleare when i had drunk the wine, rather than any shepherd's brat should be a lady of mine. would i had drunk the puddle foule when i had drunk the ale," etc. the burden or chorus, "blow away," etc., occurs also in the ballad of "the baffled knight." . the hearty good fellow. taken down, words and music, from robert hard. this ballad is found on a broadside by pitts, entitled "adventures of a penny." the first verse there runs-- "long time i've travelled the north country seeking for good company. good company i always could find, but none was pleasing to my mind. sing whack, fal de ral, etc., i had one penny." the rest is very much the same as our version. i also heard it sung by a worker at the aller potteries, near newton abbot. mr. kidson has obtained a traditional version in yorkshire, and mr. c. sharp one in somersetshire from eliza hutchins of langport. as the accent came wrong in the version we received from hard, we have adopted that as given by eliza hutchins. . the bonny bunch of roses. of this we have taken down a great number of versions. the melody is always the same. the youth in the printed broadside copies is always napoleon bonaparte. history does not agree with what is said of the hero in the song. it is almost certainly an anti-jacobite production, adapted to napoleon, with an additional verse relative to moscow. in the broadside versions the song is given "to the tune of the bunch of roses, o!" indicating that there was an earlier ballad of the same nature. this was a favourite fo'castle song in the middle of the nineteenth century. there is a version of it in christie's "traditional ballads." one has also been recovered by mr. kidson in yorkshire. the song was such a favourite that a public-house near wakefield bears "the bonny bunch of roses, o!" as its sign. . the last of the singers. the melody taken down from william huggins, mason, of lydford, who died in march . he had been zealously engaged that winter going about among his ancient musical friends collecting old songs for me, when he caught a chill and died. the words he gave were those of the ballad, "the little girl down the lane," and were of no merit. i have therefore discarded them and written fresh words, and dedicate them to the memory of poor old will. . the tythe pig. words and air taken from robert hard. sung also by j. helmore. the song appears on broadsides by disley, jackson of birmingham, harkness of preston, catnach, and others. there are ten verses in the original. i have cut them down to seven. . old wichet. taken from thomas darke of whitstone. he had learned it in from a fellow labourer. sung also by james parsons, samuel fone, and j. woodrich. it is said to be still popular in the north of england. a scottish version in herd's collection, , and in johnson's "musical museum," edinburgh, - , vol. v. p. . "old wichet" is in the roxburgh collection, and bell has printed it in his "ballads and songs of the english peasantry." dr. arnold recast the song to a tune of his own in "auld robin gray," . the scottish version begins-- "the good man cam hame at e'en and hame cam he. and there he saw a saddle horse where nae horse should be." dr. arnold begins-- "'twas on christmas day, my father he did wed, three months after that, my mother was brought to bed." in the original english song the final line to each stanza runs-- "old wichet went a cuckold out, and a cuckold he came home." but in one version taken down-- "when honest men went out, under a horned moon." i have thought it advisable to modify the last line of each stanza, and to compose a last stanza, so as to give to the song a less objectionable character. a somewhat similar ballad exists in france, as "marianne," in lemoine, "chansons du limousin," limoges, ; in daymard, "vieux chants populaires de quercy," cahors, ; "le jaloux," in bladé, "poésies populaires de gascogne," . but, in fact, all these songs are the versification of an old troubadour tale, that is given in barbazan, "fabliaux et contes des poètes françois xi.-xiv. siècles," as the "chevalier à la robe vermeille," t. iii. p. . alphonse daudet, in "numa roumestan," introduces a great portion of the ballad. he says, "c'est sur un air grave comme du plain-chant." in the midst of the song, the person reciting it breaks off, and transported by enthusiasm exclaims: "Ã�a, voyez-vous, mes enfants, c'est _bo_ (beau) comme du shakespeare." . jan's courtship. words and air from mr. r. rowe, longabrook, milton abbot. another set, slightly different, from mr. crossing; another, practically identical, from mr. chowen, brentor. as "robin's courtship," the song was recovered by mr. e.t. wedmore of bristol, in somersetshire. it has also been noted in the same county by mr. sharp as "william the rose," sung to the tune of "lillibulero." it is found in "the universal songster," _circ._ , as "poor bob." in the "roxburgh ballads," vi. pp. - , is what is probably the earliest form--"come hither my dutiful son, and take counsel of me." this was sung to the air "grim king of the ghosts." another version is referred to in the "beggars' opera," act iii. sc. viii., "now roger i'll tell thee, because thou'rt my son." our tune is rugged, and somersetshire in character. it is in the Ã�olian mode. . the drowned lover. taken down from james parsons. this is a very early song. it first appears as "captain digby's farewell," in the "roxburgh ballads," iv. p. , printed in . in playford's "choice ayres," , i. p. , it was set to music by mr. robert smith. then it came to be applied to the death of the earl of sandwich, after the action in sole bay, . a black letter ballad, date _circ._ , is headed, "to the tune of the earl of sandwich's farewell." the original song consisted of three stanzas only; it became gradually enlarged and somewhat altered, and finally sam cowell composed a burlesque on it, which has served more or less to corrupt the current versions of the old song, printed on broadsides by catnach, harkness, and others. the black letter ballad of begins-- "one morning i walked by myself on the shoar when the tempest did cry and the waves they did roar, yet the music of the winds and the waters was drownd by the pitiful cry, and the sorrowful sound, oh! ah! ah! ah! my love's dead. there is not a bell but a triton's shell, to ring, to ring, to ring my love's knell." "colonel digby's lament," , begins-- "i'll go to my love, where he lies in the deep, and in my embrace, my dearest shall sleep. when we wake, the kind dolphins together shall throng, and in chariots of shells shall draw us along. ah! ah! my love is dead. there was not a bell, but a triton's shell, to ring, to ring out his knell." a second version of the melody, but slightly varied from that we give, was sent us by mr. h. whitfeld of plymouth, as sung by his father. our air is entirely different from that given by playford, and is probably the older melody, which was not displaced by the composition of mr. r. smith. the song is sung to the same melody, but slightly varied, in ireland. . childe the hunter. words taken in a fragmentary form from jonas coaker. he had used up the material of the ballad, incorporating it into a "poem" he had composed on dartmoor, and vastly preferred his own doggerel to what was traditional. the Ã�olian melody given is that to which the misses phillips, who were born and reared at shaw, on dartmoor, informed me that they had heard the ballad sung about . we also obtained this air to "cold blows the wind." it is unquestionably an early harp tune, not later than the reign of henry vii. for the story of childe of plymstock, see murray's "handbook of devon," ed. , p. ; more fully and critically in w. crossing's "ancient crosses of dartmoor," , p. . . the cottage thatched with straw. taken down, words and melody, from john watts, quarryman, alder, thrushleton. this is one of the best known and, next to "widdecombe fair," most favourite songs of the devon peasantry. mr. kidson has noted the song from a worcestershire man. so far we have not been able to trace either words or melody, though neither can be earlier than the beginning of the nineteenth century, and the song has all the character of a published composition, and no spontaneous composition of a peasant. . cicely sweet. words and air sent me by j.s. hurrell, esq., kingsbridge, who had learned them in the middle of last century from mr. a. holoran, a devonshire schoolmaster. it has already been published as "sylvia sweet" in dale's "collection," _circ._ . two verses are given by halliwell as traditional in his "nursery rhymes," th ed., , p. . . a sweet, pretty maiden. melody taken down from james parsons. the words of his ballad were interesting and poetical, but did not fit the tune. it began-- "a maiden sweet went forth in may, nor sheet nor clout she bare, she went abroad all on the day to breathe the fresh spring air. before that she came back again the maiden bore a pretty son, and she roll'd it all up in her apron." the theme is the same as "she roun't in her apron" in johnson's "musical museum," v. p. ; and as it was quite impossible for us to print it, i have set to the air another song. . the white cockade. words and tune from edmund fry. the words of this ballad are often mixed up with those of "it was one summer morning, as i went o'er the grass." the song used to be well known in lancashire and yorkshire. several versions are given in kidson's "traditional tunes." as we heard the song, the cockade was described as green, but there never was a green cockade. i have somewhat altered the words. the jacobite song of the "white cockade" is totally distinct. a barnstaple ware punch-bowl with cover i have seen in the parish of altarnon, cornwall, has on the cover the figure of a piper with his dog, and the inscription, "piper, play us the white cockade." this can hardly refer to the scottish song and tune. in "stray garlands," b.m. ( , a, b), is "the blue cockade," but this is a fusion of the two ballads. . the sailor's farewell. words and music from j. helmore. a broadside version by williams of portsea, wright of birmingham, b.m. ( , c ). as helmore and his wife sang the verses alternately, we have so arranged it. . a maiden sat a-weeping. words and melody from james parsons. again, from will aggett, chagford, identically the same. in our opinion a delicately beautiful song. the tune probably of the sixteenth century. . the blue kerchief. words and melody from john woodrich, locally known as "ginger jack." the words have appeared, with slight variations, on broadsides in ten verses. catnach issued a parody on it, "the bonny blue jacket." in dr. barrett's "english folk-songs," he uses this tune for "paul jones." . come to my window. this is a very early song, and the melody is found substantially the same from the time of queen elizabeth. in beaumont and fletcher's "knight of the burning pestle," printed in and again in , the merchant sings snatches of the song-- "go from my window, love, go; go from my window, my dear; the wind and the rain will drive you back again, you can not be lodged here. "begone, begone, my juggy, my puggy, begone, my love, my dear! the weather is warm, 'twill do thee no harm, thou canst not be lodged here."--act iii. in fletcher's "monsieur thomas," , a maid sings-- "come to my window, love, come, come, come! come to my window, my dear: the wind and the rain shall trouble thee again, but thou shalt be lodged here."--act iii. sc. iii. in fletcher's "the woman's prize," , jaques says-- "a moral, sir; the ballad will express it: the wind and the rain have turn'd you back again, and you cannot be lodged there."--act i. sc. iii. it is evident that this ballad was very familiar in the latter part of the th century, and we find that on march , - , john wolfe had a licence to print a ballad, entitled "goe from my window." it was one of those early songs parodied in "ane compendious booke of godly and spirituall songs," edinburgh, . this begins-- "quho (who) is at my windo, who, who? goe from my windo; goe, goe. quha calls there, so like a strangere? goe from my windo, goe!" at the end of heywood's "rape of lucrece," , is-- "begone, begone, my willie, my billie, begone, begone, my deere; the weather is warm, 'twill doe thee no harm, thou canst not be lodged here." and in this form it appears in "wit and drollery," , p. . in "pills to purge melancholy," , iv. , is another version of the song, beginning, "arise arise, my juggy, my puggy." the tune is found in what is erroneously called queen elizabeth's "virginal book," and in "a new book of tablature," ; and in morley's "first book of concert lessons," ; and in robinson's "schoole of musick," . in the "dancing master," from to , the tune is given under the title of "the new exchange, or durham stable," but altered into - time to fit it for dancing. the tune in its original form may be seen in chappell, i. p. . chappell has also given a traditional form of the air as obtained at norwich. dr. barrett has given another in his "english folk-songs," no. , but without saying where he picked it up. we obtained ours from john woodrich; he heard it in an ale-house near bideford in , from an old man, who recited a tale, in which the song comes in in snatches. he had been soaked by the rain, and he told the tale as he dried himself by the kitchen fire. the story is this-- two men courted a pretty maid; one was rich, the other poor; and the rich man was old, but she loved the young poor man. her father, in spite of her tears, forced her to marry the rich man; but her other suitor came under her window and tapped, and when the husband was away she admitted him. so passed a twelvemonth, and she had a little child. then, one night, the lover came under the window, thinking her goodman was from home. with his tapping the husband awoke, and asked what the sound was. she said that an ivy leaf, fluttered by the wind, struck the pane. but fearing lest the lover should continue to tap, she began to sing, as she rocked the cradle-- "begone, begone, my willie, my billy, begone my love and my dear. o the wind is in the west and the cuckoo's in his nest, and you cannot have a lodging here." again the lover tapped, and the husband asked what that meant. she said that a bat had flown against the window. then she sang-- "begone, begone, my willie, my billy, begone, my love and my dear. o the weather it is warm and it cannot do thee harm, and thou canst not have a lodging here." then the lover called, and the husband asked what that was. she said it was the hooting of an owl; and then she sang-- "begone, begone, my willie, my billy, begone my love and my dear. o the wind and the rain have brought him back again, but thou canst not have a lodging here." again the lover rapped; then she sprang out of bed, threw abroad the casement, and sang-- "begone, begone, my willy, you silly, begone, my fool and my dear. o the devil's in the man, and he cannot understan', that to-night he cannot have a lodging here." this is almost certainly the original framework to which these snatches of song belong. but there was another version of the story in a ballad entitled "the secret lover, or the jealous father beguil'd, to a west country tune, or alack! for my love and i must dye," printed by p. brooksby, between and , given by mr. ebsworth in the "roxburgh ballads," vi. p. . this begins-- "a dainty spruce young gallant, that lived in the west, he courted a young lady, and real love professt, and coming one night to her, his mind he thus exprest-- and sing, go from my window, love, go! "'what, is my love a sleeping? or is my love awake?' 'who knocketh at the window, who knocketh there so late?' 'it is your true love, lady, that for your sake doth wait.' and sing, go from my window, love, go!" here the father, and not the husband, is the person who is troublesome to the lovers. that this is an adaptation, and not the original form of the story, is obvious from the line-- "and the cuckoo's in his nest," a play on the word cuckold. a still later version, _circ._ , is given by ebsworth, "roxburgh ballads," vi. p. . messrs. moffat and kidson have given the song in the "minstrelsy of england," n.d., but , p. . so also dr. barrett in his "english folk-songs," no. . i have recast the words. the song may derive from a tale used by boccaccio in his "decameron," vii. . . tommy a lynn. this song is alluded to in the "complaynt of scotland," ; it is probably the "ballett of tomalin," licensed to be printed in - . a snatch of it occurs in wager's play: "the longer thou livest the more fool thou art," _circ._ -- "tom a lin and his wife and his wife's mother they got over the bridge all three together. the bridge was broken, and they fell in, the devill go with you all, quoth tom a lin." it was printed in ritson's "north country chorister," durham, ; and it occurs in "the distracted sailor's garland," b.m. ( , , c ). "bryan o' lynn was a gentleman born," as sung by "mr. purcell's celebrated irish vocalists," is in the "dublin comic songster," dublin, . halliwell gives the song in his "popular rhymes," , p. , and one verse in his "nursery rhymes," no. . mr. j. phillips, who founded the aller vale potteries, in a lecture on the condition of dartmoor in , says: "for roughing it on the moor, warm waterproof coats were made by using a sheep's skin, the wool on the inside. warm caps of rabbit skin were common, with lappets over the ears. an old rhyme sung by the boys was-- "old harry trewin, no breeches to wear, he stole a ram's skin to make a new pair. the shiny side out and the woolly side in, and thus doth go old harry trewin." we have taken down the song twice from thomas dart and from james parsons. what "a bone of my stover" signifies i am unable to say. . the green bushes. words and melody taken down from robert hard. another sent me by mr. crossing, heard by him on dartmoor from a labouring man in . the same as this taken down from james parsons. this latter sent by me to miss broadwood, who has published it in her "county songs," p. . in buckstone's play of "the green bushes," , nelly o'neil sings snatches of this song, one verse, "i'll buy you fine petticoats," etc., in act ., and that and the following verse in act iii. nowhere is the complete ballad given. that, however, owing to the popularity of the drama, was published soon after as a "popular irish ballad sung by mrs. fitzwilliam." later it was attributed to the husband of that lady, mr. e.f. fitzwilliam, but it was not published in his lifetime. the words are substantially old, in this form are a softening down of an earlier ballad which has its analogue in scotland, "my daddie is a cankered carle," each verse of which ends-- "for he's low down, he's in the broom that's waiting for me." the english form is "whitsun monday," an early copy of which is in one of the collections in the british museum, date about . each verse ends-- "and 'tis low down in the broom she's waiting there for me." broadsides by disley and such. in a collection of early ballad books in the british museum is "the lady's book of pleasure," printed in cow lane, _circ._ . this contains a ballad that begins-- "as i was a walking one morning in may, i heard a young damsel to sigh and to say, my love is gone from me, and showed me foul play, it was down in the meadow, among the green hay." another, with green bushes in place of green hay, published by hodges of seven dials, b.m. ( , b ). for other versions, see kidson's "traditional tunes"; joyce's "ancient irish music," ; petrie's "ancient music of ireland," . the irish air is not the same as ours. . the broken token. words and melody from robert hard. broadside forms as "the brisk young sailor," or as "fair phoebe"; as "the dark eyed sailor," by such, and wheeler of manchester; and as "the sailor's return," by catnach. a version is published in christie's "traditional ballads," and mr. kidson obtained it in yorkshire to a tune different from ours. the same as ours was noted down by mr. s. reay about - from a ballad singer at durham. . the mole catcher. taken down from j. hockin, south brent, by h. fleetwood sheppard in . the original words were very gross, and i did not note them. in the british museum is an early garland, and in the list of contents on the cover is "the mole catcher," but the song has been torn out, probably for the same reason that prevented me from taking it down. all i copied was the beginning of the song. i have supplemented this with fresh words. . the keenly lode. mr. bussell and i spent a week in at the lugger inn, fowey, collecting songs. we met there one day an old miner, who asked us if we knew "the keenly lode," and on our saying that we did not, he gave us a long song on mining, that, however, lacked point. i have therefore re-composed the song. the air is that employed for "the crocodile," an extravagant ballad, which has been published by miss broadwood in her "county songs." her tune is practically the same as ours, but there are some differences. "the crocodile" is a very popular ballad among old song-men, but no one would care to sing it in a drawing-room or at a concert, because it is vastly silly. "a keenly lode" is a lode that promises well. a "bâll" is a mine in cornish. in cornwall every old man is termed "uncle." we have taken down "the meat pie" to the same air. . may day carol. melody and words noted down a good many years ago by j.s. cayzer, esq. it was sung, till of late years, in my neighbourhood, where a bunch of flowers at the end of a stick was carried about by children. it was customary in england for a lover on may morning to take a green bough to the house of the beloved. if she opened the door and took it in, this was a token of acceptance. at the puritan epoch this custom was altered, and the song was converted into a carol with a moral to it, see "notes and queries," third series, ix. p. ; hone's "every day book," , i. p. ; chambers' "book of days," i. p. . herrick refers to the custom of youths bringing their may bushes to the maids of their choice:-- "a deale of youth ere this is come back, and with white thorn laden home, some have dispatched their cakes and cream, before that we have left to dream." the melody is a very early one in the dorian mode, and resembles that of the carol, "the moon shines bright," broadwood's "county songs," p. . the carol is still sung in cornwall. . the lovers' tasks. this very curious song belongs, as i was told, in cornwall, to a sort of play that was wont to be performed in farmhouses at christmas. one performer, a male, left the room, and entered again singing the first part. a girl, seated on a chair, responded with the second part. the story was this. she had been engaged to a young man who died. his ghost returned to claim her. she demurred to this, and he said that he would waive his claim if she could perform a series of tasks he set her. to this she responded that he must, in the first place, accomplish a set of impossible tasks she would set him. thus was he baffled. "in all stories of this kind," says professor child, "the person upon whom a task is imposed stands acquitted if another of no less difficulty is devised which must be performed first." this ballad and dramatic scene corresponds with that in "cold blows the wind" (no. ). there, in the original, the ghost desires to draw the girl underground, when she is seated on his grave. she objects, and he sets her a task-- "go fetch me a light from dungeon deep, wring water from a stone, and likewise milk from a maiden's breast, that never babe had none." she answers the requirement-- "she stroke a light from out a flint, an icebell squeezed she, and likewise milk from a johnnis' wort, and so she did all three." icebell is icicle. by this means she was quit. in the version i have given i have altered this to suit the song for modern singing. in "the elfin knight," child's "british ballads," no. , an elf appears to the damsel and sets her tasks. if she cannot accomplish these, she must accompany him to the elf world. here we have a substitution of a fairy for a ghost. in an ulster broadside in the british museum ( , k ) we have a later substitution. a low-born gamekeeper gets a damsel of high degree into his power, and will not release her unless she can solve a series of riddles. this she does, and so makes her escape. of the northumbrian ballad, "lay the bent to the bonny broom," child, no. , there are two versions. in one given by miss mason, "nursery rhymes and country songs," a stranger comes to the door of a house where are three sisters, and demands that one shall follow him or answer a series of riddles. then ensues a contest of wit, and the girl escapes the obligation of following the mysterious stranger. who he is is not ascertained. in the other version it is different; he is a knight, and he offers to marry the girl who can solve his riddles. the youngest sister effects this, so he marries her. it is the same in the corresponding cornish ballad of "genefer gentle and rosemarie," originally given by gilbert in his "cornish christmas carols," nd ed., p. , and reprinted by child. to the same category belongs the song, "go no more a-rushing, maids, in may," that we have taken down from several singers, and which is given as well by miss mason, and by chappell, i. p. , where the task is to solve riddles-- "i'll give you a chicken that has no bone, i'll give you a cherry without a stone, i'll give you a ring that has no rim, i'll give you an oak that has no limb." the solution is-- "when the chicken is in the egg it has no bone, when the cherry is in bloom it has no stone, when the ring is a-melting it has no rim, when the oak is in the acorn it has no limb." but the story about the setting of the puzzle has fallen away. we did obtain a ballad in cornwall about the ghost visiting the damsel and demanding that she should keep her engagement, but the metre was not the same as that of the "lovers' tasks." apparently at some remote period a maiden who was pledged to a man was held to belong to him after he was dead, and to be obliged to follow her lover into the world of spirits, unless she could evade the obligation by some clever contrivance. when this idea fell away, either an elf was substituted or a man of low birth, or else the whole story was dropped; or, again, it was so altered that a knight was put in the place of the ghost, and it became the privilege of the shrewd girl who could answer the riddles to be taken as his wife. the setting of hard tasks occurs in german folk-tales, as in "rumpelstiltskin," where the girl has to spin straw into gold. in the "gesta romanorum," ed. osterley, p. , one of the most popular collections of stories in the middle ages, is a corrupt reminiscence of the tale. a king delayed to take a wife till he could find one sagacious enough to make him a shirt without seam out of a scrap of linen three inches square. she retorts that she will do this when he sends her a vessel in which she can do the work. jacques de voragine wrote his "golden legend" in or about . in that he tells this tale. a bishop was about to succumb to the blandishments of the devil in female form, when a pilgrim arrived. either the damsel or the palmer must leave, and which it should be was to be determined by the solution of riddles. the pilgrim solved two. then the fiend in female form asked: "how far is it from heaven to earth?" "that you know best, for you fell the whole distance," replied the palmer, and the fiend vanished. then the pilgrim revealed himself as st. andrew, to whom the bishop had a special devotion. the classic tale of [oe]dipus and the sphinx will be remembered in connection with delivery from death by solving riddles. in norse mythology we have the contest in conundrums between odin and the giant vafthrudnir. the rabbis tell of the queen of sheba proving solomon with hard questions, which are riddles. the historians of tyre, as josephus informs us, recorded that an interchange of riddles went on constantly between solomon and hiram, each being under an engagement to pay a forfeit of money for every riddle that he could not solve. solomon got the best of hiram, till hiram set a tyrian boy to work, who both solved the riddles of solomon, and set others which solomon could not answer. we have a later version of this story in the ballad of king john and the abbot of canterbury, who, unable to solve the king's riddles, set his cowherd to do this, and he accomplished it successfully. we took down the ballad and air from philip symonds of jacobstow, cornwall, also from john hext, two bridges, and from james dyer of mawgan. the burden, "and every grove rings with a merry antine," is curious; _antine_ is antienne--anthem. in "gammer gurton's garland," , the burden is "parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme." in one of motherwell's mss. it stands, "every rose grows merry wi' thyme." these are attempts made to give sense where the meaning of the original word was lost. in _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , is a version from sussex: "sing ivy, sing ivy." . lullaby. noted by me from recollection, as sung by a nurse, anne bickle of bratton clovelly, about . james olver of launceston also knew the tune. the words i have re-composed to the best of my ability. . the gipsy countess. the melody of the first part from james parsons, that of the second from john woodrich. versions also from peter cheriton, shoemaker, oakford, near tiverton; william setter and george kerswell, two bridges, dartmoor. robert browning composed on this theme his poem, "the flight of the duchess," having heard a beggar woman sing the ballad. mrs. gibbons told me she heard the whole ballad sung by her nurse in cornwall, about . the scottish version of the ballad is that of "johnny faa," in allan ramsay's "tea-table miscellany," , from which it passed into all collections of scottish songs. allan ramsay's version turns on a story--utterly unhistorical--that lady jean hamilton, married to the grim covenanter, john, earl of cassilis, fell in love with, and eloped with, sir john faa of dunbar, who came to the castle disguised as a gipsy along with some others. she was pursued, and faa and his companions were hung. no such an event took place. the scotch are wont to take an old ballad, give it local habitation and name, and so make it out to be purely scottish. my impression is that this was an old english ballad dealt with by ramsay. it may have been so adapted for political purposes, as a libel on lady cassilis, who was the mother of bishop burnet's wife. an irish form of the ballad in the british museum ( , k ). for a full account of the "johnny faa" ballad, see child's "english and scottish ballads," no. . he is of opinion that the english ballad is taken from the scottish. i think the reverse is the case. parsons sang right through without division of parts. i have made the division, so as to allow of the use of both airs; but actually the second is a modern corruption of the first, and is interesting as showing how completely a melody may undergo transformation. mr. sharp has given a somersetshire version of the ballad in his "folk songs from somerset," no. . . the grey mare. the melody and a fragment of the song were taken down from j. hockin, south brent, and again from james olver. neither could recall all the words. there are two forms of the ballad on broadsides. both are printed by mr. kidson in his "traditional tunes." mr. sheppard recast the words. . the wreck off scilly. words and melody from james parsons. the ballad as sung consisted of seven verses. broadside by catnach. the last verse in this is nonsense, and i have re-written this verse. under the title "the rocks of scilly," it occurs, in twenty-two verses, in "the sailor's tragedy," glasgow, . . henry martyn. words and melody from roger luxton, halwell. again, from matthew baker, james parsons, and from a shepherd on dartmoor. the versions slightly differed, as far as words went. in one, henry martyn receives his death-wound; in another, it is the king's ship that is sunk by the pirate. mr. kidson has printed two versions of the song in his "traditional tunes," from yorkshire sources. miss broadwood has also collected it, _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , in sussex. henry martyn is a corruption of andrew barton. in , a portuguese squadron seized a richly laden ship, commanded by john barton, in consequence of which letters of reprisal were granted by james iv. to the three sons, andrew, robert, and john, and these were renewed in . hall, in his "chronicle," under , says that king henry viii. being at leicester, tidings reached him that andrew barton so stopped the king's ports that the merchant vessels could not pass out, and he seized their goods, pretending that they were portuguese. sir edward howard, lord high admiral, and sir thomas howard were sent against him. their two ships were separated, but a fight ensued, in which andrew was wounded, and his vessel, the _lion_, was taken. he died of his wounds. the ballad was re-composed in the reign of james i., and this is published in percy's "relicks" and in evans' "old ballads." for an account of sir andrew barton, see child's "english and scottish ballads," no. . the ballad in full in percy's ms. book is in sixty-four stanzas. our form of the ballad is probably earlier, but it is incomplete. i have added the last verse to give a finish to the story. the tune is in the Ã�olian mode. . plymouth sound. melody taken down from roger luxton to a song of this name. there are three songs that go by the title of "plymouth sound" on broadsides, by keys, of devonport, and by such; but all are coarse and undesirable. i have therefore written fresh words to this delicious air. . the fox. in the early part of last century this song was sung at all harvest suppers in the west of england. it is known elsewhere, but not to the same tune. a version of "the fox" in the tenth volume of "notes and queries," , is spoken of as "an old cornish song." in "gammer gurton's garland," _circ._ , is one verse of the song. it occurs in "the opera, or cabinet of song," edinburgh, . halliwell, in his "nursery rhymes," percy soc., , gives a fuller version than ours. he begins-- "the fox and his wife they had a great strife, they never eat mustard in all their life; they eat their meat without fork or knife, and loved to be picking a bone, e-no!" in a collection of songs in the british museum is the ballad on a broadside by harkness of birmingham. it begins-- "the fox went out of a moon-shiny night, when the moon and the stars they shined so bright; i hope, said the fox, we'll have a good night, when we go to yonder town, o! mogga, mogga, reynard. the wheel it goes round, and we'll tally-ho th' hounds, and i wish i was through the town, o!" the tune we give was taken down from james parsons. there were two other airs to which it was sung in other parts of england. these i give-- [music: the fox, ii.] [music: iii.] . furze bloom. the melody from roger luxton to the words of the ballad, "gosport beach," which could not possibly be inserted here. i have accordingly written fresh words to it, embodying the folk-saying in devon and cornwall-- "when the furze is out of bloom, then love is out of tune." . the oxen ploughing. this song was known throughout devon and cornwall at the beginning of the th century. it went out of use along with the oxen at the plough. we found every old singer had heard it in his boyhood, but none could recall more than snatches of the tune and some of the words. we were for three years on its traces, always disappointed. then we heard that there was an old man at liskeard who could sing the song through. mr. sheppard and i hastened thither, to find that he had been speechless for three days, and that his death was hourly expected. one day i found an old white-headed and white-bearded man cutting ferns in the hedges at trebartha in cornwall. his name was adam landry. we got into conversation. i had heard he was a singer, and i asked after this especial song. he knew it. i sat down among the cut fern and learned it from him, singing it over and over till i had it by heart, and then drove home eighteen miles, warbling it the whole way, and went to my piano and fixed it. later we found a labouring man, joseph dyer, at mawgan-in-pyder, who could sing the song through. mr. sharp has also taken this down note for note in north devon from an old farmer, mr. lake of worlington, who remembered the use of oxen ploughing. a very similar folk-song is found in france, with its refrain, naming the oxen-- "aronda, vironda, charbonné, maréchaô, motet et roget, mortaigne et chollet, ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! mon mignon, he! he! he! he! he! he! mon valet." see george sand's account of the song in "le mare au diable," c. ; tiersot, _op. cit._, p. . . flora, the lily of the west. two melodies have been noted down to this ballad, one from matthew baker, the old cripple on lew down, the other from samuel fone. the first is identical with one obtained in yorkshire by mr. kidson. the words are on broadsheets by such, fortey, barr of leeds, etc. in the original the lover betrayed by flora stabs to the heart the "lord of high degree" who has supplanted him-- "i walked up to my rival with a dagger in my hand, and seized him from my false love, and bid him boldly stand; then, mad with desperation, i swore i'd pierce his breast, and i was betrayed by flora, the lily of the west." he is tried for murder, but "a flaw was in the indictment found," and he escapes the gallows. and the ballad winds up-- "although she swore my life away, she still disturbs my rest, i must ramble for my flora, the lily of the west." i have thought it well to cut out the murder and the trial. the ballad has clearly an irish origin, what air is used for it in ireland i am unable to say. it has been generally accepted that the ending of a phrase on the same three notes is characteristic of irish music. it is not more so than of english folk airs. "flora, the lily of the west" was wont to be sung annually at the revel at st. breward's on the bodmin moors, and can be traced back there to . there henry hawken, sexton at michaelstow, hard by, acquired it, and from him the first melody was taken down as well by the rev. w.j. wyon, vicar of st. issey, in . . the simple ploughboy. this charming ballad was taken down, words and music, from j. masters, bradstone. the broadside versions that were published by fortey, hodges, taylor of spitalfields, ringham of lincoln, and pratt of birmingham, are all very corrupt. the version of old masters is given exactly as he sang it, and it is but one instance out of many of the superiority of the ballads handed down traditionally in the country by unlettered men, to those picked up from the ballad-mongers employed by the broadside publishers. a version of the song, "it's of a pretty ploughboy," is given in the _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , as taken down in sussex. the words are very corrupt, and they closely resemble those on broadsides. . fair lady pity me. taken down from a labouring man at exbourne. the melody is ancient and dates from the tudor period. the words are a fragment from "the noble lord's cruelty," "roxburgh ballads," ed. ebsworth, vi. - . its date is before . but that was to be sung to the tune, "dainty come thou to me," which is in chappell, ii. p. . a ballad, "the four wonders of the land," printed by p. brocksby, - , was set to the tune, "dear love regard my grief," which are the initial words of this song, and shows that already the long ballad had been broken up. this song has already been given, arranged by dr. bussell, who took it down, in "english minstrelsie," iv. p. . . the painful plough. words and melody from roger huggins, mason, lydford. it is in reality a much longer song. under the title of "the ploughman's glory" it runs to verses. bell gives in his "ballads of the english peasantry." it is found on broadsides. in the original it consists of a contention between a ploughman and a gardener as to which exercises the noblest profession. our air is not the same as that to which the song is sung in the midlands and south-east of england. dr. barrett gives the song in his "english folk-songs," no. , to a north country air. . at the setting of the sun. this very curious ballad has been taken down twice, from samuel fone by mr. sheppard, and again by mr. cecil sharp from the singing of louie hooper and lucy white at hambridge, somerset, to a different air. fone had forgotten portions of the song. the man who mistakes his true love for a swan because she had thrown her apron over her head as a protection from the rain is tried at the assizes for the murder-- "in six weeks' time when the 'sizes came on, young polly appeared in the form of a swan, crying jimmy, young jimmy, young jimmy is clear, he never shall be hung for the shooting of his dear." and he is, of course, acquitted. in fone's version she appears in dream to her lover as a swan, and comforts him, but the sequel of the story he could not recall. the ballad is found in a fragmentary condition in kent-- "o cursed be my uncle for lendin' of a gun. for i've bin' and shot my true love in the room of a swan." and the apparition of the girl says-- "with my apron tied over me, i 'peared like unto a swan, and underneath the green tree while the showers did come on." this was heard in , sung by a very old man at a harvest supper at haverstall doddington, near faversham. the transformation of the damsel into a swan stalking into the court is an early feature, and possibly the ballad may be a degraded form of a very ancient piece. this ballad, arranged as a song with accompaniment by mr. ferris tozer, has been published by messrs. weeks. mr. sharp has given the song to a different air in his "folk-songs from somerset," no. . . all jolly fellows that follow the plough. this song is very generally known. we have picked up four variants of the tune. miss broadwood gives one from oxfordshire and one from hampshire, but hers lack the chorus. mr. c. sharp has also gathered three. he says: "i find that almost every singer knows it, the bad singers often know but little else. perhaps it is for this reason that the tune is very corrupt, the words are almost always the same." in the second verse we have the breakfast described as consisting of bread and cheese and stingo. in miss broadwood's version the breakfast consists of cold beef and pork; the drink is not specified. . the golden vanity. taken down, words and air, from james oliver. the ballad was printed as "sir walter raleigh sailing in the lowlands, showing how the famous ship called the _sweet trinity_ was taken by a false galley; and how it was recovered by the craft of a little sea-boy, who sunk the galley," by coles, wright, vere, and conyers ( - ). in this it is said that the ballad is to be sung "to the tune of the lowlands of holland," and in it there is ingratitude shown to the poor sea-boy of a severe character. in this version there are fourteen verses. it begins-- "sir walter raleigh has built a ship, in the netherlands. and it is called the _sweet trinity_, and was taken by the false gallaly, sailing in the lowlands." it has been reprinted in child, no. , as also the earliest form of the ballad from the pepys collection. by writing some of the words as "awa'" and "couldna'," it has been turned into a scottish ballad. under the form of "the goulden vanity," it is given with an air (of no value) in mrs. gordon's "memoirs of christopher north," , ii. p. , as sung at a convivial meeting at lord robertson's, by mr. p. fraser of edinburgh. we obtained the same ballad at chagford as "the yellow golden tree." "sir walter raleigh," says mr. ebsworth, in his introduction to the ballad in the "roxburgh ballads" (v. p. ), "never secured the popularity, the natural affection which were frankly given to robert devereux, the earl of essex. raleigh was deemed arrogant, selfish, with the airs of an upstart, insolent to superiors, unconciliating with equals, and heartlessly indifferent to those in a lower position. the subject of the ballad is fictitious--sheer invention, of course. the selfishness and ingratitude displayed by raleigh agreed with the current estimate. he certainly had a daughter." in the ballad in the pepys collection the _sweet trinity_, a ship built by sir walter raleigh, has been taken by a galley of a nationality not specified. he asks whether any seaman will take the galley and redeem his ship: the reward shall be a golden fee and his daughter. a ship-boy volunteers and with his auger bores fifteen holes in the galley and sinks her, and releases the _sweet trinity_. then he swims back to his ship and demands his pay. the master will give golden fee but not his daughter. the ship-boy says, farewell, since you are not so good as your word. in the stall copy of the ballad, the master refuses to take the boy on board after he had sunk the galley, and threatens to shoot him, and the boy is drowned. then he is picked up, is sewed in a cow-hide and thrown overboard. mr. kidson has obtained no less than four different versions from sailors. a version from sussex is in _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. . another in miss broadwood's "english county songs." it is also in ferris tozer's "sailors' songs and chanties." the black letter ballad of "sir walter raleigh sailing in the lowlands low ... or the _sweet trinity_" was priced in russell smith's catalogue, £ , s. . the bold dragoon. words and melody taken down by w. crossing, esq., many years ago, from a labouring man on dartmoor, now dead. the words were very corrupt. we took down the words and tune from moses cleve at huckaby bridge, dartmoor. an early version of the words as "the jolly trooper," in "the lover's garland," n.d., but of the beginning of the th century. the original is too coarse for reproduction and is lengthy. i have condensed the ballad and softened it down. the press mark in the british museum is , , c . . trinity sunday. melody noted down by t.s. cayzer, esq., in , at post bridge, from a moor man. the original words were unsuitable, a broadside ballad of a murder.[ ] i have written fresh words. [footnote : printed on broadside by catnach as "oxford city."] in connection with this charming air, i will give mr. cayzer's account of taking it down in , which he has kindly extracted for me from his diary:--"this air, together with 'as johnny walked out' (no. ), i got from dartmoor; nor shall i soon forget the occasion. the scene was a lonely one (i think two bridges, but it may have been post bridge). it had been raining all day. there was not a book in the house, nor musical instrument of any kind, except two hungry pigs and a baby that was being weaned. towards nightfall there dropped in several miners and shepherds, and i well remember how the appearance of these gentiles cheered us. we soon got up a glorious fire--such a fire as peat only can make, and drew the benches and settles round. by the friendly aid of sundry quarts of cyder i, before long, gained the confidence of the whole circle, and got a song from each in turn; and noted down two that were quite new to me: no easy matter, considering that they were performed in a strange mixture of double bass and falsetto. the action with which they accompanied the singing was extremely appropriate. they always sing standing." many a similar evening have mr. sheppard, mr. bussell, and i spent in like manner over the peat fire with the burly, red-faced moor men and shepherds, standing to sing their quaint old songs, and very happy evenings they have been. the same melody was taken down by miss wyatt edgell from an old woman near exeter, in . the words sung to it related to the same oxford tragedy, but were a version different from the stall copy. . the blue flame. melody taken down by mr. w. crossing, from an old moor man, to "rosemary lane." roger luxton and james parsons also sang "rosemary lane" to the same air. the words are objectionable. moreover, in other parts of england, this broadside song is always sung to one particular air. we therefore thought it well to put to our melody entirely fresh words. it was a common belief in the west of england that a soul after death appeared as a blue flame; and that a flame came from the churchyard to the house of one doomed to die, and hovered on the doorstep till the death-doomed expired, when the soul of the deceased was seen returning with the other flame, also as a flame, to the churchyard. . strawberry fair. melody taken down from james masters. this is a very old song. it is found with music in "songs and madrigals of the th century," published by the old english plain-song society, . the ballad was recast "kytt has lost her key," which is given by dr. rimbault in his "little book of songs and ballads gathered from ancient music books," , p. . we have been forced to re-write the words, which were very indelicate. the air was used, in or about , by beuler, a comic song writer, for "the devil and the hackney coachman"-- "ben was a hackney coachman sure, jarvey! jarvey!--here i am, your honour." i have never found a singer who had any knowledge of beuler's song, but all have heard "strawberry fair," and some men of seventy or eighty years of age say they learned it from their fathers. . the country farmer's son. taken down from james woolrich, a labourer, at broadwood widger. the original ballad, "the constant farmer's son," is found on a broadside by ross of newcastle. i have re-written the song. the fine, robust tune belongs to the end of the th century. see _folk-song journal_, i. p. . . the hostess' daughter. taken down from j. masters, bradstone. the coarseness of the original words obliged me to re-write the song. . the jolly goss-hawk. melody taken down from h. westaway to "the nawden song," which begins-- "i went to my lady the first of may, a jolly goss-hawk and his wings were grey, come let us see who'll win my fair ladye--you or me." to the nd of may is "a two twitty bird," then "a dushy cock," a "four-legged pig," "five steers," "six boars," "seven cows calving," "eight bulls roaring," "nine cocks crowing," "ten carpenters yawing," "eleven shepherds sawing," "twelve old women scolding." mr. c. sharp has taken it down in somersetshire. a scottish version in chambers' "popular rhymes of scotland," ; as "the yule days," a northumbrian version; "the xii. days of christmas," with air not like ours, in "northumbrian minstrelsy," newcastle, , p. . a breton version, "gousper ou ar ranad" in "chansons populaires de la basse bretagne," by luzel, , p. . the west of england song has got mixed up with the "goss hawk," another song. see "the fond mother's garland," b.m. ( , , c ). a companion song to this is "the bonny bird," given further on in this collection, no. . the song, in devonshire, goes by the name of "the nawden song." . the song of the moor. the melody was taken down at merrivale bridge, dartmoor, from a quarryman named nankivel, commonly known as "old capul." to this air he sang a farcical ballad, "the infant," quite unworthy of it. i have, accordingly, written fresh words to a really good swinging tune. the original began as follows-- "o when i was an infant, to london i did go, among the french and spaniards my gallantry to show. and when i reached the eastern shore, i let my head hang down, i tripped over baganells (?) and never touched the ground. fal-de-ral-de, etc. "so when i reached the eastern shore, i met a giant high, he lookèd down upon me, and bade me pass him by. he challenged me to dance and sing, to whistle and to run, i beat him out of all his wits, and kill'd him when i'd done. "the people in amazement stood, to see what i had done, they gave me silver plate, about a fifty ton. i made myself a little box, about three acres square, i filled it to the very top, with my bright silver ware." and so on through a string of absurdities. it is apparently a modernised version of "the jovial broomman," by r. climsall, published by r. harper, - . "roxburgh ballads," ed. chappell, i. p. . . on a may morning so early. this melody belongs to the ballad "i'm seventeen on sunday." this begins-- "as i walked out one may morning, one may morning so early, o there i spied a fair pretty maid all on the dew so pearly. with a fa-la-la, with a fa-la-la, all on the dew so pearly. "o where are you going my fair pretty maid? o where are you going my lambie? then cheerfully she answered me, on an errand for my mammie. "how old are you, my fair pretty maid? how old are you, my honey? then cheerfully she answered me, i'm seventeen on sunday." for good reasons we could not give the words as taken down, so mr. sheppard wrote fresh words to the tune. the ballad was obtained from roger huggins, lydford, and from william bickle, bridestowe, but it is known and sung throughout devon and cornwall. the original ballad was altered by burns to "the waukrife mammy" for johnson's "museum," iv. p. , and allan cuningham also arranged a song on the same theme, as the original was objectionable. lyle gives it in his "ballads," , saying: "this ballad, in its original dress, at one time, from my recollection, was not only extremely popular, but a great favourite among the young peasantry of the west of scotland. to suit the times, however, we have been necessitated to throw out the intermediate stanzas, as their freedom would not bear transcription, whilst the second and third have been slightly altered from the recited copy." an irish version (re-written) to the irish air, by joyce, "ancient irish music," , no. . he says: "i cannot tell when i learned the air and words of this song, for i have known them as long as my memory can reach back. for several reasons [the original words] could not be presented to the reader." burns, when forwarding the ditty to johnson, said of it: "i picked up this old song and tune from a country girl in nithsdale; i never met with it elsewhere in scotland." the words may be found on broadsheets, printed by such and by bebbington, manchester. mr. kidson has recovered several versions in yorkshire, and one is given in the _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , as taken down in sussex, and two were in vol. ii. p. noted down by mr. sharp in somerset. our tune is in the dorian mode. . the spotted cow. words and air from james parsons, j. helmore, h. smith, and j. woodrich. mr. sharp has also taken it down in n. devon and in somerset. the earliest form of the words is found in a garland printed by angus of newcastle, b.m. ( , , c ). there are later broadside versions. the words also in fairburne's "everlasting songster," _circ._ . mr. kidson gives the song in his "traditional tunes," p. , but to a melody different from ours. about dr. berg set the song, recast in a scotch form: "as jamie gang'd blithe his way along the banks of tweed," to be sung at ranelagh. as sung, the ballad consists of four lines in a stanza, and the two last are repeated; and it is in seven stanzas. to shorten the ballad i have made each stanza consist of six lines. our tune is not that of dr. berg. but it is redolent of the art-music of the th or early th century, and hardly possesses the character of folk-made song. still, it is very freely sung by old people in devon and somerset. . three jovial welshmen. taken down from "old capul," nankivel, merrivale bridge. the song is given in halliwell's "nursery rhymes of england," . it is probably a very old ballad, for in a ballad, "choice of inventions," printed by f. coles, - , in the roxburgh collection (ed. chappell, i. p. ), is given a pot-pourri of scraps, "several sorts of the figure three," and it begins-- "there were three men of gotham, as i've heard say, that needs would ride a hunting upon st. david's day. through all the day they hunting were, yet no sport could they see, untill they spide an owle as she sate on a tree. the first man said 'twas a goose, the second man said nay, the third man said 'twas a hawke, but his bells were falne away." the tune to which it was to be sung was "rock the cradle, sweet john," for which, see chappell, i. p. . another, and more modern version, is that of "the three jovial huntsmen"-- "it's of three jovial huntsmen an' a hunting they did go; an' they hunted, an' they hallo'd, an' they blew their horns also," which has been illustrated by caldecott. the original ballad is in "the woody chorister," b.m. ( , e ). this is one of the ballads mr. incledon johns heard sung on the outskirts of dartmoor in , mentioned in his book, already noticed, published in . a version, "six jovial welshmen," is given in vol. i. p. , _folk-song journal_, from sussex. it runs-- "it's of six jovial welshmen, six jovial men were they, and they would all a hunting ride, upon st. david's day. then fill each glass and let it pass, no sign of care betray, we'll drink and sing, 'long live the king!' upon st. david's day." "when crook-back'd richard wore the crown, as regent of the land, no policy could pull him down, nor his proud foe withstand. a tribute he from them did seek, which they refused to pay, and in their caps they wore a leek, upon st. david's day. then fill each glass, and let it pass, etc." this is probably a re-edition of the older song. . well met, well met, my own true love. the words are a cento from the lengthy ballad of the "carpenter's wife," which, as we have taken it down, consists of twenty verses. the black letter broadside, "the carpenter's wife," is a peculiarly interesting ballad. it is the story of one jane reynolds of plymouth, who had plighted her troth to a seaman. as they were about to be married, he was pressed and carried off to sea. three years later, news arrived that he was dead, and then she married a carpenter, and lived with him for five years, and bore him three children. at the end of seven years an evil spirit assumed the likeness of her dead lover, and appeared to her, and induced her to leave with him. he carried her off, and she was never seen again. the husband, in despair, hung himself. such is the theme of a lengthy ballad in the roxburgh collection, ed. chappell, iii. p. . there are copies as well in the pepys and ewing collections. it was printed by f. coles ( - ), gilbertson ( - ), vere ( - ), and w. oney ( - ). it was a sorry composition. now, the traditional ballad, as compared with the printed ballad, is superior at every point. it begins abruptly with the address of the sailor to the carpenter's wife, without the long story that precedes his attempt to cajole her to elope. moreover, there is in it no intimation that the tempter is an evil spirit in the form of the dead lover, and when she has eloped, she pines not for three, but for her one babe, whom she has deserted. thirteen of the verses of the traditional ballad are found in "the rambler's garland," b.m. ( , c ). a form closely resembling our devon ballad is in buchan's "ballads of the north of scotland," i. p. , but is longer, consisting of twenty-six stanzas. kinloch, motherwell, and laidlaw have also portions of it. laidlaw, in a letter to scott, january , , says of the ballad, as sung to him by walter grieve: "he likewise sung part of a very beautiful ballad which i think you will not have seen.... the tune is very solemn and melancholy, and the effect is mixed with a considerable proportion of horror." see child, no. . the printed ballad that is in the roxburgh collection is, i feel convinced, a clumsy re-writing of the earlier ballad, so as to convey a moral, as its title implies, "a warning to married women." james harris is the demon lover. in the traditional ballad, when the carpenter's wife has eloped, she falls into deep depression-- "i do not weep for your gold, she said, nor do i weep for your fee, but by the masthead stands my baby dead, and i weep, i weep for my dead babie.... "she had not a-been upon the seas but six days of the week, before that she lay as cold as clay and never a word, one word did speak. "they had not a-been upon the seas of weeks but three and four, but down to the bottom the ship did swim and never was heard of, heard of more." there is another ballad running on somewhat similar lines, "the undutiful daughter," who is in like manner enticed away; but the ship will not proceed, and lots are cast who is to be thrown overboard. the lot falls on the girl, and she is cast into the sea, but the body swims before the ship and reaches land first. this ballad we have taken down several times. the last verse (six) i have added to make some sort of conclusion to the song. what the air is to which the ballad is sung in scotland i do not know. . poor old horse. words and melody from matthew baker. the song is given in bell's "ballads of the english peasantry," p. , as sung by the mummers in the neighbourhood of richmond, yorkshire. he says: "the rustic actor who sings this song is dressed as an old horse, and at the end of every verse the jaws are snapped in chorus. it is a fine composition, and is now ( ) printed for the first time." this is not so; it has long existed on broadside by hodges of seven dials, and such, etc. the midland air of the song in mason's "nursery rhymes and country songs," . mr. kidston has obtained several versions of the song in yorkshire and lancashire. a fine setting was sung at the folk-song competition at kendal in . it is given in _folk-song journal_, vol. i. pp. and . in "sailors' songs and chanties," boosey & co., the song is given under the title of "the dead horse." in derbyshire, at christmas, boys and young men were wont, and may be still are wont, to go about, one dressed as a horse, with a horse's skull in his hands or affixed to his head; then this song was sung by the attendants and money asked for the feeding of the beast, and the head was made to snap its jaws. the song is also given in topcliff's "melodies of the tyne and wear," n.d., but _circ._ , and is also found on broadsides by such. mr. sharp has given a version in his "folk-songs from somerset," no. . . the dilly song. an almost endless number of versions of this song have been taken down, and have been sent to us. it is known throughout cornwall, and is, indeed, still sung in the chapels. when a party of amateurs performed the "songs of the west" in cornwall, , the dilly song always provoked laughter among the good folk at the back of the halls. this puzzled the performers, till they learned that folk laughed because this was their familiar chapel hymn. in the text i have given the version of the words with least of the religious element in them. here are some of the other versions-- . "god's own son, or christ's natures"; or "the strangers o'er the wide world rangers"; or "the lily-white maids." . "three is all eternity"; "three are the thrones." the strangers are probably the wise men from the east. . "the gospel preachers"; "the evangelists." . "the ferryman in the boat"; "the nimble waiters." . "the cherubim watchers"; "the crucifix"; "the cherrybird waiters." . "the crown of heaven"; "the seven stars." . "the great archangel"; "the angels"; "the daybreak." . "the nine delights," _i.e._ the joys of mary; "the moonshine." . "the commandments"; "begin again." . "the eleven disciples"; "they that go to heaven." there are similar verses in german and flemish; a scottish version in chambers' "popular rhymes," , p. . also found in brittany: luzel, "chansons populaires," , p. . there is a mediæval latin form, beginning "unus est deus." a hebrew form is printed in mendez: "service for the first night of the passover," london, ; a moravian form in wenzig: "slavischer märchen-schatz," , p. . it is also sung in the eifel, schmitz: "sitten u. bräuche des eifler volkes," trier, , p. . a greek form is in sanders: "volksleben der neugriechen." see also: coussemaker, "chants populaires des flamands," gand, ; villemarqué, barzas breis, , and later editions. the lily-white boys are probably the gemini, or sign for spring. in the "queen-like closet, or rich cabinet," , are instructions for embroidering emblems of the months. "may is to be clothed in a robe of _white and green_, and his sign must be gemini." "the ferryman in the boat" is perhaps charon. in other versions five is the dilly-bird, or the dilly-hour, "when blooms the dilly-flower." some are obviously merely adopted as rhymes, as "six the crucifix." in cornwall and devon the song goes by the name of "the dilly song." what the meaning of "dilly" is must remain uncertain. possibly it signifies the festal song (welsh, _dillyn_, pretty, gay). the song used to be sung by eton boys. it was introduced by sir arthur sullivan into "the yeomen of the guard"; he, i believe, heard it sung by a sailor. his melody bears a certain relationship to ours. the song requires to be sung by at least two persons, a questioner and the responder. . country dance. this dance tune, called "the mallard," because of some silly words that go to it relative to the gobbling up of a mallard. it begins-- "oh, what have i ate, and what have i ate? i have eaten the toe of a mallard. toe and toe, nevins and all, and i have been to ballery allery, and so good meat was the mallard." the singer proceeds to eat the foot, then the leg, the thigh, the rump, the wing, the back, the breast, the neck, the head; and then the dance was concluded. a breton version in luzel, p. . i have written fresh words to the tune. this tune is in the dorian mode. as sung by j. masters, the e was sharpened in the rd bar but flattened on the repetition of the same phase in the penultimate bar. mr. sheppard, when arranging the song, flattened the e throughout. it must be one thing or the other. flattened throughout, it makes a charming melody, but the last flattened e was probably due to the singer's memory failing him in the latter part of the air, but serving him at the beginning of the tune. mr. sharp has accordingly retained the e natural throughout. the opening phrase is similar to the plain-song easter carol, "_o filii et filiæ_." this was a melody used in french folk-song for the welcoming in of spring. in fact, a may song. it forced its way into the service of the church, and was adopted and used for the easter sequence. see tiersot, _op. cit._, pp. , . it is certainly curious finding the same in devonshire folk-music. neither mr. sheppard nor i observed it; it was pointed out by mr. sharp. . constant johnny. words and melody taken down from roger luxton. it was a dialogue, and so mr. sheppard had arranged it. such lover dialogues are and were very commonly sung in farmhouses. ravenscroft gives one in broad devonshire in his "brief discourse," , entitled, "hodge trellindle and his zweethart malkyn." our ballad seems to be based on "doubtful robin and constant nanny," _circ._ , in the "roxburgh ballads." these dialogue songs between a lover and his lass were very popular. addison, in _the guardian_ of , gives snatches of a west country ballad of this kind, and shows how vastly superior it is to the pastorals of dresden china shepherds and shepherdesses of pope and philips. . the duke's hunt. words and melody taken from james olver, again at stoke gabriel, again at mary tavy, again at menheniot. this is a mere cento from a long ballad, entitled "the fox chase," narrating a hunt by villiers, second duke of buckingham, in the reign of charles ii. it is in the roxburgh collection, and was printed by w. oury, _circ._ . the ballad is there said to be sung "to an excellent tune, much in request." we suspect that the melody we give is the original tune handed down traditionally, and never before published. mr. sharp has noted down the same song and melody from a singer at east harptree, somerset. . the bell ringing. words and air from william george kerswell, two bridges, dartmoor; sung also by james down, blacksmith, broadwood widger. broadbury down is the highest ridge of land between dartmoor and the atlantic. . a nutting we will go. taken down from j. gerrard, an old man, nearly blind, at cullyhole, near chagford, from robert hard, and again at menheniot, and also from james parsons. bunting, in his "irish melodies," , gives the same tune to a fragment of the same words, and says that he took it down in from duncan, a harper. duncan remembered a portion of a tune he had heard, perhaps, from english soldiers, and eked it out with some other tune. then came s. lover, and he took this air from bunting, and wrote to it "the lowbacked car." but the original melody is found, not only in devon and cornwall, but also in the north, and mr. kidson gives it in his "traditional tunes," as "with henry hunt we'll go," a song sung in manchester in connection with the arrest of hunt in . to the same air was set "the plains of waterloo." "the lowbacked car" has become popular through its words, and the inartistic quality of a patchwork tune has been forgiven for their sake. the words "the nutgirl" occur on broadsides by fortey, such, etc. see ballads collected by crampton, b.m. ( , , h), and ( , b ); but these are without the chorus. the printed broadside has lost somewhat. for gerard's-- "his voice rang out so clear and stout, it made the horse-bells ring," it gives-- "his voice was so melodious, it made the valleys ring." the broadside ballad consists of fourteen verses, and is very gross. i have had to considerably tone down the words. an earlier broadside by pitts has the chorus. the same air was employed for the ballads, "in january last, on monday at morn," for "the brags of washington," , for "calder fair," and "to rodney we will go." it is given in the third edition of "scotch, irish, and foreign airs," glasgow, . a version is in _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , as taken down in sussex. this version begins-- "and as this brisk young farmer was ploughing up his land, he called to his horses and bade them gently stand. he sat himself down a song to begin, his voice was so melodious, made the valleys to ring. and as this brisk young damsel was nutting in the wood, his voice was so melodious, it charmed her as she stood; she had no longer power in that lonely wood to stay, and what few nuts she'd got, poor girl, she threw them all away." . down by a river side. taken down from the singing of james townsend, holne. he had learned it from his grandfather, who had been parish clerk of holne for fifty years and died in , over eighty years old. a version, recovered in surrey, is given in the _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. . . the barley rakings. taken down from roger hannaford, lower widdecombe, dartmoor. the words exist in broadside versions by such, bingham of lincoln, robertson of wigton, etc. such's version consists of six verses, the others of four. hannaford's verses and were unlike those of bingham and robertson, but resembled and of such. he had not and of such. he had a curious line in verse : "they had a mind to _style_ and play" (the anglo-saxon _styllan_, to leap or dance), not found in the printed copies. as none of these versions would be tolerable to polite ears, mr. sheppard has modified the words considerably. the melody to which "barley rakings" is sung in other parts of england is wholly different. ours is probably an early dance tune, originally in the mixolydian mode, which has undergone modification in oral transmission. . a ship came sailing over the sea. this curious song was obtained by the late rev. s.m. walker of saint enoder, cornwall, from a very old man in his parish, and it was sent me by miss octavia l. hoare. we heard the same from old sally satterley at huckaby bridge, dartmoor. she was the daughter of an old crippled singing man on the moor. i have told the story of the way in which she as a young bride with her husband took possession of a house built all in one day, in my dartmoor idylls, "jolly lane cott." sally is now dead, and her house has been rebuilt and vulgarised. one verse, running-- "i put my finger into the bush thinking the sweetest rose to find, i prickt my finger to the bone, and yet i left the rose behind," is found in "the distressed virgin," a ballad by martin parker, printed by j. coles, - . parker seems to have taken the lines into his ballad from one previously existing. two of the stanzas, and , occur in the scottish song, "wally, wally up the bank," in "orpheus caledonicus," , no. ; the stanzas and in the song in "the scot's musical museum," - , vi. p. . in "the wandering lover's garland," _circ._ , are two of the verses worked into another ballad. we took down the song a third time from william nichols of whitchurch, near tavistock. it was a song of his grandmother's, who seventy years ago was hostess of the village inn. . the rambling sailor. words and music from roger hannaford. a hornpipe tune. there are several versions of this on broadsides. originally the song was "the rambling soldier," and so appears at the middle and latter end of the th century. then some poetaster of catnach's re-wrote it as "the rambling sailor," destroying all the point and wit of the original, which wit and point were not very choice. but as in the west, the ditty is set to a hornpipe tune, we have retained the song as one of a sailor, only modifying the words where objectionable. the earliest copy of "the rambling soldier" that i have seen was in the possession of dr. barrett; a later copy, _circ._ , by whiting of birmingham, ballads, b.m. ( , c ). "the rambling sailor," by disley, _circ._ , in ballads collected by crampton, b.m. ( , ), vol. viii. mr. sharp has taken this song and air down in n. devon and somerset four or five times, in every case with a flattened th in the mixolydian mode. our version is clearly a modernised edition of the older tune. . willie combe. this ballad is known throughout the length and breadth of cornwall, but it is sometimes mixed up with another, "the alternon volunteer." we have taken it down at least a score of times. some of those from whom we have had it are thomas morris, parish clerk of fowey; j. libby, coachman at tredethy, bodmin; anthony pascoe, liskeard; and anne painter, east looe. the incident referred to in the ballad is the accidental shooting of william combe or coome of st. agnes, at the revel or village feast at crantock in . in the parish register at this date is the entry: "william coome of st. agnes, a youth about years of age, who att the ffeast att this parish rec'd his death of a shot; buried may ." crantock feast is on may . there are a good many more verses in the original than are here given. they have no poetic merit; and the tune is not very original, but has a certain plaintive sweetness. . midsummer carol. words and tune from william aggett of chagford. a very early and curious melody of the same date as the "may day carol," no. ; and the words belong to a similar custom. compare with this "lemonday" in our "garland of country songs." originally doubtless an Ã�olian, perhaps a dorian tune, that has been corrupted and modernised. . the blackbird. the melody and words taken down from james parson, roger hannaford, and john voysey, labourer, lew down. i re-wrote the ballad for the first edition, but in this i have restored the original words, only slightly modifying them. a broadside version has nine stanzas, and ends-- "so here's a health to the bird in the bush, likewise to the linnet and thrush; for birds of a feather will all flock together, let their parents say little or much." the same ballad in lyle's collection, , "from recollection; air plaintive and pastoral." a broadside version of this ballad in nine stanzas by williamson of newcastle. song and air are given also in kidson's "traditional tunes," , as taken down in yorkshire; but that version of the melody is inferior to ours. a welsh version of the tune comes nearer to ours. . the green bed. taken down from j. masters. we heard "the outlandish knight" sung to the same melody by richard gregory on dartmoor. "the green bed" exists as a broadside ballad in six double verses. mr. sheppard has re-written the ballad, and has condensed the story. the air somewhat resembles "the girl i left behind me." see "philander's garland," _circ._ , b.m. ( , , c ). see _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. . . the loyal lover. words and air from sally satterley, huckaby bridge, again from anne roberts, scobbetor, widdecombe. the words exist in part in "collin and phoebe's garland," b.m. ( , , c ). but this has two verses only. see also _the lover's magazine_, london, , b.m. ( , , c ). this air has been harmonised in the dorian mode, though as the th of the scale is absent, it might have been treated as an Ã�olian tune. . the streams of nantsian. properly "the streams of lovely nancy." taken down by miss templer from the singing of harvesters in ; also by us from matthew ford, menheniot; matthew baker, lew down; and james oliver, launceston. matthew baker said that he learned it, when aged ten, in . the ballad was printed by keys of devonport, _circ._ , with four verses, of which verse was an importation from another ballad. in other broadside versions, the short original, consisting of four verses only, has been swelled out with scraps from other ballads to fill available space. broadsides by catnach, whiting of birmingham, etc. . the drunken maidens. taken down from edmund fry, lydford. this old ballad is found in "charming phillis' garland," _circ._ . it is in a broadside by crashaw of york, reprinted in logan's "pedlar's pack," , p. . the last verse has had to be modified. a breton version, "merc'hed caudan," is given by luzel, ii. . . tobacco is an indian weed. this old and famous song was written, it is thought, by george withers, as mr. collier found a copy of it in ms. of the date of james i., with his initials to it. it is found in "merry drollery complete," , and on a broadside dated . we give the tune to which it is sung around dartmoor and in cornwall; this is entirely distinct from that to which it is sung elsewhere, as printed by chappell, ii. p. , which is the air given by d'urfey in his "pills to purge melancholy," , iii. . a somerset version was sung at the folk-song competition at frome, . snatches of the song are given in "handy andy," so that we may assume that it is also well known among the irish peasantry; another instance of the way in which english songs have travelled into ireland. we took down our tune from john potter, merripit, postbridge, and from anne roberts, scobbetor, and h. westaway, belstone; also one obtained from an old man at newton abbot, sent to me. in the original ballad, reprinted in bell's "songs and ballads of the english peasantry," there are many more stanzas than we can give here. . fair susan slumbered. music taken down from george cole, quarryman, rundlestone, dartmoor. the words were so utterly worthless that mr. sheppard wrote a fresh copy of verses to the melody. cole's first verses ran-- "in yonder grove sat a lovely creature, who she is, i do not know; but i'll go court her for her feature, whether she'll answer me yes or no! "o maiden i am come a-courting if your favour i can gain; if that you will but entertain me, then i'm sure i'll call again." the original words are to be found in "the vocal library," london, , no. , : "as a fair maid walked." . the false bride. words and music taken down from old sally satterley. the earliest copy in print with which i am acquainted is in "the new pantheon concert," , b.m. ( , , e ). a re-writing of the theme is on a broadside by such, "when i heard he was married i stood not alone"; it is no. . see also a "collection of old ballads," in the b.m., vol. i. p. , "the forlorn lover." mr. c. sharp has obtained a fine air to the same words, and has published it in "folk-songs from somerset," no. . . barley straw. taken down from the singing of mr. g.h. hurell, the blind organist at chagford, as he heard it sung by a carpenter, william beare, in . the words were very coarse, consequently mr. sheppard re-wrote the song. the air was used by a.s. rich, without its most characteristic passages, for hunneman's comic "old king cole," pub. _circ._ . much the same tune is in akerman's "wiltshire tales," , as a wiltshire harvest home, p. . harmonised in the Ã�olian mode, though the seventh of the scale is absent. . death and the lady. this was first sent to me by captain hall munro, of ingesdon house, newton abbot, as sung by an old man there. subsequently we obtained the same from roger hannaford. this is quite different from the "dialogue of death and the lady," found in black letter broadsides, and given by bell in his "songs of the english peasantry," p. . the tune to this latter is given by chappell, i. p. . in carey's "musical century," , is given the air of "death and the lady" as "an old tune." but this melody and ours have nothing in common. what is the signification of "branchey tree" in connection with death, i am at a loss to say. "death and the lady" was one of the ballads sung by farmer williams in "the vicar of wakefield." . both sexes give ear to my fancy. this old song is a favourite with the peasantry throughout england. the words are printed in bell's "songs of the english peasantry," p. . he says, "we have had considerable trouble in procuring a copy of the old song, which used, in former days, to be very popular with aged people resident in the north of england. it has been long out of print, and handed down traditionally. by the kindness of mr. s. swindells, printer, manchester, we have been favoured with an ancient printed copy." in the original the song consists of ten verses. the earliest copy of it that i know is in "the lady's evening book of pleasure," about . it will be found in a collection of garlands made by mr. j. bell about , and called by him "the eleemosynary emporium." it is in the british museum. the air is found in "vocal music, or the songster's companion," nd ed., , to the song, "farewell, ye green fields and sweet groves," p. . it was taken into "the tragedy of tragedies, or tom thumb," , as the air to "in hurry, posthaste for a licence," and was attributed to dr. arne. in "die familie mendelssohn," vol. ii., is a scrap of music written down by felix mendelssohn, dated leipzig, th august , which is identical with the first few bars of this melody. but the earliest form of the air is in j.s. bach's "comic cantata," where a peasant sings it. we took the song down from john rickards, lamerton, and again from j. benney, menheniot. mr. kidson prints a yorkshire version in his "traditional tunes," . miss l. broadwood has noted it down from the singing of a baker at cuckfield, sussex. dr. barrett gives our melody to "the gallant hussar," no. . we have also taken it down to this ballad; so has mr. sharp in somerset. . i rode my little horse. words and music from edmund fry, lydford, and again from john bennett, a labourer at chagford, and from john hunt, a shepherd, postbridge. compare with this the ballad in d'urfey's "pills to purge melancholy," named "jolly roger twangdillo," , i. p. . a broadside copy of the ballad exists, printed by jennings, of waterlane, london, _circ._ . the same theme is used in a ballad in the pepysian collection. see ebsworth, "roxburgh ballads," vii. . each verse ends-- "i vow i will marry, but i know not when." . among the new-mown hay. bell, in his "ballads and songs of the peasantry," p. , gives this song. he says that it is "a village version of an incident which occurred in the cecil family." tennyson composed his "lord of burleigh" on the same topic. so did moore his song, "you remember helen, the hamlet's pride." but it may well be questioned whether either of these compositions comes up to the grace of the little "village version" of the tale. the ballad, however, is probably earlier than the cecil marriage, and refers to some other legendary mésalliance. henry cecil, afterwards earl and still later first marquis of exeter, saw, loved, and married a farmer's daughter named sarah hoggins, at bolas magna in staffordshire, in , he under the assumed name of john jones. she was then aged seventeen, and he aged thirty-seven. moreover, he was married at the time to miss vernon, a worcestershire lady, to whom he had been united in . in , henry cecil obtained a divorce from his wife, emma vernon, and then was married in his proper name to sarah hoggins, at st. mildred's, bread street, in the city of london. not fully six years later the "cottage countess" died; and after three years the widower espoused a divorcée, sometime wife of the eighth duke of hamilton. happily no question as to the legitimacy of the children arose. henry, the eldest, was not born till . he died the same year; but his brother, brownlow, born two years later, lived to succeed his father in . these plain facts take away most of the romance of the story of the "cottage countess." moreover, henry cecil did not meet his sarah among the new-mown hay. he arrived at bolas in a chaise in a snow-storm, late in november , and was lodged for a few nights in the farm. there he saw sarah, who with friends was dancing. she was then only fifteen and a half years old. cecil left, but returned in eighteen months and married her, as already said, under an assumed name, and before he was quit of his first wife. the whole story has been told in _chambers's edinburgh journal_, part (sixth series), december , . melody taken down from james dingle, coryton. . i'll build myself a gallant ship. the words are a cento from a long ballad. the complete song was taken down from j. watts, quarryman, thrushleton. the entire ballad is in logan's "pedlar's pack," p. . there are several broadside versions. a scottish version in herd, "ancient and modern scottish songs," , ii. p. . the air to which this is sung in scotland is that to which burns composed "of a' the airts the wind can blaw." joyce gives an irish version in his "ancient irish music," no. . besides watts' ballad, we had the fragment we give to the same air from richard cleave, since dead, at the "forest inn," huckaby bridge. never shall i forget the occasion. mr. bussell and i drove across dartmoor in winter in a furious gale of wind and rain to huckaby in quest of an old man who, we had been informed, was a singer. we found the fellow, but he yielded nothing, and our long journey would have been fruitless, had we not caught richard cleave and obtained from him this air, which drive cost me a bronchitis attack that held me a prisoner for six weeks. the song is given under the title "the lowlands of holland," in the _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , as taken down in sussex. . colly my cow. this is a portion of an old ballad in the roxburgh collection, ed. chappell, iii. p. -- "little tom dogget, what doest thou mean, to kill thy poor colly now she's so lean? sing oh! poor colly, colly my cow; for colly will give me no more milk now. pruh high, pruh hoe, pruh high, pruh hoe, pruh, pruh, pruh, pruh, pruh, pruh, pruh, tal-dal daw." printed by t. passinger ( - ) at the seven stars on london bridge. the ballad is also found in the rawlinson collection and elsewhere. it was afterwards sung in a shortened form at the concerts in marylebone gardens, and is printed in "the marylebone concert," n.d. in the heading to the old ballad we have-- "a country swain of little wit, one day did kill his cow, because she went astray." but it is probable that the song originally turned on a different theme. on the th september , a man was killed by a protestant in the rue de la harpe, at paris, for singing the song "de colas." this song was composed by a seditious faction, with the intent of provoking the huguenots, upon the subject of a cow which had walked into one of their conventicles during the performance of divine service. the cow, which belonged to a poor peasant named colas, was killed by the huguenots for her sacrilegious act. thereupon the catholics made a collection in every town and village in france to raise a sum for the indemnification of colas. the day after the murder the singing of the song of "colas his cow," was forbidden under the penalty of the gallows, and it was even dangerous for anyone to hum the tune in the street ("concert room anecdotes," , ii. p. ). the song must have been brought to england and adapted to english words after the restoration, and as the story of the occasion of the killing of the cow was forgotten, it was altered. the tune is very old, and we had it from an aged woman at kingsweare, who sang "the abbot of canterbury" to it. but this has its own tune, given by chappell, i. p. . i have added the final verse. . within a garden. taken down from harry smith, two bridges, dartmoor. the original words were so poor, and so closely resembled those of "the broken token" (no. ), that mr. shepherd wrote fresh words. the original began-- "a fair maid walking in her garden, a brisk young sailor came passing by; and he stepped up to her, thinking to woo her, and said, 'fair maid, can you fancy i?' "'you seem to talk like some man of honour, some man of honour, you seem to be; how can you fancy such a poor young woman, not fit your servant for to be?'" the ballad is published by such as "the young and single sailor," no. . it is also in "the vocal library," london, , p. . it was printed on broadside by catnach as "the sailor's return." we obtained it again from james parsons. . the bonny bird. always sung as "my bonny boy." it is the companion song to the "jolly goss hawk" (no. ). words and melody from mary langworthy, stoke fleming. we have taken this down from two other singers, but not to the same tune; one j. doidge, of chillaton, gave us an air characteristic and good. miss broadwood has the song in her "county songs," pp. - , but to a different melody. in all the versions taken down from oral recitation, the word is boy and not bird, but _bird_ is the original word. the ballad was printed by j. coles, - , and by w. thackeray, - , and is in the douce collection of early broadsides in the bodleian library; also in the pepysian collection, and is printed by ebsworth in the roxburgh ballads, viii. p. . it was originally sung to "cupid's trepan," also called "up the green forest," and "bonny, bonny bird." this air is given by chappell, ii. p. , but this differs from our tune entirely, as also from that given by miss broadwood. the ballad has not, as yet, been traced earlier than the reign of charles ii. it begins-- "once i did love a bonny brave bird, and thought he had been all my own; but he loved another far better than me, and has taken his flight and is flown, bonny boys, and has taken his flight and is flown. "up the green forest, and down the green forest, like one distracted in mind, i hoopt and i hoopt, and i flung up my hood, but my bonny bird i could not find." a later version is found, _circ._ , in single sheet broadsides, in the british museum ( , ). "cupid's trepan or up the green forest" was priced in russell smith's catalogue at £ , s. d. . the lady and apprentice. taken down twice, the tune here given is that sung with these words by samuel fone. we got the melody also from sally satterley, but with her the words were in confusion. the ballad runs on the same lines, and is almost identical with "the lady who fell in love with a 'prentice boy," printed as a broadside by pitts, - ; also by harkness of preston. a copy in the british museum ( , d). this ballad begins like that of "cupid's garden," which is well known. but the ballad is a mere cooking up by a balladmonger of the earlier theme, and very badly done. the melody is actually the same as that of "love's tale" in our "garland of country song." . paul jones. taken down from a good many singers on and around dartmoor. the melody is in the mixolydian mode, and is very early and rugged, far older than the period of paul jones himself. mr. c. sharp says: "in my opinion the tune should perhaps never be harmonised at all. the whole air is cast in the chord of the dominant th, and, in the opinion of most authorities, this chord should end the song; but in view of the popular preference for a concord rather than a discord as the concluding harmony, i have ended with the usual cadence." paul jones was the terror of our coasts; he was born near kirkcudbright in . his real name was john paul. when the rupture took place between great britain and america, he enlisted under the revolutionary flag, and assumed the name of paul jones. his daring disposition, and his knowledge of the british coast, pointed him out as a fitting leader in marauding schemes. towards the end of he was actively employed, as commander, in fitting out the _ranger_ privateer, mounting eighteen guns, and manned with a crew of men. we have not the space for narrating his daring exploits; his life has often been written, and a good notice of him will be found in the "dictionary of national biography." the fight described in the ballad took place on september , . the body of paul jones was removed from paris, where he died, to america in . the ballad is found on broadsides. it is given by logan in his "pedlar's pack," p. . dr. barrett, in his "english folk-songs," no. , has the ballad to the tune we have given here to "the bonny blue kerchief," to which paul jones is quite unsuited. . the merry haymakers. this quaint carol-like song was taken down from john woodrich, who learned it, about , and he says that it was his father's favourite song, also from james parsons. neither knew the words in their entirety, but they may be found in "west country garlands," b.m. ( , , b ), and among the broadsheets of pitts, about the beginning of the nineteenth century, beginning "in the merry month of june." the words also in bell's "ballads of the english peasantry," p. . dr. brushfield of budleigh salterton has kindly sent me a ms. copy of the end of the seventeenth century or early in the eighteenth. the words, however, did not fit the tune comfortably, and i was constrained to re-write the song. "the merry haymakers" is in d'urfey's "pills," and as a broadside printed by c.b. (bates), , was priced in russell smith's catalogue, , at three guineas. . in bibberly town. the air taken down from john bennett, chagford. in broadsides the place is "beverley town," and is entitled "the beverley maid and the tinker," printed by catnach, b.m. ( , c ); as "the tinker's frolic," in a garland in the british museum, printed by swindells, manchester ( , , b ); as "the tinker and chambermaid," a broadside by harkness, preston ( , d). it begins-- "in beverley town a maid did dwell, a buxom lass, i knew her well. her age it was just twenty-two, and for a man she had in view." it is a coarse ballad, and mr. sheppard re-wrote it. the first phrase in the melody is apparently a modernised edition of an older one. the rest of the air is ancient, and in the mixolydian mode. . the marigold. this ballad was first taken down by davies gilbert in from an old man named john hockin, in his eighty-sixth year, at st. erth, cornwall. the melody, which is very early, was, curiously enough, used by william aggett for hook's song, "on board the ninety-eight." hook was born in , and the melody is probably two centuries earlier than his time. there was another bristol ballad, "the honour of bristol, showing how the angel gabriel of bristol fought with three spanish ships, who boarded us seven times, wherein we cleared our decks, and killed five hundred of their men, and wounded many more, and made them flye into cales when we lost but three men, to the honour of the angel gabriel of bristol," priced in russell smith's catalogue at £ , s. d. we have taken down the ballad, "come all ye worthy christian men," to this melody, which is in the dorian mode. a fragment of this latter ballad is given in _folk-song journal_, vol. i. p. , taken down in sussex, in five verses. we have had it twice: once from j. dingle, coryton, and once as learned in by george radford, from a blind fiddler at washfield, near tiverton, and "pricked down" by h. pinkney, gardener, washfield. mr. sharp has also met with it in rackenford, n. devon. the air in sussex is not the same. in "hakluyt's voyages," vol. iii. ( ), is an account of "the voyage of the ship called the marigold of mr. hill of redrife unto cape breton and beyond, to the latitude of degrees and a half, , written by rd. fisher, master hille's man of redriffe." so also hakluyt mentions "the marigold tunnes in burthen, furnished with men, whereof ten were mariners," which is stated to have "departed out of falmouth, the st june, ," commanded by richard strong, "bound for an island within the straights of s. peter on the backe side of newfoundland to the s.w. in the lat. of degrees." in latimer's th century "annals of bristol" is mention made of a ship "the marigold," under the date - , of seventy tons, owned by mr. ellis. it was granted letters of marque to prey upon the enemy's commerce; but no mention is made of sir thomas merrifield. the _redrife_ above is redcliffe, bristol. bristol was spelled _bristow_ in maps of the city published in and , but in one of it is spelled bristoll. i have been unable to find sir thomas merrifield in any lists of knights; but before the reign of james i. no official record of knights was kept. . arthur le bride. taken down from sam fone, mary tavy, by mr. bussell, in . sam told us that this was his father's favourite song. he had learned it from his father when he was quite a child, for the elder fone deserted his family, and was never heard of again. but one day sam, when aged eighteen, saw a workman standing at a cottage door, talking to someone within, and he had his hand against the door-post, clutching it as he leaned forward. sam exclaimed: "that's my father's hand!" the man turned about, and without showing his face, walked away. when sam came from his work in the evening he made enquiries, and ascertained that a stranger had been lodging in the cottage for a few nights, but was gone. he asked the woman of the house about her lodger. "well," said she, "i don't know his name, nor nothing about him. but he asked me for a tallow candle, and melted it up into his boots." "that was my father. it was a trick of his," said sam, promptly. and that was the last ever seen of the man. there was one more verse in the original, omitted to reduce the lengthy ballad to singable proportions. . the keeper. this song was taken down from peter sandry, st. ervan's. he had a bad cold, and could not reach the upper notes. but we got the same tune from mr. jas. ellis, chaddlehanger, lamerton, and also from miss templer, from the singing of harvesters in ; but in both these latter cases to the words of "green broom." a copy of the ballad will be found in a "garland," b.m., , , c ; but this has a chorus to it-- "jack my master, sing you well, very well, with my derry down, with my down, down, down." i have been compelled to re-write most of the song, which in the original is very gross. it is certainly an ancient composition. . the queen of hearts. sung by a workman engaged on the burrow-tor reservoir at sheepstor, the water supply for plymouth, . a quaint little song. it has been printed on broadside by bachelar, b.m., in vol. vi. p. , of several volumes of broadsides i gave to the b.m. this begins-- "o my poor heart, my poor heart is breaking for a false young man, or i am mistaking: he is gone to ireland, for a long time to tarry, some irish girl i am afraid he will marry." this is obviously an addition to fill out space in the broadside. the ballad has a flavour of the period of charles ii. . the owl. this song occurs in part in king henry viii.'s music-book, "deuteromelia," published in . it was set by mr. freeman as a glee in "the essex harmony," vol. i. , p. . in beaumont and fletcher's play, "the knight of the burning pestle," , old merrythought trolls out snatches of songs, and amongst others-- "nose, nose, jolly red nose, and who gave thee this jolly red nose? cinnamon, ginger, nutmegs, and cloves, and they gave me this jolly red nose." mr. bussell noted down the melody from james olver, tanner of launceston, in . of the words, olver could not recall the line that follows "and all the day long the owl is asleep," and i have had to supply what lacked. i give this song because it is interesting to note the changes that the air has undergone since it was performed as a three man's song before king henry viii. it will be noticed that olver has not got all that portion of the song beginning "to whom drink'st thou." chappell has given "of all the birds," in i. p. . on the other hand, in "deuteromelia," only the first verse is given; olver had three. a re-writing of the song "of all the birds on bush or tree" in "the thrush," london, , has two stanzas. the second concerns the lark. . my mother did so before me. this song is based on the old english ditty "my father was born before me," as may be seen at once by comparing the first few lines-- "i am a lusty, lively lad now come to one and twenty, my father left me all he had, both gold and silver plenty. "now he's in grave, i will be brave, the ladies shall adore me, i'll court and kiss, what hurt's in this? my father did so before me." the first appearance of this ballad is in thomas jordan's "london triumphant," . it was taken by d'urfey into his "pills to purge melancholy," vol. i., and . the air appears in the "dancing master" as "jamaca," th edition, , and in those subsequent. the tune we give was taken down to the song from s. fone by mr. sheppard in . "my mother did so before me" occurs without music in "the nightingale," a song-book published in edinburgh, , and is given by logan in his "pedlar's pack," , from a chap-book of . it occurs also on a broadside by pitts of seven dials. it is also in "the quaver," lond. . the tune we have taken down is certainly based on the early air as given in the "dancing master." it is in chappell, ii. p. . . a week's work well done. this popular song, relished by married men, was taken down from richard hard a little over a month before he died. in the original it is much longer. there are in all eleven verses. the first four are concerned with the happiness of the man previous to his marriage. but i find that most singers begin with the fifth verse. the ballad is found in "west country garlands," date _circ._ , b.m., , b . it actually begins thus-- "o when that i was a bachelor brave, enjoying of all that my soul could have; my silver and guineas i then let fly, i cock'd my beaver, and, who but i? "i roved about, and i roved awhile, till all the ladies did on me smile; from noble lady to country joan, both gentle and simple, were all mine own. "my rapier it was a bilboa blade, my coat and waistcoat were overlaid with silver spangles, so neat and gay, as i were a king in some country play. "besides, i had such a flattering tongue, the ladies laughed whene'er i sung; i had a voice so sweet and fine that every lady's heart was mine." . the old man can't keep his wife at home. the curious rugged melody was taken down from a very old fiddler named william andrews, at sheepstor, by mr. bussell. the old fellow did not recall all the words, but remembered the story. according to his account this was a dance tune to which the performers sang in accompaniment to the music and tramp of feet. i have had to re-compose the ballad from the fragment and the story. it bears a family resemblance to "the old couple" given in "the garland of country song," p. . in the story the old man locks his wife out. she threatens to drown herself, and throws a stone into the well. the old man, when he hears the splash, descends, opens the door, and goes forth to see whether his wife really has drowned herself. at once she slips in at the open door and locks him out. the story is very ancient. it occurred in the lost sanscrit book of tales of which persian and arabic and turkish versions exist, and which filtered into europe through greek and latin and hebrew translations. this story came into dolopathos and the seven wise masters. the french and latin versions were made in the th century. but the story had already got to europe through the converted jew, peter alphonsus, who inserted it in his "disciplina clericalis," written in . from this it got into some of the versions of the "gesta romanorum," and finally into boccaccio's "decameron," seventh day, tale . to give the whole story in ballad form would have made the ballad too long; i have therefore reduced it to three verses, and have given it, from the man's point of view, a happier termination. the tune is clearly a bagpipe air with drone. . sweet, farewell. taken down from samuel fone, of mary tavy, in , the music noted by mr. bussell. fone had forgotten the two last lines of verse and the two first of verse . the air is pleasant, but the words are naught. . old adam, the poacher. this curious melody was taken down by mr. bussell from the fiddling of william andrews, sheepstor. we saw the old man a little over a year before his death. he brought out and lent us a collection of ms. violin tunes, but all of these were well-known, old-fashioned dance airs. then he played to us several not in his book that were traditional at sheepstor. this was one of them, a dance tune; but he could not recall the words, only he knew that they told of the adventures of "old adam, the poacher." mr. sheppard arranged this for "english minstrelsy," but did not perceive that the first four lines of air have to be repeated to complete the tune; and in taking the melody from the fiddler, one could not detect at first, not knowing the words, where the tune precisely ended. it seems, however, obvious that there is a repeat of the first strain. i wrote the words. . evening prayer. some fifty years ago this was the only, or almost the only, prayer used by village children. it was said or chanted far more extensively than the lord's prayer. the children had, however, cut down the hymn to one verse. the complete song, as "prayer of the week," was obtained from an old woman in the workhouse at tavistock. where the passage occurs purporting to come from the epistles of st. peter it would be hard to say. the tune, as it stands, is in the major mode, and is so harmonised. but if the last note were g instead of e[flat]--as, indeed, it is in the two previous repetitions of the same phrase--the melody would then be in the phrygian mode. the termination in e[flat] is probably a modern corruption. something very much like this prayer is found throughout europe. here is the quercy version, sung also in poitou, gascony, and brittany-- "father of habit, our lord salutes you. he is at the head, he is at the feet; he is now, he is hereafter. on the bed, when i lie, five angels are me by, two to head and two to feet, the mother of god in the midst, whilst i sleep. i need not fear fire and flame and sudden death," etc. daymard, "chansons populaires," cahors, . it is probably the "white paternoster" referred to in "the miller's tale," by chaucer-- "lord jhesu crist, and seynte benedight, bless this hous from every wikkede wight, fro nyghtesmare werye the witte (white) pater-noster." white, in his "way to the true church," , insists on "the prodigious ignorance" which he found among his parishioners when he entered on his ministrations. he gives what he calls "the white paternoster":-- "white paternoster, saint peter's brother, what hast i' th' one hand? white book leaves. what hast i' th' t'other hand? heaven yate keyes. open heaven yates, and streike hell yates: and let every crysome child creep to its own mother, white paternoster, amen." this, however, is not the same. but in the magical treatise, "enchiridion papæ leonis," rome, , it runs-- "petit pate nôtre blanche que dieu fit, que dieu dit, que dieu mit en paradis. au soir me allant coucher je trouve trois anges à mon lit couchés, un aux pieds, deux au chevet, la bonne vierge marie au milieu, qui me dit que je me arrette, que rien ne doute." this was to be recited thrice at eve, thrice in the morning, and it would secure paradise. the white paternoster was proscribed by the church as superstitious: "le tableau de la vida del parfet crestia," by p. amilha, , p. . see victor hugo, "les miserables," iv. p. . a form used on the cornish moors, and repeated by a boy at alternon, runs-- "ding dong, the parson's bell, very well my mother. i shall be buried in the old churchyard, by the side of my dear brother. my coffin shall be black, two little angels at my back, two to watch, and two to pray, and two to carry my soul away. when i am dead and in my grave, and all my bones are rotten, jesus christ will come again when i am quite forgotten." the boy was taught this by his aunt. in the "townley mysteries," p. , the shepherds watching their flocks by night repeat a form of this prayer. see also ady's "candle in the dark," london, , p. ; also a paper in the _archæologia_, xxvii. p. , by the rev. lancelot sharpe; and halliwell's "nursery rhymes," no. ccxl. * * * * * songs in the first edition omitted from this are-- fathom the bowl. the squire and the fair maid. my lady's coach. an evening so clear. the warson hunt. the rout is out. why should we be dullards sad? nancy. farewell to kingsbridge. something lacking. the wrestling match. broadbury gibbet. the orchestra. fair girl, mind this when you marry. cupid, the ploughboy. come, my lads, let us be jolly. a single and a married life. the saucy ploughboy. the everlasting circle. hunting the hare. dead maid's land. shower and sunshine. the first edition is still kept in stock, so that such persons as desire these ballads, and such others as are retained in this, but treated differently, as duets and quartettes, can obtain them from the publishers. * * * * * [illustration: printed by c.g. roder, limited, willesden junction london, n.w.] provided by google books popular british ballads ancient and modern by various chosen and edited by r. brimley johnson illustrated by w. c. cooke in four volumes volume iii the hermit [illustration: ] |turn, gentle hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way to where yon taper cheers the vale with hospitable ray. "for here forlorn and lost i tread, with fainting steps and slow, where wilds, immeasurably spread, seem length'ning as i go." "forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "to tempt the dangerous gloom; for yonder faithless phantom flies to lure thee to thy doom. here to the houseless child of want my door is open still; and though my portion is but scant, i give it with good will. "then turn to-night, and freely share whateer my cell bestows; my rushy couch and frugal fare, my blessing and repose. "no flocks that range the valley free to slaughter i condemn; taught by that power that pities me, i learn to pity them: "but from the mountain's grassy side a guiltless feast i bring; a scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the spring. "then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; all earth-born cares are wrong: man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long." soft as the dew from heaven descends, his gentle accents fell: the modest stranger lowly bends, and follows to the cell. far in a wilderness obscure the lonely mansion lay-- a refuge to the neighbouring poor, and strangers led astray. no stores beneath its humble thatch required a master's care; the wicket, opening with a latch, received the harmless pair. and now, when busy crowds retire to take their evening rest, the hermit trimmed his little fire, and cheered his pensive guest: and spread his vegetable store, and gaily pressed and smiled; and, skilled in legendary lore, the ling'ring hours beguiled. around, in sympathetic mirth, its tricks the kitten tries, the cricket chirrups on the hearth, the crackling faggot flies. but nothing could a charm impart to soothe the stranger's woe; for grief was heavy at his heart, and tears began to flow. his rising cares the hermit spied, with answering care opprest: and "whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "the sorrows of thy breast? "from better habitations spurn'd, reluctant dost thou rove? or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, or unregarded love? "alas! the joys that fortune brings, are trifling, and decay; and those who prize the paltry things, more trifling still than they. "and what is friendship but a name, a charm that lulls to sleep, a shade that follows wealth or fame, but leaves the wretch to weep? "and love is still an emptier sound, the modern fair one's jest; on earth unseen, or only found to warm the turtle's nest. "for shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, and spurn the sex," he said; but while he spoke, a rising blush his love-lorn guest betray'd. surprised he sees new beauties rise, swift mantling to the view: like colours o er the morning skies, as bright, as transient too. the bashful look, the rising breast, alternate spread alarms: the lovely stranger stands confest a maid in all her charms. [illustration: ] and, "ah! forgive a stranger rude-- a wretch forlorn," she cried; "whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude where heaven and you reside. "but let a maid thy pity share, whom love has taught to stray; who seeks for rest, but finds despair companion of her way. "my father lived beside the tyne, a wealthy lord was he; and all his wealth was mark'd as mine-- he had but only me. "to win me from his tender arms, unnumber'd suitors came, who praised me for imputed charms, and felt, or feigned, a flame. "each hour a mercenary crowd with richest proffers strove; amongst the rest, young edwin bowed, but never talked of love. "in humble, simplest habit clad, no wealth nor power had he; wisdom and worth were all he had, but these were all to me. "and when beside me in the dale, he carolled lays of love, his breath lent fragrance to the gale, and music to the grove. "the blossom opening to the day, the dews of heaven refined, could nought of purity display to emulate his mind. "the dew, the blossom on the tree, with charms inconstant shine: their charms were his, but, woe to me, their constancy was mine. "for still i tried each fickle art, importunate and vain; and, while his passion touch'd my heart, i triumphed in his pain: "till, quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride, and sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he died. "but mine the sorrow, mine the fault, and well my life shall pay; i'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay. "and there, forlorn, despairing, hid, i'll lay me down and die; 'twas so for me that edwin did, and so for him will i." "forbid it, heaven!" the hermit cried, and clasp'd her to his breast: the wondering fair one turn'd to chide-- 'twas edwin's self that prest! "turn, angelina, ever dear, my charmer, turn to see thy own, thy long-lost edwin here, restored to love and thee. "thus let me hold thee to my heart, and every care resign: and shall we never, never part, my life,--my all that's mine? "no, never from this hour to part, we'll live and love so true-- the sigh that rends thy constant heart shall break thy edwin's too." ----o. goldsmith. [illustration: ] |good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song; and if you find it wondrous short,-- it cannot hold you long. elegy on the death of a mad dog |in islington there was a man, of whom the world might say, that still a godly race he ran,-- whene'er he went to pray. [illustration: ] a kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes; the naked every day he clad,-- when he put on his clothes. and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree. this dog and man at first were friends; but when a pique began, the dog, to gain some private ends, went mad, and bit the man. around from all the neighbouring streets the wondering neighbours ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits, to bite so good a man. the wound it seemed both sore and sad to every christian eye; and while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. but soon a wonder came to light, that showed the rogues they lied; the man recovered of the bite, the dog it was that died. ----o. goldsmith. the friar of orders gray |it was a friar of orders gray walkt forth to tell his beades; and he met with a lady faire clad in a pilgrime's weedes. "now christ thee save, thou reverend friar, i pray thee tell to me, if ever at yon holy shrine my true love thou didst see," "and how should i know your true love from many another one?" "o, by his cockle hat, and staff, and by his sandal shoone. "but chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view; his flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyne of lovely blue." "o lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone! and at his head a green grass turfe, and at his heels a stone. "within these holy cloysters long he languisht, and he dyed, lamenting of a ladyes love, and playing of her pride. "here bore him barefac'd on his bier six proper youths and tall, and many a tear bedew'd his grave within yon kirk-yard wall." "and art thou dead, thou gentle youth! and art thou dead and gone! and didst thou die for love of me! break, cruel heart of stone!" "o weep not, lady, weep not soe: some ghostly comfort seek: let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, ne teares bedew thy cheek." "o do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove; for i have lost the sweetest youth, that e'er wan ladyes love. "and nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, i'll evermore weep and sigh: for thee i only wisht to live, for thee i wish to dye." "weep no more, lady, weep no more, thy sorrowe is in vaine: for violets pluckt the sweetest showers will ne'er make grow againe. "our joys as winged dreams doe flye, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy losse, grieve not for what is past." "o say not soe, thou holy friar; i pray thee, say not soe: for since my true-love dyed for mee, 'tis meet my tears should flow. "and will he never come again? will he ne'er come again? ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain. "his cheek was redder than the rose; the comeliest youth was he? but he is dead and laid in his grave: alas, and woe is me!" "sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever: one foot on sea and one on land, to one thing constant never. "hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy; for young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy." "now say not soe, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not soe; my love he had the truest heart: o he was ever true! "and art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, and didst thou dye for mee? then farewell home; for ever-more a pilgrim i will bee. "but first upon my true-love s grave my weary limbs i'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf, that wraps his breathless clay." "yet stay, fair lady: rest awhile beneath this cloyster wall: see through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, and drizzly rain doth fall." "o stay me not, thou holy friar; o stay me not, i pray; no drizzly rain that falls on me, can wash my fault away." "yet stay, fair lady, turn again, and dry those pearly tears; for see beneath this gown of gray thy owne true-love appears. "here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, these holy weeds i sought; and here amid these lonely walls to end my days i thought. "but haply for my year of grace is not yet past away, might i still hope to win thy love, no longer would i stay." "now farewell grief, and welcome joy once more unto my heart; for since i have found thee, lovely youth, we never more will part." ----t. percy. the diverting history of john gilpin [illustration: ] |john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he, of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. "to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the ( bell at edmonton, all in a chaise and pair. "my sister, and my sister's child, myself, and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after me." he soon replied, "i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear, therefore it shall be done. "i am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend the calender will lend his horse to go." quoth mrs gilpin, "that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear." john gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find, that though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed [illustration: ] to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in; six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folks so glad, the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty screaming came downstairs, "the wine is left behind!" "good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise." now mistress gilpin (careful soul!) had two stone bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed. but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. so, "fair and softly!" john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might. his horse, who never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly like streamer long and gay, till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; [illustration: ] and every soul cried out, "well done! as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around; "he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound!" and still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view, how in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw. and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made the horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been. but still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle-necks still dangling at his waist. thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. "stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house!" they all at once did cry; "the dinner waits, and we are tired;" said gilpin--"so am i!" but yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there! for why?--his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. away went gilpin, out of breath, and sore against his will, till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still. the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him: [illustration: ] "what news? what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must and shall-- say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?" now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke: "i came because your horse would come: and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road." the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, returned him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came with hat and wig, a wig that flowed behind, a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in his kind. he held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit: "my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit." "but let me scrape the dirt away, that hangs upon your face; and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case." said john, "it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware." so turning to his horse, he said, "i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine." ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and galloped off with all his might, as he had done before away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first, for why?--they were too big. now mistress gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the "bell," "this shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well." the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein. but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went postboy at his heels, the postboy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing gilpin fly, with postboy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry: "stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. and now the turnpike-gates again flew open in short space; the toll-men thinking, as before, that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopped till where he had got up, he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he! and when he next doth ride abroad, may i be there to see! ----w. cowper. [illustration: ] fair eleanor |the bell struck one, and shook the silent tower; the graves give up their dead: fair eleanor walked by the castle gate, and looked in; a hollow groan ran through the dreary vaults. she shrieked aloud, and sunk upon the steps, on the cold stone her pale cheek. sickly smells of death issue as from a sepulchre. and all is silent but the sighing vaults. chill death withdraws his hand, and she revives; amazed she finds herself upon her feet, and, like a ghost, through narrow passages walking, feeling the cold walls with her hands. fancy returns, and now she thinks of bones and grinning skulls, and corruptible death [illustration: ] wrapt in his shroud; and now fancies she hears deep sighs, and sees pale sickly ghosts gliding. at length, no fancy but reality distracts her. a rushing sound, and the feet of one that fled, approaches.--ellen stood, like a dumb statue, froze to stone with fear. the wretch approaches, crying, "the deed is done! take this, and send it by whom thou wilt send; it is my life--send it to eleanor--: he's dead, and howling after me for blood! "take this," he cried: and thrust into her arms a wet napkin, wrapt about; then rushed past, howling. she received into her arms pale death, and followed on the wings of fear. they passed swift through the outer gate; the wretch howling, leaped o'er the wall into the moat, stifling in mud. fair ellen passed the bridge, and heard a gloomy voice cry, "is it done?" as the deer wounded, ellen flew over the pathless plain; as the arrows that fly by night, destruction flies, and strikes in darkness. she fled from fear, till at her house arrived. her maids await her; on her bed she falls, that bed of joy where erst her lord hath pressed. "ah woman's fear!" she cried, "ah cursed duke! ah my dear lord! ah wretched eleanor! "my lord was like a flower upon the brows of lusty may! ah life as frail as flower! o ghastly death! withdraw thy cruel hand! seek'st thou that flower to deck thy horrid temples? "my lord was like a star in highest heaven drawn down to earth by spells and wickedness; my lord was like the opening eyes of day, when western winds creep softly oer the flowers. "but he is darkened; like the summer's noon clouded; fall'n like the stately tree, cut down; the breath of heaven dwelt among his leaves,' o eleanor, weak woman, filled with woe!" thus having spoke, she raised up her head, and saw the bloody napkin by her side, which in her arms she brought; and now, tenfold more terrified, saw it unfold itself. her eyes were fixed; the bloody cloth unfolds, disclosing to her sight the murdered head of her dear lord, all ghastly pale, clotted with gory blood; it groaned, and thus it spake: "o eleanor, behold thy husband's head, who sleeping on the stones of yonder tower, was reft of life by the accursed duke: a hired villain turned my sleep to death. "o eleanor, beware the cursed duke; o give him not thy hand, now i am dead. he seeks thy love; who, coward, in the night, hired a villain to bereave my life." she sat with dead cold limbs, stiffened to stone; she took the gory head up in her arms; she kissed the pale lips; she had no tears to shed; she hugged it to her breast, and groaned her last. ----w. blake. the whistle |i sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, i sing of a whistle, the pride of the north, was brought to the court of our good scottish king, and long with this whistle all scotland shall ring. old loda, still rueing the arm of fingal, the god of the bottle sends down from his hall-- "this whistle's your challenge, in scotland get oer, and drink them to hell, sir, or ne'er see me old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, what champions ventured, what champions fell; the son of great loda was conqueror still, and blew on the whistle their requiem shrill. till robert, the lord of the cairn and the scaur, unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquerd in war, he drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, no tide of the baltic e'er drunker than he. thus robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, which now in his house has for ages remain'd; till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, the jovial contest again have renew'd. three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw: craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; and trusty glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; and gallant sir robert, deep-read in old wines. craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, desiring glenriddel to yield up the spoil; or else he would muster the heads of the clan, and once more, in claret, try which was the man. "by the gods of the ancients!" glenriddel replies, "before i surrender so glorious a prize, i'll conjure the ghost of the great rorie more, and bumper his horn with him twenty times oer. sir robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, but he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe--or his friend, said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field, and, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. to the board of glenriddel our heroes repair, so noted for drowning of sorrow and care; but for wine and for welcome not more known to fame than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. a bard was selected to witness the fray, and tell future ages the feats of the day; a bard who detested all sadness and spleen, and wish'd that parnassus a vineyard had been. the dinner being over, the claret they ply, and every new cork is a new spring of joy; [illustration: ] in the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, and the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; bright phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, and vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, till cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. six bottles apiece had well wore out the night, when gallant sir robert, to finish the fight, turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, and swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. then worthy glenriddel, so cautious and sage, no longer the warfare ungodly would wage; a high ruling-elder to wallow in wine! he left the foul business to folks less divine. the gallant sir robert fought hard to the end; but who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend? though fate said--a hero shall perish in light; so up rose bright phoebus--and down fell the knight. next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink: "craigdarroch, thou'll soar when creation shall sink! but if thou wouldst flourish immortal in rhyme, come--one bottle more--and have at the sublime! "thy line, that have struggled for freedom with bruce, shall heroes and patriots ever produce: so thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; the field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!" ----r. burns. last may a braw wooer [illustration: ] |last may a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, and sair wi' his love he did deave me; i said there was naething i hated like men, the deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me! the deuce gae wi'm, to believe me! he spak o' the darts in my bonie black e'en, and vow'd for my love he was dying; i said he might die when he liked for jean, the lord forgie me for lying, for lying, the lord forgie me for lying! a weel-stockèd mailen--himsel for the laird-- and marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: i never loot on that i ken'd it, or cared, but thought i might hae waur offers, waur offers, but thought i might hae waur offers. but what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less-- the deil tak his taste to gae near her! he up the lang loan to my black cousin bess, guess ye how, the jad! i could bear her could bear her, guess ye how, the jad! i could bear her. but a' the niest week, as i fretted wi' care, i gaed to the tryst o' dalgarnock, and wha but my fine fickle lover was there! i glower'd as i'd seen a warlock, a warlock, i glower'd as i'd seen a warlock. but owre my left shouther i gae him a blink, lest neebors might say i was saucy; my wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, and vow'd i was his dear lassie, dear lassie, and vow'd i was his dear lassie. i spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, gin she had recover'd her hearin', and how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, but, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin', but, heavens! how he fell a swearin'! he begg'd, for gudesake, i wad be his wife, or else i wad kill him wi' sorrow: so e'en to preserve the poor body his life, i think i maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, i think i maun wed him to-morrow. ----r. burns [illustration: ] john barleycorn [illustration: ] |there was three kings into the east, three kings both great and high; and they hae sworn a solemn oath john barleycorn should die. they took a plough and plough'd him down, put clods upon his head; and they hae sworn a solemn oath john barleycorn was dead. but the cheerfu' spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall; john barleycorn got up again, and sore surprised them all. the sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong, his head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. the sober autumn entered mild, when he grew wan and pale; his bending joints and drooping head show'd he began to fail. his colour sicken'd more and more, he faded into age; and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. they've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, and cut him by the knee; then tied him fast upon a cart, like a rogue for forgerie. they laid him down upon his back, and cudgell'd him full sore; they hung him up before the storm, and turned him o'er and o'er. they fill'd up a darksome pit with water to the brim, they heaved in john barleycorn, there let him sink or swim. they laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still, as signs of life appear'd, they toss'd him to and fro. they wasted, oer a scorching flame, the marrow of his bones; but a miller used him worst of all-- he crushed him between two stones. and they hae ta'en his very heart's blood and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. john barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise, for if you do but taste his blood, 'twill make your courage rise; 'twill make a man forget his woe; 'twill heighten all his joy: 'twill make the widow's heart to sing, though the tear were in her eye. then let us toast john barleycorn, each man a glass in hand; and may his great posterity ne'er fail in old scotland! ----r. burns. lady mary ann |o, lady mary ann looks o'er the castle wa', she saw three bonie boys playing at the ba'; the youngest he was the flower amang them a'; my bonie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. o father! o father! an' ye think it fit, we'll send him a year to the college yet: we'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, and that will let them ken he's to marry yet. lady mary ann was a flower i' the dew, sweet was its smell, and bonie was its hue! and the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew; for the lily in the bud will be bonier yet. young charlie cochrane was the sprout of an aik; bonie and bloomin' and straught was its make: the sun took delight to shine for its sake, and it will be the brag o' the forest yet. the simmer is gane when the leaves they were green, and the days are awa' that we hae seen; but far better days i trust will come again, for my bonie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. ----r. burns. the laird o' cockpen |the laird o' cockpen, he's proud an' he's great, his mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the state; he wanted a wife, his braw house to keep, but favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, at his table head he thought she'd look well, m'clish's ae daughter o' clavers-ha' lee, a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. his wig was weel pouther'd and as gude as new, his waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; he put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat, and wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that? he took the grey mare, and rade cannily, an' rapp'd at the yett o' clavers-ha' lee; "gae tell mistress jean to come speedily ben,-- she's wanted to speak to the laird o' cockpen." mistress jean was makin' the elder-flower wine; "an' what brings the laird at sic a like time?" she put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. an' when she cam' ben he bow'd fu' low, an' what was his errand he soon let her know; amazed was the laird when the lady said "na," and wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. dumfounder'd was he, nae sigh did he gie, he mounted his mare--he rade cannily; an' aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, "she's daft to refuse the laird o' cockpen." ----carolina, lady nairne. _(stanzas added by miss ferrier)_ and now that the laird his exit had made, mistress jean she reflected on what she had said; "oh, for ane i'll get better, its waur i'll get ten, i was daft to refuse the laird o' cockpen." next time that the laird and the lady were seen, they were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green; now she sits in the ha like a weel-tappit hen, but as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at cockpen. [illustration: ] the liddel bower |oh, will ye walk the wood, lady? or will ye walk the lea? or will ye gae to the liddel bower, an' rest a while wi' me?" "the deer lies in the wood, douglas, the wind blaws on the lea; an' when i gae to liddel bower it shall not be wi' thee." "the stag bells on my hills, lady, the hart but and the hind; my flocks lie in the border dale, my steeds outstrip the wind; "at ae blast o' my bugle horn, a thousand tend the ca: oh, gae wi' me to liddel bower-- what ill can thee befa'? "d ye mind when in that lonely bower we met at even tide, i kissed your young an' rosy lips, an' wooed you for my bride? "i saw the blush break on your cheek, the tear stand in your e'e; oh, could i ween, fair lady jane, that then ye lo'ed na me?" "but sair, sair hae i rued that day, an' sairer yet may rue; ye thought na on my maiden love, nor yet my rosy hue. "ye thought na' on my bridal bed, nor vow nor tear o' mine; ye thought upon the lands o' nith, an' how they might be thine. "away! away! ye fause leman, nae mair my bosom wring: there is a bird within yon bower, oh, gin ye heard it sing!" red grew the douglas' dusky cheek, he turned his eye away, the gowden hilt fell to his hand; "what can the wee bird say?" it hirpled on the bough an' sang, "oh, wae's me, dame, for thee, an' wae's me for the comely knight that sleeps aneath the tree! "his cheek lies on the cauld, cauld clay, nae belt nor brand has he; his blood is on a kinsman's spear; oh, wae's me, dame, for thee!" "my yeomen line the wood, lady, my steed stands at the tree; an' ye maun dree a dulefu' weird, or mount and fly wi' me." what gars caerlaverock yeomen ride sae fast in belt an' steel? what gars the jardine mount his steed, and scour owre muir and dale? why seek they up by liddel ford, an down by tarras linn? the heiress o' the lands o' nith, is lost to a' her kin. oh, lang, lang may her mother greet, down by the salt sea faem; an' lang, lang may the maxwells look, afore their bride come hame. an' lang may every douglas rue, an' ban the deed for aye:-- the deed was done at liddel bower about the break of day. ----j. hogg. ellen irwin; or, the braes of kirtle [illustration: ] |fair ellen irwin, when she sate upon the braes of kirtle, was lovely as a grecian maid adorned with wreaths of myrtle; young adam bruce beside her lay, and there did they beguile the day with love and gentle speeches, beneath the budding beeches. from many knights and many squires the bruce had been selected; and gordon, fairest of them all, by ellen was rejected. sad tidings to that noble youth! for it may be proclaimed with truth, if bruce hath loved sincerely, that gordon loves as dearly. but what is gordons beauteous face, his shattered hopes and crosses, to them 'mid kirtle's pleasant braes, reclined on flowers and mosses? alas that ever he was born! the gordon, couched behind a thorn, sees them and their caressing; beholds them blest and blessing. proud gordon, maddened by the thoughts that through his brain are travelling,-- rushed forth, and at the heart of bruce he launched a deadly javelin! fair ellen saw it as it came, and, stepping forth to meet the same, did with her body cover the youth, her chosen lover. and, falling into bruce's arms, thus died the beauteous ellen, thus, from the heart of her true-love, the mortal spear repelling. and bruce, as soon as he had slain the gordon, sailed away to spain; and fought with rage incessant against the moorish crescent. but many days, and many months, and many years ensuing, this wretched knight did vainly seek the death that he was wooing: so coming his last help to crave, heart-broken, upon ellen's grave his body he extended, and there his sorrow ended. now ye, who willingly have heard the tale i have been telling, may in kirkconnel churchyard view the grave of lovely ellen: by ellen's side the bruce is laid; and, for the stone upon its head may no rude hand deface it, and its forlorn hic jacet! ----w. wordsworth. [illustration: ] the seven sisters; or, the solitude of binnorie |seven daughters had lord archibald all children of one mother: i could not say in one short day what love they bore each other. a garland of seven lilies wrought! seven sisters that together dwell; but he, bold knight as ever fought, their father, took of them no thought, he loved the wars so well. sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! fresh blows the wind, a western wind, and from the shores of erin, across the wave, a rover brave to binnorie is steering: right onward to the scottish strand the gallant ship is borne; the warriors leap upon the land, and hark! the leader of the band hath blown his bugle horn. sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! beside a grotto of their own, with boughs above them closing, the seven are laid, and in the shade they lie like fawns reposing. but now, upstarting with affright at noise of man and steed, away they fly to left, to right-- of your fair household, father knight, methinks you take small heed! sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! away the seven fair campbells fly, and, over hill and hollow, with menace proud, and insult loud, the youthful rovers follow. cried they, "your father loves to roam: enough for him to find the empty house when he comes home; for us your yellow ringlets comb, for us be fair and kind!" sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! some close behind, some side by side, like clouds in stormy weather, they run, and cry, "nay, let us die, and let us die together." a lake was near; the shore was steep; there never foot had been; they ran, and with a desperate leap together plunged into the deep, nor ever more were seen. sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! the stream that flows out of the lake, as through the glen it rambles, repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, for those seven lovely campbells. seven little islands, green and bare, have risen from out the deep: the fishers say, those sisters fair by fairies are all buried there, and there together sleep. sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, the solitude of binnorie! ----w. wordsworth. the force of prayer or, the founding of bolton's priory. (a tradition.) |what is good for a bootless bene?" with these dark words begins my tale; and their meaning is, whence can comfort spring when prayer is of no avail? "what is good for a bootless bene?" the falconer to the lady said; and she made answer, "endless sorrow!" for she knew that her son was dead. she knew it by the falconer's words, and from the look of the falconer's eye; and from the love which was in her soul for her youthful romilly. young romilly through barden woods is ranging high and low; and holds a greyhound in a leash, to let slip upon buck or doe. the pair have reached that fearful chasm, how tempting to bestride! for lordly wharf is there pent in, with rocks on either side. this striding-place is called the strid, a name which it took of yore: a thousand years hath it borne that name, and shall a thousand more. and hither is young romilly come, and what may now forbid that he, perhaps for the hundredth time, shall bound across the strid? he sprang in glee,--for what cared he that the river was strong, and the rocks were steep? but the greyhound in the leash hung back, and checked him in his leap. the boy is in the arms of wharf, and strangled by a merciless force; for never more was young romilly seen till he rose a lifeless corse. now there is stillness in the vale, and long, unspeaking sorrow: wharf shall be to pitying hearts a name more sad than yarrow. if for a lover the lady wept, a solace she might borrow from death, and from the passion of death;-- old wharf might heal her sorrow. she weeps not for the wedding-day which was to be to-morrow: her hope was a farther-looking hope, and hers is a mothers sorrow. he was a tree that stood alone, and proudly did its branches wave; and the root of this delightful tree was in her husband's grave! long, long in darkness did she sit, and her first words were, "let there be in bolton, on the field of wharf, a stately priory!" the stately priory was reared; and wharf, as he moved along, to matins joined a mournful voice, nor failed at even-song. and the lady prayed in heaviness that looked not for relief! but slowly did her succour come, and a patience to her grief. oh! there is never sorrow of heart that shall lack a timely end, if but to god we turn, and ask of him to be our friend! ----w. wordsworth. albert grÃ�me's song |it was an english ladye bright, (the sun shines fair on carlisle wall,) and she would marry a scottish knight, for love will still be lord of all. blithely they saw the rising sun, when he shone fair on carlisle wall; but they were sad ere day was done, though love was still the lord of all. her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, where the sun shines fair on carlisle wall; her brother gave but a flask of wine, for ire that love was lord of all. for she had lands, both meadow and lea, where the sun shines fair on carlisle wall, and he swore her death, ere he would see a scottish knight the lord of all! that wine she had not tasted well, (the sun shines fair on carlisle wall,) when dead, in her true love's arms, she fell, for love was still the lord of all! he pierced her brother to the heart, where the sun shines fair on carlisle wall:-- so perish all would true love part, that love may still be lord of all! and then he took the cross divine, (where the sun shines fair on carlisle wall,) and died for her sake in palestine, so love was still the lord of all. now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (the sun shines fair on carlisle wall,) pray for their souls who died for love, for love shall still be lord of all! ----w. scott. [illustration: ] harold's song |o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay, that mourns the lovely rosabelle. --"moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! and, gentle ladye, deign to stay, rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. "the blackening wave is edged with white: to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams for bode that wreck is nigh. (_inch_, isle.) "last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch: why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"-- "'tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my ladye-mother there sits lonely in her castle-hall. "'tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide, if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle."-- o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moon-beam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen, 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire, within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high st. clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold-- but the sea holds lovely rosabelle! [illustration: ] and each st. clair was buried there, with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, the dirge of lovely rosabelle. ----w. scott. lochinvar lady herons song. |o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best; and save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, he rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late: for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he enter'd the netherby hall, among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?-- lochinvar s' "i long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide;-- and now am i come, with this lost love of mine to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar." the bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, he quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. she look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, with a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- "now tread we a measure!" said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'twere better by far, to have match'd our fair cousin with young lochinvar." one touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, when they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! "she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong græmes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran: there was racing and chasing, on cannobie lee, but the lost bride of netherby ne er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? ----w. scott. alice brand [illustration: ] |merry it is in the good greenwood, where the mavis and merle are singing, when the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, and the hunters horn is ringing. "o alice brand, my native land is lost for love of you; and we must hold by wood and wold, as outlaws wont to do. "o alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, and 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, that on the night of our luckless flight, thy brother bold i slew. "now must i teach to hew the beech the hand that held the glaive, for leaves to spread our lowly bed, and stakes to fence our cave. "and for vest of pall, thy fingers small, that wont on harp to stray, a cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer, to keep the cold away."-- "o richard! if my brother died, 'twas but a fatal chance; for darkling was the battle tried, and fortune sped the lance. "if pall and vair no more i wear, nor thou the crimson sheen, as warm, we'll say, is the russet grey, as gay the forest green. "and, richard, if our lot be hard, and lost thy native land, still alice has her own richard, and he his alice brand." 'tis merry,'tis merry, in good greenwood, so blithe lady alice is singing; on the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, lord richard's axe is ringing. up spoke the moody elfin king, who wonn'd within the hill,-- like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church, his voice was ghostly shrill: "why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, our moonlight circle's screen? or who comes here to chase the deer, beloved of our elfin queen? or who may dare on wold to wear the fairies' fatal green? "up, urgan, up! to yon mortal hie, for thou wert christen'd man; for cross or sign thou wilt not fly, for mutter'd word or ban. "lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart, the curse of the sleepless eye; till he wish and pray that his life would part, nor yet find leave to die." 'tis merry,'tis merry, in good greenwood, though the birds have still'd their singing; the evening blaze doth alice raise, and richard is fagots bringing. up urgan starts, that hideous dwarf before lord richard stands, and as he cross'd and bless'd himself, "i fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf, "that is made with bloody hands." but out then spoke she, alice brand, that woman void of fear,-- "and if there's blood upon his hand, 'tis but the blood of deer."-- "now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood! it cleaves unto his hand, the stain of thine own kindly blood, the blood of ethert brand." then forward stepp'd she, alice brand, and made the holy sign,-- "and if there's blood on richard's hand, a spotless hand is mine. "and i conjure thee, demon elf, by him whom demons fear, to show us whence thou art thyself, and what thine errand here."-- "'tis merry,'tis merry in fairy-land, when fairy birds are singing, when the court doth ride by their monarch's side, with bit and bridle ringing: "and gaily shines the fairy-land-- but all is glistening show, like the idle gleam that december's beam can dart on ice and snow. "and fading, like that varied gleam, is our inconstant shape, who now like knight and lady seem, and now like dwarf and ape. "it was between the night and day, when the fairy king has power, that i sank down in a sinful fray, and 'twixt life and death was snatched away to the joyless elfin bower. "but wist i of a woman bold, who thrice my brow durst sign, i might regain my mortal mold, as fair a form as thine." she cross'd him once--she cross'd him twice-- that lady was so brave; the fouler grew his goblin hue, the darker grew the cave. she cross'd him thrice, that lady bold; he rose beneath her hand the fairest knight on scottish mold, her brother, ethert brand! merry it is in good greenwood, when the mavis and merle are singing, but merrier were they in dunfermline grey, when all the bells were ringing. ----w. scott. jock of hazeldean |why weep ye by the tide, ladie? why weep ye by the tide? i'll wed ye to my youngest son, and ye sail be his bride: and ye sall be his bride, ladie, sae comely to be seen"-- but aye she loot the tears down fa' for jock of hazeldean. "now let this wilfu' grief be done, and dry that cheek so pale; young frank is chief of errington, and lord of langly-dale; his step is first in peaceful ha, his sword in battle keen"-- but aye she loot the tears down fa' for jock of hazeldean. "a chain of gold ye sail not lack, nor braid to bind your hair; nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, nor palfrey fresh and fair; and you, the foremost o' them a', shall ride our forest queen"-- but aye she loot the tears down fa' for jock of hazeldean. the kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, the tapers glimmer'd fair; the priest and bridegroom wait the bride, and dame and knight are there. they sought her baith by bower and ha'; the ladie was not seen! she's o'er the border, and awa' wi' jock of hazeldean. ----w. scott. davie gellatley's song |false love, and hast thou play'd me this in summer among the flowers? i will repay thee back again in winter among the showers. unless again, again, my love, unless you turn again; as you with other maidens rove, i'll smile on other men. the knight's to the mountain his bugle to wind; the lady's to greenwood her garland to bind. the bower of burd ellen has moss on the floor, that the step of lord william be silent and sure. ----w. scott. elspeth's ballad |the herring loves the merry moon-light, the mackerel loves the wind, but the oyster loves the dredging sang, for they come of a gentle kind. now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, and listen great and sma', and i will sing of glenallans earl that fought on the red harlaw. the cronach's cried on bennachie, and doun the don and a', and hieland and lawland may mournfu' be for the sair field of harlaw.-- they saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, they hae bridled a hundred black, with a chafron of steel on each horse's head, and a good knight upon his back. they hadna ridden a mile, a mile, a mile but barely ten, when donald came branking down the brae wi' twenty thousand men. their tartans they were waving wide, their glaives were glancing clear, the pibrochs rung frae side to side, would deafen ye to hear. the great earl in his stirrups stood, that highland host to see: "now here a knight that's stout and good may prove a jeopardie: "what would'st thou do, my squire so gay, that rides beside my reyne,-- were ye glenallan's earl the day, and i were roland cheyne? "to turn the rein were sin and shame, to fight were wondrous peril,-- what would ye do now, roland cheyne, were ye glenallan's earl?" "were i glenallan s earl this tide, and ye were roland cheyne, the spur should be in my horse's side, and the bridle upon his mane. "if they hae twenty thousand blades, and we twice ten times ten, yet they hae but their tartan plaids, and we are mail-clad men. "my horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, as through the moorland fern,-- then neer let the gentle norman blude grow cauld for highland kerne." ----w. scott. the eve of st. john [illustration: ] |the baron of smaylho'me rose with day, he spurr'd his courser on, without stop or stay, down the rocky way, that leads to brotherstone. he went not with the bold buccleuch, his banner broad to rear; he went not gainst the english yew, to lift the scottish spear. yet his plate-jack was braced, and his helmet was laced, and his vaunt-brace of proof he wore: at his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, full ten pound weight and more. the baron returned in three days' space, and his looks were sad and sour; and weary was his courser's pace, as he reach'd his rocky tower. he came not from where ancram moor ran red with english blood; where the douglas true, and the bold buccleuch, 'gainst keen lord evers stood. yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd his acton pierced and tore, his axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,-- but it was not english gore. he lighted at the chapellage, he held him close and still; and he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, his name was english will. "come thou hither, my little foot-page, come hither to my knee; though thou art young and tender of age, i think thou art true to me. "come, tell me all that thou hast seen, and look thou tell me true! since i from smaylhome tower have been, what did thy lady do?"-- "my lady, each night, sought the lonely light, that burns on the wild watchfold; for, from height to height, the beacons bright of the english foemen told. "the bittern clamour'd from the moss, the wind blew loud and shrill; yet the craggy pathway she did cross, to the eiry beacon hill. "i watch'd her steps, and silent came where she sat her on a stone;-- no watchman stood by the dreary flame, it burned all alone. "the second night i kept her in sight, till to the fire she came, and, by mary's might! an armed knight stood by the lonely flame. "and many a word that warlike lord did speak to my lady there; but the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, and i heard not what they were. "the third night there the sky was fair, and the mountain-blast was still, as again i watch'd the secret pair, on the lonesome beacon hill. "and i heard her name the midnight hour, and name this holy eve; and say, 'come this night to thy lady's bower; ask no bold baron's leave.' "'he lifts his spear with the bold buccleuch; his lady is all alone; the door she'll undo, to her knight so true, on the eve of good st. john.'-- "' i cannot come; i must not come; i dare not come to thee; on the eve of st. john i must wander alone: in thy bower i may not be.'-- "'now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! thou shouldst not say me nay; for the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, is worth the whole summer's day. "'and i'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, and rushes shall be strew'd on the stair; so, by the black rood-stone, and by holy st. john, i conjure thee, my love, to be there!'-- "'though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, and the warder his bugle should not blow, yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to the east, and my footstep he would know.'-- "' o fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east! for to dryburgh the way he has ta'en; and there to say mass, till three days do pass, for the soul of a knight that is slayne.'-- "he turn'd him around and grimly he frown'd; then he laughed right scornfully-- ' he who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, may as well say mass for me. "'at the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power, in thy chamber will i be.'-- with that he was gone, and my lady left alone, and no more did i see." then changed, i trow, was that bold baron's brow, from the dark to the blood-red high; "now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, for, by mary, he shall die!"-- "his arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light: his plume it was scarlet and blue; on his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, and his crest was a branch of the yew."-- "thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, loud dost thou lie to me! for that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, all under the eildon-tree."-- "yet hear but my word, my noble lord! for i heard her name his name; and that lady bright, she called the knight sir richard of coldinghame."-- the bold baron's brow then changed, i trow, from high blood-red to pale-- "the grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- so i may not trust thy tale. "where fair tweed flows round holy melrose, and eildon slopes to the plain, full three nights ago, by some secret foe, that gay gallant was slain. "the varying light deceived thy sight, and the wild winds drown'd the name; for the dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, for sir richard of coldinghame!" he pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower-gate, and he mounted the narrow stair, to the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, he found his lady fair. that lady sat in mournful mood look'd over hill and vale; over tweed's fair flood, and mertoun's wood, and all down teviotdale. "now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!"-- "now hail, thou baron true! what news, what news, from ancram fight? what news from the bold buccleuch?"-- "the ancram moor is red with gore, for many a southern fell; and buccleuch has charged us, evermore, to watch our beacons well."-- the lady blush'd red, but nothing she said: nor added the baron a word: then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, and so did her moody lord. in sleep the lady mourn'd, and the baron toss'd and turn'd, and oft to himself he said,-- "the worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep... it cannot give up the dead!"-- it was near the ringing of matin-bell, the night was well-nigh done, when a heavy sleep on that baron fell, on the eve of good st. john. ' the lady look'd through the chamber fair, by the light of a dying flame; and she was aware of a knight stood there-- sir richard of coldinghame! "alas! away, away!" she cried, "for the holy virgin's sake!"-- "lady, i know who sleeps by thy side; but, lady, he will not awake. "by eildon-tree, for long nights three, in bloody grave have i lain; the mass and the death-prayer are said for me. but, lady, they are said in vain. "by the baron's brand, near tweed's fair strand, most foully slain, i fell; and my restless sprite on the beacon s height, for a space is doom'd to dwell. "at our trysting-place, for a certain space, i must wander to and fro; but i had not had power to come to thy bower, had'st thou not conjured me so."-- love master'd fear--her brow she cross'd; "how, richard, hast thou sped? and art thou saved, or art thou lost?"-- the vision shook his head! "who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; so bid thy lord believe: that lawless love is guilt above, this awful sign receive." he laid his left palm on an oaken beam; his right upon her hand; the lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, for it scorch'd like a fiery brand. the sable score, of fingers four, remains on that board impress'd; and for evermore that lady wore a covering on her wrist. there is a nun in dryburgh bower, ne'er looks upon the sun; there is a monk in melrose tower he speaketh word to none. that nun, who ne'er beholds the day, that monk, who speaks to none-- that nun was smaylho'me's lady gay, that monk the bold baron. ----w. scott. christabel i. [illustration: ] |tis the middle of night by the castle clock, and the owls have awaken'd the crowing cock: tu--whit!-tu--whoo! and hark, again! the crowing cock, how drowsily it crew. sir leoline, the baron rich, hath a toothless mastiff bitch; from her kennel beneath the rock maketh answer to the clock, four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; ever and aye, by shine and shower, sixteen short howls, not over loud: some say, she sees my lady's shroud. is the night chilly and dark? the night is chilly, but not dark. the thin gray cloud is spread on high, it covers but not hides the sky. the moon is behind, and at the full; and yet she looks both small and dull. the night is chill, the cloud is gray: 'tis a month before the month of may, and the spring comes slowly up this way. the lovely lady, christabel, whom her father loves so well, what makes her in the wood so late, a furlong from the castle gate? she had dreams all yesternight of her own betrothed knight; and she in the midnight wood will pray for the weal of her lover that's far away. she stole along, she nothing spoke, the sighs she heaved were soft and low, and naught was green upon the oak, but moss and rarest mistletoe: she kneels beneath the huge oak tree, and in silence prayeth she. the lady sprang up suddenly, the lovely lady, christabel! it moan'd as near, as near can be, but what it is, she cannot tell.-- on the other side it seems to be of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. [illustration: ] the night is chill; the forest bare; is it the wind that moaneth bleak? there is not wind enough in the air to move away the ringlet curl from the lovely lady's cheek-- there is not wind enough to twirl the one red leaf, the last of its clan, that dances as often as dance it can, hanging so light, and hanging so high, on the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. hush, beating heart of christabel! jesu, maria, shield her well! she folded her arms beneath her cloak, and stole to the other side of the oak. what sees she there? there she sees a damsel bright, drest in a silken robe of white, that shadowy in the moonlight shone: the neck that made that white robe wan, her stately neck, and arms were bare; her blue-vein'd feet unsandal'd were; and wildly glitter'd here and there the gems entangled in her hair. i guess,'twas frightful there to see a lady so richly clad as she-- beautiful exceedingly! "mary mother, save me now!" (said christabel), "and who art thou?" the lady strange made answer meet, and her voice was faint and sweet:-- "have pity on my sore distress, i scarce can speak for weariness: stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!" said christabel, "how earnest thou here?" and the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, did thus pursue her answer meet:-- "my sire is of a noble line, and my name is geraldine: five warriors seized me yestermorn, me, even me, a maid forlorn: they choked my cries with force and fright, and tied me on a palfrey white. the palfrey was as fleet as wind, and they rode furiously behind. they spurred amain, their steeds were white; and once we cross'd the shade of night. as sure as heaven shall rescue me, i have no thought what men they be; nor do i know how long it is (for i have lain entranced i wis) since one, the tallest of the five, took me from the palfrey's back, a weary woman, scarce alive. some mutter'd words his comrades spoke: he placed me underneath this oak; he swore they would return with haste; whither they went i cannot tell-- i thought i heard, some minutes past, sounds as of a castle bell. stretch forth thy hand" (thus ended she,) "and help a wretched maid to flee." then christabel stretch'd forth her hand and comforted fair geraldine: "o well, bright dame! may you command the service of sir leoline; and gladly our stout chivalry will he send forth and friends withal to guide and guard you safe and free home to your noble father's hall." she rose: and forth with steps they pass'd that strove to be, and were not, fast. her gracious stars the lady blest, and thus spake on sweet christabel: "all our household are at rest, the hall is silent as the cell, sir leoline is weak in health and may not well awaken'd be, but we will move as if in stealth; and i beseech your courtesy this night, to share your couch with me." they crossed the moat, and christabel took the key that fitted well; a little door she open'd straight, all in the middle of the gate: the gate that was iron'd within and without, where an army in battle-array had march'd out. the lady sank, belike through pain, and christabel with might and main lifted her up, a weary weight, over the threshold of the gate: then the lady rose again, "and moved, as she were not in pain. so, free from danger, free from fear, they cross'd the court; right glad they were. and christabel devoutly cried to the lady by her side, "praise we the virgin all divine who hath rescued: thee from thy distress!" "alas, alas!" said geraldine, "i cannot speak for weariness." so, free from danger, free from fear, they cross'd the court: right glad they were. outside her kennel, the mastiff old lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. the mastiff old did not awake, yet she an angry moan did make! and what can ail the mastiff bitch? never till now she uttered yell beneath the eye of christabel. perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: for what can ail the mastiff bitch? they pass'd the hall, that echoes still, pass as lightly as you will! the brands were flat, the brands were dying, amid their own white ashes lying; but when the lady pass'd, there came a tongue of light, a fit of flame; and christabel saw the lady's eye, and nothing else saw she thereby, save the boss of the shield of sir leoline tall, which hung in a murky old niche in the wall, "o softly tread," said christabel, "my father seldom sleepeth well." sweet christabel her feet doth bare, and, jealous of the listening air, they steal their way from stair to stair, now in glimmer, and now in gloom, and now they pass the baron's room, as still as death, with stifled breath! and now have reach'd her chamber door; and now doth geraldine press down the rushes of the chamber floor. the moon shines dim in the open air, and not a moonbeam enters here. but they without its light can see the chamber carved so curiously, carved with figures strange and sweet, all made out of the carver's brain, for a lady's chamber meet: the lamp with twofold silver chain is fasten'd to an angel's feet. the silver lamp burns dead and dim; but christabel the lamp will trim. she trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright, and left it swinging to and fro, while geraldine, in wretched plight, sank down upon the floor below. "o weary lady, geraldine, i pray you, drink this cordial wine! it is a wine of virtuous powers; my mother made it of wild flowers." "and will your mother pity me, who am a maiden most forlorn?" christabel answer'd--"woe is me! she died the hour that i was born. i have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell, how on her death-bed she did say, that she should hear the castle-bell strike twelve upon my wedding-day. mother dear! that thou wert here!" "i would," said geraldine, "she were!" but soon with alter'd voice, said she-- "off, wandering mother! peak and pine! have power to bid thee flee." alas! what ails poor geraldine? why stares she with unsettled eye? can she the bodiless dead espy? and why with hollow voice cries she, "off, woman, off! this hour is mine-- though thou her guardian spirit be, off, woman, off! 'tis given to me." then christabel knelt by the lady's side, and raised to heaven her eyes so blue-- "alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride-- dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!" the lady wiped her moist cold brow, and faintly said, "'tis over now!" again the wild-flower wine she drank: her fair large eyes gan glitter bright, and from the floor whereon she sank, the lofty lady stood upright: she was most beautiful to see, like a lady of a far countrée. and thus the lofty lady spake-- "all they, who live in the upper sky, do love you, holy christabel! and you love them, and for their sake and for the good which me befell, even i, in my degree will try, fair maiden, to requite you well. but now unrobe yourself; for i must pray, ere yet in bed i lie." [illustration: ] quoth christabel, "so let it be!" and as the lady bade, did she. her gentle limbs did she undress, and lay down in her loveliness. but through her brain of weal and woe so many thoughts moved to and fro, that vain it were her lids to close; so half-way from the bed she rose, and on her elbow did recline to look at the lady geraldine. beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, and slowly rolled her eyes around; then drawing in her breath aloud, like one that shudder'd, she unbound the cincture from beneath her breast: her silken robe, and inner vest, dropt to her feet, and full in view, behold! her bosom and half her side-- a sight to dream of, not to tell! o shield her! shield sweet christabel! yet geraldine nor speaks nor stirs: ah! what a stricken look was hers! deep from within she seems half-way to lift some weight with sick assay, and eyes the maid and seeks delay; then suddenly, as one defied, collects herself in scorn and pride, and lay down by the maiden's side! -- and in her arms the maid she took, ah well-a-day! and with low voice and doleful look these words did say: "in the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, which is lord of thy utterance, christabel! thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, this mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; but vainly thou warrest, for this is alone in thy power to declare, that in the dim forest thou heard'st a low moaning, and found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair: and didst bring her home with thee, in love and in charity, to shield her and shelter her from the damp air." the conclusion to part i. [illustration: ] it was a lovely sight to see the lady christabel, when she was praying at the old oak tree. amid the jagged shadows of mossy leafless boughs kneeling in the moonlight, to make her gentle vows; her slender palms together prest, heaving sometimes on her breast; her face resign'd to bliss or bale-- her face, oh call it fair not pale, and both blue eyes more bright than clear, each about to have a tear. with open eyes (ah woe is me!) asleep, and dreaming fearfully, fearfully dreaming, yet, i wis, dreaming that alone, which is-- o sorrow and shame! can this be she, the lady who knelt at the old oak tree? and lo! the worker of these harms, that holds the maiden in her arms, seems to slumber still and mild, as a mother with her child. a star hath set, a star hath risen, o geraldine! since arms of thine have been the lovely lady's prison. o geraldine! one hour was thine-- thou'st had thy will! by tairn and rill, the night-birds all that hour were still. but now they are jubilant anew, from cliff and tower, tu--whoo! tu--whoo! tu--whoo! tu--whoo! from wood and fell! and, see! the lady christabel gathers herself from out her trance; her limbs relax, her countenance grows sad and soft; 'the smooth thin lids close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds-- large tears that leave the lashes bright! and oft the while she seems to smile as infants at a sudden light! yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, like a youthful hermitess, beauteous in a wilderness, who, praying always, prays in sleep. and, if she move unquietly, perchance,'tis but the blood so free, comes back and tingles in her feet. no doubt, she hath a vision sweet. what if her guardian spirit 'twere? what if she knew her mother near? but this she knows, in joys and woes, that saints will aid if men will call: for the blue sky bends over all! ii. "each matin bell," the baron saith, "knells us back to a world of death." these words sir leoline first said, when he rose and found his lady dead: these words sir leoline will say, many a morn to his dying day! and hence the custom and law began, that still at dawn the sacristan, who duly pulls the heavy bell, five and forty beads must tell between each stroke--a warning knell, which not a soul can choose but hear from bratha head to windermere. saith bracy the bard, "so let it knell! and let the drowsy sacristan still count as slowly as he can! there is no lack of such, i ween, as well fill up the space between." in langdale pike and witch's lair, and dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, with ropes of rock and bells of air three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, who all give back, one after t'other, the death-note to their living brother; and oft too, by the knell offended, just as their one! two! three! is ended, the devil mocks the doleful tale with a merry peal from borrowdale. the air is still! through mist and cloud that merry peal comes ringing loud; and geraldine shakes off her dread, and rises lightly from the bed; puts on her silken vestments white, and tricks her hair in lovely plight, and nothing doubting of her spell awakens the lady christabel. "sleep you, sweet lady christabel? i trust that you have rested well." and christabel awoke and spied the same who lay down by her side-- oh rather say, the same whom she raised up beneath the old oak tree! nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! for she belike hath drunken deep of all the blessedness of sleep! and while she spake, her looks, her air, such gentle thankfulness declare, that (so it seem'd) her girded vests grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. "sure i have sinn'd!" said christabel, "now heaven be praised if all be well!" and in low faltering tones, yet sweet, did she the lofty lady greet, with such perplexity of mind as dreams too lively leave behind. so quickly she rose, and quickly array'd her maiden limbs, and having pray'd that he, who on the cross did groan, might wash away her sins unknown, she forthwith led fair geraldine to meet her sire, sir leoline. the lovely maid and the lady tall are pacing both into the hall, and pacing on through page and groom enter the baron's presence-room. the baron rose, and while he prest his gentle daughter to his breast, with cheerful wonder in his eyes the lady geraldine he espies, and gave such welcome to the same, as might beseem so bright a dame! but when he heard the lady's tale, and when she told her father's name, why wax'd sir leoline so pale, murmuring o'er the name again, lord roland de vaux of tryermaine? alas! they had been friends in youth; but whispering tongues can poison truth; and constancy lives in realms above; and life is thorny; and youth is vain; and to be wroth with one we love, doth work like madness in the brain. and thus it chanced, as i divine, with roland and sir leoline. each spake words of high disdain and insult to his heart's best brother: they parted--ne'er to meet again! but never either found another to free the hollow heart from paining-- they stood aloof, the scars remaining, like cliffs which had been rent asunder; a dreary sea now flows between. but neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, shall wholly do away, i ween, the marks of that which once hath been. sir leoline, a moment's space, stood gazing on the damsel's face: and the youthful lord of tryermaine came back upon his heart again. oh then the baron forgot his age, his noble heart swelled high with rage; he swore by the wounds in jesu's side, he would proclaim it far and wide with trump and solemn heraldry, that they who thus had wrong'd the dame were base as spotted infamy! -. "and if they dare deny the same, my herald shall appoint a week, and let the recreant traitors seek my tourney court--that there and then i may dislodge their reptile souls from the bodies and forms of men!'' he spake: his eye in lightning rolls! for the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned in the beautiful lady the child of his friend. and now the tears were on his face, and fondly in his arms he took fair geraldine, who met the embrace, prolonging it with joyous look. which when she viewed, a vision fell upon the soul of christabel, the vision of fear, the touch and pain! she shrunk and shudder'd, and saw again-- (ah! woe is me! was it for thee, thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) again she saw that bosom old, again she felt that bosom cold, and drew in her breath with a hissing sound: whereat the knight turn'd wildly round, and nothing saw but his own sweet maid, with eyes upraised, as one that pray'd. the touch, the sight, had pass'd away, and in its stead that vision blest, which comforted her after-rest, while in the lady's arms she lay, had put a rapture in her breast, and on her lips and o'er her eyes spread smiles like light! with new surprise, "what ails then my beloved child?" the baron said--his daughter mild made answer, "all will yet be well!" i ween she had no power to tell aught else: so mighty was the spell. yet he, who saw this geraldine, had deemed her sure a thing divine, such sorrow with such grace she blended, as if she feared she had offended sweet christabel, that gentle maid! and with such lowly tones she pray'd, she might be sent without delay home to her father's mansion. "nay! nay, by my soul!" said leoline. "ho! bracy the bard, the charge be thine! go thou, with music sweet and loud, and take two steeds with trappings proud, and take the youth whom thou lov'st best to bear thy harp and learn thy song, and clothe you both in solemn vest, and over the mountains haste along, lest wandering folk that are abroad detain you on the valley road. and when he has cross'd the irthing flood, my merry bard! he hastes, he hastes up knorren moor, through halegarth wood, and reaches soon that castle good which stands and threatens scotland's wastes. "bard bracy! bard bracy! your horses are fleet, ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, more loud than your horses' echoing feet! and loud and loud to lord roland call 'thy daughter is safe in langdale hall! thy beautiful daughter is safe and free-- sir leoline greets thee thus through me. he bids thee come without delay with all thy numerous array, and take thy lovely daughter home: and he will meet thee on the way with all his numerous array white with their panting palfreys' foam: and, by mine honour! i will say that i repent me of the day when i spake words of fierce disdain to roland de vaux of tryermaine! for since that evil hour hath flown, many a summer sun hath shone; yet ne'er found i a friend again like roland de vaux of tryermaine." the lady fell, and clasp'd his knees, her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; and bracy replied with faltering voice, his gracious hail on all bestowing;-- "thy words, thou sire of christabel, are sweeter than my harp can tell; yet might i gain a boon of thee, this day my journey should not be; so strange a dream hath come to me; that i had vow'd with music loud to clear yon wood from thing unblest, warn'd by a vision in my rest! for in my sleep i saw that dove, that gentle bird, whom thou dost love, and call'st by thy own daughter's name-- sir leoline! i saw the same, fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, among the green herbs in the forest alone. which when i saw and when i heard, i wonder'd what might ail the bird; for nothing near it could i see, save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree. "and in my dream methought i went to search out what might there be found; and what the sweet bird's trouble meant, that thus lay fluttering on the ground. i went and peer'd, and could descry no cause for her distressful cry; but yet for her dear lady's sake i stoop'd, methought, the dove to take, when lo! i saw a bright green snake coil'd around its wings and neck. green as the herbs on which it couch'd, close by the dove's its head it crouch'd; and with the dove it heaves and stirs, swelling its neck as she swell'd hers! i woke; it was the midnight hour, the clock was echoing in the tower; but though my slumber was gone by. this dream it would not pass away-- it seems to live upon my eye! and thence i vow'd this self-same day, with music strong and saintly song, to wander through the forest bare, lest aught unholy loiter there." thus bracy said: the baron, the while half-listening, heard him with a smile; then turned to lady geraldine, his eyes made up of wonder and love; and said in courtly accents fine, "sweet maid, lord roland's beauteotis dove, with arms more strong than harp or song, thy sire and i will crush the snake!" he kiss'd her forehead as he spake, and geraldine, in maiden wise, casting down her large bright eyes, with blushing cheek and courtesy fine, she turn'd her from sir leoline; softly gathering up her train, that o'er her right arm fell again; and folded her arms across her chest, and crouched her head upon her breast, and look'd askance at christabel- jesu, maria, shield her well! a snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, and the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, and with somewhat of malice, and more of dread at christabel she look'd askance!-- one moment--and the sight was fled! but christabel in dizzy trance stumbling on the unsteady ground shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound; and geraldine again turn'd round, and like a thing, that sought relief, full of wonder and full of grief, she roll'd her large bright eyes divine wildly on sir leoline. the maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, she nothing sees--no sight but one! the maid, devoid of guile and sin, i know not how, in fearful wise so deeply had she drunken in that look, those shrunken serpent eyes, that all her features were resign'd to this sole image in her mind: and passively did imitate that look of dull and treacherous hate. and thus she stood, in dizzy trance, still picturing that look askance, with forced unconscious sympathy, full before her father's view- as far as such a look could be, in eyes so innocent and blue! and when the trance was o'er, the maid paused awhile, and inly pray'd: then falling at the baron's feet, "by my mothers soul do i entreat that thou this woman send away!" she said: and more she could not say: for what she knew she could not tell, o er-master'd by the mighty spell. why is thy cheek so wan and wild, sir leoline? thy only child lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, so fair, so innocent, so mild; the same, for whom thy lady died! oh by the pangs of her dear mother think thou no evil of thy child! for her, and thee, and for no other, she pray'd the moment ere she died, pray'd that the babe for whom she died, might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! that prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, sir leoline! and wouldst thou wrong thy only child, her child and thine? within the baron's heart and brain if thoughts like these had any share, they only swell'd his rage and pain, and did but work confusion there. his heart was cleft with pain and rage, his cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wild, dishonour'd thus in his old age, dishonour'd by his only child, and all his hospitality to the wrong'd daughter of his friend by more than woman's jealousy brought thus to a disgraceful end-- he roll'd his eye with stern regard upon the gentle minstrel bard, and said in tones abrupt, austere-- "why, bracy! dost thou loiter here? i bade thee hence!" the bard obey'd; and turning from his own sweet maid, the aged knight, sir leoline, led forth the lady geraldine! the conclusion to ii. a little child, a limber elf, singing, dancing to itself, a fairy thing with red round cheeks that always finds, and never seeks, makes such a vision to the sight as fills a fathers eyes with light; and pleasures flow in so thick and fast upon his heart, that he at last must needs express his love's excess with words of unmeant bitterness. perhaps 'tis pretty to force together thoughts so all unlike each other; to mutter and mock a broken charm, to dally with wrong that does no harm. perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty at each wild word to feel within a sweet recoil of love and pity. and what, if in a world of sin (oh sorrow and shame should this be true!) such giddiness of heart and brain comes seldom save from rage and pain, so talks as it's most used to do. ----s. t. coleridge. the rime of the ancient mariner |it is an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. "by thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? "the bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, and i am next of kin; the guests are met, the feast is set:-- may'st hear the merry din." he holds him with his skinny hand, "there was a ship," quoth he. "hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!" eftsoons his hand dropt he. he holds him with his glittering eye-- the wedding-guest stood still, and listens like a three-years' child: the mariner hath his will. the wedding-guest sat on a stone; he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner:-- "the ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top. "the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he! and he shone bright, and on the right went down into the sea. "higher and higher every day, till over the mast at noon--" the wedding-guest here beat his breast, for he heard the loud bassoon. the bride hath paced into the hall, red as a rose is she; nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. the wedding-guest he beat his breast, yet he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. "and now the storm-blast came, and he was tyrannous and strong: he struck with his o'ertaking wings, and chased us south along. "with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe and forward bends his head, the ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, and southward aye we fled. [illustration: ] "and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold; and ice, mast-high, came floating by, as green as emerald. "and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- the ice was all between. "the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around: it crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, like noises in a swound! "at length did cross an albatross: thorough the fog it came: as if it had been a christian soul, we hail'd it in god's name. "it ate the food it ne'er had eat, and round and round it flew. the ice did split with a thunder-fit; the helmsman steer'd us through! "and a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow, and every day, for food or play, came to the mariner's hollo! "in mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perch'd for vespers nine; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, glimmer'd the white moon-shine." "god save thee, ancient mariner! from the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- why look'st thou so?"--"with my crossbow i shot the albatross!" ii. "the sun now rose upon the right: out of the sea came he, still hid in mist, and on the left went down into the sea. "and the good south wind still blew behind, but no sweet bird did follow, nor any day, for food or play, came to the mariners hollo! "and i had done a hellish thing, and it would work'em woe; for all averred i had kill'd the bird that made the breeze to blow. 'ah, wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow!' "nor dim nor red, like god's own head, the glorious sun uprist: then all averred i had kill'd the bird that brought the fog and mist. ''twas right,' said they, 'such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist.' "the fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the furrow follow'd free: we were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. "down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea! "all in a hot and copper sky, the bloody sun, at noon, right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the moon. "day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. "water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. "the very deep did rot: o christ! that ever this should be! yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. "about, about, in reel and rout, the death-fires danced at night; the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue and white. "and some in dreams assured were of the spirit that plagued us so: nine fathom deep he had follow'd us from the land of mist and snow. "and every tongue, through utter drought, was withered at the root; we could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. "ah! well a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young! instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung." iii. "there pass'd a weary time. each throat was parch'd, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye! when looking westward i beheld a something in the sky. "at first it seem'd a little speck, and then it seem'd a mist: it moved and moved, and took at last a certain shape, i wist. "a speck, a mist, a shape, i wist! and still it near'd and near'd: as if it dodged a water-sprite, it plunged and tack'd and veer'd. "with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, we could not laugh nor wail; through utter drought all dumb we stood! i bit my arm, i suck'd the blood, and cried, 'a sail! a sail!' "with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, agape they heard me call: gramercy! they for joy did grin, and all at once their breath drew in, as they were drinking all. "'see! see!' (i cried) 'she tacks no more! hither to work us weal, without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel!' "the western wave was all a-flame. the day was well-nigh done! almost upon the western wave rested the broad bright sun; when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the sun. "and straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, (heaven's mother send us grace!) as if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd, with broad and burning face. "' alas!' (thought i, and my heart beat loud) ' how fast she nears and nears! are those her sails that glance in the sun, like restless gossameres? "'are those her ribs through which the sun did peer, as through a grate? and is that woman all her crew? is that a death? and are there two? is death that woman's mate? ' "her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold: her skin was as white as leprosy, the night-mare life-in-death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold. "the naked hulk alongside came, and the twain were casting dice; ' the game is done! i've won, i've won!' quoth she, and whistles thrice. "the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride comes the dark; with far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, off shot the spectre-bark. "we listen'd and look'd sideways up! fear at my heart, as at a cup, my life-blood seem'd to sip! the stars were dim, and thick the night, the steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white! from the sails the dew did drip-- till clomb above the eastern bar the horned moon, with one bright star within the nether tip. "one after one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, and cursed me with his eye. "four times fifty living men (and i heard nor sigh nor groan) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropp'd down one by one. "the souls did from their bodies fly-- they fled to bliss or woe! and every soul, it pass'd me by, like the whizz of my cross-bow!" iv. "i fear thee, ancient mariner! i fear thy skinny hand! and thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribb'd sea-sand. "i fear thee and thy glittering eye, and thy skinny hand, so brown."-- "fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! this body dropt not down. "alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea! and never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. "the many men, so beautiful! and they all dead did lie: and a thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did i. "i look'd upon the rotting sea, and drew my eyes away; i look'd upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay. "i look'd to heaven, and tried to pray; but or ever a prayer had gusht, a wicked whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. "i closed my lids, and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet. "the cold sweat melted from their limbs, nor rot nor reek did they: the look with which they look'd on me had never pass'd away. "an orphan's curse would drag to hell a spirit from on high; but oh! more horrible than that is the curse in a dead man's eye! seven days, seven nights, i saw that curse, and yet i could not die. "the moving moon went up the sky and nowhere did abide; softly she was going up, and a star or two beside-- "her beams bemock'd the sultry main, like april hoar-frost spread; but where the ship's huge shadow lay, the charmed water burnt alway a still and awful red. "beyond the shadow of the ship, i watch'd the water-snakes; they moved in tracks of shining white, and when they rear'd, the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes. "within the shadow of the ship i watch'd their rich attire: blue, glossy green, and velvet black, they coil'd and swam, and every track was a flash of golden fire. "o happy living things! no tongue their beauty might declare: a spring of love gush'd from my heart, and i blessed them unaware! sure my kind saint took pity on me, and i blessed them unaware. "the selfsame moment i could pray, and from my neck so free the albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea." v. "o sleep! it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole! to mary queen the praise be given! she sent the gentle sleep from heaven, that slid into my soul. "the silly buckets on the deck, that had so long remained, i dreamt that they were fill'd with dew; and when i awoke it rain'd. "my lips were wet, my throat was cold, my garments all were dank; sure i had drunken in my dreams, and still my body drank. "i moved, and could not feel my limbs: i was so light--almost i thought that i had died in sleep, and was a blessed ghost. "and soon i heard a roaring wind: it did not come anear, but with its sound it shook the sails that were so thin and sere. "the upper air burst into life! and a hundred fire-flags sheen, to and fro they were hurried about! and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between. "and the coming wind did roar more loud, and the sails did sigh like sedge, and the rain pour'd down from one black cloud; the moon was at its edge. "the thick black cloud was cleft, and still the moon was at its side: like waters shot from some high crag the lightning fell with never a jag, a river steep and wide. "the loud wind never reach'd the ship, yet now the ship moved on! beneath the lightning and the moon the dead men gave a groan. "they groan'd, they- stirr'd, they all uprose, nor spake, nor moved their eyes; it had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. "the helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on; yet never a breeze up-blew; the mariners all gan work the ropes where they were wont to do: they raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- we were a ghastly crew. "the body of my brother's son stood by me, knee to knee: the body and i pull'd at one rope, but he said nought to me." "i fear thee, ancient mariner!" "be calm, thou wedding-guest! 'twas not those souls that fled in pain, which to their corses came again, but a troop of spirits blest: "for when it dawn'd--they dropp'd their arms, and clustered round the mast; sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, and from their bodies pass'd. "around, around, flew each sweet sound, then darted to the sun; slowly the sounds come back again, now mixed, now one by one. "sometimes a-dropping from the sky i heard the skylark sing; sometimes all little birds that are, how they seem'd to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning! "and now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute. "it ceased; yet still the sails made on a pleasant noise till noon, a noise like of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june, that to the sleeping woods all night singeth a quiet tune. "till noon we quietly sail'd on, yet never a breeze did breathe: slowly and smoothly went the ship, moved onward from beneath. "under the keel nine fathom deep, from the land of mist and snow, the spirit slid,--and it was he that made the ship to go. the sails at noon left off their tune, and the ship stood still also. "the sun, right up above the mast, had fix'd her to the ocean; but in a minute she 'gan stir, with a short uneasy motion-- backwards and forwards half her length with a short uneasy motion. "then like a pawing horse let go, she made a sudden bound: it flung the blood into my head, and i fell down in a swound. "how long in that same fit i lay i have not to declare; but ere my living life return'd, i heard and in my soul discern'd two voices in the air. "'is it he?' quoth one, 'is this the man? by him who died on cross, with his cruel bow he laid full low, the harmless albatross.' "' the spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, he loved the bird that loved the man who shot him with his bow.' "the other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: quoth he, 'the man hath penance done and penance more will do.'" vi. _first voice._ "'but tell me, tell me! speak again, thy soft response renewing-- what makes that ship drive on so fast? what is the ocean doing? ' _second voice._ "'still as a slave before his lord, the ocean hath no blast; his great bright eye most silently up to the moon is cast-- "'if he may know which way to go, for she guides him smooth or grim. see, brother, see! how graciously she looketh down on him.' _first voice._ "'but why drives on that ship so fast, without or wave or wind? ' _second voice._ "'the air is cut away before, and closes from behind. fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! or we shall be belated: for slow and slow that ship will go, when the mariners trance is abated.' "i woke, and we were sailing on as in a gentle weather: 'twas night, calm night, the moon was high; the dead men stood together. "all stood together on the deck, for a charnel-dungeon fitter: all fix'd on me their stony eyes, that in the moon did glitter. "the pang, the curse, with which they died, had never pass'd away: i could not draw my eyes from theirs, nor turn them up to pray. "and now this spell was snapt: once more i view'd the ocean green, and look'd far forth, yet little saw of what had else been seen-- "like one that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turn'd round, walks on and turns no more his head; because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread. "but soon there breathed a wind on me, nor sound nor motion made: its path was not upon the sea, in ripple or in shade. "it raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek like a meadow-gale of spring-- it mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming. "swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, yet she sail'd softly too: sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- on me alone it blew. "o! dream of joy! is this indeed the lighthouse top i see? is this the hill? is this the kirk? is this mine own countree? "we drifted o'er the harbour-bar, and i with sobs did pray-- 'o let me be awake, my god! or let me sleep alway.' "the harbour-bay was clear as glass, so smoothly it was strewn! and on the bay the moonlight lay, and the shadow of the moon. "the rock shone bright, the kirk no less, that stands above the rock: the moonlight steep'd in silentness the steady weathercock. "and the bay was white with silent light, till rising from the same, full many shapes, that shadows were, in crimson colours came. "a little distance from the prow those crimson shadows were: i turn'd my eyes upon the deck-- oh, christ! what saw i there? "each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, and, by the holy rood! a man all light, a seraph-man, on every corse there stood. "this seraph-band, each waved his hand: it was a heavenly sight! they stood as signals to the land, each one a lovely light: "this seraph-band, each waved his hand, no voice did they impart-- no voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart. "but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilots cheer; my head was turn'd perforce away and i saw a boat appear. "the pilot, and the pilot's boy, i heard them coming fast: dear lord in heaven! it was a joy the dead men could not blast. "i saw a third--i heard his voice: it is the hermit good! he singeth aloud his godly hymns that he makes in the wood. he'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away the albatross's blood." vii. "this hermit good lives in that wood, which slopes down to the sea. ho^ loudly his sweet voice he rears! he loves to talk with marineres that come from a far countree. "he kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- he hath a cushion plump; it is the moss that wholly hides the rotted old oak-stump. "the skiff-boat neared: i heard them talk, 'why, this is strange, i trow! where are those lights so many and fair, that signal made but now? "'strange, by my faith!' the hermit said-- ' and they answer'd not our cheer! the planks look warp'd! and see those sails how thin they are and sere! i never saw aught like to them, unless perchance it were "' brown skeletons of leaves that lag my forest-brook along; when the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, and the owlet whoops to the wolf below, that eats the she-wolf's young.' "' dear lord! it hath a fiendish look,'-- (the pilot made reply). 'i am a-feared.'--' push on, push on!' said the hermit cheerily. "the boat came closer to the ship, but i nor spake nor stirr'd; the boat came close beneath the ship, and straight a sound was heard. "under the water it rumbled on, still louder and more dread: it reach'd the ship, it split the bay; the ship went down like lead. "stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, which sky and ocean smote, like one that hath been seven days drown'd, my body lay afloat; but swift as dreams, myself i found within the pilot's boat. "upon the whirl, where sank the ship the boat spun round and round; and all was still, save that the hill was telling of the sound. "i moved my lips--the pilot shriek'd, and fell down in a fit; the holy hermit raised his eyes, and pray'd where he did sit. "i took the oars: the pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go, laugh'd loud and long, and all the while his eyes went to and fro. 'ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain i see, the devil knows how to row.' "and now, all in my own countree, i stood on the firm land! the hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, and scarcely he could stand. "'o, shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man! ' the hermit cross'd his brow. ' say quick,' quoth he, 'i bid thee say-- what manner of man art thou?' "forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd with a woeful agony, which forced me to begin my tale; and then it left me free. "since then at an uncertain hour, that agony returns; and till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. "i pass, like night, from land to land; i have strange power of speech; that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me: to him my tale i teach. "what loud uproar bursts from that door! the wedding-guests are there; but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are; and hark, the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! "o wedding-guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. "o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company!-- "to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends, old men, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! "farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. "he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small: for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all." the mariner, whose eye is bright, whose beard with age is hoar, is gone; and now the wedding-guest turned from the bridegroom's door. he went like one that hath been stunn'd, and is of sense forlorn: a sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. ---s. t. coleridge. the well of st. keyne [illustration: |a well there is in the west country, and a clearer one never was seen; there is not a wife in the west country but has heard of the well of st keyne. an oak and an elm tree stand beside, and behind doth an ash-tree grow, and a willow from the bank above droops to the water below. [illustration: ] a traveller came to the well of st keyne, joyfully he drew nigh, for from cock-crow he had been travelling, and there was not a cloud in the sky. he drank of the water so cool and clear, for thirsty and hot was he, and he sat down upon the bank under the willow tree. there came a man from the house hard by at the well to fill his pail; on the well-side he rested it, and he bade the stranger hail. "now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "for an if thou hast a wife, the happiest draught thou hast drank this day that ever thou didst in thy life. "or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, ever here in cornwall been? for an if she have, i'll venture my life she has drank of the well of st key ne." "i have left a good woman who never was here," the stranger he made reply, "but that my draught should be better for that, i pray you answer me why." "st keyne," quoth the cornish-man, "many a time drank of this crystal well, and before the angel summon'd her, she laid on the water a spell. "if the husband of this gifted well shall drink before his wife, a happy man thenceforth is he, for he shall be master for life. "but if the wife should drink of it first, god help the husband then!" the stranger stoopt to the well of st keyne, and drank of the water again. "you drank of the well, i warrant, betimes?" he to the cornish-man said: but the cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, and sheepishly shook his head. "i hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, and left my wife in the porch; but i' faith she had been wiser than me, for she took a bottle to church." ----r. southey. ----westbury, . [illustration: ] alonzo the brave and fair imogine |a warrior so bold and a virgin so bright conversed, as they sat on the green; they gazed on each other with tender delight: alonzo the brave was the name of the knight, the maid's was the fair imogine. "and, oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow i go to fight in a far-distant land, your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow, some other will court you, and you will bestow on a wealthier suitor your hand." "oh! hush these suspicions," fair imogine said, "offensive to love and to me! for if you be living, or if you be dead, i swear by the virgin, that none in your stead shall husband of imogine be. "and if e'er for another my heart should decide, forgetting alonzo the brave, god grant, that, to punish my falsehood and pride, your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, may tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, and bear me away to the grave!" to palestine hasten'd the hero so bold; his love she lamented him sore: but scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold, a baron all cover'd with jewels and gold arrived at fair imogine's door. his treasure, his presents, his spacious domain soon made her untrue to her vows: he dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her brain, he caught her affections so light and so vain, and carried her home as his spouse. and now had the marriage been bless'd by the priest; the revelry now was begun; the tables they groan'd with the weight of the feast, nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, when the bell of the castle toll'd--"one!" then first with amazement fair imogine found that a stranger was placed by her side: his air was terrific; he uttered no sound; he spoke not, he moved not, he look'd not around, but earnestly gazed on the bride. his vizor was closed, and gigantic his height, his armour was sable to view: all pleasure and laughter were hush'd at his sight, the dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright, the lights in the chamber burnt blue! his presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay; the guests sat in silence and fear: at length spoke the bride, while she trembled:-- "i pray, sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, and deign to partake of our cheer." the lady is silent; the stranger complies; his vizor he slowly unclosed: oh! then what a sight met fair imogine's eyes! what words can express her dismay and surprise, when a skeleton's head was exposed! all present then utter'd a terrified shout; all turn'd with disgust from the scene. the worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out, and sported his eyes and his temples about, while the spectre address'd imogine: "behold me, thou false one! behold me!" he cried; "remember alonzo the brave! god grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride, my ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, and bear thee away to the grave!" thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, while loudly she shriek'd in dismay, then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground: nor ever again was fair imogine found, or the spectre who bore her away. not long lived the baron: and none since that time to inhabit the castle presume; for chronicles tell, that, by order sublime, there imogine suffers the pain of her crime, and mourns her deplorable doom. at midnight four times in each year does her sprite, when mortals in slumber are bound, array'd in her bridal apparel of white, appear in the hall with the skeleton-knight, and shriek as he whirls her around. while they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, dancing round them pale spectres are seen: their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave they howl:--"to the health of alonzo the brave, and his consort, the false imogine!" ----m. g. lewis (the monk). lord ullin's daughter |a chieftain, to the highlands bound, cries, "boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry."-- "now who be ye would cross lochgyle, this dark and stormy water?" "o, i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this lord ullin's daughter.-- "and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together, for should he find us in the glen, my blood would stain the heather. "his horsemen hard behind us ride; should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?"-- out spoke the hardy highland wight, "i'll go, my chief--i'm ready:-- it is not for your silver bright; but for your winsome lady: "and by my word! the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry; so though the waves are raging white, til row you o er the ferry."-- by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode armed men, their trampling sounded nearer.-- "o haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father."-- the boat has left a stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when, oh! too strong for human hand, the tempest gather'd o er her. and still they row'd amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing; lord ullin reach'd that fatal shore, his wrath was changed to wailing.-- for sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, his child he did discover;-- one lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, and one was round her lover. "come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "across this stormy water; and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter!--oh my daughter!"-- 'twas vain:--the loud waves lash'd the shore, return or aid preventing:-- the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. ----t. campbell. the battle of the baltic - i. |of nelson and the north, sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone; by each gun the lighted brand, in a bold determined hand, and the prince of all the land led them on.-- ii. like leviathans afloat, lay their bulwarks on the brine, while the sign of battle flew on the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime: as they drifted on their path, there was silence deep as death; and the boldest held his breath for a time.-- iii. but the might of england flush'd to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rush'd o'er the deadly space between. "hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. iv. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feeble cheer the dane to our cheering sent us back;-- their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- then ceased--and all is wail, as they strike the shatter'd sail, or, in conflagration pale, light the gloom.-- v. out spoke the victor then, as he hail'd them o'er the wave: "ye are brothers! ye are men! and we conquer but to save;-- so peace instead of death let us bring; but yield, proud foe, thy fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king."-- vi. then denmark bless'd our chief, that he gave her wounds repose; and the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose, as death withdrew his shades from the day. while the sun look'd smiling bright o'er a wide and woeful sight, where the fires of funeral light died away. vii. now joy, old england, raise! for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, while the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar, let us think of them that sleep, full many a fathom deep, by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! viii. brave hearts! to britain's pride once so faithful and so true, on the deck of fame that died,-- with the gallant good riou; soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! while the billow mournful rolls, and the mermaid's song condoles, singing glory to the souls of the brave!-- ----t. campbell. the war-song of dinas vawr |the mountain sheep are sweeter, but the valley sheep are fatter; we therefore deemed it meeter to carry off the latter. we made an expedition; we met an host and quelled it; we forced a strong position, and killed the men who held it. on dyfed's richest valley, where herds of kine were browsing, we made a mighty sally, to furnish our carousing. fierce warriors rushed to meet us; we met them, and o'erthrew them: they struggled hard to beat us; but we conquered them, and slew them. as we drove our prize at leisure, the king marched forth to catch us: his rage surpassed all measure, but his people could not match us. he fled to his hall-pillars; and, ere our force we led off, some sacked his house and cellars, while others cut his head off. we there, in strife bewildering, spilt blood enough to swim in: we orphaned many children, and widowed many women. the eagles and the ravens we glutted with our foemen; the heroes and the cravens, the spearmen and the bowmen. we brought away from battle, and much their land bemoaned them, two thousand head of cattle, and the head of him who owned them: ednyfed, king of dyfed, his head was borne before us; his wine and beasts supplied our feasts, and his overthrow, our chorus. ----t. l. peacock. [illustration: ] the cauldron of ceridwen [illustration: ] |the sage ceridwen was the wife of tegid voël, of pemble mere: two children blest their wedded life, morvran and creirwy, fair and dear: morvran, a son of peerless worth, and creirwy, loveliest nymph of earth: but one more son ceridwen bare, as foul as they before were fair. she strove to make avagddu wise; she knew he never could be fair: and, studying magic mysteries, she gathered plants of virtue rare: she placed the gifted plants to steep within the magic cauldron deep, where they a year and day must boil, till three drops crown the matron's toil. nine damsels raised the mystic flame; gwion the little near it stood: the while for simples roved the dame through tangled dell and pathless wood; and, when the year and day had past, the dame within the cauldron cast the consummating chaplet wild, while gwion held the hideous child. but from the cauldron rose a smoke that filled with darkness all the air: when through its folds the torchlight broke, nor gwion, nor the boy, was there. the fire was dead, the cauldron cold, and in it lay, in sleep unrolled, fair as the morning-star, a child, that woke, and stretched its arms, and smiled. what chanced her labours to destroy, she never knew; and sought in vain if were her own misshapen boy, or little gwion, born again: and, vext with doubt, the babe she rolled in cloth of purple and of gold, and in a coracle consigned its fortunes to the sea and wind. the summer night was still and bright, the summer moon was large and clear, the frail bark, on the springtide's height, was floated into elphin's weir. the baby in his arms he raised: his lovely spouse stood by, and gazed, and, blessing it with gentle vow, cried "taliesin!" "radiant brow!" and i am he: and well i know ceridwen's power protects me still; -and hence o er hill and vale i go, and sing, unharmed, whate'er i will. she has for me time's veil withdrawn: the images of things long gone, the shadows of the coming days, are present to my visioned gaze. and i have heard the words of power, by ceirion's solitary lake, that bid, at midnight's thrilling hour, eryri's hundred echoes wake. i to diganwy's towers have sped, and now caer lleon's halls i tread, demanding justice, now, as then, from maelgon, most unjust of men. ----t. l. peacock. llyn-y-dreiddiad-vrawd (the pool of the diving friar.) [illustration: ] |gwenwynwyn withdrew from the feasts of his hall; he slept very little, he prayed not at all; he pondered, and wandered, and studied alone; and sought, night and day, the philosopher's stone. he found it at length, and he made its first proof by turning to gold all the lead of his roof: then he bought some magnanimous heroes, all fire, who lived but to smite and be smitten for hire. with these, on the plains like a torrent he broke; he filled the whole country with flame and with smoke; he killed all the swine, and he broached all the wine; he drove off the sheep, and the beeves, and the kine. he took castles and towns; he cut short limbs and lives; he made orphans and widows of children and wives: this course many years he triumphantly ran, and did mischief enough to be called a great man. when, at last, he had gained all for which he had striven, he bethought him of buying a passport to heaven; good and great as he was, yet he did not well know how soon, or which way, his great spirit might go. he sought the grey friars, who, beside a wild stream, refected their frames on a primitive scheme; the gravest and wisest gwenwynwyn found out, all lonely and ghostly, and angling for trout. below the white dash of a mighty cascade, where a pool of the stream a deep resting-place made, and rock-rooted oaks stretched their branches on high, the friar stood musing and throwing his fly. to him said gwenwynwyn, "hold, father, here's store, for the good of the church, and the good of the poor;" then he gave him the stone; but, ere more he could speak, wrath came on the friar, so holy and meek. he had stretched forth his hand to receive the red gold, and he thought himself mocked by gwenwynwyn the bold; and in scorn of the gift, and in rage at the giver, he jerked it immediately into the river. gwenwynwyn, aghast, not a syllable spake; the philosopher's stone made a duck and a drake; two systems of circles a moment were seen, and the, stream smoothed them off, as they never had been. gwenwynwyn regained, and uplifted, his voice: "oh friar, grey friar, full rash was thy choice; the stone, the good stone, which away thou hast thrown, was the stone of all stones, the philosopher's stone!" the friar looked pale, when his error he knew; the friar looked red, and the friar looked blue; and heels over head, from the point of a rock, he plunged, without stopping to pull off his frock. he dived very deep, but he dived all in vain, the prize he had slighted he found not again: many times did the friar his diving renew, and deeper and deeper the river still grew. gwenwynwyn gazed long, of his senses in doubt, to see the grey friar a diver so stout: then sadly and slowly his castle he sought, and left the friar diving, like dabchick distraught. gwenwynwyn fell sick with alarm and despite, died, and went to the devil, the very same night: the magnanimous heroes he held in his pay sacked his castle, and marched with the plunder away. no knell on the silence of midnight was rolled, for the flight of the soul of gwenwynwyn the bold: the brethren, unfeed, let the mighty ghost pass, without praying a prayer, or intoning a mass. the friar haunted ever beside the dark stream; the philosopher's stone was his thought and his dream: and day after day, ever head under heels he dived all the time he could spare from his meals. he dived, and he dived, to the end of his days, as the peasants oft witnessed with fear and amaze: the mad friar's diving-place long was their theme, and no plummet can fathom that pool of the stream. and still, when light clouds on the midnight winds ride, if by moonlight you stray on the lone river-side, the ghost of the friar may be seen diving there, with head in the water, and heels in the air. ----t. l. peacock. willy and helen [illustration: ] |wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love, unless it be to pain us? wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love whan ye say the sea maun twain us?" "it's no because my love is light, nor for your angry deddy, it's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, an' to busk ye like a leddy." "o, willy! i can caird an' spin, sae ne'er can want for deeding; and, gin i ha'e my willy's heart, i ha'e a' the pearls i'm heedin'. "will it be time to praise this cheek, whan years an' tears ha'e blench'd it? will it be time to talk o' love whan cauld an' care ha'e quench'd it?" he's laid ae han' aboot her waist, the ither's held to heaven; an' his luik was like the luik o' man wha's heart in twa is riven. the auld laird o' knockdon is dead, there's few for him will sorrow; for willy's steppit in his stead, but an' his comely marrow. there's a cosy bield at yon burn fit, wi' a bourtree at the en' o't; o, mony a day may it see yet ere care or canker ken o't! the lily leans out owre the brae, an' the rose leans owre the lily: an' there the bonny twasome lay-- fair helen an' her willy. ----hew ainslie. sir arthur and lady ann |sir arthur's foot is on the sand, his boat wears in the wind; an' he's turned him to a fair foot page who was standing him behind. "gae hame, gae hame, my bonny boy, an' glad your mither's e'e; i hae left anew to weep an' rue, sae nane maun weep for thee. "take this unto my father's ha, an' tell him i maun speed; there's fifty men in chase o' me, an' a price upon my head. "an' bear this to dunellie's towers, where my love annie's gane; it is a lock o' my brown hair, girt wi' the diamond stane." "dunellie he has daughters five, an' some o' them are fair, sae, how will i ken thy true love amang sae mony there?" "yell ken her by her stately step as she gaes up the ha; yell ken her by the look o' love that peers out owre them a'; "yell ken her by the braid o' goud that spreads owre her e'e bree; ye'll ken her by the red, red cheek when ye name the name o' me.- "that cheek should lain on this breast-bane, her hame should been my ha'; our tree is bow'd--our flower is dow'd-- sir arthur's an outlaw!" he sighed, an' turned him right about, where the sea lay braid an' wide: it's no to see his boony boat, but a watery cheek to hide. the page has doffd his feather'd cap, but an' his raven hair; an' out there came the yellow locks, like swirls o' the goud en wair. syne he's undone his doublet clasp, was o' the grass-green hue, when, like a lily frae its leaf, a lady burst in view. "tell out thy errand now, sir knight, wi' thy love tokens a'; if i e'er rin against my will, 'twill be at a lover's ca'!" sir arthur's turned him round about, e'en as the lady spak'; an' thrice he dighted his dim e'e, an' thrice he steppit back. but ae blink o' her bonny e'e, out spake his lady ann; an' he's catch'd her by the waist sae sma wi' the grip o' a drowning man. "o! lady ann, thy bed's been hard, when i thought it the down; o ! lady ann, thy love's been deep, when i thought it was flown. "i've met my love in the greenwood, my foe on the brown hill; but i ne'er met wi' aught before i liked sae weel, an' ill. "o i could make a queen o' thee, an' it would be my pride; but, lady ann, it's no for thee to be an outlaw's bride." "hae i left kith an' kin, sir knight, to turn about and rue? hae i shar'd win' an' weet wi' thee, that i should leave thee noo? "there's gowd an' siller in this han' will buy us mony a rigg; there's pearlings in the other han' a stately tower to bigg. "tho' thou'rt an outlaw frae this ian', the warl's braid an' wide; make room, make room, my merry men, for young sir arthur's bride!" ----hew ainslie. the fugitives i. |the waters are flashing, the white hail is dashing, the lightnings are glancing, the hoar-spray is dancing-- away! the whirlwind is rolling, the thunder is tolling, the forest is swinging, the minster bells ringing-- come away! the earth is like ocean, wreck-strewn and in motion: bird, beast, man and worm have crept out of the storm-- come away! ii. "our boat has one sail, and the helmsman is pale;-- a bold pilot i trow, who shall follow us now,"-- shouted he-- and she cried: "ply the oar! put off gaily from shore!"-- as she spoke, bolts of death mixed with hail, specked their path o'er the sea. and from isle, tower and rock, the blue beacon cloud broke, and though dumb in the blast, the red cannon flashed fast from the lee. iii. "and fear'st thou, and fear'st thou? and see'st thou, and hear'st thou? and drive we not free o er the terrible sea, i and thou?" one boat-cloak did cover the loved and the lover-- their blood beats one measure, they murmur proud pleasure soft and low;-- while around the lashed ocean, like mountains in motion, is withdrawn and uplifted, sunk, shattered and shifted to and fro. iv. in the court of the fortress beside the pale portress, like a bloodhound well beaten the bridegroom stands, eaten by shame; on the topmost watch-turret, as a death-boding spirit, stands the gray tyrant father, to his voice the mad weather seems tame; and with curses as wild as e'er clung to child, he devotes to the blast the best, loveliest, and last of his name! ----p. b. shelley. la belle dame sans merci i. [illustration: ] |o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? the sedge has wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. ii. "o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, so haggard and so woe-begone? the squirrels granary is full, and the harvest's done. iii. "i see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever dew; and on thy cheek a fading rose fast withereth too." iv. "i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful--a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. v. "i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. vi. "i set her on my pacing steed, and nothing else saw all day long, for sideways would she bend, and sing a faery's song. vii. "she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild, and manna dew, and sure in language strange she said, ' i love thee true.' viii. "she took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept and sigh'd full sore, and there i shut her wild wild eyes with kisses four. [illustration: ] ix. "and there she lulled me asleep, and there i dream'd--ah! woe betide! the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill's side. x. "i saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all; who cry'd--' la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall! ' xi. "i saw their starv'd lips in the gloam, with horrid warning gaped wide, and i awoke and found me here, on the cold hill's side. xii. "and this is why i sojourn here, alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is withered from the lake, and no birds sing." ----j. keats. [illustration: ] the rose and the fair lily |the earlsburn glen is gay and green, the earlsburn water cleir, and blythely blume on earlsburn bank the broom and eke the brier! twa sisters gaed up earlsburn glen-- twa maidens bricht o' blee-- the tane she was the rose sae red, the tither the fair lilye! "ye mauna droop and dwyne, sister"-- said rose to fair lilye-- "yer heart ye mauna brek, sister-- for ane that's ower the sea; "the vows we sillie maidens hear frae wild and wilfu' man, are as the words the waves wash out when traced upon the san'." "i mauna think yer speech is sooth," saft answered the lilye; "i winna dout mine ain gude knicht tho' he's ayont the sea!" then scornfully the rose sae red spake to the puir lilye-- "the vows he feigned at thy bouir door, he plicht in mine to me!" "hi hame and spread the sheets, sister, and deck my bed sae hie-- the bed sae wide made for a bride for i think i sune sal die! "your weird i sal na be, sister, as mine i fear ye've bin-- your luve i wil na cross, sister, it were a mortal sin!" earlsburn glen is green to see, earlsburn water cleir-- of the siller birk in earlsburn wood they framit the maiden's bier! there's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir, she never lifts an ee-- that dame was ance the rose sae red, she is now a pale lilye. a knicht aft looks frae his turret tall, where the kirk-yaird grass grows green; he wonne the weed and lost the flouir, and grief aye dims his een. at noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht, the warrior kneels in prayer-- he prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird, and wishes he were there! ----w. motherwell. faithless sally brown |young ben he was a nice young man, a carpenter by trade; and he fell in love with sally brown, that was a lady's maid. but as they fetched a walk one day, they met a press-gang crew; and sally she did faint away, whilst ben he was brought to. the boatswain swore with wicked words, enough to shock a saint, that though she did seem in a fit, 'twas nothing but a feint. "come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, he'll be as good as me; for when your swain is in our boat, a boatswain he will be." so when they'd made their game of her, and taken off her elf, she roused, and found she only was a coming to herself. "and is he gone, and is he gone?" she cried, and wept outright: "then i will to the water side, and see him out of sight." a waterman came up to her, "now, young woman," said he, "if you weep on so, you will make eye-water in the sea." "alas! they've taken my beau, ben, to sail with old benbow;" and her woe began to run afresh, as if she'd said, gee woe! says he, "they've only taken him to the tender-ship, you see;" "the tender-ship," cried sally brown, "what a hard-ship that must be! "oh! would i were a mermaid now, for then i'd follow him; but oh!--i'm not a fish-woman, and so i cannot swim. "alas! i was not born beneath the virgin and the scales, so i must curse my cruel stars, and walk about in wales." now ben had sailed to many a place that's underneath the world; but in two years the ship came home, and all her sails were furled. but when he called on sally brown, to see how she went on, he found she'd got another ben, whose christian name was john. "o sally brown, o sally brown, how could you serve me so, i've met with many a breeze before, but never such a blow." then reading on his 'bacco box, he heaved a bitter sigh, and then began to eye his pipe, and then to pipe his eye. and then he tried to sing "all's well," but could not though he tried: his head was turned, and so he chewed his pigtail till he died. his death, which happened in his berth, at forty-odd befell: they went and told the sexton, and the sexton toll'd the bell. ----t. hood. faithless nelly gray |ben battle was a soldier bold, and used to wars alarms; but a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms! now as they bore him off the field, said he, "let others shoot, for here i leave my second leg, and the forty-second foot!" the army-surgeons made him limbs: said he,--"they're only pegs: but there's as wooden members quite as represent my legs! '' now ben he loved a pretty maid, her name was nelly gray; so he went to pay her his devours, when he'd devoured his pay! but when he called on nelly gray, she made him quite a scoff; and when she saw his wooden legs, began to take them off! "oh, nelly gray! oh, nelly gray! is this your love so warm? the love that loves a scarlet coat, should be more uniform!" she said, "i loved a soldier once, for he was blithe and brave; but i will never have a man with both legs in the grave! "before you had those timber toes, your love i did allow, but then, you know, you stand upon another footing now!" "oh, nelly gray! oh, nelly gray! for all your jeering speeches, at duty's call, i left my legs in badaj os's -breaches!' "why then," said she, "you've lost the feet of legs in war's alarms, and now you cannot wear your shoes upon you feats of arms! " "oh, false and fickle nelly gray! i know why you refuse:-- though i've no feet--some other man is standing in my shoes! "i wish i ne'er had seen your face; but now a long farewell! for you will be my death;--alas! you will not be my _nell!_" now when he went from nelly gray, his heart so heavy got-- and life was such a burthen grown, it made him take a knot! so round his melancholy neck a rope he did entwine, and, for his second time in' life, enlisted in the line! one end he tied around a beam, and then removed his pegs, and, as his legs were off,--of course, he soon was off his legs! and there he hung, till he was dead as any nail in town,-- for though distress had cut him up, it could not cut him down! a dozen men sat on his corpse, to find out why he died-- and they buried ben in four cross roads, with a _stake_ in his inside! ----t. hood. the dream of eugene aram |twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouched by sin; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in: pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of lynn. like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran,-- turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can; but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man! his hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he leaned his head on his hands, and read the book upon his knees! leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, nor ever glanced aside, for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. at last he shut the pond'rous tome, with a fast and fervent grasp he strained the dusky covers close, and fixed the brazen hasp: "oh, god! could i so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!" then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took,-- now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook,-- and lo! he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. "my gentle lad, what is't you read-- romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page, of kings and crown unstable?" the young boy gave an upward glance, "it is 'the death of abel.'" the usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain,-- six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again; and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of cain; and, long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves; of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod,-- aye, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god! he told how murderers walk the earth beneath the curse of cain-- with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain! "and well,'' quoth he, "i know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme,-- woe, woe, unutterable woe,-- who spill life's sacred stream! for why? methought, last night, i wrought a murder, in my dream! "one that had never done me wrong-- a feeble man, and old; i led him to a lonely field,-- the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said i, this man shall die, and i will have his gold! "two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife,-- and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my foot but lifeless flesh and bone! "nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet i feared him all the more, for lying there so still: there was a manhood in his look, that murder could not kill! [illustration: ] "and lo! the universal air seemed lit with ghastly flame;-- ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame: i took the dead man by his hand, and called upon his name! "o god! it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when i touched the lifeless clay, the blood gushed out amain! for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain! "my head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice; my wretched, wretched soul, i knew, was at the devil's price: a dozen times i groaned; the dead had never groaned but twice! "and now, from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, i heard a voice--the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite:-- 'thou guilty man! take up thy dead and hide it from my sight!' "i took the dreary body up, and cast it in a stream,-- a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme:-- my gentle boy, remember this is nothing but a dream! "down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanished in the pool! anon i cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young, that evening in the school. "oh, heaven! to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! i could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit i seemed mid holy cherubim! "and peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread; but guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed; and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red! "all night i lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep; my fevered eyes i dared not close, but stared aghast at sleep: for sin had rendered unto her the keys of hell to keep! "all night i lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that racked me all the time; a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime! "one stern tyrannic thought, that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave,-- still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave! "heavily i rose up, as soon as light was in the sky, and sought the black accursed pool with a wild misgiving eye; and i saw the dead in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry. "merrily rose the lark, and shook the dewdrop from its wing; but i never marked its morning flight, i never heard it sing: for i was stooping once again under the horrid thing. "with breathless speed, like a soul in chase, i took him up and ran; -- there was no time to dig a grave before the day began: in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, i hid the murdered man! "and all that day i read in school, but my thought was other-where; as soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret i was there: and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! "then down i cast me on my face, and first began to weep, for i knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep: or land or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. "so wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones! ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh,-- the world shall see his bones! "oh, god! that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake! again--again, with dizzy brain, the human life i take; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like cranmer's at the stake. [illustration: ] "and still no peace for the restless clay, will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul,-- it stands before me now!" the fearful boy looked up, and saw huge drops upon his brow. that very night, while gentle sleep the urchin eyelids kissed, two stern-faced men set out from lynn, through the cold and heavy mist; and eugene aram walked between, with gyves upon his wrist. ----t. hood. the voyage with the nautilus |i made myself a little boat, as trim as trim could be; i made it of a great pearl shell found in the indian sea. i made my masts of wild sea-rush that grew on a secret shore, and the scarlet plume of the halcyon was the pleasant flag i bore. for my sails i took the butterfly's wings., for my ropes the spider's line; and that mariner old, the nautilus, to steer me over the brine. for he had sailed six thousand years, and knew each isle and bay; and i thought that we, in my little boat, could merrily steer away. the stores i took were plentiful: the dew as it sweetly fell; and the honey that was hoarded up in the wild bee's summer cell. "now steer away, thou helmsman good, over the waters free; to the charmed isle of the seven kings, that lies in the midmost sea." he spread the sail, he took the helm; and, long ere ever i wist, we had sailed a league, we had reached the isle that lay in the golden mist. the charmed isle of the seven kings, 'tis a place of wondrous spell; and all that happed unto me there in a printed book i'll tell. said i, one day, to the nautilus, as we stood on the strand, "unmoor my ship, thou helmsman good, and steer me back to land; "for my mother, i know, is sick at heart, and longs my face to see. what ails thee now, thou nautilus? art slow to sail with me? up! do my will; the wind is fresh, so set the vessel free." he turned the helm; away we sailed towards the setting sun: the flying-fish were swift of wing, but we outsped each one. and on we went for seven days, seven days without a night; we followed the sun still on and on, in the glow of his setting light. down and down went the setting sun, and down and down went we; 'twas a splendid sail for seven days on a smooth descending sea. on a smooth, descending sea we sailed, nor breeze the water curled: my brain grew sick, for i saw we sailed on the down-hill of the world. "good friend," said i to the nautilus, "can this the right course be? and shall we come again to land?" but answer none made he; and i saw a laugh in his fishy eye as he turned it up to me. so on we went; but soon i heard a sound as when winds blow, and waters wild are tumbled down into a gulf below. and on and on flew the little bark, as a fiend her course did urge; and i saw, in a moment, we must hang upon the oceans verge. i snatched down the sails, i snapped the ropes, i broke the masts in twain; but on flew the bark and gainst the rocks like a living thing did strain. "thou'st steered us wrong, thou helmsman vile!" said i to the nautilus bold; "we shall down the gulf; were dead men both! dost know the course we hold?" i seized the helm with a sudden jerk, and we wheeled round like a bird; but i saw the gulf of eternity, and the tideless waves i heard. "good master," said the nautilus, "i thought you might desire to have some wondrous thing to tell beside your mother's fire. "what's sailing on a summer sea? as well sail on a pool; oh, but i know a thousand things that are wild and beautiful! "and if you wish to see them now, you've but to say the word." "have done!" said i to the nautilus, "or i'll throw thee overboard. "have done!" said i, "thou mariner old, and steer me back to land." no other word spake the nautilus, but took the helm in hand. i looked up to the lady moon, she was like a glow-worm's spark; and never a star shone down to us through the sky so high and dark. we had no mast, we had no ropes, and every sail was rent; and the stores i brought from the charmed isle in the seven days' sail were spent. but the nautilus was a patient thing, and steered with all his might on the up-hill sea; and he never slept, but kept the course aright. and for thrice seven nights we sailed and sailed; at length i saw the bay where i built my ship, and my mother's house' mid the green hills where it lay. "farewell!" said i to the nautilus, and leaped upon the shore; "thou art a skilful mariner, but i'll sail with thee no more!" ----m. howitt. the doom-well of st madron |plunge thy right hand in st madron's spring, if true to its troth be the palm you bring: but if a false sigil thy fingers bear, lay them the rather on the burning share." loud laughed king arthur when-as he heard that solemn friar his boding word: and blithely he sware as a king he may, "we tryst for st madron's at break of day." "now horse and hattock, both but and ben," was the cry at lauds, with dundagel men; and forth they pricked upon routorr side, as goodly a raid as a king could ride. proud gwennivar rode like a queen of the land, with page and with squire at her bridle hand; and the twice six knights of the stony ring, they girded and guarded their cornish king. then they halted their steeds at st madron's cell: and they stood by the monk of the cloisteredwell; "now off with your gauntlets," king arthur he cried, "and glory or shame for our tamar side." 'twere sooth to sing how sir gauvain smiled, when he grasped the waters so soft and mild; how sir lancelot dashed the glistening spray o'er the rugged beard of the rough sir kay. sir bevis he touched and he found no fear: 'twas a bénitée stoup to sir belvidere, now the fountain flashed o'er king arthur's queen say, cornish dames, for ye guess the scene. "now rede me my riddle, sir mordred, i pray, my kinsman, mine ancient, my _bien-aime_; now rede me my riddle, and rede it aright, art thou traitorous knave or my trusty knight?" he plunged his right arm in the judgment well, it bubbled and boiled like a cauldron of hell: he drew and he lifted his quivering limb, ha! sir judas, how madron had sodden him. now let uter pendragon do what he can, still the tamar river will run as it ran: let king or let kaiser be fond or be fell, ye may harowe their troth in st madron's well. ----r. s. hawker. [illustration: ] the romaunt of the page |a knight of gallant deeds and a young page at his side, from the holy war in palestine did slow and thoughtful ride, as each were a palmer and told for beads the dews of the eventide. "o young page," said the knight, "a noble page art thou! thou fearest not to steep in blood the curls upon thy brow; and once in the tent, and twice in the fight, didst ward me a mortal blow." "o brave knight," said the page, "or ere we hither came, we talked in tent, we talked in field, of the bloody battle-game; but here, below this greenwood bough, i cannot speak the same. "our troop is far behind, the woodland calm is new; our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs, tread deep the shadows through; and, in my mind, some blessing kind is dropping with the dew. "the woodland calm is pure-- i cannot choose but have a thought from these, o' the beechen trees, which in our england wave, and of the little finches fine which sang there while in palestine the warrior-hilt we drave. "methinks, a moment gone, i heard my mother pray! i heard, sir knight, the prayer for me wherein she passed away; and i know the heavens are leaning down to hear what i shall say." the page spake calm and high, as of no mean degree; perhaps he felt in nature's broad full heart, his own was free: and the knight looked up to his lifted eye, then answered smilingly-- "sir page, i pray your grace! certes, i meant not so to cross your pastoral mood, sir page, with the crook of the battle-bow; but a knight may speak of a lady's face, i ween, in any mood or place, if the grasses die or grow. "and this i meant to say -- my lady's face shall shine as ladies' faces use, to greet my page from palestine; or, speak she fair or prank she gay, she is no lady of mine. "and this i meant to fear-- her bower may suit thee ill; for, sooth, in that same field and tent, thy _talk_ was somewhat still: and fitter thy hand for my knightly spear than thy tongue for my lady's will!" slowly and thankfully the young page bowed his head; his large eyes seemed to muse a smile, until he blushed instead, and no lady in her bower, pardiè, could blush more sudden red: "sir knight,--thy lady's bower to me is suited well,' he said. _beati, beati, mortui!_ from the convent on the sea, one mile off, or scarce so nigh, swells the dirge as clear and high as if that, over brake and lea, bodily the wind did carry the great altar of st mary, and the fifty tapers burning o'er it, and the lady abbess dead before it, and the chanting nuns whom yesterweek her voice did charge and bless,-- chanting steady, chanting meek, chanting with a solemn breath, because that they are thinking less upon the dead than upon death. _beati, beati, mortui!_ now the vision in the sound wheeleth on the wind around; now it sweepeth back, away-- the uplands will not let it stay to dark the western sun: _mortui!_-- away at last,-- or ere the pages blush is past! and the knight heard all, and the page heard none. "a boon, thou noble knight, if ever i served thee! though thou art a knight and i am a page, now grant a boon to me; and tell me sooth, if dark or bright, if little loved or loved aright be the face of thy ladye." gloomily looked the knight-- "as a son thou hast servëd me, and would to none i had granted boon except to only thee! for haply then i should love aright, for then i should know if dark or bright were the face of my ladye. "yet it ill suits my knightly tongue to grudge that granted boon, that heavy price from heart and life i paid in silence down; the hand that claimed it, cleared in fine my father's fame: i swear by mine, that price was nobly won! "earl walter was a brave old earl, he was my father's friend; and while i rode the lists at court and little guessed the end, my noble father in his shroud against a slanderer lying loud, he rose up to defend. "oh, calm below the marble grey my father's dust was strown! oh, meek above the marble grey his image prayed alone! the slanderer lied: the wretch was brave-- for, looking up the minster-nave, he saw my father's knightly glaive was changed from steel to stone. "earl walter's glaive was steel, with a brave old hand to wear it, and dashed the lie back in the mouth which lied against the godly truth and against the knightly merit: the slanderer,'neath the avenger's heel, struck up the dagger in appeal from stealthy lie to brutal force-- and out upon the traitor's corse was yielded the true spirit. "i would mine hand had fought that fight and justified my father! i would mine heart had caught that wound and slept beside him rather! i think it were a better thing than murdered friend and marriage-ring forced on my life together. "wail shook earl walter's house; his true wife shed no tear; she lay upon her bed as mute as the earl did on his bier: till--' ride, ride fast,' she said at last, ' and bring the avengëd's son anear! ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee, for white of blee with waiting for me is the corse in the next chambere.' "i came, i knelt beside her bed; her calm was worse than strife. 'my husband, for thy father dear, gave freely when thou wast not here his own and eke my life. a boon! of that sweet child we make an orphan for thy father's sake, make thou, for ours, a wife.' "i said, 'my steed neighs in the court, my bark rocks on the brine, and the warrior's vow i am under now to free the pilgrim's shrine: but fetch the ring and fetch the priest and call that daughter of thine, and rule she wide from my castle on nyde while i am in palestine.' "in the dark chambere, if the bride was fair, ye wis, i could not see, but the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed, and wedded fast were we. her mother smiled upon her bed as at its side we knelt to wed, and the bride rose from her knee and kissed the smile of her mother dead, or ever she kissed me. "my page, my page, what grieves thee so, that the tears run down thy face?"-- "alas, alas! mine own sister was in thy lady's case: but _she_ laid down the silks she wore and followed him she wed before, disguised as his true servitor, to the very battle-place." and wept the page, but laughed the knight, a careless laugh laughed he: "well done it were for thy sister, but not for my ladye! my love, so please you, shall requite no woman, whether dark or bright, unwomaned if she be." the page stopped weeping, and smiled cold-- "your wisdom may declare that womanhood is proved the best by golden brooch and glossy vest the mincing ladies wear; yet is it proved, and was of old, anear as well, i dare to hold, by truth, or by despair." he smiled no more, he wept no more, but passionate he spake-- "oh, womanly she prayed in tent, when none beside did wake! oh, womanly she paled in fight, for one belovëd's sake!-- and her little hand, defiled with blood, her tender tears of womanhood most woman-pure did make!" --"well done it were for thy sister, thou tellest well her tale! but for my lady, she shall pray i' the kirk of nydesdale. not dread for me but love for me shall make my lady pale; no casque shall hide her woman's tear-- it shall have room to trickle clear behind her woman's veil." --"but what if she mistook thy mind and followed thee to strife, then kneeling did entreat thy love as paynims ask for life?" --"i would forgive, and evermore would love her as my servitor, but little as my wife. "look up--there is a small bright cloud alone amid the skies! so high, so pure, and so apart, a woman's honour lies." the page looked up--the cloud was sheen-- a sadder cloud did rush, i ween, betwixt it and his eyes. then dimly dropped his eyes away from welkin unto hill-- ha! who rides there?--the page is 'ware, though the cry at his heart is still: and the page seeth all and the knight seeth none, though banner and spear do fleck the sun, and the saracens ride at will. ' he speaketh calm, he speaketh low,-- "ride fast, my master, ride, or ere within the broadening dark the narrow shadows hide." "yea, fast, my page, i will do so, and keep thou at my side." "now nay, now nay, ride on thy way, thy faithful page precede. for i must loose on saddle-bow my battle-casque that galls, i trow, the shoulder of my steed; and i must pray, as i did vow, for one in bitter need. "ere night i shall be near to thee,-- now ride, my master, ride! ere night, as parted spirits cleave to mortals too beloved to leave, i shall be at thy side." the knight smiled free at the fantasy, and adown the dell did ride. had the knight looked up to the page's face, no smile the word had won; had the knight looked up to the page's face, i ween he had never gone: had the knight looked back to the page's geste, i ween he had turned anon, for dread was the woe in the face so young, and wild was the silent geste that flung casque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprung and stood--alone, alone. he clenched his hands as if to hold his soul's great agony-- "have i renounced my womanhood, for wifehood unto _thee_, and is this the last, last look of thine that ever i shall see? "yet god thee save, and may'st thou have a lady to thy mind, more woman-proud and half as true as one thou leav'st behind! and god me take with him to dwell-- for him i cannot love too well, as i have loved my kind." she looketh up, in earth's despair, the hopeful heavens to seek; that little cloud still floateth there, whereof her loved did speak: how bright the little cloud appears! her eyelids fall upon the tears, and the tears down either cheek. the tramp of hoof, the flash of steel-- the paynims round her coming! the sound and sight have made her calm,-- false page, but truthful woman; she stands amid them all unmoved: a heart once broken by the loved is strong to meet the foeman. "ho, christian page! art keeping sheep, from pouring wine-cups resting?"-- "i keep my master's noble name, for warring, not for feasting; and if that here sir hubert were, my master brave, my master dear, ye would not stay the questing." "where is thy master, scornful page, that we may slay or bind him?"-- "now search the lea and search the wood and see if ye can find him! nathless, as hath been often tried, your paynim heroes faster ride before him than behind him." "give smoother answers, lying page, or perish in the lying!"-- "i trow that if the warrior brand beside my foot, were in my hand, 'twere better at replying!" they cursed her deep, they smote her low they cleft her golden ringlets through: the loving is the dying. she felt the scimitar gleam down, and met it from beneath with smile more bright in victory than any sword from sheath,-- which flashed across her lip serene, most like the spirit-light between the darks of life and death. _ingemisco, ingemisco!_ from the convent on the sea, now it sweepeth solemnly, as over wood and over lea bodily the wind did carry the great altar of st mary, and the fifty tapers paling o'er it, and the lady abbess stark before it, and the weary nuns with hearts that faintly beat along their voices saintly-- _ ingemisco y ingemisco!_ dirge for abbess laid in shroud sweepeth o er the shroudless dead, page or lady, as we said, with the dews upon her head, all as sad if not as loud, _ingemiso, ingemisco_ is ever a lament begun by any mourner under sun, which, ere it endeth, suits but _one_?? ----e. b. browning. [illustration: ] the romance of the swan's nest |little ellie sits alone 'mid the beeches of a meadow by a stream-side on the grass, and the trees are showering down doubles of their leaves in shadow on her shining hair and face. she has thrown her bonnet by, and her feet she has been dipping in the shallow waters flow: now she holds them nakedly in her hands, all sleek and dripping, while she rocketh to and fro. little ellie sits alone, and the smile she softly uses fills the silence like a speech while she thinks what shall be done, and the sweetest pleasure chooses for her future within reach. little ellie in her smile chooses--"i will have a lover, riding on a steed of steeds: he shall love me without guile, and to _him_ i will discover the swan's nest among the reeds. "and the steed shall be red-roan, and the lover shall be noble, with an eye that takes the breath: and the lute he plays upon shall strike ladies into trouble, as his sword strikes men to death. "and the steed it shall be shod all in silver, housed in azure, and the mane shall swim the wind; and the hoofs along the sod shall flash onward and keep measure, till the shepherds look behind. "but my lover will not prize all the glory that he rides in, when he gazes in my face: he will say, 'o love, thine eyes build the shrine my soul abides in, and i kneel here for thy grace!' "then, ay, then he shall kneel low, with the red-roan steed anear him which shall seem to understand, till i answer, rise and go! for the world must love and fear him whom i gift with heart and hand.' "then he will arise so pale, i shall feel my own lips tremble with a yes i must not say, nathless maiden-brave, 'farewell,' i will utter, and dissemble-- 'light to-morrow with to-day!' "then he'll ride among the hills to the wide world past the river, there to put away all wrong; to make straight distorted wills, and to empty the broad quiver which the wicked bear along. "three times shall a young foot-page swim the stream and climb the mountain and kneel down beside my feet-- 'lo, my master sends this gage, lady, for thy pity's counting! what wilt thou exchange for it?' "and the first time i will send a white rosebud for a guerdon, and the second time, a glove; but the third time--i may bend from my pride, and answer--' pardon, if he comes to take my love.' [illustration: ] "then the young foot-page will run, then my lover will ride faster, till he kneeleth at my knee: 'l ama duke's eldest son, thousand serfs do call me master, but, o love, i love but thee!' "he will kiss me on the mouth then, and lead me as a lover through the crowds that praise his deeds: and, when soul-tied by one troth, unto him i will discover that swan's nest among the reeds." little ellie, with her smile not yet ended, rose up gaily, tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, and went homeward, round a mile, just to "see, as she did daily, what more eggs were with the two. pushing through the elm-tree copse, winding up the stream, light-hearted, where the osier pathway leads, past the boughs she stoops--and stops. lo, the wild swan had deserted, and a rat had gnawed the reeds. ellie went home sad and slow. if she found the lover ever, with his red-roan steed of steeds, sooth i know not; but i know she could never show him--never, that swan's nest among the reeds! ----e. b. browning. [illustration: ] the three sailors |there were three sailors in bristol city, who took a boat and went to sea. but first with beef and captains' biscuit, and pickled pork they loaded she. there was guzzling jack and gorging jimmy, and the youngest he was little billy. now very soon they were so greedy, they didn't leave not one split pea. says guzzling jack to gorging jimmy, i am confounded hung-ery. says gorging jim to guzzling jacky, we have no wittles, so we must eat we. says guzzling jack to gorging jimmy, oh! gorging jim, what a fool you be. there's little bill as is young and tender, we're old and tough--so let's eat _he_. oh! bill, we're going to kill and eat you, so undo the collar of your chemie. when bill he heard this information, he used his pocket-handkerchee. oh! let me say my catechism, as my poor mammy taught to me. make haste' make haste, says guzzling jacky, whilst jim pulled out his snicker-snee. so bill went up the main top-gallant mast, when down he fell on his bended knee. he scarce had said his catechism, when up he jumps; "there's land i see! "there's jerusalem and madagascar, and north and south _ameri-key._ "there's the british fleet a-riding at anchor, with admiral napier, k.c.b." so when they came to the admiral's vessel, he hanged fat jack, and flogged jim _my._ but as for little bill, he made him the captain of a seventy-three. ----w. m. thackeray. how they brought the good news from ghent to aix ---- |i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew, "speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, so, joris broke silence with, "yet there is time!" at aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, "stay spur! your roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. well remember at aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so, we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and "gallop," gasped joris, "for aix- is in sight!" "how they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. then i cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse with out peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is--friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. ----r. browning. count gismond (_aix in provence._) i. |christ god, who savest man, save most of men count gismond who saved me! count gauthier, when he chose his post, chose time and place and company to suit it; when he struck at length my honour,'twas with all his strength. ii. and doubtlessly, ere he could draw all points to one, he must have schemed! that miserable morning saw few half so happy as i seemed, while being dressed in queen's array to give our tourney prize away. iii. i thought they loved me, did me grace to please themselves; 'twas all their deed; god makes, or fair or foul, our face; if showing mine so caused to bleed my cousins' hearts, they should have dropped a word, and straight the play had stopped. they, too, so beauteous! each a queen by virtue of her brow and breast; not needing to be crowned, i mean, as i do. e'en when i was dressed, had either of them spoke, instead of glancing sideways with still head! v. but no: they let me laugh, and sing my birthday song quite through, adjust the last rose in my garland, fling a last look on the mirror, trust my arms to each an arm of theirs, and so descend the castle-stairs-- vi. and come out on the morning-troop of merry friends who kissed my cheek, and called me queen, and made me stoop under the canopy--(a streak that pierced it, of the outside sun, powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)-- vii. and they could let me take my state and foolish throne amid applause of all come there to celebrate my queen s-day--oh i think the cause of much was, they forgot no crowd makes up for parents in their shroud! viii. however that be, all eyes were bent upon me, when my cousins cast theirs down; 'twas time i should present the victor's crown, but... there,'twill last no long time... the old mist again blinds me as then it did. how vain! ix. see! gismond's at the gate, in talk with his two boys: i can proceed. well, at that moment, who should stalk forth boldly--to my face, indeed-- but gauthier? and he thundered "stay!" and all stayed. "bring no crowns, i say! x. "bring torches! wind the penance-sheet about her! let her shun the chaste, or lay herself before their feet! shall she, whose body i embraced a night long, queen it in the day? for honour's sake no crowns, i say!" xi. i? what i answered? as i live, i never fancied such a thing as answer possible to give. what says the body when they spring some monstrous torture-engine's whole strength on it? no more says the soul. xii. till out strode gismond; then i knew that i was saved. i never met his face before, but, at first view, i felt quite sure that god had set himself to satan; who would spend a minute's mistrust on the end? xiii. he strode to gauthier, in his throat gave him the lie, then struck his mouth with one back-handed blow that wrote in blood men's verdict there. north, south, east, west, i looked. the lie was dead, and damned, and truth stood up instead. xiv. this glads me most, that i enjoyed the heart of the joy, with my content in watching gismond unalloyed by any doubt of the event: god took that on him--i was bid watch gismond for my part: i did. xv. did i not watch him while he let his armourer just brace his greaves, rivet his hauberk, on the fret the while! his foot... my memory leaves no least stamp out, nor how anon he pulled his ringing gauntlets on. xvi. and e'en before the trumpet's sound was finished, prone lay the false knight, prone as his lie, upon the ground: gismond flew at him, used no sleight o' the sword, but open-breasted drove, cleaving till out the truth he clove. xvii. which done, he dragged him to my feet and said, "here die, but end thy breath in full confession, lest thou fleet from my first, to god's second death! say, hast thou lied?" and, "i have lied to god and her," he said, and died. xviii. then gismond, kneeling to me, asked --what safe my heart holds, though no word could i repeat now, if i tasked my powers for ever, to a third dear even as you are. pass the rest until i sank upon his breast. xix. over my head his arm he flung against the world; and scarce i felt his sword (that dripped by me and swung) a little shifted in its belt: for he began to say the while how south our home lay many a mile. xx. so,'mid the shouting multitude we two walked forth to never more return. my cousins have pursued their life, untroubled as before i vexed them. gauthier's dwelling-place god lighten! may his soul find grace. xxi. our elder boy has got the clear great brow; tho' when his brother's black full eye shows scorn, it... gismond here? and have you brought my tercel back? i just was telling adela how many birds it struck since may. ----r. browning. a lowland witch ballad |the old witch-wife beside her door sat spinning with a watchful ear, a horse's hoof upon the road is what she waits for, longs to hear. the mottled gloaming dusky grew, or else we might a furrow trace, sowed with small bones and leaves of yew, across the road from place to place. hark he comes! the young bridegroom, singing gaily down the hill, rides on, rides blindly to his doom, his heart that witch hath sworn to kill. up to the fosse he rode so free, there his steed stumbled and he fell, he cannot pass, nor turn, nor flee; his song is done, hes in the spell. she dances round him where he stands, her distaff touches both his feet, she blows upon his eyes and hands, he has no power his fate to cheat. "ye cannot visit her to-night, nor ever again," the witch-wife cried; "but thou shalt do as i think right, and do it swift without a guide. "upon the top of tintock hill this night there rests the yearly mist, in silence go, your tongue keep still, and find for me the dead mans kist. "within the kist there is a cup, thou'lt find it by the dead man's shine, take it thus! thus fold it up,-- it holds for me the wisdom-wine. "go to the top of tintock hill, grope within that eerie mist, whatever happens, keep quite still until ye find the dead man's kist. "the kist will open, take the cup, heed ye not the dead man's shine, take it thus, thus fold it up, bring it to me and i am thine." he went, he could make answer none, he went, he found all as she said, before the dawn had well begun she had the cup from that strange bed. into the hut she fled at once, she drank the wine;--forthwith behold! a radiant damozel advance from that black door in silken fold. the little circe flower she held towards the boy with such a smile made his heart leap, he was compelled to take it gently as a child. she turned, he followed, passed the door, which closed behind: at noon next day, ambling on his mule that way, the abbot found the steed, no more, the rest was lost in glamoury. ----william bell scott. the weird lady |the swevens came up round harold the earl, like motes in the sunnès beam; and over him stood the weird lady, in her charmed castle over the sea, sang ".lie thou still and dream." "thy steed is dead in his stall, earl harold, since thou hast been with me; the rust has eaten thy harness bright, and the rats have eaten thy greyhound light, that was so fair and free." mary mother she stooped from heaven; she wakened earl harold out of his sweven, to don his harness on; and over the land and over the sea he wended abroad to his own countrie, a weary way to gon. oh but his beard was white with eld, oh but his hair was gray; he stumbled on by stock and stone, and as he journeyed he made his moan along that weary way. earl harold came to his castle wall; the gate was burnt with fire; roof and rafter were fallen down, the folk were strangers all in the town, and strangers all in the shire. earl harold came to a house of nuns, and he heard the dead-bell toll; he saw the sexton stand by a grave; "now christ have mercy, who did us- save, upon yon fair nun's soul." the nuns they came from the convent gate by one, by two, by three; they sang for the soul of a lady bright who died for the love of a traitor knight: it was his own lady. he stayed the corpse beside the grave; "a sign, a sign!" quod he. "mary mother who rulest heaven, send me a sign if i be forgiven by the woman who so loved me." f a white dove out of the coffin flew; earl harold's mouth it kist; he fell on his face, wherever he stood; and the white dove carried his soul to god or ever the bearers wist. ----c. kingsley. the sands of dee [illustration: ] |o mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home across the sands of dee;" the western wind was wild and dank with foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land: and never home came she. "oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drowned maiden's hair above the nets at sea? was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes on dee." they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea: but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home across the sands of dee. ----c. kingsley. ballad of earl haldan's daughter |it was earl haldan's daughter, she looked across the sea; she looked across the water; and long and loud laughed she: "the locks of six princesses must be my marriage fee, so hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! who comes a wooing me?" it was earl haldan's daughter, she walked along the sand; when she was aware of a knight so fair, came sailing to the land. his sails were all of velvet, his mast of beaten gold, and "hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! who saileth here so bold?" "the locks of five princesses i won beyond the sea; i dipt their golden tresses, to fringe a cloak for thee. one handful yet is wanting, but one of all the tale; so hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! furl up thy velvet sail!" he leapt into the water, that rover young and bold; he gript earl haldan's daughter, he dipt her locks of gold: "go weep, go weep, proud maiden, the tale is full to-day. now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat! sail westward ho! away!" ----c. kingsley. lorraine, lorraine, lorrÃ�e i. |are you ready for your steeple-chase, lorraine, lorraine, lorrèe? barum, barum, barum, barum, barum, barum, baree, you're booked to ride your capping race to-day at coulterlee, you're booked to ride vindictive, for all the world to see, to keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me. barum, barum," etc. ii. she clasped her new-born baby, poor lorraine, lorraine, lorrèe, "i cannot ride vindictive, as any man might see, and i will not ride vindictive, with this baby on my knee; he's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why must he kill me?" iii. "unless you ride vindictive, lorraine, lorraine, lorrèe, unless you ride vindictive to-day at coulterlee, and land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, it's you may keep your baby, for you'll get no keep from me." iv. "that husbands could be cruel," said lorraine, lorraine, lorrèe, "that husbands could be cruel, i have known for seasons three; but oh! to ride vindictive while a baby cries for me, and be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!" v. she mastered young vindictive--oh! the gallant lass was she, and kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be; but he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree, oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see, and no one but the baby cried for poor lorraine, lorrèe. ----c. kingsley. a ballad for a boy |when george the third was reigning a hundred years ago, he ordered captain farmer to chase the foreign foe. "you're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck, so cruise about the west of france in the frigate called _quebec_. "quebec was once a frenchman's town, but twenty years ago king george the second sent a man called general wolfe, you know, to clamber up a precipice and look into quebec, as you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck. "if wolfe could beat the frenchmen then so you can beat them now. before he got inside the town he died, i must allow. but since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, and you'll remember wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same." then farmer said, "i'll try, sir," and farmer bowed so low that george could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow. george gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, signed "king of britain, king of france," and sealed it with a wafer. then proud was captain farmer in a frigate of his own, and grander on his quarter-deck than george upon the throne. he'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, and twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score men. and as a huntsman scours the brakes with six- teen brace of dogs, with two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs. from cape la hogue to ushant, from roche- forte to belleisle, she hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel. the fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, the lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; the east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the breton bay, and "clear for action!" farmer shouts, and reefers yell "hooray!" the frenchmen's captain had a name i wish i could pronounce; a breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, one like those famous fellows who died by guil- lotine for honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and antoinette the queen. the catholic for louis, the protestant for george, each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; and both were simple seamen, but both could understand how each was bound to win or die for flag and native land. the french ship was la surveillante, which means the watchful maid; she folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade. her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail. on canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail. sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, and still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried. a sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; we could not quench the rushing flames, and so the frenchman won. our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair. he bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there. the guns were hushed on either side, the french- men lowered boats, they flung us planks and hencoops, and every- thing that floats. they risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid. 'twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made. _la surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest. they had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of brest, and where the waves leapt lower, and the riddled ship went slower, in triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher- boats to tow her. they dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for farmer dead; and as the wounded captives passed each breton bowed the head. then spoke the french lieutenant, "'twas fire that won, not we. you never struck your flag to us; you'll go to england free." 'twas the sixth day of october, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, a year when nations ventured against us to ' combine, quebec was burnt and farmer slain, by us re- membered not; but thanks be to the french book wherein they're not forgot. now you, if you've to fight the french, my youngster, bear in mind those seamen of king louis so chivalrous and kind; think of the breton gentlemen who took our lads to brest, and treat some rescued breton as a comrade and a guest. ----william cory. keith of ravelston [illustration: ] |the murmur of the mourning ghost that keeps the shadowy kine; 'oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line!' ravelston, ravelston, the merry path that leads down the golden morning hill and through the silver meads; ravelston, ravelston, the stile beneath the tree, the maid that kept her mother's kine, the song that sang she! she sang her song, she kept her kine, she sat beneath the thorn, when andrew keith of ravelston rode thro' the monday morn. his henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, his belted jewels shine! oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! year after year, where andrew came, comes evening down the glade, and still there sits a moonshine ghost where sat the sunshine maid. her misty hair is faint and fair, she keeps the shadowy kine; oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! i lay my hand upon the stile, the stile is lone and cold; the burnie that goes babbling by says nought that can be told. yet, stranger! here, from year to year, she keeps her shadowy kine; oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! step out three steps, where andrew stood -- why blanch thy cheeks for fear? the ancient stile is not alone, 'tis not the burn i hear! she makes her immemorial moan, she keeps her shadowy kine; oh, keith of ravelston, the sorrows of thy line! ----s. dobell. daft jean |she cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha, the laird's ha o' wutherstanelaw, the cottar's cot by the birken shaw; an' aye she gret, to ilk ane she met, for the trumpet had blawn an her lad was awa. [illustration: ] daft jean, the waesome wean, "black, black," sang she, "black, black my weeds shall be, my love has widowed me! black, black!" sang she. daft jean, the waesome wean, she cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha', the laird's ha o wutherstanelaw, the cottar's cot by the birken shaw; nae mair she creepit, nae mair she weepit, she stept'mang the lasses the queen o' them a', the queen o' them a', the queen o' them a', she stept mang the lasses the queen o' them a. for the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa, an' claymore in han' for his love an' his ian', the lad she lo ed best he was foremost to fa'. "white, white," sang she, "white, white, my weeds shall be, i am no widow," sang she, "white, white, my wedding shall be, white, white!" sang she. daft jean, the waesome wean, she gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha', but forth she creepit, while a' the house weepit, into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa.' at morn we found her, the lammies stood round her, the snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw; pale she was lying, singing and dying, a' for the laddie wha fell far awa'. "white, white," sang she, "my love has married me, white, white, my weeds shall be, white, white, my wedding shall be, white, white," sang she! ----s. dobell. the yerl o' waterydeck |the wind it blew, and the ship it flew, and it was "hey for hame!" but up an' cried the skipper til his crew, "haud her oot ower the saut sea faem." syne up an' spak the angry king: "haud on for dumferline!" quo the skipper, "my lord, this maunna be-- i'm king on this boat o' mine." a he tuik the helm intil his han'; he left the shore un er the lee; syne croodit sail, an', east an' south, stude awa richt oot to sea. quo the king, "leise-majesty, i trow! here lies some ill-set plan. 'bout ship!" quo the skipper, "yer grace forgets ye are king but o' the lan'!" oot he heild to the open sea quhill the north wind flaughtered and fell; syne the east had a bitter word to say that waukent a watery hell. he turned her heid intil the north: quo the nobles: "he's droon, by the mass!" quo the skipper: "haud aff yerlady-hans, or yell never see the bass." the king creepit down the cabin-stair to drink the gude french wine; an' up cam his dochter, the princess fair, an' luikit ower the brine. she turnt her face to the drivin' snaw, to the snaw but and the weet; it claucht her snood, an' awa' like a clud her hair drave oot i' the sleet. she turnt her face frae the drivin' win -- "quhat's that aheid?" quo' she, the skipper he threw himsel' frae the win', an' he brayt the helm alee. "put to yer han', my lady fair! haud up her heid," quo' he; "gin she dinna face the win' a wee mair, it s faurweel to you an' me!" to the tiller the lady she laid her han, an' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast; they joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped, an' they luikit at ither aghast. quo the skipper: "ye are a lady fair, an' a princess gran' to see; but war ye a beggàr, a man wud sail to the hell i' yer company." she liftit a pale an' a queenly face; her een flashed, an' syne they swam: "an' what for no to the hevin?" she says-- an' she turnt awa' frae him. bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's helm till the day begouth to daw; an' the skipper he spak, but what was said it was said atween them twa. an' syne the gude ship she lay to, wi' scotian' hyne un'er the lee; an' the king cam up the cabin-stair, wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee. laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck; "stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king; "ye're an honest loun--an' beg me a boon quhan ye gie me back this ring." lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot; the ship turnt frae the north; an' or ever the sun was up an aboot, they war intil the firth o' forth. quhan the gude ship hung at the pier-heid, and the king stude steady o' the ian'-- "doon wi' ye, skipper--doon!" he said, "hoo daur ye afore me stan'?" the skipper he loutit on his knee; the king his blade he drew: quo the king, "noo mynt ye to contre me?-- i'm aboord _my_ vessel noo! "gien i hadna been yer verra gude lord i wad hae thrawn yer neck! bot--ye wha loutit skipper o' doon, rise up yerl o' waterydeck." the skipper he rasena: "yer grace is great; yèr wull it can heize or ding; wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl-- wi' anither mak me a king." "i canna mak ye a king," quo' he, "the lord alane can do that; i snowk leise-majesty, my man! quhat the sathan wad ye be at?" glowert at the skipper the doutsum king, jalousin' aneth his croon; quo' the skipper, "here is yer grace's ring-- an' yer dochter is my boon." the black blude shot intil the king's face-- he wasna bonny to see: "the rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!-- gar hang him heigh on yon tree." up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship; cleikit up a bytin' blade; an' hackit at the cable that held her to the pier, an' thoucht it maist ower weel made. the king he blew shill in a siller whustle; an' tramp, tramp, doon the pier, cam twenty men on twenty horses, clankin' wi' spur and spear. at the king's fute fell his dochter fair: "his life ye wadna spill!" "ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?" "i daur, wi' a richt gude will!" "ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn; but, my lady, here stan's the king; luikna him i' the angry face, a monarch's anither thing." "i lout to my father for his grace, low on my bendit knee; but i stan' an' luik the king i' the face, for the skipper is king o' me." she turnt, she sprang upo' the deck; the cable splashed i' the forth, her wings sae braid the gude ship spread and flew east, an' syne flew north. now was not this a king's dochter-- a lady that feared no skaith? an' a woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail prood intil the port o' death? ----g. macdonald. old sir walter (_a story of ._) |stout sir walter was old but hearty: a velvet cap on his long grey hair, a full white rose at his gold-laced button: many were laughing, but none looked gayer. such a beast was his jet black hunter, silver-spotted with foam and froth, brawny in flank and fiery-blooded, stung by the spur to a curbless wrath! gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled over the stone wall four feet two; see saw over the old park railing, shaking the thistle-head rich with dew. a long black face the sour whig huntsman pulled, when he saw sir walter come trotting up gay by the oak wood cover. why when he cheered did they all sit dumb? why when he flung up his hat and shouted, "god save king george!" they bawling cried, as a justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment, rode up grim to sir walters side. "in king georges name, arrest him, lieges! this is the villain who fought at boyne: he sliced the feather from off my beaver, and ran his sword twice into my groin." then out whipp'd blades: the horns they sounded, the field came flocking in thick and fast, but sir walter flogged at the barking rabble, and through them all like a whirlwind passed. "a hundred guineas to seize the traitor!" cried the justice, purple and white with rage, then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging, was never seen in the strangest age. the hunter whipped off spot and fowler, viper and fury, and all the pack, and set them fast, with their red tongues lolling and white teeth fix'd, on sir walter's track. loud on the wind came blast of bugle, all together the hounds gave tongue, they swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet, where the black rags still in the cold storm hung. the rain cut faces like long whip lashes, the wind blew strong in its wayward will, and powdering fast, the men and horses thundering swept down frampton hill. there half the grooms at last pull'd bridle, swearing'twould ruin their bits of blood; three whig rogues flew out of the saddle, and two were plumped in the river mud. three men stuck to the leading rebel; the first was a whig lord, fat and red, the next a yellow-faced lean attorney, and the last a justice, as some one said. slap at the fence went old sir walter, slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree, crash through the hazels, over the water, and wherever he went, there went the three. into the hill-fence broke sir walter, right through the tangle of branch and thorns, swish'd the rasper up by the windmill, in spite of the cries and blowing of horns. lines of flames trailed all the scarlet streaming, the dogs half a mile before, whoop! with a cry all after sir walter, driving wildly along the shore. over the timber flew old sir walter, light as a swallow, sure and swift, for his sturdy arm and his "pull and hustle" could help a nag at the deadest lift. off went his gold-laced hat and bugle, his scarlet cloak he then let fall, and into the river spurr'd old sir walter, boldly there, in the sight of all. there was many a sore on back and wither, many a spur that ran with red, but none of them caught the stout sir walter, though they counted of horses sixty head. there was many a fetlock cut and wounded, many a hock deep lam'd with thorns, many a man that two years after shuddered to hear the sound of horns. but on the fallow, the long clay fallow, foundered his black mare, lilly lee, and sir walter sat on the tough old saddle, waiting the coming of all the three. never such chase of stag or vermin, along the park pale, in and out; on they thundered, fast over the railing, driving the fence in splints about. the first he shot with his long steel pistol, the second he slew with his irish sword, the third he threw in the brook, and mounted quick on the steed of the fat whig lord. then off to the ship at the nearest harbour, gallop'd sir walter, sure and fleet. he died, 'tis true, in an old french garret, but his heart went true to the latest beat. a white rose, stifled and very sickly, pined for air at the window-sill, but the last fond look of the brave old trooper was fixed on the dying emblem--still, all alone in the dusky garret, he turn d to the flower with a father's pride, "god save king james!" the old man mur- mured, "god--save--the--king!" he moaned and died. ----g. w. thornbury. sister helen [illustration: ] |why did you melt your waxen man, sister helen? to-day is the third since you began." "the time was long, yet the time ran, little brother." (_ mother, mary mother, three days to-day, between hell and heaven!_) "but if you have done your work aright, sister helen, you'll let me play, for you said i might." "be very still in your play to-night, little brother." (_ mother, mary mother, third night, to-night, between hell and heaven!_) "you said it must melt ere vesper-bell, sister helen; if now it be molten, all is well." "even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell, little brother." (_ mothery mary mother,owhat is this, between hell and heaven?_) "oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, sister helen; how like dead folk he has dropped away!" "nay now, of the dead what can you say, little brother?" (_o mother y mary mother y what of the dead, between hell and heaven?_) "see, see, the sunken pile of wood, sister helen, shines through the thinned wax red as blood!" "nay now, when looked you yet on blood, little brother?" (_o mother, mary mother, how pale she is, between hell and heaven!_) "now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, sister helen; and i'll play without the gallery door." "aye, let me rest,--i'll lie on the floor, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, what rest to-night, between hell and heaven?_) "here high up in the balcony, sister helen, the moon flies face to face with me." "aye, look and say whatever you see, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, what sight to-night, between hell and heaven?_) "outside it's merry in the wind's wake, sister helen; in the shaken trees the chill stars shake." "hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, what sound to-night, between hell and heaven?_) "i hear a horse-tread, and i see, sister helen, three horsemen that ride terribly." "little brother, whence come the three, little brother?" (_o mother, mary mother, whence should they come, between hell and heaven?_) "they come by the hill-verge from boyne bar, sister helen, and one draws nigh, but two are afar." "look, look, do you know them who they are, little brother?" (_o mother, mary mother, who should they be, between hell and heaven?_) "oh, it's keith of eastholm rides so fast, sister helen, for i know the white mane on the blast." "the hour has come, has come at last, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, her hour at last, between hell and heaven!_) "he has made a sign and called halloo! sister helen, and he says that he would speak with you." "oh, tell him i fear the frozen dew, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, why laughs she thus, between hell and heaven?_) "the wind is loud, but i hear him cry, sister helen, that keith of ewern's like to die." "and he and thou, and thou and i, little brother." (_omother, mary mother, and they and we, between hell and heaven!_) "three days ago, on his marriage-morn, sister helen, he sickened, and lies since then forlorn." "for bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn, little brother." (_o mother y mary mother, cold bridal cheer, between hell and heaven!_) "three days and nights he has lain abed, sister helen, and he prays in torment to be dead." "the thing may chance, if he have prayed, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, if he have prayedy between hell and heaven!_) "but he has not ceased to cry to-day, sister helen, that you should take your curse away." "_my_ prayer was heard,--he need but pray, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, shall god not hear, between hell and heaven?_) "but he says, till you take back your ban, sister helen, his soul would pass, yet never can." "nay then, shall i slay a living man, little brother?" (_o mother y mary mother, a living soul y between hell and heaven!_) "but he calls for ever on your name, sister helen, and says that he melts before a flame." "my heart for his pleasure fared the same, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, fire at the hearty between hell and heaven!_) "here's keith of westholm riding fast, sister helen, for i know the white plume on the blast." "the hour, the sweet hour i forecast, little brother!" (_o mothery mary mother, is the hour sweet, between hell and heaven?_) "he stops to speak, and.he stills his horse, sister helen; but his words are drowned in the wind's course." "nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, what word now heard, between hell and heaven?_) "oh he says that keith of ewern's cry, sister helen, is ever to see you ere he die." "in all that his soul sees, there am i, little brother!" (_o mother y mary mother y the souls one sight, between hell and heaven!_) "he sends a ring and a broken coin, sister helen, and bids you mind the banks of boyne." "what else he broke will he ever join, little brother?" (_o mother, mary mother, no, never joined, between hell and heaven!_) "he yields you these and craves full fain, sister helen, you pardon him in his mortal pain." "what else he took will he give again, little brother?" (_o mother, mary mother, not twice to give, between hell and heaven!_) "he calls your name in an agony, sister helen, that even dead love must weep to see." "hate, born of love, is blind as he, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, love turned to hate, between hell and heaven!_) "oh it's keith of keith now that rides fast, sister helen, for i know the white hair on the blast." "the short short hour will soon be past, little brother!" (_o mother y mary mother, will soon be past, between hell and heaven!_) "he looks at me and he tries to speak, sister helen, but oh! his voice is sad and weak!" "what here should the mighty baron seek, little brother?" (_o mother, mary mother, is this the end, between hell and heaven?_) "oh his son still cries, if you forgive, sister helen, the body dies but the soul shall live." "fire shall forgive me as i forgive, little brother!" (_o mothery mary mother, as she forgives, between hell and heaven!_) "oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, sister helen, to save his dear sons soul alive.'' "fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, alas y alas y between hell and heaven!_) "he cries to you, kneeling in the road, sister helen, to go with him for the love of god!" "the way is long to his son's abode, little brother." (_o mother, mary mother, the way is long between hell and heaven!_) "a lady's here, by a dark steed brought, sister helen, so darkly clad, i saw her not." "see her now or never see aught, little brother!" (+o mothery mary mother, what more to see, between hell and heaven?_) "her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, sister helen, on the lady of ewern's golden hair." "blest hour of my power and her despair, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, hour blest and bannd, between hell and heaven!_) "pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow, sister helen, 'neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." "one morn for pride and three days for woe, little brother." (_o mothery mary mother three days, three nights, between hell and heaven!_) "her clasped hands stretch from her bending head, sister helen; with the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed." "what wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed, little brother?" (_o mother y mary mother y what strain but death's, between hell and heaven!_) "she may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, sister helen,-- she lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." "oh! might i but hear her soul's blithe tune, little brother!" (_o mother y mary mother, her woe s dumb cry, between hell and heaven!_) "they've caught her to westholm's saddle-bow, sister helen, and her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow." "let it turn whiter than winter snow, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, woe-withered gold, between hell and heaven!_) "o sister helen, you heard the bell, sister helen! more loud than the vesper-chime it fell." "no vesper-chime, but a dying-knell, little brother!" (_o mother y mary mother, his dying knell, between hell and heaven!_) "alas! but i fear the heavy sound, sister helen; is it in the sky or in the ground?" "say, have they turned their horses round, little brother?" (_o mother mary mother, what would she more, between hell and heaven?_) "they have raised the old man from his knee, sister helen, and they ride in silence hastily." "more fast the naked soul doth flee, little brother!" (_o mothery mary mother, the naked soul, between hell and heaven!_) "flank to flank are the three steeds gone, sister helen, but the lady's dark steed goes alone." "and lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown, little brother." _(o mother y mary mother, the lonely ghost, between hell and heaven!_) "oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, sister helen, and weary sad they look by the hill." "but he and i are sadder still, little brother!" (_o mother, mary mother, most sad of ally between hell and heaven!_) "see, see, the wax has dropped from its place, sister helen, and the flames are winning up apace!" "yet here they burn but for a space, little brother!" (_o mother y mary mother, here for a space, between hell and heaven!_) "ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, sister helen? ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?" "a soul that's lost as mine is lost, little brother!" (_o mother y mary mother, lost y lost y all lost y between hell and heaven!) ----d. g. rossetti. the blackbird's song |magdalen at michael's gate tirled at the pin; on joseph's thorn, sang the blackbird, "let her in! let her in!" "hast thou seen the wounds?" said michael, "know'st thou thy sin?" "it is evening, evening," sang the blackbird, "let her in! let her in!" "yes i have seen the wounds, and i know my sin." "she knows it well, well, well," sang the blackbird, "let her in! let her in!" "thou bringest no offerings," said michael, "nought save sin.'' and the blackbird sang, "she is sorry, sorry, sorry, let her in! let her in!" when he had sung himself to sleep, and night did begin, one came and opened michael's gate, and magdalen went in. ----h. kingsley. maiden song |long ago and long ago, and long ago still, there dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill. one was tall meggan, and one was dainty may, but one was fair margaret, more fair than i can say, long ago and long ago. when meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when may pulled the brier, half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw nigher; half the fishes of the streams would dart up to admire: and when margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy hot aflame, all the beasts, and all the birds, and all the fishes came to her hand more soft than snow. strawberry leaves and may-dew in brisk morning air, strawberry leaves and may-dew make maidens fair. "i go for strawberry leaves," meggan said one day: "fair margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, may; up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way you and i are used to go." so these two fair sisters went with innocent will up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill: while the fairest sat at home, margaret like a queen, like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen, fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean, graceful as an ivy bough born to cling and lean; thus she sat to sing and sew. when she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door; when she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor; when she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill, warbling out its heart of love, warbling warbling still, with pathetic pleadings low. light-foot may with meggan sought the choicest spot, clothed with thyme-alternate grass: then, while day waxed hot, sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play; the loveliest maidens near or far, when margaret was away, who sat at home to sing and sew. sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair, creeping things among the grass stroked them here and there; meggan piped a merry note, a fitful wayward lay, while shrill as birds on topmost twig piped merry may; honey-smooth the double flow. sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame, all on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came. looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west, but sat him down at meggan's feet as love-bird on his nest, and wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed; she sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast: so he loved her, listening so. she sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue; hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung. then he spoke up from his place simple words and true: "scanty goods have i to give, scanty skill to woo; but i have a will to work, and a heart for you: bid me stay or bid me go." then meggan mused within herself: "better be first with him, than dwell where fairer margaret sits, who shines my brightness dim, for ever second where she sits, however fair i be. i will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me; i will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree, at home where kids and fatlings grow." goof^ sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look, (white lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd's crook): he turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south, but knelt right down to may, for love of her sweet-singing mouth; forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hill-side drouth; forgot himself for weal or woe. trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice in a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences; clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees, wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees: love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love, yet cannot keep her secret safe, but coos and coos thereof: thus the notes rang loud or low. he hung breathless on her breath; speechless, who listened well; could not speak or think or wish till silence broke the spell. then he spoke, and spread his hands, pointing here and there: "see my sheep and see the lambs, twin lambs which they bear. and myself i offer you, all my flocks and care, your sweet song hath moved me so." in her fluttered heart young may mused a dubious while, "if he loves me as he says"-- her lips curved with a smile: "where margaret shines like the sun i shine but like a moon; if sister meggan makes her choice i can make mine as soon; at cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon." said meggan, "yes;" may said not "no." fair margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song, awhile sat silent, then she thought: "my sisters loiter long." that sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxen great: "surely," she thought within herself, "my sisters loiter late!" she rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait, and heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate; then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate, leaned on the rail and waited so. the slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair, like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair, while her face lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white. thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night, looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right, flashing like fire-flies to and fro. waiting thus in weariness she marked the nightingale telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale. then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the bird: then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were never heard from any bird when spring's in blow. the king of all that country, coursing far, coursing near, curbed his amber-bitted steed coursed amain to hear; all his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer, with his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand, down he fell at margaret's knees lord king of all that land, to her highness bending low. every beast and bird and fish, came mustering to the sound, every man and every maid from miles of country round: meggan on her herdsman's arm, with her shepherd, may, flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hill-side way; no foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too grey; some were swift, and none were slow. so margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth; sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth, sang up fishes of the deep-- all breathing things that move sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love; sang together friend and foe; sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet, sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet. but when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died, he stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride. so three maids were wooed and won in a brief may-tide, long ago and long ago. ----christina rossetti. love from the north |i had a love in soft south land, beloved through april far in may; he waited on my lightest breath, and never dared to say me nay. he saddened if my cheer was sad, but gay he grew if i was gay; we never differed on a hair, my yes his yes, my nay his nay. the wedding hour was come, the aisles were flushed with sun and flowers that day; i pacing balanced in my thoughts: "it's quite too late to think of nay."-- my bridegroom answered in his turn, myself had almost answered "yea when through the flashing nave i heard a struggle and resounding "nay," bridesmaids and bridegroom shrank in fear, but i stood high who stood at bay: "and if i answer yea, fair sir, what man art thou to bar with nay?" he was a strong man from the north, light-locked, with eyes of dangerous grey: "put yea by for another time in which i will not say thee nay." he took me in his strong white arms, he bore me on his horse away o'er crag, morass, and hair-breadth pass, but never asked me yea or nay. he made me fast with book and bell, with links of love he makes me stay; till now i've neither heart nor power nor will nor wish to say him nay. ----christina rossetti. maude clare [illustration: ] |out of the church she followed them with a lofty step and mien: his bride was like a village maid, maude clare was like a queen. "son thomas," his lady mother said, with smiles, almost with tears: "may nell and you but live as true as we have done for years; "your father thirty years ago had just your tale to tell; but he was not so pale as you, nor i so pale as nell." my lord was pale with inward strife, and nell was pale with pride; my lord gazed long on pale maude clare or ever he kissed the bride. "lo, i have brought my gift, my lord, have brought my gift," she said: "to bless the hearth, to bless the board, to bless the marriage-bed. "here's my half of the golden chain you wore about your neck, that day we waded ankle-deep for lilies in the beck: "here's my half of the faded leaves we plucked from budding bough, with feet among the lily leaves,-- the lilies are budding now." he strove to match her scorn with scorn, he faltered in his place; "lady," he said,--"maude clare," he said,-- "maude clare:"--and hid his face. she turn'd to nell: "my lady nell, i have a gift for you; though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone, or, were it flowers, the dew. "take my share of a fickle heart, mine of a paltry love: take it or leave it as you will, i wash my hands thereof." "and what you leave," said nell, "i'll take, and what you spurn, i'll wear; for he's my lord for better and worse, and him i love, maude clare. "yea, though you re taller by the head, more wise, and much more fair; i'll love him till he loves me best, me best of all, maude clare." ----christina rossetti. [illustration: ] the seven fiddlers |a blue robe on their shoulder, and an ivory bow in hand, seven fiddlers came with their fiddles a-fiddling through the land, and they fiddled a tune on their fiddles that none could understand. for none who heard their fiddling might keep his ten toes still, e en the cripple threw down his crutches, and danced against his will: young and old they all fell a-dancing, while the fiddlers fiddled their fill. they fiddled down to the ferry-- the ferry by severn-side, and they stept aboard the ferry, none else to row or guide, and deftly steered the pilot, and stoutly the oars they plied. then suddenly in the mid-channel these fiddlers ceased to row, and the pilot spake to his fellows in a tongue that none may know: "let us home to our fathers and brothers, and the maidens we love below." then the fiddlers seized their fiddles, and sang to their fiddles a song: "we are coming, coming, oh brothers, to the home we have left so long, for the world still loves the fiddler, and the fiddler's tune is strong." then they stept from out the ferry into the severn-sea, down into the depths of the waters where the homes of the fiddlers be, and the ferry-boat drifted slowly forth to the ocean free! but where those jolly fiddlers walked down into the deep, the ripples are never quiet, but for ever dance and leap, though the severn-sea be silent, and the winds be all asleep. ----sebastian evans. [illustration: ] sir nicholas at marston moor |to horse, to horse, sir nicholas! the clarion's note is high; to horse, to horse, sir nicholas! the big drum makes reply: ere this hath lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, and the bray of rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears. to horse, to horse, sir nicholas! white guy is at the door, and the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of marston moor. up rose the lady alice from her brief and broken prayer, and she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair. oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed, as she worked the bright word "glory"in the gay and glancing thread; and mournful was the smile which o'er those beauteous features ran, as she said, "it is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the van." "it shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride, through the steel-clad files of skippon, and the black dragoons of pride; the recreant soul of fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, and the rebel lips of oliver give out a louder psalm, when they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing, and hear her loyal soldier's shout, for god and for the king! 'tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line; they fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the rhine: stout langley's cheer is heard no more, and astley's helm is down, and rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown; and cold newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, "the german boar had better far have supped in york to-night.'' the knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain, his good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain; yet still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout-- "for church and king, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!" and now he wards a roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave, and here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave. good speed to thee, sir nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear; good speed to thee, sir nicholas! but fearful odds are here. the traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust, "down, down," they cry, "with belial, down with him to the dust!" "i would," quoth grim old oliver, "that belial's trusty sword this day were doing battle for the saints and for the lord!"-- the lady alice sits with her maidens in her bower; the grey-haired warden watches on the castle's highest tower.-- "what news, what news, old anthony?"-- "the field is lost and won; the ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun; and a wounded man speeds hither,--i am old and cannot see, or sure i am that sturdy step my master's step should be! "i bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray, as e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay. bid hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum stiff.; i'll make a shift to drain it, ere i part with boot and buff; though guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life, and i come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife! "sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for france, and mourn in merry paris for this poor realm's mischance; or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope, than life with lenthal for a king, and peters for a pope! alas, alas, my gallant guy!--out on the crop- eared boor, that sent me with my standard on foot from marston moor!" ----w. m. praed. generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings and hyphenation have been retained as in the original. minor corrections to format and punctuation together with regularisation of poetry line numbering have been made without comment. any other changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. in this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the ascii and latin- character sets only are used. italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. small caps typeface is represented by upper case. a pointing hand symbol is represented as [hand]. notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad and the presence of a note is indicated at the end of line number ## by "[l##]". * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. volume vi. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. contents of volume sixth. book vi. page a. the lochmaben harper [johnson] b. the lochmaben harper [scott] a. johnie of breadislee b. johnie of cocklesmuir . the sang of the outlaw murray a. johnie armstrang b. johnie armstrang [ramsay] a. hughie graham b. hughie the græme . kinmont willie . dick o' the cow . jock o' the side a. archie of ca'field b. billie archie . hobie noble . jamie telfer of the fair dodhead . the fray of suport . rookhope ryde . the raid of the reidswire . the death of parcy reed a. captain car b. edom o' gordon . willie mackintosh . lord maxwell's goodnight . the lads of wamphray . the fire of frendraught a. the bonnie house o' airly [finlay] b. the bonnie house of airly [sharpe] a. the baron of brackley [jamieson] b. the baron of braikley [buchan] . gilderoy . bob roy book vii. a. queen eleanor's confession b. queen eleanor's confession [kinloch] auld maitland a. willie wallace b. sir william wallace appendix. johnny cock the life and death of sir hugh of the grime johnie armstrang loudoun castle rob roy eppie morrie macpherson's rant the flemish insurrection the execution of sir simon fraser glossary book vi. the lochmaben harper. this fine old ballad was first printed in the _musical museum_ (_o heard ye e'er of a silly blind harper_, p. ). scott inserted a different copy, equally good, in the _border minstrelsy_, i. , and there is another, of very ordinary merits, in _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_ (_the jolly harper_), p. . in this the theft is done on a wager, and the booty duly restored. on account of the excellence of the ballad, we give two versions, though they differ but slightly. o heard ye of a silly harper, liv'd long in lochmaben town, how he did gang to fair england, to steal king henry's wanton brown? but first he gaed to his gude wife wi' a' the speed that he coud thole: "this wark," quo' he, "will never work, without a mare that has a foal." quo' she, "thou hast a gude grey mare, that'll rin o'er hills baith low and hie; gae tak' the grey mare in thy hand, and leave the foal at hame wi' me. "and tak a halter in thy hose, and o' thy purpose dinna fail; but wap it o'er the wanton's nose; and tie her to the grey mare's tail: "syne ca' her out at yon back yeate, o'er moss and muir and ilka dale, for she'll ne'er let the wanton bite, till she come hame to her ain foal." so he is up to england gane, even as fast as he can hie, till he came to king henry's yeate; and wha' was there but king henry? "come in," quo' he, "thou silly blind harper, and of thy harping let me hear;" "o, by my sooth," quo' the silly blind harper, "i'd rather hae stabling for my mare." the king looks o'er his left shoulder, and says unto his stable groom, "gae tak the silly poor harper's mare, and tie her 'side my wanton brown." and ay he harpit, and ay he carpit, till a' the lords gaed through the floor; they thought the music was sae sweet, that they forgat the stable door. and ay he harpit, and ay he carpit, till a' the nobles were sound asleep, than quietly he took aff his shoon, and saftly down the stair did creep. syne to the stable door he hies, wi' tread as light as light coud be, and whan he open'd and gaed in, there he fand thirty good steeds and three. he took the halter frae his hose, and of his purpose did na' fail; he slipt it o'er the wanton's nose, and tied it to his grey mare's tail. he ca'd her out at yon back yeate, o'er moss and muir and ilka dale, and she loot ne'er the wanton bite, but held her still gaun at her tail. the grey mare was right swift o' fit, and did na fail to find the way, for she was at lochmaben yeate, fu' lang three hours ere it was day. when she came to the harper's door, there she gae mony a nicher and snear; "rise," quo' the wife, "thou lazy lass, let in thy master and his mare." then up she raise, pat on her claes, and lookit out through the lock hole; "o, by my sooth," then quoth the lass, "our mare has gotten a braw big foal." "come haud thy peace, thou foolish lass, the moon's but glancing in thy ee, i'll wad my haill fee 'gainst a groat, it's bigger than e'er our foal will be." the neighbours too that heard the noise cried to the wife to put her in; "by my sooth," then quoth the wife, "she's better than ever he rade on." but on the morn at fair day light, when they had ended a' their chear, king henry's wanton brown was stawn, and eke the poor old harper's mare. "alace! alace!" says the silly blind harper, "alace! alace! that i came here, in scotland i've tint a braw cowte foal, in england they've stawn my guid grey mare." "come had thy tongue, thou silly blind harper, and of thy alacing let me be, for thou shall get a better mare, and weel paid shall thy cowte foal be." lochmaben harper. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, i. . o heard ye na o' the silly blind harper, how long he lived in lochmaben town? and how he wad gang to fair england, to steal the lord warden's wanton brown? but first he gaed to his gude wyfe, wi' a the haste that he could thole-- "this wark," quo' he, "will ne'er gae weel, without a mare that has a foal." quo' she--"thou hast a gude gray mare, that can baith lance o'er laigh and hie; sae set thee on the gray mare's back, and leave the foal at hame wi' me." so he is up to england gane, and even as fast as he may drie; and when he cam to carlisle gate, o whae was there but the warden hie? "come into my hall, thou silly blind harper, and of thy harping let me hear!" "o, by my sooth," quo' the silly blind harper, "i wad rather hae stabling for my mare." the warden look'd ower his left shoulder, and said unto his stable groom-- "gae take the silly blind harper's mare, and tie her beside my wanton brown." then aye he harped, and aye he carped, till a' the lordlings footed the floor; but an the music was sae sweet, the groom had nae mind o' the stable door. and aye he harped, and aye he carped, till a' the nobles were fast asleep; then quickly he took aff his shoon, and saftly down the stair did creep. syne to the stable door he hied, wi' tread as light as light could be; and when he open'd and gaed in, there he fand thirty steeds and three. he took a cowt halter frae his hose, and o' his purpose he didna fail; he slipt it ower the wanton's nose, and tied it to his gray mare's tail. he turn'd them loose at the castle gate, ower muir and moss and ilka dale; and she ne'er let the wanton bait, but kept him a-galloping hame to her foal. the mare she was right swift o' foot, she didna fail to find the way; for she was at lochmaben gate a lang three hours before the day. when she came to the harper's door, there she gave mony a nicker and sneer-- "rise up," quo' the wife, "thou lazy lass; let in thy master and his mare." then up she rose, put on her clothes, and keekit through at the lock-hole-- "o, by my sooth," then cried the lass, "our mare has gotten a braw brown foal!" "come haud thy tongue, thou silly wench! the morn's but glancing in your ee; i'll wad my hail fee against a groat, he's bigger than e'er our foal will be." now all this while in merry carlisle the harper harped to hie and law, and the fiend dought they do but listen him to, until that the day began to daw. but on the morn at fair daylight, when they had ended a' their cheer, behold the wanton brown was gane, and eke the poor blind harper's mare! "allace! allace!" quo' the cunning auld harper, "and ever allace that i cam here; in scotland i hae lost a braw cowt foal, in england they've stown my gude gray mare!" "come, cease thy allacing, thou silly blind harper, and again of thy harping let us hear; and weel payd sall thy cowt-foal be, and thou sall have a far better mare." then aye he harped, and aye he carped, sae sweet were the harpings he let them hear! he was paid for the foal he had never lost, and three times ower for the gude gray mare. johnie of breadislee. an ancient nithsdale ballad. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "the hero of this ballad appears to have been an outlaw and deer-stealer--probably one of the broken men residing upon the border. there are several different copies, in one of which the principal personage is called _johnie of cockielaw_. the stanzas of greatest merit have been selected from each copy. it is sometimes said, that this outlaw possessed the old castle of morton, in dumfries-shire, now ruinous: "near to this castle there was a park, built by sir thomas randolph, on the face of a very great and high hill; so artificially, that, by the advantage of the hill, all wild beasts, such as deers, harts, and roes, and hares, did easily leap in, but could not get out again; and if any other cattle, such as cows, sheep, or goats, did voluntarily leap in, or were forced to do it, _it is doubted_ if their owners were permitted to get them out again." _account of presbytery of penpont, apud macfarlane's mss._ such a park would form a convenient domain to an outlaw's castle, and the mention of durisdeer, a neighboring parish, adds weight to this tradition." johnie of breadislee was first printed in the _border minstrelsy_. fragments of two other versions, in which the hero's name is johny cock, were given in fry's _pieces of ancient poetry_, bristol, , p. , and the editor did not fail to notice that he had probably lighted on the ballad of _johny cox_, which ritson says the rev. mr. boyd faintly recollected, (_scottish song_, i. p. xxxvi.) motherwell, not aware of what fry had done, printed a few stanzas belonging to the first of these versions, under the title of _johnie of braidisbank_ (_minstrelsy, ancient and modern_, p. ), and kinloch recovered a nearly complete story. another copy of this last has been published from buchan's manuscripts in _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_ (percy society, vol. xvii. p. ). chambers, in his _scottish ballads_, p. , has compounded scott's, kinloch's, and motherwell's copies, interspersing a few additional stanzas of no value. scott's and kinloch's versions are given in this place, and fry's fragments (which contain several beautiful stanzas) in the appendix. johnie rose up in a may morning, call'd for water to wash his hands-- "gar loose to me the gude graie dogs, that are bound wi' iron bands." when johnie's mother gat word o' that, her hands for dule she wrang-- "o johnie! for my benison, to the greenwood dinna gang! "eneugh ye hae o' gude wheat bread, and eneugh o' the blood-red wine; and, therefore, for nae venison, johnie, i pray ye, stir frae hame." but johnie's busk't up his gude bend bow, his arrows, ane by ane, and he has gane to durrisdeer, to hunt the dun deer down. as he came down by merriemass, and in by the benty line, there has he espied a deer lying aneath a bush of ling. johnie he shot, and the dun deer lap, and he wounded her on the side; but atween the water and the brae, his hounds they laid her pride. and johnie has bryttled the deer sae weel, that he's had out her liver and lungs; and wi' these he has feasted his bluidy hounds, as if they had been earl's sons. they eat sae much o' the venison, and drank sae much o' the blude, that johnie and a' his bluidy hounds fell asleep as they had been dead. and by there came a silly auld carle, an ill death mote he die! for he's awa' to hislinton, where the seven foresters did lie. "what news, what news, ye gray-headed carle, what news bring ye to me?" "i bring nae news," said the gray-headed carle, "save what these eyes did see. "as i came down by merriemass, and down among the scroggs, the bonniest childe that ever i saw lay sleeping amang his dogs. "the shirt that was upon his back was o' the holland fine; the doublet which was over that was o' the lincome twine. "the buttons that were on his sleeve were o' the goud sae gude: the gude graie hounds he lay amang, their mouths were dyed wi' blude." then out and spak the first forester, the heid man ower them a'-- "if this be johnie o' breadislee, nae nearer will we draw." but up and spak the sixth forester, (his sister's son was he,) "if this be johnie o' breadislee, we soon shall gar him die!" the first flight of arrows the foresters shot, they wounded him on the knee; and out and spak the seventh forester, "the next will gar him die." johnie's set his back against an aik, his fute against a stane; and he has slain the seven foresters, he has slain them a' but ane. he has broke three ribs in that ane's side, but and his collar bane; he's laid him twa-fald ower his steed, bade him carry the tidings hame. "o is there nae a bonnie bird can sing as i can say, could flee away to my mother's bower, and tell to fetch johnie away?" the starling flew to his mother's window stane, it whistled and it sang; and aye the ower word o' the tune was--"johnie tarries lang!" they made a rod o' the hazel bush, another o' the slae-thorn tree, and mony mony were the men at fetching o'er johnie. then out and spake his auld mother, and fast her tears did fa'-- "ye wad nae be warn'd, my son johnie, frae the hunting to bide awa'. "aft hae i brought to breadislee the less gear and the mair, but i ne'er brought to breadislee what grieved my heart sae sair. "but wae betyde that silly auld carle! an ill death shall he die! for the highest tree in merriemas shall be his morning's fee." now johnie's gude bend bow is broke, and his gude graie dogs are slain; and his bodie lies dead in durrisdeer, and his hunting it is done. johnie of cocklesmuir. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . this version was procured in the north country. the termination would seem to be wanting, for the story must have had a tragical conclusion. buchan's copy ends very insipidly with the king's granting johny a free license to hunt! johnie rose up in a may morning, call'd for water to wash his hands; and he has call'd for his gude gray hunds, that lay bund in iron bands, _bands_, _that lay bund in iron bands_. "ye'll busk, ye'll busk my noble dogs, ye'll busk and mak them boun, for i'm going to the broadspear-hill, to ding the dun deer doun, _doun_, &c. whan johnie's mither heard o' this, she til her son has gane-- "ye'll win your mither's benison, gin ye wad stay at hame. "your meat sall be of the very very best, and your drink o' the finest wine; and ye will win your mither's benison, gin ye wad stay at hame." his mither's counsel he wad na tak, nor wad he stay at hame; but he's on to the broadspear-hill, to ding the dun deer doun. johnie lookit east, and johnie lookit west, and a little below the sun; and there he spied the dun deer sleeping, aneath a buss o' brume. johnie shot, and the dun deer lap, and he's woundit him in the side; and atween the water and the wud he laid the dun deer's pride. they ate sae meikle o' the venison, and drank sae meikle o' the blude, that johnie and his twa gray hunds, fell asleep in yonder wud. by there cam a silly auld man, and a silly auld man was he; and he's aff to the proud foresters, to tell what he did see. "what news, what news, my silly auld man, what news? come tell to me;" "na news, na news," said the silly auld man, "but what my een did see. "as i cam in by yon greenwud, and doun amang the scrogs, the bonniest youth that e'er i saw, lay sleeping atween twa dogs. "the sark that he had on his back, was o' the holland sma'; and the coat that he had on his back, was laced wi' gowd fu' braw." up bespak the first forester, the first forester of a'-- "and this be johnie o' cocklesmuir, it's time we were awa." up bespak the niest forester, the niest forester of a'-- "and this be johnie cocklesmuir, to him we winna draw." the first shot that they did shoot, they woundit him on the thie; up bespak the uncle's son,-- "the niest will gar him die." "stand stout, stand stout, my noble dogs, stand stout and dinna flee; stand fast, stand fast, my gude gray hunds, and we will mak them die." he has killed six o' the proud foresters, and wounded the seventh sair; he laid his leg out owre his steed, says, "i will kill na mair." the sang of the outlaw murray. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, i. . "this ballad appears to have been composed about the reign of james v. it commemorates a transaction supposed to have taken place betwixt a scottish monarch and an ancestor of the ancient family of murray of philiphaugh, in selkirkshire. the editor is unable to ascertain the historical foundation of the tale; nor is it probable that any light can be thrown upon the subject, without an accurate examination of the family charter-chest.... "the merit of this beautiful old tale, it is thought, will be fully acknowledged. it has been, for ages, a popular song in selkirkshire. the scene is by the common people supposed to have been the castle of newark upon yarrow. this is highly improbable, because newark was always a royal fortress. indeed, the late excellent antiquarian, mr. plummer, sheriff-depute of selkirkshire, has assured the editor that he remembered the _insignia_ of the unicorns, &c., so often mentioned in the ballad, in existence upon the old tower of hangingshaw, the seat of the philiphaugh family; although, upon first perusing a copy of the ballad, he was inclined to subscribe to the popular opinion. the tower of hangingshaw has been demolished for many years. it stood in a romantic and solitary situation, on the classical banks of the yarrow. when the mountains around hangingshaw were covered with the wild copse which constituted a scottish forest, a more secure stronghold for an outlawed baron can scarcely be imagined. "the tradition of ettrick forest bears, that the outlaw was a man of prodigious strength, possessing a baton or club, with which he laid _lee_ (_i. e._ waste) the country for many miles round; and that he was at length slain by buccleuch, or some of his clan, at a little mount, covered with fir-trees, adjoining to newark castle, and said to have been a part of the garden. a varying tradition bears the place of his death to have been near to the house of the duke of buccleuch's gamekeeper, beneath the castle; and that the fatal arrow was shot by scott of haining, from the ruins of a cottage on the opposite side of yarrow. there were extant, within these twenty years, some verses of a song on his death. the feud betwixt the outlaw and the scots, may serve to explain the asperity with which the chieftain of that clan is handled in the ballad. "in publishing the following ballad, the copy principally resorted to is one apparently of considerable antiquity, which was found among the papers of the late mrs. cockburn of edinburgh, a lady whose memory will be long honoured by all who knew her. another copy, much more imperfect, is to be found in glenriddel's mss. the names are in this last miserably mangled, as is always the case when ballads are taken down from the recitation of persons living at a distance from the scenes in which they are laid. mr. plummer also gave the editor a few additional verses, not contained in either copy, which are thrown into what seemed their proper place. there is yet another copy in mr. herd's mss., which has been occasionally made use of. two verses are restored in the present edition, from the recitation of mr. mungo park, whose toils during his patient and intrepid travels in africa have not eradicated from his recollection the legendary lore of his native country."--s. since the above was printed, mr. aytoun has published still another copy of this piece, (_ballads of scotland_, ii. ,) from a manuscript in the philiphaugh charter-chest. i cannot assent to the praise bestowed by scott on _the outlaw murray_. the story lacks point, and the style is affected--not that of the unconscious poet of the real _traditional_ ballad. ettricke foreste is a feir foreste, in it grows manie a semelie trie; there's hart and hynd, and dae and rae, and of a' wilde bestis grete plentie. there's a feir castelle, bigged wi' lyme and stane; o gin it stands not pleasauntlie! in the fore front o' that castelle feir, twa unicorns are bra' to see: there's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, and the grene hollin abune their brie: there an outlaw kepis five hundred men, he keepis a royalle cumpanie. his merryemen are a' in ae liverye clad, o' the lincome grene sae gaye to see; he and his ladye in purple clad, o gin they lived not royallie! word is gane to our nobil king, in edinburgh where that he lay, that there was an outlaw in ettricke foreste, counted him nought, nor a' his courtrie gay. "i make a vowe," then the gude king said, "unto the man that deir bought me, i'se either be king of ettricke foreste, or king of scotlande that outlaw sall be!" then spake the lord hight hamilton, and to the nobil king said he, "my sovereign prince, sum counsell take, first at your nobilis, syne at me. "i redd ye, send yon braw outlaw till, and see gif your man cum will he: desyre him cum and be your man, and hald of you yon foreste frie. "gif he refuses to do that, we'll conquess baith his landis and he! or else, we'll throw his castell down, and make a widowe o' his gaye ladye." the king then call'd a gentleman, james boyd (the earle of arran his brother was he);[l ] when james he cam before the king, he knelit befor him on his kné. "wellcum, james boyd!" said our nobil king, "a message ye maun gang for me; ye maun hye to ettricke foreste, to yon outlaw, where bydeth he. "ask him of whom he haldis his landis, or man, wha may his master be, and desyre him cum, and be my man, and hald of me yon foreste frie. "to edinburgh to cum and gang, his safe warrant i sall gie; and gif he refuses to do that, we'll conquess baith his landis and he. "thou mayst vow i'll cast his castell down, and mak a widowe o' his gaye ladye; i'll hang his merryemen, payr by payr, in ony frith where i may them see." james boyd tuik his leave o' the nobil king, to ettricke foreste feir cam he; down birkendale brae when that he cam, he saw the feir foreste wi' his ee.[l ] baith dae and rae, and harte and hinde, and of a' wilde bestis great plentie; he heard the bows that bauldly ring,[l ] and arrows whidderan' hym near bi. of that feir castell he got a sight; the like he neir saw wi' his ee! on the fore front o' that castell feir, twa unicorns were gaye to see; the picture of a knight, and ladye bright, and the grene hollin abune their brie. thereat he spyed five hundred men, shuting with bows on newark lee; they were a' in ae livery clad, o' the lincome grene sae gaye to see. his men were a' clad in the grene, the knight was armed capapie, with a bended bow, on a milk-white steed, and i wot they rank'd right bonnilie: thereby boyd kend he was master man, and served him in his ain degré. "god mot thee save, brave outlaw murray! thy ladye, and all thy chyvalrie!" "marry, thou's wellcum, gentleman, some king's messenger thou seemis to be." "the king of scotlonde sent me here, and, gude outlaw, i am sent to thee; i wad wot of whom ye hald your landis, or man, wha may thy master be?" "thir landis are mine!" the outlaw said; "i ken nae king in christentie; frae soudron i this foreste wan, when the king nor his knightis were not to see." "he desyres you'l cum to edinburgh, and hauld of him this foreste fre; and, gif ye refuse to do this, he'll conquess baith thy landis and thee. he hath vow'd to cast thy castell down, and mak a widowe o' thy gaye ladye; "he'll hang thy merryemen, payr by payr, in ony frith where he may them finde." "ay, by my troth!" the outlaw said, "than wauld i thinke me far behinde. "ere the king my feir countrie get, this land that's nativest to me, mony o' his nobilis sall be cauld, their ladyes sall be right wearie." then spak his ladye, feir of face, she seyd, "without consent of me, that an outlaw suld come befor a king; i am right rad of treasonrie. bid him be gude to his lordis at hame, for edinburgh my lord sall nevir see." james boyd tuik his leave o' the outlaw kene, to edinburgh boun is he; when james he cam before the king, he knelit lowlie on his kné. "welcum, james boyd!" seyd our nobil king; "what foreste is ettricke foreste frie?" "ettricke foreste is the feirest foreste that evir man saw wi' his ee. "there's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde, and of a' wild bestis grete plentie; there's a pretty castell of lyme and stane, o gif it standis not pleasauntlie! "there's in the fore front o' that castell, twa unicorns, sae bra' to see; there's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, wi' the grene hollin abune their brie. "there the outlaw keepis five hundred men, he keepis a royalle cumpanie; his merryemen in ae livery clad, o' the lincome grene sae gaye to see: he and his ladye in purple clad; o gin they live not royallie! "he says, yon foreste is his awin; he wan it frae the southronie; sae as he wan it, sae will he keep it, contrair all kingis in christentie." "gar warn me perthshire, and angus baith, fife, up and downe, and louthians three, and graith my horse!" said our nobil king, "for to ettricke forest hie will i me." then word is gane the outlaw till, in ettricke forest, where dwelleth he, that the king was cuming to his cuntrie, to conquess baith his landis and he. "i mak a vow," the outlaw said, "i mak a vow, and that trulie, were there but three men to tak my pairt, yon king's cuming full deir suld be!" then messengers he called forth, and bade them hie them speedilye-- "ane of ye gae to halliday, the laird of the corehead is he.[l ] "he certain is my sister's son; bid him cum quick and succour me! the king cums on for ettricke foreste, and landless men we a' will be." "what news? what news?" said halliday, "man, frae thy master unto me?" "not as ye wad: seeking your aide; the king's his mortal enemie." "ay, by my troth!" said halliday, "even for that it repenteth me; for gif he lose feir ettricke foreste, he'll tak feir moffatdale frae me. "i'll meet him wi' five hundred men, and surely mair, if mae may be; and before he gets the foreste feir, we a' will die on newark lee!" the outlaw call'd a messenger, and bid him hie him speedilye, to andrew murray of cockpool,[l ] "that man's a deir cousin to me; desyre him cum, and make me aide, with a' the power that he may be." "it stands me hard," andrew murray said, "judge gif it stand na hard wi' me; to enter against a king wi' crown, and set my landis in jeopardie! yet, if i cum not on the day, surely at night he sall me see." to sir james murray of traquair,[l ] a message came right speedilye-- "what news? what news?" james murray said, "man, frae thy master unto me?" "what neids i tell? for weel ye ken the king's his mortal enemie; and now he is cuming to ettricke foreste, and landless men ye a' will be." "and, by my trothe," james murray said, "wi' that outlaw will i live and die; the king has gifted my landis lang syne-- it cannot be nae warse wi' me." the king was cuming thro' caddon ford,[l ] and full five thousand men was he; they saw the derke foreste them before, they thought it awsome for to see. then spak the lord hight hamilton, and to the nobil king said he, "my sovereign liege, sum council tak, first at your nobilis, syne at me. "desyre him mete thee at permanscore, and bring four in his cumpanie; five erles sall gang yoursell befor, gude cause that you suld honour'd be. "and, gif he refuses to do that, we'll conquess baith his landis and he; there sall nevir a murray, after him, hald land in ettricke foreste free." then spak the kene laird of buckscleuth, a stalworthe man, and sterne was he-- "for a king to gang an outlaw till, is beneath his state and his dignitie. "the man that wons yon foreste intill, he lives by reif and felonie! wherefore, brayd on, my sovereign liege, wi' fire and sword we'll follow thee; or, gif your countrie lords fa' back, our borderers sall the onset gie." then out and spak the nobil king, and round him cast a wilie ee-- "now, had thy tongue, sir walter scott, nor speak of reif nor felonie: for had every honest man his awin kye, a right puir clan thy name wad be!" the king then call'd a gentleman, royal banner-bearer there was he, james hoppringle of torsonse, by name; he cam and knelit upon his kné. "wellcum, james pringle of torsonse! a message ye maun gang for me: ye maun gae to yon outlaw murray, surely where bauldly bideth he. "bid him mete me at permanscore, and bring four in his cumpanie; five erles sall cum wi' mysell, gude reason i suld honour'd be. "and gif he refuses to do that, bid him luke for nae good o' me! there sall nevir a murray, after him, have land in ettricke foreste free." james cam before the outlaw kene, and served him in his ain degré-- "welcum, james pringle of torsonse! what message frae the king to me?" "he bids ye meet him at permanscore,[l ] and bring four in your cumpany; five erles sall gang himsell befor, nae mair in number will he be. "and gif you refuse to do that, (i freely here upgive wi' thee,) he'll cast yon bonny castle down, and make a widowe o' that gay ladye. "he'll loose yon bluidhound borderers, wi' fire and sword to follow thee; there will nevir a murray, after thysell, have land in ettrick foreste free." "it stands me hard," the outlaw said, "judge gif it stands na hard wi' me, wha reck not losing of mysell, but a' my offspring after me. "my merryemen's lives, my widowe's teirs-- there lies the pang that pinches me; "when i am straught in bluidie eard, yon castell will be right dreirie. "auld halliday, young halliday, ye sall be twa to gang wi' me; andrew murray, and sir james murray, we'll be nae mae in cumpanie." when that they cam before the king, they fell before him on their kné-- "grant mercie, mercie, nobil king! e'en for his sake that dyed on tree." "sicken like mercie sall ye have, on gallows ye sall hangit be!" "over god's forbode," quoth the outlaw then, "i hope your grace will bettir be; else, ere you come to edinburgh port, i trow thin guarded sall ye be. "thir landis of ettricke foreste fair, i wan them from the enemie; like as i wan them, sae will i keep them, contrair a' kingis in christentie." all the nobilis the king about, said pitie it were to see him dee-- "yet grant me mercie, sovereign prince, extend your favour unto me! "i'll give thee the keys of my castell, wi' the blessing o' my gay ladye, gin thou'lt make me sheriffe of this foreste, and a' my offspring after me." "wilt thou give me the keys of thy castell, wi' the blessing of thy gaye ladye? i'se make thee sheriffe of ettricke foreste. surely while upward grows the tree; if you be not traitour to the king, forfaulted sall thou nevir be." "but, prince, what sall cum o' my men? when i gae back, traitour they'll ca' me. i had rather lose my life and land, ere my merryemen rebuked me." "will your merryemen amend their lives, and a' their pardons i grant thee? now, name thy landis where'er they lie, and here i render them to thee."-- "fair philiphaugh is mine by right, and lewinshope still mine shall be; newark, foulshiells, and tinnies baith, my bow and arrow purchased me. "and i have native steads to me, the newark lee and hanginshaw;[l ] i have mony steads in the forest schaw, but them by name i dinna knaw." the keys of the castell he gave the king, wi' the blessing o' his feir ladye; he was made sheriffe of ettricke foreste, surely while upward grows the tree; and if he was na traitour to the king, forfaulted he suld never be. wha ever heard, in ony times, sicken an outlaw in his degré, sic favour get befor a king, as did the outlaw murray of the foreste free? . thomas boyd, earl of arran, was forfeited, with his father and uncle, in , for an attempt on the person of james iii. he had a son, james, who was restored, and in favor with james iv. about . if this be the person here meant, we should read, "the earl of arran his _son_ was he." glenriddel's copy reads, "a highland laird i'm sure was he." reciters sometimes call the messenger the laird of skene.--s. . birkendale brae, now commonly called _birkendailly_, is steep descent on the south side of minch-moor, which separates tweeddale from ettrick forest; and from the top of which we have the first view of the woods of hangingshaw, the castle of newark, and the romantic dale of yarrow.--s. , scott, _blows_: aytoun, _bows_. . this is a place at the head of moffat-water, possessed of old by the family of halliday.--s. . this family were ancestors of the murrays, earls of annandale; but the name of the representative, in the time of james iv., was william, not andrew. glenriddel's ms. reads, "the country-keeper."--s. . before the barony of traquair became the property of the stewarts, it belonged to a family of murrays, afterwards murrays of black-barony, and ancestors of lord elibank. the old castle was situated on the tweed. the lands of traquair were forfeited by willielmus de moravia, previous to ; for, in that year, a charter, proceeding upon his forfeiture, was granted by the crown to "willielmo douglas de cluny." sir james was, perhaps, the heir of william murray. it would farther seem, that the grant in was not made effectual by douglas; for another charter from the crown, dated the d february, , conveys the estate of traquair to james stewart, earl of buchan, son of the black knight of lorne, and maternal uncle to james iii., from whom is descended the present earl of traquair. the first royal grant not being followed by possession, it is very possible that the murrays may have continued to occupy traquair long after the date of that charter. hence, sir james might have reason to say, as in the ballad, "the king has gifted my lands lang syne."--s. , a ford on the tweed, at the mouth of the caddon burn, near yair.--s. . permanscore is a very remarkable hollow on the top of a high ridge of hills, dividing the vales of tweed and yarrow, a little to the eastward of minch-moor. it is the outermost point of the lands of broadmeadows. the glenriddel ms., which, in this instance, is extremely inaccurate as to names, calls the place of rendezvous, "_the poor man's house_," and hints that the outlaw was surprised by the treachery of the king:-- "then he was aware of the king's coming, with hundreds three in company, 'i wot the muckle deel * * * * * he learned kingis to lie! for to fetch me here frae amang my men, here, like a dog for to die.'" i believe the reader will think with me, that the catastrophe is better, as now printed from mrs. cockburn's copy. the deceit, supposed to be practised on the outlaw, is unworthy of the military monarch, as he is painted in the ballad; especially if we admit him to be king james iv.--s. . in this and the following verse, the ceremony of feudal investiture is supposed to be gone through, by the outlaw resigning his possessions into the hands of the king, and receiving them back, to be held of him as superior. the lands of philiphaugh are still possessed by the outlaw's representative. hangingshaw and lewinshope were sold of late years. newark, foulshiels, and tinnies, have long belonged to the family of buccleuch.--s. johnie armstrang. "johnie armstrong, of gilnockie, the hero of the following ballad, is a noted personage, both in history and tradition. he was, it would seem from the ballad, a brother of the laird of mangertoun, chief of the name. his place of residence (now a roofless tower) was at the hollows, a few miles from langholm, where its ruins still serve to adorn a scene, which, in natural beauty, has few equals in scotland. at the head of a desperate band of freebooters, this armstrong is said to have spread the terror of his name almost as far as newcastle, and to have levied black-mail, or protection and forbearance money, for many miles round. james v., of whom it was long remembered by his grateful people that he made the "rush-bush keep the cow," about , undertook an expedition through the border counties, to suppress the turbulent spirit of the marchmen. but before setting out upon his journey, he took the precaution of imprisoning the different border chieftains, who were the chief protectors of the marauders. the earl of bothwell was forfeited, and confined in edinburgh castle. the lords of home and maxwell, the lairds of buccleuch, fairniherst, and johnston, with many others, were also committed to ward. cockburn of henderland, and adam scott of tushielaw, called the king of the border, were publicly executed.--lesley, p. . the king then marched rapidly forward, at the head of a flying army of ten thousand men, through ettrick forest and ewsdale. the evil genius of our johnie armstrong, or, as others say, the private advice of some courtiers, prompted him to present himself before james, at the head of thirty-six horse, arrayed in all the pomp of border chivalry. pitscottie uses nearly the words of the ballad, in describing the splendor of his equipment, and his high expectations of favor from the king. "but james, looking upon him sternly, said to his attendants, 'what wants that knave that a king should have?' and ordered him and his followers to instant execution."--"but john armstrong," continues this minute historian, "made great offers to the king: that he should sustain himself, with forty gentlemen, ever ready at his service, on their own cost, without wronging any scottishman: secondly, that there was not a subject in england, duke, earl, or baron, but, within a certain day, he should bring him to his majesty, either quick or dead. at length, he seeing no hope of favor, said very proudly, 'it is folly to seek grace at a graceless face; but,' said he, 'had i known this, i should have lived upon the borders in despite of king harry and you both; for i know king harry would _downweigh my best horse with gold_, to know that i were condemned to die this day."--pitscottie's _history_, p. . johnie and all his retinue were accordingly hanged upon growing trees, at a place called carlenrig chapel, about ten miles above hawick, on the high road to langholm. the country people believe, that, to manifest the injustice of the execution, the trees withered away. armstrong and his followers were buried in a deserted churchyard, where their graves are still shown. "as this border hero was a person of great note in his way, he is frequently alluded to by the writers of the time. sir david lindsay of the mount, in the curious play published by mr. pinkerton, from the bannatyne ms., introduces a pardoner, or knavish dealer in relics, who produces, among his holy rarities-- ----"the cordis, baith grit and lang, quhilk hangit johnnie armstrang, of gud hempt, soft and sound. gud haly pepill, i stand ford, quhavir beis hangit in this cord, neidis nevir to be dround!" pinkerton's _scottish poems_, vol. ii. p. . "in _the complaynt of scotland_, john armistrangis' dance, mentioned as a popular tune, has probably some reference to our hero." [see the _musical museum_, ed. , vol. iv. p. .]--scott's _minstrelsy_, i. . the ballad as here given is to be found in _a collection of old ballads_, , vol. i. p. . the whole title is: _johnny armstrang's last good-night, shewing how john armstrong, with his eightscore men, fought a bloody battle with the scotch king at edenborough_. it had previously appeared in _wit restor'd_, , p. , in very good shape, except the want of some stanzas towards the end. it is in this form, says motherwell, that the story is preserved in the mouths of the people. nevertheless, allan ramsay has inserted in his _evergreen_ quite a different version, taken down from the mouth of a gentleman of the name of armstrong, "the sixth generation from this john," which the reciter maintained to be the genuine ballad, "and the common one false." ramsay's copy is subjoined, and the imperfect edition from _wit restor'd_ finds a place in the appendix. the following verses, generally styled _armstrong's good-night_, are said to have been composed by one of that tribe who was executed in for the murder of sir john carmichael, warden of the middle marches. they are from johnson's _museum_, p. , and are also found in herd's _scottish songs_, ii. . in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , there is a twaddling piece called _the last guid night_, which is a sort of imitation of these stanzas. the night is my departing night, the morn's the day i maun awa, there's no a friend or fae of mine, but wishes that i were awa. what i hae done for lack o' wit i never never can reca'; i trust ye're a' my friends as yet, gude night, and joy be wi' you a'. * * * * * is there ever a man in all scotland, from the highest estate to the lowest degree, that can shew himself now before our king? scotland is so full of treachery. yes, there is a man in westmorland, and johnny armstrong they do him call; he has no lands nor rents coming in, yet he keeps eightscore men within his hall. he has horses and harness for them all, and goodly steeds that be milk-white, with their goodly belts about their necks, with hats and feathers all alike. the king he writes a loving letter, and with his own hand so tenderly, and hath sent it unto johnny armstrong, to come and speak with him speedily. when john he look'd this letter upon, he lok'd as blith as a bird in a tree; "i was never before a king in my life, my father, my grandfather, nor none of us three. "but seeing we must go before the king, lord, we will go most gallantly; ye shall every one have a velvet coat, laid down with golden laces three. "and every one shall have a scarlet cloak, laid down with silver laces five, with your golden belts about your necks, with hats and feathers all alike." but when johnny went from giltnock-hall, the wind it blew hard, and full fast it did rain; "now fare thee well, thou giltnock-hall, i fear i shall never see thee again." now johnny he is to edenborough gone, with his eightscore men so gallantly, and every one of them on a milk-white steed, with their bucklers and swords hanging to their knee. but when john came the king before, with his eightscore men so gallant to see, the king he mov'd his bonnet to him, he thought he had been a king as well as he. "o pardon, pardon, my sovereign liege, pardon for my eightscore men and me; for my name, it is johnny armstrong, and subject of yours, my liege," said he. "away with thee, thou false traytor, no pardon will i grant to thee, but to-morrow morning by eight of the clock, i will hang up thy eightscore men and thee." then johnny look'd over his left shoulder, and to his merry men thus said he, "i have asked grace of a graceless face, no pardon there is for you and me." then john pull'd out his good broad sword, that was made of the mettle so free; had not the king moved his foot as he did, john had taken his head from his fair body. "come, follow me, my merry men all, we will scorn one foot for to fly; it shall never be said we were hang'd like dogs; we will fight it out most manfully." then they fought on like champions bold, for their hearts were sturdy, stout, and free; 'till they had kill'd all the king's good guard,-- there were none left alive but one, two, or three. but then rose up all edenborough, they rose up by thousands three; a cowardly scot came john behind, and run him through the fair body. said john, "fight on, my merry men all, i am a little wounded, but am not slain; i will lay me down to bleed a while, then i'll rise and fight with you again." then they fought on like mad men all, till many a man lay dead on the plain, for they were resolved before they would yield, that every man would there be slain. so there they fought couragiously, 'till most of them lay dead there and slain, but little musgrave, that was his foot-page, with his bonny grissel got away unta'n. but when he came to giltnock-hall, the lady spy'd him presently; "what news, what news, thou little foot-page, what news from thy master, and his company?" "my news is bad, lady," he said, "which i do bring, as you may see, my master johnny armstrong is slain, and all his gallant company. "yet thou are welcome home, my bonny grissel, full oft thou hast been fed with corn and hay, but now thou shalt be fed with bread and wine, and thy sides shall be spurr'd no more, i say." o then bespake his little son, as he sat on his nurse's knee, "if ever i live to be a man, my father's death reveng'd shall be." johnie armstrang. from ramsay's _evergreen_, ii. . sum speiks of lords, sum speiks of lairds, and sicklike men of hie degrie; of a gentleman i sing a sang, sumtyme calld laird of gilnockie. the king he wrytes a luving letter, with his ain hand sae tenderly, and he hath sent it to johny armstrang, to cum and speik with him speidily. the elliots and armstrangs did convene, they were a gallant company-- "we'il ryde and meit our lawfull king, and bring him safe to gilnockie. "make kinnen and capon ready, then, and venison in great plenty; "we'il welcome hame our royal king; i hope he'il dyne at gilnockie!" they ran their horse on the langholme howm,[l ] and brake their speirs with mekle main; the ladys lukit frae their loft windows-- "god bring our men weil back again!" when johny came before the king, with all his men so brave to see, the king he movit his bonnet to him; he wein'd he was a king as well as he. "may i find grace, my sovereign liege, grace for my loyal men and me? for my name it is johny armstrang, and subject of yours, my liege," said he. "away, away, thou traytor strang! out of my sicht sune mayst thou be![l ] i grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, and now i'll not begin with thee." "grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king! and a bonny gift i will give to thee-- full four-and-twenty milk-whyt steids, were a' foald in a yeir to me. "i'll gie thee all these milk-whyt steids, that prance and nicher at a speir; with as mekle gude inglis gilt, as four of their braid backs dow beir." "away, away, thou traytor strang! out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! i grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, and now i'll not begin with thee!" "grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king! and a bonny gift i'll gie to thee-- gude four-and-twenty ganging mills, that gang throw a' the yeir to me. "these four-and-twenty mills complete sall gang for thee throw all the yeir; and as mekle of gude reid wheit, as all thair happers dow to bear." "away, away, thou traytor strang! out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! i grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, and now i'll not begin with thee." "grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king! and a great gift i'll gie to thee-- bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons, sall for thee fecht, tho all sould flee!" "away, away, thou traytor strang! out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! i grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, and now i'll not begin with thee." "grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king! and a brave gift i'll gie to thee-- all betwene heir and newcastle town sall pay their yeirly rent to thee." "away, away, thou traytor strang! out o' my sicht sune mayst thou be! i grantit nevir a traytors lyfe, and now i'll not begin with thee." "ye lied, ye lied, now, king," he says, "althocht a king and prince ye be! for i luid naithing in all my lyfe, i dare well say it, but honesty-- "but a fat horse, and a fair woman, twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; but ingland suld haif found me meil and malt, gif i had livd this hundred yeir! "scho suld haif found me meil and malt, and beif and mutton in all plentie; but neir a scots wyfe could haif said, that eir i skaithd her a pure flie. "to seik het water beneth cauld yce, surely it is a great folie; i haif asked grace at a graceles face, but there is nane for my men and me! "but had i kend, or i came frae hame, how thou unkind wadst bene to me, i wad haif kept the border syde, in spyte of all thy force and thee. "wist englands king that i was tane, o gin a blyth man wald he be! for anes i slew his sisters son, and on his breist-bane brak a tree." john wore a girdle about his midle, imbroidred owre with burning gold, bespangled wi' the same mettle maist beautifull was to behold. ther hang nine targats at johnys hat, and ilka an worth three hundred pound-- "what wants that knave that a king suld haif, but the sword of honour and the crown? "o whair gat thou these targats, johnie, that blink sae brawly abune thy brie?" "i gat them in the field fechting, wher, cruel king, thou durst not be. "had i my horse, and harness gude, and ryding as i wont to be, it sould haif bene tald this hundred yeir, the meiting of my king and me! "god be withee, kirsty, my brither, lang live thou laird of mangertoun! lang mayst thou live on the border syde, or thou se thy brither ryde up and doun. "and god be withee, kirsty, my son, whair thou sits on thy nursees knee! but and thou live this hundred yeir, thy fathers better thou'lt never be. farweil, my bonny gilnock-hall, whair on esk syde thou standest stout! gif i had leived but seven yeirs mair, i wald haif gilt thee round about." john murdred was at carlinrigg, and all his galant companie; but scotlands heart was never sae wae, to see sae mony brave men die. because they savd their country deir frae englishmen: nane were sae bauld, whyle johnie livd on the border syde, nane of them durst cum neir his hald. . langum hown. . thou mayst sune. hughie graham. of the two editions of this ballad which follow, the first is taken from _the scots musical museum_ (p. ), to which it was contributed by burns. burns states that he obtained his copy from oral tradition in ayrshire, but he had certainly retouched several stanzas (the ninth and tenth, says cromek), and the third and eighth are entirely of his composition. the other copy is from the _border minstrelsy_, and consists of a version "long current in selkirkshire" (procured for scott by mr. william laidlaw), which also has been slightly improved by the pen of the editor. in the appendix we have placed the story as it occurs in durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, and in ritson's _ancient songs_. the seventeenth volume of the percy society publications furnishes us with a scottish version in which sir hugh is rescued and sent over the sea: _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, p. . these, we believe, are all the published forms of this ballad, unless we mention mr. allan cunningham's _réchauffé_ of burns, in his _songs of scotland_, i. . "according to _tradition_," says mr. stenhouse, "robert aldridge, bishop of carlisle, about the year , seduced the wife of hugh graham, one of those bold and predatory chiefs who so long inhabited what was called the debatable land, on the english and scottish border. graham, being unable to bring so powerful a prelate to justice, in revenge made an excursion into cumberland, and carried off _inter alia_, a fine mare belonging to the bishop (!) but being closely pursued by sir john scroope, warden of carlisle, with a party on horseback, was apprehended near solway moss, and carried to carlisle, where he was tried and convicted of felony. great intercessions were made to save his life; but the bishop, it is said, being determined to remove the chief obstacle to his guilty passions, remained inexorable, and poor graham fell a victim to his own indiscretion and his wife's infidelity. anthony wood observes that there were many changes in this prelate's time, both in church and state, but that he retained his offices and preferments during them all."--_musical museum_, iv. . our lords are to the mountains gane, a hunting o' the fallow deer, and they hae gripet hughie graham, for stealing o' the bishop's mare. and they hae tied him hand and foot, and led him up thro' stirling town; the lads and lasses met him there, cried, "hughie graham, thou art a loun." "o lowse my right hand free," he says, "and put my braid sword in the same, he's no in stirling town this day, daur tell the tale to hughie graham." up then bespake the brave whitefoord, as he sat by the bishop's knee, "five hundred white stots i'll gie you, if ye'll let hughie graham gae free." "o haud your tongue," the bishop says, "and wi' your pleading let me be; for tho' ten grahams were in his coat, hughie graham this day shall die." up then bespake the fair whitefoord, as she sat by the bishop's knee; "five hundred white pence i'll gie you, if ye'll gie hughie graham to me." "o haud your tongue now, lady fair, and wi' your pleading let it be; altho' ten grahams were in his coat, it's for my honour he maun die." they've taen him to the gallows knowe, he looked to the gallows tree, yet never colour left his cheek, nor ever did he blin' his e'e. at length he looked round about, to see whatever he could spy, and there he saw his auld father, and he was weeping bitterly. "o haud your tongue, my father dear. and wi' your weeping let it be; thy weeping's sairer on my heart, than a' that they can do to me. "and ye may gie my brother john my sword that's bent in the middle clear, and let him come at twelve o'clock, and see me pay the bishop's mare. "and ye may gie my brother james my sword that's bent in the middle brown, and bid him come at four o'clock, and see his brother hugh cut down. "remember me to maggy, my wife, the niest time ye gang o'er the moor; tell her, she staw the bishop's mare, tell her, she was the bishop's whore. "and ye may tell my kith and kin i never did disgrace their blood, and when they meet the bishop's cloak, to mak it shorter by the hood." hughie the grÆme. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . gude lord scroope's to the hunting gane, he has ridden o'er moss and muir; and he has grippet hughie the græme, for stealing o' the bishop's mare. "now, good lord scroope, this may not be! here hangs a broadsword by my side; and if that thou canst conquer me, the matter it may soon be tryed." "i ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; although thy name be hughie the græme, "i'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, if god but grant me life and time." "then do your worst now, good lord scroope, and deal your blows as hard as you can; it shall be tried within an hour, which of us two is the better man." but as they were dealing their blows so free, and both so bloody at the time, over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, all for to take brave hughie the græme. then they hae grippit hughie the græme, and brought him up through carlisle town; the lasses and lads stood on the walls, crying, "hughie the græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!" then they hae chosen a jury of men, the best that were in carlisle town; and twelve of them cried out at once, "hughie the græme, thou must gae down!" then up bespak him gude lord hume, as he sat by the judge's knee, "twenty white owsen, my gude lord, if you'll grant hughie the græme to me." "o no, o no, my gude lord hume, forsooth and sae it mauna be; for were there but three græmes of the name, they suld be hanged a' for me." 'twas up and spake the gude lady hume, as she sat by the judge's knee, "a peck of white pennies, my good lord judge, if you'll grant hughie the græme to me." "o no, o no, my gude lady hume, forsooth and so it must na be; were he but the one græme of the name, he suld be hanged high for me." "if i be guilty," said hughie the græme, "of me my friends shall have small talk;" and he has louped fifteen feet and three, though his hands they were tied behind his back. he looked over his left shoulder, and for to see what he might see; there was he aware of his auld father, came tearing his hair most piteouslie. "o hald your tongue, my father," he says, "and see that ye dinna weep for me! for they may ravish me o' my life, but they canna banish me fro' heaven hie. "fair ye weel, fair maggie, my wife! the last time we came ower the muir, 'twas thou bereft me of my life, and wi' the bishop thou play'd the whore. "here, johnie armstrang, take thou my sword, that is made o' the metal sae fine; and when thou comest to the english side, remember the death of hughie the græme." kinmont willie. in the year , mr. salkeld, the deputy of lord scroope, the english warden of the west marches, and robert scott, the representative of the laird of buccleuch, then keeper of liddesdale, held a meeting on the border line of the kingdoms, according to the custom of the times, for the purpose of arranging such differences, and redressing such grievances, as either party might have to allege. on these occasions a truce was always proclaimed, inviolable on pain of death, from the day of the meeting to the next day at sunrise. after the conference in question, as william armstrong of kinmonth, a notorious freebooter, whose ordinary style was kinmont willie, was returning to his home, accompanied by only three or four persons, he was pursued by a couple of hundred englishmen, taken prisoner, and in contravention of the truce, lodged in the castle of carlisle. the laird of buccleuch sought to obtain the enfranchisement of his client and retainer, through the mediation, first of the english warden, and then of the scottish ambassador. receiving no satisfaction, he took the matter into his own hands, raised a party of two hundred horse, surprised the castle of carlisle, and carried off the prisoner by main force. this dashing achievement was performed on the th of april, . according to a rhymester who celebrated the daring feat of buccleuch about a hundred years later, kinmont willie was a descendant of johnie armstrong of gilnockie. interesting details of the surprise of the castle, and further notices of kinmont willie are given by scott in the _border minstrelsy_ (ii. ), where the ballad was first published. "this ballad is preserved," says scott, "on the west borders, but much mangled by reciters, so that some conjectural emendations have been absolutely necessary to render it intelligible." o have ye na heard o' the fause sakelde? o have ye na heard o' the keen lord scroope? how they hae ta'en bauld kinmont willie, on haribee to hang him up?[l ] had willie had but twenty men, but twenty men as stout as he, fause sakelde had never the kinmont ta'en, wi' eight score in his cumpanie. they band his legs beneath the steed, they tied his hands behind his back; they guarded him, fivesome on each side, and they brought him ower the liddel-rack. they led him thro' the liddel-rack,[l ] and also thro' the carlisle sands; they brought him to carlisle castell, to be at my lord scroope's commands. "my hands are tied, but my tongue is free, and whae will dare this deed avow? or answer by the border law? or answer to the bauld buccleuch?" "now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! there's never a scot shall set thee free: before ye cross my castle yate, i trow ye shall take farewell o' me." "fear na ye that, my lord," quo' willie: "by the faith o' my body, lord scroope," he said, "i never yet lodged in a hostelrie, but i paid my lawing before i gaed." now word is gane to the bauld keeper, in branksome ha' where that he lay, that lord scroope has ta'en the kinmont willie, between the hours of night and day. he has ta'en the table wi' his hand, he garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- "now christ's curse on my head," he said, "but avenged of lord scroope i'll be! "o is my basnet a widow's curch? or my lance a wand of the willow-tree? or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, that an english lord should lightly me! "and have they ta'en him, kinmont willie, against the truce of border tide, and forgotten that the bauld buccleuch is keeper here on the scottish side? "and have they e'en ta'en him, kinmont willie, withouten either dread or fear, and forgotten that the bauld buccleuch can back a steed, or shake a spear? "o were there war between the lands, as well i wot that there is none, i would slight carlisle castell high, though it were builded of marble stone. "i would set that castell in a low, and sloken it with english blood! there's never a man in cumberland, should ken where carlisle castell stood. "but since nae war's between the lands, and there is peace, and peace should be; i'll neither harm english lad or lass, and yet the kinmont freed shall be!" he has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, i trow they were of his ain name, except sir gilbert elliot, call'd the laird of stobs, i mean the same. he has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, were kinsmen to the bauld buccleuch; with spur on heel, and splent on spauld, and gleuves of green, and feathers blue. there were five and five before them a', wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright: and five and five came wi' buccleuch, like warden's men, array'd for fight. and five and five, like a mason gang, that carried the ladders lang and hie; and five and five, like broken men; and so they reach'd the woodhouselee.[l ] and as we cross'd the bateable land, when to the english side we held, the first o' men that we met wi', whae sould it be but fause sakelde? "where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?" quo' fause sakelde; "come tell to me!" "we go to hunt an english stag, has trespass'd on the scots countrie." "where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?" quo' fause sakelde; "come tell me true!" "we go to catch a rank reiver, has broken faith wi' the bauld buccleuch." "where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, wi' a' your ladders lang and hie?" "we gang to herry a corbie's nest, that wons not far frae woodhouselee." "where be ye gaun, ye broken men?" quo' fause sakelde; "come tell to me!" now dickie of dryhope led that band, and the nevir a word of lear had he. "why trespass ye on the english side? row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he; the nevir a word had dickie to say, sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. then on we held for carlisle toun, and at staneshaw-bank the eden we cross'd;[l ] the water was great and meikle of spait, but the nevir a horse nor man we lost. and when we reach'd the staneshaw-bank, the wind was rising loud and hie; and there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, for fear that they should stamp and nie. and when we left the staneshaw-bank, the wind began full loud to blaw; but 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, when we came beneath the castle wa'. we crept on knees, and held our breath, till we placed the ladders against the wa'; and sae ready was buccleuch himsell to mount the first before us a'. he has ta'en the watchman by the throat, he flung him down upon the lead-- "had there not been peace between our lands, upon the other side thou hadst gaed! "now sound out, trumpets!" quo' buccleuch; "let's waken lord scroope right merrilie!" then loud the warden's trumpet blew-- _o wha dare meddle wi' me_?[l ] then speedilie to wark we gaed, and raised the slogan ane and a', and cut a hole through a sheet of lead, and so we wan to the castle ha'. they thought king james and a' his men had won the house wi' bow and spear; it was but twenty scots and ten, that put a thousand in sic a stear! wi' coulters, and wi' forehammers, we garr'd the bars bang merrilie, until we came to the inner prison, where willie o' kinmont he did lie. and when we cam to the lower prison, where willie o' kinmont he did lie-- "o sleep ye, wake ye, kinmont willie, upon the morn that thou's to die?" "o i sleep saft, and i wake aft, it's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me; gie my service back to my wife and bairns, and a' gude fellows that spier for me." then red rowan has hente him up, the starkest man in teviotdale-- "abide, abide now, red rowan, till of my lord scroope i take farewell. "farewell, farewell, my gude lord scroope! my gude lord scroope, farewell!" he cried-- "i'll pay you for my lodging maill, when first we meet on the border side." then shoulder high, with shout and cry, we bore him down the ladder lang; at every stride red rowan made, i wot the kinmont's airns play'd clang. "o mony a time," quo' kinmont willie, "i have ridden horse baith wild and wood; but a rougher beast than red rowan i ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. "and mony a time," quo' kinmont willie, "i've prick'd a horse out oure the furs; but since the day i back'd a steed, i never wore sic cumbrous spurs." we scarce had won the staneshaw-bank, when a' the carlisle bells were rung, and a thousand men on horse and foot cam wi' the keen lord scroope along. buccleuch has turn'd to eden water, even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, and he has plunged in wi' a' his band, and safely swam them through the stream. he turn'd him on the other side, and at lord scroope his glove flung he-- "if ye like na my visit in merry england, in fair scotland come visit me!" all sore astonish'd stood lord scroope, he stood as still as rock of stane; he scarcely dared to trew his eyes, when through the water they had gane. "he is either himsell a devil frae hell, or else his mother a witch maun be; i wadna have ridden that wan water for a' the gowd in christentie." . haribee is the place of execution at carlisle.--s. . the liddel-rack is a ford on the liddel.--s. . a house on the border, belonging to buccleuch.--s. . eden has been substituted for eske, the latter name being inconsistent with geography.--s. . the name of a border tune.--s. dick o' the cow. from caw's _poetical museum_, p. . the personage from whom this ballad is named was jester to lord scroop, who was warden of the west marches of england from to . the laird's jock, that is john, the son of the laird of mangerton, "appears as one of the _men of name_ in liddesdale, in the list of the border clans, ." _dick o' the cow_ is closely connected with _jock o' the side_ and _hobie noble_, which follow shortly after. all three were first printed in caw's _museum_, and seem to have been contributed by a mr. elliot, a liddesdale gentleman, to whom sir w. scott acknowledges many obligations. we are told that both _dick o' the cow_ and _jock o' the side_ were until lately so popular in liddesdale with all classes of people, that they were invariably sung, from beginning to end, at every festive meeting. the ballad of _dick o' the cow_ was well known in england as early as . "an allusion to it likewise occurs in parrot's _laquei ridiculosi_, or _springes for woodcocks_; london, . "owenus wondreth since he came to wales, what the description of this isle should be, that nere had seen but mountains, hills, and dales, yet would he boast, and stand on pedigree, from rice ap richard, sprung from _dick a cow_, be cod, was right gud gentleman, look ye now!" _epigr. ._--scott. now liddisdale has lyan lang in, there is nae riding there at a'; the horses are grown sae lidder fat, they downa stur out o' the sta'. then johnie armstrong to willie can say-- "billie, a riding then we'll gae; england and us has been lang at a feid; ablins we'll hit on some bootie." then they're com'd on to hutton ha', they rade the proper place about; but the laird he was the wiser man, for he had left nae gear without. then he had left nae gear to steal, except sax sheep upon a lee: quo' johnie--"i'd rather in england die, ere thir sax sheep gae t' liddisdale wi' me. "but how ca'd they the man we last met, billie, as we cam o'er the know?" "that same he is an innocent fool, and some men ca' him dick o' the cow." "that fool has three as good ky o' his ain, as there's in a' cumberland, billie," quo' he: "betide me life, betide me death, these three ky shall gae t' liddisdale wi' me." then they're com'd on to the poor fool's house, and they hae broken his wa's sae wide; they have loos'd out dick o' the cow's three ky, and tane three co'erlets aff his wife's bed. then on the morn, whan the day was light, the shouts and cries rose loud and hie: "o had thy tongue, my wife," he says, "and o' thy crying let me be! "o had thy tongue, my wife," he says, "and of thy crying let me be; and aye that where thou wants a cow, in good sooth i'll bring thee three." then dickie's com'd on for's lord and master, and i wat a dreirie fool was he; "now had thy tongue, my fool," he says, "for i may not stand to jest wi' thee." "shame speed a' your jesting, my lord!" quo' dickie, "for nae sic jesting grees wi' me; liddisdale's been i' my house last night, and they hae tane my three ky frae me. "but i may nae langer in cumberland dwell, to be your poor fool and your leal, unless ye gi' me leave, my lord, t' gae t' liddisdale and steal." "i gi' thee leave, my fool," he says; "thou speakest against my honour and me, unless thou gi' me thy trowth and thy hand, thou'lt steal frae nane but wha sta' frae thee." "there is my trowth, and my right hand! my head shall hang on hairibee,[l ] i'll near cross carlisle sands again, if i steal frae a man but wha sta' frae me." dickie's tane leave at lord and master, and i wat a merry fool was he; he's bought a bridle and a pair o' new spurs, and pack'd them up in his breek thigh. then dickie's come on for pudding-burn,[l ] e'en as fast as he might drie; now dickie's come on for pudding-burn, where there were thirty armstrongs and three. "o what's this com'd o' me now?" quo' dickie; "what meikle wae's this happen'd o' me? quo' he; where here is but ae innocent fool, and there is thirty armstrongs and three!" yet he's com'd up to the ha' amang them a', sae weil he's became his curtesie! "weil may ye be, my good laird's jock! but the de'il bless a' your companie. "i'm come to 'plain o' your man, fair johnie armstrong, and syne o' his billie willie," quo' he; "how they hae been i' my house the last night, and they hae tane my three ky frae me." quo' johnie armstrong, "we will him hang;" "na then," quo' willie, "we'll him slae;" but up and bespake anither young man, "we'll gie 'im his batts, and let him gae." then up and bespake the good laird's jock, the best falla in a' the companie; "sit thy ways down a little while, dickie, and a piece o' thy ain cow's hough i'll gi' thee." but dickie's heart it grew sae great, that ne'er a bit o't he dought to eat; then dickie was ware o' an auld peat-house, where a' the night he thought for to sleep. then dickie was ware o' an auld peat-house, where a' the night he thought for to ly; and a' the prayers the poor fool pray'd, "i wish i had amense for my ain three ky!" then it was the use of pudding-burn, and the house of mangerton, all haill,[l ] these that cam na at the first ca', they got nae mair meat t' the neist meal. the lads, that hungry and weary were, aboon the door-head they hang the key; dickie he took good notice to that, says--"there's a bootie yonder for me." then dickie into the stable is gane, where there stood thirty horses and three; he has tied them a' wi' st. mary's knot,[l ] a' these horses but barely three. he has tied them a' wi' st. mary's knot, a' these horses but barely three; he's loupen on ane, tane anither in hand, and out at the door and gane is dickie. then on the morn, whan the day grew light, the shouts and cries rose loud and hie-- "o where's that thief?" quo' the good laird's jock, "tell me the truth and the veritie!" "o where's that thief?" quo' the good laird's jock; "see unto me ye dinna lie!"-- "dickie's been i' the stable last night, and has my brother's horse and mine frae me." "ye wad ne'er be tall'd," quo' the good laird's jock; "have ye not found my tales fu' leel? ye wad ne'er out o' england bide, till crooked, and blind, and a' wad steal." "but lend me thy bay," johnie armstrong can say; "there's nae horse loose in the stable but he; and i'll either bring dick o' the cow again, or the day is come that he shall die." "to lend thee my bay!" the laird's jock can say, "he's worth baith goud and good monie: dick o' the cow has away twa horse: i wish na thou may make him three." he's tane the laird's jack on his back, a twa-handed sword that hang by his thigh; he's tane the steel cap on his head, and on is he gane to follow dickie. then dickie was na a mile aff the town, i wat a mile but barely three, till he's o'ertane by johnie armstrong, hand for hand, on cannobie lee.[l ] "abide, abide now, dickie, than, the day is come that thou maun die;" then dickie look'd o'er his left shoulder, "johnie, has thou any moe in companie? "there is a preacher in our chapel, and a' the lee-lang day teaches he: whan day is gane and night is come, there's ne'er ae word i mark but three. "the first and second is--faith and conscience; the third--ne'er let a traitour free: but, johnie, what faith and conscience hadst thou, whan thou took my three ky frae me? "and when thou had tane away my three ky, thou thought in thy heart thou was no well sped, but sent thy billie willie o'er the know, and he took three co'erlets aff my wife's bed." then johnie let a spear fa' laigh by his thigh, thought weil to hae slain the innocent, i trow; but the powers above were mair than he, for he ran but the poor fool's jerkin through. together they ran, or ever they blan, this was dickie the fool and he; dickie coud na win to him wi' the blade o' the sword, but feld 'im wi' the plumet under the eie. now dickie has feld fair johnie armstrong, the prettiest man in the south countrie; "gramercy!" then can dickie say, "i had but twa horse, thou has made me three." he has tane the laird's jack aff his back, the twa-handed sword that hang by his thigh; he has tane the steel cap aff his head-- "johnie, i'll tell my master i met wi' thee." when johnie wakened out o' his dream, i wat a drierie man was he: "and is thou gane, now, dickie, than? the shame gae in thy companie! "and is thou gane, now, dickie, than? the shame gae in thy companie! for if i should live this hundred years, i ne'er shall fight wi' a fool after thee." then dickie's come hame to lord and master, e'en as fast as he may drie; "now, dickie, i'll neither eat nor drink, till hie hanged thou shalt be." "the shame speed the liars, my lord!" quo' dickie; "that was no the promise ye made to me! for i'd ne'er gane t' liddisdale t' steal, till i had got my leave at thee." "but what gard thou steal the laird's jock's horse? and, limmer, what gard thou steal him?" quo' he; "for lang might thou in cumberland dwelt, ere the laird's jock had stawn frae thee."[l ] "indeed i wat ye lied, my lord! and e'en sae loud as i hear ye lie! i wan him frae his man, fair johnie armstrong, hand for hand, on cannobie lee. "there's the jack was on his back, this twa-handed sword that hang laigh by his thigh, and there's the steel cap was on his head; i hae a' these takens to let thee see." "if that be true thou to me tells, (i trow thou dare na tell a lie,) i'll gi' thee twenty punds for the good horse, weil tel'd in thy cloak lap shall be. "and i'll gi' thee ane o' my best milk-ky, to maintain thy wife and children three; and that may be as good, i think, as ony twa o' thine might be." "the shame speed the liers, my lord!" quo' dickie; "trow ye aye to make a fool o' me? i'll either hae thirty punds for the good horse, or he's gae t' mortan fair wi' me." he's gi'en him thirty punds for the good horse, all in goud and good monie; he has gi'en him ane o' his best milk-ky, to maintain his wife and children three. then dickie's came down through carlisle town, e'en as fast as he might drie: the first o' men that he met with, was my lord's brother, bayliff glozenburrie. "weil may ye be, my gude ralph scroope!"-- "welcome, my brother's fool!" quo' he: "where did thou get fair johnie armstrong's horse?" "where did i get him, but steal him," quo' he. "but wilt thou sell me fair johnie armstrong's horse? and, billie, wilt thou sell him to me?" quo' he: "aye, and tell me the monie on my cloak lap: for there's no ae fardin i'll trust thee." "i'll gi' thee fifteen punds for the good horse, weil tel'd on thy cloak lap shall be; and i'll gi' thee ane o' my best milk-ky, to maintain thy wife and children three." "the shame speed the liers, my lord!" quo' dickie; "trow ye aye to make a fool o' me?" quo' he; "i'll either hae thirty punds for the good horse, or he's gae t' mortan fair wi' me." he's gi'en him thirty punds for the gude horse, all in goud and good monie; he has gi'en him ane o' his best milk-ky, to maintain his wife and children three. then dickie lap a loup fu' hie, and i wat a loud laugh laughed he-- "i wish the neck o' the third horse were broken, for i hae a better o' my ain, if better can be." then dickie's com'd hame to his wife again, judge ye how the poor fool sped; he has gi'en her three score english punds, for the three auld co'erlets was tane aff her bed. "hae, tak thee these twa as good ky, i trow, as a' thy three might be; and yet here is [a] white-footed nagie, i think he'll carry baith thee and me. "but i may nae langer in cumberland bide; the armstrongs they'll hang me hie:"-- so dickie's tane leave at lord and master, and [at] burgh under stanmuir there dwells he. . the place of execution at carlisle.--p. m. . this was a house of strength held by the armstrongs. the ruins at present form a sheep-fold on the farm of reidsmoss, belonging to the duke of buccleuch.--s. . the laird of mangerton was chief of the clan armstrong--s. . hamstringing a horse is termed, in the border dialect, _tying him with st. mary's knot_. dickie used this cruel expedient to prevent a pursuit. it appears from the narration, that the horses left unhurt, belonged to fair johnie armstrang, his brother willie, and the laird's jock--of which dickie carried off two, and left that of the laird's jock, probably out of gratitude for the protection he had afforded him on his arrival.--s. . a rising-ground on cannobie, on the borders of liddesdale.--p. m. . the commendation of the laird's jock's honesty seems but indifferently founded; for, in july, , a bill was fouled against him, dick of dryup, and others, by the deputy of bewcastle, at a warden-meeting, for head of cattle taken in open foray from the drysike in bewcastle: and in september, , another complaint appears at the instance of one andrew rutlege of the nook, against the laird's jock, and his accomplices, for kine and oxen, besides furniture, to the amount of merks sterling. see bell's mss., as quoted in the _history of cumberland and westmoreland_. in sir richard maitland's poem against the thieves of liddesdale, he thus commemorates the laird's jock:-- "they spuilye puir men of their pakis, they leif them nocht on bed nor bakis: baith hen and cok, with reil and rok, the _lairdis jock_ all with him takis."--s. jock o' the side. from caw's _poetical museum_, p. . the rescue of a prisoner from the hands of justice was a very favourite subject with ballad-makers, and, it is to be feared, no uncommon event in the actual experience of the police of former days. we have in the fifth volume seen how such an affair was conducted by robin hood and his associates; and in _kinmont willie_ have had an authenticated account of a remarkable exploit of this description at the close of the reign of elizabeth. the two ballads which follow have this same theme; but only the authority of tradition. _jock o' the side_ has one circumstance in common with _kinmont willie_--the daring passage of the river: with _archie of ca'field_ it agrees throughout. jock o' the side would seem to have been nephew to the laird of mangertoun (the chief of the clan armstrong), and consequently cousin to the laird's jock. scott suggests that he was probably brother to christie of the syde, mentioned in the list of border clans, . both of these worthies receive special notice in maitland's complaint _against the thieves of liddisdale_. "he is weil kend, johne of the syde; a greater thief did never ryde; he nevir tyris for to brek byris, our muir and myris ouir gude ane guide." scott has pointed out that jock o' the side assisted the earl of westmoreland in his escape after his insurrection with the earl of northumberland, in the twelfth year of elizabeth. "now liddisdale has ridden a raid, but i wat they had better staid at hame; for mitchel o' winfield he is dead, and my son johnie is prisoner ta'en." for mangerton-house auld downie is gane, her coats she has kilted up to her knee; and down the water wi' speed she rins, while tears in spaits fa' fast frae her eie. then up and bespake the lord mangerton, "what news, what news, sister downie, to me?" "bad news, bad news, my lord mangerton; mitchel is kill'd, and tane they hae my son johnie." "ne'er fear, sister downie," quo' mangerton; "i hae yokes of oxen, four and twentie; my barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel fill'd, and i'll part wi' them a', ere johnie shall die. "three men i'll take to set him free, weel harness'd a' wi' best o' steel; the english rogues may hear, and drie the weight o' their braid-swords to feel. "the laird's jock ane, the laird's wat twa, o hobie noble, thou ane maun be; thy coat is blue, thou has been true, since england banish'd thee, to me." now hobie was an english man, in bewcastle-dale was bred and born; but his misdeeds they were sae great, they banish'd him ne'er to return. lord mangerton them orders gave, "your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod; like gentlemen ye must not seem, but look like corn-caugers gawn ae road. "your armour gude ye maunna shaw, nor ance appear like men o' weir; as country lads be all array'd, wi' branks and brecham on ilk mare." sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way, and hobie has mounted his grey sae fine; jock his lively bay, wat's on his white horse behind, and on they rode for the water o' tyne. at the cholerford they a' light down,[l ] and there, wi' the help o' the light o' the moon, a tree they cut, wi' fifteen naggs upo' ilk side, to climb up the wa' o' newcastle town. but when they cam to newcastle town, and were alighted at the wa', they fand their tree three ells o'er laigh, they fand their stick baith short and sma'. then up and spake the laird's ain jock, "there's naething for't, the gates we maun force;" but when they cam the gates unto, a proud porter withstood baith men and horse. his neck in twa i wat they hae wrung, wi' hand or foot he ne'er play'd paw; his life and his keys at anes they hae tane, and cast his body ahind the wa'. now soon they reach newcastle jail, and to the pris'ner thus they call; "sleips thou, wakes thou, jock o' the side, or is thou wearied o' thy thrall?" jock answers thus, wi' dolefu' tone-- "aft, aft i wake--i seldom sleip: but wha's this kens my name sae weel, and thus to hear my waes do[es] seek?" then up and spake the good laird's jock, "ne'er fear ye now, my billie," quo' he; "for here's the laird's jock, the laird's wat, and hobie noble, come to set thee free." "o had thy tongue, and speak nae mair, and o' thy tawk now let me be; for if a' liddisdale were here the night, the morn's the day that i maun die. "full fifteen stane o' spanish iron, they hae laid a' right sair on me; wi' locks and keys i am fast bound into this dungeon mirk and drearie." "fear ye no that," quo' the laird's jock; "a faint heart ne'er wan a fair ladie; work thou within, we'll work without, and i'll be bound we set thee free." the first strong dore that they came at, they loosed it without a key; the next chain'd dore that they cam at, they gar'd it a' in flinders flee. the pris'ner now, upo' his back, the laird's jock's gotten up fu' hie; and down the stair, him, irons and a', wi' nae sma' speed and joy brings he. "now, jock, i wat," quo' hobie noble, "part o' the weight ye may lay on me;" "i wat weel no!" quo' the laird's jock, "i count him lighter than a flee." sae out at the gates they a' are gane, the pris'ner's set on horseback hie; and now wi' speed they've tane the gate, while ilk ane jokes fu' wantonlie. "o jock, sae winsomely's ye ride, wi' baith your feet upo' ae side! sae weel's ye're harness'd, and sae trig, in troth ye sit like ony bride!" the night, tho' wat, they didna mind, but hied them on fu' mirrilie, until they cam to cholerford brae, where the water ran like mountains hie. but when they came to cholerford, there they met with an auld man; says--"honest man, will the water ride? tell us in haste, if that ye can." "i wat weel no," quo' the good auld man; "here i hae liv'd this threty yeirs and three, and i ne'er yet saw the tyne sae big, nor rinning ance sae like a sea." then up and spake the laird's saft wat, the greatest coward in the company-- "now halt, now halt, we needna try't; the day is com'd we a' maun die!" "poor faint-hearted thief!" quo' the laird's ain jock, "there'll nae man die but he that's fie; i'll lead ye a' right safely through; lift ye the pris'ner on ahint me." sae now the water they a' hae tane, by anes and twas they a' swam through; "here are we a' safe," says the laird's jock, "and, poor faint wat, what think ye now?" they scarce the ither side had won, when twenty men they saw pursue; frae newcastle town they had been sent, a' english lads, right good and true. but when the land-sergeant the water saw,[l ] "it winna ride, my lads," quo' he; then out he cries--"ye the pris'ner may take, but leave the irons, i pray, to me." "i wat weel no," cry'd the laird's jock, "i'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be: my good grey mare--for i am sure, she's bought them a' fu' dear frae thee." sae now they're away for liddisdale, e'en as fast as they cou'd them hie; the pris'ner 's brought to his ain fire-side, and there o's aims they make him free. "now, jock, my billie," quo' a' the three, "the day was com'd thou was to die; but thou's as weel at thy ain fire-side, now sitting, i think, 'tween thee and me." they hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl, and after it they maun hae anither, and thus the night they a' hae spent, just as they had been brither and brither. . cholerford is a ford on the tyne, above hexham.--s. . the land-sergeant (mentioned also in _hobbie noble_) was an officer under the warden, to whom was committed the apprehending of delinquents, and the care of the public peace.--s. archie of ca'field. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . this is substantially the same story as _jock o' the side_. another version from motherwell's collection, is subjoined. "ca'field, or calfield," says scott, "is a place in wauchopdale, belonging of old to the armstrongs. in the account betwixt the english and scottish marches, jock and geordie of ca'field, then called calf-hill, are repeatedly marked as delinquents. _history of westmoreland and cumberland_, vol. i. introduction, p. ." as i was a-walking mine alane, it was by the dawning of the day, i heard twa brithers make their mane, and i listen'd weel to what they did say. the youngest to the eldest said, "blythe and merrie how can we be? there were three brithren of us born, and ane of us is condemn'd to die." "and ye wad be merrie, and ye wad be sad, what the better wad billy archie be? unless i had thirty men to mysell, and a' to ride in my cumpanie. "ten to hald the horses' heads, and other ten the watch to be, and ten to break up the strong prison, where billy archie he does lie." then up and spak him mettled john hall,[l ] (the luve of teviotdale aye was he,) "an i had eleven men to mysell, it's aye the twalt man i wad be." then up bespak him coarse ca'field, (i wot and little gude worth was he,) "thirty men is few anew, and a' to ride in our companie." there was horsing, horsing in haste, and there was marching on the lee, until they cam to murraywhate, and they lighted there right speedilie. "a smith! a smith!" dickie he cries, "a smith, a smith, right speedilie, to turn back the caukers of our horses' shoon; for it's unkensome we wad be." "there lives a smith on the water-side, will shoe my little black mare for me; and i've a crown in my pocket, and every groat of it i wad gie." "the night is mirk, and it's very mirk, and by candle-light i canna weel see; the night is mirk, and it's very pit mirk, and there will never a nail ca' right for me." "shame fa' you and your trade baith, canna beet a good fellow by your mystery; but leeze me on thee, my little black mare, thou's worth thy weight in gold to me." there was horsing, horsing in haste, and there was marching upon the lee, until they cam to dumfries port, and they lighted there right speedilie. "there's five of us will hold the horse, and other five will watchmen be:" "but wha's the man among ye a', will gae to the tolbooth door wi' me?" o up then spak him mettled john hall, (frae the laigh teviotdale was he,) "if it should cost my life this very night, i'll gae to the tolbooth door wi' thee." "be of gude cheir, now, archie, lad, be of gude cheir, now, dear billie! work thou within, and we without, and the morn thou'se dine at ca'field wi' me." o jockie hall stepp'd to the door, and he bended low back his knee, and he made the bolts, the door hang on, loup frae the wa' right wantonlie. he took the prisoner on his back, and down the tolbooth stair cam he: the black mare stood ready at the door, i wot a foot ne'er stirred she. they laid the links out owre her neck, and that was her gold twist to be;[l ] and they cam doun thro' dumfries toun, and wow but they cam speedilie! the live-lang night these twelve men rade, and aye till they were right wearie, until they cam to the murraywhate, and they lighted there right speedilie. "a smith! a smith!" then dickie he cries, "a smith, a smith, right speedilie, to file the irons frae my dear brither, for forward, forward we wad be." they hadna filed a shackle of iron, a shackle of iron but barely thrie, when out and spak young simon brave, "o dinna you see what i do see? "lo! yonder comes lieutenant gordon, wi' a hundred men in his companie; this night will be our lyke-wake night, the morn the day we a' maun die." o there was mounting, mounting in haste, and there was marching upon the lee; until they cam to annan water, and it was flowing like the sea. "my mare is young and very skeigh, and in o' the weil she will drown me; but ye'll take mine, and i'll take thine, and sune through the water we sall be." then up and spak him, coarse ca'field, (i wot and little gude worth was he,) "we had better lose ane than lose a' the lave; we'll lose the prisoner, we'll gae free." "shame fa' you and your lands baith! wad ye e'en your lands to your born billy? but hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare, and yet thro' the water we sall be." now they did swim that wan water, and wow but they swam bonnilie! until they cam to the other side, and they wrang their cloathes right drunkily. "come thro', come thro', lieutenant gordon! come thro' and drink some wine wi' me! for there is an ale-house here hard by, and it shall not cost thee ae penny." "throw me my irons," quo' lieutenant gordon; "i wot they cost me dear eneugh;" "the shame a ma," quo' mettled john ha', "they'll be gude shackles to my pleugh." "come thro', come thro', lieutenant gordon! come thro', and drink some wine wi' me! yestreen i was your prisoner, but now this morning am i free." . mettled john hall, from the laigh teviotdale, is perhaps john hall of newbigging, mentioned in the list of border clans as one of the chief men of name residing on the middle marches in .--s. . the _gold twist_ means the small gilded chains drawn across the chest of a war-horse, as a part of his caparison.--s. billie archie. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . a north-country version of the preceding ballad. there is another copy in buchan's larger collection, i. , _the three brothers_. "seven years have i loved my love, and seven years my love's loved me, but now to-morrow is the day that billie archie, my love, must die." out then spoke him little dickie, and still the best fellow was he; "had i but five men and mysell, then we would borrow billie archie." out it spoke him caff o' lin, and still the worst fellow was he; "ye shall have five men and yoursell, and i will bear you companie. "we will not go like to dragoons, nor yet will we like grenadiers; but we will go like corn-dealers, and lay our brechams on our meares. "and twa of us will watch the road, and other twa between will gang, and i will go to jail-house door, and hold the prisoner unthought lang." "wha is this at the jail-house door, sa weel as they do ken the gin?" "it's i mysell," said him little dickie, "and o sae fain's i would be in!" "awa, awa, now, little dickie, awa, let all your folly be; if the lord lieutenant come on you, like unto dogs he'll cause you die." "hold you, hold you, billy archie, and now let all your folly be; though i die without, you'll not die within, for borrowed shall your body be." "awa, awa, now, little dickie, awa, let all this folly be; an hundred pounds of spanish irons is all bound on my fair bodie." wi' plough coulters and gavelocks they made the jail-house door to flee; "and in god's name," said little dickie, "cast you the prisoner behind me." they had not rade a great way off, with all the haste that ever could be, till they espied the lord lieutenant, with a hundred men in companie. but when they cam to wan water, it now was rumbling like the sea; then were they got into a strait, as great a strait as well could be. then out did speak him caff o' lin, and aye the warst fellow was he: "now god be with my wife and bairns, for fatherless my babes will be. "my horse is young, he cannot swim; the water's deep, and will not wade; my children must be fatherless, my wife a widow, whate'er betide." o then cried out him little dickie, and still the best fellow was he: "take you my mare, i'll take your horse, and devil drown my mare and thee!" now they have taken the wan water, though it was roaring like the sea; and when they gat to the other side, i wat they bragged right crousilie. "come thro', come thro', now, lord lieutenant, o do come thro', i pray of thee; there is an alehouse not far off, we'll dine you and your companie." "awa, awa, now, little dickie, o now let all your taunting be; there's not a man in the king's army that would have tried what's done by thee. "cast back, cast back my fetters again, cast back my fetters, i say to thee; and get you gane the way you came, i wish no prisoners like to thee." "i have a mare, she's called meg, the best in all our low countrie; if she gang barefoot till they're done, an ill death may your lordship die." hobie noble. from caw's _poetical museum_, p. . "we have seen the hero of this ballad act a distinguished part in the deliverance of jock o' the side, and are now to learn the ungrateful return which the armstrongs made him for his faithful services. halbert, or hobbie, noble appears to have been one of those numerous english outlaws, who, being forced to fly their own country, had established themselves on the scottish borders. as hobbie continued his depredations upon the english, they bribed some of his hosts, the armstrongs, to decoy him into england under pretence of a predatory expedition. he was there delivered, by his treacherous companions, into the hands of the officers of justice, by whom he was conducted to carlisle, and executed next morning. the laird of mangertoun, with whom hobbie was in high favour, is said to have taken a severe revenge upon the traitors who betrayed him. the principal contriver of the scheme, called here sim o' the maynes, fled into england from the resentment of his chief; but experienced there the common fate of a traitor, being himself executed at carlisle, about two months after hobbie's death. such is, at least, the tradition of liddesdale. sim o' the maynes appears among the armstrongs of whitauch, in liddesdale, in the list of clans so often alluded to."--_minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . foul fa' the breast first treason bred in! that liddisdale may safely say; for in it there was baith meat and drink, and corn unto our geldings gay. we were stout-hearted men and true, as england it did often say; but now we may turn our backs and fly, since brave noble is seld away. now hobie he was an english man, and born into bewcastle dale; but his misdeeds they were sae great, they banish'd him to liddisdale. at kershope foot the tryst was set,[l ] kershope of the lily lee; and there was traitour sim o' the mains,[l ] with him a private companie. then hobie has graith'd his body weel, i wat it was wi' baith good iron and steel; and he has pull'd out his fringed grey, and there, brave noble, he rade him weel. then hobie is down the water gane, e'en as fast as he may drie; tho' they shoud a' brusten and broken their hearts, frae that tryst noble he would not be. "weel may ye be, my feiries five! and aye, what is your wills wi' me?" then they cry'd a' wi' ae consent, "thou'rt welcome here, brave noble, to me. "wilt thou with us in england ride, and thy safe warrand we will be? if we get a horse worth a hundred punds, upon his back that thou shalt be." "i dare not with you into england ride, the land-sergeant has me at feid; i know not what evil may betide, for peter of whitfield, his brother, is dead. "and anton shiel, he loves not me, for i gat twa drifts of his sheep;[l ] the great earl of whitfield loves me not,[l ] for nae gear frae me he e'er could keep. "but will ye stay till the day gae down, until the night come o'er the grund, and i'll be a guide worth ony twa that may in liddisdale be fund. "tho' dark the night as pick and tar, i'll guide ye o'er yon hills fu' hie, and bring ye a' in safety back, if you'll be true and follow me." he's guided them o'er moss and muir, o'er hill and houp, and mony a down; til they came to the foulbogshiel, and there, brave noble, he lighted down. then word is gane to the land-sergeant, in askirton where that he lay--[l ] "the deer that ye hae hunted lang is seen into the waste this day." "then hobie noble is that deer! i wat he carries the style fu' hie; aft has he beat your slough-hounds back, and set yourselves at little lee. "gar warn the bows of hartlie-burn, see they shaft their arrows on the wa'! warn willeva, and spear edom,[l ] and see the morn they meet me a'. "gar meet me on the rodrie-haugh, and see it be by break o' day; and we will on to conscowthart-green, for there, i think, we'll get our prey." then hobie noble has dream'd a dream, in the foulbogsheil where that he lay; he thought his horse was 'neath him shot, and he himself got hard away. the cocks could crow, and the day could dawn, and i wat so even down fell the rain; if hobie had no waken'd at that time, in the foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain. "get up, get up, my feiries five! for i wat here makes a fu' ill day; and the warst cloak of this companie,[l ] i hope shall cross the waste this day." now hobie thought the gates were clear; but, ever alas! it was not sae: they were beset wi' cruel men and keen, that away brave noble could not gae. "yet follow me, my feiries five, and see of me ye keep good ray; and the worst cloak of this companie[l ] i hope shall cross the waste this day." there was heaps of men now hobie before, and other heaps was him behind, that had he been as wight as wallace was, away brave noble he could not win. then hobie he had but a laddies sword, but he did more than a laddies deed; in the midst of conscouthart-green, he brake it o'er jersawigham's head. now they have tane brave hobie noble, wi' his ain bowstring they band him sae; and i wat heart was ne'er sae sair, as when his ain five band him on the brae. they have tane him for west carlisle; they ask'd him if he knew the way; whate'er he thought, yet little he said; he knew the way as well as they. they hae tane him up the ricker-gate;[l ] the wives they cast their windows wide, and ilka wife to anither can say, "that's the man loos'd jock o' the side!" "fy on ye, women! why ca' ye me man? for it's nae man that i'm used like; i'm but like a forfoughen hound, has been fighting in a dirty syke." then they hae tane him up thro' carlisle town, and set him by the chimney fire; they gave brave noble a wheat loaf to eat, and that was little his desire. then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat and after that a can o' beer; then they cried a', wi' ae consent, "eat, brave noble, and make good cheer. "confess my lord's horse, hobie," they say, "and the morn in carlisle thou's no die;" "how shall i confess them?" hobie says, "for i never saw them with mine eye." then hobie has sworn a fu' great aith-- by the day that he was gotten or born, he never had onything o' my lord's, that either eat him grass or corn. "now fare thee weel, sweet mangerton![l ] for i think again i'll ne'er thee see: i wad betray nae lad alive, for a' the goud in christentie. "and fare thee weel, now liddisdale, baith the hie land and the law! keep ye weel frae traitor mains! for goud and gear he'll sell ye a'. "i'd rather be ca'd hobie noble, in carlisle, where he suffers for his faut, before i were ca'd traitor mains, that eats and drinks of meal and maut." . kershope-burn, where hobbie met his treacherous companions, falls into the liddel, from the english side, at a place called turnersholm, where, according to tradition, tourneys and games of chivalry were often solemnized.--s. . the mains was anciently a border-keep, near castletown, on the north side of the liddel, but is now totally demolished.--s. . for twa drifts of his sheep i gat.--p. m. . whitfield is explained by mr. ellis of otterbourne to be a large and rather wild manorial district in the extreme southwest part of northumberland; the proprietor of which might be naturally called the lord, though not _earl_ of whitfield. i suspect, however, that the reciters may have corrupted the _great_ ralph whitfield into earl of whitfield. sir matthew whitfield of whitfield, was sheriff of northumberland in , and the estate continued in the family from the reign of richard ii. till about fifty years since.--s. . askerton is an old castle, now ruinous, situated in the wilds of cumberland, about seventeen miles north-east of carlisle, amidst that mountainous and desolate tract of country bordering upon liddesdale, emphatically termed the waste of bewcastle.--s. - . willeva and speir edom are small districts in bewcastledale, through which also the hartlie-burn takes its course. conscouthart-green, and rodrie-haugh, and the foulbogshiel, are the names of places in the same wilds, through which the scottish plunderers generally made their raids upon england.--s. , . clock. . a street in carlisle. . of the castle of mangertoun, so often mentioned in these ballads, there are very few vestiges. it was situated on the banks of the liddell, below castletoun.--s. jamie telfer of the fair dodhead. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . "there is another ballad, under the same title as the following, in which nearly the same incidents are narrated, with little difference, except that the honour of rescuing the cattle is attributed to the liddesdale elliots, headed by a chief, there called martin elliot of the preakin tower, whose son, simon, is said to have fallen in the action. it is very possible, that both the teviotdale scotts, and the elliots, were engaged in the affair, and that each claimed the honour of the victory. "the editor presumes, that the willie scott, here mentioned, must have been a natural son of the laird of buccleuch."--s. it fell about the martinmas tyde, when our border steeds get corn and hay, the captain of bewcastle hath bound him to ryde, and he's ower to tividale to drive a prey. the first ae guide that they met wi', it was high up in hardhaughswire;[l ] the second guide that they met wi', it was laigh down in borthwick water. "what tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?" "nae tidings, nae tidings, i hae to thee; but gin ye'll gae to the fair dodhead,[l ] mony a cow's cauf i'll let thee see." and when they cam to the fair dodhead, right hastily they clam the peel; they loosed the kye out, ane and a', and ranshackled the house right weel. now jamie telfer's heart was sair, the tear aye rowing in his ee; he pled wi' the captain to hae his gear, or else revenged he wad be. the captain turned him round and leugh; said--"man, there's naething in thy house, but ae auld sword without a sheath, that hardly now would fell a mouse." the sun wasna up, but the moon was down, it was the gryming of a new-fa'n snaw, jamie telfer has run ten myles a-foot, between the dodhead and the stobs's ha'.[l ] and when he cam to the fair tower yate, he shouted loud, and cried weel hie, till out bespak auld gibby elliot-- "whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "it's i, jamie telfer, o' the fair dodhead, and a harried man i think i be; there's naething left at the fair dodhead, but a waefu' wife and bairnies three." "gae seek your succour at branksome ha',[l ] for succour ye'se get nane frae me; gae seek your succour where ye paid black-mail, for, man, ye ne'er paid money to me." jamie has turned him round about, i wat the tear blinded his ee-- "i'll ne'er pay mail to elliot again, and the fair dodhead i'll never see! "my hounds may a' rin masterless,[l ] my hawks may fly frae tree to tree, my lord may grip my vassal lands, for there again maun i never be!" he has turn'd him to the tiviot side, e'en as fast as he could drie, till he cam to the coultart cleugh,[l ] and there he shouted baith loud and hie. then up bespak him auld jock grieve-- "whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "it's i, jamie telfer o' the fair dodhead, a harried man i trow i be. "there's naething left in the fair dodhead, but a greeting wife and bairnies three, and sax poor ca's stand in the sta', a' routing loud for their minnie." "alack a wae!" quo' auld jock grieve, "alack, my heart is sair for thee! for i was married on the elder sister, and you on the youngest of a' the three." then he has ta'en out a bonny black, was right weel fed with corn and hay, and he's set jamie telfer on his back, to the catslockhill to tak the fraye. and whan he cam to the catslockhill, he shouted loud, and cried weel hie, till out and spak him william's wat-- "o whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "it's i, jamie telfer of the fair dodhead, a harried man i think i be; the captain of bewcastle has driven my gear; for god's sake rise, and succour me!" "alas for wae!" quoth william's wat, "alack, for thee my heart is sair! i never cam by the fair dodhead, that ever i fand thy basket bare." he's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, himsell upon a freckled gray, and they are on wi' jamie telfer, to branksome ha' to tak the fraye. and when they cam to branksome ha', they shouted a' baith loud and hie, till up and spak him auld buccleuch, said--"whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "it's i, jamie telfer o' the fair dodhead, and a harried man i think i be; there's nought left in the fair dodhead, but a greeting wife and bairnies three." "alack for wae!" quoth the gude auld lord, "and ever my heart is wae for thee! but fye, gar cry on willie, my son, and see that he come to me speedilie. "gar warn the water, braid and wide,[l ] gar warn it sune and hastilie; they that winna ride for telfer's kye, let them never look in the face o' me! "warn wat o' harden, and his sons,[l ] wi' them will borthwick water ride; warn gaudilands, and allanhaugh, and gilmanscleugh, and commonside. "ride by the gate at priesthaughswire,[l ] and warn the currors o' the lee; as ye cum down the hermitage slack, warn doughty willie o' gorrinberry." the scotts they rade, the scotts they ran, sae starkly and sae steadilie, and aye the ower-word o' the thrang was--"rise for branksome readilie!" the gear was driven the frostylee up,[l ] frae the frostylee unto the plain, whan willie has look'd his men before, and saw the kye right fast drivand. "whae drives thir kye?" gan willie say, "to make an outspeckle o' me?" "it's i, the captain o' bewcastle, willie; i winna layne my name for thee." "o will ye let telfer's kye gae back? or will ye do aught for regard o' me? or, by the faith of my body," quo' willie scott, "i'se ware my dame's cauf skin on thee." "i winna let the kye gae back, neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear; but i will drive jamie telfer's kye, in spite of every scott that's here." "set on them, lads!" quo' willie than; "fye, lads, set on them cruellie! for ere they win to the ritterford, mony a toom saddle there sall be!" then til't they gaed, wi' heart and hand, the blows fell thick as bickering hail; and mony a horse ran masterless, and mony a comely cheek was pale. but willie was stricken ower the head, and thro' the knapscap the sword has gane; and harden grat for very rage, whan willie on the grund lay slane. but he's ta'en aff his gude steel cap, and thrice he's waved it in the air; the dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white[l ] nor the lyart locks of harden's hair. "revenge! revenge!" auld wat 'gan cry; "fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! we'll ne'er see tiviotside again, or willie's death revenged sall be." o mony a horse ran masterless, the splinter'd lances flew on hie; but or they wan ta the kershope ford, the scotts had gotten the victory. john o' brigham there was slane,[l ] and john o' barlow, as i heard say; and thirty mae o' the captain's men lay bleeding on the grund that day. the captain was run through the thick of the thigh, and broken was his right leg bane; if he had lived this hundred years, he had never been loved by woman again. "hae back the kye!" the captain said; "dear kye, i trow, to some they be; for gin i suld live a hundred years, there will ne'er fair lady smile on me." then word is gane to the captain's bride, even in the bower where that she lay, that her lord was prisoner in enemy's land, since into tividale he had led the way. "i wad lourd have had a winding-sheet, and helped to put it ower his head, ere he had been disgraced by the border scot, whan he ower liddel his men did lead!" there was a wild gallant amang us a', his name was watty wi' the wudspurs, cried--"on for his house in stanegirthside,[l ] if ony man will ride with us!" when they cam to the stanegirthside, they dang wi' trees, and burst the door; they loosed out a' the captain's kye, and set them forth our lads before. there was an auld wyfe ayont the fire, a wee bit o' the captain's kin-- "whae dar loose out the captain's kye, or answer to him and his men?" "it's i, watty wudspurs, loose the kye, i winna layne my name frae thee; and i will loose out the captain's kye, in scorn of a' his men and he." whan they cam to the fair dodhead, they were a wellcum sight to see; for instead of his ain ten milk kye, jamie telfer has gotten thirty and three. and he has paid the rescue shot, baith wi' goud and white monie; and at the burial o' willie scott, i wat was mony a weeping ee.[l ] - . hardhaughswire is the pass from liddesdale to the head of teviotdale. borthwick water is a stream which falls into the teviot three miles above hawick.--s. . the dodhead, in selkirkshire, near singlee, where there are still the vestiges of an old tower.--s. . stobs hall, upon slitterick, the seat of sir william, of that clan. jamie telfer made his first application here, because he _seems_ to have paid the proprietor of the castle _black-mail_, or protection money.--s. . the ancient family-seat of the lairds of buccleuch, near hawick.--s. - . see _young beichan_, vol. iv. p. . . the coultart cleugh is nearly opposite to carlinrig, on the road between hawick and mosspaul.--s. . the _water_, in the mountainous districts of scotland, is often used to express the banks of the river, which are the only inhabitable parts of the country. _to raise the water_, therefore, was to alarm those who lived along its side.--s. . the estates, mentioned in this verse, belonged to families of the name of scott, residing upon the waters of borthwick and teviot, near the castle of their chief.--s. . the pursuers seem to have taken the road through the hills of liddesdale, in order to collect forces, and intercept the forayers at the passage of the liddel, on their return to bewcastle. the ritterford and kershope-ford, after-mentioned, are noted fords on the river liddel.--s. . the frostylee is a brook, which joins the teviot, near mosspaul.--s. . the dinlay is a mountain in liddesdale.--s. . perhaps one of the ancient family of brougham, in cumberland. the editor has used some freedom with the original in the subsequent verse. the account of the captain's disaster is rather too _naïve_ for literal publication.--s. . a house belonging to the foresters, situated on the english side of the liddel.--s. . an article in the list of attempts upon england, fouled by the commissioners at berwick, in the year , may relate to the subject of the foregoing ballad. october, . thomas musgrave, deputy { walter scott, laird } kine and of bewcastle, and { of buckluth, and his } oxen, gait the tenants, against { complices; for } and sheep. _introduction to the history of westmoreland and cumberland_, p. .--s. the fray of suport. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . "of all the border ditties which have fallen into the editor's hands, this is by far the most uncouth and savage. it is usually chanted in a sort of wild recitative, except the burden, which swells into a long and varied howl, not unlike to a view hollo'. the words, and the very great irregularity of the stanza (if it deserves the name) sufficiently point out its intention and origin. an english woman, residing in suport, near the foot of the kers-hope, having been plundered in the night by a band of the scottish moss-troopers, is supposed to convoke her servants and friends for the pursuit, or _hot trod_; upbraiding them, at the same time, in homely phrase, for their negligence and security. the _hot trod_ was followed by the persons who had lost goods, with blood-hounds and horns, to raise the country to help. they also used to carry a burning wisp of straw at a spear head, and to raise a cry, similar to the indian war-whoop. it appears, from articles made by the wardens of the english marches, september th, in th of edward vi., that all, on this cry being raised, were obliged to follow the fray, or chase, under pain of death. with these explanations, the general purport of the ballad may be easily discovered, though particular passages have become inexplicable, probably through corruptions introduced by reciters. the present text is collected from four copies, which differed widely from each other."--s. sleep'ry sim of the lamb-hill, and snoring jock of suport-mill, ye are baith right het and fou'; but my wae wakens na you. last night i saw a sorry sight-- nought left me o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and ky, my weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey, but a toom byre and a wide, and the twelve nogs on ilka side. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' gane. weel may ye ken, last night i was right scarce o' men: but toppet hob o' the mains had guesten'd in my house by chance; i set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while i kept the back-door wi' the lance; but they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and broke his knee-pan, and the mergh o' his shin-bane has run down on his spur-leather whang: he's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' gane. but peenye, my gude son, is out at the hagbut-head, his een glittering for anger like a fiery gleed; crying--"mak sure the nooks of maky's-muir crooks; for the wily scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks. gin we meet a' together in a head the morn, we'll be merry men." fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' gane. there's doughty cuddy in the heugh-head, thou was aye gude at a need; with thy brock-skin bag at thy belt,[l ] aye ready to mak a puir man help. thou maun awa' out to the cauf-craigs, (where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs,) and there toom thy brock-skin bag. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' ta'en. doughty dan o' the houlet hirst, thou was aye gude at a birst; gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir, the bauldest march-man that e'er follow'd gear: come thou here. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' gane. rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs, in the nicol forest woods.[l ] your craft hasna left the value of an oak rod, but if you had ony fear o' god, last night ye hadna slept sae sound, and let my gear be a' ta'en. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' ta'en. ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net, for i hae a' the fords o' liddel set; the dunkin and the door-loup, the willie-ford, and the water-slack, the black-rack and the trout-dub of liddel. there stands john forster, wi' five men at his back, wi bufft coat and cap of steil. boo! ca' at them e'en, jock; that ford's sicker, i wat weil. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' ta'en. hoo! hoo! gar raise the reid souter, and ringan's wat, wi' a broad elshin and a wicker; i wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker. sae, whether they be elliots or armstrangs, or rough-riding scots, or rude johnstones, or whether they be frae the tarras or ewsdale, they maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' liddel. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' ta'en. "ah! but they will play ye anither jigg, for they will out at the big rig, and thro' at fargy grame's gap."[l ] but i hae another wile for that: for i hae little will, and stalwart wat, and lang aicky, in the souter moor, wi' his sleuth-dog sits in his watch right sure. shou'd the dog gie a bark, he'll be out in his sark, and die or won. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' ta'en. ha! boys!--i see a party appearing--wha's yon? methinks it's the captain of bewcastle, and jephtha's john,[l ] coming down by the foul steps of catlowdie's loan: they'll make a' sicker, come which way they will. ha, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' ta'en. captain musgrave, and a' his band,[l ] are coming down by the siller-strand, and the muckle toun-bell o' carlisle is rung: my gear was a' weel won, and before it's carried o'er the border, mony a man's gae down. fy, lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', my gear's a' gane. . the badger-skin pouch was used for carrying ammunition.--s. . a wood in cumberland, in which suport is situated.--s. . fergus grame of sowport, as one of the chief men of that clan, became security to lord scroope for the good behaviour of his friends and dependents, th january, .--_introduction to history of westmoreland and cumberland_, p. .--s. - . according to the late glenriddel's notes on this ballad, the office of captain bewcastle was held by the chief of the nixons. catlowdie is a small village in cumberland, near the junction of the esk and liddel.--s. . this was probably the famous captain jack musgrave, who had charge of the watch along the cryssop, or kershope, as appears from the order of the watches appointed by lord wharton, when deputy-warden-general, in the th edward vi.--s. rookhope ryde. "a bishopric border song, composed in , taken down from the chanting of george collingwood the elder, late of boltsburn, in the neighbourhood of ryhope, who was interred at stanhope, the th december, . "rookhope is the name of a valley about five miles in length; at the termination of which, rookhope burn empties itself into the river wear, and is in the north part of the parish of stanhope, in weardale. rookhope-head is the top of the vale."--ritson. the date of the event, says sir w. scott, is precisely ascertained to be (not but) the th of december, , when the tynedale robbers were encouraged to make a foray into weardale in consequence of the confusion occasioned by the rebellion of westmoreland and northumberland. from ritson's _bishopric garland_ (p. ), with one or two slight verbal improvements from the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . rookhope stands in a pleasant place, if the false thieves wad let it be, but away they steal our goods apace, and ever an ill death may they dee! and so is the men of thirlwall and willie-haver,[l ] and all their companies thereabout, that is minded to do mischief, and at their stealing stands not out. but yet we will not slander them all, for there is of them good enow; it is a sore consumed tree that on it bears not one fresh bough. lord god! is not this a pitiful case, that men dare not drive their goods to the fell, but limmer thieves drives them away, that fears neither heaven nor hell? lord, send us peace into the realm, that every man may live on his own! i trust to god, if it be his will, that weardale men may never be overthrown. for great troubles they've had in hand, with borderers pricking hither and thither, but the greatest fray that e'er they had, was with the men of thirlwall and willie-haver. they gather'd together so royally, the stoutest men and the best in gear; and he that rade not on a horse, i wat he rade on a weel-fed mear. so in the morning, before they came out, so weel i wot they broke their fast; in the [forenoon they came] unto a bye fell,[l ] where some of them did eat their last. when they had eaten aye and done, they say'd some captains here needs must be: then they choosed forth harry corbyl, and 'symon fell,' and martin ridley. then o'er the moss, where as they came, with many a brank and whew, one of them could to another say, "i think this day we are men enew. "for weardale-men is a journey ta'en; they are so far out o'er yon fell, that some of them's with the two earls,[l ] and others fast in bernard castell. "there we shall get gear enough, for there is nane but women at hame; the sorrowful fend that they can make, is loudly cries as they were slain."[l ] then in at rookhope-head they came, and there they thought tul a had their prey, but they were spy'd coming over the dry-rig, soon upon saint nicolas' day.[l ] then in at rookhope-head they came, they ran the forest but a mile; they gather'd together in four hours six hundred sheep within a while. and horses i trow they gat, but either ane or twa, and they gat them all but ane that belang'd to great rowley. that rowley was the first man that did them spy, with that he raised a mighty cry; the cry it came down rookhope burn, and spread through weardale hasteyly. then word came to the bailiff's house at the east-gate, where he did dwell;[l ] he was walk'd out to the smale-burns, which stands above the hanging-well.[l ] his wife was wae when she heard tell, so weel she wist her husband wanted gear; she gar'd saddle him his horse in haste, and neither forgot sword, jack, nor spear. the bailiff got wit before his gear came, that such news was in the land, he was sore troubled in his heart, that on no earth that he could stand. his brother was hurt three days before, with limmer thieves that did him prick; nineteen bloody wounds lay him upon, what ferly was't that he lay sick? but yet the bailiff shrinked nought, but fast after them he did hye, and so did all his neighbours near, that went to bear him company. but when the bailiff was gathered, and all his company, they were numbered to never a man but forty under fifty. the thieves was numbered a hundred men, i wat they were not of the worst that could be choosed out of thirlwall and willie-haver, [i trow they were the very first.][l ] but all that was in rookhope-head, and all that was i' nuketon-cleugh, where weardale-men o'ertook the thieves, and there they gave them fighting eneugh. so sore they made them fain to flee, as many was 'a'' out of hand, and, for tul have been at home again, they would have been in iron bands. and for the space of long seven years as sore they mighten a' had their lives, but there was never one of them that ever thought to have seen their 'wives.' about the time the fray began, i trow it lasted but an hour, till many a man lay weaponless, and was sore wounded in that stour. also before that hour was done, four of the thieves were slain, besides all those that wounded were, and eleven prisoners there was ta'en. george carrick, and his brother edie, them two, i wot they were both slain; harry corbyl, and lennie carrick, bore them company in their pain. one of our weardale-men was slain, rowland emerson his name hight; i trust to god his soul is well, because he 'fought' unto the right. but thus they say'd, "we'll not depart while we have one:--speed back again!" and when they came amongst the dead men, there they found george carrick slain. and when they found george carrick slain, i wot it went well near their 'heart;' lord, let them never make a better end, that comes to play them sicken a 'part.' i trust to god, no more they shall, except it be one for a great chance; for god will punish all those with a great heavy pestilence. thir limmer thieves, they have good hearts, they nevir think to be o'erthrown; three banners against weardale-men they bare, as if the world had been all their own. thir weardale-men, they have good hearts, they are as stiff as any tree; for, if they'd every one been slain, never a foot back man would flee. and such a storm amongst them fell as i think you never heard the like, for he that bears his head so high, he oft-times falls into the dyke. and now i do entreat you all, as many as are present here. to pray for [the] singer of this song, for he sings to make blithe your cheer. . thirlwall, or thirlitwall, is said by fordun, the scottish historian, to be a name given to the picts' or roman wall, from its having been thirled, or perforated, in ancient times, by the scots and picts. willie-haver, or willeva, is a small district or township in the parish of lanercost, near bewcastledale, in cumberland, mentioned in the ballad of _hobie noble_.--ritson.] . this would be about eleven o'clock, the usual dinner-hour in that period.--ritson.] . the two earls were thomas percy, earl of northumberland, and charles nevil, earl of westmoreland, who, on the th of november, , at the head of their tenantry and others, took arms for the purpose of liberating mary, queen of scots, and restoring the old religion. they besieged barnard castle, which was, for eleven days, stoutly defended by sir george bowes, who, afterward, being appointed the queen's marshal, hanged the poor constables and peasantry by dozens in a day, to the amount of . the earl of northumberland, betrayed by the scots, with whom he had taken refuge, was beheaded at york, on the d of august, ; and the earl of westmoreland, deprived of the ancient and noble patrimony of the nevils, and reduced to beggary, escaped over sea, into flanders, and died in misery and disgrace, being the last of his family.--ritson. see _the rising in the north_ and _northumberland betrayed by douglas_.] . this is still the phraseology of westmoreland: a _poorly_ man, a _softly_ day, and the like.--ritson.] . the th of december.] . now a straggling village so called; originally, it would seem, the gate-house, or ranger's lodge, at the east entrance of stanhope-park. at some distance from this place is westgate, so called for a similar reason.--ritson. the mention of the bailiff's house at the east-gate is (were such a proof wanting) strongly indicative of the authenticity of the ballad. the family of emerson of east-gate, a fief, if i may so call it, held under the bishop, long exercised the office of bailiff of wolsingham, the chief town and borough of weardale, and of forster, &c., under successive prelates.--surtees.] . a place in the neighbourhood of east-gate, known at present, as well as the dry-rig, or smale-burns.--ritson.] . the reciter, from his advanced age, could not recollect the original line thus imperfectly supplied.--ritson.] the raid of the reidswire. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . this ballad is preserved in the bannatyne ms., and was first printed in ramsay's _evergreen_, ii. . scott informs us that ramsay took some liberties with the original text, and even interpolated the manuscript to favor his readings. a more accurate copy was given in the _border minstrelsy_. the text in herd's _scottish songs_, i. , and caw's _museum_, p. , is that of the _evergreen_. "the skirmish of the reidswire happened upon the th of june, , at one of the meetings held by the wardens of the marches, for arrangements necessary upon the border. sir john carmichael was the scottish warden, and sir john forster held that office on the english middle march. in the course of the day, which was employed as usual in redressing wrongs, a bill, or indictment, at the instance of a scottish complainer, was fouled (_i. e._ found a true bill) against one farnstein, a notorious english freebooter. forster alleged that he had fled from justice. carmichael, considering this as a pretext to avoid making compensation for the felony, bade him "play fair!" to which the haughty english warden retorted, by some injurious expressions respecting carmichael's family, and gave other open signs of resentment. his retinue, chiefly men of redesdale and tynedale, the most ferocious of the english borderers, glad of any pretext for a quarrel, discharged a flight of arrows among the scots. a warm conflict ensued, in which, carmichael being beat down and made prisoner, success seemed at first to incline to the english side, till the tynedale men, throwing themselves too greedily upon the plunder, fell into disorder; and a body of jedburgh citizens arriving at that instant, the skirmish terminated in a complete victory on the part of the scots, who took prisoners, the english warden, james ogle, cuthbert collingwood, francis russell, son to the earl of bedford, and son-in-law to forster, some of the fenwicks, and several other border chiefs. they were sent to the earl of morton, then regent, who detained them at dalkeith for some days, till the heat of their resentment was abated; which prudent precaution prevented a war betwixt the two kingdoms. he then dismissed them with great expressions of regard; and, to satisfy queen elizabeth, sent carmichael to york, whence he was soon after honourably dismissed. the field of battle, called the reidswire, is a part of the carter mountain, about ten miles from jedburgh."--scott. the seventh of july, the suith to say, at the reidswire the tryst was set;[l ] our wardens they affixed the day, and, as they promised, so they met. alas! that day i'll ne'er forgett! was sure sae feard, and then sae faine-- they came theare justice for to gett, will never green to come again. carmichael was our warden then, he caused the country to conveen; and the laird's wat, that worthie man,[l ] brought in that sirname weil beseen: the armestranges, that aye hae been a hardy house, but not a hail,[l ] the elliots' honours to maintaine, brought down the lave o' liddesdale. then tividale came to wi' spied; the sheriffe brought the douglas down,[l ] wi' cranstane, gladstain, good at need, baith rewle water, and hawick town. beanjeddart bauldly made him boun, wi' a' the trumbills, stronge and stout; the rutherfoords, with grit renown, convoy'd the town of jedbrugh out.[l ] of other clans i cannot tell, because our warning was not wide-- be this our folks hae ta'en the fell, and planted down palliones, there to bide, we looked down the other side, and saw come breasting ower the brae, wi' sir john forster for their guyde,[l ] full fifteen hundred men and mae. it grieved him sair that day, i trow, wi' sir george hearoune of schipsydehouse;[l ] because we were not men enow, they counted us not worth a louse. sir george was gentle, meek, and douse, but _he_ was hail and het as fire; and yet, for all his cracking crouse, he rewd the raid o' the reidswire. to deal with proud men is but pain; for either must ye fight or flee, or else no answer make again, but play the beast, and let them be. it was na wonder he was hie, had tindaill, reedsdaill, at his hand,[l ] wi' cukdaill, gladsdaill on the lee, and hebsrime, and northumberland.[l ] yett was our meeting meek eneugh, begun wi' merriment and mowes, and at the brae, aboon the heugh, the clark sat down to call the rowes. and some for kyne, and some for ewes, call'd in of dandrie, hob, and jock-- we saw, come marching ower the knows, five hundred fennicks in a flock,--[l ] with jack and speir, and bows all bent, and warlike weapons at their will: although we were na weel content, yet, by my troth, we fear'd no ill. some gaed to drink, and some stude still, and some to cards and dice them sped; till on ane farnstein they fyled a bill, and he was fugitive and fled. carmichaell bade them speik out plainlie, and cloke no cause for ill nor good; the other, answering him as vainlie, began to reckon kin and blood: he raise, and raxed him where he stood, and bade him match him with his marrows; then tindaill heard them reasun rude, and they loot off a flight of arrows. then was there nought but bow and speir, and every man pull'd out a brand; "a schafton and a fenwick" thare: gude symington was slain frae hand. the scotsmen cried on other to stand, frae time they saw john robson slain-- what should they cry? the king's command could cause no cowards turn again. up rose the laird to red the cumber, which would not be for all his boast; what could we doe with sic a number-- fyve thousand men into a host? then henry purdie proved his cost, and very narrowlie had mischief'd him, and there we had our warden lost, wert not the grit god he relieved him. another throw the breiks him bair, whill flatlies to the ground he fell: than thought i weel we had lost him there, into my stomack it struck a knell! yet up he raise, the treuth to tell ye, and laid about him dints full dour; his horsemen they raid sturdily, and stude about him in the stoure. then raise the slogan with ane shout-- "fy, tindaill, to it! jedburgh's here!"[l ] i trow he was not half sae stout, but anis his stomach was asteir. with gun and genzie, bow and speir, men might see mony a cracked crown! but up amang the merchant geir, they were as busy as we were down. the swallow taill frae tackles flew, five hundredth flain into a flight: but we had pestelets enew, and shot among them as we might. with help of god the game gaed right, fra time the foremost of them fell; then ower the know, without goodnight, they ran with mony a shout and yell. but after they had turned backs, yet tindail men they turn'd again, and had not been the merchant packs,[l ] there had been mae of scotland slain. but, jesu! if the folks were fain to put the bussing on their thies; and so they fled, wi' a' their main, down ower the brae, like clogged bees. sir francis russell ta'en was there,[l ] and hurt, as we hear men rehearse; proud wallinton was wounded sair,[l ] albeit he be a fennick fierce. but if ye wald a souldier search, among them a' were ta'en that night, was nane sae wordie to put in verse, as collingwood, that courteous knight.[l ] young henry schafton, he is hurt;[l ] a souldier shot him wi' a bow; scotland has cause to mak great sturt, for laiming of the laird of mow.[l ] the laird's wat did weel indeed; his friends stood stoutlie by himsell, with little gladstain, gude in need, for gretein kend na gude be ill.[l ] the sheriffe wanted not gude will, howbeit he might not fight so fast; beanjeddart, hundlie, and hunthill,[l ] three, on they laid weel at the last. except the horsemen of the guard, if i could put men to availe, none stoutlier stood out for their laird, nor did the lads of liddisdail. but little harness had we there; but auld badreule had on a jack,[l ] and did right weel, i you declare, with all his trumbills at his back. gude edderstane was not to lack,[l ] nor kirktoun, newton, noble men![l ] thir's all the specials i of speake, by others that i could not ken. who did invent that day of play, we need not fear to find him soon; for sir john forster, i dare well say, made us this noisome afternoon. not that i speak preceislie out, that he supposed it would be perril; but pride, and breaking out of feuid, garr'd tindaill lads begin the quarrel. . _swire_ signifies the descent of a hill, and the epithet _red_ is derived from the color of the heath, or perhaps, from the reid-water, which rises at no great distance.--s. . the laird's wat is perhaps the young buccleuch, who, about twenty years after this _raid_, performed the great exploit of rescuing kinmont willie from carlisle castle.--s. . this clan are here mentioned as not being hail, or whole, because they were outlawed or broken men. indeed, many of them had become englishmen, as the phrase then went. there was an old alliance betwixt the elliots and armstrongs, here alluded to.--s. . douglas of cavers, hereditary sheriff of teviotdale, descended from black archibald, who carried the standard of his father, the earl of douglas, at the battle of otterbourne.--see the ballad of that name.--s. . these were ancient and powerful clans, residing chiefly upon the river jed. hence, they naturally convoyed the town of jedburgh out. the following fragment of an old ballad is quoted in a letter from an aged gentleman of this name, residing at new york, to a friend in scotland:-- "bauld rutherfurd, he was fou stout, wi' a' his nine sons him round about; he led the town o' jedburgh out, all bravely fought that day."--s. . sir john forster, or, more properly, forrester, of balmbrough abbey, warden of the middle marches in , was deputy-governor of berwick, and governor of balmborough castle.--s. . george heron miles of chipchase castle, probably the same who was slain at the reidswire, was sheriff of northumberland, th elizabeth.--s. . these are districts, or dales, on the english border. . mr. george ellis suggests, with great probability, that this is a mistake, not for hebburne, as the editor stated in an earlier edition, but for hexham, which, with its territory, formed a county independent of northumberland, with which it is here ranked.--s. . the fenwicks; a powerful and numerous northumberland clan.--s. . the gathering word peculiar to a certain name, or set of people, was termed _slogan_ or _slughorn_, and was always repeated at an onset, as well as on many other occasions. it was usually the name of the clan, or place of rendezvous, or leader. in , the english, led by thomas of rosslyne, and william moubray, assaulted aberdeen. the former was mortally wounded in the onset; and, as his followers were pressing forward, shouting "_rosslyne! rosslyne!_" "cry _moubray_," said the expiring chieftain; "_rosslyne_ is gone!"--s. . the ballad-maker here ascribes the victory to the real cause; for the english borderers dispersing to plunder the merchandise, gave the opposite party time to recover from their surprise. it seems to have been usual for travelling merchants to attend border meetings, although one would have thought the kind of company usually assembled there might have deterred them.--s. . this gentleman was son to the earl of bedford, and warden of the east marches. he was, at this time, chamberlain of berwick.--s. . fenwick of wallington, a powerful northumbrian chief.--s. . sir cuthbert collingwood of esslington, sheriff of northumberland, the th and th of elizabeth.--s. . the shaftoes are an ancient family settled at bavington, in northumberland, since the time of edward i.--s. . an ancient family on the borders. the laird of mowe here mentioned was the only gentleman of note killed in the skirmish on the scottish side.--s. . graden, a family of kers.--s. . douglas of beanjeddart, an ancient branch of the house of cavers, possessing property near the junction of the jed and teviot. _hundlie._--rutherford of hundlie, or hundalee, situated on the jed above jedburgh. _hunthill._--the old tower of hunthill was situated about a mile above jedburgh. it was the patrimony of an ancient family of rutherfords. i suppose the person, here meant, to be the same who is renowned in tradition by the name of the _cock of hunthill_.--s. . sir andrew turnbull of bedrule, upon rule water.--s. . an ancient family of rutherfords; i believe, indeed, the most ancient now extant.--s. . the parish of kirktoun belonged, i believe, about this time, to a branch of the cavers family; but kirkton of stewartfield is mentioned in the list of border clans in . _newton._--this is probably grinyslaw of little newton, mentioned in the said roll of border clans.--s. the death of parcy reed. taken down from the recitation of an old woman, and first published (certainly not without what are called "improvements") in richardson's _borderer's table book_, vol. vii. p. , with an introduction by mr. robert white, which we here abridge. percival or parcy reed, was proprietor of troughend, a tract of land in redesdale, northumberland, a man of courage and devoted to the chase. having been appointed warden of the district, he had the misfortune in the discharge of his duties, to offend a family of the name of hall, who were owners of the farm of girsonsfield, and also to incur the enmity of a band of moss-troopers, crosier by name, some of whom had been brought to justice by his hands. the halls concealed their resentment until they were able to contrive an opportunity for taking a safe revenge. in pursuance of this design, they requested reed to join them on a hunting party. their invitation was unsuspiciously accepted, and after a day of sport the company retired to a solitary hut in the lonely glen of batinghope. here reed was attacked in the evening by the crosiers, and as the halls not only refused their assistance, but had treacherously deprived him of the means of defence by rendering his sword and gun unserviceable, he fell an easy victim to his savage foes. it is probable that we cannot assign to the event on which this piece is founded, a date later than the sixteenth century. the story of parcy reed is alluded to in _rokeby_, canto first, xx.; sir walter scott has also taken the death of his dog keeldar as the subject of a poem contributed to hood's annual, _the gem_, for . god send the land deliverance frae every reaving, riding scot; we'll sune hae neither cow nor ewe, we'll sune hae neither staig nor stot. the outlaws come frae liddesdale, they herry redesdale far and near; the rich man's gelding it maun gang, they canna pass the puir man's mear. sure it were weel, had ilka thief around his neck a halter strang; and curses heavy may they light on traitors vile oursels amang. now parcy reed has crosier ta'en, he has delivered him to the law; but crosier says he'll do waur than that, he'll make the tower o' troughend fa'. and crosier says he will do waur-- he will do waur if waur can be; he'll make the bairns a' fatherless; and then, the land it may lie lee. "to the hunting, ho!" cried parcy reed, "the morning sun is on the dew; the cauler breeze frae off the fells will lead the dogs to the quarry true. "to the hunting, ho!" cried parcy reed, and to the hunting he has gane; and the three fause ha's o' girsonsfield alang wi' him he has them ta'en. they hunted high, they hunted low, by heathery hill and birken shaw; they raised a buck on rooken edge, and blew the mort at fair ealylawe. they hunted high, they hunted low, they made the echoes ring amain; with music sweet o' horn and hound, they merry made fair redesdale glen. they hunted high, they hunted low, they hunted up, they hunted down, until the day was past the prime, and it grew late in the afternoon. they hunted high in batinghope, when as the sun was sinking low, says parcy then, "ca' off the dogs, we'll bait our steeds and homeward go." they lighted high in batinghope, atween the brown and benty ground; they had but rested a little while, till parcy reed was sleeping sound. there's nane may lean on a rotten staff, but him that risks to get a fa'; there's nane may in a traitor trust, and traitors black were every ha'. they've stown the bridle off his steed, and they've put water in his lang gun; they've fixed his sword within the sheath, that out again it winna come. "awaken ye, waken ye, parcy reed, or by your enemies be ta'en; for yonder are the five crosiers a-coming owre the hingin-stane." "if they be five, and we be four, sae that ye stand alang wi' me, then every man ye will take one, and only leave but two to me: we will them meet as brave men ought, and make them either fight or flee." "we mayna stand, we canna stand, we daurna stand alang wi' thee; the crosiers haud thee at a feud, and they wad kill baith thee and we." "o, turn thee, turn thee, johnie ha', o, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me; when ye come to troughend again, my gude black naig i will gie thee; he cost full twenty pound o' gowd, atween my brother john and me." "i mayna turn, i canna turn, i daurna turn and fight wi' thee; the crosiers haud thee at a feud, and they wad kill baith thee and me." "o, turn thee, turn thee, willie ha', o, turn thee, man, and fight wi' me; when ye come to troughend again, a yoke o' owsen i'll gie thee." "i mayna turn, i canna turn, i daurna turn and fight wi' thee; the crosiers haud thee at a feud, and they wad kill baith thee and me." "o, turn thee, turn thee, tommy ha', o, turn now, man, and fight wi' me; if ever we come to troughend again, my daughter jean i'll gie to thee." "i mayna turn, i canna turn, i daurna turn and fight wi' thee; the crosiers haud thee at a feud, and they wad kill baith thee and me." "o, shame upon ye, traitors a'! i wish your hames ye may never see; ye've stown the bridle off my naig, and i can neither fight nor flee. "ye've stown the bridle off my naig, and ye've put water i' my lang gun; ye've fixed my sword within the sheath, that out again it winna come." he had but time to cross himsel', a prayer he hadna time to say, till round him came the crosiers keen, all riding graithed, and in array. "weel met, weel met, now, parcy reed, thou art the very man we sought; owre lang hae we been in your debt, now will we pay you as we ought. "we'll pay thee at the nearest tree, where we shall hang thee like a hound;" brave parcy rais'd his fankit sword, and fell'd the foremost to the ground. alake, and wae for parcy reed, alake, he was an unarmed man; four weapons pierced him all at once, as they assailed him there and than. they fell upon him all at once, they mangled him most cruellie; the slightest wound might caused his deid, and they have gi'en him thirty-three. they hacket off his hands and feet, and left him lying on the lee. "now, parcy reed, we've paid our debt, ye canna weel dispute the tale," the crosiers said, and off they rade-- they rade the airt o' liddesdale. it was the hour o' gloamin' gray, when herds come in frae fauld and pen; a herd he saw a huntsman lie, says he, "can this be laird troughen'?" "there's some will ca' me parcy reed, and some will ca' me laird troughen'; it's little matter what they ca' me, my faes hae made me ill to ken. "there's some will ca' me parcy reed, and speak my praise in tower and town; it's little matter what they do now, my life-blood rudds the heather brown. "there's some will ca' me parcy reed, and a' my virtues say and sing; i would much rather have just now a draught o' water frae the spring!" the herd flung aff his clouted shoon, and to the nearest fountain ran; he made his bonnet serve a cup, and wan the blessing o' the dying man. "now, honest herd, ye maun do mair,-- ye maun do mair as i ye tell; ye maun bear tidings to troughend, and bear likewise my last farewell. "a farewell to my wedded wife, a farewell to my brother john, wha sits into the troughend tower, wi' heart as black as any stone. "a farewell to my daughter jean, a farewell to my young sons five; had they been at their father's hand, i had this night been man alive. "a farewell to my followers a', and a' my neighbours gude at need; bid them think how the treacherous ha's betrayed the life o' parcy reed. "the laird o' clennel bears my bow, the laird o' brandon bears my brand; whene'er they ride i' the border side, they'll mind the fate o' the laird troughend." captain car, or, edom o' gordon. "this ballad is founded upon a real event, which took place in the north of scotland in the year , during the struggles between the party which held out for the imprisoned queen mary, and that which endeavoured to maintain the authority of her infant son, james vi. the person designated edom o' gordon was adam gordon of auchindown, brother of the marquis of huntly, and his deputy as lieutenant of the north of scotland for the queen. this gentleman committed many acts of oppression on the clan forbes, under colour of the queen's authority, and in one collision with that family, killed arthur, brother to lord forbes. he afterwards sent a party under one captain car, or ker, to reduce the house of towie, one of the chief seats of the name of forbes. the proprietor of the mansion being from home, his lady, who was pregnant at the time, confiding too much in her sex and condition, not only refused to surrender, but gave car some very opprobrious language over the walls, which irritated him so much that he set fire to the house, and burnt the whole inmates, amounting in all to thirty-seven persons. as gordon never cashiered car for this inhuman action, he was held by the public voice to be equally guilty, and accordingly [in one of the versions of the ballad] he is represented as the principal actor himself." (chambers's _scottish ballads_, p. .) it appears that the forbeses afterwards attempted to assassinate adam gordon in the streets of paris. see more of this captain ker under _the battell of balrinnes_, in the next volume. the ballad was first printed by the foulises at glasgow, , under the title of _edom of gordon_, as taken down by sir david dalrymple from the recitation of a lady. it was inserted in the _reliques_, (i. ,) "improved and enlarged," (or, as ritson more correctly expresses the fact, "interpolated and corrupted,") by several stanzas from a fragment in percy's manuscript, called _captain adam carre_. ritson published the following genuine and ancient copy, (_ancient songs_, ii. ,) from a collection in the cotton library. he states that his ms. had received numerous alterations or corrections, all or most of which, as being evidently for the better, he had adopted into the text. we have added a copy of _edom o' gordon_ given in ritson's _scottish songs_, and in the appendix an inferior version of the story, called _loudoun castle_. the names vary considerably in the different versions of this piece. the castle of towie, or the house of rothes, is here called the castle of crecrynbroghe, in percy's manuscript the castle of brittonsborrow, and in the copy in the appendix the locality is changed to loudoun castle in ayrshire. in like manner, alexander forbes is here turned into lord hamleton, and captain car is now called the lord of easter-town and again the lord of westerton-town. in the _gentleman's magazine_, vol. xci. part , p. , will be found a modern ballad styled _adam gordon_, founded on the adventure of the freebooter of that name with edward the first. another on the same subject is given in evans's _old ballads_, iv. . it befell at martynmas when wether waxed colde, captaine care saide to his men, "we must go take a holde." "haille, master, and wether you will, and wether ye like it best." "to the castle of crecrynbroghe; and there we will take our reste. "i knowe wher is a gay castle, is build of lyme and stone, within 'there' is a gay ladie, her lord is ryd from hom." the ladie lend on her castle-walle, she loked upp and downe; there was she ware of an host of men, come riding to the towne. "come yow hether, my meri men all, and look what i do see; yonder is ther an host of men, i musen who they bee." she thought he had been her own wed lord, that had comd riding home; then was it traitour captaine care, the lord of ester-towne. they were no soner at supper sett, then after said the grace, or captaine care and all his men wer lighte aboute the place. "gyve over thi howsse, thou lady gay, and i will make the a bande; to-nighte thoust ly wythin my arm, to-morrowe thou shall ere my lan[de]." then bespacke the eldest sonne, that was both whitt and redde, "o mother dere, geve over your howsse, or elles we shal be deade." "i will not geve over my hous," she saithe, "not for feare of my lyffe; it shal be talked throughout the land, the slaughter of a wyffe. "fetch me my pestilett, and charge me my gonne, that i may shott at the bloddy butcher, the lord of easter-towne." she styfly stod on her castle-wall, and lett the pellettes flee, she myst the blody bucher, and slew other three. "i will not geve over my hous," she saithe, "netheir for lord nor lowne, nor yet for traitour captaine care, the lord of easter-towne. "i desire of captaine care, and all his bloddye band, that he would save my eldest sonne, the eare of all my lande." "lap him in a shete," he sayth, "and let him downe to me, and i shall take him in my armes, his waran wyll i be." the captayne sayd unto himselfe, wyth sped before the rest; he cut his tonge out of his head, his hart out of his brest. he lapt them in a handerchef, and knet it of knotes three, and cast them over the castell-wall at that gay ladye. "fye upon thee, captaine care, and all thy bloddy band, for thou hast slayne my eldest sonne, the ayre of all my land." then bespake the yongest sonn, that sat on the nurses knee, sayth, "mother gay, geve ower your house, [the smoke] it smoldereth me." "i wold geve my gold," she saith, "and so i wolde my fee, for a blaste of the wesleyn wind to dryve the smoke from thee. "fy upon thee, john hamleton, that ever i paid thé hyre, for thou hast broken my castle-wall, and kyndled in [it] the fyre."[l ] the lady gate to her close parler, the fire fell aboute her head; she toke up her children thre, seth, "babes, we are all dead." then bespake the hye steward, that is of hye degree; saith, "ladie gay, you are no 'bote,' wethere ye fighte or flee." lord hamleton dremd in his dreame, in carvall where he laye, his halle 'was' all of fyre, his ladie slayne or daye. "busk and bowne, my merry men all, even and go ye with me, for i 'dremd' that my hall was on fyre my lady slayne or day." he buskt him and bownd him, and like a worthi knighte, and when he saw his hall burning, his harte was no dele lighte. he sett a trumpett till his mouth, he blew as it plesd his grace; twenty score of hambletons was light aboute the place. "had i knowne as much yesternighte as i do to-daye, captaine care and all his men should not have gone so quite [awaye.] "fye upon thee, captaine care, and all thy blody 'bande;' thou hast slayne my lady gaye, more worth then all thy lande. "yf thou had ought eny ill will," he saith, "thou shoulde have taken my lyffe, and have saved my children thre, all and my lovesome wyffe." , thee. edom o' gordon. from ritson's _scottish songs_, ii. . we presume this is the ballad printed by the foulises. it fell about the martinmas, quhen the wind blew schrile and cauld, said edom o' gordon to his men, "we maun draw to a hauld. "and what an a hauld sall we draw to, my merry men and me? we will gae to the house of the rodes, to see that fair ladie." she had nae sooner busket hersell, nor putten on her gown, till edom o' gordon and his men were round about the town. they had nae sooner sitten down, nor sooner said the grace, till edom o' gordon and his men were closed about the place. the lady ran up to her tower head, as fast as she could drie, to see if by her fair speeches, she could with him agree. as soon as he saw the lady fair, and hir yates all locked fast, he fell into a rage of wrath, and his heart was aghast.[l ] "cum down to me, ze lady fair, cum down to me, let's see; this night ze's ly by my ain side, the morn my bride sall be." "i winnae cum down, ye fals gordon, i winnae cum down to thee; i winnae forsake my ane dear lord that is sae far frae me." "gi up your house, ze fair lady, gi up your house to me, or i will burn zoursel therein, bot you and zour babies three." "i winna gie up, zou fals gordon, to nae sik traitor as thee, tho' zou should burn mysel therein, bot and my babies three." "set fire to the house," quoth fals gordon, "sin better may nae bee; and i will burn hersel therein, bot and her babies three." "and ein wae worth ze, jock my man, i paid ze weil zour fee; why pow ze out my ground wa' stane, lets in the reek to me? "and ein wae worth ze, jock my man, for i paid zou weil zour hire; why pow ze out my ground wa' stane, to me lets in the fire?" "ye paid me weil my hire, lady, ye paid me weil my fee, but now i'm edom of gordon's man, maun either do or die." o then bespake her zoungest son, sat on the nurses knee, "dear mother, gie owre your house," he says, "for the reek it worries me." "i winnae gie up my house, my dear, to nae sik traitor as he; cum well, cum wae, my jewels fair, ye maun tak share wi me." o then bespake her dochter dear, she was baith jimp and sma, "o row me in a pair o' shiets, and tow me owre the wa." they rowd her in a pair of shiets, and towd her owre the wa, but, on the point of edom's speir, she gat a deadly fa'. o bonny, bonny, was hir mouth, and chirry were her cheiks, and clear, clear was hir zellow hair, whereon the reid bluid dreips. then wi his speir he turn'd hir owr, o gin hir face was wan! he said, "zou are the first that eer i wisht alive again." he turn'd her owr and owr again; o gin hir skin was whyte! he said, "i might ha spard thy life, to been some mans delyte." "busk and boon, my merry men all, for ill dooms i do guess; i cannae luik in that bonny face, as it lyes on the grass." "them luiks to freits, my master deir, their freits will follow them;[l ] let it neir be said brave edom o' gordon was daunted with a dame." o then he spied hir ain deir lord, as he came owr the lee; he saw his castle in a fire, as far as he could see. "put on, put on, my mighty men,[l ] as fast as ze can drie, for he that's hindmost of my men, sall neir get guid o' me." and some they raid, and some they ran, fu fast out owr the plain, but lang, lang, eer he coud get up, they were a' deid and slain. but mony were the mudie men lay gasping on the grien; for o' fifty men that edom brought out there were but five ged heme. and mony were the mudie men lay gasping on the grien, and mony were the fair ladys lay lemanless at heme. and round and round the waes he went, their ashes for to view; at last into the flames he flew, and bad the world adieu. . heart, _pronounced_ hearrut. . then. . _qy._ wight yemen? willie mackintosh, or, the burning of auchindown. these fragments appear to relate to the burning of auchindown, a castle belonging to the gordons, in vengeance for the death of william mackintosh of the clan chattan, which is said to have occurred at the castle of the earl of huntly. the event is placed in the year . after the mackintoshes had executed their revenge, they were pursued by the gordons, and overtaken in the stapler, where "sixty of the clan chattan were killed, and willie mackintosh, their leader, wounded." so says the not very trustworthy editor of the _thistle of scotland_. another fragment of four stanzas (containing nothing additional), is given by whitelaw, _book of scottish ballads_, p. . i. from finlay's _scottish ballads_, ii. . as i came in by fiddich-side, in a may morning, i met willie mackintosh an hour before the dawning. "turn again, turn again, turn again, i bid ye; if ye burn auchindown, huntly he will head ye." "head me, hang me, that sall never fear me; i'll burn auchindown before the life leaves me." as i came in by auchindown, in a may morning, auchindown was in a bleeze, an hour before the dawning. * * * * * "crawing, crawing, for my crowse crawing, i lost the best feather i' my wing, for my crowse crawing." ii. from _the thistle of scotland_, p. . "turn, willie mackintosh, turn, i bid you, gin ye burn auchindown, huntly will head you." "head me, or hang me, that canna fley me, i'll burn auchindown, ere the life lea' me." coming down dee-side in a clear morning, auchindown was in a flame, ere the cock crawing. but coming o'er cairn croom, and looking down, man, i saw willie mackintosh burn auchindown, man. "bonny willie mackintosh, whare left ye your men?" "i left them in the stapler, but they'll never come hame." "bonny willie mackintosh, where now is your men?" "i left them in the stapler, sleeping in their sheen." lord maxwell's goodnight. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . "a. d. , john lord maxwell, or, as he styled himself, earl of morton, having quarrelled with the earl of arran, reigning favourite of james vi., and fallen, of course, under the displeasure of the court, was denounced rebel. a commission was also given to the laird of johnstone, then warden of the west marches, to pursue and apprehend the ancient rival and enemy of his house. two bands of mercenaries, commanded by captains cranstoun and lammie, who were sent from edinburgh to support johnstone, were attacked and cut to pieces at crawford-muir, by robert maxwell, natural brother to the chieftain; who, following up his advantage, burned johnstone's castle of lochwood, observing, with savage glee, that he would give lady johnstone light enough by which 'to set her hood.' in a subsequent conflict, johnstone himself was defeated, and made prisoner, and is said to have died of grief at the disgrace which he sustained. "by one of the revolutions, common in those days, maxwell was soon after restored to the king's favour in his turn, and obtained the wardenry of the west marches. a bond of alliance was subscribed by him, and by sir james johnstone, and for some time the two clans lived in harmony. in the year , however, the hereditary feud was revived on the following occasion. a band of marauders, of the clan johnstone, drove a prey of cattle from the lands belonging to the lairds of crichton, sanquhar, and drumlanrig; and defeated, with slaughter, the pursuers, who attempted to rescue their property.--[see _the lads of wamphray_, post, p. .] the injured parties, being apprehensive that maxwell would not cordially embrace their cause, on account of his late reconciliation with the johnstones, endeavoured to overcome his reluctance, by offering to enter into bonds of manrent, and so to become his followers and liegemen; he, on the other hand, granting to them a bond of maintenance, or protection, by which he bound himself, in usual form, to maintain their quarrel against all mortals, saving his loyalty. thus, the most powerful and respectable families in dumfriesshire, became, for a time, the vassals of lord maxwell. this secret alliance was discovered to sir james johnstone by the laird of cummertrees, one of his own clan, though a retainer to maxwell. cummertrees even contrived to possess himself of the bonds of manrent, which he delivered to his chief. the petty warfare betwixt the rival barons was instantly renewed. buccleuch, a near relation of johnstone, came to his assistance with his clan, 'the most renowned freebooters, [says a historian,] the fiercest and bravest warriors among the border tribes.' with buccleuch also came the elliots, armstrongs, and græmes. thus reinforced, johnstone surprised and cut to pieces a party of the maxwells, stationed at lochmaben. on the other hand, lord maxwell, armed with the royal authority, and numbering among his followers all the barons of nithsdale, displayed his banner as the king's lieutenant, and invaded annandale at the head of two thousand men. in those days, however, the royal auspices seem to have carried as little good fortune as effective strength with them. a desperate conflict, still renowned in tradition, took place at the dryffe sands, not far from lockerby, in which johnstone, although inferior in numbers, partly by his own conduct, partly by the valour of his allies, gained a decisive victory. lord maxwell, a tall man, and heavily armed, was struck from his horse in the flight, and cruelly slain, after the hand, which he stretched out for quarter, had been severed from his body. many of his followers were slain in the battle, and many cruelly wounded, especially by slashes in the face, which wound was thence termed a 'lockerby lick.' the barons of lag, closeburn, and drumlanrig, escaped by the fleetness of their horses; a circumstance alluded to in the following ballad. "john, lord maxwell, with whose 'goodnight' the reader is here presented, was son to him who fell at the battle of dryffe sands, and is said to have early avowed the deepest revenge for his father's death. such, indeed, was the fiery and untameable spirit of the man, that neither the threats nor entreaties of the king himself could make him lay aside his vindictive purpose; although johnstone, the object of his resentment, had not only reconciled himself to the court, but even obtained the wardenry of the middle marches, in room of sir john carmichael, murdered by the armstrongs. lord maxwell was therefore prohibited to approach the border counties; and having, in contempt of that mandate, excited new disturbances, he was confined in the castle of edinburgh. from this fortress, however, he contrived to make his escape; and, having repaired to dumfriesshire, he sought an amicable interview with johnstone, under a pretence of a wish to accommodate their differences. sir robert maxwell, of orchardstane, (mentioned in the ballad, verse ,) who was married to a sister of sir james johnstone, persuaded his brother-in-law to accede to maxwell's proposal." so far sir walter scott. the meeting took place on the th of april, , in the presence of sir robert maxwell, each party being accompanied by a single follower. while the chieftains were conferring together, charles maxwell, the attendant of lord john, maliciously began an altercation with the servant of johnstone, and shot him with a pistol, and sir james, looking round at the report, was himself shot by lord maxwell in the back with two poisoned bullets. the murderer escaped to france, but afterwards venturing to return to scotland, was apprehended, brought to trial at edinburgh, and beheaded on the st of may, . we may naturally suppose that the _goodnight_ was composed shortly after lord maxwell fled across the seas, certainly before . this ballad was first printed in the _border minstrelsy_ "from a copy in glenriddel's mss., with some slight variations from tradition." "adieu, madame, my mother dear, but and my sisters three! adieu, fair robert of orchardstane! my heart is wae for thee. adieu, the lily and the rose, the primrose fair to see! adieu, my ladye, and only joy! for i may not stay with thee. "though i hae slain the lord johnstone, what care i for their feid? my noble mind their wrath disdains,-- he was my father's deid. both night and day i labour'd oft of him avenged to be; but now i've got what lang i sought, and i may not stay with thee. "adieu, drumlanrig! false wert aye-- and closeburn in a band! the laird of lag, frae my father that fled, when the johnston struck aff his hand! they were three brethren in a band-- joy may they never see! their treacherous art, and cowardly heart, has twined my love and me. "adieu, dumfries, my proper place, but and carlaverock fair! adieu, my castle of the thrieve, wi' a' my buildings there! adieu, lochmaben's gate sae fair, the langholm-holm, where birks there be! adieu, my ladye, and only joy! for, trust me, i may not stay wi' thee. "adieu, fair eskdale, up and down, where my puir friends do dwell! the bangisters will ding them down, and will them sair compell. but i'll avenge their feid mysell, when i come o'er the sea; adieu, my ladye, and only joy! for i may not stay wi' thee." "lord of the land,"--that ladye said, "o wad ye go wi' me, unto my brother's stately tower, where safest ye may be! there hamiltons, and douglas baith, shall rise to succour thee." "thanks for thy kindness, fair my dame, but i may not stay wi' thee." then he tuik aff a gay gold ring, thereat hang signets three; "hae, tak thee that, mine ain dear thing, and still hae mind o' me: but if thou take another lord, ere i come ower the sea-- his life is but a three days' lease, though i may not stay wi' thee." the wind was fair, the ship was clear, that good lord went away; and most part of his friends were there, to give him a fair convey. they drank the wine, they didna spair, even in that gude lord's sight-- sae now he's o'er the floods sae gray, and lord maxwell has ta'en his goodnight. the lads of wamphray _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . "the reader will find, prefixed to the foregoing ballad, an account of the noted feud betwixt the families of maxwell and johnstone. the following song celebrates the skirmish, in , betwixt the johnstones and crichtons, which led to the revival of the ancient quarrel betwixt johnstone and maxwell, and finally to the battle of dryffe sands, in which the latter lost his life. wamphray is the name of a parish in annandale. lethenhall was the abode of johnstone of wamphray, and continued to be so till of late years. william johnstone of wamphray, called the galliard, was a noted freebooter. a place, near the head of teviotdale, retains the name of the galliard's faulds, (folds,) being a valley, where he used to secrete and divide his spoil, with his liddesdale and eskdale associates. his _nom de guerre_ seems to have been derived from the dance called the galliard. the word is still used in scotland, to express an active, gay, dissipated character. willie of the kirkhill, nephew to the galliard, and his avenger, was also a noted border robber. previous to the battle of dryffe sands, so often mentioned, tradition reports, that maxwell had offered a ten-pound-land to any of his party, who should bring him the head or hand of the laird of johnstone. this being reported to his antagonist, he answered, he had not a ten-pound-land to offer, but would give a five-merk-land to the man who should that day cut off the head or hand of lord maxwell. willie of the kirkhill, mounted upon a young grey horse, rushed upon the enemy, and earned the reward, by striking down their unfortunate chieftain, and cutting off his right hand."--scott. 'twixt girth-head and the langwood end,[l ] lived the galliard, and the galliard's men, but and the lads of leverhay, that drove the crichton's gear away. it is the lads of lethenha', the greatest rogues amang them a'; but and the lads of stefenbiggin, they broke the house in at the rigging. the lads of fingland, and helbeck-hill, they were never for good, but aye for ill; 'twixt the staywood-bush and langside-hill, they steal'd the broked cow and the branded bull. it is the lads of the girth-head, the deil's in them for pride and greed; for the galliard, and the gay galliard's men, they ne'er saw a horse but they made it their ain. the galliard to nithsdale is gane, to steal sim crichton's winsome dun; the galliard is unto the stable gane, but instead of the dun, the blind he has ta'en. "now simmy, simmy of the side, come out and see a johnstone ride! here's the bonniest horse in a' nithside, and a gentle johnstone aboon his hide." simmy crichton's mounted then, and crichtons has raised mony a ane; the galliard trow'd his horse had been wight, but the crichtons beat him out o' sight. as soon as the galliard the crichton saw, behind the saugh-bush he did draw; and there the crichtons the galliard hae ta'en, and nane wi' him but willie alane. "o simmy, simmy, now let me gang, and i'll never mair do a crichton wrang! o simmy, simmy, now let me be, and a peck o' gowd i'll give to thee! "o simmy, simmy, now let me gang, and my wife shall heap it with her hand!" but the crichtons wadna let the galliard be, but they hang'd him hie upon a tree. o think then willie he was right wae, when he saw his uncle guided sae; "but if ever i live wamphray to see, my uncle's death avenged shall be!" back to wamphray he is gane, and riders has raised mony a ane; saying--"my lads, if ye'll be true, ye shall a' be clad in the noble blue." back to nithsdale they have gane, and awa' the crichtons' nowt hae ta'en; but when they cam to the wellpath-head,[l ] the crichtons bade them light and lead. and when they cam to the biddes-burn, the crichtons bade them stand and turn; and when they cam to the biddes-strand, the crichtons they were hard at hand. but when they cam to the biddes-law, the johnstones bade them stand and draw; "we've done nae ill, we'll thole nae wrang, but back to wamphray we will gang." and out spoke willie of the kirkhill, "of fighting, lads, ye'se hae your fill;" and from his horse willie he lap, and a burnish'd brand in his hand he gat. out through the crichtons willie he ran, and dang them down baith horse and man; o but the johnstones were wondrous rude, when the biddes-burn ran three days blood! "now, sirs, we have done a noble deed,-- we have revenged the galliard's bleid; for every finger of the galliard's hand, i vow this day i've kill'd a man." as they cam in at evan-head, at ricklaw-holm they spread abread;[l ] "drive on, my lads! it will be late; we'll hae a pint at wamphray gate. "for where'er i gang, or e'er i ride, the lads of wamphray are on my side; and of a' the lads that i do ken, a wamphray lad's the king of men." - . leverhay, stefenbiggin, girth-head, &c., are all situated in the parish of wamphray.--s. - . the wellpath is a pass by which the johnstones were retreating to their fastnesses in annandale. the biddes-burn, where the skirmish took place betwixt the johnstones and their pursuers, is a rivulet which takes its course among the mountains on the confines of nithesdale and annandale.--s. - . ricklaw-holm is a place upon the evan-water, which falls into the annan, below moffat. wamphray-gate was in those days an alehouse.--s. the fire of frendraught. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . "a mortal feud having arisen between the laird of frendraught [sir james chrichton] and the laird of rothiemay [william gordon], both gentlemen of banffshire, a rencontre took place, at which the retainers of both were present, on the st of january, ; when rothiemay was killed, and several persons hurt on both sides. to stanch this bloody quarrel, the marquis of huntly, who was chief to both parties, and who had therefore a right to act as arbiter between them, ordered frendraught to pay fifty thousand merks to rothiemay's widow. in the ensuing september, frendraught fell into another quarrel, in the course of which james lesly, son to lesly of pitcaple, was shot through the arm. soon after the last incident, frendraught, having paid a visit to the marquis of huntly at the bog of gight, the laird of pitcaple came up with thirty armed men, to demand atonement for the wound of his son. huntly acted in this case with great discretion. without permitting the two lairds to come to a conference, he endeavored to persuade the complaining party that frendraught was in reality innocent of his son's wound; and, as pitcaple went away vowing vengeance, he sent frendraught home under a strong escort, which was commanded by his son, the viscount aboyne, and by the young laird of rothiemay, son to him whom frendraught had killed some months before. the party reached frendraught castle without being attacked by pitcaple; when, aboyne and rothiemay offering to take leave of frendraught and his lady, in order to return home, they were earnestly entreated by these individuals to remain a night, and postpone their return till to-morrow. being with difficulty prevailed upon, the young viscount and rothiemay were well entertained, and after supper went cheerfully to bed. to continue the narrative in the words of spalding--"the viscount was laid in an bed in the old tower going off the hall, and standing upon a vault, wherein there was ane round hole, devised of old, just under aboyne's bed. robert gordon, his servitor, and english will, his page, were both laid in the same chamber. the laird of rothiemay, with some servants beside him, was laid in another chamber just above aboyne's chamber; and in another room above that chamber, were laid george chalmers of noth, and george gordon, another of the viscount's servants; with them also was laid captain rolloch, then in frendraught's own company. all being thus at rest, about midnight that dolorous tower took fire in so sudden and furious a manner, yea, and in ane clap, that the noble viscount, the laird of rothiemay, english will, colonel wat, another of aboyne's servants, and other two, being six in number, were cruelly burnt and tormented to the death, without help or relief; the laird of frendraught, his lady, and haill household looking on, without moving or stirring to deliver them from the fury of this fearful fire, as was reported. robert gordon, called sutherland gordon, being in the viscount's chamber, escaped this fire with the life. george chalmers and captain rolloch, being in the third room, escaped this fire also, and, as was said, aboyne might have saved himself also if he would have gone out of doors, which he would not do, but suddenly ran up stairs to rothiemay's chamber, and wakened him to rise; and as he is awakening him, the timber passage and lofting of the chamber hastily takes fire, so that none of them could win down stairs again; so they turned to a window looking to the close, where they piteously cried many times, "help! help! for god's cause!" the laird and lady, with their servants, all seeing and hearing the woeful crying, made no help or manner of helping; which they perceiving, cried oftentimes mercy at god's hands for their sins; syne clasped in each other's arms, and cheerfully suffered their martyrdom. thus died this noble viscount, of singular expectation, rothiemay, a brave youth, and the rest, by this doleful fire, never enough to be deplored, to the great grief and sorrow of their kin, parents, and hail common people, especially to the noble marquis, who for his good will got this reward. no man can express the dolour of him and his lady, nor yet the grief of the viscount's own dear lady, when it came to her ears, which she kept to her dying day, disdaining after the company of men all her life-time, following the love of the turtle dove. 'it is reported that upon the morn after this woeful fire, the lady frendraught, daughter to the earl of sutherland, and near cousin to the marquis, backed in a white plaid, and riding on a small nag, having a boy leading her horse, without any more in her company, in this pitiful manner she came weeping and mourning to the bog, desiring entry to speak with my lord; but this was refused; so she returned back to her own house, the same gate she came, comfortless.'--spalding's _history of the troubles in scotland_. "suspicion formed two theories regarding the cause of the fire of frendraught. the first was, that the laird had wilfully set fire to the tower, for the purpose of destroying the young laird of rothiemay. the other was, that it originated in the revengeful feelings of the laird of pitcaple. in the first theory there is extremely little probability. first, it could not have been premeditated; because the circumstance of frendraught being accompanied home that day by aboyne and rothiemay, was entirely accidental. in the second place, there was no reason for frendraught being inclined to murder rothiemay, except that he grudged the payment of the fifty thousand merks to his mother; while there was every reason for his being inclined rather to befriend a youth whom he had already injured by occasioning the death of his father. in the third place, all frendraught's family papers, with much gold and silver, both in money and plate, were consumed in the fire. and, in the fourth place, it is extremely improbable that any man of his rank should commit so deliberate and so atrocious an act of villainy. on the other hand, it seems by no means improbable that pitcaple should have caused fire to be set to his enemy's house; a mode of reprisal which had been practised in the same district of country, as we have already seen, by a gentleman of only the preceding age. pitcaple's men, moreover, had been heard to declare an intention of attempting some such enterprise against frendraught; as was proved on the trial of a gentleman of the name of meldrum, who was apprehended, condemned, and executed, for his alleged accession to their conspiracy."--chambers's _scottish ballads_, p. . this ballad was first printed in the _north countrie garland_, p. , and afterwards with a few slight corrections in motherwell's _minstrelsy_, having in both cases been furnished by mr. c. k. sharpe. the tragic story was celebrated by one arthur johnston, a contemporary scholar, in two latin poems, the one entitled, _querela sophiæ hay, dominæ de melgeine, de morte mariti_, and the other, _de johanne gordonio, vicecomite de melgeine, el johanne gordonio de rothemay, in arce frendriaca combustis_ (finlay, i. ). in herd's collection (i. ) is a modern piece on the subject called _frennet hall_, in the detestable style of the last century. this very feeble production is also to be found in ritson's _scottish songs_ (ii. ), johnson's _museum_, and elsewhere. but ritson gives these few stanzas of an excellent old ballad, as remembered by the rev. mr. boyd, the translator of dante: the reek it rose, and the flame it flew, and oh the fire augmented high, until it came to lord john's chamber-window, and to the bed where lord john lay. "o help me, help me, lady frennet! i never ettled harm to thee; and if my father slew my lord, forget the deed and rescue me." he looked east, he looked west, to see if any help was nigh; at length his little page he saw, who to his lord aloud did cry. "loup doun, loup doun, my master dear! what though the window's dreigh and hie? i'll catch you in my arms twa, and never a foot from you i'll flee." "how can i loup, you little page, how can i leave this window hie? do you not see the blazing low, and my twa legs burnt to my knee?" * * * * * the eighteenth of october, a dismal tale to hear, how good lord john and rothiemay was both burnt in the fire. when steeds was saddled and well bridled, and ready for to ride, then out it came her, false frendraught, inviting them to bide. said,--"stay this night untill we sup, the morn untill we dine; 'twill be a token of good 'greement 'twixt your good lord and mine." "we'll turn again," said good lord john;-- "but no," said rothiemay,-- "my steed's trapan'd, my bridle's broken, i fear the day i'm fey." when mass was sung, and bells was rung, and all men bound for bed, then good lord john and rothiemay in one chamber was laid. they had not long cast off their cloaths, and were but now asleep, when the weary smoke began to rise, likewise the scorching heat. "o waken, waken, rothiemay! o waken, brother dear! and turn you to our saviour; there is strong treason here." when they were dressed in their cloaths, and ready for to boun, the doors and windows was all secur'd, the roof-tree burning down. he did him to the wire-window, as fast as he could gang; says,--"wae to the hands put in the stancheons, for out we'll never win." when he stood at the wire-window, most doleful to be seen, he did espy her, lady frendraught, who stood upon the green. cried,--"mercy, mercy, lady frendraught! will ye not sink with sin? for first your husband killed my father, and now you burn his son." o then out spoke her, lady frendraught, and loudly did she cry,-- "it were great pity for good lord john, but none for rothiemay. but the keys are casten in the deep draw well, ye cannot get away." while he stood in this dreadful plight, most piteous to be seen, there called out his servant gordon, as he had frantic been. "o loup, o loup, my dear master, o loup and come to me! i'll catch you in my arms two; one foot i will not flee. "o loup, o loup, my dear master, o loup and come away! i'll catch you in my arms two, but rothiemay may lie." "the fish shall never swim in the flood, nor corn grow through the clay, nor the fiercest fire that ever was kindled twin me and rothiemay. "but i cannot loup, i cannot come, i cannot win to thee; my head's fast in the wire-window, my feet burning from me. "my eyes are seething in my head, my flesh roasting also, my bowels are boiling with my blood; is not that a woeful woe? "take here the rings from my white fingers that are so long and small, and give them to my lady fair, where she sits in her hall. "so i cannot loup, i cannot come, i cannot loup to thee; my earthly part is all consumed, my spirit but speaks to thee." wringing her hands, tearing her hair, his lady she was seen, and thus addressed his servant gordon, where he stood on the green. "o wae be to you, george gordon, an ill death may you die! so safe and sound as you stand there, and my lord bereaved from me." "i bad him loup, i bad him come, i bad him loup to me; i'd catch him in my arms two, a foot i should not flee. &c. "he threw me the rings from his white fingers, which were so long and small, to give to you, his lady fair, where you sat in your hall." &c. sophia hay, sophia hay, o bonny sophia was her name,-- her waiting maid put on her cloaths, but i wot she tore them off again. and aft she cried, "ohon! alas, alas! a sair heart's ill to win; i wan a sair heart when i married him, and the day it's well return'd again." the bonnie house o' airly. finlay's _scottish ballads_, ii. . the earl of airly, a nobleman zealously attached to the cause of king charles, withdrew from scotland in order to avoid subscribing the covenant, leaving his eldest son lord ogilvie at home. the committee of estates, hearing that airly had fled the country, directed the earls of montrose and kinghorn to take possession of his castle, but in this, owing to the exceeding strength of the place, they did not succeed. subsequently the earl of argyle, a personal enemy of the earl of airly, was charged with the same commission, and raised an army of five thousand men to carry out his trust. lord ogilvie was unable to hold out against such a force, and abandoned his father's stronghold, which, as well as his own residence of forthar, was plundered and utterly destroyed by argyle. lady ogilvie is said to have been pregnant at the time of the burning of forthar, and to have undergone considerable danger before she could find proper refuge. she never had, however, more than one son, though she is endowed with no fewer than ten by the ballads. according to one account, the event here celebrated took place in ; another assigns it to . (napier's _montrose and the covenanters_, i. .) the _bonnie house of airly_ was first printed in finlay's _scottish ballads_. other copies are given in cromek's _remains of nithsdale and galloway song_, p. ; smith's _scottish minstrel_, ii. ; hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. ; sharpe's _ballad book_, p. ; and kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . a modern attempt on the same theme may be seen in hogg's _jacobite relics_, ii. . allan cunningham, misled by the ogilvies' continuing to the pretender the devotion they exhibited to the royal martyr and his son, has transferred the burning of airly to the th century. see his _young airly_, in cromek's _remains_, p. , and, rewritten, in _the songs of scotland_, iii. . it fell on a day, and a bonnie summer day, when the corn grew green and yellow, that there fell out a great dispute between argyle and airly. the duke o' montrose has written to argyle to come in the morning early, an' lead in his men, by the back o' dunkeld, to plunder the bonnie house o' airly. the lady look'd o'er her window sae hie, and o but she looked weary! and there she espied the great argyle come to plunder the bonnie house o' airly. "come down, come down, lady margaret," he says, "come down and kiss me fairly, or before the morning clear daylight, i'll no leave a standing stane in airly." "i wadna kiss thee, great argyle, i wadna kiss thee fairly, i wadna kiss thee, great argyle, gin you shoudna leave a standing stane in airly." he has ta'en her by the middle sae sma', says, "lady, where is your drury?" "it's up and down by the bonnie burn side, amang the planting of airly." they sought it up, they sought it down, they sought it late and early, and found it in the bonnie balm-tree, that shines on the bowling-green o' airly. he has ta'en her by the left shoulder, and o but she grat sairly, and led her down to yon green bank, till he plundered the bonnie house o' airly. "o it's i hae seven braw sons," she says, "and the youngest ne'er saw his daddie, and altho' i had as mony mae, i wad gie them a' to charlie. "but gin my good lord had been at hame, as this night he is wi' charlie, there durst na a campbell in a' the west hae plundered the bonnie house o' airly." the bonnie house of airly. from sharpe's _ballad book_, p. . it fell on a day, and a bonny simmer day, when green grew aits and barley, that there fell out a greet dispute between argyll and airlie. argyll has raised an hunder men, an hunder harness'd rarely, and he's awa' by the back of dunkell, to plunder the castle of airlie. lady ogilvie looks o'er her bower window, and o but she looks weary! and there she spy'd the great argyll, come to plunder the bonny house of airlie. "come down, come down, my lady ogilvie, come down, and kiss me fairly:" "o i winna kiss the fause argyll, if he shouldna leave a standing stane in airlie." he hath taken her by the left shoulder, says, "dame where lies thy dowry?" "o it's east and west yon water side, and it's down by the banks of the airlie." they hae sought it up, they hae sought it down, they have sought it maist severely, till they fand it in the fair plum-tree, that shines on the bowling-green of airlie. he hath taken her by the middle sae small, and o but she grat sairly! and laid her down by the bonny burn-side, till they plundered the castle of airlie. "gif my gude lord war here this night, as he is with king charlie, neither you, nor ony ither scottish lord, durst awow to the plundering of airlie. "gif my gude lord war now at hame, as he is with his king, then durst nae a campbell in a' argyll set fit on airlie green. "ten bonny sons i have born unto him, the eleventh ne'er saw his daddy; but though i had an hundred mair, i'd gie them a' to king charlie. the baron of brackley. first published as follows in jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . the copy used was derived from mrs. brown, and collated with a fragment taken down by scott from the recitation of two of the descendants of inverey. buchan has given a different version in his _gleanings_, which is annexed to the present. "this ballad," says chambers, "records an unfortunate rencontre, which took place on the th of september, , between john gordon of brackley, commonly called the baron of brackley, (in aberdeenshire,) and farquharson of inverey, a noted freebooter, who dwelt on dee-side. the former gentleman, who is yet remembered by tradition as a person of the most amiable and respectable character, had contrived to offend farquharson, by pounding some horses belonging to his (farquharson's) followers, which had either strayed into the brackley grounds, or become forfeited on account of some petty delinquencies committed by their proprietors. farquharson was a man of violent habits and passions; he is yet remembered by the epithet _fuddie_, descriptive of his hurried, impatient gait; and it is said that, having been in league with the powers of darkness, he was buried on the north side of a hill, where the sun never shone. on account of the miraculous expedition with which he could sweep the cattle away from a fertile district, _deil scoup wi'_ _fuddie!_ is still a popular proverb, implying that the devil could alone keep his own part with him. this singular marauder, it appears, from authentic information, wished at first to argue the point at issue with the baron of brackley; but in the course of the altercation some expression from one of the parties occasioned a mutual discharge of fire-arms, by which brackley and three of his followers fell. an attempt was made by the baron's friends to bring fuddie to justice; but the case seems to have been justly considered one of chance medley, and the accused party was soon restored to society."--_the scottish ballads_, p. . down dee side came inverey whistling and playing; he's lighted at brackley yates at the day dawing. says, "baron o' brackley, o are ye within? there's sharp swords at the yate will gar your blood spin." the lady raise up, to the window she went; she heard her kye lowing o'er hill and o'er bent. "o rise up, ye baron, and turn back your kye; for the lads o' drumwharran are driving them bye." "how can i rise, lady, or turn them again! whare'er i have ae man, i wat they hae ten." "then rise up, my lasses, tak rocks in your hand, and turn back the kye;--i ha'e you at command. "gin i had a husband, as i hae nane, he wadna lye in his bower, see his kye ta'en." then up got the baron, and cried for his graith; says, "lady, i'll gang, tho' to leave you i'm laith. "come, kiss me, then, peggy, and gie me my speir; i ay was for peace, tho' i never fear'd weir. "come, kiss me, then, peggy, nor think i'm to blame; i weel may gae out, but i'll never win in!" when brackley was busked, and rade o'er the closs, a gallanter baron ne'er lap to a horse. when brackley was mounted, and rade o'er the green, he was as bald a baron as ever was seen. tho' there cam' wi' inverey thirty and three, there was nane wi' bonny brackley but his brother and he. twa gallanter gordons did never sword draw; but against four and thirty, wae's me, what is twa? wi' swords and wi' daggers they did him surround; and they've pierced bonny brackley wi' many a wound. frae the head o' the dee to the banks o' the spey, the gordons may mourn him, and bann inverey. "o came ye by brackley yates, was ye in there? or saw ye his peggy dear riving her hair?" "o i came by brackley yates, i was in there, and i saw his peggy a-making good cheer." that lady she feasted them, carried them ben; she laugh'd wi' the men that her baron had slain. "o fye on you, lady! how could you do sae? you open'd your yates to the fause inverey." she ate wi' him, drank wi' him, welcom'd him in; she welcom'd the villain that slew her baron! she kept him till morning, syne bade him be gane, and shaw'd him the road that he shou'dna be taen. "thro' birss and aboyne," she says, "lyin in a tour, o'er the hills o' glentanar you'll skip in an hour." --there's grief in the kitchen, and mirth in the ha'; but the baron o' brackley is dead and awa. the baron of braikley. buchan's _gleanings_, p. , taken from _scarce ancient ballads_, p. . inverey came down deeside whistlin an playin, he was at brave braikley's yett ere it was dawin; he rappit fou loudly, an wi a great roar, cried, "cum down, cum down, braikley, an open the door. "are ye sleepin, baronne, or are ye wakin? ther's sharp swords at your yett will gar your bluid spin: open the yett, braikley, an lat us within, till we on the green turf gar your bluid rin." out spak the brave baronne owre the castell wa, "are ye come to spulzie an plunder my ha? but gin ye be gentlemen, licht an cum in, gin ye drink o' my wine ye'll nae gar my bluid spin. "gin ye be hir'd widdifus, ye may gang by, ye may gang to the lawlands and steal their fat ky; ther spulzie like revers o' wyld kettrin clan, wha plunder unsparing baith houses and lan'. "gin ye be gentlemen, licht an cum in, ther's meat an drink i' my ha' for every man: gin ye be hir'd widdifus, ye may gang by, gang down to the lawlans, an steal horse an ky." up spak his ladie, at his bak where she laid, "get up, get up, braikley, an be not afraid; they're but hir'd widdifus wi belted plaids. * * * * * "cum kis me, my peggy, i'le nae langer stay, for i will go out an meet inverey; but haud your tongue, peggy, and mak nae sic din, for yon same hir'd widdifus will prove to be men." she called on her maries, they came to her han; cries, "bring your rocks, lassies, we will them coman; get up, get up, braikley, and turn bak your ky, for me an my women will them defy. "come forth than, my maidens, an show them some play; we'll ficht them, an shortly the cowards will fly. gin i had a husband, wheras i hae nane, he wadna ly in his bed and see his ky taen. "ther's four-an-twenty milk whit calves, twal o' them ky, in the woods o' glentanner it's ther they a' ly; ther are goats in the etnach, an sheep o' the brae, an a' will be plunderd by young inverey." "now haud your tongue, peggy, an gie me a gun, ye'll see me gae furth, but ile never return. call my bruther william, my unkl also; my cusin james gordon, we'll mount an' we'll go." whan braikley was ready an stood i the closs, he was the bravest baronne that e'er munted horse; whan a' war assembld on the castell green, nae man like brave braikley was ther to be seen. "turn back, bruther william, ye are a bridegroom, * * * * * we bonnie jean gordon, the maid o the mill, o sichin and sobbin she'll seen get her fill." "i'me nae coward, brither, it's kent i'me a man; ile ficht i' your quarral as lang's i can stan. ile ficht, my dear brither, wi heart an guid will, an so will yung harry that lives at the mill. "but turn, my dear brither, and nae langer stay. what'll cum o' your ladie, gin braikley they slay? what'll cum o' your ladie an' bonny yung son, o what'll cum o' them when braikley is gone?" "i never will turn: do ye think i will fly? no, here i will ficht, and here i will die." "strik dogs," cries inverey, "an ficht till ye're slayn, for we are four hunder, ye are but four men: strik, strik, ye proud boaster, your honor is gone, your lans we will plunder, your castell we'll burn." at the head o' the etnach the battel began, at little auchoilzie they killd the first man: first they killd ane, an syne they killd twa, they killd gallant braikley, the flowr o' them a'. they killd william gordon and james o' the knox, an brave alexander, the flowr o' glenmuick: what sichin an moaning war heard i the glen, for the baronne o' braikley, wha basely was slayn! "came ye by the castell, an was ye in there? saw ye pretty peggy tearing her hair?" "yes, i cam by braikley, an i gaed in ther, an ther saw his ladie braiding her hair. "she was rantin, an' dancin, an' singin for joy, an vowin that nicht she woud feest inverey: she eat wi him, drank wi him, welcomd him in, was kind to the man that had slayn her baronne." up spak the son on the nourices knee,[l ] "gin i live to be a man revenged ile be." ther's dool i the kitchin, an mirth i the ha, the baronne o braikley is dead an awa. . see _johnie armstrang_, p. . gilderoy. gilderoy (properly gilleroy) signifies in gaelic "the red-haired lad." the person thus denoted was, according to tradition, one patrick of the proscribed clan gregor. the following account of him is taken from the _scot's musical museum_, p. , vol. iv. ed. of . "gilderoy was a notorious freebooter in the highlands of perthshire, who, with his gang, for a considerable time infested the country, committing the most barbarous outrages on the inhabitants. some of these ruffians, however, were at length apprehended through the vigilance and activity of the stewarts of athol, and conducted to edinburgh, where they were tried, condemned, and executed, in february, . gilderoy, seeing his accomplices taken and hanged, went up, and in revenge burned several houses belonging to the stewarts in athol. this new act of atrocity was the prelude to his ruin. a proclamation was issued offering £ , for his apprehension. the inhabitants rose _en masse_, and pursued him from place to place, till at length he, with five more of his associates, was overtaken and secured. they were next carried to edinburgh, where after trial and conviction, they expiated their offences on the gallows, in the month of july, ." in the vulgar story-books, gilderoy, besides committing various monstrous and unnatural crimes, enjoys the credit of having picked cardinal richelieu's pocket in the king's presence, robbed oliver cromwell, and hanged a judge. the ballad _is said_ to have been composed not long after the death of gilderoy, "by a young woman of no mean talent, who unfortunately became attached to this daring robber, and had cohabited with him for some time before his being apprehended." a blackletter copy printed in england as early as has been preserved. another, with "some slight variations," is contained "in playford's _wit and mirth_, first edition of vol. iii., printed in ." the piece is next found in _pills to purge melancholy_, v. , and, with one different stanza, in _old ballads_, i. . in the second volume (p. ) of thomson's _orpheus caledonius_ ( ), it appears with considerable alterations. lady elizabeth wardlaw (_née_ halket) undertook a revision of the ballad, and by expunging two worthless stanzas and adding three (those enclosed in brackets), produced the version here given, which is taken from ritson's _scotish songs_, ii. . percy's copy (_reliques_, i. ) is the same, with the omission of the ninth stanza, and herd and pinkerton have followed percy. gilderoy was a bonny boy, had roses tull his shoone; his stockings were of silken soy, wi' garters hanging doune. it was, i weene, a comelie sight, to see sae trim a boy; he was my jo and hearts delight, my handsome gilderoy. o sik twa charming een he had, a breath as sweet as rose; he never ware a highland plaid, but costly silken clothes. he gain'd the luve of ladies gay, nane eir tul him was coy: ah, wae is me! i mourn the day, for my dear gilderoy. my gilderoy and i were born baith in one toun together; we scant were seven years, beforn we gan to luve each other; our dadies and our mammies, thay were fill'd wi' mickle joy, to think upon the bridal day 'twixt me and gilderoy. for gilderoy, that luve of mine, gude faith, i freely bought a wedding sark of holland fine, wi' silken flowers wrought; and he gied me a wedding ring, which i receiv'd wi' joy; nae lad nor lassie eir could sing, like me and gilderoy. wi' mickle joy we spent our prime, till we were baith sixteen, and aft we passed the langsome time, amang the leaves sae green; aft on the banks we'd sit us thair, and sweetly kiss and toy; wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair my handsome gilderoy. [o that he still had been content wi' me to lead his life; but ah, his manfu' heart was bent to stir in feates of strife: and he in many a venturous deed his courage bauld wad try, and now this gars mine heart to bleed for my dear gilderoy. and whan of me his leave he tuik, the tears they wat mine ee; i gave tull him a parting luik, "my benison gang wi' thee! god speid thee weil, mine ain dear heart, for gane is all my joy; my heart is rent sith we maun part, my handsome gilderoy."] my gilderoy, baith far and near, was fear'd in every toun, and bauldly bare away the gear of many a lawland loun. nane eir durst meet him man to man, he was sae brave a boy; at length wi' numbers he was tane, my winsome gilderoy. [the queen of scots possessed nought that my love let me want, for cow and ew he 'to me brought,' and een whan they were skant. all these did honestly possess he never did annoy, who never fail'd to pay their cess to my love gilderoy.] wae worth the loun that made the laws, to hang a man for gear; to reave of live for ox or ass, for sheep, or horse, or mare! had not their laws been made sae strick, i neir had lost my joy, wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek for my dear gilderoy. giff gilderoy had done amisse, he mought hae banisht been; ah! what sair cruelty is this, to hang sike handsome men! to hang the flower o' scottish land, sae sweet and fair a boy! nae lady had sae white a hand as thee, my gilderoy. of gilderoy sae fraid they were, they bound him mickle strong; tull edenburrow they led him thair, and on a gallows hung: they hung him high aboon the rest, he was sae trim a boy; thair dyed the youth whom i lued best, my handsome gilderoy. thus having yielded up his breath, i bare his corpse away; wi' tears that trickled for his death i washt his comelye clay; and siker in a grave sae deep, i laid the dear-loed boy, and now for evir maun i weep my winsome gilderoy. rob roy. the subject of this piece is the abduction of a young scottish lady by a son of the celebrated rob roy macgregor. sentence of outlawry had been pronounced against this person for not appearing to stand his trial for murder. while under this sentence, he conceived the desperate project of carrying off jane kay, heiress of edinbelly, in sterlingshire, and obtaining possession of her estate by a forced marriage. engaging a party of the proscribed macgregors to assist him in this enterprise, rob roy entered the young woman's house with his brother james, tied her, hand and foot, with ropes, and carried her thus on horseback to the abode of one of his clan in argyleshire, where, after some mock ceremony, she was compelled to submit to his embraces. the place in which the unfortunate woman was detained, was discovered, and she was rescued by her family. rob roy and james macgregor were tried for their lives. the latter escaped from prison, but the principal in this outrage suffered condign punishment in february, . fragments of the story were printed in _select scotish songs_, by robert burns, edited by r. h. cromek, ii. , and in maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. ; a complete copy in the _thistle of scotland_, p. . chambers has combined the fragments of burns and maidment with a third version furnished by mr. kinloch, and has produced a ballad which is on the whole the most eligible for this place. (_scottish ballads_, p. .) in the appendix may be seen the editions above referred to, and also _eppie morrie_, a ballad founded on a similar incident. this sort of kidnapping seems to have been the commonest occurrence in the world in scotland. sharpe has collected not a few cases in his _ballad book_, p. , and he gives us two stanzas of another ballad. the highlandmen hae a' cum down, they've a' come down almost, they've stowen away the bonny lass, the lady of arngosk. behind her back they've tied her hands, an' then they set her on; "i winna gang wi' you," she said, "nor ony highland loon." * * * * * rob roy frae the hielands cam unto the lawland border, to steal awa a gay ladye, to haud his house in order. he cam ower the loch o' lynn, twenty men his arms did carry; himsell gaed in and fand her out, protesting he would marry. when he cam he surrounded the house, no tidings there cam before him, or else the lady would have gone, for still she did abhor him. "o will ye gae wi' me?" he says, "o will ye be my honey? o will ye be my wedded wife? for i loe ye best of ony." "i winna gae wi' you," she says, "i winna be your honey; i winna be your wedded wife, ye loe me for my money." * * * * * wi' mournful cries and watery eyes, fast hauding by her mother, wi' mournful cries and watery eyes, they were parted frae each other. he gied her nae time to be dress'd, as ladies do when they're brides, but he hastened and hurried her awa, and rowed her in his plaids. he mounted her upon a horse, himsell lap on behind her, and they're awa to the hieland hills, where her friends may never find her. as they gaed ower the hieland hills, the lady aften fainted, saying, "wae be to my cursed gowd, this road to me invented!" they rade till they came to ballyshine, at ballyshine they tarried; he brought to her a cotton gown, yet ne'er wad she be married. two held her up before the priest, four carried her to bed o; maist mournfully she wept and cried, when she by him was laid o! [_the tune changes_.] "o be content, o be content, o be content to stay, lady, for now ye are my wedded wife until my dying day, lady. "rob roy was my father call'd, macgregor was his name, lady; he led a band o' heroes bauld, and i am here the same, lady. "he was a hedge unto his friends, a heckle to his foes, lady, and every one that did him wrang, he took him by the nose, lady. "i am as bold, i am as bold as my father was afore, lady; he that daurs dispute my word shall feel my gude claymore, lady. "my father left me cows and yowes, and sheep, and goats, and a', lady, and you and twenty thousand merks will mak me a man fu' braw, lady." book vii. queen eleanor's confession. eleanor of aquitaine was divorced from her first husband, louis vii. of france, on account of misbehavior at antioch, during the second crusade. her conduct after her second marriage, with henry ii. of england, is agreed to have been irreproachable on the score of chastity. it is rather hard, therefore, that her reputation should be assailed as it is here; but if we complain of this injustice, what shall we say when we find, further on, the same story, with others even more ridiculous, told of the virtuous eleanor of castile, wife of edward i.? see peele's _chronicle history of edward i._, dyce's ed. i. , , _seq._, and the ballad in vol. vii., . both of these ballads are indeed pretty specimens of the historical value of popular traditions. the idea of the unlucky shrift is borrowed from some old story-teller. it occurs in the _fabliau du chevalier qui fist sa fame confesse_, barbazan, ed. méon, iii. , in boccaccio g. vii. , bandello, malespini, &c.; also in la fontaine's _le mari confesseur_. the following ballad is from the _collection_ of , vol. i. p. . there are several other versions: percy's _reliques_, ii. (with corrections); buchan's _gleanings_, p. ; motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. (_earl marshal_, from recitation); aytoun's _ballads of scotland_, new ed. i. ; kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . queen eleanor was a sick woman, and afraid that she should dye; then she sent for two fryars of france, to speak with her speedily. the king call'd down his nobles all, by one, by two, by three, and sent away for earl marshal, to speak with him speedily. when that he came before the king, he fell on his bended knee; "a boon, a boon, our gracious king, that you sent so hastily." "i'll pawn my lands," the king then cry'd, "my sceptre and my crown, that whatsoe're queen eleanor says, i will not write it down. "do you put on a fryar's coat, and i'll put on another; and we will to queen eleanor go, like fryar and his brother." thus both attired then they go: when they came to whitehall, the bells did ring, and the choristers sing, and the torches did light them all. when that they came before the queen, they fell on their bended knee; "a boon, a boon, our gracious queen, that you sent so hastily." "are you two fryars of france," she said, "as i suppose you be? but if you are two english fryars, then hanged you shall be." "we are two fryars of france," they said, "as you suppose we be; we have not been at any mass since we came from the sea." "the first vile thing that e're i did, i will to you unfold; earl marshal had my maidenhead, beneath this cloth of gold." "that's a vile sin," then said the king; "god may forgive it thee!" "amen, amen!" quoth earl marshal; with a heavy heart spoke he. "the next vile thing that e're i did, to you i'll not deny; i made a box of poyson strong, to poyson king henry." "that's a vile sin," then said the king, "god may forgive it thee!" "amen, amen!" quoth earl marshal; "and i wish it so may be." "the next vile thing that e're i did, to you i will discover; i poysoned fair rosamond, all in fair woodstock bow'r." "that's a vile sin," then said the king; "god may forgive it thee!" "amen, amen!" quoth earl marshal; "and i wish it so may be." "do you see yonder's [a] little boy, a tossing of the ball? that is earl marshal's eldest son, i love him the best of all. "do you see yonder's [a] little boy, a catching of the ball? that is king henry's son," she said; "i love him the worst of all. "his head is like unto a bull, his nose is like a boar,"-- "no matter for that," king henry cry'd, "i love him the better therefore." the king pull'd off his fryar's coat, and appeared all in red; she shriek'd, she cry'd, and wrung her hands, and said she was betray'd. the king look'd over his left shoulder, and a grim look looked he; and said, "earl marshal, but for my oath, or hanged shouldst thou be." from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, . the queen fell sick, and very, very sick, she was sick, and like to dee, and she sent for a friar oure frae france, her cónfessour to be. king henry, when he heard o' that, an angry man was he; and he sent to the earl marshall, attendance for to gie. "the queen is sick," king henry cried, "and wants to be beshriven; she has sent for a friar oure frae france; by the rude, he were better in heaven! "but tak you now a friar's guise, the voice and gesture feign, and when she has the pardon crav'd, respond to her, amen! "and i will be a prelate old, and sit in a corner dark, to hear the adventures of my spouse, my spouse, and her holy spark." "my liege, my liege, how can i betray my mistress and my queen! o swear by the rude, that no damage from this shall be gotten or gien!" "i swear by the rude," quoth king henry, "no damage shall be gotten or gien, come, let us spare no cure nor care for the conscience o' the queen." * * * * * "o fathers, o fathers, i'm very, very sick, i'm sick, and like to dee; some ghostly comfort to my poor soul o tell if ye can gie!" "confess, confess," earl marshall cried, "and ye shall pardoned be:" "confess, confess," the king replied, "and we shall comfort gie." "o how shall i tell the sorry, sorry tale! how can the tale be told! i play'd the harlot wi' the earl marshall beneath yon cloth of gold. "o wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! but i hope it will pardoned be:" "amen! amen!" quoth the earl marshall, and a very fear't heart had he. "o down i' the forest, in a bower, beyond yon dark oak tree, i drew a penknife frae my pocket to kill king henerie. "o wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! but i hope it will pardoned be:" "amen! amen!" quoth the earl marshall, and a very fear't heart had he. "o do you see yon pretty little boy, that's playing at the ba'? he is the earl marshall's only son, and i loved him best of a'. "o wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! but i hope it will pardoned be:" "amen! amen!" quoth the earl marshall, and a very fear't heart had he. "and do you see yon pretty little girl, that's a' beclad in green? she's a friar's daughter, oure in france, and i hoped to see her a queen. "o wasna that a sin, and a very great sin! but i hope it will pardoned be:" "amen! amen!" quoth the earl marshall, and a fear't heart still had he. "o do you see yon other little boy, that's playing at the ba'? he is king henry's only son, and i like him warst of a'. "he's headed like a buck," she said, "and backed like a bear,"-- "amen!" quoth the king, in the king's ain voice, "he shall be my only heir." the king look'd over his left shoulder, an angry man was he: "an it werna for the oath i sware, earl marshall, thou shouldst dee." auld maitland. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, i. . "this ballad, notwithstanding its present appearance, has a claim to very high antiquity. it has been preserved by tradition; and is, perhaps, the most authentic instance of a long and very old poem, exclusively thus preserved. it is only known to a few old people upon the sequestered banks of the ettrick, and is published, as written down from the recitation of the mother of mr. james hogg, who sings, or rather chants it, with great animation. she learned the ballad from a blind man, who died at the advanced age of ninety, and is said to have been possessed of much traditionary knowledge. although the language of this poem is much modernized, yet many words, which the reciters have retained without understanding them, still preserve traces of its antiquity. such are the words _springals_ (corruptedly pronounced _springwalls_), _sowies_, _portcullize_, and many other appropriate terms of war and chivalry, which could never have been introduced by a modern ballad-maker[?]. the incidents are striking and well managed; and they are in strict conformity with the manners of the age in which they are placed. "the date of the ballad cannot be ascertained with any degree of accuracy. sir richard maitland, the hero of the poem, seems to have been in possession of his estate about ; so that, as he survived the commencement of the wars betwixt england and scotland, in , his prowess against the english, in defence of his castle of lauder or thirlestane, must have been exerted during his extreme old age. "the castle of thirlestane is situated upon the leader, near the town of lauder. whether the present building, which was erected by chancellor maitland, and improved by the duke of lauderdale, occupies the site of the ancient castle, i do not know; but it still merits the epithet of a "_darksome house_." i find no notice of the siege in history; but there is nothing improbable in supposing, that the castle, during the stormy period of the baliol wars, may have held out against the english. the creation of a nephew of edward i., for the pleasure of slaying him by the hand of young maitland, is a poetical license;[ ] and may induce us to place the date of the composition about the reign of david ii., or of his successor, when the real exploits of maitland and his sons were in some degree obscured, as well as magnified, by the lapse of time. the inveterate hatred against the english, founded upon the usurpation of edward i., glows in every line of the ballad. "auld maitland is placed, by gawain douglas, bishop of dunkeld, among the popular heroes of romance, in his allegorical palice of honour. "i saw raf coilyear with his thrawin brow, crabit john the reif, and auld cowkilbeis sow; and how the wran cam out of ailesay, and piers plowman, that meid his workmen fow: gret gowmacmorne, and fin mac cowl, and how they suld be goddis in ireland, as they say. _thair saw i maitland upon auld beird gray_, robin hude, and gilbert with the quhite hand, how hay of nauchton flew in madin land." "it is a curious circumstance that this interesting tale, so often referred to by ancient authors, should be now recovered in so perfect a state; and many readers may be pleased to see the following sensible observations, made by a person born in ettrick forest, in the humble situation of a shepherd: 'i am surprised to hear that this song is suspected by some to be a modern forgery; the contrary will be best proved, by most of the old people, hereabouts, having a great part of it by heart. many, indeed, are not aware of the manners of this country; till this present age, the poor illiterate people, in these glens, knew of no other entertainment, in the long winter nights, than repeating, and listening to, the feats of their ancestors, recorded in songs, which i believe to be handed down, from father to son, for many generations, although, no doubt, had a copy been taken, at the end of every fifty years, there must have been some difference, occasioned by the gradual change of language. i believe it is thus that many very ancient songs have been gradually modernized, to the common ear; while, to the connoisseur, they present marks of their genuine antiquity.'--_letter to the editor_, _from_ mr. james hogg. [june , .] to the observations of my ingenious correspondent i have nothing to add, but that, in this, and a thousand other instances, they accurately coincide with my personal knowledge."--scott. notwithstanding the authority of scott and leyden, i am inclined to agree with mr. aytoun, (_ballads of scotland_, ii. ,) that this ballad is a modern imitation, or if not that, a comparatively recent composition. it is with reluctance that i make for it the room it requires. [ ] such liberties with the genealogy of monarchs were common to romancers. henry the minstrel makes wallace slay more than one of king edward's nephews; and johnie armstrong claims the merit of slaying a sister's son of henry viii.--s. (see p. .) there lived a king in southern land, king edward hight his name; unwordily he wore the crown, till fifty years were gane. he had a sister's son o's ain, was large of blood and bane; and afterward, when he came up, young edward hight his name. one day he came before the king, and kneel'd low on his knee-- "a boon, a boon, my good uncle, i crave to ask of thee! "at our lang wars, in fair scotland, i fain hae wish'd to be; if fifteen hundred waled wight men you'll grant to ride wi' me." "thou sall hae thae, thou sall hae mae; i say it sickerlie; and i mysell, an auld gray man, array'd your host sall see." king edward rade, king edward ran-- i wish him dool and pyne! till he had fifteen hundred men assembled on the tyne. and thrice as many at berwicke[l ] were all for battle bound, [who, marching forth with false dunbar,[l ] a ready welcome found.] they lighted on the banks of tweed, and blew their coals sae het, and fired the merse and teviotdale, all in an evening late. as they fared up o'er lammermore, they burn'd baith up and down, until they came to a darksome house, some call it leader-town. "wha hauds this house?" young edward cry'd, "or wha gies't ower to me?" a gray-hair'd knight set up his head, and crackit richt crousely: "of scotland's king i haud my house; he pays me meat and fee; and i will keep my guid auld house, while my house will keep me." they laid their sowies to the wall, wi' mony a heavy peal; but he threw ower to them agen baith pitch and tar barrel. with springalds, stanes, and gads of airn, amang them fast he threw; till mony of the englishmen about the wall he slew. full fifteen days that braid host lay, sieging auld maitland keen; syne they hae left him, hail and feir, within his strength of stane. then fifteen barks, all gaily good, met them upon a day, which they did lade with as much spoil as they could bear away. "england's our ain by heritage; and what can us withstand, now we hae conquer'd fair scotland, with buckler, bow, and brand?" then they are on to the land o' france, where auld king edward lay, burning baith castle, tower, and town, that he met in his way. until he came unto that town, which some call billop-grace;[l ] there were auld maitland's sons, a' three, learning at school, alas! the eldest to the youngest said, "o see ye what i see? gin a' be trew yon standard says,[l ] we're fatherless a' three. "for scotland's conquer'd up and down; landmen we'll never be: now, will you go, my brethren two, and try some jeopardy?" then they hae saddled twa black horse, twa black horse and a gray; and they are on to king edward's host, before the dawn of day. when they arrived before the host, they hover'd on the lay-- "wilt thou lend me our king's standard, to bear a little way?" "where wast thou bred? where wast thou born? where, or in what countrie?" "in north of england i was born:" (it needed him to lie.) "a knight me gat, a lady bore, i am a squire of high renowne; i well may bear't to any king, that ever yet wore crowne." "he ne'er came of an englishman, had sic an ee or bree; but thou art the likest auld maitland, that ever i did see. "but sic a gloom on ae browhead, grant i ne'er see again! for mony of our men he slew, and mony put to pain." when maitland heard his father's name, an angry man was he! then, lifting up a gilt dagger, hung low down by his knee, he stabb'd the knight the standard bore, he stabb'd him cruellie; then caught the standard by the neuk, and fast away rode he. "now, is't na time, brothers," he cried, "now, is't na time to flee?" "ay, by my sooth!" they baith replied, "we'll bear you company." the youngest turn'd him in a path, and drew a burnish'd brand, and fifteen of the foremost slew, till back the lave did stand. he spurr'd the gray into the path, till baith his sides they bled-- "gray! thou maun carry me away, or my life lies in wad!" the captain lookit ower the wa', about the break o' day; there he beheld the three scots lads, pursued along the way. "pull up portcullize! down draw-brigg! my nephews are at hand; and they sall lodge wi' me to-night, in spite of all england." whene'er they came within the yate, they thrust their horse them frae, and took three lang spears in their hands, saying, "here sall come nae mae!" and they shot out, and they shot in, till it was fairly day; when mony of the englishmen about the draw-brigg lay. then they hae yoked carts and wains, to ca' their dead away, and shot auld dykes abune the lave, in gutters where they lay. the king, at his pavilion door, was heard aloud to say, "last night, three o' the lads o' france my standard stole away. "wi' a fause tale, disguised, they came, and wi' a fauser trayne; and to regain my gaye standard, these men were a' down slayne." "it ill befits," the youngest said, "a crowned king to lie; but, or that i taste meat and drink, reproved sall he be." he went before king edward straight, and kneel'd low on his knee; "i wad hae leave, my lord," he said, "to speak a word wi' thee." the king he turn'd him round about, and wistna what to say-- quo' he, "man, thou's hae leave to speak, though thou should speak a' day." "ye said that three young lads o' france your standard stole away, wi' a fause tale, and a fauser trayne, and mony men did slay. "but we are nane the lads o' france, nor e'er pretend to be; we are three lads o' fair scotland, auld maitland's sons are we; "nor is there men, in a' your host, daur fight us three to three." "now, by my sooth," young edward said, "weel fitted ye sall be! "piercy sall with the eldest fight, and ethert lunn wi' thee: william of lancaster the third, and bring your fourth to me!" ["remember, piercy, aft the scot[l ] has cower'd beneath thy hand:] for every drap of maitland blood, i'll gie a rig of land." he clanked piercy ower the head, a deep wound and a sair, till the best blood o' his bodie came rinning down his hair. "now, i've slayne ane; slay ye the twa; and that's gude companye; and if the twa suld slay ye baith, ye'se get na help frae me." but ethert lunn, a baited bear, had many battles seen; he set the youngest wonder sair, till the eldest he grew keen. "i am nae king, nor nae sic thing: my word it shanna stand! for ethert sall a buffet bide, come he beneath my brand." he clankit ethert ower the head, a deep wound and a sair, till the best blood of his bodie came rinning ower his hair. "now i've slayne twa; slaye ye the ane; isna that gude companye? and tho' the ane suld slaye ye baith, ye'se get nae help o' me." the twa-some they hae slayne the ane; they maul'd him cruellie; then hung them over the draw-brigg, that all the host might see. they rade their horse, they ran their horse, then hover'd on the lee: "we be three lads o' fair scotland, that fain would fighting see." this boasting when young edward heard, an angry man was he: "i'll tak yon lad, i'll bind yon lad, and bring him bound to thee!" "now god forbid," king edward said, "that ever thou suld try! three worthy leaders we hae lost, and thou the fourth wad lie. "if thou shouldst hang on yon draw-brigg, blythe wad i never be:" but, wi' the poll-axe in his hand, upon the brigg sprang he. the first stroke that young edward gae, he struck wi' might and mayn; he clove the maitland's helmet stout, and bit right nigh the brayn. when maitland saw his ain blood fa', an angry man was he: he let his weapon frae him fa', and at his throat did flee. and thrice about he did him swing, till on the grund he light, where he has halden young edward, tho' he was great in might. "now let him up," king edward cried, "and let him come to me: and for the deed that thou hast done, thou shalt hae erldomes three." "it's ne'er be said in france, nor e'er in scotland, when i'm hame, that edward once lay under me,[l ] and e'er gat up again!" he pierced him through and through the heart, he maul'd him cruellie; then hung him ower the draw-brigg, beside the other three. "now take frae me that feather-bed, make me a bed o' strae! i wish i hadna lived this day, to mak my heart sae wae. "if i were ance at london tower, where i was wont to be, i never mair suld gang frae hame, till borne on a bier-tree." . north-berwick, according to some reciters.--s. , . these two lines have been inserted by mr. hogg, to complete the verse. dunbar, the fortress of patrick, earl of march, was too often opened to the english, by the treachery of that baron, during the reign of edward i.--s. . if this be a flemish or scottish corruption for ville de grace, in normandy, that town was never besieged by edward i., whose wars in france were confined to the province of gascony. the rapid change of scene, from scotland to france, excites a suspicion that some verses may have been lost in this place.--s. . edward had quartered the arms of scotland with his own.--s. , , supplied by hogg. . some reciters repeat it thus:-- "that _englishman_ lay under me," which is in the true spirit of blind harry, who makes wallace say, "i better like to see the southeron die, than gold or land, that they can gie to me."--s. willie wallace. after the battle of roslin, we are informed by bower, the continuator of fordun's _scotichronicon_, wallace took ship for france, and various songs, both in that kingdom and in scotland, he goes on to say, bear witness to the courage with which he encountered the attacks of pirates on the ocean, and of the english on the continent. whatever we may think of wallace's expedition to france, there can be no doubt that the hero's exploits were at an early date celebrated in popular song. still, the ballads which are preserved relate to only one of wallace's adventures, and are of doubtful antiquity. burns communicated to johnson's _museum_ (p. ) a defective ballad called _gude wallace_. a better copy of this, from tradition, is here given. it is taken from buchan's _gleanings_ (p. ), and was derived by the editor from a wandering gipsy tinker. mr. laing has inserted in the notes to the new edition of johnson's _museum_ (iv. *) what may perhaps be the original of both these recited ballads, though inferior to either. this copy appeared in a chap-book with some jacobite ballads, about the year . there are two other versions of this same story, in which wallace's mistress is induced to betray him to the english, but repents in time to save her lover. the best of these is annexed to the present ballad. the other, which is but a fragment, is printed in buchan's larger collection, ii. , _wallace and his leman_. the principal incidents of this story are to be found in the fifth book of blind harry's metrical _life of wallace_. jamieson, in _popular ballads_, ii. , and cunningham, in _the songs of scotland_, i. , have taken the stanzas in johnson's _museum_ as the basis of ballads of their own. wallace in the high highlans, neither meat nor drink got he; said, "fa' me life, or fa' me death, now to some town i maun be." he's put on his short claiding, and on his short claiding put he; says, "fa' me life, or fa' me death, now to perth-town i maun be." he stepped o'er the river tay, i wat he stepped on dry land; he wasna aware of a well-fared maid was washing there her lilie hands. "what news, what news, ye well-fared maid? what news hae ye this day to me?" "no news, no news, ye gentle knight, no news hae i this day to thee, but fifteen lords in the hostage house waiting wallace for to see." "if i had but in my pocket the worth of one single pennie, i would go to the hostage house, and there the gentlemen to see." she put her hand in her pocket, and she has pull'd out half-a-crown; says, "take ye that, ye belted knight, 'twill pay your way till ye come down." as he went from the well-fared maid, a beggar bold i wat met he, was cover'd wi' a clouted cloak, and in his hand a trusty tree. "what news, what news, ye silly auld man? what news hae ye this day to gie?" "no news, no news, ye belted knight, no news hae i this day to thee, but fifteen lords in the hostage house waiting wallace for to see." "ye'll lend me your clouted cloak, that covers you frae head to shie, and i'll go to the hostage house, asking there for some supplie." now he's gone to the west-muir wood, and there he's pull'd a trusty tree; and then he's on to the hostage gone, asking there for charitie. down the stair the captain comes, aye the poor man for to see: "if ye be a captain as good as ye look, ye'll give a poor man some supplie; if ye be a captain as good as ye look, a guinea this day ye'll gie to me." "where were ye born, ye crooked carle? where were ye born, in what countrie?" "in fair scotland i was born, crooked carle that i be." "i would give you fifty pounds, of gold and white monie, i would give you fifty pounds, if the traitor wallace ye'd let me see." "tell down your money," said willie wallace, "tell down your money, if it be good; i'm sure i have it in my power, and never had a better bode. "tell down your money, if it be good, and let me see if it be fine; i'm sure i have it in my power to bring the traitor wallace in." the money was told on the table, silver bright of pounds fiftie: "now here i stand," said willie wallace, "and what hae ye to say to me?" he slew the captain where he stood, the rest they did quack an' roar; he slew the rest around the room, and ask'd if there were any more. "come, cover the table," said willie wallace, "come, cover the table now, make haste; for it will soon be three lang days sin i a bit o' meat did taste." the table was not well covered, nor yet was he set down to dine, till fifteen more of the english lords surrounded the house where he was in. the guidwife she ran but the floor, and aye the guidman he ran ben; from eight o'clock till four at noon he had kill'd full thirty men. he put the house in sic a swither that five o' them he sticket dead, five o' them he drown'd in the river, and five hung in the west-muir wood. now he is on to the north-inch gone,[l ] where the maid was washing tenderlie; "now by my sooth," said willie wallace, "it's been a sair day's wark to me." he's put his hand in his pocket, and he has pull'd out twenty pounds; says, "take ye that, ye weel-fared maid for the gude luck of your half-crown." . a beautiful plain, or common, lying along the tay near perth.--chambers. sir william wallace. from _the thistle of scotland_, p. . the editor states that he took the ballad down from the recitation of an old gentlewoman in aberdeenshire. wou'd ye hear of william wallace, an' sek him as he goes, into the lan' of lanark, amang his mortel faes? there was fyften english sogers unto his ladie cam, said "gie us william wallace, that we may have him slain. "wou'd ye gie william wallace, that we may have him slain, and ye's be wedded to a lord, the best in christendeem." "this verra nicht at seven, brave wallace will come in, and he'll come to my chamber door, without or dread or din." the fyften english sogers around the house did wait, and four brave southron foragers, stood hie upon the gait. that verra nicht at seven brave wallace he came in, and he came to his ladies bouir, withouten dread or din. when she beheld him wallace, she star'd him in the face; "ohon, alas!" said that ladie, "this is a woful case. "for i this nicht have sold you, this nicht you must be taen, and i'm to be wedded to a lord, the best in christendeem." "do you repent," said wallace, "the ill you've dane to me?" "ay, that i do," said that ladie, "and will do till i die. "ay, that i do," said that ladie, "and will do ever still, and for the ill i've dane to you, let me burn upon a hill." "now god forfend," says brave wallace, "i shou'd be so unkind; whatever i am to scotland's faes, i'm aye a woman's friend. "will ye gie me your gown, your gown, your gown but and your kirtle, your petticoat of bonny brown, and belt about my middle? "i'll take a pitcher in ilka hand, and do me to the well, they'll think i'm one of your maidens, or think it is your sell." she has gien him her gown, her gown, her petticoat and kirtle, her broadest belt wi' silver clasp, to bind about his middle. he's taen a pitcher in ilka hand, and dane him to the well, they thought him one of her maidens, they ken'd it was nae hersell. said one of the southron foragers, "see ye yon lusty dame? i wou'd nae gie muckle to thee, neebor, to bring her back agen." then all the southrons follow'd him, and sure they were but four; but he has drawn his trusty brand, and slew them pair by pair. he threw the pitchers frae his hands, and to the hills fled he, until he cam to a fair may, was washin' on yon lea. "what news, what news, ye weel far'd may? what news hae ye to gie?" "ill news, ill news," the fair may said, "ill news i hae to thee. "there is fyften english sogers into that thatched inn, seeking sir william wallace; i fear that he is slain." "have ye any money in your pocket? pray lend it unto me, and when i come this way again, repaid ye weel shall be." she['s] put her hand in her pocket, and taen out shillings three; he turn'd him right and round about, and thank'd the weel far'd may. he had not gone a long rig length, a rig length and a span, until he met a bold beggar, as sturdy as cou'd gang. "what news, what news, ye bold beggar? what news hae ye to gie?" "o heavy news," the beggar said, "i hae to tell to thee. "there is fyften english sogers, i heard them in yon inn, vowing to kill him wallace; i fear the chief is slain." "will ye change apparell wi' me, auld man? change your apparell for mine? and when i come this way again, ye'll be my ain poor man." when he got on the beggar's coat, the pike staff in his hand, he's dane him down to yon tavern, where they were drinking wine. "what news, what news, ye staff beggar? what news hae ye to gie?" "i hae nae news, i heard nae news, as few i'll hae frae thee." "i think your coat is ragged, auld man, but wou'd you wages win, and tell where william wallace is, we'll lay gold in your hand." "tell down, tell down your good red gold, upon the table head, and ye sall william wallace see, wi' the down-come of robin hood." they had nae tauld the money down, and laid it on his knee, when candles, lamps, and candlesticks, he on the floor gar'd flee. and he has drawn his trusty brand, and slew them one by one, then sat down at the table head, and callèd for some wine. the goodwife she ran but, ran but, the goodman he ran ben, the verra bairns about the fire were a' like to gang brain. "now if there be a scotsman here, he'll come and drink wi' me; and if there be an english loun, it is his time to flee." the goodman was an englishman, and to the hills he ran, the goodwife was a scots woman, and she came to his hand. appendix. johnny cock. (see p. .) from fry's _pieces of ancient poetry, from unpublished manuscripts and scarce books_ (p. ). bristol, . "this ballad is taken from a modern quarto manuscript purchased at glasgow of messrs. smith and son in the year , and containing several others, but written so corruptly as to be of little or no authority; appearing to be the text-book of some illiterate drummer, from its comprising the music of several regimental marches." fry did not observe that he was printing fragments of two different versions as one ballad. they are here separated. i. johnny cock, in a may morning, sought water to wash his hands; and he is awa to louse his dogs, that's tied wi iron bans, _that's tied wi iron bans_. his coat it is of the light lincum green, and his breiks are of the same; his shoes are of the american leather, silver buckles tying them. _silver buckles, &c._ 'he' hunted up, and so did 'he' down, till 'he' came to yon bush of scrogs, and then to yon wan water, where he slept among his dogs. * * * * * johnny cock out-shot a' the foresters, and out-shot a' the three; out shot a' the foresters, wounded johnny aboun the bree. "woe be to you, foresters, and an ill death may you die![l ] for there would not a wolf in a' the wood, have done the like to me. "for ''twould ha' put its foot in the coll water, and ha strinkled it on my bree; and gin [it] that would not have done, would have gane and lett me be. "i often took to my mother the dandoo and the roe; but now i'l take to my mother much sorrow and much woe. "i often took to my mother the dandoo and the hare; but now i'l take to my mother much sorrow and much care." - . finlay furnishes one beautiful stanza which belongs to this portion of the story, and, as that editor remarks, describes expressively the languor of approaching death. there's no a bird in a' this foreste will do as meikle for me, as dip its wing in the wan water an straik it on my ee-bree. _scottish ballads_, i. xxxi. ii. fifteen foresters in the braid alow, and they are wondrous fell; to get a drop of johnny's heart bluid, they would sink a' their souls to hell. johnny cock has gotten word of this, and he is wondrous keen; he['s] custan aff the red scarlet, and on 'wi' the linkum green. and he is ridden oer muir and muss, and over mountains high, till he came to yon wan water; and there johnny cock did lie. he's taen out a horn from his side, and he blew both loud and shrill, till a' the fifteen foresters heard johnny cock blaw his horn. they have sworn a bluidy oath, and they swore all in one, that there was not a man among them a', would blaw such a blast as yon. and they have ridden oer muir and muss, and over mountains high, till they came to yon wan water, where johnny cock did lie. they have shotten little johnny cock, a little above the ee; * * * * * for doing the like to me. "there's not a wolf in a' the wood[l ] woud 'ha' done the like to me: 'she'd ha' dipped her foot in coll water, and strinkled above my ee, and if i would have waked for that, 'she'd ha' gane and let me be. "but fingers five, come here, [come here,] and faint heart fail me nought![l ] and silver strings, value me sma' things, till i get all this vengeance rowght!" he ha[s] shot a' the fifteen foresters, left never a one but one; and he broke the ribs a that anes side, and let him take tiding home. they have ridden oer muir and muss, and over mountains high, till they met wi 'an' old palmer, was walking along the way. "what news, what news, old palmer, what news have you to me?" "yonder is one of the proudest wed sons that ever my eyes did see. * * * * * "* * a bird in a' the wood could sing as i could say; it would go in to my mothers bower,[l ] and bid her kiss me, and take me away." . word. . faint hearted. . bows. the life and death of sir hugh of the grime. (see p. .) from durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, vi. . the same is printed in ritson's _ancient songs_ (ed. ), p. , from a collation of two blackletter copies, one in the collection of the duke of roxburgh, and "another in the hands of john baynes, esq." several stanzas are corrupted, and the names are greatly disfigured. ritson mentions in a note a somewhat different ballad on the same subject, beginning:-- "good lord john is a hunting gone." * * * * * as it befel upon one time, about mid-summer of the year, every man was taxt of his crime, for stealing the good lord bishop's mare. the good lord screw sadled a horse, and rid after the same serime; before he did get over the moss, there was he aware of sir hugh of the grime. "turn, o turn, thou false traytor, turn, and yield thyself unto me: thou hast stol'n the lord bishop's mare, and now thinkest away to flee." "no, soft, lord screw, that may not be; here is a broad sword by my side, and if that thou canst conquer me, the victory will soon be try'd." "i ne'er was afraid of a traytor bold, altho' thy name be hugh in the grime; i'll make thee repent thy speeches foul, if day and life but give me time." "then do thy worst, good lord screw, and deal your blows as fast as you can; it will be try'd between me and you which of us two shall be the best man." thus as they dealt their blows so free, and both so bloody at that time, over the moss ten yeomen they see, come for to take sir hugh in the grime. sir hugh set his back again[st] a tree, and then the men compast him round; his mickle sword from his hand did flee, and then they brought sir hugh to the ground. sir hugh of the grime now taken is and brought back to garland town; then cry'd the good wives all in garland town, "sir hugh in the grime, thou'st ne'er gang down." the good lord bishop is come to town, and on the bench is set so high; and every man was tax'd to his crime, at length he called sir hugh in the grime. "here am i, thou false bishop, thy humours all to fulfil; i do not think my fact so great but thou mayst put [it] into thy own will." the quest of jury-men was call'd, the best that was in garland town; eleven of them spoke all in a breast, "sir hugh in the grime, thou'st ne'er gang down." then other questry-men was call'd, the best that was in rumary; twelve of them spoke all in a breast, "sir hugh in the grime, thou'st now guilty." then came down my good lord boles, falling down upon his knee; "five hundred pieces of gold will i give, to grant sir hugh in the grime to me." "peace, peace, my good lord boles, and of your speeches set them by; if there be eleven grimes all of a name, then by my own honour they all should dye." then came down my good lady ward, falling low upon her knee; "five hundred measures of gold i'll give, to grant sir hugh of the grime to me." "peace, peace, my good lady ward, none of your proffers shall him buy; for if there be twelve grimes all of a name, by my own honour [they] all should dye." sir hugh of the grime's condemn'd to dye, and of his friends he had no lack; fourteen foot he leapt in his ward, his hands bound fast upon his back. then he look'd over his left shoulder, to see whom he could see or 'spye; then was he aware of his father dear, came tearing his hair most pitifully. "peace, peace, my father dear, and of your speeches set them by; tho' they have bereav'd me of my life, they cannot bereave me of heaven so high." he look'd over his right shoulder, to see whom he could see or 'spye; there was he aware of his mother dear, came tearing her hair most pitifully. "pray have me remember'd to peggy my wife, as she and i walk'd over the moor, she was the cause of the loss of my life, and with the old bishop she play'd the whore. "here, johnny armstrong, take thou my sword, that is made of the metal so fine, and when thou com'st to the border side, remember the death of sir hugh of the grime." [johnie armstrang, or,] a northern ballet. from _wit restor'd_, p. . there dwelt a man in faire westmerland, jonne armestrong men did him call, he had nither lands nor rents coming in, yet he kept eight score men in his hall. he had horse and harness for them all, goodly steeds were all milke white, o the golden bands an about their necks, and their weapons they were all alike. newes then was brought unto the king, that there was sicke a won as hee, that lived lyke a bold out-law,[l ] and robbed all the north country. the king he writt an a letter then a letter which was large and long, he signed it with his owne hand, and he promised to doe him no wrong. when this letter came jonne untill, his heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree; "never was i sent for before any king, my father, my grandfather, nor none but mee. "and if wee goe the king before, i would we went most orderly; every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, laced with silver laces three. "every won of you shall have his velvett coat, laced with sillver lace so white; o the golden bands an about your necks, black hatts, white feathers, all alyke." by the morrow morninge at ten of the clock, towards edenburough gon was hee, and with him all his eight score men, good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see! when jonne came befower the king, he fell downe on his knee; "o pardon my soveraine leige," he said, "o pardon my eight score men and mee!" "thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, for thy eight score men nor thee; for to-morrow morning by ten of the clock, both thou and them shall hang on the gallow tree." but jonne looked over his left shoulder, good lord, what a grevious look looked hee! saying, "asking grace of a graceles face-- why there is none for you nor me." but jonne had a bright sword by his side, and it was made of the mettle so free, that had not the king stept his foot aside, he had smitten his head from his fair boddé. saying, "fight on, my merry men all, and see that none of you be taine; for rather then men shall say we were hanged, let them report how we were slaine." then, god wott, faire eddenburrough rose, and so besett poore jonne [a] rounde, that fowerscore and tenn of jonnes best men, lay gasping all upon the ground. then like a mad man jonne laide about, and like a mad man then fought hee, untill a falce scot came jonne behinde, and runn him through the faire boddee. saying, "fight on, my merry men all, and see that none of you be taine; for i will stand by and bleed but a while, and then will i come and fight againe." newes then was brought to young jonne armestrong, as he stood by his nurses knee, who vowed if er'e he lived for to be a man, o th' the treacherous scots reveng'd hee'd be. . syke. loudoun castle. (see p. .) from _the ballads and songs of ayrshire_, first series, p. , where it is taken from a _statistical account of the parish of loudoun_. the writer of the _statistical account_ states that the old castle of loudoun is supposed to have been destroyed by fire about years ago. "the current tradition," he adds, "ascribes that event to the clan kennedy, and the remains of an old tower at auchruglen, on the galston side of the valley, is still pointed out as having been their residence." it fell about the martinmas time, when the wind blew snell and cauld, that adam o' gordon said to his men, "when will we get a hold? "see [ye] not where yonder fair castle stands on yon lily lee? the laird and i hae a deadly feud, the lady fain would i see." as she was up on the househead, behold, on looking down, she saw adam o' gordon and his men, coming riding to the town. the dinner was not well set down, nor the grace was scarcely said, till adam o' gordon and his men about the walls were laid. "it's fause now fa' thee, jock my man, thou might a let me be; yon man has lifted the pavement stone, an' let in the loun to me." "seven years i served thee, fair ladie, you gave me meat and fee; but now i am adam o' gordon's man, an' maun either do it or die." "come down, come down, my lady loudoun, come thou down unto me;[l ] i'll wrap thee on a feather bed, thy warrand i shall be." "i'll no come down, i'll no come down, for neither laird nor loun, nor yet for any bloody butcher that lives in altringham town. "i would give the black," she says, "and so would i the brown, if that thomas, my only son, could charge to me a gun." out then spake the lady margaret, as she stood on the stair,-- the fire was at her goud garters, the lowe was at her hair. "i would give the black," she says, "and so would i the brown, for a drink of yon water, that rins by galston town." out then spake fair anne, she was baith jimp and sma', "o row me in a pair o' sheets, and tow me down the wa'." "o hold thy tongue, thou fair anne, and let thy talkin' be, for thou must stay in this fair castle, and bear thy death with me." "o mother," spoke the lord thomas, as he sat on the nurse's knee, "o mother, give up this fair castle, or the reek will worrie me." "i would rather be burnt to ashes sma', and be cast on yon sea foam, before i'd give up this fair castle, and my lord so far from home. "my good lord has an army strong, he's now gone o'er the sea; he bade me keep this gay castle, as long as it would keep me. "i've four-and-twenty brave milk kye gangs on yon lily lee, i'd give them a' for a blast of wind, to blaw the reek from me." o pitie on yon fair castle, that's built with stone and lime, but far mair pitie on lady loudoun, and all her children nine. . down thou. rob roy. (see p. .) from _select scottish songs, ancient and modern_, by robert burns, edited by cromek, ii. . rob roy from the highlands cam, unto the lawlan' border, to steal awa a gay ladie to haud his house in order. he cam owre the lock o' lynn, twenty men his arms did carry; himsel gaed in, an' fand her out, protesting he would marry. "o will ye gae wi' me," he says, "or will ye be my honey? or will ye be my wedded wife? for i love you best of any." "i winna gae wi' you," she says, "nor will i be your honey, nor will i be your wedded wife; you love me for my money." * * * * * but he set her on a coal-black steed, himsel lap on behind her, an' he's awa to the highland hills, whare her frien's they canna find her. * * * * * "rob roy was my father ca'd, macgregor was his name, ladie; he led a band o' heroes bauld, an' i am here the same, ladie. be content, be content, be content to stay, ladie, for thou art my wedded wife until thy dying day, ladie. "he was a hedge unto his frien's, a heckle to his foes, ladie, every one that durst him wrang, he took him by the nose, ladie. i'm as bold, i'm as bold, i'm as bold, an more, ladie; he that daurs dispute my word, shall feel my guid claymore, ladie." ii. from maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. . rob roy from the highlands cam, unto our scottish border, and he has stow'n a lady fair, to haud his house in order. and when he cam, he surrounded the house, twenty men their arms did carry, and he has stow'n this lady fair, on purpose her to marry. and when he cam, he surrounded the house; no tidings there cam before him, or else the lady would have been gone, for still she did abhor him. wi' murnfu' cries, and wat'ry eyes, fast hauding by her mother, wi' murnfu' cries, and wat'ry eyes, they are parted frae each other. nae time he gied her to be dress'd, as ladies do when they're bride o, but he hastened and hurried her awa', and he row'd her in his plaid o. they rade till they cam to ballyshine, at ballyshine they tarried; he bought to her a cotton gown, yet ne'er would she be married. three held her up before the priest, four carried her to bed o, wi' wat'ry eyes, and murnfu' sighs, when she behind was laid o. * * * * * "o be content, be content, be content to stay, lady, for ye are my wedded wife unto my dying day, lady. chorus. _be content, be content, be content to stay, lady, for ye are my wedded wife unto my dying day, lady._ "my father is rob roy called, m'gregor is his name, lady, in all the country where he dwells, he does succeed the fame, lady. "my father he has cows and ewes, and goats he has eneuch, lady, and you, and twenty thousand merks, will make me a man complete, lady." eppie morrie. from maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. . "this ballad is probably much more than a century old, though the circumstances which have given rise to it were fortunately too common to preclude the possibility of its being of a later date. although evidently founded on fact, the editor has not hitherto discovered the particular circumstances out of which it has originated." four and twenty highland men came a' from carrie side, to steal awa' eppie morrie, 'cause she would not be a bride. out it's cam her mother, it was a moonlight night, she could not see her daughter. the sands they shin'd so bright. "haud far awa' frae me, mother, haud far awa' frae me; there's not a man in a' strathdon shall wedded be with me." they have taken eppie morrie, and horseback bound her on, and then awa' to the minister, as fast as horse could gang. he's taken out a pistol, and set it to the minister's breast; "marry me, marry me, minister, or else i'll be your priest." "haud far awa' frae me, good sir, haud far awa' frae me; for there's not a man in a' strathdon that shall married be with me." "haud far awa' frae me, willie, haud far awa' frae me; for i darna avow to marry you, except she's as willing as ye." they have taken eppie morrie, since better could nae be, and they're awa' to carrie side, as fast as horse could flee. then mass was sung, and bells were rung, and all were bound for bed, then willie an' eppie morrie in one bed they were laid. "haud far awa' frae me, willie, haud far awa' frae me; before i'll lose my maidenhead, i'll try my strength with thee." she took the cap from off her head, and threw it to the way; said, "ere i lose my maidenhead, i'll fight with you till day." then early in the morning, before her clothes were on, in came the maiden of scalletter, gown and shirt alone. "get up, get up, young woman, and drink the wine wi' me;" "you might have called me maiden, i'm sure as leal as thee." "wally fa' you, willie, that ye could nae prove a man, and taen the lassie's maidenhead; she would have hired your han'." "haud far awa' frae me, lady, haud far awa' frae me; there's not a man in a' strathdon, the day shall wed wi' me." soon in there came belbordlane, with a pistol on every side; "come awa' hame, eppie morrie, and there you'll be my bride." "go get to me a horse, willie, and get it like a man, and send me back to my mother, a maiden as i cam. "the sun shines o'er the westlin hills, by the light lamp of the moon, just saddle your horse, young john forsyth, and whistle, and i'll come soon." macpherson's rant. this ballad, worthy of a hangman's pen, was first printed in herd's _scottish songs_, i. . it is found, mutilated and altered, with the title of _macpherson's lament_, in the _thistle of scotland_, p. . the story of macpherson is given as follows by a writer in the _new monthly magazine_, vol. i. p. , cited by chambers, _scottish songs_, i. . "james macpherson was born of a beautiful gipsy, who, at a great wedding, attracted the notice of a half-intoxicated highland gentleman. he acknowledged the child, and had him reared in his house, until he lost his life in bravely pursuing a hostile clan, to recover a spreach of cattle taken from badenoch. the gipsy woman, hearing of this disaster, in her rambles the following summer, came and took away her boy; but she often returned with him, to wait upon his relations and clansmen, who never failed to clothe him well, besides giving money to his mother. he grew up to beauty, strength, and stature, rarely equalled. his sword is still preserved at duff house, a residence of the earl of fife, and few men of our day could carry, far less wield it, as a weapon of war; and if it must be owned that his prowess was debased by the exploits of a free-booter, it is certain, no act of cruelty, no robbery of the widow, the fatherless, or distressed, and no murder, were ever perpetrated under his command. he often gave the spoils of the rich to relieve the poor; and all his tribe were restrained from many atrocities of rapine by the awe of his mighty arm. indeed, it is said that a dispute with an aspiring and savage man of his tribe, who wished to rob a gentleman's house while his wife and two children lay on the bier for interment, was the cause of his being betrayed to the vengeance of the law. the magistrates of aberdeen were exasperated at macpherson's escape, and bribed a girl in that city to allure and deliver him into their hands. there is a platform before the jail, at the top of a stair, and a door below. when macpherson's capture was made known to his comrades by the frantic girl, who had been so credulous as to believe the magistrates only wanted to hear the wonderful performer on the violin, his cousin, donald macpherson, a gentleman of herculean powers, did not disdain to come from badenoch, and to join a gipsy, peter brown, in liberating the prisoner. on a market-day they brought several assistants; and swift horses were stationed at a convenient distance. donald macpherson and peter brown forced the jail; and while peter brown went to help the heavily-fettered james macpherson in moving away, donald macpherson guarded the jail-door with a drawn sword. many persons assembled at the market had experienced james macpherson's humanity, or had shared his bounty; and they crowded round the jail as in mere curiosity, but, in fact, to obstruct the civil authorities in their attempts to prevent a rescue. a butcher, however, was resolved to detain macpherson, expecting a large recompense from the magistrates; he sprung up the stairs, and leaped from the platform upon donald macpherson, whom he dashed to the ground by the force and weight of his body. donald macpherson soon recovered, to make a desperate resistance; and the combatants tore off each other's clothes. the butcher got a glimpse of his dog upon the platform, and called him to his aid; but macpherson, with admirable presence of mind, snatched up his own plaid, which lay near, and threw it over the butcher, thus misleading the instinct of his canine adversary. the dog darted with fury upon the plaid, and terribly lacerated his master's thigh. in the mean time, james macpherson had been carried out by peter brown, and was soon joined by donald macpherson, who was quickly covered by some friendly spectator with a hat and great coat. the magistrates ordered webs from the shops to be drawn across the gallowgate; but donald macpherson cut them asunder with his sword, and james, the late prisoner, got off on horseback. he was, some time after, betrayed by a man of his own tribe: and was the last person executed at banff, previous to the abolition of hereditable jurisdiction. he was an admirable performer on the violin; and his talent for composition is still evidenced by macpherson's rant, and macpherson's pibroch. he performed these tunes at the foot of the fatal tree; and then asked if he had any friend in the crowd to whom a last gift of his instrument would be acceptable. no man had hardihood to claim friendship with a delinquent, in whose crimes the acknowledgment might implicate an avowed acquaintance. as no friend came forward, macpherson said, the companion of so many gloomy hours should perish with him; and, breaking the violin over his knees, he threw away the fragments. donald macpherson picked up the neck of the violin, which to this day is preserved, as a valuable memento, by the family of cluny, chieftain of the macphersons." burns's magnificent death-song, _mcpherson's farewell_, is too well known to require more than an allusion. i've spent my time in rioting, debauch'd my health and strength; i've pillag'd, plunder'd, murdered, but now, alas! at length, i'm brought to punishment direct, pale death draws near to me; this end i never did project, to hang upon a tree. to hang upon a tree! a tree! that curs'd unhappy death! like to a wolf to worried be, and choaked in the breath. my very heart would surely break, when this i think upon, did not my courage singular bid pensive thoughts begone. no man on earth that draweth breath, more courage had than i; i dar'd my foes unto their face, and would not from them fly. this grandeur stout, i did keep out, like hector, manfullie: then wonder one like me, so stout, should hang upon a tree! th' egyptian band i did command, with courage more by far, than ever did a general his soldiers in the war. being fear'd by all, both great and small, i liv'd most joyfullie: o! curse upon this fate of mine, to hang upon a tree! as for my life, i do not care, if justice would take place, and bring my fellow plunderers unto this same disgrace. for peter brown, that notour loon, escap'd and was made free; o! curse upon this fate of mine, to hang upon a tree! both law and justice buried are, and fraud and guile succeed; the guilty pass unpunished, if money intercede. the laird of grant, that highland saint, his mighty majestie, he pleads the cause of peter brown, and lets macpherson die. the destiny of my life, contriv'd by those whom i oblig'd, rewarded me much ill for good, and left me no refuge. for braco duff, in rage enough, he first laid hands on me; and if that death would not prevent, avenged would i be. as for my life, it is but short, when i shall be no more; to part with life i am content, as any heretofore. therefore, good people all, take heed, this warning take by me, according to the lives you lead, rewarded you shall be. book viii. the flemish insurrection. the flemings, having abandoned their legitimate sovereign and attached themselves to philip the fair, found at last cause to repent. in , two citizens of bruges, peter de koning, a draper, and john breydel, a butcher, stirred up their townsmen to revolt, and drove out the french garrison. the next year, the count d'artois, with a superb army, was defeated by the insurgents at the battle of courtrai. this ballad is found in ms. harl. no. , "of the reign of edw. ii." and has been printed in ritson's _ancient songs_ (i. ), and in wright's _political songs_, p. . we have adopted the text of the latter. lustneth, lordinges, bothe yonge ant olde, of the freynsshe men that were so proude ant bolde, hou the flemmysshe men bohten hem ant solde, upon a wednesday. betere hem were at home in huere londe, then for te seche flemmysshe by the see stronde, whare thourh moni frenshe wyf wryngeth hire honde, ant singeth weylaway. the kyng of fraunce made statuz newe, in the lond of flaundres among false ant trewe, that the commun of bruges ful sore con arewe, ant seiden amonges hem, "gedere we us togedere hardilyche at ene, take we the bailifs bi tuenty ant by tene, clappe we of the hevedes anonen o the grene,[l ] ant caste we y the fen." the webbes ant the fullaris assembleden hem alle, ant makeden huere consail in huere commune halle; token peter conyng huere kyng to calle, ant beo huere cheventeyn. hue nomen huere rouncyns out of the stalle, ant closeden the toun withinne the walle; sixti baylies ant ten hue maden adoun falle, ant moni an other sweyn. tho wolde the baylies that were come from fraunce, dryve the flemisshe that made the destaunce; hue turnden hem ayeynes with suerd ant with launce, stronge men ant lyht. y telle ou for sothe, for al huere bobaunce, ne for the avowerie of the kyng of fraunce, tuenti score ant fyve haden ther meschaunce, by day ant eke by nyht. sire jakes de seint poul, yherde hou hit was; sixtene hundred of horsemen asemblede o the gras; he wende toward bruges _pas pur pas_, with swithe gret mounde the flemmysshe yherden telle the cas, agynneth to clynken huere basyns of bras, ant al hem to-dryven ase ston doth the glas, ant fellen hem to grounde. sixtene hundred of horsmen hede ther here fyn; hue leyyen y the stretes ystyked ase swyn, ther hue loren huere stedes ant mony rouncyn, thourh huere oune prude. sire jakes ascapede, by a coynte gyn, out at one posterne ther me solde wyn, out of the fyhte hom to ys yn, in wel muchele drede. tho the kyng of fraunce yherde this, anon, assemblede he is doussé-pers everuchon, the proude eorl of artoys ant other mony on, to come to paris. the barouns of fraunce thider conne gon, into the paleis that paved is with ston, to jugge the flemmisshe to bernen ant to slon, thourh the flour de lis. thenne seide the kyng philip, "lustneth nou to me; myn eorles ant my barouns, gentil ant fre: goth, faccheth me the traytours ybounde to my kne; hastifliche ant blyve." tho suor the eorl of seint poul, "_par la goule dé_, we shule facche the rybaus wher thi wille be, ant drawen hem [with] wilde hors out of the countrè, by thousendes fyve." "sire rauf devel," sayth the eorl of boloyne, "_nus ne lerrum en vie chanoun ne moyne_; wende we forth anon ritht withoute eny assoygne, ne no lyves man. we shule flo the conyng, ant make roste is loyne; the word shal springen of him into coloyne, so hit shal to acres ant into sesoyne, ant maken him ful wan." sevene eorls ant fourti barouns y-tolde, fiftene hundred knyhtes, proude ant swythe bolde, sixti thousent swyers amonge yunge ant olde, flemmisshe to take. the flemmisshe hardeliche hem come to-yeynes; this proude freinsshe eorles, huere knyhtes ant huere sweynes, aquelleden ant slowen, by hulles ant by pleynes, al for huere kynges sake. this frenshe come to flaundres so liht so the hare; er hit were mydnyht hit fel hem to care; hue were laht by the net so bryd is in snare, with rouncin ant with stede. the flemmisshe hem dabbeth o the het bare; hue nolden take for huem raunsoun ne ware; hue doddeth of huere hevedes, fare so hit fare, ant thareto haveth hue nede. thenne seyth the eorl of artois, "y yelde me to the, peter conyng, by thi nome, yef thou art hende ant fre, that y ne have no shame ne no vylté, that y ne be noud ded." thenne swor a bocher, "by my leauté, shalt thou ner more the kyng of fraunce se, ne in the toun of bruges in prisone be; thou woldest spene bred." ther hy were knulled y the putfalle, this eorles ant barouns ant huere knyhtes alle; huere ledies huem mowe abide in boure ant in halle wel longe. for hem mot huere kyng other knyhtes calle, other stedes taken out of huere stalle: ther hi habbeth dronke bittrere then the galle, upon the drue londe. when the kyng of fraunce yherde this tydynge, he smot doun is heved, is honden gon he wrynge: thourhout al fraunce the word bygon to sprynge, wo wes huem tho! muche wes the sorewe ant the wepinge that wes in al fraunce among olde ant yynge; the mest part of the lond bygon for te synge "alas ant weylawo!" awey, thou yunge pope! whet shal the to rede? thou hast lore thin cardinals at thi meste nede; ne keverest thou hem nevere for nones kunnes mede, for sothe y the telle. do the forth to rome, to amende thi misdede; bide gode halewen, hue lete the betere spede; bote thou worche wysloker, thou losest lont ant lede, the coroune wel the felle. alas, thou seli fraunce! for the may thunche shome, that ane fewe fullaris maketh ou so tome; sixti thousent on a day hue maden fot-lome, with eorl ant knyht. herof habbeth the flemysshe suithe god game, ant suereth by seint omer ant eke bi seint jame, yef hy ther more cometh, hit falleth huem to shame, with huem for te fyht. i telle ou for sothe, the bataille thus bigon bituene fraunce ant flaundres, hou hue weren fon; vor vrenshe the eorl of flaundres in prison heden ydon, with tresoun untrewe. ye[f] the prince of walis his lyf habbé mote, hit falleth the kyng of fraunce bittrore then the sote; bote he the rathere therof welle do bote, wel sore hit shal hym rewe. . anonen. r. an oven. w. the execution of sir simon fraser. on the th of march, , robert bruce was crowned king at scone. immediately thereupon, king edward the first sent the earl of pembroke, aymer de valence, to scotland, to suppress what he called the rebellion in that kingdom. pembroke attacked bruce in his cantonments at methven (or kirkenclif) near perth, and dispersed his small army, taking several prisoners of great consequence. among them was sir simon fraser, or frisel, whose cruel fate is narrated in the following ballad. this piece has been printed in ritson's _ancient songs_ (i. ), and in wright's _political songs_, p. , and is extracted from the same ms. as the preceding ballad. lystneth, lordynges, a newe song ichulle bigynne, of the traytours of scotlond, that take beth wyth gynne; mon that loveth falsnesse, and nule never blynne, sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne, ich understonde: selde wes he glad that never nes a-sad of nythe ant of onde. that y sugge by this scottes that bueth nou to-drawe, the hevedes o londone-brugge, whosé con y-knawe; he wenden han buen kynges, ant seiden so in sawe; betere hem were han y-be barouns, ant libbe in godes lawe wyth love. whosé hateth soth ant ryht, lutel he douteth godes myht, the heye kyng above. to warny alle the gentilmen that bueth in scotlonde, the waleis wes to-drawe, seththe he wes an-honge, al quic biheveded, ys bowels ybrend, the heved to londone-brugge wes send, to abyde. after simond frysel, that wes traytour ant fykell, ant y-cud ful wyde. sire edward oure kyng, that ful ys of pieté, the waleis quarters sende to is oune contré, on four-half to honge, huere myrour to be, theropon to thenche, that monie myhten se, ant drede. why nolden he be war of the bataile of donbar, hou evele hem con spede? bysshopes ant barouns come to the kynges pes, ase men that weren fals, fykel, ant les, othes hue him sworen in stude ther he wes, to buen him hold ant trewe for alles cunnes res, thrye, that hue ne shulden ayeyn him go, so hue were temed tho; weht halt hit to lye? to the kyng edward hii fasten huere fay; fals wes here foreward so forst is in may, that sonne from the southward wypeth away; moni proud scot therof mene may to yere. nes never scotlond with dunt of monnes hond allinge aboht so duere. the bisshop of glascou y chot he wes ylaht, the bisshop of seint-andrè, bothe he beth ycaht, the abbot of scon with the kyng nis nout saht, al here purpos ycome hit ys to naht, thurh ryhte: hii were unwis when hii thohte pris ayeyn huere kyng to fyhte. thourh consail of thes bisshopes ynemned byfore, sire robert the bruytz furst kyng wes ycore; he mai everuche day ys fon him se byfore, yef hee mowen him hente, i chot he bith forlore, sauntz fayle. soht for te sugge, duere he shal abugge that he bigon batayle. hii that him crounede proude were ant bolde, hii maden kyng of somer, so hii ner ne sholde,[l ] hii setten on ys heved a croune of rede golde, ant token him a kyneyerde, so me kyng sholde, to deme. tho he wes set in see, lutel god couthe he kyneriche to yeme. nou kyng hobbe in the mures yongeth, for te come to toune nout him ne longeth; the barouns of engelond, myhte hue him grype, he him wolde techen on englysshe to pype, thourh streynthe: ne be he ner so stout, yet he bith ysoht out o brede ant o leynthe. sire edward of carnarvan, (jhesu him save ant see!) sire emer de valence, gentil knyht ant free, habbeth ysuore huere oht that, _par la grace dée_, hee wolleth ous delyvren of that false contree, yef hii conne. muche hath scotlond forlore, whet alast, whet bifore, ant lutel pris wonne. nou i chulle fonge ther ich er let, ant tellen ou of frisel, ase ich ou byhet. in the batayle of kyrkenclyf frysel wes ytake; ys continaunce abatede eny bost to make biside strivelyn; knyhtes ant sweynes, fremen ant theynes, monye with hym. so hii weren byset on everuche halve, somme slaye were, ant somme dreynte hemselve; sire johan of lyndeseye nolde nout abyde, he wod into the water, his feren him bysyde, to adrenche. whi nolden hii be war? ther nis non ayeyn star:-- why nolden hy hem bythenche? this wes byfore seint bartholomeus masse, that frysel wes ytake, were hit more other lasse; to sire thomas of multon, gentil baron ant fre, ant to sire johan jose, bytake tho wes he to honde: he wes yfetered weel, bothe with yrn ant wyth steel, to bringen of scotlonde. sone therafter the tydynge to the kyng com; he him sende to londone, with mony armed grom; he com yn at newegate, y telle yt ou aplyht, a gerland of leves on ys hed ydyht, of grene; for he shulde ben yknowe, bothe of heye ant of lowe, for treytour, y wene. yfetered were ys legges under his horse wombe, bothe with yrn ant with stel mankled were ys honde, a gerland of peruenke set on his heved; muche wes the poer that him wes byreved in londe: so god me amende, lutel he wende so be broht in honde. sire herbert of norham, feyr knyht ant bold,[l ] for the love of frysel ys lyf wes ysold; a wajour he made, so hit wes ytold, ys heved of to smhyte, yef me him brohte in hold, wat so bytyde: sory wes he thenne tho he myhte him kenne thourh the toun ryde. thenne seide ys scwyer a word anon ryht, "sire, we beth dede, ne helpeth hit no wyht," (thomas de boys the scwyer wes to nome,) "nou, y chot, our wajour turneth us to grome, so ybate." y do ou to wyte, here heved wes of-smyte, byfore the tour-gate. this wes on oure levedy even, for sothe ych understonde;[l ] the justices seten for the knyhtes of scotlonde, sire thomas of multone, an hendy knyht ant wys,[l ] ant sire rauf of sondwyche, that muchel is hold in prys,[l ] ant sire johan abel; mo y mihte telle by tale, bothe of grete ant of smale, ye knowen suythe wel. thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre, "sire simond frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be, in water ant in londe, that monie myhten se. what sayst thou thareto, hou wolt thou quite the? do say." so foul he him wiste, nede waron truste for to segge nay. ther he wes ydemed, so hit wes londes lawe; for that he wes lordswyk, furst he wes to-drawe; upon a retheres hude forth he wes ytuht: sum while in ys time he wes a modi knyht, in huerte. wickednesse ant sunne, hit is lutel wunne that maketh the body smerte. for al is grete poer, yet he wes ylaht; falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht; tho he wes in scotlond, lutel wes ys thoht of the harde jugement that him wes bysoht in stounde. he wes foursithe forswore to the kyng ther bifore,[l ] ant that him brohte to grounde. with feteres ant with gyves i chot he wes to-drowe, from the tour of londone, that monie myhte knowe, in a curtel of burel, a selkethe wyse, ant a gerland on ys heved of the newe guyse, thurh cheepe; moni mon of engelond for to se symond thideward con lepe. tho he com to galewes, furst he wes anhonge, al quic byheveded, thah him thohte longe; seththe he wes y-opened, is boweles ybrend, the heved to londone-brugge wes send, to shonde: so ich ever mote the, sumwhile wende he ther lutel to stonde. he rideth thourh the sité, as y telle may, with gomen ant wyth solas, that wes here play; to londone-brugge hee nome the way, moni wes the wyves chil that theron laketh a day, ant seide, alas, that he wes ibore, ant so villiche forlore, so feir mon ase he was! nou stont the heved above the tu-brugge, faste bi waleis, soth for te sugge; after socour of scotlond longe he mowe prye, ant after help of fraunce, (wet halt hit to lye?) ich wene. betere him were in scotlond, with is ax in ys hond, to pleyen o the grene. ant the body hongeth at the galewes faste, with yrnene claspes longe to laste; for te wyte wel the body, ant scottysh to garste, foure ant twenti ther beoth to sothe ate laste, by nyhte: yef eny were so hardi the body to remuy, al so to dyhte. were sire robert the bruytz ycome to this londe, ant the erl of asseles, that harde is an honde,[l ] alle the other pouraille, forsothe ich understonde, mihten be ful blythe ant thonke godes sonde, wyth ryhte; thenne myhte uch mon bothe riden ant gon in pes withoute vyhte. the traytours of scotland token hem to rede the barouns of engelond to brynge to dede: charles of fraunce, so moni mon tolde, with myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde, his thonkes. tprot, scot, for thi strif! hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf, whil him lasteth the lyf with the longe shonkes. . bruce's wife, it is said, replied to her husband, when he was boasting of his royal rank, "you are indeed a summer king, but you will scarce be a winter one," alluding to the ephemeral sovereignty of the lord of the may. . he was one of the scottish prisoners in the tower; and is said to have been so confident of the safety or success of sir simon fraser, that he had offered to lay his own head on the block, if that warrior suffered himself to be taken; and (however involuntarily) it seems he kept his word. vide m. west. .--ritson. ms. morham. . th september. . sir thomas multon was one of the justices of the king's bench in . sir ralph sandwich was made baron of the exchequer in .--ritson. . ms. told. . sir simon was one of those whom king edward brought out of scotland in , when that kingdom was first subdued. he remained a close prisoner about eight months, and was then freed, on entering into the usual engagement with the conqueror, to which, however, it is certain he did not think proper to adhere; esteeming it, perhaps, more sinful to keep such a forced obligation than to take it. abercrombie, i. .--ritson. . the earl of athol, john de strathbogie. attempting to escape by sea, he was driven back by a storm, taken, and conveyed to london, where he was tried, condemned, and, with circumstances of great barbarity, put to death, th, &c. november, . (m. west. .) which proves the present ballad to have been composed between that time and the th of september preceding.--ritson. glossary. [right pointing hand] figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. ablins, _perhaps_. aboon, abune, _above_. abugge, _aby_, _pay for_. adrenche, _drown_. ae, _one_; first ae, _first_. agynneth, _begin_. ahint, _behind_. airns, _irons_. airt, _quarter of the compass_, _direction_. alacing, _saying alas_. alane, mine, _alone by myself_. alast, _latterly_. alles, _all_. allinge, _altogether_. alow, , _below_. al so, _at once_. amense, _amends_. american leather, ? anew, _enough_. an honde, , _in hand_. anis, _once_. aplyht, , a particle of confirmation, _indeed_, _on my word_, &c. aquelleden, _killed_. arewe, , _rue_, _feel aggrieved by_. assoygne, , _delay_: (lines , , should probably be transposed.) asteir, _astir_, _moved_, (his anger.) avow, , _consent_, _undertake_. avowerie, _protection_, _support_. awin, _own_. awsome, _frightful_. ayeyn, _against_: , v. , a word seems to have dropped out. the sense is, _there is no resisting the stars_. wright reads _stare_. ayont, _beyond_, _on one side of_. bangisters, _violent and lawless people_, _those that have the upper hand_, _victors_. basnet, _helmet_. batts, _beating_. beet, , _help_. ben, _in_. bent, _coarse grass_; _open country_, covered with the same. benty, _covered with the coarse grass called bent_; benty-line, ? beseen, weil, , _well appointed_. bide, , _pray to_. bigged, _built_. biheveded, _beheaded_. billie, _comrade_. birk, _birch_. birst, (_burst_) _fray_. blan, _stopped_. blink, , _glanced_. blive, _quickly_. bobaunce, _vanity_, _presumption_. bode, _bid_. borrow, _rescue_. bot and, _and also_. bote, , _amends_; bote, no, _not better off_. boun, _ready_, _gone_. brae, _hill-side_. braid, , qy. corrupt? brain, gang, _go mad_. brank, , _prance_, _caper_. branks, _a rude sort of bridle of rope and wood_, used by country people. braw, bra', _brave_, _fine_. brayd on, , _move on_ (rapidly). breast, , _voice_. breasting, _springing forward_. brecham, _collar of a working horse_. brede, o, ant o leynthe, _in breadth and in length_, _far and wide_. breek, _breeches_; , breek-thigh, _the side pocket of the breeches_. brie, _brow_. broked cow, _a cow that has black spots mixed with white in her face_. broken men, _outlawed men_. browhead, _forehead_. brugge, _bridge_. brusten, _burst_. bryd, _bird_. bryttled, _cut up_. bueth, _be_. bufft coat, _leather coat_. bund, _bound_. burel, _sackcloth_. burn, _brook_. busk, _make ready_. buss, _bush_. bussing, , _covering_ (stolen from the packs). but, _out_; , but the floor, _across the floor out of the room_, or _to the outer part of the house_. by (sometimes) _besides_. byhet, _promised_. byres, byris, _barns_, _cowhouses_. bysoht, _prepared for_. bytake, _committed_. bythenche, _bethink_. ca', _call_. ca', , _drive_. carle, _churl_, _fellow_. carpit, _talked_, _told stories_. ca's, _calves_. cauler, _cool_. cess, _tax_, _black-mail_. cheventeyn, _chieftain_. chot, _wot_, _know_, chulle, _shall_. claes, _clothes_. clanked, _gave a smart stroke_. cleugh, _a rugged ascent_. closs, , _area before the house_, (_close_.) coll, _cool_. coman, _command_. con, , _began_. conquess, _conquer_. continaunce, _countenance_. corbie, _crow_. corn-caugers, _corn-carriers_, or _dealers_. cost, , _loss_, _risk_. could, , _began_. coune, _began_. courtrie, _band of courtiers_. couthe, _knew_. cowte, _colt_. coynte, _quaint_, _cunning_. crabit, _crabbed_. cracking, _boasting_. crooks, _the windings of a river_, _the space of ground closed in on one side by these windings_. crouse, _brisk_, _bold_. cumber, to red the, _quell the tumult_. cunnes, _kinds_. curch, _kerchief_, _coif_. cure, , _care_, _pains_. curtel, , _shirt_, _gown_. custan, cast. dae, _doe_. dandoo, , apparently should be _dun doe_. dane, _done_, _taken_. dang, _beat_. daw, _dawn_. de, (fr.) _god_. dede, _dealt_. dee, _die_. deid, _death_. deme, _adjudge_. destaunce, _disturbance_. ding down, _beat down_. dints, _blows_. doddeth, , _lop_. dool, _grief_. dought, _could_, _was able_. dour, _hard_. douse, _quiet_, _mild_. doussé-pers, (fr. douze pairs) _gallant knights_. douteth, _feareth_. dow, _can_, _are able_; downa, _cannot_. down-come of robin hood, , _as quick as r. h. would knock one down?_ or _pay down?_ dreigh, (_tedious_, _long_) _high_. dreynte, drowned. drie, _bear_, _endure_. drifts, , _droves_. drivand, _driving_. drue, _dry_. drunkily, _merrily_. drury, _treasure_. dub, _pool_, _pond_. duere, _dear_. dule, _sorrow_. dunt, _dint_, _stroke_. dyhte, , _dispose of_. e'en, , _even_, _put in comparison_. een, _eyes_. elshin, _shoemaker's awl_. ene, , _even_. enew, _enough_. er, _before_. ettled, _designed_. everuche, _every_; everuchon, _every one_. falla, _fellow_. fand, _found_. fang, _catch_. fankit, _entangled_, _obstructed_; here, _so fixed that it could not be drawn_. fared, _went_. fasten, , _plight_. fay, _faith_. fear't, _frightened_. fecht, _fight_. fee, _income_, _property_, _wages_. feid, _feud_. feir, , _sound_, _unhurt_. feiries, _comrades_. fell, _high pasture land_. fend, _defence_. feren, _comrades_. ferly, _wonder_. fet, _foot_. fie, _predestined_. fiend, , i. e. _the devil a thing_. fit, _foot_. flain, _arrows_. flatlies, _flat_. fley, _fright_. flinders, _fragments_. flo, _flay_. fon, , _foes_. fonge, _take up_. forbode, over god's, (_on god's prohibition_), _god forbid_. forehammer, _the large hammer which strikes before the small one_, _sledge-hammer_. foreward, _covenant_. forfaulted, _forfeited_. forfend, _forbid_. forfoughen (i. e. forfoughten) _tired out_. forst, _frost_. fot-lome, _foot-lame_. fou, _full_ (_of drink_). four-half, on, _in quarters_. foursithe, _four times_. fow, , _full?_ frae hand, _forthwith_. freits, _omens_. frith, _wood_. furs, _furrows_. fyn, _end_. gar, _make_, _let_. garste, , (should probably be gast) _frighten away_. gaun, _going_. gavelocks, (_javelins_) _iron crows_. gear, _goods_, _property_; , _spoil_. ged, _went_. geir, same as gear. genzie, _engine of war_. gifted, , _given away_. gilt, _gold_. gin, _if_. gin, _trick_. gleed, _red-hot coal_, _a glowing bar of iron_. gloamin', _twilight_. gomen, , _game_, _mockery_. goud, _gold_. goule, (fr.) _throat_. graith, _armor_. graith, _make ready_; graithed, _armed_. grat, _wept_. green, _yearn_, _long_. greeting, _weeping_. gripet, _seized_. grom, _groom_, _man_. grome, , _sorrow_. gryming, _sprinkling_. guided, , _treated_. gynne, _trap_. had, haud, _hold_. haif, _have_. hail, , (_vigorous_, and so) _boisterous?_ halewen, _saints_. halt, , , _profits?_ halve, _side_. haly, _holy_. happers, _hoppers_. hardilyche, _boldly_. harpit, _harped_. harried, _plundered_. hastifliche, _hastily_. haud, _hold_, _keep_. he, , _they_. head, , _assemblage_. heckle, _a hatchel_, _flax-comb_. hem, _them_. hende, hendy, _gentle_. hente, _caught_. herry, _harry_, _spoil_. he's, _he shall_. het, _head_. het, _hot_. heugh, _a ragged steep_, sometimes, _a glen with steep overhanging sides_. heved, _head_. hi, _they_. hie, _high_. hirst, _a barren hill_. hold, , _faithful_. hope, houp, _a sloping hollow between two hills_. hostage house, , _inn_. how, _pull_. howm, _a plain on a river side_. hue, _they_; huem, _them_; huere, _their_. hulles, _hills_. ibore, _born_. ich, _i_. ichulle, _i shall_. ilka, _every_. intill, _in_. is, _his_. i'se, _i will_. jack, _a short coat plated with small pieces of iron_. jeopardy, , _adventure_. jimp, _slender_. jugge, , _condemn_. keekit, _peeped_. kend, _known_. kettrin, _cateran_, _thieving_. keverest, , _recoverest_. kilted, _tucked_. kinnen, _rabbits_. kirns, _churns_. kirsty, _christy_. knapscap, _head-piece_. know, _knoll_. knulled, , _pushed_, _beaten_ (_with the knuckles_). kunnes, _kinds_. kyne-yerde, _king's wand_ or _sceptre_. kyneriche, _kingdom_. laht, _caught_. laigh, _low_. langsome, _tedious_. lap, _wrap up_. lave, _rest_. law, _low_. lawing, _scot_, _reckoning_. lay, _lea_. layne, _conceal_. leal, leel, _loyal_, _true_, _chaste_. lear, _lore_. leauté, _loyalty_. lede, _people_. lee, _waste_, _lonely_. lee-lang, _live-long_. lee, shelter, peace; set at little lee, , _left little peace?_ "_left scarcely any means of shelter_." jamieson. leeze me on, , _i take pleasure or comfort in_. lerrum, (fr.) _leave_. les, _lying_. let, , _ceased_. leugh, _laughed_. levedy, _lady_. libbe, _live_. lidder, _lazy_. lidder fat, _fat from laziness_; (qu. same as leeper fat?) lightly, _make light of_, _treat with contempt_. limmer, _rascal_, _scoundrelly_. lincome, _lincoln_; lincum twine, _lincoln manufacture_. ling, _heath_. loan, _a piece of ground near a farm house where the cows are milked_. loot, _let_. lordswyk, _traitor to his lord_. lore, loren, _lost_. loup, _leap_, _waterfall_. louped, loupen, _leapt_. lourd, _liefer_, _rather_. low, _flame_. lowne, _loon_. luid, _loved_. lyan, _lain_. lyart, _hoary_. lyke-wake, _watching of a dead body_. lyves man, , _living man_. ma, shame a, , _devil a bit_. mae, _more_. maill, _rent_. mane, _moan_. maries, _maids_. marrows, _equals_. maun, _must_. may, _maid_. me, _they_ (fr. _on_). mear, _mare_. mene, _moan_. mergh, _marrow_. mest, _most_. minnie, _mother_. mirk, _dark_. modi, _bold_. mot, _may_. mounde, , _might?_ mowe, _may_. mowes, _jests_. mudie, _bold_. muss, _moss_. naggs, _notches_. nede, , _he had not_. neist, _next_. nes, _was not_. neuk, , _corner?_ nicher, nicker, _neigh_. nie, _neigh_. niest, _next_. nogs, _stakes_. noisome, , _annoying_, _vexatious_. nolden, _would not_. nome, _name_. nome, nomen, _took_. nones, _no_. notour, , _notorious_. noud, nout, _nought_, _not_. nowt, _cattle_. nule, _will not_. nythe, , _wickedness_. oht, _oath_. onde, , _malice_, _envy_. other, _or_. ou, _you_. ouir, _our_. our, oure, _over_. outspeckle, _laughing-stock_. ower-word, _burden_. owsen, _oxen_. palliones, _tents_. paw, neer play'd, , _did not stir hand or foot_. peel, , _the stronghold, where the cattle were kept_. pellettes, _balls_. peruenke, _periwinkle_. pestelets, _pistols_, _fire-arms_. pleugh, _plough_. plumet, , _pommel_. poer, _power_. pouraille, _common people_. pris, , _praise_. prude, _pride_. prye, _pray_. pure, _poor_. putfalle, _pitfall_. pyne, _pain_. questry, _jury_. quey, _young cow_. quhavir, _whoever_. quhilk, _which_. rack, _a shallow ford, extending to a considerable breadth before it narrows into a full stream_. jamieson. rad, , _afraid_. rae, _roe_. raid, _foray_, _predatory incursion_, _fight_. rank'd, , i. e. _looked finely_, _formed in ranks_. ranshackled, _ransacked_. rantin', _gay_, _jovial_. rathere, , _sooner_, _beforehand_. raxed, _stretched_. ray, , _path_ or _track_. reaving, _robbing_. redd, rede, _advise_, _advice_. reek, _smoke_. reif, _bailiff_. reif, _robbery_; reiver, _robber_. reil, _reel_. remuy, _remove_. res, , (ang. sax. _raes_,) _incursions_, _exploits_? retheres hude, _bullock's hide_. rig, , _ridge_. rigging, _ridge_, _top_. rin, _run_. rok, _distaff_. roof-tree, _the beam which forms the angle of the roof_. rouncyn, _horse_. routing, _bellowing_. row, _roll_. row-footed, , _rough-footed?_ rudds, _reddens_. rude, _rood_. rumary, ? rybaus, _ribalds_, _villains_. saft, , _light_. saht, , _at one_, _reconciled_. sark, _shirt_, _shift_. saugh, _willow_. sawe, _speech_. schaw, _wood_. scroggs, _stunted trees_. see, _protect_. see, , _seat_, _throne_. seen, _soon_. seld, _sold_. selkethe, _strange_. serime, , corrupt: qy. _betime_? seth the, _after_. served, , _behaved to_. shame a ma, , _devil a bit_. sheen, _shoes_. sheil, _shepherd's hut_. shome, _shame_. shonde, _disgrace_. shonkes, _shanks_. sic, sicken, _such_. skaithd, _injured_. skeigh, _sky_. slack, _a shallow dell_, _morass_. slae, , _sloe_. sleuth-dog, _blood-hound_. slogan, _the gathering word peculiar to a family or clan_, _a war-cry_. sloken, _slake_. slough-hounds, _blood-hounds_. slowen, _slew_. smoldereth, _smothereth_. snear, _snort_. so, _as_. solas, _amusement_. sonde, godes, _god's sending_. sote, _soot_. soth, soht, _truth_. soudron, _southerner_, _english_. sould, suld, _should_. sowie, _sow_ (lat. _vinea_, _pluteus_), _a shed or pent-house under cover of which the walls of a besieged town were assailed_. soy, _silk_. spaits, _floods_, _torrents_. spauld, _shoulder_. spene, , _cost_. spier, _ask_. spin, _run_. splent, _armor_. springald, _a military engine for discharging heavy missiles at the walls of a beleaguered town_. spuilye, spulzie, _despoil_. star, see _ayeyn_. starkest, _strongest_. staun, _stolen_. steads, _places_. stear, _stir_. stont, _stands_. stots, _bullocks_. stounde, _time_. stour, _turmoil_, _affray_. straught, _stretched_. streynthe, _strength_. strick, _strict_. strinkled, _sprinkled_. strivelyn, _sterling_. stude, _place_. sturt, , _trouble_, _disturbance_. suereth, _swear_. sugge, _say_. suithe, _very_. sunne, _sin_. sweynes, , _swains_, _men in general below the rank of knights_. swithe, _very_. swither, _doubt_, _consternation_. swyers, _squires_. swykedom, _treachery_. swythe, _very_. syke, _ditch_. syne, _then_. tackles, _arrows_. tald, _told_. targats, , _tassels_. te, _to_. temed, , _tamed_. thae, _these_. thah, _though_. the, _thrive_. then, _than_. thenche, _think_. theynes, _thanes_. thir, _these_; thir's, _these are_. this, _these_. tho, _then_. thole, _bear_, _endure_. thonkes, his, , _willingly_, _gladly_, _by his good will_. thrawin, , _distorted_, _wrinkled_. thunche, , _seem_. til, _to_; til't, _to it_. tint, _lost_. to-drawe, to-drowe, _drawn_. to-dryven, , _break to pieces_. token, , _gave to_. tome, _tame_. toom, _empty_. tour, , _course or road_. tow, , _throw_. tprot, _interjection of contempt_. trayne, _stratagem_. tree, _staff_. trepan'd, , _foully dealt with_. trew, _trust_. tryst, _meeting_. tu-brugge, _draw-bridge_. tul, _to_. twa-fald, , _two-fold_, i. e. _with his body hanging down both sides_. twa-some, _couple_. twined, _parted_. uch, _each_. unkensome, _not to be recognized_. unthought lang, hold, _keep from growing weary_. upgive, , _acknowledge_. villiche, _vilely_. vor, _for_. vrenshe, _french_. vyhte, _fighting_. vylté, _disgrace_. wad, _would_. wad, , _wager_, _forfeit_. waleis, _wallace_. wally fa', , _ill luck befall_. wan, _pale_, _dark_, _black_. wan, _reached_. wap, _tie round_. waran, _guaranty_. ware, , _lay out_, _use_. ware, , (ang. s. were, _capitis æstimatio_) _ransom_, _life-money_. wark, _work_. warrand, _protection_. wat, _know_. wat, _wet_. waur, _worse_. way, to the, , _away?_ wear, _guard_. webbes, _weavers_. wed, , qy. corrupt? weht, _what_. weel-fared, _well-favored_. weil, , _eddy_. weir, _war_. wel the felle, , _will fall from thy head?_ wende, _weened_. wes, _was_. wesleyn, _western_. wether, _whither_. weylaway, _well-a-day!_ whang, _thong_. whidderan, _whizzing_. whet, _what_. whew, _whistle_. whosé, _any one whatever_. wicker, , _switch_. widdifu, _one who deserves to fill a widdie or halter_, _gallows bird_, _ruffian_. wight, _strong_, _quick_; wightmen (ang. sax. wigman) _fighting men_, _brave fellows_; waled wightmen, , _picked warriors_. win, _get_. winna, _will not_. winsomely, _handsomely_. wit, _knowledge_. wod, _waded_. wombe, _belly_. won, , misprint for win? wons, _dwells_. wood, _mad_. worries, _strangles_. wudspurs, _madspur_, _hotspur_. wyht, _wight_. wysloker, _more wisely_. wyte, _know_. wyte, , _wait_, _watch_ (?) y, _in_. yate, _gate_. ybate, ? y-be, _been_. y-brend, _burnt_. y-caht, _caught_. y-core, _chosen_. y-cud, _known_. y-demed, _judged_. y-dyht, , _arranged_. yeate, _gate_. yef, _if_. yeme, _govern_. yere, to, , _this year_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_. y-herde, _heard_. y-knawe, _recognize_. y-laht, _caught_, _taken_. y-nemned, _named_. yongeth, _goeth_. y-suore, _sworn_. y-tuht, _drawn_. yynge, _young_. zour, &c., _your_, &c. * * * * * transcriber's notes page and note on page : changed " " to " " ( . the land-sergeant (mentioned also in _hobbie noble_) ...) page (note to line ): changed "ross" to "across" ( ... chains drawn across the chest of a war-horse ...) page (note to line ): changed "east-gath" to "east-gate" (the family of emerson of east-gate, a fief, ...) page (note to line ): added missing closing quotation mark (all bravely fought that day."--s.) page : changed "opprobious" to "opprobrious" ( ... gave car some very opprobrious language ...) page : added missing closing quotation mark ( ... the accused party was soon restored to society.") page (line ): added missing closing quotation mark ("and ye shall pardoned be:") page (line ): changed "jonne[a] rounde" to "jonne [a]rounde" (and so besett poore jonne [a]rounde,) page (first line of chorus): changed "re" to "be" (_be content, be content,_) page suspected typo "fortunately" should perhaps be read "unfortunately" ( ... the circumstances which have given rise to it were fortunately too common ...) images generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes in this plain text version, ascii and latin- character sets have been used; italic typeface is represented by _surrounding underscores_; small caps typeface is represented by all caps. linenotes have been grouped at the end of each ballad. linenote anchors in the form [l##] have been added to the text (they are not in the original but alert the reader to the presence of a note refering to line number ##). irregular and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. typographical errors such as wrongly placed line numbers, punctuation or inconsistent formatting have been corrected without comment. where changes have been made to the wording these are listed at the end of the book. * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. volume ii. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. contents of volume second. book ii. page a. glasgerion b. glenkindie a. little musgrave and lady barnard b. lord randal (a) a. gil morrice b. child noryce . clerk saunders a. sweet willie and lady margerie b. willie and lady maisry . the clerk's twa sons o' owsenford . childe vyet . lady maisry a. fair janet b. sweet willie a. fair annie of lochroyan b. the lass of lochroyan . the douglas tragedy a. lord thomas and fair ellinor b. lord thomas and fair annet c. sweet willie and fair annie d. fair margaret and sweet william a. sweet william's ghost b. william and marjorie c. sweet william and may margaret a. bonny barbara allan b. barbara allen's cruelty . lord lovel a. lord salton and auchanachie, [maidment] b. lord salton and auchanachie, [buchan] a. willie and may margaret b. the drowned lovers . willie's drowned in gamery . annan water a. andrew lammie b. the trumpeter of fyvie . fair helen of kirconnel . the lowlands of holland book iii. a. the twa brothers b. edward, edward c. son davie, son davie a. the cruel sister b. the twa sisters a. lord donald b. lord randal (b) a. the cruel brother, [jamieson] b. the cruel brother, [herd] a. lady anne b. fine flowers in the valley c. the cruel mother, [motherwell] d. the cruel mother, [kinloch] . may colvin a. babylon b. duke of perth's three daughters . jellon grame . young johnstone . young benjie appendix. lord barnaby child maurice clerk saunders lord wa'yates and auld ingram sweet willie and fair maisry lady marjorie leesome brand the youth of rosengord the blood-stained son the twa brothers the miller and the king's daughter the bonny bows o' london the croodlin doo the snake-cook the child's last will the three knights the cruel mother the minister's dochter o' newarke bondsey and maisry ladye diamond the west-country damosel's complaint the brave earl brand and the king of england's daughter la vendicatrice--supplement to may colvin glossary book ii. glasgerion. the two following ballads have the same subject, and perhaps had a common original. the "briton glaskyrion" is honourably mentioned as a harper by chaucer, in company with chiron, orion, and orpheus, (_house of fame_, b. iii. v. ,) and with the last he is also associated, as mr. finlay has pointed out, by bishop douglas, in the _palice of honour_. "the scottish writers," says jamieson, "adapting the name to their own meridian, call him glenkindy, glenskeenie, &c." _glasgerion_ is reprinted from percy's _reliques_, iii. . glasgerion was a kings owne sonne, and a harper he was goode; he harped in the kings chambere, where cuppe and caudle stoode, and soe did hee in the queens chambere, till ladies waxed wood, and then bespake the kinges daughter, and these wordes thus shee sayd:-- "strike on, strike on, glasgerion, of thy striking doe not blinne; theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe, but it glads my hart withinne." "faire might him fall,[l ] ladye," quoth hee, "who taught you nowe to speake! i have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere, my harte i neere durst breake." "but come to my bower, my glasgerion, when all men are att rest: as i am a ladie true of my promise, thou shalt bee a welcome guest." home then came glasgerion, a glad man, lord! was hee: "and, come thou hither, jacke my boy, come hither unto mee. "for the kinges daughter of normandye hath granted mee my boone; and att her chambere must i bee beffore the cocke have crowen." "o master, master," then quoth hee, "lay your head downe on this stone; for i will waken you, master deere, afore it be time to gone." but up then rose that lither ladd, and hose and shoone did on; a coller he cast upon his necke, hee seemed a gentleman. and when he came to the ladyes chamber, he thrild upon a pinn: the lady was true of her promise, and rose and lett him inn. he did not take the lady gaye to boulster nor to bed: [nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille, a single word he sed.] he did not kisse that ladyes mouthe, nor when he came, nor yode: and sore that ladye did mistrust, he was of some churls bloud. but home then came that lither ladd, and did off his hose and shoone; and cast the coller from off his necke: he was but a churlès sonne. "awake, awake, my deere master, the cock hath well-nigh crowen; awake, awake, my master deere, i hold it time to be gone. "for i have saddled your horsse, master, well bridled i have your steede, and i have served you a good breakfast, for thereof ye have need." up then rose good glasgerion, and did on hose and shoone, and cast a coller about his necke: for he was a kinge his sonne. and when he came to the ladyes chambere, he thrilled upon the pinne; the ladye was more than true of promise, and rose and let him inn. "o whether have you left with me your bracelet or your glove? or are you returned back againe to know more of my love?" glasgerion swore a full great othe, by oake, and ashe, and thorne; "ladye, i was never in your chambere, sith the time that i was borne." "o then it was your lither[l ] foot-page, he hath beguiled mee:" then shee pulled forth a little pen-knìffe, that hanged by her knee. sayes, "there shall never noe churlès blood within my bodye spring: no churlès blood shall e'er defile the daughter of a kinge." home then went glasgerion, and woe, good lord! was hee: sayes, "come thou hither, jacke my boy, come hither unto mee. "if i had killed a man to-night, jack, i would tell it thee: but if i have not killed a man to-night, jacke, thou hast killed three." and he puld out his bright browne sword, and dryed it on his sleeve, and he smote off that lither ladds head, who did his ladye grieve. he sett the swords poynt till his brest, the pummil untill a stone: throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd, these three lives werne all gone. , him fall. , ms. litle. glenkindie. from jamieson's _popular ballads and songs_, i. . the copy in the _thistle of scotland_, p. , is the same. glenkindie was ance a harper gude, he harped to the king; and glenkindie was ance the best harper that ever harp'd on a string. he'd harpit a fish out o' saut water,[l ] or water out o' a stane; or milk out o' a maiden's breast, that bairn had never nane. he's taen his harp intil his hand, he harpit and he sang; and ay as he harpit to the king, to haud him unthought lang. "i'll gie you a robe, glenkindie, a robe o' the royal pa', gin ye will harp i' the winter's night afore my nobles a'." and the king but and his nobles a'[l ] sat birling at the wine; and he wad hae but his ae dochter, to wait on them at dine. he's taen his harp intill his hand, he's harpit them a' asleep, except it was the young countess, that love did waukin keep. and first he has harpit a grave tune,[l ] and syne he has harpit a gay; and mony a sich atween hands i wat the lady gae. says, "whan day is dawen, and cocks hae crawen, and wappit their wings sae wide, it's ye may come to my bower door, and streek you by my side. "but look that ye tell na gib your man, for naething that ye dee; for, an ye tell him, gib your man, he'll beguile baith you and me." he's taen his harp intill his hand; he harpit and he sang; and he is hame to gib his man, as fast as he could gang. "o mith i tell you, gib, my man, gin i a man had slain?" "o that ye micht, my gude master, altho' ye had slain ten." "then tak ye tent now, gib, my man, my bidden for to dee; and, but an ye wauken me in time, ye sall be hangit hie. "whan day has dawen, and cocks hae crawen, and wappit their wings sae wide, i'm bidden gang till yon lady's bower, and streek me by her side." "gae hame to your bed, my good master; ye've waukit, i fear, o'er lang; for i'll wauken you in as good time, as ony cock i' the land." he's taen his harp intill his hand, he harpit and he sang, until he harpit his master asleep, syne fast awa did gang. and he is till that lady's bower, as fast as he could rin; when he cam till that lady's bower, he chappit at the chin.[l ] "o wha is this," says that lady, "that opens nae and comes in?" "it's i, glenkindie, your ain true love, o open and lat me in!" she kent he was nae gentle knicht that she had latten in; for neither whan he gaed nor cam, kist he her cheek or chin. he neither kist her whan he cam, nor clappit her when he gaed; and in and at her bower window, the moon shone like the gleed. "o, ragged is your hose, glenkindie, and riven is your sheen, and reavel'd is your yellow hair that i saw late yestreen." "the stockings they are gib my man's, they came first to my hand; and this is gib my man's shoon; at my bed feet they stand. i've reavell'd a' my yellow hair coming against the wind." he's taen the harp intill his hand, he harpit and he sang, until he cam to his master, as fast as he could gang. "won up, won up, my good master; i fear ye sleep o'er lang; there's nae a cock in a' the land but has wappit his wings and crawn." glenkindie's tane his harp in hand, he harpit and he sang, and he has reach'd the lady's bower, afore that e'er he blan. when he cam to the lady's bower, he chappit at the chin; "o, wha is that at my bower door, that opens na and comes in?" "it's i, glenkindie, your ain true love, and in i canna win." * * * * * "forbid it, forbid it," says that lady, "that ever sic shame betide; that i should first be a wild loon's lass, and than a young knight's bride." there was nae pity for that lady, for she lay cald and dead; but a' was for him, glenkindie, in bower he must go mad. he'd harpit a fish out o' saut water; the water out o' a stane; the milk out o' a maiden's breast, that bairn had never nane. he's taen his harp intill his hand; sae sweetly as it rang, and wae and weary was to hear glenkindie's dowie sang.[l ] but cald and dead was that lady, nor heeds for a' his maen; an he wad harpit till domisday, she'll never speak again. he's taen his harp intill his hand; he harpit and he sang; and he is hame to gib his man as fast as he could gang. "come forth, come forth, now, gib, my man, till i pay you your fee; come forth, come forth, now, gib, my man; weel payit sall ye be!" and he has taen him, gib, his man, and he has hang'd him hie; and he's hangit him o'er his ain yate, as high as high could be. - , these feats are all but equalled by the musician in the swedish and danish _harpans kraft_. "he harped the bark from every tree, and he harped the young from folk and from fee. "he harped the hind from the wild-wood home, he harped the bairn from its mother's womb." arwidsson, no. . "villemand takes his harp in his hand, he goes down by the water to stand. "he struck the harp with his hand, and the fish leapt out upon the strand." grundtvig, no. . - . this stanza is found in the opening of _brown robin_, which commences thus:-- "the king but and his nobles a' sat birling at the wine, [_bis_] he would hae nane but his ae daughter to wait on them at dine. "she served them but, she served them ben, intill a gown o' green; but her e'e was ay on brown robin, that stood low under the rain," &c. j. - . the following stanza occurs in one of the editor's copies of _the gay gosshawk_:-- "o first he sang a merry song, and then he sang a grave; and then he pecked his feathers gray, to her the letter gave." j. , at the chin. sic. . this stanza has been altered, to introduce a little variety, and prevent the monotonous tiresomeness of repetition. j. the old ballad of little musgrave and the lady barnard. the popularity of this ancient ballad is evinced by its being frequently quoted in old plays. in beaumont and fletcher's _knight of the burning pestle_, (produced in ,) the fourteenth stanza is cited, thus: "and some they whistled and some they sung, _hey, down, down!_ and some did loudly say, ever as the lord barnet's horn blew, away, musgrave, away." _act v. scene ._ the oldest known copy of this piece is found in _wit restor'd_, ( ,) p. , and from the reprint of that publication we have taken it, (p. .) dryden seems to have adopted it from the same source into his _miscellanies_, and ritson has inserted dryden's version in _ancient songs and ballads_, ii. . percy's copy (_reliques_, iii. ,) was inferior to the one here used, and was besides somewhat altered by the editor. a scottish version, furnished by jamieson, is given in the appendix to this volume, and another, extending to forty-eight stanzas, in _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, percy society, vol. xvii. p. . similar incidents, with a verbal coincidence in one stanza, occur in the ballad immediately succeeding the present. as it fell one holy-day, _hay downe_, as manybe in the yeare, when young men and maids together did goe, their mattins and masse to heare, little musgrave came to the church dore, the preist was at private masse; but he had more minde of the faire women, then he had of our ladys[l ] grace. the one of them was clad in green, another was clad in pall;[l ] and then came in my lord barnards[l ] wife, the fairest amonst them all. she cast an eye on little musgrave, as bright as the summer sun, and then bethought this little musgrave, "this ladys heart have i woonn." quoth she, "i have loved thee, little musgrave, full long and many a day:" "so have i loved you, fair lady, yet never word durst i say." "i have a bower at buckelsfordbery, full daintyly it is deight;[l ] if thou wilt wend thither, thou little musgrave, thou's lig in mine armes all night." quoth he, "i thank yee, faire lady, this kindnes thou showest to me; but whether it be to my weal or woe, this night i will lig[l ] with thee." all that heard[l ] a little tinny page, by his ladyes coach as he ran: [quoth he,] "allthough i am my ladyes foot-page, yet i am lord barnards man. "my lord barnard shall knowe of this, whether i sink or swimm:"[l ] and ever where the bridges were broake, he laid him downe to swimme. "asleepe, awake![l ] thou lord barnard, as thou art a man of life; for little musgrave is at bucklesfordbery, abed with thy own wedded wife." "if this be true, thou little tinny page, this thing thou tellest to mee, then all the land in bucklesfordbery i freely will give to thee. "but if it be a ly, thou little tinny page, this thing thou tellest to me, on the hyest tree in bucklesfordbery there hanged shalt thou be." he called up his merry men all:-- "come saddle me my steed; this night must i to buckellsfordbery, for i never had greater need." and some of them whistl'd, and some of them sung, and some these words did say, ever[l ] when my lord barnards horn blew, "away, musgrave, away!" "methinks i hear the thresel-cock, methinks i hear the jaye; methinks i hear my lord barnard,-- and i would i were away." "lye still, lye still, thou little musgrave, and huggell me from the cold; tis nothing but a shephards boy, a driving his sheep to the fold. "is not thy hawke upon a perch? thy steed eats oats and hay, and thou [a] fair lady in thine armes,-- and wouldst thou bee away?" with that my lord barnard came to the dore, and lit a stone upon; he plucked out three silver keys, and he open'd the dores each one. he lifted up the coverlett, he lifted up the sheet; "how now, how now, thou little musgrave, doest thou find my lady sweet?" "i find her sweet," quoth little musgrave, "the more 'tis to my paine; i would gladly give three hundred pounds that i were on yonder plaine." "arise, arise, thou littell musgrave, and put thy clothés on; it shal ne'er be said in my country, i have killed a naked man. "i have two swords in one scabberd, full deere they cost my purse; and thou shalt have the best of them, and i will have the worse." the first stroke that little musgrave stroke, he hurt lord barnard sore; the next stroke that lord barnard stroke, little musgrave ne're struck more. with that bespake this faire lady, in bed whereas she lay; "although thou'rt dead, thou little musgrave, yet i for thee will pray; "and wish well to thy soule will i, so long as i have life; so will i not for thee, barnard, although i am thy wedded wife." he cut her paps from off her brest, (great pity it was to see,) that some drops of this ladies heart's blood ran trickling downe her knee. "woe worth you, woe worth [you], my mery men all, you were ne're borne for my good; why did you not offer to stay my hand, when ye saw[l ] me wax so wood! "for i have slaine the bravest sir knight that ever rode on steed; so have i done the fairest lady that ever did womans deed. "a grave, a grave," lord barnard cryd, "to put these lovers in; but lay my lady on [the] upper hand, for she came of the better kin." , lady. , pale. , bernards. , geight. , wed. , with that he heard: tyne. , sinn. , or wake. , and ever. , see. lord randal (a). from jamieson's _popular ballads and songs_, i. . "the story of this ballad very much resembles that of _little musgrave and lord barnard_. the common title is, _the bonny birdy_. the first stanza is sung thus:-- 'there was a knight, on a summer's night, was riding o'er the lee, _diddle_; and there he saw a bonny birdy was singing on a tree, _diddle_: o wow for day, _diddle_! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away, for i ha'ena lang time to stay.' in the text, the burden of _diddle_ has been omitted; and the name of lord randal introduced, for the sake of distinction, and to prevent the ambiguity arising from 'the knight', which is equally applicable to both." the lines supplied by jamieson have been omitted. allan cunningham's "improved" version of the _bonny birdy_ may be seen in his _songs of scotland_, ii. . lord randal wight, on a summer's night, was riding o'er the lee, and there he saw a bonny birdie was singin' on a tree: "o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away, for i ha'ena lang time to stay! "mak haste, mak haste, ye wicht baron; what keeps ye here sae late? gin ye kent what was doing at hame, i trow ye wad look blate. "and o wow for day! and dear gin it were day. gin it were day, and ye were away; for ye ha'ena lang time to stay!" "o what needs i toil day and night, my fair body to spill, when i ha'e knichts at my command, and ladies at my will?" "o weel is he, ye wight baron, has the blear drawn o'er his e'e; but your lady has a knight in her arms twa, that she lo'es far better nor thee. "and o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and ye were away; for ye ha'ena lang time to stay!" "ye lie, ye lie, ye bonny birdie; how you lie upon my sweet; i will tak out my bonny bow, and in troth i will you sheet." "but afore ye ha'e your bow weel bent, and a' your arrows yare, i will flee till anither tree, whare i can better fare. "and o wow for day and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away; for i ha'ena lang time to stay!" "o whare was ye gotten, and where was ye clecked, my bonny birdie, tell me?" "o, i was clecked in good green wood, intill a holly tree; a baron sae bald my nest herried, and ga'e me to his ladie. "wi' good white bread, and farrow-cow milk, he bade her feed me aft; and ga'e her a little wee summer-dale wandie, to ding me sindle and saft. "wi' good white bread, and farrow-cow milk, i wat she fed me nought; but wi' a little wee summer-dale wandie, she dang me sair and oft:-- gin she had done as ye her bade, i wadna tell how she has wrought. "and o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and ye were away; for ye ha'ena lang time to stay." lord randal rade, and the birdie flew, the live-lang summer's night, till he cam till his lady's bower-door, then even down he did light. the birdie sat on the crap o' a tree, and i wat it sang fu' dight: "o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away; for i ha'ena lang time to stay!" * * * * * * * "o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and ye were away; for ye ha'ena lang time to stay!" "now christ assoile me o' my sin," the fause knight he could say; "it's nae for nought that the hawk whistles;[l ] and i wish that i were away! "and o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away; for i ha'ena lang time to stay!" "what needs ye lang for day, and wish that ye were away? is na your hounds in my cellar eating white meal and gray?" "yet, o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away, for i ha'ena lang time to stay!" "is na your horse in my stable, eating good corn and hay? is na your hawk on my perch tree, just perching for his prey? and isna yoursel in my arms twa; then how can ye lang for day?" "yet, o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! gin it were day, and i were away, for i ha'ena lang time to stay. "yet, o wow for day! and dear gin it were day! for he that's in bed wi' anither man's wife, has never lang time to stay." * * * * * * * then out lord randal drew his brand, and straiked it o'er a strae; and through and through the fause knight's waste he gar'd cald iron gae; and i hope ilk ane sall sae be serv'd, that treats an honest man sae! , this is a proverbial saying in scotland. j. gil morrice. "of the many ancient ballads which have been preserved by tradition among the peasantry of scotland, none has excited more interest in the world of letters than the beautiful and pathetic tale of _gil morice_; and this, no less on account of its own intrinsic merits as a piece of exquisite poetry, than of its having furnished the plot of the justly celebrated tragedy of _douglas_. it has likewise supplied mr. langhorne with the principal materials from which he has woven the fabric of his sweet, though prolix poem of _owen of carron_. perhaps the list could be easily increased of those who have drawn their inspiration from this affecting strain of olden minstrelsy. "if any reliance is to be placed on the traditions of that part of the country where the scene of the ballad is laid, we will be enforced to believe that it is founded on facts which occurred at some remote period of scottish history. the 'grene wode' of the ballad was the ancient forest of dundaff, in stirlingshire, and lord barnard's castle is said to have occupied a precipitous cliff, overhanging the water of carron, on the lands of halbertshire. a small burn, which joins the carron about five miles above these lands, is named the earlsburn, and the hill near the source of that stream is called the earlshill, both deriving their appellations, according to the unvarying traditions of the country, from the unfortunate erle's son who is the hero of the ballad. he, also, according to the same respectable authority, was 'beautiful exceedingly', and especially remarkable for the extreme length and loveliness of his yellow hair, which shrouded him as it were a golden mist. to these floating traditions we are, probably, indebted for the attempts which have been made to improve and embellish the ballad, by the introduction of various new stanzas since its first appearance in a printed form. "in percy's _reliques_, it is mentioned that it had run through two editions in scotland, the second of which appeared at glasgow in , vo.; and that to both there was prefixed an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of the poem was owing 'to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses', and requesting that 'any reader, who could render it more correct or complete, would oblige the public with such improvements'. this was holding out too tempting a bait not to be greedily snapped at by some of those 'ingenious hands' who have corrupted the purity of legendary song in scotland by manifest forgeries and gross impositions. accordingly, sixteen additional verses soon appeared in manuscript, which the editor of the _reliques_ has inserted in their proper places, though he rightly views them in no better light than that of an ingenious interpolation. indeed, the whole ballad of _gil morice_, as the writer of the present notice has been politely informed by the learned and elegant editor of the _border minstrelsy_, underwent a total revisal about the period when the tragedy of _douglas_ was in the zenith of its popularity, and this improved copy, it seems, embraced the ingenious interpolation above referred to. independent altogether of this positive information, any one, familiar with the state in which traditionary poetry has been transmitted to the present times, can be at no loss to detect many more 'ingenious interpolations', as well as paraphrastic additions, in the ballad as now printed. but, though it has been grievously corrupted in this way, the most scrupulous inquirer into the authenticity of ancient song can have no hesitation in admitting that many of its verses, even as they now stand, are purely traditionary, and fair, and genuine parcels of antiquity, unalloyed with any base admixture of modern invention, and in nowise altered, save in those changes of language to which all oral poetry is unavoidably subjected, in its progress from one age to another." motherwell. we have given _gil morrice_ as it stands in the _reliques_, (iii. ,) degrading to the margin those stanzas which are undoubtedly spurious, and we have added an ancient traditionary version, obtained by motherwell, which, if it appear short and crude, is at least comparatively incorrupt. _chield morice_, taken down from recitation, and printed in motherwell's _minstrelsy_, (p. ,) nearly resembles _gil morrice_, as here exhibited. we have also inserted in the appendix _childe maurice_, "the very old imperfect copy," mentioned in the _reliques_, and first published from the percy ms. by jamieson. the sets of _gil morrice_ in the collections of herd, pinkerton, ritson, &c., are all taken from percy. gil morrice was an erles son, his name it waxed wide: it was nae for his great riches, nor zet his mickle pride; bot it was for a lady gay[l ] that liv'd on carron side. "quhair sall i get a bonny boy, that will win hose and shoen; that will gae to lord barnard's ha', and bid his lady cum? "and ze maun rin my errand, willie, and ze may rin wi' pride; quhen other boys gae on their foot, on horseback ze sall ride." "o no! o no! my master dear! i dare nae for my life; i'll no gae to the bauld barons, for to triest furth his wife." "my bird willie, my boy willie, my dear willie," he sayd: "how can ze strive against the stream? for i sall be obeyd." "bot, o my master dear!" he cry'd, "in grene wod ze're zour lain; gi owre sic thochts, i walde ze rede, for fear ze should be tain." "haste, haste, i say, gae to the ha', bid hir cum here wi' speid: if ze refuse my heigh command, i'll gar zour body bleid. "gae bid hir take this gay mantel, 't is a' gowd bot the hem; bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, and bring nane hot hir lain: "and there it is, a silken sarke, hir ain hand sewd the sleive; and bid hir cum to gill morice, speir nae bauld barons leave." "yes, i will gae zour black errand, though it be to zour cost; sen ze by me will nae be warn'd, in it ze sall find frost. "the baron he is a man of might, he neir could bide to taunt; as ze will see, before it's nicht, how sma' ze hae to vaunt. "and sen i maun zour errand rin sae sair against my will, i'se mak a vow and keip it trow, it sall be done for ill." and quhen he came to broken brigue,[l ] he bent his bow and swam; and quhen he came to grass growing, set down his feet and ran. and quhen he came to barnard's ha', would neither chap nor ca'; bot set his bent bow to his breist, and lichtly lap the wa'. he wauld nae tell the man his errand, though he stude at the gait; bot straiht into the ha' he cam, quhair they were set at meit. "hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! my message winna waite; dame, ze maun to the gude grene wod, before that it be late. "ze're bidden tak this gay mantel, 'tis a' gowd bot the hem: zou maun gae to the gude grene wode, ev'n by your sel alane. "and there it is, a silken sarke, your ain hand sewd the sleive: ze maun gae speik to gill morice; speir nae bauld barons leave." the lady stamped wi' hir foot, and winked wi' hir ee; but a' that she could say or do, forbidden he wad nae bee. "it's surely to my bow'r-woman; it neir could be to me." "i brocht it to lord barnard's lady; i trow that ze be she." then up and spack the wylie nurse, (the bairn upon hir knee): "if it be cum frae gill morice, it's deir welcum to mee." "ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse, sae loud i heird ze lee; i brocht it to lord barnard's lady; i trow ze be nae shee." then up and spack the bauld baron, an angry man was hee; he's tain the table wi' his foot, sae has he wi' his knee, till siller cup and ezer[l ] dish in flinders he gard flee. "gae bring a robe of zour cliding, that hings upon the pin; and i'll gae to the gude grene wode, and speik wi' zour lemman." "o bide at hame, now, lord barnard, i warde ze bide at hame; neir wyte a man for violence, that neir wate ze wi' nane." gil morice sate in gude grene wode, he whistled and he sang: "o what mean a' the folk coming? my mother tarries lang." the baron came to the grene wode,[l ] wi' mickle dule and care; and there he first spied gill morice kameing his zellow hair. "nae wonder, nae wonder, gill morice, my lady loed thee weel; the fairest part of my bodie is blacker than thy heel. "zet neir the less now, gill morice, for a' thy great beautie, ze's rew the day ze eir was born; that head sall gae wi' me." now he has drawn his trusty brand, and slait it[l ] on the strae; and thro' gill morice' fair body he's gar cauld iron gae. and he has tain gill morice' head,[l ] and set it on a speir: the meanest man in a' his train has gotten that head to bear. and he has tain gill morice up, laid him across his steid, and brocht him to his painted bowr, and laid him on a bed. the lady sat on castil wa', beheld baith dale and doun; and there she saw gill morice' head cum trailing to the toun. "far better i loe that bluidy head, bot and that zellow hair, than lord barnard, and a' his lands, as they lig here and thair." and she has tain her gill morice, and kissd baith mouth and chin: "i was once as fow of gill morice, as the hip is o' the stean. "i got ze in my father's house, wi' mickle sin and shame; i brocht thee up in gude green wode, under the heavy rain. "oft have i by thy cradle sitten, and fondly seen thee sleip; bot now i gae about thy grave, the saut tears for to weip." and syne she kissd[l ] his bluidy cheik, and syne his bluidy chin: "o better i loe my gill morice than a' my kith and kin!" "away, away, ze il woman,[l ] and an ill deith mait ze dee: gin i had ken'd he'd bin zour son, he'd neir bin slain for mee." . the stall copies of the ballad complete the stanza thus: _his face was fair, lang was his hair, in the wild woods he staid_; but his fame was for a fair lady that lived on carronside. which is no injudicious interpolation, inasmuch as it is founded upon the traditions current among the vulgar, regarding gil morice's comely face and long yellow hair. motherwell. - . a familiar commonplace in ballad poetry. see _childe vyet_, _lady maisry_, _lord barnaby_, &c. , mazer. his hair was like the threeds of gold drawne frae minerva's loome; his lipps like roses drapping dew; his breath was a' perfume. his brow was like the mountain snae gilt by the morning beam; his cheeks like living roses glow; his een like azure stream. the boy was clad in robes of grene, sweete as the infant spring; and like the mavis on the bush, he gart the vallies ring. , slaited. that sweetly wavd around his face, that face beyond compare; he sang sae sweet, it might dispel a' rage but fell dispair. . stall copy, and _first_ she kissed. "obraid me not, my lord barnard! obraid me not for shame! wi' that saim speir, o pierce my heart! and put me out o' pain. "since nothing bot gill morice' head thy jelous rage could quell, let that saim hand now tak hir life that neir to thee did ill. "to me nae after days nor nichts will eir be saft or kind; i'll fill the air with heavy sighs, and greet till i am blind." "enouch of blood by me's bin spilt, seek not zour death frae me; i rather lourd it had been my sel than eather him or thee. "with waefo wae i hear zour plaint; sair, sair i rew the deid, that eir this cursed hand of mine had gard his body bleid. "dry up zour tears, my winsome dame, ze neir can heal the wound; ze see his head upon the speir, his heart's blude on the ground. "i curse the hand that did the deid, the heart that thocht the ill; the feet that bore me wi' sik speid, the comely zouth to kill. "i'll ay lament for gill morice, as gin he were mine ain; i'll neir forget the dreiry day on which the zouth was slain." child noryce. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . "by testimony of a most unexceptionable description,--but which it would be tedious here to detail,--the editor can distinctly trace this ballad as existing in its present shape at least a century ago, which carries it decidedly beyond the date of the first printed copy of _gil morice_; and this with a poem which has been preserved but by oral tradition, is no mean _positive_ antiquity." in the introduction to his collection, motherwell mentions his having found a more complete copy of this ballad under the title of _babe nourice_. child noryce is a clever young man, he wavers wi' the wind; his horse was silver shod before, with the beaten gold behind. he called to his little man john, saying, "you don't see what i see; for o yonder i see the very first woman that ever loved me. "here is a glove, a glove," he said, "lined with the silver gris; you may tell her to come to the merry green wood, to speak to child nory. "here is a ring, a ring," he says, "it's all gold but the stane; you may tell her to come to the merry green wood, and ask the leave o' nane." "so well do i love your errand, my master, but far better do i love my life; o would ye have me go to lord barnard's castel, to betray away his wife?" "o don't i give you meat," he says, "and don't i pay you fee? how dare you stop my errand?" he says; "my orders you must obey." o when he came to lord barnard's castel, he tinkled at the ring; who was as ready as lord barnard[l ] himself to let this little boy in? "here is a glove, a glove," he says, "lined with the silver gris; you are bidden to come to the merry green wood, to speak to child nory. "here is a ring, a ring," he says, "it's all gold but the stane: you are bidden to come to the merry green wood, and ask the leave o' nane." lord barnard he was standing by, and an angry man was he: "o little did i think there was a lord in this world my lady loved but me!" o he dressed himself in the holland smocks, and garments that was gay; and he is away to the merry green wood, to speak to child nory. child noryce sits on yonder tree, he whistles and he sings: "o wae be to me," says child noryce, "yonder my mother comes!" child noryce he came off the tree, his mother to take off the horse: "och alace, alace," says child noryce, "my mother was ne'er so gross." lord barnard he had a little small sword, that hung low down by his knee; he cut the head off child noryce, and put the body on a tree. and when he came to his castel, and to his lady's hall, he threw the head into her lap, saying, "lady, there is a ball!" she turned up the bloody head, she kissed it frae cheek to chin: "far better do i love this bloody head than all my royal kin. "when i was in my father's castell, in my virginitie, there came a lord into the north, gat child noryce with me." "o wae be to thee, lady margaret," he said, "and an ill death may you die; for if you had told me he was your son, he had ne'er been slain by me." . this unquestionably should be lady barnard, instead of her lord. see third stanza under. m. clerk saunders. from the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, (iii. ,) where it was first published. it was "taken from mr. herd's mss., with several corrections from a shorter and more imperfect copy in the same volume, and one or two conjectural emendations in the arrangement of the stanzas." that that part of the ballad which follows the death of the lovers is an independent story, is obvious both from internal evidence, and from the separate existence of those concluding stanzas in a variety of forms: as, _sweet william's ghost_, (_tea-table miscellany_, ii. ,) _sweet william and may margaret_, (kinloch, p. ,) _william and marjorie_, (motherwell, p. .) of this second part, motherwell observes, that it is often made the tail-piece to other ballads where a deceased lover appears to his mistress. the two were, however, combined by sir walter scott, and the present editor has contented himself with indicating distinctly the close of the proper story. an inferior copy of _clerk saunders_, published by jamieson, is inserted in the appendix, for the sake of a few valuable stanzas. it resembles the swedish ballad of _the cruel brother_, (_svenska folk-visor_, iii. ,) which, however, is much shorter. the edition of buchan, (i. ,) is entirely worthless. a north-country version of the first part is given by kinloch, _ancient scottish ballads_, . part first. clerk saunders and may margaret, walked ower yon garden green; and sad and heavy was the love that fell thir twa between. "a bed, a bed," clerk saunders said, "a bed for you and me!"-- "fye na, fye na," said may margaret, "till anes we married be; "for in may come my seven bauld brothers, wi' torches burning bright; they'll say--'we hae but ae sister, and behold she's wi' a knight!'"-- "then take the sword from my scabbard, and slowly lift the pin; and you may swear, and safe your aith, ye never let clerk saunders in. "and take a napkin in your hand, and tie up baith your bonny een; and you may swear, and safe your aith, ye saw me na since late yestreen."[l ] it was about the midnight hour, when they asleep were laid, when in and came her seven brothers, wi' torches burning red. when in and came her seven brothers, wi' torches burning bright; they said, "we hae but ae sister, and behold her lying with a knight!" then out and spake the first o' them, "i bear the sword shall gar him die!" and out and spake the second o' them, "his father has nae mair than he!" and out and spake the third o' them, "i wot that they are lovers dear!" and out and spake the fourth o' them, "they hae been in love this mony a year!" then out and spake the fifth o' them, "it were great sin true love to twain!" and out and spake the sixth of them, "it were shame to slay a sleeping man!" then up and gat the seventh o' them, and never a word spake he; but he has striped his bright brown brand out through clerk saunders' fair bodye. clerk saunders he started, and margaret she turn'd into his arms as asleep she lay; and sad and silent was the night that was atween thir twae. and they lay still and sleeped sound, until the day began to daw; and kindly to him she did say, "it is time, true love, you were awa." but he lay still, and sleeped sound, albeit the sun began to sheen; she looked atween her and the wa', and dull and drowsie were his een. then in and came her father dear, said--"let a' your mourning be: i'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, and i'll come back and comfort thee."-- "comfort weel your seven sons, for comforted will i never be: i ween 'twas neither knave nor loon was in the bower last night wi' me."-- . in kinloch's version of this ballad we have an additional stanza here:-- ----"ye'll take me in your arms twa, ye'll carry me into your bed, and ye may swear, and save your aith, that in your bour floor i ne'er gae'd." part second. the clinking bell gaed through the town,[l ] to carry the dead corse to the clay; and clerk saunders stood at may margaret's window, i wot, an hour before the day. "are ye sleeping, margaret?" he says, "or are ye waking presentlie? give me my faith and troth again, i wot, true love, i gied to thee."-- "your faith and troth ye sall never get, nor our true love sall never twin, until ye come within my bower, and kiss me cheik and chin."-- "my mouth it is full cold, margaret, it has the smell, now, of the ground; and if i kiss thy comely mouth, thy days of life will not be lang. "o cocks are crowing a merry midnight, i wot the wild fowls are boding day; give me my faith and troth again, and let me fare me on my way."-- "thy faith and troth thou sall na get, and our true love shall never twin, until ye tell what comes of women, i wot, who die in strong traiveling." "their beds are made in the heavens high, down at the foot of our good lord's knee, weel set about wi' gillyflowers; i wot sweet company for to see. "o cocks are crowing a merry midnight, i wot the wild fowl are boding day; the psalms of heaven will soon be sung, and i, ere now, will be miss'd away."-- then she has ta'en a crystal[l ] wand, and she has stroken her troth thereon; she has given it him out at the shot-window, wi' mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan. "i thank ye, marg'ret; i thank ye, marg'ret; and aye i thank ye heartilie; gin ever the dead come for the quick, be sure, marg'ret, i'll come for thee."-- it's hosen and shoon and gown alone, she climb'd the wall, and follow'd him, until she came to the green forest, and there she lost the sight o' him. "is there ony room at your head, saunders? is there ony room at your feet? or ony room at your side, saunders, where fain, fain, i wad sleep?"-- "there's nae room at my head, marg'ret, there's nae room at my feet; my bed it is full lowly now: amang the hungry worms i sleep. "cauld mould is my covering now, but and my winding-sheet; the dew it falls nae sooner down, than my resting place is weet. "but plait a wand o' bonny birk,[l ] and lay it on my breast; and shed a tear upon my grave, and wish my saul gude rest. "and fair marg'ret, and rare marg'ret, and marg'ret o' veritie, gin e'er ye love another man, ne'er love him as ye did me."-- then up and crew the milk-white cock, and up and crew the grey; her lover vanish'd in the air, and she gaed weeping away. . the custom of the passing bell is still kept up in many villages in scotland. the sexton goes through the town, ringing a small bell, and announcing the death of the departed, and the time of the funeral. scott. . chrisom. . the custom of binding the new-laid sod of the churchyard with osiers, or other saplings, prevailed both in england and scotland, and served to protect the turf from injury by cattle, or otherwise. scott. sweet willie and lady margerie. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . "this ballad, which possesses considerable beauty and pathos, is given from the recitation of a lady, now far advanced in years, with whose grandmother it was a deserved favourite. it is now for the first time printed. it bears some resemblance to _clerk saunders_." subjoined is a different copy from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_. sweet willie was a widow's son, and he wore a milk-white weed o; and weel could willie read and write, far better ride on steed o. lady margerie was the first ladye that drank to him the wine o; and aye as the healths gaed round and round, "laddy, your love is mine o." lady margerie was the first ladye that drank to him the beer o; and aye as the healths gaed round and round, laddy, ye're welcome here o. "you must come intill my bower, when the evening bells do ring o; and you must come intill my bower, when the evening mass doth sing o." he's taen four-and-twenty braid arrows, and laced them in a whang o; and he's awa to lady margerie's bower, as fast as he can gang o. he set his ae foot on the wa', and the other on a stane o; and he's kill'd a' the king's life guards, he's kill'd them every man o. "o open, open, lady margerie, open and let me in o; the weet weets a' my yellow hair, and the dew draps on my chin o." with her feet as white as sleet, she strode her bower within o; and with her fingers lang and sma', she's looten sweet willie in o. she's louted down unto his foot, to lowze sweet willie's shoon o; the buckles were sae stiff they wadna lowze, the blood had frozen in o. "o willie, o willie, i fear that thou hast bred me dule and sorrow; the deed that thou hast done this nicht will kythe upon the morrow." in then came her father dear, and a braid sword by his gare o; and he's gien willie, the widow's son, a deep wound and a sair o. "lye yont, lye yont, willie," she says, "your sweat weets a' my side o; lye yont, lye yont, willie," she says, "for your sweat i downa bide o." she turned her back unto the wa', her face unto the room o; and there she saw her auld father, fast walking up and doun o. "woe be to you, father," she said, "and an ill deid may you die o; for ye've killed willie, the widow's son, and he would have married me o." she turned her back unto the room, her face unto the wa' o; and with a deep and heavy sich, her heart it brak in twa o. willie and lady maisry. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . _the bent sae brown_, in the same volume, p. , resembles both _clerk saunders_ and the present ballad, but has a different catastrophe. sweet willie was a widow's son, and milk-white was his weed; it sets him weel to bridle a horse, and better to saddle a steed, my dear, and better to saddle a steed. but he is on to maisry's bower door, and tirled at the pin; "ye sleep ye, wake ye, lady maisry, ye'll open, let me come in, my dear, ye'll open, let me come in." "o who is this at my bower door, sae well that knows my name?" "it is your ain true love, willie, if ye love me, lat me in, my dear, if ye love me, lat me in." then huly, huly raise she up, for fear o' making din; then in her arms lang and bent, she caught sweet willie in, my dear, she caught sweet willie in. she lean'd her low down to her toe, to loose her true love's sheen; but cauld, cauld were the draps o' bleed, fell fae his trusty brand, my dear, fell fae his trusty brand. "what frightfu' sight is that, my love? a frightfu' sight to see; what bluid is this on your sharp brand, o may ye not tell me, my dear? o may ye not tell me?" "as i came thro' the woods this night, the wolf maist worried me; o shou'd i slain the wolf, maisry? or shou'd the wolf slain me, my dear? or shou'd the wolf slain me?" they hadna kiss'd nor love clapped, as lovers when they meet, till up it starts her auld father, out o' his drowsy sleep, my dear, out o' his drowsy sleep. "o what's become o' my house cock sae crouse at ane did craw? i wonder as much at my bold watch, that's nae shootin ower the wa', my dear, that's nae shooting ower the wa'. "my gude house cock, my only son, heir ower my land sae free; if ony ruffian hae him slain, high hanged shall he be, my dear, high hanged shall he be." then he's on to maisry's bower door, and tirled at the pin; "ye sleep ye, wake ye, daughter maisry, ye'll open, lat me come in, my dear, ye'll open, lat me come in." between the curtains and the wa', she row'd her true love then; and huly went she to the door, and let her father in, my dear, and let her father in. "what's become o' your maries, maisry, your bower it looks sae teem? what's become o' your green claithing? your beds they are sae thin, my dear, your beds they are sae thin." "gude forgie you, father," she said, "i wish ye be't for sin; sae aft as ye hae dreaded me, but never found me wrang, my dear, but never found me wrang." he turn'd him right and round about, as he'd been gaun awa'; but sae nimbly as he slippet in, behind a screen sae sma', my dear, behind a screen sae sma'. maisry thinking a' dangers past, she to her love did say; "come, love, and take your silent rest, my auld father's away, my dear, my auld father's away!" then baith lock'd in each other's arms, they fell full fast asleep; when up it starts her auld father, and stood at their bed feet, my dear, and stood at their bed feet. "i think i hae the villain now, that my dear son did slay; but i shall be reveng'd on him, before i see the day, my dear, before i see the day." then he's drawn out a trusty brand, and stroak'd it o'er a stray; and thro' and thro' sweet willie's middle he's gart cauld iron gae, my dear, he's gart cauld iron gae. then up it waken'd lady maisry, out o' her drowsy sleep; and when she saw her true love slain, she straight began to weep, my dear, she straight began to weep. "o gude forgie you now, father," she said, "i wish ye be't for sin; for i never lov'd a love but ane, in my arms ye've him slain, my dear, in my arms ye've him slain." "this night he's slain my gude bold watch, thirty stout men and twa; likewise he's slain your ae brother, to me was worth them a', my dear, to me was worth them a'." "if he has slain my ae brither, himsell had a' the blame; for mony a day he plots contriv'd, to hae sweet willie slain, my dear, to hae sweet willie slain. "and tho' he's slain your gude bold watch, he might hae been forgien; they came on him in armour bright, when he was but alane, my dear, when he was but alane." nae meen was made for this young knight, in bower where he lay slain; but a' was for sweet maisry bright, in fields where she ran brain, my dear, in fields where she ran brain. the clerk's twa sons o' owsenford. "this singularly wild and beautiful old ballad," says chambers, (_scottish ballads_, p. ,) "is chiefly taken from the recitation of the editor's grandmother, who learned it, when a girl, nearly seventy years ago, from a miss anne gray, resident at neidpath castle, peeblesshire; some additional stanzas, and a few various readings, being adopted from a less perfect, and far less poetical copy, published in mr. buchan's [_ancient ballads and songs of the north of scotland_, i. ,] and from a fragment in the _border minstrelsy_, entitled _the wife of usher's well_, [vol. i. p. , of this collection,] but which is evidently the same narrative."[a] [a] there is to a certain extent a resemblance between this ballad and the german ballad _das schloss in oesterreich_, found in most of the german collections, and in swedish and danish. "the editor has been induced to divide this ballad into two parts, on account of the _great superiority of what follows over what goes before, and because the latter portion is in a great measure independent of the other_, so far as sense is concerned. the first part is composed of the peeblesshire version, mingled with that of the northern editor: the second is formed of the peeblesshire version, mingled with the fragment called _the wife of usher's well_." the natural desire of men to hear more of characters in whom they have become strongly interested, has frequently stimulated the attempt to continue successful fictions, and such supplements are proverbially unfortunate. a ballad-singer would have powerful inducements to gratify this passion of his audience, and he could most economically effect the object by stringing two ballads together. when a tale ended tragically, the sequel must of necessity be a ghost-story, and we have already had, in _clerk saunders_, an instance of this combination. mr. chambers has furnished the best possible reasons for believing that the same process has taken place in the case of the present ballad, and that the two parts, (which occur separately,) having originally had no connection, were arbitrarily united, to suit the purposes of some unscrupulous rhapsodist. part first. o i will sing to you a sang, will grieve your heart full sair; how the clerk's twa sons o' owsenford have to learn some unco lear. they hadna been in fair parish a twelvemonth and a day, till the clerk's twa sons fell deep in love wi' the mayor's dauchters twae. and aye as the twa clerks sat and wrote, the ladies sewed and sang; there was mair mirth in that chamber, than in a' fair ferrol's land. but word's gane to the michty mayor, as he sailed on the sea, that the clerk's twa sons made licht lemans o' his fair dauchters twae. "if they hae wranged my twa dauchters, janet and marjorie, the morn, ere i taste meat or drink, hie hangit they shall be." and word's gane to the clerk himsell, as he was drinking wine, that his twa sons at fair parish were bound in prison strang. then up and spak the clerk's ladye, and she spak tenderlie: "o tak wi' ye a purse o' gowd, or even tak ye three; and if ye canna get william, bring henry hame to me." o sweetly sang the nightingale, as she sat on the wand; but sair, sair mourned owsenford, as he gaed in the strand. when he came to their prison strang, he rade it round about, and at a little shot-window, his sons were looking out. "o lie ye there, my sons," he said, "for owsen or for kye? or what is it that ye lie for, sae sair bound as ye lie?" "we lie not here for owsen, father; nor yet do we for kye; but it's for a little o' dear-boucht love, sae sair bound as we lie. "o borrow us, borrow us, father," they said, "for the luve we bear to thee!" "o never fear, my pretty sons, weel borrowed ye sall be." then he's gane to the michty mayor, and he spak courteouslie: "will ye grant my twa sons' lives, either for gold or fee? or will ye be sae gude a man, as grant them baith to me?" "i'll no grant ye your twa sons' lives, neither for gold nor fee; nor will i be sae gude a man, as gie them baith to thee; but before the morn at twal o'clock, ye'll see them hangit hie!" ben it came the mayor's dauchters, wi' kirtle coat alone; their eyes did sparkle like the gold, as they tripped on the stone. "will ye gie us our loves, father, for gold, or yet for fee? or will ye take our own sweet lives, and let our true loves be?" he's taen a whip into his hand, and lashed them wondrous sair; "gae to your bowers, ye vile limmers; ye'se never see them mair." then out it speaks auld owsenford; a sorry man was he: "gang to your bouirs, ye lilye flouirs; for a' this maunna be." then out it speaks him hynde henry: "come here, janet, to me; will ye gie me my faith and troth, and love, as i gae thee?" "ye sall hae your faith and troth, wi' god's blessing and mine:" and twenty times she kissed his mouth, her father looking on. then out it speaks him gay william: "come here, sweet marjorie; will ye gie me my faith and troth, and love, as i gae thee?" "yes, ye sall hae your faith and troth, wi' god's blessing and mine:" and twenty times she kissed his mouth, her father looking on. * * * * * "o ye'll tak aff your twa black hats, lay them down on a stone, that nane may ken that ye are clerks, till ye are putten doun." the bonnie clerks they died that morn; their loves died lang ere noon; and the waefu' clerk o' owsenford to his lady has gane hame. part second. his lady sat on her castle wa', beholding dale and doun; and there she saw her ain gude lord come walking to the toun. "ye're welcome, ye're welcome, my ain gude lord, ye're welcome hame to me; but where-away are my twa sons? ye suld hae brought them wi' ye." "o they are putten to a deeper lear, and to a higher scule: your ain twa sons will no be hame till the hallow days o' yule." "o sorrow, sorrow, come mak my bed; and, dule, come lay me doun; for i will neither eat nor drink, nor set a fit on groun'!" the hallow days o' yule were come, and the nights were lang and mirk, when in and cam her ain twa sons, and their hats made o' the birk. it neither grew in syke nor ditch, nor yet in ony sheuch; but at the gates o' paradise that birk grew fair eneuch. "blow up the fire, now, maidens mine, bring water from the well; for a' my house shall feast this night, since my twa sons are well. "o eat and drink, my merry-men a', the better shall ye fare; for my two sons they are come hame to me for evermair." and she has gane and made their bed, she's made it saft and fine; and she's happit them wi' her gay mantil, because they were her ain. but the young cock crew in the merry linkum, and the wild fowl chirped for day; and the aulder to the younger said, "brother, we maun away. "the cock doth craw, the day doth daw, the channerin worm doth chide; gin we be missed out o' our place, a sair pain we maun bide." "lie still, lie still a little wee while, lie still but if we may; gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, she'll gae mad ere it be day." * * * * * o it's they've taen up their mother's mantil, and they've hung it on a pin: "o lang may ye hing, my mother's mantil, ere ye hap us again." childe vyet. first printed in a complete form in maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. . the same editor contributed a slightly different copy to motherwell's _minstrelsy_, (p. .) an inferior version is furnished by buchan, i. , and jamieson has published a fragment on the same story, here given in the appendix. lord ingram and childe vyet, were both born in ane bower, had both their loves on one lady, the less was their honour.[l ] childe vyet and lord ingram, were both born in one hall, had both their loves on one lady the worse did them befall. lord ingram woo'd the lady maiserey, from father and from mother; lord ingram woo'd the lady maiserey, from sister and from brother. lord ingram wooed the lady maiserey, with leave of all her kin; and every one gave full consent, but she said no, to him. lord ingram wooed the lady maiserey, into her father's ha'; childe vyet wooed the lady maiserey, among the sheets so sma'. now it fell out upon a day, she was dressing her head, that ben did come her father dear, wearing the gold so red. "get up now, lady maiserey, put on your wedding gown, for lord ingram will be here, your wedding must be done!" "i'd rather be childe vyet's wife, the white fish for to sell, before i were lord ingram's wife, to wear the silk so well! "i'd rather be childe vyet's wife, with him to beg my bread, before i'd be lord ingram's wife, to wear the gold so red. "where will i get a bonny boy, will win gold to his fee, will run unto childe vyet's ha', with this letter from me?" "o here, i am the boy," says one, "will win gold to my fee, and carry away any letter, to childe vyet from thee." and when he found the bridges broke, he bent his bow and swam; and when he found the grass growing, he hasten'd and he ran. and when he came to vyet's castle, he did not knock nor call, but set his bent bow to his breast, and lightly leaped the wall; and ere the porter open'd the gate, the boy was in the hall. the first line that childe vyet read, a grieved man was he; the next line that he looked on, a tear blinded his e'e. "what ails my own brother," he says, "he'll not let my love be; but i'll send to my brother's bridal; the woman shall be free. "take four and twenty bucks and ewes, and ten tun of the wine, and bid my love be blythe and glad, and i will follow syne." there was not a groom about that castle, but got a gown of green; and a' was blythe, and a' was glad, but lady maiserey was wi' wean.[l ] there was no cook about the kitchen, but got a gown of gray; and a' was blythe, and a' was glad, but lady maiserey was wae. 'tween mary kirk and that castle, was all spread o'er with garl,[l ] to keep the lady and her maidens, from tramping on the marl.[l ] from mary kirk to that castle, was spread a cloth of gold, to keep the lady and her maidens, from treading on the mould. when mass was sung, and bells were rung, and all men bound for bed, then lord ingram and lady maiserey, in one bed they were laid. when they were laid upon their bed, it was baith soft and warm, he laid his hand over her side, says he, "you are with bairn." "i told you once, so did i twice, when ye came as my wooer, that childe vyet, your one brother, one night lay in my bower. "i told you twice, so did i thrice, ere ye came me to wed, that childe vyet, your one brother, one night lay in my bed!" "o will you father your bairn on me, and on no other man? and i'll gie him to his dowry, full fifty ploughs of land." "i will not father my bairn on you, nor on no wrongous man, tho' you'd gie him to his dowry, five thousand ploughs of land." then up did start him childe vyet, shed by his yellow hair, and gave lord ingram to the heart, a deep wound and a sair. then up did start him lord ingram, shed by his yellow hair, and gave childe vyet to the heart, a deep wound and a sair. there was no pity for the two lords, where they were lying slain, all was for lady maiserey: in that bower she gaed brain! there was no pity for the two lords, when they were lying dead, all was for lady maiserey: in that bower she went mad! "o get to me a cloak of cloth, a staff of good hard tree; if i have been an evil woman, i shall beg till i die. "for ae bit i'll beg for childe vyet, for lord ingram i'll beg three, all for the honourable marriage, that at mary kirk he gave me!" . the less was their bonheur. motherwell. , she was neen. motherwell. , gold. , mould. n. c. g. lady maisry. this ballad, said to be very popular in scotland, was taken down from recitation by jamieson, and is extracted from his collection, vol. i. p. . a different copy, from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. , is given in the appendix. another, styled _young prince james_, may be seen in buchan's _ballads_, vol. i. . _bonnie susie cleland_, motherwell, p. , is still another version. in _lady maisry_ we seem to have the english form of a tragic story which, starting from denmark, has spread over almost all the north of europe, that of _king waldemar and his sister_. grundtvig's collection gives seven copies of the danish ballad upon this subject (_kong valdemar og hans söster_, no. ), the oldest from a manuscript of the beginning of the th century. five icelandic versions are known, one norse, one faroish, five swedish (four of them in arwidsson, no. , _liten kerstin och fru sofia_), and several in german, as _graf hans von holstein und seine schwester annchristine_, erk, _liederhort_, p. ; _der grausame bruder_, erk, p. , and hoffmann, _schlesische volkslieder_, no. ; _der grobe bruder_, _wunderhorn_, ii. ; _der pfalzgraf am rhein_, _id._ i. , etc.; also a fragment in wendish. the relationship of the english ballad to the rest of the cycle can perhaps be easiest shown by comparison with the simplified and corrupted german versions. the story appears to be founded on facts which occurred during the reign and in the family of the danish king, waldemar the first, sometime between and . waldemar is described as being, with all his greatness, of a relentless and cruel disposition (_in ira pertinax_; _in suos tantum plus justo crudelior_). tradition, however, has imputed to him a brutal ferocity beyond belief. in the ballad before us, lady maisry suffers for her weakness by being burned at the stake, but in the danish, swedish, and german ballads, the king's sister is beaten to death with leathern whips, by her brother's own hand. "er schlug sie so sehre, er schlug sie so lang, bis lung und leber aus dem leib ihr sprang!" the icelandic and faroe ballads have nothing of this horrible ferocity, but contain a story which is much nearer to probability, if not to historical truth. while king waldemar is absent on an expedition against the wends, his sister kristín is drawn into a _liaison_ with her second-cousin, the result of which is the birth of two children. sofía, the queen, maliciously makes the state of things known to the king the moment he returns (which is on the very day of kristín's lying in, according to the danish ballad), but he will not believe the story,--all the more because the accused parties are within prohibited degrees of consanguinity. kristín is summoned to come instantly to her brother, and obeys the message, though she is weak with childbirth, and knows that the journey will cost her her life. she goes to the court on horseback (in the danish ballads falling from the saddle once or twice on the way), and on her arrival is put to various tests to ascertain her condition, concluding with a long dance with the king, to which, having held out for a considerable time, she at last succumbs, and falls dead in her brother's arms. the incidents of the journey on horseback, and the cruel probation by the dance, are found in the ballad which follows the present (_fair janet_), and these coincidences grundtvig considers sufficient to establish its derivation from the danish. the _general_ similarity of _lady maisry_ to _king waldemar and his sister_ is, however, much more striking. for our part, we are inclined to believe that _both_ the english ballads had this origin, but the difference in their actual form is so great, that, notwithstanding this conviction, we have not felt warranted in putting them together. the young lords o' the north country have all a-wooing gane, to win the love of lady maisry, but o' them she wou'd hae nane. o thae hae sought her, lady maisry, wi' broaches, and wi' rings; and they hae courted her, lady maisry, wi' a' kin kind of things. and they hae sought her, lady maisry, frae father and frae mither; and they hae sought her, lady maisry, frae sister and frae brither. and they hae follow'd her, lady maisry, thro' chamber, and through ha'; but a' that they could say to her, her answer still was "na." "o haud your tongues, young men," she said, "and think nae mair on me; for i've gi'en my love to an english lord, sae think nae mair on me." her father's kitchey-boy heard that, (an ill death mot he die!) and he is in to her brother, as fast as gang cou'd he. "o is my father and my mother weel, but and my brothers three? gin my sister lady maisry be weel, there's naething can ail me." "your father and your mother is weel, but and your brothers three; your sister, lady maisry's, weel, sae big wi' bairn is she." "a malison light on the tongue, sic tidings tells to me!-- but gin it be a lie you tell, you shall be hanged hie." he's doen him to his sister's bower, wi' mickle dool and care; and there he saw her, lady maisry, kembing her yellow hair. "o wha is aucht that bairn," he says,[l ] "that ye sae big are wi'? and gin ye winna own the truth, this moment ye sall die." she's turned her richt and round about, and the kembe fell frae her han'; a trembling seized her fair bodie, and her rosy cheek grew wan. "o pardon me, my brother dear, and the truth i'll tell to thee; my bairn it is to lord william, and he is betrothed to me." "o cou'dna ye gotten dukes, or lords, intill your ain countrie, that ye drew up wi' an english dog, to bring this shame on me? "but ye maun gi'e up your english lord, whan your young babe is born; for, gin ye keep by him an hour langer, your life shall be forlorn." "i will gi'e up this english lord, till my young babe be born; but the never a day nor hour langer, though my life should be forlorn." "o whare is a' my merry young men, wham i gi'e meat and fee, to pu' the bracken and the thorn, to burn this vile whore wi'?" "o whare will i get a bonny boy, to help me in my need, to rin wi' haste to lord william, and bid him come wi' speed?" o out it spak a bonny boy, stood by her brother's side; "it's i wad rin your errand, lady, o'er a' the warld wide. "aft ha'e i run your errands, lady, when blawin baith wind and weet; but now i'll rin your errand, lady, with saut tears on my cheek." o whan he came to broken briggs, he bent his bow and swam; and whan he came to the green grass growin', he slack'd his shoon and ran. and when he came to lord william's yeats, he badena to chap or ca'; but set his bent bow to his breast, and lightly lap the wa'; and, or the porter was at the yeat, the boy was in the ha'. "o is my biggins broken, boy? or is my towers won? or is my lady lighter yet, o' a dear daughter or son?" "your biggin isna broken, sir, nor is your towers won; but the fairest lady in a' the land this day for you maun burn." "o saddle to me the black, the black, or saddle to me the brown; or saddle to me the swiftest steed that ever rade frae a town." or he was near a mile awa', she heard his weir-horse sneeze; "mend up the fire, my fause brother, it's nae come to my knees." o whan he lighted at the yeat, she heard his bridle ring: "mend up the fire, my fause brother; it's far yet frae my chin. "mend up the fire to me, brother, mend up the fire to me; for i see him comin' hard and fast, will soon men't up for thee. "o gin my hands had been loose, willy, sae hard as they are boun', i wadd hae turn'd me frae the gleed, and casten out your young son." "o i'll gar burn for you, maisry, your father and your mother; and i'll gar burn for you, maisry, your sister and your brother; "and i'll gar burn for you, maisry, the chief o' a' your kin; and the last bonfire that i come to, mysell i will cast in." v. . see preface to _clerk saunders_, p. . fair janet. from sharpe's _ballad book_, p. . "this ballad, the subject of which appears to have been very popular, is printed as it was sung by an old woman in perthshire. the air is extremely beautiful." herd gave an imperfect version of this ballad under the title of _willie and annet_, in his _scottish songs_, i. ; repeated after him in ritson's _scottish songs_, and in johnson's _museum_. finlay's copy, improved, but made up of fragments, follows the present, and in the appendix is _sweet willie and fair maisry_, from buchan's collection. we have followed motherwell by inserting (in brackets) three stanzas from _willie and annet_ and _sweet willie_, which contribute slightly to complete sharpe's copy. none of these ballads is satisfactory, though sharpe's is the best. touching the relation of _fair janet_ to the danish ballad of _king waldemar and his sister_, the reader will please look at the preface to the preceding ballad. "ye maun gang to your father, janet, ye maun gang to him soon; ye maun gang to your father, janet, in case that his days are dune!" janet's awa' to her father, as fast as she could hie; "o what's your will wi' me, father? o what's your will wi' me?" "my will wi' you, fair janet," he said, "it is both bed and board; some say that ye lo'e sweet willie, but ye maun wed a french lord." "a french lord maun i wed, father? a french lord maun i wed? then, by my sooth," quo' fair janet, "he's ne'er enter my bed." janet's awa' to her chamber, as fast as she could go; wha's the first ane that tapped there, but sweet willie her jo! "o we maun part this love, willie, that has been lang between; there's a french lord coming o'er the sea to wed me wi' a ring; there 's a french lord coming o'er the sea, to wed and tak me hame." "if we maun part this love, janet, it causeth mickle woe; if we maun part this love, janet, it makes me into mourning go." "but ye maun gang to your three sisters, meg, marion, and jean; tell them to come to fair janet, in case that her days are dune." willie's awa' to his three sisters, meg, marion, and jean; "o haste, and gang to fair janet, i fear that her days are dune." some drew to them their silken hose, some drew to them their shoon, some drew to them their silk manteils, their coverings to put on; and they're awa' to fair janet, by the hie light o' the moon. * * * * * * * "o i have born this babe, willie, wi' mickle toil and pain; take hame, take hame, your babe, willie, for nurse i dare be nane." he's tane his young son in his arms, and kist him cheek and chin,-- and he's awa' to his mother's bower, by the hie light o' the moon. "o open, open, mother," he says, "o open, and let me in; the rain rains on my yellow hair, and the dew drops o'er my chin,-- and i hae my young son in my arms, i fear that his days are dune." with her fingers lang and sma' she lifted up the pin; and with her arms lang and sma' received the baby in. "gae back, gae back now, sweet willie, and comfort your fair lady; for where ye had but ae nourice, your young son shall hae three." willie he was scarce awa', and the lady put to bed, when in and came her father dear: "make haste, and busk the bride." "there's a sair pain in my head, father, there's a sair pain in my side; and ill, o ill, am i, father, this day for to be a bride." "o ye maun busk this bonny bride, and put a gay mantle on; for she shall wed this auld french lord, gin she should die the morn." some put on the gay green robes, and some put on the brown; but janet put on the scarlet robes, to shine foremost through the town. and some they mounted the black steed, and some mounted the brown; but janet mounted the milk-white steed, to ride foremost through the town. "o wha will guide your horse, janet? o wha will guide him best?" "o wha but willie, my true love, he kens i lo'e him best!" and when they cam to marie's kirk, to tye the haly ban, fair janet's cheek looked pale and wan, and her colour gaed and cam. when dinner it was past and done, and dancing to begin, "o we'll go take the bride's maidens, and we'll go fill the ring." o ben than cam the auld french lord, saying, "bride, will ye dance with me?" "awa', awa', ye auld french lord, your face i downa see." o ben than cam now sweet willie, he cam with ane advance: "o i'll go tak the bride's maidens, and we'll go tak a dance." "i've seen ither days wi' you, willie, and so has mony mae; ye would hae danced wi' me mysel', let a' my maidens gae." o ben than cam now sweet willie, saying, "bride, will ye dance wi' me?" "aye, by my sooth, and that i will, gin my back should break in three." [and she's ta'en willie by the hand, the tear blinded her e'e; "o i wad dance wi' my true love, tho' bursts my heart in three!"] she hadna turned her throw the dance, throw the dance but thrice, whan she fell doun at willie's feet, and up did never rise! [she's ta'en her bracelet frae her arm, her garter frae her knee: "gie that, gie that, to my young son; he'll ne'er his mother see."] willie's ta'en the key of his coffer, and gi'en it to his man; "gae hame, and tell my mother dear, my horse he has me slain; bid her be kind to my young son, for father he has nane." ["gar deal, gar deal the bread," he cried, "gar deal, gar deal the wine; this day has seen my true love's death, this night shall witness mine."] the tane was buried in marie's kirk, and the tither in marie's quire: out of the tane there grew a birk, and the tither a bonny brier. sweet willie. "this ballad has had the misfortune, in common with many others, of being much mutilated by reciters. i have endeavoured, by the assistance of some fragments, to make it as complete as possible; and have even taken the liberty of altering the arrangement of some of the stanzas of a lately-procured copy, that they might the better cohere with those already printed." finlay's _scottish ballads_, ii. . "will you marry the southland lord, a queen o' fair england to be? or will you mourn for sweet willie, the morn upon yon lea?" "i will marry the southland lord, father, sen it is your will; but i'd rather it were my burial day, for my grave i'm going till. "o go, o go now my bower wife, o go now hastilie, o go now to sweet willie's bower, and bid him cum speak to me.-- "now, willie, gif ye love me weel, as sae it seems to me, gar build, gar build a bonny ship, gar build it speedilie! "and we will sail the sea sae green unto some far countrie; or we'll sail to some bonny isle, stands lanely midst the sea." but lang or e'er the ship was built, or deck'd or rigged out, cam sic a pain in annet's back, that down she cou'dna lout. "now, willie, gin ye love me weel, as sae it seems to me, o haste, haste, bring me to my bower, and my bower maidens three." he's ta'en her in his arms twa, and kiss'd her cheek and chin, he's brocht her to her ain sweet bower, but nae bower maid was in. "now leave my bower, willie," she said, "now leave me to my lane; was never man in a lady's bower when she was travailing." he's stepped three steps down the stair, upon the marble stane, sae loud's he heard his young son greet, but and his lady mane. "now come, now come, willie," she said, "tak your young son frae me, and hie him to your mother's bower, with speed and privacie." and he is to his mother's bower, as fast as he could rin; "open, open, my mother dear, open, and let me in; "for the rain rains on my yellow hair, the dew stands on my chin, and i have something in my lap, and i wad fain be in." "o go, o go now, sweet willie, and make your lady blithe, for wherever you had ae nourice, your young son shall hae five."-- out spak annet's mother dear, an' she spak a word o' pride; says, "whare is a' our bride's maidens, they're no busking the bride?" "o haud your tongue, my mother dear, your speaking let it be, for i'm sae fair and full o' flesh, little busking will serve me." out an' spak the bride's maidens, they spak a word o' pride; says, "whare is a' the fine cleiding? its we maun busk the bride." "deal hooly wi' my head, maidens, deal hooly wi' my hair, for it was washen late yestreen, and it is wonder sair. "my maidens, easy wi' my back, and easy wi' my side; o set my saddle saft, willie, i am a tender bride." o up then spak the southland lord, and blinkit wi' his ee; "i trow this lady's born a bairn," then laucht loud lauchters three. "ye hae gi'en me the gowk, annet, but i'll gie you the scorn; for there's no a bell in a' the town shall ring for you the morn." out and spak then sweet willie, "sae loud's i hear you lie, there's no a bell in a' the town but shall ring for annet and me." and willie swore a great great oath, and he swore by the thorn, that she was as free o' a child that night, as the night that she was born. o up an' spak the brisk bridegroom,[l ] and he spak up wi' pride, "gin i should lay my gloves in pawn, i will dance wi' the bride." "now haud your tongue, my lord," she said,[l ] "wi' dancing let me be, i am sae thin in flesh and blude, sma' dancing will serve me." but she's ta'en willie by the hand, the tear blinded her ee; "but i wad dance wi' my true love, but bursts my heart in three." she's ta'en her bracelet frae her arm, her garter frae her knee, "gie that, gie that, to my young son; he'll ne'er his mother see." . _sic_ herd. finlay, then sweet willie. . _sic_ herd. finlay, willie, she said. fair annie of lochroyan. of this beautiful piece a complete copy was first published by scott, another afterwards by jamieson. both are here given, the latter, as in some respects preferable, having the precedence. the ballad is found almost entire in herd's _scottish songs_, i. , a short fragment in johnson's _museum_, p. , and a more considerable one, called _love gregory_, in buchan's collection, ii. . this last has been unnecessarily repeated in a very indifferent publication of the percy society, vol. xvii. dr. wolcot, burns, and jamieson have written songs on the story of fair annie, and cunningham has modernized sir walter scott's version, after his fashion, in the _songs of scotland_, i. . of his text, jamieson remarks, "it is given _verbatim_ from the large ms. collection, transmitted from aberdeen, by my zealous and industrious friend, professor robert scott of that university. i have every reason to believe, that no liberty whatever has been taken with the text, which is certainly more uniform than any copy heretofore published. it was first written down many years ago, with no view towards being committed to the press; and is now given from the copy then taken, with the addition only of stanzas twenty-two and twenty-three, which the editor has inserted from memory." _popular ballads_, i. . "lochryan is a beautiful, though somewhat wild and secluded bay, which projects from the irish channel into wigtonshire, having the little seaport of stranraer situated at its bottom. along its coast, which is in some places high and rocky, there are many ruins of such castles as that described in the ballad." chambers. "o wha will shoe my fair foot, and wha will glove my han'? and wha will lace my middle jimp wi' a new-made london ban'? "or wha will kemb my yellow hair wi' a new-made silver kemb? or wha'll be father to my young bairn, till love gregor come hame?" "your father'll shoe your fair foot, your mother glove your han'; your sister lace your middle jimp wi' a new-made london ban'; "your brethren will kemb your yellow hair wi' a new-made silver kemb; and the king o' heaven will father your bairn, till love gregor come hame." "o gin i had a bonny ship, and men to sail wi' me, it's i wad gang to my true love, sin he winna come to me!" her father's gien her a bonny ship, and sent her to the stran'; she's taen her young son in her arms, and turn'd her back to the lan'. she hadna been o' the sea sailin' about a month or more, till landed has she her bonny ship near her true-love's door. the nicht was dark, and the wind blew cald, and her love was fast asleep, and the bairn that was in her twa arms fu' sair began to greet. lang stood she at her true love's door, and lang tirl'd at the pin; at length up gat his fause mother, says, "wha's that wad be in?" "o it is annie of lochroyan, your love, come o'er the sea, but and your young son in her arms; so open the door to me." "awa, awa, ye ill woman, you're nae come here for gude; you're but a witch, or a vile warlock, or mermaid o' the flude." "i'm nae a witch or vile warlock, or mermaiden," said she;-- "i'm but your annie of lochroyan;-- o open the door to me!" "o gin ye be annie of lochroyan, as i trust not ye be, what taiken can ye gie that e'er i kept your companie?" "o dinna ye mind, love gregor," she says, "whan we sat at the wine, how we changed the napkins frae our necks? it's nae sae lang sinsyne. "and yours was gude, and gude enough, but nae sae gude as mine; for yours was o' the cambrick clear, but mine o' the silk sae fine. "and dinna ye mind, love gregor," she says, "as we twa sat at dine, how we chang'd the rings frae our fingers, and i can shew thee thine: "and yours was gude, and gude enough, yet nae sae gude as mine; for yours was o' the gude red gold, but mine o' the diamonds fine. "sae open the door, now, love gregor, and open it wi' speed; or your young son, that is in my arms, for cald will soon be dead." "awa, awa, ye ill woman, gae frae my door for shame; for i hae gotten anither fair love, sae ye may hie you hame." "o hae ye gotten anither fair love, for a' the oaths ye sware? then fare ye weel, now, fause gregor; for me ye's never see mair!" o hooly, hooly gaed she back, as the day began to peep; she set her foot on good ship board, and sair, sair did she weep. "tak down, tak down the mast o' goud; set up the mast o' tree; ill sets it a forsaken lady to sail sae gallantlie. "tak down, tak down the sails o' silk; set up the sails o' skin; ill sets the outside to be gay, whan there's sic grief within!" love gregor started frae his sleep, and to his mother did say, "i dreamt a dream this night, mither, that maks my heart richt wae; "i dreamt that annie of lochroyan, the flower o' a' her kin, was standin' mournin' at my door, but nane wad lat her in." "o there was a woman stood at the door, wi' a bairn intill her arms; but i wadna let her within the bower, for fear she had done you harm." o quickly, quickly raise he up, and fast ran to the strand; and there he saw her, fair annie, was sailing frae the land. and "heigh, annie!" and "how, annie! o, annie, winna ye bide?" but ay the louder that he cried "annie," the higher rair'd the tide. and "heigh, annie!" and "how, annie! o, annie, speak to me!" but ay the louder that he cried "annie," the louder rair'd the sea. the wind grew loud, and the sea grew rough, and the ship was rent in twain; and soon he saw her, fair annie, come floating o'er the main. he saw his young son in her arms, baith toss'd aboon the tide; he wrang his hands, and fast he ran, and plunged in the sea sae wide. he catch'd her by the yellow hair, and drew her to the strand; but cald and stiff was every limb, before he reach'd the land. o first he kist her cherry cheek, and syne he kist her chin; and sair he kist her ruby lips, but there was nae breath within. o he has mourn'd o'er fair annie, till the sun was ganging down; syne wi' a sich his heart it brast, and his saul to heaven has flown. the lass of lochroyan. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "this edition of the ballad is composed of verses selected from three ms. copies, and two obtained from recitation. two of the copies are in herd's ms.; the third in that of mrs. brown of falkland." lord gregory is represented in scott's version, "as confined by fairy charms in an enchanted castle situated in the sea." but jamieson assures us that when a boy he had frequently heard this ballad chanted in morayshire, and no mention was ever made of enchantment, or "fairy charms." "indeed," he very justly adds, "the two stanzas on that subject [v. - ,] are in a style of composition very peculiar, and different from the rest of the piece, and strongly remind us of the interpolations in the ballad of _gil morris_." "o wha will shoe my bonny foot? and wha will glove my hand? and wha will lace my middle jimp wi' a lang, lang linen band? "o wha will kame my yellow hair, with a new-made silver kame? and wha will father my young son, till lord gregory come hame?"-- "thy father will shoe thy bonny foot, thy mother will glove thy hand, thy sister will lace thy middle jimp, till lord gregory come to land. "thy brother will kame thy yellow hair with a new-made silver kame, and god will be thy bairn's father till lord gregory come hame."-- "but i will get a bonny boat, and i will sail the sea; and i will gang to lord gregory, since he canna come hame to me." syne she's gar'd build a bonny boat, to sail the salt, salt sea; the sails were o' the light green silk, the tows o' taffety. she hadna sailed but twenty leagues, but twenty leagues and three, when she met wi' a rank robber, and a' his company. "now whether are ye the queen hersell, (for so ye weel might be,) or are ye the lass of lochroyan, seekin' lord gregory?"-- "o i am neither the queen," she said, "nor sic i seem to be; but i am the lass of lochroyan, seekin' lord gregory."-- "o see na thou yon bonny bower, it's a' cover'd o'er wi' tin? when thou hast sail'd it round about, lord gregory is within." and when she saw the stately tower shining sae clear and bright, whilk stood aboon the jawing wave, built on a rock of height; says--"row the boat, my mariners, and bring me to the land! for yonder i see my love's castle close by the salt-sea strand." she sail'd it round, and sail'd it round, and loud, loud cried she-- "now break, now break, ye fairy charms, and set my true love free!" she's ta'en her young son in her arms, and to the door she's gane; and long she knock'd, and sair she ca'd, but answer got she nane. "o open the door, lord gregory! o open and let me in! for the wind blaws through my yellow hair, and the rain draps o'er my chin."-- "awa, awa, ye ill woman! ye're no come here for good! ye're but some witch or wil warlock, or mermaid o' the flood."-- "i am neither witch, nor wil warlock, nor mermaid o' the sea; but i am annie of lochroyan; o open the door to me!"-- "gin thou be annie of lochroyan, (as i trow thou binna she,) now tell me some o' the love tokens that past between thee and me."-- "o dinna ye mind, lord gregory, as we sat at the wine, we changed the rings frae our fingers? and i can show thee thine. "o yours was gude, and gude enough, but aye the best was mine; for yours was o' the gude red gowd, but mine o' the diamond fine. "and has na thou mind, lord gregory, as we sat on the hill, thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid right sair against my will? "now open the door, lord gregory! open the door, i pray! for thy young son is in my arms, and will be dead ere day."-- "if thou be the lass of lochroyan, (as i kenna thou be,) tell me some mair o' the love tokens past between me and thee." fair annie turn'd her round about-- "weel! since that it be sae, may never a woman that has borne a son, hae a heart sae fou o' wae! "take down, take down, that mast o' gowd! set up a mast o' tree! it disna become a forsaken lady to sail sae royallie." when the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn, and the sun began to peep, then up and raise him lord gregory, and sair, sair did he weep. "oh i hae dream'd a dream, mother, i wish it may prove true! that the bonny lass of lochroyan was at the yate e'en now. "o i hae dream'd a dream, mother, the thought o't gars me greet! that fair annie o' lochroyan lay cauld dead at my feet."-- "gin it be for annie of lochroyan that ye make a' this din, she stood a' last night at your door, but i true she wan na in."-- "o wae betide ye, ill woman! an ill deid may ye die! that wadna open the door to her, nor yet wad waken me." o he's gane down to yon shore side as fast as he could fare; he saw fair annie in the boat, but the wind it toss'd her sair. "and hey, annie, and how, annie! o annie, winna ye bide!" but aye the mair he cried annie, the braider grew the tide. "and hey, annie, and how, annie! dear annie, speak to me!" but aye the louder he cried annie, the louder roar'd the sea. the wind blew loud, the sea grew rough, and dash'd the boat on shore; fair annie floated through the faem, but the babie rose no more. lord gregory tore his yellow hair, and made a heavy moan; fair annie's corpse lay at his feet, her bonny young son was gone. o cherry, cherry was her cheek, and gowden was her hair; but clay-cold were her rosy lips-- nae spark o' life was there. and first he kiss'd her cherry cheek, and syne he kiss'd her chin, and syne he kiss'd her rosy lips-- there was nae breath within. "o wae betide my cruel mother! an ill death may she die! she turn'd my true love frae my door, wha came sae far to me. "o wae betide my cruel mother! an ill death may she die! she turn'd fair annie frae my door, wha died for love o' me." the douglas tragedy. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . this ballad, of which more than thirty versions have been published in the northern languages, is preserved in english in several forms, all of them more or less unsatisfactory. of these the present copy comes nearest to the pure original, as it is found in danish. the next best is _the brave earl brand and the king of england's daughter_, recently printed for the first time in bell's _ballads of the peasantry_, and given at the end of this volume. _erlinton_ (vol. iii. ) is much mutilated, and has a perverted conclusion, but retains a faint trace of one characteristic trait of the ancient ballad, which really constitutes the turning point of the story, but which all the others lack. (see _erlinton_.) a fragment exists in the percy ms., of which we can only say that if it much resembled percy's _child of elle_ (which it cannot), it might without loss be left undisturbed forever. in the only remaining copy robin hood appears as the hero. (see vol. v. p. .) it is of slight value, but considerably less insipid than the _child of elle_. motherwell (_minstrelsy_, p. ) has given a few variations to scott's ballad, but they are of no importance.--of the corresponding danish ballad, _ribolt og guldborg_, grundtvig has collected more than twenty versions, some of them ancient, many obtained from recitation, and eight of the kindred _hildebrand og hilde_. there have also been printed of the latter, three versions in swedish, and of the former, three in icelandic, two in norse, and seven in swedish. (_danmarks gamle folkeviser_, ii. - , - .) jamieson has translated an inferior copy of the danish ballad in _illustrations of north. antiq._, p. . "the ballad of _the douglas tragedy_," says scott, "is one of the few (?) to which popular tradition has ascribed complete locality. "the farm of blackhouse, in selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy event. there are the remains of a very ancient tower, adjacent to the farm-house, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent named douglas burn, which joins the yarrow, after passing a craggy rock, called the douglas craig.... from this ancient tower lady margaret is said to have been carried by her lover. seven large stones, erected upon the neighboring heights of blackhouse, are shown, as marking the spot where the seven brethren were slain; and the douglas burn is averred to have been the stream at which the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former times, had probably foundation in some real event." were it not for scott's concluding remark, and the obstinate credulity of most of the english and scotch editors, we should hardly think it necessary to say that the locality of some of the incidents in _ribolt and guldborg_, is equally well ascertained (grundtvig, , ). "popular tales and anecdotes of every kind," as jamieson well remarks, "soon obtain locality wherever they are told; and the intelligent and attentive traveller will not be surprised to find the same story which he had learnt when a child, with every appropriate circumstance of names, time, and place, in a glen of morven, lochaber, or rannoch, equally domesticated among the mountains of norway, caucasus, or thibet." _ill. north. ant._ p. . "rise up, rise up, now, lord douglas," she says, "and put on your armour so bright; let it never be said that a daughter of thine was married to a lord under night. "rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, and put on your armour so bright, and take better care of your youngest sister, for your eldest's awa' the last night."-- he's mounted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a bugelet horn hung down by his side, and lightly they rode away. lord william lookit o'er his left shoulder, to see what he could see, and there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, come riding o'er the lee. "light down, light down, lady marg'ret," he said, "and hold my steed in your hand, until that against your seven brethren bold, and your father, i make a stand."-- she held his steed in her milk-white hand, and never shed one tear, until that she saw her seven brethren fa', and her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. "o hold your hand, lord william!" she said, "for your strokes they are wondrous sair; true lovers i can get many a ane, but a father i can never get mair."-- o she's ta'en out her handkerchief, it was o' the holland sae fine, and aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, that were redder than the wine. "o chuse, o chuse, lady marg'ret," he said, "o whether will ye gang or bide?"-- "i'll gang, i'll gang, lord william," she said, "for you have left me no other guide."-- he's lifted her on a milk-white steed, and himself on a dapple grey, with a bugelet horn hung down by his side, and slowly they baith rade away. o they rade on, and on they rade, and a' by the light of the moon, until they came to yon wan water, and there they lighted down. they lighted down to tak a drink of the spring that ran sae clear; and down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, and sair she 'gan to fear. "hold up, hold up, lord william," she says, "for i fear that you are slain!"-- "'tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, that shines in the water sae plain."-- o they rade on, and on they rade, and a' by the light of the moon, until they cam to his mother's ha' door, and there they lighted down. "get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "get up, and let me in!-- get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "for this night my fair lady i've win. "o mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "o mak it braid and deep! and lay lady marg'ret close at my back, and the sounder i will sleep."-- lord william was dead lang ere midnight, lady marg'ret lang ere day-- and all true lovers that go thegither, may they have mair luck than they! lord william was buried in st. marie's kirk,[l ] lady marg'ret in marie's quire; out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, and out o' the knight's a brier. and they twa met, and they twa plat, and fain they wad be near; and a' the warld might ken right weel, they were twa lovers dear. but bye and rade the black douglas, and wow but he was rough! for he pull'd up the bonny brier, and flang't in st. marie's loch. - . this miracle is frequently witnessed over the graves of faithful lovers.--king mark, according to the german romance, planted a rose on tristan's grave, and a vine on that of isold. the roots struck down into the very hearts of the dead lovers, and the stems twined lovingly together. the french account is somewhat different. an eglantine sprung from the tomb of tristan, and twisted itself round the monument of isold. it was cut down three times, but grew up every morning fresher than before, so that it was allowed to stand. other examples are, in this volume, _fair janet_, _lord thomas and fair annet_; in the third volume, _prince robert_, &c. the same phenomenon is exhibited in the swedish ballads of _hertig fröjdenborg och fröken adelin_, _lilla rosa_, _hilla lilla_, _hertig nils_, (_svenska folk-visor_, i. , , arwidsson, ii. , , ,) in the danish ballad of _herr sallemand_, (_danske viser_, iii. ,) in the breton ballad of _lord nann and the korrigan_, translated in keightley's _fairy mythology_, p. , in a servian tale cited by talvi, _versuch_, &c., p. , and in the afghan poem of _audam and doorkhaunee_, described by elphinstone, _account of the kingdom of caubul_, i. ,--which last reference we owe to talvi.--in the case of the danish ballad it is certain, and in some of the other cases probable, that the idea was derived from the romance of _tristan_. lord thomas and fair ellinor. the four pieces which follow have all the same subject. _lord thomas and fair ellinor_, is given from the _collection of old ballads_, , vol. i. p. , where it is entitled, _a tragical ballad on the unfortunate love of lord thomas and fair ellinor, together with the downfal of the brown girl_. the text differs but slightly from that of percy, (iii. ,) and ritson, _ancient songs_, ii. . lord thomas he was a bold forrester, and a chaser of the king's deer; fair ellinor was a fine woman, and lord thomas he loved her dear. "come riddle my riddle, dear mother," he said, "and riddle us both as one; whether i shall marry with fair ellinor, and let the brown girl alone?" "the brown girl she has got houses and land, and fair ellinor she has got none; therefore i charge you on my blessing, bring me the brown girl home." as it befell on a high holiday, as many more did beside, lord thomas he went to fair ellinor, that should have been his bride. but when he came to fair ellinors bower, he knocked there at the ring; but who was so ready as fair ellinor, for to let lord thomas in. "what news, what news, lord thomas?" she said, "what news hast thou brought unto me?" "i am come to bid thee to my wedding, and that is bad news for thee." "o god forbid, lord thomas," she said, "that such a thing should be done; i thought to have been thy bride my own self, and you to have been the bridegrom." "come riddle my riddle, dear mother," she said, "and riddle it all in one; whether i shall go to lord thomas's wedding, or whether i shall tarry at home?" "there are many that are your friends, daughter, and many that are your foe; therefore i charge you on my blessing, to lord thomas's wedding don't go." "there's many that are my friends, mother; and if a thousand more were my foe, betide my life, betide my death, to lord thomas's wedding i'll go." she cloathed herself in gallant attire, and her merry men all in green; and as they rid through every town, they took her to be some queen. but when she came to lord thomas's gate, she knocked there at the ring; but who was so ready as lord thomas, to let fair ellinor in. "is this your bride?" fair ellinor said; "methinks she looks wonderful brown; thou might'st have had as fair a woman, as ever trod on the ground." "despise her not, fair ellin," he said, "despise her not unto me; for better i love thy little finger, than all her whole body." this brown bride had a little penknife, that was both long and sharp, and betwixt the short ribs and the long, prick'd fair ellinor to the heart. "o christ now save thee," lord thomas he said, "methinks thou look'st wondrous wan; thou us'd to look with as fresh a colour, as ever the sun shin'd on." "o art thou blind, lord thomas?" she said, "or canst thou not very well see? o dost thou not see my own heart's blood run trickling down my knee?" lord thomas he had a sword by his side; as he walk'd about the hall, he cut off his bride's head from her shoulders, and threw it against the wall. he set the hilt against the ground, and the point against his heart; there never were three lovers met, that sooner did depart. lord thomas and fair annet. from percy's _reliques_, iii. , where it was "given, with some corrections, from a ms. copy transmitted from scotland." there is a corresponding swedish ballad, _herr peder och liten kerstin_, in the _svenska folk-visor_, i. . it is translated in _literature and romance of northern europe_, by william and mary howitt, i. . lord thomas and fair annet sate a' day on a hill; whan night was cum, and sun was sett, they had not talkt their fill. lord thomas said a word in jest, fair annet took it ill: "a' i will nevir wed a wife against my ain friends will." "gif ye wull nevir wed a wife, a wife wull neir wed yee:" sae he is hame to tell his mither, and knelt upon his knee. "o rede, o rede, mither," he says, "a gude rede gie to mee: o sall i tak the nut-browne bride, and let faire annet bee?" "the nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear, fair annet she has gat nane; and the little beauty fair annet has, o it wull soon be gane." and he has till his brother gane: "now, brother, rede ye mee; a', sall i marrie the nut-browne bride, and let fair annet bee?" "the nut-browne bride has oxen, brother, the nut-browne bride has kye: i wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride, and cast fair annet bye." "her oxen may dye i' the house, billie, and her kye into the byre, and i sall hae nothing to mysell, bot a fat fadge by the fyre." and he has till his sister gane: "now sister, rede ye mee; o sall i marrie the nut-browne bride, and set fair annet free?" "ise rede ye tak fair annet, thomas, and let the browne bride alane; lest ye sould sigh, and say, alace, what is this we brought hame!" "no, i will tak my mithers counsel, and marrie me owt o' hand; and i will tak the nut-browne bride; fair annet may leive the land." up then rose fair annets father, twa hours or it wer day, and he is gane into the bower wherein fair annet lay. "rise up, rise up, fair annet," he says, "put on your silken sheene; let us gae to st. maries kirke, and see that rich weddeen." "my maides, gae to my dressing-roome, and dress to me my hair; whair-eir yee laid a plait before, see yee lay ten times mair. "my maids, gae to my dressing-room, and dress to me my smock; the one half is o' the holland fine, the other o' needle-work." the horse fair annet rade upon, he amblit like the wind; wi' siller he was shod before, wi' burning gowd behind. four and twanty siller bells wer a' tyed till his mane, and yae tift o' the norland wind, they tinkled ane by ane. four and twanty gay gude knichts rade by fair annets side, and four and twanty fair ladies, as gin she had bin a bride. and whan she cam to maries kirk, she sat on maries stean: the cleading that fair annet had on it skinkled in their een. and whan she cam into the kirk, she shimmer'd like the sun; the belt that was about her waist, was a' wi' pearles bedone. she sat her by the nut-browne bride, and her een they wer sae clear, lord thomas he clean forgat the bride, whan fair annet she drew near. he had a rose into his hand, and he gave it kisses three, and reaching by the nut-browne bride, laid it on fair annets knee. up than spak the nut-browne bride, she spak wi' meikle spite; "and whair gat ye that rose-water, that does mak yee sae white?" "o i did get the rose-water whair ye wull neir get nane, for i did get that very rose-water into my mithers wame." the bride she drew a long bodkin frae out her gay head-gear, and strake fair annet unto the heart, that word she nevir spak mair. lord thomas he saw fair annet wex pale, and marvelit what mote bee: but whan he saw her dear hearts blude, a' wood-wroth wexed hee. he drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, that was sae sharp and meet, and drave into the nut-browne bride, that fell deid at his feit. "now stay for me, dear annet," he sed, "now stay, my dear," he cry'd; then strake the dagger untill his heart, and fell deid by her side. lord thomas was buried without kirk-wa', fair annet within the quiere; and o' the tane thair grew a birk, the other a bonny briere. and ay they grew, and ay they threw, as they wad faine be neare; and by this ye may ken right weil, they were twa luvers deare. sweet willie and fair annie is another version of the foregoing piece, furnished by jamieson, _popular ballads_, i. . "the text of _lord thomas and fair annet_," remarks jamieson, "seems to have been adjusted, previous to its leaving scotland, by some one who was more of a scholar than the reciters of ballads generally are; and, in attempting to give it an antique cast, it has been deprived of somewhat of that easy facility which is the distinguished characteristic of the traditionary ballad narrative. with the text of the following ditty, no such experiment has been made. it is here given pure and entire, as it was taken down by the editor, from the recitation of a lady in aberbrothick, (mrs. w. arrot.) as she had, when a child, learnt the ballad from an elderly maid-servant, and probably had not repeated it for a dozen years before i had the good fortune to be introduced to her, it may be depended upon, that every line was recited to me as nearly as possible in the exact form in which she learnt it." mr. chambers, in conformity with the plan of his work, presents us with an edition composed out of percy's and jamieson's, with some amended readings and additional verses from a manuscript copy, (_scottish ballads_, p. .) sweet willie and fair annie sat a' day on a hill; and though they had sitten seven year, they ne'er wad had their fill. sweet willie said a word in haste, and annie took it ill: "i winna wed a tocherless maid, against my parent's will." "ye're come o' the rich, willie, and i'm come o' the poor; i'm o'er laigh to be your bride, and i winna be your whore." o annie she's gane till her bower, and willie down the den; and he's come till his mither's bower, by the lei light o' the moon. "o sleep ye, wake ye, mither?" he says, "or are ye the bower within?" "i sleep richt aft, i wake richt aft;[l ] what want ye wi' me, son? "whare hae ye been a' night, willie? o wow! ye've tarried lang!" "i have been courtin' fair annie, and she is frae me gane. "there is twa maidens in a bower; which o' them sall i bring hame? the nut-brown maid has sheep and cows, and fair annie has nane." "it's an ye wed the nut-brown maid, i'll heap gold wi' my hand; but an ye wed her, fair annie, i'll straik it wi' a wand. "the nut-brown maid has sheep and cows, and fair annie has nane; and willie, for my benison, the nut-brown maid bring hame." "o i sall wed the nut-brown maid, and i sall bring her hame; but peace nor rest between us twa, till death sinder's again. "but, alas, alas!" says sweet willie, "o fair is annie's face!" "but what's the matter, my son willie, she has nae ither grace." "alas, alas!" says sweet willie, "but white is annie's hand!" "but what's the matter, my son willie, she hasna a fur o' land." "sheep will die in cots, mither, and owsen die in byre; and what's this warld's wealth to me, an i get na my heart's desire? "whare will i get a bonny boy, that wad fain win hose and shoon, that will rin to fair annie's bower, wi' the lei light o' the moon? "ye'll tell her to come to willie's weddin', the morn at twal at noon; ye'll tell her to come to willie's weddin', the heir o' duplin town.[l ] "she manna put on the black, the black, nor yet the dowie brown; but the scarlet sae red, and the kerches sae white, and her bonny locks hangin' down." he is on to annie's bower, and tirled at the pin; and wha was sae ready as annie hersel, to open and let him in. "ye are bidden come to willie's weddin', the morn at twal at noon; ye are bidden come to willie's weddin', the heir of duplin town. "ye manna put on the black, the black, nor yet the dowie brown; but the scarlet sae red, and the kerches sae white, and your bonny locks hangin' down." "its i will come to willie's weddin', the morn at twal at noon; its i will come to willie's weddin', but i rather the mass had been mine. "maidens, to my bower come, and lay gold on my hair; and whare ye laid ae plait before, ye'll now lay ten times mair. "taylors, to my bower come, and mak to me a weed; and smiths unto my stable come, and shoe to me a steed." at every tate o' annie's horse' mane there hang a silver bell; and there came a wind out frae the south, which made them a' to knell. and whan she came to mary-kirk, and sat down in the deas, the light, that came frae fair annie, enlighten'd a' the place. but up and stands the nut-brown bride, just at her father's knee; "o wha is this, my father dear, that blinks in willie's e'e?" "o this is willie's first true love, before he loved thee." "if that be willie's first true love, he might ha'e latten me be; she has as much gold on ae finger, as i'll wear till i die. "o whare got ye that water, annie, that washes you sae white?" "i got it in my mither's wambe, whare ye'll ne'er get the like. "for ye've been wash'd in dunny's well, and dried on dunny's dyke; and a' the water in the sea will never wash ye white." willie's ta'en a rose out o' his hat, laid it in annie's lap; "[the bonniest to the bonniest fa's,] hae, wear it for my sake." "tak up and wear your rose, willie, and wear't wi' mickle care, for the woman sall never bear a son, that will mak my heart sae sair." whan night was come, and day was gane, and a' man boun to bed, sweet willie and the nut-brown bride in their chamber were laid. they werena weel lyen down, and scarcely fa'n asleep, whan up and stands she, fair annie, just up at willie's feet. "weel brook ye o' your brown brown bride, between ye and the wa'; and sae will i o' my winding sheet, that suits me best ava. "weel brook ye o' your brown brown bride, between ye and the stock; and sae will i o' my black black kist, that has neither key nor lock." sad willie raise, put on his claise, drew till him his hose and shoon, and he is on to annie's bower, by the lei light o' the moon. the firsten bower that he came till, there was right dowie wark; her mither and her three sisters were makin' to annie a sark. the nexten bower that he came till, there was right dowie cheir; her father and her seven brethren were makin' to annie a bier. the lasten bower, that he came till, [o heavy was his care! the waxen lights were burning bright,] and fair annie streekit there. he's lifted up the coverlet, [where she, fair annie, lay; sweet was her smile, but wan her cheek; o wan, and cald as clay!] "it's i will kiss your bonny cheek, and i will kiss your chin; and i will kiss your clay-cald lip; but i'll never kiss woman again. "the day ye deal at annie's burial the bread but and the wine; before the morn at twall o'clock, they'll deal the same at mine." the tane was buried in mary's kirk, the tither in mary's quire; and out o' the tane there grew a birk, and out o' the tither a brier. and ay they grew, and ay they drew, untill they twa did meet; and every ane that past them by, said, "thae's been lovers sweet!" . that is, my slumbers are short, broken, and interrupted. j. . _duplin town._ duplin is the seat of the earl of kinnoul, from which he derives his title of viscount. it is in the neighborhood of perth. it is observable, that ballads are very frequently adapted to the meridian of the place where they are found. j. fair margaret and sweet william. from percy's _reliques_, iii. . "this seems to be the old song quoted in fletcher's _knight of the burning pestle_, acts ii. and iii.; although the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad, as it stands at present. the reader will not wonder at this, when he is informed that this is only given from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. its full title is _fair margaret's misfortunes; or sweet william's frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden death and burial of those noble lovers_. "the lines preserved in the play are this distich: "you are no love for me, margaret, i am no love for you." act iii. . and the following stanza: "when it was grown to dark midnight, and all were fast asleep, in came margarets grimly ghost, and stood at williams feet. act ii. . "these lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language: [mallet's _margaret's ghost_.] "since the first edition, some improvements have been inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction, as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy." the variations in herd's copy, (i. ,) and in ritson's (_ancient songs_, ii. ,) are unimportant. in the main the same is the widely known ballad, _der ritter und das mägdlein_, erk, p. , hoffmann's _schlesische volkslieder_, p. ; _herr malmstens dröm, svenska folkvisor_, iii. ; arwidsson, ii. ; _volkslieder der wenden_, by haupt and schmaler, i. - (hoffmann); in dutch, with a different close, hoffmann's _niederländische volkslieder_, p. : also _lord lovel_, _post_, p. . as it fell out on a long summer's day, two lovers they sat on a hill; they sat together that long summer's day, and could not talk their fill. "i see no harm by you, margaret, and you see none by mee; before to-morrow at eight o' the clock a rich wedding you shall see." fair margaret sat in her bower-window, combing her yellow hair; there she spyed sweet william and his bride, as they were a riding near. then down she layd her ivory combe, and braided her hair in twain: she went alive out of her bower, but ne'er came alive in't again. when day was gone, and night was come, and all men fast asleep, then came the spirit of fair marg'ret, and stood at williams feet. "are you awake, sweet william?" shee said,[l ] "or, sweet william, are you asleep? god give you joy of your gay bride-bed, and me of my winding-sheet." when day was come, and night 'twas gone, and all men wak'd from sleep, sweet william to his lady sayd, "my dear, i have cause to weep. "i dreamt a dream, my dear ladye, such dreames are never good: i dreamt my bower was full of red swine, and my bride-bed full of blood." "such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, they never do prove good; to dream thy bower was full of red swine, and thy bride-bed full of blood." he called up his merry men all, by one, by two, and by three; saying, "i'll away to fair marg'ret's bower, by the leave of my ladie." and when he came to fair marg'ret's bower, he knocked at the ring; and who so ready as her seven brethren, to let sweet william in. then he turned up the covering-sheet; "pray let me see the dead; methinks she looks all pale and wan, she hath lost her cherry red. "i'll do more for thee, margaret, than any of thy kin: for i will kiss thy pale wan lips, though a smile i cannot win." with that bespake the seven brethren, making most piteous mone, "you may go kiss your jolly brown bride, and let our sister alone." "if i do kiss my jolly brown bride, i do but what is right; i neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse, by day, nor yet by night. "deal on, deal on, my merry men all, deal on your cake and your wine:[l ] for whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." fair margaret dyed to-day, to-day, sweet william dyed the morrow: fair margaret dyed for pure true love, sweet william dyed for sorrow. margaret was buryed in the lower chancel, and william in the higher: out of her brest there sprang a rose, and out of his a briar. they grew till they grew unto the church top, and then they could grow no higher; and there they tyed in a true lovers knot, which made all the people admire. then came the clerk of the parish, as you the truth shall hear, and by misfortune cut them down, or they had now been there. - . god give you joy, you lovers true, in bride-bed fast asleep; lo! i am going to my green-grass grave, and i'm in my winding sheet. herd's copy. . alluding to the dole anciently given at funerals. p. sweet william's ghost as already remarked, is often made the sequel to other ballads. (see _clerk saunders_, p. .) it was first printed in the fourth volume of ramsay's _tea table miscellany_, with some imperfections, and with two spurious stanzas for a conclusion. we subjoin to ramsay's copy the admirable version obtained by motherwell from recitation, and still another variation furnished by kinloch. closely similar in many respects are the danish _fæstemanden i graven (aage og else)_, grundtvig, no. , and the swedish _sorgens magt_, _svenska f. v._, i. , ii. , or arwidsson, ii. . also _der todte freier_, erk's _liederhort_, , a. in the danish and swedish ballads it is the uncontrolled grief of his mistress that calls the lover from his grave: in the english, the desire to be freed from his troth-plight.--see vol. i. p. , . there came a ghost to margaret's door, with many a grievous groan, and ay he tirled at the pin, but answer made she none. "is that my father philip, or is't my brother john? or is't my true love willy, from scotland new come home?" "tis not thy father philip, nor yet thy brother john; but 'tis thy true love willy, from scotland new come home. "o sweet margaret! o dear margaret! i pray thee speak to mee: give me my faith and troth, margaret, as i gave it to thee." "thy faith and troth thou's never get, nor yet will i thee lend, till that thou come within my bower, and kiss my cheek and chin." "if i should come within thy bower, i am no earthly man: and should i kiss thy rosy lips, thy days will not be lang. "o sweet margaret, o dear margaret, i pray thee speak to mee: give me my faith and troth, margaret, as i gave it to thee." "thy faith and troth thou's never get, nor yet will i thee lend, till you take me to yon kirk-yard, and wed me with a ring." "my bones are buried in yon kirk-yard, afar beyond the sea, and it is but my spirit, margaret, that's now speaking to thee." she stretched out her lily-white hand, and for to do her best; "hae there[l ] your faith and troth, willy, god send your soul good rest." now she has kilted her robes of green a piece below her knee, and a' the live-lang winter night the dead corps followed she. "is there any room at your head, willy, or any room at your feet? or any room at your side, willy, wherein that i may creep?" "there's no room at my head, margaret, there's no room at my feet; there's no room at my side, margaret, my coffin's made so meet." then up and crew the red red cock, and up then crew the gray: "tis time, tis time, my dear margaret, that you were going away." no more the ghost to margaret said, but, with a grievous groan, evanish'd in a cloud of mist, and left her all alone. "o stay, my only true love, stay," the constant margaret cried: wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, stretch'd her soft limbs, and died. . ther's. william and marjorie. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . lady marjorie, lady marjorie, sat sewing her silken seam, and by her came a pale, pale ghost, wi' mony a sigh and mane. "are ye my father the king?" she says, "or are ye my brither john? or are ye my true love, sweet william, from england newly come?" "i'm not your father the king," he says, "no, no, nor your brither john; but i'm your true love, sweet william, from england that's newly come." "have ye brought me any scarlets sae red, or any of the silks sae fine; or have ye brought me any precious things, that merchants have for sale?" "i have not brought you any scarlets sae red, no, no, nor the silks sae fine; but i have brought you my winding-sheet ower many a rock and hill. "lady marjorie, lady marjorie, for faith and charitie, will ye gie to me my faith and troth, that i gave once to thee?" "o your faith and troth i'll not gie to thee, no, no, that will not i, until i get ae kiss of your ruby lips, and in my arms you lye." "my lips they are sae bitter," he says, "my breath it is sae strang, if you get ae kiss of my ruby lips, your days will not be lang. "the cocks are crawing, marjorie," he says,-- "the cocks are crawing again; it's time the dead should part the quick,-- marjorie, i must be gane." she followed him high, she followed him low, till she came to yon churchyard green; and there the deep grave opened up, and young william he lay down. "what three things are these, sweet william," she says, "that stand here at your head?" "o it's three maidens, marjorie," he says, "that i promised once to wed." "what three things are these, sweet william," she says, "that stand close at your side?" "o it's three babes, marjorie," he says, "that these three maidens had." "what three things are these, sweet william," she says, "that lye close at your feet?" "o it's three hell-hounds, marjorie," he says, "that's waiting my soul to keep." o she took up her white, white hand, and she struck him on the breast, saying,--"have there again your faith and troth, and i wish your saul gude rest." sweet william and may margaret. kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . as may marg'ret sat in her bouerie, in her bouer all alone, at the very parting o' midnicht, she heard a mournfu' moan. "o is it my father, o is it my mother, or is it my brother john? or is it sweet william, my ain true love, to scotland new come home?" "it is na your father, it is na your mother, it is na your brother john; but it is sweet william, your ain true love, to scotland new come home."-- "hae ye brought me onie fine things, onie new thing for to wear? or hae ye brought me a braid o' lace, to snood up my gowden hair?" "i've brought ye na fine things at all, nor onie new thing to wear, nor hae i brought ye a braid of lace, to snood up your gowden hair. "but margaret, dear margaret, i pray ye speak to me; o gie me back my faith and troth, as dear as i gied it thee!" "your faith and troth ye sanna get, nor will i wi' ye twin, till ye come within my bower, and kiss me, cheek and chin." "o margaret, dear margaret, i pray ye speak to me; o gie me back my faith and troth, as dear as i gied it thee." "your faith and troth ye sanna get, nor will i wi' ye twin, till ye tak me to yonder kirk, and wed me wi' a ring." "o should i come within your bouer, i am na earthly man: if i should kiss your red, red lips, your days wad na be lang. "my banes are buried in yon kirk-yard, it's far ayont the sea; and it is my spirit, margaret, that's speaking unto thee." "your faith and troth ye sanna get, nor will i twin wi' thee, tell ye tell me the pleasures o' heaven, and pains of hell how they be." "the pleasures of heaven i wat not of, but the pains of hell i dree; there some are hie hang'd for huring, and some for adulterie." then marg'ret took her milk-white hand, and smooth'd it on his breast;-- "tak your faith and troth, william, god send your soul good rest!" bonny barbara allan was first published in ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_, (ii. ,) from which it is transferred verbatim into herd's _scottish songs_, johnson's _museum_, ritson's _scottish songs_, &c. percy printed it, "with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy," _reliques_, iii. , together with another version, which follows the present. mr. g. f. graham, _songs of scotland_, ii. , has pointed out an allusion to the "little scotch song of _barbary allen_," in pepys's _diary_, jan. - . it was in and about the martinmas time, when the green leaves were a falling, that sir john graeme in the west country fell in love with barbara allan. he sent his man down through the town, to the place where she was dwelling; "o haste and come to my master dear, gin ye be barbara allan." o hooly, hooly rose she up, to the place where he was lying, and when she drew the curtain by, "young man, i think you're dying." "o it's i'm sick, and very, very sick, and 'tis a' for barbara allan:" "o the better for me ye's never be, tho' your heart's blood were a spilling. "o dinna ye mind, young man," said she, "when ye was in the tavern a drinking, that ye made the healths gae round and round, and slighted barbara allan." he turn'd his face unto the wall, and death was with him dealing; "adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, and be kind to barbara allan." and slowly, slowly raise she up, and slowly, slowly left him; and sighing said, she cou'd not stay, since death of life had reft him. she had not gane a mile but twa, when she heard the dead-bell ringing, and every jow that the dead-bell geid, it cry'd "woe to barbara allan!" "o mother, mother, make my bed, o make it saft and narrow; since my love died for me today, i'll die for him tomorrow." barbara allen's cruelty. from percy's _reliques_, iii. . "given, with some corrections, from an old blackletter copy, entitled, _barbara allen's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy_." in scarlet towne, where i was borne, there was a faire maid dwellin, made every youth crye, wel-awaye! her name was barbara allen. all in the merrye month of may, when greene buds they were swellin, yong jemmye grove on his death-bed lay, for love of barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the towne where shee was dwellin; "you must come to my master deare, giff your name be barbara allen. "for death is printed on his face, and ore his hart is stealin: then haste away to comfort him, o lovelye barbara allen." "though death be printed on his face, and ore his harte is stealin, yet little better shall he bee for bonny barbara allen." so slowly, slowly, she came up, and slowly she came nye him; and all she sayd, when there she came, "yong man, i think y'are dying." he turned his face unto her strait, with deadlye sorrow sighing; "o lovely maid, come pity mee, i'me on my death-bed lying." "if on your death-bed you doe lye, what needs the tale you are tellin? i cannot keep you from your death; farewell," sayd barbara allen. he turnd his face unto the wall, as deadlye pangs he fell in: "adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, adieu to barbara allen!" as she was walking ore the fields, she heard the bell a knellin; and every stroke did seem to saye, "unworthy barbara allen!" she turnd her bodye round about, and spied the corps a coming: "laye down, laye down the corps," she sayd, "that i may look upon him." with scornful eye she looked downe, her cheeke with laughter swellin, whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, "unworthye barbara allen!" when he was dead, and laid in grave, her harte was struck with sorrowe; "o mother, mother, make my bed, for i shall dye to-morrowe. "hard-harted creature him to slight, who loved me so dearlye: o that i had beene more kind to him, when he was alive and neare me!" she, on her death-bed as she laye, beg'd to be buried by him, and sore repented of the daye, that she did ere denye him. "farewell," she sayd, "ye virgins all, and shun the fault i fell in: henceforth take warning by the fall of cruel barbara allen." lord lovel. "this ballad, taken down from the recitation of a lady in roxburghshire, appears to claim affinity to border song; and the title of the 'discourteous squire', would incline one to suppose that it has derived its origin from some circumstance connected with the county of northumberland, where lovel was anciently a well-known name." kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . a version from a recent broadside is printed in _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, percy society, vol. xvii. p. . a fragment of a similar story, the relations of the parties being reversed, is _lady alice_, given in bell's ballads of the peasantry, p. , and _notes and queries_, d s, i. .--compare also _fair margaret_, &c. p. . lord lovel stands at his stable door, mounted upon a grey steed; and bye came ladie nanciebel, and wish'd lord lovel much speed. "o whare are ye going, lord lovel, my dearest tell to me?" "o i am going a far journey, some strange countrie to see; "but i'll return in seven long years, lady nanciebel to see." "o seven, seven, seven long years, they are much too long for me." * * * * * * * he was gane a year away, a year but barely ane, when a strange fancy cam into his head, that fair nanciebel was gane. it's then he rade, and better rade, until he cam to the toun, and then he heard a dismal noise, for the church bells a' did soun'. he asked what the bells rang for; they said, "it's for nanciebel; she died for a discourteous squire, and his name is lord lovel." the lid o' the coffin he opened up, the linens he faulded doun; and ae he kiss'd her pale, pale lips, and the tears cam trinkling doun. "weill may i kiss those pale, pale lips, for they will never kiss me;-- i'll mak a vow, and keep it true, that they'll ne'er kiss ane but thee." lady nancie died on tuesday's nicht, lord lovel upon the niest day; lady nancie died for pure, pure love, lord lovel, for deep sorray. lord salton and auchanachie. the following fragment was first published in maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. ; shortly after, in buchan's _gleanings_, p. . a more complete copy, from buchan's larger collection, is annexed. * * * * * * ben came her father, skipping on the floor, said, "jeanie, you're trying the tricks of a whore. "you're caring for him that cares not for thee, and i pray you take salton, let auchanachie be." "i will not have salton, it lies low by the sea; he is bowed in the back, he's thrawen in the knee; and i'll die if i get not my brave auchanachie." "i am bowed in the back, lassie as ye see, but the bonny lands of salton are no crooked tee." and when she was married she would not lie down, but they took out a knife, and cuttit her gown; likewise of her stays the lacing in three, and now she lies dead for her auchanachie. out comes her bower-woman, wringing her hands, says, "alas for the staying so long on the sands! "alas for the staying so long on the flood! for jeanie was married, and now she is dead." lord salton and auchanachie. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . "auchanachie gordon is bonny and braw, he would tempt any woman that ever he saw; he would tempt any woman, so has he tempted me, and i'll die if i getna my love auchanachie." in came her father, tripping on the floor, says, "jeanie, ye're trying the tricks o' a whore; ye're caring for them that cares little for thee, ye must marry salton, leave auchanachie. "auchanachie gordon, he is but a man, altho' he be pretty, where lies his free land? salton's lands they lie broad, his towers they stand hie, ye must marry salton, leave auchanachie. "salton will gar you wear silk gowns fring'd to thy knee, but ye'll never wear that wi' your love auchanachie." "wi' auchanachie gordon i would beg my bread, before that wi' salton i'd wear gowd on my head; "wear gowd on my head, or gowns fring'd to the knee, and i'll die if i getna my love auchanachie; o salton's valley lies low by the sea, he's bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee." "o salton's a valley lies low by the sea; though he's bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee, though he's bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee, the bonny rigs of salton they're nae thrawin tee." "o you that are my parents to church may me bring, but unto young salton i'll never bear a son; for son, or for daughter, i'll ne'er bow my knee, and i'll die if i getna my love auchanachie." when jeanie was married, from church was brought hame, when she wi' her maidens sae merry shou'd hae been, when she wi' her maidens sae merry shou'd hae been, she's called for a chamber to weep there her lane. "come to your bed, jeanie, my honey and my sweet, for to stile you mistress i do not think it meet." "mistress, or jeanie, it is a' ane to me, it's in your bed, salton, i never will be." then out spake her father, he spake wi' renown, "some of you that are maidens, ye'll loose aff her gown; some of you that are maidens, ye'll loose aff her gown, and i'll mend the marriage wi' ten thousand crowns." then ane of her maidens they loosed aff her gown, but bonny jeanie gordon, she fell in a swoon; she fell in a swoon low down by their knee; says, "look on, i die for my love auchanachie!" that very same day miss jeanie did die, and hame came auchanachie, hame frae the sea; her father and mither welcom'd him at the gate; he said, "where's miss jeanie, that she's nae here yet?" then forth came her maidens, all wringing their hands, saying, "alas! for your staying sae lang frae the land: sae lang frae the land, and sae lang fra the fleed, they've wedded your jeanie, and now she is dead!" "some of you, her maidens, take me by the hand, and show me the chamber miss jeanie died in;" he kiss'd her cold lips, which were colder than stane, and he died in the chamber that jeanie died in. willie and may margaret. a fragment obtained by jamieson from the recitation of mrs. brown, of falkland. _popular ballads_, i. . in connection with this we give the complete story from buchan. aytoun has changed the title to _the mother's malison_. an italian ballad, containing a story similar to that of this ballad and the two following (but of independent origin), is _la maledizione materna_, in marcoaldi's _canti popolari_, p. . "gie corn to my horse, mither; gie meat unto my man; for i maun gang to margaret's bower, before the nicht comes on." "o stay at hame now, my son willie! the wind blaws cald and sour; the nicht will be baith mirk and late, before ye reach her bower." "o tho' the nicht were ever sae dark, or the wind blew never sae cald, i will be in my margaret's bower before twa hours be tald." "o gin ye gang to may margaret, without the leave of me, clyde's water's wide and deep enough;-- my malison drown thee!" he mounted on his coal-black steed, and fast he rade awa'; but, ere he came to clyde's water, fu' loud the wind did blaw. as he rode o'er yon hich, hich hill, and down yon dowie den, there was a roar in clyde's water wad fear'd a hunder men. his heart was warm, his pride was up; sweet willie kentna fear; but yet his mither's malison ay sounded in his ear. o he has swam through clyde's water, tho' it was wide and deep; and he came to may margaret's door, when a' were fast asleep. o he's gane round and round about, and tirled at the pin; but doors were steek'd, and window's bar'd, and nane wad let him in. "o open the door to me, margaret,-- o open and lat me in! for my boots are full o' clyde's water, and frozen to the brim." "i darena open the door to you, nor darena lat you in; for my mither she is fast asleep, and i darena mak nae din." "o gin ye winna open the door, nor yet be kind to me, now tell me o' some out-chamber, where i this nicht may be." "ye canna win in this nicht, willie, nor here ye canna be; for i've nae chambers out nor in, nae ane but barely three: "the tane o' them is fu' o' corn, the tither is fu' o' hay; the tither is fu' o' merry young men;-- they winna remove till day." "o fare ye weel, then, may margaret, sin better manna be; i've win my mither's malison, coming this nicht to thee." he's mounted on his coal-black steed,-- o but his heart was wae! but, ere he came to clyde's water, 'twas half up o'er the brae. * * * * * * * ---- he plunged in, but never raise again. the drowned lovers. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . the copy in the appendix to motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. iii., is nearly the same. willie stands in his stable door, and clapping at his steed; and looking o'er his white fingers, his nose began to bleed. "gie corn to my horse, mother; and meat to my young man; and i'll awa' to meggie's bower, i'll win ere she lie down." "o bide this night wi' me, willie, o bide this night wi' me; the best an' cock o' a' the reest, at your supper shall be. "a' your cocks, and a' your reests, i value not a prin; for i'll awa' to meggie's bower, i'll win ere she lie down." "stay this night wi' me, willie, o stay this night wi' me; the best an' sheep in a' the flock at your supper shall be." "a' your sheep, and a' your flocks, i value not a prin; for i'll awa' to meggie's bower, i'll win ere she lie down." "o an' ye gang to meggie's bower, sae sair against my will, the deepest pot in clyde's water, my malison ye's feel." "the guid steed that i ride upon cost me thrice thretty pound; and i'll put trust in his swift feet, to hae me safe to land." as he rade ower yon high, high hill, and down yon dowie den, the noise that was in clyde's water wou'd fear'd five huner men. "o roaring clyde, ye roar ower loud, your streams seem wond'rous strang; make me your wreck as i come back,[l ] but spare me as i gang." then he is on to meggie's bower, and tirled at the pin; "o sleep ye, wake ye, meggie," he said, "ye'll open, lat me come in." "o wha is this at my bower door, that calls me by my name?" "it is your first love, sweet willie, this night newly come hame." "i hae few lovers thereout, thereout, as few hae i therein; the best an' love that ever i had, was here just late yestreen." "the warstan stable in a' your stables, for my puir steed to stand; the warstan bower in a' your bowers, for me to lie therein: my boots are fu' o' clyde's water, i'm shivering at the chin." "my barns are fu' o' corn, willie, my stables are fu' o' hay; my bowers are fu' o' gentlemen;-- they'll nae remove till day." "o fare-ye-well, my fause meggie, o farewell, and adieu; i've gotten my mither's malison, this night coming to you." as he rode ower yon high, high hill, and down yon dowie den; the rushing that was in clyde's water took willie's cane frae him. he lean'd him ower his saddle bow, to catch his cane again; the rushing that was in clyde's water took willie's hat frae him. he lean'd him ower his saddle bow, to catch his hat thro' force; the rushing that was in clyde's water took willie frae his horse. his brither stood upo' the bank, says, "fye, man, will ye drown? ye'll turn ye to your high horse head, and learn how to sowm." "how can i turn to my horse head, and learn how to sowm? i've gotten my mither's malison, its here that i maun drown!" the very hour this young man sank into the pot sae deep, up it waken'd his love, meggie, out o' her drowsy sleep. "come here, come here, my mither dear, and read this dreary dream; i dream'd my love was at our gates, and nane wad let him in." "lye still, lye still now, my meggie. lye still and tak your rest; sin' your true love was at your yates, it's but twa quarters past." nimbly, nimbly raise she up, and nimbly pat she on; and the higher that the lady cried, the louder blew the win'. the first an' step that she stepp'd in, she stepped to the queet; "ohon, alas!" said that lady, "this water's wond'rous deep." the next an' step that she wade in, she wadit to the knee; says she, "i cou'd wide farther in, if i my love cou'd see." the next an' step that she wade in, she wadit to the chin; the deepest pot in clyde's water she got sweet willie in. "you've had a cruel mither, willie, and i have had anither; but we shall sleep in clyde's water, like sister an' like brither." , . found also in _leander on the bay_, and taken from the epigram of martial: "clamabat tumidis audax leander in undis, mergite me fluctus, cum rediturus ero." willie's drowned in gamery. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . a fragment, exhibiting some differences, is among those ballads of buchan which are published in the percy society's volumes, xvii. . four stanzas, of a superior cast, upon the same story, are printed in the _tea-table miscellany_, (ii. .) _rare willy drown'd in yarrow._ "willy's rare, and willy's fair, and willy's wond'rous bonny; and willy heght to marry me, gin e'er he married ony. "yestreen i made my bed fu' braid, this night i'll make it narrow; for a' the livelang winter night i ly twin'd of my marrow. "o came you by yon water-side? pou'd you the rose or lilly? or came you by yon meadow green? or saw you my sweet willy?" she sought him east, she sought him west, she sought him braid and narrow; syne in the cleaving of a craig, she found him drown'd in yarrow. these stanzas furnished the theme to logan's _braes of yarrow_. "o willie is fair, and willie is rare, and willie is wond'rous bonny; and willie says he'll marry me, gin ever he marry ony." "o ye'se get james, or ye'se get george, or ye's get bonny johnnie; ye'se get the flower o' a' my sons, gin ye'll forsake my willie." "o what care i for james or george, or yet for bonny peter? i dinna value their love a leek, an' i getna willie the writer." "o willie has a bonny hand, and dear but it is bonny;" "he has nae mair for a' his land; what wou'd ye do wi' willie?" "o willie has a bonny face, and dear but it is bonny;" "but willie has nae other grace; what wou'd ye do wi' willie?" "willie's fair, and willie's rare, and willie's wond'rous bonny; there's nane wi' him that can compare, i love him best of ony." on wednesday, that fatal day, the people were convening; besides all this, threescore and ten, to gang to the bridesteel wi' him. "ride on, ride on, my merry men a', i've forgot something behind me; i've forgot to get my mother's blessing, to gae to the bridesteel wi' me." "your peggy she's but bare fifteen, and ye are scarcely twenty; the water o' gamery is wide and braid, my heavy curse gang wi' thee!" then they rode on, and further on, till they came on to gamery; the wind was loud, the stream was proud, and wi' the stream gaed willie. then they rode on, and further on, till they came to the kirk o' gamery; and every one on high horse sat, but willie's horse rade toomly. when they were settled at that place, the people fell a mourning; and a council held amo' them a', but sair, sair wept kinmundy. then out it speaks the bride hersell, says, "what means a' this mourning? where is the man amo' them a', that shou'd gie me fair wedding?" then out it speaks his brother john, says, "meg, i'll tell you plainly; the stream was strong, the clerk rade wrong, and willie's drown'd in gamery." she put her hand up to her head, where were the ribbons many; she rave them a', let them down fa', and straightway ran to gamery. she sought it up, she sought it down, till she was wet and weary; and in the middle part o' it, there she got her deary. then she stroak'd back his yellow hair, and kiss'd his mou' sae comely; "my mother's heart's be as wae as thine; we'se baith asleep in the water o' gamery." annan water. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "the following verses are the original words of the tune of _allan water_, by which name the song is mentioned in ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_. the ballad is given from tradition; and it is said that a bridge over the annan, was built in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe which it narrates. two verses are added in this edition, from another copy of the ballad, in which the conclusion proves fortunate. by the _gatehope-slack_, is perhaps meant the _gate-slack_, a pass in annandale. the annan, and the frith of solway, into which it falls, are the frequent scenes of tragical accidents. the editor trusts he will be pardoned for inserting the following awfully impressive account of such an event, contained in a letter from dr. currie, of liverpool, by whose correspondence, while in the course of preparing these volumes for the press, he has been alike honoured and instructed. after stating that he had some recollection of the ballad which follows, the biographer of burns proceeds thus:--'i once in my early days heard (for it was night, and i could not see) a traveller drowning; not in the annan itself, but in the frith of solway, close by the mouth of that river. the influx of the tide had unhorsed him, in the night, as he was passing the sands from cumberland. the west wind blew a tempest, and, according to the common expression, brought in the water _three foot a-breast_. the traveller got upon a standing net, a little way from the shore. there he lashed himself to the post, shouting for half an hour for assistance--till the tide rose over his head! in the darkness of the night, and amid the pauses of the hurricane, his voice, heard at intervals, was exquisitely mournful. no one could go to his assistance--no one knew where he was--the sound seemed to proceed from the spirit of the waters. but morning rose--the tide had ebbed--and the poor traveller was found lashed to the pole of the net, and bleaching in the wind.'" scott. "annan water's wading deep, and my love annie's wondrous bonny; and i am laith she suld weet her feet, because i love her best of ony. "gar saddle me the bonny black, gar saddle sune, and make him ready; for i will down the gatehope-slack, and all to see my bonny ladye."-- he has loupen on the bonny black, he stirr'd him wi' the spur right sairly; but, or he wan the gatehope-slack, i think the steed was wae and weary. he has loupen on the bonny grey, he rade the right gate and the ready; i trow he would neither stint nor stay, for he was seeking his bonny ladye. o he has ridden o'er field and fell, through muir and moss, and mony a mire: his spurs o' steel were sair to bide, and fra her fore-feet flew the fire. "now, bonny grey, now play your part! gin ye be the steed that wins my deary, wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, and never spur sall make you wearie."-- the grey was a mare, and a right good mare; but when she wan the annan water, she couldna hae ridden a furlong mair, had a thousand merks been wadded at her. "o boatman, boatman, put off your boat! put off your boat for gowden money! i cross the drumly stream the night, or never mair i see my honey."-- "o i was sworn sae late yestreen, and not by ae aith, but by many; and for a' the gowd in fair scotland, i dare na take ye through to annie." the side was stey, and the bottom deep, frae bank to brae the water pouring; and the bonny grey mare did sweat for fear, for she heard the water-kelpy roaring. o he has pou'd aff his dapperby coat, the silver buttons glanced bonny; the waistcoat bursted aff his breast, he was sae full of melancholy. he has ta'en the ford at that stream tail; i wot he swam both strong and steady; but the stream was broad, and his strength did fail, and he never saw his bonny ladye! "o wae betide the frush saugh wand! and wae betide the bush of brier! it brake into my true love's hand, when his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire. "and wae betide ye, annan water, this night that ye are a drumlie river! for over thee i'll build a bridge, that ye never more true love may sever."-- andrew lammie. "from a stall copy published at glasgow several years ago, collated with a recited copy, which has furnished one or two verbal improvements." motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . mr. jamieson has published two other sets of this simple, but touching ditty, (i. , ii. ,) one of which is placed after the present. motherwell's text is almost verbatim that of buchan's _gleanings_, p. . the _thistle of scotland_ copies buchan and jamieson without acknowledgment. the story has been made the foundation of a rude drama in the north of scotland. for a description of similar entertainments, see cunningham's introduction to his _songs of scotland_, i. . the unfortunate maiden's name, according to buchan, (_gleanings_, p. ,) "was annie, or agnes, (which are synonymous in some parts of scotland,) smith, who died of a broken heart on the th of january, , as is to be found on a roughly cut stone, broken in many pieces, in the green churchyard of fyvie." "what afterwards became of bonny andrew lammie," says jamieson, "we have not been able to learn; but the current tradition of the 'lawland leas of fyvie', says, that some years subsequent to the melancholy fate of poor tifty's nanny, her sad story being mentioned, and the ballad sung in a company in edinburgh when he was present, he remained silent and motionless, till he was discovered by a groan suddenly bursting from him, and _several of the buttons flying from his waistcoat_." at mill o' tifty liv'd a man, in the neighbourhood of fyvie; he had a lovely daughter fair, was called bonny annie. her bloom was like the springing flower that salutes the rosy morning; with innocence and graceful mien her beauteous form adorning. lord fyvie had a trumpeter whose name was andrew lammie; he had the art to gain the heart of mill o' tiftie's annie. proper he was, both young and gay, his like was not in fyvie; no one was there that could compare with this same andrew lammie. lord fyvie he rode by the door, where lived tiftie's annie; his trumpeter rode him before, even this same andrew lammie. her mother call'd her to the door: "come here to me, my annie; did you ever see a prettier man than this trumpeter of fyvie?" she sighed sore, but said no more, alas, for bonny annie! she durst not own her heart was won by the trumpeter of fyvie. at night when they went to their beds, all slept full sound but annie; love so opprest her tender breast, thinking on andrew lammie. "love comes in at my bed side, and love lies down beyond me; love has possess'd my tender breast, and love will waste my body. "the first time i and my love met was in the woods of fyvie; his lovely form and speech so sweet soon gain'd the heart of annie. "he called me mistress; i said, no, i'm tiftie's bonny annie; with apples sweet he did me treat, and kisses soft and many. "it's up and down in tiftie's den, where the burn runs clear and bonny, i've often gone to meet my love, my bonny andrew lammie." but now, alas! her father heard that the trumpeter of fyvie had had the art to gain the heart of tiftie's bonny annie. her father soon a letter wrote, and sent it on to fyvie, to tell his daughter was bewitch'd by his servant andrew lammie. when lord fyvie had this letter read, o dear! but he was sorry; the bonniest lass in fyvie's land is bewitched by andrew lammie. then up the stair his trumpeter he called soon and shortly: "pray tell me soon, what's this you've done to tiftie's bonny annie?" "in wicked art i had no part, nor therein am i canny; true love alone the heart has won of tiftie's bonny annie. "woe betide mill o' tiftie's pride, for it has ruin'd many; he'll no ha'e 't said that she should wed the trumpeter of fyvie. "where will i find a boy so kind, that'll carry a letter canny, who will run on to tiftie's town, give it to my love annie?" "here you shall find a boy so kind, who'll carry a letter canny, who will run on to tiftie's town, and gi'e 't to thy love annie." "it's tiftie he has daughters three, who all are wondrous bonny; but ye'll ken her o'er a' the lave, gi'e that to bonny annie." "it's up and down in tiftie's den, where the burn runs clear and bonny; there wilt thou come and meet thy love, thy bonny andrew lammie. "when wilt thou come, and i'll attend? my love, i long to see thee." "thou may'st come to the bridge of sleugh, and there i'll come and meet thee." "my love, i go to edinbro', and for a while must leave thee;" she sighed sore, and said no more but "i wish that i were wi' thee." "i'll buy to thee a bridal gown, my love, i'll buy it bonny;" "but i'll be dead, ere ye come back to see your bonnie annie." "if you'll be true and constant too, as my name's andrew lammie, i shall thee wed, when i come back to see the lands of fyvie." "i will be true, and constant too, to thee, my andrew lammie; but my bridal bed will ere then be made, in the green churchyard of fyvie." "our time is gone, and now comes on, my dear, that i must leave thee; if longer here i should appear, mill o' tiftie he would see me." "i now for ever bid adieu to thee, my andrew lammie; ere ye come back, i will be laid in the green churchyard of fyvie." he hied him to the head of the house, to the house top of fyvie; he blew his trumpet loud and schill; 'twas heard at mill o' tiftie. her father lock'd the door at night, laid by the keys fu' canny; and when he heard the trumpet sound, said, "your cow is lowing, annie." "my father dear, i pray forbear, and reproach no more your annie; for i'd rather hear that cow to low, than ha'e a' the kine in fyvie. "i would not, for my braw new gown, and a' your gifts sae many, that it were told in fyvie's land how cruel you are to annie. "but if ye strike me, i will cry, and gentlemen will hear me; lord fyvie will be riding by, and he'll come in and see me." at the same time, the lord came in; he said, "what ails thee, annie?" "'tis all for love now i must die, for bonny andrew lammie." "pray, mill o' tifty, gi'e consent, and let your daughter marry." "it will be with some higher match than the trumpeter of fyvie." "if she were come of as high a kind as she's adorned with beauty, i would take her unto myself, and make her mine own lady." "it's fyvie's lands are fair and wide, and they are rich and bonny; i would not leave my own true love, for all the lands of fyvie." her father struck her wondrous sore, and also did her mother; her sisters always did her scorn; but woe be to her brother! her brother struck her wondrous sore, with cruel strokes and many; he brake her back in the hall door, for liking andrew lammie. "alas! my father and mother dear, why so cruel to your annie? my heart was broken first by love, my brother has broken my body. "o mother dear, make ye my bed, and lay my face to fyvie; thus will i ly, and thus will die, for my love, andrew lammie! "ye neighbours, hear, both far and near; ye pity tiftie's annie, who dies for love of one poor lad, for bonny andrew lammie. "no kind of vice e'er stain'd my life, nor hurt my virgin honour; my youthful heart was won by love, but death will me exoner." her mother then she made her bed, and laid her face to fyvie; her tender heart it soon did break, and ne'er saw andrew lammie. but the word soon went up and down, through all the lands of fyvie, that she was dead and buried, even tiftie's bonny annie. lord fyvie he did wring his hands, said, "alas, for tiftie's annie! the fairest flower's cut down by love, that e'er sprung up in fyvie. "o woe betide mill o' tiftie's pride! he might have let them marry; i should have giv'n them both to live into the lands of fyvie." her father sorely now laments the loss of his dear annie, and wishes he had gi'en consent to wed with andrew lammie. her mother grieves both air and late; her sisters, 'cause they scorn'd her; surely her brother doth mourn and grieve, for the cruel usage he'd giv'n her. but now, alas! it was too late, for they could not recal her; through life, unhappy is their fate, because they did controul her. when andrew hame from edinburgh came, with meikle grief and sorrow, "my love has died for me to-day, i'll die for her to-morrow. "now i will on to tiftie's den, where the burn runs clear and bonny; with tears i'll view the bridge of sleugh,[l ] where i parted last with annie. "then will i speed to the churchyard, to the green churchyard of fyvie; with tears i'll water my love's grave, till i follow tiftie's annie." ye parents grave, who children have, in crushing them be canny, lest when too late you do repent; remember tiftie's annie. . "in one printed copy this is 'sheugh', and in a recited copy it was called 'skew'; which is the right reading, the editor, from his ignorance of the topography of the lands of fyvie, is unable to say. it is a received superstition in scotland, that, when friends or lovers part at a bridge, they shall never again meet." motherwell. the trumpeter of fyvie. "the ballad was taken down by dr. leyden from the recitation of a young lady (miss robson) of edinburgh, who learned it in teviotdale. it was current in the border counties within these few years, as it still is in the northeast of scotland, where the scene is laid." jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . at fyvie's yetts there grows a flower, it grows baith braid and bonny; there's a daisie in the midst o' it, and it's ca'd by andrew lammie. "o gin that flower war in my breast, for the love i bear the laddie; i wad kiss it, and i wad clap it, and daut it for andrew lammie. "the first time me and my love met, was in the woods of fyvie; he kissed my lips five thousand times, and ay he ca'd me bonny; and a' the answer he gat frae me, was, my bonny andrew lammie!" "'love, i maun gang to edinburgh; love, i maun gang and leave thee;' i sighed right sair, and said nae mair, but, o gin i were wi' ye!" "but true and trusty will i be, as i am andrew lammie; i'll never kiss a woman's mouth, till i come back and see thee." "and true and trusty will i be, as i am tiftie's annie; i'll never kiss a man again, till ye come back and see me." syne he's come back frae edinburgh, to the bonny hows o' fyvie; and ay his face to the nor-east, to look for tiftie's annie. "i ha'e a love in edinburgh, sae ha'e i intill leith, man; i hae a love intill montrose, sae ha'e i in dalkeith, man. "and east and west, where'er i go, my love she's always wi' me; for east and west, where'er i go, my love she dwells in fyvie. "my love possesses a' my heart, nae pen can e'er indite her; she's ay sae stately as she goes, that i see nae mae like her. "but tiftie winna gi'e consent his dochter me to marry, because she has five thousand marks, and i have not a penny. "love pines away, love dwines away, love, love, decays the body; for love o' thee, oh i must die; adieu, my bonny annie!" her mither raise out o' her bed, and ca'd on baith her women: "what ails ye, annie, my dochter dear? o annie, was ye dreamin'? "what dule disturb'd my dochter's sleep? o tell to me, my annie!" she sighed right sair, and said nae mair, but, "o for andrew lammie!" her father beat her cruellie, sae also did her mother; her sisters sair did scoff at her; but wae betide her brother! her brother beat her cruellie, till his straiks they werena canny; he brak her back, and he beat her sides, for the sake o' andrew lammie. "o fie, o fie, my brother dear, the gentlemen 'll shame ye; the laird o' fyvie he's gaun by, and he'll come in and see me. and he'll kiss me, and he'll clap me, and he will speer what ails me; and i will answer him again, it's a' for andrew lammie." her sisters they stood in the door, sair griev'd her wi' their folly; "o sister dear, come to the door, your cow is lowin on you." "o fie, o fie, my sister dear, grieve me not wi' your folly; i'd rather hear the trumpet sound, than a' the kye o' fyvie. "love pines away, love dwines away, love, love decays the body; for love o' thee now i maun die-- adieu to andrew lammie!" but tiftie's wrote a braid letter, and sent it into fyvie, saying, his daughter was bewitch'd by bonny andrew lammie. "now, tiftie, ye maun gi'e consent, and lat the lassie marry." "i'll never, never gi'e consent to the trumpeter of fyvie." when fyvie looked the letter on, he was baith sad and sorry: says--"the bonniest lass o' the country-side has died for andrew lammie." o andrew's gane to the house-top o' the bonny house o' fyvie; he's blawn his horn baith loud and shill o'er the lawland leas o' fyvie. "mony a time ha'e i walk'd a' night, and never yet was weary; but now i may walk wae my lane, for i'll never see my deary. "love pines away, love dwines away, love, love, decays the body: for the love o' thee, now i maun die-- i come, my bonny annie!" fair helen of kirconnell. "the following very popular ballad has been handed down by tradition in its present imperfect state. the affecting incident on which it is founded is well known. a lady, of the name of helen irving, or bell, (for this is disputed by the two clans,) daughter of the laird of kirconnell, in dumfries-shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. the name of the favoured suitor was adam fleming of kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tradition: though it has been alleged that he was a bell, of blacket house. the addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of kirconnell, a romantic spot, almost surrounded by the river kirtle. during one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. a desperate and mortal combat ensued between fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. other accounts say, that fleming pursued his enemy to spain, and slew him in the streets of madrid. "the ballad, as now published, consists of two parts. the first seems to be an address, either by fleming or his rival, to the lady; if, indeed, it constituted any portion of the original poem. for the editor cannot help suspecting, that these verses have been the production of a different and inferior bard, and only adapted to the original measure and tune. but this suspicion being unwarranted by any copy he has been able to procure, he does not venture to do more than intimate his own opinion. the second part, by far the most beautiful, and which is unquestionably original, forms the lament of fleming over the grave of fair helen. "the ballad is here given, without alteration or improvement, from the most accurate copy which could be recovered. the fate of helen has not, however, remained unsung by modern bards. a lament, of great poetical merit, by the learned historian, mr. pinkerton, with several other poems on this subject, have been printed in various forms.[b] "the grave of the lovers is yet shown in the churchyard of kirconnell, near springkell. upon the tombstone can still be read--_hic jacet adamus fleming_; a cross and sword are sculptured on the stone. the former is called by the country people, the gun with which helen was murdered; and the latter the avenging sword of her lover. _sit illis terra levis!_ a heap of stones is raised on the spot where the murder was committed; a token of abhorrence common to most nations." _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . [b] for pinkerton's elegy, see his _select scottish ballads_, i. ; for mayne's, the _gentleman's magazine_, vol. , part ii. . jamieson has enfeebled the story in _popular ballads_, i. , and wordsworth's _ellen irwin_ hardly deserves more praise. ed. versions of the second part, (which alone deserves notice,) nearly agreeing with scott's, are given in the illustrations to the new edition of johnson's _museum_, p. , by mr. stenhouse, p. , by mr. sharpe. inferior and fragmentary ones in herd's _scottish songs_, i. ; johnson's _museum_, ; ritson's _scottish song_, i. ; jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . fair helen. part first. o! sweetest sweet, and fairest fair, of birth and worth beyond compare, thou art the causer of my care, since first i loved thee. yet god hath given to me a mind, the which to thee shall prove as kind as any one that thou shalt find, of high or low degree. the shallowest water makes maist din, the deadest pool the deepest linn; the richest man least truth within, though he preferred be. yet, nevertheless, i am content, and never a whit my love repent, but think the time was a' weel spent, though i disdained be. o! helen sweet, and maist complete, my captive spirit's at thy feet! thinks thou still fit thus for to treat thy captive cruelly? o! helen brave! but this i crave, of thy poor slave some pity have, and do him save that's near his grave, and dies for love of thee. fair helen. part second. i wish i were where helen lies, night and day on me she cries; o that i were where helen lies, on fair kirconnell lee! curst be the heart that thought the thought, and curst the hand that fired the shot, when in my arms burd helen dropt, and died to succour me! o think na ye my heart was sair, when my love dropt down and spak nae mair! there did she swoon wi' meikle care, on fair kirconnell lee. as i went down the water side, none but my foe to be my guide, none but my foe to be my guide, on fair kirconnell lee; i lighted down my sword to draw, i hacked him in pieces sma', i hacked him in pieces sma', for her sake that died for me. o helen fair, beyond compare! i'll make a garland of thy hair, shall bind my heart for evermair, until the day i die. o that i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries; out of my bed she bids me rise, says, "haste and come to me!"-- o helen fair! o helen chaste! if i were with thee, i were blest, where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, on fair kirconnell lee. i wish my grave were growing green, a winding-sheet drawn ower my een, and i in helen's arms lying, on fair kirconnell lee. i wish i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries; and i am weary of the skies, for her sake that died for me. the lowlands of holland. mr. stenhouse was informed that this ballad was composed, about the beginning of the last century, by a young widow in galloway, whose husband was drowned on a voyage to holland. (_musical museum_, ed. , iv. .) but some of the verses appear to be old, and one stanza will be remarked to be of common occurrence in ballad poetry. a fragment of this piece was published in herd's collection, (ii. .) our copy is from johnson's _museum_, p. , with the omission, however, of one spurious and absurd stanza, while another, not printed by johnson, is supplied from the note above cited to the new edition. cunningham makes sense of the interpolated verses and retains them; otherwise his version is nearly the same as the present. (_songs of scotland_, ii. .) "the love that i have chosen, i'll therewith be content, the saut sea shall be frozen before that i repent; repent it shall i never, until the day i die, but the lowlands of holland hae twinn'd my love and me. "my love lies in the saut sea, and i am on the side, enough to break a young thing's heart, wha lately was a bride; wha lately was a bonnie bride, and pleasure in her e'e, but the lowlands of holland hae twinn'd my love and me. "my love he built a bonnie ship, and set her to the sea, wi' seven score brave mariners to bear her companie; threescore gaed to the bottom, and threescore died at sea, and the lowlands of holland hae twinn'd my love and me. "my love has built another ship and set her to the main; he had but twenty mariners, and all to bring her hame; the stormy winds did roar again, the raging waves did rout, and my love and his bonnie ship turn'd widdershins about. "there shall nae mantle cross my back,[l ] nor kame gae in my hair, neither shall coal nor candle light shine in my bower mair; nor shall i chuse anither love, until the day i die, since the lowlands of holland hae twinn'd my love and me." "o haud your tongue, my daughter dear, be still, and be content; there are mair lads in galloway, ye need nae sair lament." "o there is nane in galloway,[l ] there's nane at a' for me; for i never loved a lad but ane, and he's drowned in the sea." - , - . with the conclusion of this piece may be compared a passage from _bonny bee-ho'm_, vol. iii. p. . "ohon, alas! what shall i do, tormented night and day! i never loved a love but ane, and now he's gone away. "but i will do for my true love what ladies would think sair; for seven years shall come and gae, ere a kaime gae in my hair. "there shall neither a shoe gae on my foot, nor a kaime gae in my hair, nor ever a coal or candle light shine in my bower nae mair." see also _the weary coble o' cargill_. book iii. the twa brothers. from jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . the ballad of the _twa brothers_, like many of the domestic tragedies with which it is grouped in this volume, is by no means the peculiar property of the island of great britain. it finds an exact counterpart in the swedish ballad _sven i rosengård_, _svenska f. v._, no. , arwidsson, no. , a, b, which, together with a finnish version of the same story, thought to be derived from the swedish, will be found translated in our appendix. _edward_, in percy's _reliques_, has the same general theme, with the difference that a father is murdered instead of a brother. motherwell[c] has printed a ballad (_son davie_) closely agreeing with _edward_, except that the crime is again fratricide. he has also furnished another version of _the twa brothers_, in which the catastrophe is the consequence of an accident, and this circumstance has led the excellent editor to tax jamieson with altering one of the most essential features of the ballad, by filling out a defective stanza with four lines that make one brother to have slain the other in a quarrel. jamieson is, however, justified in giving this more melancholy character to the story, by the tenor of all the kindred pieces, and by the language of his own. it will be observed that both in _edward_ and _son davie_, the wicked act was not only deliberate, but was even instigated by the mother. the departure from the original is undoubtedly on the part of motherwell's copy, which has softened down a shocking incident to accommodate a modern and refined sentiment. but jamieson is artistically, as well as critically right, since the effect of the contrast of the remorse of one party and the generosity of the other is heightened by representing the terrible event as the result of ungoverned passion. [c] the stanza mentioned by motherwell, as occurring in werner's _twenty fourth of february_, (scene i.) is apparently only a quotation from memory of herder's translation of _edward_. when motherwell became aware that a similar tradition was common to the northern nations of europe, he could no longer have thought it possible that an occurrence in the family history of the somervilles gave rise to _the twa brothers_. the three scottish ballads mentioned above, here follow, and motherwell's _twa brothers_ will be found in the appendix. mr. sharpe has inserted a third copy of this in his _ballad book_, p. . another is said to be in _the scot's magazine_, for june, . placing no confidence in any of allan cunningham's _souvenirs_ of scottish song, we simply state that one of them, composed upon the theme of the _twa brothers_, is included in the _songs of scotland_, ii. . "the common title of this ballad is, _the twa brothers_, or, _the wood o' warslin_, but the words _o' warslin_ appearing to the editor, as will be seen in the text, to be a mistake for _a-wrestling_, he took the liberty of altering it accordingly. after all, perhaps, the title may be right; and the wood may afterwards have obtained its denomination from the tragical event here celebrated. a very few lines inserted by the editor to fill up chasms, [some of which have been omitted,] are inclosed in brackets; the text, in other respects, is given genuine, as it was taken down from the recitation of mrs. arrott." jamieson. "o will ye gae to the school, brother? or will ye gae to the ba'? or will ye gae to the wood a-warslin, to see whilk o's maun fa'?" "it's i winna gae to the school, brother; nor will i gae to the ba'? but i will gae to the wood a-warslin; and it is you maun fa'." they warstled up, they warstled down, the lee-lang simmer's day; [and nane was near to part the strife, that raise atween them tway, till out and willie's drawn his sword, and did his brother slay.] "o lift me up upon your back; tak me to yon wall fair; you'll wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, and syne they'll bleed nae mair. "and ye'll tak aff my hollin sark, and riv't frae gair to gair; ye'll stap it in my bluidy wounds, and syne they'll bleed nae mair." he's liftit his brother upon his back; ta'en him to yon wall fair; he's washed his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, but ay they bled mair and mair. and he's ta'en aff his hollin sark, and riven't frae gair to gair; he's stappit it in his bluidy wounds; but ay they bled mair and mair. "ye'll lift me up upon your back, tak me to kirkland fair;[l ] ye'll mak my greaf baith braid and lang, and lay my body there. "ye'll lay my arrows at my head, my bent bow at my feet; my sword and buckler at my side, as i was wont to sleep. "whan ye gae hame to your father, he'll speer for his son john:-- say, ye left him into kirkland fair, learning the school alone. "when ye gae hame to my sister, she'll speer for her brother john:-- ye'll say, ye left him in kirkland fair, the green grass growin aboon. "whan ye gae hame to my true love, she'll speer for her lord john:-- ye'll say, ye left him in kirkland fair, but hame ye fear he'll never come."-- he's gane hame to his father; he speered for his son john: "it's i left him into kirkland fair, learning the school alone." and whan he gaed hame to his sister, she speered for her brother john:-- "it's i left him into kirkland fair, the green grass growin aboon." and whan he gaed hame to his true love, she speer'd for her lord john: "it's i left him into kirkland fair, and hame i fear he'll never come." "but whaten bluid's that on your sword, willie? sweet willie, tell to me." "o it is the bluid o' my grey hounds; they wadna rin for me." "it's nae the bluid o' your hounds, willie; their bluid was never so red; but it is the bluid o' my true love, that ye hae slain indeed." that fair may wept, that fair may mourn'd, that fair may mourn'd and pin'd; "when every lady looks for her love, i ne'er need look for mine." "o whaten a death will ye die, willie? now, willie, tell to me." "ye'll put me in a bottomless boat, and i'll gae sail the sea." "whan will ye come hame again, willie? now, willie, tell to me." "whan the sun and moon dances on the green, and that will never be." . "the house of inchmurry, formerly called kirkland, was built of old by the abbot of holyrood-house, for his accommodation when he came to that country, and was formerly the minister's manse." _stat. ac. of scotland_, vol. xiii. p. . j. edward, edward. "this curious song was transmitted to the editor by sir david dalrymple, bart., late lord hailes." percy, _reliques_, i. . "quhy dois zour brand sae drop w' bluid, edward, edward? quhy dois zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, and quhy sae sad gang zee o?" "o i hae killed my hauke sae guid, mither, mither: o i hae killed my hauke sae guid, and i had nae mair bot hee o." "zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, edward, edward: zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, my deir son i tell thee o." "o i hae killed my reid-roan steid, mither, mither: o i hae killed my reid-roan steid, that erst was sae fair and free o." "zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, edward, edward: zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, sum other dule ze drie o." "o i hae killed my fadir deir, mither, mither: o i hae killed my fadir deir, alas! and wae is mee o!" "and quhatten penance wul ze drie, for that, edward, edward? and quhatten penance will ze drie for that? my deir son, now tell me o." "ile set my feit in zonder boat, mither, mither: ile set my feit in zonder boat, and ile fare ovir the sea o." "and quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', edward, edward? and quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', that were sae fair to see o?" "ile let thame stand til they doun fa', mither, mither: ile let thame stand til they doun fa', for here nevir mair maun i bee o." "and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, edward, edward? and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, quhan ze gang ovir the sea o?" "the warldis room, late them beg throw life, mither, mither: the warldis room, late them beg throw life, for thame nevir mair wul i see o." "and quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, edward, edward? and quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir? my deir son, now tell me o." "the curse of hell frae me sall ze beir, mither, mither: the curse of hell frae me sall ze beir, sic counseils ze gave to me o." son davie, son davie. from the recitation of an old woman. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, . "what bluid's that on thy coat lap? son davie! son davie! what bluid's that on thy coat lap? and the truth come tell to me o." "it is the bluid of my great hawk, mother lady! mother lady! it is the bluid of my great hawk, and the truth i hae tald to thee o." "hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red, son davie! son davie! hawk's bluid was ne'er sae red, and the truth come tell to me o." "it is the bluid o' my grey hound, mother lady! mother lady! it is the bluid of my grey hound, and it wudna rin for me o." "hound's bluid was ne'er sae red, son davie! son davie! hound's bluid was ne'er sae red, and the truth come tell to me o." "it is the bluid o' my brother john, mother lady! mother lady! it is the bluid o' my brother john, and the truth i hae tald to thee o." "what about did the plea begin? son davie! son davie!" "it began about the cutting o' a willow wand, that would never hae been a tree o." "what death dost thou desire to die? son davie! son davie! what death dost thou desire to die? and the truth come tell to me o." "i'll set my foot in a bottomless ship, mother lady! mother lady! i'll set my foot in a bottomless ship, and ye'll never see mair o' me o." "what wilt thou leave to thy poor wife? son davie! son davie!" "grief and sorrow all her life, and she'll never get mair frae me o." "what wilt thou leave to thy auld son? son davie! son davie!" "the weary warld to wander up and down, and he'll never get mair o' me o." "what wilt thou leave to thy mother dear? son davie! son davie!" "a fire o' coals to burn her wi' hearty cheer, and she'll never get mair o' me o." the cruel sister. the earliest printed copy of this ballad is the curious piece in _wit restor'd_, ( ,) called _the miller and the king's daughter_, improperly said to be a parody, by jamieson and others. (see appendix.) pinkerton inserted in his _tragic ballads_, (p. ,) a ballad on the subject, which preserves many genuine lines, but is half his own composition. complete versions were published by scott and jamieson, and more recently a third has been furnished in sharpe's _ballad book_, p. , and a fourth in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_ (given at the end of this volume). the burden of mr. sharpe's copy is nearly the same as that of the _cruel mother_, _post_, p. . jamieson's copy had also this burden, but he exchanged it for the more popular, and certainly more tasteful, _binnorie_. no ballad furnishes a closer link than this between the popular poetry of england and that of the other nations of northern europe. the same story is found in icelandic, norse, faroish, and estnish ballads, as well as in the swedish and danish, and a nearly related one in many other ballads or tales, german, polish, lithuanian, etc., etc.--see _svenska folk-visor_, iii. , i. , , arwidsson, ii. , and especially _den talende strengeleg_, grundtvig, no. , and the notes to _der singende knochen_, _k. u. h. märchen_, iii. , ed. . of the edition in the _border minstrelsy_, scott gives the following account, (iii. .) "it is compiled from a copy in mrs. brown's mss., intermixed with a beautiful fragment, of fourteen verses, transmitted to the editor by j. c. walker, esq. the ingenious historian of the irish bards. mr. walker, at the same time, favored the editor with the following note: 'i am indebted to my departed friend, miss brook, for the foregoing pathetic fragment. her account of it was as follows: this song was trans-scribed, several years ago, from the memory of an old woman, who had no recollection of the concluding verses; probably the beginning may also be lost, as it seems to commence abruptly.' the first verse and burden of the fragment ran thus:-- 'o sister, sister, reach thy hand! _hey ho, my nanny, o_; and you shall be heir of all my land, _while the swan swims bonney, o_.'" there were two sisters sat in a bour; _bínnorie, o bínnorie_; there came a knight to be their wooer; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. he courted the eldest with glove and ring, _binnorie, o binnorie_; but he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. he courted the eldest with broach and knife, _binnorie, o binnorie_; but he lo'ed the youngest abune his life; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. the eldest she was vexed sair, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and sore envied her sister fair; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. the eldest said to the youngest ane, _binnorie, o binnorie_; "will ye go and see our father's ships come in?" _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. she's ta'en her by the lily hand, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and led her down to the river strand; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. the youngest stude upon a stane, _binnorie, o binnorie_; the eldest came and pushed her in; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. she took her by the middle sma', _binnorie, o binnorie_; and dash'd her bonny back to the jaw; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "o sister, sister, reach your hand, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and ye shall be heir of half my land."-- _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "o sister, i'll not reach my hand, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and i'll be heir of all your land; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "shame fa' the hand that i should take, _binnorie, o binnorie_; it's twin'd me and my world's make."-- _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "o sister, reach me but your glove, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and sweet william shall be your love."-- _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "sink on, nor hope for hand or glove! _binnorie, o binnorie_; and sweet william shall better be my love, _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, _binnorie, o binnorie_, garr'd me gang maiden evermair."-- _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, _binnorie, o binnorie_; until she cam to the miller's dam; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "o father, father, draw your dam! _binnorie, o binnorie_; there's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. the miller hasted and drew his dam, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and there he found a drown'd woman; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. you could not see her yellow hair, _binnorie, o binnorie_; for gowd and pearls that were so rare; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. you could not see her middle sma', _binnorie, o binnorie_; her gowden girdle was sae bra'; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. a famous harper passing by, _binnorie, o binnorie_; the sweet pale face he chanced to spy; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. and when he looked that lady on, _binnorie, o binnorie_; he sigh'd and made a heavy moan; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. he made a harp of her breast-bone, _binnorie, o binnorie_; whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. the strings he framed of her yellow hair, _binnorie, o binnorie_; whose notes made sad the listening ear; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. he brought it to her father's hall, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and there was the court assembled all; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. he laid his harp upon a stone, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and straight it began to play alone; _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "o yonder sits my father, the king, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and yonder sits my mother, the queen;" _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. "and yonder stands my brother hugh, _binnorie, o binnorie_; and by him my william, sweet and true." _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. but the last tune that the harp play'd then, _binnorie, o binnorie_; was--"woe to my sister, false helen!" _by the bonny milldams of binnorie_. the twa sisters. _verbatim_ (with one interpolated stanza) from the recitation of mrs. brown. jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . there was twa sisters liv'd in a bower, _bínnorie, o bínnorie_! there came a knight to be their wooer, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. he courted the eldest wi' glove and ring, _binnorie, o binnorie_! but he loved the youngest aboon a' thing, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. he courted the eldest wi' broach and knife, _binnorie, o binnorie_! but he loved the youngest as his life, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. the eldest she was vexed sair, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and sair envied her sister fair, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. intill her bower she coudna rest, _binnorie, o binnorie_! wi' grief and spite she maistly brast, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. upon a morning fair and clear, _binnorie, o binnorie_! she cried upon her sister dear, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "o sister, come to yon sea strand, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and see our father's ships come to land," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. she's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and led her down to yon sea strand, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. the youngest stood upon a stane, _binnorie, o binnorie_! the eldest came and threw her in, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. she took her by the middle sma' _binnorie, o binnorie_! and dashed her bonny back to the jaw, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "o sister, sister, tak my hand, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and i'se mak ye heir to a' my land, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "o sister, sister, tak my middle, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and ye's get my goud and my gouden girdle, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "o sister, sister, save my life, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and i swear i'se never be nae man's wife," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "foul fa' the hand that i should tak, _binnorie, o binnorie_! it twin'd me o' my warldes mak, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "your cherry cheeks and yellow hair _binnorie, o binnorie_! gars me gang maiden for evermair," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, _binnorie, o binnorie_! till she came to the mouth o' yon mill-dam, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. o out it came the miller's son, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and saw the fair maid soummin in, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. "o father, father, draw your dam, _binnorie, o binnorie_! there's either a mermaid or a swan," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. [the miller quickly drew the dam, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and there he found a drown'd woman, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_.] "and sair and lang mat their teen last, _binnorie, o binnorie_! that wrought thee sic a dowie cast," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_! you coudna see her yellow hair _binnorie, o binnorie_! for goud and pearl that was sae rare, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. you coudna see her middle sma' _binnorie, o binnorie_! for gouden girdle that was sae braw, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. you coudna see her fingers white, _binnorie, o binnorie_! for gouden rings that were sae gryte, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. and by there came a harper fine, _binnorie, o binnorie_! that harped to the king at dine, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. whan he did look that lady upon, _binnorie, o binnorie_! he sigh'd and made a heavy moan, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. he's ta'en three locks o' her yellow hair, _binnorie, o binnorie_! and wi' them strung his harp sae fair, _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. the first tune it did play and sing, _binnorie, o binnorie_! was, "fareweel to my father the king," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. the nexten tune that it play'd seen, _binnorie, o binnorie_! was, "fareweel to my mither the queen," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_. the thirden tune that it play'd then, _binnorie, o binnorie_! was, "wae to my sister, fair ellen," _by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie_! lord donald. kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . like the two which preceded it, this ballad is common to the gothic nations. it exists in a great variety of forms. two stanzas, recovered by burns, were printed in johnson's _museum_, i. ; two others were inserted by jamieson, in his _illustrations_, p. . the _border minstrelsy_ furnished five stanzas, giving the _story_, without the bequests. allan cunningham's alteration of scott's version, (_scottish songs_, i. ,) has one stanza more. kinloch procured from the north of scotland the following complete copy. in the appendix, we have placed a nursery song on the same subject, still familiar in scotland, and translations of the corresponding german and swedish ballads--both most remarkable cases of parallelism in popular romance. lord donald, as kinloch remarks, would seem to have been poisoned by eating toads prepared as fishes. scott, in his introduction to _lord randal_, has quoted from an old chronicle, a fabulous account of the poisoning of king john by means of a cup of ale, in which the venom of this reptile had been infused. "o whare hae ye been a' day, lord donald, my son? o whare hae ye been a' day, my jollie young man?" "i've been awa courtin':--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what wad ye hae for your supper, lord donald, my son? what wad ye hae for your supper, my jollie young man?" "i've gotten my supper:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what did ye get for your supper, lord donald, my son? what did ye get for your supper, my jollie young man?" "a dish of sma' fishes:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "whare gat ye the fishes, lord donald, my son? whare gat ye the fishes, my jollie young man?" "in my father's black ditches:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what like were your fishes, lord donald, my son? what like were your fishes, my jollie young man?" "black backs and spreckl'd bellies:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "o i fear ye are poison'd, lord donald, my son! o i fear ye are poison'd, my jollie young man!" "o yes! i am poison'd:--mither mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your father, lord donald my son? what will ye leave to your father, my jollie young man?" "baith my houses and land:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your brither, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your brither, my jollie young man?" "my horse and the saddle:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your sister, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your sister, my jollie young man?" "baith my gold box and rings:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your true-love, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your true-love, my jollie young man?" "the tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, and lat her hang there for the poysoning o' me." lord randal (b). from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, (iii. .) scott changed the name of the hero of this piece from _lord ronald_ to _lord randal_, on the authority of a single copy. the change is unimportant, but the reason will appear curious, if we remember that the swedes and germans have the ballad as well as the scotch;--"because, though the circumstances are so very different, i think it not impossible, that the ballad may have originally regarded the death of thomas randolph, or randal, earl of murray, nephew to robert bruce, and governor of scotland." "o where hae ye been lord randal, my son? o where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"-- "i hae been to the wild wood; mother make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "where gat ye your dinner, lord randal, my son? where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "i dined wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "what gat ye to your dinner, lord randal, my son? what gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?"-- "i gat eels boil'd in broo; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "what became of your bloodhounds, lord randal, my son? what became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?"-- "o they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."-- "o i fear ye are poison'd, lord randal, my son! o i fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!"-- "o yes! i am poison'd; mother, make my bed soon, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie down." the cruel brother: or, the bride's testament. of this ballad, which is still commonly recited and sung in scotland, four copies have been published. the following is from jamieson's collection, i. , where it was printed _verbatim_ after the recitation of mrs. arrott. a copy from aytoun's collection is subjoined, which is nearly the same as a less perfect one in herd, i. , and the fourth, from gilbert's _ancient christmas carols_, &c., is in the appendix to this volume. the conclusion, or testamentary part, occurs very frequently in ballads, e. g. _den lillas testamente_, _svenska folk-visor_, no. , translated in the appendix to this volume, the end of _den onde svigermoder_, _danske viser_, i. , translated in _illustrations of northern antiquities_, p. , _möen paa baalet_, grundtvig, no. , a, st. - , and _kong valdemar og hans söster_, grundtvig, no. , a, st. - . see also _edward_, and _lord donald_, p. , p. . there was three ladies play'd at the ba', _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; there came a knight, and play'd o'er them a', _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. the eldest was baith tall and fair, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; but the youngest was beyond compare, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. the midmost had a gracefu' mien, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; but the youngest look'd like beauty's queen, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. the knight bow'd low to a' the three, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; but to the youngest he bent his knee, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. the lady turned her head aside, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; the knight he woo'd her to be his bride, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. the lady blush'd a rosy red, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; and said, "sir knight, i'm o'er young to wed," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "o lady fair, give me your hand, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; and i'll mak you ladie of a' my land," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "sir knight, ere you my favor win, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; ye maun get consent frae a' my kin," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. he has got consent fra her parents dear, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; and likewise frae her sisters fair, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. he has got consent frae her kin each one, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; but forgot to speer at her brother john, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. now, when the wedding day was come, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; the knight would take his bonny bride home, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. and many a lord and many a knight, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; came to behold that lady bright, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. and there was nae man that did her see, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, but wished himself bridegroom to be, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. her father dear led her down the stair, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; and her sisters twain they kiss'd her there, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. her mother dear led her through the close, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; and her brother john set her on her horse, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. she lean'd her o'er the saddle-bow, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, to give him a kiss ere she did go, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. he has ta'en a knife, baith lang and sharp, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, and stabb'd the bonny bride to the heart, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. she hadna ridden half thro' the town, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, until her heart's blood stained her gown, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "ride saftly on," said the best young man, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "for i think our bonny bride looks pale and wan," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "o lead me gently up yon hill, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_, and i'll there sit down, and make my will," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "o what will you leave to your father dear?" _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "the silver-shod steed that brought me here," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "what will you leave to your mother dear?" _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "my velvet pall and silken gear," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "and what will ye leave to your sister ann?" _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "my silken scarf, and my golden fan," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "what will ye leave to your sister grace?" _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "my bloody cloaths to wash and dress," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "what will ye leave to your brother john?" _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "the gallows-tree to hang him on," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. "what will ye leave to your brother john's wife?" _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; "the wilderness to end her life," _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. this fair lady in her grave was laid, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; and a mass was o'er her said, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. but it would have made your heart right sair, _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay_; to see the bridegroom rive his hair, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly_. the cruel brother. from aytoun's _ballads of scotland_ ( d ed.), i. , "taken down from recitation." found also, but with several stanzas wanting, in herd's _scottish songs_, i. . the title in both collections is _fine flowers i' the valley_. this part of the refrain is found in one of the versions of the _cruel mother_, p. . to herd's copy are annexed two fragmentary stanzas with nearly the same burden as that of the foregoing ballad. she louted down to gie a kiss, _with a hey and a lily gay_; he stuck his penknife in her hass, _and the rose it smells so sweetly_. "ride up, ride up," cry'd the foremost man, _with a hey and a lily gay_; "i think our bride looks pale and wan," _and the rose it smells so sweetly_. there were three sisters in a ha', _fine flowers i' the valley_, there came three lords amang them a', _the red, green, and the yellow_. the first o' them was clad in red, _fine flowers i' the valley_; "o lady, will ye be my bride?" _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. the second o' them was clad in green, _fine flowers i' the valley_; "o lady, will ye be my queen?" _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. the third o' them was clad in yellow, _fine flowers i' the valley_; "o lady, will ye be my marrow?" _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "o ye maun ask my father dear," _fine flowers i' the valley_, "likewise the mother that did me bear," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "and ye maun ask my sister ann," _fine flowers i' the valley_; "and not forget my brother john," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "o i have asked thy father dear," _fine flowers i' the valley_, "likewise the mother that did thee bear," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "and i have asked your sister ann," _fine flowers i' the valley_; "but i forgot your brother john;" _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. now when the wedding-day was come, _fine flowers i' the valley_, the knight would take his bonny bride home, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. and mony a lord, and mony a knight, _fine flowers i' the valley_, cam to behold that lady bright, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. there was nae man that did her see, _fine flowers i' the valley_, but wished himsell bridegroom to be, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. her father led her down the stair, _fine flowers i' the valley_, and her sisters twain they kissed her there, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. her mother led her through the close, _fine flowers i' the valley_; her brother john set her on her horse, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "you are high and i am low," _fine flowers i' the valley_; "give me a kiss before you go," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. she was louting down to kiss him sweet, _fine flowers i' the valley_; when wi' his knife he wounded her deep, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. she hadna ridden through half the town, _fine flowers i' the valley_, until her heart's blood stained her gown, _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "ride saftly on," said the best young man, _fine flowers i' the valley_; "i think our bride looks pale and wan!" _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "o lead me over into yon stile," _fine flowers i' the valley_, "that i may stop and breathe awhile," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "o lead me over into yon stair," _fine flowers i' the valley_, "for there i'll lie and bleed nae mair," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "o what will you leave to your father dear?" _fine flowers i' the valley_; "the siller-shod steed that brought me here," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "what will you leave to your mother dear?" _fine flowers i' the valley_; "my velvet pall, and my pearlin' gear," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "what will you leave to your sister ann?" _fine flowers i' the valley_; "my silken gown that stands its lane," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "what will you leave to your sister grace?" _fine flowers i' the valley_; "my bluidy shirt to wash and dress," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. "what will you leave to your brother john?" _fine flowers i' the valley_; "the gates o' hell to let him in," _wi' the red, green, and the yellow_. lady anne. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "this ballad was communicated to me by mr. kirkpatrick sharpe of hoddom, who mentions having copied it from an old magazine. although it has probably received some modern corrections, the general turn seems to be ancient, and corresponds with that of a fragment which i have often heard sung in my childhood." the version to which sir walter scott refers, and part of which he proceeds to quote, had been printed in johnson's _museum_. it is placed immediately after the present, with other copies of the ballad from motherwell and kinloch. in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_ there are two more, which are repeated with slight variations in the xvii. vol. of the percy society, p. , p. . both will be found in the appendix. the copy in buchan's _gleanings_, p. , seems to be taken from scott. smith's _scottish minstrel_, iv. , affords still another variety. in german, _die kindesmörderin_, erk's _liederhort_, no. , five copies; erlach, iv. ; hoffmann, _schlesische v. l._, no. , ; _wunderhorn_, ii. ; zuccalmaglio, no. ; meinert, no. ; simrock, p. . (but some of these are repetitions.) wendish, haupt and schmaler, i. no. , and with considerable differences, i. no. , ii. . this last reference is taken from grundtvig, ii. . fair lady anne sate in her bower, down by the greenwood side, and the flowers did spring, and the birds did sing, 'twas the pleasant may-day tide. but fair lady anne on sir william call'd, with the tear grit in her ee, "o though thou be fause, may heaven thee guard, in the wars ayont the sea!"-- out of the wood came three bonnie boys, upon the simmer's morn, and they did sing and play at the ba', as naked as they were born. "o seven lang years wad i sit here, amang the frost and snaw, a' to hae but ane o' these bonnie boys, a playing at the ba'."-- then up and spake the eldest boy, "now listen, thou fair ladie, and ponder well the rede that i tell, then make ye a choice of the three. "'tis i am peter, and this is paul, and that ane, sae fair to see, but a twelve-month sinsyne to paradise came, to join with our companie."-- "o i will hae the snaw-white boy, the bonniest of the three."-- "and if i were thine, and in thy propine, o what wad ye do to me?"-- "'tis i wad clead thee in silk and gowd, and nourice thee on my knee."-- "o mither! mither! when i was thine, sic kindness i couldna see. "beneath the turf, where now i stand, the fause nurse buried me; the cruel penknife sticks still in my heart, and i come not back to thee."-- * * * * * * * fine flowers in the valley. from johnson's _musical museum_, p. . the first line of the burden is found also in _the cruel brother_, p. . she sat down below a thorn, _fine flowers in the valley_; and there she has her sweet babe born, _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. "smile na sae sweet, my bonnie babe, _fine flowers in the valley_, and ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead," _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. she's taen out her little penknife, _fine flowers in the valley_, and twinn'd the sweet babe o' its life, _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. she's howket a grave by the light o' the moon, _fine flowers in the valley_, and there she's buried her sweet babe in, _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. as she was going to the church, _fine flowers in the valley_, she saw a sweet babe in the porch, _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. "o sweet babe, and thou were mine, _fine flowers in the valley_, i wad cleed thee in the silk so fine," _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. "o mother dear, when i was thine, _fine flowers in the valley_, ye did na prove to me sae kind," _and the green leaves they grow rarely_. the cruel mother. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . she leaned her back unto a thorn, _three, three, and three by three_; and there she has her two babes born, _three, three, and thirty-three_. she took frae 'bout her ribbon-belt, and there she bound them hand and foot. she has ta'en out her wee penknife, and there she ended baith their life. she has howked a hole baith deep and wide, she has put them in baith side by side. she has covered them o'er wi' a marble stane, thinking she would gang maiden hame. as she was walking by her father's castle wa', she saw twa pretty babes playing at the ba'. "o bonnie babes! gin ye were mine, i would dress you up in satin fine! "o i would dress you in the silk, and wash you ay in morning milk!" "o cruel mother! we were thine, and thou made us to wear the twine. "o cursed mother! heaven's high, and that's where thou will ne'er win nigh. "o cursed mother! hell is deep, and there thou'll enter step by step." the cruel mother. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . three stanzas of a warwickshire version closely resembling kinloch's are given in _notes and queries_, vol. viii. p. . there lives a lady in london-- _all alone, and alonie_; she's gane wi' bairn to the clerk's son-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. she has tane her mantel her about-- _all alone, and alonie_; she's gane aff to the gude greenwud-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. she has set her back until an aik-- _all alone, and alonie_; first it bowed, and syne it brake-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. she has set her back until a brier-- _all alone, and alonie_; bonnie were the twa boys she did bear-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. but out she's tane a little penknife-- _all alone, and alonie_; and she's parted them and their sweet life-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. she's aff unto her father's ha'-- _all alone, and alonie_; she seem'd the lealest maiden amang them a'-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. as she lookit our the castle wa'-- _all alone, and alonie_; she spied twa bonnie boys playing at the ba'-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "o an thae twa babes were mine"-- _all alone, and alonie_; "they should wear the silk and the sabelline"-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "o mother dear, when we were thine," _all alone, and alonie_; "we neither wore the silks nor the sabelline"-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "but out ye took a little penknife"-- _all alone, and alonie_; "an ye parted us and our sweet life"-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. "but now we're in the heavens hie"-- _all alone, and alonie_; "and ye have the pains o' hell to dree"-- _doun by the greenwud sae bonnie_. may colvin, or false sir john. in the very ancient though corrupted ballads of _lady isabel and the elf-knight_, and _the water o' wearie's well_ (vol. i. p. , ), an elf or a merman occupies the place here assigned to false sir john. perhaps _may colvin_ is the result of the same modernizing process by which _hynde etin_ has been converted into _young hastings the groom_ (vol. i. p. , ). the coincidence of the name with _clerk colvill_, in vol. i. p. , may have some significance. this, however, would not be the opinion of grundtvig, who regards the norse and german ballads resembling _lady isabel_, &c., as compounded of two independent stories. if this be so, then we should rather say that a ballad similar to _may colvin_ has been made to furnish the conclusion to the pieces referred to. the story of this ballad has apparently some connection with _bluebeard_, but it is hard to say what the connection is. (see _fitchers vogel_ in the grimms' _k. u. h.-märchen_, no. , and notes.) the versions of the ballad in other languages are all but innumerable: e. g. _röfvaren rymer_, _röfvaren brun_, _svenska f.-v._, no. , ; _den falske riddaren_, arwidsson, no. ; _ulrich und aennchen_, _schön ulrich u. roth-aennchen_, _schön ulrich und rautendelein_, _ulinger_, _herr halewyn_, etc., in _wunderhorn_, i. ; uhland, - (four copies); erk, _liederhort_, , ; erlach, iii. ; zuccalmaglio, _deutsche volkslieder_, no. ; hoffmann, _schlesische volkslieder_, no. , , and _niederländische volkslieder_, no. , ; etc. etc. a very brief italian ballad will be found in the appendix, p. , which seems to have the same theme. in some of the ballads the treacherous seducer is an enchanter, who prevails upon the maid to go with him by the power of a spell. _may colvin_ was first published in herd's collection, vol. i. . the copy here given is one obtained from recitation by motherwell, (_minstrelsy_, p. ,) collated by him with that of herd. it is defective at the end. the other versions in sharpe's _ballad book_, p. , and buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , though they are provided with some sort of conclusion, are not worth reprinting. a modernized version, styled _the outlandish knight_, is inserted in the notes to _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, percy society, vol. xvii. . carlton castle, on the coast of carrick, is affirmed by the country people, according to mr. chambers, to have been the residence of the perfidious knight, and a precipice overhanging the sea, called "fause sir john's loup," is pointed out as the place where he was wont to drown his wives. may colvin is equally well ascertained to have been "a daughter of the family of kennedy of colzean, now represented by the earl of cassilis." buchan's version assigns a different locality to the transaction--that of "binyan's bay," which, says the editor, is the old name of the mouth of the river ugie. false sir john a wooing came to a maid of beauty fair; may colvin was the lady's name, her father's only heir. he's courted her butt, and he's courted her ben, and he's courted her into the ha', till once he got this lady's consent to mount and ride awa'. she's gane to her father's coffers, where all his money lay; and she's taken the red, and she's left the white, and so lightly as she tripped away. she's gane down to her father's stable, where all his steeds did stand; and she's taken the best, and she's left the warst, that was in her father's land. he rode on, and she rode on, they rode a lang simmer's day, until they came to a broad river, an arm of a lonesome sea. "loup off the steed," says false sir john; "your bridal bed you see; for it's seven king's daughters i have drowned here, and the eighth i'll out make with thee. "cast off, cast off your silks so fine, and lay them on a stone, for they are o'er good and o'er costly to rot in the salt sea foam. "cast off, cast off your holland smock, and lay it on this stone, for it is too fine and o'er costly to rot in the salt sea foam." "o turn you about, thou false sir john, and look to the leaf o' the tree; for it never became a gentleman a naked woman to see." he's turn'd himself straight round about, to look to the leaf o' the tree; she's twined her arms about his waist, and thrown him into the sea. "o hold a grip of me, may colvin, for fear that i should drown; i'll take you hame to your father's gates, and safely i'll set you down." "o lie you there, thou false sir john, o lie you there," said she; "for you lie not in a caulder bed than the ane you intended for me." so she went on her father's steed, as swift as she could flee, and she came hame to her father's gates at the breaking of the day. up then spake the pretty parrot: "may colvin, where have you been? what has become of false sir john, that wooed you so late yestreen?" up then spake the pretty parrot, in the bonnie cage where it lay: "o what hae ye done with the false sir john, that he behind you does stay? "he wooed you butt, he wooed you ben, he wooed you into the ha', until he got your own consent for to mount and gang awa'." "o hold your tongue, my pretty parrot, lay not the blame upon me; your cage will be made of the beaten gold, and the spakes of ivorie." up then spake the king himself, in the chamber where he lay: "o what ails the pretty parrot, that prattles so long ere day?" "it was a cat cam to my cage door; i thought 't would have worried me; and i was calling on fair may colvin to take the cat from me." babylon, or, the bonnie banks o' fordie. "this ballad is given from two copies obtained from recitation, which differ but little from each other. indeed, the only variation is in the verse where the outlawed brother unweetingly slays his sister. one reading is,-- 'he's taken out his wee penknife, _hey how bonnie_; and he's twined her o' her ain sweet life, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_.' the other reading is that adopted in the text. this ballad is popular in the southern parishes of perthshire: but where the scene is laid the editor has been unable to ascertain. nor has any research of his enabled him to throw farther light on the history of its hero with the fantastic name, than what the ballad itself supplies." motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . another version is subjoined, from kinloch's collection. this ballad is found in danish; _herr truels's doettre_, _danske viser_, no. . in a note the editor endeavors to show that the story is based on fact! there were three ladies lived in a bower, _eh vow bonnie_, and they went out to pull a flower, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. they hadna pu'ed a flower but ane, _eh vow bonnie_, when up started to them a banisht man, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. he's ta'en the first sister by her hand, _eh vow bonnie_, and he's turned her round and made her stand, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. "it's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, _eh vow bonnie_, or will ye die by my wee penknife," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_? "it's i'll not be a rank robber's wife, _eh vow bonnie_, but i'll rather die by your wee penknife," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. he's killed this may and he's laid her by, _eh vow bonnie_, for to bear the red rose company, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. he's taken the second ane by the hand, _eh vow bonnie_, and he's turned her round and made her stand, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. "it's whether will ye be a rank robber's wife, _eh vow bonnie_, or will ye die by my wee penknife," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_? "i'll not be a rank robber's wife, _eh vow bonnie_, but i'll rather die by your wee penknife," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. he's killed this may and he's laid her by, _eh vow bonnie_, for to bear the red rose company, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. he's taken the youngest ane by the hand, _eh vow bonnie_, and he's turned her round and made her stand, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. says, "will ye be a rank robber's wife, _eh vow bonnie_, or will ye die by my wee penknife," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_? "i'll not be a rank robber's wife, _eh vow bonnie_, nor will i die by your wee penknife, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. "for i hae a brother in this wood, _eh vow bonnie_, and gin ye kill me, it's he'll kill thee," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. "what's thy brother's name? come tell to me," _eh vow bonnie_; "my brother's name is babylon," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. "o sister, sister, what have i done, _eh vow bonnie_? o have i done this ill to thee, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_? "o since i've done this evil deed, _eh vow bonnie_, good sall never be seen o' me," _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. he's taken out his wee penknife, _eh vow bonnie_, and he's twyned himsel o' his ain sweet life, _on the bonnie banks o' fordie_. duke of perth's three daughters. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . the duke o' perth had three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and fair marie; and elizabeth's to the greenwud gane, to pu' the rose and the fair lilie. but she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, a double rose, but barely three, whan up and started a loudon lord, wi' loudon hose, and loudon sheen. "will ye be called a robber's wife? or will ye be stickit wi' my bloody knife? for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free." "before i'll be called a robber's wife, i'll rather be stickit wi' your bloody knife, for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free." then out he's tane his little penknife, and he's parted her and her sweet life, and thrown her o'er a bank o' brume, there never more for to be found. the duke o' perth had three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and fair marie; and margaret's to the greenwud gane, to pu' the rose and the fair lilie. she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, a double rose, but barely three, when up and started a loudon lord, wi' loudon hose, and loudon sheen. "will ye be called a robber's wife? or will ye be stickit wi' my bloody knife? for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free." "before i'll be called a robber's wife, i'll rather be sticket wi' your bloody knife, for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free." then out he's tane his little penknife, and he's parted her and her sweet life, for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free. the duke o' perth had three daughters, elizabeth, margaret, and fair marie; and mary's to the greenwud gane, to pu' the rose and the fair lilie. she hadna pu'd a rose, a rose, a double rose, but barely three, when up and started a loudon lord, wi' loudon hose, and loudon sheen. "o will ye be called a robber's wife? or will ye be stickit wi' my bloody knife? for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free." "before i'll be called a robber's wife, i'll rather be stickit wi' your bloody knife, for pu'in the rose and the fair lilie, for pu'in them sae fair and free." but just as he took out his knife, to tak frae her her ain sweet life, her brother john cam ryding bye, and this bloody robber he did espy. but when he saw his sister fair, he kenn'd her by her yellow hair; he call'd upon his pages three, to find this robber speedilie. "my sisters twa that are dead and gane, for whom we made a heavy maene, it's you that's twinn'd them o' their life, and wi' your cruel bloody knife. then for their life ye sair shall dree: ye sall be hangit on a tree, or thrown into the poison'd lake, to feed the toads and rattle-snake." jellon grame. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "this ballad is published from tradition, with some conjectural emendations. it is corrected by a copy in mrs. brown's ms., from which it differs in the concluding stanzas. some verses are apparently modernized. "_jellon_ seems to be the same name with _jyllian_, or _julian_. 'jyl of brentford's testament' is mentioned in warton's _history of poetry_, vol. ii. p. . the name repeatedly occurs in old ballads, sometimes as that of a man, at other times as that of a woman. of the former is an instance in the ballad of _the knight and the shepherd's daughter_. [see this collection, vol. iii. p. .] 'some do call me jack, sweetheart, and some do call me _jille_.' "witton gilbert, a village four miles west of durham, is, throughout the bishopric, pronounced witton jilbert. we have also the common name of giles, always in scotland pronounced jill. for gille, or juliana, as a female name, we have _fair gillian_ of croyden, and a thousand authorities. such being the case, the editor must enter his protest against the conversion of _gil_ morrice into _child_ maurice, an epithet of chivalry. all the circumstances in that ballad argue, that the unfortunate hero was an obscure and very young man, who had never received the honour of knighthood. at any rate there can be no reason, even were internal evidence totally wanting, for altering a well-known proper name, which, till of late years, has been the uniform title of the ballad." scott. _may-a-row_, in buchan's larger collection, ii. , is another, but an inferior, version of this ballad. o jellon grame sat in silverwood,[l ] he sharp'd his broadsword lang; and he has call'd his little foot-page an errand for to gang. "win up, my bonny boy," he says, "as quickly as ye may; for ye maun gang for lillie flower before the break of day."-- the boy has buckled his belt about, and through the green-wood ran; and he came to the ladye's bower before the day did dawn. "o sleep ye, wake ye, lillie flower? the red sun's on the rain: ye're bidden come to silverwood, but i doubt ye'll never win hame."-- she hadna ridden a mile, a mile, a mile but barely three, ere she came to a new-made grave, beneath a green aik tree. o then up started jellon grame, out of a bush thereby; "light down, light down, now, lillie flower, for it's here that ye maun lye."-- she lighted aff her milk-white steed, and kneel'd upon her knee; "o mercy, mercy, jellon grame, for i'm no prepared to die! "your bairn, that stirs between my sides, maun shortly see the light: but to see it weltering in my blood, would be a piteous sight."-- "o should i spare your life," he says, "until that bairn were born, full weel i ken your auld father would hang me on the morn."-- "o spare my life, now, jellon grame! my father ye needna dread: i'll keep my babe in gude green-wood, or wi' it i'll beg my bread."-- he took no pity on lillie flower, though she for life did pray; but pierced her through the fair body as at his feet she lay. he felt nae pity for lillie flower, where she was lying dead; but he felt some for the bonny bairn, that lay weltering in her bluid. up has he ta'en that bonny boy, given him to nurses nine; three to sleep, and three to wake, and three to go between. and he bred up that bonny boy, call'd him his sister's son; and he thought no eye could ever see the deed that he had done. o so it fell upon a day, when hunting they might be, they rested them in silverwood, beneath that green aik tree. and many were the green-wood flowers upon the grave that grew, and marvell'd much that bonny boy to see their lovely hue. "what's paler than the prymrose wan? what's redder than the rose? what's fairer than the lilye flower on this wee know that grows?"-- o out and answer'd jellon grame, and he spak hastilie-- "your mother was a fairer flower, and lies beneath this tree. "more pale she was, when she sought my grace, than prymrose pale and wan; and redder than rose her ruddy heart's blood, that down my broadsword ran."-- wi' that the boy has bent his bow, it was baith stout and lang; an thro' and thro' him, jellon grame, he gar'd an arrow gang. says,--"lie ye there, now, jellon grame! my malisoun gang you wi'! the place that my mother lies buried in is far too good for thee." . silverwood, mentioned in this ballad, occurs in a medley ms. song, which seems to have been copied from the first edition of the aberdeen cantus, _penes_ john g. dalyell, esq. advocate. one line only is cited, apparently the beginning of some song:-- "silverwood, gin ye were mine." scott. young johnstone. a fragment of this fine ballad (which is commonly called _the cruel knight_) was published by herd, (i. ,) and also by pinkerton, (_select scottish ballads_, i. ,) with variations. finlay constructed a nearly complete edition from two recited copies, but suppressed some lines. (_scottish ballads_, ii. .) the present copy is one which motherwell obtained from recitation, with a few verbal emendations by that editor from finlay's. with respect to the sudden and strange catastrophe, motherwell remarks:-- "the reciters of old ballads frequently supply the best commentaries upon them, when any obscurity or want of connection appears in the poetical narrative. this ballad, as it stands, throws no light on young johnstone's motive for stabbing his lady; but the person from whose lips it was taken down alleged that the barbarous act was committed unwittingly, through young johnstone's suddenly waking from sleep, and, in that moment of confusion and alarm, unhappily mistaking his mistress for one of his pursuers. it is not improbable but the ballad may have had, at one time, a stanza to the above effect, the substance of which is still remembered, though the words in which it was couched have been forgotten." _minstrelsy_, p. . buchan's version, (_lord john's murder_, ii. ,) it will be seen, supplies this deficiency. young johnstone and the young col'nel sat drinking at the wine: "o gin ye wad marry my sister, it's i wad marry thine." "i wadna marry your sister, for a' your houses and land; but i'll keep her for my leman, when i come o'er the strand. "i wadna marry your sister, for a' your gowd so gay; but i'll keep her for my leman, when i come by the way." young johnstone had a nut-brown sword, hung low down by his gair, and he ritted[l ] it through the young col'nel, that word he ne'er spak mair. but he's awa' to his sister's bower, he's tirled at the pin: "whare hae ye been, my dear brither, sae late a coming in?" "i hae been at the school, sister, learning young clerks to sing." "i've dreamed a dreary dream this night, i wish it may be for good; they were seeking you with hawks and hounds, and the young col'nel was dead." "hawks and hounds they may seek me, as i trow well they be; for i have killed the young col'nel, and thy own true love was he." "if ye hae killed the young col'nel, o dule and wae is me; but i wish ye may be hanged on a hie gallows, and hae nae power to flee." and he's awa' to his true love's bower, he's tirled at the pin: "whar hae ye been, my dear johnstone, sae late a coming in?" "it's i hae been at the school," he says, "learning young clerks to sing." "i have dreamed a dreary dream," she says, "i wish it may be for good; they were seeking you with hawks and hounds, and the young col'nel was dead." "hawks and hounds they may seek me, as i trow well they be; for i hae killed the young col'nel, and thy ae brother was he." "if ye hae killed the young col'nel, o dule and wae is me; but i care the less for the young col'nel, if thy ain body be free. "come in, come in, my dear johnstone, come in and take a sleep; and i will go to my casement, and carefully i will thee keep." he had not weel been in her bower door, no not for half an hour, when four-and-twenty belted knights came riding to the bower. "well may you sit and see, lady, well may you sit and say; did you not see a bloody squire come riding by this way?" "what colour were his hawks?" she says, "what colour were his hounds? what colour was the gallant steed that bore him from the bounds?" "bloody, bloody were his hawks, and bloody were his hounds; but milk-white was the gallant steed that bore him from the bounds." "yes, bloody, bloody were his hawks, and bloody were his hounds; and milk-white was the gallant steed that bore him from the bounds. "light down, light down now, gentlemen, and take some bread and wine; and the steed be swift that he rides on, he's past the brig o' lyne." "we thank you for your bread, fair lady, we thank you for your wine; but i wad gie thrice three thousand pound, that bloody knight was ta'en." "lie still, lie still, my dear johnstone, lie still and take a sleep; for thy enemies are past and gone, and carefully i will thee keep." but young johnstone had a little wee sword, hung low down by his gair, and he stabbed it in fair annet's breast, a deep wound and a sair. "what aileth thee now, dear johnstone? what aileth thee at me? hast thou not got my father's gold, bot and my mither's fee?"[l ] "now live, now live, my dear ladye, now live but half an hour, and there's no a leech in a' scotland but shall be in thy bower." "how can i live, how shall i live? young johnstone, do not you see the red, red drops o' my bonny heart's blood rin trinkling down my knee? "but take thy harp into thy hand, and harp out owre yon plain, and ne'er think mair on thy true love than if she had never been." he hadna weel been out o' the stable, and on his saddle set, till four-and-twenty broad arrows were thrilling in his heart. . in the copy obtained by the editor, the word "ritted" did not occur, instead of which the word "stabbed" was used. the "nut-brown sword" was also changed into "a little small sword." motherwell. . buchan's version furnishes the necessary explanation of young johnstone's apparent cruelty:-- "ohon, alas, my lady gay, to come sae hastilié! i thought it was my deadly foe, ye had trysted in to me." young benjie. from the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . _bondsey and maisry_, another version of the same story, from buchan's collection, is given in the appendix. "in this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition, not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of scotland. the lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful, by the mysterious horrors of superstition. in the interval betwixt death and interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover round its mortal habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution. such inquiries, however, are always dangerous, and never to be resorted to, unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered _foul play_, as it is called. it is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm in an unauthorized manner, because the inhabitants of the infernal regions are, at such periods, peculiarly active. one of the most potent ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is, setting the door ajar, or half open. on this account, the peasants of scotland sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar, while a corpse lies in the house. the door must either be left wide open, or quite shut; but the first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality usual on such occasions. the attendants must be likewise careful never to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it. "the following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door ajar. in former times, a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage, on one of the extensive border fells. one day the husband died suddenly; and his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse, or leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and looked anxiously over the lonely moor for the sight of some person approaching. in her confusion and alarm she accidentally left the door ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up, and sat in the bed, frowning and grinning at her frightfully. she sat alone, crying bitterly, unable to avoid the fascination of the dead man's eye, and too much terrified to break the sullen silence, till a catholic priest, passing over the wild, entered the cottage. he first set the door quite open, then put his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards; when the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed, and behaved itself as a dead man ought to do. "the ballad is given from tradition. i have been informed by a lady, [miss joanna baillie,] of the highest literary eminence, that she has heard a ballad on the same subject, in which the scene was laid upon the banks of the clyde. the chorus was, "o bothwell banks bloom bonny," and the watching of the dead corpse was said to have taken place in bothwell church." scott. of a' the maids o' fair scotland, the fairest was marjorie; and young benjie was her ae true love, and a dear true love was he. and wow but they were lovers dear, and loved fu' constantlie; but aye the mair when they fell out, the sairer was their plea. and they hae quarrell'd on a day, till marjorie's heart grew wae; and she said she'd chuse another luve, and let young benjie gae. and he was stout, and proud-hearted, and thought o't bitterlie; and he's gane by the wan moonlight, to meet his marjorie. "o open, open, my true love, o open, and let me in!"-- "i darena open, young benjie, my three brothers are within."-- "ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd, sae loud's i hear ye lie; as i came by the lowden banks, they bade gude e'en to me. "but fare ye weel, my ae fause love, that i have loved sae lang! it sets ye chuse another love, and let young benjie gang."-- then marjorie turn'd her round about, the tear blinding her ee,-- "i darena, darena let thee in, but i'll come down to thee."-- then saft she smiled, and said to him, "o what ill hae i done?"-- he took her in his armis twa, and threw her o'er the linn. the stream was strang, the maid was stout, and laith, laith to be dang, but, ere she wan the lowden banks, her fair colour was wan. then up bespak her eldest brother, "o see na ye what i see?"-- and out then spak her second brother, "it's our sister marjorie!"-- out then spak her eldest brother, "o how shall we her ken?"-- and out then spak her youngest brother, "there's a honey mark on her chin."-- then they've ta'en up the comely corpse, and laid it on the ground: "o wha has killed our ae sister, and how can he be found? "the night it is her low lykewake, the morn her burial day, and we maun watch at mirk midnight, and hear what she will say."-- wi' doors ajar, and candle light, and torches burning clear, the streikit corpse, till still midnight, they waked, but naething hear. about the middle o' the night, the cocks began to craw; and at the dead hour o' the night, the corpse began to thraw. "o whae has done the wrang, sister, or dared the deadly sin? whae was sae stout, and fear'd nae dout, as thraw ye o'er the linn?" "young benjie was the first ae man i laid my love upon; he was sae stout and proud-hearted, he threw me o'er the linn."-- "sall we young benjie head, sister, sall we young benjie hang, or sall we pike out his twa gray een, and punish him ere he gang?" "ye maunna benjie head, brothers, ye maunna benjie hang, but ye maun pike out his twa gray een, and punish him ere he gang. "tie a green gravat round his neck, and lead him out and in, and the best ae servant about your house to wait young benjie on. "and aye, at every seven years' end, ye'l tak him to the linn; for that's the penance he maun dree, to scug his deadly sin." appendix. lord barnaby. scottish version of _little musgrave and lady barnard_. see p. . from jamieson's _popular ballads and songs_, i. . "i have a tower in dalisberry, which now is dearly dight, and i will gie it to young musgrave to lodge wi' me a' night." "to lodge wi' thee a' night, fair lady, wad breed baith sorrow and strife; for i see by the rings on your fingers, you're good lord barnaby's wife." "lord barnaby's wife although i be, yet what is that to thee? for we'll beguile him for this ae night-- he's on to fair dundee. "come here, come here, my little foot-page, this gold i will give thee, if ye will keep thir secrets close 'tween young musgrave and me. "but here i hae a little pen-knife, hings low down by my gare; gin ye winna keep thir secrets close, ye'll find it wonder sair." then she's ta'en him to her chamber, and down in her arms lay he: the boy coost aff his hose and shoon, and ran to fair dundee. when he cam to the wan water, he slack'd[l ] his bow and swam; and when he cam to growin grass, set down his feet and ran. and when he cam to fair dundee, wad neither chap nor ca'; but set his brent[l ] bow to his breast, and merrily jump'd the wa'. "o waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, waken, and come away!"-- "what ails, what ails my wee foot-page, he cries sae lang ere day. "o is my bowers brent, my boy? or is my castle won? or has the lady that i lo'e best brought me a daughter or son?" "your ha's are safe, your bowers are safe, and free frae all alarms; but, oh! the lady that ye lo'e best lies sound in musgrave's arms." "gae saddle to me the black," he cried, "gae saddle to me the gray; gae saddle to me the swiftest steed, to hie me on my way." "o lady, i heard a wee horn toot, and it blew wonder clear; and ay the turning o' the note, was, 'barnaby will be here!' "i thought i heard a wee horn blaw, and it blew loud and high; and ay at ilka turn it said, 'away, musgrave, away!'" "lie still, my dear; lie still, my dear; ye keep me frae the cold; for it is but my father's shepherds driving their flocks to the fold." up they lookit, and down they lay, and they're fa'en sound asleep; till up stood good lord barnaby, just close at their bed feet. "how do you like my bed, musgrave? and how like ye my sheets? and how like ye my fair lady, lies in your arms and sleeps? "weel like i your bed, my lord, and weel like i your sheets; but ill like i your fair lady, lies in my arms and sleeps. "you got your wale o' se'en sisters, and i got mine o' five; sae tak ye mine, and i's tak thine, and we nae mair sall strive." "o my woman's the best woman that ever brak world's bread; and your woman's the worst woman that ever drew coat o'er head. "i hae twa swords in ae scabbert, they are baith sharp and clear; take ye the best, and i the warst, and we'll end the matter here. "but up, and arm thee, young musgrave, we'll try it han' to han'; it's ne'er be said o' lord barnaby, he strack at a naked man." the first straik that young musgrave got, it was baith deep and sair; and down he fell at barnaby's feet, and word spak never mair. * * * * * * "a grave, a grave!" lord barnaby cried, "a grave to lay them in; my lady shall lie on the sunny side, because of her noble kin." but oh, how sorry was that good lord, for a' his angry mood, whan he beheld his ain young son all welt'ring in his blood! . for _slack'd_ read _bent_. j. [note.] [in v. ] the term "_braid_ bow" has been altered by the editor into "_brent_ bow," i. e. _straight_, or _unbent_ bow. in most of the old ballads, where a page is employed as the bearer of a message, we are told, that, "when he came to wan water, he _bent_ his bow and swam;" and "he set his _bent_ bow to his breast, and lightly lap the wa'," &c. the application of the term _bent_, in the latter instance, does not seem correct, and is probably substituted for _brent_. in the establishment of a feudal baron, every thing wore a military aspect; he was a warrior by profession; every man attached to him, particularly those employed about his person, was a soldier; and his little foot-page was very appropriately equipped in the light accoutrements of an archer. his bow, in the old ballad, seems as inseparable from his character as the bow of cupid or of apollo, or the caduceus of his celestial prototype mercury. this bow, which he carried unbent, he seems to have _bent_ when he had occasion to swim, in order that he might the more easily carry it in his teeth, to prevent the string from being injured by getting wet. at other times he availed himself of its length and elasticity in the _brent_, or straight state, and used it (as hunters do a leaping pole) in vaulting over the wall of the outer court of a castle, when his business would not admit of the tedious formality of blowing a horn, or ringing a bell, and holding a long parley with the porter at the gate, before he could gain admission. this, at least, appears to the editor to be the meaning of these passages in the old ballads. jamieson. childe maurice. see p. . from jamieson's _popular ballads and songs_, i. . childe maurice hunted i' the silver[l ] wood, he hunted it round about, and noebody yt he found theren, nor noebody without. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and tooke his silver combe in his hand to kembe his yellow lockes. he sayes, "come hither, thou litle footpage, that runneth lowly by my knee; ffor thou shalt goe to john steward's wiffe, and pray her speake with mee. "and as it ffalls out,[l ] many times as knotts been knitt on a kell, or merchant men gone to leeve london, either to buy ware or sell, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and grete thou doe that ladye well, ever soe well ffroe mee. "and as it ffalls out, many times as any harte can thinke, as schoole masters are in any schoole house, writting with pen and inke, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ffor if i might as well as shee may, this night i wold with her speake. "and heere i send a mantle of greene, as greene as any grasse, and bid her come to the silver wood,[l ] to hunt with child maurice. "and there i send her a ring of gold, a ring of precyous stone; and bid her come to the silver wood, let for no kind of man." one while this litle boy he yode, another while he ran; until he came to john steward's hall, iwis he never blan. and of nurture the child had good; he ran up hall and bower ffree, and when he came to this lady ffaire, sayes, "god you save and see. "i am come ffrom childe maurice, a message unto thee, and childe maurice he greetes you well, and ever soe well ffrom me. "and as it ffalls out, oftentimes as knotts been knitt on a kell, or merchant men gone to leeve london either to buy or sell; "and as oftentimes he greetes you well, as any hart can thinke, or schoolemaster in any schoole, wryting with pen and inke. "and heere he sends a mantle of greene, as greene as any grasse, and he bidds you come to the silver wood, to hunt with child maurice. "and heere he sends you a ring of gold, a ring of precyous stone; he prayes you to come to the silver wood, let for no kind of man." "now peace, now peace, thou litle fotpage, ffor christes sake i pray thee; ffor if my lord heare one of those words, thou must be hanged hye." john steward stood under the castle wall, and he wrote the words every one; * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and he called unto his horssekeeper, "make ready you my steede;" and soe he did to his chamberlaine, "make readye then my weed." and he cast a lease upon his backe, and he rode to the silver wood, and there he sought all about, about the silver wood. and there he found him childe maurice, sitting upon a blocke, with a silver combe in his hand, kembing his yellow locke. he sayes, "how now, how now, childe maurice, alacke how may this bee?" but then stood by him childe maurice, and sayd these words trulye: "i do not know your ladye," he said, "if that i doe her see." "ffor thou hast sent her love tokens, more now than two or three. "for thou hast sent her a mantle of greene, as greene as any grasse, and bade her come to the silver wood, to hunt with childe maurice. "and by my faith now, childe maurice, the tane of us shall dye;" "now by my troth," sayd childe maurice, "and that shall not be i." but he pulled out a bright browne sword, and dryed it on the grasse, and soe fast he smote at john steward, iwis he never rest. then hee pulled forth his bright browne sword, and dryed itt on his sleeve, and the ffirst good stroke john steward stroke, child maurice head he did cleeve. and he pricked it on his swords poynt, went singing there beside, and he rode till he came to the ladye ffaire, whereas his ladye lyed. and sayes, "dost thou know child maurice head, iff that thou dost it see? and llap it soft, and kisse itt offt, ffor thou lovedst him better than mee." but when shee looked on child maurice head, shee never spake words but three: "i never beare noe child but one, and you have slain him trulye." sayes, "wicked be my merry men all, i gave meate, drinke, and clothe; but cold they not have holden me, when i was in all that wrath! "ffor i have slaine one of the courteousest knights that ever bestrode a steede; soe have i done one of the fairest ladyes that ever ware womans weede." . ms. silven. see vv. , , , . . out out. . sic in ms. clerk saunders. see p. . from jamieson's _popular ballads and songs_, i. . "the following copy was transmitted by mrs. arrott of aberbrothick. the stanzas, where the seven brothers are introduced, have been enlarged from two fragments, which, although very defective in themselves, furnished lines which, when incorporated with the text, seemed to improve it. stanzas and , were written by the editor; the idea of the _rose_ being suggested by the gentleman who recited, but who could not recollect the language in which it was expressed." this copy of _clerk saunders_ bears traces of having been made up from several sources. a portion of the concluding stanzas (v. - ) have a strong resemblance to the beginning and end of _proud lady margaret_ (vol. viii. , ), which ballad is itself in a corrupt condition. it may also be doubted whether the fragments jamieson speaks of did not belong to a ballad resembling _lady maisry_, p. of this volume. accepting the ballad as it stands here, there is certainly likeness enough in the first part to suggest a community of origin with the swedish ballad _den grymma brodern_, _svenska folk-visor_, no. (translated in _lit. and rom. of northern europe_, p. ). w. grimm mentions (_altdän. heldenl._, p. ) a spanish ballad, _de la blanca niña_, in the _romancero de amberes_, in which the similarity to _den grymma brodern_ is very striking. the series of questions (v. - ) sometimes appears apart from the story, and with a comic turn, as in _det hurtige svar_, _danske v._, no. , or _thore och hans syster_, arwidsson, i. . in this shape they closely resemble the familiar old song, _our gudeman came hame at e'en_, herd, _scottish songs_, ii. . clerk saunders was an earl's son, he liv'd upon sea-sand; may margaret was a king's daughter, she liv'd in upper land. clerk saunders was an earl's son, weel learned at the scheel; may margaret was a king's daughter; they baith lo'ed ither weel. he's throw the dark, and throw the mark, and throw the leaves o' green; till he came to may margaret's door, and tirled at the pin. "o sleep ye, wake ye, may margaret, or are ye the bower within?" "o wha is that at my bower door, sae weel my name does ken?" "it's i, clerk saunders, your true love, you'll open and lat me in. "o will ye to the cards, margaret, or to the table to dine? or to the bed, that's weel down spread, and sleep when we get time." "i'll no go to the cards," she says, "nor to the table to dine; but i'll go to a bed, that's weel down spread, and sleep when we get time." they were not weel lyen down, and no weel fa'en asleep, when up and stood may margaret's brethren, just up at their bed feet. "o tell us, tell us, may margaret, and dinna to us len, o wha is aught yon noble steed, that stands your stable in? "the steed is mine, and it may be thine, to ride whan ye ride in hie---- * * * * * * * "but awa', awa', my bald brethren, awa', and mak nae din; for i am as sick a lady the nicht as e'er lay a bower within." "o tell us, tell us, may margaret, and dinna to us len, o wha is aught yon noble hawk, that stands your kitchen in?" "the hawk is mine, and it may be thine, to hawk whan ye hawk in hie---- * * * * * * * "but awa', awa', my bald brethren! awa', and mak nae din; for i'm ane o' the sickest ladies this nicht that e'er lay a bower within." "o tell us, tell us, may margaret, and dinna to us len, o wha is that, may margaret, you and the wa' between?" "o it is my bower-maiden," she says, "as sick as sick can be; o it is my bower maiden," she says, and she's thrice as sick as me." "we hae been east, and we've been west, and low beneath the moon; but a' the bower-women e'er we saw hadna goud buckles in their shoon." then up and spak her eldest brither, ay in ill time spak he: "it is clerk saunders, your true love, and never mat i the, but for this scorn that he has done, this moment he sall die." but up and spak her youngest brother, ay in good time spak he: "o but they are a gudelie pair!-- true lovers an ye be, the sword that hangs at my sword belt sall never sinder ye!" syne up and spak her nexten brother, and the tear stood in his ee: "you've lo'ed her lang, and lo'ed her weel, and pity it wad be, the sword that hangs at my sword-belt shoud ever sinder ye!" but up and spak her fifthen brother, "sleep on your sleep for me; but we baith sall never sleep again, for the tane o' us sall die!" [but up and spak her midmaist brother; and an angry laugh leugh he: "the thorn that dabs, i'll cut it down, though fair the rose may be. "the flower that smell'd sae sweet yestreen has lost its bloom wi' thee; and though i'm wae it should be sae, clerk saunders, ye maun die."] and up and spak her thirden brother, ay in ill time spak he: "curse on his love and comeliness!-- dishonour'd as ye be, the sword that hangs at my sword-belt sall quickly sinder ye!" her eldest brother has drawn his sword; her second has drawn anither; between clerk saunders' hause and collar bane the cald iron met thegither. "o wae be to you, my fause brethren, and an ill death mat ye die! ye mith slain clerk saunders in open field, and no in the bed wi' me." when seven years were come and gane, lady margaret she thought lang; and she is up to the hichest tower, by the lee licht o' the moon. she was lookin o'er her castle high, to see what she might fa'; and there she saw a grieved ghost comin waukin o'er the wa'.[l ] "o are ye a man of mean," she says, "seekin ony o' my meat? or are you a rank robber, come in my bower to break?" "o i'm clerk saunders, your true love; behold, margaret, and see, and mind, for a' your meikle pride, sae will become of thee." "gin ye be clerk saunders, my true love, this meikle marvels me: o wherein is your bonny arms that wont to embrace me?" "by worms they're eaten, in mools they're rotten, behold, margaret, and see; and mind, for a' your mickle pride, sae will become o' thee!" * * * * * * * o, bonny, bonny sang the bird, sat on the coil o' hay; but dowie, dowie was the maid, that follow'd the corpse o' clay. "is there ony room at your head, saunders, is there ony room at your feet? is there ony room at your twa sides, for a lady to lie and sleep?" "there is nae room at my head, margaret, as little at my feet; there is nae room at my twa sides, for a lady to lie and sleep. "but gae hame, gae hame, now, may margaret, gae hame and sew your seam; for if ye were laid in your weel-made bed, your days will nae be lang." . the _wa'_ here is supposed to mean the wall, which, in some old castles, surrounded the court. j. lord wa'yates and auld ingram. a fragment. see p. . jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. . "from mr. herd's ms., transmitted by mr. scott." lady maisery was a lady fair, she made her mother's bed; auld ingram was an aged knight, and her he sought to wed. "its i forbid ye, auld ingram, for to seek me to spouse; for lord wa'yates, your sister's son, has been into my bowers. "its i forbid ye, auld ingram, for to seek me to wed; for lord wa'yates, your sister's son, has been into my bed." he has brocht to this ladie the robis of the brown; and ever, "alas!" says this ladie, "thae robes will put me down." and he has brocht to that ladie the robis of the red; and ever, "alas!" says that ladie, "thae robes will be my dead." and he has brocht to that ladie the chrystal and the laumer; sae has he brocht to her mither the curches o' the cannel. every ane o' her seven brethren they had a hawk in hand, and every lady in the place they got a goud garland. every cuik in that kitchen they got a noble claith; a' was blyth at auld ingram's coming, but lady maisery was wraith. "whare will i get a bonny boy, wad fain win hose and shoon, that wad rin on to my wa'yates, and quickly come again?" "here am i, a bonny boy, wad fain win hose and shoon; wha will rin on to your wa'yates, and quickly come again." "ye'll bid him, and ye'll pray him baith, gin ony prayer may dee, to marykirk to come the morn, my weary wadding to see." lord wa'yates lay o'er his castle wa', beheld baith dale and down; and he beheld a bonny boy come running to the town. "what news, what news, ye bonny boy? what news hae ye to me? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "o are my ladie's fauldis brunt, or are her towers won? or is my maisery lichter yet o' a dear dochter or son?" "your ladie's faulds are neither brunt, nor are her towers won; nor is your maisery lichter yet o' a dear dochter or son: "but she bids you, and she prays you baith, gin ony prayer can dee, to mary kirk to come the morn, her weary wadding to see." he dang the buird up wi' his fit, sae did he wi' his knee; the silver cup, that was upon't, i' the fire he gar'd it flee: "o whatten a lord in a' scotland dare marry my maisery? "o it is but a feeble thocht, to tell the tane and nae the tither; o it is but a feeble thocht to tell it's your ain mither's brither." "its i will send to that wadding, and i will follow syne, the fitches o' the fallow deer, and the gammons o' the swine; and the nine hides o' the noble cow-- 'twas slain in season time. "its i will send to that wadding ten tun o' the red wine; and mair i'll send to that waddin', and i will follow syne." whan he came in into the ha', lady maisery she did ween; and twenty times he kist her mou', afore auld ingram's een. and till the kirk she wadna gae, nor tillt she wadna ride, till four-and-twenty men she gat her before, and twenty on ilka side, and four-and-twenty milk white dows, to flee aboon her head. a loud lauchter gae lord wa'yates, 'mang the mids o' his men; "marry that lady wha that will, a maiden she is nane." "o leuch ye at my men, wa'yates, or did ye lauch at me? or leuch ye at the bierdly bride, that's gaun to marry me?" "i leuchna at your men, uncle, nor yet leuch i at thee; but i leuch at my lands so braid, sae weel's i do them see." when e'en was come, and e'en-bells rung, and a' man gane to bed, the bride but and the silly bridegroom in ae chamber were laid. wasna't a fell thing for to see twa heads upon a cod; lady maisery's like the mo'ten goud, auld ingram's like a toad. he turn'd his face unto the stock, and sound he fell asleep; she turn'd her face unto the wa', and saut tears she did weep. it fell about the mirk midnicht, auld ingram began to turn him; he put his hand on's ladie's side, and waly, sair was she mournin'. "what aileth thee, my lady dear? ever alas, and wae is me! there is a babe betwixt thy sides,-- oh! sae sair's it grieves me!" "o didna i tell ye, auld ingram, ere ye socht me to wed, that lord wa'yates, your sister's son, had been into my bed?" "then father that bairn on me, maisery, o father that bairn on me; and ye sall hae a rigland shire your mornin' gift to be." "o sarbit!" says the ladie maisery, "that ever the like me befa', to father my bairn on auld ingram, lord wa'yates in my father's ha'. "o sarbit!" says the ladie maisery, "that ever the like betide, to father my bairn on auld ingram, and lord wa'yates beside." * * * * * * * sweet willie and fair maisry. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . "hey love willie, and how love willie, and willie my love shall be; they're thinking to sinder our lang love, willie; it's mair than man can dee. "ye'll mount me quickly on a steed, a milk-white steed or gray; and carry me on to gude greenwood before that it be day." he mounted her upon a steed, he chose a steed o' gray; he had her on to gude greenwood before that it was day. "o will ye gang to the cards, meggie? or will ye gang wi' me? or will ye ha'e a bower woman, to stay ere it be day?" "i winna gang to the cards," she said, "nor will i gae wi' thee, nor will i hae a bower woman, to spoil my modestie. "ye'll gie me a lady at my back, an' a lady me beforn; an' a midwife at my twa sides till your young son be born. "ye'll do me up, and further up, to the top o' yon greenwood tree; for every pain myself shall ha'e, the same pain ye maun drie." the first pain that did strike sweet willie, it was into the side; then sighing sair said sweet willie, "these pains are ill to bide." the nextan pain that strake sweet willie, it was into the back; then sighing sair said sweet willie, "these pains are women's wreck." the nextan pain that strake sweet willie, it was into the head; then sighing sair said sweet willie, "i fear my lady's dead." then he's gane on, and further on, at the foot o' yon greenwood tree; there he got his lady lighter, wi' his young son on her knee. then he's ta'en up his little young son, and kiss'd him cheek and chin; and he is on to his mother, as fast as he could gang. "ye will take in my son, mother, gi'e him to nurses nine; three to wauk, and three to sleep, and three to gang between." then he has left his mother's house, and frae her he has gane; and he is back to his lady, and safely brought her hame. then in it came her father dear, was belted in a brand; "it's nae time for brides to lye in bed, when the bridegroom's send's in town. "there are four-and-twenty noble lords a' lighted on the green; the fairest knight amang them a', he must be your bridegroom." "o wha will shoe my foot, my foot? and wha will glove my hand? and wha will prin my sma' middle, wi' the short prin and the lang?" now out it speaks him, sweet willie, who knew her troubles best; "it is my duty for to serve, as i'm come here as guest. "now i will shoe your foot, maisry, and i will glove your hand, and i will prin your sma' middle, wi' the sma' prin and the lang." "wha will saddle my steed," she says, "and gar my bridle ring? and wha will ha'e me to gude church-door, this day i'm ill abound?" "i will saddle your steed, maisry, and gar your bridle ring; and i'll hae you to gude church-door, and safely set you down." "o healy, healy take me up, and healy set me down; and set my back until a wa', my foot to yird-fast stane." he healy took her frae her horse, and healy set her down; and set her back until a wa', her foot to yird-fast stane. when they had eaten and well drunken, and a' had thorn'd fine; the bride's father he took the cup, for to serve out the wine. out it speaks the bridegroom's brother, an ill death mat he die! "i fear our bride she's born a bairn, or else has it a dee." she's ta'en out a bible braid, and deeply has she sworn; "if i ha'e born a bairn," she says, "sin' yesterday at morn; "or if i've born a bairn," she says, "sin' yesterday at noon; there's nae a lady amang you a' that wou'd been here sae soon." then out it spake the bridegroom's man, mischance come ower his heel! "win up, win up, now bride," he says, "and dance a shamefu' reel."[l ] then out it speaks the bride hersell, and a sorry heart had she; "is there nae ane amang you a' will dance this dance for me?" then out it speaks him, sweet willie, and he spake aye thro' pride; "o draw my boots for me, bridegroom, or i dance for your bride." then out it spake the bride hersell, "o na, this maunna be; for i will dance this dance mysell, tho' my back shou'd gang in three." she hadna well gane thro' the reel, nor yet well on the green, till she fell down at willie's feet as cauld as ony stane. he's ta'en her in his arms twa, and ha'ed her up the stair; then up it came her jolly bridegroom, says, "what's your business there?" then willie lifted up his foot, and dang him down the stair; and brake three ribs o' the bridegroom's side, and a word he spake nae mair. nae meen was made for that lady, when she was lying dead; but a' was for him, sweet willie, on the fields for he ran mad. . the first reel, danced with the bride, her maiden, and two young men, and called the shame spring, or reel, as the bride chooses the tune that is to be played. b. lady marjorie. see p. . "given from the recitation of an old woman in kilbarchan, renfrewshire, from whom the editor has obtained several valuable pieces of a like nature. in singing, o is added at the end of the second and fourth line of each stanza." motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . lady marjorie was her mother's only daughter, her father's only heir; and she is awa to strawberry castle, to get some unco lair. she had na been in strawberry castle a twelvemonth and a day, till lady marjorie she gangs big wi' child, as big as she can gae. word is to her father gane, before he got on his shoon, that lady marjorie she gaes wi' child, and it is to an irish groom. but word is to her mother gone, before she got on her goun, that lady marjorie she gaes wi' child to a lord of high renown. "o wha will put on the pat," they said, "or wha will put on the pan, or wha will put on a bauld, bauld fire, to burn lady marjorie in?" her father he put on the pat, her sister put on the pan, and her brother he put on a bauld, bauld fire, to burn lady marjorie in; and her mother she sat in a golden chair, to see her daughter burn. "but where will i get a pretty little boy, that will win hose and shoon; that will go quickly to strawberry castle, and bid my lord come doun?" "o here am i, a pretty little boy, that will win hose and shoon; that will rin quickly to strawberry castle, and bid thy lord come doun." o when he cam to broken brigs, he bent his bow and swam; and when he cam to gude dry land, he set doun his foot and ran. when he cam to strawberry castle, he tirled at the pin; nane was sae ready as the gay lord himsell to open and let him in. "o is there any of my towers burnt, or any of my castles won? or is lady marjorie brought to bed, of a daughter or a son?" "o there is nane of thy towers burnt, nor nane of thy castles broken; but lady marjorie is condemned to die, to be burnt in a fire of oaken." "o gar saddle to me the black," he says, "gar saddle to me the broun; gar saddle to me the swiftest steed that e'er carried a man frae toun!" he left the black into the slap, the broun into the brae; but fair fa' that bonnie apple-gray that carried this gay lord away! "beet on, beet on, my brother dear, i value you not one straw; for yonder comes my ain true luve, i hear his horn blaw. "beet on, beet on, my father dear, i value you not a pin; for yonder comes my ain true luve, i hear his bridle ring." he took a little horn out of his pocket, and he blew't baith loud and schill; and wi' the little life that was in her, she hearken'd to it full weel. but when he came into the place, he lap unto the wa'; he thought to get a kiss o' her bonnie lips, but her body fell in twa! "o vow! o vow! o vow!" he said, "o vow! but ye've been cruel: ye've taken the timber out of my ain wood, and burnt my ain dear jewel! "now for thy sake, lady marjorie, i'll burn baith father and mother; and for thy sake, lady marjorie, i'll burn baith sister and brother. "and for thy sake, lady marjorie, i'll burn baith kith and kin; but i'll aye remember the pretty little boy that did thy errand rin." leesome brand. buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . this is properly a tragic story, as may be perceived by comparing the present corrupted version (evidently made up from several different sources) with the danish and swedish ballads. see _herr medelvold_, _danske viser_, iii. , _die wahrsagenden nachtigallen_, in grimm's _altdänische heldenlieder_, p. , _fair midel and kirsten lyle_, translated by jamieson, _illustrations_, p. ; and _herr redevall_, _svenska folkvisor_, ii. , _krist' lilla och herr tideman_, arwidsson, i. , _sir wal and lisa lyle_, translated by jamieson, p. . my boy was scarcely ten years auld, whan he went to an unco land, where wind never blew, nor cocks ever crew, ohon! for my son, leesome brand. awa' to that king's court he went, it was to serve for meat an' fee; gude red gowd it was his hire, and lang in that king's court stay'd he. he hadna been in that unco land, but only twallmonths twa or three; till by the glancing o' his ee, he gain'd the love o' a gay ladye. this ladye was scarce eleven years auld, when on her love she was right bauld; she was scarce up to my right knee, when oft in bed wi' men i'm tauld. but when nine months were come and gane, this ladye's face turn'd pale and wane; to leesome brand she then did say, "in this place i can nae mair stay. "ye do you to my father's stable, where steeds do stand baith wight and able; strike ane o' them upo' the back, the swiftest will gie his head a wap. "ye take him out upo' the green, and get him saddled and bridled seen; get ane for you, anither for me, and lat us ride out ower the lee. "ye do you to my mother's coffer, and out of it ye'll take my tocher; therein are sixty thousand pounds, which all to me by right belongs." he's done him to her father's stable, where steeds stood baith wicht and able; then he strake ane upon the back, the swiftest gae his head a wap. he's ta'en him out upo' the green, and got him saddled and bridled seen; ane for him, and another for her, to carry them baith wi' might and virr. he's done him to her mother's coffer, and there he's taen his lover's tocher; wherein were sixty thousand pounds, which all to her by right belong'd. when they had ridden about six mile, his true love then began to fail; "o wae's me," said that gay ladye, "i fear my back will gang in three! "o gin i had but a gude midwife,[l ] here this day to save my life, and ease me o' my misery, o dear, how happy i wou'd be!" "my love, we're far frae ony town; there is nae midwife to be foun'; but if ye'll be content wi' me, i'll do for you what man can dee." "for no, for no, this maunna be," wi' a sigh, replied this gay ladye; "when i endure my grief and pain, my companie ye maun refrain. "ye'll take your arrow and your bow, and ye will hunt the deer and roe; be sure ye touch not the white hynde, for she is o' the woman kind." he took sic pleasure in deer and roe, till he forgot his gay ladye; till by it came that milk-white hynde, and then he mind on his ladye syne. he hasted him to yon greenwood tree, for to relieve his gay ladye; but found his ladye lying dead, likeways her young son at her head. his mother lay ower her castle wa', and she beheld baith dale and down; and she beheld young leesome brand, as he came riding to the town. "get minstrels for to play," she said, "and dancers to dance in my room; for here comes my son, leesome brand, and he comes merrilie to the town." "seek nae minstrels to play, mother, nor dancers to dance in your room; but tho' your son comes, leesome brand, yet he comes sorry to the town. "o i hae lost my gowden knife, i rather had lost my ain sweet life; and i hae lost a better thing, the gilded sheath that it was in." "are there nae gowdsmiths here in fife, can make to you anither knife? are there nae sheath-makers in the land, can make a sheath to leesome brand?" "there are nae gowdsmiths here in fife, can make me sic a gowden knife; nor nae sheath-makers in the land, can make to me a sheath again. "there ne'er was man in scotland born, ordain'd to be so much forlorn; i've lost my ladye i lov'd sae dear, likeways the son she did me bear." "put in your hand at my bed head, there ye'll find a gude grey horn; in it three draps o' saint paul's ain blude, that hae been there sin' he was born. "drap twa o' them o' your ladye, and ane upo' your little young son; then as lively they will be as the first night ye brought them hame." he put his hand at her bed head, and there he found a gude grey horn; wi' three draps o' saint paul's ain blude, that had been there sin' he was born. then he drapp'd twa on his ladye, and ane o' them on his young son; and now they do as lively be, as the first day he brought them hame. note to v. - .--a similar passage is found at p. of this volume, v. - , also vol. v. p. , v. - , and p. , v. - , and in the scandinavian ballads cited in the preface to this ballad. in these last the lady frees herself from the presence of the knight by sending him to get her some water, and she is found dead on his return. this incident, remarks grimm, (_altdänische heldenlieder_, p. ), is also found in _wolfdietrich_, str. - . the youth of rosengord. see p. . _sven i rosengård_, _svenska folk-visor_, iii. , and arwidsson's _fornsånger_, ii. : translated in _literature and romance of northern europe_, i. . "so long where hast thou tarried, young man of rosengord?" "i have been into my stable, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "what hast thou done in the stable, young man of rosengord?" "i have watered the horses, our mother dear." long may ye look for me, or look for me never. "why is thy foot so bloody, young man of rosengord?" "the black horse has trampled me, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "why is thy sword so bloody, young man of rosengord?" "i have murdered my brother, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "whither wilt thou betake thee, young man of rosengord?" "i shall flee my country, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "what will become of thy wedded wife, young man of rosengord?" "she must spin for her living, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "what will become of thy children small, young man of rosengord?" "they must beg from door to door, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "when comest thou back again, young man of rosengord?" "when the swan is black as night, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "and when will the swan be black as night, young man of rosengord?" "when the raven shall be white as snow, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "and when will the raven be white as snow, young man of rosengord?" "when the grey rocks take to flight, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. "and when will fly the grey rocks, young man of rosengord?" "the rocks they will fly never, our mother dear." long may you look for me, or look for me never. the blood-stained son.--see p. . a translation, nearly word for word, of _der blutige sohn_, printed from oral tradition in schröter's _finnische runen_, (_finnisch und deutsch_,) ed. , p. . "say whence com'st thou, say whence com'st thou, merry son of mine?" "from the lake-side, from the lake-side, o dear mother mine." "what hast done there, what hast done there, merry son of mine?" "steeds i watered, steeds i watered, o dear mother mine." "why thus clay-bedaubed thy jacket, merry son of mine?" "steeds kept stamping, steeds kept stamping, o dear mother mine." "but how came thy sword so bloody, merry son of mine?" "i have stabbed my only brother, o dear mother mine." "whither wilt thou now betake thee, merry son of mine?" "far away to foreign countries, o dear mother mine." "where leav'st thou thy gray-haired father, merry son of mine?" "let him chop wood in the forest, never wish to see me more, o dear mother mine." "where leav'st thou thy gray-haired mother, merry son of mine?" "let her sit, her flax a-picking, never wish to see me more, o dear mother mine." "where leav'st thou thy wife so youthful, merry son of mine?" "let her deck her, take another, never wish to see me more, o dear mother mine." "where leav'st thou thy son so youthful, merry son of mine?" "he to school, and bear the rod there, [never wish to see me more,] o dear mother mine." "where leav'st thou thy youthful daughter, merry son of mine?" "she to the wood and eat wild berries, never wish to see me more, o dear mother mine." "home when com'st thou back from roaming, merry son of mine?" "in the north when breaks the morning, o dear mother mine." "in the north when breaks the morning, merry son of mine?" "when stones dance upon the water, o dear mother mine." "when shall stones dance on the water, merry son of mine?" "when a feather sinks to the bottom, o dear mother mine." "when shall feathers sink to the bottom, merry son of mine?" "when we all shall come to judgment, o dear mother mine." the twa brothers. see p. . from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . there were twa brothers at the scule, and when they got awa',-- "it's will ye play at the stane-chucking, or will ye play at the ba', or will ye gae up to yon hill head, and there we'll warsel a fa'?" "i winna play at the stane-chucking, nor will i play at the ba'; but i'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, and there we'll warsel a fa'." they warsled up, they warsled down, till john fell to the ground; a dirk fell out of william's pouch, and gave john a deadly wound. "o lift me upon your back, take me to yon well fair, and wash my bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, and they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." he's lifted his brother upon his back, ta'en him to yon well fair; he's wash'd his bluidy wounds o'er and o'er, but they bleed ay mair and mair. "tak ye aff my holland sark, and rive it gair by gair, and row it in my bluidy wounds, and they'll ne'er bleed nae mair." he's taken aff his holland sark, and torn it gair by gair; he's rowit it in his bluidy wounds, but they bleed ay mair and mair. "tak now aff my green cleiding, and row me saftly in; and tak me up to yon kirk style, whare the grass grows fair and green." he's taken aff the green cleiding, and rowed him saftly in; he's laid him down by yon kirk style, whare the grass grows fair and green. "what will ye say to your father dear, when ye gae hame at e'en?" "i'll say ye're lying at yon kirk style, whare the grass grows fair and green." "o no, o no, my brother dear, o you must not say so; but say that i'm gane to a foreign land, whare nae man does me know." when he sat in his father's chair, he grew baith pale and wan: "o what blude 's that upon your brow? o dear son, tell to me." "it is the blude o' my gude gray steed, he wadna ride wi' me." "o thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red, nor e'er sae dear to me: o what blude 's this upon your cheek? o dear son, tell to me." "it is the blude of my greyhound, he wadna hunt for me." "o thy hound's blude was ne'er sae red, nor e'er sae dear to me: o what blude 's this upon your hand? o dear son, tell to me." "it is the blude of my gay goss hawk, he wadna flee for me." "o thy hawk's blude was ne'er sae red, nor e'er sae dear to me: o what blude 's this upon your dirk? dear willie, tell to me." "it is the blude of my ae brother, o dule and wae is me!" "o what will ye say to your father? dear willie, tell to me." "i'll saddle my steed, and awa i'll ride to dwell in some far countrie." "o when will ye come hame again? dear willie, tell to me." "when sun and mune leap on yon hill, and that will never be." she turn'd hersel' right round about, and her heart burst into three: "my ae best son is deid and gane, and my tother ane i'll ne'er see." the miller and the king's daughter. see p. . from _wit restor'd_, ( ,) reprinted, london, , i. . it is there ascribed to "mr. smith," (dr. james smith, the author of many of the pieces in that collection,) who may have written it down from tradition, and perhaps added a verse or two. mr. rimbault has printed the same piece from a broadside dated , in _notes and queries_, v. . a fragment of it is given from recitation at p. of that volume, and a copy quite different from any before published, at p. of vol. vi. although two or three stanzas are ludicrous, and were probably intended for burlesque, this ballad is by no means to be regarded as a parody. there were two sisters, they went a-playing, _with a hie downe, downe, a downe a_; to see their fathers ships sayling in. _with a hy downe, downe, a downe o._ and when they came into the sea brym, _with_, &c. the elder did push the younger in. _with_, &c. "o sister, o sister, take me by the gowne, _with_, &c. and drawe me up upon the dry ground." _with_, &c. "o sister, o sister, that may not bee, _with_, &c. till salt and oatmeale grow both of a tree." _with_, &c. somtymes she sanke, somtymes she swam, _with_, &c. untill she came unto the mildam. _with_, &c. the miller runne hastily downe the cliffe, _with_, &c. and up he betook her withouten her life. _with_, &c. what did he doe with her brest bone? _with_, &c. he made him a viall to play thereupon. _with_, &c. what did he doe with her fingers so small? _with_, &c. he made him peggs to his violl withall. _with_, &c. what did he doe with her nose-ridge? _with_, &c. unto his violl he made him a bridge. _with_, &c. what did he do with her veynes so blewe? _with_, &c. he made him strings to his viole thereto. _with_, &c. what did he doe with her eyes so bright? _with_, &c. upon his violl he played at first sight. _with_, &c. what did he doe with her tongue soe rough? _with_, &c. unto the violl it spake enough. _with_, &c. what did he doe with her two shinnes? _with_, &c. unto the violl they danct moll syms. _with_, &c. then bespake the treble string, _with_, &c. "o yonder is my father the king." _with_, &c. then bespake the second string, _with_, &c. "o yonder sitts my mother the queen." _with_, &c. and then bespake the stringes all three, _with_, &c. "o yonder is my sister that drowned mee." _with_, &c. now pay the miller for his payne, _with_, &c. and let him bee gone in the divels name. _with_, &c. the bonny bows o' london. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . there were twa sisters in a bower, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; and ae king's son hae courted them baith, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. he courted the youngest wi' broach and ring, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; he courted the eldest wi' some other thing, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. it fell ance upon a day, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_, the eldest to the youngest did say, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_: "will ye gae to yon tweed mill dam," _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_, "and see our father's ships come to land?" _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. they baith stood up upon a stane, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; the eldest dang the youngest in, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. she swimmed up, sae did she down, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; till she came to the tweed mill-dam, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. the miller's servant he came out, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; and saw the lady floating about, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. "o master, master, set your mill," _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; "there is a fish, or a milk-white swan," _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. they could not ken her yellow hair, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; [for] the scales o' gowd that were laid there, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. they could not ken her fingers sae white, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; the rings o' gowd they were sae bright, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. they could not ken her middle sae jimp, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; the stays o' gowd were so well laced, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. they could not ken her foot sae fair, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; the shoes o' gowd they were so rare, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. her father's fiddler he came by, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; upstarted her ghaist before his eye, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. "ye'll take a lock o' my yellow hair," _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; "ye'll make a string to your fiddle there," _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. "ye'll take a lith o' my little finger bane," _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; "and ye'll make a pin to your fiddle then," _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. he's ta'en a lock o' her yellow hair, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; and made a string to his fiddle there, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. he's taen a lith o' her little finger bane, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; and he's made a pin to his fiddle then, _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. the firstand spring the fiddle did play, _hey wi' the gay and the grinding_; said, "ye'll drown my sister, as she's dune me." _at the bonny, bonny bows o' london_. i. the croodlin doo. see _lord donald_, p. . from chambers's _scottish ballads_, p. . other copies in _the scot's musical museum_, ( ,) vol. iv. *, and buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . "o whaur hae ye been a' the day, my little wee croodlin doo?" "o i've been at my grandmother's; mak my bed, mammie, noo." "o what gat ye at your grandmother's, my little wee croodlin doo?" "i got a bonnie wee fishie; mak my bed, mammie, noo." "o whaur did she catch the fishie, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?" "she catch'd it in the gutter-hole; mak my bed, mammie, noo." "and what did she do wi' the fish, my little wee croodlin doo?" "she boiled it in a brass pan; o mak my bed, mammie, noo." "and what did ye do wi' the banes o't, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?" "i gied them to my little dog; mak my bed, mammie, noo," "and what did your little doggie do, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?" "he stretch'd out his head, his feet, and dee'd, and so will i, mammie, noo!" ii. the snake-cook. from oral tradition, in erk's _deutscher leiderhort_, p. . our homely translation is, as far as possible, word for word. other german versions are _the stepmother_, at p. of the same collection, (or uhland, i. ,) and _grandmother adder-cook_, at p. . the last is translated by jamieson, _illustrations of northern antiquities_, p. . "where hast thou been away so long, henry, my dearest son?" "o i have been at my true-love's, lady mother, ah me! _my young life, she has poisoned for me_." "what gave she thee to eat, henry, my dearest son?" "she cooked me a speckled fish, lady mother, ah me!" &c. "and how many pieces cut she thee, henry my dearest son?" "she cut three little pieces from it, lady mother, ah me!" &c. "where left she then the third piece, henry, my dearest son?" "she gave it to her dark-brown dog, lady mother, ah me!" &c. "and what befell the dark-brown dog, henry, my dearest son?" "his belly burst in the midst in two, lady mother, ah me!" &c. "what wishest thou for thy father, henry, my dearest son?" "i wish him a thousandfold boon and blessing, lady mother, ah me!" &c. "what wishest thou for thy mother, henry, my dearest son?" "i wish for her eternal bliss, lady mother, ah me!" &c. "what wishest thou for thy true-love, henry, my dearest son?" "i wish her eternal hell and torment, lady mother, ah me!" &c. iii. the child's last will. _den lillas testamente: svenska folk-visor_, iii. . translated in _literature and romance of northern europe_, i. . see also arwidsson's _fornsånger_, ii. . "so long where hast thou tarried, little daughter dear?" "i have tarried with my old nurse, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what gave she thee for dinner, little daughter dear?" "a few small speckled fishes, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what didst thou do with the fish-bones, little daughter dear?" "gave them to the beagle, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what wish leav'st thou thy father, little daughter dear?" "the blessedness of heaven, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what wish leav'st thou thy mother, little daughter dear?" "all the joys of heaven, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what wish leav'st thou thy brother, little daughter dear?" "a fleet ship on the waters, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what wish leav'st thou thy sister, little daughter dear?" "golden chests and caskets, sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what wish leav'st thou thy step-mother, little daughter dear?" "of hell the bitter sorrow sweet step-mother mine." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "what wish leav'st thou thy old nurse, little daughter dear?" "for her i wish the same pangs, sweet step-mother mine. _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ "but now the time is over when i with you can stay; the little bells of heaven are ringing me away." _for ah, ah!--i am so ill--ah!_ the three knights. see p. . from the second edition of gilbert's _ancient christmas carols_, &c. p. . there did three knights come from the west, _with the high and the lily oh_! and these three knights courted one lady, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. the first knight came was all in white, _with the high and the lily oh_! and asked of her, if she'd be his delight, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. the next knight came was all in green, _with the high and the lily oh_! and asked of her, if she'd be his queen, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. the third knight came was all in red, _with the high and the lily oh_! and asked of her, if she would wed, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "then have you asked of my father dear, _with the high and the lily oh_! likewise of her who did me bear? _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "and have you asked of my brother john? _with the high and the lily oh_! and also of my sister anne?" _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "yes, i have asked of your father dear, _with the high and the lily oh_! likewise of her who did you bear, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "and i have asked of your sister anne, _with the high and the lily oh_! but i've not asked of your brother john," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. [here some verses seem to be wanting.] for on the road as they rode along, _with the high and the lily oh_! there did they meet with her brother john, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. she stooped low to kiss him sweet, _with the high and the lily oh_! he to her heart did a dagger meet, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "ride on, ride on," cried the serving man, _with the high and the lily oh_! "methinks your bride she looks wond'rous wan," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "i wish i were on yonder stile, _with the high and the lily oh_! for there i would sit and bleed awhile, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "i wish i were on yonder hill, _with the high and the lily oh_! there i'd alight and make my will," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "what would you give to your father dear?" _with the high and the lily oh_! "the gallant steed which doth me bear," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "what would you give to your mother dear?" _with the high and the lily oh_! "my wedding shift which i do wear, _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "but she must wash it very clean, _with the high and the lily oh_! for my heart's blood sticks in every seam," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "what would you give to your sister anne?" _with the high and the lily oh_! "my gay gold ring, and my feathered fan," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "what would you give to your brother john?" _with the high and the lily oh_! "a rope and gallows to hang him on," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. "what would you give to your brother john's wife?" _with the high and the lily oh_! "a widow's weeds, and a quiet life," _as the rose was so sweetly blown_. the cruel mother. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . it fell ance upon a day, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, it fell ance upon a day, _stirling for aye_; it fell ance upon a day, the clerk and lady went to play, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. "if my baby be a son, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, if my baby be a son, _stirling for aye_; if my baby be a son, i'll make him a lord o' high renown," _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. she's lean'd her back to the wa', _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, she's lean'd her back to the wa', _stirling for aye_; she's lean'd her back to the wa', pray'd that her pains might fa', _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. she's lean'd her back to the thorn, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, she's lean'd her back to the thorn, _stirling for aye_; she's lean'd her back to the thorn, there has her baby born, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. "o bonny baby, if ye suck sair, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, o bonny baby, if ye suck sair, _stirling for aye_; o bonny baby, if ye suck sair, you'll never suck by my side mair," _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. she's riven the muslin frae her head, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, she's riven the muslin frae her head, _stirling for aye_; she's riven the muslin frae her head, tied the baby hand and feet, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. out she took her little penknife, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, out she took her little penknife, _stirling for aye_; out she took her little penknife, twin'd the young thing o' its life, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. she's howk'd a hole anent the meen, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, she's howk'd a hole anent the meen, _stirling for aye_; she's howk'd a hole anent the meen, there laid her sweet baby in, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. she had her to her father's ha', _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, she had her to her father's ha', _stirling for aye_; she had her to her father's ha', she was the meekest maid amang them a', _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. it fell ance upon a day, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, it fell ance upon a day, _stirling for aye_; it fell ance upon a day, she saw twa babies at their play, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. "o bonny babies, gin ye were mine, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, o bonny babies, gin ye were mine, _stirling for aye_; o bonny babies, gin ye were mine, i'd cleathe you in the silks sae fine," _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. "o wild mother, when we were thine, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, o wild mother, when we were thine, _stirling for aye_; o wild mother, when we were thine, you cleath'd us not in silks sae fine, _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. "but now we're in the heavens high, _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, but now we're in the heavens high, _stirling for aye_; but now we're in the heavens high, and you've the pains o' hell to try," _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. she threw hersell ower the castle-wa', _edinbro'_, _edinbro'_, she threw hersell ower the castle-wa', _stirling for aye_; she threw hersell ower the castle-wa', there i wat she got a fa', _so proper saint johnston stands fair upon tay_. the minister's dochter o' newarke. see p. . from _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, percy society, vol. xvii. p. . this is the same ballad, with trifling variations, as _the minister's daughter of new york_, buchan, ii. . the minister's dochter o' newarke, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, has fa'en in luve wi' her father's clerk, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. she courted him sax years and a day, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, at length her fause-luve did her betray, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. she did her doun to the green woods gang, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, to spend awa' a while o' her time, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. she lent her back unto a thorn, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_; and she's got her twa bonnie boys born, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. she's ta'en the ribbons frae her hair, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, boun' their bodies fast and sair, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. she's put them aneath a marble stane, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, thinkin' a may to gae her hame, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. leukin' o'er her castel wa', _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, she spied twa bonny boys at the ba', _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "o bonny babies, if ye were mine, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, i woud feed ye wi' the white bread and wine, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "i wou'd feed ye with the ferra cow's milk, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, an' dress ye i' the finest silk," _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "o cruel mother, when we were thine, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, we saw nane o' your bread and wine, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "we saw nane o' your ferra cow's milk, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, nor wore we o' your finest silk," _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "o bonny babies, can ye tell me, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, what sort o' death for ye i maun dee," _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "yes, cruel mother, we'll tell to thee, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, what sort o' death for us ye maun dee, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "seven years a fool i' the woods, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, "seven years a fish i' the floods, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "seven years to be a church bell, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, seven years a porter i' hell," _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "welcome, welcome, fool i' the wood, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, welcome, welcome, fish i' the flood, _alane by the green burn sidie o_. "welcome, welcome, to be a church bell, _hey wi' the rose and the lindie o_, but heavens keep me out o' hell," _alane by the green burn sidie o_. bondsey and maisry. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . "o come along wi' me, brother, now come along wi' me; and we'll gae seek our sister maisry, into the water o' dee." the eldest brother he stepped in, he stepped to the knee; then out he jump'd upo' the bank, says, "this water's nae for me." the second brother he stepped in, he stepped to the quit; then out he jump'd upo' the bank, says, "this water's wond'rous deep." when the third brother stepped in, he stepped to the chin; out he got, and forward wade, for fear o' drowning him. the youngest brother he stepped in, took 's sister by the hand; said, "here she is, my sister maisry, wi' the hinny draps on her chin. "o if i were in some bonny ship, and in some strange countrie, for to find out some conjurer, to gar maisry speak to me!" then out it speaks an auld woman, as she was passing by; "ask of your sister what you want, and she will speak to thee." "o sister, tell me who is the man, that did your body win? and who is the wretch, tell me, likewise, that threw you in the lin?" "o bondsey was the only man that did my body win; and likewise bondsey was the man that threw me in the lin." "o will we bondsey head, sister? or will we bondsey hang? or will we set him at our bow end, lat arrows at him gang?" "ye winna bondsey head, brothers, nor will ye bondsey hang; but ye'll take out his twa grey e'en, make bondsey blind to gang. "ye'll put to the gate a chain o' gold, a rose garland gar make; and ye'll put that in bondsey's head, a' for your sister's sake." lady diamond. from the percy society publications, xvii. . the same in buchan, ii. . the ballad is given in sharpe's _ballad book_, under the title of _dysmal_, and by aytoun, _ballads of scotland_, d ed., ii. , under that of _lady daisy_. all these names are corruptions of ghismonda, on whose well-known story (_decamerone_, iv. , ) the present is founded.--this piece and the next might better have been inserted at p. , as a part of the appendix to book iii. there was a king, an' a curious king, an' a king o' royal fame; he had ae dochter, he had never mair, ladye diamond was her name. she's fa'en into shame, an' lost her gude name, an' wrought her parents 'noy; an' a' for her layen her luve so low, on her father's kitchen boy. ae nicht as she lay on her bed, just thinkin' to get rest, up it came her old father, just like a wanderin' ghaist. "rise up, rise up, ladye diamond," he says, "rise up, put on your goun; rise up, rise up, ladye diamond," he says, "for i fear ye gae too roun'." "too roun i gae, yet blame me nae; ye'll cause me na to shame; for better luve i that bonnie boy than a' your weel-bred men." the king's ca'd up his wa'-wight men, that he paid meat an' fee: "bring here to me that bonnie boy, an' we'll smore him right quietlie." up hae they ta'en that bonnie boy, put him 'tween twa feather beds; naethin' was dane, nor naethin' said, till that bonnie bonnie boy was dead. the king's ta'en out a braid braid sword, an' streak'd it on a strae; an' thro' an' thro' that bonnie boy's heart he's gart cauld iron gae. out has he ta'en his poor bluidie heart, set it in a tasse o' gowd, and set it before ladye diamonds face, said "fair ladye, behold!" up has she ta'en this poor bludie heart, an' holden it in her han'; "better luved i that bonnie bonnie boy than a' my father's lan'." up has she ta'en his poor bludie heart, an' laid it at her head; the tears awa' frae her eyne did flee, an' ere midnicht she was dead. the west country damosels complaint. from collier's _book of roxburghe ballads_, p. . after a broadside "printed by p. brooksby, at the golden bull in westsmith-field, neer the hospitall gate." the first ten or twelve stanzas seem to be ancient. "when will you marry me, william, and make me your wedded wife? or take you your keen bright sword, and rid me out of my life." "say no more then so,[l ] lady, say you no more then so, for you shall unto the wild forrest, and amongst the buck and doe. "where thou shalt eat of the hips and haws, and the roots that are so sweet, and thou shalt drink of the cold water that runs underneath your feet." now had she not been in the wild forrest passing three months and a day, but with hunger and cold she had her fill, till she was quite worn away. at last she saw a fair tyl'd house, and there she swore by the rood, that she would to that fair tyl'd house, there for to get her some food. but when she came unto the gates, aloud, aloud she cry'd, "an alms, an alms, my own sister! i ask you for no pride." her sister call'd up her merry men all, by one, by two, and by three, and bid them hunt away that wild doe, as far as e'er they could see. they hunted her o're hill and dale, and they hunted her so sore, that they hunted her into the forrest, where her sorrows grew more and more. she laid a stone all at her head, and another all at her feet, and down she lay between these two, till death had lull'd her asleep. when sweet will came and stood at her head, and likewise stood at her feet, a thousand times he kiss'd her cold lips, her body being fast asleep. yea, seaven times he stood at her feet, and seaven times at her head; a thousand times he shook her hand, although her body was dead. "ah wretched me!" he loudly cry'd, "what is it that i have done? o wou'd to the powers above i'de dy'd, when thus i left her alone! "come, come, you gentle red-breast now, and prepare for us a tomb, whilst unto cruel death i bow, and sing like a swan my doom. "why could i ever cruel be unto so fair a creature; alas! she dy'd for love of me, the loveliest she in nature! "for me she left her home so fair to wander in this wild grove, and there with sighs and pensive care she ended her life for love. "o constancy, in her thou'rt lost! now let women boast no more; she's fled unto the elizian coast, and with her carry'd the store. "o break, my heart, with sorrow fill'd, come, swell, you strong tides of grief! you that my dear love have kill'd, come, yield in death to me relief. "cruel her sister, was't for me that to her she was unkind? her husband i will never be, but with this my love be joyn'd. "grim death shall tye the marriage bands, which jealousie shan't divide; together shall tye our cold hands, whilst here we lye side by side. "witness, ye groves, and chrystal streams, how faithless i late have been; but do repent with dying leaves of that my ungrateful sin; "and wish a thousand times that i had been but to her more kind, and not have let a virgin dye, whose equal there's none can find. "now heaps of sorrow press my soul; now, now 'tis she takes her way; i come, my love, without controule, nor from thee will longer stay." with that he fetch'd a heavy groan, which rent his tender breast, and then by her he laid him down, when as death did give him rest. whilst mournful birds, with leavy bows, to them a kind burial gave, and warbled out their love-sick vows, whilst they both slept in their grave. , so then. the brave earl brand and the king of england's daughter. see p. . from bell's _ballads of the peasantry of england_, p. . this ballad, which was printed by bell from the recitation of an old northumberland fiddler, is defective in the tenth and the last stanzas, and has suffered much from corruption in the course of transmission. the name of the hero, however, is uncommonly well preserved, and affords a link, rarely occurring in english, with the corresponding danish and swedish ballads, a good number of which have hildebrand, though more have ribold. it may be observed that in _hildebrand og hilde_ (grundtvig, no. ), the knight has the rank here ascribed to the lady. "hand heede hertug hyldebraand, kongens sönn aff engeland." the "old carl hood" who gives the alarm in this ballad, is called in most of the danish ballads "a rich earl"; in one a treacherous man, in another a young carl, and in a third an old man; which together furnish the elements of his character here of a treacherous old carl. o did you ever hear of the brave earl brand? _hey lillie, ho lillie lallie!_ he's courted the king's daughter o' fair england, _i' the brave nights so early._ she was scarcely fifteen years that tide, when sae boldly she came to his bed-side. "o earl brand, how fain wad i see a pack of hounds let loose on the lea." "o lady fair, i have no steed but one, but thou shalt ride and i will run." "o earl brand, but my father has two, and thou shalt have the best of tho." now they have ridden o'er moss and moor, and they have met neither rich nor poor. till at last they met with old carl hood, he's aye for ill, and never for good. "now, earl brand, an ye love me, slay this old carl, and gar him dee." "o lady fair, but that would be sair, to slay an auld carl that wears grey hair. "my own lady fair, i'll not do that, i'll pay him his fee......." "o where have ye ridden this lee lang day, and where have ye stown this fair lady away?" "i have not ridden this lee lang day, nor yet have i stown this lady away. "for she is, i trow, my sick sister, whom i have been bringing fra winchester." "if she's been sick, and nigh to dead, what makes her wear the ribbon so red? "if she's been sick, and like to die, what makes her wear the gold sae high?" when came the carl to the lady's yett, he rudely, rudely rapped thereat. "now where is the lady of this hall?" "she's out with her maids a-playing at the ball." "ha, ha, ha! ye are all mista'en; ye may count your maidens owre again. "i met her far beyond the lea, with the young earl brand, his leman to be." her father of his best men armed fifteen, and they're ridden after them bidene. the lady looked owre her left shoulder then; says, "o earl brand, we are both of us ta'en." "if they come on me one by one, you may stand by till the fights be done. "but if they come on me one and all, you may stand by and see me fall." they came upon him one by one, till fourteen battles he has won. and fourteen men he has them slain, each after each upon the plain. but the fifteenth man behind stole round, and dealt him a deep and deadly wound. though he was wounded to the deid, he set his lady on her steed. they rode till they came to the river doune, and there they lighted to wash his wound. "o earl brand, i see your heart's blood!" "it's nothing but the glent and my scarlet hood."[l ] they rode till they came to his mother's yett, so faint and feebly he rapped thereat. "o my son's slain, he is falling to swoon, and it's all for the sake of an english loon!" "o say not so, my dearest mother, but marry her to my youngest brother. "to a maiden true he'll give his hand, to the king's daughter o' fair england. "[to the king's daughter o' fair england,] _hey lillie, ho lillie lallie!_ to a prize that was won by a slain brother's brand," _i' the brave nights so early._ . qy.? _of_ my scarlet hood. la vendicatrice. see p. . from _canti popolari inediti umbri, piceni, piemontesi, latini, raccolti e illustrati da_ oreste marcoaldi. genova, . p. .--from alessandria. "oh varda ben, munfrenna,[l ] oh varda qul castè:[l ] i'è trentatrè fantenni[l ] ch' a j' ho menaji me.[l ] i m' han negà[l ] l' amure, la testa a j' ho tajè."[l ] "ch' u 'm digga lü, sior[l ] conte; ch' u 'm lassa la so' spà."[l ] "oh dimì ti, monfrenna, cosa ch' a 't na voi fa'?"[l ] "a voi tajè[l ] 'na frasca, per ombra al me' cavà."[l ] lesta con la spadenna[l ] al cor a j' ha passà. "va là, va là, sior conte, va là 'nte quei boscon;[l ] le spenni[l ] e li serpenti saran toi[l ] compagnon." guarda ben, monferina. quel castello. fanciulle. menate io. negato. tagliato. dica lei, signor. sua spada. vuoi fare. tagliare. cavallo. spadina. (_boscon_) cespugli. spine. tuoi. glossary. [pointing hand] figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. aboon, _above_, _upon_. abound, , _bound_. abune a' thing, _above all things_. a dee, , _to do_. ae, _one_. aft, _oft_. aith, _oath_. an, _if_. ance, _once_. anent, _opposite to_. are, _early_. assoile, _absolve_. aucht, _owns_; wha is aucht that bairn? _who is it owns that child?_ ava, _of all_. a-warslin, _a wrestling_. ayont, _beyond_. ba', _ball_. badena, _abode not_. bairn, _child_. baith, _both_. ban, , _bond_. beet, , _add fuel_. bierdly, _large and well-made_, _stately_. biggins, _buildings_. ben, _in_, _within_. bestan, _best_. best young man, _bridesman_. bidden, _bidding_. bidene, _in a company_, _forthwith_ (?) billie, _comrade_, _brother_. binna, _beest not_. birk, _birch_. birling, _pouring out_ [_drink_], _drinking_. blan, _ceased_, _stopped_. blate, _sheepish_, _ashamed_. blear, [noun,] _dimness_. blinkit, _blinked_, _winked_. blinne, _cease_. borrow, _ransom_. bouerie, _chamber_. boun, _ready_. bour, bower, _chamber_. bra', braw, _handsome_. bracken, _female fern_. brae, _hill-side_. braid, _broad_. brain, _mad_. brent, _burnt_; , v. , _straight_? bridesteel, (buchan,) , _bridal_? brigg, brigue, _bridge_. broo, _broth_. brook, _enjoy_. brunt, _burnt_. buird, _board_. burd, _lady_. burn, _brook_. busking, _dressing_, _making ready_. but, butt, _without_. but and, _and also_. byre, _cow-house_. ca', _call_. cannel, . qy. a corruption? canny, _knowing_, _expert_, _gentle_, _adroitly_, _carefully_. cast, _trick_, _turn_. channerin, _fretting_. chap, _tap_, _rap_; chappit, , _tapped_, _rapped_; at the chin, _should probably be_ at the pin, _or tongue of the latch_. cheir, _cheer_. claise, _clothes_. clap, _fondle_; clappit, _patted_, _fondled_. cleading, _clothing_. clecked, _hatched_. cleed, _clothe_. cleiding, _clothing_. clerks, _scholars_. cliding, _clothing_. close, _lane_. cod, _pillow_. coil, , _cock of hay_. coost, _cast_. could, _used with the infinitive as an auxiliary, to form a past tense_. crap, _crop_, _top_. croodlin doo, _cooing dove_. crowse, _brisk_. cuik, _cook_. curches, _kerchiefs_. r. jamieson, "_linen caps tying under the chin._" cuttit, _cut_. dabs, _pricks_. dang, , _overcome_; , _pushed_. dapperby, , _dapper_? daut, _fondle_, _caress_. daw, _dawn_. dead, _death_. dear-boucht, _dear-bought_. deas, _sometimes a pew in a church_. dee, _die_. dee, do, _avail_. deid, _death_. deight, dight, _decked_. den, _valley_. depart, , _part_. dight, , _skilfully_, _readily_? dighted, _dressed_, _wiped_. dine, _dinner_. ding, _strike_. dinna, _do not_. disna, _does not_. dool, _sorrow_. dout, _fear_. dowie, _mournful_, _sad_, _gloomy_. downa, _cannot_. dows, _doves_. dreaded, _doubted_. dree, _suffer_. drew up with, , _formed relations of love with_. drie, _suffer_. drumly, _troubled_. dule, _grief_, _sorrow_. dune, _done_. dwines, _dwindles_. e'e, _eye_. een, _eye_, _eyes_. eneuch, _enough_. ezer, _azure_. fadge, _clumsy woman_. faem, _foam_. fare, _go_. farrow-cow, _a barren cow_. fee, _property_, _wages_. fell, _hill_. fell, _strange_. ferra cow, _farrow cow_, _a cow not with calf_. ffree, _noble_. firstan, firstand, _first_. fit, _foot_. fitches, , _flitches_? flang'd, _flung_. fleed, _flood_. foremost man, _bridesman_. forlorn, _lost_. fou, fow, _full_. frush, _brittle_. fur, furrow, _a furrows length_, _furlong_. gaed, _went_. gair, , _gore_, _strip_. see gare. gang, _go_; gangs, _goes_. gar, _make_. gare, , _gore_; apparently, here, _skirt_. so, hung low down by his gair, , _by the edge of his frock_. the word seems also to be used vaguely in romances for _clothing_. garl, _gravel_. gate, _way_. gear, _goods_, _clothes_. gin, _trick_, _wile_. gleed, _a burning coal_; , _blaze_. glent, _gleam_, _glimmer_. gone, _go_. gowd, _gold_; gowden, _golden_. gowk, _fool_. gravat, _cravat_? greaf, _grave_. greet, _cry_, _weep_. gris, _a costly fur_. grit, _big_. groom, _man_. gross, _heavy_. gryte, _great_, _big_. gude, _god_. ha', _hall_. had her, _betook her_. hallow-days, _holidays_. haly, _holy_. happit, _covered_. hass, _neck_. haud, _hold_; haud unthought lang, _keep from ennui_. hause, _neck_. head, _behead_. healy, _slowly_, _softly_. heght, _promised_. her lane, _herself alone_. herried, _robbed_. hich, _high_. hinny, _honey_. hip, _the berry which contains the stones or seeds of the dog-rose_. hooly, _slowly_, _gently_. how, _ho!_ hows, _hollows_, _dells_. howket, _dug_. huggell, _huddle_, _cuddle_. huly, _slowly_. intill, _into_, _in_. into, _on_. iwis, _certainly_. jaw, , _wave_. jawing, _dashing_. jimp, _slender_. jo, _sweetheart_. jollie, _handsome_. jow, _stroke in tolling_. kell, _caul_, _a species of cap, or net-work, worn by women as a head-dress_. kembe, _comb_; kembing, _combing_. kenna, _know not_; kentna, _knew not_. kens, _knows_. kerches, _kerchiefs_. kilted, _tucked up_. kin, _kind_; a' kin, _all kind_. kist, _chest_. kitchey, _kitchen_. know, _knoll_. kye, _cows_. kythe, _become_, _manifest_. laigh, _low_. lain, _alone_; ye're your lain, _you are alone_; hir lain, _her alone_. lair, _learning_. lane, _alone_; the same in combination with the pronouns _my_, _his_, _her_, _its_, _&c._ lap, _leapt_. latten, _let_. lauch, _laugh_. laumer, , _amber_. lave, _rest_. lealest, _truest_, _chastest_. lear, _lore_, _lesson_. lease, _leash_. lee, _lonesome_. lee-lang, _livelong_. lei, , _lonesome_. len, _lie_. lent, _leaned_. let, _stop_, _delay_. leuch, leugh, _laughed_. lichtly, _lightly_. lig, _lie_. lighter, _delivered_. limmers, _strumpets_. linn, _the pool under a cataract_, _cataract_. lith, _joint_. lither, _naughty_, _wicked_. looten, _let_. loup, _leap_. lourd, _liefer_, _rather_. louted, _bent_. louze, _loosen_. lykewake, _watching of a dead body_. mae, _more_. maene, moan, _lamentation_. maist, , maistly, _almost_. make, _mate_. mane, _moan_. maries, _maids_. marrow, _mate_. mat, _may_. maun, _must_. maunna, _may not_. may, _maid_. meen, _moan_, _lament_. message, _messenger_. micht, _might_. mind, _remember_. mirk, _murky_. mith, _might_. moll syms, , _a celebrated dance tune of the th century_. mools, _the earth of the grave_, _the dust of the dead_. mot, _may_. my lane, _alone by myself_. niest, _next_. nourice, _nurse_. oer, ower, _over_, _too_. ohon, _alas_. owsen, _oxen_. owsenford, _oxford_. pa', pall, _rich cloth_. parish, _paris_. part, , _separate from_. pat, _pot_. pearlin' gear, _pearl ornaments_. pin, _door-latch_. plat, _plaited_. plea, _quarrel_. pot, _a pool_, _or deep place, in a river_. prin, _pin_. propine, _gift_. putten down, _hung_. queet, quit, _ancle_. quhair, quhat, quhy, &c., _where_, _what_, _why_, _&c._ rair'd, _roared_. rave, _tore off_. reavel'd, _tangled_. rede, _advice_, _advise_; , _story_. reest, _roost_. renown, [buchan,] , _haughtiness_? rigland shire, ? rin, _run_. ritted, _routed_, _struck_. riv't, _tear it_. row, _roll_. row'd, _rolled_. sabelline, _sable_. sanna, _shall not_. sarbit, _an exclamation of sorrow_. sark, _shirt_. saugh, _willow_. scheet, _school_. schill, _shrill_. scug, _expiate_. see, (save and,) _protect_. seen, sen, _then_, _since_. send, , _the messengers sent for the bride at a wedding_. sets, _suits_. shed by, , _parted_, _put back_. sheen, _shine_. sheen, _shoes_. sheet, _shoot_. sheuch, _furrow_, _ditch_. shimmerd, _shone_. shot-window, _a projected window_. sic, _such_. sich, _sigh_. sindle, _seldom_. sinsyne, _since_. skinkled, _sparkled_. slack, _a gap or pass between two hills_. slait, _passed across_, _whetted_. slap, _a narrow pass between two hills_. smore, _smother_. snood, _a fillet or ribbon for the hair_. socht, _sought_. sorray, _sorrow_. soum, sowm, _swim_. spakes, _spokes_, _bars_. speer, speir, _ask_. spreckl'd, _speckled_. stap, _stuff_. stean, _stone_. steek'd, _fastened_. stey, _steep_. stint, _stop_. stock, _the forepart of a bed_. stout, , _haughty_. strae, stray, _straw_. straiked, streaked, _stroked_, _drew_. streek, _stretch_; streekit, _stretched_; streikit, _laid out_. striped, _thrust_. suld, _should_. syke, _marshy bottom_. syne, _then_, _afterwards_. tane, _one_, [_after the._] tasse, _cup_. tate, _lock_ (_of hair_). tee, _too_. teem, _empty_. teen, _sorrow_, _suffering_. tent, _heed_. thae, _these_. the, _thrive_. thegither, _together_. thir, tho, _these_, _those_. thorn'd, , _eaten_? thought lang, _felt ennui_. thouth, _thought_, _seemed_. thraw, , _writhe_, _twist_; thrawen, _crooked_. thresel-cock, _throstle_, _thrush_. threw, , _throve_. thrild upon a pinn. see _tirled_ below. tift, _puff_ (_of wind_). till, _to_, _on_. tirled at the pin, _trilled or rattled, at the door-latch, to obtain entrance_. tither, _other_. tocher, _dowry_. toomly, _empty_. tow, _rope_. triest, tryst, _make an assignation_. true, _trow_. twain, _part_. twal, _twelve_. twin, _part_; twinn'd, _deprived_, _parted_. unco, _unknown_, _strange_. virr, _strength_. vow, _interjection of surprise_. wad, _would_. wadded, _wagered_, _staked_. wadding, _wedding_. wae, waeful', _sad_, _sorrowful_. waked, _watched_. walde, _would_. wale, _choice_. wambe, wame, _womb_. wan, _reached_. wand, wandie, _bough_, _wand_, _stick_. wan na in, _got not in_. wap, _throw_. wappit, _beat_, _fluttered_. warde, , _advise_, _forewarn_. wark, _work_. warlock, _wizzard_. warstan, _worst_. warstled, _wrestled_. wat, _know_. water-kelpy, _a malicious spirit thought to haunt fords and ferries, especially in storms, and to swell the waters beyond their ordinary limit, for the destruction of luckless travellers_. wavers, , _wanders_. wa'-wight, , _waled_, _picked_, _strong-men or warriors_. see vol. vi. , v. . wean, _child_. wee, _little_. weed, _dress_. weir-horse, _war-horse_. werne, _were_. wha is aught, _who is it owns_. whang, _thong_. whaten, _what_. wicht, _strong_, _agile_. widdershins, _the contrary way_, _round about_. wide, _wade_. wight, _strong_, _agile_. win, _arrive_, _reach_, _come_, _get_. winna, _will not_. winsome, _charming_, _attractive_. woe, _sad_. won up, _got up_. wood, _mad_; wood-wroth, _mad with anger_. worth, _be_; wae worth you, _sorrow come upon you_. wow, _alas_. wraith, _wroth_. wrongous, _wrong_. wull, _will_. wyte, _punish_, _blame_. yae, _every_. yare, _ready_. yeats, yetts, _gates_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yird-fast, _fixed in the earth_. yode, _went_. yont, _beyond_, _further off_. yule, _christmas_. ze, zet, zour, &c., _ye_, _yet_, _your_. * * * * * transcriber's notes irregular and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. typographical errors such as wrongly placed line numbers and punctuation have been corrected without comment. where changes have been made to the wording these are listed as follows: page , line : added missing opening quotation mark ("but look that ye tell na gib your man,...) page , line note : reference originally read " ". page , line , : added missing quotation marks (lye yont, lye yont, willie," she says, / "for your sweat i downa bide o.") page , line : added final comma ("now haud your tongue, my lord," she said, ...) page , line , : removed unnecessary quotation mark ("get up, and let me in!-- / get up, get up, lady mother," he says, ...) page , line : deleted duplicate "the" (out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose). page , line : deleted erroneous closing quotation mark (says, "what means a' this mourning?) page , line and page : "dapperpy" appears in the text but is "dapperby" in the glossary (o he has pou'd aff his dapperby coat, ...) page , line : added open quotation mark ("and quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife,) page line : added missing period (a playing at the ba'."--) page , line : changed "doan" to "doun" (doun by the greenwud sae bonnie) page : added missing closing quotation mark (... taken place in bothwell church." scott.) page , line : changed "majorie" to "marjorie" (that lady marjorie she gaes wi' child, ...) page : heading "book iv" removed. note that it does not appear in the table of contents and there are several references to ballads and page numbers after this point as part of the appendix. note also that volume starts with "book iii (continued)". page , line : added closing quotation mark ("where leav'st thou thy youthful daughter, / merry son of mine?") page , changed "widdershius" to "widdershins" (widdershins, _the contrary way_, _round about_.) [illustration] percy's reliques. [illustration] reliques of ancient english poetry consisting of old heroic ballads, songs and other pieces of our earlier poets together with some few of later date by thomas percy, d.d. bishop of dromore edited, with a general introduction, additional prefaces, notes, glossary, etc. by henry b. wheatley, f.s.a. in three volumes vol. ii london: george allen & unwin ltd. ruskin house museum street, w.c. first published by swan sonnenschein _april _ reprinted _august _ " _august _ " _december _ " _january _ printed by the riverside press limited, edinburgh great britain [illustration] contents of volume the second book the first. page . richard of almaigne . on the death of k. edward the first . an original ballad by chaucer . the turnament of tottenham . for the victory at agincourt . the not-browne mayd . a balet, by the earl rivers . cupid's assault: by lord vaux . sir aldingar copy from the folio ms. . the gaberlunyie man. a scottish song . on thomas lord cromwell . harpalus. an ancient english pastoral . robin and makyne. an ancient scottish pastoral . gentle herdsman, tell to me . k. edward iv. and the tanner of tamworth . as ye came from the holy land copy from the folio ms. . hardyknute. a scottish fragment book the second. . a ballad of luther, the pope, a cardinal, and a husbandman . john anderson my jo. a scottish song . little john nobody . q. elizabeth's verses, while prisoner at woodstock . the heir of linne copy from the folio ms. . gascoigne's praise of the fair bridges, afterwards lady sandes . fair rosamond. by thomas delone . queen eleanor's confession . the sturdy rock . the beggar's daughter of bednall-green extract from the folio ms. an essay on the word _fit_, and the ancient ballad-singing . fancy and desire. by the earl of oxford . sir andrew barton copy from the folio ms. . lady anne bothwell's lament. a scottish song . the murder of the king of scots . a sonnet by q. elizabeth . king of scots and andrew browne. by w. elderton . the bonny earl of murray. a scottish song . young waters. a scottish song . mary ambree copy from the folio ms. . brave lord willoughbey . victorious men of earth. by james shirley . the winning of cales . the spanish lady's love . argentile and curan. by w. warner . corin's fate . jane shore . corydon's doleful knell book the third. . the complaint of conscience . plain truth and blind ignorance . the wandering jew . the lye. by sir walter raleigh . verses (viz. two sonnets) by k. james i. . k. john and the abbot of canterbury copy from the folio ms. . you meaner beauties. by sir henry wotton . the old and young courtier . sir john suckling's campaigne . to althea from prison. by col. lovelace . the downfall of charing-cross . loyalty confined . verses, by king charles i. . the sale of rebellious houshold stuff . the baffled knight, or lady's policy . why so pale? by sir john suckling . old tom of bedlam. mad song the first . the distracted puritan. mad song the second . the lunatic lover. mad song the third . the lady distracted with love. mad song the fourth . the distracted lover. mad song the fifth . the frantic lady. mad song the sixth . lilliburlero. by the marquis of wharton . the braes of yarrow. in imitation of the ancient scots manner. by wm. hamilton . admiral hosier's ghost. by richard glover . jemmy dawson. by william shenstone appendix. on the alliterative metre, without rhyme, in pierce plowman's visions index. of ballads and poems in the second volume [illustration] [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the second. book . [illustration] "though some make slight of libels, yet you may see by them how the wind sits: as, take a straw and throw it up into the air, you may see by that which way the wind is, which you shall not do by casting up a stone. more solid things do not shew the complexion of the times so well as ballads and libels."--selden's _table-talk_. [illustration] i. richard of almaigne, "a ballad made by one of the adherents to simon de montfort, earl of leicester, soon after the battle of lewes, which was fought may , ," --affords a curious specimen of ancient satire, and shews that the liberty, assumed by the good people of this realm, of abusing their kings and princes at pleasure, is a privilege of very long standing. to render this antique libel intelligible, the reader is to understand that just before the battle of lewes, which proved so fatal to the interests of henry iii., the barons had offered his brother richard, king of the romans, , _l._ to procure a peace upon such terms, as would have divested henry of all his regal power, and therefore the treaty proved abortive. the consequences of that battle are well-known: the king, prince edward his son, his brother richard, and many of his friends, fell into the hands of their enemies: while two great barons of the king's party, john, earl of warren, and hugh bigot, the king's justiciary, had been glad to escape into france. in the first stanza the aforesaid sum of thirty thousand pounds is alluded to, but with the usual misrepresentation of party malevolence, is asserted to have been the exorbitant demand of the king's brother. with regard to the second stanza the reader is to note that richard, along with the earldom of cornwall, had the honours of walingford and eyre confirmed to him on his marriage with sanchia, daughter of the count of provence, in . windsor castle was the chief fortress belonging to the king, and had been garrisoned by foreigners: a circumstance which furnishes out the burthen of each stanza. the third stanza alludes to a remarkable circumstance which happened on the day of the battle of lewes. after the battle was lost, richard, king of the romans, took refuge in a windmill, which he barricaded, and maintained for some time against the barons, but in the evening was obliged to surrender. see a very full account of this in the _chronicle of mailros_, oxon. , p. .[ ] the fourth stanza is of obvious interpretation: richard, who had been elected king of the romans in , and had afterwards gone over to take possession of his dignity, was in the year about to return into england, when the barons raised a popular clamour, that he was bringing with him foreigners to over-run the kingdom: upon which he was forced to dismiss almost all his followers, otherwise the barons would have opposed his landing. in the fifth stanza the writer regrets the escape of the earl of warren, and in the sixth and seventh stanzas insinuates that if he and sir hugh bigot once fell into the hands of their adversaries, they should never more return home; a circumstance which fixes the date of this ballad, for, in the year , both these noblemen landed in south wales, and the royal party soon after gained the ascendant. see holinshed, rapin, &c. the following is copied from a very ancient ms. in the british museum. (hart. mss. , fol. v°.) this ms. is judged, from the peculiarities of the writing, to be not later than the time of richard ii.; _th_ being everywhere expressed by the character þ; the _y_ is pointed after the saxon manner, and the _i_ hath an oblique stroke over it. * * * * * [the date of the ms. in which this ballad occurs is usually placed at an earlier period than that fixed upon by percy. mr. thomas wright, who prints it in his volume of _political songs of_ _england_ (camden society), with several other poems in french, anglo-norman, and latin, on simon de montfort and the barons' wars, assigns it to the reign of edward ii. it will be seen from percy's note to verse , that the last stanza was printed for the first time in the fourth edition of the _reliques_. this is explained by the fact that these lines are written on a new folio of the ms., and must therefore have been overlooked by the original copyist. this little poem is without rival as an early exhibition of english popular feeling in the vernacular; and it also stands alone as the first dated english historical ballad in existence. it was probably written during the first flush of enthusiasm after the memorable battle of lewes, because, before a year had gone by, victory had passed to the other side, and at the battle of evesham, fought on the th of august, , simon, his eldest son henry, and a host of distinguished men, fell on the fatal field. as drayton sang: "great lester here expired with henry his brave sonne, when many a high exploit they in that day had done." prince edward, who had passed his boyhood in henry's company and was much attached to him, personally attended his funeral. richard, earl of cornwall, brother of henry iii., was elected king of the romans on the th of january, - , at frankfort, and is styled in latin documents _rex alemanniæ_. in earlier times richard had been a leader of malecontents, and "all from the child to the old man heaped frequent blessings upon him," but montfort (then a courtier) gained him over to the king's side, and the insurgents were in consequence dispersed. richard was probably not so base a man as the writer of the ballad would wish us to believe, and a good action is recorded of him which was very ill returned. he interceded for the life of de montfort's second son simon, when that youth surrendered to the royal party at northampton in , and he was successful in his suit. in , simon and his brother guy assassinated henry, richard's son, then in the suite of philip of france, on his return from the holy land, while he was at mass in the church of st. lawrence, at viterbo. richard himself died in this same year at berkhampstead, and his estates descended to his son edmond, earl of cornwall. the uncertain manner in which biographic honours are apportioned is noteworthy, and a writer in the _quarterly review_ (vol. cxix. p. ) very justly points out a deficiency in english literature, when he writes that simon de montfort v., second earl of leicester, "the founder of the english house of commons, has had no biographer."[ ] mr. freeman, however, promises to do full honour to his memory in a forthcoming volume of his history. this is not the place to give any detailed account of de montfort, but a few words on the great leader may be allowable, more particularly as percy's introduction does injustice to the anti-royalist party. simon de montfort, fourth son of simon de montfort iv., fourth comte de montfort,[ ] married eleanor, countess of pembroke, the daughter of king john. she had made a vow of widowhood, and although her brother henry iii. gave her away when she was married, by one of the royal chaplains, in the king's private chapel at westminster, th january, , edmund, archbishop of canterbury, remonstrated strongly against the marriage. it is said that when the prelate left england, he stood on a hill which commanded a view of london, and, extending his hands towards the city, pronounced a parting blessing on his country, and a curse on the countess and the offspring of her unholy union. events so came about that the courtier and alien became the representative leader of englishmen, with the famous war-cry of "england for the english." the battle of lewes placed everything in the power of simon de montfort, but in his prosperity many of his followers fell away from him. the last scene of the great man's life is truly pathetic. he lay at evesham awaiting the troops which his son was to bring from kenilworth. he did not know, however, that the garrison of that town had been surprised by prince edward, who had escaped from confinement. the army that marched upon evesham bore the banners of simon's son, but they were flying in the van of an enemy. simon's first words, when he saw the force approach, were those of soldierly pride: "by the arm of st. james they come on well; they learnt that order from me." before he spoke again, however, he had realized his position, and he cried out: "may god have mercy on our souls, for our bodies are prince edward's." when he died liberty seemed to have been crushed out of existence, but it was not so, for his spirit lived though his body died, and the real victory was with him. the fate of simon de montfort was a subject of general lamentation, but none of the songs upon it that have come down to us are in english. in an anglo-norman lament he is likened to thomas of canterbury, and described as "a precious flower." priest and layman united in his praise, and he was revered as a saint and martyr. prayers were said in his honour, and a hymn was sung at his shrine, beginning: "salve symon montis-fortis totius flos militiæ duras p[oe]nas passus mortis, _protector gentis angliæ_." miracles were supposed to be worked by the power of his name,[ ] and the character of these miracles may be judged by the following samples. the "old countess of gloucester" had a palfrey, which was asthmatic for two years, until one day in journeying from tewkesbury to evesham, it drank from the earl's well and was restored to perfect health. the next instance of miraculous healing is still more remarkable. a chick, which belonged to agnes of selgrave, fell into a pond and was drowned. its mistress pulled it out and commended it to "blessed simon," whereupon it got up and walked as usual. simon had six children by his wife eleanor, viz., henry, simon, guy, amauri, richard, and eleanor. henry was slain with his father, but the countess and the other children escaped out of england. simon and guy went to tuscany; amauri accompanied his mother to france, was taken prisoner in , and kept in confinement by edward for a time, but set at liberty in ; richard went to bigorre, but nothing certain is known of his after career, and it is said that he settled in england under the assumed name of wellysborne, an assertion founded on two or three deeds of doubtful authenticity.[ ] eleanor was married to llewellyn, prince of wales, in , edward i. paying all the expenses of the ceremony, which was performed with great pomp.] * * * * * sitteth alle stille, ant herkneth to me; the kyn[g] of alemaigne,[ ] bi mi leaute,[ ] thritti thousent pound askede he for te make the pees[ ] in the countre, ant so he dude more. richard, thah[ ] thou be ever trichard,[ ] tricthen[ ] shalt thou never more. richard of alemaigne, whil that he wes kyng, he spende al is tresour opon swyvyng,[ ] haveth he nout of walingford o ferl[.y]ng,[ ] let him habbe,[ ] ase he brew, bale to dryng,[ ] maugre[ ] wyndesore. richard, thah thou be ever, &c. the kyng of alemaigne wende do[ ] ful wel, he saisede the mulne[ ] for a castel, with hare[ ] sharpe swerdes he grounde the stel,[ ] he wende that the sayles were mangonel[ ] to helpe wyndesore. richard, thah thou be ever, &c. the kyng of alemaigne gederede ys host, makede him a castel of a mulne post, wende with is prude,[ ] ant is muchele bost,[ ] brohte[ ] from alemayne mon[.y] sori gost to store wyndesore. richard, thah thou be ever, &c. by god, that is aboven ous, he dude muche s[.y]nne, that lette passen over see the erl of warynne: he hath robbed engelond, the mores,[ ] ant th[e] fenne, the gold, ant the selver, and [.y]-boren henne,[ ] for love of wyndesore. richard, thah thou be ever, &c. sire simond de mountfort hath suore bi [.y]s ch[.y]n, hevede[ ] he nou here the erl of war[.y]n, shulde he never more come to is [.y]n,[ ] ne with sheld, ne with spere, ne with other g[.y]n,[ ] to help of wyndesore. richard, thah thou be ever, &c. sire simond de montfort hath suore bi ys cop,[ ] hevede he nou here sire hue de bigot:[ ] al[ ] he shulde quite here twelfmoneth scot[ ][ ] shulde he never more with his fot pot[ ] to helpe wyndesore. richard, thah thou be ever, &c. be the luef, be the loht,[ ] sire edward,[ ] thou shalt ride sporeles o thy lyard[ ] al the ryhte way to dovere-ward, shalt thou never more breke foreward; ant that reweth sore edward, thou dudest as a shreward,[ ] forsoke thyn emes lore[ ] richard, &c. * * * * * [***] this ballad will rise in its importance with the reader, when he finds that it is even believed to have occasioned a law in our statute book, viz. "against slanderous reports or tales, to cause discord betwixt king and people." (_westm. primer_, c. , anno edw. i.) that it had this effect is the opinion of an eminent writer [the hon. daines barrington], see _observations upon the statutes_, &c. to. nd edit. , p. . however, in the harl. collection may be found other satirical and defamatory rhymes of the same age, that might have their share in contributing to this first law against libels. footnotes: [ ] [robert of gloucester wrote: "the king of alemaigne was in a windmulle income."] [ ] [a german has taken upon himself the duty of an englishman, but dr. pauli's life of the hero has not yet been translated out of the german language.] [ ] [montfort is a small town between paris and chartres.] [ ] [see _miracula simonis de montfort_. ms. cotton. vespas. a. vi., annexed to mr. halliwell's edition of william de rishanger's _chronicle of the barons' wars_ (camden society), .] [ ] [this tradition is possibly connected with the one to be found in the _beggar's daughter of bethnal green_, where the blind beggar is said to be henry de montfort, who was taken off the battlefield, blind but not dead.] [ ] [germany.] [ ] [loyalty.] [ ] [peace.] [ ] [though.] [ ] [treacherous.] [ ] [deceive (should be _trichen_).] [ ] [lechery.] [ ] [he has not of wallingford one furlong. the ms. reads _oferlyng_, and percy and warton explain that word to mean _superior_, in opposition to underling, but it has not been met with elsewhere. mr. wright's reading of "one furlong" is much more in accordance with the context.] [ ] [have.] [ ] [evil to drink.] [ ] [in spite of.] [ ] [thought to do.] [ ] [he seized the mill.] [ ] [their.] [ ] [steel.] [ ] [a military engine for throwing great stones.] [ ] [pride.] [ ] [great boast.] [ ] [brought.] [ ] [moors.] [ ] [bore them away hence.] [ ] [had.] [ ] [house.] [ ] [engine.] [ ] [sworn by his head.] [ ] [the hugh bigod here mentioned, was the cousin of hugh bigod, who took part with the barons, and was slain at lewes.] [ ] [although.] [ ] [tax or revenue.] [ ] [ver. . percy prints _grante here_ (_i.e._ grant their), but the ms. reads _qte here_ (_i.e._ quite or pay here).] [ ] [with his foot push on. percy prints this _sot pot_, but it is undoubtedly _fot_ in the ms.] [ ] [whether you like it or loathe it.] [ ] ver. . this stanza was omitted in the former editions. [ ] [ride spurless on thy grey horse.] [ ] [male shrew.] [ ] [forsookest thy uncle's teaching. de montfort was prince edward's uncle.] ii. on the death of k. edward the first. we have here an early attempt at elegy. edward i. died july , , in the th year of his reign, and th of his age. this poem appears to have been composed soon after his death. according to the modes of thinking peculiar to those times, the writer dwells more upon his devotion than his skill in government, and pays less attention to the martial and political abilities of this great monarch, in which he had no equal, than to some little weaknesses of superstition, which he had in common with all his contemporaries. the king had in the decline of life vowed an expedition to the holy land, but finding his end approach, he dedicated the sum of _£_ , to the maintenance of a large body of knights ( say historians, eighty says our poet), who were to carry his heart with them into palestine. this dying command of the king was never performed. our poet, with the honest prejudices of an englishman, attributes this failure to the advice of the king of france, whose daughter isabel, the young monarch, who succeeded, immediately married. but the truth is, edward and his destructive favourite, piers gaveston, spent the money upon their pleasures. to do the greater honour to the memory of his heroe, our poet puts his eloge in the mouth of the pope, with the same poetic licence as a more modern bard would have introduced britannia or the genius of europe pouring forth his praises. this antique elegy is extracted from the same ms. volume as the preceding article; is found with the same peculiarities of writing and orthography; and tho' written at near the distance of half a century contains little or no variation of idiom: whereas the next following poem by chaucer, which was probably written not more than fifty or sixty years after this, exhibits almost a new language. this seems to countenance the opinion of some antiquaries, that this great poet made considerable innovations in his mother tongue, and introduced many terms, and new modes of speech from other languages. * * * * * [when henry iii. died, highly laudatory songs were sung in honour of the new king, but when edward i. died the people were too grieved at their loss to sing the praise of his successor. the present song is printed by mr. thomas wright in his _political_ _songs of england_ (camden society, , p. ), where he also prints a french version, and points out that the one is clearly translated from the other, adding that the french song was probably the original. in verse , percy printed hue (_i.e._ she) with a capital h, under the impression that it was "the name of the person who was to preside over the business."] * * * * * alle, that beoth of huerte trewe,[ ] a stounde herkneth[ ] to my song of duel,[ ] that deth hath diht[ ] us newe, that maketh me syke, ant sorewe among; of a knyht, that wes so strong, of wham god hath don ys wille; me-thuncheth[ ] that deth hath don us wrong, that he so sone shall ligge stille.[ ] al englond ahte[ ] for te knowe of wham that song is, that y synge; of edward kyng, that lith[ ] so lowe, yent[ ] al this world is nome con springe:[ ] trewest mon of alle thinge, ant in werre war ant wys,[ ] for him we ahte oure honden wrynge,[ ] of christendome he ber the prys. byfore that oure kyng was ded, he spek ase[ ] mon that wes in care, "clerkes, knyhtes, barons, he sayde, "y charge ou by oure sware[ ], "that ye to engelonde be trewe. "y deye, y ne may lyven na more;[ ] "helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe, "for he is nest to buen y-core.[ ] "ich biqueth myn herte aryht,[ ] "that hit be write at mi devys,[ ] "over the see that hue be diht,[ ] "with fourscore knyhtes al of prys, "in werre that buen war ant wys, "ayein the hethene for te fyhte, "to wynne the croiz[ ] that lowe lys, "myself y cholde yef[ ] that y myhte." kyng of fraunce, thou hevedest[ ] 'sinne,'[ ] that thou the counsail woldest fonde,[ ] to latte[ ] the wille of 'edward kyng'[ ] to wende to the holy londe: that oure kyng hede take on honde all engelond to yeme ant wysse,[ ] to wenden in to the holy londe to wynnen us heve[n]riche[ ] blisse. the messager to the pope com, and seyde that our kynge was ded: ys oune hond the lettre he nom,[ ][ ] ywis[ ] his herte was full gret:[ ] the pope him self the lettre redde, ant spec[ ] a word of gret honour. "alas! he seid, is edward ded? "of christendome he ber the flour." the pope to is chaumbre wende, for dol[ ] ne mihte he speke na more; ant after cardinals he sende, that muche couthen[ ] of cristes lore, bothe the lasse,[ ] ant eke the more, bed hem bothe rede ant synge: gret deol me myhte se thore,[ ][ ] mony mon is honde wrynge. the pope of peyters[ ] stod at is masse with ful gret solempnetè, ther me con[ ] the soule blesse:[ ] "kyng edward honoured thou be: "god lene[ ] thi sone come after the, "bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne, "the holy crois y-mad of tre,[ ] "so fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne. "jerusalem, thou hast i-lore[ ] "the flour of al chivalrie "now kyng edward liveth na more: "alas! that he yet shulde deye! "he wolde ha rered up ful heyye[ ] "oure banners, that bueth broht[ ] to grounde; "wel longe we mowe clepe[ ] and crie "er we a such kyng han y-founde." nou is edward of carnarvan king of engelond al aplyht,[ ] god lete him ner be worse man then his fader, ne lasse of myht, to holden is pore men to ryht, and understonde good counsail, al engelond for to wysse ant dyht;[ ] of gode knyhtes darh[ ] him nout fail thah[ ] mi tonge were mad of stel, ant min herte y-yote[ ] of bras, the godness myht y never telle, that with kyng edward was: kyng, as thou art cleped[ ] conquerour, in uch[ ] bataille thou hadest prys; god bringe thi soule to the honour, that ever wes, ant ever ys. * * * * * [***] here follow in the original three lines more, which, as seemingly redundant, we chuse to throw to the bottom of the page, viz.: "that lasteth ay withouten ende, bidde we god, ant oure ledy to thilke blisse jesus us sende. amen." footnotes: [ ] [are of true heart.] [ ] [for a while hearken ye.] [ ] [grief.] [ ] [wrought.] [ ] [methinketh.] [ ] [lie still.] [ ] [ought.] [ ] [lieth.] [ ] [through.] [ ] [his name spread abroad.] [ ] [in war wary and wise.] [ ] [hands wring.] [ ] [as.] [ ] [i charge you by your oath.] [ ] [i die, i may not live more.] [ ] [next to be chosen.] [ ] [rightly.] [ ] [devise.] [ ] [she be sent (see glossary).] [ ] [cross.] [ ] [i would if.] [ ] [hadst.] [ ] ver. . sunne, ms. [ ] [try.] [ ] [hinder.] [ ] ver. . kyng edward, ms. [ ] [govern and teach.] [ ] [heavenly.] [ ] [took.] [ ] ver. . _ys_ is probably a contraction of _in hys_ or _yn his_. [ ] [verily.] [ ] [grieved.] [ ] [spake.] [ ] [grief.] [ ] [knew.] [ ] [less.] [ ] [great grief might be seen there.] [ ] ver. , . _me_, _i.e._ men, so in robert of gloucester, _passim_. [ ] [peter's.] [ ] [there they began.] [ ] [give.] [ ] [cross made of wood.] [ ] [lost.] [ ] [high.] [ ] [are brought.] [ ] [very long we may call. percy printed this incorrectly, well longe.] [ ] [entirely.] [ ] [to govern and order.] [ ] [need.] [ ] [though.] [ ] [cast.] [ ] [called.] [ ] [each.] iii. an original ballad by chaucer. this little sonnet, which hath escaped all the editors of chaucer's works, is now printed for the first time from an ancient ms. in the pepysian library, that contains many other poems of its venerable author. the versification is of that species, which the french call _rondeau_, very naturally englished by our honest countrymen _round o_. tho' so early adopted by them, our ancestors had not the honour of inventing it: chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, among the neighbouring nations. a fondness for laborious trifles hath always prevailed in the dark ages of literature. the greek poets have had their wings and axes: the great father of english poesy may therefore be pardoned one poor solitary _rondeau_.--geofrey chaucer died oct. , . * * * * * [these verses are printed in morris's _aldine edition of chaucer_ (vol. vi. pp. - ), but there is no conclusive evidence that they are really by chaucer. mr. furnivall writes (_trial forewords_, chaucer society, , p. ):--"with the _pity_ i should like much to class the _roundel_ ... as one of the poet's genuine works, though it is not assigned to him (so far as i know), by any ms. of authority. it exactly suits the _compleynte of pite_; there is nothing in it (so far as i can see), to make it not chaucer's, and it is of the same form as his roundel in the _parliament of foules_." mr. hales suggests to me that the poem may have been written by one of chaucer's followers, and refers to verse of the _knight's tale_: "the freissche beauté sleeth me sodeynly," as having probably given the hint to the writer of this _rondeau_.] * * * * * i. . youre two eyn will sle me sodenly, i may the beaute of them not sustene, so wendeth it thorowout my herte kene. . and but your words will helen hastely my hertis wound, while that it is grene, youre two eyn will sle me sodenly. . upon my trouth i sey yow feithfully, that ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene; for with my deth the trouth shal be sene. youre two eyn, &c. ii. . so hath youre beauty fro your herte chased pitee, that me n' availeth not to pleyn;[ ] for daunger halt[ ] your mercy in his cheyne. . giltless my deth thus have ye purchased; i sey yow soth,[ ] me nedeth not to fayn: so hath your beaute fro your herte chased. . alas, that nature hath in yow compassed so grete beaute, that no man may atteyn to mercy, though he sterve for the peyn. so hath youre beaute, &c. iii. . syn i fro love escaped am so fat, i nere thinke to ben in his prison lene; syn i am fre, i counte hym not a bene.[ ] . he may answere, and sey this and that, i do no fors,[ ] i speak ryght as i mene; syn i fro love escaped am so fat. . love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat, and he is strike out of my bokes clene: for ever mo 'ther'[ ] is non other mene. syn i fro love escaped, &c. footnotes: [ ] [complain.] [ ] [holdeth.] [ ] [i tell you truth.] [ ] [bean, a term of contempt.] [ ] [i do not care.] [ ] this, ms. iv. the turnament of tottenham: or, the wooeing, winning, and wedding of tibbe, the reev's daughter there. it does honour to the good sense of this nation, that while all europe was captivated with the bewitching charms of chivalry and romance, two of our writers in the rudest times could see thro' the false glare that surrounded them, and discover whatever was absurd in them both. chaucer wrote his _rhyme of sir thopas_ in ridicule of the latter; and in the following poem we have a humorous burlesque of the former. without pretending to decide, whether the institution of chivalry was upon the whole useful or pernicious in the rude ages, a question that has lately employed many good writers,[ ] it evidently encouraged a vindictive spirit, and gave such force to the custom of duelling, that there is little hope of its being abolished. this, together with the fatal consequences which often attended the diversion of the turnament, was sufficient to render it obnoxious to the graver part of mankind. accordingly the church early denounced its censures against it, and the state was often prevailed on to attempt its suppression. but fashion and opinion are superior to authority: and the proclamations against tilting were as little regarded in those times, as the laws against duelling are in these. this did not escape the discernment of our poet, who easily perceived that inveterate opinions must be attacked by other weapons, besides proclamations and censures: he accordingly made use of the keen one of ridicule. with this view he has here introduced, with admirable humour, a parcel of clowns, imitating all the solemnities of the tourney. here we have the regular challenge--the appointed day--the lady for the prize--the formal preparations--the display of armour--the scucheons and devices--the oaths taken on entering the lists--the various accidents of the encounter--the victor leading off the prize--and the magnificent feasting--with all the other solemn fopperies that usually attended the pompous turnament. and how acutely the sharpness of the author's humour must have been felt in those days, we may learn from what we can perceive of its keenness now, when time has so much blunted the edge of his ridicule. the _turnament of tottenham_ was first printed from an ancient ms. in , to., by the rev. william bedwell, rector of tottenham, who was one of the translators of the bible. he tells us, it was written by gilbert pilkington, thought to have been some time parson of the same parish, and author of another piece, intitled, _passio domini jesu christi_. bedwell, who was eminently skilled in the oriental and other languages, appears to have been but little conversant with the ancient writers in his own, and he so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing, that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of edward iii. because turnaments were prohibited in that reign. "i do verily beleeve," says he, "that this turnament was acted before this proclamation of k. edward. for how durst any to attempt to do that, although in sport, which was so straightly forbidden, both by the civill and ecclesiasticall power? for although they fought not with lances, yet, as our authour sayth, 'it was no childrens game.' and what would have become of him, thinke you, which should have slayne another in this manner of jeasting? would he not, trow you, have been _hang'd for it in earnest? yea, and have bene buried like a dogge_?" it is, however, well known that turnaments were in use down to the reign of elizabeth. in the first editions of this work, bedwell's copy was reprinted here, with some few conjectural emendations; but as bedwell seemed to have reduced the orthography at least, if not the phraseology, to the standard of his own time, it was with great pleasure that the editor was informed of an ancient ms. copy preserved in the museum (harl. mss. ), which appeared to have been transcribed in the reign of k. hen. vi. about . this obliging information the editor owed to the friendship of tho. tyrwhitt, esq., and he has chiefly followed that more authentic transcript, improved however by some readings from bedwell's book. * * * * * [a writer in the _gentleman's magazine_ (july, , p. ), calls attention to the fact that this ballad is "a burlesque upon the feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents at a solemn assembly holden for the purpose." bedwell's ms. is now in the cambridge public library (ff. , ), and mr. thomas wright, who has printed it in a miniature volume, believes it to have been written as early as the reign of edward ii. bedwell was chaplain to sir henry wotton in his embassy to venice, where he is said to have assisted the celebrated father paul in the composition of his _history of the council of trent_. the following is a copy of the inscription on bedwell's monument in the chancel of tottenham church:--"here lyes interred in this chancel mr. william bedwell, sometime vicar of this church and one of king james's translators of the bible, and for the easterne tongues as learned a man as most lived in these moderne times. aged . dyed may the th, ."] * * * * * of all thes kene conquerours to carpe[ ] it were kynde; of fele feyytyng[ ] folk ferly[ ] we fynde; the turnament of totenham have we in mynde; it were harme sych hardynes were holden byhynde, in story as we rede of hawkyn, of herry, of tomkyn, of terry, of them that were dughty[ ] and stalworth[ ] in dede. it befel in totenham on a dere[ ] day, ther was mad a shurtyng[ ] be the hy-way: theder com al the men of the contray, of hyssylton,[ ] of hy-gate, and of hakenay, and all the swete swynkers.[ ] ther hopped hawkyn, ther daunsed dawkyn, ther trumped tomkyn, and all were trewe drynkers. tyl the day was gon and evyn-song past, that thay schuld reckyn ther scot and ther counts cast;[ ] perkyn the potter into the press past, and sayd randol the refe,[ ] a doyter[ ] thou hast, tyb the dere: therfor faine wyt wold i,[ ] whych of all thys bachelery were best worthye to wed hur to hys fere.[ ] upstyrt thos gadelyngys[ ] wyth ther lang staves, and sayd, randol the refe, lo! thys lad raves; boldely amang us thy doyter he craves; we er rycher men then he, and mor gode haves of cattell and corn; then sayd perkyn, to tybbe i have hyyt[ ] that i schal be alway redy in my ryyt, if that it schuld be thys day sevenyyt, or elles yet to morn.[ ] then sayd randolfe the refe, ever be he waryd,[ ] that about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryd: i wold not my doyter, that scho[ ] were miscaryd, but at hur most worschip i wold scho were maryd, therfor a turnament schal begynne thys day sevenyyt,-- wyth a flayl for to fyyt: and 'he,' that is most of myght schal brouke hur wyth wynne.[ ] whoso berys[ ] hym best in the turnament, hym schal be granted the gre[ ] be the comon assent, for to wynne my doyter wyth 'dughtynesse' of dent,[ ][ ] and 'coppell' my brode-henne 'that' was broyt out of kent:[ ] and my dunnyd kowe for no spens[ ] wyl i spare, for no cattell wyl i care, he schal have my gray mare, and my spottyd sowe. ther was many 'a' bold lad ther bodyes to bede:[ ] than thay toke thayr leve, and homward they yede;[ ] and all the weke afterward graythed ther wede,[ ][ ] tyll it come to the day, that thay suld do ther dede. they armed ham[ ] in matts; thay set on ther nollys,[ ] for to kepe ther pollys,[ ] gode blake bollys,[ ] for batryng of bats.[ ] thay sowed tham in schepeskynnes, for thay schuld not brest:[ ] ilk-on[ ] toke a blak hat, insted of a crest: 'a basket or a panyer before on ther brest,'[ ] and a flayle in ther hande; for to fyght prest,[ ] furth gon thay fare:[ ] ther was kyd[ ] mekyl fors,[ ] who schuld best fend hys cors:[ ] he that had no gode hors, he gat hym a mare.[ ] sych another gadryng[ ] have i not sene oft, when all the gret company com rydand to the croft:[ ] tyb on a gray mare was set up on loft on a sek ful of fedyrs,[ ] for scho schuld syt soft,[ ] and led 'till the gap.'[ ] for cryeng of the men forther wold not tyb then, tyl scho had hur brode hen set in hur lap. a gay gyrdyl tyb had on, borowed for the nonys,[ ] and a garland on hur hed ful of rounde bonys,[ ][ ] and a broche on hur brest ful of 'sapphyre' stonys,[ ] wyth the holy-rode tokenyng,[ ] was wrotyn[ ] for the nonys;[ ] for no 'spendings' thay had spared.[ ] when joly gyb saw hur thare, he gyrd so hys gray mare, 'that scho lete a fowkin'[ ] fare[ ] at the rereward. i wow to god, quoth herry, i schal not lefe behynde, may i mete wyth bernard on bayard the blynde, ich man kepe hym out of my wynde, for whatsoever that he be, before me i fynde, i wot i schall hym greve. wele sayd, quoth hawkyn. and i wow, quoth dawkyn, may i mete wyth tomkyn, hys flayle i schal hym reve.[ ] i make a vow, quoth hud, tyb, son schal thou se, whych of all thys bachelery 'granted' is the gre:[ ] i schal scomfet[ ] thaym all, for the love of the; in what place so i come thay schal have dout[ ] of me, myn armes ar so clere: i bere a reddyl,[ ] and a rake, poudred wyth a brenand drake,[ ] and three cantells[ ] of a cake in ycha[ ] cornere. i vow to god, quoth hawkyn, yf 'i' have the gowt,[ ][ ] al that i fynde in the felde 'thrustand' here aboute,[ ] have i twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route, in ycha stede ther thay[ ] me se, of me thay schal have doute, when i begyn to play. i make avowe that i ne schall, but yf tybbe wyl me call,[ ] or i be thryes don fall,[ ] ryyt onys[ ] com away. then sayd terry, and swore be hys crede; saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede,[ ] for when thay fyyt fastest and most ar in drede, i schall take tyb by the hand, and hur away lede: i am armed at the full; in myn armys i bere wele a doy trogh[ ] and a pele,[ ] a sadyll wythout a panell, wyth a fles of woll.[ ] i make a vow, quoth dudman, and swor be the stra, whyls me ys left my 'mare,' thou gets hurr not swa;[ ][ ] for scho ys wele schapen, and liyt as the rae,[ ] ther is no capul[ ] in thys myle befor hur schal ga;[ ] sche wul ne noyt begyle: sche wyl me bere, i dar say, on a lang somerys day, fro hyssylton to hakenay, noyt other half myle. i make a vow, quoth perkyn, thow speks of cold rost, i schal wyrch 'wyselyer'[ ] withouten any bost:[ ] five of the best capulys, that ar in thys ost, i wot i schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost, and here i grant thaym tybbe. wele boyes here ys he, that wyl fyyt, and not fle, for i am in my jolyte, wyth so forth, gybbe. when thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie, wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre:[ ] ther were all the bachelerys of that contre; thay were dyyt[ ] in aray, as thaymselfes wold be: thayr baners were ful bryyt of an old rotten fell;[ ] the cheveron of a plow-mell;[ ][ ] and the schadow of a bell, poudred wyth the mone lyyt.[ ] i wot yt 'was' no chylder[ ] game, whan thay togedyr met,[ ] when icha freke[ ] in the feld on hys feloy[ ] bet, and layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let, and foght ferly[ ] fast, tyll ther horses swet, and few wordys spoken. ther were flayles al to slatred,[ ] ther were scheldys al to flatred, bollys and dysches al to schatred, and many hedys brokyn there was clynkyng of cart-sadellys, & clatteryng of cannes;[ ] of fele frekys[ ] in the feld brokyn were their fannes; of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the braynpannes,[ ] and yll were thay besene,[ ] or thay went thanns, wyth swyppyng of swepyls:[ ] thay were so wery for-foght,[ ] thay myyt not fyyt mare oloft,[ ] but creped about in the 'croft,'[ ] as thay were croked crepyls. perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute;[ ] help, hud, i am ded in thys ylk rowte: an hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute! that i may lyytly come of my noye[ ] oute, for no cost wyl i spare. he styrt up as a snayle, and hent[ ] a capul be the tayle, and 'reft' dawkin hys flayle,[ ] and wan there a mare. perkyn wan five, and hud wan twa: glad and blythe thay ware, that they had done sa; thay wold have tham to tyb, and present hur with tha:[ ] the capulls were so wery, that thay myyt not ga, but styl gon thay stond.[ ] alas! quoth hudde, my joye i lese;[ ] mee had lever then a ston of chese, that dere tyb had al these, and wyst it were my sond.[ ][ ] perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrang,[ ] among thos wery boyes he wrest and he wrang; he threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast tham amang, when he saw tyrry away wyth tyb fang,[ ] and after hym ran; off his horse he hym drogh,[ ] and gaf hym of hys flayl inogh: we te he! quoth tyb, and lugh, ye er a dughty man. 'thus' thay tugged, and rugged, tyl yt was nere nyyt:[ ] all the wyves of tottenham came to se that syyt wyth wyspes, and kexis,[ ] and ryschys[ ] there lyyt, to fetch hom ther husbandes, that were tham trouth plyyt; and sum bróyt gret harwos,[ ] ther husbandes hom to fetch,[ ] sum on dores, and sum on hech,[ ] sum on hyrdyllys, and som on crech.[ ] and sum on whele-barows. thay gaderyd perkyn about, 'on' everych syde,[ ] and grant hym ther 'the gre,' the more was hys pryde:[ ] tyb and he, wyth gret 'mirth,' homward con thay ryde,[ ] and were al nyyt togedyr, tyl the morn tyde; and thay 'to church went:'[ ] so wele hys nedys he has sped, that dere tyb he 'hath' wed;[ ] the prayse-folk,[ ] that hur led,[ ] were of the turnament. to that ylk fest com many for the nones; some come hyphalte,[ ] and some trippand 'thither' on the stonys;[ ] sum a staf in hys hand, and sum two at onys; of sum where the hedes broken, of some the schulder bonys: with sorrow come thay thedyr. wo was hawkyn, wo was herry, wo was tomkyn, wo was terry. and so was all the bachelary, when thay met togedyr. [ ]at that fest thay wer servyd with a ryche aray, every fyve & fyve had a cokenay;[ ] and so thay sat in jolyte al the lung day; and at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray:[ ] mekyl myrth was them among; in every corner of the hous was melody delycyous for to here precyus of six menys song.[ ] footnotes: [ ] see (mr. hurd's) _letters on chivalry_, vo. , _memoires de la chevalerie, par m. de la curne de sainte-palaye_, , tom. mo. &c. [ ] [talk.] [ ] [fierce fighting.] [ ] [wonder.] [ ] [doughty.] [ ] [stout.] [ ] [dire or sad.] [ ] [sport.] [ ] [islington.] [ ] [labourers.] [ ] ver. . it is not very clear in the ms. whether it should be _conts_, or _conters_. [ ] [bailiff.] [ ] [daughter.] [ ] [know would i.] [ ] [to wed her for his mate.] [ ] [idle fellows.] [ ] [promised.] [ ] [it be to-morrow.] [ ] [accursed.] [ ] [she.] [ ] [shall have possession of her with joy.] [ ] [beareth.] [ ] [prize.] [ ] [blow.] [ ] ver. . dozty, ms. [ ] v. . coppeld. we still use the phrase "a copple-crowned hen." [ ] [expense.] [ ] [bid or offer.] [ ] [went.] [ ] [made ready their clothing.] [ ] v. . gayed, _pc._ [ ] [them.] [ ] [heads.] [ ] [polls.] [ ] [bowls.] [ ] [cudgels.] [ ] [burst.] [ ] [each one.] [ ] v. is wanting in ms. and supplied from _pc._ [ ] [ready.] [ ] [they began to go forth.] [ ] [shown.] [ ] [much strength.] [ ] [best defend his body.] [ ] v. . he borrowed him, _pc._ [ ] [gathering.] [ ] [riding to the inclosure.] [ ] [sackfull of feathers.] [ ] ver. . the ms. had once _sedys_, _i.e._ seeds, which appears to have been altered to _fedyrs_, or feathers. bedwell's copy has _senvy_, _i.e._ mustard-seed. [ ] v. . and led hur to cap, ms. [ ] [nonce or occasion.] [ ] [chaucer uses the expression "rowel boon" in his _tale of sir thopas_, which is explained as _round bone_.] [ ] v. . bedwell's _pc._ has "ruel-bones." [ ] v. . safer stones, ms. [ ] [token.] [ ] [wrought.] [ ] v. . _wrotyn_, _i.e._ wrought. _pc._ reads, written. [ ] v. . no catel (perhaps chatel) they had spared, ms. [ ] [crepitus ventris.] [ ] v. . then ... faucon, ms. [ ] [deprive.] [ ] ver. . grant, ms. [ ] [discomfit.] [ ] [fear.] [ ] [riddle or sieve.] [ ] [sprinkled over with firebrands.] [ ] [pieces.] [ ] [each.] [ ] [though i have the gout.] [ ] v. . yf he have, ms. [ ] v. . the ms. literally has _th^r. sand_, here. [ ] [in each place where they.] [ ] [unless tib will call me.] [ ] [ere i be thrice made to] [ ] [even once.] [ ] [engage.] [ ] [dough trough.] [ ] [a baker's long-handled shovel.] [ ] [fleece of wool.] [ ] [so.] [ ] v. . merth, ms. [ ] [roe.] [ ] [horse.] [ ] [go.] [ ] [work more wisely.] [ ] ver. . fwyselier, ms. [ ] v. . flailes and harnisse, _pc._ [ ] [dressed.] [ ] [hide.] [ ] [a small wooden hammer occasionally fixed to the plough.] [ ] ver. . the chiefe, _pc._ [ ] [moonlight.] [ ] [child's.] [ ] v. . yt ys, ms. [ ] [man.] [ ] [fellow.] [ ] [wonderfully.] [ ] [splintered.] [ ] v. . the boyes were, ms. [ ] [many men.] [ ] [skulls.] [ ] [dressed.] [ ] [striking fast of the staffs of the flails.] [ ] [over-fought.] [ ] [on horseback.] [ ] v. . creped then about in the croft, ms. [ ] [stoop.] [ ] [hurt.] [ ] [laid hold of.] [ ] ver. . razt, ms. [ ] [them.] [ ] v. . stand, ms. [ ] [lose.] [ ] [knew it were my sending.] [ ] v. . sand, ms. [ ] v. . the _pc._ reads, ilk throng. [ ] [make off.] [ ] [drew.] [ ] ver. . thys, ms. [ ] [elder sticks used for candles.] [ ] [rushes.] [ ] [harrows.] [ ] v. . hom for to fetch, ms. [ ] [half door of a cottage.] [ ] [crutch.] [ ] v. . about everych side, ms. [ ] v. . the gre, is wanting in ms. [ ] v. . mothe, ms. [ ] v. . and thay ifere assent, ms. [ ] v. . had wed, ms. [ ] [singing men and women.] [ ] v. . the cheefemen, _pc._ [ ] [lame in the hip.] [ ] v. . trippand on, ms. [ ] in the former impressions this concluding stanza was only given from bedwell's printed edition, but it is here copied from the old ms. wherein it has been since found separated from the rest of the poem, by several pages of a money account, and other heterogeneous matter. [ ] [a lean chicken.] [ ] [a confusion.] [ ] six-men's song, _i.e._ a song for six voices. so shakespeare uses three-man song-men, in his _winter's tale_, act iii. sc. , to denote men that could sing catches composed for three voices. of this sort are weelkes's madrigals mentioned below, book ii. song . so again shakespeare has three-men beetle; _i.e._ a beetle or rammer worked by three men, _ hen. iv._ act i. sc. . * * * * * [illustration: _the notes referred to vol. ii. page ._ _deo gratias anglia redde pro victoria_ owr kynge went forth to normandy with grace and myzt of chyvalry, the god for hym wrouzt marvelusly wherefore englonde may call and cry, _deo gratias_. chorus deo gratias. anglia redde pro victoria.] v. for the victory at agincourt. that our plain and martial ancestors could wield their swords much better than their pens, will appear from the following homely rhymes, which were drawn up by some poet laureat of those days to celebrate the immortal victory gained at agincourt, oct. , . this song or hymn is given meerly as a curiosity, and is printed from a ms. copy in the pepys collection, vol. i. folio. it is there accompanied with the musical notes, which are copied on the opposite page. * * * * * [when the news of this great victory arrived in england, the people "were literally mad with joy and triumph," and although henry v. on his entrance into london after the battle, commanded that no "ditties should be made and sung by minstrels or others" in praise of agincourt, "for that he would whollie have the praise and thankes altogether given to god," several songs have come down to us on this soul-inspiring theme. besides the present ballad there are, . _agincourte battell_, beginning-- "a councell brave our king did hold," in the percy folio ms. (see hales and furnivall's edition, vol. ii. p. ). . _agincourt, or the english bowman's glory_, a spirited ballad quoted in heywood's _king edward iv._, the first stanza of which is as follows-- "agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? where english slue and hurt all their french foemen? with our pikes and bills brown, how the french were beat downe, shot by our bowman." . _king henry v., his conquest of france_, commencing-- "as our king lay musing on his bed." . _the cambro-briton's ballad of agincourt_, by michael drayton. besides these ballads there is a poem attributed to lydgate, and drayton's _battaile of agincourt_. for further information on the subject the reader should see sir nicholas harris nicolas's _history_ of the battle, and hales and furnivall's edition of the percy folio ms. (vol. ii. pp. , ). dr. rimbault describes the music attached to the present ballad "as the first english regular composition of which we have any remains."] * * * * * _deo gratias anglia redde pro victoria!_ owre kynge went forth to normandy, with grace and myyt of chivalry; the god for hym wrouyt marvelously, wherefore englonde may calle, and cry _deo gratias_: _deo gratias anglia redde pro victoria_. he sette a sege, the sothe for to say, to harflue[ ] toune with ryal aray; that toune he wan, and made a fray, that fraunce shall rywe tyl domes day. _deo gratias, &c._ then went owre kynge, with alle his oste, thorowe fraunce for all the frenshe boste; he spared 'for' drede of leste, ne most, tyl he come to agincourt coste.[ ] _deo gratias, &c._ than for sothe that knyyt comely in agincourt feld he fauyt manly, thorow grace of god most myyty he had bothe the felde, and the victory. _deo gratias, &c._ ther dukys, and erlys, lorde and barone, were take, and slayne, and that wel sone, and some were ledde in to lundone with joye, and merthe, and grete renone. _deo gratias, &c._ now gracious god he save owre kynge, his peple, and all his wel wyllynge, gef him gode lyfe, and gode endynge, that we with merth mowe savely synge _deo gratias_: _deo gratias anglia redde pro victoria_. footnotes: [ ] [harfleur.] [ ] [region.] vi. the not-browne mayd. the sentimental beauties of this ancient ballad have always recommended it to readers of taste, notwithstanding the rust of antiquity which obscures the style and expression. indeed if it had no other merit than the having afforded the groundwork to prior's _henry and emma_, this ought to preserve it from oblivion. that we are able to give it in so correct a manner, is owing to the great care and exactness of the accurate editor of the _prolusions_, vo. ; who has formed the text from two copies found in two different editions of arnolde's _chronicle_, a book supposed to be first printed about . from the copy in the _prolusions_ the following is printed, with a few additional improvements gathered from another edition of arnolde's book[ ] preserved in the public library at cambridge. all the various readings of this copy will be found here, either received into the text, or noted in the margin. the references to the _prolusions_ will shew where they occur. in our ancient folio ms.[ ] described in the preface, is a very corrupt and defective copy of this ballad, which yet afforded a great improvement in one passage. see v. . it has been a much easier task to settle the text of this poem, than to ascertain its date. the ballad of the _nutbrowne mayd_ was first revived in _the muses mercury_ for june, , to. being prefaced with a little _essay on the old english poets and poetry_; in which this poem is concluded to be "near years old," upon reasons which, though they appear inconclusive to us now, were sufficient to determine prior, who there first met with it. however, this opinion had the approbation of the learned wanley, an excellent judge of ancient books. for that whatever related to the reprinting of this old piece was referred to wanley, appears from two letters of prior's preserved in the british museum (harl. mss. no. ). the editor of the _prolusions_ thinks it cannot be older than the year , because, in sir thomas more's tale of _the serjeant_, &c., which was written about that time, there appears a sameness of rhythmus and orthography, and a very near affinity of words and phrases with those of this ballad. but this reasoning is not conclusive, for if sir thomas more made this ballad his model, as is very likely, that will account for the sameness of measure, and in some respect for that of words and phrases, even tho' this had been written long before; and as for the orthography, it is well known that the old printers reduced that of most books to the standard of their own times. indeed it is hardly probable that an antiquary like arnolde would have inserted it among his historical collections, if it had been then a modern piece; at least he would have been apt to have named its author. but to shew how little can be inferred from a resemblance of rhythmus or style, the editor of these volumes has in his ancient folio ms. a poem on the victory of flodden-field, written in the same numbers, with the same alliterations, and in orthography, phraseology, and style nearly resembling the _visions of pierce plowman_, which are yet known to have been composed above years before that battle. as this poem is a great curiosity, we shall give a few of the introductory lines: "grant gracious god, grant me this time, that i may say, or i cease, thy selven to please; and mary his mother, that maketh all this world; and all the seemlie saints, that sitten in heaven; i will carpe of kings, that conquered full wide, that dwelled in this land, that was alyes noble; henry the seaventh, that soveraigne lord," &c.[ ] with regard to the date of the following ballad, we have taken a middle course, neither placed it so high as wanley and prior, nor quite so low as the editor of the _prolusions_; we should have followed the latter in dividing every other line into two, but that the whole would then have taken up more room than could be allowed it in this volume. * * * * * [the edition of richard arnold's _chronicle_ ( ) mentioned above, is the second; and the first, which is undated, was printed at antwerp in . this edition is described in brydges' _censurä_ _literaria_ (vol. vi. p. ), where the _nut-brown maid_ is printed. a copy from the balliol ms. , of about the same date, is printed in percy's folio manuscript, ed. hales and furnivall, vol iii. p. . warton will not allow that the poem was written before the beginning of the sixteenth century, but as percy says, it is highly improbable that an antiquary would insert a modern piece in his miscellany of curiosities. percy has inserted the following note in his folio ms.: "from the concluding words of this last stanza-- ['but men wold that men shold be kind to them eche one, yett i had rather, god to obay and serve but him alone'] it should seem that the author was a woman." mr. skeat remarks that the part of the fourth stanza before the woman speaks, and the first two verses, are still more conclusive on this point. on the other side it is noticeable that the author speaks as a man at line : "... that we may to them be comfortable;" but this may only be a blind. few readers will agree with percy's estimate of prior's poem, and _henry and emma_ is now only remembered because of its connection with the _nut-brown maid_. warton justly points out how the simplicity of the original is decorated, dilated, and consequently spoilt by prior, who crowds his verses with zephyrs, chloe, mars, the cyprian deity, &c. such lay figures as these are quite out of keeping with the realities of this most exquisite poem. one instance of prior's inability to appreciate the beauties of his original will be sufficient. the tender allusion at v. - : "o my swete mother, before all other for you i have most drede," followed by the reflection: "but nowe adue! i must ensue where fortune doth me lede," is entirely omitted by the later poet, who changes "to shorte my here, a bowe to bere, to shote in tyme of nede," into "wanting the scissors, with these hands i'll tear (if that obstructs my flight) this load of hair." the _nut-brown maid_ has always been highly popular (a proof of the good taste of the people), and in consequence it figures in captain cox's collection described by laneham. another proof of its popularity is the existence of various parodies, one of which is of very early date. it was a common practice in the sixteenth century to turn ordinary ballads into religious songs. _the new nutbrowne maid_, printed by john skot about , reprinted by george isted in for the roxburghe club, and again reprinted by dr. rimbault for the percy society (vol. iv.), , is an instance of this practice. it is a close parody of the original, and purports to be "upon the passion of cryste." the _he_ and _she_ are changed to _maria the mayde_ and _jesus_. another version is given in the percy folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ), which is entitled _a jigge_. the incidents are vulgarized, "but," mr. hales observes, "the beauty of the original is too great to be altogether destroyed, however rude the hands that handle it. something of the charm of the _nut brown maid_ lingers around this _jig_."] * * * * * be it ryght, or wrong, these men among[ ] on women do complayne:[ ][ ] affyrmynge this, how that it is a labour spent in vayne, to love them wele; for never a dele[ ] they love a man agayne: for late a man do what he can, theyr favour to attayne, yet, yf a newe do them persue, theyr first true lover than laboureth for nought; for from her[ ] thought[ ] he is a banyshed man. i say nat nay, but that all day it is bothe writ and sayd that womans faith is, as who sayth, all utterly decayd; but, neverthelesse, ryght good wytnèsse in this case might be layd, that they love true, and continùe: recorde the not-browne mayde: which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his mone, wolde nat depart; for in her hart she loved but hym alone. than betwaine us late us dyscus what was all the manere betwayne them two: we wyll also tell all the payne, and fere,[ ] that she was in. nowe i begyn, so that ye me answère; wherfore, all ye, that present be i pray you, gyve an ere. "i am the knyght; i come by nyght, as secret as i can; sayinge, alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banyshed man." and i your wyll for to fulfyll in this wyll nat refuse; trustying to shewe, in wordès fewe, that men have an yll use (to theyr own shame) women to blame, and causelesse them accuse: therfore to you i answere nowe, all women to excuse,-- she.[ ] myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? i pray you, tell anone; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. it standeth so; a dede is do[ ] wherof grete harme shall growe: my destiny is for to dy a shamefull deth, i trowe; or elles to fle: the one must be. none other way i knowe, but to withdrawe as an outlawe, and take me to my bowe. wherfore, adue, my owne hart true! none other rede i can:[ ] for i must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. o lord, what is thys worldys blysse, that changeth as the mone! my somers day in lusty may[ ] is derked[ ] before the none. i here you say, farewell: nay, nay we dèpart[ ] nat so sone. why say ye so? wheder[ ] wyll ye go? alas! what have ye done? all my welfàre to sorrowe and care sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. i can beleve, it shall you greve, and somewhat you dystrayne;[ ] but, aftyrwarde, your paynes harde within a day or twayne shall sone aslake;[ ] and ye shall take comfort to you agayne. why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought, your labour were in vayne. and thus i do; and pray you to, as hartely,[ ] as i can; for i must to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. now, syth that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mynde, i shall be playne to you agayne, lyke as ye shall me fynde. syth it is so, that ye wyll go, i wolle not leve[ ] behynde; shall never be sayd, the not-browne mayd[ ] was to her love unkynde: make you redy, for so am i, allthough it were anone;[ ] for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. yet i you rede[ ] to take good hede what men wyll thynke, and say: of yonge, and olde it shall be tolde, that ye be gone away, your wanton wyll for to fulfill, in grene wode you to play; and that ye myght from your delyght no lenger make delay. rather than ye sholde thus for me be called an yll womàn, yet wolde i to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. though it be songe of old and yonge, that i sholde be to blame, theyrs be the charge, that speke so large in hurtynge of my name: for i wyll prove, that faythfulle love it is devoyd of shame; in your dystresse, and hevynesse, to part with you, the same: and sure all tho,[ ] that do not so,[ ] true lovers are they none; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. i counceyle you, remember howe, it is no maydens lawe, nothynge to dout, but to renne[ ] out to wode with an outlàwe: for ye must there in your hand bere a bowe, redy to drawe; and, as a thefe, thus must you lyve, ever in drede and awe; wherby to you grete harme myght growe: yet had i lever than,[ ] that i had to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. i thinke nat nay, but as ye say,[ ] it is no maydens lore: but love may make me for your sake, as i have sayd before to come on fote, to hunt, and shote to gete us mete in store;[ ] for so that i your company may have, i aske no more: from which to part, it maketh my hart as colde as ony stone; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. for an outlawe this is the lawe, that men hym take and bynde; without pytè, hanged to be, and waver with the wynde. if i had nede, (as god forbede!) what rescous[ ] coude ye fynde?[ ] forsoth, i trowe, ye and your bowe for fere wolde drawe behynde: and no mervayle; for lytell avayle were in your counceyle than: wherfore i wyll to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. ryght wele knowe ye, that women be but feble for to fyght; no womanhede it is indede to be bolde as a knyght: yet, in such fere yf that ye were with enemyes day or nyght,[ ] i wolde withstande, with bowe in hande, to greve them as i myght,[ ] and you to save; as women have from deth 'men' many one: for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. yet take good hede; for ever i drede that ye coude nat sustayne the thornie wayes, the depe valèies, the snowe, the frost, the rayne,[ ] the colde, the hete: for dry, or wete, we must lodge on the playne;[ ] and, us above, none other rofe but a brake bush, or twayne: which sone sholde greve you, i beleve; and ye wolde gladly than that i had to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. syth i have here bene partynère with you of joy and blysse, i must also parte of your wo endure, as reson is: yet am i sure of one plesùre; and, shortely, it is this: that, where ye be, me semeth, pardè, i coude nat fare amysse. without more speche, i you beseche that we were sone agone;[ ] for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. if ye go thyder, ye must consyder, whan ye have lust to dyne, there shall no mete be for you gete, nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne.[ ] no shetés clene, to lye betwene, made of threde and twyne; none other house, but leves and bowes, to cover your hed and myne, o myne harte swete, this evyll dyéte[ ] sholde make you pale and wan; wherfore i wyll to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. amonge the wylde dere, such an archère, as men say that ye be, ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,[ ] where is so grete plentè: and water clere of the ryvére shall be full swete to me; with which in hele[ ] i shall ryght wele endure, as ye shall see; and, or we go, a bedde or two i can provyde anone; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. lo yet, before, ye must do more, yf ye wyll go with me: as cut your here up by your ere,[ ][ ] your kyrtel by the kne;[ ] with bowe in hande, for to withstande your enemyes, yf nede be: and this same nyght before day-lyght,[ ] to wode-warde wyll i fle. yf that ye wyll all this fulfill, do it shortely as ye can; els wyll i to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. i shall as nowe do more for you than longeth to womanhede; to shorte my here,[ ] a bowe to bere, to shote in tyme of nede. o my swete mother, before all other for you i have most drede: but nowe, adue! i must ensue,[ ] where fortune doth me lede. all this make ye: now let us fle; the day cometh fast upon; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. nay, nay, nat so; ye shall nat go, and i shall tell ye why,-- your appetyght is to be lyght of love, i wele espy: for, lyke as ye have sayed to me, in lyke wyse hardely ye wolde answére whosoever it were, in way of company. it is sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde; and so is a womàn. wherfore i to the wode wyll go,[ ] alone, a banyshed man. she. yf ye take hede, it is no nede[ ] such wordes to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and longe assayed, or[ ] i you loved, pardè:[ ] and though that i of auncestry a barons daughter be, yet have you proved howe i you loved a squyer of lowe degrè; and ever shall, whatso befall; to dy therfore[ ] anone;[ ] for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. a barons chylde to be begylde! it were a cursed dede; to be felàwe with an outlawe! almighty god forbede! yet beter were, the pore squyère alone to forest yede,[ ] than ye sholde say another day, that, by my cursed dede, ye were betray'd: wherfore, good mayd, the best rede[ ] that i can, is, that i to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man. she. whatever befall, i never shall of this thyng you upbrayd:[ ] but yf ye go, and leve me so, than have ye me betrayd. remember you wele, howe that ye dele; for, yf ye, as ye sayd,[ ] be so unkynde, to leve behynde,[ ] your love, the not-browne mayd, trust me truly, that i shall dy sone after ye be gone; for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. yf that ye went, ye sholde repent; for in the forest nowe i have purvayed[ ] me of a mayd, whom i love more than you; another fayrère, than ever ye were, i dare it wele avowe; and of you bothe eche sholde be wrothe with other, as i trowe: it were myne ese, to lyve in pese; so wyll i, yf i can; wherfore i to the wode wyll go, alone, a banyshed man. she. though in the wode i undyrstode ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i wyll be your: and she shall fynde me soft, and kynde, and courteys every hour; glad to fulfyll all that she wyll commaunde me to my power: for had ye, lo, an hundred mo, 'of them i wolde be one;'[ ] for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. myne owne dere love, i se the prove that ye be kynde, and true; of mayde, and wyfe, in all my lyfe,[ ] the best that ever i knewe. be mery and glad, be no more sad, the case is chaunged newe; for it were ruthe, that, for your truthe, ye sholde have cause to rewe. be nat dismayed; whatsoever i sayd to you, whan i began; i wyll nat to the grene wode go, i am no banyshed man. she. these tydings be more gladd to me,[ ] than to be made a quene, yf i were sure they sholde endure: but it is often sene, whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke the wordés on the splene.[ ] ye shape some wyle me to begyle, and stele from me, i wene: than, were the case worse than it was, and i more wo-begone: for, in my mynde, of all mankynde i love but you alone. he. ye shall nat nede further to drede; i wyll nat dysparàge you, (god defend)! syth ye descend of so grete a lynàge.[ ] nowe undyrstande; to westmarlande, which is myne herytage, i wyll you brynge; and with a rynge, by way of maryage i wyll you take, and lady make, as shortely as i can: thus have you won an erlys son,[ ] and not a banyshed man.[ ] author. here may ye se, that women be in love, meke, kynde, and stable; late[ ] never man reprove them than, or call them variable;[ ] but, rather, pray god, that we may to them be comfortable; which sometyme proveth such, as he loveth,[ ] yf they be charytable. for syth men wolde that women sholde[ ] be meke to them each one; moche more ought they to god obey, and serve but hym alone. footnotes: [ ] this (which my friend mr. farmer supposes to be the first edition) is in folio; the folios are numbered at the bottom of the leaf, the song begins at folio . the poem has since been collated with a very fine copy that was in the collection of the late james west, esq.; the readings extracted thence are denoted thus, "mr. w." [ ] [hales and furnivall's edition, vol. iii. p. .] [ ] [folio manuscript, ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. .] [ ] [at intervals, sometimes.] [ ] my friend mr. farmer proposes to read the first lines thus as a latinism: "be it right or wrong, 'tis men among, on women to complayne." [ ] [ver. . woman, _prolusions_ and mr. west's copy.] [ ] [not a bit.] [ ] [their.] [ ] [v. . her, _i.e._ their.] [ ] [pain and fear. in the balliol ms. , the reading is _in-fere_ (or in company with her lover).] [ ] [percy printed the "she" at the beginning of this stanza.] [ ] [done.] [ ] [advice i know.] [ ] ver. . the somers, _prol._ [ ] [darkened.] [ ] [separate.] [ ] [whither.] [ ] [afflict.] [ ] [abate.] [ ] [earnestly.] [ ] [remain.] [ ] ver. . shall it never, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . althought, mr. w. [ ] [advise.] [ ] [those.] [ ] ver. . to shewe all, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] [run.] [ ] [rather then.] [ ] v. . i say nat, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] ver. . and store, camb. copy. [ ] [rescue.] [ ] v. . succours, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . and night, camb. copy. [ ] v. . to helpe ye with my myght, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] ver. . frost and rayne, mr. w. [ ] v. . ye must, _prol._ [ ] v. . shortley gone, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] ver. . neyther bere, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . lo myn, mr. w. [ ] v. . may ye nat fayle, _prol. ib._ may nat fayle, mr. w. [ ] [health.] [ ] [hair up by your ear.] [ ] v. . above your ere, _prol._ [ ] v. . above the kne, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] ver. . the same, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] [shorten my hair.] [ ] [follow.] [ ] ver. . for i must to the grene wode go, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . yet is, camb. copy. perhaps for yt is. [ ] [ere.] [ ] [_par dieu_.] [ ] _i.e._ for this cause; tho' i were to die for having loved you. [ ] v. . dy with him, editor's ms. [ ] [went.] [ ] [advice.] [ ] ver. . outbrayd, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . ye be as, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . ye were unkynde to leve me behynde, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] [provided.] [ ] ver. . so the editor's ms. all the printed copies read, yet wold i be that one. [ ] v. . of all, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . gladder, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] [in haste.] [ ] ver. . grete lynyage, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . then have, _prol._ [ ] v. . and no banyshed, _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] [let.] [ ] v. . this line wanting in _prol._ and mr. w. [ ] v. . proved--loved, _prol._ and mr. w. _ib._ as loveth, camb. [ ] v. . forsoth, _prol._ and mr. w. vii. a balet by the earl rivers. the amiable light in which the character of anthony widville, the gallant earl rivers, has been placed by the elegant author of the _catal. of noble writers_ [horace walpole], interests us in whatever fell from his pen. it is presumed, therefore, that the insertion of this little sonnet will be pardoned, tho' it should not be found to have much poetical merit. it is the only original poem known of that nobleman's; his more voluminous works being only translations. and if we consider that it was written during his cruel confinement in pomfret castle a short time before his execution in , it gives us a fine picture of the composure and steadiness with which this stout earl beheld his approaching fate. this ballad we owe to rouse, a contemporary historian, who seems to have copied it from the earl's own handwriting. "in tempore," says this writer, "incarcerationis apud pontem-fractum edidit unum _balet_ in anglicis, ut mihi monstratum est, quod subsequitur sub his verbis: _sum what musyng_, &c." rossi, _hist._ vo. ed. p. . in rouse the second stanza, &c. is imperfect, but the defects are here supplied from a more perfect copy printed in _ancient songs, from the time of king henry iii. to the revolution_, p. [by joseph ritson]. this little piece, which perhaps ought rather to have been printed in stanzas of eight short lines, is written in imitation of a poem of chaucer's, that will be found in urry's ed. , p. , beginning thus: "alone walkyng, in thought plainyng, and sore sighying, all desolate. my remembrying of my livyng my death wishyng bothe erly and late. infortunate is so my fate that wote ye what, out of mesure my life i hate; thus desperate in such pore estate, doe i endure," &c.[ ] * * * * * [this gallant and learned nobleman (brother of edward iv.'s queen), who was murdered in the forty-first year of his age, figures as a character in shakspere's _richard iii._, and as a ghost appears to warn the tyrant on the eve of the battle of bosworth: "let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow, rivers that died at pomfret! despair and die."] * * * * * sumwhat musyng, and more mornyng, in remembring the unstydfastnes; this world being of such whelyng, me contrarieng, what may i gesse? i fere dowtles, remediles, is now to sese my wofull chaunce. [for unkyndness, withouten less, and no redress, me doth avaunce, with displesaunce, to my grevaunce, and no suraunce of remedy.] lo in this traunce, now in substaunce, such is my dawnce, wyllyng to dye. me thynkys truly, bowndyn am i, and that gretly, to be content: seyng playnly, fortune doth wry[ ][ ] all contrary from myn entent. my lyff was lent me to on intent, hytt is ny[ ] spent. welcome fortune! but i ne went thus to be shent,[ ][ ] but sho[ ] hit ment; such is hur won.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [see aldine edition of _chaucer's poetical works_, ed. morris, vol. vi. p. . we ought, perhaps, to read "attributed to chaucer."] [ ] [turn aside.] [ ] ver. . that fortune, rossi, _hist._ [ ] [it is near.] [ ] [abashed.] [ ] v. . went, _i.e._ weened. [ ] [she.] [ ] [wont or custom.] viii. cupid's assault: by lord vaux. the reader will think that infant poetry grew apace between the times of rivers and vaux, tho' nearly contemporaries; if the following song is the composition of that sir nicholas (afterwards lord) vaux, who was the shining ornament of the court of henry vii., and died in the year [ , see below]. and yet to this lord it is attributed by puttenham in his _art of eng. poesie_, , to., a writer commonly well informed. take the passage at large: "in this figure [counterfait action] the lord nicholas vaux, a noble gentleman and much delighted in vulgar making, and a man otherwise of no great learning, but having herein a marvelous facilitie, made a dittie representing the battayle and assault of cupide, so excellently well, as for the gallant and propre application of his fiction in every part, i cannot choose but set downe the greatest part of his ditty, for in truth it cannot be amended. _when cupid scaled_," &c. p. . for a farther account of nicholas, lord vaux, see mr. walpole's _noble authors_, vol. i. since this song was first printed off, reasons have occurred which incline me to believe that lord vaux, the poet, was not the lord nicholas vaux who died in , but rather a successor of his in the title. for, in the first place, it is remarkable that all the old writers mention lord vaux, the poet, as contemporary, or rather posterior, to sir thomas wyat and the e. of surrey, neither of which made any figure till long after the death of the first lord nicholas vaux. thus puttenham, in his _art of english poesie_, , in p. , having named skelton, adds: "in the latter end of the same kings raigne [henry viii.] sprong up a new company of courtly makers [poets], of whom sir thomas wyat th' elder, and henry earl of surrey were the two chieftaines, who having travailed into italie, and there tasted the sweet and stately measures and stile of the italian poesie ... greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesie.... in the same time, or not long after, was the lord nicholas vaux, a man of much facilitie in vulgar makings."[ ] webbe, in his _discourse of english poetrie_, , ranges them in the following order: "the e. of surrey, the lord vaux, norton, bristow." and gascoigne, in the place quoted in the first volume of this work [b. ii. no. .] mentions lord vaux after surrey. again, the stile and measure of lord vaux's pieces seem too refined and polished for the age of henry vii., and rather resemble the smoothness and harmony of surrey and wyat, than the rude metre of skelton and hawes. but what puts the matter out of all doubt, in the british museum is a copy of his poem, _i lothe that i did love_ [vid. vol. i. _ubi supra_], with this title, "a dyttye or sonet made by the lord vaus, in the time of the noble quene marye, representing the image of death." harl. mss. no. , sec. . it is evident then that lord vaux, the poet, was not he that flourished in the reign of henry vii., but either his son or grandson; and yet, according to dugdale's _baronage_, the former was named thomas and the latter william: but this difficulty is not great, for none of the old writers mention the christian name of the poetic lord vaux,[ ] except puttenham; and it is more likely that he might be mistaken in that lord's name, than in the time in which he lived, who was so nearly his contemporary. thomas, lord vaux, of harrowden, in northamptonshire, was summoned to parliament in . when he died does not appear, but he probably lived till the latter end of queen mary's reign, since his son william was not summoned to parliament till the last year of that reign, in . this lord died in . see dugdale, vol. ii. p. . upon the whole i am inclined to believe that lord thomas was the poet. the following copy is printed from the first edition of surrey's _poems_, , to. see another song of lord vaux's in the preceding volume, b. ii. no. . * * * * * [percy is correct in his supposition that the poet was thomas, second lord vaux, and not his father nicholas, who died may th, , only seventeen days after he was advanced to the peerage.] * * * * * when cupide scaled first the fort, wherein my hart lay wounded sore; the batry was of such a sort, that i must yelde or die therfore. there sawe i love upon the wall, how he his banner did display; alarme, alarme, he gan to call: and bad his souldiours kepe aray. the armes, the which that cupide bare, were pearced hartes with teares besprent,[ ] in silver and sable to declare the stedfast love, he alwayes ment. there might you se his band all drest in colours like to white and blacke, with powder and with pelletes prest to bring the fort to spoile and sacke. good-wyll, the maister of the shot, stode in the rampire[ ] brave and proude, for spence[ ] of pouder he spared not assault! assault! to crye aloude. there might you heare the cannons rore; eche pece discharged a lovers loke; which had the power to rent, and tore in any place whereas they toke. and even with the trumpettes sowne[ ] the scaling ladders were up set, and beautie walked up and downe, with bow in hand, and arrowes whet. then first desire began to scale, and shrouded him under 'his' targe;[ ][ ] as one the worthiest of them all, and aptest for to geve the charge. then pushed souldiers with their pikes, and halberdes with handy strokes; the argabushe[ ] in fleshe it lightes, and duns the ayre with misty smokes. and, as it is the souldiers use when shot and powder gins to want, i hanged up my flagge of truce, and pleaded up for my livès grant. when fansy thus had made her breche, and beauty entred with her band, with bagge and baggage, sely[ ] wretch, i yelded into beauties hand. then beautie bad to blow retrete, and every souldier to retire, and mercy wyll'd with spede to set me captive bound as prisoner. madame, quoth i, sith that this day hath served you at all assayes, i yeld to you without delay here of the fortresse all the kayes. and sith that i have ben the marke, at whom you shot at with your eye; nedes must you with your handy warke, or salve my sore, or let me die. footnotes: [ ] _i.e._ compositions in english. [ ] in the _paradise of dainty devises_, , he is called simply "lord vaux the elder." [ ] [besprinkled.] [ ] [rampart.] [ ] [expense.] [ ] [sound.] [ ] ver. . her, ed. , so ed. . [ ] [shield.] [ ] [harquebuss, or old-fashioned musket.] [ ] [simple.] ix. sir aldingar. this old fabulous legend is given from the editor's folio ms. with conjectural emendations, and the insertion of some additional stanzas to supply and compleat the story. it has been suggested to the editor that the author of this poem seems to have had in his eye the story of gunhilda, who is sometimes called eleanor, and was married to the emperor (here called king) henry. percy's ms. note in his folio is as follows: "without some corrections this will not do for my _reliques_." readers will be able to judge for themselves as to the relative beauties of the two, now that the original is printed at the end of percy's amended copy. to make the interpolations more apparent, percy's added verses are placed between brackets, and it will be seen that these contain much of the phraseology and many of the stock prettinesses of the polite ballad-monger; some of the most vivid bits of the old ballad being passed over. percy keeps tolerably to the story, except that he makes the second messenger one of the queen's damsels instead of a man. sir walter scott supposes _sir aldingar_ to be founded upon the kindred ballad of _sir hugh le blond_, but, as professor child says, without any reason. the story occurs in most of the literatures of europe. * * * * * our king he kept a false stewàrde, sir aldingar they him call; [a falser steward than he was one, servde not in bower nor hall.] he wolde have layne by our comelye queene, her deere worshippe to betraye: our queene she was a good womàn, and evermore said him naye. sir aldingar was wrothe in his mind, with her hee was never content, [till traiterous meanes he colde devyse,] in a fyer to have her brent.[ ] there came a lazar[ ] to the kings gate, a lazar both blinde and lame: he tooke the lazar upon his backe, him on the queenes bed has layne. "lye still, lazàr, wheras thou lyest, looke thou goe not hence away; ile make thee a whole man and a sound in two howers of the day."[ ] then went him forth sir aldingar, [and hyed him to our king:] "if i might have grace, as i have space, ["sad tydings i could bring."] say on, say on, sir aldingar, saye on the soothe[ ] to mee. "our queene hath chosen a new new lòve, and shee will have none of thee. "if shee had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had beene her shame; but she hath chose her a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame." if this be true, thou aldingar, the tyding thou tellest to me, then will i make the a rich rich knight, rich both of golde and fee. but if it be false, sir aldingar, [as god nowe grant it bee! thy body, i sweare by the holye rood,] shall hang on the gallows tree. [he brought our king to the queenes chambèr, and opend to him the dore.] a lodlye[ ] love, king harry says, for our queene dame elinore! if thou were a man, as thou art none, [here on my sword thoust dye;] but a payre of new gallowes shall be built, and there shalt thou hang on hye. [forth then hyed our king, i wysse, and an angry man was hee; and soone he found queene elinore, that bride so bright of blee.[ ]] now god you save, our queene, madame, and christ you save and see; heere you have chosen a newe newe love, and you will have none of mee. if you had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had been your shame: but you have chose you a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame. [therfore a fyer there shall be built, and brent all shalt thou bee.----] "now out alacke!" said our comly queene, "sir aldingar's false to mee. now out alacke!" sayd our comlye queene, [my heart with griefe will brast.[ ]] i had thought swevens[ ] had never been true, i have proved them true at last. i dreamt in my sweven on thursday eve, in my bed wheras i laye, i dreamt a grype[ ] and a grimlie beast had carryed my crowne awaye; my gorgett[ ] and my kirtle[ ] of golde, and all my faire head-geere: and he wold worrye me with his tush[ ] and to his nest y-beare: saving there came a litle 'gray' hawke,[ ] a merlin him they call, which untill the grounde did strike the grype, that dead he downe did fall. giffe[ ] i were a man, as now i am none, a battell wold i prove, to fight with that traitor aldingar; att him i cast my glove. but seeing ime able noe battell to make, my liege, grant me a knight to fight with that traitor sir aldingar, to maintaine me in my right." "now forty dayes i will give thee to seeke thee a knight therin: if thou find not a knight in forty dayes thy bodye it must brenn." [then shee sent east, and shee sent west, by north and south bedeene:[ ] but never a champion colde she find,] wolde fight with that knight soe keene. [now twenty dayes were spent and gone, noe helpe there might be had; many a teare shed our comelye queene and aye her hart was sad. then came one of the queenes damsèlles, and knelt upon her knee, "cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, i trust yet helpe may be: "and here i will make mine avowe,[ ] and with the same me binde; that never will i return to thee, till i some helpe may finde." then forth she rode on a faire palfràye oer hill and dale about: but never a champion colde she finde, wolde fighte with that knight so stout. and nowe the daye drewe on a pace, when our good queene must dye; all woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, when she found no helpe was nye. all woe-begone was that faire damsèlle, and the salt teares fell from her eye:] when lo! as she rode by a rivers side, she met with a tinye boye. [a tinye boye she mette, god wot, all clad in mantle of golde;] he seemed noe more in mans likenèsse, then a childe of four yeere olde. [why grieve you, damselle faire, he sayd, and what doth cause you moane? the damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, but fast she pricked on.] yet turn againe, thou faïre damsèlle, and greete thy queene from mee: when bale[ ] is att hyest, boote[ ] is nyest, nowe helpe enoughe may bee. bid her remember what she dreamt in her bedd, wheras shee laye; how when the grype and the grimly beast wolde have carried her crowne awaye, even then there came the litle gray hawke, and saved her from his clawes: then bidd the queene be merry at hart, [for heaven will fende[ ] her cause.] back then rode that faire damsèlle, and her hart it lept for glee: and when she told her gracious dame a gladd woman then was shee. [but when the appointed day was come, no helpe appeared nye: then woeful, woeful was her hart, and the teares stood in her eye. and nowe a fyer was built of wood; and a stake was made of tree; and now queene elinor forth was led, a sorrowful sight to see. three times the herault he waved his hand, and three times spake on hye: giff any good knight will fende this dame, come forth, or she must dye. no knight stood forth, no knight there came, no helpe appeared nye: and now the fyer was lighted up, queen elinor she must dye. and now the fyer was lighted up, as hot as hot might bee;] when riding upon a little white steed, the tinye boy they see. "away with that stake, away with those brands, and loose our comelye queene: i am come to fight with sir aldingar, and prove him a traitor keene." forthe then stood sir aldingar, but when he saw the chylde, he laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, and weened[ ] he had been beguylde. "now turne, now turne thee, aldingar, and eyther fighte or flee; i trust that i shall avenge the wronge, thoughe i am so small to see." the boye pulld forth a well good sworde so gilt it dazzled the ee; the first stroke stricken at aldingar smote off his leggs by the knee. "stand up, stand up, thou false traitòr, and fight upon thy feete, for and thou thrive, as thou begin'st, of height wee shall be meete." a priest, a priest, sayes aldingàr, while i am a man alive. a priest, a priest, sayes aldingàr, me for to houzle and shrive.[ ] i wolde have laine by our comlie queene, bot shee wolde never consent; then i thought to betraye her unto our kinge in a fyer to have her brent. there came a lazar to the kings gates, a lazar both blind and lame: i tooke the lazar upon my backe, and on her bedd had him layne. [then ranne i to our comlye king, these tidings sore to tell.] but ever alacke! sayes aldingar, falsing never doth well. forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, the short time i must live. "nowe christ forgive thee, aldingar, as freely i forgive." here take thy queene, our king harryè, and love her as thy life, [for never had a king in christentye, a truer and fairer wife. king henrye ran to claspe his queene, and loosèd her full sone: then turnd to look for the tinye boye; ----the boye was vanisht and gone. but first he had touchd the lazar man, and stroakt him with his hand: the lazar under the gallowes tree all whole and sounde did stand.] the lazar under the gallowes tree was comelye, straight and tall; king henrye made him his head stewàrde to wayte withinn his hall. [***] * * * * * [the following is the original version from the folio ms reprinted from hales and furnivall's ed. vol. i. p. : our king he kept a ffalse steward, men called him sir aldingar he wold haue layen by our comely queene, her deere worshipp to haue betraide. our queene shee was a good woman, & euer more said him nay. aldingar was offended in his mind, with her hee was neuer content, but he sought what meanes he cold find out, in a fyer to haue her brent. there came a lame lazer to the kings gates, a lazer was [b]lind & lame; he tooke the lazer vpon his backe, vpon the queenes bed he did him lay: he said, "lye still, lazer, wheras thou lyest, looke thou goe not away, ile make thee a whole man & a sound in howres of a day." & then went forth sir aldingar our queene for to betray, and then he mett with our comlye king, saies, "god you saue & see! "if i had space as i haue grace, a message i wold say to thee." "say on, say on, sir aldingar, say thou on and vnto me." "i can let you now see one of [the] greiuos[est] sights that euer christen king did see: our queene hath chosen a new new loue, she will haue none of thee; "if shee had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had beene her shame, but she hath chosen a lazar man which is both blinde & lame." "if this be true, thou aldingar, that thou dost tell to me, then will i make thee a rich knight both of gold and fee; "but if it be false, sir aldingar, that thou doest tell to me, then looke for noe other death but to be hangd on a tree. goe with me," saide our comly king, "this lazar for to see." when the king he came into the queenes chamber, standing her bed befor, "there is a lodly lome," says harry king "for our dame queene elinor! "if thou were a man, as thou art none, here thou sholdest be slaine; but a paire of new gallowes shall be biil[t] thoust hang on them soe hye; "and fayre fyer there shalbe bett, and brent our queene shal bee." fforth then walked our comlye king, & mett with our comly queene, saies, "god you saue, our queene, madam, and christ you saue & see! heere you [haue] chosen a new new loue, and you will haue none of mee. "if you had chosen a right good knight the lesse he beene your shame, but you haue chosen a lazar man that is both blind & lame." "euer alacke!" said our comly queene, "sir aldingar is false to mee; but euer alacke!" said our comly queene, "euer alas, & woe is mee! "i had thought sweuens had neuer been true; i haue prooued them true at the last; i dreamed in my sweauen on thursday at eueninge in my bed wheras i lay, "i dreamed the grype & a grimlie beast had carryed my crowne away, my gorgett & my kirtle of golde, and all my faire heade geere; "how he wold haue worryed me with his tush & borne me into his nest, saving there came a litle hawk flying out of the east, "saving there came a litle hawke which men call a merlion, vntill the ground he stroke him downe, that dead he did fall downe. "giffe i were a man, as i am none, a battell i would proue, i wold fight with that false traitor; att him i cast my gloue! "seing i am able noe battell to make, you must grant me, my leege, a knight to fight with that traitor, sir aldingar, to maintaine me in my right." "ile giue thee dayes," said our king, "to seeke thee a man therin; if thou find not a man in dayes, in a hott fyer thou shall brenn." our queene sent forth a messenger, he rode fast into the south, he rode the countryes through & through, soe ffar vnto portsmouth; he cold find never a man in the south country that wold fight with the knight soe keene. the second messenger the queen forth sent, rode far into the east, but--blessed be god made sunn and moone!-- he sped then all of the best: as he rode then by one riuer side, there he mett with a litle child, he seemed noe more in a mans likenesse then a child of yeeres old; he askt the queenes messenger how far he rode: loth he was him to tell; the litle one was offended att him, bid him adew, farwell! said, "turne thou againe, thou messenger, greete our queene well from me; when bale is att hyest, boote is att next, helpe enough there may bee! "bid our queene remember what she did dreame in her bedd wheras shee lay; shee dreamed the grype & the grimly beast had carryed her crowne away, "her gorgett & her kirt[l]e of gold, alsoe her faire head geere, ne wold have werryed her with his tushe & borne her into her nest, "saving there came a litle hawke-- men call him a merlyon-- vntill the ground he did strike him downe, that dead he did ffall downe. "bidd the queene be merry att her hart, euermore light & glad, when bale is att hyest, boote is at next, helpe enoughe there shalbe [had."] then the queenes messenger rode backe, a gladed man then was hee; when he came before our queene, a gladd woman then was shee; shee gaue the messenger ^{li}: o lord, in gold & ffee, saies, "spend & spare not while this doth last, then feitch thou more of me." our queene was put in a tunne to burne, she thought no thing but death; thé were ware of the litle one came ryding forth of the east with a mu (_line cut away_) ... a louelie child was hee: when he came to that fier, he light the queene full nigh; said, "draw away these brands of fire lie burning before our queene, & feitch me hither sir aldingar that is a knight soe keene." when aldingar see that litle one, ffull litle of him hee thought, if there had beene halfe a such, of them he wold not haue wrought. hee sayd, "come hither sir aldingar, thou see-must as bigge as a ffooder! i trust to god, ere i haue done with thee, god will send to vs anger." saies, "the first stroke thats giuen, sir aldingar, i will giue vnto thee, & if the second giue thou may, looke then thou spare not mee." the litle one pulld forth a well good sword, i-wis itt was all of guilt, it cast light there over that feild, it shone soe all of guilt: he stroke the first stroke att aldingar, he stroke away his leggs by his knee, sayes, "stand vp, stand vp, thou false traitor, & fight vpon thy feete! "for & thou thriue as thou begins, of a height wee shalbe meete." "a preist, a preist!" sayes aldingar, "me for to houzle & shriue! a preist, a preist," sayes aldingar, "while i am a man liuing a-liue! "i wold haue laine by our comlie queene; to it shee wold neuer consent; i thought to haue betrayed her to our king, in a fyer to haue had her brent; "there came a lame lazer to the kings gates, a lazar both blind & lame; "i tooke the lazar vpon my backe, in the queenes bed i did him lay, i bad him 'lie still, lazar, where he lay, looke he went not away, i wold make him a whole man & a sound in houres of a day.' "euer alacke!" sayes sir aldingar, "falsing neuer doth well; "forgiue, forgiue me, queene, madam! for christs loue forgiue me!" "god forgaue his death, aldingar, & freely i forgiue thee." "now take thy wife, thou k[ing] harry, & loue her as thou shold; thy wiffe shee is a[s] true to thee as stone that lies on the castle wall." the lazar vnder the gallow tree was a pretty man & small, the lazar vnder the gallow tree was made steward in king henerys hall. ffins.] footnotes: [ ] [burnt.] [ ] [leper.] [ ] he probably insinuates that the king should heal him by his power of touching for the king's evil. [ ] [truth.] [ ] [loathsome.] [ ] [complexion.] [ ] [burst.] [ ] [dreams.] [ ] [griffin.] [ ] [neckerchief.] [ ] [petticoat.] [ ] [tooth.] [ ] ver. . see below, v. . [ ] [if.] [ ] [immediately.] [ ] [vow or oath.] [ ] [evil.] [ ] [help.] [ ] [defend.] [ ] [supposed.] [ ] [to give the sacrament and to confess.] x. the gaberlunyie man. a scottish song. tradition informs us that the author of this song was king james v. of scotland. this prince (whose character for wit and libertinism bears a great resemblance to that of his gay successor, charles ii.) was noted for strolling about his dominions in disguise,[ ] and for his frequent gallantries with country girls. two adventures of this kind he hath celebrated with his own pen, viz. in this ballad of _the gaberlunyie man_; and in another intitled _the jolly beggar_, beginning thus: "thair was a jollie beggar, and a begging he was boun, and he tuik up his quarters into a land'art toun. fa, la, la," &c. it seems to be the latter of these ballads (which was too licentious to be admitted into this collection) that is meant in the _catalogue of royal and noble authors_,[ ] where the ingenious writer remarks, that "there is something very ludicrous in the young woman's distress when she thought her first favour had been thrown away upon a beggar." bishop tanner has attributed to james v. the celebrated ballad of _christ's kirk on the green_, which is ascribed to king james i. in bannatyne's ms. written in : and, notwithstanding that authority, the editor of this book is of opinion that bishop tanner was right. king james v. died dec. th, , aged . * * * * * [james v. was called the _king of the commons_, from his popular manners and vagrant habit, and many stories are told of his adventures when in disguise. one of these is worth relating here. on a certain occasion he heard himself abused by a country lad as a tyrant and a man odious in every respect, until, unable to restrain himself, he threw off his disguise, and told his accuser that he was the king. "are you really the king?" said the lad, retaining his self-possession; "weel, ye'll maybe hae heard o' my father: he gaed daft three days regularly every year, and in a' that time spoke naething but lies and nonsense: now i'm exactly the same way, and this is _one of my three days_." there is no authority for attributing the present song to james v., except ancient and universal tradition. the word _gaberlunyie_ is compounded of _gaber_, a wallet, and _lunyie_, the loins: hence a travelling tinker or beggar carrying a wallet by his side, was called a "gaberlunyie man." scott has sketched a vivid portrait of one of these privileged beggars in his _antiquary_, edie ochiltree, to wit. the _jolly beggar_ is printed in herd's _scottish songs_, ii. , and in ritson's _scottish songs_, i. . competent authorities are not willing to take the credit of the authorship of _christ's kirk on the green_ from james i. and give it to james v.] * * * * * the pauky auld carle[ ] came ovir the lee wi' mony good-eens and days to mee, saying, goodwife, for your courtesie, will ye lodge a silly[ ] poor man? the night was cauld, the carle was wat, and down ayont the ingle[ ] he sat; my dochters shoulders he gan to clap, and cadgily[ ] ranted and sang. o wow![ ] quo he, were i as free, as first when i saw this countrie, how blyth and merry wad i bee! and i wad nevir think lang. he grew canty,[ ] and she grew fain;[ ] but little did her auld minny ken[ ] what thir slee twa[ ] togither were say'n, when wooing they were sa thrang.[ ] and o! quo he, ann ye were as black, as evir the crown of your dadyes hat, tis i wad lay thee by my back, and awa wi' me thou sould gang. and o! quoth she, ann i were as white, as evir the snaw lay on the dike, ild clead me braw,[ ] and lady-like, and awa with thee ild gang. between the twa was made a plot; they raise a wee before the cock, and wyliely they shot the lock, and fast to the bent are they gane. up the morn the auld wife raise,[ ] and at her leisure put on her claiths, syne to the servants bed she gaes to speir for the silly poor man. she gaed to the bed, whair the beggar lay, the strae was cauld, he was away, she clapt her hands, cryd, dulefu' day! for some of our geir will be gane. some ran to coffer, and some to kist,[ ] but nought was stown[ ] that could be mist. she dancid her lane,[ ] cryd, praise be blest, i have lodgd a leal poor man. since naithings awa, as we can learn, the kirns to kirn,[ ] and milk to earn, gae butt the house,[ ] lass, and waken my bairn, and bid her come quickly ben.[ ] the servant gaed where the dochter lay, the sheets was cauld, she was away, and fast to her goodwife can say, shes aff with the gaberlunyie-man. o fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, and hast ye, find these traitors agen; for shees be burnt, and hees be slein, the wearyfou[ ] gaberlunyie-man. some rade upo horse, some ran a fit, the wife was wood,[ ] and out o' her wit; she could na gang, nor yet could she sit, but ay did curse and did ban. mean time far hind out owre the lee, for snug in a glen, where nane could see, the twa, with kindlie sport and glee, cut frae a new cheese a whang.[ ] the priving[ ] was gude, it pleas'd them baith, to lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith. quo she, to leave thee, i will be laith, my winsome gaberlunyie-man. o kend my minny i were wi' you, illfardly[ ] wad she crook her mou,[ ] sic a poor man sheld nevir trow, aftir the gaberlunyie-mon. my dear, quo he, yee're yet owre yonge; and hae na learnt the beggars tonge, to follow me frae toun to toun, and carrie the gaberlunyie on. wi' kauk and keel,[ ] ill win your bread, and spindles and whorles[ ] for them wha need, whilk is a gentil trade indeed the gaberlunyie to carrie--o. ill bow my leg and crook my knee, and draw a black clout owre my ee, a criple or blind they will cau me: while we sail sing and be merrie--o. footnotes: [ ] sc. of a tinker, beggar, &c. thus he used to visit a smith's daughter at niddry, near edinburgh. [ ] vol. ii. p. . [ ] [sly old man.] [ ] [simple or poor.] [ ] [beyond the fire.] [ ] [merrily.] [ ] [exclamation of admiration or surprise.] [ ] [merry.] [ ] [fond.] [ ] [mother know.] [ ] [these sly two.] [ ] [so close.] [ ] [clad me handsomely.] [ ] ver. . the carline, other copies. [ ] [chest.] [ ] [stolen.] [ ] [alone by herself.] [ ] [churns to churn.] [ ] [go to the outer apartment.] [ ] [in.] [ ] [troublesome.] [ ] [mad.] [ ] [slice.] [ ] [proof.] [ ] [ill-favouredly.] [ ] [mouth.] [ ] [chalk and ruddle.] [ ] [instruments used for spinning in scotland.] xi. on thomas lord cromwell. it is ever the fate of a disgraced minister to be forsaken by his friends, and insulted by his enemies, always reckoning among the latter the giddy inconstant multitude. we have here a spurn at fallen greatness from one of the angry partisans of declining popery, who could never forgive the downfall of their diana and loss of their craft. the ballad seems to have been composed between the time of cromwell's commitment to the tower, june th, , and that of his being beheaded, july following. a short interval! but henry's passion for catharine howard would admit of no delay. notwithstanding our libeller, cromwell had many excellent qualities; his great fault was too much obsequiousness to the arbitrary will of his master; but let it be considered that this master had raised him from obscurity, and that the high-born nobility had shewn him the way in every kind of mean and servile compliance. the original copy, printed at london in , is intitled, _a newe ballade made of thomas crumwel, called_ "_trolle on away_." to it is prefixed this distich by way of burthen: "trolle on away, trolle on awaye. synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away." the following piece gave rise to a poetic controversy, which was carried on thro' a succession of seven or eight ballads, written for and against lord cromwell. these are all preserved in the archives of the antiquarian society, in a large folio collection of proclamations, &c., made in the reigns of king henry viii., king edward vi., queen mary, queen elizabeth, king james i., &c. * * * * * [thomas cromwell, called _malleus monachorum_, came of a good old lincolnshire family. he was born about the year at putney, where his father carried on the business of an iron-founder, which his enemies reduced to that of a blacksmith. his father died early, and in consequence of the re-marriage of his mother, he became a wanderer. the author of the poor play, entitled _the life and death of_ _thomas lord cromwell_, which has been absurdly attributed to shakspere, makes "old cromwell, a blacksmith, of putney," live to see his son "made lord keeper." there is a fragment of a ballad on cromwell without any beginning in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. ), which ends as follows: "how now? how now? the king did say, thomas how is it with thee? hanging and drawing o king! he saide; you shall never gett more from me." mr. hales points out a coincidence not mentioned by mr. froude, viz. that the minister was beheaded and the king married to catherine howard on one and the same day. in cromwell undertook for wolsey the work of visiting and breaking up the small monasteries which the pope had granted for the foundation of wolsey's new colleges, thus commencing the work which gained him the enmity of the adherents of the old faith. he was the first to cause bibles in the english language to be deposited in all the churches, and to him we owe the institution of parish registers.] * * * * * both man and chylde is glad to here tell of that false traytoure thomas crumwell, now that he is set to learne to spell. synge trolle on away. when fortune lokyd the in thy face, thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace; thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace. synge, &c. both plate and chalys came to thy fyst, thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst, tyll in the kynges treasoure suche thinges were myst. synge, &c. both crust and crumme came thorowe thy handes, thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes, therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes. synge, &c. fyrste when kynge henry, god saue his grace! perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face, then it was tyme to purchase the a place. synge, &c. hys grace was euer of gentyll nature, mouyd with petye, and made the hys seruyture; but thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure. synge, &c. thou dyd not remembre, false heretyke, one god, one fayth, and one kynge catholyke, for thou hast bene so long a scysmatyke. synge, &c. thou woldyst not learne to knowe these thre; but euer was full of iniquite: wherfore all this lande hathe ben troubled with the. synge, &c. all they, that were of the new trycke, agaynst the churche thou baddest them stycke; wherfore nowe thou haste touchyd the quycke. synge, &c. bothe sacramentes and sacramentalles thou woldyst not suffre within thy walles; nor let vs praye for all chrysten soules. synge, &c. of what generacyon thou were no tonge can tell, whyther of chayme, or syschemell,[ ] or else sent vs frome the deuyll of hell. synge, &c. thou woldest neuer to vertue applye, but couetyd euer to clymme to hye, and nowe haste thou trodden thy shoo awrye. synge, &c. who-so-euer dyd winne thou wolde not lose; wherfore all englande doth hate the, as i suppose, bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose. synge, &c. thou myghtest have learned thy cloth to flocke upon thy gresy fullers stocke;[ ] wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke. yet saue that soule, that god hath bought, and for thy carcas care thou nought, let it suffre payne, as it hath wrought. synge, &c. god saue kyng henry with all his power, and prynce edwarde that goodly flowre, with al hys lordes of great honoure. synge trolle on awaye, syng trolle on away. hevye and how rombelowe[ ] trolle on awaye. footnotes: [ ] ver. . _i.e._ cain, or ishmael. see below, the note, book ii. no. iii. stanza rd. [ ] v. . cromwell's father is generally said to have been a blacksmith at putney: but the author of this ballad would insinuate that either he himself or some of his ancestors were fullers by trade. [ ] [the burden of an old song.] xii. harpalus. an ancient english pastoral. this beautiful poem, which is perhaps the first attempt at pastoral writing in our language, is preserved among the _songs and sonnettes_ of the earl of surrey, &c., to. in that part of the collection which consists of pieces by _uncertain auctours_. these poems were first published in , ten years after that accomplished nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of henry viii.; but it is presumed most of them were composed before the death of sir thomas wyatt in . see surrey's poems, to. fol. , . tho' written perhaps near half a century before the _shepherd's calendar_,[ ] this will be found far superior to any of those eclogues, in natural unaffected sentiments, in simplicity of style, in easy flow of versification, and all other beauties of pastoral poetry. spenser ought to have profited more by so excellent a model. * * * * * [warton describes this poem as "perhaps the first example in our language now remaining of the pure and unmixed pastoral, and in the erotic species for ease of numbers, elegance of rural allusion excelling everything of the kind in spenser, who is erroneously ranked as our earliest english bucolic." he did not, however, take into account _robin and makine_, which follows _harpalus_ in this book, but was written more than half a century before it. spenser-lovers also are not likely to agree with percy's and warton's summary judgments upon the _shepherd's calendar_.] * * * * * phylida was a faire mayde, as fresh as any flowre; whom harpalus the herdman prayde to be his paramour. harpalus, and eke corin, were herdmen both yfere:[ ] and phylida could twist and spinne, and thereto sing full clere. but phylida was all tò coye, for harpalus to winne: for corin was her onely joye, who forst[ ] her not a pinne. how often would she flowers twine? how often garlandes make of couslips and of colombine? and al for corin's sake. but corin, he had haukes to lure, and forced more the field:[ ] of lovers lawe he toke no cure; for once he was begilde. harpalus prevailed nought, his labour all was lost; for he was fardest from her thought, and yet he loved her most. therefore waxt he both pale and leane, and drye as clot of clay: his fleshe it was consumed cleane; his colour gone away. his beard it had not long be shave; his heare hong all unkempt: a man most fit even for the grave, whom spitefull love had spent. his eyes were red and all 'forewacht;'[ ][ ] his face besprent with teares: it semde unhap had him long 'hatcht,' in mids of his dispaires. his clothes were blacke, and also bare; as one forlorne was he; upon his head alwayes he ware a wreath of wyllow tree. his beastes he kept upon the hyll, and he sate in the dale; and thus with sighes and sorrowes shril, he gan to tell his tale. oh harpalus! (thus would he say) unhappiest under sunne! the cause of thine unhappy day, by love was first begunne. for thou wentest first by sute to seeke a tigre to make tame, that settes not by thy love a leeke; but makes thy griefe her game. as easy it were for to convert the frost into 'a' flame; as for to turne a frowarde hert, whom thou so faine wouldst frame. corin he liveth carèlesse: he leapes among the leaves: he eates the frutes of thy redresse:[ ] thou 'reapst,' he takes the sheaves. my beastes, a whyle your foode refraine, and harke your herdmans sounde: whom spitefull love, alas! hath slaine, through-girt[ ] with many a wounde. o happy be ye, beastès wilde, that here your pasture takes: i se that ye be not begilde of these your faithfull makes.[ ] the hart he feedeth by the hinde: the bucke harde by the do: the turtle dove is not unkinde to him that loves her so. the ewe she hath by her the ramme: the yong cow hath the bull: the calfe with many a lusty lambe do fede their hunger full. but, wel-away! that nature wrought the, phylida, so faire: for i may say that i have bought thy beauty all tò deare. what reason is that crueltie with beautie should have part? or els that such great tyranny should dwell in womans hart? i see therefore to shape my death she cruelly is prest;[ ] to th'ende that i may want my breath: my dayes been at the best. o cupide, graunt this my request, and do not stoppe thine eares; that she may feele within her brest the paines of my dispaires: of corin 'who' is carèlesse, that she may crave her fee: as i have done in great distresse, that loved her faithfully. but since that i shal die her slave; her slave, and eke her thrall:[ ] write you, my frendes, upon my grave this chaunce that is befall. "here lieth unhappy harpalus by cruell love now slaine: whom phylida unjustly thus hath murdred with disdaine." footnotes: [ ] first published in . [ ] [together.] [ ] [regarded.] [ ] [cared more for field sports.] [ ] ver. , &c. the corrections are from ed. . [ ] [overwakeful.] [ ] [care.] [ ] [pierced through.] [ ] [mates.] [ ] [ready.] [ ] [captive.] xiii. robin and makyne. an ancient scottish pastoral. the palm of pastoral poesy is here contested by a contemporary writer with the author of the foregoing. the critics will judge of their respective merits; but must make some allowance for the preceding ballad, which is given simply as it stands in the old editions; whereas this, which follows, has been revised and amended throughout by allan ramsay, from whose _evergreen_, vol. i. it is here chiefly printed. the curious reader may, however, compare it with the more original copy, printed among _ancient scottish poems_, from the ms. of george bannatyne, , edinburgh, , mo. mr. robert henryson (to whom we are indebted for this poem) appears to so much advantage among the writers of eclogue, that we are sorry we can give little other account of him besides what is contained in the following eloge, written by w. dunbar, a scottish poet, who lived about the middle of the sixteenth century: "in dunfermline he [death] hes done roun gud maister robert henrisoun." indeed, some little further insight into the history of this scottish bard is gained from the title prefixed to some of his poems preserved in the british museum, viz. _the morall fabillis of esop_, compylit be maister robert henrisoun, scolmaister of dumfermling, . harl. mss. , § . in ramsay's _evergreen_, vol. i. are preserved two other little doric pieces by henryson: the one intitled _the lyon and the mouse_, the other _the garment of gude ladyis_. some other of his poems may be seen in the _ancient scottish poems_, printed from bannatyne's ms. above referred to. * * * * * [this remarkable poem is peculiarly interesting as being the earliest specimen of pastoral poetry in the language. campbell calls it "the first known pastoral, and one of the best in a dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse." langhorne writes justly: "in gentle henryson's unlaboured strain sweet arethusa's shepherd breath'd again." percy errs in describing henryson as a contemporary of surrey, as the scottish poet lived half a century before the english one. the dates of his birth and death are not known, but he flourished in the reign of james iii. ( - ). "on the th of september, , the venerable master robert henrysone, licentiate in arts and bachelor in degrees, was incorporated or admitted a member of the newly founded university of glasgow." he was a notary public, and probably the master of the grammar school attached to the abbey of dunfermline, not as might be supposed a mere parish schoolmaster. according to the tradition of the last century, our poet was the representative of the family of henryson or henderson, of fordell, in the county of fife; but mr. david laing thinks that it is a gratuitous assumption to suppose that he or his predecessors ever possessed a single acre of the lands of fordell. percy has used the version given in ramsay's _evergreen_, which is slightly altered in diction from the original in the bannatyne ms.; for instance, the last stanza occurs in the latter as follows: "makyne went hame blyth anneuche, attour the holltis hair; robene murnit, and makyne leuche; scho sang, he sichit sair and so left him, bayth wo and wreuch, in dolour and in cair, kepand his hird under a huche amangis the holtis hair." in the _evergreen_ version, the last verse is altered to "amang the rushy gair," either because the words "holtis hair" occur in verse two of the stanza, or that the editor saw an impropriety in the close vicinity of the similar words _holt_ and _heuch_. the two words "holtis hair" are explained as hoary hills or hoary woods, but finlay (_scottish historical and romantic ballads_, , vol. ii. p. ) holds that "hair" really means high, and derives it from isl. har == altus. he says that a high rock in some of the northern counties of scotland, where the dialect is strongly tinctured with danish, is called "hair craig," and that the same word lingers on in the hare-stone of the borough moor, edinburgh, which obtained its name in the following manner: the laird of pennycuik held certain lands by a strange tenure. he was obliged to mount a large stone or rock, and salute the king with three blasts of a horn whenever he passed that way. this rock or eminence was called the "hare-stone," and still exists near morningside church. hoary, however, is to be understood as grey and not as white with snow, so that the hare-stone is probably the grey stone. the word holt may also mean a heath, and cædmon uses the phrase "har hæð" = hoar or grey heath. the date ( ) attached to henryson's version of _Æsop's fables_ is that of transcription. it is not known when the fables were first printed, but they were reprinted by robert lekpreuik for henry charteris in . they are supposed to have been written between and . henryson wrote several other short poems, as well as the _testament of cresseid_, written as a continuation or supplement to chaucer's _troilus and cresseide_, all of which have been collected for the first time into an elegant volume by david laing, who has added notes and a memoir of the poet (edinburgh, ). this _testament_ has a particular interest for us, because shakspere referred to it when he wrote "cressida was a beggar" (_twelfth night_, act iii. sc. ). the lines in henryson's poem which illustrate this passage, are as follows: "thair was na buit [help], bot furth with thame scho yeid fra place to place, quhill cauld and houngir sair compellit hir to be ane rank beggair." ll. - .] * * * * * robin sat on the gude grene hill, keipand a flock of fie,[ ] quhen mirry[ ] makyne said him till,[ ] "o robin rew[ ] on me: i haif thee luivt baith loud and still,[ ] thir towmonds[ ] twa or thre; my dule in dern bot gif thou dill,[ ] doubtless but dreid ill die." robin replied, now by the rude, naithing of love i knaw, but keip my sheip undir yon wod: lo quhair they raik on raw.[ ] quhat can have mart[ ] thee in thy mude,[ ] thou makyne to me schaw; or quhat is luve, or to be lude?[ ] fain wald i leir[ ] that law. "the law of luve gin thou wald leir, tak thair an a, b, c; be heynd,[ ] courtas, and fair of feir,[ ][ ] wyse, hardy, kind and frie, sae that nae danger do the deir,[ ][ ] quhat dule in dern thou drie;[ ] press ay to pleis,[ ] and blyth appeir, be patient and privie." robin, he answert her againe, i wat not quhat is luve; but i haif marvel in certaine quhat makes thee thus wanrufe.[ ] the wedder is fair, and i am fain;[ ] my sheep gais hail abuve;[ ] and sould we pley us on the plain, they wald us baith repruve. "robin, tak tent[ ] unto my tale, and wirk[ ] all as i reid;[ ] and thou sall haif my heart all hale, eik and my maiden-heid: sen god, he sendis bute for bale,[ ] and for murning remeid,[ ] i'dern with thee bot gif i dale,[ ] doubtless i am but deid." makyne, to-morn be this ilk tyde, gif ye will meit me heir, maybe my sheip may gang besyde, quhyle we have liggd full neir; but maugre haif i, gif i byde,[ ] frae thay begin to steir, quhat lyes on heart i will nocht hyd, then makyne mak gude cheir. "robin, thou reivs[ ] me of my rest; i luve bot thee alane." makyne, adieu! the sun goes west, the day is neir-hand gane. "robin, in dule[ ] i am so drest, that luve will be my bane." makyn, gae luve quhair-eir ye list, for leman i luid nane. "robin, i stand in sic a style, i sich[ ] and that full sair." makyne, i have bene here this quyle; at hame i wish i were. "robin, my hinny, talk and smyle, gif thou will do nae mair." makyne, som other man beguyle, for hameward i will fare. syne robin on his ways he went, as light as leif on tree; but makyne murnt and made lament, scho[ ] trow'd him neir to see. robin he brayd attowre the bent:[ ] then makyne cried on hie, "now may thou sing, for i am shent![ ] quhat ailis luve at me?" makyne went hame withouten fail, and weirylie could weip; then robin in a full fair dale assemblit all his sheip. be that some part of makyne's ail, out-throw his heart could creip; hir fast he followt to assail, and till her tuke gude keip.[ ] abyd, abyd, thou fair makyne, a word for ony thing; for all my luve, it sall be thyne, withouten departing.[ ] all hale thy heart for till have myne, is all my coveting; my sheip to morn quhyle houris nyne, will need of nae keiping. "robin, thou hast heard sung and say, in gests and storys auld, the man that will not when he may, sall have nocht when he wald. i pray to heaven baith nicht and day, be eiked[ ] their cares sae cauld, that presses first with thee to play be forrest, firth, or fauld."[ ] makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, the wether warm and fair, and the grene wod richt neir-hand by,[ ] to walk attowre all where: there may nae janglers[ ] us espy, that is in luve contrair; therin, makyne, baith you and i unseen may mak repair. "robin, that warld is now away, and quyt brocht till an end: and nevir again thereto, perfay, sall it be as thou wend; for of my pain thou made but play; i words in vain did spend: as thou hast done, sae sall i say, murn on, i think to mend." makyne, the hope of all my heil,[ ] my heart on thee is set; i'll evermair to thee be leil,[ ] quhyle i may live but lett,[ ] never to fail as uthers feill,[ ] quhat grace so eir i get. "robin, with thee i will not deill; adieu, for thus we met." makyne went hameward blyth enough, attowre the holtis hair;[ ] pure robin murnd, and makyne leugh;[ ] scho sang, and he sicht sair:[ ] and so left him bayth wo and wreuch,[ ] in dolor and in care, keipand his herd under a heuch,[ ] amang the rushy gair.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [keeping a flock of sheep.] [ ] [when merry.] [ ] [unto.] [ ] [take pity.] [ ] [openly and secretly.] [ ] [these twelvemonths.] [ ] [unless thou share my secret woe.] [ ] [they extend themselves in a row.] [ ] [marred.] [ ] [mood.] [ ] [loved.] [ ] [learn.] [ ] [gentle.] [ ] [fair of countenance.] [ ] ver. . bannatyne's ms. reads as above, _heynd_, not _keynd_, as in the edinb. ed. . [ ] [do thee hurt.] [ ] v. . so that no danger, bannatyne's ms. [ ] [whatever sorrow you may endure in secret.] [ ] [be eager to please.] [ ] [uneasy.] [ ] [glad.] [ ] [go healthful in the uplands.] [ ] [heed.] [ ] [do.] [ ] [advise.] [ ] [since god sends good for evil.] [ ] [for mourning remedy.] [ ] [in secret with thee, unless i share thy favour.] [ ] [but ill will may i have if i stay.] [ ] [bereavest.] [ ] [sorrow.] [ ] [sigh.] [ ] [she.] [ ] [he hastened over the field.] [ ] [confounded.] [ ] [and took good watch of her.] [ ] [dividing.] [ ] [enlarged.] [ ] [by forest, copse, or field.] [ ] ver. . bannatyne's ms. has _woid_, not _woud_, as in ed. . [ ] [tell-tales.] [ ] [health or happiness.] [ ] [true.] [ ] [live without hindrance.] [ ] ver. . bannatyne's ms. reads as above feill, not faill, as in ed. . [ ] [over the grey woods (see p. ).] [ ] [laughed.] [ ] [sighed sore.] [ ] [wretchedness.] [ ] [height or hill.] [ ] [rushy strip of land.] xiv. gentle herdsman, tell to me. dialogue between a pilgrim and herdsman. the scene of this beautiful old ballad is laid near walsingham, in norfolk, where was anciently an image of the virgin mary, famous over all europe for the numerous pilgrimages made to it, and the great riches it possessed. erasmus has given a very exact and humorous description of the superstitions practised there in his time. see his account of the _virgo parathalassia_, in his colloquy, intitled, _peregrinatio religionis ergo_. he tells us, the rich offerings in silver, gold, and precious stones, that were there shewn him, were incredible, there being scarce a person of any note in england, but what some time or other paid a visit, or sent a present to _our lady of walsingham_.[ ] at the dissolution of the monasteries in , this splendid image, with another from ipswich, was carried to chelsea, and there burnt in the presence of commissioners; who, we trust, did not burn the jewels and the finery. this poem is printed from a copy in the editor's folio ms. which had greatly suffered by the hand of time; but vestiges of several of the lines remaining, some conjectural supplements have been attempted, which, for greater exactness, are in this one ballad distinguished by italicks.[ ] * * * * * [the shrine of the virgin at walsingham was the favourite english resort of pilgrims for nearly four hundred years, and the people of norfolk were in great distress when their image was taken away from them, and the stream of votaries was suddenly stopped. in a copy of the _reliques_ in the library of the british museum, there is a ms. note by william cole to the following effect: "i was lately informed that the identical image of our lady of walsingham being mured up in an old wall, and there discovered on pulling it down, was presented by the earl of leicester (coke) to a relative of his of the roman catholic religion." the shrine was connected with a priory of augustinian canons, which was founded during the episcopate of william turbus, bishop of norwich ( - ). when henry iii. made his pilgrimage to the shrine in the year , it had long been famous, and was probably more frequented even than the tomb of st. thomas a becket at canterbury. foreigners of all nations came hither on pilgrimage, and in number and quality the devotees appear to have equalled those who toiled to the lady of loretto in italy. several of our kings visited the shrine after henry iii. had set the example. edward i. was there in and in , edward ii. in , and edward iv. and his queen in . henry vii. offered his prayers in "our lady's church" at christmas time - , and in the following summer, after the battle of stoke, "he sent his banner to be offered to our lady of walsingham, where before he made his vows." spelman gives on hearsay evidence the report that henry viii., in the second year of his reign, walked barefoot to walsingham from a neighbouring village, and then presented a valuable necklace to the image. bartholomew, lord burghersh, k.g., by his will made in , ordered a statue of himself on horseback to be made in silver, and offered to our lady of walsingham; and henry vii., in his lifetime, gave a kneeling figure of himself. there are numerous references to walsingham in the _paston letters_, and in we find margaret paston writing to her husband to tell him that her mother had vowed another image of wax of his own weight, to "our lady of walsingham," and that she herself had vowed to go on pilgrimage there for him. (ed. fenn, iii. .) the total income of the place (including the offerings) was reported to be _£_ in the twenty-sixth year of henry viii.'s reign, and roger ascham, when visiting cologne in , makes this remark: "the three kings be not so rich, i believe, as was the lady of walsingham." now the treasures at cologne are said to have been worth six millions of francs (_£_ , ). the road to walsingham was a well-frequented one, and a cross was set up in every town it passed through. an old track running by newmarket, brandon, and castle acre, which was used by the pilgrims, was known as the "palmer's way" or "walsingham green way." the milky way ("the watling-street of the heavens," as chaucer has it) has been associated with pilgrimages in several countries. in norfolk, the long streaming path of light was supposed to point the pilgrim on his road to walsingham, and was in consequence called the "walsingham way." in italy, in france, and in the north of europe it has been called "st. jago's way," "jacobsstrasse," &c., as pointing the way to compostella, and one of its turkish names is "the hadji's way," as indicating the road to mecca.[ ] among the rawlinson mss. in the bodleian library is _a lament for walsingham_, in the handwriting of philip, earl of arundel, the third stanza of which is as follows: "bitter, bitter, oh! to behould the grasse to growe where the walles of walsingam so statly did sheue. such were the workes of walsingam while shee did stand! such are the wrackes as now do shewe of that holy land! levell, levell with the ground the towres doe lye." the whole poem is printed in the folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. . the late mr. john gough nichols published in a very interesting volume, containing a translation of the _colloquy of erasmus_, with valuable notes in illustration of it, under the following title: "pilgrimages to saint mary of walsingham and saint thomas of canterbury, by desiderius erasmus, newly translated ... and illustrated by j. g. nichols. westminster. ." sm. vo. this work has lately been reprinted. an excellent description of walsingham priory, with an account of the excavations made on its site in , will be found in henry harrod's _gleanings among the castles and convents of norfolk_, vo. norwich, , pp. - .] * * * * * gentle heardsman, tell to me, of curtesy i thee pray, unto the towne of walsingham which is the right and ready way. "unto the towne of walsingham the way is hard for to be gon; and verry crooked are those pathes for you to find out all alone." weere the miles doubled thrise, and the way never soe ill, itt were not enough for mine offence; itt is soe grievous and soe ill. "thy yeeares are young, thy face is faire, thy witts are weake, thy thoughts are greene; time hath not given thee leave, as yett, for to committ so great a sinne." yes, heardsman, yes, soe woldest thou say, if thou knewest soe much as i; my witts, and thoughts, and all the rest, have well deserved for to dye. i am not what i seeme to bee, my clothes and sexe doe differ farr: i am a woman, woe is me! _born_[ ] to greeffe and irksome care. _for my_ beloved, and well-beloved, _my wayward cruelty could kill:_ _and though my teares will nought avail,_ _most dearely i bewail him_ still. _he was the flower of n_oble wights, _none ever more sincere colde_ bee; _of comely mien and shape_ hee was, _and tenderlye he_e loved mee. _when thus i saw he lo_ved me well, _i grewe so proud his pa_ine to see, _that i, who did not_ know myselfe, _thought scorne of such a youth_ as hee. [ ]and grew soe coy and nice to please, as women's lookes are often soe, he might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, unlesse i willed him soe to doe. thus being wearyed with delayes to see i pittyed not his greeffe, he gott him to a secrett place, and there he dyed without releeffe. and for his sake these weeds i weare, and sacriffice my tender age; and every day ile begg my bread, to undergoe this pilgrimage. thus every day i fast and pray, and ever will doe till i dye; and gett me to some secrett place, for soe did hee, and soe will i. now, gentle heardsman, aske no more, but keepe my secretts i thee pray; unto the towne of walsingam show me the right and readye way. "now goe thy wayes, and god before! for he must ever guide thee still: turne downe that dale, the right hand path, and soe, faire pilgrim, fare thee well!" * * * * * [***] to shew what constant tribute was paid to _our lady of_ _walsingham_, i shall give a few extracts from the "_houshold-book_ _of henry algernon percy_, th earl of northumberland." printed , vo. sect. xliii. p. , &c. _item_, my lorde usith yerly to send afor michaelmas for his lordschip's offerynge to our lady of walsyngeham.--_iiij_ d. _item_, my lorde usith ande accustumyth to sende yerely for the upholdynge of the light of wax which his lordschip fyndith birnynge yerly befor our lady of walsyngham, contenynge _xj_ lb. of wax in it after _vij_ d. ob. for the fyndynge of every lb. redy wrought by a covenaunt maid with the channon by great, for the hole yere, for the fyndinge of the said lyght byrnning,--_vi_ s. _viiij_ d. _item_, my lord useth and accustomith to syende yerely to the channon that kepith the light before our lady of walsyngham, for his reward for the hole yere, for kepynge of the said light, lightynge of it at all service tymes dayly thorowt the yere,--_xij_ d. _item_, my lord usith and accustomyth yerely to send to the prest that kepith the light, lyghtynge of it at all service tymes daily thorowt the yere,--_iij_ s. _iiij_ d. footnotes: [ ] see at the end of this ballad an account of the annual offerings of the earls of northumberland. [ ] [in the folio ms. is the following note by percy:--"since i first transcribed this song for the press part of the leaf has been worne away. it was once exactly as i have represented it in my book." ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. .] [ ] [r. j. king's _sketches and studies_, , p. .] [ ] [mr. furnivall suggests _a prey_.] [ ] three of the following stanzas have been finely paraphrased by dr. _goldsmith_, in his charming ballad of _edwin and emma_; the reader of taste will have a pleasure in comparing them with the original. "'and' still i try'd each fickle art, importunate and vain; and while his passion touch'd my heart, i triumph'd in his pain. "'till quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride, and sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he dy'd. "but mine the sorrow, mine the fault, and well my life shall pay; i'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay. "and there forlorn despairing hid, i'll lay me down and die: 'twas so for me that edwin did and so for him will i." [goldsmith did not follow the last two verses, but made his ending much more sentimental than that of the old ballad.] xv. k. edward iv. and tanner of tamworth was a story of great fame among our ancestors. the author of the _art of english poesie_, , to, seems to speak of it as a real fact.--describing that vicious mode of speech, which the greeks called _acyron_, _i.e._ "when we use a dark and obscure word, utterly repugnant to that we should express;" he adds, "such manner of uncouth speech did the tanner of tamworth use to king edward the fourth; which tanner, having a great while mistaken him, and used very broad talke with him, at length perceiving by his traine that it was the king, was afraide he should be punished for it, [and] said thus, with a certain rude repentance, '_i hope i shall be hanged to-morrow_,' for [_i feare me_] _i shall be hanged_; whereat the king laughed a good,[ ] not only to see the tanner's vaine feare, but also to heare his illshapen terme: and gave him for recompence of his good sport, the inheritance of plumpton-parke. _i am afraid_," concludes this sagacious writer, "_the poets of our times that speake more finely and correctedly, will come too short of such a reward_," p. .--the phrase, here referred to, is not found in this ballad at present,[ ] but occurs with some variation in another old poem, intitled _john the reeve_, described in the following volume (see the preface to _the king and the miller_),[ ] viz. "nay, sayd john, by gods grace, and edward wer in this place, hee shold not touch this tonne: he wold be wroth with john _i hope_, thereffore i beshrew the soupe, that in his mouth shold come." pt. ii. st. . the following text is selected (with such other corrections as occurred) from two copies in black-letter. the one in the bodleyan library, intitled, "a merrie, pleasant, and delectable historie betweene k. edward the fourth, and a tanner of tamworth, &c. printed at london, by john danter, ." this copy, ancient as it now is, appears to have been modernized and altered at the time it was published; and many vestiges of the more ancient readings were recovered from another copy, (though more recently printed,) in one sheet folio, without date, in the pepys collection. but these are both very inferior in point of antiquity to the old ballad of _the king and the barker_, reprinted with other "pieces of ancient popular poetry from authentic manuscripts and old printed copies, &c." lond. , vo. as that very antique poem had never occurred to the editor of the reliques, till he saw it in the above collection, he now refers the curious reader to it, as an imperfect and incorrect copy of the old original ballad. * * * * * [this ballad was a great favourite with our ancestors and is probably of considerable antiquity. the earliest entry of it upon the registers of the stationers' company is to william griffith in , but no such edition is known to bibliographers. it is possible, however, that puttenham may have found the line quoted above-- "i hope i shall be hanged to-morrow" in that edition. it belongs to the large class of tales in which the sovereign is made to converse on terms of good fellowship with a humble subject. the interesting ballad of _john the reeve_ referred to by percy is printed for the first time in hales and furnivall's edition of the folio manuscript (vol. ii. p. .) the tanner of tamworth is introduced into the first part of heywood's _edward iv._ the ballad _under the greenwood tree_, among the ashmole mss. at oxford, _robin hood and the curtal friar_, and _robin hood and the monk_, all begin with the same words as this ballad-- "in summer time when leaves grow green." the present version is an eclectic copy, polished and reversified by percy.] * * * * * in summer time, when leaves grow greene, and blossoms bedecke the tree, king edward wolde a hunting ryde, some pastime for to see. with hawke and hounde he made him bowne,[ ] with horne, and eke with bowe; to drayton basset he tooke his waye, with all his lordes a rowe. and he had ridden ore dale and downe by eight of clocke in the day, when he was ware of a bold tannèr, come ryding along the waye. a fayre russet coat the tanner had on fast buttoned under his chin, and under him a good cow-hide, and a mare of four shilling.[ ] nowe stand you still, my good lordes all, under the grene wood spraye; and i will wend to yonder fellowe, to weet[ ] what he will saye. god speede, god speede thee, said our king, thou art welcome, sir, sayd hee. "the readyest waye to drayton basset i praye thee to shewe to mee." "to drayton basset woldst thou goe, fro the place where thou dost stand? the next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, turne in upon thy right hand." that is an unreadye waye, sayd our king, thou doest but jest i see: nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, and i pray thee wend with mee. awaye with a vengeance! quoth the tanner: i hold thee out of thy witt: all daye have i rydden on brocke my mare, and i am fasting yett. "go with me downe to drayton basset, no daynties we will spare; all daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, and i will paye thy fare." gramercye[ ] for nothing, the tanner replyde, thou payest no fare of mine: i trowe i've more nobles in my purse, than thou hast pence in thine. god give thee joy of them, sayd the king, and send them well to priefe.[ ] the tanner wolde faine have beene away, for he weende he had beene a thiefe. what art thou, hee sayde, thou fine fellòwe, of thee i am in great feare, for the cloathes, thou wearest upon thy backe, might beseeme a lord to weare. i never stole them, quoth our king, i tell you, sir, by the roode. "then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, and standest in midds of thy goode."[ ] what tydinges heare you, sayd the kynge, as you ryde farre and neare? "i heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse, but that cowe-hides are deare." "cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are those? i marvell what they bee?" what art thou a foole? the tanner reply'd; i carry one under mee. what craftsman art thou, said the king, i praye thee tell me trowe. "i am a barker,[ ] sir, by my trade; nowe tell me what art thou?" i am a poore courtier, sir, quoth he, that am forth of service worne; and faine i wolde thy prentise bee, thy cunninge for to learne. marrye heaven forfend,[ ] the tanner replyde, that thou my prentise were: thou woldst spend more good than i shold winne by fortye shilling a yere. yet one thinge wolde i, sayd our king, if thou wilt not seeme strange: thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, yet with thee i faine wold change. "why if with me thou faine wilt change, as change full well maye wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellòwe, i will have some boot[ ] of thee." that were against reason, sayd the king, i sweare, so mote i thee:[ ] my horse is better than thy mare, and that thou well mayst see. "yea, sir, but brocke is gentle and mild, and softly she will fare: thy horse is unrulye and wild, i wiss; aye skipping here and theare." what boote wilt thou have? our king reply'd; now tell me in this stound.[ ] "noe pence, nor half pence, by my faye, but a noble in gold so round." "here's twentye groates of white moneyè, sith thou will have it of mee." i would have sworne now, quoth the tanner, thou hadst not had one penniè. but since we two have made a change, a change we must abide, although thou hast gotten brocke my mare, thou gettest not my cowe-hide. i will not have it, sayd the kynge, i sweare, so mought i thee; thy foule cowe-hide i wolde not beare, if thou woldst give it to mee. the tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, that of the cow was hilt; and threwe it upon the king's sadèlle, that was soe fayrelye gilte. "now help me up, thou fine fellòwe, 'tis time that i were gone: when i come home to gyllian my wife, sheel say i am a gentilmon." the king he tooke him up by the legge; the tanner a f ** lett fall. nowe marrye, good fellowe, sayd the kyng, thy courtesye is but small. when the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, and his foote in the stirrup was; he marvelled greatlye in his minde, whether it were golde or brass. but when his steede saw the cows taile wagge, and eke the blacke cowe-horne; he stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, as the devill had him borne. the tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, and held by the pummil fast: at length the tanner came tumbling downe; his necke he had well-nye brast.[ ] take thy horse again with a vengeance, he sayd, with mee he shall not byde. "my horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, but he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. yet if againe thou faine woldst change, as change full well may wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, i will have some boote of thee." what boote wilt thou have, the tanner replyd, nowe tell me in this stounde? "noe pence nor halfpence, sir, by my faye, but i will have twentye pound." "here's twentye groates out of my purse; and twentye i have of thine: and i have one more, which we will spend together at the wine." the king set a bugle horne to his mouthe, and blewe both loude and shrille: and soone came lords, and soone came knights, fast ryding over the hille. nowe, out alas! the tanner he cryde, that ever i sawe this daye! thou art a strong thiefe, yon come thy fellowes will beare my cowe-hide away. they are no thieves, the king replyde, i sweare, soe mote i thee: but they are the lords of the north countrèy, here come to hunt with mee. and soone before our king they came, and knelt downe on the grounde: then might the tanner have beene awaye, he had lever than twentye pounde. a coller, a coller, here: sayd the king, a coller he loud gan crye; then woulde he lever then twentye pound, he had not beene so nighe. a coller, a coller, the tanner he sayd, i trowe it will breed sorrowe: after a coller commeth a halter, i trow i shall be hang'd to-morrowe. be not afraid tanner, said our king; i tell thee, so mought i thee, lo here i make thee the best esquire that is in the north countrie.[ ] for plumpton-parke i will give thee, with tenements faire beside: 'tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare, to maintaine thy good cowe-hide. gramercye, my liege, the tanner replyde, for the favour thou hast me showne; if ever thou comest to merry tamwòrth, neates leather shall clout thy shoen.[ ] [***] footnotes: [ ] [for good deal.] [ ] nor in that of the _barker_ mentioned below. [ ] [vol. iii. book , no. .] [ ] [ready.] [ ] in the reign of edward iv. dame cecill, lady of torboke, in her will dated march , a.d. ; among many other bequests has this, "also i will that my sonne thomas of torboke have _s._ _d._ to buy him an horse." vid. harleian catalog. . .--now if _s._ _d._ would purchase a steed fit for a person of quality, a tanner's horse might reasonably be valued at four or five shillings. [ ] [know.] [ ] [thank you.] [ ] [prove.] [ ] _i.e._ hast no other wealth, but what thou carriest about thee. [ ] _i.e._ a dealer in bark. [ ] [avert it.] [ ] [profit.] [ ] [so may i thrive.] [ ] [moment.] [ ] [broken.] [ ] this stanza is restored from a quotation of this ballad in selden's _titles of honour_, who produces it as a good authority to prove, that one mode of creating _esquires_ at that time, was by the imposition of a _collar_. his words are, "nor is that old pamphlet of the tanner of tamworth and king edward the fourth so contemptible, but that wee may thence note also an observable passage, wherein the use of making esquires, by giving collars, is expressed." (sub tit. esquire; & vide in spelmanni glossar. armiger.) this form of creating esquires actually exists at this day among the serjeants at arms, who are invested with a collar (which they wear on collar days) by the king himself. this information i owe to samuel pegge, esq. to whom the publick is indebted for that curious work the _curialia_, to. [ ] [cow hide shall mend thy shoes.] xvi. as ye came from the holy land. dialogue between a pilgrim and traveller. the scene of this song is the same as in num. xiv. the pilgrimage to walsingham suggested the plan of many popular pieces. in the pepys collection, vol. i. p. , is a kind of interlude in the old ballad style, of which the first stanza alone is worth reprinting. "as i went to walsingham, to the shrine with speede, met i with a jolly palmer in a pilgrimes weede. now god you save, you jolly palmer! 'welcome, lady gay, oft have i sued to thee for love.' --oft have i said you nay." the pilgrimages undertaken on pretence of religion, were often productive of affairs of gallantry, and led the votaries to no other shrine than that of venus.[ ] the following ballad was once very popular; it is quoted in fletcher's _knt. of the burning pestle_, act ii. sc. ult. and in another old play, called, _hans beer-pot, his invisible comedy, &c._ to. ; act i.--the copy below was communicated to the editor by the late mr. shenstone as corrected by him from an ancient copy, and supplied with a concluding stanza. we have placed this, and _gentle herdsman_, &c. thus early in the volume, upon a presumption that they must have been written, if not before the dissolution of the monasteries, yet while the remembrance of them was fresh in the minds of the people. * * * * * [although percy does not mention his folio ms. this song is there, and a copy from it is now printed at the end of percy's version. with the exception of the last three lines there are little but verbal differences, but these are numerous. the ending is strikingly inferior to that of the ms. and does very little credit to shenstone's poetical taste. a copy of the song in the bodleian library (ms. rawl. fol. ) is signed w. r., and dr. bliss in consequence claimed it for sir walter raleigh in his edition of wood's _athenæ_. it is inserted in the oxford edition of raleigh's works, vol. viii. p. , with the title--_false love and true love_. dr. hannah also includes it in his edition of the _courtly poets_, but believes it highly improbable that raleigh wrote the song. mr. chappell points out that the first line of the ballad quoted above is introduced in nashe's _have with you to saffron walden_, . in _the weakest goes to the wall_, , we read "king richard's gone to walsingham, to the holy land." the tune of _walsingham_ was highly popular, and numerous songs have been set to it.] * * * * * as ye came from the holy land of blessed walsingham, o met you not with my true love as by the way ye came? "how should i know your true love, that have met many a one, as i came from the holy land, that have both come and gone?" my love is neither white[ ], nor browne, but as the heavens faire; there is none hath her form divine, either in earth, or ayre. "such an one did i meet, good sir, with an angelicke face; who like a nymphe, a queene appeard both in her gait, her grace." yes: she hath cleane forsaken me, and left me all alone; who some time loved me as her life, and called me her owne. "what is the cause she leaves thee thus, and a new way doth take, that some times loved thee as her life, and thee her joy did make?" i that loved her all my youth, growe old now as you see; love liketh not the falling fruite, nor yet the withered tree. for love is like a carelesse childe, forgetting promise past: he is blind, or deaf, whenere he list; his faith is never fast. his fond desire is fickle found, and yieldes a trustlesse joye; wonne with a world of toil and care, and lost ev'n with a toye. such is the love of womankinde, or loves faire name abusde, beneathe which many vaine desires, and follyes are excusde. but true love is a lasting fire, [which viewless vestals[ ] tend, that burnes for ever in the soule, and knowes nor change, nor end.'] [***] * * * * * [the following version is reprinted from the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. .) "as: yee came ffrom the holy land of walsingham, mett you not with my true loue by the way as you came?" "how shold i know your true loue, that haue mett many a one as i cam ffrom the holy land, that haue come, that haue gone?" "shee is neither white nor browne, but as the heauens ffaire; there is none hathe their fforme diuine on the earth or the ayre." "such a one did i meete, good sir, with an angellike fface, who like a nimph, like a queene, did appeare in her gate, in her grace." "shee hath left me heere alone, all alone as vnknowne, who sometime loued me as her liffe and called me her owne." "what is the cause shee hath left thee alone, and a new way doth take, that sometime did loue thee as her selfe, and her ioy did thee make?" "i haue loued her all my youth, but now am old, as you see. loue liketh not the ffalling ffruite nor the whithered tree; for loue is like a carlesse child, and fforgetts promise past: he is blind, he is deaffe when he list, and infaith neuer ffast; "his desire is ffickle, ffond, and a trustles ioye; he is won with a world of dispayre, and lost with a toye. such is the [fate of all man] kind, or the word loue abused, under which many childish desires and conceipts are excused." "but loue is a durabler ffyer in the mind euer burninge, euer sicke, neuer dead, neuer cold, ffrom itt selfe neuer turninge." ffinis.] footnotes: [ ] even in the time of langland, pilgrimages to walsingham were not unfavourable to the rites of venus. thus in his _visions of pierce plowman_, fo. . "hermets on a heape, with hoked staves, wenten to walsingham, and her[ ] wenches after." [ ] _i.e._ their. [ ] sc. pale. [ ] sc. angels. xvii. hardyknute. a scottish fragment. as this fine morsel of heroic poetry hath generally past for ancient, it is here thrown to the end of our earliest pieces; that such as doubt of its age, may the better compare it with other pieces of genuine antiquity. for after all, there is more than reason to suspect, that it owes most of its beauties (if not its whole existence) to the pen of a lady, within the present century. the following particulars may be depended on. mrs. wardlaw, whose maiden name was halket (aunt to the late sir peter halket, of pitferran, in scotland, who was killed in america, along with general bradock, in ), pretended she had found this poem, written on shreds of paper, employed for what is called the bottoms of clues. a suspicion arose that it was her own composition. some able judges asserted it to be modern. the lady did in a manner acknowledge it to be so. being desired to shew an additional stanza, as a proof of this, she produced the last beginning with "_there's nae light_," &c. which were not in the copy that was first printed. the late lord president forbes, and sir gilbert elliot of minto (late lord justice clerk for scotland) who had believed it ancient, contributed to the expence of publishing the first edition, in folio, .--this account was transmitted from scotland by sir david dalrymple, the late lord hailes, who yet was of opinion, that part of the ballad may be ancient; but retouched and much enlarged by the lady abovementioned. indeed he had been informed, that the late william thomson, the scottish musician, who published the _orpheus caledonius_, , vols. vo. declared he had heard fragments of it repeated in his infancy, before mrs. wardlaw's copy was heard of. the poem is here printed from the original edition, as it was prepared for the press with the additional improvements. in an elegant publication, intitled, _scottish tragic ballads_, printed by and for j. nichols, , vo. may be seen a continuation of the ballad of _hardyknute_, by the addition of a _second part_, which hath since been acknowledged to be his own composition, by the ingenious editor [john pinkerton]--to whom the late sir d. dalrymple communicated (subsequent to the account drawn up above) extracts of a letter from sir john bruce, of kinross, to lord binning, which plainly proves the pretended discoverer of the fragment of _hardyknute_ to have been sir john bruce himself. his words are, "to perform my promise, i send you a true copy of the manuscript i found some weeks ago in a vault at dumferline. it is written on vellum in a fair gothic character, but so much defaced by time, as you'll find that the tenth part is not legible." he then gives the whole fragment as it was first published in , save one or two stanzas, marking several passages as having perished by being illegible in the old ms. hence it appears, that sir john was the author of _hardyknute_, but afterwards used mrs. wardlaw to be the midwife of his poetry, and suppressed the story of the vault; as is well observed by the editor of the _tragic ballads_, and of maitland's _scot. poets_, vol. i. p. cxxvii. to this gentleman we are indebted for the use of the copy, whence the second edition was afterwards printed, as the same was prepared for the press by john clerk, m.d. of edinburgh, an intimate companion of lord president forbes. the title of the first edition was, "_hardyknute, a fragment_. edinburgh, printed for james watson, &c. ," folio, pages. stanzas not in the first edition are, nos. , , , , , , , , , , , . in the present impression the orthography of dr. clerk's copy has been preserved, and his readings carefully followed, except in a few instances, wherein the common edition appeared preferable: _viz._ he had in ver. . _but._--v. . _of harm._--v. . _every._--v. . _lo down._--v. . _that_ omitted.--v. . _and_ omitted.--v. . _with argument but vainly strave lang._--v. . _say'd._--v. . _incampit on the plain._--v. . _norse squadrons._--v. . _regand revers._--v. . _his strides he bent._--v. . _minstrals playand pibrochs fine._--v. . _stately went._--v. . _mon._--v. . _sharp and fatal._--v. . _which._--v. . _stood wyld._--stanza preceded stanza .--v. . _there._--v. . _blew westling._--v. . had originally been, _he fear'd a' cou'd be fear'd_. the editor was also informed, on the authority of dr. david clerk, m.d. of edinburgh (son of the aforesaid dr. john clerk), that between the present stanzas and , the two following had been intended, but were on maturer consideration omitted, and do not now appear among the ms. additions: "now darts flew wavering through slaw speed, scarce could they reach their aim; or reach'd, scarce blood the round point drew, 'twas all but shot in vain: right strengthy arms forfeebled grew, sair wreck'd wi' that day's toils: e'en fierce-born minds now lang'd for peace, and curs'd war's cruel broils. "yet still wars horns sounded to charge, swords clash'd and harness rang; but saftly sae ilk blaster blew the hills and dales fraemang. nae echo heard in double dints, nor the lang-winding horn, nae mair she blew out brade as she did eir that summers morn." * * * * * [elizabeth halket, second daughter of sir charles halket of pitfirrane, fife, and wife of sir henry wardlaw of pitrivie, fife and balmulie near dunfermline, who was born in the year , married in , and died in , is now known to have been the authoress of _hardyknute_, although it was many years before the question of the authorship was finally settled. mr. david laing once possessed a copy of this ballad printed in a duodecimo of eight pages without date, which is supposed to be the original edition. besides various differences, some important and others minute, it does not contain stanzas , and , which are printed in the folio of . it was reprinted several times before percy included it in his book, and its antiquity does not seem to have been doubted, for the editor of the edition of speaks of it as a specimen of the true sublime, and believes that "it can only be the work of an author highly smitten with the fury of a poetical genius." allan ramsay's _evergreen_, , vol. ii. contains this ballad with the twelve additional stanzas noted above by percy. when percy first printed the ballad suspicions of its authenticity had been expressed, which soon led to the discovery of the writer, but after having stated who was the real author, he threw doubts upon his statement on account of pinkerton's truthless report. pinkerton was never to be depended upon, and he had previously affirmed that the common people of lanarkshire "repeat scraps of _both parts_," although the second was his own composition. sir john hope bruce had nothing to do with the composition of the ballad, and it is even doubtful whether his supposed letter to lord binning ever had any existence. if it had, it was merely a mystification. on the second of december, , lord hailes wrote to pinkerton as follows, "you mistook if you suppose that i reckoned sir john bruce to be the author of _hardyknute_. it is his sister-in-law, lady wardlaw, who is said to have been the author." yet pinkerton made percy believe that bruce was the author. great difference of opinion has been expressed as to the merit of the ballad by various critics. mathias was fascinated with it, and printed it privately with an encomiastic criticism. scott wrote on the fly-leaf of his copy of ramsay's _evergreen_, "_hardyknute_ was the first poem i ever learnt--the last that i shall forget," and in his _minstrelsy of the border_ he terms it "a most spirited and beautiful imitation of the ancient ballad." thomas warton was deceived by it, and describes it as genuine in the first edition of his _observations on spenser_. in the second edition he assigns the ballad to its true author, but adds, "i am apt to think that the first stanza is old and gave the hint for writing the rest." on the other side dr. johnson considered it to have "no great merit," and aytoun esteemed it a very poor performance. it has not been popular with the ordinary devourers of ballads, and mr. james maidment never had the good luck to pick up a stall copy--he writes, "the flying stationers, the best judges of what suited their customers, not considering it an eligible republication." the ballad is supposed to refer to the battle of largs, fought on the second of october, , between the invading force led by haco, king of norway, and the scottish army commanded in person by alexander iii., but it would, in fact, suit any conflict between scots and northmen. the effect of this battle was the loss to scandinavia of the hebrides and the isle of man, which dependencies were relinquished to alexander iii. by terms of a treaty concluded in , with magnus, the successor of haco. the victory was largely due to the lord high steward of scotland, who is supposed to be represented by hardyknute. mr. gilfillan notes that "fairly castle, the residence of hardyknute, stands three miles south of the battle field. it is a single square tower, by the side of a wild stream tumbling over a rock into a deep ravine."] * * * * * i. stately stept he east the wa',[ ] and stately stept he west, full seventy years he now had seen, wi' scarce seven years of rest. he liv'd when britons breach of faith wrought scotland mickle wae: and ay his sword tauld to their cost, he was their deadlye fae. ii. high on a hill his castle stood, with ha's[ ] and tow'rs a height, and goodly chambers fair to se, where he lodged mony a knight. his dame sae peerless anes and fair, for chast and beauty deem'd, nae marrow[ ] had in all the land, save elenor[ ] the queen. iii. full thirteen sons to him she bare, all men of valour stout; in bloody fight with sword in hand nine lost their lives bot[ ] doubt: four yet remain, lang may they live to stand by liege and land; high was their fame, high was their might, and high was their command. iv. great love they bare to fairly fair, their sister saft and dear, her girdle shaw'd her middle gimp,[ ] and gowden glist[ ] her hair. what waefu' wae her beauty bred? waefu' to young and auld, waefu' i trow to kyth and kin, as story ever tauld. v. the king of norse in summer tyde, puff'd up with pow'r and might, landed in fair scotland the isle with mony a hardy knight. the tydings to our good scots king came, as he sat at dine, with noble chiefs in brave aray, drinking the blood-red wine. vi. "to horse, to horse, my royal liege, your faes stand on the strand, full twenty thousand glittering spears the king of norse commands." bring me my steed mage dapple gray, our good king rose and cry'd, a trustier beast in a' the land a scots king nevir try'd. vii. go little page, tell hardyknute, that lives on hill sae hie, to draw his sword, the dread of faes, and haste and follow me. the little page flew swift as dart flung by his master's arm, "come down, come down, lord hardyknute, and rid your king frae harm." viii. then red red grew his dark-brown cheeks, sae did his dark-brown brow; his looks grew keen, as they were wont in dangers great to do; he's ta'en a horn as green as grass, and gi'en five sounds sae shill,[ ] that trees in green wood shook thereat, sae loud rang ilka hill. ix. his sons in manly sport and glee, had past that summer's morn, when low down in a grassy dale, they heard their father's horn. that horn, quo' they, ne'er sounds in peace, we've other sport to bide. and soon they hy'd them up the hill, and soon were at his side. x. "late late the yestreen[ ] i ween'd in peace to end my lengthened life, my age might well excuse my arm frae manly feats of strife; but now that norse do's proudly boast fair scotland to inthrall, it's ne'er be said of hardyknute, he fear'd to fight or fall. xi. "robin of rothsay, bend thy bow thy arrows shoot sae leel,[ ] that mony a comely countenance they've turnd to deadly pale. brade[ ] thomas take you but your lance, you need nae weapons mair, if you fight wi't as you did anes 'gainst westmoreland's fierce heir. xii. "and malcolm, light of foot as stag that runs in forest wild, get me my thousands three of men well bred to sword and shield: bring me my horse and harnisine,[ ] my blade of mettal clear. if faes but ken'd the hand it bare, they soon had fled for fear. xiii. "farewell my dame sae peerless good, (and took her by the hand), fairer to me in age you seem, than maids for beauty fam'd. my youngest son shall here remain to guard these stately towers, and shut the silver bolt that keeps sae fast your painted bowers." xiv. and first she wet her comely cheiks, and then her boddice green, her silken cords of twirtle twist,[ ] well plett with silver sheen; and apron set with mony a dice of needle-wark sae rare, wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, save that of fairly fair. xv. and he has ridden o'er muir and moss, o'er hills and mony a glen, when he came to a wounded knight making a heavy mane; "here maun i lye, here maun i dye, by treacherie's false guiles; witless i was that e'er ga faith to wicked woman's smiles." xvi. "sir knight, gin you were in my bower, to lean on silken seat, my lady's kindly care you'd prove, who ne'er knew deadly hate: herself wou'd watch you a' the day, her maids a dead of night; and fairly fair your heart wou'd chear, as she stands in your sight. xvii. "arise young knight, and mount your stead, full lowns the shynand day:[ ] choose frae my menzie[ ] whom ye please to lead you on the way." with smileless look, and visage wan the wounded knight reply'd, "kind chieftain, your intent pursue, for here i maun abyde. xviii. to me nae after day nor night can e're be sweet or fair, but soon beneath some draping tree, cauld death shall end my care." with him nae pleading might prevail; brave hardyknute to gain with fairest words, and reason strong, strave courteously in vain. xix. syne he has gane far hynd out o'er[ ] lord chattan's land sae wide; that lord a worthy wight was ay, when faes his courage sey'd:[ ] of pictish race by mother's side, when picts rul'd caledon, lord chattan claim'd the princely maid, when he sav'd pictish crown. xx. now with his fierce and stalwart train, he reach'd a rising hight, quhair braid encampit on the dale, norss menzie[ ] lay in sicht. "yonder my valiant sons and feirs[ ] our raging revers[ ] wait on the unconquert scottish sward to try with us their fate. xxi. "make orisons to him that sav'd our sauls upon the rude;[ ] syne[ ] bravely shaw your veins are fill'd with caledonian blude." then furth he drew his trusty glave,[ ] while thousands all around drawn frae their sheaths glanc'd in the sun; and loud the bougles sound. xxii. to joyn his king adoun the hill in hast his merch he made, while, playand pibrochs, minstralls meit[ ] afore him stately strade. "thrice welcome valiant stoup of weir,[ ] thy nations shield and pride; thy king nae reason has to fear when thou art by his side." xxiii. when bows were bent and darts were thrawn; for thrang scarce cou'd they flee; the darts clove arrows as they met, the arrows dart[ ] the tree. lang did they rage and fight fu' fierce, with little skaith to mon, but bloody bloody was the field, ere that lang day was done. xxiv. the king of scots, that sindle[ ] brook'd the war that look'd like play, drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, sin bows seem'd but delay. quoth noble rothsay, "mine i'll keep, i wat it's bled a score." haste up my merry men, cry'd the king, as he rode on before. xxv. the king of norse he sought to find, with him to mense[ ] the faught, but on his forehead there did light a sharp unsonsie[ ] shaft; as he his hand put up to feel the wound, an arrow keen, o waefu' chance! there pinn'd his hand in midst between his een. xxvi. "revenge, revenge, cry'd rothsay's heir, your mail-coat sha' na bide the strength and sharpness of my dart:" then sent it through his side. another arrow well he mark'd, it pierc'd his neck in twa, his hands then quat[ ] the silver reins, he low as earth did fa'. xxvii. "sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleeds!" again wi' might he drew and gesture dread his sturdy bow, fast the braid arrow flew: wae to the knight he ettled at;[ ] lament now queen elgreed; high dames too wail your darling's fall, his youth and comely meed. xxviii. "take aff, take aff his costly jupe[ ] (of gold well was it twin'd, knit like the fowler's net, through quhilk, his steelly harness shin'd) take, norse, that gift frae me, and bid him venge the blood it bears; say, if he face my bended bow, he sure nae weapon fears." xxix. proud norse with giant body tall, braid shoulders and arms strong, cry'd, "where is hardyknute sae fam'd, and fear'd at britain's throne: tho' britons tremble at his name, i soon shall make him wail, that e'er my sword was made sae sharp, sae saft his coat of mail." xxx. that brag his stout heart cou'd na bide, it lent him youthfu' micht: "i'm hardyknute; this day, he cry'd, to scotland's king i heght[ ] to lay thee low, as horses hoof; my word i mean to keep." syne with the first stroke e'er he strake, he garr'd[ ] his body bleed. xxxi. norss' een like gray gosehawk's stair'd wyld, he sigh'd wi' shame and spite; "disgrac'd is now my far-fam'd arm that left thee power to strike:" then ga' his head a blow sae fell, it made him doun to stoup, as laigh as he to ladies us'd in courtly guise to lout.[ ] xxxii. fu' soon he rais'd his bent body, his bow he marvell'd sair, sin blows till then on him but darr'd[ ] as touch of fairly fair: norse marvell'd too as sair as he to see his stately look; sae soon as e'er he strake a fae, sae soon his life he took. xxxiii. where like a fire to heather set, bauld thomas did advance, ane sturdy fae with look enrag'd up toward him did prance; he spurr'd his steid through thickest ranks the hardy youth to quell, wha stood unmov'd at his approach his fury to repell. xxxiv. "that short brown shaft sae meanly trimm'd, looks like poor scotlands gear, but dreadfull seems the rusty point!" and loud he leugh in jear.[ ] "oft britons b[l]ood has dimm'd its shine; this point cut short their vaunt:" syne pierc'd the boasters bearded cheek; nae time he took to taunt. xxxv. short while he in his saddle swang, his stirrup was nae stay, sae feeble hang his unbent knee sure taiken he was fey:[ ] swith[ ] on the harden't clay he fell, right far was heard the thud: but thomas look't nae as he lay all waltering in his blud. xxxvi. with careless gesture, mind unmov't, on rode he north the plain; his seem in throng of fiercest strife, when winner ay the same: not yet his heart dames dimplet cheek could mease[ ] soft love to bruik, till vengefu' ann return'd his scorn, then languid grew his luik. xxxvii. in thraws of death, with walowit[ ] cheik all panting on the plain, the fainting corps of warriours lay, ne're to arise again; ne're to return to native land, nae mair with blithsome sounds to boast the glories of the day, and shaw their shining wounds. xxxviii. on norways coast the widowit dame may wash the rocks with tears, may lang luik ow'r the shipless seas befor her mate appears. cease, emma, cease to hope in vain; thy lord lyes in the clay; the valiant scots nae revers thole[ ] to carry life away. xxxix. here on a lee, where stands a cross set up for monument, thousands fu' fierce that summer's day fill'd keen war's black intent. let scots, while scots, praise hardyknute, let norse the name ay dread, ay how he faught, aft how he spar'd, shall latest ages read. xl. now loud and chill blew th' westlin wind, sair beat the heavy shower, mirk[ ] grew the night ere hardyknute wan[ ] near his stately tower. his tow'r that us'd wi' torches blaze to shine sae far at night, seem'd now as black as mourning weed, nae marvel sair he sigh'd. xli. "there's nae light in my lady's bower, there's nae light in my ha'; nae blink shines round my fairly fair, nor ward[ ] stands on my wa'." "what bodes it? robert, thomas, say;"-- nae answer fitts their dread. "stand back, my sons, i'le be your guide;" but by they past with speed. xlii. "as fast i've sped owre scotlands faes,"-- there ceas'd his brag of weir, sair sham'd to mind ought but his dame, and maiden fairly fair. black fear he felt, but what to fear he wist nae yet; wi' dread sair shook his body, sair his limbs, and a' the warrior fled. * * * * * footnotes: [ ] [wall or rampart of the castle.] [ ] [halls.] [ ] [match or equal.] [ ] [margaret was the name of the queen of alexander iii. her mother was eleanor, queen of england.] [ ] [without.] [ ] [slender.] [ ] [shone like gold.] [ ] [so shrill.] [ ] [yester even.] [ ] [true.] [ ] [broad.] [ ] [armour.] [ ] [twirled twist.] [ ] [full calm the shining day becomes.] [ ] [retinue.] [ ] [gone far over the country.] [ ] [tried.] [ ] [the horse army.] [ ] [companions.] [ ] [spoilers or robbers.] [ ] [cross.] [ ] [then.] [ ] [sword.] [ ] [proper.] [ ] [pillar of war.] [ ] [hit.] [ ] [seldom.] [ ] [to measure or try the battle.] [ ] [unlucky.] [ ] [quitted.] [ ] [aimed at.] [ ] [upper garment.] [ ] [promised.] [ ] [made.] [ ] [bend low.] [ ] [hit.] [ ] [in derision.] [ ] [sure token he was doomed to death.] [ ] [at once.] [ ] [mollify.] [ ] [faded.] [ ] [suffer.] [ ] [dark.] [ ] [drew near.] [ ] [warden.] the end of the first book. [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the second. book ii. [illustration] [illustration] i. a ballad of luther, the pope, a cardinal, and a husbandman. in the former book we brought down this second series of poems, as low as about the middle of the sixteenth century. we now find the muses deeply engaged in religious controversy. the sudden revolution, wrought in the opinions of mankind by the reformation, is one of the most striking events in the history of the human mind. it could not but engross the attention of every individual in that age, and therefore no other writings would have any chance to be read, but such as related to this grand topic. the alterations made in the established religion by henry viii., the sudden changes it underwent in the three succeeding reigns within so short a space as eleven or twelve years, and the violent struggles between expiring popery, and growing protestantism, could not but interest all mankind. accordingly every pen was engaged in the dispute. the followers of the old and new profession (as they were called) had their respective ballad-makers; and every day produced some popular sonnet for or against the reformation. the following ballad, and that intitled _little john nobody_, may serve for specimens of the writings of each party. both were written in the reign of edward vi.; and are not the worst that were composed upon the occasion. controversial divinity is no friend to poetic flights. yet this ballad of _luther and the pope_ is not altogether devoid of spirit; it is of the dramatic kind, and the characters are tolerably well sustained; especially that of luther, which is made to speak in a manner not unbecoming the spirit and courage of that vigorous reformer. it is printed from the original black-letter copy (in the pepys collection, vol. i. folio,) to which is prefixed a large wooden cut, designed and executed by some eminent master. we are not to wonder that the ballad-writers of that age should be inspired with the zeal of controversy, when the very stage teemed with polemic divinity. i have now before me two very ancient quarto black-letter plays: the one published in the time of henry viii., intitled, _every man_; the other called _lusty juventus_, printed in the reign of edward vi. in the former of these, occasion is taken to inculcate great reverence for old mother church and her superstitions:[ ] in the other, the poet (one _r. wever_) with great success attacks both. so that the stage in those days literally was, what wise men have always wished it, a supplement to the pulpit:--this was so much the case, that in the play of _lusty juventus_, chapter and verse are every where quoted as formally as in a sermon; take an instance: "the lord by his prophet ezechiel sayeth in this wise playnlye, as in the xxxiij chapter it doth appere: be converted, o ye children, &c." from this play we learn that most of the young people were new gospellers, or friends to the reformation; and that the old were tenacious of the doctrines imbibed in their youth: for thus the devil is introduced lamenting the downfal of superstition: "the olde people would believe stil in my lawes, but the yonger sort leade them a contrary way, they wyl not beleve, they playnly say, in olde traditions, and made by men, &c." and in another place hypocrisy urges, "the worlde was never meri since chyldren were so boulde: now every boy will be a teacher, the father a foole, the chyld a preacher." of the plays abovementioned, to the first is subjoined the following printer's colophon, ¶ thus endeth this moral playe of every man, ¶ imprynted at london in powles chyrche yarde by me john skot. in mr. garrick's collection is an imperfect copy of the same play, printed by richarde pynson. the other is intitled, _an enterlude called lusty juventus_: and is thus distinguished at the end: finis. quod r. wever. imprinted at london in paules churche yeard, by abraham vele at the signe of the lambe. of this too mr. garrick has an imperfect copy of a different edition. of these two plays the reader may find some further particulars in the former volume, appendix ii., see _the essay on the origin of the english stage_; and the curious reader will find the plays themselves printed at large in hawkins's _origin of the english drama_, vols. oxford, , mo. * * * * * the husbandman. let us lift up our hartes all, and prayse the lordes magnificence which hath given the wolues a fall, and is become our strong defence: for they thorowe a false pretens from christes bloude dyd all us leade,[ ] gettynge from every man his pence, as satisfactours for the deade. for what we with our flayles coulde get to kepe our house, and servauntes; that did the freers[ ] from us fet, and with our soules played the merchauntes: and thus they with theyr false warrantes of our sweate have easelye lyved, that for fatnesse theyr belyes pantes, so greatlye have they us deceaued. they spared not the fatherlesse, the carefull, nor the pore wydowe; they wolde have somewhat more or lesse, if it above the ground did growe: but now we husbandmen do knowe al their subteltye, and their false caste;[ ] for the lorde hath them overthrowe with his swete word now at the laste. doctor martin luther. thou antichrist, with thy thre crownes, hast usurped kynges powers, as having power over realmes and townes, whom thou oughtest to serve all houres: thou thinkest by thy jugglyng colours thou maist lykewise gods word oppresse; as do the deceatful foulers, when they theyr nettes craftelye dresse. thou flatterest every prince, and lord, thretening poore men with swearde and fyre; all those, that do followe gods worde, to make them cleve to thy desire, theyr bokes thou burnest in flaming fire; cursing with boke, bell, and candell, such as to reade them have desyre, or with them are wyllynge to meddell. thy false power wyl i bryng down, thou shalt not raygne many a yere, i shall dryve the from citye and towne, even with this pen that thou seyste here: thou fyghtest with swerd, shylde, and speare, but i wyll fyght with gods worde; which is now so open and cleare, that it shall brynge the under the borde.[ ] the pope. though i brought never so many to hel, and to utter dampnacion, throughe myne ensample, and consel, or thorow any abhominacion, yet doth our lawe excuse my fashion. and thou, luther, arte accursed; for blamynge me, and my condicion, the holy decres have the condempned. thou stryvest against my purgatory, because thou findest it not in scripture; as though i by myne auctorite myght not make one for myne honoure. knowest thou not, that i have power to make, and mar, in heaven and hell, in erth, and every creature? whatsoever i do it must be well. as for scripture, i am above it; am not i gods hye vicare? shulde i be bounde to folowe it, as the carpenter his ruler?[ ] nay, nay, hereticks ye are, that will not obey my auctoritie. with this sworde i wyll declare, that ye shal al accursed be. the cardinal. i am a cardinall of rome, sent from christes hye vicary, to graunt pardon to more, and sume, that wil luther resist strongly: he is a greate hereticke treuly, and regardeth to much the scripture; for he thinketh onely thereby to subdue the popes high honoure. receive ye this pardon devoutely, and loke that ye agaynst him fight; plucke up youre herts, and be manlye, for the pope sayth ye do but ryght: and this be sure, that at one flyghte, allthough ye be overcome by chaunce, ye shall to heaven go with greate myghte; god can make you no resistaunce. but these heretikes for their medlynge shall go down to hel every one; for they have not the popes blessynge, nor regarde his holy pardòn: they thinke from all destruction by christes bloud to be saved, fearynge not our excommunicacion, therefore shall they al be dampned. footnotes: [ ] take a specimen from his high encomiums on the priesthood. "there is no emperour, kyng, duke, ne baron that of god hath commissyon, as hath the leest preest in the world beynge. * * * * * god hath to them more power gyven, than to any aungell, that is in heven; with v. words he may consecrate goddes body in fleshe and blode to take, and handeleth his maker bytwene his handes. the preest byndeth and unbindeth all bandes, bothe in erthe and in heven.-- thou ministers all the sacramentes seven. though we kyst thy fete thou were worthy; thou art the surgyan that cureth synne dedly; no remedy may we fynde under god, but alone on preesthode. ----god gave preest that dignitè, and letteth them in his stede amonge us be, thus be they above aungels in degre." see hawkins's _orig. of eng. drama_, vol. i. p. . [ ] _i.e._ denied us the cup, see below, ver. . [ ] [friars.] [ ] [stratagem.] [ ] _i.e._ make thee knock under the table. [ ] _i.e._ his rule. [illustration] ii. john anderson my jo. a scottish song. while in england verse was made the vehicle of controversy, and popery was attacked in it by logical argument, or stinging satire; we may be sure the zeal of the scottish reformers would not suffer their pens to be idle, but many a pasquil was discharged at the romish priests, and their enormous encroachments on property. of this kind perhaps is the following, (preserved in maitland's ms. collection of scottish poems in the pepysian library:) "tak a wobster, that is leill, and a miller, that will not steill, with ane priest, that is not gredy, and lay ane deid corpse thame by, and, throw virtue of thame three, that deid corpse sall qwyknit be." thus far all was fair: but the furious hatred of popery led them to employ their rhymes in a still more licentious manner. it is a received tradition in scotland, that at the time of the reformation, ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung by the rabble to the tunes of the most favourite hymns in the latin service. _green sleeves and pudding pies_ (designed to ridicule the popish clergy) is said to have been one of these metamorphosed hymns: _maggy lauder_ was another: _john anderson my jo_ was a third. the original music of all these burlesque sonnets was very fine. to give a specimen of their manner, we have inserted one of the least offensive. the reader will pardon the meanness of the composition for the sake of the anecdote, which strongly marks the spirit of the times. in the present edition this song is much improved by some new readings communicated by a friend; who thinks by the "seven bairns," in st. d. are meant the seven sacraments; five of which were the spurious offspring of mother church: as the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy. the adaptation of solemn church music to these ludicrous pieces and the jumble of ideas thereby occasioned, will account for the following fact.--from the records of the general assembly in scotland, called, _the book of the universal kirk_, p. , th july, , it appears, that thomas bassendyne printer in edinburgh, printed "a psalme buik, in the end whereof was found printit ane baudy sang, called, _welcome fortunes_."[ ] * * * * * [in the first edition of the _reliques_ the number of the bairns is fixed at five instead of seven, and the rhyme to five is thrive instead of threven. the last line is "for four of them were gotten, quhan willie was awa." the present copy has thus been altered to support the untenable position that the seven bairns were meant to represent the seven sacraments. according to tradition john anderson was formerly the town crier of kelso, and the song is not of any great antiquity, for it is first found in the skene ms., the date of which dauney (_ancient_ _scottish melodies_, p. ) fixes at the beginning of the seventeenth century, but which includes, according to mr. chappell, an english country dance that first appeared in (_popular music of the olden time_, vol. ii. p. ). burns wrote his song-- "john anderson my jo john when we were first acquent," to the old tune, for johnson's _musical museum_.] * * * * * woman. john anderson my jo, cum in as ye gae bye, and ye sall get a sheips heid weel baken in a pye; weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pat: john anderson my jo, cum in, and ye's get that. man. and how doe ye, cummer?[ ] and how hae ye threven? and how mony bairns hae ye? wom. cummer, i hae seven. man. are they to your awin gude man? wom. na, cummer, na; for five of tham were gotten, quhan he was awa.' footnotes: [ ] see also _biograph. britan._ st edit. vol. i. p. . [ ] [gossip.] iii. little john nobody. we have here a witty libel on the reformation under king edward vi. written about the year , and preserved in the pepys collection, british museum, and strype's _mem. of cranmer_. the author artfully declines entering into the merits of the cause, and wholly reflects on the lives and actions of many of the reformed. it is so easy to find flaws and imperfections in the conduct of men, even the best of them, and still easier to make general exclamations about the profligacy of the present times, that no great point is gained by arguments of that sort, unless the author could have proved that the principles of the reformed religion had a natural tendency to produce a corruption of manners: whereas he indirectly owns, that their _reverend father_ [archbishop cranmer] had used the most proper means to stem the torrent, by giving the people access to the scriptures, by teaching them to pray with understanding, and by publishing homilies, and other religious tracts. it must however be acknowledged, that our libeller had at that time sufficient room for just satire. for under the banners of the reformed had enlisted themselves, many concealed papists, who had private ends to gratify; many that were of no religion; many greedy courtiers, who thirsted after the possessions of the church; and many dissolute persons, who wanted to be exempt from all ecclesiastical censures. and as these men were loudest of all others in their cries for reformation, so in effect, none obstructed the regular progress of it so much, or by their vicious lives brought vexation and shame more on the truly venerable and pious reformers. the reader will remark the fondness of our satirist for alliteration: in this he was guilty of no affectation or singularity; his versification is that of _pierce plowman's visions_, in which a recurrence of similar letters is essential: to this he has only superadded rhyme, which in his time began to be the general practice. see an _essay_ on this very peculiar kind of metre, in the appendix to this volume. * * * * * in december, when the dayes draw to be short, after november, when the nights wax noysome and long; as i past by a place privily at a port, i saw one sit by himself making a song: his last[ ] talk of trifles, who told with his tongue that few were fast i'th' faith. i 'freyned'[ ] that freake,[ ] whether he wanted wit, or some had done him wrong. he said, he was little john nobody, that durst not speake. john nobody, quoth i, what news? thou soon note and tell what maner men thou meane, thou are so mad. he said, these gay gallants, that wil construe the gospel, as solomon the sage, with semblance full sad; to discusse divinity they nought adread; more meet it were for them to milk kye at a fleyke.[ ] thou lyest, quoth i, thou losel,[ ] like a leud lad. he said, he was little john nobody, that durst not speake. its meet for every man on this matter to talk, and the glorious gospel ghostly to have in mind; it is sothe said, that sect but much unseemly skalk, as boyes babble in books, that in scripture are blind: yet to their fancy soon a cause will find; as to live in lust, in lechery to leyke:[ ] such caitives count to be come of cains kind;[ ] but that i little john nobody durst not speake. for our reverend father hath set forth an order, our service to be said in our seignours tongue; as solomon the sage set forth the scripture; our suffrages, and services, with many a sweet song, with homilies, and godly books us among, that no stiff, stubborn stomacks we should freyke:[ ] but wretches nere worse to do poor men wrong; but that i little john nobody dare not speake. for bribery was never so great, since born was our lord, and whoredom was never les hated, sith christ harrowed[ ] hel, and poor men are so sore punished commonly through the world, that it would grieve any one, that good is, to hear tel. for al the homilies and good books, yet their hearts be so quel,[ ] that if a man do amisse, with mischiefs they wil him wreake;[ ] the fashion of these new fellows it is so vile and fell: but that i little john nobody dare not speake. thus to live after their lust, that life would they have, and in lechery to leyke al their long life; for al the preaching of paul, yet many a proud knave wil move mischiefe in their mind both to maid and wife to bring them in advoutry,[ ] or else they wil strife, and in brawling about baudery, gods commandments breake: but of these frantic il fellowes, few of them do thrife; though i little john nobody dare not speake. if thou company with them, they wil currishly carp,[ ] and not care according to their foolish fantacy; but fast wil they naught: prayer with them is but prating; therefore they it forbear: both almes deeds, and holiness, they hate it in their thought: therefore pray we to that prince, that with his bloud us bought, that he wil mend that is amiss: for many a manful freyke[ ] is sorry for these sects, though they say little or nought; and that i little john nobody dare not once speake. thus in no place, this nobody, in no time i met, where no man, 'ne'[ ] nought was, nor nothing did appear; through the sound of a synagogue for sorrow i swett, that 'aeolus'[ ] through the eccho did cause me to hear. then i drew me down into a dale, whereas the dumb deer did shiver for a shower; but i shunted[ ] from a freyke: for i would no wight in this world wist who i were, but little john nobody, that dare not once speake. footnotes: [ ] perhaps "he left talk." [ ] feyned, mss. and _pc._ [ ] [asked that man.] [ ] [cows at a hurdle.] [ ] [worthless fellow.] [ ] [play.] [ ] [ver. . _cain's kind._]. so in _pierce the plowman's creed_, the proud friars are said to be "of caymes kind."--_vid._ sig. c ii. _b._ [ ] [humour.] [ ] [harassed.] [ ] [cruel.] [ ] [pursue revengefully.] [ ] [adultery.] [ ] [censure.] [ ] [strong man.] [ ] then, mss. and _pc._ [ ] hercules, mss. and _pc._ [ ] [shunned.] iv. q. elizabeth's verses, while prisoner at woodstock, writ with charcoal on a shutter, are preserved by hentzner, in that part of his _travels_ which has been reprinted in so elegant a manner at strawberry-hill. in hentzner's book they were wretchedly corrupted, but are here given as amended by his ingenious editor. the old orthography, and one or two ancient readings of hentzner's copy, are here restored. * * * * * oh, fortune! how thy restlesse wavering state hath fraught with cares my troubled witt! witnes this present prisonn, whither fate could beare me, and the joys i quit.[ ] thou causedest the guiltie to be losed from bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed: causing the guiltles to be straite reserved, and freeing those that death had well deserved. but by her envie can be nothing wroughte, so god send to my foes all they have thoughte. a.d. mdlv. elizabethe, prisonner. footnotes: [ ] ver. . "could beare," is an ancient idiom, equivalent to "did bear" or "hath borne." see below the _beggar of bednal green_, book , no. x. v. . "could say." v. the heir of linne. the original of this ballad is found in the editor's folio ms., the breaches and defects in which rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. these, it is hoped, the reader will pardon, as indeed the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject. from the scottish phrases here and there discernible in this poem, it should seem to have been originally composed beyond the tweed. the heir of linne appears not to have been a lord of parliament, but a laird, whose title went along with his estate. * * * * * [in the folio ms. percy wrote the following note: "this old copy (tho' a very indifferent fragment) i thought deserving of some attention. i have therefore bestowed an entire revisal of the subject for my _reliques_, &c." in this revisal, the bishop swelled out the lines of the original into the of his own version. it has, therefore, been necessary to print a copy of the original at the end of the present ballad. the modern ballad referred to above is the _drunkard's legacy_, printed in j. h. dixon's _ballads of the peasantry_, but it is only comparatively modern, as it dates back to a period long before percy's time. the portion which percy interpolated and took from this ballad, forms the end of the first part and beginning of the second part of the following version. the incident by which the hidden treasure is discovered occurs in one of the stories of cinthio's _heccatomithi_ (dec. ix. nov. ), but the arguments of the two tales are in other respects different. the scotch claim this ballad as their own. some suppose the hero to have been an ayrshire laird, and others that he was from galloway. motherwell gives the following verses as the commencement of the traditionary version extant in scotland: "the bonnie heir, the weel-faur'd heir, and the weary heir o' linne, yonder he stands at his father's gate, and naebody bids him come in, o see whare he gaup and see whare he stands, the weary heir o' linne, o see whare he stands on the cauld causey, some ane wuld ta'en him in. but if he had been his father's heir, or yet the heir o' linne, he wadna stand on the cauld causey, some ane wuld ta'en him in."] * * * * * part the first. lithe[ ] and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will beginne: it is of a lord of faire scotlànd, which was the unthrifty heire of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the daye with merry cheare, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i ween, his hearts delighte to ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wott, an' it were the king himselfe, of gold and fee he mote be bare. soe fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his landes so broad, his house, and landes, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewàrde, and john o' the scales was called hee: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has gott both gold and fee.[ ] sayes, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheere; iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, good store of gold ile give thee heere. my gold is gone, my money is spent; my lande nowe take it unto the: give me the golde, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my lande shall bee. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie;[ ] but for every pounde that john agreed, the lande, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the borde, he was right glad his land to winne: the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ile be the lord of linne. thus he hath sold his land soe broad, both hill and holt,[ ] and moore and fenne, all but a poore and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glenne. for soe he to his father hight. my sonne, when i am gonne, sayd hee, then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but sweare me nowe upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heire of linne is full of golde: and come with me, my friends, sayd hee, let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thinne; and then his friendes they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heire of linne. he had never a penny left in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead,[ ] and another it was white monèy.[ ] nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of linne,[ ] nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. but many a trustye friend have i, and why shold i feel dole or care? ile borrow of them all by turnes, soe need i not be never bare. but one, i wis, was not at home; another had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loone, and bade him sharpely wend his way. now well-aday, sayd the heire of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me! for when i had my landes so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a brenning shame: to rob and steal it were a sinne: to worke my limbs i cannot frame. now ile away to lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on mee, i there shold find a trusty friend. * * * * * part the second. away then hyed the heire of linne o'er hill and holt,[ ] and moor and fenne, untill he came to lonesome lodge, that stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked downe, in hope some comfort for to winne: but bare and lothly[ ] were the walles. here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of linne. the little windowe dim and darke was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; no shimmering sunn here ever shone; no halesome breeze here ever blew. no chair, ne table he mote spye, no chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, nought save a rope with renning noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad lettèrs, these words were written so plain to see: "ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyselfe to penurìe? "and this my boding mind misgave, i therefore left this trusty friend: let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end." sorely shent[ ] wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heire of linne; his heart, i wis, was near to brast with guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. never a word spake the heire of linne, never a word he spake but three: "this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto mee." then round his necke the corde he drewe, and sprang aloft with his bodìe:[ ] when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbling hee. astonyed lay the heire of linne, ne knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and sawe a bille,[ ] and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: itt told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere.[ ] two were full of the beaten golde, the third was full of white monèy; and over them in broad lettèrs these words were written so plaine to see: "once more, my sonne, i sette thee clere; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last." and let it bee, sayd the heire of linne; and let it bee, but if i amend:[ ] for here i will make mine avow, this reade[ ] shall guide me to the end. away then went with a merry cheare, away then went the heire of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,[ ] till john o' the scales house he did winne.[ ] and when he came to john o' the scales, upp at the speere[ ] then looked hee; there sate three lords upon a rowe, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was hee. i pray thee, he said, good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend mee. away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not bee: for christs curse on my head, he sayd, if ever i trust thee one pennìe. then bespake the heire of linne, to john o' the scales wife then spake he: madame, some almes on me bestowe, i pray for sweet saint charitìe. away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no almes of mee; for if we shold hang any losel[ ] heere, the first we wold begin with thee. then bespake a good fellòwe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord; sayd, turn againe, thou heire of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord: some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold and fee; therefore ile lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need bee. and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee. up then spake him john o' the scales, all wood[ ] he answer'd him againe: now christs curse on my head, he sayd, but i did lose by that bargàine. and here i proffer thee, heire of linne, before these lords so faire and free, thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. i drawe you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a gods pennie:[ ] now by my fay, sayd the heire of linne, and here, good john, is thy monèy. and he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, and layd them down upon the bord: all woe begone was john o' the scales, soe shent he cold say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth [with] mickle dinne. the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ime againe the lord of linne. sayes, have thou here, thou good fellòwe, forty pence thou didst lend mee: now i am againe the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. ile make the keeper of my forrest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for but[ ] i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame. now welladay! sayth joan o' the scales: now welladay! and woe is my life! yesterday i was lady of linne, now ime but john o' the scales his wife. now fare thee well, sayd the heire of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said hee: christs curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy. [***] * * * * * [+±+] in the present edition of this ballad several ancient readings are restored from the folio ms. [illustration] * * * * * the following original version of the _heir of linne_ is reprinted from hales and furnivall's edition of the folio ms. vol. i. p. : off all the lords in faire scottland a song i will begin: amongst them all there dweld a lord which was the vnthrifty lord of linne. his father & mother were dead him froe, & soe was the head of all his kinne; he did neither cease nor bl[i]nne to the cards & dice that he did run, to drinke the wine that was soe cleere, with euery man he wold make merry. and then bespake him john of the scales, vnto the heire of linne sayd hee, sayes, "how dost thou, lord of linne, doest either want gold or fee? wilt thou not sell thy lands soe brode to such a good fellow as me? "ffor ... i ..." he said, "my land, take it vnto thee, i draw you to record, my lord[e]s all:" with that he cast him a good-se peny, he told him the gold vpon the bord, it wanted neuer a bare penny. "that gold is thine, the land is mine, the heire of linne i wilbee." "heeres gold inoughe," saithe the heire of linne, "both for me & my company." he drunke the wine that was soe cleere, & with euery man he made merry. with-in quarters of a yeere his gold & fee it waxed thinne, his merry men were from him gone, & left him himselfe all alone. he had neuer a penny left in his pursse, neuer a penny but , & one was brasse, & another was lead, & another was white mony. "now well-a day!" said the heire of linne, "now welladay, & woe is mee! for when i was the lord of linne, i neither wanted gold nor fee; "for i haue sold my lands soe broad, & haue not left me one penny! i must goe now & take some read vnto edenborrow, & begg my bread." he had not beene in edenborrow not qwarters of a yeere, but some did giue him & some said nay, & some bid "to the deele gang yee! "for if we shold hang any land selfeer, the first we wold begin with thee." "now welladay!" said the heire of linne, no[w] welladay, & woe is mee! "for now i have sold my lands soe broad, that mery man is irke with mee; but when that i was the lord of linne, then on my land i liued merrily; "& now i have sold my land soe broade that i haue not left me one pennye! god be with my father!" he said, "on his land he liued merrily." still in a study there as he stood, he vnbethought him of [a] bill [he vnbethought him of a bill] which his father had left with him, bade him he shold neuer on it looke till he was in extreame neede, "& by my faith," said the heire of linne, "then now i had neuer more neede." he tooke the bill, & looked it on, good comfort that he found there; itt told him of a castle wall where there stood chests in feare: were full of the beaten gold, the was full of white mony. he turned then downe his baggs of bread, & filled them full of gold soe red; then he did neuer cease nor blinne till john of the scales house he did winne. when that he came to john of the scales, vpp at the speere he looked then: there sate lords vpon a rowe, and john o the scales sate at the bords head, [and john o the scales sate at the bords head] because he was the lord of linne. and then bespake the heire of linne, to john o the scales wiffe thus sayd hee: sayd, "dame, wilt thou not trust me one shott that i may sitt downe in this company?" "now, christs curse on my head," shee said, "if i do trust thee one pennye." then bespake a good fellowe, which sate by john o the scales his knee, said, "haue thou here, thou heire of linne, pence i will lend thee,-- some time a good fellow thou hast beene,-- & other if neede bee," thé druken wine that was soe cleere, & euery man thé made merry; & then bespake him john o the scales, vnto the lord of linne said hee: said, "how doest thou, heire of linne, since i did buy thy lands of thee? i will sell it to thee ^{li} better cheepe nor euer i did buy it of thee. "i draw you to recorde, lord[e]s all;" with that he cast him gods penny; then he tooke to his baggs of bread, & they were full of the gold soe redd, he told him the gold then over the borde; it wanted neuer a broad pennye: "that gold is thine, the land is mine, & the heire of linne againe i wilbee." "now welladay!" said john o the scales wife, "welladay, & woe is me! yesterday i was the lady of linne, & now i am but john o the scales wiffe!" saies, "haue thou heere, thou good fellow, pence thou did lend me, [ pence thou did lend me,] & ^{l}. i will giue thee, ile make thee keeper of my forrest, both of the wild deere & the tame." but then bespake the heire of linne, these were the words, & thus said hee, "christs curse light vpon my crowne if ere my land stand in any jeopardye!" ffins] footnotes: [ ] [attend.] [ ] [property.] [ ] _i.e._ earnest-money; from the french _denier à dieu_. at this day, when application is made to the dean and chapter of carlisle to accept an exchange of the tenant under one of their leases, a piece of silver is presented by the new tenant, which is still called a "gods-penny." [ ] [forest.] [ ] ver. , , , &c. _sic_ ms. [ ] [forest.] [ ] [loathsome.] [ ] [abashed.] [ ] [letter.] [ ] in-fere, _i.e._ together. [ ] _i.e._ unless i amend. [ ] _i.e._ advice, counsel. [ ] [lingered.] [ ] ver. . an old northern phrase. [ ] perhaps the hole in the door or window, by which it was speered, _i.e._ sparred, fastened, or shut. in bale's second part of the _acts of eng. votaries_, we have this phrase (f. ), "the dore therof oft tymes opened and _speared_ agayne." [ ] [worthless fellow.] [ ] [furious.] [ ] ver. , . cast, is the reading of the ms. [ ] [unless.] vi. gascoigne's praise of the fair bridges, afterwards lady sands, on her having a scar in her forehead. george gascoigne was a celebrated poet in the early part of queen elizabeth's reign, and appears to great advantage among the miscellaneous writers of that age. he was author of three or four plays, and of many smaller poems; one of the most remarkable of which is a satire in blank verse, called the _steele-glass_, , to. gascoigne was born in essex, educated in both universities, whence he removed to gray's-inn; but, disliking the study of the law, became first a dangler at court, and afterwards a soldier in the wars of the low countries. he had no great success in any of these pursuits, as appears from a poem of his, intitled "gascoigne's wodmanship, written to lord gray of wilton." many of his epistles dedicatory are dated in , , from "his poore house in walthamstoe:" where he died a middle-aged man in , according to anth. wood: or rather in , if he is the person meant in an old tract, intitled, "a remembrance of the well employed life and godly end of geo. gascoigne, esq.; who deceased at stamford in lincolnshire, oct. , , by geo. whetstone, gent. an eye-witness of his godly and charitable end in this world," to. no date. [from a ms. of oldys.] mr. thomas warton thinks "gascoigne has much exceeded all the poets of his age, in smoothness and harmony of versification."[ ] but the truth is, scarce any of the earlier poets of q. elizabeth's time are found deficient in harmony and smoothness, tho' those qualities appear so rare in the writings of their successors. in the _paradise of dainty devises_,[ ] (the _dodsley's miscellany_ of those times) will hardly be found one rough, or inharmonious line:[ ] whereas the numbers of jonson, donne, and most of their contemporaries, frequently offend the ear like the filing of a saw. perhaps this is in some measure to be accounted for from the growing pedantry of that age, and from the writers affecting to run their lines into one another, after the manner of the latin and greek poets. the following poem (which the elegant writer above quoted hath recommended to notice, as possessed of a delicacy rarely to be seen in that early state of our poetry) properly consists of alexandrines of twelve and fourteen syllables, and is printed from two quarto black-letter collections of gascoigne's pieces; the first intitled, "a hundreth sundrie flowres, bounde up in one small posie, &c. london, imprinted for richarde smith:" without date, but from a letter of h. w. (p. ), compared with the printer's epist. to the reader, it appears to have been published in , or . the other is intitled, "the posies of george gascoigne, esq.; corrected, perfected, and augmented by the author; .--printed at lond. for richard smith, &c." no year, but the epist. dedicat. is dated . in the title-page of this last (by way of printer's,[ ] or bookseller's device) is an ornamental wooden cut, tolerably well executed, wherein time is represented drawing the figure of truth out of a pit or cavern, with this legend, _occulta veritas tempore patet_ [r. s.] this is mentioned because it is not improbable but the accidental sight of this or some other title-page containing the same device, suggested to rubens that well-known design of a similar kind, which he has introduced into the luxemburg gallery,[ ] and which has been so justly censured for the unnatural manner of its execution. the lady here celebrated was catharine, daughter of edmond second lord chandos, wife of william lord sands. see collins's _peerage_, vol. ii. p. , ed. . * * * * * [george gascoigne, soldier and poet, had many enemies, and when objection was made to the privy council against his return as a burgess for midhurst, they termed him "a common rymer, ruffian, atheist," &c. mr. w. c. hazlitt printed a complete collection of his poems in the roxburghe library, vols. london, - .] * * * * * in court whoso demaundes what dame doth most excell; for my conceit i must needes say, faire bridges beares the bel. upon whose lively cheeke, to prove my judgment true, the rose and lillie seeme to strive for equall change of hewe: and therewithall so well hir graces all agree; no frowning cheere dare once presume in hir sweet face to bee. although some lavishe lippes which like some other best, will say, the blemishe on hir browe disgraceth all the rest. thereto i thus replie; god wotte, they little knowe the hidden cause of that mishap, nor how the harm did growe: for when dame nature first had framde hir heavenly face, and thoroughly bedecked it with goodly gleames of grace; it lyked hir so well: lo here, quod she, a peece for perfect shape, that passeth all appelles' worke in greece. this bayt may chaunce to catche the greatest god of love, or mightie thundring jove himself, that rules the roast above. but out, alas! those wordes were vaunted all in vayne; and some unseen wer present there, pore bridges, to thy pain. for cupide, crafty boy, close in a corner stoode, not blyndfold then, to gaze on hir: i gesse it did him good. yet when he felte the flame gan kindle in his brest, and herd dame nature boast by hir to break him of his rest, his hot newe-chosen love he chaunged into hate, and sodeynly with mightie mace gan rap hir on the pate. it greeved nature muche to see the cruell deede: mee seemes i see hir, how she wept to see hir dearling bleede. wel yet, quod she, this hurt shal have some helpe i trowe: and quick with skin she coverd it, that whiter is than snowe. wherwith dan cupide fled, for feare of further flame, when angel-like he saw hir shine, whome he had smit with shame. lo, thus was bridges hurt in cradel of hir kind.[ ] the coward cupide brake hir browe to wreke his wounded mynd. the skar still there remains; no force, there let it bee: there is no cloude that can eclipse so bright a sunne, as she. footnotes: [ ] observations on the _faerie queen_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] printed in , , , , , , , and perhaps oftener, in to. black-letter. [ ] the same is true of most of the poems in the _mirrour of magistrates_, , to. and also of surrey's poems, . [ ] henrie binneman. [ ] le tems découvre la vérité. [ ] ver. . in cradel of hir kind: _i.e._ in the cradle of her family. see warton's _observations_, vol. ii. p. . vii. fair rosamond. most of the circumstances in this popular story of king henry ii. and the beautiful rosamond have been taken for fact by our english historians; who, unable to account for the unnatural conduct of queen eleanor in stimulating her sons to rebellion, have attributed it to jealousy, and supposed that henry's amour with rosamond was the object of that passion. our old english annalists seem, most of them, to have followed higden the monk of chester, whose account, with some enlargements, is thus given by stow:--"rosamond the fayre daughter of walter lord clifford, concubine to henry ii. (poisoned by queen elianor, as some thought) dyed at woodstocke [a.d. ] where king henry had made for her a house of wonderfull working; so that no man or woman might come to her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right secret with him touching the matter. this house after some was named labyrinthus, or dedalus worke, which was wrought like unto a knot in a garden, called a maze;[ ] but it was commonly said, that lastly the queene came to her by a clue of thridde, or silke, and so dealt with her, that she lived not long after: but when she was dead, she was buried at godstow in an house of nunnes, beside oxford, with these verses upon her tombe:-- 'hic jacet in tumba, rosa mundi, non rosa munda: non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet.' "in english thus:-- 'the rose of the world, but not the cleane flowre, is now here graven; to whom beauty was lent: in this grave full darke nowe is her bowre, that by her life was sweete and redolent: but now that she is from this life blent, though she were sweete, now foully doth she stinke. a mirrour good for all men, that on her thinke.'" stowe's _annals_, ed. , p. . how the queen gained admittance into rosamond's bower is differently related. hollinshed speaks of it, as "the common report of the people, that the queene ... founde hir out by a silken thread, which the king had drawne after him out of hir chamber with his foot, and dealt with hir in such sharpe and cruell wise, that she lived not long after." vol. iii. p. . on the other hand, in speede's _hist._ we are told that the jealous queen found her out "by a clew of silke, fallen from rosamund's lappe, as shee sate to take ayre, and suddenly fleeing from the sight of the searcher, the end of her silke fastened to her foot, and the clew still unwinding, remained behinde: which the queene followed, till she had found what she sought, and upon rosamund so vented her spleene, as the lady lived not long after." rd edit. p. . our ballad-maker with more ingenuity, and probably as much truth, tells us the clue was gained by surprise, from the knight who was left to guard her bower. it is observable, that none of the old writers attribute rosamond's death to poison (stow, above, mentions it merely as a slight conjecture); they only give us to understand, that the queen treated her harshly; with furious menaces, we may suppose, and sharp expostulations, which had such effect on her spirits, that she did not long survive it. indeed on her tomb-stone, as we learn from a person of credit,[ ] among other fine sculptures, was engraven the figure of a cup. this, which perhaps at first was an accidental ornament (perhaps only the chalice) might in after times suggest the notion that she was poisoned; at least this construction was put upon it, when the stone came to be demolished after the nunnery was dissolved. the account is, that "the tomb-stone of rosamund clifford was taken up at godstow, and broken in pieces, and that upon it were interchangeable weavings drawn out and decked with roses red and green, and the picture of the _cup_, out of which she drank the poison given her by the queen, carved in stone." rosamond's father having been a great benefactor to the nunnery of godstow, where she had also resided herself in the innocent part of her life, her body was conveyed there, and buried in the middle of the choir; in which place it remained till the year , when hugh bishop of lincoln caused it to be removed. the fact is recorded by hoveden, a contemporary writer, whose words are thus translated by stow: "hugh bishop of lincolne came to the abbey of nunnes, called godstow, ... and when he had entred the church to pray, he saw a tombe in the middle of the quire, covered with a pall of silke, and set about with lights of waxe: and demanding whose tomb it was, he was answered, that it was the tombe of rosamond, that was some time lemman to henry ii.... who for the love of her had done much good to that church. then quoth the bishop, take out of this place the harlot, and bury her without the church, lest christian religion should grow in contempt, and to the end that, through example of her, other women being made afraid may beware, and keepe themselves from unlawfull and advouterous company with men."--_annals_, p. . history further informs us, that king john repaired godstow nunnery, and endowed it with yearly revenues, "that these holy virgins might releeve with their prayers, the soules of his father king henrie, and of lady rosamund there interred."[ ] ... in what situation her remains were found at the dissolution of the nunnery, we learn from leland: "rosamundes tumbe at godstowe nunnery was taken up [of] late; it is a stone with this inscription, tumba rosamundÆ. her bones were closid in lede, and withyn that bones were closyd yn lether. when it was opened a very swete smell came owt of it."[ ] see hearne's discourse above quoted, written in ; at which time he tells us, were still seen by the pool at woodstock the foundations of a very large building, which were believed to be the remains of rosamond's labyrinth. to conclude this (perhaps too prolix) account, henry had two sons by rosamond, from a computation of whose age, a modern historian has endeavoured to invalidate the received story. these were william longue-espé (or long-sword), earl of salisbury, and geoffrey, bishop of lincolne.[ ] geoffrey was the younger of rosamond's sons, and yet is said to have been twenty years old at the time of his election to that see in . hence this writer concludes, that king henry fell in love with rosamond in , when in king stephen's reign he came over to be knighted by the king of scots; he also thinks it probable that henry's commerce with this lady "broke off upon his marriage with eleanor (in ) and that the young lady, by a natural effect of grief and resentment at the defection of her lover, entered on that occasion into the nunnery of godstowe, where she died probably before the rebellion of henry's sons in ." (carte's _hist._ vol. i. p. .) but let it be observed, that henry was but sixteen years old when he came over to be knighted; that he staid but eight months in this island, and was almost all the time with the king of scots; that he did not return back to england till , the year after his marriage with eleanor; and that no writer drops the least hint of rosamond's having ever been abroad with her lover, nor indeed is it probable that a boy of sixteen should venture to carry over a mistress to his mother's court. if all these circumstances are considered, mr. carte's account will be found more incoherent and improbable than that of the old ballad; which is also countenanced by most of our old historians. indeed the true date of geoffrey's birth, and consequently of henry's commerce with rosamond, seems to be best ascertained from an ancient manuscript in the cotton library: wherein it is thus registered of geoffrey plantagenet: "natus est ° hen. ii. [ .] factus est miles ° hen. ii. [ .] elect. in episcop. lincoln. ° hen. ii. [ ]." vid. _chron. de kirkstall_ (domitian xii.) drake's _hist. of york_, p. . the ballad of _fair rosamond_ appears to have been first published in "strange histories, or songs and sonnets, of kinges, princes, dukes, lords, ladyes, knights, and gentlemen, &c. by thomas delone. lond. ." mo. it is here printed (with conjectural emendations), from four ancient copies in black-letter; two of them in the pepys library. * * * * * [it is also printed in the _crown garland of golden roses, and_ _garland of goodwill_. reprinted by the percy society. in the _collection of old ballads_, , vol. i. p. , is another ballad on the same subject, with the title, _the unfortunate concubine, or rosamond's overthrow_. the story is also treated in warner's _albion's england_ (ch. ).] * * * * * when as king henry rulde this land, the second of that name, besides the queene, he dearly lovde a faire and comely dame. most peerlesse was her beautye founde, her favour, and her face; a sweeter creature in this worlde could never prince embrace. her crisped lockes like threads of golde appeard to each mans sight; her sparkling eyes, like orient pearles, did cast a heavenlye light. the blood within her crystal cheekes did such a colour drive, as though the lillye and the rose for mastership did strive. yea rosamonde, fair rosamonde, her name was called so, to whom our queene, dame ellinor, was known a deadlye foe. the king therefore, for her defence, against the furious queene, at woodstocke builded such a bower, the like was never seene. most curiously that bower was built of stone and timber strong, an hundered and fifty doors did to this bower belong: and they so cunninglye contriv'd with turnings round about, that none but with a clue of thread, could enter in or out. and for his love and ladyes sake, that was so faire and brighte, the keeping of this bower he gave unto a valiant knighte. but fortune, that doth often frowne where she before did smile, the kinges delighte and ladyes joy full soon shee did beguile: for why, the kinges ungracious sonne, whom he did high advance, against his father raised warres within the realme of france. but yet before our comelye king the english land forsooke, of rosamond, his lady faire, his farewelle thus he tooke: "my rosamonde, my only rose, that pleasest best mine eye: the fairest flower in all the worlde to feed my fantasye: the flower of mine affected heart, whose sweetness doth excelle: my royal rose, a thousand times i bid thee nowe farwelle! for i must leave my fairest flower, my sweetest rose, a space, and cross the seas to famous france, proud rebelles to abase. but yet, my rose, be sure thou shalt my coming shortlye see, and in my heart, when hence i am, ile beare my rose with mee." when rosamond, that ladye brighte, did heare the king saye soe, the sorrowe of her grieved heart her outward lookes did showe; and from her cleare and crystall eyes the teares gusht out apace, which like the silver-pearled dewe ranne downe her comely face. her lippes, erst like the corall redde, did waxe both wan and pale, and for the sorrow she conceivde her vitall spirits faile; and falling down all in a swoone before king henryes face, full oft he in his princelye armes her bodye did embrace: and twentye times, with watery eyes, he kist her tender cheeke, untill he had revivde againe her senses milde and meeke. why grieves my rose, my sweetest rose? the king did often say. because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres my lord must part awaye. but since your grace on forrayne coastes amonge your foes unkinde must goe to hazard life and limbe, why should i staye behinde? nay rather, let me, like a page, your sworde and target beare; that on my breast the blowes may lighte, which would offend you there. or lett mee, in your royal tent, prepare your bed at nighte, and with sweete baths refresh your grace, at your returne from fighte. so i your presence may enjoye no toil i will refuse; but wanting you, my life is death; nay, death ild rather chuse! "content thy self, my dearest love; thy rest at home shall bee in englandes sweet and pleasant isle; for travell fits not thee. faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres; soft peace their sexe delightes; 'not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers; gay feastes, not cruell fightes.' my rose shall safely here abide, with musicke passe the daye; whilst i, amonge the piercing pikes, my foes seeke far awaye. my rose shall shine in pearle, and golde, whilst ime in armour dighte; gay galliards here my love shall dance, whilst i my foes goe fighte. and you, sir thomas, whom i truste to bee my loves defence; be carefull of my gallant rose when i am parted hence." and therewithall he fetcht a sigh, as though his heart would breake: and rosamonde, for very griefe, not one plaine word could speake. and at their parting well they mighte in heart be grieved sore: after that daye faire rosamonde the king did see no more. for when his grace had past the seas, and into france was gone, with envious heart, queene ellinor, to woodstocke came anone. and forth she calles this trustye knighte, in an unhappy houre; who with his clue of twined thread, came from this famous bower. and when that they had wounded him, the queene this thread did gette, and went where ladye rosamonde was like an angell sette. but when the queene with stedfast eye beheld her beauteous face, she was amazed in her minde at her exceeding grace. cast off from thee those robes, she said, that riche and costlye bee; and drinke thou up this deadlye draught, which i have brought to thee. then presentlye upon her knees sweet rosamonde did falle; and pardon of the queene she crav'd for her offences all. "take pitty on my youthfull yeares, faire rosamonde did crye; and lett mee not with poison stronge enforced bee to dye. i will renounce my sinfull life, and in some cloyster bide; or else be banisht, if you please, to range the world soe wide. and for the fault which i have done, though i was forc'd theretoe, preserve my life, and punish mee as you thinke meet to doe." and with these words, her lillie handes she wrunge full often there; and downe along her lovely face did trickle many a teare. but nothing could this furious queene therewith appeased bee; the cup of deadlye poyson stronge, as she knelt on her knee, shee gave this comelye dame to drinke; who tooke it in her hand, and from her bended knee arose, and on her feet did stand: and casting up her eyes to heaven, shee did for mercye calle; and drinking up the poyson stronge, her life she lost withalle. and when that death through everye limbe had showde its greatest spite, her chiefest foes did plaine confesse shee was a glorious wighte. her body then they did entomb, when life was fled away, at godstowe, neare to oxford towne, as may be seene this day. * footnotes: [ ] consisting of vaults under ground, arched and walled with brick and stone, according to drayton. see note on his epistle of rosamond. [ ] tho. allen of gloc. hall, oxon. who died in , aged . see hearne's rambling discourse concerning rosamond, at the end of _gul. neubrig. hist._ vol. iii. p. . [ ] vid. reign of henry ii. in speed's _hist._ writ by dr. barcham, dean of bocking. [ ] this would have passed for miraculous, if it had happened in the tomb of any clerical person, and a proof of his being a saint. [ ] afterwards archbishop of york, temp. rich. i. viii. queen eleanor's confessiÓn. "eleanor, the daughter and heiress of william duke of guienne, and count of poictou, had been married sixteen years to louis vii. king of france, and had attended him in a croisade, which that monarch commanded against the infidels; but having lost the affections of her husband, and even fallen under some suspicions of gallantry with a handsome saracen, louis, more delicate than politic, procured a divorce from her, and restored her those rich provinces, which by her marriage she had annexed to the crown of france. the young count of anjou, afterwards henry ii. king of england, tho' at that time but in his nineteenth year, neither discouraged by the disparity of age, nor by the reports of eleanor's gallantry, made such successful courtship to that princess, that he married her six weeks after her divorce, and got possession of all her dominions as a dowery. a marriage thus founded upon interest was not likely to be very happy: it happened accordingly, eleanor, who had disgusted her first husband by her gallantries, was no less offensive to her second by her jealousy: thus carrying to extremity, in the different parts of her life, every circumstance of female weakness. she had several sons by henry, whom she spirited up to rebel against him; and endeavouring to escape to them disguised in man's apparel in , she was discovered and thrown into a confinement, which seems to have continued till the death of her husband in . she however survived him many years: dying in , in the sixth year of the reign of her youngest son, john." see hume's _hist._ to. vol. i. pp. , . speed, stow, &c. it is needless to observe, that the following ballad (given, with some corrections, from an old printed copy) is altogether fabulous; whatever gallantries eleanor encouraged in the time of her first husband, none are imputed to her in that of her second. * * * * * [the idea of the unlucky shrift exhibited in the following ballad is taken from some old story-teller. it occurs among the tales of boccaccio, bandello, barbazan, la fontaine, and several other writers. a copy of this ballad, differing very considerably from the present version, is to be found in kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_. the first stanza is as follows:-- "the queen fell sick, and very, very sick she was sick and like to dee and she sent for a frier oure frae france her confessour to be." the last stanza but four reads:-- "and do you see yon pretty little girl that's a beclad in green? she's a friar's daughter oure in france and i hoped to see her a queen." and the end as follows:-- "the king look'd over his left shoulder, an angry man was he:-- an it werna for the oath i sware earl marshall, thou shouldst dee." another version, recovered from recitation, and more like percy's than kinloch's, is printed by motherwell in his _minstrelsy_, under the title of "earl marshall."] * * * * * queene elianor was a sicke womàn. and afraid that she should dye: then she sent for two fryars of france to speke with her speedilye. the king calld downe his nobles all, by one, by two, by three; "earl marshall, ile goe shrive the queene, and thou shalt wend with mee." a boone, a boone; quoth earl marshàll, and fell on his bended knee; that whatsoever queene elianor saye, no harme therof may bee. ile pawne my landes, the king then cryd, my sceptre, crowne, and all, that whatsoere queen elianor sayes no harme thereof shall fall. do thou put on a fryars coat, and ile put on another; and we will to queen elianor goe like fryar and his brother. thus both attired then they goe: when they came to whitehall, the bells did ring, and the quiristers sing, and the torches did lighte them all. when that they came before the queene they fell on their bended knee; a boone, a boone, our gracious queene, that you sent so hastilee. are you two fryars of france, she sayd, as i suppose you bee, but if you are two englishe fryars, you shall hang on the gallowes tree. we are two fryars of france, they sayd, as you suppose we bee, we have not been at any masse sith we came from the sea. the first vile thing that ever i did i will to you unfolde; earl marshall had my maidenhed, beneath this cloth of golde. thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king; may god forgive it thee! amen, amen, quoth earl marshall; with a heavye heart spake hee. the next vile thing that ever i did, to you ile not denye, i made a boxe of poyson strong, to poison king henrye. thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king, may god forgive it thee! amen, amen, quoth earl marshall; and i wish it so may bee. the next vile thing that ever i did, to you i will discover; i poysoned fair rosamonde, all in fair woodstocke bower. thats a vile sinne, then sayd the king; may god forgive it thee! amen, amen, quoth earl marshal; and i wish it so may bee. do you see yonders little boye, a tossing of the balle? that is earl marshalls eldest sonne,[ ] and i love him the best of all. do you see yonders little boye, a catching of the balle? that is king henryes youngest sonne,[ ] and i love him the worst of all. his head is fashyon'd like a bull; his nose is like a boare. no matter for that, king henrye cryd, i love him the better therfore. the king pulled off his fryars coate, and appeared all in redde: she shrieked, and cryd, and wrung her hands, and sayd she was betrayde. the king lookt over his left shoulder, and a grimme look looked hee, earl marshall, he sayd, but for my oathe, or hanged thou shouldst bee. footnotes: [ ] ver. , . she means that the eldest of these two was by the earl marshall, the youngest by the king. ix. the sturdy rock. this poem, subscribed m. t. (perhaps invertedly for t. marshall[ ]) is preserved in _the paradise of daintie devises_. the two first stanzas may be found accompanied with musical notes in "an howres recreation in musicke, &c. by richard alison, lond. , to." usually bound up with three or four sets of "madrigals set to music by tho. weelkes, lond. , , , to." one of these madrigals is so compleat an example of the bathos, that i cannot forbear presenting it to the reader:-- "thule, the period of cosmographie, doth vaunt of hecla, whose sulphureous fire doth melt the frozen clime, and thaw the skie, trinacrian Ætna's flames ascend not hier: these things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous i, whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry. "the andelusian merchant, that returnes laden with cutchinele and china dishes, reports in spaine, how strangely fogo burnes amidst an ocean full of flying fishes: these things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous i, whose heart with feare doth freeze, with love doth fry." mr. weelkes seems to have been of opinion, with many of his brethren of later times, that nonsense was best adapted to display the powers of musical composure. * * * * * [percy's conjecture that the author is marshall is not a happy one. sir egerton brydges, in his edition of the _paradise_, (_british bibliographer_, vol. iii.), attributes it to m. thorn, whose name is signed to another poem, numbered :-- "now mortall man beholde and see, this worlde is but a vanitie," written in much the same spirit. the heading to the _sturdy rock_ is:-- "man's flitting life fyndes surest stay, where sacred vertue beareth sway."] * * * * * the sturdy rock for all his strength by raging seas is rent in twaine: the marble stone is pearst at length, with little drops of drizling rain: the oxe doth yeeld unto the yoke, the steele obeyeth the hammer stroke. the stately stagge, that seemes so stout, by yalping hounds at bay is set: the swiftest bird, that flies about, is caught at length in fowlers net: the greatest fish, in deepest brooke, is soon deceived by subtill hooke. yea man himselfe, unto whose will all things are bounden to obey, for all his wit and worthie skill, doth fade at length, and fall away. there is nothing but time doeth waste; the heavens, the earth consume at last. but vertue sits triumphing still upon the throne of glorious fame: though spiteful death mans body kill, yet hurts he not his vertuous name: by life or death what so betides, the state of vertue never slides. footnotes: [ ] vid. _athen. oxon._ pp. , . x. the beggar's daughter of bednall-green. this popular old ballad was written in the reign of elizabeth, as appears not only from ver. , where the arms of england are called the "queenes armes;" but from its tune's being quoted in other old pieces, written in her time. see the ballad on _mary ambree_ in this volume. the late mr. guthrie assured the editor that he had formerly seen another old song on the same subject, composed in a different measure from this; which was truly beautiful, if we may judge from the only stanza he remembered. in this it was said of the old beggar, that "down his neck "----his reverend lockes in comelye curles did wave; and on his aged temples grewe the blossomes of the grave." the following ballad is chiefly given from the editor's folio ms. compared with two ancient printed copies: the concluding stanzas, which contain the old beggar's discovery of himself, are not however given from any of these, being very different from those of the vulgar ballad. nor yet does the editor offer them as genuine, but as a modern attempt to remove the absurdities and inconsistencies, which so remarkably prevailed in this part of the song, as it stood before: whereas by the alteration of a few lines, the story is rendered much more affecting, and is reconciled to probability and true history. for this informs us, that at the decisive battle of evesham (fought aug. , ), when simon de montfort, the great earl of leicester, was slain at the head of the barons, his eldest son henry fell by his side, and in consequence of that defeat, his whole family sunk for ever, the king bestowing their great honours and possessions on his second son, edmund earl of lancaster. * * * * * [this charming old ballad has enjoyed a long life of popularity, and according to mr. chappell it is still kept in print in seven dials, and sung about the country. as it is to be found in most collections, it has not been thought necessary to take note of the various trifling alterations which percy made, but the six stanzas which he ejected in favour of the eight between brackets are printed at the end. a few of the alterations are improvements, but most of them are the reverse; thus, in place of the received reading of verse , "was straightway in love with pretty bessee," percy prints "was straightway enamourd of pretty bessee." mr. john pickford (_notes and queries_, th series, vol. ix. p. ) once possessed an old mezzotint engraving of the blind beggar of a large folio size, on the margin of which were inscribed the lines referred to above. in robert greene's _pandosto_ ( ), from which shakspere drew the plot of his _winter's tale_, there is the same simile as is used in these verses. egistus says:--"thou seest my white hayres are blossomes for the grave." pepys in his diary ( th june, ), speaks of going to dinner with sir william and lady batten and sir j. minnes to sir william ryder's at bethnall green, and adds: "this very house was built by the blind beggar of bednall green, so much talked of and sang in ballads, but they say it was only some outhouse of it." the mansion was built by john kirby, a citizen of london, in the reign of queen elizabeth, and afterwards became the residence of sir hugh platt, author of _the jewell house of art and nature_, ; _the garden of eden_, &c. ryder died there in .] * * * * * part the first. itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; and many a gallant brave suiter had shee, for none was soe comelye as pretty bessee. and though shee was of favor most faire, yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye bessee. wherefore in great sorrow faire bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me goe away to seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. this suite then they granted to prettye bessee. then bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, all cladd in gray russett, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted shee; who sighed and sobbed for prettye bessee. shee went till shee came to stratford-le-bow; then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: with teares shee lamented her hard destinìe, so sadd and soe heavy was pretty bessee. shee kept on her journey untill it was day, and went unto rumford along the hye way; where at the queenes armes entertained was shee: soe faire and wel favoured was pretty bessee. shee had not beene there a month to an end, but master and mistres and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straight-way enamourd of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daylye her love was extold; her beawtye was blazed in every degree; soe faire and soe comelye was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; and at her commandment still wold they bee; soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty bessee. foure suitors att once unto her did goe; they craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; i wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. yett ever they honored prettye bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguisde in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for prettye bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suiter, and proper withall: her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, who swore he would dye for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; my hart's so inthralled by thy bewtìe, that soone i shall dye for prettye bessee. the gentleman sayd, come, marry with mee, as fine as a ladye my bessy shal bee: my life is distressed: o heare me, quoth hee; and grant me thy love, my prettye bessee. let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy shee sighed, and thus shee did say, my father and mother i meane to obey; first gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, and you shall enjoye your prettye bessee. to every one this answer shee made, wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, this thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; but where dwells thy father, my prettye bessee? my father, shee said, is soone to be seene: the seely blind beggar of bednall-greene, that daylye sits begging for charitìe, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his markes and his tokens are knowen very well; he alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: a seely olde man, god knoweth, is hee, yett hee is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: i lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, and therefore, adewe, my pretty bessee! why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i waighe not true love by the waight of the pursse, and bewtye is bewtye in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will goe. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; a poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, then take thy adew of pretty bessee. but soone after this, by breake of the day the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the younge men of rumford, as thicke [as] might bee, rode after to feitch againe pretty bessee. as swifte as the winde to ryde they were seene, untill they came neare unto bednall-greene; and as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescew came speedilye over the plaine, or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. this fray being ended, then straitway he see his kinsmen come rayling at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i bee poore, yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, yett will i dropp angells with you for my girle. and then, if my gold may better her birthe, and equall the gold that you lay on the earth, then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see the blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. but first you shall promise, and have itt well knowne, the gold that you drop shall all be your owne. with that they replyed, contented bee wee. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angell he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand[ ] pound; and oftentimes itt was proved most plaine, for the gentlemens one the beggar dropt twayne: soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, with gold it was covered every whitt. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, sayd, now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; and heere, added hee, i will now throwe you downe a hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, admired the beggar of bednall-greene: and all those, that were her suitors before, their fleshe for very anger they tore. thus was faire besse matched to the knight, and then made a ladye in others despite: a fairer ladye there never was seene, than the blind beggars daughter of bednall-greene. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt[ ] shall set forth to your sight with marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. * * * * * part the second. off a blind beggars daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a younge knight; all the discourse therof you did see; but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they cold have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, and all for the creditt of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties, and delicates sweete were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, soe that a great number therto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of prettye bessee. to church then went this gallant younge knight; his bride followed after, an angell most bright, with troopes of ladyes, the like nere was seene as went with sweete bessy of bednall-greene. this marryage being solempnized then, with musicke performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, each one admiring the beautifull bryde. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talke, and to reason a number begunn: they talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, "much marveil have wee, this jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. "the prayse of a woman in questyon to bringe before her own face, were a flattering thinge; but wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, "might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." they had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; a faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, and now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. he had a daintye lute under his arme, he touched the strings, which made such a charme, saies, please you to heare any musicke of mee, ile sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon begann most sweetlye to play; and after that lessons were playd two or three, he strayn'd out this song most delicatelìe. "a poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: a blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, and many one called her pretty bessee. "her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land. but beggd for a penny all day with his hand; and yett to her marriage hee gave thousands three,[ ] and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. "and if any one here her birth doe disdaine, her father is ready, with might and with maine, to proove shee is come of noble degree: therfore never flout att prettye bessee." with that the lords and the companye round with harty laughter were readye to swound; att last said the lords, full well wee may see, the bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, that throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. if this be thy father, the nobles did say, well may he be proud of this happy day; yett by his countenance well may wee see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: and therfore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) thy birth and thy parentage, what itt may bee; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee." "then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that itt may not winn good report, then doe not give me a _groat_ for my sport. "[sir simon de montfort my subject shal bee; once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. "when the barons in armes did king henrye oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was hee, and oft-times he made their enemyes flee. "at length in the battle on eveshame plaine[ ] the barons were routed, and montfort was slaine; moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye bessee! "along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, his eldest son henrye, who fought by his side, was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! a blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. "among the dead bodyes all lifelesse he laye, till evening drewe on of the following daye, when by a yong ladye discoverd was hee; and this was thy mother, my prettye bessee! "a baron's faire daughter stept forth in the nighte to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing yong montfort, where gasping he laye, was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. "in secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, while he throughe the realme was beleevd to be slaine: at lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, and made him glad father of prettye bessee. "and nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, we clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: all our comfort and care was our prettye bessee.] "and here have wee lived in fortunes despite, thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: full forty winters thus have i beene a silly blind beggar of bednall-greene. "and here, noble lordes, is ended the song of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: and thus have you learned a secrette from mee, that ne'er had beene knowne, but for prettye bessee." now when the faire companye everye one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, they all were amazed, as well they might bee, both at the blinde beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the faire bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race, thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to bee. thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, a bridegroome most happy then was the young knighte, in joy and felicitie long lived hee, all with his faire ladye, the pretty bessee. [***] [illustration] * * * * * [the following stanzas (ll. - of the whole ballad), were rejected by percy in favour of the verses above which are between brackets, and were written by robert dodsley, the bookseller and author:-- "when ffirst our king his ffame did advance, & fought for his title in delicate ffrance, in many a place many perills past hee: then was not borne my pretty bessye. "and then in those warres went over to fight many a braue duke, a lo_rd_, & a k_nigh_t, & w_i_th them younge mountford, his courage most free: but then was not borne my pretty bessye. "att bloyes there chanced a terrible day, where many braue ffrenchmen vpon the ground lay; amonge them lay mountford for companye: but then was not borne my pretty bessye.[ ] "but there did younge mountford, by blow on the face, loose both his eyes in a very short space; & alsoe his liffe had beene gone w_i_th his sight, had not a younge woman come forth in the night "amongst the slaine men, as fancy did moue, to search & to seeke for her owne true loue; & seeing young mountford there gasping to bee, shee saued his liffe through charitye. "and then all our vittalls, in beggar attire att hands of good people wee then did require. att last into england, as now it is seene, wee came, & remained att bednall greene."[ ] * * * * * [+±+] the word _fit_ for _part_, often occurs in our ancient ballads and metrical romances: which being divided into several parts for the convenience of singing them at public entertainments, were in the intervals of the feast sung by fits, or intermissions. so puttenham in his _art of english poesie_, , says: "the epithalamie was divided by breaches into three partes to serve for three several fits, or times to be sung." p. . from the same writer we learn some curious particulars relative to the state of ballad-singing in that age, that will throw light on the present subject: speaking of the quick returns of one manner of tune in the short measures used by common rhymers; these, he says, "glut the eare, unless it be in small and popular musickes, sung by these cantabanqui, upon benches and barrels heads, where they have none other audience then boys or countrey fellowes, that passe by them in the streete; or else by _blind harpers_, or such like taverne minstrels, that give a _fit_ of mirth for a _groat_, ... their matter being for the most part stories of old time, as the tale of _sir topas_, the reportes of _bevis of southampton_, _guy of warwicke_, _adam bell and clymme of the clough_, and such other old romances or historical rimes, made purposely for recreation of the common people at christmasse dinners and brideales, and in tavernes and alehouses, and such other places of base resorte." p. . this species of entertainment, which seems to have been handed down from the ancient bards, was in the time of puttenham falling into neglect; but that it was not, even then, wholly excluded from more genteel assemblies, he gives us room to infer from another passage: "we ourselves," says this courtly[ ] writer, "have written for pleasure a little brief romance, or historical ditty in the english tong of the _isle of great britaine_ in short and long meetres, and by breaches or divisions (_i.e._ fits), to be more commodiously sung to the harpe in places of assembly, where the company shal be desirous to heare of old adventures, and valiaunces of noble knights in times past, as are those of _king arthur and his knights of the round table_, _sir bevys of southampton_, _guy of warwicke_, and others like." p. . in more ancient times no grand scene of festivity was compleat without one of these reciters to entertain the company with feats of arms, and tales of knighthood, or, as one of these old minstrels says, in the beginning of an ancient romance on _guy and colbronde_, in the editor's folio ms. p. [ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii., p. ]: "when meate and drinke is great plentyè, and lords and ladyes still wil bee, and sitt and solace lythe;[ ] then itt is time for mee to speake of keene knightes, and kempès great, such carping for to kythe." if we consider that a _groat_ in the age of elizabeth was more than equivalent to a shilling now, we shall find that the old harpers were even then, when their art was on the decline, upon a far more reputable footing than the ballad-singers of our time. the reciting of one such ballad as this of the _beggar of bednal green_, in two parts, was rewarded with half-a-crown of our money. and that they made a very respectable appearance, we may learn from the dress of the old beggar, in the preceding ballad, p. , where he comes into company in the habit and character of one of these minstrels, being not known to be the bride's father till after her speech, ver. . the exordium of his song, and his claiming a groat for his reward, v. , are peculiarly characteristic of that profession. most of the old ballads begin in a pompous manner, in order to captivate the attention of the audience, and induce them to purchase a recital of the song: and they seldom conclude the first part without large promises of still greater entertainment in the second. this was a necessary piece of art to incline the hearers to be at the expense of a second groat's-worth. many of the old romances extend to eight or nine fits, which would afford a considerable profit to the reciter. to return to the word _fit_; it seems at one time to have peculiarly signified the pause, or breathing-time, between the several parts (answering to passus in the _visions of pierce plowman_): thus in the ancient ballad of _chevy-chase_ (vol. i. p. ), the first part ends with this line: "the first _fit_ here i fynde:" _i.e._ here i come to the first pause or intermission. (see also vol. i. p. .) by degrees it came to signify the whole part or division preceding the pause. (see vol. i. pp. , .) this sense it had obtained so early as the time of chaucer; who thus concludes the first part of his rhyme of _sir thopas_ (writ in ridicule of the old ballad romances):-- "lo! lordis mine, here is a _fitt_; if ye woll any more of it, to tell it woll i fonde." the word _fit_ indeed appears originally to have signified a poetic strain, verse, or poem; for in these senses it is used by the anglo-saxon writers. thus k. Ælfred in his _boethius_, having given a version of lib. , metr. , adds, [uncial: Ða [is]e p[i][is][id]om þa þa[is] [if][i][it][it]e a[is]un[gh]en hæ[if][id]e], p. , _i.e._ "when wisdom had sung these (fitts) verses." and in the proem to the same book, [uncial: fon on [if][i][it][it]e], "put into (fitt) verse." so in cedmon, p. . [uncial: feon[id] on [if][i][it][it]e], seems to mean "composed a song," or "poem." the reader will trace this old saxon phrase, in the application of the word _fond_, in the foregoing passage of chaucer. spencer has used the word fit to denote "a strain of music;" see his poem, intitled, _collin clout's come home again_, where he says:-- "the shepherd of the ocean [sir walt. raleigh] provoked me to play some pleasant _fit_. and when he heard the music which i made he found himself full greatlye pleas'd at it," &c. it is also used in the old ballad of _k. estmere_, vol. i. book , no. , v. . from being applied to music, this word was easily transferred to dancing; thus in the old play of _lusty juventus_ (described in preliminary note to book , no. in this volume), juventus says: "by the masse i would fayne go daunce a _fitte_." and from being used as a part or division in a ballad, poem, &c. it is applied by bale to a section or chapter in a book (though i believe in a sense of ridicule or sarcasm), for thus he intitles two chapters of his _english votaryes_, part nd, viz. fol. , "the fyrst _fytt_ of anselme with kynge wyllyam rufus;" fol. , "an other _fytt_ of anselme with kynge wyllyam rufus." footnotes: [ ] in the editor's folio ms. it is _£_ . [ ] see an essay on the word _fit_ at the end of the second part. [ ] so the folio ms. [ ] the battle of evesham was fought on august , . [ ] [this stanza is not in the ordinary versions.] [ ] [bessie of bednall, percy folio ms., ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. .] [ ] he was one of q. elizabeth's gent. pensioners, at a time when the whole band consisted of men of distinguished birth and fortune. vid. _ath. ox._ [ ] perhaps "blythe." xi. fancy and desire. by the earl of oxford. edward vere, earl of oxford, was in high fame for his poetical talents in the reign of elizabeth; perhaps it is no injury to his reputation that few of his compositions are preserved for the inspection of impartial posterity. to gratify curiosity, we have inserted a sonnet of his, which is quoted with great encomiums for its "excellencie and wit," in puttenham's _arte of eng. poesie_,[ ] and found intire in the _garland of good-will_. a few more of his sonnets (distinguished by the initial letters e. o.), may be seen in the _paradise of daintie devises_. one of these is intitled _the complaint of a lover, wearing blacke and tawnie_. the only lines in it worth notice are these:-- "a crowne of baies shall that man 'beare' who triumphs over me; for black and tawnie will i weare, which mourning colours be." we find in hall's _chronicle_, that when q. catharine of arragon dyed, jan. , , "queen anne (bullen) ware _yellowe_ for the mourning." and when this unfortunate princess lost her head, may , the same year, "on the ascencion day following, the kyng for mourning ware _whyte_." fol. , . edward, who was the seventeenth earl of oxford, of the family of vere, succeeded his father in his title and honours in , and died an aged man in . see mr. walpole's _noble authors_. athen. oxon, &c. * * * * * [walpole was in error when he stated that lord oxford died an aged man, for that nobleman was only about sixty at the time of his death. sir egerton brydges points out in his edition of the _paradise of dainty devices_ (_british bibliographer_, vol. iii.), that the earl could not have been born earlier than or , because his elder half-sister katherine, widow of edward, lord windsor, died in january, , aged . the chief events of his life are these. in he was the chief of those who embarked with the earl of leicester for the relief of the states of holland and zealand. in he sat as lord great chamberlain of england on the trial of mary, queen of scots. in he hired and fitted out ships at his own charge against the spanish armada. in he sat on the trial of philip howard, earl of arundel, and in on the trials of the earls of essex and southampton. his private character was far from good, and his honour was tarnished by his dispute with sir philip sidney. he used his first wife (a daughter of the great burleigh) cruelly, in revenge for the statesman's treatment of his great friend, thomas, duke of norfolk. in his early youth he travelled in italy, and returned from that country a finished coxcomb, bringing home with him italian dresses, perfumes, and embroidered gloves. he presented a pair of the latter to queen elizabeth, who was so pleased with them that she was drawn with them on her hands. the earl was buried at hackney, on the th of july, . percy might have spared rather more praise for this pretty little poem.] * * * * * come hither shepherd's swayne: "sir, what do you require?" i praye thee, shewe to me thy name. "my name is fond desire." when wert thou borne, desire? "in pompe and pryme of may." by whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot? "by fond conceit men say." tell me, who was thy nurse? "fresh youth in sugred joy." what was thy meate and dayly foode? "sad sighes with great annoy." what hadst thou then to drinke? "unsavoury lovers teares." what cradle wert thou rocked in? "in hope devoyde of feares." what lulld thee then asleepe? "sweete speech, which likes me best." tell me, where is thy dwelling place? "in gentle hartes i rest." what thing doth please thee most? "to gaze on beautye stille." whom dost thou thinke to be thy foe? "disdayn of my good wille." doth companye displease? "yes, surelye, many one." where doth desire delighte to live? "he loves to live alone." doth either tyme or age bringe him unto decaye? "no, no, desire both lives and dyes ten thousand times a daye." then, fond desire, farewelle, thou art no mate for mee; i sholde be lothe, methinkes, to dwelle with such a one as thee. footnotes: [ ] lond. , p. . xii. sir andrew barton. i cannot give a better relation of the fact which is the subject of the following ballad, than in an extract from the late mr. guthrie's _peerage_,[ ] which was begun upon a very elegant plan, but never finished. vol. i. to. p. . "the transaction which did the greatest honour to the earl of surrey[ ] and his family at this time (a.d. ), was their behaviour in the case of barton, a scotch sea-officer. this gentleman's father having suffered by sea from the portuguese, he had obtained letters of marque for his two sons to make reprisals upon the subjects of portugal. it is extremely probable, that the court of scotland granted these letters with no very honest intention. the council board of england, at which the earl of surrey held the chief place, was daily pestered with complaints from the sailors and merchants, that barton, who was called sir andrew barton, under pretence of searching for portuguese goods, interrupted the english navigation. henry's situation at that time rendered him backward from breaking with scotland, so that their complaints were but coldly received. the earl of surrey, however, could not smother his indignation, but gallantly declared at the council board, that while he had an estate that could furnish out a ship, or a son that was capable of commanding one, the narrow seas should not be infested. "sir andrew barton, who commanded the two scotch ships, had the reputation of being one of the ablest sea officers of his time. by his depredations, he had amassed great wealth, and his ships were very richly laden. henry, notwithstanding his situation, could not refuse the generous offer made by the earl of surrey. two ships were immediately fitted out, and put to sea with letters of marque, under his two sons, sir thomas[ ] and sir edward howard. after encountering a great deal of foul weather, sir thomas came up with the 'lion,' which was commanded by sir andrew barton in person; and sir edward came up with the 'union,' barton's other ship (called by hall, the 'bark of scotland.') the engagement which ensued was extremely obstinate on both sides; but at last the fortune of the howards prevailed. sir andrew was killed fighting bravely, and encouraging his men with his whistle, to hold out to the last; and the two scotch ships with their crews, were carried into the river thames. (aug. , .) "this exploit had the more merit, as the two english commanders were in a manner volunteers in the service, by their father's order. but it seems to have laid the foundation of sir edward's fortune; for, on the th of april, , the king constituted him (according to dugdale) admiral of england, wales, &c. "king james 'insisted' upon satisfaction for the death of barton, and capture of his ship: tho' henry had generously dismissed the crews, and even agreed that the parties accused might appear in his courts of admiralty by their attornies, to vindicate themselves." this affair was in a great measure the cause of the battle of flodden, in which james iv. lost his life. in the following ballad will be found perhaps some few deviations from the truth of history; to atone for which it has probably recorded many lesser facts, which history hath not condescended to relate. i take many of the little circumstances of the story to be real, because i find one of the most unlikely to be not very remote from the truth. in pt. , v. , it is said, that england had before "but two ships of war." now the "great harry" had been built only seven years before, viz. in : which "was properly speaking the first ship in the english navy. before this period, when the prince wanted a fleet, he had no other expedient but hiring ships from the merchants."--hume. this ballad, which appears to have been written in the reign of elizabeth, has received great improvements from the editor's folio ms. wherein was an ancient copy, which, though very incorrect, seemed in many respects superior to the common ballad; the latter being evidently modernized and abridged from it. the following text is, however, in some places amended and improved by the latter (chiefly from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection), as also by conjecture. * * * * * [there is little to be added to the above preface, but those who wish to read the scottish version will find john lesley's (bishop of ross) account of the affair (_historie of scotland_, - ), quoted in mr. furnivall's full preface to the ballad in the folio ms. (vol. iii. p. ). percy fully explains how he made up his copy. there is, in fact, hardly a line that has not been altered, and the notes at the foot of the page give the reader no idea of the changes that have been made. to have noted all the differences would have loaded the page unnecessarily, and therefore in consideration of the interest of the ballad, a reprint of the folio copy has been added, although there are several printed copies. it is difficult to understand what could have induced percy to reject the pretty lines: "as itt beffell in midsummer time when burds singe sweetlye on every tree," for the incongruous opening of flora with her flowers, and neptune with his showers. the greatest alterations are in vv. - , - ; part , vv. - , - , - , - , - .] * * * * * the first part. when flora with her fragrant flowers 'bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, 'and neptune with his daintye showers 'came to present the monthe of maye;'[ ] king henrye rode to take the ayre, over the river of thames past hee; when eighty merchants of london came, and downe they knelt upon their knee. "o yee are welcome, rich merchànts; good saylors, welcome unto mee." they swore by the rood, they were saylors good, but rich merchànts they cold not bee: "to france nor flanders dare we pass: nor bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; and all for a rover that lyes on the seas,[ ] who robbs us of our merchant ware." king henrye frownd, and turned him rounde, and swore by the lord, that was mickle of might, "i thought he had not beene in the world, durst have wrought england such unright." the merchants sighed, and said, alas! and thus they did their answer frame, he is a proud scott, that robbs on the seas, and sir andrewe barton is his name. the king lookt over his left shouldèr, and an angrye look then looked hee: "have i never a lorde in all my realme, will feitch yond traytor unto mee?" yea, that dare i; lord howard sayes;[ ] yea, that dare i with heart and hand; if it please your grace to give me leave, myselfe wil be the only man. thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: yond scott hath numbred manye a yeare. "trust me, my liege, ile make him quail, or before my prince i will never appeare." then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, and chuse them over my realme so free; besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, to guide the great shipp on the sea. the first man, that lord howard chose, was the ablest gunner in all the realm, thoughe he was threescore yeeres and ten: good peter simon was his name. peter, sais hee, i must to the sea, to bring home a traytor live or dead: before all others i have chosen thee; of a hundred gunners to be the head. if you, my lord, have chosen mee of a hundred gunners to be the head, then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, if i misse my marke one shilling bread.[ ] my lord then chose a boweman rare, whose active hands had gained fame.[ ] in yorkshire was this gentleman borne, and william horseley was his name.[ ] horseley, sayd he, i must with speede go seeke a traytor on the sea, and now of a hundred bowemen brave to be the head i have chosen thee. if you, quoth hee, have chosen mee of a hundred bowemen to be the head; on your maine-màst ile hanged bee, if i miss twelvescore one penny bread.[ ] with pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, this noble howard is gone to the sea; with a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, out at thames mouth sayled he. and days he scant had sayled three, upon the 'voyage' he tooke in hand,[ ] but there he mett with a noble shipp, and stoutely made itt stay and stand. thou must tell me, lord howard said, now who thou art, and what's thy name; and shewe me where thy dwelling is: and whither bound, and whence thou came. my name is henry hunt, quoth hee with a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; i and my shipp doe both belong to the newcastle, that stands upon tyne. hast thou not heard, nowe, henrye hunt, as thou hast sayled by daye and by night, of a scottish rover on the seas;[ ] men call him sir andrew barton, knight? then ever he sighed, and sayd alas! with a grieved mind, and well away! but over-well i knowe that wight, i was his prisoner yesterday. as i was sayling uppon the sea, a burdeaux voyage for to fare; to his hach-borde he clasped me,[ ] and robd me of all my merchant ware: and mickle debts, got wot, i owe, and every man will have his owne; and i am nowe to london bounde, of our gracious king to beg a boone. that shall not need, lord howard sais; lett me but once that robber see, for every penny tane thee froe it shall be doubled shillings three. nowe god forefend, the merchant said, that you shold seek soe far amisse! god keepe you out of that traitors hands! full litle ye wott what a man hee is. hee is brasse within, and steele without, with beames on his topcastle stronge; and eighteen pieces of ordinance he carries on each side along: and he hath a pinnace deerlye dight,[ ] st. andrewes crosse that is his guide; his pinnace beareth ninescore men, and fifteen canons on each side. were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; i sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; he wold overcome them everye one, if once his beames they doe downe fall.[ ] this is cold comfort, sais my lord, to wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: yet ile bring him and his shipp to shore, or to scottland hee shall carrye mee. then a noble gunner you must have, and he must aim well with his ee, and sinke his pinnace into the sea, or else hee never orecome will bee: and if you chance his shipp to borde, this counsel i must give withall, let no man to his topcastle goe to strive to let his beams downe fall. and seven pieces of ordinance, i pray your honour lend to mee, on each side of my shipp along, and i will lead you on the sea. a glasse ile sett, that may be seene, whether you sayle by day or night, and to-morrowe, i sweare, by nine of the clocke you shall meet with sir andrewe barton knight. * * * * * the second part. the merchant sett my lorde a glasse soe well apparent in his sight, and on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, he shewed him sir andrewe barton knight. his hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold,[ ] soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: nowe by my faith, lord howarde sais, this is a gallant sight to see. take in your ancyents,[ ] standards eke, so close that no man may them see; and put me forth a white willowe wand, as merchants use to sayle the sea. but they stirred neither top, nor mast;[ ] stoutly they past sir andrew by. what english churles are yonder, he sayd, that can soe litle curtesye? now by the roode, three yeares and more i have beene admirall over the sea; and never an english nor portingall without my leave can passe this way. then called he forth his stout pinnàce; "fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: i sweare by the masse, yon english churles shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." with that the pinnace itt shott off, full well lord howard might it ken; for itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, and killed fourteen of his men. come hither, simon, sayes my lord, looke that thy word be true, thou said; for at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, if thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. simon was old, but his heart itt was bold. his ordinance he laid right lowe; he put in chaine full nine yardes long,[ ] with other great shott lesse, and moe; and he lette goe his great gunnes shott; soe well he settled itt with his ee, the first sight that sir andrew sawe, he see his pinnace sunke in the sea. and when he saw his pinnace sunke, lord, how his heart with rage did swell! "nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." when my lord sawe sir andrewe loose, within his heart hee was full faine: "nowe spread your ancyents, strike up drummes, sound all your trumpetts out amaine." fight on, my men, sir andrewe sais, weale howsoever this geere will sway; itt is my lord admirall of englànd, is come to seeke mee on the sea. simon had a sonne, who shott right well, that did sir andrewe mickle scare; in att his decke he gave a shott, killed threescore of his men of warre. then henrye hunt with rigour hott came bravely on the other side, soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, and killed fourscore men beside. nowe, out alas! sir andrewe cryed, what may a man now thinke, or say? yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, he was my prisoner yesterday. come hither to me, thou gordon good, that aye wast readye att my call; i will give thee three hundred markes,[ ] if thou wilt let my beames downe fall. lord howard hee then calld in haste, "horseley see thou be true in stead; for thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, if thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." then gordon swarved[ ] the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with might and maine; but horseley with a bearing arrowe,[ ] stroke the gordon through the braine; and he fell unto the haches again, and sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: then word went through sir andrews men, how that the gordon hee was dead. come hither to mee, james hambilton, thou art my only sisters sonne, if thou wilt let my beames downe fall, six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. with that he swarved the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with nimble art; but horseley with a broad arròwe pierced the hambilton through the heart: and downe he fell upon the deck, that with his blood did streame amaine: then every scott cryed, well-away! alas a comelye youth is slaine! all woe begone was sir andrew then, with griefe and rage his heart did swell: "go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, for i will to the topcastle mysell. "goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; that gilded is with gold soe cleare: god be with my brother john of barton! against the portingalls hee it ware; and when he had on this armour of proofe, he was a gallant sight to see: ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, my deere brothèr, could cope with thee." come hither horseley, sayes my lord, and looke your shaft that itt goe right, shoot a good shoote in time of need, and for it thou shalt be made a knight. ile shoot my best, quoth horseley then, your honour shall see, with might and maine; but if i were hanged at your maine-mast, i have now left but arrowes twaine. sir andrew he did swarve the tree, with right good will he swarved then: upon his breast did horseley hitt, but the arrow bounded back agen. then horseley spyed a privye place with a perfect eye in a secrette part; under the spole[ ] of his right arme he smote sir andrew to the heart. "fight on, my men, sir andrew sayes, a little ime hurt, but yett not slaine; ile but lye downe and bleede a while, and then ile rise and fight againe. fight on, my men, sir andrew sayes, and never flinche before the foe; and stand fast by st. andrewes crosse untill you heare my whistle blowe."[ ] they never heard his whistle blow,---- which made their hearts waxe sore adread: then horseley sayd, aboard, my lord, for well i wott sir andrew's dead. they boarded then his noble shipp, they boarded it with might and maine; eighteen score scots alive they found, the rest were either maimed or slaine. lord howard tooke a sword in hand, and off he smote sir andrewes head; "i must have left england many a daye, if thou wert alive as thou art dead." he caused his body to be cast over the hatchbord into the sea, and about his middle three hundred crownes: "wherever thou land this will bury thee." thus from the warres lord howard came, and backe he sayled ore the maine, with mickle joy and triumphìng into thames mouth he came againe. lord howard then a letter wrote, and sealed it with seale and ring; "such a noble prize have i brought to your grace, as never did subject to a king. "sir andrewes shipp i bring with mee; a braver shipp was never none: nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, before in england was but one." king henryes grace with royall cheere welcomed the noble howard home, and where, said he, is this rover stout, that i myselfe may give the doome? "the rover, he is safe, my leige, full many a fadom in the sea; if he were alive as he is dead, i must have left england many a day: and your grace may thank four men i' the ship for the victory wee have wonne, these are william horseley, henry hunt, and peter simon, and his sonne." to henry hunt, the king then sayd, in lieu of what was from thee tane, a noble a day now thou shalt have, sir andrewes jewels and his chayne. and horseley thou shalt be a knight, and lands and livings shalt have store; howard shall be erle surrye hight,[ ] as howards erst have beene before.[ ] nowe, peter simon, thou art old, i will maintaine thee and thy sonne: and the men shall have five hundred markes for the good service they have done. then in came the queene with ladyes fair to see sir andrewe barton knight: they weend that hee were brought on shore, and thought to have seen a gallant sight. but when they see his deadlye face, and eyes soe hollow in his head, i wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, this man were alive as hee is dead: yett for the manfull part hee playd, which fought soe well with heart and hand, his men shall have twelvepence a day, till they come to my brother kings high land. [illustration] [***] * * * * * [the following version is reprinted from hales and furnivall's edition of the folio ms., vol. iii. p. :-- as: itt beffell in m[i]dsumer time when burds singe sweetlye on euery tree, our noble king, king henery the ^{th}, ouer the riuer of thames past hee. hee was no sooner ouer the riuer, downe in a fforrest to take the ayre, but merchants of london cittye came kneeling before king henery there: "o yee are welcome, rich merchants, [good saylors, welcome unto me!"] they swore by the rood thé were saylers good, but rich merchants they cold not bee; "to ffrance nor fflanders dare we nott passe, nor burdeaux voyage wee dare not ffare, & all ffor a ffalse robber that lyes on the seas, & robb vs of our merchants ware." king henery was stout, & he turned him about, & swore by the lord that was mickle of might, "i thought he had not beene in the world throughout, that durst haue wrought england such vnright." but euer they sighed, and said--alas!-- vnto king harry this answere againe "he is a proud scott that will robb vs all if wee were shipps and hee but one." the king looket ouer his left shoulder, amongst his lords & barrons soe ffree: "haue i neuer lord in all my realme will ffeitch yond traitor vnto mee?" "yes, that dare i!" sayes my lord chareles howard, neere to the king wheras hee did stand; "if that your grace will giue me leaue, my selfe wilbe the only man." "thou shalt haue men," saith our king, "& chuse them out of my realme soe ffree; besids marriners and boyes, to guide the great shipp on the sea." "ile goe speake with sir andrew," sais charles, my lord haward; "vpon the sea, if hee be there, i will bring him & his shipp to shore, or before my prince i will neuer come neere." the ffirst of all my lord did call, a noble gunner hee was one; this man was yeeres and ten, & peeter simon was his name. "peeter," sais hee, "i must sayle to the sea to seeke out an enemye; god be my speed! before all others i haue chosen thee; of a ^{d}. guners thoust be my head." "my lord," sais hee," if you haue chosen mee of a ^{d}. gunners to be the head, hange me att your maine-mast tree if i misse my marke past pence bread." the next of all my lord he did call, a noble bowman hee was one; in yorekeshire was this gentleman borne, & william horsley was his name. "horsley," sayes hee, "i must sayle to the sea to seeke out an enemye; god be my speede! before all others i haue chosen thee; of a bowemen thoust be my head." "my lord," sais hee," if you haue chosen mee of a ^{d}. bowemen to be they head, hang me att your mainemast tree if i misse my marke past ^{d}. bread." with pikes, and gunnes, & bowemen bold, this noble howard is gone to the sea on the day before midsummer euen, & out att thames mouth sayled they. they had not sayled dayes vpon their iourney they tooke in hand, but there they mett with a noble shipp, & stoutely made itt both stay & stand. "thou must tell me thy name," sais charles, my lord haward, "or who thou art, or ffrom whence thou came, yea, & where thy dwelling is, to whom & where thy shipp does belong." "my name," sayes hee," is henery hunt, with a pure hart & a penitent mind; i and my shipp they doe belong vnto the new castle that stands vpon tine." "now thou must tell me, harry hunt, as thou hast sayled by day & by night, hast thou not heard of a stout robber? men calls him sir andrew bartton, knight." but euer he sighed, & sayd, "alas! ffull well, my lord, i know that wight! he robd me of my merchants ware, & i was his prisoner but yesternight. "as i was sayling vppon the sea, & burdeaux voyage as i did ffare, he clasped me to his archborde & robd me of all my merchants ware; & i am a man both poore & bare, & euery man will haue his owne of me, & i am bound towards london to ffare, to complaine to my prince henerye." "that shall not need," sais my lord haward; "if thou canst lett me this robber see, ffor euery peny he hath taken thee ffroe, thou shalt be rewarded a shilling," quoth hee. "now god ffore-fend," saies henery hunt, "my lord, you shold worke soe ffarr amisse! god keepe you out of that traitors hands! for you wott ffull litle what a man hee is. "hee is brasse within, & steele without, & beanes hee beares in his topcastle stronge; his shipp hath ordinance cleane round about; besids, my lord, hee is verry well mand; he hath a pinnace is deerlye dight, saint andrews crosse, that is his guide; his pinnace beares score men & more, besids cannons on euery side. "if you were shippes, & he but one, either in charke-bord or in hall, he wold ouercome you euerye one, & if his beanes they doe downe ffall." "this is cold comfort," sais my lord haward, "to wellcome a stranger thus to the sea; he bring him & his shipp to shore, or else into scottland hee shall carrye mee." "then you must gett a noble gunner, my lord, that can sett well with his eye & sinke his pinnace into the sea, & soone then ouercome will hee bee & when that you haue done this, if you chance sir andrew for to bord, lett no man to his topcastle goe; & i will giue you a glasse, my lord, "& then you need to fferae no scott, whether you sayle by day or by night; & to-morrow by of the clocke, you shall meete with sir andrew bartton, knight. i was his prisoner but yester night, & he hath taken mee sworne;" quoth hee, "i trust my l[ord] god will me fforgiue & if that oath then broken bee. "you must lend me sixe peeces, my lord," quoth hee, "into my shipp to sayle the sea, & to-morrow by of the clocke your honour againe then will i see." and the hache-bord where sir andrew lay, is hached with gold deerlye dight: "now by my ffaith," sais charles, my lord haward, "then yonder scott is a worthye wight!" { take in your ancyents & your standards, ^{d}. parte { yea that no man shall them see, { & put me fforth a white willow wand, { as merchants vse to sayle the sea. but they stirred neither top nor mast, but sir andrew they passed by. "whatt english are yonder," said sir andrew, "that can so litle curtesye? "i haue beene admirall ouer the sea more then these yeeres three; there is neuer an english dog, nor portingall, can passe this way without leaue of mee. but now yonder pedlers, they are past, which is no litle greffe to me: ffeich them backe," sayes sir andrew bartton, "they shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." with that they pinnace itt shott of, that my lord haward might itt well ken, itt strokes downe my lords fforemast, & killed of my lord his men. "come hither, simon!" sayes my lord haward, "looke that thy words be true thou sayd; ile hang thee att my maine-mast tree if thou misse thy marke past ^d. bread." simon was old, but his hart itt was bold, hee tooke downe a peece, & layd itt ffull lowe; he put in chaine yeards , besids other great shott lesse and more. with that hee lett his gun shott goe; soe well hee settled itt with his eye, the ffirst sight that sir andrew sawe, hee see his pinnace sunke in the sea. when hee saw his pinace sunke, lord! in his hart hee was not well: "cutt my ropes! itt is time to be gon! ile goe ffeitch yond pedlers backe my selfe!" when my lord haward saw sir andrew loose, lord! in his hart that hee was ffaine: "strike on your drummes, spread out your ancyents! sound out your trumpetts! sound out amaine!" "ffight on, my men!" sais sir andrew bartton; "weate, howsoeuer this geere will sway, itt is my lord adm[i]rall of england is come to seeke mee on the sea." simon had a sonne, with shott of a gunn,-- well sir andrew might itt ken,-- he shott itt in att a priuye place, & killed more of sir andrews men. harry hunt came in att the other syde, & att sir andrew hee shott then, he droue downe his fformost tree, & killed more of sir andirwes men. "i haue done a good turne," sayes harry hunt, "sir andrew is not our kings ffreind; he hoped to haue vndone me yesternight, but i hope i haue quitt him well in the end." "euer alas!" sayd sir andrew barton, "what shold a man either thinke or say? yonder ffalse theeffe is my strongest enemye, who was my prisoner but yesterday. come hither to me, thou gourden good, & be thou readye att my call, & i will giue thee ^{li}. if thou wilt lett my beanes downe ffall." with that hee swarned the maine-mast tree, soe did he itt with might and maine: horseley with a bearing arrow stroke the gourden through the braine, and he ffell into the haches againe, & sore of this wound that he did bleed. then word went throug sir andrews men, that they gourden hee was dead. "come hither to me, iames hambliton,-- thou art my sisters sonne, i haue no more,-- i will giue [thee] ^{li}. if thou will lett my beanes downe ffall." with that hee swarned the maine-mast tree, soe did hee itt with might and maine: horseley with an-other broad arrow strake the yeaman through the braine, that hee ffell downe to the haches againe: sore of his wound that hee did bleed. itt is verry true, as the welchman sayd, couetousness getts no gaine. but when hee saw his sisters sonne slaine, lord! in his heart hee was not well. "goe ffeitch me downe my armour of proue, ffor i will to the topcastle my-selfe. goe ffeitch me downe my armour of prooffe, for itt is guilded with gold soe cleere. god be with my brother, iohn of bartton! amongst the portingalls hee did itt weare." but when hee had his armour of prooffe, & on his body hee had itt on, euery man that looked att him sayd, "gunn nor arrow hee neede feare none!" "come hither, horsley!" sayes my lord haward, "& looke your shaft that itt goe right; shoot a good shoote in the time of need, & ffor thy shooting thoust be made a knight." "ile doe my best," sayes horslay then, "your honor shall see beffore i goe; if i shold be hanged att your mainemast, i haue in my shipp but arrowes tow." but att sir andrew hee shott then; hee made sure to hitt his marke; vnder the spole of his right arme hee smote sir andrew quite throw the hart. yett ffrom the tree hee wold not start, but hee clinged to itt with might & maine. vnder the coller then of his iacke, he stroke sir andrew thorrow the braine. "ffight on my men," sayes sir andrew bartton, "i am hurt, but i am not slaine; ile lay mee downe & bleed a-while, & then ile rise & ffight againe. ffight on my men," sayes sir andrew bartton, "these english doggs they bite soe lowe; ffight on ffor scottland & saint andrew till you heare my whistle blowe!" but when thé cold not heare his whistle blow, sayes harry hunt, "ile lay my head you may bord yonder noble shipp, my lord, for i know sir andrew hee is dead." with that they borded this noble shipp, soe did they itt with might & maine; thé ffound score scotts aliue, besids the rest were maimed & slaine. my lord haward tooke a sword in his hand, & smote of sir andrews head. the scotts stood by, did weepe & mourne, but neuer a word durst speake or say. he caused his body to be taken downe, & ouer the hatch-bord cast into the sea, & about his middle crownes: "wheresoeuer thou lands, itt will bury thee." with his head they sayled into england againe with right good will & fforce & meanye, & the day beffore new yeeres euen & into thames mouth againe they came. my lord haward wrote to king heneryes grace, with all the newes hee cold him bring: "such a new yeeres gifft i haue brought to your gr[ace], as neuer did subiect to any king. "ffor merchandyes and manhood, the like is nott to be ffound; the sight of these wold doe you good, ffor you haue not the like in your english ground." but when hee heard tell that they were come, full royally hee welcomed them home: sir andrews shipp was the kings new yeeres guifft; a brauer shipp you neuer saw none. now hath our king sir andrews shipp besett with pearles and precyous stones; now hath england shipps of warr, shipps of warr, before but one. "who holpe to this?" sayes king henerye, "that i may reward him ffor his paine," "harry hunt and peeter simon, william horseleay, & i the same." "harry hunt shall haue his whistle & chaine, & all his iewells, whatsoeuer they bee, & other rich giffts that i will not name, for his good service he hath done mee. horslay, right thoust be a knight; lands and liuings thou shalt haue store. howard shalbe erle of nottingham, & soe was neuer haward before. "now peeter simon, thou art old, i will maintaine thee & thy sonne, thou shalt haue ^{li}. all in gold ffor the good service that thou hast done." then king henerye shiffted his roome; in came the queene & ladyes bright; other arrands they had none but to see sir andrew bartton, knight. but when they see his deadly fface, his eyes were hollow in his head, "i wold giue a ^{li}." sais king henerye, "the man were aliue as hee is dead! yett ffor the manfull part that hee hath playd both heere & beyond the sea his men shall haue halfe a crowne a day to bring them to my brother king iamye." ffinis.] footnotes: [ ] [copied literally from lord herbert's (of cherbury) _history of henry viii._, p. .] [ ] thomas howard, afterwards created duke of norfolk. [ ] called by old historians lord howard, afterwards created earl of surrey in his father's lifetime. he was father of the poetical earl of surrey. [ ] from the pr. copy. [ ] ver. , . robber, ms. [ ] ver. . lord charles howard, ms. [ ] an old eng. word for breadth. [ ] pr. copy. [ ] mr. lambe, in his notes to the poem on the _battle of flodden field_, contends that this expert bowman's name was not horseley, but hustler, of a family long seated near stockton, in cleveland, yorkshire. vid. p. . [ ] ver. . journey, ms. [ ] ver. . the ms. has here archborde, but in pt. ii. ver. hachebord: [= ship or side of the ship.] [ ] [richly fitted out.] [ ] it should seem from hence, that before our marine artillery was brought to its present perfection, some naval commanders had recourse to instruments or machines, similar in use, though perhaps unlike in construction, to the heavy dolphins made of lead or iron used by the ancient greeks; which they suspended from beams or yards fastened to the masts, and which they precipitately let fall on the enemies ships, in order to sink them, by beating holes through the bottoms of their undecked triremes, or otherwise damaging them. these are mentioned by thucydides, lib. vii. p. , ed. , folio, and are more fully explained in _schefferi de militiâ navali_, lib. ii. cap. v. p. , ed. , to. n.b. it everywhere in the ms. seems to be written "beanes." [ ] ver. . "hached with gold," ms. [ ] [flags.] [ ] _i.e._ did not salute. [ ] ver. . _i.e._ discharged chain-shot. [ ] ver. . pounds, ms. [ ] [climbed.] [ ] v. . bearinge, sc. that carries well, &c. [ ] [shoulder.] [ ] [for a reference to whistles used by naval commanders, see statute of apparel, hen. viii. c. (anstis's _order of the garter_, vol. ii. p. .)] [ ] ver. , .... erle of nottingham, and soe was never, &c., ms. xiii. lady anne bothwell's lament. a scottish song. the subject of this pathetic ballad the editor once thought might possibly relate to the earl of bothwell, and his desertion of his wife lady jean gordon, to make room for his marriage with the queen of scots. but this opinion he now believes to be groundless; indeed earl bothwell's age, who was upwards of at the time of that marriage, renders it unlikely that he should be the object of so warm a passion as this elegy supposes. he has been since informed, that it entirely refers to a private story: a young lady of the name of _bothwell_, or rather _boswell_, having been, together with her child, deserted by her husband or lover, composed these affecting lines herself; which here are given from a copy in the editor's folio ms. corrected by another in allan ramsay's _miscellany_. * * * * * [the young lady alluded to above has since been set aside for the hon. anne bothwell, daughter of adam bothwell, bishop of orkney. mr. james maidment, in his elegant edition of _scottish ballads and songs_ (vol. ii. ), writes: "the late charles kirkpatrick sharpe, esquire, whose knowledge of antiquated scandal was extraordinary, found in a ms. history of the family of bothwell by father hay, that adam bothwell, bishop of orkney, had a daughter named 'anne, who fell with child to a son of the earl of marre.'" anne was the sister of the first lord holyroodhouse (created in ), and her seducer was alexander, third son of john, seventh earl of mar, a cousin of her own, considered one of the handsomest men of his day. this is all very well for conjecture, but it is nothing more. the ballad does not appear to have been associated with a bothwell, or in fact with any named person, until more than a century after it was written. in the folio ms. it is simply called _balowe_, and percy therefore might well have hesitated before he gave it the heading he has, and before he scotticised all the english words. the four earliest versions are in the following books: . richard brome's comedy of the _northern lass, or the nest of fools_, printed in , but acted somewhat earlier; . percy folio; . pinkerton's ms. ( - ), in the possession of david laing; . john gamble's ms., ; . elizabeth rogers' ms., . mr. chappell drew up the following very valuable note for the edition of the percy folio (vol. iii. p. ), which puts the matter very clearly:-- "baloo is a sixteenth-century ballad, not a seventeenth. it is alluded to by several of our early dramatists, and the tune is to be found in an early elizabethan ms. known as william ballet's lute book, as well as in morley's _consort lessons_, printed in . the words and tune are together in john gamble's music book, a ms. in the possession of dr. rimbault, (date ,) and in elizabeth rogers's virginal book, in the library of the british museum (addit. ms. , ). the last is dated , but the copy may have been taken some few years after. baloo was so popular a subject that it was printed as a street ballad, with additional stanzas, just as 'my lodging it is on the cold ground' and other popular songs were lengthened for the same purpose. it has been reprinted in that form by evans, in his _old ballads, historical and narrative_, edit. , vol. i. p. . the title is 'the new balow; or a wenches lamentation for the loss of her sweetheart: he having left her a babe to play with, being the fruits of her folly.' the particular honour of having been the 'wench' in question was first claimed for 'lady anne bothwell' in part iii. of _comic and serious scots poems_, published by watson in edinburgh in . since that date scotch antiquaries have been very busy in searching into the scandalous history of the bothwell family, to find out which of the lady annes might have been halla-balooing. "may we not release the whole race from this imputation? the sole authority for the charge is watson's _collection_! the same book that ascribes to the unfortunate montrose the song of 'my dear and only love, take heed,' and tacks it as a second part to his 'my dear and only love, i pray.' shade of montrose! how must you be ashamed of your over-zealous advocate! let us examine whether the spirit of 'lady anne bothwel' has more reason to be grateful. among the stanzas ascribed to her by watson are the two following, which are not to be found in any english copy:-- 'i take my fate from best to worse that i must needs now be a nurse, and lull my young son in my lap. from me, sweet orphan, take the pap: balow, my boy, thy mother mild shall sing, as from all bliss exil'd.' "in the second we find the inducement supposed to have been offered by lady anne's lover: 'i was too credulous at the first to grant thee that a maiden durst, and in thy bravery thou didst vaunt that i no maintenance should want:(!) thou swear thou lov'd, thy mind is moved, which since no otherwise has proved.' "comment is unnecessary. can any one believe that such lines were written by or for any lady of rank? yet they were copied as lady anne's by allan ramsay, and polished in his usual style. they have been polished and repolished by subsequent editors, but to little avail, for they remain great blots upon a good english ballad. there is not a scotch word, nor even one peculiar to the north of england, in the whole of watson's version." this attempt to dispute the scottish origin of the ballad is strongly resented by the editor of the _ballad minstrelsy of scotland_, glasgow, . at all events the fact remains that the title "lady anne bothwell's balow" cannot be traced farther back than watson's _collection_, published in .] * * * * * balow,[ ] my babe, lye still and sleipe! it grieves me sair to see thee weipe: if thoust be silent, ise be glad, thy maining[ ] maks my heart ful sad. balow, my boy, thy mothers joy, thy father breides me great annoy. balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, it grieves me sair to see thee weepe. whan he began to court my luve, and with his sugred wordes[ ] to muve, his faynings fals, and flattering cheire to me that time did not appeire: but now i see, most cruell hee cares neither for my babe nor mee. balow, &c. lye still, my darling, sleipe a while, and when thou wakest, sweitly smile: but smile not, as thy father did, to cozen maids: nay god forbid! bot yett i feire, thou wilt gae neire thy fatheris hart, and face to beire. balow, &c. i cannae chuse, but ever will be luving to thy father still: whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, my luve with him doth still abyde: in weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, mine hart can neire depart him frae. balow, &c. bot doe not, doe not, prettie mine, to faynings fals thine hart incline: be loyal to thy luver trew, and nevir change hir for a new: if gude or faire, of hir have care, for womens banning's[ ] wonderous sair. balow, &c. bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; my babe and i'll together live, he'll comfort me when cares doe grieve: my babe and i right saft will ly, and quite forgeit man's cruelty. balow, &c. fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth, that evir kist a womans mouth! i wish all maides be warnd by mee nevir to trust mans curtesy; for if we doe bot chance to bow, they'le use us then they care not how. balow, my babe, ly stil, and sleipe, it grives me sair to see thee weipe. footnotes: [ ] [hush.] [ ] [moaning.] [ ] when _sugar_ was first imported into europe, it was a very great dainty; and therefore the epithet _sugred_ is used by all our old writers metaphorically to express extreme and delicate sweetness. (see above, no. xi. v. .) _sugar_ at present is cheap and common; and therefore suggests now a coarse and vulgar idea. [ ] [cursing.] xiv. the murder of the king of scots. the catastrophe of henry stewart, lord darnley, the unfortunate husband of mary q. of scots, is the subject of this ballad. it is here related in that partial, imperfect manner in which such an event would naturally strike the subjects of another kingdom, of which he was a native. henry appears to have been a vain, capricious, worthless young man, of weak understanding, and dissolute morals. but the beauty of his person, and the inexperience of his youth, would dispose mankind to treat him with an indulgence, which the cruelty of his murder would afterwards convert into the most tender pity and regret: and then imagination would not fail to adorn his memory with all those virtues he ought to have possessed. this will account for the extravagant elogium bestowed upon him in the first stanza, &c. henry lord darnley was eldest son of the earl of lennox, by the lady margaret douglas, niece of henry viii. and daughter of margaret queen of scotland by the earl of angus, whom that princess married after the death of james iv.--darnley, who had been born and educated in england, was but in his st year, when he was murdered, feb. , - . this crime was perpetrated by the e. of bothwell, not out of respect to the memory of riccio, but in order to pave the way for his own marriage with the queen. this ballad (printed, with a few corrections, from the editor's folio ms.) seems to have been written soon after mary's escape into england in , see v. .--it will be remembered at v. , that this princess was q. dowager of france, having been first married to francis ii. who died dec. , . * * * * * [in the above note percy takes the ordinary unfavourable view of darnley's character, which is not entirely borne out by contemporary evidence. darnley was unfortunate both in having all mary's friends as his enemies and in having no supporters among her opponents because he was a roman catholic. it is not fair to dispose of such a ballad as the present with the inference that the writer could know nothing of darnley's character. it does not stand alone, and it appears from the broadsides that circulated through the country after his murder that the people had a real liking for him although he had been amongst them only a couple of years. robert lekprevik, the most celebrated edinburgh printer of his time, printed in , _the testament and tragedie of umquhile king henrie stewart of gude memorie_, a powerful poem, which discovers clearly the popular feeling against mary. mr. froude also found one of these ballads among the scottish state papers, in which curses are heaped upon mary, who is called dalila, clytemnestra and semiramis for her murder of "ane bonny boy." one of the verses is as follows:-- "at ten houris on sunday late at een, when dalila and bothwell bade good night, off her finger false she threw ane ring, and said, my lord ane token you i plight." if the circumstances of the english ballad are related in a partial and imperfect manner, what shall we say of the much more severe tone of those written in scotland. mr. maidment[ ] has gathered together a few facts that show how much may be said in favour of the unfortunate prince. it appears from colville's _historie and life of king james the sext_, that secretary maitland inflamed darnley's mind with the insinuation that rizzio was too intimate with the queen. the criminal familiarity of her majesty with rizzio appears to have been generally suspected, so that darnley's conduct was that of a jealous husband who was fascinated with his wife. colville gives the following portrait of him:--"he was a cumlie prince, of a fayre and large stature of bodie, pleasant in countenance and affable to all men and devote, weill excercesit in martiall pastymis uponn horsback as ony prince of that age, bot was sa facile as he could concele no secreit although it myght tend to his awin weill."[ ] he was certainly accomplished and had been carefully educated. he wrote a little tale called _utopia nova_ when he was between eight and nine years of age, which he presented to his cousin, mary tudor. the queen in return presented him with a gold chain, which he acknowledged in a letter remarkable for the extreme beauty of its caligraphy. he also completed a translation into english of valerius maximus. mr. froude severely condemns the character of darnley in the following terms: "he was at once meddlesome and incapable, weak and cowardly, yet insolent and unmanageable," and adds that randolph described him as "a conceited, arrogant, intolerant fool." nevertheless "the death of the husband of the queen of scots belongs to that rare class of incidents which, like the murder of cæsar, have touched the interests of the entire educated world. perhaps there is no single recorded act, arising merely out of private or personal passions, of which the public consequences have been so considerable."[ ] darnley was the second son of the earl and countess of lennox, and not, as stated above, by percy, the eldest. their first-born died on the th of november, , nine months after his birth. the following ballad is entitled _earle bodwell_ in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ). in the first three editions of the _reliques_ there were more alterations from the ms. than in the fourth, for in the latter percy restored several of the old readings. the retained alterations are judicious, and no more than the editor might well feel himself justified in making.] * * * * * woe worth, woe worth thee, false scotlànde![ ] for thou hast ever wrought by sleight;[ ] the worthyest prince that ever was borne,[ ] you hanged under a cloud by night. the queene of france a letter wrote, and sealed itt with harte and ringe; and bade him come scotland within, and shee wold marry and crowne him kinge.[ ] to be a king is a pleasant thing,[ ] to bee a prince unto a peere: but you have heard, and soe have i too, a man may well buy gold too deare. there was an italyan in that place, was as well beloved as ever was hee, lord david was his name,[ ] chamberlaine to the queene was hee.[ ] if the king had risen forth of his place,[ ] he wold have sate him downe in the cheare,[ ] and tho itt beseemed him not so well, altho the kinge had beene present there. some lords in scotlande waxed wroth,[ ] and quarrelled with him for the nonce; i shall you tell how it befell, twelve daggers were in him att once.[ ] when the queene saw her chamberlaine was slaine,[ ] for him her faire cheeks shee did weete,[ ] and made a vowe for a yeare and a day[ ] the king and shee wold not come in one sheete. then some of the lords they waxed wrothe,[ ] and made their vow all vehementlye; for the death of the queenes chamberlaine, the king himselfe, how he shall dye.[ ] with gun-powder they strewed his roome,[ ] and layd greene rushes in his way; for the traitors thought that very night[ ] this worthye king for to betray.[ ] to bedd the king he made him bowne;[ ][ ] to take his rest was his desire;[ ] he was noe sooner cast on sleepe, but his chamber was on a biasing fire. up he lope,[ ] and the window brake;[ ] and hee had thirtye foote to fall:[ ] lord bodwell kept a privy watch, underneath his castle wall. who have wee here? lord bodwell sayd:[ ] now answer me, that i may know.[ ] "king henry the eighth my uncle was; for his sweete sake some pitty show."[ ] who have we here? lord bodwell sayd,[ ] now answer me when i doe speake.[ ] "ah, lord bodwell, i know thee well; some pitty on me i pray thee take." ile pitty thee as much, he sayd, and as much favor show to thee,[ ] as thou didst to the queenes chamberlaine,[ ] that day thou deemedst[ ] him to die.[ ] through halls and towers the king they ledd,[ ] through towers and castles that were nye,[ ] through an arbor into an orchàrd, there on a peare-tree hanged him hye.[ ] when the governor of scotland heard[ ] how that the worthye king was slaine;[ ] he persued the queen so bitterlye, that in scotland shee dare not remaine.[ ] but she is fledd into merry england, and here her residence hath taine;[ ] and through the queene of englands grace,[ ] in england now shee doth remaine.[ ] footnotes: [ ] james maidment's _scottish ballads and songs_, , vol. ii. p. . [ ] quoted in maidment's _ballads_, , vol. ii. p. . [ ] [froude's _history of england_ (elizabeth), vol. iii. pp. - .] [ ] [ver. . woe worth thee, woe worth thee, ms.] [ ] [v. . by a sleight.] [ ] [v. . for the worthyest.] [ ] [v. . wold marry him.] [ ] [ver. . it is a pleasant.] [ ] v. . _sic_ ms. [ ] [v. . chamberlaine unto.] [ ] [v. . ffor if the king.] [ ] [v. . have sitt him.] [ ] [v. . wonderous wroth.] [ ] [v. . all att once.] [ ] [v. . when this queen see the chamberlaine.] [ ] [v. . her cheeks.] [ ] [v. . vow for a month.] [ ] [v. . lords of scottland waxed.] [ ] [v. . the king himselfe he shall dye.] [ ] [v. . they strowed his chamber over with gun-powder.] [ ] [v. . that night.] [ ] [v. . the worthye.] [ ] [ready.] [ ] [ver. . the worthy king made.] [ ] [v. . that was his desire.] [ ] [leapt.] [ ] [v. . and a glasse window broke.] [ ] [v. . he had foote for to ffall.] [ ] [v. . sayd lord bodwell.] [ ] [v. . answer me, now i doe call.] [ ] [v. . some pitty show for his sweet sake.] [ ] [v. , . these two lines are not in the ms., but are here introduced to equalize the stanzas.] [ ] [v. . ile show to thee.] [ ] [v. . as thou had on the.] [ ] [doomedst.] [ ] pronounced after the northern manner dee. [ ] [v. . this king.] [ ] [v. . through castles and towers that were hye.] [ ] [v. . and there hanged him in a peare tree.] [ ] [ver. . scottland he heard tell.] [ ] [v. . that the worthye king he was slaine.] [ ] [v. . he hath banished the queene.] [ ] [v. . and scottland to aside hath laine.] [ ] [v. . good grace.] [ ] [v. . now in england, ms.] xv. a sonnet by q. elizabeth. the following lines, if they display no rich vein of poetry, are yet so strongly characteristic of their great and spirited authoress, that the insertion of them will be pardoned. they are preserved in puttenham's _arte of english poesie_; a book in which are many sly addresses to the queen's foible of shining as a poetess. the extraordinary manner in which these verses are introduced shews what kind of homage was exacted from the courtly writers of that age, viz. "i find," says this antiquated critic, "none example in english metre, so well maintaining this figure [_exargasia_, or the gorgeous, lat. _expolitio_] as that dittie of her majesties owne making, passing sweete and harmonicall; which figure beyng as his very originall name purporteth the most bewtifull and gorgious of all others, it asketh in reason to be reserved for a last complement, and desciphred by a ladies penne herselfe beyng the most bewtifull, or rather bewtìe of queenes.[ ] and this was the occasion: our soveraigne lady perceiving how the scottish queenes residence within this realme at so great libertie and ease (as were skarce meete for so great and dangerous a prysoner) bred secret factions among her people, and made many of the nobilitie incline to favour her partie: some of them desirous of innovation in the state: others aspiring to greater fortunes by her libertie and life. the queene our soveraigne ladie to declare that she was nothing ignorant of those secret practizes, though she had long with great wisdome and pacience dissembled it, writeth this dittie most sweete and sententious, not hiding from all such aspiring minds the daunger of their ambition and disloyaltie: which afterward fell out most truly by th' exemplary chastisement of sundry persons, who in fauour of the said sc. q. declining from her maiestie, sought to interrupt the quiet of the realme by many euill and vndutiful practizes." (p. .) this sonnet was probably written in , not long before hen. percy th e. of northumberland was imprisoned on suspicion of plotting with f. throckmorton, tho. lord paget, and the guises, for invading england, and liberating the q. of scots, &c. (see collins's _peerage_, , ii. .) the original is written in long lines or alexandrines, each of which is here, on account of the narrowness of the page, subdivided into two: but her majesty's orthography, or at least that of her copyist, is exactly followed. in the first edition of harrington's _nugæ antiquæ_, st vol. , mo. p. , is a copy of this poem, with great variations, the best of which are noted below. it is there accompanied with a very curious letter, in which this sonnet is said to be "of her highness own enditing ... my lady willoughby did covertly get it on her majesties tablet, and had much hazard in so doing; for the queen did find out the thief, and chid for spreading evil bruit of her writing such toyes, when other matters did so occupy her employment at this time; and was fearful of being thought too lightly of for so doing." *** * * * * * the doubt of future foes,[ ] exiles my present ioy, and wit me warnes to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy. for falshood now doth flow, and subiect faith doth ebbe,[ ] which would not be, if reason rul'd[ ] or wisdome weu'd the webbe.[ ] but clowdes of iois vntried,[ ] do cloake aspiring mindes, which turne to raine of late repent,[ ] by course of changed windes. the toppe of hope supposed, the roote of ruthe wil be, and frutelesse all their graffed guiles, as shortly ye shall see. then dazeld eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds, shalbe vnseeld by worthy wights, whose foresight falshood finds. the daughter of debate,[ ] that eke discord doth sowe,[ ] shal reap no gaine where former rule[ ] hath taught stil peace to growe. no forreine bannisht wight shall ancre in this port, our realme it brookes no strangers force,[ ] let them elsewhere resort. our rusty sworde with rest, shall first his edge employ, to polle their toppes, that seeke such change and gape for 'such like' ioy.[ ] * * * * * [+±+] i cannot help subjoining to the above sonnet another distich of elizabeth's preserved by puttenham (p. ) "which (says he) our soveraigne lady wrote in defiance of fortune." "never thinke you, fortune can beare the sway, where vertue's force can cause her to obay." the slightest effusion of such a mind deserves attention. footnotes: [ ] she was at this time near three-score. [ ] ver. . dread, harrington's ed. [ ] v. . subjects, har. [ ] v. . should, har. [ ] v. . wove, har. [ ] ver. . joys, har. [ ] v. . raigne, puttenham. [ ] _scil._ the queen of scots. [ ] v. . that discorde aye, har. [ ] v. . formor, put. [ ] v. . realme brookes no seditious sects, har. [ ] v. . "such like" is supplied from harrington's ed., in which are other variations, that seem meer mistakes of the transcriber or printer. xvi. king of scots and andrew browne. this ballad is a proof of the little intercourse that subsisted between the scots and english, before the accession of james i. to the crown of england. the tale which is here so circumstantially related does not appear to have had the least foundation in history, but was probably built upon some confused hearsay report of the tumults in scotland during the minority of that prince, and of the conspiracies formed by different factions to get possession of his person. it should seem from ver. to have been written during the regency, or at least before the death, of the earl of morton, who was condemned and executed june , ; when james was in his th year. the original copy (preserved in the archives of the antiquarian society, london) is intitled, _a new ballad, declaring the great treason conspired against the young king of scots, and how one andrew browne an englishman, which was the king's chamberlaine, prevented the same. to the tune of milfield, or els to green-sleeves._ at the end is subjoined the name of the author "w. elderton. imprinted at london for yarathe james, dwelling in newgate market, over against ch. church," in black-letter, folio. this _elderton_, who had been originally an attorney in the sheriffs' courts of london, and afterwards (if we may believe oldys) a comedian, was a facetious fuddling companion, whose tippling and rhymes rendered him famous among his contemporaries. he was author of many popular songs and ballads: and probably other pieces in these volumes, besides the following, are of his composing. he is believed to have fallen a victim to his bottle before the year . his epitaph has been recorded by camden, and translated by oldys:-- "hic situs est sitiens, atque ebrius eldertonus, quid dico hic situs est? hic potius sitis est," "dead drunk here elderton doth lie; dead as he is, he still is dry: so of him it may well be said, here he, but not his thirst, is laid." see stow's _lond._ [_guild hall_].--_biog. brit._ [_drayton_, by oldys note b.] ath. ox.--camden's _remains_.--_the exale-tation of ale_, among beaumont's _poems_, vo. . * * * * * [this ballad was licensed to y. james on the th of may, . percy does not mention in the above note the fact that the ballad is included in the folio ms., where it is entitled _bishoppe and_ _browne_ (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ). it only consists of ten stanzas in place of fifteen, and two of them are incomplete. there is a sort of second part, probably also by elderton, called _king james and brown_, in the ms. (vol. i. p. ), the villain of which is the same douglas who is warned in the th verse of the present ballad to "take heede you do not offend the king."] * * * * * out alas!' what a griefe is this that princes subjects cannot be true, but still the devill hath some of his, will play their parts whatsoever ensue; forgetting what a grievous thing it is to offend the anointed king? alas for woe, why should it be so, this makes a sorrowful heigh ho. in scotland is a bonnie kinge, as proper a youth as neede to be, well given to every happy thing, that can be in a kinge to see: yet that unluckie country still, hath people given to craftie will. alas for woe, &c. on whitsun eve it so befell, a posset was made to give the king, whereof his ladie nurse hard tell, and that it was a poysoned thing: she cryed, and called piteouslie; now help, or els the king shall die! alas for woe, &c. one browne, that was an english man, and hard the ladies piteous crye, out with his sword, and bestir'd him than, out of the doores in haste to flie; but all the doores were made so fast, out of a window he got at last alas for woe, &c. he met the bishop coming fast, having the posset in his hande: the sight of browne made him aghast, who bad him stoutly staie and stand. with him were two that ranne awa, for feare that browne would make a fray. alas for woe, &c. bishop, quoth browne, what hast thou there? nothing at all, my friend, sayde he; but a posset to make the king good cheere. is it so? sayd browne, that will i see, first i will have thyself begin, before thou go any further in; be it weale or woe, it shall be so, this makes a sorrowful heigh ho. the bishop sayde, browne i doo know, thou art a young man poore and bare; livings on thee i will bestowe: let me go on, take thou no care. no, no, quoth browne, i will not be a traitour for all christiantie: happe well or woe, it shall be so, drink now with a sorrowfull, &c. the bishop dranke, and by and by his belly burst and he fell downe: a just rewarde for his traitery. this was a posset indeed, quoth brown! he serched the bishop, and found the keyes, to come to the kinge when he did please. alas for woe, &c. as soon as the king got word of this, he humbly fell uppon his knee, and praysed god that he did misse to tast of that extremity: for that he did perceive and know, his clergie would betray him so: alas for woe, &c. alas, he said, unhappie realme,[ ] my father, and grandfather slaine: my mother banished, o extreame! unhappy fate, and bitter bayne! and now like treason wrought for me, what more unhappie realme can be! alas for woe, &c. the king did call his nurse to his grace, and gave her twenty poundes a yeere; and trustie browne too in like case, he knighted him with gallant geere; and gave him 'lands and' livings great, for dooing such a manly feat, as he did showe, to the bishop's woe, which made, &c. when all this treason done and past, tooke not effect of traytery; another treason at the last, they sought against his majestie: how they might make their kinge away, by a privie banket[ ] on a daye. alas for woe, &c. 'another time' to sell the king beyonde the seas they had decreede: three noble earles heard of this thing. and did prevent the same with speede. for a letter came, with such a charme, that they should doo their king no harme: for further woe, if they did soe, would make a sorrowful heigh hoe. the earle mourton told the douglas then, take heede you do not offend the king; but shew yourselves like honest men obediently in every thing: for his godmother[ ] will not see her noble childe misus'd to be with any woe; for if it be so, she will make, &c. god graunt all subjects may be true, in england, scotland, every where: that no such daunger may ensue, to put the prince or state in feare: that god the highest king may see obedience as it ought to be, in wealth or woe, god graunt it be so to avoide the sorrowful heigh ho. footnotes: [ ] ver. . his father was henry lord darnley. his grandfather the old earl of lenox, regent of scotland, and father of lord darnley, was murdered at stirling, sept. , . [ ] [banquet.] [ ] q. elizabeth. xvii. the bonny earl of murray. a scottish song. in december, , francis stewart, earl of bothwell, had made an attempt to seize on the person of his sovereign james vi., but being disappointed, had retired towards the north. the king unadvisedly gave a commission to george gordon earl of huntley, to pursue bothwell and his followers with fire and sword. huntley, under cover of executing that commission, took occasion to revenge a private quarrel he had against james stewart earl of murray, a relation of bothwell's. in the night of feb. , , he beset murray's house, burnt it to the ground, and slew murray himself; a young nobleman of the most promising virtues, and the very darling of the people. see robertson's _hist._ the present lord murray hath now in his possession a picture of his ancestor naked and covered with wounds, which had been carried about, according to the custom of that age, in order to inflame the populace to revenge his death. if this picture did not flatter, he well deserved the name of the _bonny earl_, for he is there represented as a tall and comely personage. it is a tradition in the family, that gordon of bucky gave him a wound in the face: murray half expiring, said, "you hae spilt a better face than your awin." upon this, bucky pointing his dagger at huntley's breast, swore, "you shall be as deep as i;" and forced him to pierce the poor defenceless body. k. james, who took no care to punish the murtherers, is said by some to have privately countenanced and abetted them, being stimulated by jealousy for some indiscreet praises which his queen had too lavishly bestowed on this unfortunate youth. see the preface to the next ballad. see also mr. walpole's _catalogue of royal auth._ vol. i. p. . * * * * * [james stewart, son of sir james stewart of doune, acquired the earldom of murray by his marriage with elizabeth, eldest daughter and heiress of the regent murray. the earl was only twenty-one years of age at the time of his murder, which was perpetrated at dinnibrissel, the seat of his mother, where he was on a visit. doune castle in menteith is now in ruins, but it is still the property of the family, and gives the title of viscount to the eldest son of the earl of murray. the earl of huntley, instead of being punished for his crime, was created a marquis, and king james made the young earl of murray marry the eldest daughter of his father's murderer. there is another version of this ballad given in finlay's _scottish ballads_ (ii. ), which commences-- "open the gates and let him come in; he is my brother huntly, he'll do me nae harm." the author of this seems to have supposed that murray married a sister of huntley.] * * * * * ye highlands, and ye lawlands, oh! quhair hae ye been? they hae slaine the earl of murray, and hae laid him on the green. now wae be to thee, huntley! and quhairfore did you sae! i bade you bring him wi' you, but forbade you him to slay. he was a braw gallant, and he rid at the ring; and the bonny earl of murray, oh! he might hae been a king. he was a braw gallant, and he playd at the ba'; and the bonny earl of murray was the flower among them a'. he was a braw gallant, and he playd at the gluve; and the bonny earl of murray, oh! he was the queenes luve. oh! lang will his lady luke owre the castle downe,[ ] ere she see the earl of murray cum sounding throw the towne. footnotes: [ ] _castle downe_ here has been thought to mean the _castle of downe_, a seat belonging to the family of murray. xviii. young waters. a scottish ballad. it has been suggested to the editor, that this ballad covertly alludes to the indiscreet partiality, which q. anne of denmark is said to have shewn for the _bonny earl of murray_; and which is supposed to have influenced the fate of that unhappy nobleman. let the reader judge for himself. the following account of the murder is given by a contemporary writer, and a person of credit, sir james balfour, knight, lyon king of arms, whose ms. of the annals of scotland is in the advocates library at edinburgh. "the seventh of febry, this yeire, , the earle of murray was cruelly murthered by the earle of huntley at his house in dunibrissel in fyffe-shyre, and with him dumbar, shriffe of murray. it [was] given out and publickly talked, that the earle of huntley was only the instrument of perpetrating this facte, to satisfie the king's jealousie of murray, quhum the queine more rashely than wyslie, some few dayes before had commendit in the king's heiringe, with too many epithets of a proper and gallant man. the reasons of these surmises proceidit from proclamatione of the kings, the of marche following; inhibiting the younge earle of murray to persue the earle of huntley, for his father's slaughter, in respect he being wardit [imprisoned] in the castell of blacknesse for the same murther, was willing to abide his tryall, averring that he had done nothing bot by the king's majesties commissione; and was neither airt nor part of the murther."[ ] the following ballad is here given from a copy printed not long since at glasgow, in one sheet vo. the world was indebted for its publication to the lady jean hume, sister to the earl of hume, who died at gibraltar [in ]. * * * * * [buchan, who printed a longer version of this ballad in thirty-nine stanzas, believed young waters to have been david graham of fintray, who was found guilty of being concerned in a popish plot, and beheaded on the th of february, . chambers supposed that the fate of some one of the scottish nobles executed by james i. after his return from captivity in england is alluded to. the various conflicting conjectures are none of them very probable, and there is nothing in the ballad that would conclusively connect it with authentic scottish history. percy's suggestion is peculiarly unfortunate, as young waters was publicly executed at stirling. mr. maidment points out (_scottish ballads and songs_, vol. i. p. ) that the first edition appeared under the following title, _young_ _waters, an ancient scotish poem, never before printed. glasgow:_ _printed and sold by robert and andrew foulis, mdcclv._ sm. to. pp. ; and he suggests that lord hailes was the editor of it.] * * * * * about yule, quhen the wind blew cule, and the round tables began, a'! there is cum to our kings court mony a well-favourd man. the queen luikt owre the castle wa, beheld baith dale and down, and then she saw young waters cum riding to the town. his footmen they did rin before, his horsemen rade behind, ane mantel of the burning gowd did keip him frae the wind. gowden graith'd[ ] his horse before and siller shod behind, the horse yong waters rade upon was fleeter than the wind. but then spake a wylie lord, unto the queen said he, o tell me quha's the fairest face rides in the company. i've sene lord, and i've sene laird, and knights of high degree; bot a fairer face than young watèrs mine eyne did never see. out then spack the jealous king, (and an angry man was he) o, if he had been twice as fair, you micht have excepted me. you're neither laird nor lord, she says, bot the king that wears the crown; ther is not a knight in fair scotland bot to thee maun bow down. for a' that she could do or say, appeasd he wad nae bee; bot for the words which she had said young waters he maun dee. they hae taen young waters, and put fetters to his feet; they hae taen young waters, and thrown him in dungeon deep. aft i have ridden thro' stirling town in the wind both and the weit; bot i neir rade thro' stirling town wi fetters at my feet. aft have i ridden thro' stirling town in the wind both and the rain; bot i neir rade thro' stirling town neir to return again. they hae taen to the heiding-hill[ ] his young son in his craddle, and they hae taen to the heiding-hill, his horse both and his saddle. they hae taen to the heiding-hill his lady fair to see. and for the words the queen had spoke, young waters he did dee. footnotes: [ ] [vol. i. edin. .] [ ] [caparisoned with golden accoutrements.] [ ] _heiding-hill_; _i.e._ heading [beheading] hill. the place of execution was anciently an artificial hillock. xix. mary ambree. in the year , the spaniards, under the command of alexander farnese, prince of parma, began to gain great advantages in flanders and brabant, by recovering many strong holds and cities from the hollanders, as ghent, (called then by the english _gaunt_,) antwerp, mechlin, &c. see stow's _annals_, p. . some attempt made with the assistance of english volunteers to retrieve the former of those places probably gave occasion to this ballad. i can find no mention of our heroine in history, but the following rhymes rendered her famous among our poets. ben jonson often mentions her, and calls any remarkable virago by her name. see his _epic[oe]ne_, first acted in , act iv. sc. . his _tale of a tub_, act i. sc. . and his masque intitled the _fortunate isles_, , where he quotes the very words of the ballad, ----"_mary ambree_, (who marched so free to the siege of gaunt, and death could not daunt, as the ballad doth vaunt) were a braver wight, &c." she is also mentioned in fletcher's _scornful lady_, act v. _sub finem_. ----"my large gentlewoman, my _mary ambree_, had i but seen into you, you should have had another bed-fellow."---- it is likewise evident, that she is the virago intended by butler in _hudibras_ (p. i. c. iii. v. ), by her being coupled with _joan d'arc_, the celebrated _pucelle d'orleans_. "a bold virago stout and tall as _joan_ of france, or english _mall_." this ballad is printed from a black letter copy in the pepys collection, improved from the editor's folio ms. and by conjecture. the full title is, _the valorous acts performed at gaunt by the brave bonnie lass mary ambree, who in revenge of her lovers death did play her part most gallantly_. the tune is, _the blind beggar, &c._ * * * * * [the copy from the ms., which is printed at the end, will be found to differ considerably from the following version.] * * * * * when captain's couragious, whom death cold not daunte, did march to the siege of the citty of gaunt, they mustred their souldiers by two and by three, and the formost in battle was mary ambree. when brave sir john major[ ] was slaine in her sight, who was her true lover, her joy, and delight, because he was slaine most treacherouslie, then vowd to revenge him mary ambree. she clothed herselfe from the top to the toe in buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe; a faire shirt of male[ ] then slipped on shee; was not this a brave bonny lass, mary ambree? a helmett of proofe shee strait did provide, a strong arminge sword shee girt by her side, on her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee; was not this a brave bonny lass, mary ambree? then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand, bidding all such, as wold, bee of her band; to wayte on her person came thousand and three: was not this a brave bonny lass, mary ambree? my soldiers, she saith, soe valiant and bold, nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde; still foremost in battel myselfe will i bee: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say, soe well thou becomest this gallant array, thy harte and thy weapons soe well do agree, there was none ever like mary ambree. shee cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life, with ancyent and standard, with drum and with fyfe, with brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free; was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? before i will see the worst of you all to come into danger of death, or of thrall, this hand and this life i will venture so free: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? shee led upp her souldiers in battaile array, gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye; seven howers in skirmish continued shee: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? she filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott, and her enemyes bodyes with bullets soe hott; for one of her owne men a score killed shee: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? and when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent, away all her pellets and powder had sent, straight with her keen weapon shee slasht him in three: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, at length she was forced to make a retyre; then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee: was not this a brave bonny lasse, mary ambree? her foes they besett her on everye side, as thinking close siege shee cold never abide; to beate down the walles they all did decree: but stoutlye deffyd them brave mary ambree. then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, and mounting the walls all undaunted did stand, there daring their captaines to match any three: o what a brave captaine was mary ambree! now saye, english captaine, what woldest thou give to ransome thy selfe, which else must not live? come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee. then smiled sweetlye brave mary ambree. ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, whom thinke you before you now you doe behold? a knight, sir, of england, and captaine soe free, who shortelye with us a prisoner must bee. no captaine of england; behold in your sight two brests in my bosome, and therfore no knight: noe knight, sirs, of england, nor captaine you see, but a poor simple lass, called mary ambree. but art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, whose valor hath provd so undaunted in warre? if england doth yield such brave lasses as thee, full well may they conquer, faire mary ambree. the prince of great parma heard of her renowne, who long had advanced for englands faire crowne; hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee, and offerd rich presents to mary ambree. but this virtuous mayden despised them all, ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall: a mayden of england, sir, never will bee the whore of a monarcke, quoth mary ambree. then to her owne country shee backe did returne, still holding the foes of faire england in scorne: therfore english captaines of every degree sing forth the brave valours of mary ambree. [illustration] [the following version is reprinted from hales and furnivall's edition of the folio ms. vol. i. p. . captaine couragious, whome death cold daunte, beseeged the citye brauelye, the citty of gaunt! they mustered their soliders by & by : & the fformost in battele was mary aumbree! when braue sir iohn maior was slaine in that fight, that was her true louer, her ioy & delight, shee swore his death vnreuenged shold not bee; was not this a braue, bonye lasse, mary aumbree? the death of her trueloue shee meant to requite with fire & ffamine [&] sword shining bright, which lately was slaine most villanouslye; was not this a braue, bonnye lasse, mary aumbree? shee cladd her selfe from the top to the toe in buffe of the brauest most seemlye to show, & a faire shirt of male slipped on shee; was not this a braue, bonye lasse, mary aumbree? a helmett of proofe shee tooke on her head, & a strong arminge sword shee wore by her side; a goodly fayre gauntlett on her hand put shee; was not this a braue, bonye lasse, mary aumbree? shee tooke her sword & her targett in hand, bidding all such as wold, wayte on her band. to waite on her person there came ^{ds} : was not this a braue, bonye lasse, mary aumbree? "my soldiers," shee saith, "soe valiant and bold, now ffollow your captain which you doe beholde; in the fight formost my selfe will i bee!" was not this a braue, bonye lasse, mary aumbree? then cryed out her souldiers, & loude thé did say, "soe well thou becomes this gallant array, thy hands & thy weapons doe well soe agree, there was neuer none like to mary aumbree!" shee cheared her good souldiers that foughten for life, with the cominge of ancyents, with drum & with fife, that braue sonding trumpetts with ingines soe free, att last thé made mention of mary aumbree. "before that i doe see the worst of you all come in the danger of your enemyes thrall, this hand & this sword shall first sett him free;" was not this a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? shee forward went on in battaile array, & straight shee did make her foes flye away; houres in sckirmish continued shee; was not this a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? the skyes shee did fill with the smoke of her shott, in her enemies bodyes with bulletts soe hott; for one of her owne men, a sckore killed shee; was not this a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? then did her gunner spoyle her intent, pelletts & powder away had he sent: then with her sword shee cutt him in , was not this a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? then was shee caused to make a retyre, being falsely betrayd, as itt doth appeare; then to saue her selfe into a castle went shee; was not this a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? her foes thé besett her on euerye side, thinking in that castle shee wold not abyde; to beate downe those walls they all did agree; was not that a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? she tooke her sword & her targett in hand, shee came to the walls, and vpon them did stand, their daring their captaine to match any , was not that a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? "thou english captain, what woldest thou giue to ransome thy liffe which else must not liue? come downe quickly, & yeeld thee to mee!" then smiled sweetlye mary aumbree; "good gentle captain, what thinke you by mee, or whom in my likenesse you take mee to bee?" "a knight, sir, of england, & captain soe free, that i meane to take away prisoner with me." "good gentle captain, behold in your sight brests in my bosome, & therfore no knight; noe knight, sir, of england, nor captain soe free, but eue[n]e a pore bony lasse, mary aumbree." "if thou beest a woman as thou dost declare, that hast mangled our soliders, & made them soe bare; the like in my liffe i neuer did see; therfore ile honor thee, mary aumbree." "giue i be a woman, as well thou doest see, captain, thou gettst noe redemption of mee without thou wilt fight with blowes or ." was not this a braue bonye lasse, mary aumbree? god send in warrs, such euent i abide, god send such a solider to stand by my side! then safely preserued my person wilbe; there was neuer none like to mary aumbree!] footnotes: [ ] so ms. _serjeant major_ in _pc._ [ ] a peculiar kind of armour, composed of small rings of iron, and worn under the cloaths. it is mentioned by spencer, who speaks of the irish gallowglass or foot-soldier as "armed in a long shirt of mayl." (_view of the state of ireland._) xx. brave lord willoughbey. peregrine bertie, lord willoughby of eresby, had, in the year , distinguished himself at the siege of zutphen, in the low countries. he was the year after made general of the english forces in the united provinces, in room of the earl of leicester, who was recalled. this gave him an opportunity of signalizing his courage and military skill in several actions against the spaniards. one of these, greatly exaggerated by popular report, is probably the subject of this old ballad, which, on account of its flattering encomiums on english valour, hath always been a favourite with the people. "my lord willoughbie (says a contemporary writer) was one of the queenes best swordsmen: ... he was a great master of the art military ... i have heard it spoken, that had he not slighted the court, but applied himself to the queene, he might have enjoyed a plentifull portion of her grace; and it was his saying, and it did him no good, that he was none of the _reptilia_; intimating, that he could not creepe on the ground, and that the court was not his element; for indeed, as he was a great souldier, so he was of suitable magnanimitie, and could not brooke the obsequiousnesse and assiduitie of the courte." (_naunton._) lord willoughbie died in .--both norris and turner were famous among the military men of that age. the subject of this ballad (which is printed from an old black-letter copy, with some conjectural emendations,) may possibly receive illustration from what _chapman_ says in the dedicat. to his version of homer's _frogs and mice_, concerning the brave and memorable retreat of sir john norris, with only men, thro' the whole spanish army, under the duke of parma, for three miles together. * * * * * [lord willoughby was the son of katherine, daughter of lord willoughby of eresby and widow of charles brandon, duke of suffolk, and of her second husband, richard bertie. they were protestants and were forced to fly from persecution in , taking refuge first in the low countries and afterwards in poland. they called their son in consequence peregrine, a name that has ever since remained in the family. mr. hales has drawn my attention to the fact that spenser, when in ireland, named one of his sons peregrine for a similar reason. a ballad was written entitled _the duchess of suffolk's calamity_, which contains these lines: "a sonne she had in germanie, peregrine bartue cald by name, surnamde the good lord willobie, of courage great and worthie fame." mr. chappell informs us that the tune of the following ballad occurs in lady neville's virginal book (ms. ), and in robinson's _school of music_ ( ), where it is called "lord willobie's welcome home."] * * * * * the fifteenth day of july, with glistering spear and shield, a famous fight in flanders was foughten in the field: the most couragious officers were english captains three; but the bravest man in battel was brave lord willoughbèy. the next was captain norris, a valiant man was hee: the other captain turner, from field would never flee. with fifteen hundred fighting men, alas! there were no more, they fought with fourteen thousand then, upon the bloody shore. stand to it noble pikemen, and look you round about: and shoot you right you bow-men, and we will keep them out: you musquet and calliver[ ] men, do you prove true to me, i'le be the formost man in fight, says brave lord willoughbèy. and then the bloody enemy they fiercely did assail, and fought it out most furiously, not doubting to prevail; the wounded men on both sides fell most pitious for to see, yet nothing could the courage quell of brave lord willoughbèy. for seven hours to all mens view this fight endured sore, until our men so feeble grew that they could fight no more; and then upon dead horses full savourly they eat, and drank the puddle water, they could no better get. when they had fed so freely, they kneeled on the ground, and praised god devoutly for the favour they had found; and beating up their colours, the fight they did renew, and turning tow'rds the spaniard, a thousand more they slew. the sharp steel-pointed arrows, and bullets thick did fly; then did our valiant soldiers charge on most furiously; which made the spaniards waver, they thought it best to flee, they fear'd the stout behaviour of brave lord willoughbèy. then quoth the spanish general, come let us march away, i fear we shall be spoiled all if here we longer stay; for yonder comes lord willoughbey with courage fierce and fell, he will not give one inch of way for all the devils in hell. and then the fearful enemy was quickly put to flight, our men persued couragiously, and caught their forces quite; but at last they gave a shout, which ecchoed through the sky, god, and st. george for england! the conquerers did cry. this news was brought to england with all the speed might be, and soon our gracious queen was told of this same victory. o this is brave lord willoughbey, my love that ever won, of all the lords of honour 'tis he great deeds hath done. to the souldiers that were maimed, and wounded in the fray, the queen allowed a pension of fifteen pence a day; and from all costs and charges she quit and set them free: and this she did all for the sake of brave lord willoughbèy. then courage, noble englishmen, and never be dismaid; if that we be but one to ten, we will not be afraid to fight with foraign enemies, and set our nation free. and thus i end the bloody bout of brave lord willoughbèy. footnotes: [ ] [a large pistol or blunderbuss.] xxi. victorious men of earth. this little moral sonnet hath such a pointed application to the heroes of the foregoing and following ballads, that i cannot help placing it here, tho' the date of its composition is of a much later period. it is extracted from _cupid and death, a masque by j. s. (james shirley) presented mar._ , . _london printed , to._ * * * * * [dr. rimbault informs us that this masque was represented at the military ground in leicester fields, with music by matthew locke and dr. christopher gibbons. (_musical illustrations_, p. .)] * * * * * victorious men of earth, no more proclaim how wide your empires are; though you binde in every shore, and your triumphs reach as far as night or day; yet you proud monarchs must obey, and mingle with forgotten ashes, when death calls yee to the croud of common men. devouring famine, plague, and war, each able to undo mankind, death's servile emissaries are; nor to these alone confin'd, he hath at will more quaint and subtle wayes to kill; a smile or kiss, as he will use the art, shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. xxii. the winning of cales. the subject of this ballad is the taking of the city of _cadiz_, (called by our sailors corruptly _cales_) on june , , in a descent made on the coast of spain, under the command of the lord howard admiral, and the earl of essex general. the valour of essex was not more distinguished on this occasion than his generosity: the town was carried sword in hand, but he stopt the slaughter as soon as possible, and treated his prisoners with the greatest humanity, and even affability and kindness. the english made a rich plunder in the city, but missed of a much richer, by the resolution which the duke of medina, the spanish admiral, took, of setting fire to the ships, in order to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy [see v. ]. it was computed, that the loss which the spaniards sustained from this enterprize, amounted to twenty millions of ducats. see hume's _hist_. the earl of essex knighted on this occasion not fewer than sixty persons, which gave rise to the following sarcasm: "a gentleman of wales, a knight of cales, and a laird of the north country; but a yeoman of kent with his yearly rent will buy them out all three." the ballad is printed, with some corrections, from the editor's folio ms. and seems to have been composed by some person, who was concerned in the expedition. most of the circumstances related in it will be found supported by history. * * * * * [philip ii. was meditating the dispatch of a second armada, but before he could set his schemes in motion his strongest fortress was razed to the ground. macaulay calls this "the most brilliant military exploit that was achieved on the continent by english arms during the long interval which elapsed between the battle of agincourt and that of blenheim." no wonder then that the english sang with enthusiasm of the glories of their success. raleigh and sir francis vere were among the leaders under essex. it will be seen by the foot notes that percy follows his ms. original pretty faithfully. child prints a version from deloney's _garland of goodwill_ as reprinted by the percy society (vol. xxx. p. ). the earliest notice of the tune (the new tantara) to which this ballad was to be sung is in the year .] * * * * * long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, threatning our country with fyer and sword; often preparing their navy most sumptuous with as great plenty as spain could afford. dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums; tantara, tantara, the englishman comes.[ ] to the seas presentlye went our lord admiral, with knights couragious and captains full good; the brave earl of essex, a prosperous general, with him prepared to pass the salt flood. dub a dub, &c. at plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, braver ships never were seen under sayle, with their fair colours spread, and streamers ore their head, now bragging spaniards, take heed of your tayle. dub a dub, &c. unto cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, ere any spaniards our coming descryde. dub a dub, &c. great was the crying, the running and ryding,[ ] which at that season was made in that place; the beacons were fyred, as need then required; to hyde their great treasure they had little space. dub a dub, &c. there you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, and how their men drowned themselves in the sea; there might you hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, when they saw no shift to scape thence away. dub a dub, &c. the great st. phillip, the pryde of the spaniards, was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; but the st. andrew, and eke the st. matthew, wee took in fight manfullye and brought away.[ ] dub a dub, &c. the earl of essex most valiant and hardye, with horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town;[ ] the spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. dub a dub, &c. now, quoth the noble earl, courage my soldiers all, fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; and bè well rewarded all from the great to the small;[ ] but looke that the women and children you save.[ ] dub a dub, &c. the spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight,[ ] hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne;[ ] wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, with english colours which purchas'd renowne.[ ] dub a dub, &c. entering the houses then, of the most richest men, for gold and treasure we searched eche day; in sòme places wè did find, pyes baking left behind,[ ] meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away.[ ] dub a dub, &c. full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes,[ ] damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre: wh[^i]ch soldiers mèasur'd out by the length of their swords; of all commodities eche had a share.[ ] dub a dub, &c. thus cales was taken, and our brave general march'd to the market-place, where he did stand: there many prisoners fell to our several shares,[ ] many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd.[ ] dub a dub, &c. when our brave general saw they delayed all,[ ] and would not ransome their towne as they said, with their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, their joint-stools and tables a fire we made;[ ] and when the town burned all in a flame, with tara, tantara, away wee all came.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [ver. . tantara, ra-ra, ms.] [ ] [v. . _the_ before _running_ not in ms.] [ ] [ver. . brought _them_ away, ms.] [ ] [v. . marched toward the town.] [ ] [v. . _all_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . no _the_ in ms.] [ ] [v. . thought in vaine twas to fight.] [ ] [v. . _and_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . with our english.] [ ] [ver. . baking in the oven.] [ ] [v. . meate att the fire rosting & ffolkes ffled away.] [ ] [v. . shop wee did see.] [ ] [v. . each one.] [ ] [v. . prisoners of good account were tooke.] [ ] [v. . they found.] [ ] [v. . delayed time.] [ ] [v. . a ffire were made.] [ ] [v. . away wee came.] xxiii. the spanish lady's love. this beautiful old ballad most probably took its rise from one of these descents made on the spanish coasts in the time of queen elizabeth; and in all likelihood from that which is celebrated in the foregoing ballad. it was a tradition in the west of england, that the person admired by the spanish lady was a gentleman of the popham family [sir john popham], and that her picture, with the pearl necklace mentioned in the ballad, was not many years ago preserved at littlecot, near hungerford, wilts, the seat of that respectable family. another tradition hath pointed out sir richard levison, of trentham, in staffordshire, as the subject of this ballad; who married margaret daughter of charles earl of nottingham; and was eminently distinguished as a naval officer and commander in all the expeditions against the spaniards in the latter end of q. elizabeth's reign, particularly in that to cadiz in , when he was aged . he died in , and has a monument, with his effigy in brass, in wolverhampton church. it is printed from an ancient black-letter copy, corrected in part by the editor's folio ms. * * * * * [sir john popham and sir richard levison are not the only candidates for the honour of being associated with the spanish lady, for strong claims have also been brought forward in favour of sir urias legh of adlington, cheshire, and of sir john bolle of thorpe hall, lincolnshire. a descendant of the latter worthy wrote a letter in his favour, which appeared in the _times_ of may , , and from which the following particulars are extracted:--"in illingworth's _topographical account of scampton, with anecdotes_ _of the family of bolles_, it is stated, 'the portrait of sir john, drawn in , at the age of thirty-six years, having on him the gold chain given him by the spanish lady, &c., is still in the possession of captain birch.' that portrait is now in the possession of captain birch's successor, thomas bosvile, esq., of ravensfield park, yorkshire." the writer of the letter signs himself charles lee, and dates from coldrey, hants. he adds another extract from illingworth's _scampton_, which is as follows: "on sir john bolle's departure from cadiz, the spanish lady sent as presents to his wife, a profusion of jewels, and other valuables, amongst which was her portrait, drawn in green, plate, money, and other treasure. some articles are still in the possession of the family, though her picture was unfortunately and by accident, disposed of about half a century since. this portrait being drawn in green, gave occasion to her being called in the neighbourhood of thorpe hall, the green lady, where to this day there is a traditionary superstition among the vulgar that thorpe hall was haunted by the green lady, who used nightly to take her seat in a particular tree near the mansion." mr. chappell points out that this ballad is quoted in _cupid's_ _whirligig_, , and parodied in rowley's _a match at midnight_, . it is also quoted in mrs. behn's comedy, _the rovers, or_ _the banished cavaliers_, and in richard brome's _northern lasse_. shenstone was not satisfied with the beautiful simplicity of this charming ballad, and attempted in his _moral tale of love and_ _honour_ to place it before his readers "in less grovelling accents than the simple guise of ancient record." the mode he adopted was to spin it out by the frequent introduction of _ah me_ and _'tis true_, and addresses to the "generous maid," elvira, iberia, &c. wordsworth acted far differently, when he founded his exquisite _armenian lady's love_ upon this ballad: "you have heard of a spanish lady, how she wooed an english man; hear now of a fair armenian, daughter of the proud soldàn." the copy in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. ) begins with verse , the early part having been torn out.] * * * * * will you hear a spanish lady, how she wooed an english man? garments gay as rich as may be decked with jewels she had on. of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lye; cupid's bands did tye them faster by the liking of an eye. in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in any thing she was not coy. but at last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorned, none to do them injury. then said this lady mild, full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! gallant captain, shew some pity to a ladye in distresse; leave me not within this city, for to dye in heavinesse: thou hast set this present day my body free, but my heart in prison still remains with thee. "how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou knowst thy country's foe? thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: serpents lie where flowers grow." all the harm i wishe to thee, most courteous knight, god grant the same upon my head may fully light. blessed be the time and season, that you came on spanish ground; if our foes you may be termed, gentle foes we have you found: with our city, you have won our hearts eche one, then to your country bear away, that is your owne. "rest you still, most gallant lady; rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there is plenty, spain doth yield a wonderous store." spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, but englishmen through all the world are counted kind. leave me not unto a spaniard, you alone enjoy my heart; i am lovely, young, and tender, love is likewise my desert: still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; the wife of every englishman is counted blest. "it wold be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence." i'll quickly change myself, if it be so, and like a page ile follow thee, where'er thou go.[ ] "i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel is great charges, as you know in every place." my chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, and eke five hundred[ ] pounds in gold that lies unknown. "on the seas are many dangers, many storms do there arise, which wil be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from watery eyes." well in troth i shall endure extremity,[ ] for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee.[ ] "courteous ladye, leave this fancy, here comes all that breeds the strife;[ ] i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain." o how happy is that woman that enjoys so true a friend! many happy days god send her;[ ] of my suit i make an end:[ ] on my knees i pardon crave for my offence,[ ] which did from love and true affection first commence.[ ] commend me to thy lovely lady, bear to her this chain of gold;[ ] and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold: all my jewels in like sort take thou with thee,[ ] for they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.[ ] i will spend my days in prayer, love and all her laws[ ] defye; in a nunnery will i shroud mee far from any companye:[ ] but ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, to pray for thee and for thy love i will not miss. thus farewell, most gallant captain! farewell too my heart's content![ ] count not spanish ladies wanton, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity goe still with thee![ ] "the like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladìe." footnotes: [ ] [ver. . whersoere thou go.] [ ] so the ms., , _l. pc._ [ ] v. . well in worth [i will], ms. [ ] [v. . find my heart.] [ ] [v. . that breakes.] [ ] [ver. . many dayes of joy god send you.] [ ] [v. . ile make.] [ ] [v. . upon my knees i pardon crave for this offence.] [ ] [v. . which love and true affectyon did ffirst commence.] [ ] [v. . a chaine.] [ ] [v. . take with thee.] [ ] [v. . these are ... and not for me.] [ ] so the folio ms. other editions read _his laws_. [ ] [v. . from other.] [ ] [v. . and ffarwell my.] [ ] [v. . be still.] xxiv. argentile and curan, is extracted from an ancient historical poem in xiii. books, intitled, _albion's england_, by _william warner_: "an author (says a former editor,) only unhappy in the choice of his subject, and measure of his verse. his poem is an epitome of the british history, and written with great learning, sense, and spirit. in some places fine to an extraordinary degree, as i think will eminently appear in the ensuing episode (of argentile and curan). a tale full of beautiful incidents in the romantic taste, extremely affecting, rich in ornament, wonderfully various in style; and in short, one of the most beautiful pastorals i ever met with." (_muses library_, , vo.) to his merit nothing can be objected unless perhaps an affected quaintness in some of his expressions, and an indelicacy in some of his pastoral images. _warner_ is said, by a. wood,[ ] to have been a warwickshire man, and to have been educated in oxford, at magdalene-hall: as also in the latter part of his life to have been retained in the service of henry cary lord hunsdon, to whom he dedicates his poem. however that may have been, new light is thrown upon his history, and the time and manner of his death are now ascertained, by the following extract from the parish register book of amwell, in hertfordshire; which was obligingly communicated to the editor by mr. _hoole_, the very ingenious translator of tasso, &c. ( -- .) "master william warner, a man of good yeares and of honest reputation; by his profession an atturnye of the common pleas; author of _albions england_, diynge suddenly in the night in his bedde, without any former complaynt or sicknesse, on thursday night beeinge the th daye of march; was buried the satturday following, and lyeth in the church at the corner under the stone of walter ffader." signed _tho. hassall vicarius_. though now warner is so seldom mentioned, his contemporaries ranked him on a level with spenser, and called them the homer and virgil of their age.[ ] but warner rather resembled _ovid_, whose _metamorphoses_ he seems to have taken for his model, having deduced a perpetual poem from the deluge down to the æra of elizabeth, full of lively digressions and entertaining episodes. and though he is sometimes harsh, affected, and obscure, he often displays a most charming and pathetic simplicity: as where he describes eleanor's harsh treatment of rosamond: "with that she dasht her on the lippes so dyed double red: hard was the heart that gave the blow, soft were those lippes that bled." the edition of _albion's england_ here followed was printed in to. ; said in the title-page to have been "first penned and published by william warner, and now revised and newly enlarged by the same author." the story of _argentile and curan_ is i believe the poet's own invention; it is not mentioned in any of our chronicles. it was however so much admired, that not many years after he published it, came out a larger poem on the same subject in stanzas of six lines, intitled, _the most pleasant and delightful historie of curan a prince of danske, and the fayre princesse argentile, daughter and heyre to adelbright, sometime king of northumberland, &c. by_ william webster, _london_, , in sheets to. an indifferent paraphrase of the following poem.--this episode of warner's has also been altered into the common ballad, _of the two young princes on salisbury plain_, which is chiefly composed of warner's lines, with a few contractions and interpolations, but all greatly for the worse. see the collection of _hist. ballads_, , vols. mo. * * * * * [percy had already in the first volume quoted from warner's poem the story of the _patient countess_.] * * * * * the bruton's 'being' departed hence seaven kingdoms here begonne, where diversly in divers broyles the saxons lost and wonne. king edel and king adelbright in diria jointly raigne; in loyal concorde during life these kingly friends remaine. when adelbright should leave his life, to edel thus he sayes; by those same bondes of happie love, that held us friends alwaies; by our by-parted crowne, of which the moyetie is mine; by god, to whom my soule must passe, and so in time may thine; i pray thee, nay i cònjure thee, to nourish, as thine owne, thy niece, my daughter argentile, till she to age be growne; and then, as thou receivest it, resigne to her my throne. a promise had for his bequest, the testatòr he dies; but all that edel undertooke, he afterwards denies. yet well he 'fosters for' a time the damsell that was growne the fairest lady under heaven; whose beautie being knowne, a many princes seeke her love; but none might her obtaine; for grippell[ ] edel to himselfe her kingdome sought to gaine; and for that cause from sight of such he did his ward restraine. by chance one curan, sonne unto a prince in danske,[ ] did see the maid, with whom he fell in love, as much as man might bee. unhappie youth, what should he doe? his saint was kept in mewe;[ ] nor he, nor any noble-man admitted to her vewe. one while in melancholy fits he pines himselfe awaye; anon he thought by force of arms to win her if he maye: and still against the kings restraint did secretly invay. at length the high controller love, whom none may disobay, imbased him from lordlines into a kitchen drudge, that so at least of life or death she might become his judge. accesse so had to see and speake, he did his love bewray, and tells his birth: her answer was, she husbandles would stay. meane while the king did beate his braines, his booty to atchieve, nor caring what became of her, so he by her might thrive; at last his resolution was some pessant should her wive. and (which was working to his wish) he did observe with joye how curan, whom he thought a drudge, scapt many an amorous toye.[ ] the king, perceiving such his veine, promotes his vassal still, lest that the basenesse of the man should lett,[ ] perhaps, his will. assured therefore of his love, but not suspecting who the lover was, the king himselfe in his behalf did woe. the lady resolute from love, unkindly takes that he should barre the noble, and unto so base a match agree: and therefore shifting out of doores, departed thence by stealth; preferring povertie before a dangerous life in wealth. when curan heard of her escape, the anguish in his hart was more than much, and after her from court he did depart; forgetfull of himselfe, his birth, his country, friends, and all, and only minding (whom he mist) the foundresse of his thrall. nor meanes he after to frequent or court, or stately townes, but solitarily to live amongst the country grownes.[ ] a brace of years he lived thus, well pleased so to live, and shepherd-like to feed a flocke himselfe did wholly give. so wasting, love, by worke, and want, grew almost to the waine: but then began a second love, the worser of the twaine. a country wench, a neatherds maid, where curan kept his sheepe, did feed her drove: and now on her was all the shepherds keepe. he borrowed on the working daies his holy russets oft,[ ] and of the bacon's fat, to make his startops[ ] blacke and soft. and least his tarbox[ ] should offend, he left it at the folde: sweete growte,[ ] or whig,[ ] his bottle had, as much as it might holde. a sheeve[ ] of bread as browne as nut, and cheese as white as snow, and wildings,[ ] or the seasons fruit he did in scrip bestow, and whilst his py-bald curre did sleepe, and sheep-hooke lay him by, on hollow quilles of oten straw he piped melody but when he spyed her his saint, he wip'd his greasie shooes, and clear'd the drivell from his beard, and thus the shepheard wooes. "i have, sweet wench, a peece of cheese, as good as tooth may chawe, and bread and wildings souling[ ] well, (and therewithall did drawe his lardrie) and in 'yeaning' see yon crumpling[ ] ewe, quoth he,[ ] did twinne this fall, and twin shouldst thou, if i might tup[ ] with thee. thou art too elvish, faith thou art, too elvish and too coy: am i, i pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoye? i wis i am not: yet that thou doest hold me in disdaine is brimme[ ] abroad, and made a gybe to all that keepe this plaine. there be as quaint[ ] (at least that thinke themselves as quaint) that crave the match, that thou, i wot not why, maist, but mislik'st to have. how wouldst thou match? (for well i wot, thou art a female) i, her know not here that willingly with maiden-head would die.[ ] the plowmans labour hath no end, and he a churle will prove: the craftsman hath more worke in hand then fitteth unto love: the merchant, traffiquing abroad, suspects his wife at home: a youth will play the wanton; and an old man prove a mome.[ ] then chuse a shepheard: with the sun he doth his flocke unfold, and all the day on hill or plaine he merrie chat can hold; and with the sun doth folde againe; then jogging home betime, he turnes a crab, or turnes a round, or sings some merry ryme.[ ] nor lacks he gleeful tales, whilst round the nut-brown bowl doth trot;[ ] and sitteth singing care away, till he to bed be got: theare sleepes he soundly all the night, forgetting morrow-cares: nor feares he blasting of his corne, nor uttering of his wares; or storms by seas, or stirres on land, or cracke of credit lost; not spending franklier than his flocke, shall still defray the cost. well wot i, sooth they say, that say more quiet nights and daies the shepheard sleeps and wakes, than he whose cattel he doth graize. beleeve me, lasse, a king is but a man, and so am i: content is worth a monarchie, and mischiefs hit the hie; as late it did a king and his not dwelling far from hence, who left a daughter, save thyselfe, for fair a matchless wench."-- here did he pause, as if his tongue had done his heart offence. the neatresse,[ ] longing for the rest, did egge him on to tell how faire she was, and who she was. "she bore, quoth he, the bell for beautie: though i clownish am, i know what beautie is; or did i not, at seeing thee, i senceles were to mis. * * * * * her stature comely, tall; her gate well graced; and her wit to marvell at, not meddle with, as matchless i omit. a globe-like head, a gold-like haire, a forehead smooth, and hie, an even nose; on either side did shine a grayish eie: two rosie cheeks, round ruddy lips, white just-set teeth within; a mouth in meane;[ ] and underneathe a round and dimpled chin. her snowie necke, with blewish veines, stood bolt upright upon her portly shoulders; beating balles her veined breasts, anon adde more to beautie. wand-like was her middle falling still, and rising whereas women rise: * * *--imagine nothing ill. and more, her long, and limber armes had white and azure wrists; and slender fingers aunswere to her smooth and lillie fists. a legge in print, a pretie foot; conjecture of the rest: for amorous eies, observing forme, think parts obscured best. with these, o raretie! with these her tong of speech was spare; but speaking, venus seem'd to speake, the balle from ide to bear. with ph[oe]be, juno, and with both herselfe contends in face; wheare equall mixture did not want of milde and stately grace. her smiles were sober, and her lookes were chearefull unto all: even such as neither wanton seeme, nor waiward; mell,[ ] nor gall. a quiet minde, a patient moode, and not disdaining any; not gybing, gadding, gawdy: and sweete faculties had many. a nimph, no tong, no heart, no eie, might praise, might wish, might see; for life, for love, for forme; more good, more worth, more faire than shee. yea such an one, as such was none, save only she was such: of argentile to say the most, were to be silent much." i knew the lady very well, but worthles of such praise, the neatresse said: and muse i do, a shepheard thus should blaze the 'coate' of beautie[ ]. credit me, thy latter speech bewraies thy clownish shape a coined shew. but wherefore dost thou weepe? the shepheard wept, and she was woe, and both doe silence keepe. "in troth, quoth he, i am not such, as seeming i professe: but then for her, and now for thee, i from myselfe digresse. her loved i (wretch that i am a recreant to be) i loved her, that hated love, but now i die for thee. at kirkland is my fathers court, and curan is my name, in edels court sometimes in pompe, till love countrould the same: but now--what now?--deare heart, how now? what ailest thou to weepe?" the damsell wept, and he was woe, and both did silence keepe. i graunt, quoth she, it was too much that you did love so much: but whom your former could not move, your second love doth touch. thy twice-beloved argentile submitteth her to thee, and for thy double love presents herself a single fee, in passion not in person chang'd, and i, my lord, am she. they sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a space, when as the extasie had end, did tenderly imbrace; and for their wedding, and their wish got fitting time and place. not england (for of hengist then was named so this land) then curan had an hardier knight; his force could none withstand: whose sheep-hooke laid apart, he then had higher things in hand. first, making knowne his lawfull claime in argentile her right, he warr'd in diria[ ], and he wonne bernicia[ ] too in fight: and so from trecherous edel tooke at once his life and crowne, and of northumberland was king, long raigning in renowne.[ ] footnotes: [ ] athen. oxon. [ ] _ibid._ [ ] [griping or miserly.] [ ] [denmark.] [ ] [in confinement.] [ ] the construction is, "how that many an amorous toy, or foolery of love, 'scaped curan;" _i.e._ escaped from him, being off his guard. [ ] [hinder.] [ ] [grounds.] [ ] ver. . _i.e._ holy-day russets [or best clothes.] [ ] [buskins or half boots.] [ ] [used for anointing sores in sheep, &c.] [ ] [small beer.] [ ] [whey or buttermilk.] [ ] [slice.] [ ] [crab apples.] [ ] [victualling.] [ ] [crooked horned.] [ ] ver. . eating. _pcc._ [ ] [ram.] [ ] [public.] [ ] [nice or prudent.] [ ] v. . her know i not her that. . [ ] [blockhead.] [ ] ver. . _i.e._ roasts a crab, or apple. [ ] v. . to tell, whilst round the bole doth trot. ed. . [ ] [female keeper of herds.] [ ] [middle sized.] [ ] [honey.] [ ] _i.e._ emblazon beauty's coat. ed. , , , read coote. [ ] during the saxon heptarchy, the kingdom of northumberland (consisting of northern counties, besides part of scotland) was for a long time divided into two lesser sovereignties, viz. deira (called here diria) which contained the southern parts, and bernicia, comprehending those which lay north. [ ] [this poem was subdivided into stanzas by percy, and is so printed in previous editions of the _reliques_.] xxv. corin's fate. only the three first stanzas of this song are ancient; these are extracted from a small quarto ms. in the editor's possession, written in the time of q. elizabeth. as they seemed to want application, this has been attempted by a modern hand. * * * * * corin, most unhappie swaine, whither wilt thou drive thy flocke? little foode is on the plaine; full of danger is the rocke: wolfes and beares doe kepe the woodes; forests tangled are with brakes: meadowes subject are to floodes; moores are full of miry lakes. yet to shun all plaine, and hill, forest, moore, and meadow-ground, hunger will as surely kill: how may then reliefe be found? [such is hapless corins fate: since my waywarde love begunne, equall doubts begett debate what to seeke, and what to shunne. spare to speke, and spare to speed; yet to speke will move disdaine: if i see her not i bleed, yet her sight augments my paine. what may then poor corin doe? tell me, shepherdes, quicklye tell; for to linger thus in woe is the lover's sharpest hell.] [***] xxvi. jane shore. though so many vulgar errors have prevailed concerning this celebrated courtezan, no character in history has been more perfectly handed down to us. we have her portrait drawn by two masterly pens; the one has delineated the features of her person, the other those of her character and story. sir thomas more drew from the life, and drayton has copied an original picture of her. the reader will pardon the length of the quotations, as they serve to correct many popular mistakes relating to her catastrophe. the first is from sir thomas more's _history of richard iii._ written in , about thirty years after the death of edw. iv. "now then by and by, as it wer for anger, not for covetise, the protector sent into the house of shores wife (for her husband dwelled not with her) and spoiled her of al that ever she had, (above the value of or thousand marks) and sent her body to prison. and when he had a while laide unto her, for the maner sake, that she went about to bewitch him, and that she was of counsel with the lord chamberlein to destroy him: in conclusion when that no colour could fasten upon these matters, then he layd heinously to her charge the thing that herselfe could not deny, that al the world wist was true, and that natheles every man laughed at to here it then so sodainly so highly taken,--that she was naught of her body. and for thys cause (as a goodly continent prince, clene and fautless of himself, sent oute of heaven into this vicious world for the amendment of mens maners) he caused the bishop of london to put her to open pennance, going before the crosse in procession upon a sonday with a taper in her hand. in which she went in countenance and pace demure so womanly; and albeit she was out of al array save her kyrtle only, yet went she so fair and lovely, namelye, while the wondering of the people caste a comly rud in her chekes (of which she before had most misse) that her great shame wan her much praise among those that were more amorous of her body, then curious of her soule. and many good folke also, that hated her living, and glad wer to se sin corrected, yet pittied thei more her penance then rejoiced therin, when thei considred that the protector procured it more of a corrupt intent, then any virtuous affeccion. "this woman was born in london, worshipfully frended, honestly brought up, and very wel maryed, saving somewhat too soone; her husbande an honest citizen, yonge, and goodly, and of good substance. but forasmuche as they were coupled ere she wer wel ripe, she not very fervently loved, for whom she never longed. which was happely the thinge, that the more easily made her encline unto the king's appetite, when he required her. howbeit the respect of his royaltie, the hope of gay apparel, ease, plesure, and other wanton welth, was able soone to perse a soft tender hearte. but when the king had abused her, anon her husband (as he was an honest man, and one that could his good, not presuming to touch a kinges concubine) left her up to him al together. when the king died, the lord chamberlen [hastings] toke her:[ ] which in the kinges daies, albeit he was sore enamoured upon her, yet he forbare her, either for reverence, or for a certain friendly faithfulness. "proper she was, and faire: nothing in her body that you wold have changed, but if you would have wished her somewhat higher. thus say thei that knew her in her youthe. albeit some that _now see her_ (_for yet she liveth_) deme her never to have bene wel visaged. whose jugement seemeth me somewhat like, as though men should gesse the bewty of one longe before departed, by her scalpe taken out of the charnel-house; for now is she old, lene, withered, and dried up, nothing left but ryvilde skin, and hard bone. and yet being even such, whoso wel advise her visage, might gesse and devise which partes how filled, wold make it a fair face. "yet delited not men so much in her bewty, as in her pleasant behaviour. for a proper wit had she, and could both rede wel and write; mery in company, redy and quick of aunswer, neither mute nor ful of bable; sometime taunting without displeasure, and not without disport. the king would say, that he had three concubines, which in three divers properties diversly excelled. one the meriest, another the wiliest, the thirde the holiest harlot in his realme, as one whom no man could get out of the church lightly to any place, but it were to his bed. the other two wer somwhat greater personages, and natheles of their humilite content to be nameles, and to forbere the praise of those properties; but the meriest was the shoris wife, in whom the king therfore toke special pleasure. for many he had, but her he loved, whose favour, to sai the trouth (for sinne it wer to belie the devil) she never abused to any mans hurt, but to many a mans comfort and relief. where the king toke displeasure, she would mitigate and appease his mind: where men were out of favour, she wold bring them in his grace: for many, that had highly offended, shee obtained pardon: of great forfeitures she gate men remission: and finally in many weighty sutes she stode many men in gret stede, either for none or very smal rewardes, and those rather gay than rich: either for that she was content with the dede selfe well done, or for that she delited to be sued unto, and to show what she was able to do wyth the king, or for that wanton women and welthy be not alway covetous. "i doubt not some shal think this woman too sleight a thing to be written of, and set amonge the remembraunces of great matters: which thei shal specially think, that happely shal esteme her only by that thei _now see her_. but me semeth the chaunce so much the more worthy to be remembred, in how much she is _now_ in the more beggerly condicion, unfrended and worne out of acquaintance, after good substance, after as grete favour with the prince, after as grete sute and seeking to with al those, that in those days had busynes to spede, as many other men were in their times, which be now famouse only by the infamy of their il dedes. her doinges were not much lesse, albeit thei be muche lesse remembred because thei were not so evil. for men use, if they have an evil turne, to write it in marble; and whoso doth us a good tourne, we write it in duste.[ ] which is not worst proved by her; for _at this daye_ shee beggeth of many at this daye living, that at this day had begged, if shee had not bene." see more's _workes_, folio, bl. let. , pp. , . _drayton_ has written a poetical epistle from this lady to her royal lover, and in his notes thereto he thus draws her portrait: "her stature was meane, her haire of a dark yellow, her face round and full, her eye gray, delicate harmony being betwixt each part's proportion, and each proportion's colour, her body fat, white and smooth, her countenance cheerfull and like to her condition. the picture which i have seen of hers was such as she rose out of her bed in the morning, having nothing on but a rich mantle cast under one arme over her shoulder, and sitting on a chaire, on which her naked arm did lie. what her father's name was, or where she was borne, is not certainly knowne: but shore, a young man of right goodly person, wealth and behaviour, abandoned her bed after the king had made her his concubine. richard iii. causing her to do open penance in paul's church-yard, _commanded that no man should relieve her_, which the tyrant did, not so much for his hatred to sinne, but that by making his brother's life odious, he might cover his horrible treasons the more cunningly." see _england's heroical epistles_, by mich. drayton, esq; lond. , mo. an original picture of _jane shore_ almost naked is preserved in the provost's lodgings at eton; and another picture of her is in the provost's lodge at king's college, cambridge: to both which foundations she is supposed to have done friendly offices with _edward iv._ a small quarto mezzotinto print was taken from the former of these by _j. faber_. the history of _jane shore_ receives new illustration from the following letter of _k. richard iii._ which is preserved in the _harl. mss._ num. , art. , but of which the copy transmitted to the editor has been reduced to modern orthography, &c. it is said to have been addressed to _russel_ bp. of lincoln, lord chancellor, anno . by the _king_. "right reverend father in god, &c. signifying unto you, that it is shewed unto us, that our servant and solicitor thomas lynom, marvellously blinded and abused with the late wife of william shore, now living in ludgate by our commandment, hath made contract of matrimony with her, as it is said, and intendeth, to our full great marvel, to effect the same. we, for many causes, would be sorry that he should be so disposed; pray you therefore to send for him, and in that ye goodly may, exhort, and stir him to the contrary: and if ye find him utterly set for to marry her, and none otherwise would be advertized, then, if it may stand with the laws of the church, we be content the time of marriage be deferred to our coming next to london; that upon sufficient surety found of her good abearing, ye do so send for her keeper, and discharge him of our said commandment, by warrant of these, committing her to the rule, and guiding of her father, or any other, by your direction, in the mean season. given, &c. "_ric._ rex." it appears from two articles in the same ms. that k. richard had granted to the said _thomas linom_ the office of king's solicitor (art. .), and also the manor of colmeworth, com. bedf. to him and his heirs male (art. .) the following ballad is printed (with some corrections) from an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection. its full title is, _the woefull lamentation of jane shore, a goldsmith's wife in london, sometime king edward iv. his concubine_. to the tune of _live with me, &c._ (see the first volume.) to every stanza is annexed the following burthen: "then maids and wives in time amend, for love and beauty will have end." * * * * * [the tale of jane shore's sufferings has found frequent narrators. the first known ballad upon her story was written by thomas churchyard (who died in ) and is included in the _mirror for_ _magistrates_. the ballad here printed is attributed to thomas deloney, and was entered on the books of the stationers' company to william white, printer, on the th of june, , but no copy of this edition is known to exist. mr. chappell remarks that no copy in any of the collections can be dated "earlier than charles the second's time, or at most than the protectorate" (_roxburghe ballads_, vol. i. p. ). it is printed in the _collection of old ballads_, (vol. i. p. ), and in the same collection is a burlesque song called _king edward and jane shore_ (vol. i. p. ). the roxburghe copy has a second part which mr. chappell says is "probably by another hand and of later date." deloney has paid very little attention to facts, and many of his statements are groundless, for instance no one was hanged for succouring jane (vv. - ), and instead of dying of hunger in a ditch (vv. - ), she survived her penance nearly fifty years. (she died in the th year of henry viii.'s reign.) her husband is named matthew shore in verse , but we have the best authority for affirming that his true name was william. richard iii. followed jane shore with unrelenting hate, and not content with making her do penance, clapping her in prison and depriving her of all her property, which amounted to the value of marks, equal to about _£_ , of our present money, he prevented her from marrying a respectable man. there is no date to the paper printed above, but as john russell, d.d., bishop of lincoln, was richard's chancellor only from nov. to july , we can fix it pretty closely. according to mr. nugent bell, in his _huntingdon peerage_, the name of the father of jane shore was thomas wainstead. granger says that the duchess of montagu had a lock of her hair which looked as if it had been powdered with gold dust. for further information, see _some particulars of the life of jane shore_, by the rev. mark noble, in brayley's _graphic illustrator_, pp. - .] * * * * * of rosamonde that was so faire, had cause her sorrowes to declare, then let jane shore with sorrowe sing, that was beloved of a king. in maiden yeares my beautye bright was loved dear of lord and knight; but yet the love that they requir'd, it was not as my friends desir'd. my parents they, for thirst of gaine, a husband for me did obtaine; and i, their pleasure to fulfille, was forc'd to wedd against my wille. to matthew shore i was a wife, till lust brought ruine to my life; and then my life i lewdlye spent, which makes my soul for to lament. in lombard-street i once did dwelle, as london yet can witness welle; where many gallants did beholde my beautye in a shop of golde. i spred my plumes, as wantons doe, some sweet and secret friende to wooe, because chast love i did not finde agreeing to my wanton minde. at last my name in court did ring into the eares of englandes king, who came and lik'd, and love requir'd, but i made coye what he desir'd; yet mistress blague, a neighbour neare, whose friendship i esteemed deare, did saye, it was a gallant thing to be beloved of a king. by her persuasions i was led, for to defile my marriage-bed, and wronge my wedded husband shore, whom i had married yeares before. in heart and mind i did rejoyce, that i had made so sweet a choice; and therefore did my state resigne, to be king edward's concubine. from city then to court i went, to reape the pleasures of content; there had the joyes that love could bring, and knew the secrets of a king. when i was thus advanc'd on highe commanding edward with mine eye, for mrs. blague i in short space obtainde a livinge from his grace. no friende i had but in short time i made unto a promotion climbe; but yet for all this costlye pride, my husbande could not mee abide. his bed, though wronged by a king, his heart with deadlye griefe did sting; from england then he goes away to end his life beyond the sea. he could not live to see his name impaired by my wanton shame; although a prince of peerlesse might did reape the pleasure of his right. long time i lived in the courte, with lords and ladies of great sorte; and when i smil'd all men were glad, but when i frown'd my prince grewe sad. but yet a gentle minde i bore to helplesse people, that were poore; i still redrest the orphans crye, and sav'd their lives condemnd to dye. i still had ruth on widowes tears, i succour'd babes of tender yeares; and never look'd for other gaine but love and thankes for all my paine. at last my royall king did dye, and then my dayes of woe grew nighe; when crook-back richard got the crowne, king edwards friends were soon put downe. i then was punisht for my sin, that i so long had lived in; yea, every one that was his friend, this tyrant brought to shamefull end. then for my lewd and wanton life, that made a strumpet of a wife, i penance did in lombard-street, in shamefull manner in a sheet. where many thousands did me viewe, who late in court my credit knewe; which made the teares run down my face, to thinke upon my foul disgrace. not thus content, they took from mee my goodes, my livings, and my fee, and charg'd that none should me relieve, nor any succour to me give. then unto mrs. blague i went, to whom my jewels i had sent, in hope therebye to ease my want, when riches fail'd, and love grew scant: but she denyed to me the same when in my need for them i came: to recompence my former love, out of her doores shee did me shove. so love did vanish with my state, which now my soul repents too late; therefore example take by mee, for friendship parts in povertie. but yet one friend among the rest, whom i before had seen distrest, and sav'd his life, condemn'd to die, did give me food to succour me: for which, by lawe, it was decreed that he was hanged for that deed; his death did grieve me so much more, than had i dyed myself therefore. then those to whom i had done good, durst not afford me any food; whereby i begged all the day, and still in streets by night i lay. my gowns beset with pearl and gold, were turn'd to simple garments old; my chains and gems and golden rings, to filthy rags and loathsome things. thus was i scorn'd of maid and wife, for leading such a wicked life; both sucking babes and children small, did make their pastime at my fall. i could not get one bit of bread, whereby my hunger might be fed: nor drink, but such as channels yield, or stinking ditches in the field. thus, weary of my life, at lengthe i yielded up my vital strength within a ditch of loathsome scent, where carrion dogs did much frequent: the which now since my dying daye, is shoreditch call'd, as writers saye[ ]; which is a witness of my sinne, for being concubine to a king. you wanton wives, that fall to lust, be you assur'd that god is just; whoredome shall not escape his hand, nor pride unpunish'd in this land. if god to me such shame did bring, that yielded only to a king, how shall they scape that daily run to practise sin with every one? you husbands, match not but for love, lest some disliking after prove; women, be warn'd when you are wives, what plagues are due to sinful lives: then, maids and wives, in time amend, for love and beauty will have end. footnotes: [ ] after the death of hastings, she was kept by the marquis of dorset, son to edward iv.'s queen. in rymer's _f[oe]dera_ is a proclamation of richard's, dated at leicester, oct. , , wherein a reward of marks in money, or a year in land is offered for taking "thomas late marquis of dorset," who, "not having the fear of god, nor the salvation of his own soul, before his eyes, has damnably debauched and defiled many maids, widows, and wives, and _lived in actual adultery with the wife of shore_." buckingham was at that time in rebellion, but as dorset was not with him, richard could not accuse him of treason, and therefore made a handle of these pretended debaucheries to get him apprehended. vide _rym. f[oe]d._ tom. xij. pag. . [the rev. mark noble writes as follows of the charge made by richard of dorset's living in adultery with jane shore.--"it could not be before she was taken by edward; it could not be during that king's life; it could not be afterwards, by richard's own account, for by his proclamation she then was the mistress of hastings to the night preceding his being put to death. it could not be after that catastrophe, for ever after then richard kept her either in the tower or in ludgate a close prisoner."--_brayley's graphic and historical illustrator_, , p. .] [ ] these words of sir thomas more probably suggested to shakespeare that proverbial reflection in _hen. viii._ act iv. sc. . "men's evill manners live in brass: their virtues we write in water." shakesp. in his play of _rich. iii._ follows more's _hist._ of that reign, and therefore could not but see this passage. [ ] but it had this name long before; being so called from its being a common sewer (vulgarly shore) or drain. see stow. [weever states that it was named from the lord of the manor. sir john de sordig was ambassador from edward iii. to the pope, to remonstrate with his holiness on his claim to present foreigners to english livings.] xxvii. corydon's doleful knell. this little simple elegy is given, with some corrections, from two copies, one of which is in _the golden garland of princely delights_. the burthen of the song, _ding dong_, &c. is at present appropriated to burlesque subjects, and therefore may excite only ludicrous ideas in a modern reader; but in the time of our poet it usually accompanied the most solemn and mournful strains. of this kind is that fine aërial dirge in shakespear's _tempest_: "full fadom five thy father lies, of his bones are corrall made; those are pearles that were his eyes; nothing of him, that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange: sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell, harke now i heare them, ding dong bell." "burthen, ding dong." i make no doubt but the poet intended to conclude the above air in a manner the most solemn and expressive of melancholy. * * * * * my phillida, adieu love! for evermore farewel! ay me! i've lost my true love, and thus i ring her knell, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, my phillida is dead! i'll stick a branch of willow at my fair phillis' head. for my fair phillida our bridal bed was made: but 'stead of silkes so gay, she in her shroud is laid. ding, &c. her corpse shall be attended by maides in fair array, till the obsequies are ended, and she is wrapt in clay. ding, &c. her herse it shall be carried by youths, that do excell; and when that she is buried, i thus will ring her knell, ding, &c. a garland shall be framed by art and natures skill, of sundry-colour'd flowers, in token of good-will[ ]: ding, &c. and sundry-colour'd ribbands on it i will bestow; but chiefly black and yellowe[ ]: with her to grave shall go. ding, &c. i'll decke her tomb with flowers, the rarest ever seen, and with my tears, as showers, i'll keepe them fresh and green. ding, &c. instead of fairest colours, set forth with curious art[ ], ding, &c. her image shall be painted on my distressed heart. and thereon shall be graven her epitaph so faire, "here lies the loveliest maiden, that e'er gave shepheard care." ding, &c. in sable will i mourne; blacke shall be all my weede; ay me! i am forlorne, now phillida is dead! ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, my phillida is dead! i'll stick a branch of willow at my fair phillis' head footnotes: [ ] it is a custom in many parts of england, to carry a flowery garland before the corpse of a woman who dies unmarried. [for further note on this custom, see _the bride's burial_, vol iii. book ii. no. .] [ ] see above, preface to no. xi. book ii. [ ] this alludes to the painted effigies of alabaster, anciently erected upon tombs and monuments. the end of the second book. [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the second. book iii. [illustration] [illustration] i. the complaint of conscience. i shall begin this third book with an old allegoric satire; a manner of moralizing, which, if it was not first introduced by the author of _pierce plowman's visions_,[ ] was at least chiefly brought into repute by that ancient satirist. it is not so generally known that the kind of verse used in this ballad hath any affinity with the peculiar metre of that writer, for which reason i shall throw together some cursory remarks on that very singular species of versification, the nature of which has been so little understood.[ ] the following song, intitled, _the complaint of conscience_, is printed from the editor's folio manuscript: some corruptions in the old copy are here corrected; but with notice to the reader, wherever it was judged necessary, by inclosing the corrections between inverted 'commas.' * * * * * [this poem entitled _conscience_ is printed in hales and furnivall's edition of the percy folio ms. (vol. ii. p. ), with a long preface by mr. furnivall, on the earnest side of early english literature. it will be seen from the foot-notes that percy left many of his corrections unnoticed.] * * * * * as i walked of late by 'an' wood side,[ ] to god for to meditate was my entent; where under a hawthorne i suddenlye spyed[ ] a silly poore creature ragged and rent, with bloody teares his face was besprent,[ ] his fleshe and his color consumed away,[ ] and his garments they were all mire, mucke, and clay.[ ] this made me muse, and much 'to' desire to know what kind of man hee shold bee; i stept to him straight, and did him require his name and his secretts to shew unto mee. his head he cast up, and wooful was hee, my name, quoth he, is the cause of my care, and makes me scorned, and left here so bare. then straightway he turn'd him, and pray'd 'me' sit downe,[ ] and i will, saithe he, declare my whole greefe; my name is called conscience:--wheratt he did frowne, he pined to repeate it, and grinded his teethe, 'thoughe now, silly wretche, i'm denyed all releef,'[ ] 'yet' while i was young, and tender of yeeres,[ ] i was entertained with kinges, and with peeres. there was none in the court that lived in such fame,[ ] for with the kings councell 'i' sate in commission;[ ] dukes, earles, and barrons esteem'd of my name; and how that i liv'd there needs no repetition: i was ever holden in honest condition, for howsoever the lawes went in westminster-hall, when sentence was given, for me they wold call. no incomes at all the landlords wold take, but one pore peny, that was their fine; and that they acknowledged to be for my sake. the poore wold doe nothing without councell mine: i ruled the world with the right line: for nothing was passed betweene foe and friend,[ ] but conscience was called to bee at 'the' end.[ ] noe bargaines, nor merchandize merchants wold make[ ] but i was called a wittenesse therto: no use for noe money, nor forfett wold take, but i wold controule them, if that they did soe: 'and' that makes me live now in great woe, for then came in pride, sathan's disciple, that is now entertained with all kind of people.[ ] he brought with him three, whose names 'thus they call'[ ] that is covetousnes, lecherye, usury, beside: they never prevail'd, till they had wrought my downefall; soe pride was entertained, but conscience decried,[ ] and 'now ever since' abroad have i tryed[ ] to have had entertainment with some one or other; but i am rejected, and scorned of my brother. then went i to the court the gallants to winn, but the porter kept me out of the gate:[ ] to bartlemew spittle[ ] to pray for my sinne,[ ] they bade me goe packe, it was fitt for my state;[ ] goe, goe, threed-bare conscience, and seeke thee a mate. good lord, long preserve my king, prince, and queene, with whom evermore i esteemed have been.[ ] then went i to london, where once i did 'dwell':[ ] but they bade away with me, when they knew my name; for he will undoe us to bye and to sell! they bade me goe packe me, and hye me for shame; they lought[ ] at my raggs, and there had good game; this is old threed-bare conscience, that dwelt with saint peter: but they wold not admitt me to be a chimney-sweeper. not one wold receive me, the lord 'he' doth know;[ ] i having but one poor pennye in my purse, on an awle and some patches i did it bestow;[ ] 'for' i thought better cobble shooes than doe worse.[ ] straight then all the coblers began for to curse,[ ] and by statute wold prove me a rogue, and forlorne,[ ] and whipp me out of towne to 'seeke' where i was borne.[ ] then did i remember, and call to my minde, the court of conscience where once i did sit:[ ] not doubting but there i some favor shold find,[ ] for my name and the place agreed soe fit; but there of my purpose i fayled a whit, for 'thoughe' the judge us'd my name in everye 'commission,'[ ] the lawyers with their quillets[ ] wold get 'my' dismission.[ ] then westminster-hall was noe place for me; good lord! how the lawyers began to assemble,[ ] and fearfull they were, lest there i shold bee! the silly poore clarkes began for to tremble; i showed them my cause, and did not dissemble; soe they gave me some money my charges to beare,[ ] but swore me on a booke i must never come there. next the merchants said, counterfeite, get thee away,[ ] dost thou remember how wee thee found? we banisht thee the country beyond the salt sea, and sett thee on shore in the new-found land; and there thou and wee most friendly shook hand,[ ] and we were right glad when thou didst refuse us;[ ] for when we wold reape profitt here thou woldst accuse us.[ ] then had i noe way, but for to goe on[ ] to gentlemens houses of an ancyent name; declaring my greeffes, and there i made moane, 'telling' how their forefathers held me in fame:[ ] and at letting their farmes 'how always i came'.[ ] they sayd, fye upon thee! we may thee curse: 'theire' leases continue, and we fare the worse.[ ] and then i was forced a begging to goe to husbandmens houses, who greeved right sore, and sware that their landlords had plagued them so[ ] that they were not able to keepe open doore, nor nothing had left to give to the poore:[ ] therefore to this wood i doe me repayre,[ ] where hepps and hawes, that is my best fare. yet within this same desert some comfort i have of mercy, of pittye, and of almes-deeds; who have vowed to company me to my grave. wee are 'all' put to silence, and live upon weeds,[ ] 'and hence such cold house-keeping proceeds':[ ] our banishment is its utter decay,[ ] the which the riche glutton will answer one day. why then, i said to him, me-thinks it were best to goe to the clergie; for dailye they preach eche man to love you above all the rest;[ ] of mercye, and pittie, and almes-'deeds', they teach. o, said he, noe matter of a pin what they preach,[ ] for their wives and their children soe hange them upon,[ ] that whosoever gives almes they will[ ] give none.[ ] then laid he him down, and turned him away, 'and' prayd me to goe, and leave him to rest. i told him, i haplie might yet see the day[ ] for him and his fellowes to live with the best.[ ] first, said he, banish pride, then all england were blest;[ ] for then those wold love us, that now sell their land,[ ] and then good 'house-keeping wold revive' out of hand.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [the correct title is _william's vision of piers plowman_. it is william (the author) who has the vision of piers plowman.] [ ] [this essay is printed as an appendix.] [ ] ver. . one, ms. [ ] [v. . espyed, ms.] [ ] [between vv. , the ms. has this line, "with turning and winding his bodye was toste."] [ ] [after v. , the ms. has the following lines:-- "good lord! of my liffe deprive me, i pray for i silly wretch am ashamed of my name! my name, "quoth hee," is the cause of my care, and i cursse my godfathers that gave me the same!" percy omits three of these, and transfers the third line to v. .] [ ] v. . him, ms. [ ] v. . not in ms. [ ] [v. . _for_ in place of _yet_, ms.] [ ] [ver. . in all the court.] [ ] v. . he sate, ms. [ ] [v. . that was passed.] [ ] v. . an end, ms. [ ] [v. . noe merchandize nor bargaines the merchants wold make.] [ ] [v. . now is.] [ ] v. . they be these, ms. [ ] v. . was deride, ms. [ ] [v. . yet still abroad have i tried.] [ ] [ver. . gates.] [ ] [st. bartholomew's hospital.] [ ] [v. . sinnes.] [ ] v. . packe me, ms. [ ] [v. . have esteemed.] [ ] v. . wonne, ms. [ ] [laughed.] [ ] [v. . the lord god doth.] [ ] [v. . of an.] [ ] [v. . i thought better to cobble shoes than to doe worse.] [ ] [v. . all they cobblers.] [ ] [v. . and by statute thé wold prove me i was a rouge and forlorne.] [ ] [v. . and they whipt me out of towne to see where i was borne.] [ ] [ver. . they court.] [ ] [v. . some favor i.] [ ] [v. . did use my name in everye condicion.] [ ] [quibbles.] [ ] [v. . for lawyers get a.] [ ] [v. . good god.] [ ] [v. . soe then they.] [ ] [v. . then the merchants.] [ ] [v. . hands.] [ ] [v. . verry glad ... did ...] [ ] [v. . wold.] [ ] [v. . goe an.] [ ] [v. . and how ... had held, ms.] [ ] [ver. . and in letting of their ffarmes i always used the same.] [ ] [v. . they have leases.] [ ] [v. . who sware ... so sore.] [ ] [v. . thé had.] [ ] [v. . doe repayre.] [ ] v. . ill, ms. [ ] v. . not in ms. [ ] [v. . their utter.] [ ] [v. . of pittie and of almes they doe teach.] [ ] [v. . doe preach.] [ ] [v. . hangs.] [ ] we ought in justice and truth to read '_can_ [ ] v. . almes-deeds, ms. [ ] [ver. . i might happen to see.] [ ] [v. . to have him.] [ ] [v. . you must banish pride and then.] [ ] [v. . and then ... sells their lands.] [ ] v. . houses every where wold be kept, ms. ii. plain truth and blind ignorance. this excellent old ballad is preserved in the little ancient miscellany, intitled, _the garland of goodwill_.--_ignorance_ is here made to speak in the broad somersetshire dialect. the scene we may suppose to be glastonbury abbey. * * * * * truth. god speed you, ancient father, and give you a good daye; what is the cause, i praye you so sadly here you staye? and that you keep such gazing on this decayed place, the which, for superstition, good princes down did raze? ignorance. chill[ ] tell thee, by my vazen[ ], that zometimes che[ ] have knowne a vair and goodly abbey stand here of bricke and stone; and many a holy vrier[ ], as ich[ ] may say to thee, within these goodly cloysters che did full often zee. truth. then i must tell thee, father, in truthe and veritiè, a sorte of greater hypocrites thou couldst not likely see; deceiving of the simple with false and feigned lies: but such an order truly christ never did devise. ignorance. ah! ah! che zmell thee now, man; che know well what thou art; a vellow of mean learning, thee was not worth a vart: vor when we had the old lawe, a merry world was then; and every thing was plenty among all zorts of men. truth. thou givest me an answer, as did the jewes sometimes unto the prophet jeremye, when he accus'd their crimes; 'twas merry, sayd the people, and joyfull in our rea'me, when we did offer spice-cakes unto the queen of heav'n. ignorance. chill tell thee what, good vellowe, before the vriers went hence, a bushell of the best wheatè was zold vor vourteen pence; and vorty egges a penny, that were both good and newe; and this che zay my zelf have zeene, and yet ich am no jewe. truth. within the sacred bible we find it written plain, the latter days should troublesome and dangerous be, certaine; that we should be self-lovers, and charity wax colde; then 'tis not true religion that makes thee grief to holde. ignorance. chill tell thee my opinion plaine, and choul'd[ ] that well ye knewe, ich care not for the bible booke; tis too big to be true. our blessed ladyes psalter zhall for my money goe; zuch pretty prayers, as there bee[ ], the bible cannot zhowe. truth. nowe hast thou spoken trulye, for in that book indeede no mention of our lady, or romish saint we read: for by the blessed spirit that book indited was, and not by simple persons, as was the foolish masse. ignorance. cham[ ] zure they were not voolishe that made the masse, che trowe; why, man,'tis all in latine, and vools no latine knowe. were not our fathers wise men, and they did like it well; who very much rejoyced to heare the zacring bell?[ ] truth. but many kinges and prophets, as i may say to thee, have wisht the light that you have, and could it never see: for what art thou the better a latin song to heare, and understandest nothing, that they sing in the quiere? ignorance. o hold thy peace, che pray thee, the noise was passing trim to heare the vriers zinging, as we did enter in; and then to zee the rood-loft zo bravely zet with zaints;-- but now to zee them wandring my heart with zorrow vaints. truth. the lord did give commandment, no image thou shouldst make, nor that unto idolatry you should your self betake: the golden calf of israel moses did therefore spoile; and baal's priests and temple were brought to utter foile. ignorance. but our lady of walsinghame was a pure and holy zaint, and many men in pilgrimage did shew to her complaint. yea with zweet thomas becket, and many other moe: the holy maid of kent[ ] likewise did many wonders zhowe. truth. such saints are well agreeing to your profession sure; and to the men that made them so precious and so pure; the one for being a traytoure, met an untimely death; the other eke for treason did end her hateful breath. ignorance. yea, yea, it is no matter, dispraise them how you wille: but zure they did much goodnesse; would they were with us stille! we had our holy water, and holy bread likewise, and many holy reliques we zaw before our eyes. truth. and all this while they fed you with vain and empty showe, which never christ commanded, as learned doctors knowe: search then the holy scriptures, and thou shalt plainly see that headlong to damnation they alway trained thee. ignorance. if it be true, good vellowe, as thou dost zay to mee, unto my heavenly fader alone then will i flee: believing in the gospel, and passion of his zon, and with the zubtil papistes ich have for ever done. footnotes: [ ] [i will.] [ ] _i.e._ faithen: as in the midland counties they say housen, closen, for houses, closes. _a._ [ ] [i.] [ ] [friar.] [ ] [i.] [ ] [i would.] [ ] probably alluding to the illuminated psalters, missals, &c. [ ] [i am.] [ ] [the sacring bell was rung to give notice of the elevation of the host.] [ ] by name eliz. barton, executed apr. , . stow, p. . iii. the wandering jew. the story of the wandering jew is of considerable antiquity: it had obtained full credit in this part of the world before the year , as we learn from mat. paris. for in that year, it seems, there came an armenian archbishop into england, to visit the shrines and reliques preserved in our churches; who, being entertained at the monastery of st. albans, was asked several questions relating to his country, &c. among the rest a monk, who sat near him, inquired, "if he had ever seen or heard of the famous person named joseph, that was so much talked of; who was present at our lord's crucifixion and conversed with him, and who was still alive in confirmation of the christian faith." the archbishop answered, that the fact was true. and afterwards one of his train, who was well known to a servant of the abbot's, interpreting his master's words, told them in french, "that his lord knew the person they spoke of very well: that he had dined at his table but a little while before he left the east: that he had been pontius pilate's porter, by name cartaphilus; who, when they were dragging jesus out of the door of the judgment-hall, struck him with his fist on the back, saying, 'go faster, jesus, go faster: why dost thou linger?' upon which jesus looked at him with a frown and said, 'i indeed am going, but thou shall tarry till i come.' soon after he was converted, and baptized by the name of joseph. he lives for ever, but at the end of every hundred years falls into an incurable illness, and at length into a fit or ecstacy, out of which when he recovers, he returns to the same state of youth he was in when jesus suffered, being then about thirty years of age. he remembers all the circumstances of the death and resurrection of christ, the saints that arose with him, the composing of the apostles' creed, their preaching, and dispersion; and is himself a very grave and holy person." this is the substance of matthew paris's account, who was himself a monk of st. albans, and was living at the time when this armenian archbishop made the above relation. since his time several impostors have appeared at intervals under the name and character of the _wandering jew_; whose several histories may be seen in calmet's _dictionary of the bible_. see also the _turkish spy_, vol. ii. book , let. . the story that is copied in the following ballad is of one, who appeared at hamburgh in , and pretended he had been a jewish shoemaker at the time of christ's crucifixion.--the ballad however seems to be of later date. it is preserved in black-letter in the pepys collection. * * * * * [this wondrous myth has found its way into many literatures, and numerous theories have been brought forward to account for its universality; but the only foundation for it appears to be in christ's words--"tarry till i come." mons. paul lacroix, however, suggests that it took its rise in a grand and beautiful allegory in which the hebrew race were personified under the figure of the everlasting wanderer. professor child makes the following pertinent remark in his _english and scottish ballads_ (vol. viii. p. ). "it will be noticed that in the second form of the legend, the punishment of perpetual existence, which gives rise to the old names, _judæus non mortalis_, _ewiger jude_, is aggravated by a condemnation to incessant change of place, which is indicated by a corresponding name, _wandering jew_, _juif errant_, &c." in the middle ages it was supposed by some that cain was the wandering jew, but the mahometan belief was fixed upon samiri, who, during the absence of moses, enticed the people to worship the golden calf. in g. weil's _the bible, the koran, and the talmud_, (p. ), we read, "moses then summoned samiri, and would have put him to death instantly, but allah directed that he should be sent into banishment. ever since that time he roams like a wild beast throughout the world; everyone shuns him and purifies the ground on which his feet have stood; and he himself, whenever he approaches men, exclaims, 'touch me not.'" (quoted in buckle's _common place book_. _works_, vol. ii. p. , .) the legend has been localized in various parts of the world and connected with other myths. according to mr. baring gould, a similar curse to that under which the wandering jew is living is supposed to have been inflicted upon the gipsies, on account of their refusal to shelter the virgin and child in the flight into egypt. the last recorded appearance of the wandering jew was at brussels in april, , and the wanderer's name was isaac laquedem. the name of the hamburgh impostor, mentioned above by percy, was ahasuerus.] * * * * * when as in faire jerusalem our saviour christ did live, and for the sins of all the worlde his own deare life did give; the wicked jewes with scoffes and scornes did dailye him molest, that never till he left his life, our saviour could not rest. when they had crown'd his head with thornes, and scourg'd him to disgrace, in scornfull sort they led him forthe unto his dying place; where thousand thousands in the streete beheld him passe along, yet not one gentle heart was there, that pityed this his wrong. both old and young reviled him, as in the streete he wente, and nought he found but churlish tauntes, by every ones consente: his owne deare crosse he bore himselfe, a burthen far too great, which made him in the street to fainte, with blood and water sweat. being weary thus, he sought for rest, to ease his burthened soule, upon a stone; the which a wretch did churlishly controule; and sayd, awaye, thou king of jewes, thou shalt not rest thee here; pass on; thy execution place thou seest nowe draweth neare. and thereupon he thrust him thence; at which our saviour sayd, i sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, and have no journey stayed. with that this cursed shoemaker, for offering christ this wrong, left wife and children, house and all, and went from thence along. where after he had seene the bloude of jesus christ thus shed, and to the crosse his bodye nail'd, awaye with speed he fled without returning backe againe unto his dwelling place, and wandred up and downe the worlde, a runnagate most base. no resting could he finde at all, no ease, nor hearts content; no house, nor home, nor biding place: but wandring forth he went from towne to towne in foreigne landes, with grieved conscience still, repenting for the heinous guilt of his fore-passed ill. thus after some fewe ages past in wandring up and downe; he much again desired to see jerusalems renowne, but finding it all quite destroyd, he wandred thence with woe, our saviours wordes, which he had spoke, to verifie and showe. "i'll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke," so doth this wandring jew from place to place, but cannot rest for seeing countries newe; declaring still the power of him, whereas he comes or goes, and of all things done in the east, since christ his death, he showes. the world he hath still compast round and seene those nations strange, that hearing of the name of christ, their idol gods doe change: to whom he hath told wondrous thinges of time forepast, and gone, and to the princes of the worlde declares his cause of moane: desiring still to be dissolv'd, and yeild his mortal breath; but, if the lord hath thus decreed, he shall not yet see death. for neither lookes he old nor young, but as he did those times, when christ did suffer on the crosse for mortall sinners crimes. he hath past through many a foreigne place, arabia, egypt, africa, grecia, syria, and great thrace, and throughout all hungaria. where paul and peter preached christ, those blest apostles deare; there he hath told our saviours wordes, in countries far, and neare. and lately in bohemia, with many a german towne; and now in flanders, as tis thought, he wandreth up and downe: where learned men with him conferre of those his lingering dayes, and wonder much to heare him tell his journeyes, and his wayes. if people give this jew an almes, the most that he will take is not above a groat a time: which he, for jesus' sake, will kindlye give unto the poore, and thereof make no spare, affirming still that jesus christ of him hath dailye care. he ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile, but weepe and make great moane; lamenting still his miseries, and dayes forepast and gone: if he heare any one blaspheme, or take god's name in vaine, he telles them that they crucifie their saviour christe againe. if you had seene his death, saith he, as these mine eyes have done, ten thousand thousand times would yee his torments think upon: and suffer for his sake all paine of torments, and all woes. these are his wordes and eke his life whereas he comes or goes. [illustration] iv. the lye, by sir walter raleigh, is found in a very scarce miscellany intitled "_davison's poems, or a poeticall rapsodie divided into sixe books_.... the th impression newly corrected and augmented, and put into a forme more pleasing to the reader. lond. , mo." this poem is reported to have been written by its celebrated author the night before his execution, oct. , . but this must be a mistake, for there were at least two editions of davison's poems before that time, one in ,[ ] the other in .[ ] so that unless this poem was an after-insertion in the th edit. it must have been written long before the death of sir walter: perhaps it was composed soon after his condemnation in . see oldys's _life of sir w. raleigh_, p. , fol. * * * * * [hallam asserted that this favourite poem had been ascribed to raleigh without evidence and without probability. ritson affirmed that f. davison was the author, and ellis supported the claims of joshua sylvester, but dr. hannah has proved conclusively that it was really written by raleigh. it was certainly composed before , and probably about the period of its author's marriage and his consequent imprisonment in the tower. dr. hannah has brought together a large amount of illustrative evidence in his interesting edition of the _courtly poets_ ( ), and he shows that the answerers of the poem attributed it to raleigh. one of the answers commences as follows-- "go, echo of the mind, a careless truth protest; make answer that rude rawly no stomach can digest." he also draws attention to a transcript of the poem among the chetham mss., made not long after raleigh's death, and signed "wa. raleigh." in that remarkable book, _sylvester's remains_, printed at the end of the translation of du bartas, , _the soules errand_ is inserted with some poor additional verses.] * * * * * goe, soule, the bodies guest, upon a thankelesse arrant; feare not to touche the best, the truth shall be thy warrant: goe, since i needs must dye, and give the world the lye. goe tell the court, it glowes and shines like rotten wood; goe tell the church it showes what's good, and doth no good: if church and court reply, then give them both the lye. tell potentates they live acting by others actions; not lov'd unlesse they give, not strong but by their factions; if potentates reply, give potentates the lye. tell men of high condition, that rule affairs of state, their purpose is ambition, their practise onely hate; and if they once reply, then give them all the lye. tell them that brave it most, they beg for more by spending, who in their greatest cost seek nothing but commending; and if they make reply, spare not to give the lye. tell zeale, it lacks devotion; tell love it is but lust; tell time, it is but motion; tell flesh, it is but dust; and wish them not reply, for thou must give the lye. tell age, it daily wasteth; tell honour, how it alters; tell beauty, how she blasteth; tell favour, how she falters; and as they shall reply, give each of them the lye. tell wit, how much it wrangles in tickle points of nicenesse; tell wisedome, she entangles herselfe in over-wisenesse; and if they do reply, straight give them both the lye. tell physicke of her boldnesse; tell skill, it is pretension; tell charity of coldness; tell law, it is contention; and as they yield reply, so give them still the lye. tell fortune of her blindnesse; tell nature of decay; tell friendship of unkindnesse; tell justice of delay: and if they dare reply, then give them all the lye. tell arts, they have no soundnesse, but vary by esteeming; tell schooles, they want profoundnesse, and stand too much on seeming: if arts and schooles reply, give arts and schooles the lye. tell faith, it's fled the citie; tell how the countrey erreth; tell, manhood shakes off pitie; tell, vertue least preferreth: and, if they doe reply, spare not to give the lye. so, when thou hast, as i commanded thee, done blabbing, although to give the lye deserves no less than stabbing, yet stab at thee who will, no stab the soule can kill. footnotes: [ ] _catalog. of t. rawlinson_, . [ ] _cat. of sion coll. library._ this is either lost or mislaid. v. verses by king james i. in the first edition of this book were inserted, by way of specimen of his majesty's poetic talents, some punning verses made on the disputations at sterling: but it having been suggested to the editor, that the king only gave the quibbling commendations in prose, and that some obsequious court-rhymer put them into metre;[ ] it was thought proper to exchange them for two _sonnets_ of k. james's own composition. james was a great versifier, and therefore out of the multitude of his poems we have here selected two, which (to shew our impartiality) are written in his best and his worst manner. the first would not dishonour any writer of that time; the second is a most complete example of the bathos. * * * * * [james i. commenced the practice of poetry at an early age, and his first book was printed at edinburgh by t. vautroullier, in , under the title of _the essays of a prentise in the divine art of poesie_. the king's next poetical venture was entitled, _his majesty's poeticall exercises at vacant houres_. printed at edinburgh, by robert waldegrave, printer to the king's majesty in .] * * * * * a sonnet addressed by king james to his son prince henry. from k. james's works in folio: where is also printed another called _his majesty's_ own _sonnet_; it would perhaps be too cruel to infer from thence that this was _not_ his majesty's _own_ sonnet. * * * * * god gives not kings the stile of gods in vaine, for on his throne his scepter do they swey: and as their subjects ought them to obey, so kings should feare and serve their god againe. if then ye would enjoy a happie reigne, observe the statutes of our heavenly king; and from his law make all your laws to spring; since his lieutenant here ye should remaine. rewarde the just, be stedfast, true and plaine; represse the proud, maintayning aye the right; walke always so, as ever in his sight, who guardes the godly, plaguing the prophane. and so ye shall in princely vertues shine, resembling right your mightie king divine. * * * * * a sonnet occasioned by the bad weather which hindred the sports at newmarket in january . this is printed from drummond of hawthornden's works, folio: where also may be seen some verses of lord stirling's upon this sonnet, which concludes with the finest anticlimax i remember to have seen. * * * * * how cruelly these catives do conspire? what loathsome love breeds such a baleful band betwixt the cankred king of creta land,[ ] that melancholy old and angry sire, and him, who wont to quench debate and ire among the romans, when his ports were clos'd?[ ] but now his double face is still dispos'd, with saturn's help, to freeze us at the fire. the earth ore-covered with a sheet of snow, refuses food to fowl, to bird, and beast: the chilling cold lets every thing to grow, and surfeits cattle with a starving feast. curs'd be that love and mought[ ] continue short, which kills all creatures, and doth spoil our sport. footnotes: [ ] see a folio intitled _the muses welcome to king james_. [ ] saturn. [ ] janus. [ ] _i.e._ may it. vi. k. john and the abbot of canterbury. the common popular ballad of _king john and the abbot_ seems to have been abridged and modernized about the time of james i. from one much older, intitled, _king john and the bishop of canterbury_. the editor's folio ms. contains a copy of this last, but in too corrupt a state to be reprinted; it however afforded many lines worth reviving, which will be found inserted in the ensuing stanzas. the archness of the following questions and answers hath been much admired by our old ballad-makers; for besides the two copies above mentioned, there is extant another ballad on the same subject (but of no great antiquity or merit), intitled, _king olfrey and the abbot_.[ ] lastly, about the time of the civil wars, when the cry ran against the bishops, some puritan worked up the same story into a very doleful ditty, to a solemn tune, concerning _king henry and a bishop_, with this stinging moral: "unlearned men hard matters out can find, when learned bishops princes eyes do blind." * * * * * [all the copies of this ballad are of late date, but mr. chappell says that the story upon which it is founded can be traced back to the fifteenth century, and dr. rimbault so traces it to the _adventures of howleglas_, printed in the lower saxon dialect in . wynkyn de worde printed in a collection of riddles translated from the french, with the title _demaundes joyous_, which are like those propounded by king john to the abbot. prof. child points out that by this link the ballad is connected with a tolerably large literature of wit combats of the middle ages. (see _english and scottish ballads_, vol. viii. p. .) copies of the puritan ballad referred to above are in the pepys, douce, and roxburghe collections. it commences as follows-- "in popish times, when bishops proud in england did bear sway, their lordships did like princes live, and kept all at obey." the ballad entitled _king john and bishoppe_, in the folio ms. to which percy refers, is printed at the end of the following ballad.] * * * * * _the following is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy, to "the tune of derry down."_ an ancient story ile tell you anon of a notable prince, that was called king john; and he ruled england with maine and with might, for he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. and ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, concerning the abbot of canterbùrye; how for his house-keeping, and high renowne, they rode poste for him to fair london towne. an hundred men, the king did heare say, the abbot kept in his house every day; and fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, in velvet coates waited the abbot about. how now, father abbot, i heare it of thee, thou keepest a farre better house than mee, and for thy house-keeping and high renowne, i feare thou work'st treason against my crown. my liege, quo' the abbot, i would it were knowne, i never spend nothing, but what is my owne; and i trust, your grace will doe me no deere,[ ] for spending of my owne true-gotten geere. yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, and now for the same thou needest must dye; for except thou canst answer me questions three, thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. and first, quo' the king, when i'm in this stead, with my crowne of golde so faire on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worthe. secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, how soone i may ride the whole worlde about. and at the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think. o, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, nor i cánnot answer your grace as yet: but if you will give me but three weekes space, ile do my endeavour to answer your grace. now three weeks space to thee will i give, and that is the longest time thou hast to live; for if thou dost not answer my questions three, thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee. away rode the abbot all sad at that word, and he rode to cambridge, and oxenford; but never a doctor there was so wise, that could with his learning an answer devise. then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, and he mett his shepheard a going to fold: how now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; what newes do you bring us from good king john? "sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, i must give; that i have but three days more to live: for if i do not answer him questions three, my head will be smitten from my bodìe. the first is to tell him there in that stead, with his crowne of golde so fair on his head, among all his liege men so noble of birth, to within one penny of what he is worth. the seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, how soone he may ride this whole world about: and at the third question i must not shrinke, but tell him there truly what he does thinke." now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, that a fool he may learn a wise man witt? lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, and i'll ride to london to answere your quarrel. nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, i am like your lordship, as ever may bee: and if you will but lend me your gowne, there is none shall knowe us at fair london towne. "now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, with sumptuous array most gallant and brave; with crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope." now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; for and if thou canst answer my questions three, thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. and first, when thou seest me here in this stead. with my crown of golde so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, tell me to one penny what i am worth. "for thirty pence our saviour was sold amonge the false jewes, as i have bin told; and twenty nine is the worth of thee, for i thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." the king he laughed, and swore by st. bittel[ ], i did not think i had been worth so littel! --now secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soone i may ride this whole world about. "you must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, until the next morning he riseth againe; and then your grace need not make any doubt, but in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." the king he laughed, and swore by st. jone, i did not think, it could be gone so soone! --now from the third question thou must not shrinke, but tell me here truly what i do thinke. "yea, that shall i do, and make your grace merry: you thinke i'm the abbot of canterbùry; but i'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, that am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." the king he laughed, and swore by the masse, ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! "now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, for alacke i can neither write, ne reade." four nobles a weeke, then i will give thee, for this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; and tell the old abbot when thou comest home, thou hast brought him a pardon from good king john. [***] * * * * * [the following version is reprinted from hales and furnivall's edition of the percy folio, vol. i. p. . off an ancient story ile tell you anon, of a notable prince that was called king iohn, in england was borne, with maine and with might hee did much wrong, and mainteined litle right. this noble prince was vexed in veretye, for he was angry with the bishopp of canterbury ffor his house-keeping and his good cheere, thé rode post for him, as you shall heare; they rode post for him very hastilye; the king sayd the bishopp kept a better house then hee; a men euen, as i say, the bishopp kept in his house euerye day, and gold chaines without any doubt, in veluett coates waited the bishopp about. the bishopp, he came to the court anon before his prince that was called king iohn. as soone as the bishopp the king did see, "o," quoth the king, "bishopp, thou art welcome to mee! there is noe man soe welcome to towne as thou that workes treason against my crowne." "my leege," quoth the bishopp, "i wold it were knowne; i spend, your grace, nothing but that thats my owne; i trust your grace will doe me noe deare for spending my owne trew gotten geere." "yes," quoth the king, "bishopp, thou must needs dye: eccept thou can answere mee questions , thy head shalbe smitten quite from thy bodye, and all thy liuing remayne vnto mee. "first," quoth the king, "tell me in this steade, with this crowne of gold heere vpon my head, amongst my nobilitye with ioy and much mirth, lett me know within one pennye what i am worth: secondlye, tell me without any dowbt how soone i may goe the whole world about: and thirdly, tell mee or euer i stinte, what is the thing, bishopp, that i doe thinke. dayes pardon thoust haue trulye, and come againe and answere mee." the bishopp bade the king 'god night' att a word. he rode betwixt cambridge and oxenford, but neuer a doctor there was soe wise cold shew him these questions or enterprise; wherewith the bishopp was nothing gladd, but in his hart was heauy and sadd, and hyed him home to a house in the countrye to ease some part of his melanchollye. hís halfe brother dwelt there, was feirce & fell, noe better but a shepard to the bishoppe him-sell; the shepard came to the bishopp anon, saying, "my lord, you are welcome home! what ayles you," quoth the shepard, "that you are soe sadd, and had wonte to haue beene soe merry & gladd?" "nothing," quoth the bishopp, "i ayle att this time, will not thee availe to know, brother mine." "brother," quoth the shepeard, "you haue heard itt, that a ffoole may teach a wisemane witt; say me therfore what-soeuer you will, and if i doe you noe good, ile doe you noe ill." quoth the bishop: "i have beene att thy court anon, before my prince is called king iohn, and there he hath charged mee against his crowne with traitorye; if i cannot answer his misterye, questions hee hath propounded to mee, he will haue my land soe faire and free, and alsoe the head from my bodye. the first question was, 'to tell him in that stead with the crowne of gold vpon his head, amongst his nobilitye with ioy & much mirth, to lett him know within one penye what hee is worth;' and secondlye 'to tell him with-out any doubt how soone he may goe the whole world about;' and thirdlye, 'to tell him, or ere i stint, what is the thing that he does thinke.'" "brother," quoth the shepard, "you are a man of learninge; what neede you stand in doubt of soe small a thinge? lend me," quoth the shepard, "your ministers apparrell, ile ryde to the court and answere your quarrell; lend me your serving men, say me not nay; with all your best horsses that ryd on the way, ile to the court, this matter to stay; ile speake with king iohn & heare what heele say." the bishopp with speed prepared then to sett forth the shepard with horsse and man; the shepard was liuely with-out any doubt; i wott a royall companye came to the court. the shepard hee came to the court anon before (his) prince that was called king iohn. as soone as the king the shepard did see, "o," quoth the king, "bishopp, thou art welcome to me!" the shepard was soe like the bishopp his brother, the king cold not know the one from the other. quoth the king, "bishopp, thou art welcome to me if thou can answer me my questions !" said the shepeard, "if it please your grace, show mee what the first quest[i]on was." "first" quoth the king, "tell mee in this stead with the crowne of gold vpon my head, amongst my nobilitye with ioy and much mirth, within one pennye what i am worth." quoth the shepard, "to make your grace noe offence, i thinke you are worth pence; for our lord iesus, that bought vs all, for pence was sold into thrall amongst the cursed iewes, as i to you doe showe; but i know christ was one penye better then you." then the king laught, and swore by st andrew he was not thought to bee of such a small value. "secondlye, tell mee with-out any doubt how soone i may goe the world round about," saies the shepard, "it is noe time with your grace to scorne; but rise betime with the sun in the morne, and follow his course till his vprising, and then you may know with-out any leasing-- and this your grace shall proue the same-- you are come to the same place from whence you came; houres, with-out any doubt, your grace may the world goe round about; the world round about, euen as i doe say, if with the sun you can goe the next way." "and thirdlye tell me or euer i stint, what is the thing, bishoppe, that i doe thinke." "that shall i doe," quoth the shepeard, "for veretye you thinke i am the bishopp of canterburye," "why? art not thou? the truth tell to me; for i doe thinke soe," quoth the king, "by st. marye." "not soe," quoth the shepeard; "the truth shalbe knowne, i am his poore shepeard; my brother is att home." "why," quoth the king, "if itt soe bee, ile make thee bishopp here to mee." "noe sir" quoth the shepard, "i pray you be still, for ile not bee bishop but against my will; for i am not fitt for any such deede, for i can neither write nor reede." "why then," quoth the king, "ile giue thee cleere a patten of pound a yeere; that i will giue thee franke and free; take thee that, shepard, for coming to me: free pardon ile giue," the kings grace said, "to saue the bishopp, his land and his head; with him nor thee ile be nothing wrath; here is the pardon for him and thee both." then the shepard he had noe more to say, but tooke the pardon and rode his way. when he came to the bishopps place, the bishopp asket anon how all things was: "brother," quoth the shepard, "i haue well sped, for i haue saued both your land & your head; the king with you is nothing wrath, for heere is the pardon for you and mee both." then the bishopes hart was of a merry cheere, "brother, thy paines ile quitt them cleare, for i will giue thee a patent to thee & to thine of ^{li}. a yeere land good and fine." "i will to thee noe longer croche nor creepe, nor ile serue thee noe more to keepe thy sheepe." whereeuer wist you shepard before, that had in his head witt such store to pleasure a bishopp in such a like case, to answer questions to the kings grace? whereeuer wist you shepard gett cleare ^{li}. pound a yeere? i neuer hard of his fellow before, nor i neuer shall, now i need to say noe more: i neuer knew shepeard that gott such a liuinge but david the shepeard that was a king. ffins.] footnotes: [ ] see the collection of _hist. ballads_, vols. . mr. wise supposes _olfrey_ to be a corruption of _alfred_, in his pamphlet concerning the _white horse_ in berkshire, p. . [ ] [harm.] [ ] meaning probably st. botolph. vii. you meaner beauties. this little sonnet was written by sir _henry wotton_, knight, on that amiable princess, elizabeth daughter of james i. and wife of the elector palatine, who was chosen king of bohemia, sept. , . the consequences of this fatal election are well known: sir henry wotton, who in that and the following year was employed in several embassies in germany on behalf of this unfortunate lady, seems to have had an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes, for he gave away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was presented to him by the emperor, "because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the queen of bohemia." see _biog. britan_. this song is printed from the _reliquiæ wottonianæ_, , with some corrections from an old ms. copy. * * * * * [this elegant little poem in praise of the queen of bohemia (who was called by those who knew her and were won by her sweetness, spirit, wit, and unselfishness--the queen of hearts) has been very frequently reprinted. the unfortunate princess was also named the _snow queen_ and her husband the _winter king_, in allusion to the fact that their reign at prague only lasted one winter. the poem first appeared, according to dr. rimbault, in "the sixt set of bookes, wherein are anthemes for versus and chorus of and parts; apt for violls and voyces: newly composed by michaell est, bachelor of musicke, and master of the choristers of the cathedrall church in litchfield," london, , to. it is printed in _wit's recreations_, , and _wit's interpreter_, , and in "songs and fancies to severall musicall parts, both apt for voices and viols," aberdeen, . alterations were made in the various copies, and in the latter book a wretched second part, quite out of harmony with the original, was added. it has found its way, with some variations, among montrose's poems (see napier's _life of montrose_, , _appendix_, p. xl.), and robert chambers (ignorant of the englishman sir henry wotton's claim to the authorship) actually printed it in his _scottish songs_ (vol. ii. p. ) as if "written by darnley in praise of the beauty of queen mary before their marriage." percy, while copying from the _reliquiæ wottonianæ_, , transposed stanzas and . in abp. sancroft's ms. (tanner, , fol. ) the following verses occur as stanzas and of the whole poem:-- "you rubies, that do gems adorn, and sapphires with your azure hue like to the skies, or blushing morn, how pale's your brightness in our view when diamonds are mixed with you. "the rose, the violet, all the spring unto her breath, for sweetness run; the diamond's dark'ned in the ring if she appear, the moon's undone, as in the presence of the sun."] * * * * * you meaner beauties of the night, that poorly satisfie our eies more by your number, than your light; you common people of the skies, what are you when the moon shall rise? ye violets that first appeare, by your pure purple mantles known like the proud virgins of the yeare, as if the spring were all your own; what are you when the rose is blown? ye curious chaunters of the wood, that warble forth dame nature's layes, thinking your passions understood by your weak accents: what's your praise, when philomell her voyce shall raise? so when my mistris shal be seene in sweetnesse of her looks and minde; by virtue first, then choyce a queen; tell me, if she was not design'd th' eclypse and glory of her kind? viii. the old and young courtier. this excellent old song, the subject of which is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors, is given, with corrections, from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous "poems and songs" in a book intitled, _le prince d'amour_, or _the prince of love_, , vo. * * * * * [this was one of the most popular of old songs, and dr. king in his preface to the _art of cookery_ places it by the side of _chevy chase_ as one of the ballads to be hung up over the carved mantelpiece in the homes of old british hospitality. it is to be found in broadside in nearly all the collections, and appears to have been printed for the first time in the reign of james i. by t. symcocke. pepys notices it in his _diary_ under the date th june, --"come to newbery, and there dined--and musick: a song of the old courtier of queen elizabeth's, and how he was changed upon the coming in of the king, did please me mightily, and i did cause w. hewer to write it out." the song was parodied and altered into many forms. about the middle of the last century it was revived and sung by mr. vernon in shadwell's comedy, _the squire of alsatia_, with a new burden, "moderation and alteration," and finally it has been again revived in the present century, with still greater alterations, under the title of _the old english gentleman_. mr. chappell has the following note on the object of the song:--"southey remarks very justly on the complaints of the decay of hospitality, that 'while rents were received in kind they must have been chiefly consumed in kind; at least there could be no accumulation of disposable wealth.' he supposes this mode of payment to have fallen generally into disuse during the reign of james i. without doubt, many of the poor would feel the change." _popular music of the olden time_, vol. ii. p. .] * * * * * an old song made by an aged old pate, of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, that kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, and an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; like an old courtier of the queen's, and the queen's old courtier. with an old lady, whose anger one word asswages; they every quarter paid their old servants their wages, and never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, but kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; like an old courtier, &c. with an old study fill'd full of learned old books, with an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. with an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, and an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: like an old courtier, &c. with an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, with old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, and an old frize coat, to cover his worship's trunk hose, and a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; like an old courtier, &c. with a good old fashion, when christmasse was come, to call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, with good chear enough to furnish every old room, and old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, like an old courtier, &c. with an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, that never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, and when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; like an old courtier, &c. but to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, to be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: but in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; like a young courtier of the king's, and the king's young courtier. like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, and takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, and gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; like a young courtier, &c. with a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care, who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, and seven or eight different dressings of other womens hair; like a young courtier, &c. with a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, with a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, and a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; like a young courtier, &c. with a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, and a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, with a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, and a new french cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; like a young courtier, &c. with a new fashion, when christmas is drawing on, on a new journey to london straight we all must begone, and leave none to keep house, but our new porter john, who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; like a young courtier, &c. with a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, with a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, with a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; like a young courtier, &c. with new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, for which sundry of his ancestors old manors are sold; and this is the course most of our new gallants hold, which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, among the young courtiers of the king, or the king's young courtiers. [***] ix. sir john suckling's campaigne. when the scottish covenanters rose up in arms, and advanced to the english borders in , many of the courtiers complimented the king by raising forces at their own expence. among these none were more distinguished than the gallant sir john suckling, who raised a troop of horse, so richly accoutred, that it cost him _£_ , . the like expensive equipment of other parts of the army, made the king remark, that "the scots would fight stoutly, if it were but for the englishmen's fine cloaths." (lloyd's _memoirs_.) when they came to action, the rugged scots proved more than a match for the fine shewy english: many of whom behaved remarkably ill, and among the rest this splendid troop of sir john suckling's. this humorous pasquil has been generally supposed to have been written by sir john, as a banter upon himself. some of his contemporaries however attributed it to sir john mennis, a wit of those times, among whose poems it is printed in a small poetical miscellany, intitled, _musarum deliciæ: or the muses recreation, containing several pieces of poetique wit_, d edition.--by sir j. m. (_sir john mennis_) and ja. s. (_james smith_.) lond. , mo.--(see wood's _athenæ_. ii. , .) in that copy is subjoined an additional stanza, which probably was written by this sir john mennis, viz.:-- "but now there is peace, he's return'd to increase his money, which lately he spent-a, but his lost honour must lye still in the dust; at barwick away it went-a." * * * * * [this song is a parody of the famous old song, _john dory_, commencing.-- "as it fell on a holiday and upon a holytide-a john dory bought him an ambling nag to paris for to ride-a." suckling's satirical powers made him peculiarly odious to the parliamentarians, as they were turned against them, and consequently mennis's lampoon was a great favourite with the roundheads. in _le prince d'amour_, , there is a song _upon sir john suckling's horse_, and the following are two of the seven stanzas of which it consists:-- "i tell thee, jack, thou gav'st the king so rare a present, that nothing could welcomer have been; a hundred horse! beshrew my heart, it was a brave heroic part, the like will scarce be seen. "for ev'ry horse shall have on's back a man as valiant as sir jack, although not half so witty: yet i did hear the other day two tailors made seven run away good faith, the more's the pity." the uniform adopted by suckling for his troop consisted of a white doublet, and scarlet coat and breeches, with a scarlet feather in the bonnet. the men were vigorous, well mounted and armed, and these famous horsemen were considered to be the finest sight in his majesty's army. mr. w. c. hazlitt points out that the earliest news of them appears to be in a letter of jan. , - , from the earl of northumberland to lord conway, in which the writer speaks of suckling having then engaged himself to raise the troop "within these three days." (_calendar of state papers_ (_domestic_,) - , p. .) the army was badly commanded, and no greater disgrace attached to suckling's troop than to the rest.] * * * * * sir john he got him an ambling nag, to scotland for to ride-a, with a hundred horse more, all his own he swore, to guard him on every side-a. no errant-knight ever went to fight with halfe so gay a bravada, had you seen but his look, you'ld have sworn on a book, hee'ld have conquer'd a whole armada. the ladies ran all to the windows to see so gallant and warlike a sight-a, and as he pass'd by, they said with a sigh, sir john, why will you go fight-a? but he, like a cruel knight, spurr'd on; his heart would not relent-a, for, till he came there, what had he to fear? or why should he repent-a? the king (god bless him!) had singular hopes of him and all his troop-a: the borderers they, as they met him on the way, for joy did hollow, and whoop-a. none lik'd him so well, as his own colonell, who took him for john de wert-a;[ ] but when there were shows of gunning and blows, my gallant was nothing so pert-a. for when the scots army came within sight, and all prepared to fight-a, he ran to his tent, they ask'd what he meant, he swore he must needs goe sh*te-a. the colonell sent for him back agen, to quarter him in the van-a, but sir john did swear, he would not come there, to be kill'd the very first man-a. to cure his fear, he was sent to the reare, some ten miles back, and more-a; where sir john did play at trip and away, and ne'er saw the enemy more-a. footnotes: [ ] ver. . _john de wert_ was a german general of great reputation, and the terror of the french in the reign of louis xiii. hence his name became proverbial in france, where he was called _de vert_. see bayle's _dict._ x. to althea from prison. this excellent sonnet, which possessed a high degree of fame among the old cavaliers, was written by colone, richard lovelace during his confinement in the gatehouse, westminster: to which he was committed by the house of commons, in april , for presenting a petition from the county of kent, requesting them to restore the king to his rights, and to settle the government. see wood's _athenæ_, vol. ii. p. , and lysons' _environs of london_, vol. i. p. ; where may be seen at large the affecting story of this elegant writer, who after having been distinguished for every gallant and polite accomplishment, the pattern of his own sex, and the darling of the ladies, died in the lowest wretchedness, obscurity, and want, in . this song is printed from a scarce volume of his poems intitled, _lucasta_, , mo. collated with a copy in the editor's folio ms. * * * * * [as percy mentions, the folio ms. collations have been added from it (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ), but it will at once be seen that they are of little value. the music to this most exquisite of prison songs was composed by the celebrated dr. john wilson, and first printed (according to dr. rimbault) in his _cheerful ayres or ballads set for three voices_, oxford, . lucasta (= lux casta, lucy sacheverell), misled by a report that lovelace had died of his wounds received at dunkirk while commanding a regiment of his own forming in the service of the french king, married another lover. although doubtless lovelace died in great trouble, we may hope that wood's account of his extreme poverty is exaggerated, for his daughter and sole heir married the son of lord chief justice coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at kingsdown in kent.] * * * * * when love with unconfined wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at my grates; when i lye tangled in her haire, and fetter'd with her eye, the birds that wanton in the aire, know no such libertye.[ ] when flowing cups run swiftly round with no allaying thames,[ ] our carelesse heads with roses crown'd, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty griefe in wine we steepe,[ ] when healths and draughts goe free,[ ] fishes, that tipple in the deepe, know no such libertìe.[ ] when, linnet-like, confined i with shriller note shall sing the mercye, sweetness, majestye,[ ] and glories of my king;[ ] when i shall voyce aloud how good he is, how great should be, th' enlarged windes, that curle the flood,[ ] know no such libertìe.[ ] stone walls doe not a prison make, nor iron barres a cage, mindes, innocent, and quiet, take[ ] that for an hermitage:[ ] if i have freedom in my love, and in my soule am free, angels alone, that soare above,[ ] enjoy such libertìe.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [ver. , , . enjoyes such lybertye, ms.] [ ] v. . with woe-allaying theames, ms. thames is here used for water in general. [ ] [ver. . thirsty soules, ms.] [ ] [v. . when cupps and bowles goe free.] [ ] [v. . the mercy, goodnesse, maiestye.] [ ] [v. . glory.] [ ] [v. . curles the floods.] [ ] [v. . the spotlesse soule and inocent.] [ ] [v. . calls this an.] [ ] [v. . sores.] [ ] [v. . enjoyes. the second and third stanzas are transposed in the ms.] xi. the downfall of charing-cross. charing-cross, as it stood before the civil wars, was one of those beautiful gothic obelisks erected to conjugal affection by edward i., who built such a one wherever the herse of his beloved eleanor rested in its way from lincolnshire to westminster. but neither its ornamental situation, the beauty of its structure, nor the noble design of its erection (which did honour to humanity), could preserve it from the merciless zeal of the times: for, in , it was demolished by order of the house of commons, as popish and superstitious. this occasioned the following not unhumorous sarcasm, which has been often printed among the popular sonnets of those times. the plot referred to in ver. , was that entered into by mr. waller the poet, and others, with a view to reduce the city and tower to the service of the king; for which two of them, nath. tomkins and rich. chaloner, suffered death july , . vid. _ath. ox._ ii. . whitlocke says, "may , , cheapside cross and other crosses were voted down," &c.--but this vote was not put in execution with regard to _charing cross_ till four years after, as appears from lilly's _observations on the life, &c. of k. charles_, viz. "charing-cross, we know, was pulled down, , in june, july, and august. part of the stones were converted to pave before whitehall. i have seen knife-hafts made of some of the stones, which, being well-polished, looked like marble." ed, , p. , mo. [in laud's diary it is written, " maii tuesday the cross in cheapside taken down."] see an account of the pulling down cheapside cross, in the supplement to _gent. mag._ . * * * * * [charing cross was the largest and most beautiful of the series of eleanor crosses, and the architects employed in the construction of it were paid _£_ . the work was formerly attributed to cavalini, but that artist was not born until the year , and was therefore about eleven years old when the queen died. since the publication of the very interesting rolls of payments made by the executors of queen eleanor (_manners and household expenses of england in the th and th centuries._ roxburghe club, ), it has been known that charing cross was commenced by richard de crundale and completed, after his death, by roger de crundale. the site of the old cross was made use of as a place of execution, and several of the regicides were put to death there. the cheapside cross, which was taken down in , was the third which occupied the site, and it had only been erected in . the original cross was found to be in a bad condition in , and a new one was therefore commenced, which was not finished until . this was replaced in by the third cross. dr. rimbault informs us that this ballad is printed with the music for three voices by "mr. f. farmeloe" in "the second book of the _pleasant musical companion_," .] * * * * * undone, undone the lawyers are, they wander about the towne, nor can find the way to westminster, now charing-cross is downe: at the end of the strand, they make a stand, swearing they are at a loss, and chaffing say, that's not the way, they must go by charing-cross. the parliament to vote it down conceived it very fitting, for fear it should fall, and kill them all, in the house, as they were sitting. they were told god-wot, it had a plot, which made them so hard-hearted, to give command, it should not stand, but be taken down and carted. men talk of plots, this might have been worse for any thing i know, than that tomkins, and chaloner, were hang'd for long agoe. our parliament did that prevent, and wisely them defended, for plots they will discover still, before they were intended. but neither man, woman, nor child, will say, i'm confident, they ever heard it speak one word against the parliament. an informer swore, it letters bore, or else it had been freed; i'll take, in troth, my bible oath, it could neither write, nor read. the committee said, that verily to popery it was bent; for ought i know, it might be so, for to church it never went. what with excise, and such device, the kingdom doth begin to think you'll leave them ne'er a cross, without doors nor within. methinks the common-council shou'd of it have taken pity, 'cause, good old cross, it always stood so firmly to the city. since crosses you so much disdain, faith, if i were as you, for fear the king should rule again, i'd pull down tiburn too. xii. loyalty confined. this excellent old song is preserved in david lloyd's _memoires of those that suffered in the cause of charles i._ lond. , fol. p. . he speaks of it as the composition of a worthy personage, who suffered deeply in those times, and was still living with no other reward than the conscience of having suffered. the author's name he has not mentioned, but, if tradition may be credited, this song was written by sir _roger l'estrange_.--some mistakes in lloyd's copy are corrected by two others, one in ms., the other in the _westminster drollery, or a choice collection of songs and poems_, , mo. * * * * * [the ascription of this song to l'estrange is improbable, and we must therefore seek elsewhere for an author.] * * * * * beat on, proud billows; boreas blow; swell, curled waves, high as jove's roof; your incivility doth show, that innocence is tempest proof; though surly nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; then strike, affliction, for thy wounds are balm. that which the world miscalls a jail, a private closet is to me: whilst a good conscience is my bail, and innocence my liberty: locks, bars, and solitude, together met, make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. i, whilst i wisht to be retir'd, into this private room was turn'd; as if their wisdoms had conspir'd the salamander should be burn'd; or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, i am constrain'd to suffer what i wish. the cynick loves his poverty; the pelican her wilderness; and 'tis the indian's pride to be naked on frozen caucasus: contentment cannot smart, stoicks we see make torments easie to their apathy. these manacles upon my arm i, as my mistress' favours, wear; and for to keep my ancles warm, i have some iron shackles there: these walls are but my garrison; this cell, which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. i'm in the cabinet lockt up, like some high-prized margarite,[ ] or, like the great mogul or pope, am cloyster'd up from publick sight: retiredness is a piece of majesty, and thus, proud sultan, i'm as great as thee. here sin for want of food must starve, where tempting objects are not seen; and these strong walls do only serve to keep vice out, and keep me in: malice of late's grown charitable sure, i'm not committed, but am kept secure. so he that struck at jason's life,[ ] thinking t'have made his purpose sure, by a malicious friendly knife did only wound him to a cure: malice, i see, wants wit; for what is meant mischief, oft-times proves favour by th' event. when once my prince affliction hath, prosperity doth treason seem; and to make smooth so rough a path, i can learn patience from him: now not to suffer shews no loyal heart, when kings want ease subjects must bear a part. what though i cannot see my king neither in person or in coin; yet contemplation is a thing that renders what i have not, mine; my king from me what adamant can part, whom i do wear engraven on my heart? have you not seen the nightingale, a prisoner like, coopt in a cage, how doth she chaunt her wonted tale in that her narrow hermitage? even then her charming melody doth prove, that all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. i am that bird, whom they combine thus to deprive of liberty; but though they do my corps confine, yet maugre hate, my sould is free: and though immur'd yet can i chirp, and sing disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. my soul is free, as ambient air, although my baser part's immew'd, whilst loyal thoughts do still repair t' accompany my solitude: although rebellion do my body binde, my king alone can captivate my minde. footnotes: [ ] [pearl.] [ ] see this remarkable story in _cicero de nat. deorum_, lib. , c. . _cic. de offic._ lib. , c. ; see also _val. max._ , . xiii. verses by k. charles i. "this prince, like his father, did not confine himself to prose: bishop burnet has given us a pathetic elegy, said to be written by charles in carisbrook castle (in ). the poetry is most uncouth and unharmonious, but there are strong thoughts in it, some good sense, and a strain of majestic piety." mr. walpole's _royal and noble authors_, vol. i. it is in his _memoirs of the duke of hamilton_, p. , that burnet hath preserved this elegy, which he tells us he had from a gentleman, who waited on the king at the time when it was written, and copied it out from the original. it is there intitled, _majesty in misery: or an imploration to the king of kings_. hume hath remarked of these stanzas, "that the truth of the sentiment, rather than the elegance of expression, renders them very pathetic." see his _hist._ , to. vol. v. pp. , , which is no bad comment upon them.--these are almost the only verses known of charles's composition. indeed a little poem _on a quiet conscience_, printed in the _poetical calendar_, , vol. viii. is attributed to _k. charles i._; being reprinted from a thin vo. published by nahum tate, called _miscellanea sacra, or poems on divine and moral subjects_. * * * * * great monarch of the world, from whose power springs the potency and power of kings, record the royal woe my suffering sings; and teach my tongue, that ever did confine its faculties in truth's seraphick line, to track the treasons of thy foes and mine. nature and law, by thy divine decree, (the only root of righteous royaltie) with this dim diadem invested me: with it, the sacred scepter, purple robe, the holy unction, and the royal globe: yet am i levell'd with the life of job. the fiercest furies, that do daily tread upon my grief, my grey discrowned head, are those that owe my bounty for their bread. they raise a war, and christen it the cause, while sacrilegious hands have best applause, plunder and murder are the kingdom's laws; tyranny bears the title of taxation, revenge and robbery are reformation, oppression gains the name of sequestration. my loyal subjects, who in this bad season attend me (by the law of god and reason), they dare impeach, and punish for high treason. next at the clergy do their furies frown, pious episcopacy must go down, they will destroy the crosier and the crown. churchmen are chain'd, and schismaticks are freed, mechanicks preach, and holy fathers bleed, the crown is crucified with the creed. the church of england doth all factions foster, the pulpit is usurpt by each impostor, _extempore_ excludes the _paternoster_. the presbyter, and independent seed springs with broad blades. to make religion bleed herod and pontius pilate are agreed. the corner stone's misplac'd by every pavier: with such a bloody method and behaviour their ancestors did crucifie our saviour. my royal consort, from whose fruitful womb so many princes legally have come, is forc'd in pilgrimage to seek a tomb. great britain's heir is forced into france, whilst on his father's head his foes advance: poor child! he weeps out his inheritance. with my own power my majesty they wound, in the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd: so doth the dust destroy the diamond. with propositions daily they enchant my people's ears, such as do reason daunt, and the almighty will not let me grant. they promise to erect my royal stem, to make me great, t' advance my diadem, if i will first fall down, and worship them! but for refusal they devour my thrones, distress my children, and destroy my bones; i fear they'll force me to make bread of stones. my life they prize at such a slender rate, that in my absence they draw bills of hate, to prove the king a traytor to the state. felons obtain more privilege than i, they are allow'd to answer ere they die; 'tis death for me to ask the reason, why. but, sacred saviour, with thy words i woo thee to forgive, and not be bitter to such, as thou know'st do not know what they do. for since they from their lord are so disjointed, as to contemn those edicts he appointed, how can they prize the power of his anointed? augment my patience, nullifie my hate, preserve my issue, and inspire my mate, yet, though we perish, bless this church and state. xiv. the sale of rebellious houshold-stuff. this sarcastic exultation of triumphant loyalty, is printed from an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection, corrected by two others, one of which is preserved in _a choice collection of_ _loyal songs, &c._ , mo.--to the tune of _old simon the king_. * * * * * [this triumph over the downfall of the rump parliament is one of the best of the numerous songs that were set to the favourite tune of _old simon the king_, the full burden of which is-- "says old sir symon the king, says old sir symon the king, with his threadbare clothes and his malmsey nose sing hey ding, ding a ding, ding."] * * * * * rebellion hath broken up house, and hath left me old lumber to sell; come hither, and take your choice, i'll promise to use you well: will you buy the old speaker's chair? which was warm and easie to sit in, and oft hath been clean'd i declare, when as it was fouler than fitting. says old simon the king, &c. will you buy any bacon-flitches, the fattest, that ever were spent? they're the sides of the old committees, fed up in the long parliament. here's a pair of bellows, and tongs, and for a small matter i'll sell ye 'um; they are made of the presbyters lungs, to blow up the coals of rebellion. says old simon, &c. i had thought to have given them once to some black-smith for his forge; but now i have considered on't, they are consecrate to the church: so i'll give them unto some quire, they will make the big organs roar, and the little pipes to squeeke higher, than ever they could before. says old simon, &c. here's a couple of stools for sale, one's square, and t'other is round; betwixt them both the tail of the rump fell down to the ground. will you buy the states council-table, which was made of the good wain scot? the frame was a tottering babel to uphold the independent plot, says old simon, &c. here's the beesom of reformation, which should have made clean the floor, but it swept the wealth out of the nation, and left us dirt good store. will you buy the states spinning-wheel, which spun for the ropers trade? but better it had stood still, for now it has spun a fair thread. says old simon, &c. here's a glyster-pipe well try'd, which was made of a butcher's stump,[ ] and has been safely apply'd, to cure the colds of the rump. here's a lump of pilgrims-salve, which once was a justice of peace, who noll and the devil did serve; but now it is come to this. says old simon, &c. here's a roll of the states tobacco, if any good fellow will take it; no virginia had e'er such a smack-o, and i'll tell you how they did make it: 'tis th' engagement, and covenant cookt up with the abjuration oath; and many of them, that have took't, complain it was foul in the mouth. says old simon, &c. yet the ashes may happily serve to cure the scab of the nation, whene'er 't has an itch to swerve to rebellion by innovation. a lanthorn here is to be bought, the like was scarce ever gotten, for many plots it has found out before they ever were thought on. says old simon, &c. will you buy the rump's great saddle, with which it jocky'd the nation? and here is the bitt, and the bridle, and curb of dissimulation: and here's the trunk-hose of the rump, and their fair dissembling cloak, and a presbyterian jump, with an independent smock. says old simon, &c. will you buy a conscience oft turn'd, which serv'd the high-court of justice, and stretch'd until england it mourn'd: but hell will buy that if the worst is. here's joan cromwell's kitching-stuff tub,[ ] wherein is the fat of the rumpers, with which old noll's horns she did rub, when he was got drunk with false bumpers. says old simon, &c. here's the purse of the public faith; here's the model of the sequestration, when the old wives upon their good troth, lent thimbles to ruine the nation.[ ] here's dick cromwell's protectorship, and here are lambert's commissions, and here is hugh peters his scrip cramm'd with the tumultuous petitions says old simon, &c. and here are old noll's brewing vessels,[ ] and here are his dray, and his slings; here are hewson's awl, and his bristles;[ ] with diverse other odd things: and what is the price doth belong to all these matters before ye? i'll sell them all for an old song, and so i do end my story. says old simon, &c. footnotes: [ ] alluding probably to major-general harrison a butcher's son, who assisted cromwell in turning out the long parliament, april , . [ ] ver. . this was a cant name given to cromwell's wife by the royalists, though her name was elizabeth. she was taxed with exchanging the kitchen-stuff for the candles used in the protector's houshold, &c. see _gent. mag._ for march, , p. . [ ] ver. . see grey's _hudibras_, pt. i. cant. , ver. , &c. [ ] v. , . cromwell had in his younger years followed the brewing trade at huntingdon. col. hewson is said to have been originally a cobler. xv. the baffled knight, or lady's policy. given (with some corrections) from a ms. copy, and collated with two printed ones in roman character in the pepys collection. * * * * * [there are several versions of this story, but the earliest known to mr. chappell is the one printed by ritson in his _ancient songs_ (vol. ii. ed. , p. ), beginning-- "yonder comes a courteous knight," with the burden, _then she sang downe a downe, hey downe derry_. it is from _deuteromelia, or the second part of musicks melodie or melodious musicke_, london, . others are in _pills to purge melancholy_ (iii. , or v. ), and in _a complete collection of old and new english and scotch songs_, vo., . the copy in the roxburghe collection is entitled _the politick maid_, beginning "there was a knight was wine dronke." ritson says, "bp. percy found the subject worthy of his best improvements."] * * * * * there was a knight was drunk with wine, a riding along the way, sir; and there he met with a lady fine, among the cocks of hay, sir. shall you and i, o lady faire, among the grass lye down-a: and i will have a special care of rumpling of your gowne-a. upon the grass there is a dewe, will spoil my damask gowne, sir: my gowne, and kirtle they are newe, and cost me many a crowne, sir. i have a cloak of scarlet red, upon the ground i'll throwe it; then, lady faire, come lay thy head; we'll play, and none shall knowe it. o yonder stands my steed so free among the cocks of hay, sir; and if the pinner[ ] should chance to see, he'll take my steed away, sir. upon my finger i have a ring, is made of finest gold-a; and, lady, it thy steed shall bring out of the pinner's fold-a. o go with me to my father's hall; fair chambers there are three, sir: and you shall have the best of all, and i'll your chamberlaine bee, sir. he mounted himself on his steed so tall, and her on her dapple gray, sir: and there they rode to her father's hall, fast pricking along the way, sir. to her father's hall they arrived strait; 'twas moated round about-a; she slipped herself within the gate, and lockt the knight without-a. here is a silver penny to spend, and take it for your pain, sir; and two of my father's men i'll send to wait on you back again, sir. he from his scabbard drew his brand, and wiped it upon his sleeve-a: and cursed, he said, be every man, that will a maid believe-a! she drew a bodkin from her haire, and whip'd it upon her gown-a; and curs'd be every maiden faire, that will with men lye down-a! a herb there is, that lowly grows, and some do call it rue, sir: the smallest dunghill cock that crows, would make a capon of you, sir. a flower there is, that shineth bright, some call it mary gold-a; he that wold not when he might, he shall not when he wold-a. the knight was riding another day, with cloak and hat and feather: he met again with that lady gay, who was angling in the river. now, lady faire, i've met with you, you shall no more escape me; remember, how not long agoe you falsely did intrap me. the lady blushed scarlet red, and trembled at the stranger: how shall i guard my maidenhead from this approaching danger? he from his saddle down did light, in all his riche attyer; and cryed, as i am a noble knight, i do thy charms admyer. he took the lady by the hand, who seemingly consented; and would no more disputing stand: she had a plot invented. looke yonder, good sir knight, i pray, methinks i now discover a riding upon his dapple gray, my former constant lover. on tip-toe peering stood the knight, fast by the rivers brink-a; the lady pusht with all her might: sir knight, now swim or sink-a. o'er head and ears he plunged in, the bottom faire he sounded; then rising up, he cried amain, help, helpe, or else i'm drownded! now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu! you see what comes of fooling: that is the fittest place for you; your courage wanted cooling. ere many days, in her fathers park, just at the close of eve-a, again she met with her angry sparke; which made this lady grieve-a. false lady, here thou'rt in my powre, and no one now can hear thee: and thou shalt sorely rue the hour, that e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me. i pray, sir knight, be not so warm with a young silly maid-a: i vow and swear i thought no harm, 'twas a gentle jest i playd-a. a gentle jest, in soothe! he cry'd, to tumble me in and leave me: what if i had in the river dy'd?---- that fetch will not deceive me. once more i'll pardon thee this day, tho' injur'd out of measure; but then prepare without delay to yield thee to my pleasure. well then, if i must grant your suit, yet think of your boots and spurs, sir let me pull off both spur and boot, or else you cannot stir, sir. he set him down upon the grass, and begg'd her kind assistance: now, smiling thought this lovely lass, i'll make you keep your distance. then pulling off his boots half-way; sir knight, now i'm your betters: you shall not make of me your prey; sit there like a knave in fetters. the knight when she had served soe, he fretted, fum'd, and grumbled: for he could neither stand nor goe, but like a cripple tumbled. farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten, yet do not move nor stir, sir: i'll send you my father's serving men, to pull off your boots and spurs, sir. this merry jest you must excuse, you are but a stingless nettle: you'd never have stood for boots or shoes, had you been a man of mettle. all night in grievous rage he lay, rolling upon the plain-a; next morning a shepherd past that way, who set him right again-a. then mounting upon his steed so tall, by hill and dale he swore-a: i'll ride at once to her father's hall; she shall escape no more-a. i'll take her father by the beard, i'll challenge all her kindred; each dastard soul shall stand affeard; my wrath shall no more be hindred, he rode unto her father's house, which every side was moated: the lady heard his furious vows, and all his vengeance noted. thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage, once more i will endeavour: this water shall your fury 'swage, or else it shall burn for ever. then faining penitence and feare, she did invite a parley: sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare, henceforth i'll love you dearly. my father he is now from home, and i am all alone, sir: therefore a-cross the water come; and i am all your own, sir. false maid, thou canst no more deceive; i scorn the treacherous bait-a: if thou would'st have me thee believe, now open me the gate-a. the bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd, my father he has the keys, sir. but i have for my love prepar'd a shorter way and easier. over the moate i've laid a plank full seventeen feet in measure: then step a-cross to the other bank, and there we'll take our pleasure. these words she had no sooner spoke, but strait he came tripping over: the plank was saw'd, it snapping broke; and sous'd the unhappy lover. [***] footnotes: [ ] [pinder or impounder of cattle.] xvi. why so pale? from sir john suckling's _poems_. this sprightly knight was born in , and cut off by a fever about the th year of his age. see above, song ix. of this book. * * * * * [this celebrated song occurs in the tragedy of _aglaura_, where it is sung by orsames, a young lord, who says--"it is a little foolish counsel i gave a friend of mine four or five years ago when he was falling into a consumption." dr. rimbault (_musical illustrations_, p. ) writes, "the original air is here given from a ms. volume of old songs with the music, _temp._ charles ii. in the collection of the editor. it was originally in the library at staunton harold, leicestershire, the seat of earl ferrers. this beautiful lyric was sung by mrs. cross in the _mock astrologer_, to an air composed by lewis ramondon. it was afterwards reset by dr. arne." the date of the poet's birth given above is incorrect. suckling was baptized on the tenth of february, - , and his mother died in . reduced in fortune and an alien, he died of poison bought by him of an apothecary at paris. the date of his death is not known, but it probably took place in , and he certainly was dead before the year had ended.] * * * * * why so pale and wan, fond lover? prethee, why so pale? will, when looking well can't move her, looking ill prevail? prethee, why so pale? why so dull and mute, young sinner? prethee why so mute? will, when speaking well can't win her, saying nothing doe't? prethee why so mute? quit, quit for shame; this will not move, this cannot take her; if of herself she will not love, nothing can make her. the devil take her! xvii. old tom of bedlam. mad song the first. it is worth attention, that the english have more songs and ballads on the subject of madness, than any of their neighbours. whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers; we certainly do not find the same in the printed collections of french, italian songs, &c. out of a much larger quantity, we have selected half a dozen _mad songs_ for these volumes. the three first are originals in their respective kinds; the merit of the three last is chiefly that of imitation. they were written at considerable intervals of time; but we have here grouped them together, that the reader may the better examine their comparative merits. he may consider them as so many trials of skill in a very peculiar subject, as the contest of so many rivals to shoot in the bow of ulysses. the two first were probably written about the beginning of the last century; the third about the middle of it; the fourth and sixth towards the end; and the fifth within this present century. this is given from the editor's folio ms. compared with two or three old printed copies.--with regard to the author of this old rhapsody, in walton's _compleat angler_, cap. , is a song in praise of angling, which the author says was made at his request "by mr. _william basse_, one that has made the choice songs of the _hunter in his career_, and of _tom of bedlam_, and many others of note," p. . see sir _john hawkins's_ curious edition, vo. of that excellent old book. * * * * * [the madness here referred to was sometimes real, but more often shammed. these "mad rascals" were so numerous a class that they obtained the distinctive names of bedlam beggars, and abraham men. dekker describes their tricks in his _bellman of london_, , where he says, "he calls himself by the name of _poor tom_, and coming near any body, cries out, 'poor tom is a cold;'" the very expression used by edgar when he appears in the disguise of a madman (_king lear_). mr. chappell observes that there is great uncertainty as to the authorship, for there are so many tom of bedlam songs that it is impossible to determine from the passage in the _complete angler_ to which of them walton refers. it is also doubtful to whom we are indebted for the tune. mr. chappell thinks that probably it was by henry lawes's master, john cooper, called cuperario after his visit to italy. it has been attributed, without authority, to henry purcell and henry lawes.] * * * * * forth from my sad and darksome cell, or from the deepe abysse of hell,[ ] mad tom is come into the world againe to see if he can cure his distempered braine.[ ] feares and cares oppresse my soule;[ ] harke, howe the angrye fureys houle! pluto laughes, and proserpine is gladd[ ] to see poore naked tom of bedlam madd. through the world i wander night and day[ ] to seeke my straggling senses, in an angrye moode i mett old time,[ ] with his pentarchye of tenses:[ ] when me he spyed,[ ] away he hyed,[ ] for time will stay for no man:[ ] in vaine with cryes i rent the skyes,[ ] for pity is not common.[ ] cold and comfortless i lye: helpe, oh helpe! or else i dye! harke! i heare apollo's teame, the carman 'gins to whistle; chast diana bends her bowe, the boare begins to bristle. come, vulcan, with tools and with tackles, to knocke off my troublesome shackles;[ ] bid charles make ready his waine to fetch me my senses againe.[ ] last night i heard the dog-star bark; mars met venus in the darke; limping vulcan het[ ] an iron barr,[ ] and furiouslye made at the god of war:[ ] mars with his weapon laid about,[ ] but vulcan's temples had the gout, for his broad horns did so hang in his light,[ ] he could not see to aim his blowes aright:[ ] mercurye the nimble post of heaven, stood still to see the quarrell;[ ] gorrel-bellyed[ ] bacchus, gyant-like, bestryd a strong-beere barrell. to mee he dranke, i did him thanke, but i could get no cyder; he dranke whole butts till he burst his gutts, but mine were ne'er the wyder. poore naked tom is very drye: a little drinke for charitye! harke, i hear acteon's horne! the huntsmen whoop and hallowe: ringwood, royster, bowman, jowler, all the chase do followe. the man in the moone drinkes clarret, eates powder'd beef, turnip, and carret, but a cup of old malaga sack will fire the bushe at his backe. footnotes: [ ] [ver. . _or_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . can ease.] [ ] [v. . ffeare & dispayre pursue.] [ ] [v. . _and_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . through woods.] [ ] [v. . i found out time.] [ ] [five tenses.] [ ] [v. . he spyes.] [ ] [v. . he fflyes.] [ ] [v. . _for_ not in ms.] [ ] [ver. . hee rends.] [ ] [v. . _for_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . and knocke.] [ ] [v. . my five sences.] [ ] [heated.] [ ] [v. . heates.] [ ] [v. . runs att.] [ ] [v. . weapons.] [ ] [v. . hang soe.] [ ] [v. . that hee cold not see to aime arright.] [ ] [v. . stayd to see.] [ ] [very fat bellied.] xviii. the distracted puritan, mad song the second, was written about the beginning of the seventeenth century by the witty bishop corbet, and is printed from the d edition of his poems, mo. , compared with a more ancient copy in the editor's folio ms. * * * * * [this song was printed in _le prince d'amour_, , with three other songs entitled _tom of bedlam_. it was also printed in the _rump songs_, , but not in the edition of . the copy in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. ) has several alterations. stanza was taken by percy from the ms., where it occurs as stanza . richard corbet, successively bishop of oxford and norwich, was born at ewell in surrey in . he died in . he was a humorous man, and many pleasant stories are told of him, but aubrey describes his appearance as "grave and venerable." * * * * * am i mad, o noble festus, when zeal and godly knowledge have put me in hope to deal with the pope, as well as the best in the college? boldly i preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice, mitres, copes, and rochets; come hear me pray nine times a day, and fill your heads with crochets. in the house of pure emanuel[ ] i had my education, where my friends surmise i dazel'd my eyes with the sight of revelation. boldly i preach, &c. they bound me like a bedlam, they lash'd my four poor quarters; whilst this i endure, faith makes me sure to be one of foxes martyrs. boldly i preach, &c. these injuries i suffer through antichrist's perswasion: take off this chain, neither rome nor spain can resist my strong invasion. boldly i preach, &c. of the beast's ten horns (god bless us!) i have knock'd off three already; if they let me alone i'll leave him none: but they say i am too heady. boldly i preach, &c. when i sack'd the seven-hill'd city, i met the great red dragon; i kept him aloof with the armour of proof, though here i have never a rag on. boldly i preach, &c. with a fiery sword and target, there fought i with this monster: but the sons of pride my zeal deride, and all my deeds misconster. boldly i preach, &c. i un-hors'd the whore of babel, with the lance of inspiration; i made her slink, and spill the drink in her cup of abomination. boldly i preach, &c. i have seen two in a vision with a flying-book[ ] between them. i have been in despair five times in a year, and been cur'd by reading greenham.[ ] boldly i preach, &c. i observ'd in perkin's tables[ ] the black line of damnation; those crooked veins so stuck in my brains, that i fear'd my reprobation. boldly i preach, &c. in the holy tongue of canaan i plac'd my chiefest pleasure: till i prick'd my foot with an hebrew root, that i bled beyond all measure. boldly i preach, &c. i appear'd before the archbishop,[ ] and all the high commission; i gave him no grace, but told him to his face, that he favour'd superstition. boldly i preach, hate a cross, hate a surplice, mitres, copes, and rochets: come hear me pray nine times a day, and fill your heads with crotchets. footnotes: [ ] emanuel college, cambridge, was originally a seminary of puritans. [fuller has left us the following anecdote of sir walter mildmay, the founder of emanuel, in his _history of the university of cambridge_. "coming to court after he had founded his college, the queen told him, 'sir walter, i hear you have erected a puritan foundation.' 'no madam,' saith he, 'far be it from me to countenance anything contrary to your established laws; but i have set an acorn, which, when it becomes an oak, god alone knows what will be the fruit thereof.'"] [ ] alluding to some visionary exposition of zech. ch. v. ver. ; or, if the date of this song would permit, one might suppose it aimed at one _coppe_, a strange enthusiast, whose life may be seen in wood's _athen._ vol. ii. p. . he was author of a book, intitled, _the fiery flying roll_: and afterwards published a recantation, part of whose title is, _the fiery flying roll's wings clipt_, &c. [ ] see greenham's _works_, fol. , particularly the tract intitled, _a sweet comfort for an afflicted conscience_. [richard greenham was born _circa_ and died in . he was a singularly ardent preacher, and brook, in his _lives of the puritans_, says, that "in addition to his public ministerial labours he had a remarkable talent for comforting afflicted consciences." his _works_ were first collected in .] [ ] see perkin's _works_, fol. , vol. i. p. ; where is a large half sheet folded, containing, _a survey, or table, declaring the order of the causes of salvation and damnation, &c._ the pedigree of damnation being distinguished by a broad black zig-zag line. [william perkins ( - ). brook says of him, that he used to pronounce the word _damn_ with so peculiar an emphasis "that it left a doleful echo in the eares a long time after." his works were frequently reprinted, and, according to fuller, were translated into latin, french, dutch, and spanish.] [ ] abp. laud. xix. the lunatic lover, mad song the third, is given from an old printed copy in the british museum, compared with another in the pepys collection; both in black letter. * * * * * [black-letter copies of this ballad are to be found in the bagford, douce, and roxburghe collections, as well as in the pepys. the tune was a favourite one, and several other ballads were sung to it.] * * * * * grim king of the ghosts, make haste, and bring hither all your train; see how the pale moon does waste, and just now is in the wane. come, you night-hags, with all your charms, and revelling witches away, and hug me close in your arms; to you my respects i'll pay. i'll court you, and think you fair, since love does distract my brain: i'll go, i'll wed the night-mare, and kiss her, and kiss her again: but if she prove peevish and proud, then, a pise on her love! let her go; i'll seek me a winding shroud, and down to the shades below. a lunacy sad i endure, since reason departs away; i call to those hags for a cure as knowing not what i say. the beauty, whom i do adore, now slights me with scorn and disdain; i never shall see her more; ah! how shall i bear my pain! i ramble, and range about to find out my charming saint; while she at my grief does flout, and smiles at my loud complaint. distraction i see is my doom, of this i am now too sure; a rival is got in my room, while torments i do endure. strange fancies do fill my head, while wandering in despair, i am to the desarts lead, expecting to find her there. methinks in a spangled cloud i see her enthroned on high; then to her i crie aloud, and labour to reach the sky. when thus i have raved awhile, and wearyed myself in vain, i lye on the barren soil, and bitterly do complain. till slumber hath quieted me, in sorrow i sigh and weep; the clouds are my canopy to cover me while i sleep. i dream that my charming fair is then in my rival's bed, whose tresses of golden hair are on the fair pillow bespread. then this doth my passion inflame i start, and no longer can lie: ah! sylvia, art thou not to blame to ruin a lover? i cry. grim king of the ghosts, be true, and hurry me hence away, my languishing life to you a tribute i freely pay. to the elysian shades i post in hopes to be freed from care. where many a bleeding ghost is hovering in the air. [illustration] xx. the lady distracted with love, mad song the fourth, was originally sung in one of _tom d'urfey's_ comedies of _don quixote_ in and ; and probably composed by himself. in the several stanzas, the author represents his pretty mad-woman as . sullenly mad: . mirthfully mad: . melancholy mad: . fantastically mad: and . stark mad. both this, and num. xxii. are printed from d'urfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, , vol. i. * * * * * from rosie bowers, where sleeps the god of love, hither ye little wanton cupids fly; teach me in soft melodious strains to move with tender passion my heart's darling joy: ah! let the soul of musick tune my voice, to win dear strephon, who my soul enjoys. or, if more influencing is to be brisk and airy, with a step and a bound, with a frisk from the ground, i'll trip like any fairy. as once on ida dancing were three celestial bodies: with an air, and a face, and a shape, and a grace, i'll charm, like beauty's goddess. ah! 'tis in vain! 'tis all, 'tis all in vain! death and despair must end the fatal pain: cold, cold despair, disguis'd like snow and rain, falls on my breast; bleak winds in tempests blow; my veins all shiver, and my fingers glow: my pulse beats a dead march for lost repose, and to a solid lump of ice my poor fond heart is froze. or say, ye powers, my peace to crown, shall i thaw myself, and drown among the foaming billows? increasing all with tears i shed, on beds of ooze, and crystal pillows, lay down, lay down my lovesick head? no, no, i'll strait run mad, mad, mad, that soon my heart will warm; when once the sense is fled, is fled, love has no power to charm. wild thro' the woods i'll fly, i'll fly, robes, locks----shall thus----be tore! a thousand, thousand times i'll dye ere thus, thus, in vain,--ere thus in vain adore. xxi. the distracted lover, mad song the fifth, was written by _henry carey_, a celebrated composer of music at the beginning of this century, and author of several little theatrical entertainments, which the reader may find enumerated in the _companion to the play-house_, &c. the sprightliness of this songster's fancy could not preserve him from a very melancholy catastrophe, which was effected by his own hand. in his _poems_, to. lond. , may be seen another mad-song of this author, beginning thus: "gods! i can never this endure, death alone must be my cure," &c. * * * * * i go to the elysian shade, where sorrow ne'er shall wound me; where nothing shall my rest invade, but joy shall still surround me. i fly from celia's cold disdain, from her disdain i fly; she is the cause of all my pain, for her alone i die. her eyes are brighter than the mid-day sun, when he but half his radiant course has run, when his meridian glories gaily shine, and gild all nature with a warmth divine. see yonder river's flowing tide, which now so full appears; those streams, that do so swiftly glide, are nothing but my tears. there i have wept till i could weep no more, and curst mine eyes, when they have wept their store: then, like the clouds, that rob the azure main, i've drain'd the flood to weep it back again. pity my pains, ye gentle swains! cover me with ice and snow, i scorch, i burn, i flame, i glow! furies, tear me, quickly bear me to the dismal shades below! where yelling, and howling and grumbling, and growling strike the ear with horrid woe. hissing snakes, fiery lakes would be a pleasure, and a cure: not all the hells, where pluto dwells, can give such pain as i endure. to some peaceful plain convey me, on a mossey carpet lay me, fan me with ambrosial breeze, let me die, and so have ease! xxii. the frantic lady, mad song the sixth. this, like num. xx., was originally sung in one of _d'urfey's_ comedies of _don quixote_, (first acted about the year ) and was probably composed by that popular songster, who died feb. , . this is printed in the _hive, a collection of songs_, vols. , mo. where may be found two or three other _mad songs_ not admitted into these volumes. * * * * * i burn, my brain consumes to ashes! each eye-ball too like lightning flashes! within my breast there glows a solid fire, which in a thousand ages can't expire! blow, blow, the winds' great ruler! bring the po, and the ganges hither, 'tis sultry weather, pour them all on my soul, it will hiss like a coal, but be never the cooler. 'twas pride hot as hell, that first made me rebell, from love's awful throne a curst angel i fell and mourn now my fate, which myself did create: fool, fool, that consider'd not when i was well! adieu! ye vain transporting joys! off ye vain fantastic toys! that dress this face--this body--to allure! bring me daggers, poison, fire! since scorn is turn'd into desire. all hell feels not the rage, which i, poor i, endure. xxiii. lilli burlero. the following rhymes, slight and insignificant as they may now seem, had once a more powerful effect than either the philippics of demosthenes, or cicero; and contributed not a little towards the great revolution in . let us hear a contemporary writer. "a foolish ballad was made at that time, treating the papists, and chiefly the irish, in a very ridiculous manner, which had a burden said to be irish words, _lero, lero, liliburlero_, that made an impression on the (king's) army, that cannot be imagined by those that saw it not. the whole army, and at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it perpetually. and perhaps never had so slight a thing so great an effect."--_burnet._ it was written, or at least republished, on the earl of tyrconnel's going a second time to ireland in october, . perhaps it is unnecessary to mention, that general richard talbot, newly created earl of tyrconnel, had been nominated by k. james ii. to the lieutenancy of ireland in , on account of his being a furious papist, who had recommended himself to his bigotted master by his arbitrary treatment of the protestants in the preceding year, when only lieutenant general, and whose subsequent conduct fully justified his expectations and their fears. the violences of his administration may be seen in any of the histories of those times: particularly in bishop king's _state of the protestants in ireland_, , to. this song is attributed to lord _wharton_ in a small pamphlet, intitled, _a true relation of the several facts and circumstances of the intended riot and tumult on q. elizabeth's birth-day, &c._ d. ed. lond. , pr. _d._--see p. , viz.--"a late viceroy (of ireland,) who has so often boasted himself upon his talent for mischief invention, lying, and for making a certain _lilliburlero song_; with which, if you will believe himself, he sung a deluded prince out of three kingdoms." _lilliburlero_ and _bullen-a-lah_ are said to have been the words of distinction used among the irish papists in their massacre of the protestants in . * * * * * [to no song could be better attributed fletcher of saltoun's dictum than to this poor specimen of verse, which caught the fancy of the people and drove james from his throne. macaulay wrote of it as follows:--"from one end of england to the other all classes were constantly singing this idle rhyme. it was especially the delight of the english army. more than seventy years after the revolution, sterne delineated with exquisite skill a veteran who had fought at the boyne and at namur. one of the characteristics of the good old soldier is his trick of whistling _lilliburlero_." the air is attributed to purcell, but it is supposed that he only arranged an earlier tune. hume thought that the popularity of the song was rather due to the composer of the air than to the author of the words. mr. markland, in a note to boswell's _life of johnson_, says, that "according to lord dartmouth there was a particular expression in it, which the king remembered that he had made use of to the earl of dorset, from whence it was concluded that he was the author." upon this mr. chappell remarks, . that "the earl of dorset laid no claim to it, and it is scarcely to be believed that the author of _to all you ladies now on land_ could have penned such thorough doggrel." . that "the ballad contains no expression that the king would have used, which might not equally have been employed by any other person."[ ] there can now be little doubt that the author was thomas marquis of wharton, father of the mad duke philip of wharton. he discerned the indications of the political horizon and espoused the winning side. he was well rewarded for his wisdom. mr. s. redmond (_notes and queries_, third series, viii. ) writes that he has often heard the girls in the south and south-east of ireland, while engaged in binding the corn into sheaves after the reapers, sing the following chorus, which always had reference to one of the gang who was not so quick at her work as the others, and who consequently was left behind: "lully by lero, lully by lero, lully by lero, help her along."] * * * * * ho! broder teague, dost hear de decree? lilli burlero, bullen a-la. dat we shall have a new deputie, lilli burlero burlen a-la. lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la, lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la. ho! by shaint tyburn, it is de talbote:[ ] lilli, &c. and he will cut de englishmen's troate. lilli, &c. dough by my shoul de english do praat, lilli, &c. de law's on dare side, and creish knows what. lilli, &c. but if dispence do come from de pope, lilli, &c. we'll hang magna charta, and dem in a rope. lilli, &c. for de good talbot is made a lord, lilli, &c. and with brave lads is coming aboard: lilli, &c. who all in france have taken a sware, lilli, &c. dat dey will have no protestant heir. lilli, &c. ara! but why does he stay behind? lilli, &c. ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind. lilli, &c. but see de tyrconnel is now come ashore, lilli, &c. and we shall have commissions gillore. lilli, &c. and he dat will not go to de mass, lilli, &c. shall be turn out, and look like an ass. lilli, &c. now, now de hereticks all go down, lilli, &c. by chrish and shaint patrick, de nation's our own. lilli, &c. dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,[ ] lilli, &c. "ireland shall be rul'd by an ass, and a dog." lilli, &c. and now dis prophesy is come to pass, lilli, &c. for talbot's de dog, and ja**s is de ass. lilli, &c. footnotes: [ ] [_popular music of the olden time_, vol. ii. p. .] [ ] ver. . ho by my shoul, _al. ed._ [ ] ver. . what follows is not in some copies. xxiv. the braes of yarrow, in imitation of the ancient scots manner, was written by william hamilton, of bangour, esq; who died march , , aged . it is printed from an elegant edition of his _poems_, published at edinburgh, , mo. this song was written in imitation of an old scottish ballad on a similar subject, with the same burden to each stanza. * * * * * [the beautiful river yarrow has few rivals as an inspirer of song. these verses of hamilton's are copied from the old ballad--_the_ _dowie dens_ (melancholy downs) _of yarrow_, a collated version of which was first printed by scott in his _minstrelsy of the scottish border_. scott was of opinion that with many readers the greatest recommendation of the old ballad will be that it suggested to hamilton his modern one. we may say that the greatest recommendation of hamilton's poem to us is the fact that it inspired wordsworth to write his three lovely little poems, _yarrow unvisited_, _visited_, and _revisited_. there are two old ballads which have been much mixed up by reciters, viz. _the dowie dens_ and _willie's drowned in yarrow_. the rev. john logan's _braes of yarrow_ is founded on the latter. william hamilton of bangour was born in and died at lyons in , from which place his remains were brought to scotland, and interred in holyrood abbey. he was a jacobite, and after the battle of culloden was forced to skulk about the highlands in disguise until he was able to escape to france. he returned to scotland after the country had quieted down in .] * * * * * _a._ busk[ ] ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,[ ] busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, and think nae mair on the braes[ ] of yarrow. _b._ where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? where gat ye that winsome marrow? _a._ i gat her where i dare na weil be seen, puing the birks[ ] on the braes of yarrow. weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; nor let thy heart lament to leive puing the birks on the braes of yarrow. _b._ why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? why does she weep thy winsome marrow? and why dare ye nae mair weil be seen puing the birks on the braes of yarrow? _a._ lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow; and lang maun i nae mair weil be seen puing the birks on the braes of yarrow. for she has tint[ ] her luver, luver dear, her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; and i hae slain the comliest swain that eir pu'd birks on the braes of yarrow. why rins thy stream, o yarrow, yarrow, reid? why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? and why yon melancholious weids hung on the bonny birks of yarrow? what's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? what's yonder floats? o dule and sorrow! o 'tis he the comely swain i slew upon the duleful braes of yarrow. wash, o wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, his wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; and wrap his limbs in mourning weids, and lay him on the braes of yarrow. then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; and weep around in waeful wise his hapless fate on the braes of yarrow. curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, my arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, the fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, his comely breast on the braes of yarrow. did i not warn thee, not to, not to luve? and warn from fight? but to my sorrow too rashly bauld a stronger arm thou mett'st, and fell'st on the braes of yarrow. sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, yellow on yarrow's bank the gowan,[ ] fair hangs the apple frae the rock, sweet the wave of yarrow flowan. flows yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows tweed, as green its grass, its gowan as yellow, as sweet smells on its braes the birk, the apple frae its rock as mellow. fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, in flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; tho' he was fair, and weil beluv'd again than me he never luv'd thee better. busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, and luve me on the banks of tweed, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. _c._ how can i busk a bonny bonny bride? how can i busk a winsome marrow? how luve him upon the banks of tweed, that slew my luve on the braes of yarrow? o yarrow fields, may never never rain, nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, for there was basely slain my luve, my luve, as he had not been a lover. the boy put on his robes, his robes of green, his purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing: ah! wretched me! i little, little kenn'd he was in these to meet his ruin. the boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, unheedful of my dule and sorrow: but ere the toofall[ ] of the night he lay a corps on the braes of yarrow. much i rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; i sang, my voice the woods returning: but lang ere night the spear was flown, that slew my luve, and left me mourning. what can my barbarous barbarous father do, but with his cruel rage pursue me? my luver's blood is on thy spear, how canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me? my happy sisters may be, may be proud with cruel, and ungentle scoffin', may bid me seek on yarrow's braes my luver nailed in his coffin. my brother douglas may upbraid, upbraid, and strive with threatning words to muve me: my luver's blood is on thy spear, how canst thou ever bid me luve thee? yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, with bridal sheets my body cover, unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, let in the expected husband lover. but who the expected husband husband is? his hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter: ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after? pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, o lay his cold head on my pillow; take aff, take aff these bridal weids, and crown my careful head with willow. pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, o could my warmth to life restore thee! yet lye all night between my breists, no youth lay ever there before thee. pale, pale indeed, o luvely luvely youth, forgive, forgive, so foul a slaughter, and lye all night between my breists, no youth shall ever lye there after. _a._ return, return, o mournful, mournful bride, return and dry thy useless sorrow: thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, he lyes a corps in the braes of yarrow. footnotes: [ ] [dress.] [ ] [companion.] [ ] [hilly banks.] [ ] [pulling the birch trees.] [ ] [lost.] [ ] [daisy.] [ ] [twilight.] xxv. admiral hosier's ghost was a party song written by the ingenious author of _leonidas_,[ ] on the taking of porto bello from the spaniards by admiral vernon, nov. , .--the case of hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this. in april, , that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the spanish west-indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country, or should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into england: he accordingly arrived at the bastimentos near porto bello, but being employed rather to overawe than to attack the spaniards, with whom it was probably not our interest to go to war, he continued long inactive on that station, to his own great regret. he afterwards removed to carthagena, and remained cruizing in these seas, till far the greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. this brave man, seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart. such is the account of smollett, compared with that of other less partial writers. the following song is commonly accompanied with a second part, or answer, which being of inferior merit, and apparently written by another hand, hath been rejected. * * * * * [dr. rimbault (_musical illustrations_, p. ) writes: "the earliest copy of the tune to this ballad is contained in the ballad opera of _sylvia, or the country burial_, . it may also be found in walsh's _british musical miscellany_, vol. iv. and in other works of a similar description. the ballads of _come and listen to my ditty_ and _cease, rude boreas_, were sung to this tune, which appears to have been always a favourite for 'sea ditties.'" in hannah more's _life_ (vol. i. p. ) is the following interesting note: "i was much amused with hearing old leonidas glover sing his own fine ballad of _hosier's ghost_, which was very affecting. he is past eighty." in the matter of the last item mrs. more was wrong. richard glover was born in , and died on nov. , .] * * * * * as near porto-bello lying on the gently swelling flood, at midnight with streamers flying our triumphant navy rode; there while vernon sate all-glorious from the spaniards' late defeat: and his crews, with shouts victorious, drank success to england's fleet: on a sudden shrilly sounding, hideous yells and shrieks were heard; then each heart with fear confounding, a sad troop of ghosts appear'd, all in dreary hammocks shrouded, which for winding-sheets they wore, and with looks by sorrow clouded frowning on that hostile shore. on them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre, when the shade of hosier brave his pale bands was seen to muster rising from their watry grave. o'er the glimmering wave he hy'd him, where the burford[ ] rear'd her sail, with three thousand ghosts beside him, and in groans did vernon hail. heed, oh heed our fatal story, i am hosier's injur'd ghost, you, who now have purchas'd glory, at this place where i was lost! tho' in porto-bello's ruin you now triumph free from fears, when you think on our undoing, you will mix your joy with tears. see these mournful spectres sweeping ghastly o'er this hated wave, whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping; these were english captains brave. mark those numbers pale and horrid, those were once my sailors bold: lo, each hangs his drooping forehead, while his dismal tale is told. i, by twenty sail attended, did this spanish town affright; nothing then its wealth defended but my orders not to fight. oh! that in this rolling ocean i had cast them with disdain, and obey'd my heart's warm motion to have quell'd the pride of spain! for resistance i could fear none, but with twenty ships had done what thou, brave and happy vernon, hast atchiev'd with six alone. then the bastimentos never had our foul dishonour seen, nor the sea the sad receiver of this gallant train had been. thus, like thee, proud spain dismaying, and her galleons leading home, though condemn'd for disobeying, i had met a traitor's doom, to have fallen, my country crying he has play'd an english part, had been better far than dying of a griev'd and broken heart. unrepining at thy glory, thy successful arms we hail; but remember our sad story, and let hosier's wrongs prevail. sent in this foul clime to languish, think what thousands fell in vain, wasted with disease and anguish, not in glorious battle slain. hence with all my train attending from their oozy tombs below, thro' the hoary foam ascending, here i feed my constant woe: here the bastimentos viewing, we recal our shameful doom, and our plaintive cries renewing, wander thro' the midnight gloom. o'er these waves for ever mourning shall we roam depriv'd of rest, if to britain's shores returning you neglect my just request; after this proud foe subduing, when your patriot friends you see, think on vengeance for my ruin, and for england sham'd in me. footnotes: [ ] an ingenious correspondent informs the editor, that this ballad hath been also attributed to the late lord bath. [ ] admiral vernon's ship. xxvi. jemmy dawson. _james dawson_ was one of the manchester rebels, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered, on kennington-common, in the county of surrey, july , .--this ballad is founded on a remarkable fact, which was reported to have happened at his execution. it was written by the late _william shenstone_, esq; soon after the event, and has been printed amongst his posthumous works, vols. vo. it is here given from a ms. which contained some small variations from that printed copy. * * * * * [captain james dawson was one of eight officers belonging to the manchester regiment of volunteers in the service of the young chevalier, who were executed on kennington common. the following ballad is founded upon a narrative first published in a periodical entitled _the parrot_, saturday, d august, , three days after the occurrence. in the _whitehall evening post_, aug. , , the same story is told with the addition, that "upon enquiry every circumstance was literally true." another ballad is said to have been written upon dawson's fate, and sung about the streets. it is reprinted in the _european magazine_, april, , p. , and begins as follows: "blow ye bleak winds around my head, sooth my heart corroding care, &c."] * * * * * come listen to my mournful tale, ye tender hearts, and lovers dear; nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, nor will you blush to shed a tear and thou, dear kitty, peerless maid, do thou a pensive ear incline; for thou canst weep at every woe, and pity every plaint, but mine. young dawson was a gallant youth, a brighter never trod the plain; and well he lov'd one charming maid, and dearly was he lov'd again. one tender maid she lov'd him dear, of gentle blood the damsel came, and faultless was her beauteous form, and spotless was her virgin fame. but curse on party's hateful strife, that led the faithful youth astray the day the rebel clans appear'd: o had he never seen that day! their colours and their sash he wore, and in the fatal dress was found; and now he must that death endure, which gives the brave the keenest wound. how pale was then his true love's cheek, when jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! for never yet did alpine snows so pale, nor yet so chill appear. with faltering voice she weeping said, oh dawson, monarch of my heart, think not thy death shall end our loves, for thou and i will never part. yet might sweet mercy find a place, and bring relief to jemmy's woes, o george, without a prayer for thee my orisons should never close. the gracious prince that gives him life would crown a never-dying flame, and every tender babe i bore should learn to lisp the giver's name. but though, dear youth, thou should'st be dragg'd to yonder ignominious tree, thou shalt not want a faithful friend to share thy bitter fate with thee. o then her mourning coach was call'd, the sledge mov'd slowly on before; tho' borne in a triumphal car, she had not lov'd her favourite more. she followed him, prepar'd to view the terrible behests of law; and the last scene of jemmy's woes with calm and stedfast eye she saw. distorted was that blooming face, which she had fondly lov'd so long: and stifled was that tuneful breath, which in her praise had sweetly sung: and sever'd was that beauteous neck, round which her arms had fondly clos'd: and mangled was that beauteous breast, on which her love-sick head repos'd: and ravish'd was that constant heart, she did to every heart prefer; for tho' it could his king forget, 'twas true and loyal still to her. amid those unrelenting flames she bore this constant heart to see; but when 'twas moulder'd into dust, now, now, she cried, i'll follow thee. my death, my death alone can show the pure and lasting love i bore: accept, o heaven, of woes like ours, and let us, let us weep no more. the dismal scene was o'er and past, the lover's mournful hearse retir'd; the maid drew back her languid head, and sighing forth his name, expir'd. tho' justice ever must prevail, the tear my kitty sheds is due; for seldom shall she hear a tale so sad, so tender, and so true. the end of the third book. [illustration] appendix. [illustration] [illustration] appendix. on the alliterative metre, without rhyme, in pierce plowman's visions. we learn from wormius[ ], that the ancient islandic poets used a great variety of measures: he mentions different kinds, without including rhyme, or a correspondence of final syllables, yet this was occasionally used, as appears from the ode of egil, which wormius hath inserted in his book. he hath analysed the structure of one of these kinds of verse, the harmony of which neither depended on the quantity of the syllables, like that of the ancient greeks and romans; nor on the rhymes at the end, as in modern poetry; but consisted altogether in alliteration, or a certain artful repetition of the sounds in the middle of the verses. this was adjusted according to certain rules of their prosody, one of which was, that every distich should contain at least three words beginning with the same letter or sound. two of these correspondent sounds might be placed either in the first or second line of the distich, and one in the other: but all three were not regularly to be crowded into one line. this will be best understood by the following examples[ ]: "_m_eire og _m_inne _m_ogu heimdaller." "_g_ab _g_inuga enn _g_ras huerge." there were many other little niceties observed by the islandic poets, who, as they retained their original language and peculiarities longer than the other nations of gothic race, had time to cultivate their native poetry more, and to carry it to a higher pitch of refinement, than any of the rest. their brethren, the anglo-saxon poets, occasionally used the same kind of alliteration, and it is common to meet, in their writings, with similar examples of the foregoing rules. take an instance or two in modern characters[ ]: "_sk_eop tha and _sk_yrede _sk_yppend ure." "_h_am and _h_eahsetl _h_eofena rikes." i know not, however, that there is anywhere extant an entire saxon poem all in this measure. but distichs of this sort perpetually occur in all their poems of any length. now if we examine the versification of pierce plowman's _visions_, we shall find it constructed exactly by these rules; and therefore each line, as printed, is in reality a distich of two verses, and will, i believe, be found distinguished as such, by some mark or other in all the ancient mss. viz.: "in a _s_omer _s_eason, | when 'hot'[ ] was the _s_unne, i _sh_ope me into _sh_roubs, | as i a _sh_epe were; in _h_abite as an _h_armet | un_h_oly of werkes, _w_ent _w_yde in thys world | _w_onders to heare, &c." so that the author of this poem will not be found to have invented any new mode of versification, as some have supposed, but only to have retained that of the old saxon and gothic poets; which was probably never wholly laid aside, but occasionally used at different intervals: though the ravages of time will not suffer us now to produce a regular series of poems entirely written in it. there are some readers whom it may gratify to mention, that these _visions of pierce_ (_i.e._ peter) _the plowman_, are attributed to robert langland, a secular priest, born at mortimer's cleobury in shropshire, and fellow of oriel college in oxford, who flourished in the reigns of edward iii. and richard ii., and published his poem a few years after . it consists of xx. _passus_ or breaks[ ], exhibiting a series of visions which, he pretends, happened to him on malvern hills in worcestershire. the author excells in strong allegoric painting, and has with great humour, spirit, and fancy, censured most of the vices incident to the several professions of life; but he particularly inveighs against the corruptions of the clergy, and the absurdities of superstition. of this work i have now before me four different editions in black-letter quarto. three of them are printed in , "by robert crowley, dwelling in elye rentes in holburne." it is remarkable that two of these are mentioned in the title-page as both of the second impression, though they contain evident variations in every page[ ]. the other is said to be "newlye imprynted after the authors olde copy ... by owen rogers," feb. , . as langland was not the first, so neither was he the last that used this alliterative species of versification. to rogers's edition of the _visions_ is subjoined a poem, which was probably writ in imitation of them, intitled _pierce the ploughman's crede_. it begins thus: "_c_ros, and _c_urteis _c_hrist, this beginning spede for the _f_aders _f_rendshipe, that _f_ourmed heaven, and through the _sp_ecial _sp_irit, that _sp_rong of hem tweyne, and al in one godhed endles dwelleth." the author feigns himself ignorant of his creed, to be instructed in which he applies to the four religious orders, viz., the gray friers of st. francis, the black friers of st. dominic, the carmelites or white friers, and the augustines. this affords him occasion to describe in very lively colours the sloth, ignorance, and immorality of those reverend drones. at length he meets with pierce, a poor ploughman, who resolves his doubts, and instructs him in the principles of true religion. the author was evidently a follower of wiccliff, whom he mentions (with honour) as no longer living[ ]. now that reformer died in . how long after his death this poem was written, does not appear. in the cotton library is a volume of ancient english poems[ ], two of which are written in this alliterative metre, and have the division of the lines into distichs distinctly marked by a point, as is usual in old poetical mss. that which stands first of the two (though perhaps the latest written) is entitled _the sege of i'erlam_, (_i.e._ jerusalem), being an old fabulous legend composed by some monk, and stuffed with marvellous figments concerning the destruction of the holy city and temple. it begins thus: "in _t_yberius _t_yme. the _t_rewe emperour _s_yr _s_esar hymself. be_s_ted in rome whyll _p_ylat was _p_rovoste. under that _p_rynce ryche and _j_ewes _j_ustice also. of _j_udeas londe _h_erode under empere. as _h_erytage wolde _k_yng, &c." the other is intitled _chevalere assigne_ (or de cigne), that is, _the knight of the swan_, being an ancient romance, beginning thus: "all-_w_eldynge god. _w_hene it is his _w_ylle _w_ele he _w_ereth his _w_erke. _w_ith his owene honde for ofte _h_armes were _h_ente. that _h_elpe we ne my[gh]te nere the _h_y[gh]nes of _h_ym. that lengeth in _h_evene for this, &c." among mr. garrick's collection of old plays[ ] is a prose narrative of the adventures of this same knight of the swan, "newly translated out of frenshe into englyshe, at thinstigacion of the puyssaunt and illustryous prynce, lorde edward duke of buckynghame." this lord it seems had a peculiar interest in the book, for, in the preface, the translator tells us, that this "highe dygne and illustryous prynce my lorde edwarde by the grace of god duke of buckyngham, erle of hereforde, stafforde, and northampton, desyrynge cotydyally to encrease and augment the name and fame of such as were relucent in vertuous feates and triumphaunt actes of chyvalry, and to encourage and styre every lusty and gentell herte by the exemplyficacyon of the same, havyng a goodli booke of the highe and miraculous histori of a famous and puyssaunt kynge, named oryant, sometime reynynge in the parties of beyonde the sea, havynge to his wife a noble lady; of whome she conceyved sixe sonnes and a daughter, and chylded of them at one only time; at whose byrthe echone of them had a chayne of sylver at their neckes, the whiche were all tourned by the provydence of god into whyte swannes, save one, of the whiche this present hystory is compyled, named helyas, the knight of the swanne, _of whome linially is dyscended my sayde lorde_. the whiche ententifly to have the sayde hystory more amply and unyversally knowen in thys hys natif countrie, as it is in other, hath of hys hie bountie by some of his faithful and trusti servauntes cohorted mi mayster wynkin de worde[ ] to put the said vertuous hystori in prynte ... at whose instigacion and stiring i (roberte copland) have me applied, moiening the helpe of god, to reduce and translate it into our maternal and vulgare english tonge after the capacitè and rudenesse of my weke entendement." a curious picture of the times! while in italy literature and the fine arts were ready to burst forth with classical splendor under leo x. the first peer of this realm was proud to derive his pedigree from a fabulous knight of the swan[ ]! to return to the metre of pierce plowman: in the folio ms. so often quoted in these volumes, are two poems written in that species of versification. one of these is an ancient allegorical poem intitled _death and life_, (in fitts or parts, containing distichs) which, for ought that appears, may have been written as early, if not before, the time of langland. the first forty lines are broke as they should be into distichs, a distinction that is neglected in the remaining part of the transcript, in order, i suppose, to save room. it begins: "_chr_ist _chr_isten king, that on the _cr_osse tholed; hadd _pa_ines and _pa_ssyons to defend our soules; give us _gr_ace on the _gr_ound the _gr_eatlye to serve, for that _r_oyall _r_ed blood that _r_ann from thy side." the subject of this piece is a vision, wherein the poet sees a contest for superiority between "our lady dame life," and the "ugly fiend dame death;" who with their several attributes and concomitants are personified in a fine vein of allegoric painting. part of the description of dame life is: "shee was _b_righter of her _b_lee, then was the _b_right sonn: her _r_udd _r_edder then the _r_ose, that on the _r_ise hangeth: _m_eekely smiling with her _m_outh, and _m_erry in her lookes; ever _l_aughing for _l_ove, as shee _l_ike would. and as shee came by the _b_ankes, the _b_oughes eche one they _l_owted to that _l_adye, and _l_ayd forth their branches; _b_lossomes, and _b_urgens _b_reathed full sweete; _f_lowers _f_lourished in the _f_rith, where shee _f_orth stepped; and the _gr_asse, that was _gr_ay, _gr_eened belive." death is afterwards sketched out with a no less bold and original pencil. the other poem is that which is quoted in the nd page of this volume, and which was probably the last that was ever written in this kind of metre in its original simplicity unaccompanied with rhyme. it should have been observed above in page , that in this poem the lines are throughout divided into distichs, thus: "_gr_ant _gr_acious god, _gr_ant me this time," &c. it is intitled _scottish feilde_ (in fitts, distichs,) containing a very circumstantial narrative of the battle of flodden, fought sept. , : at which the author seems to have been present from his speaking in the first person plural: "then _we t_ild downe _our t_ents, that _t_old were a thousand." in the conclusion of the poem he gives this account of himself: "he was a _g_entleman by _j_esu, that this _g_est[ ] made: which _s_ay but as he _s_ayd[ ] for _s_ooth and noe other. at _b_agily that _b_earne his _b_iding place had; and his ancestors of old time have yearded[ ] theire longe, before william _c_onquerour this _c_untry did inhabitt. jesus _b_ring 'them'[ ] to _b_lisse, that _b_rought us forth of _bale_, that hath _h_earkned me _h_eare or _h_eard my _tale_." the village of bagily or baguleigh is in cheshire, and had belonged to the ancient family of legh for two centuries before the battle of flodden. indeed that the author was of that county appears from other passages in the body of the poem, particularly from the pains he takes to wipe off a stain from the cheshiremen, who it seems ran away in that battle, and from his encomiums on the stanleys, earls of derby, who usually headed that county. he laments the death of james stanley, bishop of ely, as what had recently happened when this poem was written; which serves to ascertain its date, for that prelate died march , - . thus have we traced the alliterative measure so low as the sixteenth century. it is remarkable that all such poets as used this kind of metre, retained along with it many peculiar saxon idioms, particularly such as were appropriated to poetry: this deserves the attention of those who are desirous to recover the laws of the ancient saxon poesy, usually given up as inexplicable: i am of opinion that they will find what they seek in the metre of pierce plowman[ ]. about the beginning of the sixteenth century this kind of versification began to change its form: the author of _scottish field_, we see, concludes his poem with a couplet in rhyme: this was an innovation that did but prepare the way for the general admission of that more modish ornament; till at length the old uncouth verse of the ancient writers would no longer go down without it. yet when rhyme began to be superadded, all the niceties of alliteration were at first retained along with it; and the song of _little john nobody_ exhibits this union very clearly. by degrees the correspondence of final sounds engrossing the whole attention of the poet, and fully satisfying the reader, the internal imbellishment of alliteration was no longer studied, and thus was this kind of metre at length swallowed up and lost in our common burlesque alexandrine, or anapestic verse[ ], now never used but in ballads and pieces of light humour, as in the song of _conscience_, and in that well-known doggerel, "a cobler there was, and he lived in a stall." but although this kind of measure hath with us been thus degraded, it still retains among the french its ancient dignity; their grand heroic verse of twelve syllables[ ] is the same genuine offspring of the old alliterative metre of the ancient gothic and francic poets, stript like our anapestic of its alliteration, and ornamented with rhyme: but with this difference, that whereas this kind of verse hath been applied by us only to light and trivial subjects, to which by its quick and lively measure it seemed best adapted, our poets have let it remain in a more lax unconfined state[ ], as a greater degree of severity and strictness would have been inconsistent with the light and airy subjects to which they have applied it. on the other hand, the french having retained this verse as the vehicle of their epic and tragic flights, in order to give it a stateliness and dignity were obliged to confine it to more exact laws of scansion: they have therefore limited it to the number of twelve syllables; and by making the cæsura or pause as full and distinct as possible, and by other severe restrictions, have given it all the solemnity of which it was capable. the harmony of both however depends so much on the same flow of cadence and disposal of the pause, that they appear plainly to be of the same original; and every french heroic verse evidently consists of the ancient distich of their francic ancestors: which, by the way, will account to us why this verse of the french so naturally resolves itself into two complete hemistics. and indeed by making the cæsura or pause always to rest on the last syllable of a word, and by making a kind of pause in the sense, the french poets do in effect reduce their hemistics to two distinct and independent verses: and some of their old poets have gone so far as to make the two hemistics rhyme to each other.[ ] after all, the old alliterative and anapestic metre of the english poets being chiefly used in a barbarous age, and in a rude unpolished language, abounds with verses defective in length, proportion, and harmony; and therefore cannot enter into a comparison with the correct versification of the best modern french writers; but making allowances for these defects, that sort of metre runs with a cadence so exactly resembling the french heroic alexandrine, that i believe no peculiarities of their versification can be produced, which cannot be exactly matched in the alliterative metre. i shall give by way of example a few lines from the modern french poets accommodated with parallels from the ancient poem of _life and death_; in these i shall denote the cæsura or pause by a perpendicular line, and the cadence by the marks of the latin quantity. _l[)e] s[)u]cc[=e]s f[)u]t to[)u]jo[=u]rs_ | _[)u]n [)e]nf[=a]nt d[)e] l'[)a]ud[=a]ce_ [)a]ll sh[)a]ll dr[=y]e w[)i]th th[)e] d[=i]nts | th[)a]t i d[)e]al w[)i]th m[)y] h[=a]nds. _l'h[)o]mm[)e] pr[=u]d[)e]nt v[)o]it tr[=o]p_ | _l'[)i]ll[=u]s[)i][)o]n l[)e] s[=u]it_, y[=o]nd[)e]r d[=a]ms[)e]l [)i]s d[=e]ath | th[)a]t dr[=e]ss[)e]th h[)e]r t[)o] sm[=i]te. _l'[)i]ntr[)e]p[=i]d[)e] v[)o]it m[=i]eux_ | _[)e]t l[)e] f[=a]nt[=o]m[)e] f[=u]it.[ ]_ wh[)e]n sh[)e] d[=o]lef[)u]ll[)y] s[=a]w | h[=o]w sh[)e] d[=a]ng d[=o]wne h[)i]r f[=o]lke. _m[)e]me a[)u]x ye[=u]x d[)e] l'inj[=u]ste_ | _[)u]n [)i]nj[=u]ste [)e]st h[)o]rr[=i]bl[)e].[ ]_ th[)e]n sh[)e] c[=a]st [)u]p [)a] cr[=y]e | t[)o] th[)e] h[=i]gh k[)i]ng [)o]f he[=a]v[)e]n. _d[)u] m[)e]ns[=o]ng[)e] to[)u]jo[=u]rs_ | _l[)e] vr[=a]i d[)e]m[=e]ur[)e] m[=a]itr[)e]_, th[)o]u sh[)a]lt b[=i]tt[)e]rly[)e] b[=y]e | [)o]r [=e]lse th[)e] b[=o]ok[)e] f[=a]il[)e]th. _po[)u]r p[)a]r[=o]itre h[=o]nn[)e]te h[=o]mme_ | _[)e]n [)u]n m[=o]t, [)i]l f[)a]ut l'[=e]tre.[ ]_ th[)u]s i f[=a]red thr[=o]ugh [)a] fr[=y]the | wh[)e]re th[)e] fl[=o]w[)e]rs w[)e]re m[=a]n[)y]e. to conclude: the metre of pierce plowman's visions has no kind of affinity with what is commonly called blank verse; yet has it a sort of harmony of its own, proceeding not so much from its alliteration, as from the artful disposal of its cadence, and the contrivance of its pause; so that when the ear is a little accustomed to it, it is by no means unpleasing; but claims all the merit of the french heroic numbers, only far less polished; being sweetened, instead of their final rhymes, with the internal recurrence of similar sounds. [illustration] additions to the essay on the alliterative metre. since the foregoing essay was first printed, the editor hath met with some additional examples of the old alliterative metre. the first is in ms.[ ] which begins thus: "_c_rist _c_rowned _k_yng, that on _c_ros didest,[ ] and art _c_omfort of all _c_are, thow[ ] kind go out of _c_ours, with thi _h_alwes in _h_even _h_eried mote thu be, and thy _w_orshipful _w_erkes _w_orshiped evre, that suche _s_ondry _s_ignes _s_hewest unto man, in _d_remyng, in _d_recchyng,[ ] and in _d_erke swevenes." the author from this proemium takes occasion to give an account of a dream that happened to himself: which he introduces with the following circumstances: "_o_nes y me _o_rdayned, as y have _o_fte doon, with _f_rendes, and _f_elawes, _f_rendemen, and other; and _c_aught me in a _c_ompany on _c_orpus _c_hristi even, _s_ix, other[ ] _s_even myle, oute of _s_uthampton, to take _m_elodye, and _m_irthes, among my _m_akes; with _r_edyng of _r_omaunces, and _r_evelyng among, the _d_ym of the _d_erknesse _d_rewe me into the west; and be_g_on for to spryng in the _g_rey day. than _l_ift y up my _l_yddes, and _l_oked in the sky, and _k_newe by the _k_ende _c_ours, hit clered in the est: _b_lyve y _b_usked me down, and to _b_ed went, for to _c_omforte my _k_ynde, and _c_acche a slepe." he then describes his dream: "methought that y _h_oved on _h_igh on an _h_ill, and loked _d_oun on a _d_ale _d_epest of othre; ther y _s_awe in my _s_ighte a _s_elcouthe peple; the _m_ultitude was so _m_oche, it _m_ighte not be nombred: methoughte y herd a _c_rowned _k_yng, of his _c_omunes axe a _s_oleyne[ ] _s_ubsidie, to _s_usteyne his werres. * * * * * with that a _c_lerk _k_neled adowne and _c_arped these wordes, _l_iege _l_ord, yif it you _l_ike to _l_isten a while, _s_om _s_awes of _s_alomon y shall you shewe sone." the writer then gives a solemn lecture to kings on the art of governing. from the demand of subsidies "to susteyne his werres," i am inclined to believe this poem composed in the reign of k. henry v., as the ms. appears from a subsequent entry to have been written before the th of henry vi. the whole poem contains but lines. the alliterative metre was no less popular among the old scottish poets, than with their brethren on this side the tweed. in maitland's collection of ancient scottish poems, ms. in the pepysian library, is a very long poem in this species of versification, thus inscribed: "_heir_ begins the tretis of the twa marriit wemen, and the wedo, compylit be maister _william dunbar_.[ ] upon the _m_idsummer evven _m_irriest of nichtis i _m_uvit furth alane quhen as _m_idnight was past besyd ane _g_udlie _g_rene _g_arth,[ ] full of _g_ay flouris _h_egeit[ ] of ane _h_uge _h_icht with _h_awthorne treeis quairon ane _b_ird on ane _b_ransche so _b_irst out hir notis that nevir ane _b_lythfuller _bi_rd was on the _b_euche[ ] hard &c." the author pretends to overhear three gossips sitting in an arbour, and revealing all their secret methods of alluring and governing the other sex; it is a severe and humorous satire on bad women, and nothing inferior to chaucer's prologue to his _wife of bath's tale_. as dunbar lived till about the middle of the sixteenth century, this poem was probably composed after _scottish field_ (described above in p. ), which is the latest specimen i have met with written in england. this poem contains about five hundred lines. but the current use of the alliterative metre in scotland, appears more particularly from those popular vulgar prophecies, which are still printed for the use of the lower people in scotland, under the names of thomas the rymer, marvellous merling, &c. this collection seems to have been put together after the accession of james i. to the crown of england, and most of the pieces in it are in the metre of _pierce plowman's visions_, the first of them begins thus: "merling sayes in his book, who will _r_ead _r_ight, although his _s_ayings be uncouth, they _s_hall be true found. in the seventh chapter, read _w_hoso _w_ill, one thousand and more after christ's birth, &c." and the prophesie of beid: "betwixt the chief of _s_ummer and the _s_ad winter; before the _h_eat of summer _h_appen shall a war that _e_urop's lands _e_arnestly shall be wrought and _e_arnest _e_nvy shall last but a while, &c." so again the prophesie of berlington: "when the _r_uby is _r_aised, _r_est is there none, but much _r_ancour shall _r_ise in _r_iver and plain much _s_orrow is _s_een through a _s_uth-hound that beares _h_ornes in his _h_ead like a wyld _h_art, &c." in like metre is the prophesie of waldhave: "upon _l_owdon _l_aw alone as i _l_ay, _l_ooking to the _l_ennox, as me _l_ief thought, the first _m_orning of _m_ay, _m_edicine to seek for _m_alice and _m_elody that _m_oved me sore, &c." and lastly, that intitled the prophesie of gildas: "when holy kirk is _w_racked and _w_ill has no _w_it and _p_astors are _p_luckt, and _p_il'd without _p_ity when _i_dolatry _i_s _i_n _ens_ and _re_ and spiritual pastours are vexed away, &c." it will be observed in the foregoing specimens, that the alliteration is extremely neglected, except in the third and fourth instances; although all the rest are written in imitation of the cadence used in this kind of metre. it may perhaps appear from an attentive perusal, that the poems ascribed to berlington and waldhave are more ancient than the others: indeed the first and fifth appear evidently to have been new modelled, if not intirely composed about the beginning of the last century, and are probably the latest attempts ever made in this species of verse. in this and the foregoing essay are mentioned all the specimens i have met with of the alliterative metre without rhyme: but instances occur sometimes in old manuscripts, of poems written both with final rhymes and the internal cadence and alliterations of the metre of pierce plowman. this essay will receive illustration from another specimen in warton's _history of english poetry_, vol. i. p. , being the fragment of a ms. poem on the subject of _alexander the great_, in the bodleian library, which he supposes to be the same with no. in the ashmol. mss. containing twenty-seven _passus_, and beginning thus: "whener folk fastid [feasted, _qu._] and fed, fayne wolde thei her [_i.e._ hear] some farand thing, &c." it is well observed by mr. tyrwhitt on chaucer's sneer at this old alliterative metre (vol. iii. p. ), viz.: "----i am a sotherne [_i.e._ southern] man, i cannot geste, rom, ram, raf, by my letter," that the fondness for this species of versification, &c. was retained longest in the northern provinces: and that the author of _pierce plowman's visions_ is in the best mss. called _william_, without any surname. see vol. iv. p. . * * * * * [the rev. walter w. skeat, editor of _piers plowman_, for the early english text society, has written _an essay on alliterative_ _poetry_, for hales and furnivall's edition of the percy folio ms., which will be found in the third volume of that work (pp. xi.-xxxix.). he gives a list of all the poems he has met with that have been written as alliterative, yet without rhyme, since the conquest, and ends his essay with the following note:--"the reader must be warned against three extraordinary mis-statements in this (percy's) essay, following close upon one another near the end of it. these are ( ) that robert of gloucester wrote in anapæstic verse, whereas he wrote in the long alexandrine verse, containing (when perfect) six _returns_; ( ) that the french alone have retained this old gothic metre [the twelve-syllabled alexandrine] for their serious poems, whereas we may be sure that michael drayton, the author of the polyolbion, meant his poem seriously; and ( ) that the cadence of _piers plowman_ 'so exactly resembles the french alexandrine, that i believe no peculiarities of their versification can be produced which cannot be exactly matched in the alliterative metre.' this is indeed a curious craze, for the alliterative metre is founded on _dominants_, the alexandrine on _returns_. percy gives some examples, and the metre which he selects for numbering is the _french_ one, as the reader may easily judge for himself when he finds that the line "l[)e] s[)u]cc[=e]s f[)u]t to[)u]jo[=u]rs | [)u]n [)e]nf[=a]nt d[)e] l'a[)u]d[=a]ce" is marked by him as it is marked here, and is supposed to consist of _four anapæsts_! yet one more blunder to be laid at the door of the 'anapæsts!' would that we were well rid of them, and that the 'longs' and 'shorts' were buried beside them."] footnotes: [ ] _literatura runica._ hafniæ, , to.-- , fol. the _islandic_ language is of the same origin as our _anglo-saxon_, being both dialects of the ancient _gothic_ or _teutonic_. vid. _hickesii præfat. in grammat. anglo-saxon. & moeso-goth_, to. . [ ] vid. hickes _antiq. literatur. septentrional._ tom. i. p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] so i would read with mr. warton, rather than either "soft," as in ms. or "set," as in pcc. [ ] the poem properly contains xxi. parts: the word _passus_, adopted by the author, seems only to denote the break or division between two parts, though by the ignorance of the printer applied to the parts themselves. see vol. iii. preface to ballad iii. where _passus_ seems to signify _pause_. [ ] that which seems the first of the two, is thus distinguished in the title-page, "nowe the seconde tyme imprinted by roberte crowlye;" the other thus, "nowe the seconde time imprinted by robert crowley." in the former the folios are thus erroneously numbered , , , , , , , &c. the booksellers of those days did not ostentatiously affect to multiply editions. [ ] signature t. ii. [ ] caligula a. ij. fol. . . [ ] k. vol x. [ ] w. de worde's edit. is in . see ames, p. . mr. g.'s copy is "¶ imprinted at london by me wylliam copland." [ ] he is said in the story-book to be the grandfather of godfrey of boulogne, through whom i suppose the duke made out his relation to him. this duke was beheaded may , , hen. viii. [ ] jest, ms. [ ] probably corrupted for--"_s_ays but as he _s_aw." [ ] yearded, _i.e. buried_, _earthed_, earded. it is common to pronounce "earth," in some parts of england "yearth," particularly in the north.--pitscottie speaking of james iii. slain at bannockbourn, says, "nae man wot whar they _yearded_ him." [ ] "us." ms. in the d line above, the ms. has "bidding." [ ] and in that of robert of gloucester. see the next note. [ ] consisting of four anapests ([)] [)] ¯) in which the accent rests upon every third syllable. this kind of verse, which i also call the burlesque alexandrine (to distinguish it from the other alexandrines of eleven and fourteen syllables, the parents of our lyric measure: see examples, pp. , , &c.), was early applied by robert of gloucester to serious subjects. that writer's metre, like this of langland's, is formed on the saxon models (each verse of his containing a saxon distich), only instead of the internal alliterations adopted by langland, he rather chose final rhymes, as the french poets have done since. take a specimen: "the saxons tho in ther power, tho thii were so rive, seve kingdoms made in engelonde, and suthe but vive: the king of northomberlond, and of eastangle also, of kent, and of westsex, and of the march, therto." robert of gloucester wrote in the western dialect, and his language differs exceedingly from that of other contemporary writers, who resided in the metropolis, or in the midland counties. had the heptarchy continued, our english language would probably have been as much distinguished for its different dialects as the greek; or at least as that of the several independent states of italy. [ ] or of thirteen syllables, in what they call a feminine verse. it is remarkable that the french alone have retained this old gothic metre for their serious poems; while the english, spaniards, &c. have adopted the italic verse of ten syllables, although the spaniards, as well as we, anciently used a short-lined metre. i believe the success with which petrarch, and perhaps one or two others, first used the heroic verse of ten syllables in italian poesy, recommended it to the spanish writers; as it also did to our chaucer, who first attempted it in english; and to his successors lord surrey, sir thomas wyat, &c.; who afterwards improved it and brought it to perfection. to lord surrey we also owe the first introduction of blank verse in his versions of the second and fourth books of the _Æneid_, , to. [ ] thus our poets use this verse indifferently with twelve, eleven, and even ten syllables. for though regularly it consists of four anapests ([)] [)] ¯) or twelve syllables, yet they frequently retrench a syllable from the first or third anapest; and sometimes from both; as in these instances from _prior_, and from the song of conscience: "wh[)o] h[)a]s e[=e]r be[)e]n [)a]t p[=a]r[)i]s, m[)u]st n[=e]eds kn[)o]w th[)e] gr[=e]ve, th[)e] f[=a]t[)a]l r[)e]tr[=e]at [)o]f th' [)u]nf[=o]rt[)u]n[)a]te br[=a]ve. h[)e] st[=e]pt t[)o] h[)i]m str[=a]ight, [)a]nd d[=i]d h[)i]m r[)e]qu[=i]re." [ ] see instances in _l'hist. de la poesie françoise, par massieu_, &c. in the same book are also specimens of alliterative french verses. [ ] catalina, a. . [ ] boileau sat. [ ] boil. sat. ii. [ ] in a small to. ms. containing thirty-eight leaves in private hands. [ ] didst dye. [ ] though. [ ] being overpowered. [ ] _i.e._ either, or. [ ] solemn. [ ] since the above was written, this poem hath been printed in _ancient scottish poems, &c._ from the ms. collections of sir r. maitland, of lethington, knight, of london, , vols. mo. the two first lines are here corrected by that edition. [ ] garden. [ ] hedged. [ ] bough. [illustration] index of ballads and poems in the second volume. agincourt, for the victory at, . aldingar (sir), . althea (to) from prison, . argentile and curan, . as ye came from the holy land, . baffled knight, or lady's policy, . barton (sir andrew), . beggar's daughter of bednall green, . bothwell's (lady anne) lament, . braes of yarrow, . charing cross, downfall of, . charles i., verses by, . chaucer, original ballad by, . complaint of conscience, . corin's fate, . corydon's doleful knell, . cromwell (thomas lord), . cupid's assault, by lord vaux, . dawson (jemmy), . distracted lover, . distracted puritan, . edward i., on the death of, . edward iv. and tanner of tamworth, . eleanor's (q.) confession, . elizabeth's (q.) verses while prisoner at woodstock, . ---- sonnet, . fair rosamond, . fancy and desire, . frantic lady, . gaberlunyie man, . gascoigne's praise of the fair bridges, afterwards lady sandes, . gentle herdsman, tell to me, . hardyknute, . harpalus, . heir of linne, . hosier's (admiral) ghost, . james i., verses by, . jane shore, . john anderson, my jo, . john (king) and the abbot of canterbury, . king of scots and andrew browne, . lady distracted with love, . lilli burlero, . little john nobody, . loyalty confined, . lunatic lover, . luther, the pope, a cardinal, and a husbandman, . lye (the), by sir walter raleigh, . mary ambree, . murder of the king of scots, . murray, bonny earl of, . not-browne maid, . old tom of bedlam, . old and young courtier, . plain truth and blind ignorance, . richard of almaigne, . rivers (earl), balet by, . robin and makyne, . sale of rebellious houshold stuff, . spanish lady's love, . sturdy rock, . suckling's (sir john) campaigne, . turnament of tottenham, . victorious men of earth, . wandering jew, . why so pale, . willoughbey, brave lord, . winning of cales, . you meaner beauties, . young waters, . end of volume the second. transcriber's notes: simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. punctuation normalized. anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. errata on p. vii were incorporated in the document. italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. greek text is transliterated and enclosed in #number signs#. anglo-saxon uncial script is enclosed in +plus sign+. special characters and symbols. latin abbreviation large sign et [et] latin small letter heng [hj] latin small letter thorn with stroke [þ/] yogh [gh] inverted asterism [***] triple dagger (center one reversed) [+±+] therefore sign [···] reversed pilcrow sign [r¶] black right pointing index [-»] white right pointing index [->] diacritical marks. in the table below, the "x" represents a letter with a diacritical mark. diacritical mark sample above below macron (straight line) ¯ [=x] [x=] dot · [.x] [x.] circumflex ^ [^x] [x^] breve (u-shaped symbol) [)x] [x)] note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations and links to sound clips to demonstrate the music. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). a carat character is used to denote superscription. a single character following the carat is superscripted (example: a^o). multiple superscripted characters are enclosed by curly brackets (example: mat^{ies}). a plus sign is used to represent a dagger signifying a footnore. small capitals are presented as all capitals in this e-text. [illustration: _singing sam of derbyshire_] the ballads & songs of derbyshire. with illustrative notes, and examples of the original music, etc. edited by llewellynn jewitt, f.s.a., &c., &c. [illustration: logo] london: bemrose and lothian, , paternoster row. derby: bemrose and sons, irongate. mdccclxvii. to his grace the duke of devonshire, k.g., lord-lieutenant and custos-rotulorum of the county whose ballads are here for the first time collected, this volume is, as a mark of personal esteem, and as a tribute to the true nobility of his character and to his high intellectual attainments, most gratefully dedicated by the editor. introduction. it is certainly somewhat curious that, in a county so confessedly rich in ballads and in popular songs as derbyshire is, no attempt should hitherto have been made to collect together and give to the world even a small selection of these valuable and interesting remains. such, however, is the fact, and the ballads, the traditions, and the lyrics of the county have remained to the present day uncollected, and, it is to be feared, uncared for, by those to whom the task of collection in days gone by would have been tolerably easy. it has therefore remained for me, with my present volume, to initiate a series of works which shall embrace these and kindred subjects, and vindicate for derbyshire its place in the literary history of the kingdom. in my present volume i have given a selection of upwards of fifty ballads and songs, many of them extremely curious, and all highly interesting, which are purely derbyshire, and relate entirely to that county, to events which have happened within its bounds, or to derbyshire families. these i have collected together from every available source, and several amongst them have never before been reprinted from the old broad-sheets and garlands in which they are contained; while others, taken down from the lips of "old inhabitants," or from the original mss., are for the first-time put into type. knowing that in ballads it is next to, if not quite, impossible to accomplish a successful chronological arrangement, and feeling that, if accomplished, such an arrangement is open to grave objections, i have purposely avoided the attempt, and have contented myself with varying, as much as possible, the contents of my volume, and with giving to each ballad an introductory notice touching on the event commemorated, on the writer of the piece, or on the source from whence the ballad has been obtained. having done this, the necessity for a long introduction here is obviated, and it only remains for me to announce my intention of following up my present volume with another similar one, as a "second series" of derbyshire ballads and songs, and with others on the poets and poetry of derbyshire; on the political and criminal songs of the county; and on its folk-lore and traditions, etc. it is hoped that the present volume will find sufficient favour with the public to act as an encouragement to the early issue of the succeeding volumes, which will contain a vast amount of interesting and valuable information on points about which at present but little is known. it will be seen that in the introductory notices to the ballads in the following pages i have acknowledged my obligations to various kind friends for the assistance they have rendered. i have now only in general terms to again tender them my thanks, and, in so doing, to ask them, and all who can in any way assist me in my labours, to continue their kind help to my future volumes, and so enable me to do justice to the rich and beautiful county which it has been my life-long study to illustrate. as a frontispiece to my present volume, i give a fac-simile of an old portrait of a derbyshire ballad-singer of the last century, "_singing sam of derbyshire_" as he was called, which i copy from the curious plate etched by w. williams in , which appeared in the "topographer" thirty years after that time. the man was a singular character--a wandering minstrel who got his living by singing ballads in the peak villages, and accompanying himself on his rude single-stringed instrument. doubtless "the beggar's ramble" and "the beggar's wells," and other similar rhymes, were the production of "singing sam" or his compeers, and recounted his own peregrinations through the country. his instrument was as quaint and curious as himself. it consisted of a straight staff nearly as tall as himself, with a single string tied fast around it at each end. this he tightened with a fully inflated cow's bladder, which assisted very materially the tone of the rude instrument. his bow was a rough stick of hazel or briar, with a single string; and with this, with the lower end of his staff resting on the ground, and the upper grasped by his right hand, which he passed up and down to tighten or slacken the string as he played, he scraped away, and produced sounds which, though not so musical as those of paganini and _his_ single string, would no doubt harmonize with sam's rude ballad, and ruder voice. this portrait i believe has never been reproduced until now. on the title-page i give a small vignette showing a ballad singer of an earlier date, from a sketch by inigo jones, made two hundred and thirty years ago, which belongs to his grace the duke of devonshire. unlike "singing sam of derbyshire," who sang his ballads from memory, and probably composed many of them as he went on, so as to suit the localities and the tastes and habits of his hearers, the man here shown sings from a printed broad-sheet, of which he carries an armful with him to dispose of to such as cared to purchase them. he is literally a "running stationer," "such as use to sing ballads and cry malignant pamphlets in the streets," and indulged their hearers in town and country with "fond bookes, ballads, rhimes, and other lewd treatises in the english tongue." in my next volume i shall give a portrait of "hale the piper," another derbyshire "worthy," and shall then take occasion to speak of the origin of hornpipes in the locality which gave him birth. _derby, february, ._ contents. dedication vii introduction ix king henry v., his conquest of france, in revenge for the affront offered by the french king, in sending him (instead of a tribute) a ton of tennis-balls a ballad of derbyshire. by sir aston cokain the most pleasant song of lady bessy, the eldest daughter of king edward the fourth, and how she married king henry the seventh, of the house of lancaster devonshire's noble duel with lord danby in the year the unconsionable batchelors of darby: or the young lasses pawn'd by their sweet-hearts, for a large reckning, at nottingham goose fair, when poor susan was forc'd to pay the shot. the humours of hayfield fair on the strange and wonderful sight that was seen in the air on the th of march, the drunken butcher of tideswell a new ballad of robin hood: showing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage, at titbury bull-running: calculated for the meridian of staffordshire, but may serve for derbyshire or kent robin hood and little john little john's end the lay of the buckstone sir richard whittington's advancement: being an historical account of his education, unexpected fortune, charity, &c. the derbyshire miller tideswell in an uproar, or the prince in the town, and the devil in the church the prince at tideswell the derby ram the blink-ey'd cobler a strange banquet; or the devil's entertainment by cook laurel, at the peak in darby-shire; with an account of the several dishes served to table the taylor's ramble, or the blues' valour displayed squire vernon's fox-chace the trusley hunting song squire frith's hunting song derbyshire men an elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry in darley dale, who loved hunting and hawking, and several other games cocktail reel lines occasioned by a yorkshire pye sent as a present from sir william st. quintin to his grace the duke of devonshire, at bath, on christmas day, the agricultural meeting the complainte of anthonie babington a new song in praise of the derbyshire militia the florists' song the sorrowful lamentation, last dying speech and confession of old nun's green a traveller's dream a poem found by mr. * * * and dedicated to major trowel the quadrupeds, &c., or four-footed petitioners against the sale of nun's green paving and lighting the nun's green rangers; or the triple alliance, consisting of an old sergeant, a tinker, and a bear a birch rod for the presbytarians lost and dead song (satirical, on the choir of all saints' church, derby) sir francis leke; or the power of love the true lover's knot untied: being the right path whereby to advise princely virgins how to behave themselves, by the example of the renowned princess, the lady arabella and the second son of the lord seymour, late earl of hertford an address to "dickie" the driving of the deer the ashupton garland; or a day in the woodlands derbyshire hills derbyshire dales a rhapsody on the peak of derbyshire the derby hero a new song on the great foot race that was contested on the london road, near derby, betwixt jas. wantling, of derby, and shaw, the staffordshire hero, for hundred guineas on the death of the late rev. bache thornhill, m.a. a journey into the peak. to sir aston cokaine epistle to john bradshaw, esq. hugh stenson and molly green the beggar's ramble " " henry and clara the gipsies song the flax-dresser's wife of spondon, and the pound of tea the ashborne foot-ball song the parson's torr index of titles, first lines, names, &c. derbyshire ballads. _king henry v._, _his conquest of france, in revenge for the affront offered by the french king, in sending him (instead of the tribute) a ton of tennis-balls._ this is one of the most curious and popular of the series of derbyshire ballads, and one which, in its early broad-sheet form, is of great rarity. the broad-sheet from which it is here reprinted, is "printed and sold in aldermary church yard, bow lane, london." it is printed broad-way of the sheet, with two short columns of three verses each beneath the engraving, and one whole column of eight verses at the side. the engraving represents a fortification, with central tower, with the union jack flying; the sea in front, with a ship and some small boats; and two tall soldiers in mid-ground, evidently "on guard." versions of this ballad have been printed by mr. dixon, in the volume on _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, edited by him for the percy society, and in other collections. printed copies are to be found in the roxburghe collection in the british museum, and in the halliwell collection in the chetham library, manchester. the one here given is from the original broad-sheet in my own collection. the ballad will be at once seen to refer to the battle of agincourt, which was a prolific source of inspiration to the ballad and song writers of the time, and of later years. tradition bears out the noble feature of the ballad--that of no married man or widow's son being either recruited or pressed into the service of the sovereign over this expedition. a tradition still obtains in the peak, among the "hills that are so free," that when henry v. was recruiting derbyshire and the adjoining counties, he declared that he would take no married man, and that no widow's son should be of his company, for no woman's curse should go with him in his righteous expedition. the ballad is still not unfrequently sung in snatches by the miners and other hardy sons of the peak, the verse being usually rendered:-- "no married man, nor no widow's son, will i ever ask to go with me; for i will take no widow's curse from the derby hills that are so free." it is said that on one occasion, when george iii. was reviewing a brigade of guards in hyde park, he was particularly struck with the fine stalwart and manly bearing of one of the regiments,[ ] and calling out to the nearest man in the ranks, asked, "well, my fine fellow, where are you from, eh?" "derbyshire, please your majesty," was the reply. "eh, derbyshire eh! from derby hills so free," rejoined the king, showing that he must have been acquainted with the ballad we now print. the tune to which this ballad was sung i here give. i am not aware that it has ever before been printed. i remember hearing it frequently sung when i was a boy, and the spirit with which it was sung is still fresh in my memory. it is as follows:-- [music: as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time, of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. _chorus._ fal de ral de ray, fal de ral de ray.] another traditional version of the tune to which the ballad was sung, and which, like the one just given, is common to it and to "robin hood and the pedlar," which begins-- "i'll tell you of a pedlar bold, a pedlar bold he chanced to be, on he roll'd his pack upon his back, as he came tripping o'er the lea." has been kindly supplied to me by my friend mr. william chappell, f.s.a., the gifted author of that admirable work, "popular music of the olden time." it is as follows:-- [music: as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time, of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. down, down, a down. down, down, a down.] as our king lay musing on his bed, he bethought himself upon a time, of a tribute that was due from france, had not been paid for so long a time. fal, lal, &c. he called for his lovely page, his lovely page then called he; saying, "you must go to the king of france, to the king of france, sir, ride speedily." fal, lal, &c. o then away went this lovely page, this lovely page then away went he; lo he came to the king of france, and then he fell down on his bended knee. fal, lal, &c. "my master greets you, worthy sir, ten ton of gold that is due to he, that you will send him his tribute home, or in french land you soon will him see." fal, lal, &c. "your master's young, and of tender years, not fit to come into my degree; and i will send him three tennis-balls, that with them he may learn to play." fal, lal, &c. o then returned this lovely page, this lovely page then returned he, and when he came to our gracious king, low he fell down on his bended knee. fal, lal, &c. "what news? what news? my trusty page, what is the news you have brought to me?" "i have brought such news from the king of france, that he and you will ne'er agree. fal, lal, &c. "he says, you're young, and of tender years, not fit to come into his degree; and he will send you three tennis-balls, that with them you may learn to play." fal, lal, &c. "recruit me cheshire and lancashire, and derby hills that are so free; no marry'd man, or widow's son, for no widow's curse shall go with me." fal, lal, &c. they recruited cheshire and lancashire, and derby hills that are so free; no marry'd man, nor no widow's son, yet there was a jovial bold company. fal, lal, &c. o then we march'd into the french land, with drums and trumpets so merrily; and then bespoke the king of france, "lo! yonder comes proud king henry." fal, lal, &c. the first shot that the frenchmen gave, they kill'd our englishmen so free; we kill'd ten thousand of the french, and the rest of them they run away. fal, lal, &c. and then we marched to paris gates, with drums and trumpets so merrily, o then bespoke the king of france, "the lord have mercy on my men and me! fal, lal, &c. "o i will send him his tribute home, ten ton of gold that is due to he, and the finest flower that is in all france, to the rose of england i will give free." fal, lal, &c. footnote: [ ] it is worthy of note, that of late years the derbyshire volunteers have received the marked compliment of being specially noted for their manly bearing and their distinguished appearance by her present majesty, and by the commander-in-chief, h.r.h. the duke of cambridge, on each of the occasions of general review of the volunteer force in hyde park. _a ballad of darbyshire._ by sir aston cokain. sir aston cokain, the most illustrious member of the famous family of cokain, of ashborne, was the son of thomas cokain, of ashborne and of pooley, by his wife ann, daughter of sir john stanhope,[ ] of elvaston, by derby. he was born at elvaston, in , was educated at cambridge, and received the honour of knighthood in . he was one of the most eminent poets of the day, and was the intimate friend of donne, suckling, randolph, drayton, massinger, habbington, sandys, may, jonson, and other wits of the age. he was cousin to charles cotton, to whom he addressed many of his writings. sir aston married mary, daughter of sir gilbert kniveton, of mercaston, near derby. in he, with his son, thomas cokain, sold his estates in the neighbourhood of ashborne to sir william boothby; and he also sold his estate of pooley. in sir aston cokain died at derby, and was buried at polesworth. his son thomas, who married mary, co-heiress of carey sherry, was the last male heir of the family, and died without issue. in sir aston cokain published his volume, _small poems of divers sorts_, a volume of pages, which is now of great rarity. some few copies have a portrait--a laureated bust--of cokain, with the verse-- "come, reader, draw thy purse, and be a guest to our parnassus; 'tis the muses feast. the entertainment needs must be divine-- appollo's th' host where cockains heads ye sign." this portrait is of excessive rarity. curiously enough, the copper-plate was used as the portrait of ovid in north's translation of plutarch's lives, and it has also more than once been re-engraved. the volume contains also two dramatic pieces, "the obstinate lady, a comedy written by aston cokain," which was first published in , and "trappolin suppos'd a prince, an italian trage-comedy." cokain also wrote the "tragedy of ovid," and other things, and several editions of his works, under different titles, were issued. . dear _polyhymnie_, be auspicious unto me, that i may spread abroad our shire's worth in an ode, merrily chanting. they that our hills do blame, have no cause for the same; seeing the muses lye upon _parnassus_ high, where no joy's wanting. . upon _olympus_ hill _hebe_ heaven's cup doth fill: and _iove_ of _candy_ isle doth the gods reconcile, when they do wrangle. in _france_ at _agincourt_ (where we fought in such sort) behind an hill we did make our archers lye hid, foes to entangle. . the long commanding _rome_, and old _byzantium_, _lisbon_ in _portugal_, are situated all upon hills strongly: all therefore that protest hilly ground's not the best, are of their wits bereav'd, and all of them deceiv'd, and censure wrongly. . the peer of _england_ known _darby's_ earldom to own, is honoured by the style of king of _mona's_ isle hereditary. why hath _orantus_ found a channel under ground where t'lye hid, but for shame when it hears _darwin's_[ ] name, which fame doth carry? . why do the nymphs (believe) of _nile_, it down rocks drive; unless it be for fear _trent's_ glory should go near to overgo them? the _spaw luick_ land hath, and _sommerset_ the _bath_: _buxtons_ (dear county) be as famous unto thee as they unto them. . for king _mausolus_ tomb, _lango's_ known by each groom; and the _campanian_ lake doth very famous make _italies_ confines; the walls of burned stone eternise _babylon_: and the large devil's vault doth _darbyshire_ exalt, wherein no sun shines. . the pike to _tennariff_ an high repute doth give; and the coloss of brass, where under ships did pass, made _rhodes_ aspire. _tunbridge_ makes _kent_ renown'd and _epsome surryes_ ground: _pools-hole_, and st. _anne's_ well makes _darbyshire_ excell many a shire. . here on an hill's side steep is _elden_ hole, so deep, that no man living knowes how far it hollow goes; worthy the knowing. here also is a well whose waters do excell all waters thereabout; both being in and out ebbing and flowing. . here's lead, whereof is made bullets for to invade them whose pride doth prevail so far, as to assail our brittish borders. our lead so much may do, that it may win _peru_; and (if we chance to meet a _spanish_ silver fleet) commit great murthers. . _diana's_ fane to us extolleth _ephesus_: the sand-hil, and deaf stone, do _darbyshire_ renown, worth admiration. _windsor berks_ doth commend, and _essex audley-end_; we of our _chatsworth_ boast, a glory to our coast, and the whole nation. . _spain_ doth vaunt of its sack, and _france_ of claret crack; of rhenish _germany_; and of thy ale speak free, my gallant county. now i have made an end, i wish you to commend either the author's wit, or me for singing it, out of your bounty. footnotes: [ ] ancestor of the present earl of harrington, of elvaston. [ ] _darwin_, the river derwent. _the most pleasant_ _song of lady bessy_, _the eldest daughter of king edward the fourth, and how she married king henry the seventh, of the house of lancaster._ this fine old ballad concerning the princess elizabeth of york, wife of henry vii. of lancaster, relates to the earl of derby, the earl of shrewsbury, and others connected with derbyshire. it is supposed to have been written by humphrey brereton. there are two versions of this curious ballad. the version here given is from a ms. copy of the time of charles ii., belonging to the late mr. bateman. it was edited by mr. halliwell for the percy society. for jesus sake be merry and glad, be blythe of blood, of bone, and blee, and of your words be sober and sad, and a little while listen to me: i shall tell you how lady bessy made her moan, and down she kneeled upon her knee before the earle of darby her self alone, these were her words fair and free:-- who was your beginner, who was your ground, good father stanley, will you tell me? who married you to the margaret richmond, a dutchess of a high degree? and your son the lord george strange by that good lady you had him by. and harden lands under your hands, and moules dale also under your fee, your brother sir william stanley by parliament, the holt castle who gave him truely? who gave him brome-field, that i now ment? who gave him chirk-land to his fee? who made him high chamberlain of cheshire? of that country farr and near they were all wholly at his desire, when he did call they did appear; and also the forrest of delameer, to hunt therin both day and night as often as his pleasure were, and to send for baron and knight; who made the knight and lord of all? good father stanley, remember thee! it was my father, that king royall, he set you in that room so high. remember richmond banished full bare, and lyeth in brittain behind the sea, you may recover him of his care, if your heart and mind to him will gree: let him come home and claim his right, and let us cry him king henry! and if you will maintain him with might, in brittain he needeth not long to tarry. go away, bessy, the lord said then, i tell thee now for certainty, that fair words make oft fooles full faine, when they be but found vain glory. oh! father stanley, to you i call, for the love of god remember thee, since my father king edward, that king royall, at westminster on his death bed lee; he called to him my unckle richard, so he did robert of brackenbury, and james terrill he was the third; he sent them to ludlow in the west countrey, to fetch the duke of york, and the duke of clarence, these two lords born of a high degree. the duke of york should have been prince, and king after my father free, but a balle-full game was them among, when they doomed these two lords to dye: they had neither justice nor right, but had great wrong, alack! it was the more pitty! neither were they burried in st. maries, in church or churchyard or holy place; alas! they had dolefull destinies, hard was their chance, worse was their disgrace! therefore, help good father stanley, while you have space, for the love of god and mild mary, or else in time to come you shall, alas! remember the words of lady bessy! good lady bessy, be content, for tho' your words be never so sweet, if king richard knew, you must be shent, and perchance cast into prison deep; then had you cause to waill and weep, and wring your hands with heavy chear; therefore, good lady, i you beseek to move me no more in this mattér. oh! good father stanley, listen now and hear; heare is no more but you and i: king edward that was my father dear, on whose estate god had mercy, in westminster as he did stand, on a certain day in a study, a book of reason he had in his hand, and so sore his study he did apply, that his tender tears fell on the ground, all men might see that stood him by: there were both earls and lords of land, but none of them durst speak but i. i came before my father the king, and kneeled down upon my knee; i desired him lowly of his blessing, and full soon he gave it unto me: and in his arms he could me thring, and set me in a window so high; he spake to me full sore weeping,-- these were the words he said to me: daughter, as thou wilt have my blessing, do as i shall councell thee, and to my words give good listening, for one day they may pleasure thee: here is a book of reason, keep it well, as you will have the love of me; neither to any creature do it tell, nor let no liveing lord it see, except it be the lord stanley, the which i love full heartiley: all the matter to him show you may, for he and his thy help must be; as soon as the truth to him is shown unto your words he will agree; for their shall never son of my body be gotten that shall be crowned after me, but you shall be queen and wear the crown, so doth expresse the prophecye! he gave me tax and toland, and also diamonds to my degree, to get me a prince when it pleaseth christ, the world is not as it will be: therefore, good father stanley, grant my request for the love of god i desire thee; all is at your commandment down in the west, both knight and squire and the commentie; you may choose then where you like best, i have enough both of gold and fee; i want nothing but the strength of men, and good captains two or three. go away, bessy, the lord said then, to this will i never agree, for women oft time cannot faine, these words they be but vain glory! for and i should treason begin against king richard his royalty, in every street within london the eagle's foot should be pulled down, and as yet in his great favour i am, but then shoud i loose my great renowne! i shoud be called traitor thro' the same full soon in every markett towne! that were great shame to me and my name, i had rather spend ten thousand pounde. o father stanley, to you i mak my moane, for the love of god remember thee; it is not three days past and gone, since my unckle richard sent after me a batchelor and a bold baron, a doctor of divinitye, and bad that i should to his chamber gone, his love and his leman that i should bee; and the queen that was his wedded feere, he would her poyson and putt away; so would he his son and his heir, christ knoweth he is a proper boy! yet i had rather burn in a tunne on the tower hill that is so high, or that i would to his chamber come, his love and his leman will i not be! i had rather be drawn with wild horses five, through every street of that citty, or that good woman should lose her life, good father, for the love of mee. i am his brother's daughter dear; he is my uncle, it is no nay; or ever i would be his wedded feere, with sharp swords i will me slay; at his bidding if i were then, and follow'd also his cruel intent, i were well worthy to suffer pain, and in a fire for to be brent. therefore, good father stanley, some pity take on the earl richmond and me, and the rather for my father's sake, which gave thee the ile of man so free; he crowned thee with a crown of lead, he holpe the first to that degree; he set thee the crown upon thy head, and made thee the lord of that countrey; that time you promised my father dear, to be to him both true and just, and now you stand in a disweare, oh! jesu christ, who may men trust? o good lady, i say againe your fair words shall never move my mind; king richard is my lord and sov'raign, to him i will never be unkind. i will serve him truly till i die, i will him take as i him find; for he hath given to mine and me, his bounteous gifts do me so bind. yet good father stanley, remember thee, as i have said so shall it prove, if he of his gift be soe free, it is for fear and not for love; for if he may to his purpose come, you shall not live these years three, for these words to me he did once move in sandall castle underneath a tree: he said there shall no branch of the eagle fly within england, neither far nor nigh; nor none of the talbots to run him by, nor none of their lineage to the ninth degree; but he would them either hang or head, and that he swear full grievously. therefore help, gentle lord with all speed; for when you would fain it will not be. your brother dwellith in holt castle, a noble knight forsooth is he; all the welsh-men love him well, he may make a great company. sir john savage is your sister's son. he is well beloved within his shire, a great company with him will come, he will be ready at your desire. gilbert talbott is a captain pure, he will come with main and might; to you he will be fast and sure, against my uncle king and knight. let us raise an host with him to fight, soon to the ground we shall him ding, for god will stand ever with the right, for he hath no right to be king! go away, bessy, the lord can say; of these words, bessy, now lett be; i know king richard woud not me betray, for all the gold in christantye. i am his subject, sworn to be true: if i should seek treason to begin, i and all mine full sore should rue, for we were as like to lose as winne. beside that, it were a deadly sin to refuse my king, and him betray: the child is yet unborne that might moan in time, and think upon that woefull day. wherefore, good lady, i do you pray, keep all things close at your hart root; so now farr past it is of the day, to move me more it is no boot. then from her head she cast her attire, her colour changed as pale as lead, her faxe that shoan as the gold wire she tair it of besides her head, and in a swoon down can she swye, she spake not of a certain space! the lord had never so great pitty as when he saw her in that case, and in his arms he can her embrace; he was full sorry then for her sake. the tears fell from her eyes apace, but at the last these words she spake, she said, to christ my soul i betake, for my body in tem'ms drow'nd shall be! for i know my sorrow will never slake, and my bones upon the sands shall lye! the fishes shall feed upon me their fill; this is a dolefulle destinye! and you may remedy this and you will, therefore the bone of my death i give to thee! and ever she wept as she were woode, the earle on her had so great pitty, that her tender heart turned his mood. he said, stand up now, lady bessye, as you think best i will agree now i see the matter you do not faine, i have thought in this matter as much as yee: but it is hard to trust women, for many a man is brought into great woe, through telling to women his privity: i trust you will not serve me so for all the gold in christantie. no, father, he is my mortall foe, on him fain wrooken woud i bee! he hath put away my brethren two, and i know he would do so by me; but my trust is in the trinity, through your help we shall bale to him bring, and such a day on him to see that he and his full sore shall rue! o lady bessye, the lord can say, betwixt us both forecast we must how we shall letters to richmond convey, no man to write i dare well trust; for if he list to be unjust and us betray to king richard, then you and i are both lost; therefore of the scribe i am afraid. you shall not need none such to call, good father stanley, hearken to me what my father, king edward, that king royal, did for my sister, my lady wells, and me: he sent for a scrivener to lusty london, he was the best in that citty; he taught us both to write and read full soon, if it please you, full soon you shall see: lauded be god, i had such speed, that i can write as well as he, and also indite and full well read, and that (lord) soon shall you see, both english and alsoe french, and also spanish, if you had need. the earle said, you are a proper wench, almighty jesus be your speed, and give us grace to proceed out, that we may letters soon convey in secrett wise and out of doubt to richmond, that lyeth beyond the sea. we must depart, lady, the earle said then; wherefore keep this matter secretly, and this same night, betwixt nine and ten, in your chamber i think to be. look that you make all things ready, your maids shall not our councell hear, for i will bring no man with me but humphrey brereton, my true esquire. he took his leave of that lady fair, and to her chamber she went full tight, and for all things she did prepare, both pen and ink, and paper white. the lord unto his study went, forecasting with all his might to bring to pass all his intent; he took no rest till it was night. and when the stars shone fair and bright, he him disguised in strange mannere, he went unknown of any wyght, no more with him but his esquire. and when he came her chamber near, full privily there can he stand, to cause the lady to appeare he made a signe with his right hand; and when the lady there him wist, she was as glad as she might be. char-coals in chimneys there were cast, candles on sticks standing full high; she opened the wickett and let him in, and said, welcome, lord and knight soe free! a rich chair was set for him, and another for that fair lady. they ate the spice and drank the wine, he had all things at his intent; they rested them as for a time, and to their study then they went. then that lady so fair and free, with rudd as red as rose in may, she kneeled down upon her knee, and to the lord thus can she say: good father stanley, i you pray, now here is no more but you and i; let me know what you will say, for pen and paper i have ready. he saith, commend me to my son george strange, in latham castle there he doth lye, when i parted with him his heart did change, from latham to manchester he road me by. upon salford bridge i turned my horse againe, my son george by the hand i hent; i held so hard forsooth certaine, that his formast finger out of the joint went: i hurt him sore, he did complain, these words to him then i did say: son, on my blessing, turne home againe, this shall be a token another day. bid him come like a merchant of farnfield, of coopland, or of kendall, wheather that it be, and seven with him, and no more else, for to bear him company. bid him lay away watch and ward, and take no heed to mynstrel's glee; bid him sit at the lower end of the board, when he is amongst his meany, his back to the door, his face to the wall, that comers and goers shall not him see; bid him lodge in no common hall, but keep him unknowne right secretly. commend me to my brother sir william so dear, in the holt castle there dwelleth hee; since the last time that we together were, in the forest of delameere both fair and free, and seven harts upon one hearde, were brought to the buck sett to him and me; but a forester came to me with a whoore bearde, and said, good sir, awhile rest ye, i have found you a hart in darnall park, such a one i never saw with my eye. i did him crave, he said i shoud him have; he was brought to the broad heath truely; at him i let my grayhound then slipp, and followed after while i might dree. he left me lyeing in an ould moss pit, a loud laughter then laughed hee; he said, rise up, and draw out your cousin; the deer is dead, come you and see. bid him come as a marchant of carnarvon, or else of bew-morris whether it be; and in his company seven welshmen, and come to london and speak to me; i have a great mind to speak with him, i think it long since i him see. commend me to sir john savage, that knight, lady, he is my sister's sone, since upon a friday at night before my bedside he kneeled downe: he desired me as i was uncle dear, many a time full tenderly, that i would lowly king richard require if i might get him any fee. i came before my soveraigne lord, and kneeled down upon my knee, so soon to me he did accord, i thanked him full courteously, a gatt him an hundred pounds in kent to him and his heirs perpetually, also a manor of a duchy rent, two hundred pounds he may spend thereby, and high sheriff of worcestershire, and also the park of tewksbury. he hath it all at his desire, therewith dayley he may make merry. bid him come as a merchant man of west chester, that fair city, and seven yeomen to wait him on, bid him come to london and speak with me. commend me to good gilbert talbott, a gentle esquire forsooth is he; once on a fryday, full well i woot king richard called him traitour high: but gilbert to his fawchon prest, a bold esquire forsooth is he; their durst no sarjant him arreast, he is called so perlous of his body. in the tower street i meet him then going to westminster to take sanctuarie; i light beside my horse i was upon, the purse from my belt i gave him truely; i bad him ride down into the north-west, perchance a knight in england i might him see: wherefore pray him at my request to come to london to speak with me. then said the royall lord so just, now you have written, and sealed have i, there is no messenger that we may trust, to bring these writeings into the west countrey. because our matter it is so high, least any man wou'd us descry. humphrey brereton, then said bessye, hath been true to my father and me; he shall take the writeings in hand, and bring them into the west countrey: i trust him best of all this land on this message to go for me. go to thy bed, father, and sleep full soon, and i shall wake for you and me, by tomorrow at the riseing of the sune, humphrey brereton shall be with thee. she brings the lord to his bed so trimly dight all that night where he should lye, and bessy waked all that night, there came no sleep within her eye: in the morning when the day can spring, up riseth young bessye, and maketh hast in her dressing; to humphrey brereton gone is she: but when she came to humphrey's bower bright, with a small voice called she, humphrey answered that lady bright, saith, who calleth on me so early? i am king edward's daughter right, the countesse clear, young bessy, in all hast with mean and might thou must come speak with the earle of darby. humphrey cast upon him a gowne, and a pair of slippers upon his feet; alas! said humphrey, i may not ride, my horse is tired as you may see; since i came from london city, neither night nor day, i tell you plain, there came no sleep within my eye; on my business i thought certaine. lay thee down, humphrey, he said, and sleep, i will give space of hours three: a fresh horse i thee beehyte, shall bring thee through the west countrey. humphrey slept not hours two, but on his journey well thought hee; a fresh horse was brought him tooe, to bring him through the west countrey. then humphrey brereton with mickle might, hard at latham knocketh hee; who is it, said the porter, this time of the night, that so hastily calleth on mee? the porter then in that state, that time of the night riseth hee, and forthwith opened me the gate, and received both my horse and me. then said humphrey brereton, truely with the lord strange speak would i faine, from his father the earle of darby. then was i welcome that time certaine; a torch burned that same tide, and other lights that he might see; and brought him to the bedd side where as the lord strange lie. the lord mused in that tide, said, humphrey brereton, what mak'st thou here? how fareth my father, that noble lord, in all england that hath no peer? humphrey took him a letter in hand, and said, behold, my lord, and you may see. when the lord strange looked the letter upon, the tears trickled downe from his eye: he said, we must come under a cloud, we must never trusted bee; we may sigh and make a great moane, this world is not as it will bee. have here, humphrey, pounds three, better rewarded may thou bee; commend me to my father dear, his daily blessing he would give me; he said also in that tide, tell him all thus from me; if i be able to go or ride, this appointment keep will i. when humphrey received the gold, i say, straight to manchester rideth hee. the sun was light up of the day, he was aware of the warden and edward stanley; the one brother said to the other, as they together their matins did say: behold, he said, my own dear brother, yonder comes humphrey brereton, it is no nay, my father's servant at command, some hasty tydeings bringeth hee. he took them either a letter in hand, and bad them behold, read and see: they turn'd their backs shortly tho', and read those letters readily. up they leap and laughed too, and also they made game end glee,-- fair fare our father, that noble lord, to stirr and rise now beginneth hee; buckingham's blood shall be wroken, that was beheaded in salsbury; fare fall that countesse, the king's daughter, that fair lady, young bessye, we trust in jesus in time hereafter, to bring thy love over the sea. have here, humphrey, of either of us shillings ten, better rewarded may thou bee. he took the gold of the two gentlemen, to sir john savage then rideth hee; he took him then a letter in hand, and bad him behold, read and see: when sir john savage looked the letter upon, all blackned the knight's blee; woman's wisdom is wondrous to hear, loe, my uncle is turned by young bessye: whether it turn to waile or woe, at my uncle's bidding will i bee. to sheffield castle at that same tide, in all the hast that might bee, humphrey took his horse and forth could ride to gilbert talbot fair and free. he took him a letter in his hand, behold, said humphrey, read and see; when he the letter looked upon, a loud laughter laughed hee,-- fare fall that lord in his renowne there, to stirr and rise beginneth hee: fair fall bessie that countesse clear, that such councell cou'd give truely; commend me to my nephew nigh of blood, the young earle of shrewsbury, bid him neither dread for death nor good; in the tower of london if he bee, i shall make london gates to tremble and quake, but my nephew borrowed shall bee. commend me to the countess that fair make, king edward's daughter, young bessy: tell her i trust in jesu that hath no pear, to bring her love over the sea. commend me to that lord to me so dear, that lately was made the earle of darby; and every hair of my head for a man counted might bee, with that lord without any dread, with him will i live and dye. have here, humphrey, pounds three, better rewarded may thou bee: look to london gates thou ride quickly, in all the hast that may bee; commend me to that countesse young bessy, she was king edward's daughter dear, such a one she is, i say truely, in all this land she hath no peer. he took his leave at that time, strait to london rideth he, in all the hast that he could wind, his journey greatly he did apply. but when he came to london, as i weene, it was but a little before the evening, there was he warr, walking in a garden, both the earle, and richard the king. when the earle did humphrey see, when he came before the king, he gave him a privy twink then with his eye, then down falls humphrey on his knees kneeling; welcome, humphrey, says the lord, i have missed thee weeks three. i have been in the west, my lord, there born and bred was i, for to sport and play me certaine, among my friends far and nigh. tell me, humphrey, said the earle then, how fareth all that same countrey? of all the countreys i dare well say, they be the flower of chivalry; for they will bycker with their bowes, they will fight and never fly. tell me, humphrey, i thee pray, how fareth king richard his commenty? when king richard heard him say so, in his heart he was right merry; he with his cap that was so dear, he thanked that lord most courteously: and said, father stanley, thou art to me near, you are the chief of our poor commenty; half england shall be thine, it shall be equall between thee and me; i am thine and thou art mine, so two fellows will we bee. i swear by mary, that mild maiden, i know no more such under the skye; when i am king and wear the crown, then i will be chief of the poor commenty: task nor mize i will make none, in no countrey farr nor nigh; if their goods i shoud take and pluck them downe, for me they woud fight full faintly: there is no riches to me so rich, as is the love of our poor commenty. when they had ended all their speeches, they take their leave full heartiley; and to his bower king richard is gone. the earle and humphrey brereton to bessy's bower anon were gone; when bessy humphrey did see anon, she took him in her arms and kissed him times three. welcome, she said, humphrey brereton; how hast thou spedd in the west countrey i pray thee tell me quickly and anon. into a parlour they went from thence, there were no more but he and shee: humphrey, said bessy, tell me e're we go hence some tideings out of the west countrey; if i shall send for yonder prince to come over the sea, for the love of me, and if king richard shoud him convince, alas! it were great ruthe to see, or murthered among the stanley's blood to be, indeed that were great pitty; that sight on that prince i woud not see, for all the gold in christantie! tell me, humphrey, i thee pray, how hast thou spedd in the west countrey? what answer of them thou had now say, and what reward they gave to thee. by the third day of may it shall be seen, in london all that they will bee; thou shalt in england be a queen, or else doubtless that they will dye. thus they proceed forth the winter then, their councell they kept close all three, the earle he wrought by prophecy certaine, in london he would not abide or bee, but in the subburbs without the city an ould inn chosen hath hee. a drew an eagle foot on the door truely, that the western men might know where he did lye. humphrey stood on a high tower then, he looked into the west countrey; sir william stanley and seven in green, he was aware of the eagle drawne; he drew himselfe so wonderous nigh, and bad his men go into the towne, and drink the wine and make merry; into the same inn he went full prest, whereas the earle his brother lay. humphrey full soon into the west looks over a long lee; he was aware of the lord strange and seven in green, come rideing into the city. when he was aware of the eagle drawn, he drew himself so wonderously nigh, he bad his men go into the towne certain, and drink the wine and make merry; and he himselfe drew then, where as his father in the inne lay. humphrey looked in the west, i say, sixteen in green then did he see; he was aware of the warden and edward stanley, come rideing both in one company. when they were aware of the eagle drawne, the gentlemen they drew it nee; and bad their men go into the towne, and drink the wine and make merry. and did go themselves into the same inn full prest, where the earle their father lay. yet humphrey beholdeth into the west, and looketh towards the north countrey; he was aware of sir john savage and sir gilbert talbot, came rideing both in one company. when they were aware of the eagle drawn, themselves drew it full nigh, and bad their men go into the towne, to drink the wine and make merry. they did go themselves into the same inn, where as the earle and bessy lye. when all the lords together were, amongst them all bessy was full buissy; with goodly words bessy then said there, fair lords, what will you do for me? will you relieve yonder prince, that is exiled beyond the sea? i woud not have king richard him to convince, for all the gold in christentye. the earle of darby came forth then, these words he said to young bessye,-- ten thousand pounds will i send, bessy, for the love of thee, and twenty thousand eagle feet, the queen of england for to make thee; then bessy most lowly the earle did greet, and thankt his honor most heartiley. sir william stanley came forth then, these words he said to fair bessy: remember, bessy, another time, who doth the most, bessy, for thee; ten thousand coats, that shall be red certaine, in an hours warning ready shall bee; in england thou shall be our queen, or doubtlesse i will dye. sir john savage came forth then, these words he said to young bessye,-- a thousand marks for thy sake certaine, will i send thy love beyond the sea. sir gilbert talbott came forth then, these were the words he said to bessy: ten thousand marks for thy sake certaine, i will send to beyond the sea. the lord strange came forth then, these were the words he said to bessy: a little money and few men, will bring thy love over the sea; let us keep our gold at home, said he, for to wage our company; for if we should send it over the sea, we shoud put our gold in jeopartie. edward stanley came forth then, these were the words he said to bessye: remember, bessye, another time, who that now doth the best for thee, for there is no power that i have, nor no gold for to give thee; i will be under my father's banner, if god me save, there either to live or dye. bessye came forth before the lords all, and downe she falleth upon her knee; nineteen thousand pound of gold, i shall send my love behind the sea, a love letter, and a gold ring, from my heart root rite will i. who shall be the messenger the same to bring, both the gold and the writeing over the sea? humphrey brereton, said bessy, i know him trusty and true certaine, therefore the writeing and the gold truely by him shall be carried to little brittaine. alas, said humphry, i dare not take in hand, to carry the gold over the sea; these galley shipps they be so strange, they will me night so wonderously; they will me robb, they will me drowne, they will take the gold from me. hold thy peace, humphrey, said bessye then, thou shalt it carry without jepordye; thou shalt not have any caskett nor any male, nor budgett, nor cloak sack, shall go with thee; three mules that be stiff and strong withall, sore loaded with gold shall they bee, with saddle-side skirted i do tell thee wherein the gold sowe will i: if any man faine whose is the shipp truely that saileth forth upon the sea, say it is the lord lislay, in england and france well beloved is he. then came forth the earle of darby, these words he said to young bessy: he said, bessye, thou art to blame to appoint any shipp upon the sea; i have a good shipp of my owne, shall carry humphrey with the mules three; an eagle shall be drawne upon the mast top, that the italians may it see; there is no freak in all france the eagle that dare come nee if any one ask whose ship it is, then say it is the earles of darby. humphrey took the three mules then, into the west wind wou'd hee, without all doubt at liverpoole he took shipping upon the sea: with a swift wind and a liart, he so saild upon the sea, to beggrames abbey in little brittain, where as the english prince lie; the porter was a cheshire man, well he knew humphrey when he him see; humphrey knockt at the gate truely, where as the porter stood it by, and welcomed me full heartiley, and received then my mules three; i shall thee give in this breed to thy reward pounds three; i will none of thy gold, the porter said, nor humphrey none of the fee, i will open thee the gates certaine to receive thee and the mules three; for a cheshire man born am i certain, from the malpas but miles three. the porter opened the gates that time, and received him and the mules three. the wine that was in the hall that time he gave to humphrey brereton truely. alas! said humphrey, how shoud i doe, i am strayed in a strange countrey, the prince of england i do not know, before i never did him see. i shall thee tell, said the porter then, the prince of england know shall ye, low where he siteth at the butts certaine, with other lords two or three; he weareth a gown of velvet black and it is cutted above the knee, with a long visage and pale and black-- thereby know that prince may ye; a wart he hath, the porter said, a little alsoe above the chinn, his face is white, his wart is redd, no more than the head of a small pinn; you may know the prince certaine, as soon as you look upon him truely.-- he received the wine of the porter, then with him he took the mules three. when humphrey came before that prince he falleth downe upon his knee, he delivereth the letters which bessy sent, and so did he the mules three, a rich ring with a stone, thereof the prince glad was hee; he took the ring of humphrey then, and kissed the ring times three. humphrey kneeled still as any stone, as sure as i do tell to thee; humphrey of the prince answer gott none, therefore in heart was he heavy; humphrey stood up then full of skill, and then to the prince said he: why standest thou so still at thy will, and no answer dost give to me? i am come from the stanleys' blood so dear, king of england for to make thee, a fairer lady then thou shalt have to thy fair, there is not one in all christantye; she is a countesse, a king's daughter, humphrey said, the name of her it is bessye, she can write, and she can read, well can she work by prophecy; i may be called a lewd messenger, for answer of thee i can gett none, i may sail home with heavy cheare, what shall i say when i come home? the prince he took the lord lee, and the earle of oxford was him nee, the lord ferris wou'd not him beguile truely, to councell they are gone all three; when they had their councell taken, to humphrey then turned he: answer, humphrey, i can give none truely within the space of weeks three; the mules into a stable were taken anon, the saddle skirts unopened were, therein he found gold great plenty for to wage a company. he caused the abbot to make him chear: in my stead now let him be, if i be king and wear the crown well acquited abbott shalt thou be. early in the morning they made them knowne, as soon as the light they cou'd see; with him he taketh his lords three, and straight to paris he took his way. an herriott of arms they made ready, of men and money they cou'd him pray, and shipps to bring him over the sea, the stanleys' blood for me hath sent, the king of england for to make me, and i thank them for their intent, for if ever in england i wear the crowne, well accquited the king of france shall be: then answered the king of france anon, men nor money he getteth none of me, nor no shipps to bring him over the sea; in england if he wear the crowne, then will he claim them for his own truely: with this answer departed the prince anon, and so departed the same tide, and the english lords three to beggrames abbey soon coud the ride, there as humphrey brereton then lee; have humphrey a thousand mark here, better rewarded may thou be; commend me to bessy that countesse clear, before her never did i see: i trust in god she shall be my feer, for her i will travell over the sea; commend me to my father stanley, to me so dear, my owne mother married hath he, bring him here a love letter full right and another to young bessye, tell her, i trust in jesus full of might that my queen that she shall bee; commend me to sir william stanley, that noble knight in the west countrey, tell him that about michaelmas certaine in england i do hope to be; at millford haven i will come inn with all the power that make may i, the first town i will come inn shall be the towne of shrewsbury; pray sir william stanley, that noble knight, that night that he will look on me: commend me to sir gilbert talbot, that royall knight, he much in the north countrey, and sir john savage, that man of might,-- pray them all to look on me, for i trust in jesus christ so full of might, in england for to abide and bee. i will none of thy gold, sir prince, said humphrey then, nor none sure will i have of thy fee, therefore keep thy gold thee within, for to wage thy company; if every hair were a man, with thee, sir prince, will i be: thus humphrey brereton his leave hath tane, and sailed forth upon the sea, straight to london he rideth then, there as the earle and bessy lay; and bad them behold, read and see. the earle took leave of richard the king, and into the west wind wou'd he; he left bessye in leicester then and bad her lye in pryvitye, for if king richard knew thee here anon, in a fire burned thou must be. straight to latham the earle is gone, there as the lord strange then lee; he sent the lord strange to london, to keep king richard company. sir william stanley made anone ten thousand coats readily, which were as redd as any blood, thereon the hart's head was set full high, which after were tryed both trusty and good as any cou'd be in christantye. sir gilbert talbot ten thousand doggs in one hour's warning for to be, and sir john savage fifteen white hoods, which wou'd fight and never flee; edward stanley had three hundred men, there were no better in christantye; sir rees ap thomas, a knight of wales certain, eight thousand spears brought he. sir william stanley sat in the holt castle, and looked over his head so high; which way standeth the wind, can any tell? i pray you, my men, look and see. the wind it standeth south east, so said a knight that stood him by. this night yonder prince, truely into england entereth hee. he called a gentleman that stood him nigh, his name was rowland of warburton, he bad him go to shrewsbury that night, and bid yonder prince come inn: but when rowland came to shrewsbury, the portculles was let downe; they called him henry tydder, in scorn truely, and said, in england he shou'd wear no crowne; rowland bethought him of a wyle then, and tied a writeing to a stone, and threw the writeing over the wall certain, and bad the bailiffs to look it upon: they opened the gates on every side, and met the prince with procession; and wou'd not in shrewsbury there abide, but straight he drest him to stafford towne. king richard heard then of his comeing, he called his lords of great renowne; the lord pearcy he came to the king and upon his knees he falleth downe, i have thirty thousand fighting men for to keep the crown with thee. the duke of northfolk came to the king anone, and downe he falleth upon his knee; the earle of surrey, that was his heir, were both in one company; we have either twenty thousand men here, for to keep the crown with thee. the lord latimer, and the lord lovell, and the earle of kent he stood him by, the lord ross, and the lord scrope, i you tell, they were all in one company; the bishopp of durham, he was not away, sir william bonner he stood him by, the good sir william of harrington, as i say, said, he wou'd fight and never fly. king richard made a messenger, and sent him into the west countrey, and bid the earle of darby make him bowne, and bring twenty thousand men unto me, or else the lord strange his head i will him send, and doubtless his son shall dye; for hitherto his father i took for my friend, and now he hath deceived me. another herald appeared then to sir william stanley that doughty knight, bid him bring to me ten thousand men, or else to death he shall be dight. then answered that doughty knight, and spake to the herald without letting; say, upon bosseworth field i meen to fight, uppon monday early in the morning; such a breakfast i him behight, as never did knight to any king. the messenger home can him gett, to tell king richard this tydeing. fast together his hands then cou'd he ding, and said, the lord strange shou'd surely dye; and putt him into the tower of london, for at liberty he shou'd not bee. lett us leave richard and his lords full of pride, and talk we more of the stanleys' blood, that brought richmond over the sea with wind and tyde, from litle brittain into england over the flood. now is earle richmond into stafford come, and sir william stanley to litle stoone; the prince had rather then all the gold in christantye, to have sir william stanley to look upon; a messenger was made ready anone, that night to go to litle stoon; sir william stanley he rideth to stafford towne, with a solemn company ready bowne. when the knight to stafford was comin, that earle richmond might him see, he took him in his arms then, and there he kissed him times three; the welfare of thy body doth comfort me more then all the gold in christantye. then answered that royall knight there, and to the prince these words spake he,-- remember, man, both night and day, who doth now the most for thee; in england thou shalt wear a crown, i say, or else doubtless i will dye; a fairer lady then thou shalt have for thy feer, was there never in christanty; she is a countesse, a king's daughter, and there to both wise and witty; i must this night to stone, my soveraigne, for to comfort my company. the prince he took him by the hand, and said, farewell, sir william, fair and free. now is word come to sir william stanley there, early in the monday, in the morning, that the earle of darby, his brother dear, had given battle to richard the king. that wou'd i not, said sir william anone, for all the gold in christantye, that the battle shou'd be done; straight to lichfield cou'd he ride, in all the hast that might bee, and when he came to lichfield that tyde, all they cryed king henry: straight to bolesworth can they go in all the hast that might be, but when he came bolesworth field unto, there met a royall company; the earle of darby thither was come, and twenty thousand stood him by; sir john savage, his sister's son, he was his nephew of his blood so nigh, he had fifteen hundred fighting men, that wou'd fight and never flye; sir william stanley, that royall knight, then ten thousand red coats had he, they wou'd bicker with their bows there, they wou'd fight and never flye; the red rosse, and the blew boar, they were both a solemn company; sir rees ap thomas he was thereby, with ten thousand spears of mighty tree; the earle of richmond went to the earle of darby, and downe he falleth upon his knee, said, father stanley, full of might, the vaward i pray you give to me, for i am come to claime my right, and faine revenged wou'd i bee. stand up, he said, my son, quickly, thou hast thy mother's blessing truely, the vaward, son, i will give to thee, so that thou wilt be ordered by me: sir william stanley, my brother dear, in the battle he shall be; sir john savage, he hath no peer, he shall be a wing then to thee; sir rees ap thomas shall break the array, for he will fight and never flee; i myselfe will hove on the hill, i say, the fair battle i will see. king richard he hoveth upon the mountaine; he was aware of the banner of the bould stanley, and saith, fetch hither the lord strange certain, for he shall dye this same day; to the death, lord, thee ready make, for i tell thee certainly that thou shalt dye for thy uncle's sake, wild william of stanley. if i shall dye, said the lord strange then, as god forbid it shou'd so bee, alas! for my lady that is at home, it should be long or she see me, but we shall meet at doomsday, when the great doom shall be. he called for a gent in good fay, of lancashire, both fair and free, the name of him it was lathum; a ring of gould he took from his finger, and threw it to the gent then, and bad him bring it to lancashire, to his lady that was at home; at her table she may sit right, or she see her lord it may be long, i have no foot to fligh nor fight, i must be murdered with the king: if fortune my uncle sir william stanley loose the field, as god forbid it shou'd so bee, pray her to take my eldest son and child, and exile him over behind the sea; he may come in another time by feild or fleet, by tower or towne, wreak so he may his father's death in fyne, upon richard of england that weareth the crown. a knight to king richard then did appeare, the good sir william of harrington. let that lord have his life, my dear sir king, i pray you grant me this boone, we shall have upon this field anon, the father, the son, and the uncle all three; then shall you deem, lord, with your own mouth then, what shall be the death of them all three. then a block was cast upon the ground, thereon the lord's head was laid, a slave over his head can stand, and thus that time to him thus said: in faith there is no other booty tho', but need that thou must be dead. harrington in hart was full woe, when he saw that the lord must needs be dead. he said, our ray breaketh on ev'ry side, we put our feyld in jepordie. he took up the lord that tyde, king richard after did him never see. then they blew up their bewgles of brass, that made many a wife to cry alas! and many a wive's child fatherlesse; they shott of guns then very fast, over their heads they could them throw: arrows flew them between, as thick as any hayle or snowe, as then that time might plaine be seene; then rees ap thomas with the black raven, shortly he brake their array; then with thirty thousand fighting men the lord pearcy went his way; the duke of northefolke wou'd have fledd with a good will, with twenty thousand of his company, they went up to a wind millne uppon a hill, that stood soe fayre and wonderousse hye; there he met sir john savage, a royall knight, and with him a worthy company; to the death was he then dight, and his sonne prisoner taken was he; then the lord alroes began for to flee, and so did many other moe; when king richard that sight did see, in his heart hee was never soe woe: i pray you, my merry men, be not away, for upon this field will i like a man dye, for i had rather dye this day, then with the standley prisoner to be. a knight to king richard can say there, good sir william of harrington; he said, sir king, it hathe no peer, upon this feyld to death to be done, for there may no man these dints abide; low, your horse is ready at your hand: sett the crown upon my head that tyde, give me my battle axe in my hand; i make a vow to myld mary that is so bright, i will dye the king of merry england. besides his head they hewed the crown down right, that after he was not able to stand; they dinge him downe as they were woode, they beat his bassnet to his heade, until the braynes came out with the bloode; they never left him till he was dead. then carryed they him to leicester, and pulled his head under his feet. bessye mett him with a merry cheare, and with these words she did him greete; how like you the killing of my brethren dear? welcome, gentle uncle, home! great solace ytt was to see and hear, when the battell yt was all done; i tell you, masters, without lett, when the red rosse soe fair of hew, and young bessye together mett, it was great joy i say to you. a bishopp then marryed with a ringe the two bloods of great renowne. bessy said, now may we singe, wee two bloods are made all one. the earle of darby hee was there, and sir william stanley, that noble knight, upon their heads he set the crown so fair, that was made of gould so bright. and there he came under a cloud, that some time in england looked full high; but then the hart he lost his head, that after no man cou'd him see. but jesus, that is both bright and shine, and born was of mylde mary, save and keepe our noble kinge, and also the poore commentie. amen. the other version of this ballad, to which i have referred, is preserved in the harleian mss. it differs considerably from the one here printed, as will be at once apparent from the following opening passage:-- god that is moste of myghte, and born was of a mayden free, save and kepe our comlye queene, and also the poore comynalitie; for wheras kynge richard, i understande, had not reigned yeares three, but the beste duke in all this lande he caused to be headit at salysburye; that tyme the standleyes without dowte were dred over england ferre and nee, next kynge richard that was soe stowte of any lorde in england free. there was a ladye faire on moulde, the name of hir was litill bessie; she was yonge, she was not oulde, bot of the yeares of one and twentye; she colde wryte and she coulde reede, well she coulde wyrke by propesye; she sojorned in the cetye of london that tyme with the earle of derbye. upon a tyme, as i you tell, there was noe moe bot the earle and she, she made complaynte one richard the kynge, that was hir uncle of blode soe nee. there are many other ballads having reference to the stanleys, earls of derby; but this will be sufficient as a present example. _devonshire's noble duel_ _with lord danby in the year ._ of this curious ballad, which is also known by the name of "the long armed duke," there are several versions. the one here given is printed from a broad-sheet, and is, perhaps, the most complete of any of the versions which has come under my notice. the circumstance which gave rise to the ballad has not as yet been satisfactorily explained. it has been suggested that its origin was the quarrel in which the earl of devonshire, lord delamere, and colonel colepepper were engaged. it is traditionally said that the arms of the "long armed duke" were so long that he could garter his stockings below the knee without stooping down or being seated! good people give attention to a story you shall hear, between the king and my lord delamere a quarrel arose in the parliament house, concerning the taxes to be put in force. with my fal de ral de ra. i wonder, i wonder, that james our good king, so many hard taxes upon the poor should bring; so many hard taxes, as i have heard them say makes many a good farmer to break and run away. such a rout has been in the parliament, as i hear, betwixt a dutch lord and my lord delamere. he said to the king, as he sat on the throne, "if it please you, my liege, to grant me a boon." "oh, what is thy boon? come let me understand." "'tis to give me all the poor you have in the land; i'll take them down to cheshire, and there i will sow both hemp seed and flax seed, and hang them in a row. it's better, my liege, they should die a shorter death, than for your majesty to starve them on earth." with that up starts a dutch lord, as we hear, and he says, "thou proud jack," to my lord delamere, "thou ought to be stabbed," and he turned him about, "for affronting the king in the parliament house." then up got a brave duke, the duke of devonshire, who said, "i will fight for my lord delamere:-- he is under age, as i'll make it appear; so i'll stand in defence of my lord delamere." a stage then was built, and to battle they went, to kill or be killed it was their intent. the very first blow, as we understand, devonshire's rapier went back to his hand; then he muséd awhile, but not a word spoke when against the king's armour his rapier he broke. oh, then he stept backward, and backward stept he, and then stept forward my lord willoughby; he gave him a rapier, and thus he did say, "play low, devonshire, there's treachery, i see." he knelt on his knee, and he gave him the wound; with that the dutch lord fell dead on the ground. the king call'd his soldiers, and thus he did say, "call devonshire down, take the dead man away." he answered, "my liege, i've killed him like a man, and it is my intent to see what clothing he's got on. o treachery! o treachery! as i well may say, it was your intent, o king, to take my life away. he fought in _your_ armour, while i fought him bare, and thou, king, shalt win it before thou dost it wear; i neither do curse king, parliament, or throne, but i wish every honest man may enjoy his own. the rich men do flourish with silver and gold, while poor men are starving with hunger and cold; and if they hold on as they have begun, they'll make little england pay dear for a king." another version, which i have in ms., has, besides many minor variations, these additional verses:-- oh the duchess of devonshire was standing hard by, upon her dear husband she cast her lovely eye; "oh, fie upon treachery--there's been treachery, i say,-- it was your full intent to have ta'en my duke's life away." then away to the parliament these votes all went again, and there they acted like just and honest men. i neither curse my king, nor kingdom, crown or throne, but i wish every honest man to enjoy but what is his own. one of the versions of this ballad gives the name of lord delaware-- "in the parliament house a great rout has been there, betwixt our good king and the lord delaware." and it also gives the locality for sowing "hemp seed and flax seed" to "lincolnshire." this same version speaks of the duke of devonshire as-- "up sprung a welch lord, the brave duke of devonshire." there can be no doubt, however, that lord delamere is the peer intended to be commemorated, and that cheshire is the county to which he is made to refer, and to which indeed he belonged. _the unconsionable batchelors of darby:_ _or the young lasses pawn'd by their sweet-hearts, for a large reckning, at nottingham goose-fair, where poor susan was forced to pay the shot._ to the tune of _to thee, to thee, &c._ this curious ballad i reprint from a black-letter broad-sheet in the roxburghe collection in the british museum, where it is adorned with three curious wood-cuts. nottingham goose fair, it may be well to remark, is still the most popular fair in the midland counties, and is annually attended by many of the "lasses of darby," who "with young men" go "to goose-fair for recreation," by special trains and otherwise. the distance of nottingham from derby by turnpike road, along which the lasses and young men of the ballad must have travelled, is fifteen miles. goose-fair formerly lasted for twenty-one days. you lovers of mirth attend a while a merry new ditty here i write i know it will make you laugh and smile for every line affords delight: the lasses of darby with young men they went to goose-fair for recreation but how these sparks did serve them then is truly worth your observation: truly, truly, worth your observation, therefore i pray observe this ditty the maids did complain they came there in vain and was not, was not that a pity. so soon as they came into the fair the batchellers made them conjues low and bid them a thousand welcomes there this done, to a tipling-school they go: how pleasant was honest kate and sue? believing they should be richly treated, but neighbours and friends as i am true no lasses ever was so cheated: cheated, cheated, very farely cheated they were left alone to make their moan and was not, was not that a pity. the innocent lasses fair and gay concluded the men was kind and free because they pass'd the time away a plenty of cakes and ale they see; for sider and mead they then did call and whatever else the house afforded but susan was forc'd to pay for all out of the money she had hoarded hoarded, hoarded, money she had hoarded it made her sing a doleful ditty and so did the rest with grief opprest and was not, was not that a pity. young katy she seemed something coy because she would make them eager grow, as knowing thereby she might enjoy what beautiful damsels long to know. on compliments they did not stand nor did they admire their charming features for they had another game in hand which was to pawn those pretty creatures; creatures, creatures, loving loving creatures which was so charming fair and pretty the men sneak'd away and nothing did pay and was not, was not that a pity? though 'f out of the door they enterd first and left them tipling there behind those innocent maids did not mistrust that batchelors could be so unkind; quoth susan, i know their gone to buy the fairings which we do require and they will return, i know, for why they do our youthful charms admire, therefore, therefore stay a little longer and i will sing a pleasant ditty but when they found they were catch'd in the pound they sigh'd and weep'd the more's the pity. now finding the men returned no more and that the good people would not trust they presently call'd to know the score it chanc'd to be fifteen shillings just: poor kate had but five pence in her purse but sue had a crown besides a guinney; and since the case had happen'd thus poor soul she paid it e'ry penny; penny, penny, e'ry, e'ry penny tho' with a sad and doleful ditty said she for this i had not a kiss and was not, was not that a pity? printed for j. bessel, in west-smithfield. _the humours of hayfield fair._ this ballad, copied from a broad-sheet, has been printed in hutchinson's "tour through the high peak of derbyshire," . it will be seen to be a version--whether the original one or not remains to be seen--of the favourite ballad usually called "come lasses and lads," of which the earliest known copy appears to have been printed in , under the title of "the rural dance about the may-pole," and which has again been printed in "pills to purge melancholy," in "tixhall poetry," and also, with the music, in chappel's "popular music of the olden time," as well as in several other works. it ought to be stated that the ballad i here reprint--"the humours of hayfield fair,"--although i speak of it as a version of the "rural dance about the may-pole," is, with the exception of here and there a verse, or part of a verse, totally distinct from it. it will, of course, be seen to go to the same tune. hayfield is a village near chapel-en-le-frith, in the high peak of derbyshire,--in the midst of a district as wild in its superstitions as in its ballad poetry, and in its traditions as in its scenery. it has two fairs in the year, which were formerly much frequented by the "lads and lasses" of the district, whether they had "leave of their dads" or not. come, lasses and lads, take leave of your dads, and away to the fair let's hie; for every lad has gotten his lass, and a fiddler standing by; for jenny has gotten her jack, and nancy has gotten her joe, with dolly and tommy, good lack, how they jig it to and fro! ritum, raddledum, raddledum; ritum raddledum ri; ritum, raddledum, raddledum; ritum raddledum ri. my heart 'gain ribs ga' thumps, when i went to th' wake or fair, wi' a pair of new sol'd pumps, to dance when i got there; i'd ride grey nag i swore, and were mounted like a king, cousin dickey walked on a'fore, driving a pig tied wi' a string. ritum raddledum, &c. pally sampson too was there, wi' "neighbour how do you do?" there were all the world at the fair, and drunk 'till they were fou'; 'twas neither heigh! nor gee! for soon as i sold my cow, the fiddler shog'd his knee, and i danced my pumps clean through. ritum raddledum, &c. "you're out," says dick--"i'm not," says nick, "the fiddler plays it false;" and so says hugh, and so says sue, and so says nimble alice; the fiddler did agree, to right us in a crack, dance face to face, says he, and then dance back to back. ritum raddledum, &c. thus after an hour they tript to a bower to play for ale and cakes, and kisses too--until they were due, the maidens held the stakes; the women then began to quarrel with the men, and bad them _take their kisses back_, and gi' 'em their _own again_. ritum raddledum, &c. thus they sat, until it were late, and they tir'd the fiddler quite, wi' singing and playing, without any paying, from morning until it were night: they told the fiddler then they'd pay him for his play, and each gave two-pence, _(speaking)_ (ey, they gave him two pence a piece) and then they hopp'd away. ritum raddledum, &c. come dolly, says i, now homeward hie, and i'll go wi' thee a mile; she twinkled her eyes wi' a sigh as i handed her over the style; then i cuddled, and kissed her face, were i much to blame? had you been in my place, _(speaking)_ (i don't mean you in the smock frock dancing a hornpipe-- i mean that sly looking fellow smoking his pipe in the corner,) i vow you'd ha' done the same. ritum raddledum, &c. _on the_ _strange and wonderful sight_ _that was seen in the air on the th of march_, . this ballad occurs in "the garland of merriment: containing three new songs. st. a game at cards for a kingdom, or mar routed. d. a comical scotch dialogue between a highlander and his wife about the last battle. d. a copy of verses on the death of my lord derwentwater. th. on the wonderful sight that was seen in the air on the th of march last. nottingham: printed by william ayscough in bridlesmith gate." i am not aware that it has ever been reprinted, except by myself in "the reliquary" for april . the appearances were probably those of the aurora borealis. on the title-page of this curious chap-book, which was printed in - , is a wood-cut of four persons playing cards at a table. the sixth of march, kind neighbours this is true, a wonder in the sky came to my view; i pray believe it, for i tell no lye, there's many more did see it as well as i. i was on a travel, and was very late, to speak the truth just about day-light' gate; my heart did tremble being all alone, to see such wonders--the like was never known. the first of all so dark it was to me, that much ado my way i had to see; i turn'd me round to see some lights appear, and then i saw those wonders in the air. these lights to me like great long spears did show, sharp at one end, kind neighbours this is true; i was so troubled, i could not count them o'er, but i suppose there was above a score. then i saw like blood it did appear, and that was very throng among those spears; i thought the sky would have opened in my view, i was so daunted i knew not what to do. the next i saw two clouds meet fierce together as if they would have fought one another; and darkened all these spears excepting one, they gave a clash and quickly they were gone. the very last day in the same month i am told many people did strange sights behold; at _hartington_, the truth i will not spare, that night they saw great wonders in the air. this _hartington_ it is in _darbyshire_, and credible persons living there, they have declared what wonders they did view the very last night in _march_ its certain true. about eleven a'clock late in that night, a very dark cloud which did them sore afright; great smoke there came, it was perfect to their view, they cried out, o lord, what must we do? they saw great lights which did amaze them sore, the like was never seen in any _age_ before, they went into their houses for to pray, we must repent whilst it is call'd to day. _the drunken butcher of tideswell._ tideswell is one of the largest and most important villages in the high peak of derbyshire, and has been more than once, as will be seen in the present volume, celebrated in song and ballad. it is situated about seven miles from buxton, and the same from bakewell, in a highly romantic and wildly picturesque neighbourhood. its church is a fine building, containing many interesting monuments, among which are those to the foljambes, meverells, &c., and one to bishop pursglove. the following ballad is the production of william bennett, the author of "the king of the peak," "the cavalier," etc. of this ballad mr. bennett thus spoke in the "reliquary," in which it appeared:--"the ballad (the subject of which is as well known in the peak as that kinder scout is the highest hill, and tideswell church the most stately and beautiful church in it) will perhaps appear a little modernised to some, who have only heard the tale from the mouths of unsober topers, accustomed to use ancient provincial and obsolete words, which not only render the sense less distinguishable, but also mar the flow of the rhythm. i confess, therefore, to having taken some liberties with the grammar, the orthography, and the metre; but in all other respects i have strictly adhered to the original; and my honesty in this respect will be recognized and admitted by many persons to whom these minstrel relics are precious. "the legend is still so strong in the peak, that numbers of the inhabitants do not concur in the sensible interpretation put upon the _appearance_ by the butcher's wife, but pertinaciously believe that the drunken man was beset by an evil spirit, which either ran by his horse's side, or rolled on the ground before him, faster than his horse could gallop, from peak forest to the sacred inclosure of tideswell churchyard, where it disappeared; and many a bold fellow, on a moonlight night, looks anxiously around as he crosses tideswell moor, and gives his nag an additional touch of the spur, as he hears the bell of tideswell church swinging midnight to the winds, and remembers the tale of the 'drunken butcher of tideswell.'" oh, list to me, ye yeomen all, who live in dale or down! my song is of a butcher tall, who lived in tiddeswall town. in bluff king harry's merry days, he slew both sheep and kine; and drank his fill of nut brown ale, in lack of good red wine. beside the church this butcher lived, close to its gray old walls; and envied not, when trade was good, the baron in his halls. no carking cares disturbed his rest, when off to bed he slunk; and oft he snored for ten good hours, because he got so drunk. one only sorrow quelled his heart, as well it might quell mine-- the fear of sprites and grisly ghosts, which dance in the moonshine; or wander in the cold churchyard, among the dismal tombs; where hemlock blossoms in the day, by night the nightshade blooms. it chanced upon a summer's day, when heather-bells were blowing, bold robin crossed o'er tiddeswall moor, and heard the heath-cock crowing: well mounted on a forest nag, he freely rode and fast; nor drew a rein, till sparrow pit,[ ] and paislow moss[ ] were past. then slowly down the hill he came, to the chappelle en le firth,[ ] where, at the rose of lancaster, he found his friend the smith: the parson, and the pardoner too, there took their morning draught; and when they spied a brother near, they all came out and laughed. "now draw thy rein, thou jolly butcher; how far hast thou to ride?" "to waylee-bridge,[ ] to simon the tanner, to sell this good cow-hide." "thou shall not go one foot ayont, 'till thou light and sup with me; and when thou'st emptied my measure of liquor, i'll have a measure wi' thee." "oh no, oh no, thou drouthy smith! i cannot tarry to-day: the wife, she gave me a charge to keep; and i durst not say her nay." "what likes o' that," said the parson then, "if thou'st sworn, thou'st ne'er to rue: thou may'st keep thy pledge, and drink thy stoup, as an honest man e'en may do." "oh no, oh no, thou jolly parson! i cannot tarry, i say; i was drunk last night, and if i tarry, i'se be drunk again to-day." "what likes, what likes," cried the pardoner then, "why tellest thou that to me? thou may'st e'en get thee drunk this blessed night; and well shrived for both thou shalt be." then down got the butcher from his horse, i wot full fain was he; and he drank 'till the summer sun was set, in that jolly company: he drank 'till the summer sun went down, and the stars began to shine; and his greasy noddle was dazed and addle, with the nut brown ale and wine. then up arose those four mad fellows, and joining hand in hand, they danced around the hostel floor, and sung, tho' they scarce could stand, "we've aye been drunk on yester night, and drunk the night before; and sae we're drunk again to-night, if we never get drunk any more." bold robin the butcher was horsed and away; and a drunken wight was he; for sometimes his blood-red eyes saw double; and then he could scantly see. the forest trees seemed to featly dance, as he rode so swift along; and the forest trees, to his wildered sense, resang the jovial song. then up he sped over paislow moss, and down by the chamber knowle:[ ] and there he was scared into mortal fear by the hooting of a barn owl: and on he rode, by the forest wall, where the deer browsed silently; and up the slack, 'till, on tiddeswall moor, his horse stood fair and free. just then the moon, from behind the rack, burst out into open view; and on the sward and purple heath broad light and shadow threw; and there the butcher, whose heart beat quick, with fear of gramarye, fast by his side, as he did ride, a foul phantom did espy. uprose the fell of his head, uprose the hood which his head did shroud; and all his teeth did chatter and girn, and he cried both long and loud; and his horse's flank with his spur he struck, as he never had struck before; and away he galloped, with might and main, across the barren moor. but ever as fast as the butcher rode, the ghost did grimly glide: now down on the earth before his horse, then fast his rein beside: o'er stock and rock, and stone and pit, o'er hill and dale and down, 'till robin the butcher gained his door-stone, in tiddeswall's good old town. "oh, what thee ails, thou drunken butcher?" said his wife, as he sank down; "and what thee ails, thou drunken butcher?" cried one-half of the town. "i have seen a ghost, it hath raced my horse, for three good miles and more; and it vanished within the churchyard wall, as i sank down at the door." "beshrew thy heart, for a drunken beast!" cried his wife, as she held him there; "beshrew thy heart, for a drunken beast, and a coward, with heart of hare. no ghost hath raced thy horse to-night, nor evened his wit with thine: the ghost was thy shadow, thou drunken wretch! i would the ghost were mine." footnotes: [ ] sparrow pit is a small hamlet about two miles from chapel-en-le-frith, situated at the "four lane ends," where the buxton and castleton and the chapel-en-le-frith and tideswell roads intersect each other. [ ] paislow moss, about half way between sparrow pit and sandy way head. [ ] chapel-en-le-frith is a considerable and important market town, about six miles from buxton. [ ] whaley bridge, near chapel-en-le-frith. [ ] chamber knoll is about half a mile from peak-forest. _a new ballad of robin hood:_ _shewing his birth, breeding, valour and marriage, at titbury bull-running: calculated for the meridian of staffordshire but may serve for derbyshire or kent._ there are no series of ballads in our language so extensive or so popular as those relating to the noble outlaw, robin hood, and his "merry doings" in sherwood forest and its neighbourhood. some of these relate immediately to derbyshire; and many others might, from their allusions and the persons named in them, be claimed by that county. some of his exploits are related to have been performed in derbyshire; numerous places in that county are named after him; some of the relatives of his family resided within its confines; and last, though not least, his faithful friend and follower, _little john_, is said not only to have been one of the sons of its soil, but to have died and been buried in the place of his birth. that robin hood was a real and veritable personage seems to have been satisfactorily settled by the late rev. joseph hunter, who discovered among the state papers some records wherein, besides the name being correctly given as "robyn hood," showed that that personage was in the king's service, and that he left it to travel;--doubtless into his favourite haunts in yorkshire, nottinghamshire, and derbyshire. among the entries relating to robin hood, mr. hunter gleaned several which tallied curiously and conclusively with the circumstances of his early life as given in the "lytell geste of robyn hode," printed about the year , by wynken de worde.[ ] the ballad which i here give, showing "his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage at titbury bull-running," i give from a curious old broad-sheet in my own collection. it is printed broad-way on the paper, and has a rude wood-cut of robin hood with his buckler and quarter staff, and clorinda,--another name for maid marian,--with a tall hat, or like the welsh fashion, and a bow in her hand, the entrance to the church in the back-ground. it bears the imprint, "northampton: printed by r. raikes and w. dicey." a black-letter copy is in the roxburgh collection in the british museum, and it has also been reprinted by evans and by gutch. the ballad is "supposed to be related by the fiddler who played at their wedding." kind gentlemen will you be patient a while, ay, and then you shall hear anon, a very good ballad of bold _robin hood_, and of his man, brave little _john_. in _locksly_ town,[ ] in merry _nottinghamshire_, in merry sweet _locksly_ town; there bold _robin hood_, he was born and was bred, bold _robin_ of famous renown. the father of _robin_ a forester was, and he shot in a lusty long bow, two north country miles and a inch at a shot, as the _pinder of wakefield_[ ] does know. for he brought _adam bell_,[ ] and _clim of the glugh_,[ ] and _william a clowdel-le_;[ ] to shoot with our forester, for forty marks, and the forester beat them all three. his mother was niece to a _coventry_ knight, which _warwickshire_ men call sir _guy_;[ ] for he slew the blew bore that hangs up at the gate, or mine host of the bull tells a lie. her brother was _gamwell_[ ] of great _gamwell-hall_, and a noble house-keeper was he, ay, as ever broke bread in sweet _nottinghamshire_, and a squire of famous degree. the mother of _robin_ said to her husband, my honey, my love and my dear; let _robin_ and i, ride this morning to _gamwel_, to take of my brother's good cheer. and he said, i grant thee boon, gentle _joan_, take one of my horses i pray: the sun is a rising, and therefore make haste, for to morrow is christmas day. then _robin hood's_ father's grey gelding was brought and sadled and bridled was he, god-wot, a blew bonnet, his new suit of cloaths, and a cloak that did reach to his knee. she got on her holy-day girdle and gown, they were of a light _lincoln_ green, the cloath was home spun, but for colour and make it might a beseem'd our queen. and then _robin_ got on his basket-hilt sword, and a dagger on his tother side: and said, my dear mother, let's haste to be gone, we have forty long miles to ride. when _robin_ had mounted his gelding so grey, his father without any trouble, got her up behind him, and bid her not fear, for his gelding had oft carried double. and when she was settled, they rode to their neighbours, and drank and shook hands with them all: and then _robin_ galop'd and never gave o're, till they lighted at _gamwel-hall_. and now you may think the right worshipful squire, was joyful his sister to see; for he kist her and kist her, and swore a great oath, thou art welcome, kind sister, to me. the morrow when mass had been said in the chappel six tables were cover'd in the hall; and in comes the 'squire and makes a short speech, it was, neighbours you are welcome all. but not a man here, shall tast my _march_ beer, till christmas carrol be sung; then all clapt their hands, & they shouted & sung, till the hall and the parlour did ring. now mustard, braun, roast-beef and plumb-pies, were set upon every table: and noble _george gamwel_ said, eat and be merry, and drink so as long as you're able. when dinner was ended his chaplain said grace, and be merry my friends, said the 'squire, it rains and it blows, but call for more ale, and lay some more wood on the fire. and now call ye little _john_ hither to me, for little _john_ is a fine lad, at gambols and juggling, and twenty such tricks, as shall make you both merry and glad. when little _john_ came, to gambols they went, both gentlemen, yeomen and cloun; and what do you think? why as true as i live, bold _robin hood_ put them all down. and now you may think the right worshipful squire, was joyful this sight for to see, for he said cousin _robin_, thou'st go no more home, but tarry and dwell with me. thou shalt have my land when i die, and till then thou shalt be the staff of my age: then grant me my boon, dear uncle, said _robin_, that little _john_ may by my page. and he said kind cousin i grant thee thy boon, with all my heart to let it be, then come hither little _john_, said _robin hood_, come hither my page, unto me. go fetch me my bow, my longest long bow, and broad arrows one two or three; for when it is fair weather, we'll into _sherwood_, some merry pastime to see. when _robin hood_ came into merry _sherwood_, he winded his bugle so clear; and twice five and twenty good yeomen and bold, before _robin hood_ did appear. where are your companions all? (said _robin hood_) for still i want forty and three. then said a bold yeoman, lo yonder they stand, all under a green wood tree. as that word was spoke, _clorinda_[ ] came by, the queen of the shepherds was she: and her gown was of velvet, as green as the grass, and her buskin did reach to her knee. her gate it was graceful, her body was strait and her countenance free from pride: a bow in her hand, and quiver and arrows, hung dangling by her sweet side. her eye-brows were black, ay, and so was her hair, and her chin was as smooth as glass; her visage spoke wisdom and modesty too, sets with _robin hood_ such a lass. said _robin hood_, lady fair, whether away, oh whither fair lady away? and she made him answer, to kill a fat buck, for to-morrow is _titbury_[ ] day. said _robin hood_, lady fair wander with me, a little to yonder green bower, there sit down to rest you, and you shall be sure, of a brace or a lease in an hour. and as we were going towards the green bower, two hundred good bucks we espy'd: she chose out the fattest that was in the herd, and she shot him through side and side. by the faith of my body, said bold _robin hood_, i never saw woman like thee, and com'st thou from east, ay, or com'st thou from west thou needst not beg venison of me. however along to the bower you shall go, and taste of a forester's meat; and when we came thither, we found as good cheer, as any man needs for to eat. for there was hot venison, and warden pies cold, cream coloured with honey-combs plenty, and the sarvitors they were besides little _john_, good yeomen at least four and twenty. _clorinda_ said, tell me your name gentle sir? and he said, 'tis bold _robin hood_; 'squire _gamwel's_ my uncle, but all my delight, is to dwell in the merry _sherwood_: for 'tis a fine life, and 'tis void of all strife, so 'tis sir, _clorinda_ reply'd; but oh, said bold _robin_, how sweet would it be, if _clorinda_ would be my bride? she blush'd at the motion, yet after a pause, said, yes sir, and with all my heart, then let us send for a priest, said _robin hood_, and marry before we do part. but she said, it may not be so gentle sir, for i must be at _titbury_ feast: and if _robin hood_ will go thither with me, i'll make him the most welcome guest. said _robin hood_, reach me that buck, little _john_, for i'll go along with my dear; and bid my yeomen kill six brace of bucks, go meet me to-morrow just here. before we had ridden five _staffordshire_ miles, eight yoemen that were too bold, bid _robin hood_ stand, and deliver his buck, a truer tale never was told. i will not faith, said bold _robin_; come _john_, stand to me and we'll beat 'em all; then both drew their swords, and cut 'em and slash'd 'em, that five of them did fall. the three that remain'd call'd to _robin_ for quarter, and pitiful _john_ beg'd their lives; when _john's_ boon was granted, he gave them good counsel and so sent them home to their wives. this battle was fought near _titbury_ town, when the bagpipes bated the bull: i am king of the fields, and swear 'tis a truth, and i call him that doubts it a gull. for i saw him fighting and fidling the while, and _clorinda_ sung, hey derry down: the bumpkins are beaten put up thy sword _bob_, and let's dance into the town. before we came to it, we heard a strange shouting, and all that were in it look'd madly, for some were a bull-back, some dancing a morris, and some singing _arthur a bradly_.[ ] and there we see _thomas_ our justices clark, and _mary_ to whom he was kind: for _tom_ rod before her, and call'd _mary_ madam, and kist her full sweetly behind. and so may your worship's but we went to dinner, with _thomas_, and _mary_, and _nan_; they all drank a health to _clorinda_, and told her, bold _robin hood_ was a fine man. when dinner was ended, sir _roger_ the parson of _dubbridge_[ ] was sent for in haste: he brought his mass-book, & he bid them take hands, and he join'd them in marriage full fast. and then as bold _robin hood_, and his sweet bride, went hand in hand to the green bower, the birds sung with pleasure in merry _sherwood_, and 'twas a most joyful hour. and when _robin_ came in the sight of the bower, where are my yeomen? said he, and little _john_ answered, lo yonder they stand, all under the green wood tree. then a garland they brought her by two & by two and placed them at the bride's bed: the musick struck up, and we fell to dance, till the bride and the groom were in bed. and what they did there, must be counsel to me, because they lay long the next day: and i had haste home, but i got a good piece of the bride-cake and so came away. now out alas, i had forgot to tell ye, that marry'd they were with a ring: and so will _nan knight_, or be buried a maiden, and now let us pray for the king. that he may get children, and they may get more, to govern and do us some good, and then i'll make ballads in _robin hood's_ bower, and sing 'em in merry _sherwood_. footnotes: [ ] for an account of this discovery see "the reliquary," vol. i., page et seq, where, in a paper entitled "the ballad hero, robin hood," an excellent resumè of his life is given by mr. gutch. [ ] "locksley in nottinghamshire." it seems pretty certain that the real birthplace of robin hood, although often attributed to nottinghamshire, was at loxley chase, in yorkshire, not far from sheffield, and near the borders of derbyshire. [ ] the _pinder of wakefield_, in yorkshire, is often alluded to in robin hood ballads-- "in wakefield there lives a _jolly pinder_, in wakefield all on a green." the pinder was, of course, an impounder of stray cattle. [ ] _adam bell_ was a northern outlaw, so celebrated for archery and other matters as to become proverbial, and "to shoot as well as adam bell" became a common expression. he was also the subject of various ballads, and is thus alluded to by d'avenant in :-- "with loynes in canvass bow-case tyde, where arrowes stick with mickle pride; like ghosts of _adam bell_ and _clymme_, sol sets for fear theyl shoot at hym." [ ] _clim of the clough_ was another famous archer, and is also alluded to in the extract given above. "clough" signifies a ravine, or narrow glen, or close wooded dale. [ ] _william of cloudeslee_ was also a noted archer. [ ] guy, earl of warwick. [ ] gamwell of gamwell hall. the family of gamwell to which this lady belonged, was, i believe, of cheshire, not of nottinghamshire. [ ] clorinda is, i presume, the same personage as the one so often alluded to as "maid marion." [ ] "titbury day:" the day on which the "minstrels' court," with its "bull-running," and other wild amusements, was held. the minstrels court at tutbury, to which all minstrels living in the counties of stafford and derby did service, was presided over by a "king of the minstrels," who was selected yearly by the four stewards, two of whom were chosen from the minstrels of derbyshire, and the other two from those of staffordshire. the court was held before the stewards of the honour of tutbury, on the morrow after the assumption. a deed of "john of gaunt, king of castile and leon, duke of lancaster," dated in the fourth of richard ii., confers certain powers on the "king of the minstrels in our honour of tutbury," and speaks of service and homage which even then had been performed by the minstrels "from ancient times." by a later instrument it was ordered "that no person shall use or exercise the art and science of music within the said counties, as a common musician or minstrel, for benefit and gains, except he have served and been brought up in the same art and science by the space of seven years, and be allowed and admitted so to do at the said court by the jury thereof," under certain fines; that he shall not teach or instruct any one for a less time than seven years; and that he shall, under pain of forfeit, appear yearly at the "minstrels' court." on the day of holding the court,--"tutbury day," as it is called in the ballad,--all the minstrels within the honour came to the bailiff of the manor and proceeded in procession to the parish church, the "king" walking between the bailiff of the manor and the steward of the minstrel's court, and attended by his own four stewards, bearing white wands. from church they proceeded in the same order to the castle hall, where the "king" took his seat, with the bailiff and steward on either side. the court was then opened by proclamation ordering that every minstrel dwelling within the honour of tutbury, either in the counties of derby, stafford, nottingham, warwick, or lancaster, should draw near and give his attendance, and that all pleas would be heard, and fines and amercements made. the musicians having been called over by court roll, two juries were empanelled and charged. the jurors then proceeded to the selection of officers for the ensuing year. the jurors having left the court for the purpose, the king and stewards partook of a banquet, while the musicians played their best on their respective instruments. on the return of the jurors they presented the new king whom they had chosen from the four stewards, upon which the old king, rising, delivered to him his wand of office, and drank a cup of wine to his health and prosperity. in like manner the old stewards saluted, and resigned their offices to their successors. this ended, the court rose, and adjourned to a general banquet, in another part of the castle. the sports of the day then commenced by a wild and infuriated bull being turned loose for the minstrels to catch. the bull was thus prepared: his horns were sawed off close to the head; his tail cut off to the stump; his ears cropped; his body rubbed all over with grease; and his nostrils, to madden him still further, blown full of pepper. while these preparations were being made, the steward made proclamation that all manner of persons should give way to the bull, no person coming nearer to it than forty feet, except the minstrels, but that all should attend to their own safety, every one at his peril. the bull being then turned out, was to be caught by some one of the minstrels, and no one else, between that hour and sunset on the same day, within the county of stafford. if he escaped, he remained the property of the person who gave it (formerly the prior of tutbury); but if any of the minstrels could lay hold of him so as to cut off a portion of his hair and bring it to the market cross, he was caught and taken to the bailiff, by whom he was fastened with a rope, &c., and then brought to the bull-ring in the high street, where he was baited by dogs. after this, the minstrels could either sell him or divide him amongst themselves. this custom appears to have prevailed from to , when it was very properly discontinued. the day was one of feasting, revelry, and great excitement, for the whole district. [ ] "arthur a bradly." this curious ballad, i have reason to believe, is a purely derbyshire one, the locality being bradley near ashborne, within only a few miles of tutbury. of this ballad i shall probably have more to say in another part of the present volume. [ ] "dubberidge." this is doveridge, a village in derbyshire, about seven miles from tutbury. _robin hood and little john._ little john, the friend and sturdy companion of robin hood, was made almost as popular in ballads as his noble master. he is said to have been a man of immense size, and of almost unequalled prowess and strength. his name of _little_ john was, it appears, given to him ironically, because of his extraordinary stature. he is believed to have been born at hathersage, in the peak of derbyshire; a place not many miles distant from loxley chase, where robin hood first drew breath. the place of his birth is, however, claimed by other localities. the ballad i here give is interesting, as detailing his first meeting and encounter with robin hood, which ended in the defeat of the outlaw, and in their becoming sworn friends for life. it will be seen that in the ballad little john is said to have been seven feet in height. this, curiously enough, accords with the tradition current in hathersage, where his bones were exhumed some years ago, and where his grave is still shown. when robin hood was about twenty years old, he happened to meet little john, a jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade, for he was a lusty young man. tho' he was call'd little, his limbs they were large, and his stature was seven foot high: where ever he came, they quak'd at his name, for soon he would make them to fly. how they came acquainted i'll tell you in brief, if you would but listen awhile; for this very jest, among all the rest, i think, may cause you to smile. for robin hood said to his jolly bowmen, pray tarry you here in this grove, and see that you all observe well my call, while thorough the forest i rove. we have had no sport these fourteen long days, therefore now abroad will i go; now should i be beat, and cannot retreat, my horn i will presently blow. then did he shake hands with his merry men all, and bid them at present good-bye; then as near a brook his journey he took, a stranger he chanc'd to espy. they happen'd to meet on a long narrow bridge, and neither of them would give way; quoth bold robin hood, and sturdily stood, i'll shew you right nottingham play. with that from his quiver an arrow he drew, a broad arrow with a goose wing; the stranger replied, i'll liquor thy hide, if thou offer to touch the string. quoth bold robin hood, thou dost prate like an ass, for, were i to bend but my bow, i could send a dart quite through thy proud heart, before thou could'st strike me one blow. thou talk'st like a coward, the stranger replied, well arm'd with a long bow you stand, to shoot at my breast, while i, i protest, have nought but a staff in my hand. the name of a coward, quoth robin, i scorn, therefore my long bow i'll lay by; and now, for thy sake, a staff will i take, the truth of thy manhood to try. then robin hood stept to a thicket of trees, and chose him a staff of ground oak; now this being done, away he did run to the stranger, and merrily spoke: lo! see my staff is lusty and tough: now, here on the bridge we will play; whoever falls in, the other shall win the battle, and so we'll away. with all my whole heart, the stranger replied, i scorn in the least to give out. this said, they fell to't without more dispute, and their staffs they did flourish about. at first robin gave the stranger a bang, so hard that he made his bones ring: the stranger he said, this must be repaid, i'll give you as good as you bring. so long as i'm able to handle a staff, to die in your debt, friend, i scorn: then to it each goes, and follow'd their blows, as if they had been threshing of corn. the stranger gave robin a crack on the crown, which caused the blood to appear; then robin enrag'd more fiercely engag'd, and follow'd his blows more severe. so thick and so fast did he lay it on him, with a passionate fury and ire; at every stroke he made him to smoke, as if he had been all on fire. o then in a fury the stranger he grew, and gave him a damnable look; and with a blow, which laid him full low, and tumbled him into the brook. i prithee, good fellow, o where art thou now? the stranger, in laughter, he cried: quoth bold robin hood, good faith, in the flood, and floating along with the tide: i needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul, with thee i'll no longer contend; for needs must i say thou hast got the day, our battle shall be at an end. then unto the bank he did presently wade, and pull'd him out by a thorn; which done, at the last he blew a loud blast straightway on his fine bugle horn: the echo of which thro' the vallies did fly, at which his stout bowmen appear'd, all cloathed in green, most gay to be seen; so up to their master they steer'd. o what is the matter? quoth will. stutely, good master, you are wet to the skin: no matter, quoth he, the lad which you see, in fighting hath tumbled me in. he shall not go scot-free, the others replied; so straight they were seizing him there, to duck him likewise: but robin hood cries, he is a stout fellow, forbear. there's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid; these bowmen upon me do wait: there's threescore and nine; if thou will be mine, thou shalt have my livery straight, and other accoutrements fit for a man: speak up, jolly blade, never fear; i'll teach you also the use of the bow, to shoot at the fat fallow deer. o here is my hand, the stranger replied, i'll serve you with all my whole heart: my name is john little, a man of good mettle; ne'er doubt me, for i'll play my part. his name shall be alter'd, quoth will. stutely, and i will his godfather be; prepare then a feast, and none of the least, for we will be merry, quoth he. they presently fetch'd him a brace of fat does, with humming strong liquor likewise: they lov'd what was good; so in the green wood this pretty sweet babe they baptiz'd. he was, i must tell you, but seven feet high, and may be an ell in the waist; a sweet pretty lad; much feasting they had, bold robin the christening grac'd, with all his bowmen, which stood in a ring, and were of the nottingham breed. brave stutely came then with seven yeomen, and did in this manner proceed: this infant was called john little, quoth he, which name shall be changed anon: the words we'll transpose; so wherever he goes, his name shall be call'd little john. they all with a shout made the elements ring, so soon as the office was o'er; to feasting they went, with true merriment, and tippled strong liquor gillore. then robin he took the pretty sweet babe, and cloath'd him from top to the toe in garments of green most gay to be seen, and gave him a curious long bow. thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, and range in the green wood with us, where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold, while bishops have ought in their purse. we live here like squires or lords of renown, without e'er a foot of free land; we feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer, and every thing at our command. then music and dancing did finish the day: at length, when the sun waxed low, then all the whole train their grove did refrain, and unto their caves they did go. and so ever after, as long as they liv'd, although he was proper and tall, yet nevertheless, the truth to express, still little john they did him call. _little john's end._ the current tradition in derbyshire concerning little john is that he was born at hathersage, in that county; that he was a man of immense stature, and of wonderful strength and prowess; that he was withal of mild and gentle temperament, of affectionate disposition, and faithful in his attachments; that after the death of robin hood at kirklees, which he took deeply to heart, he was so dispirited that he sank under the loss, and having by great exertion succeeded in reaching the place of his birth, (hathersage,) he was welcomed by his friends and old associates, who begged him to tarry with them for the rest of his life; that he had just strength enough left to point out the place in the churchyard where he wished to be buried, and to give them instructions for his burial; that he told them in three days he should die, and desired that his bow and cap should be hung up in the church; that on the third day he died, in a small cottage still standing, where, it is said, his length was so great when dead and "laid out," that his feet came outside the door; that he was buried where he had directed, his cap and bow being hung in the chancel of the church; that the people drave his last arrow into the ground near his grave, and that it took root and grew up into a tree. it is asserted that until within the last sixty or seventy years, his cap--a green cloth one--still hung high in the chancel, but was then taken away by some people from yorkshire, who also despoiled his grave, and took away the thigh bones, which were found to be of immense length. the grave, which is marked by two small upright stones, one at the head and the other at the foot, measures about ten feet in length. in it was opened, and bones of an enormous size found in it. some years ago it was again opened, and a thigh bone measuring thirty-two inches taken away from it. in reference to this tradition it will no doubt be interesting to give the accompanying fac-simile of the writing of elias ashmole, copied from his mss. at oxford, (who was born in ,) and who there says-- "little john lyes buried in hatherseech church yard within miles fro castleton in high peake with one stone set up at his head and another at his feete, but a large distance betweene them. they say a part of his bow hangs up in the said church neere grindleford bridge are robin hoods pricks." [illustration: the above sentence in handwriting] the following ballad, founded on a part of this tradition, was written by mr. william haines, and appeared in "the reliquary," vol. ii., page . several other ballads relating to little john might well be given in this volume, but the two i have selected--his first acquaintance with robin hood, and his death and burial--will be sufficient to show their character. the others must be deferred for a future work. when robin hood, by guile betrayed, in kirklees' cloister died, silent his merry men dispersed, and never more allied. some passed unknown, or pardon got, and peaceful callings sought, beyond the seas while others fled, and 'gainst the paynim fought. and little john, as lonely through their vacant haunts he strode, repented sadness in his soul had e'er of old abode. as there beneath an oak his limbs repose long failing found, a shape thrice warned him in a dream, to shun st. michael's ground. affrighted, from the sward he starts-- deep shone the guardian night! the moon the woods bowed motionless with plenitude of light. st. michael's road, presaging nought, leal john yestreen had ta'en; but now another way he chose, lest there he should be slain. northward, compelling soon his steps, across the tweed he hied; thence sea and land to traverse far, a long and cheerless tide. for aye his heart in greenwood was, wherever he might be; till pleasing rose resolve once more the forests fair to see. yet bootless he retraced deject each loved resort at last; the birds were mute, the leafless wold held drearily the blast. and as again john wandered wide, a fog so dense did fall, he could not see nor hill nor tree; it clos'd him like a wall. that dismal night he roamed lost, exhausted, sick, and cold: the morn was long ere it was light, and long the vapour rolled. on every side came mighty stones about a barren moor; no roof nor pale might be descried, as spread that waste forlore. at length 'mid wreathing fog-smoke swam the sun's blanch'd disc on high; mantled the ashy mists around; grew wide the rover's eye. when, singing blithe as he approached, a shepherd boy met john: "pray tell to me," the outlaw cried, "what ground i here am on?" "st. michael's, gallant yeomen, this," the boy made prompt reply; "from yonder, hathersage church-spire, may'st plainly now espy." "there hast thou knelled," said little john, "the solemn bell for me; but christ thee save, my bonny lad; aye lucky shalt thou be!" he had not many steps advanced, when in the vale appeared the church, and eke the village sweet, his foot had vainly feared. descending, welcome straight he finds the ruddy hearth before: cried young and old, "among us dwell, and weary roam no more!" said little john, "no, never hence shall i fare forth again; but that abode is yet to found, wherein i must remain." he led them to the churchyard frore, and digg'd therein a grave: "three days," said he, "and neighbours, this the little inn i crave. without a coffin or a shroud inter me, i you pray, and o'er my corse, as now yclad, the greensward lightly lay." the morn ensued, as john foretold, he never rose to greet; his bread upon the board was brought, beside it stayed his seat. they laid him in the grave which he with his own hands had made, and overspread the fragrant sod, as he had wished and said. his bow was in the chancel hung; his last good bolt they drave down to the nocke, its measured length, westward fro' the grave. and root and bud this shaft put forth, when spring returned anon; it grew a tree, and threw a shade where slept staunch little john. _the lay of the buckstone._ the following excellent ballad has been collected from the _disjecta membra_ of the forest minstrelsy of the high peak, and arranged in its present form, by my friend mr. william bennett, of chapel-en-le-frith. mr. bennett considers, and with good reason, that it has originally formed two distinct ballads, one relating to a contention and fight between robin hood and the keepers of peak forest, and the other to a match with the long-bow between him and the foresters. this ballad has been printed in "the reliquary," vol. i., page . 'tis merry in the high peak forest, out upon the lea; 'tis merry in the shady frith, where birds are whistling free: the heather blooms on lady low; o'er combs[ ] the wind blows dree; and the dappled deer are feeding there, under the greenwood tree. "now why amort, bold robin hood! and a buck so near at hand: 'tis easier far to cleave his crown than a peeled willow wand. a nobler herd ne'er saw i run, three hundred head and mo: the king won't miss a hart o' grease, if thou use thy good yew bow." "my bow's unstrung, brian the bearward! so much the worse for thee: thou elder likest the twang of the string, than the deftest minstrelsy: thou prizest the swish of an arrow keen, when the mark is a buck of head; and liefer than tripping o'er the sward, thou wouldst see the quarry dead." "ay, dead and buried," quoth the bearward, "in the grave of a venison pie: and so wouldst thou, or men thee wrong; for all thou talk'st so high: but if thou durst not fly a shaft, as well as i would fly mine, tend thou my bear, and lend thy bow; i'll swop my trade for thine." the bearward strung the bow and shot four hundred feet him fro: and hit a good fat buck, which fell, nor lack'd a second blow. "well shot, shot well," bold robin cried, "thou'rt of the greenwood free; at stable stand, or wanlass drift, thou need'st no lere from me." then they were ware of six wight yeomen, that lusty were, and tall, come marching up from fairfield[ ] side, beneath the archer's wall; all clad in lincoln green were they; and on their right arms wore a silver shield, which, in its field, a lion passant bore. "good morrow, good fellows!" the foremost said, "you are got to work eftsoon, i pray do you hold of the crown in chief, or follow the lady moon? of stout king richard the lion's heart ye should be liegemen good, to break his laws, and kill his deer, within his own greenwood." "thou liest now, thou proud spoken keeper! forever i say thou dost lie: neither forest walk, nor deer are the king's, as i will well abye. to john of mortaigne, the deer belong; to john of mortaigne and _me_; and my share i'll take, when it me lists, despite of him or thee." "why who art thou, thou bold tongued traitor! that durst thus mate with me; and claim one half of the prince's deer, despite of his sovereignty? i trou thou'rt one of the bearward's men, by keeping his company; and i'll make thee dance like a bear from france, if thy tongue not the kinder be." then on he rushed, with his staff uprais'd, and dealt bold robin a blow; but he was ware, and stopped him there, with his long and tough yew bow. and robin put his horn to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill; and soon appeared five wight yeomen come running down the hill. the first was a man hight little john, a yeoman good and tall; the next will scarlet of gentle blood, bred up in bower and hall; the third, the minstrel, alan a dale, so well with the harp sang he; the fourth was stalwart clym o' the clough, and william of cloudeslie. "now, hold your hands," bold robin cried, "stand by and see fair play; and the keeper and i will try this bout, and see who'll win the day. the bearward shall lay the dainty buck on this mossy boulder stone; and he that fairly knocks down his foe, the fat buck shall have won." "a match, a match," cried the yeomen all, "whoever shall say it nay, 'tis better ye two should fight it out, than all should join in the fray: so handle your staves, and to it like men, as it may no better be; and he that first brings his man to ground, shall gain the victory." then ralph the ranger squared his staff, and gloured on robin the while; the outlaw's staff lay loose in his hands, and he scarce forbore to smile. they stood together like brothers twain, good men at their hands and tall; but each seemed loth to begin the strife, lest he first should have the fall. and round and round each pressed his man, before he could get a blow; so well on guard, each kept his ward, as they traversed to and fro. with feint and dodge each tried to draw, his wary foeman forth; but both were cool, and cautious too; like the good men of the north. bold robin first his staff let fly, (the challenger was he,) and for the honor of his craft, he must not dastard be. woe worth the while he dealt the blow, his staff had scarcely flown; when ralph's came dead athwart his head, and well nigh cracked his crown. he backward gave a step or two, but not one whit dismayed; though now the keeper's quarter staff about his shoulders played: his eye was keen, his hand was true, as well the keeper found; for his staff did knap the keeper's cap, and bring him to the ground. "the buck is mine," the outlaw said, "unless thou lik'st to try which of us twain upon the ground, can best make arrow fly. for kingly blood ye tend the frith; ye ought to shoot right well: for mine own hand will i draw a bow, and see who bears the bell." "a match, a match!" cried the yeomen all, "whoever shall say it nay; good men ye are if ye shoot a shaft, as ye've handled the staff this day. so fix your mark, and choose your ground, and it may no better be; and he that first cleaves the willow wand, shall gain the victory." "no willow wand will we have," quoth robin, "but the buck's dead glassy eye; and we'll shoot the length of the archer's wall,[ ] seven hundred feet or nigh. so bearward lay the deer adown on yon mossy boulder stone; and he who lodges a shaft in his eye, the fat buck shall have won." the buck was laid on the boulder stone, with his head towards the east; and the yeomen tall, with their bows in hand, to win the guerdon press'd; the keeper first with wary eye, took long and careful aim; and hit the buck right yeomanly in the middle of his wame. "well shot, well shot," bold robin cried, (but the outlaw laughed the while,) "right woodmanly that shaft is placed; but a miss is as good as a mile." with careless aim he drew his bow, and let his arrow fly; and lodged the shaft, both hard and fast, in the dead buck's glassy eye. so robin he won the dainty buck, by the side of the archer's wall; and left the tale to be sung or said in tower, and bower, and hall. the old gray wall still stands on the hill, though the archer's marks are gone; and the boulder rock is still kept in mind, by the name of old buckstone. footnotes: [ ] combs moss, one of the highest hills in the neighbourhood, between chapel-en-le-frith and buxton. [ ] a large village closely adjoining buxton. [ ] in a copy of an ancient map made at the time of the enclosure of the wastes and commons in the parish of chapel-en-le-frith, (part of the ancient forest of the high peak,) in the year , an old wall is traced, which is still a boundary fence of the wild moor called combs moss. this wall is named on the map "the archer's wall," and the length of it is traditionally called "robin hood's marks." _sir richard whittington's advancement:_ _being an historical account of his education, unexpected fortune, charity, &c._ the rhyme and the story of "whittington and his cat" are perhaps as well known as any ballads in the language. sir richard whittington, or "dick whittington," as he is commonly called, was of the same family as the de whittingtons, lords of whittington, near chesterfield, derbyshire. he was, it is stated, youngest son of a sir william whittington. in , when he must have been about forty years of age, he became a member of the mercers' company, and was, it is said, besides being a mercer, a merchant adventurer. he was also about this year an alderman, and also sheriff, of london. in he was appointed lord mayor of london, by writ from richard ii., to serve in place of the deceased lord mayor. in , in , and again in , he was elected to and served the office of lord mayor. whittington married alice, daughter of sir hugh fitzwarren and maude his wife. he died in . besides being "_thrice lord mayor of london_," his body was, it seems, _thrice_ buried in the church he had himself erected,--st. michael paternoster: first, by his executors, who erected a monument over his remains; secondly, in the reign of edward vi., when the minister, thinking that probably some great riches had been buried with him, had his body taken up and despoiled of its leaden covering; and, thirdly, in the reign of mary, when the parishioners were compelled to again take him up, re-enclose him in lead, and re-erect the monument over his remains. at the great fire of london, in , both church and monument were destroyed. his memory has been well preserved in the popular mind by ballad and story and tradition; and his noble charities and his munificent acts, of which so many evidences remain in london, form a prouder and more enduring monument than the one which the fire destroyed. the following version of the ballad is perhaps the one most generally known:-- here must i tell the praise of worthy whittington, known to be in his days thrice lord-mayor of london. but of poor parentage born was he, as we hear, and in his tender age bred up in lancashire. poorly to london then, came up this simple lad; where, with a merchant-man, soon he a dwelling had; and in a kitchen plac'd, a scullion for to be; where a long time he pass'd in labour drudgingly. his daily service was turning at the fire; and to scour pots of brass, for a poor scullion's hire: meat and drink all his pay, of coin he had no store; therefore to run away, in secret thought he bore. so from the merchant-man whittington secretly towards his country ran, to purchase liberty. but as he went along, in a fair summer's morn, london's bells sweetly rung "whittington back return:" evermore sounding so, "turn, again, whittington; for thou, in time, shalt grow lord-mayor of london." whereupon, back again whittington came with speed, a servant to remain, as the lord had decreed. still blessed be the bells, this was his daily song; "this my good fortune tells, most sweetly have they rung. if god so favour me, i will not prove unkind; london my love shall see, and my large bounties find." but, see his happy chance! this scullion had a cat, which did his state advance, and by it wealth he gat. his master ventur'd forth, to a land far unknown, with merchandize of worth, as is in stories shown: whittington had no more but this poor cat as then, which to the ship he bore, like a brave valiant man. "vent'ring the same," quoth he, "i may get store of gold, and mayor of london be, as the bells have me told." whittington's merchandise, carried to a land troubled with rats and mice, as they did understand; the king of the country there, as he at dinner sat, daily remain'd in fear of many a mouse and rat. meat that on trenchers lay, no way they could keep safe; but by rats bore away, fearing no wand or staff; whereupon, soon they brought whittington's nimble cat; which by the king was bought, heaps of gold given for that. home again came these men, with their ship laden so; whittington's wealth began by this cat thus to grow: scullion's life he forsook, to be a merchant good, and soon began to look how well his credit stood. after that, he was chose sheriff of the city here, and then full quickly rose higher, as did appear: for, to the city's praise, sir richard whittington came to be in his days, thrice mayor of london. more his fame to advance, thousands he lent the king, to maintain war in france, glory from thence to bring. and after, at a feast which he the king did make, he burnt the bonds all in jest, and would no money take. ten thousand pounds he gave to his prince willingly; and would no penny have for this kind courtesy. as god thus made him great, so he would daily see poor people fed with meat, to shew his charity: prisoners poor cherish'd were, widows sweet comfort found: good deeds, both far and near, of him do still resound. whittington's college is one of his charities; record reporteth this to lasting memories. newgate he builded fair, for prisoners to lie in; christ-church he did repair, christian love for to win. many more such like deeds were done by whittington; which joy and comfort breeds, to such as look thereon. _the derbyshire miller._ i have not as yet been able to recover the whole of the words of this ballad. the following fragment was written by mr. chappell, from the singing of mr. charles sloman, and is all i have respecting it:-- [music: the miller he caught the maid by the toe; what d'ye call this, my dearest? the miller he caught the maid by the toe; what d'ye call this, my dearest? oh! this is my toe, near to my shoe sole. thy toe on my territory. i'm the maid of the mill, and the corn grinds well.] _tideswell in an uproar,_ _or the prince in the town, and the devil in the church._ one sunday in the prince of wales, afterwards george iv., passed through tideswell, in the high peak, and stopped to change horses at the principal inn of the place. the circumstance caused, as was only natural, considerable excitement in the place, which culminated in not only the whole of the congregation of the parish church, but also the clergyman himself, and his clerk, forsaking the service to see him pass. this circumstance gave rise to much merriment, and more than one ballad was the result. the following is the best:-- declare, o muse, what demon 'twas crept into tideswell church, and tempted pious folk to leave their parson in the lurch. what caused this strange disaster, say, what did the scene provoke? at which the men unborn will laugh, at which the living joke! the prince of wales, great george's heir, to roam once took a freak; and as the fates did so decree, he journey'd through the peak. but, ah! my prince, thy journey turn'd the sabbath into fun day; and tideswell lads will ne'er forget, thy trav'ling on a sunday. the ringers somehow gain'd a hint, their loyalty be praised! that george would come that way, so got the bells already rais'd. the prince arrived, then loudest shouts thro' tideswell streets soon rang; the loyal clappers strait fell down, with many a merry bang. to pulpit high, just then the priest, his sacred gown had thrust; and, strange coincidence! his text "in princes put no trust." with man of god they all agreed, till bells went clitter clatter; when expectation did them feed, but not with heavenly matter. the congregation, demon rous'd, arose with one accord; and, shameful, put their trust in prince, and left the living lord. they helter skelter sought the door, the church did them disgorge; with fiercest fury, then they flew, like dragons to the "george." as through churchyard with tumult dire and wild uproar they fled; confusion was so great, some thought they would have rais'd the dead. the parson cried, with loudest lungs, "for love of god, pray stay!" but love of prince more prevalent, soon hied them fast away. the demon hov'ring o'er their heads, exulted as they pass'd; "friend belzebub," the parson cried, "thou'st got a prize at last." the clerk then to his master said, "we're left behind complete; what harm if we start off for prince, and run the second heat?" the parson with good capon lin'd, then ran with middling haste; spare clerk, was at his rear, who knew, "amen," should come the last. amidst the mob, they soon descried the prince, great britain's heir; then with the mob they both did join, and play'd at gape and stare. their wish the sovereign people show, impress'd with one accord; it was to turn themselves to beasts, and draw their future lord. the prince put forth what's filled with sense, it was his royal sconce: insisted they should act like men, and break their rules for once. steeds more appropriate being brought, huzzas formed parting speech; the prince drove on and people went to swig with mrs. leech. thy flock's frail error, reverend sir, did serve a loyal dish up; for which, if prince has any grace, he'll surely make thee bishop. another short piece on this same subject may be added: ye tideswellites, can this be true, which fame's loud trumpet brings; that ye the cambrian prince to view, forsook the king of kings? that ye, when swiftly rattling wheels proclaimed his highness near; trode almost on each other's heels, to leave the house of prayer? another time adopt this plan, lest ye be left i' th' lurch; place at the end o' th' town a man to ask him into th' church! _the derby ram._ the origin of this popular old ballad has yet to be ascertained. at present it has puzzled more heads than one, and its elucidation must be left to future research. its principal characteristic is its bold extravagance. derby and derby people have, however, i know by references to allusions to it, been fond of their ram for more than a century. how much older it is than that time is difficult to say. there are several versions of the ballad: the one i here give is, however, the most complete i have met with. the "derby ram" has been set as a glee by dr. callcott, and is still sung with much applause at public dinners in the town. so popular, indeed, is the ram in the district, that a few years ago--in --the first regiment of derbyshire militia, whose barracks and head quarters are at derby, carrying out the idea of the welsh fusileers with their goat, attached a fine ram to the staff of the regiment. so well trained was he, and so evidently proud of his post, that he marched with a stately step in front of the band as they marched day by day through the town while up for training, and attracted quite as much notice as any drum-major ever did. more than this, a political periodical, a kind of provincial _charivarri_, has been issued under the title of the "derby ram," which is supposed to butt at party doings, and at local abuses of various kinds; and i write this note with a steel pen which bears the extraordinary name stamped upon it of the "derby ram pen!" as i was going to darby, sir, all on a market day, i met the finest ram, sir, that ever was fed on hay. daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day, fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day. this ram was fat behind, sir, this ram was fat before, this ram was ten yards high, sir, indeed he was no more. daddle-i-day, &c. the wool upon his back, sir, reached up unto the sky, the eagles made their nests there, sir, for i heard the young ones cry. daddle-i-day, &c. the wool upon his belly, sir, it dragged upon the ground, it was sold in darby town, sir, for forty thousand pound.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the space between his horns, sir, was as far as a man could reach, and there they built a pulpit for the parson there to preach. daddle-i-day, &c. the teeth that were in his mouth, sir, were like a regiment of men; and the tongue that hung between them, sir, would have dined them twice and again. daddle-i-day, &c. this ram jumped o'er a wall, sir, his tail caught on a briar, it reached from darby town, sir, all into leicestershire. daddle-i-day, &c. and of this tail so long, sir, 'twas ten miles and an ell, they made a goodly rope, sir, to toll the market bell. daddle-i-day, &c. this ram had four legs to walk on, sir, this ram had four legs to stand, and every leg he had, sir, stood on an acre of land.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the butcher that killed this ram, sir, was drownded in the blood, and the boy that held the pail, sir, was carried away in the flood.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. all the maids in darby, sir, came begging for his horns, to take them to coopers, to make them milking gawns.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the little boys of darby, sir, they came to beg his eyes, to kick about the streets, sir, for they were football[ ] size. daddle-i-day, &c. the tanner that tanned its hide, sir, would never be poor any more, for when he had tanned and retched[ ] it, it covered all sinfin moor.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. the jaws that were in his head, sir, they were so fine and thin, they were sold to a methodist parson, for a pulpit to preach in.[ ] daddle-i-day, &c. indeed, sir, this is true, sir, i never was taught to lie, and had you been to darby, sir, you'd have seen it as well as i.[ ] daddle-i-day, daddle-i-day, fal-de-ral, fal-de-ral, daddle-i-day. footnotes: [ ] another version has-- "the wool upon his back, sir, was worth a thousand pound, the wool upon his belly, sir, it trailed upon the ground." [ ] another version says-- "and every time he shifted them, he covered an acre of land." [ ] another version has-- "and all the people of darby were carried away in the flood." [ ] "gawn" is a provincialism for pail,--a milk pail. [ ] football was essentially a derby game, and was played every year, frequently with highly disastrous consequences, until put down by the authorities a few years back. on shrove tuesday business was entirely suspended, and the townspeople being divided into two parties,--all saints and st. peters,--the ball was, at noon, thrown from the town hall to the densely packed masses in the market-place, the two parties each trying to "goal" it at their respective places. the fight--for it was nothing less--continued for many hours, and sewers, brook-courses, and even rivers, were invaded, and scores of people who were fortunate enough not to get killed or lamed, were stripped of their clothing in the fray. [ ] stretched,--_i.e._, fastened it down with pegs to dry. [ ] sinfin moor is a few miles from derby. it is a place where, in former times, derby races were held. another version says "swinscoe moor," which is in the neighbourhood of ashborne. [ ] i take it that this verse is a later addition to the song, put in, probably, by some singer who was antagonistic to methodism. it does not appear in most of the versions i have collected. [ ] another version says-- "and if you go to darby, sir, you may eat a bit of the pie." _the blink-ey'd cobler._ the plot of the ballad of "the blink eyed cobler," is the old story of a young gentleman falling in love with a servant, seducing her, promising to marry her, the marriage prevented by the "cruel father," a disguise adopted, the father giving a dowry to the supposed cobbler so as to induce him to marry her, and in the end the happy reconciliation of all the parties. the ballad is here given from a broad-sheet in my own collection. it is printed broad-way of the paper, in four columns, and has a wood-cut at the head, of a lady and her waiting-woman before a looking-glass, and a gentleman standing in the room with them. it occurs also in other forms. all you that delight in merriment, come listen to my song, it is very new and certain true, you need not tarry long, before you laugh your belly full, therefore be pleas'd to stay, i hope that you will be pleased, before you go away. it's of a knight in derbyshire, who had a handsome son, he kept a handsome chambermaid, who had his favour won; they dearly lov'd each other, being full of sport and play, having seduced this "handsome chambermaid," and she having told him that she is likely to become a mother, the ballad goes on-- he cries love be contented, (this is what must be said,) and do not let my father know, for on sunday we will wed. but mind how cruel fortune, their fate did seem to force, the old man stood in the corner, and heard the whole discourse. next morn he call'd the maid, likewise the youth his son, and with a smiling sneering look, the story thus begun. he said i wish you both much joy, you are to wed on sunday, but i'd have you be rul'd by me, and put it off till monday. 'twill be but one day longer, with that he laugh'd outright, but i'm resolv'd to part you both, for fear it should be to-night. he paid the girl her wages, and home he then her sent, and confin'd him to his chamber, in tears for to lament. next morning unto london, along with a sturdy guide, to his uncle's house on cornhill, he sent him to abide. but as they rode along the way, he said unto the guide i'll give thee twenty guineas to let me step aside. because this very morning, one word my father said, the same i do remember, and keep it in my head. the guide straightway gave consent, and he went to his sweetheart sue, then told to her the story, and what he design'd to do. disguis'd like a poor cobler, with a long rusty beard, with a leather coat not worth a groat, to his father's house he steer'd. he knocked boldly at the door, and when his father came, he said, sir, be you such a one? he answered, yes, the same, he cry'd, i understand your son, wanton tricks has play'd, unknown to your worship, along with your chambermaid. i understand some money with her you are freely to give, to help to keep the child and she, so long as they do live. now i am an honest cobler, who do live here just by, for fifty pounds i'll marry her, if that will but satisfy. the old man answer'd, before the money i do pay, i'll see her fairly marry'd, and give her myself away. with all my heart, the cobler unto the old man did say, with that he fetch'd the fifty pounds, and the bargain he made straightway. and when they came unto the church, as we do understand, the old man strutted boldly, then took her by the hand, crying, heavens bless you from above, and send you long to live, and as a token of my love, this fifty pounds i give. they parted very friendly, the old man home he went, the bride and bridegroom rode away, to london by consent. where she was fairly brought to bed, with joy and much content, a letter into the country, to his father then he sent, sir, i think it is my duty, and am bound to acquaint thee, that there is a lady in this city, who has fallen in love with me. five thousand pounds a year she, all in good house and land, that if you're willing for the match, come to london out of hand. the old man got his coach ready, and up to london came, for to view this charming lady, who was of birth and fame. then coming to his brother's house, this beauty for to view, he little thought this beauty bright, was his old servant sue. with gold and silver spangles, she was bedeck'd all round, the noise of her portion being told, for so many thousand pounds. the old man took his son aside, and thus to him did say, take my advice and marry her, my dearest child this day. that morning they were marry'd, and dinner being done, the old man being mellow, the story thus begun. he said dear son i'll tell you, and nothing but what is true, a poor blinking one ey'd cobler, has wedded thy sweetheart sue. the young man went a little aside. as i to you confess, and then within a short time, he put on his cobler's dress. then taking susan by the hand, they fell on their bended knees, saying, pardon, honoured father, pardon if you please. for i am john the cobler, and this is my sweetheart sue, o pardon us, dear father, because we tell you true. if you are the cobler, said the old man, who had the blinking eye, thou'st cobl'd me of a thousand pounds and a pox on thy policy. the uncle he persuaded him, so did all the guests, the old man fell a laughing, saying, "'tis but a merry jest," that i cannot be angry, then straight these words did say, i pray fetch me the fiddlers, and so let's dance away. now we may see the old and rich, are bit by policy, for beauty, wit, and good manners, beyond all riches be. so here's a good health to the cobler, with another to handsome sue, let every one drink off his glass, without any more ado. _a strange banquet;_ _or the devil's entertainment by cook laurel, at the peak in derby-shire; with an account of the several dishes served to table._ to the tune of _cook laurel, &c._ cook laurel, or cock lorel, as he is variously called, was a notorious rogue in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, and is not unfrequently alluded to by the old writers. lorel, or laurel, was a word signifying a rascal,--a bad, low, worthless fellow; and _cock_ lorel would therefore denote an arch-rogue, a very prince of rascals! _lorel's den_ was a place of resort, no doubt, for thieves and sharpers, and "lazy lorel," which is an expression even now not unfrequently heard, means an idle, worthless fellow. a curious little tract, entitled "cocke lorrell's bote," was printed by wynken de worde; and this "cock lorel's boat" is mentioned in a ms. poem of _doctor double ale_, in the bodleian library, and in other writings. in it persons of various classes, including the minstrels, are summoned to go on board his ship of fools. in rowland's "martin markhall, his defence and answer to the bellman of london" ( ), cock lorrell stands second only in the list of rogues there given, and is thus described: "after him succeded, by the generall council, one cock lorrell, the most notorious knave that ever lived. by trade he was a tinker, often carrying a pan and hammer for show; but when he came to a good booty he would cast his profession in a ditch, and play the padder."[ ] the ballad of cock lorrell is introduced in ben jonson's masque of the "gipsies metamorphosed," and in "pills to purge melancholy." the copy i here give i have copied from the original broad-sheet in the roxburghe collection in the british museum. it is in some parts exceedingly coarse in its wording, and is therefore unfit to be given entire. it will be seen that cock lorrell, the prince of rogues, invites his satanic majesty to castleton, in the high peak of derbyshire, to dinner, and the dishes served up for the occasion are people of various disreputable callings and hypocritical habits, against whom the shafts of the writer are levelled. the broad-sheet from which the ballad is here copied, is printed in black letter, and has an engraving of the banquet at the head. it is "licensed and entered according to order. london: printed by and for w. o. and a. m. ...to be sold by j. deacon, at the angel in guiltspur street." it begins:-- cook lawrel would have the devil his guest, and bid him home to peak to dinner, where fiend never had such a feast, prepared at the charge of a sinner. with a hey down, down adown, down. his stomach was quesie, he came thither coached, the joggings had caused his cruets to rise, to help which he call'd for a puritan poach'd, that used to turn up the white of his eyes. with a hey down, &c. and so he recovered unto his wish; he sat him down and began to eat: a promooter[ ] in plumb broth was the first dish, his own privy-kitchen had no such meat. with a hey down, &c. yet though with (it) he much was taken, upon a sudden he shifted his trencher as soon as he spied the bawd[ ] and bacon, by which you may know the devil's a wencher. with a hey down, &c. six pickled taylors sliced and cut with semsters[ ] and tire-woman,[ ] fit for his pallet, with feather-men and perfumers, put some twelve in a charger, to make a grand sallet.[ ] with a hey down, &c. a rich fat usurer stewed in his marrow, with him a lawyer's head and green sawce were the next dishes; usurers and lawyers, in those days, being common subjects for satire. then carbanado'd[ ] and cook'd with pains was brought up a serjent's cloven face, the sawce was made of a yeoman's brains that had been beaten out with his mace. with a hey down, &c. two roasted sheriffs came whole to the board, the feast had nothing been without them, both living and dead were foxed and fur'd, and their chains like sassages hung about them. with a hey down, &c. the next dish was the mayor of the town, with pudding of maintenance[ ] put in his belly, like a goose in her feathers, in his gown with a couple of hinch boys[ ] boyl'd to jelly. with a hey down, &c. then came the over-worn justice of peace, with clerks like gizzards stuck under each arm, and warrants like sippets,[ ] lay in his own grease, set over a chafing dish to be kept warm. with a hey down, &c. in the next four verses, other "dainty dishes" were served up. then followed-- the jewel of a time-server for a fish, a constable sowced, with vinegar by two alderman-lobsters laid in a dish a deputy-tart and church-warden pye.[ ] with a hey down, &c. all which devoured, then for a close he did for a draught of _derby_[ ] call, he heaved the vessel up to his nose, and never left till he'd drank up all. with a hey down, &c. then from the table he gave a start where banquet and whine was not to seek-- and thus the banquet ended. the ballad closes with the assertion that from this feast the common name of the cavern at castleton, where it is said to have taken place, is derived. footnotes: [ ] a foot-pad. [ ] a _promooter_, was an informer. [ ] a provincialism for hare. [ ] a sempstress. [ ] a milliner. [ ] this verse is evidently altogether a shaft levelled against the follies of fashion and foppery of the time, and against those who made it their trade to promote them. [ ] _carbanado_, a steak cut crossways for broiling. [ ] the "cap of maintenance" was a mark of dignity: the "pudding of maintenance" is evidently a severe satirical allusion to the fondness for good living of corporate functionaries. [ ] hench boy,--a page; an attendant on a nobleman or dignitary. [ ] small thin pieces of bread soaked in gravy or broth. [ ] _warden_ was a large baking pear. "warden pies" were very favourite dishes, and are frequently to be found alluded to by the old writers. the wit of "_church_-warden pie" is very obvious. [ ] derby ale. _the taylor's ramble,_ _or the blue's valour displayed._ this ballad i print from a ms. copy of full fifty years old, in my own collection. i am not aware that it has ever before been printed. to another copy in the bateman collection, (which differs in the wording, though not in the sense, in many places, and in which the sixth verse is wanting,) is appended this note: "the tailor's name was eyre, and this curious exploit was performed on the th january, ." come all you gallant heroes of courage stout and bold, and i'll tell you of a taylor that would not be controld; it happened in derbyshire, as you may understand, five troops of the cavelry to take this noble man. so now i do begin to tell you of the fun, full twenty miles that morning this taylor he had run, and when he came to ashford,[ ] the people they did cry, make haste, my jovel lad, for your enimies are nigh. this taylor was a mighty man, a man of wonderous size, and when he came to entcliff[ ] hill, you would have thought he would have reached the skies; and when he did climb those rocks that was so wonderous high, the cavelry came all round, and the taylor they did spy. they loaded their pistols with powder and with ball, all for to take this taylor that was both stout and tall; he was near four feet high, and a mighty man indeed, youl'd a laugh'd to have seen the cavelry ride after him full speed. in lighting from their horses, their valour for to shew, five of them upon the ground this taylor he did throw; they being sore afrighted, saying, we would shoot him if we durst, but their carbines would not fire, for their balls they had put in first. their captain, as commander, he ordered ranks to form, all for to take this taylor, and entcliff rocks to storm; prime and load then was the word their captain he did cry, chear up, my jovel lads, let us conquerors be or die. these valiants being reinforced, they took the taylor bold, and guarded him to bakewell,[ ] the truth i will unfold: at the white horse inn in bakewell, as you may understand, full fifty of their troops to guard this noble man. the battle being over, the taylor they have won, and this is the first prank our cavelry has done; i'll tell you the truth, they cannot refuse, they are ten times worse than the run away blues. here's a health unto the taylor, of courage stout and bold, and by our noble cavelry he scorns to be controld; if he'd but had his goose, his bodkin, and his shears, he would soon have cleared bakewell of those derby volunteers. footnotes: [ ] ashford-in-the-water, a considerable village and parish, three miles from bakewell, in the high peak of derbyshire. [ ] endcliff, or entcliffe, is about a mile from bakewell, on the way to ashford. [ ] bakewell is a town of considerable importance in the high peak, about twenty-five miles from derby, and twelve from buxton. _squire vernon's fox-chace._ this ballad, one of the most popular of our hunting songs, relates to the noble old derbyshire family of vernon, in olden times of haddon hall, but for several generations of sudbury hall, in the same county, which family is now represented by the right hon. lord vernon, whose seat sudbury hall is. "squire vernon," of this ballad, was george vernon, an ancestor of lord vernon, and was, like his namesake and ancestor of old, george vernon of haddon, (father of the celebrated dorothy vernon,) who acquired and deserved the name of the "king of the peak," remarkably fond of hunting, and kept a capital pack of hounds. the copy i here give i print from a very scarce broad-sheet in my own collection. it is in two columns, with two curious little wood-cuts at the head. one morning last winter to shirley park[ ] came, a noble brave sportsman george vernon by name resolved over hedges and ditches to fly, came a hunting the fox--bold reynard must die. it was early in the morning before it was light, where a great many gentlemen appointed to meet, to meet 'squire vernon of honour and fame, his hounds they bring glory and honour to his name. hoke cross him and wind him: tom mullins he cry'd, i warrant we shall unkennel him by the south side, let us draw to the cover that lies on the south, bold reynard lies there, trouler doubles his mouth. cries, loo, hark to trouler that never fails, do you hear how young snowball does challenge the train there are fowler and royal two brave hounds, they'll find out bold reynard if he lies above ground. hark, rogues, together, while juno comes in, there's lady and lambert likewise little trim, there's pleasant and careless, a bitch that runs fleet, but loo, hark to little justice, for she sets you to right. there is jovial and frolick, and vigour besides, there is dido the best bitch that ever was try'd, there is tospot and bumper and virgin i say, there is fifty-four couple that run every day. mr. walker then over the cover did stand, he hollow'd most clearly with horn in his hand, cries, loo, hark together, we'll storm reynard's fort, and if cover he breaks, we'll tear his old coat. loo, hark rogues together, the scent it lies warm, mr. walker and tom mullins both concert with horn, tantwivee, tantwivee, the horn they did sound, they alarmed the country for above a mile round. tom mullins the huntsman his whip he did crack, cries, loo, hark to little careless, that leedeth the pack, these words made jack wooley, that was whipper in, to hollow most clearly, loo, hark rogues, hark in. the hounds they did rally and flourish about, bold reynard broke cover, tom mullins did shout, over wheyersome[ ] common away he did trim, then so merrily run by the tinker's inn.[ ] then for blakeley oldhurst but the door was stop'd there then bold reynard was forc'd to take staffordshire, then he crossed the river dove i declare, and straight for durintwoods, for great cover was there. but the hounds they pursu'd him so hot in the chace, which reynard perceiving would not take the place, then he took weaver hill,[ ] which was a pleasant thing, to hear the wood echo, and the college hall ring. tom mullins was mounted on a trusty bay, over hedges and ditches the devil would play, up rocks and high mountains so merrily did climb, cries, hark to little careless she runs him like wind. then for the new buildings away he did steer, i thought we should run him all round staffordshire, but we briskly pursu'd him with hound and with horn, and we forced him back again by the tyth barn. 'squire vernon was mounted upon golden dun, he leaped with courage and like fury did run, mr. walker was on a gelding so free, he maintained the chace and kept him company. 'squire vernon's a sportsman 'tis very well known, he rid swiftly all day, you'd have thought he had flown, 'squire brown rid a gelding that run very fleet, he may challenge the country to carry his weight. 'squire boothby of ashbourn[ ] rid over the plain, expecting every minute bold reynard was slain, he rid with great courage all the day through, he was rarely well mounted upon his true blue. mr. boothby of bradford who never was cast, but in all the whole course he rallied at last, mr. gretion, of langford,[ ] he bravely came in, he was rarely well mounted on tearing robin. mr. walker did hollow cry'd sentence is past, here is trouler and snowball puts up at the last, come, gentlemen, ride, for the game is our own, now the old hounds puts up i find reynard is blown. the sportsmen they rid at a desperate rate, as if they had run for a thousand pound plate, no hedges could turn them, nor wall could them set, for the choicest of sportsmen in england were met. the hounds they did rally and briskly pursue, do you hear little careless, she runs him in view, fifty miles in four hours which is a great ride. but in wooton[ ] old park bold reynard he died. and for jack wooley we'll not him forget, he rid with great courage and ne'er fear'd his neck, no hedges or walls could turn him again, he came in that same minute that reynard was slain. the sportsmen came in every one at the last, the hounds they run briskly not one that was cast, let's ring reynard's farewell with a horn that sounds clear you've not heard such an hollow this hundred year. all pastime in hunting here doth command, there's the otter by water the deer upon land, here hunting is pleasant the stag's noble chace, to the animal reynard all ought to give place. come gentlemen sportsmen, where'er you be, all you that love hunting draw near unto me, the chace is now ended, you've heard reynards fall, so here's a health to 'squire vernon of sidbury hall. footnotes: [ ] shirley park.--shirley, a village and parish, lies about ten miles from derby, and three and a half from ashborne. from it the noble family of shirley, viscount tamworth and earl of ferrars, takes its name. it has, however, long ceased to be the seat of the shirleys. [ ] wyaston. [ ] tinker's inn is a hamlet about a mile and a half from osmaston-by-ashborne. [ ] the weaver hills are among the highest in staffordshire, lying about midway between alton towers and ilam hall. [ ] "squire boothby of ashborne" and "mr. boothby of bradford," were of the family of the boothbys of ashborne hall, a family connected by marriage with the vernons. the present dowager lady vernon was a miss boothby. [ ] longford, about two miles from shirley. longford hall is now the residence of the hon. e. k. coke. [ ] wooton is under the weaver hills, on the side next alton. "wooton-under-weaver, where god comes never," is a common, though not very complimentary, saying regarding this place. _the trusley hunting song._ this interesting ballad, which has been more than once printed, recounts the events of a famous day's "sport,"--a run with the hounds,--at trusley, in derbyshire; trusley hall being one of the seats of the coke family for many generations. the ballad was written by tom handford, a blacksmith at trusley, who also acted in the capacity of "whipper-in" to "squire coke," who was the last william coke of trusley, and who died in . a portrait of tom handford was painted by order of squire coke, and hung up in the servants' hall at trusley, with this inscription, written by mr. coke-- "this is tom handford--don't you know it? he was both smith and poet!" a version of this ballad, preserved in ms. by the late d'ewes coke, esq., was furnished to me by that gentleman. it differs in many essential points from the one i now print, both in the names as well as in the construction of the stanzas. the different versions of this and other ballads have doubtless arisen from their having been written down from memory; and the different singers would also, probably, take some little license in altering the words to suit their own particular tastes. i prefer giving the _printed_ version, which is evidently the original one. my copy, which i here give, was "printed by w. o. in leadenhall street," and is of an almost contemporaneous period with the song itself. it is printed broadway on the sheet, in four columns, and has at the head of the first two columns a rude engraving of two huntsmen galloping past a tree, and following a stag and a couple of hounds. it is headed "_princely diversion: or the jovial hunting-match_." trusley is a village and parish nearly seven miles from derby, and about midway between radbourne and longford, a seat of the coke family. one _valentine's_ day in the morning bright phoebus began to appear sir _william cook_ winded his horn and was going a hunting the hare says _handford_[ ] uncouple your beagles and let them go questing along for lose her or win her, i must go to dinner or else they will think me long. says _handford_, i pray now forbear, sir and talk not of dinner so soon for i've not been a hunting this year and how can you give over by noon. black _sloven_ shall warm your bay _robin_ and make him go smoaking along bonny _dick_ shall not gallop so quick if we light of a hare that is strong. well, _handford_, then said the good squire i mean for to show you a trick i value no hedges nor ditches, but i'll let you know bonny _dick_; then hye for the _clossam bowfield_ we shall get her ten thousand to one there's _wonder_, lays hard _thunder_ away, o're away, she is gone. the morning was pleasant all o're so bright and so clear was the air we made all the woods for to roar with the noise of our sweet harmony. it was for the space of three hours we held all our horses to speed black _slovin_ held hard to bay _robin_ but yet could not do the deed. it was about nine in the morning we sounded our first passing bell sir _william_, pray put up your horn for another fresh hare will do well. well, _handford_, then said the good squire what think you of my bonny _dick_ do's think thou can make him to retire or not for to gallop so quick? faith, master, i needs must confess that i fear i was boasting too soon but i for another fresh hare and you _dick_ shall have din'd by noon. well _handford_, have at your black _sloven_ i'll make him in purple to ride and if he does offer to tire i'll certainly liquor thy hide. you'd serve him right well, says _jack wilson_[ ] for he has been taunting at me i never was beat in the field so for a fresh hare let us see, for here is some closses of corn see well to your place e'ry one, then master, pray pull out your horn for away, o're away she is gone. young _blew-bell_, she cry'd it before and she cry'd it all over the lane and after her twelve couple more thus they rattled it o're the plain, bonny _dick_ play'd with his bridle and went at a desperate rate come _handford_, pox take you, your idle, must i open you the gate. o, your humble servant good master but i will not die in your debt, you shall find black _sloven_ go faster for now he begins for to sweat. there's _wonder_, and _thunder_, and _dido_ and _merry lass_ sweetly runs on, there's _younger_, old _ranter_, and _rain-bow_ but _beauty_, she leads the van. she headed them stoutly and bravely just up into _sutton's_[ ] cross field black _sloven_ began to go heavy and made a fair offer to yield. _jack wilson_ came swinging before so well did bay _robin_ maintain and after him bonny _dick_ scour'd, black _sloven_ was spur'd in vain. but he had the luck and good chance for to go now and then by the string, she led us a dilicate dance but as we came the last ring a fresh hare, duce take her, we started, we ne'er was so vexed before, and e're we could make em forsake her we run her two miles or more. and then we left sir _william cook_ for to ponder upon the old hare who presently leap'd o're a brook and a desperate leap i declare. he had not got past half a mile but this cunning old gypsie he spy'd was making back to her old file then away, o're away, he cry'd, away, o're away, my brave boys, and he merrily winded his horn our beagles all toss'd up their heads and they soon made a speedy return, and drawing just up to a point where this cunning old gypsie had gone, you never saw better dogs hunt for life underneath the sun. now there was _tantive_ and _ranter_, they sounded her last passing bell, and _wilson_ made moan unto _handford_ a cup of old hock will do well and _handford_ cry'd master, ride faster for now i begin to cool with sweat, all my cloaths are as wet as if i had been in some pool. where not these two dainty fine pusses they held us from seven till one, we scour'd thro hedges and bushes so merrily they run on. and as for the praise of these hounds and horses that gallops so free, my pen would not bring to bounds if time would allow it to be. now gallants, i bid you farewel for i fear i your patience have try'd, and hie for a glass of good ale that poetry may be admir'd. and heres a good health to the sportsman that hunts with the horn and hound, i hope you'll all pledge for the future and so let this health go round.[ ] footnotes: [ ] handford acted as whipper-in. [ ] jack wilson. the coke version of the ballad says "wheeldon," and mr. coke adds a note, "wheeldon the huntsman." i am inclined, however, to think "jack wilson" is the correct name. [ ] sutton-on-the-hill, the adjoining village to trusley. [ ] in the trusley version this verse occurs:-- "then coming home by the ash holt, close under the royal oak tree, there _blood_* and old _willet_+ were fall'n asleep as it happen'd to be. come _handford_ and give them a larum, my lips are grown sore with the horn, and round about they did be-stare 'em like babies that were newly born." * blood, one of the beaters. + willett, the squire's gardener, on foot and tired. _squire frith's hunting song._ another good old derbyshire hunting song is the following, which relates to a celebrated run with the hounds of "squire frith, of bank hall," near chapel-en-le-frith, in the high peak. mr. samuel frith was a keen sportsman, and for more than fifty years was one of the most daring and best hunters in the district--one of the roughest and most awkward that could be found anywhere. with regard to the run celebrated in this song, it appears that one december morning, some eighty or ninety years ago, in a keen frost, mr. frith turned out his own pack of harriers at castle naze rocks, on the moors near his residence. to the surprise of the squire, instead of a hare putting off, a fine fox broke covert, and made away to the moors. the dogs got away after him, and mr. frith and his huntsman, jack owen, followed over some of the most tremendous ground even of derbyshire. the fox made off across the moors, skirting axe-edge,--the highest mountain in the peak,--to macclesfield forest; thence by langley and gracely woods to swithingley. from thence he went by housley and gawsworth, and at length, after a run of more than forty miles, was killed at clouds hill, near congleton, mr. frith and his huntsman being up at the time. mr. frith rode a favourite black cob of his called "black jack," one of the best fencers in the county,--a quality of essential importance in that district of stone walls and rocks. bank hall is about two and a half miles from chapel-en-le-frith. hark! hark! brother sportsmen, what a melodious sound, how the valleys doth echo with the merry-mouthed hound; there's none in this world with squire frith can compare, when chasing bold reynard, or hunting the hare. bright phoebus peeps over yon eastern hills, and darted his rays through the meadows and fields; on the eighth of december, that memorable morn, we chased bold reynard with hound and with horn. then over young cumrocks like lightning he flew, what a melodious chorus when reynard's in view; there's nothing like hunting we mortals do know, then follow, boys, follow, tally-ho! tally-ho! with a staunch and fleet pack, most sagacious and true, what a melodious chorus when reynard's in view; the hills and the valleys do echo around, with the shouts of the hunter, and cries of the hound. squire frith being mounted upon a swift steed, black jack, there's but few that can match him for speed; the squire and his huntsman no horse-flesh will spare, when chasing bold reynard, or hunting the hare. there's grinder, and saddler, two dogs of great fame, hark to primrose, and bonny lass, and conqueror by name; there's killman, and bowman, ringwood, and dido, with lily, and lady, and rolly, also. o'er macclesfield forest old reynard did fly, by tragnell, and runcorn, and unto langly; by shalcross, and greswark, and unto swithinly, at his brush close did follow the hounds in full cry. by shalcross and greswark we came back again, it was speed that prolonged his life it was plain; full forty long miles that old creature did return, and he holed in clown hills, near to congleton. of geese, ducks, and hens, great havoc he's made, and innocent lambs, he has worried the said; there's no barn-door fowls old reynard did spare, take care, all ye farmers, of your poultry, take care. here's a health to all hunters, wherever they be, to all honest sportsmen of every degree; with a full flowing bowl, we'll drink a health all, to that great and true sportsman, squire frith, of bank hall. _derbyshire men._ there is an old saying connected with derbyshire, which is not very complimentary to the sons of its soil:-- "derbyshire born and derbyshire bred, strong in the arm, but weak in the head." this saying forms the text of the following excellent lines, written by mr. walter kirkland, which first appeared in print in "the reliquary" for october, . "i' darbyshire who're born an' bred, are strong i' th' arm, bu' weak i' th' head:" so th' lying proverb says. strength o' th' arm, who doubts shall feel: strength o' th' head, its power can seal the lips that scoff, always. the rich vein'd mine, the mountain hoar, we sink, an' blast, an' pierce, 'an bore by th' might o' darby brawn. an' darby brain con think an' plon, as well as that o' ony mon; an' clearly as the morn. "strong i' th' arm, an' strong i' th' head," the fou' fause proverb should ha' said, if th' truth she meant to tell. bu' th' union, so wise an' rare o _brawn_ an' _brain_, she didna care to see or speak of well. the jealous jade, nor darby born, where praise wor due, pour'd forth bu' scorn, an' lying words let fau. bu' far above the proverb stands the truth, that god's almighty hands ha' welded strength an' mind i' one; an' pour'd it down i' plenty on born darbyshire men au. _an elegy_ _upon the death of all the greatest gentry in darley-dalle, who loved hunting and hawking, and several other games. the poet's view, well known to you, to be too true, and so adieu, by me leo. w. ._ the following extremely curious poem, containing many interesting allusions to families long since departed, was written in , by leonard wheatcroft, some time clerk of the parish, poet, tailor, and schoolmaster, at ashover, in derbyshire. he was a man of talent, and wrote many things which are worth collecting together. it is here printed from the original ms. the last verse was evidently added after the accession of george the first. the title of the ballad is particularly quaint, and characteristic of the man and of the county of which he was a native. in the dialect of the district the rhymes would be perfect, and would read thus:-- the poet's view well known to yew, to be too trew, and so adieu by me leo double yew, sixteen seventy tew. . as i on oaker-hill[ ] one day did stand, viewing the world which i could not command, i turn'd my face tou'rd berchore[ ] partly west, to view where greaveses us'd to have their nest; but out, alas! i found they were all gone, not one was left to rest against a stone. . then looking forward, the coast being very cleare, at rowther,[ ] there i found one adam eayre; but now he's gone, left house and land behind him, so to be short i know not where to find him; but if any counceller can make it out, he'st have his land and i will go without. . i'll up to hassap[ ] to hear them sing a mass, there i shall know who made the old man pass; death made it wrong, i send him to purgatory, where he must stay till he be fit for glory; but if there be such a place 'twixt this and heaven, i fear he cannot pass, 'tis so uneven. . then did i to my panting muses say, haste and begone, you shall no longer stay (within this place); haste and begone, upon calton top your banners, and call at haddon, where lived ould john manners, o use him kindly i strictly you command, for he was kind to th' poore of ingland. . but now he's gone, like others hence away, then for another earle like him ever pray, that will be kind both unto rich and poore, then god almighty will increase his store, and bless him here upon this earthly throne, and at the last call him one of his owne. . walking by the river, stanton[ ] i did spye, but neither calton[ ] nor a bage[ ] saw i: they are all gone and none left but old boards, alas! alas! what doth this world affordes. there's severall more that are slipt out o' th' way, but not one word of them i here will say. . then calling back my muses, mee thought i spyed little stancliffe[ ] standing pleasantly, but not one steare[ ] i' th' stall shall yet be seene; well fed win springs and deck'd with lorrells green, but one old backer bourning of the owne, till steare retourne, there' no one knows how sowne. . then on the hills i came to darley hall, to hear that music in those ashes tall. listening awhile, i not being pleased well, thought i where is my pretty cullen-bell,[ ] whose name and fame made all this vale once sound, but now that honour's buried under ground. . besides your parsons of divinity as pain, and pot, edwards, and mosley, all four divines and men of noble birth, all dead and gone and buried in the earth; how can i chuse but must lament to see my friends all gone who did make much of me. . tho' all in haste one place i have past by, that's cowley hall, where oft i heard the cry of great-mouthed doggs who did not feare to kill what was their master's pleasure, word, and will; his name was sinner, who ever did him know, he's dead and gone now many years ago. . then turning round, all gone, thus did i thinke, where shall i make my friend or muses drinke; then looking down below i did espy a pretty hall which stood me very ney, where lived the father, son, and wives of either, both in my time, all-tho' not both together. . a knight the father, and a squire the son, one heir is left, if dead that name is done; this heir being young, with ladies durst not play, so he in sorrow quickly went away, leaving no heir o' th' name, no, not one, so farewell milwards[ ] now of snitterton. . then rushing forward down by darwen side, my muses presently through matlock hied, and finding there the good ould pastur gone, i hide to riber[ ] there to make my mone; but out, alas! my sorrows to increase, that name is gone now buried under hears. . wolley, wolley, woolley, farewell to thee, a noble esquire, thou was both kind and free to all that come, i say, both rich and poore, there's few went empty that came to his doore. walker's fair hous is almost wore away, with several more now going to decay. . to speak of dedick[ ] what shall i do there, babbington's[ ] treason hateful doth appear; their house is down, and they are gone to nought, so will all those which ere rebellion sought. then pray to god for peace and unity, that king and nobles all may well agree. . then i to ogston,[ ] there to break my fast, they all in mourning stood at me agast, to think my friend and lover was departed, and so i left them almost broken hearted; what shall i doe thought i to hide my head, seeing so many gallants now are dead. . then up by amber i did quickly hey, none of my ancient friends i could espey, in asher[ ] parish i could find not one, old crich,[ ] and dakin,[ ] and ould hobskinson,[ ] they are departed and gone hence away, as er self, i have not long to stay. . i will retourne unto my hill againe, and cause my muses to sing out a straine, and that in mourning too she shall be drest, to sing new anthems of the very best. and thus you see in a few dayes how they are all gone hence and tourned to dirt and clay. . farewell you huntsmen that did hunt the hare, farewell you hounds that tired both horse and mare, farewell you gallant falkners every one, the chief of all did live at snitterton. so to conclude both greate and small, those that are left the lord preserve them all. by me leonard wheatcroft. . the conclusion. this verse is written in a blacker ink, and at a much later time. if any one of this same truth do doubt, from oker hill ide have them walk about from house to house to prove the truth of this, and then they'll say there's nothing in't amiss. i have no more to say but this my charge, let all that's heare say pray god bless king george. finis. footnotes: [ ] oker hill, near darley dale. [ ] birchover. [ ] roo tor, or row tor, by birchover, an old seat of the eyre family. [ ] hassop, a principal residence of the family of eyre. [ ] stanton, the present residence of w.p. thornhill, esq. [ ] the caltons were an old derbyshire family, long settled in this district and at chesterfield. [ ] bache, this family resided for two centuries at stanton hall, and from them the name of bache-thornhill was derived. [ ] stancliffe, now the seat of joseph whitworth, esq., the inventor of the celebrated whitworth rifles and rifled canons. [ ] steere. stancliffe hall passed to the steeres by purchase in , from whom it passed to jenkinson, and from them, in , to greensmith. [ ] columbell. nether hall, darley dale, was for many years the chief seat of the columbell family, who held it till the death, in , of john columbell, whose heiress married marbury. [ ] the milwards held snitterton for a long time. the last of the family, john milward, died _circa_ , when the estate passed by marriage of his heiress with adderley. [ ] riber hall, in matlock parish, was for many generations the property and seat of the wolley family. anthony wolley, the last of that branch, died a bachelor in , when his co-heiresses sold the estate to statham. [ ] dethick. [ ] anthony babington, the unfortunate conspirator, was of dethick. [ ] now the seat of gladwin turbutt, esq. [ ] ashover. [ ] the family of crich was one of considerable note in this parish, and at one time owned the stubbing edge estate. [ ] the dakeynes were of ashover and of darley dale, and were people of much note. [ ] hodgkinson. part of the old hall manor, as well as overton manor, in this parish, belonged to this family. overton passed from them, by marriage, to sir joseph banks. _cocktail reel._ the "merriment" recounted in this singular ballad, which i am not aware has ever before been printed, is said to have taken place at dronfield, in derbyshire, and i have heard the sixth line sung as "from chesterfield, beighton, and masber." it is, however, uncertain whether this is correct, or whether it may not more probably have taken place at rotherham, which is near both kimberworth, brightside, and masber (masborough). the copy i here give is from a ms. of more than half a century old. soon as old ball was got better, a merriment there was appointed, creditor as well as debtor, both met to be better acquainted. number of lads there were present from kimberworth, brightside, and masper, each with a countenance pleasant, his true love did cuddle and clasp her. stephen turn'd out with his fiddle, each lad took his lass by the middle, went reeling about like a riddle, as if they had been enchanted. care, the forerunner of sorrow, was kick'd out of door till to-morrow, not one in his spirit was narrow; then, boh! cry'd tyger, undaunted. . tyger connected with jemmy, conducted ball out of the stable, join'd in the yard by old sammy, who alefied came from the table. ball being well prim'd with ginger, was fit to jump over the fences, neighbour as well as each stranger all thought they were out of their senses. sammy, who hates to be idle, seized ball fast by the bridle, then gave him a kick made him sidle, so went far round as they wanted, right hand and left they did clever, made jem to squint harder than ever, he promis'd his partner som liver; then, boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . out jump'd the calf, elevated; the cow broke her sole and ran after; shout upon shout it created, and filled the spectators with laughter. tideswell the cow was so nam'd, because at that fair they had bought her, she ran at tyger untam'd, to fork him as nature had taught her. tyger at that was displeas'd, which caus'd a fresh dust to be rais'd; her nose in a instant he seiz'd, at which old samuel ranted. tideswell took off like be madded, o'er mother and daughter she gadded, huzzas in abundance were added, then, boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . stephen, though blind as a beetle, laughed hard at old hannah's disaster, he lost no time with his fiddle, his elbow went quicker and faster: ball cut such a new fashion'd caper, which really by-standers amazed, all his four feet were at tapers, the pavement it perfectly blazed; samuel nor no one that join'd him durst venture their carcase behind him, tho' age in a manner did blind him. no colt could win him 'twas granted, tideswell caught tyger and tost him quite out of the ring till she lost him, though many a bruise it did cost him; still, boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . oceans to drink being call'd for, hot cuddle-me-buff was the liquor, wife of my own jemmy called for, old hannah, cried stephen, play quicker. off they went after each other, as if they had quicksilver in them, join'd by first one, then another, you never see nothing could win them setting down sides, and then up again, crossing in couples, to sup again, sam'el, inspir'd with his cup, again of his activity vaunted. ball being prim'd with the best of them, pranced and kick'd with the rest of them, seeing he made a mere jest of them; boh! cried tyger, undaunted. . tyger ran under ball's belly, all danger, like rodney, kept scorning, some thought he was rather silly, as ball was new frosted that morning. sam'el got hurt in the scuffle, as ball his fore feet was advancing, that seem'd his temper to ruffle, and quite put an end to their dancing. so they dismiss'd in civility, talking of ball's great agility, tideswell and tyger's fidelity, which kind nature implanted. how the four brutes in particular danc'd with their tails perpendicular, straight forwards, sideways, and circular; boh! cries tyger, undaunted. _lines occasioned by_ _a yorkshire pye,_[ ] _sent as a present from sir william st. quintin, to his grace the duke of devonshire, at bath, on christmas-day, . written by mr. derrick._ this curious effusion of samuel derrick's, who was master of the ceremonies at bath at the time, i here reprint from a slip broad-sheet of the period in my own collection. the peer to whom this famous yorkshire pie was sent, was william, fourth duke of devonshire, who died in . sir william st. quintin, bart., of harpham, in the county of york, who died in , was member of parliament for thirsk, and high sheriff in . he married rebecca, daughter of sir john thompson, lord mayor of london, and by her was father of the last baronet of the name of st. quintin. were but my muse inspir'd by _fludyer's_[ ] taste, or with _quin's_ skill and lively poignance grac'd; th' _apician_ muse, who bade _lucullus_ treat, and taught the gay _mark anthony_ to eat; i'd venture then _st. quintin_ to commend, whose faithful memory ne'er forgets his friend; of placid temper, and of gen'rous blood, whose only vanity is doing good; whose open looks imply an honest heart, courtly in manners, yet unspoil'd by art; the emblem of whose liberal soul i see in yonder pile of hospitality; an edifice for _cavendish_ to view, all english fabric, and that fabric true. such plenteous sights were known in times of old, when christmas by th' expiring year was told; long e'er our hardy sires, un-nerv'd by sloth, had dwindled down into a pigmy growth. within this pile varieties unite, to please at once the taste, the smell, the sight. robb'd of his vivid green, and glossy dyes, his golden plumage, and his scarlet eyes, here rests the _attic_ pheasant,[ ]--never more, narcissus like, his image to adore; here lies the turkey,[ ] who with redd'ning pride once all the farmer's feather'd brood defy'd; true emblem of _bæotia_, whence he came, a noisy blockhead, emulous of fame. the wheeling plover, and the timid hare, here mix;--the generous ox bestows a share-- his tongue--at jovial tables always found; and indian spice enriches the compound; the rare compound! where various parts conspire to form one mass, which all who taste admire. thus out of chaos did the world first rise, and from confusion sprung th' illumin'd skies. life's pleasures on variety depend, her various views make hope so much our friend. thus while the bard by _avon's_ winding stream unfolded to the _naiadès_ his theme, while from the humid rocks, and cavern'd hills, he mark'd them, guiding the salubrious rills to bladud's baths, where rosey health presides, shedding her influence o'er the steaming tides; wondering he saw britannia's genius nigh, aiding the nymphs, and blessing their supply. if near my springs, she cry'd, you chance to view my son, to honour and to virtue true; my fav'rite devonshire, of antient line, where loyalty and truth united shine, the faithful guardian of his country's fate, the friend of freedom and the british state, exert the panacea of your art, hygeia fair, your sovereign powers impart; unlock the sacred treasures of your store, and give the patriot to my arms once more; esteem'd in public, as in private lov'd, and ev'n by foes unwillingly approv'd. footnotes: [ ] this pye was composed of pheasants, turkeys, plovers, snipes, woodcocks, partridges, ox tongue, and hare, &c. [ ] when their present majesties honoured the city of london with their presence, sir samuel fludyer, bart., late lord mayor, entertained them with more elegance than ever was known. [ ] according to aldrovandus, the pheasant is very fond of viewing his own image. [ ] according to the same writer, the turkey is originally a bæotian bird. _the agricultural meeting._ tune--"_the king of the cannibal islands._" this excellent song was written on occasion of the meeting of the royal agricultural society of england at derby, in the year , under the presidency of the earl of hardwicke, and was a general favourite. come gather round and form a throng, and trust me i'll not keep you long, i'll entertain you with a song on the agricultural meeting! a subject i have good and pat, to make you smile, i'll answer that; they say that laughing makes one fat, and if you don't laugh i'll eat my hat! i'll not give pain by any jokes,-- tho' of the derby 'tis, good folks, about it there's not any "_hoax_," the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, care, and strife, all the world will, and his wife, muster there, upon my life, at the agricultural meeting. the wish'd-for time is very nigh, and all to do their best will try, on the eleventh of july, at the agricultural meeting! come forward, lads, your best make haste, you that plough, and you that rake;-- let 'em see that you're awake, for you've a chance a prize to take! forward bring the ox and sheaf, show foreigners unto their grief, the meaning of _real_ corn and beef, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. the thing will just be as it should, for there'll be there, 'tis understood, the rich, the titled, and the good, at the agricultural meeting! of those who in the good cause stand, and help with purse, and heart, and hand, are spencer, hardwick, colvile,[ ] and the duke of richmond--what a band! joy will beam in heart and face, to know that surely 'tis the case, that their gay presence here will grace the agricultural meeting? away with sorrow, &c. 'twill be a glorious holiday-- all the week for fun and play-- no one then at home will stay from the agricultural meeting! every one some sport will catch-- for there will be of fun a batch:-- tuesday they'll come to the scratch, and try the famous ploughing match! of implements there will be a show,-- of things that reap, and things that mow, things to dig, and things that sow, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow &c. when this is o'er, at close of day, again for fun they'll start away-- gents, and ladies, such display-- at the agricultural meeting! they'll to the grand hotel repair, for john bell crompton, who's the mayor, will give a dinner of rare fare, and all the council will be there! then after this, they'll dancing go, and trip it gaily to and fro, upon "the light fantastic toe," at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. on wednesday there's another spree-- the implements again we'll see, and prove what's done in husbandry, at the agricultural meeting! come dick and thomas, ralph and giles, in your best clothes, and your smiles, over hedges, ditches, stiles-- across the country--many miles! then on _that_ night it will fall-- the council are invited all to dinner at the county-hall, from the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. on thursday there'll be more than this-- and such enjoyment who would miss? on that day there'll be double bliss at the agricultural meeting! won't there be a fine to do? pigs and sheep, and oxen, too;-- four-legged calves--and, 'tween i and you, a few, no doubt, that _walk on two_! lots of cattle will be there, derby horses, i declare, as well as our good _derby mayor_, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, &c. on thursday there's another feed-- when they've shown their live-stock breed; for after work they'll something need, at the agricultural meeting! the grand pavilion, deck'd out fine, will be--and there'll two thousand dine:-- and they'll astonish, i opine, above a bit--the food and wine! and even then the sport ne'er stops, for they'll for dancing leave their drops, and take to _capers_ and to _hops_, at the agricultural meeting! away with sorrow, care, and strife, all the world will, and his wife, muster there, upon my life, at the agricultural meeting! footnote: [ ] earl spencer, earl of hardwicke, and c. r. colvile, esq., m.p. _the_ _complainte of anthonie babington._ the following deeply interesting "complaynt" was written by richard williams, and dedicated, in ms., to king james the first. it remained unpublished until , when it was communicated to "the reliquary" by mr. w. durrant cooper, f.s.a. anthony babington was born in , and on the death of his father, succeeded to the family estates at dethick, in derbyshire, which had been acquired by the babingtons through marriage with the heiress of dethick. he was executed, along with thirteen others, under circumstances of peculiar barbarity, on the th of september, , for a conspiracy to liberate the truly unfortunate and much to be commiserated mary queen of scots. his petition to queen elizabeth is simple and touching in the extreme, and the heart must indeed have been callous to good and womanly feeling that could withstand it and spurn its prayer. it is as follows:--[ ] "most gratious souvarigne yf either bitter teares a pensisve contrite harte ore any dutyfull sighte of the wretched synner might work any pitty in your royall brest, i would wringe out of my drayned eyes as much bloode as in bemoaninge my drery tragedye shold, lamentably bewayll my faulte, and somewhat (no dought) move you to compassion, but synnce there is no proportione betwixte the qualitye of my crimes and any human commiseration, showe sweet queene some mirakle on a wretch that lyethe prostrate in yr prison, most grivously bewaylinge his offence and imploringe such comforte at your anoynted hande as my poore wives misfortunes doth begge, my childe innocence doth crave, my gyltless family doth wishe, and my heynous trecherye dothe leaste deserve, so shall your divine mersy make your glorye shyne as far above all princes, as my most horrible practices are more detestable amongst your beste subiectes, whom lovinglye and happielye to governe. "i humbly beseche the mercye master himself to grante for his sweete sonnes sake, jesus christe." [illustration: end of petition, signed by anthony babington] the following is the "complaynte of anthonie babington by richard williams:"-- to the kinges most excellent maiestie with all other kinglie titles and dignities whatsoever to whome your poore humble subject richard williams wishethe healthe long life and many happy yeares to reigne over us to the glory of god and your maiesties comforte. my dreade and royall sovereigne, this anthonie babington was borne at a mansion house of his father called dethicke in the countie of darbye in the parishe of critche; whose father was a man of good accompte and lived well and orderlie in his contrie, kept a good house, and releived the poore. but he was inclined to papistrie as the times then required; who had a brother that was doctor of divinitie in queene maryes dayes, of whome some mention is made in this storye. this anthonye, the son, was a yonge man, well featured, and of good proportion in all the lyneamentes of his bodie, of a most pregnante fyne witt and great capacitie, had a watchinge head, ande a moste proude aspiringe mynde; and by nature a papist, whereinn hee was borne and brought upp; where if he had bene trayned otherwise hee might have proved a good member of the common wealthe, where nowe be became a reproche and scandall to the same. in whose course of life many accidents hapned even from his birthe to his deathe as appeares in this his complainte wherein i have followed the methode of a booke intituled, the "mirrour of magistrates" wherein everye man semes to complayne of his owne misfortunes, humbly beseeching your royall maiestie to pardon all defectes as well in my writinge as in the baseness of the verses. in the one i have done as well as my learninge did serve me, for the other as well as my olde eyes woulde permitt me, which i beseech your royall maiestie to censure with clemencye, and i will trulye praise to the almightie for the long continuance of your healthe and happie estate bothe to godes glorye and your maiesties comforte. your poore distressed subjecte richard williams. the complainte of anthonie babington, sometyme of lyncolns inne esquier, who with others weare executed for highe treason in the feildes nere lyncolns inne the xixth of september a^o .[ ] footnotes: [ ] the original is in the bateman collection at lomberdale house. [ ] an error for th. a dreame or induction. anthonie babington his complaynt. what will it avayle on fortune to exclayme when a due desarte is chiefest cause of all; myself and none but myselfe justlie can i blame, that thus have procured myne untymelie fall; and turned have my honnye swete unto bitter gall. wherefore good frende take thie penne and write, and in mournful verse my tragedie recite. long mighte i have lived a contented happie state, and have borne a porte and countnance with the beste, if fortune should me cheicke, i could her mate; thus none like me more happie was and bleste, till that discontente procured myne unreste; and the pompe of pride so glared in myne eyen, that i rejected vertue moste devyne. but firste i will tell thee myne estate, and name, and contrie soile, where i was bredd and borne; anthonie babington i hight; of a worthy house i came, till my mysdemeanours made me forlorne, givinge cause to my foes to laugh me to scorne. whoe have stayned my state and blemisht my name, in clymbing by follie have falne to my shame. at dethwicke in darbye shire i was both borne and bredd; my father was an esquier of good reputation; a good house he kepte, a virtuose life he ledd; my selfe beinge a childe was helde in estimation; but havinge gott the rayne i changed my facion; then privatlie i sought my owne will and pleasure, livinge to my liking, but never kepte a measure. doctour babington myne _eame_[ ] did pronosticate that harde was the happe whereto i was borne, he sayde that "pride by glorye shoulde abate and destenye decreede i shoulde be folorne;" whose wordes my father then helde in scorne, "o trayne him up well," mine unkell did saye, "unlesse hee repente the same a nother daye." "give hym not brother his libertie in youthe, for then olde dayes hee never shall see, hee is my nephewe the more is my rewthe, to think of his happe and harde destinie, if skill beguyle me not hanged he shalbe." this was the foresight of my father's brother, for which lote of his hee was hated by my mother. i know not where hee spoke by hassarde or skill, for such divinations i doe not comende; yet his counsell was good to flie future ill; for whoe so in vertue there dayes doe not spende shalbe sure with me repente them in th' ende. the proofe of myne unkells worde i founde so trewe as by the sequell hereafter you may viewe. not longe after my father resyned upp his breathe, and lefte my wofull mother with a great charge; whiche proved for us all to tymelie a deathe; for then good gentelwoman her purse ranne at large, havinge of debts and legacies great somes to discharge; but in the state of widowhode not long she tarried for with that good gentleman henry foljambe she married. whoe loved us all tenderlie as wee had benne his owne, and was verye carefull of oure education, whose love so mee was diverse wayes showne, and i of the saime had daylie probation, and by this maye appeare of whiche i make narration. withe his owne chaine of golde hee would mee oftene decke whiche made me a proud boye to weare about my necke. as on a tyme this chayne about my necke i did weare, and going to an orcharde some apples to gett, when clymbing a high tree, as one without feare, the boughe then brake, whereon my foote i sett, and downwarde i slipt, but was caught in a nett. in the tree i was hanged faste by the chayne, so desyre of my pride was cause of my payne. but was not suffered there longe to hang, but was nere strangled or i was taken downe, for there i strugled with suche a deadlie pange; my mother shee frighted and fell in a sowne, and griefe made my father likewise to frowne. but my reviving, there sorrowes over caste; then they rejoyeste sayinge, "my destinie was paste." thus carelesse a tyme with them i lived at pleasure, surfetted with self will and with fonde delite; i knew no golden meane, nor never kepte a measure, but like a kyndlie beare gan tymelie to byte. even then i harborde envye and sucked despite; and pride at that instante tooke so deepe a roote, that humilitie for ever was troden under foote. in myne noneage i was when my father dyde, philip draycott, of paynslie hee did me obtayne, whoe had appoynted me his doughter for my bryde, and in whose house a space i did remayne; there suckte i pleasure that proved to my payne; there was i misled in papistre my soul to wounde; there was i corrupted made rotten and unsounde. there, even there awhile, i spente my youthfull tyme, there was i lulled in securitie faste asleepe, then was i frollicke, there was i in my pryme, in jollitie then i laught, but never thought to weepe; my witts were moste fynne and conceits verye depe. but oh paynslie! paynslie! i may thee curse; where nature made me ill, education made me worse. for by nature i was with papistrie infected, but might have beene restrayned, had it pleased god; my father and myne eame they weare suspected; they lived with there censcience wherein i was odd, therefore was beaten with a more sharper rodd; there conscience they kepte, & ruled it by reason; livinge like subjectes, and still detested treason. my father-in-lawe still ledd me to what i was inclined; i meane for my conscience, no farther he coulde deale; my mayntnance sufficient to content my mynde, so that all this, whiche i tasted, nought but weale, but could not be contente, which i muste nowe reveale. my fynne head was desyrouse to studye the lawe, in attainge whereof i proved my selfe a dawe. and for that cause forthwith i to london wente, where in lyncolns inne a student i became; and there some part of my flittinge tyme i spente, but to bee a good lawyer my mynde coulde not frame; i addicted was to pleasure and given so to game; but to the theater and curtayne woulde often resorte, where i mett companyons fittinge my disporte. companyons, quothe you, i had companyons in deede, suche as in youthe with me weare well content to drawe; lyncked so in myscheife, wherein wee did excede, we cared not for order nor paste of reasons lawe; of god, nor of good man, wee stoode in little awe. wee paste the bounds of modestie, and lived without shame, wee spotted our conscience, and spoiled our good name. we cared not for the church, that place we not frequented; the tavernes weere better our humors to fitt. the companye of dayntie dames, wee chieflie invented; with whom in dalliance wee desyred ofte to sitt. theise weare the fruytes of yonge hedds and witt; thus in lustlie libertie i led a loose life, and thoughe i weare maried i cared not for my wife. yett to the sèrmons wee woulde oftene resorte, not in hope edification by them to obtayne; but rather to jeste and make of them a sporte; whiche nowe i feele to my sorrowe griefe and payne; these bee the fruytes that sicophantes doe gayne, cheiflie when they mocke, and skorne god's worde, disdaining the servantts and prophetts of the lorde. with catholicks still conversant i coveted to be, that weare alwayes in hope and looked for a daye; gapinge for a change which wee trusted to see. ambition so stonge me my selfe i could not staye, whiche makes me sighes to sighe well a waye. then i had my will and playde with pleasure's ball, then i was alofte and feared not this fall. yett so covertlie all this tyme i did my selfe behave, and so closelie wrought in subtell _syners_ faime, what so ere i thought my selfe i sought to save, livinge all this while without suspecte or blame; and more to wynne mee credditt a courtier i becaime; where the syrens song so swetelie i did synge, i never was suspected to worke such a thinge. the nobles of the courte of me thoughte so well, that often to their tables they would me invite; where in gesture and talke i did the common sorte excell; thereby wynninge favor in my company to delite, whiche with a judas kisse i soughte to requyte. as in a sequell of my storye will after appeare, which i shame to tell it toucheth me so nere. and daylie more and more my credditt did increase, and so in like manner did pride still abounde; beloved i was bothe of more and lesse; when my inwarde motions were all unsounde; my parsonage was comelie which favour eache where founde; but pryde had so blynded me i could not see. that with iccarus aloft, i mynded was to flee. the grounde, that i troade on, my feet could not holde, nor i bee contente in a happie state to reste, like bayarde that blushed not, then was i more bolde; when rancor inwardlie still boyled in my breste, that like an unnaturall birde i filed my neste; in parlinge with parasites that looked for a daye, by the counsell of caterpillers, i wrought my decaye. then i beganne to prie into matters of the state, and with what i liked nott i secrett faulte did fynde; where i fawned openlie, i inwardlie did hate, and to my confederates would closelie breake my mynde; i mean to suche as to my love weare inclynde; betweene whome and mee suche mischiefe intented, that we thoughte to have made all england repented. where upon in to france a jorney i did frame, to parle with _padgett_, _morgan_, and others of that crewe; what wee had but decrede, they resolved on the same; whose pretended purpose at large, when i knewe, i willinglie consented too, which makes mee nowe to rewe; and to sett the same forwarde a solleme oathe did take; o cursed conscience that a traytor didst me make! then into englande i retorned agayne with spede, and gott conferrence hereof with some of greate fame. manye weare the plotts, whereon we agreed; and greate the attemptes, whereat wee did aime; which afterwarde proved oure ruynose shaime; and aspiringe pride so fyred my harte, i was content to playe a traytors parte. footnote: [ ] this word signifies uncle. _vide_ ash. dict. his articles of arraygnment. yea to bee a most savage monster agaynste all kynde, in seking the deathe of my queene, the lord's anoynted, ambition so stonge me, that i was stroke blynde, in pluckinge her downe that god had appoynted, and the unitie of the realme in sonder to have joynted; to have made kings and rulers at our pleasure; to have exceeded in vyllanye without rule or measure. to have made suche lawes as wee thought beste; to have turned the state quyte upside downe; the nobles to have slayne and clene dispossest; and on a stranger hedd have placed the crowne; herein we weare resolute, but fortune did frowne, no twas god woulde not suffer our villanyes take place; but unlookte for retornde them to our shamefull disgrace. farther our intente was to poyson the ordinance of the realme; a most haynouse matter as ever was invented, whoe ever hath harde of trecheries so extreame, concluded, agreed upon, and fullye consented? an wofull matter of all to be lamented. all court rolls and records we mente to have raced, and them to have burned spoyled and defaced. the faire cittie of london wee also mente to rifell, to have rob'de the rich, and killed eke the poore; theis thinges in effecte we counted but a trifell; in all places of the lande have sett an uprore; the wealthie to have bereavde both of life and store, no state nor degree we weare mente to spare, but if hee would resiste deathe should be his share. theise weare our intents, with mischiefs many more, even confusion to the whole realme to have brought, confederates we had, and that no small store; which ruyne and destruction weare readie to have wrought; we either mente to make or bringe all to noughte. nought ne nought indeede, for nought weare our happs, for desperate myndes doe feare no after clapps: so forwarde weare that the verye daye was sett to murther our good queene, that god had preserved; _barnewell_ and _savage_ should have done the feate; but justice rewarded them as they well deserved, being twoe monstrose traytors that from duty swerved; the daggs and all things weare redye preparde, but in the nett they layde, they themselves weare snared. and _ballarde_, that beast, hee into england was come, a jesuite, a prieste, and a semynarie vilde; hee brought with him our absolution from roome, promysinge good successe, wherein he was beguyled; so that from our hartes all pitye hee exilde; and still he incoraged us in my myscheife to precede, egging us forwarde wherein there was no neede. but god woulde not suffer us so closelie to worke, but that all our doyngs laye open in his sight: revealinge those myscheifs, that in our hartes did lurke, when wee suspected not, he brought the same to light. then must wee hyde our hedds, or scape awaye by flight; but when wee had inklinge our treasons were descryde, away awaye in haste twas then no tyme to byde. then watche and warde was made in everye coaste, then weare wee taken, eache houre of the daye; my selfe was once taken, but whie shoulde i boaste, howe that i made a scape and so gott awaye, not knowinge where to goe nor have perfitt staye; but to harrow on the hill my selfe i convayde, there in _bellamyes_ howse a little tyme i stayde. but there was made for me suche previe watche and warde, and the contrie so besett, i no where coulde flye, all hope of my escape was utterlie debarde; and searche in eache corner was made no nye, that i was compelde this polecye to trye; to forsake the house and my self disguyse, lyke an inkeper of london, to bleare the people's eyes. but a rewarde was promyst hym that coulde me take, which made the people looke so much the nere; and beinge constrayned the house to forsake; walked throughe the pastures as men without feer; my man, like an hostler, was cladd in simple geare; but this woulde not serve if truthe i shall tell, my favor i could not change, my face was knowen well. there was a poore man, a weaver, was one of the watch, by whome the gate laye, as of force i must walke; hee came to mee boldly, by the arme did me catche, "staye, good frende," quothe he, "with you i must talke:" my consciense beinge guyltie my tonge gane to balke. "wee are not those you looke for," i foltringlie did say, "our comyssion," quoth hee, "is all passengers to staye." then the people gan flocke aboute me a pace, and before the master of the rolls i forthwith was broughte; when i came there, i was knowne by my face. to bee the same man that theye so longe had soughte; and chiefest of the crewe that all the sturr had wroughte; _sir gilberte gerrarde_ examynde, and sente me to the towre, and stronglie was i guarded with a myghtie greate powre. then the londoners rejoyced, and merrye did make, with ringinge of bells, givinge god the prayse; all my olde comon frendes did me clene forsake, that before had flattred me dyverse and sondry wayes; but favor, friendshipp, and faithe by treason decayes, as appeares by me, whosse faime creditt and renowne, my traytrose attempts had sone plucked downe. then shortlie after to the kings benche wee were broughte, and a nomber of others confederates like case; there to make awnswer to the deeds wee had wroughte; but then my glorye gan darkyne apace, yett with a countnance i sett thereon a face; where beinge arraygned, i guyltie was found of high treason, agaynste my kinge and crowne. _barnewell_ and _savage_ had confest the same before; then bootlesse twas for us anye poynte to denaye; our conscience beinge guiltie it irkt us the more; so that fourteene of us weare condemned that daye. we carde not for deathe, wee stowtlie did saye; our judgment was to bee hanged & quartered like case; of whiche wee made no accounte deathe coulde not us disgrace. and nowe the day of our execution drewe nere, in whiche wee did playe our laste tragicke parte; when seven of us on hurdles from the towre were drawne, whiche was no small _corsive_[ ] to our heavie hartes, yet a juste rewarde for our wicked desartes; the people flockte aboute us with this heavie sounde, "god save the queene, and all traytors confounde." in the fieldes near lyncolns inne a stage was sett upp, and a mightie high gallose was rayled on the same, whiche was the verye instrument & our deadlie cuppe, of whiche to taste our selves wee must frame; and beastlye _ballarde_ twas hee beganne the game, whoe was hanged and quartered in all the peoples sight, and his head on a poule on the gallose sett upright. nexte muste i make readie to treade the same dance; wherto i prepared myselfe, as a man without feare, thousands lamented i had so harde a chance, and for mee there was shedd many a salte teare; they lookte for confession, but weare never the nere, _sir francis knolls_ with others offered with me to praye, "none but catholick's prayers will profitt thus" did i saye. thus died i stoutlie and did not trulie repente, my wicked life paste and moste haynouse treason; if in a good cause my life had been spente, to have avouchte the same there had bene some reason; but wickedlie i lived and died at that season. havinge hanged a while, and my head cut off in haste, on the right hande of _ballards_ it was placed.[ ] then died _barnwell_; _savage_; and yonge _tuchborne_; with _tilnie_; and _abington_, in order as they came; but o tuchborne! tuchborne! thou makest me follorn! for i was the firste that allurde thee to the same, thie witts beinge yonge likewaye i did frame, thou beinge well inclined through mee didst consente to conceale the thinge that made us all repente. the nexte daye dyed _salsburye_; _henrye dunne_; & _jones_; and _john travice_ of preskott, which is in lancashire; so did _john charnocke_, a traytor for the nonce; _robert gage_ of croydon muste then on stage appeare; and lastlie _bellamye_ our hoste that made us all the chere. theise seven weare apointed on _sainte matthewes_ daye, the twentithe of september their partes they did playe. oure quarters weare boyled like the flesh of swyne, and on the cittie gates in open veiwe doe stande; our conceited hedds, that once wee thought so fyne, on london bridge be spectakles to subjectes of the lande, warning them to shunne to take like things in hande. our selves in the censure of god's judgments doe reste; this was the rewarde for the treasons wee profeste. thus have i tolde thee my traggedie at large, in everye particular as the same was wroughte; reporte it to my contrie men, i thee straytlie charge, to shunn those things, that my destruction brought, for traytrose attempts at all tyme prove noughte, serche our englishe chronikells thou shalte fynde the same, that, whoe beginns in trecherie, hee endeth still in shame. at my request therefore admonyshe then all men, to spende well the tallente, that god hathe them lente; and hee that hathe but one lett hym not toyle for tenne, for one is to muche unlesse it be well spente; i meane by ambition leaste he to sone repente. to conclude happie is the man and threefold bleste is he, that can be contente to live with his degree. felix quam faciunt aliena pericula cantum. finis. footnotes: [ ] _sic._ query corrosive? [ ] these executions were also commemorated by thomas deloney, in a ballad edited by mr. j. p. collier, for the percy society, in .--_old ballads_, p. . the lines on babington are-- next _babington_, that caitife vilde, was hanged for his hier; his carcase likewise quartered, and hart cast in the fire. and of those executed on the st, he makes _donne_ and _jones_ both complain of babington. the first of them was _salsburie_, and next to him was _dun_, who did complaine most earnestly of _proud yong_ babington. both lords and knights of hye renowne he meant for to displace, and likewise all the towers and townes and cities for to raze: so likewise _jones_ did much complaine of his detested pride, and shewed how lewdly he did live before the time he died. richard jones had been licensed on th august, to print a ballad authorised by the archbishop of canterbury, "beinge a joyfull songe made by a citizen of london in the behalfe of her mat^{ies} subjectes touchinge the joye for the taking of the traytors." _registers of the stationers' company_, vol. ii., p. ; but no copy is known to be extant. _a new song in praise of_ _the derbyshire militia._ this song is of the period from to , and is here given from a broad-sheet in my own collection. it is the only copy i have as yet met with. at the head of the song is a wood-cut of three soldiers seated round a table, smoking. on the table is a punch-bowl and glasses. on the same sheet is "_the pressed man's lamentation_," a song of four verses, beginning, "farewell our daddies and our mammies." at the head is a wood-cut of two ships at sea, one of which has struck on a rock. should the french but presume on our coast to appear, we'll meet them as freely as we would drink beer with courage undaunted or glory enhance, nor let our roast beef be a dainty to france, be this our ambition in chorus to sing, he's just to himself who is true to his king. so brave our commanders so generous and kind, to love and obey them we are all inclin'd, no terror nor dread in our conduct is shewn, their good and our king we prefer to our own. be this our ambition in chorus to sing he's just to himself who is true to his king. those false-hearted fellows who fall from their lot, and others procure as they think to be shot, deserve with a badge to be branded with shame, they are not of britains deserving the name, but make us quite angry whilst that we sing, they're untrue to themselves their country and king. we are willing and free now the order is come, from derby to march with the fife and the drum. come fill up your glasses boys up to the brim, that they mayn't overflow let us chalk round the rim, let each take his bumper and drive away care, with a toast to the king and the duke of devonshire. to our wives and our sweethearts that we must leave behind, we hope all true britons to them will be kind, altho that we go for the term of three years, and as we expect to face proud monsieurs, if we live to return then we'll merrily sing, and we'll drink a good health unto george our king. _the florist's song._ the florists' society of derby flourished in the latter part of last century. its meetings were held at the angel inn, in the corn-market; and it held exhibitions, at which prizes were awarded. the following song was sung at the convivial meetings of its members, and is here reprinted from a broad-sheet in my own possession. attend ye jolly gardeners of every degree, from the setter of a _flower_, to the planter of a _tree_: _and a planting we will go, will go, and a planting we will go._ our first great father adam, was a gardener by trade; and likewise eve our mother, did use the pruning blade: _and a planting_, &c. since gardening so ancient, it's praises let us sing; for in his own enclosure, he's as happy as a king: _and a planting we will go_, &c. observe th' lowly _shrub_, and lofty spreading _trees_; that form the pleasant shade, fann'd by th' pleasant breeze: _and a planting_, &c. the florist claims the precedence, in this delightful art; in ranging of his _flowers_, and setting each a-part: _and a planting_, &c. take notice of their beauties, and all their various hues; set by his skillful hand, and rais'd by gentle dews: _and a planting_, &c. it wou'd be much too tedious, to tell each _flower's_ name; or, which for smell or beauty, th' preference can claim: _and a planting_, &c. yet all allow the auricula has the greatest share; since feasts are held in honour of the _flower_ ev'ry year: _and a planting_, &c. it is of ancient standing, and well conducted too; when each in emulation, their finest _flowers_ show: _and a planting_, &c. there is a _prize_ allotted, to him that gains the day; and 'tis the noblest _flower_, that bears the prize away: _and a planting_, &c. likewise the second best, for so we all agree; has both his ordinary and extraordinary free: _and a planting_, &c. these _flowers_ rais'd from seed, which we preserve with care; for if the seed be bad, the _flowers_ they are not fair: _and a planting_, &c. we have stewards at our _feasts_, to see that all be right; in joy we spend the day, and pleasure crowns the night: _and a planting_, &c. our _feasts_ are full of mirth, we have no windy wars; we never raise disputes, and are very free from jars: _and a planting_, &c. our judges are impartial, both faithful men and true; they never take a bribe, but gives each man his due: _and a planting_, &c. then to conclude, since _florists_ enjoy so sweet a life; here's a health to the society all foes to _care_ and _strife_: _and a planting we will go, will go, and a planting we will go._ _the sorrowful lamentation, last dying speech and confession of_ _old nun's green,_ _who after upwards of years (being a great and good gift, by john of gaunt, duke of lancaster, and earl of leicester) was tried, cast and condemned, on the th of february, , for being serviceable to the poor people of this town, as well as a stranger, but a great eye sore to some particular gentlemen; but the execution is left till the pleasure of parliament be known._ nun's green was a large piece of ground, containing about fifty acres of land, in the town of derby, on which the inhabitants of the borough had right of common. on this common many encroachments were made by persons digging for gravel, erecting small buildings, etc.; and in an act was passed for selling a portion of the green, so as to erect dwelling-houses for the increasing population of the town, and for the removal of nuisances and encroachments. in the remaining portion of the green was determined to be sold for the like purpose, and application for the necessary powers was made to parliament, the scheme being that the proceeds should in part, at all events, go towards defraying the cost of paving and lighting, and otherwise improving, the town of derby. this movement provoked the utmost opposition, and i have in my own collection some thirty or forty, at least, different hand-bills, squibs, pamphlets, and songs to which the excitement gave birth. despite the opposition and the petitions which were got up, nun's green was disposed of, and the tract of land is now covered with thickly inhabited streets. the following pieces will serve to show the style of the songs and ballads to which i have alluded. the first, which is printed in two columns, has a wood-cut, at its head, of a man being led to execution in a cart, with hangman, parson, javelin-men, and others around-- _a traveller's dream._ last night as slumbering on my bed i lay, good people pray now mind but what i say, i thought as i was walking over cross nun's green, i saw the fairest goddess that was ever seen: her head reclining o'er the purling stream, at first i thought this could not be a dream, i ask'd her name, and weeping thus said she, i once was call'd, that jewel liberty. i ask'd her, why she in that posture lay, she rais'd her head, and softly thus did say, with broken accents and with flowing tears, "i have liv'd here, four hundred and sixty years; was station'd here by glorious john of gaunt, who never thought the poor should ever want, but now i'm doom'd to die a cruel death, by gentlemen, who never knew my birth; because i gave assistance to the poor, and oft times kept the wolf, sir, from the door, because i'll not be sold the streets to light, that is the reason, sir they owe me spite; if gentlemen could only once agree, they need not hang nor sell poor liberty, but let me live as i was first design'd, to be a comfort to the poorest kind: tho' i'm the smallest of that family, i'm not the only child of liberty. if you will tamely stand and see me die, you'll soon repent the loss of liberty: my other sisters soon, must fall a prey, to those who falsely take my life away; now tyranny does put the town in fear, don't wonder why i drop this melting tear, tread on a worm, that insect cannot bite, but turns in anguish to revenge its spite: so let them know such usage you'll not brook whilst such a man does live as parker coke;" at this i shouted, but found it a joke, a dream it was, so instantly awoke. _a poem,_ _found by mr. * * * and dedicated to major trowel._--mdccxcii. when heav'n from earth had shut out day, and all was wrapt in darkest night, on nuns green bridge in proud array there stood a venerable sprite. pale was his face, and, marked with scars, his burnished steel was all complete; the same with which in rueful wars, he did our ancient foes defeat. a goodly knight, forsooth, was he, (as in old story may be seen) for he to derby gave in fee, that airy, healthful, pleasant green. across the plain the spectre went, (he stalked with all the pomp of yore) then calling loud, "i'm john of ghent," he tapt at sammy's chamber door. now pow'r of speech from samuel flew, his pride and courage were quite gone, full sorely now he did him rue, of all the guilty deeds he'd done. the door upon the hinges creak'd, in came the envoy from the dead, poor sammy, sweating, frighted, sneaked under the cov'ring of his bed. "crompton," the spectre said, "i come "thy guilty conduct to arraign, "from the close confines of the tomb "where i for ages past have lain. "nuns green was mine by martial lot, "the just acquirement of the brave; "and what by prowess i had got, "to charity i freely gave. "how dar'st thou then with impious hand, "this public property invade? "nor shall thy mean and quibbling band "defeat the generous grant i made. "why not a bright example give, "why not espouse an honest cause, "why not support those men who strive, "t' inforce our good and ancient laws? "oh sammy! quit the hireling crew "which now the town so much disgrace, "and be it said thou can'st be true, "to th' rights of this thy native place. "renounce that nonconforming set, "whose party zeal, and public hate, "would wildest anarchy beget, "and glory in a ruin'd state. "remember how they serv'd their king, "how serv'd the faithful barons bold-- "they voted one an useless thing, "to unjust death the other sold. "in all the wiles of satan taught, "despising order, god, and laws; "with bitter rage and envy fraught, "they plead the grand reforming cause. "to that unhappy time look back, "when britain, tottering from her base, "sent forth her chosen sons t' attack, "a haughty and rebellious race. "ah! think of saratoga's day, "or on that horrid murd'rous scene, "when fainting legions bleeding lay "unpitied on the rebel plain. "and when repeated losses prov'd, "the brave embattled hosts betrayed; "the gloomy tale they heard unmov'd, "and, smiling, her defeats survey'd. "no longer then such miscreants join, "to rob the poor of common right; "renounce this guilty scheme of thine, "by other means the town enlight. "to meddling majors leave the field, "who, deeply skill'd in warlike art, "the battle-sword can fiercely wield, "and march their armies 'gainst a cart.[ ] "the red rose gift shall ne'er be seen "immur'd in filth, and foul'd by crimes; "nor shall the lancastrian green, "disgrac'd, descend to distant times." thus spoke the fierce offended sprite, then vanishing, with sullen gloom, through the dark realms of dreary night, he hasten'd to the silent tomb. the clock struck one, and sam arose from off his damp and dewy bed, and swore he'd ne'er again oppose what angry john of ghent had said. footnote: [ ] a great impediment to the manoeuv'ring of the militia, about years ago. _the quadrupedes, &c.,_ _or, four-footed petitioners, against the sale of nun's-green. a terrestrial poem. written by me the celestial bard!!_ [**pointing hand symbol]i sing of asses:----(a motto of my own.) two _jack-asses_, (the _father_, and his _son_,) who, after work, on _nun's-green_ us'd to run exactly like two _bards_;--the other day stood in a _muse_;--and then began to bray with human voice;--for _balaam's_ breed were they. quoth _old ned_, to his _lad_;--"i have been told, _nun's-green_, my little dear, is to be sold to pave, and light, old derby; (_fulsome town!_) and save the poor from _laying money down_. now is it _fair_, that you and i should be depriv'd of our just _rights_, and _property_? it is an _insult_ on the _jack-ass_ kind, who have possess'd this _green_, time out of mind; and in co-partnership with _pigs_ and _geese_ (a truly ancient, honorable race!) enjoy'd a _bit o' mouth_, and common run, quite down from _john of ghent_, to you my son. "say little _david_, why the devil should _asses_ find fault with _dirty_ ways, and _narrow_ passes? these wild _projectors_, are the _asses_ foes, for _pavements_, boy, will only hurt our _toes_; and when the town's improv'd, in proud array we poor _jack-asses_, shall be driven away! no _panniers_ then, forsooth, must there be seen, so let us all _unite_ to keep _nun's-green_." the youthful _ass_, brim full of _spiteful_ ire, prick'd up his ears; and answer'd _thus_, his _sire_, "this shall not be;--this shall not come to pass; they shall not rob us of our _lawful grass_! and if to parliament the _knaves_ should stray, we'll throw _petitions_ in the _robbers'_ way." so saying, young _david_, on all fours bent, to _lawyer goose_, for pious counsel went: _quill_ took his _fee_, (the _life_ and _soul_ of law) then heard the _case_; and _thus_, unscrew'd his jaw: "you must _petition_, sir; and every creature that is _aggriev'd_, must put his _pen_ to _paper_: "as hunters' _pudding_, we most toothsome find, the more with _currants_ or with _plumbs_, 'tis lin'd; so your _petition_ will disturb their dreams, the more 'tis stuff'd, with _any kind of names_." "thank ye," quoth he; "my business now is done; back to my _daddy_, and _nun's-green_ i'll run;" so saying, swift he flew; and _edward_ found all at his ease; and rolling on the ground: the _scrawl_ he read; and all compos'dly then, stretch'd forth his hoofs; and 'twixt them held his pen, the paper sign'd, and after him the _geese_, and _pigs_, aggriev'd;--fill'd up each vacant space. yet not enough, to please his craving maw, and answer all the good _intents_ of law, young _david_ did a _glorious_ thought reveal; "that _rats_, and _mice_, would suffer by the _sale_! and by destroying _swamps_, and _wholesome bogs_, it must invade the _property_ of _frogs_! so _these_ amongst the rest, as i divine should be solicited, forthwith to _sign_." "right;" said old _ned_, "you reason well, my son; directly to the _dikes_, and _gutters_ run; and if you cannot there, get _names_ enough, employ some _rat_ to canvass every _sough_." away he went;--away, away, went he; out came my lady _froggy_, who but she! smirk'd at the _paper_, nibb'd her crow quill pen, then sign'd her _name_ against these _naughty men_. next to the _mice_, young _david_ went with speed; poor little souls, they could not _write_ or _read_! but well inclin'd, to stop, these _horrid scenes_, employ'd the _jack-ass_, to write down their names. now _david_ got the whole, engross'd on skins, forming a pile, much higher than one's shins! and when roll'd up, upon his back 'twas ty'd, who, then for _london_ went, in _stately pride_! but here's the _rub_;--when parliament, serene, consider'd _well_, the business of _nun's-green_; and by _each_ house, most clearly understood, that 'twas a plan, design'd for public good, they curs'd the _names_, and laugh'd at all the _rigs_, contriv'd by asses, geese, frogs, mice, and pigs. _paving and lighting,_ _a new song._ _to the tune of chivy chase._ god prosper long fair derby town, and may it still be free; from hellish plots of every kind, against its liberty. a juncto formed of wicked men, though rich its true they be, they'd rob the poor of common-right, that they may go shot free. the prebyterians jesuit like, the established church took in; to do the drudgery of their work, and trudged through thick and thin. poor silly men to be misled, by that deceitful race; that would cut your throat behind your back, but smile before your face. from the town-hall they issue forth, with _eunuch_ at their head; lazarus the banker followed him, you'd have thought they wanted bread. next one from beggar's blood that sprung, to opulence grown is he; and _struts_ along with iron rod, and swears you shan't be free. a tawny _smith_ was of the gang, and others as well as he; they've neither house nor land in town, yet want your property. a brazen face with empty skull, in dibden's tour well known; that cares not what he does or says, so that the poor's o'erthrown. sly _foxes_ too with silly _hopes_, expect to have their share; of all the common-right you have, their pockets for to spare. lo! deep in thought as tragic muse, with dagger to stab behind; lo! another as bad as he, and much of the same kind. the scribbling kind with parchment roll, for you to sign away, the right you have upon _nun's-green_, their charges to defray. there are many others of the gang, as bad as bad can be; that lie, fawn, and threat, and use deceit, to get your property. old _shot-bag_ he has chang'd about, that his mills may go shot-free; some others too have done the same, such worthless men there be. but all's a blank that they have done, if you but true will be; to the first promise that was made, the friends to liberty. now mundy's join'd with parker coke, and others of renown; those tyrants for to circumvent, to save this goodly town. those veterans that have stood the brunt, of many a well fought day; will always cheer you in the front, and shew you the right way. for to be free as britons ought, and have a right to be; in spite of these tyrannic fools, that want your liberty. _the nun's-green rangers,_ _or the triple alliance. consisting of an old sergeant, a tinker, and a bear._ tune--_bow, wow, wow._[ ] come listen to me, neighbours all, attend unto my story, my song concerns not _church_ or _king_, neither _whig_ nor _tory_; but my ballad is to caution you, against the machinations, of those who mean t' impose on you by false insinuations. bow, wow, wow. there's jemmy pad, that _irish lad_, who heads the clan of faction, swears by the _holy poker_ now, he'll make us all distraction, to keep nun's green that _precious_ land, for his own _dear_ advantage, he means by lies to dupe you all, and gobble up the pasturage. bow, wow, wow. good twenty pounds a year, this son of a teague sir, of lawful british money is regularly paid sir, for driving the poor geese, from the land their inheritance, whereby he addeth riches to _irish impertinence_. bow, wow, wow. there's tinker joe comes next, because next in colour, he tells you all he'll make a speech, but alas, he's no scholar; he'll talk of lords and baronets his juvenile connections, by mending all their pots and pans, he's gained their affections. bow, wow, wow. to claim your attention more, he'll talk about the parliament, and say how many members, old _ruby face_ has thither sent, that his interest is great in affairs of the nation, though still _baboon_ of nottingham, _nun's green_ shall be his station. bow, wow, wow. oroonoko next presents himself, t' engage your attention, as oft' before the _bear_ has done, with many a vile intention, by blasts and oaths to lead you all, against your common senses, for tho' almost an ideot, he'll forge some false pretences. bow, wow, wow. but none of you've forgot, the _sixteenth_ of _september_, th' exalted part he then perform'd, you all must well remember; by such a wretch you'll ne'er be led, against your inclinations, who persecutes the poor man with _game informations_. bow, wow, wow. then join neighbours all, without hesitation, resist these imposters, without exceptation, may all of us with one accord, oppose this host of evil, and send sergeant pad and co. to canvas with the d---l. bow, wow, wow. footnote: [ ] this tune is the same as "the barking barber" and "date obolum belisario." _a birch rod for the presbytarians._ _a new song._ tune of "_chevy chace_." this ballad, printed from the original broad-sheet in my possession, is another of the series to which i have alluded as being connected with the sale of nun's green, derby. it is printed in two columns, with a wood-cut at its head representing a highlander playing on the bag-pipes. good neighbours all, both great and small, of high and low degree; let's straight unite, ourselves to fight, against this _presbytree_. if you'll but trace this hellish race, thro' every stage of life; where e'er they be you'll plainly see, nought but discord and strife. if you'll history read your hearts will bleed, to hear of their transactions; for _king_ and _church_ have suffered much, by their damn hellish factions. must we be opprest by this vile nest, who strives us to enslave; such is their spleen to sell _nun's green_, the town to light and pave. they do not care who the burden bear, such is their tyranny; to enforce the tax on others' backs, whilst they themselves go free. i wish all such aldermen and folks like them, was forc'd to change their situation; and that greenland hulks for their vile bulks, might for ever be their station. proud oppulence with impudence, as he struts along the streets; swears by his god with his iron rod, he'll beat down all he meets. there's shufling charles both grins and snarles, and where he can he'll bite; for this last mishap he'll surely snap, except he's musseld tight. there's jemmy twichit did both scrub and fidge it, his head he roll'd about; he stampt and swore he'd come there no more, when he found the bill thrown out. they blam'd old george that did not discharge, his duty as he ought; and his addle pate that cou'd not relate, what kind of a bill he'd brought. the wigs got a fall, i wish they ne'er may rise, but henceforth for the future, may learn to be more wise; and ne'er persume to sit in chairs, nor honoured be with town affairs, but stay at home and say their prayers, & not over us tyrannize. pray god above from this earth remove, this vile deceitful crew, and send them hence for their offence, where they may receive their due. god bless _mundy_ and _cooke_, on them we look, as two from heaven sent; to set us free from tyranny, and serve in parliament. _lost and dead._ in the parish register of chapel-en-le-frith is the sad entry of the burial of a child which was found dead in the neighbourhood--"s. sept. , . a poor child found dead in y^e forest." the following ballad, from the pen of mr. henry kirke, is founded on this circumstance. it has not before been printed. the fire burns brightly upon the hearth, and dances and crackles with glee; and the cottar's wife sits before the blaze, but the child--ah, where is she. the cottar's hand is on the latch, and he stands by the opened door, and his wife she kisses his sunburnt cheek, but his child he shall see no more. "she is gone out to play," the dame replied, "and will soon be back again;" but their hearts felt heavy, they knew not why and ach'd sorely as if with pain. and soon the gude wife on the ample board has spread out the frugal fare, but a mist rose up in the cottar's eyes as he gazed on that empty chair. and he started up from his chair and cried, "i can stay no longer here, i must go and find my own bonnie child, for my heart aches sore wi' fear." and he wandered around from house to house, across the weary wild; and his heart grew heavier every step, for no one had seen his child. the night had drawn her curtains dark, and every star shone clear; but still he followed his fruitless search, half dead with fatigue and fear. through brake and copse of the forest drear he followed his weary way, till the rosy light of the morning sun told the dawn of another day. it bathed his face in gladsome light with the stream of its glorious ray, it seemed but to mock his saddened heart, and he turned with a sigh away; he turned away down a mossy dell, where the sunbeams danced and smiled, and there midst the fern and the mossy cups the father found his child. one little arm beneath its head on the mossy bank was laid, and the sunbeams lighted its little face, and the wind with its tresses played. a smile still lingered on those sweet lips, which seemed as by sleep untied, but the father's heart grew cold as he looked, for he knew it had smiled--as it died. _song._ tune--"_vicar and moses_." as a satirical attack on some members of the choir of all saints church, derby, in the last century, the following verses are clever. all saints is the principal church in derby, and its choir has generally had the reputation of being at least tolerably good. i prefer leaving the blanks in the names of the parties, still unfilled. the broad-sheet from which i here reprint it is in my own collection. i. when apollo thinks fit to handle his lyre, the sweet vocal muses take place; the _treble_ and _counter_ repair to their choir, attended with _tenor_ and _bass_. ii. as mortals below--the high gods will be aping in all their sublime occupations; they love to be _singing_ and _piping_ and _scraping_ to assist your devout congregation. iii. thus to raise our devotion and stop all complaints, (as ev'ry man knows it's his duty) we've compleated our choir at the church of _all saints_; that god may be worship'd in _beauty_. iv. whoever comes in it can't help but admire a worship so solomn and goodly; such voices were sure never heard from a choir, as those that are led by _will. d--d--y._ v. _sam. d--d--y's_ sweet _counter will's treble_ excells, well strengthen'd with _roger's_ strong _bass_ each softning each like a good peal of bells, were _c--b--y's_ fine _tenor_ takes place. vi. neither _paul's_ nor _king's chapel_ can boast of such voices, nor can our grand _op'ras_ come near 'em; when on 'em i think, how my spirit rejoices! then what must it do when i hear 'em! vii. tho' their parts are all charming how much his excels, adorning the vocal profession! their _treble_ i mean, that so quavers and swells, enchanting beyond all expression! viii. by the _doctor's_ fine _treble_ how well they are led, whose expression all hearers admire; o'er topping his fellows at least by the _head_, so well he ennobles the _choir_. ix. altho' in the _choir_ he so _eminent_ stands, yet still ith' _orchestra_ he's greater: with his _fiddle_ excelling the greatest of hands, so bountiful to him is nature! x. with this he can _irritate_ all that is quick, (such pow'r have his taste and his tone!) for he ev'ry thing moves but his long fiddle-stick, none like him before was yet known. xi. so useful a hand (without doubt) was ne'er born, for _concerts_, _assembly_ and _ball_; he can turn to the _fiddle_, _bass trumpet_, or _horne_, yet equally _great_ upon all. xii. for _here_ his expressions so _full_ i must own, we ne'er were so fiddled before; but then his fine _taste_, _execution_ and _tone_, delight us a thousand times more. xiii. where lives that grave mortal so strangely supine, so senseless and stupidly lazy; in hearing such hands himself to confine, and not like his brother, grow _crazy_? xiv. to hear such sweet hands who wou'd not but give, or spend the best part of his rental; at so charming a place as _derby_ to live, with such _vocal_ and such _instrumental_? xv. and this is the reason your strolling _italians_, (as it happen'd, we know, to'ther day) at _derby_ are treated like tatter--de mallions, when _unheard_ they went weeping away. finis. n.b. speedily will be published, a particular account of the great abilities of each of these famous _singers_, wherein will be shewn their ignorance and impudence in attempting such things as solo and verse anthems by dr. _greene_, _boyce_, _nares_, &c. oratorio songs and chorusses by mr. handel, &c., &c., it being well known to every person who has the least ear to music, that they are not capable of _decently_ singing a bar in any such compositions. mr. w---- some time since absolutely discharged them from making use of any thing but the old psalm tunes. the scandalous behaviour of _d----_, and _c----_, on this occasion shall be particularly pointed out. _sir francis leke;_ _or the power of love._ _a derbyshire catholic legend of cromwell's time._ the lekes, or leakes, of sutton-in-scarsdale, derbyshire, derived their descent from alan de leka, of leak in nottinghamshire, who was living in . the first of the family who settled at sutton was william, a younger son of sir john leke of gotham, in the early part of the fifteenth century; and the manor was acquired by a marriage with the heiress of the hilarys, who took the name of gray, and who inherited it from robert de hareston, lord of sutton. sir francis leake, the fourth in descent from william above-named, married a co-heiress of swift, and was succeeded by his son francis, who in was created a baronet. in he was created lord deincourt of sutton, and in , earl of scarsdale. these titles became, however, extinct in , by the death of nicholas, the fourth earl, and the last of the family. his lordship took an active part in the civil wars; and lysons, speaking of him, says in , (the beginning of april) "lord deincourt began to fortify his house at sutton. sir john gell sent his brother, colonel thomas gell, with five hundred men and three pieces of ordnance to besiege it. lord deincourt was summoned, but refused to surrender, and for some time obstinately defended himself. the house was taken, and lord deincourt and his men made prisoners. the works were demolished, and lord deincourt set at liberty, on giving his word that he would repair to derby within eight days and submit himself to the parliament. sir john gell observes that the forfeiture of his word on this occasion was revenged by the garrison at bolsover, who some time afterwards, when that castle was in the hands of the parliament, plundered lord deincourt's house at sutton. in lord deincourt was created earl of scarsdale. having rendered himself very obnoxious to the parliament by his exertions in the royal cause during the civil war, his estates were sequestered, and, as he refused to compound, they were sold. his son procured some friends to be the purchasers, he paying the sum of £ , , fixed by the parliamentary commissioners as the composition." his lordship felt so deeply the execution of his royal master, charles the first, that he clothed himself in sackcloth, and, causing his grave to be dug some years before his death, laid himself in it, it is said, every friday for divine meditation and prayer. the following ballad, embodying a tradition concerning sir francis leke, is by richard howitt, one of the "worthies" of derbyshire, of which county i am proud to say he is a native. part i. "o, say not so, sir francis, breathe not such woe to me:-- broad and pleasant are your lands, and your hall is fair to see. faithful servants have you many, fortune fair on you attends; nor hath knight in all the island, braver followers or friends. with the court you are a favourite-- yet your king shall righted be: in his hour of deadly peril can you from your monarch flee? look upon your blooming children, flowers of heaven newly blown! here renewed behold your lucy, and that boy is all your own. shall we in these dread commotions, neither need your arm nor mind, where shall i behold defender, where shall these a father find? how i thought you loved us! never lightly could such love decline; nor could you to idly voyage, all the wealth of life resign!" ----"lucy! this is only torture-- here i may no longer pause-- long i for my king have battled-- now we've neither king nor laws. with our shrewd exultant victor, bootless now were strife of steel; looking on my bleeding country can i for her cease to feel? all the land is grown outrageous: honour, worth, are hunted down: demons mock at our religion-- idiots trample on the crown. roaming o'er the billowy ocean, peace may greet me here unknown; and, returning, civil tempests may be fairly overblown. should aught menacing approach you, to your noble brothers, look: danger! did they ever dread it? insult! did they ever brook? guard your precious life, my lucy! need i say--not your's alone! present--absent--living--dying-- i am--fear not--all your own!" starting from her arms, sir francis quick his noble steed bestrode: and, with manly face averted, forward--seaward--fleetly rode. soon his vessell, anchor weighing, to the sails the winds were true; and with sad, not weak, delaying, he bade his native land adieu! part ii. far amidst the western ocean, lies a small and pleasant isle; fair with everlasting verdure, bright with summer's endless smile. there o'er one, all sadly musing sweets distil from spicy trees; yet, though all around is blooming, nothing cheers him that he sees. lonely in sweet groves of myrtle, sad amongst the orange bloom; nothing cheers his drooping spirit, nothing dissipates his gloom. twice ten years he there has wandered, nor one human face has seen; moving like a silent shadow, rocks have his companions been. clad in skins of beasts; like serpents wild, is his unheeded hair; yet through lines of deep dejection, his once manly face is fair. as from gathered flowers, the odour never wholly dies away,-- of the warrior, and the scholar, intimations round him play. nurtured in the camp, the college, never can his soul be void; in the busy past his spirit, heart, and mind, must be employed. lists he yet the stirring battle, lists he victory's rending shout? tranquil is the isle, the ocean, pain within him, peace without. yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet, captains' shouting, horses' neigh! till before the horrid stillness, all the tumult dies away. and is this the courtly warrior, gallant, gay sir francis leke? he, the same!--who shunning discord, found a peace he did not seek? bravely sailed he from old england, boldly with adventurous prow; from the horrors of that voyage he alone is living now. to his bravery owes he being-- last to quit the groaning deck-- in his fight his comrades perished-- days he floated on the wreck. till this lone and lovely island, cheered him with refreshing bloom; saved him from the ravening ocean, to a sad and lingering doom. in a cave has he his dwelling, high, o'erlooking wide the main, where he feeds in painful being, longings infinite and vain. nightly there he burns a beacon; often there the day he spends; and towards his native country wistful gaze o'er ocean sends. there a cross has he erected-- near to which an altar stands, humble growth of feelings holy reared by his unaided hands. truly needs he prove a christian, thus cut off from all his kind; firmest faith he needs in heaven; and boundless fortitude of mind. store he needs of endless knowledge, his unvaried hours to cheer; furnished with sublime resources for this solitude austere. still the isle is very lovely-- never yet in poet's mind, haunt of peri, realm of faéry, was more lavishly divined. lovely as the primal garden, in the light of sabbath blest; human love alone is wanting in this eden of the west. leap from rocks the living waters: hang delicious fruits around: and all birds of gorgeous plumage fill the air with happy sound. painful is to him its beauty-- sad the splendour of the sun; to the odorous air he utters sorrow that is never done:-- "blest was i beyond all blessing! "in my wife and children blest: "in my friends and in my fortune-- "yet in peace i could not rest. "never in his prosperous greatness, "can himself the wisest trust; "god has weighed and found me wanting-- "and the punishment is just." oft before the cross, the altar, murmuring prayer he sinks to rest; to his god, and to his saviour-- and the virgin mother blest. and for love unto the virgin finds in heaven his prayer chief grace! "mary, mother, me deliver, "from the horrors of this place! "others crave more worldly guerdon-- "wealth, or fame, or station high; "love i seek--to see my country-- "my own people--and to die!" praying thus, old legends tell us, scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed; when, o, happy inward vision, to him was his home revealed. there his patrimonial mansion, he beheld in moonlight sleep, saw with joy though mystery veiled it-- sadness and a silence deep. and, o miracle of gladness! more, those ancient legends say, was permitted him to witness, waking, in the open day. in his old church-porch awaking-- trance, or voyage all unknown; o'er his own domains he wandered-- saw, and knew them for his own. had chance voyagers beheld him, in a trance, who slumbering bore, by some heavenly impulse, guided him unto his native shore? not so--says the holy legend-- force of penitential prayer-- and the love he bore the virgin-- won for him that transit fair. spare the legend for its beauty-- carp not--what is it to you if the letter is a fable? in its spirit it is true. leave we unto old tradition that which its dim mist sublimes, nor submit the ancient spirit to the light of later times! see! before his welcome threshold! once again, sir francis stand: oh! the transport,--it is real!-- he is in his native land! part iii. merry once again is england, civil warfare is forgot; now another charles is reigning plenty smiles in hall and cot. spring is like a present angel; loosened waters leap in light: flowers are springing, birds are singing, all the world is glad and bright. may, the blue-eyed bloomy creature, from god's presence yearly sent, works with sweet ethereal fingers, till both heaven and earth are blent. lovliest is a rural village in the may-time of the year; with its hall, its woods and waters, verdant slopes, and herds of deer. and in one, joy is exultant-- for this day the manly heir of sir francis leke is wedded-- wedded too, his daughter fair. age rejoices; in the mansion rural hinds find wassail cheer; and bright troops of knights and ladies, crowd the hall from far and near. who is this in weeds unseemly, half a man that seems, half beast, who obtrudes himself unbidden on the merry marriage feast? hermit is he, or some pilgrim, entering boldly his own cell? no,--he lacks those ancient symbols, sandal-shoon, and scallop shell. all the youngsters titter; anger flushes cheeks austere and cold: whilst the aged look complacent on a beggar that is bold. "bear this ring unto your mistress," to a page sir francis cried; and his words emphatic uttered rung throughout the dwelling wide. one there is--an age-blind servant-- who in darkness sits apart-- carried forth to feel the sunshine-- she has heard him in her heart; and in agony of gladness, at that voice so long desired, she has loudly named her master-- and then instantly expired. pensive in her room, the matron grieved--but distant from the crowd; she would not with selfish sorrow their bright countenances cloud. there her ring receiving; lucy knew the sender of her gift, and, it seemed, by feet unaided, to him she descended swift. there upon the rugged stranger, gazed, with momentary check, gazed, but for a passing moment, and then fell upon his neck. twice ten weary summers absent; by his faithful wife deplored; like ulysses to his consort, good sir francis is restored. 'tis a time of double gladness-- never was a scene like this; joy o'erflows the hall, the village-- 'tis a time of boundless bliss! clothed as instantly became him, of vile skins all disarrayed, in his old paternal mansion he is honoured and obeyed. all he prayed for to the virgin, she has granted him and more; not to die, his own beholding, first, when on his native shore. added years of happy ending, are accorded him of right; 'midst a cloud of friends descending, in a sunset warm and bright. _the true lover's knot untied:_ _being the right path whereby to advise princely virgins how to behave themselves, by the example of the renowned princess the lady arabella, and the second son of the lord seymour, late earl of hertford._ the beautiful, much-injured, and ill-fated lady arabella of this touching ballad, whose sole crime was that she was born a stuart, was the daughter of elizabeth cavendish of chatsworth, in derbyshire, by her husband charles stuart, earl of lennox, who was brother to lord darnley, the husband of the unfortunate mary queen of scots. she was grand-daughter of sir william cavendish of chatsworth, and of his wife, the celebrated "bess of hardwick," afterwards countess of shrewsbury. the incidents of the life of this young, beautiful, and accomplished lady, which form one of the most touching episodes in our history,--the jealous eye with which elizabeth looked upon her from her birth,--the careful watch set over her by cecil,--the trials of raleigh and his friends,--her troubles with her aunt (mary, countess of shrewsbury),--her being placed under restraint,--her marriage with seymour,--her seizure, imprisonment, sufferings, and death as a hopeless lunatic in the tower of london, where she had been thrown by her cousin, james the first,--are all matters of history, and invest her life with a sad and melancholy interest. as the autograph signature of this ill-starred but lovely and exemplary young lady is but little known, i append a fac-simile, [illustration: signature of arbella stuart] which no doubt will add to the interest of the following ballad. the ballad was sung to the tune of "the frog galliard." as i to ireland did pass, i saw a ship at anchor lay, another ship likewise there was, which from fair england took her way. this ship that sail'd from fair england, unknown unto our gracious king, the lord chief justice did command, that they to london should her bring. i then drew near and saw more plain, lady arabella in distress, she wrung her hands, and wept amain, bewailing of her heaviness. when near fair london tower she came, whereas her landing place should be, the king and queen with all their train, did meet this lady gallantly. "how now, arabella," said our good king, unto this lady straight did say, "who hath first try'd thee to this thing, that you from england took your way?" "none but myself, my gracious liege, "these ten long years i have been in love, with the lord seymour's second son, the earl of hertford, so we prove: "full many a hundred pound i had in goods and livings in the land, yet i have lands us to maintain, so much your grace doth understand. "my lands and livings so well known unto your books of majesty, amount to twelvescore pounds a week, besides what i do give," quoth she. "in gallant derbyshire likewise, i ninescore beadsmen maintain there, with hats and gowns and house-rent free, and every man five marks a year. "i never raised rent," said she, "nor yet oppress'd the tenant poor, i never did take bribes for fines, for why, i had enough before. "whom of your nobles will do so, for to maintain the commonalty? such multitudes would never grow, nor be such store of poverty. "i would i had a milk-maid been, or born of some more low degree, then i might have lov'd where i liked, and no man could have hinder'd me. "or would i were some yeoman's child, for to receive my portion now, according unto my degree, as other virgins whom i know. "the highest branch that soars aloft, needs must beshade the myrtle-tree, needs must the shadow of them both, shadow the third in his degree. "but when the tree is cut and gone, and from the ground is bore away, the lowest tree that there doth stand, in time may grow as high as they. "once too i might have been a queen, but that i ever did deny, i knew your grace had right to th' crown, before elizabeth did die. "you of the eldest sister came, i of the second in degree, the earl of hertford of the third, a man of royal blood was he. "and so good night, my sovereign liege, since in the tower i must lie, i hope your grace will condescend, that i may have my liberty." "lady arabella," said the king, "i to your freedom would consent, if you would turn and go to church, there to receive the sacrament. and so good night, arabella fair," our king replied to her again, "i will take council of my nobility, that you your freedom may obtain." "once more to prison must i go," lady arabella then did say, "to leave my love breeds all my woe, the which will bring my life's decay. "love is a knot none can unknit, fancy a liking of the heart, him whom i love i can't forget, tho' from his presence i must part. "the meanest people enjoy their mates, but i was born unhappily, for being cross'd by cruel fates, i want both love and liberty. "but death i hope will end the strife, farewel, farewel, my love," quoth she, "once i had thought to have been thy wife, but now am forc'd to part with thee." at this sad meeting she had cause, in heart and mind to grieve full sore, after that time arabella fair, did never see lord seymour more. _an address to "dickie."_ at a farm-house at tunstead, near chapel-en-le-frith, a human skull, about which hangs many a strange story, has for several generations--indeed "time out of mind"--been preserved. there are some curious traditions connected with this skull, which is popularly known as "dickie," or "dicky o' tunsted." how it first came to the farm is a complete mystery. all that is known is that it has been there for many generations, and always occupies the same position in the window-seat of the house. no matter what changes take place in the other occupiers of the house, dicky holds his own against all comers, and remains quietly ensconced in his favourite place. it is firmly and persistently believed that so long as dick remains in the house, unburied, everything will go on well and prosperously, but that if he is buried, or "discommoded," unpleasant consequences will assuredly follow. on more than one occasion he has been put "out of sight," but tempests have arisen and injured the building, deaths have ensued, cattle have been diseased and died off, or crops have failed, until the people have been humbled, and restored him to his proper place. one of the crowning triumphs of dickie's power is said to have been evinced over the formation of the new buxton and whaley bridge line of railway. he seems to have held the project in thorough hatred, and let no opportunity pass of doing damage. whenever there was a land slip or a sinking, or whenever any mishap to man, beast, or line happened, the credit was at once given to dickie, and he was sought to be propitiated in a variety of ways. hutchinson, who wrote "a tour through the high peak" in , thus speaks of the skull, and of the supernatural powers attributed to it:--"having heard a singular account of a human skull being preserved in a house at tunstead, near the above place, and which was said to be haunted, curiosity induced me to deviate a little, for the purpose of making some enquiries respecting these _natural_ or _super_ natural appearances. that there are three parts of a human skull in the house is certain, and which i traced to have remained on the premises for near two centuries past, during all the revolutions of owners and tenants in that time. as to the truth of the supernatural appearance, it is not my design either to affirm or contradict, though i have been informed by a creditable person, a mr. adam fox, who was brought up in the house, that he has not only repeatedly heard singular noises, and observed very singular circumstances, but can produce fifty persons, within the parish, who have seen an apparition at this place. he has often found the doors opening to his hand--the servants have been repeatedly called up in the morning--many good offices have been done by the apparition, at different times;--and, in fact, it is looked upon more as a guardian spirit than a terror to the family, never disturbing them but in case of an approaching death of a relation or neighbour, and showing its resentment only when spoken of with disrespect, or when its own awful memorial of mortality is removed. for twice within the memory of man the skull has been taken from the premises,--once on building the present house on the site of the old one, and another time when it was buried in chapel churchyard;--but there was no peace! no rest! it must be replaced! venerable time carries a report that one of two coheiresses residing here was murdered, and declared, in her last moments, that her bones should remain on the place for ever.[ ] on this head the candid reader will think for himself; my duty is only faithfully to relate what i have been told. however, the circumstance of the skull being traced to have remained on the premises during the changes of different tenants and purchasers for near two centuries, must be a subject well worth the antiquarian's research, and often more than the investigation of a bust or a coin!" the following clever _address to "dickie"_ was written by mr. samuel laycock, and first appeared in the _buxton advertiser_. neaw, dickie, be quiet wi' thee, lad, an' let navvies an' railways a be; mon, tha shouldn't do soa,--it's to' bad, what harm are they doin' to thee? deod folk shouldn't meddle at o', but leov o' these matters to th' wick; they'll see they're done gradeley, aw know,-- dos' t' yer what aw say to thee, dick? neaw dunna go spoil 'em i' th' dark what's cost so mich labber an' thowt; iv tha'll let 'em go on wi' their wark, tha shall ride deawn to buxton for nowt; an' be a "director" too, mon; get thi beef an' thi bottles o' wine, an' mak' as much brass as tha con eawt o' th' london an' north western line. awm surproised, dick, at thee bein' here; heaw is it tha'rt noan i' thi grave? ar' t' come eawt o' gettin' thi beer, or havin' a bit ov a shave? but _that's_ noan thi business, aw deawt, for tha hasn't a hair o' thi yed; hast a woife an' some childer abeawt? when tha'rn living up here wurt wed? neaw, spake, or else let it a be, an' dunna be lookin' soa shy; tha needn't be freeten'd o' me, aw shall say nowt abeawt it, not i! it'll noan matter mich iv aw do, i can do thee no harm iv aw tell, mon there's moor folk nor thee bin a foo', aw've a woife an some childer misel'. heaw's business below; is it slack? dos' t' yer? aw'm noan chaffin thee, mon' but aw reckon 'at when tha goes back tha'll do me o' th' hurt as tha con. neaw dunna do, that's a good lad, for awm freeten'd to deoth very nee, an' ewar betty, poor lass, hoo'd go mad iv aw wur to happen to dee! when aw'n ceawer'd upo' th' hearston' awhoam, aw'm inclined, very often, to boast; an' aw'n noan hawve as feart as some, but aw don't loike to talke to a ghost. so, dickie, aw've written this song, an' aw trust it'll find thee o' reet; look it o'er when tha'rt noan very throng, an' tha'll greatly obleege me,--good neet. p.s.--iv tha'rt wantin' to send a reply, aw can gi'e thee mi place ov abode, it's reet under dukinfilt sky, at thirty-nine, cheetham hill road. aw'm awfully freeten'd dos t' see, or else aw'd invite thee to come, an' ewar betty, hoo's softer nor me, so aw'd _raythar_ tha'd tarry awhoam. footnote: [ ] on examining the parts of the skull, they did not appear to be the least decayed. _the driving of the deer._ this admirable ballad, founded on an old derbyshire tradition, is by my friend mr. william bennett, of whom i have before spoken. the peverels were, as a part of the immense possessions given to them by william the conqueror, owners of the tract of country comprising the honour and forest of the high peak. their stronghold was the castle at castleton. the "lord's seat" mentioned in the ballad is a mountain separating rushop edge from the valley of edale. the view from here, where peverel used to alight from his horse to watch the progress of the chace, says mr. bennett, "is magnificent; perhaps one of the finest in north derbyshire, as from its summit you may see the pennine chain of cheshire, derbyshire, and staffordshire, with many of the lovely valleys which lie among the hills. westward, you look down upon the valley of chapel-en-le-frith, the eastern part of which contains the ancient manor of bowdon. to realize the following ballad, my readers must imagine the lord of the peak, william peverel, with a number of his knights and gentlemen, on the lord's seat, preparing for the chace, when they hear the bugle blast which informs the proud baron that some audacious sportsmen are in chase of the deer within his forest. we may picture to ourselves the astonishment and indignation of the norman prince, and his fierce determination to pounce upon the trespassers and punish them with all the severity of the cruel forest law. well was it for all parties that he was attended by his brother payne peverel, the lord of whittington, who was one of the noblest sons of chivalry, and whose presence prevented an affray which in all probability would have been fatal to many. payne peverel had previous to this time exhibited a grand pageant at castleton, accompanied by a tournament held in the meadows below the castle, when he gave away his daughter to the knight who most distinguished himself on that occasion." lord peverel stood on the lordis seat, and an angry man was he; for he heard the sound of a hunter's horn slow winding up the lea. he look'd to north, he look'd to south, and east and west look'd he; and "holy cross!" the fierce norman cried, "who hunts in my country? belike they think the peverel dead, or far from forest walk; woe worth their hunting, they shall find abroad is still the hawk." again he looked where helldon hill joins with the konying's dale; and then once more the bugle blast came swelling along the gale. "mount, mount and ride!" the baron cried, "the sound comes o'er the edge, by perry dale, or gautriss side, my knightly spurs i pledge. these outlaws, who now drive my deer, shall sooth our quarry be; and he who reaches first the hounds shall win a guerdon free." each knight and squire soon sat in selle, and urged his horse to speed, and peverel, first among the rout, proved his horse good at need. adown the slope, along the flat, against the hill they ride, nor pull a rein 'till every steed stands fast on gautriss side. "hold hard! they're here," the peverel said, and upward held his hand, while all his meany kept behind, awaiting their lord's command; and westward, on the bolt-edge moor, beyond the rocky height, both hounds and hunters, men and horse, and deer were all in sight. said then the baron, "who are these who fear not peverel's sword nor forest laws." outspoke a squire, "of bowdon he's the lord; sir bruno, hight, a franklin brave, one of the saxon swine who feasts each day on fat fed beef, and guzzles ale, not wine." "what stirs the sodden headed knave to make his pastime here?" cried peverel, "and thus dare to brave him whom the king doth fear? ride down the villains, horse and man; would we were armed to-day, no saxon chine should bear its head forth from the bloody fray." up spoke his frere, payne peverel, then, of whittington lord was he, and said, "fair sir, for ruth and grace this slaughter may not be. the saxon's lands are widely spread, and he holds them in capité, and claims three days with hawk and hound to wind his bugle free." "beshrew his horn, and beshrew his heart, in my forest he may not ride: if he kills a deer, by the conqueror's bow by forest law he shall bide. ride on, sir payne, and tell the churl he must cease his hunting cheer, and come to the knee of his suzerain lord awaiting his presence here. ride with him, sirs, some two or three, and bring him hither straight: 'twere best for him to come at once than cause his lord to wait. there are trees in the forest strong enow to bear the madman's corse, and he shall hang on the highest bough if hither he comes perforce." sir payne rode swiftly cross the dale, followed by gentles three, nor stayed his horse 'till he had reached the hunter's company: and then he said, "fair sirs, ye ride and drive our deer as free as if the land were all your own and not in forestry. lord peverel yonder waits your ease, to know how this may be; since he is lord of the forest wide, and will no trespass see. he bids you, as your suzerain lord, forthwith to come to his knee, and as his liegeman humbly stand, and answer him truthfully." "no man of his," cried the franklin, "then am i, as he knows full well, though within the bounds of his forest walk it likes me sooth to dwell. my manor of bowdon, i hold in chief from good king harry i trow; and to him alone will i homage pay and make my fealty vow." "beware, sir franklin," cried sir payne, "beware how thou play the fool! to brave the ire of thy suzerain lord will lead to direful dule. come on with me, and make thy peace, better do that than worse; he'll hang thee on the forest tree if we take thee hence perforce." "take me you can't while i have thews, and these have bows and spears," cried the brave franklin. "threaten him who the lord peverel fears. we've broke no forest law to-day; our hunting here's my right; and only ye can force me hence if strongest in the fight." each hunter then upraised his spear, or twanged his good yew bow, while cloth yard shafts from every sheaf glinted a threatening shew. and back payne peverel reined his horse, and, as he rode away, cried, "fare ye well, this day of sport will breed a bloody day." well was it for the saxons then the normans rode unarmed, or they had scantly left that field and homeward gone unharmed. lord peverel viewed their bows and spears, and marked their strong array, and grimly smiled, and softly said, "we'll right this wrong some day." but e'er that day, for fearful crime, the peverel fled the land, and lost his pride of place, and eke his lordship and command. for ranulph earl of chester's death, by him most foully wrought, he fled fair england's realm for aye, and other regions sought. where, so 'tis writ, a monk he turned, and penance dreed so sore, that all the holy brotherhood quailed at the pains he bore. and yet the haughty norman blood no sign of dolour showed; but bore all stoutly to the last, and died beneath the rood. so heaven receive his soul at last, he was a warrior brave; and pope and priest were joined in mass his guilty soul to save. for holy church and kingly crown he was ever a champion true; for chivalry and ladies' grace chiváler foiál et preux. _the ashupton garland,_ _or a day in the woodlands;_ _showing how a "righte merrie companie" went forth to seek a diversion in the woodlands, aud what befell them there._ to a pleasant northern tune. ashopton is a small village, but little known away from its own neighbourhood, in the vale of the river ashop, in the chapelry of derwent, in the high peak. this very clever ballad was written on occasion of what was evidently an extremely happy pic-nic party, held there not many years ago. it is one of the best modern ballads i have seen. in summer time when leaves were green, with a hey derry down, you shall see; james oakes he called his merry men all, unto the green-wood tree. james oakes he was a worthy squire, full six feet high he stood; no braver chief the forest rang'd, since the days of robin hood. then some came east, and some came west, and southrons there came three; such a jovial band of fine fellows, you never more shall see. nor fairer maidens ever tripp'd, than bore them companie; the wood-nymphs peep'd, in wonder all, as they were passing by. there was sally of riddings with her wit so sly, that young men's hearts beguil'd; and wilding meg, with the hazel eye, and sweet maid-marian mild. then came blithe helen of osgarthorpe, with her sister, as you shall know; two fairer maids in sheffield town did ne'er set foot i trow. maid-marian's sister too was there, and a merry little minx was she; and they were merry merry maidens all, when under the greenwood tree. then followed straight a matron dame, that summers more had seen; her kindly eye did sparkle bright, and she seemed the woodland queen. james oakes the elder he went first, as captain of the band; bill graham of skiers was by his side, and they shouted, "for merry england!" sylvester next, that rover bold, (some called him little john,) with bob the tall, from london town, as you shall hear anon. two stalworth blades, sworn friends, were there, jem oakes, and asho'er will; they wanted only a good cross-bow, the queen's fat deer to kill. then came nick milnes, that smart young man, of fifteen winters old; with charley oakes, a proper young man, of courage stout and bold. next tom of riddings, the rural swain, (their allen-a-dale was he,) came tripping o'er the heather bell, as blithe as blithe could be. good lord it was a pleasant sight, to see them all on a row; with every man his good cigar, and his little bag hanging low. bill graham, of skiers, he then stepped forth, all buskined up to the knee; and he swore by all the fair maids there, their champion he would be. when this the captain he did hear, to bill up stepped he; and thus he said before the face of that goodly companie:-- "the devil a drop, thou proud fellow! of my whiskey shalt thou see, until thy courage here be tried-- thou shalt not go scot-free." "by my troth," cried bill "thourt a gallant knight, and worthy of me for thy squire, and i'll show thee how for a lady i'll fight, if thoul't meet me in good yorkshire." when sweet maid-marian this did hear, with a hey down down and a derry; her rosy cheek did bleach with fear, but sweet meg it made merry. "a boon, a boon," cried little john, "i'm sick, and fain would see, what thou hast got in thy leather bottel, i pray thee show to me." "come hither, come hither, thou fine fellow, hold up thy head again; i've that within my leather bottel, that shall not breed thee pain." then the captain took little john by the hand, and they sat them under the tree; "if we drink water while this doth last, then an ill death may we dee." then little john he rose up once more, renewed with mirth and glee; and eke with a bound, he danced a round, in sight of that companie. these fine fellows all, did then take hands, and danced about the green tree; "for six merry men, for seven merry men, for nine merry men we be." then on they walked the rocks among, all on a midsummer day; every youth with a maiden by his side, while the birds sang from each spray. with kirtle tucked up to the knee, the maidens far did go; and bob the tall to each and all, great courtesie did show. some plucked the green leaf, some the rose, as to _kinder-scout_ they sped; or wiled away the sweet summer's day, at lovely _derwent-head_. and some did shout, and some did sing, with the heart so blithe and merry; and some adown the hill did roll, with a hey derry down, down derry. and ever and anon they'd sit, on a mossy bank to rest; while the bag and the whiskey glass went round, with the ringing glass and jest. then some among the heather strayed, springing the bonny moor-hen; and some did climb the green hills' side, or roam in the tangled glen. the blackbird tried his golden bill, his sooty love to greet; upon the bough, the throstle cock, did carol blithe and sweet. and when the dews began to fall, and the glowworm's lamp to shine, to _ashupton_ inn they did repair, in order for to dine. then on the board did smoke roast beef, with pasties hot and cold; and many a right good stomach showed, and many a tale was told. and when the table it was cleared, and landlord brought them wine; he swore, that never there before, such a companie did dine! so a health to the queene, and long may she reign, and albert long live he; push the glass about,--old _kinder-scout_, we'll drink long life to thee. and here's a health to those fine fellows, and to all those maidens merry; may each take a heart from the _ashupton-hills_, singing hey derry down, down derry! and here's a health unto james oakes! and many a year may he rise up, and call his merry men all, unto the greenwood tree. _derbyshire hills._ james bannard, "a wandering poet, in his th year," is the writer of the following lines, which he says at the heading of the broad-sheet from which i reprint it, are "views and reflections taken from solomon's temple, near buxton." of bannard i know nothing, farther than that he was a poor man, and eked out his living by selling these verses "at the 'cottage of content,' buxton." at length my wand'ring feet have brought me on this derby hill; where my sweet muse and fancy both may sit and take their fill. although i've trod the stage of life past seventy years and three: 'tis the first time that ever i these derby hills did see. reader, before i now proceed, i pray you will excuse; your pardon humbly i do beg, intruding with my muse. born in an humble state of life, grammar i could not attain; but from the school of nature i, did all my learning gain. as on this eminence i stand, and view the landscape round, here hills and dales, rivers and rocks, most sweetly do abound. mark how the glorious setting sun fair buxton town displays; buxton whose healing streams and air, give hope for length of days. the next that did attract the muse was the fine noble church, where sinners every sabbath day their wicked hearts should search. what numbers there already lie, now sleeping at its feet; waiting the great and awful day, when they their judge must meet. their dust then joins its better part, i hope in realms above; and all its dross be pressed away, by the redeemer's love. the fine hotels i next remarked, the walks and lawns so gay, where gentry their amusements take, in this sweet month of may. to solomon's temple i repaired, to take a wider view; and as i was a stranger there, all things appeared new. how dare the wicked infidel say that there is no god? these mountains high and these firm rocks may crumble at his nod. in him i live, in him i move, in him i have my being; in him i on this mount now stand and paint this beauteous scene. brierlow and foxlow i remark'd, haddon and croome likewise; but axedge overcap'd them all, and struck me with surprise. the lover's leap likewise i view'd, shootingslow did appear; the cat-and-fiddle i have seen but i was never there. chee tor, bakewell, and matlock too, likewise the diamond hill; the shivering tor for to describe is far beyond my skill. now from this mount i do descend into the vale below, from whence the river wye doth spring, and sweetly on doth flow. for to describe the beauties all, display'd in derbyshire; instead of musing for one day, methinks 'twould take a year. having seen seventy years and three, my days are not a few; i may expect in a short time, to bid this world adieu. may blessings rest on all your heads, ye rich, likewise ye poor; something forebodes within my mind, i must see these derby hills no more. _derbyshire dales._ having given some lines on "derbyshire hills," by a "wandering poet" totally unknown to fame, it will be well to follow it by others on "derbyshire dales," by one whose name is known throughout the length and breadth of the land--eliza cooke. i sigh for the land where the orange-tree flingeth its prodigal bloom on the myrtle below; where the moonlight is warm, and the gondolier singeth, and clear waters take up the strain as they go. oh! fond is the longing, and rapt is the vision that stirs up my soul over italy's tales; but the _present_ was bright as the _far-off_ elysian, when i roved in the sun-flood through derbyshire dales. there was joy for my eye, there was balm for my breathing; green branches above me--blue streams at my side: the hand of creation seemed proudly bequeathing the beauty reserved for a festival tide. i was bound, like a child, by some magical story, forgetting the "south" and "ionian vales;" and felt that dear england had temples of glory, where any might worship, in derbyshire dales. sweet pass of the "dove!" 'mid rock, river, and dingle, how great is thy charm for the wanderer's breast! with thy moss-girdled towers and foam-jewelled shingle, thy mountains of might, and thy valleys of rest. i gazed on thy wonders--lone, silent, adoring, i bent at the altar whose "fire never pales:" the great father was with me--devotion was pouring its holiest praises in derbyshire dales. wild glen of dark "taddington"--rich in thy robing of forest-green cloak, with grey lacing bedight; how i lingered to watch the red western rays probing thy leaf-mantled bosom with lances of light! and "monsal," thou mine of arcadian treasure, need we seek for "greek islands" and spice-laden gales, while a tempe like thee of enchantment and pleasure may be found in our own native derbyshire dales? there is much in my past bearing way-marks and flowers, the purest and rarest in odour and bloom; there are beings and breathings, and places and hours, still trailing in roses o'er memory's tomb. and when i shall count o'er the bliss that's departed, and old age be telling its garrulous tales, those days will be first when the kind and true-hearted were nursing my spirit in derbyshire dales. _a rhapsody_ _on the peak of derbyshire._ the following exquisite lines by my late highly-gifted father,[ ] on the land he loved so well,--the glorious district of the peak of derbyshire,--may well claim a place in this part of my present volume. i give them, not as being the most favourable example i could choose of his style, but as being the most appropriate for my present purpose. o, give me the land where the wild thyme grows, the heathery dales among; where sol's own flow'er with crimson eye creeps the sun-burnt banks along! where the beetling tor hangs over the dell, while its pinnacles pierce the sky, and its foot is laved by the waters pure, of the lively murmuring wye; oh! give me the land, where the crimson heather, the thyme and the bilberry grow together. o! where upon earth is another land so green, so fine, so fair? can any within old england's bounds with this heathery land compare? the mountain air, the crystal springs, where health has established her throne, the flood-swollen torrent, the bright cascade, belong to this land alone; o! give me the land where grow together the marj'ram, cistus, and purple heather. oxford may boast of its hundred spires, its colleges, halls, and towers; built in an ague-producing marsh, are the muses' and learning's bowers; o! tell me not of the sluggish stream, too lazy to creep along; too dull to inspire a poet's dream! this is not the land of song! no! give me the land where grow together the cistus, the thyme, and the purple heather. footnote: [ ] author of the "history of buxton," "history of lincoln," &c., &c. _the derby hero._ the two following productions of some local muse, written in the year , are intended to do honour to a young pedestrian of derby, who no doubt was thought famous in those days of foot-racing and pugilism. of all your modern heroes that rank so high in fame, there's one that takes the lead of all, young wantling is his name; for when he takes the field so nimbly he doth run, his feet is at the destin'd mark ere the race is well begun! fol de rol, &c. this youth's been lately tried against a man of great renown, and to run the stafford hero he was back'd for fifty pounds; o he is the bravest lad that ever eyes did see, for he won the race quite easy, when the bets were five to three! fol de rol, &c. now ye men of sporting talent i would have you all to know, on the eighteenth day of march you've a chance to see him go, for this hero he is match'd to run three hundred yards we're told, against the stafford bragger for one hundred guineas in gold! fol de rol, &c. then keep your spirits up, my lads, for he will show the way, he is as swift as mercury, and is sure to win the day; for wantling's of such good mettle, and his honour is as good, he is sure not to deceive you, as some other runners would. fol de rol, &c. of all the runners now in vogue young wantling takes the lead; you would think him jealous of the wind when you view him in his speed: he will make that braggadocia afraid to show his face, to be beat by an apprentice boy-- it will be such disgrace. fol de rol, &c. we've another hero on the list that runs but now and then, but he's well known upon the turf by the name of little ben; he's lately been to try his strength some miles from derby town, and there he well confirmed his name as a youth of some renown. fol de rol, &c. then drink success to derby town, for it stands high in fame, its lads will yield to none, for they're chickens of true game; their strength has oft been tried by men both far and near, but they never yet was beat, for their hearts are void of fear. fol de rol, &c. _a new song_ _on the great foot race that was contested on the london road, near derby, on the th day of march, , betwixt jas. wantling, of derby, and shaw, the staffordshire hero, for hundred guineas._ the eighteenth day of march will long be handed down, when thousands came from far into famed derby town, to see the great foot race for one hundred guineas aside, betwixt shaw, the stafford hero, and wantling, derby's pride! fol de rol, &c. now the time is come that these heroes try their skill, whilst numbers flock together offering to lay who will; large sums are laid around ere they begin to run, and mingled sounds you hear crying i take your bet--done, done. fol de rol, &c. and now you see them striving which shall get the first, straining each nerve and muscle till their veins are almost burst; but wantling takes the lead, and labours hard to gain the money for his friends, and establish his own fame. fol de rol, &c. the race it soon was over, whilst women, men, and boys cried "wantling still for ever!" in shouts that rend the skies. his name this day is raised, as a runner of great fame, for shaw, the stafford hero, has been beat by him again! fol de rol, &c. all ye wise men of staffordshire, who back'd shaw on that day, having ventured all your money, leaving none your shots to pay, be wiser for the future, if again you chance to come, and bring more money with you, lest you go empty home. fol de rol, &c. then let us drink the hero's health, whilst fame proclaims his name, may he never sell his honour for the sake of sordid gain: all base attempts to bias him with scorn from him be hurl'd, then he will rise a wonder, and astonish all the world. fol de rol, &c. but let us act with honour, and not run the hero down, although he lost the race, he's a claim to great renown; for shaw and his supporters have acted manly parts, and any thing contrary is quite foreign to their hearts. fol de rol, &c. _on the death of the late_ _rev. bache thornhill, m.a.,_ _perpetual curate of winster, ashford, and longstone._ mr. thornhill, on whose death through accident the following verses were written, was son of bache thornhill, esq., of stanton in the peak. he was a man of refined tastes, fond of antiquarian pursuits, and was highly esteemed in the county of derby. he was m.a. of st. john's college, cambridge, where he was a fellow-student with sir robert peel, with whom to the period of his untimely death he kept up an intimate friendship. on the th of december, , mr. thornhill was accidentally shot by the discharge of the fowling-piece of a friend. he lingered until the th, when he died, at the age of forty-two. he was buried at youlgreave, the coffin bearing the inscription--"rev. bache thornhill, vicar of winster, and vice-vicar of ashford and longstone, died the th day of december, ; aged forty-two." the writer of these verses was john brimlow, of winster. brimlow had been a soldier in colonel thornhill's regiment, under which gallant officer he served in egypt. he afterwards suffered from opthalmia, became blind, and got a precarious livelihood by rambling about the country with a basket, gathering "rags and bones." the verses are here reprinted from a broad-sheet. as i sat musing by the fire i heard some people say a dreadful accident has befel a worthy man this day. then i got up, went out of door for to see, and likewise hear, on every tongue enquiry sat, and, in many an eye, a tear, saying our worthy pastor he has fall'n, oh! how hard has been his lot, by accident a gun went off, and this good man was shot. the rich, the poor, in groups they meet, their sorrow for to express, saying if fifty come there will be none like bache to those that are in distress. for he was a friend to every one, to all alike was kind, he was the same to rich and poor, likewise sick, lame, or blind. oh! cruel fate, what have we done, that this good man should fall, but the die was cast, and the thing is past, and there must be an end to all. but, hark! a messenger has just arrived, glad tidings doth he bring, this good man he is still alive, oh! let us praise the king of kings. rejoice, my friends, he better gets, for the lord has heard our prayer, and he has promised when a few does meet that he always will be there. but adieu, vain hope, thou art for ever fled, for this good man is no more, for he is now numbered amongst the dead, so adieu, adieu, farewell for evermore. john brimlow, winster. _a journey into the peak._ _to sir aston cokaine._ charles cotton, the "honoured friend" of good old izaac walton, and of most of the celebrated men of his day, was born at beresford hall, on the banks of his "----beloved nymph! fair dove, princess of rivers," whose praises he has sung, and whose beauties he has rendered immortal by his pen, and by his fishing-house, dedicated to lovers of the angle. he was the only child of charles cotton, esq., by olive, daughter of sir john stanhope, of elvaston castle, near derby (ancestor of the earl of harrington, and of the same family as the earl of chesterfield, earl stanhope, &c.) he married, first, isabella, daughter of sir thomas hutchinson, of owthorpe; and, second, the widowed countess of ardglass (daughter of sir william russel, of strensham). he died in . charles cotton was a profuse writer. among his principal works are the second part of "the complete angler," "the wonders of the peak," "virgil travestie," "moral philosophy of the stoics," "the planter's manual," "life of the duke of espernon," "the commentaries of de montluc," "the complete gamester," "the fair one of tunis," "burlesque upon burlesque," "montaigne's essays," &c., &c. after his death, a collection of "poems on several occasions," by charles cotton, was published. the following characteristic lines i here print from the original ms. copy, in my own possession. the volume of manuscript is of the highest interest, and is in the autograph writing of charles cotton himself. it is entitled, in his own writing, "charles cotton, his verses," and is in folio, in the old binding with clasps. this volume is described in sir harris nicholas' life of cotton, attached to his edition of the complete angler. it contains some pieces not printed, and others very different from those in his "poems on several occasions," printed surreptitiously after his death in . the following varies in many parts from the copy printed in the volume alluded to. s'r, coming home into this frozen clime, grown cold, and almost senselesse, as my rythme, i found, that winter's bold impetuous rage prevented time and antidated age: for, in my veins did nought but crystall dwell, each hair was frozen to an iceicle. my flesh was marble, so that, as i went, i did appear a walking monument. 't might have been judged, rather than marble, flint, had there been any spark of fier in't. my mother looking back (to bid good night) was metamorphos'd, like the sodomite. like sinons horse, our horses were become, and, since they could not go, they slided home. the hills were hard to such a qualitie, so beyond reason in philosophie; if pegasus had kickt at one of those, homer's odysses had been writ in prose. these are strange stories, s'r, to you, who sweat under the warm sun's comfortable heat; whose happy seat of pooley farre outvies the fabled pleasures of blest paradise. whose canaan fills your hous with wyne and oyl, till't crack with burdens of a fruitful soil. which hous, if it were plac't above the sphear, would be a palace fit for jupiter. the humble chappell for religious rites, the inner rooms for honest, free delights, and providence, that these miscarrie, loth, has plac't the tower a centinell to both: so that there's nothing wanting to improve either your pietie, or peace, or love. without, you have the pleasure of ye woods, fair plains, sweet meadows, and transparent flouds, with all that's good, and excellent, beside the tempting apples by euphrates' side. but, that, which does above all these aspire, is delphos, brought from greece to warwick-shire. but oh! ungodly hodge! that valu'd not the saving juice o'th' ænigmaticke pot. whose charming virtue made mee to forget t'enquire of fate, else i had stayed there yet. nor had i then once dar'd to venture on the cutting ayr of this our freezland zone. but once again, dear sir, i mean to come and learn to thank, as to be troublesome. another "journey into the peak" by charles cotton, which is but little known, is the following, which is an admirable specimen of his style. it is entitled an _epistle to john bradshaw, esq._ from _porto nova_ as pale wretches go, to swing on fatal _tripus_, even so my dearest friend, i went last day from thee, whilst for five miles, the figure of that tree was ever in my guilty fancy's eye, as if in earnest i'd been doom'd to die for, what deserv'd it, so unworthily stealing so early, _jack_, away from thee. and that which (as't well might) encreas'd my fear, was the ill luck of my vile chariotier, who drove so nicely too, t'increase my dread, as if his horses with my vital thread had harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak he fear'd might snap, and would not it should break, till he himself the honour had to do't with one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot. thus far in hanging posture then i went, (and sting of conscience is a punishment on earth they say the greatest, and some tell it is moreo'er the onely one in hell, the worm that never dies being alone the thing they call endless damnation:) but leaving that unto the wise that made it, and knowing best the gulf, can best evade it, i'll tell you, that being pass'd through _highgate_, there i was saluted by the countrey air, with such a pleasing gale, as made me smell the _peak_ it self; nor is't a miracle, for all that pass that _portico_ this way are _transontani_, as the courtiers say; which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak, that all of th' north-side _high-gate_ are i'th' _peak_; and so to hanging when i thought to come, wak'd from the dream, i found my self at home. wonder not then if i, in such a case so over-joy'd, forgot thee for a space; and but a little space, for, by this light, i thought on thee again ten times e'er night; though when the night was come, i then indeed thought all on one of whom i'd greater need: but being now cur'd of that malady, i'm at full leisure to remember thee, and (which i'm sure you long to know) set forth in northern song, my journey to the north. know then with horses twain, one sound, one lame, on _sunday's_ eve i to st. _alban's_ came, where, finding by my body's lusty state i could not hold out home at that slow rate, i found a coach-man, who, my case bemoaning, with three stout geldings, and one able stoning, for eight good pounds did bravely undertake, or for my own, or for my money's sake, through thick and thin, fall out what could befall, to bring me safe and sound to _basford[ ]-hall_. which having drank upon, he bid good-night, and (heaven forgive us) with the morning's light, not fearing god, nor his vice-gerent constable, we roundly rowling were the road to _dunstable_, which, as they chim'd to prayers, we trotted through, and 'fore elev'n ten minutes came unto the town that _brickhill_ height, where we did rest, and din'd indifferent well both man and beast. 'twixt two and four to _stratford_, 'twas well driven, and came to _tocester_ to lodge at even next day we din'd at _dunchurch_, and did lie that night four miles on our side _coventry_. _tuesday_ at noon at _lichfield_ town we baited, but there some friends, who long that hour had waited, so long detain'd me, that my chariotier could drive that night but to _uttoxiter_. and there the _wedn'sday_, being market-day, i was constrain'd with some kind lads to stay tippling till afternoon, which made it night when from my hero's tower i saw the light of her flambeaux, and fanci'd as we drave each rising hillock was a swelling wave, and that i swimming was in _neptune'_ spight to my long long'd-for harbour of delight. and now i'm here set down again in peace, after my troubles, business, voyages, the same dull northern clod i was before, gravely enquiring how ewes are a score, how the hay-harvest, and the corn was got, and if or no there's like to be a rot; just the same sot i was e'er i remov'd, nor by my travel, nor the court improv'd; the same old fashion'd squire, no whit refin'd, and shall be wiser when the devil's blind: but find all here too in the self-same state, and now begin to live at the old rate, to bub old ale, which nonsense does create, write leud epistles, and sometimes translate old tales of tubs, of _guyenne_, and _provence_, and keep a clutter with th'old blades of _france_, as _d'avenant_ did with those of _lombardy_, } which any will receive, but none will buy, } and that has set _h.b._[ ] and me awry. } my river still through the same chanel glides, clear from the tumult, salt, and dirt of tides, and my poor fishing-house, my seat's best grace, stands firm and faithfull in the self-same place i left it four months since, and ten to one i go a fishing e'er two days are gone: so that (my friend) i nothing want but thee to make me happy as i'd wish to be; and sure a day will come i shall be bless'd in his enjoyment whom my heart loves best; which when it comes will raise me above men greater than crowned monarchs are, and then i'll not exchange my cottage for _white_-hall, _windsor_, the _lauvre_, or th' _escurial_. footnotes: [ ] beresford hall, dove dale, his residence. [ ] "henry brome at the gun in st. paul's churchyard," who published many of cotton's works. _hugh stenson and molly green._ the following ballad has not, as far as i am aware, been "in print" before. i here give it from a ms. copy in my own possession. the duke of devonshire alluded to in the ballad as having acted so nobly in saving the life of "his countryman," hugh stenson, was, i presume, william, fourth duke of devonshire, who was lord lieutenant of ireland in . then oh, hugh stenson is my name, from ashborne in the peak i came, and at the age of seventeen i fell in love with molly green. she is a beauty i do declare, she came from highchurch in shropshire; she was an angel in my eye, which caused me from my colours to fly. long time i courted her for her love, but she would never constant prove; a thought then i did entertain, to cross the roaring ocean main. but when i was upon the seas, i could not have one moment's ease; for she was daily in my sigh, which made me from my colours to fly. but when i did return again, i went unto this youthful dame, desiring she would not disdain a bleeding heart and dying swain. "stenson," said she, "i pray forbear, i know that you a deserter are, and if my parents come to know, they sure would prove your overthrow." when i heard she made this reply, i from her arms did swiftly fly, and with a kiss i took my leave, although i'm bound a captive slave. at woolaton near nottingham i put my trust in a false man, i took him for my friend to be, but he, like judas, betrayed me. then a court marshall there was call'd, and i was brought amongst them all, and for deserting they did me try, and they condemned me for to die. oh lord, oh lord, it grieved me sore to lay my bones on an irish shore; one general pearcey he did cry, "it's by the law that you must die." from january to july upon the boards and stones i did lie, praying to heavens both night and day to take this thread of life away. oh then bespoke the president, hoping of me for to repent, "i have done the best for you i can, but o you are a dying man." twenty-five days i had to live, and bread and water i did receive; the clergyman came twice a day, and for my soul did daily pray. but at that time from england came the duke of devonshire by name, our lord lieutenant for to be, and he from death did set me free. and when this lord appeared in land, i wrote to him with my own hand, desiring that his grace would save a dying mortal from the grave. but when he looked these lines upon, and saw i was his own countryman, he said, "i'll ease him of his care, and send him home into derbyshire." oh then he gave a strict command for to release me out of hand; a free discharge to me he gave, and so his grace my life did save. so whilst i live i'm in duty bound to kneel and pray upon the ground, that when i die without control, sweet jesus may receive my soul. you soldiers all, where e'er you be, and hear of this my misery, i beg you'll warning take by me, and so i end my tragedy. finis. _the beggar's ramble._ there are at least three or four different versions of the "ramble;" or rather i should say there are at least three or four different metrical "rambles" through derbyshire, of this character. i give two. the first i reprint from a broad-sheet, and the second from an old ms. copy, both in my own collection. the allusions to places, persons, inns, &c., in the county, are curious and interesting. hark ye well, my neighbours all, and pray now can you tell which is the nearest way unto the begger's well? there is eaton, and toten, and brancot on the hill, there's beggerly beeston, and lousy chilwell. there's trowel, and there's cosel, from there to cimberly knowl, i would have call'd at watnall, but i thought it would not do, there's beaver, and there's hansley, & so for perkin wood, i meant to have call'd at selson, but there ale is not good. there's snelson green, and pinstone green, and blackwell old hall, an old place where i had lived i had a mind to call; i got a good refreshment, and something else beside, so turning up the closes, south normanton i 'spied. there's blackwell, and there's newton, from there to marrot moor, there's tipshall, and there's hardstaff, where i had been before, i cross o'er hardstaff common, from there to pilsley lane where once a noted butcher lived, geo. holland was his name. there's wingfield, and tupton, from there to the claycross, from there i went to chesterfield,--was almost cut to loss, there's asher, and there's firbeck, and stretton on the hill, there's hickam, and oakerthorpe, and so for wiremill. there's brankenfield, & wessenton, from there to morat moor, there's pentrich, and alfreton, where i had been before, there's swanick, and ripley, then to the hillocks i came, from there to denby common, for to see old dolly green. there's denby and bottlebrook, from there to the lane ends, from there i went to horseley, in hopes to meet a friend, so turning down coxbench, i made a sudden stop, thinks i i'll up the closes go, for potters of th' hill top. in woodhouse lane, as i've been told, they used to get good coal, and stansby is a pretty place, and so for the dob hole, there's the justice room, and smalley bell, likewise the rose and crown, and at morley smithey, i've been told there lives one saml. brown. there's morley, and stansby, and so for lockey grange, there's spondon and ockbrook, and so for chaddeson came; there's ferby, and breadsall, and so for alestree, from there to little eaton went, george milward for to see. there's duffield down by derwent side, & milford, in a line, there's belper, and there's shottle, if i can get there in time; there's turnditch, and kirk ireton, and so for cross-in hand, and when i got to wardgate, i was almost at a stand. there's hollington and middleton by youlgrave i've heard tell, there's bonsal and there's winster, from and to bakewell, there's wardlemire & uckler, from there to hoyland came, and when that i did thither get, i began to feel quite lame. there's calver, & there's rowsley, that most delightful place, from there went to chatsworth, the mansion of his grace; there's darley dale, & matlock, where i once stopt a week, there's cromford, & wirksworth, & ashbourn in the peak. there's ashbourn green, & hognaston, and so for atlow-win, then on by shepherd folly, and from there to ginglers' inn. there's yeldersly, and alderwasley, and langley, and longford, there's brailford, and mugington, and weston underwood. there's quarndon, and markeaton, oft times i have heard tell, from there i went to kedleston, where there is a useful well; and at windy mill, i do sure you very pleasant looks, if you will only stop and drink with honest puss-in-boots. there's darley by derby, for that is a shady bower, and derby is a county town; there's handsome micklover. there's litlover, and mackworth, and so for etwell i went, until at last i did arrive at burton-upon-trent. there's findon, and repton, and ashton also, and there's another little place, i think they call shardlow; there's elvaston, and allvaston, i have travelled o'er and o'er, there's wind mills and south mills, and barrow-upon-soar. there's swarston bridge and smalley bridge, as plain it doth appear, there's keyworth, and hathenturns, that lieth very near, there's sheepshead, and thingstun, and whitrick also across the sherwood forest, and from there to loughborough. there's gotham rare for wisdom, and bunny's rare for game, there's clifton grove and rudington, wilford down the lane; there's cropwell, and there's ratliffe, and bridgeford on the hill, there's gunthorpe, and calthorpe, and overington mill. there's southwell, and westhorpe, and eperston so green, there's lowtom and burton joice, and bulcott lies between, there's lambley, and woodborough, from there to calverton, and there's a place at arnold, they call it foxen den. there's redhill and maperly hills, from there to thornywood, where once a noted robber lived, his name was robin hood; there's gedling, and carlton, as plainly it does appear, there's keyworth, and hatherturns, that lieth very near. there's lenton, and radford, and so for bobber's mill, there's hyson green, and basford, and so for sinder hill; there's broxter, and there's nuttel, and greasley lieth nigh, there's giltbrook, and newthorpe, from there to beggerley. there's moregreen and nether green, where lives a man of sport, and eastwood is a pretty place of trade and resort; and at langley mill i stopt a while, to see a noble fight, and when i came to brunsley gin, thinks i i'll light my pipe. there's oldacre and bentley, and so for the lime kilns, there's woodend, and heaner, and famous tag hill, there's lee lane, and marpole, where lives one mr. clay, there's shipley, and shipley wood, and so for cotnermay. and there's another little place, if i am not mistaken, i think some people call it mapley by name, there's little hallam, and hilson, and so for gallows inn, and when i came to sandacre i was looken very thin. there's stapleford, and risley, and dracott also, at last i came to breaston, where i wish'd for long ago, so i hope these lines which i have wrote no one they will offend, for at every door there stands a whore, at leak town end. _the beggar's ramble._ come hark you well, my masters, pray can you me tell which is the nearest road unto the beggar's wells? there's shoobottams of womfords, and bessicks in the flash, there's ropemakers of mansfield, and dales of bordbast. there's sigsmore and staysmore, and clackmore so rough, there's winster and cotsworth, and merry locksclough; there's longnor and buxton, and outerside the shade, from thence you may go to leechurch[ ] and call at the west gaites. there's caldon and caulton, there's the waterfall and grinn, and these are four of the foulest places that ever man was in; there's haymore by ashbourn, and then to the peak hills, for wool and lead is the chiefest thing that the country yields. there's oaker[ ] hall and blesford hall,[ ] and mappleton in the sands, there's thorpe cloud and bentley, and at tissington lies good land; there's parrich[ ] and braston,[ ] there's bradburn and wet wilnn,[ ] there's hopton and carsdale, park nook and pusses inn.[ ] there's middleton and cromford, and so to gosley bank, and if you taste of wirksworth ale it's sure to make you drunk; there's hognaston and atlow, and atlor in the fall, and from thence you may go to bradley, and there's a pretty hall. there's marston and mugginton and allestree and quarn, and in that pretty country there does grow good corn; there's donington and diseworth, and breedon-on-the-hill, and from thence you go to newton, and so to the king's mills. there's mackworth and marton,[ ] and so to the nun's green, there's harehill and hogdeston, a little way between; there's longford and mammaton, and so to harton forge, and from thence you may go to tidbury,[ ] and in at the old george. there's foston and roston, and so to darley moor, there's yeavely and radgley, and thence you may be sure for why i did ramble to the far end of the town, and there's a pretty landlady that keeps the rose and crown. at ellaston and wooton, and at stanton there's good ale, and from thence you may go to swinsor and pantons in the dale; there's crumpwood and prestwood, and rosemary hill, there's wotten lodge and alton lodge, and so on to the wire mill. there's alton and farley, and rempstone so high, there's cheadle and oakamoor is a little hard by; there's quicksall and rosley[ ] and camebridge beyond, and from thence you may go to utcetter,[ ] and there lies good land. there's eaton and crapnidge and perwolt in the clay, there's stramshall and bramshall and merry loxley, there's overton and netherton, and bramest and fole, there's leechurch and park hall, and checkley-in-the-hole. there's dubberidge and blyfield, and so to coloten green, there's boslem[ ] and handley[ ] green a little way between, for potmen and great carriers they bear the bell away, but the old stock of borleyash is quite gone to decay. footnotes: [ ] query ludchurch. [ ] okeover hall. [ ] brailsford. [ ] parwich. [ ] brassington. [ ] wilne. [ ] "puss-in-boots" at windley. [ ] markeaton. [ ] tutbury. [ ] rodsley. [ ] uttoxeter. [ ] burslem. [ ] hanley. _henry and clara._ _a peak ballad._ in the middle of last century as brutal and cold-blooded a murder as ever disgraced the annals of this kingdom was perpetrated in the winnats (a corruption of "wind gates") at castleton, the victims being a young gentleman and lady of "gentle," if not of "noble," blood, on their wedding-day, and the murderers being five miners of the place. the following ballad, the production, in his early days, of my late brother, the rev. arthur george jewitt,[ ] was printed by him in his "_wanderings of memory_," in . the following explanatory note appears in "_wanderings of memory_:"-- "in the year ,[ ] a young gentleman and lady, each mounted on a fine horse, but unattended by any servants, had been up to the chapel of peak forest to be married, (as being extra-parochial, the vicar at that time exercised the same privilege as the parson of gretna green, and married any couple that came to him, without making any impertinent enquiries concerning them,) and on their return, wishing to take castleton in their way home, and being strangers in the country, found themselves benighted at the winnats." "here they were seized by five miners, dragged into a barn, robbed of a great sum of money, and then murdered. in vain the lady sought them to spare her husband; vainly he strove to defend his wife. while one part of them were employed in cutting the gentleman's throat, another of the villains, stepping behind the lady, struck a pick-axe into her head, which instantly killed her. their horses were found, some days after, with their saddles and bridles still on them, in that great waste called peak forest; and eldon hole was examined for their riders, but without effect. they were then taken to chatsworth, (the duke of devonshire being lord of the manor,) and ran there as '_waifs_,' but never were claimed, and it is said the saddles are yet preserved there. this murder, thus perpetrated in silence, though committed by so large a company, remained a secret till the death of the last of the murderers; but heaven, ever watchful to punish such horrid wretches, rendered the fate of all the five singularly awful. one, named nicholas cock, fell down one of the winnats, and was killed on the spot. john bradshaw, another of the murderers, was crushed to death by a stone which fell upon him near the place where the poor victims were buried. a third, named thomas hall, became a suicide; a fourth, francis butler, after many attempts to destroy himself, died raging mad; and the fifth, after experiencing all the torments of remorse and despair which an ill-spent life can inflict on a sinner's death-bed, could not expire till he had disclosed the particulars of the horrid deed." christians, to my tragic ditty deign to lend a patient ear, if your breasts e'er heav'd with pity, now prepare to shed a tear. once there lived a tender virgin, virtuous, fair, and young was she, daughter of a wealthy lordling, but a haughty man was he. many suitors, rich and mighty, for this beauteous damsel strove, but she all their offers slighted, none could wake her soul to love. one alone, of manners noble, yet with slender fortune blessed, caus'd this lady's bosom trouble, raised the flame within her breast. mutual was the blissful passion, stronger and stronger still it grew; henry liv'd but for his clara, clara but her henry knew. but, alas! their bliss how transient, earthly joy but leads to care: henry sought her haughty parent and implor'd his daughter fair-- dar'd to ask the wealthy lordling, for the damsel's willing hand,-- pleaded with respectful fervour, who could his request withstand? clara's father,--he withstood it, he the ardent suit denied,-- to a house so poor, though noble, never would he be allied. bade him seek a love more equal, banish clara from his mind, for he should no more behold her,-- she,--poor maid, he close confin'd. hapless henry, thus rejected, lost, unfriended, and forlorn, wretched, sad, by all neglected, his fond heart with anguish torn. then, to crown his bosom's sorrow, news was whisper'd in his ear, clara on the coming morrow, would a lordling's bride appear. wild, distracted, mad with phrenzy, to the father's house he flew, there determin'd to behold her, and to breathe his last adieu. joyous on the nuptial even, round the sparkling festal board, with a crowd of guests carousing, sat this rich and haughty lord. left a moment unattended, clara soon that moment seiz'd, first to heav'n her sire commended, then fled from home, tho' weeping, pleas'd. henry gain'd the castle portal, a footstep clara's fears alarm'd; she stops,--she lists,--they came,--fast panting, henry caught her in his arms. now no time for fond endearments, swift on wings of love they fled; till from father's house far distant, father's frowns no more they dread. then before the sacred altar, they in wedlock join'd their hands: long their souls had been united in indissoluble bands. now with virtuous rapture burning, whilst fond hope encreas'd the flame; tow'rds their home again returning, to this lonesome place they came. christian, shall i close my story? words can never tell the tale;-- to relate a scene so bloody, all the pow'rs of language fail. in that glen so dark and dismal, five ruffians met this youthful pair; long the lover bravely struggled, fought to save his bride so fair. but at last, o'erpowr'd and breathless, faint he sinks beneath their pow'r: joyful shouts the demon murder, in this gloomy midnight hour. bids them not to rest with plunder, but their souls with rage inspires, all their dark and flinty bosoms, with infernal malice fires. high they lift the murd'rous weapon, wretches, hear ye not her cries? high they lift the murd'rous weapon? lo! her love, her husband dies! rocks, why stood ye so unmoved? earth, why op'dst thou not thy womb? lightnings, tempests, did ye slumber? scap'd these hell-hounds instant doom? high they lift the murd'rous weapon, who can 'bide her piercing shriek? 'tis done----the dale is wrapt in silence, on their hands her life-blood reeks. dark and darker grows the welkin, through the dale the whirlwind howls; on its head the black cloud low'ring, threat'ning now, the grey rock scowls. conscience, where are now thine arrows? does the murd'rer feel the smart? death and grave, where are your terrors? written in the murd'rer's heart. yes, he sees their ghastly spectres ever rising on his view; eyes wide glaring,--face distorted, quiv'ring lips of livid hue. ever sees the life-blood flowing, ever feels the reeking stream, ever hears _his_ last weak groaning, mingled with _her_ dying scream. christians, i have told my ditty, if you shudder not with fear, if your breasts can glow with pity, can you now withhold a tear? footnotes: [ ] the rev. a. g. jewitt, who was the author of several well-known works, was born at chesterfield in , and died in . [ ] another account says . _the gipsies' song._ for the following curious old derbyshire song i am indebted to my good friend james orchard halliwell, f.s.a. it occurs in playford's "musical companion," printed in , and has not, so far as i am aware, been reprinted till now. "honest john playford," who was a printer as well as clerk of the temple church, london, published several of the most famous music-books of his day, and which at the present time are of the most service of any in determining the dates and names of tunes to which the old ballads, &c., were sung. in he published "a musical banquet, in three books, consisting of lessons for the lyra viol, allmains, and sarabands, choice catches and rounds, &c.;" and again with the title, "a banquet of musick, set forth in three several varieties of musick: first, lessons for the lyra violl; the second, ayres and jiggs for the violin; the third, rounds and catches: all which are fitted to the capacity of young practitioners in music." among his many other publications, his most famous was "the english dancing master, or plaine and easie rules for the dancing of country dances, with the tune to each dance," which passed through many editions, with additional tunes, &c. the "musical companion" was first published in , and from this edition the following "gipsies song" and music are taken. the work contained two hundred and eighteen compositions, of which one hundred and forty-three were catches and rounds, and the remainder glees, airs, part-songs, &c. this work was highly popular, and between the years and it passed through ten editions. the "gipsies' song" here given was for two voices, and was composed by robert johnson. [music: a. . _voc._ (the gipsies' song.) _cantus._ _rob. johnson._ from the fam-ous peak of _dar-by_, and the de- vil's a--that's hard by; where we year-ly make our mus-ters; there the _gyp-sies_ throng in clus-ters. be not fright-ed with our fashion, though we seem a tatter'd na-tion; we account our raggs our rich-es, so our tricks ex-ceed our stitches: give us ba-con, rinds of wal-nuts, shells of cockels and of small nuts: ribonds, bells, and saffron lin-nin; and all the world is ours to win in.] _the_ _flax-dresser's wife of spondon,_ _and the pound of tea._ the following ballad, recounting the droll mistake made by a woman at spondon, near derby, who thought _green_ tea was to be boiled as _greens_, and eaten accordingly as "cabbage and bacon," was printed in the "spirit of english wit," in . it tells its own tale. it may be well to remark that flax was, some years ago, much grown in this part of derbyshire: some meadows at duffield through which the turnpike road passes, are still known by the name of _flax-holmes_. 'twas more than fifty years ago, in spondon's simple village, spondon, in derbyshire, i trow, well known for useful tillage. there dwelt a pair of simple souls-- the husband a flax-dresser; his wife dressed victuals for his jowls, and darn'd his hose--god bless her. now these poor folks had got a friend, who dwelt in london city; and oft some present he would send to john and dame, in pity. now, reader, if you'll backwards turn, and read this tale's beginning, full half-a-century you'll learn this story has been spinning. now near that time, you must be told, tea first came into fashion; tea, which oft made a husband scold, and bounce about in passion. at least, 'mongst those of middling life it made a hideous riot; to have a gay tea-drinking wife, a man could ne'er be quiet. 'twas thought as bad as now, i ween,-- a sin since then grown bigger,-- were a man's wife, by guzzling gin, to cut a reeling figure. but london, who drank tea the first, grew reconcil'd unto it; and, though 'twas thought of crimes the worst, the ladies still would do it. now, reader, the flax-dresser's friend (the flax-dresser of spondon) thought a good pound of tea he'd send to please them both from london. but he forgot, good man, i trow, that in this favoured nation, good things, or bad, still travel slow, like cow-inoculation. nor ever dreamt, you may believe, that they had no more notion what was the gift they did receive, than of the western ocean. so when it came, long ponder'd they how 'twas to be devour'd; they wish'd he'd sent some hint to say, for they were quite o'erpower'd. at length, right well they both agreed 'twere best it should be taken, by way of greens, when next they'd need, with some of their fat bacon. next day arrived, the flax-man's wife set on her sauce-pan flattish, popp'd in the tea, then took a knife and cut some bacon fattish. the bacon soon enough was done, but still the tea, so evil, kept very tough--the clock struck one; she wish'd it at the devil. for at the hour of noon each day, these humble friends of labour took their plain meal--nor only they, for so did every neighbour. finding it hard, though tasted oft, she bawl'd out like a sinner, "this cursed stuff will ne'er be soft, so, john! come down to dinner." _the ashborne foot-ball song._ on page i have spoken of the game of foot-ball as played at derby. ashborne was also one of the strongholds of this manly game, and in that pleasant little town it has been played from time immemorial, until "put down" by the strong arm of the law--not without much unpleasantness and strenuous opposition--a few years ago. the following song was sung (and i believe written) by mr. fawcett, the comedian, at the ashborne theatre, on the th of february, . i'll sing you a song of a neat little place, top full of good humour and beauty and grace; where coaches are rolling by day and by night, and in playing at foot-ball the people delight. where health and good humour does always abound, and hospitality's cup flows freely around, where friendship and harmony are to be found, in the neat little town of ashborne. shrove tuesday, you know, is always the day, when pancake's the prelude, and foot-ball's the play, where upwards and downwards men ready for fun, like the french at the battle of waterloo run. and well may they run like the devil to pay, 'tis always the case as i have heard say, if a derbyshire foot-ball man comes in the way, in the neat little town of ashborne. there's mappleton, mayfield, okeover and thorpe, can furnish some men that nothing can whop, and bentley and tissington always in tune, and clifton and sturston are ready as soon. then there's snelston and wyaston, shirley and all, who all are good men at brave whittaker's call; and who come to kick at paul gettliffe's foot-ball, in the neat little town of ashborne. the ball is turn'd up, and the bull ring's the place, and as fierce as a bull-dog's is every man's face; whilst kicking and shouting and howling they run, until every stitch in the ball comes undone. there's faulkner and smith, bodge hand and some more, who hide it and hug it and kick it so sore, and deserve a good whopping at every man's door in the neat little town of ashborne. if they get to the park the upwards men shout and think all the downwards men put to the rout, but a right about face they soon have to learn, and the upwards men shout and huzza in their turn. then into shaw croft where the bold and the brave, get a ducking in trying the foot-ball to save; for 'tis well known they fear not a watery grave, in defence of the foot-ball at ashborne. if into church street should the ball take its way, the white hart and wheat sheaf will cause some delay, for from tasting their liquor no man can refrain, till he rolls like the foot-ball in warin's tear-brain. then they run and they shout, they bawl and they laugh, they kick and huzza, still the liquor they quaff till another foot-ball has been cut into half, by the unfair players of ashborne. _the parsons torr._ the following admirable ballad, the production of the rev. w. r. bell, formerly curate of bakewell, is founded partly on _facts_, and partly on _local traditions_. the unfortunate hero of the story was the rev. robert lomas, incumbent of monyash, who was found dead, as described in the ballad, on the th of october, . the scene of the ballad comprises the towns of bakewell and monyash, and the mountainous country between them, the western part of which--that bordering on lathkiln and harlow dales--being one of the most romantic districts of the peak. the ballad first appeared in the "reliquary," in . the parson of monyash, late one eve, sat in his old oak arm-chair; and a playful flame in the low turf fire oft-times shewed him sitting there. what was it that made that kind-hearted man sit pensively there alone? did other men's sorrows make sad his heart? or, say--a glimpse of his own? black dark was that night and stormy withal, it rained as 'twould rain a sea; and round and within the old parsonage house the wind moaned piteously. still sat he deep musing till midnight hour, and then in a waking dream-- he quailed to hear mid the tempest a crash, and eke a wild piercing scream. o mercy! cried he, with faltering breath, what sounds are these which i hear? may evil be far from both me and mine! good lord, be thou to us near! no longer sat he in that old arm-chair, but prayed and lay down in bed; and strove hard to sleep, and not hear the storm that scowled and raged o'er his head. but sleep seldom comes when 'tis most desired, and least to a troubled mind; and the parson lay wake long time, i ween, ere soft repose he could find. as the dark hours of night passed slowly on, he slept as weary man will; but light was his sleep, and broken his rest, and sad his fore-dread of ill. thus restless he lay, and at early dawn he dream'd that he fell amain, down--down an abyss of fathomless depth, loud shrieking for help in vain. he woke up at once with a sudden shock, and threw out his arms wide-spread; "good heavens!" he gasped, "what ill-omen is this? where am i--with quick or dead?" right well was he pleased to find 'twas a dream-- that still he was safe and sound: with the last shades of night, fear passed away, and joy once again came round. the morning was calm, and the storm was hushed, nor wind nor rain swept the sky; and betimes he arose, for bound was he to bakewell that day to hie. old hugh brought his horse to the garden gate, and saw him all safe astride; "good-bye!" quoth the parson; quoth hugh, "good-bye! i wish you a pleasant ride!" forth rode he across the lone trackless moor, his thoughts on his errand bent and hoped he right soon to come back again the very same way he went. the journey to bakewell he safely made a little before mid-day: but vicar and people were all at church,[ ] where they were oft wont to pray. "i'll put up my beast," quoth the parson, "here, at the white horse hostelry;[ ] and go up to church, that when prayers are done, the vicar i there may see." but ere he could reach the old newark door,[ ] both priest and people were gone; and the vicar to soothe a dying man, to over-haddon sped on. 'twas three past noon when the vicar came back, the parson he asked to dine, and time stole a march on the heedless guest, six struck as he sat at wine. up rose he from table and took his leave, quite startled to find it late; he called for his horse at the hostelry, and homeward was soon agate. as he rode up the hill, past all saints' church, the moon just one glance bestowed, and the wierd-like form of the old stone cross, in the church-yard, dimly shewed. still higher and higher he climbed the hill, yet more and more dark it grew; the drizzling rain became sleet as he climbed, and the wind more keenly blew. ah! thick was the mist on the moor that night, poor wight, he had lost his way! the north-east wind blowing strong on his right, to the left had made him stray. and now he was close to lone haddon grove, bewildered upon the moor; slow leading his horse that followed behind, himself groping on before. still onward and leeward, at last he came to the edge of harlow dale; from his cave[ ] the lathkil a warning roared, but louder then howled the gale. on the brink of fox torr the doomed man stood, and tugged the bridle in vain; his horse would not move--then quick started back, and, snap, went each bridle-rein! then headlong fell he o'er the lofty cliff, he shrieked, and sank in the gloom; down--down to the bottom he swiftly sped, and death was his dreadful doom. the dead man lay cold on the blood-stained rocks-- the darkness did him enshroud;-- and the owls high up in the ivy-clad torr, bewailed him all night full loud. o little thought they in the old thatched cot, hard by the parsonage gate; their master they never again should see, nor ope to him soon nor late! "this night is no better than last," quoth hugh, "and master has not come back; i hope he is hale and safe housed with friends, and has of good cheer no lack." quoth betty, "i liked not his morning ride-- i fear he's in evil plight-- a friday's venture's, no luck! i've heard say, god help him if out this night." at dawn of next day, old betty went forth to milk the cow in the shed;-- and saw him sitting upon a large stone, all pale, and mute--with bare head. but a moment she turned her eyes away, a fall she heard and a groan; she looked again, but, no parson was there, he'd vanished from off the stone! soon spread the dread tale through monyash town-- they made a great hue and cry; and some off to this place--and some to that, to seek the lost man did hie. bad tidings from bakewell--no parson there-- no parson could else be found; 'twas noon, yet no tidings--they still searched on, and missed they no likely ground. at last the searchers went into the dale, and there at the foot of fox torr-- they found the parson, all cold and dead, 'mong the rocks all stained with gore. they took up his corse--and six stalwart men, slowly bore it along the dale; and they laid the dead in his house that night, and many did him bewail. when time had passed over--a day or twain, they buried him in the grave; and his bones now rest in the lone churchyard, till doomsday them thence shall crave. o dread was the death of that luckless man-- not soon will it be forgot; the dismal story--for ages to come-- will often be told, i wot. you may not now see in monyash town the deadman's sear tuft of grass; but still it is there, in memory stored, and thence it never shall pass. you may not now find fox torr by that name, the swain thus knows it no more; but pointing thereat from the lathkil grot, he'll shew you the parson's torr. and now, my dear friends, what more need i say? i've told you the story through:-- if you've in the least been pleased with my song, then i am well-pleased with you. footnotes: [ ] at the _friday_ morning service. [ ] now called the _rutland arms_. [ ] the door in the south transept, locally called the _newark_ door. [ ] the river lathkil issues from a cavern in the limestone rock, directly opposite the parson's torr. index. [** asterism]in the following index the titles of the ballads are given in small capitals, and the first lines in _italics_. a ballad of derbyshire, a day in the woodlands, a journey into the peak, , a new song on the great foot-race at derby, a peak ballad, a poem found by mr. * * * and dedicated to major trowell, a rhapsody on the peak of derbyshire, a strange banquet, or the devil's entertainment by cook laurel at the peak in derbyshire, abington, adam bell, address to "dickie," agincourt, battle of, et seq., agricultural meeting, alderwasley, ale, derby, , , ---- cakes and, aldermary church yard, "_all you that delight in merriment_," allestree, , all saints' church, derby, alfreton, alvaston, allan-a-dale, alroes, lord, alton towers, , , alton lodge, amber, an address to "dickie," "angler, complete," an elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry in darley dalle, anne, st. well, anthony babington's complainte, ap. thomas, sir rees, , , arabella stuart, archer's wall, ardglass, countess of, arnold, "_as i sat musing by the fire_", "_as our king lay musing in his bed_," , , "_as i was going to darby, sir_," "_arthur a bradley_," "_as i on oker hill one day did stand_," "_as i to ireland did pass_," ashborne, , , , , , , et seq., , , - ashborne foot-ball song, ashborne inns, -------- bull-ring, -------- "tear brain," -------- theatre, ashop, river, ashopton, , , ashford-in-the-water, , ashmole, elias, --------------- autograph, ashover, , , et seq., ashton, ashupton garland, atlow, , "_attend, ye jolly gardeners_", "_at length my wandering feet have brought_," audley end, autograph, anthony babington, ---------- arabella stuart, ---------- elias ashmole, aurora borealis, ballad on, axe edge, , ayscough, william, babington family, , - babington, antony, complainte, bakewell, , , , , , , et seq. ballad of derbyshire, --------- hero robin hood, bage, baske, ballard, bank hall, , banks, sir joseph, bannard, james, , barking barbers, barnwell, barrow-upon-soar, bachelors of darby, the unconscionable, basford, bath, ballad, a peak, henry and clara, bateman, thomas, , bath, beggars' well, beeston, beaumaris, beggar's ramble, beggar's wells, beggarley, bellamy, bell, adam, belper, bellman of london, belvoir, bennett, william, , , beresford hall, , bessy, song of the lady, begrammes abbey, , bessel, j., (printer,) bentley, bell, rev. w. r., bessick, beggar's ramble, the, birchover, blackwell, blakely oldhurst, blink-eyed cobbler, blue's valour displayed, blesford hall, blyfield, bonner, sir william, boothby, ----------- , boyce, dr., bottle brook, bolt edge moor, bosworth field, , bolesworth field, , bonsall, boar, blue, , bow lane, bow, wow, wow, bowden, , bood, borleyash, broxter, brailsford, brown, samuel, bridgeford, breadsall, bramcote, bradford, brickhill, brackenbury, , et seq. browne, brierlow, brereton, humphry, , et seq. bradshaw, epistle to john, brimlow, john, , brome, henry, bromefield, brightside, bradley, _bradley, arthur a'_, brunsley gin, breaston, brailsford hall, braston, brassington, bradburn, breedon on the hill, bramshall, bramest, butler, bradshaw, bull, , , - bullets, buxton, , , , - , , , , , ------ advertiser, buckstone, lay of the, buckingham, bulcote, "burlesque upon burlesque," burning in a tun, burton-on-trent, burton joyce, bull-running, , , , , butcher, drunken, of tideswell, burslem, calverton, calton family, carlton, calton, calthorpe, castle naze works, cakes and ale, calver, callcott, , cat, whittington and his, cat and fiddle, cambridge, duke of, , ---------- , , castleton, , , - , , , ---------- a strange banquet at, , cards, game at, for a kingdom, candles, cap of maintenance, carnarvon, "cavalier," cavendish, sir william, ---------- elizabeth, countess of, caldon, caulton, carsdale, cecil, celestial bard, chappell, w., , , chapel-en-le-frith, , , , , , , , , , chamber knoll, charcoal, chatsworth, , , , chaddesden, cheadle, checkley in the hole, cheetham, library, chester, ranulph, earl of, cheshire, , et seq., , , , , chesterfield, , ------------- earl of, chee tor, cheetham hill, chester, west, chevy chace, chilwell, chirk land, choir of all saints' church, "_christians, to my tragic ditty_," ---------- thunder at, , cider, cinder hills, clara, henry and, claret, clay cross, clarence, duke of, , et seq. clifton, clifton grove, clim of the clough, , clorinda (maid marian), et seq. clough, clim of the, , clowdeslee, william of, , cobler, the blink-eyed, cock tail reel, cock lorel, or cook laurel, comical scotch dialogue, coke family, , , et seq., to cokain, sir aston, notice of, , ------- ballad of derbyshire, ------- poems, ------- portrait of, ------- journey into the peak, cokain, thomas, , coke, daniel parker, -- cook laurel's entertainment to the devil, ------------- note, cook, eliza, cook, "_cook laurel would have the devil his guest_," colepepper col., coloton green, collyer, j. payne, colvile, c. r., collumbell, "complete gamester," "commentaries of de montlac," complainte of anthonie babington, combs moss, , "_come lasses and lads_," "_come all you gallant lasses of courage stout and bold_," "_come gather round and form a throng_," "complete angler," , et seq. "_come hark you well, my masters, pray can you me tell_," "_coming home into this frozen clime_," congleton, cooper, w. durant, coopland, cosel, cottage of content, cotnermay, cotton, charles, , - ---------------- journey into the peak, ---------------- epistle to john bradshaw, ---------------- list of his works, ---------------- ms. poems, ---------------- poems on several occasions, ---------------- life of, ---------------- complete angler, coventry, coventry, cowley, coxbench, crapnidge, crich, , cromford, , crompton, john bell, croome, cropwell, cross-o'th-hands, crumpswood, cubley, dakin, dale, danby, lord, devonshire's noble duel with, darnall park, darley, darley abbey, darley dale, elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry, ------------ date obelum belisario, death of rev. bache thornhill, deaf stone, "_dear polyhymnie be_," "_declare, o muse, what demon 'twas_," deincourt, delamere forest, , et seq. -------- lord, , et seq. delaware, lord, deloney, thomas, denby, derby, earl of, , , et seq. derby, , , , et seq., derby ram, derby, , , , derby, agricultural meeting, ------ nun's green, songs on, -- derby blues, , derby hero, derby hills, , ----- ale, , ----- unconscionable bachelors of, ----- lasses of, ----- races, ----- florist's song, derbyshire volunteers, , ---------- militia, , , derbyshire, a ballad of, derbyshire, new ballad of robin hood, derbyshire miller, derbyshire men, derbyshire militia, song in praise of, derbyshire hills, derbyshire dales, derbyshire, a rhapsody on, derrick, samuel, derwent, river, , , , -------- village, derwentwater, lord, dethick, , - devonshire's noble duel, ---------- duke of, , et seq., , , , , ---------- long-arm'd duke, ---------- duchess of, ---------- yorkshire pie, diamond hill, dibden, dicey, w., dick whittington, dickie of tunstead, "dickie," an address to, diseworth, dixon, h., donnington, dob holes, doctor double ale, dove, river, doveridge, , dove dale, , , et seq. ---- river, et seq. doune, draycott, drawn with wild horses, drayton, draycott, philip, driving of the deer, dronfield, drunken butcher of tideswell, duckinfield, dudley, w., ------- s., duel, devonshire's noble, duffield, , dunstable, dunchurch, durham, bishop of, durintwood, eagles foot, eastwood, eaton, , ebbing and flowing well, edale, edward iv., edwards, eldon hole, , ----- hill, ellaston, elegy upon the death of the greatest gentry of darley dale, elizabeth of york, elvaston, , , entcliffe hill, , eperstone, epistle to john bradshaw, esq., epsom, espernon, duke of, etwall eyre, family, , "fair one of tunis," fairfield, fair, humours of hayfield, ----- nottingham goose, , et seq. "_farewell our daddies and our mammies_," farley, farnfield, faulkner, fawcett's ashborne foot-ball song, ferrars, lord, , findern, firby, firbeck, fitzwarine, sir hugh, ----------- alice, ----------- maud, flash, flax-dresser's wife of spondon and the pound of tea, flax-holmes, florists' song, florist's song, florist's society, fludyer, fole, foljamb, forest, delamere, , et seq. "_for jesus' sake be merry and glad_," foston, foot-ball, game of, ---------- derby, , foot-ball song, ashborne, foot-ball at ashborne, , et seq. fox chase, squire vernon's, fox, family, , fox low, fox torr, , , france, conquest of, french king, , frith, squire, hunting song, frith, samuel, fools, strips of, "_from the famous peak of darby_," gage, gallow's inn, game at cards for a kingdom, ------- cakes and ale, "gamester, complete," gamwell of gamwell hall, , garland of merriment, garland, ashupton, gaunt, john of, , - gautriss dale, gawn, gawsworth, gedling, gell, colonel thomas, ----- sir john, george inn, george iii., gerrard, sir gilbert, getliffe, ghent, john of, , - ghost, , giltbrook, gingler's inn, gipsies metamorphosed, gipsies' song, the, "_god that is moste of myghte_," "_god prosper long fair derby town_," "_good people give attention to a story you shall hear_," gosley bank, goose fair, , et seq. gotham, , gray, graceley, greaves, greensmith, greene, green, hugh stenson and molly, gresley, greswark, gretna green, grindleford bridge, guards, brigade of, gunthorpe, gutch, john mathew, guy, earl of warwick, habbington, haddon hall, , , ------ over, ------ grove, haines, william, hall, halliwell, j. o., hand, halliwell collection, , handford, tom, - hansley, handel, harpham, harden, harestan, harrington, earl of, , "_hark, hark, brother sportsmen, what a melodious sound_," harehill, harton, harlow dale, , harleian mss., hardstaff, "_hark you well, you neighbours all, and pray now can you tell_," harrington, sir william, , hardwick, earl of, , --------- bess of, hartington, "strange and wonderful sight" there, hartington, , hathersage, , , hassop, ------- and little john, , et seq., , et seq. ------- little john's grave, &c., , hathenturns, hayfield fair, humours of, hayfield, , haymore, heanor, helldon hill, henry and clara, a peak ballad, "_here must i tell the praise_," hero, derby, ----- stafford, - hertford, earl of, , hickham, high peak, , , , , , high church in shropshire, highlander, highgate, hilson (ilkeston), hills, derby, , hillary, hood, robin, - hodgkinson, hogdeston, hognaston, , holland, george, hollington, holt castle, , , , holy poker, horsley, howitt, richard, howsley, hoyland, hugh stenson and molly green, humours of hayfield fair, hunter, rev. joseph, hunting songs, squire vernon's fox chace, -------------- trusley, -------------- squire frith's, hurdle, hutchinson, tour through the peak, , ---------- of owthorpe, hyde park, hyson green, "_i'll sing you a song of a neat little place_," "_i sigh for the land where the orange tree flingeth_," "_i' darbyshire who're born an' bred_," ilam hall, ilkeston, "_in summer time when leaves are green_," isle of man, , "_jack asses' trot_," james, king, ------------ taxes, , et seq. ------------ treachery of, jenkinson, jewitt, arthur, ------- rev. arthur george, -------------------'s "wanderings of memory," --------------------- henry and clara, a peak ballad, johnson, jonson, ben, jones, , journey into the peak, , kedleston, kendall, kent, , ----- earl of, keyworth, "_kind gentlemen will you be patient awhile_," king's mills, king henry v., his conquest of france, ---- edward iv., ---- george iii., ---- henry vii., ---- charles ii., ---- richard, , et seq. ---- james, "---- of the peak," , ---- henry viii., ---- richard ii., ---- castile and leon, ---- george iv., ---- george i., ---- james i., , ---- charles i., ---- william i., kimberworth, kimberley, kinder scout, , , kirk ireton, kirke, h., kirkland, walter, kirklees priory, , kniveton, sir gilbert, --------- mary, knolls, sir frederick, konynges dale, langley mill, lady bessy, song of the, lady low, lady arabella stuart, -- lambley, lancashire, , , lancaster, duke of, , -- langley, , , lasses of darby pawned by their sweethearts, "_last night as slumbering on my bed i lay_," latham house, , et seq. lathkiln dale, , -------- river, latimer, lord, lay of the buckstone, laycock, samuel, layksley (see loxley) lead, lead, , leak, leake, or leke, family, et seq. lee lane, lee, lord, leech, mrs., of tideswell, leechurch, , leicestershire, leigh, lord, leicester, , leke, sir francis, lennox, earl of, lenton, lichfield, , "life of the duke of espernon," lincoln, , lincolnshire, lines occasioned by a yorkshire pie, lislay, lord, little hallam, little britain, , ------ stoone, ------ eaton, little john, - , , et seq. little john and robin hood, little john's end, littleover, liverpool, locko grange, lomas, longnor, london, , et seq., , , , , , , , ------- great fire of, ------- tower of, long-armed duke, longstone, longford, , , , lordis seat, , "_lord peverel stood on the lordis seat_," lost and dead, loughborough, lovell, lord, lovers' leap, lowton, loxley, - , ludlow, lysons, mackworth, , macclesfield forest, , maid marian, - , , et seq. malpas, mam tor, mammaton, manners, manchester, , , et seq. mansfield, mapperley, , mappleton, markeaton, , marrot moor, mar routed, martin markall, marston, marpole, marton, mary queen of scots, masbro', massinger, matlock, , , may, may pole, mayfield, mead, mercaston, mercer's company, merriment, garland of, meverell, mickleover, middleton, middleton by youlgrave, milford haven, militia, derbyshire, , -------------------- song in praise of, milnes, , et seq. milward, , miller, the derbyshire, minstrels, , minstrels' court, , ---------- king of the, , monsal dale, "montaigne's essays," montlac de, monyash, , et seq. moregreen, morley, , morgan, "moral philosophy of the stoics," moules dale, music of "as our king lay musing in his bed," music of "the derbyshire miller," music of "the gipsies' song," - mugginton, , mullins, tom, - mundy family, , nares, "_neaw, dickie, be quiet wi' thee, lad_," nether green, netherton, new ballad of robin hood, shewing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage, at tutbury bull running, new song in praise of the derbyshire militia, newton, , newthorpe, norfolk, duke of, , northampton, northern lights, ballad on, nottingham, , , , , ---------- goose fair, , et seq. nottinghamshire, - nun's green rangers, nun's green, ballads on, - nuttall, oaker hall, oakes, james, , et seq. oakamoor, obstinate lady, ockbrook, "_of all your modern heroes_," "_o give me the land where the wild thyme grows_," ogston, oker hill, , okerthorpe, okeover hall, , oldacre, old nun's green, "_one valentine's day in the morning_," on the strange and wonderful sight that was seen in the air on the th of march, , on the death of the late rev. bache thornhill, m.a., "_o say not so, sir francis_," osgathorpe, , et seq. osmaston by ashborne, over haddon, overton, overton, overington, owen, jack, owthorpe, oxford, earl of, oxford, paget, paislow moss, , pain, pantons in the dale, paris, , park nook, park hall, parson's torr, parwich, paving and lighting. a new song, paynslee, pearcey, general, peel, sir robert, peak hills, ---- ballad, henry and clara, "peak, wonders of the," ----- tradition of, ----- high, , , , , , ----- a rhapsody on, ----- journey into the, , ----- forest, , , , , pedlar and robin hood, percy society, , ----- lord, , pentrich, perkin wood, perwolt, perry dale, peverel and the driving of the deer, peverel family, , , et seq. pie, yorkshire, pills to purge melancholy, , pilsley, pinder of wakefield, pinxstone, playford, poems on nun's green, - ----- dedicated to major trowel, "----- upon several occasions," polesworth, pooley, , poole's hole, potter of hill top, pott, power of love, pressed man's lamentation, prestwood, princely diversion, or the jovial hunting match, prince in the town, and devil in the church, prince of wales, george, printers, j. bessel, --------- william ayscough, --------- wynkende worde, , --------- w. dicey, --------- r. raikes, --------- w. o., , --------- a. m., --------- j. deacon, "planter's manual," "puss in boots," , pursglove, bishop, quadrupeds, the, quarndon, , queen elizabeth, , , ----- of scots, mary, - quicksall, quin, quintin, st., family, , -------- sir william, , radborne, radford, radgley, raikes, r., raleigh, sir walter, ram, the derby, ramble, beggar's, ramble, the beggar's, randolph, ratcliffe, rees ap thomas, sir, , , red hill, reel, cocktail, recruiting derby hills, , red rose, - rempstone, repton, "reliquary," , , , , , , rhapsody on the peak of derbyshire, riber hall, richmond, duke of, richard, king, , et seq. richmond, margaret, , et seq. --------- earl of, , et seq. riddings, , et seq. ripley, risley, robin hood and the pedlar, ---------- a new ballad of, ---------- lytell geste of, ---------- and little john, ---------- - , , et seq., robin hood's marks, rodsley, rosemary hill, rosley, roston, ross, lord, rose of england, rose, red, , rose, union of, rose of lancaster, rose and crown, rowlands, row (or roo) tor, rowsley, rowland of warburton, roxburghe collection, , , , ruddington, runcorn, rural dance about the may-pole, rushop edge, russell, sir william, sack, salisbury, , salford, ------- bridge, sandall castle, sandiacre, sandys, sandy way head, savage, savage, sir john, , scarsdale, ---------- lord, scarlet, will, scotch dialogue, scrope, lord, selston, seymour, lord, shallcross, shardlow, shaw, the staffordshire hero, shaws croft, sheepshead, sheffield, , , , et seq. ---------- castle, sheppards folly, sherwood forest, - , sherry, cary, ------- mary, ship of fools, shipley wood, shipley, shirley park, , ------- family, shoolbottam, shottle, shootingslow, "_should the french but presume on our coast to appear_," shrewsbury, earl of, , et seq., ----------- , shrove tuesday, sign of the eagle's foot, ----------- bull, ----------- george, ----------- angel, , ----------- white horse, ----------- rutland arms, ----------- white hart, , ----------- wheat sheaf, ----------- sun, ----------- rose and crown, ----------- puss in boots, sigsmore, sinfin moor, sir richard whittington's advancement, sir francis leke; or the power of love, skiers, , et seq. skull at tunstead, slack, sloman, charles, smalley, smith, , smock frock, snelston, , snitterton, solomon's temple, , song, song of the lady bessy, song, ashborne foot-ball, song, the gipsies', "_soon as old ball was got better_," song (a satirical attack on the choir of all saints' church, derby) south normanton, southwell, sparrowpit, spencer, earl, spondon, the flax-dresser's wife of, and the pound of tea, spondon, , - squire vernon's fox chace, st. albans, st. ann's well, st. michael's ground, st. quintin sir william, stafford, , , , et seq. --------- hero, , et seq. staffordshire, , stainsby, stancliffe hall, stanhope, sir john, , --------- earl, stanley, earls of derby, , et seq. -------- family, , et seq. stapleford, stanton, , staysmore, stenson, hugh, and molly green, steare, stoics, moral philosophy of, stone, staffordshire, , stone, little, stoone, little, stramshall, strange and wonderful sight at hartington, strange, lord george, , et seq. stratford, strensham, stretton on the hill, strutt, stuart, arabella, -- ------- charles, sturston, stutely, will, , suckling, sudbury hall, , surrey, earl of, sutton-on-the-hill, sutton-in-scarsdale, , swarkstone, swanwick, swinsor, swinscoe moor, swift, swithamly, , taddington, tag hill, talbot, tamworth, lord, taylor's ramble, tea, pound of, tennis balls, , teneriffe, terrill, james, tewkesbury, the agricultural meeting, - the ashborne foot-ball song, the ashupton garland, or a day in the woodlands, the beggar's ramble, the derby hero, the driving of the deer, "_the eighteenth day of march_," "_the fire burns brightly on the hearth_," the flax-dresser's wife of spondon, the florists' song, the gipsies' song, the humours of hayfield fair, "_the miller he caught the maid by the toe_," the most pleasant song of the lady bessy, the nun's green rangers, or the triple alliance, consisting of a sergeant, a tinker, and a bear, "_the parson of monyash late one eve_," the power of love; sir francis leke, or, the quadrupeds, or four-footed petitioners against the sale of nun's green, the sorrowful lamentation, last dying speech and confession of old nun's green, "_the sixth of march, kind neighbours this is true_," the tailor's ramble, or the blues' valour displayed, the true lover's knot untied (arabella stuart), the unconscionable batchelors of darby, "_then, oh hugh stenson is my name_", thirsk, thomas rees, ap, , , thompson, thorpe, thorpe cloud, thornywood, thornhill family, , --------- thomas bache, elegy on, thringstone, tibshelf, tideswell in an uproar, or the prince in the town, and the devil in the church, tideswell, drunken butcher of, tideswell, , et seq., , , , , tinker's inn, tipling school, "_'tis merry in the high peak forest_," tissington, titbury (see tutbury) tixhall poetry, ton of tennis balls, toton, tower hill, , , towcester, tragedy of ovid, tragnel, trapalin supposed a prince, trent, river, tribute, , triple alliance, consisting of an old sergeant, a tinker, and a bear, trowel, trowell, major, true lovers' knot untied, trusley, - trusley hunting song, tudor, henry, tune, "to thee, to thee," ----- "as our king lay musing on his bed," , ----- derbyshire miller, ----- cook laurel, ----- king of the cannibal islands, ----- chevy chace, ----- bow, wow, wow, ----- barking barber, ----- date obolum belisario, ----- vicar and moses, ----- gipsies' song, - tun, burning in a, tunbridge, "tunis, fair one of," tunstead, dickie of, tunstead, , tupton, turbutt, gladwin, turnditch, tutbury, , et seq., tutbury bull-running, , , "_'twas more than fifty years ago_," "_two jackasses, the father and the son_," tydder henry, ucklow, unconscionable batchelors of derby, union of the roses, utceter, uttoxeter, , vernon, squire, fox chace, ------- family, , et seq. ------- lord, , ------- george, - ------- dorothy, victoria, queen, "virgil travestie," volunteers, derbyshire, , wakefield, pinder of, walker, , walton, isaac, "wanderings of memory," wantling, - warburton, wardgate, wardlowmier, warin, warwick, guy, earl of, warwickshire, , waterloo, wathall, wells, lady, "_were but my muse inspired by fludyer's taste_," west chester, ---- smithfield, westminster, , et seq. weston-under-wood, westhorpe, wessington, wet willm, weever hills, whaley bridge, , "_what will it availe on fortune to exclayme_," wheatcroft, leonard, , "_when apollo thinks fit to handle his lyre_," "_when heaven from earth had shut out day_," "_when robin hood was about twenty years old_," whittaker, whittington, sir richard's, advancement, whittington and his cat, ----------- de, ----------- in derbyshire, , , ----------- sir william, whitrick, whitehall, whitworth guns, whitworth, joseph, wilford, williams, richard, - willoughby, lord, will stutely, , willett, winnats, , winnats, murder at, , windsor, , winster, - , , wilson, jack, wire mill, windley, wirksworth, , wood end, woodlands, , et seq. woodlands, a day in the, woodborough, wool, woolaton, wooley, - , , womfords, "wonders of the peak," worde, wynken de, , worcestershire, wootton, , wotton lodge, wyaston, , wye river, , wynken de worde, , yeaveley, "_ye tideswellites can this be true_," yeldersley, york, york, duke of, , et seq. yorkshire pie, "_you lovers of mirth attend awhile_," young lasses pawned by their sweethearts, bemrose and sons, printers, derby. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. all spelling variations and apparent printer's errors in the text have been retained. descriptions were added to captionless illustrations. all spelling variations and apparent printer's errors in text have been retained. changes to index entries: - castleton, a strange banquet at: page number removed as it does not exist; - chester: removed as there's no corresponding text; - music of "the gipsies' song": page numbers - added; - rosemary hill: page number added; - the agricultural meeting: page numbers - added; - "_the parson of monyash late one eve_": moved to the correct place according to alphabetical order and page number corrected to be ; - tune, derbyshire miller: page number added; - tune, gipsies' song: page numbers - added. generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes in this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the latin- character set are used. italic typeface is represented by _underscores_; small caps typeface by all caps. [asterism] represents an asterism (three stars). [gh] represents letter "yogh". [pointing hand] denotes the symbol of a right pointing hand. notes on the ballads are presented at the end of each ballad. the presence of a note is indicated byt a an anchor at the end of the line (not in the original text), of the style [lxx] where xx is the line number. minor changes to regularise ballad line numbering and indentation have been made without comment. any other changes to the text are listed at the end of the book. * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. volume viii. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. contents of volume eighth. book viii. page . king john and the abbot of canterbury . captain wedderburn's courtship . lay the bent to the bonny broom . king edward fourth and the tanner of tamworth . the king and the miller of mansfield . gernutus, the jew of venice . the frolicksome duke, or, the tinker's good fortune a. the heir of linne. [percy.] b. the heir of linne. [traditional version] . the wandering jew . proud lady margaret . reedisdale and wise william a. geordie. [musical museum.] b. geordie. [kinloch.] . the gaberlunzie man . the turnament of totenham . the wyf of auchtirmuchty . the friar in the well . get up and bar the door . the dragon of wantley appendix. kempy kaye. [sharpe.] kempy kaye. [kinloch.] the jovial hunter of bromsgrove the bludy serk the wanton wife of bath the gentleman in thracia sir richard whittington's advancement catskin's garland, or, the wandering young gentlewoman the taming of a shrew titus andronicus's complaint john dory sir eglamore jephthah, judge of israel samson queen dido, or, the wandering prince of troy george barnwell the duke of athol's nurse. [buchan.] the duke of athol's nourice. [kinloch.] the hireman chiel armstrong and musgrave fair margaret of craignargat richie storie the farmer's old wife the duel of wharton and stuart saddle to rags the fause knight upon the road gifts from over sea the courteous knight the northern lord and cruel jew gight's lady glossary index book viii. king john and the abbot of canterbury. stories resembling that contained in the following ballad are to be met with in the literature of most of the nations of europe; for example, in the _gesta romanorum_, (no. xix. and [xxxv.] of madden's _old english versions_,) in the amusing german tale _der phaffe amis_, - , in _eulenspiegel_, (marbach, p. ,) and the english _owlglass_ ( st adventure in the recent edition), in the grimm's _kinder-und-haus-marchen_, no. , in sacchetti's _novels_, no. , the_patrañuelo_ of juan timoneda, alcala, (ritson, _anc. songs_, ii. ), the _contes à rire_, i. , (_gent. mag._ , i. ,) etc., etc. _king john and the abbot_, says grundtvig (ii. ), is universally known in denmark in the form of a prose tale; and a copy is printed in _gamle danske minder_ ( ) no. , _the king and the miller_. wynken de worde, printed in , a little collection of riddles, translated from the french, like those propounded by king john to the abbot, with the title _demaundes joyous_. by this link the present ballad is connected with a curious class of compositions, peculiar to the middle ages--the disputations, or wit-combats, of which the dialogues of salomon and marcolf (existing in many languages) are the most familiar, and those of salomon and saturn (in anglo-saxon) the oldest preserved specimens. these dialogues, in their earlier shape grave contests for superiority in knowledge and wisdom, underwent a change about the twelfth century, by which they became essentially comic. the serious element, represented by salomon, was retained after this, merely to afford material, or contrast, for the coarse humor of marcolf, whose part it is, under the character of a rude and clownish person, "facie deformis et turpissimus," to turn the sententious observations of the royal sage into ludicrous parodies.[ ] the hint, and possibly a model, for these disputations may have been found in jewish tradition. we learn from josephus, (_antiquities_, book viii. ch. v.) that hiram of tyre and solomon sent one another sophistical puzzles and enigmas to be solved, on condition of forfeiting large sums of money in case of failure, and that solomon's riddles were all guessed by abdæmon of tyre, or by abdimus, his son, for authorities differ. this account coincides with what we read in _chronicles_, (book ii. ch. ii. , ,) of the man sent by hiram to solomon, who, besides a universal knowledge of the arts, was skilful "to find out every device that might be put to him" by cunning men--that is, apparently, "hard questions," such as the queen of sheba came to prove solomon with, ( kings, x. i.) some account of which is given in the _talmud_.--see, on the whole subject, kemble's masterly essay on _salomon and saturn_, printed by the Ælfric society: also grässe, _sagenkreise des mittelalters_, p. - ; the grimms' _kinder-und-hausmärchen_, vol. iii. p. , ed. ; f. w. v. schmidt, _taschenbuch deutscher romanzen_, p. . examples of the riddle-song pure and simple will be found under _captain wedderburn's courtship_. [ ] among those nations who originated and developed the character of marcolf (the german and the french) his fame has declined, but in italy, where the legend was first introduced towards the end of the sixteenth century, his shrewd sayings, like the kindred jests of the _eulenspiegel_ in germany, have an undiminished popularity, and his story, both in the form of a chap-book and of a satirical epic, (the _bertoldo_,) is circulated throughout the length and breadth of the country, whence it has also been transplanted into greece. this ballad is taken from percy's _reliques_, ii. . the copy in durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, iv. , or _a collection of old ballads_, ii. , is vastly inferior to the present. "the common popular ballad of _king john and the abbot_," says percy, "seems to have been abridged and modernized about the time of james i., from one much older, entitled _king john and the bishop of canterbury_. the editor's folio ms. contains a copy of this last, but in too corrupt a state to be reprinted; it however afforded many lines worth reviving, which will be found inserted in the ensuing stanzas. "the archness of the following questions and answers hath been much admired by our old ballad-makers; for besides the two copies above mentioned, there is extant another ballad on the same subject, (but of no great antiquity or merit,) entitled _king olfrey and the abbot_. [_old ball._ ii. .] lastly, about the time of the civil wars, when the cry ran against the bishops, some puritan worked up the same story into a very doleful ditty, to a solemn tune, concerning _king henry and a bishop_; with this stinging moral: 'unlearned men hard matters out can find, when learned bishops princes eyes do blind.' "the following is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy, to the tune of _derry-down_." an ancient story ile tell you anon of a notable prince, that was called king john; and he ruled england with maine and with might, for he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right. and ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, concerning the abbott of canterbùrye; how for his house-keeping and high renowne, they rode poste for him to fair london towne. an hundred men, the king did heare say, the abbot kept in his house every day; and fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, in velvet coates waited the abbot about. "how now, father abbot, i heare it of thee, thou keepest a farre better house than mee; and for thy house-keeping and high renowne, i feare thou work'st treason against my crown." "my liege," quo' the abbot, "i would it were knowne i never spend nothing, but what is my owne; and i trust your grace will doe me no deere, for spending of my owne true-gotten geere." "yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, and now for the same thou needest must dye; for except thou canst answer me questions three, thy head shall be smitten from thy bodìe. "and first," quo' the king, "when i'm in this stead, with my crowne of golde so faire on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worthe. "secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, how soone i may ride the whole world about; and at the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think." "o these are hard questions for my shallow witt, nor i cannot answer your grace as yet: but if you will give me but three weekes space, ile do my endeavour to answer your grace." "now three weeks space to thee will i give, and that is the longest time thou hast to live; for if thou dost not answer my questions three, thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee." away rode the abbot all sad at that word, and he rode to cambridge, and oxenford; but never a doctor there was so wise, that could with his learning an answer devise. then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, and he mett his shepheard a going to fold: "how now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; what newes do you bring us from good king john?" "sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, i must give, that i have but three days more to live; for if i do not answer him questions three, my head will be smitten from my bodìe. "the first is to tell him there in that stead, with his crowne of golde so fair on his head, among all his liege men so noble of birth, to within one penny of what he is worth. "the seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, how soone he may ride this whole world about: and at the third question i must not shrinke, but tell him there truly what he does thinke." "now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, that a fool he may learne a wise man witt? lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, and ile ride to london to answere your quarrel. "nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, i am like your lordship, as ever may bee; and if you will but lend me your gowne, there is none shall knowe us at fair london towne." "now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, with sumptuous array most gallant and brave, with crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope." "now, welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: for and if thou canst answer my questions three, thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. "and first, when thou seest me here in this stead, with my crowne of golde so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, tell me to one penny what i am worth." "for thirty pence our saviour was sold among the false jewes, as i have bin told: and twenty-nine is the worth of thee, for i thinke thou art one penny worser than hee." the king he laughed, and swore by st. bittel,[l ] "i did not think i had been worth so littel! --now secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soone i may ride this whole world about." "you must rise with the sun, and ride with the same until the next morning he riseth againe; and then your grace need not make any doubt but in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." the king he laughed, and swore by st. jone, "i did not think it could be gone so soone! --now from the third question thou must not shrinke, but tell me here truly what i do thinke." "yea, that shall i do, and make your grace merry; you thinke i'm the abbot of canterbury; but i'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, that am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." the king he laughed, and swore by the masse, "ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, for alacke i can neither write ne reade." "four nobles a week, then i will give thee, for this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; and tell the old abbot when thou comest home, thou hast brought him a pardon from good king john." , meaning probably st. botolph. captain wedderburn's courtship. the two following ballads, in connection with the foregoing, will serve as specimens of the anciently highly-popular class of riddle songs. no ballad, says motherwell, is even now more frequently met with on the stalls than _captain wedderburn's courtship_. it was first published in _the new british songster_, falkirk, , and afterwards in jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. , from which the present copy is taken. chambers gives a few different readings from a copy furnished by mr. kinloch--_scottish ballads_, p. . a fragment of this piece is given in _minstrelsy of the english border_, p. , under the title of _the laird of roslin's daughter_. riddles like those in the following ballads are found in _proud lady margaret_, p. of this volume, _the courteous knight_, in the appendix, and _the bonny hind squire_, in _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, p. , percy society, vol. xvii.--three varieties of one original: and in _gifts from over sea_, appendix, p. . also, in several of the ancient norse poems; in the ancient danish ballad _svend vonved_, grundtvig, no. ; in _sven svanehvit, svenska f. v._, no. ; hammershaimb's _færöiske kvæder_, ii. no. ; landstad's _norske folkeviser_, p. ; erk's _liederhort_, no. ; uhland, no. , , ; erlach, iii. ; _wunderhorn_, ii. ; tschischka and schottky, _oesterreichische volksl._ p. ; haupt and schmaler, _volksl. der wenden_, i. no. , ii. no. ; talvj, _volksl. der serben_, ii. ; goetze, _stimmen des russischen volkes_, p. ; etc., etc. see especially grundtvig, i. , ii. , from whom we have borrowed some of these references. "the following copy was furnished from mr. herd's ms. by the editor of the border minstrelsy, and the present writer has supplied a few readings of small importance from his own recollection, as it was quite familiar to him in his early youth." jamieson. the lord of roslin's daughter walk'd thro' the wood her lane, and by came captain wedderburn, a servant to the king. he said unto his serving men, "were't not against the law, i would tak her to my ain bed, and lay her neist the wa'." "i am walking here alone," she says, "amang my father's trees; and you must let me walk alane, kind sir, now, if you please; the supper bell it will be rung, and i'll be mist awa'; sae i winna lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'." he says, "my pretty lady, i pray lend me your hand, and you shall hae drums and trumpets always at your command; and fifty men to guard you with, that well their swords can draw; sae we'se baith lie in ae bed, and ye'se lie neist the wa'." "haud awa frae me," she said, "and pray lat gae my hand; the supper bell it will be rung, i can nae langer stand; my father he will angry be, gin i be miss'd awa; sae i'll nae lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'." then said the pretty lady, "i pray tell me your name:" "my name is captain wedderburn, a servant to the king. tho' thy father and his men were here, of them i'd have nae awe; but tak you to my ain bed, and lay you neist the wa'." he lighted aff his milk-white steed, and set this lady on, and held her by the milk-white hand, even as they rade along; he held her by the middle jimp, for fear that she should fa', to tak her to his ain bed, and lay her neist the wa'. he took her to his lodging-house; his landlady look'd ben; says, "mony a pretty lady in edenbruch i've seen, but sic a lovely face as thine in it i never saw; gae mak her down a down-bed, and lay her neist the wa'." "o haud awa' frae me," she says, "i pray ye lat me be; i winna gang into your bed, till ye dress me dishes three: dishes three ye maun dress to me, gin i should eat them a', afore that i lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'. "its ye maun get to my supper a cherry without a stane; and ye maun get to my supper a chicken without a bane; and ye maun get to my supper a bird without a ga'; or i winna lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'." "its whan the cherry is in the flirry, i'm sure it has nae stane; and whan the chicken's in the egg, i'm sure it has nae bane; and sin the flood o' noah, the dow she had nae ga';[l ] sae we'll baith lie in ae bed, and ye'se lie neist the wa'." "o haud your tongue, young man," she says, "nor that gait me perplex; for ye maun tell me questions yet, and that is questions six: questions six ye tell to me, and that is three times twa, afore i lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'. "what's greener than the greenest grass? what hicher than the trees? what's war nor an ill woman's wish? what's deeper than the seas? what bird sings first? and whareupon the dew doth first down fa'? ye sall tell afore i lay me down between you and the wa'." "vergris is greener than the grass; heaven's hicher than the trees; the deil's warse nor a woman's wish; hell's deeper than the seas; the cock craws first; on cedar top the dew down first doth fa'; and we'll lie baith in ae bed, and ye'se lie neist the wa'." "o haud your tongue, young man," she says, "and gi'e your fleechin' o'er, unless you'll find me ferlies, and that is ferlies four; ferlies four ye maun find me, and that is twa and twa; or i'll never lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'. "and ye maun get to me a plumb that in december grew; and get to me a silk mantel, that waft was ne'er ca'd thro'; a sparrow's horn; a priest unborn, this night to join us twa; or i'll nae lie in your bed, either at stock or wa'." "my father he has winter fruit that in december grew; my mither has an indian gown, that waft was ne'er ca'd thro'; a sparrow's horn is quickly found; there's ane on every claw; there's ane upon the neb o' him; perhaps there may be twa. "the priest he's standing at the door, just ready to come in; nae man can say that he was born, to lie it were a sin; a wild bore tore his mither's side, he out o' it did fa'; then we'll baith lie in ae bed, and thou's lie neist the wa'." little kend girzy sinclair that morning whan she raise, that this wad be the hindermaist o' a' her maiden days; but now there's nae within the realm, i think, a blyther twa; and they baith lie in ae bed, and she lies neist the wa'. . the peasants in scotland say that the dove that was sent out of the ark by noah flew till she burst her gall, and that no dove since that time ever had a gall. j. lay the bent to the bonny broom. from durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, iv. , with the title _a riddle wittily expounded_. the same in jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. , and in the borderer's table book, vii. . a fragment of this ballad, called _the three sisters_, is printed in gilbert's _ancient christmas carols_, ( d ed.) p. , and has a different burden. it begins there were three sisters fair and bright, _jennifer gentle and rosemaree_, and they three loved one valiant knight, _as the dew flies over the mulberry tree_. * * * * * there was a lady in the north-country, _lay the bent to the bonny broom_, and she had lovely daughters three, _fa, la la la, fa, la la la ra re_. there was a knight of noble worth, which also lived at the north. the knight, of courage stout and brave, a wife he did desire to have. he knocked at the lady's gate, one evening when it was late. the eldest sister let him in,[l ] and pinn'd the door with a silver pin. the second sister, she made his bed, and laid soft pillows under his head. the youngest [sister] that same night, she went to bed to this young knight. and in the morning when it was day, these words unto him she did say. "now you have had your will," quoth she, "i pray, sir knight, you marry me." this young brave knight to her reply'd. "thy suit, fair maid, shall not be deny'd, "if thou canst answer me questions three, this very day will i marry thee." "kind sir, in love, o then," quoth she, "tell me what your three questions be." "o what is longer than the way?[l ] or what is deeper than the sea? "or what is louder than a horn? or what is sharper than a thorn? "or what is greener than the grass? or what is worse than a woman was?" "o love is longer than the way, and hell is deeper than the sea. "and thunder's louder than the horn, and hunger's sharper than a thorn. "and poyson's greener than the grass,[l ] and the devil's worse than the woman was." when she these questions answered had, the knight became exceeding glad. and having truly try'd her wit, he much commended her for it. and after, as 'tis verified, he made of her his lovely bride. so now, fair maidens all, adieu; this song i dedicate to you. i wish that you may constant prove unto the man that you do love. . youngest. . i.e. the milky way. . "_vergris_ is greener than the grass." _c. w.'s courtship_, v. . king edward fourth and the tanner of tamworth. the next two ballads belong to a class of tales extremely numerous in england, in which the sovereign is represented as conversing on terms of good fellowship with one of his humbler subjects who is unacquainted with the royal person. in several of the best of these stories, the monarch is benighted in the forest, and obliged to demand hospitality of the first man he meets. he is at first viewed with suspicion and treated with rudeness, but soon wins favor by his affability and good humor, and is invited to partake of a liberal supper, composed in part of his own venison. in due time the king reveals his true character to his astonished and mortified host, who looks to be punished alike for his familiarity and for deer-stealing, but is pardoned for both, and even handsomely rewarded for his entertainment. the earliest of these stories seems to be that of king alfred and the neatherd, in which the herdsman's wife plays the offending part, and the peasant himself is made bishop of winchester. others of very considerable antiquity are the tales of henry ii. and the cistercian abbot in the _speculum ecclesiæ_ of giraldus cambrensis, (an. ,) printed in _reliquiæ antiquæ_, i. ; _king edward and the shepherd_, and _the king_ [edward] _and the hermit_, in hartshorne's _metrical tales_, (p. , p. , the latter previously in _the british bibliographer_, iv. ;) _rauf coilzear, how he harbreit king charlis_, in laing's _select remains; john the reeve_, an unprinted piece in the percy ms., founded on an adventure between king edward i. and one of his bailiffs, which is highly commended by dr. percy "for its genuine humor, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners;" and _the king and the barker_, the original of the present ballad. (see also the seventh and eighth fits of the _little gest of robin hood_.) more recent specimens are the two pieces here given, and others mentioned by percy: _king henry and the soldier_, _king henry viii. and the cobbler_, _king james i. and the tinker_, _king william and the forester, &c._ it is obvious that a legend of immemorial antiquity has been transferred by successive minstrels or story-tellers to the reigning monarch of their own times. an anecdote of the same character is related by mr. wright of prince george of denmark, and a poor artisan of bristol, (_essays_, ii. .) the meeting of king richard with friar tuck in ivanhoe, was suggested by the tale of _king edward and the hermit_. "the general tone of the story," says scott, "belongs to all ranks and to all countries, which emulate each other in describing the rambles of a disguised sovereign, who, going in search of information or amusement into the lower ranks of life, meets with adventures diverting to the reader or hearer, from the contrast betwixt the monarch's outward appearance and his real character. the eastern tale-teller has for his theme the disguised expeditions of haroun alraschid, with his faithful attendants mesrour and giafar, through the midnight streets of bagdad, and scottish tradition dwells upon the similar exploits of james v., distinguished during such excursions by the travelling name of the goodman of ballengeigh, as the commander of the faithful, when he desired to be _incognito_, was known by that of il bondocani." _the king and the barker_ is printed in ritson's _anc. pop. poetry_, p. ; the modern ballad of _king alfred and the shepherd_, in _old ballads_, i. ; _king james and the tinkler_, in richardson's _borderer's table book_, vii. , and in the percy soc. publications, vol. xvii., _ancient poems, &c._ p. . "the following text is selected (with such other corrections as occurred) from two copies in black letter. the one in the bodleian library, entitled _a merrie, pleasant, and delectable historie betweene king edward the fourth, and a tanner of tamworth, &c._, printed at london by john danter, . this copy, ancient as it now is, appears to have been modernized and altered at the time it was published; and many vestiges of the more ancient readings were recovered from another copy (though more recently printed) in one sheet folio, without date, in the pepys collection." percy's _reliques_, ii. . the old copies, according to ritson, contain a great many stanzas which percy "has not injudiciously suppressed." _king_ henry _the fourth and the tanner of tamworth_ stands in the _registers of the stationers' company_, as licensed in - . the tanner of tamworth is introduced into the first part of heywood's play of _edward the fourth_. in summer time, when leaves grow greene, and blossoms bedecke the tree, king edward wolde a hunting ryde, some pastime for to see. with hawke and hounde he made him bowne, with horne, and eke with bowe; to drayton basset he tooke his waye, with all his lordes a rowe. and he had ridden ore dale and downe by eight of clocke in the day, when he was ware of a bold tannèr, come ryding along the waye. a fayre russet coat the tanner had on, fast buttoned under his chin, and under him a good cow-hide, and a mare of four shilling.[l ] "nowe stande you still, my good lordes all, under the grene wood spraye; and i will wend to yonder fellowe, to weet what he will saye. "god speede, god speede thee," sayd our king, "thou art welcome, sir," sayd hee; "the readyest waye to drayton basset i praye thee to shewe to mee." "to drayton basset woldst thou goe fro the place where thou dost stand, the next payre of gallowes thou comest unto, turne in upon thy right hand." "that is an unreadye waye," sayd our king, "thou doest but jest i see; nowe shewe me out the nearest waye, and i pray thee wend with mee." "awaye with a vengeance!" quoth the tanner: "i hold thee out of thy witt: all daye have i rydden on brocke my mare, and i am fasting yett." "go with me downe to drayton basset, no daynties we will spare; all daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best, and i will paye thy fare." "gramercye for nothing," the tanner replyde, "thou payest no fare of mine: i trowe i've more nobles in my purse, than thou hast pence in thine." "god give thee joy of them," sayd the king, "and send them well to priefe;" the tanner wolde faine have beene away, for he weende he had beene a thiefe. "what art thou," hee sayde, "thou fine fellòwe? of thee i am in great feare; for the cloathes thou wearest upon thy backe might beseeme a lord to weare." "i never stole them," quoth our king, "i tell you, sir, by the roode;" "then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth, and standest in midds of thy goode."[l ] "what tydinges heare you," sayd the kynge, "as you ryde farre and neare?" "i heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse, but that cowe-hides are deare." "cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are those? i marvell what they bee?" "what, art thou a foole?" the tanner reply'd; "i carry one under mee." "what craftsman art thou?" sayd the king; "i praye thee tell me trowe:" "l am a barker, sir, by my trade; nowe tell me what art thou?" "i am a poore courtier, sir," quoth he, "that am forth of service worne; and faine i wolde thy prentise bee, thy cunninge for to learne." "marrye heaven forfend," the tanner replyde, "that thou my prentise were; thou woldst spend more good than i shold winne by fortye shilling a yere." "yet one thinge wolde i," sayd our king, "if thou wilt not seeme strange; thoughe my horse be better than thy mare, yet with thee i faine wold change." "why if with me thou faine wilt change, as change full well maye wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellòwe, i will have some boot of thee." "that were against reason," sayd the king, "i sweare, so mote i thee; my horse is better than thy mare, and that thou well mayst see." "yea, sir, but brocke is gentle and mild, and softly she will fare; thy horse is unrulye and wild, i-wiss, aye skipping here and theare." "what boote wilt thou have?" our king reply'd; "now tell me in this stound;" "noe pence, nor half-pence, by my faye, but a noble in gold so round." "here's twentye groates of white moneyè, sith thou wilt have it of mee;" "i would have sworne now," quoth the tanner, "thou hadst not had one penniè. "but since we two have made a change, a change we must abide; although thou hast gotten brocke my mare, thou gettest not my cowe-hide." "i will not have it," sayd the kynge, "i sweare, so mought i thee; thy foule cowe-hide i wolde not beare, if thou woldst give it to mee." the tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide, that of the cow was hilt, and threwe it upon the king's sadèlle, that was soe fayrelye gilte. "now help me up, thou fine fellòwe, 'tis time that i were gone; when i come home to gyllian my wife, sheel say i am a gentilmon." the king he tooke him up by the legge, the tanner a f** lett fall; "nowe marrye, good fellowe," sayd the kyng, "thy courtesye is but small." when the tanner he was in the kinges sadèlle, and his foote in his stirrup was, he marvelled greatlye in his minde, whether it were golde or brass. but when his steede saw the cows taile wagge, and eke the blacke cowe-horne, he stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne, as the devill had him borne. the tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat, and held by the pummil fast; at length the tanner came tumbling downe, his necke he had well-nye brast. "take thy horse again with a vengeance," he sayd, "with mee he shall not byde;" "my horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe, but he knewe not of thy cowe-hide. "yet if againe thou faine woldst change, as change full well may wee, by the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tannèr, i will have some boote of thee." "what boote wilt thou have?" the tanner replyd, "nowe tell me in this stounde; "noe pence nor half-pence, sir, by my faye, but i will have twentye pound." "here's twentye groates out of my purse, and twentye i have of thine; and i have one more, which we will spend together at the wine." the king set a bugle horne to his mouthe, and blewe both loude and shrille; and soone came lords, and soone came knights, fast ryding over the hille. "nowe, out alas," the tanner he cryde, "that ever i sawe this daye! thou art a strong thiefe; yon come thy fellowes will beare my cowe-hide away." "they are no thieves," the king replyde, "i sweare, soe mote i thee; but they are lords of the north country, here come to hunt with mee." and soone before our king they came, and knelt downe on the grounde; then might the tanner have beene awaye, he had lever than twentye pounde. "a coller, a coller, here," sayd the king, "a coller," he loud gan crye; then woulde he lever then twentye pound, he had not beene so nighe. "a coller! a coller!" the tanner he sayd, "i trowe it will breed sorrowe; after a coller commeth a halter; i trow i shall be hang'd to-morrowe." "be not afraid, tanner," said our king; "i tell thee, so mought i thee, lo here i make thee the best esquire that is in the north countrie.[l ] "for plumpton-parke i will give thee, with tenements faire beside,-- 'tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,-- to maintaine thy good cow-hide." "gramercye, my liege," the tanner replyde; "for the favour thou hast me showne, if ever thou comest to merry tamwòrth, neates leather shall clout thy shoen." . in the reign of edward iv. dame cecill, lady of torboke, in her will dated march , a.d. , among many other bequests, has this: "also i will that my sonne thomas of torboke have _s._ _d._ to buy him an horse." vide harleian catalogue, , .--now if _s._ _d._ would purchase a steed fit for a person of quality, a tanner's horse might reasonably be valued at four or five shillings.--percy. . i. e. hast no other wealth, but what thou carriest about thee.--percy. . this stanza is restored from a quotation of this ballad in selden's _titles of honour_, who produces it as a good authority to prove, that one mode of creating esquires at that time, was by the imposition of a collar. his words are, "nor is that old pamphlet of the tanner of tamworth and king edward the fourth so contemptible, but that wee may thence note also an observable passage, wherein the use of making esquires, by giving collars, is expressed." (sub. tit. esquire; & vide in spelmanni _glossar. armiger._) this form of creating esquires actually exists at this day among the sergeants at arms, who are invested with a collar (which they wear on collar days) by the king himself. this information i owe to samuel pegge, esq., to whom the public is indebted for that curious work, the _curialia_, to.--percy. the king and miller of mansfield. "the following is printed, with corrections from the editor's folio ms. collated with an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection, entitled _a pleasant ballad of king henry ii. and the miller of mansfield, &c._"--percy's _reliques_, iii. . other copies, slightly different, in _a collection of old ballads_, i. , and ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. . part the first. henry, our royall king, would ride a hunting to the greene forest so pleasant and faire; to see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping, unto merry sherwood his nobles repaire: hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd for the game, in the same, with good regard. all a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye, with all his princes and nobles eche one; chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home. then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite all his lords in the wood, late in the night. wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe, with a rude miller he mett at the last; asking the ready way unto faire nottingham, "sir," quoth the miller, "i meane not to jest, yet i thinke, what i thinke, sooth for to say; you doe not lightlye ride out of your way." "why, what dost thou think of me," quoth our king merrily, "passing thy judgment upon me so briefe?" "good faith," sayd the miller, "i mean not to flatter thee, i guess thee to bee but some gentleman thiefe; stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne, lest that i presentlye crack thy knaves crowne." "thou dost abuse me much," quoth the king, "saying thus; i am a gentleman; lodging i lacke." "thou hast not," quoth th' miller, "one groat in thy purse; all thy inheritance hanges on thy backe." "i have gold to discharge all that i call; if it be forty pence, i will pay all." "if thou beest a true man," then quoth the miller, "i sweare by my toll-dish, i'll lodge thee all night." "here's my hand," quoth the king; "that was i ever." "nay, soft," quoth the miller, "thou may'st be a sprite. better i'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; with none but honest men hands will i take." thus they went all along unto the millers house, where they were seething of puddings and souse; the miller first enter'd in, after him went the king; never came hee in soe smoakye a house. "now," quoth hee, "let me see here what you are:" quoth the king, "looke your fill, and doe not spare." "i like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face: with my son richard this night thou shalt lye." quoth his wife, "by my troth, it is a handsome youth, yet it's best, husband, to deal warilye. art thou no run-away, prythee, youth, tell? shew me thy passport, and all shal be well." then our king presentlye, making lowe courtesye, with his hatt in his hand, thus he did say; "i have no passport, nor never was servitor, but a poor courtyer, rode out of my way: and for your kindness here offered to mee, i will requite you in everye degree." then to the miller his wife whisper'd secretlye, saying, "it seemeth, this youth's of good kin, both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; to turne him out, certainlye were a great sin." "yea," quoth hee, "you may see he hath some grace, when he doth speake to his betters in place." "well," quo' the millers wife, "young man, ye're welcome here; and, though i say it, well lodged shall be: fresh straw will i have laid on thy bed so brave, and good brown hempen sheets likewise," quoth shee. "aye," quoth the good man; "and when that is done, thou shalt lye with no worse than our own sonne." "nay, first," quoth richard, "good-fellowe, tell me true, hast thou noe creepers within thy gay hose? or art thou not troubled with the scabbado?" "i pray," quoth the king, "what creatures are those?" "art thou not lowsy nor scabby?" quoth he: "if thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee." this caus'd the king, suddenlye, to laugh most heartilye, till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes. then to their supper were they set orderlye, with hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes; nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle, which did about the board merrilye trowle. "here," quoth the miller, "good fellowe, i drinke to thee, and to all courtnalls that courteous be." "i pledge thee," quoth our king, "and thanke thee heartilye for my good welcome in everye degree: and here, in like manner, i drinke to thy sonne." "do then," quoth richard, "and quicke let it come." "wife," quoth the miller, "fetch me forth lightfoote, and of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste." a fair ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye, "eate," quoth the miller, "but, sir, make no waste. here's dainty lightfoote!" "in faith," sayd the king, "i never before eat so daintye a thing." "i-wis," quoth richard, "no daintye at all it is, for we doe eate of it everye day." "in what place," sayd our king, "may be bought like to this?" "we never pay pennye for itt, by my fay: from merry sherwood we fetch it home here; now and then we make bold with our kings deer." "then i thinke," sayd our king, "that it is venison." "eche foole," quoth richard, "full well may know that: never are wee without two or three in the roof, very well fleshed, and excellent fat: but, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe; we would not, for two pence, the king should it knowe." "doubt not," then sayd the king, "my promist secresye; the king shall never know more on't for mee:" a cupp of lambs-wool they dranke unto him then, and to their bedds they past presentlie. the nobles, next morning, went all up and down, for to seeke out the king in everye towne. at last, at the millers 'cott,' soone they espy'd him out, as he was mounting upon his faire steede; to whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; which made the millers heart wofully bleede; shaking and quaking, before him he stood, thinking he should have been hang'd, by the rood. the king perceiving him fearfully trembling, drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed: the miller downe did fall, crying before them all, doubting the king would have cut off his head. but he his kind courtesye for to requite, gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight. part the seconde. when as our royall king came home from nottingham, and with his nobles at westminster lay, recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken, in this late progress along on the way, of them all, great and small, he did protest, the miller of mansfields sport liked him best. "and now, my lords," quoth the king, "i am determined against st. georges next sumptuous feast, that this old miller, our new confirm'd knight, with his son richard, shall here be my guest: for, in this merryment, 'tis my desire to talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire." when as the noble lords saw the kinges pleasantness, they were right joyfull and glad in their hearts: a pursuivant there was sent straighte on the business, the which had often-times been in those parts. when he came to the place where they did dwell, his message orderlye then 'gan he tell. "god save your worshippe," then said the messenger, "and grant your ladye her own hearts desire; and to your sonne richard good fortune and happiness, that sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire. our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, you must come to the court on st. george's day. "therefore, in any case, faile not to be in place." "i-wis," quoth the miller, "this is an odd jest: what should we doe there? faith, i am halfe afraid." "i doubt," quoth richard, "to be hang'd at the least." "nay," quoth the messenger, "you doe mistake; our king he provides a great feast for your sake." then sayd the miller, "by my troth, messenger, thou hast contented my worshippe full well: hold, here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness, for these happy tydings which thou dost tell. let me see, hear thou mee; tell to our king, we'll wayt on his mastershipp in everye thing." the pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye, and making many leggs, tooke their reward, and his leave taking with great humilitye, to the kings court againe he repair'd; shewing unto his grace, merry and free, the knightes most liberall gift and bountie. when he was gone away, thus gan the miller say: "here come expences and charges indeed; now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend all we have, for of new garments we have great need. of horses and serving-men we must have store, with bridles and saddles, and twentye things more." "tushe, sir john," quoth his wife, "why should you frett or frowne? you shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; for i will turne and trim up my old russet gowne, with everye thing else as fine as may bee; and on our mill-horses swift we will ride, with pillowes and pannells, as we shall provide." in this most statelye sort, rode they unto the court; their jolly sonne richard rode foremost of all, who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,[l ] and so they jetted downe to the kings hall; the merry old miller with hands on his side; his wife like maid marian did mince at that tide.[l ] the king and his nobles, that heard of their coming, meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine, "welcome, sir knight," quoth he, "with your gay lady; good sir john cockle, once welcome againe; and so is the squire of courage soe free." quoth dicke, "a bots on you! do you know mee?" quoth our king gentlye, "how should i forget thee? that wast my owne bed-fellowe, well it i wot." "yea, sir," quoth richard, "and by the same token, thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot." "thou whore-son unhappy knave," then quoth the knight, "speake cleanly to our king, or else go sh***." the king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, while the king taketh them both by the hand; with the court-dames and maids, like to the queen of spades, the millers wife did soe orderly stand, a milk-maids courtesye at every word; and downe all the folkes were set to the board. there the king royally, in princelye majestye, sate at his dinner with joy and delight; when they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell, and in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: "here's to you both, in wine, ale, and beer; thanking you heartilye for my good cheer." quoth sir john cockle, "i'll pledge you a pottle, were it the best ale in nottinghamshire:" but then said our king, "now i think of a thing; some of your lightfoote i would we had here." "ho! ho!" quoth richard, "full well i may say it 'tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it." "why art thou angry?" quoth our king merrilye; "in faith, i take it now very unkind: i thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily." quoth dicke, "you are like to stay till i have din'd: you feed us with twatling dishes soe small; zounds, a blacke-pudding is better than all." "aye, marry," quoth our king, "that were a daintye thing, could a man get but one here for to eate:" with that dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose, which with heat of his breech gan to sweate. the king made a proffer to snatch it away:-- "'tis meat for your master: good sir, you must stay." thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent, and then the ladyes prepared to dance: old sir john cockle, and richard, incontinent unto their places the king did advance. here with the ladyes such sport they did make, the nobles with laughing did make their sides ake. many thankes for their paines did the king give them, asking young richard then, if he would wed; "among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee?" quoth he, "jugg grumball, sir, with the red head, she's my love, she's my life, her will i wed; she hath sworn i shall have her maidenhead." then sir john cockle the king call'd unto him, and of merry sherwood made him o'erseer, and gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye: "take heed now you steele no more of my deer; and once a quarter let's here have your view; and now, sir john cockle, i bid you adieu." . for good hap: i. e. for good luck; they were going on a hazardous expedition. p. . maid marian in the morris dance, was represented by a man in woman's clothes, who was to take short steps in order to sustain the female character. p. gernutus the jew of venice. percy's _reliques_, i. . in douce's _illustrations of shakespeare_, (i. ,) and malone's _shakespeare_, (v. , , ed. ,) we are referred to a great many stories resembling that of the present ballad. two or three of these are found in the persian, and there can be no doubt that the original tale is of eastern invention. the oldest european forms of the story are in the _gesta romanorum_, (wright's _latin stories_, percy soc. viii. , madden's _old english versions_, p. ,) the french romance of _dolopathos_ (v. , _et seq._), and the _pecorone_ of ser giovanni fiorentino, written in , but not printed till . shakespeare's _merchant of venice_ is known to have been played before , and there is some reason to believe that it was produced as early as . the resemblance in many particulars between the play and the narrative in the _pecorone_ is conclusive to the fact that shakespeare was acquainted with the italian novel, directly or by a translation. in gosson's _school of abuse_, ( ,) mention is made of a play called _the jew_, in which was represented "the greediness of worldly choosers, and bloody minds of usurers." it is possible that shakespeare may have made use of the incidents of this forgotten piece in the construction of his plot, but as our knowledge of the older play amounts literally to the description of it given by gosson, nothing positive is to be said on that point. silvayn's _orator_, translated from the french by anthony munday in , affords the earliest discovered _printed_ notice, in english, of the bond and forfeiture, in a "declamation, of a jew, who would for his debt have a pound of flesh of a christian;" and a striking coincidence between the jew's plea for the execution of the contract, and the reasoning of shylock before the senate, may be regarded by some as of weight sufficient to offset the evidence presented to show that the _merchant of venice_ was on the stage in . no dated copy of the ballad of _gernutus_ is known. it is on the whole more likely that the ballad is older than shakespeare's comedy, but it _may_ have been called forth by the popularity of that very piece. to judge by the first stanza alone, the writer had derived his materials from an italian novel. we give in the appendix another ballad, presenting considerable diversity in the incidents, which we presume to be the one mentioned by douce under the title of _the cruel jews garland_. in , we are informed by mr. collier, thomas jordan made a ballad out of the story of the merchant of venice, in his _royal arbor of loyal poesie_, taking some liberties with the original plot. the following was printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys collection, (compared with the ashmole copy,) entitled, "a new song, shewing the crueltie of 'gernutus, a jewe,' who, lending to a merchant an hundred crowns, would have a pound of his fleshe, because he could not pay him at the time appointed. to the tune of _black and yellow_." the first part. in venice towne not long agoe a cruel jew did dwell, which lived all on usurie, as italian writers tell. gernutus called was the jew, which never thought to dye, nor ever yet did any good to them in streets that lie. his life was like a barrow hogge, that liveth many a day, yet never once doth any good, until men will him slay. or like a filthy heap of dung, that lyeth in a whoard; which never can do any good, till it be spread abroad. so fares it with the usurer, he cannot sleep in rest for feare the thiefe will him pursue, to plucke him from his nest. his heart doth thinke on many a wile how to deceive the poore; his mouth is almost ful of mucke, yet still he gapes for more. his wife must lend a shilling, for every weeke a penny; yet bring a pledge that is double worth, if that you will have any. and see, likewise, you keepe your day, or else you loose it all: this was the living of the wife, her cow she did it call. within that citie dwelt that time a marchant of great fame, which being distressed in his need, unto gernutus came: desiring him to stand his friend for twelvemonth and a day; to lend to him an hundred crownes; and he for it would pay whatsoever he would demand of him, and pledges he should have: "no," quoth the jew, with flearing lookes, "sir, aske what you will have. "no penny for the loane of it for one year you shall pay; you may doe me as good a turne, before my dying day. "but we will have a merry jeast, for to be talked long: you shall make me a bond," quoth he, "that shall be large and strong. "and this shall be the forfeyture,-- of your owne fleshe a pound: if you agree, make you the bond, and here is a hundred crownes." "with right good will," the marchant he says, and so the bond was made. when twelve month and a day drew on, that backe it should be payd, the marchants ships were all at sea, and money came not in; which way to take, or what to doe, to thinke he doth begin. and to gernutus strait he comes, with cap and bended knee; and sayde to him, "of curtesie, i pray you beare with mee. "my day is come, and i have not the money for to pay; and little good the forfeyture will doe you, i dare say." "with all my heart," gernutus sayd, "commaund it to your minde: in thinges of bigger waight then this you shall me ready finde." he goes his way; the day once past, gernutus doth not slacke to get a sergiant presently, and clapt him on the backe. and layd him into prison strong, and sued his bond withall; and when the judgement day was come, for judgement he did call. the marchants friends came thither fast, with many a weeping eye, for other means they could not find, but he that day must dye. the second part. of the jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the judge towards the marchant. to the tune of _black and yellow_. some offered for his hundred crownes five hundred for to pay; and some a thousand, two or three, yet still he did denay. and at the last ten thousand crownes they offered, him to save: gernutus sayd, "i will no gold, my forfeite i will have. "a pound of fleshe is my demand, and that shall be my hire." then sayd the judge, "yet, good my friend, let me of you desire "to take the fleshe from such a place, as yet you let him live: do so, and lo! an hundred crownes to thee here will i give." "no, no," quoth he, "no, judgement here; for this it shall be tride; for i will have my pound of fleshe from under his right side." it grieved all the companie his crueltie to see, for neither friend nor foe could helpe but he must spoyled bee. the bloudie jew now ready is with whetted blade in hand, to spoyle the bloud of innocent, by forfeit of his bond. and as he was about to strike in him the deadly blow, "stay," quoth the judge, "thy crueltie; i charge thee to do so. "sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have, which is of flesh a pound, see that thou shed no drop of bloud, nor yet the man confound. "for if thou doe, like murderer thou here shalt hanged be: likewise of flesh see that thou cut no more than longes to thee. "for if thou take either more or lesse, to the value of a mite, thou shalt be hanged presently, as is both law and right." gernutus now waxt franticke mad, and wotes not what to say; quoth he at last, "ten thousand crownes i will that he shall pay; "and so i graunt to set him free." the judge doth answere make; "you shall not have a penny given; your forfeyture now take." at the last he doth demaund but for to have his owne: "no," quoth the judge, "doe as you list, thy judgement shall be showne. "either take your pound of flesh," quoth he, "or cancell me your bond:" "o cruell judge," then quoth the jew, "that doth against me stand!" and so with griping grieved mind[l ] he biddeth them fare-well: then all the people prays'd the lord, that ever this heard tell. good people, that doe heare this song, for trueth i dare well say, that many a wretch as ill as hee doth live now at this day; that seeketh nothing but the spoyle of many a wealthy man, and for to trap the innocent deviseth what they can. from whome the lord deliver me, and every christian too, and send to them like sentence eke that meaneth so to do. . griped, ashmole copy. the frolicksome duke; or the tinker's good fortune. percy's _reliques_, i. . the story of this ballad, like that of the preceding, was probably derived from the east. it is the same as the tale of _the sleeper awakened_ in the _arabian nights_, and a like incident is found also in the tale of _xailoun_ in the _continuation of the arabian nights_. interpolations from european sources are said to have been made by the translators both of the _arabian nights_ and of the _continuation_, and it has been suggested that _the sleeper awakened_ is one of these. (_gent. mag._ , i. .) it is even true that this story does not occur in the manuscript used by galland. it _is_ found, however, in one manuscript, and is accordingly admitted into the recent version.--marco polo relates that ala-eddin, "the old man of the mountain," was accustomed to employ a device resembling that of the ballad, to persuade his youthful votaries of his power to transport them to paradise. (chap. xxi. of marsden's translation.) a similar anecdote is told as historically true by the arabic writer el-is-hakee, who printed his work in the early part of the th century (lane's _thousand and one nights_, ii. ), while in europe the story is related of philip the good, duke of burgundy, by heuterus, _rerum burgund._ lib. iv.; of the emperor charles the fifth, by sir richard barckley, in _a discourse on the felicitie of man_, ; and of the marquess of worcester, in _the apothegms of king james, king charles, the marquess of worcester, &c._ . warton had seen among collins's books a collection of prose tales in black-letter, dated , among which was this story. it was until lately, and no doubt is still, found in the stalls, under the title of _the frolicksome courtier and the jovial tinker_. (see douce's _illustrations_, and malone's _shakespeare_.) which of the many forms of the story was known to the author of the old play of _the taming of a shrew_, on which shakespeare's comedy is founded, it would be more difficult than important to determine. mr. halliwell mentions a dutch comedy, called _dronkken hansje_, ( ,) having the plot of the induction to these plays. this ballad was given from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection. now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court, one that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport: but amongst all the rest, here is one i protest, which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: a poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, as secure in sleep as if laid in a swound. the duke said to his men, "william, richard, and ben, take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then." o'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd to the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose, and they put him to bed for to take his repose. having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, they did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: on a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, they did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. in the morning, when day, then admiring he lay, for to see the rich chamber, both gaudy and gay. now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; and the chamberlain bare, then did likewise declare, he desired to know what apparel he'd ware: the poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, and admired how he to this honour was rais'd. tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, which he straitways put on without longer dispute, with a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, and it seem'd for to swell him 'no' little with pride; for he said to himself, "where is joan my sweet wife? sure she never did see me so fine in her life." from a convenient place, the right duke, his good grace, did observe his behaviour in every case. to a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, with commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. a fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests; he was plac'd at the table above all the rest, in a rich chair 'or bed,' lin'd with fine crimson red, with a rich golden canopy over his head: as he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, with the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. while the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, rich canary, with sherry and tent superfine. like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, till at last he began for to tumble and roul from his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, being seven times drunker than ever before. then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, and restore him his old leather garments again: 'twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, and they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first, then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; but when he did waken, his joys took their flight. for his glory 'to him' so pleasant did seem, that he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought for a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought. but his highness he said, "thou'rt a jolly bold blade: such a frolick before i think never was plaid." then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak, nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground: "thou shalt never," said he, "range the counteries round, crying old brass to mend, for i'll be thy good friend, nay, and joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend." then the tinker reply'd, "what! must joan my sweet bride be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? then i shall be a squire, i well understand. well i thank your good grace, and your love i embrace; i was never before in so happy a case." the heir of linne. percy's _reliques_, ii. . "the original of this ballad," says percy, "is found in the editor's folio ms., the breaches and defects in which, rendered the insertion of supplemental stanzas necessary. these it is hoped the reader will pardon, as indeed the completion of the story was suggested by a modern ballad on a similar subject. from the scottish phrases here and there discernible in this poem, it would seem to have been originally composed beyond the tweed." the modern ballad here mentioned is probably _the drunkards legacy_, printed from an old chap-book, in _ancient poems, ballads_, and _songs_, p. , percy society, vol. xvii. the scottish version of the _heir of linne_ is annexed to the present in the only form in which it is now to be obtained. the incident by which the hidden treasure is discovered in this ballad, occurs (as observes a writer in the _british bibliographer_, iv. ) in a story of cinthio's, _heccatomithi_, dec. ix. nov. : but the argument of that story is in other respects different, being in fact the following epigram: [greek: chryson anêr heurôn elipe brochon; autar ho chryson, hon lipen, ouch heurôn, êpsen hon eure brochon.] brunck's _anthologia_, vol. i. p. . part the first. lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will beginne: it is of a lord of faire scotlànd, which was the unthrifty heire of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the daye with merry cheare, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i ween, his hearts delighte. to ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wott, an' it were the king himselfe, of gold and fee he mote be bare. soe fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his landes so broad, his house, and landes, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewàrde, and john o' the scales was called hee: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has gott both gold and fee. sayes, "welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheere; iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, good store of gold ile give thee heere." "my gold is gone, my money is spent; my lande nowe take it unto thee: give me the golde, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my lande shall bee." then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie;[l ] but for every pounde that john agreed, the lande, i-wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the borde, he was right glad his land to winne; "the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ile be the lord of linne." thus he hath sold his land soe broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poore and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glenne. for soe he to his father hight. "my sonne, when i am gonne," sayd hee, "then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free. "but sweare me nowe upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend." the heire of linne is full of golde: "and come with me, my friends," sayd hee, "let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee." they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thinne; and then his friendes they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heire of linne. he had never a penny left in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white monèy. "nowe well-aday," sayd the heire of linne, "nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. "but many a trustye friend have i, and why shold i feel dole or care? ile borrow of them all by turnes, soe need i not be never bare." but one, i-wis, was not at home; another had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loone, and bade him sharpely wend his way. "now well-aday," sayd the heire of linne, "now well-aday, and woe is me; for when i had my landes so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. "to beg my bread from door to door, i-wis, it were a brenning shame; to rob and steal it were a sinne; to worke, my limbs i cannot frame. "now ile away to [the] lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend: when all the world should frown on mee i there shold find a trusty friend." . i. e. earnest-money; from the french _denier à dieu_. at this day, when application is made to the dean and chapter of carlisle to accept an exchange of the tenant under one of their leases, a piece of silver is presented, by the new tenant, which is still called a god's-penny. percy. part the second. away then hyed the heire of linne, oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, untill he came to [the] lonesome lodge, that stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked downe, in hope some comfort for to winne; but bare and lothly were the walles; "here's sorry cheare," quo' the heire of linne. the little windowe, dim and darke, was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; no shimmering sunn here ever shone, no halesome breeze here ever blew. no chair, ne table he mote spye, no chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, nought save a rope with renning noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad lettèrs, these words were written so plain to see: "ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyselfe to penurie? "all this my boding mind misgave, i therefore left this trusty friend: let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end." sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heire of linne; his heart, i-wis, was near to-brast with guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. never a word spake the heire of linne, never a word he spake but three: "this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto mee." then round his necke the corde he drewe, and sprang aloft with his bodìe, when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground come tumbling hee. astonyed lay the heire of linne, ne knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and sawe a bille, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: itt told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten golde, the third was full of white monèy; and over them in broad lettèrs these words were written so plaine to see. "once more, my sonne, i sette thee clere; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last." "and let it bee," sayd the heire of linne, "and let it bee, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this reade shall guide me to the end." away then went with a merry cheare, away then went the heire of linne; i-wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, till john o' the scales house he did winne. and when he came to john o' the scales, upp at the speere then looked hee; there sate three lords upon a rowe, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himselfe sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was hee; "i pray thee," he said, "good john o' the scales, "one forty pence for to lend mee." "away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not bee: for christs curse on my head," he sayd, "if ever i trust thee one pennie." then bespake the heire of linne, to john o' the scales wife then spake he: "madame, some almes on me bestowe, i pray for sweet saint charitie." "away, away, thou thriftless loone, i sweare thou gettest no almes of mee; for if we should hang any losel heere, the first we wold begin with thee." then bespake a good fellòwe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord; sayd, "turn againe, thou heir of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord. "some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold and fee; therefore ile lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need bee. "and ever i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee." up then spake him john o' the scales, all wood he answer'd him againe: "now christs curse on my head," he sayd, "but i did lose by that bargàine. "and here i proffer thee, heire of linne, before these lords so faire and free, thou shalt have it backe again better cheape by a hundred markes than i had it of thee." "i drawe you to record, lords," he said, with that he cast him a gods-pennie: "now by my fay," sayd the heire of linne, "and here, good john, is thy monèy." and he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, and layd them down upon the bord; all woe begone was john o' the scales, soe shent he cold say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold. he told it forth [with] mickle dinne. "the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ime againe the lord of linne." sayes, "have thou here, thou good fellòwe, forty pence thou didst lend mee: now i am againe the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. "ile make thee keeper of my forrest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for but i reward thy bounteous heart, i-wis, good fellowe, i were to blame." "now welladay!" sayth joan o' the scales; "now welladay, and woe is my life! yesterday i was lady of linne, now ime but john o' the scales his wife." "now fare thee well," sayd the heire of linne, "farewell now, john o' the scales," said hee: "christs curse light on mee, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy." the heir of linne. from _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, p. , percy society, vol. xvii. the bonny heir, and the weel-faur'd heir, and the wearie heir o' linne, yonder he stands at his father's yetts, an naebody bids him come in. o see for he gangs, an' see for he stands, the wearie heir o' linne; o see for he stands on the cauld casey, and nae an' bids him come in. but if he had been his father's heir, or yet the heir o' linne, he wou'dna stand on the cauld casey, some an' wad taen him in. "sing ower again that sang, nourice, the sang ye sang just noo;" "i never sang a sang i' my life, but i wad sing ower to you." o see for he gangs, an' see for he stands, the wearie heir o' linne; o see for he stands on the cauld casey, an' nae an' bids him come in. but if he had been his father's heir, or yet the heir o' linne, he wadna stand on the cauld casye, some ane wad taen him in. when his father's lands a sellin' were, his claise lay weel in fauld, but now he wanders on the shore, baith hungry, weet, and cauld. as willie he gaed down the toun, the gentlemen were drinkin'; some bade gie willie a glass, a glass, and some bade him gae nane; some bade gie willie a glass, a glass, the weary heir o' linne. as willie he cam' up the toun, the fishers were a sittin'; some bade gie willie a fish, a fish, some bade gie him a fin; some bade gie him a fish, a fish, and lat the palmer gang. he turned him richt and roun' about, as will as a woman's son, and taen his cane into his hand, and on his way to linne. his nourice at her window look'd, beholding dale and doun, and she beheld this distress'd young man come walkin' to the town. "come here, come here, willie," she said, "and set yoursel' wi me; i hae seen you i' better days, and in jovial companie." "gie me a sheave o' your bread, nourice, and a bottle o' your wine, and i'll pay you it a' ower again, when i'm the laird o' linne." "ye'se got a sheave o' my bread, willie, "and a bottle o' my wine,[l ] an' ye'll pay me when the seas gang dry, but ye'll ne'er be heir o' linne." then he turn'd him richt and roun' about, as will as woman's son; and aff he set, and bent his way, and straightway came to linne. but when he cam to that castle, they were set doun to dine; a score o' nobles there he saw, sat drinkin' at the wine. then some bad' gie him beef, the beef, and some bad' gie him the bane; and some bad' gie him naething at a', but lat the palmer gang. then out it speaks the new come laird, a saucie word spak' hee; "put roun' the cup, gie my rival a sup, lat him fare on his way." then out it speaks sir ned magnew, ane o' young willie's kin; "this youth was ance a sprightlie boy as ever lived in linne." he turned him richt and roun' about, as will as woman's son; then minded him on a little wee key, that his mither left to him. his mither left him this little wee key a little before she deed; and bad him keep this little wee key till he was in maist need. then forth he went, an' these nobles left, a' drinkin' in the room; wi' walkin' rod intill his hand, he walked the castle roun'. there he found out a little door, for there the wee key slippit in, an' there he got as muckle red gowd as freed the lands o' linne. back through the nobles then he went, a saucie man was then; "i'll tak' the cup frae this new-come laird, for he ne'er bad me sit doun." then out it speaks the new-come laird, he spak' wi' mock an' jeer; "i'd gie a seat to the laird o' linne, sae be that he were here. "when the lands o' linne a sellin' were, a' men said they were free; this lad shall hae them frae me this day, if he'll gie the third pennie." "i tak' ye witness, nobles a', gude witnesses ye'll be; i'm promis'd the lands o' linne this day, if i gie the third pennie." "ye've taen us witnesses, willie," they said, "gude witnesses we'll be; buy the lands o' linne who likes, they'll ne'er be bought by thee." he's done him to a gamin' table, for it stood fair and clean; there he tauld doun as much rich gowd as freed the lands o' linne. thus having done, he turn'd about, a saucie man was he; "tak' up your monie, my lad," he says, "tak' up your third pennie. "aft hae i gane wi' barefeet cauld, likewise wi' legs fu' bare, and mony day walk'd at these yetts wi' muckle dool an' care. "but now my sorrow's past and gane, and joy's returned to me; and here i've gowd enough forbye, ahin this third pennie." as willie he gaed doun the toun, there he craw'd wonderous crouse; he ca'd the may afore them a', the nourice o' the house. "come here, come here, my nurse," he says, "i'll pay your bread and wine; seas ebb and flow as they wont to do, yet i'm the laird o' linne." an' he gaed up the gallowgate port, his hose aboon his shoon; but lang ere he cam down again was convoyed by lords fifteen. . your wine. the wandering jew. in the year , we are informed by matthew paris, an armenian archbishop visited england, with letters from the pope, to make the tour of the holy places. during a sojourn at the monastery of st. albans, he was asked by one of the brethren if he knew anything of the famous joseph, so much spoken of, who had been present at the crucifixion, and was still living as a witness to the truth of the christian faith. the archbishop responded that the fact was indeed as reported, and one of his retinue added, that his master had personally known this extraordinary character, and had admitted him to his table only a short time before setting out for the west; that he had been porter to pontius pilate, and was named cartaphilus; that when the jews were dragging christ from the judgment-hall, he had struck him in the back with his fist, saying, "go faster, jesus: why dost thou tarry?"--whereupon christ turned to him and said, "i go, but thou shalt tarry till my coming." after the death of jesus, cartaphilus had been converted, and baptized by ananias, under the name of joseph. still the sentence pronounced upon him by the saviour was not revoked, and he remained in the world, awaiting the lord's second advent, living in armenia, or some other country of the east. whenever he reached the age of a hundred, he fell into a trance, and when he revived, found himself again about thirty years old, as he had been at the epoch of christ's suffering. this story matthew paris heard at st. albans, of which monastery he was himself a brother, a few years after the memorable visit of the armenian prelate. his contemporary, philippe mouskes, bishop of tournay, has incorporated the substance of his narrative into his rhymed chronicle, edited by the baron de reiffenberg, v. , et seq. we hear nothing more of the wandering jew from this time until the middle of the th century, when he presents himself at hamburgh, (in ,) calling himself ahasuerus, who had been a shoemaker at jerusalem. the ballad which follows is founded upon some narrative of this event, many of which were published. it will be noticed that in the second form of the legend, the punishment of perpetual existence, which gives rise to the old names, _judæus non mortalis_, _ewiger jude_, is aggravated by a condemnation to incessant change of place, which is indicated by a corresponding name, _wandering jew_, _juif errant_, etc. it is unnecessary, and would be impossible, to specify the various times and places at which the wandering jew has successively reappeared. the legend being firmly believed by the vulgar throughout christendom, an opportunity for imposture was afforded which could not fail to be improved. the last recorded apparition was at brussels, in april, , and on this occasion the wanderer had again changed his name to isaac laquedem. of the origin of the tradition we know nothing. m. lacroix has suggested that it took its rise in a grand and beautiful allegory in which the hebrew race were personified under the figure of the everlasting wanderer. see calmet's _bible dictionary_, grässe, _die sage vom ewigen juden_, dresden and leipsic, , paul lacroix's bibliographical preface to doré's designs, _la légende du juif errant, etc._ paris, . this ballad is taken from percy's _reliques_, ii. , and was from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection. when as in faire jerusalem our saviour christ did live, and for the sins of all the worlde his own deare life did give, the wicked jewes with scoffes and scornes did dailye him molest, that never till he left his life, our saviour could not rest. when they had crown'd his head with thornes, and scourg'd him to disgrace, in scornfull sort they led him forthe unto his dying place, where thousand thousands in the streete beheld him passe along, yet not one gentle heart was there, that pityed this his wrong. both old and young reviled him, as in the streete he wente, and nought he found but churlish tauntes, by every ones consente: his owne deare cross he bore himselfe, a burthen far too great, which made him in the streete to fainte, with blood and water sweat. being weary thus, he sought for rest, to ease his burthened soule, upon a stone; the which a wretch did churlishly controule; and sayd, "awaye, thou king of jewes, thou shalt not rest thee here; pass on; thy execution place thou seest nowe draweth neare." and thereupon he thrust him thence; at which our saviour sayd, "i sure will rest, but thou shalt walke, and have no journey stayed." with that this cursed shoemaker, for offering christ this wrong, left wife and children, house and all, and went from thence along. where after he had seene the bloude of jesus christ thus shed, and to the crosse his bodye nail'd, awaye with speed he fled, without returning backe againe unto his dwelling place, and wandred up and downe the worlde, a runnagate most base. no resting could he finde at all, no ease, nor hearts content; no house, nor home, nor biding place; but wandring forth he went from towne to towne in foreigne landes, with grieved conscience still, repenting for the heinous guilt of his fore-passed ill. thus after some fewe ages past in wandring up and downe, he much again desired to see jerusalems renowne. but finding it all quite destroyd, he wandred thence with woe, our saviours wordes, which he had spoke, to verifie and showe. "i'll rest," sayd hee, "but thou shalt walke;" so doth this wandring jew, from place to place, but cannot rest for seeing countries newe; declaring still the power of him, whereas he comes or goes; and of all things done in the east, since christ his death, he showes. the world he hath still compast round and seene those nations strange, that hearing of the name of christ, their idol gods doe change: to whom he hath told wondrous thinges of time forepast and gone, and to the princes of the worlde declares his cause of moane: desiring still to be dissolv'd, and yeild his mortal breath; but, if the lord hath thus decreed, he shall not yet see death. for neither lookes he old nor young, but as he did those times, when christ did suffer on the crosse for mortall sinners crimes. he hath past through many a foreigne place, arabia, egypt, africa, grecia, syria, and great thrace, and throughout all hungaria: where paul and peter preached christ, those blest apostles deare, there he hath told our saviours wordes, in countries far and neare. and lately in bohemia, with many a german towne, and now in flanders, as 'tis thought, he wandreth up and downe: where learned men with him conferre of those his lingering dayes, and wonder much to heare him tell his journeyes and his wayes. if people give this jew an almes, the most that he will take is not above a groat a time: which he, for jesus' sake, will kindlye give unto the poore, and thereof make no spare, affirming still that jesus christ of him hath dailye care. he ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile, but weepe and make great moane; lamenting still his miseries, and dayes forepast and gone. if he heare any one blaspheme, or take god's name in vaine, he telles them that they crucifie their saviour christe againe. "if you had seene his death," saith he, "as these mine eyes have done, ten thousand thousand times would yee his torments think upon, and suffer for his sake all paine of torments, and all woes:" these are his wordes, and eke his life, whereas he comes or goes. proud lady margaret. from _minstrelsy of the scotish border_, iii. . this copy of the ballad is imperfect. a complete version is inserted in the appendix from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . there is another, also defective, called _the bonny hind squire_, in _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, p. , percy soc. vol. xvii. 'twas on a night, an evening bright, when the dew began to fa', lady margaret was walking up and down, looking o'er her castle wa'. she looked east, and she looked west, to see what she could spy, when a gallant knight came in her sight, and to the gate drew nigh. "you seem to be no gentleman, you wear your boots so wide; but you seem to be some cunning hunter, you wear the horn so syde." "i am no cunning hunter," he said, "nor ne'er intend to be; but i am come to this castle to seek the love of thee; and if you do not grant me love, this night for thee i'll die." "if you should die for me, sir knight, there's few for you will mane, for mony a better has died for me whose graves are growing green. "but ye maun read my riddle," she said, "and answer me questions three; and but ye read them right," she said, "gae stretch ye out and die. "now what is the flower, the ae first flower, springs either on moor or dale? and what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird, sings on the evening gale?" "the primrose is the ae first flower springs either on moor or dale; and the thristlecock is the bonniest bird sings on the evening gale." "but what's the little coin," she said, "wald buy my castle bound? and what's the little boat," she said, "can sail the world all round?" "o hey, how mony small pennies make thrice three thousand pound? or hey, how mony small fishes swim a' the salt sea round?" "i think ye maun be my match," she said, "my match and something mair; you are the first e'er got the grant of love frae my father's heir. "my father was lord of nine castles, my mother lady of three; my father was lord of nine castles, and there's nane to heir but me. "and round about a' thae castles, you may baith plow and saw, and on the fifteenth day of may the meadows they will maw." "o hald your tongue, lady margaret," he said, "for loud i hear you lie! your father was lord of nine castles, your mother was lady of three; your father was lord of nine castles, but ye fa' heir to but three. "and round about a' thae castles, you may baith plow and saw, but on the fifteenth day of may the meadows will not maw. "i am your brother willie," he said, "i trow ye ken na me; i came to humble your haughty heart, has gar'd sae mony die." "if ye be my brother willie," she said; "as i trow weel ye be, this night i'll neither eat nor drink, but gae alang wi' thee." "o hald your tongue, lady margaret," he said, "again i hear you lie; for ye've unwashen hands, and ye've unwashen feet, to gae to clay wi' me.[l ] "for the wee worms are my bedfellows, and cauld clay is my sheets, and when the stormy winds do blow, my body lies and sleeps." reedisdale and wise william. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. , and buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. : from recitation. when reedisdale and wise william was drinking at the wine, there fell a roosing them amang, on one unruly time. for some of them has roosed their hawks, and other some their hounds; and other some their ladies fair, and their bow'rs whare they walk'd in. when out it spak him reedisdale, and a rash word spake he: says, "there is not a lady fair, in bower wherever she be, but i could aye her favour win, with one blink of my e'e." then out it spak him wise william, and a rash word spak he: says, "i have a sister of my own, in bower wherever she be, and ye will not her favour win, with three blinks of your e'e." "what will you wager, wise william? my lands i'll wad with thee:" "i'll wad my head against your land, till i get more monie." then reedisdale took wise william, laid him in prison strang; that he might neither gang nor ride, nor no word to her send. but he has written a braid letter, between the night and day, and sent it to his own sister, by dun feather and gray. when she had read wise william's letter, she smiled and she leuch: said, "very weel, my dear brother, of this i have eneuch." she looked out at her west window, to see what she could see, and there she spied him reedisdale, come riding o'er the lea. says, "come to me, my maidens all, come hitherward to me; for here it comes him reedisdale, who comes a-courting me." "come down, come down, my lady fair, a sight of you give me:" "go from my yetts now, reedisdale, for me you will not see." "come down, come down, my lady fair, a sight of you give me; and bonnie is the gowns of silk that i will give to thee." "if you have bonnie gowns of silk, o mine is bonnie tee; go from my yetts now, reedisdale, for me you shall not see." "come down, come down, my lady fair, a sight of you i'll see; and bonnie jewels, broaches, rings, i will give unto thee." "if you have bonnie broaches, rings, o mine are bonnie tee; go from my yetts now, reedisdale, for me you shall not see." "come down, come down, my lady fair, one sight of you i'll see; and bonnie is the halls and bowers that i will give to thee." "if you have bonnie halls and bowers, o mine is bonnie tee; go from my yetts now, reedisdale, for me you shall not see." "come down, come down, my lady fair, a sight of you i'll see; and bonnie is my lands so broad that i will give to thee." "if you have bonnie lands so broad, o mine is bonnie tee; go from my yetts now, reedisdale, for me you will not see." "come down, come down, my lady fair a sight of you i'll see; and bonnie is the bags of gold that i will give to thee." "if you have bonnie bags of gold, i have bags of the same; go from my yetts now, reedisdale, for down i will not come." "come down, come down, my lady fair, one sight of you i'll see; or else i'll set your house on fire, if better cannot be." then he has set the house on fire, and all the rest it took; he turned his wight horse head about, said, "alas! they'll ne'er get out." "look out, look out, my maidens fair, and see what i do see; how reedisdale has fired our house, and now rides o'er the lea. "come hitherward, my maidens fair, come hither unto me; for through this reek, and through this smeek, o through it we must be." they took wet mantles them about, their coffers by the band; and through the reek, and through the flame, alive they all have wan. when they had got out through the fire, and able all to stand, she sent a maid to wise william, to bruik reedisdale's land. "your lands is mine, now, reedisdale, for i have won them free:" "if there is a good woman in the world, your one sister is she." . _unwashen hands and unwashen feet._--alluding to the custom of washing and dressing dead bodies. s. geordie. from the _musical museum_, p. . "geordie, an old ballad," was first printed in johnson's _museum_, from a copy furnished by burns. the occasion of the ballad has not been satisfactorily determined. in the opinion of mr. kinloch, it is to be found in the factions of the family of huntly during the reign of queen mary. george gordon, earl of huntly, having been sent by the queen to apprehend a notorious robber, was thought not to have been faithful to his trust. he returned without accomplishing the object of his expedition, and was committed to prison because of his failure. some of the queen's council were in favor of banishing him to france, others of putting him to death, but he was released, on condition of paying a fine and performing certain other stipulations. motherwell states that there is much variation in the recited copies of this piece, and mentions one styled _geordie luklie_. kinloch prints a version not materially different from that of the _museum_. allan cunningham has reprinted the museum copy with less change than is customary with him; _songs of scotland_, ii. . we give in the appendix a ballad from buchan, called _gight's lady_, which contains a story widely diverse from that which follows. in ritson's _northumberland garland_, p. , there is a "lamentable ditty" on the death of one george stoole, which appears to be an imitation of the scottish ballad. there was a battle in the north, and nobles there was many, and they hae kill'd sir charlie hay, and they laid the wyte on geordie. o he has written a lang letter, he sent it to his lady; "ye maun cum up to enbrugh town, to see what word's o' geordie." when first she look'd the letter on she was baith red and rosy, but she had na read a word but twa, till she wallow't like a lily. "gar get to me my gude grey steed, my menzie a' gae wi' me, for i shall neither eat nor drink, till enbrugh town shall see me." and she has mountit her gude grey steed her menzie a' gaed wi' her; and she did neither eat nor drink, till enbrugh town did see her.[l ] and first appear'd the fatal block, and syne the aix to head him, and geordie cumin down the stair, and bands o' airn upon him. but tho' he was chain'd in fetters strang, o' airn and steel sae heavy, there was na ane in a' the court, sae bra' a man as geordie. o she's down on her bended knee, i wat she's pale and weary,-- "o pardon, pardon, noble king, and gie me back my dearie. "i hae born seven sons to my geordie dear, the seventh ne'er saw his daddie; o pardon, pardon, noble king, pity a waefu' lady!" "gar bid the headin-man mak haste," our king reply'd fu' lordly;-- "o noble king, tak a' that's mine, but gie me back my geordie." the gordons cam, and the gordons ran, and they were stark and steady; and ay the word amang them a', was, "gordons, keep you ready." an aged lord at the king's right hand, says, "noble king, but hear me; gar her tell down five thousand pound, and gie her back her dearie." some gae her marks, some gae her crowns, some gae her dollars many; and she's tell'd down five thousand pound, and she's gotten again her dearie. she blinkit blythe in her geordie's face, says, "dear i've bought thee, geordie; but there sud been bluidy bouks on the green, or i had tint my laddie." he claspit her by the middle sma', and he kist her lips sae rosy; "the fairest flower o' woman-kind, is my sweet, bonnie lady!" . cunningham here inserts a stanza "from the recitation of mrs. cunningham," which is not in the other printed copies: and soon she came to the water broad, nor boat nor barge was ready; she turned her horse's head to the flood, and swam through at queensferry. geordie. kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . there was a battle in the north, and rebels there were monie; and monie ane got broken heads, and taken was my geordie. _my geordie o, my geordie o,_ _o the love i bear to geordie;_ _for the very grund i walk upon,_ _bears witness i loe geordie._ as she gaed up the tolbooth stair, the cripples there stood monie; and she dealt the red gowd them among, to pray for her love geordie. and whan she cam into the hall, the nobles there stood monie; and ilka ane stood hat on head, but hat in hand stood geordie. up bespak a norlan lord, i wat he spak na bonnie,-- "if ye'll stay here a little while, ye'll see geordie hangit shortly." then up bespak a baron bold, and o but he spak bonnie,-- "if ye'll pay doun five hundred crowns, ye'se get your true-love geordie." some lent her guineas, some lent her crowns, some lent her shillings monie; and she's paid doun five hundred crowns, and she's gotten her bonnie love geordie. when she was mounted on her hie steed, and on ahint her geordie, nae bird on the brier e'er sang sae clear, as the young knight and his ladie. _"my geordie o, my geordie o,_ _o the love i bear to geordie;_ _the very stars in the firmament_ _bear tokens i loe geordie."_ the gaberlunzie-man. tea-table miscellany, i. ; _old ballads_, iii. . it is tradition that king james the fifth of scotland was in the habit of wandering about his dominions in disguise, and engaging in amours with country girls. one of these is thought to be described in the witty ballad of _the jolly beggar_, (herd's _scotish songs_, ii. , ritson's _scotish songs_, i. ,) and another in _the gaberlunzie-man_, both of which are universally attributed (though without evidence) to james's pen. the character of james v., it has been remarked (_gent. mag._ oct. , p. ,) resembled both in licentiousness and genius, that of the troubadour sovereign, william the ninth, count of poitiers, who appears to have had the same vagrant habits. with _the jolly beggar_ may be compared _der bettelmann_, in hoffmann's _schlesische volkslieder_, p. . the pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, wi' many goode'ens and days to me, saying, "goodwife, for your courtesie, "will you lodge a silly poor man?" the night was cauld, the carle was wat, and down ayont the ingle he sat; my daughters shoulders he gan to clap, and cadgily ranted and sang. "o wow!" quo' he, "were i as free, as first when i saw this country, how blyth and merry wad i be, and i wad never think lang." he grew canty, and she grew fain, but little did her auld minny ken, what thir slee twa togither were say'ng, when wooing they were sae thrang. "and o!" quo' he, "ann ye were as black, as e'er the crown of my dady's hat, 'tis i wad lay thee by my back, and awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang." "and o!" quo' she, "ann i were as white, as e'er the snaw lay on the dyke, i'd clead me braw, and lady-like, and awa with thee i'd gang." between the twa was made a plot; they raise a wee before the cock, and wilily they shot the lock, and fast to the bent are they gane. up the morn the auld wife raise, and at her leisure pat on her claise; syne to the servant's bed she gaes, to speer for the silly poor man. she gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, the strae was cauld, he was away; she clapt her hands, cry'd "waladay! for some of our gear will be gane." some ran to coffers, and some to kists, but nought was stown that cou'd be mist: she danc'd her lane, cry'd, "praise be blest! i have lodg'd a leal poor man. "since nathing's awa', as we can learn, the kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn; gae butt the house, lass, and waken my bairn, and bid her come quickly ben." the servant gade where the daughter lay, the sheets was cauld, she was away; and fast to her goodwife can say, "she's aff with the gaberlunzie-man." "o fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, and haste ye, find these traytors again; for she's be burnt, and he's be slain, the wearifu' gaberlunzie-man." some rade upo' horse, some ran a-fit, the wife was wood, and out o' her wit; she cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit, but ay she curs'd and she ban'd. mean time far hind out o'er the lee, fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see, the twa, with kindly sport and glee, cut frae a new cheese a whang. the priving was good, it pleas'd them baith; to lo'e her for aye he gae her his aith; quo' she, "to leave thee, i will be laith, my winsome gaberlunzie-man. "o kend my minny i were wi' you, illfardly wad she crook her mou; sic a poor man she'd never trow, after the gaberlunzie-man." "my dear," quo' he, "ye're yet o'er young, and ha' na lear'd the beggars tongue, to follow me frae town to town, and carry the gaberlunzie on. "wi' cauk and keel, i'll win your bread, and spindles and whorles for them wha need, whilk is a gentil trade indeed, to carry the gaberlunzie, o. i'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, and draw a black clout o'er my eye; a cripple or blind they will ca' me, while we shall be merry and sing." the turnament of totenham. _the turnament of totenham_ was first printed in the _history of totenham_, ( ,) by the rev. wilhelm bedwell, rector of the parish, who, says percy, "so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing, that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of edward iii., because turnaments were prohibited in that reign." the simple parson derived his copy from a manuscript lent him by george withers. in the first edition of the _reliques_, percy reprinted bedwell's text, with some conjectural emendations, but for the revised edition he employed a manuscript in the harleian collection (no. ), pointed out to him by tyrwhitt. this manuscript is thought to have been written in the reign of henry vi. since the publication of the harleian text, the manuscript used by bedwell has been found in the public library of the university of cambridge, (ff. , ,) and a correct copy published by mr. wright in a miniature volume. we have given this last text, as on the whole the best, though in places it requires emendation from the harleian copy. the cambridge manuscript (the same as that which contains the ballad of _robin hood and the monk_,) mr. wright believes to have been written as early as the reign of edward ii. in this ms. there is subjoined to the _turnament_ an extravagantly burlesque account of the feast mentioned in the last stanzas. percy's copy will be found in the _reliques_, ii. . ritson's (_ancient english songs_, i. ,) is nearly identical. this ballad, it has been observed, appears to be "a burlesque upon the old feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents, at a solemn assembly holden for that purpose." see the remarks in the _gentleman's magazine_ for july, , p. . of alle these kene conqueroures to carpe is oure kynde; off fel feghtyng folke ferly we fynde; the turnament of totenham have i in mynde; hit were harme sich hardynesse were holdyn behynde, in story as we rede off hawkyn, of harry, off tymkyn, of tyrry, off thaym that were duzty and hardy in dede. hit befel in totenham on a dere day, ther was made a shurtyng be the hye way; thider come alle the men of that contray, off hisselton, of hygate, and of hakenay, and alle the swete swynkers: ther hoppyd hawkyn, ther dawnsid dawkyn, ther trumpyd tymkyn, and [all] were true drynkers.[l ] tille the day was gon and evesong paste, that thai shulde reckyn thaire skot and thaire counts caste: perkyn the potter in to the prees paste, and seid, "rondill the refe, a dozter thu haste, tibbe thi dere. therfor fayne wete wolde i,[l - ] whether these felows or i, or which of alle this bachelery, were the best worthy to wed hir to his fere." upsterte the gadlyngs with thaire lang staves, and seid, "rondyll the refe, lo, this lad raves; how prudly among us thy dozter he craves; and we ar richer men then he, and more gode haves, off catell and of corne." then seid perkyn, "to tibbe i have hyzt, that i will be alle wey redy in my rizt, with a fleyle for to fyght, this day seven nyzt,[l - ] and thouz hit were to morne."[l ] then seid rondill the refe, "ever be he waryd that aboute this carpyng lenger wolde be taryd: i wolde not my dozter that she were myskaryd, but at hir moost worship i wolde she were maryd. [ther]ffor the turnament shalle begynne[l ] this day seven nyzt, with a flayle for to fyzt: and he that is moste of myzt shalle brok hir with wynne. "he that berys hym best in the turnament, him shal be grauntid the gre be the comyn assent,[l ] ffor to wynne my dozter with duztynesse of dent, and coppull, my brode hen, that was brozt out of kent, and my donned cow. ffor no spence will i spare, ffor no catell wille i care; he shalle have my gray mare, and my spottyd sowe." ther was mony a bolde lad theire bodys to bede: than thei toke theire leve and hamwarde thei zede, and alle the weke afterward thei graythed her wede, tille hit come to the day that thei shulde do thaire dede. thei armyd theym in mattes, thei sett on theire nolles gode blake bolles, ffor to kepe theire pollis ffor batteryng of battes. thei sewed hem in schepe skynnes, for thei shuld not brest, and everilkon of hem a blac hatte in stidde of a crest,[l ] a baskett or a panyer before on thaire brest, and a flayle in theire honde; for to fyzt prest, forth con thei fare. ther was kid mycull fors, who shulde best fend his cors; he that hade no gode hors, borowyd hym a mare.[l ] sich another clothyng have i not sene ofte,[l ] when alle the gret cumpany come ridand to the crofte; tibbe on a gray mare was sett up on lofte; upon a secke full of senvye, for she shuld sitt softe, and ledde tille the gappe: fforther wold she not than,[l - ] for the luf of no man, tille coppull, hir brode hen, were brozt in to hir lappe. a gay gyrdull tibbe hade [on], borowed for the nones,[l ] and a garland on hir hed, full of ruell bones, and a broch on hir brest, full of saphre stones, the holy rode tokynyng was writon for the nones:[l ] for no spendyng they [had] spare[d].[l ] when joly jeynken wist hir thare, he gurde so fast his gray mare, that she lete a fowkyn fare at the rerewarde. "i make a vow," quod tibbe, "coppull is comyn of kynde;[l - ] i shalle falle fyve in the felde, and i my flayle fynde." "i make a vow," quod hudde, "i shalle not leve behynde; may i mete with lyarde, or bayarde the blynde, i wot i schalle theym greve." "i make a vow," quod haukyn, "may i mete with daukyn, ffor alle his rich kyn, his flayle i shalle hym reve." "i make a vow," quod gregge, "tib, [son] thu shal se which of alle the bachelery grauntid is the gre. i shalle skomfet hem alle, for the luf of thé, in what place that i come, thei shall have dout of me. ffor i am armyd at the fole;[l - ] in myn armys i ber well a doz troz and a pele, a sadull withowt panele, with a flece of wole." "now go down," quod dudman, "and bere me bet abowte:[l - ] i make a vow thei shall abye that i fynde owte. have i twyse or thrise riden thruz the rowte, in what place that i come, of me thei shall ha[ve] doute. myn armys bene so clere: i bar a ridell and a rake, poudurt with the brenyng drake, and thre cantels of a cake in ilke a cornere." "i make a vow," quod tirry, "and swere be my crede, saw thu never yong boy forther his body bede: ffor when thei fyzt fastest, and most er in drede, i shalle take tib be the hond and away hir lede. then byn myn armys best:[l - ] i ber a pilch of ermyn, poudert with a catt skyn; the chefe is of pechmyn, that stondis on the creste." "i make a vow," quod dudman, "and swere be the stra, whils me ys left my mer, thu gets hir not swa.[l ] for she is wel shapyn, as lizt as a ra; ther is no capull in this myle before her will ga. she wil me not begyle; i dar sothely say,[l - ] she will be[re me] on monday ffro hissiltoun to haknay, nozt other halfe myle." "i make a vow," quod perkyn, "thu carpis of cold rost. i wil wyrke wiselier without any boost. ffyve of the best capuls that ar in this host, i will hem lede away be another coost:" and then lowz tibbe. "weloo, boyes, here is he[l ] that will fyzt and not fle: ffor i am in my jolyté: i go forth, tibbe."[l ] when thai had thaire othes made, forth can thei hie,[l ] with flayles and harnys and trumpis made of tre. ther were all the bachilers of that contre: thei were dizt in aray, as thaim self wolde be. theire baner was ful bryzt, off an olde raton fell;[l - ] the chefe was of a ploo-mell, and the schadow of a bell, quarterd with the mone lizt.[l ] i wot it was no childer gamme when thei to geder mett, when ilke a freke in the felde on his felow bette, and leid on stifly--for no thyng wold thei lett-- and fozt ferly fast, til theyre hors swett. and few wordis were spokyn. ther were flayles al to-flaterde,[l - ] ther were scheldis al to-claterde, bolles and disshis al to-baterde, and mony hedis ther were brokyn. ther was clenkyng of cart sadils, and clatering of cannes; off fel frekis in the feeld brokyn were thaire fannes; off sum were the hedis brokyn, of sum the brayn pannes, and evel were they besene er they went thannes, with swippyng of swipylles. the laddis were so wery forfozt, that thai myzt fyzt no more on loft, but creppid aboute in the crofte, as thei were crokid crypils. perkyn was so wery that he began to lowte: "helpe, hudde, i am ded in this ilke rowte; an hors, for forty penys, a gode and a stoute, that i may liztly cum of my [noye] owte.[l ] ffor no cost wil i spare." he stert up as a snayle, and hent a capull be the tayle, and rauzt of daukyn his flayle, and wan hym a mare. "perkyn wan fyve, and hudde wan twa. glad and blith thai were that thei had don sa; thai wolde have thaim to tibbe, and present hir with tha; the capuls were so wery that thei myzt not ga, but stille can thei stonde. "alas!" quod hud, "my joye i lese: me had lever then a ston of chese that dere tibbe had alle these, and wist hit were my sonde." perkyn turnyd hym aboute in that ilke throng; he fouzt fresshly, for he had rest hym long.[l - ] he was war of tirry take tib be the hond, and wold have lad hir away with a luf-song; and perkyn after ran, and of his capull he hym drowe, and gaf hym of his flayle inowe. then "te he," quod tib, and lowe: "ze ar a duzty man." thus thai tuggat and thei ruggat, til hit was ny nyzt. alle the wyves of totenham come to se that sizt, to fech home thaire husbondis that were thaym trouthe-plizt,[l - ] with wispys and kexis, that was a rich lizt, her husbondis home to fech. and sum they had in armys, that were febull wreches, and sum on whelebarowes, and sum on criches. they gedurt perkyn aboute on every side, and graunt hym ther the gre, the more was his pride. tib and he with gret myrth hamward can ride, and were al nyzt togedur til the morow tide. and to chirch thay went.[l ] so wel his nedis he hase spedde, that dere tibbe he shall wedde; the chefe men that hir thider ledde[l ] were of the turnament. to that rich fest come mony for the nonys; sum come hiphalt, and sum trippande thither on the stonys; sum with a staffe in his honde, and sum too at onys; of sum were the hedis brokyn, of sum the schulder bonys. with sorow come they thidur. woo was hawkyn, wo was harry, woo was tomkyn, woo was tirry, and so was al the company,[l - ] but zet thei come togeder. at that fest were thei servyd in a rich aray:[l ] every fyve and fyve had a cokeney. and so they sate in jolite al the long daye; tibbe at nyzt, i trow, hade a sympull aray.[l ] micull myrth was thaym among: in every corner of the howse was melodye deliciouse, ffor to here preciouse, off six mennys song. . _sic_ ms. harl. according to percy. - . ms. harl. therfor faine wyt wold i, whych of all thys bachelery were best worthye to wed hur to hys fere. v. should be divided into two. - . ms. harl. if that it schuld be thys day sevenyzt, or elles zet to morn. . wright. tomorowe. . _sic_ ms. harl. . wright, he. . ms. harl. ilk on toke a blak hat. . ms. harl. he gat hym a mare. . ms. harl. gadryng. - . ms. harl. for cryeng of the men, forther wold not tyb then, tyl scho had hur brode hen, set in hur lap. . on. ms. harl. . ms. harl. with the holy, &c. wrotyn. . wolde they spare. wright. v. - . stands thus in ms. harl. "i wow to god," quoth herry, "i schal not lefe behynde, may i mete wyth bernard on bayard the blynde. ich man kepe hym out of my wynde, for whatsoever that he be before me i fynde, i wot i schall hym greve." "wele sayd," quoth hawkyn, "and i wow," quoth dawkyn, "may i mete wyth tomkyn, hys flayle i schal hym reve." - . here stand vs. - in ms. harl. - . this stanza is written as follows in ms. harl.: "i vow to god," quoth hawkyn, "yf he have the gowt, al that i fynde in the felde thrustand here aboute, have i twyes or thryes redyn thrugh the route, in ych a stede ther thay me se, of me thay schal have doute. when i begyn to play, i make a vowe that i ne schall, but yf tybbe wyl me call, or i be thryes don fall, ryzt onys com away. - . here stand v. - in ms. harl. . whyls me ys left my merth. ms. harl. whil i am most mery. wright. we must obviously read "mer," i. e. mare, with percy and ritson; otherwise the rest of the stanza is nonsense. the _th_ which is added in the ms. harl., was caught from the _thou_ following. - . ms. harl. sche wyl me bere, i dar say, on a lang-somerys day. . ms. h. wele. . ms. h. wyth so forth, gybbe. wright. joo forth. . hie, ms. harl. te, wright. - . ms. h. of an old rotten fell, the cheveron of a plow-mell. . ms. h. poudred. - . ms. h. slatred--flatred--schatred. . my noye. ms. h. myn one. wright. - . ms. harl. among those wery boyes he wrest and he wrang, he threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast them amang, when he saw tyrry away wyth tyb fang, and after hym ran. - . here evidently corrupted. in ms. harl. as follows: wyth wyspes, and kexis, and ryschys there lyzt, to fetch hom ther husbandes that were tham trouth-plyzt. and sum brozt gret harwos ther husbandes hom to fetch, sum on dores, and sum on hech, sum on hyrdyllys, and sum on crech, and sum on whele-barows. . ms. h. and thay ifere assent. . ms. h. the prayse-folk that hur led. - . ms. h. and so was all the bachelary, when thay met togedyr. . ms. h. with a ryche aray. . ms. h. and at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray. n. b. the letter z in our reprint of this poem often represents the old character [gh], which has generally the force of gh (aspirated g), sometimes of y. the wyf of auchtirmuchty. this ballad has been handed down, through manuscript and oral tradition, in several forms. the oldest copy is furnished by the bannatyne ms., and this has been often printed, with more or less correctness: as in ramsay's _evergreen_, ii. ; lord hailes's _ancient scotish poems, &c._ p. ; herd's _scotish songs_, ii. ; pinkerton's _select scottish ballads_, ii. . our text is that of laing, _select remains, &c._, which professes to be carefully given from the manuscript. mr. laing has added in the margin the most important variations of other editions. allan ramsay altered several verses and added others. in the bannatyne ms. this piece is subscribed with the name of "mofat," and on this ground the authorship has been attributed to sir john moffat, who is supposed to have lived in the earlier part of the th century. ritson, who intended to insert the _wife of auchtermuchty_ in a projected volume of _select scotish poems_, says in a manuscript note, "the subject of this poem seems to be borrowed from the first part of a story in the _silva sermonum jucundissimorum_, basil. , vo. p. , though certainly from a more ancient authority." (laing.) this story is cited at the end of the volume from which we print. in wright and halliwell's _reliquiæ antiquæ_, ii. , is the first _fit_ of an english ballad on the same subject, "from a ms. on paper, of the reign of henry vii," (_ballad of a tyrannical husband_.) _john grumlie_ in cunningham's _songs of scotland_, ii. , is another variety. see also _nursery rhymes of england_, p. , per. soc. vol. iv. in , there appeared at edinburgh a translation of ramsay's ballad into latin rhyme. in auchtirmuchty thair dwelt ane man, an husband, as i hard it tauld, quha weill could tippill owt a can, and naithir luvit hungir nor cauld. quhill anis it fell upoun a day, he yokkit his pluch upoun the plane; gif it be trew as i hard say, the day was foull for wind and rane. he lowsit the pluche at the landis end, and draif his oxin hame at evin; quhen he come in he lukit bend, and saw the wyf baith dry and clene, and sittand at ane fyre, beik and bauld, with ane fat soup, as i hard say; the man being verry weit and cauld, betwene thay twa it was na play. quoth he, "quhair is my horsis corne? my ox hes naithir hay nor stray; dame, ye mon to the pluch to morne; i salbe hussy, gif i may." "husband," quoth scho, "content am i to tak the pluche my day about, sa ye will reull baith kavis and ky, and all the house baith in and owt. "but sen that ye will husyskep ken, first ye sall sift and syne sall kned; and ay as ye gang but and ben, luk that the bairnis dryt not the bed. yeis lay ane soft wisp to the kill; we haif ane deir ferme on o[u]r heid; and ay as ye gang furth and in, keip weill the gaislingis fra the gled." the wyf was up richt late at evin, i pray god gif her evill to fair! scho kyrnd the kyrne, and skumd it clene, and left the gudeman bot the bledoch bair. than in the mornyng up scho gatt, and on hir hairt laid hir disjune; scho put als mekle in hir lap, as micht haif ser[v]d them baith at nune. sayis, "jok, will thou be maister of wark, and thou sall had, and i sall kall; ise promise thé ane gude new sark, athir of round claith or of small." scho lousit oxin aucht or nyne, and hynt ane gad-staff in hir hand; and the gudman raiss eftir syne, and saw the wyf had done command. and caud the gaislingis furth to feid; thair was bot sevensum of thame all; and by thair cumis the gredy gled, and likkit up five, left him bot twa. than out he ran in all his mane, how sune he hard the gaislingis cry; bot than or he come in agane, the calfis brak louss and sowkit the ky. the calvis and ky being met in the lone, the man ran with ane rung to red; than by thair cumis ane ill-willy cow, and brodit his buttok quhill that it bled. than hame he ran to an rok of tow, and he satt doun to say the spynning; i trow he lowtit our neir the low, quoth he, "this wark hes ill begynning." than to the kyrn that he did stoure, and jumlit at it quhill he swatt: quhen he had jumlit a full lang houre, the sorrow crap of butter he gatt. albeit na butter he could gett, yit he wes cummerit with the kyrne, and syne he het the milk our hett, and sorrow a spark of it wald yirne. than ben thair come ane gredy sow, i trow he cund hir littil thank; for in scho schot hir mekle mow, and ay scho winkit and scho drank. he cleikit up ane crukit club, and thocht to hitt the sow ane rout; the twa gaislingis the gled had left, that straik dang baith thair harnis out. [he gat his foot upon the spyre,[l - ] to have gotten the flesche doune to the pat; he fell backward into the fyre, and brack his head on the keming stock. yit he gat the mekle pat upon the fyre, and gat twa cannes, and ran to the spout; er he came in, quhat thought ye of that? the fyre brunt aw the pat-a... out.] than he beur kendling to the kill, but scho start all up in ane low; quhat evir he hard, quhat evir he saw, that day he had na will to mow. then he yeid to tak up the bairnis, thocht to haif fund thame fair and clene; the first that he gat in his armis was all bedirtin to the ene. the first that he gat in his armis, it was all dirt up to the eine; "the devill cut of thair handes," quoth he, "that fild you all sa fow this strene." he trailit foull scheitis doun the gait, thought to haif wescht thame on ane stane; the burne wes rissin grit of spait, away fra him the scheitis hes tane. then up he gat on ane know heid, on hir to cry, on hir to schout;[l ] scho hard him, and scho hard him not, bot stoutly steird the stottis about. scho draif the day unto the night, scho lousit the pluch, and syne come hame; scho fand all wrang that sould bene richt, i trow the man thought richt grit schame. quoth he, "my office i forsaik, for all the dayis of my lyf, for i wald put ane house to wraik, had i bene twenty dayis gudwyf." quoth scho, "weill mote ye bruke your place, for trewlie i will never excep it:" quoth he, "feind fall the lyaris face, bot yit ye may be blyth to get it." than up scho gat ane mekle rung, and the gudman maid to the doir;[l ] quoth he, "dame, i sall hald my tung, for and we fecht i'ill get the woir." quoth he, "quhen i forsuk my pluche, i trow i but forsuk my seill; and i will to my pluch agane, ffor i and this howse will nevir do weill." - . this stanza, which does not occur in the bannatyne ms., or in the ordinary printed copies, is given by laing from a ms. "written in a hand not much later than the year ." . ms. cray. . ms. dur. the friar in the well. an old story, often referred to, e. g. in skelton's _colyn cloute_, v. . the ballad is found in various collections in the british museum, and is cited in part from one of these, in dyce's note to the passage in skelton. there is a scottish version in kinloch's _ballad book_, p. . the following is from durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, iii. (_the fryer and the maid_), but as that copy is abridged, we have supplied the omitted stanzas from chappell's _popular music_, p. . as i lay musing all alone, a merry tale i thought upon; now listen a while, and i will you tell of a fryer that loved a bonny lass well. he came to her when she was going to bed, desiring to have her maidenhead; but she denyed his desire, and said that she did fear hell-fire. "tush, tush," quoth the fryer, "thou needst not doubt, if thou wert in hell, i could sing thee out:" "why then," quoth the maid, "thou shalt have thy request;" the fryer was as glad as a fox in his nest. "but one thing more i must require,[l ] more than to sing me out of hell-fire; that is, for doing of the thing, an angel of money you must me bring." "tush, tush," quoth the fryer, "we two shall agree; no money shall part thee, [my love,] and me; before thy company i will lack, i'll pawn the grey gown off my back." the maid bethought her on a wile, how she might this fryer beguile. when he was gone, the truth to tell, she hung a cloth before a well. the fryer came, as his bargain was, with money unto his bonny lass; "good morrow, fair maid;" "good morrow," quoth she; "here is the money i promis'd thee." she thank'd him, and she took the money: "now lets go to't, my own dear honey:" "nay, stay awhile, some respite make; if my master should come, he would us take." "alas!" quoth the maid, "my master doth come." "alas!" quoth the fryer, "where shall i run?" "behind yon cloth run thou," quoth she, "for there my master cannot see." behind the cloth the fryer went, and was in the well incontinent. "alas!" quoth he, "i'm in the well;" "no matter," quoth she, "if thou wert in hell. "thou saidst thou could sing me out of hell: i prithee sing thyself out of the well. sing out," quoth she, "with all thy might, or else thou'rt like to sing there all night." the fryer sang out with a pitiful sound, "o help me out, or i shall be drown'd." ["i trow," quoth she, "your courage is cool'd;" quoth the fryer, "i never was so fool'd. "i never was served so before;" "then take heed," quoth she, "thou com'st here no more." quoth he, "for sweet st. francis sake, on his disciple some pity take:" quoth she, "st. francis never taught his scholars to tempt young maids to naught." the friar did entreat her still that she would help him out of the well: she heard him make such piteous moan, she help'd him out, and bid him begone. quoth he, "shall i have my money again, which from me thou hast before-hand ta'en?" "good sir," quoth she, "there's no such matter; i'll make you pay for fouling the water." the friar went along the street, dropping wet, like a new-wash'd sheep; both old and young commended the maid that such a witty prank had play'd.] . request. get up and bar the door. herd's _scottish songs_, ii. . first printed by herd in a slightly different form, ed. , ii. ; also johnson's _museum_, p. , and ritson's _scottish songs_, i. . the hero of this story is traditionally known as one johnie blunt, who lived on crawford moor. several versions of a song called by his name are current among the scottish peasantry, one of which is given in johnson's _museum_, p. .--this ballad, says stenhouse, furnished prince hoare with one of the principal scenes in his musical entertainment of _no song, no supper_, "acted at drury lane in , and since throughout the united kingdom with great success." it fell about the martinmas time, and a gay time it was than, that our gudewife had puddings to mak, and she boil'd them in the pan. the wind blew cauld frae east and north, and blew into the floor; quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, "get up and bar the door." "my hand is in my hussyskep, goodman, as ye may see; an' it shou'dna be barr'd this hunder year, it's ne'er be barr'd by me." they made a paction 'tween them twa, they made it firm and sure, that the first word whaever spak, should rise and bar the door. than by there came twa gentlemen, at twelve o'clock at night, whan they can see na ither house, and at the door they light. "now whether is this a rich man's house, or whether is it a poor?" but ne'er a word wad ane o' them speak, for barring of the door. and first they ate the white puddings, and syne they ate the black: muckle thought the gudewife to hersell, yet ne'er a word she spak. then ane unto the ither said, "here, man, tak ye my knife; do ye tak aff the auld man's beard, and i'll kiss the gudewife." "but there's na water in the house, and what shall we do than?" "what ails ye at the pudding bree that boils into the pan?" o up then started our gudeman, an angry man was he; "will ye kiss my wife before my een, and scald me wi' pudding bree?" o up then started our gudewife, gied three skips on the floor; "gudeman, you have spak the first word; get up and bar the door." the dragon of wantley. percy's _reliques_, iii. . _old ballads_, i. . this in its way most admirable ballad is clearly a parody of some ancient _k[oe]mpevise_. the armor studded with spikes connects this story with the legend of the _worm of lambton_ (see vol. i. p. , and _post_, p. ), which, we are inclined to think with grundtvig (i. ), may have some radical connection with regner lodbrog's fight with the snake that guarded thora's bower. the well in v. corresponds to the pit in which the hero stands in _ormekampen_, grundtvig, i. .--printed by percy from a copy in roman letter, in the pepys collection, "collated with such others as could be procured." percy. old stories tell how hercules a dragon slew at lerna, with seven heads, and fourteen eyes, to see and well discerne-a: but he had a club, this dragon to drub, or he had ne'er done it, i warrant ye: but more of more-hall, with nothing at all, he slew the dragon of wantley. this dragon had two furious wings, each one upon each shoulder; with a sting in his tayl, as long as a flayl, which made him bolder and bolder. he had long claws, and in his jaws four and forty teeth of iron; with a hide as tough as any buff, which did him round environ. have you not heard how the trojan horse held seventy men in his belly? this dragon was not quite so big, but very near, i'll tell ye. devoured he poor children three, that could not with him grapple; and at one sup he eat them up, as one would eat an apple. all sorts of cattle this dragon did eat; some say he ate up trees, and that the forests sure he would devour up by degrees; for houses and churches were to him geese and turkies;[l ] he ate all, and left none behind, but some stones, dear jack, that he could not crack, which on the hills you will find. in yorkshire, near fair rotherham, the place i know it well, some two or three miles, or thereabouts, i vow i cannot tell; but there is a hedge, just on the hill edge, and matthew's house hard by it; o there and then was this dragon's den, you could not chuse but spy it. some say, this dragon was a witch; some say, he was a devil; for from his nose a smoke arose, and with it burning snivel; which he cast off, when he did cough, in a well that he did stand by, which made it look just like a brook running with burning brandy. hard by a furious knight there dwelt, of whom all towns did ring, for he could wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff and huff, call son of a w...., do any kind of thing. by the tail and the main, with his hands twain, he swung a horse till he was dead; and that which is stranger, he for very anger eat him all up but his head. these children, as i told, being eat, men, women, girls, and boys, sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, and made a hideous noise; "o save us all, more of more-hall, thou peerless knight of these woods; do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, we'll give thee all our goods." "tut, tut," quoth he, "no goods i want: but i want, i want, in sooth, a fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk and keen, with smiles about the mouth, hair black as sloe, skin white as snow, with blushes her cheeks adorning, to anoynt me o'er night, ere i go to fight, and to dress me in the morning." this being done, he did engage to hew the dragon down; but first he went, new armour to bespeak at sheffield town; with spikes all about, not within but without, of steel so sharp and strong, both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er, some five or six inches long. had you but seen him in this dress, how fierce he look'd and how big, you would have thought him for to be some egyptian porcupig. he frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, each cow, each horse, and each hog: for fear they did flee, for they took him to be some strange outlandish hedge-hog. to see this fight, all people then got up on trees and houses; on churches some, and chimneys too; but these put on their trowses, not to spoil their hose. as soon as he rose, to make him strong and mighty, he drank by the tale, six pots of ale, and a quart of aqua-vitæ. it is not strength that always wins, for wit doth strength excell; which made our cunning champion creep down into a well, where he did think, this dragon would drink, and so he did in truth; and as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cry'd, "boh!" and hit him in the mouth. "oh," quoth the dragon, "pox take thee, come out! thou disturb'st me in my drink:" and then he turn'd, and s... at him; good lack how he did stink! "beshrew thy soul, thy body's foul, thy dung smells not like balsam; thou son of a w...., thou stink'st so sore, sure thy diet is unwholesome." our politick knight, on the other side, crept out upon the brink, and gave the dragon such a douse, he knew not what to think: "by cock," quoth he, "say you so, do you see?" and then at him he let fly with hand and with foot, and so they went to't; and the word it was, hey boys, hey! "your words," quoth the dragon, "i don't understand"; then to it they fell at all, like two wild boars so fierce, if i may compare great things with small. two days and a night, with this dragon did fight our champion on the ground; though their strength it was great, their skill it was neat, they never had one wound. at length the hard earth began to quake, the dragon gave him a knock, which made him to reel, and straitway he thought, to lift him as high as a rock, and thence let him fall. but more of more-hall, like a valiant son of mars, as he came like a lout, so he turn'd him about, and hit him a kick on the a... "oh," quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh, and turn'd six times together, sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing, out of his throat of leather; "more of more-hall! o thou rascàl! would i had seen thee never; with the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick'd my a... gut, and i am quite undone forever." "murder, murder," the dragon cry'd, "alack, alack, for grief; had you but mist that place, you could have done me no mischief." then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked, and down he laid and cry'd; first on one knee, then on back tumbled he, so groan'd, kickt, s..., and dy'd. , were to him gorse and birches. other copies. * * * * * [asterism] in the improved edition of the _reliques_, a most extraordinary attempt to explain the foregoing burlesque as an allegory (!) is made in a "key" appended to the ballad, and said to be "communicated by godfrey bosville, esq., of thorp, near malton, in yorkshire." "warncliff lodge, and warncliff wood (vulgarly pronounced wantley), are in the parish of penniston, in yorkshire. the rectory of penniston was part of the dissolved monastery of st. stephen's, westminster; and was granted to the duke of norfolk's family: who therewith endowed an hospital, which he built at sheffield, for women. the trustees let the impropriation of the great tithes of penniston to the wortley family, who got a great deal by it, and wanted to get still more: for mr. nicholas wortley attempted to take the tithes in kind, but mr. francis bosville opposed him, and there was a decree in favour of the modus in th eliz. the vicarage of penniston did not go along with the rectory, but with the copyhold rents, and was part of a large purchase made by ralph bosville, esq., from queen elizabeth, in the d year of her reign: and that part he sold in th eliz. to his elder brother godfrey, the father of francis; who left it, with the rest of his estate, to his wife, for her life, and then to ralph, third son of his uncle ralph. the widow married lyonel rowlestone, lived eighteen years, and survived ralph. "this premised, the ballad apparently relates to the lawsuit carried on concerning this claim of tithes made by the wortley family. 'houses and churches were to him geese and turkeys:' which are titheable things, the dragon chose to live on. sir francis wortley, the son of nicholas, attempted again to take the tithes in kind: but the parishioners subscribed an agreement to defend their modus. and at the head of the agreement was lyonel rowlestone, who is supposed to be one of 'the stones, dear jack, which the dragon could not crack.' the agreement is still preserved in a large sheet of parchment, dated st of james i., and is full of names and seals, which might be meant by the coat of armour, "with spikes all about, both within and without." more of more-hall was either the attorney, or counsellor, who conducted the suit. he is not distinctly remembered, but more-hall is still extant at the very bottom of wantley [warncliff] wood, and lies so low, that it might be said to be in a well: as the dragon's den [warncliff lodge] was at the top of the wood 'with matthew's house hard by it.' the keepers belonging to the wortley family were named, for many generations, matthew northall: the last of them left this lodge, within memory, to be keeper to the duke of norfolk. the present owner of more-hall still attends mr. bosville's manor court at oxspring, and pays a rose a year. 'more of more-hall, with nothing at all, slew the dragon of wantley.' he gave him, instead of tithes, so small a modus, that it was in effect, nothing at all, and was slaying him with a vengeance. 'the poor children three,' &c., cannot surely mean the three sisters of francis bosville, who would have been coheiresses, had he made no will? the late mr. bosville had a contest with the descendants of two of them, the late sir george saville's father, and mr. copley, about the presentation to penniston, they supposing francis had not the power to give this part of the estate from the heirs at law; but it was decided against them. the dragon (sir francis wortley) succeeded better with his cousin wordesworth, the freehold lord of the manor, (for it is the copyhold manor that belongs to mr. bosville,) having persuaded him not to join the refractory parishioners, under a promise that he would let him his tithes cheap: and now the estates of wortley and wordesworth are the only lands that pay tithes in the parish. "n. b. the 'two days and a night,' mentioned in ver. , as the duration of the combat, was probably that of the trial at law." * * * * * note to p. , and p. , v. - . grundtvig, ii. , refers to a b[oe]otian legend in pausanias ix. , , for an instance of a similar contrivance. the story goes, that one menestratus, to save a friend who was about to be exposed in due course to a dragon, made himself a brazen breastplate, which had on every scale a hook with the point bent upwards. armed in this, he went voluntarily to meet the monster, and destroyed him, though at the expense of his own life. appendix. kempy kaye. from sharpe's _ballad book_, p. . there is a resemblance in two points between this ballad and the danish _greve genselin_ (grundtvig, no. , translated by jamieson, _illustrations_, p. ). the characters in both are giants: the smallest kemp that danced at genselin's bridal was "fifteen ells to his knee." secondly, the bridal in the one ballad and the wooing in the other are described in a style of extravagant parody; more gross in the english, however, than in the danish, where it is confined to the bride's enormous appetite. this portion of _greve genselin_ occurs also in _tord af havsgaard_ (grundtvig, no. ), which ballad is founded upon the story of thor's hammer in the _edda_. kempy kaye's a wooing gane, far far ayont the sea, an' he has met with an auld auld man, his gudefather to be. "gae scrape yeersel, and gae scart yeersel, and mak your bruchty face clean,[l , ] for the wooers are to be here the nicht, and yeer body's to be seen. "what's the matter wi' you, my fair maiden, you luk so pale and wan? i'm sure you was once the fairest maiden that ever the sun shined on." sae they scrapit her, and they scartit her, like the face of an assy pan, and in cam kempy kaye himself, a clever and tall young man.[l - ] his teeth they were like tether sticks, his nose was three feet lang; between his shouthers was ells three, between his een a span. "i'm coming to court your dochter dear, an' some pairt of your gear:" "an' by my sooth," quo' bengoleer, "she'll sair a man o' weir. "my dochter she's a thrifty lass; she span seven year to me; an' if it war weil counted up, full ten wobs it would be." he led his dochter by the han', his dochter ben brought he; "o is she not the fairest lass that's in great christendye?" ilka hair intil her head was like a heather cow, and ilka louse aninder it was like a lintseed bow.[l ] she had lauchty teeth, an' kaily lips, an' wide lugs fu' o' hair; her pouches fu' o' pease-meal daigh, war hinging down her spare. ilka ee intil her head was like a rotten ploom, an' down down browit was the quean, an' sairly did she gloom. ilka nail upon her hand was like an iron rake, an' ilka teeth into her head was like a tether stake. she gied to him a gay gravat o' the auld horse's sheet, and he gied her a gay gold ring o' the auld couple reet. , . _var_. for kempy kaye's to be here the nicht, or else the morn at een. - . see _king henry_, v. , , vol. i. p. , and _the wee wee man_, vol. i. p. , note. also _carle of carlile_, v. - in madden's _syr gawayne_, p. . . _var._ was like a brucket yowe. kempy kaye. from kinloch's _ballad book_, p. . kempy kaye is a wooing gane far far ayont the sea, and there he met wi' auld goling, his gudefather to be, be, his gudefather to be. "whar are ye gaun, o kempy kaye, whar are ye gaun sa sune?" "o i am gaun to court a wife, and think na ye that's weel dune, dune, and think na ye that's weel dune?" "and ye be gaun to court a wife, as ye do tell to me, 'tis ye sall hae my fusome fug, your ae wife for to be, be, your ae wife for to be." "rise up, rise up my fusome fug, and mak your foul face clean, for the brawest wooer that ere ye saw is come develling doun the green, green, is come develling doun the green." up then raise the fusome fug, to mak her foul face clean; and aye she curs'd her mither she had na water in, in, she had na water in. she rampit out, and she rampit in, she rampit but and ben; the tittles and tattles that hang frae her tail wad muck an acre o' land, land, wad muck an acre o' land. she had a neis upon her face was like an auld pat-fit; atween her neis bot and her mou was inch thick deep o' dirt, dirt, was inch thick deep o' dirt. she had twa een intil her head war like twa rotten plooms; the heavy brows hung down her face, and o i vow she glooms, glooms! and o i vow she glooms! ilka hair that was on her head was like a heather cow, and ilka louse that lookit out was like a lintseed bow, bow, was like a lintseed bow. when kempy kaye cam to the house, he lookit thro' a hole, and there he saw the dirty drab just whisking oure the coal, coal, just whisking oure the coal. he gied to her a braw silk napkin, was made o' an auld horse brat; "i ne'er wore a silk napkin a' my life, but weel i wat is'e wear that, that, but weel i wat is'e wear that. "he gied to her a braw gowd ring, was made frae an auld brass pan, "i ne'er wore a gowd ring in a' my life, but now i wat i'se wear ane, ane, but now i wat is'e wear ane." whan thir twa loves had met thegither, o kissing to tak their fill, the slaver that hang atween their twa gabs wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill, bill, wad hae tether'd a ten year auld bill. the jovial hunter of bromsgrove. from _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, edited by robert bell, p. . this ballad, says the editor, "has long been popular in worcestershire and some of the adjoining counties. it was printed for the first time by mr. allies of worcester, under the title of _the jovial hunter of bromsgrove_; but amongst the peasantry of that county, and the adjoining county of warwick, it has always been called _the old man and his three sons_--the name given to a fragment of the ballad still used as a nursery song in the north of england, the chorus of which slightly varies from that of the ballad: (see p. of the same publication.)" mr. bell imagines that there is an allusion to this ballad in _as you like it_, i. , where le beau says "there comes an old man and his three sons," and celia replies, "i could match this beginning with an old tale." * * * * * old sir robert bolton had three sons, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; and one of them was sir ryalas, _for he was a jovial hunter_. he ranged all round down by the wood side, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_, till in a tree-top a gay lady he spied, _for he was a jovial hunter_. "o, what dost thee mean, fair lady?" said he, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "the wild boar's killed my lord, and has thirty men gored, _and thou beest a jovial hunter_. "o what shall i do this wild boar for to see?" _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "o, thee blow a blast, and he'll come unto thee, _as thou beest a jovial hunter_. then he blowed a blast, full north, east, west and south, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; and the wild boar then heard him full in his den, _as he was a jovial hunter_. then he made the best of his speed unto him, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; [swift flew the boar, with his tusks smeared with gore,][l ] _to sir ryalas, the jovial hunter_. then the wild boar, being so stout and so strong, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; thrashed down the trees as he ramped him along, _to sir ryalas, the jovial hunter_. "o what dost thee want of me?" wild boar, said he, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "o i think in my heart i can do enough for thee, _for i am the jovial hunter_." then they fought four hours in a long summer day, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; till the wild boar fain would have got him away _from sir ryalas, the jovial hunter_. then sir ryalas drawed his broad sword with might, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; and he fairly cut the boar's head off quite, _for he was a jovial hunter_. then out of the wood the wild woman flew, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "o my pretty spotted pig thou hast slew, _for thou beest a jovial hunter_. "there are three things, i demand them of thee, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; "it's thy horn, and thy hound, and thy gay lady, _as thou beest a jovial hunter_." "if these three things thou dost ask of me," _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; it's just as my sword and thy neck can agree, _for i am a jovial hunter_." then into his long locks the wild woman flew, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; till she thought in her heart to tear him through, _though he was a jovial hunter_. then sir ryalas drawed his broad sword again, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; and he fairly split her head into twain, _for he was a jovial hunter_. in bromsgrove church, the knight he doth lie, _wind well thy horn, good hunter_; and the wild boar's head is pictured thereby, _sir ryalas, the jovial hunter_. . inserted by bell. the bludy serk. _the bludy serk_, both story and morality, is taken from the _gesta romanorum_; see two forms of the tale in madden's _old english versions_, &c. p. , p. . this poem is preserved in the bannatyne manuscript, and has been several times printed. the present copy is from laing's _select remains of the ancient popular poetry of scotland_. the author is robert henryson, whose ballad of _robene and makyne_ has been given in the fourth volume of this collection. this hindir yeir i hard be tald, thair was a worthy king; dukis, erlis, and barronis bald, he had at his bidding. the lord was anceane and ald, and sexty yeiris cowth ring; he had a dochter, fair to fald, a lusty lady ying. off all fairheid scho bur the flour, and eik hir faderis air; off lusty laitis and he honour; meik, bot and debonair. scho wynnit in a bigly bour; on fold wes none so fair; princes luvit hir, paramour, in cuntries our all quhair. thair dwelt a lyt besyde the king a fowll gyane of ane; stollin he hes the lady ying, away with hir is gane; and kest hir in his dungering, quhair licht scho micht se nane; hungir and cauld and grit thristing scho fand in to hir wame. he wes the laithliest on to luk that on the grund mycht gang; his nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk, thairwith fyve quarteris lang. thair wes nane that he ourtuk, in rycht or yit in wrang, but all in schondir he thame schuke, the gyane wes so strang. he held the lady day and nycht within his deip dungeoun; he wald nocht gif of hir a sicht for gold nor yit ransoun, bot gife the king mycht get a knycht to fecht with his persoun, to fecht with him, both day and nycht, quhill ane wer dungin doun. the king gart seik baith fer and neir, beth be se and land, off any knycht gife he micht heir, wald fecht with that gyand. a worthy prince, that had no peir, hes tane the deid on hand, for the luve of the lady cleir, and held full trewe cunnand. that prince come prowdly to the toun, of that gyane to heir, and fawcht with him, his awin persoun, and tuke him presonier, and kest him in his awin dungeoun, allane withouttin feir, with hungir, cawld, and confusioun, as full weill worthy weir; syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht, vnto hir fadir he;[l ] sa evil wondit was the knycht, that he behuvit to de. unlusum was his likame dicht, his sark was all bludy; in all the warld was thair a wicht so petyouse for to se! the lady murnyt, and maid grit mone, with all her mekle micht: "i lufit nevir lufe, bot one, that dulfully now is dicht! god sen my lyfe wer fra me tone, or i had sene yone sicht; or ellis in begging evir to gone, furth with yone curtass knycht!" he said, "fair lady, now mone i de, trestly ye me trow: tak ye my sark that is bludy, and hing it forrow yow: first think on it, and syne on me, quhen men cumis yow to wow." the lady said, "be mary fre, thairto i mak a wow." quhen that scho lukit to the serk, scho thocht on the persoun, and prayit for him with all hir harte, that lowsd hir of bandoun, quhair scho was wont to sit full merk, in that deip dungéoun; and ever quhill scho wes in quert, that wass hir a lessoun. sa weill the lady luvit the knycht, that no man wald scho tak: sa suld we do our god of micht that did all for us mak; quhilk fullély to deid was dicht, for sinfull manis saik; sa suld we do both day and nycht, with prayaris to him mak. moralitas. this king is lyk the trinitie, baith in hevin and heir: the manis saule to the lady, the gyane to lucefeir: the knycht to chryst, that deit on tre, and coft our synnis deir: the pit to hell, with panis fell, the syn to the woweir. the lady was wowd, but scho said nay, with men that wald hir wed; sa suld we wryth all syn away, that in our breistis bred. i pray to jesu chryst verrey for us his blud that bled, to be our help on domysday, quhair lawis ar straitly led. the saule is godis dochtir deir, and eik his handewerk, that was betrasit with lucifeir, quha sittis in hell full merk. borrowit with chrystis angell cleir, hend men, will ye nocht herk? for his lufe that bocht us deir, think on the bludy serk! . ms. deir. the wanton wife of bath. evans's _old ballads_, i. ; collection of , ii. . this excellent ballad, to adopt the encomium of addison, (_spectator_, no. ,) was admitted by percy into the earlier editions of the _reliques_, (iii. , st ed.) though excluded from the revised edition of . the same story circulates among the peasantry of england and scotland in the form of a penny tract or chap-book; _notices of popular histories_, p. , percy soc. vol. xxiii., _notes and queries_, new series, vol. iii. p. . the jest is an old one. mr. halliwell refers to a _fabliau_ in barbazan's collection, which contains the groundwork of this piece; _du vilain qui conquist paradis par plait_, meon's ed. iv. . in bath a wanton wife did dwell, as chaucer he doth write, who did in pleasure spend her days, in many a fond delight. upon a time love sick she was, and at the length did die; her soul at last at heaven's gate did knock most mightily. then adam came unto the gate: "who knocketh there?" quoth he: "i am the wife of bath," she said, "and fain would come to thee." "thou art a sinner," adam said, "and here no place shall have;" "and so art thou, i trow," quoth she, "and gip, a doting knave! "i will come in in spite," she said, "of all such churls as thee; thou wert the causer of our woe, our pain and misery; "and first broke god's commandments, in pleasure of thy wife:" when adam heard her tell this tale, he run away for life. then down came jacob at the gate, and bids her pack to hell: "thou false deceiver, why?" said she;-- "thou mayst be there as well. "for thou deceiv'dst thy father dear, and thine own brother too:" away slunk jacob presently, and made no more ado. she knocks again with might and main, and lot he chides her straight: "why then," quoth she, "thou drunken ass, who bid thee here to prate? "with thy two daughters thou didst lie, on them two bastards got:" and thus most tauntingly she chaft against poor silly lot. "who calleth there," quoth judith then, "with such shrill sounding notes?" "this fine minks surely came not here," quoth she, "for cutting throats!" good lord, how judith blush'd for shame, when she heard her say so! king david hearing of the same, he to the gate did go. quoth david, "who knocks there so loud, and maketh all this strife?" "you were more kind good sir," she said, "unto uriah's wife. "and when thy servant thou didst cause in battle to be slain, thou causedst then more strife than i, who would come here so fain." "the woman's mad," said solomon, "that thus doth taunt a king;" "not half so mad as you," she said, "i trow, in many a thing. "thou hadst seven hundred wives at once, for whom thou didst provide, and yet three hundred wh...., god wot, thou didst maintain beside. "and those made thee forsake thy god, and worship stocks and stones; besides the charge they put thee to in breeding of young bones. "hadst thou not been besides thy wits, thou wouldst not thus have ventur'd; and therefor i do marvel much how thou this place hast entered." "i never heard," quoth jonas then, "so vile a scold as this;" "thou wh...son runaway," quoth she, "thou diddest more amiss." "they say," quoth thomas, "women's tongues of aspen leaves are made;" "thou unbelieving wretch," quoth she, "all is not true that's said." when mary magdalen heard her then, she came unto the gate; quoth she, "good woman, you must think upon your former state." "no sinner enters in this place," quoth mary magdalen then; "'twere ill for you, fair mistress mild," she answered her again. "you for your honesty," quoth she, "had once been ston'd to death, had not our saviour christ come by, and written on the earth. "it was not by your occupation you are become divine; i hope my soul, by christ's passion, shall be as safe as thine." then rose the good apostle paul; unto this wife he cried, "except thou shake thy sins away, thou here shalt be denied." "remember, paul, what thou hast done all thro' a lewd desire, how thou didst persecute god's church with wrath as hot as fire." then up starts peter at the last, and to the gate he hies; "fond fool," quoth he, "knock not so fast; thou weariest christ with cries." "peter," said she, "content thyself, for mercy may be won; i never did deny my christ as thou thyself hast done." when as our saviour christ heard this, with heavenly angels bright, he comes unto this sinful soul, who trembled at his sight. of him for mercy she did crave; quoth he, "thou hast refused my proffer'd grace and mercy both, and much my name abused." "sore have i sinn'd, o lord," she said, "and spent my time in vain; but bring me, like a wand'ring sheep, into thy fold again. "o lord my god, i will amend my former wicked vice; the thief for one poor silly word past into paradise." "my laws and my commandments," saith christ, "were known to thee; but of the same, in any wise, not yet one word did ye." "i grant the same, o lord," quoth she; "most lewdly did i live; but yet the loving father did his prodigal son forgive." "so i forgive thy soul," he said, "through thy repenting cry; come you therefore into my joy, i will not thee deny." the gentleman in thracia. from collier's _roxburghe ballads_, p. . this ballad is founded on a tale in the _gesta romanorum_, (_old english versions_, &c. p. .) nearly the same story occurs in barbazan's _fabliaux_, ii. , and also, says madden, in the _contes tartares_ of gueulette, iii. , and many other places. the model for all these is of course the judgment of solomon, in _ kings_, iii. - . see douce, ii. . mr. collier remarks that this ballad is without date, but was undoubtedly written late in the sixteenth, or early in the seventeenth, century. in searching ancient chronicles, it was my chance to finde a story worth the writing out, in my conceit and mind. it is an admonition good that children ought to have, with reverence for to thinke upon their parents laid in grave. in thracia liv'd a gentleman, of noble progeny, who rul'd his household with great fame, and true integrity. this gentleman did take to wife a neat and gallant dame, whose outward shew and beauty bright did many hearts inflame. the luster that came from her lookes, her carriage and her grace, like beauteous cynthia did outshine each lady in that place. and being puffed up in pride, with ease and jollity, her husband could not her content; she other men must try. lasciviously long time she liv'd, yet bore it cunningly; for she had those that watch'd so well, that he could nought espy. with bribes and gifts she so bewitch'd the hearts of some were neere, that they conceal'd her wickednesse, and kept it from her deare. thus spending of her time away in extreme wantonesse, her private friends, when she did please, unto her had accesse. but the all-seeing eye of heaven such sinnes will not conceale, and by some meanes at last will he the truth of all reveale. upon a time sore sicke she fell, yea to the very death, and her physician told her plaine she must resigne her breath. divines did likewise visit her, and holy counsell gave, and bade her call upon the lord, that he her soule might save. amongst the rest, she did desire they would her husband bring; "i have a secret to reveale," she said, "my heart doth sting." then he came posting presently unto her where she lay, and weeping then he did desire, what she to him would say. she did intreat that all might voyd the roome, and he would stay; "your pardon, husband, i beseech," unto him she did say: "for i have wrong'd your marriage-bed, and plaid the wanton wife; to you the truth i will reveale, ere i depart this life. "foure hopefull sonnes you think you have; to me it best is knowne, and three of them are none of yours; of foure but one's your owne, and by your selfe on me begot, which hath a wanton beene; these dying teares forgivenesse beg; let mercy then be seene." this strooke her husband in a dump, his heart was almost dead; but rouzing of his spirits up, these words to her he said. "i doe forgive thee with my heart, so thou the truth wilt tell, which of the foure is my owne sonne, and all things shall be well." "o pardon me, my husband deare," unto him she did say; "they are my children every one," and so she went away. away he goes with heavy heart; his griefes he did conceale, and like a wise and prudent man, to none did it reveale. not knowing which to be his owne, each of his love did share, and to be train'd in vertues paths of them he had a care. in learning great and gentle grace they were brought up and taught, such deare affection in the hearts of parents god hath wrought. they now were growne to mens estates, and liv'd most gallantly; each had his horse, his hawke, his hound, and did their manhood try. the ancient man did joy thereat, but yet he did not know which was his sonne amongst the foure; that bred in him much woe. at length his glasse of life was run, the fates doe so decree; for poore and rich they all must dye, and death will take no fee. unto some judges he did send, and counsell that were grave, who presently to him did come to know what he would have. they coming then to his beds side, unto them he did say: "i know you all to be my friends, most faithfull every way; and now, before i leave the world, i beg this at your hands, to have a care which of my sonnes shall have my goods and lands." and to them all he did relate what things his wife had done. "there is but one amongst the foure that is my native sonne; and to your judgement i commit, when i am laid in grave, which is my sonne, and which is fit my lands and goods to have." he dying, they in councill sate what best were to be done; for 'twas a taske of great import to judge which was his sonne. the brothers likewise were at strife, which should the living have, when as the ancient man was dead, and buried in his grave. the judges must decide the cause, and thus they did decree: the dead man's body up to take, and tye it to a tree; a bow each brother he must have, and eke an arrow take, to shoot at their dead fathers corps, as if he were a stake. and he whose arrow nearest hit his heart, as he did stand, they'd judge him for to be right heire, and fit to have the land. on this they all did straight agree, and to the field they went; each had a man his shaft to beare, and bow already bent. "now," quoth the judges, "try your skill upon your father there, that we may quickly know who shall unto the land be heire." the oldest took his bow in hand, and shaft, where as he stood, which pierc'd so deep the dead mans brest, that it did run with blood. the second brother then must shoot, who straight did take his aime, and with his arrow made a wound, that blood came from the same. the third likewise must try his skill the matter to decide; whose shaft did make a wound most deep into the dead man's side. unto the fourth and youngest, then, a bow and shaft were brought; who said, "d'ee thinke that ere my heart could harbour such a thought, to shoot at my dear father's heart, although that he be dead, for all the kingdomes in the world that farre and wide are spread?" and turning of him round about, the teares ran downe amaine: he flung his bow upon the ground, and broke his shaft in twaine. the judges seeing his remorse, they then concluded all he was the right, the other three they were unnaturall. and so he straight possest the lands, being made the heire of all, and heaven by nature in this kind unto his heart did call. his brothers they did envy him, but yet he need not care, and of his wealth, in portions large, unto them he did share. sir richard whittington's advancement. this ballad is taken from _the crowne-garland of golden roses_, p. , percy society, vol. vi. another copy is in _a collection of old ballads_, i. . a play called _the history of whittington_ was entered on the stationers' books in feb. , and the "famous fable of whittington and his puss" is mentioned in _eastward hoe_, . (weber and halliwell.) "there is something so fabulous," (says the editor of _old ballads_, following grafton and stow,) "or at least, that has such a romantic appearance, in the history of whittington, that i shall not choose to relate it; but refer my credulous readers to common tradition, or to the penny histories. certain it is that there was such a man; a citizen of london, by trade a mercer, and one who has left public edifices and charitable works enow behind him, to transmit his name to posterity. amongst others, he founded a house of prayer; with an allowance for a master, fellows, choristers, clerks, &c., and an almshouse for thirteen poor men, called whittington college. he entirely rebuilt the loathsome prison, which then was standing at the west gate of the city, and called it newgate. he built the better half of st. bartholomew's hospital, in west-smithfield, and the fine library in grey-fryars, now called christ's hospital: as also great part of the east end of guildhall, with a chapel, and a library in which the records of the city might be kept.... 'tis said of him, that he advanced a very considerable sum of money towards carrying on the war in france, under this last monarch. he married alice, the daughter of hugh and molde fitzwarren: at whose house, traditions say, whittington lived a servant, when he got his immense riches by venturing his cat in one of his master's ships. however, if we may give credit to his own will, he was a knight's son; and more obliged to an english king and prince, than to any african monarch, for his riches. for when he founded whittington college, and left a maintenance for so many people, as above related, they were, as stow records it, for this maintenance bound to pray for the good estate of richard whittington, and alice his wife, their founders; and for sir william whittington, and dame joan his wife; and for hugh fitzwarren, and dame molde his wife; the fathers and mothers of the said richard whittington and alice his wife; for king richard the second, and thomas of woodstock, duke of gloucester, special lords and promoters of the said richard whittington, &c." richard whittington was sheriff of london in the th year of richard the second, , was then knighted, and chosen mayor in the d year of the same reign, . he was again mayor in the th year of henry the fourth, , and the th of henry the fifth, . keightley has devoted a chapter of his _tales and popular fictions_ (the seventh) to the legend of whittington and his cat. he cites two similar stories from thiele's _danish popular traditions_, another from the letters of count magalotti, a florentine of the latter half of the th century, another from the _facezie_ of arlotto, a tuscan humorist of the th century, another, of venetian origin, from a german chronicle of the th century, and finally one from the persian _tarikh al wasaf_, a work said to have been composed at the end of the th or the beginning of the th century. mr. halliwell adds one more of a portuguese wrecked on the coast of guinea, from the _description of guinea_, . here must i tell the praise of worthy whittington, known to be in his dayes thrice maior of london. but of poor parentage, borne was he, as we heare, and in his tender age bred up in lancashire. poorely to london than came up this simple lad, where, with a marchant-man, soone he a dwelling had; and in a kitchen plast, a scullion for to be, whereas long time he past in labour drudgingly. his daily service was turning spitts at the fire; and to scour pots of brasse, for a poore scullions hire. meat and drinke all his pay, of coyne he had no store; therefore to run away, in secret thought he bore. so from this marchant-man, whittington secretly towards his country ran, to purchase liberty. but as he went along, in a fair summer's morne, londons bells sweetly rung, "whittington, back return!" evermore sounding so, "turn againe, whittington; for thou in time shall grow lord-maior of london." whereupon back againe whittington came with speed, a prentise to remaine, as the lord had decreed. "still blessed be the bells; (this was his daily song) they my good fortune tells, most sweetly have they rung. if god so favour me, i will not proove unkind; london my love shall see, and my great bounties find." but see his happy chance! this scullion had a cat, which did his state advance, and by it wealth he gat. his maister ventred forth, to a land far unknowne, with marchandize of worth, as is in stories showne. whittington had no more but this poor cat as than, which to the ship he bore, like a brave marchant-man. "vent'ring the same," quoth he, "i may get store of golde, and maior of london be, as the bells have me told." whittington's marchandise, carried was to a land troubled with rats and mice, as they did understand. the king of that country there, as he at dinner sat, daily remain'd in fear of many a mouse and rat. meat that in trenchers lay, no way they could keepe safe; but by rats borne away, fearing no wand or staff. whereupon, soone they brought whittingtons nimble cat; which by the king was bought; heapes of gold giv'n for that. home againe came these men with their ships loaden so, whittingtons wealth began by this cat thus to grow. scullions life he forsooke to be a marchant good, and soon began to looke how well his credit stood. after that he was chose shriefe of the citty heere, and then full quickly rose higher, as did appeare. for to this cities praise, sir richard whittington came to be in his dayes thrise maior of london. more his fame to advance, thousands he lent his king, to maintaine warres in france, glory from thence to bring. and after, at a feast which he the king did make, he burnt the bonds all in jeast, and would no money take. ten thousand pound he gave to his prince willingly, and would not one penny have; this in kind curtesie. god did thus make him great,[l ] so would he daily see poor people fed with meat, to shew his charity. prisoners poore cherish'd were, widdowes sweet comfort found; good deeds, both far and neere, of him do still resound. whittington colledge is one of his charities; records reporteth this to lasting memories. newgate he builded faire, for prisoners to live in; christs-church he did repaire, christian love for to win. many more such like deedes were done by whittington; which joy and comfort breedes, to such as looke thereon. lancashire, thou hast bred this flower of charity: though he be gon and dead yet lives he lastingly. those bells that call'd him so, "turne again, whittington," call you back many moe to live so in london. . made. catskin's garland, or, the wandering young gentlewoman. moore's _pictorial book of ancient ballad poetry_, p. . only in a very debased form is this enchanting tale preserved by english tradition. the following ballad is given, in the collection cited above, from a modern broadside, but has here received a few improvements from two other copies cited by the editor. mr. halliwell has printed another version of catskin in _the nursery rhymes of england_, p. , percy society, vol. iv. the story is possessed by almost every nation in europe. it is found not only among the northern races, but among the hungarians, servians, wallachians, welsh, italians, and french. in germany it is current in a great variety of forms, the two most noteworthy of which are _aschenputtel_, to which correspond _cennerentola_ in the _pentamerone_ (i. ), the _cendrillon_ of perrault, and the _finette cendron_ of madame d'aulnoy; and _allerlei-rauh_, which is the same as the _peau d'ane_ of perrault, the _she-bear_ of the _pentamerone_ (ii. ), and the _doralice_ of straparola (i. ).--see the grimms' _kinder-und-haus-märchen_, no. , , and notes in vol. iii.; also the swedish story of _the little gold shoe_, and _the girl clad in mouse-skin_, from the danish, in thorpe's _yule tide stories_, pp. vii. , . part i. you fathers and mothers, and children also, come near unto me, and soon you shall know the sense of my ditty, for i dare to say, the like hasn't been heard of this many long day. this subject which to you i am to relate, it is of a 'squire who had a large estate; and the first dear infant his wife she did bare, was a young daughter, a beauty most fair. he said to his wife, "had this but been a boy, it would please me better, and increase my joy; if the next be of the same sort, i declare, of what i am possessed it shall have no share." in twelve months after, this woman, we hear, had another daughter, of beauty most clear; and when her father knew 'twas a female, into a bitter passion he presently fell. saying, "since this is of the same sort as the first, in my habitation she shall not be nurs'd; pray let it be sent into the country, for where i am, truly this child shall not be." with tears his dear wife unto him did say, "my dear, be contented, i'll send her away." then into the country this child she did send, for to be brought up by an intimate friend. altho' that her father hated her so, he good education on her did bestow, and with a gold locket, and robes of the best, this slighted young damsel was commonly drest. but when unto stature this damsel was grown, and found from her father she had no love shewn, she cried, "before i will lie under his frown, i am fully resolv'd to range the world round." part ii. but now mark, good people, the cream of the jest, in what a strange manner this female was drest: catskins into a garment she made, i declare, the which for her clothing she daily did wear. her own rich attire, and jewels beside, they up in a bundle together were ty'd; and to seek her fortune she wander'd away, and when she had wander'd a cold winter's day, in the evening-tide she came to a town, where at a knight's door she sat herself down, for to rest herself, who was weary for sure. this noble knight's lady then came to the door, and seeing this creature in such sort of dress, the lady unto her these words did express, "from whence came you, or what will you have?" she said, "a night's rest in your stable i crave." the lady said to her, "i grant thy desire, come into the kitchen, and stand by the fire;" then she thank'd the lady, and went in with haste, where she was gaz'd on from biggest to the least. and, being warm'd, her hunger was great, they gave her a plate of good food for to eat; and then to an outhouse this damsel was led, where with fresh straw she soon made her a bed. and when in the morning the day-light she saw, her rich robes and jewels she hid in the straw; and being very cold, she then did retire, and went into the kitchen, and stood by the fire. the cook said, "my lady promis'd that thou[l ] shouldest be a scullion to wait on me now:[l ] what say'st thou, girl, art thou willing to bide?" "with all my heart," then she to her reply'd. to work at her needle she could very well, and [for] raising of paste few could her excel; she being so handy, the cook's heart did win, and then she was call'd by the name of catskin. part iii. this knight had a son both comely and tall, who often-times used to be at a ball, a mile out of town, and one evening-tide, to see a fine dancing away he did ride. catskin said to his mother, "madam, let me go after your son, this ball for to see." with that, in a passion this lady she grew, and struck her with a ladle, and broke it in two. being thus served, she then got away, and in her rich garments herself did array; then to see this ball she then did retire, where she danced so fine all did her admire. the sport being done, this young squire did say, "young lady, where do you live, tell me, i pray?" her answer to him was, "sir, that i will tell; at the sign of the broken ladle i dwell." she being very nimble, got home first, 'tis said, and with her catskin robes she soon was arrayed; then into the kitchen again she did go, but where she had been none of them did know. next night the young 'squire, himself to content, to see the ball acted, away then he went. she said, "let me go this ball for to view;" she struck her with a skimmer, and broke it in two. then out of doors she ran, being full of heaviness, and with her rich garments herself she did dress; for to see this ball she ran away with speed, and to see her dancing all wonder'd indeed. the ball being ended, the 'squire said then, "pray where do you live?" she answered again,[l ] "sir, because you ask me, account i will give; at the sign of the broken skimmer i live." being dark, she left him, and home[ward] did hie, and in her catskin robes she was drest presently, and into the kitchen among them she went, but where she had been they were all innocent. [when] the 'squire came home and found catskin there, he was in amaze, and began for to swear, "for two nights at the ball has been a lady, the sweetest of beauties that e'er i did see. "she was the best dancer in all the whole place, and very much like our catskin in the face; had she not been drest in that costly degree, i would have sworn it was catskin's body." next night he went to see this ball once more; then she ask'd his mother to go as before; who having a bason of water in hand, she threw it at catskin, as i understand. shaking her wet ears, out of doors she did run, and dressed herself when this thing she had done; to see this ball acted she then run her ways, to see her fine dancing all gave her the praise. and having concluded, the young squire he said, "from whence do you come, pray now tell me?" her answer was, "sir, you shall know the same, from the sign of the bason of water i came." then homeward she hurried, as fast as might be. this young 'squire then was resolved to see whereto she belong'd, then follow'd catskin: into an old straw-house he saw her creep in. he said, "o brave catskin, i find it is thee, who these three nights together has so charmed me; thou'rt the sweetest creature my eyes e'er beheld; with joy and comfort my heart it is fill'd. "thou art the cook's scullion, but as i have life, grant me [but] thy love, and i'll make thee my wife, and you shall have maids to wait at your call." "sir, that cannot be; i've no portion at all." "thy beauty is portion, my joy and my dear; i prize it far better than thousands a year; and to gain my friends' consent, i've got a trick; i'll go to my bed and feign myself sick. "there's none shall attend me but thee, i profess,[l ] and some day or other in thy richest dress thou shalt be drest; if my parents come nigh, i'll tell them that for thee sick i do lie." part iv. having thus consulted, this couple partèd. next day this young 'squire took to his bed. when his dear parents this thing perceiv'd, for fear of his death they were heartily griev'd. to tend him they sent for a nurse presently: he said, "none but catskin my nurse now shall be." his parents said, "no." he said, "but she shall, or else i'll have none for to nurse me at all." his parents both wonder'd to hear him say thus, that no one but catskin must be his nurse; so then his dear parents their son to content, up into the chamber poor catskin they sent. sweet cordials and other rich things were prepar'd, which betwixt this young couple was equally shar'd; and when all alone, they in each other's arms enjoy'd one another in love's pleasant charms. at length on a time poor catskin, 'tis said, in her rich attire she then was array'd; and when his mother the chamber drew near, then much like a goddess did catskin appear. which caus'd her to startle, and thus she did say; "what young lady's this, son, tell me i pray?" he said, "it is catskin, for whom i sick lie, and without i have her with speed i shall die." his mother ran down for to call the old knight, who ran up to see this amazing great sight; he said, "is this catskin we hold so in scorn? i ne'er saw a finer dame since i was born." the old knight said to her, "i pry'thee tell me, from whence dost thou come, and of what family." then who was her parents she gave them to know, and what was the cause of her wandering so. the young 'squire said, "if you will save my life, pray grant this young creature may be my wife." his father reply'd, "your life for to save, if you are agreed, my consent you shall have." next day, with great triumph and joy, as we hear, there were many coaches came far and near; she much like a goddess drest in great array, catskin to the 'squire was married that day. for several days this great wedding did last, where was many topping and gallant rich guests; and for joy the bells rung all over the town, and bottles of claret went merrily round. when catskin was married, her fame to raise, to see her modest carriage all gave her the praise; thus her charming beauty the squire did win, and who lives so great as he and catskin? part v. now in the fifth part i'll endeavour to shew, how things with her parents and sister did go; her mother and sister of life [are] bereft, and all alone the old knight he was left. and hearing his daughter being married so brave, he said, "in my noddle a fancy i have; drest like a poor man a journey i'll make, and see if on me some pity she'll take. then drest like a beggar he goes to the gate, where stood his daughter, who appear'd very great; he said, "noble lady, a poor man i be, and am now forced to crave charity." with a blush she asked him from whence he came, with that then he told her, and also his name; she said, "i'm your daughter, whom you slighted so, yet, nevertheless, to you kindness i'll shew. "thro' mercy the lord hath provided for me. now, father, come in and sit down," then said she. then the best of provisions the house could afford, for to make him welcome was set on the board. she said, "thou art welcome; feed hearty, i pray; and, if you are willing, with me you shall stay so long as you live." then he made this reply; "i am only come thy love for to try. "thro' mercy, my child, i am rich, and not poor; i have gold and silver enough now in store; and for the love that at thy house i have found, for a portion i'll give thee ten thousand pounds." so in a few days after, as i understand, this man he went home and sold off his land; and ten thousand pounds to his daughter did give, and now altogether in love they do live. . thee. . upon me. . answered him. . protest. the taming of a shrew. ritson's _ancient songs and ballads_, ii. . "from one of the sloan mss. in the museum, no. . the writing of charles the first's time." a far superior poem on the very popular subject of the disciplining of wives is that of _the wife lapped in morels skin_, printed in utterson's _select pieces of early popular poetry_, ii. , and as an appendix to the shakespeare society's edition of the old _taming of a shrew_. as a counterpart to these pieces may be mentioned the amusing poem called _ane ballad of matrymonie_, in laing's _select remains_, or, _the honeymoon_, aytoun's _ballads of scotland_, i. . al you that are assembled heere, come listen to my song, but first a pardon i must crave, for feare of further wrong; i must entreat thes good wyves al they wil not angrye be, and i will sing a merrye song, if they thereto agree. because the song i mean to sing doth touch them most of all, and loth i were that any one with me shold chide and brawle. i have anough of that at home, at boarde, and eake in bed; and once for singing this same song my wyfe did breake my head. but if thes good wyves all be pleasd, and pleased be the men, ile venture one more broken pate, to sing it once agayne. but first ile tell you what it's cald, for feare you heare no more; 'tis calde the taming of a shrew, not often sung before. and if i then shall sing the rest, a signe i needs must have; hold but your finger up to me, or hem,--that's al i crave-- then wil i sing it with a harte, and to it roundelye goe; you know my mynde, now let me see whether i shal sing't or no. _hem._ well then, i see you willing are that i shall sing the reste; to pleasure al thes good wyves heire i meane to do my best. for i do see even by their lookes no hurte to me they thinke, and thus it chancte upon a tyme, (but first give me a drinke.) not long agoe a lustye lad did woe a livelye lasse, and long it was before he cold his purpose bring to passe; yet at the lenth it thus fell out, she granted his petition, that she would be his wedded wyfe, but yet on this condicion. that she shold weare the breeches on for one yeare and a day, and not to be controld of him whatsoere she'd do or say.[l ] she rulde, shee raignd, she had hir wil even as she wold require; but marke what fell out afterwards, good wyves i you desyre. she made him weary of his lyfe; he wisht that death wold come, and end his myserye at once, ere that the yeare was run; he thought it was the longest yeare that was since he was borne, but he cold not the matter mend, for he was thereto sworne. yet hath the longest day his date; for this we al do know, although the day be neer soe long, to even soone wil it goe. so fell it out with hir at lenth, the yeare was now come out; the sun, and moone, and all the starres, their race had run about. then he began to rouse himselfe, and to his wyfe he saide, "since that your raigne is at an end, now know me for your heade." but she that had borne swaye so long wold not be under brought, but stil hir tounge on pattens ran, though many blowes she caught. he bet hir backe, he bet hir syde, he bet hir blacke and blew; but for all this she wolde not mend, but worse and worse she grew. when that he saw she wolde not mend, another way wrought hee; he mewde hir up as men mew hawkes, where noe light she cold see. and kept hir without meate or drinke for four dayes space and more; yet for all this she was as ill as ere she was before. when that he saw she wold not mend, nor that she wold be quiet, neither for stroakes nor locking up, nor yet for want of dyet, he was almost at his wits end, he knew not what to doe; so that with gentlenes againe he gane his wyfe to woo. but she soone bad him holde his peace, and sware it was his best, but then he thought him of a wyle which made him be at rest. he told a frend or two of his what he had in his mynde; who went with him into his house, and when they all had dynde, "good wyfe," quoth he, "thes frends of myne come hither for your good; there lyes a vayne under your toung, must now be letten blood." then she began to use hir tearmes, and rayléd at them fast; yet bound they hir for al hir strenth unto a poaste at laste, and let hir blood under the toung, and tho she bled full sore, yet did she rayle at them as fast as ere she raylde before. "wel then," quoth he, "the faulte i see, she hath it from her mother; it is hir teeth infects hir toung, and it can be noe other; and since i now doe know the cause, whatsoever to me befall, ile plucke hir teeth out of hir toung, perhaps hir toung and all." and with a payre of pinsers strong he pluckt a great tooth out, and for to plucke another thence, he quicklye went about. but then she held up both her hands, and did for mercye pray, protesting that against his will, she wold not doe nor saye. whereat hir husband was right glad, that she had changde hir mynde, for from that tyme unto hir death she proved both good and kynde. then did he take hir from the poast, and did unbind hir then; i wold al shrews were served thus; al good wyves say amen. . she did or said. titus andronicus's complaint. on the th of february, - , _a noble roman historye of tytus andronicus_, was entered in the stationers' registers, to john danter, and also "the ballad thereof." the earliest known edition of shakespeare's play was in . the differences between this play and the ballad are thus stated by percy. "in the ballad is no mention of the contest for the empire between the two brothers, the composing of which makes the ungrateful treatment of titus afterwards the more flagrant: neither is there any notice taken of his sacrificing one of tamora's sons, which the tragic poet has assigned as the original cause of all her cruelties. in the play, titus loses twenty-one of his sons in war, and kills another for assisting bassianus to carry off lavinia; the reader will find it different in the ballad. in the latter she is betrothed to the emperor's son: in the play to his brother. in the tragedy, only two of his sons fall into the pit, and the third, being banished, returns to rome with a victorious army, to avenge the wrongs of his house: in the ballad, all three are entrapped, and suffer death. in the scene, the emperor kills titus, and is in return stabbed by titus's surviving son. here titus kills the emperor, and afterwards himself." * * * * * "the following is given from a copy in _the golden garland_, entitled as above; compared with three others, two of them in black letter in the pepys collection, entitled _the lamentable and tragical history of titus andronicus_, &c. to the tune of _fortune_. printed for e. wright.--unluckily, none of these have any dates." percy's _reliques_, i. . you noble minds, and famous martiall wights, that in defence of native country fights, give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for rome, yet reapt disgrace at my returning home. in rome i lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres, my name beloved was of all my peeres; fulle five-and-twenty valiant sonnes i had, whose forwarde vertues made their father glad. for when romes foes their warlike forces bent, against them stille my sonnes and i were sent; against the goths full ten yeeres weary warre we spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre. just two-and-twenty of my sonnes were slaine before we did returne to rome againe: of five-and-twenty sonnes, i brought but three alive, the stately towers of rome to see. when wars were done, i conquest home did bring, and did present my prisoners to the king, the queene of goths, her sons, and eke a moore, which did such murders, like was nere before. the emperour did make this queene his wife, which bred in rome debate and deadly strife; the moore, with her two sonnes, did growe soe proud, that none like them in rome might bee allowd. the moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie, that she consented to him secretlye for to abuse her husbands marriage bed, and soe in time a blackamore she bred. then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, consented with the moore of bloody minde, against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, in cruell sort to bring them to their endes. soe when in age i thought to live in peace, both care and griefe began then to increase: amongst my sonnes i had one daughter bright, which joy'd and pleased best my aged sight. my deare lavinia was betrothed than to cesars sonne, a young and noble man: who, in a hunting, by the emperours wife, and her two sonnes, bereaved was of life. he, being slaine, was cast in cruel wise into a darksome den from light of skies: the cruell moore did come that way as then with my three sonnes, who fell into the den. the moore then fetcht the emperour with speed, for to accuse them of that murderous deed; and when my sonnes within the den were found, in wrongfull prison they were cast and bound. but nowe behold what wounded most my mind: the empresses two sonnes, of savage kind, my daughter ravished without remorse, and took away her honour, quite perforce. when they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, they cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell how that dishonoure unto her befell. then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, whereby their wickednesse she could not write, nor with her needle on her sampler sowe the bloudye workers of her direfull woe. my brother marcus found her in the wood, staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, that trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. but when i sawe her in that woefull case, with teares of bloud i wet mine aged face: for my lavinia i lamented more then for my two-and-twenty sonnes before. when as i sawe she could not write nor speake, with grief mine aged heart began to breake; we spred an heape of sand upon the ground, whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found. for with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, she writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: "the lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse are doers of this hateful wickednesse." i tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, i curst the houre wherein i first was bred; i wisht this hand, that fought for countries fame, in cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame. the moore, delighting still in villainy, did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free, i should unto the king my right hand give, and then my three imprisoned sonnes should live. the moore i caus'd to strike it off with speede, whereat i grieved not to see it bleed, but for my sonnes would willingly impart, and for their ransome send my bleeding heart. but as my life did linger thus in paine, they sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, and therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, which filled my dying heart with fresher moanes. then past reliefe, i upp and downe did goe, and with my teares writ in the dust my woe: i shot my arrowes towards heaven hie, and for revenge to hell often did crye. the empresse then, thinking that i was mad, like furies she and both her sonnes were clad, (she nam'd revenge, and rape and murder they) to undermine and heare what i would say. i fed their foolish veines a certaine space,[l ] untill my friendes did find a secret place, where both her sonnes unto a post were bound, and just revenge in cruell sort was found. i cut their throates, my daughter held the pan betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran: and then i ground their bones to powder small, and made a paste for pyes streight therewithall. then with their fleshe i made two mighty pyes, and at a banquet, served in stately wise, before the empresse set this loathsome meat; so of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat. myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life, the empresse then i slewe with bloudy knife, and stabb'd the emperour immediatelie, and then myself: even soe did titus die. then this revenge against the moore was found; alive they sett him halfe in the ground, whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd: and soe god send all murderers may be serv'd. . i. e. encouraged them in their foolish humours, or fancies. p. john dory. this ballad, formerly a very great favorite, and continually alluded to in works of the th and th centuries, is found among the "freemen's songs of three voices" in _deuteromelia_, ; also in playford's _musical companion_, , and for one voice in _wit and mirth, or pills to purge melancholy_, vol. i. and . it is, however, much older than any of these books. carew, in his _survey of cornwall_, , p. , writes: "moreover, the prowess of one nicholas, son to a widow near foy, is descanted upon in an old three-man's song, namely, how he fought bravely at sea with john dory, (a genowey, as i conjecture,) set forth by john, the french king, and, after much bloodshed on both sides, took, and slew him, in revenge of the great ravine and cruelty which he had fore committed upon the englishmen's goods and bodies." the only king john that could be meant here is of course john ii. the good, (see v. ,) who was taken prisoner at poitiers, and died in . no john doria is mentioned as being in the service of john the good.--ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. , and chappell's _popular music_, p. . as it fell on a holy-day, and upon 'a' holy-tide-a, john dory bought him an ambling nag, to paris for to ride-a. and when john dory to paris was come, a little before the gate-a, john dory was fitted, the porter was witted, to let him in thereat-a. the first man that john dory did meet, was good king john of france-a; john dory could well of his courtesie, but fell downe in a trance-a. "a pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king, for my merie men and for me-a; and all the churles in merie england, ile bring them all bound to thee-a." and nicholl was then a cornish man, a little beside bohide-a, and he mande forth a good blacke barke, with fifty good oares on a side-a. "run up, my boy, unto the maine top, and looke what thou canst spie-a:" "who ho! who ho! a goodly ship i do see, i trow it be john dory-a." they hoist their sailes, both top and top, the meisseine and all was tride-a; and every man stood to his lot, whatever should betide-a. the roring cannons then were plide, and dub-a-dub went the drumme-a; the braying trumpets lowd they cride, to courage both all and some-a. the grapling-hooks were brought at length, the browne bill and the sword-a; john dory at length, for all his strength, was clapt fast under board-a. sir eglamore. courage crowned with conquest: or, a brief relation how that valiant knight and heroick champion, sir eglamore, bravely fought with, and manfully slew, a terrible huge great monstrous dragon. to a pleasant new tune. this ballad is found in _the melancholie knight_, by samuel rowlands, ; in the _antidote to melancholy_, ; in _merry drollery complete_, ; in dryden's _miscellany poems_, iv. ; in the "bagford and roxburghe collections of ballads," &c. (chappell.) the various editions differ considerably. the following is from ritson's _ancient songs_, (ed. ,) p. , where it was reprinted from a black-letter copy dated . sir eglamore, that valiant knight, _with his fa, la, lanctre down dilie_, he fetcht his sword and he went to fight, _with his fa, la, lanctre, &c._ as he went over hill and dale, all cloathed in his coat of male, _with his fa, la, lanctre, &c._ a huge great dragon leapt out of his den, which had killed the lord knows how many men; but when he saw sir eglamore, good lack had ye seen how this dragon did roare! this dragon he had a plaguy hide, which could both sword and spear abide; he could not enter with hacks and cuts, which vext the knight to the very hearts blood and guts. all the trees in the wood did shake, stars did tremble, and men did quake; but had ye seen how the birds lay peeping, 'twould have made a mans heart to fall a-weeping. but it was too late to fear, for now it was come to fight dog, fight bear; and as a yawning he did fall, he thrust his sword in, hilt and all. but now as the knight in choler did burn, he owed the dragon a shrewd good turn: in at his mouth his sword he bent, the hilt appeared at his fundament. then the dragon, like a coward, began to fly unto his den, that was hard by; and there he laid him down and roar'd; the knight was vexed for his sword. "the sword, that was a right good blade, as ever turk or spaniard made, i for my part do forsake it, and he that will fetch it, let him take it." when all this was done, to the ale-house he went, and by and by his two pence he spent; for he was so hot with tugging with the dragon, that nothing would quench him but a whole flaggon. now god preserve our king and queen, and eke in london may be seen as many knights, and as many more, and all so good as sir eglamore. jephthah, judge of israel. we have thought it necessary to include in this collection one or two specimens of ballads founded on stories in the jewish scriptures. besides those here selected, it may be well to refer to the following: _the constancy of susanna_, (cited in _twelfth night_,) evans, i. ; _david and bathsheba_, _id._ p. ; _tobias_, _old ballads_, ii. ; _holofernes_, _the garland of goodwill_, p. , and _old ballads_, ii. . every one will remember that the ballad of _jephthah_ is quoted in _hamlet_ (act ii. sc. ). percy published an imperfect copy of this piece, written down from the recollection of a lady (_reliques_, i. ). the following is from a black-letter copy reprinted in evans, i. , which was entitled "_jepha, judge of israel_." i have read that many years agoe, when jeph[th]a, judge of israel, had one fair daughter and no moe,[l ] whom he loved passing well. and as by lot, god wot, it came to passe, most like it was, great warrs there should be, and who should be the chiefe but he, but he. when jeph[th]a was appointed now chiefe captain of the company, to god the lord he made a vow, if he might have the victory, at his return, to burn, for his offering, the first quick thing, should meet with him then, from his house when he came agen, agen. it chanced so these warrs were done, and home he came with victory; his daughter out of doors did run to meet her father speedily: and all the way did play to taber and pipe, and many a stripe, and notes full high, for joy that he was so nigh, so nigh. when jeph[th]a did perceive and see his daughter firm and formostly, he rent his cloths, and tore his haire, and shrieked out most piteously: "for thou art she," quoth he, "hath brought me low--alas, for woe! and troubled me so, that i cannot tell what to doe, to doe. "for i have made a vow," quoth he, which must not be diminishéd; a sacrifice to god on high; my promise must be finishéd." "as ye have spoke, provoke no further care, but to prepare your will to fulfill, according to god's will, god's will. "for sithence god has given you might to overcome your enemies, let one be offer'd up, as right, for to perform all promises. and this let be," quoth she, "as thou hast said; be not afraid; although it be i, keep promise with god on high, on high. "but father, do so much for me as let me go to wildernesse, there to bewaile my virginity, three months to bemoan my heavinesse. and let there go some moe, like maids with me." "content," quoth he, and sent her away, to mourn till her latter day, her day. and when that time was come and gone that she should sacrificed be, this virgin sacrificed was, for to fulfill all promises. as some say, for aye the virgins there, three times a year, like sorrow fulfill for the daughter of jeph[th]a still, still, still. . more samson. evans's _old ballads_, i. , from a black-letter copy. when samson was a tall young man, his power and strength increased then, and in the host and tribe of dan the lord did bless him still. it chanced so upon a day, as he was walking on his way, he saw a maiden fresh and gay in timnath. with whom he fell so sore in love, that he his fancy could not move; his parents therefore he did prove, and craved their good wills: "i have found out a wife," quoth he; "i pray ye, father, give her me; though she a stranger's daughter be, i pass not." then did bespeak his parents dear, "have we not many maidens here, of country and acquaintance near, for thee to love and like?" "o no," quoth samson presently, "not one so pleasant in my eye, whom i could find so faithfully to fancy." at length they granted their consent, and so with samson forth they went; to see the maid was their intent, which was so fair and bright. but as they were a-going there, a lion put them in great fear, whom samson presently did tear in pieces. when they were come unto the place, they were agreed in the case; the wedding day appointed was, and when the time was come, as samson went for beauty's fees, the lion's carcass there he sees, wherein a sort of honey bees had swarmed. then closely samson went his way, and not a word thereof did say, untill the merry feasting-day, unto the company. "a riddle i will shew," quoth he; "the meaning if you tell to me, within seven days i will give ye great riches. "but if the meaning you do miss, and cannot shew me what it is, then shall you give to me i-wiss so much as i have said." "put forth the riddle then," quoth they, "and we will tell it by our day, or we will lose, as thou dost say, the wager." "then make," quoth he, "the total sum. out of the eater meat did come, and from the strong did sweetness run; declare it, if you can." and when they heard the riddle told, their hearts within them waxed cold, for none of them could then unfold the meaning. then unto samson's wife went they, and threatened her, without delay, if she would not the thing bewray, to burn her father's house. then samson's wife, with grief and woe, desired him the same to shew, and when she knew, she straight did go, to tell them. then were they all full glad of this; to tell the thing they did not miss; "what stronger beast than a lion is? what sweeter meat than honey?" then samson answered them full round, "if my heifer had not ploughed the ground, so easily you had not found my riddle. then samson did his losses pay, and to his father went his way: but while with them he there did stay,[l ] his wife forsook him quite, and took another to her love, which samson's anger much did move: to plague them therefore he did prove his cunning. a subtle thought he then had found, to burn their corn upon the ground; their vineyards he destroyed round, which made them fret and fume. but when they knew that samson he had done them all this injury, because his wife did him deny, they killed her. and afterward they had decreed to murder samson for that deed; three thousand men they sent with speed, to bring him bound to them. but he did break his cords apace, and with the jaw-bone of an ass a thousand men, ere he did pass, he killed. when all his foes were laid in dust, then samson was full sore athirst; in god therefore was all his trust, to help his fainting heart: for liquor thereabout was none: the lord therefore from the jaw-bone did make fresh water spring, alone to help him. then samson had a joyfull spright, and in a city lay that night, whereas his foes, with deadly spite, did seek his life to spill: but he at midnight then awakes, and tearing down the city gates, with him away the same he takes most stoutly. then on delilah, fair and bright, did samson set his whole delight, whom he did love both day and night, which wrought his overthrow. for she with sweet words did entreat, that for her sake he would repeat wherein his strength, that was so great, consisted. at length, unto his bitter fall, and through her suit, which was not small, he did not let to show her all the secrets of his heart. "if that my hair be cut," quoth he, "which now so fair and long you see, like other men then shall i be in weakness." then through deceit which was so deep, she lulled samson fast asleep; a man she call'd, which she did keep, to cut off all his hair. then did she call his hateful foes, ere samson from her lap arose, who could not then withstand their blows, for weakness. to bind him fast they did devise, then did they put out both his eyes; in prison wofully he lies, and there he grinds the mill. but god remembered all his pain, and did restore his strength again, although that bound he did remain in prison. the philistines now were glad of this; for joy they made a feast i-wiss, and all their princes did not miss to come unto the same. and being merry bent that day, for samson they did send straightway, that they might laugh to see him play among them. then to the house was samson led, and when he had their fancies fed, he pluck'd the house upon their head, and down they tumbled all. so that with grief and deadly pain, three thousand persons there were slain; thus samson then, with all his train, was brained. . but wisht. queen dido, or, the wandering prince of troy. percy's _reliques_, iii. , and ritson's _ancient songs and ballads_, ii. . "such is the title given in the editor's folio ms. to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribed, _eneas, wandering prince of troy_. it is here given from that ms. collated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the pepys collection." percy. as other ballads on classical subjects, may be mentioned _constant penelope, reliques_, iii. ; _pyramus and thisbe_, in _a handfull of pleasant delites_, p. (park's _heliconia_, vol. ii.); and _hero and leander_ in collier's _roxburghe ballads_, p. , from which was formed the song, or ballad, in the _tea-table miscellany_, ii. , ritson's _scotish songs_, ii. , &c. when troy towne had, for ten yeeres 'past,'[l ] withstood the greekes in manfull wise, then did their foes encrease soe fast, that to resist none could suffice: wast lye those walls, that were soe good, and corne now growes where troy towne stoode. Æneas, wandering prince of troy, when he for land long time had sought, at length arriving with great joy, to mighty carthage walls was brought; where dido queene, with sumptuous feast, did entertaine that wandering guest. and, as in hall at meate they sate, the queene, desirous newes to heare, says, "of thy troys unhappy fate, declare to me, thou trojan deare: the heavy hap and chance soe bad, that thou, poore wandering prince, hast had." and then anon this comelye knight, with words demure, as he cold well, of his unhappy ten yeares 'fight,'[l ] soe true a tale began to tell, with wordes soe sweete, and sighes soe deepe, that oft he made them all to weepe. and then a thousand sighes he fet, and every sigh brought teares amaine; that where he sate the place was wett, as though he had seene those warrs againe: soe that the queene, with ruth therfore, said, "worthy prince, enough, no more." and then the darksome night drew on, and twinkling starres the skye bespred, when he his dolefull tale had done, and every one was layd in bedd: where they full sweetly tooke their rest, save only dido's boyling brest. this silly woman never slept, but in her chamber, all alone, as one unhappye, alwayes wept, and to the walls shee made her mone; that she shold still desire in vaine the thing she never must obtaine. and thus in grieffe she spent the night, till twinkling starres the skye were fled, and ph[oe]bus, with his glistering light, through misty cloudes appeared red; then tidings came to her anon, that all the trojan shipps were gone. and then the queene with bloody knife did arme, her hart as hard as stone; yet, something loth to loose her life, in woefull wise she made her mone; and, rowling on her carefull bed, with sighes and sobbes, these words shee sayd: "o wretched dido queene!" quoth shee, "i see thy end approacheth neare; for hee is fled away from thee, whom thou didst love and hold so deare: what, is he gone, and passed by? o hart, prepare thyselfe to dye. "though reason says thou shouldst forbeare, and stay thy hand from bloudy stroke, yet fancy bids thee not to fear, which fetter'd thee in cupids yoke. come death," quoth shee, "resolve my smart!"-- and with those words shee peerced her hart. when death had pierced the tender hart of dido, carthaginian queene, whose bloudy knife did end the smart, which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene, Æneas being shipt and gone, whose flattery caused all her mone, her funerall most costly made, and all things finisht mournfullye, her body fine in mold was laid, where itt consumed speedilye: her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde, her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed. then was Æneas in an ile in grecya, where he stayd long space, whereas her sister in short while writt to him to his vile disgrace; in speeches bitter to his mind shee told him plaine he was unkind. "false-harted wretch," quoth shee, "thou art; and traiterouslye thou hast betraid unto thy lure a gentle hart, which unto thee much welcome made; my sister deare, and carthage' joy, whose folly bred her deere annoy. "yett on her death-bed when shee lay, shee prayd for thy prosperitye, beseeching god, that every day might breed thy great felicitye: thus by thy meanes i lost a friend; heaven send thee such untimely end." when he these lines, full fraught with gall, perused had, and wayed them right, his lofty courage then did fall; and straight appeared in his sight queene dido's ghost, both grim and pale; which made this valliant souldier quaile. "Æneas," quoth this ghastly ghost, "my whole delight, when i did live, thee of all men i loved most; my fancy and my will did give; for entertainment i thee gave, unthankefully thou didst me grave. "therfore prepare thy flitting soule to wander with me in the aire, where deadlye griefe shall make it howle, because of me thou tookst no care: delay not time, thy glasse is run, thy date is past, thy life is done." "o stay a while, thou lovely sprite; be not soe hasty to convay my soule into eternall night, where itt shall ne're behold bright day: o doe not frowne; thy angry looke hath made my breath my life forsooke. "but, woe is me! all is in vaine, and bootless is my dismall crye; time will not be recalled againe, nor thou surcease before i dye. o lett me live, and make amends to some of thy most dearest friends. "but seeing thou obdurate art, and wilt no pittye on me show, because from thee i did depart, and left unpaid what i did owe, i must content myselfe to take what lott to me thou wilt partake." and thus, as one being in a trance, a multitude of uglye feinds about this woffull prince did dance: he had no helpe of any friends: his body then they tooke away, and no man knew his dying day. , . war. ms. and pr. cop. george barnwell. percy's _reliques_, iii. . "the subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. this was written by george lillo, a jeweller of london, and first acted about .--as for the ballad, it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century. "it is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of roman and black-letter. it is also collated with another copy in the ashmole collection at oxford, which is thus entitled: "_an excellent ballad of george barnwell, an apprentice of london, who ... thrice robbed his master, and murdered his uncle in ludlow_. the tune is _the merchant_." there is another copy in ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. . throughout the second part, the first line of each stanza has, in the old editions, two superfluous syllables, which percy ejected; and ritson has adopted the emendation. the first part. all youths of fair englànd that dwell both far and near, regard my story that i tell, and to my song give ear. a london lad i was, a merchant's prentice bound; my name george barnwell; that did spend my master many a pound. take heed of harlots then, and their enticing trains; for by that means i have been brought to hang alive in chains. as i upon a day was walking through the street, about my master's business, a wanton i did meet. a gallant dainty dame and sumptuous in attire; with smiling look she greeted me, and did my name require. which when i had declar'd, she gave me then a kiss, and said, if i would come to her i should have more than this. "fair mistress," then quoth i, "if i the place may know, this evening i will be with you; for i abroad must go, "to gather monies in, that are my master's due: and ere that i do home return i'll come and visit you." "good barnwell," then quoth she, "do thou to shoreditch come, and ask for mrs. milwood's house, next door unto the gun. "and trust me on my truth, if thou keep touch with me, my dearest friend, as my own heart thou shalt right welcome be." thus parted we in peace, and home i passed right; then went abroad, and gathered in, by six o'clock at night, an hundred pound and one: with bag under my arm i went to mrs. millwood's house, and thought on little harm. and knocking at the door, straightway herself came down; rustling in most brave attire, with hood and silken gown. who, through her beauty bright, so gloriously did shine, that she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, she seemed so divine. she took me by the hand, and with a modest grace, "welcome, sweet barnwell," then quoth she, "unto this homely place. "and since i have thee found as good as thy word to be, a homely supper, ere we part, thou shalt take here with me." "o pardon me," quoth i, "fair mistress, i you pray; for why, out of my master's house so long i dare not stay." "alas, good sir," she said, "are you so strictly ty'd, you may not with your dearest friend one hour or two abide? "faith, then the case is hard; if it be so," quoth she, "i would i were a prentice bound, to live along with thee. "therefore, my dearest george, list well what i shall say, and do not blame a woman much, her fancy to bewray. "let not affection's force be counted lewd desire; nor think it not immodesty, i should thy love require." with that she turn'd aside, and with a blushing red, a mournful motion she bewray'd by hanging down her head. a handkerchief she had, all wrought with silk and gold, which she, to stay her trickling tears, before her eyes did hold. this thing unto my sight was wondrous rare and strange, and in my soul and inward thought it wrought a sudden change: that i so hardy grew to take her by the hand, saying, "sweet mistress, why do you so dull and pensive stand?" "call me no mistress now, but sarah, thy true friend, thy servant, milwood, honouring thee, until her life hath end. "if thou wouldst here alledge thou art in years a boy; so was adonis, yet was he fair venus' only joy." thus i, who ne'er before of woman found such grace, but seeing now so fair a dame give me a kind embrace, i supt with her that night, with joys that did abound; and for the same paid presently, in mony twice three pound. an hundred kisses then, for my farewel she gave; crying, "sweet barnwell, when shall i again thy company have? "o stay not hence too long; sweet george, have me in mind:" her words bewicht my childishness, she uttered them so kind. so that i made a vow, next sunday, without fail, with my sweet sarah once again to tell some pleasant tale. when she heard me say so, the tears fell from her eye; "o george," quoth she, "if thou dost fail, thy sarah sure will dye." though long, yet loe! at last, the appointed day was come, that i must with my sarah meet; having a mighty sum[l ] of money in my hand, unto her house went i, whereas my love upon her bed in saddest sort did lye. "what ails my heart's delight, my sarah dear?" quoth i; "let not my love lament and grieve, nor sighing pine and die. "but tell me, dearest friend, what may thy woes amend, and thou shalt lack no means of help, though forty pound i spend." with that she turn'd her head, and sickly thus did say: "oh me, sweet george, my grief is great; ten pound i have to pay unto a cruel wretch; and god he knows," quoth she, "i have it not." "tush, rise," i said, "and take it here of me. "ten pounds, nor ten times ten, shall make my love decay;" then from my bag into her lap, i cast ten pound straightway. all blithe and pleasant then, to banqueting we go; she proffered me to lye with her, and said it should be so. and after that same time, i gave her store of coyn, yea, sometimes fifty pound at once; all which i did purloyn. and thus i did pass on; until my master then did call to have his reckoning in cast up among his men. the which when as i heard, i knew not what to say: for well i knew that i was out two hundred pound that day. then from my master straight i ran in secret sort; and unto sarah milwood there my case i did report. _but how she used this youth, in this his care and woe, and all a strumpet's wiley ways, the second part may showe._ . the having a sum of money with him on sunday, &c., shows this narrative to have been penned before the civil wars: the strict observance of the sabbath was owing to the change of manners at that period. percy. the second part. "young barnwell comes to thee, sweet sarah, my delight; i am undone, unless thou stand my faithful friend this night. "our master to accompts hath just occasion found; and i am caught behind the hand above two hundred pound. "and now his wrath to 'scape, my love, i fly to thee, hoping some time i may remaine in safety here with thee." with that she knit her brows, and looking all aquoy, quoth she, "what should i have to do with any prentice boy? "and seeing you have purloyn'd your master's goods away, the case is bad, and therefore here you shall no longer stay." "why, dear, thou know'st," i said, "how all which i could get, "i gave it, and did spend it all upon thee every whit." quoth she, "thou art a knave, to charge me in this sort, being a woman of credit fair, and known of good report. "therefore i tell thee flat, be packing with good speed; i do defie thee from my heart, and scorn thy filthy deed." "is this the friendship, that you did to me protest? is this the great affection, which you so to me exprest? "now fie on subtle shrews! the best is, i may speed to get a lodging any where for money in my need. "false woman, now farewell; whilst twenty pound doth last, my anchor in some other haven with freedom i will cast." when she perceiv'd by this, i had store of money there, "stay, george," quoth she, "thou art too quick: why, man, i did but jeer. "dost think for all my speech, that i would let thee go? faith, no," said she, "my love to thee i-wiss is more than so." "you scorne a prentice boy, i heard you just now swear: wherefore i will not trouble you:" "nay, george, hark in thine ear; "thou shalt not go to-night, what chance soe're befall; but man, we'll have a bed for thee, or else the devil take all." so i by wiles bewitcht, and snar'd with fancy still, had then no power to 'get' away, or to withstand her will. for wine on wine i call'd, and cheer upon good cheer; and nothing in the world i thought for sarah's love too dear. whilst in her company, i had such merriment, all, all too little i did think, that i upon her spent. "a fig for care and thought! when all my gold is gone, in faith, my girl, we will have more, whoever i light upon. "my father's rich; why then should i want store of gold?" "nay, with a father, sure," quoth she, "a son may well make bold." "i've a sister richly wed; i'll rob her ere i'll want." "nay then," quoth sarah, "they may well consider of your scant." "nay, i an uncle have; at ludlow he doth dwell; he is a grazier, which in wealth doth all the rest excell. "ere i will live in lack, and have no coyn for thee, i'll rob his house, and murder him." "why should you not?" quoth she. "was i a man, ere i would live in poor estate, on father, friends, and all my kin, i would my talons grate. "for without money, george, a man is but a beast: but bringing money, thou shalt be always my welcome guest. "for shouldst thou be pursued with twenty hues and cryes, and with a warrant searched for with argus' hundred eyes, "yet here thou shalt be safe; such privy wayes there be, that if they sought an hundred years, they could not find out thee." and so carousing both their pleasures to content, george barnwell had in little space his money wholly spent. which done, to ludlow straight he did provide to go, to rob his wealthy uncle there; his minion would it so. and once he thought to take his father by the way, but that he fear'd his master had took order for his stay.[l ] unto his uncle then he rode with might and main, who with a welcome and good cheer did barnwell entertain. one fortnight's space he stayed, until it chanced so, his uncle with his cattle did unto a market go. his kinsman rode with him, where he did see right plain, great store of money he had took: when, coming home again, sudden within a wood, he struck his uncle down, and beat his brains out of his head; so sore he crackt his crown. then seizing fourscore pound, to london straight he hyed, and unto sarah millwood all the cruell fact descryed. "tush, 'tis no matter, george, so we the money have to have good cheer in jolly sort, and deck us fine and brave." thus lived in filthy sort, until their store was gone: when means to get them any more, i-wis poor george had none. therefore in railing sort, she thrust him out of door; which is the just reward of those, who spend upon a whore. "o do me not disgrace in this my need," quoth he: she called him thief and murderer, with all the spight might be. to the constable she sent, to have him apprehended; and shewed how far, in each degree, he had the laws offended. when barnwell saw her drift, to sea he got straightway; where fear and sting of conscience continually on him lay. unto the lord mayor then, he did a letter write, in which his own and sarah's fault he did at large recite. whereby she seized was, and then to ludlow sent, where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd, for murder incontinent. there dyed this gallant quean, such was her greatest gains; for murder in polonia, was barnwell hang'd in chains. lo! here's the end of youth that after harlots haunt, who in the spoil of other men about the streets do flaunt. . i.e. for stopping and apprehending him at his father's. p. the duke of athol's nurse. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . annexed is a less perfect copy from kinloch's collection. a fragment of this piece is printed in cromek's _select scottish songs by r. burns_, (ii. ,) with some stanzas of _willy's drowned in yarrow_, (vol. ii. p. , of this collection.) mr. aytoun has made up a very good ballad from several copies; _ballads of scotland_, , . as i gaed in yon greenwood side, i heard a fair maid singing; her voice was sweet, she sang sae complete, that all the woods were ringing. "o i'm the duke o' athole's nurse, my post is well becoming; but i wou'd gie a' my half-year's fee, for ae sight o' my leman." "ye say, ye're the duke o' athole's nurse, your post is well becoming; keep well, keep well your half-year's fee, ye'se hae twa sights o' your leman." he lean'd him ower his saddle bow, and cannilie kiss'd his dearie; "ohon, and alake! anither has my heart, and i darena mair come near thee!" "ohon, and alake! if anither hae your heart, these words hae fairly undone me; but let us set a time, tryst to meet again, then in gude friends you will twine me!" "ye will do you down to yon tavern house, and drink till the day be dawing; and, as sure as i ance had a love for you, i'll come there and clear your lawing. "ye'll spare not the wine, altho' it be fine, nae malago, tho' it be rarely; but ye'll aye drink the bonnie lassie's health that's to clear your lawing fairly." then he's done him down to yon tavern house, and drank till day was dawing; and aye he drank the bonny lassie's health that was coming to clear his lawing. and aye as he birled, and aye as he drank the gude beer and the brandy, he spar'd not the wine, altho' it was fine, the sack nor the sugar candy. "it's a wonder to me," the knight he did say, "my bonnie lassie's sae delaying; she promis'd, as sure as she loved me ance, she wou'd be here by the dawing." he's done him to a shott window, a little before the dawing, and there he spied her nine brothers bauld, were coming to betray him. "where shall i rin, where shall i gang, or where shall i gang hide me? she that was to meet me in friendship this day, has sent nine men to slay me!" he's gane to the landlady o' the house, says, "o can you supply me? for she that was to meet me in friendship this day, has sent nine men to slay me! she gae him a suit o' her ain female claise, and set him to the baking; the bird never sang mair sweet on the bush, nor the knight sung at the baking. as they came in at the ha' door, sae loudly as they rappit, and when they came upon the floor, sae loudly as they chappit! "o had ye a stranger here last night, who drank till the day was dawing? come, show us the chamber where he lyes in, we'll shortly clear his lawing." "i had nae stranger here last night, that drank till the day was dawing; but ane that took a pint, and paid it ere he went, and there's naething to clear o' his lawing." a lad amang the rest, being o' a merry mood, to the young knight fell a-talking; the wife took her foot, and gae him a kick, says, "be busy, ye jilt, at your baking." they stabbed the house, baith but and ben, the curtains they spared nae riving, and for a' that they did search and ca', for a kiss o' the knight they were striving. the duke of athol's nourice. kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . as i cam in by athol's yetts, i heard a fair maid singing; "i am the duke o' athol's nourice, and i wat it weel does set me; and i wad gie a' my half-year's fee, for ae sicht o' my johnie." "keep weel, keep weel, your half-year's fee, for ye'll soon get a sicht o' your johnie; but anither woman has my heart, and i am sorry for to leave ye." "ye'll dow ye doun to yon change-house, and drink till the day be dawing; at ilka pint's end ye'll drink the lass' health, that's coming to pay the lawing." he hied him doun to yon change-house, and he drank till the day was dawing; and at ilka pint's end he drank the lass' health, that was coming to pay for his lawing. aye he ranted, and aye he sang, and drank till the day was dawing; and aye he drank the bonnie lass' health, that was coming to pay the lawing. he spared na the sack, though it was dear, the wine, nor the sugar-candy; * * * * * * * he has dune him to the shot-window, to see gin she war coming; there he saw the duke and a' his merry men, that oure the hill cam rinning. he has dune him to the landlady, to see gin she wad protect him; she buskit him up into woman's claise, and set him till a baking. sae loudlie as they rappit at the yett, sae loudlie as they war calling; "had ye a young man here yestreen, that drank till the day was dawing?" "he drank but ae pint, and he paid it or he went, and ye've na mair to do wi' the lawing." they searchit the house a' round and round, and they spared na the curtains to tear them; while the landlady stood upo' the stair-head, crying, "maid, be busy at your baking;" they gaed as they cam, and left a' undone, and left the bonnie maid at her baking. the hireman chiel. from _scarce ancient ballads_, p. . the same in buchan, ii. , _the baron turned ploughman_. there was a knight, a barone bright, a bauld barone was he, and he had only but one son, a comely youth to see. he's brought him at schools nine, so has he at schools ten, but the boy learn'd to haud the plow among his father's men. but it fell ance upon a day the bauld barone did say, "my son you maun gae court a wife, and ane o high degree. "ye have lands, woods, rents, and bouirs, castels and touirs three; then go my son and seek some dame to share that gift wi' thee." "yes, i have lands and woods, father, castels and touirs three; but what if she like my lands and rents far more than she loves me? "but i will go and seek a wife that weel can please mine ee, and i sall fairly try her love before she gang wi me." he then took off the scarlet coat, bedeck'd wi shinin' gold, and has put on the hireman's coat, to keip him frae the cold. he then laid past the studded sword, that he could bravely draw, and he's gone skipping down the stair, swift as the bird that flaw. he took a stick into his hand, which he could bravely wiel, and he's gane whistling o'er the lan', like a young hireman chiel. and he gaed up yon high high hill,[l ] and low down i the glen, and there he saw a gay castell, wi turrets nine or ten. and he has gone on, and farther on, till to the yett drew he, and there he saw a lady fair, that pleas'd the young man's ee. he went streight to the greave's chamber, and with humilitie, said, "have ye any kind of work for a hireman chiel like me?" "what is the work that ye intend, or how can we agree? can ye plow, reap, and sow the corn, and a' for meat and fee?" "yes, i can plow, and reap, and mow, and sow the corn too; i can weel manage horse and cow, and a' for meat and fee." "if ye can haud the plow right weel, and sow the corn too, by faith and troth, my hireman chiel, we shall not part for fee." he['s] put his hand in his pocket, and taen out shillings nine; says, "take ye that, my hireman chiel, and turn in here and dine." he acted all he took in hand, his master lov'd him weel, and the young lady of the land fell in love wi the hireman chiel. how oft she tried to drown the flame, and oft wept bitterlie; but still she lov'd the hireman chiel, so well's he pleas'd her ee. she has written a broad letter, and seal'd it wi' her hand, and dropt it at the stable door, where the young man did stand. "i am in love, my hireman chiel, i'm deip in love wi thee; and if ye think me worth your love, i' the garden green meet me." when he had read the letter o'er, a loud loud laugh gae he; said, "if i manage my business well, i'm sure to get my fee." at night they met behind a tree, low in the garden green, to tell their tale among the flowers, and view the e'ening scene. next morning by the rising sun, she, with her maries fair, walk'd to the fields to see the plow, and meet the hireman there. "good morn, good morn, my lady gay, i wonder much at you, to rise so early in the morn, while fields are wet wi dew, to hear the linnets on the thorn, and see the plow-boy plow." "but i wonder much at you, young man, i wonder much at you, that ye no other station have than hold my father's plow." "i love as weel to rise each morn as ye can your maries fair; i love as weel to hold the plow as i were your father's heir. "if ye love me, as ye protest, and i trust weel ye do, the morn's night at eight o'clock, in gude green wood meet me." "yes, i love you, my hireman chiel, and that most tenderlie, but when my virgin honor's gone, i soon will slighted be." "take ye no dread, my lady gay, lat a your folly be; if ye com a maiden to green wood, you'll return the same for me." the lady she went home again wi a mary on every hand; she was so very sick in love, she could not sit nor stand. it was a dark and cloudy night, no stars beam'd o'er the lea, when the lady and the hireman met beneath a spreading tree. he took the lady in his arms, embraced her tenderlie, and thrice he kiss'd her rosy lips under the green wood tree. "hold off your hands, young man, i pray; i wonder much at thee; the man that holds my father's plow, to lay his hands on me." "no harm i mean, my winsome dame, no impudence at a'; i never laid a hand on you till your libertie i saw." "it is a dark and dismal night, the dew is falling down; i will go home, least i should spoil my cap and satin gown." "if you are wearied so soon, why did ye tryst me here?" "i would not weary with you, my dear, tho this night were a year." when morning beams began to peep among the branches green, the lovers rose, and part to meet, and tell their tale again. "ye will go home unto the plow, where often ye hae been; i'll tak my mantle folded up, and walk i the garden green. "the barone and my mother dear will wonder what i mean; they'll think i've been disturbed sair, when i am up so soon." but this pass'd on, and farther on, for two months and a day, till word came to the bauld barone, and an angry man was he. the barone swore a solemn oath, an angry man was he, "the morn, before i eat or drink, high hanged shall he be." "farewell, my lovely maiden fair, a long adieu to thee; your father's sworn a solemn swear that hanged i shall be." "o woe's me," the lady said, "yet do not troubled be; if e'er they touch the hair on thy head, they'll get no good of me." he turn'd him right and round about, and a loud loud laugh gae he; "that man stood never in the court that dare this day hang me." the lady spake from her bouir door, an angry woman was she; "what insolence in you to tryst her to the green wood tree." "if she had not given her consent, she had not gone wi me; if she came a maiden to green wood, she return'd again for me." he turn'd him right and round about, and a loud loud laugh gae he; "ye may wed your daughter whan ye will, she's none the worse for me." he has gone whistling o'er the knowe, swift as the bird that flaw; the lady stood in her bouir door, and lout the salt tears fa. but this pass'd on, and further on, a twelve month and a day, till there came a knight and a barone bright to woo this lady gay. he soon gain'd the baronne's will, likewise the mother gay; he woo'd and won the lady's love, but by a slow degree. "o weel befa' you, daughter dear, and happy may ye be, to lay your love on the grand knight, and let the hireman be." "o haud your tongue, my father dear, and speak not so to me; far more i love the hireman chiel than a' the knights i see. the morn was come, and bells were rung, and all to church repair; but like the rose among the throng was the lady and her maries fair. but as they walked o'er the field, among the flowers fair, beneath a tree stood on the plain, the hireman chiel was there. "i wish you joy, my gay madam, and aye well may ye be; there is a ring, a pledge of love, that ance i got from thee." "o wae befa' ye, you hireman chiel, some ill death may ye die; ye might hae tauld to me your name, your hame, or what countrie." "if ye luve me, my lady gay, as ye protest ye do, then turn your love from this gay knight, and reach your hand to me." then out spake the gay baronne, and an angry man was he; "if i had known she was belov'd, she had never been lov'd by me." when she was set on high horse-back, and riding thro' the glen, they saw her father posting quick, with fifty armed men. "do for yourself, my hireman lad, and for your safety flee; my father he will take me back, but married i'll never be." when they were up yon rising hill, there low down i' the glen, he saw his father's gilded coach, wi' five hundred gentlemen. "come back, turn back, my hireman chiel, turn back and speak wi' me; ye've serv'd me lang for the lady's sake, come back, and get your fee." "your blessing give us instantly, is all we crave o' thee; these seven years i've serv'd for her sake, but now i'm paid my fee." . as. armstrong and musgrave. from _a collection of old ballads_, i. . the story of this ballad seems to be the same as that of _lord livingston_, in the third volume of this collection (p. ). the whole title is as follows: a pleasant ballad shewing how two valiant knights, sir john armstrong and sir michael musgrave, fell in love with the beautiful daughter of the lady dacres in the north; and of the great strife that happen'd between them for her, and how they wrought the death of one hundred men. as it fell out one whitsunday, the blith time of the year, when every tree was clad with green, and pretty birds sing clear, the lady dacres took her way unto the church that pleasant day, with her fair daughter fresh and gay, a bright and bonny lass. sir michael musgrave, in like sort, to church repaired then, and so did sir john armstrong too, with all his merry men. two greater friends there could not be, nor braver knights for chivalry, both batchelors of high degree, fit for a bonny lass. they sat them down upon one seat, like loving brethren dear, with hearts and minds devoutly bent god's service for to hear; but rising from their prayers tho, their eyes a ranging strait did go, which wrought their utter overthrow, all for one bonny lass. quoth musgrave unto armstrong then, "yon sits the sweetest dame, that ever for her fair beauty within this country came." "in sooth," quoth armstrong presently, "your judgment i must verify, there never came unto my eye a braver bonny lass." "i swear," said musgrave, "by this sword, which did my knighthood win, to steal away so sweet a dame, could be no ghostly sin." "that deed," quoth armstrong, "would be ill, except you had her right good will, that your desire she would fulfil, and be thy bonny lass." by this the service quite was done, and home the people past; they wish'd a blister on his tongue that made thereof such haste. at the church door the knights did meet, the lady dacres for to greet, but most of all her daughter sweet, that beauteous bonny lass. said armstrong to the lady fair, "we both have made a vow at dinner for to be your guests, if you will it allow." with that bespoke the lady free, "sir knights, right welcome shall you be;" "the happier men therefore are we, for love of this bonny lass." thus were the knights both prick'd in love, both in one moment thrall'd, and both with one fair lady gay, fair isabella call'd. with humble thanks they went away, like wounded harts chas'd all the day, one would not to the other say, they lov'd this bonny lass. fair isabel, on the other side, as far in love was found; so long brave armstrong she had ey'd, till love her heart did wound; "brave armstrong is my joy," quoth she, "would christ he were alone with me, to talk an hour, two, or three, with his fair bonny lass." but as these knights together rode, and homeward did repair, their talk and eke their countenance shew'd their hearts were clogg'd with care. "fair isabel," the one did say, "thou hast subdu'd my heart this day;" "but she's my joy," did musgrave say, "my bright and bonny lass." with that these friends incontinent became most deadly foes; for love of beauteous isabel, great strife betwixt them rose: quoth armstrong, "she shall be my wife, although for her i lose my life;" and thus began a deadly strife, and for one bonny lass. thus two years long this grudge did grow these gallant knights between, while they a-wooing both did go, unto this beauteous queen; and she who did their furies prove, to neither would bewray her love, the deadly quarrel to remove about this bonny lass. but neither, for her fair intreats, nor yet her sharp dispute, would they appease their raging ire, nor yet give o'er their suit. the gentlemen of the north country at last did make this good decree, all for a perfect unity about this bonny lass. the love-sick knights should be set within one hall so wide, each of them in a gallant sort even at a several tide; and 'twixt them both for certainty fair isabel should placed be, of them to take her choice full free, most like a bonny lass. and as she like an angel bright betwixt them mildly stood, she turn'd unto each several knight with pale and changed blood; "now am i at liberty to make and take my choice?" quoth she: "yea," quoth the knights, "we do agree; then chuse, thou bonny lass." "o musgrave, thou art all too hot to be a lady's love," quoth she, "and armstrong seems a sot, where love binds him to prove. of courage great is musgrave still, and sith to chuse i have my will, sweet armstrong shall my joys fulfil, and i his bonny lass." the nobles and the gentles both that were in present place, rejoiced at this sweet record; but musgrave, in disgrace, out of the hall did take his way, and armstrong marryed was next day with isabel his lady gay, a bright and bonny lass. but musgrave on the wedding-day, like to a scotchman dight, in secret sort allured out the bridegroom for the fight; and he, that will not outbraved be, unto his challenge did agree, where he was slain most suddenly for his fair bonny lass. the news whereof was quickly brought unto the lovely bride; and many of young armstrong's kin did after musgrave ride. they hew'd him when they had him got, as small as flesh into the pot; lo! thus befel a heavy lot about this bonny lass. the lady young, which did lament this cruel cursed strife, for very grief dyed that day, a maiden and a wife. an hundred men that hapless day did lose their lives in that same fray, and 'twixt those names, as many say, is deadly strife still biding. fair margaret of craignargat. "craignargat is a promontory in the bay of luce. though almost surrounded by the barony of mochrum, it was long possessed by a branch of the family of macdowall, which was probably our heroine's surname.--on the head of fair margaret's lovers, it may be remarked, that the agnews of lochnaw are a very ancient family, and hereditary sheriffs of wigton. the gordon mentioned was probably gordon of craighlaw, whose castle was situated about five miles from craignargat, in the parish of kirkcowan, considered so remote before the formation of military roads, that the local proverb says,--'out of the world, and into kirkcowan.' the hays of park dwell on the coast, about six miles from craignargat; but it is singular that the lady is not complimented with a dunbar as her lover, the place of mochrum, as the old town is called, being only two miles from her reputed residence." sharpe's _ballad book_, p. . fair marg'ret of craignargat was the flow'r of all her kin, and she's fallen in love with a false young man, her ruin to begin. the more she lov'd, the more it prov'd her fatal destiny, and he that sought her overthrow shar'd of her misery. before that lady she was born, her mother, as we find, she dreamt she had a daughter fair, that was both dumb and blind. but as she sat in her bow'r door, a-viewing of her charms, there came a raven from the south, and pluck'd her from her arms. three times on end she dreamt this dream, which troubled sore her mind, that from that very night and hour she could no comfort find. now she has sent for a wise woman, liv'd nigh unto the port, who being call'd, instantly came, that lady to comfort. to her she told her dreary dream, with salt tears in her eye, hoping that she would read the same, her mind to satisfy. "set not your heart on children young, whate'er their fortune be, and if i tell what shall befal, lay not the blame on me. "the raven which ye dreamed of, he is a false young man, with subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, your daughter to trepan. "both night and day, 'tis you i pray for to be on your guard, for many are the subtile wyles by which youth are ensnar'd." when she had read the dreary dream, it vex'd her more and more, for craignargat, of birth and state, liv'd nigh unto the shore. but as in age her daughter wax'd, her beauty did excel all the ladies far and near that in that land did dwell. the gordon, hay, and brave agnew, three knights of high degree, unto the dame a-courting came, all for her fair beauty. which of these men, they ask'd her then, that should her husband be; but scornfully she did reply, "i'll wed none of the three." "since it is so, where shall we go a match for thee to find, that art so fair and beautiful, that none can suit thy mind?" with scorn and pride she answer made, "you'll ne'er choice one for me, nor will i wed against my mind, for all their high degree." the brave agnew, whose heart was true, a solemn vow did make, never to love a woman more all for that lady's sake. to counsel this lady was deaf, to judgement she was blind, which griev'd her tender parents dear, and troubled sore their mind. from the isle of man a courter came, and a false young man was he, with subtile heart and flatt'ring tongue, to court this fair lady. this young man was a bold outlaw, a robber and a thief, but soon he gain'd this lady's heart, which caused all their grief. "o will you wed," her mother said, "a man you do not know, for to break your parents' heart, with shame but and with woe?" "yes, i will go with him," she said, "either by land or sea; for he's the man i've pitchéd on my husband for to be." "o let her go," her father said, "for she shall have her will; my curse and mallison she's got, for to pursue her still." "your curse, father, i don't regard, your blessing i'll ne'er crave; to the man i love i'll constant prove, and never him deceive." on board with him fair margaret's gone, in hopes his bride to be; but mark ye well, and i shall tell of their sad destiny. they had not sail'd a league but five, till the storm began to rise; the swelling seas ran mountains high, and dismal were the skies. in deep despair that lady fair for help aloud she cries, while crystal tears like fountains ran down from her lovely eyes. "o i have got my father's curse my pride for to subdue! with sorrows great my heart will break, alas what shall i do! "o were i at my father's house, his blessing to receive, then on my bended knees i'd fall, his pardon for to crave! "to aid my grief, there's no relief, to speak it is in vain; likewise my loving parents dear i ne'er shall see again." the winds and waves did both conspire their lives for to devour; that gallant ship that night was lost, and never was seen more. when tidings to craignargat came, of their sad overthrow, it griev'd her tender parent's heart; afresh began their woe. of the dreary dream that she had seen, and often thought upon,-- "o fatal news," her mother cries, "my darling, she is gone! "o fair marg'ret, i little thought the seas should be thy grave, when first thou left thy father's house, without thy parent's leave." may this tragedy a warning be to children while they live, that they may love their parents dear, their blessing to receive. richie storie. "john, third earl of wigton, had six sons, and three daughters. the second, lady lillias fleming, was so indiscreet as to marry a footman, by whom she had issue. she and her husband assigned her provision to lieutenant-colonel john fleming, who discharged her renunciation, dated in october, ." sharpe's _ballad book_, p. . the earl o' wigton had three daughters, o braw wallie, but they were bonnie! the youngest o' them, and the bonniest too, has fallen in love wi' richie storie. "here's a letter for ye, madame, here's a letter for ye, madame; the erle o' home wad fain presume to be a suitor to ye, madame." "i'll hae nane o' your letters, richie; i'll hae nane o' your letters, richie; for i've made a vow, and i'll keep it true, that i'll have nane but you, richie." "o do not say so, madame; o do not say so, madame; for i have neither land nor rent, for to maintain you o', madame. "ribands ye maun wear, madame, ribands ye maun wear, madame; with the bands about your neck o' the goud that shines sae clear, madame." "i'll lie ayont a dyke, richie, i'll lie ayont a dyke, richie; and i'll be aye at your command and bidding, whan ye like, richie." o he's gane on the braid braid road, and she's gane through the broom sae bonnie, her silken robes down to her heels, and she's awa' wi' richie storie. this lady gaed up the parliament stair, wi' pendles in her lugs sae bonnie; mony a lord lifted his hat, but little did they ken she was richie's lady. up then spak the erle o' home's lady; "was na ye richt sorrie, annie, to leave the lands o' bonnie cumbernauld, and follow richie storie, annie?" "o what need i be sorrie, madame, o what need i be sorrie, madame? for i've got them that i like best, and was ordained for me, madame." "cumbernauld is mine, annie, cumbernauld is mine, annie; and a' that's mine, it shall be thine, as we sit at the wine, annie." the farmer's old wife. _the carl of kellyburn braes_, composed by burns for johnson's _museum_, (p. ,) was founded, he says, "on the old traditionary verses." these we have met with in no other form but the following, which is taken from _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, edited by robert bell, p. . what is styled the original of _the carle of kellyburn braes_, in cromek's _remains of nithsdale and galloway song_, p. , is, like many of the pieces in that volume, for the most part a fabrication. the place of the burden is supplied in sussex, says mr. bell, by a whistling chorus. of the same tenor is the ballad of _the devil and the scold_, collier's _roxburghe ballads_, p. . we subjoin the first stanza of burns's ballad for the sake of the burden, which is said to be old. there lived a carl on kellyburn braes, _hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme_, and he had a wife was the plague o' his days, _and the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime_. * * * * * there was an old farmer in sussex did dwell, and he had a bad wife, as many knew well. then satan came to the old man at the plough,-- "one of your family i must have now. "it is not your eldest son that i crave, but it is your old wife, and she i will have." "o welcome, good satan, with all my heart! i hope you and she will never more part." now satan has got the old wife on his back, and he lugged her along like a pedlar's pack. he trudged away till they came to his hall-gate: says he, "here, take in an old sussex chap's mate. o then she did kick the young imps about,-- says one to the other, "let's try turn her out." she spied thirteen imps all dancing in chains, she up with her pattens, and beat out their brains. she knocked the old satan against the wall,-- "let's try turn her out, or she'll murder us all." now he's bundled her up on his back amain, and to her old husband he took her again. "i have been a tormentor the whole of my life, but i ne'er was tormented till i met with your wife." the duel of wharton and stuart. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . the unhappy event upon which the following ballad is founded took place under the reign of james the vi. "the sufferers in this melancholy affair were both men of high birth, the heirs-apparent of two noble families, and youths of the most promising expectation. sir james stuart was a knight of the bath, and eldest son of walter, first lord blantyre, by nicholas, daughter of sir james somerville of cambusnethan. sir george wharton was also a knight of the bath, and eldest son of philip, lord wharton, by frances, daughter of henry clifford, earl of cumberland. he married anne, daughter of the earl of rutland, but left no issue." scott. this ballad was printed in the first edition of ritson's _ancient songs_, p. , from a black-letter copy in major pearson's collection, (afterwards part of the roxburghe.) scott's version appears to have been obtained from james hogg. "two verses have been added," says sir walter, "and one considerably improved, from mr. ritson's edition. these three stanzas are the fifth and ninth of part first, and the penult verse of part second. i am thus particular, that the reader may be able, if he pleases, to compare the traditional ballad with the original edition. it furnishes striking evidence, that 'without characters, fame lives long.' the difference chiefly to be remarked betwixt the copies, lies in the dialect, and in some modifications applicable to scotland; as, using the words "our scottish knight." the black-letter ballad, in like manner, terms wharton "our english knight." in this connection we may mention another ballad founded on a duel--_sir niel and mac van_, in buchan's larger collection, ii. . a stall copy is called _sir neil and glengyle_. part first. it grieveth me to tell you o' near london late what did befall, 'twixt two young gallant gentlemen; it grieveth me, and ever shall. one of them was sir george wharton, my good lord wharton's son and heir; the other, james stuart, a scottish knight, one that a valiant heart did bear. when first to court these nobles came, one night, a-gaming, fell to words,[l ] and in their fury grew so hot, that they did both try their keen swords. no manner of treating, nor advice, could hold from striking in that place; for, in the height and heat of blood, james struck george wharton on the face. "what doth this mean," george wharton said, "to strike in such unmanly sort? but, that i take it at thy hands, the tongue of man shall ne'er report!" "but do thy worst, then," said sir james, "now do thy worst, appoint a day! there's not a lord in england breathes shall gar me give an inch of way." "ye brag right weel," george wharton said; "let our brave lords at large alane, and speak of me, that am thy foe, for you shall find enough o' ane." "i'll interchange my glove wi' thine; i'll show it on the bed of death; i mean the place where we shall fight; there ane or both maun lose life and breath!" "we'll meet near waltham," said sir james; "to-morrow, that shall be the day. we'll either take a single man, and try who bears the bell away." then down together hands they shook, without any envious sign; then went to ludgate, where they lay, and each man drank his pint of wine. no kind of envy could be seen, no kind of malice they did betray; but a' was clear and calm as death, whatever in their bosoms lay: till parting time; and then, indeed, they show'd some rancour in their heart; "next time we meet," says george wharton, "not half sae soundly we shall part!" so they have parted, firmly bent their valiant minds equal to try: the second part shall clearly show, both how they meet, and how they die. part second. george wharton was the first ae man came to the appointed place that day, where he espyed our scots lord coming, as fast as he could post away. they met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale; then to george wharton james did say, "i dinna like your doublet, george, it stands sae weel on you this day. "say, have you got no armour on? have you no under robe of steel? i never saw an englishman become his doublet half sae weel." "fy no! fy no!" george wharton said, "for that's the thing that mauna be, that i should come wi' armour on, and you a naked man truly." "our men shall search our doublets, george, and see if one of us do lie; then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp, ourselves true gallants for to be." then they threw off their doublets both, and stood up in their sarks of lawn; "now, take my counsel," said sir james, "wharton, to thee i'll make it knawn: "so as we stand, so will we fight, thus naked in our sarks," said he; "fy no! fy no!" george wharton says, "that is the thing that must not be. "we're neither drinkers, quarrellers, nor men that cares na for oursell, nor minds na what we're gaun about, or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell. "let us to god bequeath our souls, our bodies to the dust and clay:" with that he drew his deadly sword, the first was drawn on field that day. se'en bouts and turns these heroes had, or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; our scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd, "stout wharton, thou still hauds thy awn!" the first stroke that george wharton gae, he struck him thro' the shoulder-bane; the neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; he thought our scotch lord had been slain. "o ever alack!" george wharton cry'd, "art thou a living man, tell me? if there's a surgeon living can, he's cure thy wounds right speedily." "no more of that," james stuart said; "speak not of curing wounds to me! for one of us must yield our breath, ere off the field one foot we flee." they looked oure their shoulders both, to see what company was there: they both had grievous marks of death, but frae the other nane wad steer. george wharton was the first that fell, our scotch lord fell immediately; they both did cry to him above to save their souls, for they boud die. . sir george wharton was quarrelsome at cards; a temper which he exhibited so disagreeably when playing with the earl of pembroke, that the earl told him, "sir george, i have loved you long; but by your manner in playing, you lay it upon me either to leave to love you, or to leave to play with you; wherefore choosing to love you still, i will never play with you any more."--lodge's _illustrations_, vol. iii. p. . scott. saddle to rags. from _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, percy society, vol. xvii. p. . the editor took this piece down from the recitation of a yorkshire yeoman. other ballads are popular with nearly the same plot, one of them called _the crafty ploughboy, or the highwayman outwitted_. another of a similar description is _jock the leg and the merry merchant_, (buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. ,) formed on the model of some robin hood ballad. this story i'm going to sing, i hope it will give you content, concerning a silly old man that was going to pay his rent. as he was a-riding along, along all on the highway, a gentleman-thief overtook him, and thus unto him did say. "o well overtaken, old man, o well overtaken," said he; "thank you kindly, sir," says the old man, "if you be for my companie." "how far are you going this way?" it made the old man to smile; "to tell you the truth, kind sir, i'm just a-going twa mile. "i am but a silly old man, who farms a piece of ground; my half-year rent, kind sir, just comes to forty pound. "but my landlord's not been at hame,-- i've not seen him twelve month or more; it makes my rent to be large, i've just to pay him fourscore." "you should not have told any body, for thieves there are ganging many; if they were to light upon you, they would rob you of every penny." "o never mind," says the old man, "thieves i fear on no side; my money is safe in my bags, in the saddle on which i ride." as they were a-riding along, and riding a-down a ghyll, the thief pulled out a pistòl, and bade the old man stand still. the old man was crafty and false, as in this world are many; he flung his old saddle o'er t' hedge, and said, "fetch it, if thou'lt have any." this thief got off his horse, with courage stout and bold, to search this old man's bags, and gave him his horse to hold. the old man put foot in stirrup, and he got on astride, he set the thief's horse in a gallop,-- you need not bid th' old man ride! "o stay! o stay!" says the thief, "and thou half my share shalt have:" "nay, marry, not i," quoth the old man, "for once i've bitten a knave!" this thief he was not content; he thought these must be bags; so he up with his rusty sword, and chopped the old saddle to rags. the old man gallop'd and rode until he was almost spent, till he came to his landlord's house, and paid him his whole year's rent. he opened this rogue's portmantle; it was glorious for to behold; there was five hundred pound in money, and other five hundred in gold. his landlord it made him to stare, when he did the sight behold; "where did thou get the white money, and where get the yellow gold?" "i met a fond fool by the way, i swapped horses, and gave him no boot; but never mind," says the old man, "i got a fond fool by the foot." "but now you're grown cramped and old, nor fit for to travel about;" "o never mind," says the old man, "i can give these old bones a root!" as he was a-riding hame, and a-down a narrow lane, he spied his mare tied to a tree, and said, "tib, thou'lt now gae hame." and when that he got hame, and told his old wife what he'd done, she rose and she donned her clothes, and about the house did run. she sung, and she danced, and sung, and she sung with a merry devotion, "if ever our daughter gets wed, it will help to enlarge her portion!" the fause knight upon the road. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. lxxiv. "o whare are ye gaun?" quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "i'm gaun to the scule," quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. "what is that upon your back?" quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "atweel it is my bukes," quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. "what's that ye've got on your arm?" quo' the fause knicht, &c. "atweel it is my peit," quo' the wee boy, &c. "wha's aucht they sheep?" quo' the fause knicht, &c. "they are mine and my mither's," quo' the wee boy, &c. "how monie o' them are mine?" quo' the fause knicht, &c. "a' they that hae blue tails," quo' the wee boy, &c. "i wiss ye were on yon tree," quo' the fause knicht, &c. "and a gude ladder under me," quo' the wee boy, &c. "and the ladder for to break," quo' the fause knicht, &c. "and you for to fa' doun," quo' the wee boy, &c. "i wiss ye were in yon sie," quo' the fause knicht, &c. "and a gude bottom under me," quo' the wee boy, &c. "and the bottom for to break," quo' the fause knicht upon the road; "and ye to be drowned," quo' the wee boy, and still he stude. gifts from over sea. appendix to p. . wright's _songs and carols, printed from a ms. in the sloane collection_, no. . i have a zong suster fer bezondyn the se, many be the drowryis that [s]che sente me. [s]che sente me the cherye withoutyn ony ston, and so [s]che dede [the] dowe withoutyn ony bon: sche sente me the brere withoutyn ony rynde, sche bad me love my lemman withoute longgyng. how xuld ony cherye be withoute ston? and how xuld ony dowe ben withoute bon? how xuld any brere ben withoute rynde? how xuld i love myn lemman without longyng? quan the cherye was a flour, than hadde it non ston: quan the dowe was an ey, than hadde it non bon: quan the brere was on-bred, than hadde it non rynd: quan the mayden hazt that [s]che louth, [s]che is without longyng. the courteous knight. appendix to p. , p. . from _buchan's ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . there was a knight, in a summer's night, appear'd in a lady's hall, as she was walking up and down, looking o'er her castle wall. "god make you safe and free, fair maid, god make you safe and free!" "o sae fa' you, ye courteous knight; what are your wills wi' me? "my wills wi' you are not sma', lady, my wills wi' you nae sma'; and since there's nane your bower within, ye'se ha'e my secrets a'. "for here am i a courtier, a courtier come to thee; and if ye winna grant your love, all for your sake i'll dee." "if that ye dee for me, sir knight, few for you will make meen; for mony gude lord's done the same, their graves are growing green." "o winna ye pity me, fair maid, o winna ye pity me? o winna ye pity a courteous knight, whose love is laid on thee?" "ye say ye are a courteous knight, but i think ye are nane; i think ye're but a millar bred, by the color o' your claithing. "you seem to be some false young man, you wear your hat sae wide; you seem to be some false young man, you wear your boots sae side." "indeed i am a courteous knight, and of great pedigree; nae knight did mair for a lady bright than i will do for thee. "o i'll put smiths in your smithy, to shoe for you a steed; and i'll put tailors in your bower, to make you for a weed. "i will put cooks in your kitchen, and butlers in your ha'; and on the tap o' your father's castle, i'll big gude corn and saw." "if ye be a courteous knight, as i trust not ye be, ye'll answer some o' the sma' questions that i will ask at thee. "what is the fairest flower, tell me, that grows in muir or dale?[l ] likewise, which is the sweetest bird sings next the nightingale? or what's the finest thing," she says, "that king or queen can wale?[l ] "the primrose is the fairest flower that grows in muir or dale;[l ] the mavis is the sweetest bird next to the nightingale; and yellow gowd's the finest thing that king or queen can wale. "ye ha'e asked many questions, lady, i've you as many told;" "but, how many pennies round make a hundred pounds in gold? "how many of the small fishes, do swim the salt seas round? or, what's the seemliest sight you'll see into a may morning?" "berry-brown ale, and a birken speal, and wine in a horn green; a milk-white lace in a fair maid's dress, looks gay in a may morning." "mony's the questions i've ask'd at thee, and ye've answer'd them a'; ye are mine, and i am thine, amo' the sheets sae sma'." "you may be my match, kind sir, you may be my match and more; there ne'er was ane came sic a length, wi' my father's heir before. "my father's lord o' nine castles, my mother she's lady ower three, and there is nane to heir them all, no never a ane but me; unless it be willie, my ae brother, but he's far ayont the sea." "if your father's laird o' nine castles, your mother lady ower three; i am willie your ae brother, was far beyond the sea." "if ye be willie, my ae brother, as i doubt sair ye be; but if it's true ye tell me now, this night i'll gang wi' thee." "ye've ower ill washen feet, janet, and ower ill washen hands, and ower coarse robes on your body, alang wi' me to gang. "the worms they are my bed-fellows, and the cauld clay my sheet; and the higher that the wind does blaw, the sounder i do sleep. "my body's buried in dumfermline, and far beyond the sea; but day nor night, nae rest cou'd get, all for the pride o' thee. "leave aff your pride, jelly janet," he says, "use it not ony mair; or when ye come where i hae been, you will repent it sair. "cast aff, cast aff, sister," he says, "the gowd lace fray your crown; for if ye gang where i ha'e been, ye'll wear it laigher down. "when ye're in the gude church set, the gowd pins in your hair, ye take mair delight in your feckless dress than ye do in your morning prayer. "and when ye walk in the church-yard, and in your dress are seen, there is nae lady that sees your face but wishes your grave were green. "you're straight and tall, handsome withall, but your pride owergoes your wit; but if ye do not your ways refrain, in pirie's chair ye'll sit. "in pirie's chair you'll sit, i say, the lowest seat o' hell; if ye do not amend your ways, it's there that ye must dwell." wi' that he vanish'd frae her sight, wi' the twinkling o' an eye; naething mair the lady saw, but the gloomy clouds and sky. , , mire. , wile. the northern lord and cruel jew. appendix to p. . this ballad, which has some features of resemblance to _cymbeline_, as well as to the _merchant of venice_, is taken from buchan's _gleanings of scotch, english, and irish scarce old ballads_, p. . another copy is in mr. halliwell's _new boke about shakspeare_, p. . a noble lord of high renown, two daughters had, the eldest brown, the youngest beautiful and fair: by chance a noble knight came there. her father said, "kind sir, i have two daughters: which do you crave?" "one that is beautiful," he cried; the noble knight he then replied: "she's young, she's beautiful and gay, and is not to be given away, but as jewels are bought and sold; she shall bring me her weight in gold. "the price i think ye need not grudge, since i will freely give as much with her one sister, if i can find out some other nobleman." with that bespoke the noble knight, "i'd sooner have the beauty bright, at that vast rate, renownèd lord, than the other with a vast reward." so then the bargain it was made; but ere the money could be paid, he had it of a wealthy jew; the sum so large, the writings drew that if he failed, or miss'd the day, so many ounces he should pay of his own flesh, instead of gold; all was agreed, the sum was told. so he returned immediately unto the lord, where he did buy his daughter fine, i do declare, and paid him down the money there. he bought her there, it is well known unto mankind; she was his own; by her a son he did enjoy, a sweet and comely handsome boy. at length the time of pay drew near, when the knight did begin to fear; he dreaded much the cruel jew, because the money it was due. his lady asked him why he grieved: he said, "my jewel, i received such sum of money of a jew, and now the money it is due. "and now the day of payment's come, i'm sure i cannot pay the sum; he'll have my flesh, weight for weight, which makes my grief and sorrow great." "hush, never fear him," she replied; "we'll cross the raging ocean wide, and so secure you from the fate:" to her request he yielded straight. then having pass'd the raging seas, they travelled on, till by degrees unto the german court they came, the knight, his son, and comely dame. unto the emperor he told his story of the sum of gold that he had borrowed of a jew, and that for fear of death he flew. the emperor he did erect a court for them, and show'd respect unto his guests, because they came from britain, that blest land of fame. as here he lived in delight, a dutch lord told our english knight, that he a ton of gold would lay, he could enjoy his lady gay. from her, the lord he was to bring a rich and costly diamond ring, that was to prove and testify how he did with his lady lie. he tries, but never could obtain her favour, but with high disdain she did defy his base intent; so to her chambermaid he went, and told her if she would but steal her lady's ring, and to conceal the same, and bring it to him straight, she should enjoy a fine estate. in hopes of such a fine reward, the ring she stole; then the dutch lord did take it to the noble knight, who almost swooned at the sight. home he goes to the lady straight; meeting her at the palace gate, he flung her headlong into the mote, and left her there to sink or float. soon after that, in clothes of green, she like a warlike knight was seen, and in most gallant gay deport she rode unto the emperor's court. now when the emperor beheld her brave deportment, he was fill'd with admiration at the sight, who call'd herself an english knight. the emperor then did reply, "we have an english knight to die for drowning of his lady gay;" quoth she, "i'd see him, if i may." 'twas granted; so to him she came, and calling of him by his name, she said, "kind sir, be of good cheer; your friend i'll be, you need not fear." she to the emperor did ride, and said, "now let this cause be tried once more, for i've a mind to save this noble gallant from the grave." it being done, the court was set; the dutch lord came, seeming to fret, about the ring seeming to fear, how truth would make his shame appear. and so it did, and soon they call the maid, who on her knees did fall before the court, and did confess the dutch lord's unworthiness. the court repliéd, "is it so? the lady, too, for ought we know, may be alive; therefore we'll stay the sentence till another day." now the dutch lord gave him a ton of gold, which he had justly won, and so he did with shame and grief, and thus the knight obtain'd relief. the dutch lord to revenge the spite upon our noble english knight, did send a letter out of hand, and so the jew did understand, how he was in a german court; so here upon this good report, the jew has cross'd the ocean wide, resolving to be satisfied. soon as e'er he fixed his eyes, unto the knight in wrath he cries, "your hand and seal i pray behold; your flesh i'll have instead of gold." [then] said the noble knight in green, "may not your articles be seen?" "yes, that they may," replied the jew, "and i'm resolved to have my due." so then the knight began to read; at length she said, "i find, indeed, nothing but flesh you are to have;" answers the jew, "that's all i crave." the poor distressed knight was brought; the bloody-minded jew he thought that day to be reveng'd on him, and part his flesh from every limb. the knight in green said, "mr. jew, there's nothing else but flesh your due; then see no drop of blood you shed, for if you do, off goes your head. "pray take your due, with all my heart, but with his blood i will not part." with that the jew sneaked away, and had not one word more to say. no sooner were these troubles past, but his wife's father came at last, resolving for to have his life, for drowning his beloved wife. over the seas her father brought many brave horses; one was bought by the pretended knight in green, which was the best that e'er was seen. so to the german court he came, declaring, such a one by name had drowned his fair daughter dear, and ought to die a death severe. they brought him from the prison then, guarded by many armed men, unto the place where he must die, and the young knight was standing by. then from her side her sword she drew, and run her gelding through and through. her father said, "why do you so?" "i may; it is my own, you know. "you sold your gelding, 'tis well known; i bought it, making it my own, and may do what i please with it;" and then to her he did submit. "here is a man arraign'd and cast, and brought to suffer death at last, because your daughter dear he slew; which if he did, what's that to you? "you had your money, when you sold your daughter for her weight in gold; wherefore he might, it is well known, do what he pleased with his own." so having chang'd her garments green, and dress'd herself like a fair queen, her father and her husband straight both knew her, and their joys were great. soon they did carry the report unto the famous german court, how the renowned english knight had found his charming lady bright. so the emperor and the lords of fame, with cheerful hearts they did proclaim an universal joy, to see his lady's life at liberty. gight's lady. appendix to p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . buchan complains that all other editions of this ballad "have been deprived of their original beauty and catastrophe" by officious and sacrilegious hands, and adds that his copy "is quite at variance with all its printed predecessors." in this last remark he is certainly correct, but as for his affirmation that the ballad "recounts an affair which actually took place in the reign, or rather minority, of king james vi.," we ask for some authority beyond his note to the ballad. in another copy mentioned by motherwell, geordie, from jealousy, ungratefully drowns his deliverer in the sea. "first i was lady o' black riggs, and then into kincraigie; now i am the lady o' gight, and my love he's ca'd geordie. "i was the mistress o' pitfan, and madam o' kincraigie; but now my name is lady anne, and i am gight's own lady. "we courted in the woods o' gight, where birks and flow'rs spring bonny; but pleasures i had never one, but sorrows thick and mony. "he never own'd me as his wife, nor honour'd me as his lady, but day by day he saddles the grey, and rides to bignet's lady." when bignet he got word of that, that gight lay wi' his lady, he's casten him in prison strong, to ly till lords were ready. "where will i get a little wee boy, that is baith true and steady, that will run on to bonny gight, and bring to me my lady?" "o here am i, a little wee boy, that is baith true and steady, that will run to the yates o' gight, and bring to you your lady." "ye'll bid her saddle the grey, the grey, the brown rode ne'er so smartly; ye'll bid her come to edinbro' town, a' for the life of geordie." the night was fair, the moon was clear, and he rode by bevany, and stopped at the yates o' gight, where leaves were thick and mony. the lady look'd o'er castle wa', and dear but she was sorry! "here comes a page frae edinbro' town; a' is nae well wi' geordie. "what news, what news, my little boy? come tell me soon and shortly;" "bad news, bad news, my lady," he said, "they're going to hang your geordie." "ye'll saddle to me the grey, the grey, the brown rade ne'er so smartly; and i'll awa' to edinbro' town, borrow the life o' geordie." when she came near to edinbro' town, i wyte she didna tarry; but she has mounted her grey steed, and ridden the queen's berry. when she came to the boat of leith, i wat she didna tarry; she gae the boatman a guinea o' gowd, to boat her ower the ferry. when she came to the pier o' leith, the poor they were sae many; she dealt the gowd right liberallie, and bade them pray for geordie. when she gaed up the tolbooth stair, the nobles there were many: and ilka ane stood hat on head, but hat in hand stood geordie. she gae a blink out ower them a', and three blinks to her geordie; but when she saw his een fast bound, a swoon fell in this lady. "whom has he robb'd? what has he stole? or has he killed ony? or what's the crime that he has done, his foes they are sae mony?" "he hasna brunt, he hasna slain, he hasna robbed ony; but he has done another crime, for which he will pay dearly." then out it speaks lord montague, (o wae be to his body!) "the day we hang'd young charles hay, the morn we'll head your geordie." then out it speaks the king himsell, vow, but he spake bonny! "come here, young gight, confess your sins, let's hear if they be mony. "come here, young gight, confess your sins, see ye be true and steady; and if your sins they be but sma', then ye'se win wi' your lady." "nane have i robb'd, nought have i stown, nor have i killed ony; but ane o' the king's best brave steeds, i sold him in bevany." then out it speaks the king again, dear, but he spake bonny! "that crime's nae great; for your lady's sake, put on your hat now, geordie." then out it speaks lord montague, o wae be to his body! "there's guilt appears in gight's ain face, ye'll cross examine geordie." "now since it all i must confess, my crime's baith great and mony: a woman abused, five orphan babes, i kill'd them for their money." out it speaks the king again, and dear but he was sorry! "your confession brings confusion, take aff your hat now, geordie." then out it speaks the lady hersell, vow, but she was sorry! "now all my life i'll wear the black, mourn for the death o' geordie." lord huntly then he did speak out, o fair mot fa' his body! "i there will fight doublet alane, or ony thing ails geordie." then out it speaks the king again, vow, but he spake bonny! "if ye'll tell down ten thousand crowns, ye'll buy the life o' geordie." she spread her mantle on the ground, dear, but she spread it bonny! some gae her crowns, some ducadoons, and some gae dollars mony. then she tauld down ten thousand crowns,-- "put on your hat, my geordie." then out it speaks lord montague, wae be to his body! "i wisht that gight wanted the head; i might enjoy'd his lady." out it speaks the lady hersell, "ye need ne'er wish my body; o ill befa' your wizzen'd snout! wou'd ye compare wi' geordie?" when she was in her saddle set, riding the leys sae bonny, the fiddle and fleet play'd ne'er sae sweet, as she behind her geordie. "o geordie, geordie, i love you well, nae jealousie cou'd move me; the birds in air, that fly in pairs, can witness how i love you. "ye'll call for one, the best o' clerks, ye'll call him soon and shortly; as he may write what i indite, a' this i've done for geordie." he turn'd him right and round about, and high, high looked geordie; "a finger o' bignet's lady's hand is worth a' your fair body." "my lands may a' be masterless, my babes may want their mother; but i've made a vow, will keep it true, i'll be bound to no other." these words they caus'd a great dispute, and proud and fierce grew geordie; a sharp dagger he pulled out, and pierc'd the heart o's lady. the lady's dead, and gight he's fled, and left his lands behind him; altho' they searched south and north, there were nane there cou'd find him. now a' that liv'd into black riggs, and likewise in kincraigie, for seven years were clad in black, to mourn for gight's own lady. glossary. [pointing hand] figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. aboon, _above_. abye, _pay a penalty for_, _suffer_. ae, _one_. a-fit, _afoot_. ahin, ahint, _behind_, _besides_. airn, _iron_. anceane, _ancient_, _aged_. ane, ? aneath, _beneath_. angel, _a coin worth from s. d. to s._ aninder, _under_. anis, _once_. aquoy, _coy_, _averse._ a-rowe, _in a row_. assy-pan, , _ash-pan_. astonyd, _confounded_. athir, _either_. atweel, _well_, _very well_. atween, _between_. avow, _vow_. aw, _all_. ayont, _beyond_, _on the other side of_. ban'd, _execrated_. bandoun, , _captivity_. barker, _tanner_, from the bark used in his business. barrow-hogge, , _a gelded hog_. battes, _cudgels_, or _blows_. bauld, , _bold_, _self-complacent_. bayarde, _bay-horse_, _horse in general_: "blind bayard" was a proverb. be, _by_. bede, , _put forward_, _offer_. behuvit, _behoved_, _must_. beik, , _warm_. ben, bend, _in_. bent, _coarse grass_, _field_. berry, , corrupt? besene, wel, _appearing well_, _well dressed_, _&c._ bet, _beat_. bet, _better_. beth, _both_. betrasit, _betrayed_. beur, _bore_. big, , _cultivate_. bigly, _spacious_, _commodious_. bill, _bull_. bill, _halbert_. birk, _birch_. birled, _poured out drink_, _drank_. blanne, _stopped_. bledoch, _buttermilk_. blink, _smile_; blinkit, , _looked kindly_. bolles, _bowls_. borrow, borrowit, _ransom_, _ransomed_. bot and, _but also_. boud, , _behoved_, _must needs_. bouks, _bodies_. bour, bower, _chamber_, _dwelling_. bowne, _ready_. brast, _burst_. brat, _cloth_. bra', braw, _brave_, _handsome_; braw wallie, _fair fortune_, exclamation of pleasure or admiration. brayn-pannes, _skulls_. bred, _breed_. bree, _soup_, _broth_. brenning, _burning_; brenyng drake, _fire-drake_, _fiery dragon_. brest, _burst_. bricht, the, , _the fair one_. brode-hen, , _brood-hen_, _sitting-hen_? brodit, _pierced_. brok, bruik, bruke, _have possession of_, _enjoy_, _keep_. bruchty, _spotted_, or _streaked_ with dirt; brucket yowe, , _speckled ewe_. brunt, _burnt_. bur, _bore_. burne, _brook_. buskit, _dressed_. but and ben, _out and in_. ca'd, _called_; , _driven_. cadgily, _merrily_. can, could, used as auxiliaries to form the perfect and pluperfect tenses. cannilie, _softly_. cantels, _pieces_. canty, _merry_. capull, _horse_. carle, _fellow_. carpe, _to talk_, _discourse_, _tell stories_. casey, _causeway_. caud, _called_. cauk, _chalk_. chappit, _tapped_, _knocked_. cheape, _bargain_. chefe, cheveron, _upper part of the escutcheon_. chiel, _young man_, _servant_. childer-gamme, _children's game_. choice, _choose_. christendye, _christendom_. claise, _clothes_. clead, _clad_. cleikit, _caught_. cleir, _bright_. clenkyng, _clinking_. coffer, _head-dress_, _cap_. coft, _bought_, _redeemed_. cokeney, , "seems to be a diminutive for cook," says percy. the word more probably denotes some kind of _lean or common meat_. see wright's note. cold, _could_. comyn, _come_. con, see can. confound, _destroy_. coost, , _region_, _direction_. could of courtesie, _knew what was good manners_. cors, _body_. couple, _rafter_. courtnalls, a disrespectful (?) name for _courtiers_. cow, _twig_. cowth ring, , _had reigned_; see can. crap, _crop_, _yield_. crech, _creek_, _crutch_. creppid, _crept_. crook (my knee), _make lame_. they say in the north, "the horse crooks," _i. e._ goes lame. percy. crouse, _brisk_, _merry_. cummerit, _vexed_, _bothered_. cund hir thank, _gave her thanks_. cunnand, _covenant_, _engagement_. curtass, _courteous_. daigh, _dough_. dang, _knocked_. dawing, _dawning_. de, dee, _die_; deed, _died_. denay, _refuse_. dent, _blow_. deport, , _array_. deray, _ruin_, _confusion_. descryed, _described_, _related_. develling, , _sauntering_. dicht, , _circumstanced_: dicht to deid, , _done_ or _put to death_. disjune, _breakfast_. dizt, (dight), _dressed_. do, dow, you down, _take yourself down_. dole, dool, _grief_. donned, , _dun_. douse, _blow_. doute, _fear_. dow, _dove_. down-browit, _scowling_. doz troz, _dough trough_. drake, _dragon_. drowryis, _love-gifts_. dryt, _dirt_. ducadoons, _ducats_. (?) dulfully, _dolefully_, _sadly_. dun feather and gray, by, , _by a carrier pigeon_. dungin down, _beat down_, _overcame_. duzty, _doughty_; duztynesse, _doughtiness_. dyke, _ditch_ or _wall_. earn, , _curdle_. ee, ene, _eye_, _eyes_. eftir syne, _afterwards_. eneuch, _enough_. ey, _egg_. fa', _fall_, _befall_. fain, _glad_, _pleased_, _enamored_. fairheid, _beauty_. fald, , _fold_, _embrace_. falle, _fell_. fancy, _love_. fand, _found_. fang, _grasp_ (_and carry off_). fannes, , _winnowing fans_. fare, _go_. fauld, _fold_. fay, _faith_. fecht, _fight_. feckless, , _poor_, _miserable_. fee, _property_. feind fall, _the devil take_. fel, , , _many_. (?) fell, _hide_. fere, _mate_. ferly, _wonder_, _miracle_; _wonderfully_. fet, _fetched_. ffor, , _from_, _against_. firm, , _first_? qy. corrupt? firstae, _first one_, _first_. fitted, , _disposed_? flatred, _flattened_, _broken_? fleechin, _wheedling_. fleet, _flute_. flirry, _blossom_. fold, , _ground_, _world_. fole, _full_. fond, _foolish_. forbye, _over and above_. forfend, _forbid_. forfozt, _worn out with fighting_. forrow, _before_. fow, _full_. fowkyn, _crepitus ventris_. percy. fre, _free_, _noble_. freke, _man_, _fellow_. fullily, _foully_. fusome, _fulsome_. ga, _go_. ga', _gall_. gaberlunzie, _a wallet_; gaberlunzie-man, _a man that carries a wallet_, _beggar_. gabs, _mouths_. gadlyngs, _idle lads_. gait, _path_, _way_. gane, _gone_. gappe, , _entrance of the lists_. gar, _cause_, _make_. gaun, _going_. gear, geere, _property_. gedurt, _gathered_. gife, gin, _if_. gip, , like gup, _get up_, _be off_, _&c._ gled, _kite_. gloamin', _twilight_. gloom, _frown_. goud, _gold_. gowt, , v. , ms. harl., should perhaps be, "_yf i_ have," &c. grate, _scratch_. gravat, _cravat_. graythid, _made ready_. gre, , _prize_. greave, _manager of a farm_. grit, _great_. gudefather, _father-in-law_. gurde, _struck_. gyand, gyane, _giant_. had, _hold_. hairt, _heart_. hard, _heard_. harnis, _brains_. harnys, , _horns_. harwos, _harrows_. haud, _hold_, _keep_. he, _high_, _noble_. heck, _hatch_, _small-door_. heid, _head_. hellis-cruk, , _a crook by which vessels are hung over the fire_. hend, , _gentle_; aytoun reads, "hain'd," _spared_, _saved_. hent, _took_. het, _heated_. hicher, _higher_. hight, _promised_. hilt, _taken_. hindir, , _hundred_. hiphalt, _lame in the hip_. hireman chiel, _man-servant_. hit, _it_. holt, _grove_; sometimes, _hill_. horse-brat, _horse-cloth_. husband, _husbandman_. hussy, _housewife_; husyskep, _housekeeping_. hynt, _took_. hyzt, _promised_. ifere, _together_. ilka, _each_. ill-fardly, _ill-favoredly_, _uglily_. ill-willy, _ill-natured_. in-fere, _together_. ingle, _fire_. intil, _in_. i-wiss, _surely_, _for a certainty_; sometimes seems to be ignorantly employed for i wot, _i know_. jetted, , _went proudly_. jimp, _slender_. jumlit, , _stirred rapidly_, used of the motion of churning. kaily, _cabbage-like_. kall, _drive_. kavis, _calves_. keel, _red ochre_. keming-stock, _back of a chimney grate_. kest, _cast_. kexis, _dried stalks of hemlock_. kid, _displayed_. kill, _kiln_. kind, _nature_. kirn, _churn_. kists, _chests_. kned, _kneed_. know, _knoll_. ky, _cows_. kynde, _nature_, _habit_; comyn of kynde, , _come of a good strain_? kyrne, _churn_; kyrnd, _churned_. laigher, _lower_. laith, _loath_; laithliest, _loathsomest_. laitis, lusty, _pleasant manners_. lambs-wool, _a beverage made of ale and roasted apples_. lane, her, _alone by herself_. lauchty, , _pale_, _white_? lawing, _scot_, _tavern-reckoning_. leal, _honest_. lear'd, _learned_. led, , (of laws) _carried out_. (?) lenth, _length_. lese, _lose_. let, _desist_, _omit_. leuch, _laughed_. lever, _rather_. leys, _leas_. lightlye, _without good reason_. likame, _body_. lintseed bow, _the globule which contains the seed of flax_. lizt, _light_. lone, in the, , "_an opening between fields of corn, for driving the cattle homeward, or milking cows_." losel, _worthless fellow_. lout, _let_. louz, lowe, _laughed_. low, _flame_. lowte, _bow_; lowtit, _bent_. lugs, _ears_. lyarde, _gray horse_, _horse in general_. lyt, _little_, _a little while_. mane, _moan_. maries, _maid-servants_. maun, _must_. mavis, _song-thrush_. may, _maid_. meen, _moan_. meisseine, , _mizzen-sail_. mekle, _much_. menzie, _many_, _retinue_. merk, _dark_, _sad_. micht, _might_. micull, _great_. minny, _mother_. moe, _more_. mone, _man_. mot, mought, _may_. mou, mow, _mouth_. muckle, _much_. muir, _moor_. myskaryd, , _miscarried_, _disadvantageously disposed of_. nappy (of ale), _strong_. native, , _true-born_. neb, _nose_, _beak_. nedis hase spedde, _succeeded in what he wanted_. neis, _nose_. neist, _next_. nolles, _heads_. nones, _nonce_. nourice, _nurse_. nozt, _nought_. ohon, _alas_. on loft, , _aloft_, i. e. _standing up_, or _on horseback_. onys, _once_. other, , _or_? our, ower, _over_, _too_; our all quhair, , _everywhere_. ourtuk, _overtook_. pairt, _part_. palmer, _pilgrim_, _vagabond_. panis, _pains_. pannell, panele, , , _a rustic saddle_, _a pad_, _without frame or bow_. paramour, , _passionately_. partake, , _impart_, _assign_. pass, _care_. pat-fit, _pot-foot_. pawky, _sly_. pechmyn, _parchment_. peit, , _whip_. pele, _long-handled baker's shovel_. pendles, _ear-rings_. pirie's chair, ? ploo-mell, plow-mell, _"a small wooden hammer occasionally fixed to the plough_." percy. ploom, _plum_. pluch, _plough_. pollis, _polls_. porcupig, _porcupine_. poudurt, _powdered_. prayse-folk, ? prees, _press_, _crowd_. prest, _ready_, _eager_. priefe, _prove_. priving, _proof_. progeny, , _descent_. quert, , _high spirits_, _hilarity_. quha, _&c. who_, _&c._ quhill, _till_. ra, _roe_. ramped, rampit, _rushed violently_, _pranced about in bad humor_. rant, _make merry_, _riot_. rarely, , _dear_. raton, _rat_. rauzt, _reft_, _took away_. reade, _advice_. record, , _avowal_; draw to record, _take to witness_. red, , to part (them). reet, , _root_. refe, _steward_, _bailiff_. remorse, , _tenderness of feeling_. renning, _running_. reve, _take from_. richt, _right_. ridand, _riding_. ring, , _reign_. rok, _distaff_. roose, , _boast of_, _commend_. root, , rout, i. e. _stretch_, or _tramp_? rost, thu carpis of cold, , (proverb), _thou speakest to no purpose_? round claith and small, ? rout, _blow_. rowte, _crowd_. rowe, a-, upon a row, _in a row_. ruell bones, see gloss. to vol. i. ruggut, _pulled violently_. rung, _cudgel_, _staff_. ryschys, _rushes_. ryzt, _right_. sa, _so_. sair, _suit_, _satisfy_. sark, _shirt_. say, _essay_. scart, _scratch_. scho, _she_. schondir, in, _asunder_. se'en, _seven_. sen, _since_. sen, _send_, _grant_. senvye, _mustard-seed_. serk, _shirt_. set, _suit_. sevensum, _seven_. sheave, _slice_. shent, , _shamed_. shott-window, _projecting window_. shouthers, _shoulders_. shriefe, _sheriff_. shurtyng, , _sport_, _pastime_. sic, siccan, _such_. sicht, _sight_. side, _long_. sith, sithence, _since_. six-mennys song, _song for six voices_. skomfet, _discomfit_. skumd, _skimmed_. slatred, _broken_, _cracked_. slee, _sly_. smeek, _smoke_. sonde, _sending_. sooth, _truth_, _troth_. sorrow, _devil a bit_. sort, _style_; _company_, _swarm_ (of bees). sot, , _fool_. sould, _should_. sowkit, _sucked_. spait, _flood_, _freshet_. spare, , _opening in a gown or petticoat_. speal, , _chip_ or _shaving_. the sense? speer, _ask for_. speere, , "an aperture in the wall, shot-window." aytoun. (?) spence, _expense_. spright, sprite, _spirit_. spyre, _a post or pillar, supporting a shelf on which victuals are put_. see _gloss._ to jamieson's _pop. ball._ stark, _stiff_, _strong_. sted, stede, _place_. steer, _stir_. stert, _started_. stock, _the forepart of a bed further from the wall_. stollin, _stolen_. stondis, _stands_. stottis, _oxen_. stound, _time_. stoure, , _hurry_. stown, _stolen_. strae, _straw_. strene, this, , _yesternight_. stripe, , _measure_. swa, _so_. swear, _oath_. swete, , qy. sweté, _sweaty?_ swippyng, _striking fast_, as in threshing. swipylles, ; "a swepyl is _that staff of the flail with which the corn is beaten out_, vulgarly a supple," percy: _swingle_. swynkers, _laborers_. syde, _long_. syne, _then_. tald, _told_. tee, _too_. teene, _sorrow_, _suffering_. tent, , "_a kind of alicant, a general name for spanish wines, except white_." halliwell. tha, _then_. than, _then_. thannes, _thence_. thee, _thrive_. then, _than_. think lang, _suffer from ennui_. thir, _these_. tho, _then_. thouz, _though_. thrang, _close_. thristing, _thirsting_. thristlecock, _throstle_, _thrush_. thrustand, _thrusting_, _pressing_. tide, _time_. tint, _lost_. tittles and tattles, "_clots of dirt such as hang on a cow's tail_." to-brast, _burst in pieces_. to-claterde, , _beaten in_ (with noise)? to-flaterde, , _broken to pieces?_ tokynyng, , _token_, _sign_. tolbooth, _prison_. tone, _taken_. trestly, _truly_, _confidently_. trippande, _tripping_. tryst, _an appointment to meet_; _to make such an appointment_. tuggut, _tugged_. twatling, , _small_, _piddling_. twine, _part_ (_from_). unhappy, , _ill-conditioned_. unlusum, _unlovely_, _revolting_; was his likame dicht, , _unlovely was the condition into which his body was brought_. up, _upon_; upon lofte, _on high_. verrey, _very_, _true_. vow, _exclamation of admiration_. wa', _wall_. wad, _would_. wad, _wager_. waft, _weft_, _woof_. wale, _choose_. wallow't, _became pale_. wame, _belly_, _stomach_. wan, , _come_, _got_. war, _worse_. ware, _aware_. waryd, _cursed_. wat, _know_. wearifu', _causing pain or trouble_. wede, _dress_. weel-faurd, _well-favored_, _fair_. weet, _know_. weir, _war_. weir, , _were_. weloo, interjection of grief. we'se, _we shall or will_. wha's aucht, _who is it owns?_ whang, _slice_. whereas, _where that_, _where_. white moneye, _silver_. whoard, _hoard_, _keep_. whorles and spindles, , "_instruments used in scotland for spinning instead of spinning-wheels_." percy. wicht, _wight_, _creature_. wiel, _wield_. wight, _quick_. will, _uncertain how to proceed_, _distracted_. win, _go_. winna, _will not_. winsome, _gay_, _comely_, _pleasant_. withouttin, _without_. witted, , _endowed with wit?_ wo, woo, _sad_. wobs, _webs_. woir, _worse_. wood, _frantic_. wow, _woe_. wow, _vow_; exclamation of admiration. woweir, _wooer_, _suitor_. wraik, _wreck_. wrest and wrang, , _writhed and twisted_. wryth away, _put aside_. wynne, _joy_. wynnit, _dwelt_. wyspys, _wisps_. wyte, _blame_. wyte, for wot, _know_. yates, _gates_. ycha, _every_. yeersel, _yourself_. yeid, _went_. ye'se, _you shall or will_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yetts, _gates_. ying, _young_. yirne, _curdle_. ze, _ye_. zede, _went_. zet, _yet_. zong, _young_. index. the titles by which ballads are designated in this collection are here printed in roman letters; other titles, whether of ballads included in this collection, or not, and in general, all other references, in italic. in looking for a title, the articles, both the definite and the indefinite, are to be dropped. "o. b." denotes the often-referred-to collection of : "p. s." percy society publications: = signifies that two pieces are equivalent. * * * * * _aage og else_, danish bal. , . adam bel, clym of the cloughe, and wyllyam of cloudeslé. , , . _adam gordon_ (the freebooter). , : , xix. _adventures of faravla_, &c., irish fairy tale. , . _agnete og havmanden_, danish ballad. , . alison gross. , . allerlei-rauh, german tale. , . _alphonso and ganselo_ (or, _faithful friendship_), garl. g. will, p. , p. s. xxx: o. b. , : evans, , . als y yod on ay mounday. , , . _amadis._ , , . andrew lammie. , . annan water. , . _apuleius, metam._ , . _arabian nights._ , ; , . archie of ca'field. , , . _arden of feversham._ evans, , . _armenian lady's love_, wordsworth's. , . armstrong's good-night. , . armstrong and musgrave. , . _artèmire_, voltaire's. , . as i came from walsingham. , . _as i was walking under a grove_. , . _as you like it_. , xxv: , . _aschenputtel_, german tale. , . _audam and doorkhaunee_, afghan tale. , . auld maitland. , . _ausgleichung_, german ballad. , . _babe nourice_. , . babylon, or, the bonnie banks o' fordie. , . _baffled knight_. percy, , : = _too courteous knight_, ritson, anc. songs, , : durfey, , : = _the shepherd's son_, herd, , : = _jock sheep_, kinloch, ballad book, p. : = _blow the winds, heigh ho_, anc. poems, &c., p. , p. s. xvii. bell, _id._ p. . bailiff's daughter of islington. , . _ballad of matrymonie_. , . _bandello_. , , ; , . barbara allen's cruelty. , . barbara livingston. , . _baron (or laird) o' leys_. buchan, , ; kinloch, b. b. . baron of brackley. , , . _baron turned ploughman_. , . _bateman's tragedy_. o. b. , . ritson, anc. songs, , . battle of alford. , . battle of balrinnes. , . battle of bothwell bridge. , , . battle of corichie. , . battle of glenlivet. , . battle of harlaw. , , . battle of killiecrankie. , . battle of loudon hill. , . battle of otterbourne. , , , , . battle of pentland hills. , . battle of philiphaugh. , . battle of _sherramoor_ (burns). , . battle of sheriff-muir. , , . battle of _strath-aven_. , , . battle of tranent-muir, or preston-pans. , . _beautiful lady of kent_. bal. of peasantry, p. s. xvii. ; bell, _id._ . _bent sae brown_. , . _bergkonungen_, swedish bal. , . _berkshire lady's garland_. bal. of peasantry, p. s. xvii. ; moore, . bessie bell and mary gray. , . _betrayed lady_. , . _bettelman_, german bal. , . billie archie. , . _binnorie_. , . birth of robin hood. , , . [_de la_] _blanca niña_, spanish ballad. ii. . blancheflour and jellyflorice. , . blind beggar's daughter of bednall green. , . blood-stained son (_der blutige sohn_, translated). , . _blow the winds, heigh ho = baffled knight_. bludy serk. , . _blue beard_, , . _blue bird_, fairy tale. , . _bold burnett's daughter = bonny hynd_. bold pedlar and robin hood. , . _bold rankin_. , . bondsey and maisry. , , . bonnie annie. , . bonnie banks o' fordie. , . bonnie george campbell. , . bonnie house o' airly. , , . _bonnie lass of anglesey_. herd, , : buchan, , . _bonnie susie cleland_. , . bonny baby livingston. , . bonny barbara allan. , . bonny bee-ho'm. , : , . _bonny birdy_. , . bonny bows o' london. , . bonny earl of murray. , , : , . _bonny hind squire_. , , . _bonny hynd_. scott's _minstrelsy_, , : = _lizie wan_, herd, ed. , , : = the _broom blooms bonnie_, &c. motherwell, lxxxiv. : = _castle ha's daughter_, buchan, , . also called _lady jean_, motherwell, appendix, p. xxi., and _bold burnett's daughter_, buchan, , . bonny john seton. , . _bonny may_. , . bothwell. , , . _bothwell lines_. , . boy and the mantle. , . boyne water. , . braes o' yarrow. , : logan's, , . brave earl brand and the king of england's daughter. , , . brave lord willoughby. , . bride's testament = cruel brother. _broom blooms bonnie_, &c. = _bonny hynd_. broom of cowdenknows. , . broomfield hill. , . brown adam. , . _brown robin._ , . buchan, , . _brume_, _brume on hil_. , . burd ellen. , , , . burd ellen and young tamlane. , . _burd helen._ , . burning of auchindown, see willie mackintosh. by landsdale hey ho. , . _camille, ou la manière de filer le parfait amour._ , . captain car. , . captain wedderburn's courtship. , , . _carl of kellyburn braes._ , . _carle of carlile._ , . _carnal and the crane._ , . _castle ha's daughter_ = _bonny hynd_. catherine johnstone. , . catskin's garland, (or, the wandering young gentlewoman.) , . _ce qui plaît aux dames_, voltaire's. , . _cendrillon_, _cennerentola_. , . _[du] chevalier qui fist sa fame confesse, fabliau_. , . chevy-chace. , , . chil ether. , . _child brenton._ , . child noryce. , . child of elle. , , ; , . child rowland and burd ellen. , . child waters. , , . childe maurice, _chield morice_. , , . childe vyet. , . children in the wood. , . child's last will. , . _cinthio's heccatomithi._ , . clerk colvill. , ; , . _clerk of oxenford's tale_, chaucer's. , . clerk saunders. , , , , , . clerk's twa sons o' owsenford. , ; , . clerk tamas. , . _cokwolds daunce._ , . _conde de barcelona y la emperatriz de alemania._ , . constance of cleveland. , . _constancy of susanna._ , . _constant penelope._ , . constantine and areté. , , , . _contes à rire._ , . _corn, lai du._ , . cospatrick. , . _countess of errol_, see _errol_. _coupe enchantée._ , . _court mantel._ , . _courteous king jamie._ , . courteous knight. , , . _covering blue_ = _keach in the creel_. _crafty lover, or, the lawyer outwitted._ bell, ball. of peasantry, . _crafty ploughboy, or, the highwayman outwitted_. , . croodlin doo. , . cruel black. , . cruel brother, or, the bride's testament. , , , . _cruel brother_, swedish bal. , . _cruel jew's garland._ , . _cruel knight._ , . cruel mother. , , , , . cruel sister. , . _cunning clerk_ = _keach in the creel_. _cymbeline._ , . dæmon lover. , , . _david and bathsheba._ , . _dead man's song of heaven and hell._ evans, , ; ritson, anc. songs, old ed., p. ; brit. bibliog. , , &c. _death of john seton._ , . _death of keeldar._ , . death of parcy reed. , . death of queen jane. , . _decameron._ , ; , ; , . _demaundes joyous._ , . _devil and the scold._ , . dialogue between will lick-ladle and tom clean-cogue. , , . dick o' the cow. , . _dolopathos._ , . _donald of the isles._ , , . _doralice._ , . _douglas_, home's. , . douglas tragedy. , ; , , ; , . _dowie den._ , . dowie dens of yarrow. , . dragon of wantley. , . _dronken hansje._ , . drowned lovers. , . _drunkard's legacy._ , . duchess of suffolk's calamity. , , . duel of wharton and stuart. , . _duke hamilton._ smith's scot. mins., , . _duke of argyle's courtship._ buchan, , . duke of athol. , . duke of athol's nurse. , , . duke of gordon's daughter. , . duke of perth's three daughters. , . _dumb wife of aberdour._ aytoun, , . _durham garland._ ritson, bish. gar. p. . _dysmal._ , . _earl crawford._ buchan, , . _earl lithgow._ , . _earl marshal._ , . _earl of errol_, see _errol_. earl of mar's daughter. , . earl richard (a). , , , . earl richard (b). , , . earl robert. , . _edda._ , ; , . edom o' gordon. , , ; , . edward. , , , . _edwin and emma_, goldsmith's. , . _eitle dinge_, german ballads. , . _elfer hill._ , . elfin knight. , , . _elfrida and sir james of perth._ , . _elf-woman and sir olof_, swedish bal. , . _ellen irwin_, wordsworth's. , . _elveskud_, danish bal. , . enchanted ring. , . eppie morie. , , . _erle of tolous._ , . erlinton. , ; , . _errol_, _earl of errol, &c._ sharpe, b. b., p. : = kinloch, b. b., p. : = _countess of errol_, buchan, , , and gleanings, p. : = _errol's place_, maidment's n. c. g., p. . _eulenspiegel._ , , . execution of sir simeon fraser. , . _facezie_ of arlotto. , . _factor's garland._ o. b. , : = sheldon, p. . _f[oe]stemanden i graven_, danish ballad. , . fair annie. , , . fair annie of lochroyan. , . fair flower of northumberland. , . fair helen of kirconnell. , . fair janet. , , , . _fair mabel of wallington_ (= _the mild mary_): ritson, northumb. garl. p. . fair margaret and sweet william. , , . fair margaret of craignargat. , . _fair midel and kirsten lyle_, danish bal. , . fair rosamond. , . _fairy queen._ , . _faithful friendship_, see _alphonso and ganselo_. false sir john. , . [_den_] _falske riddaren_, swedish bal. , . famous flower of serving-men. , ; , . farmer's old wife. , . fause foodrage. , , . fause knight upon the road. , . fause lover. , . _felon sowe of rokeby._ ev. , ; moore, ; scott, notes to rokeby; robson, metr. romances, p. , camden soc., no. , etc. _fine flowers i' the valley._ , . fine flowers in the valley. , . _finette cendron._ , . fire of frendraught. , . _fischer_, goethe's. , . _fitchers vogel_, german tale., , . flemish insurrection. , . flodden field. , . _florent and the king of sicily's daughter_, gower's tale., , . _florice and blancheflour._ , . _flourence de romme, le dit de._ , . fray of suport. , . _frennet hall._ , . _frère de lait_, breton bal. , . friar in the well. , . _frolicksome courtier and jovial tinker._ , . frolicksome duke, or, the tinker's good fortune. , . from bogie side, or, the marquis's raide. , , . _fryer and the maid._ , . gaberlunzie man. , . _galien rethoré._ , . gallant grahams. , . _gamelyn, cook's tale of._ , xxv. . gardener. , . gay goss-hawk. , ; , . gentle herdsman, tell to me. , . gentleman in thracia. , . geordie, _geordie luklie._ , , , . george barnwell. , . _georgics._ , . gernutus the jew of venice. , . _gesta romanorum._ , , , ; , , , , . get up and bar the door. , . gifts from over sea. , , . gight's lady. , , . gilderoy. , . gil morrice. , . _girl clad in mouse-skin_, swedish tale. , . glasgerion. , . glasgow peggy. , . glenkindie. , . glenlogie. , . _godiva. how coventry was made free by godina_ (sic), _countess of chester._ evans, , . _golden glove, or, the squire of tamworth._ ball. of peas. p. s. xvii. ; bell, _id._ . _golden legend._ , . _gowans sae gay._ , . graeme and bewick. , . _graf hans von holstein und seine schwester annchristine_, german bal. , . _grandmother adder-cook_, german bal. , . [_der_] _grausame bruder_, german bal. , . _green broom-field._ , . greensleeves. , . _greve genselin_, danish ballad., , . _grey cock._ herd, , . [_der_] _grobe bruder_, german bal. , . [_den_] _grymma brodern_, swedish bal. , . gude wallace. , . _guy of warwick._ , . gypsie laddie. , . _hakon borkenbart_, swedish saga. , . _hardyknute._ , , . _harpans kraft_, swedish and danish bal. , . _haughs o' yarrow._ , . haws of cromdale. , . hawthorn tree. , . [_der_] _heilige georg_, german legend. , . heir of linne. , , . _helgakvitha hundingsbana_, ii., , . _henry and emma_, prior's. , . _hero and leander._ , . _herodotus._ , . _herr aester ok fröken sissa_, swedish bal. , . _herr halewyn_, dutch bal. , . _herr malmstens dröm_, swedish bal. , . _herr medelvold_, danish bal., , . _herr peder och liten kerstin_, swedish bal. , . _herr peders sjöresa_, swedish bal. , . _herr redevall_, swedish bal., , . _herr sallemand_, danish bal., , . _herr truels's döttre_, danish bal. , . _hertig fröjdenborg och fröken adelin_, swedish bal. , . _hertig nils_, swedish bal. , . _hierarchie of the blessed angels._ , . _highwayman outwitted_, see _crafty ploughboy._ _hildebrand og hilde_, danish bal. , , . _hilla lilla_, swedish bal. , . hireman chiel. , . hirlanda. , . _histoire de la comtesse de savoie._ , . _histoire de palanus, comte de lyon._ , . _historia de cataluña._ , . hobie noble. , , . _holofernes._ , . _honeymoon._ , . _honour of a london prentice._ o. b. , : ritson, ancient songs, , . _horn and rimnild, horn et rimenhild._ , ; , . horn of king arthur. , , . _house carpenter._ , . hugh of lincoln. , . hughie graham (hughie the graeme). , , , . hunting of the cheviot. , , . [_det_] _hurtige svar_, danish bal. , . _hustru og mands moder_, danish bal. , . hynd horn. , , . hynde etin. , , ; , . _i'll wager, i'll wager._ , . _ill may-day, story of._ garl. good will, p. , p. s. xv: o. b. , : evans, , . in sherwood livde stout robin hood. , . _ingefred og gudrune_, danish bal. , . _jack horner, tale of._ halliwell's nursery rhymes, p. , p. s. iv. james herries. , . jamie douglas. , . jamie telfer of the fair dodhead., , . jane shore. , . _jean o' bethelnie's love for sir g. gordon._ , . _jelitza and her brothers_, servian bal. , . jellon grame. , . jephthah, judge of israel. , . _jesus barnet, stefan, og herodes_, danish bal. , . jew's daughter. , , . _jock o' hazeldean, jock o' hazelgreen._ , . jock o' the side. , , , . _jock sheep_ = _baffled knight._ _jock the leg and the merry merchant._ , . john dory. , . _john grumlie._ , . john o' hazelgreen. , . _john the reeve._ , . john thomson and the turk., , . johnie armstrang. , , , . _johnie blunt._ , . johnie _of braidisbank_, or of breadislee. , , . johnie of cocklesmuir, or _of cockielaw_. , , . johnie cope. , , . johnie faa and the countess o' cassilis. , . johnie scot. , . johny cock, or _johny cox_. , , , , . _jolly beggar._ , . jolly goshawk. , . _jolly harper._ , . jolly pinder of wakefield, with robin hood, scarlet, and john. , . _jomfruen i linden_, danish bal. , . _jomfruen i ormeham_, danish ballad. , , . _jomfruen og dværgekongen_ (_maid and the dwarfking_), danish ballad. , . _jon rimaardsöns skriftemaal_, danish ballad. , . jovial hunter of bromsgrove. , . _jugement de salemon, fabliau._ , . _jürg drachentödter_, german ballad. , . katharine janfarie. , . _keach in the creel._ anc. poems, &c. p. , p. s. xvii: = _covering blue_, kinloch, b. b., p. : = _cunning clerk_, buchan, , . kempion, kemp owyne. , , , . kempy kaye. , , . _kertonha'._ , . _killiecrankie._ , . _kinder-u.-haus-märchen._ , ; , , ; , , , . _kindesmörderin_, german ballads. , . _king and a poore northerne man._ p. s. vol. i: moore, p. . _king and the barker._ , . _king alfred and the neatherd_, , ; _k. a. and the shepherd_, , ; , . _king and the hermit._ , , . _king and the miller_, danish tale. , . king and the miller of mansfield. , . king arthur, and the king of cornwall, , , ; legend of, , ; k. a.'s death, , . king cophetua and the beggar maid. , . _king edward and jane shore._ , . _king edward and the hermit_, , xxiii: _k. e. and the shepherd_, , xxiii; , . king edward the fourth and the tanner of tamworth. , ; , xxiv. _king edward the third and the fair countess of salisbury._ o. b. , . king estmere. , ; , . king henrie the fifth's conquest. , . king henry. , , : , . _king henry and a bishop_, , : _k. h. and the soldier_, , . _king henry the eighth and the cobbler._ , . _king henry the second and the cistercian abbot._ , . _king horn._ , . _king james the first and the tinker._ , , . king john and the abbot of canterbury, , : _k. j. and the bishop of canterbury_, , . _king lear._ , . king leir and his three daughters. , . king malcolm and sir colvin. , , . king of france's daughter. , . king of scots and andrew browne. , . _king olfrey and the abbot._ , . king's disguise and friendship with robin hood. , . _king waldemar and his sister_, danish bal. , , . _king william and the forester._ , . kinmont willie. , , . knight and shepherd's daughter. , . _knight of the swan._ , . knight's ghost. , . _kong diderik og hans k[oe]mper_, danish ballad. , . _kong valdemar og hans söster_, danish bal. , , . _krist' lilla och herr tideman_, swedish bal. , . _krone der königin von afion_. , : _k. of heinrich vom türlein_, , . _ladies of finsbury, life and death of the._ crown garland g. roses, p. , p. s. xv; evans, , . lads of wamphray. , . _lady alice._ , . lady anne. , . lady anne bothwell's lament. , , . _lady daisy._ , . lady diamond. , . lady elspat. , . lady isabel and the elf-knight. , ; , . lady isabella's tragedy. , . _lady jane._ , . _lady jean_ = _bonny hynd._ lady maisry. , , . lady margaret. , , . lady marjorie. , . _lady's fall, lamentable ballad of._ o. b. , ; percy, , ; ritson, anc. songs, , . _lai du corn._ , . _lai le frein._ , . laidley worm of spindleston-heugh. , , . _laird o' leys_ = _baron o' leys_. laird o' logie. , . laird of blackwood. , , . laird of drum. , . _laird of laminton._ , . _laird of lochnie._ , . _laird of ochiltree._ , . _laird of roslin's daughter._ , . laird of waristoun. , , , . lambert linkin. , , . _lambton worm of durham._ , . lament of the border widow. , ; , . _lamentable fall of the duchess of gloucester_. garl. of goodwill, p. , p. s. xv; o. b. , . _lamentation of shore's wife_. , . lamkin, lammikin. , , . _lancelot_. , . lang johnny moir. , . lass of lochroyan. , . _last guid night_. , . _lawyer outwitted_, see _crafty lover_. lay the bent to the bonny broom. , . _leander on the bay_. , . leesome brand. , . lenore, bürger's. , . _liebesprobe_, ger. bal. , . life and death of sir hugh of the grime. , . life and death of thomas stukely. , . _lilla rosa_, swedish bal. , . [_den_] _lillas testamente_, swedish bal. , , . _lind im thale_, german bal. , . _linden_, swedish bal. , . _lindormen_, danish ballad. , , . _liten kerstins förtrollning_. , . _liten kerstin och fru sofia_, swedish bal. , . _liten kerstin stalldräng_, swedish bal. , . little gest of robin hood. , , , , ; , . _little gold shoe_, swedish tale. , . little john and the four beggars. , . little musgrave and the lady barnard. , . lizae baillie. , , . lizie lindsay. , , , . _lizie wan = bonny hynd_. _lochinvar_. , . lochmaben harper. , , . long lonkin. , , . _lord aboyne_. , . lord barnaby. , . _lord bateman_. , , . lord beichan and susie pye. , . lord delaware. , . lord derwentwater. , : _l. d.'s goodnight_, , . lord dingwall. , , . lord donald. , , . lord jamie douglas. , , . lord john. , , . _lord john's murder_. , . lord livingston. , ; , . lord lovel. , , . _lord lundy_. , . lord maxwell's goodnight. , . _lord nann and the korrigan_, breton bal. , ; , . lord randal (a), , : (b), , , . _lord ronald._ , . lord salton and auchanachie. , , . lord thomas and fair annet. , , , . lord thomas and fair ellinor. , . lord thomas of winesberry and the king's daughter. , . lord thomas stuart. , . lord wa'yates and auld ingram. , . lord william. , , . _lord william._ , . loudoun castle. , . _love gregory._ , , _lover's complaint being forsaken of his love._ , . lovers quarrel. , . lowlands of holland. , . lytell geste of robyn hode. , , , , ; , . _mackintosh was a soldier brave._ , . macpherson's rant (or _lament_), , : his _farewell_, by burns, , . _mädchen und der sagebaum, mädchen und die hasel_, german bal. , . _maid and the dwarf-king_, danish ballad. , . _maledizione materna_, italian ballad. , . _mantel_, _mantel mautaillé_, _court mantel_, &c. , , . _marchioness of douglass._ , . _margaret's ghost._ , . _mari confesseur_, la fontaine's. , . marquis of huntley's retreat, (or _the marquis's raide_). , , . marriage of sir gawaine. , , . _martial._ , . mary ambree. , , . mary hamilton. , , , . _maudlin, the merchant's daughter._ , . _may-a-row._ , . may colvin. , ; , , . _memorables of the montgomeries._ evans, , ; bal. and songs of ayrshire, , . _merchant of venice._ , , , . merchant's daughter of bristow. , . _merchant's garland_, see _factor's garland_. mermaid (or clerk colvill). , . _merman and marstig's daughter_, danish bal. , . _mery ballet of the hathorn tre._ , . _mild mary_, see _fair mabel of wallington_. miller and the king's daughter. , , . minister's dochter o' newark (or _of new york_). , . _möen paa baalet_, danish ballad. , . _moral tale of love and honour_, shenstone's. , . _morte arthure._ , , , , . _mothers malison._ , . _moyen de parvenir._ , . murder of the king of scots. , . _murning maidin._ sibbald, , . _nattergalen_, danish ballad. , . _new notborune mayd._ , . _no song, no supper._ , . noble fisherman, or, robin hood's preferment. , . _nobleman's generous kindness._ bal. of peas. p. , p. s. xvii: bell, id. . nökkens svig, danish ballad. , , . northern lass, brome's. , . northern lord and cruel jew. , . northumberland betrayed by douglas. , : , . _numbers._ , . nutbrowne maide. , . _o heard ye e'er of a silly blind harper._ , . _odyssey_, i. . _of a knight and a faire virgin._ , . _of wakefylde and a grene._ , . _old abbot and king alfred._ o. b. , . _old man and his three sons._ , . old robin of portingale. , . [_den_] _onde svigermoder_, danish bal. , . _orlando furioso_, , : _o. inamorato_, , . _ormekampen_, danish ballad. , ; , . _our gudeman came home at e'en._ , . _outlandish knight._ , . _owen of carron_, langhorne's. , . _owlglass._ , . _palace of pleasure_, painter's. , . _palmerin of england._ , . _patient countess_, , ; patient grissel, , . _patrañuelo_ of timoneda. , . _pausanias_, a dragon story in. , . _peau d'ane._ , . _pecorone._ , . _peele's chronicle hist. of ed. i._ , . _pennyworth of wit._ o. b. , . _perceforest._ , . _perceval._ , . _pfalzgraf am rhein_, german bal. , . _phaffe amis._ , . _picture_, massinger's. , . _pilgrim to compostella_, southey's. , . _prince edward and adam gordon._ , . prince robert. , ; , . pr[oe]lium gillicrankianum. , . proud lady margaret. , , ; , . _proud margaret_, swedish bal. , . provost's dochter. , , . _pyramus and thisbe._ , . queen dido. , . queen eleanor's confession. , , ; , . queen eleanor's fall. , ; , . queen jeanie. , , . queen's marie. , . _räthsellieder_, german. , . raid of the reidswire. , . rantin laddie. , . rare willy drown'd in yarrow. , . _rauf coilzear._ , . _ravengaard og memering_, danish bal. , , . reading skirmish. , . _red etin_, tale of. , . reedisdale and wise william. , . _ribolt og guldborg_, danish bal. , . richie storie. , . _riddar olle_, (or _olof_,) swedish bal. , . _ridderen i fugleham_, danish bal. , . rising in the north. , ; , . _ritter golmi mit der herzogin auss britanien_, hans sachs's. , . _ritter st. georg_, german legend. , . _ritter und das mägdlein_, german bal. , . rob roy. , , , . robene and makyne. , . robin hood and allin-a-dale. , . robin hood and guy of gisborne. , , . robin hood and his huntesmen, song. , . robin hood and little john. , . robin hood and maid marian. , . robin hood and queen katherine. , . robin hood and the beggar. , , , , , . robin hood and the bishop. , . robin hood and the bishop of hereford. , . robin hood and the butcher. , , . robin hood and the curtall fryer. , , . robin hood and the golden arrow. , . robin hood and the monk. , , . robin hood and the old man. , . robin hood and the peddlers. , . robin hood and the potter. , , , , , . robin hood and the ranger. , . robin hood and the scotchman. , . robin hood and the shepherd. , . robin hood and the stranger. , , , , . robin hood and the tanner. , . robin hood and the tanner's daughter. , . robin hood and the tinker. , . robin hood and the valiant knight. , , , . robin hood, birth of. , , . robin hood, _essay on._ , vii. robin hood, lytell geste of. , . robin hood, playe of. , , . robin hood, rescuing the three squires. , . robin hood, rescuing the widow's three sons. , . robin hood's birth, breeding, valour, and marriage. , , . robin hood's chase. , . robin hood's death and burial. , . robin hood's delight. , . robin hood's golden prize. , . robin hood's preferment. , . robin hood's progress to nottingham. , . robin hood's rescuing will stutley. , . robin hood, true tale of. , . robin hood, wedding of, and little john. , . robin hood, will scadlock, and little john. , . robyn and gandelyn. , . _robin's tesment._ , . _röfvaren brun, r. rymer_, swedish bal. , . rookhope ryde. , . _roman charity._ o. b. , ; evans, , . _rosamonds overthrow_, see _unfortunate concubine_. _rose, lay of the._ , . rose the red and white lilly. , , . _rosmer hafmand_, danish bal. , , . _sacchetti's novels._ , . saddle to rags. , . _salomon and saturn_ (or _marcolf_). , . samson. , . _st. cunigund_, legend of. , . st. george and the dragon. , . st. stephen and herod. , . sang of the outlaw murray. , . _schloss in oesterreich_, german bal. , . _schön ulrich u. rautendelein, s. u. u. roth-aennchen_, german bal. , . _schöne hannele_, german bal. , . _scottish squire._ , . seven champions of christendom. , . _shepherd's son_ = _baffled knight_. _silva sermonum jucundissimorum._ , . [_der_] _singende knochen_, german tale. , . sir aldingar. , . sir andrew barton. , , . sir cauline. , . sir eglamore. , . sir guy, legend of. , . sir hugh. , , , . sir hugh le blond. , , . sir james the rose. , . sir john suckling's campaign. , . sir lancelot du lake. , . _sir niel and mac van_ (or _glengyle_). , . _sir olof in the elve-dance_, swedish bal. , . sir oluf and the elf-king's daughter, danish bal. , , . sir patrick spens. , , , . _sir peter of stauffenbergh and the mermaid._ , . sir richard whittington's advancement. , . sir roland. , . _sir stig and lady torelild_, danish bal. , . _sir wal and lisa lyle_, swedish bal. , . sir william wallace. , . _skj[oe]n anna_, danish bal. , , . _sleeper awakened_, tale of. , . snake-cook, german bal. , . son davie. , , . _song of a beggar and a king._ , . _sorgens magt_, swedish bal. , ; , . _sövnerunerne_, danish bal. , . spanish lady's love. , . spanish virgin. , . _speculum ecclesiæ._ , . _speculum historiale._ , , . _squire of tamworth_, see _golden glove_. _staffans visa_, swedish carol. , . _stepmother_, german bal. , . _stolt ingeborgs forklædning_, danish bal. , . _stolts botelid stalldräng_, swedish bal. , . _stout cripple of cornwall._ evans, , . stukely, life and death of thomas. , . _südeli_, german bal. , . suffolk miracle. , . _sven i rosengård_, swedish bal. , , . _sven svanehvit_, swedish bal. , . _svend vonved_, danish bal. , ; , . _sweet song of an english merchant._ evans, , . sweet william. , , . sweet william and may margaret. , , . sweet william's ghost. , , . sweet willie (a), , , ; (b), , . sweet willie and fair annie. , . sweet willie and fair maisry. , , . sweet willie and lady margerie. , . [_den_] _talende strengeleg_, danish bal. , . _tarikh al wasaf._ , . tam-a-line. , . taming of a shrew. , , . _tancred and ghismonda._ , . _tancrède_, voltaire's. , . _thom of lyn._ , . thomas of ersseldoune. , , , . thomas the rhymer. , , . _thore och hans syster_, swedish bal. , . _thorkil troneson_, swedish bal. , . _three brothers._ , . three knights. , . three ravens. , . _three sisters._ , . tinker's good fortune, see frolicksome duke. _titus and gisippus._ , . titus andronicus's complaint. , . _tobias._ , . [_der_] _todte freier_, german bal. , . _todtenhemdchen_, german tale. , . tom linn. , . _tom thumbe, life and death of._ ritson's anc. pop. poetry, p. . _too courteous knight_ = _baffled knight_. _tord af havsgaard_, danish bal. , . _torkild trundesön_, danish and swedish bal. , . _tristan._ , , ; , . _trooper and fair maid._ , . true tale of robin hood. , . trumpeter of fyvie. , . turnament of totenham. , . twa brothers. , , . twa corbies. , . twa sisters. , . _tyrannical husband, ballad of a._ , . _ulinger_, german bal. , . _ulrich und aennchen_, german bal. , . undaunted londonderry. , . _unfortunate concubine, or, rosamond's overthrow._ , . up and war them a' willie. , , . _valentine and ursine_, tale of. percy, , . _vendicatrice_, italian bal. , . _vilain qui conquist paradis par plait, fabliau du._ , . _von eitel unmöglichen dingen_, german ballads. , . _vorwirth._ german bal. , . [_die_] _wahrsagenden nachtigallen_, danish bal. , . _wallace and his leman._ , . waly, waly, but love be bonny. , . wandering jew. , . wandering prince of troy. , . _wandering young gentlewoman_, see _catskin's garland_. wanton wife of bath. , . _warenston and the duke of york's daughter._ , . water o' wearie's well. , ; , . _we were sisters, we were seven._ , . weary coble o' cargill. , ; , . wedding of robin hood and little john. , . _weddynge of syr gawen and dame ragnell._ , . wee, wee man. , , ; , . west country damosel's complaint. , . _west country wager._ , . _wha will bake my bridal bread._ , . _white doe of rylstone_, wordsworth's. , . _widow of westmoreland._ kinloch, bal. book, p. . _wiedergefundene königstochter_, german bal. , . _wife lapped in morel's skin._ , . wife of auchtirmuchty. , . _wife of bath's tale._ , . wife of usher's well. , ; , . _wilkinasaga._ , . william and marjorie. , , . william guiseman. , . _willie and annet._ , , . willie and lady maisry. , . willie and may margaret. , . willie mackintosh, or, the burning of auchindown. , . willie wallace. , , . willie's drowned in gamery. , . willie's ladye. , . willow, willow, willow. , . _willy's drowned in yarrow._ , . _wind hath blown my plaid away._ , . winning of cales. , . _wolfdietrich._ , . woman warrior. , . _wood o' warslin._ , . _worm of lambton, worm of linton._ , ; , . _wylie wife of the hie town hie._ struthers's british minstrel, , xxv. _xailoun_, tale of. , . _young airly._ , . young akin. , . _young allan_ (taken from sir patrick spens). buchan, , . young bearwell. , . young beichan and susie pye. , , ; , . young bekie. , . young benjie. , . _young bondwell._ , . young child dyring, danish bal. , . _young cloudeslee._ , . young hastings the groom. , ; , . young hunting. , , . young johnstone. , . _young laird of ochiltrie._ , . _young prince james._ , . _young ratcliffe._ , . young redin. , . young tamlane. , . young waters. , , ; , ; , . youth of rosengord, swedish bal. , , . _zauberbecher, sage vom._ , . _zeyn alasman and the king of the genii_, tale of. , . * * * * * transcriber's notes [asterism] represents an asterism (three stars). [gh] represents letter "yogh". [pointing hand] denotes the symbol of a right pointing hand. minor changes to regularise ballad line numbering and indentation have been made without comment. the following changes have been made to the text where typographical errors have been corrected. page iv (index): corrected "gentleman" to "gentlewoman" (the wandering young gentlewoman) page note to line : changed " " to " " ( . request.) page line : changed single to double close quotation mark ("now lets go to't, my own dear honey:") page line : added missing close quotation mark ("your words," quoth the dragon, "i don't understand";) page : added closing quotation mark (p. of the same publication.)") page line : changed single to double opening qoutation mark ("i am the wife of bath," she said,) page line : deleted extraneous closing single quotation mark (as thou thyself hast done.") page line : changed "whitttington" to "whittington" (of worthy whittington,) page : deleted unmatched open quotation marks before "in" (this ballad is found in _the melancholie knight_) page line : changed single to double closing quotation mark (for you shall find enough o' ane.") page line : changed single to double closing quotation mark (he's cure thy wounds right speedily.") page line : changed "que'" to "quo'" (quo' the wee boy, &c.) page line : added opening quotation mark ("we'll cross the raging ocean wide,) page : changed "confidentyl" to "confidently" (trestly, _truly_, _confidently_.) page : changed comma to full stop after "sheriff-muir" ([battle of] sheriff-muir. , , .) page : changed "rown" to "brown" (_brown robin._ , . buchan, , .) page : added comma after volume number (constance of cleveland. , .) page : changed full stop to comma after ballad name (_herr aester ok fröken sissa_, swedish bal. , .) page : changed comma to full stop after ballad name (_krone der königin von afion_. , ) provided by google books popular british ballads ancient and modern by various chosen and edited by r. brimley johnson illustrated by w. c. cooke in four volumes volume iv [illustration: ] the high tide on the coast of lincolnshire |the old mayor climbed the belfry tower, the ringers ran by two, by three; "pull, if ye never pulled before; good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "play uppe, play uppe, o boston bells! ply all your changes, all your swells, play uppe 'the brides of enderby.'" men say it was a stolen tyde-- the lord that sent it, he knows all; but in myne ears doth still abide the message that the bells let fall: and there was nought of strange, beside the flights of mews and peewits pied by millions crouched on the old sea wall. i sat and spun within the doore, my thread brake off, i raised myne eyes; the level sun, like ruddy ore, lay sinking in the barren skies; and dark against day's golden death she moved where lindis wandereth, my sonne's faire wife, elizabeth. "cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling, ere the early dews were falling, far re away i heard her song. "cusha! cusha!" all along; where the reedy lindis floweth, floweth, floweth, from the meads where melick groweth faintly came her milking song.-- "cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling, "for the dews will soone be falling; leave your meadow grasses mellow, mellow, mellow; quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; come uppe whitefoot, come uppe light- foot; quit the stalks of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow; come uppe jetty, rise and follow, from the clovers lift your head; come uppe whitefoot, come uppe light- foot, come uppe jetty, rise and follow, jetty, to the milking shed," if it be long, aye, long ago, when i beginne to think howe long, againe i hear the lindis flow, swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; and all the aire, it seemeth mee, bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), that ring the tune of enderby. alle fresh the level pasture lay, and not a shadowe mote be seene, save where full fyve good miles away the steeple towered from out the greene; and lo! the great bell farre and wide was heard in all the country side that saturday at eventide. the swannerds where their sedges are moved on in sunset's golden breath, the shepherde lads i heard afarre, and my sonne's wife, elizabeth; till floating o'er the grassy sea came downe that kyndly message free, the "brides of mavis enderby." then some looked uppe into the sky, and all along where lindis flows to where the goodly vessels lie, and where the lordly steeple shows. they sayde, "and why should this thing be? what danger lowers by land or sea? they ring the tune of enderby! "for evil news from mabelthorpe, of pyrate galleys warping down; for shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, they have not spared to wake the towne: but while the west bin red to see, and storms be none, and pyrates flee, why ring 'the brides of enderby?'" i looked without, and lo! my sonne came riding downe with might and main: he raised a shout as he drew on, till all the welkin rang again, "elizabeth! elizabeth!" (a sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than my sonne's wife, elizabeth). "the olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, the rising tide comes on apace, and boats adrift in yonder towne go sailing uppe the market-place." he shook as one that looks on death: "god save you, mother!" straight he saith; "where is my wife, elizabeth?" "good sonne, where lindis winds away with her two bairns i marked her long; and ere yon bells beganne to play afar i heard her milking song." he looked across the grassy lea, to right, to left, "ho enderby!" they rang "the brides of enderby!" with that he cried and beat his breast; for, lo! along the river's bed a mighty eygre reared his crest, and up the lindis raging sped. it swept with thunderous noises loud; shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, or like a demon in a shroud. and rearing lindis backward pressed, shook all her trembling bankes amaine; then madly at the eygre's breast flung uppe her weltering walls again. then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- then beaten foam flew round about-- then all the mighty floods were out. so farre, so fast the eygre drave, the heart had hardly time to beat, before a shallow seething wave sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: the feet had hardly time to flee before it brake against the knee, and all the world was in the sea. upon the roofe we sate that night, the noise of bells went sweeping by: i marked the lofty beacon light stream from the church tower, red and high-- a lurid mark and dread to see; and awsome bells they were to mee, that in the dark rang "enderby." they rang the sailor lads to guide from roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; and i--my sonne was at my side, and yet the ruddy beacon glowed: and yet he moaned beneath his breath, "o come in life, or come in death! o lost! my love, elizabeth." and didst thou visit him no more? thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; the waters laid thee at his doore, ere yet the early dawn was clear. thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, the lifted sun shone on thy face, downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. that flow strewed wrecks about the grass, that ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; a fatal ebbe and flow, alas! to manye more than my ne and me: but each will mourn his own (she saith). and sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than my sonne's wife, elizabeth. i shall never hear her more by the reedy lindis shore, "cusha! cusha! cusha!" calling, ere the early dews be falling; i shall never hear her song, "cusha! cusha!" all along, where the sunny lindis flpweth, goeth, floweth; from the meads where ihelick groweth, when the water winding down, onward floweth to the town. i shall never see her more where the reeds and rushes quiver, shiver, quiver; stand beside the sobbing river. sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, to the sandy lonesome shore; i shall never hear her calling, "leave your meadow grasses mellow, mellow, mellow; quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; come uppe whitefoot, come uppe lightfoot; quit your pipes of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow; come uppe lightfoot, rise and follow; lightfoot, whitefoot, from your clovers lift the head; come uppe jetty, follow, follow, jetty, to the milking shed." ----jean ingelow. ballad of the brides of quair [illustration: ] |a stillness crept about the house, at evenfall, in noon-tide glare; upon the silent hills looked forth the many-windowed house of quair. the peacock on the terrace screamed; browsed on the lawn the timid hare; the great trees grew i' the avenue, calm by the sheltered house of quair. the pool was still; around its brim the alders sickened all the air; there came no murmur from the streams, though nigh flowed leithen, tweed, and quair. the days hold on their wonted pace, and men to court and camp repair, their part to fill, of good or ill, while women keep the house of quair. and one is clad in widow's weeds, and one is maiden-like and fair, and day by day they seek the paths about the lonely fields of quair. to see the trout leap in the streams, the summer clouds reflected there, the maiden loves in pensive dreams to hang o'er silver tweed and quair. within, in pall-black velvet clad, sits stately in her oaken chair-- a stately dame of ancient name-- the mother of the house of quair. her daughter broiders by her side, with heavy drooping golden hair, and listens to her frequent plaint,-- "i'll fare the brides that come to quair. "for more than one hath lived in pine, and more than one hath died of care, and more than one hath sorely sinned, left lonely in the house of quair. "alas! and ere thy father died i had not in his heart a share, and now--may god forfend her ill-- thy brother brings his bride to quair!" she came: they kissed her in the hall, they kissed her on the winding stair, they led her to her chamber high, the fairest in the house of quair. they bade her from the window look, and mark the scene how passing fair, among whose ways the quiet days would linger o'er the wife of quair. "'_tis_ fair," she said on looking forth, "but what although 'twere bleak and bare"-- she looked the love she did not speak, and broke the ancient curse of quair-- "where'er he dwells, where'er he goes, his dangers and his toils i share." what need be said--she was not one of the ill-fated brides of quair! ----isa craig knox.- first love |o my earliest love, who, ere i number'd ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill! will a swallow--or a swift, or some bird-- fly to her and say, i love her still? say my life's a desert drear and arid, to its one green spot i aye recur: never, never, although three times married-- have i cared a jot for aught but her. no, mine own! though early forced to leave you, still my heart was there where first we met; in those "lodgings with an ample sea-view," which were, forty years ago, "to let." there i saw her first, our landlord's oldest little daughter. on a thing so fair thou, o sun,--who (so they say) beholdest everything,--hast gazed, i tell thee, ne'er. there she sat--so near me, yet remoter than a star--a blue-eyed bashful imp: on her lap she held a happy bloater, 'twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp. and i loved her, and our troth we plighted on the morrow by the shingly shore: in a fortnight to be disunited by a bitter fate for evermore. o my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed! to be young once more, and bite my thumb [illustration: ;] at the world and all its cares with you, i'd give no inconsiderable sum. hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed, soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn: side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:-- has she wedded some gigantic shrimper, that sweet mite with whom i loved to play? is she girt with babes that whine and whimper, that bright being who was always gay? yes, she has at least a dozen wee things! yes--i see her darning corduroys, scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things, for a howling herd of hungry boys, in a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil! but at intervals she thinks, i know, of those days which we, afar from turmoil, spent together forty years ago. o my earliest love, still unforgotten, with your downcast eyes of dreamy blue! never, somehow, could i seem to cotton to another as i did to you! ----c. s. calverley. sad memories |they tell me i am beautiful: they praise my silken hair, my little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair: they praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye; fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that i might die! why was i born to be abhorr'd of man and bird and beast? the bullfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased; the shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and worse than that, the housedog he flees after me--why was i born a cat? men prize the heartless hound who quits dry- eyed his native land; who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant hand. the leal true cat they prize not, that if e'er compell'd to roam still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home. they call me cruel. do i know if mouse or song-bird feels? i only know they make me light and salutary meals: and if, as 'tis my nature to, ere i devour i tease'em, why should a low-bred gardener's boy pursue me with a besom? should china fall or chandeliers, or anything but stocks-- nay stocks, when they're in flowerpots--the cat expects hard knocks: should ever anything be missed--milk, coals, umbrellas, brandy-- the cat's pitch'd into with a boot or any thing that's handy. "i remember, i remember," how one night i "fleeted by," and gain'd the blessed tiles and gazed into the cold clear sky. "i remember, i remember, how my little lovers came," and there, beneath the crescent moon, play'd many a little game. they fought--by good st catharine,'twas a fearsome sight to see the coal-black crest, the glowering orbs, of one gigantic he. like bow by some tall bowman bent at hastings or poictiers, his huge back curved, till none observed a vestige of his ears: he stood, an ebon crescent, flouting that ivory moon; then raised the pibroch of his race, the song without a tune; gleam'd his white teeth, his mammoth tail waved . darkly to and fro, as with one complex yell he burst, all claws, upon the foe. it thrills me now, that final miaow--that weird unearthly din: lone maidens heard it far away, and leap'd out of their skin. a potboy from his den o'erhead peep'd with a scared wan face; then sent a random brickbat down, which knock'd me into space. nine days i fell, or thereabouts: and, had we not nine lives, i wis i ne'er had seen again thy sausage-shop, st ives! had i, as some cats have, nine tails, how gladly i would lick the hand, and person generally, of him who heaved that brick. for me they fill the milkbowl up, and cull the choice sardine: but ah! i nevermore shall be the cat i once have been! the memories of that fatal night they haunt me even now: in dreams i see that rampant he, and tremble at that miaow. ----c. s. calverley. how we beat the favourite (_a lay of the loamshire hunt cup_.) |aye, squire," said stevens, "they back him at evens; the race is all over, bar shouting, they say; the clown ought to beat her; dick neville is sweeter than ever--he swears he can win all the way. "a gentleman rider--well, i'm an outsider, but if he's a gent who the mischiefs a jock? you swells mostly blunder, dick rides for the plunder, he rides, too, like thunder--he sits like a rock. "he calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds, a horse that at warwick beat birdlime and yorick, and gave abdelkader at aintree nine pounds. "they say we have no test to warrant a protest; dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; the light of their faces they show him--his case is prejudged and his verdict already secured. "but none can outlast her, and few travel faster, she strides in her work clean away from the drag; you hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter, whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag. "and p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it, may fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up. the mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady, keep cool; and i think you may just win the cup." dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle, stood iseult, arching her neck to the curb, a lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry, a loin rather light, but a shoulder superb. some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction, i tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, when reginald murray, full tilt on white surrey, came down in a hurry to start us at once. "keep back in the yellow! come up on othello! hold hard on the chesnut! turn round on the drag! keep back there on spartan! back you, sir, in tartan! so, steady there, easy," and down went the flag. we started, and kerr made strong running on mermaid, through furrows that led to the first stake- and-bound, the crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid, held wide on the right where the headland was sound. i pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle, before her two-thirds of the field got away, all through the wet pasture where floods of the last year still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay. the fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd monk and blue-bottle; the drag came to grief at the blackthorn arid ditch, the rails toppled over redoubt and red rover, the lane stopped lycurgus and leicestershire witch. she passed like an arrow kildare and cock sparrow, and mantrap and mermaid refused the stone wall; and giles on the greyling came down at the paling, and i was left sailing in front of them all. i took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her until the black bullfinch led into the plough, and through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble-- my cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough. where furrows looked lighter i drew the rein tighter-- her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam, her flanks mud bespattered, a weak rail she shattered-- we landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home. then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her the sward to the strokes of the favourite shook; his rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little she shorten'd her stride as we raced at the brook. she rose when i hit her. i saw the stream glitter, a wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee, between sky and water the clown came and caught her, the space that he cleared was a caution to see. and forcing the running, discarding all cunning, a length to the front went the rider in green; a long strip of stubble, and then the big double, two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between. she raced at the rasper, i felt my knees grasp her, i found my hands give to her strain on the bit, she rose when the clown did--our silks as we bounded brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit. a rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping-- the last--we diverged round the base of the hill; his path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer, i flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still. she came to his quarter, and on still i brought her, and up to his girth, to his breast-plate she drew; a short prayer from neville just reach'd me, "the devil," he mutter'd--lock'd level the hurdles we flew. a hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering, all sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard; "the green wins!" "the crimson!" the multitude swims on, and figures are blended and features are blurr'd. "the horse is her master!" "the green forges past her!" "the clown will outlast her!" "the clown wins!" "the clown!" the white railing races with all the white faces, the chesnut outpaces, outstretches the brown. on still past the gateway she strains in the straightway, still struggles, "the clown by a short neck at most," he swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges, and flashes, and verges, and flits the white post. aye! so ends the tussle,--i knew the tan muzzle was first, though the ring-men were yelling "dead heat!" a nose i could swear by, but clarke said "the mare by a short head." and that's how the favourite was beat. ----a. l. gordon. the mermaid of padstow |it is long tom yeo of the town of padstow, and he is a ne'er-do-weel: "ho, mates," cries he, "rejoice with me, for i have shot a seal." nay, tom, by the mass thou art but an ass, no seal bestains this foam; but the long wave rolls up a mermaid's glass and a young mermaiden's comb. the sun has set, the night-clouds throng, the sea is steely grey. they hear the dying mermaid's song peal from the outer bay. "a curse with you go, ye men of padstow! ye shall not thrive or win, ye have seen the last ship from your haven slip, and the last ship enter in. "for this deed i devote you to dwell without boat by the skirt of the oarèd blue, and ever be passed by sail and by mast, and none with an errand for you." and scarce had she spoke when the black storm broke with thunder and levin's might: three days did it blow, and none in padstow could tell the day from night. joy! the far thunder mutters soft, the wild clouds whirl o'erhead, and from a ragged rift aloft a shaft of light is sped. now ho for him that waits to send the storm-bound bark to sea! and ho for them that hither bend to crowd our busy quay! hath ocean, think ye then, not heard his dying child deplore? are not his sandy deeps unstirred, and thrust against the shore? doth not a mighty ramp of sand beleaguer all the bay, mocking the strength of mortal hand to pierce or sweep away? the white-winged traders, all about, fare o'er that bar to win: but this one cries, i cannot out, and that, i may not in. for thy dire woe, forlorn padstow, what remedy may be? not all the brine of thy sad eyne will float thy ships to sea. the sighs that from thy seamen pass might set a fleet a-sail, and the faces that look in the mermaid's glass are as long as the mermaid's tail. ----r. garnett. [illustration: ] the highwayman's ghost [illustration: ] |twelve o'clock--a misty night-- glimpsing hints of buried light-- six years strung in an iron chain--r time i stood on the ground again! so--by your leave! slip, easy enough, withered wrists from the rusty cuff. the old chain rattles, the old wood groans, o the clatter of clacking bones! here i am, uncoated, unhatted, shirt all mildewed, hair all matted, sockets that each have royally fed the crow with a precious eye. o for slashing bess the brown! where, old lass, have they earthed thee down? sobb'st beneath a carrier's thong? strain'st a coalman's cart along? shame to foot it!--must be so. see, the mists are smitten below; over the moorland, wide away, moonshine pours her watery day. there the long white-dusted track, there a crawling speck of black. the northern mail, ha, ha! and he there on the box is anthony. coachman i scared him from brown or grey, witness he lied my blood away. haste, fred! haste, boy! never fail! now or never! catch the mail! the horses plunge, and sweating stop. dead falls tony, neck and crop. nay, good guard, small profit thus, shooting ghosts with a blunderbuss! crash wheel! coach over! how it rains hampers, ladies, wigs, and canes! o the spoil! to sack it and lock it! but, woe is me, i have never a pocket! ----r. garnett. the brothers |there were twa brethren fell on strife; sweet fruits are sair to gather: the tane has reft his brother of life; and the wind wears owre the heather. there were twa brethren fell to fray sweet fruits are sair to gather: the tane is clad in a coat of clay; and the wind wears owre the heather. o loud and loud was the live man's cry, (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "would god the dead and the slain were i!" and the wind wears owre the heather. "o sair was the wrang and sair the fray," (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "but liefer had love be slain than slay," and the wind wears owre the heather. "o sweet is the life that sleeps at hame," (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "but i maun wake on a far sea's faem," and the wind wears owre the heather. "and women are fairest of a' things fair," (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "but never shall i kiss woman mair," and the wind wears owre the heather. between the birk and the aik and the thorn (sweet fruits are sair to gather) he's laid his brother to lie forlorn: and the wind wears owre the heather. between the bent, the burn, and the broom (sweet fruits are sair to gather) he's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom: and the wind wears owre the heather. he's tane him owre the waters wide, (sweet fruits are sair to gather) afar to fleet and afar to bide: and the wind wears owre the heather. his hair was yellow, his cheek was red, (sweet fruits are sair to gather) when he set his face to the wind and fled: and the wind wears owre the heather. his banes were stark and his een were bright (sweet fruits are sair to gather) when he set his face to the sea by night: and the wind wears owre the heather. his cheek was wan and his hair was grey (sweet fruits are sair to gather) when he came back hame frae the wide world's way: and the wind wears owre the heather. his banes were weary, his een were dim, (sweet fruits are sair to gather) and nae man lived and had mind of him: and the wind wears owre the heather. "o whatten a wreck wad they seek on land" (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "that they houk the turf to the seaward hand?" and the wind wears owre the heather. "o whatten a prey wad they think to take" (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "that they delve the dykes for a dead man's sake?" and the wind wears owre the heather. a bane of the dead in his hand he's tane; sweet fruits are sair to gather: and the red blood brak frae the dead white bane; and the wind wears owre the heather. he's cast it forth of his auld faint hand; sweet fruits are sair to gather: and the red blood ran on the wan wet sand, and the wind wears owre the heather. "o whatten a slayer is this," they said, (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "that the straik of his hand should raise his dead?" and the wind wears owre the heather. "o weel is me for the sign i take" (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "that now i may die for my auld sin's sake." and the wind wears owre the heather. "for the dead was in wait now fifty year,". (sweet fruits are sair to gather) "and now i shall die for his blood's sake here," and the wind wears owre the heather. ----a. c. swinburne. the ballad of dead men's bay [illustration: ] |the sea swings owre the slants of sand, all white with winds that drive., the sea swirls up to the still dim strand, where nae man comes alive. at the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf a light flame sinks and springs; at the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf a low flame leaps and clings. what light is this on a sunless shore, what gleam on a starless sea? was it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore such births as should not be? as lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning, they bicker and beckon and call; as wild waves churning, as wild winds yearn- ing, they flicker and climb and fall. a soft strange cry from the landward rings-- "what ails the sea to shine?" a keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs-- "what fires are these of thine?" "a soul am i that was born on earth for ae day's waesome span: death bound me fast on the bourn of birth, ere i were christened man. "a light by night, i fleet and fare till the day of wrath and woe; on the hems of earth and the skirts of air winds hurl me to and fro." "o well is thee, though the weird be strange that bids thee flit and flee; for hope is child of the womb of change, and hope keeps watch with thee. "when the years are gone, and the time is come god's grace may give thee grace; and thy soul may sing, though thy soul were dumb, and shine before god's face. "but i, that lighten and revel and roll with the foam of the plunging sea, no sign is mine of a breathing soul that god should pity me. "nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birth hath part in me nor mine: strong lords are these of the living earth and loveless lords of thine. "but i that know nor lord nor life more sure than storm or spray, whose breath is made of sport and strife, whereon shall i find stay?" "and wouldst thou change thy doom with me, full fain with thee would i: for the life that lightens and lifts the sea is more than earth or sky. "and what if the day of doubt and doom shall save nor smite not me? i would not rise from the slain world's tomb if there be no more sea. "take he my soul that gave my soul, and give it thee to keep; and me, while seas and stars shall roll thy life that falls on sleep." that word went up through the mirk mid sky, and evén to god's own ear: and the lord was ware of the keen twin cry, and wroth was he to hear. he's tane the soul of the unsained child that fled to death from birth; he's tane the light of the wan sea wild, and bid it burn on earth. he's given the ghaist of the babe new-born the gift of the water-sprite, to ride on revel from morn to morn and roll from night to night. he's given the sprite of the wild wan sea the gift of the new-born man, a soul for ever to bide and be when the years have filled their span. when a year was gone and a year was come,. o loud and loud cried they-- "for the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumb take now thy gifts away!" o loud and lang they cried on him, and sair and sair they prayed: "is the face of thy grace as the night's face grim for those thy wrath has made?" a cry more bitter than tears of men from the rim of the dim grey sea;-- "give me my living soul again, the soul thou gavest me, the doom and the dole of kindly men, to bide my weird and be!" a cry more keen from the wild low land than the wail of waves that roll;-- "take back the gift of a loveless hand, thy gift of doom and dole, the weird of men that bide on land; take from me, take my soul!" the hands that smite are the hands that spare they build and break the tomb; they turn to darkness and dust and air the fruits of the waste earth's womb * but never the gift of a granted prayer, the dole of a spoken doom. winds may change at a word unheard, but none may change the tides: the prayer once heard is as god's own word; the doom once dealt abides. and ever a cry goes up by day, and ever a wail by night; and nae ship comes by the weary bay but her shipmen hear them wail and pray, and see with earthly sight the twofold flames of the twin lights play where the sea-banks green and the sea-floods grey are proud of peril and fain of prey, and the sand quakes ever; and ill fare they that look upon that light. ----a. c. swinburne. the bride's tragedy |the wind wears roun', the day wears doun, the moon is grisly grey; there's nae man rides by the mirk muirsides, nor down the dark tyne's way." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "and winna ye watch the night wi' me, and winna ye wake the morn? foul shame it were that your ae mither should brook her ae son's scorn." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "o mither, i may not sleep nor stay, my weird is ill to dree; for a fause faint lord of the south seaboard wad win my bride of me." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "the winds are strang, and the nights are lang, and the ways are sair to ride: and i maun gang to wreak my wrang, and ye maun bide and bide." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "gin i maun bide and bide, willie, i wot my weird is sair: weel may ye get ye a light love yet, but never a mither mair." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "o gin the morrow be great wi' sorrow, the wyte be yours of a': but though ye slay me that haud and stay me, the weird ye will maun fa'." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. when cocks were crawing and day was dawing, he's boun' him forth to ride: and the ae first may he's met that day was fause earl robert's bride. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. o blithe and braw were the bride-folk a', but sad and saft rade she; and sad as doom was her fause bridegroom, but fair and fain was he. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "and winna ye bide, sae saft ye ride, and winna ye speak wi' me? for mony's the word and the kindly word i have spoken aft wi' thee." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "my lamp was lit yestreen, willie, my window-gate was wide: but ye camena nigh me till day came by me and made me not your bride." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. he's set his hand to her bridle-rein, he's turned her horse away: and the cry was sair, and the wrath was mair, and fast and fain rode they. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. but when they came by chollerford, i wot the ways were fell; for broad and brown the spate swang down, and the lift was mirk as hell. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "and will ye ride yon fell water, or will ye bide for fear? nae scathe ye'll win o' your father's kin, though they should slay me here." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "i had liefer ride yon fell water, though strange it be to ride, than i wad stand on the fair green strand, and thou be slain beside." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "i had liefer swim yon wild water, though sair it be to bide, than i wad stand at a strange man's hand, to be a strange man's bride." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. "i had liefer drink yon dark water, wi' the stanes to make my bed, and the faem to hide me, and thou beside me, than i wad see thee dead." in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. he's kissed her twice, he's kissed her thrice, on cheek and lip and chin: he's wound her rein to his hand again, and lightly they leapt in. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. their hearts were high to live or die, their steeds were stark of limb: but the stream was starker, the spate was darker, than man might live and swim. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. the first ae step they strode therein, it smote them foot and knee: but ere they wan to the mid water the spate was as the sea. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. but when they wan to the mid water, it smote them hand and head: and nae man knows but the wave that flows where they lie drowned and dead. in, in, out and in, blaws the wind and whirls the whin. ----a. c. swinburne. the witch-mother |o where will ye gang to and where will ye sleep, against the night begins?" "my bed is made wi' cauld sorrows, my sheets are lined wi' sins. "and a sair grief sitting at my foot, and a sair grief at my head; and dule to lay me my laigh pillows, and teen till i be dead. "and the rain is sair upon my face, and sair upon my hair; and the wind upon my weary mouth, that never may man kiss mair. "and the snow upon my heavy lips, that never shall drink nor eat; and shame to cledding, and woe to wedding, and pain to drink and meat. "but woe be to my bairns' father, and ever ill fare he: he has tane a braw bride hame to him, cast out my bairns and me." "and what shall they have to their marriage meat this day they twain are wed?" "meat of strong crying, salt of sad sighing,. and god restore the dead. "and what shall they have to their wedding wine this day they twain are wed?" "wine of weeping, and draughts of sleeping, and god raise up the dead." she's tane her to the wild woodside, between the flood and fell: she's sought a rede against her need of the fiend that bides in hell. she's tane her to the wan burnside, she's wrought wi' sang and spell: she's plighted her soul for doom and dole to the fiend that bides in hell. she's set her young son to her breast, her auld son to her knee: says, "weel for you the night, bairnies, and weel the morn for me." she looked fu' lang in their een, sighing, and sair and sair grat she: she has slain her young son at her breast, her auld son at her knee. she's sodden their flesh wi' saft water, she's mixed their blood with wine: she's tane her to the braw bride-house, where a' were boun' to dine. she poured the red wine in his cup, and his een grew fain to greet: she set the baked meats at his hand, and bade him drink and eat. says, "eat your fill of your flesh, my lord, and drink your fill of your wine j for a' thing's yours and only yours that has been yours and mine." says, "drink your fill of your wine, my lord, and eat your fill of your bread: i would they were quick in my body again, or i that bare them dead." he struck her head frae her fair body, and dead for grief he fell: and there were twae mair sangs in heaven, and twae mair sauls in hell. ----a. c. swinburne. the sea-swallows [illustration: ] |this fell when christmas lights were done, red rose leaves will never make wine; but before the easter lights begun; the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. two lovers sat where the rowan blows and all the grass is heavy and fine, by the gathering place of the sea-swallows when the wind brings them over tyne. blossom of broom will never make bread, red rose leaves will never make winej between her brows she is grown red, that was full white in the fields by tyne. "o what is this thing ye have on, show me now, sweet daughter of. mine?" "o father, this is my little son that i found hid in the sides of tyne. "o what will ye give my son to eat, red rose leaves will never make wine?" "fen water and adder's meat, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne.' "or what will ye get my son to wear, red rose leaves will never make wine?" "a weed and a web of nettle's hair, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne." "or what will ye take to line his bed, red rose leaves will never make wine?" "two black stones at the kirkwall's head, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "or what will ye give my son for land, red rose leaves will never make wine?" "three girl's paces of red sand, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne." "or what will ye give me for my son, red rose leaves will never make wine?" "six times to kiss his young mouth on, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne." "but what have ye done with the bearing-bread, and what have ye made of the washing-wine? or where have ye made your bearing-bed, to bear a son in the sides of tyne?" "the bearing-bread is soft and new, there is no soil in the straining wine; the bed was made between green and blue, it stands full soft by the sides of tyne. "the fair grass was my bearing-bread, the well-water my washing-wine; the low leaves were my bearing-bed, and that was best in the sides of tyne." "o daughter, if ye have done this thing, i wot the greater grief is mine; this was a bitter child-bearing, when ye were got by the sides of tyne. "about the time of sea-swallows that fly full thick by six and nine, ye'll have my body out of the house, to bury me by the sides of tyne. "set nine stones by the wall for twain, red rose leaves will never make wine; for the bed i take will measure ten, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne. "tread twelve girl's paces out for three, red rose leaves will never make wine; for the pit i made has taken me, the ways are sair fra' the till to the tyne." ----a. c. swinburne. [illustration: ] the kings daughter |we were ten maidens in the green corn, small red leaves in the mill-water: fairer maidens never were born, apples of gold for the king's daughter. we were ten maidens by a well-head, small white birds in the mill-water: sweeter maidens never were wed, rings of red for the king's daughter. the first to spin, the second to sing, seeds of wheat in the mill-water; the third may was a goodly thing, white bread and brown for the king's daughter. the fourth to sew and the fifth to play, fair green weed in the mill-water; the sixth may was a goodly may, white wine and red for the king's daughter. the seventh to woo, the eighth to wed, fair thin reeds in the mill-water; the ninth had gold work on her head, honey in the comb for the king's daughter. the ninth had gold work round her hair, fallen flowers in the mill-water; the tenth may was goodly and fair, golden gloves for the king's daughter. we were ten maidens in a field green, fallen fruit in the mill-water; fairer maidens never had been, golden sleeves for the king's daughter. by there comes the king's young son, a little wind in the mill-water; "out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one," a crown of red for the king's daughter. "out of ten mays ye'll give me the best," a little rain in the mill-water; a bed of yellow straw for all the rest, a bed of gold for the king's daughter. he's ta'en out the goodliest, rain that rains in the mill-water; a comb of yellow shell for all the rest, a comb of gold for the king's daughter. he's made her bed to the goodliest, wind and hail in the mill-water; a grass girdle for all the rest, a girdle of arms for the king's daughter. he's set his heart to the goodliest, snow that snows in the mill-water; nine little kisses for all the rest, an hundredfold for the king's daughter. he's ta'en his leave at the goodliest, broken boats in the mill-water; golden gifts for all the rest, sorrow of heart for the king's daughter. "ye'll make a grave for my fair body," running rain in the mill-water; "and ye'll streek my brother at the side of me," the pains of hell for the king's daughter. ----a. c. swinburne. the ballad of the midnight sun . part i. |the still white coast at midsummer, beside the still white sea, lay low and smooth and shining in this year eighty-three; the sun was in the very north, strange to see. the walrus ivory lay in heaps half-buried in the shore, the slow stream slid o'er unknown beds of golden ore, washings of amber to the beach light waves bore. sprays of white, like foam-flowers, betwixt the skies and seas, swayed and poised the sea-gulls in twos and threes, clustered like the stars men call pleiades. the white marsh-flowers, the white marsh-grass shimmered amid the grey of the marsh-water--mirrored over and under, they stood stiff and tall and slender, all one way. the upper spake to the lower, "are ye, or do ye seem?" out of the dim marsh-water glided as in a dream the still swans down a distance of moonbeam. the willow-warbler dropped from the spray sweet notes like a soft spring shower, there was a twitter of building birds in the blackthorn bower, all broken from bare to gossamer in an hour. a garden white lay all the land in wreaths of summer snow, the heart of the year upspringing swift and aglow, in pale flame and slender stalk, smooth and low. the white heath and white harebell let their chimes rise and fall, the delicate sheets of wood-sorrel unfolded all, for a bed of bridal-- or a pall? powdered with pearl, auriculas, and beds of snowdrop sheen, frostwork of saxifrage, and fair balls of winter green: there was no room for foot to pass in between. one only pink, the fragrant bloom of all blooms boreal, every face of every flower with looks funereal bent to earth, and faintly flowering all. down in the closely crowded camp of the fresh snowdrops lay, fever and famine-stricken, none his name to say, sick to death, a traveller cast away. brother might be of balder the beautiful, the bold, by northern stature and by limbs' heroic mould, and the uncurled faint hair of pale gold. faintly the words were uttered, low, betwixt moan and moan: "here in the wilderness, lost and alone, i die, and far away, hast thou known? "fame, and story of wonder, wind of rumour had blown my name to thine, my feet up to thy throne: what has the world been since?-- thee alone. "i passed and bowed before thy face, and once thine eyes met mine; once i have kissed thy hand;-- hast thou no sign? here with my last sad breath i am thine." the white hares nibbled fearlessly among the tender green; the silver foxes stayed and watched, quick-eyed and keen; the little ermine soft of foot stole between. but the white world changed and quickened to a red world, the same; for with splendour as of sunset and sunrise flame, from the highest heaven to the lowest, midnight came. the pulsing colours of the sky deepened and purified; all glorious chords of gold and red struck out and died; stilled in one heavenly harmony spread out wide, in one ethereal crimson glow; as if the rose of heaven had blossomed for one perfect hour, midsummer even, as ever in the mystic sphere of stars seven. an opening blush of purest pink, that swiftly streams and grows as shoreward all the liquid waste enkindled flows, every ripple of all the sea rose on rose. --through the heavens of midnight came a bitter cry, flesh and spirit breaking, mortal agony; died away unanswered through the sky.-- but all the dim blue south was filled with the auroral flame, far out into the southward land without a name that dreamed away into the dark,-- when one came, suddenly came stepping, where the roseate rift of the boreal blossoms crossed the snowy drift in a trailing pathway, straight and swift. her robes were full and silken, her feet were silken-shod, in sweeping stately silence, serene she trod the starry carpets strewing the soft sod. the eyes of the veronica looked out and far away, a golden wreath around her head of light curls lay, and rippled back a shining shower, in bright array. about her neck the diamonds flashed in rivers of blue fire; but whiter her soft shoulders than her white attire, and tenderer her tender arms than heart's desire. she fronted full the crimson flood of all the northern space, and all the hue of all the sky was in her face; the rose of all the world has come to this place. a vision of white that glowed to red with the fire at heaven, at heart,-- nor paused nor turned,--but straight to him who lay apart, on she came, and knelt by him,-- here thou art! at the first hour after midnight, as in the eider's nest, the weary head sank soft into a heavenly rest; is it a bed of roses,-- or her breast? at the second hour the cold limbs felt comfort unaware; flickering, a golden glow warmed all the air: is it the hearth-flame lighted,-- or her hair? at the third hour, round the faint heart failing in chill alarms, is it some silken coverlet still wraps and warms in close and closer clasping?-- or her arms? at the fourth hour, to the wan lips there came a draught divine: some last reviving cup poured out of hallowed wine,-- or is it breath of hers mixed with thine? at the fifth hour all was dimness alike to him and her; one low and passionate murmur still moved the air; is it the voice of angels,-- or her prayer? at the sixth hour there stirred only the soft wave on the beach; two were lying stilly, past sound or speech, fair and carven faces, each by each. part ii. the summer palace stood by night lit up in dazzling sheen, the doors unfolded, and the pomp stirred in between; --to a burst of royal music came the queen. her eyes like stars of speedwell shone down the great saloon; she came, and all before her knew it was june; the passing of her presence was too soon. the little curls around her head were all her crown of gold, her delicate arms drooped downward in slender mould, as white-veined leaves of lilies curve and fold. all in white,--not ivory for young bloom past away,-- blossom-white, rose-white, white of the may; 'twixt white dress and white neck, who could say? she moved to measure of music, as a swan sails the stream; where her looks fell was summer, when she smiled was a dream; all faces bowing towards her sunflowers seem. o the rose upon her silent mouth, the perfect rose that lies! o the roses red, the roses deep, within her cheeks that rise! o the rose of rapture of her face to our eyes! the tall fair princes smile and sigh for grace of one sweet glance, the glittering dancers fill the floor, the queen leads the dance; the dial-hands to midnight still advance. dance down to the melting music! hark to the viols' strain! their notes are piercing, piercing, again, again; the pulse of the air is beating throbs of pain. does the dancing languish slower? oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh; in silver falling and calling, they seek reply; and the heart is sinking, sinking, why, ah why? oh, the high harp-strings resounding! so long, so clear they are: a cry is ringing in heaven from star to star, rising sharper and fainter from afar. the queen has danced from end to end; oh, the candles burn so bright! but her blue eyes look far away into the night; and the roses on her cheeks and lips have grown white. oh, why is the queen so pale to-night? and why does silence fall, as one by one they turn to her, upon them all? whence comes that cold wind shivering down the hall? the hour draws close to midnight, the banquet board is spread; the lamps are lit, the guests are set, the queen at the head: for the feasting at kings' tables grace be said! the shaded light of rubies streams from every part down the golden supper;-- who is sick at heart? oh, hush! for the queen is listening, lips apart. she sits with wide and open eyes, the wine-cup in her hand; and all the guests are ill at ease, nor understand; is it not some enchanted strange far land? the twelve long strokes of midnight with clash and clang affright; the rose-glow seems to darken before their sight; but the queen has swooned back heavily, cold and white. they lifted her, a burden like broken lily-flowers; they laid her on her own bed, within her bowers; they mourned, and they tended her, for six hours. at the first hour after midnight, the queen nor spoke nor stirred; at the second, by her bedside, no breath they heard; they said, "is she living?" at the third. at the fourth hour they watched sadly at her feet and her head; at the fifth, standing idle, no word they said; at the sixth, "bring candles for one dead." swept low down across the east, through the morning grey, a flock of white clouds swiftly, dim, far away; like a flight of white wings:-- what were they? through the palace suddenly, through every floor, wailed a wind and whistled, shook every door, rattled through the windows, then passed o'er. and as they stood with tapers tall around the queen, there came a soft and far-off fluttering over her frame, and from between her sleeping lips, one faint flame. they take her hand, they call on her, she answers them likewise; she sits upright, she looks around, with her blue eyes, and a smile as of thy secrets, paradise! winter is here, and has not brought the traveller of renown; why has he not come back again to court and town? rumours and questionings pass up and down. is it only the wolves of the northland know where his bones lie white? only the swans could tell us, in southward flight? is it only the wind could whisper to the night? the queen sits still and smiling, she hears the talk prevail, she speaks no word, she gives no glance, she tells no tale; in the golden shadow always she is pale. ---h. e. hamilton-king. little willie [illustration: ] |twas good st john's, and the mountain woods were gay with summer sheen, a mother wept for her little willie, all in his grave so green. 'twas yule, and on the mountain-side the wind was shrill and cold; the mother wept for her little willie, who lay within the mould. o cold, cold is a winter grave, o but a shroud is thin-- a wee hand tapp'd upon the door, "o mother, let me in." "i dare not let thee in, willie," the sister up and said, "for mother's away at jane's lykewake,-- go to thy graveyard bed." "o cold and lonely is the night, madly the fierce winds rave; how should i sleep?--the shroud is wet that wraps me in the grave." she sign'd the cross upon her brow, the cross upon her breast, with:--"avoid thee, ghost, and aroint thee, ghost, and get thee to thy rest." 'twas midnight, brightly glow'd the hearth, the wind howl'd down the lin; a wee hand tapp'd upon the door, "o mother, let me in." up sprung the father to his feet, and many a cross sign'd he, with:--"angels defend us from thee, child, and from the like of thee." "o cold, cold is the winter snow, that drifts adown the steep, but colder far this clammy shroud which will not let me sleep." the wind had swept away the clouds, but still its laugh was wild; before the father slept, he pray'd the saints to ban his child. ah! who shall help a houseless soul? what refuge shall it win? again the hand tapp'd on the door: "o mother, let me in." quick was her ear to catch the cry, her foot upon the floor, her hand to draw away the bolt, and open wide the door. "come in, come in, thou child of mine, right welcome unto me, come in, and warm thee in the breast that erewhile suckled thee." she took him up within her arms or ere a word was said, she set him down before the hearth, all wan and damp and dead. "cold was the snow that beat on me, the grave that let me out, o take away this wet wet shroud that wraps me round about. "your tears fall on my face, mother, your tears fall on my feet, your tears drip through the coffin-lid upon my winding-sheet. "now weep no more for me, mother, it lets me in my rest, but wrap me in another shroud and warm me in thy breast." the sister peep'd from out her bed, her face was pale with fear,-- "o mother, give him nought of mine or i shall die this year." [illustration: ] out spoke the father from his bed, harsh was his voice and wild,-- "o woman, take not aught of mine, to wrap about the child." a strange strange smile was on her lips, but ne'er a word she said; her best seem'd hardly good enough to wrap around the dead. she bore him to and fro, and sang old songs and lullabies; he laid his hands upon her cheeks and smiled into her eyes. 'twas good st john's, and the mountain woods were gay with summer sheen, the mother slept with her little willie all in the grave so green. ----charles grant. the ballad of judas iscariot |twas the body of judas iscariot lay in the field of blood; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot beside the body stood. black was the earth by night, and black was the sky; black, black were the broken clouds, tho' the red moon went by. 'twas the body of judas iscariot strangled and dead lay there; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot look'd on it in despair. [illustration: ] the breath of the world came and went like a sick man's in rest; drop by drop on the world's eyes the dews fell cool and blest. then the soul of judas iscariot did make a gentle moan-- "i will bury underneath the ground my flesh and blood and bone. "i will bury deep beneath the soil, lest mortals look thereon, and when the wolf and raven come the body will be gone! "the stones of the field are sharp as steel, and hard and cold, god wot; and i must bear my body hence until i find a spot!" 'twas the soul of judas iscariot, so grim, and gaunt, and gray, raised the body of judas iscariot, and carried it away. and as he bare it from the field its touch was cold as ice, and the ivory teeth within the jaw rattled aloud, like dice. as the soul of judas iscariot carried its load with pain, the eye of heaven, like a lanthorn's eye, opened and shut again. half he walk'd, and half he seem'd lifted on the cold wind; he did not turn, for chilly hands were pushing from behind. the first place that he came unto it was the open wold, and underneath were prickly whins, and a wind that blew so cold. the next place that he came unto it was a stagnant pool, and when he threw the body in it floated light as wool. he drew the body on his back, and it was dripping chill, and the next place he came unto was a cross upon a hill. a cross upon the windy hill, and a cross on either side, three skeletons that swing thereon, who had been crucified. and on the middle cross bar sat a white dove slumbering; dim it sat in the dim light, with its head beneath its wing. [illustration: ] and underneath the middle cross a grave yawn'd wide and vast, but the soul of judas iscariot shiver'd, and glided past. the fourth place that he came unto it was the brig of dread, and the great torrents rushing down were deep, and swift, and red. he dared not fling the body in for fear of faces dim, and arms were waved in the wild water to thrust it back to him. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot turned from the brig of dread, and the dreadful foam of the wild water had splashed the body red. for days and nights he wandered on, upon an open plain, and the days went by like blinding mist, and the nights like rushing rain. for days and nights he wandered on, all thro' the wood of woe; and the nights went by like moaning wind, and the days like drifting snow. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot came with a weary face-- alone, alone, and all alone, alone in a lonely place! he wandered east, he wandered west, and heard no human sound; for months and years, in grief and tears, he wandered round and round. for months and years, in grief and tears, he walked the silent night; then the soul of judas iscariot perceived a far-off light. a far-off light across the waste, as dim as dim might be, that came and went like the lighthouse gleam on a black night at sea. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot crawl'd to the distant gleam; and the rain came down, and the rain was blown against him with a scream. for days and nights he wandered on, push'd on by hands behind; and the days went by like black, black rain, and the nights like rushing wind. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot, strange, and sad, and tall stood all alone at dead of night before a lighted hall. and the wold was white with snow, and his foot-marks black and damp, and the ghost of the silvern moon arose, holding her yellow lamp. and the icicles were on the eaves, and the walls were deep with white, and the shadows of the guests within pass'd on the window light. the shadows of the wedding guests did strangely come and go, and the body of judas iscariot lay stretch'd along the snow. the body of judas iscariot lay stretched along the snow; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot ran swiftly to and fro. to and fro, and up and down, he ran so swiftly there, as round and round the frozen pole glideth the lean white bear. 'twas the bridegroom sat at the table-head, and the lights burnt bright and clear-- "oh, who is that," the bridegroom said, "whose weary feet i hear?" 'twas one looked from the lighted hall. and answered soft and slow, "it is a wolf runs up and down with a black track in the snow." the bridegroom in his robe of white sat at the table-head-- "oh, who is that who moans without?" the blessed bridegroom said. 'twas one looked from the lighted hall, and answered fierce and low, "'tis the soul of judas iscariot gliding to and fro." 'twas the soul of judas iscariot did hush itself and stand, and saw the bridegroom at the door with a light in his hand. the bridegroom stood in the open door, and he was clad in white, and far within the lord's supper was spread so broad and bright. the bridegroom shaded his eyes and look'd, and his face was bright to see-- "what dost thou here at the lord's supper with thy body's sins?" said he. 'twas the soul of judas iscariot stood black, and sad, and bare-- "i have wandered many nights and days: there is no light elsewhere." 'twas the wedding guests cried out within, and their eyes were fierce and bright-- "scourge the soul of judas iscariot away into the night!" the bridegroom stood in the open door, and he waved hands still and slow, and the third time that he waved his hands the air was thick with snow. and of every flake of falling snow, before it touch'd the ground, there came a dove, and a thousand doves made sweet sound. 'twas the body of judas iscariot floated away full fleet, and the wings of the doves that bare it off were like its winding-sheet. 'twas the bridegroom stood at the open door, and beckon'd, smiling sweet; 'twas the soul of judas iscariot stole in, and fell at his feet. "the holy supper is spread within, and the many candles shine, and i have waited long for thee before i poured the wine!" the supper wine is poured at last, the lights burn bright and fair, iscariot washes the bridegroom's feet and dries them with his hair. ----r. buchanan. phil blood's leap _a tale of the gold seekers_. |there's some think injins p'ison."--(it was parson pete who spoke, as we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like shadows among the smoke. 'twas the dead of night, and in the light our faces burned bright red, and the wind all round made a screeching sound, and the pines roared overhead. ay, parson pete was talking; we called him parson pete, for you must learn he'd a talking turn, and handled things so neat; he'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and, when all talk was spent, six shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to p'int his argyment. some one had spoke of the injin folk, and we had a guess, you bet, they might be creeping, while we were sleeping, to catch us in the net; and half were asleep and snoring deep, while the others vigil kept, but devil a one let go his gun, whether he woke or slept.) "there's some think injins p'ison, and others count'em scum, and night and day they are melting away, clean into kingdom come; but don't you go and make mistakes, like many derned fools i've known, for dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an injin's flesh and bone! we were seeking gold in the texan hold, and we'd had a blaze of luck, more rich and rare the stuff ran there at every foot we struck; like men gone wild we t'iled and t'iled, and never seemed to tire, the hot sun beamed, and our faces streamed with the sweat of a mad desire. i was captain then of the mining men, and i had a precious life, for a wilder set i never met at derringer and knife; nigh every day there was some new fray, a bullet in some one's brain, and the viciousest brute to stab and to shoot, was an imp of hell from maine. phil blood. well, he was six foot three, with a squint to make you skeer'd, his face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd, with carroty hair and beard, sour as the drink in bitter chink, sharp as a grizzly's squeal, limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd him in the heel. no beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript to the waist and bare, with his grim-set jaws, and his panther-paws, and his hawk's eye all aglare; with pick and spade in sun and shade he labour'd like darnation, but when his spell was over,--well! he was fond of his recreation! and being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport he had, when work was over, seemed to us a bit too rough and bad; for to put some lead in a comrade's head was the greatest fun in life, and the sharpest joke he was known to poke was the p'int of his precious knife. but game to the bone was phil, i'll own, and he always fought most fair, with as good a will to be killed as kill, true grit as any there: of honour too, like me or you, he'd a scent, though not so keen, would rather be riddled thro' and thro', than do what he thought mean. but his eddication to his ruination had not been over nice, and his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar prejudice; with anything white he'd drink, or he'd fight in fair and open fray; but to murder and kill was his wicked will, if an injin came his way! * a sarpent's hide has p'ison inside, and an injin's heart's the same, if he seems your friend for to gain his end, look out for the sarpent's game; of the snakes that crawl, the worst of all is the snake in a skin of red, a spotted snake, and no mistake?' that's what he always said. well, we'd jest struck our bit of luck, and were wild as raving men, when who should stray to our camp one day, but black panther, the cheyenne; drest like a christian, all a-grin, the old one joins our band, and though the rest look'd black as sin, he shakes _me_ by the hand. now, the poor old cuss had been good to us, and i knew that he was true,-- i'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon as i*d trust _you_; for tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank like any fish, his heart was kind, he was well inclined, as even a white could wish. food had got low, for we didn't know the run of the hunting-ground, and our hunters were sick, when, jest in the nick, the friend in need was found; for he knew the place like his mother's face (or better, a heap, you'd say, since she was a squaw of the roaming race, and himself a castaway). well, i took the panther into camp, and the critter was well content, and off with him, on the hunting tramp, next day our hunters went, and i reckon that day and the next we didn't want for food, and only one in the camp looked vext--that imp of hell, phil blood. nothing would please his contrairy ideas! an injin made him rile! he didn't speak, but i saw on his cheek, a kind of an ugly smile; and i knew his skin was hatching sin, and i kept the panther apart, for the injin he was too blind to see the dirt in a white man's heart! well, one fine day, we a-resting lay at noon- time by the creek, the red sun blazed, and we felt half-dazed, too beat to stir or speak; 'neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and we couldn't see the sky, for the lian-flowers in bright blue showers hung through the branches high. it was like the gleam of a fairy-dream, and i felt like earth's first man, in an eden bower with the yellow flower of a cactus for a fan; oranges, peaches, grapes, and figs, cluster'd, ripen'd, and fell, and the cedar scent was pleasant, blent with the soothing 'cacia smell. the squirrels red ran overhead, and i saw the lizards creep, and the woodpecker bright with the chest so white tapt like a sound in sleep; i dreamed and dozed, with eyes half-closed, and felt like a three-year child, and, a plantain blade on his brow for a shade, even phil blood look'd mild. well, back, jest then, came our hunting men, with the panther at their head, full of his fun was every one, and the panther's eyes were red, and he skipt about with grin and shout, for he'd had a drop that day, and he twisted and twirled, and squeal'd and skirl'd, in the foolish injin way. to the waist all bare phil blood lay there, with only his knife in his belt, and i saw his bloodshot eye-balls stare, and i knew how fierce he felt,-- when the injin dances with grinning glances around him as he lies, with his painted skin and his monkey grin,-- and leers into his eyes! then before i knew what i should do phil blood was on his feet, and the injin could trace the hate in his face, and his heart began to beat, and, "git out o' the way," he heard them say, "for he means to hev your life!" but before he could fly at the warning cry, he saw the flash of the knife. "run, panther run!" cried each mother's son, and the panther took the track; with a wicked glare, like a wounded bear, phil blood sprang at his back. up the side so steep of the canon deep the poor old critter sped, and the devil's limb ran after him, till they faded overhead. now, the spot of ground where our luck was found, was a queerish place, you'll mark, jest under the jags of the mountain crags and the precipices dark, far up on high, close to the sky, the two crags leant together, leaving a gap, like an open trap, with a gleam of golden weather. a pathway led from the beck's dark bed up to the crags on high, and along that path the injin fled, fast as a man could fly. some shots were fired, for i desired to keep the white beast back; but i missed my man, and away he ran on the flying injin's track. now all below is thick, you know, with 'cacia, alder, and pine, and the bright shrubs deck the side of the beck, and the lian flowers so fine, for the forest creeps all under the steeps, and feathers the feet of the crags with boughs so thick that your path you pick, like a steamer among the snags. but right above you, the crags, lord love you! are bare as this here hand, and your eyes you wink at the bright blue chink, as looking up you stand, if a man should pop in that trap at the top, he'd never rest arm or leg, till neck and crop to the bottom he'd drop-- and smash on the stones like an egg! 'come back, you cuss! come back to us! and let the critter be!' i screamed out loud, while the men in a crowd stood grinning at them and me.... but up they went, and my shots were spent, and at last they disappeared,-- one minute more, and we gave a roar, for the injin had leapt,--and _cleared!_ a leap for a deer, not a man, to clear,--and the bloodiest grave below! but the critter was smart and mad with fear, and he went like a bolt from a bow! close after him came the devil's limb, with his eyes as dark as death, but when he came to the gulch's brim, i reckon he paused for breath! for breath at the brink! but--a white man shrink, when a red had passed so neat? i knew phil blood too well to think he'd turn his back dead beat! he takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and bounds from the slippery ledge, and he clears the hole, but--god help his soul! just touches the tother edge! one scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, from the men that stand and stare,-- black in the blue, where the sky looks thro', he staggers, dwarfd up there; the edge he touches, then sinks, and clutches the rock--our eyes grow dim-- i turn away--what's that they say?--he's hang- ing on to the brim! ... on the very brink of the fatal chink a ragged shrub there grew, and to that he clung, and in silence swung betwixt us and the blue, and as soon as a man could run i ran the way i had seen them flee, and i came mad-eyed to the chasm's side, and-- what do you think i see? all up? not quite. still hanging? right! but he'd torn away the shrub; with lolling tongue, he clutched and swung-- to what? ay, that's the rub! i saw him glare, and dangle in air,--for the empty hole he trod-- helped by a _pair of hands_ up there!--the injin's? yes, by god! now, boys, look here! for many a year i've roamed in this here land-- and many a sight both day and night i've seen that i think grand; over the whole wide world i've been, and i know both things and men, but the biggest sight i've ever seen was the sight i saw jest then. i held my breath--so nigh to death phil blood swung hand and limb, and it seemed to us all that down he'd fall, with the panther after him, but the injin at length put out his strength-- and another minute past,-- then safe and sound to the solid ground he drew phil blood, at last!! saved? true for you, by an injin too!--and the man he meant to kill! there, all alone, on the brink of stone, i see them standing still; phil blood gone white, with the struggle and fright, like a great mad bull at bay, and the injin meanwhile, with a half skeer'd smile, ready to spring away. what did phil do? well i watched the two, and i saw phil blood turn back, bend over the brink and take a blink right down the chasm black, then stooping low for a moment or so, he sheath'd his bowie bright, spat slowly down, and watch'd with a frown, as the spittle sank from sight! hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent, thoughtful, and grim, while the panther, grinning as he passed, still kept his eyes on him, phil blood strolled slow to his mates below, down by the mountain track, with his lips set tight, and his face all white, and the panther at his back. i reckon they stared when the two appeared! but never a word phil spoke; some of them laughed and others jeered,--but he let them have their joke; he seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed, the sun in his eyes too bright, and for many a week, in spite of their cheek, he never offered to fight. and after that day he changed his play, and kept a civiller tongue, and whenever an injin came that way, his con- trary head he hung; but whenever he heard the lying word, 'it's a lie!' phil blood would groan; '_a snake is a snake, make no mistake! but an injin's flesh and bone!_'" ----r. buchanan. the red thread of honour |among the hills of india dwelt warriors fierce and bold, the sons of robber chieftains who, in the days of old, fought for their mountain freedom, and, if by fate laid low, fell ever crowned with honour-- their faces to the foe. now'twas an ancient custom among those hillsmen brave, when thus they found their kinsman, to dig for him no grave; but the torn blood-stained garments they stripped from off the dead, and then his wrist they circled with green or crimson thread. many the green-decked warriors, but only for a few was kept that highest honour, the thread of sanguine hue; for'twas alone the bravest of those who nobly shed their life-blood in the battle whose wrists were bound with red. and when they thus had graced them who fell before the foe, they hurled their lifeless bodies into the plain below. the earth did ne'er imprison those hillsmen brave and free, the sky alone should cover the warriors of trukkee. there came a time of conflict, and a great armed throng of england's bravest soldiers,-- avengers of the wrong,-- marched through the gloomy gorges, forded the mountain rills, vowing that they would vanquish those robbers of the hills. the road was strange and dubious; easy it was to stray; and of those english soldiers eleven lost their way. led by a trusty leader, they reached a fearful glen, and saw a mountain stronghold guarded by forty men. guarded by forty veterans of that fierce robber band, in every face defiance, weapons in every hand. "back!" cried the trusty leader; the soldiers would not hear, but up the foe-crowned mountain charged with their english cheer. with loud huzzas they stormed it, nor thought to turn from death, but for old england's honour yielded their latest breath. short was the fight but deadly, for, when our last man fell, but sixteen of that forty were left to tell the tale. but those sixteen were noble-- they loved a brave deed done; they knew a worthy foeman, and treated him as one. and when the english soldiers sought for their comrades slain, they found their stiff stark corpses prostrate upon the plain: they lay with blood-stained faces, fixed eyes, and firm-clenched fists, but the red thread of honour, was twined around their wrists. ----j. a. noble. ticonderoga |this is the tale of the man who heard a word in the night in the land of the heathery hills, in the days of the feud and the fight. by the sides of the rainy sea, where never a stranger came, on the awful lips of the dead, he heard the outlandish name. it sang in his sleeping ears, it hummed in his waking head: the name--ticonderoga, the utterance of the dead. i. the saying of the name. on the loch-sides of appin, when the mist blew from the sea, a stewart stood with a cameron: an angry man was he. the blood beat in his ears, the blood ran hot to his head, the mist blew from the sea and there was the cameron dead. "o, what have i done to my friend, o, what have i done to mysel', that he should be cold and dead, and i in the danger of all? "nothing but danger about me, danger behind and before, death at wait in the heather in appin and mamore, hate at all of the ferries and death at each of the fords, camerons priming gunlocks and camerons sharpening swords." but this was a man of counsel, this was a man of score, there dwelt no pawkier stewart in appin or mamore. he looked on the blowing mist, he looked on the awful dead, and there came a smile on his face, and there slipped a thought in his head. out over cairn and moss, out over scrog and scaur, he ran as runs the clansman that bears the cross of war. his heart beat in his body, his hair clove to his face, when he came at last in the gloaming to the dead man's brother's place. the east was white with the moon, the west with the sun was red, and there, in the house-doorway, stood the brother of the dead. "i have slain a man to my danger, i have slain a man to my death. i put my soul in your hands," the panting stewart saith. "i lay it bare in your hands, for i know your hands are leal; and be you my targe and bulwark from the bullet and the steel." then up and spake the cameron, and gave him his hand again: "there shall never a man in scotland set faith in me in vain; and whatever man you have slaughtered, of whatever name or line, by my sword and yonder mountain, i make your quarrel mine. i bid you in to my fireside, i share with you house and hall; it stands upon my honour to see you safe from all." it fell in the time of midnight, when the fox barked in the den and the plaids were over the faces in all the houses of men, that as the living cameron lay sleepless on his bed, out of the night and the other world, came in to him the dead. "my blood is on the heather, my bones are on the hill; there is joy in the home of ravens that the young shall eat their fill. my blood is poured in the dust, my soul is spilled in the air; and the man that has undone me sleeps in my brother's care." "i'm wae for your death, my brother, but if all of my house were dead, i couldnae withdraw the plighted hand, nor break the word once said." "o, what shall i say to our father, in the place to which i fare? o, what shall i say to our mother who greets to see me there? and to all the kindly camerons that have lived and died long-syne-- is this the word you send them fause-hearted brother mine?" [illustration: ] "it's neither fear nor duty, it's neither quick nor dead shall gar me withdraw the plighted hand, or break the word once said." thrice in the time of midnight, when the fox barked in the den, and the plaids were over the faces in all the houses of men, thrice as the living cameron lay sleepless on his bed, out of the night and the other world came in to him the dead, and cried to him for vengeance on the man that laid him low; and thrice the living cameron told the dead cameron, no. "thrice have you seen me, brother, but now shall see me no more, till you meet your angry fathers upon the farther shore. thrice have i spoken, and now, before the cock be heard, i take my leave for ever with the naming of a word. it shall sing in your sleeping ears, it shall hum in your waking head, the name--ticonderoga, and the warning of the dead." now when the night was over and the time of people's fears, the cameron walked abroad, and the word was in his ears. "many a name i know, but never a name like this; o, where shall i find a skilly man shall tell me what it is?" with many a man he counselled of high and low degree, with the herdsmen on the mountains and the fishers of the sea. and he came and went unweary, and read the books of yore, and the runes that were written of old, on stones upon the moor. and many a name he was told, but never the name of his fears-- never, in east or west, the name that rang in his ears: names of men and of clans; names for the grass and the tree, for the smallest tarn in the mountains, the smallest reef in the sea: names for the high and low, the names of the craig and the flat; but in all the land of scotland, never a name like that. ii. the seeking of the name. and now there was speech in the south, and a man of the south that was wise, a periwig'd lord of london, * called on the clans to rise. and the riders rode, and the summons came to the western shore, to the land of the sea and the heather, to appin and mamore. it called on all to gather from every scrog and scaur, that loved their fathers' tartan and the ancient game of war. and down the watery valley and up the windy hill, once more, as in the olden, the pipes were sounding shrill; again in highland sunshine the naked steel was bright; and the lads, once more in tartan, went forth again to fight. "o, why should i dwell here with a weird upon my life, when the clansmen shout for battle and the war-swords clash in strife? * the first pitt. i cannae joy at feast, i cannae sleep in bed, for the wonder of the word and the warning of the dead. it sings in my sleeping ears, it hums in my waking head, the name--ticonderoga, the utterance of the dead. then up, and with the fighting men to march away from here, till the cry of the great war-pipe shall drown it in my ear!" where flew king george's ensign the plaided soldiers went: they drew the sword in germany, in flanders pitched the tent. the bells of foreign cities rang far across the plain: they passed the happy rhine, they drank the rapid main. through asiatic jungles the tartans filed their way, and the neighing of the war-pipes struck terror in cathay. "many a name have i heard," he thought, "in all the tongues of men, full many a name both here and there, full many both now and then. when i was at home in my father's house in the land of the naked knee, between the eagles that fly in the lift and the herrings that swim in the sea, and now that i am a captain-man with a braw cockade in my hat-- many a name have i heard," he thought, "but never a name like that." iii. the place of the name. there fell a war in a woody place, lay far across the sea, a war of the march in the mirk midnight, and the shot from behind the tree, the shaven head and the painted face, the silent foot in the wood, in a land of a strange, outlandish tongue that was hard to be understood. it fell about the gloaming the general stood with his staff, he stood and he looked east and west with little mind to laugh. "far have i been and much have i seen, and kent both gain and loss, but here we have woods on every hand and a kittle water to cross. far have i been and much have i seen, but never the beat of this; and there's one must go down to that waterside to see how deep it is." it fell in the dusk of the night when unco things betide, the skilly captain, the cameron, went down to that waterside. canny and soft the captain went; and a man of the woody land, with the shaven head and the painted face, went down at his right hand. it fell in the quiet night, there was never a sound to ken; but all of the woods to the right and the left lay filled with the painted men. "far have i been and much have i seen, both as a man and as boy, but never have i set forth a foot on so perilous an employ." it fell in the dusk of the night when unco things betide, that he was aware of a captain-man drew near to the waterside. he was aware of his coming down in the gloaming alone; and he looked in the face of the man and lo! the face was his own. "this is my weird," he said, "and now i ken the worst; for many shall fall the morn, but i shall fall with the first. o, you of the outland tongue, you of the painted face, this is the place of my death; can you tell me the name of the place?" "since the frenchmen have been here they have called it sault-marie; but that is a name for priests, and not for you and me. it went by another word," quoth he of the shaven head: "it was called ticonderoga in the days of the great dead." and it fell on the morrow's morning, in the fiercest of the fight, that the cameron bit the dust as he foretold at night; and far from the hills of heather, far from the isles of the sea, he sleeps in the place of the name as it was doomed to be. ----r. l. stevenson. heather ale |from the bonny bells of heather they brewed a drink long-syne, was sweeter far than honey, was stronger far than wine. they brewed it and they drank it, and lay in a blessed swound for days and days together in their dwellings underground. there rose a king in scotland, a fell man to his foes, he smote the piets in battle, he hunted them like roes. over miles of the red mountain he hunted as they fled, and strewed the dwarfish bodies of the dying and the dead. summer came in the country, red was the heather bell; but the manner of the brewing was none alive to tell. in graves that were like children's on many a mountain head, the brewsters of the heather lay numbered with the dead. the king in the red moorland rode on a summer's day; and the bees hummed, and the curlews cried beside the way. the king rode, and was angry, black was his brow and pale, to rule in a land of heather and lack the heather ale. it fortuned that his vassals, riding free on the heath, came on a stone that was fallen and vermin hid beneath. rudely plucked from their hiding, never a word they spoke: a son and his aged father-- last of the dwarfish folk. the king sat high on his charger, he looked on the little men; and the dwarfish and swarthy couple looked at the king again. down by the shore he had them; and there on the giddy brink-- "i will give you life, ye vermin, for the secret of the drink." there stood the son and father and they looked high and low; the heather was red around them, the sea rumbled below. and up and spoke the father, shrill was his voice to hear: "i have a word in private, a word for the royal ear. "life is dear to the aged, and honour a little thing; i would gladly sell the secret," quoth the piet to the king. his voice was small as a sparrow's, and shrill and wonderful clear: "i would gladly sell my secret, only my son i fear. "for life is a little matter, and death is nought to the young; and i dare not sell my honour under the eye of my son. take _him_, o king, and bind him, and cast him far in the deep; and it's i will tell the secret that i have sworn to keep." they took the son and bound him, neck and heels in a thong, and a lad took him and swung him, and flung him far and strong, and the sea swallowed his body, like that of a child of ten;-- and there on the cliff stood the father, last of the dwarfish men. "true was the word i told you: only my son i feared; for i doubt the sapling courage that goes without the beard. but now in vain is the torture, fire shall never avail: here dies in my bosom the secret of heather ale." ----r. l. stevenson. captain gold and french janet |the first letter our captain wrote to the lord of mantua: "did you ever see french janet (he wrote) on any day? "did ye ever see french janet, that was so blithe and coy? the little serving-lass i stole from the mountains of savoy. "last week i lost french janet: hunt for her up and down; and send her back to me, my lord, from the four walls o* the town." captain gold and french janet, for thirty days and thirty nights there came no news to us. suddenly old grew captain gold, and his voice grew tremulous. o mantua's a bonny town, and she's long been our ally; but help came none from mantua-town, dim grew our captain's eye. "o send me janet home again!" our captain wrote anew; "a lass is but a paltry thing, and yet my heart's in two! "ha' ye searched through every convent- close, and sought in every den? mistress o' man, or bride of christ, i'll have her back again!" o mantua's a bonny town, and she's long been our ally; but help came none from mantua-town, and sick at heart am i. for thirty days and thirty nights no news came to the camp; and the life waned old in captain gold, as the oil wanes in a lamp. the third moon swelled towards the full when the third letter he wrote: "what will ye take for janet? red gold to fill your moat? "red wine to fill your fountains full? red blood to wash your streets? ah, send me janet home, my lord, or ye'll no die in your sheets!" o love, that makes strong towers to sway, and captains' hearts to fall! i feared they might have heard his sobs right out to mantua-wall. for thirteen days and thirteen nights no messenger came back; and when the morning rose again, our tents were hung with black. the dead bell rang through all the camp; but we rung it low and dim, lest the lombard hounds in mantua should know the end of him. ----a. m. f. robinson (darmesteter). sir eldric |sir eldric rode by field and fen to reach the haunts of heathen men. about the dusk he came unto a wood of birchen gray, and on the other side he knew the heathen country lay. "'tis but a night," he sang, "to ride, and christ shall reach the other side." the moon came peering through the trees, and found him undismayed; for still he sang his litanies, and as he rode he prayed. he looked as young and pure and glad as ever looked sir galahad. about the middle of the night he came upon the brink of running waters clear and white, and lighted there to drink. and as he knelt a hidden foe crept from behind and smote him so. he turned; he felt his heart's blood run; he sought his enemy: "and shall i leave my deeds undone, and die for such as thee?" [illustration: ] and since a knight was either man, they wrestled till the dawn began. then in the dim and rustling place, amid the thyme and dew, sir eldric dealt the stroke of grace, and sank a-dying too, and thought upon that other's plight who was not sure of heaven to-night. he dipped his fingers in his breast; he sought in vain to rise; he leaned across his foe at rest, and murmured, "i baptise!" when lo! the sun broke overhead: there, at his side, himself lay dead! ----a. m. f. robinson (darmesteter). [illustration: the mowers |they were three bonny mowers, were mowing half the day; they were three bonny lasses a-making of the hay. "who'll go and fetch the basket?" "not i." "nor i." "nor i." they had no time for falling out ere nancibel came by. [illustration: ] "what's in your basket, nancibel?" "there's cakes and currant wine, there's venison and good cider, lads; come quickly, come and dine." they were two bonny mowers fell to among the best; the youngest sits a-fasting, his head upon his breast. "what ails ye, bonny mower, you sit so mournfully?" "alas! what ails me, nancibel? 'tis all the love of thee." "now laugh and quaff, my bonny lad, and think no more o' me. my lover is a finer man than any twain o' ye. "he's bought for me a kirtle, he's bought for me a coat, of three-and-thirty colours, wi' tassels at the throat. "and twenty maids of honour they stitched at it a year, and sewed in all their needlework the kisses of my dear!" ----a. m. f. robinson (darmesteter). the tower of st maur |where's my little son, nourrice, and whither is he gone? the youngest son of all i have, he should not gang alone." "the child is safe enough, lady; he's barely gone an hour: he's gone to see the mason-men, are building at the tower." "you should have kept him here, nourrice, if i was sleeping then-- he's over young to gang alone among the mason-men." "lie still, lie still, my sweet lady, there's nought to sorrow for; the child is safe enough, i think, i' the keeping of st maur!" an hour's gone by, an hour or two, and still they're out-of-door-- "i wish they'd come at last, nourrice, my heart is sick and sore." "now hush, lady, my sweet lady, the moon's still small and young; if they're home before the curfew bell they'll not ha' stayed too long." st maur has ta'en his youngest son, to the riverside they're gone, to see the busy mason-men building a tower of stone. "o why do they build the tower so strong against the riverside? i never saw the wall, father, that was so strong and wide." "god knows the tower had need be strong between my foes and thee! should once lord armour enter, child, an ill death would ye dee." "we need not fear lord armour, father, nor any of his kin; since god has given us such a wall, they cannot enter in." "o twice, my babe, and thrice, my babe, ere ever that i was born, lord armour's men have entered in betwixt the night and the morn. "and once i found my nurse's room was red with bloody men... i would not have thy mother die as died my mother then. "and 'tis not seven nights ago i heard, clear in a dream, the bugle cry of armour, shrill over wood and stream." "but if so foul a raid, father, fell out so long agone, why did they never build before a wall and tower of stone?" "many's the time, my pretty babe, ere ever this way you went, we built the tower both thick and broad-- an' we might as well ha' stent. "many's the time we built the tower, wi' the grey stone and the brown. but aye the floods in autumn washed all the building down. "and in my mind i see the morn when we'll be brought to dee-- yoursel' and your seven brothers, and your young mother, and me. "and oh, were it any but armour, oh god, were it any but she-- before the lord, my eyes grow dark with the ill sight that i see." among the busy mason-men, are building at the tower, there's a swarthy gipsy mason, a lean man and a dour. he's lain the hammer down at last out of his bony hand... "did ye never hear the spell, st maur, gars any tower to stand?" "o what's the spell, thou black gipsy, i prithee rede it now: there never was any mason-man shall earn such wage as thou." "i dared not speak the spell, st maur, lest you should do me an ill, for a cruel spell, and an evil spell, is the spell that works your will." "there's no spell but i'll risk it, man, an' the price were half my lands-- to keep my wife and children safe out of lord armour's hands." "o, more than lands, and more than fee, you'll pay me for the spell----" "an' the price were half my heart's red blood, i'd pay it down as well." "o what's the blood of a sinful heart to bind the stones that fall? st maur, you'll build your christened child alive into the wall." st maur has turned on his heel so light, and angry he turns away: "gang to the devil another time when ye ask what ye ask to-day." he's ta'en his young son by the hand-- he's opened wide the gate, "your mother's been sick a month by now, and she'll mourn sore if we're late." they had not gone a little way, an' the child began to call-- "see how the flood runs high, father, and washes at the wall!" they had not gone a mickle way, st maur began to brood, "'tis the bugle cry of armour, shrill over stream and wood." "and must they slay me, father dear, and my seven brothers tall?" "gin that's the blast of armour, laddie, i fear they'll slay us all," "and will they slay my mother, then, that looks so bonny and small?" "come back, come back, thou little lad to the masons at the wall." the flood runs high and still more high, and washes stone from stone-- "in another hour," say the masons, "our work is all undone." the flood runs high and still more high, and the bugle rings anear; the masons looking o'er the wall are blue and stark with fear. there's one that's neither stark nor wan, but never he looked so well; "shall i gang to the devil, st maur?" he cries, "or say, shall i gang to yoursel'?" he's set the child high in the air upon his shoulder bone; "shall i leave them all for armour, or shall i take but one?" never an answer spake st maur, and never a word he said: there was not one o' the mason men looked half so wan and dead. the gipsy's ta'en the frighted child and set him in the wall: "there's a bonny game to play, little man, the bonniest game of all. "you'll stand so still and stark, my lad; i'll build in two's and three's; and i'll throw you a red, red apple in, when the stones reach to your knees. "you'll stand so still and stark, my lad; i'll lay the stones in haste; and i'll throw you the forester's whistle when they reach above your waist. "you'll stand so still and stark, my lad, you'll watch the stones that rise; and i'll throw you in your father's sword, when they reach above your eyes. "and if you tire o' the play, my lad, you've but to raise a shout: at the least word o' your father's mouth, i'll stop and pluck you out." the gipsy-man builds quick and light, as if he played a play, and the child laughs with a frighted laugh, and the tower ceases to sway. st maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes, like one that's well-nigh mad; the tower stands fast, and the stones rise high about the little lad. "o father, father, lift me out! the stones reach over my eyes, and i cannot see you now, father, so swift the walls uprise. "o father, lift me out, father! i cannot breathe at all, for the stones reach up beyond my head, and it's dark down i' the wall." but never an answer spake st maur, never a word but one: "have you finished your devil's work, mason, or when will the deed be done?" "oh, the work is done that ye wished, st maur, 'twill last for many a year; there's scarce a sound in the wall by now a mother might not hear. "gang home, gang home in peace, st maur, and sleep sound if you can; there's never a flood shall rock this tower, and never a mortal man. "gang home and kiss your bonny wife, and bid her mourn and fast... she'll weep a year for her youngest child, but she'll dry her eyes at last. "you'll say he fell in the flood, st maur, but you'll not deceive yoursel', for you've lost the bonniest thing you had, and you'll remember well. "your wife will mourn him a year, st maur, you'll mourn him all your life, for you've lost the bonniest thing you had, better than bairns or wife." -----a. m. f. robinson (darmesteter). [illustration: ] [illustration: ; ] a ballad of hell |a letter from my love to-day! oh, unexpected, dear appeal!" she struck a happy tear away and broke the crimson seal. "my love, there is no help on earth, no help in heaven; the dead man's bell must toll our wedding; our first hearth must be the well-paved floor of hell." the colour died from out her face, her eyes like ghostly candles shone; she cast dread looks about the place, then clenched her teeth, and read right on. "i may not pass the prison door; here must i rot from day to day, unless i wed whom i abhor, my cousin, blanche of valencay. "at midnight with my dagger keen i'll take my life; it must be so. meet me in hell to-night, my queen, for weal and woe." she laughed although her face was wan, she girded on her golden belt, she took her jewelled ivory fan, and at her glowing missal knelt. then rose, "and am i mad?" she said, she broke her fan, her belt untied; with leather girt herself instead, and stuck a dagger at her side. she waited, shuddering in her room till sleep had fallen on all the house. she never flinched; she faced her doom: they two must sin to keep their vows. then out into the night she went; and stooping, crept by hedge and tree; her rose-bush flung a snare of scent, and caught a happy memory. she fell, and lay a minute's space; she tore the sward in her distress; the dewy grass refreshed her face; she rose and ran with lifted dress. she started like a morn-caught ghost once when the moon came out and stood to watch; the naked road she crossed, and dived into the murmuring wood. the branches snatched her streaming cloak; a live thing shrieked; she made no stay! she hurried to the trysting-oak-- right well she knew the way. without a pause she bared her breast and drove her dagger home and fell, and lay like one that takes her rest, and died and wakened up in hell. she bathed her spirit in the flame, and near the centre took her post; from all sides to her ears there came the dreary anguish of the lost. the devil started at her side comely, and tall, and black as jet. "i am young malespina's bride; has he come hither yet?" "my poppet, welcome to your bed." "is malespina here?" "not he! to-morrow he must wed his cousin blanche, my dear!" "you lie; he died with me to-night." "not he! it was a plot." "you lie." "my dear, i never lie outright." "we died at midnight, he and i." the devil went. without a groan she, gathered up in one fierce prayer, took root in hell's midst all alone, and waited for him there. she dared to make herself at home, amidst the wail, the uneasy stir. the blood-stained flame that filled the dome, scentless and silent, shrouded her. how long she stayed i cannot tell; but when she felt his perfidy, she marched across the floor of hell; and all the damned stood up to see. the devil stopped her at the brink; she shook him off; she cried, "away!" "my dear, you have gone mad, i think." "i was betrayed: i will not stay." [illustration: ] across the weltering deep she ran-- a stranger thing was never seen: the damned stood silent to a man; they saw the great gulf set between. to her it seemed a meadow fair; and flowers sprang up about her feet; she entered heaven; she climbed the stair; and knelt down at the mercy-seat. seraphs and saints with one great voice welcomed that soul that knew not fear; amazed to find it could rejoice, hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer. ----john davidson. the wedding of pale bronwen i. |the wind was waked by the morning light, and it cried in the gray birch-tree, and the cry was plain in bronwen's bower, "oh, bronwen, come to me!" pale, pale sleeps bronwen, pale she wakes; "what bird to my bower is flown? for my lover, red ithel, is at the wars before jerusalem town." but still the wind sang in the tree, "come forth,'tis your wedding morn, and you must be wed in holy land ere your little babe is born." and still the wind had her true-love's cry, "kind bronwen, come!" until she could not rest, and rose to look to the sea beyond morva hill. and afar came the cry over morva hill, "kind bronwen, come to me!" till she could not stay, for very love, and stole away to the sea. she crossed the hill to the fishing-boats, and away she sailed so fine, "is it far, my love, in the summer sun to the shores of fair palestine?" ii. there was no sun at sea that day, to watch pale bronwen drown, but the sun was hot on the deadly sands before jerusalem town.' all day red ithel lay dying there, but he thought of the far-off sea; and he cried all day till his lips grew white, "kind bronwen, come to me!" and so it passed till the evening time, and then the sea-wind came, and he thought he lay on morva hill and heard her call his name. he heard her voice, he held her hand, "this is the day," she said, "and this is the hour that holy church has given for us to wed." there was no strength in him to speak, but his eyes had yet their say, "kind bronwen, now we will be wed forever and ever and aye!" iii. beneath the sea pale bronwen lies, red ithel beneath the sand; but they are one in holy church, one in love's holy land. red ithel lies by jerusalem town, and she in the deep sea lies; but i trow their little babe was born in the gardens of paradise. ---ernest rhys. the ballad of fisher's boarding-house |that night, when through the mooring-chains the wide-eyed corpse rolled free, to blunder down by garden reach and rot at kedgeree, the tale the hughli told the shoal the lean shoal told to me. |twas fultah fisher's boarding-house where sailor-men reside, and there were men of all the ports from mississip to clyde, and regally they spat and smoked, and fearsomely they lied. they lied about the purple sea that gave them scanty bread, they lied about the earth beneath, the heavens overhead, for they had looked too often on black rum when that was red. they told their tales of wreck and wrong, of shame and lust and fraud, they backed their toughest statements with the brimstone of the lord, and crackling oaths went to and fro across the fist-banged board. and there was hans the blue-eyed dane, bull-throated, bare of arm, who carried on his hairy chest the maid ultruda's charm-- the little silver crucifix that keeps a man from harm. and there was jake without-the-ears, and pamba the malay, and carboy gin the guinea cook, and luz from vigo bay, and honest jack who sold them slops and harvested their pay. and there was salem hardieker, a lean bostonian he-- russ, german, english, halfbreed, finn, yank, dane, and portugee, at fultah fisher's boarding-house they rested from the sea. now anne of austria shared their drinks, collinga knew her fame, from tarnau in galicia to jaun bazar she came, to eat the bread of infamy and take the wage of shame. she held a dozen men to heel-- rich spoil of war was hers, in hose and gown and ring and chain, from twenty mariners, and, by port law, that week, men called her salem hardieker's. but seamen learnt--what landsmen know-- that neither gifts nor gain can hold a winking light o' love or fancy's flight restrain, when anne of austria rolled her eyes on hans the blue-eyed dane. since life is strife, and strife means knife, from howrah to the bay, and he may die before the dawn who liquored out the day, in fultah fishers boarding-house we woo while yet we may. but cold was hans the blue-eyed dane, bull-throated, bare of arm, and laughter shook the chest beneath the maid ultruda's charm-- the little silver crucifix that keeps a man from harm. "you speak to salem hardieker, you was his girl, i know. i ship mineselfs to-morrow, see, und round the skaw we go, south, down the cattegat, by hjelm, to besser in saro." when love rejected turns to hate, all ill betide the man. "you speak to salem hardieker"-- she spoke as woman can. a scream--a sob--"he called me--names!" and then the fray began. an oath from salem hardieker, a shriek upon the stairs, a dance of shadows on the wall, a knife-thrust unawares-- and hans came down, as cattle drop, across the broken chairs. in anne of austria's trembling hands the weary head fell low "i ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight for besser in saro; und there ultruda comes to me at easter, und i go "south, down the cattegat--what's here? there--are--no--lights--to--guide!" the mutter ceased, the spirit passed, and anne of austria cried in fultah fisher's boarding-house when hans the mighty died. thus slew they hans the blue-eyed dane, bull-throated, bare of arm, but anne of austria looted first the maid ultruda's charm-- the little silver crucifix that keeps a man from harm. [illustration: ] the fall of jock gillespie |this fell when dinner-time was done-- 'twixt the first an' the second rub-- that oor mon jock cam' hame again to his rooms ahint the club. an' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, an' syne we thocht him fou, an' syne he trumped his partner's trick, an' garred his partner rue. -----rudyard kipling. then up and spake an elder mon, that held the spade its ace-- "god save the lad! whence comes the licht that wimples on his face?" an' jock he sniggered, an' jock he smiled, an' ower the card-brim wunk:-- "i'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, may be that i am drunk." "there's whusky brewed in galashiels, an' l. l. l. forbye; but never liquor lit the low that keeks fra' oot your eye. "there's a thrid o' hair on your dress-coat breast, aboon the heart a wee?" "oh! that is fra' the lang-haired skye that slobbers ower me." "oh! lang-haired sky es are lovin' beasts, an' terrier dogs are fair, but never yet was terrier born, wi' ell-lang gowden hair! "there's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, below the left lappel?" "oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, whenas the stump-end fell." "mon jock, ye smoke the trichi coarse, for ye are short o' cash, an' best havannahs couldna leave sae white an' pure an ash. "this nicht ye stopped a story braid, an' stopped it wi' a curse-- last nicht ye told that tale yoursel, an' capped it wi' a worse! "oh! we're no fou! oh! we're no fou! but plainly we can ken ye're failin', failin', fra' the band o' cantie single men!" an' it fell when _sirris_-shaws were sere, an' the nichts were lang and mirk, in braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, oor jockie gaed to the kirk. ---rudyard kipling. soldier, soldier [illustration: ] |soldier, soldier come from the wars, why don't you march with my true love?" "we're fresh from off the ship an' vs maybe give the slip, an' you'd best go look for a new love." new love! true love! best go look for a new love, the dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, an' you'd best go look for a new love. "soldier, soldier come from the wars, what did you see o' my true love?" "i seed him serve the queen in a suit o' rifle- green, an' you'd best go look for a new love." "soldier, soldier come from the wars, did you see no more o' my true love?" "i seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly-- but you'd best go look for a new love." "soldier, soldier come from the wars, did aught take 'arm to my true love?" "i couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white-- an' you'd best go look for a new love." "soldier, soldier come from the wars, i'll up an' tend to my true love!" "e's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead, an' you'd best go look for a new love." "soldier, soldier come from the wars, i'll down an' die with my true love!" "the pit we dug 'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im-- an' you'd best go look for a new love." "soldier, soldier come from the wars, do you bring no sign from my true love?" "i bring a lock of hair that'e alius used to wear, an' you'd best go look for a new love." "soldier, soldier come from the wars, o then i know it's true i've lost my true love!" "an' i tell you truth again--when you've lost the feel o' pain you'd best take me for your true love." true love! new love! best take'im for a new love, the dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, an' you'd best take'im for your true love. ---rudyard kipling. ballad of east and west |oh, _east is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet, till earth and sky stand presently at god's great judgment seat; but there is neither east nor west, border, nor breed, nor birth, when two strong men stand face to face, tho they come from the ends of the earth!_ kamal is out with twenty men to raise the borderside, and he has lifted the colonel's mare that is the colonel's pride: he has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, and turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. then up and spoke the colonel's son that led a troop of the guides: "is there never a man of all my men can say where kamal hides? then up and spoke mahommed khan, the son of the ressaldar: "if ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. at dusk he harries the abazai--at dawn he is into bonair, but he must go by fort bukloh to his own place to fare, so if ye gallop to fort bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, by the favour of god ye may cut him off ere he win to the tongue of jagai. but if he be past the tongue of jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, for the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with kamal's men. there is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, and ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." the colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, with the mouth of a bell and the heart of hell and the head of the gallows-tree. the colonel's son to the fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- who rides at the tail of a border thief, he sits not long at his meat. he's up and away from fort bukloh as fast as he can fly, till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the tongue of jagai, till he was aware of his father's mare with kamal upon her back, and when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. he has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. "ye shoot like a soldier," kamal said. "show now if ye can ride." it's up and over the tongue of jagai, as blown dust-devils go, the dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. the dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, but the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. there was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, and thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. they have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, the dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. the dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he, and kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. he has knocked the pistol out of his hand-- small room was there to strive, "'twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: there was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, but covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. if i had raised my bridle-hand, as i have held it low, the little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: if i had bowed my head on my breast, as i have held it high, the kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." lightly answered the colonel's son: "do good to bird and beast, but count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. if there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. they will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, the thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. but if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy brethren wait to sup, the hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,--howl, dog, and call them up! and if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, give me my father's mare again, and i'll fight my own way back!" kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. "no talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey wolf meet. may i eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; what dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with death?" lightly answered the colonel's son: "i hold by the blood of my clan: take up the mare for my father's gift--by god, she has carried a man!" the red mare ran to the colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast; "we be two strong men," said kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. so she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise studded rein, my broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." the colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, "ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?" "a gift for a gift," said kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. thy father has sent his son to me, i'll send my son to him!" with that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest-- he trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. "now here is thy master," kamal said, "who leads a troop of the guides, and thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. till death or i cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, thy life is his--thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. so, thou must eat the white queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, and thou must harry thy fathers hold for the peace of the border-line, and thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- belike they will raise thee to ressaldar when i am hanged in peshawur," they have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, they have taken the oath of the brother-in- blood, on leavened bread and salt: they have taken the oath of the brother-in- blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, on the hilt and the haft of the kyber knife, and the wondrous names of god. the colonel's son he rides the mare and kamal's boy the dun, and two have come back to fort bukloh where there went forth but one. and when they drew to the quarter-guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- there was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "ha' done! ha' done!" said the colonel's son. "put up the steel at your sides! last night ye had struck at a border thief--to- night'tis a man of the guides!" _oh, east is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet, till earth and sky stand presently at god's great judgment seat; but there is neither east nor west, border, nor breed, nor birth, when two strong men stand face to face, tho they come from the ends of the earth_ ----rudyard kipling. [illustration: ] the lady of sevilla _in the city of sevilla, years and years ago-- dwelt a lady in a villa years and years ago._ "magdalene," _revelations of peter brown_, by j. f. waller. |in the city of sevilla, years and years ago, lived a lady in a villa, ah,'twas long ago. and her lips were cherries ripe years and years ago, and her eyes were like the night long ago. [illustration: ] all the gallants of sevilla, years and years ago, loved the lady of the villa, ah,'twas long ago. but their foolish hearts were broken, years and years ago, for she scorned their true love tokens long ago. far away from fair sevilla, years and years ago; far from city, town, and villa, ah,'twas long ago. sailed a ship across the ocean years and years ago, and the lady's heart was broken, years and years ago. ----gratiana chanter. [illustration: ] irish ballads the battle of the boyne |july the first of a morning fair in seventeen ninety famous, king william did- his men prepare to fight with false king shamus. king james he pitched his tents between the lines for to retire; but king william threw his bomb-balls in and set them all on fire. thereat revenge the irish vowed upon king william's forces, and vehemently with cries did crowd to check their forward courses. a ball from out their batteries hew as our king he faced their fire; his shoulder-knot away it shot, quoth he, "pray come no nigher!" then straight his officers he did call, saying, "gentlemen, mind your station, and prove your valour one and all before this irish nation. my brazen walls let no man break, and your subtle foes you'll scatter; let us show them to-day good english play, as we go over the water." then horse and foot we marched amain, resolved their ranks to batter; but the brave duke schomberg he was slain, as we went over the water. then king william cried, "feel no dismay at the losing of one commander, for god shall be our king to-day, and i'll be general under." then stoutly we boyne river crossed to give the irish battle; our cannon to his dreadful cost like thunder-claps did rattle. in majestic mien our prince rode o'er, the stream ran red with slaughter as with blow and shout we put to rout our enemies over the water. ----anon. adapted by a. p. graves. [illustration: ] shule agra [illustration: ] |his hair was black, his eye was blue, his arm was stout, his word was true; i wish in my heart i was with you. go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! * shule, shule, shule agra! ** only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! 'tis oft i sat on my true love's knee, many a fond story he told to me, he told me things that ne'er shall be, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun. shule, shule, shule agra! only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! * farewell, my darling. ** come, come, my love! i sold my rock, * i sold my reel; ** when my flax was spun, i sold my wheel, to buy my love a sword of steel, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! shule, shule, shule agra! only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun. but when king james was forced to flee, the wild geesef spread their wings to sea, and bore mabouchal *** far from me, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! shule, shule, shule agra! only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! i saw them sail from brandon hill, then down i sat and cried my fill, that every tear would turn a mill, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! shule, shule, shule agra! only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! * _two parts of irish spinning wheel. ** irish jacobites who joined the french army when the cause of james ii. was lost. *** my boy._ i wish the king would return to reign, and bring my true love back again; i wish, and wish, but i wish in vain, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! shule, shule, shule agra! only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! ill dye my petticoat, i'll dye it red, * and round the world i'll beg my bread, till i find my love alive or dead, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!, shule, shule, shule agra! only death can ease my woe, since the lad of my heart from me did go, go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! ---anon. adapted by a. p. graves. the night before larry was stretched |the night before larry was stretched, the boys they all paid him a visit; a bit in their sacks too they fetched, they sweated their duds till they riz it; * beggars of those days were required by the law to wear red petticoats. for larry was always the lad, when a friend was condemned to the squeezer, but he'd fence all the togs that he had just to help the poor boy to a sneezer, and moisten his gob 'fore he died. "'pon my conscience, dear larry," says i, "i'm sorry to see you in trouble, your life's cheerful noggin run dry, and yourself going off like its bubble." "hould your tongue in that matter," says he; "for the neckcloth i don't care a button, and by this time to-morrow you'll see your larry will be dead as mutton: all for what?'kase his courage was good." the boys they came crowding in fast; they drew their stools close round about him. six glims round his coffin they placed; he couldn't be well waked without 'em. i axed if he was fit for to die, without having duly repented? says larry, "that's all in my eye, and all by the clergy invented to make a fat bit for themselves." then the cards being called for, they played, till larry found one of them cheated. quick! he made a hard rap at his head,-- the lad being easily heated. "so ye chates me because i'm in grief; o, is that, by the holy, the rason? soon i'll give you to know, you d-d thief, that you're cracking your jokes out of sason, and scuttle your nob with my fist." then in came the priest with his book, he spoke him so smooth and so civil, larry tipped him a kilmainham look, and pitched his big wig to the divil. then raising a little his head to get a sweet drop of the bottle, and pitiful sighing, he said, "o, the hemp will be soon round my throttle, and choke my poor windpipe to death!" so mournful these last words he spoke, we all vented our tears in a shower; for my part i thought my heart broke to see him cut down like a flower. on his travels we watched him next day - o, the hangman, i thought i could kill him! not one word did our poor larry say, nor changed till he came to "king william." och, my dear, thin his colour turned white. when he came to the nubbling chit, he was tucked up so neat and so pretty; the rumbler jogged off with his feet, and he died with his face to the city. he kicked, too, but that was all pride, for soon you might see 'twas all over; and as soon as the noose was untied, then at darky we waked him in clover, and sent him to take a ground sweat. the patriot mother |come, tell us the name of the rebelly crew, who lifted the pike on the curragh with you come, tell us the treason, and then you'll be free, or right quickly you'll swing from the high gallows tree." ''_alarma! alanna!_ the shadow of shame has never yet fallen upon one of your name, and oh! may the food from my bosom you drew, in your veins turn to poison, if _you_ turn untrue. "the foul words--oh! let them not blacken your tongue, that would prove to your friends and your country a wrong, or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread, with the wrath of the lord--may they fall on your head! "i have no one but you in the whole world wide, yet false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at my side: if a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away from my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd in the clay. "oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be, for your falsehood so base, than your death proud and free, dearer, far dearer than ever to me, my darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree. "'tis holy, agra, from the bravest and best-- go! go! from my heart, and be join'd with the rest, _alanna, machree! o alanita, machree!_ sure a 'stag' * and a traitor you never will be." there's no look of a traitor upon the young brow that's raised to the tempters so haughtily now; no traitor e'er held up the firm head so high-- no traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye. on the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows tree! where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he! but it never bore blossom so pure or so fair, as the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there. * "_stag_," an informer. the lake of coolfin |to the lake of coolfin the companions soon came, and the first man they met was the keeper of game:-- "turn back willy leonard, return back again; there is deep and false water in the lake of coolfin!" young willy plunged in, and he swam the lake round; he swam to an island--'twas soft marshy ground: "o, comrade, dear comrade, do not venture in; there is deep and false water in the lake of coolfin!" 'twas early that morning his sister arose; and up to her mother's bed-chamber she goes:-- "o, i dreamed a sad dream about willy last night; he was dressed in a shroud--in a shroud of snow-white!" 'twas early that morning his mother came there; she was wringing her hands--she was tearing her hair. o, woful the hour your dear willy plunged in:-- there is deep and false water in the lake of coolfin! and i saw a fair maid, standing fast by the shore; her face it was pale--she was weeping full sore; in deep anguish she gazed where young willy plunged in:-- ah! there's deep and false water in the lake of coolfin! _old ballad. recomposed by_ p. w. joyce. by that lake, whose gloomy shore |by that lake, whose gloomy shore skylark never warbles o'er, where the cliff hangs high and steep, young saint kevin stole to sleep. "here, at least," he calmly said, "woman ne'er shall find my bed." ah! the good saint little knew what that wily sex can do. 'twas from kathleen's eyes he flew,-- eyes of most unholy blue! she had lov'd him well and long, wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. wheresoe'er the saint would fly, still he heard her light foot nigh; east or west, where'er he turn'd, still her eyes before him burn'd. on the bold cliff's bosom cast, tranquil now he sleeps at last; dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er woman's smile can haunt him there. but nor earth nor heaven is free from her power, if fond she be: even now, while calm he sleeps, kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. fearless she had track'd his feet to this rocky, wild retreat; and when morning met his view, her mild glances met it too. ah, your saints have cruel hearts! sternly from his bed he starts, and with rude, repulsive shock, hurls her from the beetling rock. glendalough, thy gloomy wave soon was gentle kathleen's grave! soon the saint (yet ah! too late,) felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. when he said, "heav'n rest her soul!" round the lake light music stole; and her ghost was seen to glide, smiling o'er the fatal tide. ----t. moore. the high-born lady |in vain all the knights of the underwald woo'd her, though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, but worthy were none of the high-born ladye. "whomsoever i wed," said this maid, so excelling, "that knight must the conqu'ror of con- querors be; he must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in;-- none else shall be lord of the high-born ladye!" thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her on knights and on nobles of highest degree, who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, and worshipp'd at distance the high-born ladye. at length came a knight, from a far land to woo her, with plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; his vizor was down--but, with voice that thrill'd through her, he whisper'd his vows to the high-born ladye. "proud maiden! i come with high spousals to grace thee; in me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see; enthron'd in a hall fit for monarch s i'll place thee, and mine thou'st for ever, thou high-born ladye!" the maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her, of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she; and proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey'd her in pomp to his home, of that high-born ladye. "but whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me? here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; is _this_ the bright palace in which thou would'st wed me?" with scorn in her glance said the high-born ladye. "'tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"-- then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; but she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features, and death was the lord of the high-born ladye! ----t. moore. the maiden city |where foyle his swelling waters rolls northward to the main, there, queen of erin's daughters, fair derry fixed her reign; a holy temple crowned her,? and commerce graced her street, a rampart wall was round her, the river at her feet; and here she sat alone, boys, and, looking from the hill, vowed the maiden on her throne, boys, should be a maiden still. from antrim crossing over, in famous eighty-eight, a plumed and belted lover came to the ferry gate. she summoned to defend her our sires,--a beardless race,-- they shouted, no surrender! and slammed it in his face. then in a quiet tone, boys, they told him 'twas their will that the maiden on her throne, boys, should be a maiden still. next, crushing all before him, a kingly wooer came; (the royal banner o'er him blushed crimson deep for shame;) he showed the pope's commission, nor dreamed to be refused; she pitied his condition, but begged to stand excused. in short, the fact is known, boys, she chased him from the hill, for the maiden on the throne, boys, would be a maiden still. on our brave sires descending, 'twas then the tempest broke, their peaceful dwellings rending, 'mid blood and flame and smoke. that hallowed grave-yard yonder, swells with the slaughtered dead,-- o brothers, pause and ponder! it was for us they bled; and while their gifts we own, boys, the fane that tops the hill, o, the maiden on her throne, boys, shall be a maiden still! nor wily tongue shall move us, nor tyrant arm affright; we'll look to one above us, who ne'er forsook the right; who will may crouch and tender the birthright of the free, but, brothers, no surrender, no compromise for me! we want no barrier stone, boys, no gates to guard the hill, yet the maiden on her throne, boys, shall be a maiden still. ----charlotte elizabeth (_tonna_). sir turlough; or, the churchyard bride [illustration: ] |the bride, she bound her golden hair-- killeevy, o killeevy! and her step was light as the breezy air when it bends the morning flowers so fair, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. and oh, but her eyes they danc'd so bright, killeevy, o killeevy! as she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's light, her bridal vows of love to plight, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the bridegroom is come with youthful brow, killeevy, o killeevy! to receive from his eva her virgin vow; "why tarries the bride of my bosom now?" by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. a cry! a cry!'twas her maidens spoke, killeevy, o killeevy! "your bride is asleep--she has not awoke, and the sleep she sleeps will never be broke," by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. sir turlough sank down with a heavy moan, killeevy, o killeevy! and his cheek became like the marble stone-- "oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!" by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the keen is loud, it comes again, killeevy, o killeevy! and rises sad from the funeral train, as in sorrow it winds along the plain, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. and oh, but the plumes of white were fair, killeevy, o killeevy! when they flutter'd all mournful in the air as rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. there is a voice that but one can hear, killeevy, o killeevy! and it softly pours from behind the bier, its note of death on sir turlough's ear, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the keen is loud, but that voice is low, killeevy, o killeevy! and it sings its song of sorrow slow, and names young turlough's name with woe,, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. now the grave is closed, and the mass is said, killeevy, o killeevy! and the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed, the fairest corpse among the dead, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the wreaths of virgin-white are laid, killeevy, o killeevy! by virgin hands o'er the spotless maid; and the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "oh! go not yet--not yet away, killeevy, o killeevy! let us feel that _life_ is near our clay," the long-departed seem to say, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. but the tramp and voices of _life_ are gone, killeevy, o killeevy! and beneath each cold forgotten stone, the mouldering dead sleep all alone, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. but who is he who lingereth yet? killeevy, o killeevy! the fresh green sod with his tears is wet, and his heart in that bridal grave is set, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. oh, who but sir turlough, the young and brave, killeevy, o killeevy! should bend him o'er that bridal grave, and to his death-bound eva rave, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "weep not--weep not," said a lady fair, killeevy, o killeevy! "should youth and valour thus despair, and pour their vows to the empty air?" by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. there's charmed music upon her tongue, killeevy, o killeevy! such beauty--bright and warm and young-- was never seen the maids among, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. a laughing light, a tender grace, killeevy, o killeevy! sparkled in beauty around her face, that grief from mortal heart might chase, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "the maid for whom thy salt tears fall, killeevy, o killeevy! thy grief or love can ne'er recall; she rests beneath that grassy pall, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "my heart it strangely cleaves to thee, killeevy, o killeevy! and now that thy plighted love is free, give its unbroken pledge to me, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy." the charm is strong upon turlough's eye, killeevy, o killeevy! his faithless tears are already dry,. and his yielding heart has ceased to sigh, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "to thee," the charmed chief replied, killeevy, o killeevy! "i pledge that love o'er my buried bride! [illustration: ] oh! come, and in turlough's hall abide," by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. again the funeral voice came o'er killeevy, o killeevy! the passing breeze, as it wailed before, and streams of mournful music bore, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "if i to thy youthful heart am dear, killeevy, o killeevy! one month from hence thou wilt meet me here where lay thy bridal, eva's bier," by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. he pressed her lips as the words were spoken; killeevy, o killeevy! and his _banshee's_ wail--now far and broken-- murmur'd "death," as he gave the token, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "adieu! adieu!" said this lady bright, killeevy, o killeevy! and she slowly passed like a thing of light, or a morning cloud, from sir turlough's sight, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. now sir turlough has death in every vein, killeevy, o killeevy! and there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain, and gold for those who will calm his brain, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, killeevy, o killeevy! sir turlough the brave, green truagha's pride, has pledged his love to the churchyard bride," by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the leech groaned loud, "come, tell me this, killeevy, o killeevy! by all thy hopes of weal and bliss, has sir turlough given the fatal kiss?" by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "the banshee's cry is loud and long, killeevy, o killeevy! at eve she weeps her funeral song, and it floats on the twilight breeze along, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "then the fatal kiss is given;--the last, killeevy, o killeevy! of turlough's race and name is past, his doom is seal'd, his die is cast," by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. "leech, say not that thy skill is vain, killeevy, o killeevy! oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, and half his lands thou shalt retain," by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest, killeevy, o killeevy! with pious shrift his soul releas'd, and the smoke is high of his funeral feast. by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the shanachies now are assembled all, killeevy, o killeevy! and the songs of praise, in sir turlough's hall, to the sorrowing harp's dark music fall, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. and there is trophy, banner, and plume, killeevy, o killeevy! and the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom, o'ershadows the irish chieftain's tomb, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. the month is clos'd, and green truagha's pride, killeevy, o killeevy! is married to death--and, side by side, he slumbers now with his churchyard bride, by the bonnie green woods of killeevy. ----w. carleton, [illustration: ] the virgin mary's bank |the evening star rose beauteous above the fading day, as to the lone and silent beach the virgin came to pray, and hill and wave shone brightly in the moon- light's mellow fall; but the bank of green where mary knelt was brightest of them all. slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appear'd, and her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she near'd; to the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, and her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone. the master saw our lady as he stood upon the prow, and mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance of her brow; her arms were folded gracefully upon her stain- less breast, and her eyes look'd up among the stars to him her soul lov'd best. he show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer, and on the kneeling virgin they gazed with laugh and jeer; [illustration: ] and madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before; and they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. the ocean from its bosom shook off the moon- light sheen, and up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their queen; and a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark- ness o'er the land, and the scoffing crew beheld no more that lady on the strand. out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning leap'd about, and rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a shout, and that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thund'ring shock, and her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on inchidony's rock. then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high. but the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling cry; and with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest passed away, and down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay. when the calm and purple morning shone out on high dunmore, full many a mangled corpse was seen on inchi- dony's shore; and to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank, and still he calls that hillock green, "the virgin mary's bank." ----j. j. callanan. carolan and bridget cruise |true love can ne'er forget; fondly as when we met, dearest, i love thee yet, my darling one!" thus sung a minstrel gray, his sweet impassion'd lay, down by the ocean's spray, at set of sun; but wither'd was the minstrel's sight, morn to him was dark as night, yet his heart was full of light; as he his lay begun. "true love can ne'er forget; fondly as when we met, dearest, i love thee yet, my darling one! long years are past and o'er, since from this fatal shore, cold hearts and cold winds bore my love from me." scarcely the minstrel spoke, when quick, with flashing stroke, a boat's light oar the silence broke o'er the sea; soon upon her native strand doth a lovely lady land, while the minstrel's love-taught hand did o'er his wild harp run-- "true love can ne'er forget; fondly as when we met, dearest, i love thee yet, my darling one!" where the minstrel sat alone, there, that lady fair hath gone, within his hand she placed her own,-- the bard dropp'd on his knee; from his lips soft blessings came, he kiss'd her hand with truest flame, in trembling tones he named--her name, though he could not see. but oh! the touch the bard could tell of that dear hand, remember'd well,-- ah! by many a secret spell can true love find her own! for true love can ne'er forget, fondly as when they met, he loved his lady yet,-- his darling one. ----s. lover. [illustration: ] the o'kavanagh i. |the saxons had met, and the banquet was spread, and the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led; and the banners that hung round the festal that night, seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight. ii. in came the o'kavanagh, fair as the morn, when earth to new beauty and vigour is born; they shrank from his glance like the waves from the prow, for nature's nobility sat on his brow. iii. attended alone by his vassal and bard; no trumpet to herald--no clansmen to guard-- he came not attended by steed or by steel: no danger he knew, for no fear did he feel. iv. in eye and on lip his high confidence smiled-- so proud, yet so knightly--so gallant, yet mild; he moved like a god through the light of that hall, and a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all. v. "come pledge us, lord chieftain! come pledge us!" they cried; unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied; and this was the peace-branch o'kavanagh bore-- "the friendships to come, not the feuds that are o'er." [illustration: ] vi. but, minstrel! why cometh a change o'er thy theme? why sing of red battle--what dream dost thou dream? ha! "treason"'s the cry, and "revenge" is the call! as the swords of the saxon surrounded the hall. vii. a kingdom for angelo's mind! to portray green erin's undaunted avenger, that day; the far-flashing sword, and the death-darting eye, like some comet commissioned with wrath from the sky. viii. through the ranks of the saxon he hewed his red way-- through lances, and sabres, and hostile array; and, mounting his charger, he left them to tell the tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell! ix. and now on the saxons his clansmen advance, with a shout from each heart, and a soul in each lance. he rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered heath, and swept through their ranks, like the angel of death. then hurrah! for thy glory, young chieftain, hurrah! oh! had we such lightning-souled heroes to- day, again would our "sunburst" * expand in the gale, and freedom exult o'er the green innisfail. ----j. a. shea. * irish national banner. [illustration: ] the bridal of malahide |the joy-bells are ringing in gay malahide, the fresh wind is singing along the sea-side; the maids are assembling with garlands of flowers, and the harpstrings are trembling in all the glad bowers. swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum! 'mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come! the chancel is ready, the portal stands wide for the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. what years, ere the latter, of earthly delight the future shall scatter o'er them in its flight! what blissful caresses shall fortune bestow, ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow! before the high altar young maud stands array'd; with accents that falter her promise is made-- from mother and father for ever to part, for him and no other to treasure her heart. the words are repeated, the bridal is done, the rite is completed-- the two, they are one; the vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, that must not be broken till life shall depart. hark!'mid the gay clangour that compass'd their car, loud accents in anger come mingling afar! the foe's on the border, his weapons resound where the lines in disorder unguarded are found. as wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold, when the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold, so rises already the chief in his mail, while the new-married lady looks fainting and pale. "son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, for the sister and mother, for children and wife! o'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!" far rah! to the battle! they form into line-- the shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! soon, soon shall the foeitian his treachery rue-- on, burgher and yeoman, to die or to do! the eve is declining in lone malahide, the maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride! she marks them unheeding-- her heart is afar, where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war. hark! loud from the mountain 'tis victory's cry! o'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky! the foe has retreated! he flies to the shore; the spoiler's defeated-- the combat is o'er! with foreheads unruffled the conquerors come-- but why have they muffled the lance and the drum? what form do they carry aloft on his shield? and where does he tarry, the lord of the field? ye saw him at morning how gallant and gay! in bridal adorning, the star of the day: now weep for the lover-- his triumph is sped, his hope it is over! the chieftain is dead! but o for the maiden who mourns for that chief, with heart overladen and rending with grief! she sinks on the meadow in one morning-tide, a wife and a widow, a maid and a bride! ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! your comfort is rending the depths of her soul. true--true,'twas a story for ages of pride; he died in his glory-- but, oh, he _has_ died! the war-cloak she raises all mournfully now, and steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow. that glance may for ever unalter'd remain, but the bridegroom will never return it again! the dead-bells are tolling in sad malahide, the death-wail is rolling along the sea-side; the crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green, for the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene! even yet in that valley, though years have roll'd by, when through the wild sally the sea-breezes sigh, the peasant, with sorrow, beholds in the shade the tomb where the morrow saw hussy convey'd. how scant was the warning, how briefly reveal'd, before on that morning death's chalice was fill'd! the hero who drunk it there moulders in gloom, and the form of maud plunket weeps over his tomb. the stranger who wanders along the lone vale still sighs while he ponders on that heavy tale: "thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply-- thus joy has its measure-- we live but to die!" ----gerald griffin. caoch, the piper |one winter's day long, long ago, when i was a little fellow, a piper wandered to our door, gray-headed, blind, and yellow. and o how glad was my young heart, though earth and sky looked dreary, to see the stranger and his dog, poor pinch and caoch o'leary! and when he stowed away his bag crossbarred with green and yellow, i thought and said, "in ireland's ground, there's not so fine a fellow." and fineen burke and shane magee, and eily, kate, and mary, rushed in with panting haste to see and welcome caoch o'leary. o, god be with those happy times, o, god be with my childhood, when i, bare-headed, roamed all day bird-nesting in the wild wood! i'll not forget those sunny hours however years may vary; i'll not forget my early friends, nor honest caoch o'leary. poor caoch and pinch slept well that night, and in the morning early he called me up to hear him play "the wind that shakes the barley." and then he stroked my flaxen hair, and cried, "god mark my deary!" and how i wept when he said, "farewell, and think of caoch o'leary!" and seasons came and went, and still old caoch was not forgotten, although i thought him dead and gone, and in the cold clay rotten; and often when i walked and danced with eily, kate, and mary, we spoke of childhood's rosy hours, and prayed for caoch o'leary. well--twenty summers had gone past, and june's red sun was sinking, when i, a man, sat by my door, of twenty sad things thinking. a little dog came up the way, his gait was slow and weary, and at his tail a lame man limped, 'twas pinch and caoch o'leary. old caoch! but ah! how woe-begone! his form is bowed and bending, his fleshless hands are stiff and wan, ay, time is even blending the colours on his threadbare bag, and pinch is twice as hairy and thin-spare as when first i saw himself and caoch o'leary. "god's blessing here!" the wanderer cried, "far, far be hell, black viper; does anybody hereabouts remember caoch, the piper?" with swelling heart i grasped his hand; the old man murmured, "deary, are you the silken-headed child that loved poor caoch o'leary?" [illustration: ] "yes, yes!" i said. the wanderer wept as if his heart was breaking; "and where, _avic machree_" * he said, "is all the merry-making i found here twenty years ago?" "my tale," i sighed, "might weary: enough to say, there's none but me to welcome caoch o'leary." "_vo, vo, vo!_" the old man cried, and wrung his hands in sorrow; "pray lead me in, _astore machree_, and i'll _go home_ to-morrow. my peace is made, i'll calmly leave this world so cold and dreary, and you shall keep my pipes and dog, and pray for caoch o'leary." with pinch i watched his bed that night; next day his wish was granted,-- he died, and father james was brought, and the requiem mass was chanted. the neighbours came;--we dug his grave, near eily, kate, and mary, and there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,-- god rest you, caoch o'leary! j. keegan. * _vic ma chree_, son of my heart. [illustration: ] the fairy thorn |get up, our anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel; for your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep: come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel around the fairy thorn on the steep." at anna grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; and anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, the fairest of the four, i ween. they're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare; the heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, and the crags in the ghostly air; and linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, the maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way, till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely beauty grow beside the fairy hawthorn gray. the hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee; the rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head gray and dim in ruddy kisses sweet to see. the merry "maidens four have ranged them in a row, between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, and away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go, oh never carolled bird like them! but solemn is the silence of the silvery haze that drinks away their voices in echoless re- pose, and dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes, and dreamier the gloaming grows. and sinking one by one, like lark notes from the sky when the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, are hushed the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie in the flutter of their sudden awe. for, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, and from the mountain-ashes and the old whitethorn between, a power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, and they sink down together on the green. they sink together silent, and stealing side by side, they fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair, then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, for their shrinking necks again are bare. thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, soft o'er their bosoms' beating--the only human sound-- they hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, like a river in the air, gliding round. no scream can any raise, no prayer can any say, but wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three-- for they feel fair anna grace drawn silently away, by whom they dare not look to see. they feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, and the curls elastic falling, as her head with- draws; they feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, but they may not look to see the cause: for heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze; and neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, or their limbs from the cold ground raise, till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side, with every haunted mountain and streamy vale below; when, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, the maidens' trance dissolveth so. then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, and tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain-- they pined away and died within the year and day, and ne'er was anna grace seen again. ---sir s. ferguson. the battle of ardnocher [illustration: ] |on the eve of st laurence, at the cross of glenfad, both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster we had, thick as bees, round the heather, on the side of slieve bloom, to the try sting they gather by the light of the moon. for the butler from ormond with a hosting he came, and harried moycashel with havoc and flame, not a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed on, had he left in the wide land, right up to dunbreedon. then gathered macgeoghegan, the high prince of donore, with o'connor from croghan, and o'dempsys _galore_; and, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in with their men, bold maccoghlan from clara, o'mulloy from the glen. and not long did we loiter where the four _toghers_ * met, but his saddle each tightened, and his spurs closer set, by the skylight that flashes all their red burn- ings back, and by black gore and ashes fast the rievers we track. 'till we came to ardnocher, and its steep slope we gain, and stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host in the plain; and high shouted our leader ('twas the brave william roe)-- "by the red hand of nial,'tis the sassenach foe! "now, low level your spears, grasp each battle- axe firm, and for god and our ladye strike ye downright and stern; * roads. for our homes and our altars charge ye stead- fast and true, and our watchword be vengeance, and lamb _dearg aboo!_" * oh, then down like a torrent with a _farrah_ we swept, and full stout was the saxon who his saddle- tree kept; for we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they reel'd from the stroke, and their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes we broke. with our plunder we found them, our fleet garrons and kine, and each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd from god's shrine. but a red debt we paid them, the sassenach raiders, as we scatter'd their spearmen, slew chieftains and leaders. in the pale there is weeping and watchings in vain. de lacy and d'alton, can ye reckon your slain? where's your chieftain, fierce nangle? has de netterville fled? ask the molingar eagles, whom their carcasses fed. * the red hand for ever. ho! ye riders from ormond, will ye brag in your hall, how your lord was struck down with his mail'd knights and all? swim at midnight the shannon, beard the wolf in his den, ere you ride to moycashel on a foray again! ----a. g. geoghegan. fontenoy |thrice at the huts of fontenoy the english column failed, and twice the lines of st antoine the dutch in vain assailed; for town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, and well they swept the english ranks and dutch auxiliary. as vainly, through de baari's wood, the british soldiers burst, the french artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed. the bloody duke of cumberland beheld with anxious eye, and ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. on fontenoy, on fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! and mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. six thousand english veterans in stately column tread, their cannon blaze in front and flank, lord hay is at their head; steady they step a-down the slope--steady they climb the hill-- steady they load--steady they fire, moving right onward still, betwixt the wood and fontenoy, as though a furnace blast, through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast; and on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course, with ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force. past fontenoy, past fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, they break, as broke the zuyder zee through holland's ocean banks. more idly than the summer flies french tirailleurs rush round; as stubble to the lava tide, french squadrons strew the ground; bomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired-- fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "push on, my household cavalry," king louis madly cried: to death they rush, but rude their shock--not unavenged they died. on through the camp the column trod--king louis turns his rein *, "not yet, my liege," saxe interposed, "the irish troops remain;" and fontenoy, famed fontenoy, had been a waterloo, were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. "lord clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your saxon foes;" the marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes! how fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay! the treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day-- the treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry, their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry, their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown-- each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone. on fontenoy, on fontenoy, nor ever yet else- where, rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. o'brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "fix bayonets--charge." like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands! thin is the english column now, and faint their volleys grow, yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. they dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind-- their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind! one volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, with empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong irish broke. on fontenoy, on fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! "revenge! remember limerick! dash down the sassenach." like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, right up against the english line the irish exiles sprang: bright was their steel,'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore; the english strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled-- the green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, while cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. on fontenoy, on fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, with bloody plumes the irish stand--the field is fought and won! ---t. davis. [illustration: ] the sack of baltimore |the summer sun is falling soft an carbery's hundred isles-- the summer's sun is gleaming still through gabriel's rough defiles-- old innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; and in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: the hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; the gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray-- and full of love, and peace, and rest--its daily labour o'er-- upon that cosy creek there lay the town of baltimore. a deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; no sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air, the massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm; the fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. so still the night, these two long barques, round dunashad that glide must trust their oars--methinks not few-- against the ebbing tide-- oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore-- they bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in baltimore! all, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, and these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet-- a stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a flame!" from out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame-- and meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam- ing sabre's fall, and o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl-- the yell of "allah!" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar-- oh, blessed god! the algerine is lord of baltimore! then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd; then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand- babes clutching wild; then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child: but see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, while o'er him in an irish hand there sweeps his syrian steel-- though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, there's _one_ hearth well avengèd in the sack of baltimore! midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing-- they see not now the milking maids--deserted is the spring! midsummer day--this gallant rides from distant bandon's town-- these hookers crossed from stormy skull, that skiff from affadown; they only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, and on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went-- then dash'd to sea, and passed cape clear, and saw five leagues before the pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged balti- more!- oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed-- this boy will bear a scheik's chibouk, and that a bey's jerreed. oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous dardanelles; and some are in the caravan to mecca's sandy dells. the maid that bandon gallant sought is chosen for the dey-- she's safe--she's dead--she stabb'd him in the midst of his serai; and when, to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, she only smiled--o'driscoll's child--she thought of baltimore. tis two long years since sunk the town be- neath that bloody band, and all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen-- 'tis hackett of dungarvan--he who steered the algerine! he fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a pass- ing prayer, for he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there-- some muttered of macmurchadh, who brought the norman o'er-- some cursed him with iscariot, that day in baltimore. -t. davis. the ballad of the bier that conquered |land which the norman would make his own! (thus sang the bard'mid a host o'erthrown, while their white cheeks some on the clench'd hand propp'd, and from some the life-blood unheeded dropp'd) there are men in thee that refuse to die, though they scorn to live, while a foe stands nigh! i. o'donnell lay sick with a grievous wound: the leech had left him; the priest had come; the clan sat weeping upon the ground, their banner furl'd, and their minstrels dumb. ii. then spake o'donnell, the king: "although my hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow; and although my sins i have now confess'd, and desire in the land, my charge, to rest, yet leave this realm, nor will i nor can, while a stranger treads on her, child or man. iii. "i will languish no longer a sick king here: my bed is grievous; build up my bier. the white robe a king wears over me throw; bear me forth to the field where he camps-- your foe, with the yellow torches and dirges low. the heralds have brought his challenge and fled; the answer they bore not i bear instead. my people shall fight, my pain in sight, and i shall sleep well when their wrong stands right." iv. then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave ear, and they fell'd great oak-trees and built a bier; its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed, and the wine-black samite above it spread inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine, and the braided bud of tirconnell's pine, and all that is meet for the great and brave when past are the measured years god gave, and a voice cries "come" from the waiting grave. v. when the bier was ready they laid him thereon; and the army forth bare him with wail and moan: with wail by the sea-lakes and rock-abysses; with moan through the vapour-trail'd wilder- nesses; and men sore wounded themselves drew nigh and said, "we will go with our king and die;" and women wept as the pomp pass'd by. the yellow torches far off were seen; no war-note peal'd through the gorges green; but the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen. vi. what said the invader, that pomp in sight? "they sue for the pity they shall not win." but the sick king sat on his bier upright, and said, "so well! i shall sleep to-night:-- rest here my couch, and my peace begin." vii. then the war-cry sounded--"lamb-dearg aboo!" and the whole clan rush'd to the battle plain: they were thrice driven back, but they closed anew that an end might come to their king's great pain. 'twas a nation, not army, that onward rush'd, 'twas a nation's blood from their wounds that gush'd: bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were slain; till evening their blood fell fast like rain; but a shout swelled up o'er the setting sun, and o'donnell died, for the field was won. so they buried their king upon aileach's shore; and in peace he slept;--o'donnell more. ----aubrey de vere. the ballad of "bonny portmore" or, the wicked revenge. i. |shall i breathe it? hush!'twas dark:-- silence!--few could understand:-- needful deeds are done--not told. in your ear a whisper! hark! 'twas a sworn, unwavering band marching through the midnight cold; rang the frost plain, stiff and stark: by us, blind, the river rolled. ii. silence! we were silent then: shall we boast and brag to-day? just deeds, blabbed, have found their price! snow made dumb the trusty glen; now and then a starry ray showed the floating rafts of ice: worked our oath in heart and brain: twice we halted:--only twice. iii. when we reached the city wall on their posts the warders slept: by the moat the rushes plained: hush! i tell you part, not all! through the water-weeds we crept; soon the sleepers' tower was gained. my sister's son a tear let fall-- righteous deeds by tears are stained. iv. round us lay a sleeping city:-- had they wakened, we had died: innocence sleeps well, they say. pirates, traitors, base banditti, blood upon their hands undried, 'mid their spoils asleep they lay! murderers! justice murders pity! night had brought their judgment day! v. in the castle, here and there, 'twixt us and the dawning east flashed a light, or sank by fits: "patience, brothers! sin it were lords to startle at their feast, sin to scare the dancers' wits!" patient long in forest lair the listening, fire-eyed tiger sits! vi. o the loud flames upward springing! o that first fierce yell within, and, without, that stormy laughter! like rooks across a sunset winging, dark they dashed through glare and din, under rain of beam and rafter! o that death-shriek heavenward ringing! o that wondrous silence after! [illustration: ] the fire-glare showed,'mid glaze and blister, a boy's cheek wet with tears.'twas base! that boy was first-born of my sister; yet i smote him on the face! ah! but when the poplars quiver in the hot noon, cold o'erhead, sometimes with a spasm i shiver; sometimes round me gaze with dread. ah! and when the silver willow whitens in the moonlight gale, from my hectic, grassy pillow, i hear, sometimes, that infant's wail! --aubrey de vere. [illustration: ] a ballad of sarsfield; or, the bursting of the guns. |sarsfield rode out the dutch to rout, and to take and break their cannon; to mass went he at half-past three, and at four he cross'd the shannon. tirconnel slept. in dream his thoughts old fields of victory ran on; and the chieftains of thomond in limerick's towers slept well by the banks of shannon. he rode ten miles and he cross'd the ford, and couch'd in the wood and waited; till, left and right, on march'd in sight that host which the true men hated. "charge!" sarsfield cried; and the green hill- side, as they charged, replied in thunder; they rode o'er the plain and they rode o'er the slain, and the rebel, rout lay under! he burn'd the gear the knaves held dear,-- for his king he fought, not plunder; with powder he cramm'd the guns, and ramm'd their mouths the red soil under. the spark flash'd out--like a nation's shout the sound into heaven ascended; the hosts of the sky made to earth reply, and the thunders twain were blended! sarsfield rode out the dutch to rout, and to take and break their cannon;-- a century after, sarsfield's laughter was echoed from dungannon. ----aubrey de vere. a ballad of athlone; or, how they broke down the bridge |does any man dream that a gael can fear?-- of a thousand deeds let him learn but one! the shannon swept onward, broad and clear, between the leaguers and worn athlone. "break down the bridge!"--six warriors rushed through the storm of shot and the storm of shell: with late, but certain, victory flushed the grim dutch gunners eyed them well. they wrenched at the planks 'mid a hail of fire: they fell in death, their work half done: the bridge stood fast; and nigh and nigher the foe swarmed darkly, densely on. "o who for erin will strike a stroke? who hurl yon planks where the waters roar?" six warriors forth from their comrades broke, and flung them upon that bridge once more. again at the rocking planks they dashed; and four dropped dead; and two remained: the huge beams groaned, and the arch down crashed;-- two stalwart swimmers the margin gained. st ruth in his stirrups stood up, and cried, "i have seen no deed like that in france!" with a toss of his head sarsfield replied, "they had luck, the dogs!'twas a merry chance!" o many a year upon shannon's side, they sang upon moor and they sang upon of the twain that breasted that raging tide, and the ten that shook bloody hands with death! heath ----aubrey de vere, love's warning [illustration: ] |a fair lady once, with her young lover walked, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; through a garden, and sweetly they laughed and they talked, while the dews fell over the mulberry tree. she gave him a rose--while he sighed for a kiss, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; quoth he, as he took it, "i kiss thee in this," while the dews fall over the mulberry tree. she gave him a lily less white than her breast, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; quoth he, "'twill remind me of one i love best," while the dews fall over the mulberry tree. [illustration: ] she gave him a two faces under a hood, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; "how blest you could make me," quoth he, "if you would," while the dews fall over the mulberry tree. she saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; ah! why did the lady that little flower pass? while the dews fell over the mulberry tree. the young lover saw that she passed it, and sigh'd, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; they say his heart broke, and he certainly died, while the dews fell over the mulberry tree. now all you fair ladies, take warning by this, gillyflower, gentle rosemary; and never refuse your young lovers a kiss, while the dews fall over the mulberry tree. ----ed. kenealy. [illustration: ] the old story ... old as the universe, yet not outworn."--_the island_. |he came across the meadow-pass, that summer-eve of eves, the sunlight streamed along the grass, and glanced amid the leaves; and from the shrubbery below, and from the garden trees, he heard the thrushes' music flow, and humming of the bees; the garden-gate was swung apart-- the space was brief between; but there, for throbbing of his heart, he paused perforce to lean. he leaned upon the garden-gate; he looked, and scarce he breathed within the little porch she sate, with woodbine overwreathed; her eyes upon her work were bent, unconscious who was nigh; but oft the needle slowly went, and oft did idle lie; and ever to her lips arose sweet fragments faintly sung, but ever, ere the notes could close, she hushed them on her tongue. her fancies as they come and go, her pure face speaks the while, for now it is a flitting glow, and now a breaking smile; and now it is a graver shade when holier thoughts are there-- an angel's pinion might be stayed to see a sight so fair; but still they hid her looks of light, those downcast eyelids pale-- two lovely clouds so silken white, two lovelier stars that veil. the sun at length his burning edge had rested on the hill, and save one thrush from out the hedge, both bower and grove were still. the sun had almost bade farewell; but one reluctant ray still loved within that porch to dwell, as charmed there to stay-- it stole aslant the pear-tree bough, and through the woodbine fringe, and kissed the maiden's neck and brow, and bathed her in its tinge. "oh! beauty of my heart," he said, "oh! darling, darling mine, was ever light of evening shed on loveliness like thine? why should i ever leave this spot, but gaze until i die?" a moment from that bursting thought she felt his footstep nigh. one sudden, lifted glance--but one, a tremor and a start, so gently was their greeting done that who would guess their heart? long, long the sun had sunken down, and all his golden trail had died away to lines of brown, in duskier hues that fail. [illustration: ] googlt the grasshopper was chirping shrill-- no other living sound accompanied the tiny rill that gurgled under ground-- no other living sound, unless some spirit bent to hear low words of human tenderness, and mingling whispers near. the stars, like pallid gems at first, deep in the liquid sky, now forth upon the darkness burst, sole kings and lights on high; in splendour myriad-fold, supreme-- no rival moonlight strove, nor lovelier e'er was hesper's beam, nor more majestic jove. but what if hearts there beat that night that recked not of the skies, or only felt their imaged light in one another's eyes. and if two worlds of hidden thought and fostered passion met, which, passing human language, sought and found an utterance yet; and if they trembled like to flowers that droop across a stream, the while the silent starry hours glide o'er them like a dream; and if, when came the parting time, they faltered still and clung; what is it all?--in ancient rhyme ten thousand times besung-- that part of paradise which man without the portal knows-- which hath been since the world began, and shall be till its close. ----j. o'hagan. the brothers: henry and john shears |tis midnight; falls the lamp-light dull and sickly on a pale and anxious crowd, through the court, and round the judges, thronging thickly, with prayers none dare to speak aloud. two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners at the bar-- you can see them through the gloom-- in pride of life and manhood's beauty, there they are awaiting their death doom. all eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping, some, sobbing, turn away, and the strongest men can hardly see for weeping, so noble and so loved were they. their hands are locked together, those young brothers, as before the judge they stand-- they feel not the deep grief that moves the others; for they die for fatherland. they are pale, but it is not fear that whitens on each proud high brow; for the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens around them even now. they sought to free their land from thrall of stranger,-- was it treason? let them die; but their blood will cry to heaven--the avenger yet will hearken from on high. before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human, the base informer bends, who, judas-like, could sell the blood of true men, while he clasped their hands as friends. ay, could fondle the young children of his victim, break bread with his young wife, at the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum sold the husband and the father's life. there is silence in the midnight--eyes arekeeping troubled watch, till forth the jury come; there is silence in the midnight--eyes are weeping-- "guilty!" is the fatal uttered doom,-- for a moment o'er the brothers' noble faces came a shadow sad to see, then silently they rose up in their places, and embraced each other fervently. oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow, the rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene; twice the judge essayed to speak the word-- to-morrow-- twice faltered, as a woman he had been. to-morrow!--fain the elder would have spoken, prayed for respite, tho' it is not death he fears; but thoughts of home and wife his heart hath broken, and his words are stopped by tears. but the youngest--oh! he speaks out bold and clearly:-- "i have no ties of children or of wife; let me die--but spare the brother, who more dearly is loved by me than life." pale martyrs,ye may cease; your days are numbered; next noon your sun of life goes down; one day between the sentence and the scaffold-- one day between the torture and the crown! a hymn of joy is rising from creation; bright the azure of the glorious summer sky; but human hearts weep sore in lamentation, for the brothers are led forth to die. aye; guard them with your cannon and your lances-- so of old came martyrs to the stake; aye; guard them--see the people's flashing glances, for those noble two are dying for their sake. yet none spring forth their bonds to sever-- ah! methinks, had i been there, i'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever the sword should touch their hair. it falls!--there is a shriek of lamentation from the weeping crowd around; they're stilled--the noblest hearts within the nation-- the noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground. years have passed since that fatal scene of dying, yet life-like to this day in their coffins still those severed heads are lying, kept by angels from decay. oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid features-- those pale lips yet implore us from their graves to strive for our birthright as god's creatures, or die, if we can but live as slaves. ----speranza (lady wilde). [illustration: ] the witch-bride |a fair witch crept to a young man's side, and he kiss'd her and took her for his bride. but a shape came in at the dead of night, and fill'd the room with snowy light. and he saw how in his arms there lay a thing more frightful than mouth may say. and he rose in haste, and follow'd the shape till morning crown'd an eastern cape. and he girded himself and follow'd still, when sunset sainted the western hill. but, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side, weary day!--the foul witch-bride ----wm. allingham. [illustration: ] the milkmaid [illustration: ] |o where are you going so early? he said; good luck go with you, my pretty maid; to tell you my mind im half afraid, but i wish i were your sweetheart. when the morning sun is shining low, and the cocks in every farmyard crow, i'll carry your pail, o'er hill and dale, and i'll go with you a-milking. i'm going a-milking, sir, says she, through the dew, and across the lea; you ne'er would even yourself to me, or take me for your sweetheart. when the morning sun, &c. now give me your milking-stool awhile, to carry it down to yonder stile; i'm wishing every step a mile, and myself your only sweetheart. when the morning sun, &c. o, here's the stile in-under the tree, and there's the path in the grass for me, and i thank you kindly, sir, says she, and wish you a better sweetheart. when the morning sun, &c. now give me your milking-pail, says he, and while were going across the lea, pray reckon your master's cows to me, although i'm not your sweetheart. when the morning sun, &c. two of them red, and two of them white, two of them yellow and silky bright, she told him her master's cows aright, though he was not her sweetheart. when the morning sun, &c. she sat and milk'd in the morning sun, and when her milking was over and done, she found him waiting, all as one as if he were her sweetheart. when the morning sun, &c. he freely offer'd his heart and hand; now she has a farm at her command, and cows of her own to graze the land; success to all true sweethearts! when the morning sun is shining low, and the cocks in every farmyard crow, i'll carry your pail o'er hill and dale, and i'll go with you a-milking, ---wm. allingham. the nobleman's wedding |i once was guest at a nobleman's wedding; fair was the bride, but she scarce had been kind, and now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the shedding; her former true lover still runs in her mind. attired like a minstrel, her former true lover takes up his harp, and runs over the strings; and there among strangers, his grief to discover, a fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings. "now here is the token of gold that was broken; seven long years it was kept for your sake; you gave it to me as a true lover's token; no longer i'll wear it, asleep or awake." she sat in her place by the head of the table, the words of his ditty she mark'd them right well; to sit any longer this bride was not able, so down at the bridegrooms feet she fell. "o one, one request, my lord, one and no other, o this one request will you grant it to me? to lie for this night in the arms of my mother, and ever, and ever thereafter with thee." her one, one request it was granted her fairly; pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed; and the very next morning, early, early, they rose and they found this young bride was dead. the bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he kiss'd her, he spoke loud and low, and listen'd full fain; he call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist her, but nothing could bring the lost breath back again. o carry her softly! the grave is made ready; at head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green; for she was a young and a sweet noble lady, the fairest young bride that i ever have seen. ---wm. allingham. st. margaret's eve |i built my castle upon the sea-side, _the waves roll so gaily o_, half on the land and half in the tide, _love me true!_ within was silk, without was stone, _the waves roll so gaily o_, it lacks a queen, and that alone. _love me true!_ the gray old harper sung to me, _the waves roll so gaily o_, "beware of the damsel of the sea!" _love me true!_ saint margaret's eve it did befall, _the waves roll so gaily o_, the tide came creeping up the wall. _love me true!_ i open'd my gate; who there should stand-- _the waves roll so gaily o_, but a fair lady, with a cup in her hand. _love me true!_ the cup was gold, and full of wine, _the waves roll so gaily o_, "drink," said the lady, "and i will be thine." _love me true!_ "enter my castle, lady fair," _the waves roll so gaily o_, "you shall be queen of all that's there." _love me true!_ a gray old harper sung to me," _the waves roll so gaily o_, "'beware of the damsel of the sea!'" _love me true!_ in hall he harpeth many a year," _the waves roll so gaily o_, "and we will sit his song to hear." _love me true!_ love thee deep, i love thee true," _the waves roll so gaily o_, "but ah! i know not how to woo." _love me true!_ down dash'd the cup, with a sudden shock, _the waves roll so gaily o_, the wine like blood ran over the rock. _love me true!_ she said no word, but shriek'd aloud, the waves roll so gaily o, and vanish'd away from where she stood. _love me true!_ i lock'd and barr'd my castle door, _the waves roll so gaily o_, three summer days i grieved sore. _love me true!_ for myself a day and night, _the waves roll so gaily o_, and two to moan that lady bright. _love me true!_ ----wm. allingham. the maids of elfin-mere |when the spinning-room was here, came three damsels, clothed in white, with their spindles every night; one and two and three fair maidens, spinning to a pulsing cadence, singing songs of elfin-mere, till the eleventh hour was toll'd, then departed through the wold. _years ago, and years ago; and the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_. three white lilies, calm and clear, and they were loved by every one; most of all, the pastor's son, listening to their gentle singing, felt his heart go from him, clinging to these maids of elfin-mere; sued each night to make them stay, sadden'd when they went away. _years ago, and years ago; and the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_. hands that shook with love and fear dared put back the village clock,-- flew the spindle, turn'd the rock, flow'd the song with subtle rounding, till the false "eleven" was sounding; then these maids of elfin-mere swiftly, softly left the room, like three doves on snowy plume. _years ago, and years ago; and the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_. one that night who wander'd near heard lamentings by the shore, saw at dawn three stains of gore in the waters fade and dwindle. nevermore with song and spindle saw we maids of elfin-mere. the pastor's son did pine and die; because true love should never lie. _years ago, and years ago; and the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_. ----wm. allingham. the faithless knight |it is a careless pretty may, down by yon river- side; her face, the whole world's pleasure, she gladly hath espied; and tossing back her golden hair, her singing echoes wide; when gaily to the grassy shore a youthful knight doth ride. and vaulting from his courser, that stoops the head to drink, and greeting well this maiden fair, by running waters brink, he throws about her slender neck a chain of costly link: too courteous he for glamourie, as any may might think. all through the flowery meadows, in the summer evening warm, the rippling river murmurs low, the dancing midges swarm; but far away the pretty may, nor makes the least alarm, sits firm on lofty saddle-bow, within the young knight's arm. now months are come, and months are gone, with sunshine, breeze, and rain; the song on grassy river-shore you shall not hear again; the proud knight spurs at tournament, in germany or spain, or sues in silken bow'r to melt some lady's high disdain. and thus in idle hour he dreams--"i've wander'd east and west; i've whisper'd love in many an ear, in earnest or in jest; that summer day--that pretty may--perhaps she loved me best? i recollect her face, methinks, more often than the rest." ----wm allingham. michael dwyer |at length brave michael dwyer and his un- daunted men were hunted o'er the mountains, and tracked into the glen; the stealthy soldiers followed, with ready blade and ball, and swore to trap the outlaw that night in wild emall. they prowled about the valley, and toward the dawn of day discovered where the faithful and fearless heroes lay; around the little cottage they formed into a ring, and called out "michael dwyer! surrender to the king!" thus answered michael dwyer--"into this house we came unasked by those who own it; they cannot be to blame; then let those guiltless people, unquestioned, pass you through; and when they've passed in safety, i'll tell you what we'll do." 'twas done. "and now," said dwyer, "your work you may begin; you are a hundred outside--we're only four within; we've heard your haughty summons, and this is our reply-- we're true united irishmen--we'll fight until we die." then burst the war's red lightning, then poured the leaden rain; the hills around re-echoed the thunder peals again; the soldiers falling round him brave dwyer sees with pride; but, ah! one gallant comrade is wounded by his side. yet there are three remaining, good battle still to do; their hands are strong and steady, their aim is quick and true-- but hark that furious shouting the savage soldiers raise! the house is fired around them!--the roof is in a blaze! and brighter every moment the lurid flame arose, and louder swelled the laughter and cheering of their foes; then spake the brave m'alister, the weak and wounded man-- "you can escape, my comrades, and this shall be your plan. "place in my hands a musket, then lie upon the floor, i'll stand before the soldiers, and open wide the door; they'll pour into my bosom the fire of their array, then, while their guns are empty, dash through them, and away!" he stood before his foemen, revealed amidst the flame; from out their levelled pieces the wished-for volley came; up sprang the three survivors, for whom the hero died, but only michael dwyer burst through the ranks outside. he baffled his pursuers, who followed like the wind, and swam the river slaney, and left them far behind; but many a scarlet soldier he promised soon should fall for those, his gallant comrades, who died in wild emall. ----t. d. sullivan. [illustration: ] randall m'donald |the lady of antrim rose with the morn, and donn'd her grandest gear; and her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn announced a suitor near; hers was a heart so full of pride, that love had little room, good faith, i would not wish me such bride, for all her beautiful bloom. one suitor there came from the scottish shore, long, and lithe, and grim, and a younger one from dunluce hoar, and the lady inclined to him. "but hearken ye, nobles both," she said, as soon as they sat to dine-- "the hand must prove its chieftainry, that putteth a ring on mine. "but not in the lists with armed hands, must this devoir be done, yet he who wins my broad, broad lands their lady may count as won. ye both were born upon the shore,-- were bred upon the sea, now let me see you ply the oar, for the land you love--and me! "the chief that first can reach the strand may mount at morn and ride, and his long day's ride shall bound his land, and i will be his bride!" m'quillan felt hope in every vein as the bold, bright lady spoke-- and mcdonald glanced over his rival again, and bow'd with a bargeman's stroke. 'tis summer upon the antrim shore-- the shore of shores it is-- where the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er, unfathom'd by man i wis-- where the basalt breast of our isle flings back the scandinavian surge, to howl through its native scaggerack, chanting the viking's dirge. 'tis summer--the long white lines of foam roll lazily to the beach, and man and maid from every home their eyes o'er the waters stretch. on glenarm's lofty battlements sitteth the lady fair, and the warm west wind blows softly through the links of her golden hair. the boats in the distant offing are marshaird prow to prow; the boatmen cease their scoffing, and bend to the rowlocks now; like glory-guided steeds they start-- away o'er the waves they bound; each rower can hear the beating heart of his brother boatman sound. nearer! nearer! on they come, row, mcdonald, row! for antrim's princely castle home, its lands, and its lady, row! the chief that first can grasp the strand may mount at morn and ride, and his long day's ride shall bound his land, and she shall be his bride! he saw his rival gain apace, he felt the spray in his wake-- he thought of her who watch'd the race most dear for her dowry sake! then he drew his skein from out its sheath, and lopt off his left hand, and pale and fierce, as a chief in death, he hurl'd it to the strand! "the chief that first can grasp the strand, may mount at morn and ride;" oh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand, through antrim's glens doth guide! and legends tell that the proud ladye would fain have been unbann'd, for the chieftain who proved his chieftainry lorded both wife and land. -----t. d. m'gee. [illustration: ] the demon of the gibbet |there was no west, there was no east, no star abroad for eyes to see; and norman spurred his jaded beast hard by the terrible gallows-tree. "o, norman, haste across this waste,-- for something seems to follow me!" "cheer up, dear maud, for, thanked be god, we nigh have passed the gallows-tree!" he kissed her lip: then--spur and whip! and fast they fled across the lea! but vain the heel, and rowel steel,-- for something leaped from the gallows-tree! "give me your cloak, your knightly cloak, that wrapped you oft beyond the sea! the wind is bold, my bones are old, and i am cold on the gallows-tree." "o holy god! o dearest maud, quick, quick, some prayers--the best that be! a bony hand my neck has spanned, and tears my knightly cloak from me!" "give me your wine,--the red, red wine, that in the flask hangs by your knee! ten summers burst on me accurst, and i'm athirst on the gallows-tree!" "o maud, my life, my loving wife! have you no prayer to set us free? my belt unclasps,--a demon grasps, and drags my wine-flask from my knee!" "give me your bride, your bonnie bride, that left her nest with you to flee! o she hath flown to be my own, for i'm alone on the gallows-tree!" "cling closer, maud, and trust in god! cling close!--ah, heaven, she slips from me!" a prayer, a groan, and he alone rode on that night from the gallows-tree. ---fitz-james o'brien. kilbrannon [illustration: ] |my love, braid up thy golden locks, and don thy silken shoon, we'll sit upon kilbrannon's rocks, where shines the silvery moon; and bring thy little babe with thee, for his dear father's sake, the lands where he'll be lord to see, by lone kilbrannon lake." she's braided up her golden locks, she's donned her silken shoon, and they're away to kilbrannon's rocks by the cold light of the moon; sir hubert he took both wife and child upon that night of woe, and hurled them over the rocks so wild, to the lake's blue depths below. and he has married another may, with the locks of ebonie, and her looks are sweet, and her heart is gay, yet a woeful wight is he; he wakes the woods with his bugle horn, but his heart is heavy and sore; and he ever shuns those crags forlorn by lone kilbrannon shore. for down in the lake the dead won't rest, that vengeful murdered one; with her little babe at her pulseless breast, she walks the waters lone; and she calls at night her murderer's name, and will call for evermore, till the huge rocks melt in doomsday flame, by wild kilbrannon shore. ----r. d. joyce. the green dove and the raven |there was a dove with wings of green, glistening o'er so radiantly, with head of blue and golden sheen, all sad and wearily sitting two red blooms between on lovely barna's wild-wood tree. there was a letter 'neath its wing, written by a fair ladye, safely bound with silken string so light and daintily, and in that letter was a ring, on lovely barna's wild-wood tree. there was a raven, black and drear, stained with blood all loathsomely, perched upon the branches near, croaking mournfully, and he said, "o dove, what bring'st thou here to lovely barna's wild-wood tree?" "i'm coming from a ladye gay, to the young heir of sweet glenore, his ring returned, it is to say she'll never love him more,-- alas the hour! alas the day! -- by murmuring funcheon's fairy shore." "o dove, outspread thy wings of green; i'll guide thee many a wild-wood o'er; i'll bring thee where i last have seen the young heir of glenore, beneath the forest's sunless screen, by murmuring funcheon's fairy shore." o'er many a long mile did they flee, the dove, the raven stained with gore, and found beneath the murderer's tree the young heir of glenore,-- a bloody, ghastly corpse was he, by murmuring funcheon's fairy shore. "go back, go back, thou weary dove,-- to the cruel maid tell o'er and o'er, he's death's and mine, her hate or love can never reach him more-- to his ice-cold heart in molagga's grove, by murmuring funcheon's fairy shore." ----r. d. joyce. mannix the coiner |mannix the coiner and neville the piper-- rebels and outlaws, jolly as thrushes; they lived in a lane where they had a great reign of piping and coining, and drinking like fishes. neville he swore, with wild fury, that mannix should share with him half the prog; then mannix jump'd up, in a hurry, and sent off the wife for a gallon of grog. "well done!" said the piper; "play up!" said the coiner, "we've gold in our pockets and grog on the brain; the _law_ and the gallows are made in the palace, while we, who defy them, rejoice in the lane!" when the grog was brought in, they soon _swiggd_ it, and neville then _rasp'd_ up another gay tune, and bold mannix merrily jigg'd it, as brisk as a bee in the meadows of june. "well done!" said the piper--"play up!" said the coiner, "we are the _boys_ that can _live everywhere!_ life, without fun, is like spring without sun-- so we'll _flash_ it away, and the devil may care! "those guineas--whoever may take'em-- are but flying tokens to worldly fools lent, and i am the _boy_ that can make'em, as bright as e'er came from the sassenach mint!" "well done!" said the piper--"play up!" said the coiner, "my _golden character_ i'll always maintain! and, compared with the schemers who rule and befool us, we're real honest men and good _boys_ in the lane!" then mannix put fire to his grisset, and out of his mould he shook many a _shiner_, but ere he had time to impress it, in _roll'd_ the peelers and snaffled the coiner, so there was an end to the piping and coining, and a ruction was kick'd up, but no one was slain,-- "i'm done!" said the coiner--"cheer up," said the piper, "fortune will favour the brave in the lane." "we have you, at last!" cried the peelers, "tho' many a day we have chased you in vain!" "then," said mannix, "your dungeons and jailors may all be high hang'd--and farewell to the lane!" then off ran the coiner, and loud laughed the piper, as his friend disappear'd thro' night's darkness and rain, like a shaft from a quiver, he plung'd o'er the river, and left the bold peelers befool'd in the lane. ----m. hogan. [illustration: ] my mauria ni milleÃ�n |will you come where golden furze i mow, my mauria ni milleôn?" 'to bind for you i'd gladly go, my bliss on earth, mine own. to chapel, too, i would repair, though not to aid my soul in prayer, but just to gazé with rapture where you stand, _mo buchal baun_" * "will you rove the garden glades with me, o flower of maids, alone?" "what wondrous scenes therein to see, my bliss on earth, mine own?" "the apples from green boughs to strike, to watch the trout leap from the lake, and caress a pretty _cailin_ ** like my mauria ni milleôn. "will you seek with me the dim church aisle, o mauria ni milleôn?" "what pleasant scenes to see the while, my bliss on earth, mine own?" "we'd list the chanting voice and prayer of foreign pastor preaching there, o, we'd finish the marriage with my fair white flower of maids alone." * _mo buchal baun_, my fair boy. ** _cailin_, maiden. she sought the dim church aisle with me, my bliss on earth, most fair! she sought the dim church aisle with me, o grief! o burning care! [illustration: ] i plunged my glittering, keen-edged blade in the bosom of that loving maid, till gushed her heart's blood, warm and red, down on the cold ground there. "alas! what deed is this you do? my bliss on earth, _mo store!_ * what woful deed is this you do, o youth whom i adore? ah, spare our child and me, my love, and the seven lands of earth i'll rove ere cause of grief to you i prove for ever--ever more." i bore her to the mountain peak, the flower of maids, so lone! i bore her to the mountain bleak, my thousand woes, _mo vrone._ ** i cast my _cota_ *** round her there, and,'mid the murky mists of air, i fled with bleeding feet and bare from mauria ni milleon. ---anon. translated by g. sigerson. * _mo store_, my treasure. ** _mo vrone_, my grief. *** _cota_, the long frieze great-coat of the peasantry. the ladye's rock |a faery dwells in a cove by the sea, stately as maiden of high degree; and ever and aye by night and by day she carols a melody clear and free. many a stout and stalwart knight she has tempted over the waters bright: with dance and with song she has led them along to the deadly realms of endless night. and it befell one noontide hour (dark was the sky with a glooming shower!) a gallant knight his troth did plight to a fair ladye in a lonely tower. "sir knight, sir knight!" said the proud ladye, "haste to the faery who dwells by the sea; and tryst at the scar with the evening star-- so shall i prove thy love to me." he mounted his charger, and gallop'd away by down and valley and cove and bay: he chaunted a song as he cantered along by the dismal coast at close of day. the wind blew fresh and the foam ran high; naught he heard but the seamew's cry, till he came to the cave by the crisping wave where the billow lies calm and the breezes die. there, over the sea-weed and over the shells and the tufted glens and the heathery dells, o'er cave and dale, in the twilight pale, the blissful melody floats and swells. the knight grew faint as he ambled along, and his heart beat high to the charmed song; never thought he of the lorn ladye as he tript the pebbles and shells among. the faery stood in a curve of the sand, and she waved to the knight with her delicate hand, and on to a light on the waters bright she pointed afar with her silvery wand. (her tresses are dark as the tangle that lies in the calm blue deep at the red sunrise, and they never have rest on her beautiful breast, that heaves and falls as the melody sighs.) the fickle knight follow'd her pearl-white feet, for his bosom was thrill'd with the roundel sweet; she stept on the sea with frolic and glee, and he spurr'd his charger dark and fleet. a meadow it seem'd, the bright green sea, it seem'd a level and flowery lea; nor foam nor spray was dash'd away, as the good steed over the tide did flee. on to an isle of purple light the faery led him with rapid flight; she waved her hand, she poised her wand, and the billows roll'd over the faithless knight. [illustration: ] ah, what will become of the sweet ladye who prays for her lover on bended knee by the pointed scar that looms afar o'er tarn and turret and winding lea? she heard a hoof-pace faint and far, as she pored on the pallid evening star. through the distant dell arose and fell the clattering hoofs of a steed of war. she sprang to her feet; she clomb the scar; and watch'd for the galloping steed of war, as the sound came near both loud and clear from the wood lying under the evening star. lo, to the tarn a horseman sped; pale was his face and his eyes were dead; he lifted his spear as he gallop'd anear, and on and on the phantom fled! o wildly cried the lorn ladye, and tore her tresses that floated free, then madly leapt to the tarn that slept under the cliff by the winding lea. and oft when the sad pale evening star touches the tip of the rifted scar, a maiden's cry comes shuddering by, and wakes the echoings near and far. ---e. j. armstrong. the wreck off mizen-head i. |o, who could lie a-snoring or who carousing be while such a storm is roaring and raving o'er the sea?... a ship to death is drifting. faint hands in prayer uplifting, with hearts in anguish failing, the wives and mothers, wailing, look out from cliff and lea; and beacon-fires are glowing, and, fierce and fiercer growing, the sleety blasts are blowing o'er rock and roof and tree. come out from giddy dances and songs and vain romances and idle dreams and trances, and man the boat with me. ii. "come down while thunders deaden the minute-guns afar, and the lightnings as they redden make pale the signal's star; come down where waves are leaping and the stricken folk stand weeping, our gallant boat uncover, and through the wet sand shove her, and speed her o'er the bar; for though she's but a light one, for such a sea a slight one, she's a trim one and a tight one, and where to-night is he whose yearning would not waken to help the lives forsaken? come down with hearts unshaken, and brave the deep with me!" iii. so guy the ever-daring one fierce september night, while beacon-fires were flaring along the mizen's height-- as i, from pastimes shrinking, of rose's scorn was thinking-- cried, all at once upspringing 'mid dance and mirth and singing and games and laughters light; and hugh the eager-hearted out to the portal darted, and wolfe and wilfred started and donald, ralph, and i; and, prayers and sweet imploring from maiden lips ignoring, with spirits wildly soaring we faced the seas and sky. iv. as down the beach descending we drave the quivering boat, a gleam of moonlight, rending the darkness, showed afloat the labouring vessel, shattered, with tackle rent and tattered, amid the tempest heaving, her course to ruin cleaving; then fast the surf we smote, and, boldly toward her steering, still guy our courage cheering, the deadly breakers clearing, we strained across the tide; and on,'mid lightnings gleaming,-- the winds about us screaming, the rain in rivers streaming,-- we struggled to her side. v. the vessel still to seaward came drifting down the bay, and, steering into leeward in surf and rain and spray, athwart her sides we floated; and there on deck we noted, with faces outward gazing, their piteous hands upraising as all forlorn they lay, a helpless band together (like birds in wintry weather with feather pressed to feather close huddled from the blast); a moment, weirdly flashing, we saw them,'mid the lashing of billows wildly dashing o'er bulwark, deck and mast. vi. four times we all but touched her, four times adrift were flung, the fifth i sprang and clutched her, and leech-like there i clung; and thus to guy's enclasping, with one arm tightly grasping, those famished forms i lowered, till, well-nigh overpowered, i trembled where i hung. then guy and wilfred, straining, new strength from victory gaining, drew down the last remaining, till all were safely stowed; and shoreward with our treasure, all pain transformed to pleasure, with oars in mirthful measure at break of dawn we rowed. vii. ay, well do i remember the morning stormy-bright that dawn of wild september, as through the breakers white we rowed the brave boat laden with man and babe and maiden, while o'er the sandy spaces, the dawn-beams on their faces, looked out with straining sight the crowd that there had waited, each heart with anguish freighted, as slow the storm abated along the brittas strand; and how they cheered us, rending the winds, as slow ascending, beneath our burthens bending, we waded to the land; viii. and when the last was landed, and homeward faint and cold we turned, how, eager-handed, (guy leading as of old), high on their shoulders proudly they set me, cheering loudly, and bore me on, declaring the triumph of my daring;-- and how my love i told that eve amid the gloaming to rose as we were roaming where aughrim stream was foaming, and how she smiled and sighed, and,'mid the sunset's splendour, laying her white hand slender in mine in love's surrender, my prayer no more denied. ----g. f. savage-armstrong. [illustration: ] the sailor girl [illustration: ] |when the wild geese were flying to flanders away, i clung to my desmond beseeching him stay, but the stern trumpet sounded the summons to sea, and afar the ship bore him, _mabouchal machree_.* and first he sent letters, and then he sent none, and three times into prison i dreamt he was thrown; so i shore my long tresses, and stain'd my face brown, and went for a sailor from limerick town. * my heart's own boy. oh! the ropes cut my fingers, but steadfast i strove, till i reached the low country in search of my love. there i heard how at namur his heart was so high, that they carried him captive, refusing to fly. with that to king william himself i was brought, and his mercy for desmond with tears i be- sought. he considered my story, then smiling, says he, "the young irish rebel for your sake is free. "bring the varlet before us. now, desmond o'hea, myself has decided your sentence to-day. you must marry your sailor with bell, book, and ring, and here is her dowry," cried william the king! ----a. p. graves. [illustration: ] johnny cox |as in the good ship annabel we coasted off corfu, a sudden storm upon us fell, and tore our timbers true and rent our sails in two. our top-mast tumbled by the board, our mizeh-mast as well; through flapping canvas, scourging cord, above like our death-bell-- we hear the thunder knell. "now cut away!" our captain cries, "and like a cork she floats;" but axe in hand, with scowling eyes, set teeth and cursing throats, the lascars loose the boats. when johnny cox, who lay below, from off his fever-bed, comes staggering up, a ghastly show as if from out the dead, and drives them back in dread. "what! quit your posts, ye cowards all? here's ballast then for you!" with that he heaves a cannon-ball full crash the cutler through, and saves the ship and crew. but he, our hero, ere the rocks we rounded, drooped and died; and we should lower you, johnny cox, lamenting o'er the side-- into the moaning tide. ----a. p. graves. a song of the exmoor hunt |awake, arise! the south wind sighs, beneath a cloudy curtain old sol is snoozing in the skies, there's scent to-day for certain. and down deep o'er slowley steep the harbourer swears he shall drop, boys, on brow, bay, bay and tray, tray and three on top, boys! look up, a stream of sporting pink along the ridge is rushing, morn's ashen cheek you'd almost think to rosy red was blushing; but few, few, so smart of hue and spick and span from the shop, boys, shall stick to-day to brow, bay, tray and three on top, boys! what ho! the tufters on a find are turning to the nor'ard. hark back! hark back!'tis but a hind! the stag himself! hark for'ard! o'er hedge, spine, sedge and rhine, full cry we course and hop, boys, behind brow, bay and tray, tray and three on top, boys! past dunster towers and wootton bowers, up cutcombe crest he's gliding. here, roadster friends, your fun it ends, we've done with arm-chair riding, and full sail, head to tail, down dunkery side we drop, boys, on brow, bay, bay, and tray, tray and three on top, boys! we've chucked a city swell to the pig in his mixen at cloutsham corner; we've hung our artist by his wig, like absalom, in horner, till hard pressed by all our best from boscombe head full flop, boys, goes brow, bay, bay and tray, tray and three on top, boys! a boat! a boat! the weirmen float, and after him go racing; but see! to shore he heads once more, his foes with fury facing. and back, back! he hurls the pack, or heaves them, neck and crop, boys, till now, now, down goes brow, bay, tray, and three on top, boys! yet only five of all the hive that set on foot the sport, boys, rode straight and true the whole hunt thro' and mingled at the mort, boys! now name, name those sons of fame, who'll match them nearer and farther? jim scarlett, bissett, and basset were there, with parson jack russell and arthur. ----a. p. graves. the song of the ghost |when all were dreaming but pastheen power, a light came streaming beneath her bower, a heavy foot at her door delayed, a heavy hand on the latch was laid. "now who dare venture at this dark hour, unbid to enter my maiden bower?" "dear pastheen, open the door to me, and your true lover you'll surely see." "my true lover, so tall and brave, lives exiled over the angry wave." "your true love's body lies on the bier, his faithful spirit is with you here." [illustration: ] "his look was cheerful, his voice was gay; your speech is fearful, your face is grey; and sad and sunken your eye of blue, but patrick, patrick, alas!'tis you." ere dawn was breaking she heard below the two cocks shaking their wings to crow. "o hush you, hush you, both red and grey, or you will hurry my love away. "o hush your crowing, both grey and red, or he'll be going to join the dead; o cease from calling his ghost to mould, and i'll come crowning your combs with gold." when all were dreaming but pastheen power, a light went streaming from out her bower, and on the morrow when they awoke, they knew that sorrow her heart had broke. ---a. p. graves. a sea story |silence.--a while ago shrieks went up piercingly; but now is the ship gone down; good ship, well manned, was she. there's a raft that's a chance of life for one, this day upon the sea. a chance for one of two; young, strong, are he and he, just in the manhood prime, the comelier, verily, for the wrestle with wind and weather and wave, in the life upon the sea. one of them has a wife and little children three; two that can toddle and lisp; and a suckling on the knee. naked they'll go and hunger sore, if he be lost at sea. one has a dream of home, a dream that well may be; he never has breathed it yet; she never has known it, she: but some one will be sick at heart, if he be lost at sea. "wife and kids and home!"-- wife, kids nor home has he!-- "give us a chance, bill!" then, "all right, jem!" quietly a man gives up his life for a man, this day upon the sea. ----e. h. hickey. geoffrey barron [illustration: ] |geoffrey barron of clonmel dies the traitor's death. hark the toll of the death-bell! pray! the chimes saith. freton has set his ring and the ink is dry on the warrant that shall bring geoffrey barron to die. many an one in limerick street, with a pale face passes, and with hurrying feet by the market-place. there the scaffold blurs the sun: and when noon is high that most shameful hill upon, geoffrey barron shall die. o were owen roe but here that's stark in his grave, he should smite with sword and spear every crop-ear knave, ululu! but owen's dead! and the hour is nigh when shall fall the comeliest head, for geoffrey barron must die. he stood up a six-foot man, strong as an oak: down his neck gold love-locks ran strength and manhood in his smile, on a grass-green cloak. laughter in his eye: noble, without wile or guile, geoffrey barron must die. when they led him to the place where the general stood 'mid his crop-ears, lank of face, godly men of blood; prayed the dying man, "a boon! mine own house is nigh, let me rest there till the noon, when geoffrey barron shall die." clocks had struck three-quarters chime, when he went in: all the bells rang out noon-time with great shock and din, when the old house-door flew wide, and in noon-day's eye, all in splendour like a bride, came geoffrey barron to die. taffeta as white as milk made all his suit: threads of silver in the silk trailed like moonlight through't. silver cap and white feather; stepping proud and high, in his shoon of white leather, came geoffrey barron to die. then the roundhead general said, fingering his sword: "art thou coming to be wed like a heathen lord? go! thy bride the scaffold is: give her sigh for sigh, breath for breath and kiss for kiss! for geoffrey barron must die." but he laughed out as he ran up the black steps: "never happier bridegroom man with his wife's lips! if for some mortal woman's sake in silks should go i, i shall for heaven the same pains take: now geoffrey barron must die." "sweet death," he laughed, "that i have wooed on many a stiff field, sweet are the eyes below the hood to my glad eyes revealed! sweet death that leads us home to christ, whose leal man am i! and sweet the altar and the priest, now geoffrey barron must die!" he kissed the cross on his breast, then smiled with rapt eyes as they beheld the vision blest of christ in paradise. o many die for god and the green! but never an one saw i go out with such a bridegroom mien as geoffrey barron to die! ----k. tynan (hinkson). father gilligan [illustration: ] |the old priest peter gilligan was weary night and day, for half his flock were in their beds, or under green sods lay. once while he nodded on a chair, at the moth-hour of eve, another poor man sent for him, and he began to grieve. "i have no rest, nor joy, nor peace, for people die and die;" and after cried he, "god forgive! my body spake, not i!" and then, half-lying on the chair, he knelt, prayed, fell asleep; and the moth-hour went from the fields, and stars began to peep. they slowly into millions grew, and leaves shook in the wind; and god covered the world with shade, and whispered to mankind. upon the time of sparrow chirp when the moths came once more, the old priest peter gilligan stood upright on the floor. "_mavrone, mavrone!_ the man has died, while i slept on the chair;" he roused his horse out of its sleep, and rode with little care. he rode now as he never rode, by rocky lane and fen; the sick man's wife opened the door: "father! you come again!" "and is the poor man dead?" he cried. "he died an hour ago." the old priest peter gilligan in grief swayed to and fro. "when you were gone he turned and died, as merry as a bird." the old priest peter gilligan he knelt him at that word. "he who hath made the night of stars for souls who tire and bleed, sent one of his great angels down to help me in my need. "he who is wrapped in purple robes, with planets in his care, had pity on the least of things asleep upon a chair." ----w. b. yeats. [illustration: ] [illustration] percy's reliques [illustration] reliques of ancient english poetry consisting of old heroic ballads, songs and other pieces of our earlier poets together with some few of later date by thomas percy, d.d. bishop of dromore edited, with a general introduction, additional prefaces, notes, glossary, etc. by henry b. wheatley, f.s.a. in three volumes vol. i london: george allen & unwin ltd. ruskin house museum street, w.c. first published by swan sonnenschein _april _ reprinted _august _ " _august _ " _december _ " _january _ printed by the riverside press limited, edinburgh great britain [illustration] contents of volume the first page editor's preface ix general introduction the minstrels xiii ballads and ballad writers xxiv imitators and forgers xliv authenticity of certain ballads xlviii preservers of the ballads lviii life of percy lxxi folio ms. and the _reliques_ lxxxi ballad literature since percy xci dedications advertisement to the fourth edition preface book the first . the ancient ballad of chevy-chase . the battle of otterbourne illustration of the names in the foregoing ballads . the jew's daughter. a scottish ballad . sir cauline copy from the folio ms. . edward, edward. a scottish ballad . king estmere on the word termagant . sir patrick spence. a scottish ballad . robin hood and guy of gisborne . an elegy on henry fourth, earl of northumberland, by skelton . the tower of doctrine, by stephen hawes . the child of elle fragment from the folio ms. . edom o' gordon. a scottish ballad captain carre, from the folio ms book the second. (_containing ballads that illustrate shakespeare._) . adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudesley . the aged lover renounceth love, by lord vaux . jephthah judge of israel . a robyn jolly robyn . a song to the lute in musicke, by r. edwards . king cophetua and the beggar-maid . take thy old cloak about thee . willow, willow, willow . sir lancelot du lake . corydon's farewell to phillis the ballad of constant susanna . gernutus the jew of venice . the passionate shepherd to his love, by marlowe the nymph's reply, by sir w. raleigh . titus andronicus's complaint . take those lips away . king leir and his three daughters . youth and age, by shakespeare . the frolicksome duke, or the tinker's good fortune . the friar of orders gray, by percy book the third. . the more modern ballad of chevy-chace illustration of the northern names . death's final conquest, by james shirley . the rising in the north copy from the folio ms . northumberland betrayed by douglas copy from the folio ms . my mind to me a kingdom is, by sir edward dyer . the patient countess, by w. warner . dowsabell, by m. drayton . the farewell to love, from beaumont and fletcher . ulysses and the syren, by s. daniel . cupid's pastime, by davison . the character of a happy life, by sir h. wotton. . gilderoy. a scottish ballad . winifreda . the witch of wokey . bryan and pereene. a west indian ballad, by dr. grainger . gentle river, gentle river. translated from the spanish . alcanzor and zayda, a moorish tale appendix i. an essay on the ancient minstrels in england notes and illustrations appendix ii. on the origin of the english stage, &c index to vol. i errata. page , note [ ], after _fit_ read "see vol. , p. ." page , add [***] at end of _sir cauline_. [illustration] [illustration] editor's preface in undertaking the supervision of a new edition of the _reliques of ancient english poetry_, i felt that no safer or better guidance could be followed than that of bishop percy himself; and as he always strove, in the several editions published by himself, to embody therein the sum of the knowledge of his times, so i, following at a distance, have endeavoured, by gathering from many quarters particulars published since his death, to make his book still more worthy of the great reputation it has acquired. each edition published during the lifetime of the author contained large additions and corrections; but since the publication of the fourth edition, in , no changes worth mentioning have been made, with the exception of such as occur in a revision brought out by the rev. r. a. willmott in . his object, however, was to form a handy volume, and he therefore cleared away all percy's essays and prefaces, and added short notices of his own, founded on percy's facts, and, in some instances, on recent information. the desire for a new edition of the _reliques_ has more particularly grown since the publication of the original folio ms. in , and i trust that the readers of the present edition may feel disposed to accept it as in some degree satisfying this desire. in the preparation of the present edition, the whole of percy's work has been reprinted from his fourth edition, which contains his last touches; and in order that no confusion should be occasioned to the reader, all my notes and additions have been placed between brackets. the chief of these are the additional prefaces to the various pieces, the glossarial notes at the foot of the page, and the collation of such pieces as are taken from the folio ms. the complete glossary, which will be appended to the third volume, might seem to render the glossarial notes unnecessary; but there may be some readers who will find them useful. with regard to the pieces taken from the folio ms., the originals have been printed after percy's copies in those cases which had undergone considerable alterations. readers have now, therefore, before them complete materials for forming an opinion as to the use the bishop made of his manuscript. after commencing my work, i found that to treat the essays interspersed throughout the book as the prefaces had been treated, would necessitate so many notes and corrections as to cause confusion; and as the essays on the english stage, and the metrical romances, are necessarily out of date, the trouble expended would not have been repaid by the utility of the result. i have, therefore, thrown them to the end of their respective volumes, where they can be read exactly as percy left them. in concluding these explanations, i have much pleasure in expressing my thanks to those friends who have assisted me, and to those writers without whose previous labours mine could not have been performed, more particularly to messrs. furnivall and hales, who most kindly gave me permission to use any part of their edition of the folio ms. to mr. hales i am also indebted for many valuable hints, of which i have gladly availed myself. henry b. wheatley. [illustration] general introduction several questions of general interest have arisen for discussion by the editor during the work of revision. notes upon these have been brought together, so as to form an introduction, which it is hoped may be of some use to the readers of the _reliques_, in the absence of an exhaustive compilation, which has yet to be made. here there is no attempt at completeness of treatment, and the notes are roughly arranged under the following headings:-- the minstrels. ballads and ballad writers. imitators and forgers. authenticity of certain ballads. preservers of the ballads. life of percy. folio ms. and the _reliques_. ballad literature since percy. the minstrels. when percy wrote the opening sentence in his first sketch of that "essay on the ancient english minstrels" ( ), which was the foundation of the literature of the subject, he little expected the severe handling he was to receive from the furious ritson for his hasty utterance. his words were, "the minstrels seem to have been the genuine successors of the ancient bards, who united the arts of poetry and music, and sung verses to the harp of their own composing." the bishop was afterwards convinced, from ritson's remarks, that the rule he had enunciated was too rigid, and in the later form of the essay he somewhat modified his language. the last portion of the sentence then stood, "composed by themselves or others," and a note was added to the effect that he was "wedded to no hypothesis." sir walter scott criticised the controversy in his interesting article on _romance_ in the supplement to the _encyclopædia britannica_, where he wrote: "when so popular a department of poetry has attained this decided character, it becomes time to inquire who were the composers of these numerous, lengthened, and once-admired narratives which are called metrical romances, and from whence they drew their authority. both these subjects of discussion have been the source of great controversy among antiquarians; a class of men who, be it said with their forgiveness, are apt to be both positive and polemical upon the very points which are least susceptible of proof, and which are least valuable if the truth could be ascertained; and which, therefore, we would gladly have seen handled with more diffidence and better temper in proportion to their uncertainty." after some remarks upon the essays of percy and ritson, he added, "yet there is so little room for this extreme loss of temper, that upon a recent perusal of both these ingenious essays, we were surprised to find that the reverend editor of the _reliques_ and the accurate antiquary have differed so very little as in essential facts they appear to have done. quotations are indeed made by both with no sparing hand; and hot arguments, and on one side, at least, hard words are unsparingly employed; while, as is said to happen in theological polemics, the contest grows warmer in proportion as the ground concerning which it is carried on is narrower and more insignificant. in reality their systems do not essentially differ." ritson's great object was to set forth more clearly than percy had done that the term _minstrel_ was a comprehensive one, including the poet, the singer, and the musician, not to mention the _fablier_, _conteur_, _jugleur_, _baladin_, &c. ritson delighted in collecting instances of the degradation into which the minstrel gradually sank, and, with little of percy's taste, he actually preferred the ballad-writer's songs to those of the minstrel. percy, on the other hand, gathered together all the material he could to set the minstrel in a good light. there is abundant evidence that the latter was right in his view of the minstrel's position in feudal times, but there were grades in this profession as in others, and law-givers doubtless found it necessary to control such bohemians as wandered about the country without licence. the minstrel of a noble house was distinguished by bearing the badge of his lord attached to a silver chain, and just as in later times the players who did not bear the name of some courtier were the subjects of parliamentary enactments, so the unattached minstrels were treated as vagrants. besides the minstrels of great lords, there were others attached to important cities. on may , , as appears by the wardrobe accounts of edward i., that king gave _s._ _d._ to walter lovel, the harper of chichester, whom he found playing the harp before the tomb of st. richard in the cathedral of chichester. waits were formerly attached to most corporate towns, and were, in fact, the corporation minstrels. they wore a livery and a badge, and were formed into a sort of guild. no one, even were he an inhabitant of the town, was suffered to play in public who was not free of the guild. besides singing out the hours of the night, and warning the town against dangers, they accompanied themselves with the harp, the pipe, the hautboy, and other instruments. they played in the town for the gratification of the inhabitants, and attended the mayor on all state occasions. at the mayor's feast they occupied the minstrels' gallery. from the merchants' guild book at leicester, it appears that as early as "hugh the trumpeter" was made free of the guild, and in "henry howman, a harper," was also made free, while in "thomas wylkyns, wayte," and in "thomas pollard, musician," were likewise admitted.[ ] percy collected so many facts concerning the old minstrels, that it is not necessary to add much to his stock of information, especially as, though a very interesting subject in itself, it has really very little to do with the contents of the _reliques_. the knightly troubadours and trouvères, and such men as taillefer, the norman minstrel, who at the battle of hastings advanced on horseback before the invading host, and gave the signal for attack by singing the song of roland, who died at roncesvalles, had little in common with the authors of the ballads in this book. the wise son of sirach enumerates among those famous men who are worthy to be praised "such as found out musical tunes, and recited verses in writing;" but, according to hector boece, the early scottish kings thought otherwise. in the laws of kenneth ii., "bardis" are mentioned with vagabonds, fools, and idle persons, to be scourged and burnt on the cheek, unless they found some work by which to live; and the same laws against them were, according to boece, still in force in the reign of macbeth, nearly two centuries later. better times, however, came, and scotch bards and minstrels were highly favoured in the reign of james iii.; but the sunshine did not last long. in , "pipers, fiddlers, and minstrels" are again branded with the opprobrious term of vagabonds, and threatened with severe penalties; and the regent morton induced the privy council to issue an edict that "nane tak upon hand to emprent or sell whatsoever book, ballet, or other werk," without its being examined and licensed, under pain of death and confiscation of goods. in august, , two poets of edinburgh (william turnbull, schoolmaster, and william scot, notar, "baith weel belovit of the common people for their common offices"), were hanged for writing a satirical ballad against the earl of morton; and in october of the same year, the estates passed an act against beggars and "sic as make themselves fules and are bards ... minstrels, sangsters, and tale tellers, not avowed in special service by some of the lords of parliament or great burghs." the minstrels had their several rounds, and, as a general rule, did not interfere with each other; but it is probable that they occasionally made a foray into other districts, in order to replenish their worn-out stock of songs. one of the last of the true minstrels was richard sheale, who enjoys the credit of having preserved the old version of _chevy chase_. he was for a time in the service of edward, earl of derby, and wrote an elegy on the countess, who died in january, . he afterwards followed the profession of a minstrel at tamworth, and his wife was a "sylke woman," who sold shirts, head clothes, and laces, &c., at the fairs of lichfield and other neighbouring towns. on one occasion, when he left tamworth on horseback, with his harp in his hand, he had the misfortune to be robbed by four highwaymen, who lay in wait for him near dunsmore heath. he wrote a long account of his misfortune in verse,[ ] in which he describes the grief of himself and his wife at their great loss, and laments over the coldness of worldly friends. he was robbed of threescore pounds--a large amount in those days--not obtained, however, from the exercise of his own skill, but by the sale of his wife's wares. this money was to be devoted to the payment of their debts, and in order that the carriage of it should not be a burden to him he changed it all for gold. he thought he might carry it safely, as no one would suspect a minstrel of possessing so much property, but he found to his cost that he had been foolishly bold. to add to his affliction, some of his acquaintances grieved him by saying that he was a lying knave, and had not been robbed, as it was not possible for a minstrel to have so much money. there was a little sweetness, however, in the poor minstrel's cup, for patrons were kind, and his loving neighbours at tamworth exerted themselves to help him. they induced him to brew a bushel of malt, and sell the ale. all this is related in a poem, which gives a vivid picture of the life of the time, although the verse does not do much credit to the poet's skill. when the minstrel class had fallen to utter decay in england, it flourished with vigour in wales; and we learn that the harpers and fiddlers were prominent figures in the cymmortha, or gatherings of the people for mutual aid. these assemblies were of a similar character to the "bees," which are common among our brethren in the united states. they were often abused for political purposes, and they gave some trouble to burghley as they had previously done to henry iv. in the reign of that king a statute was passed forbidding rhymers, minstrels, &c. from making the cymmortha. the following extract from a ms. in the lansdowne collection in the british museum, on the state of wales in elizabeth's reign, shows the estimation in which the minstrels were then held:-- "upon the sundays and holidays the multitudes of all sorts of men, women, and children of every parish do use to meet in sundry places, either on some hill or on the side of some mountain, where their harpers and crowthers sing them songs of the doings of their ancestors."[ ] ben jonson introduces "old father rosin," the chief minstrel of highgate, as one of the principal characters in his _tale of a tub_; and the blind harpers continued for many years to keep up the remembrance of the fallen glories of the minstrel's profession. tom d'urfey relates how merrily _blind tom_ harped, and mention is made of "honest jack nichols, the harper," in tom brown's _letters from_ _the dead to the living_ (works, ii. ). sir walter scott, in the article on _romance_ referred to above, tells us that "about fifty or sixty years since" (which would be about the year ) "a person acquired the nickname of 'roswal and lillian,' from singing that romance about the streets of edinburgh, which is probably the very last instance of the proper minstrel craft." scott himself, however, gives later instances in the introduction to the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_. he there writes: "it is certain that till a very late period the pipers, of whom there was one attached to each border town of note, and whose office was often hereditary, were the great depositaries of oral, and particularly of poetical tradition. about spring-time, and after harvest, it was the custom of these musicians to make a progress through a particular district of the country. the music and the tale repaid their lodging, and they were usually gratified, with a donation of seed corn. this order of minstrels is alluded to in the comic song of _maggy lauder_, who thus addresses a piper: 'live ye upo' the border?'"[ ] to this is added the following note:--"these town pipers, an institution of great antiquity upon the borders, were certainly the last remains of the minstrel race. robin hastie, town piper of jedburgh, perhaps the last of the order, died nine or ten years ago; his family was supposed to have held the office for about three centuries. old age had rendered robin a wretched performer, but he knew several old songs and tunes, which have probably died along with him. the town-pipers received a livery and salary from the community to which they belonged; and in some burghs they had a small allotment of land, called the pipers' croft." scott further adds:--"other itinerants, not professed musicians, found their welcome to their night's quarters readily ensured by their knowledge in legendary lore. john græme, of sowport, in cumberland, commonly called the long quaker, a person of this latter description, was very lately alive, and several of the songs now published have been taken down from his recitation." a note contains some further particulars of this worthy:--"this person, perhaps the last of our professed ballad reciters, died since the publication of the first edition of this work. he was by profession an itinerant cleaner of clocks and watches, but a stentorian voice and tenacious memory qualified him eminently for remembering accurately and reciting with energy the border gathering songs and tales of war. his memory was latterly much impaired, yet the number of verses which he could pour forth, and the animation of his tone and gestures, formed a most extraordinary contrast to his extreme feebleness of person and dotage of mind." ritson, in mentioning some relics of the minstrel class, writes:--"it is not long since that the public papers announced the death of a person of this description somewhere in derbyshire; and another from the county of gloucester was within these few years to be seen in the streets of london; he played on an instrument of the rudest construction, which he properly enough called a _humstrum_, and chanted (amongst others) the old ballad of _lord thomas and fair eleanor_, which, by the way, has every appearance of being originally a minstrel song." he adds further in a note:--"he appeared again in january, , and called upon the present writer in the april following. he was between sixty and seventy years of age, but had not been brought up to the profession of a minstrel, nor possessed any great store of songs, of which that mentioned in the text seemed the principal. having, it would seem, survived his minstrel talents, and forgot his epic, nay pindaric art, he has been of late frequently observed begging in the streets."[ ] these quotations relate to the end of the last or to the very early part of the present century, but we can add a notice of minstrels who lived well on towards the middle of this century. mr. j. h. dixon, in the preface to his _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_, printed for the percy society in , writes as follows:--"although the harp has long been silent in the dales of the north of england and scotland, it has been succeeded by the violin, and a class of men are still in existence and pursuing their calling, who are the regular descendants and representatives of the minstrels of old. in his rambles amongst the hills of the north, and especially in the wild and romantic dales of yorkshire, the editor has met with several of these characters. they are not idle vagabonds who have no other calling, but in general are honest and industrious, though poor men, having a local habitation as well as a name, and engaged in some calling, pastoral or manual. it is only at certain periods, such as christmas, or some other of the great festal seasons of the ancient church, that they take up the minstrel life, and levy contributions in the hall of the peer or squire, and in the cottage of the farmer or peasant. they are in general well-behaved, and often very witty fellows, and therefore their visits are always welcome. these minstrels do not sing modern songs, but, like their brethren of a bygone age, they keep to the ballads. the editor has in his possession some old poems, which he obtained from one of these minstrels, who is still living and fiddling in yorkshire." in his _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_, , mr. dixon notices one of these relics of the past, viz. francis king, who was well known in the western dales of yorkshire as "the skipton minstrel:"--"this poor minstrel, from whose recitation two of our ballads were obtained, met his death by drowning in december, . he had been at a merry meeting at gargrave in craven, and it is supposed that owing to the darkness of the night he had mistaken his homeward road, and walked into the water. he was one in whose character were combined the mimic and the minstrel, and his old jokes and older ballads and songs ever insured him a hearty welcome. his appearance was peculiar, and owing to one leg being shorter than its companion, he walked in such a manner as once drew from a wag the remark, 'that few _kings_ had had more ups and downs in the world!' as a musician his talents were creditable, and some of the dance tunes that he was in the habit of composing showed that he was not deficient in the organ of melody. in the quiet churchyard of gargrave may be seen the minstrel's grave." percy wrote an interesting note upon the division of some of the long ballads into fits (see vol. ii. p. ). the minstrel's payment for each of these fits was a groat; and so common was this remuneration, that a groat came to be generally spoken of as "fiddler's money." puttenham describes the blind harpers and tavern minstrels as giving a fit of mirth for a groat; and in ben jonson's _masque of the metamorphosed gipsies_, , townshead, the clown, cries out, "i cannot hold now; there's my groat, let's have a fit for mirth sake." the payment seems to have remained the same, though the money became in time reduced in value, so that, as the minstrel fell in repute, his reward became less. in , however, a scotch eighteen-penny groat possessed a considerable buying power, as appears from the following extract:-- "sir walter coupar, chaplaine in edinburghe, gate a pynte of vyne, a laiffe of vnce vaight, a peck of aite meill, a pynte of aill, a scheipe head, ane penny candell and a faire woman for ane xviii. penny grotte."[ ] after the restoration, the sixpence took the place of the groat; and it is even now a current phrase to say, when several sixpences are given in change, "what a lot of fiddlers' money!" ballads and ballad writers. one of the most important duties of the old minstrel was the chanting of the long romances of chivalry, and the question whether the ballads were detached portions of the romances, or the romances built up from ballads, has greatly agitated the minds of antiquaries. there seems reason to believe that in a large number of instances the most telling portions of the romance were turned into ballads, and this is certainly the case in regard to several of those belonging to the arthurian cycle. on the other side, such poems as barbour's _bruce_ and blind harry's _wallace_ have, according to motherwell, swept out of existence the memory of the ballads from which they were formed. when barbour wrote, ballads relative to bruce and his times were common, "for the poet, in speaking of certain 'thre worthi poyntis of wer,' omits the particulars of the 'thrid which fell into esdaill,' being a victory gained by 'schyr johne the soullis,' over 'schyr andrew hardclay,' for this reason:-- 'i will nocht rehers the maner, for wha sa likes thai may her, young wemen quhen thai will play, syng it amang thaim ilk day.'"[ ] another instance of the agglutinative process may be cited in the gradual growth of the robin hood ballads into a sort of epic, the first draught of which we may see in the _merrye geste_. the directness and dramatic cast of the minstrel ballad, however, form a strong argument in favour of the theory that they were largely taken from the older romances and chronicles, and the fragmentary appearance of some of them gives force to this view. without preface, they go at once straight to the incident to be described. frequently the ballad opens with a conversation, and some explanation of the position of the interlocutors was probably given by the minstrel as a prose introduction. motherwell, in illustration of the opinion that the abrupt transitions of the ballads were filled up by the explanations of the minstrels, gives the following modern instance:-- "traces of such a custom still remain in the lowlands of scotland among those who have stores of these songs upon their memory. reciters frequently, when any part of the narrative appears incomplete, supply the defect in prose.... i have heard the ancient ballad of _young beichan and susan pye_ dilated by a story-teller into a tale of very remarkable dimensions--a paragraph of prose, and then a _screed_ of rhyme, alternately given. from this ballad i may give a short specimen, after the fashion of the venerable authority from whom i quote: 'well ye must know that in the moor's castle there was a massymore, which is a dark, deep dungeon for keeping prisoners. it was twenty feet below the ground, and into this hole they closed poor beichan. there he stood, night and day, up to his waist in puddle water; but night or day, it was all one to him, for no ae styme of light ever got in. so he lay there a long and weary while, and thinking on his heavy weird, he made a mournfu' sang to pass the time, and this was the sang that he made, and grat when he sang it, for he never thought of ever escaping from the massymore, or of seeing his ain country again: 'my hounds they all ran masterless, my hawks they flee from tree to tree; my youngest brother will heir my lands, and fair england again i'll never see. oh were i free as i hae been, and my ship swimming once more on sea; i'd turn my face to fair england, and sail no more to a strange countrie.' 'now the cruel moor had a beautiful daughter, called susan pye, who was accustomed to take a walk every morning in her garden, and as she was walking ae day she heard the sough o' beichan's sang, coming, as it were, from below the ground,'" &c.[ ] the contrast between the construction of minstrel ballads and those of the ballad-mongers who arose as a class in the reign of elizabeth is very marked. the ballad-singers who succeeded the minstrels were sufficiently wise not to reject the treasures of their predecessors, and many of the old songs were rewritten and lengthened to suit their purpose. _sir patrick spence_ would perhaps be the best of the minstrel ballads to oppose to one of the best of the later ballads, such as the _beggar's daughter of bednall green_; but as its authenticity has been disputed, it will be well to choose another, and _captaine carre_, which ritson allows to have been one of the few minstrel ballads he acknowledges, will do well for the purpose. as both these poems are before our readers, it will only be necessary to quote the first stanzas of each. the version in the folio ms. of _captain carre_ commences abruptly thus:-- "ffaith maister, whither you will, whereas you like the best, unto the castle of bitton's borrow, and there to take your rest."[ ] this is a remarkable contrast to the opening of the _beggar's daughter_:-- "itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; and many a gallant brave suiter had shee, for none was soe comelye as pretty bessee."[ ] some may think, however, that this ballad is an adaptation by the ballad-monger from an older original, so that perhaps a still better instance of the great change in form that the ballads underwent will be found in the _children in the wood_.[ ] this favourite ballad is one of the best specimens of that didactic style which is so natural in the hands of the master, but degenerates into such tedious twaddle when copied by the pupil. the first stanza is:-- "now ponder well, you parents deare, these wordes, which i shall write; a doleful story you shall heare, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolke dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate." to put the matter simply, we may say that the writer of the old minstrel ballad expected an unhesitating belief for all his statements. "if fifteen stalwart foresters are slain by one stout knight, single-handed, he never steps out of his way to prove the truth of such an achievement by appealing to the exploits of some other notable manslayer."[ ] on the other hand the professional ballad-writer gives a reason for everything he states, and in consequence fills his work with redundancies. percy understood the characteristics of the older ballads, and explained the difference between the two classes of ballads in his _essay on the ancient minstrels_,[ ] but unfortunately he did not bear the distinction in mind when he altered some of the ballads in the folio ms. so that we find it to have been his invariable practice to graft the prettinesses and redundancies of the later writers upon the simplicity of the earlier. for instance, in his version of _sir cauline_ he inserts such well-worn saws as the following:-- "everye white will have its blacke, and everye sweete its sowre: this founde the ladye cristabelle in an untimely howre."[ ] ritson also remarks upon the distinctive styles of the ancient and modern writers, but, as observed above, he had the bad taste to prefer the work of the later ballad-writer. his opinion is given in the following passage:--"these songs [of the minstrels] from their wild and licentious metre were incapable of any certain melody or air; they were chanted in a monotonous stile to the harp or other instrument, and both themselves and the performers banished by the introduction of ballad-singers without instruments, who sung printed pieces to fine and simple melodies, possibly of their own invention, most of which are known and admired at this day. the latter, owing to the smoothness of their language, and accuracy of their measure and rime, were thought to be more poetical than the old harp or instrument songs; and though critics may judge otherwise, the people at large were to decide, and did decide: and in some respects, at least, not without justice, as will be evident from a comparison of the following specimens. "the first is from the old _chevy chase_, a very popular minstrel ballad in the time of queen elizabeth:-- 'the persé owt of northombarlande, and a vowe to god mayd he,' &c.[ ] how was it possible that this barbarous language, miserably chanted 'by some blind crowder with no rougher voice than rude stile,' should maintain its ground against such lines as the following, sung to a beautiful melody, which we know belongs to them?-- 'when as king henry rul'd the land, the second of that name, besides the queen he dearly lov'd, a fair and comely dame,' &c.[ ] the minstrels would seem to have gained little by such a contest. in short, they gave up the old _chevy chase_ to the ballad-singers, who, desirous, no doubt, to avail themselves of so popular a subject, had it new written, and sung it to the favourite melody just mentioned. the original, of course, became utterly neglected, and but for its accidental discovery by hearne, would never have been known to exist."[ ] percy held the view, which was afterwards advocated by scott, that the borders were the true home of the romantic ballad, and that the chief minstrels originally belonged either to the north of england or the south of scotland;[ ] but later writers have found the relics of a ballad literature in the north of scotland. the characteristics of the ballad doubtless varied to some extent in different parts of the country, but there is no reason to believe that the glory of being its home can be confined to any one place. unfortunately this popular literature was earlier lost in the plains than among the hills, while the recollection of the fatal fields of otterburn, humbledon, flodden, halidon, hedgeley, hexham, &c., would naturally keep it alive longer among the families of the border than elsewhere. before proceeding further, it may be as well to say a few words upon the word _ballad_. the strong line of demarcation that is now drawn between an ordinary song and a ballad is a late distinction, and even dr. johnson's only explanation of the word "ballad" in his _dictionary_ is "a song." one of his quotations is taken from watts, to the effect that "ballad once signified a solemn and sacred song, as well as trivial, when solomon's song was called the ballad of ballads; but now it is applied to nothing but trifling verse." the "balade" as used by chaucer and others was a song written in a particular rhythm, but later writers usually meant by a ballad a song that was on the lips of the people. it is not necessary to enlarge here upon the change of meaning that the word has undergone, nor to do more than mention the relation that it bears to the word ballet. as a _ballad_ is now a story told in verse, so a _ballet_ is now a story told in a dance. originally the two were one, and the ballad was a song sung while the singers were dancing. when andrew fletcher of saltoun wrote, "i knew a very wise man, so much of sir christopher's sentiment that he believed if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation," he referred to the popular songs of the people, but, in point of fact, a nation makes its own ballads, which do not become current coin until stamped with public approval. no song will change a people's purpose, but the national heart will be found written in a country's songs as a reflection of what has happened. the successful ballad-writer requires a quick eye and ear to discern what is smouldering in the public mind, and then if his words fall in with the humour of the people his productions will have a powerful influence, and may set the country in a blaze. _Ça ira_ and the _carmagnole_ had much influence on the progress of the great french revolution, as _mourir pour la patrie_ had upon that of . _lilliburlero_ gave the finishing stroke to the english revolution of , and its author (lord wharton) boasted that he had rhymed king james out of his dominions. the old ballad filled the place of the modern newspaper, and history can be read in ballads by those who try to understand them; but the type is often blurred, and in attempting to make out their meaning, we must be careful not to see too much, for the mere fact of the existence of a ballad does not prove its popularity or its truth. literature is often presumed to assert a larger influence over a nation than it really does, and there is little doubt that literature is more a creation of the people than the people are a creation of literature. where a healthy public opinion exists, people are less affected to action by what is written than is sometimes supposed, but still there is an important reflex action, and-- "words are things, and a small drop of ink falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think." there are recorded instances of the powerful influence of ballads, and we know how much dibdin's sea songs did for the british navy, when they placed before the sailor an ideal of his own feelings, and painted men he wished to be like. the songs of a country are the truly natural part of its poetry, and really the only poetry of the great body of the people. percy, in the dedication to his _reliques_, calls ballads the "barbarous productions of unpolished ages." nevertheless they are instinct with life, and live still, while much of the polished poetry of his age, which expelled nature from literature, is completely dead. nature is the salt that keeps the ballad alive, and many have maintained a continuance of popularity for several centuries. a good ballad is not an easy thing to write, and many poets who have tried their hand at composition in this branch of their art have signally failed, as may be seen by referring to some of the modern pieces in this book, which percy hoped would "atone for the rudeness of the more obsolete poems." the true ballad is essentially dramatic, and one that is to make itself felt should be all action, without any moralizing padding, for it is a narrative in verse meant for the common people. james hogg, himself a successful ballad-writer, has something to say about a good song: "a man may be sair mista'en about many things, sic as yepics, an' tragedies, an' tales, an' even lang set elegies about the death o' great public characters, an' hymns, an' odes, an' the like, but he canna be mista'en about a sang. as sune as it's down on the sclate i ken whether it's gude, bad, or middlin'. if any of the two last i dight it out wi' my elbow; if the first, i copy it o'er into writ and then get it aff by heart, when it's as sure o' no' being lost as if it war engraven on a brass plate. for though i hae a treacherous memory about things in ordinar', a' my happy sangs will cleave to my heart to my dying day, an' i should na wonder gin i war to croon a verse or twa frae some o' them on my deathbed." all ballads are songs, but all songs are not ballads, and the difference between a ballad and a song is something the same as that between a proverb and an apophthegm, for the ballad like the proverb should be upon many lips. a poet may write a poem and call it a ballad: but it requires the public approval before it becomes one in fact. the objects of the minstrel and the ballad-singer were essentially different: thus the minstrel's stock of ballads usually lasted him his lifetime, and as his living depended upon them they were jealously guarded by him from others. nothing he objected to more than to see them in print. the chief aim of the ballad-singer, on the other hand, was to sell his collection of printed broadsides, and to obtain continually a new stock, so as to excite the renewed attention of his customers. henry chettle mentions in his _kind hart's dream_, , the sons of one barnes, who boasted that they could earn twenty shillings a day by singing ballads at bishop's stortford and places in the neighbourhood. the one had a squeaking treble, the other "an ale-blown bass." one of the most popular singers of the early time was a boy named cheeke, and nicknamed "outroaring dick." he was originally a mechanic, but renounced that life for ballad-singing, by which occupation he earned ten shillings a day. he was well known in essex, and was not missed for many years from the great fair at braintree. he had a rival in will wimbars, who sung chiefly doleful tragedies. mat nash, a man from the "north countrie," made the border ballads his own by his manner of singing them, in which he accompanied his voice by dramatic action. _chevy chase_ was his _tour de force_. lord burghley was so pleased with his singing that he enabled him to retire from his occupation. the gipsies have furnished many female singers, and one of them, named alice boyce, who came to london in elizabeth's reign, paid the expenses of her journey up to london by singing the whole way. she had the honour of singing, "o, the broom" and "lady green sleeves" before the queen. gravelot, the portrait painter in the strand, had several sittings from ballad-singers; and hogarth drew the famous "philip in the tub" in his wedding of the _industrious apprentice_. street singing still continues, and one of the songs of thirty years ago tells of "the luck of a cove wot sings," and how many friends he has. one of the verses is as follows:-- "while strolling t'other night, i dropped in a house, d'ye see; the landlord so polite, insisted on treating me; i called for a glass of port, when half-a-bottle he brings; 'how much?'--'nothing of the sort,' says he, 'you're a cove wot sings.'" mr. chappell gives a large number of early quotations relating to ballad-singing, in his interesting _history of ballad literature_, and observes that "some idea of the number of ballads that were printed in the early part of the reign of elizabeth may be formed from the fact that seven hundred and ninety-six ballads left for entry at stationers' hall remained in the cupboard of the council chamber of the company at the end of the year , to be transferred to the new wardens, and only forty-four books."[ ] some of the old writers, like shakspere's mopsa, loved "a ballad in print;" but more of them disliked the new literature that was rising up like a mushroom, and took every opportunity of having a fling at it. webbe, in his _discourse of english poetrie_ ( ), refers to "the un-countable rabble of ryming ballet-makers and compylers of senseless sonnets;" and chettle complains in _kind hart's dream_ ( ), that "now ballads are abusively chanted in every street; and from london, this evil has overspread essex and the adjoining counties. there is many a tradesman of a worshipful trade, yet no stationer, who after a little bringing up apprentices to singing brokery, takes into his shop some fresh men, and trusts his servants of two months' standing with a dozen groats' worth of ballads, in which, if they prove thrifty, he makes them pretty chapmen, able to spread more pamphlets by the state forbidden than all the booksellers in london." bishop hall ( ) does not forget to satirize ballad-writing among other things more worthy of censure. "some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent, if he can live to see his name in print; who, when he is once fleshed to the presse, and sees his handsell have such faire successe sung to the wheele and sung unto the payle, he sends forth thraves of ballads to the sale." that is, by the spinsters and milkmaids. shakspere also refers to the love which women at work have for a ballad in _twelfth night_ (act i. sc. ): "the spinsters and knitters in the sun, and the free maids that weave their thread with bones do use to chant it." the larger number of ballads are anonymous, but we are told that in the reign of henry viii., "the most pregnant wits" were employed in writing them, and that the king himself set the example. the ballad, however, here referred to probably only meant an ordinary song. in course of time rhymesters succeeded poets, because, as the world becomes more educated, the poet confines himself to the refined, and the people have to content themselves with poor poetasters. stirring times will, however, always give birth to some real poetry among the masses, because whatever is true and earnest must find an echo in many hearts. in elizabeth's reign, as we have already seen, the ballad-writer had sunk very low in public esteem. in further illustration of this we find in _martin mar-sixtus_ ( ) the following diatribe: "i lothe to speak it, every red-nosed rhymester is an auther, every drunken man's dream is a book; and he whose talent of little wit is hardly worth a farthing, yet layeth about him so outrageously as if all helicon had run through his pen. in a word, scarce a cat can look out of a gutter, but out starts a halfpenny chronicler, and presently a proper new ballet of a strange sight is indited." the producer and the product had not greatly changed in forty years, for we find the following character in the curious little book, entitled _whimzies, or a new cast of characters_ ( ): "a ballad-monger is the ignominious nickname of a penurious poet, of whom he partakes in nothing but in povertie. he has a singular gift of imagination, for he can descant on a man's execution long before his confession. nor comes his invention far short of his imagination. for want of truer relations, for a neede, he can finde you out a sussex dragon, some sea or inland monster, drawne out by some shoe-lane man in a gorgon-like feature, to enforce more horror in the beholder." the chief of the ballad-writers were william elderton, thomas deloney, richard johnson, and anthony munday. elderton was known as the prince of ballad-mongers; but, unfortunately, he was as notorious for his love of the bottle, and he is said to have drunk himself to death before the year . camden tells us that "he did arm himself with ale (as old father ennius did with wine) when he ballated," and two epitaphs made upon him are registered in the _remaines_, the latin one of which is also printed at p. of vol. ii., with oldys's translation, and the following:-- "here is elderton lying in dust, or lying elderton; chuse which you lust. here he lies dead, i do him no wrong, for who knew him standing, all his life long?" nash asserts that "elderton consumed his alecrammed nose to nothing in bear-bayting" an enemy "with whole bundells of ballets;"[ ] and gabriel harvey attacks "father elderton and his son greene as the ringleaders of the riming and scribbling crew." according to stow, elderton was an attorney in the sheriffs' courts of the city of london, and wrote some verses on the new porch and stone statues at guildhall. ritson does not think that his poetical powers are to be compared with those of deloney and johnson. drayton also appears to have had a low opinion of him, for he writes:-- "i scorn'd your ballad then, though it were done and had for finis, william elderton," but benedick, in _much ado about nothing_ (act v. sc. ) does him the honour of singing one of his songs:-- "the god of love that sits above, and knows me, and knows me how pitiful i deserve." thomas deloney, the shoemaker's historiographer, was a voluminous writer of ballads, which he himself collected into garlands, with different taking titles. several of his pieces are printed in these volumes. nash calls him "the balleting silk-weaver of norwich;" and in his _have with you to saffron walden_, he remarks on the ballad-maker's change of style: "he hath rhyme enough for all miracles, and wit to make a _garland of good will_, &c., but whereas his muse, from the first peeping forth, hath stood at livery at an ale-house wisp, never exceeding a penny a quart, day or night--and this dear year, together with the silencing of his looms, scarce that--he is constrained to betake himself to carded ale, whence it proceedeth that, since candlemas, or his jigg of _john for the king_, not one merry ditty will come from him; nothing but _the thunderbolt against swearers_; _repent, england, repent_, and the _strange judgments of god_." kemp, the comic actor and morris-dancer, was particularly angry with the ballad-makers in general, and deloney in particular, and addresses them in the following terms:-- "kemp's humble request to the impudent generation of ballad-makers and their coherents, that it would please their rascalities to pitty his paines in the great journey he pretends, and not fill the country with lyes of his never done actes as they did in his late _morrice to norwich_. i knowe the best of ye, by the lyes ye writ of me, got not the price of a good hat to cover your brainless heds. if any of ye had come to me, my bounty should have exceeded the best of your good masters the ballad-buiers. i wold have apparrelled your dry pates in party-coloured bonnets, and bestowed a leash of my cast belles to have crown'd ye with cox-combs. "i was told it was the great ballet-maker, t. d., alias tho. deloney, chronicler of the memorable lives of the yeamen of the west, jack of newbery, the gentle-craft, and such like honest men, omitted by stow, hollinshead, grafton, hal, froysart, and the rest of those wel deserving writers."[ ] richard johnson, the author of the _seven champions of christendom_, like deloney, collected his own ballads into a book, and his _crown garland of golden roses_ was once highly popular. anthony munday, a draper in cripplegate, and a member of the drapers' company, has the fame of being a voluminous writer of ballads, but none of his productions are known to exist. kemp calls him "elderton's immediate heir," but he does not seem to have walked in his predecessor's disreputable steps, but to have lived respected to the good age of eighty. he died aug. , , and was buried in st. stephen's, coleman-street, where a monument with an inscription in praise of his knowledge as an antiquary was erected. he wrote many of the annual city pageants, besides plays, which caused meres to call him "the best plotter" of his age. chettle disguised munday as anthony now-now, and ben jonson ridiculed him in _the case is altered_, as antonio balladino, the pageant poet. to the question, "you are not the pageant poet to the city of milan, are you?" he is made to answer, "i supply the place, sir, when a worse cannot be had, sir." he had several enemies who ran him down, but he also had friends who stood up for him. william webbe, in his _discourse of english poetrie_, describes munday as "an earnest traveller in this art," and says that he wrote "very excellent works, especially upon nymphs and shepherds, well worthy to be viewed and to be esteemed as rare poetry." thomas middleton, the dramatic poet, who produced the lord mayor's pageant for the mayoralty of his namesake, sir thomas middleton (_the_ _triumphs of truth_), in , attacks poor munday most viciously. on the title-page he declares his pageant to have been "directed, written, and redeem'd into forme, from the ignorance of some former times and their common writer," and in his book he adds:--"the miserable want of both [art and knowledge] which in the impudent common writer hath often forced from me much pity and sorrow, and it would heartily grieve any understanding spirit to behold many times so glorious a fire in bounty and goodness offering to match itselfe with freezing art, sitting in darknesse with the candle out, looking like the picture of blacke monday." when the civil war broke out, the majority of the poets were ready to range themselves on the side of the king. alexander brome was the most voluminous writer of royalist songs, but martin parker, the writer of _the king shall enjoy his own again_, must take rank as the leading ballad-writer of his time. this was one of those songs that cheer the supporters of a losing cause, and help them to win success in the end. it is supposed to have formed a by no means unimportant item in the causes that brought about the restoration. parker is said to have been the leading spirit in a society of ballad-writers; he certainly was not the "grub street scribbler" that ritson has called him. the puritans hated this "ballad-maker laureat of london," and lost no opportunity of denouncing him and his works. mr. chappell has written an interesting notice of him in his _popular music of the olden time_, where he mentions some other royalist ballad writers, as john wade, the author of _the royal oak_, thomas weaver, the author of a _collection of_ _songs_, in which he ridiculed the puritans so effectually that the book was denounced as a seditious libel against the government, and john cleveland, who, according to anthony wood, was the first to come forth as a champion of the royal cause. the last of these was one of the very few ballad writers whose names are enrolled in the list of british poets. in december, , captain betham was appointed provost marshal, with power to seize upon all ballad-singers, and five years from that date there were no more entries of ballads at stationers' hall, but when cromwell became protector he removed the ban against ballads and ballad-singers. after the restoration, the courtier poets wrote for the streets, and therefore most of the ballads were ranged on the side of the court. after a time, however, the court fell into popular disfavour, and it was then discovered that ballad-singers and pamphleteers had too much liberty. killigrew, the master of the revels to charles ii., licensed all singers and sellers of ballads, and john clarke, a london bookseller, rented of killigrew this privilege for a period, which expired in . besides licensers of the singers and sellers, there were licensers of the ballads themselves. these were sir roger l'estrange, from to , richard pocock, from to , j. fraser, from to , and edmund bohun, who died in , the year that the licensing system also expired. when james, duke of york, went to scotland to seek for that popularity which he had lost in england, he is supposed to have taken with him an english ballad-maker to sing his praises, and this man is believed to have produced _the banishment of poverty by h. r. h. james, duke of albany_. ballad-singing was very much out of favour among the authorities in the eighteenth century, and in the middlesex grand jury denounced the singing of "scandalous" ballads about the streets as a common nuisance, tending to alienate the minds of the people. in july, , we are told that "yesterday evening two women were sent to bridewell by lord bute's order for singing political ballads before his lordship's door in south audley street." ballads were then pretty much the same kind of rubbish that they are now, and there was little to show that they once were excellent. the glorious days when-- "thespis, the first professor of our art, at country wakes sung ballads from a cart,"[ ] had long ago departed. there are but few instances of true poets writing for the streets in later times, but we have one in oliver goldsmith. in his early life in dublin, when he often felt the want of a meal, he wrote ballads, which found a ready customer at five shillings each at a little bookseller's shop in a by-street of the city. we are informed that he was as sensitive as to the reception of these children of his muse as in after years he was of his more ambitious efforts; and he used to stroll into the street to hear his ballads sung, and to mark the degrees of applause with which they were received. most of the modern ballad-writers have been local in their fame, as thomas hoggart, the uncle of hogarth the painter, whose satiric lash made him a power in his native district of cumberland, dreaded alike by fools and knaves. the chief heroes of the older ballads were king arthur and his knights, robin hood, and guy of warwick. the ballads relating to the first of these appear to have been chiefly chipped off from the great cycle of arthurian romances. the popularity of robin hood was at one time so great that drayton prophesied in his _polyolbion_:-- "in this our spacious isle i think there is not one but he hath heard some talk of him, and little john, and to the end of time the tales shall ne'er be done of scarlock, george a green, and much the miller's son. of tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made in praise of robin hood, his outlaws, and their trade." from a local hero he grew into national fame, and superseded arthur in popular regard. he then sunk into a mere highwayman, to be again raised into fame by literary men, ritson being the chief of these. wakefield is still proud of its pinder, who was one of robin hood's company-- "in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder; in wakefield all on a green," and one of the thoroughfares of that place is now called pinder field road. robin hood was a purely english hero, but guy of warwick was almost as popular in foreign countries as in his own land. the earliest of english political ballads was an outcome of the barons' wars in the reign of henry iii.,[ ] and each period of political excitement since then has been represented in ballads. the controversies between protestant and papist were carried on in verse, and laud and his clergy were attacked by the ballad-writers of the puritan party. imitators and forgers. no attempt was made to produce false antique ballads until the true antiques had again risen in public esteem, and one of the first to deceive the connoisseurs was lady wardlaw, who was highly successful in her object when she gave _hardyknute_ to the world (see vol. ii. p. ). she seems to have been quite contented with the success which attended the mystification, and does not appear to have taken any particular pains to keep her secret close. suspicions were rife long before the publication of the _reliques_, but when they appeared the whole truth came out. with regard to the other ballads, to which she had added verses, there does not appear to have been any attempt at concealment. the recent endeavour to attribute a large number of the romantic ballads of scotland to her pen will be considered further on. a large number of poets have imitated the old ballad, but very few have been successful in the attempt to give their efforts the genuine ring of the original. tickell and goldsmith entered into the spirit of their models, but scott succeeded best in old elspeth's fragment of a chant (the battle of harlaw) in the _antiquary_. w. j. mickle, the translator of the _lusiad_, contributed several imitations to evans's _collection of old ballads_, but although these are beautiful poems in themselves, their claim to antiquity was made to rest chiefly upon a distorted spelling. one of the most remarkably successful imitations of modern times is the ballad of _trelawny_, which the late rev. r. s. hawker, of morwenstow, wrote to suit the old burden of "and shall trelawny die." this spirited ballad deceived scott, macaulay, and dickens, who all believed it to be genuine, and quoted it as such. in it was actually printed by j. h. dixon in his "ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england, taken down from oral tradition, and transcribed from private manuscripts, rare broadsides, and scarce publications," published by the percy society. mr. dixon was probably deceived by davies gilbert, who sent the ballad to the _gentleman's magazine_ in , and said that it formerly "resounded in every house, in every highway, and in every street." in hawker had, however, himself acknowledged the authorship. he wrote in his _records of the western shore_ (p. ), "with the exception of the chorus contained in the last two lines, this song was written by me in the year . it was soon after inserted in a plymouth paper. it happened to fall into the hands of davies gilbert, esq., who did me the honour to reprint it at his private press at east bourne, under the impression, i believe, that it is an early composition of my own. the two lines above-mentioned formed, i believe, the burthen of the old song, and are all that i can recover."[ ] hawker was fond of these mystifications, and although he did not care to lose the credit of his productions, he was amused to see another of his ballads, _sir beville_, find its way into a collection of old ballads. a far more beautiful ballad than _hardyknute_ is _auld robin gray_, in which a lady of rank caught the spirit of the tender songs of peasant life with excellent effect. lady anne barnard kept her secret for fifty years, and did not acknowledge herself the author of it until , when she disclosed the fact in a letter to sir walter scott. these were harmless attempts to deceive, such as will always be common among those who take a pleasure in reducing the pride of the experts; and when they were discovered no one was found to have been injured by the deceit. it is far different, however, when a forgery is foisted in among genuine works, because when a discovery is made of its untrustworthiness, the reputation of the true work is injured by this association with the false. pinkerton inserted a large number of his own poems in his edition of _select scottish ballads_ ( ), which poems he alleged to be ancient. he was taken severely to task by ritson on account of these fabrications, and he afterwards acknowledged his deceit.[ ] one of the most barefaced of literary deceptions was the work published in by r. h. cromek, under the title of _remains of nithsdale and galloway song_. although the ballads contained in these volumes are very varied in their subject, they were almost entirely composed by allan cunningham, who produced whatever was required of him by his employer. poets are often the worst of editors, as they find the temptation to "improve" their originals too strong to resist. allan cunningham published in a collection of the _songs of scotland_, in which he availed himself so largely of this license that motherwell felt called upon to reprobate the work in the strongest terms. he observes: "while thus violating ancient song, he seems to have been well aware of the heinousness of his offending. he might shudder and sicken at his revolting task indeed! to soothe his own alarmed conscience, and, if possible, to reconcile the mind of his readers to his wholesale mode of hacking and hewing and breaking the joints of ancient and traditionary song; and to induce them to receive with favour the conjectural emendations it likes him to make, he, in the course of his progress, not unfrequently chooses to sneer at those, and to underrate their labours, who have used their best endeavours to preserve ancient song in its primitive and uncontaminated form."[ ] these are by no means the hardest words used by motherwell in respect to the _songs of scotland_. the worst among the forgers, however, was a man who ought to have been above such dishonourable work, viz., robert surtees, the author of the _history of the county palatine of durham_, in whose honour the surtees society was founded. in scott's _minstrelsy of the scottish border_ will be found three ballads--_the death of featherstonhaugh_, _lord ewrie_, and _bartram's dirge_, which are treated by sir walter as true antiques, and of the genuine character of which he never had a doubt. they are all three, however, mere figments of surtees's imagination. each of the ballads was accompanied by fictitious historical incidents, to give it an extra appearance of authenticity. _featherstonhaugh_ was said to be "taken down from the recitation of a woman eighty years of age, mother of one of the miners in alston moor;" _lord ewrie_ was obtained from "rose smith, of bishop middleham, a woman aged upwards of ninety-one;" and _bartram's dirge_ from "anne douglas, an old woman who weeded in his (surtees's) garden." on other occasions sir walter scott was deluded by his friend with false information. mr. george taylor makes the following excuse in his _life of surtees_ (p. ): "mr. surtees no doubt had wished to have the success of his attempt tested by the unbiassed opinion of the very first authority on the subject, and the result must have been gratifying to him. but at a later period of their intimacy, when personal regard was added to high admiration for his correspondent, he probably would not have subjected him to the mortification of finding that he could be imposed on in a matter where he had a right to consider himself as almost infallible. and it was most likely from this feeling that mr. surtees never acknowledged the imposition: for so late as the year , in which scott dates his introduction to the edition of the _minstrelsy_, published in , the ballad of the _death of featherstonhaugh_ retains its place (vol. i. p. ) with the same expressions of obligation to mr. surtees for the communication of it, and the same commendation of his learned proofs of its authenticity." in spite of this attempted justification, we cannot fail to stigmatize surtees's forgery as a crime against letters which fouls the very wells of truth. authenticity of certain ballads as was to be expected, the existence of the forgeries just referred to caused several persons to doubt the genuineness of many of the true ballads. finlay wrote, in , "the mention of _hats_ and _cork-heeled shoon_ (in the ballad of _sir patrick spence_) would lead us to infer that some stanzas are interpolated, or that its composition is of a comparatively modern date;"[ ] and, in , the veteran ballad-collector, mr. david laing, wrote as follows: "notwithstanding the great antiquity that has been claimed for _sir patrick spence_, one of the finest ballads in our language, very little evidence would be required to persuade me but that we were also indebted for it to lady wardlaw (_stenhouse's illustrations of the lyric poetry and music of scotland_, with additional notes to johnson's _scots musical museum_, p. [ ])." at p. [ ] of the same book, mr. laing, after quoting from finlay, made the following further observations: "bishop percy also remarks that 'an ingenious friend thinks the author of _hardyknute_ has borrowed several expressions and sentiments from the foregoing and other old scottish songs in this collection.' it was this resemblance with the localities dunfermline and aberdour, in the neighbourhood of sir henry wardlaw's seat, that led me to throw out the conjecture, whether this much-admired ballad might not also have been written by lady wardlaw herself, to whom the ballad of _hardyknute_ is now universally attributed."[ ] mr. j. h. dixon, in , considered that the suspicion had become a certainty, and wrote of lady wardlaw as one "who certainly appears to have been a great adept at this species of literary imposture." "this celebrated lady is _now known_ to be the author of _edward! edward!_ and of _sir patrick spence_, in addition to _hardyknute_."[ ] mr. dixon and the late mr. robert chambers have also thrown out hints of their disbelief in the authenticity of the recitations of mrs. brown of falkland. these, however, were mere skirmishing attacks, but in robert chambers marshalled his forces, and made a decisive charge in his publication entitled _the romantic scottish ballads, their epoch and authorship_. he there explains his belief as follows:-- "upon all these considerations i have arrived at the conclusion that the high-class romantic ballads of scotland are not ancient compositions--are not older than the early part of the eighteenth century--and are mainly, if not wholly, the production of one mind. whose was this mind is a different question, on which no such confident decision may, for the present, be arrived at; but i have no hesitation in saying that, from the internal resemblance traced on from _hardyknute_ through _sir patrick spence_ and _gil morrice_ to the others, there seems to be a great likelihood that the whole were the composition of the authoress of that poem, namely, elizabeth lady wardlaw of pitreavie." scotsmen were not likely to sit down tamely under an accusation by which their principal ballad treasures were thus stigmatized as false gems, and we find that several writers immediately took up their pens to refute the calumny. it will be seen that the charge is divided into two distinct parts, and it will be well to avoid mixing them together, and to consider each part separately. i. certain ballads, generally supposed to be genuine, were really written by one person, in imitation of the antique. ii. the author of this deceit was lady wardlaw, the writer of _hardyknute_. i. the ballads in the _reliques_, which are instanced by chambers, are as follows:-- . _sir patrick spence._ . _gil morrice._ . _edward! edward!_ . _jew's daughter._ . _gilderoy._ . _young waters._ . _edom o' gordon._ . _bonny earl of murray._ two of these ( and ) are in the folio ms., which was written before lady wardlaw was born; _edom o' gordon_ also exists in another old ms. copy; _gilderoy_ ( ) is known to have been a street ballad, and the remainder are found in other copies. it is not necessary to discuss each of these cases separately, and we shall therefore reserve what we have to say for the special consideration of _sir patrick spence_. before proceeding, we must first consider how far chambers's previous knowledge of ballad literature prepared him for this inquiry; and we cannot rate that knowledge very highly, for in his _collection of scottish songs_, he actually attributes wotton's _ye meaner beauties_ to darnley, and supposes mary queen of scots to have been the subject of the author's praises. at this period also his scepticism had not been aroused, for all the ballads that he thought spurious in had been printed by him in as genuine productions. to return to the main point at issue. chambers writes:-- "it is now to be remarked of the ballads published by the successors of percy, as of those which he published, that there is not a particle of positive evidence for their having existed before the eighteenth century. overlooking the one given by ramsay in his _tea-table miscellany_, we have neither print nor manuscript of them before the reign of george iii. they are not in the style of old literature. they contain no references to old literature. as little does old literature contain any references to them. they wholly escaped the collecting diligence of bannatyne. james watson, who published a collection of scottish poetry in - , wholly overlooks them. ramsay, as we see, caught up only one." mr. norval clyne (_ballads from scottish history_, , p. ) gives a satisfactory answer to the above. he writes:-- "the want of any ancient manuscript can be no argument against the antiquity of a poem, versions of which have been obtained from oral recitation, otherwise the great mass of ballads of all kinds collected by scott, and by others since his time, must lie under equal suspicion. bannatyne, in the sixteenth century, and allan ramsay, in the early part of the eighteenth, were not collectors of popular poetry in the same sense as those who have since been so active in that field. the former contented himself, for the most part, with transcribing the compositions of dunbar, henrysone, and other "makers," well known by name, and ramsay took the bulk of his _evergreen_ from bannatyne's ms. that a great many poems of the ballad class, afterwards collected and printed, must have been current among the people when the _evergreen_ was published, no one that knows anything of the subject will deny." the old ballads lived on the tongues of the people, and a small percentage of them only were ever committed to writing, so that a fairer test of authenticity is the existence of various versions. of known forgeries no varieties exist, but several versions of _sir patrick spence_ have been rescued from oblivion. it is not probable that any fresh ballads will be obtained from recitation, but it is in some degree possible, as may be seen from an instance of a kindred nature in the field of language. we know that local dialects have almost passed away, and yet some of the glossaries of them lately issued contain words that explain otherwise dark passages in manuscripts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. chambers further affirms that the sentiment of these ballads is not congenial to that of the peasantry--"it may be allowably said, there is a tone of _breeding_ throughout these ballads, such as is never found in the productions of rustic genius." this, however, is begging the question, for it does not follow that the songs of the peasantry were written by the peasantry. it is they who have remembered them, and held to them with greater tenacity than the educated classes. we now come to the text that bears specially upon _sir patrick spence_, and we will give it in chambers's own words:--"the scottish ladies sit bewailing the loss of sir patrick spence's companions 'wi' the gowd kaims in their hair.' sir patrick tells his friends before starting on his voyage, 'our ship must sail the faem;'[ ] and in the description of the consequences of his shipwreck, we find 'mony was the feather-bed that flattered on the faem.'[ ] no old poet would use _faem_ as an equivalent for the sea; but it was just such a phrase as a poet of the era of pope would use in that sense." in the first place, we should be justified in saying that this test is not a fair one, because no one will contend that the ballads have not been altered in passing from hand to hand, and new words inserted; but mr. norval clyne has a complete answer for this particular objection; he writes: "bishop gawin douglas completed his translation of virgil's Æneid on nd july, , and in his prologue to the twelfth book are these lines:-- 'some sang ring-sangs, dancis, ledis, roundis, with vocis schil, quhil all the dale resounds, quhareto they walk into their karoling, for amourous layis dois all the rochis ring: ane sang 'the schip salis over the salt fame, will bring thir merchandis and my lemane hame.' here we have the expression, to which attention is called, occurring in a popular song in common use before the battle of flodden. i have seen it remarked, however, that it is the elliptical use of 'sail the faem' for 'sail over the faem,' which indicates an authorship not older than the day of queen anne. my answer to this objection shall also be an example from an 'old poet.' one of the _tales of the three priests of peblis_ assigned to the early part of the sixteenth century, describes in homely verse the career of a thrifty burgess, and contains these lines (_sibbald's chronicle of scottish poetry_, ):-- 'then bocht he wool, and wyselie couth it wey; and efter that sone saylit he the sey.'"[ ] these quotations completely set aside one portion of the charge, and the other, in which an attempt is made to show that a similar form of expression is constantly occurring in the several poems, is really of little weight, pressed as it is with some unfairness. we have already seen that the old minstrels used certain forms of expression as helps to memory, and these recur in ballads that have little or no connection with each other. chambers, following david laing, uses percy's note at the end of _sir patrick spence_[ ] as an engine of attack against the authenticity of the ballad, but there is really no reason for the conclusion he comes to, "that the parity he remarked in the expressions was simply owing to the two ballads being the production of one mind," for a copyist well acquainted with ballad literature would naturally adopt the expressions found in them in his own composition. ii. the consideration of the opinion that lady wardlaw was the author of _sir patrick spence_ and other ballads, need not detain us long, because the main point of interest is their authenticity, and the question of her authorship is quite a secondary matter: that falls to the ground if the grand charge is proved false, and need not stand even if that remains unrefuted. the only reason for fixing upon lady wardlaw appears to have been that as these ballads were transmitted to percy by lord hailes, and one of them was an imitation of the antique by lady wardlaw, and another was added to by the same lady, therefore if a similarity between the ballads could be proved, it would follow that all were written by her. now the very fact that the authorship of _hardyknute_ was soon discovered is strong evidence against any such supposition, because none of her associates had any suspicion that she had counterfeited other ballads, and could such a wholesale manufacture have been concealed for a century it would be a greater mystery than the vexed question, who was junius? the other point, whether the author of the indistinct and redundant _hardyknute_ could have written the clear and incisive lines of _sir patrick spence_ may be left to be decided by readers who have the two poems before them in these volumes. a few particulars may, however, be mentioned. the openings of these ballads form excellent contrasted examples of the two different styles of ballad writing. _sir patrick spence_ commences at once, like other minstrel ballads, with the description of the king and his council:-- "the king sits in dumferling toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: o quhar will i get guid sailòr to sail this schip of mine? up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the kings richt kne: sir patrick spence is the best sailòr, that sails upon the se." the king then sends a letter to spence. there is no description of how this was sent, but we at once read:-- "the first line that sir patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he; the next line that sir patrick red, the teir blinded his ee." _hardyknute_, on the other hand, is full of reasons and illustrative instances in the true ballad-writer's style:-- "stately stept he east the wa', and stately stept he west, full seventy years he now had seen wi' scarce seven years of rest. he liv'd when britons breach of faith wrought scotland mickle wae: and ay his sword tauld to their cost, he was their deadlye fae." having placed the openings of the two poems in opposition, we will do the same with the endings. how different is the grand finish of _sir patrick spence_-- "have owre, have owre to aberdour, it's fiftie fadom deip, and thair lies guid sir patrick spence, wi' the scots lords at his feit." from the feeble conclusion of _hardyknute_:-- "'as fast i've sped owre scotlands faes,'-- there ceas'd his brag of weir, sair sham'd to mind ought but his dame, and maiden fairly fair. black fear he felt, but what to fear he wist nae yet; wi' dread sai shook his body, sair his limbs, and a' the warrior fled." _sir patrick spence_ gives us a clear picture that a painter could easily reproduce, but _hardyknute_ is so vague that it is sometimes difficult to follow it with understanding, and if the same author wrote them both she must have been so strangely versatile in her talents that there is no difficulty in believing that she wrote all the romantic ballads of scotland. how little chambers can be trusted may be seen in the following passage, where he writes: "the first hint at the real author came out through percy, who in his second edition of the _reliques_ ( ) gives the following statement, 'there is more than reason,' &c.,[ ] to which he adds the note: 'it is rather remarkable that percy was not informed of these particulars in ; but in , _sir john hope bruce having_ _died in the interval_ (june, ), they were communicated to him. it looks as if the secret had hung on the life of this venerable gentleman." who would suspect, what is the real fact of the case, that percy's quoted preface was actually printed in his first edition ( ), and that chambers's remarks fall to the ground because they are founded on a gross blunder.[ ] preservers of the ballads. printed broadsides are peculiarly liable to accidents which shorten their existence, and we therefore owe much to the collectors who have saved some few of them from destruction. ballads were usually pasted on their walls by the cottagers, but they were sometimes collected together in bundles. motherwell had "heard it as a by-word in some parts of stirlingshire that a collier's library consists but of four books, the confession of faith, the bible, a bundle of ballads, and sir william wallace. the first for the gudewife, the second for the gudeman, the third for their daughter, and the last for the son, a selection indicative of no mean taste in these grim mold-warps of humanity."[ ] the love of a good ballad has, however, never been confined to the uneducated. queen mary ii., after listening to the compositions of purcell, played by the composer himself, asked mrs. arabella hunt to sing tom d'urfey's ballad of "cold and raw," which was set to a good old tune, and thereby offended purcell's vanity, who was left unemployed at the harpsichord. nevertheless, the composer had the sense afterwards to introduce the tune as the bass of a song he wrote himself. when ballads were intended for the exclusive use of the ordinary ballad-buyers they were printed in black letter, a type that was retained for this purpose for more than a century after it had gone out of use for other purposes. according to pepys the use of black letter ceased about the year , and on the title-page of his collection he has written "the whole continued down to the year , when the form till then peculiar thereto, viz. of the black letter with pictures, seems (for cheapness sake) wholly laid aside for that of the white letter without pictures." white-letter printing of non-political street ballads really commenced about , and of political ballads about half a century earlier. the saving referred to by pepys as being made by the omission of woodcuts could not have been great, for they seldom illustrated the letterpress, and were used over and over again, so that cuts which were executed in the reign of james i. were used on ballads in queen anne's time. until about the year ballads were universally printed on broadsides, and those intended to be sold in the streets are still so printed, but after that date such as were intended to be vended about the country were printed so as to fold into book form. the great ballad factory has been for many years situated in seven dials, where pitts employed corcoran and was the patron of "slender ben," "over head and ears nic," and other equally respectably named poets. the renowned catnach lived in seven dials, and left a considerable business at his death. he was the first to print yards of songs for a penny, and his fame was so extended, that his name has come to be used for a special class of literature. although, thanks to the labours of far-sighted men, our stock of old ballads and songs is large, we know that those which are irrevocably lost far exceed them in number. it is therefore something to recover even the titles of some of these, and we can do this to a considerable extent by seeking them in some of the old specimens of literature. in _cockelbie's sow_, a piece written about , which was printed in laing's _select remains of the ancient popular poetry of scotland_ (edinburgh, ), there is a list of the songs sung at a meeting. in henryson's curious old pastoral, _robin and makyne_ (vol. , p. ), reference is made to the popular tales and songs, which were even then old:-- "robin, thou hast heard sung and say, in gests and storys auld, 'the man that will not when he may sall hav nocht when he wald.'" to the prologues of gawin douglas's translation of virgil's _Æneid_, we are indebted for a knowledge of four old songs, a fact that outweighs in the opinion of some the merits of the work itself, which was the first translation of a classic that ever appeared in england. in the catalogue of captain cox's library, printed in laneham's letter on the kenilworth entertainments, there is a short list of some of the popular ballads of his time, but it is sorely tantalizing to read of "a bunch of ballets and songs all auncient," "and a hundred more he hath fair wrapt in parchment, and bound with a whipcord." we learn the names of ballads which were popular in old scotland from the _complaynt of scotland_, a most interesting list, which mr. furnivall has fully illustrated and explained in his edition of laneham. another source of information for learning the names of songs no longer known to exist are the medleys, which are made up of the first lines of many songs. the extreme popularity of ballads in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is reflected in the literature of the time, which is full of allusions to them. burton, the anatomist of melancholy, who put a little of almost everything into his book, could not be expected to overlook ballads. he says: "the very rusticks and hog-rubbers ... have their wakes, whitson ales, shepherds' feasts, meetings on holy dayes, countrey dances, roundelayes ... instead of odes, epigrams and elegies, &c., they have their ballads, countrey tunes, _o the broom, the bonny,_ _bonny broom_, ditties and songs, _bess a bell she doth excel_." the favourite songs of father rosin, the minstrel in ben jonson's _tale of a tub_ (act i. sc. ), are _tom tiler_, the _jolly joiner_, and the _jovial tinker_. the old drama is full of these references, and one of the most frequent modes of revenge against an enemy was to threaten that he should be _balladed_. thus massinger writes:-- "i will have thee pictur'd as thou art now, and thy whole story sung to some villainous tune in a lewd ballad, and make thee so notorious in the world, that boys in the street shall hoot at thee."[ ] fletcher sets side by side as equal evils the having one's eyes dug out, and the having one's name sung "in ballad verse, at every drinking house."[ ] the ballad-writers are called base rogues, and said to "maintaine a st. anthonie's fire in their noses by nothing but two-penny ale."[ ] shakspere was not behind his contemporaries in his contemptuous treatment of "odious ballads," or of "these same metre ballad-mongers," but he has shown by the references in _king lear_ and _hamlet_ his high appreciation of the genuine old work, and there is no doubt that the creator of autolycus loved "a ballad but even too well." there have been two kinds of collectors, viz. those who copied such fugitive poetry as came in their way, and those who bought up all the printed ballads they could obtain. of the manuscript collections of old poetry, the three most celebrated are the maitland ms. in the pepysian library, cambridge, the bannatyne ms. presented by the earl of hyndford to the advocates' library, edinburgh, and the famous folio ms. which formerly belonged to percy, and is now in the british museum. the maitland ms., which contains an excellent collection of scotch poetry, was formed by sir richard maitland, of lethington, lord privy seal and judge in the court of session (b. , d. ). selections from this ms. were printed by pinkerton in . in the year , when scotland was visited by the plague, a certain george bannatyne, of whom nothing is known, retired to his house to escape infection, and employed his leisure in compiling his most valuable collection of scottish poetry. this ms. was lent out of the advocates' library to percy, and he was allowed to keep it for a considerable time. sir david dalrymple published "some ancient scottish poems" in , which were taken from this ms. the great lord burghley was one of the first to recognize the value of ballads as an evidence of the popular feeling, and he ordered all broadsides to be brought to him as they were published. the learned selden was also a collector of them, but the chinese nation was before these wise men, and had realized an idea that has often been suggested in europe. one of their sacred books is the _book of songs_, in which the manners of the country are illustrated by songs and odes, the most popular of which were brought to the sovereign for the purpose. the largest collections of printed ballads are now in magdalene college, cambridge, in the bodleian at oxford, and in the british museum. some smaller collections are in private hands. in taking stock of these collections, we are greatly helped by mr. chappell's interesting preface to the _roxburghe ballads_. the pepysian collection deposited in the library of magdalene college, cambridge, consisting of , ballads in five vols., is one of the oldest and most valuable of the collections. it was commenced by selden, who died in , and continued by samuel pepys till near the time of his own death in . tradition reports that pepys borrowed selden's collection, and then "forgot" to return it to the proper owner. besides these five volumes, there are three vols. of what pepys calls penny merriments. there are of these, and some are garlands that contain many ballads in each. cambridge's rival, oxford, possesses three collections, viz. anthony wood's ballads and collection of garlands, francis douce's in four vols., and richard rawlinson's . previously to the year , when the roxburghe collection was purchased, there were in the british museum library about , ballads, but mr. chappell, without counting the _roxburghe ballads_, gives the number as in . they are as follows:-- bagford collection volume of miscellaneous ballads and poems, th century volume, mostly political, from volume in king's library, principally relating to london, from to the thomason collection of tracts satirical ballads on the popish plot, from strawberry hill sale luttrell collection, vol. ii. miscellaneous ----- the celebrated roxburghe collection was bought by rodd at benjamin heywood bright's sale in for the british museum, the price being _£_ . it was originally formed by robert harley, first earl of oxford, and as john bagford was one of the buyers employed by the earl, he is the reputed collector of the ballads. at the sale of the harleian library, this collection became the property of james west, p.r.s., and when his books were sold in , major thomas pearson bought it for, it is said, _£_ . this gentleman, with the assistance of isaac reed, added to the collection, and bound it in two volumes with printed title-pages, indexes, &c. in , john, duke of roxburghe, bought it at major pearson's sale for _£_ _s._ _d._, and afterwards added largely to it, making a third volume. at the duke's sale in , the three volumes were bought for _£_ _s._, by harding, who sold them to mr. bright for, it is supposed, _£_ . the collection consists of broadsides, printed between and the end of the eighteenth century, two-thirds of them being in black letter. bright added a fourth volume of eighty-five pages, which was bought for the british museum for _£_ _s._ some early ballads are included in the collection of broadsides in the library of the society of antiquaries, and a collection of proclamations and ballads was made by mr. halliwell phillipps, and presented by him to the chetham library at manchester. the late george daniel picked up a valuable collection of ballads at an old shop in ipswich, which is supposed to have come from helmingham hall, suffolk, where it had lain unnoticed or forgotten for two centuries or more. it originally numbered to ballads, but was divided by daniel, who sold one portion (consisting of eighty-eight ballads) to thorpe, who disposed of it to heber. at heber's sale it was bought by mr. w. h. miller, of britwell, and from him it descended to mr. s. christie miller. twenty-five ballads known to have belonged to the same collection were edited by mr. payne collier for the percy society in . the portion that daniel retained was bought at the sale of his library by mr. henry huth, who has reprinted seventy-nine of the best ballads. other known private collections are five volumes belonging to mr. frederic ouvry, president of the society of antiquaries, which contain mr. payne collier's collection of black-letter ballads, the earl of jersey's at osterley park, and one which was formed by mr. halliwell phillipps, who printed a full catalogue of the ballads contained in it, and then disposed of it to the late mr. william euing of glasgow. we owe our gratitude to all these collectors, but must also do honour to those writers who in advance of their age tried to lead their contemporaries to fresher springs than those to which they were accustomed. the first of these was addison, who commented on the beauties of _chevy chase_ and the _children in the wood_ in the _spectator_. he wrote: "it is impossible that anything should be universally tasted and approved by a multitude, though they are only the rabble of a nation, which hath not in it some peculiar aptness to please and gratify the mind of man." rowe was another appreciator of this popular literature, and his example and teaching may have had its influence in the publication of the first _collection of old ballads_, for the motto to the first volume is taken from the prologue to rowe's _jane shore_ (first acted in ):-- "let no nice sir despise the hapless dame because recording ballads chaunt her name; those venerable ancient song enditers soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers. they caterwauled in no romantic ditty, sighing for philis's or cloe's pity; justly they drew the fair and spoke her plain, and sung her by her christian name--'twas jane. our numbers may be more refined than those, but what we've gain'd in verse, we've lost in prose; their words no shuffling double meaning knew, their speech was homely, but their hearts were true." parnell, tickell, and prior belonged to the small band who had the taste to appreciate the unfashionable old ballad. prior says of himself in a ms. essay quoted by disraeli in the _calamities of authors_: "i remember nothing further in life than that i made verses: i chose guy earl of warwick for my first hero, and killed colborne the giant before i was big enough for westminster school." the few were, however, unable to convert the many, and dr. wagstaffe, one of the wits of the day, ridiculed addison for his good taste, and in a parody of the famous essay on _chevy chase_ he commented upon the _history of tom thumb_, and pretended to point out the congenial spirit of this poet with virgil. there is still another class of preservers of ballads to be mentioned, viz. those whose tenacious memories allow them to retain the legends and songs they heard in their youth, but as prof. aytoun writes: "no elspats of the craigburnfoot remain to repeat to grandchildren that legendary lore which they had acquired in years long gone by from the last of the itinerant minstrels." the most celebrated of these retailers of the old ballads was mrs. brown of falkland, wife of the rev. dr. brown, for from her both scott and jamieson obtained some of their best pieces. her taste for the songs and tales of chivalry was derived from an aunt, mrs. farquhar, "who was married to the proprietor of a small estate near the sources of the dee in braemar, a good old woman, who spent the best part of her life among flocks and herds, [but] resided in her latter years in the town of aberdeen. she was possest of a most tenacious memory, which retained all the songs she had heard from nurses and countrywomen in that sequestered part of the country."[ ] doubts have been expressed as to the good faith of mrs. brown, but they do not appear to be well grounded. another of these ladies from whose mouths we have learnt so much of the ever-fading relics of the people's literature was mrs. arrot. the earliest printed collection of scottish popular poetry known to exist is a volume printed at edinburgh, "by walter chepman and androw myllar, in the year ," which was reprinted in facsimile by david laing in . the next work of interest in the bibliography of ballads is "ane compendious booke of godly and spirituall songs, collected out of sundrie partes of the scripture, with sundrie of other ballates, chainged out of prophaine songs for avoiding of sinne and harlotrie," printed in and , and reprinted by j. g. dalzell in , and by david laing in . it contains parodies of some of the songs mentioned in the _complaint of scotland_, and is supposed to be the work of three brothers--james, john, and robert wedderburn, of dundee. to the last of the three mr. laing attributed the _complaint_, but mr. murray, the latest editor of that book, is unable to agree with him. the first book of "prophane" songs published in scotland was a musical collection entitled "cantus songs and fancies to several musicall parts, both apt for voices and viols: with a brief introduction to musick, as it is taught by thomas davidson in the musick school of aberdeen. aberdeen, printed by john forbes." , , and . the next work in order of time is "a choise collection of comic and serious scots poems, both ancient and modern, by several hands. edinburgh, printed by james watson." in three parts, , , . supposed to have been compiled by john spottiswood, author of _hope's minor practicks_. all these works emanated from scotchmen, and the only works of the same character that were published in england were small collections of songs and ballads, called garlands and drolleries. these are too numerous to be noticed here; but that they were highly popular may be judged from the fact that a thirteenth edition of _the golden garland of princely delight_ is registered. the garlands are chiefly small collections of songs on similar subjects. thus, there were love's garlands, loyal garlands, protestant garlands, &c. considerable pains seem to have been taken in order to obtain attractive titles for these little brochures. thus, on one we read:-- "the sweet and the sower, the nettle and the flower, the thorne and the rose, this garland compose." drolleries were collections of "jovial poems" and "merry songs," and some of them were confined to the songs sung at the theatres. one of the first english collections of any pretensions was dryden's _miscellany poems_, published in - , which was shortly after followed by tom d'urfey's _wit and mirth, or pills to purge melancholy_, - . but the first attempt to bring together a large number of popular ballads, as distinguished from songs, was made in "a collection of old ballads, corrected from the best and most ancient copies extant, with introductions historical, critical, or humorous." london. vols i. and ii. . vol. iii. . the object of most of the works referred to above was the publication of songs to be sung; the object of this one was the presentment of ballads to be read. it had a large sale, and the editor (who is said to have been ambrose phillips) expresses his satisfaction in the preface to vol. ii.: "though we printed a large edition for such a trifle, and in less than two months put it to the press again, yet could we not get our second edition out before it was really wanted." in spite, however, of its satisfactory reception, it does not appear to have taken any permanent position in literature, although it must have prepared the public mind to receive the _reliques_. this collection contains one hundred and fifty-nine ballads, out of which number twenty-three are also in the _reliques_.[ ] many of the others are of considerable interest, but some had better have been left unprinted, and all are of little critical value. in the year after the first two volumes of the english collection were published, allan ramsay issued in edinburgh "the evergreen, being a collection of scots poems wrote by the ingenious before ," the principal materials of which were derived from the bannatyne ms. this was followed in the same year ( ) by "the tea-table miscellany: a collection of choice songs, scots and english," a work which is frequently referred to by percy in the following pages. in neither of these works was ramsay very particular as to the liberties he allowed himself in altering his originals. in order to make the volumes fit reading for his audience, which he hoped would consist of "ilka lovely british lass, frae ladies charlotte, ann, and jean, down to ilk bonnie singing lass wha dances barefoot on the green," ramsay pruned the songs of their indelicacies, and filled up the gaps thus made in his own way. the _tea-table miscellany_ contains upwards of twenty presumably old songs, upwards of twelve old songs much altered, and about one hundred songs written by the editor himself, crawford, hamilton, and others. in , william thomson, a teacher of music in london, brought out a collection of scottish songs, which he had chiefly taken from the _tea-table miscellany_ without acknowledgment. he called his book _orpheus caledonius_. for some years before percy's collection appeared, the foulises, glasgow's celebrated printers, issued from their press, under the superintendence of lord hailes, various scottish ballads, luxuriously printed with large type, in a small quarto size. these were the signs that might have shown the far-sighted man that a revival was at hand. at last the time came when, tired out with the dreary and leaden regularity of the verse-writers of the day, the people were ready to receive poetry fresh from nature. the man who arose to supply the want (which was none the less a want that it was an unrecognized one) was thomas percy, a clergyman living in a retired part of the country, but occasionally seen among the _literati_ of the capital. life of percy. thomas percy was born on april th, , at bridgnorth in shropshire, in a street called the cartway. his father and grandfather were grocers, spelt their name piercy, and knew nothing of any connection with the noble house of northumberland.[ ] his early education was received at the grammar school of bridgnorth, and in , being then in his eighteenth year, and having obtained an exhibition, he matriculated as a commoner at christ church, oxford. he took the degree of b.a. on may nd, , that of m.a. on july th, , and shortly after was presented by his college to the living of easton maudit, in the county of northampton. in this poor cure he remained for twenty-five years, and in the little vicarage his six children (anne, barbara, henry, elizabeth, charlotte, and hester), were all born. percy's income was increased in by the gift of the rectory of wilby, an adjacent parish, in the patronage of the earl of sussex, and on april th, , he married anne, daughter of barton gutteridge,[ ] who was his beloved companion for forty-seven years. it was to this lady, before his marriage to her, that percy wrote his famous song, "o nancy, wilt thou go with me?" miss matilda lætitia hawkins stated in her _memoirs_, that these charming verses were intended by percy as a welcome to his wife on her release from a twelve-month's confinement in the royal nursery, and mr. pickford follows her authority in his _life of percy_, but this is an entire mistake, for the song was printed as early as the year in the sixth volume of dodsley's _collection of poems_. anyone who reads the following verses will see, that though appropriate as a lover's proposal, they are very inappropriate as a husband's welcome home to his wife. "o nancy, wilt thou go with me, nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? can silent glens have charms for thee, the lowly cot and russet gown? no longer drest in silken sheen, no longer deck'd with jewels rare, say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? "o nancy, when thou'rt far away, wilt thou not cast a wish behind? say, canst thou face the parching ray, nor shrink before the wintry wind? o, can that soft and gentle mien extremes of hardship learn to bear, nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? "o nancy, canst thou love so true, through perils keen with me to go? or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, to share with him the pang of woe? say, should disease or pain befall, wilt thou assume the nurse's care? nor wistful, those gay scenes recall, where thou wert fairest of the fair? "and when at last thy love shall die, wilt thou receive his parting breath? wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, and cheer with smiles the bed of death? and wilt thou o'er his breathless clay strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? nor then regret those scenes so gay, where thou wert fairest of the fair?" by the alteration of a few words, such as _gang_ for _go_, _toun_ for _town_, &c., "oh nanny, wilt thou gang with me?" was transposed into a scotch song, and printed as such in johnson's _musical museum_. burns remarked on this insertion: "it is too barefaced to take dr. percy's charming song, and by the means of transposing a few english words into scots, to offer it to pass for a scots song. i was not acquainted with the editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else had i known in time i would have prevented such an impudent absurdity." stenhouse, suggested[ ] that percy may have had in view the song called _the young laird and edinburgh kate_, printed in ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_, the second stanza of which is somewhat similar-- "o katy, wiltu gang wi' me, and leave the dinsome town awhile? the blossom's sprouting from the tree, and a' the simmer's gawn to smile." mr. charles kirkpatrick sharpe, however, hinted[ ] that "perhaps both the author of _the young laird and edinburgh katy_, and the bishop, took the idea of their ballads from a song in lee's beautiful tragedy of _theodosius, or the force of love_." dr. rimbault communicated this poem to the editors of the folio ms. from a ms. dated , or fifteen years earlier than lee's version. it is called _the royal nun_, and the first stanza is as follows:-- "canst thou, marina, leave the world, the world that is devotion's bane, where crowns are toss'd and sceptres hurl'd, where lust and proud ambition reign? canst thou thy costly robes forbear, to live with us in poor attire; canst thou from courts to cells repair to sing at midnight in the quire?"[ ] the likeness in this stanza to percy's song is not very apparent, and the subject is very different. the other three stanzas have nothing in common with _o nancy_. even could it be proved that percy had borrowed the opening idea from these two poems, it does not derogate from his originality, for the charm of the song is all his own. a portrait of mrs. percy holding in her hand a scroll inscribed _oh nancy_, is preserved at ecton house, near northampton, the seat of mr. samuel isted, husband of percy's daughter barbara. the song was set to music by thomas carter, and sung by vernon at vauxhall in . in percy commenced his literary career by the publication of a chinese novel, _hau kiau chooan_, in four volumes, which he translated from the portuguese, and in the same year he undertook to edit the works of the duke of buckingham. in he published "miscellaneous pieces relating to the chinese," and in commenced a new edition of surrey's poems, with a selection of early specimens of blank verse. the "buckingham" and "surrey" were printed, but never published, and the stock of the latter was destroyed by fire in . in were published "five pieces of runic poetry--translated from the icelandic language," and in the following year appeared "a new translation of the song of solomon from the hebrew, with commentary and notes," and also "a key to the new testament." dr. johnson paid a long-promised visit to the vicarage of easton maudit in the summer of , where he stayed for some months, and the little terrace in the garden is still called after him, "dr. johnson's walk." at this time percy must have been full of anxiety about his _reliques_, which were shortly to be published, and in the preparation of which he had so long been engaged. the poet shenstone was the first to suggest the subject of this book, as he himself states in a letter to a friend, dated march , . "you have heard me speak of mr. percy; he was in treaty with mr. james dodsley for the publication of our best old ballads in three volumes. he has a large folio ms. of ballads, which he showed me, and which, with his own natural and acquired talents, would qualify him for the purpose as well as any man in england. i proposed the scheme to him myself, wishing to see an elegant edition and good collection of this kind. i was also to have assisted him in selecting and rejecting, and fixing upon the best readings; but my illness broke off the correspondence in the beginning of winter." in february, , appeared the first edition of the _reliques_, which gave percy a name, and obtained for him the patronage of the great. he became chaplain and secretary to the duke of northumberland, with whose family he kept up intimate relations throughout his life. the northumberland _household book_, which he compiled in accordance with the wishes of his patron, was privately printed in the year .[ ] in he was appointed chaplain to george iii., and in the following year appeared his translation of mallet's _northern antiquities_. each of these three works was the first of its class, and created a taste which produced a literature of the same character. the _household book_ gave rise to a large number of publications which have put us in possession of numerous facts relating to the domestic expenses and habits of the royal and noble families of old england. the mythology of the eddas was first made known to english readers by percy, and in his preface to mallet's work he clearly pointed out the essential difference between the celtic and teutonic races, which had previously been greatly overlooked. the remuneration which percy received for his labours was not large. fifty pounds was the pay for the chinese novel, and one hundred guineas for the first edition of the _reliques_. the agreements he made with the tonsons were fifty guineas for buckingham's _works_ and twenty guineas for surrey's _poems_. he also agreed to edit the _spectator_ and _guardian_, with notes, for one hundred guineas, but was obliged to abandon his intention on account of the engrossing character of his appointments in the northumberland family. about this time mrs. percy was appointed nurse to prince edward, the infant son of george iii., afterwards duke of kent, and father of her present majesty, who was born in . in percy took his degree of d.d. at cambridge, having incorporated himself at emmanuel college, the master of which was his friend, dr. farmer, to be remembered as the shakspere commentator. later on in the year he lost his eldest daughter, and in january, , yet another child was buried in the village church. in he printed the _hermit_ _of warkworth_, which exhibited his continued interest in the subject of the _reliques_, and we find him for many years after this date continually writing to his literary correspondents for information relating to old ballads. in percy obtained the deanery of carlisle, which four years afterwards he resigned on being appointed to the bishopric of dromore, worth _£_ , a year. he did not resign his vicarage and rectory until the same time, and he was succeeded in the first by robert nares, the compiler of the well-known glossary. it was in that the memorable quarrel between percy and johnson occurred which is graphically described by boswell. the cause of the heat was the different views held by the two disputants as to the merits of the traveller pennant. when the reconciliation was brought about johnson's contribution to the peace was, "my dear sir, i am willing you shall hang pennant." in this same year percy was writing about his son henry, then a tall youth of fifteen, who he hoped in a few years would be able to edit the _reliques_ for him, but in april, , soon after he had settled at dromore, a great sorrow fell upon him, and this only and much-loved son died at the early age of twenty. in a large portion of northumberland house, strand, was consumed by fire, when percy's apartments were burnt. the chief part of his library, was, however, saved. four very interesting letters of the bishop's, written to george steevens in and , are printed in the _athenæum_ for (pp. and ). the first relates to his edition of goldsmith's works, which was published in in four volumes octavo. his object in undertaking the labour was to benefit two surviving relations of goldsmith, and he complains to steevens that the publishers had thwarted him in his purpose. the second letter is on the same subject, and the third and fourth relate to his work on blank verse before milton, attached to surrey's poems. in the irish rebellion broke out, and percy sent a large quantity of correspondence and valuable books to his daughter, mrs. isted, for safe preservation at ecton house. in his long and happy union with mrs. percy was abruptly brought to a close, and to add to his afflictions he became totally blind. he bore his trials with resignation, and ere five more years had passed by, he himself was borne to the tomb. on the th of september, , he died in the eighty-third year of his age, having outlived nearly all his contemporaries.[ ] that his attachment to "nancy" was fervent as well as permanent, is shown by many circumstances. one of these is a little poem printed for the first time in the edition of the folio ms.[ ] "on leaving ---- on a tempestuous night, march , , by dr. percy. "deep howls the storm with chilling blast, fast falls the snow and rain, down rush the floods with headlong haste, and deluge all the plain. "yet all in vain the tempest roars, and whirls the drifted snow; in vain the torrents scorn the shore, to delia i must go. "in vain the shades of evening fall, and horrid dangers threat, what can the lover's heart appal, or check his eager feet? "the darksome vale he fearless tries, and winds its trackless wood; high o'er the cliff's dread summit flies, and rushes through the flood. "love bids atchieve the hardy task, and act the wondrous part; he wings the feet with eagle's speed, and lends the lion-heart. "then led by thee, all-powerful boy, i'll dare the hideous night; thy _dart_ shall guard me from annoy, thy _torch_ my footsteps light. "the cheerful blaze--the social hour-- the friend--all plead in vain; love calls--i brave each adverse power of peril and of pain." percy had naturally a hot temper, but this cooled down with time, and the trials of his later life were accepted with christian meekness. one of his relations, who as a boy could just recollect him, told mr. pickford "that it was quite a pleasure to see even then his gentleness, amiability, and fondness for children. every day used to witness his strolling down to a pond in the palace garden, in order to feed his swans, who were accustomed to come at the well-known sound of the old man's voice." he was a pleasing companion and a steady friend. his duties, both in the retired country village and in the more elevated positions of dean and bishop, were all performed with a wisdom and ardour that gained him the confidence of all those with whom he was brought in contact. the praise given to him in the inscription on the tablet to his memory in dromore cathedral does not appear to have gone beyond the truth. it is there stated that he resided constantly in his diocese, and discharged "the duties of his sacred office with vigilance and zeal, instructing the ignorant, relieving the necessitous, and comforting the distressed with pastoral affection." he was "revered for his piety and learning, and beloved for his universal benevolence, by all ranks and religious denominations." there are three portraits of percy. the first and best known was painted by reynolds in may, . it represents him habited in a black gown and bands, with a loose black cap on his head, and the folio ms. in his hand. it is not known whether the original is still in existence, but engravings from it are common. the next was painted by abbot in , and hangs at ecton hall. percy is there represented as a fuller-faced man, in his episcopal dress, and wearing a wig. we have steevens's authority for believing this to be an excellent likeness. an engraving from it is prefixed to the "percy correspondence," in nichols's _illustrations of literature_. in the third volume of dibdin's _bibliographical decameron_ is a beautiful engraving from a watercolour drawing, which represents the bishop in his garden at dromore, when totally blind, feeding his swans.[ ] the folio ms. and the "reliques." what were the sources from which percy obtained the chief contents of his celebrated work? they were:-- . the folio ms.; . certain other ms. collections, the use of which he obtained; . the scotch ballads sent to him by sir david dalrymple (better known by his title of lord hailes, which he assumed on being appointed one of the judges of the court of session in edinburgh); . the ordinary printed broadsides; . the poems he extracted from the old printed collections of fugitive poetry--_the paradise of dainty devices, england's helicon_, &c. in considering the above sources, it will be necessary to give some little space to the discussion of the connection between the folio ms. and the _reliques_, as it is not generally understood by the ordinary readers of the latter. the folio ms. came into percy's hands early in his life, and the interest of its contents first caused him to think of forming his own collection. one of the notes on the covers of the ms. is as follows:-- "when i first got possession of this ms. i was very young, and being no degree an antiquary, i had not then learnt to reverence it; which must be my excuse for the scribble which i then spread over some parts of its margin, and, in one or two instances, for even taking out the leaves to save the trouble of transcribing. i have since been more careful. t. p." he showed it to his friends, and immediately after the publication of the _reliques_ he deposited it at the house of his publishers, the dodsleys, of pall mall. in spite of all this publicity, ritson actually denied the very existence of the ms. another memorandum on the cover of the folio was written on nov. , . it is as follows:-- "this very curious old manuscript, in its present mutilated state, but unbound and sadly torn, &c., i rescued from destruction, and begged at the hands of my worthy friend humphrey pitt, esq., then living at shiffnal, in shropshire, afterwards of priorslee, near that town; who died very lately at bath (viz., in summer ). i saw it lying dirty on the floor, under a bureau in ye parlour: being used by the maids to light the fire. it was afterwards sent, most unfortunately, to an ignorant bookbinder, who pared the margin, when i put it into boards in order to lend it to dr. johnson. mr. pitt has since told me that he believes the transcripts into this volume, &c., were made by that blount who was author of _jocular tenures_, &c., who he thought was of lancashire or cheshire, and had a remarkable fondness for these old things. he believed him to be the same person with that mr. thomas blount who published the curious account of king charles the ds escape intitled _boscobel_, &c., lond. , mo, which has been so often reprinted. as also the _law dictionary_, , folio, and many other books which may be seen in wood's _athenæ_, ii. , &c. a descendant or relation of that mr. blount was an apothecary at shiffnal, whom i remember myself (named also blount). he (if i mistake not) sold the library of the said predecessor thos. blount to the above-mentioned mr. humphy pitt: who bought it for the use of his nephew, my ever-valued friend robt binnel. mr. binnel accordingly had all the printed books, but this ms. which was among them was neglected and left behind at mr. pitt's house, where it lay for many years. t. percy." mr. furnivall believes that the copier of the ms. must have been a man greatly inferior to thomas blount, who was a barrister of the middle temple, of considerable learning. percy afterwards kept the volume very much to himself, and ritson affirmed that "the late mr. tyrwhitt, an excellent judge and diligent peruser of old compositions, and an intimate friend of the owner, never saw it."[ ] although jamieson was obliged by receiving a copy of three of the pieces in the ms., he was not allowed a sight of the volume, and no one else was permitted to make any use of it. this spirit of secrecy was kept up by the bishop's descendants, who refused all who applied to see it. sir frederic madden alone was allowed to print some pieces in his _syr gawayne_ for the bannatyne club, . the public obtained a glimpse of its contents through dr. dibdin, who copied from percy's list the first seventy-two entries, and would have finished the whole, had he not been stopped by his entertainers (mr. and mrs. samuel isted, of ecton hall), when they found out what he was about. he gave in his _bibliographical decameron_ a description of the ms. which he thus handled in the winter of . mr. furnivall writes as follows of his several attempts to get the ms. printed, and of his success at last: "the cause of the printing of percy's ms., of the publication of the book, was the insistence time after time by professor child, that it was the duty of english antiquarian men of letters to print this foundation document of english balladry, the basis of that structure which percy raised, so fair to the eyes of all english-speaking men throughout the world. above a hundred years had gone since first the _reliques_ met men's view, a percy society had been born and died, but still the percy manuscript lay hid in ecton hall, and no one was allowed to know how the owner who had made his fame by it had dealt with it, whether his treatment was foul or fair. no list even of its contents could be obtained. dibdin and madden, and many a man less known had tried their hands, but still the ms. was kept back, and this generation had made up its mind that it was not to see the desired original in type.... i tried to get access to the ms. some half-a-dozen years ago. repulsed, i tried again when starting the early english text society. repulsed again, i tried again at a later date, but with the like result. not rebuffed by this, professor child added his offer of _£_ to mine of _£_ , through mr. thurstan holland, a friend of his own and of the owners of the ms., and this last attempt succeeded." the less said the better about the conduct of these owners who were only to be tempted to confer a public benefit by the increased offers of two private gentlemen, but there cannot be two opinions about the spirited conduct of mr. furnivall and professor child. the three volumes[ ] that the printed edition of the ms. occupy, form a handsome monument of well-directed labour. the text is printed with the most careful accuracy under the superintendence of mr. furnivall, and the elaborate prefaces which exhibit that union of judgment and taste for which mr. hales is so well known, leave nothing to be desired. "the manuscript itself is a 'scrubby, shabby paper' book, about fifteen and a half inches long by five and a half wide, and about two inches thick, which has lost some of its pages both at the beginning and end.... the handwriting was put by sir f. madden at after a.d.; by two authorities at the record office whom i consulted, in the reign of james i. rather than that of charles i., but as the volume contains, among other late pieces, one on the siege of newark in charles i.'s time (ii. ), another on the taking of banbury in (ii. ), and a third, _the king inioyes his rights againe_, which contains a passage[ ] that (as mr. chappell observes in _pop. mus._ ii. , note ) fixes the date of the song to the year , we must make the date about , though rather before than after, so far as i can judge. i should keep it in charles i.'s reign, and he died jan. , , but within a quarter of a century one can hardly determine.... the dialect of the copier of the ms. seems to have been lancashire, as is shown by the frequent use of the final _st, thoust_ for _thou shalt, ist_ for _i will, youst_ for _you will_, _unbethought_ for _umbethought_, and the occurrence of the northern terms, like _strang_, _gange_, &c. &c. moreover, the strong local feeling shown by the copier in favour of lancashire and cheshire, and the stanleys, in his choice of _flodden feilde_, _bosworth feilde_, _earles of chester_, _ladye bessiye_, confirms the probability that he was from one of the counties named. that much, if not all, of the ms. was written from dictation and hurriedly is almost certain, from the continual miswriting of _they_ for _the_, _rought_ for _wrought_, _knight_ for _night_ (once), _me_ fancy for _my_ fancy, _justine_ for _justing_."[ ] a very erroneous impression has grown up as to the proportion of pieces in the _reliques_ which were taken from the ms. this is owing to a misleading statement made by percy in his preface, to the effect that "the greater part of them are extracted from an ancient ms. in the editor's possession, which contains near two hundred poems, songs, and metrical romances." the fact is that only one-fourth were so taken. the _reliques_ contain pieces, and of these only forty-five[ ] are taken from the manuscript. we thus see that a very small part of the manuscript was printed by percy. he mentions some of the other pieces in various parts of his book, and he proposed to publish a fourth volume of the _reliques_ at some future period that never came. mr. furnivall has the following remarks on the gains to literature by the publication of the manuscript: "it is more that we have now for the first time _eger and grime_ in its earlier state, _sir lambewell_, besides the _cavilere's_ praise of his hawking, the complete versions of _scottish feilde_ and _kinge arthur's death_, the fullest of _flodden feilde_ and the verse _merline_, the _earle of westmorlande_, _bosworth feilde_, the curious poem of _john de reeve_, and the fine alliterative one of _death and liffe_, with its gracious picture of lady dame life, awakening life and love in grass and tree, in bird and man, as she speeds to her conquest over death." in percy wrote: "in three or four years i intend to publish a volume or two more of old english and scottish poems in the manner of my _reliques_." and again in : "with regard to the _reliques_, i have a large fund of materials, which when my son has compleated his studies at the university, he may, if he likes it, distribute into one or more additional volumes." the death of this son put an end to his hopes, but before the fourth edition was required, the bishop had obtained the assistance of his nephew, the rev. thomas percy. in he wrote as follows to jamieson, who had asked for some extracts from the folio: "till my nephew has completed his collection for the intended fourth volume it cannot be decided whether he may not wish to insert himself the fragments you desire; but i have copied for you here that one which you particularly pointed out, as i was unwilling to disappoint your wishes and expectations altogether. by it you will see the defective and incorrect state of the old text in the ancient folio ms., and the irresistible demand on the editor of the _reliques_ to attempt some of those conjectural emendations, which have been blamed by one or two rigid critics, but without which the collection would not have deserved a moment's attention." percy has been very severely judged for the alterations he made in his manuscript authorities; and ritson has attempted to consider his conduct as a question of morality rather than one of taste. as each point is noticed in the prefaces to the various pieces, it is not necessary to discuss the question here. it may, however, be remarked that, in spite of all ritson's attacks (and right was sometimes on his side), the _reliques_ remain to the present day unsuperseded. mr. thoms communicated to the _notes and queries_ ( th series, v. ) the following note, which he made upwards of forty years ago, after a conversation with francis douce:-- "mr. douce told me that the bishop (percy) originally intended to have left the manuscript to ritson; but the reiterated abuse with which that irritable and not always faultless antiquary visited him obliged him to alter his determination. with regard to the alterations (? amendments) made by percy in the text, mr. douce told me that he (percy) read to him one day from the ms., while he held the work in his hand to compare the two; and 'certainly the variations were greater than i could have expected,' said my old friend, with a shrug of the shoulders." of the other sources from which percy drew his materials little need be said. . some of the ballads were taken from mss. in public libraries, and others from mss. that were lent to him. . the scotch ballads supplied by sir david dalrymple have already been referred to. . the printed ballads are chiefly taken from the pepys collection at cambridge. . when the _reliques_ were first published, the elegant poems in the _paradyse of daynty devises, england's helicon_, were little known, and it was a happy thought on the part of percy to intersperse these smaller pieces among the longer ballads, so as to please the reader with a constant variety. the weak point in the book is the insertion of some of the modern pieces. the old minstrel believed the wonders he related; but a poet educated in modern ideas cannot transfer himself back to the times of chivalry, so that his attempts at imitating "the true gothic manner" are apt to fill his readers with a sense of unreality. after the first edition of the _reliques_ was printed, and before it was published, percy made a great alteration in its arrangement. the first volume was turned into the third, and the third into the first, as may be seen by a reference to the foot of the pages where the old numbering remains. by this means the _arthur ballads_ were turned off to the end, and _chevy chase_ and _robin hood_ obtained the place of honour. several ballads were also omitted at the last moment, and the numbers left vacant. these occur in a copy of two volumes at oxford which formerly belonged to douce. in vol. iii. (the old vol. i.), book , there is no no. ; in the douce copy this is filled by _the song-birds_. in vol. ii., book , there are no nos. and ; but in the douce copy, nos. , , and are _cock lorrell's treat_, _the moral uses of tobacco_, and _old simon the kinge_. besides these omissions it will be seen that in book of vol. iii. there are two nos. ; and that _george barnwell_ must have been inserted at the last moment, as it occupies a duplicate series of pages - , which are printed between brackets. in the volumes were published in london. in the following year a surreptitious edition was published in dublin, and in appeared a second edition in london. in was published the third edition, which was reprinted at frankfort in . the fourth edition, ostensibly edited by the rev. thomas percy, but really the work of the bishop himself, was published in . many improvements were made in this edition, and it contains percy's final corrections; the fifth edition, published in , being merely a reprint of the fourth. the year was then a memorable one in the history of literature. the current ballads which were bawled in the street, or sung in the ale-house, were so mean and vulgar that the very name of ballad had sunk into disrepute. it was therefore a revelation to many to find that a literature of nature still existed which had descended from mother to child in remote districts, or was buried in old manuscripts, covered with the dust of centuries. it is necessary to realize this state of things in order to understand percy's apologetic attitude. he collected his materials from various sources with great labour, and spared no pains in illustrating the poetry by instructive prose. yet after welding with the force of genius the various parts into an harmonious whole, he was doubtful of the reception it was likely to obtain, and he called the contents of his volumes "the barbarous productions of unpolished ages." he backed his own opinion of their interest by bringing forward the names of the chiefs of the republic of letters, and ill did they requite him. johnson parodied his verses, and warburton sneered at him as the man "who wrote about the chinese." percy looked for his reward where he received nothing but laughter; but the people accepted his book with gladness, and the young who fed upon the food he presented to them grew up to found new schools of poetry. few books have exerted such extended influence over english literature as percy's _reliques_. beattie's _minstrel_ was inspired by a perusal of the _essay on the ancient minstrels_; and many authors have expressed with gratitude their obligations to the bishop and his book. how profoundly the poetry of nature, which lived on in the ballads of the country, stirred the souls of men is seen in the instance of two poets of strikingly different characteristics. scott made his first acquaintance with the _reliques_ at the age of thirteen, and the place where he read them was ever after imprinted upon his memory. the bodily appetite of youth was unnoticed while he mentally devoured the volumes under the huge leaves of the plantain tree. wordsworth was not behind scott in admiration of the book. he wrote: "i have already stated how much germany is indebted to this work, and for our own country, its poetry has been absolutely redeemed by it. i do not think there is an able writer in verse of the present day who would not be proud to acknowledge his obligation to the _reliques_. i know that it is so with my friends; and for myself, i am happy in this occasion to make a public avowal of my own." after such men as these have spoken, who can despise our old ballads? ballad literature since percy. the impetus given to the collection of old ballads by the publication of _reliques_ showed itself in the rapid succession of volumes of the same class which issued from the press. most of these were devoted to the publication of scottish ballads exclusively. in , david herd, a native of st. cyrus, in kincardineshire, who had spent most of his life as clerk in an accountant's office in edinburgh, published his _ancient and modern scottish songs, heroic ballads_, &c., a work which was enlarged into two volumes in .[ ] he was a most successful and faithful collector, and not being a poet, he was preserved from the temptation of tampering with his stores. motherwell mentions twenty ballads which had not appeared in a collected form before the publication of this work. herd was assisted in his editorial labours by george paton. in appeared the first edition of evans's _old ballads, historical and narrative_, in two volumes. the best edition of this work, edited by the son of the original compiler, was published in vols., . in pinkerton published his _scottish tragic ballads_, which was followed in by _select scottish ballads_. these volumes contained several fabrications by the editor, as already stated on a previous page. in ritson commenced the publication of that long series of volumes which is of such inestimable value to the literary antiquary, with _a select collection of english songs_. _the bishopric garland, or_ _durham minstrel_, followed, in ; _the yorkshire garland_, in ; the _pieces of ancient popular poetry_, in ; _ancient songs and ballads from the reign of henry ii. to the revolution_, in ; _the northumberland garland_, in ; _scottish songs_, in ; and _robin hood_, in . in was commenced _the scots musical museum_, by james johnson. johnson was a music-seller and engraver in edinburgh, and the work was really projected by william tytler of woodhouselee, dr. blacklock, and samuel clark. the first volume was partly printed, when burns became acquainted with the object of the work. he then entered into the scheme with enthusiasm, and besides "begging and borrowing" old songs, wrote many new songs himself. in was published at edinburgh, _scottish poems of the xvith century_, edited by j. g. dalzell, which contains a reprint of _ane compendious booke of godly and spirituall songs_, already referred to above. in appeared the first two volumes of the only work which is worthy to stand side by side with the _reliques_. sir walter scott's _minstrelsy of the scottish border_ is a book that can be read through, and it and the _reliques_ are the only works of the class in which the materials are welded into a whole, so as no longer to appear a collection of units. in , robert jamieson published at edinburgh his _popular ballads and songs, from tradition, manuscripts, and scarce editions_. he was working upon this book at the same time that scott was engaged upon his _minstrelsy_, and he obtained much of his material from the same source as scott, viz. mrs. brown, of falkland; but he, nevertheless, was able to print seventeen ballads that had not before appeared in any published collection. jamieson has the following remarks on himself in the introduction to the first volume:-- "being obliged to go, at a few weeks' warning, to a distant part of the world, and to seek, on the shores of the frozen baltic, for (which his own country seems to deny him) the means of employing his talents and industry in some such manner as may enable him to preserve (for a time, at least) his respectability and a partial independence in the world, the following sheets have been prepared for the press, amidst all the anxiety and bustle of getting ready and packing up for a voyage." (vol. i. p. xvii.) john finlay of glasgow published in his _scottish historical and romantic ballads_. these volumes only contain twenty-six ballads in all. john gilchrist's _collection of ancient and modern scottish ballads, tales, and songs_, (edinburgh ) is a carefully edited work, compiled from former books. in david laing published his valuable _select remains of the ancient popular poetry of scotland_, and in c. k. sharpe printed privately a little volume which he entitled _a ballad book_. james maidment printed also privately _a north countrie garland_ in the same year ( ). in e. v. utterson printed "select pieces of early english poetry, republished principally from early printed copies in black letter." peter buchan commenced his ballad career by publishing at peterhead, in , a little volume entitled "gleanings of scotch, english, and irish scarce old ballads, chiefly tragical and historical, many of them connected with the localities of aberdeenshire." in he published his "ancient ballads and songs of the north of scotland, hitherto unpublished." he affirmed that his materials were faithfully and honestly transcribed, and "they have suffered no change since they fortunately were consigned to me by their foster parents." a portrait is given in this book, which represents the compiler as a wild-looking, unkempt, man. besides these two books buchan made a large collection of ballads, songs, and poems, which he took down from the oral recitation of the peasantry. these were pronounced by scott to be "decidedly and indubitably original." the two folio ms. volumes in which they were contained came into the possession of the percy society, and a selection was made from them by j. h. dixon, in , who entitled his work _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_ (percy society publications, vol. xvii.). in allan cunningham published _the songs of scotland_, to which reference has already been made. george r. kinloch published in , "ancient scottish ballads, recovered from tradition, and never before published." he states in his introduction that "the present collection is almost entirely composed of ballads obtained in the 'north countrie,' a district hitherto but little explored, though by no means destitute of traditional poetry." in this same year appeared william motherwell's _minstrelsy, ancient and modern_, a work of the most sterling character, which contains the best account of ballad literature extant. in robert chambers published his collection of _scottish ballads_, which contains eighty pieces, of which number twelve are modern, or imitations. at this period the editor had not elaborated his theory that _sir patrick spence_ and certain other ballads were modern imitations. peter cunningham published _the songs of england and scotland_, in , and thomas wright printed _the political songs of england from the reign of john to that of edward ii._ in , for the camden society. in was founded, in honour of bishop percy, the percy society, which continued to print some of the old garlands and various collections of old ballads until . william chappell published in his valuable _collection of national english airs, consisting of ancient song, ballad and dance tunes_, which work was re-arranged and enlarged, and issued in as _popular music of the olden time_. this work is a mine of wealth concerning both the airs and the words of our ballad treasures. it was a truly national undertaking, and has been completed with great skill. no ballad lover can get on without it. in alexander whitelaw published _the book of scottish ballads_, and _the book of scottish song_. an edition of the former was printed in , and one of the latter in , which contains about twelve hundred and seventy songs. in john matthew gutch published "_a lytell geste of robin hode_, with other ancient and modern ballads and songs relating to this celebrated yeoman." in the same year appeared frederick sheldon's _minstrelsy of the english border_, but it is a work of very little value. dr. rimbault printed in those valuable _musical illustrations of bishop percy's reliques_, which are so frequently quoted in the following pages. professor francis james child, of harvard college, one of our greatest authorities on ballad lore, published at boston, u.s., a very complete collection of _english and scottish ballads_, in eight volumes. the first volume contains a full list of the principal collections of ballads and songs. in william edmondstoune aytoun published his _ballads of scotland_, which contain collated versions of one hundred and thirty-nine ballads, with short introductions. the year was memorable as seeing the publication of the first instalment of the folio manuscript under the editorship of j. w. hales and f. j. furnivall. in appeared "scottish ballads and songs, historical and traditionary, edited by james maidment, edinburgh, ," vols. the number of pieces is small but select, and the introductions are full and elaborate. in messrs. ogle of glasgow published a well edited collection of scottish ballads, with an interesting introduction and notes, entitled "the ballad minstrelsy of scotland. romantic and historical. collated and annotated." upon the completion of the percy folio, mr. furnivall started the ballad society, for the publication of the various collections of ballads that exist. mr. chappell has edited half of the roxburghe ballads in several parts, and mr. furnivall himself has printed some interesting ballads from manuscripts. all these have been presented to readers with a wealth of illustrative notes. the books referred to above form but a portion of the literature of the subject. so mighty has been the growth of the small seed set by percy, that the despised outcasts which the literary leaders attempted to laugh out of existence have made good their right to a high position among the poetry of the nation, and proved that they possessed the germs of a long and vigorous life. h. b. w. footnotes: [ ] see article on "waits' badges," by llewellyn jewitt, in _reliquary_, vol. xii. p. . [ ] chant of richard sheale, brydges' _british bibliographer_, vol. iv. p. . [ ] ellis's _original letters_, second series, vol. iii. p. . [ ] see percy's remarks on this line at p. (note). [ ] ritson's _ancient songs and ballads_, ed. , vol. i. p. xxvi. [ ] marjoreybank's _annals of scotland_, edinb. , p. , quoted in motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. xxx. (note). [ ] motherwell's _minstrelsy_, , p. xlvii. [ ] motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. xv. [ ] see below. p. . [ ] vol. ii. p. . [ ] vol. iii. bk. ii. art. . [ ] motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. xiii. [ ] see below, p. . [ ] see below, p. . [ ] see below, p. . [ ] see vol. ii. p. . [ ] ritson's _ancient songs and ballads_, ed. , vol. i. p. xxxiii. [ ] see below, p. . [ ] _popular music of the olden time_, vol. i. p. . [ ] _pierce penilesse, his supplication to the devill_, . [ ] kemp's _nine daies' wonder_, , sign. d . [ ] dryden's _prologue_ to lee's _sophonisba_. [ ] _richard of almaigne_, see vol. ii. p. . [ ] _notes and queries_, th series, vol. v. p. . [ ] see _ancient scottish poems_, , vol. i. p. cxxxi. [ ] _minstrelsy, ancient and modern_, , p. xcvii. [ ] _scottish ballads_, vol. i. p. . [ ] mr. laing, with his usual kindness, has been so good as to answer my inquiry whether he still held the opinion he published in . he writes (june , ): "i still adhere to the general inference that this ballad is comparatively a modern imitation, and although we have no positive evidence as to the authorship, i can think of no one that was so likely to have written it as elizabeth halket, lady wardlaw of pitreavie, who died in , aged fifty. had bishop percy's correspondence with sir david dalrymple, lord hailes, been preserved, some interesting information would no doubt have been obtained regarding these ballads sent from scotland." [ ] _scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads_ (percy society, vol. xvii. p. xi.). [ ] neither of these lines occur in percy's version, but they are both in the one printed by scott. [ ] _ballads from scottish history_, , pp. - . [ ] "an ingenious friend thinks the author of _hardyknute_ has borrowed several expressions and sentiments from the foregoing and other old scottish songs in this collection." [ ] see vol. ii. p. , of the present edition. [ ] it has been necessary in the foregoing remarks to give reasons why the opinions of the late dr. robert chambers on this subject are not to be taken on trust, but it is hoped that these criticisms will not be understood as written with any wish to detract from the literary character of one who did so much good work during a laborious and ever active life. [ ] _minstrelsy_, p. xlvi. [ ] _parliament of love._ [ ] _queen of corinth._ [ ] dekker's _honest w._, , act i. sc. . [ ] scott's _minstrelsy of the scottish border_. [ ] the following is a list of these ballads:-- vol. i. "fair rosamond and king henry ii.," "queen eleanor's confession," "st. george and the dragon," "the dragon of wantley," "chevy chace," "the lamentation of jane shore," "sir andrew barton's death," "prince of england's courtship to the king of france's daughter," "the lady turn'd serving-man," "the children in the wood," "the bride's burial," "the lady's fall," "lord thomas and fair ellinor," "gilderoy." vol. ii. "king leir and his three daughters," "king arthur and the knights of the round table," "king john and the abbot of canterbury," "the wanton wife of bath," "the spanish lady's love," "the blind beggar of bednal green." vol. iii. "the baffled knight," "william and margaret," "the gaberlunzie man." [ ] percy communicated to dr. nash, for the _history of worcestershire_ (vol. ii. p. ), a pedigree in which he attempted to identify his family with that of the descendants of ralph, third earl of northumberland. nash subjoined a note to the effect that he had examined the proofs of all the particulars above mentioned, and boswell, in his _life of johnson_, expressed the opinion that, "both as a lawyer accustomed to the consideration of evidence, and as a genealogist versed in the study of pedigrees," he was fully satisfied. mr. furnivall is rather unjust to percy when he suggests that the pedigree was treated like the ballads, and the gaps filled up, for the cases are not quite analogous. the pedigree may not be of greater authenticity than many other doubtful ones, but at all events his patrons the duke and duchess of northumberland acknowledged the connection between them when he was in some way distinguished. [ ] on percy's tomb his wife's name is spelt _goodriche_. [ ] _illustrations of the lyric poetry and music of scotland_, , p. . [ ] stenhouse's illustrations, p. . [ ] bishop percy's folio ms. vol. i. p. xli. (note). [ ] the book was reprinted entire in the fourth volume of the _antiquarian repertory_, ; and a second edition was published by pickering in . [ ] in he was the only survivor of the original members of the literary club, founded by johnson and reynolds in . [ ] percy folio ms., vol. i. p. lv. [ ] the chief particulars of the above sketch of percy's life are taken from the interesting life by the rev. j. pickford in hales and furnivall's edition of the folio ms., vol. i. p. xxvii. [ ] ancient songs, , p. xix. [ ] _bishop percy folio manuscript: ballads and romances._ edited by john w. hales, m.a., and frederick j. furnivall, m.a., london (trübner and co.), - , vols. [ ] "ffull yeeres his royall crowne hath beene his fathers and his owne." _percy folio ms_. (ii. / - .) [ ] furnivall's forewords, p. xiii. [ ] the following is a list of these, taken from mr. furnivall's _forewords_:-- sir cauline. king estmere. robin hood and guy of gisborne. the child of elle. edom o'gordon (or captaine carre). adam bell, clym o' the clough, and william of cloudesly. take thy old cloak about thee (or bell my wife). sir lancelot du lake. the more modern ballad of chevy chase. the rising in the north. northumberland betrayed by douglas. the not-browne mayd. sir aldingar. gentle heardsman, tell to me. the beggar's daughter of bednal green. sir andrew barton. lady bothwell's lament. the murder of the king of scots. the king of scots and andrew browne, though in the folio, was printed by percy from the antiquaries' copy. mary ambree. the winning of cales. the spanish lady's love. the complaint of conscience. k. john and the abbot of canterbury. the heir of lynne. to althea from prison (when love with unconfined wings). old tom of bedlam. the boy and the mantle. the marriage of sir gawaine. king arthur's death. the legend of king arthur. glasgerion. old robin of portingale. child waters. little musgrave and lady barnard. gil morrice. legend of sir guy. guy and amarant. the shepherd's resolution. the lady's fall. the king of france's daughter. a lover of late. the king and miller of mansfield. dulcina. the wandering prince of troy. the aspiring shepherd. [ ] this work was reprinted twice during the year : . at edinburgh under the editorial care of mr. sidney gilpin; . at glasgow. [illustration] to the right honourable elizabeth, countess of northumberland; in her own right, baroness percy, lucy, poynings, fitz-payne, bryan, and latimer. madam,-- those writers, who solicit the protection of the noble and the great, are often exposed to censure by the impropriety of their addresses: a remark that will, perhaps, be too readily applied to him, who, having nothing better to offer than the rude songs of ancient minstrels, aspires to the patronage of the countess of northumberland, and hopes that the barbarous productions of unpolished ages can obtain the approbation or notice of her, who adorns courts by her presence, and diffuses elegance by her example. but this impropriety, it is presumed, will disappear, when it is declared that these poems are presented to your ladyship, not as labours of art, but as effusions of nature, showing the first efforts of ancient genius, and exhibiting the customs and opinions of remote ages: of ages that had been almost lost to memory, had not the gallant deeds of your illustrious ancestors preserved them from oblivion. no active or comprehensive mind can forbear some attention to the reliques of antiquity. it is prompted by natural curiosity to survey the progress of life and manners, and to inquire by what gradations barbarity was civilized, grossness refined, and ignorance instructed; but this curiosity, madam, must be stronger in those who, like your ladyship, can remark in every period the influence of some great progenitor, and who still feel in their effects the transactions and events of distant centuries. by such bonds, madam, as i am now introducing to your presence, was the infancy of genius nurtured and advanced, by such were the minds of unlettered warriors softened and enlarged, by such was the memory of illustrious actions preserved and propagated, by such were the heroic deeds of the earls of northumberland sung at festivals in the hall of alnwick; and those songs, which the bounty of your ancestors rewarded, now return to your ladyship by a kind of hereditary right; and, i flatter myself, will find such reception as is usually shown to poets and historians, by those whose consciousness of merit makes it their interest to be long remembered. i am, madam, your ladyship's most humble, and most devoted servant, thomas percy.[ ] to elizabeth, late duchess and countess of northumberland, in her own right baroness percy, etc. etc. etc. who, being sole heiress to many great families of our ancient nobility, employed the princely fortune, and sustained the illustrious honours, which she derived from them, through her whole life with the greatest dignity, generosity, and spirit; and who for her many public and private virtues will ever be remembered as one of the first characters of her time, this little work was originally dedicated; and, as it sometimes afforded her amusement, and was highly distinguished by her indulgent approbation, it is now, with the utmost regard, respect, and gratitude, consecrated to her beloved and honoured memory.[ ] footnotes: [ ] this dedication is prefixed to the first edition of the _reliques_, ( ), the second edition ( ), and the third edition ( ). [ ] the duchess of northumberland died in the year , and the above inscription appears in the fourth edition ( ) and the fifth edition ( ), besides many subsequent editions. [illustration] advertisement to the fourth edition.[ ] twenty years have near elapsed since the last edition of this work appeared. but, although it was sufficiently a favourite with the public, and had long been out of print, the original editor had no desire to revive it. more important pursuits had, as might be expected, engaged his attention; and the present edition would have remained unpublished, had he not yielded to the importunity of his friends, and accepted the humble offer of an editor in a nephew, to whom, it is feared, he will be found too partial. these volumes are now restored to the public with such corrections and improvements as have occurred since the former impression; and the text in particular hath been emended in many passages by recurring to the old copies. the instances, being frequently trivial, are not always noted in the margin; but the alteration hath never been made without good reason; and especially in such pieces as were extracted from the folio manuscript so often mentioned in the following pages, where any variation occurs from the former impression, it will be understood to have been given on the authority of that ms. the appeal publicly made to dr. johnson in the first page of the following preface, so long since as in the year , and never once contradicted by him during so large a portion of his life, ought to have precluded every doubt concerning the existence of the ms. in question. but such, it seems, having been suggested, it may now be mentioned, that, while this edition passed through his press, the ms. itself was left for near a year with mr. nichols, in whose house, or in that of its possessor, it was examined with more or less attention by many gentlemen of eminence in literature. at the first publication of these volumes it had been in the hands of all, or most of, his friends; but, as it could hardly be expected that he should continue to think of nothing else but these amusements of his youth, it was afterwards laid aside at his residence in the country. of the many gentlemen above-mentioned, who offered to give their testimony to the public, it will be sufficient to name the honourable daines barrington, the reverend clayton mordaunt cracherode, and those eminent critics on shakespeare, the reverend dr. farmer, george steevens, esq., edmund malone, esq., and isaac reed, esq., to whom i beg leave to appeal for the truth of the following representation. the ms. is a long narrow folio volume, containing sonnets, ballads, historical songs, and metrical romances, either in the whole or in part, for many of them are extremely mutilated and imperfect. the first and last leaves are wanting; and of fifty-four pages near the beginning half of every leaf hath been torn away, and several others are injured towards the end; besides that through a great part of the volume the top or bottom line, and sometimes both have been cut off in the binding. in this state is the ms. itself: and even where the leaves have suffered no injury, the transcripts, which seem to have been all made by one person (they are at least all in the same kind of hand), are sometimes extremely incorrect and faulty, being in such instances probably made from defective copies, or the imperfect recitation of illiterate fingers; so that a considerable portion of the song or narrative is sometimes omitted; and miserable trash or nonsense not unfrequently introduced into pieces of considerable merit. and often the copyist grew so weary of his labour as to write on without the least attention to the sense or meaning; so that the word which should form the rhyme is found misplaced in the middle of the line; and we have such blunders as these, _want and will_ for _wanton will_;[ ] even _pan and wale_ for _wan and pale_,[ ] &c., &c. hence the public may judge how much they are indebted to the composer of this collection; who, at an early period of life, with such materials and such subjects, formed a work which hath been admitted into the most elegant libraries; and with which the judicious antiquary hath just reason to be satisfied, while refined entertainment hath been provided for every reader of taste and genius. thomas percy, fellow of st. john's college, oxford. footnotes: [ ] published in three volumes small octavo in . "printed by john nichols for f. and c. rivington." [ ] [fol. ms.] page , ver. . (this must have been copied from a reciter.) [ ] [fol. ms.] page , ver. , viz. "his visage waxed pan and wale." [illustration] the preface the reader is here presented with select remains of our ancient english bards and minstrels, an order of men, who were once greatly respected by our ancestors, and contributed to soften the roughness of a martial and unlettered people by their songs and by their music. the greater part of them are extracted from an ancient folio manuscript, in the editor's possession, which contains near poems, songs, and metrical romances. this ms. was written about the middle of the last century; but contains compositions of all times and dates, from the ages prior to chaucer, to the conclusion of the reign of charles i.[ ] this manuscript was shewn to several learned and ingenious friends, who thought the contents too curious to be consigned to oblivion, and importuned the possessor to select some of them, and give them to the press. as most of them are of great simplicity, and seem to have been merely written for the people, he was long in doubt, whether, in the present state of improved literature, they could be deemed worthy the attention of the public. at length the importunity of his friends prevailed, and he could refuse nothing to such judges as the author of the _rambler_ and the late mr. shenstone. accordingly such specimens of ancient poetry have been selected, as either shew the gradation of our language, exhibit the progress of popular opinions, display the peculiar manners and customs of former ages, or throw light on our earlier classical poets. they are here distributed into volumes, each of which contains an independent series of poems, arranged chiefly according to the order of time, and shewing the gradual improvements of the english language and poetry from the earliest ages down to the present. each volume, or series, is divided into three books, to afford so many pauses, or resting-places to the reader, and to assist him in distinguishing between the productions of the earlier, the middle, and the latter times. in a polished age, like the present, i am sensible that many of these reliques of antiquity will require great allowances to be made for them. yet have they, for the most part, a pleasing simplicity, and many artless graces, which in the opinion of no mean critics[ ] have been thought to compensate for the want of higher beauties, and, if they do not dazzle the imagination, are frequently found to interest the heart. to atone for the rudeness of the more obsolete poems, each volume concludes with a few modern attempts in the same kind of writing: and, to take off from the tediousness of the longer narratives, they are everywhere intermingled with little elegant pieces of the lyric kind. select ballads in the old scottish dialect, most of them of the first-rate merit, are also interspersed among those of our ancient english minstrels; and the artless productions of these old rhapsodists are occasionally confronted with specimens of the composition of contemporary poets of a higher class; of those who had all the advantages of learning in the times in which they lived, and who wrote for fame and for posterity. yet perhaps the palm will be frequently due to the old strolling minstrels, who composed their rhymes to be sung to their harps, and who looked no farther than for present applause, and present subsistence. the reader will find this class of men occasionally described in the following volumes, and some particulars relating to their history in an essay subjoined. (appendix i.) it will be proper here to give a short account of the other collections that were consulted, and to make my acknowledgements to those gentlemen who were so kind as to impart extracts from them; for, while this selection was making, a great number of ingenious friends took a share in the work, and explored many large repositories in its favour. the first of these that deserved notice was the pepysian library at magdalen college, cambridge. its founder, sam. pepys, esq.,[ ] secretary of the admiralty in the reigns of charles ii. and james ii. had made a large collection of ancient english ballads, near , in number, which he has left pasted in five volumes in folio; besides garlands and other smaller miscellanies. this collection he tells us was "begun by mr. selden; improved by the addition of many pieces elder thereto in time; and the whole continued down to the year ; when the form peculiar till then thereto, viz., of the black letter with pictures, seems (for cheapness sake) wholly laid aside for that of the white letter without pictures." in the ashmole library at oxford is a small collection of ballads made by anthony wood in the year , containing somewhat more than . many ancient popular poems are also preserved in the bodleyan library. the archives of the antiquarian society at london contain a multitude of curious political poems in large folio volumes, digested under the several reigns of hen. viii., edw. vi., mary, elizabeth, james i., &c.[ ] in the british museum is preserved a large treasure of ancient english poems in ms. besides one folio volume of printed ballads. from all these some of the best pieces were selected; and from many private collections, as well printed, as manuscript, particularly from one large folio volume which was lent by a lady. amid such a fund of materials, the editor is afraid he has been sometimes led to make too great a parade of his authorities. the desire of being accurate has perhaps seduced him into too minute and trifling an exactness; and in pursuit of information he may have been drawn into many a petty and frivolous research. it was, however, necessary to give some account of the old copies; though often, for the sake of brevity, one or two of these only are mentioned, where yet assistance was received from several. where any thing was altered that deserved particular notice, the passage is generally distinguished by two inverted 'commas.' and the editor has endeavoured to be as faithful as the imperfect state of his materials would admit. for, these old popular rhymes being many of them copied only from illiterate transcripts, or the imperfect recitation of itinerant ballad-singers, have, as might be expected, been handed down to us with less care than any other writings in the world. and the old copies, whether ms. or printed, were often so defective or corrupted, that a scrupulous adherence to their wretched readings would only have exhibited unintelligible nonsense, or such poor meagre stuff, as neither came from the bard, nor was worthy the press; when, by a few slight corrections or additions, a most beautiful or interesting sense hath started forth, and this so naturally and easily, that the editor could seldom prevail on himself to indulge the vanity of making a formal claim to the improvement; but must plead guilty to the charge of concealing his own share in the amendments under some such general title, as a _modern copy_, or the like. yet it has been his design to give sufficient intimation where any considerable liberties[ ] were taken with the old copies, and to have retained either in the text or margin any word or phrase which was antique, obsolete, unusual, or peculiar, so that these might be safely quoted as of genuine and undoubted antiquity. his object was to please both the judicious antiquary, and the reader of taste; and he hath endeavoured to gratify both without offending either. the plan of the work was settled in concert with the late elegant mr. shenstone, who was to have borne a joint share in it had not death unhappily prevented him[ ]: most of the modern pieces were of his selection and arrangement, and the editor hopes to be pardoned if he has retained some things out of partiality to the judgment of his friend. the old folio ms. above-mentioned was a present from humphrey pitt, esq., of prior's-lee, in shropshire,[ ] to whom this public acknowledgement is due for that, and many other obliging favours. to sir david dalrymple, bart., of hailes, near edinburgh, the editor is indebted for most of the beautiful scottish poems with which this little miscellany is enriched, and for many curious and elegant remarks with which they are illustrated. some obliging communications of the same kind were received from john macgowan, esq., of edinburgh; and many curious explanations of scottish words in the glossaries from john davidson, esq., of edinburgh, and from the rev. mr. hutchinson, of kimbolton. mr. warton, who has twice done so much honour to the poetry professor's chair at oxford, and mr. hest, of worcester college, contributed some curious pieces from the oxford libraries. two ingenious and learned friends at cambridge deserve the editor's warmest acknowledgements: to mr. blakeway, late fellow of magdalen college, he owes all the assistance received from the pepysian library: and mr. farmer, fellow of emanuel, often exerted, in favour of this little work, that extensive knowledge of ancient english literature for which he is so distinguished.[ ] many extracts from ancient mss. in the british museum, and other repositories, were owing to the kind services of thomas astle, esq., to whom the public is indebted for the curious preface and index annexed to the harleyan catalogue.[ ] the worthy librarian of the society of antiquaries, mr. norris, deserved acknowledgement for the obliging manner in which he gave the editor access to the volumes under his care. in mr. garrick's curious collection of old plays are many scarce pieces of ancient poetry, with the free use of which he indulged the editor in the politest manner. to the rev. dr. birch he is indebted for the use of several ancient and valuable tracts. to the friendship of dr. samuel johnson he owes many valuable hints for the conduct of the work. and, if the glossaries are more exact and curious than might be expected in so slight a publication, it is to be ascribed to the supervisal of a friend, who stands at this time the first in the world for northern literature, and whose learning is better known and respected in foreign nations than in his own country. it is, perhaps, needless to name the rev. mr. lye, editor of _junius's etymologicum_, and of the _gothic gospels_. the names of so many men of learning and character the editor hopes will serve as an amulet to guard him from every unfavourable censure, for having bestowed any attention on a parcel of old ballads. it was at the request of many of these gentlemen, and of others eminent for their genius and taste, that this little work was undertaken. to prepare it for the press has been the amusement of now and then a vacant hour amid the leisure and retirement of rural life, and hath only served as a relaxation from graver studies. it has been taken up at different times, and often thrown aside for many months, during an interval of four or five years. this has occasioned some inconsistencies and repetitions, which the candid reader will pardon. as great care has been taken to admit nothing immoral and indecent, the editor hopes he need not be ashamed of having bestowed some of his idle hours on the ancient literature of our own country, or in rescuing from oblivion some pieces (though but the amusements of our ancestors) which tend to place in a striking light their taste, genius, sentiments, or manners. * * * * * except in one paragraph, this preface is given with little variation from the first edition in mdcclxv. footnotes: [ ] chaucer quotes the old romance of _libius disconius_, and some others, which are found in this ms. (see the _essay_, vol. iii. appendix i.) it also contains several songs relating to the civil war in the last century, but not one that alludes to the restoration. [ ] mr. addison, mr. dryden, and the witty lord dorset, &c. see the _spectator_, no. . to these might be added many eminent judges now alive. the learned selden appears also to have been fond of collecting these old things. see below. [ ] a life of our curious collector mr. pepys may be seen in the continuation of mr. collier's supplement to his _great diction._ , at the end of vol. iii. folio. art. pep.[ ] [ ] [in percy's time pepys was not known as the author of that _diary_ which will keep his name in remembrance so long as english literature continues to exist.] [ ] [the society of antiquaries have published a catalogue of this collection by robert lemon, vo. .] [ ] such liberties have been taken with all those pieces which have three asterisks subjoined, thus [***]. [ ] that the editor hath not here under-rated the assistance he received from his friend, will appear from mr. shenstone's own letter to the rev. mr. graves, dated march , . see his _works_, vol. iii. letter cii. it is doubtless a great loss to this work that mr. shenstone never saw more than about a third of one of these volumes, as prepared for the press. [ ] who informed the editor that this ms. had been purchased in a library of old books, which was thought to have belonged to thomas blount, author of the _jocular tenures_, , to. and of many other publications enumerated in wood's _athenæ_, ii. ; the earliest of which is _the art of making devises_, , to. wherein he is described to be "of the inner temple." if the collection was made by this lawyer (who also published the _law dictionary_, , folio), it should seem, from the errors and defects with which the ms. abounds, that he had employed his clerk in writing the transcripts, who was often weary of his task. [ ] to the same learned and ingenious friend, since master of emanuel college, the editor is obliged for many corrections and improvements in his second and subsequent editions; as also to the rev. mr. bowle, of idmistone, near salisbury, editor of the curious edition of _don quixote_, with annotations in spanish, in vols. to.; to the rev. mr. cole, formerly of blecheley, near fenny-stratford, bucks; to the rev. mr. lambe, of noreham, in northumberland (author of a learned _history of chess_, , vo. and editor of a curious _poem on the battle of flodden field_, with learned notes, , vo.); and to g. paton, esq., of edinburgh. he is particularly indebted to two friends, to whom the public as well as himself, are under the greatest obligations; to the honourable daines barrington, for his very learned and curious _observations on the statutes_, to.; and to thomas tyrwhitt, esq., whose most correct and elegant edition of chaucer's _canterbury tales_, vols. vo. is a standard book, and shows how an ancient english classic should be published. the editor was also favoured with many valuable remarks and corrections from the rev. geo. ashby, late fellow of st. john's college, in cambridge, which are not particularly pointed out because they occur so often. he was no less obliged to thomas butler, esq., f.a.s., agent to the duke of northumberland, and clerk of the peace for the county of middlesex, whose extensive knowledge of ancient writings, records, and history, have been of great use to the editor in his attempts to illustrate the literature or manners of our ancestors. some valuable remarks were procured by samuel pegge, esq., author of that curious work the _curialia_, to.; but this impression was too far advanced to profit by them all; which hath also been the case with a series of learned and ingenious annotations inserted in the _gentleman's magazine_ for august, , april, june, july, and october, , and which, it is hoped, will be continued. [ ] since keeper of the records in the tower. [illustration] [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the first. book i. [illustration] i never heard the olde song of percy and duglas, that i found not my heart mooved more then with a trumpet: and yet is it sung but by some blinde crouder, with no rougher voyce, then rude stile; which being so evill apparelled in the dust and cobwebbes of that uncivill age, what would it worke, trymmed in the gorgeous eloquence of pindar!--_sir philip sidney's apologie for poetrie_, . [illustration] i. the ancient ballad of chevy chase. the fine heroic song of _chevy-chase_ has ever been admired by competent judges. those genuine strokes of nature and artless passion, which have endeared it to the most simple readers, have recommended it to the most refined; and it has equally been the amusement of our childhood, and the favourite of our riper years. mr. addison has given an excellent critique[ ] on this very popular ballad, but is mistaken with regard to the antiquity of the common-received copy; for this, if one may judge from the style, cannot be older than the time of elizabeth, and was probably written after the elogium of sir philip sidney: perhaps in consequence of it. i flatter myself, i have here recovered the genuine antique poem; the true original song, which appeared rude even in the time of sir philip, and caused him to lament, that it was so evil-apparelled in the rugged garb of antiquity. this curiosity is printed, from an old manuscript,[ ] at the end of hearne's preface to gul. newbrigiensis _hist._ , vo. vol. i. to the ms. copy is subjoined the name of the author, rychard sheale;[ ] whom hearne had so little judgement as to suppose to be the same with a r. sheale, who was living in . but whoever examines the gradation of language and idiom in the following volumes, will be convinced that this is the production of an earlier poet. it is indeed expressly mentioned among some very ancient songs in an old book intituled, _the complaint of scotland_[ ] (fol. ), under the title of the _huntis of chevet_, where the two following lines are also quoted:-- "the perssee and the mongumrye mette,[ ] that day, that day, that gentil day:"[ ] which, tho' not quite the same as they stand in the ballad, yet differ not more than might be owing to the author's quoting from memory. indeed whoever considers the style and orthography of this old poem will not be inclined to place it lower than the time of henry vi.: as on the other hand the mention of james the scottish king,[ ] with one or two anachronisms, forbids us to assign it an earlier date. king james i. who was prisoner in this kingdom at the death of his father,[ ] did not wear the crown of scotland till the second year of our henry vi.,[ ] but before the end of that long reign a third james had mounted the throne.[ ] a succession of two or three jameses, and the long detention of one of them in england, would render the name familiar to the english, and dispose a poet in those rude times to give it to any scottish king he happened to mention. so much for the date of this old ballad: with regard to its subject, altho' it has no countenance from history, there is room to think it had originally some foundation in fact. it was one of the laws of the marches frequently renewed between the two nations, that neither party should hunt in the other's borders, without leave from the proprietors or their deputies.[ ] there had long been a rivalship between the two martial families of percy and douglas, which heightened by the national quarrel, must have produced frequent challenges and struggles for superiority, petty invasions of their respective domains, and sharp contests for the point of honour; which would not always be recorded in history. something of this kind, we may suppose, gave rise to the ancient ballad of the _hunting a' the cheviat_.[ ] percy earl of northumberland had vowed to hunt for three days in the scottish border without condescending to ask leave from earl douglas, who was either lord of the soil, or lord warden of the marches. douglas would not fail to resent the insult, and endeavour to repel the intruders by force; this would naturally produce a sharp conflict between the two parties: something of which, it is probable, did really happen, tho' not attended with the tragical circumstances recorded in the ballad: for these are evidently borrowed from the _battle of otterbourn_,[ ] a very different event, but which after-times would easily confound with it. that battle might be owing to some such previous affront as this of chevy chase, though it has escaped the notice of historians. our poet has evidently jumbled the two subjects together: if indeed the lines,[ ] in which this mistake is made, are not rather spurious, and the after-insertion of some person, who did not distinguish between the two stories. hearne has printed this ballad without any division of stanzas, in long lines, as he found it in the old written copy; but it is usual to find the distinction of stanzas neglected in ancient mss.; where, to save room, two or three verses are frequently given in one line undivided. see flagrant instances in the _harleian catalogue_, no. , s. , , , , _et passim_. * * * * * [bishop percy did well to open his book with _chevy chase_ and the _battle of otterburn_, as these two are by far the most remarkable of the old historical ballads still left to us, and all englishmen must feel peculiar interest in _chevy chase_, as it is one of the few northern ballads that are the exclusive growth of the south side of the border. the partizanship of the englishman is very amusingly brought out in verses - , where we learn that the scotch king had no captain in his realm equal to the dead douglas, but that the english king had a hundred captains as good as percy. a ballad which stirred the soul of sidney and caused ben jonson to wish that he had been the author of it rather than of all his own works cannot but be dear to all readers of taste and feeling. the old version is so far superior to the modern one (see book iii. no. ) that it must ever be a source of regret that addison, who elegantly analyzed the modern version, did not know of the original. it will be well to arrange under three heads the subjects on which a few words require to be added to percy's preface, viz. . the title, . the occasion, . the author. . in the old version the title given in the ballad itself is _the hunting of the cheviat_, and in the _complaynt of scotlande_ it is referred to as _the huntis of chevot_. the title of the modern version is changed to _chevy chase_, which dr. e. b. nicholson has suggested to be derived from the old french word _chevauchée_, a foray or expedition (see _notes and queries_, rd series, vol. xii. p. ); but this explanation is not needed, as the original of the modern title is found in ver. as _chyviat chays_, which naturally became contracted into _chevy chase_, as _teviotdale_ into _tevidale_ (ver. ). . the ballad is so completely unhistorical that it is difficult to give any opinion as to the occasion to which it refers, but apparently it was written, as bishop percy remarks, to commemorate a defiant expedition of one of the lords of the marches upon the domain of another, but that the names of percy and douglas led the writer into a confusion with the battle of otterburn, which was fresh in the people's memory owing to the ballad of the _battle_ _of otterburn_. in fact professor child throws out the hint that possibly sidney referred to the _battle of otterburn_ and not to the _hunting of the cheviat_, as he only mentions the old song of _percie and douglas_, but it has so long been believed that sidney spoke of _chevy chase_ that we should be sorry to think otherwise now. in the note immediately following the modern version (see book iii. no. .) bishop percy suggests the possibility that the ballad may refer to the battle of pepperden fought in , but this view is highly improbable for the following reason. in both the ancient and modern versions the battle of humbledown is alluded to as a future event caused by the death of percy at chevy chase. now as humbledown was fought in the year , and as the battle of otterburn was the only conflict of importance on the borders which preceded it, and as, moreover, otterburn is mentioned in the ballad, there cannot well be any reference to a battle fought so many years afterwards. . bishop percy is unnecessarily severe in his remark upon hearne, as that learned antiquary was probably correct in identifying the richard sheale of the old ballad with richard sheale the minstrel. whether, however, the latter was the author, as is argued by c. in brydges' _british bibliographer_ (vol. , pp. - ), is another matter. the other examples of the minstrel's muse are so inferior to this ballad that it is impossible to believe him to be the author. doubtless it was recited by him, and being associated with his name the transcriber may naturally have supposed him to be its maker. sheale really flourished (or withered, as mr. hales has it) at a rather earlier period than the date mentioned by percy would lead us to imagine, for he appears to have been writing before , nevertheless the language is of a much earlier date than this, and, moreover, a ballad of the borders is not likely to have been invented at tamworth, where sheale lived. _chevy chase_ was long a highly popular song, and bishop corbet, in his _journey into france_, speaks of having sung it in his youth. the antiquated beau in davenant's play of the _wits_ also prides himself on being able to sing it, and in _wit's intepreter_, , a man when enumerating the good qualities of his wife, cites after the beauties of her mind and her patience "her curious voice wherewith she useth to sing _chevy chace_." many other ballads were sung to the same tune, so that we are not always sure as to whether the original is referred to or some more modern song. the philosopher locke, when secretary to the embassy sent by charles ii. to the elector of brandenburg, wrote home a description of the brandenburg church singing, in which he says, "he that could not though he had a cold make better music with a chevy chace over a pot of smooth ale, deserved well to pay the reckoning and to go away athirst."[ ] the writer here probably referred to any song sung to this tune.] * * * * * the first fit.[ ] the persé owt of northombarlande. and a vowe[ ] to god mayd he, that he wolde hunte in the mountayns off chyviat within dayes thre, in the mauger[ ] of doughtè dogles,[ ] and all that ever with him be. the fattiste hartes in all cheviat he sayd he wold kill, and cary them away: be my feth, sayd the dougheti doglas agayn, i wyll let[ ] that hontyng yf that i may. then the persé owt of banborowe cam,[ ] with him a myghtye meany;[ ] with fifteen hondrith archares bold;[ ] the wear chosen out of shyars thre.[ ] this begane on a monday at morn in cheviat the hillys so he;[ ] the chyld may rue that ys un-born, it was the mor pitté. the dryvars thorowe the woodes went[ ] for to reas[ ] the dear; bomen bickarte uppone the bent[ ] with ther browd aras[ ] cleare. then the wyld[ ] thorowe the woodes went on every syde shear;[ ] grea-hondes thorowe the greves glent[ ] for to kyll thear dear. the begane in chyviat the hyls abone[ ] yerly[ ] on a monnyn-day;[ ] be[ ] that it drewe to the oware off none[ ] a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. the blewe a mort uppone the bent,[ ][ ] the semblyd on sydis shear;[ ] to the quyrry[ ] then the persè went to se the bryttlynge[ ] off the deare. he sayd, it was the duglas promys this day to meet me hear; but i wyste he wold faylle verament:[ ] a gret oth the persè swear. at the laste a squyar of northombelonde lokyde at his hand full ny, he was war ath[ ] the doughetie doglas comynge: with him a myghtè meany,[ ] both with spear, 'byll,' and brande:[ ][ ] yt was a myghti sight to se. hardyar men both off hart nar hande wear not in christiantè. the wear twenty hondrith spear-men good withouten any fayle;[ ] the wear borne a-long be the watter a twyde, yth[ ] bowndes of tividale. leave off the brytlyng of the dear, he sayde, and to your bowys look ye tayk good heed;[ ] for never sithe[ ] ye wear on your mothars borne had ye never so mickle need.[ ] the dougheti dogglas on a stede he rode all his men beforne;[ ] his armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;[ ] a bolder barne[ ] was never born. tell me 'what' men ye ar, he says,[ ] or whos men that ye be: who gave youe leave to hunte in this chyviat chays in the spyt of me? the first mane that ever him an answear mayd, yt was the good lord persè: we wyll not tell the 'what' men we ar, he says,[ ] nor whos men that we be; but we wyll hount hear in this chays in the spyte of thyne, and of the. the fattiste hartes in all chyviat we have kyld, and cast[ ] to carry them a-way. be my troth, sayd the doughtè dogglas agayn,[ ] ther-for the ton[ ] of us shall de this day. then sayd the doughtè doglas unto the lord persè: to kyll all thes giltless men, a-las! it wear great pittè. but, persè, thowe art a lord of lande, i am a yerle[ ] callyd within my contre; let all our men uppone a parti[ ] stande; and do the battell off the and of me. nowe cristes cors[ ] on his crowne,[ ] sayd the lord persè.[ ] who-soever ther-to says nay. be my troth, doughtè doglas, he says, thow shalt never se that day; nethar in ynglonde, skottlonde, nar france, nor for no man of a woman born, but and[ ] fortune be my chance, i dar met him on man for on.[ ][ ] then bespayke a squyar off northombarlonde, ric. wytharynton[ ] was his nam; it shall never be told in sothe-ynglonde, he says, to kyng herry the fourth for sham. i wat[ ] youe byn great lordes twaw,[ ] i am a poor squyar of lande; i wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, and stande my-selffe, and looke on, but whyll i may my weppone welde, i wyll not 'fayl' both harte and hande. that day, that day, that dredfull day: the first fit[ ] here i fynde. and youe[ ] wyll here any mor athe hountyng a the chyviat, yet ys ther mor behynde. the second fit. the yngglishe men hade ther bowys yebent, ther hartes were good yenoughe; the first of arros that the shote off,[ ] seven skore spear-men the sloughe.[ ] yet bydys[ ] the yerle doglas uppon the bent,[ ] a captayne good yenoughe, and that was sene verament, for he wrought hom both woo and wouche.[ ] the dogglas pertyd his ost in thre, lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, with suar[ ] speares off myghttè tre the cum[ ] in on every syde. thrughe our yngglishe archery gave many a wounde full wyde; many a doughete the garde to dy,[ ] which ganyde them no pryde. the yngglishe men let thear bowys be,[ ] and pulde owt brandes that wer bright;[ ] it was a hevy syght to se bryght swordes on basnites[ ] lyght. thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple[ ][ ] many sterne[ ] the stroke downe streght:[ ] many a freyke,[ ] that was full free, ther undar foot dyd lyght. at last the duglas and the persè met, lyk to captayns of myght and mayne;[ ] the swapte[ ] togethar tyll the both swat[ ] with swordes, that wear of fyn myllàn.[ ] thes worthè freckys[ ] for to fyght ther-to the wear full fayne, tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,[ ] as ever dyd heal or rayne.[ ] holde the, persè, sayd the doglas,[ ] and i' feth i shall the brynge wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis of jamy our scottish kynge. thoue shalte have thy ransom fre, i hight[ ] the hear this thinge, for the manfullyste man yet art thowe, that ever i conqueryd in filde fightyng. nay 'then' sayd the lord persè, i tolde it the beforne, that i wolde never yeldyde be to no man of a woman born. with that ther cam an arrowe hastely forthe off a mightie wane,[ ] hit hathe strekene the yerle duglas in at the brest bane. thoroue lyvar and longs bathe[ ] the sharp arrowe ys gane, that never after in all his lyffe days, he spayke mo wordes but ane, that was,[ ] fyghte ye, my merry men, whyllys ye may, for my lyff days ben gan. the persè leanyde on his brande, and sawe the duglas de; he tooke the dede man be the hande, and sayd, wo ys me for the! to have savyde thy lyffe i wold have pertyd with my landes for years thre, for a better man of hart, nare of hande was not in all the north countrè. off all that se a skottishe knyght, was callyd sir hewe the mongon-byrry, he sawe the duglas to the deth was dyght[ ]; he spendyd[ ] a spear a trusti tre: he rod uppon a corsiare[ ] throughe a hondrith archery; he never styntyde, nar never blane,[ ] tyll he came to the good lord persè. he set uppone the lord persè a dynte,[ ] that was full soare; with a suar spear of a myghtè tre clean thorow the body he the persè bore,[ ] athe tothar syde, that a man myght se, a large cloth yard and mare: towe bettar captayns wear nat in christiantè, then that day slain wear ther. an archar off northomberlonde say slean was the lord persè,[ ] he bar a bende-bow in his hande, was made off trusti tre: an arow, that a cloth yarde was lang, to th' hard stele halyde he;[ ] a dynt, that was both sad and soar, he sat on sir hewe the mongon-byrry. the dynt yt was both sad and sar,[ ][ ] that he of mongon-byrry sete; the swane-fethars, that his arrowe bar, with his hart blood the wear wete.[ ] ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, but still in stour[ ] dyd stand, heawyng on yche othar,[ ] whyll the myght dre,[ ] with many a bal-ful brande. this battell begane in chyviat an owar befor the none, and when even-song bell was rang the battell was nat half done. the tooke 'on' on ethar hand be the lyght off the mone; many hade no strenght for to stande, in chyviat the hyllys aboun.[ ][ ] of fifteen hondrith archars of ynglonde went away but fifti and thre; of twenty hondrith spear-men of skotlonde, but even five and fifti: but all wear slayne cheviat within: the hade no strengthe to stand on hie;[ ] the chylde may rue that ys un-borne, it was the mor pittè. thear was slayne with the lord persè sir john of agerstone, sir roger the hinde[ ] hartly, sir wyllyam the bolde hearone. sir jorg the worthè lovele[ ][ ] a knyght of great renowen, sir raff the ryche rugbè with dyntes wear beaten dowene. for wetharryngton my harte was wo, that ever he slayne shulde be; for when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,[ ] yet he knyled and fought on hys kne.[ ] ther was slayne with the dougheti douglas sir hewe the mongon-byrry, sir davye lwdale, that worthè was, his sistars son was he: sir charles a murrè, in that place, that never a foot wolde fle; sir hewe maxwell, a lorde he was, with the duglas dyd he dey. so on the morrowe the mayde them byears off byrch, and hasell so 'gray;'[ ] many wedous[ ] with wepyng tears,[ ] cam to fach ther makys[ ] a-way. tivydale may carpe[ ] off care, northombarlond may mayk grat mone,[ ] for towe such captayns, as slayne wear thear, on the march perti[ ] shall never be none.[ ] word ys commen to edden-burrowe, to jamy the skottishe kyng, that dougheti duglas, lyff-tenant of the merches, he lay slean chyviot with-in. his handdes dyd he weal[ ] and wryng, he sayd, alas, and woe ys me! such another captayn skotland within, he sayd, y-feth shuld never be.[ ] worde ys commyn to lovly londone till[ ] the fourth harry our kyng,[ ] that lord persè, leyff-tennante of the merchis,[ ] he lay slayne chyviat within. god have merci on his soll, sayd kyng harry, good lord, yf thy will it be! i have a hondrith captayns in yynglonde, he sayd, as good as ever was hee: but persè, and i brook[ ] my lyffe, thy deth well quyte[ ] shall be. as our noble kyng made his a-vowe, lyke a noble prince of renowen, for the deth of the lord persè, he dyd the battel of hombyll-down: wher syx and thritte skottish knyghtes on a day wear beaten down: glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, over castill, towar, and town. this was the hontynge off the cheviat; that tear begane this spurn:[ ] old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe, call it the battell of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurne uppon a monnyn day:[ ] ther was the dougghté doglas slean, the persè never went away. ther was never a tym on the march partes sen the doglas and the persè met, but yt was marvele, and the redde blude ronne not, as the reane doys in the stret. jhesue christ our balys bete,[ ] and to the blys us brynge! thus was the hountynge of the chevyat: god send us all good ending! * * * * * [***] the style of this and the following ballad is uncommonly rugged and uncouth, owing to their being writ in the very coarsest and broadest northern dialect. the battle of hombyll-down, or humbledon, was fought sept. , (anno hen. iv.), wherein the english, under the command of the earl of northumberland and his son hotspur, gained a complete victory over the scots. the village of _humbledon_ is one mile northwest from wooler, in northumberland. the battle was fought in the field below the village, near the present turnpike road, in a spot called ever since _red-riggs_. humbledon is in _glendale ward_, a district so named in this county, and mentioned above in ver. . footnotes: [ ] _spectator_, nos. , . [ ] [ms. ashmole, , in the bodleian library. the rev. w. w. skeat has printed the ballad from the ms. in his _specimens of english literature_, - . clarendon press series, .] [ ] subscribed, after the usual manner of our old poets, expliceth (explicit) quoth rychard sheale. [ ] one of the earliest productions of the scottish press, now to be found. the title-page was wanting in the copy here quoted; but it is supposed to have been printed in . see ames. [it is now believed to have been printed in . see the new edition by j. a. h. murray, printed for the early english text society (extra series), .] [ ] see pt. ii. v. . [ ] see pt. i. v. . [ ] pt. ii. v. , . [ ] who died aug. , , in the th year of our hen. iv. [ ] james i. was crowned may , ; murdered feb. , - . [ ] in .--hen. vi. was deposed : restored and slain . [ ] item.... concordatum est, quod, ... nullus unius partis vel alterius ingrediatur terras, boschas, forrestas, warrenas, loca, dominia quæcunque alicujus partis alterius subditi, causa venandi, piscandi, aucupandi, disportum aut solatium in eisdem, aliave quacunque de causa, absque licentia ejus ... ad quem ... loca ... pertinent, aut de deputatis suis prius capt. et obtent. vid. bp. nicolson's _leges marchiarum_, , vo. pp. , . [ ] this was the original title. see the ballad, pt. i. v. ; pt. ii. v. . [ ] see the next ballad. [ ] vid. pt. ii. v. . [ ] [chappell's popular music of the olden time, vol. i. p. ; vol. ii. p. .] [ ] _fit._ see ver. . [ ] [should be "an avowe," a vow (see v. , fit. ).] [ ] [in spite of.] [ ] ver. , _magger_ in hearne's pc. [printed copy.] [ ] [hinder.] [ ] ver. . the the persé. _pc._ [ ] [company.] [ ] ver. . archardes bolde off blood and bone. _pc._ [ ] by these "_shyars thre_" is probably meant three districts in northumberland, which still go by the name of _shires_, and are all in the neighbourhood of _cheviot_. these are _island-shire_, being the district so named from holy-island: _norehamshire_, so called from the town and castle of noreham (or norham): and _bamboroughshire_, the ward or hundred belonging to bamborough castle and town. [ ] [high.] [ ] ver. . throrowe. _pc._ [ ] [rouse.] [ ] [bowmen skirmished in the long grass.] [ ] [broad arrows.] [ ] [wild deer.] [ ] [entirely.] [ ] [the bushes glanced.] [ ] [above.] [ ] [early.] [ ] [monday.] [ ] [by.] [ ] [hour of noon.] [ ] [they blew a note over the dead stag on the grass.] [ ] ver. . blwe a mot. _pc._ [ ] [on all sides.] [ ] [slaughtered game.] [ ] [quartering.] [ ] [truly.] [ ] [aware of.] [ ] v. . myghtte. _pc. passim_. [ ] [battle axe and sword.] [ ] v. . brylly. _pc._ [ ] v. . withowte ... feale. _pc._ [ ] [in the.] [ ] v. . boys _pc._ [ ] [since.] [ ] v. . ned. _pc._ [ ] [ver. . percy and hearne print, "att his men."] [ ] [glowing coal.] [ ] [man.] [ ] ver. . whos. _pc._ [ ] ver. . whoys. _pc._ [ ] [mean.] [ ] ver. . agay. _pc._ [ ] [the one of us shall die.] [ ] [earl.] [ ] [apart or aside.] [ ] [curse.] [ ] [head.] [ ] ver. . sayd the the. _pc._ [ ] [but if.] [ ] [one man for one.] [ ] ver. . on _i.e. one_. [ ] this is probably corrupted in the ms. for _rog. widdrington_, who was at the head of the family in the reign of k. edw. iii. there were several successively of the names of _roger_ and _ralph_, but none of the name of _richard_, as appears from the genealogies in the heralds' office. [ ] [_for_ wot, know.] [ ] [two.] [ ] fit. see vol. , p. . [ ] [if you.] [ ] ver. . first, _i.e. flight_. [ ] [slew.] [ ] [abides.] [ ] v. . byddys. _pc._ [ ] [mischief, wrong.] [ ] [sure.] [ ] [they come.] [ ] [many a doughty one they made to die.] [ ] v. . boys. _pc._ [ ] v. . briggt. _pc._ [ ] [helmets.] [ ] [mr. skeat suggests that this is a corruption for manople, a large gauntlet.] [ ] v. . throrowe. _pc._ [ ] [many fierce ones they struck down.] [ ] v. . done. _pc._ [ ] [strong man.] [ ] ver. . to, _i.e. two_. _ibid._ and of. _pc._ [ ] [exchanged blows.] [ ] [did sweat.] [ ] [milan steel.] [ ] [men.] [ ] [spurted out.] [ ] v. . ran. _pc._ [ ] v. . helde. _pc._ [ ] [promise.] [ ] _wane_, _i.e. ane_, one, &c. man, an arrow came from a mighty one: from a mighty man. [misreading for _mane_ (?) see v. , fit. i.] [ ] ver. . throroue. _pc._ [ ] this seems to have been a gloss added. [ ] [put.] [ ] [grasped.] [ ] [courser.] [ ] [he never lingered nor stopped.] [ ] [blow.] [ ] v. . ber. _pc._ [ ] ver. . say, _i. e. sawe_. [ ] v. . haylde. _pc._ [ ] [sore.] [ ] v. . far. _pc._ [ ] this incident is taken from the battle of otterbourn; in which sir hugh montgomery, knt. (son of john lord montgomery) was slain with an arrow. vid. _crawford's peerage_. [ ] [fight.] [ ] [hewing at each other.] [ ] [suffer.] [ ] [hills above.] [ ] ver. . abou. _pc._ [ ] v. . strenge ... hy. _pc._ [ ] [gentle.] [ ] [mr. skeat reads lou_m_be.] [ ] v. . lóule. _pc._ [ ] v. . in to, _i.e. in two_. [ ] v. . kny. _pc._ [ ] ver. . gay. _pc._ [ ] [widows.] [ ] a common pleonasm, see the next poem, fit. d. v. ; so harding in his chronicle, chap. , fol. , describing the death of richard i. says, "he shrove him then unto abbots thre with great sobbyng ... and wepyng teares." so likewise cavendish in his _life of cardinal wolsey_, chap. , p. , to.: "when the duke heard this, he replied with weeping teares," &c. [ ] [mates.] [ ] [complain] [ ] v. . mon. _pc._ [ ] [on the marches (see ver. ).] [ ] v. . non. _pc._ [ ] [wail.] [ ] v. . ye feth. _pc._ [ ] [to, unto] [ ] for the names in this and the foregoing page, see the remarks at the end of the next ballad. [ ] ver. . cheyff tennante. _pc._ [ ] [if i enjoy.] [ ] [requited.] [ ] [that tearing or pulling began this kick.] [ ] [monday.] [ ] [better our bales, or remedy our evils.] ii. the battle of otterbourne. the only battle wherein an earl of douglas was slain fighting with a percy was that of otterbourne, which is the subject of this ballad. it is here related with the allowable partiality of an english poet, and much in the same manner as it is recorded in the english chronicles. the scottish writers have, with a partiality at least as excusable, related it no less in their own favour. luckily we have a very circumstantial narrative of the whole affair from froissart, a french historian, who appears to be unbiassed. froissart's relation is prolix; i shall therefore give it, with a few corrections, as abridged by carte, who has, however, had recourse to other authorities, and differs from froissart in some things, which i shall note in the margin. in the twelfth year of richard ii., , "the scots taking advantage of the confusions of this nation, and falling with a party into the west-marches, ravaged the country about carlisle, and carried off prisoners. it was with a much greater force, headed by some of the principal nobility, that, in the beginning of august,[ ] they invaded northumberland; and, having wasted part of the county of durham,[ ] advanced to the gates of newcastle; where, in a skirmish, they took a 'penon' or colours[ ] belonging to henry lord percy, surnamed hotspur, son to the earl of northumberland. in their retreat home, they attacked a castle near otterbourn: and, in the evening of aug. (as the english writers say, or rather, according to froissart, aug. ), after an unsuccessful assault were surprised in their camp, which was very strong, by henry, who at the first onset put them into a good deal of confusion. but james earl of douglas rallying his men, there ensued one of the best-fought actions that happened in that age; both armies showing the utmost bravery:[ ] the earl douglas himself being slain on the spot;[ ] the earl of murrey mortally wounded; and hotspur,[ ] with his brother ralph percy, taken prisoners. these disasters on both sides have given occasion to the event of the engagement's being disputed. froissart (who derives his relation from a scotch knight, two gentlemen of the same country, and as many of foix)[ ] affirming that the scots remained masters of the field; and the english writers insinuating the contrary. these last maintain that the english had the better of the day: but night coming on, some of the northern lords, coming with the bishop of durham to their assistance, killed many of them by mistake, supposing them to be scots; and the earl of dunbar, at the same time falling on another side upon hotspur, took him and his brother prisoners, and carried them off while both parties were fighting. it is at least certain, that immediately after this battle the scots engaged in it made the best of their way home: and the same party was taken by the other corps about carlisle." such is the account collected by carte, in which he seems not to be free from partiality: for prejudice must own that froissart's circumstantial account carries a great appearance of truth, and he gives the victory to the scots. he, however, does justice to the courage of both parties; and represents their mutual generosity in such a light, that the present age might edify by the example. "the englyshmen on the one partye, and scottes on the other party, are good men of warre, for whan they mete, there is a hard fighte without sparynge. there is no hoo[ ] betwene them as long as speares, swordes, axes, or dagers wyll endure; but lay on eche upon other: and whan they be well beaten, and that the one party hath obtayned the victory, they than glorifye so in their dedes of armes, and are so joyfull, that suche as be taken, they shall be ransomed or they go out of the felde;[ ] so that shortely _eche of them is so contente with other, that at their departynge curtoysly they will saye, god thanke you_. but in fyghtynge one with another there is no playe, nor sparynge." _froissart's chronicle_ (as translated by sir johan bourchier lord berners), cap. cxlii. the following ballad is (in this present edition) printed from an old ms. in the cotton library[ ] (_cleopatra_, c. iv.), and contains many stanzas more than were in the former copy, which was transcribed from a ms. in the harleian collection [no. , fol. .] in the cotton ms. this poem has no title, but in the harleian copy it is thus inscribed, _a songe made in r. . his tyme of the battele of otterburne, betweene lord henry percye earle of northomberlande and the earle douglas of scotlande_, anno . but this title is erroneous, and added by some ignorant transcriber of after-times: for, . the battle was not fought by the earl of northumberland, who was absent, but by his son, _sir henry percy_, knt., surnamed _hotspur_ (in those times they did not usually give the title of _lord_ to an earl's eldest son). . altho' the battle was fought in richard ii.'s time, the song is evidently of later date, as appears from the poet's quoting the chronicles in _pt. ii._, ver. ; and speaking of percy in the last stanza as dead. it was, however, written in all likelihood as early as the foregoing song, if not earlier. this, perhaps, may be inferred from the minute circumstances with which the story is related, many of which are recorded in no chronicle, and were probably preserved in the memory of old people. it will be observed that the authors of these two poems have some lines in common; but which of them was the original proprietor must depend upon their priority; and this the sagacity of the reader must determine. * * * * * [we have here a ballad founded upon a true historical event, in which the writer attempts to be as truthful as his national bias will allow him. in chevy chase, percy is the aggressor, but in the "battle of otterburn," douglas commences the encounter by his action. at the period under notice the king of england (richard ii.) was occupied in dissension with his uncle, the duke of gloucester, and the parliament, while robert ii., king of scotland, was very old, and his eldest son lame and inactive, so that the border chieftains were pretty much left to their own devices. the earl of fife, a younger son of king robert, and certain of the great nobles, arranged among themselves that an inroad should be made into england as a reprisal for the injuries the scotch had at various times sustained from the english, and the expedition was placed under the command of james, earl of douglas. besides the ballad we are now considering there are metrical accounts of the battle in john hardyng's _chronicle_, joannes de fordun's _scoti-chronicon_, and wyntoun's _orygynal cronykil of_ _scotland_. in , robert white published an interesting _history of the battle of otterburn, fought in , with memoirs of the warriors who engaged in that memorable conflict_. this book is written in an enthusiastic spirit by one who was born and bred on the borders, and who kept alive in his soul the true old border spirit. he listened on his mother's knee to the stanzas of the modern ballad of _chevy chase_, which she chanted to him, and he grew up with a feeling which he retained through life, that percy and douglas were far greater men than napoleon and wellington. the exact date of the battle is an open question, for the authorities disagree as to this particular; thus buchanan fixes it on july st, and other writers name, respectively, august th, th, th, th, and th. white thinks that the battle was fought on the evening of wednesday and morning of thursday, th and th of august, immediately before the full moon. in the year the new moon fell on the th of august, and douglas is not likely to have chosen a period of dark evenings for his expedition. another disputed point is the number of men in the scottish army, under douglas. froissart gives the numbers at three or four hundred men-at-arms, and two thousand infantry; wyntoun, at near seven thousand men; buchanan, at three hundred horse and two thousand foot, besides servants and attendants; godscroft, at four thousand horsemen; ridpath, at three thousand men; and scott, at three hundred men-at-arms, who, with their followers, made up from a thousand to fifteen hundred men, with two thousand chosen infantry. white makes the following statement as the result of his sifting of the conflicting accounts:-- men-at-arms attendants on ditto, footmen, lackeys, and grooms , infantry mounted , attendants on ditto, boys to take care of horses, sutlers, &c , ----- , it has been supposed that the first part of this ballad down to verse was originally of scottish manufacture, for two reasons: st, because hume, of godscroft, refers to "a scots song," which begins as this does; and nd, because haymaking has been over at least a month in england at lammas, when scotch husbandmen are still busy "winning their hay." this last reason, however, cannot be considered a very conclusive one, as the seasons must be much alike on the two sides of the border. the second part is written from a thoroughly english stand-point. the two scottish versions, viz. the one given by scott in his _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, and the one in _herd's collection_, are very different from the english ballad.] * * * * * yt felle abowght the lamasse tyde, whan husbonds wynn ther haye,[ ] the dowghtye dowglasse bowynd[ ] hym to ryde, in ynglond to take a praye: the yerlle[ ] of fyffe,[ ] withowghten stryffe, he bowynd hym over sulway:[ ] the grete wolde ever together ryde; that race they may rue for aye. over 'ottercap' hyll they[ ] came in, and so dowyn by rodelyffe cragge, upon grene 'leyton' they lyghted dowyn, styrande[ ] many a stagge:[ ] and boldely brente[ ] northomberlonde, and haryed[ ] many a towyn; they dyd owr ynglyssh men grete wrange,[ ] to battell that were not bowyn.[ ] than spake a berne[ ] upon the bent,[ ] of comforte that was not colde, and sayd, we have brent northomberlond, we have all welth in holde. now we have haryed all bamboroweshyre, all the welth in the worlde have wee; i rede[ ] we ryde to newe castell, so styll and stalwurthlye.[ ] uppon the morowe, when it was daye, the standards schone fulle bryght; to the newe castelle the toke the waye, and thether they cam fulle ryght. sir henry percy laye at the newe castelle, i telle yow withowtten drede; he had byn a march-man[ ] all hys dayes, and kepte barwyke upon twede. to the newe castell when they cam, the skottes they cryde on hyght,[ ] syr harye percy, and thow byste[ ] within, com to the fylde, and fyght: for we have brente northomberlonde, thy eritage good and ryght; and syne my logeyng i have take,[ ] with my brande dubbyd many a knyght. sir harry percy cam to the walles, the skottyssh oste for to se; "and thow hast brente northomberlond, full sore it rewyth[ ] me. yf thou hast haryed all bambarowe shyre, thow hast done me grete envye;[ ] for the trespasse thow hast me done, the tone[ ] of us schall dye." where schall i byde the, sayd the dowglas? or where wylte thow come to me? "at otterborne in the hygh way,[ ] ther maist thow well logeed be. the roo[ ] full rekeles ther sche rinnes,[ ] to make the game and glee: the fawkon and the fesaunt[ ] both, amonge the holtes on 'hee.'[ ][ ] ther maist thow have thy welth at wyll, well looged ther maist be. yt schall not be long, or i com the tyll,"[ ] sayd syr harry percye. ther schall i byde the, sayd the dowglas, by the fayth of my bodye. thether schall i com, sayd syr harry percy; my trowth i plyght to the. a pype of wyne he gave them over the walles, for soth, as i yow saye: ther he mayd the douglas drynke, and all hys oste that daye. the dowglas turnyd him homewarde agayne, for soth[ ] withowghten naye, he tooke his logeyng at oterborne uppon a wedyns-day: and ther he pyght[ ] hys standerd dowyn, hys gettyng[ ] more and lesse, and syne[ ] he warned hys men to goo to chose ther geldyngs gresse. a skottysshe knyght hoved[ ] upon the bent,[ ] a wache[ ] i dare well saye: so was he ware[ ] on the noble percy in the dawnynge of the daye. he prycked[ ] to his pavyleon dore, as faste as he myght ronne, awaken, dowglas, cryed the knyght, for hys love, that syttes yn trone.[ ] awaken, dowglas, cryed the knyght, for thow maiste waken wyth wynne:[ ] yender have i spyed the prowde percy, and seven standardes wyth hym. nay by my trowth, the douglas sayed, it ys but a fayned taylle: he durste not loke on my bred[ ] banner, for all ynglonde so haylle.[ ] was i not yesterdaye at the newe castell, that stonds so fayre on tyne? for all the men the percy hade, he cowde not garre[ ] me ones to dyne. he stepped owt at hys pavelyon dore, to loke and it were lesse; arraye yow, lordyngs, one and all, for here bygynnes no peysse.[ ] the yerle of mentaye,[ ] thow arte my eme,[ ] the forwarde[ ] i gyve to the: the yerlle of huntlay cawte[ ] and kene, he schall wyth the be. the lorde of bowghan[ ] in armure bryght on the other hand he schall be: lorde jhonstone, and lorde maxwell, they to schall be with me. swynton fayre fylde upon your pryde to batell make yow bowen:[ ] syr davy scotte, syr walter stewarde, syr jhon of agurstone. a fytte. * * * * * the perssy came byfore hys oste,[ ] wych was ever a gentyll knyght, upon the dowglas lowde can he crye, i wyll holde that i have hyght:[ ][ ] for thow haste brente northumberlonde. and done me grete envye; for thys trespasse thou hast me done, the tone of us schall dye. the dowglas answerde hym agayne with grete wurds up on 'hee,'[ ] and sayd, i have twenty agaynst 'thy' one,[ ][ ] byholde and thow maiste see. wyth that the percye was grevyd sore, for sothe as i yow saye: [[ ]he lyghted dowyn upon his fote, and schoote[ ] his horsse clene away. every man sawe that he dyd soo, that ryall[ ] was ever in rowght;[ ] every man schoote hys horsse him froo, and lyght hym rowynde abowght. thus syr hary percye toke the fylde, for soth, as i yow saye: jesu cryste in hevyn on hyght dyd helpe hym well that daye. but nyne thowzand, ther was no moo; the cronykle wyll not layne:[ ] forty thowsande skottes and fowre that day fowght them agayne. but when the batell byganne to joyne, in hast ther came a knyght, 'then' letters fayre furth hath he tayne and thus he sayd full ryght: my lorde, your father he gretes yow well, wyth many a noble knyght; he desyres yow to byde that he may see thys fyght. the baron of grastoke ys com owt of the west, wyth hym a noble companye; all they loge at your fathers thys nyght, and the battel fayne wold they see. for jesu's love, sayd syr harye percy, that dyed for yow and me, wende to my lorde my father agayne, and saye thow saw me not with yee:[ ] my trowth ys plyght to yonne skottysh knyght, it nedes me not to layne,[ ] that i schulde byde hym upon thys bent, and i have hys trowth agayne: and if that i wende off thys grownde for soth unfoughten awaye, he wolde me call but a kowarde knyght in hys londe another daye. yet had i lever[ ] to be rynde[ ] and rente, by mary that mykel maye;[ ] then ever my manhod schulde be reprovyd wyth a skotte another daye. wherfore schote, archars, for my sake, and let scharpe arowes flee: mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,[ ] and well quyt it schall be. every man thynke on hys trewe love, and marke hym to the trenite:[ ] for to god i make myne avowe thys day wyll i not fle. the blodye harte in the dowglas armes, hys standerde stode on hye; that every man myght full well knowe: by syde stode starres thre. the whyte lyon on the ynglysh parte, forsoth as i yow sayne;[ ] the lucetts and the cressawnts both: the skotts faught them agayne.[ ]] uppon sent andrewe lowde cane they crye, and thrysse they schowte on hyght, and syne marked them one owr ynglysshe men, as i have tolde yow ryght. sent george the bryght owr ladyes knyght, to name they[ ] were full fayne, owr ynglysshe men they cryde on hyght, and thrysse the schowtte agayne. wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, i tell yow in sertayne; men of armes byganne to joyne; many a dowghty man was ther slayne. the percy and the dowglas mette, that ether of other was fayne; they schapped[ ] together, whyll that the swette, with swords of fyne collayne;[ ] tyll the bloode from ther bassonetts[ ] ranne, as the roke[ ] doth in the rayne. yelde the to me, sayd the dowglàs, or ells thow schalt be slayne: for i see, by thy bryght bassonet, thow arte sum man of myght; and so i do by thy burnysshed brande,[ ] thow art an yerle, or ells a knyght.[ ] by my good faythe, sayd the noble percy, now haste thou rede[ ] full ryght, yet wyll i never yelde me to the, whyll i may stonde and fyght. they swapped together, whyll that they swette, wyth swordes scharpe and long; ych on other so faste they beette, tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. the percy was a man of strenghth, i tell yow in thys stounde,[ ] he smote the dowglas at the swordes length, that he felle to the growynde. the sworde was scharpe and sore can byte, i tell yow in sertayne; to the harte, he cowde hym smyte, thus was the dowglas slayne. the stonderds stode styll on eke syde, with many a grevous grone; ther the fowght the day, and all the nyght, and many a dowghty man was 'slone.'[ ] ther was no freke,[ ] that ther wolde flye, but styffly in stowre[ ] can stond, ychone[ ] hewyng on other whyll they myght drye,[ ] wyth many a bayllefull bronde. ther was slayne upon the skottes syde, for soth and sertenly, syr james a dowglas ther was slayne, that daye that he cowde dye.[ ] the yerlle mentaye of he was slayne, grysely[ ] groned uppon the growynd; syr davy scotte, syr walter steward, syr 'john' of agurstonne.[ ] syr charlles morrey in that place, that never a fote wold flye; sir hughe maxwell, a lorde he was, with the dowglas dyd he dye. ther was slayne upon the skottes syde, for soth[ ] as i yow saye, of fowre and forty thowsande scotts went but eyghtene awaye. ther was slayne upon the ynglysshe syde, for soth and sertenlye, a gentell knyght, sir john fitz-hughe, yt was the more petye. syr james harebotell ther was slayne, for hym ther hartes were sore, the gentyll 'lovelle' ther was slayne,[ ] that the percyes standerd bore. ther was slayne uppon the ynglyssh perte, for soth as i yow saye; of nyne thowsand ynglyssh men fyve hondert cam awaye: the other were slayne in the fylde, cryste kepe ther sowles from wo, seyng ther was so fewe fryndes agaynst so many a foo. then one the morne they mayd them beeres[ ] of byrch, and haysell graye; many a wydowe with wepyng teyres ther makes[ ] they fette[ ] awaye. thys fraye bygan at otterborne, bytwene the nyghte and the day: ther the dowglas lost hys lyfe, and the percy was lede awaye.[ ] then was ther a scottyshe prisoner tayne, syr hughe mongomery was hys name, for soth as i yow saye, he borowed the percy home agayne.[ ] now let us all for the percy praye[ ] to jesu most of myght, to bryng hys sowle to the blysse of heven, for he was a gentyll knyght. [illustration] [***] most of the names in the two preceding ballads are found to have belonged to families of distinction in the north, as may be made appear from authentic records. thus in the ancient ballad of chevy chase. [second fit, ver. . _agerstone._] the family of _haggerston_ of _haggerston_, near berwick, has been seated there for many centuries, and still remains. _thomas haggerston_ was among the commissioners returned for northumberland in hen. , . (fuller's _worthies_, p. .) the head of this family at present is _sir thomas haggerston_, bart., of _haggerston_ above-mentioned. n.b. the name is spelt _agerstone_, as in the text, in leland's _itinerary_, vol. vii. p. .[ ] [ver. . _hartly._] _hartley_ is a village near the sea in the barony of tinemouth, about m. from north-shields. it probably gave name to a family of note at that time. [ver. . _hearone._] this family, one of the most ancient, was long of great consideration in northumberland. _haddeston_, the caput baroniæ of _heron_, was their ancient residence. it descended edw. i. to the heir general _emiline heron_, afterwards baroness _darcy_.--_ford, &c._, and _bockenfield_ (in com. eodem) went at the same time to _roger heron_, the heir male; whose descendants were summoned to parliament: sir _william heron_ of ford castle being summoned edw. iii.--ford castle hath descended by heirs general to the family of delaval (mentioned in the next article).--_robert heron_, esq., who died at newark in , (father of the right hon. sir _richard heron_, bart.) was heir male of the _herons_ of bockenfield, a younger branch of this family.--sir _thomas heron middleton_, bart., is heir male of the _herons_ of chip-chase, another branch of the herons of ford castle. [ver. . _lovele._] _joh. de lavale, miles_, was sheriff of northumberland hen. viii. _joh. de lavele, mil._ in the edw. vi. and afterwards. (fuller, .) in nicholson this name is spelt _da lovel_, p. . this seems to be the ancient family of _delaval_, of _seaton delaval_, in northumberland, whose ancestor was one of the _barons_ appointed to be guardians of _magna charta_.[ ] [ver. . _rugbè._] the ancient family of _rokeby_, in yorkshire, seems to be here intended. in thoresby's _ducat. leod._, p. , fol., is a genealogy of this house, by which it appears that the head of the family, about the time when this ballad was written, was sir _ralph rokeby_, knt., _ralph_ being a common name of the _rokebys_.[ ] [ver. . _wetharrington._] _rog. de widrington_ was sheriff of northumberland in of edw. iii. (fuller, p. .)--_joh. de_ _widrington_ in of hen. iv. and many others of the same name afterwards.--see also nicholson, p. .--of this family was the late lord witherington. [ver. . _mongonberry._] sir _hugh montgomery_ was son of _john_ lord _montgomery_, the lineal ancestor of the present earl of eglington. [ver. . _lwdale._] the ancient family of the _liddels_ were originally from scotland, where they were lords of _liddel castle_, and of the barony of _buff_. (vid. collins's _peerage_.) the head of this family is the present lord ravensworth, of ravensworth castle, in the county of durham.[ ] in the battle of otterbourne. [ver. . _mentaye._] at the time of this battle the earldom of _menteith_ was possessed by _robert stewart_, earl of fife, third son of k. robert ii., who, according to buchanan, commanded the scots that entered by carlisle. but our minstrel had probably an eye to the family of _graham_, who had this earldom when the ballad was written. see douglas's _peerage of scotland_, , fol. [ver. . _huntleye._] this shews this ballad was not composed before ; for in that year alexander lord of gordon and huntley, was created earl of _huntley_, by k. james ii. [ver. . _bowghan._] the earl of _buchan_ at that time was _alexander stewart_, fourth son of k. robert ii. [ver. . _jhonstone--maxwell._] these two families of _johnstone_ lord of _johnston_, and _maxwell_ lord of _maxwell_, were always very powerful on the borders. of the former family was _johnston_ marquis of annandale: of the latter was _maxwell_ earl of nithsdale. i cannot find that any chief of this family was named sir _hugh_; but sir _herbert maxwell_ was about this time much distinguished. (see doug.) this might have been originally written sir _h. maxwell_, and by transcribers converted into sir _hugh_. so above, in no. i. v. . _richard_ is contracted into _ric._ [ver. . _swintone._] _i. e._ the laird of _swintone_; a small village within the scottish border, miles from norham. this family still subsists, and is very ancient. [ver. . _scotte._] the illustrious family of _scot_, ancestors of the duke of buccleugh, always made a great figure on the borders. sir _walter scot_ was at the head of this family when the battle was fought; but his great-grandson, sir _david scot_, was the hero of that house when the ballad was written. [ibid. _stewarde._] the person here designed was probably sir _walter stewart_, lord of dalswinton and gairlies, who was eminent at that time. (see doug.) from him is descended the present earl of galloway. [ver. . _agurstonne._] the seat of this family was sometimes subject to the kings of scotland. thus _richardus haggerstoun, miles_, is one of the scottish knights who signed a treaty with the english in , temp. hen. iii. (nicholson, p. , note).--it was the fate of many parts of northumberland often to change their masters, according as the scottish or english arms prevailed. [ver. . _murrey._] the person here meant was probably sir _charles murray_ of cockpoole, who flourished at that time, and was ancestor of the _murrays_ sometime earls of annandale. see doug. _peerage_. [ver. . _fitz-hughe._] dugdale (in his _baron._ v. i. p. ) informs us that _john_, son of henry lord _fitzhugh_, was killed at the battle of otterbourne. this was a northumberland family. vid. dugd. p. , col. , and nicholson, pp. , . [ver. . _harbotle._] _harbottle_ is a village upon the river coquet, about m. west of rothbury. the family of _harbottle_ was once considerable in northumberland. (see fuller, pp. , .) a daughter of _guischard harbottle_, esq., married sir _thomas percy_, knt., son of _henry_ the fifth,--and father of _thomas_ seventh, earls of northumberland. footnotes: [ ] froissart speaks of both parties (consisting in all of more than , men) as entering england at the same time: but the greater part by way of carlisle. [ ] and, according to the ballad, that part of northumberland called bamboroughshire; a large tract of land so named from the town and castle of bamborough; formerly the residence of the northumbrian kings. [ ] this circumstance is omitted in the ballad. hotspur and douglas were two young warriors much of the same age. [ ] froissart says the english exceeded the scots in number three to one, but that these had the advantage of the ground, and were also fresh from sleep, while the english were greatly fatigued with their previous march. [ ] by henry l. percy, according to this ballad, and our old english historians, as stow, speed, &c., but borne down by numbers, if we may believe froissart. [ ] hotspur (after a very sharp conflict) was taken prisoner by john, lord montgomery, whose eldest son, sir hugh, was slain in the same action with an arrow, according to crawford's _peerage_ (and seems also to be alluded to in the foregoing ballad, p. ), but taken prisoner and exchanged for hotspur, according to this ballad. [ ] froissart (according to the english translation) says he had his account from two squires of england, and from a knight and squire of scotland, soon after the battle. [ ] so in langham's _letter concerning queen elizabeth's entertainment at killingworth castle_, , °. p. . "heer was no ho in devout drinkyng." [ ] _i. e._ they scorn to take the advantage, or to keep them lingering in long captivity. [ ] the notice of this ms. i must acknowledge with many other obligations, owing to the friendship of _thomas tyrwhitt_, esq., late clerk of the house of commons. [ ] ver. . _winn their heaye. harl. ms._ this is the northumberland phrase to this day: by which they always express "getting in their hay." [ ] [prepared.] [ ] [earl.] [ ] _robert stuart_, second son of k. _robert ii._ [ ] _i. e._ "over solway frith." this evidently refers to the other division of the scottish army, which came in by way of carlisle. _bowynd_, or _bounde him_; _i. e._ hied him. [ ] _they_: sc. the earl of douglas and his party. the several stations here mentioned are well-known places in northumberland. _ottercap-hill_ is in the parish of kirk whelpington, in tynedale-ward. _rodeliffe_ (or as it is more usually pronounced _rodeley_) _cragge_ is a noted cliff near _rodeley_, a small village in the parish of hartburn, in morpeth-ward. it lies south-east of ottercap, and has, within these few years, been distinguished by a small tower erected by sir walter blacket, bart., which in _armstrong's_ map of northumberland is pompously called _rodely-castle_. _green leyton_ is another small village in the same parish of hartburn, and is south-east of rodeley. both the original mss. read here corruptly, _hoppertop_ and _lynton_. [ ] [stirring.] [ ] v. . this line is corrupt in both the mss., viz. "_many a_ _styrande stage_." stags have been killed within the present century on some of the large wastes in northumberland. [ ] [burnt.] [ ] [pillaged.] [ ] [wrong.] [ ] [ready.] [ ] [man.] [ ] [field.] [ ] [advise.] [ ] [stoutly.] [ ] _marche-man_, _i. e._ a scourer of the marches. [ ] [aloud.] [ ] [art.] [ ] ver. . _syne_ seems here to mean _since_. [ ] [regrets.] [ ] [injury.] [ ] [the one.] [ ] otterbourn is near the old watling street road, in the parish of elsdon. the scots were encamped in a grassy plain near the river _read_. the place where the scots and english fought, is still called battle riggs. [ ] [roe.] [ ] ver. . _roe-bucks_ were to be found upon the wastes not far from hexham in the reign of geo. i.--whitfield, esq., of whitfield, is said to have destroyed the last of them. [ ] [falcon and pheasant.] [ ] [woods on high.] [ ] v. . _hye_, mss. [ ] [come unto thee.] [ ] [truth.] [ ] [pitched.] [ ] [booty.] [ ] [then.] [ ] [hovered.] [ ] ver. . _upon the best bent._ ms. [ ] [spy.] [ ] [aware.] [ ] [spurred.] [ ] [enthroned.] [ ] [joy.] [ ] [broad.] [ ] [strong.] [ ] [force.] [ ] [peace.] [ ] the earl of menteith. [ ] [uncle.] [ ] [van.] [ ] [cautious.] [ ] the lord buchan. [ ] [ready.] [ ] ver. , . _pearcy_, all mss. [ ] [promised or engaged.] [ ] v. . i will hold to what i have promised. [ ] ver. . _hye_, mss. [ ] he probably magnifies his strength to induce him to surrender. [ ] v. . _the one_, ms. [ ] all that follows, included in brackets, was not in the first edition. [ ] [let go.] [ ] [royal.] [ ] [rout.] [ ] [deceive.] [ ] [eye.] [ ] [break my word.] [ ] [rather.] [ ] [flayed?] [ ] [great maid.] [ ] [reward.] [ ] [commit himself to god by a sign.] [ ] [say to you.] [ ] the ancient arms of douglas are pretty accurately emblazoned in the former stanza, and if the readings were, _the crowned harte_, and _above stode starres thre_, it would be minutely exact at this day. as for the percy family, one of their ancient badges of cognizances was a _whyte lyon_ statant, and the _silver crescent_ continues to be used by them to this day. they also give _three luces argent_ for one of their quarters. [ ] _i. e._ the english. [ ] [swapped? _i.e._ smote.] [ ] [cologne steel.] [ ] [helmets.] [ ] [steam.] [ ] [sword.] [ ] being all in armour he could not know him. [ ] [guessed.] [ ] [time.] [ ] ver. . slayne. mss. [ ] [man.] [ ] [fight.] [ ] [each one.] [ ] [endure.] [ ] v. , _i.e._ he died that day. [ ] [dreadfully.] [ ] our old minstrel repeats these names, as homer and virgil do those of their heroes: "----fortemque gyam, fortemque cloanthum," &c. &c. both the mss. read here, "_sir james_," but see above, pt. i., ver. . [ ] [truth.] [ ] ver. . covelle. ms. for the names in this page, see the remarks at the end of this ballad. [ ] v. . one, _i.e._ on. [ ] [mates.] [ ] [fetch.] [ ] sc. captive. [ ] in the cotton ms. is the following note on ver. , in an ancient hand:-- "syr hewe mongomery takyn prizonar, was delyvered for the restorynge of perssy." [ ] ver. . _percyes._--_harl. ms._ [ ] [sir walter scott suggests that the person here alluded to was one of the rutherfords, barons of edgerstane or edgerston, who at this time were retainers of the house of douglas, but in _chevy chase_ sir john of agerstone was on percy's side.] [ ] [this is a misreading, as the person intended was a lumley.] [ ] sir w. scott supposes "sir raffe the ryche rugbè" to be sir ralph neville of raby castle, son of the first earl of westmoreland, and cousin-german to hotspur. he is called sir ralph raby in the modern version of the ballad. [ ] more probably the sir david lambwell of the modern version. iii. the jew's daughter, a scottish ballad, is founded upon the supposed practice of the jews in crucifying or otherwise murdering christian children, out of hatred to the religion of their parents: a practice which has been always alledged in excuse for the cruelties exercised upon that wretched people, but which probably never happened in a single instance. for, if we consider, on the one hand, the ignorance and superstition of the times when such stories took their rise, the virulent prejudices of the monks who record them, and the eagerness with which they would be catched up by the barbarous populace as a pretence for plunder; on the other hand, the great danger incurred by the perpetrators, and the inadequate motives they could have to excite them to a crime of so much horror; we may reasonably conclude the whole charge to be groundless and malicious. the following ballad is probably built upon some italian legend, and bears a great resemblance to the prioresse's tale in chaucer: the poet seems also to have had an eye to the known story of _hugh of lincoln_, a child said to have been there murdered by the jews in the reign of henry iii. the conclusion of this ballad appears to be wanting: what it probably contained may be seen in chaucer. as for _mirry-land toun_, it is probably a corruption of _milan_ (called by the dutch _meylandt_) _town_: the _pa_ is evidently the river _po_; although the adige, not the po, runs through milan. printed from a ms. copy sent from scotland. * * * * * [this ballad, which is also known under the title of _sir hugh of_ _lincoln_, was at one time so widely popular that it is preserved in six different versions, besides fragments, and has originated a literature of its own. mons. francisque michel discovered a norman-french version in the royal library at paris, which is supposed to date back to the period when the murder of sir hugh was to have been committed. this was first published in the year under the title, "hugues de lincoln: recueil de ballades anglo-normande et ecossoises relatives au meurtre de cet enfant commis par les juifs en mcclv." the rev. dr. a. hume communicated a very full paper on the subject of the tradition to the literary and philosophical society of liverpool, on november , , which is published in the proceedings (no. ), and mr. j. o. halliwell printed, in , a small volume containing "ballads and poems respecting hugh of lincoln." in the _athenæum_ for dec. , , there is a condemnatory review of dr. hume's work, to which the reviewer has added some valuable information of his own. percy's remark that _mirry-land town_ is a corruption of milan town, and _pa_ of the river po, seems far-fetched, as there is no reason for supposing that the ballad was in any way connected with italy. jamieson's version reads _merry lincoln_, and in motherwell's the scene is changed to maitland town. in some parts of england the ballad has degenerated into a sort of nursery rhyme, the northamptonshire version reading "merry scotland," and the shropshire one, "merry-cock land." mr. j. h. dixon suggests _mere-land town_, from the mere or fen lakes, and reads wa' for pa'. (_notes and queries_, rd series, vol. ix. p. , note.) miss agnes strickland communicated the following lines obtained from oral tradition at godalming, in surrey, to mr. halliwell, who printed them in his tract:-- "he toss'd the ball so high, so high, he toss'd the ball so low; he toss'd the ball in the jew's garden, and the jews were all below. "oh! then out came the jew's daughter, she was dressèd all in green: 'come hither, come hither, my sweet pretty fellow, and fetch your ball again.'" the tradition upon which this ballad is founded--that the jews use human blood in their preparation for the passover, and are in the habit of kidnapping and butchering christian children for the purpose--is very widely spread and of great antiquity. eisenmenger[ ] refers to a case which occurred at inmestar, in syria, so early as the year , but the earliest case recorded as having occurred in europe is that of william of norwich, in . the following is a translation from a passage in the _peterborough chronicle_ (which ends with the death of stephen and the accession of henry the second), relating to this remarkable superstition:--"now we will say something of what happened in king stephen's time. in his time the jews of norwich bought a christian child before easter, and tortured him with all the same torturing that our lord was tortured. and on good friday (lang fridæi) they hanged him on a cross, for our lord's love; and afterwards buried him. they thought (wenden) that it should be concealed, but our lord showed that he was a holy martyr (mr), and the monks took him and buried him solemnly in the monastery (minst). and he maketh through our lord wonderful and manifold miracles. and he was called saint william." mr. earle, in his note to this passage,[ ] says that "s. william seems to have retained his celebrity down to the time of the reformation, at least in norfolk. in loddon church, which is advanced perpendicular of about , there is a painting of his crucifixion on a panel of the rood-screen, still in fair preservation." st. william's fame, however, was eclipsed in other parts of england by that of sir hugh of lincoln, whose death was celebrated by historians and poets. henry iii. being often in want of money, was glad to take any opportunity of extorting it from the unfortunate jews, and in his exchequer particularly required replenishing on account of the expected arrival in england of his son edward's newly married wife, eleanor of castile. in this year a young boy was murdered, and, opportunely for the king, the crime was charged to the jews. it was asserted that the child had been stolen, fattened on bread and milk for ten days, and crucified with all the cruelties and insults of christ's passion, in the presence of all the jews in england, who had been summoned to lincoln for the purpose. the supposed criminals were brought to justice, and the king's commission for the trial, and the warrant to sell the goods of the several jews who were found guilty, are still preserved. the jew into whose house the child had gone to play, tempted by the promise of his life, made a full confession, and threw the guilt upon his brethren. ninety-one jews of lincoln were sent to london as accomplices, and thrown into dungeons. eighteen of the richest were hanged on a gallows, and twenty more imprisoned in the tower of london. the king was enriched by the spoils, and the clergy of lincoln did not lose their opportunity, for the minster was made famous by the possession of the martyr's tomb. dean milman, in relating these circumstances, says: "great part of the story refutes itself, but i have already admitted the possibility that among the ignorant and fanatic jews there might be some who, exasperated by the constant repetition of the charge, might brood over it so long, as at length to be tempted to its perpetration."[ ] any such explanation as this, however, does not seem necessary, for the wide-spread existence of the superstition goes far to prove the entire falsehood at least of the later cases, and the story of sir hugh was but a revival of that of st. william. it is worth mentioning, in passing, that this calumny was in fact a recoil upon the jews themselves of a weapon they had used against the christians. as early as the third century they affirmed that christians in celebrating their mysteries used to kill a child and eat its flesh. pagans probably learnt the calumny from the jews, and also charged the christians with eating children. the whole proceedings in the case of sir hugh are chronicled by matthew paris, who was in high favour with henry iii., and from his pages the account is transferred to the chronicles of grafton, fabyan, and holinshed. chaucer most probably consulted the same source when he included the story in his _canterbury tales_, although he shifts the scene to asia, and makes his prioress say, when ending her tale with a reference to sir hugh:-- "o younge hughe of lyncoln; slayn also with cursed jewes (as it is notable, for it nys _but a litel while ago_)." tyrwhitt, in his edition of chaucer, notes that he found in the first four months of the _acta sanctorum_ of bollandus the names of five children canonized as having been murdered by the jews, and he supposes that the remaining eight months would furnish at least as many more. tyrwhitt accepts percy's interpretation of mirry-land as a corruption of the name of milan, and under this erroneous impression he suggests that the real occasion of the ballad may have been the murder of the boy simon, at trent, in .[ ] the superstition upon which all these stories are founded is said still to prevail among the ignorant members of the greek church, and it was revived at damascus in in consequence of the disappearance of a priest named thomaso. two or three jews were put to death before a proper judicial examination could be made, and the popular fury was so excited that severe persecution extended through a large part of the turkish empire. sir moses montefiore visited the various localities with the object of obtaining redress for his people, and he was successful. on november , , a firman for the protection of the jews was given at constantinople, which contained the following passage:--"an ancient prejudice prevailed against the jews. the ignorant believed that the jews were accustomed to sacrifice a human being, to make use of his blood at the passover. in consequence of this opinion the jews of damascus and rhodes, who are subjects of our empire, have been persecuted by other nations.... but a short time has elapsed since some jews dwelling in the isle of rhodes were brought from thence to constantinople, where they had been tried and judged according to the new regulations, and their innocence of the accusations made against them fully proved." the calumny, however, was again raised in october, , and the jews were in imminent peril when the missing boy, who had been staying at baalbec, reappeared in good health. within the last few years the greek patriarch at constantinople has issued a pastoral letter, in which he points out the wickedness of the christian persecution of the jews. he says: "superstition is a detestable thing. almost all the christian nations of the east have taken up the extravagant idea that the israelites enjoy shedding christian blood, either to obtain thereby a blessing from heaven, or to gratify their national rancour against christ. hence conflicts and disturbances break out, by which the social harmony between the dwellers in the same land, yea, the same fatherland, is disturbed. thus a report was lately spread of the abduction of little christian children in order to give a pretext for suspicion. we on our side abhor such lying fancies; we regard them as the superstitions of men of weak faith and narrow minds; and we disavow them officially." the superstition, however, still lives on, and according to the _levant herald_ ( ), the mahometans are beginning to fall into the delusion that the sacrificial knife is applied by the jews to young turks as well as to young christians.] * * * * * the rain rins doun through mirry-land toune, sae dois it doune the pa: sae dois the lads of mirry-land toune, quhan they play at the ba'.[ ] than out and cam the jewis dochtèr, said, will ye cum in and dine? "i winnae cum in, i cannae cum in, without my play-feres[ ] nine." scho[ ] powd[ ] an apple reid and white to intice the yong thing in: scho powd an apple white and reid, and that the sweit bairne did win. and scho has taine out a little pen-knife, and low down by her gair,[ ] scho has twin'd[ ] the yong thing and his life; a word he nevir spak mair. and out and cam the thick thick bluid, and out and cam the thin; and out and cam the bonny herts bluid: thair was nae life left in. scho laid him on a dressing borde, and drest him like a swine, and laughing said, gae nou and pley with your sweit play-feres nine. scho rowd[ ] him in a cake of lead, bade him lie stil and sleip. scho cast him in a deip draw-well, was fifty fadom deip. quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung, and every lady went hame: than ilka lady had her yong sonne, bot lady helen had nane. scho rowd hir mantil hir about, and sair sair gan she weip: and she ran into the jewis castèl, quhan they wer all asleip. my bonny sir hew, my pretty sir hew, i pray thee to me speik. "o lady, rinn to the deip draw-well, gin[ ] ye your sonne wad seik." lady helen ran to the deip draw-well, and knelt upon her kne: my bonny sir hew, an[ ] ye be here, i pray thee speik to me. "the lead is wondrous heavy, mither, the well is wondrous deip, a keen pen-knife sticks in my hert, a word i dounae[ ] speik. gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir, fetch me my windling sheet, and at the back o' mirry-land toun, its thair we twa fall meet." * * * * * footnotes: [ ] _entdecktes judenthum_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _two of the saxon chronicles parallel_, , p. . [ ] _history of the jews_, ed. , vol. iii. p. . [ ] mr. hales points out to me the following reference to the superstition in marlowe's _jew of malta_, act iii.:-- "_friar jacomo._ why, what has he done? _friar barnardine._ a thing that makes me tremble to unfold. _jac._ what, has he crucified a child? _bar._ no, but a worse thing; 'twas told me in shrift; thou know'st 'tis death, an if it be reveal'd." dyce in his note quotes from reed a reference to tovey's _anglio_ _judaica_, where instances of such crucifixion are given. [ ] [ball.] [ ] [play-fellows.] [ ] [she.] [ ] [pulled.] [ ] [dress.] [ ] [parted in two.] [ ] [she rolled.] [ ] [if.] [ ] [if.] [ ] [cannot.] iv. sir cauline. this old romantic tale was preserved in the editor's folio ms. but in so very defective and mutilated a condition (not from any chasm in the ms. but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrell), and the whole appeared so far short of the perfection it seemed to deserve, that the editor was tempted to add several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and compleat the story in the manner which appeared to him most interesting and affecting. there is something peculiar in the metre of this old ballad: it is not unusual to meet with redundant stanzas of six lines; but the occasional insertion of a double third or fourth line, as ver. , &c. is an irregularity i do not remember to have seen elsewhere. it may be proper to inform the reader before he comes to pt. ii. v. , , that the round table was not peculiar to the reign of k. arthur, but was common in all the ages of chivalry. the proclaiming a great turnament (probably with some peculiar solemnities) was called "holding a round table." dugdale tells us, that the great baron roger de mortimer "having procured the honour of knighthood to be conferred 'on his three sons' by k. edw. i. he, at his own costs, caused a tourneament to be held at kenilworth; where he sumptuously entertained an hundred knights, and as many ladies, for three days; the like whereof was never before in england; and there began the round table, (so called by reason that the place wherein they practised those feats was environed with a strong wall made in a round form:) and upon the fourth day, the golden lion, in sign of triumph, being yielded to him; he carried it (with all the company) to warwick."--it may further be added, that matthew paris frequently calls justs and turnaments _hastiludia mensæ rotundæ_. as to what will be observed in this ballad of the art of healing being practised by a young princess; it is no more than what is usual in all the old romances, and was conformable to real manners: it being a practice derived from the earliest times among all the gothic and celtic nations, for women, even of the highest rank, to exercise the art of surgery. in the northern chronicles we always find the young damsels stanching the wounds of their lovers, and the wives those of their husbands.[ ] and even so late as the time of q. elizabeth, it is mentioned among the accomplishments of the ladies of her court, that the "eldest of them are skilful in surgery." see harrison's _description of england_, prefixed to hollinshed's _chronicle, &c._ * * * * * [this story of _sir cauline_ furnishes one of the most flagrant instances of percy's manipulation of his authorities. in the following poem all the verses which are due to percy's invention are placed between brackets, but the whole has been so much altered by him that it has been found necessary to reprint the original from the folio ms. at the end in order that readers may compare the two. percy put into his version several new incidents and altered the ending, by which means he was able to dilute the lines of the ms. copy into of his own. there was no necessity for this perversion of the original, because the story is there complete, and moreover percy did not sufficiently indicate the great changes he had made, for although nearly every verse is altered he only noted one trivial difference of reading, viz. aukeward for backward (v. ). motherwell reprinted this ballad in his _minstrelsy_, and in his prefatory note he made the following shrewd guess, which we now know to be a correct one:--"we suspect too that the ancient ballad had a less melancholy catastrophe, and that the brave syr cauline, after his combat with the 'hend soldan' derived as much benefit from the leechcraft of fair cristabelle as he did after winning the eldridge sword." professor child has expressed the same view in his note to the ballad. buchan printed a ballad entitled _king malcolm and sir colvin_, which is more like the original than percy's version, but mr. hales is of opinion that this was one of that collector's fabrications.] * * * * * the first part. [in ireland, ferr over the sea, there dwelleth a bonnye kinge; and with him a yong and comlye knighte, men call him syr caulìne. the kinge had a ladye to his daughter, in fashyon she hath no peere; and princely wightes that ladye wooed to be theyr wedded feere.[ ]] syr cauline loveth her best of all, but nothing durst he saye; ne descreeve[ ] his counsayl to no man, but deerlye he lovde this may.[ ] till on a daye it so beffell, great dill[ ] to him was dight;[ ] the maydens love removde his mynd, to care-bed went the knighte. one while he spred his armes him fro, one while he spred them nye: and aye! but i winne that ladyes love, for dole[ ] now i mun[ ] dye. and whan our parish-masse was done, our kinge was bowne[ ] to dyne: he sayes, where is syr cauline, that is wont to serve the wyne? then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, and fast his handes gan wringe: sir cauline is sicke, and like to dye without a good leechìnge.[ ] fetche me downe my daughter deere, she is a leeche fulle fine: goe take him doughe,[ ] and the baken bread, and serve him with the wyne soe red; lothe i were him to tine.[ ] fair christabelle to his chaumber goes, her maydens followyng nye: o well, she sayth, how doth my lord? o sicke, thou fayr ladyè. nowe ryse up wightlye,[ ] man, for shame, never lye soe cowardlee; for it is told in my fathers halle, you dye for love of mee. fayre ladye, it is for your love that all this dill i drye:[ ] for if you wold comfort me with a kisse, then were i brought from bale to blisse, no lenger wold i lye. [sir knighte, my father is a kinge, i am his onlye heire; alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte, i never can be youre fere. o ladye, thou art a kinges daughtèr, and i am not thy peere, but let me doe some deedes of armes to be your bacheleere.[ ] some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, my bacheleere to bee, (but ever and aye my heart wold rue, giff[ ] harm shold happe to thee,)] upon eldridge[ ] hill there groweth a thorne, upon the mores brodinge;[ ] and dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte until the fayre mornìnge? for the eldridge knighte, so mickle[ ] of mighte, will examine you beforne:[ ] and never man bare life awaye, but he did him scath[ ] and scorne. [that knighte he is a foul paynìm,[ ] and large of limb and bone; and but if heaven may be thy speede, thy life it is but gone. nowe on the eldridge hilles ile walke,[ ] for thy sake, fair ladìe;] and he either bring you a ready tokèn, or he never more you see the lady is gone to her own chaumbère, her maydens following bright: [syr cauline lope[ ] from care-bed soone, and to the eldridge hills is gone,] for to wake there all night. unto midnight, that the moone did rise, he walked up and downe; then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe over the bents[ ] soe browne; quoth hee, if cryance come till[ ] my heart, i am ffar from any good towne. and soone he spyde on the mores so broad, a furyous wight and fell;[ ] a ladye bright his brydle led, clad in a fayre kyrtèll: and soe fast he called on syr caulìne, o man, i rede[ ] thee flye, for 'but' if cryance comes till thy heart, i weene but thou mun dye. he sayth, 'no' cryance comes till my heart, nor, in faith, i wyll not flee; for, cause thou minged[ ] not christ before, the less me dreadeth thee. [the eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed; syr cauline bold abode: then either shooke his trustye speare,] and the timber these two children[ ] bare soe soone in sunder slode.[ ] then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, and layden[ ] on full faste, [till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, they all were well-nye brast.[ ]] the eldridge knight was mickle of might, and stiffe in stower[ ] did stande, but syr cauline with a 'backward' stroke,[ ] he smote off his right hand; that soone he with paine and lacke of bloud fell downe on that lay-land.[ ] [then up syr cauline lift his brande all over his head so hye: and here i sweare by the holy roode, nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye. then up and came that ladye brighte, fast wringing of her hande: for the maydens love, that most you love, withold that deadlye brande: for the maydens love, that most you love, now smyte no more i praye; and aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, he shall thy hests[ ] obaye. now sweare to mee, thou eldridge knighte, and here on this lay-land, that thou wilt believe on christ his laye,[ ] and therto plight thy hand: and that thou never on eldridge come to sporte, gamon,[ ] or playe: and that thou here give up thy armes until thy dying daye. the eldridge knighte gave up his armes with many a sorrowfulle sighe; and sware to obey syr caulines hest, till the tyme that he shold dye.] and he then up and the eldridge knighte sett him in his saddle anone, and the eldridge knighte and his ladye to theyr castle are they gone. [then he tooke up the bloudy hand, that was so large of bone, and on it he founde five ringes of gold of knightes that had be slone.[ ] then he tooke up the eldridge sworde, as hard as any flint: and he tooke off those ringès five, as bright as fyre and brent. home then pricked[ ] syr cauline as light as leafe on tree: i-wys he neither stint ne blanne,[ ] till he his ladye see. then downe he knelt upon his knee before that lady gay: o ladye, i have bin on the eldridge hills: these tokens i bring away. now welcome, welcome, syr caulìne, thrice welcome unto mee, for now i perceive thou art a true knighte, of valour bolde and free. o ladye, i am thy own true knighte, thy hests for to obaye: and mought i hope to winne thy love!-- ne more his tonge colde say. the ladye blushed scarlette redde, and fette[ ] a gentill sighe: alas! syr knight, how may this bee, for my degree's soe highe? but sith thou hast hight,[ ] thou comely youth, to be my batchilere, ile promise if thee i may not wedde i will have none other fere.[ ] then shee held forthe her lilly-white hand towards that knighte so free; he gave to it one gentill kisse, his heart was brought from bale to blisse, the teares sterte[ ] from his ee. but keep my counsayl, syr caulìne, ne let no man it knowe; for and ever my father sholde it ken, i wot he wolde us sloe.[ ] from that daye forthe that ladye fayre lovde syr caulìne the knighte: from that daye forthe he only joyde whan shee was in his sight. yea and oftentimes they mette within a fayre arbòure, where they in love and sweet daliaunce past manye a pleasaunt houre.] * * * * * [***] in this conclusion of the _first part_, and at the beginning of the _second_, the reader will observe a resemblance to the story of _sigismunda and guiscard_, as told by boccace and dryden. see the latter's description of the lovers meeting in the cave; and those beautiful lines, which contain a reflection so like this of our poet, "_everye white_," &c., viz.: "but as extremes are short of ill and good, and tides at highest mark regorge their flood; so fate, that could no more improve their joy, took a malicious pleasure to destroy tancred, who fondly loved," &c. [illustration] part the second. everye white will have its blacke, and everye sweete its sowre: this founde the ladye christabelle in an untimely howre. for so it befelle, as syr caulìne was with that ladye faire, the kinge her father walked forthe to take the evenyng aire: and into the arboure as he went to rest his wearye feet, he found his daughter and syr caulìne there sette in daliaunce sweet. the kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys,[ ] and an angrye man was hee: nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe, and rewe shall thy ladìe. then forthe syr cauline he was ledde, and throwne in dungeon deepe: and the ladye into a towre so hye, there left to wayle and weepe. the queene she was syr caulines friend, and to the kinge sayd shee: i praye you save syr caulines life, and let him banisht bee. now, dame, that traitor shall be sent across the salt sea fome: but here i will make thee a band,[ ] if ever he come within this land, a foule deathe is his doome. all woe-begone was that gentil knight to parte from his ladyè; and many a time he sighed sore, and cast a wistfulle eye: faire christabelle, from thee to parte, farre lever[ ] had i dye. faire christabelle, that ladye bright, was had forthe of the towre; but ever shee droopeth in her minde, as nipt by an ungentle winde doth some faire lillye flowre. and ever shee doth lament and weepe to tint[ ] her lover soe: syr cauline, thou little think'st on mee, but i will still be true. manye a kynge, and manye a duke, and lorde of high degree, did sue to that fayre ladye of love; but never shee wolde them nee.[ ] when manye a daye was past and gone, ne comforte she colde finde, the kynge proclaimed a tourneament, to cheere his daughters mind: and there came lords, and there came knights, fro manye a farre countryè, to break a spere for theyr ladyes love before that faire ladyè. and many a ladye there was sette in purple and in palle:[ ] but faire christabelle soe woe-begone was the fayrest of them all. then manye a knighte was mickle of might before his ladye gaye; but a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, he wan the prize eche daye. his acton[ ] it was all of blacke, his hewberke,[ ] and his sheelde, ne noe man wist whence he did come, ne noe man knewe where he did gone, when they came from the feelde. and now three days were prestlye[ ] past in feates of chivalrye, when lo upon the fourth mornìnge a sorrowfulle sight they see. a hugye giaunt stiffe and starke, all foule of limbe and lere;[ ] two goggling eyen like fire farden,[ ] a mouthe from eare to eare. before him came a dwarffe full lowe, that waited on his knee, and at his backe five heads he bare, all wan and pale of blee.[ ] sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted[ ] lowe, behold that hend[ ] soldàin! behold these heads i beare with me! they are kings which he hath slain. the eldridge knìght is his own cousìne, whom a knight of thine hath shent:[ ] and hee is come to avenge his wrong, and to thee, all thy knightes among, defiance here hath sent. but yette he will appease his wrath thy daughters love to winne: and but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd, thy halls and towers must brenne.[ ] thy head, syr king, must goe with mee; or else thy daughter deere; or else within these lists soe broad thou must finde him a peere.[ ] the king he turned him round aboute, and in his heart was woe: is there never a knighte of my round tablè, this matter will undergoe? [is there never a knighte amongst yee all will fight for my daughter and mee? whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn, right fair his meede shall bee. for hee shall have my broad lay-lands, and of my crowne be heyre; and he shall winne fayre christabelle to be his wedded fere. but every knighte of his round table did stand both still and pale; for whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn, it made their hearts to quail. all woe-begone was that fayre ladyè, when she sawe no helpe was nye: she cast her thought on her owne true-love, and the teares gusht from her eye. up then sterte the stranger knighte, sayd, ladye, be not affrayd: ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn, thoughe he be unmacklye[ ] made. and if thou wilt lend me the eldridge sworde, that lyeth within thy bowre, i truste in christe for to slay this fiende thoughe he be stiff in stowre. goe fetch him downe the eldridge sworde, the kinge he cryde, with speede: nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte; my daughter is thy meede.[ ] the gyaunt he stepped into the lists, and sayd, awaye, awaye: i sweare, as i am the hend soldàn, thou lettest[ ] me here all daye. then forthe the stranger knight he came in his blacke armoure dight: the ladye sighed a gentle sighe, "that this were my true knighte!" and nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett within the lists soe broad; and now with swordes soe sharpe of steele, they gan to lay on load.[ ] the soldan strucke the knighte a stroke, that made him reele asyde; then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè, and thrice she deeply sighde. the soldan strucke a second stroke, and made the bloude to flowe: all pale and wan was that ladye fayre, and thrice she wept for woe. the soldan strucke a third fell stroke, which brought the knighte on his knee: sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, and she shriekt loud shriekings three. the knighte he leapt upon his feete, all recklesse of the pain: quoth hee, but[ ] heaven be now my speede, or else[ ] i shall be slaine. he grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, and spying a secrette part, he drave it into the soldan's syde, and pierced him to the heart. then all the people gave a shoute, whan they sawe the soldan falle: the ladye wept, and thanked christ, that had reskewed her from thrall.[ ] and nowe the kinge with all his barons rose uppe from offe his seate, and downe he stepped intò the listes, that curteous knighte to greete. but he for payne and lacke of bloude was fallen intò a swounde, and there all walteringe in his gore, lay lifelesse on the grounde. come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, thou art a leeche of skille; farre lever[ ] had i lose halfe my landes, than this good knighte sholde spille.[ ] downe then steppeth that fayre ladyè, to helpe him if she maye; but when she did his beavere raise, it is my life, my lord, she sayes, and shriekte and swound awaye. sir cauline juste lifte up his eyes when he heard his ladye crye, o ladye, i am thine owne true love; for thee i wisht to dye. then giving her one partinge looke, he closed his eyes in death, ere christabelle, that ladye milde, begane to drawe her breathe. but when she found her comelye knighte indeed was dead and gone, she layde her pale cold cheeke to his, and thus she made her moane. o staye, my deare and onlye lord, for mee thy faithfulle feere;[ ] 'tis meet that i shold followe thee, who hast bought my love soe deare. then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, and with a deepe-fette[ ] sighe, that burst her gentle hearte in twayne, fayre christabelle did dye.] [***] [illustration] [the following is the original ballad from which percy concocted his own. it is reprinted from _bishop percy's folio ms., ed. hales and furnivall_, vol. iii. p. . iesus: lord mickle of might, _tha_t dyed ffor vs on the roode to maintaine vs in all our right, _tha_t loues true english blood. ffor by a k_nigh_t i say my song, was bold & ffull hardye; s_i_r robert briuse wold fforth to ffight in-to ireland ouer the sea; & in _tha_t land dwells a king _whi_ch ouer all does beare the bell, & w_i_th him there dwelled a curteous k_nigh_t, men call him s_i_r cawline. and he hath a ladye to his daughter, of ffashyon shee hath noe peere; k_night_s & lordes they woed her both, trusted to haue beene her peere. s_i_r cawline loues her best of oné, but nothing durst hee say to discreeue his councell to noe man, but deerlye loued this mayd. till itt beffell vpon a day, great dill to him was dight; the maydens loue remoued his mind, to care bed went the knight; & one while he spread his armes him ffroe, & cryed soe pittyouslye "ffor the maydens loue _tha_t i haue most minde, this day may comfort mee, or else ere noone i shalbe dead!" thus can s_i_r cawline say. when our p_ar_ish masse _tha_t itt was done, & our king was bowne to dine, he sayes, "where is s_i_r cawline _tha_t was wont to serue me w_i_th ale and wine?" but then answered a curteous k_nigh_t ffast wringinge his hands, "s_i_r cawlines sicke, & like to be dead w_i_thout and a good leedginge." "ffeitch yee downe my daughter deere, shee is a leeche ffull ffine; i, and take you doe & the baken bread, and eene on the wine soe red, & looke no day[n]tinesse ffor him to deare, for ffull loth i wold him teene." this ladye is gone to his chamber, her maydens ffollowing nye, "o well," shee sayth, "how doth my lord?" "o sicke!" againe saith hee. "i, but rise vp wightlye, man, for shame: neuer lye soe cowardlye here! itt is told in my ffathers hall, ffor my loue you will dye." "itt is ffor y_ou_r loue, ffayre ladye, _tha_t all this dill i drye. ffor if you wold comfort me w_i_th a kisse, then were i brought ffrom bale to blisse, noe longer here wold i lye." "alas! soe well you know, s_i_r k_nigh_t, i cannott bee yo_u_r peere." "ffor some deeds of armes ffaine wold i doe to be yo_u_r bacheeleere." "vpon eldridge hill there growes a thorne vpon the mores brodinge; & wold you, s_i_r knight, wake there all night to day of the other morninge? "ffor the eldrige k_ing tha_t is mickle of might will examine you beforne; & there was neuer man _tha_t bare his liffe away since the day _tha_t i was borne." "but i will ffor yo_u_r sake, ffaire ladye, walke on the bents [soe] browne, & ile either bring you a readye token or ile neuer come to you againe." but this ladye is gone to her chamber, her maydens ffollowing bright; & s_i_r cawlins gone to the mores soe broad, ffor to wake there all night. vnto midnight they moone did rise, he walked vp and downe, & a lightsome bugle then heard he blow ouer the bents soe browne. saies hee, "and if cryance come vntill my hart, i am ffarr ffrom any good towne;" & he spyed ene a litle him by, a ffuryous king and a ffell, & a ladye bright his brydle led, _tha_t seemlye itt was to see; & soe fast hee called vpon s_i_r cawline, "oh man, i redd thee fflye! ffor if cryance come vntill thy hart, i am a-feard least thou mun dye." he sayes, "[no] cryance comes to my hart, nor ifaith i ffeare not thee; ffor because thou minged not christ before, thee lesse me dreadeth thee." but s_i_r cawline he shooke a speare, the k_ing_ was bold, and abode, & the timber these children bore soe soone in sunder slode, ffor they tooke & good swords, & they layden on good loade. but the elridge k_ing_ was mickle of might, & stiffly to the ground did stand; but s_i_r cawline w_i_th an aukeward stroke he brought him ffrom his hand, i, & fflying ouer his head soe hye, ffell downe of _tha_t lay land: & his lady stood a litle thereby, ffast ringing her hands: "for they maydens loue _tha_t you haue most meed, smyte you my lo_r_d no more, & heest neu_er_ come vpon eldrige [hill] him to sport, gamon, or play, & to meete noe man of middle earth, & _tha_t liues on christs his lay." but he then vp, and _tha_t eldryge k_ing_ sett him in his sadle againe, & _tha_t eldryge k_ing_ & his ladye to their castle are they gone. & hee tooke then vp & _tha_t eldryge sword as hard as any fflynt, & soe he did those ringes , harder than ffyer, and brent. ffirst he p_re_sented to the k_ing_s daughter they hand, & then they sword. "but a serrett buffett you haue him giuen, the k_ing_ & the crowne!" she sayd, "i, but stripes comen beside the rood." & a gyant that was both stiffe [&] strong, he lope now them amonge, & vpon his squier heads he bare, vnmackley made was hee. & he dranke then on the k_ing_s wine, & hee put the cup in his sleeue; & all thé trembled & were wan ffor feare he shold them greeffe. "ile tell thee mine arrand, k_ing_," he sayes, "mine errand what i doe heere; ffor i will bren thy temples hye, or ile haue thy daughter deere; in, or else vpon, yond more soe brood thou shalt ffind mee a ppeare." the k_ing_ he turned him round about, (lo_rd_, in his heart he was woe!), says, "is there noe k_nigh_t of the round table this matter will vndergoe? "i, & hee shall haue my broad lands, & keepe them well his liue; i, and soe hee shall my daughter deere, to be his weded wiffe." & then stood vp s_i_r cawline his owne errand ffor to say. "ifaith, i wold to god, s_i_r," sayd s_i_r cawline, "_tha_t soldan i will assay. "goe, ffeitch me downe my eldrige sword, ffor i woone itt att [a] ffray." "but away, away!" sayd the hend soldan, "thou tarryest mee here all day!" but the hend soldan and s_i_r cawline thé ffought a sum_m_ers day: now has hee slaine _tha_t hend soldan, & brought his heads away. & the k_ing_ has betaken him his broade lands & all his venison. "but take you too & yo_u_r lands [soe] broad, & brooke them well yo_u_r liffe, ffor you p_ro_mised mee yo_u_r daughter deere to be my weded wiffe." "now by my ffaith," then sayes our k_ing_, "ffor _tha_t wee will not striffe; ffor thou shalt haue my daughter dere to be thy weded wiffe." the other morninge s_i_r cawline rose by the dawning of the day, & vntill a garden did he goe his mattins ffor to say; & _tha_t bespyed a ffalse steward-- a shames death _tha_t he might dye!-- & he lett a lyon out of a bande, s_i_r cawline ffor to teare; & he had noe wepon him vpon, nor noe wepon did weare. but hee tooke then his mantle of greene, into the lyons mouth itt thrust; he held the lyon soe sore to the wall till the lyons hart did burst. & the watchmen cryed vpon the walls & sayd, "s_i_r cawlines slaine! and w_i_th a beast is not ffull litle, a lyon of mickle mayne." then the k_ing_s daughter shee ffell downe, "for peerlesse is my payne!" "o peace, my lady!" sayes s_i_r cawline, "i haue bought thy loue ffull deere. o peace, my lady!" sayes s_i_r cawline, "peace, lady, ffor i am heere!" then he did marry this k_ing_s daughter w_i_th gold & siluer bright, & sonnes this ladye beere to s_i_r cawline the knight. ffins.] footnotes: [ ] see _northern antiquities, &c._ vol. i. p. ; vol. ii. p. . _memoires de la chevalerie_, tom. i. p. . [ ] [mate.] [ ] [describe.] [ ] [maiden.] [ ] [grief.] [ ] [wrought.] [ ] [sorrow.] [ ] [must.] [ ] [made ready.] [ ] [medical care.] [ ] [this is an odd misreading of percy's. the ms. has "i and take you doe and the baken bread," where _doe_ is the auxiliary verb and the _and_ redundant.] [ ] [lose.] [ ] [swiftly.] [ ] [pain i suffer.] [ ] [knight.] [ ] [if.] [ ] [spectral, lonesome.] [ ] [wide moors.] [ ] [great.] [ ] [before.] [ ] [harm.] [ ] [pagan.] [ ] perhaps _wake_, as above in ver. . [ ] [leaped.] [ ] [fields.] [ ] [if fear come to.] [ ] [fierce.] [ ] [advise.] [ ] [mentioned.] [ ] _i. e._ knights. see the preface to _child waters_, vol. iii. [ ] [split.] [ ] [laid.] [ ] [burst.] [ ] [battle.] [ ] ver. , aukeward. ms. [ ] [green sward.] [ ] [commands.] [ ] [law.] [ ] [fight.] [ ] [slain.] [ ] [spurred.] [ ] [neither stopped nor lingered.] [ ] [fetched.] [ ] [since thou hast engaged.] [ ] [mate.] [ ] [started.] [ ] [i know he would slay us.] [ ] [verily.] [ ] [bond or covenant.] [ ] [rather.] [ ] [lose.] [ ] [nigh.] [ ] [fine cloth.] [ ] [leather jacket.] [ ] [coat of mail.] [ ] [quickly.] [ ] [countenance.] [ ] [flashed.] [ ] [complexion.] [ ] [bowed.] [ ] [courteous.] [ ] [injured.] [ ] [burn.] [ ] [equal.] [ ] [mis-shapen.] [ ] [reward.] [ ] [detainest.] [ ] [give blows.] [ ] [unless.] [ ] ["or else," redundant from a misunderstanding of the word _but_.] [ ] [captivity.] [ ] [rather.] [ ] [come to harm.] [ ] [mate.] [ ] [deep-drawn.] v. edward, edward. a scottish ballad. _from a ms. copy transmitted from scotland._ [the affectedly antique orthography of this ballad has caused some to suppose that it was a modern invention, probably by lady wardlaw, the author of _hardyknute_, but motherwell obtained another version from the recitation of an old woman, which he printed in his _minstrelsy_ under the title of "son davie, son davie." he there says that there is reason to believe that lord hailes "made a few slight verbal improvements in the copy he transmitted, and altered the hero's name to edward, a name which, by the bye, never occurs in a scottish ballad except where allusion is made to an english king." there is a swedish ballad of the same character entitled _the_ _fratricide's lament and dialogue with his mother before he wanders away from home for ever_. the form of a dialogue between a mother and her son is a favourite one in the old ballads, and "lord donald" in kinloch's _scottish ballads_ and "lord randal" in scott's _minstrelsy_ bear some likeness to the ballad of "edward." the hero is supposed to have been poisoned by eating toads prepared as a dish of fishes, and the last stanza of kinloch's ballad is as follows:-- "what will ye leave to your true love, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your true love, my jollie young man? the tow and the halter for to hang on yon tree, and lat her hang there for the poysoning o' me."] * * * * * quhy dois your brand sae drop wi' bluid,[ ] edward, edward? quhy dois your brand sae drop wi' bluid? and quhy sae sad gang yee, o?[ ] o, i hae killed my hauke sae guid, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my hauke sae guid: and i had nae mair bot hee,[ ] o. your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, edward, edward. your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, my deir son i tell thee, o. o, i hae killed my reid-roan steid, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my reid-roan steid, that erst was sae fair and free, o. your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, edward, edward: your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, sum other dule ye drie,[ ] o. o, i hae killed my fadir deir, mither, mither: o, i hae killed my fadir deir, alas! and wae is me, o! and quhatten penance wul ye drie[ ] for that, edward, edward? and quhatten penance will ye drie for that? my deir son, now tell me, o. ile set my feit in yonder boat, mither, mither: ile set my feit in yonder boat, and ile fare[ ] ovir the sea, o. and quhat wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha',[ ] edward, edward? and quhat wul ye doe wi' your towirs and your ha', that were sae fair to see, o? ile let thame stand til they doun fa',[ ] mither, mither: ile let thame stand til they doun fa', for here nevir mair maun i bee, o. and quhat wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, edward, edward? and quhat wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, quhan ye gang ovir the sea, o? the warldis room,[ ] let thame beg throw life, mither, mither: the warldis room, let thame beg throw life, for thame nevir mair wul i see, o. and quhat wul ye leive to your ain mither deir, edward, edward? and quhat wul ye leive to your ain mither deir? my deir son, now tell me, o. the curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, mither, mither: the curse of hell frae me sall ye beir, sic counseils ye gave to me, o. * * * * * this curious song was transmitted to the editor by sir david dalrymple, bart., late lord hailes. footnotes: [ ] [why does your sword so drop with blood.] [ ] [and why so sad go ye.] [ ] [no other but he.] [ ] [some other grief you suffer.] [ ] [undergo.] [ ] [pass.] [ ] [hall.] [ ] [fall.] [ ] [the world's large.] vi. king estmere. this old romantic legend (which is given from two copies, one of them in the editor's folio ms., but which contained very great variations), bears marks of considerable antiquity, and, perhaps, ought to have taken place of any in this volume. it would seem to have been written while part of spain was in the hands of the saracens or moors: whose empire there was not fully extinguished before the year . the mahometans are spoken of in v. , &c., just in the same terms as in all other old romances. the author of the ancient legend of _sir bevis_ represents his hero, upon all occasions, breathing out defiance against "mahound and termagaunte;"[ ] and so full of zeal for his religion, as to return the following polite message to a paynim king's fair daughter, who had fallen in love with him, and sent two saracen knights to invite him to her bower, "i wyll not ones stirre off this grounde, to speake with an heathen hounde. unchristen houndes, i rede you fle. or i your harte bloud shall se."[ ] indeed they return the compliment by calling him elsewhere "a christen hounde."[ ] this was conformable to the real manners of the barbarous ages: perhaps the same excuse will hardly serve our bard, for that adland should be found lolling or leaning at his gate (v. ) may be thought, perchance, a little out of character. and yet the great painter of manners, homer, did not think it inconsistent with decorum to represent a king of the taphians leaning at the gate of ulysses to inquire for that monarch, when he touched at ithaca as he was taking a voyage with a ship's cargo of iron to dispose in traffic.[ ] so little ought we to judge of ancient manners by our own. before i conclude this article, i cannot help observing, that the reader will see, in this ballad, the character of the old minstrels (those successors of the bards) placed in a very respectable light:[ ] here he will see one of them represented mounted on a fine horse, accompanied with an attendant to bear his harp after him, and to sing the poems of his composing. here he will see him mixing in the company of kings without ceremony: no mean proof of the great antiquity of this poem. the farther we carry our inquiries back, the greater respect we find paid to the professors of poetry and music among all the celtic and gothic nations. their character was deemed so sacred, that under its sanction our famous king alfred (as we have already seen)[ ] made no scruple to enter the danish camp, and was at once admitted to the king's headquarters.[ ] our poet has suggested the same expedient to the heroes of this ballad. all the histories of the north are full of the great reverence paid to this order of men. harold harfagre, a celebrated king of norway, was wont to seat them at his table above all the officers of his court: and we find another norwegian king placing five of them by his side in a day of battle, that they might be eye-witnesses of the great exploits they were to celebrate.[ ] as to estmere's riding into the hall while the kings were at table, this was usual in the ages of chivalry; and even to this day we see a relic of this custom still kept up, in the champion's riding into westminster hall during the coronation dinner.[ ] some liberties have been taken with this tale by the editor, but none without notice to the reader in that part which relates to the subject of the harper and his attendant. * * * * * [percy refers to two copies of this ballad, but there is every reason to believe that one of these was the bishop's own composition, as it was never seen by others and has not since been found. the copy from the folio ms. was torn out by percy when he was preparing the fourth edition of the _reliques_ for the press, and is now unfortunately lost, so that we have no means of telling what alterations he made in addition to those which he mentions in the footnotes. the readings in the fourth edition are changed in several places from those printed in the first edition.] * * * * * hearken to me, gentlemen, come and you shall heare; ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren[ ] that ever borne y-were. the tone[ ] of them was adler younge, the tother was kyng estmere; the were as bolde men in their deeds, as any were farr and neare. as they were drinking ale and wine within kyng estmeres halle:[ ] when will ye marry a wyfe, brothèr, a wyfe to glad us all? then bespake him kyng estmere, and answered him hastilee:[ ] i know not that ladye in any land that's able[ ] to marrye with mee. kyng adland hath a daughter, brother, men call her bright and sheene;[ ] if i were kyng here in your stead, that ladye shold be my queene. saies, reade me,[ ] reade me, deare brother, throughout merry englànd, where we might find a messenger betwixt us towe to sende. saies, you shal ryde yourselfe, brothèr, ile beare you companye; many throughe fals messengers are deceived,[ ] and i feare lest soe shold wee. thus the renisht[ ] them to ryde of twoe good renisht[ ] steeds, and when the came to king adlands halle, of redd gold shone their weeds.[ ] and when the came to kyng adlands hall before the goodlye gate, there they found good kyng adlànd rearing[ ] himselfe theratt. now christ thee save, good kyng adlànd; now christ you save and see. sayd, you be welcome, king estmere, right hartilye to mee. you have a daughter, said adler younge, men call her bright and sheene, my brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, of englande to be queene. yesterday was att my deere daughtèr syr bremor the kyng of spayne;[ ] and then she nicked[ ] him of naye, and i doubt sheele[ ] do you the same. the kyng of spayne is a foule paynim,[ ] and 'leeveth[ ] on mahound; and pitye it were that fayre ladyè shold marrye a heathen hound. but grant to me, sayes kyng estmere, for my love i you praye; that i may see your daughter deere before i goe hence awaye. although itt is seven yeers and more since my daughter was in halle, she shall come once downe for your sake to glad my guestès alle. downe then came that mayden fayre, with ladyes laced in pall,[ ] and halfe a hundred of bold knightes, to bring her from bowre to hall; and as many gentle squiers, to tend upon them all. the talents of golde were on her head sette, hanged low downe to her knee; and everye ring on her small fingèr, shone of the chrystall free. saies, god you save, my deere madàm; saies, god you save and see. said, you be welcome, kyng estmere, right welcome unto mee. and if you love me, as you saye, soe well and hartilèe, all that ever you are comen about soone sped now itt shal bee. then bespake her father deare: my daughter, i saye naye; remember well the kyng of spayne, what he sayd yesterdaye. he wold pull downe my halles and castles, and reave[ ] me of my lyfe i cannot blame him if he doe, if i reave him of his wyfe. your castles and your towres, father, are stronglye built aboute; and therefore of the king of spaine[ ] wee neede not stande in doubt. plight me your troth, nowe, kyng estmère, by heaven and your righte hand, that you will marrye me to your wyfe, and make me queene of your land. then kyng estmere he plight his troth by heaven and his righte hand, that he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, and make her queene of his land. and he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, to goe to his owne countree, to fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, that marryed the might bee. they had not ridden scant a myle, a myle forthe of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne, with kempès[ ] many one. but in did come the kyng of spayne, with manye a bold baròne, tone day to marrye kyng adlands daughter, tother daye to carrye her home. shee sent one after kyng estmère in all the spede might bee, that he must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and loose his ladyè. one whyle then the page he went, another while he ranne; till he had oretaken king estmere, i wis, he never blanne.[ ] tydings, tydings, kyng estmere! what tydinges nowe, my boye? o tydinges i can tell to you, that will you sore annoye. you had not ridden scant a mile, a mile out of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne with kempès many a one: but in did come the kyng of spayne with manye a bold baròne, tone daye to marrye king adlands daughter, tother daye to carry her home. my ladye fayre she greetes you well, and ever-more well by mee: you must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and loose your ladyè. saies, reade me, reade me, deere brothèr, my reade shall ryde[ ] at thee, whether it is better to turne and fighte, or goe home and loose my ladye. now hearken to me, sayes adler yonge, and your reade must rise[ ] at me, i quicklye will devise a waye to sette thy ladye free. my mother was a westerne woman, and learned in gramaryè.[ ] and when i learned at the schole, something shee taught itt mee. there growes an hearbe within this field, and iff it were but knowne, his color, which is whyte and redd, it will make blacke and browne: his color, which is browne and blacke, itt will make redd and whyte; that sworde is not in all englande, upon his coate will byte. and you shal be a harper, brother, out of the north countrye; and ile be your boy, soe faine of fighte,[ ] and beare your harpe by your knee. and you shal be the best harpèr, that ever tooke harpe in hand; and i wil be the best singèr, that ever sung in this lande. itt shal be written in our forheads all and in grammaryè, that we towe are the boldest men, that are in all christentyè. and thus they renisht them to ryde, on tow good renish steedes: and when they came to king adlands hall, of redd gold shone their weedes. and whan the came to kyng adlands hall, untill the fayre hall yate,[ ] there they found a proud portèr rearing himselfe thereatt. sayes, christ thee save, thou proud portèr; sayes, christ thee save and see. nowe you be welcome, sayd the portèr, of what land soever ye bee. wee beene harpers, sayd adler younge, come out of the northe countrye; wee beene come hither untill this place, this proud weddinge for to see. sayd, and your color were white and redd, as it is blacke and browne, i wold saye king estmere and his brother were comen untill this towne. then they pulled out a ryng of gold, layd itt on the porters arme: and ever we will thee, proud portèr, thow wilt saye us no harme. sore he looked on kyng estmère, and sore he handled the ryng, then opened to them the fayre hall yates, he lett[ ] for no kind of thyng. kyng estmere he stabled his steede soe fayre att the hall bord; the froth, that came from his brydle bitte, light in kyng bremors beard. saies, stable thy steed, thou proud harpèr, saies, stable him in the stalle; it doth not beseeme a proud harpèr to stable 'him' in a kyngs halle.[ ] my ladde he is so lither,[ ] he said, he will doe nought that's meete; and is there any man in this hall were able him to beate. thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of spaine, thou harper here to mee: there is a man within this halle, will beate thy ladd and thee. o let that man come downe, he said, a sight of him wold i see; and when hee hath beaten well my ladd, then he shall beate of mee. downe then came the kemperye man,[ ] and looked him in the eare; for all the gold, that was under heaven, he durst not neigh him neare.[ ] and how nowe, kempe, said the kyng of spaine, and how what aileth thee? he saies, it is writt in his forhead all and in gramaryè, that for all the gold that is under heaven, i dare not neigh him nye. then kyng estmere pulld forth his harpe, and plaid a pretty thinge: the ladye upstart from the borde, and wold have gone from the king. stay thy harpe, thou proud harpèr, for gods love i pray thee for and thou playes as thou beginns, thou'lt till[ ] my bryde from mee. he stroake upon his harpe againe, and playd a pretty thinge; the ladye lough[ ] a loud laughter, as shee sate by the king. saies, sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper, and thy stringès all, for as many gold nobles 'thou shalt have' as heere bee ringes in the hall. what wold ye doe with my harpe, 'he sayd, if i did sell itt yee? "to playe my wiffe and me a fitt,[ ] when abed together wee bee." now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay, as shee sitts by thy knee, and as many gold nobles i will give, as leaves been on a tree. and what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, iff i did sell her thee? more seemelye it is for her fayre bodye to lye by mee then thee. hee played agayne both loud and shrille,[ ] and adler he did syng, "o ladye, this is thy owne true love; noe harper, but a kyng. "o ladye, this is thy owne true love, as playnlye thou mayest see; and ile rid thee of that foule paynim, who partes thy love and thee." the ladye looked, the ladye blushte, and blushte and lookt agayne, while adler he hath drawne his brande, and hath the sowdan slayne. up then rose the kemperye men, and loud they gan to crye: ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, and therefore yee shall dye. kyng estmere threwe the harpe asyde, and swith[ ] he drew his brand;[ ] and estmere he, and adler yonge right stiffe in stour[ ] can stand. and aye their swordes soe sore can byte, throughe help of gramaryè that soone they have slayne the kempery men, or forst them forth to flee. kyng estmere tooke that fayre ladyè, and marryed her to his wiffe, and brought her home to merry englànd with her to leade his life. [illustration] [***] the word _gramaryè_,[ ] which occurs several times in the foregoing poem, is probably a corruption of the french word _grimoire_, which signifies a conjuring book in the old french romances, if not the art of necromancy itself. [+±+] _termagaunt_ (mentioned above, p. ) is the name given in the old romances to the god of the saracens, in which he is constantly linked with _mahound_ or mahomet. thus, in the legend of _syr guy_, the soudan (sultan), swears "so helpe me _mahowne_ of might, and _termagaunt_ my god so bright." _sign._ p. iii. b. this word is derived by the very learned editor of junius from the anglo-saxon +tyr+ very, and +magan+ mighty. as this word had so sublime a derivation, and was so applicable to the true god, how shall we account for its being so degraded? perhaps +tyr-magan+ or _termagant_ had been a name originally given to some saxon idol, before our ancestors were converted to christianity; or had been the peculiar attribute of one of their false deities; and therefore the first christian missionaries rejected it as profane and improper to be applied to the true god. afterwards, when the irruptions of the saracens into europe, and the crusades into the east, had brought them acquainted with a new species of unbelievers, our ignorant ancestors, who thought all that did not receive the christian law were necessarily pagans and idolaters, supposed the mahometan creed was in all respects the same with that of their pagan forefathers, and therefore made no scruple to give the ancient name of _termagant_ to the god of the saracens, just in the same manner as they afterwards used the name of _sarazen_ to express any kind of pagan or idolater. in the ancient romance of _merline_ (in the editor's folio ms.) the saxons themselves that came over with hengist, because they were not christians, are constantly called sarazens. however that be, it is certain that, after the times of the crusades, both _mahound_ and _termagaunt_ made their frequent appearance in the pageants and religious interludes of the barbarous ages; in which they were exhibited with gestures so furious and frantic, as to become proverbial. thus skelton speaks of wolsey:-- "like _mahound_ in a play, no man dare him withsay." ed. , p. . in like manner bale, describing the threats used by some papist magistrates to his wife, speaks of them as "grennyng upon her lyke _termagauntes_ in a playe." (_actes of engl. votaryes_, pt. ii. fo. , ed. , mo.) accordingly in a letter of edward alleyn, the founder of dulwich college, to his wife or sister, who, it seems, with all her fellows (the players), had been "by my lorde maiors officer[s] mad to rid in a cart," he expresses his concern that she should "fall into the hands of suche _tarmagants_." (so the orig. dated may , , preserved by the care of the rev. thomas jenyns smith, fellow of dulw. coll.) hence we may conceive the force of hamlet's expression in shakspeare, where, condemning a ranting player, he says, "i could have such a fellow whipt for ore-doing _termagant_: it out-herods herod" (act iii. sc. ). by degrees the word came to be applied to an outrageous turbulent person, and especially to a violent brawling woman; to whom alone it is now confined, and this the rather as, i suppose, the character of _termagant_ was anciently represented on the stage after the eastern mode, with long robes or petticoats. another frequent character in the old pageants or interludes of our ancestors, was the _sowdan_ or _soldan_, representing a grim eastern tyrant. this appears from a curious passage in stow's _annals_ (p. ). in a stage-play "the people know right well that he that plaieth the _sowdain_, is percase a sowter [shoe-maker]; yet if one should cal him by his owne name, while he standeth in his majestie, one of his tormenters might hap to break his head." the _sowdain_, or _soldan_, was a name given to the sarazen king (being only a more rude pronunciation of the word _sultan_), as the soldan of egypt, the soudan of persia, the sowdan of babylon, &c., who were generally represented as accompanied with grim sarazens, whose business it was to punish and torment christians. i cannot conclude this short memoir, without observing that the french romancers, who had borrowed the word _termagant_ from us, and applied it as we in their old romances, corrupted it into _tervagaunte_; and from them la fontaine took it up, and has used it more than once in his tales. this may be added to the other proofs adduced in these volumes of the great intercourse that formerly subsisted between the old minstrels and legendary writers of both nations, and that they mutually borrowed each other's romances. footnotes: [ ] see a short memoir at the end of this ballad, note [+±+]. [ ] sign c. ii. b. [ ] sign c. i. b. [ ] odyss. _a._ . [ ] see vol. ii., note subjoined to st part of _beggar of bednal_, &c. [ ] see the _essay on the antient minstrels_ (appendix i.) [ ] even so late as the time of froissart, we find minstrels and heralds mentioned together, as those who might securely go into an enemy's country. cap. cxl. [ ] _bartholini antiq. dan._ p. . _northern antiquities_, &c., vol. i. pp. , , &c. [ ] see also the account of edw. ii. in the _essay on the minstrels_, and note [x]. [ ] ver. . brether, f. ms. [ ] [the one.] [ ] v. . his brother's hall f. ms. [ ] v. . hartilye, f. ms. [ ] he means fit, suitable. [ ] [shining.] [ ] [advise me.] [ ] ver. . many a man ... is, f. ms. [ ] [they got ready?] [ ] [harnessed.] [ ] [garments.] [ ] [leaning.] [ ] v. . the king his sonne of spayn, f. ms. [ ] [refused.] [ ] [she will.] [ ] [pagan.] [ ] [believeth.] [ ] [robe of state.] [ ] [bereave.] [ ] ver. . of the king his sonne of spaine, f. ms. [ ] [soldiers or knights.] [ ] [stopped.] [ ] _sic_ ms. it should probably be _ryse_, _i.e._ my counsel shall arise from thee. see ver. . [ ] _sic_ ms. [ ] see at the end of this ballad, note [***]. [ ] [fond of fighting.] [ ] [gate.] [ ] [he left? _or_ he let be opened?] [ ] ver. . to stable his steede, f. ms. [ ] [lazy or wicked.] [ ] [soldier or fighting man.] [ ] [approach him near.] [ ] _i.e._ entice. [ ] [laughed.] [ ] _i.e._ a tune, or strain of music. [ ] ver. . some liberties have been taken in the following stanzas; but wherever this edition differs from the preceding, it hath been brought nearer to the folio ms. [ ] [quickly.] [ ] [sword.] [ ] [fight.] [ ] [or grammar, and hence used for any abstruse learning.] vii. sir patrick spence, a scottish ballad, is given from two ms. copies transmitted from scotland. in what age the hero of this ballad lived, or when this fatal expedition happened that proved so destructive to the scots nobles, i have not been able to discover; yet am of opinion, that their catastrophe is not altogether without foundation in history, though it has escaped my own researches. in the infancy of navigation, such as used the northern seas were very liable to shipwreck in the wintry months: hence a law was enacted in the reign of james iii. (a law which was frequently repeated afterwards), "that there be na schip frauched out of the realm with any staple gudes, fra the feast of simons day and jude, unto the feast of the purification of our lady called candelmess." _jam. iii. parlt. , ch. ._ in some modern copies, instead of patrick spence hath been substituted the name of sir andrew wood, a famous scottish admiral who flourished in the time of our edward iv., but whose story has nothing in common with this of the ballad. as wood was the most noted warrior of scotland, it is probable that, like the theban hercules, he hath engrossed the renown of other heroes. * * * * * [the fact that this glorious ballad was never heard of before percy printed it in , caused some to throw doubts upon its authenticity, and their scepticism was strengthened by the note at p. , which refers to the author of _hardyknute_. it was thought that the likeness in expression and sentiment there mentioned might easily be explained if the two poems were both by lady wardlaw. this view, advocated by robert chambers in his general attack on the authenticity of all _the romantic scottish ballads_ ( ), has not met with much favour, and professor child thinks that the arguments against the genuineness of _sir patrick spence_ are so trivial as hardly to admit of statement. he writes, "if not ancient it has been always accepted as such by the most skilful judges, and is a solitary instance of a successful imitation in manner and spirit of the best specimens of authentic minstrelsy."[ ] coleridge, no mean judge of a ballad, wrote-- "the bard be sure was weather-wise who framed the grand old ballad of sir patrick spens." antiquaries have objected that spence is not an early scottish name, but in this they are wrong, for professor aytoun found it in a charter of robert iii. and also in wyntoun's _chronicle_. there has been considerable discussion as to the historical event referred to in the ballad, and the present version does not contain any mention of one of the points that may help towards a settlement of the question. the version in scott's _minstrelsy_ contains the following stanza:-- "to noroway, to noroway to noroway o'er the faem the king's daughter of noroway 'tis thou maun bring her hame." p rofessor aytoun would change the third line to "the king's daughter _to_ noroway," as he agrees with motherwell in the view that the ballad refers to the fate of the scottish nobles who in conveyed margaret, daughter of alexander iii., to norway, on the occasion of her nuptials with king eric. fordun relates this incident as follows:--"in the year margaret, daughter of alexander iii., was married to the king of norway, who, leaving scotland in the last day of july, was conveyed thither in noble style in company with many knights and nobles. in returning home after the celebration of her nuptials, the abbot of balmerinoch, bernard of monte-alto, and many other persons, were drowned." as to the scene of the disaster, aytoun brings forward an interesting illustration of the expression "half over to aberdour," in line . he says that in the little island of papa stronsay one of the orcadian group lying over against norway, there is a large grave or tumulus which has been known to the inhabitants from time immemorial as "the grave of sir patrick spens," and he adds, that as the scottish ballads were not early current in orkney, it is unlikely that the poem originated the name. the other suggestions as to an historical basis for the ballad are not borne out by history. it is well, however, to note in illustration of line , that the scottish kings chiefly resided in their palace of dunfermline from the time of malcolm canmore to that of alexander iii. the present copy of the ballad is the shortest of the various versions, but this is not a disadvantage, as it gains much in force by the directness of its language. buchan prints a ballad called _young allan_, which is somewhat like _sir patrick spence_.] * * * * * the king sits in dumferling toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: o quhar will i get guid sailòr, to sail this schip of mine? up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the kings richt kne: sir patrick spence is the best sailòr, that sails upon the se. the king has written a braid letter,[ ] and signd it wi' his hand; and sent it to sir patrick spence, was walking on the sand. the first line that sir patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he: the next line that sir patrick red, the teir blinded his ee. o quha is this has don this deid, this ill deid don to me; to send me out this time o'the yeir, to sail upon the se? mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, our guid schip sails the morne.[ ] o say na sae, my master deir, for i feir a deadlie storme. late late yestreen i saw the new moone wi' the auld moone in hir arme; and i feir, i feir, my deir mastèr, that we will com to harme. o our scots nobles wer richt laith[ ] to weet their cork-heild schoone;[ ] bot lang owre[ ] a' the play wer playd, thair hats they swam aboone.[ ] o lang, lang, may thair ladies sit wi' thair fans into their hand, or eir they se sir patrick spence cum sailing to the land. o lang, lang, may the ladies stand wi' thair gold kems[ ] in their hair, waiting for thair ain deir lords, for they'll se thame na mair. have owre,[ ] have owre to aberdour,[ ] it's fiftie fadom deip: and thair lies guid sir patrick spence, wi' the scots lords at his feit.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [_english and scottish ballads_, vol. iii. p. .] [ ] _a braid letter_, _i.e._ open, or patent; in opposition to close rolls. [ ] [to-morrow morning.] [ ] [loth.] [ ] [to wet their cork-heeled shoes.] [ ] [long ere.] [ ] [above the water.] [ ] [combs.] [ ] [half over.] [ ] a village lying upon the river forth, the entrance to which is sometimes denominated _de mortuo mari_. [finlay observes that percy's note is incorrect. the truth is that de mortuo mari is the designation of a family (mortimer) who were lords of aberdour. they are believed to have received their name from the dead sea, in palestine, during the times of the crusades.] [ ] an ingenious friend thinks the author of _hardyknute_ has borrowed several expressions and sentiments from the foregoing and other old scottish songs in this collection. viii. robin hood and guy of gisborne. we have here a ballad of robin hood (from the editor's folio ms.) which was never before printed, and carries marks of much greater antiquity than any of the common popular songs on this subject. the severity of those tyrannical forest laws that were introduced by our norman kings, and the great temptation of breaking them by such as lived near the royal forests at a time when the yeomanry of this kingdom were everywhere trained up to the long-bow, and excelled all other nations in the art of shooting, must constantly have occasioned great numbers of outlaws, and especially of such as were the best marksmen. these naturally fled to the woods for shelter, and, forming into troops, endeavoured by their numbers to protect themselves from the dreadful penalties of their delinquency. the ancient punishment for killing the king's deer was loss of eyes and castration, a punishment far worse than death. this will easily account for the troops of banditti which formerly lurked in the royal forests, and, from their superior skill in archery and knowledge of all the recesses of those unfrequented solitudes, found it no difficult matter to resist or elude the civil power. among all those, none was ever more famous than the hero of this ballad, whose chief residence was in shirewood forest, in nottinghamshire, and the heads of whose story, as collected by stow, are briefly these. "in this time [about the year , in the reign of richard i.] were many robbers, and outlawes, among the which robin hood, and little john, renowned theeves, continued in woods, despoyling and robbing the goods of the rich. they killed none but such as would invade them; or by resistance for their own defence. "the saide robert entertained an hundred tall men and good archers with such spoiles and thefts as he got, upon whom four hundred (were they ever so strong) durst not give the onset. he suffered no woman to be oppressed, violated, or otherwise molested: poore mens goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that which by theft he got from abbeys and the houses of rich carles: whom maior (the historian) blameth for his rapine and theft, but of all theeves he affirmeth him to be the prince, and the most gentle theefe."--_annals_, p. . the personal courage of this celebrated outlaw, his skill in archery, his humanity, and especially his levelling principle of taking from the rich and giving to the poor, have in all ages rendered him the favourite of the common people, who, not content to celebrate his memory by innumerable songs and stories, have erected him into the dignity of an earl. indeed, it is not impossible but our hero, to gain the more respect from his followers, or they to derive the more credit to their profession, may have given rise to such a report themselves: for we find it recorded in an epitaph, which, if genuine, must have been inscribed on his tombstone near the nunnery of kirklees in yorkshire; where (as the story goes) he was bled to death by a treacherous nun to whom he applied for phlebotomy:-- "hear undernead dis laitl stean lai[gh] robert earl of huntingtun nea arcir ver a[gh] hie sae geud an pipl kauld im robin heud sick utlaws as hi an is men vil england nivir si agen. obiit kal. dekembris. ."[ ] this epitaph appears to me suspicious; however, a late antiquary has given a pedigree of _robin hood_, which, if genuine, shows that he had real pretensions to the earldom of huntingdon, and that his true name was _robert fitz-ooth_.[ ] yet the most ancient poems on robin hood make no mention of this earldom. he is expressly asserted to have been a yeoman[ ] in a very old legend in verse, preserved in the archives of the public library at cambridge,[ ] in eight _fyttes_, or parts, printed in black letter, quarto, thus inscribed: "¶ here begynneth a lytell geste of robyn hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of notyngham." the first lines are-- "lithe and lysten, gentylmen, that be of fre-bore blode: i shall you tell of a good _yeman_, his name was robyn hode. "robyn was a proude out-lawe, whiles he walked on grounde; so curteyse an outlawe as he was one, was never none yfounde," &c. the printer's colophon is, "¶ explicit kinge edwarde and robin hode and lyttel johan. enprented at london in flete-strete at the sygne of the sone by wynkin de worde." in mr. garrick's collection[ ] is a different edition of the same poem, "¶ imprinted at london upon the thre crane wharfe by wyllyam copland," containing at the end a little dramatic piece on the subject of robin hood and the friar, not found in the former copy, called, "a newe playe for to be played in maye games very plesaunte and full of pastyme. ¶([···])[r¶]." i shall conclude these preliminary remarks with observing, that the hero of this ballad was the favourite subject of popular songs so early as the time of king edward iii. in the _visions of pierce plowman_, written in that reign, a monk says:-- "i can rimes of roben hod, and randal of chester, but of our lorde and our lady, i lerne nothyng at all." fol. , ed. . see also in bishop latimer's _sermons_[ ] a very curious and characteristic story, which shows what respect was shown to the memory of our archer in the time of that prelate. the curious reader will find many other particulars relating to this celebrated outlaw, in sir john hawkins's _hist. of music_, vol. iii. p. , to. for the catastrophe of little john, who, it seems, was executed for a robbery on arbor-hill, dublin (with some curious particulars relating to his skill in archery), see mr. j. c. walker's ingenious _memoir on the armour and weapons of the irish_, p. , annexed to his _historical essay on the dress of the ancient and modern irish_. dublin, , to. some liberties were, by the editor, taken with this ballad; which, in this edition, hath been brought nearer to the folio ms. * * * * * [robin hood is first mentioned in literature in _piers plowman_, the earliest of the three forms of which poem was written probably about the year . the ballad of _robin hood and the monk_, printed in child's _english and scottish ballads_, as the oldest of its class, and possibly as old as the reign of edward ii., commences:-- "in somer when the shawes be sheyne and leves be large and longe hit is full mery in feyre foreste to here the foulys song." verses which bear a strong likeness to the opening lines of the present ballad. gisborne is a market town in the west riding of the county of york on the borders of lancashire, and guy of that place is mentioned by william dunbar in a satirical piece on "schir thomas nory," where he is named in company with adam bell and other well-known worthies. it is not needful to extend this note with any further particulars of robin hood, as he possesses, in virtue of his position as a popular hero, a literature of his own. those who wish to know more of his exploits should consult ritson's ( ) and gutch's ( ) collections of _robin hood ballads_, child's _ballads_, vol. v. and chappell's _popular music of the olden time_, vol. i. pp. - . there are several robin hood ballads in the folio ms., but percy only chose the one containing an account of the encounter with guy for printing. ritson copied this ballad from percy's book, but indulged at the same time in a tirade against the bishop's treatment of his original.] * * * * * when shaws beene sheene,[ ] and shradds[ ] full fayre,[ ] and leaves both large and longe, itt is merrye walking in the fayre forrèst to heare the small birdes songe.[ ] the woodweele[ ] sang, and wold not cease,[ ] [sitting upon the spraye,[ ] soe lowde, he wakened robin hood,[ ] in the greenwood where he lay.[ ] now by my faye,[ ] sayd jollye robìn,[ ] a sweaven[ ] i had this night;[ ] i dreamt me of tow wighty[ ] yemen,[ ] that fast with me can fight.][ ] methought they did mee beate and binde, and tooke my bow mee froe;[ ] if i be robin alive in this lande, ile be wroken[ ] on them towe. sweavens are swift, master, quoth john, as the wind that blowes ore a hill; for if itt be never so loude this night, to-morrow itt may be still. buske yee, bowne yee,[ ] my merry men all, and john shall goe with mee, for ile goe seeke yond wight yeomen, in greenwood where thé bee. thé cast on their gownes of grene, [and tooke theyr bowes each one; and they away to the greene forrèst] a shooting forth are gone;[ ] untill they came to the merry greenwood, where they had gladdest bee, there were thé ware[ ] of a wight yeomàn, his body leaned to a tree. a sword and a dagger he wore by his side, of manye a man the bane;[ ] and he was clad in his capull hyde[ ] topp and tayll and mayne. stand you still, master, quoth litle john, under this tree so grene, and i will go to yond wight yeoman to know what he doth meane.[ ] ah! john, by me thou settest noe store, and that i farley[ ] finde:[ ] how offt send i my men beffore, and tarry my selfe behinde? it is no cunning a knave to ken, and a man but heare him speake; and itt were not for bursting of my bowe, john, i thy head wold breake. as often wordes they breeden bale,[ ] so they parted robin and john; and john is gone to barnesdale: the gates[ ] he knoweth eche one. but when he came to barnesdale, great heavinesse there hee hadd, for he found tow of his owne fellòwes were slaine both in a slade.[ ] and scarlette he was flyinge a-foote fast over stocke and stone, for the sheriffe with seven score men fast after him is gone. one shoote now i will shoote, quoth john,[ ] with christ his might and mayne; ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, to stopp he shall be fayne.[ ] then john bent up his long bende-bowe,[ ] and fetteled[ ] him to shoote: the bow was made of a tender boughe, and fell downe to his foote. woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,[ ] that ere thou grew on a tree; for now this day thou art my bale, my boote[ ] when thou shold bee. his shoote it was but loosely shott, yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,[ ] for itt mett one of the sherriffes men, good william a trent was slaine. it had bene better of william a trent to have bene abed with sorrowe,[ ] than to be that day in the green wood slade[ ] to meet with little johns arrowe.[ ] but as it is said, when men be mett fyve can doe more than three,[ ] the sheriffe hath taken little john,[ ] and bound him fast to a tree. thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, and hanged hye on a hill. but thou mayst fayle of thy purpose, quoth john,[ ] if itt be christ his will.[ ] let us leave talking of litle john, and thinke of robin hood,[ ] how he is gone to the wight yeomàn, where under the leaves he stood. good morrowe, good fellowe, sayd robin so fayre,[ ] "good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he:" methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande a good archere thou sholdst bee.[ ] i am wilfull[ ] of my waye, quo' the yeman,[ ] and of my morning tyde. ile lead thee through the wood, sayd robin; good fellow, ile be thy guide. i seeke an outlàwe, the straunger sayd,[ ] men call him robin hood; rather ild meet with that proud outlàwe[ ] than fortye pound soe good.[ ] [now come with me, thou wighty yeman,[ ] and robin thou soone shalt see:[ ] but first let us some pastime find[ ] under the greenwood tree.][ ] first let us some masterye[ ] make[ ] among the woods so even,[ ] wee may chance to meet with robin hood here att some unsett steven.[ ] they cutt them downe two summer shroggs,[ ] that grew both under a breere,[ ] and sett them threescore rood in twaine to shoote the prickes[ ] y-fere.[ ] leade on, good fellowe, quoth robin hood,[ ] leade on, i doe bidd thee. nay by my faith, good fellowe, hee sayd,[ ] my leader thou shalt bee.[ ] the first time robin shot at the pricke,[ ] he mist but an inch it froe:[ ] the yeoman he was an archer good,[ ] but he cold never shoote soe. the second shoote had the wightye yeman,[ ] he shote within the garlànde:[ ] but robin he shott far better than hee, for he clave the good pricke wande.[ ] a blessing upon thy heart, he sayd;[ ] good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; for an thy hart be as good as thy hand, thou wert better then robin hoode. now tell me thy name, good fellowe, sayd he,[ ] under the leaves of lyne.[ ] nay by my faith, quoth bolde robìn,[ ] till thou have told me thine.[ ] i dwell by dale and downe, quoth hee, and robin to take ime sworne; and when i am called by my right name i am guye of good gisbòrne. my dwelling is in this wood, sayes robin, by thee i set right nought: i am robin hood of barnèsdale, whom thou so long hast sought.[ ] he that had neither beene kithe nor kin, might have seene a full fayre sight, to see how together these yeomen went with blades both browne[ ] and bright. to see how these yeomen together they fought[ ] two howres of a summers day: yett neither robin hood nor sir guy[ ] them fettled to flye away. robin was reachles[ ] on a roote, and stumbled at that tyde; and guy was quicke and nimble with-all, and hitt him ore the left side. ah deere lady, sayd robin hood, tho that art both mother and may',[ ] i think it was never mans destinye to dye before his day. robin thought on our ladye deere, and soone leapt up againe, and strait he came with a "backward" stroke,[ ] and he sir guy hath slayne.[ ] he took sir guys head by the hayre, and sticked itt on his bowes end: thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, which thing must have an ende. robin pulled forth an irish kniffe, and nicked sir guy in the face, that he was never on woman born, cold tell whose head it was.[ ] saies, lye there, lye there, now sir guye,[ ] and with me be not wrothe; if thou have had the worse strokes at my hand, thou shalt have the better clothe. robin did off his gowne of greene, and on sir guy did it throwe, and hee put on that capull hyde, that cladd him topp to toe. the bowe, the arrowes, and little horne, now with me i will beare;[ ] for i will away to barnèsdale, to see how my men doe fare. robin hood sett guyes home to his mouth, and a loud blast in it did blow. that beheard the sheriffe of nottingham, as he leaned under a lowe.[ ] hearken, hearken, sayd the sheriffe, i heare nowe tydings good, for yonder i heare sir guyes horne blowe, and he hath slaine robin hoode. yonder i heare sir guyes horne blowe, itt blowes soe well in tyde, and yonder comes that wightye yeoman, cladd in his capull hyde. come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir guy, aske what thou wilt of mee. o i will none of thy gold, sayd robin,[ ] nor i will none of thy fee: but now i have slaine the master, he sayes, let me go strike the knave; this is all the rewarde i aske; nor noe other will i have. thou art a madman, said the sheriffe, thou sholdest have had a knights fee: but seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, well granted it shale be. when litle john heard his master speake, well knewe he it was his steven:[ ] now shall i be looset, quoth litle john, with christ his might in heaven. fast robin hee hyed him to little john, he thought to loose him belive;[ ] the sheriffe and all his companye fast after him did drive. stand abacke, stand abacke, sayd robin; why draw you mee soe neere? itt was never the use in our countryè, ones shrift another shold heere. but robin pulled forth an irysh kniffe, and losed john hand and foote, and gave him sir guyes bow into his hand, and bade it be his boote.[ ] then john he took guyes bow in his hand,[ ] his boltes and arrowes eche one: when the sheriffe saw little john bend his bow, he fettled him to be gone. towards his house in nottingham towne,[ ] he fled full fast away; and soe did all his companye: not one behind wold stay. but he cold neither runne soe fast,[ ] nor away soe fast cold ryde,[ ] but litle john with an arrowe soe broad,[ ] he shott him into the 'backe'-syde.[ ] * * * * * [***] the title of _sir_ was not formerly peculiar to knights, it was given to priests, and sometimes to very inferior personages. dr. johnson thinks this title was applied to such as had taken the degree of a. b. in the universities, who are still stiled, _domini_, "sirs," to distinguish them from undergraduates, who have no prefix, and from masters of arts, who are stiled _magistri_, "masters." footnotes: [ ] see thoresby's _ducat. leod._ p. . _biog. brit._ vi. . [ ] stukeley, in his _palæographia britannica_, no. ii. . [ ] see also the following ballad, v. . [ ] num. d. . . [ ] _old plays_, to. k. vol. x. [ ] ser. th before k. ed. apr. . fol. , gilpin's _life of lat._, p. . [ ] [when woods are bright.] [ ] [twigs.] [ ] [ver. . shales, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . birds singe, f. ms.] [ ] [woodpecker or thrush.] [ ] [v. . woodweete, f. ms.] [ ] [in place of ver. - between brackets the f. ms. has-- "amongst the leaves a lyne [* * * * *] and it is by two wight yeomen by deare god that i meane."] [ ] [faith.] [ ] [dream.] [ ] [strong.] [ ] [from me.] [ ] [revenged.] [ ] [dress ye, get ye ready.] [ ] [ver. . a shooting gone are they, f. ms.] [ ] [were they aware.] [ ] [v. . had beene many a mans bane, f. ms.] [ ] [horse-hide.] [ ] [v. . to know his meaning trulye, f. ms.] [ ] [strange.] [ ] [v. . and thats a ffarley thinge, f. ms.] [ ] [breed mischief.] [ ] _i.e._ ways, passes, paths, ridings. _gate_ is a common word in the north for _way_. [ ] [greensward between two woods.] [ ] [ver. . yet one shoote i'le shoote, says little john, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . to be both glad & ffaine, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . john bent up a good veiwe bowe, f. ms.] [ ] [prepared.] [ ] [v. . woe worth thee, wicked wood, says litle john, f. ms.] [ ] help. [ ] [ver. . the arrowe flew in vaine, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . to hange upon a gallowe, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . then for to lye in the green-woode, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . there slaine with an arrowe, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . can doe more then , f. ms.] [ ] [v. . and they have tane litle john, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . but thou may ffayle, quoth litle john, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . if itt be christ's own will, f. ms.] [ ] [v. - . in place of these three verses the f. ms. has:-- "for hee is bound fast to a tree, and talke of guy and robin hood in they green woode where they bee [how these two yeomen together they mett under the leaves of lyne, to see what marchandise they made even at that same time."]] [ ] [ver. . good morrow, good fellow! quoth sir guy, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . a good archer thou seems to bee, f. ms.] [ ] [ignorant.] [ ] [v. . quoth sir guye, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . i seeke an outlaw, quoth sir guye, f. ms.] [ ] [v. - .-- "i had rather meet with him upon a day then li. of golde."] [ ] [v. - . in place of these four verses the f. ms. has-- "iff you tow mett itt wold be seene whether were better afore yee did part awaye; let us some other pastime find, good ffellow, i thee pray:"] [ ] [trial of skill.] [ ] [v. - . "let us some other masteryes make, and wee will walke in the woods even," f. ms.] [ ] [at a time not previously appointed.] [ ] [shrubs.] [ ] [briar.] [ ] [mark in the centre of the target.] [ ] [ver. . prickes full near, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . sayd sir guye, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . nay by my faith, quoth robin hood, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . the leader, f. ms.] [ ] [v. - :-- "the first good shoot that robin ledd did not shoote an inch the pricke ffroe. guy was an archer good enoughe."] [ ] [v. . the nd shoote sir guy shott.] [ ] [the ring within which the prick was set.] [ ] [pole.] [ ] [v. . gods blessing on thy heart! sayes guye.] [ ] [ver. . tell me thy name, good fellow, quoth guy.] [ ] [lime.] [ ] [v. . good robin.] [ ] [v. - :-- "i dwell by dale and downe, quoth guye, and i have done many a curst turne; and he that calles me by my right name, calles me guy of good gysborne."] [ ] v. . a ffellow thou hast long sought. [ ] the common epithet for a sword or other offensive weapon, in the old metrical romances is _brown_, as "brown brand," or "brown sword," "brown bill," &c., and sometimes even "bright brown sword." chaucer applies the word _rustie_ in the same sense; thus he describes the reve:-- "and by his side he bare a rusty blade." _prol._ ver. . and even thus the god _mars_:-- "and in his hand he had a rousty sword." _test. of cressid._ spenser has sometimes used the same epithet. see warton's _observ._ vol. ii. p. . it should seem, from this particularity, that our ancestors did not pique themselves upon keeping their weapons bright: perhaps they deemed it more honourable to carry them stained with the blood of their enemies. [as the swords are here said to be bright as well as brown, they could not have been rusty. the expression nut-brown sword was used to designate a damascus blade.] [ ] [ver. . "to have seen how these yeomen together fought."] [ ] [v. - :-- "itt was neither guy nor robin hood that ffettled them to flye away."] [ ] [careless.] [ ] [maid.] [ ] v. . awkwarde, ms. [ ] [v. . "good sir guy hee has slayne," f. ms.] [ ] [ver. . cold tell who sir guye was.] [ ] [v. . good sir guye.] [ ] [v. :-- "and with me now ile beare ffor now i will goe to barnesdale," f. ms.] [ ] [small hill.] [ ] [ver. :-- "ile none of thy gold, sayes robin hood nor ile none of itt have," f. ms.] [ ] [voice.] [ ] [quickly.] [ ] [help.] [ ] [ver. - :-- "but john tooke guyes bow in his hand, his arrowes were rawstye by the roote; the sherriffe saw little john draw a bow and ffettle him to shoote."] [ ] [v. . towards his house in nottingham.] [ ] [v. - :-- "but he cold neither soe fast goe, nor away soe fast runn, but litle john with an arrow broade did cleave his head in twinn," f. ms.] [illustration] ix. an elegy on henry fourth earl of northumberland. the subject of this poem, which was written by _skelton_, is the death of _henry percy_, fourth earl of northumberland, who fell a victim to the avarice of henry vii. in the parliament had granted the king a subsidy for carrying on the war in bretagne. this tax was found so heavy in the north, that the whole country was in a flame. the e. of northumberland, then lord lieutenant for yorkshire, wrote to inform the king of the discontent, and praying an abatement. but nothing is so unrelenting as avarice: the king wrote back that not a penny should be abated. this message being delivered by the earl with too little caution, the populace rose, and, supposing him to be the promoter of their calamity, broke into his house, and murdered him, with several of his attendants, who yet are charged by skelton with being backward in their duty on this occasion. this melancholy event happened at the earl's seat at cocklodge, near thirske, in yorkshire, april , . see lord bacon, &c. if the reader does not find much poetical merit in this old poem (which yet is one of skelton's best), he will see a striking picture of the state and magnificence kept up by our ancient nobility during the feudal times. this great earl is described here as having, among his menial servants, _knights_, _squires_, and even _barons_: see v. . . &c. which, however different from modern manners, was formerly not unusual with our greater barons, whose castles had all the splendour and offices of a royal court before the laws against retainers abridged and limited the number of their attendants. _john skelton_, who commonly styled himself poet laureat, died june , . the following poem, which appears to have been written soon after the event, is printed from an ancient ms. copy preserved in the british museum, being much more correct than that printed among _skelton's poems_ in bl. let. mo. .--it is addressed to henry percy, fifth earl of northumberland, and is prefaced, &c. in the following manner: poeta skelton laureatus libellum suum metrice alloquitur. ad dominum properato meum mea pagina percy, qui northumbrorum jura paterna gerit, ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonis, quæque suo patri tristia justa cano. ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet fortunam, cuncta quæ male fida rotat. qui leo sit felix, & nestoris occupet annos; ad libitum cujus ipse paratus ero. * * * * * [percy does not do justice to skelton's poetical powers in the above note, as this _elegy_ is written in a style not at all characteristic of him and is also far from being one of his best poems. skelton was one of the earliest personal satirists in our language, and he flew at high game when he attacked the powerful wolsey with fierce invective, in his "why come ye nat to courte?" his _boke of phyllyp sparrowe_ is described by coleridge as "an exquisite and original poem," and its subject entitles him to the designation of the modern catullus. it was very popular in his day, and the nursery rhyme of _who killed cock robin?_ was probably paraphrased from the portion of the poem in which the funeral of the sparrow is related. skelton was a distinguished scholar and his earlier poems are written in the serious strain of the _elegy_, but curiously enough about the time that he took orders ( ) and became rector of diss in norfolk, he began to write in a more natural, frolicsome and satirical vein, and adopted the metre now known as skeltonian. he was not very particular as to the words he used, but he does not deserve the opprobrious epithet that pope applies to him in the couplet-- "chaucer's worst ribaldry is learned by rote, and beastly skelton heads of houses quote." skelton graduated as poet laureate at the two universities of oxford and cambridge, and the king allowed him to wear an appropriate decoration at court. there is a full length portrait of the poet in brydges' _british bibliographer_ (vol. iv. p. ), taken from one on the back of the title of _a ryght delectable tratyse upon a goodly garlande or chaplet of laurell by mayster skelton, poete laureat_. the rev. alexander dyce published the first complete collected edition of skelton's poetical works in ( vols. vo.)] * * * * * skelton laureat upon the dolorus dethe and much lamentable chaunce of the moost honorable erle of northumberlande. i wayle, i wepe, i sobbe, i sigh ful sore the dedely fate, the dolefulle destenny of him that is gone, alas! withoute restore, of the blode[ ] royall descendinge nobelly; whos lordshepe doutles was slayne lamentably thorow treson ageyn[ ] hym compassyd and wrought; trew to his prince, in word, in dede, and thought. of hevenly poems, o clyo calde by name in the college of musis goddess hystoriall, adres the to me, whiche am both halt and lame in elect uteraunce to make memoryall: to the for soccour, to the for helpe i call myne homely rudnes and drighnes to expelle with the freshe waters of elyconys[ ] welle. of noble actes auncyently enrolde, of famous princis and lordes of astate,[ ] by thy report ar wonte to be extold, regestringe trewly every formare date; of thy bountie after the usuall rate, kyndle in me suche plenty of thy noblès,[ ] thes sorrowfulle dities that i may shew expres. in sesons past who hathe harde or sene of formar writinge by any presidente that vilane hastarddis[ ] in ther furious tene,[ ] fulfyld with malice of froward entente, confeterd[ ] togeder of commoun concente falsly to slo[ ] ther moste singular goode lorde? it may be registerde of shamefull recorde. so noble a man, so valiaunt lorde and knight, fulfilled with honor, as all the worlde dothe ken; at his commaundement, whiche had both day and night knyghtis and squyers, at every season when he calde upon them, as menyall houshold men: were no thes commones uncurteis karlis of kynde[ ] to slo their owne lorde? god was not in their minde. and were not they to blame, i say also, that were aboute hym, his owne servants of trust, to suffre hym slayn of his mortall fo? fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust: they bode[ ] not till the rekening were discust. what shuld i flatter? what shulde i glose[ ] or paynt? fy, fy for shame, their harts wer to faint. in englande and fraunce, which gretly was redouted;[ ] of whom both flaunders and scotland stode in drede; to whome grete astates obeyde and lowttede;[ ] a mayny[ ] of rude villayns made him for to blede: unkindly they slew hym, that holp them oft at nede: he was their bulwark, their paves,[ ] and their wall, yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot[ ] them befal. i say, ye commoners, why wer ye so stark mad? what frantyk frensy fyll[ ] in youre brayne? where was your wit and reson, ye shuld have had? what willfull foly made yow to ryse agayne[ ] your naturall lord? alas! i can not fayne. ye armed you with will, and left your wit behynd; well may you be called comones most unkynd. he was your chyfteyne, your shelde, your chef defence, redy to assyst you in every tyme of nede: your worship[ ] depended of his excellence: alas! ye mad men, to far ye did excede: your hap was unhappy, to ill was your spede: what movyd you agayn hym to war or to fight? what aylde you to sle your lord agyn all right? the grounde of his quarel was for his sovereyn lord, the welle concernyng of all the hole lande, demaundyng soche dutyes as nedis most acord to the right of his prince which shold not be withstand; for whos cause ye slew hym with your awne hande: but had his nobill men done wel that day, ye had not been hable to have saide him nay. but ther was fals packinge,[ ] or els i am begylde: how-be-it the matter was evident and playne, for yf they had occupied[ ] ther spere and ther shelde, this noble man doutles had not be slayne. bot men say they wer lynked with a double chayn, and held with the commouns under a cloke, whiche kindeled the wyld fyre that made all this smoke. the commouns renyed[ ] ther taxes to pay of them demaunded and asked by the kinge; with one voice importune, they playnly said nay: they buskt them on a bushment[ ] themself in baile[ ] to bringe: agayne the kings plesure to wrastle or to wringe,[ ] bluntly as bestis withe boste[ ] and with cry they saide, they forsede[ ] not, nor carede not to dy. the noblenes of the northe this valiant lorde and knyght, as man that was innocent of trechery or trayne, presed forthe boldly to witstand the myght, and, lyke marciall hector, he fauht them agayne, vigorously upon them with myght and with mayne, trustinge in noble men that wer with hym there: bot all they fled from hym for falshode or fere. barons, knights, squyers, one and alle, togeder with servaunts of his famuly, turnid their backis, and let ther master fall, of whos [life] they counted not a flye; take up whos wolde for them, they let hym ly. alas! his golde, his fee, his annuall rente upon suche a sort[ ] was ille bestowde and spent. he was envyronde aboute on every syde withe his enemys, that were stark mad and wode;[ ] yet whils he stode he gave them woundes wyde: alas for routhe![ ] what thouche his mynde were goode, his corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode! all left alone, alas! he fawte in vayne; for cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne. alas for pite! that percy thus was spylt,[ ] the famous erle of northumberlande: of knightly prowès the sworde pomel and hylt, the myghty lyoun[ ] doutted[ ] by se and lande! o dolorous chaunce of fortuns fruward hande! what man remembring how shamfully he was slayne, from bitter weepinge hymself kan restrayne? o cruell mars, thou dedly god of war! o dolorous teusday, dedicate to thy name, when thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar! o grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame, whiche wert endyed with rede blode of the same! moste noble erle! o fowle mysuryd[ ] grounde whereon he gat his fynal dedely wounde! o atropos, of the fatall systers thre, goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man, all merciles, in the ys no pitè! o homycide, whiche sleest[ ] all that thou kan, so forcibly upon this erle thow ran, that with thy sworde enharpid[ ] of mortall drede, thou kit[ ] asonder his perfight[ ] vitall threde! my wordis unpullysht be nakide and playne, of aureat[ ] poems they want ellumynynge;[ ] bot by them to knoulege ye may attayne of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge. which whils he lyvyd had fuyson[ ] of every thing, of knights, of squyers, chef lord of toure and toune, tyl fykkill[ ] fortune began on hym to frowne. paregall[ ] to dukis, with kings he myght compare, surmountinge in honor all erls he did excede, to all cuntreis aboute hym reporte[ ] me i dare. lyke to eneas benygne in worde and dede, valiaunt as hector in every marciall nede, provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse, tyll the chaunce ran agyne him of fortunes duble dyse. what nedethe me for to extoll his fame with my rude pen enkankerd all with rust? whos noble actis shew worsheply his name, transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must yet sumwhat wright supprisid with hartly lust,[ ] truly reportinge his right noble astate, immortally whiche is immaculate. his noble blode never disteynyd was, trew to his prince for to defende his right, doublenes hatinge, fals maters to compas, treytory[ ] and treson he bannesht out of syght, with trowth to medle was all his hole delyght, as all his kuntrey kan testefy the same: to slo suche a lord, alas, it was grete shame. if the hole quere[ ] of the musis nyne in me all onely wer sett and comprisyde, enbrethed with the blast of influence dyvyne, as perfightly as could be thought or devysyd; to me also allthouche it were promysyde of laureat phebus holy the eloquence, all were to litill for his magnyficence. o yonge lyon, bot tender yet of age,[ ] grow and encrese, remembre thyn astate, god the assyst unto thyn herytage, and geve the grace to be more fortunate, agayne rebellyouns arme to make debate. and, as the lyoune, whiche is of bestis kinge, unto thy subjectis be kurteis and benyngne. i pray god sende the prosperous lyf and long, stabille thy mynde constant to be and fast, right to mayntein, and to resist all wronge: all flattringe faytors[ ] abhor and from the cast, of foule detraction god kepe the from the blast: let double delinge in the have no place, and be not light of credence in no case. wythe hevy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd, eche man may sorrow in his inward thought, thys lords death, whose pere is hard to fynd allgyf[ ] englond and fraunce were thorow saught. al kings, all princes, all dukes, well they ought bothe temporall and spirituall for to complayne this noble man, that crewelly was slayne. more specially barons, and those knygtes bold, and all other gentilmen with hym enterteynd in fee, as menyall men of his housold, whom he as lord worsheply manteynd: to sorowfull weping they ought to be constreynd, as oft as thei call to ther remembraunce, of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce. o perlese prince of hevyn emperyalle, that with one worde formed al thing of noughte; hevyn, hell, and erth obey unto thi kall; which to thy resemblance wondersly hast wrought all mankynd, whom thou full dere hast boght, with thy blode precious our finaunce[ ] thou dyd pay, and us redemed, from the fendys pray;[ ] to the pray we, as prince incomperable, as thou art of mercy and pite the well, thou bringe unto thy joye etermynable[ ] the sowle of this lorde from all daunger of hell, in endles blis with the to byde and dwell in thy palace above the orient, where thou art lorde, and god omnipotent. o quene of mercy, o lady full of grace, maiden moste pure, and goddis moder dere, to sorowfull harts chef comfort and solace, of all women o floure withouten pere, pray to thy son above the starris clere, he to vouchesaf by thy mediatioun to pardon thy servant, and bringe to salvacion. in joy triumphaunt the hevenly yerarchy,[ ] with all the hole sorte[ ] of that glorious place, his soule mot[ ] receyve into ther company thorowe bounte of hym that formed all solace: well of pite, of mercy, and of grace, the father, the son, and the holy goste in trinitate one god of myghts moste. * * * * * [+±+] i have placed the foregoing poem of _skelton's_ before the following extract from _hawes_, not only because it was written first, but because i think _skelton_ is in general to be considered as the earlier poet; many of his poems being written long before _hawes's graunde amour_. footnotes: [ ] the mother of henry, first earl of northumberland, was mary daughter to henry e. of lancaster, whose father edmond was second son of k. henry iii.--the mother and wife of the second earl of northumberland were both lineal descendants of k. edward iii.--the _percys_ also were lineally descended from the emperour charlemagne and the ancient kings of france, by his ancestor josceline de lovain (son of godfrey duke of brabant), who took the name of _percy_ on marrying the heiress of that house in the reign of hen. ii. vid. camden _britan._, edmondson, &c. [ ] [against.] [ ] [helicons.] [ ] [estate.] [ ] [nobleness.] [ ] [rough fellows.] [ ] [wrath.] [ ] [confederated.] [ ] [slay.] [ ] [churls by nature.] [ ] [abode.] [ ] [gloss over.] [ ] [dreaded.] [ ] [crouched.] [ ] [a number.] [ ] [large shield.] [ ] [may.] [ ] [fell.] [ ] [against.] [ ] [honour.] [ ] [false dealing.] [ ] [used.] [ ] [refused.] [ ] [they prepared themselves for an ambush.] [ ] [trouble.] [ ] [contend.] [ ] [pride.] [ ] [heeded.] [ ] [set.] [ ] [wild.] [ ] [pity.] [ ] [destroyed.] [ ] alluding to his crest and supporters. _doutted_ is contracted for _redoubted_. [ ] [dreaded.] [ ] [misused, applied to a bad purpose.] [ ] [slayest.] [ ] [hooked or edged.] [ ] [cut.] [ ] [perfect.] [ ] [golden.] [ ] [embellishing.] [ ] [abundance.] [ ] [fickle.] [ ] [equal.] [ ] [refer.] [ ] [overpowered with hearty desire.] [ ] [treachery.] [ ] [whole choir.] [ ] [the earl's son was only eleven years old at the time of his father's death.] [ ] [deceivers.] [ ] [although.] [ ] [fine or forfeiture.] [ ] [prey of the fiends.] [ ] [interminable.] [ ] [hierarchy.] [ ] [whole company.] [ ] [may.] x. the tower of doctrine. the reader has here a specimen of the descriptive powers of _stephen hawes_, a celebrated poet in the reign of hen. vii. tho' now little known. it is extracted from an allegorical poem of his (written in .) intitled, _the history of graunde amoure and la bel pucell, called the pastime of pleasure, &c._ to. . see more of hawes in _ath. ox._ v. . p. . and warton's _observ._ v. . p. . he was also author of a book, intitled, _the temple of glass. wrote by stephen hawes, gentleman of the bedchamber to k. henry vii._ pr. for caxton, to. no date. the following stanzas are taken from chap. iii. and iv. of the hist. above-mentioned. "how fame departed from graunde amoure and left him with governaunce and grace, and how he went to the tower of doctrine, &c."--as we are able to give no small lyric piece of hawes's, the reader will excuse the insertion of this extract. * * * * * [most readers will probably be satisfied with the seventy-four lines that percy has extracted from hawes's long didactic poem, but those who wish to read the whole will find it reprinted by mr. thomas wright in the fifteenth volume of the percy society's publications. the account of rhetorick and the other allegorical nullities is weary reading, but the chapter in commendation of gower, chaucer and the author's master lydgate, "the chefe orygynal of my lernyng," is interesting from a literary point of view. the poem was very popular in its own day and passed through several editions, and it has found admirers among critics of a later age. the rev. dr. hodgson in a letter to percy, dated sept. , ,[ ] speaks of it in very extravagant terms, and regrets that it had not then found an editor, as he regarded it "as one of the finest poems in our own or any other language." warton describes hawes as the only writer deserving the name of a poet in the reign of henry vii. and says that "this poem contains no common touches of romantic and allegoric fiction." mr. wright however looks at it as "one of those allegorical writings which were popular with our forefathers, but which can now only be looked upon as monuments of the bad taste of a bad age." hawes was a native of suffolk, but the dates of his birth and death are not known. he studied in the university of oxford and afterwards travelled much, becoming "a complete master of the french and italian poetry."] * * * * * cap. iii. * * * * * i loked about and saw a craggy roche, farre in the west, neare to the element, and as i dyd then unto it approche, upon the toppe i sawe refulgent the royal tower of morall document, made of fine copper with turrettes fayre and hye, which against phebus shone so marveylously, that for the very perfect bryghtnes what of the tower, and of the cleare sunne, i could nothyng behold the goodlines of that palaice, whereas doctrine did wonne:[ ] tyll at the last, with mysty wyndes donne, the radiant brightnes of golden phebus auster gan cover with clowde tenebrus.[ ] then to the tower i drewe nere and nere, and often mused of the great hyghnes of the craggy rocke, which quadrant did appeare: but the fayre tower, so much of ryches was all about, sexangled doubtles; gargeyld[ ] with grayhoundes, and with manylyons, made of fyne golde; with divers sundry dragons.[ ] the little turrets with ymages of golde about was set, whiche with the wynde aye moved. wyth propre vices,[ ] the i did well beholde about the towers, in sundry wyse they hoved[ ] with goodly pypes, in their mouthes i-tuned, that with the wynde they pyped a daunce, i-clipped[ ] _amour de la hault plesaunce_. cap. iv. the toure was great and of marvelous wydnes, to whyche ther was no way to passe but one, into the toure for to have an intres:[ ] a grece[ ] there was y-chesyled all of stone out of the rocke, on whyche men dyd gone up to the toure, and in lykewyse dyd i wyth bothe the grayhoundes in my company:[ ] tyll that i came unto a ryall gate, where i sawe stondynge the goodly portres, whiche axed me, from whence i came a-late? to whome i gan in every thynge expresse all myne adventure, chaunce, and busynesse, and eke my name; i tolde her every dell: whan she herde this, she lyked me right well. her name, she sayd, was called countenaunce; into the besy[ ] courte she dyd me then lede, where was a fountayne depured[ ] of pleasance, a noble sprynge, a ryall conduyte hede, made of fyne golde enameled with reed; and on the toppe four dragons blewe and stoute thys dulcet water in foure partyes dyd spout. of whyche there flowed foure ryvers ryght clere, sweter than nylus[ ] or ganges was theyr odoure; tygrys or eufrates unto them no pere: i dyd than taste the aromatyke lycoure, fragraunt of fume, swete as any floure; and in my mouthe it had a marveylous cent[ ] of divers spyces, i knewe not what it ment. and after thys farther forth me brought dame countenaunce into a goodly hall, of jasper stones it was wonderly wrought: the wyndowes cleare depured all of crystall, and in the roufe on hye over all of golde was made a ryght crafty vyne; in stede of grapes the rubies there did shyne. the flore was paved with berall clarified, with pillers made of stones precious, like a place of pleasure so gayely glorified, it myght be called a palaice glorious, so muche delectable and solacious;[ ] the hall was hanged hye and circuler with cloth of arras in the rychest maner. that treated well of a ful noble story, of the doubty waye to the tower perillous;[ ] howe a noble knyght should wynne the victory of many a serpente fowle and odious. * * * * * footnotes: [ ] nichols' _illustrations of literature_, vol viii. p. . [ ] [dwell.] [ ] [dark.] [ ] [from gargoyle the spout of a gutter.] [ ] greyhounds, lions, dragons, were at that time the royal supporters. [ ] [devices.] [ ] [heaved.] [ ] [called.] [ ] [entrance.] [ ] [a flight of steps.] [ ] this alludes to a former part of the poem. [ ] [busy. percy reads base or lower court.] [ ] [purified.] [ ] nysus. _pc._ [ ] [scent.] [ ] [affording solace.] [ ] the story of the poem. xi. the child of elle, is given from a fragment in the editor's folio ms. which, tho' extremely defective and mutilated, appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt a completion of the story. the reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original. _child_ was a title sometimes given to a knight. * * * * * [the _child of ell_, as it appears in the folio ms., is a fragment without beginning or ending, so that percy was forced to add some verses in order to fit it for his book, but the above note does not give any adequate notion of his contributions to the ballad. the verses that are entirely due to the bishop's pen are placed between brackets, and it will be seen from the copy of the original printed at the end that the remaining thirty lines are much altered from it. it is unfortunate that percy's taste was not sufficient to save him from adding sentimental verses so out of character with the directness of the original as-- "fair emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe: at length he seized her lilly-white hand, and downe the ladder he drewe." on the other hand, the poem as it stands is certainly elegant, and sir walter scott was justified in his high praise when he pointed out the beauty of verses - . "the baron he stroked his dark brown cheek, and turned his head aside to wipe away the starting tear, he proudly strave to hide." scott published a ballad called "erlinton" for the first time in his _border minstrelsy_, which he says "seems to be the rude original, or perhaps a corrupt and imperfect copy of _the child of elle_." the original fragment from the ms. is worth reading for its own sake as a genuine antique, which must outweigh in interest all manufactured imitations.] * * * * * [on yonder hill a castle standes with walles and towres bedight,[ ] and yonder lives the child of elle, a younge and comely knighte. the child of elle to his garden wente, and stood at his garden pale, whan, lo! he beheld fair emmelines page come trippinge downe the dale. the child of elle he hyed him thence, y-wis he stoode not stille, and soone he mette faire emmelines page come climbing up the hille. nowe christe thee save, thou little foot-page, now christe thee save and see! oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, and what may thy tydinges bee? my lady shee is all woe-begone, and the teares they falle from her eyne; and aye she laments the deadlye feude betweene her house and thine. and here shee sends thee a silken scarfe bedewde with many a teare, and biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, who loved thee so deare. and here shee sends thee a ring of golde the last boone thou mayst have, and biddes thee weare it for her sake, whan she is layde in grave. for, ah! her gentle heart is broke, and in grave soone must shee bee, sith her father hath chose her a new new love, and forbidde her to think of thee. her father hath brought her a carlish[ ] knight, sir john of the north countràye, and within three dayes shee must him wedde, or he vowes he will her slaye. nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and greet thy ladye from mee, and telle her that i her owne true love will dye, or sette her free. nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and let thy fair ladye know this night will i bee at her bowre-windòwe, betide me weale or woe. the boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, he neither stint ne stayd untill he came to fair emmelines bowre, whan kneeling downe he sayd, o ladye, i've been with thy own true love, and he greets thee well by mee; this night will he bee at thy bowre-windòwe, and dye or sette thee free. nowe daye was gone, and night was come, and all were fast asleepe, all save the ladye emmeline, who sate in her bowre to weepe: and soone shee heard her true loves voice lowe whispering at the walle, awake, awake, my deare ladyè, tis i thy true love call. awake, awake, my ladye deare, come, mount this faire palfràye: this ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, ile carrye thee hence awaye. nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, nowe nay, this may not bee; for aye shold i tint my maiden fame, if alone i should wend with thee. o ladye, thou with a knighte so true mayst safelye wend alone, to my ladye mother i will thee bringe, where marriage shall make us one. "my father he is a baron bolde, of lynage proude and hye; and what would he saye if his daughtèr awaye with a knight should fly? ah! well i wot, he never would rest,] nor his meate should doe him no goode, until he had slayne thee, child of elle, and seene thy deare hearts bloode." o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and a little space him fro, i would not care for thy cruel fathèr, nor the worst that he could doe. o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and once without this walle, i would not care for thy cruel fathèr, nor the worst that might befalle. [faire emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe: at length he seized her lilly-white hand, and downe the ladder he drewe: and thrice he clasped her to his breste, and kist her tenderlìe: the teares that fell from her fair eyes, ranne like the fountayne free.] hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, and her on a fair palfràye, and slung his bugle about his necke, and roundlye they rode awaye. [all this beheard her owne damsèlle, in her bed whereas shee ley, quoth shee, my lord shall knowe of this, soe i shall have golde and fee. awake, awake, thou baron bolde! awake, my noble dame! your daughter is fledde with the child of elle, to doe the deede of shame. the baron he woke, the baron he rose, and called his merrye men all: "and come thou forth, sir john the knighte, thy ladye is carried to thrall."[ ]] faire emmeline scant had ridden a mile, a mile forth of the towne, when she was aware of her fathers men come galloping over the downe: [and foremost came the carlish knight, sir john of the north countràye: "nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitòure, nor carry that ladye awaye. for she is come of hye lineàge, and was of a ladye borne, and ill it beseems thee a false churl's sonne to carrye her hence to scorne."] nowe loud thou lyest, sir john the knight, nowe thou doest lye of mee; a knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, soe never did none by thee. but light nowe downe, my ladye faire, light downe, and hold my steed, while i and this discourteous knighte doe trye this arduous deede. but light now downe, my deare ladyè, light downe, and hold my horse; while i and this discourteous knight [doe trye our valour's force. fair emmeline sighed, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe, while twixt her love and the carlish knight past many a baleful blowe. the child of elle hee fought soe well, as his weapon he waived amaine, that soone he had slaine the carlish knight, and layd him upon the plaine. and nowe the baron, and all his men full fast approached nye: ah! what may ladye emmeline doe? twere nowe no boote[ ] to flye. her lover he put his horne to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill, and soone he saw his owne merry men come ryding over the hill. "nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baròn, i pray thee hold thy hand, nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts, fast knit in true love's band. thy daughter i have dearly loved full long and many a day; but with such love as holy kirke hath freelye sayd wee may. o give consent, shee may be mine, and blesse a faithfull paire: my lands and livings are not small, my house and lineage faire: my mother she was an earl's daughtèr, and a noble knyght my sire---- the baron he frowned, and turn'd away with mickle dole and ire." fair emmeline sighed, faire emmeline wept, and did all tremblinge stand: at lengthe she sprang upon her knee. and held his lifted hand. pardon, my lorde and father deare, this faire yong knyght and mee: trust me, but for the carlish knyght, i never had fled from thee. oft have you called your emmeline your darling and your joye; o let not then your harsh resolves your emmeline destroye. the baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, and turned his heade asyde to whipe awaye the starting teare, he proudly strave to hyde. in deepe revolving thought he stoode, and mused a little space; then raised faire emmeline from the grounde, with many a fond embrace. here take her, child of elle, he sayd, and gave her lillye white hand; here take my deare and only child, and with her half my land: thy father once mine honour wrongde in dayes of youthful pride; do thou the injurye repayre in fondnesse for thy bride. and as thou love her, and hold her deare, heaven prosper thee and thine: and nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, my lovelye emmeline.] [***] * * * * * [+±+] from the word _kirke_ in ver. , this hath been thought to be a scottish ballad, but it must be acknowledged that the line referred to is among the additions supplied by the editor: besides, in the northern counties of england, _kirk_ is used in the common dialect for _church_, as well as beyond the tweed. * * * * * [the following thirty-nine lines are the whole of the fragment which percy used as the groundwork of his poem. they are taken from _bishop percy's folio manuscript_, vol. i. p. . sayes, christ thee save, good child of ell! christ saue thee and thy steede! my father sayes he will noe meate, nor his drinke shall doe him noe good, till he have slaine the child of ell and have seene his harts blood. i wold i were in my sadle sett, and a mile out of the towne, i did not care for your father and all his merry men! i wold i were in my sadle sett, and a little space him froe, i did not care for your father and all that long him to! he leaned ore his saddle bow to kisse this lady good; the teares that went them two betweene were blend water and blood. he sett himselfe on one good steed this lady of one palfray and sett his litle horne to his mouth and roundlie he rode away. he had not ridden past a mile a mile out of the towne, her father was readye with her seven brether he said, sett thou my daughter downe! for itt ill beseemes thee, thou false churles sonne, to carry her forth of this towne! but lowd thou lyest, sir john the knight! that now doest lye of me; a knight me gott and a lady me bore; soe never did none by thee. but light now downe, my lady gay, light downe and hold my horsse whilest i and your father and your brether doe play us at this crosse; but light now downe, my owne trew loue, and meeklye hold my steede, whilest your father [and your brether] bold.] [_half a page missing._] footnotes: [ ] [bedecked.] [ ] [churlish.] [ ] [into captivity.] [ ] [no advantage.] [illustration] xii. edom o' gordon, a scottish ballad, was printed at glasgow, by robert and andrew foulis, mdcclv. vo. pages. we are indebted for its publication (with many other valuable things in these volumes) to sir david dalrymple, bart., who gave it as it was preserved in the memory of a lady that is now dead. the reader will here find it improved and enlarged with several fine stanzas, recovered from a fragment of the same ballad, in the editor's folio ms. it is remarkable that the latter is entitled _captain adam carre_, and is in the english idiom. but whether the author was english or scotch, the difference originally was not great. the english ballads are generally of the north of england, the scottish are of the south of scotland, and of consequence the country of ballad-singers was sometimes subject to one crown, and sometimes to the other, and most frequently to neither. most of the finest old scotch songs have the scene laid within twenty miles of england, which is indeed all poetic ground, green hills, remains of woods, clear brooks. the pastoral scenes remain: of the rude chivalry of former ages happily nothing remains but the ruins of the castles, where the more daring and successful robbers resided. the house or castle of the _rodes_ stood about a measured mile south from duns, in berwickshire: some of the ruins of it may be seen to this day. the _gordons_ were anciently seated in the same county: the two villages of east and west gordon lie about ten miles from the castle of the rodes.[ ] the fact, however, on which the ballad is founded, happened in the north of scotland,[ ] yet it is but too faithful a specimen of the violences practised in the feudal times in every part of this island, and indeed all over europe. from the different titles of this ballad, it should seem that the old strolling bards or minstrels (who gained a livelihood by reciting these poems) made no scruple of changing the names of the personages they introduced, to humour their hearers. for instance, if a gordon's conduct was blameworthy in the opinion of that age, the obsequious minstrel would, when among gordons, change the name to car, whose clan or sept lay further west, and _vice versâ_. the foregoing observation, which i owed to sir david dalrymple, will appear the more perfectly well founded, if, as i have since been informed (from _crawford's memoirs_), the principal commander of the expedition was a _gordon_, and the immediate agent a _car_, or _ker_; for then the reciter might, upon good grounds, impute the barbarity here deplored, either to a gordon or a car, as best suited his purpose. in the third volume the reader will find a similar instance. see the song of _gil morris_, wherein the principal character introduced had different names given him, perhaps from the same cause. it may be proper to mention that, in the folio ms., instead of the "castle of the rodes," it is the "castle of bittons-borrow," and also "dractons-borrow," and "capt. adam carre" is called the "lord of westerton-town." uniformity required that the additional stanzas supplied from that copy should be clothed in the scottish orthography and idiom: this has therefore been attempted, though perhaps imperfectly. * * * * * [percy's note, which goes to prove that the historical event referred to in this ballad occurred in the north of scotland, negatives the view which is expressed just before, that the borders are the exclusive country of the ballad singers, at all events in this particular instance. sir david dalrymple appears to have altered the place of action from towie to rodes under a misconception. an extract from _crawford's memoirs_ (an. , p. , ed. ), is a proper companion to the passage from spotswood, and explains the title in the folio ms. the person sent was "one captain ker with a party of foot.... nor was he ever so much as cashiered for this inhuman action, which made gordon share in the scandal and the guilt." gordon, in his _history of the family of gordon_, informs us that, in the true old spirit of scottish family feuds, the forbes's afterwards attempted to assassinate gordon in the streets of paris. percy showed good taste in rejecting the termination given in dalrymple's version, which certainly does not improve the ballad, and has moreover a very modern flavour. the husband is there made to end his days as follows:-- "and round and round the wa's he went their ashes for to view. at last into the flames he flew and bad the world adieu." this ballad is found in various versions, which proves how wide-spread was the popularity of the striking story which it relates. in the version given from the cotton ms. by ritson in his _ancient songs_ (vol. ii. p. , ed. ) the husband takes no vengeance on captain car. another version, entitled _loudoun castle_, is reprinted in _child's english and scottish ballads_ (vol. vi. p. ), from the _ballads and songs of ayrshire_, where the scene is changed to loudoun castle, which is supposed to have been burnt about three hundred and sixty years ago by the clan kennedy. in ritson's version the castle is called crechcrynbroghe, and in the _genealogy of the forbes_, by matthew lumsden, of tullikerne, written in (inverness, , p. ), the name is changed to cargaffe. from this latter source we learn that the lady of towie was margaret campbell, daughter of sir john campbell, of calder, and that the husband, far from flying into the flames, married a second wife, a daughter of forbes of reires, who bare him a son named arthur.] [illustration] it fell about the martinmas, quhen the wind blew shril and cauld, said edom o' gordon to his men, we maun draw till a hauld.[ ] and quhat a hauld sall we draw till, my mirry men and me? we wul gae to the house o' the rodes, to see that fair ladìe. the lady stude on hir castle wa', beheld baith dale and down: there she was ware of a host of men cum ryding towards the toun.[ ] o see ye nat, my mirry men a'? o see ye nat quhat i see? methinks i see a host of men: i marveil quha they be. she weend[ ] it had been hir luvely lord, as he cam ryding hame; it was the traitor edom o' gordon, quha reckt nae sin nor shame. she had nae sooner buskit[ ] hirsel, and putten on hir goun, but edom o' gordon and his men were round about the toun. they had nae sooner supper sett, nae sooner said the grace, but edom o' gordon and his men, were light about the place. the lady ran up to hir towir head, sa fast as she could hie, to see if by hir fair speechès she could wi' him agree. but quhan he see this lady saif, and hir yates[ ] all locked fast, he fell into a rage of wrath, and his look was all aghast. cum doun to me, ye lady gay, cum doun, cum doun to me: this night sall ye lig[ ] within mine armes, to-morrow my bride sall be. i winnae[ ] cum doun, ye fals gordòn, i winnae cum doun to thee; i winnae forsake my ain dear lord, that is sae far frae me. give owre your house, ye lady fair, give owre your house to me, or i sall brenn[ ] yoursel therein, bot and[ ] your babies three. i winnae give owre, ye false gordòn, to nae sik traitor as yee; and if ye brenn my ain dear babes, my lord sall make ye drie.[ ] but reach my pistoll, glaud, my man,[ ] and charge ye weil my gun:[ ] for, but an[ ] i pierce that bluidy butcher, my babes we been undone. she stude upon hir castle wa', and let twa bullets flee:[ ] she mist that bluidy butchers hart, and only raz'd his knee. set fire to the house, quo' fals gordòn, all wood wi' dule[ ] and ire: fals lady, ye sail rue this deid, as ye bren in the fire. wae worth,[ ] wae worth ye, jock my man, i paid ye weil your fee; quhy pu' ye out the ground-wa' stane.[ ] lets in the reek[ ] to me? and ein[ ] wae worth ye, jock my man, i paid ye weil your hire; quhy pu' ye out the ground-wa stane, to me lets in the fire? ye paid me weil my hire, lady; ye paid me weil my fee: but now i'm edom o' gordons man, maun either doe or die. o than bespaik hir little son, sate on the nurses knee: sayes, mither deare, gi' owre this house, for the reek it smithers me. i wad gie a' my gowd,[ ] my childe, sae wald i a' my fee, for ane blast o' the western wind, to blaw the reek frae thee. o then bespaik hir dochter dear, she was baith jimp[ ] and sma: o row[ ] me in a pair o' sheits, and tow me[ ] owre the wa. they rowd hir in a pair o' sheits, and towd hir owre the wa: but on the point of gordons spear, she gat a deadly fa. o bonnie bonnie was hir mouth, and cherry were hir cheiks, and clear clear was hir yellow hair, whereon the reid bluid dreips. then wi' his spear he turnd hir owre, o gin hir face was wan![ ] he sayd, ye are the first that eir i wisht alive again. he turnd hir owre and owre againe, o gin hir skin was whyte![ ] i might ha spared that bonnie face to hae been sum mans delyte. busk and boun,[ ] my merry men a', for ill dooms i doe guess; i cannae luik in that bonnie face, as it lyes on the grass. thame, luiks to freits, my master deir,[ ] then freits wil follow thame:[ ] let it neir be said brave edom o' gordon was daunted by a dame. but quhen the ladye see the fire cum flaming owre hir head, she wept and kist her children twain, sayd, bairns, we been but dead. the gordon then his bougill[ ] blew, and said, awa', awa'; this house o' the rodes is a' in flame, i hauld it time to ga'. o then bespyed hir ain dear lord, as hee cam owr the lee; he sied[ ] his castle all in blaze sa far as he could see. then sair, o sair his mind misgave, and all his hart was wae; put on, put on, my wighty men, so fast as ye can gae. put on, put on, my wighty[ ] men, sa fast as ye can drie;[ ] for he that is hindmost of the thrang, sall neir get guid o' me. than sum they rade, and sum they rin, fou fast out-owr the bent;[ ] but eir the foremost could get up, baith lady and babes were brent. he wrang his hands, he rent his hair, and wept in teenefu' muid:[ ] o traitors, for this cruel deid ye sall weep teirs o'bluid. and after the gordon he is gane, sa fast as he might drie;[ ] and soon i' the gordon's foul hartis bluid, he's wroken[ ] his dear ladie. [***] * * * * * [the following is the version of the ballad in the percy folio, which is entitled _captaine carre_. bishop percy's folio ms., ed. j. w. hales and f. j. furnivall, , vol. i., pp. - . ffaith, master, whither you will, whereas you like the best, unto the castle of bittons borrow, and there to take your rest. but yonder stands a castle faire, is made of lyme and stone, yonder is in it a fayre lady, her lord is ridden and gone. the lady stood on her castle wall, she looked upp and downe, she was ware of an hoast of men came rydinge towards the towne. see you not my merry men all, and see you not what i doe see? methinks i see a hoast of men i muse who they shold be. she thought it had beene her lovly lord, he had come ryding home: it was the traitor, captaine carre the lord of westerton towne they had noe sooner super sett, and after said the grace but the traitor captaine carre was light about the place. give over thy house, thou lady gay i will make thee a band [_i.e._ bond] all night within mine armes thoust lye, to-morrow be the heyre of my land. ile not give over my house, shee said neither for ladds nor man, nor yet for traitor captaine carre, untill my lord come home. but reach me my pistoll pee [_i.e._ piece] and charge you well my gunne, ile shoote at the bloody bucher the lord of westerton. she stood uppon her castle wall and let the bulletts flee, and where shee mist.... [_half a page missing._] but then bespake the little child that sate on the nurses knee, saies, mother deere, give ore this house for the smoake it smoothers me. i wold give all my gold, my childe, soe wold i doe all my fee, for one blast of the westerne wind to blow the smoke from thee. but when shee saw the fier came flaming ore her head, she tooke them upp her children two sayes, babes we all beene dead! but adam then he fired the house, a sorrowfull sight to see: now hath he burned this lady faire and eke her children three then captain carre he rode away, he staid noe longer at that tide, he thought that place it was to warme soe neere for to abide he calld unto his merry men all bidd them make hast away for we have slaine his children three all, and his lady gay. word came to lovly loudon[ ] to loudon[ ] wheras her lord lay, his castle and his hall was burned all and his lady gay. soe hath he done his children three, more dearer unto him then either the silver or the gold that men soe faine wold win. but when he looket this writing on, lord in is hart he was woe! saies, i will find thee, captain carre, wether thou ryde or goe! buff yee, bowne yee, my merry men all with tempered swords of steele, for till i have found out captaine carre, my hart it is nothing weele. but when he came to dractons borrow, soe long ere it was day, and ther he found him, captaine carre; that night he ment to stay.] [_half a page missing._] footnotes: [ ] this ballad is well known in that neighbourhood, where it is intitled _adam o'gordon_. it may be observed, that the famous freebooter whom edward i. fought with, hand to hand, near farnham, was named _adam gordon_. [ ] since this ballad was first printed, the subject of it has been found recorded in abp. spotswood's _history of the church of_ _scotland_, p. , who informs us that, "anno . in the north parts of scotland, _adam gordon_ (who was deputy for his brother the earl of huntley) did keep a great stir; and under colour of the queen's authority, committed divers oppressions, especially upon the forbes's.... having killed arthur forbes, brother to the lord forbes.... not long after he sent to summon the house of tavoy pertaining to alexander forbes. the _lady_ refusing to yield without direction from her husband, he put fire unto it, and burnt her therein, with children and servants, being twenty-seven persons in all. "this inhuman and barbarous cruelty made his name odious, and stained all his former doings; otherwise he was held very active and fortunate in his enterprizes." this fact, which had escaped the editor's notice, was in the most obliging manner pointed out to him by an ingenious writer who signs his name h. h. (newcastle, may ) in the _gentleman's magazine_ for may, . [ ] [to a hold.] [ ] [dwelling-house.] [ ] [thought.] [ ] [dressed.] [ ] [gates.] [ ] [lie.] [ ] [will not.] [ ] [burn.] [ ] [and also.] [ ] [suffer.] [ ] these three lines are restored from foulis's edition, and the fol. ms., which last reads _the bullets_, in ver. . [ ] [unless.] [ ] [mad with sorrow.] [ ] [woe betide.] [ ] [ground-wall stone.] [ ] [smoke.] [ ] [even.] [ ] [gold.] [ ] [slender.] [ ] [roll.] [ ] [let me down.] [ ] ver. , . _o gin, &c._ a scottish idiom to express great admiration. [ ] [make ready to go.] [ ] v. , . _thame, &c. i.e._ them that look after omens of ill luck, ill luck will follow. [ ] [bugle.] [ ] [saw.] [ ] [nimble.] [ ] [endure.] [ ] [full fast over the meadows.] [ ] [in wrathful mood.] [ ] [bear.] [ ] [revenged.] [ ] [printed _london_ in the edition of the ms.] the end of the first book. [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the first. book ii. ballads that illustrate shakespeare. [illustration] our great dramatic poet having occasionally quoted many ancient ballads, and even taken the plot of one, if not more, of his plays from among them, it was judged proper to preserve as many of these as could be recovered, and, that they might be the more easily found, to exhibit them in one collective view. this second book is therefore set apart for the reception of such ballads as are quoted by shakespeare, or contribute in any degree to illustrate his writings: this being the principal point in view, the candid reader will pardon the admission of some pieces that have no other kind of merit. [illustration] i. adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudesley, were three noted outlaws, whose skill in archery rendered them formerly as famous in the north of england, as robin hood and his fellows were in the midland counties. their place of residence was in the forest of englewood, not far from carlisle (called corruptly in the ballad englishwood, whereas engle, or ingle-wood, signifies wood for firing). at what time they lived does not appear. the author of the common ballad on "the pedigree, education and marriage of robin hood," makes them contemporary with robin hood's father, in order to give him the honour of beating them, viz.: "the father of robin a forester was, and he shot in a lusty long-bow, two north-country miles and an inch at a shot, as the pinder of wakefield does know: for he brought adam bell, and clim of the clugh, and william a clowdéslee, to shoot with our forester for forty mark; and the forester beat them all three." _collect. of old ballads_, vol. i. ( ), p. . this seems to prove that they were commonly thought to have lived before the popular hero of sherwood. our northern archers were not unknown to their southern countrymen: their excellence at the long-bow is often alluded to by our ancient poets. shakespeare, in his comedy of _much adoe about nothing_, act i., makes benedick confirm his resolves of not yielding to love, by this protestation, "if i do, hang me in a bottle like a cat,[ ] and shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapt on the shoulder, and called _adam_:" meaning _adam bell_, as theobald rightly observes, who refers to one or two other passages in our old poets wherein he is mentioned. the oxford editor has also well conjectured, that "abraham cupid" in _romeo and juliet_, act ii. sc. , should be "_adam_ cupid," in allusion to our archer. ben jonson has mentioned _clym o' the clough_ in his _alchemist_, act i. sc. . and sir william davenant, in a mock poem of his, called "_the long vacation in london_," describes the attorneys and proctors, as making matches to meet in finsbury fields. "with loynes in canvas bow-case tyde:[ ] where arrowes stick with mickle pride; ... like ghosts of _adam bell_ and _clymme_. sol sets for fear they'l shoot at him." _works_, , fol. p. . i have only to add further concerning the principal hero of this ballad, that the _bells_ were noted rogues in the north so late as the time of q. elizabeth. see in rymer's _foedera_, a letter from lord william howard to some of the officers of state, wherein he mentions them. as for the following stanzas, which will be judged from the style, orthography, and numbers, to be of considerable antiquity, they were here given (corrected in some places by a ms. copy in the editor's old folio) from a black-letter to. _imprinted at london in lothburye by wyllyam copland_ (no date). that old quarto edition seems to be exactly followed in _pieces of ancient popular poetry, &c._ lond. ,[ ] vo., the variations from which that occur in the following copy, are selected from many others in the folio ms. above-mentioned, and when distinguished by the usual inverted 'comma,' have been assisted by conjecture. in the same ms. this ballad is followed by another, intitled _younge cloudeslee_, being a continuation of the present story, and reciting the adventures of willian of cloudesly's son: but greatly inferior to this both in merit and antiquity. * * * * * [the version here printed differs but slightly from the one in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, , vol. iii. p. ), and as the latter is of no critical value it has been thought unnecessary to point out the various readings. a fragment of an older edition than copland's mentioned above has been recovered by mr. payne collier, which is attributed to the press of wynkyn de worde by mr. w. c. hazlitt. this spirited ballad is mentioned by laneham in his catalogue of captain cox's ballads, and the various editions it has passed through, and the frequent references to it in literature, prove its great and deserved popularity. the circumstances of the second fit resemble closely the rescue of robin hood by little john, as related in "robin hood and the monk," and the incident of the shot at the apple in the third fit bears a curious likeness to the very ancient myth which is associated with william tell. "allane bell" is mentioned by dunbar in company with robin hood, guy of gisborne, and others, which proves that in his time these names had become mere abstractions.] * * * * * part the first. mery it was in the grene forest amonge the levès grene, wheras men hunt east and west wyth bowes and arrowes kene; to raise the dere out of theyr denne; suche fightes hath ofte bene sene; as by thre yemen of the north countrèy, by them it is i meane. the one of them hight adam bel, the other clym of the clough,[ ] the thyrd was william of cloudesly, an archer good ynough. they were outlawed for venyson, these yemen everych-one; they swore them brethren upon a day, to englyshe wood for to gone. now lith[ ] and lysten, gentylmen, that of myrthes loveth to here: two of them were single men, the third had a wedded fere.[ ] wyllyam was the wedded man, muche more then was hys care: he sayde to hys brethren upon a day, to carleile he would fare;[ ] for to speke with fayre alyce his wife, and with hys chyldren thre. by my trouth, sayde adam bel, not by the counsell of me: for if ye go to carlile, brother, and from thys wylde wode wende,[ ] if that the justice may you take, your lyfe were at an ende. if that i come not to-morowe, brother, by pryme[ ] to you agayne, truste you then that i am 'taken,'[ ] or else that i am slayne. he toke hys leave of hys brethren two, and to carlile he is gon: there he knocked at his owne windòwe shortlye and anone. wher be you, fayre alyce, he sayd, my wife and chyldren three? lyghtly let in thyne owne husbànde, wyllyam of cloudeslee. alas! then sayde fayre alyce, and syghed wonderous sore, thys place hath ben besette for you thys halfe a yere and more. now am i here, sayde cloudeslee, i would that in i were. now fetche us meate and drynke ynoughe, and let us make good chere. she fetched hym meate and drynke plentye, lyke a true wedded wyfe; and pleased hym with that she had, whome she loved as her lyfe. there lay an old wyfe in that place, a lytle besyde the fyre, whych wyllyam had found of charytyè more than seven yere. up she rose, and forth shee goes, evill mote[ ] shee speede therfore; for shee had sett no foote on ground in seven yere before. she went unto the justice hall, as fast as she could hye: thys night, shee sayd, is come to town wyllyam of cloudeslyè. thereof the justice was full fayne,[ ] and so was the shirife also. thou shalt not trauaile hither, dame, for nought, thy meed thou shalt have ere thou go. they gave to her a ryght good goune, of scarlate, 'and of graine': she toke the gyft, and home she wente, and couched her doune agayne. they raysed the towne of mery carleile in all the haste they can; and came thronging to wyllyames house, as fast as they might gone. there they besette that good yemàn round about on every syde: wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes, that thither-ward fast hyed. alyce opened a backe wyndòwe,[ ] and loked all aboute, she was ware of the justice and shirife bothe, wyth a full great route.[ ] alas! treason, cryed alyce, ever wo may thou be! goe into my chamber, my husband, she sayd, swete wyllyam of cloudeslee. he toke hys sword and hys bucler, hys bow and hys chyldren thre, and wente into hys strongest chamber, where he thought surest to be. fayre alyce, like a lover true, took a pollaxe in her hande: said, he shall dye that cometh in thys dore, whyle i may stand. cloudeslee bente a right good bowe, that was of a trusty tre, he smot the justise on the brest, that hys arowe burst in three. 'a' curse on his harte, saide william, thys day thy cote dyd on! if it had ben no better then myne, it had gone nere thy bone. yelde the cloudeslè, sayd the justise, and thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.[ ] 'a' curse on hys hart, sayd fair alyce, that my husband councelleth so. set fyre on the house, saide the sherife, syth it wyll no better be, and brenne[ ] we therin william, he saide, hys wyfe and chyldren thre. they fyred the house in many a place, the fyre flew up on hye: alas! then cryed fayre alìce, i se we here shall dye. william openyd a backe wyndòw, that was in hys chamber hie, and there with sheetes he did let downe his wyfe and children three. have you here my treasure, sayde william, my wyfe and my chyldren thre: for christès love do them no harme, but wreke you all on me. wyllyam shot so wonderous well, tyll hys arrowes were all agoe, and the fyre so fast upon hym fell, that hys bowstryng brent[ ] in two. the sparkles brent and fell upon good wyllyam of cloudeslè: than was he a wofull man, and sayde, thys is a cowardes death to me. leever[ ] had i, sayde wyllyam, with my sworde in the route to renne,[ ] then here among myne enemyes wode[ ] thus cruelly to bren. he toke hys sword and hys buckler, and among them all he ran, where the people were most in prece,[ ] he smot downe many a man. there myght no man abyde hys stroakes, so fersly[ ] on them he ran: then they threw wyndowes, and dores on him, and so toke that good yemàn. there they hym bounde both hand and fote, and in a deepe dungeon him cast: now cloudesle, sayd the justice,[ ] thou shalt be hanged in hast. 'a payre of new gallowes, sayd the sherife,[ ] now shal i for thee make;' and the gates of carleil shal be shutte: no man shal come in therat. then shall not helpe clym of the cloughe, nor yet shall adam bell, though they came with a thousand mo, nor all the devels in hell. early in the mornynge the justice uprose, to the gates first can he gone, and commaunded to be shut full close lightilè[ ] everych-one. then went he to the markett place, as fast as he coulde hye; there a payre of new gallowes he set up besyde the pyllorye. a lytle boy 'among them asked,' what meaned that gallow-tre? they sayde to hange a good yemàn, called wyllyam of cloudeslè. that lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard, and kept fayre alyces swyne; oft he had seene william in the wodde, and geuen hym there to dyne. he went out att a crevis of the wall, and lightly to the woode dyd gone; there met he with these wightye[ ] yemen[ ] shortly and anone. alas! then sayde the lytle boye, ye tary here all too longe; cloudeslee is taken, and dampned[ ] to death, and readye for to honge.[ ] alas! then sayd good adam bell, that ever we saw thys daye! he had better have tarryed with us, so ofte as we dyd hym praye. he myght have dwelt in grene forèste, under the shadowes greene,[ ] and have kepte both hym and us att reste, out of all trouble and teene.[ ] adam bent a ryght good bow, a great hart sone hee had slayne: take that, chylde, he sayde, to thy dynner, and bryng me myne arrowe agayne. now go we hence, sayed these wightye yeomen,[ ] tarry we no longer here; we shall hym borowe[ ] by god his grace, though we buy itt full dere. to caerleil wente these bold yemen, all in a mornyng of maye. here is a fyt of cloudeslye, and another is for to saye. * * * * * part the second. and when they came to mery carleile, all in 'the' mornyng tyde, they founde the gates shut them untyll[ ] about on every syde. alas! then sayd good adam bell, that ever we were made men! these gates be shut so wonderous fast, we may not come therein. then bespake him clym of the clough, wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng; let us saye we be messengers, streyght come nowe from our king. adam said, i have a letter written, now let us wysely werke, we wyl saye we have the kynges seale; i holde the porter no clerke. then adam bell bete on the gates with strokes great and stronge: the porter marveiled, who was therat, and to the gates he thronge.[ ] who is there now, sayde the porter, that maketh all thys knockinge? we be tow messengers, quoth clim of the clough, be come ryght from our kyng. we have a letter, sayd adam bel, to the justice we must itt bryng; let us in our message to do, that we were agayne to the kyng. here commeth none in, sayd the porter, by hym that dyed on a tre, tyll a false thefe be hanged, called wyllyam of cloudeslè. then spake the good yeman clym of the clough, and swore by mary fre, and if that we stande long wythout, like a thefe hanged shalt thou be. lo! here we have the kynges seale: what, lurden,[ ] art thou wode?[ ][ ] the porter went[ ] it had ben so, and lyghtly dyd off hys hode.[ ] welcome is my lordes seale, he saide; for that ye shall come in. he opened the gate full shortlye: an euyl openyng for him. now are we in, sayde adam bell, wherof we are full faine;[ ] but christ he knowes, that harowed[ ] hell, how we shall com out agayne. had we the keys, said clim of the clough, ryght wel then shoulde we spede, then might we come out wel ynough when we se tyme and nede. they called the porter to counsell, and wrang his necke in two, and caste hym in a depe dungeon, and toke hys keys hym fro. now am i porter, sayd adam bel, se brother the keys are here, the worst porter to merry carleile that 'the' had thys hundred yere. and now wyll we our bowes bend, into the towne wyll we go, for to delyuer our dere brothèr, that lyeth in care and wo. then they bent theyr good ewe bowes, and loked theyr stringes were round,[ ] the markett place in mery carleile they beset that stound.[ ] and, as they loked them besyde, a paire of new galowes 'they' see, and the justice with a quest[ ] of squyers, that judged william hanged to be. and cloudeslè lay redy there in a cart, fast bound both fote and hand; and a stronge rop about hys necke, all readye for to hange. the justice called to him a ladde, cloudeslees clothes hee shold have, to take the measure of that yemàn, therafter to make hys grave. i have sene as great mervaile, said cloudesle, as betweyne thys and pryme, he that maketh a grave for mee, hymselfe may lye therin. thou speakest proudlye, said the justice, i will thee hange with my hande. full wel herd this his brethren two, there styll as they dyd stande. then cloudeslè cast his eyen asyde, and saw hys 'brethren twaine' at a corner of the market place, redy the justice for to slaine. i se comfort, sayd cloudeslè, yet hope i well to fare, if i might have my handes at wyll ryght lytle wolde i care. then spake good adam bell to clym of the clough so free, brother, se you marke the justyce wel; lo! yonder you may him se: and at the shyrife shote i wyll strongly wyth an arrowe kene; a better shote in mery carleile thys seven yere was not sene. they loosed their arrowes both at once,[ ] of no man had they dread; the one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe, that both theyr sides gan blede.[ ] all men voyded,[ ] that them stode nye, when the justice fell to the grounde, and the sherife nye hym by; eyther had his deathes wounde. all the citezens fast gan flye, they durst no longer abyde: there lyghtly they losed cloudeslee, where he with ropes lay tyde. wyllyam start to an officer of the towne, hys axe 'from' hys hand he wronge, on eche syde he smote them downe, hee thought he taryed to long. wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two, thys daye let us lyve and die, if ever you have nede, as i have now, the same shall you finde by me. they shot so well in that tyde, theyr stringes were of silke ful sure, that they kept the stretes on every side; that batayle did long endure. they fought together as brethren true, lyke hardy men and bolde, many a man to the ground they threw, and many a herte made colde. but when their arrowes were all gon, men preced[ ] to them full fast, they drew theyr swordès then anone, and theyr bowes from them cast. they went lyghtlye on theyr way, wyth swordes and buclers round; by that it was mydd of the day, they made many a wound. there was an out-horne[ ] in carleil blowen, and the belles backwàrd dyd ryng, many a woman sayde, alas! and many theyr handes dyd wryng. the mayre of carleile forth com was, wyth hym a ful great route:[ ] these yemen dred hym full sore, of theyr lyves they stode in great doute.[ ][ ] the mayre came armed a full great pace, with a pollaxe in hys hande; many a strong man wyth him was, there in that stowre[ ] to stande. the mayre smot at cloudeslee with his bil,[ ] hys bucler he brast[ ] in two, full many a yeman with great evyll, alas! treason they cryed for wo. kepe well the gates fast, they bad, that these traytours therout not go. but al for nought was that they wrought, for so fast they downe were layde, tyll they all thre, that so manfulli fought, were gotten without, abraide.[ ] have here your keys, sayd adam bel, myne office i here forsake, and yf you do by my counsell a new porter do ye make. he threw theyr keys at theyr heads, and bad them well to thryve,[ ] and all that letteth any good yeman to come and comfort his wyfe. thus be these good yeman gon to the wod as lyghtly, as lefe on lynde;[ ] the lough and be mery in theyr mode, theyr enemyes were ferr behynd. when they came to englyshe wode,[ ] under the trusty tre, there they found bowes full good, and arrowes full great plentye. so god me help, sayd adam bell, and clym of the clough so fre, i would we were in mery carleile, before that fayre meynye.[ ] they set them downe, and made good chere, and eate and dranke full well. a second fyt of the wightye yeomen:[ ] another i wyll you tell. * * * * * part the third. as they sat in englyshe wood, under the green-wode tre, they thought they herd a woman wepe, but her they mought[ ] not se. sore then syghed the fayre alyce: 'that ever i sawe thys day!' for nowe is my dere husband slayne: alas! and wel-a-way! myght i have spoken wyth hys dere brethren, or with eyther of them twayne, to show them what him befell, my hart were out of payne. cloudeslè walked a lytle beside, he looked under the grene wood lynde, he was ware of his wife, and chyldren three, full wo in harte and mynde. welcome, wyfe, then sayde wyllyam, under 'this' trusti tre: i had wende[ ] yesterday, by swete saynt john, thou sholdest me never 'have' se.[ ] "now well is me that ye be here, my harte is out of wo." dame, he sayde, be mery and glad, and thanke my brethren two. herof to speake, said adam bell, i-wis it is no bote: the meate, that we must supp withall, it runneth yet fast on fote. then went they downe into a launde,[ ] these noble archares all thre; eche of them slew a hart of greece,[ ] the best that they cold se. have here the best, alyce, my wyfe, sayde wyllyam of cloudeslye; by cause ye so bouldly stode by me when i was slayne full nye. then went they to suppère wyth suche meate as they had; and thanked god of ther fortune: they were both mery and glad. and when they had supped well, certayne withouten lease,[ ] cloudeslè sayd, we wyll to our kyng, to get us a charter of peace. alyce shal be at our sojournyng in a nunnery here besyde; my tow sonnes shall wyth her go, and there they shall abyde. myne eldest son shall go wyth me; for hym have 'you' no care:[ ] and he shall bring you worde agayn, how that we do fare. thus be these yemen to london gone, as fast as they myght 'he,'[ ] tyll they came to the kynges pallàce, where they woulde nedes be. and whan they came to the kynges courte, unto the pallace gate, of no man wold they aske no leave, but boldly went in therat. they preced prestly[ ] into the hall, of no man had they dreade: the porter came after, and dyd them call, and with them began to chyde. the usher sayde, yemen, what wold ye have? i pray you tell to me: you myght thus make offycers shent:[ ] good syrs, of whence be ye? syr, we be out-lawes of the forest certayne withouten lease; and hether we be come to the kyng, to get us a charter of peace. and whan they came before the kyng, as it was the lawe of the lande, the kneled downe without lettyng, and eche held up his hand. the sayed, lord, we beseche the here, that ye wyll graunt us grace; for we have slayne your fat falow dere in many a sondry place. what be your nams, then said our king, anone that you tell me? they sayd, adam bell, clim of the clough, and wyllyam of cloudeslè. be ye those theves, then sayd our kyng, that men have tolde of to me? here to god i make an avowe, ye shal be hanged al thre. ye shal be dead without mercy, as i am kynge of this lande. he commanded his officers everich-one, fast on them to lay hande. there they toke these good yemen, and arested them al thre: so may i thryve, sayd adam bell, thys game lyketh not me. but, good lorde, we beseche you now, that yee graunt us grace, insomuche as 'frely' we be to you come, 'as frely' we may fro you passe, with such weapons, as we have here, tyll we be out of your place; and yf we lyve this hundreth yere, we wyll aske you no grace. ye speake proudly, sayd the kynge; ye shall be hanged all thre. that were great pitye, then sayd the quene, if any grace myght be. my lorde, whan i came fyrst into this lande to be your wedded wyfe, the fyrst boone that i wold aske,[ ] ye would graunt it me belyfe:[ ] and i asked you never none tyll now; therefore good lorde, graunt it me, now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge, and graunted it shal be. then, good my lord, i you beseche, these yemen graunt ye me. madame, ye myght have asked a boone, that shuld have been worth them all thre. ye myght have asked towres, and townes, parkes and forestes plentè. none soe pleasant to my pay,[ ] shee sayd; nor none so lefe[ ] to me. madame, sith it is your desyre, your askyng graunted shal be; but i had lever have geven you good market townes thre. the quene was a glad woman, and sayde, lord, gramarcy:[ ][ ] i dare undertake for them, that true men shal they be. but good my lord, speke som mery word, that comfort they may se. i graunt you grace, then sayd our king; washe, felos, and to meate go ye. they had not setten but a whyle certayne without lesynge,[ ] there came messengers out of the north with letters to our kyng. and whan the came before the kynge, they knelt downe on theyr kne; and sayd, lord, your officers grete you well, of carleile in the north cuntrè. how fareth my justice, sayd the kyng, and my sherife also? syr, they be slayne without leasynge, and many an officer mo. who hath them slayne, sayd the kyng; anone that thou tell me? "adam bell, and clime of the clough, and wyllyam of cloudeslè." alas for rewth![ ] then sayd our kynge: my hart is wonderous sore; i had lever[ ] than a thousande pounde, i had knowne of thys before; for i have graunted them grace, and that forthynketh[ ] me: but had i knowne all thys before, they had been hanged all thre. the kyng hee opened the letter anone, himselfe he red it thro, and founde how these outlawes had slain thre hundred men and mo: fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe, and the mayre of carleile towne; of all the constables and catchipolles alyve were 'scant' left one:[ ] the baylyes, and the bedyls both, and the sergeauntes of the law, and forty fosters of the fe,[ ] these outlawes had yslaw:[ ] and broke his parks, and slayne his dere; of all they chose the best; so perelous out-lawes, as they were, walked not by easte nor west. when the kynge this letter had red, in hys harte he syghed sore: take up the tables anone he bad, for i may eat no more. the kyng called hys best archars to the buttes wyth hym to go: i wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd, in the north have wrought this wo. the kynges bowmen buske them blyve,[ ][ ] and the quenes archers also; so dyd these thre wyghtye yemen; with them they thought to go. there twyse, or thryse they shote about for to assay theyr hande; there was no shote these yemen shot, that any prycke[ ] myght stand. then spake wyllyam of cloudeslè; by him that for me dyed, i hold hym never no good archar, that shoteth at buttes so wyde. 'at what a butte now wold ye shote,' i pray thee tell to me? at suche a but, syr, he sayd, as men use in my countree. wyllyam wente into a fyeld, and 'with him' his two brethren:[ ] there they set up two hasell roddes[ ][ ] twenty score paces betwene.[ ] i hold him an archar, said cloudeslè, that yonder wande cleveth in two. here is none suche, sayd the kyng, nor no man can so do.[ ] i shall assaye, syr, sayd cloudeslè, or that i farther go. cloudesly with a bearyng arowe[ ] clave the wand in two.[ ] thou art the best archer, then said the king, forsothe that ever i se. and yet for your love, sayd wyllyam, i wyll do more maystery.[ ] i have a sonne is seven yere olde, he is to me full deare; i wyll hym tye to a stake; all shall se, that be here; and lay an apple upon hys head, and go syxe score paces hym fro,[ ] and i my selfe with a brode aròw shall cleve the apple in two. now haste the, then sayd the kyng, by hym that dyed on a tre, but yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde, hanged shalt thou be. and thou touche his head or gowne, in fyght that men may se, by all the sayntes that be in heaven, i shall hange you all thre. that i have promised, said william, that i wyll never forsake. and there even before the kynge in the earth he drove a stake: and bound thereto his eldest sonne, and bad hym stand styll thereat; and turned the childes face him fro, because he should not start. an apple upon his head he set, and then his bowe he bent: syxe score paces they were meaten,[ ] and thether cloudeslè went. there he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, hys bowe was great and longe, he set that arrowe in his bowe, that was both styffe and stronge he prayed the people, that wer there, that they 'all still wold' stand, for he that shoteth for such a wager, behoveth a stedfast hand.[ ] muche people prayed for cloudeslè, that his lyfe saved myght be, and whan he made hym redy to shote, there was many weeping ee. 'but' cloudeslè clefte the apple in two, 'his sonne he did not nee.'[ ] over gods forbode, sayde the kinge, that thou shold shote at me. i geve thee eightene pence a day, and my bowe shalt thou bere, and over all the north countrè i make the chyfe rydère.[ ] and i thyrtene pence a day, said the quene,[ ] by god, and by my fay;[ ] come feche thy payment when thou wylt, no man shall say the nay. wyllyam, i make the a gentleman of clothyng, and of fe: and thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre, for they are so semely to se. your sonne, for he is tendre of age, of my wyne-seller he shall be; and when he commeth to mans estate, better avaunced shall he be. and, wyllyam, bring me your wife, said the quene, me longeth her sore to se: she shall be my chefe gentlewoman, to governe my nurserye. the yemen thanked them all curteously. to some byshop wyl we wend,[ ] of all the synnes, that we have done, to be assoyld[ ] at his hand. so forth be gone these good yemen, as fast as they might 'he[ ]'; and after came and dwelled with the kynge, and dyed good men all thre. thus endeth the lives of these good yemen; god send them eternall blysse; and all, that with a hand-bowe shoteth: that of heven may never mysse. amen. footnotes: [ ] bottles formerly were of leather; though perhaps a wooden bottle might be here meant. it is still a diversion in scotland to hang up a cat in a small cask or firkin, half filled with soot: and then a parcel of clowns on horseback try to beat out the ends of it, in order to show their dexterity in escaping before the contents fall upon them. [ ] _i.e._ each with a canvas bow-case tied round his loins. [ ] [ritson's book.] [ ] _clym of the clough_, means clem. [clement] of the cliff: for so clough signifies in the north. [ ] [attend.] [ ] [companion or wife.] [ ] ver. . _caerlel_, in _pc. passim_. [ ] [from this wild wood depart.] [ ] [six o'clock in the morning.] [ ] v. . _take, pc. tane_, ms. [ ] [might.] [ ] [glad.] [ ] ver. . sic ms. _shop window, pc._ [ ] [company.] [ ] [from thee.] [ ] [burn.] [ ] [burnt.] [ ] [sooner.] [ ] [in the crowd to run.] [ ] [wild.] [ ] [in a crowd.] [ ] [fiercely.] [ ] ver. . sic ms. _hye justice, pc._ [ ] v. , , are contracted from the folio ms. and _pc._ [ ] [quickly.] [ ] [lusty.] [ ] ver. . _yonge men, pc._ [ ] [condemned.] [ ] [hang.] [ ] ver. . sic ms. _shadowes sheene, pc._ [ ] [vexation.] [ ] v. . _jolly yeomen_, ms. _wight yong men, pc._ [ ] [redeem.] [ ] [unto.] [ ] [hastened.] [ ] [sluggard or stupid fellow.] [ ] [mad.] [ ] ver. . _lordeyne, pc._ [ ] _i. e._ weened, _thought_ (which last is the reading of the folio ms.)----calais, or rouen was taken from the english by showing the governor, who could not read, a letter with the king's seal, which was all he looked at. [ ] [doffed his hood.] [ ] [glad.] [ ] [despoiled.] [ ] so ascham in his _toxophilus_ gives a precept; "the stringe must be rounde" (p. . ed. ): otherwise, we may conclude from mechanical principles, the arrow will not fly true. [ ] [hour.] [ ] [inquest.] [ ] ver. . _lowsed thre, pc._ [ ] v. . _can bled_, ms. [ ] [went off.] [ ] [pressed.] [ ] _outhorne_, is an old term signifying the calling forth of subjects to arms by the sound of a horn. see cole's _lat. dict._, bailey, &c. [perhaps "a nouthorne," or neat's horn, from nowt, cattle.] [ ] [company.] [ ] [fear.] [ ] ver. . _for of_, ms. [ ] [fight.] [ ] [pike or halbert.] [ ] [burst.] [ ] [abroad.] [ ] this is spoken ironically. [ ] [lime tree.] [ ] ver. . _merry green wood_, ms. [ ] [company.] [ ] ver. . see part i. ver. . [ ] [might.] [ ] [thought.] [ ] ver. . _never had se, pc._ and ms. [ ] [clear space in a forest.] [ ] [fat hart.] [ ] [without lying.] [ ] ver. . _have i no care, pc._ [ ] _i.e._ hie, hasten. [ ] [pressed quickly.] [ ] [blamed.] [ ] ver. , . sic. ms. _bowne, pc._ [ ] [at once.] [ ] [satisfaction.] [ ] [dear.] [ ] [i thank you.] [ ] ver. . _god a mercye_, ms. [ ] [lying.] [ ] [pity.] [ ] [rather.] [ ] [vexeth.] [ ] ver. . _left but one_, ms. _not one, pc._ [ ] [foresters of the king's demesnes.] [ ] [slain.] [ ] [get them ready instantly.] [ ] v. . _blythe_, ms. [ ] _i.e._ mark. [ ] ver. , , . _to, pc._ [ ] [hazel rods.] [ ] v. . _i.e._ yards. [ ] v. . sic ms. _none that can, pc._ [ ] [an arrow that carries well.] [ ] [trial of skill.] [ ] v. . _i.e._ yards. [ ] ver. . sic, ms. _out met, pc._ [ ] v. . _steedye_, ms. [ ] [nigh.] [ ] [ranger.] [ ] ver. . _and i geve the xvij pence, pc._ [ ] [faith.] [ ] v. . _and sayd to some bishopp wee will wend_, ms. [ ] [absolved.] [ ] _he_, _i.e._ hie, hasten. ii. the aged lover renounceth love. the grave-digger's song in _hamlet_, act v. is taken from three stanzas of the following poem, though greatly altered and disguised, as the same were corrupted by the ballad-singers of shakespeare's time; or perhaps so designed by the poet himself, the better to suit the character of an illiterate clown. the original is preserved among surrey's poems, and is attributed to lord _vaux_, by george gascoigne, who tells us, it "was thought by some to be made upon his death-bed;" a popular error which he laughs at. (see his _epist. to yong gent._ prefixed to his _posies_, , to.) it is also ascribed to lord vaux in a manuscript copy preserved in the british museum.[ ] this lord was remarkable for his skill in drawing feigned manners, &c. for so i understand an ancient writer. "the lord vaux his commendation lyeth chiefly in the facilitie of his meetre, and the aptnesse of his descriptions such as he taketh upon him to make, namely in sundry of his songs, wherein he showeth the _counterfait action_ very lively and pleasantly." _arte of eng. poesie_, , p. . see another _song_ by this poet in vol. ii. no. viii. * * * * * [thomas second lord vaux, the author of this poem, was born in the year . he wrote several small pieces of the same character which evince taste and feeling, and his contributions to the _paradise of dainty devices_ exceed in number those of richard edwards himself, whose name appears upon the original title-page as the chief author. lord vaux was a courtier as well as a poet, and was one of the splendid retinue which attended wolsey in his embassy, in the th henry viii., , to the court of france to negotiate a peace. he took his seat in the house of lords in the nd henry viii., and two years afterwards, , waited on the king to calais and thence to boulogne. he was rewarded with the order of the bath at the coronation of anne boleyn, and was also appointed captain of the island of jersey, which office he surrendered in the th henry viii.] * * * * * i loth that i did love, in youth that i thought swete, as time requires: for my behove[ ] me thinkes they are not mete.[ ] my lustes they do me leave, my fansies all are fled;[ ] and tract of time begins to weave gray heares upon my hed. for age with steling steps, hath clawde me with his crowch,[ ][ ] and lusty 'youthe' awaye he leapes,[ ] as there had bene none such. my muse doth not delight me, as she did before: my hand and pen are not in plight, as they have bene of yore. for reason me denies, 'all' youthly idle rime;[ ] and day by day to me she cries, leave off these toyes in tyme. the wrinkles in my brow, the furrowes in my face say, limping age will 'lodge' him now,[ ] where youth must geve him place. the harbenger of death, to me i se him ride, the cough, the cold, the gasping breath, doth bid me to provide a pikeax and a spade, and eke a shrowding shete,[ ] a house of clay for to be made for such a guest most mete. me thinkes i heare the clarke, that knoles the carefull knell;[ ] and bids me leave my 'wearye' warke,[ ] ere nature me compell. my kepers[ ] knit the knot, that youth doth laugh to scorne,[ ] of me that 'shall bee cleane' forgot,[ ] as i had 'ne'er' bene borne.[ ] thus must i youth geve up, whose badge i long did weare: to them i yeld the wanton cup, that better may it beare. lo here the bared skull;[ ] by whose balde signe i know, that stouping age away shall pull 'what' youthful yeres did sow.[ ] for beautie with her band, these croked cares had wrought, and shipped me into the land, from whence i first was brought. and ye that bide behinde, have ye none other trust: as ye of claye were cast by kinde, so shall ye 'turne' to dust.[ ] footnotes: [ ] harl. mss. num. , § . [called in that ms. "_the image of death_." there is another copy in the ashmolean library (ms. ashm. no. .)] the readings gathered from that copy are distinguished here by inverted commas. the text is printed from the "_songs, &c. of the earl of surrey and others_, , to." [ ] [behoof.] [ ] [meet or fit.] [ ] ver. . _be, pc._ (printed copy in .) [ ] [crutch.] [ ] v. . _crowch_ perhaps should be _clouch_, clutch, grasp. [ ] ver. . _life away she, pc._ [ ] v. . _this, pc._ [ ] v. . so ed. 'tis _hedge_ in ed. . _hath caught him_, ms. [ ] v. . _wyndynge-sheete_, ms. [ ] v. . _bell_, ms. [ ] v. . _wofull, pc._ [ ] alluding perhaps to eccles. xii. [ ] v. . _did, pc._ [ ] ver. . _clene shal be, pc._ [ ] v. . _not, pc._ [ ] v. . _bare-hedde_, m. and some _pcc._ [ ] v. . _which, pc. that_, ms. _what_ is etc. [ ] v. . _wast, pc._ iii. jephthah judge of israel. in shakespeare's _hamlet_, act ii. the hero of the play takes occasion to banter polonius with some scraps of an old ballad, which has never appeared yet in any collection: for which reason, as it is but short, it will not perhaps be unacceptable to the reader; who will also be diverted with the pleasant absurdities of the composition. it was retrieved from utter oblivion by a lady, who wrote it down from memory as she had formerly heard it sung by her father. i am indebted for it to the friendship of mr. _steevens_. it has been said, that the original ballad, in black-letter, is among anthony à wood's collections in the ashmolean museum. but, upon application lately made, the volume which contained this song was missing, so that it can only now be given as in the former edition. * * * * * the banter of hamlet is as follows: "_hamlet._ 'o jeptha, judge of israel,' what a treasure hadst thou? _polonius._ what a treasure had he, my lord? _ham._ why, 'one faire daughter, and no more, the which he loved passing well.' _polon._ still on my daughter. _ham._ am not i i' th' right, old jeptha? _polon._ if you call me jeptha, my lord, i have a daughter, that i love passing well. _ham._ nay, that follows not. _polon._ what follows then, my lord? _ham._ why, 'as by lot, god wot:' and then you know, 'it came to passe, as most like it was.' the first row of the pious chanson will shew you more."--_act_ ii. _sc._ . * * * * * [a more perfect copy of this ballad was reprinted by evans in his _collection of old ballads_ from a black-letter broadside, and is included by child in his _collection of english and scottish_ _ballads_ (vol. viii. p. ). the wording is rather different in the two versions, and evans's has two additional stanzas. it does not appear that anything is left out at line of percy's version, but in place of the stars at line evans's copy reads-- "a sacrifice to god on high; my promise must be finishéd."] * * * * * have you not heard these many years ago jeptha was judge of israel? he had one only daughter and no mo, the which he loved passing well: and, as by lott, god wot, it so came to pass, as gods will was, that great wars there should be, and none should be chosen chief but he and when he was appointed judge, and chieftain of the company, a solemn vow to god he made; if he returned with victory, at his return to burn the first live thing, * * * * * that should meet with him then, off his house, when he should return agen. it came to pass, the wars was oer, and he returned with victory; his dear and only daughter first of all came to meet her father foremostly: and all the way she did play on tabret and pipe, full many a stripe, with note so high, for joy that her father is come so nigh. but when he saw his daughter dear coming on most foremostly, he wrung his hands, and tore his hair, and cryed out most piteously; oh! it's thou, said he, that have brought me low, and troubled me so, that i know not what to do. for i have made a vow, he sed, the which must be replenished: * * * * * "what thou hast spoke do not revoke: what thou hast said, be not affraid; altho' it be i; keep promises to god on high. but, dear father, grant me one request, that i may go to the wilderness, three months there with my friends to stay; there to bewail my virginity; and let there be, said she, some two or three young maids with me." so he sent her away, for to mourn, for to mourn, till her dying day. iv. a robyn jolly robyn. in his _twelfth night_, shakespeare introduces the clown singing part of the two first stanzas of the following song; which has been recovered from an antient ms. of dr. harrington's at bath, preserved among the many literary treasures transmitted to the ingenious and worthy possessor by a long line of most respectable ancestors. of these only a small part hath been printed in the _nugæ antiquæ_, vols. mo; a work which the publick impatiently wishes to see continued. the song is thus given by shakespeare, act iv. sc. :-- "_clown._ 'hey robin, jolly robin. [singing.] tell me how thy lady does.' _malvolio._ fool---- _clown._ 'my lady is unkind, perdy.' _malvolio._ fool---- _clown._ 'alas, why is she so?' _malvolio._ fool, i say---- _clown._ 'she loves another.'--who calls, ha?" dr. _farmer_ has conjectured that the song should begin thus: "hey, jolly robin, tell to me how does thy lady do? my lady is unkind perdy-- alas, why is she so?" but this ingenious emendation is now superseded by the proper readings of the old song itself, which is here printed from what appears the most ancient of dr. harrington's poetical mss. and which has, therefore, been marked no. i. (scil. p. .) that volume seems to have been written in the reign of king henry viii. and, as it contains many of the poems of sir _thomas wyat_, hath had almost all the contents attributed to him by marginal directions written with an old but later hand, and not always rightly, as, i think, might be made appear by other good authorities. among the rest this song is there attributed to sir _thomas wyat_ also; but the discerning reader will probably judge it to belong to a more obsolete writer. in the old ms. to the rd and th stanzas is prefixed this title, _responce_, and to the th and th, _le plaintif_; but in the last instance so evidently wrong, that it was thought better to omit these titles, and to mark the changes of the dialogue by inverted commas. in other respects the ms. is strictly followed, except where noted in the margin.--yet the first stanza appears to be defective, and it should seem that a line is wanting, unless the four first words were lengthened in the tune. * * * * * a robyn, jolly robyn, tell me how thy leman[ ] doeth, and thou shalt knowe of myn.[ ] 'my lady is unkynde perde.'[ ] alack! why is she so? 'she loveth an other better than me; and yet she will say no.' i fynde no such doublenes: i fynde women true. my lady loveth me dowtles, and will change for no newe. 'thou art happy while that doeth last; but i say, as i fynde, that women's love is but a blast, and torneth with the wynde.' suche folkes can take no harme by love, that can abide their torn.[ ] 'but i alas can no way prove in love but lake and morn.' but if thou wilt avoyde thy harme lerne this lessen of me, at others fieres thy selfe to warme, and let them warme with the. footnotes: [ ] [mistress.] [ ] ver. . _shall_, ms. [ ] [verily.] [ ] [turn.] v. a song to the lute in musicke. this sonnet (which is ascribed to _richard edwards_,[ ] in the _paradise of daintie devises_, fo. , b.) is by shakespeare made the subject of some pleasant ridicule in his _romeo and juliet_, act iv. sc. , where he introduces peter putting this question to the musicians. "_peter_ ... why 'silver sound?' why 'musicke with her silver sound?' what say you, simon catling? _i. mus._ marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. _pet._ pretty! what say you, hugh rebecke? _ . mus._ i say, silver sound, because musicians sound for silver. _pet._ pretty too! what say you, james sound-post. _ . mus._ faith, i know not what to say. _pet._ ... i will say for you: it is 'musicke with her silver sound,' because musicians have no gold for sounding." this ridicule is not so much levelled at the song itself (which for the time it was written is not inelegant) as at those forced and unnatural explanations often given by us painful editors and expositors of ancient authors. this copy is printed from an old quarto ms. in the cotton library (vesp. a. ), intitled, "divers things of hen. viij's time:" with some corrections from _the paradise of dainty devises_, . * * * * * [richard edwards, one of the chief contributors to the _paradise_ _of dainty devises_, was a facile and elegant poet much appreciated by his contemporaries but unjustly neglected now. meres in his _wits treasury_, , praises him, as "one of the best for comedy," and puttenham gives him the same commendation. thomas twyne and george turberville, wrote epitaphs upon him, and the latter says in the terms of unmeasured eulogy then fashionable-- "from plautus he the palme and learned terence won." edwards was born in somersetshire about , was educated at oxford, and, in , was constituted by queen elizabeth a gentleman of the royal chapel and master of the singing boys there. he attended the queen on her visit to oxford in , and was employed to compose a play called _palamon and arcite_, which was acted before her majesty in christ church hall.] * * * * * where gripinge grefes the hart would wounde, and dolefulle dumps[ ] the mynde oppresse, there musicke with her silver sound with spede is wont to send redresse: of trobled mynds, in every sore, swete musicke hathe a salve in store. in joye yt maks our mirthe abounde, in woe yt cheres our hevy sprites; be-strawghted[ ] heads relyef hath founde, by musickes pleasaunt swete delightes: our senses all, what shall i say more? are subjecte unto musicks lore. the gods by musicke have theire prayse; the lyfe, the soul therein doth joye: for, as the romayne poet sayes, in seas, whom pyrats would destroy, a dolphin saved from death most sharpe arion playing on his harpe. o heavenly gyft, that rules the mynd, even as the sterne dothe rule the shippe! o musicke, whom the gods assinde to comforte manne, whom cares would nippe! since thow both man and beste doest move, what beste ys he, wyll the[ ] disprove? footnotes: [ ] concerning him see wood's _athen. oxon._ and tanner's _biblioth._ also sir john hawkins's _hist. of music, &c._ [ ] [sorrowful gloom.] [ ] [distracted.] [ ] [what beast is he, will thee.] vi. king cophetua and the beggar-maid is a story often alluded to by our old dramatic writers. shakespeare, in his _romeo and juliet_, act ii. sc. , makes mercutio say, ----"her (venus's) purblind son and heir, young adam[ ] cupid, he that shot so true, when king cophetua loved the beggar-maid." as the th line of the following ballad seems here particularly alluded to, it is not improbable but shakespeare wrote it _shot so trim_, which the players or printers, not perceiving the allusion, might alter to _true_. the former, as being the more humorous expression, seems most likely to have come from the mouth of mercutio.[ ] * * * * * in the d part of _hen. iv._ a. , sc. , falstaff is introduced affectedly saying to pistoll, "o base assyrian knight, what is thy news? let king cophetua know the truth thereof." these lines, dr. warburton thinks, were taken from an old bombast play of _king cophetua_. no such play is, i believe, now to be found; but it does not therefore follow that it never existed. many dramatic pieces are referred to by old writers,[ ] which are not now extant, or even mentioned in any list. in the infancy of the stage, plays were often exhibited that were never printed. it is probably in allusion to the same play that ben jonson says, in his comedy of _every man in his humour_, a. , sc. : "i have not the heart to devour thee, an' i might be made as _rich_ as king cophetua." at least there is no mention of king cophetua's _riches_ in the present ballad, which is the oldest i have met with on the subject. it is printed from rich. johnson's _crown garland of goulden roses_, ,[ ] mo. (where it is intitled simply _a song of a beggar and a king_:) corrected by another copy. * * * * * [in the _collection of old ballads_, (vol. i. p. ) there is a ballad on the same subject as the following popular one. it is entitled "_cupid's revenge_, or an account of a king who slighted all women, and at length was constrained to marry a beggar, who proved a fair and virtuous queen."] * * * * * i read that once in affrica a princely wight[ ] did raine, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did faine: from natures lawes he did decline, for sure he was not of my mind, he cared not for women-kinde, but did them all disdaine. but, marke, what hapned on a day, as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in gray, the which did cause his paine. the blinded boy, that shootes so trim,[ ] from heaven downe did hie; he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lye: which soone did pierse him to the quicke, and when he felt the arrow pricke, which in his tender heart did sticke, he looketh as he would dye. what sudden chance is this, quoth he, that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defie? then from the window he did come, and laid him on his bed, a thousand heapes of care did runne within his troubled head: for now he meanes to crave her love, and now he seekes which way to proove how he his fancie might remoove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poor begger must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or els he would be dead. and, as he musing thus did lye, he thought for to devise how he might have her companye, that so did 'maze his eyes. in thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife the gods shall sure suffice. then from his bed he soon arose, and to his pallace gate he goes; full little then this begger knowes when she the king espies. the gods preserve your majesty, the beggers all gan cry: vouchsafe to give your charity our childrens food to buy. the king to them his pursse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hye. the king he cal'd her back againe, and unto her he gave his chaine; and said, with us you shal remaine till such time as we dye: for thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, and honoured for my queene; with thee i meane to lead my life, as shortly shall be seene: our wedding shall appointed be, and every thing in its degree: come on, quoth he, and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee cleane. what is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. penelophon,[ ] o king, quoth she: with that she made a lowe courtsèy; a trim one as i weene. thus hand in hand along they walke unto the king's pallàce: the king with courteous comly talke this begger doth imbrace: the begger blusheth scarlet red, and straight againe as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voyce, and said, o king, i doe rejoyce that you wil take me for your choyce, and my degree's so base. and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded strait the noblemen both all and some upon the queene to wait. and she behaved herself that day, as if she had never walkt the way;[ ] she had forgot her gowne of gray, which she did weare of late. the proverbe old is come to passe, the priest, when he begins his masse, forgets that ever clerke he was; he knowth not his estate. here you may read, cophetua, though long time fancie-fed, compelled by the blinded boy the begger for to wed: he that did lovers lookes disdaine, to do the same was glad and faine, or else he would himselfe have slaine, in storie, as we read. disdaine no whit, o lady deere,[ ] but pitty now thy servant heere, least that it hap to thee this yeare, as to that king it did. and thus they led a quiet life during their princely raigne; and in a tombe were buried both, as writers sheweth plaine.[ ] the lords they tooke it grievously, the ladies tooke it heavily, the commons cryed pitiously, their death to them was paine, their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did flye to every princes realme.[ ] footnotes: [ ] see above, preface to song i. book ii. of this vol. [ ] since this conjecture first occurred, it has been discovered that _shot so trim_ was the genuine reading. [ ] see _meres wits treas._ f. ; _arte of eng. poes._ , p. , , , . [ ] [reprinted by the percy society in the sixth volume of their publications.] [ ] [man.] [ ] [exact.] [ ] shakespeare (who alludes to this ballad in his _love's labour's_ _lost_, act iv. sc. .) gives the beggar's name _zenelophon_, according to all the old editions: but this seems to be a corruption; for _penelophon_, in the text, sounds more like the name of a woman.--the story of the king and the beggar is also alluded to in _k. rich. ii_ act v, sc. . [ ] ver. . _i.e._ tramped the streets. [ ] ver. . here the poet addresses himself to his mistress. [ ] v. . _sheweth_ was anciently the plur. numb. [ ] an ingenious friend thinks the two last stanzas should change place. [illustration] vii. take thy old cloak about thee, is supposed to have been originally a scotch ballad. the reader here has an ancient copy in the english idiom, with an additional stanza (the d.) never before printed. this curiosity is preserved in the editor's folio ms. but not without corruptions, which are here removed by the assistance of the scottish edit. shakespeare, in his _othello_, act ii. has quoted one stanza, with some variations, which are here adopted: the old ms. readings of that stanza are however given in the margin. * * * * * [the scottish version referred to above was printed in ramsay's _tea table miscellany_, and the king mentioned on line is there named robert instead of stephen. he is king harry in the folio ms. the "corruptions" to which percy alludes are all noted at the foot of the page, and in one instance at least (line ) the ms. gives an important new reading. mr. hales thinks that the ms. version is the oldest form of the ballad, because the definite mention of the court looks more original than the use of the general term of town, and he says, "the poem naturally grew vaguer as it grew generally popular."[ ] besides the reference to this ballad in _othello_ mentioned by percy above, mr. hales has pointed out to me another evident allusion in the _tempest_, act iv. sc. , where trinculo says, "_o king stephano, o peere_: o worthy stephano, looke what a _wardrobe_ here is for thee." (folio , booth's ed. p. , col. .) the cloak that had been in wear for forty-four years was likely to be a sorry clout at the end of that time, but the clothes of all classes were then expected to last from year to year without renewal. woollen cloths were of old the chief material of male and female attire. when new the nap was very long, and after being worn for some time, it was customary to have it shorn, a process which was repeated as often as the stuff would bear it. thus we find the countess of leicester (eleanor third daughter of king john, and wife of simon de montfort) in , sending hicque the tailor to london to get her robes re-shorn.[ ]] * * * * * this winters weather itt waxeth cold, and frost doth freese on every hill, and boreas blowes his blasts soe bold, that all our cattell are like to spill;[ ] bell my wiffe, who loves noe strife, she sayd unto me quietlye, rise up, and save cow crumbockes liffe, man, put thine old cloake about thee. he. o bell, why dost thou flyte[ ] 'and scorne'?[ ] thou kenst my cloak is very thin:[ ] itt is soe bare and overworne a cricke[ ] he theron cannot renn:[ ] then ile noe longer borrowe nor lend, 'for once ile new appareld bee,[ ] to-morrow ile to towne and spend,' for ile have a new cloake about mee. she. cow crumbocke is a very good cowe, shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle, shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, i trow, and other things shee will not fayle; i wold be loth to see her pine,[ ] good husband, councell take of mee,[ ] it is not for us to go soe fine,[ ] man, take thine old cloake about thee. he. my cloake it was a verry good cloake, itt hath been alwayes true to the weare, but now it is not worth a groat;[ ] i have had it four and forty yeere: sometime itt was of cloth in graine,[ ] 'tis now but a sigh clout[ ] as you may see, it will neither hold out winde nor raine; and ile have a new cloake about mee. she. it is four and fortye yeeres agoe since the one of us the other did ken, and we have had betwixt us towe of children either nine or ten; wee have brought them up to women and men; in the feare of god i trow they bee; and why wilt thou thyselfe misken?[ ] man, take thine old cloake about thee. he. o bell my wiffe, why dost thou 'floute!'[ ] now is nowe, and then was then: seeke now all the world throughout, thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen. they are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or 'gray',[ ] soe far above their owne degree: once in my life ile 'doe as they,'[ ] for ile have a new cloake about mee. she. king stephen was a worthy peere,[ ] his breeches cost him but a crowne,[ ] he held them sixpence all too deere;[ ] therefore he calld the taylor lowne.[ ][ ] he was a wight of high renowne,[ ] and thouse[ ] but of a low degree: itt's pride that putts this countrye downe, man, take thine old cloake about thee. he. 'bell my wife she loves not strife,[ ] yet she will lead me if she can; and oft, to live a quiet life, i am forced to yield, though ime good-man:' itt's not for a man with a woman to threape,[ ] unlesse he first give oer the plea: as wee began wee now will leave,[ ] and ile take mine old cloake about mee.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. .] [ ] [botfield's _manners and household expenses of england_, .] [ ] [spoil or come to harm.] [ ] [scold.] [ ] [ver. . o bell my wiffe, why dost thou fflyte.] [ ] [v. . itt is soe sore over worne.] [ ] [insect.] [ ] [run.] [ ] [v. - . in place of these two the ms. has "ile goe ffind the court within."] [ ] [starve.] [ ] [v. . therefore good husband ffollow my councell now.] [ ] [v. . forsake the court and follow the ploughe.] [ ] [ver. . itt hath cost mee many a groat.] [ ] [scarlet.] [ ] [a cloth to strain milk through.] [ ] [mistake.] [ ] v. . _flyte_, ms. [ ] [v. . yellow and blew.] [ ] [v. . once in my life ile take a vew.] [ ] ver. . king harry ... a verry good king, ms. [ ] v. . i trow his hose cost but, ms. [ ] v. . he thought them d. over to deere, ms. [ ] [rascal.] [ ] v. . clowne, ms. [ ] v. . he was king and wore the crowne, ms. [ ] [thou art.] [ ] [v. - :-- "o bell my wiffe! why dost thou fflyte now is now and then was then; wee will live now obedyent lyffe thou the woman and i the man."] [ ] [argue.] [ ] [v. . wee will live nowe as wee began.] [ ] [v. . ile have.] viii. willow, willow, willow. it is from the following stanzas that shakespeare has taken his song of the _willow_, in his _othello_, act iv. sc. , though somewhat varied and applied by him to a female character. he makes desdemona introduce it in this pathetic and affecting manner: "my mother had a maid call'd barbara: she was in love; and he, she lov'd, prov'd mad, sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd!and did forsake her. she had a song of--_willow_. an old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune, and she died singing it." this is given from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection, thus intitled, _a lover's complaint, being forsaken of his love. to a_ _pleasant tune._ * * * * * ["willow, willow" was a favourite burden for songs in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and one of john heywood's songs has the following-- "all a grene wyllow; wyllow, wyllow, wyllow, all a grene wyllow is my garland." in the _gorgeous gallery of gallant inventions_ ( ) there is a slightly different burden-- "willow, willow, willow, sing all of green willow, sing all of green willow, shall be my garland." there is another copy of the following song in the roxburghe collection (i. , ) printed in _roxburghe ballads_ (ed. w. chappell, , part i. p. ). both these are of the first half of the seventeenth century, and an earlier copy than either is printed by mr. chappell in his _popular music of the olden time_, i. . dr. rimbault[ ] has drawn attention to the following parody, dated -- "a poore soule sat sighing near a ginger-bread stall, o ginger-bread o, ginger-bread o! with his hands in his pockets, his head on the wall, o ginger-bread o, ginger-bread o! you pye-wifes of smithfield, what would ye be at! who talks of plum-pudding? here's better than that, for here's ginger-bread o, ginger-bread o!"] * * * * * a poore soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree; o willow, willow, willow! with his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee: o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd. he sigh'd in his singing, and after each grone, come willow, &c. i am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone; o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd. my love she is turned; untrue she doth prove: o willow, &c. she renders me nothing but hate for my love. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. o pitty me, (cried he) ye lovers, each one; o willow, &c. her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my mone. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. the cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace; o willow, &c. the salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face: o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. the mute birds sate by him, made tame by his mones: o willow, &c. the salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd! let nobody blame me, her scornes i do prove; o willow, &c. she was borne to be faire; i, to die for her love. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd. o that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard! sing willow, &c. my true love rejecting without all regard. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. let love no more boast him in palace, or bower; o willow, &c. for women are trothles,[ ] and flote[ ] in an houre. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. but what helps complaining? in vaine i complaine: o willow, &c. i must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me, o willow, &c. he that 'plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. the willow wreath weare i, since my love did fleet; o willow, &c. a garland for lovers forsaken most meete. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd! * * * * * part the second. lowe lay'd by my sorrow, begot by disdaine; o willow, willow, willow! against her too cruell, still still i complaine, o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd! o love too injurious, to wound my poore heart! o willow, &c. to suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart: o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. o willow, willow, willow! the willow garlànd, o willow, &c. a sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand: o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. as here it doth bid to despair and to dye, o willow, &c. so hang it, friends, ore me in grave where i lye: o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd. in grave where i rest mee, hang this to the view o willow, &c. of all that doe knowe her, to blaze her untrue. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. with these words engraven, as epitaph meet, o willow, &c. "here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet." o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. though she thus unkindly hath scorned my love, o willow, &c. and carelesly smiles at the sorrowes i prove; o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. i cannot against her unkindly exclaim, o willow, &c. cause once well i loved her, and honoured her name: o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. the name of her sounded so sweete in mine eare, o willow, &c. it rays'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare; o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd. as then 'twas my comfort, it now is my griefe; o willow, &c. it now brings me anguish, then brought me reliefe. o willow, &c. sing, o the greene willow, &c. farewell, faire false hearted: plaints end with my breath! o willow, willow, willow! thou dost loath me, i love thee, though cause of my death. o willow, willow, willow! o willow, willow, willow! sing, o the greene willow shall be my garlànd. footnotes: [ ] [rimbault's _musical illustrations of percy's reliques_, , p. .] [ ] [faithless.] [ ] [change.] ix. sir lancelot du lake. this ballad is quoted in shakespeare's second part of _henry iv._ act ii. the subject of it is taken from the ancient romance of k. arthur (commonly called _morte arthur_) being a poetical translation of chap. cviii. cix. cx. in pt. st, as they stand in ed. , to. in the older editions the chapters are differently numbered.--this song is given from a printed copy, corrected in part by a fragment in the editor's folio ms. in the same play of _ hen. iv. silence_ hums a scrap of one of the old ballads of robin hood. it is taken from the following stanza of _robin hood and the pindar of wakefield_. "all this beheard three wighty yeomen, twas robin hood, scarlet, and john: with that they espy'd the jolly pindàr as he sate under a thorne." that ballad may be found on every stall, and therefore is not here reprinted. * * * * * [this is a rhymed version of some chapters in malory's _mort_ _d'arthur_ (book vi. of caxton's edition), said to have been written by thomas deloney towards the end of elizabeth's reign. it first occurs in the _garland of good will_, reprinted by the percy society (vol. xxx.) the ballad appears to have been highly popular, and it is quoted by marston in the _malcontent_ and by beaumont and fletcher in the _little french lawyer_, as well as by shakspere. the copy in the percy ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, , vol. i. p. ) is imperfect in two places, and lines to , to , and to are not to be found there, but with these exceptions it is much the same as the ballad printed here.] * * * * * when arthur first in court began, and was approved king, by force of armes great victorys wanne, and conquest home did bring. then into england straight he came with fifty good and able knights, that resorted unto him, and were of his round table: and he had justs and turnaments, whereto were many prest,[ ] wherin some knights did farr excell and eke surmount the rest. but one sir lancelot du lake, who was approved well, he for his deeds and feats of armes, all others did excell. when he had rested him a while, in play, and game, and sportt,[ ] he said he wold goe prove himselfe in some adventurous sort. he armed rode in a forrest wide, and met a damsell faire, who told him of adventures great, wherto he gave great eare. such wold i find, quoth lancelott: for that cause came i hither. thou seemst, quoth shee, a knight full good, and i will bring thee thither. wheras a mighty knight doth dwell,[ ] that now is of great fame: therfore tell me what wight thou art, and what may be thy name. "my name is lancelot du lake." quoth she, it likes me than:[ ] here dwelles a knight who never was yet matcht with any man: who has in prison threescore knights and four, that he did wound; knights of king arthurs court they be, and of his table round. she brought him to a river side. and also to a tree, whereon a copper bason hung, and many shields to see. he struck soe hard, the bason broke; and tarquin soon he spyed: who drove a horse before him fast, whereon a knight lay tyed. sir knight, then sayd sir lancelôtt, bring me that horse-load hither, and lay him downe, and let him rest: weel try our force together: for, as i understand, thou hast, soe far as thou art able, done great despite and shame unto the knights of the round table. if thou be of the table round, quoth tarquin speedilye, both thee and all thy fellowship i utterly defye. that's over much, quoth lancelott tho,[ ] defend thee by and by. they sett their speares[ ] unto their steeds, and eache att other flie. they coucht theire speares, (their horses ran, as though there had beene thunder) and strucke them each immidst their shields, wherewith they broke in sunder. their horsses backes brake under them, the knights were both astound:[ ] to avoyd their horsses they made haste and light upon the ground. they tooke them to their shields full fast, their swords they drew out than, with mighty strokes most eagerlye each at the other ran. they wounded were, and bled full sore, they both for breath did stand, and leaning on their swords awhile, quoth tarquine, hold thy hand, and tell to me what i shall aske. say on, quoth lancelot tho. thou art, quoth tarquine, the best knight that ever i did know; and like a knight, that i did hate: soe that thou be not hee, i will deliver all the rest, and eke accord with thee. that is well said, quoth lancelott; but sith it must be soe, what knight is that thou hatest thus? i pray thee to me show. his name is lancelot du lake, he slew my brother deere; him i suspect of all the rest: i would i had him here. thy wish thou hast, but yet unknowne, i am lancelot du lake, now knight of arthurs table round; king hauds son of schuwake;[ ] and i desire thee do thy worst, ho, ho, quoth tarquin tho, one of us two shall end our lives before that we do go. if thou be lancelot du lake, then welcome shalt thou bee: wherfore see thou thyself defend, for now defye i thee. they buckled then together so, like unto wild boares rashing;[ ] and with their swords and shields they ran at one another slashing: the ground besprinkled was with blood: tarquin began to yield; for he gave backe for wearinesse, and lowe did beare his shield. this soone sir lancelot espyde, he leapt upon him then, he pull'd him downe upon his knee, and rushing off his helm, forthwith he strucke his necke in two, and, when he had soe done, from prison threescore knights and four delivered everye one. footnotes: [ ] [ready.] [ ] ver. . _to sportt_, ms. [ ] ver. . _where_ is often used by our old writers for _whereas_: here it is just the contrary. [ ] [then.] [ ] [then.] [ ] [spurs?] [ ] [stunned.] [ ] [ver. . "king ban's son of benwick." _malory._] [ ] _rashing_ seems to be the old hunting term to express the stroke made by the wild boar with his fangs. to _rase_ has apparently a meaning something similar. see mr. _steevens's_ note on _k. lear_, act iii. sc. , (ed. , vol. xiv. p. ) where the quartos read, "nor thy fierce sister in his anointed flesh _rash_ boarish fangs." so in _k. richard iii._ act iii. sc. , (vol. x. p. , .) "he dreamt to night the boar had _rased_ off his helm." x. corydon's farewell to phillis, is an attempt to paint a lover's irresolution, but so poorly executed, that it would not have been admitted into this collection, if it had not been quoted in shakespeare's _twelfth-night_, act ii. sc. .--it is found in a little ancient miscellany, intituled, _the golden garland of princely delights_, mo. bl. let. in the same scene of the _twelfth-night_, _sir toby_ sings a scrap of an old ballad, which is preserved in the pepys collection (vol. i. pp. , ), but as it is not only a poor dull performance, but also very long, it will be sufficient here to give the first stanza: the ballad of constant susanna. there dwelt a man in babylon of reputation great by fame; he took to wife a faire womàn, susanna she was callde by name: a woman fair and vertuous; lady, lady: why should we not of her learn thus to live godly? if this song of _corydon_, &c. has not more merit, it is at least an evil of less magnitude. * * * * * [dr. rimbault refers to an earlier copy of this song in a rare musical volume entitled _the first booke of ayres, composed by robert jones_, , where it is accompanied by the original music for four voices. this tune appears to have been a very popular one, and several scottish songs are to be sung to the "toon of sal i let her go." the air is also to be found in a dutch collection of songs published at haarlem in . in brome's comedy of _the jovial crew_, acted in at the cockpit in drury lane, there is an allusion perhaps to this song: "let her go, let her go, i care not if i have her, i have her or no."] * * * * * farewell, dear love; since thou wilt needs be gone, mine eyes do shew, my life is almost done. nay i will never die, so long as i can spie there be many mo, though that she doe goe, there be many mo, i fear not: why then let her goe, i care not. farewell, farewell; since this i find is true, i will not spend more time in wooing you: but i will seek elsewhere, if i may find love there: shall i bid her goe? what and if i doe? shall i bid her goe and spare not? o no, no, no, i dare not. ten thousand times farewell;--yet stay a while:-- sweet, kiss me once; sweet kisses time beguile: i have no power to move. how now am i in love? wilt thou needs be gone? go then, all is one. wilt thou needs be gone? oh, hie thee! nay stay, and do no more deny me. once more adieu, i see loath to depart bids oft adieu to her, that holds my heart. but seeing i must lose thy love, which i did choose, goe thy way for me, since that may not be. goe thy ways for me. but whither? goe, oh, but where i may come thither. what shall i doe? my love is now departed. she is as fair, as she is cruel-hearted. she would not be intreated, with prayers oft repeated, if she come no more, shall i die therefore? if she come no more, what care i? faith, let her goe, or come, or tarry. xi. gernutus the jew of venice. in the "_life of pope sixtus v._ translated from the italian of greg. leti, by the rev. mr. farneworth, folio," is a remarkable passage to the following effect: "it was reported in rome, that drake had taken and plundered st. domingo in hispaniola, and carried off an immense booty. this account came in a private letter to paul secchi, a very considerable merchant in the city, who had large concerns in those parts, which he had insured. upon receiving this news, he sent for the insurer sampson ceneda, a jew, and acquainted him with it. the jew, whose interest it was to have such a report thought false, gave many reasons why it could not possibly be true, and at last worked himself into such a passion, that he said, i'll lay you a pound of flesh it is a lye. secchi, who was of a fiery hot temper, replied, i'll lay you a thousand crowns against a pound of your flesh that it is true. the jew accepted the wager, and articles were immediately executed betwixt them, that, if secchi won, he should himself cut the flesh with a sharp knife from whatever part of the jew's body he pleased. the truth of the account was soon confirmed; and the jew was almost distracted, when he was informed, that secchi had solemnly swore he would compel him to an exact performance of his contract. a report of this transaction was brought to the pope, who sent for the parties, and, being informed of the whole affair, said, when contracts are made, it is but just they should be fulfilled, as this shall: take a knife, therefore, secchi, and cut a pound of flesh from any part you please of the jew's body. we advise you, however, to be very careful; for, if you cut but a scruple more or less than your due, you shall certainly be hanged." the editor of that book is of opinion that the scene between shylock and antonio in the _merchant of venice_ is taken from this incident. but mr. warton, in his ingenious _observations on the faerie queen_, vol. i. p. , has referred it to the following ballad. mr. warton thinks this ballad was written before shakespeare's play, as being not so circumstantial, and having more of the nakedness of an original. besides, it differs from the play in many circumstances, which a meer copyist, such as we may suppose the ballad-maker to be, would hardly have given himself the trouble to alter. indeed he expressly informs us that he had his story from the italian writers. see the _connoisseur_, vol. i. no. . after all, one would be glad to know what authority _leti_ had for the foregoing fact, or at least for connecting it with the taking of st. domingo by drake; for this expedition did not happen till , and it is very certain that a play of the _jewe_, "representing the greedinesse of worldly chusers, and bloody minds of usurers," had been exhibited at the playhouse called the _bull_ before the year , being mentioned in steph. gosson's _schoole of abuse_,[ ] which was printed in that year. as for shakespeare's _merchant of venice_, the earliest edition known of it is in quarto ; though it had been exhibited in the year , being mentioned, together with eleven others of his plays, in meres's _wits treasury_, &c. , mo. fol. . since the first edition of this book was printed, the editor hath had reason to believe that both _shakespeare_ and the author of this ballad are indebted for their story of the jew (however they came by it) to an italian novel, which was first printed at milan in the year , in a book intitled, _il pecorone, nel quale si contengono cinquanta novelle antiche, &c._ republished at florence about the year , or .[ ] the author was _ser. giovanni fiorentino_, who wrote in ; thirty years after the time in which the scene of boccace's _decameron_ is laid. (vid. _manni, istoria del decamerone di giov. boccac._ to. fior. .) that shakespeare had his plot from the novel itself, is evident from his having some incidents from it, which are not found in the ballad: and i think it will also be found that he borrowed from the ballad some hints that were not suggested by the novel. (see pt. ii. ver. , &c. where, instead of that spirited description of _the whetted blade_, &c. the prose narrative coldly says, "the jew had prepared a razor, &c." see also some other passages in the same piece.) this however is spoken with diffidence, as i have at present before me only the abridgement of the novel which mr. _johnson_ has given us at the end of his commentary on shakespeare's play. the translation of the italian story at large is not easy to be met with, having i believe never been published, though it was printed some years ago with this title,--"_the novel_, from which the _merchant of venice_ written by shakespeare is taken, translated from the italian. to which is added a translation of a novel from the _decamerone_ of boccaccio. london, printed for m. cooper, , vo." the following is printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys collection,[ ] intitled, "_a new song_, shewing the crueltie of _gernutus_, a _jewe_, who, lending to a merchant an hundred crowns, would have a pound of his fleshe, because he could not pay him at the time appointed. to the tune of black and yellow." * * * * * [this is the first of four ballads printed by percy as probable sources for the plots of four of shakspere's plays, but as we are unable to fix any satisfactory date for the first appearance of the ballads, it is well-nigh impossible to settle their claim to such distinction. the story of the jew who bargained for a pound of a christian's flesh in payment of his debt is so widely spread, that there is no necessity for us to believe that shakspere used this rather poor ballad, more especially as it is probable from the extract from gosson mentioned above that shakspere found the two plots of the bond and the caskets already joined together. there is, however, something in percy's note about the whetting of the knife in verses - , and it would be quite in accordance with the poet's constant practice for him to take this one point from the ballad of gernutus. the ballad was probably versified from one of the many stories extant, because, even if it be later than shakspere's play, it is impossible to believe that the ballad-writer could have written so bald a narration had he had the _merchant of venice_ before him. some forms of the story are to be found in persian, and there is no doubt that the original tale is of eastern origin. the oldest european forms are in the english _cursor mundi_ and _gesta_ _romanorum_, and the french romance of _dolopathos_. see miss toulmin smith's paper "on the bond-story in the _merchant of_ _venice_," "transactions of the new shakspere society," - p. . professor child prints a ballad entitled _the northern lord and cruel jew_ (_english and scottish ballads_, vol. viii. p. ), which contains the same incident of the "bloody minded jew." leti's character as an historian stands so low that his story may safely be dismissed as a fabrication.] * * * * * the first part. in venice towne not long agoe a cruel jew did dwell, which lived all on usurie, as italian writers tell. gernutus called was the jew, which never thought to dye, nor ever yet did any good to them in streets that lie. his life was like a barrow hogge,[ ] that liveth many a day, yet never once doth any good, until men will him slay. or like a filthy heap of dung, that lyeth in a whoard;[ ] which never can do any good, till it be spread abroad. so fares it with the usurer, he cannot sleep in rest, for feare the thiefe will him pursue to plucke him from his nest. his heart doth thinke on many a wile, how to deceive the poore; his mouth is almost ful of mucke, yet still he gapes for more. his wife must lend a shilling, for every weeke a penny, yet bring a pledge, that is double worth, if that you will have any. and see, likewise, you keepe your day, or else you loose it all: this was the living of the wife, her cow she did it call.[ ] within that citie dwelt that time a marchant of great fame, which being distressed in his need, unto gernutus came: desiring him to stand his friend for twelve month and a day, to lend to him an hundred crownes: and he for it would pay whatsoever he would demand of him, and pledges he should have. no, (quoth the jew with flearing[ ] lookes) sir, aske what you will have. no penny for the loane of it for one year you shall pay; you may doe me as good a turne, before my dying day. but we will have a merry jeast, for to be talked long: you shall make me a bond, quoth he, that shall be large and strong: and this shall be the forfeyture; of your owne fleshe a pound. if you agree, make you the bond, and here is a hundred crownes. with right good will! the marchant says: and so the bond was made. when twelve month and a day drew on that backe it should be payd, the marchants ships were all at sea, and money came not in; which way to take, or what to doe to thinke he doth begin: and to gernutus strait he comes with cap and bended knee, and sayde to him, of curtesie i pray you beare with mee. my day is come, and i have not the money for to pay: and little good the forfeyture will doe you, i dare say. with all my heart, gernutus sayd, commaund it to your minde: in thinges of bigger waight then this you shall me ready finde. he goes his way; the day once past gernutus doth not slacke to get a sergiant presently; and clapt him on the backe and layd him into prison strong, and sued his bond withall; and when the judgement day was come, for judgement he did call. the marchants friends came thither fast, with many a weeping eye, for other means they could not find, but he that day must dye. * * * * * the second part. "of the jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the judge towards the marchant. to the tune of _blacke and yellow_." some offered for his hundred crownes five hundred for to pay; and some a thousand, two or three, yet still he did denay.[ ] and at the last ten thousand crownes they offered, him to save. gernutus sayd, i will no gold: my forfeite i will have. a pound of fleshe is my demand, and that shall be my hire. then sayd the judge, yet, good my friend, let me of you desire to take the flesh from such a place, as yet you let him live: do so, and lo! an hundred crownes to thee here will i give. no: no: quoth he; no: judgment here: for this it shall be tride, for i will have my pound of fleshe from under his right side. it grieved all the companie his crueltie to see, for neither friend nor foe could helpe but he must spoyled bee. the bloudie jew now ready is with whetted blade in hand,[ ] to spoyle the bloud of innocent, by forfeit of his bond. and as he was about to strike in him the deadly blow: stay (quoth the judge) thy crueltie; i charge thee to do so. sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have; which is of flesh a pound: see that thou shed no drop of bloud, nor yet the man confound.[ ] for if thou doe, like murderer, thou here shalt hanged be: likewise of flesh see that thou cut no more than longes[ ] to thee: for if thou take either more or lesse to the value of a mite, thou shalt be hanged presently, as is both law and right. gernutus now waxt franticke mad, and wotes[ ] not what to say; quoth he at last, ten thousand crownes, i will that he shall pay; and so i graunt to set him free. the judge doth answere make; you shall not have a penny given; your forfeyture now take. at the last he doth demaund but for to have his owne. no, quoth the judge, doe as you list, thy judgement shall be showne. either take your pound of flesh, quoth he, or cancell me your bond. o cruell judge, then quoth the jew, that doth against me stand! and so with griping grieved mind[ ] he biddeth them fare-well. 'then' all the people prays'd the lord, that ever this heard tell. good people, that doe heare this song, for trueth i dare well say, that many a wretch as ill as hee doth live now at this day; that seeketh nothing but the spoyle of many a wealthey man, and for to trap the innocent deviseth what they can. from whome the lord deliver me, and every christian too, and send to them like sentence eke that meaneth so to do. footnotes: [ ] warton, _ubi supra_. [ ] [this book has been frequently reprinted.] [ ] compared with the ashmole copy. [ ] [a castrated hog.] [ ] [hoard or heap.] [ ] ver. . her _cow_, &c. seems to have suggested to shakespeare _shylock's_ argument for usury taken from jacob's management of laban's sheep, act i. to which _antonio_ replies, "was this inserted to make interest good? or are your gold and silver _ewes_ and rams? _shy._ i cannot tell, i make it _breed as fast_." [ ] [sneering.] [ ] [refuse.] [ ] the passage in shakespeare bears so strong a resemblance to this, as to render it probable that the one suggested the other. see act iv. sc. . "_bass._ why doest thou whet thy knife so earnestly?" &c. [ ] [destroy.] [ ] [belongs.] [ ] [knows.] [ ] ver. . _griped_, ashmol. copy. xii. the passionate shepherd to his love. this beautiful sonnet is quoted in the _merry wives of windsor_, act iii. sc. , and hath been usually ascribed (together with the _reply_) to shakespeare himself by the modern editors of his smaller poems. a copy of this madrigal, containing only four stanzas (the th and th being wanting), accompanied with the first stanza of the answer, being printed in "_the passionate pilgrime_, and _sonnets to sundry notes of musicke_, by mr. _william shakespeare, lond._ printed for _w. jaggard_, ." thus was this sonnet, &c. published as shakespeare's in his lifetime. and yet there is good reason to believe that (not shakespeare, but) _christopher marlow_ wrote the song, and _sir walter raleigh_ the _nymph's reply_: for so we are positively assured by isaac walton, a writer of some credit, who has inserted them both in his _compleat angler_,[ ] under the character of "that smooth song, which was made by kit. marlow, now at least fifty years ago; and ... an answer to it, which was made by sir walter raleigh in his younger days.... old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good."--it also passed for marlow's in the opinion of his contemporaries; for in the old poetical miscellany, intitled _england's helicon_, it is printed with the name of _chr. marlow_ subjoined to it; and the _reply_ is subscribed _ignoto_, which is known to have been a signature of sir _walter raleigh_. with the same signature _ignoto_, in that collection, is an imitation of marlow's beginning thus: "come live with me, and be my dear, and we will revel all the year, in plains and groves, &c." upon the whole i am inclined to attribute them to _marlow_, and _raleigh_; notwithstanding the authority of shakespeare's book of sonnets. for it is well known that as he took no care of his own compositions, so was he utterly regardless what spurious things were fathered upon him. sir _john oldcastle_, the _london prodigal_, and the _yorkshire tragedy_, were printed with his name at full length in the title-pages, while he was living, which yet were afterwards rejected by his first editors _heminge_ and _condell_, who were his intimate friends (as he mentions both in his will), and therefore no doubt had good authority for setting them aside.[ ] the following sonnet appears to have been (as it deserved) a great favourite with our earlier poets: for, besides the imitation above-mentioned, another is to be found among _donne's_ poems, intitled _the bait_, beginning thus: "come live with me, and be my love, and we will some new pleasures prove of golden sands, &c." as for _chr. marlow_, who was in high repute for his dramatic writings, he lost his life by a stab received in a brothel, before the year . see a. wood, i. . * * * * * [these exquisite poems by christopher marlowe and sir walter raleigh at once became popular favourites, and were often reprinted. the earliest appearance of the first was in marlowe's _jew of malta_. an imperfect copy was printed by w. jaggard with the _passionate pilgrim_ in , and the first stanza of the _reply_ was then added to it. in the following year both poems were correctly printed in _england's helicon_, the first being signed "chr. marlow" and the second "ignoto." when walton introduced the poems into his _angler_ he attributed the _reply_ to raleigh, and printed an additional stanza to each as follows:-- _passionate shepherd_ (after verse ). "thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me." "what should we talk of dainties then of better meat than's fit for men? these are but vain, that's only good which god hath blest and sent for food." in the roxburghe collection of ballads (i. ) is a street ballad in which these two songs are united and entitled _a most excellent ditty of the lover's promises to his beloved_, with _the lady's prudent answer to her love_. the verses referred to above as added by walton are here printed, but they take the place of verses to of each song respectively. mr. chappell and dr. rimbault have both drawn attention to the proofs of the popularity of marlowe's song to be found in out of the way places. in _choice, chance, and change, or conceits in their colours_ ( ), tidero being invited to live with his friend, replies, "why, how now? do you take me for a woman, that you come upon me with a ballad of _come live with me and be my love_?" in _the world's folly_, , there is the following passage: "but there sat he, hanging his head, lifting up the eyes, and with a deep sigh singing the ballad of _come live with me and be my love_, to the tune of _adew my deere_." nicholas breton refers to it in as "the old song," but walton considered it fresh enough to insert in his _angler_ in , although marlowe had then been dead sixty years.] * * * * * come live with me, and be my love, and we wil all the pleasures prove that hils and vallies, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks, and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses with a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle imbrodered all with leaves of mirtle; a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull; slippers lin'd choicely for the cold; with buckles of the purest gold; a belt of straw, and ivie buds, with coral clasps, and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, then live with me, and be my love. the shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may morning: if these delights thy mind may move, then live with me, and be my love. * * * * * the nymph's reply. if that the world and love were young, and truth in every shepherd's toung, these pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee, and be thy love. but time drives flocks from field to fold, when rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, and philomel becometh dumb, and all complain of cares to come. the flowers do fade, and wanton fields to wayward winter reckoning yield: a honey tongue, a heart of gall, is fancies spring, but sorrows fall. thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, in folly ripe, in reason rotten. thy belt of straw, and ivie buds, thy coral clasps, and amber studs; all these in me no means can move to come to thee, and be thy love. but could youth last, and love still breed, had joyes no date, nor age no need; then those delights my mind might move to live with thee, and be thy love. footnotes: [ ] first printed in the year , but probably written some time before. [ ] since the above was written, mr. _malone_, with his usual discernment, hath rejected the stanzas in question from the other sonnets, &c. of shakespeare, in his correct edition of the _passionate_ _pilgrim_, &c. see his _shakesp._ vol. x. p. . xiii. titus andronicus's complaint. the reader has here an ancient ballad on the same subject as the play of _titus andronicus_, and it is probable that the one was borrowed from the other: but which of them was the original it is not easy to decide. and yet, if the argument offered above for the priority of the ballad of the _jew of venice_ may be admitted, somewhat of the same kind may be urged here; for this ballad differs from the play in several particulars, which a simple ballad-writer would be less likely to alter than an inventive tragedian. thus in the ballad is no mention of the contest for the empire between the two brothers, the composing of which makes the ungrateful treatment of _titus_ afterwards the more flagrant: neither is there any notice taken of his sacrificing one of tamora's sons, which the tragic poet has assigned as the original cause of all her cruelties. in the play titus loses twenty-one of his sons in war, and kills another for assisting bassianus to carry off lavinia: the reader will find it different in the ballad. in the latter she is betrothed to the emperor's son: in the play to his brother. in the tragedy only two of his sons fall into the pit, and the third being banished returns to rome with a victorious army, to avenge the wrongs of his house: in the ballad all three are entrapped and suffer death. in the scene the emperor kills titus, and is in return stabbed by titus's surviving son. here titus kills the emperor, and afterwards himself. let the reader weigh these circumstances and some others wherein he will find them unlike, and then pronounce for himself. after all, there is reason to conclude that this play was rather improved by shakespeare with a few fine touches of his pen, than originally written by him; for, not to mention that the style is less figurative than his others generally are, this tragedy is mentioned with discredit in the induction to ben jonson's _bartholomew fair_, in , as one that had then been exhibited "five and twenty or thirty years:" which, if we take the lowest number, throws it back to the year , at which time shakespeare was but : an earlier date than can be found for any other of his pieces:[ ] and if it does not clear him entirely of it, shews at least it was a first attempt.[ ] the following is given from a copy in _the golden garland_ intitled as above; compared with three others, two of them in black letter in the pepys collection, intitled, _the lamentable and tragical history of titus andronicus, &c._ to the tune of, _fortune_. printed for e. wright. unluckily none of these have any dates. * * * * * [no original from which the plot of the play of _titus andronicus_ could be taken has yet been discovered, and it is just possible that this ballad may have given the hint, but the registers of the stationers' company go some way towards proving a negative to this supposition, for on the th of february, - , john danter registered _a noble roman historye of tytus andronicus_, and also _the ballad thereof_.] * * * * * you noble minds, and famous martiall wights, that in defence of native country fights, give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for rome, yet reapt disgrace at my returning home. in rome i lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres, my name beloved was of all my peeres; full five and twenty valiant sonnes i had, whose forwarde vertues made their father glad. for when romes foes their warlike forces bent, against them stille my sonnes and i were sent; against the goths full ten yeeres weary warre we spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre. just two and twenty of my sonnes were slaine before we did returne to rome againe: of five and twenty sonnes, i brought but three alive, the stately towers of rome to see. when wars were done, i conquest home did bring, and did present my prisoners to the king, the queene of goths, her sons, and eke a moore, which did such murders, like was nere before. the emperour did make this queene his wife, which bred in rome debate and deadlie strife; the moore, with her two sonnes did growe soe proud. that none like them in rome might bee allowd the moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie, that she consented to him secretlye for to abuse her husbands marriage bed, and soe in time a blackamore she bred. then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, consented with the moore of bloody minde against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, in cruell sort to bring them to their endes. soe when in age i thought to live in peace, both care and griefe began then to increase: amongst my sonnes i had one daughter bright, which joy'd, and pleased best my aged sight; my deare lavinia was betrothed than to cesars sonne, a young and noble man: who in a hunting by the emperours wife, and her two sonnes, bereaved was of life. he being slaine, was cast in cruel wise, into a darksome den from light of skies: the cruell moore did come that way as then with my three sonnes, who fell into the den. the moore then fetcht the emperour with speed, for to accuse them of that murderous deed; and when my sonnes within the den were found, in wrongfull prison they were cast and bound. but nowe, behold! what wounded most my mind, the empresses two sonnes of savage kind my daughter ravished without remorse, and took away her honour, quite perforce. when they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, they cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell how that dishonoure unto her befell. then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, whereby their wickednesse she could not write; nor with her needle on her sampler sowe the bloudye workers of her direfull woe. my brother marcus found her in the wood, staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, that trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. but when i sawe her in that woefull case, with teares of bloud i wet mine aged face: for my lavinia i lamented more then for my two and twenty sonnes before. when as i sawe she could not write nor speake, with grief mine aged heart began to breake; we spred an heape of sand upon the ground, whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found. for with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, she writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: "the lustfull sonnes of the proud emperèsse are doers of this hateful wickednèsse." i tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, i curst the houre, wherein i first was bred, i wisht this hand, that fought for countrie's fame, in cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame. the moore delighting still in villainy did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free i should unto the king my right hand give, and then my three imprisoned sonnes should live. the moore i caus'd to strike it off with speede, whereat i grieved not to see it bleed, but for my sonnes would willingly impart, and for their ransome send my bleeding heart. but as my life did linger thus in paine, they sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, and therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, which filld my dying heart with fresher moanes. then past reliefe i upp and downe did goe, and with my tears writ in the dust my woe: i shot my arrowes[ ] towards heaven hie, and for revenge to hell did often crye. the empresse then, thinking that i was mad, like furies she and both her sonnes were clad, (she nam'd revenge, and rape and murder they) to undermine and heare what i would say. i fed their foolish veines[ ] a certaine space, untill my friendes did find a secret place, where both her sonnes unto a post were bound, and just revenge in cruell sort was found. i cut their throates, my daughter held the pan betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran: and then i ground their bones to powder small, and made a paste for pyes streight therewithall. then with their fleshe i made two mighty pyes, and at a banquet servde in stately wise: before the empresse set this loathsome meat; so of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat. myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life, the empresse then i slewe with bloudy knife, and stabb'd the emperour immediatelie, and then myself: even soe did titus die. then this revenge against the moore was found, alive they sett him halfe into the ground, whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd. and soe god send all murderers may be serv'd. footnotes: [ ] mr. _malone_ thinks to be the æra when our author commenced a writer for the stage. see in his _shakesp._ the ingenious _attempt to ascertain the order in which the plays of shakespeare were written_. [ ] since the above was written, shakespeare's memory has been fully vindicated from the charge of writing the above play by the best criticks. see what has been urged by _steevens_ and _malone_ in their excellent editions of shakespeare, &c. [the question of shakspere's authorship is not by any means so completely settled in the negative as this note would imply. the external evidence for its authenticity is as strong as for most of the other plays. see _new shakspere society's transactions_, part i. p. , for a list of passages which seem to bear evidence of shakspere's hand in their composition.] [ ] if the ballad was written before the play, i should suppose this to be only a metaphorical expression, taken from that in the psalms, "they shoot out their arrows, even bitter words." ps. . . [ ] _i.e._ encouraged them in their foolish humours, or fancies [illustration] xiv. take those lips away. the first stanza of this little sonnet, which an eminent critic[ ] justly admires for its extreme sweetness, is found in shakespeare's _measure for measure_, act iv. sc. . both the stanzas are preserved in beaum. and fletcher's _bloody brother_, act v. sc. . sewel and gildon have printed it among shakespeare's smaller poems, but they have done the same by twenty other pieces that were never writ by him; their book being a wretched heap of inaccuracies and mistakes. it is not found in jaggard's old edition of shakespeare's _passionate pilgrim_,[ ] &c. * * * * * [the second stanza is an evident addition by another and inferior hand, so that percy's expression above--"both the stanzas are preserved"--gives a false impression.] * * * * * take, oh take those lips away, that so sweetlye were forsworne; and those eyes, the breake of day, lights, that do misleade the morne: but my kisses bring againe, seales of love, but seal'd in vaine hide, oh hide those hills of snowe, which thy frozen bosom beares, on whose tops the pinkes that growe, are of those that april wears: but first set my poor heart free, bound in those icy chains by thee. footnotes: [ ] dr. warburton in his _shakesp._ [ ] mr. malone, in his improved edition of shakespeare's _sonnets_, &c. hath substituted this instead of marlow's madrigal, printed above; for which he hath assigned reasons, which the reader may see in his vol. x. p. . xv. king leir and his three daughters. the reader has here an ancient ballad on the subject of _king lear_, which (as a sensible female critic has well observed[ ]) bears so exact an analogy to the argument of shakespeare's play, that his having copied it could not be doubted, if it were certain that it was written before the tragedy. here is found the hint of lear's madness, which the old chronicles[ ] do not mention, as also the extravagant cruelty exercised on him by his daughters. in the death of lear they likewise very exactly coincide. the misfortune is, that there is nothing to assist us in ascertaining the date of the ballad but what little evidence arises from within; this the reader must weigh and judge for himself. it may be proper to observe, that shakespeare was not the first of our dramatic poets who fitted the story of _leir_ to the stage. his first to. edition is dated : but three years before that had been printed a play intitled, _the true chronicle history of leir and_ _his three daughters gonorill, ragan, and cordella, as it hath been_ _divers and sundry times lately acted, , to_.--this is a very poor and dull performance, but happily excited shakespeare to undertake the subject, which he has given with very different incidents. it is remarkable, that neither the circumstances of leir's madness, nor his retinue of a select number of knights, nor the affecting deaths of cordelia and leir, are found in that first dramatic piece: in all which shakespeare concurs with this ballad. but to form a true judgement of shakespeare's merit, the curious reader should cast his eye over that previous sketch; which he will find printed at the end of _the twenty plays of shakespeare_, republished from the quarto impressions by _george steevens_, esq.; with such elegance and exactness as led us to expect that fine edition of all the works of our great dramatic poet, which he hath since published. the following ballad is given from an ancient copy in the _golden_ _garland_, bl. let. intitled, _a lamentable song of the death of king_ _leir and his three daughters_. _to the tune of when flying fame._ * * * * * [the old play referred to above, although printed as late as the year , was probably only a re-impression of a piece entered in the _stationers' register_ in , as it was a frequent practice of the publishers to take advantage of the popularity of shakspere's plays on the stage, by publishing dramas having somewhat the same titles as his. the cordella of the play is softened in the ballad to cordelia, the form used by shakspere and spenser, but the name ragan is retained in place of shakspere's regan.] * * * * * king leir once ruled in this land with princely power and peace; and had all things with hearts content, that might his joys increase. amongst those things that nature gave, three daughters fair had he, so princely seeming beautiful, as fairer could not be. so on a time it pleas'd the king a question thus to move, which of his daughters to his grace could shew the dearest love: for to my age you bring content, quoth he, then let me hear, which of you three in plighted troth the kindest will appear. to whom the eldest thus began; dear father, mind, quoth she, before your face, to do you good, my blood shall render'd be: and for your sake my bleeding heart shall here be cut in twain, ere that i see your reverend age the smallest grief sustain. and so will i, the second said; dear father, for your sake, the worst of all extremities i'll gently undertake: and serve your highness night and day with diligence and love; that sweet content and quietness discomforts may remove. in doing so, you glad my soul, the aged king reply'd; but what sayst thou, my youngest girl, how is thy love ally'd? my love (quoth young cordelia then) which to your grace i owe, shall be the duty of a child, and that is all i'll show. and wilt thou shew no more, quoth he, than doth thy duty bind? i well perceive thy love is small, when as no more i find. henceforth i banish thee my court, thou art no child of mine; nor any part of this my realm by favour shall be thine. thy elder sisters loves are more than well i can demand, to whom i equally bestow my kingdome and my land, my pompal state and all my goods, that lovingly i may with those thy sisters be maintain'd until my dying day. thus flattering speeches won renown, by these two sisters here; the third had causeless banishment, yet was her love more dear: for poor cordelia patiently went wandring up and down, unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid, through many an english town: untill at last in famous france she gentler fortunes found; though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd the fairest on the ground: where when the king her virtues heard, and this fair lady seen, with full consent of all his court he made his wife and queen. her father king leìr this while with his two daughters staid: forgetful of their promis'd loves, full soon the same decay'd; and living in queen ragan's court, the eldest of the twain, she took from him his chiefest means, and most of all his train. for whereas twenty men were wont to wait with bended knee: she gave allowance but to ten, and after scarce to three: nay, one she thought too much for him; so took she all away, in hope that in her court, good king, he would no longer stay. am i rewarded thus, quoth he, in giving all i have unto my children, and to beg for what i lately gave? i'll go unto my gonorell: my second child, i know, will be more kind and pitiful, and will relieve my woe. full fast he hies then to her court; where when she heard his moan return'd him answer, that she griev'd that all his means were gone: but no way could relieve his wants; yet if that he would stay within her kitchen, he should have what scullions gave away. when he had heard, with bitter tears, he made his answer then; in what i did let me be made example to all men. i will return again, quoth he, unto my ragan's court; she will not use me thus, i hope, but in a kinder sort. where when he came, she gave command to drive him thence away: when he was well within her court (she said) he would not stay. then back again to gonorell, the woeful king did hie, that in her kitchen he might have what scullion boys set by. but there of that he was deny'd, which she had promis'd late: for once refusing, he should not come after to her gate. thus twixt his daughters, for relief he wandred up and down; being glad to feed on beggars food, that lately wore a crown. and calling to remembrance then his youngest daughters words, that said the duty of a child was all that love affords: but doubting to repair to her, whom he had banish'd so, grew frantick mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe: which made him rend his milk-white locks, and tresses from his head, and all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread. to hills and woods and watry founts, he made his hourly moan, till hills and woods, and sensless things, did seem to sigh and groan. even thus possest with discontents, he passed o're to france, in hopes from fair cordelia there, to find some gentler chance; most virtuous dame! which when she heard of this her father's grief, as duty bound, she quickly sent him comfort and relief: and by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort, she gave in charge he should be brought to aganippus' court; whose royal king, with noble mind so freely gave consent, to muster up his knights at arms, to fame and courage bent. and so to england came with speed, to repossesse king leir, and drive his daughters from their thrones by his cordelia dear. where she, true-hearted noble queen, was in the battel slain: yet he good king, in his old days, possest his crown again. but when he heard cordelia's death, who died indeed for love of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battle move; he swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted: but on her bosom left his life, that was so truly hearted. the lords and nobles when they saw the end of these events, the other sisters unto death they doomed by consents; and being dead, their crowns they left unto the next of kin: thus have you seen the fall of pride, and disobedient sin. footnotes: [ ] mrs. lennox. _shakespeare illustrated_, vol. iii. p. . [ ] see jeffery of monmouth, holinshed, &c. who relate leir's history in many respects the same as the ballad. xvi. youth and age, is found in the little collection of shakespeare's sonnets, intitled the _passionate pilgrime_,[ ] the greatest part of which seems to relate to the amours of venus and adonis, being little effusions of fancy, probably written while he was composing his larger poem on that subject. the following seems intended for the mouth of venus, weighing the comparative merits of youthful adonis and aged vulcan. in the _garland of good will_ it is reprinted, with the addition of four more such stanzas, but evidently written by a meaner pen. * * * * * crabbed age and youth cannot live together; youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care: youth like summer morn, age like winter weather, youth like summer brave, age like winter bare: youth is full of sport, ages breath is short; youth is nimble, age is lame: youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; youth is wild, and age is tame. age, i do abhor thee, youth, i do adore thee; o, my love, my love is young: age, i do defie thee; oh sweet shepheard, hie thee, for methinks thou stayst too long. footnotes: [ ] mentioned above, song xi. b. ii. xvii. the frolicksome duke, or the tinker's good fortune. the following ballad is upon the same subject as the _induction_ to shakespeare's _taming of the shrew_: whether it may be thought to have suggested the hint to the dramatic poet, or is not rather of later date, the reader must determine. the story is told[ ] of _philip_ the _good_, duke of burgundy; and is thus related by an old english writer: "the said duke, at the marriage of eleonora, sister to the king of portugall, at bruges in flanders, which was solemnised in the deepe of winter; when as by reason of unseasonable weather he could neither hawke nor hunt, and was now tired with cards, dice, &c. and such other domestick sports, or to see ladies dance; with some of his courtiers, he would in the evening walke disguised all about the towne. it so fortuned, as he was walking late one night, he found a countrey fellow dead drunke, snorting on a bulke; he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, and there stripping him of his old clothes, and attyring him after the court fashion, when he wakened, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, and persuade him that he was some great duke. the poor fellow admiring how he came there, was served in state all day long: after supper he saw them dance, heard musicke, and all the rest of those court-like pleasures: but late at night, when he was well tipled, and again fast asleepe, they put on his old robes, and so conveyed him to the place, where they first found him. now the fellow had not made them so good sport the day before, as he did now, when he returned to himself: all the jest was to see how he looked upon it. in conclusion, after some little admiration, the poore man told his friends he had seen a vision; constantly believed it; would not otherwise be persuaded, and so the jest ended." burton's _anatomy of melancholy_, pt. ii. sect. . memb. , nd ed. , fol. this ballad is given from a black-letter copy in the pepys collection, which is intitled as above. "to the tune of _fond boy_." * * * * * [the story of this ballad is of eastern origin, and is the same as the tale of _the sleeper awakened_ in the _arabian nights_. the story crops up in many places, some of which are pointed out in prof. child's _english and scottish ballads_ (vol. viii. p. ). the question, however, of its origin is not of immediate interest in the discussion of shakspere's plots, because the author of the old play, _taming of a shrew_, had already used the subject and named the tinker slie, so that we have not far to seek for shakspere's original.] * * * * * now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court, one that please his fancy with frolicksome sport: but amongst all the rest, here is one i protest, which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest: a poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, as secure in a sleep as if laid in a swound. the duke said to his men, william, richard, and ben, take him home to my palace, we'll sport with him then. o'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd to the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd: then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes and hose, and they put him to bed for to take his repose. having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt, they did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt: on a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, they did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown. in the morning when day, then admiring he lay, for to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, till at last knights and squires they on him did wait; and the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare, he desir'd to know what apparel he'd ware: the poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, and admired how he to this honour was rais'd. tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, which he straitways put on without longer dispute; with a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey'd, and it seem'd for to swell him 'no' little with pride; for he said to himself, where is joan my sweet wife? sure she never did see me so fine in her life. from a convenient place, the right duke his good grace did observe his behaviour in every case to a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, trumpets sounding before him: thought he, this is great: where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view, with commanders and squires in scarlet and blew. a fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests, he was plac'd at the table above all the rest, in a rich chair 'or bed,' lin'd with fine crimson red, with a rich golden canopy over his head: as he sat at his meat, the musick play'd sweet, with the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. while the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, rich canary with sherry and tent superfine. like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl, till at last he began for to tumble and roul from his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore, being seven times drunker than ever before. then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain, and restore him his old leather garments again: 'twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, and they carry'd him strait, where they found him at first; then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might; but when he did waken, his joys took their flight. for his glory 'to him' so pleasant did seem, that he thought it to be but a meer golden dream; till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought for a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought; but his highness he said, thou'rt a jolly bold blade, such a frolick before i think never was plaid. then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak, which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak; nay, and five-hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round, crying old brass to mend, for i'll be thy good friend, nay, and joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend. then the tinker reply'd, what! must joan my sweet bride be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride? must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? then i shall be a squire i well understand: well i thank your good grace, and your love i embrace, i was never before in so happy a case. footnotes: [ ] by ludov. vives in _epist._, and by pont. heuter. _rerum burgund._ l. . xviii. the friar of orders gray. dispersed thro' shakespeare's plays are innumerable little fragments of ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little _tale_, which is here submitted to the reader's candour. one small fragment was taken from beaumont and fletcher. * * * * * [ritson exhibits a bit of grim humour in his _ancient songs_, vol. ii. ed. , p. , where he prints a parody of percy's _friar of_ _orders gray_, under the title of the _jovial tinker_, and prefixes to it the exact words that percy uses above. the parody commences-- "it was a jovial tinker, all of the north countrie, as he walk'd forth, along the way he sung right merrily."] * * * * * it was a friar of orders gray walkt forth to tell his beades; and he met with a lady faire clad in a pilgrime's weedes. now christ thee save, thou reverend friar, i pray thee tell to me, if ever at yon holy shrine my true love thou didst see. and how should i know your true love from many another one? o by his cockle hat, and staff, and by his sandal shoone.[ ] but chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view; his flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyne of lovely blue. o lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone! and at his head a green grass turfe, and at his heels a stone. within these holy cloysters long he languisht, and he dyed, lamenting of a ladyes love, and 'playning of her pride. here bore him barefac'd on his bier six proper youths and tall, and many a tear bedew'd his grave within yon kirk-yard wall. and art thou dead, thou gentle youth! and art thou dead and gone! and didst thou dye for love of me! break, cruel heart of stone! o weep not, lady, weep not soe; some ghostly comfort seek: let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, ne teares bedew thy cheek. o do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove; for i have lost the sweetest youth, that e'er wan ladyes love. and nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, i'll evermore weep and sigh; for thee i only wisht to live, for thee i wish to dye. weep no more, lady, weep no more, thy sorrowe is in vaine: for violets pluckt the sweetest showers will ne'er make grow againe. our joys as winged dreams doe flye, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy losse, grieve not for what is past. o say not soe, thou holy friar; i pray thee, say not soe: for since my true-love dyed for mee, 'tis meet my tears should flow. and will he ne'er come again? will he ne'er come again? ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain. his cheek was redder than the rose; the comliest youth was he! but he is dead and laid in his grave: alas, and woe is me! sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever: one foot on sea and one on land, to one thing constant never. hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy; for young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy. now say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not soe; my love he had the truest heart: o he was ever true! and art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, and didst thou dye for mee? then farewell home; for ever-more a pilgrim i will bee. but first upon my true-loves grave my weary limbs i'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf, that wraps his breathless clay yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile beneath this cloyster wall: see through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. and drizzly rain doth fall. o stay me not, thou holy friar; o stay me not, i pray; no drizzly rain that falls on me, can wash my fault away. yet stay, fair lady, turn again, and dry those pearly tears; for see beneath this gown of gray thy owne true-love appears. here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, these holy weeds i sought; and here amid these lonely walls to end my days i thought. but haply for my year of grace[ ] is not yet past away, might i still hope to win thy love, no longer would i stay. now farewell grief, and welcome joy once more unto my heart; for since i have found thee, lovely youth, we never more will part. * * * * * [***] as the foregoing song has been thought to have suggested to our late excellent poet _dr. goldsmith_, the plan of his beautiful ballad of _edwin and emma_ (first printed in his _vicar of wakefield_) it is but justice to his memory to declare, that his poem was written first, and that if there is any imitation in the case, they will be found both to be indebted to the beautiful old ballad _gentle herdsman_, &c. printed in the second volume of this work, which the doctor had much admired in manuscript, and has finely improved. see vol. ii. book i. song xiv. ver. . footnotes: [ ] these are the distinguishing marks of a pilgrim. the chief places of devotion being beyond sea, the pilgrims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention or performance of their devotion. _warb. shakesp._ vol. viii., p. . [ ] the year of probation, or noviciate. the end of the second book [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the first. book iii. [illustration] [illustration] i. the more modern ballad of chevy chace. at the beginning of this volume we gave the old original song of _chevy chace_. the reader has here the more improved edition of that fine heroic ballad. it will afford an agreeable entertainment to the curious to compare them together, and to see how far the latter bard has excelled his predecessor, and where he has fallen short of him. for tho' he has every where improved the versification, and generally the sentiment and diction; yet some few passages retain more dignity in the ancient copy; at least the obsoleteness of the style serves as a veil to hide whatever might appear too familiar or vulgar in them. thus, for instance, the catastrophe of the gallant witherington is in the modern copy exprest in terms which never fail at present to excite ridicule: whereas in the original it is related with a plain and pathetic simplicity, that is liable to no such unlucky effect: see the stanza in page , which, in modern orthography, &c. would run thus. "for witherington my heart is woe, that ever he slain should be: for when his legs were hewn in two, he knelt and fought on his knee." so again the stanza which describes the fall of montgomery is somewhat more elevated in the ancient copy: "the dint it was both sad and sore, he on montgomery set: the swan-feathers his arrow bore with his hearts blood were wet." p. . we might also add, that the circumstances of the battle are more clearly conceived and the several incidents more distinctly marked in the old original, than in the improved copy. it is well known that the ancient english weapon was the long bow, and that this nation excelled all others in archery; while the scottish warriours chiefly depended on the use of the spear: this characteristic difference never escapes our ancient bard, whose description of the first onset is to the following effect: "the proposal of the two gallant earls to determine the dispute by single combat being over-ruled; the english, says he, who stood with their bows ready bent, gave a general discharge of their arrows, which slew seven score spearmen of the enemy: but, notwithstanding so severe a loss, douglas like a brave captain kept his ground. he had divided his forces into three columns, who, as soon as the english had discharged the first volley, bore down upon them with their spears, and breaking through their ranks reduced them to close fighting. the archers upon this dropt their bows and had recourse to their swords, and there followed so sharp a conflict, that multitudes on both sides lost their lives." in the midst of this general engagement, at length, the two great earls meet, and after a spirited rencounter agree to breathe; upon which a parley ensues, that would do honour to homer himself. nothing can be more pleasingly distinct and circumstantial than this: whereas, the modern copy, tho' in general it has great merit, is here unluckily both confused and obscure. indeed the original words seem here to have been totally misunderstood. "yet bydys the yerl douglas upon the _bent_," evidently signifies, "yet the earl douglas abides in the _field_:" whereas the more modern bard seems to have understood by _bent_, the inclination of his mind, and accordingly runs quite off from the subject[ ]: "to drive the deer with hound and horn earl douglas had the bent." v. . one may also observe a generous impartiality in the old original bard, when in the conclusion of his tale he represents both nations as quitting the field without any reproachful reflection on either: though he gives to his own countrymen the credit of being the smaller number. "of fifteen hundred archers of england went away but fifty and three; of twenty hundred spearmen of scotland, but even five and fifty." p. . he attributes _flight_ to neither party, as hath been done in the modern copies of this ballad, as well scotch as english. for, to be even with our latter bard, who makes the scots to _flee_, some reviser of north britain has turned his own arms against him, and printed an edition at glasgow, in which the lines are thus transposed: "of fifteen hundred scottish speirs went hame but fifty-three: of twenty hundred englishmen scarce fifty-five did flee." and to countenance this change he has suppressed the two stanzas between ver. and ver. .--from that edition i have here reformed the scottish names, which in the modern english ballad appeared to be corrupted. when i call the present admired ballad modern, i only mean that it is comparatively so; for that it could not be writ much later than the time of q. elizabeth, i think may be made appear; nor yet does it seem to be older than the beginning of the last century.[ ] sir philip sidney, when he complains of the antiquated phrase of _chevy chase_, could never have seen this improved copy, the language of which is not more ancient than that he himself used. it is probable that the encomiums of so admired a writer excited some bard to revise the ballad, and to free it from those faults he had objected to it. that it could not be much later than that time, appears from the phrase _doleful dumps_: which in that age carried no ill sound with it, but to the next generation became ridiculous. we have seen it pass uncensured in a sonnet that was at that time in request, and where it could not fail to have been taken notice of, had it been in the least exceptionable: see above, book ii. song v. ver. . yet, in about half a century after, it was become burlesque. vide _hudibras_, part i. c. , v. . this much premised, the reader that would see the general beauties of this ballad set in a just and striking light, may consult the excellent criticism of mr. addison.[ ] with regard to its subject: it has already been considered in page . the conjectures there offered will receive confirmation from a passage in the _memoirs of carey earl of monmouth_, vo. , p. ; whence we learn that it was an ancient custom with the borderers of the two kingdoms, when they were at peace, to send to the lord wardens of the opposite marches for leave to hunt within their districts. if leave was granted, then towards the end of summer they would come and hunt for several days together "with their _greyhounds for deer_:" but if they took this liberty unpermitted, then the lord warden of the border so invaded, would not fail to interrupt their sport and chastise their boldness. he mentions a remarkable instance that happened while he was warden, when some scotch gentlemen coming to hunt in defiance of him, there must have ensued such an action as this of chevy chace, if the intruders had been proportionably numerous and well-armed; for, upon their being attacked by his men at arms, he tells us, "some hurt was done, tho' he had given especiall order that they should shed as little blood as possible." they were in effect overpowered and taken prisoners, and only released on their promise to abstain from such licentious sporting for the future. since the former impression of these volumes hath been published, a new edition of _collins's peerage_, , &c., vols. vo. which contains, in volume ii. p. , an historical passage, which may be thought to throw considerable light on the subject of the preceding ballad: viz. "in this ... year, , according to hector boethius, was fought the battle of pepperden, not far from the cheviot hills, between the earl of northumberland (iid earl, son of hotspur,) and earl william douglas, of angus, with a small army of about four thousand men each, in which the latter had the advantage. as this seems to have been a private conflict between these two great chieftains of the borders, rather than a national war, it has been thought to have given rise to the celebrated old ballad of _chevy-chase_; which, to render it more pathetic and interesting, has been heightened with tragical incidents wholly fictitious." see _ridpath's border hist._ to, p. . the following text is given from a copy in the editor's folio ms. compared with two or three others printed in black-letter.--in the second volume of _dryden's miscellanies_ may be found a translation of chevy-chace into latin rhymes. the translator, mr. henry bold, of new college, undertook it at the command of dr. compton, bishop of london; who thought it no derogation to his episcopal character, to avow a fondness for this excellent old ballad. see the preface to _bold's latin songs_, , vo. * * * * * [the following version varies in certain particulars from the one in the ms. folio (ed. hales and furnivall, , vol. ii. p. i), and the most important variations are noted at the foot of the page. some of the alterations in the arrangement of the words are improvements, but others are the reverse, for instance verses - . percy follows the copy printed in the _collection of old ballads_, (vol. i. p. ), much more closely than the ms.] * * * * * god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safetyes all! a woefull hunting once there did[ ] in chevy-chace befall; to drive the deere with hound and horne, erle percy took his way;[ ] the child may rue that is unborne, the hunting of that day. the stout erle of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers days to take; the cheefest harts in chevy-chace to kill and beare away. these tydings to erle douglas came, in scottland where he lay: who sent erle percy present word, he wold prevent his sport. the english erle, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bow-men bold; all chosen men of might, who knew full well in time of neede to ayme their shafts arright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deere: on munday they began to hunt, ere day-light did appeare; and long before high noone they had an hundred fat buckes slaine; then having dined, the drovyers went to rouze the deare againe. the bow-men mustered on the hills, well able to endure; theire backsides all, with speciall care, that day were guarded sure.[ ] the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deere to take,[ ] that with their cryes the hills and dales an eccho shrill did make. lord percy to the quarry[ ] went, to view the slaughter'd deere;[ ] quoth he, erle douglas promised this day to meet me heere: but if i thought he wold not come, noe longer wold i stay. with that, a brave younge gentleman thus to the erle did say: loe, yonder doth erle douglas come, his men in armour bright; full twenty hundred scottish speres all marching in our sight; all men of pleasant tivydale, fast by the river tweede: o cease your sports, erle percy said, and take your bowes with speede; and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yett, in scotland or in france, that ever did on horsebacke come, but if my hap[ ] it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spere. erle douglas on his milke-white steede, most like a baron bold, rode formost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. show me, sayd hee, whose men you bee, that hunt soe boldly heere, that, without my consent, doe chase and kill my fallow-deere. the first man that did answer make, was noble percy hee; who sayd, wee list not to declare, nor shew whose men wee bee: yet wee will spend our deerest blood, thy cheefest harts to slay. then douglas swore a solempne oathe, and thus in rage did say, ere thus i will out-braved bee, one of us two shall dye: i know thee well, an erle thou art; lord percy, soe am i. but trust me, percy, pittye it were, and great offence to kill any of these our guiltlesse men, for they have done no ill. let thou and i the battell trye, and set our men aside. accurst bee [he], erle percy sayd, by whome this is denyed.[ ] then stept a gallant squier forth, witherington was his name, who said, i wold not have it told to henry our king for shame, that ere my captaine fought on foote, and i stood looking on.[ ] you bee two erles, sayd witherington, and i a squier alone: ile doe the best that doe i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to weeld my sword, ile fight with hart and hand. our english archers bent their bowes,[ ] their harts were good and trew; att the first flight of arrowes sent, full four-score scots they slew. [ ][yet bides earl douglas on the bent,[ ] as chieftain stout and good. as valiant captain, all unmov'd the shock he firmly stood. his host he parted had in three, as leader ware and try'd, as soon his spearmen on their foes bare down on every side. throughout the english archery they dealt full many a wound: but still our valiant englishmen all firmly kept their ground: and throwing strait their bows away, they grasp'd their swords so bright: and now sharp blows, a heavy shower, on shields and helmets light.] they closed full fast on everye side, noe slacknes there was found; and many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o christ! it was a griefe to see,[ ] and likewise for to heare, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last these two stout erles did meet, like captaines of great might: like lyons wood,[ ] they layd on lode, and made a cruell fight: they fought untill they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steele; until the blood, like drops of rain, they trickling downe did feele. yeeld thee, o percy, douglas sayd; in faith i will thee bringe, where thou shalt high advanced bee by james our scottish king: thy ransome i will freely give, and this report of thee, thou art the most couragious knight, that ever i did see. noe, douglas, quoth erle percy then, thy proffer i doe scorne; i will not yeelde to any scott, that ever yett was borne. with that, there came an arrow keene out of an english bow, which struck erle douglas to the heart,[ ] a deepe and deadlye blow: who never spake more words than these,[ ] fight on, my merry men all; for why, my life is at an end; lord percy sees my fall. then leaving liffe, erle percy tooke the dead man by the hand; and said, erle douglas, for thy life[ ] wold i had lost my land. o christ! my verry hart doth bleed with sorrow for thy sake; for sure, a more redoubted knight mischance cold never take. a knight amongst the scotts there was, which saw erle douglas dye, who streight in wrath did vow revenge upon the lord percye: sir hugh mountgomery was he call'd, who, with a spere most bright, well-mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight; and past the english archers all, without all dread or feare; and through earl percyes body then he thrust his hatefull spere; with such a vehement force and might he did his body gore, the staff ran through the other side a large cloth-yard, and more. so thus did both these nobles dye, whose courage none could staine: an english archer then perceiv'd the noble erle was slaine; he had a bow bent in his hand,[ ] made of a trusty tree; an arrow of a cloth-yard long up to the head drew hee:[ ] against sir hugh mountgomerye, so right the shaft he sett, the grey goose-winge that was thereon, in his harts bloode was wett. this fight did last from breake of day, till setting of the sun; for when they rung the evening-bell,[ ] the battel scarce was done. with stout erle percy, there was slaine sir john of egerton,[ ] sir robert ratcliff, and sir john,[ ] sir james that bold barrôn: and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slaine, whose prowesse did surmount. for witherington needs must i wayle, as one in doleful dumpes;[ ] for when his leggs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumpes. and with erle douglas, there was slaine sir hugh mountgomerye, sir charles murray, that from the feeld[ ] one foote wold never flee. sir charles murray, of ratcliff, too,[ ] his sisters sonne was hee; sir david lamb, so well esteem'd,[ ] yet saved cold not bee. and the lord maxwell in like case did with erle douglas dye: of twenty hundred scottish speres, scarce fifty-five did flye. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest were slaine in chevy-chase, under the greene woode tree. next day did many widdowes come, their husbands to bewayle; they washt their wounds in brinish teares, but all wold not prevayle. theyr bodyes, bathed in purple gore,[ ] they bare with them away: they kist them dead a thousand times, ere they were cladd in clay. the newes was brought to eddenborrow, where scottlands king did raigne, that brave erle douglas suddenlye was with an arrow slaine: o heavy newes, king james did say, scottland may witnesse bee, i have not any captaine more of such account as hee. like tydings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland was slaine in chevy-chese: now god be with him, said our king, sith it will noe better bee; i trust i have, within my realme, five hundred as good as hee: yett shall not scotts nor scotland say, but i will vengeance take: i'll be revenged on them all, for brave erle percyes sake. this vow full well the king perform'd after, at humbledowne; in one day, fifty knights were slayne, with lords of great renowne: and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands dye:[ ] thus endeth the hunting of chevy-chase, made by the erle percy. god save our king, and bless this land with plentye, joy, and peace; and grant henceforth, that foule debate 'twixt noblemen may cease. [illustration] the surnames in the foregoing ballad are altered, either by accident or design, from the old original copy, and in common editions extremely corrupted. they are here rectified, as much as they could be. thus, [ver. , _egerton_.] this name is restored (instead of _ogerton_, com. ed.) from the editor's folio ms. the pieces in that ms. appear to have been collected, and many of them composed (among which might be this ballad) by an inhabitant of cheshire; who was willing to pay a compliment here to one of his countrymen, of the eminent family _de_ or _of egerton_ (so the name was first written) ancestors of the present duke of bridgwater: and this he could do with the more propriety, as the _percies_ had formerly great interest in that county. at the fatal battle of shrewsbury all the flower of the cheshire gentlemen lost their lives fighting in the cause of _hotspur_. [ver. , _ratcliff_.] this was a family much distinguished in northumberland. _edw. radcliffe, mil._ was sheriff of that county in the of hen. vii. and others of the same surname afterwards. (see _fuller_, p. .) sir _george ratcliff_, knt. was one of the commissioners of inclosure in . (see _nicholson_, p. .) of this family was the late earl of _derwentwater_, who was beheaded in . the editor's folio ms. however, reads here, _sir robert harcliffe and sir william_. the _harcleys_ were an eminent family in cumberland. (see _fuller_, p. .) whether this may be thought to be the same name, i do not determine. [ver. . _baron._] this is apparently altered, (not to say corrupted) from _hearone_, in p. , ver. . [ver. . _raby._] this might be intended to celebrate one of the ancient possessors of _raby castle_, in the county of durham. yet it is written _rebbye_, in the fol. ms. and looks like a corruption of _rugby_ or _rokeby_, an eminent family in yorkshire, see pp. , . it will not be wondered that the _percies_ should be thought to bring followers out of that county, where they themselves were originally seated, and had always such extensive property and influence.[ ] [ver. . _murray._] so the scottish copy. in the com. edit. it is _carrel_ or _currel_; and _morrell_ in the fol. ms. [ver. . _murray._] so the scot. edit.--the common copies read _murrel_. the fol. ms. gives the line in the following peculiar manner, "sir roger heuer of harcliffe too." [ver. . _lamb._] the folio ms. has "sir david lambwell, well esteemed." this seems evidently corrupted from _lwdale_ or _liddell_, in the old copy, see ver. . (pp. , ). footnotes: [ ] in the present edition, instead of the unmeaning lines here censured, an insertion is made of four stanzas modernized from the ancient copy. [ ] a late writer has started a notion that the more modern copy "was written to be sung by a party of english, headed by a douglas in the year ; which is the true reason why, at the same time that it gives the advantage to the english soldiers above the scotch, it gives yet so lovely and so manifestly superior a character to the scotch commander above the english." see _say's essay on the numbers of paradise lost_, to. , p. . this appears to me a groundless conjecture: the language seems too modern for the date above-mentioned; and, had it been printed even so early as queen elizabeth's reign, i think i should have met with some copy wherein the first line would have been, "god prosper long our noble queen," as was the case with the _blind beggar of bednal green_; see vol. ii. book ii. no. x. ver. . [ ] in the _spectator_, nos. , . [ ] [ver. . there was, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . took the way, f. ms.] [ ] ver. . that they were, f. ms. [ ] the chiviot hills and circumjacent wastes are at present void of deer, and almost stript of their woods: but formerly they had enough of both to justify the description attempted here and in the ancient ballad of _chevy-chase_. leland, in the reign of hen. viii. thus describes this county: "in northumberland, as i heare say, be no forests, except chivet hills; where is much _brushe-wood_, and some _okke_; grownde ovargrowne with linge, and some with mosse. i have harde say that chivet hilles stretchethe xx miles. there is greate plenté of _redde-dere_, and _roo-bukkes_." _itin._ vol. vii. page .--this passage, which did not occur when pages , were printed off, confirms the accounts there given of the _stagge_ and the _roe_. [ ] [slaughtered game.] [ ] [ver. . the tender deere, f. ms.] [ ] [fortune.] [ ] [ver. . it is, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . i stand, f. ms.] [ ] [ver. . bend their bowes, f. ms.] [ ] the stanzas here inclosed in brackets, which are borrowed chiefly from the ancient copy, are offered to the reader instead of the following lines, which occur in the editor's folio ms. to drive the deere with hound and horne, douglas bade on the bent; two captaines moved with mickle might their speres to shivers went. [ ] [field.] [ ] [ver. - . this stanza in the ms. is far superior to the poor one in the text. "o christ! it was great greeve to see how eche man chose his spere and how the blood out of their brests did gush like water cleare."] [ ] [furious.] [ ] [ver. . who scorke erle douglas on the brest, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . who never sayd, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . who said, erle dowglas, for thy sake, f. ms.] [ ] [ver. . he had a good bow in his hand, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . to the hard head haled hee, f. ms.] [ ] sc. the curfew bell, usually rung at o'clock, to which the moderniser apparently alludes, instead of the "evensong bell," or bell for vespers, of the original author before the reformation. see p. , ver. . [ ] for the surnames, see the notes at the end of the ballad. [ ] [ver. . sir robert harcliffe and sir william, f. ms.] [ ] _i.e._ "i, as one in deep concern, must lament" the construction here has generally been misunderstood. the old ms. reads "toofull dumpes." [ ] [v. . sir charles morrell, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . sir roger hever, of harclifte, f. ms.] [ ] [v. . sir david lambwell well esteem'd.] [ ] [ver. . purple blood, f. ms.] [ ] [ver. . hundreds dye, f. ms.] [ ] see note controverting the above on p. . ii. death's final conquest. these fine moral stanzas were originally intended for a solemn funeral song, in a play of james shirley's, intitled, "the contention of ajax and ulysses:"[ ] no date, vo.--shirley flourished as a dramatic writer early in the reign of charles i.: but he outlived the restoration. his death happened october , . Æt. . this little poem was written long after many of these that follow, but is inserted here as a kind of dirge to the foregoing piece. it is said to have been a favourite song with k. charles ii. [to whom, according to oldys, it was often sung by "old" bowman.] * * * * * the glories of our birth and state are shadows, not substantial things; there is no armour against fate: death lays his icy hands on kings: scepter and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they kill: but their strong nerves at last must yield; they tame but one another still. early or late they stoop to fate, and must give up their murmuring breath, when they pale captives creep to death. the garlands wither on your brow, then boast no more your mighty deeds; upon death's purple altar now see where the victor victim bleeds: all heads must come to the cold tomb, only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. footnotes: [ ] acted for the first time "at the military ground in leicester fields" in . iii. the rising in the north. the subject of this ballad is the great northern insurrection in the th year of elizabeth, ; which proved so fatal to thomas percy, the seventh earl of northumberland. there had not long before been a secret negotiation entered into between some of the scottish and english nobility, to bring about a marriage between mary q. of scots, at that time a prisoner in england, and the duke of norfolk, a nobleman of excellent character, and firmly attached to the protestant religion. this match was proposed to all the most considerable of the english nobility, and among the rest to the earls of northumberland and westmoreland, two noblemen very powerful in the north. as it seemed to promise a speedy and safe conclusion of the troubles in scotland, with many advantages to the crown of england, they all consented to it, provided it should prove agreeable to q. elizabeth. the earl of leicester (elizabeth's favourite) undertook to break the matter to her, but before he could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. the duke of norfolk, with several of his friends, was committed to the tower, and summons were sent to the northern earls instantly to make their appearance at court. it is said that the earl of northumberland, who was a man of a mild and gentle nature, was deliberating with himself whether he should not obey the message, and rely upon the queen's candour and clemency, when he was forced into desperate measures by a sudden report at midnight, nov. , that a party of his enemies were come to seize on his person.[ ] the earl was then at his house at topcliffe in yorkshire. when rising hastily out of bed, he withdrew to the earl of westmoreland, at brancepeth, where the country came in to them, and pressed them to take arms in their own defence. they accordingly set up their standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient religion, to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, &c. their common banner[ ] (on which was displayed the cross, together with the five wounds of christ) was borne by an ancient gentleman, richard norton, esq., of norton-conyers; who, with his sons (among whom, christopher, marmaduke, and thomas, are expressly named by camden), distinguished himself on this occasion. having entered durham, they tore the bible, &c., and caused mass to be said there: they then marched on to clifford-moor near wetherbye, where they mustered their men. their intention was to have proceeded on to york, but, altering their minds, they fell upon barnard's castle, which sir george bowes held out against them for eleven days. the two earls, who spent their large estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that account, were masters of little ready money; the e. of northumberland bringing with him only crowns, and the e. of westmoreland nothing at all for the subsistence of their forces, they were not able to march to london, as they had at first intended. in these circumstances, westmoreland began so visibly to despond, that many of his men slunk away, tho' northumberland still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till december , when the earl of sussex, accompanied with lord hunsden and others, having marched out of york at the head of a large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army under the command of ambrose dudley, earl of warwick, the insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there dismissing their followers, made their escape into scotland. tho' this insurrection had been suppressed with so little bloodshed, the earl of sussex and sir george bowes, marshal of the army, put vast numbers to death by martial law, without any regular trial. the former of these caused sixty-three constables to be hanged at once. and the latter made his boast, that, for sixty miles in length, and forty in breadth, betwixt newcastle and wetherby, there was hardly a town or village wherein he had not executed some of the inhabitants. this exceeds the cruelties practised in the west after monmouth's rebellion: but that was not the age of tenderness and humanity. such is the account collected from stow, speed, camden, guthrie, carte, and rapin; it agrees in most particulars with the following ballad, which was apparently the production of some northern minstrel, who was well affected to the two noblemen. it is here printed from two ms. copies, one of them in the editor's folio collection. they contained considerable variations, out of which such readings were chosen as seemed most poetical and consonant to history. * * * * * [the northern rebellion of has been nobly commemorated in verse. besides the two following ballads there is the one entitled the _earle of westmorlande_, in the folio ms. which was printed for the first time in , and also wordsworth's matchless poem of the _white doe of rylstone_. those readers who wish for further particulars respecting this ill-starred insurrection, should see mr. hales's interesting introduction to the _earl of westmoreland_ (folio ms., ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. ). percy acknowledges above that he has not followed the folio ms. very closely, and his variations will be seen by comparing his version with the copy now printed at the end.] * * * * * listen, lively lordings all, lithe and listen unto mee, and i will sing of a noble earle, the noblest earle in the north countrie. earle percy is into his garden gone, and after him walkes his faire ladìe:[ ] i heard a bird sing in mine eare, that i must either fight, or flee. now heaven forefend, my dearest lord, that ever such harm should hap to thee: but goe to london to the court, and faire fall truth and honestìe. now nay, now nay, my ladye gay, alas! thy counsell suits not mee; mine enemies prevail so fast, that at the court i may not bee. o goe to the court yet, good my lord, and take thy gallant men with thee: if any dare to doe you wrong, then your warrant they may bee. now nay, now nay, thou lady faire, the court is full of subtiltìe; and if i goe to the court, lady, never more i may thee see. yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes, and i myselfe will ryde wi' thee: at court then for my dearest lord, his faithfull borrowe[ ] i will bee now nay, now nay, my lady deare; far lever[ ] had i lose my life, than leave among my cruell foes my love in jeopardy and strife. but come thou hither, my little foot-page, come thou hither unto mee, to maister norton thou must goe in all the haste that ever may bee. commend me to that gentlemàn, and beare this letter here fro mee; and say that earnestly i praye, he will ryde in my companìe. one while the little foot-page went, and another while he ran; untill he came to his journeys end, the little foot-page never blan.[ ] when to that gentleman he came, down he kneeled on his knee; and tooke the letter betwixt his hands, and lett the gentleman it see. and when the letter it was redd affore that goodlye companye, i wis, if you the truthe wold know, there was many a weeping eye. he sayd, come thither, christopher norton, a gallant youth thou seemst to bee; what doest thou counsell me, my sonne, now that good erle's in jeopardy? father, my counselle's fair and free; that erle he is a noble lord, and whatsoever to him you hight, i wold not have you breake your word. gramercy, christopher, my sonne, thy counsell well it liketh mee, and if we speed and scape with life, well advanced shalt thou bee. come you hither, my nine good sonnes,[ ] gallant men i trowe you bee: how many of you, my children deare, will stand by that good erle and mee? eight of them did answer make, eight of them spake hastilie, o father, till the daye we dye we'll stand by that good erle and thee. gramercy now, my children deare, you showe yourselves right bold and brave; and whethersoe'er i live or dye, a fathers blessing you shal have. but what sayst thou, o francis norton, thou art mine eldest sonn and heire: somewhat lyes brooding in thy breast; whatever it bee, to mee declare. father, you are an aged man, your head is white, your bearde is gray; it were a shame at these your yeares for you to ryse in such a fray. now fye upon thee, coward francis, thou never learnedst this of mee: when thou wert yong and tender of age, why did i make soe much of thee? but, father, i will wend with you, unarm'd and naked will i bee; and he that strikes against the crowne, ever an ill death may he dee. then rose that reverend gentleman, and with him came a goodlye band to join with the brave erle percy, and all the flower o' northumberland. with them the noble nevill came, the erle of westmorland was hee: at wetherbye they mustred their host, thirteen thousand faire to see. lord westmorland his ancyent[ ] raisde, the dun bull he rays'd on hye, and three dogs with golden collars were there sett out most royallye.[ ] erle percy there his ancyent spred, the halfe-moone shining all soe faire:[ ] the nortons ancyent had the crosse, and the five wounds our lord did beare. then sir george bowes he straitwaye rose, after them some spoyle to make: those noble erles turn'd backe againe, and aye they vowed that knight to take. the baron he to his castle fled, to barnard castle then fled hee. the uttermost walles were eathe[ ] to win, the earles have wonne them presentlie. the uttermost walles were lime and bricke; but thoughe they won them soon anone, long e'er they wan the innermost walles, for they were cut in rocke of stone. then newes unto leeve[ ] london came in all the speede that ever might bee, and word is brought to our royall queene of the rysing in the north countrie. her grace she turned her round about, and like a royall queene shee swore,[ ] i will ordayne them such a breakfast, as never was in the north before. shee caus'd thirty thousand men berays'd, with horse and harneis[ ] faire to see; she caused thirty thousand men be raised, to take the earles i'th' north countrie. wi' them the false erle warwick went, th' erle sussex and the lord hunsdèn; untill they to yorke castle came i wiss, they never stint ne blan.[ ] now spred thy ancyent, westmorland, thy dun bull faine would we spye: and thou, the erle o' northumberland, now rayse thy half moone up on hye. but the dun bulle is fled and gone, and the halfe moone vanished away: the erles, though they were brave and bold, against soe many could not stay. thee, norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, they doom'd to dye, alas! for ruth! thy reverend lockes thee could not save, nor them their faire and blooming youthe. wi' them full many a gallant wight they cruellye bereav'd of life: and many a childe made fatherlesse, and widowed many a tender wife. [illustration] [the following version of this ballad is from the folio ms (ed. hales and furnivall, , vol. ii. p. .) listen liuely lordings all, and all that beene this place within! if youle giue eare vnto my songe, i will tell you how this geere did begin. it was the good erle of westmorlande, a noble erle was called hee; and he wrought treason against the crowne; alas, itt was the more pittye! and soe itt was the erle of northumberland, another good noble erle was hee, they tooken both vpon on part, against their crowne they wolden bee. earle pearcy is into his garden gone, and after walks his awne ladye; "i heare a bird sing in my eare that i must either ffight or fflee." "god fforbidd," shee sayd, "good my lord, that euer soe that it shalbee! but goe to london to the court, and faire ffall truth and honestye!" "but nay, now nay, my ladye gay, that euer it shold soe bee; my treason is knowen well enoughe; att the court i must not bee." "but goe to the court! yet, good my lord, take men enowe with thee; if any man will doe you wronge, your warrant they may bee." "but nay, now nay, my lady gay, for soe itt must not bee; if i goe to the court, ladye, death will strike me, and i must dye." "but goe to the court! yett, [good] my lord, i my-selfe will ryde with thee; if any man will doe you wronge, your borrow i shalbee." "but nay, now nay, my lady gay, for soe it must not bee; for if i goe to the court, ladye, thou must me neuer see. "but come hither, thou litle footpage, come thou hither vnto mee, for thou shalt goe a message to master norton in all the hast that euer may bee: "comend me to that gentleman; bring him here this letter from mee, and say, 'i pray him earnestlye that hee will ryde in my companye.'" but one while the foote page went, another while he rann; vntill he came to master norton, the ffoot page neuer blanne; and when he came to master nortton he kneeled on his knee, and tooke the letter betwixt his hands, and lett the gentleman it see. and when the letter itt was reade affore all his companye, i-wis, if you wold know the truth, there was many a weeping eye. he said, "come hither, kester nortton, a ffine ffellow thou seemes to bee; some good councell, kester nortton, this day doe thou giue to mee." "marry, ile giue you councell, ffather, if youle take councell att me, that if you haue spoken the word, father, that backe againe you doe not flee." "god amercy, christopher nortton, i say, god amercye! if i doe liue and scape with liffe, well advanced shalt thou bee; "but come you hither, my nine good sonnes, in mens estate i thinke you bee; how many of you, my children deare, on my part that wilbe?" but eight of them did answer soone, and spake ffull hastilye, sayes "we willbe on your part, ffather, till the day that we doe dye." "but god amercy, my children deare, and euer i say god amercy! and yett my blessing you shall have, whether-so euer i liue or dye. "but what sayst thou, thou ffrancis nortton, mine eldest sonne and mine heyre trulye? some good councell, ffrancis nortton, this day thou giue to me." "but i will giue you councell, ffather, if you will take councell att mee; for if you wold take my councell, father, against the crowne you shold not bee." "but ffye vpon thee, ffrancis nortton! i say ffye vpon thee! when thou was younge and tender of age i made ffull much of thee." "but your head is white, ffather," he sayes, "and your beard is wonderous gray; itt were shame ffor your countrye if you shold rise and fflee away." "but ffye vpon thee, thou coward ffrancis! thou neuer tookest that of mee! when thou was younge and tender of age i made too much of thee." "but i will goe with you, father," quoth hee; "like a naked man will i bee; he that strikes the first stroake against the crowne, an ill death may hee dye!" but then rose vpp master nortton that esquier with him a ffull great companye; and then the erles they comen downe to ryde in his companye. att whethersbye thé mustered their men vpon a ffull fayre day; there were seene to stand in battel ray. the erle of westmoreland, he had in his ancyent the dume bull in sight most hye, and doggs with golden collers were sett out royallye. the erle of northumberland, he had in his ancyent the halfe moone in sight soe hye, as the lord was crucifyed on the crosse, and sett forthe pleasantlye. and after them did rise good sir george bowes, after them a spoyle to make; the erles returned backe againe, thought euer that knight to take this barron did take a castle then, was made of lime and stone; the vttermost walls were ese to be woon; the erles haue woon them anon; but tho they woone the vttermost walls quickly and anon, the innermost walles thé cold not winn, thé were made of a rocke of stone. but newes itt came to leeue london in all they speede that euer might bee; and word it came to our royall queene of all the rebells in the north countrye. shee turned her grace then once about, and like a royall queene shee sware, sayes, "i will ordaine them such a breake-fast as was not in the north this yeere!" shee caused men to be made with horsse and harneis all quicklye; and shee caused men to be made to take the rebells in the north countrye. they took with them the false erle of warwicke, soe did they many another man; vntill they came to yorke castle, i-wis they neuer stinted nor blan. "spread thy ancyent, erle of westmoreland! the halfe moone ffaine wold wee see!" but the halfe moone is fled and gone, and the dun bull vanished awaye; and ffrancis nortton and his sonnes are ffled away most cowardlye. ladds with mony are counted men men without mony are counted none; but hold your tounge! why say you soe? men wilbe men when mony is gone. ffins.] footnotes: [ ] this circumstance is overlooked in the ballad. [ ] besides this, the ballad mentions the separate banners of the two noblemen. [ ] this lady was anne, daughter of henry somerset, e. of worcester. [ ] [surety.] [ ] [rather.] [ ] [lingered.] [ ] ["the act of attainder th elizabeth, only mentions richard norton, the father and _seven_ sons, and in 'a list of the rebels in the late northern rebellion, that are fled beyond the seas,' the same seven sons are named. richard norton, the father, was living long after the rebellion in spanish flanders. see sharp's _bishoprick garland_, p. ."--child's eng. and scot. ballads, vol. , p. (note).] [ ] [standard.] [ ] [ver. . _dun bull, &c._] the supporters of the _nevilles_, earls of westmoreland, were two bulls argent, ducally collar'd gold, armed or, &c. but i have not discovered the device mentioned in the ballad, among the badges, &c. given by that house. this, however, is certain, that among those of the _nevilles_, lords abergavenny (who were of the same family) is a _dun cow_ with a golden collar: and the _nevilles_ of chyte in yorkshire (of the westmoreland branch) gave for their crest, in , a _dog's_ (greyhound's) head erased. so that it is not improbable but _charles neville_, the unhappy earl of westmoreland here mentioned, might on this occasion give the above device on his banner. after all our old minstrel's verses here may have undergone some corruption; for, in another ballad in the same folio ms. and apparently written by the same hand, containing the sequel of this lord westmoreland's history, his banner is thus described, more conformable to his known bearings: "sett me up my faire dun bull, with gilden hornes, hee beares all soe hye." [ ] [ver. . _the half-moone, &c._] the _silver crescent_ is a well-known crest or badge of the northumberland family. it was probably brought home from some of the cruzades against the sarazens. in an ancient pedigree in verse, finely illuminated on a roll of vellum, and written in the reign of henry vii. (in possession of the family) we have this fabulous account given of its original. the author begins with accounting for the name of _gernon_ or _algernon_, often born by the _percies_; who, he says, were "... gernons fyrst named of brutys bloude of troy: which valliantly fyghtynge in the land of persè [_persia_] at pointe terrible ayance the miscreants on nyght, an hevynly mystery was schewyd hym, old bookys reherse; in hys scheld did schyne a _mone_ veryfying her lyght, which to all the ooste yave a perfytte fyght, to vaynquys his enemys, and to deth them persue; and therefore the _persès_ [percies] the cressant doth renew." in the dark ages no family was deemed considerable that did not derive its descent from the trojan brutus; or that was not distinguished by prodigies and miracles. [ ] [easy.] [ ] [dear.] [ ] this is quite in character: her majesty would sometimes swear at her nobles, as well as box their ears. [ ] [armour.] [ ] [lingered.] [illustration] iv. northumberland betrayed by douglas. this ballad may be considered as the sequel of the preceding. after the unfortunate earl of northumberland had seen himself forsaken of his followers, he endeavoured to withdraw into scotland, but falling into the hands of the thievish borderers, was stript and otherwise ill-treated by them. at length he reached the house of hector, of harlaw, an armstrong, with whom he hoped to lie concealed: for, hector had engaged his honour to be true to him, and was under great obligations to this unhappy nobleman. but this faithless wretch betrayed his guest for a sum of money to murray the regent of scotland, who sent him to the castle of lough-leven, then belonging to william douglas. all the writers of that time assure us that hector, who was rich before, fell shortly after into poverty, and became so infamous, that _to take hector's cloak_, grew into a proverb to express a man who betrays his friend. see camden, carleton, holinshed, &c. lord northumberland continued in the castle of lough-leven till the year ; when james douglas, earl of morton, being elected regent, he was given up to the lord hunsden at berwick, and being carried to york suffered death. as morton's party depended on elizabeth for protection, an elegant historian thinks "it was scarce possible for them to refuse putting into her hands a person who had taken up arms against her. but, as a sum of money was paid on that account, and shared between morton and his kinsman douglas, the former of whom, during his exile in england, had been much indebted to northumberland's friendship, the abandoning this unhappy nobleman to inevitable destruction was deemed an ungrateful and mercenary act." robertson's hist. so far history coincides with this ballad, which was apparently written by some northern bard soon after the event. the interposal of the _witch-lady_ (v. ) is probably his own invention: yet, even this hath some countenance from history; for about years before, the lady jane douglas, lady glamis, sister of the earl of angus, and nearly related to douglas of lough-leven, had suffered death for the pretended crime of witchcraft; who, it is presumed, is the witch-lady alluded to in verse . the following is selected (like the former) from two copies, which contained great variations; one of them in the editor's folio ms. in the other copy some of the stanzas at the beginning of this ballad are nearly the same with what in that ms. are made to begin another ballad on the escape of the e. of westmoreland, who got safe into flanders, and is feigned in the ballad to have undergone a great variety of adventures. * * * * * [percy wrote the following note on the version of this ballad in his folio ms. "to correct this by my other copy which seems more modern. the other copy in many parts preferable to this." it will be seen by comparing the text with the folio ms. copy, now printed at the end, that the alterations are numerous. the first three stanzas are taken with certain changes from the ballad of "the erle of westmoreland" (folio ms. vol. i. p. ). the alterations made in them are not improvements, as, for instance, the old reading of verse is-- "and keepe me heare in deadlye feare," which is preferable to the line below-- "and harrowe me with fear and dread."] * * * * * how long shall fortune faile me nowe, and harrowe[ ] me with fear and dread? how long shall i in bale[ ] abide, in misery my life to lead? to fall from my bliss, alas the while! it was my sore and heavye lott: and i must leave my native land, and i must live a man forgot. one gentle armstrong i doe ken, a scot he is much bound to mee: he dwelleth on the border side, to him i'll goe right privilìe. thus did the noble percy 'plaine, with a heavy heart and wel-away, when he with all his gallant men on bramham moor had lost the day. but when he to the armstrongs came, they dealt with him all treacherouslye; for they did strip that noble earle: and ever an ill death may they dye. false hector to earl murray sent, to shew him where his guest did hide: who sent him to the lough-levèn, with william douglas to abide. and when he to the douglas came, he halched[ ] him right curteouslie: say'd, welcome, welcome, noble earle, here thou shalt safelye bide with mee. when he had in lough-leven been many a month and many a day; to the regent[ ] the lord warden[ ] sent, that bannisht earle for to betray. he offered him great store of gold, and wrote a letter fair to see: saying, good my lord, grant me my boon, and yield that banisht man to mee. earle percy at the supper sate with many a goodly gentleman: the wylie douglas then bespake, and thus to flyte[ ] with him began: what makes you be so sad, my lord, and in your mind so sorrowfullyè? to-morrow a shootinge will bee held among the lords of the north countryè. the butts are sett, the shooting's made, and there will be great royaltye: and i am sworne into my bille,[ ] thither to bring my lord percye. i'll give thee my hand, thou gentle douglas, and here by my true faith, quoth hee, if thou wilt ryde to the worldes end, i will ryde in thy companye. and then bespake a lady faire, mary à douglas was her name: you shall byde here, good english lord, my brother is a traiterous man. he is a traitor stout and stronge, as i tell you in privitie: for he hath tane liverance[ ] of the erle,[ ] into england nowe to 'liver thee. now nay, now nay, thou goodly lady, the regent is a noble lord: ne for the gold in all englànd, the douglas wold not break his word when the regent was a banisht man, with me he did faire welcome find; and whether weal or woe betide, i still shall find him true and kind. betweene england and scotland it wold breake truce, and friends againe they wold never bee, if they shold 'liver a banisht erle was driven out of his own countrie. alas! alas! my lord, she sayes, nowe mickle is their traitorie; then lett my brother ryde his wayes, and tell those english lords from thee, how that you cannot with him ryde, because you are in an ile of the sea,[ ] then ere my brother come againe to edenborow castle[ ] ile carry thee. to the lord hume i will thee bring, he is well knowne a true scots lord, and he will lose both land and life, ere he with thee will break his word. much is my woe, lord percy sayd, when i thinkie on my own countrie, when i thinke on the heavye happe[ ] my friends have suffered there for mee. much is my woe, lord percy sayd, and sore those wars my minde distresse; where many a widow lost her mate, and many a child was fatherlesse. and now that i a banisht man, shold bring such evil happe with mee, to cause my faire and noble friends to be suspect of treacherie: this rives[ ] my heart with double woe; and lever had i dye this day, than thinke a douglas can be false, or ever he will his guest betray. if you'll give me no trust, my lord, nor unto mee no credence yield; yet step one moment here aside, ile showe you all your foes in field. lady, i never loved witchcraft, never dealt in privy wyle; but evermore held the high-waye of truth and honour, free from guile if you'll not come yourselfe my lorde, yet send your chamberlaine with mee; let me but speak three words with him, and he shall come again to thee. james swynard with that lady went, she showed him through the weme[ ] of her ring how many english lords there were waiting for his master and him. and who walkes yonder, my good lady, so royallyè on yonder greene? o yonder is the lord hunsdèn:[ ] alas! he'll doe you drie and teene.[ ] and who beth yonder, thou gay ladye, that walkes so proudly him beside? that is sir william drury,[ ] shee sayd, a keene captàine hee is and tryde. how many miles is itt, madàme, betwixt yond english lords and mee? marry it is thrice fifty miles, to saile to them upon the sea. i never was on english ground, ne never sawe it with mine eye, but as my book it sheweth mee, and through my ring i may descrye. my mother shee was a witch ladye, and of her skille she learned[ ] mee; she wold let me see out of lough-leven what they did in london citìe. but who is yond, thou lady faire, that looketh with sic an austerne[ ] face? yonder is sir john foster,[ ] quoth shee, alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace. he pulled his hatt down over his browe; he wept; in his heart he was full of woe: and he is gone to his noble lord, those sorrowful tidings him to show. now nay, now nay, good james swynàrd, i may not believe that witch ladìe: the douglasses were ever true, and they can ne'er prove false to mee. i have now in lough-leven been the most part of these years three, yett have i never had noe outrake,[ ] ne no good games that i cold see. therefore i'll to yond shooting wend, as to the douglas i have hight:[ ] betide me weale, betide me woe, he ne'er shall find my promise light. he writhe[ ] a gold ring from his finger, and gave itt to that gay ladìe: sayes, it was all that i cold save, in harley woods where i cold bee.[ ] and wilt thou goe, thou noble lord, then farewell truth and honestìe; and farewell heart and farewell hand; for never more i shall thee see. the wind was faire, the boatmen call'd, and all the saylors were on borde; then william douglas took to his boat, and with him went that noble lord. then he cast up a silver wand, says, gentle lady, fare thee well! the lady fett[ ] a sigh soe deep, and in a dead swoone down shee fell. now let us goe back, douglas, he sayd, a sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe; if ought befall yond lady but good, then blamed for ever i shall bee. come on, come on, my lord, he sayes; come on, come on, and let her bee: there's ladyes enow in lough-leven for to cheere that gay ladìe. if you'll not turne yourself, my lord, let me goe with my chamberlaine; we will but comfort that faire lady, and wee will return to you againe. come on, come on, my lord, he sayes, come on, come on, and let her bee: my sister is craftye, and wold beguile a thousand such as you and mee. when they had sayled[ ] fifty myle, now fifty mile upon the sea; hee sent his man to ask the douglas, when they shold that shooting see. faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine,[ ] and that by thee and thy lord is seen: you may hap[ ] to thinke itt soone enough, ere you that shooting reach, i ween. jamye his hatt pulled over his browe, he thought his lord then was betray'd; and he is to erle percy againe, to tell him what the douglas sayd. hold upp thy head, man, quoth his lord; nor therefore lett thy courage fayle, he did it but to prove thy heart, to see if he cold make it quail. when they had other fifty sayld, other fifty mile upon the sea, lord percy called to douglas himselfe, sayd, what wilt thou nowe doe with mee? looke that your brydle be wight,[ ] my lord, and your horse goe swift as shipp att sea: looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe, that you may pricke her while she'll away. what needeth this, douglas, he sayth; what needest thou to flyte[ ] with mee? for i was counted a horseman good before that ever i mett with thee. a false hector hath my horse, who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe: a false armstrong hath my spurres, and all the geere belongs to mee. when they had sayled other fifty mile, other fifty mile upon the sea; they landed low by berwicke side, a deputed 'laird' landed lord percye.[ ] then he at yorke was doomde to dye, it was, alas! a sorrowful sight: thus they betrayed that noble earle, who ever was a gallant wight. [illustration] [the following version of the betrayal of northumberland is from the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. .) now list and lithe you gentlemen, and ist tell you the veretye, how they haue delt with a banished man, driuen out of his countrye. when as hee came on scottish ground as woe and wonder be them amonge, ffull much was there traitorye thé wrought the erle of northumberland. when they were att the supper sett, beffore many goodly gentlemen thé ffell a fflouting and mocking both, and said to the erle of northumberland, "what makes you be soe sad, my lord, and in your mind soe sorrowffullye? in the north of scotland to-morrow theres a shooting, and thither thoust goe, my lord percye. "the buttes are sett, and the shooting is made, and there is like to be great royaltye, and i am sworne into my bill thither to bring my lord pearcy." "ile giue thee my land, douglas," he sayes, "and be the faith in my bodye, if that thou wilt ryde to the worlds end, ile ryde in thy companye." and then bespake the good ladye,-- marry a douglas was her name,-- "you shall byde here, good english lord; my brother is a traiterous man; "he is a traitor stout and stronge, as ist tell you the veretye, for he hath tane liuerance of the erle, and into england he will liuor thee." "now hold thy tounge, thou goodlye ladye, and let all this talking bee; ffor all the gold thats in loug leuen, william wold not liuor mee! "it wold breake truce betweene england & scottland, and friends againe they wold neuer bee if he shold liuor a bani[s]ht erle was driuen out of his owne countrye." "hold your tounge, my lord," shee sayes, "there is much ffalsehood them amonge; when you are dead, then they are done, soone they will part them friends againe. "if you will giue me any trust, my lord, ile tell you how you best may bee; youst lett my brother ryde his wayes, and tell those english lords trulye "how that you cannot with them ryde because you are in an ile of the sea, then, ere my brother come againe, to edenborrow castle ile carry thee, "ile liuor you vnto the lord hume, and you know a trew scothe lord is hee, for he hath lost both land and goods in ayding of your good bodye." "marry! i am woe! woman," he sayes, "that any freind fares worse for mee; for where one saith 'it is a true tale,' then two will say it is a lye. "when i was att home in my [realme] amonge my tennants all trulye, in my time of losse, wherin my need stoode, they came to ayd me honestlye; "therfore i left many a child ffatherlese, and many a widdow to looke wanne; and therfore blame nothing, ladye, but the woeffull warres which i began." "if you will giue me noe trust, my lord, nor noe credence you will give mee, and youle come hither to my right hand, indeed, my lord, ile lett you see." saies, "i neuer loued noe witchcraft, nor neuer dealt with treacherye, but euermore held the hye way; alas! that may be seene by mee!" "if you will not come your selfe, my lord, youle lett your chamberlaine goe with mee, three words that i may to him speake, and soone he shall come againe to thee." when james swynard came that lady before, shee let him see thorrow the weme of her ring how many there was of english lords to wayte there for his master and him. "but who beene yonder, my good ladye, that walkes soe royallye on yonder greene?" "yonder is lord hunsden, jamye," she saye; "alas! heele doe you both tree and teene!" "and who beene yonder, thou gay ladye, that walkes soe royallye him beside?" "yond is sir william drurye, jamy," shee sayd, "and a keene captain hee is, and tryde." "how many miles is itt, thou good ladye, betwixt yond english lord and mee?" "marry thrise fifty mile, jamy," shee sayd, "and euen to seale and by the sea: "i neuer was on english ground, nor neuer see itt with mine eye, but as my witt and wisedome serues, and as [the] booke it telleth mee. "my mother, shee was a witch woman, and part of itt shee learned mee; shee wold let me see out of lough leuen what they dyd in london cytye." "but who is yond, thou good layde, that comes yonder with an osterne fface?" "yonds sir john fforster, jamye," shee sayd; "methinks thou sholdest better know him then i." "euen soe i doe, my goodlye ladye, and euer alas, soe woe am i!" he pulled his hatt ouer his eyes, and, lord, he wept soe tenderlye! he is gone to his master againe, and euen to tell him the veretye. "now hast thou beene with marry, jamy," he sayd, "euen as thy tounge will tell to mee; but if thou trust in any womans words, thou must refraine good companye." "it is noe words, my lord," he sayes, "yonder the men shee letts mee see, how many english lords there is is wayting there for you and mee; "yonder i see the lord hunsden, and hee and you is of the third degree; a greater enemye, indeed, my lord, in england none haue yee," "and i haue beene in lough leven the most part of these yeeres three: yett had i neuer noe out-rake, nor good games that i cold see; "and i am thus bidden to yonder shooting by william douglas all trulye; therfore speake neuer a word out of thy mouth that thou thinkes will hinder mee." then he writhe the gold ring of his ffingar and gaue itt to that ladye gay; sayes, "that was a legacye left vnto mee in harley woods where i cold bee." "then ffarewell hart, and farewell hand, and ffarwell all good companye! that woman shall neuer beare a sonne shall know soe much of your privitye." "now hold thy tounge, ladye," hee sayde, "and make not all this dole for mee, for i may well drinke, but ist neuer eate, till againe in lough leuen i bee." he tooke his boate att the lough leuen for to sayle now ouer the sea, and he hath cast vpp a siluer wand, saies "fare thou well, my good ladye!" the ladye looked ouer her left sholder; in a dead swoone there fell shee. "goe backe againe, douglas!" he sayd, "and i will goe in thy companye. for sudden sicknesse yonder lady has tane, and euer, alas, shee will but dye! "if ought come to yonder ladye but good, then blamed fore that i shall bee, because a banished man i am, and driuen out of my owne countrye." "come on, come on, my lord," he sayes, "and lett all such talking bee; theres ladyes enow in lough leuen, and for to cheere yonder gay ladye." "and you will not goe your selfe, my lord, you will lett my chamberlaine goe with me; wee shall now take our boate againe, and soone wee shall ouertake thee." "come on, come on, my lord," he sayes, "and lett now all this talking bee! ffor my sister is craftye enoughe for to beguile thousands such as you and mee." when they had sayled fifty myle, now fifty mile vpon the sea, hee had fforgotten a message that hee shold doe in lough leuen trulye: hee asked 'how ffar it was to that shooting, that william douglas promised me.' "now faire words makes fooles faine; and that may be seene by thy master and thee, ffor you may happen think itt soone enoughe when-euer you that shooting see." jamye pulled his hatt now ouer his browe; i wott the teares fell in his eye; and he is to his master againe, and ffor to tell him the veretye he sayes, "fayre words makes fooles faine, and that may be seene by you and mee, ffor wee may happen thinke itt soone enoughe when-euer wee that shooting see." "hold vpp thy head, jamye," the erle sayd, "and neuer lett thy hart fayle thee; he did itt but to prove thee with, and see how thow wold take with death trulye." when they had sayled other fifty mile, other fifty mile vpon the sea, lord peercy called to him, himselfe, and sayd, "douglas what wilt thou doe with mee?" "looke that your brydle be wight, my lord, that you may goe as a shipp att sea; looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe, that you may pricke her while sheele awaye." "what needeth this, douglas," he sayth. "that thou needest to ffloute mee? for i was counted a horsseman good before that euer i mett with thee. "a ffalse hector hath my horsse; and euer an euill death may hee dye! and willye armestronge hath my spurres and all the geere belongs to mee." when thé had sayled other fifty mile, other fifty mile vpon the sea, thé landed low by barwicke side; a deputed land landed lord percye. ffin[s]] footnotes: [ ] [harass.] [ ] [evil.] [ ] [saluted.] [ ] james douglas, earl of morton, elected regent of scotland november , . [ ] of one of the english marches. lord hunsden. [ ] [contend.] [ ] [sworn in writing.] [ ] [money for delivering you up.] [ ] of the earl of morton, the regent. [ ] _i. e._ lake of leven, which hath communication with the sea. [ ] at that time in the hands of the opposite faction. [ ] [fortune.] [ ] [rends.] [ ] [hollow.] [ ] the lord warden of the east marches. [ ] [ill and injury.] [ ] governor of berwick. [ ] [taught.] [ ] [austere.] [ ] warden of the middle-march. [ ] [an outride or expedition.] [ ] [promised.] [ ] [twisted.] [ ] _i. e._ where i was. an ancient idiom. [ ] [fetched.] [ ] there is no navigable stream between lough-leven and the sea: but a ballad-maker is not obliged to understand geography. [ ] [glad.] [ ] [chance.] [ ] [strong.] [ ] [contend.] [ ] ver. . fol. ms. reads _land_, and has not the following stanza. v. my mind to me a kingdom is. this excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in the sixteenth century. it is quoted by ben jonson in his play of _every man out of his humour_, first acted in , act i. sc. , where an impatient person says-- "i am no such pil'd cynique to believe that beggery is the onely happinesse, or, with a number of these patient fooles, to sing, 'my minde to me a kingdome is,' when the lanke hungrie belly barkes for foode." it is here chiefly printed from a thin quarto music book, intitled, "psalmes, sonets, and songs of sadnes and pietie, made into musicke of five parts: &c. by william byrd, one of the gent. of the queenes majesties honorable chappell.--printed by thomas east, &c." to. no date: but ames in his _typog._ has mentioned another edit. of the same book, dated , which i take to have been later than this. some improvements and an additional stanza (sc. the th), were had from two other ancient copies; one of them in black letter in the pepys collection, thus inscribed, "a sweet and pleasant sonet, intitled, 'my minde to me a kingdom is.' to the tune of, in crete, &c." some of the stanzas in this poem were printed by byrd separate from the rest: they are here given in what seemed the most natural order. * * * * * [the longest and apparently earliest version of this favourite poem is signed "e. dier," in ms. rawl. poet. , fol. in the bodleian library, and dr. hannah[ ] attributes it to sir edward dyer, the friend of spenser and sidney, whose little pieces were chiefly printed in _england's helicon_. sir edward dyer, of sharpham park, somersetshire, was born about the year . he was educated at oxford, and afterwards was employed in several embassies. on the death of sir john wolley he was made chancellor of the order of the garter, and at the same time knighted. he was an alchemist and dupe of dr. dee and edward kelly. sir egerton brydges quotes from aubrey the statement that he had four thousand pounds a year, and had four-score thousand pounds left to him, which he wasted almost all, but sir egerton considers the sums almost incredible for the time. in "posthumi or sylvesters remains, revived out of the ashes of that silver-tongued translatour and divine poet laureat," at the end of the translation of the _divine weekes_ of du bartas, , there is the following parody of this favourite poem: "a contented minde. "i waigh not fortunes frowne or smile, i joy not much in earthly joyes, i seeke not state, i reake not stile, i am not fond of fancies toyes: i rest so pleased with what i have, i wish no more, no more i crave. "i quake not at the thunders crack, i tremble not at noise of warre, i swound not at the newes of wrack, i shrink not at a blazing starre; i feare not losse, i hope not gaine; i envie none, i none disdaine. "i see ambition never pleas'd, i see some tantals starv'd in store, i see golds dropsie seldome eas'd, i see even midas gape for more: i neither want, nor yet abound, enough's a feast, content is crown'd. "i faine not friendship where i hate, i fawne not on the great (in show) i prize, i praise a meane estate, neither too lofty nor too low: this, this is all my choice, my cheere, a minde content, a conscience cleere."] * * * * * my minde to me a kingdome is; such perfect joy therein i finde as farre exceeds all earthly blisse, that god or nature hath assignde: though much i want, that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. content i live, this is my stay; i seek no more than may suffice: i presse to beare no haughtie sway; look what i lack my mind supplies. loe! thus i triumph like a king, content with that my mind doth bring. i see how plentie surfets oft, and hastie clymbers soonest fall; i see that such as sit aloft mishap doth threaten most of all: these get with toile, and keep with feare: such cares my mind could never beare. no princely pompe, nor welthie store, no force to winne the victorie, no wylie wit to salve a sore, no shape to winne a lovers eye; to none of these i yeeld as thrall, for why my mind despiseth all. some have too much, yet still they crave, i little have, yet seek no more: they are but poore, tho' much they have; and i am rich with little store: they poor, i rich; they beg, i give; they lacke, i lend; they pine, i live. i laugh not at anothers losse, i grudge not at anothers gaine; no worldly wave my mind can tosse, i brooke that is anothers bane: i feare no foe, nor fawne on friend; i lothe not life, nor dread mine end. i joy not in no earthly blisse; i weigh not cresus' welth a straw; for care, i care not what it is; i feare not fortunes fatall law: my mind is such as may not move for beautie bright or force of love. i wish but what i have at will; i wander not to seeke for more, i like the plaine, i clime no hill; in greatest stormes i sitte on shore, and laugh at them that toile in vaine to get what must be lost againe. i kisse not where i wish to kill; i feigne not love where most i hate; i breake no sleep to winne my will; i wayte not at the mighties gate; i scorne no poore, i feare no rich; i feele no want, nor have too much. the court, ne cart, i like, ne loath; extreames are counted worst of all: the golden meane betwixt them both, doth surest sit, and fears no fall: this is my choyce, for why i finde, no wealth is like a quiet minde. my welth is health, and perfect ease; my conscience clere my chiefe defence: i never seeke by brybes to please, nor by desert to give offence: thus do i live, thus will i die; would all did so as well as i! footnotes: [ ] [_the courtly poets, from raleigh to montrose._ edited by j. hannah, d.c.l., london, . (aldine poets.)] vi. the patient countess. the subject of this tale is taken from that entertaining colloquy of _erasmus_, intitled, "uxor #mempsigamos#, sive conjugium:" which has been agreeably modernized by the late mr. _spence_, in his little miscellaneous publication, intitled, "_moralities_, &c. by sir harry beaumont," , vo. pag. . the following stanzas are extracted from an ancient poem intitled _albion's england_, written by _w. warner_, a celebrated poet in the reign of q. elizabeth, though his name and works are now equally forgotten. the reader will find some account of him in vol. ii. book ii. song . the following stanzas are printed from the author's improved edition of his work, printed in , to.; the third impression of which appeared so early as , in bl. let. to. the edition in is in thirteen books; and so it is reprinted in , to.; yet, in , was published "a continuance of albion's england, by the first author, w. w. lond. to.:" this contains books xiv. xv. xvi. there is also extant, under the name of warner, "syrinx, or a seven-fold historie, pleasant, and profitable, comical, and tragical," to. * * * * * [the title of this poem challenges comparison with _patient_ _griselda_, but it is in fact a totally different story, and as mr. hales says, "represents rather tact and management than patience in the wife of an unfaithful (not a tempting and essaying) husband." the first edition of warner's poem was published in , and the numerous impressions of it prove its popularity. the full title is as follows: "albion's england, a continued history of the same kingdome from the originals of the first inhabitants thereof, unto the raigne of queen elizabeth."] * * * * * impatience chaungeth smoke to flame, but jelousie is hell; some wives by patience have reduc'd ill husbands to live well: as did the ladie of an earle, of whom i now shall tell. an earle 'there was' had wedded, lov'd; was lov'd, and lived long full true to his fayre countesse; yet at last he did her wrong. once hunted he untill the chace, long fasting, and the heat did house him in a peakish graunge[ ] within a forest great. where knowne and welcom'd (as the place and persons might afforde) browne bread, whig,[ ] bacon, curds and milke were set him on the borde. a cushion made of lists, a stoole halfe backed with a hoope were brought him, and he sitteth down besides a sorry coupe.[ ] the poore old couple wisht their bread were wheat, their whig were perry, their bacon beefe, their milke and curds were creame, to make him merry. meane while (in russet neatly clad, with linen white as swanne, herselfe more white, save rosie where the ruddy colour ranne: whome naked nature, not the aydes of arte made to excell) the good man's daughter sturres to see that all were feat[ ] and well; the earle did marke her, and admire such beautie there to dwell. yet fals he to their homely fare, and held him at a feast: but as his hunger slaked, so an amorous heat increast. when this repast was past, and thanks, and welcome too; he sayd unto his host and hostesse, in the hearing of the mayd: yee know, quoth he, that i am lord of this, and many townes; i also know that you be poore, and i can spare you pownes.[ ] soe will i, so yee will consent, that yonder lasse and i may bargaine for her love; at least, doe give me leave to trye. who needs to know it? nay who dares into my doings pry? first they mislike, yet at the length for lucre were misled; and then the gamesome earle did wowe[ ] the damsell for his bed. he took her in his armes, as yet so coyish to be kist, as mayds that know themselves belov'd, and yieldingly resist. in few, his offers were so large she lastly did consent; with whom he lodged all that night, and early home he went. he tooke occasion oftentimes in such a sort to hunt. whom when his lady often mist, contrary to his wont, and lastly was informed of his amorous haunt elsewhere; it greev'd her not a little, though she seem'd it well to beare. and thus she reasons with herselfe, some fault perhaps in me; somewhat is done, that so he doth: alas! what may it be? how may i winne him to myself? he is a man, and men have imperfections; it behooves me pardon nature then. to checke him were to make him checke,[ ] although hee now were chaste: a man controuled of his wife, to her makes lesser haste, if duty then, or daliance may prevayle to alter him; i will be dutifull, and make my selfe for daliance trim. so was she, and so lovingly did entertaine her lord, as fairer, or more faultles none could be for bed or bord. yet still he loves his leiman,[ ] and did still pursue that game, suspecting nothing less, than that his lady knew the same: wherefore to make him know she knew, she this devise did frame: when long she had been wrong'd, and sought the foresayd meanes in vaine, she rideth to the simple graunge, but with a slender traine. she lighteth, entreth, greets them well, and then did looke about her: the guiltie houshold knowing her did wish themselves without her; yet, for she looked merily, the lesse they did misdoubt[ ] her. when she had seen the beauteous wench (then blushing fairnes fairer) such beauty made the countesse hold them both excus'd the rather. who would not bite at such a bait? thought she: and who (though loth) so poore a wench, but gold might tempt? sweet errors lead them both. scarse one in twenty that had bragg'd of proffer'd gold denied, or of such yeelding beautie baulkt, but, tenne to one, had lied. thus thought she: and she thus declares her cause of coming thether; my lord, oft hunting in these partes, through travel, night or wether, hath often lodged in your house; i thanke you for the same; for why? it doth him jolly ease to lie so neare his game. but, for you have not furniture beseeming such a guest, i bring his owne, and come myselfe to see his lodging drest. with that two sumpters were discharg'd, in which were hangings brave, silke coverings, curtens, carpets, plate, and al such turn should have. when all was handsomly dispos'd, she prayes them to have care that nothing hap in their default,[ ] that might his health impair: and, damsell, quoth shee, for it seemes this houshold is but three, and for thy parents age, that this shall chiefely rest on thee; do me that good, else would to god he hither come no more. so tooke she horse, and ere she went bestowed gould good store. full little thought the countie[ ] that his countesse had done so; who now return'd from far affaires did to his sweetheart go. no sooner sat he foote within the late deformed cote,[ ] but that the formall change of things his wondring eies did note. but when he knew those goods to be his proper goods; though late, scarce taking leave, he home returnes the matter to debate. the countesse was a-bed, and he with her his lodging tooke; sir, welcome home (quoth shee); this night for you i did not looke. then did he question her of such his stuffe bestowed soe. forsooth, quoth she, because i did your love and lodging knowe; your love to be a proper wench, your lodging nothing lesse; i held it for your health, the house more decently to dresse. well wot i, notwithstanding her, your lordship loveth me; and greater hope to hold you such by quiet, then brawles, 'you' see. then for my duty, your delight, and to retaine your favour, all done i did, and patiently expect your wonted 'haviour. her patience, witte and answer wrought his gentle teares to fall: when (kissing her a score of times) amend, sweet wife, i shall: he said, and did it; 'so each wife her husband may' recall. footnotes: [ ] [rude and lone country house.] [ ] [buttermilk or sour whey.] [ ] [pen for poultry.] [ ] [nice or neat.] [ ] [pounds.] [ ] [woo.] [ ] to _check_ is a term in falconry, applied when a hawk stops and turns away from his proper pursuit: to _check_ also signifies to reprove or chide. it is in this verse used in both senses. [ ] [mistress.] [ ] [suspect.] [ ] [happen from their neglect.] [ ] [earl.] [ ] [cottage.] vii dowsabell. the following stanzas were written by _michael drayton_, a poet of some eminence in the reigns of q. elizabeth, james i. and charles i.[ ] they are inserted in one of his pastorals, the first edition of which bears this whimsical title, "idea. the shepheards garland fashioned in nine eglogs. rowlands sacrifice to the nine muses. lond. ." to. they are inscribed with the author's name at length "to the noble and valerous gentleman master robert dudley, &c." it is very remarkable that when drayton reprinted them in the first folio edit. of his works, , he had given those eclogues so thorough a revisal, that there is hardly a line to be found the same as in the old edition. this poem had received the fewest corrections, and therefore is chiefly given from the ancient copy, where it is thus introduced by one of his shepherds: "listen to mee, my lovely shepheards joye. and thou shall heare, with mirth and mickle glee, a pretie tale, which when i was a boy, my toothles grandame oft hath tolde to me." the author has professedly imitated the style and metre of some of the old metrical romances, particularly that of _sir isenbras_[ ] (alluded to in v. ), as the reader may judge from the following specimen: "lordynges, lysten, and you shal here, &c. * * * * * ye shall well heare of a knight, that was in warre full wyght, and doughtye of his dede: his name was syr isenbras, man nobler then he was lyved none with breade. he was lyvely, large, and longe, with shoulders broade, and armes stronge, that myghtie was to se: he was a hardye man, and hye, all men hym loved that hym se, for a gentyll knight was he: harpers loved him in hall, with other minstrells all, for he gave them golde and fee," &c. this ancient legend was printed in black-letter, to. by wyllyam copland; no date.[ ] in the cotton library (calig. a ) is a ms. copy of the same romance containing the greatest variations. they are probably two different translations of some french original. * * * * * farre in the countrey of arden, there won'd[ ] a knight, hight cassemen, as bolde as isenbras: fell[ ] was he, and eger bent, in battell and in tournament, as was the good sir topas. he had, as antique stories tell, a daughter cleaped[ ] dowsabel, a mayden fayre and free: and for she was her fathers heire, full well she was y-cond the leyre[ ] of mickle curtesie. the silke well couth she twist and twine, and make the fine march-pine,[ ] and with the needle werke: and she couth helpe the priest to say his mattins on a holy-day, and sing a psalme in kirke. she ware a frock of frolicke greene, might well beseeme a mayden queene, which seemly was to see; a hood to that so neat and fine, in colour like the colombine, y-wrought full featously.[ ] her features all as fresh above, as is the grasse that growes by dove; and lyth[ ] as lasse of kent. her skin as soft as lemster wooll,[ ] as white as snow on peakish hull,[ ] or swanne that swims in trent. this mayden in a morne betime went forth, when may was in her prime, to get sweete cetywall,[ ] the honey-suckle, the harlocke,[ ] the lilly and the lady-smocke, to deck her summer hall. thus, as she wandred here and there, y-picking of the bloomed breere, she chanced to espie a shepheard sitting on a bancke, like chanteclere he crowed crancke,[ ] and pip'd full merrilie. he lear'd[ ] his sheepe as he him list, when he would whistle in his fist, to feede about him round; whilst he full many a carroll sung, untill the fields and medowes rung, and all the woods did sound. in favour this same shepheards swayne was like the bedlam tamburlayne,[ ] which helde prowd kings in awe: but meeke he was as lamb mought be; an innocent of ill as he[ ] whom his lewd brother slaw. the shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke, which was of the finest loke,[ ] that could be cut with sheere: his mittens were of bauzens[ ] skinne, his cockers[ ] were of cordiwin,[ ] his hood of meniveere.[ ] his aule and lingell[ ] in a thong, his tar-boxe on his broad belt hong, his breech of coyntrie[ ] blewe: full crispe and curled were his lockes, his browes as white as albion rocks: so like a lover true, and pyping still he spent the day, so merry as the popingay;[ ] which liked dowsabel: that would she ought, or would she nought, this lad would never from her thought; she in love-longing fell. at length she tucked up her frocke, white as a lilly was her smocke, she drew the shepheard nye; but then the shepheard pyp'd a good, that all his sheepe forsooke their foode, to heare his melodye. thy sheepe, quoth she, cannot be leane, that have a jolly shepheards swayne, the which can pipe so well: yea but, sayth he, their shepheard may, if pyping thus he pine away in love of dowsabel. of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe,[ ] quoth she; looke thou unto thy sheepe, lest they should hap to stray. quoth he, so had i done full well, had i not seen fayre dowsabell come forth to gather maye. with that she gan to vaile her head, her cheeks were like the roses red, but not a word she sayd: with that the shepheard gan to frowne, he threw his pretie pypes adowne, and on the ground him layd. sayth she, i may not stay till night, and leave my summer-hall undight,[ ] and all for long of thee. my coate,[ ] sayth he, nor yet my foulde shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould, except thou favour mee. sayth she, yet lever were i dead, then i should lose my mayden-head, and all for love of men. sayth he, yet are you too unkind. if in your heart you cannot finde to love us now and then. and i to thee will be as kinde as colin was to rosalinde, of curtesie the flower. then will i be as true, quoth she, as ever mayden yet might be unto her paramour. with that she bent her snow-white knee, downe by the shepheard kneeled shee, and him she sweetely kist: with that the shepheard whoop'd for joy, quoth he, ther's never shepheards boy that ever was so blist. footnotes: [ ] he was born in , and died in . _biog. brit._ [ ] as also chaucer's _rhyme of sir topas_, v. . [ ] [reprinted by utterson. the _romance of sir isumbras_ was printed from the ms. by mr. halliwell in the _thornton romance_ (camden society, ).] [ ] [dwelt.] [ ] [keen.] [ ] [named.] [ ] [she was taught the learning.] [ ] [march-pane, a kind of biscuit.] [ ] [dexterously.] [ ] [gentle or tender.] [ ] leominster, or lemster, was long famous for its wool, and skelton refers to "good lemster wool" in his _elynour rummin_. [ ] peakish hill; this may refer to the well-known derbyshire mountain called the peak. [ ] herb valerian, or mountain spikenard. [ ] perhaps charlock, or wild rape. [ ] exultingly. [ ] pastured. [ ] alluding to _tamburlaine the great, or the scythian shepheard_, , vo. an old ranting play ascribed to marlowe. [ ] sc. abel. [ ] [fleece of wool.] [ ] [sheepskin gloves with the wool on the inside.] [ ] [short boots.] [ ] [leather.] [ ] [mixed fur.] [ ] [rosined thread.] [ ] [coventry.] [ ] [parrot.] [ ] [heed.] [ ] [undecked.] [ ] [cot.] viii. the farewell to love. from beaumont and fletcher's play, intitled _the lover's progress_. act iii. sc. . adieu, fond love, farewell you wanton powers; i am free again. thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours, bewitching pain, fly to fools, that sigh away their time: my nobler love to heaven doth climb, and there behold beauty still young, that time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy, immortal sweetness by fair angels sung, and honoured by eternity and joy: there lies my love, thither my hopes aspire, fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher. ix. ulysses and the syren, affords a pretty poetical contest between pleasure and honour. it is found at the end of _hymen's triumph: a pastoral tragicomedie_, written by daniel, and printed among his works, to. .[ ] _daniel_, who was a contemporary of drayton's, and is said to have been poet laureat to queen elizabeth, was born in , and died in . _anne_, countess of dorset, pembroke, and montgomery (to whom daniel had been tutor), has inserted a small portrait of him in a full-length picture of herself, preserved at appleby castle, in cumberland. this little poem is the rather selected for a specimen of daniel's poetic powers, as it is omitted in the later edition of his works, vols. mo. . * * * * * [samuel daniel was born in somersetshire, and educated at magdalen hall, oxford. he left college without a degree, "his geny being," according to ant. à wood, "more prone to easier and smoother subjects than in pecking and hewing at logic." he was tutor to lady anne clifford, subsequently countess of pembroke, and afterwards groom of the privy chamber to anne, queen of james i. browne calls him in _britannia's pastorals_, "wel-languaged daniel," and the union of power of thought with sweetness and grace of expression exhibited by him is highly praised by southey and coleridge. he was free from indelicacy in his writings, and fuller says of him that "he carried in his christian and surname two holy prophets, his monitors, so to qualify his raptures that he abhorred all profaneness."] * * * * * syren. come, worthy greeke, ulysses come, possesse these shores with me, the windes and seas are troublesome, and here we may be free. here may we sit and view their toyle, that travaile in the deepe, enjoy the day in mirth the while, and spend the night in sleepe. ulysses. faire nymph, if fame or honour were to be attain'd with ease, then would i come and rest with thee. and leave such toiles as these: but here it dwels, and here must i with danger seek it forth; to spend the time luxuriously becomes not men of worth. syren. ulysses, o be not deceiv'd with that unreall name: this honour is a thing conceiv'd, and rests on others' fame. begotten only to molest our peace, and to beguile (the best thing of our life) our rest, and give us up to toyle! ulysses. delicious nymph, suppose there were nor honor, nor report, yet manlinesse would scorne to weare the time in idle sport: for toyle doth give a better touch to make us feele our joy; and ease findes tediousnes, as much as labour yeelds annoy. syren. then pleasure likewise seemes the shore, whereto tendes all your toyle; which you forego to make it more, and perish oft the while. who may disport them diversly, find never tedious day; and ease may have variety, as well as action may. ulysses. but natures of the noblest frame these toyles and dangers please; and they take comfort in the same, as much as you in ease: and with the thought of actions past are recreated still: when pleasure leaves a touch at last to shew that it was ill. syren. that doth opinion only cause, that's out of custom bred; which makes us many other laws, than ever nature did. no widdowes waile for our delights, our sports are without blood; the world we see by warlike wights receives more hurt than good. ulysses. but yet the state of things require these motions of unrest, and these great spirits of high desire seem borne to turne them best: to purge the mischiefes, that increase and all good order mar: for oft we see a wicked peace, to be well chang'd for war. syren. well, well, ulysses, then i see i shall not have thee here; and therefore i will come to thee, and take my fortune there. i must be wonne that cannot win, yet lost were i not wonne: for beauty hath created bin t' undoo or be undone. footnotes: [ ] in this edition it is collated with a copy printed at the end of his "_tragedie of cleopatra_. london, , mo." x. cupid's pastime. this beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of james i. is printed from the th edition of davison's poems,[ ] &c. . it is also found in a later miscellany, intitled, "le prince d'amour," , vo. francis davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state who suffered so much from the affair of mary q. of scots. these poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the low countries, and by some dear friends "anonymoi." among them are found some pieces by sir j. davis, the countess of pembroke, sir philip sidney, spenser, and other wits of those times. in the fourth vol. of _dryden's miscellanies_, this poem is attributed to sydney godolphin, esq.; but erroneously, being probably written before he was born. one edit. of davison's book was published in . godolphin was born in , and died in - . ath. ox. ii. . * * * * * it chanc'd of late a shepherd swain, that went to seek his straying sheep, within a thicket on a plain espied a dainty nymph asleep. her golden hair o'erspred her face; her careless arms abroad were cast; her quiver had her pillows place; her breast lay bare to every blast. the shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill; nought durst he do; nought durst he say; whilst chance, or else perhaps his will, did guide the god of love that way. the crafty boy that sees her sleep, whom if she wak'd he durst not see; behind her closely seeks to creep, before her nap should ended bee. there come, he steals her shafts away, and puts his own into their place; nor dares he any longer stay, but, ere she wakes, hies thence apace. scarce was he gone, but she awakes, and spies the shepherd standing by: her bended bow in haste she takes, and at the simple swain lets flye. forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, that to the ground he fell with pain: yet up again forthwith he start, and to the nymph he ran amain. amazed to see so strange a sight, she shot, and shot, but all in vain; the more his wounds, the more his might love yielded strength amidst his pain. her angry eyes were great with tears, she blames her hand, she blames her skill; the bluntness of her shafts she fears, and try them on herself she will. take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft, each little touch will pierce thy heart: alas! thou know'st not cupids craft; revenge is joy; the end is smart. yet try she will, and pierce some bare; her hands were glov'd, but next to hand was that fair breast, that breast so rare, that made the shepherd senseless stand. that breast she pierc'd; and through that breast love found an entry to her heart; at feeling of this new-come guest, lord! how this gentle nymph did start? she runs not now; she shoots no more; away she throws both shaft and bow: she seeks for what she shunn'd before, she thinks the shepherds haste too slow. though mountains meet not, lovers may: what other lovers do, did they: the god of love sate on a tree, and laught that pleasant sight to see. footnotes: [ ] see the full title in vol. ii. book iii. no. iv. xi. the character of a happy life. this little moral poem was writ by sir _henry wotton_, who died provost of eton in . Æt. . it is printed from a little collection of his pieces, intitled. _reliquiæ wottonianæ_, , mo.; compared with one or two other copies. [ben jonson is said to have greatly admired these verses, and to have known them by heart.] * * * * * how happy is he born or taught, that serveth not anothers will; whose armour is his honest thought, and simple truth his highest skill: whose passions not his masters are; whose soul is still prepar'd for death; not ty'd unto the world with care of princes ear, or vulgar breath: who hath his life from rumours freed; whose conscience is his strong retreat: whose state can neither flatterers feed, nor ruine make oppressors great: who envies none, whom chance doth raise, or vice: who never understood how deepest wounds are given with praise; nor rules of state, but rules of good: who god doth late and early pray more of his grace than gifts to lend; and entertaines the harmless day with a well-chosen book or friend. this man is freed from servile bands of hope to rise, or feare to fall; lord of himselfe, though not of lands; and having nothing, yet hath all. xii. gilderoy was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and storybooks of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing cardinal richelieu, oliver cromwell, &c. but these stories have probably no other authority than the records of grub-street. at least the _gilderoy_, who is the hero of scottish songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for, in thompson's _orpheus caledonius_, vol. ii. , vo. is a copy of this ballad, which, tho' corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity: in these he is represented as contemporary with mary q. of scots: _ex. gr._ "the queen of scots possessed nought, that my love let me want: for cow and ew he to me brought, and een whan they were scant. all these did honestly possess he never did annoy, who never fail'd to pay their cess to my love gilderoy." these lines perhaps might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that appears to have received some modern corrections. indeed, the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruning-hook. * * * * * [the subject of this ballad was a ruffian totally unworthy of the poetic honours given to him, and the poem itself can in no way be looked upon as historic. to mention but one instance of its departure from truth--the song is said to have been written by a young woman of a superior station in society who had been induced to live with the freebooter, but the fact was that one thousand marks having been offered for his apprehension, he was betrayed by his mistress peg cunningham, and captured after killing eight of the men sent against him, and stabbing the woman. he was one of the proscribed clan gregor, and a notorious lifter of cattle in the highlands of perthshire for some time before . in february of that year seven of his accomplices were taken, tried, condemned, and executed at edinburgh. these men were apprehended chiefly through the exertions of the stewarts of athol, and in revenge gilderoy burned several of the houses belonging to the stewarts. in a few months, however, he was captured, as before mentioned, and in july, , was hanged with five accomplices at the gallowlee, between leith and edinburgh. as a mark of unenviable distinction, gilderoy was hanged on a gallows higher than the rest. it is curious that this wretched miscreant, who robbed the poor and outraged all women who came in his way, should have become popular in the south of britain. his adventures, with the various details noticed above by percy, are related in captain alexander smith's _history of highwaymen_, &c., , and in johnson's _lives and exploits of highwaymen_, . the earliest known version of this song was printed in london in , and another is included in _westminster drollery_, . the latter consists of five stanzas, the first being: "was ever grief so great as mine then speak dear bearn, i prethee, that thus must leave my gilderoy, o my benison gang with thee. good speed be with you then sir she said for gone is all my joy: and gone is he whom i love best, my handsome gilderoy." the second stanza is percy's fifth, with some of the "luxuriances" he refers to. the third stanza is a variation of percy's first. "now gilderoy was bonny boy would needs to th' king be gone with his silken garters on his legs, and the roses on his shoone. but better he had staid at home with me his only joy, for on a gallow tree they hung my handsome gilderoy." the fourth stanza is a variety of percy's eleventh, and the fifth of his ninth. there is another version of this song in the _collection of old ballads_, (vol. i.), entitled "the scotch lover's lamentation, or gilderoy's last farewell," which contains some few "luxuriances," but is on the whole superior to the "improved" one here printed. this was altered by lady wardlaw, who added the stanzas between brackets, besides the one quoted above by percy. gilderoy is now, perhaps, better known by campbell's song than by this ballad. the name is a corruption of the gaelic _gille roy_, red-haired boy.] * * * * * gilderoy was a bonnie boy, had roses tull[ ] his shoone, his stockings were of silken soy,[ ] wi' garters hanging doune: it was, i weene, a comelie sight, to see sae trim a boy; he was my jo[ ] and hearts delight, my handsome gilderoy. oh! sike twa charming een he had, a breath as sweet as rose, he never ware a highland plaid, but costly silken clothes; he gain'd the luve of ladies gay, nane eir tull him was coy: ah! wae is mee! i mourn the day for my dear gilderoy. my gilderoy and i were born, baith in one toun together, we scant were seven years beforn, we gan to luve each other; our dadies and our mammies thay, were fill'd wi' mickle joy, to think upon the bridal day, twixt me and gilderoy. for gilderoy that luve of mine, gude faith, i freely bought a wedding sark[ ] of holland fine, wi' silken flowers wrought: and he gied me a wedding ring, which i receiv'd wi' joy, nae lad nor lassie eir could sing, like me and gilderoy. wi' mickle joy we spent our prime, till we were baith sixteen, and aft we past the langsome time, among the leaves sae green; aft on the banks we'd sit us thair, and sweetly kiss and toy, wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair my handsome gilderoy. [oh! that he still had been content, wi' me to lead his life; but, ah! his manfu' heart was bent, to stir in feates of strife: and he in many a venturous deed, his courage bauld wad try; and now this gars[ ] mine heart to bleed, for my dear gilderoy. and when of me his leave he tuik, the tears they wat mine ee, i gave tull him a parting luik, "my benison gang wi' thee; god speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart, for gane is all my joy; my heart is rent sith we maun part, my handsome gilderoy."] my gilderoy baith far and near, was fear'd in every toun, and bauldly bare away the gear,[ ] of many a lawland loun: nane eir durst meet him man to man, he was sae brave a boy; at length wi' numbers he was tane, my winsome[ ] gilderoy. wae worth[ ] the loun that made the laws, to hang a man for gear, to 'reave of life for ox or ass, for sheep, or horse, or mare: had not their laws been made sae strick, i neir had lost my joy, wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek, for my dear gilderoy. giff gilderoy had done amisse, he mought hae banisht been; ah! what fair cruelty is this, to hang sike handsome men: to hang the flower o' scottish land, sae sweet and fair a boy; nae lady had sae white a hand, as thee, my gilderoy. of gilderoy sae fraid they were, they bound him mickle strong, tull edenburrow they led him thair, and on a gallows hung: they hung him high aboon the rest, he was sae trim a boy; thair dyed the youth whom i lued best, my handsome gilderoy. thus having yielded up his breath, i bare his corpse away, wi' tears, that trickled for his death, i washt his comelye clay; and siker[ ] in a grave sae deep, i laid the dear-lued boy, and now for evir maun i weep, my winsome gilderoy. [***] footnotes: [ ] [for _till_ to.] [ ] [silk.] [ ] [sweetheart.] [ ] [shift.] [ ] [makes.] [ ] [property.] [ ] [winning.] [ ] [woe betide.] [ ] [secure.] xiii. winifreda. this beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine muses, was, i believe, first printed in a volume of _miscellaneous poems, by several hands_, published by d. [david] lewis, , vo. it is there said, how truly i know not, to be "a translation from the ancient british language." * * * * * away; let nought to love displeasing, my winifreda, move your care; let nought delay the heavenly blessing, nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. what tho' no grants of royal donors with pompous titles grace our blood; we'll shine in more substantial honors, and to be noble we'll be good. our name, while virtue thus we tender, will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke: and all the great ones, they shall wonder how they respect such little folk. what though from fortune's lavish bounty no mighty treasures we possess; we'll find within our pittance plenty, and be content without excess. still shall each returning season sufficient for our wishes give; for we will live a life of reason, and that's the only life to live. through youth and age in love excelling, we'll hand in hand together tread; sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, and babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. how should i love the pretty creatures, while round my knees they fondly clung; to see them look their mothers features, to hear them lisp their mothers tongue. and when with envy time transported, shall think to rob us of our joys, you'll in your girls again be courted, and i'll go a wooing in my boys. xiv. the witch of wokey was published in a small collection of poems, intitled _euthemia, or the power of harmony_, &c. , written in , by the ingenious dr. _harrington_, of bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. the following copy was furnished by the late mr. _shenstone_, with some variations and corrections of his own, which he had taken the liberty to propose, and for which the author's indulgence was intreated. in this edition it was intended to reprint the author's own original copy; but, as that may be seen correctly given in _pearch's_ collection, vol. i. , p. , it was thought the reader of taste would wish to have the variations preserved, they are, therefore, still retained here, which it is hoped the worthy author will excuse with his wonted liberality. _wokey-hole_ is a noted cavern in somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the sybils cave, in italy. thro' a very narrow entrance, it opens into a very large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. it goes winding a great way underground, is crossed by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions; which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem. * * * * * in aunciente days tradition showes a base and wicked elfe arose, the witch of wokey hight: oft have i heard the fearfull tale from sue, and roger of the vale, on some long winter's night. deep in the dreary dismall cell, which seem'd and was ycleped hell, this blear-eyed hag did hide: nine wicked elves, as legends sayne, she chose to form her guardian trayne, and kennel near her side. here screeching owls oft made their nest, while wolves its craggy sides possest, night-howling thro' the rock: no wholesome herb could here be found; she blasted every plant around, and blister'd every flock. her haggard face was foull to see; her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee; her eyne of deadly leer, she nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill; she wreak'd on all her wayward will, and marr'd all goodly chear. all in her prime, have poets sung, no gaudy youth, gallant and young, e'er blest her longing armes; and hence arose her spight to vex, and blast the youth of either sex, by dint of hellish charms. from glaston came a lerned wight, full bent to marr her fell despight, and well he did, i ween: sich mischief never had been known, and, since his mickle lerninge shown, sich mischief ne'er has been. he chauntede out his godlie booke, he crost the water, blest the brooke, then--pater noster done,-- the ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er; when lo! where stood a hag before, now stood a ghastly stone. full well 'tis known adown the dale: tho' passing strange indeed the tale, and doubtfull may appear, i'm bold to say, there's never a one, that has not seen the witch in stone, with all her household gear. but tho' this lernede clerke did well; with grieved heart, alas! i tell, she left this curse behind: that wokey-nymphs forsaken quite, tho' sense and beauty both unite, should find no leman kind. for lo! even, as the fiend did say, the sex have found it to this day, that men are wondrous scant: here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd, with all that's good and virtuous join'd, yet hardly one gallant. shall then sich maids unpitied moane? they might as well, like her, be stone, as thus forsaken dwell. since glaston now can boast no clerks; come down from oxenford, ye sparks, and, oh! revoke the spell. yet stay--nor thus despond, ye fair; virtue's the gods' peculiar care; i hear the gracious voice: your sex shall soon be blest agen, we only wait to find sich men, as best deserve your choice. xv. bryan and pereene, a west indian ballad, is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island of st. christophers about the beginning of the present reign. the editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of dr. _james grainger_[ ] who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in . to this ingenious gentleman the public are indebted for the fine _ode on solitude_, printed in the fourth vol. of dodsley's _miscel._ p. , in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. the reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the author: "o solitude, romantic maid, whether by nodding towers you tread, or haunt the desart's trackless gloom, or hover o'er the yawning tomb, or climb the andes' clifted side, or by the nile's coy source abide, or starting from your half-year's sleep from hecla view the thawing deep, or at the purple dawn of day tadmor's marble wastes survey," &c. alluding to the account of palmyra published by some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break of day.[ ] * * * * * the north-east wind did briskly blow, the ship was safely moor'd; young bryan thought the boat's-crew slow, and so leapt over-board. pereene, the pride of indian dames, his heart long held in thrall; and whoso his impatience blames, i wot, ne'er lov'd at all. a long long year, one month and day, he dwelt on english land, nor once in thought or deed would stray, tho' ladies sought his hand. for bryan he was tall and strong, right blythsome roll'd his een, sweet was his voice whene'er he sung, he scant had twenty seen. but who the countless charms can draw, that grac'd his mistress true; such charms the old world seldom saw, nor oft i ween the new. her raven hair plays round her neck, like tendrils of the vine; her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck, her eyes like diamonds shine. soon as his well-known ship she spied, she cast her weeds away, and to the palmy shore she hied, all in her best array. in sea-green silk so neatly clad, she there impatient stood; the crew with wonder saw the lad repell the foaming flood. her hands a handkerchief display'd. which he at parting gave; well pleas'd the token he survey'd, and manlier beat the wave. her fair companions one and all, rejoicing crowd the strand; for now her lover swam in call, and almost touch'd the land. then through the white surf did she haste, to clasp her lovely swain; when, ah! a shark bit through his waste: his heart's blood dy'd the main! he shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave, streaming with purple gore, and soon it found a living grave, and ah! was seen no more. now haste, now haste, ye maids, i pray, fetch water from the spring: she falls, she swoons, she dies away, and soon her knell they ring. now each may morning round her tomb ye fair, fresh flowerets strew, so may your lovers scape his doom, her hapless fate scape you. footnotes: [ ] author of a poem on the culture of the _sugar-cane_, &c. [ ] so in p. , it should be, _turn'd her magic ray_. xvi. gentle river, gentle river, translated from the spanish. although the english are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of their ancestors, than most other nations; they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. the spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. they call them in their language _romances_, and have collected them into volumes under the titles of _el romancero_, _el cancionero_,[ ] &c. most of them relate to their conflicts with the moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. but of all the spanish ballads none exceed in poetical merit those inserted in a little spanish _history of the civil wars of granada_, describing the dissensions which raged in that last seat of moorish empire before it was conquered in the reign of ferdinand and isabella, in . in this history (or perhaps romance) a great number of heroic songs are inserted and appealed to as authentic vouchers for the truth of facts. in reality the prose narrative seems to be drawn up for no other end, but to introduce and illustrate those beautiful pieces. the spanish editor pretends (how truly i know not) that they are translations from the arabic or morisco language. indeed, from the plain unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity of the language and sentiment, which runs through these poems, one would judge them to have been composed soon after the conquest of granada[ ] above mentioned; as the prose narrative in which they are inserted was published about a century after. it should seem, at least, that they were written before the castillians had formed themselves so generally, as they have done since, on the model of the tuscan poets, or had imported from italy that fondness for conceit and refinement, which has for near two centuries past so much infected the spanish poetry, and rendered it so frequently affected and obscure. as a specimen of the ancient spanish manner, which very much resembles that of our english bards and minstrels, the reader is desired candidly to accept the two following poems. they are given from a small collection of pieces of this kind, which the editor some years ago translated for his amusement when he was studying the spanish language. as the first is a pretty close translation, to gratify the curious it is accompanied with the original. the metre is the same in all these old spanish ballads: it is of the most simple construction, and is still used by the common people in their extemporaneous songs, as we learn from _baretti's travels_. it runs in short stanzas of four lines, of which the second and fourth alone correspond in their terminations; and in these it is only required that the vowels should be alike, the consonants may be altogether different, as pone casa meten arcos noble cañas muere gamo yet has this kind of verse a sort of simple harmonious flow, which atones for the imperfect nature of the rhyme, and renders it not unpleasing to the ear. the same flow of numbers has been studied in the following versions. the first of them is given from two different originals, both of which are printed in the _hist. de las civiles guerras de granada_, mad. . one of them hath the rhymes ending in _aa_, the other in _ia_. it is the former of these that is here reprinted. they both of them begin with the same line: "rio verde, rio verde,"[ ] which could not be translated faithfully: "verdant river, verdant river," would have given an affected stiffness to the verse; the great merit of which is easy simplicity; and therefore a more simple epithet was adopted, though less poetical or expressive. * * * * * [the two following spanish ballads are peculiarly out of place in a collection of english ballads, and they are not very good specimens of the class from which they are taken. those who wish for information on spanish ballads must refer to ticknor's _history of_ _spanish literature_; t. rodd's _ancient spanish ballads, relating_ _to the twelve peers of france mentioned in don quixote_, vols. london, ; and j. g. lockhart's _ancient spanish ballads,_ _historical and romantic_, .] [illustration] rio verde, rio verde, quanto cuerpo en ti se baña de christianos y de moros muertos por la dura espada! y tus ondas cristalinas de roxa sangre se esmaltan: entre moros y christianos muy gran batalla se trava. murieron duques y condes, grandes señores de salva: murio gente de valia de la nobleza de españa. en ti murio don alonso, que de aguilar se ilamaba; el valeroso urdiales, con don alonso acababa. por un ladera arriba el buen sayavedra marcha; naturel es de sevilla, de la gente mas granada. tras el iba un renegado, desta manera le habla; date, date, sayavedra, no huyas de la batalla. yo te conozco muy bien, gran tiempo estuve en tu casa; y en la plaça de sevilla bien te vide jugar cañas. * * * * * gentle river, gentle river, lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore, many a brave and noble captain floats along thy willow'd shore. all beside thy limpid waters, all beside thy sands so bright, moorish chiefs and christian warriors join'd in fierce and mortal fight. lords, and dukes, and noble princes on thy fatal banks were slain: fatal banks that gave to slaughter all the pride and flower of spain. there the hero, brave alonzo full of wounds and glory died: there the fearless urdiales fell a victim by his side. lo! where yonder don saavedra thro' their squadrons slow retires; proud seville, his native city, proud seville his worth admires. close behind a renegado loudly shouts with taunting cry; yield thee, yield thee, don saavedra, dost thou from the battle fly? well i know thee, haughty christian, long i liv'd beneath thy roof; oft i've in the lists of glory seen thee win the prize of proof. conozco a tu padre y madre, y a tu muger doña clara; siete anos fui tu cautivo, malamente me tratabas. y aora lo seras mio, si mahoma me ayudara; y tambien te tratare, como a mi me tratabas. sayavedra que lo oyera, al moro bolvio la cara; tirole el moro una flecha, pero nunca le acertaba. hiriole sayavedra de una herida muy mala: muerto cayo el renegado sin poder hablar palabra. sayavedra fue cercado de mucha mora canalla, y al cabo cayo alli muerto de una muy mala lançada. don alonso en este tiempo bravamente peleava, y el cavallo le avian muerto, y le tiene por muralla. mas cargaron tantos moros que mal le hieren y tratan: de la sangre, que perdia, don alonso se desmaya. al fin, al fin cayo muerto al pie de un pena alta.---- ----muerto queda don alonso, eterna fama ganara. * * * * * well i know thy aged parents, well thy blooming bride i know; seven years i was thy captive, seven years of pain and woe. may our prophet grant my wishes, haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow, which i drank when i was thine. like a lion turns the warrior, back he sends an angry glare: whizzing came the moorish javelin, vainly whizzing thro' the air. back the hero full of fury sent a deep and mortal wound: instant sunk the renegado, mute and lifeless on the ground. with a thousand moors surrounded, brave saavedra stands at bay: wearied out but never daunted, cold at length the warrior lay. near him fighting great alonzo stout resists the paynim bands; from his slaughter'd steed dismounted firm intrench'd behind him stands. furious press the hostile squadron, furious he repels their rage: loss of blood at length enfeebles: who can war with thousands wage! where yon rock the plain o'ershadows close beneath its foot retir'd, fainting sunk the bleeding hero, and without a groan expir'd. * * * * * [***] in the spanish original of the foregoing ballad follow a few more stanzas, but being of inferior merit were not translated. _renegado_ properly signifies an apostate; but it is sometimes used to express an infidel in general; as it seems to do above in ver. , &c. the image of the _lion_, &c. in ver. , is taken from the other spanish copy, the rhymes of which end in _ia_, viz. "sayavedra, que lo oyera, "como un leon rebolbia." footnotes: [ ] _i.e._ the ballad-singer. [ ] see vol. iii. appendix. [ ] literally, _green river, green river_. [percy found out, after writing this, that _rio verde_ is the name of a river in spain, a fact, which he writes, "ought to have been attended to by the translator, had he known it."] xvii. alcanzor and zayda, a moorish tale, imitated from the spanish. the foregoing version was rendered as literal as the nature of the two languages would admit. in the following a wider compass hath been taken. the spanish poem that was chiefly had in view is preserved in the same history of the _civil wars of granada_, f. , and begins with these lines: "por la calle de su dama "passeando se anda," &c. * * * * * softly blow the evening breezes, softly fall the dews of night; yonder walks the moor alcanzor, shunning every glare of light. in yon palace lives fair zaida, whom he loves with flame so pure: loveliest she of moorish ladies; he a young and noble moor. waiting for the appointed minute, oft he paces to and fro; stopping now, now moving forwards, sometimes quick, and sometimes slow. hope and fear alternate teize him, oft he sighs with heart-felt care.---- see, fond youth, to yonder window softly steps the timorous fair. lovely seems the moon's fair lustre to the lost benighted swain, when all silvery bright she rises, gilding mountain, grove, and plain. lovely seems the sun's full glory to the fainting seaman's eyes, when some horrid storm dispersing o'er the wave his radiance flies. but a thousand times more lovely to her longing lover's sight steals half-seen the beauteous maiden thro' the glimmerings of the night. tip-toe stands the anxious lover, whispering forth a gentle sigh: alla[ ] keep thee, lovely lady; tell me, am i doom'd to die? is it true the dreadful story, which thy damsel tells my page, that seduc'd by sordid riches thou wilt sell thy bloom to age? an old lord from antiquera thy stern father brings along; but canst thou, inconstant zaida, thus consent my love to wrong? if 'tis true now plainly tell me, nor thus trifle with my woes; hide not then from me the secret, which the world so clearly knows. deeply sigh'd the conscious maiden, while the pearly tears descend: ah! my lord, too true the story; here our tender loves must end. our fond friendship is discover'd, well are known our mutual vows: all my friends are full of fury; storms of passion shake the house. threats, reproaches, fears surround me; my stern father breaks my heart: alla knows how dear it costs me, generous youth, from thee to part. ancient wounds of hostile fury long have rent our house and thine; why then did thy shining merit win this tender heart of mine? well thou know'st how dear i lov'd thee spite of all their hateful pride, tho' i fear'd my haughty father ne'er would let me be thy bride. well thou know'st what cruel chidings oft i've from my mother borne; what i've suffered here to meet thee still at eve and early morn. i no longer may resist them; all, to force my hand combine; and to-morrow to thy rival this weak frame i must resign. yet think not thy faithful zaida can survive so great a wrong; well my breaking heart assures me that my woes will not be long. farewell then, my dear alcanzor! farewell too my life with thee! take this scarf a parting token; when thou wear'st it think on me. soon, lov'd youth, some worthier maiden shall reward thy generous truth; sometimes tell her how thy zaida died for thee in prime of youth. --to him all amaz'd, confounded, thus she did her woes impart: deep he sigh'd, then cry'd,--o zaida! do not, do not break my heart. canst thou think i thus will lose thee? canst thou hold my love so small? no! a thousand times i'll perish!---- my curst rival too shall fall. canst thou, wilt thou yield thus to them? o break forth, and fly to me! this fond heart shall bleed to save thee, these fond arms shall shelter thee. 'tis in vain, in vain, alcanzor, spies surround me, bars secure: scarce i steal this last dear moment, while my damsel keeps the door. hark, i hear my father storming! hark, i hear my mother chide! i must go: farewell for ever! gracious alla be thy guide! footnotes: [ ] _alla_ is the mahometan name of god. the end of the third book. [illustration] appendix i. an essay on the ancient minstrels in england. [illustration] [illustration] appendix i. an essay on the ancient minstrels in england. i. the minstrels[a][ ] were an order of men in the middle ages, who subsisted by the arts of poetry and music, and sang to the harp verses composed by themselves, or others.[ ] they also appear to have accompanied their songs with mimicry and action; and to have practised such various means of diverting as were much admired in those rude times, and supplied the want of more refined entertainment.[b] these arts rendered them extremely popular and acceptable in this and all the neighbouring countries; where no high scene of festivity was esteemed complete, that was not set off with the exercise of their talents; and where, so long as the spirit of chivalry subsisted, they were protected and caressed, because their songs tended to do honour to the ruling passion of the times, and to encourage and foment a martial spirit. the minstrels seem to have been the genuine successors of the ancient bards,[c] who under different names were admired and revered, from the earliest ages, among the people of gaul, britain, ireland, and the north; and indeed by almost all the first inhabitants of europe, whether of celtic or gothic race;[ ] but by none more than by our own teutonic ancestors,[ ] particularly by all the danish tribes.[ ] among these they were distinguished by the name of scalds, a word which denotes "smoothers and polishers of language."[ ] the origin of their art was attributed to odin or woden, the father of their gods; and the professors of it were held in the highest estimation. their skill was considered as something divine; their persons were deemed sacred; their attendance was solicited by kings; and they were everywhere loaded with honours and rewards. in short, poets and their art were held among them in that rude admiration, which is ever shewn by an ignorant people to such as excel them in intellectual accomplishments. as these honours were paid to poetry and song, from the earliest times, in those countries which our anglo-saxon ancestors inhabited before their removal into britain, we may reasonably conclude that they would not lay aside all their regard for men of this sort immediately on quitting their german forests. at least so long as they retained their ancient manners and opinions, they would still hold them in high estimation. but as the saxons, soon after their establishment in this island, were converted to christianity; in proportion as literature prevailed among them, this rude admiration would begin to abate, and poetry would be no longer a peculiar profession. thus the poet and the minstrel early with us became two persons.[d] poetry was cultivated by men of letters indiscriminately, and many of the most popular rhymes were composed amidst the leisure and retirement of monasteries. but the minstrels continued a distinct order of men for many ages after the norman conquest, and got their livelihood by singing verses to the harp at the houses of the great.[e] there they were still hospitably and respectfully received, and retained many of the honours shewn to their predecessors, the bards and scalds.[f] and though, as their art declined, many of them only recited the compositions of others, some of them still composed songs themselves, and all of them could probably invent a few stanzas on occasion. i have no doubt but most of the old heroic ballads in this collection were composed by this order of men; for although some of the larger metrical romances might come from the pen of the monks or others, yet the smaller narratives were probably composed by the minstrels who sang them. from the amazing variations which occur in different copies of the old pieces, it is evident they made no scruple to alter each other's productions; and the reciter added or omitted whole stanzas according to his own fancy or convenience. in the early ages, as was hinted above, the profession of oral itinerant poet was held in the utmost reverence among all the danish tribes; and therefore we might have concluded that it was not unknown or unrespected among their saxon brethren in britain, even if history had been altogether silent on this subject. the original country of our anglo-saxon ancestors is well known to have lien chiefly in the cimbric chersonese, in the tracts of land since distinguished by the name of jutland, angelen, and holstein.[ ] the jutes and angles in particular, who composed two-thirds of the conquerors of britain, were a danish people, and their country at this day belongs to the crown of denmark;[ ] so that when the danes again infested england, three or four hundred years after, they made war on the descendants of their own ancestors.[ ] from this near affinity we might expect to discover a strong resemblance between both nations in their customs, manners, and even language; and, in fact, we find them to differ no more than would naturally happen between a parent country and its own colonies, that had been severed in a rude, uncivilized state, and had dropt all intercourse for three or four centuries, especially if we reflect that the colony here settled had adopted a new religion, extremely opposite in all respects to the ancient paganism of the mother country; and that even at first, along with the original angli, had been incorporated a large mixture of saxons from the neighbouring parts of germany; and afterwards, among the danish invaders, had come vast multitudes of adventurers from the more northern parts of scandinavia. but all these were only different tribes of the same common teutonic stock, and spoke only different dialects of the same gothic language.[ ] from this sameness of original and similarity of manners we might justly have wondered if a character so dignified and distinguished among the ancient danes as the scald or bard, had been totally unknown or unregarded in this sister nation. and, indeed, this argument is so strong, and, at the same time, the early annals of the anglo-saxons are so scanty and defective,[g] that no objections from their silence could be sufficient to overthrow it. for if these popular bards were confessedly revered and admired in those very countries which the anglo-saxons inhabited before their removal into britain, and if they were afterwards common and numerous among the other descendants of the same teutonic ancestors, can we do otherwise than conclude that men of this order accompanied such tribes as migrated hither, that they afterwards subsisted here, though perhaps with less splendor than in the north, and that there never was wanting a succession of them to hand down the art, though some particular conjunctures may have rendered it more respectable at one time than another? and this was evidently the case; for though much greater honours seem to have been heaped upon the northern scalds, in whom the characters of historian, genealogist, poet, and musician were all united, than appear to have been paid to the minstrels and harpers[h] of the anglo-saxons, whose talents were chiefly calculated to entertain and divert, while the scalds professed to inform and instruct, and were at once the moralists and theologues of their pagan countrymen. yet the anglo-saxon minstrels continued to possess no small portion of public favour, and the arts they professed were so extremely acceptable to our ancestors that the word "glee," which particularly denoted their art, continues still in our own language to be of all others the most expressive of that popular mirth and jollity, that strong sensation of delight, which is felt by unpolished and simple minds.[i] * * * * * ii. having premised these general considerations, i shall now proceed to collect from history such particular incidents as occur on this subject; and, whether the facts themselves are true or not, they are related by authors who lived too near the saxon times, and had before them too many recent monuments of the anglo-saxon nation, not to know what was conformable to the genius and manners of that people; and therefore we may presume that their relations prove at least the existence of the customs and habits they attribute to our forefathers before the conquest, whatever becomes of the particular incidents and events themselves. if this be admitted, we shall not want sufficient proofs to show that minstrelsy and song were not extinct among the anglo-saxons, and that the professor of them here, if not quite so respectable a personage as the danish scald, was yet highly favoured and protected, and continued still to enjoy considerable privileges. even so early as the first invasion of britain by the saxons an incident is recorded to have happened, which, if true, shews that the minstrel or bard was not unknown among this people, and that their princes themselves could, upon occasion, assume that character. colgrin, son of that ella who was elected king or leader of the saxons in the room of hengist,[ ] was shut up in york, and closely besieged by arthur and his britons. baldulph, brother of colgrin, wanted to gain access to him, and to apprize him of a reinforcement which was coming from germany. he had no other way to accomplish his design but to assume the character of a minstrel. he therefore shaved his head and beard, and dressing himself in the habit of that profession, took his harp in his hand. in this disguise he walked up and down the trenches without suspicion, playing all the while upon his instrument as an harper. by little and little he advanced near to the walls of the city, and, making himself known to the sentinels, was in the night drawn up by a rope. although the above fact comes only from the suspicious pen of geoffry of monmouth,[k] the judicious reader will not too hastily reject it, because, if such a fact really happened, it could only be known to us through the medium of the british writers: for the first saxons, a martial but unlettered people, had no historians of their own; and geoffry, with all his fables, is allowed to have recorded many true events that have escaped other annalists. we do not, however, want instances of a less fabulous æra, and more indubitable authority: for later history affords us two remarkable facts,[l] which i think clearly shew that the same arts of poetry and song, which were so much admired among the danes, were by no means unknown or neglected in this sister nation, and that the privileges and honours which were so lavishly bestowed upon the northern scalds, were not wholly withheld from the anglo-saxon minstrels. our great king alfred, who is expressly said to have excelled in music,[ ] being desirous to learn the true situation of the danish army, which had invaded his realm, assumed the dress and character of a minstrel,[m] when, taking his harp, and one of the most trusty of his friends disguised as a servant[ ] (for in the early times it was not unusual for a minstrel to have a servant to carry his harp), he went with the utmost security into the danish camp; and, though he could not but be known to be a saxon by his dialect, the character he had assumed procured him a hospitable reception. he was admitted to entertain the king at table, and staid among them long enough to contrive that assault which afterwards destroyed them. this was in the year . about fifty years after,[ ] a danish king made use of the same disguise to explore the camp of our king athelstan. with his harp in his hand, and dressed like a minstrel,[n] aulaff,[ ] king of the danes, went among the saxon tents; and, taking his stand near the king's pavilion, began to play, and was immediately admitted. there he entertained athelstan and his lords with his singing and his music, and was at length dismissed with an honourable reward, though his songs must have discovered him to have been a dane.[o] athelstan was saved from the consequences of this stratagem by a soldier, who had observed aulaff bury the money which had been given him, either from some scruple of honour or motive of superstition. this occasioned a discovery. now, if the saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own, alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited suspicions among the danes. on the other hand, if it had not been customary with the saxons to shew favour and respect to the danish scalds, aulaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially on the eve of a battle.[p] from the uniform procedure, then, of both these kings, we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment prevailed among both people, and that the minstrel was a privileged character with each. but if these facts had never existed, it can be proved from undoubted records that the minstrel was a regular and stated officer in the court of our anglo-saxon kings: for in doomesday book, "joculator regis," the king's minstrel, is expressly mentioned in gloucestershire, in which county it should seem that he had lands assigned him for his maintenance.[q] * * * * * iii. we have now brought the inquiry down to the norman conquest; and as the normans had been a late colony from norway and denmark, where the scalds had arrived to the highest pitch of credit before rollo's expedition into france, we cannot doubt but this adventurer, like the other northern princes, had many of these men in his train, who settled with him in his new duchy of normandy, and left behind them successors in their art; so that when his descendant, william the bastard, invaded this kingdom in the following century,[ ] that mode of entertainment could not but be still familiar with the normans. and that this is not mere conjecture will appear from a remarkable fact, which shews that the arts of poetry and song were still as reputable among the normans in france as they had been among their ancestors in the north; and that the profession of minstrel, like that of scald, was still aspired to by the most gallant soldiers. in william's army was a valiant warrior, named taillefer, who was distinguished no less for the minstrel-arts,[r] than for his courage and intrepidity. this man asked leave of his commander to begin the onset, and obtained it. he accordingly advanced before the army, and with a loud voice animated his countrymen with songs in praise of charlemagne and roland, and other heroes of france; then rushing among the thickest of the english, and valiantly fighting, lost his life. indeed, the normans were so early distinguished for their minstrel-talents, that an eminent french writer[s] makes no scruple to refer to them the origin of all modern poetry, and shews that they were celebrated for their songs near a century before the troubadours of provence, who are supposed to have led the way to the poets of italy, france, and spain.[ ] we see then that the norman conquest was rather likely to favour the establishment of the minstrel profession in this kingdom, than to suppress it: and although the favour of the norman conquerors would be probably confined to such of their own countrymen as excelled in the minstrel arts--and in the first ages after the conquest, no other songs would be listened to by the great nobility but such as were composed in their own norman french--yet as the great mass of the original inhabitants were not extirpated, these could only understand their own native gleemen or minstrels; who must still be allowed to exist, unless it can be proved that they were all proscribed and massacred, as, it is said, the welsh bards were afterwards by the severe policy of king edward i. but this we know was not the case; and even the cruel attempts of that monarch, as we shall see below, proved ineffectual.[s ] the honours shewn to the norman or french minstrels by our princes and great barons, would naturally have been imitated by their english vassals and tenants, even if no favour or distinction had ever been shewn here to the same order of men, in the anglo-saxon and danish reigns. so that we cannot doubt but the english harper and songster would, at least in a subordinate degree, enjoy the same kind of honours, and be received with similar respect among the inferior english gentry and populace. i must be allowed, therefore, to consider them as belonging to the same community, as subordinate members at least of the same college; and therefore, in gleaning the scanty materials for this slight history, i shall collect whatever incidents i can find relating to minstrels and their art, and arrange them, as they occur in our own annals, without distinction, as it will not always be easy to ascertain, from the slight mention of them by our regular historians, whether the artists were norman or english; for it need not be remarked that subjects of this trivial nature are but incidentally mentioned by our ancient annalists, and were fastidiously rejected by other grave and serious writers; so that, unless they were accidentally connected with such events as became recorded in history, they would pass unnoticed through the lapse of ages, and be as unknown to posterity as other topics relating to the private life and amusements of the greatest nations. on this account it can hardly be expected that we should be able to produce regular and unbroken annals of the minstrel art and its professors, or have sufficient information whether every minstrel or harper composed himself, or only repeated, the songs he chanted. some probably did the one, and some the other: and it would have been wonderful indeed if men whose peculiar profession it was, and who devoted their time and talents to entertain their hearers with poetical compositions, were peculiarly deprived of all poetical genius themselves, and had been under a physical incapacity of composing those common popular rhymes which were the usual subjects of their recitation. whoever examines any considerable quantity of these, finds them in style and colouring as different from the elaborate production of the sedentary composer at his desk or in his cell, as the rambling harper or minstrel was remote in his modes of life and habits of thinking from the retired scholar, or the solitary monk.[t] it is well known that on the continent, whence our norman nobles came, the bard who composed, the harper who played and sang, and even the dancer and the mimic, were all considered as of one community, and were even all included under the common name of minstrels.[ ] i must therefore be allowed the same application of the term here without being expected to prove that every singer composed, or every composer chanted, his own song; much less that every one excelled in all the arts, which were occasionally exercised by some or other of this fraternity. * * * * * iv. after the norman conquest, the first occurrence which i have met with relating to this order of men is the founding of a priory and hospital by one of them: scil. the priory and hospital of st. bartholomew, in smithfield, london, by royer or raherus, the king's minstrel, in the third year of king henry i. a.d. . he was the first prior of his own establishment, and presided over it to the time of his death.[t ] in the reign of k. henry ii. we have upon record the name of galfrid or jeffrey, a harper, who in received a corrody or annuity from the abbey of hide, near winchester: and, as in the early times every harper was expected to sing, we cannot doubt but this reward was given to him for his music and his songs; which, if they were for the solace of the monks there, we may conclude would be in the english language.[u] under his romantic son, k. richard i., the minstrel profession seems to have acquired additional splendor. richard, who was the great hero of chivalry, was also the distinguished patron of poets and minstrels. he was himself of their number, and some of his poems are still extant.[ ] they were no less patronized by his favourites and chief officers. his chancellor, william bishop of ely, is expressly mentioned to have invited singers and minstrels from france, whom he loaded with rewards; and they in return celebrated him as the most accomplished person in the world.[u ] this high distinction and regard, although confined, perhaps, in the first instance to poets and songsters of the french nation, must have had a tendency to do honour to poetry and song among all his subjects, and to encourage the cultivation of these arts among the natives, as the indulgent favour shewn by the monarch or his great courtiers to the provençal _troubadour_, or norman _rymour_, would naturally be imitated by their inferior vassals to the english gleeman or minstrel. at more than a century after the conquest, the national distinctions must have begun to decline, and both the norman and english languages would be heard in the houses of the great[u ]; so that probably about this æra, or soon after, we are to date that remarkable intercommunity and exchange of each other's compositions which we discover to have taken place at some early period between the french and english minstrels: the same set of phrases, the same species of characters, incidents, and adventures, and often the same identical stories being found in the old metrical romances of both nations.[v] the distinguished service which richard received from one of his own minstrels, in rescuing him from his cruel and tedious captivity, is a remarkable fact, which ought to be recorded for the honour of poets and their art. this fact i shall relate in the following words of an ancient writer.[ ] "the englishmen were more then a whole yeare, without hearing any tydings of their king, or in what place he was kept prisoner. he had trained up in his court a rimer or minstrill,[ ] called blondell de nesle: who (so saith the manuscript of old poesies,[ ] and an auncient manuscript french chronicle) being so long without the sight of his lord, his life seemed wearisome to him, and he became confounded with melancholly. knowne it was, that he came backe from the holy land: but none could tell in what countrey he arrived. whereupon this blondel, resolving to make search for him in many countries, but he would heare some newes of him; after expence of divers dayes in travaile, he came to a towne[ ] (by good hap) neere to the castell where his maister king richard was kept. of his host he demanded to whom the castell appertained, and the host told him, that it belonged to the duke of austria. then he enquired whether there were any prisoners therein detained or no: for alwayes he made such secret questionings wheresoever he came. and the hoste gave answer, there was one onely prisoner, but he knew not what he was, and yet he had bin detained there more then the space of a yeare. when blondel heard this, he wrought such meanes, that he became acquainted with them of the castell, _as minstrels doe easily win acquaintance any where_:[ ] but see the king he could not, neither understand that it was he. one day he sat directly before a window of the castell, where king richard was kept prisoner, and began to sing a song in french, which king richard and blondel had sometime composed together. when king richard heard the song, he knew it was blondel that sung it: and when blondel paused at halfe of the song, the king '_began the other half and completed it_.'[ ] thus blondel won knowledge of the king his maister, and returning home into england, made the barons of the countrie acquainted where the king was." this happened about the year . the following old provençal lines are given as the very original song:[ ] which i shall accompany with an imitation offered by dr. burney (ii. .) blondel. _domna vostra beutas_ your beauty, lady fair, _elas bellas faissos_ none views without delight; _els bels oils amoros_ but still so cold an air _els gens cors ben taillats_ no passion can excite: _don sieu empresenats_ yet this i patient see _de vostra amor que mi lia._ while all are shun'd like me. richard. _si bel trop affansia_ no nymph my heart can wound _ja de vos non portrai_ if favour she divide, _que major honorai_ and smiles on all around _sol en votre deman_ unwilling to decide: _que sautra des beisan_ i'd rather hatred bear _tot can de vos volria._ than love with others share. the access which blondel so readily obtained in the privileged character of a minstrel, is not the only instance upon record of the same nature.[v ] in this very reign of k. richard i. the young heiress of d'evreux, earl of salisbury, had been carried abroad and secreted by her french relations in normandy. to discover the place of her concealment, a knight of the talbot family spent two years in exploring that province: at first under the disguise of a pilgrim, till having found where she was confined, in order to gain admittance he assumed the dress and character of a harper, and being a jocose person exceedingly skilled in "the gests of the ancients"[ ]--so they called the romances and stories which were the delight of that age--he was gladly received into the family, whence he took an opportunity to carry off the young lady, whom he presented to the king; and he bestowed her on his natural brother william longespee (son of fair rosamond), who became in her right earl of salisbury. [v ] the next memorable event which i find in history, reflects credit on the english minstrels; and this was their contributing to the rescue of one of the great earls of chester when besieged by the welsh. this happened in the reign of k. john, and is related to this effect:[ ]-- hugh the first earl of chester, in his charter of foundation of st. werburg's abbey in that city, had granted such a privilege to those, who should come to chester fair, that they should not be then apprehended for theft or any other misdemeanor, except the crime were committed during the fair. this special protection, occasioning a multitude of loose people to resort to that fair, was afterwards of signal benefit to one of his successors. for ranulph the last earl of chester, marching into wales with a slender attendance, was constrained to retire to his castle of rothelan (or rhuydland) to which the welsh forthwith laid siege. in this distress he sent for help to the lord de lacy, constable of chester: "who, making use of the minstrells of all sorts, then met at chester fair, by the allurement of their musick, got together a vast number of such loose people, as, by reason of the before specified priviledge, were then in that city; whom he forthwith sent under the conduct of dutton (his steward)," a gallant youth, who was also his son in law. the welsh, alarmed at the approach of this rabble, supposing them to be a regular body of armed and disciplined veterans, instantly raised the siege and retired. for this good service ranulph is said to have granted to de lacy by charter the patronage and authority over the minstrels and the loose and inferior people; who, retaining to himself that of the lower artificers, conferred on dutton the jurisdiction of the minstrels and harlots:[ ] and under the descendants of this family the minstrels enjoyed certain privileges, and protection for many ages. for even so late as the reign of elizabeth, when this profession had fallen into such discredit that it was considered in law as a nuisance, the minstrels under the jurisdiction of the family of dutton are expressly excepted out of all acts of parliament made for their suppression; and have continued to be so excepted ever since.[w] the ceremonies attending the exercise of this jurisdiction are thus described by dugdale[ ] as handed down to his time, viz. "that at midsummer fair there, all the minstrels of that countrey resorting to chester, do attend the heir of dutton, from his lodging to st. john's church (he being then accompanied by many gentlemen of the countrey) one of 'the minstrels' walking before him in a surcoat of his arms depicted on taffata; the rest of his fellows proceeding (two and two) and playing on their several sorts of musical instruments. and after divine service ended, give the like attendance on him back to his lodging; where a court being kept by his (mr. dutton's) steward, and all the minstrels formally called, certain orders and laws are usually made for the better government of that society, with penalties on those who transgress." in the same reign of k. john we have a remarkable instance of a minstrel, who to his other talents superadded the character of soothsayer, and by his skill in drugs and medicated potions was able to rescue a knight from imprisonment. this occurs in leland's narrative of the gestes of guarine (or warren) and his sons, which he "excerptid owte of an old englisch boke yn ryme,"[ ] and is as follows: whitington castle, in shropshire, which together with the coheiress of the original proprietor had been won in a solemn turnament by the ancestor of the guarines,[ ] had in the reign of k. john been seized by the prince of wales, and was afterwards possessed by morice, a retainer of that prince, to whom the king out of hatred to the true heir fulco guarine (with whom he had formerly had a quarrel at chess)[ ] not only confirmed the possession, but also made him governor of the marches, of which fulco himself had the custody in the time of k. richard. the guarines demanded justice of the king, but obtaining no gracious answer, renounced their allegiance and fled into bretagne. returning into england, after various conflicts, "fulco resortid to one john of raumpayne, a sothsayer and jocular and minstrelle, and made hym his spy to morice at whitington." the privileges of this character we have already seen, and john so well availed himself of them, that in consequence of the intelligence which he doubtless procured, "fulco, and his brethrene laide waite for morice, as he went toward salesbyri, and fulco ther woundid hym: and bracy" (a knight, who was their friend and assistant), "cut of morice['s] hedde." this sir bracy being in a subsequent rencounter sore wounded, was taken and brought to k. john; from whose vengeance he was however rescued by this notable minstrel; for "john rampayne founde the meanes to cast them, that kepte bracy, into a deadely slepe; and so he and bracy cam to fulco to whitington," which on the death of morice had been restored to him by the prince of wales. as no further mention occurs of the minstrel, i might here conclude this narrative; but i shall just add, that fulco was obliged to flee into france, where assuming the name of sir amice, he distinguished himself in justs and turnaments; and, after various romantic adventures by sea and land (having in the true stile of chivalry rescued "certayne ladies owt of prison"), he finally obtained the king's pardon, and the quiet possession of whitington castle. in the reign of k. henry iii. we have mention of master richard the king's harper, to whom in his th year ( ) that monarch gave not only forty shillings, and a pipe of wine, but also a pipe of wine to beatrice his wife.[ ] the title of _magister_, or master, given to this minstrel deserves notice, and shews his respectable situation. * * * * * v. the harper, or minstrel, was so necessary an attendant on a royal personage, that prince edward (afterwards k. edward i.) in his crusade to the holy land, in , was not without his harper, who must have been officially very near his person, as we are told by a contemporary historian[ ] that, in the attempt to assassinate that heroic prince, when he had wrested the poisoned knife out of the sarazen's hand and killed him with his own weapon, the attendants, who had stood apart while he was whispering to their master, hearing the struggle, ran to his assistance, and one of them, to wit his harper, seizing a tripod or trestle, struck the assassin on the head and beat out his brains.[ ] and though the prince blamed him for striking the man after he was dead, yet his near access shews the respectable situation of this officer; and his affectionate zeal should have induced edward to entreat his brethren the welsh bards afterwards with more lenity. whatever was the extent of this great monarch's severity towards the professors of music and of song in wales; whether the executing by martial law such of them as fell into his hands was only during the heat of conflict, or was continued afterwards with more systematic rigor;[ ] yet in his own court the minstrels appear to have been highly favoured; for when, in , he conferred the order of knighthood on his son, and many others of the young nobility, a multitude of minstrels were introduced to invite and induce the new knights to make some military vow.[x] and under the succeeding reign of k. edward ii. such extensive privileges were claimed by these men, and by dissolute persons assuming their character, that it became a matter of public grievance, and was obliged to be reformed by an express regulation in a.d. .[y] notwithstanding which, an incident is recorded in the ensuing year, which shews that minstrels still retained the liberty of entering at will into the royal presence, and had something peculiarly splendid in their dress. it is thus related by stow.[z] "in the year , edward the second did solemnize his feast of pentecost at westminster, in the great hall: where sitting royally at the table with his peers about him, there entered a woman _adorned like a minstrel_, sitting on a great horse trapped, _as minstrels_ _then used_; who rode round about the tables, shewing pastime; and at length came up to the king's table, and laid before him a letter, and forthwith turning her horse saluted every one and departed."----the subject of this letter was a remonstrance to the king on the favours heaped by him on his minions, to the neglect of his knights and faithful servants. the privileged character of a minstrel was employed on this occasion, as sure of gaining an easy admittance; and a female the rather deputed to assume it, that in case of detection, her sex might disarm the king's resentment. this is offered on a supposition, that she was not a real minstrel; for there should seem to have been women of this profession,[aa] as well as of the other sex; and no accomplishment is so constantly attributed to females, by our ancient bards, as their singing to and playing on the harp.[aa ] in the fourth year of k. richard ii. john of gaunt erected at tutbury in staffordshire, a court of minstrels, similar to that annually kept at chester (p. ), and which, like a court-leet or court-baron, had a legal jurisdiction, with full power to receive suit and service from the men of this profession within five neighbouring countries, to enact laws, and determine their controversies; and to apprehend and arrest such of them as should refuse to appear at the said court, annually held on the th of august. for this they had a charter by which they were empowered to appoint a king of the minstrels, with four officers to preside over them.[bb] these were every year elected with great ceremony; the whole form of which as observed in , is described by dr. plott:[ ] in whose time however they appear to have lost their singing talents, and to have confined all their skill to "wind and string music."[ ] the minstrels seem to have been in many respects upon the same footing as the heralds; and the king of the minstrels, like the king at arms, was both here and on the continent an usual officer in the courts of princes. thus we have in the reign of k. edward i. mention of a king robert, and others. and in edw. ii. is a grant to william de morlee "the king's minstrel, stiled _roy de north_,"[ ] of houses which had belonged to another king, john le boteler.[bb ] rymer hath also printed a licence granted by k. richard ii. in , to john caumz, the king of his minstrels, to pass the seas, recommending him to the protection and kind treatment of all his subjects and allies.[ ] in the subsequent reign of k. henry iv. we meet with no particulars relating to the minstrels in england, but we find in the statute book a severe law passed against their brethren the welsh bards; whom our ancestors could not distinguish from their own _rimours, ministralx_; for by these names they describe them.[bb ] this act plainly shews that far from being extirpated by the rigorous policy of k. edward i., this order of men were still able to alarm the english government, which attributed to them "many diseases and mischiefs in wales," and prohibited their meetings and contributions. when his heroic son k. henry v. was preparing his great voyage for france in , an express order was given for his minstrels, fifteen in number, to attend him:[ ] and eighteen are afterwards mentioned, to each of whom he allowed xii_d._ a day, when that sum must have been of more than ten times the value it is at present.[ ] yet when he entered london in triumph after the battle of agincourt, he, from a principle of humility, slighted the pageants and verses which were prepared to hail his return; and, as we are told by holinshed,[ ] would not suffer "any dities to be made and song by minstrels, of his glorious victorie; for that he would whollie have the praise and thankes altogether given to god."[bb ] but this did not proceed from any disregard for the professors of music or of song; for at the feast of pentecost which he celebrated in , having the emperor and the duke of holland for his guests, he ordered rich gowns for sixteen of his minstrels, of which the particulars are preserved by rymer.[ ] and having before his death orally granted an annuity of shillings to each of his minstrels, the grant was confirmed in the first year of his son k. henry vi., a.d. , and payment ordered out of the exchequer.[ ] the unfortunate reign of k. henry vi. affords no occurrences respecting our subject; but in his th year, a.d. , we have in rymer[ ] a commission for impressing boys or youths, to supply vacancies by death among the king's minstrels; in which it is expressly directed that they shall be elegant in their limbs, as well as instructed in the minstrel art, wherever they can be found, for the solace of his majesty. in the following reign, k. edward iv. (in his th year, ) upon a complaint that certain rude husbandmen and artificers of various trades had assumed the title and livery of the king's minstrels, and under that colour and pretence had collected money in diverse parts of the kingdom and committed other disorders, the king grants to walter haliday, marshal, and to seven others his own minstrels whom he names, a charter,[ ] by which he creates, or rather restores a fraternity or perpetual gild (such, as he understands, the brothers and sisters of the fraternity of minstrels had in times past) to be governed by a marshal appointed for life and by two wardens to be chosen annually; who are impowered to admit brothers and sisters into the said gild, and are authorized to examine the pretensions of all such as affected to exercise the minstrel profession; and to regulate, govern, and punish them throughout the realm (those of chester excepted).--this seems to have some resemblance to the earl marshal's court among the heralds, and is another proof of the great affinity and resemblance which the minstrels bore to the members of the college of arms. it is remarkable that walter haliday, whose name occurs as marshal in the foregoing charter, had been retained in the service of the two preceding monarchs, k. henry v.[ ] and vi.;[ ] nor is this the first time he is mentioned as marshal of the king's minstrels, for in the third year of this reign, , he had a grant from k. edward of ten marks per annum during life directed to him with that title.[ ] but besides their marshal, we have also in this reign mention of a sergeant of the minstrels, who upon a particular occasion was able to do his royal master a singular service, wherein his confidential situation and ready access to the king at all hours is very apparent; for "as he [k. edward iv.] was in the north contray in the monneth of septembre, as he lay in his bedde, one namid alexander carlile, that was _sariaunt of the mynstrellis_, cam to him in grete hast, and badde hym aryse for he hadde enemyes cummyng for to take him, the which were within vi. or vii. mylis, of the which tydinges the king gretely marveylid, &c."[ ] this happened in the same year, , wherein the king granted or confirmed the charter for the fraternity or gild above-mentioned; yet this alexander carlisle is not one of the eight minstrels to whom that charter is directed.[ ] the same charter was renewed by k. henry viii. in , to john gilman his then marshal, and to seven others his minstrels;[ ] and on the death of gilman he granted in this office of marshal of his minstrels to hugh wodehouse,[ ] whom i take to have borne the office of his serjeant over them.[ ] * * * * * vi. in all the establishments of royal and noble households, we find an ample provision made for the minstrels; and their situation to have been both honourable and lucrative. in proof of this it is sufficient to refer to the household book of the earl of northumberland, a.d. .[cc] and the rewards they received so frequently recur in ancient writers that it is unnecessary to crowd the page with them here.[cc ] the name of minstrel seems however to have been gradually appropriated to the musician only, especially in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; yet we occasionally meet with applications of the term in its more enlarged meaning as including the singer, if not the composer of heroic or popular rhymes.[ ] in the time of k. henry viii. we find it to have been a common entertainment to hear verses recited, or moral speeches learned for that purpose, by a set of men who got their livelihood by repeating them, and who intruded without ceremony into all companies; not only in taverns, but in the houses of the nobility themselves. this we learn from erasmus, whose argument led him only to describe a species of these men who _did not sing_ their compositions; but the others that _did_, enjoyed without doubt the same privileges.[dd] for even long after, in the reign of queen elizabeth, it was usual "in places of assembly" for the company to be "desirous to heare of old adventures and valiaunces of noble knights in times past, as those of king arthur, and his knights of the round table, sir bevys of southampton, guy of warwicke and others like" in "short and long meetres, and by breaches or divisions (sc. fits)[ ] to be more commodiously sung to the harpe," as the reader may be informed by a courtly writer in .[ ] who himself had "written for pleasure a litle brief romance or historicall ditty ... of the isle of great britaine" in order to contribute to such entertainment. and he subjoins this caution: "such as have not premonition hereof" (viz. that his poem was written in short metre, &c. to be sung to the harpe in such places of assembly), "and consideration of the causes alledged, would peradventure reprove and disgrace every romance, or short historicall ditty for that they be not written in long meeters or verses alexandrins," which constituted the prevailing versification among the poets or that age, and which no one now can endure to read. and that the recital of such romances sung to the harp was at that time the delight of the common people, we are told by the same writer,[ ] who mentions that "common rimers" were fond of using rimes at short distances, "in small and popular musickes song by these cantabanqui" (the said common rimers) "upon benches and barrels heads," &c. "or else by blind harpers or such like taverne minstrels that give a fit of mirth for a groat; and their matter being for the most part stories of old time, as the tale of sir topas, the reportes of bevis of southampton, guy of warwicke, adam bell, and clymme of the clough, and such other old romances, or historicall rimes," &c. "also they be used in carols and rounds, and such light or lascivious poemes, which are commonly more commodiously uttered by these buffons, or vices in playes, then by any other person. such were the rimes of skelton (usurping the name of a poet laureat) being in deede but a rude railing rimer, and all his doings ridiculous."[ ] but although we find here that the minstrels had lost much of their dignity, and were sinking into contempt and neglect: yet that they still sustained a character far superior to anything we can conceive at present of the singers of old ballads, i think, may be inferred from the following representation. when queen elizabeth was entertained at killingworth castle by the earl of leicester in , among the many devices and pageants which were contrived for her entertainment, one of the personages introduced was to have been that of an ancient minstrel: whose appearance and dress are so minutely described by a writer there present,[ ] and give us so distinct an idea of the character, that i shall quote the passage at large.[ee] "a person very meet seemed he for the purpose, of a xlv years old, apparelled partly as he would himself. his cap off; his head seemly rounded tonsler wise:[ ] fair kembed, that with a sponge daintily dipt in a little capon's greace was finely smoothed, to make it shine like a mallard's wing. his beard smugly shaven: and yet his shirt after the new trink, with ruffs fair starched, sleeked and glistering like a pair of new shoes, marshalled in good order with a setting stick, and strut, that every ruff stood up like a wafer. a side (_i.e._ long) gown of kendal green, after the freshness of the year now, gathered at the neck with a narrow gorget, fastened afore with a white clasp and a keeper close up to the chin; but easily, for heat to undo when he list. seemly begirt in a red caddis girdle: from that a pair of capped sheffield knives hanging a' two sides. out of his bosom drawn forth a lappet of his napkin[ ] edged with a blue lace, and marked with a true love, a heart, and a d for damian, for he was but a batchelor yet. "his gown had side (_i.e._ long) sleeves down to mid-leg, slit from the shoulder to the hand, and lined with white cotton. his doublet-sleeves of black worsted: upon them a pair of poynets[ ] of tawny chamlet laced along the wrist with blue threaden points, a wealt towards the hand of fustian-a-napes. a pair of red neather stocks. a pair of pumps on his feet, with a cross cut at the toes for corns: not new indeed, yet cleanly blackt with soot, and shining as a shoing horn. "about his neck a red ribband suitable to his girdle. his harp in good grace dependent before him. his wrest[ ] tyed to a green lace and hanging by. under the gorget of his gown a fair flaggon chain (pewter,[ ] for) silver, as a squire minstrel of middlesex, that travelled the country this summer season, unto fairs and worshipful mens houses. from his chain hung a scutcheon, with metal and colour, resplendant upon his breast, of the ancient arms of islington." this minstrel is described as belonging to that village. i suppose such as were retained by noble families wore the arms of their patrons hanging down by a silver chain as a kind of badge.[ ] from the expression of squire minstrel above, we may conclude there were other inferior orders, as yeomen minstrels or the like. this minstrel, the author tells us a little below, "after three lowly courtsies, cleared his voice with a hem ... and ... wiped his lips with the hollow of his hand for 'filing his napkin, tempered a string or two with his wrest, and after a little warbling on his harp for a prelude, came forth with a solemn song, warranted for story out of king arthur's acts, &c." this song the reader will find printed in this work, vol. iii. book i. no. . towards the end of the sixteenth century this class of men had lost all credit, and were sunk so low in the public opinion, that in the th year of elizabeth,[ ] a statute was passed by which "minstrels, wandering abroad," were included among "rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars," and were adjudged to be punished as such. this act seems to have put an end to the profession.[ee ] * * * * * vii. i cannot conclude this account of the ancient english minstrels, without remarking that they are most of them represented to have been of the north of england. there is scarce an old historical song or ballad [ff] wherein a minstrel or harper appears, but he is characterized by way of eminence to have been "of the north countreye:"[ ] and, indeed, the prevalence of the northern dialect in such compositions shews that this representation is real.[ ] on the other hand, the scene of the finest scottish ballads is laid in the south of scotland; which should seem to have been peculiarly the nursery of scottish minstrels. in the old song of maggy lawder, a piper is asked, by way of distinction, "come ye frae the border?"[ ] the martial spirit constantly kept up and exercised near the frontier of the two kingdoms, as it furnished continual subjects for their songs, so it inspired the inhabitants of the adjacent counties on both sides with the powers of poetry. besides, as our southern metropolis must have been ever the scene of novelty and refinement, the northern countries, as being most distant, would preserve their ancient manners longest, and, of course, the old poetry, in which those manners are peculiarly described. the reader will observe in the more ancient ballads of this collection, a cast of style and measure very different from that of contemporary poets of a higher class; many phrases and idioms, which the minstrels seem to have appropriated to themselves, and a very remarkable licence of varying the accent of words at pleasure, in order to humour the flow of the verse, particularly in the rhimes; as _countrìe_ _harpèr_ _battèl_ _mornìng_ _ladìe_ _singèr_ _damsèl_ _lovìng_, instead of _coùntry_, _làdy_, _hàrper_, _sìnger_, &c. this liberty is but sparingly assumed by the classical poets of the same age; or even by the latter composers of heroical ballads, i mean by such as professedly wrote for the press. for it is to be observed, that so long as the minstrels subsisted, they seem never to have designed their rhymes for literary publication, and probably never committed them to writing themselves; what copies are preserved of them were doubtless taken down from their mouths. but as the old minstrels gradually wore out, a new race of ballad-writers succeeded, an inferior sort of minor poets, who wrote narrative songs merely for the press. instances of both may be found in the reign of elizabeth. the two latest pieces in the genuine strain of the old minstrelsy that i can discover are no. and of book iii. in this volume. lower than these i cannot trace the old mode of writing. the old minstrel ballads are in the northern dialect, abound with antique words and phrases, are extremely incorrect, and run into the utmost licence of metre; they have also a romantic wildness, and are in the true spirit of chivalry. the other sort are written in exacter measure, have a low or subordinate correctness, sometimes bordering on the insipid, yet often well adapted to the pathetic; these are generally in the southern dialect, exhibit a more modern phraseology, and are commonly descriptive of more modern manners. to be sensible of the difference between them, let the reader compare in this volume no. of book iii. with no. of book ii. towards the end of queen elizabeth's reign (as is mentioned above), the genuine old minstrelsy seems to have been extinct, and henceforth the ballads that were produced were wholly of the latter kind, and these came forth in such abundance that in the reign of james i. they began to be collected into little miscellanies, under the name of garlands, and at length to be written purposely for such collections. [ff ] * * * * * p.s. by way of postscript should follow here the discussion of the question whether the term minstrels was applied in english to singers and composers of songs, &c. or confined to musicians only. but it is reserved for the concluding note.[gg] the end of the essay. footnotes: [ ] the larger notes and illustrations referred to by the capital letters [a] [b] &c. are thrown together to the end of this essay. [ ] wedded to no hypothesis, the author hath readily corrected any mistakes which have been _proved_ to be in this essay; and considering the novelty of the subject, and the time and place when and where he first took it up, many such had been excusable.--that the term minstrel was not confined, as some contend, to a meer musician in this country, any more than on the continent, will be considered more fully in the last note [gg] at the end of this essay. [ ] vid. pelloutier, _hist. des celtes_, tom. i. l. . c. . . [ ] _tacit. de mor. germ._ cap. . [ ] vid. _bartholin. de causis contemptæ a danis mortis_, lib. . cap. .--_wormij literatura runic._ ad finem.--see also _northern_ _antiquities, or, a description of the manners, customs, &c. of the_ _ancient danes and other northern nations: from the french of m._ _mallet_. london, printed for t. carnan, , vols. vo. [ ] _torfæi præfat. ad orcad. hist._--pref. to _five pieces of runic poetry_, &c. [ ] vid. _chronic. saxon. à gibson._ pp. , , to.--_bed. hist._ _eccles. à smith_, lib. , c. .--"ealdsexe [regio antiq. saxonum] in cervice cimbricæ chersonesi, holsatiam proprie dictam, dithmarsiam, stormariam, et wagriam, complectens."--_annot. in bed. à smith_, p. . et vid. _camdeni britan_. [ ] "anglia vetus, hodie etiam anglen, sita est inter saxones et giotes [jutos], habens oppidum capitale ... sleswick."--_ethelwerd_, lib. . [ ] see _northern antiquities_, &c. vol i. pp. , , , , , . [ ] see _northern antiquities_, preface, p. xxvi. [ ] see rapin's _hist._ (by tindal, fol. , vol. i. p. ) who places the incident here related under the year . [ ] by bale and spelman. see note [m]. [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _anno_ . vid. rapin, &c. [ ] so i think the name should be printed, rather then anlaff, the more usual form (the same traces of the letters express both names in ms.), aulaff being evidently the genuine northern name olaff, or olave. lat. olaus. in the old romance of _horn-childe_ (see vol. iii. appendix), the name of the king his father is allof, which is evidently ollaf, with the vowels only transposed. [ ] rollo was invested in his new duchy of normandy, a.d. . william invaded england, a.d. . [ ] vid. _hist. des troubadours_, tom. passim, & vid. _fableaux ou contes du xii. & du xiii. siécle, traduits, &c. avec des notes historiques & critiques, &c._ par m. le grand. paris, , tom. mo. [ ] see notes [b] and [aa] [ ] see a pathetic song of his in mr. walpole's _catalogue of royal authors_, vol. i. p. . the reader will find a translation of it into modern french, in _hist. littéraire des troubadours_, , tom. mo. see vol. i. (p. ) where some more of richard's poetry is translated. in dr. burney's _hist. of music_, vol. ii. p. , is a poetical version of it in english. [ ] mons. favine's _theatre of honour and knighthood_, translated from the french. london, , fol. tom. ii. p. . an elegant relation of the same event (from the french of presid. fauchet's _recueil_, &c.) may be seen in _miscellanies in prose and verse_: by anna williams, london, , to. p. . it will excite the reader's admiration to be informed that most of the pieces of that collection were composed under the disadvantage of a total deprivation of sight. [ ] favine's words are, "jongleur appellé blondiaux de nesle," paris, , _ to_. p. . but fauchet, who has given the same story, thus expresses it, "or ce roy ayant nourri un menestrel appellé blondel, &c." liv. , p. . _des anciens poëtes françois._ he is however said to have been another blondel, not blondel (or blondiaux) de nesle: but this no way affects the circumstances of the story. [ ] this the author calls in another place, _an ancient ms. of old_ _poesies, written about those very times_. from this ms. favine gives a good account of the taking of richard by the duke of austria, who sold him to the emperor. as for the ms. chronicle, it is evidently the same that supplied fauchet with this story. see his _recueil de l'origine de la langue & poesie françoise, ryme, & romans, &c._ par. . [ ] tribales. "retrudi eum præcepit in triballis: a quo carcere nullus ante dies istos exivit."--_lat. chron. of otho of austria_: apud favin. [ ] _comme menestrels s'accointent legerement._--favine. (fauchet expresses it in the same manner.) [ ] i give this passage corrected, as the english translator of favine's book appeared here to have mistaken the original:--scil. "et quant blondel eut dit la moitie de la chanson, le roy richart se prist a dire l'autre moitie et l'acheva."--favine, p. . fauchet has also expressed it in nearly the same words. _recueil_, p. . [ ] in a little romance or novel, intitled, _la tour tenebreuse, et_ _les jours lumineux, contes angloises, accompagnez d'historiettes, &_ _tirez a'une ancienne chronique composee par richard, surnomme coeur de lion, roy d'angleterre, &c._ paris, , mo. in the preface to this romance the editor has given another song of blondel de nesle, as also a copy of the song written by k. richard, and published by mr. walpole, mentioned above (in note [ ], p. ), yet the two last are not in provençal like the sonnet printed here; but in the old french, called _langage roman_. [ ] the words of the original, viz. "citharisator homo jocosus in gestis antiquorum valde peritus," i conceive to give the precise idea of the ancient minstrel. see note [v ]. that gesta was appropriated to romantic stories, see note [i], part iv. (i.) [ ] see dugdale (bar. i. , ), who places it after john, a.d. . see also plot's _staffordsh._ camden's _britann._ (cheshire). [ ] see the ancient record in blount's _law dictionary_. (art. minstrel.) [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] leland's _collectanea_, vol. i. p. , , . [ ] this old feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents in solemn contest, &c. appears to be burlesqued in the _turnament of totenham_ (see vol. ii. book i. no. ), as is well observed by the learned author of _remarks_, &c. in _gent. mag._ for july, , p. . [ ] "john, sun to k. henry, and fulco felle at variance at chestes [r. chesse]; and john brake fulco[s] hed with the chest borde: and then fulco gave him such a blow, that he had almost killid hym."--lel. _coll._ , p. . a curious picture of courtly manners in that age! notwithstanding this fray, we read in the next paragraph, that "k. henry dubbid fulco & of his bretherne knightes at winchester."--_ibid._ [ ] burney's _hist._ ii. p. . rot. pip. an. , h. . "et in uno dolio vini empto & dato magistro ricardo citharistæ regis, xl sol. per br. reg. et in uno dolio empto & dato beatrici uxori ejusdem ricardi." [ ] walter hemmingford (_vixit temp._ edw. i.) in chronic. cap. , inter _v. hist. ang. scriptores_, vol. ii. oxon. , fol. p. . [ ] "accurrentes ad hæc ministri ejus, qui a longe steterunt, invenerunt eum (scil. nuntium) in terra mortuum, et apprehendit unus eorum tripodem, scilicet cithareda suus & percussit eum in capite, et effundit cerebrum ejus. increpavitque eum edwardus quod hominem mortuum percussisset."--_ibid._ these _ministri_ must have been upon a very confidential footing, as it appears above in the same chapter that they had been made acquainted with the contents of the letters, which the assassin had delivered to the prince from his master. [ ] see gray's _ode_: and the hist. of the gwedir family in _miscellanies by the hon. daines barrington_, , to. p. ; who in the laws, &c. of this monarch could find no instances of severity against the welsh. see his _observations on the statutes_, to. th edit. p. . [ ] _hist. of staffordshire_, ch. , section - , p. , & seqq. of which see extracts in sir j. hawkins's _hist. of music_, vol. ii. p. , and dr. burney's _hist._ vol. ii. p. & seqq. n.b. the barbarous diversion of bull-running was no part of the original institution, &c. as is fully proved by the rev. dr. pegge in _archæologia_, vol. ii. no. xiii. p. . [ ] see the charge given by the steward, at the time of the election, in plot's _hist._ ubi supra; and in hawkins, p. , burney, p. - . [ ] so among the heralds _norrey_ was anciently stiled _roy d'armes_ _de north_ (anstis, ii. ). and the kings at armes in general were originally called _reges heraldorum_ (_ibid._ ), as these were _reges minstrallorum_. [ ] rymer's, _fædera_, tom. vii. p. . [ ] rymer, ix. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] see his _chronicle_, sub anno (p. ). he also gives this other instance of the king's great modesty, "that he would not suffer his helmet to be carried with him, and shewed to the people, that they might behold the dintes and cuttes, whiche appeared in the same, of such blowes and stripes, as hee received the daye of the battell."--_ibid._ vid. t. de elmham, c. , p. . the prohibition against vain and secular songs would probably not include that inserted in our nd vol. no. v. which would be considered as a hymn. the original notes may be seen reduced and set to score in mr. stafford smith's _collection of english songs for and voices_, and in dr. burney's _hist. of music_, ii. p. . [ ] t. ix. . [ ] _ibid._ x. . they are mentioned by name, being _ten_ in number: one of them was named thomas chatterton. [ ] tom. xi. . [ ] see it in rymer, t. xi. , and in sir j. hawkins, vol. iv. p. , note. the above charter is recited in letters patent of k. charles i. july ( anno regni) for a corporation of musicians, &c. in westminster, which may be seen, _ibid._ [ ] rymer, ix. . [ ] _ibid._ xi. . [ ] rymer, xi. . [ ] here unfortunately ends a curious fragment (an. , e. iv.), ad calcem _sprotti chron._ ed. hearne, oxon. , vo. vid. t. warton's _hist._ ii. p. , note [c]. [ ] rymer, xi. . [ ] _ibid._ xiii. . [ ] _ibid._ xiv. . . [ ] so i am inclined to understand the term serviens noster hugo wodehous, in the original grant (see rymer, _ubi supra_). it is needless to observe that _serviens_ expressed a serjeant as well as a servant. if this interpretation of _serviens_ be allowed, it will account for his placing wodehouse at the head of his gild, although he had not been one of the eight minstrels who had had the general direction. the serjeant of his minstrells, we may presume, was next in dignity to the marshal, although he had no share in the government of the gild. [ ] see below, and note [gg]. [ ] see vol. ii. book , no. . [ ] puttenham in his _arte of english poesie_, , to. p. . see the quotation in its proper order in vol ii. book ii. no. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . see vol. ii. book , no. . [ ] puttenham, &c. p. . [ ] see a very curious "letter: whearin, part of the entertainment untoo the queenz maiesty, at killingwoorth castl, in warwick sheer, in this soomerz progress , iz signified," &c. bl. l. to. vid. p. , & seqq. (printed in nichols's _collection of queen elizabeth's progresses_, &c. in vols. to.) we have not followed above the peculiar and affected orthography of this writer, who was named ro. laneham, or rather langham. [ ] i suppose "tonsure-wise," after the manner of the monks. [ ] _i.e._ handkerchief. so in shakspear's _othello_, passim. [ ] perhaps, points. [ ] the key, or screw, with which he tuned his harp. [ ] the reader will remember that this was not a real minstrel, but only one personating that character; his ornaments therefore were only such as _outwardly_ represented those of a real minstrel. [ ] as the house of northumberland had anciently three minstrels attending on them in their castles in yorkshire, so they still retain three in their service in northumberland, who wear the badge of the family (a silver crescent on the right arm), and are thus distributed; _viz._ one for the barony of prudhoe, and two for the barony of rothbury. these attend the court leets and fairs held for the lord, and pay their annual suit and service at alnwick castle; their instrument being the ancient northumberland bagpipe (very different in form and execution from that of the scots, being smaller; and blown, not with the breath, but with a small pair of bellows). this, with many other venerable customs of the ancient lord percys, was revived by their illustrious representatives the late duke and dutchess of northumberland. [ ] anno dom. . vid. _pult. stat._ p. , eliz. [ ] see this vol. song , v. , , &c. [ ] giraldus cambrensis, writing in the reign of k. henry ii. mentions a very extraordinary habit or propensity, which then prevailed in the north of england, beyond the humber, for "symphonious harmony," or singing "in two parts, the one murmuring in the base, and the other warbling in the acute or treble." (i use dr. burney's version, vol. ii. p. .) this he describes as practised by their very children from the cradle; and he derives it from the danes (so _daci_ signifies in our old writers) and norwegians, who long over-ran and in effect new-peopled the northern parts of england, where alone this manner of singing prevailed. (vide _cambriae descriptio_, cap. , and in burney, _ubi supra_.) giraldus is probably right as to the origin or derivation of this practise, for the danish and icelandic scalds had carried the arts of poetry and singing to great perfection at the time the danish settlements were made in the north. and it will also help to account for the superior skill and fame of our northern minstrels and harpers afterwards: who had preserved and transmitted the arts of their scaldic ancestors. see _northern antiquities_, vol. i. c. , p. , and _five pieces of runic poetry_, , vo. compare the original passage in giraldus, as given by sir john hawkins, i. , and by dr. burney, ii. , who are both at a loss to account for this peculiarity, and therefore doubt the fact. the credit of giraldus, which hath been attacked by some partial and bigotted antiquaries, the reader will find defended in that learned and curious work, _antiquities of ireland_, by edward ledwich, ll.d. &c. dublin, , to. p. , & seqq. [ ] this line being quoted from memory, and given as old scottish poetry, would have been readily corrected by the copy published in _scottish songs_, , vols. mo. i. p. , thus (though apparently corrupted from the scottish idiom): "live you upo' the border?" had not all confidence been destroyed by its being altered in the _historical essay_, prefixed to that publication (p. cx.) to "ye live upo' the border," the better to favour a position, that many of the pipers "might live upon the border, for the conveniency of attending fairs, &c. in both kingdoms." but whoever is acquainted with that part of england knows that on the english frontier rude mountains and barren wastes reach almost across the island, scarcely inhabited by any but solitary shepherds; many of whom durst not venture into the opposite border on account of the ancient feuds and subsequent disputes concerning the debatable lands, which separated the boundaries of the two kingdoms, as well as the estates of the two great families of percy and douglas; till these disputes were settled, not many years since, by arbitration between the _present_ lord douglas, and the _late_ duke and dutchess of northumberland. [illustration] notes and illustrations referred to in the foregoing essay. [a] [_the minstrels, &c._] the word _minstrel_ does not appear to have been in use here before the norman conquest: whereas it had long before that time been adopted in france.[ ] menestrel, so early as the eighth century, was a title given to the _maestro di capella_ of k. pepin, the father of charlemagne; and afterwards to the coryphæus, or leader of any band of musicians (v. burney's _hist. of music_, ii. ). this term _menestrel_, _menestrier_ was thus expressed in latin, _ministellus_, _ministrellus_, _ministrallus_, _menesterellus_, &c. (vid. _gloss. du cange_, and supplement.) menage derives the french words above mentioned from _ministerialis_ or _ministeriarius_, barbarous latin terms, used in the middle ages to express a workman or artificer (still called in languedoc _ministral_), as if these men were styled artificers or performers by way of excellence (vid. _diction. etym._) but the origin of the name is given perhaps more truly by du cange, "ministelli ... quos vulgo _menestreux_ vel _menestriers_ appellamus, quod minoribus aulæ _ministris_ accenserentur." (_gloss._ iv. p. .) accordingly, we are told, the word "_minister_" is sometimes used "pro _ministellus_" (_ibid._), and an instance is produced which i shall insert at large in the next paragraph. minstrels sometimes assisted at divine service, as appears from the record of the ninth of edw. iv. quoted above in p. by which haliday and others are erected into a perpetual gild, &c. see the original in _rymer_, xi. . by part of this record it is recited to be their duty to pray (_exorare_: which it is presumed they did by assisting in the chant, and musical accompaniment, &c.) the same also appears from the passage in the supplem. to du cange, alluded to above. "minister ... pro _ministellus_ joculator[ ]--vetus ceremoniale ms. b. m. deauratæ tolos. item, etiam congregabuntur piscatores, qui debent interesse isto die in processione cum _ministris_ seu joculatoribus: quia ipsi piscatores tenentur habere isto die _joculatores_, seu _mimos_ ob _honorem crucis_--et vadunt primi ante processionem cum _ministris_ seu joculatoribus semper pulsantibus usque ad ecclesiam s. stephani" (_gloss_. ). this may perhaps account for the clerical appearance of the minstrels, who seem to have been distinguished by the tonsure, which was one of the inferior marks of the clerical character.[ ] thus jeffery of monmouth, speaking of one who acted the part of a minstrel, says, _rasit capillos suos & barbam_ (see note [k]). again, a writer in the reign of elizabeth, describing the habit of an ancient minstrel, speaks of his head as "rounded tonster-wise" (which i venture to read tonsure-wise), "his beard smugly shaven." see above, p. . it must, however, be observed, that notwithstanding such clerical appearance of the minstrels, and though they might be sometimes countenanced by such of the clergy as were of more relaxed morals, their sportive talents rendered them generally obnoxious to the more rigid ecclesiastics, and to such of the religious orders as were of more severe discipline; whose writings commonly abound with heavy complaints of the great encouragement shewn to those men by the princes and nobles, and who can seldom afford them a better name than that of _scurræ, famelici, nebulones_, &c. of which innumerable instances may be seen in du cange. it was even an established order in some of the monasteries, that no minstrel should ever be suffered to enter their gates.[ ] we have, however, innumerable particulars of the good cheer and great rewards given to the minstrels in many of the convents, which are collected by t. warton (i. , &c.) and others. but one instance, quoted from wood's _hist. antiq. univ. ox._ i. . (sub. an. ) deserves particular mention. two itinerant priests, on a supposition of their being _mimi_ or _minstrels_, gained admittance. but the cellarer, sacrist, and others of the brethren, who had hoped to have been entertained with their diverting arts, &c. when they found them to be only two indigent ecclesiastics, who could only administer spiritual consolation, and were consequently disappointed of their mirth, beat them and turned them out of the monastery. (_ibid._ p. .) this passage furnishes an additional proof that a minstrel might by his dress or appearance be mistaken for an ecclesiastic. [b] [_the minstrels use mimicry and action, and other means of diverting, &c._] it is observable that our old monkish historians do not use the words _cantator_, _citharædus_, _musicus_, or the like, to express a minstrel in latin, so frequently as _mimus_, _histrio_, _joculator_, or some other word that implies gesture. hence it might be inferred that the minstrels set off their songs with all the arts of gesticulation, &c. or according to the ingenious hypothesis of dr. brown, united the powers of melody, poem, and dance. (see his _history of the rise of poetry_, &c.) but indeed all the old writers describe them as exercising various arts of this kind. joinville, in his _life of s. lewis_, speaks of some armenian minstrels, who were very dextrous tumblers and posture masters. "avec le prince vinrent trois menestriers de la grande hyermenie (armenia) ... et avoient trois cors--quand ils encommenceoient a corner, vous dissiez que ce sont les voix de cygnes, ... et fesoient les plus douces melodies.--ils fesoient trois merveilleus _saus_, car on leur metoit une touaille desous les piez, et tournoient tout debout ... les deux tournoients les testes arieres," &c. (see the extract at large, in the hon. d. barrington's _observations on the anc. statutes_, to. nd edit. p. , omitted in the last impression.) this may also account for that remarkable clause in the press warrant of henry vi. "_de ministrallis propter solatium regis providendis_," by which it is required, that the boys, to be provided _in arte ministrallatûs instructos_, should also be _membris naturalibus_ _elegantes_. see above, p. . (_observ. on the anc. stat._ th edit. p. .) although by minstrel was properly understood, in english, one who sang to the harp, or some other instrument of music, verses composed by himself or others; yet the term was also applied by our old writers to such as professed either music or singing separately, and perhaps to such as practised any of the sportive arts connected with these.[ ] music, however, being the leading idea, was at length peculiarly called minstrelsy, and the name of minstrel at last confined to the musician only. in the french language all these arts were included under the general name of _menestraudie_, _menestraudise_, _jonglerie_, &c. (med. lat. _menestellorum ars_, _ars joculatoria_, &c.) "on peut comprendre sous le nom de jonglerie tout ce qui appartient aux anciens chansonniers provençaux, normands, picards, &c. le corps de la jonglerie etoit formé des _trouveres_, ou _troubadours_, qui composoient les chansons, et parmi lesquels il y avoit des _improvisateurs_, comme on en trouve en italie; des _chanteurs_ ou _chanteres_ qui executoient ou chantoient ces compositions; des _conteurs_ qui faisoient en vers ou en prose les contes, les recits, les histoires; des _jongleurs_ ou _menestrels_ qui accompagnoient de leurs instrumens,--l'art de ces chantres ou chansonniers, etoit nommé la science gaie, _gay saber_." (pref. _anthologie franç._ , vo. p. .) see also the curious fauchet (_de l'orig. de la lang. fr._ p. , &c.) "bien tost après la division de ce grand empire françois en tant de petits royaumes, duchez, & comtez, au lieu des poetes commencerent a se faire cognoistre les _trouverres_, et _chanterres_, _contëours_, et _juglëours_: qui sont trouveurs, chantres, conteurs, jongleurs, ou jugleurs, c'est à dire, menestriers chantans avec la viole." we see then that _jongleur_, _jugleur_, (lat. _joculator_, _juglator_) was a peculiar name appropriated to the minstrels. "les jongleurs ne faisoient que chanter les poesies sur leurs instrumens. on les appelloit aussi menestrels," says fontenelle, in his _hist. du theat._ _franc._ prefixed to his _life of corneille_. [c] [_successors of the ancient bards._] that the minstrels in many respects bore a strong resemblance both to the british bards and to the danish scalds, appears from this, that the old monkish writers express them all without distinction by the same names in latin. thus geoffrey of monmouth, himself a welshman, speaking of an old pagan british king, who excelled in singing and music so far as to be esteemed by his countrymen the patron deity of the bards, uses the phrase _deus_ joculatorum; which is the peculiar name given to the english and french minstrels.[ ] in like manner, william malmesbury, speaking of a danish king's assuming the profession of a scald, expresses it by _professus_ mimum; which was another name given to the minstrels in middle latinity.[ ] indeed, du cange, in his _glossary_, quotes a writer who positively asserts that the minstrels of the middle ages were the same with the ancient bards. i shall give a large extract from this learned glossographer, as he relates many curious particulars concerning the profession and arts of the minstrels; whom, after the monks, he stigmatizes by the name of _scurræ_; though he acknowledges their songs often tended to inspire virtue. "ministelli, dicti præsertim _scurræ_, mimi, joculatores." ... "ejusmodi _scurrarum_ munus erat principes non suis duntaxat ludicris oblectare, sed et eorum aures variis avorum, adeoque ipsorum principum laudibus, non sine assentatione, cum cantilenis & musicis instrumentis demulcere ... "interdum etiam virorum insignium & heroum gesta, aut explicata & jocunda narratione commemorabant, aut suavi vocis inflexione, fidibusque decantabant, quo sic dominorum, cæterorumque qui his intererant ludicris, nobilium animos ad virtutem capessendam, et summorum virorum imitationem accenderent: quod fuit olim apud gallos bardorum ministerium, ut auctor est tacitus. neque enim alios à _ministellis_, veterum gallorum _bardos_ fuisse pluribus probat henricus valesius ad ammiani.... chronicon bertrandi guesclini. "qui veut avoir renom des bons & des vaillans il doit aler souvent a la pluie & au champs et estre en la bataille, ainsy que fu rollans, les quatre fils haimon, & charlon li plus grans, li dus lions de bourges, & guions de connans perceval li galois, lancelot, & tristans, alixandres, artus, godfroi li sachans, de quoy cils _menestriers_ font les nobles _romans_." "nicolaus de braia describens solenne convivium, quo post inaugurationem suam proceres excepit lud. viii. rex francorum, ait inter ipsius convivii apparatum, in medium prodiisse mimum, qui regis laudes ad cytharam decantavit." our author then gives the lines at length, which begin thus, "dumque fovent genium geniali munere bacchi, nectare commixto curas removente lyæo principis a facie, citharæ celeberrimus arte assurgit mimus, ars musica quem decoravit. hic ergo chorda resonante subintulit ista: inclyte rex regum, probitatis stemmate vernans, quem vigor & virtus extollit in æthera famæ," &c. the rest may be seen in du cange, who thus proceeds, "mitto reliqua similia, ex quibus omnino patet ejusmodi mimorum & ministellorum cantilenas ad virtutem principes excitasse.... id præsertim in pugnæ præcinctu, dominis suis occinebant, ut martium ardorem in eorum animis concitarent: cujusmodi cantum _cantilenam rollandi_ appellat will. malmesb. lib. . aimoinus, lib. . de mirac. s. bened. c. . tanta vero illis securitas ... ut scurram se precedere facerent, qui musico instrumento res fortiter gestas et priorum bella præcineret, quatenus his acrius incitarentur, &c." as the writer was a monk, we shall not wonder at his calling the minstrel, _scurram_. this word _scurra_, or some one similar, is represented in the glossaries as the proper meaning of _leccator_ (fr. _leccour_) the ancient term by which the _minstrel_ appears to be expressed in the grant to dutton, quoted above in page . on this head i shall produce a very curious passage, which is twice quoted in du cange's _glossary_. (sc. ad verb. menestellus & ad verb. lecator.) "philippus mouskes in philip. aug. fingit carolum m. provincie comitatum scurris & mimis suis olim donasse, indeque postea tantum in hac regione poetarum numerum excrevisse. "quar quant li buens rois karlemaigne ot toute raise a son demaine provence, qui mult iert plentive de vins, de bois, d'aigue, de rive, as leccours as menestreus qui sont auques luxurieus le donna toute et departi." [d] _the poet and the minstrel early with us became two persons._ the word scald comprehended both characters among the danes, nor do i know that they had any peculiar name for either of them separate. but it was not so with the anglo-saxons. they called a poet +sceop.+ and +leoðþyrta+: the last of these comes from +leoð+, a song; and the former answers to our old word make (gr. #poiêtês#), being derived from +scippan+ or +sceopan+, _formare_, _facere_, _fingere_, _creare_ (ang. to shape). as for the minstrel, they distinguished him by the peculiar appellation of +gligman+, and perhaps by the more simple title of +Ðearpere+, harper: (see below, notes [h], [i].) this last title, at least, is often given to a minstrel by our most ancient english rhymists. see in this work vol. i. book i. no. , vol. iii. book i. no. . [e] [_minstrels ... at the houses of the great, &c._] du cange affirms, that in the middle ages the courts of princes swarmed so much with this kind of men, and such large sums were expended in maintaining and rewarding them, that they often drained the royal treasures: especially, he adds, of such as were delighted with their flatteries (_præsertim qui ejusmodi ministellorum assentationibus_ _delectabantur_). he then confirms his assertion by several passages out of monastic writers, who sharply inveigh against this extravagance. of these i shall here select only one or two, which show what kind of rewards were bestowed on these old songsters. "rigordus de gestis philippi aug. an. . 'cum in curiis regum seu aliorum principum, frequens turba histrionum convenire soleat, ut ab eis aurum, argentum, equos, seu vestes,[ ] quos persæpe mutare consueverunt principes, ab eis extorqueant, verba joculatoria variis adulationibus plena proferre nituntur. et ut magis placeant, quicquid de ipsis principibus probabiliter fingi potest, videlicet omnes delitias et lepores, et visu dignas urbanitates et cæteras ineptias, trutinantibus buccis in medium eructare non erubescunt. vidimus quondam quosdam principes, qui vestes diu excogitatas, et variis florum picturationibus artificiosè elaboratas, pro quibus forsan vel. marcas argenti consumpserant, vix revolutis septem diebus, histrionibus, ministris diaboli, ad primam vocem dedisse, &c." the curious reader may find a similar, though at the same time a more candid account, in that most excellent writer, presid. fauchet (_recueil de la lang. fr._ p. ), who says, that, like the ancient greek #aoidoi#, "nos trouverres, ainsi que ceux la, prenans leur subject sur les faits des vaillans (qu'ils appelloyent geste, venant de _gesta_ latin) alloyent ... par les cours rejouir les princes ... remportans des grandes recompences des seigneurs, qui bien souvent leur donnoyent jusques aux robes qu'ils avoyent vestues: & lesquelles ces juglëours ne failloyent de porter aux autres cours, à fin d'inviter les seigneurs a pareille liberalité. ce qui a duré si longuement, qu'il me souvient avoir veu martin baraton (ja viel menestrier d'orleans) lequel aux festes et nopces batoit un tabourin d'argent, semé des plaques aussi d'argent gravees des armoiries de ceux a qui il avoit appris a danser." here we see that a minstrel sometimes performed the function of a dancing-master. fontenelle even gives us to understand, that these men were often rewarded with favours of a still higher kind. "les princesses & les plus grandes dames y joignoient souvent leurs faveurs. elles etoient fort foibles contre les beaux esprits." (_hist. du théat._) we are not to wonder then that this profession should be followed by men of the first quality, particularly the younger sons and brothers of great houses. "tel qui par les partages de sa famille n'avoit que la moitié ou le quart d'une vieux chateaux bien seigneurial, alloit quelque temps courir le monde en rimant, et revenoit acquerir le reste de chateau." (_fontenelle, hist. du théat._) we see then, that there was no improbable fiction in those ancient songs and romances, which are founded on the story of minstrels being beloved by kings' daughters, &c., and discovering themselves to be the sons of some sovereign prince, &c. [f] the honours and rewards lavished upon the minstrels were not confined to the continent. our own countryman johannes sarisburiensis (in the time of henry ii.) declaims no less than the monks abroad, against the extravagant favour shown to these men. non enim more nugatorum ejus seculi in histriones & mimos, et hujusmodi monstra hominum, ob famæ redemptionem & dilatationem nominis effunditis opes vestras, &c. (_epist._ .[ ]) the monks seem to grudge every act of munificence that was not applied to the benefit of themselves and their convents. they therefore bestow great applauses upon the emperor henry, who, at his marriage with agnes of poictou, in , disappointed the poor minstrels, and sent them away empty. "infinitam histrionum & joculatorum multitudinem sine cibo & muneribus vacuam & moerentem abire permisit." (_chronic. virtziburg._) for which i doubt not but he was sufficiently stigmatized in the songs and ballads of those times. vid. du cange, _gloss._ tom. iv. p , &c. [g] [_the annals of the anglo-saxons are scanty and defective._] of the few histories now remaining that were written before the norman conquest, almost all are such short and naked sketches and abridgements, giving only a concise and general relation of the more remarkable events, that scarce any of the minute circumstantial particulars are to be found in them: nor do they hardly ever descend to a description of the customs, manners, or domestic economy of their countrymen. the _saxon chronicle_, for instance, which is the best of them, and upon some accounts extremely valuable, is almost such an epitome as lucius florus and eutropius have left us of the roman history. as for ethelward, his book is judged to be an imperfect translation of the _saxon chronicle_;[ ] and the _pseudo asser_, or _chronicle of st. neot_, is a poor defective performance. how absurd would it be then to argue against the existence of customs or facts, from the silence of such scanty records as these! whoever would carry his researches deep into that period of history, might safely plead the excuse of a learned writer, who had particularly studied the ante-norman historians. "conjecturis (licet nusquam sine verisimili fundamento) aliquoties indulgemus ... utpote ab historicis jejune nimis & indiligenter res nostras tractantibus coacti ... nostri ... nudâ factorum commemoratione plerumque contenti, reliqua omnia, sive ob ipsarum rerum, sive meliorum literarum, sive historicorum officii ignorantiam, fere intacta prætereunt." vide plura in _præfat. ad_ _Ælfr. vitam a spelman_. ox. , fol. [h] [_minstrels and harpers._] that the harp (_cithara_) was the common musical instrument of the anglo-saxons, might be inferred from the very word itself, which is not derived from the british, or any other celtic language, but of genuine gothic original, and current among every branch of that people: viz. ang.-sax. +Ðearpe, Ðearpa;+ iceland. harpa, haurpa; dan. and belg. harpe; germ, harpffe, harpffa; gal. harpe; span. harpa; ital. arpa. (vid. _jun. etym., menage etym._ &c.) as also from this, that the word +Ðearpe+ is constantly used, in the anglo-saxon versions, to express the latin words _cithara_, _lyra_, and even _cymbalum_: the word _psalmus_ itself being sometimes translated +Ðearp sang+, harp song (_gloss, jun. r. apud lye anglo-sax. lexic._) but the fact itself is positively proved by the express testimony of bede, who tells us that it was usual at festival meetings for this instrument to be handed round, and each of the company to sing to it in his turn. see his _hist. eccles. anglor._ lib. iv. c. , where speaking of their sacred poet cædmon, who lived in the times of the heptarchy (_ob. circ._ ) he says: "nihil unquam frivoli & supervacui poematis facere potuit; sed ea tantummodo, quæ ad religionem pertinent, religiosam ejus linguam decebant. siquidem in habitu sæculari, usque ad tempora provectioris ætatis constitutus, nil carminum aliquando didicerat. unde nonnunquam in convivio, cum esset lætitia causa ut omnes per ordinem cantare deberent, ille ubi appropinquare sibi citharam cernebat, surgebat a mediâ coenâ, et egressus ad suam domum repedabat." i shall now subjoin king alfred's own anglo-saxon translation of this passage, with a literal interlineary english version. +Ðe.. næfre noht leasunga. ne ideles leoðes pyrcean ne mihte;+ _he ... never no leasings, nor idle songs compose ne might_; +ac efne ða an ða ðe to æfestnesse belumpon. [et]+ _but lo! only those things which to religion [piety] belong, and_ +his ða æfestan tungan gedafenode singan: [hj]æs he se man+ _his then pious tongue became to sing: he was the [a] man_ +in peorolt-hade geseted oð ða tide ðe he pæs of+ _in worldly [secular] state set to the time in which he was of an_ +gelyfedre ylde. [et] he næfre ænig leoþ geleornode. [et] he+ _advanced age; and he never any song learned. and he_ +forþon oft in gebeorscipe ðonne ðær pæs blisse intinga+ _therefore_ oft _in an entertainment when there was for merriment_ +gedemed. [þ/] hi ealle sceoldan ðuph engeby+ _sake adjudged [or decreed], that they_ all _should through their_ +rdnesse be hearpan singan. ðonne he geseah ða hearpan+ _turns by [to the]_ harp sing; _when he saw the_ harp +him nealæcan. ðonne aras he for sceome fram ðam symle+ _him approach, then arose he for_ shame _from the supper_ +[et] ham eode to his huse.+ _and home yode [went] to his house._ _bed. hist. eccl. a smith._ cantab. , fol. p. . in this version of alfred's it is observable, ( ) that he has expressed the latin word _cantare_, by the anglo-saxon words "+be hearpan singan+," sing to the harp; as if they were synonymous, or as if his countrymen had no idea of singing unaccompanied with the harp: ( ) that when bede simply says, _surgebat a mediâ coenâ_, he assigns a motive, "+aras for sceome+," arose for shame: that is, either from an austerity of manners, or from his being deficient in an accomplishment which so generally prevailed among his countrymen. [i] [_the word_ glee _which peculiarly denoted their art_, &c.] this word glee is derived from the anglo-saxon +gligg+, (gligg) _musica_, music, minstrelsy (somn). this is the common radix, whence arises such a variety of terms and phrases relating to the minstrel art, as affords the strongest internal proof, that this profession was extremely common and popular here before the norman conquest. thus we have i. ( ) +glip+ (gliw.), _mimus_, a minstrel. +gligman, gligmon, gliman+, (gleeman[ ]) _histrio_, _mimus_, _pantomimus_; all common names in middle latinity for a minstrel; and somner accordingly renders the original by a minstrel--a player on a timbrel or taber. he adds, a fidler; but although the _fythel_ or _fiddle_, was an ancient instrument, by which the _jogelar_ or minstrel sometimes accompanied his song (see warton, i. ), it is probable that somner annexes here only a modern sense to the word, not having at all investigated the subject. +gliimen, gliigmen+, (gleemen), _histriones_, minstrels. hence, +gligmanna-yppe+. _orchestra_, vel _pulpitus_. the place where the minstrels exhibited their performances. ( ) but their most proper and expressive name was +gliphleoþriend+, _musicus_, a minstrel; and +gliphleoþriendlica+, _musicus_, musical. these two words include the full idea of the minstrel character, expressing at once their music and singing, being compounded of +glip+, _musicus, mimus_, a musician, minstrel; and +leoð+, _carmen_, a song. ( ) from the above word +gligg+, the profession itself was called. +gligcræft+ (glig _or_ glee-craft), _musica, histrionia, mimica gesticulatio_: which somner rightly gives in english, ministrelsy, mimical gesticulation, mummery. he also adds stage-playing: but here again i think he substitutes an idea too modern, induced by the word _histrionia_, which in middle latinity only signifies the minstrel-art. however, it should seem that both mimical gesticulation and a kind of rude exhibition of characters were sometimes attempted by the old minstrels: but ( ) as musical performance was the leading idea, so +gliopian+, is _cantus musicos edere_; and +gligbeam, glipbeam+ (glig or glee-beam), _tympanum_; a timbrel or taber. (so somn.) hence +glypan.+ _tympanum pulsare_; and +glip-megen; gliypiende-maden+; (glee-maiden), _tympanistria_: which somner renders a she-minstrel; for it should seem that they had females of this profession; one name for which was also +glypbydenestra+. ( ) of congenial derivation to the foregoing is +glypc.+ (glywc), _tibia_, a pipe or flute. both this and the common radix +gligg+ are with great appearance of truth derived by junius from the icelandic gliggur, _flatus_; as supposing that the first attempts at music among our gothic ancestors were with wind-instruments. vid. _jun. etym. ang._ v. glee. ii. but the minstrels, as is hinted above, did not confine themselves to the mere exercise of their primary arts of music and song, but occasionally used many other modes of diverting. hence, from the above root was derived, in a secondary sense: ( ) +gleo+, and +pinsum glip+, _facetiæ_. +gleopian+, _jocari_; to jest, or, be merry (somn.), and +gleopiend+, _jocans_; jesting, speaking merrily. (somn.) +gligman+, also signified _jocista_, a jester. +glig-gamen+, (glee-games), _joci_. which somner renders, merriments, or merry jests, or tricks, or sports, gamboles. ( ) hence, again, by a common metonymy of the cause for the effect: +glie+, _gaudium_, _alacritas_, _lætitia_, _facetiæ_; joy, mirth, gladness, cheerfulness, glee. (somner.) which last application of the word still continues, though rather in a low debasing sense. iii. but however agreeable and delightful the various arts of the minstrels might be to the anglo-saxon laity, there is reason to believe, that before the norman conquest, at least, they were not much favoured by the clergy; particularly by those of monastic profession. for, not to mention that the sportive talents of these men would be considered by those austere ecclesiastics, as tending to levity and licentiousness, the pagan origin of their art would excite in the monks an insuperable prejudice against it. the anglo-saxon harpers and gleemen were the immediate successors and imitators of the scandinavian scalds, who were the great promoters of pagan superstition, and fomented that spirit of cruelty and outrage in their countrymen the danes, which fell with such peculiar severity on the religious and their convents. hence arose a third application of words derived from +gligg+, minstrelsy, in a very unfavourable sense, and this chiefly prevails in books of religion and ecclesiastic discipline. thus: ( ) +glig+ is _ludibrium_, laughing to scorn.[ ] so in s. basil. regul. ii. +di hæfdon him to glige halpende minegunge.+ _ludibrio habebant salutarem ejus admonitionm_. ( .) this sense of the word was perhaps not ill-founded, for as the sport of rude uncultivated minds often arises from ridicule, it is not improbable but the old minstrels often indulged a vein of this sort, and that of no very delicate kind. so again, +glig-man+ was also used to signify _scurra_, a saucy jester (somn.) +glig-georn+, _dicax, scurriles jocos supra quàm par est amans_. officium episcopale, . +glipian+. _scurrilibus oblectamentis indulgere; scurram agere._ canon. edgar. . ( ) again, as the various attempts to please, practised by an order of men who owed their support to the public favour, might be considered by those grave censors, as mean and debasing: hence came from the same root, +gliper+. _parasitus, assentator_; a fawner, a togger, a parasite, a flatterer.[ ] (somn.) iv. to return to the anglo-saxon word +gligg+: notwithstanding the various secondary senses in which this word (as we have seen above) was so early applied; yet the derivative _glee_ (though now chiefly used to express merriment and joy) long retained its first simple meaning, and is even applied by chaucer to signify music and minstrelsy. (vid. jun. etym.) e.g. "for though that the best harper upon live would on the best sounid jolly harpe that evir was, with all his fingers five touch aie o string, or aie o warble harpe were his nailes pointed nevir so sharpe it shoulde makin every wight to dull to heare is _glee_, and of his strokes full." _troyl. l._ ii. junius interprets _glees_ by _musica instrumenta_, in the following passages of chaucer's third boke of fame:-- "... stoden ... the castell all aboutin of all maner of _mynstrales_ and _jestours_ that tellen tales both of wepyng and of game, and of all that longeth unto fame: there herde i play on a harpe that sowned both well and sharpe hym orpheus full craftily; and on this syde fast by sate the harper orion; and eacides chirion; and other harpers many one, and the briton glaskyrion." after mentioning these, the great masters of the art, he proceeds:-- "and small harpers with her _glees_ sat under them in divers sees." * * * * * again, a little below, the poet having enumerated the performers on all the different sorts of instruments, adds:-- "there sawe i syt in other sees playing upon other sundry _glees_, which that i cannot neven[ ] more than starres ben in heven," &c. upon the above lines i shall only make a few observations: ( ) that by jestours, i suppose we are to understand gestours; scil. the relaters of gests (lat. _gesta_) or stories of adventures both comic and tragical; whether true or feigned; i am inclined to add, whether in prose or verse. (compare the record below, in marginal note, subjoined to v. .) of the stories in prose, i conceive we have specimens in that singular book the _gesta romanorum_, and this will account for its seemingly improper title. these were evidently what the french called _conteours_, or story-tellers, and to them we are probably indebted for the first prose romances of chivalry, which may be considered as specimens of their manner. ( ) that the "briton glaskeryon," whoever he was, is apparently the same person with our famous harper glasgerion, of whom the reader will find a tragical ballad, in vol. iii. book , no. . in that song may be seen an instance of what was advanced above in note [e] of the dignity of the minstrel profession, or at least of the artifice with which the minstrels endeavoured to set off its importance. thus "a king's son is represented as appearing in the character of a harper or minstrel in the court of another king. he wears a collar (or gold chain) as a person of illustrious rank; rides on horseback, and is admitted to the embraces of a king's daughter." the minstrels lost no opportunity of doing honour to their art. ( ) as for the word _glees_, it is to this day used in a musical sense, and applied to a peculiar piece of composition. who has not seen the advertisements, proposing a reward to him who should produce the best catch, canon, or glee? [k] [_comes from the pen of geoffrey of monmouth._] geoffrey's own words are: "cum ergo alterius modi aditum [baldulphus] non haberet, rasit capillos suos et barbam,[ ] cultumque joculatoris cum cythara fecit. deinde intra castra deambulans, modulis quos in lyra componebat, sese cytharistam exhibebat." _galf. monum. hist._ to. , lib. vii. c. .--that _joculator_ signifies precisely a minstrel, appears not only from this passage, where it is used as a word of like import to _citharista_ or harper (which was the old english word for minstrel), but also from another passage of the same author, where it is applied as equivalent to _cantor_. see lib. i. cap. , where, speaking of an ancient (perhaps fabulous) british king, he says: "hic omnes cantores quos præcedens ætas habuerat & in modulis & in omnibus musicisinstrumentis excedebat; ita ut deus joculatorum videretur." whatever credit is due to geoffrey as a relater of facts, he is certainly as good authority as any for the signification of words. [l] [_two remarkable facts._] both these facts are recorded by william of malmesbury; and the first of them, relating to alfred, by ingulphus also. now ingulphus (afterwards abbot of croyland) was near forty years of age at the time of the conquest,[ ] and consequently was as proper a judge of the saxon manners, as if he had actually written his history before that event: he is therefore to be considered as an anti-norman writer; so that whether the fact concerning alfred be true or not, we are assured from his testimony, that the _joculator_ or minstrel was a common character among the anglo-saxons. the same also may be inferred from the relation of william of malmesbury, who outlived ingulphus but thirty-three years.[ ] both these writers had doubtless recourse to innumerable records and authentic memorials of the anglo-saxon times, which never descended down to us; their testimony therefore is too positive and full to be overturned by the mere silence of the two or three slight anglo-saxon epitomes, that are now remaining (vid. note [g]). as for asser menevensis, who has given a somewhat more particular detail of alfred's actions, and yet takes no notice of the following story; it will not be difficult to account for his silence, if we consider that he was a rigid monk, and that the minstrels, however acceptable to the laity, were never much respected by men of the more strict monastic profession, especially before the norman conquest, when they would be considered as brethren of the pagan scalds.[ ] asser therefore might not regard alfred's skill in minstrelsy in a very favourable light; and might be induced to drop the circumstance related below, as reflecting in his opinion no great honour on his patron. the learned editor of alfred's life in latin, after having examined the scene of action in person, and weighed all the circumstances of the event, determines from the whole collective evidence, that alfred could never have gained the victory he did, if he had not with his own eyes previously seen the disposition of the enemy by such a stratagem as is here described. vid. _annot. in Ælfr. mag. vitam_, p. , oxon. . fol. [m] [_alfred ... assumed the dress and character of a minstrel]. fingens se_ joculatorem, _assumpta cithara, &c. ingulphi hist._ p. .--_sub specie mimi ... ut_ joculatoriæ _professor artis. gul. malmesb._ l. , c. , p. . that both _joculator_ and _mimus_ signify literally a minstrel, see proved in notes [b], [k], [n], [q], &c. see also note [gg]. malmesbury adds, _unius tantum fidelissimi fruebatur conscietitiâ_. as this confidant does not appear to have assumed the disguise of a minstrel himself, i conclude that he only appeared as the minstrel's attendant. now that the minstrel had sometimes his servant or attendant to carry his harp, and even to sing to his music, we have many instances in the old metrical romances, and even some in this present collection. see vol. i. song vi., vol. iii. song vii., &c. among the french and provençal bards, the _trouverre_, or inventor, was generally attended with his singer, who sometimes also played on the harp, or other musical instrument. "quelque fois durant le repas d'un prince on voyoit arriver un trouverre inconnu avec ses menestrels ou jongleours, et il leur faisoit chanter sur leurs harpes ou vielles les vers qu'il avoit composés. ceux qui faisoient les sons _aussi_ bien qui les _mots_ etoient les plus estimés." _fontenelle, hist, du theatr._ that alfred excelled in music is positively asserted by bale, who doubtless had it from some ancient ms. many of which subsisted in his time, that are now lost; as also by sir j. spelman, who we may conclude had good authority for this anecdote, as he is known to have compiled his life of alfred from authentic materials collected by his learned father; this writer informs us that alfred "provided himself of musitians, not common, or such as knew but the practick part, but men skilful in the art itself, whose skill and service he yet further improved with his own instruction." p. . this proves alfred at least to have understood the theory of music; and how could this have been acquired without practising on some instrument? which, we have seen above, note [h], was so extremely common with the anglo-saxons, even in much ruder times, that alfred himself plainly tells us, it was _shameful_ to be ignorant of it. and this commonness might be one reason, why asser did not think it of consequence enough to be particularly mentioned in his short life of that great monarch. this rigid monk may also have esteemed it a slight and frivolous accomplishment savouring only of worldly vanity. he has however particularly recorded alfred's fondness for the oral anglo-saxon poems and songs. (_saxonica poemata die nocteque ... audiens ... memoriter_ _retinebat_, p. . _carmina saxonica memoriter discere_, &c. p. , and _ib._) now the poems learnt by rote, among all ancient unpolished nations, are ever songs chanted by the reciter, and accompanied with instrumental melody.[ ] [n] _with his harp in his hand, and dressed like a minstrel._ assumptâ manu citharâ ... professus _mimum_, qui hujusmodi arte stipem quotidianam mercaretur ... jussus abire pretium cantus accepit. _malmesb._ l. , c. . we see here that which was rewarded was (not any mimicry or tricks, but) his _singing (cantus)_; this proves beyond dispute, what was the nature of the entertainment aulaff afforded them. perhaps it is needless by this time to prove to the reader, that _mimus_ in middle latinity signifies a minstrel, and _mimia_, minstrelsy, or the minstrel-art. should he doubt it, let him cast his eye over the two following extracts from du cange. "_mimus_: musicus qui instrumentis musicis canit. leges palatinæ jacobi ii. reg. majoric. in domibus principum, ut tradit antiquitas _mimi_ seu joculatores licitè possunt esse. nam illorum officiam tribuit lutitiam ... quapropter volumus et ordinamus, quod in nostra curia mimi debeant esse quinque, quorum duo sint tubicinatores, et tertius sit tabelerius (i. e. a player on the tabor.)[ ] lit. remiss. ann. . ad mimos cornicitantes, seu bucinantes accesserunt." mimia, ludus mimicus, instrumentum (potius, ars joculatoria). ann. .... "mimia & cantu victum acquiro." du cange, _gloss._ tom. iv. . supp. c. . [o] [_to have been a dane._] the northern historians produce such instances of the great respect shewn to the danish scalds in the courts of our anglo-saxon kings, on account of their musical and poetic talents (notwithstanding they were of so hateful a nation), that, if a similar order of men had not existed here before, we cannot doubt but the profession would have been taken up by such of the natives as had a genius for poetry and music. "extant rhythmi hoc ipso (islandico) idiomate angliæ, hyberniæque regibus oblati & liberaliter compensati, &c. itaque hinc colligi potest linguam danicam in aulis vicinorum regum, principumque familiarem fuisse, non secus ac hodie in aulis principum peregrina idiomata in deliciis haberi cernimus. imprimis vita egilli skallagrimii id invicto argumento adstruit. quippe qui interrogatus ab adalsteino, angliæ rege, quomodo manus eirici blodoxii, northumbriæ regis, postquam in ejus potestatem venerat, evasisset, cujus filium propinquosque occiderat, ... rei statim ordinem metro, nunc satis obscuro, exposuit, nequaquam ita narraturus non intelligenti."--vid. _plura apud torfæi præfat. ad_ _orcad. hist._ fol. this same egill was no less distinguished for his valour and skill as a soldier, than for his poetic and singing talents as a scald; and he was such a favourite with our king athelstan that he at one time presented him with "duobus annulis & scriniis duobus bene magnis argento repletis.... quinetiam hoc addidit, ut egillus quidvis præterea a se petens, obtineret; bona mobilia, sive immobilia, præbendam vel præfecturas. egillus porro regiam munificentiam gratus excipiens, carmen encomiasticon, à se, linguâ norvegicâ, (quæ tum his regnis communis), compostum, regi dicat; ac pro eo, duas marcas auri puri (pondus marcæ ... uncias æquabat) honorarii loco retulit."--_arngr. jon. rer. islandic._ lib. , p. . see more of egill, in _the five pieces of runic poetry_, p. , whose poem, there translated, is the most ancient piece all in rhime, that is, i conceive, now to be found in any european language, except latin. see egill's islandic original, printed at the end of the english version in the said _five pieces_, &c. [p] [_if the saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of_ _their own ... and to shew favour and respect to the danish scalds._] if this had not been the case, we may be assured, at least, that the stories given in the text could never have been recorded by writers who lived so near the anglo-saxon times as malmesbury and ingulphus, who, though they might be deceived as to particular facts, could not be so as to the general manners and customs, which prevailed so near their own times among their ancestors. [q] [_"in doomesday book" &c.] extract. ex libro domesday_: et vid. anstis, _ord. gart._ ii. . "glowecesterscire. fol. . col. . _berdic jocu lator regis habet_ iii. _villas, et ibi_ v. _car. nil redd._" that _joculator_ is properly a minstrel might be inferred from the two foregoing passages of geoffery of monmouth (v. note [k]), where the word is used as equivalent to _citharista_ in one place, and to _cantor_ in the other: this union forms the precise idea of the character. but more positive proofs have already offered, _vid. supra_, pp. , . see also p. _note_ du cange's _gloss._, vol. iii. c. : "jogulator pro joculator.--_consilium masil._ an. . nullus ministreys, seu jogulator, audeat pinsare vel sonare instrumentum cujuscumque generis," &c. &c. as the minstrel was termed in french _jongleur_ and _jugleur_; so he was called in spanish _jutglar_ and _juglar_. "tenemos canciones y versos para recitar muy antiguos y memorias ciertas de los juglares, que assistian en los banquetes, como los que pinta homero."--_prolog. a las comed. de cervantes_, , to. "el anno , en las siestas de la coronacion del rey, don alonso el iv. de aragon, ...[ ] el juglar ramaset cantò una villanesca de la composicion del ... infante (don pedro): y otro juglar, llamado novellet, recitò y representò en voz y sin cantar mas de versos, que hizo el infante en el metro, que llamaban rima vulgar."--_ibid._ "los trobadores inventaron la gaya ciencia ... estos trobadores, eran casi todos de la primera nobleza. es verdad, que ya entonces se havian entrometido entre las diversiones cortesanos, los contadores, los cantores, los juglares, los truanes, y los bufones."--_ibid._ in england the king's juglar continued to have an establishment in the royal household down to the reign of henry viii. (vid. note [cc]). but in what sense the title was there applied does not appear. in barklay's _egloges_, written circ. , jugglers and pipers are mentioned together. _egl._ iv. (vid. t. warton's hist. ii. ). [r] [_a valliant warrior, named taillefer, &c._] see du cange, who produces this as an instance, "quod ministellorum munus interdum præstabant milites probatissimi. le roman de vacce, _ms._ "'quant il virent normanz venir mout veissiez engleiz fremir.... taillefer qui mout bien chantoit, sur un cheval, qui tost alloit, devant euls aloit chantant de kallemaigne & de roullant, et d'olivier de vassaux, qui mourruent en rainschevaux.' "qui quidem taillefer a gulielmo obtinuit ut primus in hostes irrueret, inter quos fortiter dimicando occubuit."--_gloss._ tom. iv. , , . "les anciennes chroniques nous apprennent, qu'en premier rang de l' armée normande, un ecuyer nommé taillefer, monté sur un cheval armé, chanta la chanson de roland, qui fut si long tems dans les bouches des françois, sans qu'il soit resté le moindre fragment. le taillefer après avoir entonné le chanson que les soldats repetoient, se jetta le premier parmi les anglois, et fut tué."--voltaire, _add. hist. univ._ p. . the reader will see an attempt to restore the _chanson de roland_, with musical notes, in dr. burney's _hist._ ii. p. . see more concerning the song of roland, vol. iii. appendix, sect. ii. note m. [s] [_an eminent french writer, &c._] "m. l'eveque de la ravaliere, qui avoit fait beaucoup de recherches sur nos anciennes chansons, pretend que c'est à la normandie que nous devons nos premiers chansonniers, non à la provence, et qu'il y avoit parmi nous des chansons en langue vulgaire avant celles des provençaus, mais posterieurement au regne de philippe i. ou à l'an ."--v. _revolutions de la langue françoise, à la suite des poesies du roi de navarre._ "ce seroit une antériorité de plus d'un demi siécle à l'époque des premiers troubadours, que leur historien jean de nostredame fixe à l'an , &c."--_pref. a l'anthologie franç._ vo. . this subject hath been since taken up and prosecuted at length in the prefaces, &c. to m. le grand's _fabliaux ou contes du xii. & du xiii. siécle_, paris, , tom. mo. who seems pretty clearly to have established the priority and superior excellence of the old rimeurs of the north of france, over the troubadours of provence, &c. [s ] [_their own native gleemen or minstrels must be allowed to exist._] of this we have proof positive in the old metrical romance of _horn-child_, (vol. iii. appendix), which, although from the mention of sarazens, &c. it must have been written at least after the first crusade in , yet from its anglo-saxon language or idiom, can scarce be dated later than within a century after the conquest. this, as appears from its very exordium, was intended to be sung to a popular audience, whether it was composed by, or for, a gleeman, or minstrel. but it carries all the internal marks of being the production of such a composer. it appears of genuine english growth, for after a careful examination, i cannot discover any allusion to french or norman customs, manners, composition or phraseology: no quotation "as the romance sayth:" not a name or local reference which was likely to occur to a french rimeur. the proper names are all of northern extraction. child horn is the son of allof (_i.e._ olaf or olave), king of sudenne (i suppose sweden), by his queen godylde, or godylt. athulf and fykenyld are the names of subjects. eylmer or aylmere is king of westnesse (a part of ireland), rymenyld is his daughter; as erminyld is of another king thurstan; whose sons are athyld and beryld. athelbrus is steward of k. aylmer, &c. &c. all these savour only of a northern origin, and the whole piece is exactly such a performance as one would expect from a gleeman or minstrel of the north of england, who had derived his art and his ideas from his scaldic predecessors there. so that this probably is the original, from which was translated the old french fragment of _dan horn_, in the harleyan ms. , mentioned by tyrwhitt (chaucer iv. ), and by t. warton (hist. i. ), whose extract from _horn-child_ is extremely incorrect. compare the stile of child-horn with the anglo-saxon specimens in short verses and rhime, which are assigned to the century succeeding the conquest, in hickes's _thesaurus_, tom. i. cap. , pp. and . [t] [_the different production of the sedentary composer and the_ _rambling minstrel._] among the old metrical romances, a very few are addressed to readers, or mention reading: these appear to have been composed by writers at their desk, and exhibit marks of more elaborate structure and invention. such is _eglamour of artas_ (no. , vol. iii. appendix), of which i find in a ms. copy in the cotton library, a. , folio , the ii. fitte thus concludes: "... thus ferr have i red." such is _ipomydon_ (no. , iii. appendix), of which one of the divisions (sign. e. ii. b. in pr. copy) ends thus: "let hym go, god him spede tyll efte-soone we of him reed (_i.e._ read)" so in _amys and amylion_[ ] (no. . iii. appendix) in sta. d. we have "in geste as we rede," and similar phrases occur in stanzas , , , , &c. these are all studied compositions, in which the story is invented with more skill and ingenuity, and the style and colouring are of superior cast, to such as can with sufficient probability be attributed to the minstrels themselves. of this class i conceive the romance of _horn child_ (mentioned in the last note, [s ], and in no. , vol. iii. appendix), which, from the naked unadorned simplicity of the story, i would attribute to such an origin. but more evidently is such the _squire of lowe degree_ (no. , iii. appendix), in which is no reference to any french original, nothing like the phrase which so frequently occurs in others, "as the romance sayth,"[ ] or the like. and it is just such a rambling performance, as one would expect from an itinerant bard. and such also is _a lytell geste of robyn hode, &c._ in eight fyttes, of which are extant two editions, to. in black letter, described more fully in this volume, book i. no. . this is not only of undoubted english growth, but, from the constant satire aimed at abbots and their convents, &c. could not possibly have been composed by any monk in his cell. other instances might be produced; but especially of the former kind is _syr launfal_ (no. , iii. appendix), the st st. of which has "in romances as we rede." this is one of the best invented stories of that kind, and i believe the only one in which is inserted the name of the author. [t ] _royer or raherus, the king's minstrel._ he is recorded by leland under both these names, in his _collectanea_, scil. vol. i. p. . "hospitale s. bartholomæi in west-smithfelde in london." royer mimus regis fundator." "hosp. sti. barthol. londini. raherus mimus regis h. . primus fundator, an. , . h. . qui fundavit etiam priorat. sti. barthol."--_ibid._ p. . that _mimus_ is properly a minstrel in the sense affixed to the word in this essay, one extract from the accounts (lat. _computis_) of the priory of maxtock near coventry, in , will sufficiently show, scil.: "dat. sex. mimis dni. clynton cantantibus, citharisantibus, ludentibus, &c. iiii. s." (t. warton, ii. , note q.) the same year the prior gave to a _doctor prædicans_ for a sermon preached to them only _d._ in the _monasticon_, tom. ii. p. , , is a curious history of the founder of this priory, and the cause of its erection: which seems exactly such a composition as one of those which were manufactured by dr. stone, the famous legend-maker, in ; (see t. warton's curious account of him, in vol. ii. p. , note), who required no materials to assist him in composing his narratives, &c. for in this legend are no particulars given of the founder, but a recital of miraculous visions exciting him to this pious work, of its having been before revealed to k. edward the confessor, and predicted by three grecians, &c. even his minstrel profession is not mentioned, whether from ignorance or design, as the profession was perhaps falling into discredit when this legend was written. there is only a general indistinct account that he frequented royal and noble houses, where he ingratiated himself _suavitate joculari_. (this last is the only word that seems to have any appropriated meaning.) this will account for the indistinct, incoherent account given by stow: "rahere, a pleasant-witted gentleman, and therefore in his time called the king's minstrel."--_survey of lond._ ed. , p. . [u] [_in the early times every harper was expected to sing._] see on this subject k. alfred's version of cædman, above in note [h] p. . so in _horn-child_, k. allof orders his steward athelbrus to "--teche him of harpe and of song." in the _squire of lowe degree_ the king offers to his daughter, "ye shall have harpe, sautry,[ ] and song." and chaucer, in his description of the limitour or mendicant friar, speaks of harping as inseparable from singing (i. p. , ver. ):-- "--in his harping, whan that he hadde songe." [u ] [_at the most accomplished, &c._] see hoveden, p. , in the following passage, which had erroneously been applied to k. richard himself, till mr. tyrwhitt ("chaucer," iv. p. ) shewed it to belong to his chancellor: "hic ad augmentum et famam sui nominis, emendicata carmina, et rhythmos adulatorios comparabat; et de regno francorum cantores et joculatores muneribus allexerat, ut de illo canerent in plateis: et jam dicebatur ubique, quod non erat talis in orbe." for other particulars relating to this chancellor, see t. warton's _hist._ vol. ii. addit. to p. of vol. i. [u ] [_both the norman and english languages would be heard at the houses of the great._] a remarkable proof of this is that the most diligent inquirers after ancient english rhimes find the earliest they can discover in the mouths of the norman nobles, such as that of robert, earl of leicester, and his flemings in , temp. hen. ii. (little more than a century after the conquest), recorded by lambarde in his _dictionary of england_, p. : "hoppe wyliken, hoppe wyliken ingland is thine and myne," &c. and that noted boast of hugh bigot, earl of norfolk, in the same reign of k. henry ii. vid. _camdeni britannia_ (art. suffolk), , folio "were i in my castle of bungey vpon the riuer of waueney i would ne care for the king of cockeney." indeed, many of our old metrical romances, whether originally english, or translated from the french to be sung to an english audience, are addressed to persons of high rank, as appears from their beginning thus: "listen, lordings," and the like. these were prior to the time of chaucer, as appears from vol. iii. appendix (sect. ii.). and yet to his time our norman nobles are supposed to have adhered to their french language. [v] [_that intercommunity, &c. between the french and english_ _minstrels, &c._] this might, perhaps, in a great measure be re-referred even to the norman conquest, when the victors brought with them all their original opinions and fables; which could not fail to be adopted by the english minstrels and others who solicited their favour. this interchange, &c. between the minstrels of the two nations would be afterwards promoted by the great intercourse produced among all the nations of christendom in the general crusades, and by that spirit of chivalry which led knights, and their attendants the heralds, and minstrels, &c. to ramble about continually from one court to another in order to be present at solemn turnaments, and other feats of arms. [v ] [_is not the only instance, &c._] the constant admission granted to minstrels was so established a privilege, that it became a ready expedient to writers of fiction. thus, in the old romance of _horn-child_, the princess rymenyld being confined in an inaccessible castle, the prince, her lover, and some assistant knights with concealed arms assume the minstrel character, and approaching the castle with their "gleyinge" or minstrelsy, are heard by the lord of it, who being informed they were "harpeirs, jogelers, and fythelers,"[ ] has them admitted, when "horn sette him abenche (_i.e._ on a bench). is (_i.e._ his) harpe he gan clenche he made rymenild a lay." this sets the princess a weeping and leads to the catastrophe, for he immediately advances to "the borde" or table, kills the ravisher, and releases the lady. [v ] [... _assumed the dress and character of a harper, &c._] we have this curious _historiette_ in the records of lacock nunnery in wiltshire, which had been founded by this countess of salisbury. see vincent's _discovery of errors in brookes catalogue of nobility_, &c. folio, pp. - , &c. take the following extract, and see dugdale's _baron_, i. p. . "ela uxor gullielmi longespee primi, nata fuit apud ambresbiriam, patre et matre normannis. "pater itaque ejus defectus senio migravit ad christum, a.d. . mater ejus ante biennium obiit.... interea domina charissima clam per cognatos adducta fuit in normanniam, & ibidem sub tutâ et arctâ custodiâ nutrita. eodem tempore in anglia fuit quidam miles nomine gulielmus talbot, qui induit se habitum peregrini (_anglicè_, a pilgrim) in normanniam transfretavit & moratus per duos annos, huc atque illuc vagans, ad explorandam dominam elam sarum. et illâ inventâ, exuit habitum peregrini, & induit se quasi cytharisator & curiam ubi morabatur intravit. et ut erat homo jocosus, in gestis antiquorum valde peritus, ibidem gratanter fuit acceptus quasi familiaris. et quando tempus aptum invenit, in angliam repatriavit, habens secum istam venerabilem dominam elam & hæredem comitatus sarum; & eam regi richardo præsentavit. ac ille lætissime eam suscepit, & fratri suo guillelmo longespee maritavit.... a.d. dominus guill. longespee primus nonas martii obiit. ela vero uxor ejus et annis supervixit.... una die duo monasteria fundavit primo mane xvi kal. maii. a.d. . apud lacock, in quo sanctæ degunt canonissæ.... et henton post nonam, anno vero ætatis suæ, xlv. &c." [w] for the preceding account dugdale refers to _monast. angl._ i. (r. ii.) p. , but gives it as enlarged by d. powel, in his _hist._ _of cambria_, p. , who is known to have followed ancient welsh mss. the words in the monasticon are: "qui accersitis sutoribus cestriæ et histrionibus, festinanter cum exercitu suo venit domino suo facere succursum. walenses vero videntes multitudinem magnam venientem, relictâ obsidione fugerunt.... et propter hoc dedit comes antedictus.... constabulario dominationem sutorum et histrionum. constabularius vero retinuit sibi et hæredibus suis dominationem sutorum: et histrionum dedit vero seneschallo." so the passage should apparently be pointed; but either _et_ or _vero_ seems redundant. we shall see below in note [z] the proper import of the word _histriones_; but it is very remarkable that this is not the word used in the grant of the constable de lacy to dutton, but "magisterium omnium _leccatorum_ et _meretricium_ totius cestreshire, sicut liberius illum (_sic_) magisterium teneo de comite" (_vid._ blount's _ancient tenures_, p. ). now, as under this grant the heirs of dutton confessedly held for many ages a _magisterial_ jurisdiction over all the minstrels and musicians of that county, and as it could not be conveyed by the word _meretrices_, the natural inference is, that the minstrels were expressed by the term _leccatores_. it is true, du cange compiling his glossary could only find in the writers he consulted this word used in the abusive sense, often applied to every synonyme of the sportive and dissolute minstrel, viz. _scurra_, _vaniloquus_, _parasitus_, _epulo_, &c. (this i conceive to be the proper arrangement of these explanations, which only express the character given to the minstrel elsewhere: see du cange, _passim_, and notes, [c], [e], [f], [i], iii. , &c.) but he quotes an ancient ms. in french metre, wherein the leccour (lat. _leccator_) and the minstrel are joined together, as receiving from charlemagne a grant of the territory of provence, and from whom the provençal troubadours were derived, &c. see the passage above in note [c] p. . the exception in favour of the family of dutton is thus expressed in the statute, anno , eliz. chap. iv. entitled, "an act for punishment of rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars." "§ ii.... all fencers, bearwards, common players of enterludes, and minstrels, wandering abroad (other than players of enterludes belonging to any baron of this realm, or any other honourable personage of greater degree, to be authorised to play under the hand and seal of arms of such baron or personage): all juglers, tinkers, pedlers, &c.... shall be adjudged and deemed rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars, &c. "§ x. provided always that this act, or any thing therein contained, or any authority thereby given, shall not in any wise extend to disinherit, prejudice, or hinder john dutton of dutton, in the county of chester, esquire, his heirs or assigns, for, touching or concerning any liberty, preheminence, authority, jurisdiction, or inheritance, which the said john dutton now lawfully useth, or hath, or lawfully may or ought to use within the county-palatine of chester, and the county of the city of chester, or either of them, by reason of any ancient charters of any kings of this land, or by reason of any prescription, usage, or title whatsoever." the same clauses are renewed in the last act on this subject, passed in the present reign of george iii. [x] [_edward i ... at the knighting of his son, &c._] see _nic. triveti annales_, oxon. , vo. p. . "in festo pentecostes rex filium suum armis militaribus cinxit, & cum eo comites warenniæ & arundeliæ, aliosque, quorum numerus ducentos & quadraginta dicitur excessisse. eodem die cum sedisset rex in mensa, novis militibus circumdatus, ingressa ministrellorum multitudo, portantium multiplici ornatu amictum, ut milites præcipue novos invitarent, & inducerent, ad vovendum factum armorum aliquod coram signo." [y] [_by an express regulation, &c._] see in hearne's _append. ad lelandi collectan._ vol. vi. p. . "a dietarie, writtes published after the ordinance of earles and barons, anno dom. ." "edward by the grace of god, &c. to sheriffes, &c., greetyng. forasmuch as ... many idle persons, under colour of mynstrelsie, and going in messages, and other faigned busines, have ben and yet be receaved in other mens houses to meate and drynke, and be not therwith contented yf they be not largely consydered with gyftes of the lordes of the houses, &c.... we wyllyng to restrayne such outrageous enterprises and idlenes, &c. have ordeyned ... that to the houses of prelates, earles, and barons, none resort to meate and drynke, unless he be a mynstrel, and of these minstrels that there come none except it be three or four minstrels of honour at the most in one day, unlesse he be desired of the lorde of the house. and to the houses of meaner men that none come unlesse he be desired, and that such as shall come so, holde themselves contented with meate and drynke, and with such curtesie as the maister of the house wyl shewe unto them of his owne good wyll, without their askyng of any thyng. and yf any one do agaynst this ordinaunce, at the firste tyme he to lose his minstrelsie, and at the second tyme to forsweare his craft, and never to be receaved for a minstrell in any house.... yeven at langley the vi. day of august, in the ix yere of our reigne." these abuses arose again to as great a height as ever in little more than a century after; in consequence, i suppose, of the licentiousness that crept in during the civil wars of york and lancaster. this appears from the charter, e. iv. referred to in p. xlv. "ex querulosâ insinuatione ... ministrallorum nostrorum accepimus qualiter nonnulli rudes agricolæ & artifices diversarum misterarum regni nostri angliæ, finxerunt se fore ministrallos, quorum aliqui liberatam nostram eis minime datam portarent, seipsos etiam fingentes esse minstrallos nostros proprios, cujus quidem liberatæ ac dictæ artis sive occupationis ministrallorum colore, in diversis partibus regni nostri prædicti grandes pecuniarum exactiones de ligeis nostris deceptive colligunt, &c." abuses of this kind prevailed much later in wales, as appears from the famous commission issued out in eliz. ( ) for bestowing the silver harp on the best minstrel, rythmer, or bard, in the principality of north wales: of which a fuller account will be given below in note [bb ]. [z] [_it is thus related by stow._] see his survey of london, &c. fol. , p. (acc. of westm. hall). stow had this passage from walsingham's _hist. ang._ ... "intravit quædam mulier ornata histrionali habitu, equum bonum insidens histrionaliter phaleratum, quæ mensas more histrionum circuivit; & tandem ad regis mensam per gradus ascendit, & quandam literam coram rege posuit, & retracto fræno (salutatis ubique discumbentibus) prout venerat ita recessit," &c. _anglic. norm. script._ &c. franc. , fol. p. . it may be observed here, that minstrels and others often rode on horseback up to the royal table, when the kings were feasting in their great halls. see in this vol. book i, no. . the answer of the porters (when they were afterwards blamed for admitting her) also deserves attention. "non esse moris domus regiæ histriones ab ingressu quomodolibet prohibere, &c." walsingh. that stow rightly translated the latin word _histrio_ here by _minstrel_, meaning a musician that sung, and whose subjects were stories of chivalry, admits of easy proof; for in the _gesta romanorum_, chap. cxi. mercury is represented as coming to argus in the character of a minstrel; when he "incepit, more _histrionico_ fabulas dicere, et plerumque cantare." (t. warton, iii. p. li.) and muratori cites a passage, in an old italian chronicle, wherein mention is made of a stage erected at milan: "super quo _histriones_ _cantibant_, sicut modo cantatur de rolando et oliverio." _antich._ _ital._ ii. p. . (_observ. on the statutes_, th edit. p. .) see also [e] p. . [f] p. . [aa] [_there should seem to have been women of this profession._] this may be inferred from the variety of names appropriated to them in the middle ages, viz. anglo-sax. +glip-meden+ (glee-maiden), &c. +glypiendemaden, glypbydenestra+. (vid. supra, p. .) fr. _jengleresse_, med. lat. _joculatrix_, _ministralissa_, _foemina ministerialis_, &c. (vid. du cange, _gloss. & suppl._) see what is said in p. concerning the "sisters of the fraternity of minstrels;" see also a passage quoted by dr. burney (ii. ) from muratori, of the chorus of women singing thro' the streets accompanied with musical instruments in . had the female described by walsingham been a _tombestere_, or dancing-woman (see tyrwhitt's _chaucer_, iv. , and v. gloss.) that historian would probably have used the word _saltatrix_ (see t. warton, i. , note m.) these _saltatrices_ were prohibited from exhibiting in churches and church-yards along with _joculatores_, _histriones_, with whom they were sometimes classed, especially by the rigid ecclesiastics, who censured, in the severest terms, all these sportive characters (vid. t. warton _in loco citato_, and vide _supra_ not. e, f, &c.). and here i would observe, that although fauchet and other subsequent writers affect to arrange the several members of the minstrel profession under the different classes of _troverres_ (or _troubadours_), _chanterres_, _conteours_, and _jugleurs_, &c. (vid. p. ) as if they were distinct and separate orders of men, clearly distinguished from each other by these appropriate terms, we find no sufficient grounds for this in the oldest writers; but the general names in latin, _histrio_, _mimus_, _joculator_, _ministrallus_, &c. in french, _menestrier_, _menestrel_, _jongleur_, _jugleur_, &c. and in english, _jogeleur_, _jugler_, _minstrels_, and the like, seem to be given them indiscriminately. and one or other of these names seem to have been sometimes applied to every species of men, whose business it was to entertain or divert (_joculari_) whether with poesy, singing, music, or gesticulation, singly, or with a mixture of all these. yet as all men of this sort were considered as belonging to one class, order or community (many of the above arts being sometimes exercised by the same person), they had all of them doubtless the same privileges, and it equally throws light upon the general history of the profession to shew what favour or encouragement was given, at any particular period of time, to any one branch of it. i have not therefore thought it needful to inquire whether, in the various passages quoted in these pages, the word minstrel, &c. is always to be understood in its exact and proper meaning of a singer to the harp, &c. that men of very different arts and talents were included under the common name of minstrels, &c. appears from a variety of authorities. thus we have _menestrels de trompes_ and _menestrels de bouche_ in the suppl. to du cange, c. , and it appears still more evident from an old french rhymer, whom i shall quote at large: "le quens[ ] manda les _menestrels_; et si a fet[ ] crier entre els, qui la meillor truffe[ ] sauroit dire, ne faire, qu'il auroit sa robe d'escarlate nueve. l'uns menestrels à l'autre reuve fere son mestier, tel qu'il sot, li uns fet l'yvre, l'autre sot; li uns chante, li autre note; et li autres dit la riote; et li autres la jenglerie;[ ] cil qui sevent de jonglerie vielent par devant le conte; aucuns ja qui fabliaus conte il i ot dit mainte risée," &c. _fabliaux et contes_, mo. tom. ii. p. . and what species of entertainment was afforded by the ancient _juggleurs_ we learn from the following citation from an old romance, written in : "quand les tables ostees furent c'il _juggleurs_ in pies esturent s'ont vielles, et harpes prisees chansons, sons, vers, et reprises et _gestes_ chantè nos ont." sir j. hawkins, ii. , from _andr. du chene_. see also tyrwhitt's _chaucer_, iv. p. . all the before mentioned sports went by the general name of _ministralcia ministellorum ludicra_, &c.--_charta an._ , _apud_ rymer, vii. p. . "peracto autem prandio, ascendebat d. rex in cameram suam cum prælatis magnatibus & proceribus prædictis: & deinceps magnates, milites & domini, aliique generosi diem illum, usque ad tempus coenæ, in tripudiis, coreis & solempnibus ministralciis, præ gaudio solempnitatis illius continuarunt." (du cange, _gloss._ .) this was at the coronation of k. richard ii. it was common for the minstrels to dance, as well as to harp and sing (see above, note [e], p. ); thus in the old romance of _tirante el blanco_, val. , the th cap. lib. , begins thus: "despues qui las mesas fueron alçadas vinieron los ministriles; y delante del rey, y de la reyna dançaron un rato: y despues truxeron colacion." they also probably, among their other feats, played tricks of slight of hand, hence the word jugler came to signify a performer of legerdemain; and it was sometimes used in this sense (to which it is now appropriated) even so early as the time of chaucer, who in his _squire's tale_, (ii. ) speaks of the horse of brass, as: "----like an apparence ymade by som magike, as _jogelours_ plaien at thise festes grete." see also the _frere's tale_, i. p. , v. . [aa ] [_females playing on the harp._] thus in the old romance of "syr degore (or degree," no. , iii. appendix) we have (sign. d. i.): "the lady, that was so faire and bright, upon her bed she sate down ryght; she harped notes swete and fine. (her mayds filled a piece of wine.) and syr degore, sate him downe, for to hear the harpes sowne." the th line being omitted in the pr. copy, is supplied from the folio ms. in the _squyr of lowe degree_ (no. , iii. appendix) the king says to his daughter (sign. d. i.): "ye were wont to harpe and syng, and be the meryest in chamber comyng." in the _carle of carlisle_, (no. . iii. appendix) we have the following passage (folio ms. p. , v. ). "downe came a lady faire and free, and sett her on the carles knee: one whiles shee harped another whiles song, both of paramours and louinge amonge." and in the romance of _eger and grime_ (no. , iii. appendix), we have (_ibid._ p. , col. ) in part i. v. : "the ladye fayre of hew and hyde shee sate downe by the bed side shee laid a souter (psaltry) vpon her knee theron shee plaid full lovesomelye. ... and her maydens sweetlye sange." a similar passage occurs in part iv, v. (p. .)--but these instances are sufficient. [bb] [_a charter ... to appoint a king of the minstrels._] intitled _carta le roy de ministraulx_ (in latin _histriones_ vid. plott. p. .) a copy of this charter is printed in _monast. anglic._ i. , and in blount's _law diction._ (art. king). that this was a most respectable officer, both here and on the continent, will appear from the passages quoted below, and therefore it could only have been in modern times, when the proper meaning of the original terms _ministraulz_, and _histriones_ was forgot, that he was called king of the fidlers; on which subject see below, note [ee ]. concerning the king of the minstrels we have the following curious passages collected by du cange, gloss. iv. : "rex ministellorum; supremus inter _ministellos_: de cujus munere, potestate in cæteros _ministellos_ agit charta henrici iv. regis angliæ in _monast. anglicano_, tom. i. p. . charta originalis an. . je robert caveron roy des menestreuls du royaume de france. aliæ ann. . & . copin de brequin roy des menestres du royaume de france. computum de auxiliis pro redemptione regis johannis, ann. . pour une couronne d'argent qu'il donna le jour de la tiphaine au roy des menestrels. "regestum magnorum dierum trecensium an. . super quod joannes dictus charmillons juglator, cui dominus rex per suas literas tanquam regem juglatorum in civitate trecensi magisterium juglatorum, quemadmodum suæ placeret voluntati, concesserat." _gloss._ c. . there is a very curious passage in pasquier's _recherches de la_ _france_, paris, , folio, liv. . ch. , p. , wherein he appears to be at a loss how to account for the title of le roy assumed by the old composers of metrical romances; in one of which the author expressly declares himself to have been a minstrel. the solution of the difficulty, that he had been _le roy des menestrels_, will be esteemed more probable than what pasquier here advances; for i have never seen the title of _prince_ given to a minstrel, &c. scil.--"a nos vieux poetes ... comme ... fust qu'ils eussent certain jeux de prix en leurs poesies, ils ... honoroient du nome, tantot de roy, tantot de prince, celuy qui avoit le mieux faict comme nous voyons entre les archers, arbalestiers, & harquebusiers estre fait le semblable. ainsi l'autheur du roman d'oger le danois, s'appelle roy. "icy endroict est cil livre finez qui des enfans oger est appellez or vueille diex qu'il soit parachevez en tel maniere kestre n'en puist blamez le roy adams (r. adenes) ki il' est rimez. "et en celuy de cleomades, "ce livre de cleomades rimé-je le roy adenes menestre au bon duc henry. "mot de roy, qui seroit tres-mal approprié à un menestrier, si d'ailleurs on ne le rapportoit a un jeu du priz: et de faict il semble que de nostre temps, il y en eust encores quelque remarques, en ce que le mot de jouingleur s'estant par succession de temps tourné en batelage nous avons veu en nostre jeunesse les jouingleurs se trouver à certain jour tous les ans en la ville de chauny en picardie, pour faire monstre de leur mestrier devant le monde, à qui mieux. et ce que j'en dis icy n'est pas pour vilipender ces anciens rimeurs, ainsi pour monstrer qu'il n'y a chose si belle qui ne s'aneantisse avec le temps." we see here that in the time of pasquier the poor minstrel was sunk into as low estimation in france, as he was then or afterwards in england: but by his apology for comparing the jouingleurs, who assembled to exercise their faculty, in his youth, to the ancient rimeurs, it is plain they exerted their skill in rhyme. as for king _adenes_, or _adenez_ (whose name in the first passage above is corruptly printed _adams_), he is recorded in the _bibliothèque des romans, amst._ , mo. vol. i. p. , to have composed the two romances in verse above-mentioned, and a third intitled _le roman de bertin_: all three being preserved in a ms. written about . his _bon duc henry_ i conceive to have been henry duke of brabant. [bb ] [_king of the minstrels, &c._] see anstis's _register of the order of the garter_, ii. p. , who tells us: "the president or governour of the minstrels had the like denomination of _roy_ in france and burgundy: and in england, john of gaunt constituted such an officer by a patent; and long before his time payments were made by the crown, to [a] king of the minstrels by edw. i. 'regi roberto ministrallo scutifero ad arma commoranti ad vadia regis anno to.' (_bibl. cotton. vespas._ c. , f. ), as likewise (_libro garderob_. , e. ): 'ministrallis in die nuptiarum comitissæ holland filiæ regis, regi pago, johanni vidulatori &c. morello regi, &c. druetto monthaut, and jacketto de scot. regibus, cuilibet eorum xls.' regi pagio de hollandia, &c. under ed ii. we likewise find other entries, 'regi roberto et aliis ministrallis facientibus menistrallias (ministralcias, qu.) suas coram rege. (_bibl. cotton. nero._ c. , p. b. _comp. garderob._) that king granted, 'willielmo de morlee dicto roy de north, ministrallo regis, domos quæ fuerunt' johannis le boteler dicti roy brunhaud (_pat. de terr. forisfact._ . e. )." he adds below, (p. ) a similar instance of a _rex juglatorum_, and that the "king of the minstrels" at length was styled in france _roy des violons_, (furitiere, _diction. univers._) as with us "king of the fidlers," on which subject see below, note [ee ]. [bb ] the statute hen. iv. ( ) c. , runs in these terms: "item, pur eschuir plusieurs diseases et mischiefs qont advenuz devaunt ces heures en la terre de gales par plusieurs westours rymours, minstralx et autres vacabondes, ordeignez est et establiz qe nul westour, rymour ministral ne vacabond soit aucunement sustenuz en la terre de gales pur faire kymorthas ou coillage sur la commune poeple illoeques." this is among the severe laws against the welsh, passed during the resentment occasioned by the outrages committed under owen glendour; and as the welsh bards had excited their countrymen to rebellion against the english government, it is not to be wondered that the act is conceived in terms of the utmost indignation and contempt against this class of men, who are described as _rymours_, _ministralx_, which are apparently here used as only synonymous terms to express the welsh bards with the usual exuberance of our acts of parliament; for if their _ministralx_ had been mere musicians, they would not have required the vigilance of the english legislature to suppress them. it was their songs exciting their countrymen to insurrection which produced "les diseases & mischiefs en la terre de gales." it is also submitted to the reader, whether the same application of the terms does not still more clearly appear in the commission issued in , and printed in evan evans's _specimens of welsh poetry_, , to. p. v. for bestowing the silver harp on "the chief of that faculty." for after setting forth "that vagrant and idle persons, naming themselves _minstrels_, _rythmers_, and _bards_, had lately grown into such intolerable multitude within the principality in north wales, that not only gentlemen and others by their shameless disorders are oftentimes disquieted in their habitations, but also expert _minstrels_ and _musicians in tongue and cunynge_ thereby much discouraged, &c." and "hindred [of] livings and preferment," &c. it appoints a time and place, wherein all "persons that intend to maintain their living by name or colour of _minstrels_, _rythmers_, or _bards_ within five shires of north wales, shall appear to show their learnings accordingly," &c. and the commissioners are required to admit such as shall be found worthy, into and under the degrees heretofore in use, so that they may "use, exercise, and follow the sciences and faculties of their professions in such decent order as shall appertain to each of their degrees." and the rest are to return to some honest labour, &c. upon pain to be taken as sturdy and idle vagabonds, &c. [bb ] holinshed translated this passage from tho. de elmham's _vita et gesta henrici v._ scil.: "soli omnipotenti deo se velle victoriam imputari ... in tantum, quod cantus de suo triumpho fieri, seu per citharistas vel alios quoscunque cantari penitus prohibebat." (edit. hearnii, , p. ). as in his version holinshed attributes the making, as well as singing ditties to minstrels, it is plain he knew that men of this profession had been accustomed to do both. [cc] [_the houshold book, &c._] see section v. "of the noumbre of all my lords servaunts." "item, mynstrals in houshold iii. viz. a taberet, a luyte, and a rebecc." (the rebeck was a kind of fiddle with three strings). "sect. xliv. . "rewardes to his lordship's servaunts, &c. "item, my lord usith ande accustomith to gyf yerly, when his lordschipp is at home, to his minstrallis that be daily in his houshold, as his tabret, lute, ande rebeke, upon new yeresday in the mornynge when they do play at my lordis chamber dour for his lordschip and my lady, xx_s._ viz. xiii_s._ iv_d._ for my lord; and vi_s._ viii_d._ for my lady, if sche be at my lords fyndynge, and not at hir owen; and for playing at my lordis sone and heire's chamber doure, the lord percy, ii_s._ and for playinge at the chamber doures of my lords yonger sonnes, my yonge masters, after viii_d._ the pece for every of them.--xxiii_s._ iiii_d._ "sect. xliv. . "rewards to be geven to strangers, as players, mynstralls, or any other, &c. "furst, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gif to the kings jugler; ... when they custome to come unto hym yerly, vi_s._ viii_d._ "item, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gif yerely to the kings or queenes bearwarde, if they have one, when they custom to come unto hym yerly, vi_s._ viii_d._ "item, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gyfe yerly to every erles mynstrellis, when they custome to come to hym yerely, iii_s._ iiii_d._ and if they come to my lorde seldome, ones in ii or iii yeres, than vi_s._ viii_d._ "item, my lorde usith and accustomedeth to gife yerely to an erls mynstralls, if he be his speciall lorde, friende, or kynsman, if they come yerely to his lordschip.... and, if they come to my 'lord' seldome, ones in ii or iii years...." * * * * * "item, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gyf yerely a dookes or erlis trumpetts, if they come vi together to his lordschipp, viz. if they come yerly, vi_s._ viii_d._ and, if they come but in ii or iii yeres, than x_s._" "item, my lorde usith and accustometh to gife yerly, when his lordschip is at home, to gyf to the kyngs shawmes, when they com to my lorde yerely, x_s._" * * * * * i cannot conclude this note without observing that in this enumeration the family minstrels seem to have been musicians only, and yet both the earl's trumpets and the king's shawmes are evidently distinguished from the earl's minstrels, and the king's jugler. now we find jugglers still coupled with pipers in barklay's _egloges, circ._ . (warton, ii. .) [cc ] the honours and rewards conferred on minstrels, &c. in the middle ages were excessive, as will be seen by many instances in these volumes; v. note [e], [f] &c. but more particularly with regard to english minstrels, &c. see t. warton's _hist. of eng. poetry_, i. p. - , , &c., ii. , , , &c. dr. burney's _hist. of music_, ii. p. - , - , - . on this head, it may be sufficient to add the following passage from the _fleta_, lib. ii. c. : "officium elemosinarij est ... equos relictos, robas, pecuniam, et alia ad elemosinam largiter recipere et fidelitur distribuere; debet etiam regem super elemosinæ largitione crebris summonitionibus stimulare & præcipue diebus sanctorum, et rogare ne robas suas quæ magni sunt precij histrionibus, blanditoribus, adulatoribus, accusatoribus, vel menestrallis, sed ad elemosinæ suæ incrementum jubeat largiri." et in c. : "ministralli, vel adulatoris." [dd] [_a species of men who did not sing, &c._] it appears from the passage of erasmus here referred to, that there still existed in england of that species of _jongleurs_ or minstrels, whom the french called by the peculiar name of _conteours_, or reciters in prose. it is in his _ecclesiastes_, where he is speaking of such preachers as imitated the tone of beggars or mountebanks: "apud anglos est simile genus hominum, quales apud italos sunt circulatores [mountebanks] de quibus modo dictum est; qui irrumpunt in convivia magnatum, aut in cauponas vinarias; et argumentum aliquod, quod edidicerunt, recitant; puta mortem omnibus dominari, aut laudem matrimonii. sed quoniam ea linguâ monosyllabis fere constat, quemadmodum germanica; atque illi (sc. this peculiar species of reciters) studio vitant cantum, nobis (sc. erasmus, who did not understand a word of english) latrare videntur verius quàm loqui."--_opera_, tom. v. c. (jortin, vol. ii. p. ). as erasmus was correcting the vice of preachers, it was more to his point to bring an instance from the moral reciters of prose, than from chanters of rhime; though the latter would probably be more popular, and therefore more common. [ee] this character is supposed to have been suggested by descriptions of minstrels in the romance of _morte arthur_; but none, it seems, have been found which come nearer to it than the following, which i shall produce, not only that the reader may judge of the resemblance, but to shew how nearly the idea of the minstrel character given in this essay corresponds with that of our old writers. sir lancelot, having been affronted by a threatening abusive letter which mark, king of cornwal, had sent to queen guenever, wherein he "spake shame by her and sir lancelot," is comforted by a knight, named sir dinadan, who tells him "i will make a lay for him, and when it is made, i shall make an harper to sing it before him. so anon he went and made it, and taught it an harper, that hyght elyot; and when hee could it, hee taught it to many harpers. and so ... the harpers went straight unto wales and cornwaile to sing the lay ... which was the worst lay that ever harper sung with harpe, or with any other instrument. and [at a] great feast that king marke made for joy of [a] victorie which hee had ... came eliot the harper; ... and because he was a curious harper, men heard him sing the same lay that sir dinadan had made, the which spake the most vilanie by king marke of his treason, that ever man heard. when the harper had sung his song to the end, king marke was wonderous wroth with him, and said, thou harper, how durst thou be so bold to sing this song before me? sir, said eliot, wit you wel i am a minstrell, and i must doe as i am commanded of these lords that _i bear the armes of_. and sir king, wit you well that sir dinadan a knight of the round table made this song, and he made me to sing it before you. thou saiest well, said king marke, i charge thee that thou hie thee fast out of my sight. so the harper departed, &c." (part ii. c. , ed. . see also part iii. c. .) [ee ] [_this art seems to have put an end to the profession, &c._] although i conceive that the character ceased to exist, yet the appellation might be continued, and applied to fidlers, or other common musicians: which will account for the mistakes of sir peter leicester, or other modern writers. (see his _historical antiquities of cheshire_, , p. .) in this sense it is used in an ordinance in the times of cromwell ( ), wherein it is enacted that if any of the "persons commonly called fidlers or minstrels shall at any time be taken playing, fidling, and making music in any inn, ale-house, or tavern, or shall be taken proffering themselves, or desiring, or intreating any ... to hear them play or make music in any of the places aforesaid" they are to be "adjudged and declared to be rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars." this will also account why john of gaunt's king of the minstrels at length came to be called, like _le roy des violons_ in france (v. note [bb ]), king of the fidlers. see the common ballad intitled _the pedigree, education, and marriage of robin-hood with clorinda, queen of tutbury feast_: which, though prefixed to the modern collection on that subject,[ ] seems of much later date than most of the others; for the writer appears to be totally ignorant of all the old traditions concerning this celebrated outlaw, and has given him a very elegant bride instead of his old noted lemman, "maid marian:" who together with his chaplain "frier tuck," were his favourite companions, and probably on that account figured in the old morice dance, as may be seen by the engraving in mr steevens's and mr. malone's edition of _shakespeare_: by whom she is mentioned, hen. iv. act iii. sc. . (see also warton, i. , ii. .) whereas from this ballad's concluding with an exhortation to "pray for the king," and "that he may get children," &c. it is evidently posterior to the reign of queen elizabeth, and can scarce be older than the reign of k. charles i. for k. james i. had no issue after his accession to the throne of england. it may even have been written since the restoration, and only express the wishes of the nation for issue on the marriage of their favourite k. charles ii., on his marriage with the infanta of portugal. i think it is not found in the pepys collection. [ff] [_historical song or ballad._] the english word ballad is evidently from the french _balade_, as the latter is from the italian _ballata_; which the crusca dictionary defines, _canzone che si canta_ _ballando_: "a song which is sung during a dance." so dr. burney (ii. ,) who refers to a collection of _ballette_, published by gastaldi, and printed at antwerp in (iii. .) but the word appears to have had an earlier origin: for in the decline of the roman empire, these trivial songs were called _ballistea_ and _saltatiunculæ_. _ballisteum_, salmasius says, is properly _ballistium_, gr. #ballisteion#. "#apo tou ballizô# ... #ballistia# saltatio ... _ballistium_ igitur est quod vulgo vocamus _ballet_; nam inde deducta vox nostra." salmas. _not. in_ hist. ang. scriptores, iv. p. . in the life of the emperor aurelian by fl. vopiscus may be seen two of these _ballistea_, as sung by the boys skipping and dancing, on account of a great slaughter made by the emperor with his own hand in the sarmatic war. the first is: "mille, mille, mille decollavimus, unus homo mille decollavimus, mille vivat, qui mille occidit. tantum vini habet nemo quantum fudit sanguinis." the other was: "mille sarmatas, mille francos semel & semel occidimus. mille persas quærimus." salmasius (_in loc._) shows that the trivial poets of that time were wont to form their metre of trochaic tetrametre catalectics, divided into distichs. (_ibid._ p. .) this becoming the metre of the hymns in the church service, to which the monks at length superadded rhyming terminations, was the origin of the common trochaic metre in the modern languages. this observation i owe to the learned author of _irish antiquities_, to. [ff ] [_little miscellanies named garlands, &c._] in the pepysian and other libraries are preserved a great number of these in black letter, mo. under the following quaint and affected titles, viz.: . _a crowne garland of goulden roses gathered out of england's royal garden, &c._, by richard johnson, . [in the bodleyan library.] . _the golden garland of princely delight._ . _the garland of good-will_, by t. d., . . _the royal garland of love and delight_, by t. d. . _the garland of delight, &c._, by tho. delone. . _the garland of love and mirth_, by thomas lanfier. . _cupid's garland set round with guilded roses._ . _the garland of withered roses_, by martin parker, . . _the shepherd's garland of love, loyalty, &c._ . _the country garland._ . _the golden garland of mirth and merriment._ . _the lover's garland._ . _neptune's fair garland._ . _england's fair garland._ . _robin hood's garland._ . _the maiden's garland._ . _a loyal garland of mirth and pastime._ . _a royal garland of new songs._ . _the jovial garland_, th edit. , &c. &c. &c. this sort of petty publications had anciently the name of penny merriments: as little religious tracts of the same size were called penny godlinesses. in the pepysian library are multitudes of both kinds. [gg] [_the term minstrel was not confined to a meer musician in_ _this country any more than on the continent._] the discussion of the question, whether the term minstrel was applied in england to singers and composers of songs, &c. or confined to the performers on musical instruments, was properly reserved for this place, because much light hath already been thrown upon the subject in the preceding notes, to which it will be sufficient to refer the reader. that on the continent the minstrel was understood not to be a meer musician but a singer of verses, hath been shown in notes [b], [c], [r], [aa], &c.[ ] and that he was also a maker of them is evident from the passage in [c] p. , where the most noted romances are said to be of the composition of these men. and in [bb] p. , we have the titles of some of which a minstrel was the author, who has himself left his name upon record. the old english names for one of this profession were gleeman,[ ] jogeler,[ ] and latterly minstrel; not to mention harper, &c. in french he was called _jongleur_ or _jugleur_, _menestrel_ or _menestrier_.[ ] the writers of the middle ages expressed the character in latin by the words _joculator_, _mimus_, _histrio_, _ministrellus_, &c. these terms, however modern critics may endeavour to distinguish and apply them to different classes, and although they may be sometimes mentioned as if they were distinct, i cannot find after a very strict research to have had any settled appropriate difference, but they appear to have been used indiscriminately by the oldest writers, especially in england, where the most general and comprehensive name was latterly minstrel, lat. _ministrellus_, &c. thus _joculator_ (eng. jogeler, or juglar) is used as synonymous to _citharista_ (note [k] p. ), and to _cantor_ (p. ), and to minstrel (vid. _infra_, p. ). we have also positive proof that the subject of his songs were gestes and romantic tales ([v ] note). so _mimus_ is used as synonymous to _joculator_ ([m] p. ). he was rewarded for his singing ([n] p. ) and he both sang, harped, and dealt in that sport [t ] which is elsewhere called _ars joculatoria_ ([m] _ubi supra_). again _histrio_ is also proved to have been a singer ([z] p. ) and to have gained rewards by his _verba joculatoria_ ([e] p. ). and _histriones_ is the term by which the fr. word _ministraulx_ is most frequently rendered into latin ([w] p. , [bb] p. , &c.) the fact therefore is sufficiently established that this order of men were in england, as well as on the continent, singers: so that it only becomes a dispute about words, whether here under the more general name of minstrels, they are described as having sung. but in proof of this we have only to turn to so common a book as t. warton's _history of eng. poetry_: where we shall find extracted from records the following instances:-- "ex registr. priorat. s. swithin winton (sub anno ). in festo alwyni epi.... et durante pietancia in aula conventus sex ministralli, cum quatuor citharisatoribus, faciebant ministralcias suas. et post cenam, in magna camera arcuata dom. prioris cantabant idem gestum in qua camera suspendebatur, ut moris est, magnum dorsale prioris habens picturas trium regum colein. veniebant autem dicti joculatores a castello domini regis & ex familia epi." (vol. ii. p. ). here the minstrels and harpers are expressly called _joculatores_, and as the harpers had musical instruments, the singing must have been by the minstrels, or by both conjointly. for that minstrels sang we have undeniable proof in the following entry in the accompt roll of the priory of bicester, in oxfordshire (under the year ). "_dat. sex_ ministrallis de _bokyngham_ cantantibus _in refectorio martyrium septem domientium in festo epiphanie_, ivs." (vol. ii. p. ). in like manner our old english writers abound with passages wherein the minstrel is represented as singing. to mention only a few: in the old romance of _emaré_ (no. , vol. iii. appendix), which from the obsoleteness of the style, the nakedness of the story, the barrenness of incidents, and some other particulars, i should judge to be next in point of time to _hornchild,_ we have: "i have herd menstrelles syng yn sawe."--stanza . in a poem of adam davie (who flourished about ) we have this distich:-- "merry it is in halle to here the harpe, the minstrelles synge, the jogelours carpe." t. warton, i. p. . so william of nassyngton (circ. ) as quoted by mr. tyrwhitt (_chaucer_, iv. ):-- "i will make no vain carpinge of dedes of armys ne of amours as dus mynstrelles and jestours [gestours] that makys carpinge in many a place of octaviane and isembrase, and of many other jestes [gestes] and namely whan they come to festes."[ ] see also the description of the minstrel in note [ee] from _morte_ _arthur_, which appears to have been compiled about the time of this last writer. (see t. warton, ii. ). by proving that minstrels were singers of the old romantic songs and gestes, &c. we have in effect proved them to have been the makers at least of some of them. for the names of their authors being not preserved, to whom can we so probably ascribe the composition of many of these old popular rhimes, as to the men who devoted all their time and talents to the recitation of them: especially as in the rhimes themselves minstrels are often represented as the makers or composers. thus in the oldest of all, _hornchild_ having assumed the character of a harper or jogeler, is in consequence said (fo. ). to have "made rymenild [his mistress] a lay." in the old romance of _emaré_, we have this exhortation to minstrels, as composers, otherwise they could not have been at liberty to chuse their subjects (st. ):-- "menstrelles that walken fer and wyde her and ther in every a syde in mony a dyverse londe sholde ut her bygynnyng speke of that ryghtwes kyng that made both see and sonde," &c. and in the old song or geste of _guy and colbronde_ (no. , vol. iii. appendix), the minstrel thus speaks of himself in the first person: "when meate and drinke is great plentye then lords and ladyes still wil be and sitt and solace lythe then itt is time for _mee_ to speake of keene knights and kempes great such carping for to kythe." we have seen already that the welsh bards, who were undoubtedly composers of the songs they chanted to the harp, could not be distinguished by our legislators from our own rimers, minstrels (vid. note [bb ], p. ). and that the provençal _troubadour_ of our king richard, who is called by m. favine _jongleur_, and by m. fauchet _menestrel_, is by the old english translator termed a rimer or minstrel, when he is mentioning the fact of his composing some verses (p. ). and lastly, that holinshed, translating the prohibition of k. henry v., forbidding any songs to be composed on his victory, or to be sung by harpers or others, roundly gives it, he would not permit "any ditties to be made and sung by minstrels on his glorious victory," &c. (vid. p. and note [bb ]). now that this order of men, at first called gleemen, then juglers, and afterwards more generally minstrels, existed here from the conquest, who entertained their hearers with chanting to the harp or other instruments, songs and tales of chivalry, or as they were called, gests[ ] and romances in verse in the english language, is proved by the existence of the very compositions they so chanted, which are still preserved in great abundance, and exhibit a regular series from the time our language was almost saxon, till after its improvements in the age of chaucer, who enumerates many of them. and as the norman french was in the time of this bard still the courtly language, it shows that the english was not thereby excluded from affording entertainment to our nobility, who are so often addressed therein by the title of lordings: and sometimes more positively "lords and ladies" (p. ). and tho' many of these were translated from the french, others are evidently of english origin[ ] which appear in their turns to have afforded versions into that language; a sufficient proof of that intercommunity between the french and english minstrels, which hath been mentioned in a preceding page. even the abundance of such translations into english being all adapted for popular recitation, sufficiently establishes the fact that the english minstrels had a great demand for such compositions, which they were glad to supply, whether from their own native stores or from other languages. we have seen above that the _joculator_, _mimus_, _histrio_, whether these characters were the same, or had any real difference, were all called minstrels; as was also the harper,[ ] when the term implied a singer, if not a composer of songs, &c. by degrees the name of minstrel was extended to vocal and instrumental musicians of every kind: and as in the establishment of royal and noble houses, the latter would necessarily be most numerous, so we are not to wonder that the band of music (entered under the general name of minstrels) should consist of instrumental performers chiefly, if not altogether; for as the composer or singer of heroic tales to the harp would necessarily be a solitary performer, we must not expect to find him in the band along with the trumpeters, fluters, &c. however, as we sometimes find mention of "minstrels of music:"[ ] so at other times we hear of "expert minstrels and musicians of tongue and cunning" (b b. iii. p. )[ ], meaning doubtless by the former singers, and probably by the latter phrase composers of songs. even "minstrels music" seems to be applied to the species of verse used by minstrels in the passage quoted below.[ ] but although from the predominancy of instrumental music minstrelsy was at length chiefly to be understood in this sense, yet it was still applied to the poetry of minstrels so late as the time of queen elizabeth, as appears in the following extract from puttenham's _arte of eng. poesie_, p. , who, speaking of the first composers of latin verses in ryme, says, "all that they wrote to the favour or prayse of princes, they did it in such manner of minstralsie; and thought themselves no small fooles, when they could make their verses go all in ryme." i shall conclude this subject with the following description of minstrelcy given by john lidgate at the beginning of the fifteenth century, as it shows what a variety of entertainments were then comprehended under this term, together with every kind of instrumental music then in use. "al maner mynstralcye. that any man kan specifye. ffor there were rotys of almayne, and eke of arragon, and spayne: songes, stampes, and eke daunces; divers plente of plesaunces: and many unkouth notys new of swiche folke as lovid treue.[ ] and instrumentys that did excelle, many moo than i kan telle. harpys, fythales, and eke rotys well according to her [_i.e._ their] notys, lutys, ribibles, and geternes, more for estatys, than tavernes: orgay[n]s, cytolis, monacordys.-- there were trumpes, and trumpettes, lowde shall[m]ys, and doucettes." t. warton, ii. , note [ ]. * * * * * [-»] the foregoing essay on the ancient minstrels has been very much enlarged and improved since the first edition, with respect to the anglo-saxon minstrels, in consequence of some objections proposed by the reverend and learned mr. pegge, which the reader may find in the second volume of the _archæologia_, printed by the antiquarian society: but which that gentleman has since retracted in the most liberal and candid manner in the third volume of the _archæologia_, no. xxxiv. p. . and in consequence of similar objections respecting the english minstrels after the conquest, the subsequent part hath been much enlarged, and additional light thrown upon the subject; which, to prevent cavil, hath been extended to minstrelsy in all its branches, as it was established in england, whether by natives or foreigners. * * * * * [ritson made a searching examination of this essay, and dissented from many of the propositions contained in it. his essay "on the ancient english minstrels" will be found in his collection of _ancient songs and ballads_.] footnotes: [ ] the anglo-saxon and primary english name for this character was gleeman (see below, note [i], sect. ), so that wherever the term minstrel is in these pages applied to it before the conquest, it must be understood to be only by anticipation. another early name for this profession in english was jogeler, or jocular, lat. _joculator_. (see p. , as also note [v ] and note [q].) to prevent confusion, we have chiefly used the more general word minstrel, which (as the author of the _observ. on the statutes_ hath suggested to the editor) might have been originally derived from a diminutive of the lat. _minister_, scil. _ministerellus_, _ministrellus_. [ ] ministers seems to be used for minstrels in the account of the inthronization of abp. neville (an. , edw. iv.). "then all the chaplyns must say grace, and the ministers do sing." vid. _lelandi_ _collectanea_, by hearne, vol. vi. p. . [ ] it has, however, been suggested to the editor by the learned and ingenious author of _irish antiquities_, to. that the ancient _mimi_ among the romans had their heads and beards shaven, as is shown by salmasius in notis ad _hist. august. scriptores vi. paris_, , fol. p. . so that this peculiarity had a classical origin, though it afterwards might make the minstrels sometimes pass for ecclesiastics, as appears from the instance given below. dr. burney tells us that _histriones_ and _mimi_ abounded in france in the time of charlemagne (ii. ), so that their profession was handed down in regular succession from the time of the romans, and therewith some leading distinctions of their habit or appearance; yet with a change in their arts of pleasing, which latterly were most confined to singing and music. [ ] yet in st. mary's church at beverley, one of the columns hath this inscription: "thys pillar made the mynstrylls;" having its capital decorated with figures of five men in short coats; one of whom holds an instrument resembling a lute. see sir j. hawkins' _hist._ ii. . [ ] vid. infra, not. [aa]. [ ] vid. not. [b] [k] [q]. [ ] vid. note [n]. [ ] the minstrels in france were received with great magnificence in the fourteenth century. froissart describing a christmas entertainment given by the comte de foix, tells us, that "there were many mynstrels, as well of hys own, as of straungers, and eache of them dyd their devoyre in their faculties. the same day the erle of foix gave to haraulds and minstrelles the som of fyve hundred frankes: and gave to the duke of tourayns mynstreles gownes of clothe of gold, furred with ermyne, valued at two hundred frankes." b. iii. c. . eng. trans. lond. . (mr. c.) [ ] et vid. policraticon, cap. , &c. [ ] vid. nicolson's _eng. hist. lib._ &c. [ ] gleeman continued to be the name given to a minstrel both in england and scotland almost as long as this order of men continued. in de brunne's metrical version of bishop grosthead's _manuel de peche_, a.d. (see warton, i. ), we have this, "----gode men, ye shall lere when ye any _gleman_ here." fabyan (in his chronicle, , f. .) translating the passage from geoffrey of monmouth, quoted below in p. note [k] renders _deus joculatorum_, by god of gleemen. (warton's _hist. eng. poet._, diss. i.) fabyan died in . dunbar, who lived in the same century, describing in one of his poems, intitled, _the daunce_ what passed in the infernal regions "amangis the feyndis," says: "na menstralls playit to thame, but dowt, for gle-men thaire wer haldin out, be day and eke by nycht." see poems from bannatyne's ms. edinb. , mo. p. . maitland's ms. at cambridge reads here _glewe-men_. [ ] to gleek is used in shakespeare for "to make sport, to jest," &c. [ ] the preceding list of anglo-saxon words, so full and copious beyond any thing that ever yet appeared in print on this subject, was extracted from mr. lye's curious _anglo-saxon lexicon_, in ms. but the arrangement here is the editor's own. it had however received the sanction of mr. lye's approbation, and would doubtless have been received into his printed copy, had he lived to publish it himself. it should also be observed, for the sake of future researches, that without the assistance of the old english interpretations given by somner, in his _anglo-saxon dictionary_, the editor of the book never could have discovered that _glee_ signified minstrelsy, or _gligman_ a minstrel. [ ] neven, _i.e._ name. [ ] geoffrey of monmouth is probably here describing the appearance of the _joculatores_ or minstrels, as it was in his own time. for they apparently derived this part of their dress, &c. from the _mimi_ of the ancient romans, who had their heads and beards shaven (see above p. note [ ]), as they likewise did the mimickry, and other arts of diverting, which they superadded to the composing and singing to the harp heroic songs, &c. which they inherited from their own progenitors the bards and scalds of the ancient celtic and gothic nations. the longobardi had, like other northern people, brought these with them into italy. for "in the year , when charlemagne entered italy and found his passage impeded, he was met by a minstrel of lombardy, whose song promised him success and victory. _contigit_ joculatorem _ex_ longobardorum _gente ad carolum venire, et_ cantiunculam a se compositam, _rotando in conspectu suorum, cantare_." tom. ii. p. . _chron. monast._ noval. lib. iii. cap. x. p. . (t. warton's _hist._ vol. ii. emend. of vol. i. p. .) [ ] _natus_, ; _scripsit_, ; _obit_, . tanner. [ ] _obit, anno_ . tanner. [ ] see above, p. . both ingulph. and will. of malmesb. had been very conversant among the normans; who appear not to have had such prejudices against the minstrels as the anglo-saxons had. [ ] thus +leod+, the saxon word for a poem, is properly a song, and its derivative _lied_ signifies a ballad to this day in the german tongue. and _cantare_ we have seen above is by alfred himself rendered, +be hearpan singan.+ [ ] the tabour or tabourin was a common instrument with the french minstrels, as it had also been with the anglo-saxon (_vid._ p. ): thus in an ancient fr. ms. in the harl. collection ( , ), a minstrel is described as riding on horseback, and bearing his tabour. "entour son col porta son _tabour_, depeynt de or, e riche açour." see also a passage in menage's _diction. etym._ (v. _menestriers_,) where _tabours_ is used as synonymous to _menestriers_. another frequent instrument with them was the viele. this, i am told, is the name of an instrument at this day, which differs from a guitar, in that the player turns round a handle at the top of the instrument, and with his other hand, plays on some keys, that touch the chords, and produce the sound. see dr. burney's account of the vielle, vol. ii. p. , who thinks it the same with the _rote_ or wheel. see p. in the note. "il ot un jougleor a sens, qui navoit pas sovent robe entiere; sovent estoit sans sa _viele_."--_fabliaux & cont._ ii. , . [ ] "romanset jutglar canta alt veux ... devant lo senyor rey."--_chron. d'aragon_, apud du cange, iv. . [ ] it ought to have been observed in its proper place in no. , vol. iii. appendix, that amys and amylion were no otherwise "brothers" than as being fast friends: as was suggested by the learned dr. samuel pegge, who was so obliging as to favour the essayist formerly with a curious transcript of this poem accompanied with valuable illustrations, &c: and that it was his opinion that both the fragment of the _lady bellesent_ mentioned in the same no. , and also the mutilated tale no. , were only imperfect copies of the above romance of _amys and amylion_, which contains the two lines quoted in no. . [ ] whenever the word _romance_ occurs in these metrical narratives, it hath been thought to afford decisive proof of a translation from the _romance_, or french language. accordingly it is so urged by t. warton (i. , note), from two passages in the pr. copy of _sir eglamour_, viz., sign. e. i. "in romaunce as we rede." again in fol. ult. "in romaunce this cronycle is." but in the cotton ms. of the original the first passage is: "as i herd a clerke rede." and the other thus: "in rome this gest cronycled ys." so that i believe references to "the romaunce," or the like, were often meer expletive phrases inserted by the oral reciters; one of whom, i conceive, had altered or corrupted the old _syr eglamour_ in the manner that the copy was printed. [ ] the harp (lat. _cithara_) differed from the sautry, or psaltry (lat. _psalterium_) in that the former was a stringed instrument, and the latter was mounted with wire: there was also some difference in the construction of the bellies, &c. see _bartholomæus de proprietatibus_ _rerum_, as englished by trevisa and batman, ed. , in sir j. hawkins's _hist._ vol ii. p. . [ ] jogeler (lat. _joculator_) was a very ancient name for a minstrel. of what nature the performance of the joculator was, we may learn from the register of st. swithin's priory at winchester (t. warton, i. ): "et cantabat joculator quidam nomine herebertus canticum colbrondi, necnon gestum emme regine a judicio ignis liberate, in aula prioris." his instrument was sometimes the fythele, or fiddle, lat. _fidicula_: which occurs in the anglo-saxon lexicon. on this subject we have a curious passage from a ms. of the _lives of the saints_ in metre, supposed to be earlier than the year (t. warton's _hist._ i. p. ), viz.: "christofre him served longe the kynge loved melodye much of fithele and of songe: so that his jogeler on a day beforen him gon to pleye faste, and in a tyme he nemped in his song the devil at laste." [ ] le compte. [ ] fait. [ ] _sornette_, a gibe, a jest, or flouting [ ] _janglerie_, _babillage_, _raillerie_. [ ] of the songs in what is now called _robin hood's garland_, many are so modern as not to be found in pepys's collection completed only in . in the folio ms. are ancient fragments of the following, viz.: _robin hood and the beggar_, _robin hood and the butcher_, _robin hood and fryer tucke_, _robin hood and the pindar_, _robin hood and queen catharine_, in two parts, _little john and the four beggars_, and _robine hoode his death_. this last, which is very curious, has no resemblance to any that have been published; and the others are extremely different from the printed copies; but they unfortunately are in the beginning of the ms. where half of every leaf hath been torn away. [ ] that the french minstrel was a singer and composer; &c. appears from many passages translated by m. le grand, in _fabliaux ou contes, &c._ see tom. i. p. , , ii. , , & _seqq._ iii. , &c. yet this writer, like other french critics, endeavours to reduce to distinct and separate classes the men of this profession under the precise names of _fablier_, _conteur_, _menetrier_, _menestrel_, and _jongleur_ (tom. i. pref. p. xcviii.) whereas his own tales confute all these nice distinctions, or prove at least that the title of _menetrier_ or minstrel was applied to them all. [ ] see p. . [ ] see p. . [ ] see p. , note [ ]. [ ] the fondness of the english (even the most illiterate) to hear tales and rimes, is much dwelt on by rob. de brunne, in (warton, i. p. , , ). all rimes were then sung to the harp: even _troilus and cresseide_, though almost as long as the _Æneid_, was to be "redde ... or else songe." l. ult. (warton, i. ). [ ] gests at length came to signify adventures or incidents in general. so in a narrative of the journey into scotland of queen margaret and her attendants, on her marriage with k. james iv. in (in appendix to _leland. collect._ iv. p. ), we are promised an account "of their gestys and manners during the said voyage." [ ] the romance of richard coeur de lion (no. ) i should judge to be of english origin, from the names wardrewe and eldrede, &c. iii. appendix (sect. ii.). as is also _eger and grim_ (no. ), wherein a knight is named sir gray steel, and a lady who excells in surgery is called loosepaine or losepain; these surely are not derived from france. [ ] see the romance of _sir isenbras_ (no. ) sign. a. "harpers loved him in hall with other minstrels all." [ ] t. warton, ii. , note (a) from leland's _collect._ vol. iv. append. edit. , p. . [ ] the curious author of the _tour in wales_, , to. p. , i find to have read these words, "in toune and contrey;" which i can scarce imagine to have been applicable to wales at that time. nor can i agree with him in the representation he has given (p. ) concerning the _cymmorth_ or meeting, wherein the bards exerted their powers to excite their countrymen to war; as if it were by a deduction of the particulars he enumerates, and, as it should seem, in the way of harangue, &c. after which, "the band of minstrels ... struck up; the harp, the _crwth_, and the pipe filled the measures of enthusiasm, which the others had begun to inspire." whereas it is well known that the bard chanted his enthusiastic effusions to the harp; and as for the term minstrel, it was not, i conceive, at all used by the welsh; and in english it comprehended both the bard and the musician. [ ] "your ordinarie rimers use very much their measures in the odde, as nine and eleven, and the sharpe accent upon the last sillable, which therefore makes him go ill favouredly and like a minstrels musicke." (puttenham's _arte of eng. poesie_, , p. .) this must mean his vocal music, otherwise it appears not applicable to the subject. [ ] by this phrase i understand new tales or narrative rymes composed by the minstrels on the subject of true and faithful lovers, &c. appendix ii. on the origin of the english stage, &c. i. it is well known that dramatic poetry in this and most other nations of europe owes its origin, or at least its revival, to those religious shows which in the dark ages were usually exhibited on the more solemn festivals. at those times they were wont to represent in the churches the lives and miracles of the saints, or some of the more important stories of scripture. and as the most mysterious subjects were frequently chosen, such as the incarnation, passion, and resurrection of christ, &c., these exhibitions acquired the general name of mysteries. at first they were probably a kind of dumb shews, intermingled, it may be, with a few short speeches; at length they grew into a regular series of connected dialogues, formally divided into acts and scenes. specimens of these in their most improved state (being at best but poor artless compositions) may be seen among dodsley's _old plays_ and in osborne's _harleyan miscel_. how they were exhibited in their most simple form we may learn from an ancient novel, often quoted by our old dramatic poets[ ] intitled ... "a merye jest of a man that was called howleglas"[ ], &c., being a translation from the dutch language, in which he is named _ulenspiegle_. howleglass, whose waggish tricks are the subject of this book, after many adventures comes to live with a priest, who makes him his parish clerk. this priest is described as keeping a leman or concubine, who had but one eye, to whom howleglass owed a grudge for revealing his rogueries to his master. the story thus proceeds: ... "and than in the meane season, while howleglas was parysh clarke, at easter they should play the resurrection of our lorde: and for because than the men wer not learned, nor could not read, the priest toke his leman, and put her in the grave for an aungell: and this seing howleglas, toke to hym iij of the symplest persons that were in the towne, that played the iij maries; and the person [_i.e._ parson or rector] played christe, with a baner in his hand. than saide howleglas to the symple persons. whan the aungel asketh you, whome you seke, you may saye, the parsons leman with one iye. than it fortuned that the tyme was come that they must playe, and the aungel asked them whom they sought, and than sayd they, as howleglas had shewed and lerned them afore, and than answered they, we seke the priests leman with one iye. and than the prieste might heare that he was mocked. and whan the priestes leman herd that, she arose out of the grave, and would have smyten with her fist howleglas upon the cheke, but she missed him and smote one of the simple persons that played one of the thre maries; and he gave her another; and than toke she him by the heare [hair]; and that seing his wyfe, came running hastely to smite the priestes leaman; and than the priest seeing this, caste down hys baner and went to helpe his woman, so that the one gave the other sore strokes, and made great noyse in the churche. and than howleglas seyng them lyinge together by the eares in the bodi of the churche, went his way out of the village, and came no more there."[ ] as the old mysteries frequently required the representation of some allegorical personage, such as death, sin, charity, faith, and the like, by degrees the rude poets of those unlettered ages began to form compleat dramatic pieces consisting entirely of such personifications. these they intitled moral plays, or moralities. the mysteries were very inartificial, representing the scripture stories simply according to the letter. but the moralities are not devoid of invention: they exhibit outlines of the dramatic art; they contain something of a fable or plot, and even attempt to delineate characters and manners. i have now before me two that were printed early in the reign of henry viii., in which, i think, one may plainly discover the seeds of tragedy and comedy, for which reason i shall give a short analysis of them both. one of them is intitled _every man_.[ ] the subject of this piece is the summoning of man out of the world by death; and its moral, that nothing will then avail him but a well-spent life and the comforts of religion. this subject and moral are opened in a monologue spoken by the messenger (for that was the name generally given by our ancestors to the prologue on their rude stage); then god[ ] is represented, who, after some general complaints on the degeneracy of mankind, calls for deth, and orders him to bring before his tribunal every-man, for so is called the personage who represents the human race. every-man appears, and receives the summons with all the marks of confusion and terror. when death is withdrawn every-man applies for relief in this distress to fellowship, kindred, goods, or riches, but they successively renounce and forsake him. in this disconsolate state he betakes himself to good-dedes, who, after upbraiding him with his long neglect of her,[ ] introduces him to her sister knowledge, and she leads him to the "holy man confession," who appoints him penance; this he inflicts upon himself on the stage, and then withdraws to receive the sacraments of the priest. on his return he begins to wax faint, and after strength, beauty, discretion, and five wits[ ] have all taken their final leave of him, gradually expires on the stage, good-dedes still accompanying him to the last. then an aungell descends to sing his requiem, and the epilogue is spoken by a person called doctour, who recapitulates the whole and delivers the moral:-- "c. this memoriall men may have in mynde, ye herers, take it of worth old and yonge, and forsake pryde, for he disceyveth you in thende, and remembre beautè, five witts, strength and discretion, they all at last do every-man forsake; save his good dedes there dothe he take; but beware, for and they be small, before god he hath no helpe at all," &c. from this short analysis it may be observed that _every man_ is a grave, solemn piece, not without some rude attempts to excite terror and pity, and therefore may not improperly be referred to the class of tragedy. it is remarkable that in this old simple drama the fable is conducted upon the strictest model of the greek tragedy. the action is simply one, the time of action is that of the performance, the scene is never changed, nor the stage ever empty. every-man, the hero of the piece, after his first appearance never withdraws, except when he goes out to receive the sacraments, which could not well be exhibited in public, and during his absence knowledge descants on the excellence and power of the priesthood, somewhat after the manner of the greek chorus. and, indeed, except in the circumstance of every-man's expiring on the stage, the sampson agonistes of milton is hardly formed on a severer plan.[ ] the other play is intitled _hick scorner_,[ ] and bears no distant resemblance to comedy; its chief aim seems to be to exhibit characters and manners, its plot being much less regular than the foregoing. the prologue is spoken by pity, represented under the character of an aged pilgrim; he is joined by contemplacyon and perseverance, two holy men, who, after lamenting the degeneracy of the age, declare their resolution of stemming the torrent. pity then is left upon the stage, and presently found by frewyll, representing a lewd debauchee, who, with his dissolute companion imaginacion, relate their manner of life, and not without humour describe the stews and other places of base resort. they are presently joined by hick-scorner, who is drawn as a libertine returned from travel, and, agreeably to his name, scoffs at religion. these three are described as extremely vicious, who glory in every act of wickedness; at length two of them quarrel, and pity endeavours to part the fray; on this they fall upon him, put him in the stocks, and there leave him. pity, thus imprisoned, descants in a kind of lyric measure on the profligacy of the age, and in this situation is found by perseverance and contemplacion, who set him at liberty, and advise him to go in search of the delinquents. as soon as he is gone frewill appears again, and, after relating in a very comic manner some of his rogueries and escapes from justice, is rebuked by the two holy men, who, after a long altercation, at length convert him and his libertine companion imaginacioun from their vicious course of life, and then the play ends with a few verses from perseverance by way of epilogue. this and every morality i have seen conclude with a solemn prayer. they are all of them in rhyme, in a kind of loose stanza, intermixed with distichs. it would be needless to point out the absurdities in the plan and conduct of the foregoing play; they are evidently great. it is sufficient to observe that bating the moral and religious reflection of pity, etc., the piece is of a comic cast, and contains a humorous display of some of the vices of the age. indeed, the author has generally been so little attentive to the allegory, that we need only substitute other names to his personages, and we have real characters and living manners. we see then that the writers of these moralities were upon the very threshold of real tragedy and comedy, and therefore we are not to wonder that tragedies and comedies in form soon after took place, especially as the revival of learning about this time brought them acquainted with the roman and grecian models. ii. at what period of time the moralities had their rise here it is difficult to discover, but plays of miracles appear to have been exhibited in england soon after the conquest. matthew paris tells us that geoffrey, afterwards abbot of st. albans, a norman, who had been sent for over by abbot richard to take upon him the direction of the school of that monastery, coming too late, went to dunstable and taught in the abby there, where he caused to be acted (probably by his scholars) a miracle-play of st. catharine, composed by himself.[ ] this was long before the year , and probably within the eleventh century. the above play of st. catharine was, for aught that appears, the first spectacle of this sort that was exhibited in these kingdoms, and an eminent french writer thinks it was even the first attempt towards the revival of dramatic entertainments in all europe, being long before the representations of mysteries in france, for these did not begin till the year .[ ] but whether they derived their origin from the above exhibition or not, it is certain that holy plays, representing the miracles and sufferings of the saints, were become common in the reign of henry ii., and a lighter sort of interludes appear not to have been then unknown.[ ] in the subsequent age of chaucer, "plays of miracles" in lent were the common resort of idle gossips.[ ] they do not appear to have been so prevalent on the continent, for the learned historian of the council of constance[ ] ascribes to the english the introduction of plays into germany. he tells us that the emperor, having been absent from the council for some time, was at his return received with great rejoicings, and that the english fathers in particular did upon that occasion cause a sacred comedy to be acted before him on sunday, jan. , , the subjects of which were:--"the nativity of our saviour;" "the arrival of the eastern magi;" and "the massacre by herod." thence it appears, says this writer, that the germans are obliged to the english for the invention of this sort of spectacles, unknown to them before that period. the fondness of our ancestors for dramatic exhibitions of this kind, and some curious particulars relating to this subject, will appear from the _houshold book_ of the fifth earl of northumberland, a.d. ,[ ] whence i shall select a few extracts which show that the exhibiting scripture dramas on the great festivals entered into the regular establishment, and formed part of the domestic regulations of our ancient nobility, and, what is more remarkable, that it was as much the business of the chaplain in those days to compose plays for the family as it is now for him to make sermons. "my lordes chapleyns in household vj. viz. the almonar, and if he be a maker of interludys, than he to have a servaunt to the intent for writynge of the parts; and ells to have non. the maister of gramer, &c." sect. v. p. . "item, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gyf yerely if his lordship kepe a chapell and be at home, them of his lordschipes chapell, if they doo play the play of the _nativite_ uppon cristynmes day in the mornnynge in my lords chapell befor his lordship--xx_s._" sect. xliv. p. . "item, ... to them of his lordship chappell and other his lordshipis servaunts that doith play the play befor his lordship uppon shrof-tewsday at night yerely in reward--x_s._" _ibid._ p. . "item, ... to them ... that playth the play of _resurrection_ upon estur day in the mornnynge in my lordis 'chapell' befor his lordshipe--xx_s._" _ibid._ "item, my lorde useth and accustomyth yerly to gyf hym which is ordynede to be the master of the revells yerly in my lordis hous in cristmas for the overseyinge and orderinge of his lordschips playes, interludes and dresinge that is plaid befor his lordship in his hous in the xijth dayes of cristenmas and they to have in rewarde for that caus yerly--xx_s._" _ibid._ p. . "item, my lorde useth and accustomyth to gyf every of the iiij parsones that his lordschip admyted as his players to com to his lordship yerly at cristynmes ande at all other such tymes as his lordship shall comande them for playing of playe and interludes affor his lordship in his lordshipis hous for every of their fees for an hole yere...." _ibid._ p. . "item, to be payd ... for rewards to players for playes playd in christynmas by stranegeres in my house after xx_d._[ ] every play, by estimacion somme-xxxiij_s._ iiij.[ ]." sect. i. p. . "item, my lorde usith, and accustometh to gif yerely when his lordshipp is at home, to every erlis players that comes to his lordshipe betwixt cristynmas ande candelmas, if he be his special lorde & frende & kynsman--xx_s._" sect. xliiii. p. . "item, my lorde usith and accustomyth to gyf yerely, when his lordship is at home to every lordis players, that comyth to his lordshipe betwixt crystynmas and candilmas--x_s._" _ibid._ the reader will observe the great difference in the rewards here given to such players as were retainers of noble personages and such as are stiled strangers, or, as we may suppose, only strolers. the profession of a common player was about this time held by some in low estimation. in an old satire intitled _cock lorreles bote_[ ] the author, enumerating the most common trades or callings, as "carpenters, coopers, joyners," &c., mentions-- "players, purse-cutters, money-batterers, golde-washers, tomblers, jogelers, pardoners, &c." sign. b. vj. iii. it hath been observed already that plays of miracles, or mysteries, as they were called, led to the introduction of moral plays, or moralities, which prevailed so early and became so common that towards the latter end of k. henry vii.'s reign john rastel, brother-in-law to sir thomas more, conceived a design of making them the vehicle of science and natural philosophy. with this view he published. _a new interlude and a mery of the nature of the iiii. elements declarynge many proper points of philosophy naturall, and of dyvers straunge landys_[ ], &c. it is observable that the poet speaks of the discovery of america as then recent: ----"within this xx yere westwarde be founde new landes that we never harde tell of before this," &c. the west indies were discovered by columbus in , which fixes the writing of this play to about (two years before the date of the above _houshold book_). the play of _hick-scorner_ was probably somewhat more ancient, as he still more imperfectly alludes to the american discoveries, under the name of "the newe founde ilonde." [sign. a. vij.] it is observable that in the older moralities, as in that last mentioned, _every-man_, &c., is printed no kind of stage direction for the exits and entrances of the personages, no division of acts and scenes. but in the moral interlude of _lusty juventus_,[ ] written under edward vi. the exits and entrances begin to be noted in the margin.[ ] at length in q. elizabeth's reign moralities appeared formally divided into acts and scenes with a regular prologue, &c. one of these is reprinted by dodsley. before we quit this subject of the very early printed plays, it may just be observed that although so few are now extant it should seem many were printed before the reign of q. elizabeth, as at the beginning of her reign her injunctions in are particularly directed to the suppressing of "many pamphlets, playes, and ballads; that no manner of person shall enterprize to print any such, &c." but under certain restrictions. vid. sect. v. in the time of hen. viii. one or two dramatic pieces had been published under the classical names of comedy and tragedy,[ ] but they appear not to have been intended for popular use. it was not till the religious ferments had subsided that the public had leisure to attend to dramatic poetry. in the reign of elizabeth tragedies and comedies began to appear in form, and could the poets have persevered the first models were good. _gorboduc_, a regular tragedy, was acted in ;[ ] and gascoigne, in , exhibited _jocasta_, a translation from euripides, as also _the supposes_, a regular comedy from ariosto, near thirty years before any of shakespeare's were printed. the people, however, still retained a relish for their old mysteries and moralities,[ ] and the popular dramatic poets seem to have made them their models. from the graver sort of moralities our modern tragedy appears to have derived its origin, as our comedy evidently took its rise from the lighter interludes of that kind. and as most of these pieces contain an absurd mixture of religion and buffoonery, an eminent critic[ ] has well deduced from thence the origin of our unnatural tragi-comedies. even after the people had been accustomed to tragedies and comedies moralities still kept their ground. one of them, intitled _the new custom_,[ ] was printed so late as . at length they assumed the name of masques,[ ] and with some classical improvements, became in the two following reigns the favourite entertainments of the court. iv. the old mysteries, which ceased to be acted after the reformation, appear to have given birth to a third species of stage exhibition, which, though now confounded with tragedy and comedy, were by our first dramatic writers considered as quite distinct from them both. these were historical plays or histories, a species of dramatic writing which resembled the old mysteries in representing a series of historical events simply in the order of time in which they happened, without any regard to the three great unities. these pieces seem to differ from tragedies just as much as historical poems do from epic: as the pharsalia does from the Æneid. what might contribute to make dramatic poetry take this form was, that soon after the mysteries ceased to be exhibited, was published a large collection of poetical narratives, called _the mirrour for_ _magistrates_,[ ] wherein a great number of the most eminent characters in english history are drawn relating their own misfortunes. this book was popular, and of a dramatic cast; and therefore, as an elegant writer[ ] has well observed, might have its influence in producing historical plays. these narratives probably furnished the subjects, and the ancient mysteries suggested the plan. there appears indeed to have been one instance of an attempt at an historical play itself, which was perhaps as early as any mystery on a religious subject, for such, i think, we may pronounce the representation of a memorable event in english history, that was expressed in actions and rhimes. this was the old coventry play of hock-tuesday,[ ] founded on the story of the massacre of the danes, as it happened on st. brice's night, november , .[ ] the play in question was performed by certain men of coventry, among the other shews and entertainments at kenelworth castle, in july, , prepared for queen elizabeth, and this the rather "because the matter mentioneth how valiantly our english women, for the love of their country, behaved themselves." the writer, whose words are here quoted,[ ] hath given a short description of the performance, which seems on that occasion to have been without recitation or rhimes, and reduced to meer dumb-show; consisting of violent skirmishes and encounters, first between danish and english "lance-knights on horseback," armed with spear and shield, and afterwards between "hosts" of footmen, which at length ended in the danes being "beaten down, overcome, and many led captive by our english women."[ ] this play, it seems, which was wont to be exhibited in their city yearly, and which had been of great antiquity and long continuance there,[ ] had of late been suppressed at the instance of some well-meaning but precise preachers, of whose "sourness" herein the townsmen complain, urging that their play was "without example of ill-manners, papistry, or any superstition;"[ ] which shews it to have been entirely distinct from a religious mystery.[ ] but having been discontinued, and, as appears from the narrative, taken up of a sudden after the sports were begun, the players apparently had not been able to recover the old rhimes, or to procure new ones to accompany the action: which, if it originally represented "the outrage and importable insolency of the danes, the grievous complaint of huna, king ethelred's chieftain in wars,"[ ] his counselling and contriving the plot to dispatch them, concluding with the conflicts above mentioned, and their final suppression--"expressed in actions and rhimes after their manner,"[ ] one can hardly conceive a more regular model of a compleat drama; and, if taken up soon after the event, it must have been the earliest of the kind in europe.[ ] whatever this old play, or "storial show,"[ ] was at the time it was exhibited to q. elizabeth, it had probably our young shakespeare for a spectator, who was then in his twelfth year, and doubtless attended with all the inhabitants of the surrounding country at these "princely pleasures of kenelworth,"[ ] whence stratford is only a few miles distant. and as the queen was much diverted with the coventry play, "whereat her majestic laught well," and rewarded the performers with two bucks, and five marks in money, who, "what rejoicing upon their ample reward, and what triumphing upon the good acceptance, vaunted their play was never so dignified, nor ever any players before so beatified;" but especially if our young bard afterwards gained admittance into the castle to see a play, which the same evening, after supper, was there "presented of a very good theme, but so set forth by the actors' well handling, that pleasure and mirth made it seem very short, though it lasted two good hours and more,"[ ] we may imagine what an impression was made on his infant mind. indeed the dramatic cast of many parts of that superb entertainment which continued nineteen days, and was the most splendid of the kind ever attempted in this kingdom; the addresses to the queen in the personated characters of a sybille, a savage man, and sylvanus, as she approached or departed from the castle, and on the water by arion, a triton, or the lady of the lake, must have had a very great effect on a young imagination whose dramatic powers were hereafter to astonish the world. but that the historical play was considered by our old writers, and by shakespeare himself, as distinct from tragedy and comedy, will sufficiently appear from various passages in their works. "of late days," says stow, "in place of those stage-playes[ ] hath been used comedies, tragedies, enterludes, and histories both true and fayned."[ ] beaumont and fletcher, in the prologue to _the captain_, say: "this is nor comedy, nor tragedy, nor history."---- polonius in _hamlet_ commends the actors as the best in the world, "either for tragedie, comedie, historie, pastorall," &c. and shakespeare's friends, heminge and condell, in the first folio edit. of his plays, in ,[ ] have not only intitled their book "mr. william shakespeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies," but in their table of contents have arranged them under those three several heads; placing in the class of histories "k. john, richard ii. henry iv. pts. henry v. henry vi. pts. rich. iii. and henry viii.", to which they might have added such of his other plays as have their subjects taken from the old chronicles, or plutarch's _lives_. although shakespeare is found not to have been the first who invented this species of drama,[ ] yet he cultivated it with such superior success, and threw upon this simple inartificial tissue of scenes such a blaze of genius, that his histories maintain their ground in defiance of aristotle and all the critics of the classic school, and will ever continue to interest and instruct an english audience. before shakespeare wrote, historical plays do not appear to have attained this distinction, being not mentioned in q. elizabeth's licence in [ ] to james burbage and others, who are only impowered "to use, exercyse, and occupie the arte and facultye of playenge commedies, tragedies, enterludes, stage-playes, and such other like." but when shakespeare's histories had become the ornaments of the stage, they were considered by the publick, and by himself, as a formal and necessary species, and are thenceforth so distinguished in public instruments. they are particularly inserted in the licence granted by k. james i. in ,[ ] to w. shakespeare himself, and the players his fellows; who are authorized "to use and exercise the arte and faculty of playing comedies, tragedies, histories, interludes, morals, pastorals, stage-plaies, and such like." the same merited distinction they continued to maintain after his death, till the theatre itself was extinguished: for they are expressly mentioned in a warrant in , for licensing certain "late comedians of q. anne deceased, to bring up children in the qualitie and exercise of playing comedies, histories, interludes, morals, pastorals, stage-plaies, and such like."[ ] the same appears in an admonition issued in [ ] by philip, earl of pembroke and montgomery, then lord chamberlain, to the master and wardens of the company of printers and stationers, wherein is set forth the complaint of his majesty's servants the players, that "diverse of their books of comedyes and tragedyes, chronicle-historyes, and the like," had been printed and published to their prejudice, &c. this distinction, we see, prevailed for near half a century; but after the restoration, when the stage revived for the entertainment of a new race of auditors, many of whom had been exiled in france, and formed their taste from the french theatre, shakespeare's histories appear to have been no longer relished; at least the distinction respecting them is dropt in the patents that were immediately granted after the king's return. this appears not only from the allowance to mr. william beeston in june, ,[ ] to use the house in salisbury-court "for a play-house, wherein comedies, tragedies, tragi-comedies, pastoralls, and interludes, may be acted," but also from the fuller grant (dated august , ),[ ] to thomas killigrew, esq., and sir william davenant, knt., by which they have authority to erect two companies of players, and to fit up two theatres "for the representation of tragydies, comedyes, playes, operas, and all other entertainments of that nature." but while shakespeare was the favourite dramatic poet, his histories had such superior merit that he might well claim to be the chief, if not the only historic dramatist that kept possession of the english stage; which gives a strong support to the tradition mentioned by gildon,[ ] that, in a conversation with ben jonson, our bard vindicated his historical plays by urging, that as he had found "the nation in general very ignorant of history, he wrote them in order to instruct the people in this particular." this is assigning not only a good motive, but a very probable reason for his preference of this species of composition; since we cannot doubt but his illiterate countrymen would not only want such instruction when he first began to write, notwithstanding the obscure dramatic chroniclers who preceded him, but also that they would highly profit by his admirable lectures on english history so long as he continued to deliver them to his audience. and as it implies no claim to his being the _first_ who introduced our chronicles on the stage, i see not why the tradition should be rejected. upon the whole we have had abundant proof that both shakespeare and his contemporaries considered his histories, or historical plays, as of a legitimate distinct species, sufficiently separate from tragedy and comedy, a distinction which deserves the particular attention of his critics and commentators; who, by not adverting to it, deprive him of his proper defence and best vindication for his neglect of the unities, and departure from the classical dramatic forms. for, if it be the first canon of sound criticism to examine any work by whatever rule the author prescribed for his own observance, then we ought not to try shakespeare's histories by the general laws of tragedy or comedy. whether the rule itself be vicious or not is another inquiry: but certainly we ought to examine a work only by those principles according to which it was composed. this would save a deal of impertinent criticism. v. we have now brought the inquiry as low as was intended, but cannot quit it without entering into a short description of what may be called the oeconomy of the ancient english stage. such was the fondness of our forefathers for dramatic entertainments, that not fewer than nineteen playhouses had been opened before the year , when prynne published his _histriomastix_.[ ] from this writer it should seem that "tobacco, wine, and beer,"[ ] were in those days the usual accommodations in the theatre, as within our memory at sadler's wells. with regard to the players themselves, the several companies were (as hath been already shewn),[ ] retainers or menial servants to particular noblemen,[ ] who protected them in the exercise of their profession: and many of them were occasionally strollers, that travelled from one gentleman's house to another. yet so much were they encouraged, that, notwithstanding their multitude, some of them acquired large fortunes. edward allen, who founded dulwich college, is a known instance. and an old writer speaks of the very inferior actors, whom he calls the hirelings, as living in a degree of splendour which was thought enormous in that frugal age.[ ] at the same time the ancient prices of admission were often very low. some houses had penny benches.[ ] the "two-penny gallery" is mentioned in the prologue to beaumont and fletcher's _woman hater_;[ ] and seats of three-pence and a groat seem to be intended in the passage of prynne above referred to. yet different houses varied in their prices: that playhouse called the "hope" had seats of five several rates, from sixpence to half-a-crown.[ ] but a shilling seems to have been the usual price[ ] of what is now called the pit, which probably had its name from one of the playhouses having been a cock-pit.[ ] the day originally set apart for theatrical exhibition appears to have been sunday, probably because the first dramatic pieces were of a religious cast. during a great part of queen elizabeth's reign, the playhouses were only licensed to be opened on that day:[ ] but before the end of her reign, or soon after, this abuse was probably removed. the usual time of acting was early in the afternoon,[ ] plays being generally performed by day-light.[ ] all female parts were performed by men, no english actress being ever seen on the public stage[ ] before the civil wars. lastly, with regard to the playhouse furniture and ornaments, a writer of king charles ii.'s time,[ ] who well remembered the preceding age, assures us that in general "they had no other scenes nor decorations of the stage, but only old tapestry, and the stage strewed with rushes, with habits accordingly."[ ] yet coryate thought our theatrical exhibitions, &c., splendid when compared with what he saw abroad. speaking of the theatre for comedies at venice, he says: "the house is very beggarly and base in comparison of our stately playhouses in england, neyther can their actors compare with ours for apparrell, shewes, and musicke. here i observed certaine things that i never saw before: for i saw women act, a thing that i never saw before, though i have heard that it hath been sometimes used in london; and they performed it with as good a grace, action, gesture, and whatsoever convenient for a player, as ever i saw any masculine actor."[ ] it ought, however, to be observed, that amid such a multitude of playhouses as subsisted in the metropolis before the civil wars, there must have been a great difference between their several accommodations, ornaments, and prices; and that some would be much more shewy than others, though probably all were much inferior in splendor to the two great theatres after the restoration. * * * * * [->] the preceding essay, although some of the materials are new arranged, hath received no alteration deserving notice, from what it was in the second edition, , except in section iv, which in the present impression hath been much enlarged. this is mentioned, because, since it was first published, the history of the english stage hath been copiously handled by mr. tho. warton in his _history of english poetry_, , &c., vols. to. (wherein is inserted whatever in these volumes fell in with his subject); and by edmond malone, esq., who, in his _historical_ _account of the english stage_ (_shakesp._ vol. i. part ii. ), hath added greatly to our knowledge of the oeconomy and usages of our ancient theatres. * * * * * [this essay is now entirely out of date, on account of the mass of new material for a complete history of the english stage, which has been printed since it was written. information on the subject must be sought in the prefaces of the various editions of the dramatists and of the collections of mysteries and miracle plays, or in collier's _history of english dramatic poetry_, and halliwell's _new materials for the life of shakespeare_.] footnotes: [ ] see ben jonson's _poetaster_, act iii. sc. , and his _masque of the fortunate isles_. whalley's edit. vol. ii. p. , vol. vi. p. . [ ] howleglass is said in the preface to have died in mccccl. at the end of the book, in mcccl. [ ] imprynted ... by wyllyam copland: without date, in to. bl. let. among mr. garrick's old plays, k. vol. x. [ ] this play has been reprinted by mr. hawkins in his three vols. of old plays, intitled, _the origin of the english drama_, mo. oxford, . see vol. i. p. . [ ] the second person of the trinity seems to be meant. [ ] the before-mentioned are male characters. [ ] _i. e._ the five senses. these are frequently exhibited as five distinct personages upon the spanish stage (see riccoboni, p. ), but our moralist has represented them all by one character. [ ] see more of _every man_ in vol. ii. pref. to b. ii., note. [ ] "imprynted by me wynkyn de worde," no date; in to. bl. let. this play has also been reprinted by mr. hawkins in his _origin of the english drama_. vol. i. p. . [ ] "apud dunestapliam ... quendam ludum de sancta katerina (quem miracula vulgariter appellamus) fecit. ad quæ decoranda, petiit a sacrista sancti albani, ut sibi capæ chorales accommodarentur, et obtinuit. et fuit ludus ille de sancta katerina." _vitæ abbat. ad fin. hist. mat. paris_, fol. , p. . we see here that plays of miracles were become common enough in the time of mat. paris, who flourished about . but that indeed appears from the more early writings of fitz-stephens: quoted below. [ ] vid. _abregè chron. de l'hist. de france_, par m. henault, à l'ann. . [ ] see fitz-stephens's description of london, preserved by stow (and reprinted with notes, &c., by the rev. mr. pegge, in , to.): "londonia pro spectaculis theatralibus, pro ludis scenicis, ludos habet sanctiores, representationes miraculorum," &c. he is thought to have written in the reign of henry ii. and to have died in that of richard i. it is true at the end of this book we find mentioned _henricum regem tertium_; but this is doubtless henry ii.'s son, who was crowned during the life of his father, in , and is generally distinguished as _rex juvenis_, _rex filius_, and sometimes they were jointly named _reges angliæ_. from a passage in his chap. _de religione_, it should seem that the body of st. thomas becket was just then a new acquisition to the church of canterbury. [ ] see prologue to _wife of bath's tale_, v. , tyrwhitt's ed. [ ] m. l'enfant, vid. _hist. du conc. de constance_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _the regulations and establishments of the houshold of hen. alg. percy, th earl of northumb._ lond. , vo. whereof a small impression was printed by order of the late duke and duchess of northumberland to bestow in presents to their friends. although begun in , some of the regulations were composed so late as . [ ] this was not so small a sum then as it may now appear; for, in another part of this ms. the price ordered to be given for a fat ox is but _s._ _d._ and for a lean one _s._ [ ] at this rate the number of plays acted must have been twenty. [ ] pr. at the sun in fleet-str. by w. de worde, no date, b. l. to. [ ] mr. garrick has an imperfect copy (_old plays_, i. vol. iii.). thtu dramatis personæ are: "the messenger [or prologue]. nae re naturate. humanytè. studyous desire. sensuall appetyte. the taverner. experyence. ygnoraunce. (also yf ye lyste ye may brynge in a dysgysynge.)" afterwards follows a table of the matters handled in the interlude; among which are: "of certeyn conclusions prouvynge the yerthe must nedes be rounde, and that yt is in circumference above xxi. m. myle."----"of certeyne points of cosmographye--and of dyvers straunge regyons,--and of the new founde landys and the maner of the people." this part is extremely curious, as it shews what notions were entertained of the new american discoveries by our own countrymen. [ ] described in vol. ii. preface to book ii. the dramatis personæ of this piece are: "messenger, lusty juventus, good counsail, knowledge, sathan the devyll, hypocrisie, fellowship, abominable-lyving [an harlot], god's-merciful-promises." [ ] i have also discovered some few _exeats_ and _intrats_ in the very old interlude of the _four elements_. [ ] bp. bale had applied the name of tragedy to his mystery of _gods promises_, in . in john palsgrave, b.d., had republished a latin comedy, called _acolastus_, with an english version. holinshed tells us (vol. iii. p. ), that so early as , the king had "a good comedie of plautus plaied" before him at greenwich; but this was in latin, as mr. farmer informs us in his curious _essay on the learning of shakespeare_, vo. p. . [ ] see _ames_, p. . this play appears to have been first printed under the name of _gorboduc_, then under that of _ferrex and porrex_, in ; and again under _gorboduc_, . ames calls the first edition quarto; langbaine, octavo; and tanner, mo. [ ] the general reception the old moralities had upon the stage will account for the fondness of all our first poets for allegory. subjects of this kind were familiar with every one. [ ] bp. warburt. _shakesp._ vol. v. [ ] reprinted among dodsley's _old plays_, vol.i. [ ] in some of these appeared characters full as extraordinary as in any of the old moralities. in ben jonson's masque of _christmas_, , one of the personages is minced pye. [ ] the first part of which was printed in . [ ] _catal. of royal and noble authors_, vol. i. p. - . [ ] this must not be confounded with the mysteries acted on corpus christi day by the franciscans at coventry, which were also called coventry plays, and of which an account is given from t. warton's _hist. of eng. poetry_, &c., in malone's _shakesp._ vol. ii. part ii. p. - . [ ] not , as printed in laneham's _letter_, mentioned below. [ ] ro. laneham, whose letter, containing a full description of the shows, &c., is reprinted at large in nichols's _progresses of q._ _elizabeth_, &c., vol. i. to. . that writer's orthography being peculiar and affected, is not here followed. [ ] laneham, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] laneham describes this play of _hock tuesday_, which was "presented in an historical cue by certain good-hearted men of coventry" (p. ), and which was "wont to be play'd in their citie yearly" (p. ), as if it were peculiar to them, terming it "their old storial show" (p. ). and so it might be as represented and expressed by them "after their manner" (p. ): although we are also told by bevil higgons, that st. brice's eve was still celebrated by the northern english in commemoration of this massacre of the danes, the women beating brass instruments, and singing old rhimes, in praise of their cruel ancestors. see his _short view of eng. history_, vo. p. . (the preface is dated .) [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] laneham, p. . [ ] the _rhimes_, &c., prove this play to have been in english: whereas mr. tho. warton thinks the mysteries composed before were in latin. malone's _shakesp._ vol. ii. pt. ii. p. . [ ] laneham, p. . [ ] see nichols's _progresses_, vol. i. p. . [ ] laneham, p. - . this was on sunday evening, july . [ ] _the creation of the world_, acted at skinner's-well in . [ ] see stow's _survey of london_, , to. p. (said in the title-page to be "written in the year "). see also warton's _observations on spenser_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] the same distinction is continued in the second and third folios, &c. [ ] see malone's _shakesp._ vol. i. part ii. p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] see malone's _shakesp._ vol. i. part ii. p. . here histories, or historical plays, are found totally to have excluded the mention of tragedies; a proof of their superior popularity. in an order for the king's comedians to attend king charles i. in his summer's progress, (_ibid._ p. ), histories are not particularly mentioned; but so neither are tragedies: they being briefly directed to "act playes, comedyes, and interludes, without any lett," &c. [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] this is believed to be the date by mr. malone, vol. ii. part ii. p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . [ ] see malone's _shakesp._ vol. vi. p. . this ingenious writer will, with his known liberality, excuse the difference of opinion here entertained concerning the above tradition. [ ] he speaks in p. of the playhouses in bishopsgate-street and on ludgate-hill, which are not among the seventeen enumerated in the preface to dodsley's _old plays_. nay, it appears from rymer's mss. that twenty-three playhouses had been at different periods open in london; and even six of them at one time. see malone's _shakesp._ vol. i. pt. ii. p. . [ ] so, i think, we may infer from the following passage, viz.: "how many are there, who, according to their several qualities, spend _d._ _d._ _d._ _d._ _d._ _d._ _s._ and sometimes _s._ or _s._ at a playhouse, day by day, if coach-hire, boat-hire, tobacco, wine, beere, and such like vaine expences, which playes doe usually occasion, be cast into the reckoning?" prynne's _histriom._ p. . but that tobacco was smoaked in the playhouses appears from taylor the water-poet, in his _proclamation for tobacco's propagation_: "let play-houses, drinking-schools, taverns, &c. be continually haunted with the contaminous vapours of it; nay (if it be possible) bring it into the churches, and there choak up their preachers." (_works_, p. .) and this was really the case at cambridge: james i. sent a letter in against "taking tobacco" in st. mary's. so i learn from my friend dr. farmer. a gentleman has informed me that once, going into a church in holland, he saw the male part of the audience sitting with their hats on, smoking tobacco, while the preacher was holding forth in his morning-gown. [ ] see the extracts above, in p. , from the _e. of northumb._ _houshold book_. [ ] see the preface to dodsley's _old plays_. the author of an old invective against the stage, called _a third blast of retrait from plaies_, &c., , mo., says: "alas! that private affection should so raigne in the nobilitie, that to pleasure their servants, and to upholde them in their vanitye, they should restraine the magistrates from executing their office!... they [the nobility] are thought to be covetous by permitting their servants ... to live at the devotion or almes of other men, passing from countrie to countrie, from one gentleman's house to another, offering their service, which is a kind of beggerie. who indeede, to speake more trulie, are become beggers for their servants. for comonlie the good-wil, men beare to their lordes, makes them draw the strings of their purses to extend their liberalitie." vid. p. , , &c. [ ] stephen gosson, in his _schoole of abuse_, , mo., fol. , says thus of what he terms in his margin players-men: "over lashing in apparel is so common a fault, that the very hyerlings of some of our players, which stand at revirsion of vi_s._ by the week, jet under gentlemens noses in sutis of silke, exercising themselves to prating on the stage, and common scoffing when they come abrode, where they look askance over the shoulder at every man, of whom the sunday before they begged an almes. i speake not this, as though everye one that professeth the qualitie so abused himselfe, for it is well knowen, that some of them are sober, discreete, properly learned, honest housholders and citizens, well-thought on among their neighbours at home." [he seems to mean edw. allen above mentioned] "though the pryde of their shadowes (i mean those hangbyes, whom they succour with stipend) cause them to be somewhat il-talked of abroad." in a subsequent period we have the following satirical fling at the shewy exterior and supposed profits of the actors of that time. vid. greene's _groatsworth of wit_, , to.: "what is your profession?"--"truly, sir, ... i am a player." "a player?... i took you rather for a gentleman of great living; for, if by outward habit men should be censured, i tell you, you would be taken for a substantial man." "so i am where i dwell.... what, though the world once went hard with me, when i was fayne to carry my playing-fardle a foot-backe: _tempora mutantur_ ... for my very share in playing apparrell will not be sold for two hundred pounds.... nay more, i can serve to make a pretty speech, for i was a country author, passing at a moral," &c. see _roberto's tale_, sign. d. . b. [ ] so a ms. of _oldys_, from tom nash, an old pamphlet-writer. and this is confirmed by taylor the water-poet, in his _praise of_ _beggerie_, p. : "yet have i seen a beggar with his many, [sc. vermin] come at a play-house, all in for one penny." [ ] so in the _belman's night-walks_ by decker, , to. "pay thy two-pence to a player, in this gallery thou mayest sit by a harlot." [ ] induct. to ben jonson's _bartholomew-fair_. an ancient satirical piece called _the blacke book_, lond. , to., talks of "the six-penny roomes in play-houses;" and leaves a legacy to one whom he calls "arch-tobacco-taker of england, in ordinaries, upon stages both common and private." [ ] shakesp. prol. to _hen. viii._--beaum. and fletch. prol. to the _captain_, and to the _mad-lover_. [ ] this etymology hath been objected to by a very ingenious writer (see malone's _shakesp._ vol. i. part ii. p. ), who thinks it questionable, because, in st. mary's church at cambridge, the area that is under the pulpit, and surrounded by the galleries, is (_now_) called the pit; which, he says, no one can suspect to have been a _cockpit_, or that a playhouse phrase could be applied to a church. but whoever is acquainted with the licentiousness of boys, will not think it impossible that they should thus apply a name so peculiarly expressive of its situation: which from frequent use might at length prevail among the senior members of the university; especially when those young men became seniors themselves. the name of pit, so applied at cambridge, must be deemed to have been a cant phrase, until it can be shewn that the area in other churches was usually so called. [ ] so ste. gosson, in his _schoole of abuse_, , mo., speaking of the players, says, "these, because they are allowed to play every sunday, make iiii. or v. sundayes at least every week," fol. . so the author of _a second and third blast of retrait from plaies_, , mo. "let the magistrate but repel them from the libertie of plaeing on the sabboth-daie.... to plaie on the sabboth is but a priviledge of sufferance, and might with ease be repelled, were it thoroughly followed." p. - . so again: "is not the sabboth of al other daies the most abused?.... wherefore abuse not so the sabboth-daie, my brethren; leave not the temple of the lord." ... "those unsaverie morsels of unseemelie sentences passing out of the mouth of a ruffenlie plaier, doth more content the hungrie humors of the rude multitude, and carrieth better rellish in their mouthes, than the bread of the worde, &c." vid. p. , , , &c. i do not recollect that exclamations of this kind occur in prynne, whence i conclude that this enormity no longer subsisted in this time. it should also seem, from the author of the _third blast_ above quoted, that the churches still continued to be used occasionally for theatres. thus, in p. , he says, that the players (who, as hath been observed, were servants of the nobility), "under the title of their maisters, or as reteiners, are priviledged to roave abroad, and permitted to publish their mametree in everie temple of god, and that throughout england, unto the horrible contempt of praier." [ ] "he entertaines us" (says overbury in his _character of an_ _actor_) "in the best leasure of our life, that is, betweene meales; the most unfit time either for study or bodily exercise." even so late as in the reign of charles ii. plays generally began at three in the afternoon. [ ] see _biogr. brit._ i. , n. d. [ ] i say "no english actress ... on the public stage," because prynne speaks of it as an unusual enormity, that "they had frenchwomen actors in a play not long since personated in blackfriars playhouse." this was in , vid. p. . and tho' female parts were performed by men or boys on the public stage, yet in masques at court, the queen and her ladies made no scruple to perform the principal parts, especially in the reigns of james i. and charles i. sir william davenant, after the restoration, introduced women, scenery, and higher prices. see cibber's _apology for his own life_. [ ] see _a short discourse on the english stage_, subjoined to flecknoe's _love's kingdom_, , mo. [ ] it appears from an epigram of taylor the water-poet, that one of the principal theatres in his time, viz. the globe on the bankside, southwark (which ben jonson calls the "glory of the bank, and fort of the whole parish"), had been covered with thatch till it was burnt down in . (see taylor's _sculler_, epig. , p. . jonson's _execration on vulcan_.) puttenham tells us they used vizards in his time, "partly to supply the want of players, when there were more parts than there were persons, or that it was not thought meet to trouble ... princes chambers with too many folkes." [_art of eng. poes._ , p. .] from the last clause, it should seem that they were chiefly used in the masques at court. [ ] coryate's _crudities_, to. , p. . [illustration] [illustration] index of ballads and poems in the first volume. adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudesley, . aged lover renounceth love, . alcanzor and zayda, . bryan and pereene, . carre, captain, . cauline, sir, . character of a happy life, . chevy chase, ancient ballad of, . chevy chace, modern ballad of, . child of elle, . cophetua, king, and the beggar maid, . corydon's farewell to phillis, . cupid's pastime, . death's final conquest, . dowsabell, . edom o' gordon, . edward, edward, . estmere, king, . farewell to love, . friar of orders gray, . frolicksome duke, or the tinker's good fortune, . gentle river, gentle river, . gernutus, the jew of venice, . gilderoy, . jephthah, judge of israel, . jew's daughter, . lancelot du lake, sir, . leir, king, and his three daughters, . my mind to me a kingdom is, . northumberland (henry, th earl of), elegy on, . northumberland betrayed by douglas, . otterbourne, battle of, . passionate shepherd to his love, . patient countess, . rising in the north, . robin hood and guy of gisborne, . robyn, jolly robyn, . song to the lute in musicke, . spence, sir patrick, . take those lips away, . take thy old cloak about thee, . titus andronicus's complaint, . tower of doctrine, . ulysses and the syren, . willow, willow, willow, . winifreda, . witch of wokey, . youth and age, . end of volume the first transcriber's notes: simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. punctuation normalized. anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. errata on p. vii were incorporated in the document. italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. greek text is transliterated and enclosed in #number signs#. anglo-saxon uncial script is enclosed in +plus sign+. special characters and symbols. latin abbreviation large sign et [et] latin small letter heng [hj] latin small letter thorn with stroke [þ/] yogh [gh] inverted asterism [***] triple dagger (center one reversed) [+±+] therefore sign [···] reversed pilcrow sign [r¶] black right pointing index [-»] white right pointing index [->] provided by google books popular british ballads ancient and modern by various chosen and edited by r. brimley johnson illustrated by w. c. cooke in four volumes volume ii [illustration: ] thomas the rhymer |true thomas lay o'er yon grassy bank; and he beheld a lady gay; a lady that was brisk and bold, come riding o'er the ferny brae. her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, her mantle o' the velvet fine; at ilka tett of her horse's mane, hung fifty silver bells and nine. true thomas, he took off his hat, and bowed him low down till his knee: "all hail, thou mighty queen of heaven! for your peer on earth i never did see." "o no, o no, true thomas," she says, "that name does not belong to me; i am but the queen of fair elfland, and i am come here for to visit thee. (_tett_, tuft.) "harp and carp, thomas," she said; "harp and carp along wi' me; and if ye dare to kiss my lips, sure of your body i will be."-- [illustration: ] "betide me weal, betide me woe, that weird shall never daunton me." syne he has kissed her rosy lips, all underneath the eildon tree. "but ye maun go wi' me, now, thomas; true thomas, ye maun go wi' me; for ye maun serve me seven years, thro' weal or woe as may chance to be," (_harp and carp_, chat.) she turned about her milk-white steed; and took true thomas up behind: and aye, whene'er her bridle rang, the steed flew swifter than the wind. for forty days and forty nights he wade thro' red blude to the knee, and he saw neither sun nor moon, but heard the roaring of the sea. [illustration: ] o they rade on, and farther on; until they came to a garden green, "light down, light down, ye lady free, some of that fruit let me pull to thee." "o no, o no, true thomas." she says; "that fruit maun not be touched by thee, for a' the plagues that are in hell light on the fruit of this country. "but i have a loaf here in my lap, likewise a bottle of claret wine, and now ere we go farther on, we'll rest a while and ye may dine." when he had eaten and drunk his fill-- "lay down your head upon my knee," the lady said, "ere we climb yon hill, and i will shew you ferlies three. "o see not ye yon narrow road, so thick beset with thorns and briars? that is the path of righteousness, though after it but few enquires. "and see ye not that braid braid road, that lies across that lily leven? that is the path of wickedness, though some call it the road to heaven. "and see not ye that bonny road, that winds about the ferny brae? that is the road to fair elfiand, where you and i this night maun gae. "but, thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, whatever ye may hear or see; for, gin ae word you should chance to speak, ye'll ne'er get back to your ain country." (_ferlies_, marvels. _leven_, lawn.) he has gotten a coat of the even cloth, and a pair of shoes of velvet green; and till seven years were gane and past, true thomas on earth was never seen. the bonny hind o may she comes, and may she goes, down by yon gardens green, and there she spied a gallant squire as squire had ever been. and may she comes, and may she goes, down by yon hollin tree, and there she spied a brisk young squire, and a brisk young squire was he. "give me your green mantle, fair maid, give me your maidenhead; gif ye winna gie me your green mantle, give me your maidenhead! he has ta'en her by the milk-white hand, and softly laid her down, and when he's lifted her up again given her a silver kaim. (_even,_ fine.) "perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir, perhaps there may be nane; but if you be a courtier, you'll tell to me your name." "i am nae courtier, fair maid, but new come frae the sea; i am nae courtier, fair maid, but when i courteth thee. "they call me jack when i'm abroad, sometimes they call me john; but when i'm in my father's bower jock randal is my name." "ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad; sae loud's i hear ye lee! for i'm lord randal's yae daughter, he has nae mair nor me." "ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may, sae loud's i hear ye lee! for i'm lord randal's yae yae son, just now come o'er the sea." she's putten her hand down by her spare, and out she's ta en a knife, and she has put'nt in her heart's bluid, and ta'en away her life. (_spare_, pocket.) and hes ta en up his bonny sister, with the big tear in his een, and he has buried his bonny sister among the hollins green. and syne hes hied him o'er the dale, his father dear to see: "sing o and o for my bonny hind, beneath yon hollin tree!" "what needs you care for your bonny hind? for it you needna care; there's aught score hinds in yonder park, and five score hinds to spare. "four score of them are siller-shod, of those ye may get three;" "but o and o for my bonny hind, beneath yon hollin tree!" "what needs you care for your bonny hind? for it you needna care; take you the best, give me the worst, since plenty is to spare." "i carena for your hinds, my lord, i carena for your fee; but o and o for my bonny hind, beneath the hollin tree!" (_aught_, eight. "o were ye at your sisters bower, your sister fair to see, ye'll think na mair o' your bonny hind, beneath the hollin tree." king henry [illustration: ] |lat never a man a wooing wend, that lacketh thingés three; a routh o' gold, an open heart, and fu' o' courtesy. as this was seen o' king henry, for he lay burd-alane; and he has ta'en him to a haunted hunt's ha', was seven miles frae a town. (_routh_, plenty. _burd-alane_, alone, without a _burd_ or maiden.) hunt's ha', hunting-lodge. he's chas'd the dun deer thro' the wood, and the roe down by the den, till the fattest buck in a' the herd king henry he has slain. he's ta'en him to his hunting ha', for to make bierly cheer; when loud the wind was heard to sound, and an earthquake rocked the floor. and darkness covered a' the hall where they sat at their meat; the gray dogs, youling, left their food and crept to henry's feet. and louder howled the rising wind, and burst the fastened door; and in there came a grisly ghost, stood stamping on the floor. her head hit the roof-tree o' the house, her middle ye mot weel span;-- each frightened huntsman fled the ha'; and left the king alone." her teeth was a' like tether stakes, her nose like club or mell; and i ken naething she 'pear'd to be, but the fiend that wons in hell. (_bierly_, proper. _mell_, mallet. _wons_, dwells.) "some meat, some meat, ye king henry; some meat ye gie to me." "and what meats in this house, lady? that ye're nae welcome tae?" "o ye's gae kill your berry-brown steed, and serve him up to me." o when he slew his berry-brown steed, wow but his heart was sair! she ate him a' up, skin and bane, left naething but hide and hair. "mair meat, mair meat, ye king henry, mair meat ye gie to me." "and what meats in this house, lady? that yere nae welcome tae?" "o ye do kill your good grey-hounds, and ye bring them a to me." o when he slew his good grey hounds, wow but his heart was sair! she ate them a' up, ane by ane, left naething but hide and hair. "mair meat, mair meat, ye king henry, mair meat ye bring to me." "and what meat's in this house, lady? that i hae left to gie?" "o ye do fell your gay gosshawks, and ye bring them a' to me." o when he felled his gay gosshawks, wow but his heart was sair! she ate them a' up, bane by bane, left naething but feathers bare. "some drink, some drink, now, king henry; some drink ye bring to me." "o what drink's in this house, lady, that ye're nae welcome tae?" "o ye sew up your horse's hide, and bring in a drink to me." and he's sewed up the bloody hide, and put in a pipe o' wine; she drank it a' up at ae draught, left na ae drap therein. "a bed, a bed, now, king henry, a bed ye mak to me." "and what's the bed i' this house, lady, that ye're nae welcome tae?" "o ye maun pu' the green heather, and mak a bed to me." and pu'd has he the heather green, and made to her a bed; and up he's ta en his gay mantle, and o'er it has he spread. "now swear, now swear, ye king henry, to take me for your bride," "o god forbid," says king henry, '"that ever the like betide; that ever the fiend that wons in hell, should streak down by my side." when day was come, and night was gane, and the sun shone thro' the ha, the fairest lady that ever was seen lay atween him and the wa'. "o weel is me!" says king henry; "how lang'll this last wi' me?" and out and spake that lady fair,-- "e en till the day you die. "for i was witched to a ghastly shape, all by my stepdame's skill, till i should meet wi' a curteous knight, would gie me a' my will." (_streak_, stretch, lie.) willy's lady [ ] |willy's ta en him oer the faem, hes wooed a wife, and brought her hame; hes wooed her for her yellow hair, but his mother wrought her mickle care; and mickle dolour gar'd her dree, for lighter she can never be; but in her bower she sits wi' pain, and willy mourns oer her in vain. and to his mother he has gane, that vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! he says--"my lady has a cup, wi' gowd and silver set about; this goodly gift shall be your ain, and let her be lighter o' her young bairn."-- (_faem,_ sea. _dree,_ suffer.) "of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, nor in her bower to shine the brighter: but she shall die, and turn to clay, and you shall wed another may."-- "another may i'll never wed, another may i'll ne'er bring hame:"-- but, sighing, says that weary wight-- "i wish my life were at an end!" "yet do ye unto your mother again, that vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! and say, your lady has a steed, the like o' him's no in the land o' leed. "for he is golden shod before, and he is golden shod behind; at ilka tett of that horse's mane, there's a golden chess, and a bell to ring. this goodly gift shall be your ain, and let me be lighter o' my young bairn."-- "of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, nor in her bower to shine the brighter; but she shall die, and turn to clay, and ye shall wed another may."-- "another may i'll never wed, another may i'll ne'er bring hame:"-- (_tett_, tuft.) willy's lady but, sighing, said that weary wight-- "i wish my life were at an end!"-- "yet do ye unto your mother again, that vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! and say your lady has a girdle, it's of red gowd unto the middle; "and aye, at every siller hem hang fifty siller bells and ten; that goodly gift [shall] be her ain, and let me be lighter o' my young bairn."-- "of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, nor in her bower to shine the brighter; for she shall die, and turn to clay, and you shall wed another may."-- "another may i'll never wed, another may i'll ne'er bring hame:"-- but, sighing, said that weary wight-- "i wish my days were at an end!"-- then out and spake the billy blind, (he spake aye in good time:) "ye do ye to the market-place, and there ye buy a loaf of wax; ye shape it bairn and bairnly like, and in it twa glassen een ye put; "and bid her come to your boy's christening, then notice weel what she shall do; and do you stand a little forbye, and listen weel what she shall say." [he did him to the market-place, and there he bought a loaf o' wax; he shaped it bairn and bairnly like, and in twa glazen een he pat; he did him till his mother then, and bade her to his boy's christening; and he did stand a little forbye, and noticed well what she did say. "o wha has loosed the nine witch knots, that was amang that lady's locks? and wha's ta'en out the kaims o' care, that hang amang that lady's hair? "and wha's ta'en down the bush o' woodbine, that hung between her bower and mine? and wha has kill'd the master kid, that ran beneath that lady's bed? and wha has loosed her left foot shee, and letten that lady lighter be?" o, willy's loosed the nine witch knots, that was amang that lady's locks; and willy's ta'en out the kaims o' care, that hang amang that lady's hair; (_shee_, shoe.) the dæmon lover ss' and willy's ta'en down the bush o' woodbine, hung atween her bower and thine and willy has kill'd the master kid, that ran beneath that lady's bed; and willy has loosed her left foot shee, and letten his lady lighter be; and now he's gotten a bonny young son, and mickle grace be him upon. the dÆmon lover [[illustration: ] |o where have you been, my long, long love, this long seven years and more?"-- "o i'm come to seek my former vows ye granted me before."-- "o hold your tongue of your former vows, for they will breed sad strife; o hold your tongue of your former vows, for i am become a wife." he turn'd him right and round about, and the tear blinded his ee; "i wad never hae trodden on irish ground, if it had not been for thee. "i might hae had a king's daughter, far, far beyond the sea; i might have had a king's daughter, had it not been for love o' thee."-- "if ye might have had a king's daughter, yoursel' ye had to blame; ye might have taken the king's daughter, for ye kenned that i was nane."-- ["o false are the vows of womankind, but fair is their false bodie; i never wad hae trodden on irish ground, had it not been for love o' thee."--] "if i was to leave my husband dear, and my two babes also, o what have you to take me to, if with you i should go?"-- "i hae seven ships upon the sea, the eighth brought me to land; with four-and-twenty bold mariners, and music on every hand." she has taken up her two little babes, kiss'd them baith cheek and chin; "o fair ye weel, my ain two babes, for i'll never see you again." she set her foot upon the ship, no mariners could she behold; but the sails were o' the taffety, and the masts o' the beaten gold. she had not sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when dismal grew his countenance, and drumlie grew his ee. [the masts that were like the beaten gold, bent not on the heaving seas; but the sails, that were o' the taffety, fill'd not in the east land-breeze.--] they had not sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, until she espied his cloven foot, and she wept right bitterly. "o hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, "of your weeping now let me be; i will show you how the lilies grow on the banks of italy."-- (_drumlie_, gloomy.) "o what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, that the sun shines sweetly on?"-- "o yon are the hills of heaven," he said, "where you will never win."-- "o whaten a mountain is yon," she said, "all so dreary wi' frost and snow?"-- "o yon is the mountain of hell," he cried, "where you and i will go." [and aye when she turn'd her round about, aye taller he seem'd for to be; until that the tops o' that gallant ship nae taller were than he. the clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, and the levin fill'd her ee; and waesome wail'd the snaw-white sprites upon the gurlie sea.] he strack the tap-mast wi' his hand, the fore-mast wi' his knee; and he brake that gallant ship in twain, and sank her in the sea. (_levin_, lightning. _gurlie_, stormy.) the wife of usher's well [illustration: ] |there lived a wife at usher's well, and a wealthy wife was she, she had three stout and stalwart sons, and sent them o'er the sea. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely ane, when word came to the carline wife, that her three sons were gane. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely three, when word came to the carline wife, that her sons she'd never see. "i wish the wind may never cease, nor fishes in the flood, till my three sons come hame to me. in earthly flesh and blood."-- it fell about the martinmas, when nights are lang and mirk, the carline wife's three sons came home, and their hats were o' the birk. it neither grew in syke nor ditch, nor yet in ony sheugh; but at the gates o' paradise, that birk grew fair eneugh. "blow up the fire, my maidens! bring water from the well! for a my house shall feast this night, since my three sons are well."-- and she has made to them a bed, she's made it large and wide; and she's ta'en heir mantle her about, sat down at the bed-side. up then crew the red red cock, and up and crew the gray; the eldest to the youngest said, "'tis time we were away."-- (_syke_, marsh, _sheugh_, furrow.) the cock he hadna craw'd but once, and clapp'd his wings at a', when the youngest to the eldest said, "brother, we must awa'-- "the cock doth craw, the day doth daw, the channerin' worm doth chide; gin we be missed out o' our place, a sair pain we maun bide. "fare ye weel, my mother dear! fare weel to barn and byre! and fare ye weel, the bonny lass, that kindles my mothers fire." (_channerin'_, fretting.) clerk saunders [illustration: ] |clerk saunders and may margaret, walked ower yon gravelled green; and sad and heavy was the love i wot it fell this twa between. "a bed, a bed," clerk saunders said, "a bed, a bed for you and me!"-- "fie na, fie na," the lady said, "until the day we married be; "for in it will come my seven brothers, and a their torches burning bright; they'll say--' we hae but ae sister, and here her lying wi' a knight! '"-- "yell take the sword from my scabbard, and lowly, lowly lift the gin; and you may swear, and your oath to save, ye never let clerk saunders in. "yell take a napkin in your hand, and yell tie up baith your een; and you may swear, and your oath to save, ye saw na sandy since late yestreen." --"ye'll take me in your armés twa, yell carry me ben into your bed, and ye may swear, and your oath to save, that in your bower-floor i ne'er tread." she has ta en the sword frae his scabbard, and lowly, lowly lifted the gin; she was to swear, her oath to save, she never let clerk saunders in. she has ta'en a napkin in her hand, and she tied up baith her een; she was to swear, her oath to save, she saw na him since late yestreen. (_gin,_ latch.) [illustration: ] she ta'en him in her armés twa and carried him ben into her bed j she was to swear her oath to save he never on her bower-floor tread. in and came her seven brothers, and all their torches burning bright; says they, "we hae but ae sister, and see there her lying wi' a knight!" out and speaks the first o' them, "i wot that they hae been lovers dear!" out and speaks the next o' them, "they hae been in love this many a year!" out and speaks the third o' them, "it were great sin this twa to twain!" out and speaks the fourth of them, "it were a sin to kill a sleeping man!" out and speaks the fifth of them, "i wot they'll ne'er be twained by me"; out and speaks the sixth of them, "we'll tak our leave and gae our way." out and speaks the seventh o' them, "altho' there were no man but me; i bear the brand i'll gar him dee." out he has ta'en a bright long brand, and he has striped it through the straw, and through and through clerk saunders' body i wot he has gared cold iron gae. (_gar_, make.) saunders he started, and margaret she lept into his arms where she lay; and well and wellsome was the night i wot it was between those twa. and they lay still and sleeped sound, until the day began to daw; and kindly to him she did say, "it is time, true love, you were awa'." they lay still, and sleeped sound, until the sun began to sheen; she looked atween her and the wa, and dull and drowsy was his een. she thought it had been a loathsome sweat, i wot it had fallen these twa between; but it was the blood of his fair body, i wot his life-days were na lang. o saunders, i'll do for your sake what other ladies would na thole; when seven years is come and gone, there's ne'er a shoe go on my sole. o saunders, i'll do for your sake what other ladies would think mair; when seven years is come and gone, there's ne'er a comb go in my hair. o saunders, i'll do for your sake what other ladies would think lack; (_thole_, endure. _lack_, loss.) when seven long years is come and gone, i'll wear nought but dowie black. the bells gaed clinking through the town, to carry the dead corpse to the clay, an sighing says her may margaret, i wot i bide a doleful day. in and came her father dear, stout stepping on the floor. ***** "hold your tongue, my daughter dear, let all your mourning a'be; i'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, and i'll came back and comfort thee." "comfort well your seven sons, for comforted will i never be: i ween 'twas neither lord nor loon that was in bower last night wi' me."-- (_dowie_, sad.) [illustration: ] lord donald |o where hae ye been a' day, lord donald, my son? o where hae ye been a' day, my jolly young man?" "i've been awa courtin':--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain would lie doun." "what wad ye hae for your supper, lord donald, my son? what wad ye hae for your supper, my jolly young man?" "i've gotten my supper:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain would lie doun." "what did ye get for your supper, lord donald, my son? what did ye get for your supper, my jolly young man?" "a dish of sma' fishes:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "where gat ye the fishes, lord donald, my son? where gat ye the fishes, my jolly young man? '' "in my fathers black ditches:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain would lie doun." "what like were your fishes, lord donald, my son? what like were your fishes, my jolly young man?" "black backs and speckl'd bellies:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain would lie doun." [illustration: ] "o i fear ye are poison'd, lord donald, my son! o i fear ye are poison'd, my jolly young man!" "o yes! i am poison'd:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your father, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your father, my jolly young man?" "baith my houses and land:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your brither, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your brither, my jolly young man?" "my horse and the saddle:--mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your sister, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your sister, my jolly young man?" "baith my gold box and rings mither, mak my bed sune, for i'm sick at the heart, and i fain wad lie doun." "what will ye leave to your true-love, lord donald, my son? what will ye leave to your true-love, my jolly young man?" "the tow and the halter, for to hang on yon tree, and lat her hang there for the poisoning o' me." (_tozu_, rope.) fine flowers in the valley [illustration: ] |she sat down below a thorn, _fine flowers in the valley;_ and there she has her sweet babe born, _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ "smile na sae sweet, my bonnie babe, _fine flowers in the valley,_ and ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead," _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ she's ta'en out her little penknife, _fine flowers in the valley,_ and twinn'd the sweet babe o' its life, _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ she's howket a grave by the light o' the moon, _fine flowers in the valley,_ and there she's buried her sweet babe in, _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ as she was going to the church, _fine flowers in the valley,_ she saw a sweet babe in the porch, _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ "o sweet babe, and thou were mine, _fine flowers in the valley,_ i wad clead thee in the silk so fine," _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ "o mother dear, when i was thine, _fine flowers in the valley,_ ye did na prove to me sae kind," _and the green leaves they grow rarely._ (_howket,_ digged. _clead_, clad.) young hunting "o lady, rock never your young son, one hour longer for me; for i have a sweetheart in garlicks wells, i love thrice better than thee. "the very soles of my love's feet is whiter than thy face:" "but, nevertheless, now, young hunting, ye'll stay with me a' night?" she has birled in him, young hunting, the good ale and the beer; till he was as love-drunken as any wild-wood steer. she has birled in him, young hunting, the good ale and the wine: till he was as love-drunken as any wild-wood swine. up she has ta'en him, young hunting, and she has had him to her bed. ***** and she has minded her of a little penknife, that hangs low down by her gare, (_birled in_, poured out drink for. _gare_, skirt.) and she has gi'en him, young hunting, a deep wound and a sair. out and spake the bonny bird that flew abune her head; "lady! keep weel your green clothing frae that good lords blood."-- "o better i'll keep my green clothing frae that good lord's blood, nor thou can keep thy flattering tongue, that flatters in thy head." "light down, light down, my bonny bird, light down upon my hand; ***** "o siller, o siller shall be thy hire, an' goud shall be thy fee, an' every month into the year thy cage shall changed be." "i winna light down, i shanna light down, i winna light on thy hand; full soon, soon wad ye do to me as ye done to young hunting." she has booted and spurred him, young hunting, as he been ga'en to ride, a hunting-horn about his neck an' the sharp sword by his side. and she has had him to yon water, for a' man calls it clyde. ***** the deepest pot intill it all she has putten young hunting in; a green turf upon his breast, to hold that good lord down. it fell once upon a day the king was going to ride, and he sent for him, young hunting, to ride on his right side. she has turned her right and round about, she swear now by the corn, "i saw na thy son, young hunting, since yesterday at morn." she has turned her right and round about, she swear now by the moon, "i saw na thy son, young hunting, since yesterday at noon. "it fears me sair in clydes water, that he is drown'd therein."-- o they hae sent for the kings duckers to duck for young hunting. they ducked in at the [tae] water-bank, they ducked out at the other; (_pot_, hole.) "we'll duck nae mair for young hunting although he were our brother." out and spake the bonny bird that flew abune their heads. ***** "o he's na drowned in clyde's water, 'he is slain and put therein; the lady that lives in yon castle slew him and put him in. "leave off your ducking on the day, and duck upon the night; wherever that sackless knight lies slain, the candles will shine bright."-- they left off their ducking on the day, and duck'd upon the night; and where that sackless knight lay slain, the candles shone full bright. the deepest pot intill it a', they got young hunting in; a green turf upon his breast, to hold that gude lord down. o they ha sent off men to the wood to hew down both thorn and fern, that they might get a great bonfire to burn that lady in. (_sackless_, guiltless.) the twa corbies "put na the wite on me," she said, "it was [my] may catherine:" when they had taen her, may catherine, in the bonfire set her in. it wadna take upon her cheeks, nor take upon her chin; nor yet upon her yellow hair, to heal the deadly sin. out they ta en her, may catherine, and they put that lady in; o it took upon her cheek, her cheek, an it took upon her chin; an it took upon her fair body-- she burn'd like [holly-green]. [illustration: ] the twa corbies |as i was walking all alane, i heard twa corbies making a mane; the tane unto the t'other say, "where sall we gang and dine to-day?"-- (_wite_, blame,) "in behint yon auld fail dyke, i wot there lies a new-slain knight; and naebody kens that he lies there, but his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "his hound is to the hunting gane, his hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame, his lady's ta'en another mate, so we may mak our dinner sweet. "ye'll sit on his white hals-bane, and i'll pick out his bonny blue een: wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, we'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "mony a one for him makes mane, but nane sail ken where he is gane: o'er his white banes, when they are bare, the wind sail blaw for evermair."-- the dowie dens o' yarrow |late at e'en, drinking the wine, or early in the morning, they set a combat them between, to fight it in the dawning. (_fail dyke_, wall of sods. _hals-bane_, neck-bone. _theek_, thatch.) "o stay at hame, my noble lord, o stay at hame, my marrow! my cruel brother will you betray on the dowie houms of yarrow. "o fare ye weel, my lady gay! o fare ye weel, my sarah! for i maun gae, though i ne'er return frae the dowie banks o' yarrow." [illustration: ] she kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, as she had done before, o; she belted on his noble brand, and he's away to yarrow. o he's gane up yon high, high hill, i wot he gaed wi' sorrow, an' in a den spied nine arm'd men, i' the dowie houms of yarrow. (_marrow_, mate. _houms_, marshes. _dowie_, gloomy.) "o are ye come to drink the wine, as ye hae doon before, oh? or are ye come to wield the brand, on the bonny banks of yarrow?"-- "i am no come to drink the wine, as i hae doon before, oh, but i am come to wield the brand, on the dowie houms of yarrow." [illustration: ] four he hurt, and five he slew, on the dowie houms of yarrow, till that stubborn knight came him behind, and ran his body thorough. "gae hame, gae hame, good-brother john, and tell your sister sarah, to come and lift her noble lord; who's sleepin sound on yarrow."-- "yestreen i dream'd a dolefu' dream; i kenn'd there wad be sorrow! i dream'd i pu'd the heather green, on the dowie banks o' yarrow." she gaed up yon high, high hill-- i wot she gaed wi' sorrow-- an' in a den spied nine dead men, on the dowie houms of yarrow. she kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, as oft she did before, o; she drank the red blood frae him ran, on the dowie houms of yarrow. "o haud your tongue, my daughter dear! for what needs a ' this sorrow; i'll wed ye on a better lord, than him you lost on yarrow."-- "o haud your tongue, my father dear! and dinna grieve your sarah; a better lord was never born than him i lost on yarrow. "take hame your ousen, take hame your kye, for they hae bred our sorrow; i wish that they had a' gane mad when they came first to yarrow." grÆme and bewick [illustration: ] |gude lord græme is to carlisle gane, sir robert bewick there met he, and arm in arm to the wine they did go, and they drank till they were baith merry. gude lord græme has ta en up the cup, "sir robert bewick, and heres to thee! and here's to our twa sons at hame! for they like us best in our ain country."-- "o were your son a lad like mine, and learn'd some books that he could read, they might hae been twa brethren bold, and they might hae bragged the border side. (_bragged_, defied.) "but your son's a lad, and he is but bad, and billy to my son he canna be;" ***** "[i] sent him to the schools, and he wadna learn; [i] bought him books, and he wadna read; but my blessing shall he never earn, till i see how his arm can defend his head."-- gude lord græme has a reckoning call'd, a reckoning then called he; and he paid a crown, and it went roun', it was all for the gude wine and free. and he has to the stable gane, where there stood thirty steeds and three; he's ta'en his ain horse amang them a', and hame he rade sae manfully. "welcome, my auld father!" said christie graeme, "but where sae lang frae hame were ye?"-- "it's i hae been at carlisle town, and a baffled man by thee i be. "i hae been at carlisle town, where sir robert bewick he met me; he says yere a lad, and ye are but bad, and billy to his son ye canna be. "i sent ye to the schools, and ye wadna learn; i bought ye books, and ye wadna read; therefore my blessing ye shall never earn, till i see with bewick thou save my head." "now, god forbid, my auld father, that ever sic a thing should be! billy bewick was my master, and i was his scholar, and aye sae weel as he learned me." "o hold thy tongue, thou limmer loon, and of thy talking let me be! if thou does na end me this quarrel soon, there is my glove, i'll fight wi' thee." then christie græme he stooped low unto the ground, you shall understand;-- "o father, put on your glove again, the wind has blown it from your hand?" what's that thou says, thou limmer loon? how dares thou stand to speak to me? if thou do not end this quarrel soon, there's my right hand thou shalt fight with me."-- then christie graeme's to his chamber gane, to consider weel what then should be; whether he should fight with his auld father, or with his billy bewick, he. (_limmer_, rascal.) græme and bewick ss' "if i should kill my billy dear, god's blessing i shall never win; but if i strike at my auld father, i think 'twould be a mortal sin. "but if i kill my billy dear, it is god's will, so let it be; but i make a vow, ere i gang frae hame, that i shall be the next man's die."-- then he's put on's back a gude auld jack, and on his head a cap of steel, and sword and buckler by his side; o gin he did not become them weel! we'll leave off talking of christie græme, and talk of him again belive; and we will talk of bonny bewick, where he was teaching his scholars five. when he had taught them well to fence, and handle swords without any doubt, he took his sword under his arm, and he walk'd his father's close about. he look'd atween him and the sun, and a' to see what there might be, till he spied a man in armour bright, was riding that way most hastily. (_jacky_ coat of mail. _belive,_ soon.) "o wha is yon, that came this way, sae hastily that hither came? i think it be my brother dear, i think it be young christie græme. "yere welcome here, my billy dear, and thrice ye're welcome unto me! "-- "but i'm wae to say, i've seen the day, when i am come to fight wi' thee. "my fathers gane to carlisle town, wi' your father bewick there met he: he says i'm a lad, and i am but bad, and a baffled man i trow i be. "he sent me to schools, and i wadna learn; he gae me books, and i wadna read; sae my father's blessing i'll never earn, till he see how my arm can guard my head." "o god forbid, my billy dear, that ever such a thing should be! we'll take three men on either side, and see if we can our fathers agree." "o hold thy tongue, now, billy bewick, and of thy talking let me be! but if thou'rt a man, as i'm sure thou art, come o'er the dyke, and fight wi' me." "but i hae nae harness, billy, on my back, as weel i see there is on thine."-- "but as little harness as is on thy back, as little, billy, shall be on mine."-- then he's thrown off his coat o' mail, his cap of steel away flung he; he stuck his spear into the ground, and he tied his horse unto a tree. then bewick has thrown off his cloak, and's psalter-book frae's hand flung he; he laid his hand upon the dyke, and ower he lap most manfully. o they hae fought for twa lang hours; when twa lang hours were come and gane, the sweat drapp'd fast frae off them baith, but a drap of blude could not be seen. till græme gae bewick an awkward stroke, ane awkward stroke strucken sickerly; he has hit him under the left breast, and dead-wounded to the ground fell he. "rise up, rise up, now, billy dear, arise and speak three words to me! whether thou's gotten thy deadly wound, or if god and good leeching may succour thee?" (_sickerly_, surely.) "o horse, o horse, now, billy græme, and get thee far from hence with speed; and get thee out of this country, that none may know who has done the deed."-- "o i have slain thee, billy bewick, if this be true thou tellest to me; but i made a vow, ere i came frae hame, that aye the next man i wad be." he has pitch'd his sword in a moodie-hill, and he has leap'd twenty lang feet and three, and on his ain sword's point he lap, and dead upon the ground fell he. 'twas then came up sir robert bewick, and his brave son alive saw he; "rise up, rise up, my son," he said, "for i think ye hae gotten the victorie." "o hold your tongue, my father dear, of your prideful talking let me be! ye might hae drunken your wine in peace, and let me and my billy be. "gae dig a grave, baith wide and deep, and a grave to hold baith him and me; but lay christie græme on the sunny side, for i'm sure he won the victorie." (_moodie-hill_, mole-hill.) "alack! a wae!" auld bewick cried, "alack! was i not much to blame? i'm sure i've lost the liveliest lad that e'er was born unto my name." "alack! a wae!" quo' gude lord græme, "im sure i hae lost the deeper lack! i durst hae ridden the border through, had christie græme been at my back. "had i been led through liddesdale, and thirty horsemen guarding me, and christie græme been at my back, sae soon as he had set me free! "i've lost my hopes, i've lost my joy, i've lost the key but and the lock; i durst hae ridden the world round, had christie græme been at my back." $$the lament of the border widow |my love he built me a bonny bower, and clad it a wi' lily flower, a brawer bower ye ne er did see than my true love he built for me. (_lack,_ loss.) there came a man, by middle day, he spied his sport, and went away; and brought the king that very night, who brake my bower, and slew my knight. he slew my knight, to me sae dear; he slew my knight, and poin'd his gear; my servants all for life did flee, and left me in extremity. i sew'd his sheet, making my mane; i watch'd the corpse, myself alane; i watch'd his body, night and day; no living creature came that way. i took his body on my back, and whiles i gaed, and whiles i sat; i digg'd a grave, and laid him in, and happ'd him with the sod sae green. but think na ye my heart was sair, when i laid the mould on his yellow hair; o think na ye my heart was wae, when i turn'd about, away to gae? nae living man i'll love again, since that my lovely knight is slain; wi' ae lock of his yellow hair i'll chain my heart for ever mair. (_poind,_ seized. _happed,_ covered.) fair annie [illustration: ] |it's narrow, narrow, make your bed, and learn to lie your lane; for i'm gaun o'er the sea, fair annie, a braw bride to bring hame. wi' her i will get gowd and gear; wi' you i ne er got nane. "but wha will bake my bridal bread, or brew my bridal ale? and wha will welcome my brisk bride, that i bring o er the dale?"-- "it's i will bake your bridal bread, and brew your bridal ale; and i will welcome your brisk bride, that you bring oer the dale."-- "but she that welcomes my brisk bride maun gang like maiden fair; she maun lace on her robe sae jimp, and braid her yellow hair."-- "but how can i gang maiden-like, when maiden i am nane? have i not born seven sons to thee, and am with child again?"-- she's ta'en her young son in her arms, another in her hand; and she's up to the highest tower, to see him come to land. "come up, come up, my eldest son, and look o'er yon sea-strand, and see your father's new-come bride, before she come to land."-- "come down, come down, my mother dear, come frae the castle wa'! i fear, if langer ye stand there, ye'll let yoursel' down fa."-- (_jimp_, slim.) and she gaed down, and farther down, her love's ship for to see; and the topmast and the mainmast shone like the silver free. and she's gane down, and farther down, the bride's ship to behold; and the topmast and the mainmast they shone just like the gold. she's ta'en her seven sons in her hand; i wot she didna fail! she met lord thomas and his bride, as they came o'er the dale. "you re welcome to your house, lord thomas, you're welcome to your land; you're welcome with your fair lady, that you lead by the hand. "you're welcome to your ha's, lady, you're welcome to your bowers; you're welcome to your hame, lady, for a' that's here is yours."-- "i thank thee, annie; i thank thee, annie; sae dearly as i thank thee; you're the likest to my sister annie, that ever i did see. (_free,_ precious.) "there came a knight out o er the sea, and steal'd my sister away; the shame scoup in his company, and land where er he gae!"-- she hang ae napkin at the door, another in the ha'; and a' to wipe the trickling tears, sae fast as they did fa'. and aye she served the lang tables with white bread and with wine; and aye she drank the wan water, to had her colour fine. and aye she served the lang tables, with white bread and with brown; and ay she turned her round about, sae fast the tears fell down. and hes ta en down the silk napkin, hung on a silver pin; and aye he wipes the tear trickling adown her cheek and chin. and aye he turn'd him round about, and smiled amang his men, says--"like ye best the old lady, or her that's new come hame?"-- (_scaup_, go. _had_, hold, keep.) when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' men bound to bed, lord thomas and his new-come bride, to their chamber they were gaed. annie made her bed a little for bye, to hear what they might say; "and ever alas!" fair annie cried, "that i should see this day! "gin my seven sons were seven young rats, running on the castle wa', and i were a grey cat mysel', i soon would worry them a'. "gin my seven sons were seven young hares, running o er yon lily lea, and i were a greyhound mysel', soon worried they a' should be."-- and wae and sad fair annie sat, and dreary was her sang; and ever, as she sobb'd and grat, "wae to the man that did the wrang!"-- "my gown is on," said the new-come bride, "my shoes are on my feet, and i will to fair annies chamber, and see what gars her greet.---- (_forbye_, on one side. _grat_, wept. _gars_, makes.) "what ails ye, what ails ye, fair annie, that ye make sic a moan? has your wine barrels cast the girds, or is your white bread gone? "o wha was't was your father, annie, or wha was't was your mother? and had you ony sister, annie, or had you ony brother?"-- "the earl of wemyss was my father, the countess of wemyss my mother; and a ' the folk about the house, to me were sister and brother."-- "if the earl of wemyss was your father, i wot sae was he mine; and it shall not be for lack o' gowd, that ye your love sall tyne. "for i have seven ships o' mine ain, a' loaded to the brim; and i will gie them a' to thee, wi' four to thine eldest son. but thanks to a the powers in heaven that i gae maiden hame!" (_tyne_, lose.) [illustration: ] the gay goss-hawk [illustration: ] |o weel's me, my gay goss-hawk, that he can speak and flee; hell carry a letter to my love, bring back another to me." "o how can i your true love ken, or how can i her know? when frae her mouth i ne er heard couth, nor wi' my eyes her saw." "o weel sail ye my true love ken, as soon as ye her see; for, of a the flowers of fair england, the fairest flower is she. (_heard, couth_, could hear.) "and even at my love's bower-door there grows a bowing birk; and sit ye doun and sing thereon as she gangs to the kirk. "and four-and-twenty ladies fair will wash and to the kirk, but well shall ye my true-love ken, for she wears goud on her skirt. "and four-and-twenty gay ladies will to the mass repair; but weel shall ye my true love ken, for she wears goud on her hair." and even at the lady's bower-door there grows a bowing birk; and [he] sat down and sang thereon as she gaed to the kirk. "o eat and drink, my maries a', the wine flows you among, till i gang to my shot-window, and hear yon bonny bird's song. "sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, the song ye sang [yestreen]; for i ken, by your sweet singing, ye're frae my true love sen." (_birk,_ birch. _shot-windoiv_, projecting window. _sen,_ sent.) o first he sang a merry song, and then he sang a grave; and then he pick'd his feathers gray, to her the letter gave. "ha, there's a letter frae your love, he says he sent you three; he canna wait your love langer, but for your sake he'll die. "he bids you write a letter to him; he says he's sent ye five; he canna wait your love langer, tho' you're the fairest woman alive." "ye bid him bake his bridal bread, and brew his bridal ale; and i'll meet him in fair scotland, lang, lang ere it be stale." she's doen to her father dear, fa'en low down on her knee: "a boon, a boon, my father dear, i pray you, grant it me." "ask on, ask on, my daughter, an granted it shall be; except ae squire in fair scotland, an him you shall never see." "the only boon, my father dear, that i do crave of thee,-- is, gin i die in southern lands, in scotland to bury me. "and the first in kirk that ye come till, ye gar the bells be rung; and the nextin kirk that ye come to, ye gar the mass be sung. "and the thirdin kirk that ye come till, you deal gold for my sake. and the fourthin kirk that ye come till, you tarry there till night." she has doen her to her bigly bower as fast as she could fare; and she has ta'en a sleepy draught, that she had mix'd wi' care. (_gar,_ make. _bigly,_ big.) the gay goss-hawk ss' she's laid her down upon her bed, an soon she fa en asleep, and soon o'er every tender limb cold death began to creep. when night was flown, and day was come, nae ane that did her see but thought she was a surely dead, as ony lady could be. her father and her brothers dear gar'd make to her a bier; the tae half was o' gude red gold, the tither o' silver clear. her mither and her sisters fair gar'd work for her a sark; the tae half was o' cambric fine the tither o' needle wark. an the first in kirk that they came till, they gar'd the bells be rung; the nextin kirk that they came till, they gar'd the mass be sung. the thirdin kirk that they came till, they dealt gold for her sake, an' the fourthin kirk that they came till, lo, there they met her make. (_make_, mate.) "lay down, lay down the bigly bier," "let me the dead look on:" wi' cherry cheeks and ruby lips she lay and smiled on him. "o ae shave of your bread, true love, an' ae glass of your wine; for i hae fasted for your sake these fully days is nine. "gang hame, gang hame, my seven bold brithers, gang hame and sound your horn! and ye may boast in southern lands your sister's played you scorn." [illustration: ] brown adam [illustration: ] |o wha wad wish the wind to blaw, or the green leaves fa' therewith? or wha wad wish a lealer love than brown adam the smith? his hammer's o' the beaten gold, his study's o' the steel, (_study_, that which stands, i.e. the anvil (?)) his fingers white, are my delight, he blows his bellows weel. but they hae banish'd him, brown adam, frae father and frae mother; and they hae banish'd him, brown adam, frae sister and frae brother. and they hae banish'd brown adam, frae the flower o' a' his kin; and he's bigged a bower i' the gude greenwood between his lady and him. o it fell once upon a day, brown adam he thought lang; an' he would to the green-wood gang, to hunt some venison. he has ta'en his bow his arm o'er, his bran' intill his han', and he is to the gude green-wood as fast as he could gang. o he's shot up, and he's shot down, the bird upon the briar; and he sent it hame to his lady, bade her be of gude cheer. o he's shot up, and he's shot down, the bird upon the thorn; and sent it hame to his lady, said he'd be hame the morn. when he came to his lady's bower door he stood a little forbye, and there he heard a fu' fause knight tempting his gay lady. for he's ta'en out a gay goud ring, had cost him many a poun', "o grant me love for love, lady, and this sal be thy own."-- "i lo'e brown adam weel," she says; "i wot sae does he me; an i wadna gie brown adam's love for nae fause knight i see."-- out has he ta'en a purse o' goud, was a' fu' to the string, "o grant me but love for love, lady, and a' this sail be thine."-- "i lo'e brown adam weel," she says; "i wot sae does he me: i wadna be your light leman, for mair nor ye could gie." then out has he drawn his lang, lang bran', and he's flash'd it in her een; "now grant me love for love, lady, or thro' ye this shall gang!"-- oh, sighing, said that gay lady, "brown adam tarries lang!"-- then up it starts brown adam, says--"i'm just at your hand."-- he's gar'd him leave his bow, his bow, he's gar'd him leave his brand, he's gar'd him leave a better pledge-- four fingers o' his right hand. the laird o' logie |i will sing, if ye will hearken, if ye will hearken unto me; the king has ta'en a poor prisoner, the wanton laird o' young logie. young logie's laid in edinburgh chapel, carmichael's the keeper o' the key; and may margaret's lamenting sair, a' for the love o' young logie. "lament, lament na, may margaret, and of your weeping let me be; for ye maun to the king himsel', to seek the life o' young logie." may margaret has kilted her green cleiding, and she has curl'd back her yellow hair,-- "if i canna get young logie's life, farewell to scotland for evermair." when she came before the king, she kneelit lowly on her knee. "o what's the matter, may margaret? and what needs a' this courtesy?" "a boon, a boon, my noble liege, a boon, a boon, i beg o' thee! and the first boon that i come to crave is to grant me the life o' young logie." "ona, o na, may margaret, forsooth, and so it mauna be; for a' the gowd o' fair scotland shall not save the life o' young logie." but she has stown the king's redding kaim, likewise the queen her wedding knife; and sent the tokens to carmichael, to cause young logie get his life. she sent him a purse o' the red gowd, another o' the white money; ' she sent him a pistol for each hand, and bade him shoot when he gat free. (_stown,_ stolen. _redding kaim_, hair comb.) when he came to the tolbooth stair, then he let his volley flee; it made the king in his chamber start, een in the bed where he might be. "gae out, gae out, my merrymen a, and bid carmichael come speak to me; for i'll lay my life the pledge o' that, that yon's the shot o' young logie." when carmichael came before the king, he fell low down upon his knee; the very first word that the king spake was,--"where's the laird of young logie?" carmichael turn'd him round about, (i wot the tear blinded his e'e,)-- "there came a token frae your grace has ta'en away the laird frae me." "hast thou play'd me that, carmichael? and hast thou play'd me that?" quoth he; "the morn the justice court's to stand, and logie's place ye maun supply." carmichael's awa to margaret's bower, even as fast as he may dri'e,-- "o if young logie be within, tell him to come and speak with me!" (_drte_, drive). may margaret turn'd her round about, (i wot a loud laugh laughed she,)-- "the egg is chipp'd, the bird is flown, ye'll see nae mair of young logie." the tane is shipped at the pier of leith, the t'other at the queen's ferry; and she's gotten a father to her bairn, the wanton laird of young logie. johnnie of breadislee |johnnie rose up in a may morning, call'd for water to wash his hands-- "gar loose to me the gude gray dogs, that are bound wi' iron bands." when johnnie's mother gat word o' that, her hands for dule she wrang-- "o johnnie! for my benison, to the greenwood dinna gang! "enough ye hae o' gude wheat bread, and enough o' the blood-red wine; and therefore, for nae venison, johnnie, i pray ye, stir frae hame." but johnnie's busk'd up his gude bent bow, his arrows, ane by ane, and he has gane to durrisdeer, to hunt the dun deer down. as he came down by merriemass, and in by the benty line, there has he espied a deer lying aneath a bush of ling. johnnie he shot, and the dun deer lap, and he wounded her on the side; but atween the water and the brae, his hounds they laid her pride. and johnnie has bryttled the deer sae weel, that he's had out her liver and lungs; and wi' these he has feasted his bluidy hounds, as if they had been earl's sons. they eat sae much o' the venison, and drank sae much o' the blude, that johnnie and a' his bluidy hounds fell asleep as they had been dead. and by there came a silly auld carle, an ill death mote he die! for he's awa' to hislinton, where the seven foresters did lie. (_benty line,_ path covered with bent (?). _bryttled_, cut up. _carle_, churl.) "what news, what news, ye gray-headed carle, what news bring ye to me?" "i bring nae news," said the gray-headed carle, "save what these eyes did see. "as i came down by merriemass, and down among the scroggs, the bonniest child that ever i saw lay sleeping amang his dogs. "the shirt that was upon his back was o' the holland fine; the doublet which was over that was o' the lincoln twine. "the buttons that were on his sleeve were o' the goud sae gude; the gude gray hounds he lay amang, their mouths were dyed wi' blude" then out and spak the first forester the head man ower them a'-- "if this be johnnie o' breadislee, nae nearer will we draw." but up and spak the sixth forester, (his sister's son was he,) "if this be johnnie o' breadislee, we soon shall gar him die." (_scroggs,_ stunted trees.) the first flight of arrows the foresters shot, they wounded him on the knee; and out and spak the seventh forester, "the next will gar him die." johnnies set his back against an aik, his foot against a stane; and he has slain the seven foresters, he has slain them a' but ane. he has broke three ribs in that ane's side, but and his collar bane; he's laid him twa-fald ower his steed, bade him carry the tidings hame. "o is there nae a bonny bird can sing as i can say, could flee away to my mother's bower, and tell to fetch johnnie away?" the starling flew to his mother's window stane, it whistled and it sang; and aye the ower word o' the tune was--"johnnie tarries lang!" they made a rod o' the hazel bush, another o' the sloe-thorn tree, and mony mony were the men at fetching o'er johnnie. (_aik,_ oak. _the ower word,_ the refrain.) then out and spake his auld mother, and fast her tears did fa'-- "ye wad nae be warn'd, my son johnnie, frae the hunting to bide awa'. '' aft hae i brought to breadislee the less gear and the mair, but i ne'er brought to breadislee what grieved my heart sae sair. "but wae betide that silly auld carle! an ill death shall he die! for the highest tree in merriemas shall be his morning's fee." now johnnie's gude bend bow is broke, and his gude gray dogs are slain; and his body lies dead in durrisdeer, and his hunting it is done. kinmont willy [illustration: ] |o have ye na heard o' the fause sakelde? o have ye na heard of the keen lord scroope? how they hae taen bould kinmont willy, on haribee to hang him up? had willy had but twenty men, but twenty men as stout as he, fause sakelde had never the kinmont ta'en, wi' eight score in his company. they band his legs beneath the steed, they tied his hands behind his' back; they guarded him, five some on each side, and they brought him ower the liddel-rack. they led him thro' the liddel-rack, and also thro' the carlisle sands; they brought him to carlisle castle, to be at my lord scroope's commands. (_band,_ bound.) "my hands are tied, but my tongue is free, and wha will dare this deed avow? or answer by the border law? or answer to the bauld buccleuch?" "now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! there's never a scot shall set thee free: before ye cross my castle yate, i trow ye shall take farewell o' me." "fear na ye that, my lord," quo' willy: "by the faith o' my body, lord scroope," he said, "i never yet lodged in a hostelry, but i paid my lawing before i gaed." now word is gane to the bauld keeper, in branksome ha' where that he lay, that lord scroope has ta'en the kinmont willy, between the hours of night and day. he has ta'en the table wi' his hand, he gar'd the red wine spring on high-- "now christ's curse on my head," he said, "but avenged of lord scroope i'll be! "o is my basnet a widow's curch? or my lance a wand of the willow-tree? or my arm a lady's lily hand, that an english lord should lightly me! (_reiver_, robber. _yate_, gate. _lawing,_ reckoning. _basnet_, helmet. _curch_, kerchief.) "and have they ta en him, kinmont willy, against the truce of border tide, and forgotten that the bauld buccleuch is keeper there on the scottish side? "and have they e en ta en him, kinmont willy, withouten either dread or fear, and forgotten that the bauld buccleuch can back a steed, or shake a spear? "o were there war between the lands, as well i wot that there is none, i would slight carlisle castle high, though it were builded of marble stone. "i would set that castle in a low, and sloken it with english blood! there's never a man in cumberland, should ken where carlisle castle stood. "but since nae war's between the lands, and there is peace, and peace should be; i'll neither harm english lad or lass, and yet the kinmont freed shall be!" he has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, i trow they were of his ain name, except sir gilbert elliot, call'd the laird of stobs, i mean the same. (_slight_, i.e., make little of. _sloken_, slake.) he has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, were kinsmen to the bauld buccleuch; with spur on heel, and splent on spauld, and gloves of green, and feathers blue. there were five and five before them a', wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright: and five and five came wi' buccleuch, like warden's men, array'd for fight. and five and five, like a mason-gang, that carried the ladders lang and high; and five and five, like broken men; and so they reach'd the woodhouselee. and as we cross'd the bateable land, when to the english side we held, the first o' men that we met wi', wha should it be but fause sakelde? "where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?" quo' fause sakelde; "come tell to me!" "we go to hunt an english stag, has trespass'd on the scots country." "where be ye gaun, ye marshal-men?" quo' fause sakelde; "come tell me true! "we go to catch a rank reiver, has broken faith wi' the bauld buccleuch.' (_splent_, armour. _spauld_, shoulder.) "where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, wi' a' your ladders lang and high?" "we gang to herry a corbie's nest, that wons not far frae woodhouselee." "where be ye gaun, ye broken men?" quo' fause sakelde; "come tell to me!" now dicky of dry hope led that band, and the never a word of lear had he. "why trespass ye on the english side? row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he; then never a word had dicky to say, sae he thrust the lance through his fause body. then on we held for carlisle toun, and at staneshaw-bank the eden we cross'd; the water was great and mickle of spate, but the never a horse nor man we lost. and when we reach'd the staneshaw-bank, the wind was rising loud and high; and there the laird gar'd leave our steeds, for fear that they should stamp and neigh. and when we left the staneshaw-bank, the wind began full loud to blaw; but 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, when we came beneath the castle wa'. (_herry_, harry. _wons_, dwells. _ lear,_ lying. _row-footed_, rough-footed.) we crept on knees, and held our breath, till we placed the ladders against the wa'; and sae ready was buccleuch himsel' to mount the first before us a'. he has taen the watchman by the throat, he flung him down upon the lead-- "had there not been peace between our lands, upon the other side thou hadst gaed! "now sound out, trumpets!" quo' buccleuch; "let's waken lord scroope right merrily!" then loud the wardens trumpet blew-- _o wha dare meddle wi' me?_ then speedily to wark we gaed, and raised the slogan ane and a', and cut a hole through a sheet of lead, and so we wan to the castle ha'. they thought king james and a' his men had won the house wi' bow and spear; it was but twenty scots and ten, that put a thousand in sic a stear! wi' coulters, and wi' forehammers, we gar'd the bars bang merrily, until we came to the inner prison, where willy o' kinmont he did lie. (_forehammers_, sledge-hammers. _stear_, stir. _slogan,_ war-cry.) and when we came to the lower prison, where willy o' kinmont he did lie-- "o sleep ye, wake ye, kinmont willy, upon the morn that thou's to die?" "o i sleep saft, and i wake aft, it's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me; gie my service back to my wife and bairns, and a' gude fellows that speer for me." then red rowan has hente him up, the starkest man in teviotdale-- "abide, abide now, red rowan, till of my lord scroope i take farewell. "farewell, farewell, my gude lord scroope! my gude lord scroope, farewell!" he cried-- "i'll pay you for my lodging mail, when first we meet on the border side." then shoulder high, with shout and cry, we bore him down the ladder lang: at every stride red rowan made, i wot the kinmont's airns play'd clang. "o mony a time," quo' kinmont willy, "i have ridden horse baith wild and wood; but a rougher beast than red rowan i ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. (_hente_, caught. _fley'd,_ frightened. _starkest,_ strongest. _airns_, irons.) "and mony a time," quo' kinmont willy, "i've prick'd a horse out ower the furs; but since the day i back'd a steed, i never wore sic cumbrous spurs." we scarce had won the staneshaw-bank, when a' the carlisle bells were rung, and a thousand men on horse and foot came wi' the keen lord scroope along. buccleuch has turn'd to eden water, even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, and he has plunged in wi' a' his band, and safely swam them through the stream. he turn'd him on the other side, and at lord scroope his glove flung he-- "if ye like na my visit in merry england, in fair scotland come visit me!" all sore astonish'd stood lord scroope, he stood as still as rock of stane; he scarcely dared to trew his eyes, when through the water they had gane. he is either himsel' a devil frae hell, or else his mother a witch maun be; "i wadna hae ridden that wan water for a' the gowd in christianty." (_furs_, furrows. _trew_, trust.) the drowned lovers |ye gie corn unto my horse, an' meat unto my man; for i will gae to my true love's gates this night, that i can win." "o stay at hame this ae night, willy, this ae bare night wi' me; the best bed in a' my house shall be well made to thee." "i carena for your beds, mither, i carena a pin; for i'll gae to my love's gates this night, gin i can win." oh stay, my son willy, this night, this ae night wi' me; the best hen in a' my roost shall be well made ready for thee." "i carena for your hens, mither, i carena a pin; i shall gae to my love's gates this night, gin i can win." "gin ye winna stay, my son willy, this ae bare night wi' me, gin clyde's water's be deep and fu' o' flood, my malison drown thee!" he rade up yon high hill, and down yon dowie den, the roaring of clyde's water wad hae fleyed ten thousand men. "o spare me, clyde's water, o spare me as i gae! mak' me your wrack as i come back, but spare me as i gae!" he rade in, and farther in, till he came to the chin; and he rade in, and farther in, till he came to dry land. and when he came to his love's gates, he tirled at the pin. "open your gates, meggie, open your gates to me; for my boots are fu' o' clyde's water and the rain rains ower my chin." "i hae nae lovers thereout," she says, "i hae nae love within; my true-love is in my arms twa, an' nane will i let in." (_den_, hollow.) "open your gates, meggie, this ae night, open your gates to me; for clydes water is fu' o' flood, and my mother's malison 'll drown me." "ane o' my chambers is fu' o' corn, an ane is fu' o' hay; another is fu' o' gentlemen;-- an' they winna move till day." out waked her may meggie, out of her drowsy dream. "i dreamed a dream sin the yestreen, god read a' dreams to guid, that my true love willy was staring at my bed-feet." "lay still, lay still, my ae dochter, an keep my back frae the call, for it's na the space o' half an hour, sen he gaed frae your hall.'' an' hey willy, and hoa, willy, winna ye turn agen; but aye the louder that she cried, he rade against the win'. he rade up yon high hill, and doun yon dowie den; the roaring that was in clyde's water, wad ha fleyed ten thousand men. (_read_ explain. _call_, cold.) he rade in, an' farther in, till he came to the chin; an' he rade in, an' further in, but never mair was seen. ***** there was na mair seen o' that guid lord, but his hat frae his head; there was na more seen of that lady, but her comb and her snood. there waders went up and doun, eddying clyde's water; have done us wrang. the twa brothers |there were twa brethren in the north, they went to the school together; the one unto the other said will ye try a warsle afore? they warsled up, they warsled down, till sir john fell to the ground; and there was a knife in sir william's pouch, gi ed him a deadly wound. (_warsle_, wrestle.) "o brither dear, take me upon your back, carry me to yon burn clear, and wash the blood from off my wound, and it will bleed nae mair." he's took him up upon his back, carried him to yon burn clear, and wash'd the blood from off his wound, but aye it bled the mair. "oh brither dear, take me on your back, carry me to yon kirk-yard, and dig a grave baith wide and deep, and lay my body there." he's ta'en him up upon his back, carried him to yon kirkyard, and dug a grave baith deep and wide, and laid his body there. "but what will i say to your father dear, gin he chance to say, willy, where's john?" "o say that he's to england gone, to buy him a cask of wine." "and what will i say to my mother dear, gin she chance to say, willy, where's john?" "oh say that he's to england gone, to buy her a new silk gown." "and what will i say to my sister dear, gin she chance to say, willy, where's john?" "oh say that he's to england gone, to buy her a wedding ring." "but what shall i say to her you love dear, gin she cry, why tarries my john?" "oh tell her i lie in kirkland fair, and home again will never come." the laird of waristoun |down by yon garden green sae merrily as she gaes; she has twa weel-made feet, and she trips upon her taes. she has twa weel-made feet; far better is her hand; she's as jimp in the middle as ony willow-wand. "gif ye will do my bidding, at my bidding for to be, it's i will make you lady of a the lands you see." he spak a word in jest; her answer wasna good; he threw a plate at her face, made it a' gush out o' blood. she wasna frae her chamber a step but barely three, when up and at her right hand there stood man's enemy. "gif ye will do my bidding, at my bidding for to be; i'll learn you a wile avenged for to be." the foul thief knotted the tether; she lifted his head on high; the nourice drew the knot that gar'd lord waristoun die. then word is gane to leith, also to edinburgh town, that the lady had kill'd the laird, the laird o' waristoun. "tak aff, tak aff my hood, but lat my petticoat be; put my mantle o'er my head; for the fire i daurna see. "now, a ye gentle maids, tak warning now by me, and never marry ane but wha pleases your e'e. "for he married me for love, but i married him for fee; and sae brak out the feud that gar'd my deary die." young beichan and susie [illustration: ] |in london city was beichan born, he longed strange countries for to see; but he was ta en by a savage moor, who handled him right cruelly; for through his shoulder he put a bore; and through the bore has putten a tree; and he's gar'd him draw the carts of wine where horse and oxen had wont to be. he's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, where he could neither hear nor see; he's shut him up in a prison strong, and he's handled him right cruelly. o this moor he had but ae daughter, i wot her name was susie pye; she doen her to the prison house, and she's called young beichan one word by. "o have ye any lands, or rents, or cities in your own country, could free you out of prison strong, and could maintain a lady free?" "o london city is my own, and other cities twa or three, could loose me out of prison strong, and could maintain a lady free" o she has brib'd her father's men wi' mickle gold and white money; she's gotten the keys of the prison door and she has set young beichan free. (_bore_, hole. _tree_, pole. _free_, noble.) she's gi en him a loaf of good white bread, but an' a flask of spanish wine; and she bad him mind on the lady's love that sae kindly freed him out of pine. [illustration: ] "go set your foot on good ship-board, and haste ye back to your own country; and before that seven years have an end, come back again, love, and marry me." it was long ere seven years had an end, she long'd full sore her love to see; she's set her foot on good shipboard, and turn'd her back on her own country. she's sailed up, so has she doun, till she came to the other side; she's landed at young beichan's gates, an i hope this day she shall be his bride. "is this young beichan's gates," says she, "or is that noble prince within?" "he's up the stairs wi' his bonny bride, an mony a lord and lady wi him." (_pinge_, woe. "and has he ta'en a bonny bride? an' has he clean forgotten me?" an', sighin', said that gay lady, "i wish i were in my own country." but she's putten her han' in her pocket, an' gien the porter guineas three; says, "take ye that, ye proud porter, an' bid the bridegroom speak to me." o when the porter came up the stair, he's fa'n low down upon his knee-- "win up, win up, ye proud porter, and what makes a' this courtesy?" "o i've been porter at your gates, this mair nor seven years and three; but there is a lady at them now, the like of whom i never did see; "for on every finger she has a ring, and on the mid finger she has three; and as mickle gold aboon her brow as would buy an earldom o' lan' to me." then up it started young beichan, an' swear so loud by our lady, "it can be nane but susie pye, that has come o'er the sea to me. (_win up_, get up.) and quickly ran he down the stair; of fifteen steps he has made but three; he's ta'en his bonny love in his arms, and i wot he kissed her tenderly. "o hae ye taen a bonny bride? and hae ye quite forsaken me? and hae ye quite forgotten her, that gave you life and liberty?" she looked o'er her left shoulder, to hide the tears stood in her e'e: "now fare thee well, young beichan," she says, "i'll try to think no more on thee," "take back your daughter, madam," he says, "an' a double dowry i'll gie her wi'; for i maun marry my first true love, that's done and suffered so much for me." he's ta'en his bonny love by the hand, and led her to yon fountain stane; he's changed her name from susie pye, and he's call'd her his bonny love, lady jane. lizzie lindsay |out it spake lizzie lindsay, the tear blinket in her ee; how can i leave father and mother, along with young donald to gae. out spak lizzie's young handmaid, a bonny young lassie was she; said,--"were i heiress to a kingdom, along wi' young donald i'd gae." "o say you so to me, nelly? o say ye so to me? must i leave edinburgh city, to the high highland to gae?" out spak lizzie's own mother, a good old lady was she, "if ye speak sic a word to my daughter, i'll gar hang ye high." "keep weel your daughter frae me, madam; keep weel your daughter frae me; i care as little for your daughter, as ye can care for me." the road grew wetty and dubby; and lizzie began to think lang; said, "i wish i had stayed with my mother, and na wi' young donald had gone." "yere welcome hame, sir donald; yere welcome hame to me; yere welcome hame, sir donald, and your bonny young lady wi' ye." "ye call na me sir donald, but ca me donald your son." "rise up, lizzie lindsay, you have lain too long in the day; you might have helped my mother to milk her goats and her kye." out it spake lizzie lindsay, the tear blinket her eye; "the ladies o' edinburgh city they neither milk goats nor kye." (_dubby_, full of puddles.) the birth of robin hood |o willys large o' limb and lith, and come o' high degree, and he is gone to earl richard to serve for meat and fee. earl richard had but ae daughter, fair as a lily flower; and they made up their love-contract like proper paramour. it fell upon a simmer's night, when the leaves were fair and green, that willy met his gay lady, intill the wood alane. "o narrow is my gown, willy, that wont to be sae wide; and gane is a' my fair colour, that wont to be my pride. "but gin my father should get word what's past between us twa, before that he should eat or drink, he'd hang you o'er that wa'. (_lith_, joint.) "but ye'll come to my bower, willy, just as the sun goes down; and keep me in your arms twa, and latna me fa' down." o when the sun was now gane down, he's doen him till her bower; and there, by the lee light o' the moon, her window she lookit o'er. intill a robe o' red scarlet she lap, fearless o' harm; and willy was large o' lith and limb, and keepit her in his arm. and they've gane to the gude green-wood, and ere the night was deen, she's borne to him a bonny young son, amang the leaves sae green. whan night was gane, and day was come, and the sun began to peep, up and raise the earl richard out o' his drowsy sleep. he's ca'd upon his merry young men, by ane, by twa, and by three, "o what's come o' my daughter dear, that she's na come to me? (_lee_, sad. _deen_, done.) "i dreamt a dreary dream last night, god grant it come to gude! i dreamt i saw my daughter dear, drown in the saut sea flood. "but gin my daughter be dead or sick, or yet be stown awa, i mak a vow, and i'll keep it true, i'll hang ye ane and a!" they sought her back, they sought her fore, they sought her up and down; they got her in the gude green wood, nursing her bonny young son. he took the bonny boy in his arms, and kissed him tenderly; says, "though i would your father hang, your mother's dear to me." he kissed him oer and o'er again; "my grandson i thee claim; and robin hood in gude green wood, and that shall be your name." and mony ane sings o' grass, o' grass, and mony ane sings o' corn; and mony ane sings o' robin hood, kens little where he was born. it was na in the ha', the ha', nor in the painted bower; but it was in the gude green wood, amang the lily flower. the baron of brackley |down dee side came inverey whistling and playing; he's lighted at brackley yates at the day dawing. says, "baron o' brackley, o are ye within? there's sharp swords at the y ate will gar your blood spin." the lady raise up, to the window she went; she heard her kye lowing o'er hill and o'er bent. "o rise up, ye baron, and turn back your kye; for the lads o' drumwharran are driving them by." "how can i rise, lady, or turn them again! where'er i have ae man, i wot they hae ten." "then rise up, my lasses, take rocks in your hand, and turn back the kye;--i hae you at command. (_bent_, plain. _rocks_, distaffs.) "gin i had a husband, as i hae nane, he wadna lie in his bower, see his kye ta en." - then up got the baron, and cried for his graith; says, "lady, i'll gang, tho' to leave you i'm laith. "come, kiss me,then,peggy,and gieme my spear; i ay was for peace, though i never fear'd weir. "come, kiss me, then, peggy, nor think i'm to blame; i weel may gae out, but i'll never win in!" when brackley was busked, and rade o'er the closs, a gallanter baron ne'er lap to a horse. when brackley was mounted, and rade o'er the green, he was as bold a baron as ever was seen. tho' there cam' wi' inverey thirty and three, there was nane wi' bonny brackley but his brother and he. twa gallanter gordons did never sword draw; but against four and thirty, wae's me, what is twa? wi' swords and wi' daggers they did him surround; and they've pierced bonny brackley wi' mony a wound. (_graith,_ armour. _weir-_, war. _busked_, dressed. _closs_, close.) frae the head o' the dee to the banks o' the spey the gordons may mourn him, and bann inverey. [illustration: ] "o came ye by brackley yates, was ye in there? or saw ye his peggy dear riving her hair?" "o i came by brackley yates, i was in there, and i saw his peggy a-making good cheer." that lady she feasted them, carried them ben; she laugh'd wi' the men that her baron had slain. "o fie on you, lady! how could you do sae? you open'd your gates to the fause inverey." she ate wi' him, drank wi' him, welcom'd him in; she welcom'd the villain that slew her baron! she kept him till morning, syne bade him be gane, and shaw'd him the road that he shou'dna be ta'en. "thro' birss and aboyne," she says, "lyin in a tour, o'er the hills o' glentanar you'll skip in an hour." --there's grief in the kitchen, and mirth in the ha'; but the baron o' brackley is dead and awa. child vyet |lord ingram and child vyet, were both born in ane bower, had both their loves on one lady, the less was their honour. child vyet and lord ingram, were both born in one hall, had both their loves on one lady, the worse did them befall. lord ingram woo'd the lady maisry, from father and from mother; lord ingram woo'd the lady maisry, from sister and from brother. lord ingram wooed the lady maisry, with leave of all her kin; and every one gave full consent, but she said no, to him. lord ingram wooed the lady maisry, into her father's ha'; child vyet wooed the lady maisry, amang the sheets so sma'. now it fell out upon a day, she was dressing her head, that ben did come her father dear, wearing the gold so red. "get up now, lady maisry, put on your wedding gown, for lord ingram will be here, your wedding must be done!" "i'd rather be child vyet's wife, the white fish to sell, before i were lord ingram's wife, to wear the silk so well! "i'd rather be child vyet's wife, with him to beg my bread, before i'd be lord ingram's wife, to wear the gold so red. [illustration: ] "where will i get a bonny boy, will win gold to his fee, will run unto child vyet's, with this letter from me?" "o here, i am the boy," says one, "will win gold to my fee, and carry away any letter, to child vyet from thee." (_ben_, in.) and when he found the bridges broke, he bent his bow and swam; and when he found the grass growing, he hasten'd and he ran. and when he came to vyet's castle, he did not knock nor call, but set his bent bow to his breast, and lightly leaped the wall; and ere the porter open'd the gate, the boy was in the hall. the first line that child vyet read, a grieved man was he; the next line that he looked on, a tear blinded his e'e. "what ails my own brother," he says, "he'll not let my love be; but i'll send to my brother's bridal; the woman shall be free. "take four and twenty bucks and ewes, and ten tun of the wine, and bid my love be blithe and glad, and i will follow syne." there was not a groom about that castle, but got a gown of green; child vyet s' and a' was blithe, and a was glad, but lady maisry was wi' wean. there was no cook about the kitchen, but got a gown of gray; and a' was blythe, and a was glad, but lady maisry was wae. 'tween mary kirk and that castle, was all spread o'er with [garl]. to keep the lady and her maidens, from tramping on the [marl]. from mary kirk to that castle, was spread a cloth of gold, to keep the lady and her maidens, from treading on the mould. when mass was sung, and bells were rung, and all men bound for bed, then lord ingram and lady maisry, in one bed they were laid. when they were laid upon their bed, it was baith soft and warm, he laid his hand over her side, says he, "you are with bairn." (_wean_, child. _garl_, gravel, _marl_, mould.) "i told you once, so did i twice, when ye came as my wooer, that child vyet, your one brother, one night lay in my bower!" "i told you twice, so did i thrice, ere ye came me to wed, that child vyet, your one brother, one night lay in my bed!" "o will you father your bairn on me, and on no other man? and i'll gie him to his dowry, full fifty ploughs of land." "i will not father my bairn on you, nor on no wrongous man, tho' you would give him to his dowry, five thousand ploughs of land." then up did start him child vyet, shed by his yellow hair, and gave lord ingram to the heart, a deep wound and a sair. then up did start him lord ingram, shed by his yellow hair, and gave child vyet to the heart, a deep wound and a sair. (_shed by,_ put back.) there was no pity for the two lords, where they were lying slain, all was for lady maisry: in that bower she gaed brain! there was no pity for the two lords, when they were lying dead, all was for lady maisry: in that bower she went mad! "o get to me a cloak of cloth, a staff of good hard tree; if i have been an evil woman, i shall beg till i die. "for ae bit i'll beg for child vyet, for lord ingram i'll beg three, all for the honourable marriage, that at mary kirk he gave me!" (_brain_, mad. _tree_, wood.) robin hood and the monk |in summer when the shaws be sheen, and leaves be large and long, it is full merry in fair forest to hear the fowlés song. to see the deer draw to the dale, and leave the hillés high, and shadow them in the leaves green, under the green-wood tree. it befell on whitsuntide, early in a may morning, the sun up fair can shine, and the birdés merry can sing. (_shaws_, wood. _sheen_, bright.) "this is a merry morning," said little john, "by him that died on tree; a more merry man then i am one lives not in christianté." "pluck up thy heart, my dear master," little john can say, "and think it is a full fair time in a morning of may." "the one thing grieves me," said robin, "and does my heart much woe, that i may not so solemn day to mass nor matins go. "it is a fortnight and more," said he, "since i my saviour see; to-day will i to nottingham," said robin, "with the might of mild mary." then spake much the miller son, ever more well him betide, "take twelve of thy wight yeomen well weaponed by thy side. such one would thyself slon that twelve dare not abide." (_slon_, slay.) "of all my merry men," said robin, "by my faith i will none have; but little john shall bear my bow till that me list to draw." "thou shall bear thine own," said little john, "master, and i will bear mine; and we will shoot a penny," said little john, "under the green wood line." "i will not shoot a penny," said robin hood, "in faith, little john, with thee, but ever for one as thou shoots," said robin, "in faith i hold thee three." thus shot they forth, these yeomen two, both at busk and broom, till little john won of his master five shillings to hose and shoon. a ferly strife fell them between. as they went by the way; little john said he had won five shillings, and robin hood said shortly nay. (_line_, tree. _busk_, bush. _ferly_, wonderful.) with that robin hood lied little john, and smote him with his hand; little john waxed wroth therewith, and pulled out his bright brand. "were thou not my master," said little john, "thou shouldest be hit full sore; get thee a man where thou wilt, robin, for thou gets me no more." then robin goes to nottingham, himself morning alone, and little john to merry sherwood, the paths he knew ilkone. when robin came to nottingham, certainly withouten lain, he prayed to god and mild mary to bring him out safe again. he goes into saint mary church, and kneeled down before the rood; all that ever were the church within beheld well robin hood. beside him stood a great-headed monk, i pray to god woe he be; full soon he knew good robin as soon as he him see. (_ilkone_, each one. _lain_, hindrance (?)) out at the door he ran full soon and anon; all the gates of nottingham he made to be sparred everyone. "rise up,' he said, "thou proud sheriff, busk thee and make thee boun; i have spied the king's felon, forsooth he is in this town. "i have spied the false felon, as he stands at his mass; it is long of thee," said the monk, "an ever he fro us pass. "this traitor's name is robin hood; under the green wood lind, he robbed me once of a hundred pound, it shall never out of my mind." up then rose this proud sheriff, and radly made him yare; many was the mother son to the kirk with him can fare. in at the door they throly thrast with staves full god wone. "alas, alas," said robin hood, "now miss i little john." (_sparred_, shut. _boun_, ready. _lind_, tree. _radly_, quickly. _yaref_ ready. _throly_, boldly. _thrast_, pressed. _ivone_, knows.) but robin took out a two-hand sword that hanged down by his knee; there as the sheriff and his men stood thickest, thitherward would he. thrice throughout them he ran, forsooth as i you say, and wounded many a mother's son, and twelve he slew that day. his sword upon the sheriff's head certainly he brake in two; "the smith that thee made," said robin, "i pray to god work him woe. "for now am i weaponless," said robin, "alas, against my will; but if i may flee these traitors fro, i wot they will me kill." robin in to the church ran, throughout them everyone; ***** some fell in swooning as they were dead, and lay still as any stone. none of them were in their mind but only little john. "let be your [dule],'' said little john, "for his love that died on tree; ye that should be doughty men, it is great shame to see. "our master has been hard bestood, and yet scaped away; pluck up your hearts and leave this moan, and hearken what i shall say. "he has served our lady many a day, and yet will securely; therefore i trust in her specially no wicked death shall he die. "therefore be glad," said little john, "and let this mourning be, and i shall be the monk's guide, with the might of mild mary. "we will go but we two and i meet him," said little john, ***** "look that ye keep well our tristil tree under the leaves small, and spare none of this venison that goes in this vale." (_dule_, weeping. _tristil_, trysting. forth then went these yeomen two, little john and much infere, and looked on much emy's house the highway lay full near. little john stood at a window in the morning, and looked forth at a stage; he was ware where the monk came riding, and with him a little page. "by my faith," said little john to much, "i can thee tell tidings good, i see where the monk comes riding, i know him by his wide hood." they went into the way these yeomen both, as courteous men and hende, they speered tidings at the monk, as they had been his friend. "fro whence come ye," said little john; "tell us tidings, i you pray, of a false outlaw [called robin rood], was taken yesterday. "he robbed me and my fellows both of twenty mark in certain. if that false outlaw be taken, forsooth we would be fain." (_infere_, together. _emys_, uncle's. _hende_, gentle.) "so did he me," said the monk, "of a hundred pound and more; i laid first hand him upon, ye may thank me therefore." "i pray god thank you," said little john, "and we will when we may; we will go with you, with your leave, and bring you on your way. "for robin hood has many a wild fellow, i tell you in certain; if they wist ye rode this way, in faith ye should be slain." as they went talking by the way, the monk and little john, john took the monk's horse by the head full soon and anon. john took the monk's horse by the head, forsooth as i you say, so did much the little page, for he should not stir away. by the gullet of the hood john pulled the monk down; john was nothing of him aghast, he let him fall on his crown. little john was sore aggrieved, and drew out his sword in high; the monk saw he should be dead, lord mercy can he cry. "he was my master," said little john, "that thou has brought in bale; shall thou never come at our king for to tell him tale." john smote off the monk's head, no longer would he dwell; so did much the little page, for fear lest he would tell. there they buried them both in neither moss nor ling, and little john and much infere bare the letters to our king. ***** he kneeled down upon his knee, "god you save, my liege lord, "jesus you save and see. "god you save, my liege king," to speak john was full bold; he gave him the letters in his hand, the king did it unfold. (_bale_, trouble.) the king read the letters anon, and said, "so mot i thee, there was never yeoman in merry england i longed so sore to see. "where is the monk that these should have brought?" our king gan say; "by my troth," said little john, "he died after the way." the king gave much and little john twenty pound in certain, and made them yeomen of the crown, and bade them go again. he gave john the seal in hand, the sheriff for to bear, to bring robin him to, and no man do him dere. john took his leave at our king, the sooth as i you say; the next way to nottingham to take he yede the way. when john came to nottingham the gates were sparred each one; john called up the porter, he answered soon anon. (_dere,_ harm. _yede_, went.) "what is the cause," said little john, "thou sparrest the gates so fast?" "because of robin hood," said [the] porter, in deep prison is cast. "john, and much, and will scathlock, forsooth as i you say, there slew our men upon our walls, and sawten us every day." little john speered after the sheriff, and soon he him found; he opened the king's privy seal, and gave him in his hand. when the sheriff saw the king's seal, he did off his hood anon; "where is the monk that bare the letters?" he said to little john. "he is so fain of him," said little john, "forsooth as i you say, he has made him abbot of westminster, a lord of that abbey." the sheriff made john good cheer, and gave him wine of the best; at night they went to their bed, and every man to his rest. (_sawten,_ sought.) when the sheriff was on sleep drunken of wine and ale, little john and much forsooth took the way into the jail. little john called up the jailor, and bade him rise anon; he said robin hood had broken prison, and out of it was gone. the porter rose anon certain, as soon as he heard john call; little john was ready with a sword, and bare him to the wall. "now will i be porter," said little john, "and take the keys in hand;" he took the way to robin hood, and soon he him unbound. he gave him a good sword in his hand, his head therewith for to keep, and there as the wall was lowest anon down can they leap. by that the cock began to crow, the day began to spring, the sheriff found the jailor dead, the coming bell made he ring. he made a cry throughout all the tow[n], whether he be yeoman or knave, that could bring him robin hood, his warison he should have. "for i dare never," said the sheriff, "come before our king, for if i do, i wot certain, forsooth he will me hang." the sheriff made to seek nottingham, both by street and stye, and robin was in merry sherwood as list as leaf on lind. then bespake good little john, to robin hood can he say, "i have done thee a good turn for an evil, quit thee when thou may. "i have done thee a good turn,"said littlejohn, "forsooth as i you say; i have brought thee under green wood lind; farewell, and have good day." "nay, by my troth," said robin hood, "so shall it never be; i make thee master," said robin hood, "of all my men and me." (_warison,_ reward. _stye_, lane. _list_, pleased.) "nay, by my troth," said little john, "so shall it never be, but let me be a fellow," said little john, "none other kepe i'll be." thus john got robin hood out of prison, certain withouten lain; when his men saw him whole and sound, forsooth they were full fain. they filled in wine, and made them glad, under the leaves small, and eat pasties of venison, that good was with ale. then word came to our king, how robin hood was gone, and how the sheriff of nottingham durst never look him upon. then bespake our comely king, in an anger high, "little john has beguiled the sheriff, in faith so has he me, "little john has beguiled us both, and that full well i see, or else the sheriff of nottingham high hanged should he be. (_kepe i'll be_, relations i'll have. _lain_, deception.) "i made them yeomen of the crown, and gave them fee with my hand, i gave them grith," said our king, throughout all merry england. "i gave them grith," then said our king, "i say, so might i thee, forsooth such a yeoman as he is one in all england are not three. "he is true to his master," said our king, "i say, by sweet saint john; he loves better robin hood, then he does us each one. "robin hood is ever bound to him, both in street and stall; speak no more of this matter," said our king, "but john has beguiled us all." thus ends the talking of the monk and robin hood i-wis; god, that is ever a crowned king, bring us all to his bliss. (_grith_, protection.) the bonny house o' airly |it fell on a day, and a bonny summer day, when the corn grew green and yellow, that there fell out a great dispute, between argyle and airly. the duke o' montrose has written to argyle to come in the morning early, an' lead in his men, by the back o' dunkeld, to plunder the bonny house o' airly. the lady look'd o er her window sae high, and o but she looked weary! and there she espied the great argyle come to plunder the bonny house o' airly. "come down, come down, lady margaret," he says, "come down, and kiss me fairly, or before the morning clear daylight, i'll no leave a standing stane in airly. "i wadna kiss thee, great argyle, i wadna kiss thee fairly, i wadna kiss thee, great argyle, gin you shouldna leave a standing stane in airly. he has ta en her by the middle sae sma', says, "lady, where is your drury?" "it's up and down by the bonny burn side, amang the planting o' airly." they sought it up, they sought it down, they sought it late and early, and found it in the bonny balm-tree, that shines on the bowling-green o' airly. he has ta'en her by the left shoulder, and o but she grat sairly, and led her down to yon green bank, till they plundered the bonny house o' airly. "but gin my good lord had been at hame, as this night he is wi' charlie, there durst na a campbell in a' the west hae plundered the bonny house o' airly. "o it's i hae seven braw sons," she says, "and the youngest ne'er saw his daddy, and altho' i had as mony mae, i wad gie them a' to charlie." (_drury_, dowry. _grat_,wept.) bonny james campbell |o its up in the hielands, and along the sweet tay, did bonny james campbell ride mony a day. saddled and bridled and bonny rode he; hame came horse, hame came saddle, but ne'er hame came he! and doun came his sweet sisters greeting sae sair, and doun came his bonny wife, tearing her hair. "my house is unbigged, my bairn's unborn, my corn's unshorn; my meadow grows green." (_unbigged,_ unbuilt.) hind horn [illustration: ] in scotland there was a baby born, _lill lal, &c._ and his name it was called young hind horn, _with a fal led, &c._ he sent a letter to our king, that he was in love with his dochter jean. hes gien to her a silver wand, with seven living laverocks sitting thereon. she's gien to him a diamond ring, with seven bright diamonds set therein. when this ring grows pale and wan, you may know by it my love is gane. one day as he looked his ring upon, he saw the diamonds pale and wan. (_laverocks_, larks.) he left the sea, and came to land, and the first that he met was an old beggar man. "what news, what news?" said young hind horn, "no news, no news," said the old beggar man. "no news," said the beggar, "no news at a, but there is a wedding in the king's ha'. "but there is a wedding in the king's ha, that has holden these forty days and twa." "will you lend me your begging coat? and i'll lend you my scarlet cloak. "will you lend me thy begging rung? and i'll give ye my steed to ride upon. "will ye lend me your wig o' hair to cover mine, because it is fair." the auld beggar man was bound for the mill, but young hind horn for the king's hall. the auld beggar man was bound for to ride, but young hind horn was bound for the bride. (_rung_, staff.) when he came to the kings gate, he sought a drink for hind horns sake. the bride came down with a glass of wine, when he drank out the glass, and dropt in the ring. "o got ye this by sea, or land? or got ye it off a dead man's hand?" "i got it not by sea, i got it by land, and i got it madam out of your own hand." "o i'll cast off my gowns of brown, and beg wi' you frae town to town; "o i'll cast off my gowns of red, and i'll beg with you to win my bread." "ye needna cast off your gowns of brown, for i'll make you lady of many a town; "ye needna cast off your gowns of red, it's only a sham, the begging o' my bread." the bridegroom he had wedded the bride, but young hind horn he took her to bed. richie story |the earl of wigton had three daughters, o and a wally, but they were unco bonny; the eldest of them had the far brawest house, but she's fallen in love with her footman-laddy. as she was a-walking doun by yon river-side, o and a wally, but she was unco bonny; there she espied her own footman, with ribbons hanging over his shoulders sae bonny. "here's a letter to you, madame, here's a letter to you, madame; the earl of hume is waiting on, and he has his service to you, madame." "i'll have none of his service," says she, "i'll have none of his service," says she, "for i've made vow, and i'll keep it true, that i'll marry none but you, richie." "o say not so again, madame, o say not so again, madame; for i have neither land nor rents for to keep you on, madame." "i'll live where er you please, richie, i'll live where'er you please, [richie] and i'll be ready at your ca', either late or early, richie." as they went in by stirling toun, o and a wally, but she was unco bonny! a' her silks were sailing on the ground, but few of them knew of richie story. as they went in by the parliament close, o and a wally, but she was unco bonny! all the nobles took her by the hand, but few of them knew she was richie's lady. as they came in by her good-mother's yetts, o and a wally, but she was unco bonny! her good-mother bade her kilt her coats, and muck the byre with richie story. "o, may not ye be sorry, madame, o, may not ye be sorry, madame, to leave a' your lands at bonny cumberland, and follow home your footman-laddy?" "what need i be sorry?" says she, "what need i be sorry?" says she, "for i've gotten my lot and my heart's desire, and what providence has ordered for me." (_good-mother_, mother-in-law. _byre_, cow-house.) eppie morrie |four and twenty highland men came a' from carrie side, to steal awa' eppie morrie, 'cause she would not be a bride. out it's came her mother, it was a moonlight night, she could not see her daughter. the swords they shin'd so bright. "haud far awa' frae me, mother, haud far awa' frae me; there's not a man in a' strathdon shall wedded be with me." they have taken eppie morrie, and horseback bound her on, and then awa' to the minister, as fast as horse could gang. he's taken out a pistol, and set it to the minister's breast; "marry me, marry me, minister, or else i'll be your priest.'' "haud far awa' frae me, good sir, haud far awa' frae me; for there's not a man in a' strathdon that shall married be with me." "haud far awa' frae me, willy, haud far awa' frae me; for i darna avow to marry you, except she's as willing as ye." they have taken eppie morrie, since better could na be, and they're awa' to carrie side, as fast as horse could flee. then mass was sung, and bells were rung, and all were bound for bed, then willy an' eppie morrie in one bed they were laid. "haud far awa' frae me, willy, haud far awa' frae me; before i'll lose my maidenhead, i'll try my strength with thee." she took the cap from off her head, and threw it to the way; said, "ere i lose my maidenhead, i'll fight with you till day." then early in the morning, before her clothes were on, in came the maiden of scalletter, gown and shirt alone. "get up, get up, young woman, and drink the wine wi' me;" "you might have called me maiden, i'm sure as leal as thee." "wally fa you, willy, that ye could na prove a man, and ta en the lassie's maidenhead; she would have hired your han'." "haud far awa' frae me, lady, haud far awa' frae me; there's not a man in a' strathdon, the day shall wed wi' me." soon in there came belbordlane, with a pistol on every side; "come awa' hame, eppie morrie, and there you'll be my bride." "go get to me a horse, willy, and get it like a man, and send me back to my mother, a maiden as i cam'. "the sun shines o'er the westlin hills, by the light lamp of the moon, just saddle your horse, young john forsyth, and whistle, and i'll come soon." young akin |lady margaret sits in her bower door, sewing at her silken seam; she heard a note in elmond's-wood, and wish'd she there had been. she loot the seam fa' frae her side, and the needle to her tae; and she is on to elmond-wood as fast as she could gae. she hadna pu'd a nut, a nut, nor broken a branch but ane, till by it came a young hind chiel, says, "lady, lat alane. "o why pu' ye the nut, the nut, or why brake ye the tree? for i am forester o' this wood; ye shou'd speer leave at me." (_hind chiel_, young stripling. _speer_, ask.) "i'll ask leave at no living man, nor yet will i at thee; my father is king o'er a' this realm, this wood belongs to me." she hadna pu'd a nut, a nut, nor broken a branch but three, till by it came him young akin, and gar'd her lat them be. the highest tree in elmond's-wood, he's pu'd it by the reet; and he has built for her a bower near by a hollow seat. he's built a bower, made it secure wi' carbuncle and stane; tho' travellers were never sae nigh, appearance it had nane. he's kept her there in elmond's-wood, for six lang years and one; till six pretty sons to him she bear, and the seventh she's brought home. it fell ance upon a day, this guid lord went from home; and he is to the hunting gane, took wi' him his eldest son, and when they were on a guid way, wi' slowly pace did walk, the boy's heart being something wae, he thus began to talk:-- "a question i wou'd ask, father, gin ye wou'dna angry be?" "say on, say on, my bonny boy, ye'se na be quarrell'd by me." "i see my mithers cheeks aye weet, i never can see them dry; and i wonder what aileth my mither, to mourn continually." "your mither was a king's daughter, sprung frae a high degree; and she might hae wed some worthy prince, had she na been stown by me. "i was her fathers cup-bearer, just at that fatal time; i catch'd her on a misty night, when summer was in prime. "my love to her was most sincere, her love was great for me; but when she hardships doth endure, her folly she does see." "i'll shoot the buntin' o' the bush, the linnet o' the tree, and bring them to my dear mither, see if she'll merrier be." it fell upo' another day, this guid lord he thought lang, and he is to the hunting gane, took wi' him his dog and gun. wi' bow and arrow by his side, he's off, single, alane; and left his seven children to stay wi' their mither at hame. "o, i will tell to you, mither, gin ye wadna angry be:" "speak on, speak on, my little wee boy, ye se na be quarrelled by me." "as we came frae the hind-hunting, we heard fine music ring:" "my blessings on you my bonny boy, i wish i'd been there my lane." he's ta en his mither by the hand, his six brithers also, and they are on thro' elmond's-wood, as fast as they could go. (_buntin'_, blackbird. _lane_, self.) they wistna weel where they were ga en, wi' the strattlins o' their feet; they wistna weel where they were ga'en, till at her father's gate. "i hae nae money in my pocket, but royal rings hae three; i'll gie them you, my little young son, and ye'll walk there for me. "ye'll gie the first to the proud porter, and he will lat you in; ye'll gie the next to the butler boy, and he will show you ben; "ye'll gie the third to the minstrel that plays before the king; he'll play success to the bonny boy, came thro' the wood him lane." he gae the first to the proud porter, and he open'd and let him in; he gae the next to the butler boy, and he has shown him ben; he gae the third to the minstrel that play'd before the king; and he play'd success to the bonny boy, came thro' the wood him lane. (_strattlins,_ straddlings (?). _ben_, in.) now when he came before the king, fell low down on his knee: the king he turned round about, and the saut tear blinded his ee. "win up, win up, my bonny boy, gang frae my company; ye look sae like my dear daughter, my heart will burst in three." "if i look like your dear daughter, a wonder it is none; if i look like your dear daughter, i am her eldest son. "will ye tell me, ye wee little boy, where may my margaret be?" "she's just now standing at your gates, and my six brothers her wi'." "o where are all my porter-boys that i pay meat and fee, to open my gates baith wide and braid? let her come in to me." when she came in before the king, fell low down on her knee: "win up, win up, my daughter dear, this day ye'll dine wi' me." "ae bit i canna eat, father, nor ae drop can i drink, till i see my mither and sister dear, for lang for them i think." when she came before the queen, fell low down on her knee: "win up, win up, my daughter dear, this day ye'se dine wi' me." "ae bit i canna eat, mither, nor ae drop can i drink, until i see my dear sister, for lang for her i think." when that these two sisters met, she hail'd her courteously: "come ben, come ben, my sister dear, this day ye'se dine wi' me." "ae bit i canna eat, sister, nor ae drop can i drink, until i see my dear husband, for lang for him i think." "o where are all my rangers bold that i pay meat and fee, to search the forest far an' wide, and bring akin to me?" out it speaks the wee little boy,-- "na, na, this mauna be; without ye grant a free pardon, i hope ye'll na him see." "o here i grant a free pardon, well seal'd by my own han'; ye may make search for young akin, as soon as ever you can." they search'd the country wide and braid, the forests far and near, and found him into elmond's-wood, tearing his yellow hair. "win up, win up, now young akin, win up, and boun wi' me; were messengers come from the court; the king wants you to see." "o lat him take frae me my head, or hang me on a tree; for since i've lost my dear lady, life's no pleasure to me." "your head will na be touch'd, akin, nor hang'd upon a tree: your lady's in her father's court, and all he wants is thee." (_boun_, go.) when he came in before the king, fell low down on his knee: "win up, win up now, young akin, this day ye'se dine wi' me." but as they were at dinner set, the boy asked a boon; "i wish we were in the good church, for to get christendoun. "we hae lived in guid green wood this is even years and ane; but a this time since e'er i mind, was never a church within." "your asking's na sae great, my boy, but granted it shall be; this day to guid church ye shall gang, and your mither shall gang you wi'." when unto the guid church she came, she at the door did stan; she was sae sair sunk down wi' shame, she couldna come farther ben. then out it speaks the parish priest, and a sweet smile gae he;-- "come ben, come ben, my lily flower, present your babes to me." charles, vincent, sam, and dick, and likewise james and john; they call'd the eldest young akin, which was his father's name. then they staid in the royal court, and liv'd wi' mirth and glee; and when her father was deceas'd, heir of the crown was she. bonny annie |there was a rich lord, and he lived in forfar, he had a fair lady, and one only dochter. o she was fair, o dear, she was bonny, a ship's captain courted her to be his honey. there came a ship's captain out ower the sea sailing, he courted this young thing till he got her wi' bairn: -- "ye'll steal your father's gowd, and your mother's money, and i'll mak ye a lady in ireland bonny." she's stown her father's gowd and her mother's money, but she was never a lady in ireland bonny. ***** "there's fey folk in our ship, she winna sail for me, there's fey folk in our ship, she winna sail for me." they've casten black bullets twice six and forty, and ae the black bullet fell on bonny annie. "ye'll tak me in your arms twa, lo, lift me canny, throw me out ower board, your ain dear annie." he has ta'en her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her canny, he has laid her on a bed of down, his ain dear annie. "what can a woman do, love, i'll do for ye;" "muckle can a woman do, ye canna do for me.-- lay about, steer about, lay our ship canny, do all you can to save my dear annie." "i've laid about, steer'd about, laid about canny, but all i can do, she winna sail for me. ye'll tak her in your arms twa, lo, lift her canny, and throw her out ower board, your ain dear annie." he has ta'en her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her canny, he has thrown her out ower board, his ain dear annie: as the ship sailed, bonny annie she swam, and she was at ireland as soon as them. (_fey_, doomed. _canny_, carefully.) he made his love a coffin of the gowd sae yellow, and buried his bonny love doun in a sea valley. the laird o' drum [illustration: ] |the laird o' drum is a wooing gane, it was on a morning early, and he has fawn in wi' a bonny may, a-shearing at her barley. "my bonny may, my weel-faur'd may, o will you fancy me, o; and gae and be the lady o' drum, and lat your shearing abee, o?" (_fawn_, fallen.) "it's i canna fancy thee, kind sir, i winna fancy thee, o, i winna gae and be lady o' drum, and lat my shearing abee, o. "but set your love on anither, kind sir, set it not on me, o, for i am not fit to be your bride, and your whore i'll never be, o. "my father he is a shepherd mean, keeps sheep on yonder hill, o, and ye may gae and speer at him, for i am at his will, o." drum is to her father gane, keeping his sheep on yon hill, o; and he has gotten his consent that the may was at his will, o. "but my dochter can neither read nor write, she was ne er brought up at scheel, o; but weel can she milk cow and ewe, and mak a kebbuck weel, o. "she'll win in your barn at bear-seed time, cast out your muck at yule, o, she'll saddle your steed in time o' need, and draw off your boots hersel', o." (_kebbuck_, cheese. _win_, go.) "have not i no clergymen? pay i no clergy fee, o? ill scheel her as i think fit, and as i think weel to be, o. [illustration: ] "i'll learn your lassie to read and write, and i'll put her to the scheel, o; shell neither need to saddle my steed, nor draw off my boots hersel', o. "but wha will bake my bridal bread, or brew my bridal ale, o; and wha will welcome my bonny bride, is mair than i can tell, o." drum is to the hielands gane, for to mak a' ready, and a' the gentry round about, cried, "yonder's drum and his lady! "peggy coutts is a very bonny bride, and drum is a wealthy laddy, but he might hae chosen a higher match, than ony shepherd's lassie." then up bespak his brither john, says, "ye've deen us mickle wrang, o; ye've married een below our degree, a lake to a' our kin, o." "hold your tongue, my brither john, i have deen you na wrang, o; for i've married een to work and win, and ye've married een to spend, o. "the first time that i had a wife, she was far abeen my degree, o; i durst na come in her presence, but wi' my hat upo' my knee, o. (_lake_, reproach.) "the first wife that i did wed, she was far abeen my degree, o; she wadna hae walk'd to the yetts o' drum, but the pearls abeen her bree, o. "but an' she was ador'd for as much gold, as peggy's for beauty, o, she might walk to the yetts o' drum, amang geed company, o." there war four and twenty gentlemen stood at the yetts o' drum, o; there was na ane amang them a' that welcom'd his lady in, o. he has tane her by the milk-white hand, and led her in himsel', o, and in thro' ha's, and in thro' bowers,-- "and ye're welcome, lady o' drum, o." thrice he kissed her cherry cheek, and thrice her cherry chin, o; and twenty times her comely mou',-- "and ye're welcome, lady o' drum, o. "ye sall be cook in my kitchen, butler in my ha', o; ye sall be lady in my command, whan i ride far awa, o."-- (_bree_, brow.) "but i told ye afore we war wed, i was ower low for thee, o; but now we are wed, and in ae bed laid, and ye maun be content wi' me, o. "for an' i war dead, and ye war dead, and baith in ae grave laid, o, and ye and i war tane up again, wha could distan your moulds frae mine, o?" the death of queen jane |queen jane, o! queen jane, o! what a lady was she; and she was in labour six weeks and a' day: queen jane was in labour for six weeks or more, till the women grew weary and fain would give oer. "o women, o women, good wives if ye be, go send for king henry, and bring him to me!" (_distan_, distinguish.) king henry was sent for, and to her he came. "dear lady! fair lady! your eyes they look dim." king henry came to her, he came in all speed, in a gown of red velvet from heel to the head; "king henry, king henry, if kind you will be, send for a good doctor, and let him come unto me!" the doctor was sent for, he came with all speed, in a gown of black velvet from heel to the head; the doctor was sent for, and to her he came. "dear lady! dear lady! your labour's in vain." "dear doctor! dear doctor! will you do this for me; o open up my right side, and save my baby." then out spake king henry, "that never can be; i'd rather lose the branch than the top of the tree." the doctor gave a rich caudle, the death-sleep slept she, then her right side was opened, and the babe set free. the babe it was christened, and put out and nursed, but the royal queen jane she lay cold in the dust. the gardener [illustration: ] |the gardener stands in his bower door, wi' a primrose in his hand; and by there came a leal maiden, as jimp as a willow wand; and by there came a leal maiden, as jimp as a willow wand. "o lady can you fancy me, for to be my bride; yese get a the flowers in my garden, to be to you a weed. "the lily white sail be your smock, becomes your body neat; your head sail be decked wi' gilly-flower, and the primrose in your breast. "your gown sail be o' the sweet william; your coat the camovine; your apron o' the sallads neat, that taste baith sweet and fine. "your stockings sail be o' the broad kail-blade, that is baith broad and lang; narrow, narrow, at the coot, and broad, broad at the brawn. "your gloves sail be the marigold, all glittering to your hand, weel spread ower wi' the blue blaewort, that grows in corn-land." "o fare ye well, young man,'' she says, "farewell and i bid adieu; sin ye've provided a weed for me amang the simmer flowers, (_camovine_, camomile. _kail-blade_, leaf of colewort. _coot_, ankle. _brawn_, calf.) then i'll provide another for you, amang the winter-showers. [illustration: ] "the new fallen snow to be your smock; becomes your body neat; your head sail be decked wi' the eastern wind, and the cold rain on your breast." johnny scott |o johnny was as brave a knight as ever sail'd the sea, an he's done him to the english court, to serve for meat and fee. he had na been in england but yet a little while until the king's ae daughter to johnny proves wi' chil'. o word's come to the king himsel' in his chair where he sat that his ae daughter was wi' bairn to jack, the little scott. gin this be true that i do hear, as i trust well it be, ye put her into prison strong, an' starve her till she die. o johnny's on to fair scotland, i wot, he went wi' speed, and he has left the king's court, i wot, good was his need. o it fell once upon a day that johnny he thought lang; an hes gane to the good green wood, as fast as he could gang. o where will i get a bonny boy, to rin my errand soon; that will rin into fair england, an' haste him back again? o up it starts a bonny boy, gold yellow was his hair, i wish his mither mickle joy, his bonny love mickle mair. o here am i, a bonny boy, will rin your errand soon; i will gang into fair england, an' come right soon again. o when he came to broken briggs he bent his bow and swam, an when he came to the green grass growing he slaiked his shoon an' ran. when he came to yon high castle, he ran it round about; an' there he saw the king's daughter at the window looking out. "o here's a sark o' silk, lady, your ain hand sew'd the sleeve, you're bidden come to fair scotland, speer nane o' your parents' leave. "ha, take this sark o' silk, lady, your ain hand sew'd the gare; you're bidden come to good green wood, love johnny waits you there." she's turned her right and round about the tear was in her ee: "how can i come to my true-love except i had wings to flee? "here am i kept wi' bars and bolts, most grievous to behold; my breast-plate's o' the sturdy steel, instead of the beaten gold. (_slaiked,_ loosened, i.e. took off. _sark_, shirt. gare, hem. johnny scott ss' "but take this purse, my bonny boy, ye well deserve a fee, and bear this letter to my love, an' tell him what you see." then quickly ran the bonny boy, again to scotland fair, an soon he reached pitnachton's towrs, an' soon found johnny there. he put the letter in his han, an' told him what he saw, but ere he half the letter read, he loot the tears doun fa'. o i will gae back to fair england, tho' death should me betide, an i will relieve the damsel that lay last by my side. then out it spake his father dear: "my son, you are to blame; an' gin you're catched on english ground, i fear you'll ne'er win hame." then out it spake a valiant knight, johnny's best friend was he: "i can command five hunder men, an' i'll his surety be." the firstin town that they came till, they gar'd the bells be rung; an' the nextin town that they came till, they gar'd the mass be sung. the thirdin town that they came till, they gar'd the drums beat round, the king but an' his nobles a' was startled at the sound. when they came to the king's palace, they rade it round about; an' there they saw the king himsel', at the window looking out. "is this the duke o' albany, or james, the scottish king? or are ye some great foreign lord, that's come a visiting?" "i'm na the duke of albany, nor james, the scottish king; but i'm a valiant scottish knight; pitnachton is my name." "o if pitnachton be your name, as i trust well it be; the morn, or i taste meat or drink, you shall be hanged hi'." then out it spake the valiant knight, that came brave johnny wi': "behold five hunder bowmen bold, will die to set him free." then out it spake the king again, an' a scornfu' laugh laugh he: "i have an italian i' my house, will fight you three by three." "o grant me a boon," brave johnny cried, "bring your italian here; then if he fall beneath my sword, i've won your daughter dear." then out it came, that italian, an' a curious ghost was he; upon the point o' johnny's sword, this italian did die. out has he drawn his lang, lang bran', struck it across the plain: "is there any more o' your english dogs, that you want to be slain?" "a clerk, a clerk," the king then cried, "to write her tocher free;" "a priest, a priest," says love johnny, "to marry my love and me. "i'm seeking nane o' your gold," he says, "nor of your silver clear; i only seek your daughter fair, whose love hast cost her dear." kemp owyne |her mother died when she was young, which gave her cause to make great moan; her father married the worst woman that ever lived in christendom. she served her with foot and hand, in every thing that she could dee; till once, in an unlucky time, she threw her in ower craigy's sea. says, "lie you there, dove isabel, and all my sorrows lie with thee; till kemp owyne come ower the sea, and borrow you with kisses three, let all the world do what they will, oh borrowed shall you never be." her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, and twisted thrice about the tree, and all the people, far and near, thought that a savage beast was she; (_borrow,_ redeem.) this news did come to kemp owyne, where he lived far beyond the sea. he hasted him to craigy's sea, and on the savage beast look'd he; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted was about the tree, and with a swing she came about: "come to craigy's sea, and kiss with me." "here is a royal belt," she cried, "that i have found in the green sea: and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me, tail or fin, i vow my belt your death shall be." he stepped in, gave her a kiss, the royal belt he brought him wi'; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted twice about the tree, and with a swing she came about: "come to craigy's sea, and kiss with me." "here is a royal ring," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your finger it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me, tail or fin, i swear my ring your death shall be." [illustration: ] he stepped in, gave her a kiss, the royal ring he brought him wi'; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted aince around the tree, and with a swing she came about: "come to craigy's sea, and kiss with me." "here is a royal brand," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be: but if you touch me, tail or fin, i swear my brand your death shall be." he stepped in, gave her a kiss, the royal brand he brought him wi'; her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, and twisted nane about the tree; and smilingly she came about' as fair a woman as fair could be. the weary coble o' cargill |david drummonds destiny, gude man o' appearance o' cargill; i wot his blude rins in the flude, sae sair against his parents' will. she was the lass o' balathy toun, and he the butler o' stobhall; and mony a time she walked late, to bore the coble o' cargill. his bed was made in kercock ha', of gude clean sheets and of the hay; he wadna rest ae night therein, but on the proud waters he wad gae. his bed was made in balathy toun, of the clean sheets and of the strae; but i wot it was far better made, into the bottom o' bonny tay. she bored the coble in seven parts, i wot her heart might hae been fu' sair; for there she got the bonny lad lost, wi' the curly locks and the yellow hair. he put his foot into the boat, he little thought o' ony ill: but before that he was mid-waters, the weary coble began to fill. "woe be to the lass o' balathy toun, i wot an ill death may she die; for she bored the coble in seven parts, and let the waters perish me! (_strae_, straw.) "o help, o help i can get nane, nae help o' man can to me come!" this was about his dying words, when he was choked up to the chin. "gae tell my father and my mother, it was naebody did me this ill; i was a-going my ain errands, lost at the coble o' bonny cargill." she bored the boat in seven parts, i wot she bored it wi' gude will; and there they got the bonny lad's corpse, in the kirk-shot o' bonny cargill. o a' the keys of bonny stobha', i wot they at his belt did hing; but a the keys of bonny stobha, they now lie low into the stream. a braver page into his age ne er set a foot upon the plain; his' father to his mother said, "o sae soon as we've wanted him!" i wot they had mair love than this, when they were young and at the school; but for his sake she walked late, and bored the coble o' bonny cargill. (_shot_, plot of land.) "there's ne'er a clean sark gae on my back, nor yet a kame gae in my hair; there's neither coal nor candle light shall shine in my bower for ever mair. "at kirk nor market i'se ne'er be at, nor yet a blithe blink in my ee; there's ne'er a ane shall say to another, that's the lassie gar'd the young man die." between the yetts o' bonny stobha', and the kirkstyle o' bonny cargill, there is mony a man and mother's son that was at my love's burial. john thomson and the turk |john thomson fought against the turks three years, intill a far country; and all that time, and something mair, was absent from his gay lady. but it fell aince upon a time, as this young chieftain sat alane, he spied his lady in rich array, as she walk'd ower a rural plain. "what brought ye here, my lady gay, so far awa' from your ain country? i've thought lang, and very lang, and all for your fair face to see." for some days she did with him stay, till it fell aince upon a day, "fareweel, for a time," she said, "for now i must boun hame away." he's gi en to her a jewel fine, was set with pearl and precious stane; says, "my love, beware of these savages bold that's in your way as ye gang hame. "ye'll take the road, my lady fair, that leads you fair across the lea: that keeps you from wild hind soldan, and likewise from base violentrie." wi' heavy heart they twa did part, she mintet as she would gae hame; hind soldan by the greeks was slain, but to base violentrie she's gane. when a twelvemonth had expired, john thomson he thought wondrous lang, and he has written a braid letter, and sealed it weel wi' his ain hand. (_mintet_, started off.) he sent it with a small vessel that there was quickly ga en to sea; and sent it on to fair scotland, to see about his gay lady. but the answer he received again,-- the lines did grieve his heart right sair: nane of her friends there had her seen, for a twelvemonth and something mair. then he put on a palmers weed, and took a pike-staff in his hand; to violentrie's castle he hied; but slowly, slowly he did gang. when within the hall he came, he jooked and couch'd out ower his tree: "if ye be lady of this hall, some of your good bountith gie me." "what news, what news, palmer," she said, "and from what country came ye?" "i'm lately come from grecian plains, where lies some of the scots army." "if ye be come from grecian plains, some mair news i will ask of thee,-- of one of the chieftains that lies there, if he has lately seen his gay lady." (_jooked,_ bowed. _tree_, staff.) "it is twa months, and something mair, since we did part on yonder plain; and now this knight has began to fear one of his foes he has her ta en." "he has not ta'en me by force nor slight; it was a' by my ain free will; he may tarry into the fight, for here i mean to tarry still. "and if john thomson ye do see, tell him i wish him silent sleep; his head was not so cosily, nor yet sae weel, as lies at my feet." with that he threw off his strange disguise, laid by the mask that he had on; said, "hide me now, my lady fair, for violentrie will soon be hame." "for the love i bore thee aince, i'll strive to hide you, if i can:" then she put him down in a dark cellar where there lay many a new slain man. but he hadna in the cellar been, not an hour but barely three, then hideous was the noise he heard, when in at the gate came violentrie. says, "i wish you well, my lady fair, it's time for us to sit to dine; come, serve me with the good white bread and likewise with the claret wine. "that scots chieftain, our mortal foe, sae oft frae the field has made us flee, ten thousand zechins this day i'll give that i his face could only see." "of that same gift would ye give me, if i would bring him unto thee? i fairly hold you at your word;-- come ben, john thomson, to my lord." then from the vault john thomson came, wringing his hands most piteously: "what would ye do," the turk he cried, "if ye had me as i hae thee?" "if i had you as ye have me, i'll tell ye what i'd do to thee; i'd hang you up in good greenwood, and cause your ain hand wale the tree. "i meant to stick you with my knife for kissing my beloved lady:" "but that same weed ye've shaped for me, it quickly shall be sewed for thee." (_wald_, choose. _weed_, dress.) i then to the wood they baith are gane; john thomson clomb frae tree to tree; and aye he sighed and said, "ochone! here comes the day that i must die," he tied a ribbon on every branch, put up a flag his men might see; but little did his false foes ken he meant them any injury. he set his horn unto his mouth, and he has blawn baith loud and shrill: and then three thousand armed men came tripping all out ower the hill. "deliver us our chief," they all did cry; "it s by our hand that ye must die;" - "here is your chief," the turk replied, with that fell on his bended knee. "o mercy, mercy, good fellows all, mercy i pray you'll grant to me;" "such mercy as ye meant to give, such mercy we shall give to thee." this turk they in his castle burnt, that stood upon yon hill so high; john thomson's gay lady they took and hanged her on yon greenwood tree. lord derwentwater |our king has wrote a lang letter and sealed it ower with gold; he sent it to my lord dunwaters, to read it if he could. he has not sent it with a boy, with a boy, nor with any scotch lord; but hes sent it with the noblest knight e er scotland could afford. the very first line that my lord did read, he gave a smirkling smile; before he had the half of it read, the tears from his eyes did fall. "come saddle to me my horse," he said, "come saddle to me with speed; for i must away to fair london town, for me there was neer more need." out and spoke his lady gay, in child-bed where she lay: "i would have you make your will, my lord dunwaters, before you go away." "i leave to you, my eldest son, my houses and my land; i leave to you, my youngest son, ten thousand pounds in hand. "i leave to you, my lady gay,-- you are my wedded wife,-- i leave to you, the third of my estate, that'll keep you in a ladys life." they had not rode a mile but one, till his horse fell ower a stane: "its a warning good enough," my lord dunwaters said, "alive i'll ne'er come hame." when they came to fair london town, into the courtiers' hall, the lords and knights in fair london town did him a traitor call. "a traitor! a traitor!" says my lord, "a traitor! how can that be? an' it was na for the keeping of five thousand men, to fight for king jamie. "o all you lords and knights in fair london town, come out and see me die: the twa magicians s' o all you lords and knights in fair londo town, be kind to my lady. "theres fifty pounds in my right pocket, divide it to the poor; there's other fifty in my left pocket, divide it from door to door." the twa magicians |the lady stands in her bower door, as straight as willow wand; the blacksmith stood a little forbye, wi' hammer in his hand. "weel may ye dress ye, lady fair, into your robes o' red; before the morn at this same time, i'll gain your maidenhead!" "awa', awa', ye coal-black smith, would ye do me the wrang, to think to gain my maidenhead, that i hae kept sae lang?" (_forbye_, on one side.) then she has hadden up her hand, and she sware by the mould, "i wadna be a blacksmith's wife, for the full o' a chest o' gold. "i'd rather i were dead and gone, and my body laid in grave, ere a rusty stock o' coal-black smith, my maidenhead should have." but he has hadden up his hand, and he sware by the mass, "i'll cause ye be my light leman, for the half o' that and less." o bide, lady, bide, and aye he bade her bide, the rusty smith your leman shall be, for a' your muckle pride. then she became a turtle dow, to fly up in the air, and he became another dow, and they flew pair and pair, o bide, lady, bide, &c. she turned hersel' into an eel, to swim into yon burn, and he became a speckled trout, to gie the eel a turn. o bide, lady, bide, &c. (_turn_, trick.) then she became a duck, a duck, to puddle in a peel, and he became a rose-kaimed drake, to gie the duck a dreel. o bide, lady, bide, &c. she turned hersel' into a hare, to rin upon yon hill, and he became a gude grey-hound, and boldly he did fill. o bide, lady, bide, &c. then she became a gay gray mare, and stood in yonder slack, and he became a gilt saddle, and sat upon her back. was she wae, he held her sae, and still he bade her bide; the rusty smith her leman was, for a' her muckle pride. then she became a hot girdle, and he became a cake, and a' the ways she turn'd hersel', the blacksmith was her make. was she wae, &c. she turn'd hersel' into a ship, to sail out ower the flood; (_peel_, pool. _dreel_, rush (?). _slack_, dell. _make_, mate. he ca'ed a nail intill her tail, and syne the ship she stood. was she wae, &c. then she became a silken plaid, and stretch'd upon a bed, and he became a green covering, and gain'd her maidenhead. was she wae, &c. brown robin [illustration: ] |the king but an his nobles a' sat birling at the wine; he would ha' nane but his ae daughter to wait on them at dine. (_ca'ed_, drove. _birling_, drinking.) she's serv'd them but, she's serv'd them ben, intill a gown of green, but her ee was aye on brown robin that stood low under the rain. she's do'en her to her bigly bower, as fast as she could gang, an' there she's drawn her shot-window, an' she's harped an' she's sang. "there sits a bird i' my father's garden, an o but she sings sweet! i hope to live and see the day when wi' my love i'll meet." "o gin that ye like me as well as your tongue tells to me, what hour o' the night, my lady bright, at your bower shall i be?" "when my father and gay gilbert are baith set at the wine, o ready, ready i will be to let my true-love in." o she has birled her father's porter wi' strong beer an' wi' wine, until he was as beastly drunk as ony wild-wood swine; she's stown the keys o' her father's gates an letten her true-love in. (_bigly_, pleasant. _shot_, projecting.) whan night was gane, and day was come, an the sun shone on their feet, then out it spake him brown robin: "i'll be discovered yet." then out it spake that gay lady: "my love, ye needna doubt; for wi' ae wile i've got you in, wi' anither i'll bring you out." she's taen her to her father's cellar, as fast as she can fare; she's drawn a cup o' the guid red wine, hung't low down by her gare; an' she met wi' her father dear just coming down the stair. "i wouldna gie that cup, daughter, that ye hold i' your hand for a' the wines in my cellar, an' gauntrees where they stand." 'o wae be to your wine, father, that ever't came o'er the sea; 'tis putten my head in sick a steer i' my bower i canna be." "gang out, gang out, my daughter dear, gang out an' take the air; gang out an' walk i' the good green wood, an' a your marys fair." (_gare,_ skirt. _steer,_ stir.) [illustration: ] then out it spake the proud porter-- our lady wished him shame-- "well send the marys to the wood, but well keep our lady at hame." "theres thirty marys i' my bower, there's thirty o' them an' three; but there's na ane among them a' kens what flower gains for me." she's do'en her to her bigly bower, as fast as she could bang, an' she has dressed him, brown robin, like ony bower-woman. the gown she put upon her love was o' the dainty green, his hose was o' the saft, saft silk, his shoon o' the cordwain fine. she's putten his bow in her bosom, his arrow in her sleeve, his sturdy bran' her body next, because he was her love. then she is unto her bower-door, as fast as she could gang; but out it spake the proud porter-- our lady wished him shame-- "well count our marys to the wood, an well count them back again." (_cordwain_, leather.) the firsten mary she sent out was brown robin by name; then out it spake the king himsel', "this is a sturdy dame." o she went out in a may morning, in a may morning so gay, but she came never back again, her auld father to see. blancheflour and jellyflorice |there was a maid, richly array'd, in robes were rare to see; for seven years and something mair, she serv'd a gay lady. but being fond o' a higher place, in service she thought lang; she took her mantle her about, her coffer by the band. and as she walk'd by the shore side, as blithe's a bird on tree, yet still she gaz'd her round about, to see what she could see. (_coffer_, cap.) at last she spied a little castle, that stood near by the sea; she spied it far, and drew it near, to that castle went she. and when she came to that castle, she tirled at the pin ' and ready stood a little wee boy to let this fair maid in. "o who's the owner of this place, o porter boy, tell me?" "this place belongs unto a queen o' birth and high degree." she put her hand in her pocket, and gae him shillings three; "o porter, bear my message well, unto the queen frae me." the porter's gane before the queen, fell low down on his knee; "win up, win up, my porter boy, what makes this courtesy?" "i hae been porter at your yetts, my dame, these years full three, but see a lady at your yetts, the fairest my eyes did see." "cast up my yetts baith wide and braid, let her come in to me; and i'll know by her courtesy, lord's daughter if she be." when she came in before the queen, fell low down on her knee; "service frae you, my dame, the queen, i pray you grant it me." "if that service ye now do want, what station will ye be? can ye card wool, or spin, fair maid, or milk the cows to me?" "no, i can neither card nor spin, nor cows i canna milk; but sit into a lady's bower, and sew the seams o' silk." "what is your name, ye comely dame? pray tell this unto me:" "o blancheflour, that is my name, born in a strange country." "o keep ye well frae jellyflorice; my ain dear son is he; when other ladies get a gift, o' that ye shall get three." it wasna told into the bower, till it went thro' the ha', that jellyflorice and blancheflour were grown ower great witha'. when the queen's maids their visits paid, upo' the gude yule day, when other ladies got horse to ride, she boud take foot and gae. the queen she call'd her stable groom, to come to her right seen; says, "ye'll take out yon wild waith steed, and bring him to the green. "ye'll take the bridle frae his head, the lighters frae his e'en; ere she ride three times roun' the cross, her weel days will be dune." jellyflorice his true love spy'd, as she rade roun' the cross, and thrice he kiss'd her lovely lips, and took her frae her horse. "gang to your bower, my lily flower, for a' my mother's spite; there's nae other amang her maids, in whom i take delight. (_boud_, was bound (?). _seen_, soon. _waith_, wandering. _lighters_, blinkers.) "ye are my jewel, and only ane, nane's do you injury; for ere this-day-month come and gang, my wedded wife ye'se be." the earl of mar's daughter |it was intill a pleasant time, upon a simmer's day; the noble earl of mar's daughter went forth to sport and play. as thus she did amuse hersel', below a green aik tree, there she saw a sprightly doo set on a tower sae high. "o cow-me-doo, my love sae true, if ye'll come down to me, ye'se hae a cage o' guid red gowd instead o' simple tree: "i'll put gowd hingers roun' your cage, and siller roun' your wa'; i'll gar ye shine as fair a bird as ony o' them a'." (_tree_, wood. _hingers_, hangings.) but she had na these words well spoke, nor yet these words well said, till cow-me-doo flew frae the tower, and lighted on her head. then she has brought this pretty bird hame to her bowers and ha'; and made him shine as fair a bird as ony o' them a. when day was gane, and night was come, about the evening tide, this lady spied a sprightly youth stand straight up by her side. "from whence came ye, young man?" she said, "that does surprise me sair; my door was bolted right secure; what way hae ye come here?" "o hold your tongue, ye lady fair, let a' your folly be; mind ye not on your turtle doo last day ye brought wi' thee?" "o tell me mair, young man," she said, "this does surprise me now; what country hae ye come frae? what pedigree are you?" "my mither lives on foreign isles, she has nae mair but me; she is a queen o' wealth and state, and birth and high degree; "likewise well skill'd in magic spells, as ye may plainly see; and she transform'd me to yon shape, to charm such maids as thee. "l ma doo the live lang day, a sprightly youth at night; this aye gars me appear mair fair in a fair maiden's sight. "and it was but this verra day that i came ower the sea; your lovely face did me enchant,-- i'll live and die wi' thee." "o cow-me-doo, my love sae true, nae mair frae me ye'se gae." "that's never my intent, my love, as ye said, it shall be sae." "o cow-me-doo, my love sae true, it's time to gae to bed." "wi' a' my heart, my dear marrow, it's be as ye hae said." then he has staid in bower wi' her for sax lang years and ane, till sax young sons to him she bare, and the seventh she's brought hame. but aye as ever a child was born, he carried them away, and brought them to his mither's care, as fast as he could fly. thus he has staid in bower wi' her for twenty years and three; there came a lord o' high renown to court this fair lady. but still his proffer she refused, and a' his presents too; says, "im content to live alane wi' my bird, cow-me-doo." her father sware a solemn oath amang the nobles all, "the morn, or ere i eat or drink, this bird i will gar kill." the bird was sitting in his cage, and heard what they did say; and when he found they were dismissed, says, "wae's me for this day! "before that i do langer stay, and thus to be forlorn, i'll gang unto my mither's bower, where i was bred and born." then cow-me-doo took flight and flew beyond the raging sea; and lighted near his mither's castle on a tower o' gowd sae high. as his mither was walking out, to see what she could see, and there she saw her little son set on the tower sae high. "get dancers here to dance," she said, "and minstrels for to play; for here's my young son, florentine, come here wi' me to stay." "get nae dancers to dance, mither, nor minstrels for to play; for the mither o' my seven sons, the morn's her wedding-day." "o tell me, tell me, florentine, tell me, tell me true, tell me this day without a flaw, what i will do for you." "instead of dancers to dance, mither, or minstrels for to play, turn four-and-twenty well-wight men, like storks, in feathers gray; "my seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and i, mysel', a gay gos-hawk, a bird o' high degree." then sighin' said the queen hersel', "that thing's too high for me;" but she applied to an auld woman, who had mair skill than she. instead o' dancers to dance a dance, or minstrels for to play, four-and-twenty well-wight men turn'd birds o' feathers gray; her seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and he, himsel', a gay gos-hawk, a bird o' high degree. this flock o' birds took flight and flew beyond the raging sea; and landed near the earl mar's castle, took shelter in every tree. (_well-wight_, picked.) they were a flock o' pretty birds, right comely to be seen; the people view'd them wi' surprise, as they danc'd on the green. these birds ascended frae the tree, and lighted on the ha'; and at the last wi' force did flee amang the nobles a'. the storks, there seized some o' the men, they could neither fight nor flee; the swans they bound the bride's best man below a green aik tree. they lighted next on maidens fair, then on the bride's own head; and wi' the twinkling o' an eye, the bride and them were fled. there's ancient men at weddings been for sixty years or more; but sic a curious wedding-day they never saw before. for naething could the company do, nor naething could they say; but they saw a flock o' pretty birds that took their bride away. when that earl mar he came to know where his dochter did stay, he sign'd a bond o' unity and visits now they pay. the fause lover a fair maid sat in her bower door, wringing her lily hands; and by it came a sprightly youth, fast tripping oer the strands. "where gang ye, young john," she says, "sae early in the day? it gars me think, by your fast trip, your journey's far away." he turn'd about wi' surly look, and said, "what's that to thee? i'm ga'en to see a lovely maid, mair fairer far than ye." "now hae ye play'd me this, fause love, in simmer, mid the flowers? i shall repay ye back again, in winter, 'mid the showers. [illustration: ] "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye not turn again? for as ye look to ither women, i shall to other men." "make your choice o' whom you please, for i my choice will have; i've chosen a maid more fair than thee, i never will deceive." but she's kilt up her claithing fine, and after him gaed she; but aye he said, "ye'll turn again, nae farder gae wi' me." "but again, dear love, and again, dear love, will ye never love me again? alas! for loving you sae well, and you na me again." the firstan' town that they come till, he bought her brooch and ring; but aye he bade her turn again, and gang nae farder wi' him. "but again, dear love, and again, dear love,'' &c. the nextan' town that they came till, he bought her muff and gloves; but aye he bade her turn again, and choose some other loves. "but again, dear love, and again, dear love," &c. the nextan' town that they came till, his heart it grew mair fain; and he was deep in love wi' her, as she was ower again. the nextan' town that they came till, he bought her wedding gown; and made her lady o' ha's and bowers, in sweet berwick town. [illustration: ] the unquiet grave. [illustration: ] |the wind doth blow to-day, my love, and a few small drops of rain; i never had but one true-love, in cold grave she was lain. i'll do as much for my true-love as any young man may; i'll sit and mourn all at her grave for a twelvemonth and a day. the twelvemonth and a day being up, the dead began to speak: "oh, who sits weeping on my grave, and will not let me sleep?" "'tis i, my love, sits on your grave, and will not let you sleep; for i crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips, and that is all i seek." "you crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips, but my breath smells earthy strong; if you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips, your time will not be long. "'tis down in yonder garden green, love, where we used to walk; the finest flower that ere was seen is withered to a stalk. "the stalk is withered,dry, my love, so will our hearts decay; so make yourself content, my love, till god call you away!" peasant ballads the broken token |one summer evening, a maiden fair was walking forth in the balmy air, she met a sailor upon the way; "maiden stay," he whispered, "maiden stay," he whispered, "o pretty maiden stay. "why art thou walking abroad alone? the stars are shining, the day is done." o then her tears they began to flow, for a dark-eyed sailor, for a dark-eyed sailor, had filled her heart with woe. "three years are passed since he left this land, a ring of gold he took off my hand, he broke the token, a half to keep; half he bade me treasure, half he bade me treasure, then crossed the briny deep." "o drive him, damsel, from out your mind, for men are changeful as is the wind, and love inconstant will quickly grow cold as winter morning, cold as winter morning, when lands are white with snow." "above the snow is the holly seen, in bitter blast it abideth green, and blood-red drops it as berries bears; so my aching bosom, so my aching bosom, its truth and sorrow wears." then half the ring did the sailor show: "away with weeping and sorrow now! in bands of marriage united we, like the broken token, like the broken token, in one shall welded be." young roger of the valley |young roger of the mill one morning very soon, put on his best apparel, new hose and clouted shoon; and he a-wooing came to bonny, buxom nell. "adzooks!" cried he, "couldst fancy me? for i like thee wondrous well. "my horses i have dress'd, and gi en them corn and hay, put on my best apparel; and having come this way, let's sit and chat a while, with thee, my bonny nell; dear lass," cries he, "couldst fancy me? i'se like thy person well." "young roger, you re mistaken," the damsel then reply'd, "i'm not in such a haste to be a ploughman's bride; know i then live in hopes to marry a farmer's son;" "if it be so," says hodge, "i'll go, sweet mistress, i have done." "your horses you have dress'd, good hodge, i heard you say, put on your best apparel; and being come this way, come sit and chat awhile." "o no, indeed, not i, i'll neither wait, nor sit, nor prate, i've other fish to fry." "go, take your farmer's son, with all my honest heart; what tho' my name be roger, that goes at plough and cart? i need not tarry long, i soon may gain a wife: there's buxom joan, it is well known, she loves me as her life." "pray, what of buxom joan? can't i please you as well? for she has ne'er a penny, and i am buxom nell; and i have fifty shillings" (the money made him smile): "o then, my dear, i'll draw a chair, and chat with thee a while." within the space of half-an-hour this couple a bargain struck, hoping that with their money they both would have good luck; "to your fifty i've forty, with which a cow we'll buy; we'll join our hands in wedlock bands, then who but you and i?" the golden glove |a wealthy young squire of tam worth, we hear, he courted a noblemans daughter so fair; and for to marry her it was his intent, all friends and relations gave their consent. the time was appointed for the wedding-day, a young farmer chosen to give her away; as soon as the farmer the young lady did spy, he inflamed her heart; "o, my heart!" she did cry. she turned from the squire, but nothing she said, instead of being married she took to her bed; the thought of the farmer soon run in her mind, a way for to have him she quickly did find. coat, waistcoat, and breeches she then did put on, and a hunting she went with her dog and her gun; she hunted all round where the farmer did dwell, because in her heart she did love him full well: she oftentimes fired, but nothing she killed, at length the young farmer came into the field; and to discourse with him it was her intent, with her dog and her gun to meet him she went. "i thought you had been at the wedding," she cried, "to wait on the squire, and give him his bride." "no, sir," said the farmer, "if the truth i may tell, i'll not give her away, for i love her too well." "suppose that the lady should grant you her love, you know that the squire your rival will prove.'' "why, then," says the farmer, "i'll take sword in hand, by honour i'll gain her when she shall command.'' it pleased the lady to find him so bold; she gave him a glove that was flowered with gold, and told him she found it when coming along, as she was a hunting with her dog and gun. the lady went home with a heart full of love, and gave out a notice that she'd lost a glove; and said, "who has found it, and brings it to me, whoever he is, he my husband shall be." the farmer was pleased when he heard of the news, with heart full of joy to the lady he goes: "dear, honoured lady, i've picked up your glove, and hope you'll be pleased to grant me your love." sir arthur s' "it's already granted, i will be your bride; i love the sweet breath of a farmer," she cried. "i'll be mistress of my dairy, and milking my cow, while my jolly brisk farmer is whistling at plough." and when she was married she told of her fun, how she went a hunting with her dog and gun: "and "[said]" now i've got him so fast in my snare, i'll enjoy him for ever, i vow and declare!" sir arthur and charming mollee |as noble sir arthur one morning did ride, with his hounds at his feet, and his sword by his side, he saw a fair maid sitting under a tree, he asked her name, and she said 'twas mollee. "oh, charming mollee, you my butler shall be, to draw the red wine for yourself and for me! ill make you a lady so high in degree, if you will but love me, my charming mollee! "i'll give you fine ribbons, i'll give you fine rings, i'll give you fine jewels, and many fine things; i'll give you a petticoat flounced to the knee, if you will but love me, my charming mollee!" "v have none of your ribbons, and none of your rings, none of your jewels, and other fine things; and i've got a petticoat suits my degree, and i'll ne er love a married man till his wife dee.'' "oh, charming mollee, lend me then your pen-knife, and i will go home, and i'll kill my own wife; i'll kill my own wife, and my bairnies three, if you will but love me, my charming mollee!" "oh, noble sir arthur, it must not be so, go home to your wife, and let nobody know; for seven long years i will wait upon thee, but i'll ne'er love a married man till his wife dee.'' now seven long years are gone and are past, the old woman went to her long home at last; the old woman died, and sir arthur was free, and he soon came a-courting to charming mollee. now charming mollee in her carriage doth ride, with her hounds at her feet, and her lord by her side: now all ye fair maids, take a warning by me, and ne er love a married man till his wife dee. undaunted mary |it's of a farmer's daughter, so beautiful i'm told, her parents died and left her five hundred pounds in gold, she lived with her uncle, the cause of all her woe, and you shall hear this maiden fair did prove his overthrow. her uncle had a ploughboy, young mary loved full well, and in her uncle's garden their tales of love would tell; there was a wealthy squire who oft came her to see, but still she loved her ploughboy, on the bank of sweet dundee. it was on one summer's morning, her uncle went straightway, he knocked at her chamber door, and unto her did say, "come, rise up, pretty maiden, a lady you may be, the squire is waiting for you on the banks of sweet dundee." "a fig for all your squires, your lords and dukes likewise, for william's hand appears to me like diamonds in my eyes;" "begone, unruly maiden, you ne'er shall happy be, for i mean to banish william from the banks of sweet dundee." her uncle and the squire rode out one summer day, "young william he's in favour," her uncle he did say, "but indeed it's my intention to tie him to a tree, or else to bribe the pressgang, on the banks of sweet dundee." the pressgang came to william when he was all alone, he bravely fought for liberty, but they were six to one, the blood did flow, in torrents: "pray kill me now," said he, "i'd rather die for mary i, on the banks of sweet dundee." this maid one day was walking, lamenting for her love, she met the wealthy squire down in her uncles grove, he put his arm around her: "stand off, base man," said she, "for you've sent the only lad i love, from the banks of sweet dundee." he clasped his arms around her, and tried to throw her down, two pistols and a sword she spied beneath his morning gown, the pistol proved so active, the sword she used so free, that she shot and slew the squire, on the banks of sweet dundee. her uncle overheard the noise, and hastened to the ground, "since you have slain the squire, i'll give you your death wound," "stand off, stand off," said mary, "undaunted i will be," she the trigger drew, and her uncle slew, on the banks of sweet dundee. the doctor he was sent for, a man of noted skill, and likewise was a lawyer, all for to sign his will, he willed his gold to mary, who fought so manfully, and closed his eyes no more to rise on the banks of sweet dundee. the wiltshire wedding [illustration: ] |all in a misty morning, cloudy was the weather, i meeting with an old man, was clothed all in leather, with ne er a shirt unto his back, but wool unto his skin; _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ the rustic was a thresher, and on his way he hied, and with a leather bottle, fast buckl'd by his side; and with a cap of woollen, which cover'd cheek and chin, _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ i went a little further, and there i met a maid, was going then a milking, a milking, sir, she said: then i began to compliment, and she began to sing; _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ this maid her name was dolly, clothed in a gown of gray, i being somewhat jolly, persuaded her to stay: then straight i fell to courting her, in hopes her love to win, _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ and how do you do agen?_ then having time and leisure, i spent a vacant hour, telling of all my treasure, whilst sitting in the bower: with many kind embraces, i strok'd her double chin: _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ i told her i would married be, and she should be my bride, and long we should not tarry, with twenty things beside: "til plough and sow, and reap and mow, while thou shalt sit and spin;" _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ and how do you do agen?_ "did you not know my father?" the damsel then reply 'd; "his jerkin was of leather, a bottle by his side:" "yes, i did meet him trudging, as fast as he could win," _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ "kind sir, i have a mother, beside a father, still, those friends above all other, you must ask their good-will: for if i be undutiful to them, it is a sin;" _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ now there we left the milk-pail, and to her mother went, and when i was come thither, i asked her consent, and doft my hat, and made a leg,. for why she was within; _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ "my husband is a thresher, who is her father dear, he'll give with her his blessing, kind sir, you need not fear: he is of such good nature, that he would never lin," _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ "for by your courteous carriage, you seem an honest man, you may have her in marriage, my husband he anon will bid you very welcome, tho' he be poor and thin," with how do you do? and how do you do?_ and how do you do agen?_ her dad came home full weary, alas! he could not choose; her mother being merry, she told him all the news: (_lin_, hinder or stop.) then he was mighty jovial too, his son did soon begin, _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ her parents being willing, all parties was agreed; her portion thirty shilling, they married were with speed; then will the piper he did play, while others dance and sing; _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ in pleasant recreation, they pass'd away the night, and likewise by relation, with her he takes delight, to walk abroad on holy-days, to visit kiff and kin: _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ then lusty ralph and robin, with many damsels gay, did ride on roan and dobbin, to celebrate the day: when being met together, their caps they off did fling, _with how do you do? and how do you do?_ _and how do you do agen?_ the trees they are so high |all the trees they are so high, the leaves they are so green, the day is past and gone, sweet-heart, that you and i have seen. it is cold winter's night, you and i must bide alone: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. o father, father dear, great wrong to me is done, that i should married be this day, before the set of sun. at the huffle of the gale, here i toss and cannot sleep: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. o daughter, daughter dear, no wrong to thee is done, for i have married thee this day unto a rich lord's son. o the wind is on the thatch here and i alone must weep: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. o father, father dear, if that you think it fit, then send him to the school awhile, to be a year there yet. at the huffle of the gale here i toss and cannot sleep: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. to let the lovely ladies know they may not touch and taste, i'll bind a bunch of ribbons blue about his little waist, and i'll wait another year o he roaring of the sea: whilst my pretty lad is young and is growing. in a garden as i walked, i heard them laugh and call; there were four-and-twenty playing there, they played with bat and ball; i must wait awhile, must wait, and then his bride will be: o my pretty lad is young and is growing. i listened in the garden, i looked o'er the wall; amidst five-and-twenty gallants there, my love exceeded all. the trees they are so high s' o the snow, the snowflakes fall, o and i am chill and freeze: but my pretty lad is young and is growing. i'll cut my yellow hair, i'll cut it close my brow, i'll go unto the high college and none shall know me so; o the clouds are driving by and they shake the leafy trees: but my pretty lad is young and is growing. to the college i did go, i cut my yellow hair; to be with him in sun and shower, his sports and studies share. o the taller that he grew the sweeter still grew he: o my pretty lad is young and is growing. as it fell upon a day, a bright and summer day, we went into the green green wood to frolic and to play, o and what did there befall i tell not unto thee: but my pretty lad so young, was still growing. at thirteen he married was, a father at fourteen, at fifteen his face was white as milk, and then his grave was green; and the daisies were outspread, and buttercups of gold o'er my pretty lad so young, now ceased growing. i'll make my pretty love a shroud of holland fine, and all the time im making it my tears run down the twine; and as the bell doth knell i shiver as one cold, and weep o'er my pretty lad now done growing. green broom |there was an old man lived out in the wood, his trade was a-cutting of broom, green broom; he had but one son, without thrift, without good, who lay in his bed till 'twas noon, bright noon. the old man awoke, one morning, and spoke, he swore he would fire the room, that room, if his john would not rise, and opet his eyes, and away to the wood to cut broom, green broom. so johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes, and away to the wood to cut broom, green broom; he sharpened his knives, for once he contrives to cut a great bundle of broom, green broom. when johnny passed under a lady's fine house, passed under a lady's fine room, fine room, she call'd to her maid, "go fetch me,'' she said, "go fetch me the boy that sells broom, green broom." when johnny came into the lady's fine house, and stood in the lady's fine room, fine room; "young johnny," she said, "will you give up your trade, and marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?" johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went, and he wedded the lady is bloom, full bloom; at market and fair, all folks do declare, there is none like the boy that sold broom, green broom. bonny barbara allan |it was in and about the martinmas time, when the green leaves were a falling, that sir john graeme in the west country fell in love with barbara allan. he sent his man down through the town, to the place where she was dwelling; "o haste and come to my master dear, gin ye be barbara allan." o hooly, hooly rose she up, to the place where he was lying, and when she drew the curtain by, "young man, i think you're dying." "o it's i'm sick, and very, very sick, and 'tis a' for barbara allan:" "o the better for me ye's never be, tho' your heart's blood were a spilling. "o dinna ye mind, young man," said she, "when ye was in the tavern a drinking, that ye made the healths gae round and round, and slighted barbara allan." (_hooly_, slowly.) as johnny walked out s'' he turn'd his face unto the wall, and death was with him dealing; "adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, and be kind to barbara allan." and slowly, slowly raise she up, and slowly, slowly left him; and sighing said, she could not stay, since death of life had reft him. she had not gane a mile but twa, when she heard the dead-bell ringing, and every jow that the dead-bell gi'ed, it cried "woe to barbara allan!" "o mother, mother, make my bed, o make it saft and narrow; since my love died for me to-day, til die for him to-morrow." as johnny walked out |as johnny walked out one day it was a summer morn, himself he laid beneath the shade, to rest him, of a thorn. (_jow,_ stroke.) he had not long been tarrying there before his love passed by: and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. "o have you seen a pretty ewe that hath a tender lamb; astrayed from the orchard glade that little one and dam?" "o pretty maid," he answered, "they passed as here i lie!" and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. she traced the country o'er no lambs nor ewe could find; and many times upbraided she young johnny in her mind. then coming back.... and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. she turned heraelf right curiously, her cheeks with anger flush, she bade young johnny lead the way nor loiter in a bush.... and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by: then angers flame enkindled love, and changed its kind of show, as johnny laughed out and said, "i'll lead the way below; i'll lead you to the meadows green where we the lambs may spy/' and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. he held her hand, he whispered love; he swore his heart was true; he kissed her lips; the lambs did skip about them on the dew, about them in the morning dew, beneath a summer sky, and 'twas down in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. so married were the happy pair, and joined in wedlock's band, no more they go to seek the lambs together hand in hand; they go no more a searching for her sheep with tearful eye, all adown in yonder valley, love, where the water glideth by. the brown girl |i am as brown, as brown can be, and my eyes are as black as sloe; i am as brisk as a nightingale, and wild as a forest doe. my love he was so high and proud, his fortune too so high; he, for another fair pretty maid, did scorn and passed me by. me did he send a love letter, and he sent it from the town, saying, no more he loved me, for that i was so brown. i sent his letter back again, for his love i valued not; whether that he would fancy me, whether that he would not. when that six months were over passed, were over passed and gone, then did my lover, once so bold, alie on his bed and groan. when that six months were over passed, were over gone and passed, my lover, then, so bold and proud, with love was sick at last. first sent he for the doctor's man, "you, doctor, must me cure; the cruel pains that torture me, i never can long endure." next did he send from out the town, o next did send for me; he sent for me, the brown, brown girl, who once his wife should be. o never a bit the doctor man his sufferings could relieve; o never an one but the brown, brown girl, who could his life reprieve. o now you shall hear what was she had for this poor love-sick man, all of the day, and a summers day, she walked, but never ran. when that she came to his bedside, where he lay sick and weak, o then for laughing she scarce could stand upright upon her feet. "you flouted me, you scouted me, and many another one, and now the reward has come at last for all that you have done." she took the rings from off her hand, the rings, by two and three; "o take, and o take these golden rings, by them remember me." she had a white wand in her hand, she strake him on the breast; "my faith and troth i give back to thee, so may thy soul have rest." "prithee," said he, "forgive, forget; prithee, forget, forgive; grant to me yet a little space, that i may longer live." "o never will i forget, forgive, so long as i have breath, i'll dance above your green, green grave, where you do lie beneath." the roving journey-man |young jack he was a journey-man that roved from town to town; and when he'd done a job of work he lightly sat him down. with his kit upon his shoulder, and a grafting knife in hand, he roved the country round about, a merry journey-man. and when he came to exeter the maidens leaped for joy; said one and all, both short and tall, "here comes a gallant boy." the lady dropt her needle, and the maid her frying-pan; each plainly told her mother that she loved the journey-man. he had not been in exeter the days were barely three, before the mayor, his sweet daughter she loved him desperately; she bid him to her mother's house, she took him by the hand, said she, "my dearest mother, see, i love the journey-man!" "now out on thee, thou silly maid! such folly speak no more: how can'st thou love a roving man thou ne'er hast seen before?" "o mother sweet, i do entreat, i love him all i can; around the country glad i'll rove with this young journey-man. "he need no more to trudge afoot, he'll travel coach and pair; my wealth with me--or poverty with him, content i'll share." now fill the horn with barleycorn, and flowing fill the can, here let us toast the mayor's daughter and the roving journey-man. thyme and rue |o once i had plenty of thyme, i could flourish by night and by day. till a saucy lad he returned from sea, and stole my thyme away. o and i was a damsel so fair, but fairer i wished to appear; so i wash'd me in milk, and i dressed me in silk, and put the.sweet thyme in my hair. with june is the red rose in bud, but that's not the flower for me; so i plucked the bud, and it pricked me to blood, and i gazed on the willow tree. othe willow tree it will twist, and the willow tree, it will turn; i would i were clasped in my lover's arms fast, for 'tis he that has stolen my thyme. o it's very good drinking of ale, but it's far better drinking of wine; i would i were clasped in my lover's arms fast, for 'tis he that has stolen my thyme. the bailiff's daughter of islington |there was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son: he loved the bailiffs daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy, and would not believe that he did love her so, no nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to fair london, an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see,-- "many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me." then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bailiff's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pulled off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to fair london she would go, her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding by. she started up, with a colour so red, catching hold of his bridle-rein; "one penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, "will ease me of much pain." "before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, pray tell me where you were born." "at islington, kind sir," said she, "where i have had many a scorn." "i pry thee, sweet-heart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know the bailiff's daughter of islington." "she is dead, sir, long ago." "if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some far country, where no man shall me know." "o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and ready to be thy bride." "o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore; for now i have found mine own true love, whom i thought i should never see more." [illustration: ] the simple ploughboy |o the ploughboy was a ploughing with his horses on the plain, and was singing of a song as on went he. "since that i have fall'n in love, if the parents disapprove, 'tis the first thing that will send me to the sea. when the parents came to know that their daughter loved him so, then they sent a gang, and pressed him for the sea. and they made of him a tar, to be slain in cruel war, of the simple ploughboy singing on the lea. the maiden sore did grieve, and without a word of leave from her father's house she fled secretly, in male attire dress'd with a star upon her breast, all to seek her simple ploughboy on the sea. then she went o'er hill and plain, and she walked in wind and rain, till she came to the brink of the blue sea, saying, "i am forced to rove, for the loss of my true love, who is but a simple ploughboy from the lea." now the first she did behold, o it was a sailor bold, "have you seen my simple ploughboy?" then said she; they have press'd him to the fleet, sent him tossing on the deep, who is but a simple ploughboy from the lea." then she went to the captain and to him she made complain, o a silly ploughboy's run away from me! then the captain smiled and said, "why sir! surely you're a maid? so the ploughboy i will render up to thee." then she pulled out a store of five hundred crowns and more and she strewed them on the deck, did she; then she took him by the hand, and she rowed him to the land, where she wed the simple ploughboy back from sea. [illustration: ] robbie tamson's smiddie |me mither mend't me auld breeks, but ay! but they were diddy; she sent me to get shod the mare at robbie tamson's smiddie. now t' smiddie lies ayent the burn that wamples thro' the claughin', and ne'er a time i pass that way but aye i fall a-laughin'. singing fol loi de loi de roi, ri fol loi de laddy, sing fol de duy, duy day, sing fol de duy daddy. now robin was a canny lad wha had an ainly daughter; he'd niver let her tak a mon, though mony a yan had sought her. i'll tell you news of my exploits the time the mare was shoeing, i steppit in ahint the lass and quickly fell a-wooing. it's aye she eyed my auld breeks the time that they were making; says i, "my lass, ne'er mind my breeks, there's new yans for the making. gin yell agree to gang wi' me, and leave the carle thy father, ye'll hae my breeks to keep in trim, myself and a together." the lassie smiled and shook her head, says she, "your offers clever; i think i'll gang awa' wi' yan, well baith gae on the back o't. for gin i wait my father's time i'll wait till i bin fifty; so i think i'll tak ye at your word, and make a wife sae thrifty." now robbie was an angry man, for a t' loss of his daughter, through all the town baith up and down, and far and near he sought her. but when he cam to our gude inn and found us baith together, says i, "my lad, i've tick your bairn, tho' ye may tak my mither." now robbie girned and shook his head: quo' he, "i think i'll marry; and so i'll tak ye at your word, to end the hurry burry." so robbie and our ain gudewife . agreed to creep together: so i've ta'en robbie tamson's pet, and robbie's ta'en my mither. cupid's garden [illustration: ] |as i were in cupid's garden, not more nor half-an-hour, 'twere there i see'd two maidens, sitting under cupid's bower, a-gathering of sweet jassamine, the lily and the rose. these be the fairest flowers as in the garden grows. i fondly stepped to one o' them, these words to her i says, "be you engaged to arra young man, come tell to me, i prays." "i bean't engaged to narra young man, ' i solemnly declare, i aims to live a maiden, and still the laurel wear." says i, "my stars and garters! this here's a pretty go, for a fine young maid as never was, to serve all mankind so." but t'other young maiden looked sly at me, and from her seat she risen, says she, "let thee and i go our own way, and we'll let she go shis'n." king john and the abbot |an ancient story i'll tell you anon of a notable prince, that was called king john; and he ruled england with main and with might, for he did great wrong, and maintain'd little right. and i'll tell you a story, a story so merry, concerning the abbot of canterbury; how for his house-keeping and high renown, they rode post for him to fair london town. an hundred men, the king did hear say, the abbot kept in his house every day; and fifty gold chains, without any doubt, in velvet coats waited the abbot about. "how now, father abbot, i hear it of thee, thou keepest a far better house than me; and for thy house-keeping and high renown, i fear thou workst treason against my crown." "my liege," quo' the abbot, "i would it were known i never spend nothing, but what is my own; and i trust your grace will do me no deere, for spending of my own true-gotten gear." "yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high, and now for the same thou needest must die; for except thou canst answer me questions three, thy head shall be smitten from thy body. "and first," quo' the king, "when i'm in this stead, with my crown of gold so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birth, thou must tell me to one penny what i am worth. "secondly, tell me, without any doubt, how soon i may ride the whole world about; and at the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think." "o these are hard questions for my shallow wit, nor i cannot answer your grace as yet: but if you will give me but three weeks' space, i'll do my endeavour to answer your grace." (_deere_, harm. _stead_, place.) "now three weeks' space to thee will i give, and that is the longest time thou hast to live; for if thou dost not answer my questions three, thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me." away rode the abbot all sad at that word, and he rode to cambridge, and oxenford; but never a doctor there was so wise, that could with his learning an answer devise. then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, and he met his shepherd a going to fold: "how now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; what news do you bring us from good king john?" "sad news, sad news, shepherd, i must give, that i have but three days more to live; for if i do not answer him questions three my head will be smitten from my body. "the first is to tell him there in that stead, with his crown of gold so fair on his head, among all his liege-men so noble of birth, to within one penny of what he is worth. "the second, to tell him, without any doubt, how soon he may ride this whole world about; and at the third question i must not shrink, but tell him there truly what he does think." "now cheer up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, that a fool he may learn a wise man wit? lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, and i'll ride to london to answer your quarrel. "nay frown not, if it hath been told unto me, i am like your lordship, as ever may be; and if you will but lend me your gown, there is none shall know us at fair london town."+ "now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, with sumptuous array most gallant and brave, with crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, fit to appear yore our father the pope." "now, welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "'tis well thourt come back to keep thy day: for and if thou canst answer my questions three, thy life and thy living both saved shall be. "and first, when thou seest me here in this stead, with my crown of gold so fair on my head, among all my liege-men so noble of birth, tell me to one penny what i am worth." "for thirty pence our saviour was sold among the false jews, as i have been told: and twenty-nine is the worth of thee, for i think thou art one penny worser than he." the king he laughed, and swore by st bittel, "i did not think i had been worth so little! --now secondly tell me, without any doubt, how soon i may ride this whole world about." "you must rise with the sun, and ride with the same until the next morning he riseth again; and then your grace need not make any doubt but in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." the king he laughed, and swore by st john, "i did not think it could be gone so soon! --now from the third question thou must not shrink, but tell me here truly what i do think." "yea, that shall i do, and make your grace merry; you think i'm the abbot of canterbury; but i'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, that am come to beg pardon for him and for me." the king he laughed, and swore by the mass, "i'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "now nay, my liege, be not in such speed, for alack i can neither write nor read." "four nobles a week, then i will give thee, for this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; and tell the old abbot when thou comest home, thou hast brought him a pardon from good king john." (_bittel_, botolph (?)) the king and the countryman [illustration: ) there was an old chap in the west country, a flaw in the lease the lawyers had found, 'twas all about felling of five oak trees, and building a house upon his own ground. right too looral, looral, looral--right too looral la! now, this old chap to lunnun would go, to tell the king a part of his woe, likewise to tell him a part of his grief, in hopes the king would give him relief. now, when this old chap to lunnun had come, he found the king to windsor had gone; but if he'd known he'd not been at home, he danged his buttons if ever he'd come. now, when this old chap to windsor did stump, the gates were barred, and all secure, but he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump, there's room within for i to be sure. but when he got there, how he did stare, to see the yeomen strutting about; he scratched his head, and rubbed down his hair, in the ear of a noble he gave a great shout: "pray, mr noble, show i the king; is that the king that i see there? i see'd an old chap at bartlemy fair look more like a king than that chap there. "well, mr king, pray how dye do? i gotten for you a bit of a job, which if you'll be so kind as to do, i gotten a summat for you in my fob." the king he took the lease in hand, to sign it, too, he was likewise willing; and the old chap to make a little amends, he lugged out his bag, and gave him a shilling. the king, to carry on the joke, ordered ten pounds to be paid down; the farmer he stared, but nothing spoke, and stared again, and he scratched his crown. the farmer he stared to see so much money, and to take it up he was likewise willing; but if he'd a known king had got so much money, he danged his wig if he'd gi'en him that shilling! saddle to rags |this story i'm going to sing, i hope it will give you content, concerning a silly old man that was going to pay his rent. with a till da dill, till a dill, dill, till a dill, dill a dill, dee, sing fal de dill, dill de dill, dill. fal de dill, dill de dill, dee. as he was a-riding along, along all on the highway, a gentleman-thief overtook him, and thus unto him he did say: "o! well overtaken, old man, o! well overtaken," said he: "thank you kindly, sir," says the old man, "if you be for my company." "how far are you going this way?" it made the old man to smile; "to tell you the truth, kind sir, i'm just a-going twa mile. "i am but a silly old man, who farms a piece of ground; my half-year rent, kind sir, just comes to forty pound. "but my landlord's not been at hame, i've not seen him twelve month or more; it makes my rent to be large, i've just to pay him fourscore." "you should not have told anybody, for thieves they are ganging many; if they were to light upon you they would rob you of every penny." "o! never mind," says the old man, "thieves i fear on no side; my money is safe in my bags, in the saddle on which i ride." as they were a-riding along, and riding a-down a ghyll, the thief pulled out a pistol, and bade the old man stand still. (_ghyll_, ravine.) the old man was crafty and false, as in this world are many; he flung his old saddle o'er t' hedge, and said, "fetch it, if thou'lt have any." this thief got off his horse, with courage stout and bold, to search this old man's bags, and gave him his horse to hold. the old man put foot in stirrup, and he got on astride; he set the thief's horse in a gallop,-- you need not bid the old man ride! "o, stay! o, stay!" says the thief, "and thou half my share shalt have;" "nay, marry, not i," quoth the old man, "for once i've bitten a knave!" this thief he was not content, he thought there must be bags, so he up with his rusty sword, and chopped the old saddle to rags. the old man gallop'd and rode, until he was almost spent, till he came to his landlord's house, and he paid him his whole year's rent. he opened this rogue's portmantle, it was glorious for to behold; there was five hundred pound in money, and other five hundred in gold. his landlord it made him to stare, when he did the sight behold; "where did thou get the white money, and where get the yellow gold?" "i met a fond fool by the way, i swopped horses, and gave him no boot; but never mind," says the old man, "i got a fond fool by the foot." "but now you're grown cramped and old, nor fit for to travel about;" "o, never mind," says the old man, "i can give these old bones a route!" as he was a-riding hame, and a-down a narrow lane, he spied his mare tied to a tree, and said, "tib, thou'lt now gae hame." and when that he got hame, and told his old wife what he'd done: she rose and she donned her clothes, and about the house did run. she sung, and she danced, and sung, and she sung with a merry devotion, "if ever our daughter gets wed, it will help to enlarge her portion!" the week's work |when i was a bachelor brave, enjoying all my soul could have, my silver and guineas i then let fly, i cock'd up my beaver, and who but i. fal, lal, &c. i rov'd about, and i rov'd a while, till all the ladies seem'd to smile, from the ladies of pleasure to royal joan, both gentle and simple was all my own. my rapier was made of the bilbo blade, my coat and waistcoat were overlaid with silver spangles so neat and so gay, as tho' i had been king of some country play. besides i had a flattering tongue, the ladies admired me when i sung, for i had a voice so charming and fine, that every lady's heart was mine. on monday morning i married a wife, and thought to have liv'd a sober life, but as it fell out i had better been dead, then mark the time that i was wed. on tuesday morn to my surprise, a little before the sun did rise, she tun'd up her clapper, and scolded more, than ever i heard in my life before. on wednesday morn i went to the wood, i thought in my heart she'd never be good, i cut me a twig of the holly green, i think 'twas the toughest ever seen, i brought it home, and laid it by. on thursday i went the same to try, and if she would no better be, the devil might take her to-morrow, for me. on friday morn, to my surprise, a little before the sun did rise, she tun'd up her clapper in a scolding tune, and now you shall hear we parted soon. on saturday morn, as i may say, as she, on her pillow, consulting lay; the devil came in the midst of the game, and took her away both blind and lame. on sunday, friends, i can dine without a scolding wife, or a brawling out, enjoying my bottle, and my best friend, and is not this a noble week's-work end. farmer's boy |the sun went down beyond yon hills, across yon dreary-moor, weary and lame, a boy there came, up to a farmer's door. "will you tell me if any there be that will give me employ to plough and sow, and reap and mow, and be a farmer's boy? "my fathers dead, and mothers left, with her five children small, and what is worst for mother still, i'm the oldest of them all: though little i be yet i fear not work, if you will me employ to plough and sow, and reap and mow, and be a farmer's boy. "and if that you won't me employ, one favour i have to ask, will you shelter me till break of day, from this cold winter's blast: at break of day, i'll trudge away, elsewhere to seek employ to plough and sow, and reap and mow, and be a farmer's boy." the mistress said, "pray take the lad, no farther let him seek;" "o yes, dear father," the daughter cried, while tears ran down her cheeks, "for those that will work it's hard to want, and wander for employ to plough and sow, and reap and mow, and be a farmer's boy." in course of time he grew a man the good old farmer died, and left the boy the farm he had, and his daughter for his bride; the boy that was the farm now has, oft smiles and thinks with joy, of the lucky day he came that way, and to be a farmer's boy. tommy linn |_tommy linn_ is a _scotchman_ born, his head is bald, and his beard is shorn, he has a cap made of a hare skin, an elderman is _tommy linn,_ _tommy linn_ has no boots to put on, but two calves' skins, and the hair it was on, they are open at the side and the water goes in, "unwholesome boots," says _tommy linn_. _tommy linn_ has a mare of the gray, lam'd of all four as i hear say; it has the farcy all over the skin, "it's a running jade," says _tommy linn._ _tommy linn_ no bridle had to put on, but two mouses' tails that he put on; _tommy linn_ had no saddle to put on, but two urchin skins, and them he put on. _tommy linn_ went to yonder hall, went hipping and skipping among them all; they ask'd what made him come so boldly in, "i'm come a wooing," says _tommy linn_. _tommy linn_ went to the church to be wed, the bride followed after hanging down her head, she hung down her cheeks, she hung down her chin, "this is a glooming quean," says _tommy linn_. _tommy linn's_ daughter sat on the stairs, "oh, dear father, gin i be not fair;" the stairs they broke, and she fell in, "you are fair enough now," says tommy linn. (_quean_, lass.) _tommy linn's_ daughter sat on the brig, "oh, dear father, gin i be not trig;" the bridge it broke, and she fell in, "you are trig enough now," says _tommy linn._ _tommy linn_, and his wife and his wife's mother, they all fell into the fire together; they that lay undermost got a hot skin, "we are [hot] enough," says _tommy linn_. (_trig_, neat.) the mermaid [illustration: ] |on friday morning as we set sail, it was not far from land, o there i espied a fair pretty maid, with a comb and a glass in her hand. o the raging seas did roar, and the stormy winds did blow, while we poor sailors were up into the top, and the land lubbers laid below. then up spoke a boy of our gallant ship, and a well speaking boy was he, "i've a father and mother in fair portsmouth town, and this night they will weep for me." then up spoke a man of our gallant ship, and a well spoken man was he, "i have married a wife in fair london town, and this night a widow she shall be." then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship, and a valiant man was he, "for want of a boat we shall be drowned," for she sunk to the bottom of the sea. the moon shone bright, and the stars gave light, and my mother was looking for me, she might look, and weep, with watery eyes, she might look to the bottom of the sea. three times round went our gallant ship, and three times round went she, three times round went our gallant ship, then she sunk to the bottom of the sea. [illustration: ] captain ward and the rainbow [broadside.] |strike up, you lusty gallants, with music and sound of drum, for we have descried a rover upon the sea is come. his name is captain ward, right well it doth appear there has not been such a rover found out this thousand year. for he hath sent unto the king, the sixth of january, desiring that he might come in with all his company: "and if your king will let me come, till i my tale have told, i will bestow for my ransom full thirty ton of gold." "o nay, o nay," then said our king, "o nay, this may not be, to yield to such a rover, myself will not agree; he hath deceived the frenchman,. likewise the king of spain, and how can he be true to me that hath been false to twain?" with that our king provided a ship of worthy fame, rainbow is she called, if you would know her name. now the gallant rainbow, she roves upon the sea, five hundred gallant seamen to bear her company. the dutchman, and the spaniard, she made them for to flee, also the bonny frenchman, as she met him on the sea. when as this gallant rainbow did come where ward did lie, "where is the captain of this ship?" this gallant rainbow did cry. "oh, that am i," said captain ward, "there's no man bids me lie; and if thou art the king's fair ship, thou art welcome unto me." "i tell thee what," says rainbow, "our king is in great grief, that thou shouldst lie upon the sea, and play the arrant thief. "and will not let our merchant ships pass as they did before; such tidings to our king is come, which grieves his heart full sore." with that this gallant rainbow she shot out of her pride, full fifty gallant brass pieces, charged on every side. and yet these gallant shooters, prevailed not a pin; though they were brass on the outside, brave ward was steel within: "shoot on, shoot on/' says captain ward, "your sport well pleaseth me, and he that first gives over shall yield unto the sea. "i never wronged an english ship, but turk and king of spain, and the jovial dutchman, as i met on the main. if i had known your king but one two years before, i would have saved brave essex life, whose death did grieve me sore. "go tell the king of england, go tell him thus from me, if he reign king of all the land, i will reign king at sea." with that the gallant rainbow shot, and shot, and shot in vain, and left the rover's company, and returned home again. "our royal king of england, your ship's returned again, for ward's ship is so strong it never will be ta'en." "o everlasting," said our king, "i have lost jewels three, which would have gone unto the wars, and brought proud ward to me." the first was lord clifford, earl of cumberland; the second was lord mountjoy, as you shall understand; the third was brave essex, from field would never flee, which would agone unto the seas, and brought proud ward to me. greenland whale fishery |we can no longer stay on shore, since we are so deep in debt; so a voyage to greenland we will go, some money for to get--brave boys. now when we lay at liverpool, our good-like ship to man, 'twas there our names were all wrote down, and were bound for greenland--brave boys. in eighteen hundred and twenty-four, on march the twenty-third, we hoisted our colours up to our mast-head, and for greenland bore away--brave boys. but when we came to greenland, our good-like ship to moor, o then we wish'd ourselves back again, with our friends upon the shore--brave boys. the boatswain went to the mast-head, with his spy-glass in his hand, "here's a whale, a whale, a whale," he cried, "and she blows on every spring--brave boys." the captain on the quarter deck, (a very good man was he), "overhaul, overhaul, your boat tackle-fall, and launch your boats to sea--brave boys." the boats being launch'd and the hands got in, the whale fishes appeared in view, resolved was the whole boat's crew to steer where the whale fish blew--brave boys. the whale being struck and the line paid on, she gave a flash with her tail, she capsized the boat and lost five men, nor did we catch the whale--brave boys. bad news unto our captain brought, that we had lost the 'prentice boys; he hearing of the dreadful news, his colours down did haul--brave boys. the losing of this whale, brave boys, did grieve his heart full sore, but losing of his five brave men, did grieve him ten times more--brave boys. "come, weigh your anchor, my brave boys, for the winter star i see; it is time we should leave this cold country and for england bear away--brave boys." for greenland is a barren place, neither light nor day to be seen, nought but ice and snow where the whale fish blew and the day-light's seldom seen--brave boys. golden vanitee |sir walter raleigh has built a ship in the netherlands; and it is called the sweet trinity, and was taken by the false gallaly, sailing in the lowlands. is there never a seaman bold in the netherlands? that will go take this false gallaly, and to redeem the sweet trinity, sailing in the lowlands. then spoke the little ship-boy in the netherlands; "master, master, what will you give me? and i will take this false gallaly, and release the sweet trinity sailing in the lowlands." "i'll give thee gold, and i'll give thee fee, in the netherlands; and my eldest daughter thy wife shall be, sailing in the lowlands." he set his breast and away he did swim, in the netherlands; until he came to the false gallaly, sailing in the lowlands. he had an augur fit for the nonce in the netherlands; the which will bore fifteen good holes at once, sailing in the lowlands. some were at cards, and some at dice, in the netherlands; until the salt water flashed in their eyes, sailing in the lowlands. some cut their hats, and some their caps, in the netherlands; for to stop the salt-water gaps, sailing in the lowlands. he set his breast and away did swim, in the netherlands; until he came to his own ship again, sailing in the lowlands. "i have done the work i promised to do in the netherlands; for i have sunk the false gallaly, and released the sweet trinity, sailing in the lowlands. "you promis'd me gold, and you promis'd me fee, in the netherlands; your eldest daughter my wife she must be, sailing in the lowlands." (_nonce_, occasion.) "you shall have gold, and you shall have fee, in the netherlands; but my eldest daughter your wife shall never be, sailing in the lowlands." "then fare you well, you cozening lord, in the netherlands; seeing you are not as good as your word, for sailing in the lowlands." and thus shall i conclude my song of the sailing in the lowlands; wishing happiness to all seamen, old and young, in their sailing in the lowlands. the yorkshire horse-dealer |near to clapham town-gate lived an old yorkshire tike, who in dealing in horseflesh had ne'er met his like; 'twas his pride that in all the hard bargains he'd hit, he'd bit a great many, but never been bit. (_town-gate_, high road.) this old tommy tavers (by that name he was known), had an old carrion bit that was sheer skin and bone; to have killed him for the curs would have been quite as well, but 'twas tommy's opinion he'd die of himsel. well! one abey muggins, a neighbouring cheat, thought to diddle old tommy would be a great treat; he'd a horse, too, 'twas worse than old tommy's, you see, fortnight afore that he'd thought proper to dee! thinks abey, th' old codger'll never smoke t' trick, i'll swop with him my poor dead horse for his quick, and if tommy i nobbut can happen to trap, 'twill be a fine feather in aberram cap. so to tommy he goes and to tommy he pops: "between my horse and thine, prithee, tommy, what swops? what will give me to boot? for mines t' better horse still!" "nought," says tommy, "i'll swop even hands, an ye will." (_nobbut,_ only.) abbey preached a long time about something to boot, insisting that his was the liveliest brute; but tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, till abey shook hands, and said, "well tommy, done." "o! tommy," said abey, "i'se sorry for thee, i thought thou'd a hadden more white in thy ee; good luck's in thy bargain, for my horse is dead"-- "hey," says tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an it's flayed." so tommy got t' better of t' bargain, a vast, and came off with a yorkshireman's triumph at last; for though 'twixt dead horses there's not much to choose yet tommy was richer by the hide and four shoes. [illustration: ] widdicombe fair |tom pearse, tom pearse, lend me your grey mare, all along, down along, out along, lee; for i want for to go to widdicombe fair, wi' bill brewer, jan stewer, peter gurney, peter davy, dan'l whiddon, harry hawk, old uncle tom cobbleigh and all," old uncle tom cobbleigh and all. "and when shall i see again my grey mare?" all along, &c. "by friday soon, or saturday noon," wi' bill brewer, &c. then friday came, and saturday noon, all along, &c. but tom pearses old mare hath not trotted home, wi' bill brewer, &c. so tom pearse he got up to the top o' the hill, all along, &c. and he see'd his old mare down a-making her will wi' bill brewer, &c. so tom pearse's old mare, her took sick and died, all along, &c. and tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried wi' bill brewer, &c. and now that tom pearse's old grey mare is dead all along, &c. they all did agree that she should be buried wi' bill brewer, &c. but this isn't the end o' this shocking affair, all along, &c. nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career of bill brewer, &c. when the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night, all along, &c. tom pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white, wi' bill brewer, &c. and all the long night be heard skirling and groans, all along, down along, out along, lee; from tom pearse's old mare in her rattling bones, and from bill brewer, jan stewer, peter gurney, peter davy, dan'l whiddon, harry hawk, old uncle tom cobbleigh and all, old uncle tom cobbleigh and all. lazarus |as it fell out upon one day, rich diverus he made a feast; and he invited all his friends, and gentry of the best. and it fell out upon one day, poor lazarus he was so poor, he came and laid him down and down, ev'n down at diverus' door. so lazarus laid him down and down, ev'n down at diverus' door; "some meat, some drink, brother diverus, do bestow upon the poor.'' "thou art none of mine, brother lazarus, lying begging at my door, no meat, no drink will i give thee, nor bestow upon the poor.'' then lazarus laid him down and down, ev'n down at diverus' wall; "some meat, some drink, brother diverus, or surely starve i shall.'' "thou art none of mine, brother lazarus, lying begging at my wall; no meat, no drink will i give thee, and therefore starve thou shall.'' then lazarus laid him down and down, ev'n down at diverus' gate; "some meat, some drink, brother diverus, for jesus christ his sake." "thou art none of mine, brother lazarus, lying begging at my gate, no meat, no drink will i give thee, for jesus christ his sake." then diverus sent his merry men all, to whip poor lazarus away; they had not power to whip one whip, but threw their whips away. then diverus sent out his hungry dogs, to bite poor lazarus away; they had not power to bite one bite, but licked his sores away. and it fell out upon one day, poor lazarus he sickened and died; there came two angels out of heaven, his soul thereto to guide. "rise up, rise up, brother lazarus, and come along with me, there is a place prepared in heaven, for to sit upon an angel's knee." and it fell out upon one day, rich diverus sickened and died; there came two serpents out of hell his soul thereto to guide. "rise up, rise up, brother diverus, and come along with me; there is a place prepared in hell, for to sit upon a serpent's knee." the gay lady that went to church |there was a lady all skin and bone; sure such a lady was never known: it happen'd upon a certain day, this lady went to church to pray. when she came to the church stile, there she did rest a little while; when she came to the church yard, there the bells so loud she heard. when she came to the church door, she stopt to rest a little more; when she came the church within, the parson pray'd gainst pride and sin. on looking up, on looking down, she saw a dead man on the ground; and from his nose unto his chin, the worms crawl'd out, the worms crawl'd in. then she unto the parson said, "shall i be so when i am dead?" "o yes! o yes," the parson said, "you will be so when you are dead." _here the lady screams_. [illustration: ] provided by google books popular british ballads, ancient and modern volume one of four edited by reginald brimley johnson [illustration: ] the preface . the word "ballad" is admittedly of very wide significance. meaning originally "a song intended as the accompaniment to a dance," it was afterwards applied to "a light simple song of any kind" with a leaning towards the sentimental or romantic; and, in its present use, is defined by dr murray as "a simple spirited poem in short stanzas, in which some popular story is graphically told." passing over the obsolete sense of "a popular song specially celebrating or scurrilously attacking some person or institution," we may note that dr johnson calls a ballad "a song," and quotes a statement from watts that it once "signified a solemn and sacred song as well as a trivial, when solomon's song was called the 'the ballad of ballads,' but now it is applied to nothing but trifling verse." ballad-collectors, however, have never strictly regarded any one of these definitions, and to me their catholicity seems worthy of imitation. i have demanded no more of a ballad than that it should be a simple spirited narrative; and, though excluding the pure lyrics and metrical romances found in percy's _reliques_ or elsewhere, i have been guided in doubtful cases rather by intuition than by rule. i have included poems written in every variety of metre except blank verse, and even the latter may seem to be represented by blake's _fair elinor_. moreover, this is a collection of poems, not of archaeological specimens or verses on great historic events; and the ballads have been chosen according to my judgment of their artistic merits. . vols. i. and ii. contain the best traditionary ballads of england and scotland, with a small group of peasant ballads still sung in country districts. vols. iii. and iv. contain selected modern experiments in the art of ballad-writing by english, scotch, and welsh poets, with a mixed group of irish ballads; those on foreign or classical subjects being in each case excluded. a. the text of the old ballads has been carefully prepared from the best authorities, and the spelling is modernised so far as can be done without injuring the rhythm or accentuation. brief historical or explanatory notes are printed in the table of contents, and obsolete terms are explained in footnotes. no attempt has been made to settle disputed dates of composition, but the ballads are arranged in groups according to the collection (e.g. percy's _reliques_, scott's _minstrelsy_, etc.) in which they were first included, and thus brought before the notice of the literary public. the groups are arranged according to the dates of publication of the collections. b. for the peasant ballads one text is seldom more authoritative than another, and minor differences have to be settled by personal judgment. the versions here offered, have, in many cases, been prepared from those popular in different parts of england. they are believed to represent the most poetical form of the songs which were the favourites of the elder generation, and which are being now superseded by the shorter and more sensational effusions of the music-hall. they are arranged according to their subjects. c. the modern ballads are arranged chronologically, according to the dates of birth of their authors, and are intended to be, so far as possible, representative of our best poets. parodies and dialect poems have been purposely omitted, because they form classes by themselves and are essentially different in spirit from both the traditionary and the literary ballads. this restriction does not involve the omission of all poems with humorous subjects or treatment. by calling these ballads "modern" i do not wish to imply that every one of them was written later than those in vols. i. and ii., since it is practically certain that some of the peasant group belong to this century. they are modern in the sense of being literary productions by known authors, which were offered to the public in a printed form from the first. d. irish ballads, written in english, are comparatively modern, but they belong to the traditionary manner and, whether the work of ballad-mongers or of poets, need not be separated from the few translations from the irish which have been thought suitable for this collection. they too are arranged chronologically. e. a similar group of welsh ballads was projected, but after a careful investigation of the principal periodicals and collections, and some correspondence with students of welsh literature, i have concluded that, for english readers at least, there exist but few welsh ballads of any merit; and that the poetic genius of the nation could not be fairly represented by such a selection. . a. every student of our old ballads owes an immeasurable debt of gratitude to professor f. j. child, whose monumental collections * have covered the entire field. i have naturally followed his guidance in the choice of texts and used his transcripts from manuscripts, having received his cordial permission to do so, in letters of kind advice and sympathy. * "english and scottish ballads," in vols. (houghton, mifflin & co.); "the english and scottish ballads"--in the course of publication--parts i.-viii. having already appeared (houghton, mifflin & co.). my thanks are also due to dr furnivall and professor hales for answers to questions and permission to follow their reprint of _the percy folio_; to professor skeat for the use of his transcript of _the hunting of the cheviot_; to mr w. c. hazlitt for a portion of an old copy of _adam bell, clym of the clough, and william cloudeslè_; and to the council of the folk-lore society for the version of the _unquiet grave_ which appeared in their _record_. b. in the preparation of the peasant group i have received great assistance from the rev. s. baring-gould, who has generously put at my disposal the results of his life-long studies in this subject, given me advice and information at every turn, and allowed me the free use of all his own manuscript and printed material. without his help and encouragement this part of the work could never have been completed. my thanks are also due to numerous members of the folk-lore society, both in london and the provinces, among whom i would particularly mention miss c. s. burne, author of _shropshire folk-lore_, and mrs balfour of northumberland. i have received much assistance also from miss lucy e. broadwood, who has united with mr j. a. fuller-maitland and the leadenhall press, ltd., in permitting me to reprint from her _english county songs_. for replies to various questions on these subjects i am indebted to messrs a. t. quiller-couch, w. e. a. axon, edward peacock, the rev. j. c. atkinson, judge hughes, miss field, and miss g. chanter. messrs g. bell & sons have kindly allowed me to reprint "sir arthur and charming mollee" from their _ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_. c. for the use of copyright matter my thanks are further due to messrs macmillan & co., the publishers of charles kingsley, and miss rossetti; to messrs smith, elder & co., of robert browning; to messrs chatto & windus, of g. w. thombury; to messrs elis & elvey, of d. g. rossetti; messrs ward, lock & bowden, of henry kingsley; messrs kegan paul & co., of mrs hamilton-king; messrs messina & co., melbourne, of a. l. gordon; and mr c. baxter, the agent of mr r. l. stevenson. i am also indebted to sir george young, bart., for information concerning w. m. praed; to. mr sebastian evans; mrs w. b. scott; mrs dobell; dr george macdonald; miss jean ingelow and her publishers, messrs longmans, green & co.; mrs isa craig knox; mrs calverly; dr garnett; mrs cory and the publisher of the late william cory, mr george allen; mr a. c. swinburne; madame darmsteter; miss grant; mr ernest rhys; mr r. buchanan; mr john davidson; mr rudyard kipling and his publishers, messrs methuen & co., and messrs thacker & co.; and miss g. chanter. having found every endeavour vain to discover the address of the misses hawker, i have ventured to reprint _the doom of st madron_, by the late r. s. hawker, without their permission, the publishers, messrs kegan paul & co., offering no objection so far as they are concerned. from the works of tennyson, mr wm. morris, and a few others, i should have made selections, had not the permission been, to my great regret, withheld. d. in the preparation of the irish group i have been very materially assisted by mr alfred percival graves, who has advised my selection and given me the free use of all his own work; and by mr david j. o'donoghue, author of the _dictionary of the poets and poetry of ireland_, who has devoted much time to supplying me with information of all kinds, and directing me to the work of comparatively unknown authors. for the use of copyright matter i am also indebted to mrs allingham; to professor e. f. savage-armstrong, for his own work, and that of his brother, the late edward j. armstrong; to lady ferguson; miss emily h. hickey; mr michael hogan; mr wm. winter and messrs c. scribner & sons, for a poem by fitzjames o'brien; messrs routledge & sons for poems by s. lover; to mr t. d. sullivan, m.p.; mrs k. tynan (hinkson); mr aubrey de vere and his publishers, messrs macmillan & co.; mr w. b. yeats; and dr sigerson. finally, i have to thank mr theodore watts and mr alfred h. miles, editor of _the poets and poetry of the century_, for information on certain questions of copyright. r. brimley johnson. llandaff house, cambridge, august rd, . the three ravens |there were three ravens sat on a tree, _downe, a downe, hay downe, hay downe_, there were three ravens sat on a tree, _with a downe, there were three ravens sat on a tree, they were as black as they might be, _with a downe, derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe. the one of them said to his mate, "where shall we our breakfast take?"-- "down in yonder green field, there lies a knight slain under his shield. "his hounds they lie down at his feet, so well they can their master keep. his hawks they flie so eagerly, there's no fowl dare him come nigh." down there comes a fallow doe, as great with young as she might go. she lift up his bloody head, and kist his wounds that were so red. she got him up upon her back, and carried him to earthen lake. she buried him before the prime, she was dead herself ere even-song time. god send every gentleman, such hawks, such hounds, and such a leman. (_lake_, grave.) [illustration: ] [illustration: ] little musgrave and lady barnard |as it fell one holy-day, _hay down_, as many be in the year, when young men and maids together did go their matins and mass to hear, little musgrave came to the church door, the priest was at private mass; but he had more mind of the fair women, then he had of our lady's grace. the one of them was clad in green, another was clad in pall; and then came in my lord barnards wife, the fairest amonst them all. she cast an eye on little musgrave, as bright as the summer sun, and then bethought this little musgrave, "this lady's heart have i won." quoth she, "i have loved thee, little musgrave, full long and many a day:" "so have i loved you, fair lady, yet never word durst i say." "i have a bower at bucklesfordbery, full daintily it is dight; if thou wilt wend thither, thou little musgrave, thou's lig in mine arms all night." quoth he, "i thank ye, fair lady, this kindness thou showest to me; but whether it be to my weal or woe, this night i will lig with thee." with that he heard a little tiny page, by his lady's coach as he ran: "allthough i am my lady's footpage, yet i am lord barnard's man. "my lord barnard shall know of this, whether i sink or swim:" and ever where the bridges were broke, he laid him down to swim. "asleep, or wake! thou lord barnard, as thou art a man of life; for little musgrave is at bucklesfordbery, abed with thy own wedded wife." "if this be true, thou little tiny page, this thing thou tellest to me, then all the land in bucklesfordbery i freely will give to thee. "but if it be a lie, thou little tiny page, this thing thou tellest to me, on the highest tree in bucklesfordbery then hanged shalt thou be." he called up his merry men all:-- "come saddle me my steed; this night must i to bucklesfordbery, for i never had greater need." and some of them whistl'd, and some of them sung, and some these words did say, and ever when my lord barnard's horn blew, "away, musgrave, away!" "methinks i hear the thresel-cock, methinks i hear the jay; methinks i hear my lord barnard,-- and i would i were away." (_thresel-cock_, thrush.) "lie still, lie still, thou little musgrave, and huggell me from the cold; 'tis nothing but a shephard's boy, a driving his sheep to the fold. "is not thy hawk upon a perch? thy steed eats oats and hay, and thou a fair lady in thine arms,-- and wouldst thou be away?" with that my lord barnard came to the door, and lit a stone upon; he plucked out three silver keys, and he open'd the doors each one. he lifted up the coverlet, he lifted up the sheet; "how now, how now, thou little musgrave, doest thou find my lady sweet?" "i find her sweet," quoth little musgrave, "the more 'tis to my pain; i would gladly give three hundred pounds that i were on yonder plain." "arise, arise, thou little musgrave, and put thy clothés on; it shall ne'er be said in my country, i have killed a naked man. "i have two swords in one scabbard, full dear they cost my purse; and thou shalt have the best of them, and i will have the worse." the first stroke that little musgrave stroke, he hurt lord barnard sore; the next stroke that lord barnard stroke, little musgrave ne'er struck more. with that bespake this fair lady, in bed whereas she lay; "although thou'rt dead, thou little musgrave, yet i for thee will pray; "and wish well to thy soul will i, so long as i have life; so will i not for thee, barnard, although i am thy wedded wife." he cut her paps from off her breast, great pity it was to see, that some drops of this lady's heart's blood ran trickling down her knee. "woe worth you, woe worth, my merry men all, you were ne er born for my good; why did you not offer to stay my hand, when ye saw me wax so wood! "for i have slain the bravest sir knight that ever rode on steed; so have i done the fairest lady that ever did woman's deed. "a grave, a grave," lord barnard cried, to put these lovers in; but lay my lady on the upper hand, for she came of the better kin," [illustration: ] the twa sisters |there was twa sisters in a bowr, _edinburgh, edinburgh_, there was twa sisters in a bow'r, _stirling for aye_, there was twa sisters in a bowr, there came a knight to be their wooer, _bonny saint johnston stands upon tay_. he courted the eldest wi' glove an' ring, but he loved the youngest above a' thing. he courted the eldest wi' brooch an' knife, but loved the youngest as his life; the eldest she was vexed sair, an' much envied her sister fair; into her bower she could not rest, wi' grief an' spite she almost brast. upon a morning fair an' clear she cried upon her sister dear: o sister come to yon sea-stran', and see our father's ships come to lan'. she's ta'en her by the milk-white han', and led her down to yon sea-stran'. the youngest stood upon a stane, the eldest came an' threw her in; she took her by the middle sma', an' dash'd her bonny back to the jaw; o sister, sister, take my han', an i'se make you heir to a' my lan'. o sister, sister, take my middle, and ye's get my gold and my golden girdle. (_jaw,_ wave.) o sister, sister, save my life, and i swear i'se never be nae man's wife. "foul fa the han' that i should take, it twin'd me an' my wardle's make." "your cherry cheeks and yallow hair, gars me gae maiden for evermair." [illustration: ] sometimes she sank, an' sometimes she swam, till she cam down yon bonny mill dam; o out it came the miller's son, an' saw the fair maid swimmin' in. "o father, father, draw your dam! here's either a mermaid, or a swan." the miller quickly drew the dam, an' there he found a drown'd woman; (_twin'd_, deprived). _wardles make_, life-mate.) you couldna see her yallow hair, for gold and pearl that were sae rare; you couldna see her middle sma, for golden girdle that was sae braw; ye couldna see her fingers white for golden rings that was sae gryte. and by there came a harper fine, that harped to the king at dine. when he did look that lady upon, he sigh'd and made a heavy moan; he's taen three locks o' her yallow hair, and wi' them strung his harp sae fair. the first tune he did play and sing was--"farewell to my father the king." the nexten tune that he played syne was--"farewell to my mother the queen." the lasten tune that he play'd then was--"wae to my sister, fair ellen!" (_gryte_, great.) [illustration: ] the hunting of the cheviot the first fit. |the perse out of northumberland, and a vow to god made he, that he would hunt in the mountains of cheviot within days three, in the magger of doughtè douglas, and all that ever with him be. the fattest harts in all cheviot he said he would kill, and carry them away: "by my faith," said the doughty douglas again, "i will let that hunting if that i may." then the perse out of banborowe came, with him a mighty meany; with fifteen hundrith archers bold of blood and bone, they were chosen out of shires three. this began on a monday at morn, in cheviot the hillys so he; the child may rue that is un-born, it was the more pity. (_in the magger_, in the maugre--i.e. in spite of. _let_, hinder. _meany_, company. _so he_, so high.) then the wyld thorow the woodès went, on every sydë shear; greyhounds thorow the grevis glent, for to kill their deer. thus began in cheviot the hills abone, early on a monnyn day; by that it drew to the hour of noon, a hundrith fat harts dead there lay. they blew a mort upon the bent, they sembled on sydës shear; (_byckarte_, hurried, _bent_, plain. _wyld_,deer. _shear_, at once. _grevis_, groves, _glent_, glanced, _sembled shear_, assembled together. _blew a mort_, sounded a horn for the dead.) the drivers thorow the woodès went, for to raise the deer; bowmen byckarte upon the bent with their broad arrows clear. [illustration: ] to the quarry then the perse went, to see the brittling of the deer. he said, "it was the douglas promise this day to meet me here; but i wist he would fail, verament:" a great oath the perse swear. at the last a squire of northumberland looked at his hand full nigh; he was ware o* the doughty douglas coming, with him a mighty meany; both with spear, bille, and brand; it was a mighty sight to see; hardier men, both of heart nor hand, were not in christiantè. there were twenty hundrith spear-men good, withowtè any fail; they were born along by the water o' twyde, ith' bounds of tividale. "leave of the brittling of the deer," he said, "and to your bows look ye take good heed; for never sith ye were on your mothers born had ye never so mickle need." (_brittling_, cutting up. _ware_, aware. _meany_, company. _bille_, battle-axe. _sith_, since.) the doughty douglas on a steed he rode all his men beforne; his armour glittered as did a glede; a bolder bairn was never born. "tell me whose men ye are," he says, "or whose men that ye be: who gave you leave to hunt in this cheviot chase, in the spite of mine and me?" the first man that ever him an answer made, it was the good lord perse: "we will not tell thee whose men we are," he says, "nor whose men that we be; but we will hunt here in this chase, in the spite of thine and of thee. "the fattest harts in all cheviot we have killed, and cast to carry them a-way:" "be my troth," said the doughty douglas again, "therefore the one of us shall die this day." then said the doughty douglas unto the lord perse: "to kill all these guiltless men, alas, it were great pity! (_glede_, burning gold. _cast_, intend.) "but, perse, thou art a lord of land, i am an earl called within my contre -, let all our men upon a party stand, and do the battle of thee and of me." "now cristes corpse on his crown," said the lord perse, "whosoever there-to says nay; by my troth, doughty douglas," he says, "thou shalt never see that day. "neither in england, scotland, nor france, nor for no man of a woman born, but, and fortune be my chance, i dare meet him, one man for one." then bespake a squire of northumberland, richard wytharyngton was him name; "it shall never be told in south-england," he says, "to king harry the fourth for shame. "i wot you bin great lordes twa, i am a poor squire of land; i will never see my captain fight on a field, and stand myself, and lookè on, but while i may my weapon wield, i will not [fail] both heart and hand." that day, that day, that dreadfull day! the first fit here i find; and you will hear any more a' the hunting a' the cheviot, yet is there more behind. the english men had their bows yebent, their hearts were good enough; the first of arrows that they shot off, seven score spear-men they slough. yet bides the earl douglas upon the bent, a captain good enough, and that was seenè verament, for he wrought home both woe and wouche. the douglas parted his host in three, like a cheffe chieftan of pride, with sure spears of mighty tree, they come in on every side: through our english archery gave many a wound full wide; many a doughty they gard to die, which gained them no pride. (_find,_ end. and, if. _slough_, slew. wouche, injury. _tree_, wood. _gard_, made.) the second fit. |the english men let their bows be, and pulled out brands that were bright; it was a heavy sight to see bright swords on basnets light. [illustration: ] thorow rich mail and maniple, many sterne the stroke down straight; many a freyke that was full free, there under foot did light. (_basnets_, helmets. _light,_ alight. _sterne_, drove. _freyke_, warrior. _free_, noble.) at last the douglas and the perse met, like to captains of might and of main; they swept together till they both swat, with swords that were of fine myllàn. these worthè freykes for to fight, there-to they were full fain, till the blood out of their basnets sprent, as ever did hail or rain. "yield thee, perse," said the douglas, "and i' faith i shall thee bring where thou shalt have an earl's wages of jamy our scottish king. "thou shalt have thy ransom free, i hight thee here this thing, for the manfullest man yet art thou, that ever i conquered in field fighting." "nay," said the lord perse, "i told it thee beforne, that i would never yielded be to no man of a woman born." with that there cam an arrow hastely, forth of a mighty wane; it hath striken the earl douglas in at the breast bane. (_myllan_, steel, _sprent_, spurted, _hight,_ promise, _wune_, crowd (?)) thorow liver and lungs, baith the sharp arrow is gane, that never after in all his life-days, he spake mo words but ane: that was, "fight ye, my merry men, whiles ye may, for my life-days ben gane." the perse leaned on his brand, and saw the douglas dee; he took the dead man by the hand, and said, "woe is me for thee! "to have saved thy life, i would have parted with my landes for years three, for a better man, of heart nor of hand, was not in all the north contre." of all that see a scottish knight, was called sir hew the monggombyrry; he saw the douglas to the death was dight, he spended a spear, a trusty tree:-- he rode upon a courser through a hundrith archery: he never stinted, nor never blane, till he came to the good lord perse. (_dight_, disposed of, __spended, grasped. _blane_. stopped.) he set upon the lord perse a dint that was full sore; with a sure spear of a mighty tree clean thorow the body he the persè bare, a'the tother side that a man might see a large cloth yard and mair: two better captains were not in christiantè, than that day slain were there. an archer of northumberland sae slain was the lord persè; he bare a bend-bow in his hand, was made of trusty tree. an arrow, that a cloth yard was lang, to th' hard steel haled he; a dint that was both sad and sore, he set on sir hewe the monggomberry. the dint it was both sad and sore, that he of monggomberry set; the swan-feathers, that his arrow bore, with his heart-blood they were wet. there was never a freyke one foot would flee, but still in stour did stand, hewing on each other, while they might dree, with many a baleful brand. (_bend-bow,_ bent bow. _freyke_, warrior. _stour_, fight. _dree_, endure.) this battle began in cheviot an hour befor the noon, and when even-song bell was rang, the battle was not half done. they took... on eithar hand by the light of the moon; many had no strength for to stand, in cheviot the hills aboun. of fifteen hundrith archers of england went away but seventy and three; of twenty hundrith spear-men of scotland, but even five and fifty: but all were slain cheviot within; they had no strength to stand on high; the child may rue that is unborn, it was the more pity. there was slain with the lord perse, sir john of agerstone, sir roger, the hind hartly, sir william, the bold hearone. sir jorg, the worthè loumle, a knight of great renown, sir raff, the rich rugbè, with dints were beaten down. for wetharryngton my heart was woe, that ever he slain should be; for when both his legs were hewn in two, yet he kneeled and fought on his knee. there was slain with the doughty douglas, sir hew the monggomberry, sir davy lydale, that worthy was, his sisters son was he: sir charls o' murrè in that place, that never a foot would flee; sir hew maxwell, a lord he was, with the douglas did he dee. so on the morrow they made them biers of birch and hazel so gray; many widows with weepng tears came to fetch their makes away. tivydale may carp of care, northumberland may make great moan, for two such captains as slain were there, on the march-party shall never be none. word is commen to eddenburrow, to jamy the scottish king, that doughty douglas, lieu-tenant of the merches he lay slain cheviot with-in. (_makes_, husband. _carp_, talk.) his handes did he weal and wring, he said, "alas, and woe is me!" such an other captain scotland within, he said, i-faith should never be. word is commen to lovely london, till the fourth harry our king, that lord persè, lieu-tenant of the marches he lay slain cheviot within. "god have mercy on his soul," said king harry, "good lord, if thy will it be! i have a hundrith captains in england," he said, "as good as ever was he: but persè, and i brook my life, thy death well quit shall be." as our noble king made his a-vow, like a noble prince of renown, for the death of the lord persè he did the battle of hombyll-down: where six and thirty scottish knights on a day were beaten down: glendale glittered on their armour bright, over castle, tower, and town. (_weal,_ wring (?). _brook_, preserve. _quit_, requited.) this was the hunting of the cheviot; that tear began this spurn: old men that knowen the ground well enough, call it the battle of otterburn. at otterburn began this spurn upon a monnyn day: there was the doughty douglas slain, the perse never went away. there was never a time on the march-partys sen the douglas and the perse met, but it was marvel, and the red blude ran not, as the rain does in the street. jesu christ our bales bete, and to the bliss us bring! thus was the hunting of the cheviot: god send us all good ending! (_tear_, injury (?). _spurn_, retaliation. _sen_, when. _bales bete_, sufferings better.) [illustration: ] [illustration: ] the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green |this song's of a beggar who long lost his sight, and had a fair daughter, most pleasant and bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, and none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was of complexion most fair, yet seeing she was but a beggar his heir, of ancient housekeepers despised was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessee did say, "good father and mother, let me now go away, to seek out my fortune, whatever it be;" this suit then was granted to pretty bessee. this bessee, that was of a beauty most bright, they clad in gray russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she, who sighed and sobbed for pretty bessee. she went till she came to stratford-at-bow, then she knew not whither or which way to go; with tears she lamented her sad destiny, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the highway; and at the king's arms entertained was she, so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there one month at an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend; and every brave gallant that once did her see was straightway in love with pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love they extoll'd; her beauty was blazed in every degree, so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; she shewed herself courteous, but never too coy, and at their commandment still she would be, so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go, they craved her favour, but still she said no; "i would not have gentlemen marry with me,"-- yet ever they honoured pretty bessee. now one of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night; the second, a gentleman of high degree, who wooed and sued for prétty bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, was then the third suitor, and proper withal; her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. "if that thou wilt marry with me," quoth the knight, "ill make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart is enthralled in thy fair beauty, then grant me thy favour, my pretty bessee." the gentleman said, "come marry with me, in silks and in velvets my bessee shall be; my heart lies distracted, oh hear me!" quoth he, "and grant me thy love, my dear pretty bessee." "let me be thy husband," the merchant did say, "thou shalt live in london most gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee." then bessee she sighed, and thus she did say; "my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their goodwill, and be faithful to me, and you shall enjoy your dear pretty bessee." to every one of them that answer she made; therefore unto her they joyfully said, "this thing to fulfill we all now agree; but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee?" "my father," quoth she, "is soon to be seen; the silly blind beggar of bednall green, that daily sits begging for charity, he is the kind father of pretty bessee. "his marks and his token are knowen full well; he always is led by a dog and a bell; a poor silly old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the true father of pretty bessee." "nay, nay," quoth the merchant, "thou art not for me;" "she," quoth the innholder, "my wife shall not be;" "i loathe," said the gentleman, "a beggar's degree, therefore, now farewell, my pretty bessee." "why then," quoth the knight, "hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome to me, my dear pretty bessee. "with thee to thy father forthwith i will go." "nay, forbear," quoth his kinsman, "it must not be so: a poor beggar's daughter a lady sha'nt be; then take thy adieu of thy pretty bessee." as soon then as it was break of the day, the knight had from rumford stole bessee away; the young men of rumford, so sick as may be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ride they were seen, until they came near unto bednall green, and as the knight lighted most courteously, they fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came presently over the plain, or else the knight there for his love had been slain; the fray being ended, they straightway did see his kinsman come railing at pretty bessee. then bespoke the blind beggar, "altho' i be poor, rail not against my child at my own door; though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, yet i will drop angels with thee for my girl; "and then if my gold should better her birth, and equal the gold you lay on the earth, then neither rail you, nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. "but first, i will hear, and have it well known, the gold that you drop it shall be all you own;" "with that," they replied, "contented we be;" "then here's," quoth the beggar, "for pretty bessee." with that an angel he dropped on the ground, and dropped, in angels, full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it proved most plain, for the gentleman's one, the beggar dropped twain. so that the whole place wherein they did sit with gold was covered every whit; the gentleman having dropt all his store, said, "beggar, your hand hold, for i have no more. "thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright;" "then marry my girl," quoth he to the knight; "and then," quoth he, "i will throw you down, an hundred pound more to buy her a gown." the gentlemen all, who his treasure had seen, admired the beggar of bednall green. and those that had been her suitors before, their tender flesh for anger they tore. thus was the fair bessee matched to a knight, and made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen than the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green. but of her sumptuous marriage and feast, and what fine lords and ladies there prest, the second part shall set forth to your sight, with marvellous pleasure, and wished for delight.- part ii. |of a blind beggar's daughter so bright, that late was betrothed to a young knight, all the whole discourse thereof you did see, but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. it was in a gallant palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they could have, this wedding it was kept most sumptuously, and all for the love of pretty bessee. and all kind of dainties and delicates sweet was brought to their banquet, as it was thought meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. the wedding thro' england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort, of nobles and gentles of every degree, and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then away went this gallant young knight, his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with troops of ladies, the like was ne'er seen, as went with sweet bessee of bednall green. this wedding being solemnized then, with music performed by skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sat down at that tide, each one beholding the beautiful bride. but after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk and to reason a number begun, and of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spoke the nobles, "much marvel have we this jolly blind beggar we cannot yet see!" "my lords," quoth the bride, "my father so base is loathe with his presence these states to disgrace." "the praise of a woman in question to bring, before her own face, is a flattering thing; but we think thy father's baseness," quoth they, "might by thy beauty be clean put away." they no sooner this pleasant word spoke, but in comes the beggar in a silken cloak, a velvet cap and a feather had he, and now a musician, forsooth, he would be. and being led in, from catching of harm, he had a dainty lute under his arm; said, "please you to hear any music of me, a song i will give you of pretty bessee." with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play, and after a lesson was played two or three, he strained out this song most delicately:-- "_a beggars daughter did dwell on a green, who for her beauty might well be a queen, a blithe bonny lass, and dainty was she, and many one called her pretty bessee._ "_her father he had no goods nor no lands, but begged for a penny all day with his hands, and yet for her marriage gave thousands three, yet still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee_. "_and here if any one do her disdain, her father is ready with might and with main, to prove she is come of noble degree, therefore let none flout at my pretty bessee."_ with that the lords and the company round with a hearty laughter were ready to swound; at last said the lords, "full well we may see, the bride and the bridegrooms beholden to thee." with that the fair bride all blushing did rise, with crystal water all in her bright eyes; "pardon my father, brave nobles," quoth she, "that through blind affection thus doats upon me. "if this be thy father," the nobles did say, "well may he be proud of this happy day, yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth with his fortune could never agree. "arid therefore, blind beggar, we pray thee bewray, and look that the truth to us thou dost say, thy birth and thy parentage what it may be, e'en for the love thou bearest to pretty bessee." "then give me leave, ye gentles each one, a song more to sing and then i'll begone; and if that i do not win good report, then do not give me one groat for my sport:-- "_when first our king his fame did advance, and sought his title in delicate france, in many places great perils past he, but then was not born my pretty bessee._ "_and at those wars went over to fight, many a brave duke, a lord, and a knight, and with them young monford of courage so free, but then was not born my pretty bessee._ "_and there did young monford with a blow on the face lose both his eyes in a very short space; his life had been gone away with his sight, had not a young woman gone forth in the night_. "_among the slain men, her fancy did move to search and to seek for her own true love, who seeing young monford there gasping to die, she saved his life through her charity._ "_and then all our victuals in beggars' attire, at the hands of good people we then did require; at last into england, as now it is seen, we came, and remained in bednall green._ "_and thus we have lived in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented, with humble delight, and in my old years, acomfort to me, god sent me a daughter called pretty bessee._ _"and thus, ye nobles, my song i do end, hoping by the same no man to offend; full forty long winters thus i have been, a silly blind beggar of bednall green._" now when the company every one did hear the strange tale he told in his song, they were amazed, as well as they might be, both at the blind beggar and pretty bessee, with that the fair bride they all bid embrace, saying, "you are come of an honourable race; thy father likewise is of high degree, and thou art right worthy a lady to be." thus was the feast ended with joy and delight; a happy bridegroom was made the young knight, who lived in great joy and felicity, with his fair lady, dear pretty bessee. [illustration: ] sir andrew barton the first part |as it befell in midsummer time, when birds sing sweetly on every tree, our noble king, king henry the eighth, over the river of thames past he. he was no sooner over the river, down in a forest to take the air, but eighty merchants of london city came kneeling before king henry there. "o ye are welcome, rich merchants, [good sailors, welcome unto me! ]" they swore by the rood, they were sailors good, but rich merchants they could not be. "to france nor flanders dare we not pass, nor bordeaux voyage we dare not fare; and all for a false robber that lies on the seas, who robs us of our merchant's ware." king henry was stout, and he turned him about, and swore by the lord that was mickle of might, "i thought he had not been in the world throughout, that durst have wrought england such unright." but ever they sighed, and said, "alas!" unto king harry this answer again; "he is a proud scot, that will rob us all, if we were twenty ships, and he but one." the king lookt over his left shoulder, amongst his lords and barons so free; "have i never lord in all my realm, will fetch yond traitor unto me?" "yes, that dare i," says my lord charles howard; near to the king whereas he did stand; "if that your grace will give me leave, myself will be the only man." "thou shalt have six hundred men," saith our king; "and choose them out of my realm so free; besides mariners, and boys, to guide the great ship on the sea." "i'll go speak with sir andrew," ssyn charles, my lord howard; "upon the sea,' if he be there, i will bring him and his ship to shore. or before my prince i will never come near." the first of all my lord did call, a noble gunner he was one, this man was threescore years and ten; and peter simon was his name. "peter," says he, "i must sail to the sea, to seek out an enemy; god be my speed! before all others i have chosen thee, of a hundred gunners thou'st be my head." "my lord," says he, "if you have chosen me of a hundred gunners to be the head, hang me at your main-mast tree, if i miss my mark past three pence bread." the next of all my lord he did call, a noble bowman he was one; in yorkshire was this gentleman borne, and william horsley was his name. "horsley," says he, "i must sail to the sea, to seek out an enemy; god be my speed! before all others i have chosen thee; of a hundred bowmen thou'st be my head." "my lord," says he, "if you have chosen me of a hundred bowmen to be the head, hang me at your main-mast tree, if i miss my mark past twelve pence bread." with pikes, and guns, and bowmen bold, this noble howard is gone to the sea; (_bread_, breadth.) on the day before mid-summer even, and out at thames mouth sailed they. they had not sailed days three, upon their journey they took in hand, but there they met with a noble ship, and stoutly made it both stay and stand. "thou must tell me thy name," says charles, my lord howard, "or who thou art, or from whence thou came, yea, and where thy dwelling is, to whom and where thy ship does belong." "my name," says he, "is henry hunt, with a pure heart, and a penitent mind; i and my ship they do belong unto the newcastle that stands upon tyne." "now thou must tell me, harry hunt, as thou hast sailed by day and by night, hast thou not heard of a stout robber; men calls him sir andrew barton, knight?" but ever he sighed, and said, "alas! full well, my lord, i know that wight; he robbed me of my merchant's ware, and i was his prisoner but yesternight. "as i was sailing upon the sea, and [a] bordeaux voyage as i did fare, he clasped me to his hatch-board, and robbed me of all my merchant ware. and i am a man, both poor and bare, and every man will have his own of me, and i am bound towards london to fare, to complain to my prince henry." "that shall not need," says my lord howard; "if thou canst let me this robber see, for every penny he has taken thee froe thou shalt be rewarded a shilling," quoth he. "now god forefend," says henry hunt, "my lord, you should work so far amiss! god keep you out of that traitor's hands! for you wot full little what a man he is. "he is brass within, and steel without, and beams he bears in his topcastle strong; his ship hath ordinance clean round about, besides, my lord, he is very well manned. he hath a pinnace, is dearly dight, st. andrew's cross, that is his guide; his pinnace bears ninescore men and more, besides fifteen canons on every side. "if you were twenty ships, and he but one, either in hatchboard or in hall, he would overcome you every one, and if his beams they do down fall." "this is cold comfort," says my lord howard, "to welcome a stranger thus to the sea: i'll bring him and his ship to shore, or else into scotland he shall carry me." "then you must get a noble gunner, my lord, that can set well with his eye, and sink his pinnace into the sea, and soon then overcome will he be. and when that you have done this, if you chance sir andrew for to board, let no man to his topcastle go and i will give you a glass, my lord. "and then you need to fear no scot, whether you sail by day or by night; and to-morrow by seven of the clock, you shall meet with sir andrew barton, knight. i was his prisoner but yesternight, and he hath taken me sworn," quoth he; "i trust my l[ord] god will me forgive and if that oath then broken be." "you must lend me six pieces, my lord," quoth he, "into my ship, to sail the sea, and to-morrow by nine of the clock your honour again then will i see." and the hatch-board where sir andrew lay is hatched with gold dearly dight: "now by my faith," says charles, my lord howard, "then yonder scot is a worthy wight. the second part. |take in your ancients, and your standards, yea that no man shall them see; and put me forth a white willow wand, as merchants use to sail the sea." but they stirred neither top nor mast *; but sir andrew they passed by; "what english are yonder," said sir andrew, "that can so little courtesy? "i have been admiral over the sea more than these years three, there is never an english dog nor portingall can pass this way without leave of me. but now yonder pedlars they are past: which is no little grief to me: fetch them back," says sir andrew barton, "they all shall hang at my main-mast tree." with that the pinnace it shot off; that my lord howard might it well ken; it stroke down my lord's fore-mast, and killed fourteen of my lord his men. "come hither, simon," says my lord howard, "look that thy words be true thou said; i'll hang thee at my main-mast tree, if thou miss thy mark past twelve pence bread." * i.e. did not salute. simon was old, but his heart it was bold; he took down a piece and laid it full low, he put in chain yards nine, besides other great shot less and more, with that he let his gun-shot go; so well he settled it with his eye, the first sight that sir andrew saw, he see his pinnace sunk in the sea. when he saw his pinnace sunk, lord, in his heart he was not well! "cut my ropes! it is time to be gone! ill fetch yond pedlars back mysel'." when my lord howard saw sir andrew loose, lord! in his heart that he was fain; "strike on your drums, spread out your ancients, sound out your trumpets, sound out amain." "fight on, my men," says sir andrew barton, "weet, howsoever this gear will sway; it is my lord admiral of england, is come to seek me on the sea." simon had a son, with shot of a gun-- well sir andrew might it ken;-- he shot it in at a privy place, and killed sixty more of sir andrew's men. (_ancients_, ensigns. _weet,_ know. _gear_, business or affair.) harry hunt came in at the other side; and at sir andrew he shot then; he drove down his fore-mast tree, and killed eighty more of sir andrew's men. "i have done a good turn," says harry hunt; "sir andrew is not our king's friend; he hoped to have undone me yesternight, but i hope i have quit him well in the end." "ever alas!" said sir andrew barton, "what should a man either think or say? yonder false thief is my strongest enemy, who was my prisoner but yesterday. come hither to me, thou gordon good, and be thou ready at my call, and i will give thee three hundred pound, if thou wilt let my beams down fall." with that he swarved the main-mast tree, so did he it with might and main; horsley, with a bearing arrow, stroke the gordon through the brain; and he fell into the hatches again, and sore of this wound that he did bleede: then word went through sir andrew's men, that the gordon he was dead. (_swarved_, sawed (?).) "come hither to me, james hamilton, thou art my sister's son, i have no more; i will give [thee] six hundred pound if thou wilt let my beams down fall. with that he swarved the main-mast tree, so did he it with might and main; horsley, with another broad arrow, strake the yeoman through the brain. that he fell down to the hatches again, sore of his wound that he did bleed: covetousness gets no gain, it is very true, as the welshman said. but when he saw his sister's son slain, lord! in his heart he was not well: "go fetch me down my armour of proof, for i will to the topcastle mysel'. "go fetch me down my armour of proof, for it is gilded with gold so clear; god be with my brother, john of barton! amongst the portingalls he did it wear. but when he had his armour of proof, and on his body he had it on, every man that looked at him, said, gun nor arrow he need fear none." "come hither, horsley," says my lord howard, "and look your shaft that it go right; shoot a good shoot in the time of need, and for thy shooting thou'st be made a knight." "i'll do my best," says horsley then, "your honour shall see, before i go; if i should be hanged at your main-mast, i have in my ship but arrows two." [illustration: ] but at sir andrew he shot then, he made sure to hit his mark; under the spole of his right arm he smote sir andrew quite through the heart. yet from the tree he would not start, but he dinged to it with might and main, under the collar then of his jack he stroke sir andrew thorough the brain. "fight on, my men," says si^ andrew barton, "i am hurt, but i am not slain; i'll lay me down and bleed awhile, and then i'll rise and fight again. fight on, my men," says sir andrew barton, these english dogs they bite so low; fight on for scotland and st. andrew, till you hear my whistle blow." but when they could not hear his whistle blow, says harry hunt, "i'll lay my head you may board yonder noble ship, my lord, for i know sir andrew he is dead." with that they boarded this noble ship, so did they it with might and main; they found eighteen score scots alive, besides the rest were maimed and slain. my lord howard took a sword in his hand, and smote off sir andrew's head; the scots stood by did weep and mourn, but never a word durst speak or say. he caused his body to be taken down and over the hatchboard cast into the sea, and about his middle three hundred crowns: "wheresoever thou lands, it will bury thee." with his head they sailed into england again, with right good will, and force and main; and the day before new year's even into thames mouth they came again. my lord howard wrote to king henry's grace, with all the news he could him bring; "such a new years gift i have brought to your grace as never did subject to any king. "for merchandise and manhood, the like is not to be found; the sight of these would do you good, for you have not the like in your english ground." but when he heard tell that they were come full royally he welcomed them home: sir andrew's ship was the king's new year'sgift; a braver ship you never saw none. now hath our king saint andrew's ship, beset with pearls and precious stones; now hath england two ships of war, two ships of war, before but one. "who holp to this?" says king henry, "that i may reward him for his pain." "harry hunt, and peter simon, william horsley, and i the same. "harry hunt shall have his whistle and chain, and all his jewels, whatsoever they be, and other rich gifts that i will not name, for his good service he hath done me. horsley, right thou'st be a knight, lands and livings thou shalt have store; howard shall be earl of nottingham, and so was never howard before. "now, peter simon, thou art old, i will maintain thee and thy son; thou shalt have five hundred pound all in gold, for the good service that thou hast done," then king henry shifted his room; in came the queen and ladies bright, other errands had they none but to see sir andrew barton, knight. but when they see his deadly face, and his eyes were hollow in his head, "i would give a hundred pound,"says king henry, "the man were alive as he is dead. yet for the manful part that he hath played, both here and beyond the sea, his men shall have half-a-crown a day to bring them to my brother, king jamie." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] lord thomas and fair annet |lord thomas and fair annet sate a' day on a hill; whan night was come, and sun was set, they had not talked their fill. lord thomas said a word in jest, fair annet took it ill: "a' i will never wed a wife against my ain friends will." "gif ye will never wed a wife, a wife will ne'er wed ye:" sae he is hame to tell his mither. and knelt upon his knee. "o rede, o rede, mither," he says, "a gude rede gie to me: o sail i tak the nut-brown bride, and let fair annet be?" "the nut-brown bride haes gowd and gear, fair annet she has gat nane; and the little beauty fair annet haes, o it wull soon be gane." (_rede_, advice.) and he has till his brother gane: "now, brother, rede ye me; a', sail i marry the nut-brown bride, and let fair annet be?" "the nut-brown bride has oxen, brother, the nut-brown bride has kye: i wad hae ye marry the nut-brown bride, and cast fair annet by." "her oxen may die i' the house, billie, and her kye into the byre, and i sail hae nothing to mysel', but a fat fadge by the fire." and he has till his sister gane: "now sister, redè ye me; o sail i marry the nut-brown bride, and set fair annet free?" "i'se rede ye tak fair annet, thomas, and let the brown bride alane; lest ye should sigh, and say, alas, what is this we brought hame!" "no, i will tak my mither's counsel, and marry me out o' hand; and i will tak the nut-brown bride; fair annet may leave the land." (_byre_, cow-house. _fadge,_hag.) up then rose fair annet's father, twa hours or it were day, and he is gane into the bower wherein fair annet lay. "rise up, rise up, fair annet," he says, "put on your silken sheen; let us gae to st. mary's kirk, and see that rich weddeen." "my maids, gae to my dressing-room, and dress to me my hair; where-e er ye laid a plait before, see ye lay ten times mair. "my maids, gae to my dressing-room, and dress to me my smock; the one half is o' the holland fine, the other o' needle-work." the horse fair annet rade upon, he amblit like the wind; wi' siller he was shod before, wi' burning gowd behind. four and twanty siller bells were a' tied till his mane, and yae tift o' the norland wind, they tinkled ane by ane. (_sheen_, shoes. _tift_, puff.) four and twanty gay gude knights rade by fair annet's side, and four and twenty fair ladies, as gin she had bin a bride. [illustration: ] and whan she cam to mary's kirk, she sat on mary's stean: the cleading that fair annet had on it skinkled in their een. and whan she cam into the kirk, she shimmer'd like the sun; the belt that was about her waist, was a' wi' pearls bedone. (_skinkled_, sparkled.) she sat her by the nut-brown bride, and her een they were sae clear, lord thomas he clean forgat the bride, when fair annet drew near. he had a rose into his hand, he gae it kisses three, and reaching by the nut-brown bride, laid it on fair annet's knee. [illustration: ] up than spak the nut-brown bride, she spak wi' mickle spite; "and where gat ye that rose-water, that does mak ye sae white?" "o i did get the rose-water where ye wull ne'er get nane, for i did get that very rose-water into my mithers wame." the bride she drew a long bodkin frae out her gay head-gear, and strake fair annet unto the heart, that word spak never mair. lord thomas he saw fair annet wax pale, and marvelit what mote be: (_wame_, womb.) but whan he saw her dear heart's blude, a' wood-wroth wexed he. he drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, that was sae sharp and meet, and drave it into the nut-brown bride, that fell dead at his feet. [illustration: ] "now stay for me, dear annet," he said, "now stay, my dear," he cried; then strake the dagger until his heart, and fell dead by her side. lord thomas was buried without kirk-wa', fair annet within the choir; and o' the tane there grew a birk, the other a bonny briar. and ay they grew, and ay they threw, as they wad fain be near; and by this ye may ken right well, they were twa lovers dear. (_birk_, birch. _threw_, throve.) leoffricus |leoffricus the noble earl, of chester, as i read, did for the city of coventry many a noble deed; great privileges for the town this nobleman did get, of all things did make it so, that they toll free did sit, save only that for horses still they did some custom pay, which was great charges to the town full long and many a day. wherefore his wife, godiva fair, did of the earl request, that therefore he would make it free as well as all the rest. and when the lady long had sued, her purpose to obtain, at last her noble lord she took within a pleasant vein, and unto him with smiling cheer she did forthwith proceed, intreating greatly that he would perform that godly deed. "you move me much, fair dame," quoth he; "your suit i fain would shun; but what would you perform and do, to have the matter done?" "why, anything, my lord," quoth she, "you will with reason crave, i will perform it with goodwill if i my wish may have." "if thou wilt grant one thing," he said, "which i shall now require, so soon as it is finished, thou shalt have thy desire." "command what you think good, my lord; i will thereto agree on that condition, that this town in all things may be free." "if thou wilt strip thy clothes off, and here wilt lay them down, and at noonday on horseback ride, stark naked through the town, they shall be free for evermore. if thou wilt not do so, more liberty than now they have i never will bestow." the lady at this strange demand was much abashed in mind; and yet for to fulfil this thing she ne'er a whit repined. wherefore to all the officers of all the town she sent, that they perceiving her good will which for their weal was bent, that on the day that she should ride, all persons through the town should keep their houses and shut their door, and clap their windows down, so that no creature, young nor old, should in the street be seen till she had ridden (all about) through all the city clean. and when the day of riding came, no person did her see, saving her lord, after which time the town was ever free. william and marjorie lady marjorie, lady marjorie, sat sewing her silken seam, and by her came a pale, pale ghost, wi' mony a sigh and mane. "are ye my father, the king?" she says, "or are ye my brither john? or are ye my true love, sweet william, from england newly come?" "i'm not your father, the king," he says, "no, no, nor your brither john; but i'm your true love, sweet william, from england that's newly come." "have ye brought me any scarlets sae red, or any silks sae fine; or have ye brought me any precious things, that merchants have for sale?" "i have not brought you any scarlets sae red, no, no, nor the silks sae fine; but i have brought you my winding-sheet o'er many's the rock and hill. [illustration: ] "o lady marjorie, lady marjorie, for faith and charitie, will ye give to me my faith and troth, that i gave once to thee?" "o your faith and troth i'll not give thee, no, no, that will not i, until i get ae kiss of your ruby lips, and in my arms you come lie." "my lips they are sae bitter," he says, "my breath it is sae strang, if you get ae kiss of my ruby lips, your days will not be lang. "the cocks they are crawing, marjorie," he says,-- "the cocks they are crawing again; it's time the dead should part the quick,-- marjorie, i must be gane." she followed him high, she followed him low, till she came to yon churchyard green; o there the grave did open up, and young william he lay down. "what three things are these, sweet william," she says, "that stands here at your head?" "it's three maidens, marjorie," he says, "that i promised once to wed." "what three things are these, sweet william,"she says, "that stands here at your side?" "it is three babes, marjorie," he says, "that these three maidens had." "what three things are these, sweet william," she says, "that stands here at your feet?" "it is three hell-hounds, marjorie," he says, "that's waiting my soul to keep." she took up her white, white hand, and she struck him in the breast, saying,--"have there again your faith and troth and i wish your soul gude rest." the gipsy laddie the gipsies came to our good lord's gate, and wow but they sang sweetly; they sang sae sweet and sae very complete, that down came the fair lady. and she came tripping doun the stair, and a' her maids before her; as soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, they coost the glamour o'er her. "gae tak frae me this gay mantle, and bring to me a plaidie; for if kith and kin and a' had sworn, i'll follow the gipsy laddie. [illustration: ] "yestreen i lay in a weel-made bed, and my good lord beside me; this night i'll lie in a tennant's barn, whatever shall betide me." "come to your bed," says johnie faa, "o come to your bed, my deary; for i vow and i swear by the hilt of my sword, that your lord shall nae mair come near ye." "i'll go to bed to my johnie faa, i'll go to bed to my deary; for i vow and i swear, by what passed yestreen, that my lord shall nae mair come near me. "i'll mak a hap to my johnie faa, and i'll mak a hap to my deary; and he's get a' the coat gaes round, and my lord shall nae mair come near me." and when our lord came hame at e'en, and speir'd for his fair lady, the tane she cried, and the other replied, "she's away wi' the gipsy laddie." "gae saddle to me the black black steed, gae saddle and make him ready; before that i either eat or sleep, i'll gae seek my fair lady." and we were fifteen weel-made men, altho' we were nae bonny; and we were a' put down for ane, a fair young wanton lady. [illustration: ] waly, waly, but love be bonny o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn side, where i and my love wont to gae. i lean'd my back unto an aik, i thought it was a trusty tree; but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lightly me! (_aik_. oak.) o waly, waly, but love be bonny, a little time, while it is new -, but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades away like morning dew. o wherefore should i busk my head? or wherefore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. now arthur-seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be filed by me: saint anton's well shall be my drink, since my true love has forsaken me. martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves off the tree? o gentle death, when wilt thou come? for of my life i am weary. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvet, and i mysel' in cramasie. (_filed_, soiled.) but had i wist, before i kiss'd, that love had been sae ill to win, i'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, and pinn'd it with a silver pin. oh, oh, if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i mysel' were dead and gane! for a maid again i'll never be. the bonny earl of murray ye highlands, and ye lawlands, o where have you been? they have slain the earl of murray, and they laid him on the green. "now wae be to thee, huntly! and wherefore did you sae? i bade you bring him wi' you, but forbade you him to slay." he was a braw gallant, and he rid at the ring; and the bonny earl of murray, o he might hae been a king. he was a braw gallant, and he play'd at the ba; and the bonny earl of murray was the flower amang them a. he was a braw gallant, and he play'd at the glove; and the bonny earl of murray, o he was the queen's love. o lang will his lady look o'er the castle down, ere she see the earl of murray come sounding thro' the town. [illustration: ] glasgerion |glasgerion was a king's own son, and a harper he was good; he harped in the king's chamber, where cup and candle stood, and so did he in the queens chamber, till ladies waxed wood, and then bespake the king's daughter, and these words thus said she. said "strike on, strike on, glasgerion, of thy striking do not blin; there's never a stroke comes over thine harp, but it glads my heart within." "fair might you fall, lady," quoth he, "who taught you now to speak? i have loved you, lady, seven year; my heart i durst ne'er break." "but come to my bower, my glasgerion, when all men are at rest; as i am a lady true of my promise, thou shalt be a welcome guest." but home then came glasgerion, a glad man, lord, was he: and, "come thou hither, jack, my boy, come hither unto me. "for the king's daughter of normandy her love is granted me; and before the cock have crowen at her chamber must i be." (_blin_, stop.) "but come you hither, master," quoth he, "lay your head down on this stone; for i will waken you, master dear, afore it be time to gone." but up then rose that lither lad, and did on hose and shoon; a collar he cast upon his neck, he seemed a gentleman. and when he came to that lady's chamber, he tirled upon a pin: the lady was true of her promise, rose up and let him in. he did not take the lady gay, to bolster nor to bed: but down upon her chamber floor, full soon he hath her laid. he did not kiss that lady gay when he came nor when he youd: and sore mistrusted that lady gay, he was of some churlès blood. but home then came that lither lad, and did off his hose and shoon; and cast that collar from about his neck: he was but a churlès son. "awaken," quoth he, "my master dear, i hold it time to be gone. (_lither_, naughty. _youd_, went (?)) "for i have saddled your horse, master, well bridled i have your steed, have i not served a good breakfast, when time comes i have need." but up then rose good glasgerion, and did on hose and shoon, and cast a collar about his neck: he was a kingés son. and when he came to that ladys chamber, he tirled upon a pin -, the lady was more than true of promise, rose up and let him in. says "whether have you left with me your bracelet or your glove? or are you returned back again to know more of my love?" glasgerion swore a full great oath, by oak, and ash, and thorn; "lady, i was never in your chamber, sith the time that i was born." "o then it was your little foot-page, falsely hath beguiled me:" and then she pulled forth a little pen-knife, that hanged by her knee. says, "there shall never no churlès blood spring within my body." but home then went glasgerion, a woe man, good [lord] was he. says, "come hither thou, jack my boy, come thou hither to me. "for if i had killed a man to-night, jack, i would tell it thee: but if i have not killed a man to-night, jack, thou hast killed three." and he pulled out his bright brown sword, and dried it on his sleeve, and he smote off that lither lads head, and asked no man no leave. he set the sword's point til his breast, the pummel till a stone: through that falseness of that lither lad, these three lives were all gone. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] fair margaret and sweet william. |as it fell out on a long summer's day, two lovers they sat on a hill; they sat together that long summer's day, and could not talk their fill. "i see no harm by you, margaret, nor you see none by me; before to-morrow at eight o'clock a rich wedding you shall see." fair margaret sat in her bower-window, combing her yellow hair; there she spied sweet william and his bride, as they were a tiding near. then down she laid her ivory comb, and braided her hair in twain: she went alive out of her bower, but ne'er came alive in't again. when day was gone, and night was come, and all men fast asleep, then came the spirit of fair margaret, and stood at william's feet. "are you awake, sweet william?" she said, "or, sweet william, are you asleep? god give you joy of your gay bride-bed, and me of my winding-sheet." when day was come, and night was gone, and all men wak'd from sleep, sweet william to his lady said, "my dear, i have cause to weep. "i dreamt a dream, my dear lady, such dreams are never good: i dreamt my bower was full of red swine, and my bride-bed full of blood." "such dreams, such dreams, my honoured lord, they never do prove good -, to dream thy bower was full of swine, and thy bride-bed full of blood." he called up his merry men all, by one, by two, and by three; saying, "i'll away to fair margaret's bower, by the leave of my lady." and when he came to fair margaret's bower, he knocked at the ring; and who so ready as her seven brethren, to let sweet william in. then he turned up the covering-sheet; "pray let me see the dead; methinks she does look pale and wan, she has lost her cherry red. "i'll do more for thee, margaret, than any of thy kin: for i will kiss thy pale wan lips, though a smile i cannot win." with that bespake the seven brethren, making most piteous mone, "you may go kiss your jolly brown bride, and let our sister alone." "if i do kiss my jolly brown bride, i do but what is right; i ne'er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, by day, or yet by night. "deal on, deal on, my merry men all, deal on your cake and your wine: for whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, shall be dealt to-morrow at mine." fair margaret died to-day, to-day, sweet william died the morrow: fair margaret died for pure true love, sweet william he died for sorrow. margaret was buried in the lower chancel, and william in the higher: out of her breast there sprang a rose, and out of his a briar. they grew till they grew unto the church top, and then they could grow no higher; and then they tied in a true lover's knot, which made all the people admire. then came the clerk of the parish, as you this truth shall hear, and by misfortune cut them down, or they had now been there. [illustration: ] edward, edward |why does your brand sae drap wi' blood edward, edward? why does your brand sae drap wi' blood and why sae sad gang ye oh? "oh i hae killed my hawk sae good, mither, mither: oh i hae killed my hawk so good, and i had no mair but he oh." your hawk's blood was never sae red, edward, edward; your hawk's blood was never sae red, my dear son i tell thee oh. "oh i hae killed my red-roan steed, mither, mither: oh i hae killed my red roan steed that erst was sae fair and free oh." your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, edward, edward; your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, some other dule ye dree oh. "oh i hae killed my father dear, mither, mither: oh i hae killed my father dear, alas! and wae is me oh!" and whatten penance will ye dree for that, edward, edward? and whatten penance will ye dree for that? my dear son, now tell me oh. "i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mither, mither: i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea oh." and what will ye do wi' your towers and your ha', edward, edward? and what will ye do wi' your towers and your ha', that were sae fair to see oh? (_dule ye dree_, woe ye die weeping.) "i'll let them stand till they down fa', mither, mither: i'll let them stand till they down fa', for here never mair maun i be oh." and what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, edward, edward? and what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, when ye gang over the sea oh? "the world's room, let them beg through life, mither, mither: the world's room, let them beg through life, for them never mair will i see oh." and what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, edward, edward? and what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, my dear son, now tell me oh. "the curse of hell frae me shall ye bear, mither, mither: the curse of hell frae me shall ye bear, sic counsels ye gave to me oh." young waters |about yule? when the wind blew cool; and the round tables began, a' there is come to our king's court mony a well-favoured man. the queen looked o'er the castle wa, beheld baith dale and down, and then she saw young waters come riding to the town. his footmen they did rin before, his horsemen rade behind; ane mantle of the burning gowd did keep him frae the wind. gowden graith'd his horse before, and siller shod behind -, the horse young waters rade upon was fleeter than the wind. out then spake a wily lord, unto the queen said he: "o tell me wh' s the fairest face rides in the company?" (_graith'd_, girthed.) "i've seen lord, and i've seen laird, and knights of high degree, but a fairer face than young waters mine eyen did never see." out then spake the jealous king and an angry man was he: "o if he had been twice as fair, you might have excepted me." "you're neither laird nor lord," she says, "but the king that wears the crown; there is not a knight in fair scotland, but to thee maun bow down." for a' that she could do or say, appeased he wad nae be; but for the words which she had said, young waters he maun dee. they hae ta'en young waters, and put fetters to his feet; they hae ta'en young waters, and thrown him in dungeon deep. "aft i have ridden thro' stirling town, in the wind but and the weet; but i ne'er rade thro' stirling town wi' fetters at my feet. "aft have i ridden thro' stirling town, in the wind but and the rain; but i ne'er rade thro' stirling town ne'er to return again." they hae ta'en to the heading-hill his young son in his cradle; and they hae ta'en to the heading-hill his horse but and his saddle. they hae taen to the heading-hill his lady fair to see; and for the words the queen had spoke young waters he did dee. [illustration: ] children in the wood |now ponder well, you parents dear, these words which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. (_heading_, beheading.) a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possessed one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind; in love they liv'd, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three years old; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appear, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a year. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children chance to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possess their wealth for so the will did run. "now, brother," said the dying man, "look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this day; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. "you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone." with that bespake their mother dear, o brother kind," quoth she, "you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or misery: "and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard." with lips as cold as any stone, they kissed their children small: "god bless you both, my children dear;" with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there: "the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not fear. god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, when you are laid in grave." the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straight unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale. he would the children send to be brought up in fair london, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoicing at that tide, rejoicing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent: and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bad them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: "stay here," quoth he, "i'll bring you bread, when i come back again." these pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town: their pretty lips with blackberries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cried. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief, in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-red-breast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god, upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell; his barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd, his lands were barren made, his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him stayed. and in the voyage of portugal * two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and misery: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about, and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: * percy has 'to ' but ritson points out that it should be 'of.' the fellow, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to die, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overseers eke of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. [illustration: ] hugh of lincoln |four and twenty bonny boys were playing at the ba'; and by it came him, sweet sir hugh, and he play'd o'er them a'. he kick'd the ba' with his right foot, and catch'd it wi' his knee; and through-and-through the jew's window, he gar'd the bonny ba' flee. he's done him to the jew's castle, and walk'd it round about; and there he saw the jew's daughter at the window looking out. "throw down the ba', ye jew's daughter, throw down the ba' to me!" "never a bit," says the jew's daughter, "till up to me come ye." "how will i come up? how can i come up? how can i come to thee? for as ye did to my auld father, the same ye'll do to me." (_gar'd_, made.) she's gane till her father's garden, and pu'd an apple, red and green; 'twas a' to wile him, sweet sir hugh, and to entice him in. she's led him in through ae dark door, and sae has she through nine; she's laid him on a dressing table, and stickit him like a swine. and first came out the thick, thick blood, and syne came out the thin; and syne came out the bonny heart's blood; there was nae mair within. she's row'd him in a cake o' lead, bade him lie still and sleep; she's thrown him in our lady's draw well, was fifty fathom deep. when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' the bairns came hame, when every lady gat hame her son, the lady maisry gat nane. she's ta'en her mantle her about, her coffer by the hand; and she's gane out to seek her son, and wander'd o'er the land. (_row'd_, rolled.) she's done her to the jew's castle, where a' were fast asleep; "gin ye be there, my sweet sir hugh, i pray you to me speak." she's done her to the jew's garden, thought he had been gathering fruit; "gin ye be there, my sweet sir hugh, i pray you to me speak.'' she near'd our lady's deep draw-well, was fifty fathom deep; "where'er ye be, my sweet sir hugh, i pray you to me speak.'' "gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear; prepare my winding sheet; and, at the back o' merry lincoln, the morn i will you meet." now lady maisry is gane hame; made him a winding sheet; and, at the back o' merry lincoln, the dead corpse did her meet. and a' the bells o' merry lincoln, without men's hands were rung; and a' the books o' merry lincoln, were read without man's tongue; and ne'er was such a burial sin adam's days begun. [illustration: ] sir patrick spence |the king sits in dumferling toun, drinking the blude-red wine: "o where will i get guid sailor, to sail this ship of mine?" up and spak an eldern knight, sat at the kings right knee: "sir patrick spence is the best sailor, that sails upon the sea." the king has written a braid letter, and signed it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spence, was walking on the sand. the first line that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he: the next line that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. "o wha is this has done this deed, this ill deed done to me; to send me out this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea? "mak haste, mak haste, my merry men all, our guid ship sails the morn." "o say na sae, my master dear, for i fear a deadly storm. "late late yestreen i saw the new moon wi' the auld moon in her arm; and i fear, i fear, my dear master, that we will come to harm." o our scots nobles were right loath to wet their cork-heeled shoon; but lang erè a the play were playd, their hats they swam aboon. o lang, lang, may their ladies sit wi' their fans into their hand, or e'er they see sir patrick spence come sailing to the land. o lang, lang, may the ladies stand wi' their gold kems in their hair, waiting for their ain dear lords, for they'll see them na mair. (_shoon_, shoes.) half oer, half oer to aberdour, it's fifty fathom deep: and there lies guid sir patrick spence, wi' the scots lords at his feet. child waters |child waters in his stable stood and stroked his milk-white steed; to him came a fair yong lady as ever did wear womans weed. says, "christ you save, good child waters," says, "christ you save and see; my girdle of gold which was too long, is now too short for me. "and all is with one child of yours i feel stir at my side; (_weed_, dress.) my gown of green it is too straight; before, it was too wide." "if the child be mine, fair ellen," he said, "be mine, as you tell me, take you cheshire and lancashire both, take them your own to be. "if the child be mine, fair ellen," he said, "be mine, as you do swear, take you cheshire and lancashire both, and make that child your heir." she says, "i had rather have one kiss, child waters, of thy mouth, than i would have cheshire and lancashire both, that lies by north and south. "and i had rather have a twinkling, child waters, of your ee, than i would have cheshire and lancashire both, to take them mine own to be." "to morrow, ellen, i must forth ride far into the north countree; the fairest lady that i can find, ellen, must go with me." "and ever i pray you, child waters, your foot-page let me be." "if you will my foot-page be, ellen, as you do tell it me, then you must cut your gown of green an inch above your knee: "so must you do your yellow locks, another inch above your ee; you must tell no man what is my name; my foot-page then you shall be." all this long day child waters rode, she ran barefoot by his side, yet he was never so courteous a knight, to say, "ellen, will you ride?" but all this day child waters rode, she ran barefoot through the broom, yet he was never so courteous a knight, as to say, "put on your shoon." "ride softly," she said, "child waters why do you ride so fast? the child, which is no man's but yours, my body it will burst." he says, "sees thou yonder water, ellen, that flows from bank to brim?" "i trust to god, child waters," she said, "you will never see me swim." but when she came to the water's side, she sailed to the chin: "except the lord of heaven be my speed, now must i learn to swim." the salt waters bare up ellen's clothes, our lady bare up her chin; child waters was a woe man, good lord, to see fair ellen swim! and when she over the water was, she then came to his knee: he said, "come hither, fair ellen, lo yonder what i see. "seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of red gold shine the gates: there's four and twenty fair ladies, the fairest is my worldly make. "seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of red gold shineth the tower: there is four and twenty fair ladies, the fairest is my paramour." "i do see the hall now, child waters, that of red gold shineth the gates: god give good then of yourself, and of your worldly make. (_make_, mate.) "i do see the hall now, child waters, that of red gold shineth the tower: god give good then of yourself, and of your paramour." there were four and twenty ladies were playing at the ball, and ellen, was the fairest lady, must bring his steed to the stall. there were four and twenty fair ladies was a playing at the chess, and ellen, she was the fairest lady, must bring his horse to grass. and then bespake child waters sister, and these were the words said she: "you have the prettiest foot-page, brother, that ever i saw with mine eye. "but that his belly it is so big, his girdle goes wondrous high; and ever, i pray you, child waters, let him go into the chamber with me." "it is more meet for a little foot-page, that has run through moss and mire, to take his supper upon his knee, and sit down by the kitchen fire, then to go into the chamber with any lady, that wears so [rich] attire." but when they had supped every one, to bed they took the way: he said, "come hither, my little foot-page. hearken what i do say. "and go thee down into yonder town, and low into the street; the fairest lady that thou canst find, hire her in mine arms to sleep; and take her up in thine arms two, for filing of her feet." ellen is gone into the town, and low into the street; the fairest lady that she could find, she hired in his arms to sleep; and took her up in her arms two, for filing of her feet. "i pray you now, good child waters, that i may creep in at your bed's feet; for there is no place about this house, where i may say a sleep." this [night] and it drove on afterward, till it was near the day, he said, "rise up, my little foot-page, and give my steed corn and hay; and so do thou the good black oats, that he may carry me the better away." (_for filing_, to keep clean.) and up then rose fair ellen, and gave his steed corn and hay; and so she did and the good black oats, that he might carry him the better away. she leaned her back to the manger side, and grievously did groan; and that beheard his mother dear, and heard her make her moan. she said, "rise up, thou child waters, i think thou art a cursed man; for yonder is a ghost in thy stable, that grievously doth groan; or else some woman labours of child, she is so woe-begone." but up then rose child waters, and did on his shirt of silk; then he put on his other clothes, on his body as white as milk. and when he came to the stable door, full still that he did stand, that he might hear now fair ellen, how she made her monand. she said, "lullaby, my own dear child, lullaby, dear child, dear; i would thy father were a king, thy mother laid on a bier." (_monand_, moaning.) "peace now," he said, "good, fair ellen, and be of good cheer, i thee pray; and the bridal and the churching both they shall be upon one day," earl richard earl richard once upon a day, and all his valiant men so wight, he did him down to barnisdale, where all the land is fair and light. he was aware of a damosel, i wot fast on she did her bound, with towers of gold upon her head, as fair a woman as could be found. he said, "busk on you, fair lady, the white flowers and the red; for i would give my bonnie ship, to get your maidenhead." "i wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, and drown you in the sea; for all this would not mend the miss that ye would do to me." "the miss is not so great, lady, soon mended it might be. "i have four-and-twenty mills in scotland, stands on the water of tay; you'll have them, and as much flour as they'll grind in a day." "i wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, and drown you in the sea; for all that would not mend the miss that ye would do to me." "the miss is not so great, lady, soon mended it will be. "i have four-and-twenty milk-white cows, all calved in a day; you'll have them, and as much hained grass as they all on can gae." "i wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, and drown you in the sea; for all that would not mend the miss that ye would do to me." "the miss is not so great, lady, soon mended it might be. (_hained,_ enclosed.) "i have four-and-twenty milk-white steeds, all foaled in one year; you'll have them, and as much red gold as all their backs can bear.'' she turned her right and round about, and she swore by the mould, "i would not be your love," said she, "for that church full of gold." he turned him right and round about, and he swore by the mass, says,--"lady, ye my love shall be, and gold ye shall have less." she turned her right and round about, and she swore by the moon, "i would not be your love," says she, "for all the gold in rome." he turned him right and round about, and he swore by the moon, says,--"lady, ye my love shall be, and gold ye shall have none." he caught her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass-green sleeve; and there has taken his will of her, wholly without her leave. the lady frowned and sadly blushed, and oh! but she thought shame: says,--"if you are a knight at all, you surely will tell me your name." "in some places they call me jack, in other some they call me john; but when into the queens court, oh then lithcock it is my name." "lithcock! lithcock!" the lady said, and oft she spelt it over again; "lithcock! its latin," the lady said, "richard's the english of that name." the knight he rode, the lady ran, a live long summer's day; till they came to the wan water that all men do call tay. he set his horse head to the water, just thro' it for to ride; and the lady was as ready as him the waters for to wade. for he had never been as kind-hearted as to bid the lady ride; and she had never been so low-hearted as for to bid him bide. but deep into the wan water there stands a great big stone; he turned his wight horse head about, said, "lady fair, will ye loup on?" she's taken the wand was in her hand, and struck it on the foam, and before he got the middle stream, the lady was on dry land. "by help of god and our lady, my help lies not in your hand. "i learned it from my mother dear,-- few are there that have learned better- when i come to deep water, i can swim thro' like any otter. "i learned it from my mother dear,-- i find i learned it for my weel; when i come to a deep water, i can swim thro' like any eel." "turn back, turn back, you lady fair, you know not what i see; there is a lady in that castle, that will burn you and me." "betide me weal, betide me wae, that lady i will see." (_wight,_ active.) she took a ring from her finger, and gave't the porter for his fee: says, "take you that, my good porter, and bid the queen speak to me." and when she came before the queen, there she fell low down on her knee: says, "there is a knight into your court, this day has robbed me." "o has he robbed you of your gold, or has he robbed you of your fee?" "he has not robbed me of my gold, he has not robbed me of my fee; he has robbed me of my maidenhead, the fairest flower of my body." "there is.no knight in all my court, that thus has robbed thee, but you'll have the truth of his right hand, or else for your sake he'll die, tho' it were earl richard, my own brother; and oh forbid that it be!" then, sighing, said the lady fair, "i wot the same man is he." the queen called on her merry men, even fifty men and three; earl richard used to be the first man, but now the hindmost man was he. he's taken out one hundred pounds, and told it in his glove: says, "take you that, my lady fair, and seek another love." "oh no, oh no," the lady cried, "that's what shall never be; i'll have the truth of your right hand, the queen it gave to me." "i wish i had drunk of your water, sister, when i did drink your wine; that for a carl's fair daughter, it does gar me dree all this pine." "may be i am a carl's daughter, and may be never nane; when ye met me in the green wood, why did you not let me alane?" "will you wear the short clothes, or will you wear the side; or will you walk to your wedding, or will you till it ride?" "i will not wear the short clothes, but i will wear the side; i will not walk to my wedding, but i to it will ride." (_carl,_ churl, _gar_, make. _dree_, mourn, _pine_, woe. _side_, long.) when he was set upon the horse, the lady him bellin', then cauld and eerie were the words the twa had them between. she said, "good e'en, ye nettles tall, just there where ye grow at the dike; if the auld carline my mother was here, sae weel's she would your pates pike. "how she would stap you in her poke, i wot at that she wadna fail; and boil ye in her auld brass pan, and of ye make right good kail. "and she would meal you with millering that she gathers at the mill, and make you thick as any dough -, and when the pan was brimful, "would mess you up in scuttle dishes, syne bid us sup till we were fou -, lay down her head upon a poke. then sleep and snore like any sow." "away! away! you bad woman, for all your vile words grieveth me; when ye hide so little for yourself, i;m sure ye'll hide far less for me. (_pike_, pick. _stap_, stuff. _poke_, bag. _kail_, broth. _scuttle-dish_, wooden platter.) "i wish i had drunk your water, sister, when that i did drink of your wine -, since for a carls fair daughter, it aye gars me dree all this pine." "may be i am a carl's daughter, and may be never nane; when ye met me in the good green wood, why did you not let me alane? "gude e'en, gude e'en, ye heather berries, as ye're growing on yon hill; if the auld carline and her bags were here, i wot she would get meat her fill. "late, late at night i knit our pokes, with even four-and-twenty knots; and in the morn at breakfast time, i'll carry the keys of an earl's locks. "late, late at night i knit our pokes, with even four-and-twenty strings; and if you look to my white fingers, they have as many gay gold rings." "away! away! ye ill woman, so sore your vile words grieveth me; when you hide so little for yourself, i'm sure ye'll hide far less for me. "but if you are a carls daughter, as i take you to be, how did you get the gay clothing, in green wood ye had on thee?" "my mother she's a poor woman, she nursed earls children three; and i got them from a foster sister, for to beguile such sparks as thee." "but if you be a carl's daughter, as i believe you be, how did you learn the good latin, in green wood ye spoke to me?" "my mother she's a mean woman, she nursed earl's children three; i learned it from their chaplain, to beguile such sparks as ye." when mass was sung, and bells were rung, and all men bound for bed, then earl richard and this lady in ae bed they were laid. he turned his face unto the stock, and she hers to the stane; and cauld and dreary was the love that was these twa between. great mirth was in the kitchen, likewise intill the ha'; but in his bed lay earl richard, wiping the tears awa'. he wept till he fell fast asleep, then slept till light was come; then he did hear the gentlemen that talked in the room: said,--"saw ye ever a fitter'match, betwixt the ane and ither; the king o' scotland's fair dochter, and the queen of england's brither?" "and is she the king o' scotland's fair dochter? this day, oh, weel is me! for seven times has my steed been saddled, to come to court with thee; and with this witty lady fair, how happy must i be!" adam bel, clym of the clough,and william of cloudesle [illustration: ] |merry it was in green forest, among the leaves green, where that men walk east and west, with bows and arrows keen. to raise the deer out of their den,-- such sights hath oft been seen,-- as by three yeomen of the north country, by them it is i mean. the one of them hight adam bel, the other clym of the clough, the third was. william of cloudesle, an archer good enough. they were outlawed for venison, these yeomen every one; they swore them brethren upon a day, to english-wood for to gone. now lith and listen, gentlemen, that of mirths loveth to hear: two of them were single men, the third had a wedded fere. william was the wedded man, much more then was his care: he said to his brethren upon a day, to carlisle he would fare, for to speak with fair alice his wife, and with his children three. "by my troth," said adam bel, "not by the counsel of me. "for if ye go to carlisle, brother. and from this wild wood wend, if the justice may you take, your life were at an end." (_hight_, was called. _lith_, listen. _fere_, mate.) "if that i come not tomorrow, brother, by prime to you again, trust not else but that i am take, or else that i am slain." he took his leave of his brethren two, and to carlisle he is gone; there he knocked at his own window, shortly and anon. "where be you, fair alice, my wife, and my children three? lightly let in thine own husband, william of cloudeslè." "alas!" then said fair alice, and sighed wondrous sore, "this place hath been beset for you, this half year and more." "now am i here," said cloudeslè, "i would that i in were:-- now fetch us meat and drink enough, and let us make good cheer." she fetched him meat and drink plenty, like a true wedded wife, and pleased him with that she had, whom she loved as her life. there lay an old wife in that place, a little beside the fire, which william had found, of charity, more than seven year. up she rose and walked full still, evil mote she sped therefore, for she had not set no foot on ground in seven year before. she went unto the justice hall, as fast as she could hie; "this night is come unto this town william of cloudeslè." thereof the justice was full fain, and so was the sheriff also; "thou shalt not travel hither, dame, for nought, thy meed thou shalt have or thou go." they gave to her a right good gown, of scarlet it was, as i heard sayen; she took the gift and home she went, and couched her down again. they raised the town of merry carlisle, in all the haste that they can, and came thronging to williams house, as fast as they might gone. (_found--i.e._ found for, provided for. _still_, quietly) there they beset that good yeoman, round about on every side, william heard great noise of folks, that hitherward they hied. alice opened a shot-window, and looked all about, she was ware of the justice and sheriff both, with a full great rout. "alas! treason," cried alice. "ever woe may thou be! go into my chamber, my husband," she said, "sweet william of cloudeslè." he took his sword and his buckler, his bow and his children three, and went into his strongest chamber, where he thought surest to be. fair alice followed him as a lover true, with a pollaxe in her hand; "he shall be dead that here cometh in this door, while i may stand." cloudeslè bent a well good bow, that was of trusty tree, he smote the justice on the breast, that his arrow burst in three. (_shot-window_, projecting window.) "gods curse on his heart," said william, "this day thy coat did on; if it had been no better than mine, it had gone near thy bone." "yield thee, cloudeslè," said the justice, "and thy bow and thy arrows thee fro:" "gods curse on his heart," said fair alice, "that my husband counselleth so." "set fire on the house," said the sheriff, "sith it will no better be, and we burn therein william," he said, "his wife and children three." they fired the house in many a place, the fire flew up on high; "alas!" then cried fair alice, "i see we here shall die." william opened his back window, that was in his chamber on high, and with sheets let his wife down, and his children three. "have here my treasure," said william, "my wife and my children three, for christ's love do them no harm, but wreak you all on me." william shot so wondrous well, till his arrows were all ygo, and the fire so fast upon him fell, that his bowstring brent in two. the spercles brent and fell him on, good william of cloudesle! but then wax he a woeful man, and said, "this is a coward's death to me. "liever i had," said william, "with my sword in the rout to renne, then here among mine ennemies wode, thus cruelly to bren." he took his sword and his buckler, and among them all he ran; where the people were most in press, he smote down many a man. there might no man stand his stroke, so fiercely on them he ran; then they threw windows and doors on him, and so took that good yeoman. there they him bound both hand and foot, and in deep dungeon him cast; "now, cloudesle," said the high justice, "thou shalt be hanged in haste." (_ygo_, gone, _brent_, burst and burnt, _spercles_, sparks, _renne_, run. _wode_, fierce. _press_, crowd.) "one vow shall i make," said the sheriff, "a pair of new gallows shall i for thee make, and the gates of carlisle shall be shut, there shall no man come in thereat. "then shall not help clym of the clough, nor yet shall adam bel, though they came with a thousand more, nor all the devils in hell." early in the morning the justice uprose, to the gates first gan he gone, and commanded to be shut full close lightilè everyone. then went he to the market place, as fast as he could hie; a pair of new gallows there did he up set, beside the pillory. a little boy stood them among, and asked what meaned that gallow tree -, they said, "to hang a good yeoman, called william of cloudeslè." that little boy was the town swine-herd, and kept fair alice swine, oft he had seen cloudeslè in the wood, and given him there to dine. (_lightilè,_ quickly.) he went out at a crevice in the wall, and lightly to the wood did gone; there met he with these wight young men, shortly and anon. "alas!" then said that little boy, "ye tarry here all too long; cloudesle is taken and damned to death, all ready for to hong." "alas!" then said good adam bel, "that ever we see this day! he might here with us have dwelled, so oft as we did him pray! "he might have tarried in green forest, under the shadows sheen, and have kept both him and us in rest, out of trouble and teen!" adam bent a right good bow, a great hart soon had he slain; "take that, child," he said, "to thy dinner, and bring me mine arrow again." "now go we hence," said these wight young men, "tarry we no longer here; we shall him borrow, by god's grace, though we buy it full dear." (_teen_, woe. _borrow_, rescue.) to carlisle went these good yeomen, on a merry morning of may: here is a fit of cloudeslè, and another is for to say. [the second fit.] |and when they came to merry carlisle, in a fair morning tide, they found the gates shut them until, round about on every side. "alas!" then said good adam bell, "that ever we were made men! these gates be shut so wonderly well, that we may not come here in." then spake him clym of the clough, "with a wile we will us in bring; let us say we be messengers, straight comen from our king." adam said, "i have a letter written well, now let us wisely work; we will say we have the king's seal, i hold the porter no clerk." then adam bel beat on the gate, with strokes great and strong; the porter heard such noise thereat, and to the gate fast he throng. (_throng,_ hurried.) "who is there now," said the porter, "that maketh all this knocking? "we be two messengers," said clym of the clough, "be comen straight from our king." "we have a letter," said adam bel, "to the justice we must it bring; let us in, our message to do, that we were again to our king." "here cometh no man in," said the porter, "by him that died on a tree, till a false thief be hanged, called william of cloudeslè. then spake the good yeoman clym of the clough, and swore by mary free, "and if that we stand long without, like a thief hanged shalt thou be. "lo here we have the kings seal; what! lordeyne, art thou wode?" the porter wend it had been so, and lightly did off his hode. "welcome be my lord's seal," he said, "for that ye shall come in:" he opened the gate full shortly, an evil opening for him. (_free_, gracious. _lordeyne_, clown. _wode_, mad. _wend_, weened, thought. _hode_, hood.) "now are we in," said adam bel, "thereof we are full fain, but christ knoweth that harrowed hell, how we shall come out again." "had we the keys," said clym of the clough, "right well then should we speed; then might we come out well enough, when we see time and need." they called the porter to a council, and wrang his neck in two, and cast him in a deep dungeon, and took his keys him fro. "now am i porter," said adam bel, "see, brother, the keys, have we here; the worst porter to merry carlisle, that ye had this hundred year. "and now will we our bows bend, into the town will we go, for to deliver our dear brother, that liveth in care and woe." [and thereupon] they bent their bows, and looked their strings were round; the market place of merry carlisle, they beset in that stound. and as they looked them beside, a pair of new gallows there they see, and the justice with a quest of swearers, that had judged cloudeslè there hanged to be. and cloudeslè himself lay ready in a cart, fast bound both foot and hand, and a strong rope about his neck, all ready for to be hanged. the justice called to him a lad, cloudeslès clothes should he have, to take the measure of that good yeoman, and thereafter to make his grave. "i have seen as great a marvel," said cloudeslè, "as between this and prime, he that maketh this grave for me, himself may lie therein." "thou speakest proudly," said the justice, "i shall thee hang with my hand:" full well that heard his brethren-two, there still as they did stand. then cloudeslè cast his eyen aside, and saw his two brethren stand, at a corner of the market place, with their good bows bent in their hand. (_quest,_ jury.) "i see good comfort," said cloudeslè, "yet hope i well to fare; if i might have my hands at will, right little would i care." then spake good adam bel, to clym of the clough so free, "brother, see ye mark the justice well, lo yonder ye may him see. "and at the sheriff shoot i will, strongly with an arrow keen; a better shot in merry carlisle this seven year was not seen." they loosed their arrows both at once, of no man had they dread; the one hit the justice, the other the sheriff, that both their sides gan bleed. all men voided, that them stood nigh, when the justice fell down to the ground, and the sheriff fell nigh him by, either had had his deaths wound. all the citizens fast gan fly, they durst no longer abide; then lightly they loosed cloudeslè, when he with ropes lay tied. william stert to an officer of the town, his axe out of his hand he wrong, on each side he smote them down, him thought he tarried all too long. william said to his brethren two, "this day let us together live and die; if ever you have need as i have now, the same shall you find by me." they shot so well in that tide, for their strings were of silk full sure, that they kept the streets on every side: that battle did long endure. they fought together as brethren true, like hardy men and bold; many a man to the ground they threw, and many a heart made cold. but when their arrows were all gone, men pressed on them full fast; they drew their swords then anon, and their bows from them cast. they went lightly on their way, with swords and bucklers round; by that it was the middle of the day, they had made many a wound. (_stert,_ rushed. _wrong_, wrung. _sure_, trusty.) there was many an out-horn in carlisle blowen, and the bells backward did they ring; many a woman said alas, and many their hands did wring. the mayor of carlisle forth come was, and with him a full great rout; these three yeomen dread him full sore, for of their lives they stood in great doubt. the mayor came armed a full great pace, with a pollaxe in his hand; many a strong man with him was, there in that stour to stand. the mayor smote at cloudesle with his bill, his buckler he burst in two; full many a yeoman with great ill, "alas, treason!" they cried for woe. "keep we the gates fast," they bad, "that these traitors theréout not go." but all for nought was that they wrought, for so fast they down were laid, till they all three, that so manfully fought, were gotten without at a braid. "have here your keys," said adam bel, "mine office i here forsake; if you do by my counsèl, a new porter do ye make." (_stour_, battle. _at a braid_, in a moment.) he threw the keys there at their heads, and bad them evil to thrive, and all that letteth any good yeoman to come and comfort his wife. thus be these good yeomen gone to the wood, as light as leaf on lind; they laugh and be merry in their mood, their enemies were far behind. when they came to english wood, under the try sty tree, there they found bows full good, and arrows full great plenty. "so god me help," said adam bel, and clym of the clough so free, "i would we were now in merry carlisle, before that fair meany." they set them down and made good cheer, and eat and drank full well: here is a fit of these wight young men, and another i shall you tell. (_letteth,_ hindereth. _lind,_ tree. _trysty tree_, trysting tree. _meany_, company.) [the third fit.] |as they sat in english-wood, under their trysty tree, them thought they heard a woman weep, but her they might not see. sore then sighed the fair alice, and said, "alas that ever i saw this day! for now is my dear husband slain, alas and well a way! "might i have spoken with his dear brethren, or with either of them twain, [to let them know what him befell] my heart were out of pain!" cloudeslè walked a little beside, and looked under the greenwood lind; he was ware of his wife and children three, full woe in heart and mind. "welcome, wife," then said william, "under this try sty tree; i had weened yesterday, by sweet saint john, thou should me never have see." "now well is me," she said, "that ye be here, my heart is out of woe:" "dame," he said, "be merry and glad, and thank my brethren two." "hereof to speak," said adam bel, "i-wis it is no boot; the meat that we must sup withal it runneth yet fast on foot." then went they down into a laund, these noble archers all three, each of them slew a hart of grice, the best they could there see. [illustration: ] "have here the best, alice, my wife," said william of cloudeslè, "because ye so boldly stood by me, when i was slain full nigh. then went they to supper, with such meat as they had, and thanked god of their fortune; they were both merry and glad. (_laund_, glade. _grice_, grey.) and when they had supped well, certain without any lease, cloudesle said, "we will to our king, to get us a charter of peace. "alice shall be at sojourning, in a nunnery here beside; my two sons shall with her go, and there they shall abide. "mine eldest son shall go with me, for him have i no care, and he shall bring you word again how that we do fare." thus be these yeomen to london gone, as fast as they might hie, till they came to the kings palace, where they would needs be. and when they came to the king's court, unto the palace gate, of no man would they aske no leave, but boldly went in thereat. they pressed prestly into the hall, of no man had they dread; the porter came after and did them call, and with them began to chide. (_lease_, lies. _prestly,_ quickly.) the usher said, "yeomen, what would ye have? i pray you tell me; you might thus make officers shent: good sirs, of whence be ye?" "sir, we be outlaws of the forest, certain without any lease, and hither we be come to our king, to get us a charter of peace." and when they came before the king, as it was the law of the land, they kneeled down without letting, and each held up his hand. they said, "lord, we beseech thee here, that ye will grant us grace, for we have slain your fat fallow deer, in many a sundry place." "what be your names?" then said our king, "anon that you tell me:" they said, "adam bel, clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslè." "be ye those thieves," then said our king, "that men have told of to me? here to god i make a vow, ye shall be hanged all three. (_shent_, disgraced.) ye shall be dead without mercy, as i am king of this land." he commanded his officers everyone fast on them to lay hand. there they took these good yeomen, and arrested them all three: "so may i thrive," said adam bel, "this game liketh not me. "but, good lord, we beseech you now, that you grant us grace, insomuch as we be to you comen, or else that we may fro you pass, "with such weapons as we have here, till we be out of your place; and if we live this hundreth year, we will ask you no grace." "ye speak proudly," said the king, "ye shall be hanged all three:" "that were great pity," then said the queen, "if any grace might be. "my lord, when i came first into this land, to be your wedded wife, the first boon that i would ask, ye would grant it me belife; (_belife_, at once.) "and i asked never none till now, therefore, good lord, grant it me." "now ask it, madam," said the king, "and granted shall it be." "then, my good lord, i you beseech, these yeomen grant ye me:" "madam, ye might have asked a boon that should have been worth them all three. "ye might have asked towers and towns, parks and forests plenty." "none so pleasant to me pay," she said, "nor none so lief to me." "madam, sith it is your desire, your asking granted shall be; but i had liefer have given you good market towns three." the queen was a glad woman, and said, "lord, gramercy; i dare undertake for them, that true men shall they be. "but, good lord, speak some merry word, that comfort they may see." "i grant you grace," then said our king, "wash, fellows, and to meat go ye." they had not setten but a while, certain without leasing, there came messengers out of the north, with letters to our king. and when they came before the king, they kneeled down upon their knee, and said, "lord, your officers greet you well, of carlisle in the north countrè." "how fares my justice," said the king, "and my sheriff also?" "sir, they be slain, without leasing, and many an officer moe." "who hath them slain?" said the king, "anon thou tell me:" "adam bel, and clym of the clough, and william of cloudeslè." "alas for ruth!" then said our king, "my heart is wondrous sore; i had liefer than a thousand pound, i had known of this before. "for i have granted them grace, and that forthinketh me, but had i known all this before, they had been hanged all three." (_leasing_, lying. _forthinketh_, repenteth.) the king opened the letter anon, himself he read it thro, and found how these three outlaws had slain three hundred men and moe. first the justice and the sheriff, and the mayor of carlisle town; of all the constables and catchpolls alive were left not one. the bailiffs and the beadle both, and the sergeants of the law, and forty fosters of the fee, these outlaws had yslaw, and broke his parks, and slain his deer; over all they chose the best; so perilous outlaws as they were, walked not by east nor west. when the king this letter had read, in his heart he sighed sore; "take up the table anon," he bad, "for i may eat no more." the king called his best archers, to the butts with him to go; "i will see these fellows shoot," he said, "in the north have wrought this woe." (_catchpolls_, bumbailiffs. _fosters_, foresters. _of the fee_, in the pay of the king. _yslaw_, slain.) the kings bowmen busk them blithe, and the queen's archers also, so did these three wight yeomen, with them they thought to go. there twice or thrice they shot about, for to essay their hand; there was no shot these yeomen shot, that any prick might them stand. then spake william of cloudeslè, "by him that for me died, i hold him never no good archer that shooteth at butts so wide." "whereat?" then said our king, "i pray thee tell me:" "at such a butt, sir," he said, "as men use in my countre." william went into a field, and his two brethren with him, there they set up two hazel rods, twenty score paces between. "i hold him an archer," said cloudeslè, "that yonder wand cleaveth in two: "here is none such," said the king, "nor none that can so do." (_busk_, make ready. _prick_, peg in target) "i shall essay, sir," said cloudeslè, "or that i farther go:" cloudeslè, with a bearing arrow, clave the wand in two. "thou art the best archer," then said the king, "forsooth that ever i see "and yet for your love," said william, "i will do more maistry. "i have a son is seven year old, he is to me full dear; i will him tie to a stake, all shall see that be here; "and lay an apple upon his head, and go six score paces him fro, and i myself, with a broad arrow, shall cleave the apple in two." "now haste thee," then said the king, "by him that died on a tree; but if thou do not as thou hast said, hanged shalt thou be. "and thou touch his head or gown, in sight that men may see, by all the saints that be in heaven, i shall hang you all three." (_maistry_, mastery.) "that i have promised," said william, "i will it never forsake;" and there even before the king, in the earth he drove a stake, and bound thereto his eldest son, and bad him stand still thereat, and turned the child's face fro him, because he should not start. an apple upon his head he set, and then his bow he bent; six score paces they were out met, and thither cloudesle went. there he drew out a fair broad arrow, his bow was great and long, he set that arrow in his bow, that was both stiff and strong. he prayed the people that was there, that they would still stand, "for he that shooteth for such a wager, behoveth a stedfast hand." much people prayed for cloudeslè, that his life saved might be, and when he made him ready to shoot, there was many a weeping eye. (_met_, meted, measured.) thus cloudeslè cleft the apple in two, that many a man might see; "over god's forbode," said the king, "that thou shoot at me! "i give thee xviii. pence a day, and my bow shalt thou bear, and over all the north count re, i make thee chief rider," "and i give thee xvii. pence a day," said the queen, "by god and by my fay; come fetch thy payment when thou wilt, no man shall say thee nay. "william, i make thee a gentleman, of clothing and of fee, and thy two brethren yeomen of my chamber, for they are so seemly to see. "your son, for he is tender of age, of my wine-cellar shall he be, and when he cometh to man's estate, better avaunced shall he be. "and, william, bring me your wife," saidthe queen, "me longeth her sore to see; she shall be my chief gentlewoman, to govern my nursery." (_fay_, faith. _over god's forbode_, on god's prohibition, i.e. god forbid.) the yeomen thanketh them full courteously, and said, "to some bishop will we wend, of all the sins that we have done to be assoiled at his hand." so forth be gone these good yeomen, as fast as they might hie, and after came and dwelled with the king, and died good men all three. thus endeth the lives of these good yeomen, god send them eternal bliss, and all that with hand bow shooteth, that of heaven may never miss. (_assoiled_, absolved.) [illustration: ] the brave earl brand [illustration: ] |o did you ever hear o' brave earl bran? ay lally, o lilly lally! he courted the king's daughter of fair england, all i' the night sae early. she was scarcely fifteen years of age, till sae boldly she came to his bed-side. "o, earl bran, fain wad i see a pack of hounds let loose on the lea." "o lady, i have no steeds but one, and thou shalt ride, and i will run." "o earl bran, my father has two, and thou shalt have the best of them a'." they have ridden o'er moss and moor, and they met neither rich nor poor, until they met with old carl hood, he comes for ill, but never for good. "earl bran, if ye love me, seize this old carl, and gar him die." "o lady fair, it wad be sair, to slay an old man that has grey hair. "o lady fair, i'll no do sae, i'll gie him a pound, and let him gae." "o where hae ye ridden this lee lang day, and where hae ye stolen this lady away?" "i have not ridden this lee lang day, nor yet have i stolen this lady away. "she is my only, my sick sister, whom i have brought from winchester." "if she be sick, and like to dead, why wears she the ribbon sae red? "if she be sick, and like to die, then why wears she the gold on high?" then he came to this lady's gate, sae rudely as he rapped at it. "o where's the lady of this ha'?" "she's out with her maids to play at the ba'." "ha, ha, ha! ye are a' mista'en; gae count your maidens o'er again. "i saw her far beyond the moor, away to be the earl o' bran's whore." the father armed fifteen of his best men, to bring his daughter back again. [illustration: ] o'er her left shoulder the lady looked then; "o earl bran, we both are ta'en." "if they come on me ane by ane, you may stand by and see them slain." "but if they come on me one and all, you may stand by and see me fall." they have come on him ane by ane, and he has killed them all but ane. and that ane came behind his back, and he's gi en him a deadly whack. but for a' sae wounded as earl bran was, he has set his lady on her horse. they rode till they came to the water o' doune, and then he alighted to wash his wounds. [illustration: ] "o earl bran, i see your heart's blood!" "tis but the gleat o' my scarlet hood." they rode till they came to his mother's gate, and sae rudely as he rapped at it. "o my son's slain, my son's put down, and a' for the sake of an english loon." (_ghat_, gleam.) "o say not sae, my dear mother, but marry her to my youngest brother. "this has not been the death o' ane, but it's been that of fair seventeen." [illustration: ] the nutbrown maid |be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain, affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain to love them weel, for never a deal they love a man again: for let a man do what he can their favour to attain, yet if a new do them pursue, their first true lover than laboureth for nought, and from her thought he is a banished man." (_deal_, bit. _than_, then.) "i say not nay, but that all day it is both writ and said, that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed: but nevertheless, right good witness in this case might be laid, that they love true, and continue,-- record _the nutbrown maid_; which from her love, when her to prove he came to make his moan, would not depart, for in her heart she loved but him alone." "then between us let us discuss what was all the manner between them two; we will also tell all the pain and fear that she was in; now i begin, see that ye me answer: wherefore [all] ye that present be, i pray you give an ear. i am the knight, i come by night, as secret as i can, saying 'alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man! '" "and i your will for to fulfill in this will not refuse, trusting to shew, in words few, that men have an ill use, to their own shame, women to blame, and causeless them accuse: therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse, 'mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? i pray you tell anon: for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone.'" "it standeth so: a deed is do whereof much harm shall grow. my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow, or else to flee,--the one must be: none other way i know, but to withdraw as an outlaw, and take me to my bow. wherefore, adieu, my own heart true, none other red i can; for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." "o lord, what is this worldés bliss that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is darked before the noon. i hear you say farewell: nay, nay, we depart not so soon. why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas, what have ye done? (_red_, plan. _darked_, darkened.) all my welfare to sorrow and care should change, if ye were gone: for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "i can believe it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but afterward your painés hard, within a day or twain, shall soon aslake, and ye shall take comfort to you again. why should ye nought? for, to make thought your labour were in vain: and thus i do, and pray you, too, as heartily as i can: for i must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man." "now sith that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find: sith it is so that ye will go, i will not leave behind; shall never be said the nutbrown maid was to her love unkind. make you ready, for so am i, although it were anon; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "yet i you rede to take good heed what men will think and say -, of young and old it shall be told, that ye be gone away your wanton will for to fulfil, in green wood you to play; and that ye might from your delight no longer make delay.' rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill woman, yet would i to the green wood go alone, a banished man." "though it be sung of old and young that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge that speak so large in hurting of my name. for i will prove that faithful love it is devoid of shame, in your distress and heaviness, to part with you the same; and sure all tho that do not so, true lovers are they none; but in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "i counsel yow remember how it is no maiden's law, nothing to doubt, but to renne out to wood with an outlaw. (_tho_, those. _renne_, run.) for ye must there in your hand bear a bow to bear and draw, and as a thief thus must ye live, ever in dread and awe; by which to yow great harm might grow;-- yet had i liefer than that i had to the greenwood go alone, a banished man." "i think not nay; but, as ye say, it is no maiden's lore; but love may make me for your sake, as ye have said before, to come on foot, to hunt and shoot to get us meat and store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more; from which to part, it maketh mine heart as cold as any stone: for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "for an outlaw this is the law, that men him take and bind, without pity hanged to be, and waver with the wind. if i had need, as god forbid, what rescue could ye find? for sooth, i trow, you and your bow should draw for fear behind: and no merveil; for little avail were in your counsel than; wherefore i to the wood will go alone, a banished man." "full well know ye that women be full feeble for to fight; no womanhead is it indeed, to be bold as a knight. yet in such fear if that ye were, among enemies day and night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save, as women have, from death many one: for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "yet take good heed; for ever i dread that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep vallies, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat; for, dry or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and us above none other rove but a brake bush or twain; which soon should grieve you, i believe, and ye would gladly than that i had to the greenwood go alone, a banished man." (_than_, then. _rove_, roof.) "sith i have here been partinere with you of joy and bliss, i must also part of your woe endure, as reason is; yet am i sure of one pleasure, and shortly, it is this; that where ye be, meseemth, perde, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "if ye go thither, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for to get, nor drink, beer, ale, ne wine; ne sheetés clean to lie between, made of thread and twine: none other house but leaves and boughs to cover your head and mine. lo, mine heart sweet, this ill diet should make you pale and wan: wherefore i to the wood will go alone, a banished man." "among the wild deer such an archer as men say that ye be ne may not fail of good vitail, where is so great plenty; (_partinere_, partner. _vitail_, victual) and water clear of the river shall be full sweet to me, with which in hele i shall right weel endure, as ye shall see: and ere we go, a bed or two i can provide anon; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "lo, yet before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me, as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee; with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be; and this same night, before daylight, to woodward will i flee; and [if] ye will all this fulfill, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the greenwood go alone, a banished man." "i shall as now do more for you than longeth to womanhood, to short my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need: o my sweet mother, before all other, for you have i most dread! but now, adieu! i must ensue where fortune doth me lead. (_hele_, health.) all this make ye; now let us flee; the day comes fast upon; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go; and i shall tell you why; your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for right as ye have said to me, i n like wise, hardily, ye would answer, who so ever it were, in way of company. it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold, and so is a woman; wherefore i to the wood will go alone, a banished man." "if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i you loved, perde. and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved, a squire of low degree; and ever shall, what so befall, to die therefore anon; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "a baron's child to be beguiled, it were a cursed deed! to be fellow with an outlaw, almighty god forbid! yet better were the poor squire alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that by [my] wicked deed ye were betrayed; wherefore, good maid, the best red that i can is that i to the green wood go alone, a banished man." "whatsoever befall, i never shall of this thing you upbraid; but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you weel, how that ye deal, for if ye, as ye said, be so unkind to leave behind your love, the nutbrown maid, trust me truly, that i shall die, soon after ye be gone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "if that ye went, ye should repent, for in the forest now i have purveyed me of a maid whom i love more than you: (_yede_, went. _red_, advice.) another fairer than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both each should be wroth with other, as i trow. it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can; wherefore i to the wood will go alone, a banished man." "though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be your; and she shall find me soft and kind and courteous every hour, glad to fulfill all that she will command me to my power; for had ye, lope, an hundred moe yet would i be that one. for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "mine own dear love, i see the prove that ye be kind and true; of maid and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changed new; for it were ruth that for your truth you should have cause to rue. (_lo'e,_ love.) be not dismayed: whatsoever i said to you when i began, i will not to the green wood go; i am no banished man." "this tidings be more glad to me than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure, but it is often seen, when men will break promise, they speak the wordés on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal fro me, i ween; then were the case worse than it was, and i more woe-begone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone." "ye shall not need further to dread: i will not disparage you, god defend! sith you descend of so great a lineage. now understand, to westmoreland, which is my heritage, i will you bring, and with a ring, by way of marriage, i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can: thus have ye won an earlés son, and not a banished man." here may ye see that women be in love meek, kind, and stable: let never man reprove them than, or call them variable; but rather pray god, that we may to them be comfortable, which sometime proveth such as loveth, if they be charitable; for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one, much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] robin hood and guy of gisborne |when shaws been sheen, and shrads full fair, and leaves both large and long, it is merry walking in the fair forrèst, to hear the small bird's song. the woodweel sang, and would not cease, among the leaves o' line; and it is by two wight yeomen, by dear god, that i mean. * (_shaws_ wood. _sheen,_ bright. _shrad,_ an opening in a wood. _line,_ tree.) * the lost stanza probably states that robin hood is having a dream. "methought they did me beat and bind, and took my bow me fro; if i be robin alive in this land, i'll be wroken on them two." "swevens are swift, master," quoth john, "as the wind that blows o'er a hill; for if it be never so loud this night, to-morrow it may be still." "busk ye, boun ye, my merry men all, for john shall go with me, for i'll go seek yond wight yeomen, in greenwood where they be." they cast on their gowns of green, a shooting gone are they; until they came to the merry greenwood, where they had gladdest be; there were they ware of [a] wight yeoman, his body leaned to a tree. a sword and a dagger he wore by his side, had been many a mans bane; and he was clad in his capull hide, top and tail and mane. (_wroken_, revenged. _swevens_, dreams. _boun_, make ready. _capull_, horse.) "stand you still, master," quoth little john, "under this trusty tree, and i will go to yond wight yeoman, to know his meaning truly." "ah! john, by me thou sets no store, and that's a farley thing: 'how oft send i my men before, and tarry myself behind? "it is no cunning a knave to ken, and a man but hear him speak; and it were not for bursting of my bow, john, i would thy head break." but often words they breeden bale, that parted robin and john; john is gone to barnesdale; the gates he knows each one. and when he came to barnesdale, great heaviness there he had, he found two of his own fellows, were slain both in a slade. and scarlet a-foot flying was over stocks and stone, for the sheriff with seven score men fast after him is gone. (_farley_, strange. _bale_, mischief or sorrow. _slade_, valley.) "yet one shot i'll shoot," says little john, "with christ his might and main; i'll make yond fellow that flies so fast, to be both glad and fain." john bent up a good yew bow, and fettled him to shoot: the bow was made of a tender bough, and fell down to his foot. "woe worth thee, wicked wood," said little john, "that ere thou grew on a tree! for this day thou art my bale, my boot when thou should be." this shot it was but loosely shot, the arrow flew in vain, and it met one of the sheriffs men, good william a trent was slain. it had been better for william a trent to have been upon a gallow, than for to lie in the greenwood there slain with an arrow. and it is said, when men be met six can do more than three, and they have taen little john, and bound him fast to a tree. (_fettled_, made ready.) "thou shalt be drawn by dale and down," quoth the sheriff, "and hanged high on a hill;" "but thou may fail," quoth john, "if it be christs own will." let us leave talking of little john, for he is bound fast to a tree, and talk of guy and robin hood, in the green wood where they be. how these two yeomen together they met, under the leaves of line, to see what merchandise they made, even at that same time. "good morrow, good fellow," quoth sir guy, "good morrow, good fellow," quoth he: "methinks by this bow thou bears in thy hand, a good archer thou seems to be. "i am wilful of my way," quoth sir guy, "and of my morning tide:" "i'll lead thee through the wood,"quoth robin, "good fellow, i'll be thy guide." "i seek an outlaw," quoth sir guy, "men call him robin hood: i'd rather meet with him upon a day, than forty pound of gold." (_line_, tree.) "if you two met, it would be seen whether were better, afore ye did part away; let us some other pastime find, good fellow, i thee pray. "let us some masteries make, and we will walk in the woods even; we may chance meet with robin hood here at some unset steven." they cut them down two summer shrogs, which grew both under a briar, and set them threescore rood in twin, to shoot the pricks full near. "lead on, good fellow," said sir guy, "lead on, i do bid thee;" "nay, by my faith," quoth robin hood, "the leader thou shalt be." the first good shot that robin led did not shoot an inch the prick fro'; guy was an archer good enough, but he could ne er shoot so. (_unset steven_, unappointed time. _shrogs_, shrubs. _in twin_, apart.) the second shot sir guy shot, he shot within the garland; but robin hood shot it better than he, for he clove the good prick-wand. "god's blessing on thy heart," says guy, "good fellow, thy shooting is good; for an thy heart be as good as thy hand thou were better then robin hood. "tell me thy name, good fellow," quoth guy, "under the leaves of line;" "nay, by my faith," quoth good robin, "till thou have told me thine." "i dwell by dale and down," quoth guy, "and i have done many a cursed turn; and he that calls me by my right name, calls me guy of good gisborne." "my dwelling is in the wood," says robin, "by thee i set right nought: i am robin hood of barnésdale, a fellow thou has long sought." he that had neither been a kith nor kin might have seen a full fair fight, to see how together these yeomen went with blades both brown and bright: to have seen how these yeomen together fought two hours of a summers day, it was neither guy nor robin hood that fettled them to fly away. robin was reachless on a root, and stumbled at that tide; and guy was quick and nimble withal, and hit him o'er the left side. "ah, dear lady," said robin hood, "thou art both mother and may; i think it was never man's destiny to die before his day." robin thought on our lady dear, and soon leapt up again, and thus he came with an awkward stroke, good sir guy he hath slain. he took sir guy's head by the hair, and sticked it on his bow's end: "thou hast been traitor all thy life, which thing must have an end." robin pulled forth an irish knife, and nicked sir guy in the face, that he was never on woman born could tell who sir guy was. (_reachless_, reckless.) says, "lie there, lie there, good sir guy, and with me be not wroth; if thou have had the worse strokes at my hand, thou shalt have the better cloth." robin did off his gown of green, [on] sir guy he did it throw, and he put on that capull hide, that clad him top to toe. "the bow, the arrows, and little horn, and with me now i'll bear; for i will go to barnesdale, to see how my men do fare." robin hood set guy's horn to his mouth, and a loud blast in it he did blow: that beheard the sheriff of nottingham, as he leaned under a lowe. "hearken, hearken," said the sheriff, "i heard no tidings but good, for yonder i hear sir guy's horn blow, for he hath slain robin hood. "for yonder i hear sir guys horn blow, it blows so well in tide, for yonder comes that wight yeoman, clad in his capull hide. (_lowef_, small hill.) "come hither, thou good sir guy, ask of me what thou wilt:" "i'll have none of thy gold," says robin hood, "nor i'll none of it have. "but now i have slain the master," he said, "let me go strike the knave; this is all the reward i ask, nor no other will i have." "thou art a madman," said the sheriff, "thou shouldest have had a knight's fee; seeing thy asking hath been so bad, well granted it shall be." but little john heard his master speak, well he knew that was his steven; "now shall i be loosed," quoth little john, "with christ's might in heaven." but robin he hied him towards little john, he thought he would loose him belive: the sheriff and all his company fast after him did drive. "stand aback, stand aback," said robin, "why draw you me so near? it was never the use in our country, ones shrift another should hear." (_steven_, voice. _belive_, quickly.) but robin pulled forth an irish knife, and loosed john hand and foot, and gave him sir guy's bow in his hand, and bade it be his boot. but john took guy's bow in his hand, his arrows were rusty by the root: the sheriff saw little john draw a bow, and fettle him to shoot. towards his house in nottingham he fled full fast away, and so did all his company, not one behind did stay. but he could neither so fast go, nor away so fast run, but little john with an arrow broad did cleave his heart in twin. old robin of portingale |god let never so old a man marry so young a wife, as did old robin of portingale; he may rue all the days of his life. (_fettle_, make ready.) for the mayor's daughter of lynn, god wot, he chose her to his wife, and thought to have lived in quietness, with her all the days of his life. they had not in their wed-bed laid, scarcely were both on sleep, but up she rose, and forth she goes, to sir gyles, and fast can weep. says, "sleep you, wake you, fair sir gyles? or be you not within? [sleep you, wake you, fair sir gyles, arise and let me in."] "but i am waking, sweet," he said, "lady, what is your will?" "i have unbethought me of a wile how my wed lord we shall spill. "four and twenty knights," she says, "that dwells about this town, e en four and twenty of my next cousins will help to ding him down." with that beheard his little footpage, as he was watering his master's steed; [and for his master's sad peril] his very heart did bleed. (_ding_, knock.) he mourned, sighed, and wept full sore; i swear by the holy rood, the tears he for his master wept were blend water and blood. with that beheard his dear master as [he] in his garden sat: says, "ever alack, my little page, what causes thee to weep? "hath any one done to thee wrong, any of thy fellows here? or is any of thy good friends dead, which makes thee shed such tears? "or, if it be my head cook's-man, grieved again he shall be: nor no man within my house shall do wrong unto thee." "but it is not your head cook's-man, nor none of his degree: but, for to-morrow ere it be noon you are deemed to die: "and of that thank your head steward, and after, your gay lady." "if it be true, my little foot-page, i'll make thee heir of all my land." (_deemed_, doomed.) "if it be not true, my dear master, god let me never the:" "if it be not true, thou little foot-page, a dead corse shalt thou be." he called down his head cooks-man, cook in kitchen supper to dress: "all and anon, my dear master, anon at your request." "and call you down my fair lady this night to sup with me." and down then came that fair lady, was clad all in purple and pall: the rings that were upon her fingers, cast light thorow the hall. "what is your will, my own wed lord? what is your will with me?" "i am sick, fair lady, sore sick and like to die." "but and you be sick, my own wed lord, so sore it grieveth me: but my five maidens and myself will go and make your bed. "and at the wakening of your first sleep, you shall have a hot drink made; and at the wakening of your next sleep your sorrows will have a slake." (_the_, prosper.) he put a silk coat on his back, was thirteen inches fold; and put a steel cap upon his head, was gilded with good red gold. and he laid a bright brown sword by his side, and another at his feet: and full well knew old robin then whether he should wake or sleep. and about the middle time of the night, came twenty-four good knights; sir gyles he was the foremost man, so well he knew that gin. old robin with a bright brown sword, sir gyles' head he did win; so did he all those twenty-four never a one went quick out [agen]. none but one little foot-page, crept forth at a window of stone; and he had two arms when he came in, and [when he went out he had none]. up then came that lady gay, with torches burning bright; she thought to have brought sir gyles a drink, but she found her own wed knight. (_gin_, trick.) and the first thing that this lady stumbled upon was of sir gyles his foot' says, "ever alack, and woe is me! here lies my sweet heart-root." and the second thing that this lady stumbled on was of sir gyles his head; says, "ever alack, and woe is me! here lies my true love dead." he cut the paps beside her breast, and bade her wish her will; and he cut the ears beside her head and bade her wish on still. mickle is the man's blood i have spent, to do thee and me some good; says, "ever alack, my fair lady, i think that i was wood!" he called then up his little foot-page, and made him heir of all his land; and he shope the cross on his right shoulder, of the white flesh and the red, and he went him into the holy land, whereas christ was quick and dead. (_shope_, shaped, cut. _wood_, mad.) [illustration: ] captain car, or edom o' gordon. |it befell at martinmas when weather waxed cold, captain car said to his men, "we must go take a hold." sick, sick, and too-too sick, and sick and like to die; the sickest night that ever i abode, god lord have mercy on me. "hail, master, and whither you will, and whither ye like it best." "to the castle of craickernbrough; and there we will take our rest. "i know where is a gay castle, is builded of lime and stone, within there is a gay lady, her lord is ridden and gone." the lady she leaned on her castle-wall, she looked up and down; there was she ware of an host of men, come riding to the town. "see now, my merry men all, and see you what i see; yonder i see an host of men, i muse who they be." she thought he had been her wed lord, as he comed riding home; then was it traitor captain car, the lord of ester-town. they were no sooner at supper set, then after said the grace, or captain car and all his men were light about the place. "give over this house, thou lady gay, and i will make thee a band; to-night thou shall lie within my arms, to-morrow thou shall heir my land." then bespake the eldest son, that was both white and red, "o mother dear, give over your house, or else we shall be dead." "i will not give over my house," she saith, "not for fear of my life; it shall be talked throughout the land, the slaughter of a wife. "fetch me my pestilet, and charge me my gun, that i may shoot at yonder bloody butcher, the lord of ester-town." stiffly upon her wall she stood, and let the pellets flee, but then she missed the bloody butcher, and she slew other three. "[i will] not give over my house," she saith, "neither for lord nor loon, nor yet for traitor captain car, the lord of ester-town. (_band_, bond. _pestilet_, pistols.) "i desire of captain car, and all his bloody band, that he would save my eldest son, the heir of all my land." "lap him in a sheet," he saith, "and let him down to me, and i shall take him in my arms, his warrant shall i be." the captain said unto himself, with speed before the rest; he cut his tongue out of his head, his heart out of his brest. he lapt them in a handerchief, and knit it of knots three, and cast them over the castle-wall at that gay lady. "fie upon thee, captain car, and all thy bloody band, for thou hast slain my eldest son, the heir of all my land." then bespake the youngest son, that sat on the nurses knee, saith, "mother gay, give over your house, it smouldereth me." "i would give my gold," she saith, "and so i would my fee, for a blast of the western wind to drive the smoke from thee. "fie upon thee, john hamilton, that ever i paid thee hire, for thou hast broken my castle-wall, and kindled in the fire." the lady gat to her close parlor, the fire fell about her head; she took up her children three, saith, "babes, we are all dead." then bespake the high steward, that is of high degree; saith, "lady gay, you are enclosed, whether ye fight or flee." lord hamilton dreamed in his dream, in carvall where he lay, his hall was all of fire, his lady slain or day. "busk and boun, my merry men all, even and go ye with me, for i dreamed that my hall was on fire my lady slain or day." (_or day_, before day.) he busked him and bouned him, and like a worthy knight, and when he saw his hall burning, his heart was no deal light. he set a trumpet till his mouth, he blew as it pleased his grace; twenty score of hamiltons was light about the place. "had i known as much yesternight as i do to-day, captain car and all his men should not have gone so quite [away|. "fie upon thee, captain car, and all thy bloody band; thou hast slain my lady gay, more worth then all thy land. "if thou had ought any ill will," he saith, "thou should have taken my life, and have saved my children three, all and my lovesome wife." (_bouned_, prepared.) the battle of otterbourne |it fell about the lammas tide, when the muir-men win their hay, the doughty douglas bouned him to ride into england, to drive a prey. he chose the gordons and the graemes, with them the lindsays, light and gay; but the jardines wad not with him ride, and they rue it to this day. and he has burn'd the dales of tyne, and part of bambroughshire; and three good towers on reidswire fells, he left them all on fire. and he march'd up to newcastle, and rode it round about; "o wha's the lord of this castle, or wha's the lady o't?" but up spake proud lord percy then, and o but he spake high! "i am the lord of this castle, my wife's the lady gay." (_muir_, moor. _win_, make.) "if thou'rt the lord of this castle, sae weel it pleases me! for, ere i cross the border fells, the tane of us shall die." he took a lang spear in his hand, shod with the metal free, and for to meet the douglas there, he rode right furiously. but o how pale his lady look'd, frae aff the castle wa, when down before the scottish spear she saw proud percy fa'. "had we twa been upon the green, and never an eye to see, i wad hae had you, flesh and fell; but your sword sall gae wi' me." "but gae ye up to otterbourne, and wait there dayés three; and if i come not ere three dayés end, a fause knight ca' ye me." "the otterbourne's a bonnie burn; 'tis pleasant there to be; but there is nought at otterbourne, to feed my men and me. (_free_, precious.) "the deer rins wild on hill and dale, the birds fly wild from tree to tree; but there is neither bread nor kale, to fend my men and me. "yet i will stay at otterbourne, where you shall welcome be; and if ye come not at three days end, a fause lord i'll ca' thee." "thither will i come," proud percy said, "by the might of our lady!" "there will i bide thee," said the douglas, "my troth i plight to thee." they lighted high on otterbourne, upon the bent sae brown; they lighted high on otterbourne, and threw their pallions down. and he that had a bonnie boy, sent out his horse to grass; and he that had not a bonnie boy, his ain servant he was. but up then spake a little page, before the peep of dawn-- "o waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, for percy's hard at hand." (_kale_, broth. _fend_, keep, support. _bent_, field. _pallions_, pavilions, tents.) "ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! sae loud i hear ye lie: for percy had not men yestreen to dight my men and me. "but i have dream'd a dreary dream, beyond the 'isle of sky; i saw a dead man win a fight, and i think that man was i." he belted on his guid braid sword, and to the field he ran; but he forgot the helmet good, that should have kept his brain. when percy wi' the douglas met, i wat he was fu' fain; they swakked their swords, till sair they swat, and the blood ran down like rain. but percy with his guid braid sword, that could so sharply wound, has wounded douglas on the brow, till he fell to the ground. then he called on his little foot-page, and said--"run speedily, and fetch my ain dear sister's son, sir hugh montgomery. (_swakked_, smote.) "my nephew good," the douglas said, "what recks the death of ane! last night i dream'd a dreary dream, and i ken the day's thy ain. "my wound is deep; i fain would sleep; take thou the vanguard of the three, and hide me by the bracken bush, that grows on yonder lily lea. "o bury me by the bracken bush, beneath the blooming briar, let never living mortal ken that ere a kindly scot lies here." he lifted up that noble lord, wi' the saut tear in his ee; he hid him in the bracken bush, that his merry-men might not see. the moon was clear, the day drew near, the spears in flinders flew, but mony a gallant englishman ere day the scotsmen slew. the gordons good, in english blood they steeped their hose and shoon; the lindsays flew like fire about, till all the fray was done. (_finders_, fragments.) [illustration: ] the percy and montgomery met, that either of other were fain; they swapped swords, and they twa swat, and aye the blood ran down between. "now yield thee, yield thee, percy," he said, "or else i vow i'll lay thee low!" "to whom must i yield," quoth earl percy, "now that i see it must be so?" "thou shalt not yield to lord nor loon, nor yet shalt thou yield to me; but yield thee to the bracken bush, that grows upon yon lily lea." "i will not yield to a bracken bush, nor yet will i yield to a briar; but i would yield to earl douglas, or sir hugh the montgomery, if he were here." as soon as he knew it was montgomery, he struck his swords point in the ground; the montgomery was a courteous knight, and quickly took him by the hand. this deed was done at the otterbourne, about the breaking of the day; earl douglas was buried at the bracken bush and the percy led captive away. (_swapped_, smote.) the bonny lass of anglesey |our king he has a secret to tell, and ay well keepit it must be; the english lords are coming down to dance and win the victory. our king has cried a noble cry, and ay well keepit it must be: "gar saddle ye, and bring to me the bonny lass of anglesey." up she starts, as white as the milk, between him and his company: "what is the thing i hae to ask, if i should win the victory?" "fifteen ploughs but and a mill i gie thee till the day thou die, and the fairest knight in a' my court to chuse thy husband for to be." she's taen the fifteen lord[s] by the hand, saying, "will ye come dance with me?" but on the morn at ten o'clock they gave it o'er most shamefully. up then raise the fifteenth lord-- i wat an angry man was he-- laid by frae him his belt and sword, and to the floor gaed manfully. he said, "my feet shall be my dead before she win the victory;" but before't was ten o'clock at night he gaed it o'er as shamefully. the wee wee man |as i was walking all alone, atween a water and a wa', and there i spied a wee wee man, he was the least that ere i saw. his legs were scarce a shathmont's length, and thick and thimber was his thigh; between his brows there was a span, and between his shoulders there was three. he took up a mickle stane, and he flang't as far as i could see; though i had been a wallace wight, i couldna liften't to my knee. (_shathmont_, six inches.) "o wee wee man, but thou be strang! oh, tell me where thy dwelling be?" "my dwelling's down at yon bonnie bower, o will ye go with me and see?" on we lap, and awa' we rade, till we came to yon bonny green; we lighted down for to bait our horse, and out there cam a lady fine; four and twenty at her back, and they were a' clad out in green; though the king of scotland had been there, the warst o' them might hae been his queen. on we lap, and awa' we rade, till we came to yon bonny ha'; where the roof was o* the beaten gowd, and the floor was o' the crystal a'. when we cam to the stair foot ladies were dancing, jimp and sma'; but in the twinkling of an eye, my wee wee man was clean awa. (_lap_, leapt. _jimp_, slender.) clerk colvill, or the mermaid |clerk colvill and his lusty dame were walking in the garden green; the belt around her stately waist cost clerk colvill of pounds fifteen. "o promise me now, clerk colvill, or it will cost ye muckle strife, ride never by the wells of slane, if ye wad live and brook your life." "now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, now speak nae mair of that to me: did i ne'er see a fair woman, but i wad sin with her body?" he's ta'en leave o' his gay lady, nought minding what his lady said, and he's rode by the wells of slane, where washing was a bonny maid. "wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, that wash sae clean your sark of silk;" "and weel fa' you, fair gentleman, your body whiter than the milk." (_brook_, preserve. _sark_, skirt.) then loud, loud cried the clerk colvill, "omy head it pains me sair;" "then take, then take," the maiden said, "and frae my sark you'll cut a gare." then she's gi'ed him a little bane-knife, and frae her sark he cut a share; she's tied it round his whey-white face, but ay his head it ached mair. then louder cried the clerk colvill, "o sairer, sairer aches my head;" "and sairer, sairer ever will," the maiden cries, "till you be dead." out then he drew his shining blade, thinking to stick her where she stood; but she was vanish'd to a fish, and swam far off, a fair mermaid. "o mother, mother, braid my hair; my lusty lady, make my bed; o brother, take my sword and spear, for i have seen the false mermaid." (_gare_, gore. _bane_, bone.) lady isabel and the elf-knight |fair lady isabel sits in her bower sewing, _aye as the gowans grow gay;_ there she heard an elf-knight blawing his horn, _the first morning in may._ "if i had yon horn that i hear blawing, and yon elf-knight to sleep in my bosom." this maiden had scarcely these words spoken, till in at her window the elf-knight has luppen. "it's a very strange matter, fair maiden," said he, "i canna blaw my horn, but ye call on me." "but will ye go to yon greenwood side, if ye canna' gang, i will cause you to ride." he leapt on a horse, and she on another, and they rode on to the greenwood together. "light down, light down, lady isabel," said he, "we are come to the place where ye are to die." "hae mercy, hae mercy, kind sir, on me, till ance my dear father and mother i see." (_gowans_ flowers.) [illustration: ] "seven king's-daughters here hae i slain, and ye shall be the eight o' them." "o sit down a while lay your head on my knee, that we may hae some rest before that i die." she strok'd him sae fast, the nearer he did creep, wi' a sma' charm she lull'd him fast asleep. wi' his ain sword belt sae fast as she ban' him, with his ain dag-dirk sae sair as she dang him. "if seven kings' daughters here ye ha'e slain, lie ye here, a husband to them a'." fair janet |ye maun gang to your father, janet, ye maun gang to him soon; ye maun gang to your father, janet, in case that his days are dune!" janet's awa' to her father, as fast as she could hie; "o what's your will wi' me, father? o what's your will wi' me?" (_ban'_, bound. _dag-dirk_, dagger. _dang_, struck.) "my will wi' you, fair janet," he said, "it is both bed and board; some say that ye lo'e sweet willie, but ye maun wed a french lord." "a french lord maun i wed, father? a french lord maun i wed? then, by my sooth," quo' fair janet, "he's ne'er enter my bed." janet's awa' to her chamber, as fast as she could go; wha's the first ane that tapped there, but sweet willie her jo! "o we maun part this love, willie, that has been lang between; there's a french lord coming o'er the sea to wed me wi' a ring; there's a french lord coming o'er the sea, to wed and tak me hame." "if we maun part this love, janet, it causeth mickle woe; if we maun part this love, janet, it makes me into mourning go." "but ye maun gang to your three sisters, meg, marion, and jean; tell them to come to fair janet, in case that her days are dune." willie's awa to his three sisters, meg, marion, and jean; "o haste, and gang to fair janet, i fear that her days are dune." some drew to them their silken hose, some drew to them their shoon, some drew to them their silk mantles, their coverings to put on; and they re awa to fair janet, by the high light o' the moon. "o i have born this babe, willie, wi' mickle toil and pain; take hame, take hame, your babe, willie, for nurse i dare be nane." he's tane his young son in his arms, and kissed him cheek and chin,-- and he's awa' to his mother's bower, by the high light o' the moon. "o open, open, mother," he says, "o open, and let me in; the rain rains on my yellow hair, and the dew drops o'er my chin,-- and i hae my young son in my arms, i fear that his days are dune." with her fingers lang and sma' she lifted up the pin; and with her arms lang and sma received the baby in. "gae back, gae back now, sweet willie, and comfort your fair lady; for where ye had but ae nourice, your young son shall hae three." willie he was scarce awa, and the lady put to bed, when in and came her father dear: "make haste, and busk the bride." "there's a sair pain in my head, father, there's a sair pain in my side; and ill, o ill, am i, father, this day for to be a bride. "o ye maun busk this bonny bride, and put a gay mantle on; for she shall wed this auld french lord, gin she should die the morn." some put on the gay green robes, and some put on the brown; but janet put on the scarlet robes, to shine foremost through the town. (_busk_, dress.) and some they mounted the black steed, and some mounted the brown; but janet mounted the milk-white steed, to ride foremost through the town. "o wha will guide your horse, janet? o wha will guide him best?" "o wha but willie, my true love, he kens i lo'e him best!" and when they cam to mary's kirk, to tie the haly ban, fair janet's cheek looked pale and wan, and her colour ga'ed and cam. when dinner it was past and done, and dancing to begin, "o we'll go take the bride's maidens, and we'll go fill the ring." o ben then cam the auld french lord, saying, "bride, will ye dance with me?" "awa', awa', ye auld french lord, your face i downa see." o ben then cam now sweet willie, he cam with ane advance: "o i'll go tak the bride's maidens, and we'll go tak a dance." (_downa_, cannot.) "i've seen ither days wi' you, willie, and so has mony mae; ye would hae danced wi' me mysel', let a my maidens gae." o ben then cam now sweet willie, saying, "bride, will ye dance wi' me?" "aye, by my sooth, and that i will, gin my back should break in three." [and she's taen willie by the hand, the tear blinded her e'e; "o i wad dance wi' my true love, tho' bursts my heart in three!"] she hadna turned her through the dance, through the dance but thrice, whan she fell doun at willie's feet, and up did never rise! [she's ta'en her bracelet frae her arm, her garter frae her knee: "gie that, gie that, to my young son; he'll ne'er his mother see."] willie's ta'en the key of his coffer, and gi'en it to his man; "gae hame, and tell my mother dear, my horse he has me slain; bid her be kind to my young son, for father he has nane." ["gar deal, gar deal the bread," he cried, "gar deal, gar deal the wine; this day has seen my true love's death, this night shall witness mine."] the tane was buried in mary's kirk, and the tither in mary's quire: out of the tane there grew a birk, and the tither a bonny briar. (_tane_, one. _tither_, other.) [illustration: ] fair helen part second. |i wish i were where helen lies, night and day on me she cries; o that i were where helen lies, on fair kirconnell lee! curst be the heart that thought the thought, and curst the hand that fired the shot, when in my arms burd helen dropt, and died to succour me! o think na ye my heart was sair, when my love dropt down and spak nae mair, there did she swoon wi' mickle care, on fair kirconnell lee. as i went down the water side, none but my foe to be my guidç, none but my foe to be my guide, on fair kirconnell lee; i lighted down my sword to draw, i hacked him in pieces sma, i hacked him in pieces sma', for her sake that died for me. (_burd_, maid.) o helen fair, beyond compare! i'll make a garland of thy hair, shall bind my heart for evermair, until the day i die. o that i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries; out of my bed she bids me rise, says, "haste and come to me!"-- o helen fair! o helen chaste! if i were with thee, i were blest, where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, on fair kirconnell lee. i wish my grave were growing green, a winding-sheet drawn ower my een, and i in helen's arms lying, on fair kirconnell lee. i wish i were where helen lies! night and day on me she cries -, and i am weary of the skies, for her sake that died for me. [illustration: ] the cruel brother |there was three ladies play'd at the ba', _with a heigh-ho! and a lily gay;_ there came a knight, and play'd o'er them a, _as the primrose spreads so sweetly._ the eldest was baith tall and fair, but the youngest was beyond compare. the midmost had a gracefu' mien, but the youngest look'd like beauty's queen. the knight bow'd low to a' the three, but to the youngest he bent his knee. the lady turned her head aside, the knight he woo'd her to be his bride. the lady blush'd a rosy red, and said, "sir knight, i'm too young to wed." "o lady fair, give me your hand, and i'll mak you lady of a' my land." "sir knight, ere you my favour win, ye maun get consent frae a' my kin." he has got consent frae her parents dear, and likewise frae her sisters fair. he has got consent frae her kin each one, but forgot to speir at her brother john. now, when the wedding day was come, the knight would take his bonny bride home, and many a lord and many a knight, came to behold that lady bright. and there was nae man that did her see, but wished himself bridegroom to be. her father dear led her down the stair, and her sisters twain they kiss'd her there. her mother dear led her through the close, and her brother john set her on her horse. she lean'd her o er the saddle-bow, to give him a kiss ere she did go. he has taen a knife, baith lang and sharp, and stabb'd that bonny bride to the heart. (_speir_, ask.) she hadna ridden half thro' the town, until her heart's blood stained her gown. "ride saftly on," said the best young man, "for i think our bonny bride looks pale and wan." "o lead me gently up yon hill, and i'll there sit down, and make my will." "o what will you leave to your father dear?" "the silver-shod steed that brought me here." "what will you leave to your mother dear?" "my velvet pall and silken gear." "and what will you leave to your sister ann?" "my silken scarf, and my gowden fan." "what will ye leave to your sister grace?" "my bloody clothes to wash and dress." "what will ye leave to your brother john?" "the gallows-tree to hang him on." "what will ye leave to your brother john's wife?" "the wilderness to end her life." this fair lady in her grave was laid, and a mass was o'er her said. but it would have made your heart right sair, to see the bridegroom rive his hair. (_rive_, tear.) lamkin |it's lamkin was a mason good as ever built with stane, he built lord wearies castle, but payment gat he nane. "o pay me, lord wearie; come pay me my fee." "i canna pay you lamkin, for i maun gang o'er the sea." "o pay me now, lord wearie; come, pay me out o' hand." "i canna pay you, lamkin, unless i sell my land." "o gin ye winna pay me, i here sall mak a vow, before that ye come hame again, ye sall ha'e cause to rue." lord wearie got a bonny ship, to sail the saut sea faem; bade his lady weel the castle keep, ay till he should come hame. (_faem_, foam.) but the nourice was a fause limmer as e'er hung on a tree; she laid a plot wi' lamkin, when her lord was o'er the sea. she laid a plot wi' lamkin, when the servants were awa'; let him in at a little shot window, and brought him to the ha. "o where's a' the men o' this house, that ca' me lamkin?" "they're at the barn well thrashing, 'twill be lang ere they come in." "and where's the women o' this house, that ca' me lamkin?" "they're at the far well washing; 'twill be lang ere they come in." "and where's the bairns o' this house, that ca' me lamkin?" "they're at the school reading; 'twill be night or they come hame." "o where's the lady o' this house, that ca's me lamkin?" "she's up in her bower sewing, but we soon can bring her down." (_nourice_, nurse. _limmer_, wretch. _shot-window_, projecting window.) then lamkin's tane a sharp knife, that hang down by his gair, and he has gi'en the bonny babe a deep wound and a sair. then lamkin he rocked, and the fause nourice sang, till frae ilka bore o' the cradle the red blood out sprang. then out it spak the lady, as she stood on the stair, "what ails my bairn, nourice, that he's greeting sae sair? "o still my bairn, nourice; o still him wi' the pap!" "he winna still, lady, for this, nor for that." "o still my bairn, nourice; o still him wi' the wand!" "he winna still, lady, for a' his fathers land." "o still my bairn, nourice, o still him wi' the bell!" "he winna still, lady, till ye come down yoursel'." (_gair,_ skirt. _bore_, hole. _greeting_, crying.) o the firsten step she steppit, she steppit on a stane; but the neisten step she steppit, she met him, lamkin. "o mercy, mercy, lamkin! ha'e mercy upon me! though you've ta'en my young son's life, ye may let mysel' be." "o sall i kill her, nourice? or sall i lat her be?" "o kill her, kill her, lamkin, for she ne'er was good to me." "o scour the basin, nourice, and mak it fair and clean, for to keep this lady's heart's blood, for she's come o' noble kin." "there need nae basin, lamkin; let it run through the floor; what better is the heart's blood o' the rich than o' the poor?" but ere three months were at an end, lord wearie came again -, but dowie dowie was his heart when first he came hame. (_dowie_, gloomy.) "o wha's blood is this," he says, "that lies in the châmer?" "it is your lady's heart's blood; tis as clear as the lamer." "and wha's blood is this," he says, "that lies in my ha'?" "it is your young son's heart's blood; 'tis the clearest ava'." o sweetly sang the black-bird that sat upon the tree; but sairer grat lamkin, when he was condemn'd to die. and bonny sang the mavis out o' the thorny brake; but sairer grat the nourice, when she was tied to the stake. cospatrick |cospatrick has sent o'er the faem; cospatrick brought his lady hame; and fourscore ships have come her wi', the lady by the green-wood tree. (_lamer_, amber. _faem_, sea.) there were twal' and twal' wi' baken bread, and twal' and twal' wi' gowd sae red, and twal' and twal' wi' bouted flour, and twal* and twal' wi' the paramour. sweet willy was a widow's son, and at her stirrup he did run; and she was clad in the finest pall, but aye she let the tears down fall. "o is your saddle set awry? or rides your steed for you ower high? or are you mourning, in your tide, that you should be cospatrick's bride?" "i am not mourning, at this tide, that i should be cospatrick's bride; but i am sorrowing in my mood, that i should leave my mother good. "but, gentle boy, come tell to me, what is the custom of thy country?"-- "the custom thereof, my dame," he says, "will ill a gentle lady please. "seven king's daughters has our lord wedded, and seven king's daughters has our lord bedded; but he's cutted their breasts ' frae their breast-bane, and sent them mourning hame again. (_twal'_ twelve. _bouted_, bolted. _tide_, time.) "yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid, ye may gae safely to his bed; but gif o' that ye be na sure, then hire some damsel o' your bower."-- the lady's call'd her bour maiden, that waiting was into her train; "five thousands merks i'll gie to thee, to sleep this night with my lord for me."-- when bells were rung, and mass was sayen, and a' men unto bed were gane, cospatrick and the bonny maid, into a chamber they were laid. "now, speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed, and speak, thou sheet, enchanted web; and speak up, my bonny brown sword, that winna lie, is this a true maiden that lies by me?"-- "it is not a maid that you hae wedded, but it is a maid that you hae bedded; it is a leal maiden that lies by thee, but not the maiden that it should be."-- o wrathfully he left the bed, aud wrathfully his claes on did; and he has ta'en him through the ha', and on his mother he did ca'. "i am the most unhappy man, that ever was in christian land! i courted a maiden, meek and mild, and i hae gotten naething but a woman wi' child."-- "o stay, my son, into this ha', and sport ye wi* your merrymen a'; and i will to the secret bower, to see how it fares wi' your paramour."-- the carline she was stark and sture, she aff the hinges dang the dure; "o is your bairn to laird or loon, or is it to your father's groom?"-- "o hear me, mother, on my knee, till my sad story i tell to thee: o we were sisters, sisters seven, we were the fairest under heaven. "it fell on a summer's afternoon, when a' our toilsome task was done, we cast the kevils us amang, to see which should to the green-wood gang. "ohon! alas, for i was youngest, and aye my weird it was the hardest! the kevil it on me did fa', whilk was the cause of a' my woe. (_carline_, old woman. _stark_, strong, _sture_, big. _dang_, struck, _dure_, door. _kevils_, lots. _weird_, destiny.) "for to the green-wood i maun gae, to pu' the red rose and the slae; to pu' the red rose and the thyme, to deck my mother's bower and mine. "i hadna pu'd a flower but ane, when by there came a gallant hend, wi* high-coll'd hose and laigh-coll'd shoon, and he seem'd to be some king's son. "and be i a maid, or be i nae, he kept me there till the close o' day; and be i a maid, or be i nane, he kept me there till the day was done. "he gae me a lock o' his yellow hair, and bade me keep it ever mair; he gae me a carknet o' bonny beads, and bade me keep it against my needs. "he gae to me a gay gold ring, and bade me keep it abune a' thing."-- "what did ye wi' the tokens rare, that ye gat frae that gallant there?"-- "o bring that coffer unto me, and a' the tokens ye sall see."-- "now stay, daughter, your bower within, while i gae parley wi' my son."-- (_slae_, sloe. _hend_, handsome, _coll'd_, cut. _laigh_, low. _carknet_, necklace.) o she has ta'en her thro' the ha, and on her son began to ca; "what did ye wi' the bonny beads i bade you keep against your needs? "what did you wi' the gay gold ring i bade you keep abune a' thing?"-- "i gae them to a lady gay, i met on green-wood on a day. "but i wad gie a' my halls and towers, i had that lady within my bowers; but i wad gie my very life, i had that lady to my wife."-- "now keep, my son, your halls and towers, ye have the bright burd in your bowers; and keep, my son, your very life, ye have that lady to your wife."-- now, or a month was come and gane, the lady bare a bonny son; and 'twas weel written on his breast-bane, "cospatrick is my fathers name." "o row my lady in satin and silk, and wash my son in the morning milk." (_burd_, maid. _row_, wrap.) [illustration: [ young tam lin. |o i forbid ye, maidens a', that wear gowd on your hair, to come or gae by carterhaugh, for young tam lin is there. "there's nane that gaes by carterhaugh, but they leave him a wad, either their rings, or green mantles, or else their maidenhead. janet has kilted her green kirtle, a little aboon her knee; and she has braided her yellow hair, a little aboon her bree, and she's awa to carterhaugh, as fast as she can hie. (_wad_, wager, forfeit. _bree_, brow.) when she came to carterhaugh, tam lin was at the well; and there she found his steed standing, but away was himsel'. [illustration: ] she hadna pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twa; till up then started young tam lin, says, "lady, thou's pu* nae mae." --"why pu's thou the rose, janet? and why breaks thou the wand? or why comes thou to carterhaugh, withouten my command?"-- --"carterhaugh it is my ain; my daddy gave it me; i'll come and gang by carterhaugh, and ask nae leave at thee." janet has kilted her green kirtle, a little aboon her knee; and she has snooded her yellow hair, a little aboon her bree, and she is to her fathers ha' as fast as she can hie. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the ba'; and out then came fair janet, ance the flower among them a'. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the chess; and out then came the fair janet, as green as any grass. out then spak an auld gray knight, lay o'er the castle wa,-- and says, "alas! fair janet, for thee, but we'll be blamed a'!"-- "haud your tongue, ye auld faced knight! some ill death may ye die; father my bairn on whom i will, i'll father nane on thee."-- out then spak her father dear, and he spak meek and mild-- "and ever, alas! sweet janet," he says, "i think thou gaes with child."-- "and if i gae with child, father, mysel' maun bear the blame; there's ne'er a laird about your ha' shall get the bairnie's name. [illustration: ] "if my love were an earthly knight, as he's an elfin grey, i wadna gie my ain true love for nae lord that ye hae.-- "the steed that my true love rides on, is lighter than the wind; wi' siller he is shod before, wi' burning gowd behind." janet has kilted her green kirtle, a little aboon her knee, and she has snooded her yellow hair, a little aboon her bree. and she's awa to carterhaugh, as fast as she can hie. and when she came to carterhaugh, tam lin was at the well; and there she found his steed standing, but away was himsel'. [illustration: ] she hadna pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twa, till up then started young tam lin, says--"lady, thou pu's nae mae! "why pu' ye the rose, janet, amang the groves sae green, and a' to kill the bonny babe, that we gat us between?" "o tell me, tell me, tam lin," she says, "for's sake that died on tree, if e'er ye was in holy chapel, or christendom did see?"-- ["the truth i'll tell to thee, janet, a word i winna lie; a knight me got, and a lady me bore, as well as they did thee.] "roxburgh, he was my grandfather, took me with him to bide, and ance it fell upon a day that wae did me betide. and ance it fell upon a day, a cauld day and a snell, that we were frae the hunting come, that frae my horse i fell -, the queen of fairies she caught me, in yon green hill to dwell; "and pleasant is the fairy land, janet, but, an eerie tale to tell, aye, at the end of seven years, we pay a teind to hell; and i am sae fair and fu o' flesh, i fear 'twill be mysel'. (_snell_, keen. _teind_, tithe.) "but the night is hallowe'en, lady, the morn is hallowday; then win me, win me, an ye will, for well i wot ye may. "just at the mirk and midnight hour the fairy folk will ride; and they that wad their true-love win, at miles cross they maun bide." "but how shall i thee ken, tam lin? or how my true love knaw, amang so many unco knights, the like i never saw?" "o first let pass the black, lady, and syne let pass the brown; but quickly run to the milk-white steed, pu' ye his rider down. "for i'll ride on the milk-white steed, and ay nearest the town; because i was an earthly knight, they gie me that renown. "my right hand will be gloved, lady, my left hand will be bare; cocked up shall my bonnet be, and kaimed down shall my hair, and thae's the tokens i gie thee, nae doubt i will be there. (_unco_, strange.) "they'll turn me in your arms, janet, into an esk and adder; but hold me fast, and fear me not, i am your bairn's father. "they'll turn me to a bear sae grim, and then a lion bold; but hold me fast, and fear me not, as ye shall love your child. "again they'll turn me in your arms, to a red-hot gaud of airn; but haud me fast, and fear me not, i'll do to you nae harm. "and last they'll turn me in your arms into the burning gleed; then throw me into will-water, o throw me in wi' speed. "and then i'll be your ain true-love, i'll turn a naked knight; then cover me wi' your green mantle, and cover me out o' sight." gloomy, gloomy, was the night, and eerie was the way, as fair jenny, in her green mantle, to miles cross she did gae. (_esk_, newt. _gaud of airn_, bar of iron. _gleed,_coal.) about the midle o' the night, she heard the bridles ring; this lady was as glad at that as any earthly thing. [illustration: ] first she let the black pass by, and syne she let the brown; but quickly she ran to the milk-white steed, and pu'd the rider down. sae weel she minded what he did say, and young tam lin did win; syne covered him wi' her green mantle, as blithe's a bird in spring. out then spake the queen o' fairies, out of a bush o' broom-- "them that has gotten young tam lin, has gotten a stately groom."-- out then spake the queen o' fairies, and an angry women was she, "shame betide her ill-fared face, and an ill death may she die, for she's taen awa' the bonniest knight in a my company. "but had i kenn'd, tam lin," she says, "what now this night i see, i wad hae taen out thy twa grey een, put in twa een o' tree." (_tree_, wood.) the broomfield hill |there was a knight and a lady bright, had a true tryst at the broom; the ane gaed early in the morning, the other in the afternoon. and aye she sat in her mothers bower door, and aye she made her mane, "o whether should i gang to the broomfield hill, or should i stay at hame? "for if i gang to the broomfield hill, my maidenhead is gone; and if i chance to stay at hame, my love will ca' me mansworn."-- up then spake a witch-woman, ay from the room aboon; "o, ye may gang to broomfield hill, and yet come maiden hame. "for when ye come to the broomfield hill, yell find your love asleep, with a silver belt about his head, and a broom-cow at his feet. (_mansworn_, perjured. _broom-cow_, bush of broom.) "take ye the blossom of the broom, the blossom it smells sweet, and strew it at your true love's head, and likewise at his feet. "take ye the rings off your fingers, put them on his right hand, to let him know, when he doth awake, his love was at his command."-- she pu'd the broom flower on hive-hill, and strew'd on's white hals-bane, and that was to be wittering true, that maiden she had gane. "o where were ye, my milk-white steed, that i hae coft sae dear, that wadna watch and waken me, when there was maiden here?"-- "i stamped wi' my foot, master, and gar'd my bridle ring -, but nae kin thing wad waken ye, till she was past and gane."-- "and wae betide ye, my gay gosshawk, that i did love sae dear, that wadna watch and waken me, when there was maiden here."-- (_hals_ neck. _wittering_, witness. _coft_, bought. _gar'd,_ made. _kin_ kind of.) "i clapped wi' my wings, master, and aye my bells i rang, and aye cry'd, waken, waken, master, before the lady gang."-- "but haste and haste, my gude white steed, to come the maiden till, or a' the birds of gude green wood of your flesh shall have their fill."-- "ye needna burst your gude white steed, wi' racing oer the howm; nae bird flies faster through the wood, than she fled through the broom." young johnstone |young johnstone and the young col'nel sat drinking at the wine: "o gin ye wad marry my sister, it's i wad marry thine." "i wadna marry your sister, for a' your houses and land; but i'll keep her for my leman, when i come o'er the strand. (_howm_, flats.) "i wadna marry your sister, for a' your gowd so gay; but i'll keep her for my leman, when i come by the way." young johnstone had a little small sword, hung low down by his gair, and he stabbed it through the young col'nel that word he ne'er spak mair. but he's awa' to his sister's bower, he's tirled at the pin: "where hae ye been, my dear brither, sae late a coming in?" "i hae been at the school, sister, learning young clerks to sing." "i've dreamed a dreary dream this night, i wish it may be for good; they were seeking you with hawks and hounds, and the young col'nel was dead." "hawks and hounds they may seek me, as i trow well they be; for i have killed the young col'nel, and thy own true love was he." (_gair_, skirt.) 'if ye hae killed the young col'nel, o dule and wae is me; but i wish ye may be hanged on a high gallows, and hae nae power to flee." and he's awa' to his true love's bower, he's tirled at the pin: "where hae ye been, my dear johnstone, sae late a coming in?" "it's i hae been at the school," he says, "learning young clerks to sing." "i have dreamed a dreary dream," she says, "i wish it may be for good; they were seeking you with hawks and hounds, and the young col'nel was dead." "hawks and hounds they may seek me, as i trow well they be; for i hae killed the young col'nel, and thy ae brother was he." "if ye hae killed the young col'nel, o dule and wae is me; but i care the less for the young col'nel, if thy ain body be free. "come in, come in, my dear johnstone, come in and take a sleep; and i will go to my casement, and carefully i will thee keep." (_dule,_ sad.) he had not weel been in her bower-door, no not for half an hour, when four-and-twenty belted knights came riding to the bower. "well may you sit and see, lady, well may you sit and say; did you not see a bloody squire come riding by this way?" "what colour were his hawks?" she says, "what colour were his hounds? what colour was the gallant steed that bore him from the bounds!" "bloody, bloody were his hawks, and bloody were his hounds; but milk-white was the gallant steed that bore him from the bounds." "yes, bloody, bloody were his hawks, and bloody were his hounds; and milk-white was the gallant steed that bore him from the bounds. "light down, light down now, gentlemen, and take some bread and wine; an the steed be swift that he rides on, he's past the brig o' lyne." (_an,_ if.) "we thank you for your bread, fair lady, we thank you for your wine; but i wad gie thrice three thousand pound, that bloody knight was ta en." "lie still, lie still, my dear johnstone, lie still and take a sleep; for thy enemies are past and gone, and carefully i will thee keep." but young johnstone had a little wee sword, hung low down by his gair, and he stabbed it in fair annet's breast, a deep wound and a sair. "what aileth thee now, dear johnstone? what aileth thee at me? hast thou not got my father's gold, but and my mither's fee?" "now live, now live, my dear lady, now live but half an hour, and there's no a leech in a' scotland but what shall be in thy bower." "how can i live, how shall i live? young johnstone, do not you see the red, red drops o' my bonny heart's blood rin trinkling down my knee? (_trinkling_, trickling.) "but take thy harp into thy hand, and harp out ower yon plain, and ne'er think mair on thy true love than if she had never been." he hadna weel been out o' the stable, and on his saddle set, till four-and-twenty broad arrows were thrilling in his heart. jock o' the side |now liddesdale has ridden a raid, but i wot they had better stayed at hame; for mitchell o' winfield he is dead, and my son johnnie is prisoner tane. with my fa ding diddle, la la low diddle. for mangerton-house auld downie is gane, her coats she has kilted up to her knee; and down the water wi' speed she rins, while tears in spates fa fast frae her eye. (_spates_, torrents.) then up and bespake the lord mangerton, "what news, what news, sister downie, to me?" "bad news, bad news, my lord mangerton' mitchell is kill'd, and tane they hae my son johnnie." "ne'er fear, sister downie," quo* mangerton; "i hae yokes of oxen, four and twenty; my barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel fill'd, and i'll part wi' them a', ere johnnie shall die. "three men i'll take to set him free, weel harness'd a' wi' best o' steel; the english rogues may hear, and dree the weight o' their braid-swords to feel. "the laird's jock ane, the laird's wat twa, o hobie noble, thou ane maun be; thy coat is blue, thou hast been true, since england banish'd thee, to me." now hobie was an english man, in bewcastle-dale was bred and born; but his misdeeds they were sae great, they banish'd him ne'er to return. lord mangerton them orders gave, "your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod; like gentlemen ye must not seem, but look like corn-caugers gawn ae road. (_byres_, cow-houses. _dree_, suffer. _caugers_, carriers or dealers.) "your armour gude ye maunna show, nor ance appear like men o' weir; as country lads be all array'd, wi' branks and brecham on ilk mare." sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way, and hobie has mounted his grey sae fine; jock his lively bay, wat's on his white horse behind, and on they rode for the water o' tyne. at the choler-ford they a' light down, and there, wi' the help o' the light o' the moon, a tree they cut, wi' fifteen nags upo' ilk side, to climb up the wa' o' newcastle town. but when they came to newcastle town, and were alighted at the wa', they found their tree three ells o'er laigh, they found their stick baith short and sma. then up and spake the laird's ain jock, "there's naething for't, the gates we maun force;" but when they came the gates unto, a proud porter withstood baith men and horse. (_weir_, war. _branks_, rope bridles. _brecham_, collar. _tree_, pole. _nags_, notches. _laigh_, low.) his neck in twa i wot they hae wrung, wi' hand or foot he ne'er play'd paw; his life and his keys at ance they hae tane, and cast his body ahind the wa'. now soon they reach newcastle jail, and to the pris ner thus they call; "sleeps thou, wakes thou, jock o' the side, or is thou wearied o' thy thrall?" jock answers thus, wi' dolefu' tone-- "aft, aft i wake--i seldom sleep: but wha's this kens my name sae weel, and thus to hear my waes does seek?" then up spake the good lairds jock, "neer fear ye now, my billy," quo' he; "for here's the laird's jock, the laird's wat, and hobie noble, come to set thee free." "o hald thy tongue, and speak nae mair, and o' thy talk now let me be; for if a' liddisdale were here the night, the morn's the day that i maun die. "full fifteen stane o' spanish iron, they hae laid a' right sair on me; wi' locks and keys i am fast bound into this dungeon mirk and dreary." (_ne'er played paw_, never stirred.) "fear ye no that," quo' the laird's jock -, "a faint heart ne'er won a fair lady; work thou within, well work without, and i'll be bound we set thee free." the first strong door that they came at, they loosed it without a key; the next chained door that they came at, they gar'd it a' in flinders flee. the pris'ner now, upo' his back, the laird's jock's gotten up fu' high; and down the stair, him, irons and a', wi' nae sma' speed and joy brings he. "now, jock, i wot," quo' hobie noble, "part o' the weight ye may lay on me;" "i wot weel no!" quo' the laird's jock, "i count him lighter than a flea." sae out at the gates they a' are gane, the pris'ner's set on horseback high; and now wi' speed they've tane the gate, while ilk ane jokes fu' wantonly. "o jock, sae winsomely's ye ride, wi' baith your feet upo' ae side! sae weel's ye're harness'd, and sae trig, in troth, ye sit like ony bride!" (_gar'd_, made. _flinders_, splinters. _trig_, trim.) the night, thou wot, they didna mind, but hied them on fu' merrily, until they came to choler-ford brae, where the water ran like mountains high. but when they came to choler-ford, there they met with an auld man; says--"honest man, will the water ride? tell us in haste, if that ye can." "i wot weel no," quo' the good old man; "here i hae lived this thirty years and three, and i ne'er yet saw the tyne sae big, nor rinnin' ance sae like a sea." then up and spake the laird's saft wat, the greatest coward in the company-- "now halt, now halt, we needna try't; the day is com'd we a' maun die!" "poor faint-hearted thief!" quo' the laird's ain jock, "there'll nae man die but he that's fie; i'll lead ye a' right safely through; lift ye the pris'ner on ahint me." sae now the water they a' hae tane, by anes and twas they a' swam through; "here are we a' safe," says the laird's jock, "and, poor faint wat, what think ye now?" (_fie_, predestined.) they scarce the ither side had won, when twenty men they saw pursue; frae newcastle town they had been sent, a' english lads, right good and true. but when the land-sergeant the water saw, "it winna ride, my lads," quo' he; then out he cries--"ye the pris'ner may take, but leave the irons, i pray, to me." "i wot weel no," cry'd the lairds jock, "i'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be: my good grey mare--for i am sure, she's bought them a fu' dear frae thee." sae now they're away for liddisdale, e'en as fast as they could them hie; the pris'ner's brought to his ain fire-side, and there o's airns they make him free. "now, jock, my billy," quo' a' the three, "the day was com'd thou was to die; but thou's as weel at thy ain fire-side, now sitting, i think, 'tween thee and me." they hae gar'd fill up ae punch-bowl, and after it they maun hae anither, and thus the night they a' hae spent, just as they had been brither and brither. (_airns,_ irons.) there was a maid came out of kent |there was a maid came out of kent, dainty love, dainty love; there was a maid came out of kent, dangerous be: there was a maid came out of kent, fair, proper, small and gent, as ever upon the ground went, for so it should be. the fire of frendraught the reek it rose, and the flame it flew, and oh the fire augmented high, until it came to lord john's chamber-window and to the bed where lord john lay. "o help me, help me, lady frennet! i never ettled harm to thee; and if my father slew thy lord, forget the deed and rescue me." (_reek_, smoke. _ettled_, designed.) he looked east, he looked west, to see if any help was nigh; at length his little page he saw, who to his lord aloud did cry. "loup down, loup down, my master dear! what though the window's dreigh and high? i'll catch you in my arms twa, and never a foot from you i'll flee." "how can i loup, you little page, how can i leave this window high? do you not see the blazing low, and my twa legs burnt to my knee?" (_dreigh_, high. _low_, flame.) [illustration: ] [illustration: ] robin hood's death and burial |when robin hood and little john, _down a down, a down, a down._ went o'er yon bank of broom, said robin hood to little john, "we have shot for many a pound: _hey down, a down, a down._ "but i am not able to shoot one shot more, my arrows will not flee; but i have a cousin lives down below, please god, she will bleed me." now robin is to fair kirkley gone, as fast as he can win; but before he came there, as we do hear, he was taken very ill. and when that he came to fair kirkley-hall, he knock'd all at the ring, but none was so ready as his cousin herself for to let bold robin in. "will you please to sit down, cousin robin," she said, "and drink some beer with me?" "no, i will neither eat nor drink, till i am blooded by thee." "well, i have a room, cousin robin," she said, "which you did never see, and if you please to walk therein, you blooded by me shall be." she took him by the lily-white hand, and led him to a private room, and there she blooded bold robin hood, whilst one drop of blood would run. she blooded him in the vein of the arm, and lock'd him up in the room; there did he bleed all the live-long day, until the next day at noon. he then bethought him of a casement door, thinking for to be gone; he was so weak he could not leap, nor he could not get down. he then bethought him of his bugle-horn, which hung low down to his knee; he set his horn unto his mouth, and blew out weak blasts three. then little john, when hearing him, as he sat under the tree, "i fear my master is near dead, he blows so wearily." then little john to fair kirkley is gone, as fast as he can dri'e; but when he came to kirkley-hall, he broke locks two or three: until he came bold robin to, then he fell on his knee; "a boon, a boon," cries little john, "master, i beg of thee." (_dri'e_, drive.) [illustration: ] "what is that boon," quoth robin hood, "little john, thou begs of me?" ' "it is to burn fair kirkley-hall, and all their nunnery." "now nay, now nay," quoth robin hood, "that boon i'll not grant thee; i never hurt woman in all my life, nor man in woman's company. "i never hurt fair maid in all my time, nor at my end shall it be; but give me my bent bow in my hand, and a broad arrow let flee; and where this arrow is taken up, there shall my grave digg'd be. "lay me a green sod under my head, and another at my feet; and lay my bent bow by my side, which was my music sweet; and make my grave of gravel and green, which is most right and meet. "let me have length and breadth enough, with under my head a green sod; that they may say, when i am dead, here lies bold robin hood." these words they readily promis'd him, which did bold robin please: and there they buried bold robin hood, near to the fair kirklèys. [illustration: ] charles franks and the online distributed proofreading team. text version by al haines. a book of old ballads selected and with an introduction by beverley nichols [illustration: title page art] contents the heir of linne king cophetua and the beggar maid sir andrew barton may collin the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green thomas the rhymer young beichan brave lord willoughbey the spanish lady's love the friar of orders gray list of colour plates king cophetua and the beggar maid may collin thomas the rhymer young beichan the heir of linne [illustration: the heir of linne headpiece] part the first lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will beginne: it is of a lord of faire scotland, which was the unthrifty heire of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the daye with merry cheare, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i ween, his hearts delighte. to ride, to runne, to rant, to roare, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wott, an' it were the king himselfe, of gold and fee he mote be bare. soe fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his landes so broad, his house, and landes, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewarde, and john o' the scales was called hee: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has gott both gold and fee. sayes, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheere; iff thou wilt sell thy landes soe broad, good store of gold ile give thee heere, my gold is gone, my money is spent; my lande nowe take it unto thee: give me the golde, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my lande shall bee. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie; but for every pounde that john agreed, the lande, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the borde, he was right glad his land to winne; the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ile be the lord of linne. thus he hath sold his land soe broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poore and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glenne. for soe he to his father hight. my sonne, when i am gonne, sayd hee, then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but sweare me nowe upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heire of linne is full of golde: and come with me, my friends, sayd hee, let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thinne; and then his friendes they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heire of linne. he had never a penny in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white money. nowe well-aday, sayd the heire of linne, nowe well-aday, and woe is mee, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. but many a trustye friend have i, and why shold i feel dole or care? ile borrow of them all by turnes, soe need i not be never bare. but one, i wis, was not at home; another had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loone, and bade him sharpely wend his way. now well-aday, sayd the heire of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me; for when i had my landes so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a brenning shame: to rob and steale it were a sinne: to worke my limbs i cannot frame. now ile away to lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on mee i there shold find a trusty friend. part the second away then hyed the heire of linne oer hill and holt, and moor and fenne, untill he came to lonesome lodge, that stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked downe, in hope some comfort for to winne: but bare and lothly were the walles. here's sorry cheare, quo' the heire of linne. the little windowe dim and darke was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe; no shimmering sunn here ever shone; no halesome breeze here ever blew. no chair, ne table he mote spye, no cheerful hearth, ne welcome bed, nought save a rope with renning noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad letters, these words were written so plain to see: "ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyselfe to penurie? "all this my boding mind misgave, i therefore left this trusty friend: let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end." sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heire of linne, his heart, i wis, was near to brast with guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne. never a word spake the heire of linne, never a word he spake but three: "this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto mee." then round his necke the corde he drewe, and sprung aloft with his bodie: when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbling hee. astonyed lay the heire of linne, ne knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and saw a bille, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: it told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten golde, the third was full of white money; and over them in broad letters these words were written so plaine to see: "once more, my sonne, i sette thee clere; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last." and let it bee, sayd the heire of linne; and let it bee, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this reade shall guide me to the end. away then went with a merry cheare, away then went the heire of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, till john o' the scales house he did winne. and when he came to john o' the scales, upp at the speere then looked hee; there sate three lords upon a rowe, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was hee. i pray thee, he said, good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend mee. away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not bee: for christs curse on my head, he sayd, if ever i trust thee one pennèe. then bespake the heire of linne, to john o' the scales wife then spake he: madame, some almes on me bestowe, i pray for sweet saint charitèe. away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no almes of mee; for if we shold hang any losel heere, the first we wold begin with thee. then bespake a good fellòwe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord sayd, turn againe, thou heire of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord; some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold nor fee; therefore he lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need bee. and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee. up then spake him john o' the scales, all wood he answer'd him againe: now christs curse on my head, he sayd, but i did lose by that bargàine. and here i proffer thee, heire of linne, before these lords so faire and free, thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. i draw you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a gods pennie: now by my fay, sayd the heire of linne, and here, good john, is thy monèy. and he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, and layd them down upon the bord: all woe begone was john o' the scales, soe shent he cold say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth with mickle dinne. the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now ime againe the lord of linne. sayes, have thou here, thou good fellòwe, forty pence thou didst lend me: now i am againe the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. he make the keeper of my forrest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for but i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame. now welladay! sayth joan o' the scales: now welladay! and woe is my life! yesterday i was lady of linne, now ime but john o' the scales his wife. now fare thee well, sayd the heire of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said hee: christs curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy. [illustration: the heir of linne tailpiece] king cophetua and the beggar maid [illustration: the king cophetua and the beggar maid headpiece] [illustration: the king cophetua and the beggar maid] i read that once in affrica a princely wight did raine, who had to name cophetua, as poets they did faine: from natures lawes he did decline, for sure he was not of my mind. he cared not for women-kinde, but did them all disdaine. but, marke, what hapened on a day, as he out of his window lay, he saw a beggar all in gray, the which did cause his paine. the blinded boy, that shootes so trim, from heaven downe did hie; he drew a dart and shot at him, in place where he did lye: which soone did pierse him to the quicke. and when he felt the arrow pricke, which in his tender heart did sticke, he looketh as he would dye. what sudden chance is this, quoth he, that i to love must subject be, which never thereto would agree, but still did it defie? then from the window he did come, and laid him on his bed, a thousand heapes of care did runne within his troubled head: for now he meanes to crave her love, and now he seekes which way to proove how he his fancie might remoove, and not this beggar wed. but cupid had him so in snare, that this poor begger must prepare a salve to cure him of his care, or els he would be dead. and, as he musing thus did lye, he thought for to devise how he might have her companye, that so did 'maze his eyes. in thee, quoth he, doth rest my life; for surely thou shalt be my wife, or else this hand with bloody knife the gods shall sure suffice. then from his bed he soon arose, and to his pallace gate he goes; full little then this begger knowes when she the king espies. the gods preserve your majesty, the beggers all gan cry: vouchsafe to give your charity our childrens food to buy. the king to them his pursse did cast, and they to part it made great haste; this silly woman was the last that after them did hye. the king he cal'd her back againe, and unto her he gave his chaine; and said, with us you shal remaine till such time as we dye: for thou, quoth he, shalt be my wife, and honoured for my queene; with thee i meane to lead my life, as shortly shall be seene: our wedding shall appointed be, and every thing in its degree: come on, quoth he, and follow me, thou shalt go shift thee cleane. what is thy name, faire maid? quoth he. penelophon, o king, quoth she; with that she made a lowe courtsey; a trim one as i weene. thus hand in hand along they walke unto the king's pallace: the king with curteous comly talke this beggar doth imbrace: the begger blusheth scarlet red, and straight againe as pale as lead, but not a word at all she said, she was in such amaze. at last she spake with trembling voyce, and said, o king, i doe rejoyce that you wil take me from your choyce, and my degree's so base. and when the wedding day was come, the king commanded strait the noblemen both all and some upon the queene to wait. and she behaved herself that day, as if she had never walkt the way; she had forgot her gown of gray, which she did weare of late. the proverbe old is come to passe, the priest, when he begins his masse, forgets that ever clerke he was; he knowth not his estate. here you may read, cophetua, though long time fancie-fed, compelled by the blinded boy the begger for to wed: he that did lovers lookes disdaine, to do the same was glad and faine, or else he would himselfe have slaine, in storie, as we read. disdaine no whit, o lady deere, but pitty now thy servant heere, least that it hap to thee this yeare, as to that king it did. and thus they led a quiet life duringe their princely raigne; and in a tombe were buried both, as writers sheweth plaine. the lords they tooke it grievously, the ladies tooke it heavily, the commons cryed pitiously, their death to them was paine, their fame did sound so passingly, that it did pierce the starry sky, and throughout all the world did flye to every princes realme. [illustration: the king cophetua and the beggar maid tailpiece] sir andrew barton [illustration: sir andrew barton headpiece] 'when flora with her fragrant flowers bedeckt the earth so trim and gaye, and neptune with his daintye showers came to present the monthe of maye;' king henrye rode to take the ayre, over the river of thames past hee; when eighty merchants of london came, and downe they knelt upon their knee. "o yee are welcome, rich merchants; good saylors, welcome unto mee." they swore by the rood, they were saylors good, but rich merchànts they cold not bee: "to france nor flanders dare we pass: nor bourdeaux voyage dare we fare; and all for a rover that lyes on the seas, who robbs us of our merchant ware." king henrye frowned, and turned him rounde, and swore by the lord, that was mickle of might, "i thought he had not beene in the world, durst have wrought england such unright." the merchants sighed, and said, alas! and thus they did their answer frame, he is a proud scott, that robbs on the seas, and sir andrewe barton is his name. the king lookt over his left shoulder, and an angrye look then looked hee: "have i never a lorde in all my realme, will feitch yond tray tor unto me?" yea, that dare i; lord howard sayes; yea, that dare i with heart and hand; if it please your grace to give me leave, myselfe wil be the only man. thou art but yong; the kyng replyed: yond scott hath numbered manye a yeare. "trust me, my liege, lie make him quail, or before my prince i will never appeare." then bowemen and gunners thou shalt have, and chuse them over my realme so free; besides good mariners, and shipp-boyes, to guide the great shipp on the sea. the first man, that lord howard chose, was the ablest gunner in all the realm, thoughe he was three score yeeres and ten; good peter simon was his name. peter, sais hee, i must to the sea, to bring home a traytor live or dead: before all others i have chosen thee; of a hundred gunners to be the head. if you, my lord, have chosen mee of a hundred gunners to be the head, then hang me up on your maine-mast tree, if i misse my marke one shilling bread. my lord then chose a boweman rare, "whose active hands had gained fame." in yorkshire was this gentleman borne, and william horseley was his name. horseley, said he, i must with speede go seeke a traytor on the sea, and now of a hundred bowemen brave to be the head i have chosen thee. if you, quoth hee, have chosen mee of a hundred bowemen to be the head on your main-mast he hanged bee, if i miss twelvescore one penny bread. with pikes and gunnes, and bowemen bold, this noble howard is gone to the sea; with a valyant heart and a pleasant cheare, out at thames mouth sayled he. and days he scant had sayled three, upon the 'voyage,' he tooke in hand, but there he mett with a noble shipp, and stoutely made itt stay and stand. thou must tell me, lord howard said, now who thou art, and what's thy name; and shewe me where they dwelling is: and whither bound, and whence thou came. my name is henry hunt, quoth hee with a heavye heart, and a carefull mind; i and my shipp doe both belong to the newcastle, that stands upon tyne. hast thou not heard, nowe, henrye hunt, as thou hast sayled by daye and by night, of a scottish rover on the seas; men call him sir andrew barton, knight! then ever he sighed, and said alas! with a grieved mind, and well away! but over-well i knowe that wight, i was his prisoner yesterday. as i was sayling uppon the sea, a burdeaux voyage for to fare; to his hach-borde he clasped me, and robd me of all my merchant ware: and mickle debts, god wot, i owe, and every man will have his owne; and i am nowe to london bounde, of our gracious king to beg a boone. that shall not need, lord howard sais; lett me but once that robber see, for every penny tane thee froe it shall be doubled shillings three. nowe god forefend, the merchant said, that you should seek soe far amisse! god keepe you out of that traitors hands! full litle ye wott what a man hee is. hee is brasse within, and steele without, with beames on his topcastle stronge; and eighteen pieces of ordinance he carries on each side along: and he hath a pinnace deerlye dight, st. andrewes crosse that is his guide; his pinnace beareth ninescore men, and fifteen canons on each side. were ye twentye shippes, and he but one; i sweare by kirke, and bower, and hall; he wold overcome them everye one, if once his beames they doe downe fall. this is cold comfort, sais my lord, to wellcome a stranger thus to the sea: yet he bring him and his ship to shore, or to scottland hee shall carrye mee. then a noble gunner you must have, and he must aim well with his ee, and sinke his pinnace into the sea, or else hee never orecome will bee: and if you chance his shipp to borde, this counsel i must give withall, let no man to his topcastle goe to strive to let his beams downe fall. and seven pieces of ordinance, i pray your honour lend to mee, on each side of my shipp along, and i will lead you on the sea. a glasse he sett, that may be seene whether you sail by day or night; and to-morrowe, i sweare, by nine of the clocke you shall meet with sir andrewe barton knight. the second part the merchant sett my lorde a glasse soe well apparent in his sight, and on the morrowe, by nine of the clocke, he shewed him sir andrewe barton knight. his hachebord it was 'gilt' with gold, soe deerlye dight it dazzled the ee: nowe by my faith, lord howarde sais, this is a gallant sight to see. take in your ancyents, standards eke, so close that no man may them see; and put me forth a white willowe wand, as merchants use to sayle the sea. but they stirred neither top, nor mast; stoutly they past sir andrew by. what english churles are yonder, he sayd, that can soe little curtesye? now by the roode, three yeares and more i have beene admirall over the sea; and never an english nor portingall without my leave can passe this way. then called he forth his stout pinnace; "fetch backe yond pedlars nowe to mee: i sweare by the masse, yon english churles shall all hang att my maine-mast tree." with that the pinnace itt shot off, full well lord howard might it ken; for itt stroke down my lord's fore mast, and killed fourteen of his men. come hither, simon, sayes my lord, looke that thy word be true, thou said; for at my maine-mast thou shalt hang, if thou misse thy marke one shilling bread. simon was old, but his heart itt was bold; his ordinance he laid right lowe; he put in chaine full nine yardes long, with other great shott lesse, and moe; and he lette goe his great gunnes shott: soe well he settled itt with his ee, the first sight that sir andrew sawe, he see his pinnace sunke in the sea. and when he saw his pinnace sunke, lord, how his heart with rage did swell! "nowe cutt my ropes, itt is time to be gon; ile fetch yond pedlars backe mysell." when my lord sawe sir andrewe loose, within his heart he was full faine: "now spread your ancyents, strike up your drummes, sound all your trumpetts out amaine." fight on, my men, sir andrewe sais, weale howsoever this geere will sway; itt is my lord admirall of england, is come to seeke mee on the sea. simon had a sonne, who shott right well, that did sir andrewe mickle scare; in att his decke he gave a shott, killed threescore of his men of warre. then henrye hunt with rigour hott came bravely on the other side, soone he drove downe his fore-mast tree, and killed fourscore men beside. nowe, out alas! sir andrewe cryed, what may a man now thinke, or say? yonder merchant theefe, that pierceth mee, he was my prisoner yesterday. come hither to me, thou gordon good, that aye wast readye att my call: i will give thee three hundred markes, if thou wilt let my beames downe fall. lord howard hee then calld in haste, "horseley see thou be true in stead; for thou shalt at the maine-mast hang, if thou misse twelvescore one penny bread." then gordon swarved the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with might and maine; but horseley with a bearing arrowe, stroke the gordon through the braine; and he fell unto the haches again, and sore his deadlye wounde did bleed: then word went through sir andrews men, how that the gordon hee was dead. come hither to mee, james hambilton, thou art my only sisters sonne, if thou wilt let my beames downe fall six hundred nobles thou hast wonne. with that he swarved the maine-mast tree, he swarved it with nimble art; but horseley with a broad arròwe pierced the hambilton thorough the heart: and downe he fell upon the deck, that with his blood did streame amaine: then every scott cryed, well-away! alas! a comelye youth is slaine. all woe begone was sir andrew then, with griefe and rage his heart did swell: "go fetch me forth my armour of proofe, for i will to the topcastle mysell." "goe fetch me forth my armour of proofe; that gilded is with gold soe cleare: god be with my brother john of barton! against the portingalls hee it ware; and when he had on this armour of proofe, he was a gallant sight to see: ah! nere didst thou meet with living wight, my deere brother, could cope with thee." come hither horseley, sayes my lord, and looke your shaft that itt goe right, shoot a good shoote in time of need, and for it thou shalt be made a knight. ile shoot my best, quoth horseley then, your honour shall see, with might and maine; but if i were hanged at your maine-mast, i have now left but arrowes twaine. sir andrew he did swarve the tree, with right good will he swarved then: upon his breast did horseley hitt, but the arrow bounded back agen. then horseley spyed a privye place with a perfect eye in a secrette part; under the spole of his right arme he smote sir andrew to the heart. "fight on, my men," sir andrew sayes, "a little ime hurt, but yett not slaine; he but lye downe and bleede a while, and then he rise and fight againe. fight on, my men," sir andrew sayes, "and never flinch before the foe; and stand fast by st. andrewes crosse until you heare my whistle blowe." they never heard his whistle blow-- which made their hearts waxe sore adread: then horseley sayd, aboard, my lord, for well i wott sir andrew's dead. they boarded then his noble shipp, they boarded it with might and maine; eighteen score scots alive they found, the rest were either maimed or slaine. lord howard tooke a sword in hand, and off he smote sir andrewes head, "i must have left england many a daye, if thou wert alive as thou art dead." he caused his body to be cast over the hatchboard into the sea, and about his middle three hundred crownes: "wherever thou land this will bury thee." thus from the warres lord howard came, and backe he sayled ore the maine, with mickle joy and triumphing into thames mouth he came againe. lord howard then a letter wrote, and sealed it with scale and ring; "such a noble prize have i brought to your grace, as never did subject to a king: "sir andrewes shipp i bring with mee; a braver shipp was never none: nowe hath your grace two shipps of warr, before in england was but one." king henryes grace with royall cheere welcomed the noble howard home, and where, said he, is this rover stout, that i myselfe may give the doome? "the rover, he is safe, my liege, full many a fadom in the sea; if he were alive as he is dead, i must have left england many a day: and your grace may thank four men i' the ship for the victory wee have wonne, these are william horseley, henry hunt, and peter simon, and his sonne." to henry hunt, the king then sayd, in lieu of what was from thee tane, a noble a day now thou shalt have, sir andrewes jewels and his chayne. and horseley thou shalt be a knight, and lands and livings shalt have store; howard shall be erle surrye hight, as howards erst have beene before. nowe, peter simon, thou art old, i will maintaine thee and thy sonne: and the men shall have five hundred markes for the good service they have done. then in came the queene with ladyes fair to see sir andrewe barton knight: they weend that hee were brought on shore, and thought to have seen a gallant sight. but when they see his deadlye face, and eyes soe hollow in his head, i wold give, quoth the king, a thousand markes, this man were alive as hee is dead: yett for the manfull part hee playd, which fought soe well with heart and hand, his men shall have twelvepence a day, till they come to my brother kings high land. may collin [illustration: may collin headpiece] [illustration: may collin] may collin ... ... was her father's heir, and she fell in love with a false priest, and she rued it ever mair. he followd her butt, he followd her benn, he followd her through the hall, till she had neither tongue nor teeth nor lips to say him naw. "we'll take the steed out where he is, the gold where eer it be, and we'll away to some unco land, and married we shall be." they had not riden a mile, a mile, a mile but barely three, till they came to a rank river, was raging like the sea. "light off, light off now, may collin, it's here that you must die; here i have drownd seven king's daughters, the eight now you must be. "cast off, cast off now, may collin, your gown that's of the green; for it's oer good and oer costly to rot in the sea-stream. "cast off, cast off now, may collin, your coat that's of the black; for it's oer good and oer costly to rot in the sea-wreck. "cast off, cast off now, may collin, your stays that are well laced; for thei'r oer good and costly in the sea's ground to waste. "cast [off, cast off now, may collin,] your sark that's of the holland; for [it's oer good and oer costly] to rot in the sea-bottom." "turn you about now, falsh mess john, to the green leaf of the tree; it does not fit a mansworn man a naked woman to see." he turnd him quickly round about, to the green leaf of the tree; she took him hastly in her arms and flung him in the sea. "now lye you there, you falsh mess john, my mallasin go with thee! you thought to drown me naked and bare, but take your cloaths with thee, and if there be seven king's daughters there bear you them company" she lap on her milk steed and fast she bent the way, and she was at her father's yate three long hours or day. up and speaks the wylie parrot, so wylily and slee: "where is the man now, may collin, that gaed away wie thee?" "hold your tongue, my wylie parrot, and tell no tales of me, and where i gave a pickle befor it's now i'll give you three." [illustration: may collin tailpiece] the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green [illustration: the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green headpiece] part the first itt was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a faire daughter of bewty most bright; and many a gallant brave suiter had shee, for none was soe comelye as pretty bessee. and though shee was of favour most faire, yett seeing shee was but a poor beggars heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was shee, whose sonnes came as suitors to prettye bessee. wherefore in great sorrow faire bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me goe away to seeke out my fortune, whatever itt bee. this suite then they granted to prettye bessee. then bessy, that was of bewtye soe bright, all cladd in gray russett, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted shee; who sighed and sobbed for prettye bessee. shee went till shee came to stratford-le-bow; then knew shee not whither, nor which way to goe: with teares shee lamented her hard destinie, so sadd and soe heavy was pretty bessee. shee kept on her journey untill it was day, and went unto rumford along the hye way; where at the queenes armes entertained was shee; soe faire and wel favoured was pretty bessee. shee had not beene there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straight-way enamoured of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daylye her love was extold; her beawtye was blazed in every degree; soe faire and soe comelye was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy; shee shewed herself curteous, and modestlye coye; and at her commandment still wold they bee; soe fayre and soe comlye was pretty bessee. foure suitors att once unto her did goe; they craved her favor, but still she sayd noe; i wold not wish gentles to marry with mee. yett ever they honored prettye bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguisde in the night; the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for prettye bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suiter, and proper withall: her masters own sonne the fourth man must bee, who swore he would dye for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with mee, quoth the knight, ile make thee a ladye with joy and delight; my hart's so inthralled by thy bewtle, that soone i shall dye for prettye bessee. the gentleman sayd, come, marry with mee, as fine as a ladye my bessy shal bee: my life is distressed: o heare me, quoth hee; and grant me thy love, my prettye bessee. let me bee thy husband, the merchant cold say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my shippes shall bring home rych jewells for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy shee sighed, and thus she did say, my father and mother i meane to obey; first gett their good will, and be faithfull to mee, and you shall enjoye your prettye bessee. to every one this answer shee made, wherfore unto her they joyfullye sayd, this thing to fulfill wee all doe agree; but where dwells thy father, my prettye bessee? my father, shee said, is soone to be seene: the seely blind beggar of bednall-greene, that daylye sits begging for charitie, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his markes and his tokens are knowen very well; he alwayes is led with a dogg and a bell: a seely olde man, god knoweth, is hee, yett hee is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for mee: nor, quoth the innholder, my wiffe thou shalt bee: i lothe, sayd the gentle, a beggars degree, and therefore, adewe, my pretty bessee! why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i waighe not true love by the waight of my pursse, and bewtye is bewtye in every degree; then welcome unto me, my prettye bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will goe. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be soe; a poor beggars daughter noe ladye shal bee, then take thy adew of pretty bessee. but soone after this, by breake of the day, the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the younge men of rumford, as thicke might bee, rode after to feitch againe pretty bessee. as swifte as the winde to ryde they were scene, untill they came neare unto bednall-greene; and as the knight lighted most courteouslèe, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescew came speedilye over the plaine, or else the young knight for his love had been slaine. this fray being ended, then straitway he see his kinsmen come rayling at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i bee poore, yett rayle not against my child at my own doore: though shee be not decked in velvett and pearle, yett will i dropp angells with you for my girle. and then, if my gold may better her birthe, and equall the gold that you lay on the earth, then neyther rayle nor grudge you to see the blind beggars daughter a lady to bee. but first you shall promise, and have it well knowne, the gold that you drop shall all be your owne. with that they replyed, contented bee wee. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angell he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentime itt was proved most plaine, for the gentlemens one the beggar droppt twayne: soe that the place, wherin they did sitt, with gold it was covered every whitt. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, sayd, now, beggar, hold, for wee have noe more. thou hast fulfilled thy promise arright. then marry, quoth he, my girle to this knight; and heere, added hee, i will now throwe you downe a hundred pounds more to buy her a gowne. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seene, admired the beggar of bednall-greene: and all those, that were her suitors before, their fleshe for very anger they tore. thus was faire besse matched to the knight, and then made a ladye in others despite: a fairer ladye there never was seene, than the blind beggars daughter of bednall-greene. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marveilous pleasure, and wished delight. part the second off a blind beggars daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a younge knight; all the discourse therof you did see; but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they cold have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslèe, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties, and delicates sweete were bought for the banquet, as it was most meete; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, soe that a great number therto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of prettye bessee. to church then went this gallant younge knight; his bride followed after, an angell most bright, with troopes of ladyes, the like nere was scene as went with sweete bessy of bednall-greene. this marryage being solempnized then, with musicke performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sate downe at that tyde, each one admiring the beautiful bryde. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talke, and to reason a number begunn: they talkt of the blind beggars daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, "much marveil have wee, this jolly blind beggar wee cannot here see." my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. "the prayse of a woman in question to bringe before her own face, were a flattering thinge; but wee thinke thy father's baseness," quoth they, "might by thy bewtye be cleane put awaye." they had noe sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar cladd in a silke cloke; a faire velvet capp, and a fether had hee, and now a musicyan forsooth he wold bee. he had a daintye lute under his arme, he touched the strings, which made such a charme, saies, please you to heare any musicke of mee, ile sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon begann most sweetlye to play; and after that lessons were playd two or three, he strayn'd out this song most delicatelèe. "a poore beggars daughter did dwell on a greene, who for her fairenesse might well be a queene: a blithe bonny lasse, and a daintye was shee, and many one called her pretty bessee. "her father hee had noe goods, nor noe land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yett to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. "and if any one here her birth doe disdaine, her father is ready, with might and with maine, to proove shee is come of noble degree: therfore never flout att prettye bessee." with that the lords and the companye round with harty laughter were readye to swound; att last said the lords, full well wee may see, the bride and the beggar's behoulden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearlie dropps standing within her faire eyes, o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth shee, that throughe blind affection thus doteth on mee. if this be thy father, the nobles did say, well may he be proud of this happy day; yett by his countenance well may wee see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: and therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray, (and looke that the truth thou to us doe say) thy birth and thy parentage, whatt itt may bee; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee. "then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that itt may not winn good report, then doe not give me a groat for my sport. "sir simon de montfort my subject shal bee; once chiefe of all the great barons was hee, yet fortune so cruelle this lorde did abase, now loste and forgotten are hee and his race. "when the barons in armes did king henrye oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was hee, and oft-times he made their enemyes flee. "at length in the battle on eveshame plaine the barons were routed, and montford was slaine; moste fatall that battel did prove unto thee, thoughe thou wast not borne then, my prettye bessee! "along with the nobles, that fell at that tyde, his eldest son henrye, who fought by his side, was fellde by a blowe, he receivde in the fight! a blowe that deprivde him for ever of sight. "among the dead bodyes all lifeless he laye, till evening drewe on of the following daye, when by a yong ladye discovered was hee; and this was thy mother, my prettye bessee! "a barons faire daughter stept forth in the nighte to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he laye, was moved with pitye, and brought him awaye. "in secrette she nurst him, and swaged his paine, while he throughe the realme was beleeved to be slaine at lengthe his faire bride she consented to bee, and made him glad father of prettye bessee. "and nowe lest oure foes our lives sholde betraye, we clothed ourselves in beggars arraye; her jewelles shee solde, and hither came wee: all our comfort and care was our prettye bessee. "and here have we lived in fortunes despite, thoughe poore, yet contented with humble delighte: full forty winters thus have i beene a silly blind beggar of bednall-greene. "and here, noble lordes, is ended the song of one, that once to your own ranke did belong: and thus have you learned a secrette from mee, that ne'er had been knowne, but for prettye bessee." now when the faire companye everye one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had showne, they all were amazed, as well they might bee, both at the blinde beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the faire bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race, thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to bee. thus was the feast ended with joye and delighte, a bridegroome most happy then was the younge knighte, in joy and felicitie long lived hee, all with his faire ladye, the pretty bessee. [illustration: the blind beggar's daughter of bednall green tailpiece] thomas the rhymer [illustration: thomas the rhymer headpiece] [illustration: thomas the rhymer] thomas lay on the huntlie bank, a spying ferlies wi his eee, and he did spy a lady gay, come riding down by the lang lee. her steed was o the dapple grey, and at its mane there hung bells nine; he thought he heard that lady say, "they gowden bells sall a' be thine." her mantle was o velvet green, and a' set round wi jewels fine; her hawk and hounds were at her side, and her bugle-horn wi gowd did shine. thomas took aff baith cloak and cap, for to salute this gay lady: "o save ye, save ye, fair queen o heavn, and ay weel met ye save and see!" "i'm no the queen o heavn, thomas; i never carried my head sae hee; for i am but a lady gay, come out to hunt in my follee. "now gin ye kiss my mouth, thomas, ye mauna miss my fair bodee; then ye may een gang hame and tell that ye've lain wi a gay ladee." "o gin i loe a lady fair, nae ill tales o her wad i tell, and it's wi thee i fain wad gae, tho it were een to heavn or hell." "then harp and carp, thomas," she said, "then harp and carp alang wi me; but it will be seven years and a day till ye win back to yere ain countrie." the lady rade, true thomas ran, until they cam to a water wan; o it was night, and nae delight, and thomas wade aboon the knee. it was dark night, and nae starn-light, and on they waded lang days three, and they heard the roaring o a flood, and thomas a waefou man was he. then they rade on, and farther on, untill they came to a garden green; to pu an apple he put up his hand, for the lack o food he was like to tyne. "o haud yere hand, thomas," she cried, "and let that green flourishing be; for it's the very fruit o hell, beguiles baith man and woman o yere countrie. "but look afore ye, true thomas, and i shall show ye ferlies three; yon is the gate leads to our land, where thou and i sae soon shall be. "and dinna ye see yon road, thomas, that lies out-owr yon lilly lee? weel is the man yon gate may gang, for it leads him straight to the heavens hie. "but do you see yon road, thomas, that lies out-owr yon frosty fell? ill is the man yon gate may gang, for it leads him straight to the pit o hell. "now when ye come to our court, thomas, see that a weel-learned man ye be; for they will ask ye, one and all, but ye maun answer nane but me. "and when nae answer they obtain, then will they come and question me, and i will answer them again that i gat yere aith at the eildon tree. * * * * * "ilka seven years, thomas, we pay our teindings unto hell, and ye're sae leesome and sae strang that i fear, thomas, it will be yeresell." young beichan [illustration: young beichan headpiece] [illustration: young beichan] in london city was bicham born, he longd strange countries for to see, but he was taen by a savage moor, who handld him right cruely. for thro his shoulder he put a bore, an thro the bore has pitten a tree, an he's gard him draw the carts o wine, where horse and oxen had wont to be. he's casten [him] in a dungeon deep, where he coud neither hear nor see; he's shut him up in a prison strong, an he's handld him right cruely. o this moor he had but ae daughter, i wot her name was shusy pye; she's doen her to the prison-house, and she's calld young bicham one word "o hae ye ony lands or rents, or citys in your ain country, coud free you out of prison strong, an coud mantain a lady free?" "o london city is my own, an other citys twa or three, coud loose me out o prison strong, an coud mantain a lady free." o she has bribed her father's men wi meikle goud and white money, she's gotten the key o the prison doors, an she has set young bicham free. she's g'in him a loaf o good white bread, but an a flask o spanish wine, an she bad him mind on the ladie's love that sae kindly freed him out o pine. "go set your foot on good ship-board, an haste you back to your ain country, an before that seven years has an end, come back again, love, and marry me." it was long or seven years had an end she longd fu sair her love to see; she's set her foot on good ship-board, and turnd her back on her ain country. she's saild up, so has she doun, till she came to the other side; she's landed at young bicham's gates, an i hop this day she sal be his bride. "is this young bicham's gates?" says she, "or is that noble prince within?" "he's up the stairs wi his bonny bride, an monny a lord and lady wi him." "o has he taen a bonny bride, an has he clean forgotten me!" an sighing said that gay lady, i wish i were in my ain country! but she's pitten her han in her pocket, an gin the porter guineas three; says, take ye that, ye proud porter, an bid the bridegroom speak to me. o whan the porter came up the stair, he's fa'n low down upon his knee: "won up, won up, ye proud porter, an what makes a' this courtesy?" "o i've been porter at your gates this mair nor seven years an three, but there is a lady at them now the like of whom i never did see. "for on every finger she has a ring, an on the mid-finger she has three, an there's a meikle goud aboon her brow as woud buy an earldome o lan to me." then up it started young bicham, an sware so loud by our lady, "it can be nane but shusy pye, that has come oer the sea to me." o quickly ran he down the stair, o fifteen steps he has made but three; he's tane his bonny love in his arms, an a wot he kissd her tenderly. "o hae you tane a bonny bride? an hae you quite forsaken me? an hae ye quite forgotten her that gae you life an liberty?" she's lookit oer her left shoulder to hide the tears stood in her ee; "now fare thee well, young bicham," she says, "i'll strive to think nae mair on thee." "take back your daughter, madam," he says, "an a double dowry i'll gi her wi; for i maun marry my first true love, that's done and suffered so much for me." he's take his bonny love by the ban, and led her to yon fountain stane; he's changd her name frae shusy pye, an he's cald her his bonny love, lady jane. brave lord willoughbey [illustration: brave lord willoughbey headpiece] the fifteenth day of july, with glistering spear and shield, a famous fight in flanders was foughten in the field: the most couragious officers were english captains three; but the bravest man in battel was brave lord willoughbèy. the next was captain norris, a valiant man was hee: the other captain turner, from field would never flee. with fifteen hundred fighting men, alas! there were no more, they fought with fourteen thousand then, upon the bloody shore. stand to it, noble pikemen, and look you round about: and shoot you right, you bow-men, and we will keep them out: you musquet and callèver men, do you prove true to me, i'le be the formost man in fight, says brave lord willoughbèy. and then the bloody enemy they fiercely did assail, and fought it out most furiously, not doubting to prevail: the wounded men on both sides fell most pitious for to see, yet nothing could the courage quell of brave lord willoughbèy. for seven hours to all mens view this fight endured sore, until our men so feeble grew that they could fight no more; and then upon dead horses full savourly they eat, and drank the puddle water, they could no better get. when they had fed so freely, they kneeled on the ground, and praised god devoutly for the favour they had found; and beating up their colours, the fight they did renew, and turning tow'rds the spaniard, a thousand more they slew. the sharp steel-pointed arrows, and bullets thick did fly, then did our valiant soldiers charge on most furiously; which made the spaniards waver, they thought it best to flee, they fear'd the stout behaviour of brave lord willoughbey. then quoth the spanish general, come let us march away, i fear we shall be spoiled all if here we longer stay; for yonder comes lord willoughbey with courage fierce and fell, he will not give one inch of way for all the devils in hell. and then the fearful enemy was quickly put to flight, our men persued couragiously, and caught their forces quite; but at last they gave a shout, which ecchoed through the sky, god, and st. george for england! the conquerors did cry. this news was brought to england with all the speed might be, and soon our gracious queen was told of this same victory. o this is brave lord willoughbey, my love that ever won, of all the lords of honour 'tis he great deeds hath done. to the souldiers that were maimed, and wounded in the fray, the queen allowed a pension of fifteen pence a day; and from all costs and charges she quit and set them free: and this she did all for the sake of brave lord willoughbey. then courage, noble englishmen, and never be dismaid; if that we be but one to ten, we will not be afraid to fight with foraign enemies, and set our nation free. and thus i end the bloody bout of brave lord willoughbey. the spanish lady's love [illustration: the spanish lady's love headpiece] will you hear a spanish lady, how shed wooed an english man? garments gay and rich as may be decked with jewels she had on. of a comely countenance and grace was she, and by birth and parentage of high degree. as his prisoner there he kept her, in his hands her life did lye! cupid's bands did tye them faster by the liking of an eye. in his courteous company was all her joy, to favour him in any thing she was not coy. but at last there came commandment for to set the ladies free, with their jewels still adorned, none to do them injury. then said this lady mild, full woe is me; o let me still sustain this kind captivity! gallant captain, shew some pity to a ladye in distresse; leave me not within this city, for to dye in heavinesse: thou hast this present day my body free, but my heart in prison still remains with thee. "how should'st thou, fair lady, love me, whom thou knowest thy country's foe? thy fair wordes make me suspect thee: serpents lie where flowers grow." all the harme i wishe to thee, most courteous knight, god grant the same upon my head may fully light. blessed be the time and season, that you came on spanish ground; if our foes you may be termed, gentle foes we have you found: with our city, you have won our hearts eche one, then to your country bear away, that is your owne. "rest you still, most gallant lady; rest you still, and weep no more; of fair lovers there is plenty, spain doth yield a wonderous store." spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, but englishmen through all the world are counted kind. leave me not unto a spaniard, you alone enjoy my heart: i am lovely, young, and tender, love is likewise my desert: still to serve thee day and night my mind is prest; the wife of every englishman is counted blest. "it wold be a shame, fair lady, for to bear a woman hence; english soldiers never carry any such without offence." i'll quickly change myself, if it be so, and like a page he follow thee, where'er thou go. "i have neither gold nor silver to maintain thee in this case, and to travel is great charges, as you know in every place." my chains and jewels every one shal be thy own, and eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown. "on the seas are many dangers, many storms do there arise, which wil be to ladies dreadful, and force tears from watery eyes." well in troth i shall endure extremity, for i could find in heart to lose my life for thee. "courteous ladye, leave this fancy, here comes all that breeds the strife; i in england have already a sweet woman to my wife: i will not falsify my vow for gold nor gain, nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in spain." o how happy is that woman that enjoys so true a friend! many happy days god send her; of my suit i make an end: on my knees i pardon crave for my offence, which did from love and true affection first commence. commend me to thy lovely lady, bear to her this chain of gold; and these bracelets for a token; grieving that i was so bold: all my jewels in like sort take thou with thee, for they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me. i will spend my days in prayer, love and all her laws defye; in a nunnery will i shroud mee far from any companye: but ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, to pray for thee and for thy love i will not miss. thus farewell, most gallant captain! farewell too my heart's content! count not spanish ladies wanton, though to thee my love was bent: joy and true prosperity goe still with thee! "the like fall ever to thy share, most fair ladie." the friar of orders gray [illustration: the friar of orders gray headpiece] it was a friar of orders gray walkt forth to tell his beades; and he met with a lady faire, clad in a pilgrime's weedes. now christ thee save, thou reverend friar, i pray thee tell to me, if ever at yon holy shrine my true love thou didst see. and how should i know your true love from many another one? o by his cockle hat, and staff, and by his sandal shoone. but chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view; his flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyne of lovely blue. o lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone! and at his head a green grass turfe, and at his heels a stone. within these holy cloysters long he languisht, and he dyed, lamenting of a ladyes love, and 'playning of her pride. here bore him barefac'd on his bier six proper youths and tall, and many a tear bedew'd his grave within yon kirk-yard wall. and art thou dead, thou gentle youth! and art thou dead and gone! and didst thou die for love of me! break, cruel heart of stone! o weep not, lady, weep not soe; some ghostly comfort seek: let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, ne teares bedew thy cheek. o do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove; for i have lost the sweetest youth, that e'er wan ladyes love. and nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, i'll evermore weep and sigh; for thee i only wisht to live, for thee i wish to dye. weep no more, lady, weep no more, thy sorrowe is in vaine: for violets pluckt the sweetest showers will ne'er make grow againe. our joys as winged dreams doe flye, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy losse, grieve not for what is past. o say not soe, thou holy friar; i pray thee, say not soe: for since my true-love dyed for mee, 'tis meet my tears should flow. and will he ne'er come again? will he ne'er come again? ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain. his cheek was redder than the rose; the comliest youth was he! but he is dead and laid in his grave: alas, and woe is me! sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever: one foot on sea and one on land, to one thing constant never. hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy; for young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy. now say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not soe; my love he had the truest heart: o he was ever true! and art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, and didst thou dye for mee? then farewell home; for ever-more a pilgrim i will bee. but first upon my true-loves grave my weary limbs i'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf, that wraps his breathless clay. yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile beneath this cloyster wall: see through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, and drizzly rain doth fall. o stay me not, thou holy friar; o stay me not, i pray; no drizzly rain that falls on me, can wash my fault away. yet stay, fair lady, turn again, and dry those pearly tears; for see beneath this gown of gray thy own true-love appears. here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, these holy weeds i sought; and here amid these lonely walls to end my days i thought. but haply for my year of grace is not yet past away, might i still hope to win thy love, no longer would i stay. now farewell grief, and welcome joy once more unto my heart; for since i have found thee, lovely youth, we never more will part. generously made available by the internet archive.) [illustration: the history of the catnach press, and the two catnachs, john & james, father & son, _printers_, - .] the history of the catnach press. large paper copy. only two hundred and fifty printed. each copy numbered and signed [signature: charles hindley.] no. ________ _purchased by_ ____________________________________________________ _of_ ____________________________________________________ _on the ___________ day of ____________ _____ the history of the catnach press, at berwick-upon-tweed, alnwick and newcastle-upon-tyne, in northumberland, and seven dials, london. by charles hindley, esq., _editor of "the old book collector's miscellany; or, a collection of readable reprints of literary rarities," "works of john taylor--the water poet," "the roxburghe ballads," "the catnach press," "the curiosities of street literature," "the book of ready made speeches," "life and times of james catnach, late of the seven dials, ballad monger," "tavern anecdotes and sayings," "a history of the cries of london--ancient and modern," etc._ london: charles hindley [the younger,] booksellers' row, st. clement danes, strand, w.c. . to mr. george skelly, of the market place, and mr. george h. thompson, of bailiffgate, alnwick, _in the county of_ northumberland, the history of the catnach press. is most respectfully dedicated by the author [signature: charles hindley.] _st. james' street, brighton. lady day, ._ [illustration: historical introduction or a pursuit of knowledge under difficulties.] [illustration: the catnach press.] "'tis education forms the common mind; just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined."--_pope._ ----there can be little doubt that jemmy catnach, the printer, justly earned the distinction of being one of the great pioneers in the cause of promoting cheap literature--he was for a long time the great mæcenas and elzevir of the seven dials district. we do not pretend to say that the productions which emanated from his establishment contained much that was likely to enlighten the intellect, or sharpen the taste of the ordinary reader; but, to a great extent, they served well in creating an impetus in the minds of many to soar after things of a higher and more ennobling character. whilst for the little folk his store was like the conjuror's bag--inexhaustible. he could cater to the taste and fancies of all, and it is marvellous, even in these days of a cheap press, to look back upon the time when this enterprising man was by a steady course of action, so paving the way for that bright day in the annals of britain's history, when every child in the land should be educated. [illustration] historical introduction or a pursuit of knowledge under difficulties. ----knowledge is of two kinds. we know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.--boswell, _life of johnson_. that history repeats itself is fairly and fully exemplified by the reproduction of "the catnach press," the _first_ edition of which was published in , and "guaranteed only two hundred and fifty copies printed."--namely: on fine, and on extra-thick paper. _each copy numbered._ the outer and descriptive title set forth that the work contained:-- "a collection of books and wood-cuts of james catnach, late of seven dials, printer, consisting of twenty books of the cock robin-class, from, 'this is the house that jack built,' to 'old mother hubbard,' (printed with great care) _specialite_ at the catnach press, from the old plates and woodcuts, prior to their final destruction, to which is added a selection of catnachian wood-cuts, many by bewick, and many of the most anti-bewickian character it is possible to conceive." the announcement of the publication of the work was first made known through the medium of the metropolitan press, some few days prior to the copies being delivered by the book-binders, and so great was the demand of the london and american trade, that every copy was disposed of on the day of issue. the work is now eagerly sought after by book collectors who indulge in literary rarities. while engaged in collecting information for "the catnach press," and interviewing the producers of ballads, broadsides and chap-books, we met with a vast assemblage of street-papers and of a very varied character, which we proposed to publish in quarto form under the title of "the curiosities of street literature," and when in london in , still seeking for information on the subject, met by mere chance in the strand with the street ballad singer of our youth, one samuel milnes, who used between the years of and to visit fetter lane every thursday with the newest and most popular ballad of the day. we so often met with him at other times and places in and about london in after years that a peculiar kind of a friendly feeling grew up towards him in preference to all other street ballad singers of the time, so much so that at our meetings--and friendly greetings, we invariably purchased the ballad he was singing, or, gave him a few halfpence as a fee for having detained him from his calling--or shall we say bawling, for to tell the truth, samuel milnes was but a very indifferent vocalist. time rolled on--"still on it creeps, each little moment at another's heels"--and we continued to meet our old ballad singer either in london or brighton. the meeting with him on this particular occasion was most opportune for we wanted him. first we obtained from him "wait for the turn of the tide," and "call her back and kiss her," then the following information:-- "oh, yes, i remember you, remember you well; particularly when i see you down at brighton: when you treated me to that hot rum and water; when i was so wet and cold, at a little snug public-house in one of the streets that leads off the main street. i don't remember the name on it now, but i remembers the rum and water well enough; it was good. you said it would be, and so it was, and no mistake. how old am i now? why, . how long have i been at it? why, hard on fifty years. i was about nine or ten year old--no, perhaps i might have been year old, when i come to think on it. yes, about year old; my mother was a widow with five children, and there was a boy in our street as used to go out singing ballads, and his mother said to my mother, 'why don't you let your boy (that's me) go out and sing ballads like my boy.' and i said i didn't mind, and i did go out, and i've been at it ever since, so you see 'aint far short of year. how many do i sell in a day? well, not so many as i used to do, by a long way. i've sold me four and five quires a-day, but i don't sell above two and three dozen a-day now. that's all the difference you see, sir--dozens against quires. how do i live then? why, you see i am so well-known in different parts of london, that lots and lots of people comes up to me like you always do--and say's--'how do you do, old fellow? i remember you when i was a boy, if it's a man, and when i was a girl, if it's a woman.' and says, 'so you are still selling songs, eh?' then they give me a few coppers; some more and some less than others, and says they don't want the songs. some days--very often--i've had more money given me than i've took for the ballads. yes, i have travelled all over england--all over it i think--but the north's the best--manchester, liverpool, and them towns; but down bath and cheltenham way i was nearly starved. i was coming back from that way, i now remember, when i met you, sir, at brighton that time. i buy my ballads at various places--but now mostly over the water, because i live there now and it's handiest. mr. such, the printer, in union-street in the borough. oh! yes, some at catnach's--leastways, it ain't catnach's now, it's fortey's. yes, i remember 'old jemmy catnach' very well; he wa'n't a bad sort, as you say; leastways, i've heard so, but i never had anything of him. i always paid for what i had, and did not say much to him, or he to me--writing the life of him, are you indeed? no, i can't give you no more information about him than that, because, as i said before, i bought my goods as i wanted them, and paid for them, then away on my own account and business. well he was a man something like you--a little wider across the shoulders, perhaps, but about such a man as you are. i did know a man as could have told you a lot about "old jemmy," but he's dead now; he was one of his authors, that is, he wrote some of the street-ballads for him, and very good ones they used to be, that is, for selling. want some old 'dying speeches' and 'cocks,' do you indeed; well, i a'nt got any--i don't often 'work' them things, although i have done so sometimes, but i mostly keep to the old game--'ballads on a subject.' you see them other things are no use only just for the day, then they are no use at all, so we don't keep them--i've often given them away. you'd give sixpence a piece for them, would you, indeed, sir; then i wish i had some of them. now i come to think of it i know a man that did have a lot of them bye him, and i know he'd be glad to sell them, i don't know where he lives, but i sometimes see him. oh! yes, a letter would find me. my name is samuel milnes, and i live at no. , mint-street, that's in the borough; you know, guagar is the name at the house. thank you, sir, i'm much obliged. good day sir." our next adventure--in pursuit of knowledge under difficulties--occured at brighton in the month of august, , and when we were winding our way through a maze of small streets lying between richmond and albion hills, in the northern part of the town, our ears voluntarily "pricked up," on hearing the old familiar sounds of a 'street, or running patterer' with the stereotyped sentences of "horrible."--"dreadful."--"remarkable letters found on his person."--"cut down by a labouring man."--"quite dead."--"well-known in the town."--"hanging."--"coroner's inquest."--"verdict."--"full particulars."--"most determined suicide."--"brutal conduct."--&c., &c., _only a ha'penny!--only a ha'penny!_ presently we saw the man turn into a wide court-like place, which was designated by the high-sounded name of "square," and dedicated to richmond; hither we followed him, and heard him repeat the same detached sentences, and became a purchaser for--'_only a ha'penny!_' when to our astonishment we discovered a somewhat new phrase in cock or catchpenny selling. inasmuch as our purchase consisted of the current number ( ) of the _brighton daily news_--a very respectable looking and well printed halfpenny local newspaper, and of that day's publication, and did in reality contain an account of a most determined suicide of an old and highly respected inhabitant of brighton and set forth under the heading of:-- the determined suicide of an aged artist. remarkable letters of deceased. calling the man aside, we ventured upon a conversation with him in the following form:-- ----"well, governor, _how does the cock fight?_" "oh, pretty well, sir; but it ain't a cock; its a genuine thing--the days for cocks, sir, is gone bye--cheap newspapers 'as done 'em up." "yes; we see this is a brighton newspaper of to-day." "oh, yes, that's right enough--but its all true." "yes; we are aware of that and knew the unfortunate man and his family; but you are vending them after the old manner." "that's all right enough, sir,--you see i can sell 'em better in that form than as a newspaper--its more natural like for me: i've sold between ten and twelve dozen of 'em to-day." "yes; but how about to-morrow?" "oh, then it will be all bottled up--and i must look for a new game, i'm on my way to london, but a hearing of this suicide job, i thought i'd work 'em just to keep my hand in and make a bob or two." to our question of "have you got any real old 'cocks' by you?" he replied, "no, not a bit of a one; i've worked 'em for a good many years, but it 'aint much of a go now. oh, yes, i know'd 'old jemmy catnach' fast enough--bought many hundreds, if not thousands of quires of him. not old enough? oh, 'aint i though; why i'm turned fifty, and i've been a 'street-paper' seller all my life. i knows muster fortey very well; him as is got the business now in the dials--he knows his way about, let him alone for that; and he's a rare good business man let me tell you, and always been good and fair to me; that i will say of him." having rewarded the man with a few half-pence to make him some recompense for having detained him during his business progress, we parted company. while still prosecuting our enquiries for information on the literature of the streets, we often read of, and heard mention made of, a mr. john morgan, as one of the "seven bards of the seven dials" and his being best able to assist us in the matter we had in hand. the first glimpse we obtained of the poet! in print was in an article entitled "the bards of the seven dials and their effusion" and published in "the town," of , a weekly journal, conducted by the late mr. renton nicholson, better known as "baron nicholson," of judge and jury notoriety:-- review. _the life and death of john william marchant_, who suffered the extreme penalty of the law, in front of the debtor's door, newgate, on monday, july th, , for the murder of elizabeth paynton, his fellow servant, on the seventeenth of may last, in cadogan place, chelsea. by john morgan. london: j. catnach, and , monmouth court, dials. the work is a quarto page, surrounded with a handsome black border. "take no thought for to-morrow, what thou shalt eat, or what thou shalt put on," says a certain writer, whose wisdom we all reverence, and then he adds "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof"--a remark particularly applicable to the bards of seven dials, whose pens are kept in constant employment by the fires, rapes, robberies, and murders, which, from one year's end to the other, present them with a daily allowance of evil sufficient for their subsistence. but, at present, it is only one of these poets, "john morgan," as he modestly signs himself, whom we are about to notice; and as some of our readers may be curious to see a specimen of the poetry of seven dials, we shall lay certain portions of john morgan's last effusion before them, pointing out the beauties and peculiarities of the compositions as we go along. after almost lawyer-like particularity as to dates and places, the poem begins with an invocation from the murderer in _propria personæ_. "oh! give attention awhile to me, all you good people of each degree; in newgate's dismal and dreary cell, i bid all people on earth farewell." heaven forbid, say we, that _all_ the people on earth should ever get in newgate, to receive the farewell of such a blood-thirsty miscreant. "john william marchant is my name, i do confess i have _been to blame_." and here we must observe that the poet makes his hero speak of his offence rather too lightly, as if, indeed, it had been nothing more than a common misdemeanour. "i little thought, my dear parents kind, i should leave this earth with a troubled mind." now this _is_ modest; he is actually surprised that his parents are at all grieved at the idea of getting rid of such a scoundrel, and well he might be. "i lived as servant in cadogan place, and never thought this would be my case, to end my days on the fatal tree: good people, pray drop a tear for me." there is a playfulness about the word "drop," introducing just here after "the fatal tree," which, in our mind, somewhat diminishes the plaintiveness of the entreaty; but we must not be hypocritical. * * * * * then comes his trial and condemnation, the account of which is most remarkable precise and pithy. "at the old bailey i was tried and cast, and the dreadful sentence on me was past on a monday morning, alas! to die, and on the eight of this month of july." a marvellous particularity as to dates, intended, doubtless, to show the convicts anxiety that, although he died young, his name should live long in the minds of posterity. then follows his farewell to father and mother, and an impudent expression of confidence that his crime will be forgiven in heaven, an idea, by-the-by, which is reported to have been confirmed by the ordinary of newgate, who told him that the angels would receive him with great affection; and this it was, perhaps, which induced our bard of seven dials to represent his hero as coolly writing poetry up to the very last moment of his existence; taking his farewell of the public in these words:-- "adieu, good people of each degree, and take a warning, i pray, by me; the bell is tolling, and i must go, and leave this world of misery and woe." but we cannot exactly see what business the fellow--"a pampered menial," had to speak ill of the world, when he was very comfortably off in it, and might have lived long and happily if it had not been for his own wickedness; a hint which we throw out for the benefit of mr. john morgan, in his future effusions, trusting he will not make his heroes die grumby, when poetic justices does not require it. but we must now take our leave, with a hearty wish to the whole fraternity of seven dials' bards, that they may never go without a dinner for want of the means of earning it, or that, in other words, though they seem somewhat contradictory, "sufficient unto the day may be the evil thereof." again, the writer of an article on "street ballads," in the "national review," for october, , makes the following remarks:-- "this ballad--'little lord john out of service'--is one of the few which bear a signature--it is signed 'john morgan' in the copy which we possess. for a long time we believed this name to be a mere _nom-de-plume_; but the other day in monmouth court, we were informed, in answer to a casual question that this is the real name of the author of some of the best comic ballads. our informant added that he is an elderly, we may say old, gentleman, living somewhere in westminster; but the exact whereabouts we could not discover. mr. morgan followed no particular visible calling, so far as our informant knew, except writing ballads, by which he could not earn much of a livelihood, as the price of an original ballad, in these buying-cheap days, has been screwed down by the publishers to somewhere about a shilling sterling. something more like bread-and-butter might be made, perhaps, by poets who were in the habit of singing their own ballads, as some of them do, but not mr. morgan. should this ever meet the eye of that gentleman (a not very probable event, we fear), we beg to apologise for the liberty we have taken in using his verses and name, and hope he will excuse us, having regard to the subject in which we are humble fellow-labourers. we could scarcely avoid naming him, the fact being that he is the only living author of street-ballads whose name we know. that self-denying mind, indifferent to worldly fame, which characterised the architects of our cathedrals and abbeys, would seem to have descended on our ballad-writers; and we must be thankful, therefore, to be able to embalm and hand down to posterity a name here and there, such as william of wykeham, and john morgan. in answer to our inquiries in this matter, generally, we have been told, 'oh, anybody writes them,' and with that answer we have had to rest satisfied. but in presence of that answer, we walk about the streets with a new sense of wonder, peering into the faces of those of our fellow-lieges who do not carry about with them the external evidence of overflowing exchequers, and saying to ourselves, 'that man may be a writer of ballads.'" at every enquiry we made for information in regard to street-literature, we still continued to be referred to mr. john morgan as the most likely person living to supply what we needed on the subject. but the grave question arose in our own minds of the how, when, and where: could we find out and interview this said mr. john morgan, poet! first we made enquiry at the office of mr. taylor, printer of ballads, &c., and , brick lane, spitalfields, but, they "had not the least idea where we could find him. in fact they had only heard of him as a ballad-writer, and knew nothing about where he lived, never having employed him: had perhaps printed some of his ballads. thought mr. such, of the borough, might give some information, but, sure to find out all about him in the seven dials district." mr. h. such, machine printer and publisher, , union street, borough, s.e., on being applied to could give us no positive information as to the whereabout of mr. john morgan--he knew him, but where he lived he could not tell. mr. fortey or mr. disley, in the dials-way, would be most likely to know. mr. william s. fortey, (late a. ryle, successor to the late j. catnach), printer, publisher, and wholesale stationer, and , monmouth court, seven dials, london, w., on being applied to could not exactly tell where mr. john morgan did live, it was somewhere westminster-way: it was very uncertain when he should next see him, because he did not sometimes call in for weeks together, yet he might by chance see him to-morrow, or the next day. anyway, we felt that we had no right to press the question any further, more particularly so because mr. fortey had been very civil and obliging to us on other occasions--in fact we have been under great and lasting obligations to him, so changed the conversation. mr. henry disley, printer, , high street, st. giles', london, who we found to be a very genial sort of a man, and that he had formerly been in the service of james catnach; he was working in his front shop at a small hand-press on some cards relative to a forthcoming friendly lead,[ ] to be held at a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood, while mrs. disley was hard at work colouring some christmas carols, and which she did with a rapidity that was somewhat astonishing. in answer to our inquiry whether he knew of one john morgan--who was--as we described him, "something of a song writer." well! both mr. and mrs. disley together--"did know him--should think they did." but when we came to enquire about his private address they knew nothing about that. he (mr. morgan) wrote ballads for them at times: often called on them--whenever he did it was always to sell a _good_ ballad he had on hand, or to tell them what _bad_ times it was with him: but as to where he lived, beyond that it was somewhere westminster-way, they did not know--in fact, had not the least idea. but, most likely, mr. fortey, him in monmouth court, did. yes! come to think of it, he would be sure to know. the very unsatisfactory and evasive answers received in reference to the address of mr. john morgan gave a zest to our zeal in the matter--so much so, that we then determined "to work the oracle" out in our way. at this time we had a near relative occupying chambers in barnard's inn, which we held to be a good central and lawyer-like address--one that had the "true ring," of business and substantiality about it. yes! barnard's inn, holborn, london, e.c., looked to our mind to be likely to serve our stratigical purpose to the point we desired. having made all the preparatory arrangements, we then procured from a neighbouring stationer's shop a sheet of mourning note-paper and an envelope of large proportions, each having the very blackest and broadest of black borders we could find in stock. then we wrote in a law-like hand:-- _no. , barnard's inn, holborn, london, e.c., february , ._ _this is to give notice:--if mr. john morgan, ballad-writer, &c., will call at the above address on or after wednesday next. he will hear something greatly to his advantage._ _(signed)_ [signature: charles hindley.] _mr. john morgan, care of............ ..............london._ the above document having been duly intrusted to her majesty's post master general for delivery, we had to abide our time for the result. we had not to wait long, for although we had appointed the next following wednesday to communicate "_something greatly to the advantage of mr. john morgan_," he turned up a little sooner than we expected, or desired, by reason of his putting in an appearance at barnard's inn on tuesday evening, where he arrived "happy and glorious," and made earnest enquiries for "the gentleman who had sent him a letter to say he had got a something to his advantage--perhaps a fortune! for sometimes he thought somebody would die and leave him one. where was the gentleman who wrote him the letter? he says that i am to call here. he sent it in a black-bordered envelope for him. where is the gentleman? see here is the letter, and all in black--black as your hat--look for yourself, sir." all the above was spoken to a friend of ours who lived on the ground-floor at the particular house in barnard's inn, where mr. john morgan had been requested to call on wednesday. it was then only tuesday, and that fact had to be explained; also, that the gentleman in question was not at present in his chambers on the third-floor, but would be in the morning up to o'clock. our friend on the first-floor--who had received instructions from us in the event of mr. john morgan turning-up while we were not at home--informed us of all that had taken place when we arrived a little later on in the evening. on the next morning preparations were made for the reception of our expectant friend--a good fire, a good breakfast, and a half-pint of "old tom" from carr's well-known establishment, st. clement danes, strand. very soon after the old clock of the ancient hall of barnard's inn, and all the public clocks in the surrounding neighbourhood had proclaimed aloud that the hour of a.m. of that wednesday morning had arrived, there was heard a knock at the outer door of our chamber-rooms, and on the same being opened, mr. john morgan announced himself as the party to whom the gentleman had sent a black-bordered letter and envelope for him to say there was a something to his advantage to be had. then mr. john morgan, full of bows and scrapes, was ushered into our presence.--he was the party who had received the letter. oh! yes, mr. morgan we added: take a seat sir. yes, sir, and thank you to, he replied, at the same time sitting down and then very carefully despositing his somewhat delapidated hat under--far under--the chair. we then enquired whether he would have anything to eat, or have a cup of coffee. no! it was a little too early in the morning for eating, and coffee did not always agree with him. or, a drop of good "old tom," we somewhat significantly suggested. mr. john morgan would very much like to have a little drop of gin, for it was a nasty raw cold morning: in answer to our enquiry whether he would prefer hot or cold water, elected to have it neat if it made no difference to us. mr. john morgan at our suggestion having "wet the other eye," _i.e._, taken the second glass, the real business part of the question we had met upon commenced thus:--"we have been informed that you were acquainted with, and used to write for the late james catnach, who formerly lived in the seven dials, and that you can give us much of the information that we require towards perfecting a work we have in hand treating on street literature. if you are willing to do so, we are prepared to treat with you in a liberal manner, and that, please to at once to understand is the '_something greatly to your advantage_ that is mentioned in the note we addressed to you.'" here mr. john morgan hinted that he thought it was--or he had hoped it was, a little fortune some one had been kind enough to leave him, he always expected that old jemmy catnach would--after what he had done for him, have left him a bit, however small, but no such luck. mr. morgan expressed his willingness to give all the information he could on the subject and leave it to our generosity to pay him what we pleased, and adding that he had no doubt that we should not fall out on that score. and so we proceeded, we talked and took notes. mr. morgan talked and took gin. mr. morgan got warm--warmer and warmer--and very entertaining, his conversational powers increased wonderfully, he became very witty and laughed _ha! hah!!_ he joked and made merry at some old reminiscences in connection with old jemmy catnach--and admitted, that after all old jemmy wasn't a particular bad sort--that is, when you knew him, and could handle him properly--then old jemmy was as right as my leg! still we continued to talk and take notes, still mr. morgan talked and took gin, until he emulated the little old woman who sold "hot codlings," for of her it is related that--"the glass she filled and the bottle she shrunk and that this little old woman in the end got----." at length it became very manifest that we should not be able to get any more information out of mr. john morgan on that day, so proposed for him to call again on the morrow morning and at the same time and place to pursue the thread of our narrative. then having presented him with a portrait of her most gracious majesty queen victoria, set in gold, we volunteered to see him down stairs which we observed were very crooked--mr. morgan thought they were very old and funny ones: up and down like--in fact what old charley dibdin would have called regular "whopping old stairs!" being safely landed from the last stone step on to the stone-paved way, we thought it advisable, for appearance sake, to conduct our friend out of barnard's inn by a sideway leading into fetter-lane. after that it occurred to us that it would perhaps be better to see him to the fleet-street end of the lane and then to put him into a westminster omnibus, but we had reached somerset house before one going that way came in sight. then it was mr. john morgan suddenly recollected that he could not pass his old friend short--who was short? why surely you know short--old short, him as sells the wine so good and so cheap, there over the way--that's short's--"wines from the wood," that's out of the cask you know, you remind me to-morrow, sir, and i'll tell you a good tale about old short before he made such a lot of money as he has got now.--capital chap old short, he knows me--it's all about a song i wrote--but i'll tell you all about it to-morrow. besides i must have change ye know for there's no one got any at my home--my landlord--there's no change about him, oh! dear no--he's never got any change but he's always got an old account, do you see? an old account--but no matter let's go in! respectfully, but firmly declining the kind and very pressing invitation to have "only just one drop with old short." we left mr. john morgan to take care of himself for the day and to be sure to meet us on the next morning in barnard's inn at o'clock--sharp. at length the wishful morrow came, also ten of the clock, but not so mr. john morgan, nor did he call at any hour during the day. but soon after o'clock the next day he made his appearance, but being so stupidly drunk we gave him some money and told him to call again to-morrow. and he did, but still so muddled that we could make nothing out of him, so we somewhat curtly dismissed him and returned to brighton. the next day the letter--of which we give a _verbatim et literatim_ copy--was received and then forwarded on to us. great peter street westminister, s.w. saturday the th of march . my dear and kind sir:--i return you my most sincere and heartfelt thanks for the kindness i received from you and deeply i regret if i caused you any displeasure the fact is i have been greatly put about and you having been so kind as to give me refreshments it overpowered me i fell and hurt myself. and i am now destitute without a penny in the world or a friend to help me. i feel as though i offended you i hope not i think by the little conversation we had i may be able to please you i have been considering in my doleful moments matters of importance if my kind and good friend you can favour me with a line this saturday evening i will be most grateful i shall not go out waiting to hear from you i am placed in a most sad position accept my thanks write me a line in answer to this befriend me if it is possible and i will make all right and with gratitude, anxiously waiting your kind and i trust favourable reply. [signature: your hum{ble} servt john morgan] charles hindley, esq barnard's inn holborn w.c. having no desire to incur the expense of another journey to london in the matter, and believing that we had obtained sufficient information on the subject, we published, in the year , a limited number of copies of our work under the title of:-- curiosities of street literature: comprising "cocks," or "catchpennies," a large and curious assortment of street drolleries, squibs, histories, comic stories in prose and verse, broadsides on the royal family, political litanies, dialogues, catechisms, acts of parliament, street political papers. a variety of "ballads on a subject," _dying speeches and confessions_, to which is attached the all-important and necessary affectionate copy of verses, as "come, all you feeling-hearted christians, wherever you may be, attention give to these few lines, and listen unto me; it's of this cruel murder, to you i will unfold, the bare recital of the same will make your blood run cold." "what hast here? ballads? i love a ballad in print, or a life; for then we are sure they are true."--_shakespeare._ "there's nothing beats a stunning good murder, after all."--_experiences of a running patterer._ london: reeves and turner , strand, . curiosities of street literature. guaranteed only four hundred and fifty six copies printed, namely,-- £ s. d. on fine toned demy to published at on large post to, printed on one side of the paper only " on fine french linear writing paper, printed on one side only, and in imitation of the catnachian tea-like paper of old " on yellow demy to paper " --- [symbol: pointing hand] each copy of each edition numbered. our work on the curiosities of street literature soon ran out of print. but we continued to gather from time to time fresh information on the subject of the "two catnachs--john and james," and in the early part of we determined on publishing a work, to be entitled "the life and times of james catnach--late of seven dials--ballad monger." and for the purpose of obtaining the verification, amendment, or denial to the several scraps of information we had obtained, we wrote to our old friend, mr. john morgan, on the subject, and from him we received the letters that follow:-- no. , model cottages, little st. anne's lane, great peter street, westminster, london, s.w. _ th february, ._ sir, i received your letter this morning: i have removed to above address two years and seven months, i have been in bed seven weeks suffering from bronchitis; but am now recovering and shall get up to-day, but the doctor will not permit me to go out. whatever you may require i am ready and willing to do to the utmost of my abilities, and be happy to serve you, and much regret i have not the strength to venture to ---- street. if anything can be done by letter or otherwise, i will willingly attend to your request, your reply will greatly oblige, [signature: your hum{ble} servt john morgan] p.s.--please excuse the illegible scribble as i write this in bed. charles hindley, esq., , rose hill terrace, brighton. no. , model cottages, little st. ann's lane, great peter street, westminster, london, s.w. _ th february, ._ sir, i have just received yours, p.m., and in reply i beg to say that when i came to london in catnach's father was not living. catnach, his mother, and sister julia the youngest, resided at , monmouth court, the old woman and julia worked at a small hand press--i joined him about --his father died before.--i understood julia went astray--the mother died about . anne ryle was the widow of an officer: a waterloo man--with one child--had a pension. catnach had but little type, and no stock to speak of: he had a sister at portsea the wife of a mate of a ship in harbour, and kept a song-shop. his mother lived with him or years.--i understand about the "horses-heads." cox and kean, i forget except the title and chorus:-- cox _versus_ kean; or little breeches. "with his ginger tail he did assail, and did the prize obtain, this merry little wanton bantam cock of drury lane-- little breeches." ann stanton was tried for cutting the cock's head off there was no verses. as regards the sausages, catnach printed a few lines on a quarter-sheet, that caused a great uproar, he was taken to bow street. catnach had six months. there was no verses, it was quickly done. he printed the life of mother cummins, of dyot street--now, george street, and that was knocked into "pye" in quick sticks. there was a change after he went to alnwick in northumberland, where he carried a small press and printed the state of the poll every day, while there he took up his freedom.[ ] he came home and printed "cubitt's treadmill":-- "and we're all treading, tread, tread, treading, and we're all treading at fam'd brixton mill." and kept going forward--retired and went to barnet, left the business to james paul and ann ryle. that is many years ago. i seldom go near the seven dials, perhaps once in , , , or six months. i remember many occurrances but years is a long time, i have just entered my th year. anything you require as far as i can i will send and remain, [signature: your hum{ble} servt john morgan] charles hindley, esq., , rose hill terrace, brighton. model cottages, little ann's lane, great peter street, westminster, london, s.w. _ th february, ._ dear sir:-- if i was to go back and think of passing events it would fill a volume. first in --catnach then being very poor--at the death of george the third, and the duke of kent he printed an elegy: "mourn, britons mourn! your sons deplore, our royal sovereign is now no more." then comes the election for westminster: burdett, hobhouse, and lamb. he had a song:-- "oh, cammy hobby is the man, and so is daddy sir franky, o; the hon. w. lamb is going mad and kicking like a donkey, o." "oh, the naughty lamb-- the miserable sinner, o we'll have him roast and boil'd and cut him up for dinner, o." during the whole time of the election party spirit ran very high. a real lamb's head with a real rat in its mouth, was stuck upon the top of a pole. from the rat's tail hung a cock's comb. on the lamb's head was placed a lawyer's wig, surmounted with a fool's cap. on a board immediately below the head, was inscribed in front--"behold the ratting lamb, with a cock's comb at his tail." on the other side, the inscription was-- "if silly lambs will go ratting, 'tis fit they get this sort of batting."[ ] then came the dog's meat man-founded on fact:-- in gray's inn lane, not long ago. an old maid lived a life of woe; she was fifty-three, with a face like tan, when she fell in love with a dogs'-meat man. much she loved this dogs'-meat man, he was a good-looking dogs'-meat man; her roses and lilies were turn'd to tan, when she fell in love wi' the dogs'-meat man. every morning when he went by, whether the weather was wet or dry, and right opposite her door he'd stand, and cry "dogs'-meat," did this dogs'-meat man. then her cat would run out to the dogs'-meat man, and rub against the barrow of the dogs'-meat man, as right opposite to her door he'd stand, and cry "dogs' meat," did this dogs'-meat man. he said his customers, good lord! owed him a matter of two pound odd; and she replied, it was quite scan- dalous to cheat such a dogs'-meat man. "if i had but the money," says the dogs'-meat man, "i'd open a tripe-shop," says the dogs'-meat man, "and i'd marry you to-morrow."--she admired the plan, and she lent a _five-pound note_ to the dogs'-meat man. he pocketed the money and went away, she waited for him all next day, but he never com'd; and then she began to think she was diddled by the dogs'-meat man; she went to seek this dogs'-meat man, but she couldn't find the dogs'-meat man; some friend gave her to understan' he'd got a wife and seven children--this dogs'-meat man. mother cummins lived and kept brothels in dyot street, bloomsbury square, after, and still called george street, named after the prince regent george th, at that time "beggar's opera" where the prince and nobles resorted was at the rose and crown, church lane, st. giles. catnach printed her life. in the beggar's opera, were assembled matchmakers, beggars, prigs and all the lowest of the low. there was old black billy waters, with his wooden leg, dancing and playing his fiddle, and singing:-- polly will you marry me--polly don't you cry, polly come to bed with me; and get a little boy. some were dipping matches, some boiling potatoes and salt herrings, some swearing, some dancing--all manners of fun, _&c._ then comes queen caroline's trial; catnach gets out a song:-- as i walked down the greenwich-road one evening in june, i never saw so fine a sight as on that afternoon. i never saw so fine a sight, or, one half so good, as for to see queen caroline supported by a wood. that wood shall never be cut down, but stand for ever more; and he'll protect our innocent queen sweet caroline on our shore. which was followed by a skit on george ivth called:-- "the great babe in a mess." then another on queen caroline's _crin con_ case with bergami who couldn't _remember_ nothing at all. "bergami, the _non mi recordo_." [illustration] who are you? "_non mi recordo._" what countryman are you--a foreigner or an englishman? "_non mi recordo._" there was something fresh everyday until the end of the trial. catnach then prints some "papers" belonging to j. pitts, printer, gt. saint andrew-street, which causes a flare-up and a bother. then comes the sheet of "horses heads" which heads were like eldon, peel, canning, &c. just before they were out mr. rockcliff, a printer in old gravel lane, radcliff-highway sends for me--there was bottles of whisky. rockcliff had engaged with a man called oliver cromwell to get him one of the first sheets printed off catnach's press of the "horses heads" and he would give him half-a-crown. rockcliff then requested me to bring him the first sheet of "horses heads" and get the half-a-crown. i went and got the sheet and meets oliver cromwell going into catnach's as i came out, so i got the half-a-crown. rockcliff copies the sheet, then engaged with lowe the printer in compton-street to supply all the west-end. so it went on and made plenty of bother between them. catnach got on like a house on fire printing religious sheets, then came the murder of william weare esq. by john thurtell, hunt and probert. i remember all that affair well,--then the execution of thurtell. a twelve-month after probert was hanged for horsestealing. then came the trial of henry fauntleroy a banker in berner's street oxford street executed for forgery. then came corder and maria marten and the red barn, so that is the way catnach got on from a poor man to be a gentleman. there is many little things i may think of but close for the present and remain:-- [signature: your hum{ble} servt john morgan] , model cottages, little st. ann's lane, great peter street, westminster, london. _ th march, ._ sir, i received yours. my recollection is not so good as i would wish. i think to the best of my recollection in there were some old men who had been forty-years in the streets at that time, their names were old jack smith, tom caton, old jack rush, tom anderson and a few others. when they wanted anything they made up fresh reports, and things were done without the least hesitation. as respects mr. pizzy the pork butcher, it was some of these men that went to blackman street, clare market, and created an uproar about the sausages, crowds assembled, and windows were broken, they were charged with rioting and taken to bow street, before--as they told me, sir richard burnie, and i think mr. minshull. catnach was sent to clerkenwell for trial, and was afterwards sentenced to six months, and he served the full time. then there was the trial of the four poor irishmen for coining, in the first year of the mayorality of the late sir matthew wood, and a lot of other things which i think would answer the purpose. about twenty-six years ago henry mayhew sent for me, and he began a work something like yours, but by some means it stopped. there is matters that would help to fill up a book without going to much expense. [signature: your hum{ble} servt john morgan] charles hindley, esq., , rose hill terrace, brighton. at this date we were through the instrumentality of mrs. paul, widow of mr. james paul--formerly in the service of catnach, introduced to mrs. elizabeth benton, the last surviving daughter of john and mary catnach. mr. benton was assistant treasurer, and box-book keeper to mr. alfred bunn, of covent garden and drury lane theatres, mrs. benton, at the time being wardrobe-mistress and _costumier_. at one period mr. and mrs. benton lived with mr. bunn in st james' place, st. james' street, mrs. benton acting in the capacity of housekeeper. during several seasons mr. benton was also treasurer for the proprietors of vauxhall gardens, afterwards he filled the same office for e. t. smith--_dazzle smith!_ at cremorne gardens. he died abroad in . the interview we had with mrs. benton led up to receiving the two letters that follow:-- , sonderburg road, seven sisters' road, holloway. london. _november, th, ._ dear sir, in reply to your letter, in which you ask if i know where my father and mother were married, i regret to say i do not know for certain if it was in edinburgh or berwick-on-tweed, but i am certain it was not in alnwick. * * * * * i shall feel obliged for the [alnwick] journal, and also for the register of baptisms. i always understood that my father was a descendant of catnach, king of the picts. [signature: i remain yours & e benton] p.s.--the paper has not arrived--shall be glad to hear from you by return of post. charles hindley, esq., , rose hill terrace, brighton. , sonderburg road, seven sisters' road, holloway, london. _november , ._ dear sir, i am sorry i have not answered your letter before, but i have been very ill. i am sorry i can give you no more information than i have already given you, but about mrs. ryle and mr. ---- i cannot exactly say, and as my niece mrs. harding was but a girl when her uncle died i should not like to apply to her as it would be painful. my father was dead when the battle of waterloo was fought, but was in alnwick at the battle of trafalgar, and for some time after. my father had residences in london. . (only a shop) in wardour street, soho square, and ditto also gerrard street, and also in charlotte street, fitzroy square (apartments). my father had a severe illness, also a fever of which he died. i should feel very much obliged if you could find me a copy of the hermit of warkworth, and i will willingly pay for it, and also blair's grave. i am very much obliged for the registers, and if i can supply you with further information i will do so with pleasure. i have not heard from mr. [mark] smith. [signature: i remain yours &c. e benton] p.s.--i received the paper [alnwick journal] with thanks. c. hindley, esq., , rose hill terrace, brighton. it was at this particular date of our history-- --that we had the good fortune to get acquainted with mr. george skelly, of alnwick--who, like ourselves, is possessed of the _cacoethes scribendi_, and was at the time supplying, _con amore_, an article to the _alnwick journal_, entitled "john and james catnach," which we found to contain certain information relative to the elder catnach, and also of the earlier portion of the life of james, of which we had no previous knowledge. at our solicitation to be allowed to make a selection from the same, we received a most courteous and gentlemanly letter, which, in addition to containing several pieces of information and answers to many queries we had put to mr. skelly, he wound up by saying:--"you have full liberty to make use of anything that i have written, and it will afford me much pleasure if i can further your intentions in any way." from that date, mr. george skelly continued to correspond with us on the subject of the "two catnachs," nearly up to the last moment of our going to press with our own "life and times of james catnach," and to him we are greatly indebted for much of the information therein contained. and it was at his suggestion that we wrote the following letter to the _alnwick journal_--mr. skelly at the same time furnishing the local paragraph. letter to the editor. _to the editor of the alnwick journal._ , rose hill terrace, brighton, june th, . sir,--your townsman, mr. george skelly, in the concluding chapter of his excellent article of "john and james catnach," makes mention of my name as being engaged in preparing for publication "the life and times of james catnach, formerly of seven dials, printer of ballads, &c." such being the fact, i shall therefore be glad if you would allow me sufficient space in the _alnwick journal_, to ask your readers and correspondents who possess any additional facts, sayings, doings, or letters of the two catnachs--john and james--to supply me with the same, when i shall have much pleasure in assigning to any such contributions a proper chronological place in my work, and of acknowledging the source of the same, while all documents or books will be faithfully returned by yours, &c., &c., charles hindley. * * * * * john and james catnach.--it will be seen by a correspondence in another page that mr. charles hindley, of brighton, is preparing for publication the "life and times of james catnach," and he respectfully solicits from our readers any facts and scraps they may be possessed of, also the loan of any letters or books suitable for the extention of the life of the celebrated and withal eccentric printer, who, although a native of alnwick, settled in london, and occupied a peculiar position for upwards of a quarter of a century in the seven dials district. we trust that our correspondent may be enabled to add to his all ready large stock of material in hand a few more items, by the publication of his letter in our columns. mr. hindley's work, will, it is expected, be published by messrs. reeves and turner, of the strand, london, during the coming autumn. the above letter to the _alnwick journal_ was the means of obtaining another valuable correspondent--mr. george h. thompson, also of alnwick, who volunteered his services to aid and assist, to the best of his time and ability, in supplying all the information he possessed or could glean from his friends and acquaintances in the good old borough of alnwick, or the county at large. and _inter alia_ copied out _verbatim_ from the parish register of baptisms in st. michael's church all the entries in connection with the family of john and mary catnach and which will be found _in extenso_ at pages - of this work. mr. george skelly and mr. g. h. thompson are fortunate by their residence in alnwick in having had the acquaintance and friendship of the late mr. mark smith--james catnach's fellow apprentice, mr. thomas robertson, mr. tate, the local historian, and several other _alnwick-folk_. and they have made the best possible use of the circumstance to supply us with information on the subject of our enquiry. recently mr. geo. skelly has forwarded to us an original trade invoice of john catnach of which we here append a _fac-simile_ copy:-- [illustration] _alnwick_ _mr. smart_, _bought of_ j. catnach, . _july ._ _£ s. d._ _printing bills_ ,, ---------- [signature: paid j. catnach] we have now brought up the history of our pursuit of knowledge to the eve of the publication of the life and times of james catnach--late of seven dials, ballad-monger--which was first announced in in the manner following. ye life of jemmy catnach. [illustration] now, my friends, you have here just printed and pub--lish--ed, the full, true, and particular account of the life, trial, character, confession, condemnation, and behaviour, together with an authentic copy of the last will and testament: or dying speech, of that eccentric individual "old jemmy catnach," late of the _seven dials_, printer, publisher, toy-book manufacturer, dying-speech merchant, and ballad-monger. here, you may read how he was bred and born the son of a printer, in the ancient borough of alnwick, which is in northumberlandshire. how he came to london to seek his fortune. how he obtained it by printing and publishing children's books, the chronicling of doubtful scandals, fabulous duels between ladies of fashion, "cooked" assassinations, and sudden deaths of eminent individuals, apocryphal elopements, real or catch-penny accounts of murders, impossible robberies, delusive suicides, dark deeds and public executions, to which was usually attached the all-important and necessary "sorrowful lamentations," or, "copy of affectionate verses," which, according to the established custom, the criminal composed, in the condemned cell, the night before his execution. yes, my customers, in this book you'll read how jemmy catnach made his fortune in monmouth court, which is to this day in the seven dials, which is in london. not only will you read how he did make his fortune, but also what he did and what he didn't do with it after he had made it. you will also read how "old jemmy" set himself up as a fine gentleman:--james catnach es--quire. and how he didn't like it when he had done it. and how he went back again to dear old monmouth court, which is in the seven dials aforesaid. and how he languished, and languishing, did die--leaving all his old mouldy coppers behind him--and how being dead, he was buried in highgate cemetery. furthermore, my ready-money customers, you are informed that there are only copies of the work print-ed and pub-lish-ed, viz., namely that is to say;-- copies on crown vo, at / each. copies on demy vo., at /- each. london: reeves and turner, , strand, w.c. . the seven dials!--jemmy catnach and street literature are, as it were, so inseparably bound together that we now propose to give a short history of the former to enable us to connect our own history with the later:-- the seven dials were built for wealthy tenants, and evelyn, in his _diary_, , notes: "i went to see the building near st. giles's, where seven dials make a star from a doric pillar placed in the middle of a circular area, in imitation of venice." the attempt was not altogether in vain. this part of the parish has ever since "worn its _dirt_ with a difference." there is an air of shabby gentility about it. the air of the footman or waiting-maid can be recognised through the tatters, which are worn with more assumption than those of their unsophisticated neighbours. "you may break, you may shatter the vase if you will; but the scent of the roses will hang round it still." the seven dials are thus described in gay's trivia:-- "where famed st. giles's ancient limits spread, an in-railed column rears its lofty head; here to seven streets, seven dials count their day, and from each other catch the circling ray; here oft the peasant, with inquiring face, bewildered, trudges on from place to place; he dwells on every sign with stupid gaze-- enters the narrow alley's doubtful maze-- tries every winding court and street in vain, and doubles o'er his weary steps again." this column was removed in july, , on the supposition that a considerable sum of money was lodged at the base; but the search was ineffectual. charles knight, in his "london," writes thus of seven dials:-- "it is here that the literature of st. giles's has fixed its abode; and a literature the parish has of its own, and that, as times go, of a very respectable standing in point of antiquity. in a letter from letitia pilkington, to the demure author of 'sir charles grandison,' and published by the no less exemplary and irreproachable mrs. barbauld, the lady informs her correspondent that she has taken apartments in great white lion street, and stuck up a bill intimating that all who have not found 'reading and writing come by nature,' and who had had no teacher to make up the defect by art, might have 'letters written here.' with the progress of education, printing presses have found their way into st. giles's, and what with literature and a taste for flowers and birds, there is much of the 'sweet south' about the seven dials harmonising with the out-of-door habits of its occupants. it was here--in monmouth court, a thoroughfare connecting monmouth street with little earl street--that the late eminent mr. catnach developed the resources of his genius and trade. it was he who first availed himself of greater mechanical skill and a larger capital than had previously been employed in the department of the trade, to substitute--for the excrable tea-paper, blotched with lamp-black and oil, which characterised the old broadside and ballad printing--tolerably white paper and real printer's ink. but more than that, it was he who first conceived and carried into effect, the idea of publishing collections of songs by the yard, and giving to purchasers, for the small sum of one penny (in former days the cost of a single ballad), strings of poetry, resembling in shape and length the list of don juan's mistresses, which leporello unrolls on the stage before donna anna. he was no ordinary man, catnach; he patronised original talents in many a bard of st giles's and is understood to have accumulated the largest store of broadsides, last dying speeches, ballads and other stock-in-trade of the flying stationer's upon record." douglas jerrold in his article on the ballad singer, published in "heads of the people; or portraits of the english"-- , writes thus of seven dials and its surroundings:-- "the public ear has become dainty, fastidious, hypercritical; hence the ballad-singer languishes and dies. only now and then, his pipings are to be heard * * * with the fall of napoleon, declined the english ballad-singer. during the war, it was his peculiar province to vend halfpenny historical abridgments to his country's glory; recommending the short poetic chronicle by some familiar household air, that fixed it in the memory of the purchaser, who thus easily got hatred of the french by heart, with a new assurance of his own invulnerability. no battle was fought, no vessel taken or sunken, that the triumph was not published, proclaimed in the national gazette of our ballad-singer. if he were not the clear silver trump of fame, he was at least her tin horn. it was he who bellowed music into news, which, made to jingle, was thus, even to the weakest understanding, rendered portable. it was his narrow strips of history that adorned the garrets of the poor; it was he who made them yearn towards their country, albiet to them so rough and niggard a mother. napoleon lost waterloo, and the english ballad-singer not only lost his greatest prerogative, but was almost immediately assailed by foreign rivals, who had well-nigh played him dumb. little thought the ballad-singer, when he crowed forth the crowning triumphs of the war, and in his sweetest possible modulations breathed the promised blessings of a golden peace, that he was then, swan-like, singing his own knell; that he did but herald the advent of his own provençal destroyers. oh muse! descend and say, did no omen tell the coming of the fall? did no friendly god give warning to the native son of song? burned the stars clearly, tranquilly in heaven,--or shot they madly across primrose-hill, the middlesex parnassus? * * * * * evening had gathered o'er saint giles's, and seven dials. so tranquil was the season, even publishers were touched. catnach and pitts sat silent in their shops; placing their hands in breeches-poke, with that serenity which pockets best convey, they looked around their walls--walls more richly decked than if hung with triumphs of sidonian looms, arrayed with bayeux stitchings; walls, where ten thousand thousand ballads--strips harmonious, yet silent as apollo's unbraced strings,--hung pendulous, or crisply curling, like john braham's hair. catnach and pitts, the tuneful masters of the gutter-choir, serenely looked, yet with such comprehensive glance, that look did take their stock. suddenly, more suddenly than e'er the leaves in hornsey wood were stirred by instant blast, the thousand thousand ballads swung and rustled on the walls; yet wind there was not, not the lightest breath. still like pendants fluttering in a northern breeze, the ballads streamed towards catnach, and towards pitts! amazing truth--yet more; each ballad found a voice! 'old towler' faintly growled; 'nancy dawson' sobbed and sighed; and, 'bright chanticleer' crowed weakly, dolorously, as yet in chickenhood, and smitten with the pip. at the same instant, the fiddle, the antique viol of roger scratch, fell from its garret-peg, and lay shivered, even as glass. a cloud fell upon seven dials; dread and terror chilled her many minstrels: and why--and wherefore? at that dread moment, a ministrel from the sunny south, with barrel-organ, leapt on dover beach! seven dials felt the shock: her troubadours, poor native birds, were to be out-carrolled and out-quavered, by italian opera retailed by penn'orths to them, from the barrel-organs: and prompt to follow their masters, they let the english ballad singer sing unheard. the ballad-singer has lost his occupation; yet should he not pass away unthanked, unrecompensed. we have seen him a useful minister in rude society; we have heard him a loud-mouthed advocate of party zeal, and we have seen him almost ground into silence by the southern troubadour. yet was he the first music-seller in the land. ye well-stocked, flourishing vendors of fashionable scores, deign to cast a look through plate glass at your poor, yet great original, bare-footed and in rags, singing, unabashed, amidst london wagon-wheels: behold the true decendant of the primative music-seller." charles dickens, as boz, long since "sketched" the seven dials, and at the same time and place given us his--"meditations in monmouth street":-- "seven dials! the region of song and poetry--first effusions, and last dying speechees: hallowed by the names of catnach and pitts--names that will entwine themselves with costermongers, and barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and capital punishment be unknown." several years ago mr. albert smith, who lived at chertsey, discovered in his neighbourhood part of the seven dials--the column doing duty as a monument to a royal duchess--when he described the circumstance in a pleasant paper, entitled "some news of a famous old fellow," in his "town and country magazine." the communication is as follows:-- "let us now quit the noisome mazes of st. giles's and go out and away into the pure leafy country. seventeen or eighteen miles from town, in the county of surrey, is the little village of weybridge. one of the lions to be seen at weybridge is oatlands, with its large artificial grotto and bath-room, which is said--but we cannot comprehend the statement--to have cost the duke of newcastle, who had it built, £ , . the late duchess of york died at oatlands, and lies in a small vault under weybridge church, wherein there is a monument, by chantrey, to her memory. she was an excellent lady, well-loved by all the country people about her, and when she died they were anxious to put up some sort of a tribute to her memory. but the village was not able to offer a large some of money for this purpose. the good folks did their best, but the amount was still very humble, so they were obligated to dispense with the service of any eminent architect, and build up only such a monument as their means could compass. someone told them that there was a column to be sold cheap in a stonemason's yard, which might answer their purpose. it was accordingly purchased; a coronet was placed upon its summit; and the memorial was set up on weybridge green, in front of the ship inn, at the junction of the roads leading to oatlands, to shepperton lock, and to chertsey. this column turned out to be the original one from seven dials. the stone on which the dials were engraved or fixed, was sold with it. the poet gay, however, was wrong when he spoke of its seven faces. it is hexagonal in its shape; this is accounted for by the fact that two of the streets opened into one angle. it was not wanted to assist in forming the monument, but was turned into a stepping stone, near the adjoining inn, to assist the infirm in mounting their horses, and there it now lies, having sunk by degrees into the earth; but its original form can still be easily surmised. it may be about three feet in diameter. the column itself is about thirty feet high and two feet in diameter, displaying no great architectural taste. it is surmounted by a coronet, and the base is enclosed by a light iron railing. an appropriate inscription on one side of the base indicates its erection in the year , on the others are some lines to the memory of the duchess. relics undergo strange transpositions. the obelisk from the mystic solitudes of the nile to the centre of the place de la concorde, in bustling paris--the monuments of nineveh to the regions of great russell street--the frescoes from the long, dark, and silent pompeii to the bright and noisy naples--all these are odd changes. but in proportion to their importance, not much behind them is that old column from the crowded dismal regions of st. giles to the sunny tranquil green of weybridge." we are now approaching--"the beginning of the end"--of our history. we were not taken by surprise as we know that "coming events cast their shadows before," and that:-- often do the spirits of great events stride on before the events, and in to-day already walks to-morrow. therefore we were well prepared to read in the newspapers of october, , the following paragraph:-- the old-established printing and publishing house formerly occupied by james catnach, , monmouth-court, seven dials, will soon be amongst the lost landmarks of london. the metropolitan board of works have purchased the house, and it is to be pulled down to make the new street from leicester-square to new oxford-street. the business of the literature of the street was founded by james catnach in , who retired in . the ballads and broadsides he printed, many of them illustrated with cuts by bewick, helped to furnish the people with news and political and social ballads for generations. all that is fortold in the above has since taken place, monmouth-court and the house and shop wherein old jemmy catnach established the "catnach press" in the year has disappeared to make way for the "new thoroughfare" from leicester-square to new oxford street, and:-- the catnach press removed by mr. w. s. fortey--catnach's successor--to great st. andrew-street, bloomsbury, w.c. _o tempora! o mores!_ [illustration: the history of the catnach press, and the two catnachs, john & james, father & son, _printers_, - .] [illustration] thomas bewick, thomas bewick died at his house on the windmill-hills, gateshead, november the th, , in the seventy-sixth year of his age, and on the th he was buried in the family burial-place at ovingham, where his parents, wife, and brother were interred. [illustration] the catnach press. in addition to the full title of our work--"the history of the catnach press"--the two catnachs--john and james--father and son, we deem it necessary to incidentally introduce into our pages some notice of alnwick, an ancient borough, market-town and parish of northumberland, also a few passing remarks on the life and doings of mr. william davison, who, in conjunction with the elder catnach as a business partner and subsequent successor, employed thomas bewick--an english artist, who imparted the first impulse to the art of wood-engraving--for many of their publications. of the early life of john catnach, (_kat-nak_), the father, we have little information. he was born in , at burntisland, a royal burgh and parish of fifeshire, scotland, where his father was possessed of some powder-mills. the family afterwards removed to edinburgh, when their son john was bound apprentice to his uncle, sandy robinson, the printer. after having duly served out his indentures, he worked for some short time in edinburgh, as a journeyman, then started in a small business of his own in berwick-upon-tweed, where he married mary hutchinson, who was a native of dundee, a seaport-town in scotland. while at berwick a son and heir, john, was born. in they removed their business to alnwick, and during their residence there seven children were born to them and from the register of baptisms in st. michael's church we glean that four of them were baptised at one time, viz., september , , and there described as "of john catnach, printer, and mary his wife: dissenter."[?] john catnach had been brought up in the roman catholic faith, and his wife as a presbyterian. the following is taken _verbatim_ from the parish register:-- sep{t.} , . margaret, daug{r.} of john catnach, printer, and mary his wife. born dec{r.} {th}, . dissenter. james, son of john catnach, printer, and mary his wife. born august {th}, . dissenter. mary, daug{r.} of john catnach, printer, and mary his wife. born february {th}, . dissenter. nancy, daug{r.} of john catnach, printer, and mary his wife. born sep{r.} {nd}, . dissenter. may , . elizabeth catnach. born march , , {th} daughter of john catnach, printer, native of burnt island, shire of fife, by his wife mary hutchinson, native of dundee, angus shire, scotland. dec{r.} , . isabella catnach. born nov{r.} , . th daughter of jn{o.} catnach, stationer, nat. of scotland, by his wife, mary hutchinson, nat. of dundee, angus shire, scotland. march , . jane catnach, {th} daughter of john catnach, printer, native of edinburgh (_sic_) by his wife mary hutchinson, native of dundee, scotland. to the above we have to add that there were two sons--john, born to john and mary catnach. john i. who was born at berwick-upon-tweed, died august , , aged years and months, and we find him duly recorded in the register of deaths. john ii., whose name appears at the end of the inscription on a tombstone in alnwick churchyard, and of which further mention will be made in another portion of our work, died, presumably unbaptized, march , , aged months. john catnach was not long a resident in the borough of alnwick before he became acquainted with many of the principal tradesmen in the place. naturally he was of a free-and-easy disposition, and, like many of his kinsman on the borders, was particularly fond of the social glass. the latter practice he allowed to grow upon him in such a way that it ultimately interfered very much with his business prospects, and finally hastened his death. the shop that he commenced business in, was situated in narrowgate-street, and adjoining the old half-moon hostelry. in gaining access to the place one had to ascend a flight of steps. whilst in this shop he secured a fair amount of patronage, and the specimens of printing that emanated from his press are of such a character as to testify to his qualifications and abilities in the trade which he adopted as his calling. he possessed a fond regard for the traditions and customs which for centuries had been so closely associated with the border country. when the printing press was first introduced into alnwick is not exactly known; but that it was considerably before the time of catnach is certain. john vint, the bookseller and author of the "burradon ghost," for several years used a press for printing purposes in the town, and thomas lindsay carried on a similar business at a still earlier period. john catnach had a great relish for printing such works as would admit of expensive embellishments, which, at the time he commenced business, were exceedingly rare. the taste he displayed in the execution of his work will be best exemplified in examining some of the printed editions of the standard works which emanated from his press; and in no instance is this more characteristically set forth than in those finely printed books which are so beautifully illustrated by the masterly hand of thomas bewick and his accomplished and talented pupil, luke clennell. notably among which are:-- .--"the beauties of natural history. selected from buffon's history of quadrupeds, &c. alnwick: j. catnach, [n. d.] _circa_ , mo., pp. . with cuts by bewick."--another edition. published and sold by the booksellers. by wilson and spence, york, and j. catnach, printer, alnwick. (price _s._ _d._ sewed, or _s._ half-bound.) [n. d.] _circa_ . the embellishments of "the beauties of natural history" form an unique and valuable collection. they are very small and were done at an exceedingly low price, yet every bird and animal is exquisitely brought out in the minutest detail; whilst many of the illustrations which served as "tail pieces" are gems of art. .--"poems by percival stockdale. with cuts by thomas bewick. alnwick: printed by j. catnach. ." .--"the hermit of warkworth. a northumberland ballad. in three fits. by dr. thos. percy, bishop of dromore. with designs by mr. craig; and engraved on wood by mr. bewick. alnwick: printed and sold by j. catnach. sold by lackington, allen, and co., london; constable and co., edinburgh; and hodgson, newcastle. ." the arms of the duke of northumberland precedes the dedication, thus:-- [illustration] to her grace frances julia, duchess of northumberland, _this edition of_ the hermit of warkworth, is respectfully inscribed by her grace's obliged and humble servant, j. catnach alnwick, _october, _. .--a second edition; of which a few copies were printed on extra thick paper, royal vo., to match with some of his other works, illustrated by bewick, pp. xiv., , with cuts. at the end of the poem are a postcript, a description of the hermitage of warkworth, warkworth castle, alnwick castle, alnwick abbey, and a descriptive ride in hulne park, alnwick: printed and sold by j. catnach. sold by wilson and spence, york. . the hermit of warkworth. [illustration] "and now, attended by their host, the hermitage they view'd." [illustration] with hospitable haste he rose, and wak'd his sleeping fire: and snatching up a lighted brand, forth hied the reverend sire. * * * * [illustration] he fought till more assistance came; the scots were overthrown; thus freed me, captive, from their bands, to make me more his own. the illustrations of "the hermit of warkworth" are, upon the whole, very creditable, and are well calculated to enhance the value of the book, but as works of art some few of them fall far short of many of craig or bewick's other productions. john catnach also printed and published a series of juvenile works, as "the royal play book: or, children's friend. a present for little masters and misses." "the death and burial of cock robin, &c. adorned with cuts.--which in many cases were the early productions of thomas bewick.--alnwick: sold wholesale and retail by j. catnach, at his toy-book manufactory." [illustration] in the year , john catnach took an apprentice--a lad named mark smith, of whom more anon; a few months afterwards he entered into partnership with a mr. william davison, who was a native of ponteland, in the county of northumberland, but he duly served his apprenticeship as a chemist and druggist to mr. hind, of newcastle-upon-tyne, and for whom he ever cherished a fond regard. the union was not of long duration--certainly under two years--but it is very remarkable that two such men should have been brought together, for experience has shown that they were both morally and socially, the very opposite of each other. during the partnership: mr. davison held his business of chemist, &c., in bondgate-street; while the printing and publishing continued at narrowgate-street, and among the works published by the firm of catnach and davison we may record:-- "the minstrel; or, the progress of genuis. in two parts. with some other poems. by james beattie, ll.d. with sixteen cuts from designs by mr. thurston; and engraved on wood by mr. clennel, alnwick. printed by catnach and davison. sold by the booksellers in england and scotland. . mo. and royal vo., pp. ." "the grave. a poem. by robert blair. to which is added gray's elegy. in a country church yard. with notes moral and explanatory. alnwick: printed by catnach and davison. sold by the booksellers in england, scotland, and ireland. . mo., pp. xiv., . with a frontispiece and other cuts by thomas bewick." [illustration: _t. bewick._] the grave. "prone, on the lowly grave of the dear man she drops; whilst busy meddling memory, in barbarous succession, musters up the past endearments of their softer hours tenacious of its theme." after the dissolution of the strange partnership, mr. davison still prosecuted with vigour the several departments of the business; for although reared to the prescribing of physics, he had a fine taste and relish for the book trade, and the short time that he was with catnach enabled him to acquire a good amount of valuable information on this subject. be this as it may, he soon laid the basis of a large and lucrative business. about the first work mr. davison issued on his own account was:-- [illustration] the repository of select literature. being an elegant assemblage of curious, scarce, entertaining and instructive pieces in prose and verse. adorned with beautiful engravings by bewick, &c. alnwick: printed by w. davison. sold by the booksellers in england and scotland. . this work is a fine specimen of provincial book-printing; its pages are adorned with some of bewick's excellent cuts. there is one that we would particularly refer to, and that is "shepherd lubin." in size it is very small, but, like most of bewick's pieces, sufficiently large to show the inimitable skill of the artist. the picture tells its own tale:-- "young lubin was a shepherd's boy, who watched a rigid master's sheep, and many a night was heard to sigh, and may a day was seen to weep." [illustration: _and for whole days would wander in those places she had been used to walk with henry._] "the history of crazy jane, by sarah wilkinson, with a frontispiece by bewick: alnwick. printed by w. davison; _and sold by all the principal booksellers in england and scotland_. ." [illustration: "willie brew'd a peck o'maut."] "the poetical works of robert burns. engravings on wood by bewick, from designs by thurston. alnwick: printed by catnach and davison, ." and london: printed for t. cadell and davis, strand, . with cuts previously used in davison's publications. [illustration] "many of the engravings produced for burns' poems, are of a very superior class, and cannot be too highly commended."--_hugo._ [illustration: "sandie and willie."] "the poetical works of robert ferguson, with his life. engravings on wood by bewick. alnwick: printed by w. davison." mr. davison, following up the actions of his former partner, had a great regard for the standard poets. previous to the issuing of the poems of ferguson they had tried to imbue a better taste into the minds of the general reader, by means of publishing nothing but what was of an elevating character. and this will be seen by examining such works as buffon, beattie, percy, burns, &c. almost simultaneously with the poems of burns appeared those of ferguson. both works are uniform in size and price--_viz_: vols., foolscap vo.-- s. in boards; they contain some of bewick's choicest and most exquisite wood-engravings. "the northumberland minstrel: a choice selection of songs. alnwick: printed by w. davison." there were only three numbers of this work published,[ ] each of which contained pages. the object of this undertaking was for the carrying out a project which at that time was becoming very popular, and consisted in bringing together in a collected form some of the best and most admired of our ballad-poetry. in fact, the object mr. davison had in view was only to extend what had been so successfully accomplished by herd, ramsay, motherwell, ritson, and others. mr. davison continued in business at alnwick up to the time of his death, in , at the ripe age of . he was by far the most enterprising printer that had settled in the north of england. his collection of wood blocks was very large, and it is hardly possible to form an adequate conception of the many hundreds of beautiful specimens which he possessed. he stated that he had paid thomas bewick upwards of five hundred pounds for various woodcut blocks. with a view of disposing of some of his surplus stock, he printed and published in to., a catalogue:--"new specimens of cast-metal ornaments and wood types, sold by w. davison. alnwick. with impressions of , cast ornaments and wood blocks, many of the latter executed by thomas bewick." this catalogue--now exceedingly rare--is of the greatest interest and utility, as it embraces a series of cuts dispersed, as mr. hugo plainly shows, among a considerable number of publications, and enables those who collect bewick's pieces to detect the hand of the artist in many of his less elaborated productions. those of our readers who desire more information as to the many books printed by w. davison, the alnwick publisher, are referred to "the bewick collector," and the supplement thereto, by the rev. thomas hugo, m.a., &c. london: - . these volumes, illustrated by upwards of two hundred and ninety cuts, comprise an elaborate descriptive list of the most complete collection yet formed of the works of the renowned wood-engravers of newcastle-upon-tyne. not only to bewick collectors, but to all persons interested in the progress of art, and especially of wood-engraving, these volumes, exhibiting chronologically the works of the fathers of that art in england, cannot fail to be of the highest interest. mr. davison printed and published a series of halfpenny books; they are not only well printed, but in addition to this it is not unusual to see them illustrated by some of thomas bewick's choicest engravings. mr. hugo possessed twenty-seven in number, the titles of which he enumerates in his "bewick collector" and the supplement thereto: adding the remarks that follow:-- "the cuts in these little publications are for the most part the same which were used by davison in the other and more important works which issued from his press. the volumes are in mo, and in typographical excellence are far in advance of all other children's books of the period of their publication with which i am acquainted." herewith we publish one of the series from our own private collection. the justness of mr. hugo's opinion will be at once seen. the guess book, a collection of _ingenious puzzles_. [illustration] alnwick: published and sold by w. davison. _price one halfpenny_, a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z & the guess book. [illustration] the moon. there was a thing a full month old, when adam was no more; but ere that thing was five weeks old, adam was years five score. _guess book._ [illustration] a cat. in almost every house i'm seen, (no wonder then i'm common), i'm neither man, nor maid, nor child, nor yet a married woman. _guess book._ [illustration] a cannon. i am the terror of mankind, my breath is flame, and by its power i urge my messenger to find a way into the strongest tower. _guess book._ [illustration] an owl. my patron is wisdom--if wisdom you prize, in me put your confidence, borrow my eyes, who into a mill-stone can see quite as far as the best of you all, by the light of a star. _guess book._ [illustration] a top. i ne'er offend thee, yet thou dost me whip, which don't amend me, though i dance and skip; when i'm upright, me you always like best, and barbarously whip me when i want rest. _guess book._ [illustration] books. with words unnumber'd i abound; in me mankind do take delight; in me much learning's to be found; yet i can neither read nor write. _guess book._ [illustration] a drum. my sides are firmly lac'd about, yet nothing is within: you'll think my head is strange indeed, being nothing else but skin. _guess book._ [illustration] a sand-glass. made of two bodies join'd, without foot or hand; and yet you will find i can both run and stand. _guess book._ [illustration] time. ever eating, never cloying, all devouring, all destroying, never finding full repast till i eat the world at last. _guess book._ [illustration] death. the gate of life, the cause of strife, the fruit of sin, when i appear, you drop a tear, and stay within. _guess book._ [illustration] a pair of shoes. to rich and poor we useful are; and yet for our reward, by both at last we're thrown away, without the least regard. _guess book._ [illustration] a squirrel. i am a busy active creature, fashion'd for the sport of nature, nimbly skip from tree to tree, under a well-wrought canopy; bid chloe then to mira tell what's my name and where i dwell. _guess book._ [illustration] a fish. though it be cold i wear no clothes, the frost and snow i never fear; i value neither shoes nor hose, and yet i wander far and near. [illustration] [illustration] [signature: john catnach] at newcastle. "there is no fooling with life, when it is once turned forty: the seeking of a fortune then is but a desperate after-game: it is a hundred to one if a man fling three sixes, and recover all; if his hand be no luckier than mine."--_cowley._ in or about the latter part of the year , john catnach, with his wife and family, left alnwick for newcastle-upon-tyne, and commenced business in a small shop in newgate-street, and among other works which he printed there, mention may be made of "the battle of chevy chase," a selection from the works of "dr. samuel johnson, in two volumes," and "the life of john thompson, mariner. written by himself: also, his divine selections, in prose and verse. _from esteemed authors._ embellished with steel engravings. newcastle: _printed for the author_. by j. catnach, newgate-street. . mo., pp. lxxvi., . with two tail-pieces by thomas bewick." john thompson, _alias_ godfried thomas leschinsky, born at riga, , was a seaman. he sailed with nelson's fleet to copenhagen, . continuing at sea he endured many hardships from severe accidents and ill health, and was at length discharged as not being fit for his majesty's service. in , while in the infirmary at newcastle, one of his legs--from old injuries, rapidly mortified and had to be amputated. subsequently, in consequence of the bones and joints of his right hand decaying, his arm was taken off below the elbow. he for years made a living out of his misfortunes and assumed piety. catnach was induced, by specious reasoning, to undertake the printing of the book, but the eleemosynary author dying just as it was all worked off but not bound, he had the whole of the stock thrown on his hands to do the best he could with. there were between fifty and sixty claims set up by persons who averred that they had in part, or whole, paid for a copy each to the author on signing his subscription list, and most of these claims were allowed on the payment of sixpence extra: the work was subscribed for at s. d., but being extended to pages more than was expected, the price was advanced to s. john catnach, at newcastle, worked attentively for awhile, but without finding his expectations realised. alas! time and the change of scene and companions had not improved the man. he contrived to get into a great amount of debt, without the least possible chance, from his irregular mode of living, of being able to pay it off. eventually, he made up his mind for the worst, and the downward course would seem to have been the only way open to him. from bad to worse, and from one extreme to the other, he rapidly drifted. the loose and irregular manner in which he had existed was beginning to tell upon his constitution. his business had been neglected, and his adventures were nearly at a climax. the wreck came, with a terrific blow; but it was not unlooked for. poor catnach was a bankrupt, and as such sent to the debtor's gaol. but just before, he had managed to send his wife and daughters to london, together with a wooden printing press, some small quantity of type, and other articles of his trade that could be hurriedly and clandestinely got together. during the five years' residence of john and mary catnach in newcastle, they had one child, isabella, burned to death, and another, julia dalton, born to them. mr. mark smith, who had been bound apprentice to john catnach, but by reason of whose removal from the borough of alnwick, the indentures had been rendered void, was then in london, serving out his time as a turnover and improver with mr. john walker, of paternoster row, and on being made acquainted with the arrival of mrs. catnach and her family, paid them a visit at their lodgings in a court leading off drury-lane, and assisted in putting up the press and arranging the other few matters and utensils in connection with their tiny printing office, there to await john catnach's release from prison and arrival in the metropolis. london life to john catnach proved very disastrous, matters never went smoothly with him. it was evident to all his friends that he had made a great mistake in leaving the north of england. mr. mark smith continued to visit the family as opportunities presented themselves. on one occasion he found them in extremely distressed circumstances, so much so, that he had to afford them some temporary relief from his slender earnings and then left the northern sojourners for the night, promising that he would return to see them at an early date. anxious to learn how they were succeeding in the crowded metropolis, it was not many days before he again visited them, but this time he found them in a sorry plight; the landlady had distrained upon their all for arrears of rent. this was an awkward predicament; but the indomitable young northumbrian, like the more burly dr. johnson of old, when his friend oliver goldsmith was similarly situated, resolved to do all he could to rescue him from the peril in which he was placed. not being prepared for a case of such pressing emergency, the full debt and costs being demanded, he was compelled to borrow the required amount of mr. matthew willoughby, a native and freeman of the borough of alnwick, then residing in london, and once more his old master was free. john catnach then removed his business to a front shop in soho, when, in the absence of work of a higher class, he had to resort to printing quarter-sheet ballads, here is the title and imprint of one example:-- [illustration] tom starboard and faithful nancy. tom starboard was a lover true, as brave a tar as ever sail'd; the duties ablest seamen do tom did, and never had fail'd. london.--printed by j. catnach, and sold wholesale and retail at no. , wardour-street, soho-square. for his wife and family he took apartments in charlotte street, fitzroy-square. again he shortly removed his business to gerrard-street, where he had hardly got his plant into working order, when on returning home on the evening of the th of august, , he had the misfortune to fall down and injure his leg. he was immediately taken to st. george's hospital, hyde-park corner, when rheumatic fever supervened, and although placed under the skilful treatment of dr. young, he never rallied, his constitution being completely broken, but by means of superior medical treatment and good nursing he lingered until the th of december in the same year, on which day he died. such is a brief _résumé_ of the latter years of john catnach's life. it is apparent that, by a little application and self-denial, this man might have made for himself a name and position in the world. he possessed all the necessary talents for bringing success within his reach. the ground which he took is the same which in after years proved to be of inestimable value to hundreds of publishers who never possessed half the amount of ability and good taste in printing and embellishing books that was centred in him. after his death, and just at the time when his widow and daughters were sunk in the greatest poverty, his son james, who in after years became so noted in street literature publications, made his way to the metropolis. it appears that this extraordinary man at one time contemplated devoting his life to rural pursuits; in fact, when a youth he served for some time as a shepherd boy, quite contrary to the wish and desire of his parents. every opportunity he could get he would run away, far across the moors and over the northumbrian mountains, and, always accompanied with his favourite dog venus, and a common-place book, in which he jotted down in rhymes and chymes his notions of a pastoral life.[ ] thus he would stay away from home for days and nights together. this project, however, was abandoned, and he commenced to serve as a printer in the employment of his father. it is rather remarkable that he and mr. mark smith [signature: mr. smith.] were both bound on the same day as apprentices to mr. john catnach, and that they afterwards worked together as "improvers" in their trade with:-- [illustration: _joseph graham, printer, alnwick._] mr. hugo, in the supplement to his "bewick collector," pp. ( ), says:--"this very beautiful cut was done by thomas bewick, sometime about the year , for a well-known alnwick printer." [signature: james catnach] "death made no conquest of this man, for now he lives in fame, though not in life." at the time james--or, as he afterwards was popularly called "_jemmy_," or, "_old jemmy_" catnach commenced business in seven dials it took all the prudence and tact which he could command to maintain his position, as at that time "johnny" pitts,[ ] of the toy and marble warehouse, no. , great st. andrew street, was the acknowledged and established printer of street literature for the "dials" district; therefore, as may be easily imagined, a powerful rivalry and vindictive jealousy soon arose between these "two of a trade"--most especially on the part of "old mother" pitts, who is described as being a coarse and vulgar-minded personage, and as having originally followed the trade of a bumboat woman at portsmouth: she "wowed wengeance" against the young fellow in the court for daring to set up in their business, and also spoke of him as a young "catsnatch," "catblock," "cut-throat," and many other opprobrious terms which were freely given to the new comer. pitts' staff of "bards" were duly cautioned of the consequences which would inevitably follow should they dare to write a line for catnach--the new _cove_ up the court. the injunction was for a time obeyed, but the "seven bards of the seven dials" soon found it not only convenient, but also more profitable to sell copies of their effusions to both sides at the same time, and by keeping their own counsel they avoided detection, as each printer accused the other of obtaining an early sold copy, and then reprinting it with the utmost speed, which was in reality often the case, as "both houses" had emissaries on the constant look-out for any new production suitable for street-sale. now, although this style of "double dealing" and competition tended much to lessen the cost price to the "middle-man" or vendor, the public in this case did not get any of the reduction, as a penny broadside was still a penny, and a quarter-sheet still a halfpenny to them, the "street-patterer" obtaining the whole of the reduction as extra profit. the feud existing between these rival publishers, who have been somewhat aptly designated as the colburn and bentley of the "paper" trade, never abated, but, on the contrary, increased in acrimony of temper, until at last not being content to vilify each other by "words! words!! words!!!" alone, they resorted to printing off virulent lampoons, in which catnach never failed to let the world know that "old mother pitts" had been formerly a bumboat woman, while the pitt's party announced that:-- "all the boys and girls around, who go out prigging rags and phials, know jemmy _catsnatch_!!! well, who lives in a back slum in the dials. he hangs out in monmouth court, and wears a pair of blue-black breeches, where all the "polly cox's crew" do resort to chop their swag for badly printed dying speeches." but however, in spite of all the opposition and trade rivalry, catnach persevered; he worked hard, and lived hard, and was fitted to the stirring times. the peninsular wars had just concluded, politics and party strife ran high, squibs, lampoons, and political ballads were the order of the day, and he made money. but he had weighty pecuniary family matters to bear up with, as thus early in his career, his father's sister also joined them, and they all lived and huddled together in the shop and parlour of no. , monmouth-court. he did a small and very humble trade as a jobbing master, printing and publishing penny histories, street-papers, and halfpenny songs, relying for their composition on one or two out of the known "seven bards of the seven dials," and when they were on the drink, or otherwise not inclined to work, being driven to write and invent them himself. the customers who frequented his place of business were for the most part of the lowest grades of society:--those who by folly, intemperance, and crime, had been reduced to the greatest penury. anyone with a few coppers in his pockets could easily knock out an existence, especially when anything sensational was in the wind. the great excitement throughout the country caused by the melancholy death of the princess charlotte, on the sixth day of november, , was an event of no ordinary description. it was, indeed, a most unexpected blow, the shining virtues, as well as the youth and beauty of the deceased, excited an amount of affectionate commiseration, such as probably had never before attended the death of any royal personage in england. the seven dials press was busily engaged in working off "papers" descriptive of every fact that could be gleaned from the newspapers, and that was suitable for street sale. catnach was not behind his compeers, as he published several statements in respect to the princess's death, and _made_ the following lines _out of his own head_! and had, continued our informant--a professional street-ballad writer--"_wood_ enough left for as many more":-- "she is gone! sweet charlotte's gone! gone to the silent bourne; she is gone, she's gone, for evermore,-- she never can return. she is gone with her joy--her darling boy, the son of leopold, blythe and keen; she died the sixth of november, eighteen hundred and seventeen." the year , proved a disastrous one to catnach, as in addition to the extra burden entailed on him in family matters, he had, in the way of his trade, printed a street-paper reflecting on the private character and on the materials used in the manufacture of the sausages as sold by the pork butchers of the drury-lane quarter in general, and particularly by mr. pizzey, a tradesman carrying on business in blackmore-street, clare-market, who caused him to be summoned to the bow-street police court to answer the charge of malicious libel, when he was committed to take his trial at the next clerkenwell sessions, by sir richard burnie, where he was sentenced to six months' imprisonment in the house of correction, at clerkenwell, in the county of middlesex. [signature: john morgan] during catnach's incarceration his mother and sisters, aided by one of the seven dials bards, carried on the business, writing and printing off all the squibs and street ballads that were required. in the meanwhile the johnny pitts' crew printed several lampoons on "jemmy catnach." subjoined is a portion of one of them that has reached us, _vivâ voce_, of the aforesaid--john morgan--professional street-ballad writer:-- "jemmy catnach printed a quarter sheet-- it was called in lanes and passages, that pizzy the butcher, had dead bodies chopped, and made them into sausages. "poor pizzey was in an awful mess, and looked the colour of cinders-- a crowd assembled from far and near, and they smashed in all his windows. "now jemmy catnach's gone to prison, and what's he gone to prison for? for printing a libel against mr. pizzey, which was sung from door to door. "six months in quod old jemmy's got, because he a shocking tale had started, about mr. pizzey who dealt in sausages in blackmore-street, clare-market." misfortunes are said never to come singly, and so it proved to the catnach family, for while jemmy was _doing_ his six months in the house of correction at clerkenwell, we find in the pages of the _weekly dispatch_ for january , , and under police intelligence, as follows:-- circulating false news.--at bow-street, on wednesday, thomas love and thomas howlett, were brought to the office by one of the patrole, charged with making a disturbance in chelsea, in the morning, by blowing of horns, with a tremendous noise, and each of them after blowing his horn, was heard to announce with all the vociferation the strength of his lungs would admit of:--"the full, true, and particular account of the most cruel and barbarous murder of mr. ellis, of sloane-street, which took place, last night, in the five fields, chelsea." the patrole, knowing that no such horrid event had taken place, had them taken up. the papers in their possession, which they had been selling at a halfpenny each, were seized and brought to the office with the prisoners. but what is most extraordinary, the contents of the papers had no reference whatever to mr. ellis! they were headed in large letters, "a horrid murder," and the murder was stated to have been committed at south-green, near dartford, on the bodies of thomas lane, his wife, three children, and his mother. the murderer's conduct was stated very particularly, although, in fact, no such event occurred. the magistrate severely censured the conduct of the whole parties. he ordered the prisoners to be detained, and considered them to be very proper subjects to be made an example of. on thursday these parties were again brought before the magistrate, together with mrs. catnach [the mother] the printer of the bills, which gave a fictitious statement of the horrid murder said to be committed at dartford. she was severely reprimanded. the two hornblowers were also reprimanded and then discharged. the busy year of was a very important one to catnach, in fact the turning point in his life. the duke of kent, fourth son of george iii., and father to queen victoria, died on the rd of january--the event was of sufficient consequence to produce several "full particulars," for street sale. just six days after his death, viz., on the th of january, , george iii. died, and that event set the "catnach press" going night and day to supply the street papers, containing "latest particulars," &c. "mourn, britons mourn! your sons deplore, our royal sovereign is now no more," was the commencement of a ballad written, printed, and published by j. catnach, , monmouth-court, dials. battledores, lotteries, and primers sold cheap. sold by marshall, bristol, and hook, brighton. the royal body was committed to the family vault in st. george's chapel at windsor, on the th of february, amidst a concourse of the great and the noble of the land. the usual ceremony of proclamation and salutation announced the accession of george iv. and another important era commenced. immediately following these events came the cato-street conspiracy. on the th of february the newspapers contained the startling intelligence that, on the previous evening, a party of eleven men, headed by arthur thistlewood, who was already known as a political agitator, had been apprehended at a stable in cato-street, an obscure place in the locality of grosvenor-square, on the charge of being the parties to a conspiracy to assassinate the greater part of the king's ministers. the truth of the intelligence was soon confirmed by the proceedings which took place before the magisterial authorities; and in due course all the parties were put on their trial at the old bailey, on a charge of high treason, arthur thistlewood, the leader, being the first tried on the th of april; the lord chief justice abbott presiding. the names of the other prisoners were--william davidson, a man of colour; james ings, john thomas brunt, richard tidd, james william wilson, john harrison, richard bradburn, james shaw strange, and charles cooper, of whom the first four, together with thistlewood, were executed as traitors on may st. the cato-street conspiracy proved a rich harvest to all concerned in the production of street literature. catnach came in for a fair share of the work, and he found himself with plenty of cash in hand, and in good time to increase his trade-plant to meet the great demand for the street-papers that were in a few months to be published daily, and in reference to the ever-memorable trial of queen caroline; then it was that his business so enormously increased as at times to require three or four presses going night and day to keep pace with the great demand for papers, which contained a very much abridged account of the previous day's evidence, and taken without the least acknowledgment from an early procured copy of one of the daily newspapers. great as was the demand, the printers of street literature were equal to the occasion, and all were actively engaged in getting out "papers," squibs, lists of various trade deputations to the queen's levées, lampoons and songs, that were almost hourly published, on the subject of the queen's trial. the following is a selection from one which emanated from the "catnach press," and was supplied to us by john morgan, the seven dials bard, and who added that he had the good luck--the times being prosperous--to screw out half-a-crown from old jemmy for the writing of it. "ah! sir," he continued, "it was always a hard matter to get much out of jemmy catnach, i can tell you, sir. he was, at most times, a hard-fisted one, and no mistake about it. yet, sir, somehow or another, he warn't such a bad sort, just where he took. a little bit rough and ready, like, you know, sir. but yet still a 'nipper.' that's just about the size of jemmy catnach, sir. i wish i could recollect more of the song, but you've got the marrow of it, sir:-- 'and when the queen arrived in town, the people called her good, sirs; she had a brougham by her side, a denman, and a wood, sirs. 'the people all protected her, they ran from far and near, sirs, till they reached the house of squire byng, which was in st. james's-square, sirs. 'and there my blooming caroline, about her made a fuss, man, and told how she had been deceived by a cruel, barbarous, husband.'" street papers continued to be printed and sold in connection with queen caroline's trial up to the date of her death, in the month of august, . [illustration] a copy of verses in praise of queen caroline. "ye britons all, both great and small, come listen to my ditty, your noble queen, fair caroline, does well deserve your pity. like harmless lamb that sucks its dam, amongst the flowery thyme, or turtle dove that's given to love: and that's her only crime. wedlock i ween, to her has been a life of grief and woe; thirteen years past she's had no rest, as britons surely know. to blast her fame, men without shame, have done all they could do; 'gainst her to swear they did prepare a motley, perjured crew. europe they seek for turk or greek, to swear her life away, but she will triumph yet o'er all, and innocence display. ye powers above, who virtue love, protect her from despair, and soon her free from calumny, is every true man's prayer." j. catnach, printer, , monmouth court, dials. [illustration] immediately following the queen's death, there were published a whole host of monodies, elegies, and ballads in her praise. catnach made a great hit with one entitled--"oh! britons remember your queen's happy days," together with a large broadside, entitled "an attempt to exhibit the leading events in the queen's life, in cuts and verse. adorned with twelve splendid illustrations. interspersed with verses of descriptive poetry. entered at stationers' hall. by jas. catnach, printer, dials. price d." a copy is preserved in the british museum. press mark. _tab._ , _a_, - , and arranged under catnach, from which we select two pieces as a fair sample of jemmy's "poetry-making!"--which please to read carefully, and "mind your stops!" quoth john berkshire. an elegy on the death of the queen. curs'd be the hour when on the british shore, she set her foot--whose loss we now deplore; for, from that hour she pass'd a life of woe, and underwent what few could undergo: and lest she should a tranquil hour know, against her peace was struck a deadly blow; a separation hardly to be borne,-- her only daughter from her arms was torn! and next discarded--driven from her home, an unprotected wanderer to roam! oh, how each heart with indignation fills, when memory glances o'er the train of ills, which through her travels followed everywhere in quick succession till this fatal year! here let us stop--for mem'ry serves too well, to bear the woes which caroline befel, each art was tried--at last to crush her down, the queen of england was refus'd a crown! too much to bear--thus robb'd of all her state she fell a victim to their hate! "they have destroy'd me,"--with her parting breath, she died--and calmly yielded unto death. forgiving all, she parted with this life, a queen, and no queen--wife, and not a wife! to heaven her soul is borne on seraph's wings, to wait the judgment of the king of kings; trusting to find a better world than this, and meet her daughter in the realms of bliss. caroline the injured queen of england. beneath this cold marble the "wanderer" lies, here shall she rest 'till "the heavens be no more," 'till the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall arise, then the perjurer unmask'd will his sentence deplore. ah! what will avail then? pomp, titles, and birth, those empty distinctions all levell'd will be, for the king shall be judg'd with the poor of the earth, and perhaps, the poor man will be greater than he. until that day we leave caroline's wrongs, meantime, may "repentance" her foes overtake; o grant it, kind power, to whom alone it belongs. amen. here an end of this hist'ry we make. _quod._ jas. c-t-n-h, dec. th, . [illustration] in the early part of the year , the british public were informed through the then existing usual advertising mediums that there was about to be published, in monthly parts, "pierce egan's life in london; or, the day and night scenes of jerry hawthorn, esq., and his elegant friend corinthian tom, accompanied by bob logic, the oxonian, in their rambles and sprees through the metropolis. embellished with scenes from real life, designed and etched by i. r. and g. cruikshank, and enriched with numerous original designs on wood by the same artists." and on the th of july, the first number, price one shilling, was published by messrs. sherwood, neely, and jones, of paternoster row. this sample, or first instalment, of the entire work was quite enough for society to judge by. it took both town and country by storm. it was found to be the exact thing in literature that the readers of those days wanted. edition after edition was called for--and supplied, as fast as the illustrations could be got away from the small army of women and children who were colouring them. with the appearance of numbers two and three, the demand increased, and a revolution in our literature, in our drama, and even in our nomenclature began to develope itself. all the announcements from paternoster row were of books, great and small, depicting life in london; dramatists at once turned their attention to the same subject, and tailors, bootmakers, and hatters, recommended nothing but corinthian shapes, and tom and jerry patterns.[ ] [illustration] tom and jerry. "of life in london, tom, jerry and logic i sing." to the strand then i toddled--the mob was great-- my watch i found gone--pockets undone: i fretted at first, and rail'd against fate, for i paid well to see "life in london." as may be readily conceived; the stage soon claimed "tom and jerry." the first drama founded upon the work was from the pen of mr. barrymore, and produced--"in hot haste," at the royal amphitheatre, on monday, sept. , . the second dramatic version was written for the olympic theatre, by charles dibden, and first played on monday, nov. , . mr. moncrieff appeared as the third on the list of dramatists, and it was announced at the adelphi theatre in the following style:--"on monday, nov. th, , will be presented for the first time, on a scale of unprecedented extent (having been many weeks in preparation under the superintendence of several of the most celebrated artists, both in the _ups and downs_ of life, who have all kindly come forward to assist the proprietors in their endeavours to render the piece a complete out-and-outer), an entirely new classic, comic, operatic, didactic, aristophanic, localic, analytic, panoramic, camera-obscura-ic extravaganza-burletta of fun, frolic, fashion and flash, in three acts, called 'tom and jerry; or life in london.' replete with prime chaunts, rum glees, and kiddy catches, founded on pierce egan's well-known and highly popular work of the same name, by a celebrated extravagant erratic author. the music selected and modified by him from the most eminent composers, ancient and modern, and every air furnished with an attendant train of graces. the costumes and scenery superintended by mr. i. r. cruikshank, from the drawings by himself and his brother, mr. george cruikshank, the celebrated artists of the original work. "corinthian tom, mr. wrench; jerry hawthorn, mr. john reeve; logic, mr. wilkinson; jemmy green, mr. keeley; dusty bob, mr. walbourn; african sal, mr. sanders; billy waters, mr. paulo; kate, mrs. baker; sue, mrs. waylett, &c., &c. [illustration: black sal and dusty bob.] besides the authors already mentioned, tom dibden, farrell, and douglas jerrold, each produced dramas upon the popular theme, and during the seasons of - , "life in london" was performed with _éclat_, at ten theatres in and around the metropolis, to overflowing houses. but pierce egan at length became tired of the successes of the playwrights in using his book, and resolved to try his own hand at a dramatic version--or, as he termed it, to "take a leaf out of his own book,"--and the author's piece was "got up" and performed for the first time at sadler's wells, under the management of mr. egerton, on monday, april , , with most decided success. it was thus announced by mrs. egerton, in the address written for the occasion by t. greenwood, esq.:-- "to-night my friends, this modern taste to meet, we show you jerry at his country seat: then up to town transport the rustic beau, and show him 'life in london,' high and low." at length tom and jerry had been repeated so often in the metropolis, that the performers, notwithstanding the great applause they nightly received in the above piece, absolutely became tired and worn-out with the repetition of their characters, when the following piece of satire, written by t. greenwood, esq., was published, entitled, "the tears of pierce egan, esq., for the death of 'life in london;' or, the funeral of tom and jerry, dedicated to robert and george cruikshank, esqs. price two shillings, with an engraving by george cruikshank." "beat out of the pit and thrown over the ropes, tom and jerry resign'd their last breath, with them, too, expired the managers' hopes, who are left to deplore their sad death! "odd and various reports of the cause are about, but the real one was _this_, i opine: they were run to a _standstill_, and, therefore, no doubt, that the cause was a rapid _decline_. "when death showed his _nob_, out of _time_ they were beat, and neither would come to the _scratch_; they hung down their heads and gave up the last heat, not prepared with the spectre to _match_. "all wept at the funeral! the fancy and all-- some new, but a great many mended: and egan, while cruikshank and _bob_ held the pall, as _chief-mourner_ in person attended!!! "their _sprees_ and their _rambles_ no more shall amuse, farewell to all nocturnal parleys: the town felt regret as the bell tolled the news, and no one rejoiced--but the _charleys_! "a monument, too, their kind patrons will raise, inscribed on--'here lies tom and jerry, who, departing the _stage_ to their immortal praise, one thousand nights made the _town merry_!!!' "may their souls rest in peace, since they've chosen to flit, like other great heroes departed; may no mischief arise from the _sudden_ exit, nor pierce egan die--_broken-hearted_!" in reference to the above, pierce egan states in "the finish to the adventures of tom, jerry, and logic," that catnach, in less than twelve hours after the publication, produced a pirated edition for street sale, for twopence. mr. pierce egan, in his "_finish_," states that he reckoned no less than sixty-five separate publications, which he enumerates _in extenso_, all derived from his own work, and adds, with his usual amount of large and small capitals and _italics_--"we have been _pirated_, copied, _traduced_; but unfortunately, not enriched by our indefatigable exertions; therefore notoriety must satisfy us, instead of the smiles of fortune." jemmy catnach, true to his line of life, soon joined what pierce egan designates as the "mob of literary pirates," and brought out a "whole sheet" for street-sale, entitled "life in london," with twelve woodcuts, which are reduced and very roughly executed copies of the centre figures of the original plates by the brothers cruikshank--but all in reverse. the letter-press matter consists of a poetical epitome of the plot and design of the original work of "life in london." and taking it as it stands, and from whence it emanated, rather a creditable performance, particularly when we take into consideration--as duly announced by the street-patterer, that it was "just printed and pub--lish--ed, all for the low charge of twopence." on the rarity of this catnachian and pirated edition of "life in london" it is superfluous to enlarge, and it is easy to account for this circumstance, if we reflect that the broadside form of publication is by no means calculated for preservation; hundreds of similar pieces printed for street-sale must have perished. the more generally acceptable a broadside or street ballad became, and was handed about for perusal, the more it was exposed to the danger of destruction. no copy of catnach's version is preserved in the british museum, therefore, and for the reason above stated, it must be considered as a great "literary rarity."[ ] cut i.--jerry in training for a swell. [illustration] now jerry must needs be a swell, his coat must have a swallow-tail, and mr. snip, so handy, o, soon rigg'd him out a dandy, o. cut ii.--tom and jerry among the ladies. [illustration] ladies, your most humble servants, tom and jerry stand before you. our blood is thrilling, you're so killing; at once we love you and adore you. cut iii.--jerry loses at play. [illustration] at st. james's they dine, when, flushed with new wine, to the gaming tables they reel, where blacklegs and sharps, often gammon the flats, as their pockets do presently feel. cut iv.--jerry learning to spar. [illustration] now jerry's become a fancy blade, to jackson's he often goes, and to shew his skill in the milling trade, he crack'd poor logick's nose. cut v.--tom and jerry at a fortune-teller's. [illustration] here lives a fortune-telling gipsy, wrinkled, crabbed, grim and old; and tom and jerry's fancy ladies are gone to get their fortunes told. cut vi.--beggar's opera. tom, jerry, and logick among the cadgers in the holy land. [illustration] now to keep up the spree, tom, jerry and logick, went disguis'd to the slums in the holy land; through each crib and each court, they hunted for sport, till they came to the beggar's opera so named. cut vii.--night scene.--tom and jerry upsetting the charleys. [illustration] hark! the watchman springs his rattle, now the midnight lark's begun; boxes crashing, lanthorns smashing, mill the charleys--oh! what fun. cut viii.--brought before the magistrates. [illustration] an' please your worship here's three fellows been hammering of us all about; broke our boxes, lanthorns, smellers, and almost clos'd our peepers up. cut ix.--tom, jerry, and logick in a row. [illustration] mercy! what a din and clatter breaks the stillness of the night, lamps do rattle--'tis a battle, quick, and let us see the sight. cut x.--scene in a gin-shop. [illustration] here some are tumbling and jumping in, and some are staggering out; one's pawn'd her smock for a quartern of gin, another, her husband's coat. cut xi.--poor logick in the fleet. [illustration] all in the fleet poor logick's moor'd his swaggering's now at an end! cut xii.--jerry going back to the country. [illustration] three merry boys were logick, tom and jerry, and many funny larks they have seen; farewell, gay london, the country calls me home again, the coach moves on--the play is done--goodbye, goodbye. _quod._ jas. c-n-h, march , . how delightful pierce egan's book was to the youths of england, and how eagerly all its promised feasts of pleasure were devoured by them, thackeray has told us in his "roundabout papers--de juventute" in the "cornhill magazine" for october, . * * * * * mr., afterwards sir william cubitt, of ipswich, erected a treadmill at brixton gaol, and soon afterwards in other large prisons. a street ballad on the subject was issued from the "catnach press" and had a most unprecedented sale, keeping the pressmen and boys working for weeks-- "and we're all treading at fam'd brixton mill." the treadmill--that "terror to evil doers"--excited much attention, and the inventor's name gave rise to many jokes on the subject among such of the prisoners as could laugh at their own crimes, who said they were punished by the _cubit_!. the treadmill. this brixton mill's a fearful ill, and he who brought the bill in, is threat'n'd by the _cribbing_ coves, that he shall have a _milling_. they say he shew'd a simple pate, to think of felons mending; as every _step_ which here they take they're still in crime _ascending_. tom, jerry, logic, three prime sprigs, find here they cannot _come_ it, for though their _fancy_ soars aloft, they ne'er will reach the _summit_. corinthian kate and buxom sue must change their _warm_ direction, for if they make one _false step_ more they'll have _cold bath correction_. [illustration: "the gallows does well: but how does it well? it does well to those that do ill."--_hamlet_, act v., sc. i.] there can be little doubt that jemmy catnach, the great publisher of the seven dials, had his mind mostly centred upon the chronicling of doubtful scandals, fabulous duels between ladies of fashion, "cooked" assassinations, and sudden deaths of eminent individuals, apochryphal elopements, real or catch-penny account of murders, impossible robberies, delusive suicides, dark deeds, and--though last, not least, in _his_ love--public executions, _vulgo_ "hanging matches," to which was usually attached the all-important and necessary "sorrowful lamentations," or "copy of affectionate verses," which according to the established custom, the criminal composed in the condemned cell the night before his execution, after this manner:-- [illustration] the flying stationer, otherwise patterer. "all you that have got feeling, i pray you now attend to these few lines so sad and true, a solemn silence lend; it is of a cruel murder, to you i will unfold---- the bare recital of the tale must make your blood run cold." "mercy on earth i'll not implore, to crave it would be vain, my hands are dyed with human gore, none can wash off the stain, but the merits of a saviour, whose mercy alone i crave; good christians pray, as thus i die, i may his pardon have." a mournful and affecting copy of verses on the death of ann williams, who was barbarously and cruelly murdered by her sweetheart, w. jones, near wirksworth, in derbyshire, july, . william jones, a young man aged , has been fully committed to derby gaol for the murder of his sweetheart, under circumstances of unheard of barbarity. the poor victim was a servant girl, whom under pretence of marriage he seduced. on her proving with child the villain formed the horrid design of murdering her, and carried his diabolical plan into execution on monday evening last. the following verses are written upon the occasion, giving a complete detail of this shocking affair:-- come all false hearted young men and listen to my song, 'tis of a cruel murder, that lately has been done on the body of a maiden fair the truth i will unfold, the bare relation of this deed will make your blood run cold. near wirksworth town in derbyshire, ann williams she did dwell, in service she long time had lived, till this to her befel. her cheeks were like the blushing rose all in the month of may, which made this wicked young man thus unto her did say: nancy, my charming creature, you have my heart ensnared, my love is such i am resolved to wed you i declare. thus by his false deluding tongue poor nancy was beguil'd, and soon to her misfortune, by him she proved with child. some days ago this damsel fair did write to him with speed, such tenderness she did express would make a heart to bleed. she said, my dearest william, i am with child by thee; therefore, my dear, pray let me know when you will marry me. the following day at evening, this young man did repair, unto the town of wirksworth, to meet his nancy there. saying, nancy dear, come let us walk, among the flowery fields, and then the secrets of my heart to you i will reveal. o then this wicked young man a knife he did provide, and all unknown to his true love concealed it by his side. when to the fatal spot they came, these words to her did say: all on this very night i will your precious life betray. on bended knees she then did fall, in sorrow and despair, aloud for mercy she did call, her cries did rend the air; with clasped hands and uplift eyes she cried, oh spare my life, i never more will ask you to make me your wedded wife. o then this wicked young man said, no mercy will i show; he took the knife all from his side, and pierced her body through. but still she smiling said to him while trembling with fear, aä! william, william, spare my life, think on your baby dear. twice more then with the bloody knife he ran her body through, her throat was cut from ear to ear, most dreadful for to view; her hands and arms and beauteous face he cut and mangled sore, while down upon her milk white breast the crimson blood did pour. he took the shawl from off her neck, and round her body tied, with pebble stones he did it fill, thinking the crime to hide. o then into the silver stream he plunged her straightway, but with her precious blood was stained which soon did him betray. o then this young man taken was, and into prison sent, in ratling chains he is confin'd his crime for to lament, until the assizes do come on when trembling he must stand, reflecting on the deed he's done; waiting the dread command. now all you thoughtless young men a timely warning take; likewise ye fair young maidens, for this poor damsel's sake. and oh beware of flattering tongues, for they'll your ruin prove; so may you crown your future day, in comfort, joy, and love. or take another and stereotyped example, which from time to time has served equally well for the verses _written by_ the culprit--brown, jones, robinson, or smith: "those deeds i mournfully repent, but now it is too late, the day is past, the die is cast, and fixed is my fate. i see the hangman before me stand, ready to seize me by the law's command; when my life is ended on the fatal tree, then will be clear'd up all mystery." occasionally the last sorrowful lamentation contained a "love letter"--the criminal being unable, in some instances, to read or write, being no obstacle to the composition--written according to the street patterer's statement: "from the depths of the condemned cell, with the condemned pen, ink, and paper." this mode of procedure in "gallows" literature, and this style of composition having prevailed for from sixty to seventy years. then they would say: "here you have also an exact likeness of the murderer, taken at the bar of the old bailey by an eminent artist!" when all the time it was an old woodcut that had been used for every criminal for many years. the _block!_ opposite, to our own knowledge, served as the _counterfeit_ presentment of all popular murderers for upwards of forty years. [illustration: likeness of the murderer.] "there's nothing beats a stunning good murder after all," said a "running patterer" to mr. henry mayhew, the author of "london labour and london poor." it is only fair to assume that mr. james catnach shared in the sentiment, for it is said that he made over £ by the publication of:-- "the full, true and particular account of the murder of mr. weare by john thurtell and his companions, which took place on the th of october, , in gill's hill-lane, near elstree, in hertfordshire:--only one penny." there were eight formes set up, for old jemmy had no notion of stereotyping in those days, and pressmen had to re-cover their own tympans with sheep-skins. but by working day and night for a week they managed to get off about , copies with the four presses, each working two formes at a time. [illustration: thurtell murdering mr. weare.] as the trial progressed, and the case became more fully developed, the public mind became almost insatiable. every night and morning large bundles were despatched to the principal towns in the three kingdoms. one of the many street-ballads on the subject informed the british public that:-- "thurtell, hunt, and probert, too, for trial must now prepare, for that horrid murder of mr. william weare." the circumstances immediately attending the murder are so fully and so well detailed in the proper channels that we need not here say more than that the trial took place at hertford on the th january, . the prisoners who stood indicted were john thurtell and joseph hunt. the latter was at the time well known as a public singer and was somewhat celebrated for the talent which he possessed. both prisoners were found guilty, but hunt was reprieved and subsequently ordered to be transported for life. thurtell, who fully confessed to the crime, was executed in front of hertford gaol on friday, the th of january, . as before observed, catnach cleared over £ by this event, and was so loth to leave it, that when a wag put him up to a joke, and showed him how he might set the thing a-going again, he could not withstand it; and so, about a fortnight after thurtell had been hanged, jemmy brought out a startling broad-sheet, headed, "we are alive again!" he put so little space between the words "we" and "are" that it looked at first sight like "weare." many thousands were bought by the ignorant and gullible public, but those who did not like the trick called it a "catch penny," and this gave rise to this peculiar term, which ever afterwards stuck to the issues of the "seven dials' press," though they sold as well as ever. probert, who had been mixed up in the affair, was admitted as king's evidence and discharged at the rising of the court. he subsequently met the fate he so richly deserved, for, having been found guilty at the old bailey of horse stealing, he was executed there on the th of june, . [illustration] the confession and execution of john thurtell at hertford gaol, on friday, the th of january, . the execution. _hertford, half-past twelve o'clock._ this morning, at ten minutes before twelve, a bustle among the javelin-men stationed within the boarded enclosure on which the drop was erected, announced to the multitude without that the preparations for the execution were nearly concluded. the javelin-men proceeded to arrange themselves in the order usually observed upon these melancholy but necessary occurrences. they had scarcely finished their arrangements, when the opening of the gate of the prison gave an additional impulse to public anxiety when the clock was on the stroke of twelve, mr nicholson, the under-sheriff, and the executioner ascended the platform, followed on to it by thurtell, who mounted the stairs with a slow but steady step. the principal turnkey of the gaol came next, and was followed by mr wilson and two officers. on the approach of the prisoner being intimated by those persons who, being in an elevated situation, obtained the first view of him, all the immense multitude present took off their hats. thurtell immediately placed himself under the fatal beam, and at that moment the chimes of a neighbouring clock began to strike twelve. the executioner then came forward with the rope, which he threw across it. thurtell first lifted his eyes up to the drop, gazed at it for a few moments, and then took a calm but hurried survey of the multitude around him. he next fixed his eyes on a young gentleman in the crowd, whom he had frequently seen as a spectator at the commencement of the proceedings against him. seeing that the individual was affected by the circumstance, he removed them to another quarter, and in so doing recognised an individual well known in the sporting circles, to whom he made a slight bow. the prisoner was attired in a dark brown great coat, with a black velvet collar, white corduroy breeches, drab gaiters and shoes. his hands were confined with handcuffs, instead of being tied with cord, as is usually the case on such occasions, and, at his own request, his arms were not pinioned. he wore a pair of black kid gloves, and the wrists of his shirt were visible below the cuffs of his coat. as on the last day of his trial, he wore a white cravat. the irons, which were very heavy, and consisted of a succession of chain links, were still on his legs, and were held up in the middle by a belcher handkerchief tied round his waist. the executioner commenced his mournful duties by taking from the unhappy prisoner his cravat and collar. to obviate all difficulty in this stage of the proceedings, thurtell flung back his head and neck, and so gave the executioner an opportunity of immediately divesting him of that part of his dress. after tying the rope round thurtell's neck, the executioner drew a white cotton cap over his countenance, which did not, however, conceal the contour of his face, or deprive him entirely of the view of surrounding objects. at that moment the clock sounded the last stroke of twelve. during the whole of this appalling ceremony, there was not the slightest symptom of emotion discernible in his features; his demeanour was perfectly calm and tranquil, and he behaved like a man acquainted with the dreadful ordeal he was about to pass, but not unprepared to meet it. though his fortitude was thus conspicuous, it was evident from his appearance that in the interval between his conviction and his execution he must have suffered much. he looked careworn; his countenance had assumed a cadaverous hue, and there was a haggardness and lankness about his cheeks and mouth, which could not fail to attract the notice of every spectator. the executioner next proceeded to adjust the noose by which thurtell was to be attached to the scaffold. after he had fastened it in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, thurtell looked up at it, and examined it with great attention. he then desired the executioner to let him have fall enough. the rope at this moment seemed as if it would only give a fall of two or three feet the executioner assured him that the fall was quite sufficient. the principal turnkey then went up to thurtell, shook hands with him, and turned away in tears. mr wilson, the governor of the gaol, next approached him. thurtell laid to him, "do you think, mr wilson, i have got enough fall?" mr wilson replied, "i think you have, sir. yes, quite enough." mr wilson then took hold of his hand, shook it, and said, "good bye, mr thurtell, may god almighty bless you." thurtell instantly replied, "god bless _you_, mr wilson, god bless _you_." mr wilson next asked him whether he considered that the laws of his country had been dealt to him justly and fairly, upon which he said, "i admit that justice has been done me--i am perfectly satisfied." a few seconds then elapsed, during which every person seemed to be engaged in examining narrowly thurtell's deportment his features, as well as they could be discerned, appeared to remain unmoved, and his hands, which were extremely prominent, continued perfectly steady, and were not affected by the slightest tremulous motion. exactly at two minutes past twelve the under-sheriff, with his wand, gave the dreadful signal--the drop suddenly and silently fell--and john thurtell was launched into eternity. on the th of september, , henry fauntleroy, of the firm of marsh, stracey, fauntleroy, and graham, bankers, in berners-street, was apprehended in consequence of its being discovered that in september, , £ , per cent stock, standing in the names of himself, j. d. hume, and john goodchild, as trustees of francis william bellis, had been sold out under a power of attorney, to which the names of his co-trustees and some of the subscribing witnesses were forged. it was soon ascertained that the extent to which this practice had been carried was enormous, no less than £ , stock having been sold out in and by the same fraudulent means. every exertion was used by mr. fauntleroy's counsel, his case being twice argued before the judges, but both decisions were against him; and on the th of november, , his execution took place. the number of persons assembled was estimated at nearly , . the station in society of this unfortunate man, and the long-established respectability of the banking-house, in which he was the most active partner, with the vast extent of the forgeries committed, gave to his case an intensity of interest which has scarcely ever been equalled, and during the whole time it was pending afforded plenty of work for the printers and vendors of street literature. catnach's advanced position, which was now far beyond all his compeers, caused him to get the lion's share. every incident in the man's character, history, and actions was taken advantage of. the sheets, almost wet from the press, were read by high and low; by those who lived and revelled in marble halls and gilded saloons, as well as by those who thronged our large towns and centres of industry. the parliamentary election of , for the county of northumberland, the principal seat of which was at alnwick, gave early promise of being severely contested. there were four candidates in the field, namely, henry thomas liddell, afterwards first earl of ravensworth, of ravensworth castle, county durham; mr. matthew bell, of woolsingham, northumberland; mr. thomas wentworth beaumont, and lord howick, afterwards henry the third earl grey, k.g. the nomination of the candidates took place on tuesday, june th, , and the polling continued till july th, when the result was as follows:-- liddell bell beaumont howick this contest was the greatest political event in the history of the county. it is estimated that it cost the candidates little short of £ , . now, as we have before observed, mr. mark smith--who till the time of his death, on the th of may, , aged --carried on the business of printer and bookseller at alnwick--and james catnach, were fellow apprentices, both being bound to learn the art of printing to the elder catnach on the same day. this early-formed acquaintanceship continued throughout the remaining portion of catnach's life, and whenever mr. mark smith came to london in after years, he always visited jemmy's house. it was in consequence of the continued friendship existing between mr. mark smith and jemmy catnach that the latter had often expressed a desire to serve his fellow-apprentice, should circumstances occur to render it necessary. the alnwick election of promised to be a good one as regarded printing, and mr. smith anticipating a difficulty in getting through his work, applied to catnach to know if he could render him any assistance. the result was that jemmy at once proffered to go to alnwick and take with him a small hand-press. after his arrival he seldom went out of the house, as all hands worked early and late, for, besides addresses, squibs, &c., they had to get out the state of the poll every afternoon, shortly after four o'clock. the number of addresses and squibs, in prose and verse, during this memorable election was enormous. the whole, when collected together, forms four good-sized volumes. the principal printers in alnwick at this time, and who were engaged by the candidates, were smith, davison, and graham. but there was a great deal of printing done at newcastle, gateshead, north shields, morpeth, and other towns. there can be but little doubt that all who were professionally engaged at this election made a good thing out of it. the money spent upon printing alone must have been very great. and nearly all the public-houses in alnwick were made "open houses," as well as most of those in the principal towns throughout the county. old people talk to this day, with a degree of pride of "those good old times" that existed at the parliamentary elections previous to the passing of the reform bill of . as far as catnach was concerned, he merely went to help to pay off a deep debt of gratitude owing by him to the smith family for many past favours to his own family when they were in dire distress in _auld lang syne_. besides, jemmy was now getting towards that state known as being "comfortably well-to-do," and the trip was a change of air--a bit of a holiday, and a visit to the town of his birth. and as he had buried his mother in london during the early part of the year, he took the opportunity to erect in the parish churchyard, that which at once stands as a cenotaph and a tombstone, bearing the following inscription:-- "john, son of john catnach, printer, died august th, , aged years & months. john catnach died in london, , aged . mary, his wife died jany. th, , aged years, also john, margaret, and jane catnach, lie here."[ ] during catnach's absence from london on the alnwick election, his old rivals--the pitts family--were, as usual, concocting false reports, and exhibiting lampoons, after the following manner:-- "poor jemmy with the son of old nick, down to northumberland he's gone; to take up his freedom at alnwick, the why or the wherefore's known to none. "before he went, he washed in soap and sud, the alnwick folks they found the fiddle; then they dragged poor jemmy through the mud, two foot above his middle. the above was in allusion to the old ceremony of being dragged through the dirty pool to be made a freeman of the town of alnwick. but, as far as catnach was concerned, there is no truth whatever in the matter, it was simply "a weak invention of the enemy." it was in the latter part of june and the beginning of july in the same year, that catnach was at alnwick, and the ceremony of making freemen always took place on st. mark's day, april th, or at least two months earlier. thus the statement of the pitts' party was-- "as false as air, as water, as wind, as sandy earth, as fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer's calf, pard to the hind, or step-dame to her son." catnach, as the high priest of the literature of the streets, surrounded by trade rivals, "stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at him," but he was as firm as a rock and with the strength of a giant, and, as hyperion to a satyr, defied them all. the destruction of the royal brunswick theatre, well-street, wellclose-square, east london, on the th of february, , by the falling in of the walls, in consequence of too much weight being attached to the heavy cast-iron roof, made a rare nine-day's wonder for the workers of street-papers. fortunately the catastrophe happened in the day-time, during the rehearsal of "guy mannering," and only fifteen persons perished, viz:-- mr. d. s. maurice, a master printer, of fenchurch-street, one of the proprietors, mr. j. evans _bristol observer_ miss mary a. feron _actress_, miss freeman _corps de ballet_, mr. e. gilbert _comedian_, mr. j. blamire _property man_, mr. g. penfold _doorkeeper_, miss jane wall _visitor_, mr. j. purdy _blacksmith_, messrs. j. miles, w. leader, a. w. davidson, m. miles, and j. abbott _carpenters_, j. levy, _a clothesman_ (accidentally passing). "oh yes, sir! i remember well the falling of the brunswick theatre, out whitechapel way. it was a rare good thing for all the running and standing patterers in and about ten miles of london. every day we all killed more and more people--in our "latest particulars." one day there was twenty persons killed, the next day thirty or forty, until it got at last to be worked up to about a hundred, and all killed. then we killed all sorts of people, duke of wellington, and all the dukes and duchesses, bishops, swell nobs and snobs we could think of at the moment." [illustration: atrocious murder of a young woman in suffolk. singular discovery of the body from a dream. the red barn. the scene of the murder, and where the body of maria marten was found concealed.] four years after the thurtell and weare affair, namely, in the month of april, , another "sensational" murder was discovered--that of maria marten, by william corder, in the red barn, at polstead, in the county of suffolk. the circumstances that led to the discovery of this most atrocious murder, were of an extraordinary and romantic nature, and manifest an almost special interposition of providence in marking out the offender. as the mother of the girl had on three several nights dreamt that her daughter was murdered and buried in corder's red barn, and as this proved to be the case, an additional "charm" was given to the circumstance. the "catnach press" was again set working both day and night, to meet the great demand for the "full particulars." in due course came the gratifying announcement of the apprehension of the murderer! and the sale continued unabatingly in both town and country, every "flying stationer" making great profits by the sale. [illustration: likeness of william corder.] the trial of corder took place at bury st. edmonds, on the th of august, , before the lord chief baron (anderson). the prisoner pleaded "_not guilty_," and the trial proceeded. on being called on for his defence, corder read a manuscript paper. he declared that he deeply deplored the death of the unfortunate deceased, and he urged the jury to dismiss from their minds all that prejudice which must necessarily have been excited against him by the public press, &c. having concluded his address, the lord chief baron summed up, and a verdict of "_guilty_" was returned. the last dying speech and confession had an enormous sale--estimated at , , , a _fac-simile_ copy of which with the "lamentable verses," said to have been written by old jemmy catnach will be found on the next page. confession and execution of william corder, the murderer of maria marten. since the tragical affair between thurtell and weare, no event has occurred connected with the criminal annals of our country which has excited so much interest as the trial of corder, who was justly convicted of the murder of maria marten on friday last. the confession. "bury gaol, august th, .--condemned cell. "sunday evening, half-past eleven. "i acknowledge being guilty of the death of poor maria marten, by shooting her with a pistol. the particulars are as follows:--when we left her father's house, we began quarrelling about the burial of the child: she apprehended the place wherein it was deposited would be found out. the quarrel continued about three quarters of an hour upon this sad and about other subjects. a scuffle ensued, and during the scuffle, and at the time i think that she had hold of me, i took the pistol from the side pocket of my velveteen jacket and fired. she fell, and died in an instant. i never saw her even struggle. i was overwhelmed with agitation and dismay:--the body fell near the front doors on the floor of the barn. a vast quantity of blood issued from the wound, and ran on to the floor and through the crevices. having determined to bury the body in the barn (about two hours after she was dead). i went and borrowed a spade of mrs stow, but before i went there i dragged the body from the barn into the chaff-house, and locked the barn. i returned again to the barn, and began to dig a hole, but the spade being a bad one, and the earth firm and hard, i was obliged to go home for a pickaxe and a better spade, with which i dug the hole, and then buried the body. i think i dragged the body by the handkerchief that was tied round her neck. it was dark when i finished covering up the body. i went the next day, and washed the blood from off the barn-floor. i declare to almighty god i had no sharp instrument about me, and no other wound but the one made by the pistol was inflicted by me. i have been guilty of great idleness, and at times led a dissolute life, but i hope through the mercy of god to be forgiven. william corder." witness to the signing by the said william corder, john orridge. condemned cell, eleven o'clock, monday morning, august th, . the above confession was read over carefully to the prisoner in our presence, who stated most solemnly it was true, and that he had nothing to add to or retract from it--w. stocking, chaplain; timothy r. holmes, under-sheriff. the execution. at ten minutes before twelve o'clock the prisoner was brought from his cell and pinioned by the hangman, who was brought from london for the purpose. he appeared resigned, but was so weak as to be unable to stand without support; when his cravat was removed he groaned heavily, and appeared to be labouring under great mental agony. when his wrists and arms were made fast, he was led round towards the scaffold, and as he passed the different yards in which the prisoners were confined, he shook hands with them, and speaking to two of them by name, he said, "good bye, god bless you." they appeared considerably affected by the wretched appearance which he made, and "god bless you!" "may god receive your soul!" were frequently uttered as he passed along. the chaplain walked before the prisoner, reading the usual burial service, and the governor and officers walking immediately after him. tho prisoner was supported to the steps which led to the scaffold; he looked somewhat wildly around, and a constable was obliged to support him while the hangman was adjusting the fatal cord. there was a barrier to keep off the crowd, amounting to upwards of , persons, who at this time had stationed themselves in the adjoining fields, on the hedges, the tops of houses, and at every point from which a view of the execution could be best obtained. the prisoner, a few moments before the drop fell, groaned heavily, and would have fallen, had not a second constable caught hold of him. everything having been made ready, the signal was given, the fatal drop fell, and the unfortunate man was launched into eternity. just before he was turned off, he said in a feeble tone, "i am justly sentenced, and may god forgive me." the murder of maria marten. by w. corder. come all you thoughtless young men, a warning take by me, and think upon my unhappy fate to be hanged upon a tree; my name is william corder, to you i do declare, i courted maria marten, most beautiful and fair. i promised i would marry her upon a certain day, instead of that, i was resolved to take her life away. i went into her father's house the th day of may, saying, my dear maria, we will fix the wedding day. if you will meet me at the red-barn, as sure as i have life, i will take you to ipswich town, and there make you my wife; i then went home and fetched my gun, my pickaxe and my spade, i went into the red-barn, and there i dug her grave. with heart so light, she thought no harm, to meet him she did go he murdered her all in the barn, and laid her body low; after the horrible deed was done, she lay weltering in her gore, her bleeding mangled body he buried beneath the red-barn floor. now all things being silent, her spirit could not rest, she appeared onto her mother, who suckled her at her breast, for many a long month or more, her mind being sore oppress'd, neither night or day she could not take any rest. her mother's mind being so disturbed, she dreamt three nights o'er, her daughter she lay murdered beneath the red-barn floor; she sent the father to the barn, when he the ground did thrust, and there he found his daughter mingling with the dust. my trial is hard, i could not stand, most woeful was the sight, when her jaw-bone was brought to prove, which pierced my heart quite; her aged father standing by, likewise his loving wife, and in her grief her hair she tore, she scarcely could keep life. adieu, adieu, my loving friends, my glass is almost run, on monday next will be my last, when i am to be hang'd, so you, young men, who do pass by; with pity look on me, for murdering maria marten, i was hang'd upon the tree. printed by j catnach, and , monmouth court.--cards, &c., printed cheap [illustration] "oh, she lives snug in the holy land, right, tight, and merry in the holy land, search the globe round, none can be found so _accommodating!_ as old mother cummins--of the holy land." catnach, like many others connected with the getting up of news broadsides and fly-sheets, did not always keep clear of the law. the golden rule is a very fine one, but, unfortunately, it is not always read aright; in some cases injured innocence flies at extremes. jemmy catnach for a long time had been living upon unfriendly terms with a party connected with the management of one of mother cummins's lodging-house establishments in the immediate neighbourhood, so out of spite printed a pamphlet, purporting to be the "life and adventures of old mother cummins." here catnach had reckoned without his host, by reason of his not taking into consideration the extensive aristocratic and legal connection mother cummins had for her friends and patrons. the moment she was made acquainted with the "_dirty parjury_" that jemmy catnach had printed and caused to be publicly circulated, she immediately gave instructions to _her_ attorney general to prosecute the _varmint_, when a warrant was applied for and obtained to search the premises of the seven dials printer. but catnach got the news of the intended visit of the bow street runners, and naturally became alarmed from having a vivid recollection of the punishment and costs in the case of the drury-lane sausage makers, so the forme containing the libellous matter was at once broken up--"pied," that is, the type was jumbled together and left to be properly distributed on a future occasion. what stock of the pamphlets remained were hastily packed up and carried off to the "other side of the water" by john morgan, one of catnach's poets! while another forme, consisting of a christmas-sheet, entitled "the sun of righteousness," was hurriedly got to press, and all hands were working away full of assumed innocence when the officers from bow street arrived at monmouth-court, when, after a diligent search, they had very reluctantly to come to the conclusion that they were "a day behind the fair," and that the printer had been a little too sharp for them this time. but mother cummins did not mean to be so checkmated by catnach and co., and vowed to pursue him and his dirty blackguards to the end of the world and back again, and instructed her lawyers to serve him with several notices of action for libel, defamation of character, and, more particular, as she expressed it, for "_parjury_." then catnach became somewhat alarmed by her known vindictive disposition and long purse, that he consulted his own solicitor in the matter, who took "counsel's opinion" when an instant compromise at all costs, together with an ample apology, was recommended as the only safe way out of the dilemma; a course which was ultimately agreed to by both sides. an apology was drawn up and approved of, with the understanding that catnach was, after paying all costs incurred to print the apology and publish the same on three several places in front of his business premises in monmouth court for fourteen clear days. all this--and more--jemmy promised steadfastly to observe. yet in effect, he evaded the conditions by printing the apology in small pica type and sticking the three copies so high up on the premises, that it would have required sam weller's "pair of double million magnifying gas microscopes of hextra power" to have been able to read the same. immediately after mother cummins's death and funeral, march, , the following announcement appeared:-- _published this day, price sixpence, embellished with a humorous coloured plate._ the life and adventures of mother cummins, the celebrated lady abbess of st. giles's; with a curious description, regulations, &c., of her singular establishment. an account of her funeral, &c. interspersed with numerous anecdotes of living characters, visitors of mother cummins's nunnery,--capt. shiels and the forty-four nuns--poll hankey and sir charles stanton,--jane sealey and an illustrous person, &c.--with an account of some of the principal nuns of the establishment; particularly mrs. throgmorton and lord al...n..y--bell chambers and the d... of y...,--miss wilkinson and captain featherstone--marianne hempstead, the scotch beauty--miss weltern davis and the rev. mr. h...l..y be..rs..d--mary thomas, the female chimney-sweep, and captain t...t...s, &c. the trial, sentence, full confession, and execution of bishop & williams, the burkers. [illustration] burking and burkers. the month of november, , will be recorded in the annals of crimes and cruelties as particularly pre-eminent, for it will prove to posterity that other wretches could be found base enough to follow the horrid example of burke and his accomplice hare, to entice the unprotected and friendless to the den of death for sordid gain. the horrible crime of "burking," or murdering the unwary with the intention of selling their bodies at a high price to the anatomical schools, for the purpose of dissection, has unfortunately obtained a notoriety which will not be soon or easily forgotten. it took its horrifying appellation from the circumstances which were disclosed on the trial of the inhuman wretch burke, who was executed at edinburgh in , for having wilfully and deliberately murdered several persons for the sole purpose of profiting by the sale of their dead bodies. apprehension of the burkers. on tuesday, november th, four persons vis., john bishop, thomas williams, james may, and michael shield, were examined at bow street police office on the charge of being concerned in the wilful murder of an unknown italian boy. from the evidence adduced, it appeared that may, _alias_ jack stirabout, a known resurrection-man, and bishop, a body-snatcher, offered at king's college a subject for sale, shield and williams having charge of the body in a hamper, for which they demanded twelve guineas. mr partridge, demonstrator of anatomy, who, although not in absolute want of a subject, offered nine guineas, but being struck with its freshness sent a messenger to the police station, and the fellows were then taken into custody, examined before the magistrates, when shield was discharged and the others ultimately committed for trial the trial. friday, december nd, having been fixed for the trial of the prisoners charged with the murder of the italian boy, the court was crowded to excess so early as eight o'clock in the morning. at nine o'clock the deputy recorder, mr serjeant arabin, came into the court, when the prisoners severally pleaded "not guilty." the jury were then sworn, and at ten o'clock chief justice tindal, mr baron vaughan, and mr justice littledale entered the court, with the lord mayor and sheriffs. the bench was crowded with persons of rank, amongst whom was the duke of sussex. mr bodkin having opened the case, mr adolphus proceeded to state to the jury the leading facts, as they were afterwards stated in the evidence produced. the case for the prosecution having closed, the prisoners were called upon for their defence. the prisoner bishop in his defence stated that he was thirty-three years of age, and had followed the occupation of carrier till the last five years, during which he had occasionally obtained a livelihood by supplying surgeons with subjects. he most solemnly declared that he had never disposed of any body that had not died a natural death. williams' defence briefly stated that he had never been engaged in the calling of a resurrectionist, but had only by accident accompanied bishop on the sale of the italian boy's body. may, in his defence, admitted that for the last six years he had followed the occupation of supplying the medical schools with anatomical subjects, but disclaimed ever having had anything to do with the sale of bodies which had not died a natural death. that he had accidentally met with bishop at the fortune of war public house on the friday on which the body was taken for sale to guy's hospital. at eight o'clock the jury retired to consider their verdict and on their return they found the prisoners were guilty of murder. the recorder then passed the awful sentence upon them. "that each of them be hanged on monday morning, and their bodies be delivered over for dissection and anatomization." the prisoners heard the sentence as they had the verdict, without any visible alteration. may raised his voice, and in a firm tone said, "i am a murdered man, gentlemen." the full confession of bishop and williams. on saturday morning williams addressed a note to mr wontner, stating that he and bishop wanted particularly to see him and dr. cotton, the ordinary. in the course of the interview which immediately followed, both prisoners made a full confession of their guilt, both exculpating may altogether from being party to any of the murders. having received the confessions, mr wontner immediately waited upon mr justice littledale and baron vaughan, and upon communicating to them the statements, they said they would at once see the home secretary on the subject. on sunday morning the sheriffs visited all three of the prisoners in succession, and with the under-sheriffs were engaged between three and four hours in taking down the statements of the convicts. the result of all these investigations was that the same afternoon a respite during his majesty's pleasure arrived at newgate for may, and his sentence will be commuted to transportation for life. the execution. during the whole of sunday crowds of persons congregated in the old bailey, and the spot on which the scaffold was to be erected was covered with individuals conversing on the horrid crimes of the convicts, and in the course of the day strong posts were erected in the old bailey and at the ends of newgate street giltspur street, and skinner street, for the purpose of forming barriers to break the pressure of the crowd. at half-past twelve o'clock the gallows was brought out from the yard, and drawn to its usual station opposite the debtor's door. the crowd, as early as one o'clock amounting to several thousand persons, continued rapidly increasing. by some oversight three chains had been suspended from the fatal beam, and this led the crowd to suppose that may had not been respited. mr. wontnor, on hearing of the mistake, directed that one of the chains should be removed. the moment this was done an exclamation of "may is respited," ran through the crowd, and, contrary to the expected tokens of indignation, distinct cheers were heard amongst the crowd on witnessing this token that mercy had been shown to may. at half-past seven the sheriffs arrived in their carriage, and in a short time the press-yard was thronged with gentlemen. the unhappy convicts were now led from their cells. bishop cams out first, and after he was pinioned he was conducted to a seat, and the rev. mr. williams sat alongside of him, and they conversed together in a low tone of voice. williams was next introduced, and the wonderful alteration two days had effected in his appearance astonished everyone who was present at the trial. all the bold confidence he exhibited then had completely forsaken him, and he looked the most miserable wretch it is possible to conceive. he entered the room with a very faltering step, and when the ceremony of pinioning him commenced, he was so weak as to be scarcely able to stand. everything being ready, the melancholy procession moved forward. bishop was then conducted to the scaffold, and the moment he made his appearance the most dreadful yells and hootings were heard among the crowd. the executioner proceeded at once to the performance of his duty, and having put the rope round his neck and affixed it to a chain, placed him under the fatal beam. williams was then taken out, and the groans and hisses were renewed. the dreadful preparations were soon completed, and in less than five minutes after the wretched men appeared on the scaffold the usual signal was given, the drop fell, and they were launched into eternity. bishop appeared to die very soon, but williams struggled hard. thus died the dreadful burkers of printed in london for the venders. it may be remarked, _en passant_, that mr. corder, with paragalli and colla, the two italian witnesses, who gave evidence as to the identity of the body, said to be that of the italian boy, at the trial of bishop, williams, and may, appeared at bow street, in consequence of doubts being entertained by a portion of the public as to the body being that of carlo ferrari, to re-assert their former evidence. mr. corder afterwards published a statement in the "times" newspaper, which gave scarcely the possibility of doubt that the body offered at king's college _must have been_ that of ferrari notwithstanding the murderer's assertion to the contrary. on december the th, a _post-obit_ prosecution of williams, the burkite murderer, took place in the court of excise, where he was charged, on information, with having carried on an illicit factory for making glass at no. , nova scotia gardens, bethnal green. an officer proved the seizure of goods used in the manufacture of glass, at the house of the person charged, and that bishop was at the time in company. the court condemned the goods seized. a drama on the subject of the "burkers" was produced at an unlicensed theatre, designated the shakespeare, in the kingsland road, and not far from shoreditch church, and for a time was specially attractive. in the young actor, who played carlo ferrari, the italian boy, might now be recognised an eminent tragedian.[ ] [illustration] street-ballads on political subjects, though not regarded as of great interest by the whole body of the people, are still eventful among certain classes, and for such the street author and ballad singer cater. the measure of reform by earl grey's administration, was proposed in the house of commons by lord john russell, st march, . on the first division, _second_ reading nd march, there stood for it, ; against it, . ultimately, the bill for that session was abandoned, and parliament dissolved. the reform bill of was read for the _third_ time on the rd of march, when the numbers stood thus:--for the bill, ; against it, --majority for it, . in the lords, the bill was carried through the committee on the th of may, and read a _third_ time on the th of june. for the bill, ; against, --majority, . during the whole of the time the reform bills of - were before the houses of parliament, the "catnach press," in common with other printing offices that produced street-literature, was very busy in publishing, almost daily, songs and papers in ridicule of borough-mongering and of the various rotten boroughs then in existence, but which were entirely swept away by the passing of this bill; fifty-six boroughs in england being disfranchised, while thirty were reduced to one member only; twenty-two new boroughs were created to send two members, and twenty to send one member; other important changes were also made. songs upon the subject were sung at every corner of the streets, to the great delight of the multitude. the reform bill. as william and _bill_ are the same, our king, if he "weathers the storm," shall be called in the annals of fame, the _glorious_ bill _of reform_! [illustration] attack on king william iv. at ascot heath, on tuesday, the th of june, . the ascot races for will be rendered memorable in the history of this country by reason of a stone thrown at his majesty while on the grand stand at ascot races, which hit him on the forehead. the man by whom it was thrown was immediately secured, and proved to be dennis collins, a seaman with only one leg, formerly a pensioner of greenwich hospital, from whence he had been dismissed for ill-conduct. on his examination he confessed he committed the outrage in revenge because no notice had been taken of petitions which he had sent to the lords of the admiralty and the king. he was committed to reading gaol to take his trial, which took place at abingdon, on august nd. the jury returned a verdict of guilty on the fifth count, that of intending some bodily harm to his majesty, but not guilty of the intent to kill. mr. baron gurney passed sentence on the prisoner, that he _be drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution_, and being hung by his _neck_ until dead, his _head_ be afterwards _severed from his body_, and his body _divided into four pieces_, and disposed of as his majesty should think fit. his sentence was afterwards respited. nothing better than the above circumstance could have suited the producers and workers of street-literature. king william and queen adelaide were very popular at the time. "yes, sir, we all did well out of that job of the wooden-legged sailor and old king billy. it lasted out for months. we had something fresh nearly every day. we killed old billy five or six times; then we made out that the sailor-chap was a love-child of the sailor king and madame vestris; then that he was an old sweetheart of queen adelaide's, and that he was jealous and annoyed at her a jilting of him and a-marrying of old king billy, and so on. but it was an awful sell, and a robbery to us all, because they didn't hang and cut the chap up into four quarters--that would have been a regular godsend to us chaps, sir. but i think old jemmy catnach, as it was, must have cleared pretty nigh or quite fifty pounds for himself out of the job. a-talking about madame vestris, sir, reminds me that once we had a song about her, and the chorus was:-- "'a hundred pounds reward for the man that cut the legs above the knees belonging to madame vestris.'" [illustration] the year produced two sensational murders and executions. the first case--that of pegsworth--made a great stir, particularly in the east part of london. it was on the evening of the th of january, , that a most atrocious and cold-blooded murder was committed in ratcliff highway. the individual who suffered was mr. john holliday ready, who for some time carried on the trade of a tailor, draper, and milliner. john pegsworth, was a messenger in the tea department of st. katherine's docks, he had formerly kept a small tobacconist's shop in the same street, and had contracted a debt of £ with mr. ready, who being unable to obtain payment, took out a summons against him in the court of requests, osborne-street, whitechapel. the court gave judgement against pegsworth for the full amount and costs, which he was ordered to pay by instalments. on the evening of the same day pegsworth proceeded to a cutler's shop in shadwell, where he bought a large pig-knife, armed with which he immediately repaired to the house of mr. ready for the purpose of executing his diabolical intention. he entered the shop, and having spoken to mrs. ready, passed on to the parlour and got into conversation with mr. ready. pegsworth, although pressingly asked to do so, declined taking a seat, and after he had been talking about ten minutes in a calm and collected manner on the subject of the debt and the misfortunes he had met with in business, he pointedly asked mr. ready if he intended to enforce the payment of the debt? ready said he should be compelled to issue an execution against his goods if the money was not paid. the words had scarcely left the lips of the unfortunate man than pegsworth uttered some exclamation which is supposed to have been "take that!" and plunged the knife with great force into his breast up to the hilt. ready called out to his wife, "o, i am stabbed!" fell back in his chair, and almost immediately expired. mrs. ready, who saw pegsworth move his arm, but was not aware her husband was stabbed until she saw him fall back, screamed aloud for assistance, and several of her neighbours rushed into the shop for the purpose of securing the murderer, who did not make the least attempt to escape, but having completed his purpose, withdrew the knife from the body of his victim, laid it on the table, and calmly awaited the arrival of the police. pegsworth was tried at the central criminal court of london on the th of february, and found guilty of wilful murder, and was executed in front of the debtor's door in the old bailey on the th of march following. * * * * * during the whole of the time that was occupied in the trial and execution of pegsworth, a circumstance took place which excited an extraordinary sensation throughout the metropolis and its neighbourhood--namely, the discovery near the pine apple gate, edgware road, of the trunk of a human being, tied up in a sack, dismembered of the arms, legs, and head. the utmost vigilance was exercised to trace out the murderer, but for several days no light was thrown upon the transaction. at length, on the th of january, as a barge was passing down the regent's canal, near stepney, one of the eastern environs of london, the bargeman, to his unspeakable horror, fished up what proved to be a human head. proper notice of this circumstance was forwarded to the police. it was now very generally supposed the head would prove to belong to the body found in the edgware road, although at a distance of nearly five miles, and this conjecture proved to be correct. on the second of february the remaining portions of the human being was discovered in a sack in an osier bed, near cold harbour lane, camberwell. these mutilated remains were carefully matched together, and at length recognised as those of a mrs. brown, and suspicion fell, and justly so, upon james greenacre and his paramour sarah gale. in respect to the last two murders we have cited, mr. henry mayhew received from an old "running patterer" the following statement--"pegsworth was an out-and-out lot. i did tremendous with him, because it happened in london, down ratcliff highway--that's a splendid quarter for working--there's plenty of feeling--but, bless you, some places you go to you can't move nohow, they've hearts like paving stones. they wouldn't have 'the papers' if you'd give them to 'em--especially when they knows you. greenacre didn't sell so well as might have been expected, for such a diabolical out-and-out crime as he committed; but you see he came close after pegsworth, and that took the beauty off him. two murderers together is no good to nobody." in the greenacre tragedy catnach did a great amount of business, and as it was about the last "popular murder" in which he had any trade concern, we give a statement in respect to the sale of "execution papers," of the chief modern '_popular_' murders, thus:-- of rush murder , , copies. of the mannings , , " of courvoisier , , " of greenacre , , " of corder (maria marten) , , " of the five pirates (flowery land) , " of müller , " so that the printers and publishers of "gallows" literature in general, and "the catnach press" in particular must have reaped a golden harvest for many a long day, even when sold to the street patterers at the low rate of d. per _long_ dozen. [illustration] life, trial, confession, & execution of james greenacre, for the edgeware road murder. [illustration] on the nd of april, james greenacre was found guilty of the wilful murder of hannah brown, and sarah gale with being accessary after the fact. a long and connected chain of evidence was produced, which showed, that the sack in which the body was found was the property of mr. ward; that it was usually deposited in a part of the premises which led to the workshop, and could without observation have been carried away by him; that the said sack contained several fragments of shavings of mahogeny, such as were made in the course of business by ward; and that it contained some pieces of linen cloth, which had been patched with nankeen; that this linen cloth matched exactly with a frock which was found on greenacre's premises, and which belonged to the female prisoner. feltham, a police-officer, deposed, that on the th of march he apprehended the prisoners at the lodgings of greenacre; that on searching the trowsers pockets of that person, he took therefrom a pawnbroker's duplicate for two silk gowns, and from the fingers of the female prisoner two rings, and also a similar duplicate for two veils, and an old-fashioned silver watch, which she was endeavouring to conceal; and it was further proved that these articles were pledged by the prisoners, and that they had been the property of the deceased woman.--two surgeons were examined, whose evidence was most important, and whose depositions were of the greatest consequence in throwing a clear light on the manner in which the female, hannah brown, met with her death. mr. birtwhistle deposed, that he had carefully examined the head; that the right eye had been knocked out by a blow inflicted while the person was living; there was also a cut on the cheek, and the jaw was fractured, these two last wounds were, in his opinion, produced after death; there was also a bruise on the head, which had occurred after death; the head had been separated by cutting, and the _bone sawed nearly through_, and then broken off; then were the marks of a saw, which fitted with a saw which was found in greenacre's box. mr. girdwood, a surgeon, very minutely and skilfully described the appearances presented on the head, and showed incontestibly, that the head had been severed from the body _while the person was yet alive_; that this was proved by the retraction, or drawing back, of the muscles at the parts where they were separated by the knife, and further, by the blood-vessels being empty, the body was drained of blood. this part of the evidence produced a thrill of horror throughout the court, but greenacre remained quite unmoved. after a most impressive and impartial summing up by the learned judge, the jury retired, and, after the absence of a quarter of an hour, returned into court, and pronounced a verdict of "guilty" against both the prisoners. the prisoners heard the verdict without evincing the least emotion, or the slightest change of countenance. after an awful silence of a few minutes, the lord chief justice said they might retire, as they would be remanded until the end of the session. they were then conducted from the bar, and on going down the steps, the unfortunate female prisoner kissed greenacre with every mark of tenderness and affection. the crowd outside the court on this day was even greater than on either of the preceding; and when the result of the trial was made known in the street, a sudden and general shout succeeded, ans continued huzzas were heard for several minutes. the execution. at half past seven the sheriff arrived in his carriage, and in a short time the press-yard was thronged with gentlemen who had been admitted by tickets. the unhappy convict was now led from his cell. when he arrived in the press-yard, his whole appearance pourtrayed the utmost misery and spirit-broken dejection; his countenance haggard, and his whole frame agitated; all that self-possesion and fortitude which he displayed in the early part of his imprisonment, had utterly forsaken him, and had left him a victim of hopelessness and despair. he requested the executioner to give him as little pain as possible in the process of pinioning his arms and wrists; he uttered not a word in allusion to his crime; neither did he make any dying request, except that his spectacles might be given to sarah gale; he exhibited no sign of hope; he showed no symptom of reconciliation with his offended god! when the venerable ordinary preceded him in the solemn procession through the vaulted passage to the fatal drop, he was so overcome and unmanned, that he could not support himself without the aid of the assistant executioner. at the moment he ascended the faithless floor, from which he was to be launched into eternity, the most terrific yells, groans, and cheers were vociferated by the immense multitude surrounding the place of execution. greenacre bowed to the sheriff, and begged he might not be allowed to remain long in the concourse; and almost immediately the fatal bolt was withdrawn, and, without a struggle he became a lifeless corse.--thus ended the days of greenacre, a man endowed with more than ordinary talents, respectably connected, and desirably placed in society; but a want of probity, an absolute dearth of principle, led him on from one crime to another, until at length he perpetrated the sanguinary deed which brought his career to an awful and disgraceful period, and which has enrolled his name among the most notorious of those who have expiated their crime on the gallows. on hearing the death-bell toll, gale became dreadfully agitated; and when she heard the brutal shouts of the crowd of spectators, she fainted, and remained in a state of alternate mental agony and insensibility throughout the whole day. after having been suspended the usual time, his body was cut down, and buried in a hole dug in one of the passages of the prison, near the spot where thistlewood and his associate were deposited. catnach received a very indifferent education, and that little at the establishment of mr. goldie, in alnwick, where his attendance was very irregular, and this drawback assisted very much in blunting his relish for the higher walks of literature. the father had not carried out the heavenly injunction so much practised in scotland, by giving to his son the best of blessings--"a good education." jemmy had a tenacious love of money, and this propensity he retained throughout life. as a man of business he was rough and brusque in his manners, but this mattered little, as his trade lay amongst a class who were low and insensitive in their habits and modes of living. the productions issued at the "catnach press" were not destined to rank high in the annals of literature; and they bear a sorry appearance when placed alongside of several works of a similar kind, which were printed at the same period in many parts of the kingdom. in this respect jemmy catnach was very unlike his father, for, whilst the former had a niggardly turn in all his dealings, the latter was naturally inclined to the reverse. one class of literature which jemmy catnach made--by reason of greater mechanical skill and a larger capital than his rivals--almost his own, was children's farthing, halfpenny, and penny books. among the great many that he published we select from our own private collection, those that follow as a fair sample. many other nursery books of a similar kind might be mentioned as some of the chief attractions that emanated from the "catnach press," and which, to the juvenile population, were more eagerly welcomed than the great sensational three-volume novels are by many in our day. "the catnach press." [illustration] a collection of juvenile books. printed and published by james catnach, late of monmouth court, seven dials, london. [illustration: james catnach to his juvenile readers. little boys and girls will find at catnach's something to their mind, from great variety may choose, what will instruct them and amuse; the prettiest plates that you can find, to please at once the eye and mind, in all his little books appear, in natural beauty, shining clear, instruction unto youth when given, points the path from earth to heaven. he sells by wholesale and retail. to suit all moral tastes can't fail.] nurse love-child's legacy [illustration] london: printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. [illustration] the lion and the unicorn, were fighting for the crown, the lion beat the unicorn, all round about the town, some gave them white bread and some gave them brown, some gave them plum cake and sent them out of town. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] what is the news of the day, good neighbour i pray, they say the balloon, is gone up to the moon. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] the little mouse doth skip and play, he runs by night, and sleeps by day. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] this is the cat that killed the cock, for waking her at five o'clock. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] and this is the dog that bit the thief, for stealing all his master's beef. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] who comes here a grenadier, what do you want a pot of beer, where's your money i've forgot. get you gone you drunken sot. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] be not a glutton when you eat, but spare some for the needy, or people will, when filled with meat, say, like a wolf, you are greedy. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] there was a little man, and he had a little gun, and his bullets were made of lead, he shot john sprig thro' the middle of his wig, and knock'd it off his head. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] now what do you think of little jack jingle, before he was married, he used to live single. but after he married, to alter his life, he left off living single and lived with his wife. nurse lovechild's legacy. tom trueby was a good and sensible boy, who neither played the truant nor kept company with naughty children. he did not like tossing up nor chuck up farthing, because he thought it might lead him to love gaming, when he was grown up; but he liked very well to play at ball or top, and most particularly at marbles, at which he was very clever, never cheated, and played so well that he used to teach the neighbouring children. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] and here you see him instructing master manly, a baronet's son in the place, as he did in matters of more consequence, and behaved so well towards him, that he was his friend all his lifetime. nurse lovechild's legacy. fire-works and crackers. [illustration] fire-works are things that look very pretty when they are properly managed by those who understand them, but children ought to take care how they meddle with gunpowder lest they should hurt themselves or other people. nurse lovechild's legacy. tom hazard for example was always fond of playing with serpents crackers &c. at one time he was near doing damage by his fireworks falling into a cellar, and at another time as you see in the cut he so much frightened one of his schoolfellows that he fell down, and put his ancle out, for which tom was severely corrected and you must own he richly deserved it. [illustration] nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] see the mother, good and mild, how she plays with her dear child. nurse lovechild's legacy. [illustration] see the maid by kindness led, to feed the fowls with crumbs of bread. finis. j. catnach, printer. the golden pippin. [illustration] london: printed by j. catnach. , monmouth court, dials. the lord's prayer. [illustration] our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. amen. [illustration] [illustration] a was an arch boy. [illustration] b a beauty was. [illustration] c a comely wench but coy. [illustration] d a dainty lass. [illustration] e loved eggs, and eat his fill. [illustration] f was full and fat. [illustration] g had grace and wit at will. [illustration] h wore a gold lace hat. [illustration] i stands for little jackys name. [illustration] k for kitty fair. [illustration] l loved learning & got fame. [illustration] m was his mother dear. [illustration] n was naughty & oft crying. [illustration] o an only child. [illustration] p was pretty peggy sighing. [illustration] q was a quaker mild. [illustration] r was rude, & in disgrace. [illustration] s stands for sammy still. [illustration] t for ever talked a-pace. [illustration] v was fond of veal. [illustration] w he watched the house & hall. [illustration] x does like a cross appear. [illustration] y a youth well shaped & tall. [illustration] z whips up the rear. let all good children come to me, and i'll learn them their a b c [illustration] and when your great letters you know, then i'll teach you the small also. [illustration] j. catnach, printer. jerry diddle, and his fiddle. [illustration] _if you are bad i pray reform, and praise will all your acts adorn._ london: printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. jerry diddle. bought a fiddle, to play to little boys, he wax'd his string, and began to sing, youth is the time for joys. [illustration] he went to a pig, and play'd a jig. the pigs did grunt for joy, till the farmer came out, and made a great rout, saying "off, or i'll cane you, my boy." [illustration] he met an old woman to market a prancing, he took out his fiddle, and set her a dancing. she broke all her eggs, and dirtied her butter; at which her old husband began for to splutter. [illustration] oh! then, said jerry, i'll soon make you merry. and the way with his fiddle he led, the old man heard the tune, as he sat in his room, and danc'd on top of his head. [illustration] [illustration] he next met a barber, with powder and wig, he play'd him a tune, and he shaved an old pig. [illustration] then up in his arms he carried the boar, and went to the ale-house, to dance on the floor. [illustration] he met an old man, with beer in a can, and a bundle of clothes on his shoulder, he bade jerry play, and threw all away, to astonish each gaping beholder. [illustration] he went to a tailor, who was ill in bed; when he got up to dance, with a goose on his head. [illustration] he went to a fishwomen, tippling of gin, when she like a top, began for to spin. [illustration] the publican star'd, as he fill'd out the glasses, but when jerry play'd, he danc'd with the lasses. [illustration] he next met an old man, with beard white and long, who laugh'd at poor jerry, and scoff'd at his song. [illustration] his name was instruction, the friend of the wise, who teaches good youth, to win honor's prize. [illustration] he broke jerry's fiddle, and taught him to read, and told him that honor would daily succeed. [illustration] jerry now is a lad at school always true, the joy of his friends, and a pattern for you. [illustration] be instructed by him, to avoid folly's snare, and your bosom thro' life, will escape every care. finis. jumping joan. [illustration] here am i, little jumping joan, when nobody's with me, i'm always alone. london: printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. _jumping joan._ [illustration] joan had a dog, and joan had a cat, look at them both, see how pretty they're sat. _jumping joan._ [illustration] joan she lov'd skipping, and was not at a loss, at jumping or hopping, or going a cross. _jumping joan._ [illustration] joan had a parrot could chatter and bawl, but joan could talk faster, and longer withal. _jumping joan._ [illustration] joan's dog, prinny, no learning did lack, he'd carry poll in his mouth and puss on his back. _jumping joan._ [illustration] as joan lov'd jumping, she learned her cat, look at them both, and see what they're at. _jumping joan._ [illustration] here's pussy a washing joan's linen you know, she could wash for herself a long while ago. _jumping joan._ [illustration] now prinny, joan's dog, to market would go, but what he'll bring back, i'm sure i don't know. _jumping joan._ [illustration] here's pussy drest out like a lady so gay, she's going to court, if she finds but the way. _jumping joan._ [illustration] here's prinny and pussy to dancing have got, while joan plays a tune on the lid of a pot. _jumping joan._ [illustration] here's joan with a whip, taking very long strides, and vows if she finds 'em, she'll bang both their hides. _jumping joan._ [illustration] here's prinny with gun, sword and gorget so smart, he's going to france, to fight bonaparte. _jumping joan._ [illustration] and joan's threat had fill'd poor prin with alarms, he said he'd not fight, and so grounded his arms. _jumping joan._ [illustration] then puss in a fright ran back to the house, she pull'd off her clothes, and has just caught a mouse. _jumping joan._ [illustration] then joan she came in, call'd the cat saucy puss, and said prin was a puppy, to frighten her thus. _jumping joan._ [illustration] they fell on their knees, her pardon to crave, and promis'd in future, they'd better behave. j. catnach, printer. [illustration] this milk maid and book for a halfpenny. [illustration] to the juvenile reader. little boys and girls will find at catnach's something to their mind. from great variety may choose, what will instruct them and amuse; the prettiest plates that you can find, to please at once the eye and mind, in all his little books appear, in natural beauty, shining clear, instruction unto youth when given, points the path from earth to heaven. he sells by wholesale and retail, to suit all moral tastes can't fail. the butterfly's ball, and grasshopper's feast. [illustration] _come take up your hats, and away let us haste, to the butterfly's ball, or the grasshoppers feast._ j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. [illustration] the butterfly's ball and grasshopper's feast. [illustration] the trumpeter gad-fly, has summon'd the crew, and the revels are now, only waiting for you. [illustration] on the smooth shaved grass, by the side of a wood. beneath a broad oak, which for ages had stood. [illustration] see the children of earth, and the tenants of air, to an evening's amusement, together repair. [illustration] and there came the beetle, so blind and so black, and carried the emmet, his friend on his back. [illustration] and there came the gnat, and the dragon-fly too, and all their relations-- green, orange and blue. [illustration] and there came the moth with her plume of down, and the hornet with jacket of yellow and brown. [illustration] who with him the wasp, his companion did bring, but they promised that evening to lay by their sting. [illustration] the sly little dormouse, peep'd out of his hole, and led to the feast, his blind cousin the mole. [illustration] and the snail with his horns, peeping out of a shell. came fatigued with the distance, the length of an ell. [illustration] a mushroom the table, and on it was spread, a water-dock leaf, which their table-cloth made. [illustration] the viands were various, to each of their taste, and the bee brought the honey, to sweeten the feast [illustration] with steps most majestic, the snail did advance, and he promised the gazers a minuet to dance. [illustration] but they all laugh'd so loud, that he drew in his head, and went in his own little chamber to bed. [illustration] then as the evening gave way to the shadows of night, their watchman the glow-worm came out with his light. [illustration] so home let us hasten, while yet we can see, for no watchman is waiting, for you or for me. j. catnach, printer. [illustration] a halfpenny pay and take honest tray. let all good children come to me, and i'll learn them their a b c [illustration] [illustration: the _easter gift_; being a useful toy for _little miss & master_ to learn their abc j. catnach, printer, , & , monmouth-court, dials.] [illustration] a was an archer and shot at a frog, but missing his mark shot into a bog. [illustration] b was a butcher and had a great dog, who always went round the streets with a clog. [illustration] c was a captain so brave and so grand, he headed in buff the stately train'd band. [illustration] d was a drunkard and lov'd a full pot, his face and his belly shew'd him a great sot. [illustration] e was an esquire, both lofty and proud, his servant was softy though he was full loud. [illustration] f was a farmer and followed the plough, and gathered good from the sweat of his brow. [illustration] g was a gamester, and oft would he play, a poor single ace against a bold tray. [illustration] h hunted the buck, and likewise the doe, the hart and the fox, and also the roe. [illustration] i was an image set up at rome, many that see it were better at home. [illustration] j was a joiner and built him a house, a little time after there came in a mouse. [illustration] k was a king, who would drink and carouse, affrighted was he at a stand and a mouse. [illustration] l was a lady that lov'd a fine tree, though none understood it so little as she. [illustration] m was a merchant to foreign lands gone. to bring home fine tea and rich silks anon. [illustration] n was a noble of birth and high power, to the poor most gentle, to the haughty most sour. [illustration] o with her oysters, a delicate cry. come buy my sweet oyster, come buy, come buy. [illustration] p was a parson, and wore a black gown, for goodness and virtue of high renown. [illustration] q was a quaker, both stiff and upright, in yea and nay they chiefly delight. [illustration] r was a robber on the highway, for which he's been hung this many a day. [illustration] s was a sailor and liv'd in a ship, he made the spaniards and french for to skip. [illustration] t was tom tinker and mended a kettle, while he was hammering was deaf as a beetle. [illustration] u was an undertaker at work for his bread. the living must pay, though he works for the dead. [illustration] v was a vintner that loved his pottle, went seldom to bed without his full bottle. [illustration] w was a watchman, to guard the warehouse, that rogues did not strip it of every souse. [illustration] x was expensive, and so became poor, with his little dog begged from door to door. [illustration] y was a youngster that lov'd not his school, but trundled his hoop though out of all rule. [illustration] z was a zany that look'd like a fool, with his long tassell'd cap he was the boy's fool. and when your great letters you know, then i'll teach you the small ones also. [illustration] printed by j. catnach. the tragical death of an _apple pie_, [illustration] who was cut to pieces and eaten by _twenty-five gentlemen_, with whom all little people ought to be acquainted printed by j. paul & co., london; _ & , monmouth court_. [illustration] an apple pie when it looks nice, would make one long to have a slice, and if its taste should prove so too, i fear one slice would scarcely do, so to prevent my asking twice, pray mamma, cut a good large slice. [illustration] the life and death of an apple pie. [illustration] a an apple-pie. b bit it. [illustration] c cut it. d dealt it. [illustration] e did eat it. f fought for it. [illustration] g got it. h had it. [illustration] j join'd for it. k kept it. [illustration] l long'd for it. m mourned for it. [illustration] n nodded at it. o open'd it. [illustration] p peeped into it. q quartered it. [illustration] r ran for it. s stole it. [illustration] t took it. v view'd it. [illustration] w wanted it. xyz and & all wished for a piece in hand. [illustration] at last they every one agreed, upon the apple pie to feed; but as there seem'd to be so many, those who were last might not have any, unless some method there was taken that every one might have their bacon, they all agreed to stand in order, around the apple pie's fine border, take turn as they in hornbook stand from great a down to &, in equal parts the pie divide, as you may see on the other side. [illustration] _a curious discourse that passed between the twenty-five letters at dinner time._ a . says, a, give me a good large slice. b . says b, a little bit but nice. c . says c, cut me a piece of crust. d . take it, says d, 'tis dry as dust. e . says e, i'll eat it fast, who will? f . says f, i vow i'll have my fill. g . says g, give it me both good and great. h . says h, a little bit i hate. i . says i, i love the juice the best. k . and k, the very same confess'd. l . says l, there's nothing more i love. m . says m, it makes your teeth to move. n . n notic'd what the others said, o . o, others plates with grief survey'd. p . p prais'd the cook up to the life. q . q quarrell'd because he'd a bad knife. r . says r, it runs short i'm afraid. s . s, silent sat and nothing said. t . t, thought that talking might lose time. u . u understood it at meals a crime. w . w wish'd there had been a quince in. x . says x, those cooks there's no convincing. y says y, i'll eat, let others wish. z . z sat as mute as any fish. & . while & he lick'd the dish. having concluded their discourse and dinner together, i have nothing more to add; but if my little readers are pleased with what they have found in this book they have nothing to do but to run to j. paul & co's., , & , monmouth court; dials, where they may have a great variety of books not less entertaining than this of the same size and price. [illustration] but that you may not think i leave you too abruptly, i here present you with the picture of dame dumpling, who made the apple pie you have been reading about; she has several more in her basket, and she promised that if you are good children you shall never go to bed supperless while she has one left. but as good people always ask a blessing, as a token that you are good and deserve a pie, you must learn the two following graces, that one be said before your meals, and the other after. * * * * * _grace before meat._ good lord, bless us, and these thy creatures, to our use, which we are about to receive, of thy bounteous liberality, through jesus christ our lord. _amen._ _grace after meat._ we thank thee, o lord, for all the benefits of this time, and of our whole lives. make us thankful for all thy mercies now, and for evermore. _amen._ [illustration] the ten commandments put into short rhyme. . thou shalt have no other god but me. . before no idol bow thy knee. . take not the name of god it vain. . nor dare the sabbath-day profane. . give both thy parents honour due. . take heed that thou no murder do. . abstain from words and deeds unclean. . steal not, tho' thou art poor and mean. . tell not a wilful lie, nor love it. . what is thy neighbour's, dare not covet. j. paul & co., printers. old mother hubbard and her wonderful dog. [illustration] old mother hubbard went to the cupboard to get the poor dog a bone; but when she came there the cupboard was bare, and so the poor dog had none. london: printed by j. catnach, & , monmouth court, dials. [illustration] she went to the baker's to buy him some bread, when she came back the dog was dead. ah! my poor dog, she cried, oh, what shall i do? you were always my pride--none equal to you. [illustration] she went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin, when she came back, the dog was laughing. now how this can be quite puzzles my brain, i am much pleased to see you alive once again. [illustration] she went to the barber's to buy him a wig, when she came back he was dancing a jig. o, you dear merry grig, how nicely you're prancing; then she held up the wig, and he began dancing. [illustration] she went to the sempstress to buy him some linen, when she came back the dog was spinning. the reel, when 'twas done, was wove into a shirt, which served to protect him from weather and dirt. [illustration] to market she went, to buy him some tripe, when she came back he was smoking his pipe. why, sure, cried the dame, you'd beat the great jocko. who before ever saw a dog smoking tobacco? [illustration] she went to the alehouse to buy him some beer, when she came back he sat on a chair. drink hearty, said dame, there's nothing to pay, 'twill banish your sorrow and moisten your clay. [illustration] she went to the fruiterer's to buy him some fruit, when she came back he was playing the flute. oh, you musical dog, you surely can speak: come, sing me a song, then he set up a squeak. [illustration] she went to the tavern for white wine and red, when she came back he stood on his head. this is odd, said the dame, for fun you seem bred, one would almost believe you'd wine in your head. [illustration] the dog he cut capers, and turned out his toes, 'twill soon cure the vapours, he such attitude shows. the dame made a curtsey, the dog made a bow, the dame said, your servant, the dog said bow wow. [illustration] the royal book. [illustration] of nursery rhymes. a present for little masters and misses. a good book to instruct and amuse. [illustration] pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? i've been up to london to look at the queen. pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there? i frighten'd a little mouse under the chair. london: published by ryle and paul, & , monmouth court, seven dials. nursery rhymes. [illustration] see-saw, sacradown, which is the way to london town? one foot up, and the other down, and that is the way to london town. [illustration] hey diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon. the little dog laughed to see the sport, and the dish ran away with the spoon. ding, dong, bell! pussy's in the well. who put her in? little johnny green. who pulled her out? little johnny snout, what a naughty boy was that, to drown poor pussy cat, who never did him any harm, and kill'd the mice in his father's barn. [illustration] jack and jill went up the hill, to get a pail of water: jack fell down and broke his crown, and jill came tumbling after. [illustration] cock a doodle do, the dame has lost her shoe, and master's lost his fiddle stick and don't know what to do. simple simon met a pieman, going to the fair! says simple simon to the pieman, let me taste your ware. [illustration] says the pieman unto simon first give me a penny; says simple simon to the pieman, i have not got any. once simon made a great snow ball and brought it in to roast, he laid it down before the fire, and soon the ball was lost. [illustration] he went to ride a spotted cow, that had a little calf, she threw him down upon the ground and made all the people laugh. now simple simon went a fishing, for to catch a whale, but all the water he had got was in his mother's pail. [illustration] he went to catch a dickey bird and thought he could not fail because he had a bit of salt, to put upon his tail. he went to see if cherries ripe, did grow upon a thistle, he pricked his finger very much, which made poor simon whistle. [illustration] he went to take a bird's nest, 'twas built upon a bough, a branch gave way, down simon fell into a dirty slough. simon was sent to market, to buy a joint of meat, he tied it to his horse's tail, to keep it clean and sweet. [illustration] he went to slide upon the ice, before the ice would bear, then he plunged in above his knees, which made poor simon stare. he went to shoot a wild duck, but the duck flew away, says simon i can't hit him, because he would not stay. [illustration] then simple simon went a hunting, for to catch a hare, he rode an ass about the street, but could not find one there. he went for water in a seive, but soon it all run through, and went all o'er his clothes, which made poor simon rue. [illustration] he washed himself with blacking ball, because he had no soap, and then said to his mother i'm a beauty now i hope. he went to eat some honey, out of the mustard pot, it bit his tongue until he cried, that was all the good he got. [illustration] simple simon cutting his mother's bellows open to see where the wind lay. jack jingle. [illustration] little jack jingle, played truant at school, they made his bum tingle for being a fool; he promised no more like a fool he would look but be a good boy and attend to his book. [illustration] see little jack jingle learning his task, he's a very good boy, if the neighbours should ask, to school he does run, and no truant does play, but when school is done, he can laugh and be gay. [illustration] here sulky sue, what shall we do. turn her face to the wall, till she comes to; if that should fail, a touch with the cane will do her good, when she feels the pain. [illustration] now suky never pouts, never frowns, never flouts, but reads her book with glee, then dances merrily, no girl so good as she, in all the country; cheerfully doth all things do, she lost the name of sulky sue. [illustration] jack jingle went 'prentice, to make a horse-shoe, he wasted the iron, till it would not do, his master came in, and began for to rail; says jack, the shoe's spoil'd, but 'twill still make a nail. [illustration] little jack jingle, went to court suky shingle, says he, shall we mingle our toes in the bed; fye! jacky jingle, says little suke shingle, we must try to mingle, our pence for some bread. [illustration] suke shingle when young, did what others have done, she could dirty two clouts, while her mother wash'd one. but now grown a stout wench, with her pail and her mop, if she don't clean the board, she can make a great slop. [illustration] suky you shall be my wife, and i'll tell you why; i have got a little pig, and you have got a sty; i have got a dun cow, and you can make good cheese, suky will you have me? say yes, if you please. death & burial of cock robin. [illustration] who kill'd cock robin? i said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow. i kill'd cock robin. who caught his blood? i, said the fish, with my little dish-- i caught his blood. [illustration] this is the fish that held the dish. who saw him die? i, said the fly with my little eye-- i saw him die. [illustration] this is the fly that saw him die. who made his shroud? i, said the beetle, with my little needle-- i made his shroud. [illustration] this is the beetle, with his little needle. who'll be the parson? i, said the rook, with my little book-- i will be the parson. [illustration] here is parson rook, reading his book. who'll carry the coffin? i, said the kite, if it's not in the night-- i'll carry the coffin. [illustration] behold the kite, how he takes his flight. who'll be the clerk? i, said the lark, if its not in the dark-- i will be the clerk. [illustration] behold how the lark, says amen like a clerk. who will carry the link? i, said the linnet: i'll fetch it in a minute-- i will carry the link. [illustration] the linnet with a light, altho' it is not night. little red riding hood. [illustration] and now her riding hood is on, how pretty she does look; _mamma_ made it to keep her warm because she learn'd her book; so be good girls all who hear this and boys be good also, and your _mammas_ will give you all great coats and hoods, i know. [illustration] you see this pot of butter nice, and likewise this plum-cake, which little _biddy's_ dear _mamma_ for _grandmamma_ did make: who lived in a little house, a mile or two away, and _red riding hood_ must take them, to _grandmamma_ next day [illustration] the morning come--the hood put on, the pot and cake she took, _biddy_, good bye--good bye, _mamma_ and then her hand she shook: and so set off for _grandmamma's_ _mamma_ stood at the door, and watched her little _biddy_ till she could see her no more. [illustration] now in the road to _grandma's_ house, a lonesome wood there lay, and _goffip wolf_ popp'd from a bush, and stopp'd her in the way he was a fierce and cruel beast, and would have eat her there, but turning of his head about, he found he did not dare. [illustration] i'm going to my _grandmamma's_, she is not very well, with cake and pot of butter; says _wolf_ where does she dwell? in yonder house, by yonder mill good bye--i cannot stay-- and with her pretty finger, she pointed out the way. [illustration] the _wolf_ got first to grandma's door, and knocked toc, toc, toc; who is that, said _grandmamma_, that at the door doth knock; 'tis your _grandaughter_, said the _wolf_ and mimic'd biddy's voice, _mamma_ has sent you a plumb cake, and pot of butter nice. [illustration] now _grandmamma_ being very ill, she on the bed did lie, and called out, the bobbin pull, and up the latch will fly; the bobbin pull'd, up flew the latch, the _wolf_ popp'd in his head and soon he eat up _grandmamma_ and then got into bed. [illustration] toc, toc, toc, at _grandma's_ door knocked _little red riding hood_, who's there, says _wolf_, and with a voice, like _grandma's_ as he could; 'tis your _grandaughter_, little _bid_ with cake and pot of butter; the bobbin pull, the latch will fly, the wicked _wolf_ did mutter. cinderella. [illustration] here cinderella you may see a beauty bright and fair, her real name was helena, few with her could compare besides she was so very good, so affable and mild, she learned to pray and read her book, like a very good child. [illustration] her mother-in-law you see, one of the worst of hags, who made her do all drudgery work. and clothed her in rags; and after she had done her work, her mother-in-law would tell her the cinders she might sit among, then call'd her cinderella. [illustration] these are her two sisters-in-law, both deformed & ordinary, altho' they dress as fine as queens, which you may think extraordinary; but neither of them scarce can read, nor pray to god to bless'em they only know to patch and paint, and gaudily to dress'em, [illustration] this is the king's fine gallant son, young, handsome, straight and tall he invited all the ladies round for to dance at his ball; which when the ugly sisters heard they dress'd themselves so fine, and off they set, being resolv'd at this grand ball to shine. [illustration] her god-mother came to lend her aid, and her power is not small to help her god-daughter to go to this fine prince's ball. this coach was once a pumpkin, by the fairy changed from that, the footmen once were lizards green, the coachman once a rat. [illustration] now having danced with the prince, he led her to her place, while all the ladies at the ball envied her handsome face; behold the clock now striking twelve, out cinderella run, and happily got out of door just as the clock had done. [illustration] but in her haste to get away, one of her slippers fell, which the young prince himself pick'd up, and it pleased him so well, that straight he offer'd a reward, it was ten thousand pound, to any person that could tell where the owner could be found. [illustration] and now the sisters tried in vain the slipper to get on; said cinderella, let me try, dear sisters, when you've done; she tried, and on it went with ease to the foot of cinderella, said she, i think the slipper's mine, see here i've got the fellow. the child's new year's gift. [illustration] _a pair of spectacles._ without a bridle or a saddle, across a thing i ride and straddle. and those i ride by help of me, tho' almost blind are made to see. [illustration] _a pair of stays._ my legs i can venture, to say within bound, are twelve, if not more, tho' they ne'er touch the ground; if you search for my eyes, more than thirty you'll find and strange to be told they are always behind. [illustration] _a pin._ and tho' i'm a brazen-fac'd sharper at best, no lady without my aid can be drest, when i'm wanted, i'm dragg'd by the head to my duty and am doomed to be slave to the dress of a beauty. [illustration] _a letter m._ i'm found in most countries, yet not in earth or sea, i am in all timber, yet not in any tree, i am in all metals, yet, as i am told, i am not in iron, lead, brass, silver, nor gold. [illustration] _a pair of snuffers._ a mouth i have got, that's not whiter than ink. and all i devour doth most nauseously stink; so much valued am i, that by none i'm refused, and the light shines the brighter whenever i'm used. [illustration] _a watch._ my form is beauteous to allure the sight my habit gay, of colour gold & white, when ladies take the air, it is my pride, to walk with equal paces by their side, i near their persons constantly remain, a favourite slave, bound in a golden chain. [illustration] _a wheelbarrow._ no mouth, no eyes, nor yet a nose, two arms, two feet, and as it goes, the feet don't touch the ground, but all the way the head runs round. and tho' i can both speak and go alone, yet are my motions to myself unknown. [illustration] _a salamander._ what all consumes best pleases me, i covet that which others flee, strange thing to tell, unhurt i lie and live, where all the world would die. printed by a. ryle & paul. the good child's illustrated alphabet or first book. [illustration] london: published by ryle & paul, & , monmouth court, seven dials. [illustration: a] was an archer, who shot at a frog. [illustration: b] was a butcher, and kept a great dog. [illustration: c] was a captain, all covered with lace. [illustration: d] was a drunkard and had a red face. [illustration: e] was an esquire, with insolent brow. [illustration: f] was a farmer, and followed the plough. [illustration: g] was a gamester, who had but ill-luck. [illustration: h] was a huntsman, and hunted a buck. [illustration: i] was an inn-keeper, who loved to bouse. [illustration: j] was a joiner, and built up a house. [illustration: k] was king william, once governed this land. [illustration: l] was a lady, who had a white hand. [illustration: m] was a miser, and hoarded up gold. [illustration: n] was a nobleman, gallant and bold. [illustration: o] was an oyster-wench, and went about town. [illustration: p] was a parson, and wore a black gown. [illustration: q] was a queen, who was fond of flip. [illustration: r] was a robber, and wanted a whip. [illustration: s] was a sailor, who spent all he got. [illustration: t] was a tinker, and mended a pot. [illustration: u] was a usurer, a miserly elf. [illustration: v] was a vinter, who drank all himself. [illustration: w] was a watchman, and guarded the door. [illustration: x] was expensive, and so became poor. [illustration: y] was a youth, who did not love school. [illustration: z] was a zany, a silly old fool. the alphabet. the letters promiscuously arranged. d b c f g e h a x u y m v w n k p j o z q i s l t r z w x o c l y b b f p s m q n v h k r t g e j a u i double and triple letters. fi fl ff ffi ffl fi fl fff ffi fl diphthongs, &c. ae oe æ oe & &c. Æ oe ae oe and _et cætera_ arabic numerals. roman numerals. i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. viii. ix. x. xi. xii. xiii. xiv. [illustration] the life and adventures of dick turpin. [illustration] london: w. s. fortey, printer & publisher, monmouth court, bloomsbury, w.c. the life and adventures of dick turpin. richard turpin was born at hempstead, in essex, where his father kept the sign of the bell; and after being the usual time at school, he was bound apprentice to a butcher in whitechapel, but did not serve out his time, for his master discharged him for impropriety of conduct, which was not in the least diminished by his parents' indulgence in supplying him with money, which enabled him to cut a figure round the town, among the blades of the road and the turf, whose company he usually kept. his friends, thinking that marriage would reclaim him, persuaded him to marry, which he did with one hester palmer, of east ham in essex, but he had not long been married before he became acquainted with a gang of thieves, whose depredations terrified the whole county of essex, and the neighbourhood of london. he joined sheep stealing to foot-pad robbery; and was at last obliged to fly from his place of residence for stealing a young heifer, which he killed and cut up for sale. soon after, he stole two oxen from one farmer giles, of plaistow, and drove them to a butcher's slaughtering house, near waltham abbey. he was followed there, but made his escape out of the window of the house where he was, just as they were entering the door. he now retreated into the hundreds of essex, where he found more security: he adopted a new scheme; and that was to rob the smugglers, but he took care not to attack a gang, only solitary travellers, this he did with a colour of justice, for he pretended to have a deputation from the customs, and demanded their property in the king's name. he again joined the gang with whom he had before connected himself, the principal part of those depredations were committed upon epping forest, &c. but this soon becoming an object of magisterial enquiry, he again returned to the solitude of the country, with some more of the gang, and they became notorious deer-stealers, and turpin being a good shot, sent many a buck up to his connections in london. dick turpin. they next determined to commence house-breakers; and in this they were much encouraged by joining with gregory's gang, as it was then called, a company of desparadoes that made the essex and adjacent roads very dangerous to travel. somehow or other, turpin became acquainted with the circumstances of an old woman, that lived at laughton, that kept a great quantity of cash by her; whereupon they agreed to rob her; and when they came to the door, wheeler knocked and turpin and the rest forcing their way into the house, blindfolded the eyes of the old woman and her maid, and tied the legs of her son to the bedstead, but not finding the wished-for booty, they held a consultation, as they were certain she must have a considerable sum concealed. turpin told her he knew she had money, and it was in vain to deny it, for have it they would. the old lady persisted that she had none, but turpin insisting she had money, he swore he would put her on the fire. she continued obstinate and endured for some time, when they took her off the grate, and robbed her of all they could find, upwards of four hundred pounds. they next proceeded into surrey, where turpin and his company robbed mr. sheldon's house, near croydon church, where they arrived about seven o'clock in the evening. they secured the coachman in the stable. his master hearing some strange voices in the yard, was proceeding to know the cause, when he was met by turpin, who seizing hold of him compelled him to show them the way into the house, when he secured the door, and confined the rest of the family in one room, here they found but little plate and no cash. from mr. sheldon's person they took eleven guineas, two of which turpin returned him, begged pardon for what they had done, and wished him a good night. these robberies hitherto had been carried on entirely on foot, with only the occasional assistance of a hackney coach but now they aspired to appear on horse-back, for which purpose they hired horses at the old leaping bar in holborn, from whence they set out about two o'clock in the afternoon, and arrived at the queen's head, stanmore, where they staid to regale themselves. it was by this means that wood, the master of the horse, had so good an opportunity of observing the horses, as to remember the same again when he saw them afterwards in bloomsbury, where they were taken. about five they went from mr. wood's to stanmore and staid from six until seven and then went together for mr. lawrence's, about a mile from thence, where they got about half-past seven. on their arrival at mr. lawrence's they alighted from their horses at the gate; whereupon fielder knocked at the door, and calling out mr. lawrence. the man servant thinking it to be some of the neighbours, opened the door, upon which they all rushed in with pistols, and seizing mr. dick turpin [illustration] lawrence and his man, threw a cloth over their faces then fell to rifling their pockets, out of which they took one guinea, and about fifteen shillings in silver, with his keys. they said they must have more, and drove mr. lawrence up stairs, where coming to a closet, they broke open the door, and took out from thence two guineas, ten shillings, a silver cup, silver spoons, and two gold rings. they then rifled the house of all they could get, linen, table cloths, shirts, and the sheets off the bed, and trod the beds under feet, to discover if any money was concealed therein. suspecting there was more money in the house, they then brought mr. lawrence down again, and threatened to cut his throat, and fielder put a knife to it, as though he intended to do it; to make him confess what money was in the house. one of them took a chopping bill, and threatened to cut off his leg: they then broke his head with their pistols, and dragged him about by the hair of his head. another of them took the kettle off the fire, and flung it upon him; but it did no other harm just wetting him, because the maid had just before taken out the greater part of the boiling water, and filled it again with cold. after this they dragged him about again, swearing they would "do for him" if he did not immediately inform them where the rest of the money was hid. they then proceeded to make a further search; and then withdrew; threatening to return again in half an hour, and kill every one dick turpin. [illustration] they found loose. so saying they locked them in the parlour and threw the keys down the area. turpin by this robbery got but little, for out of the _l_, they took in the whole, he distributed it among them all but three guineas and six shillings and six pence. a proclamation was issued for the apprehension of the offenders, and a pardon and _l_ was offered to any of the party who would impeach his accomplices, which however, had no effect. the white hart in drury-lane was their place of rendezvous. here they planned their nightly visits, and here they divided their spoil, and spent the money they acquired. the robbery being stated to the officers of westminster, turpin set off to alton, where he met with an odd encounter, which got him the best companion he ever had, as he often declared. king, the highwayman, as he was returning from this place to london, being well dressed and mounted, turpin seeing him have the appearance of a substantial gentleman, rode up to him, and thinking him a fair mark, bid him stand and deliver, and therewith producing his pistols, king fell a laughing at him, and said "what dog rob dog! come, come, brother turpin, if you don't know me, i know you, and shall be glad of your company." after a mutual communication of circumstances to each other, they agreed to keep company, and divide good or ill fortune as the trumps might turn up. in fact king was true to him to the last, which was for more than three years. they met with various fortunes; but being too well known to dick turpin. remain long in one place, and as no house that knew them would receive them in it, they formed the resolution of making themselves a cave, covered with bevins and earth, and for that purpose pitched upon a convenient place, enclosed with a thicket, situated on the waltham side of epping, near the sign of the king's oak. in this place turpin lived, ate, drank, and lay, for the space of six years, during the first three of which he was enlivened by the drollery of his companion, tom king, who was a fellow of infinite humour in telling stories, and of an unshaken resolution in attack or defence. one day, as they were spying from their cave, they discovered a gentleman riding by, that king knew very well to be a rich merchant near gresham college. this gentleman was in his chariot, and wife with him; his name was bradele. king first attacked him on the laughton road; but he being a man of great spirit, offered to make resistence, thinking there was but one; upon which king called turpin, and bid him hold the horses' heads. they proceeded first to take his money, which he readily parted with, but demurred a good while about his watch, being the dying bequest of his father. king was insisting to take it away, when turpin interposed, and said, they were more gentlemen than to deprive anyone of their friend's respect which they wore about them, and bid king desist from his demand. on the day after this transaction they went to the red lion ale house, in aldersgate street, where they had not been more than half an hour, when turpin heard of the approach of the chief constable and his party; they mounted each their horse; but before king could get fairly seated he was seized by one of the party, and called on dick to fire. turpin replied, "if i do, i shall hit you." "fire, if you are my friend." said king--turpin fired, but the ill-fated ball took effect in king's breast. dick stood a moment in grief, but self-preservation made him urge his mare forward to elude his pursuers; it was now he resolved on a journey to york, and raising himself in his saddle, he said, "by g--, i will do it." encouraged by "harkaway bess," she flew on. astonishing to relate, he reached york the same evening and was noticed playing at bowls in the bowling-green with several gentlemen there, which circumstance saved him from the hands of justice for a time. his pursuers coming up and seeing turpin, knew him; and caused him to be taken into custody; one of them swore to him and the horse he rode on, which was the identical one he arrived upon in that city; but on being in the stable, and its rider at play, and all in the space of four-and-twenty hours, his alibi was admitted; for the magistrates of york could not believe it possible for one horse to cover the ground, being upwards of miles, in so short a space. dick turpin. for the last two years of his life he seems to have confined his residence to the county of york, where he appears to be a little known. he often accompanied the neighbouring gentlemen in their parties of hunting and shooting; and one evening, on a return from an expedition of the latter kind, he saw one of his landlord's cocks in the street, which he shot. the next day mr. hall received a letter from robert appleton, long sutton, with this account:--that the said john palmer had lived there about three quarters of a year, and had before that been once apprehended, and made his escape, and that they had a strong suspicion he was guilty of horse-stealing. another information gave notice, that he had stolen a horse from captain dawson, of ferraby; his horse was that which turpin rode on when he came to beverley, and which he stole from off hickinton fen in lincolnshire. he wrote to his father upon being convicted, to use his interest to get him off for transportation, but his fate was at hand, his notoriety caused application to be ineffectual. after he had been in prison five months, he was removed from beverley to york castle to take his trial. when on his trial his case seemed much to affect the hearers. he had two trials, upon both of which he was convicted upon the fullest evidence. after a long trial the jury brought in their verdict and found him guilty. he was carried in a cart to the place of execution, on saturday, april, th, . he behaved himself with amazing assurance and bowed to the spectators as he passed. it was remarkable that as he mounted the ladder, his right leg trembled, on which he stamped it down with an air, and with undaunted courage looked round about him; and after speaking near half an hour to the topman, threw himself off the ladder, and expired in about five minutes. [illustration] w. s. fortey, printer, monmouth court, bloomsbury. "the catnach press," (established .) william s. fortey, (sole successor to the late j. catnach.) printer, publisher, and wholesale stationer, & , monmouth court, seven dials, london, w.c. the cheapest and greatest variety in the trade of large coloured penny books; halfpenny coloured books; farthing books; penny and halfpenny panoramas; school books; penny and halfpenny song books; memorandum books; poetry cards; lotteries; ballads ( ) and hymns; valentines; scripture sheets; christmas pieces; twelfth night characters; carols; book and sheet almanacks, envelopes, note paper, &c. w. s. fortey begs to inform his friends and the public generally, that after years service he has succeeded to the business of his late employers (a. ryle & co.), and intends carrying on the same, trusting that his long experience will be a recommendation, and that no exertion shall be wanting on his part to merit a continuance of those favours that have been so liberally bestowed on that establishment during the last years. . [illustration] the long song-seller. songs and song literature. "old songs, old songs--what heaps i knew, from 'chevy chase' to 'black-eyed sue'; from 'flow, thou regal, purple stream,' to 'rousseau's melancholy dream!' i loved the pensive 'cabin boy,' with earnest truth and real joy. to greet 'tom bowling' and 'poor jack'; and, oh! 'will watch,' the 'smuggler' bold, my plighted troth thou'lt ever hold." eliza cook. "songs! songs! songs! beautiful songs! love songs! newest songs! old songs! popular songs! songs, _three yards a penny_!" was a "standing dish" at the "catnach press," and catnach was the leo x. of street publishers. and it is said that he at one time kept a fiddler on the premises, and that he used to sit receiving ballad-writers and singers, and judging of the merits of any production which was brought to him, by having it sung then and there to some popular air played by his own fiddler, and so that the ballad-singer should be enabled to start at once, not only with the new song, but also the tune to which it was adapted. his broad-sheets contain all sorts of songs and ballads, for he had a most catholic taste, and introduced the custom of taking from any writer, living or dead, whatever he fancied, and printing it side by side with the productions of his own clients. he naturally had a bit of a taste for old ballads, music, and song writing; and in this respect he was far in advance of many of his contemporaries. to bring within the reach of all the standard and popular works of the day, had been the ambition of the elder catnach; whilst the son was, _nolens volens_, incessant in his endeavours in trying to promulgate and advance, not the beauty, elegance, and harmony which pervades many of our national airs and ballad poetry, but very often the worst and vilest of each and every description--in other words, those most suitable for street-sale. his stock of songs was very like his customers, diversified. there were all kinds, to suit all classes. love, sentimental, and comic songs were so interwoven as to form a trio of no ordinary amount of novelty. at ordinary times, when the awfuls and sensationals were flat, jemmy did a large stroke of business in this line. it is said that when the "songs--_three-yards-a-penny_"--first came out and had all the attractions of novelty, some men sold twelve or fourteen dozen on fine days during three or four of the summer months, so clearing between s. and s. a day, but on the average about s. a week profit. the "long songs," however, have been quite superseded by the "monster" and "giant penny song books." still there are a vast number of half-penny ballad-sheets worked off, and in proportion to their size, far more than the "monsters" or "giants." as a rule there are but two songs printed on the half-penny ballad-sheets--generally a new and popular song with another older ditty, or a comic and sentimental, and "adorned" with two woodcuts. these are selected without any regard as to their fitness to the subject, and in most cases have not the slightest reference to the ballad of which they form the head-piece. for instance:--"the heart that can feel for another" is illustrated by a gaunt and savage looking lion; "when i was first breeched," by an engraving of a highlander _sans culotte_; "the poacher" comes under the cut of a youth with a large watering-pot, tending flowers; "ben block" is heralded by the rising sun; "the london oyster girl," by sir walter raleigh; "the sailor's grave," by the figure of justice; "alice grey" comes under the very dilapidated figure of a sailor, or "jolly young waterman;" "bright hours are in store for us yet" is _headed_ with a _tail-piece_ of an urn, on which is inscribed finis! "the wild boar hunt," by two wolves chasing a deer; "the dying child to its mother," by an angel appearing to an old man; "autumn leaves lie strew'd around," by a ship in full sail; "cherry ripe," by death's head and cross bones; "jack at the windlass," falls under a roadside inn; while "william tell" is presented to the british public in form and style of an old woman nursing an infant of squally nature. here follow a few examples of the style, also that of some of the ballad-sheets: together with various _verbatim_ imprints used by "the catnach press," chronologically arranged from _circa_ to the present time. [illustration] the gallant _sailor_. london: printed by j. catnach, and sold wholesale and retail at no. , wardour street, soho square. farewell thou dear and gallant sailor, since thou and i have parted been, be thou constant and true hearted, and i will be the same to thee. chorus. may the winds and waves direct thee, to some wishful port design'd, if you love me, don't deceive me, but let your heart be as true as mine. * * * * * when oft times my fancy tells me, that in battle thou art slain, with true love i will requite thee, when thou dost return again. may the winds, &c. [illustration] o rare turpin. printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. sold by j. sharman, cambridge, bennet, brighton; & r. harris, salisbury. as i was riding over hunslow moor, there i saw a lawyer riding before, and i asked him if he was not afraid, to meet bold turpin that mischievous blade. chorus.--i asked him if he was not afraid, to meet bold turpin that mischievous blade. says turpin to the lawyer and for to be cute, my money i have hid all in my boot, says the lawyer to turpin they mine can't find, for i have hid mine in the cape of my coat behind. i rode till i came to a powder mill, where turpin bid the lawyer for to stand still, for the cape of your coat it must come off, for my horse is in want of a new saddle cloth. now turpin robbed the lawyer of all his store, when that's gone he knows where to get more, and the very next town that you go in, tell them you was robb'd by the bold turpin. [illustration] mountain maid. printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. travellers and shopkeepers supplied with sheet hymns. patters, and slip songs as cheap and good as any shop in london. the mountain maid from her bower has hied, and speed to the glassy river's side, where the radiant mead shone clear and bright, and the willows wav'd in the silver light. on a mossy bank lay a shepherd swain, he woke his pipe to tuneful strain, and so blythely gay were the notes he play'd, that he charm'd the ear of the mountain maid. she step'd with timid fear oppress'd, while soft sighs swell her gentle breast, he caught her glance, and mark'd her sigh, and triumph laugh'd in his sparkling eye. so softly sweet was the tuneful ditty, he charmed her tender heart to pity; and so blithely gay were the notes he play'd, that he gain'd the heart of the mountain maid. [illustration] meet me in the willow glen j. catnach, printer, , monmouth court, dials. cards, &c. printed cheap. [symbol: pointing hand] country shops and travellers supplied. meet me in the willow glen, where the silvery moon is beaming, songs of love i'll sing thee then, when all the world is dreaming. meet me in the willow glen. when the silver moon is beaming, songs of love i'll sing thee then, if you meet me in the willow glen. no prying eye shall come love. no stranger foot be seen. and the busy village hum, love, shall echo through the glen. meet me, &c. [illustration] drink to me only with thine eyes. j. catnach, printer, , monmouth court, dials. sold by w. marshall. sold by t. pierce, southborough. (cards printed cheap.) drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss but in the cup, and i'll not look for wine; the thirst that from my soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine; but might i of jove's nectar sip, i would not change for thine. [illustration] the mistletoe bough printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. sold by pierce, southborough, bennet, brighton; and sharman, cambridge. the mistletoe hung in the castle hall, the holly branch shone on the old oak wall, the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, and keeping their christmas holiday. the baron beheld with a father's pride, his beautiful child, young lovell's bride: while she with her bright eyes, seemed to be the star of the goodly company. oh! the mistletoe bough! "i'm weary of dancing now," she cried! "here tarry a moment--i'll hide--i'll hide, and, lovell, be sure thou'rt the first to trace the clue to my secret lurking place." away she ran--and her friends began each tower to search, and each nook to scan; and young lovell cried, "oh! where dost thou hide? i'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." oh! the mistletoe bough! [illustration] the _rose will cease to blow_. printed by j. catnach, , monmouth court, dials. sold by t. batchelor, , hackney road crescent; w. marshall, bristol. sold by bennet and boyes, brighton. the rose will cease to blow, the eagle turn a dove, the streams will cease to flow, ere i will cease to love. the sun shall cease to shine, the world shall cease to move, the stars their light resign, ere i will cease to love. [illustration] i'm a tough true hearted sailor. j. catnach, printer, & , monmouth court, dials, & at , waterloo road, (late hill's). country shops, and travellers supplied. i'm a tough true-hearted sailor, careless and all that, d'ye see, never at the times a railer-- what is time or tide to me? all must die when fate must will it, providence ordains it so; every bullet has its billet, man the boat, boys--yeo, heave, yeo! life's at best a sea of trouble, he who fears it is a dunce, death, to me, an empty bubble, i can never die but once, blood, if duty bids, i'll spill it, yet i have a tear for woe, every bullet has its billet, &c. [illustration] when bibo thought fit. printed and sold by j. catnach, & , monmouth court, dials. when bibo thought fit from the world to retreat, as full of champagne as an egg's full of meat; he wak'd in the boat, and to charon he said, he would be rowed back, for he was not yet dead. 'trim the boat, and sit quiet,' stern charon replied-- 'you may have forgot--you were drunk when you died!' [illustration] the sun that lights the roses. a. ryle and co., printers, & , monmouth court, seven dials, and , hanover street, portsea, where upwards of different sorts of ballads are continually on sale together with new penny song books. tho' dimple cheeks may give delight where rival beauties blossom; th'o balmy lips to love invite, to extacy the bosom. yet sweeter far yon summer sky, whose blushing tints discloses, give me the lustre beaming eye, the sun that lights the roses. [illustration] the woodpecker. london:--printed by j. paul & co., & , monmouth court. i knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd above the green elms, that a cottage was near, and i said if there's peace to be found it the world, a heart that is humble might hope for it here. chorus. every leaf was at rest, and i heard not a sound, but the woodpecker tapping in the hollow beech tree. and here in this lone little wood, i exclaim'd, with a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, who would blush when i prais'd her, and weep if i blam'd, how blest could i live, and how calm could i die. every leaf, &c. [illustration] ye topers all. london:--published by ryle and paul, & , monmouth court, dials. where an immense number of songs are always ready. ye topers all drink to the soul, of this right honest fellow; who always loved a flowing bowl, and would in death be mellow. the lamp of life be kindled up, with spirit stout and glowing; his heart inspired thus with a cup, ascends where nectar's flowing. [illustration] death of nelson. london:--ryle & co., printers, & , monmouth court, bloomsbury. recitative. o'er nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppress'd britannia mourns her hero now at rest. but these bright laurels ne'er shall fade with years, whose leaves are water'd by a nation's tears. air. 'twas in trafalgar's bay, we saw the frenchmen lay, each heart was bounding then; we scorned the foreign yoke-- our ships were british oak, and hearts of oak our men, our nelson mark'd them on the wave, three cheers our gallant seamen gave, nor thought of home or beauty; along the line this signal ran-- "england expects that every man this day will do his duty!" [illustration] the scarlet flower. a. ryle & co., printers, & , monmouth court, bloomsbury. she's gentle as the zephyr, that sips of every sweet, she fairer than the fairest lily, in nature's soft retreat; her eyes are like the crystal brok, as bright and clear to see? her lips outshine the scarlet flow'r of bonny ellerslie. [illustration] the thorn. london:--printed at the "catnach press" by w. fortey, (late a. ryle) & , monmouth court. bloomsbury. (established .) the oldest and cheapest house in the world for ballads, ( , sorts) song books, &c. from the white blossomed sloe, my dear chloe requested, a sprig her fair breast to adorn; no by heavens i exclaimed, may i perish if ever i plant in that bosom a thorn. when i shewed her the ring and implored her to marry she blushed like the dawning of morn, yes i'll consent she replyed if you'll promise, that no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn, no by heavens i exclaim'd may i perish, if ever i plant in that bosom a thorn. banks of the nile. [illustration] printed at the "catnach press" by w. fortey, monmouth court, bloomsbury, the oldest house in the world for ballads ( , sorts) song books, &c. &c. hark! i hear the drums a beating--no longer can i stay, i hear the trumpets sounding, my love i must away, we are ordered from portsmouth many a long mile, for to join the british soldiers on the banks of the nile. willie, dearest willie, don't leave me here to mourn, you'll make me curse and rue the day that ever i was born, for the parting of my own true love is parting of my life, so stay at home dear willie, and i will be your wife. i will cut off my yellow locks, and go along with you, i will dress myself in velveteens, and go see egypt too i will fight or bear your banner, while kind fortune seems to smile, and we'll comfort one another on the banks of the nile. poor crazy jane. [illustration] london:--printed at the "catnach press" by w. s. fortey, & , monmouth court, bloomsbury. (established .) the oldest and cheapest house in the world for ballads, song books, children's spelling & reading books, panorama slips, almanacks, valentines, hymns, toy cards, poetry cards, lotteries, characters, note paper, envelopes, &c. [symbol: asterism] shopkeepers and hawkers supplied on the lowest terms. why fair maid in every feature, are such signs of fear expressed, can a wandering wretched creature, with such horror fill thy breast. do my frenzied looks alarm thee, trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain, not for kingdom would i harm thee, shun not then poor crazy jane. fondly my young heart believed him, which was doomed to love but one; he sighed, he vowed, and i believed him, he was false, and i'm undone. from that hour has reason never, had her empire o'er my brain, henry fled, with him for ever fled the wits of crazy jane. [illustration] "it was christmas morning--dear christmas morning when bright angels and men kept watch for its dawning-- and merrily christmas bells were out ringing, and blithely the children their carols were singing-- 'twas a hundred years agone--or more." from time immemorial the ballad singer, with his rough and ready broad-sheet, has travelled over the whole surface of the country in all seasons and weathers, yet there was one time of the year, however, when he went out of his every-day path and touched on deeper matters than accidents, politics, prize fights, sporting matches, murders, battles, royalty, famous men and women. christmas time brought, both to him and his audience, its witness of the unity of the great family of heaven and earth, its story of the life and death of him in whom that unity stands. several examples, of christmas carols and scripture-sheets, bearing catnach's imprint lie before us, thanks to the kindness of mr. w. s. fortey, catnach's successor; these broadsides bear several distinctive marks which show that it was an object of more than ordinary care to publishers and ballad singers. in the first place, these christmas sheets are double the size of the ordinary broad-sheet--measuring inches by --and contain four or five carols--generally one long narrative ballad, and three or four short pieces. each of them having two or three large woodcuts and several of smaller sizes, and having the following distinctive titles--the trial of christ. faith, hope, and charity. our saviour's love. the tree of life. the crucifixion. the saviour of mankind. the messiah. the harp of israel. the saviour's garland. divine mirth. and the life of joseph, to which is appended:-- london: printed and sold by j. catnach, , monmouth court, , dials, where may be had the following sheets, with cuts. the last day, our saviour's letter, the son of righteousness, travels of the children of israel, glory of solomon, the morning star, the noble army of martyrs, christmas gambols, the hertfordshire tragedy, and a variety of others are in a state of forwardness for the press. [illustration] "looking at these christmas broad-sheets," says the writer of an article on street-ballads, in the "national review," for october, , "it would really seem as if the poorest of our brethren claimed their right to higher nourishment than common for their minds and souls, as well as for their bodies, at the time of year when all christendom should rejoice. and this first impression is confirmed when we examine their contents. in all those which we have seen, the only piece familiar to us is that noble old carol 'while shepherds watched their flocks by night,' where the rest come from, we cannot even conjecture; but in the whole of them there is not one which we should wish were not there. we have been unable to detect in them even a coarse expression; and of the hateful narrowness and intolerance, the namby-pamby, the meaningless cant, the undue familiarity with holy things, which makes us turn with a shudder from so many modern collections of hymns, there is simply nothing. "account for it how we will, there is the simple fact. perhaps it may lead us to think somewhat differently of those whom we are in the habit of setting down in the mass as little better than heathens. we cannot conclude this article better than by giving an extract or two from these christmas broad-sheets." [illustration] [illustration] "the saviour's garland, a choice collection of the most esteemed carols," has the usual long narrative ballad, which begins: "come, all you faithful christians that dwell upon the earth,-- come celebrate the morning of our dear saviour's birth: this is the happy morning,-- this is the happy morn whereon, to save our ruined race, the son of god was born." and after telling simply the well-known story, it ends: "now to him up ascended, then let your praises be, that we his steps may follow, and he our pattern be; that when our lives are ended we may hear his blessed call: 'come, souls, receive the kingdom prepared for you all.'" [illustration] another, "the star of bethlehem, a collection of esteemed carols for the present year," opens its narrative thus: "let all that are to mirth inclined consider well and bear in mind what our good god for us has done, in sending his beloved son. let all our songs and praises be unto his heavenly majesty; and evermore amongst our mirth remember christ our saviour's birth. the twenty-fifth day of december we have great reason to remember; in bethlehem, upon that morn, there was a blessed saviour born," &c. one of the short pieces, by no means the best, we give whole: "with one consent let all the earth the praise of god proclaim, who sent the saviour, by whose birth to man salvation came. all nations join and magnify the great and wondrous love of him who left for us the sky, and all the joys above. but vainly thus in hymns of praise we bear a joyful part, if while our voices loud we raise, we lift not up our heart. we, by a holy life alone, our saviour's laws fulfil; by those his glory is best shown who best perform his will. may we to all his words attend with humble, pious care; then shall our praise to heaven ascend, and find acceptance there." we do not suppose that the contents of these christmas broad-sheets are supplied by the same persons who write the murder-ballads, or the attacks on crinoline. they may be borrowed from well known hymn books for anything we know. but if they are borrowed, we must still think it much to the credit of the selectors, that, where they might have found so much that is objectionable and offensive, they should have chosen as they have done. we only hope that their successors, whoever they may be who will become the caterers for their audiences, will set nothing worse before them. christmas broad-sheets formed an important item in the office of the "catnach press," as the sale was enormous, and catnach always looked forward for a large return of capital, and a "good clearance" immediately following the spurt for guy fawkes' speeches, in october of each year. but although the sale was very large, it only occupies one "short month." this enabled them to make carols a stock job, so that when trade in the ballad, sensational, "gallows," or any other line of business was dull, they used to fill up every spare hour in the working off or colouring them, so as to be ready to meet the extraordinary demand which was sure to be made at the fall of the year. [illustration] like most of the old english customs, christmas-carol singing is fast dying out. old peripatetic stationers well remember the rich harvest they once obtained at christmas times by carol selling. now there are very few who care to invest more than a shilling or two at a time on the venture; whereas in times long past, all available capital was readily embarked in the highly-coloured and plain sheets of the birth of our saviour, with the carol of "christians awake," or "the seven good joys of mary:"-- "the first good joy our mary had, it was the joy of one, to see her own son, jesus, to suck at her breast-bone. to suck at her breast-bone, god-man, and blessed may he be both father, son, and holy ghost, to all eternity." [illustration] now, whether carol singing has degenerated with carol poetry, and consequently the sale of christmas carols diminished is a question we need not enter upon; but when we turn to the fine old carols of our forefathers, we cannot help regretting that many of these are buried in the records of the long past. here are a couple of verses of one, said to be the first carol or drinking-song composed in england. the original is in anglo-norman french:-- "lordlings, from a distant home, to seek old christmas are we come, who loves our minstrelsy-- and here unless report mis-say, the greybeard dwells; and on this day keeps yearly wassail, ever gay with festive mirth and glee. * * * * * lordlings, it is our host's command, and christmas joins him hand in hand, to drain the brimming bowl; and i'll be foremost to obey, then pledge we, sirs, and drink away, for christmas revels here to day, and sways without control. now _wassail_ to you all! and merry may you be, and foul that wight befall, who drinks not health to me." one can well imagine the hearty feeling which would greet a party of minstrels carolling out such a song as the above in christmas days of yore; and then contrast the picture with a _troupe_ from st. giles's or whitechapel bawling out "god rest you merry gentlemen!" the very thought of the contrast sends a shudder through the whole human system; and no wonder the first were received with welcome feasting, and the latter driven "with more kicks than half-pence" from the doors. in an old book of "christmasse carolles newely emprinted at london, in the fletestrete at the sygne of the sonne by wynkyn de worde. the yere of our lorde, m.d.xxi. quarto." is a carol on "bryngyng in the bore's head":-- "the bore's head in hand bring i, with garlandes gay and rosemary, i pray you all synge merely, _qui estis in convivio_. the bore's head, i understande is the chiefe servyce in this lande, loke wherever it be fande, _servite cum contico_. be gladde, lordes, both more and lasse, for this hath ordayned our stewarde, to chere you all this christmasse the bore's head with mustarde." [illustration] with certain alterations, this carol is still, or at least was very recently, retained at queen's college, oxford, and sung to a cathedral chant of the psalms. it would occupy too much space to search into the origin of christmas carols. they are doubtless coeval with the original celebrations of christmas, first as a strictly romish sacred ceremony, and afterwards as one of joyous festivity. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] this "moral-sheet" entitled "the stages of life: or, the various ages and degrees of human life explained by these twelve different stages, from our birth to our graves," had a great sale. [illustration] infancy _to years old._ "his vain delusive thoughts are fill'd with vain delusive joys-- the empty bubble of a dream, which waking change to toys." _from to years old._ "his heart is now puff'd up, he scorns the tutor's hand; he hates to meet the least control and glories to command." _from to years old._ "there's naught here that can withstand the rage of his desire, his wanton flames are now blown up, his mind is all on fire." _from to years old._ "look forward and repent of all thy errors past, that so thereby thou may'st attain true happiness at last." _from to years old._ "at fifty years he is like the declining sun, for now his better half of life, man seemeth to have run." _from to years old._ "his wasted taper now begins to lose its light, his sparkling flames doth plainly show 'tis growing towards night." _from to years old._ "perplex'd with slavish fear and unavailing woe, he travels on life's rugged way with locks as white as snow." _from to years old._ "infirmity is great, at this advanced age, and ceaseless grief and weakness leagued, now vent their bitter rage." _from to years old._ "life's 'vital spark'--the soul, is hovering on the verge of an eternal world above, and waiting to emerge." [illustration] _from to years old._ "the sun is sinking fast behind the clouds of earth, oh may it shine with brighter beams, where light receiv'd her birth." [illustration: printed by j. catnach, *** ,*** _monmouth-court, dials_, london.] catnach was now at the height of his fame as a printer of ballads, christmas-pieces, carols, lotteries, execution papers, dying speeches, catchpennies, primers and battledores, and his stock of type and woodcuts had very considerably increased to meet his business demands. and it may be said that he was the very napoleon of buyers at sales by auction of "printers' stock." on one occasion, when lot after lot was being knocked down to him, one of the "littlejohn crew" of "knock-out-men" of the period, observed to the auctioneer, "why, sir, mr. catnach is buying up all the lots." "yes," replied the auctioneer, "and what's more, mr. catnach will pay for them and clear away all his lots in the morning;" then adding somewhat pointedly, "which is a thing i can't say of all parties who attend my sales." but although we are informed, _vivâ voce_ of a contemporary, that jemmy catnach was so large a buyer at sales by auction of "printers' stock," we may, with some degree of safety, come to the conclusion that he could have only bought such lots that would be considered by other master printers as worthless, and that it was the apparent cheapness that would be the incentive for his buying up all the worn-out and battered letter, for jemmy was a man who hated "innowations" as he used to call improvements, and he, therefore, had a great horror in laying out his money in new and improved manufactured type, because, as he observed, he kept so many standing forms, and when certain sorts ran short he was not particular, and would tell the boys to use anything which would make a good shift. for instance, he never considered a compositor could be aground for a lowercase "l" while he had a figure " " or a cap "i" to fall back upon; by the same rule, the cap. "o" and figure " " were synonymous with "jemmy;" the lowercase "p," "b," "d," and "q," would all do duty for each other in _turn_, and if they could not always find roman letters to finish a word with, why the compositor knew very well that the "reader" would not mark out ita_lic_, nor wrong founts. from a small beginner in the world, catnach was soon able to see his way clear to amass a fortune. he had now established his reputation as a man of enterprise, and he was very sensitive to maintain a sort of shabby-genteel appearance. it was amusing, especially when over his glass, to hear him describe the effect the "awfuls" had on the public. the proprietor of any of our leading journals could not have felt prouder than did catnach, as he saw drafted from his press the many thousands of varied productions. we will now briefly allude to the wood-blocks which catnach had in his possession, and which served for the purpose of illustrating during the time that he had been in business. he had a large collection, such as they were; but as works of art they had little or no pretension, being, upon the whole, of the oddest and most ludicrous character. those that were intended for the small books were very quaint--as we have shown by the fac-similed specimens we have given--whilst the larger portion, which were chiefly intended for the "awfuls," were grotesque and hideous in their design and execution. no more ghastly sight could be imagined than one of jemmy's embellishments of an execution. it would appear that for the last discharge of the law he had a large collection of blocks which would suit any number of victims who were about to undergo the dread penalty. it mattered little how many jack ketch was going to operate upon, wood-blocks to the exact number were always adopted, in this particular the great "dying speech merchant" would seem to have thought that his honour and reputation were at stake, for he had his network so formed as to be able to secure every information of news that was passing between the friends of the culprits and the prerogative of the crown. but we are informed that upon one occasion he was nearly entrapped. three victims were upon the eve of being executed, and in those days--and in later times--it was not an uncommon thing to see the confession and dying speech printed one or two days previous to the event. this we are told by those in the trade was almost necessary, in order that the sheets might be ready for the provinces almost as soon as the sentence of the law had been carried out. it so happened that on the night previous to an execution, one of the culprits was reprieved. it was solely by a piece of good luck that catnach heard of it. several sheets had been struck off; and jemmy was often chaffed about hanging three men instead of two; but our informant assures us that the error was corrected before any of the impressions were dispatched from the office. had they gone before the public in their original state, the _locus standi_ of the great publisher in monmouth court would have been greatly imperilled. to those who are fond of the fine arts, _in usum vulgi_, catnach's embellishments will afford a fund of amusement. amongst the lot were several well known places, the scenes of horrible and awful crimes, engravings of debauchery and ill-fame, together with an endless number of different kinds, suitable at the shortest possible notice, to illustrate every conceivable and inconceivable subject. the seven dials in general, and "the catnach press" in particular, had no dread of copyright law--the principal librarian of the british museum, stationers', or any other hall in those days--and as wood engravings were not to be had then so quickly or cheaply as now-a-days, jemmy used at times to be his own engraver, and while the compositors were setting up the types, he would carve out the illustration on the back of an old pewter music plate, and by nailing it on to a piece of wood make it into an improvised stereo-plate off-hand, for he was very handy at this sort of work, at which also his sister, with his instruction, could assist; so they soon managed to rough out a figure or two, and when things were dull and slack they generally got one or two subjects ready in stock, such as a highwayman with crape over his face, shooting a traveller, who is falling from his horse near a wide-spreading old elm tree, through which the moon was to be seen peeping; not forgetting to put the highwayman in top boots and making him a regular dandy. this was something after the plan of the artists of the cheap illustrated papers of the present day, who generally anticipate events sometime beforehand to be ready with their blocks. as a proof of this, the editor of the "london, provincial, and colonial press news," says "i happened to call one day on an artist for the 'illustrated press,' and found him busily engaged in sketching a funeral procession with some twenty coffins borne on the shoulders of men who were winding their way through an immense crowd. upon inquiry, i was told that it was intended for the next week's issue, and was to represent the funeral of the victims of the late dreadful colliery explosion, for although the inquest was only then sitting, and all the bodies had not yet been found, there was sure to be a funeral of that kind when it was all over, and as they did not know how many bodies were to be buried at one time, it was very cleverly arranged to commence the procession from the _corner of the block_, and so leave it to the imagination as to how many more coffins were coming in the rear; something after the plan of a small country theatre, when representing richard the third, and in the battle scene, after the first two or three of the army had made their appearance, to cry 'halt!' very loudly to all those behind who were not seen, and leave the spectators to guess how many hundreds their were to come." for the illustrating of catchpennies, broadsides, and street-literature in general, particular kinds of wood-cuts were required. in most cases one block was called upon to perform many parts; and the majority of metropolitan printers, who went in for this work, had only a very limited number of them. very often the same cuts were repeated over and over again, and made to change sides as one another, and that simply to make a little variation from a ballad or broadside that had been printed at the same office on the day, week, or month previous. it mattered little what the subject was, it required some adornment, in the shape of illustration, to give effect to it. the catchpennies, especially those connected with the awful, were in general very rough productions. a lover strangling his sweetheart with a long piece of rope. a heartless woman murdering an innocent man. vice punished and virtue rewarded, and similar subjects, were always handled in such a manner as to create a degree of excitement, sympathy, and alarm. the broadsides, generally adorned with some rough outline of the royal arms of england, a crowned king or queen, as the subject might be, received their full share of consideration at the hands of the artist. scions of royal blood, and those connected with the court, were often painted in colours glaring and attractive, whilst the matter set forth in the letterpress was not always the most flattering or encouraging. catch-penny:--any temporary contrivance to obtain money from the public; penny shows, or cheap exhibitions. also descriptions of murders, fires, and terrible accidents, &c., which have never taken place. hotton's: _slang dictionary_. an account of the dreadful apparition that appeared last night to henry ---- in this street, of mary ----, the shopkeeper's daughter round the corner, in a shroud, all covered in white. the castle clock struck one--the night was dark, drear, and tempestuous.--henry sat in an antique chamber of it, over a wood fire, which in the stupor of contemplation, he had suffered to decrease into a few lifeless embers; on the table by him lay the portrait of mary--the features of which were not very perfectly disclosed by a taper, that just glimmered in the socket. he took up the portrait, however, and gazing intensely upon it, till the taper, suddenly burning brighter, discovered to him a phenomenon he was not less terrified than surprised at.--the eyes of the portrait moved;--the features from an angelic smile, changed to a look of solemn sadness; a tear stole down each cheek, and the bosom palpitated as with sighing. [illustration] again the clock struck _one!_--it had struck the same hour but ten minutes before.--henry heard the castle gate grate on its hinges--it slammed too--the clock struck one again--and a deadly groan echoed through the castle. henry was not subject to superstitious fears--neither was he a coward;--yet a hero of romance might have been justified in a case like this, should he have betrayed fear.--henry's heart sunk within him--his knees smote together, and upon the chamber door being opened, and his name uttered in a hollow voice, he dropped the portrait to the floor; and sat, as if rivetted to the chair, without daring to lift up his eyes. at length, however, as silence again prevailed, he ventured for a moment to raise his eyes, when--my blood freezes as i relate it--before him stood the figure of mary in a shroud--her beamless eyes fixed upon him with a vacant stare; and her bared bosom exposing a most deadly gash. "henry!--henry!!--henry!!!" she repeated in a hollow tone--"henry! i come for thee! thou hast often said that death with me was preferable to life without me; come then, and enjoy with me all the ecstacies of love these ghastly features, added to the contemplation of a charnel-house, can inspire;" then grasping his hand with her icy fingers, he swooned; and instantly found himself--stretched on the hearth of his master's kitchen; a romance in his hand, and the house dog by his side, whose cold nose touching his hand, had awaked him. friends it is with feelings of the deepest regret that we are at present compelled, for the support of our friends and families, to offer this simple, but true tale to your notice, trusting, at the same time, that you will be pleased to purchase this paper, it being the only means at present to support the tender thread of our existence, and keep us and our families from utter starvation which at present surrounds us. price one penny. _printed for author and vendor._ [illustration] murder of captain lawson. [illustration] cruel and inhuman murder, last night. [illustration] the scarborough tragedy. giving an account how susan forster, a farmer's daughter, near scarborough, was seduced by mr. robert sanders, a naval officer, under promise of marriage.--how she became pregnant, and the wicked hardened and cruel wretch appointed her to meet him at a well-known, retired spot, which she unhappily did, and was basely murdered by him, and buried under a tree--and of the wonderful manner in which this base murder was brought to light, and he committed to gaol. young virgins fair of beauty bright, and you that are of cupid's fold, unto my tragedy give ear, for it's as true as e'er was told. in yorkshire, liv'd a virgin fair, a farmer's only daughter dear, and a young sea-captain did her ensnare, whose station was her father near. susannah was this maiden's name, the flower of all that country, this officer a courting came, begging that she his love would be. her youthful heart to love inclin'd young cupid bent his golden bow, and left his fatal dart behind, which prov'd susannah's overthrow. ofttimes at evening she would repair, close to the borders of the sea, her treach'rous love would meet her there, the time it passed most pleasantly. and while they walked the sea-banks over, to mark the flowing of the tide, he said he'd be her constant lover, and vow'd that she should be his bride. * * * * * he did confess--they dug the ground while hundreds came to view, and here the murder'd corpse they found, of her who lov'd so true; in irons now in prison strong lamenting he does lie; and, by the laws condemn'd ere long, most justly he will die. j. catnach, printer, , monmouth-court, dials. [illustration] horrid murder, committed by a young man on a young woman. george caddell became acquainted with miss price and a degree of intimacy subsisted between them, and miss price, degraded as she was by the unfortunate step she had taken, still thought herself an equal match for one of mr. caddell's rank of life. as pregnancy was shortly the result of their intimacy, she repeatedly urged him to marry her, but he resisted her importunities for a considerable time. at length she heard of his paying addresses to miss dean, and threatened in case of his non-compliance, to put an end to all his prospects with that young lady, by discovering everything that had passed between them. hereupon he formed a horrid resolution of murdering her, for he could neither bear the thought of forfeiting the esteem of a woman whom he loved, nor of marrying one who had been as condescending to another as to himself. so he called on miss price on a saturday and requested her to walk with him in the fields on the following day, in order to arrange a plan for their intended marriage. miss price met him at the time appointed, on the road leading to burton, at a house known by the name of the "nag's head." having accompanied her supposed lover into the fields, and walked about till towards evening, they sat down under a hedge, where after a little conversation, caddell suddenly pulled out a knife and cut her throat, and made his escape, but not before he had waited till she was dead. in the distraction of his mind he left behind him the knife with which he perpetrated the deed, and his case of instruments. on the following morning, miss price being found murdered in the field, great numbers went to take a view of her body, among whom was the woman of the house where she lodged, who recollected that she said she was going to walk with mr. caddell, on which the instruments were examined and sworn to have belonged to him. he was accordingly taken into custody. j. catnach, printer, monmouth court. [illustration] the secrets revealed, or the fashionable life of lord & lady ******. [illustration] dreadful murder by a soldier, yesterday morning. the liverpool tragedy. [illustration] showing how a father and mother barbarously murdered their own son. a few days ago a sea-faring man, who had just returned to england after an absence of thirty years in the east indies, called at a lodging-house, in liverpool, for sailors, and asked for supper and a bed; the landlord and landlady were elderly people, and apparently poor. the young man entered into conversation with them, invited them to partake of his cheer, asked them many questions about themselves and their family, and particularly of a son who had gone to sea when a boy, and whom they had long given over as dead. at night the landlady shewed him to his room, and when she was leaving him he put a large purse of gold into her hand, and desired her to take care of it till the morning, pressed her affectionately by the hand, and bade her good night. she returned to her husband and shewed the accursed gold: for its sake they mutually agreed to murder the traveller in his sleep. in the dead of the night, when all was still, the old couple silently creeped into the bed room of their sleeping guest, all was quiet: the landlady approached the bedside, and then cut his throat, severed his head from his body; the old man, upwards of seventy years of age, holding the candle. they put a washing-tub under the bed to catch his blood, and then ransacking the boxes of the murdered man they found more gold, and many handsome and costly articles, the produce of the east indies, together, with what proved afterwards, to be a marriage certificate. in the morning early, came a handsome and elegantly dressed lady, and asked, in a joyous tone, for the traveller who arrived the night before. the old people seemed greatly confused, but said he had risen early and gone away. "impossible!" said the lady, and bid them go to his bed-room and seek him, adding, "you will be sure to know him as he has a mole on his left arm in the shape of a strawberry. besides, 'tis your long lost son who has just returned from the east indies, and i am his wife, and the daughter of a rich planter long settled and very wealthy. your son has come to make you both happy in the evening of your days, and he resolved to lodge with you one night as a stranger, that he might see you unknown, and judge of your conduct to wayfaring mariners." the old couple went up stairs to examine the corpse, and they found the strawberry mark on its arm, and they then knew that they had murdered their own son, they were seized with horror, and each taking a loaded pistol blew out each other's brains. printed by j. catnach.--sold by marshall, bristol. just published.--a variety of children's books, battledores, lotteries, and a quantity of popular songs set to music. cards, &c., printed cheap. [illustration] the life, trial, character, confession, behaviour, and execution of james ward, aged , who was hung in the front of the gaol, for the wilful murder he committed on the body of his own wife. [illustration] to which is added a copy of affectionate verses which he composed in the condemned cell the night before his execution. printed at london. price one penny. [illustration] the arrest of the prisoner. "for murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ." the prisoner was arrested while drinking with his companions in a public-house, and after two magistrates had heard the evidence he was fully committed to the assizes to be tried before my lord judge and a british jury, at the county hall. [illustration] the trial! "whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein." at an early hour on the morning of the trial, the court was crowded to excess, the judge taking his seat at nine o'clock. the prisoner on being placed at the bar, pleaded "not guilty," in a firm tone of voice. the trial lasted many hours, when, having been found 'guilty.' the learned judge addressed the prisoner as follows:-- "prisoner, you have been found guilty of a most cold-blooded murder, a more deliberate murder i never heard of. you and your wife had been to a neighbouring town, and were returning home, when you did it. she was found in a ditch. i cannot hold out the slightest hope of mercy towards you in this case." during this address the whole court was melted into tears. his lordship then put on the black cap and passed the sentence as usual, holding out no hope of mercy to the prisoner. [illustration: the county gaol.] [illustration: the home of the good man.] "sundry blessings hang about his throne, that speak him full of grace." letter written by the prisoner after his condemnation. condemned cell. dear sister, when you receive this you will see that i am condemned to die; my father and mother are coming to take their last farewell, and i should very much liked to have seen you, but knowing that you are on the eve of bringing into the world another to your family, i beg that you will refrain from coming; if that you do serious may be the consequences, therefore, dear sister, do not attempt to come. i hope that no one will upbraid you for what i have done; so god bless you and yours; farewell! dear sister, for ever. j. ward. [illustration] the execution. "a threefold cord is not quickly broken." the execution of the above prisoner took place early this morning at eight o'clock, the people flocking to the scene at an early hour. as the period of the wretched man's departure drew near, the chaplain became anxious to obtain from him a confession of the justice of his sentence. he acknowledged the justice of his sentence, and said he was not fit to live, and that he was afraid to die, but he prayed to the lord for forgiveness, and hoped through the merits of his saviour that his prayer would be heard. having received the sacrament, the executioner was not long in performing his office. the solemn procession moved towards the place of execution, the chaplain repeating the confession words, "in the midst of life we are in death." upon ascending the platform he appeared to tremble very much. the cap being drawn over his eyes and the signal given, the wretched man was launched into eternity. he died almost without a struggle. after the body had hanged the usual time it was cut down and buried according to the sentence in the gaol. [illustration] the home of the bad man. "one sin doth another provoke." copy of verses. come all you feeling hearted christians, wherever you may be, attention give to these few lines, and listen unto me; its of this cruel murder, to you i will unfold, the bare recital of the same will make your blood run cold. confined within a lonely cell, with sorrow i am opprest, the very thought of what i've done, deprives me of rest; within this dark and gloomy cell in the county gaol i lie, for murder of my dear wife i am condemned to die. for four long years i'd married been, i always lov'd her well, till at length i was overlooked, oh shame for me to tell; by satan sure i was beguiled, he led me quite astray, unto another i gave way on that sad unlucky day. i well deserve my wretched fate, no one can pity me, to think that i in cold blood could take the life away; i took a stake out of the hedge and hit on the head, my cruel blows i did repeat until she were dead. i dragged the body from the stile to a ditch running by, i quite forgot there's one above with an all-seeing eye, who always brings such deeds to light, as you so plainly see, i questioned was about it and took immediately. the body's found, the inquest held, to prison i was sent, with shame i do confess my sin, with grief i do repent; and when my trial did come on, i was condemned to die, an awful death in public scorn, upon the gallows high. while in my lonely cell i lie, the time draws on apace, the dreadful deeds that i have done appear before my face; while lying on my dreadful couch, those horrid visions rise, the ghastly form of my dear wife appears before my eyes. oh may my end a warning be now unto all mankind, and think of my unhappy fate and bear me in your mind; whether you are rich or poor, young wives and children love, so god will fill your fleeting days with blessings from above. [illustration] the burning shame. or [illustration] morality alarmed in this neighbourhood. just published price one penny. [illustration] a short time since, some of the moral-mending crew of parsons, magistrates, quakers, shakers, puritans, old maids, and highly respectable, and, now retired from active business "young ladies," who now assume a virtue, though they have it not, and a variety of other goodly persons ever ready to compound for sins they are inclined to, by exposing those they have no mind to, living not miles hence, determined on reforming doings, manners, and customs:-- in this town! and a meeting in consequence took place at "rosebud cottage" the residence of miss mary ann lovitt, when, as a first step, it was determined to remove the facilities and _accommodation_ afforded a certain--_you-know-what!_ crime very general _in this neighbourhood_ by hunting out of the town:-- a certain lady abbess!! who keeps a very genteel house for the _accommodation_ of "single young men and their wives" and one who never offends, or bores her patrons by asking for a sight of their 'marriage certificates.' at the meeting, the armchair was taken by the rev. john ---- ---- ---- b.a., of this parish, mr. churchwarden smith, and mr. j. brown, the draper, supporting him on either side; when a variety of methods were suggested for the removal of the alledged social evil, one thought _entreaty_ might best answer, another was for _force_, a third recommended the religious tract society, while a fourth was for the aid of the very rev. rowland h------l, miss a. and miss b. were both loud in their praise of the rev. jabez b------g, mention was made of the society for the suppression of vice, at length the reverend divine chairman was called on for his opinion, when he--conscious of the integrity and purity of his own life and _experience!_ at once pronounced:-- a burning shame!!! as the only effectual remedy for the ever increasing evil. this was indeed a harsh measure, and some of the worthies looked a variety of colours on the occasion, but as none had the moral courage for personal character sake to oppose the parson's proposition, it was carried unanamously. a board bearing on it in legible characters:-- beware of a bad house!!!! was soon prepared, and with a lanthorn attached, was paraded before the house of the fair--but frail duenna's mansion. it did not remain long in this position as the following letter from the lady abbess of the _agapemone!_ soon had its deserved effect:-- gentlemen:--"if the board and lanthorne is not removed from the front of my house in one hour from this time, i will publish the _name_, _profession_, and _address_, of every _gentleman_--together with that of the _lady_ accompaning him who has visited my "_establishment for young ladies_" during the last six months. some of your worships know on whom this would fall heaviest." yours with thanks for past favours, aunt. it is almost needless to say that the _board and lanthorne_ were very soon removed, and, that, the old, and _accommodating_ lady is doing a good business again:-- thus conscious does make cowards of us all. [illustration] the full, true and particular account of the [illustration] extraordinary marriage that took place in this town on thursday last. london: printed for the vendors. price one penny. [illustration] "who would have thought he had been a-- he was such--a nice young man." about a week since, a dashing young blade, dressed in the very height of the prevailing fashion, having long black and curly hair, together with a pair of out-and-out slap-up whiskers and moustaches, and calling himself count de coburgh aingarpatzziwutchz, and professing to be a foreigner and a man of enormous fortune, and one of the _haut ton!_ took up his lodging at the principal inn, the ---- arms, in this town, where the swell foreigner looking blade soon made a great stir among the ladies of the place; the old, the young, the tall, the short, the fair, and the dark, were all alike smitten over head and ears in love with the distinguished visitor, but none seemed to make so much impression upon his heart as mary jane jemima s----w, the youngest of the landlord's daughters of the ----arms inn, of this town. she is well known in this neighbourhood to be very handsome, with light brown hair all in ringlets, light blue eyes, a fine aquiline nose, and of a tall and commanding figure, aged about sweet years of age, and very tender. the foreign count! soon won the affections of the young lady, and while she was all cock-a-hoop at the thought of having such a fine handsome young blade for a husband, all the other women of the town, old and young, were ready to tear out her eyes and boil them in their own blood with womanly vexation and revenge, and spoke of the intended bridegroom as the count _don't-know-who_! on thursday the bells of the old parish church rang merrily ding!-dong!!-ding!!! and the happy couple were married, our old and respected rector officiating; assisted by his curate, rev. mr. ----, and all the parish was gay from one end to the other. [illustration] a few hours after the ceremony had taken place, whilst the happy couple were feasting on all of the very best with their friends and relations, a stranger, fat and greasy, and looking like a master or journeyman butcher in his sunday clothes, and about forty years of age, and black whiskers, made his appearance, and not being acquainted with the occasion that brought the party together, without hesitation exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by all in the room, "well, brother-blade, you are a lucky fellow! the business about sal saunders is all settled to our satisfaction, the lawyer made a good job of it for you, poleaxed the lot on the other side in prime style, and skinned 'em alive, so you may now return home to whitechapel and put on your blue apron and steel."--the company stood aghast, the bride fainted, and all was confusion. at length it came out that the newly-married man had a wife and four children at home, and that his visit to the above town was in consequence of a woman swearing a child to him. in the midst of the confusion which this discovery occasioned, the bridegroom and his brother slaughterman from whitechapel--which is in london--made a sudden retreat, and--have not since been heard of. the effects of love. sad shocking news! cruel seduction: dreadful warning to all young women in this neighbourhood to beware of young men's deluding and flattering tongues. the following melancholy account of her cruel seduction and desertion by her base lover was forwarded to that very worthy man mr. ---- a churchwarden, well-known and respected by all in this neighbourhood by miss s----h w----r, the night before she committed suicide. young lovers all i pray draw near, sad shocking news you soon shall hear, and when that you the same are told, it will make your very blood run cold. miss s----h w---- is my name, i brought myself to grief and shame, by loving one that ne'er loved me, my sorrow now i plainly see. mark well the words that will be said, by w---- e---- i was betray'd, by his false tongue i was beguil'd at length to him i proved with child. at rest with him i ne'er could be, until he had his will of me, to his fond tales i did give way, and did from paths of virtue stray. my grief is more than i can bear, i am disregarded every where, like a blooming flower i am cut down, and on me now my love does frown. oh! the false oathes he has sworn to me, that i his lawful bride should be, may i never prosper night, or day, if i deceive you, he would say. but now the day is past and gone, that he fix'd to be married on, he scarcely speaks when we do meet, and strives to shun me in the street. i did propose on sunday night, to walk once more with my heart's delight, on the umber's banks where billows roar, we parted there to meet no more. his word was pledged unto me, he never shall prosper nor happy be, the ghost of me and my infant dear, they both shall haunt him every where. william dear when this you see, remember how you slighted me, farewell vain world; false man adieu, i drown myself for love of you. as a token that i died for love, there will be seen a milk-white dove, which over my watery tomb shall fly, and there you'll find my body lie. these cheeks of mine once blooming red, must now be mingled with the dead, from the deep waves to a bed of clay, where i must sleep till the judgement day. a joyful rising then i hope to have, when angels call me from the grave receive my soul, o lord most high, for broken hearted i must die. grant me one favour that's all i crave, eight pretty maidens let me have, dress'd all in white a comely show, to carry me to the grave below. now all young girls i hope on earth, will be warned by my untimely death, take care sweet maidens when you are young, of men's deluding--flattering tongue. printed in london for the venders. shocking rape and dreadful murder of two lovers. [illustration] showing how john hodges, a farmer's son, committed a rape upon jane williams, and afterwards murdered her and her lover, william edwards, in a field near paxton. this is a most revolting murder. it appears jane williams was keeping company, and was shortly to be married to william edwards, who was in the employment of farmer hodges. for some time a jealousy existed in john hodges, who made vile proposals to the young girl, who although of poor parents was strictly virtuous. the girl's father also worked on farmer hodges' estate. on thursday last she was sent to the farm to obtain some things for her mother, who was ill; it was o'clock in the evening when she set out, a mile from the farm. going across the fields she was met by the farmer's son, who made vile proposals to her, which she not consenting to, he threw her down, and accomplished his vile purpose. in the meantime her lover had been to her house, and finding she was gone to the farm, went to meet her. he found her in the field crying, and john hodges standing over her with a bill-hook, saying he would kill her if she ever told. no one can tell the feelings of the lover, william edwards. he rushed forward, when hodges, with the hook, cut the legs clean from his body, and with it killed the poor girl, and then run off. her father finding she did not return, went to look for her, when the awful deeds were discovered. edwards was still alive, but died shortly afterwards from loss of blood, after giving his testimony to the magistrates. the farmer's son was apprehended, and has been examined and committed to take his trial at the next assizes. thousands of persons followed the unfortunate lovers to the grave, where they were both buried together. copy of verses. jane williams had a lover true and edwards was his name, whose visits to her father's house, had welcome now became. in marriage soon they would be bound, a loving man and wife, but john hodges, a farmer's son with jealousy was rife. one night he met her in the fields, and vile proposals made; how can i do this wicked thing, young jane then weeping said. he quickly threw her on the ground, he seized her by surprise, and did accomplish his foul act despite her tears and cries. her lover passing by that way, discovered her in tears, and when he found what had been done he pulled the monster's ears. young hodges with the bill-hook, then cut young edwards down; and by one fatal blow he felled jane williams on the ground. there side by side the lovers lay weltering in their blood: young jane was dead, her lover lived, though ebb'd away life's flood. old williams sought his daughter dear, when awful to relate, he found her lifeless body there, her lover's dreadful fate. now in one grave they both do lie, these lovers firm and true, who by a cruel man were slain who'll soon receive his due. in prison now he is confined, to answer for the crime. two lovers that he murdered, cut off when in their prime. [illustration] _a funny_ dialogue between a fat butcher and a [illustration] mackerel _in newport market_ yesterday. butcher.--well, mr. mackerel, pray let me ask you how you come to show your impudent face among those who don't want to see you or any of your crew? mackerel.--that my company is not agreeable to many such as you i very well know; but here i am, and will keep my place in spite of you. don't think to frighten me with your lofty looks, mr. green. you are an enemy to the poor, i am their true friend, and i will be in spite of you. butcher.--i will soon see the end of you and your vain boasting. what's the poor to me? mackerel.--i and thousands of my brethren are come to town for the sole good of the industrious poor. we will soon pull down your high prices, your pride and consequence, and melt your fat off your overgrown carcass. i am their sworn friend, and although you are biting off your tongue with vexation, yet i am determined they shall have a cheap meal--good, sweet, and wholesome--put that in your pipe and smoke it. butcher.--aye, aye. you are a saucy set, confound you altogether. oddzbobs, i wish the devil had the whole of your disagreeable tribe. mackerel.--i would advise you, mr. green, not to show your teeth when you can't bite. millions of my friends are on their way to town to make the poor rejoice. we have had a fine seed time, everything looks promising. meat must and will come down. the poor will sing for joy, and you may go hang yourself in your garters. [illustration] catnach, printer, , monmouth court, cards, bills, &c., printed on low terms. catnach, to the day of his retirement from business in , when he purchased the freehold of a disused public-house, which had been known as the lion inn, together with the grounds attached at dancer's hill, south mimms, near barnet, in the county of middlesex, worked and toiled in the office of the "catnach press," in which he had moved as the pivot, or directing mind, for a quarter of a century. he lived and died a bachelor. his only idea of all earthly happiness and mental enjoyment was now to get away in retirement to a convenient distance from his old place of business, so to give him an opportunity occasionally to go up to town and have a chat and a friendly glass with one or two old paper-workers and ballad-writers, and a few others connected with his peculiar trade who had shown any disposition to work when work was to be done. to them he was always willing to give or advance a few pence or shillings, in money or stock, and a glass-- "affliction's sons are brothers in distress; a brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" but jemmy knew the men that were "skulkers," as he termed them, and there was no coin, stock, or a glass for them. he invariably drank whiskey, a spirit not in general demand in england in those days. gin was then, as now, the reigning favourite with the street folks. when the question was put to him in reference to his partiality to whiskey, he always replied--the scotch blood proudly rising in his veins, and with a strong northumberland burr, which never wholly forsook him, particularly when warmed by argument or drink--that, "he disdained to tipple with 'stuff,' by means of which all the women of the town got drunk. i am of catnach. yes! there's catnach blood in me. catnach--king catnach--catnach, king of the picts. we descend in a right straight line from the picts. that's the sort of blood-of-blood that flows in the veins of all the true-bred catnachs." jemmy would be for continually arguing when in his cups, and the old and the more artful of the street-folk would let him have all the say and grandeur that he then felt within him on the subject, well knowing that they would be much more likely to have their glasses replenished by agreeing with him than by contradicting him. even in his sober moments jemmy always persisted, right or wrong, that the catnachs, or catternachs, were descended direct from a king of the picts. yet, what is somewhat anomalous, he was himself a rigid churchman and a staunch old tory, "one of the olden time," and "as full of the glorious constitution as the first volume of blackstone." on catnach's retirement from the business, he left it to mrs. annie ryle, his sister, charged, nevertheless, to the amount of £ , payable at his death to the estate of his niece, marion martha ryle. in the meanwhile mr. james paul acted as managing man for mrs. ryle. this mr. paul--of whom jemmy was very fond, and rumour saith, had no great dislike to the mother--had grown from a boy to a man in the office of the "catnach press." he was therefore, well acquainted with the customers, by whom he was much respected; and it was by his tact and judgment that the business was kept so well together. he married a miss crisp, the daughter of a publican in the immediate neighbourhood. catnach did not long enjoy or survive his retirement. after the novelty of looking, as the poet cowper puts it, and no doubt in his case found it, "through the loop-holes of retreat, to see the stir of the great babel, and not feel the crowd," had worn itself out, "james catnach, gentleman, formerly of monmouth court, monmouth street, printer," grew dull in his "old bachelor's box;" he was troubled with hypochondriasis, and a liver overloaded with bile, and was further off than ever from being a happy man. he had managed to rake and scrape together--as far as we can get any knowledge--some £ , or £ , , although £ , and upwards is mostly put down to him. however, he had grabbed for and caught a fair amount of "siller and gold," but it failed to realize to him-- an elegant sufficiency, content, retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, ease and alternate labour, useful life, progressive virtue, and approving heaven! no! all he had realized was that unenviable position so popularly known as of a man not knowing what to do with himself. his visits to town were now much more frequent and of longer duration, and for hours he would sit and loiter about the shops and houses of his old neighbours, so that he might catch a glimpse, or enjoy a friendly chat with his old friends and customers. at length he got sick at heart, "wearied to the bone," and sighed for the bustle of london life. from the following letter written to his sister, mrs. ryle, in , and now before us, we glean something of his state of mind and bodily health:-- july, th, . dear sister,-- i have been very ill for these last three weeks. i was obliged to send for dr. morris to cup me, which did some good for a few days, since then the pains have gone into my breast and ribs, and for the last three days i have kept my bed, and could take nothing but a little tea and water-gruel. i wish you to procure me bills to stick on my window shutters, outside and in, "this house to be let," and send them with / lb tea as soon as possible--but do not send them by salmon's coach, for he will not leave them at jackson's as wild does, but sends a boy with it, which costs me double porterage. i feel the loss of my jelly now i am so ill, and can eat little or nothing, it would have done my throat good. i have a great crop of black and red berries [currants] if you choose i will send them up, and you can make some jelly for us both; let me know as soon as you can, say wednesday morning and i will make the postwoman call for the parcel at jackson's. i also wish you to enquire of carr what is the lowest he will take for the rooms over mrs. morgan, by the / year. i have nothing more to say but to be remembered to mary and paul, and remain [signature: yours truly james catnach] pray send a paper of the execution of the valet, and the trial of oxford--mrs. westley has not sent me paper since i was last in town--neither has thornton. mrs. ryle, & , monmouth court, compton street, london. ultimately catnach hired the rooms he speaks about in the body of his letter to his sister, which were on the first floor of no. , monmouth court. all the vacant space in his old premises being now fully occupied by mrs. ryle, and her assistants, now "the humble cottage fenc'd with osiers round," which to his leisure afforded no pleasure, was entirely deserted, and in london he fretted out the remaining portion of his life. he soon grew peevish, and his brain got a little out of balance, then he listlessly wandered in and out of the streets, courts, and alleys, "infirm of purpose." on stormy days and nights to stand and view the lightning from waterloo bridge was his special delight, and wonder. his temper and liver were now continually out of order, and which whiskey, even "potations pottle deep," failed to relieve. at length he died of jaundice, in the very london court in which he had muck'd and grubbed for the best part of his life, on the first day of february, . like other great men of history he has several _locales_ mentioned as his final resting-place--hornsey, barnet, south mimms, &c. _urbes, certarunt septem de patria homeri, nulla domus vivo patria fuit._ seven cities strove whence homer first should come, when living, he no country had nor home:--_tom nash, ._ seven grecian cities vied for homer dead, through which the living homer begged his bread. seven cities vied for homer's birth, with emulation pious,--salamis, samos, colophon, rhodes, argos, athens, chios.--_from the greek._ but catnach lies buried in highgate cemetery, in one of the two plots that mrs. ryle purchased sometime previous to her brother's death. the official number of the grave is , square , over which is placed a flat stone, inscribed:-- in memory of james catnach, _of dancer's hill_. died st february, , aged . anne ryle, sister to the above, and widow of joseph ryle, who died in india, th october, . she died th april, , aged . _blessed are the dead which die in the lord._ the freehold in the other plot of ground, after catnach's death, was transferred to mr. robert palmer harding, the accountant of london, who married catnach's niece. the stone records the death of elizabeth cornelia, third daughter of robert palmer harding and marion martha harding, born june, , died of november, ; and greville, second son of the above, born may, , died september, . this grave is now numbered . we have been thus minute in respect to catnach's grave, from the circumstance of our having received so many contradictory statements as to its whereabouts. but however, we have removed all doubt from our mind by a personal visit to the highgate cemetery where under the guidance of the very civil and obliging superintendent of the grounds, mr. w. f. tabois, we were conducted to the spot we required, then introduced to mr. marks, the sexton, "here man and boy thirty years," and whom we found very intelligent and communicative on various _subjects_-- "from _grave_ to gay, from lively to severe." after catnach's death, mr. james paul entered into partnership with mrs. ryle, and then the business was carried on under the title and style of a. ryle and paul. in the partnership was dissolved, mr. paul receiving £ in settlement. he then entered into the public line taking the spencer's arms, at the corner of the monmouth court. a son that was born to him in , he had christened james catnach paul. he died in the year , just six weeks after mrs. ryle, and lies buried in the next grave but one to catnach and his sister. after mr. paul had left the business it was carried on as ryle & co., and ultimately became the property of mr. w. s. fortey, who still carries on the old business in the same quarter. for the purpose of clearing up, if possible, some contradictory statements, a few years ago we made personal search through the musty-fusty red-tapeism of doctor's commons for the will and testament--or "last dying speech" of "james catnach, of dancer's hill, south mimms, in the county of middlesex, gentleman, formerly of monmouth court, monmouth street, printer," an office copy of which, together with probate and administration act, we give below, by which it will be seen that the personal effects are sworn to as under three hundred pounds. but this gives us no idea of the value of his "freehold, copyhold, or leasehold estate" mentioned in the body of the will. "extracted from the principal registry of her majesty's court of probate. "in the prerogative court of canterbury-- "this is the last will and testament of me james catnach of dancers hill, south mimms in the county of middlesex gentleman formerly of monmouth court monmouth street printer i direct that my just debts funeral and testamentary expences be paid as soon as conveniently may be after my decease and subject thereto i give devise and bequeath all my real and personal estate whatever and wheresoever and of what nature or kind soever to my sister anne the widow of joseph ryle now residing in monmouth court aforesaid her heirs executors and administrators according to the nature and qualities thereof respectively in trust nevertheless for her daughter marion martha ryle her heirs executors administrators and assigns respectively when she shall attain the age of twenty one years absolutely with power in the meantime to apply the rents interest dividends or proceeds thereof for and towards the maintenance education and advancement of the said marion martha ryle and notwithstanding the private means of my said sister may be adequate to such purpose but if the said marion martha ryle shall depart this life before she shall attain the age of twenty one years then i give devise and bequeath all my said real and personal estate to my said sister her heirs executors administrators and assigns absolutely i hereby direct that during the minority of the said marion martha ryle it shall be lawful for the said anne ryle her heirs executors administrators to demise or lease all or any part of my freehold copyhold or leasehold estate for any term consistent with the tenure thereof not exceeding twenty one years so that on every such demise the best yearly rent be reserved that can be obtained for the property which shall be therein comprised without taking any fine or premium and so that the tenant or lessee be not made dispunishable for waste i hereby nominate constitute and appoint my said sister sole executrix of this my will and hereby revoking all former and other wills by me at any time heretofore made i declare this to be my last will and testament. in witness whereof i have hereunto set my hand the twenty second day of january one thousand eight hundred and thirty nine--james catnach--signed and acknowledged by the above named james catnach as and for his last will and testament in the presence of us present at the same time who in his presence and the presence of each other have hereunto set our names as witnesses--william kinsey suffolk st. pall mall solr.--wm. tookey his clerk." [the probate and administration act.] "extracted from the principal registry of her majesty's court of probate. "in the prerogative court of canterbury-- april, . "james catnach--on the second day of april administration (with the will annexed) of the goods chattels and credits of james catnach formerly of monmouth court monmouth street printer but late of dancers hill south mimms both in the county of middlesex gentleman deceased was granted to william kinsey esquire the curator or guardian lawfully assigned to marion martha ryle spinster a minor the niece and usufructuary universal legate until she shall attain the age of twenty one years and the absolute universal legatee on attaining that age named in the said will for the use and benefit of the said minor and until she shall attain the age of twenty one years have been first sworn duly to administer anne ryle widow the sister sole executrix universal legatee in trust and the contingent universal legatee named in the said will and also the natural and lawful mother and next of kin of the said minor having first renounced the probate and execution of the said will and the letters of administration (with the said will annexed) of the goods of the said deceased and also the curation or guardianship of the said minor and consented (as by acts of court appear)-- _effects under three hundred pounds._ it is gratifying to be able to record that what the late mr. catnach was to the masses in the way of news provider some fifty years ago, the penny papers are now, with this exception, that the former tended to lower and degrade their pursuit after knowledge, the latter, on the contrary, improve and elevate them while they amuse and instruct all who peruse their contents. with the march of intellect, and the thirst for knowledge blended with the desire for truth, out went, to a great extent, the penny broad-sheet. several persons made the attempt to revive it long after the death of the great original jemmy catnach, but without success. [illustration: finis.] [illustration: the index.] [symbol: pointing hand] the be-all and the end-all here. index. adelaide, queen, a funny dialogue, alnwick--the borough of, " st. michael's church, " parish register, " catnach's shop in, " register of death, " printing press in, " the catnach press, " the castle, " the abbey, " davison's business, " election at, attack on william iv, ballads:--banks of the nile, " crazy jane, " death of nelson, " drink to me eyes, " gallant sailor, " meet me willow glen, " mistletoe bough, " mountain maid, " o rare turpin, " rose will cease to blow, " scarlet flower, " sun that lights roses, " the thorn, " true hearted sailor, " when bibo though fit, " woodpecker, the, " ye topers all, benton, mrs. _nee_ elizabeth catnach, bewick, t., wood-engraver, bewick collector, the, bewick:--see books bewick's illustrations--see books. bishop and williams, black sal and dusty bob, books printed by john catnach:-- " beauties of natural history " chevy chase, " cock robin, " dr. johnson's works, " hermit of warkworth, " life of thompson, " stockdale's poems, ----by catnach and davison:-- " beattie's minstrel, " blair's grave, " burn's poems, " gray's elegy, ----by davison:-- " crazy jane, " ferguson's poems, " guess book, the, , " halfpenny books, " northumberland minstrel, " repository, the, ----illustrated by bewick. " beauties of natural history, " burn's poems, " blair's grave, " hermit of warkworth, " repository, the, " stockdale's poems, brown, mrs., murdered, brunswick theatre, the, burkers, the, burnie, sir richard, burradon ghost, the, caroline, queen, the trial of, verses on, , , death of, , cato street conspiracy, the, , catchpennies:--apparition, the, " burning shame, " cruel murder, " execution of ward, " extraordinary marriage, " horrid murder, " liverpool tragedy, " murder by a soldier, " murder of capt. lawson " murder of two lovers, " secrets revealed, " scarborough tragedy, " shocking news, " shocking rape, catnach, john--the father, born " married, " at alnwick, , , , " at newcastle, " a bankrupt, " in london, , " death of, catnach, james, born , " his early life, " arrives in london, " imprisoned for months, " queen caroline, " verses on caroline, " life in london, , " at alnwick, , " and mother cummins, " his education, " nursery books, " christmas carols, " his woodcuts, " dying speeches, " his retirement, " at dancer's hill, " letter to his sister, " return to london, " death of, " will of the, charlotte, the princess of, " " " death of, christmas carols, to collins, dennis, copy of affectionate verses, , , , , , clennell, luke, corder, wm., the murderer, " " execution of, cruikshank, george, cruikshank, robert, cubitt's treadmill, cummins "mother", and catnach, - - davison of alnwick:-- davison and catnach, " partnership, - " his chemistry, " death of, dennis collins, earl grey, executions--public of:-- bishop and williams, courvoisier, corder, fauntleroy, mr. h., banker, five pirates, the, greenacre, muller, mannings, pegsworth, thurtell, false news, circulating of, flying stationer, the, fortey, mr., - george the iii, death of, george the iv, goldie, mr., of alnwick, graham, printer, alnwick, greenacre and gale, gurney, mr. baron, haines, mrs. _nee_ mary catnach, "hanging matches", hugo, rev. thomas, , " his bewick collector, , jane williams, juvenile books:-- a apple pie, butterfly's ball, cinderella, cock robin, easter gift, the, golden pippin, the, good child's alphabet, guess book, the, jack jingle, jerry diddle, jumping joan, mother hubbard, new year's gift, nurse love-child's, nursery rhymes, red riding hood, simple simon, kent, duke of, his death, life in london, by pierce egan, on the stage, catnach's version , thackeray on, likeness of the murderer, " " william corder, lindsay, printer, &c., long, song seller, the, marten, maria, murder of, " " verses on, mayhew's "london labour", , morgan, john, poet!, , , paul, mr., , pitts, john, " old mother, pizzey, sausage maker, the , pocock, mr. c. j. of brighton, red barn, the, reform bill, the, ryle, mrs. anne, , " death of, " marion martha, sarah gale, seven dials, the bards of, , " " the trade in, " " and queen caroline, shocking rape and murder, smith, mark, of alnwick:-- " apprenticed to catnach, " in london, " in alnwick, " his autograph, " the death of, songs, yards-a-penny, thistlewood, the conspirator, thompson, john, life of, thurtell, and weare, " execution of, tom and jerry, , " the tears of, treadmill, the, vestris, madame, vint, john, printer, &c., walker, mr., paternoster row, weare, mr., murder of, william the iv, willoughby family alnwick, [illustration] footnotes: [ ] friendly lead, a gathering at a low public-house, for the purpose of assisting some one who is "in trouble," _i.e._, in prison, or who has just "come out of trouble," or who is in want of a "mouthpiece" to defend him, and so forth. [ ] this is an error--see page . [ ] the numbers at the close of the poll on saturday, th march, at three o'clock, stood as under:-- sir francis burdett , j. cam hobhouse, esq. , hon. w. lamb , [ ] mr. george skelly--_alnwick_. [ ] at an interview which we had in with [signature: e benton] _née._ elizabeth catnach, the last survivor of the family of john and mary catnach, she informed us that the ms. book alluded to above, remained in the family for many years, and was last known to be in the possession of the sister mary--mrs. haines, of gosport, to the date of about . [ ] pitts, a modern publisher of love garlands, merriments, penny ballads, "who, ere he went to heaven, domiciled in dials seven!"-- g. daniel's "democritus in london." [ ] the late john camden hotten's introduction to the new edition of "life in london." chatto & windus: piccadilly. [ ] our thanks are due, and are hereby given to mr. crawford john pocock, of cannon place, brighton, for the loan and use of his--what we feel almost inclined to consider--unique copy of catnach's broadside of "life in london." [ ] the above copied, _verbatim_ at our request, by mr. george skelly, of alnwick. [ ] e. l. blanchard, in an article entitled, "vanished theatres," in the _era almanack_, . transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. superscripted characters are indicated by {superscript}. the original text includes various symbols that are represented as [symbol: description] in this text version. generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. other than minor corrections to format or punctuation, any changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. in this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the ascii and latin- character sets only are used. italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. bold typeface is indicated by =equals symbols=. small caps typeface is represented by upper case. superscript characters are indicated by a preceding caret (^). [oe] and [oe] represent the oe-ligature (upper and lower case). a pointing hand symbol is represented as [right pointing hand]. footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears. notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad and the presence of a note is indicated at the end of line number ## by "[l##]". * * * * * english and scottish ballads edited by francis james child. volume v. boston: little, brown and company m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h. o. houghton and company. contents of volume fifth. book v. page introduction. robin hood vii . robin hood and the monk a. robin hood and the potter b. robin hood and the butcher . robyn and gandelyn . a lytell geste of robyn hode . adam bel, clym of the cloughe, and wyllyam of cloudeslé . robin hood and guy of gisborne . the birth of robin hood a. rose the red, and white lilly b. the wedding of robin hood and little john a. robin hood and the beggar b. the jolly pinder of wakefield, with robin hood, scarlet, and john c. robin hood and the ranger d. robin hoods delight e. robin hood and little john f. robin hood and the tanner g. robin hood and the tinker h. robin hood and the shepherd i. robin hood and the peddlers k. the bold pedlar and robin hood l. robin hood and the beggar, part i a. robin hood and the beggar, part ii b. robin hood and the old man c. robin hood rescuing the widows three sons d. robin hood rescuing the three squires . robin hood and the curtall fryer . robin hood and allin-a-dale . robin hoods rescuing will stutly . robin hoods progress to nottingham . robin hood and the bishop of hereford . robin hood and the bishop . robin hoods golden prize . robin hoods death and burial . robin hood and queen katherine . robin hoods chase . little john and the four beggers . the noble fisherman, or, robin hoods preferment . robin hood and the tanners daughter appendix. . robin hood's birth, breeding, valour, and marriage . a true tale of robin hood . robin hood and maid marian . the kings disguise and friendship with robin hood . robin hood and the golden arrow . robin hood and the valiant knight . the birth of robin hood . rose the red, and white lillie . robin hood and the stranger . robin hood and the scotchman . the playe of robyn hode . fragment of an interlude (?) of robin hood . by lands-dale hey ho . in sherwood livde stout robin hood . the song of robin hood and his huntesmen glossary book v. robin hood. there is no one of the royal heroes of england that enjoys a more enviable reputation than the bold outlaw of barnsdale and sherwood. his chance for a substantial immortality is at least as good as that of stout lion heart, wild prince hal, or merry charles. his fame began with the yeomanry full five hundred years ago, was constantly increasing for two or three centuries, has extended to all classes of society, and, with some changes of aspect, is as great as ever. bishops sheriffs, and game-keepers, the only enemies he ever had, have relinquished their ancient grudges, and englishmen would be almost as loath to surrender his exploits as any part of the national glory. his free life in the woods, his unerring eye and strong arm, his open hand and love of fair-play, his never-forgotten courtesy, his respect for women and devotion to mary, form a picture eminently healthful and agreeable to the imagination, and commend him to the hearty favor of all genial minds. but securely established as robin hood is in popular esteem, his historical position is by no means well ascertained, and his actual existence has been a subject of shrewd doubt and discussion. "a tale of robin hood"[ ] is an old proverb for the idlest of stories, yet all the materials at our command for making up an opinion on these questions are precisely of this description. they consist, that is to say, in a few ballads of unknown antiquity. these ballads, or others like them, are clearly the authority upon which the statements of the earlier chroniclers who take notice of robin hood are founded. they are also, to all appearances, the original source of the numerous and widespread traditions concerning him; which, unless the contrary can be shown, must be regarded, after what we have observed in similar cases, as having been suggested by the very legends to which, in the vulgar belief, they afford an irresistible confirmation. various periods, ranging from the time of richard the first to near the end of the reign of edward the second, have been selected by different writers as the age of robin hood; but (excepting always the most ancient ballads, which may possibly be placed within these limits) no mention whatever is made of him in literature before the latter half of the reign of edward the third. "rhymes of robin hood"[ ] are then spoken of by the author of _piers ploughman_, (assigned to about ,) as better known to idle fellows than pious songs, and from the manner of the allusion it is a just inference that such rhymes were at that time no novelties. the next notice is in wyntown's scottish chronicle, written about , where the following lines occur--without any connection, and in the form of an entry--under the year . "lytil jhon and robyne hude waythmen ware commendyd gude: in yngilwode and barnysdale thai oysyd all this time thare trawale."[ ] at last we encounter robin hood in what may be called history; first of all in a passage of the _scotichronicon_, often quoted, and highly curious as containing the earliest theory upon this subject. the _scotichronicon_ was written partly by fordun, canon of aberdeen, between and , and partly by his pupil bower, abbot of st. columba, about . fordun has the character of a man of judgment and research, and any statement or opinion delivered by him would be entitled to respect. of bower, not so much can be said. he largely interpolated the work of his master, and sometimes with the absurdest fictions.[ ] _among his interpolations_,[ ] and forming, it is important to observe, _no part of the original text_, is a passage translated as follows.[ ] it is inserted immediately after fordun's account of the defeat of simon de montfort, and the punishments inflicted on his adherents. "at this time, (_sc._ ,) from the number of those who had been deprived of their estates, arose the celebrated bandit robert hood (with little john and their accomplices) whose achievements the foolish vulgar delight to celebrate in comedies and tragedies, while the ballads upon his adventures sung by the jesters and minstrels are preferred to all others. "some things to his honor are also related, as appears from this. once on a time, when, having incurred the anger of the king and the prince, he could hear mass nowhere but in barnsdale, while he was devoutly occupied with the service, (for this was his wont, nor would he ever suffer it to be interrupted for the most pressing occasion,) he was surprised by a certain sheriff and officers of the king, who had often troubled him before, in the secret place in the woods where he was engaged in worship as aforesaid. some of his men, who had taken the alarm, came to him and begged him to fly with all speed. this, out of reverence for the host, which he was then most devoutly adoring, he positively refused to do. but while the rest of his followers were trembling for their lives, robert, confiding in him whom he worshipped, fell on his enemies with a few who chanced to be with him, and easily got the better of them; and having enriched himself with their plunder and ransom, he was led from that time forth to hold ministers of the church and masses in greater veneration than ever, mindful of the common saying that "god hears the man who often hears the mass." in another place bower writes to the same effect: "in this year ( ) the dispossessed barons of england and the royalists were engaged in fierce hostilities. among the former, roger mortimer occupied the welsh marches, and john daynil the isle of ely. robert hood was now living in outlawry among the woodland copses and thickets."[ ] mair, a scottish writer of the first quarter of the th century, the next historian who takes cognizance of our hero, and the only other that requires any attention, has a passage which may be considered in connection with the foregoing. in his _historia majoris brittaniæ_, he remarks, under the reign of richard the first: "about this time [ - ], as i conjecture, the notorious robbers robert hood of england and little john lurked in the woods, spoiling the goods only of rich men. they slew nobody but those who attacked them, or offered resistance in defence of their property. robert maintained by his plunder a hundred archers, so skilful in fight that four hundred brave men feared to attack them. he suffered no woman to be maltreated, and never robbed the poor, but assisted them abundantly with the wealth which he took from abbots." it appears then that contemporaneous history is absolutely silent concerning robin hood; that, excepting the casual allusion in _piers ploughman_, he is first mentioned by a rhyming chronicler, who wrote one hundred years after the latest date at which he can possibly be supposed to have lived, and then by two prose chroniclers, who wrote about one hundred and twenty-five years and two hundred years respectively after that date; and it is further manifest that all three of these chroniclers had no other authority for their statements than traditional tales similar to those which have come down to our day.[ ] when, therefore, thierry, relying upon these chronicles and kindred popular legends, unhesitatingly adopts the conjecture of mair, and describes robin hood as the hero of the saxon serfs, the chief of a troop of saxon banditti that continued, even to the reign of coeur de lion, a determined resistance against the norman invaders,[ ] and when another able and plausible writer accepts and maintains, with equal confidence, the hypothesis of bower, and exhibits the renowned outlaw as an adherent of simon de montfort, who, after the fatal battle of evesham, kept up a vigorous guerilla warfare against the officers of the tyrant henry the third, and of his successor,[ ] we must regard these representations which were conjectural three or four centuries ago, as conjectures still, and even as arbitrary conjectures, unless one or the other can be proved from the only _authorities_ we have, the ballads, to have a peculiar intrinsic probability. that neither of them possesses this intrinsic probability may easily be shown, but first it will be advisable to notice another theory, which is more plausibly founded on internal evidence, and claims to be confirmed by documents of unimpeachable validity. this theory has been propounded by the rev. john hunter, in one of his _critical and historical tracts_.[ ] mr. hunter admits that robin hood "lives only as a hero of song;" that he is not found in authentic contemporary chronicles; and that, when we find him mentioned in history, "the information was derived from the ballads, and is not independent of them or correlative with them." while making these admissions, he accords a considerable degree of credibility to the ballads, and particularly to the _lytell geste_, the last two _fits_ of which he regards as giving a tolerably accurate account of real occurrences. in this part of the story, king edward is represented as coming to nottingham to take robin hood. he traverses lancashire and a part of yorkshire, and finds his forests nearly stripped of their deer, but can get no trace of the author of these extensive depredations. at last, by the advice of one of his foresters, assuming with several of his knights the dress of a monk, he proceeds from nottingham to sherwood, and there soon encounters the object of his search. he submits to plunder as a matter of course, and then announces himself as a messenger sent to invite robin hood to the royal presence. the outlaw receives this message with great respect. there is no man in the world, he says, whom he loves so much as his king. the monk is invited to remain and dine; and after the repast, an exhibition of archery is ordered, in which a bad shot is to be punished by a buffet from the hand of the chieftain. robin having once failed of the mark requests the monk to administer the penalty. he receives a staggering blow, which rouses his suspicions, recognizes the king on an attentive consideration of his countenance, entreats grace for himself and his followers, and is freely pardoned on condition that he and they shall enter into the king's service. to this he agrees, and for fifteen months resides at court. at the end of this time he has lost all his followers but two, and spent all his money, and feels that he shall pine to death with sorrow in such a life. he returns accordingly to the green wood, collects his old followers around him, and for twenty-two years maintains his independence in defiance of the power of edward. without asserting the literal verity of all the particulars of this narrative, mr. hunter attempts to show that it contains a substratum of fact. edward the first, he informs us, was never in lancashire after he became king, and if edward the third was ever there at all, it was not in the early years of his reign. but edward the second did make one single progress in lancashire, and this in the year . during this progress the king spent some time at nottingham, and took particular note of the condition of his forests, and among these of the forest of sherwood. supposing now that the incidents detailed in the _lytell geste_ really took place at this time, robin hood must have entered into the royal service before the end of the year . it is a singular, and in the opinion of mr. hunter a very pregnant coincidence, that, in certain exchequer documents containing accounts of expenses in the king's household, the name of robyn hode (or robert hood) is found several times, beginning with the th of march, , among the "porters of the chamber" of the king. he received, with simon hood and others, the wages of three pence a day. in august of the following year robin hood suffers deduction from his pay for non-attendance, his absences grow frequent, and, on the d of november, he is discharged with a present of five shillings, "_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_".[ ] it remains still for mr. hunter to account for the existence of a band of seven score of outlaws in the reign of edward the second, in or about yorkshire. the stormy and troublous reigns of the plantagenets make this a matter of no difficulty. running his finger down the long list of rebellions and commotions, he finds that early in england was convulsed by the insurrection of thomas earl of lancaster, the king's near relation, supported by many powerful noblemen. the earl's chief seat was the castle of pontefract, in the west riding of yorkshire. he is said to have been popular, and it would be a fair inference that many of his troops were raised in this part of england. king edward easily got the better of the rebels and took exemplary vengeance upon them. many of the leaders were at once put to death, and the lives of all their partisans were in danger. is it impossible then, asks mr. hunter, that some who had been in the army of the earl, secreted themselves in the woods and turned their skill in archery against the king's subjects or the king's deer; "that these were the men who for so long a time haunted barnsdale and sherwood, and that robin hood was one of them, a chief amongst them, being really of a rank originally somewhat superior to the rest?" we have then three different hypotheses concerning robin hood, one placing him in the reign of richard the first, another in that of henry the third, and the last under edward the second, and all describing him as a political foe to the established government. to all of these hypotheses there are two very obvious and decisive objections. the first is that robin hood, as already remarked, is not so much as named in contemporary history. whether as the unsubdued leader of the saxon peasantry, or insurgent against the tyranny of henry or edward, it is inconceivable that we should not hear something of him from the chroniclers. if, as thierry says, "he had chosen hereward for his model," it is unexplained and inexplicable why his historical fate has been so different from that of hereward. the hero of the camp of refuge fills an ample place in the annals of his day; his achievements are also handed down in a prose romance which presents many points of resemblance to the ballads of robin hood. it would have been no wonder if the vulgar legends about hereward had utterly perished, but it is altogether anomalous[ ] that a popular champion who attained so extraordinary a notoriety in song, a man living from one hundred to two hundred and fifty years later than hereward, should be passed over without one word of notice from any authoritative historian.[ ] that this would not be so, we are most fortunately able to demonstrate by reference to a real case which furnishes a singularly exact parallel to the present, that of the famous outlaw, adam gordon. in the year , says the continuator of matthew paris, a soldier by the name of adam gordon, who had lost his estates with other adherents of simon de montfort, and refused to seek the mercy of the king, established himself with others in like circumstances near a woody and tortuous road between the village of wilton and the castle of farnham, from which position he made forays into the country round about, directing his attacks especially against those who were of the king's party. prince edward had heard much of the prowess and honorable character of this man, and desired to have some personal knowledge of him. he succeeded in surprising gordon with a superior force, and engaged him in single combat, forbidding any of his own followers to interfere. they fought a long time, and the prince was so filled with admiration of the courage and spirit of his antagonist that he promised him life and fortune on condition of his surrendering. to these terms gordon acceded, his estates were restored, and edward found him ever after an attached and faithful servant.[ ] the story is romantic, and yet adam gordon was not made the subject of ballads. _caruit vate sacro._ the contemporary historians, however, all have a paragraph for him. he is celebrated by wikes, the chronicle of dunstaple, the waverley annals, and we know not where else besides. but these theories are open to an objection stronger even than the silence of history. they are contradicted by the spirit of the ballads. no line of these songs breathes political animosity. there is no suggestion or reminiscence of wrong, from invading norman, or from the established sovereign. on the contrary, robin loved no man in the world so well as his king. what the tone of these ballads would have been, had robin hood been any sort of partisan, we may judge from the mournful and indignant strains which were poured out on the fall of de montfort. we should have heard of the fatal field of hastings, of the perfidy of henry, of the sanguinary revenge of edward, and not of matches at archery and encounters at quarter-staff, the plundering of rich abbots, and squabbles with the sheriff. the robin hood of our ballads is neither patriot under ban, nor proscribed rebel. an outlaw indeed he is, but an "outlaw for venyson," like adam bell, and one who superadds to deer-stealing the irregularity of a genteel highway robbery. thus much of these conjectures in general. to recur to the particular evidence by which mr. hunter's theory is supported, this consists principally in the name of robin hood being found among the king's servants shortly after edward ii. returned from his visit to the north of his dominions. but the value of this coincidence depends entirely upon the rarity of the name.[ ] now hood, as mr. hunter himself remarks, is a well-established hereditary name in the reigns of the edwards. we find it very frequently in the indexes to the record publications, and this although it does not belong to the higher class of people. that robert was an ordinary christian name requires no proof, and if it was, the combination of robert hood must have been frequent also. we have taken no extraordinary pains to hunt up this combination, for really the matter is altogether too trivial to justify the expense of time; but since to some minds much may depend on the coincidence in question, we will cite several robin hoods in the reign of the edwards. th ed. i. robert hood, a citizen of london, says mr. hunter, supplied the king's household with beer. th ed. i. robert hood is sued for three acres of pasture land in throckley, northumberland. (_rot. orig. abbrev._) th ed. ii. robert hood is surety for a burgess returned for lostwithiel, cornwall. (_parliamentary writs._) th ed. ii. robert hood is a citizen of wakefield, yorkshire, whom mr. hunter (p. ) "may be justly charged with carrying supposition too far" by striving to identify with robin the porter. th ed. iii. a robert hood, of howden, york, is mentioned in the _calendarium rot. patent_. adding the robin hood of the th ed. ii. we have six persons of that name mentioned within a period of less than forty years, and this circumstance does not dispose us to receive with great favor any argument that may be founded upon one individual case of its occurrence. but there is no end to the absurdities which flow from this supposition. we are to believe that the weak and timid prince that had severely punished his kinsman and his nobles, freely pardoned a yeoman, who, after serving with the rebels, had for twenty months made free with the king's deer and robbed on the highway, and not only pardoned him, but received him into service _near his person_. we are further to believe that the man who had led so daring and jovial a life, and had so generously dispensed the pillage of opulent monks, willingly entered into this service, doffed his lincoln green for the plantagenet plush, and _consented_ to be enrolled among royal flunkies for three pence a day. and again, admitting all this, we are finally obliged by mr. hunter's document to concede that the stalwart archer (who, according to the ballad, maintained himself two and twenty years in the wood) was worn out by his duties as "proud portèr" in less than two years, and was discharged a superannuated lackey, with five shillings in his pocket, "_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_." to those who are well acquainted with ancient popular poetry, the adventure of king edward and robin hood, will seem the least eligible portion of this circle of story for the foundation of an historical theory. the ballad of king edward and robin hood is but one version of an extremely multiform legend, of which the tales of _king edward and the shepherd_ and _king edward and the hermit_ are other specimens; and any one who will take the trouble to examine will be convinced that all these stories are one and the same thing, the personages being varied for the sake of novelty, and the name of a recent or of the reigning monarch substituted in successive ages for that of a predecessor. (see _king edward the fourth and the tanner of tamworth_.) rejecting, then, as nugatory every attempt to assign robin hood a definite position in history, what view shall we adopt? are all these traditions absolute fictions, and is he himself a pure creation of the imagination? might not the ballads under consideration have a basis in the exploits of a real person, living in the forests, _somewhere_ and at _some time_? or, denying individual existence to robin hood, and particular truth to the adventures ascribed to him, may we not regard him as _the ideal of the outlaw class_, a class so numerous in all the countries of europe in the middle ages? we are perfectly contented to form no opinion upon the subject; but if compelled to express one, we should say that this last supposition (which is no novelty) possessed decidedly more likelihood than any other. its plausibility will be confirmed by attending to the apparent signification of the name robin hood. the natural refuge and stronghold of the outlaw was the woods. hence he is termed by latin writers _silvaticus_, by the normans _forestier_. the anglo-saxon robber or highwayman is called a wood-rover, _wealdgenga_, and the norse word for outlaw is exactly equivalent.[ ] it has been often suggested that robin hood is a corruption, or dialectic form, of robin of the wood, and when we remember that _wood_ is pronounced _hood_ in some parts of england,[ ] (as _whoop_ is pronounced _hoop_ everywhere,) and that the outlaw bears in so many languages a name descriptive of his habitation, this notion will not seem an idle fancy. various circumstances, however, have disposed writers of learning to look further for a solution of the question before us. mr. wright propounds an hypothesis that robin hood was "one among the personages of the early mythology of the teutonic peoples;" and a german scholar,[ ] in an exceedingly interesting article which throws much light on the history of english sports, has endeavored to show specifically that he is in name and substance one with the god woden. the arguments by which these views are supported, though in their present shape very far from convincing, are entitled to a respectful consideration. the most important of these arguments are those which are based on the peculiar connection between robin hood and the month of may. mr. wright has justly remarked, that either an express mention of this month, or a vivid description of the season, in the older ballads, shows that the feats of the hero were generally performed during this part of the year. thus, the adventure of _robin hood and the monk_ befell on "a morning of may." _robin hood and the potter_, and _robin hood and guy of gisborne_ begin, like _robin hood and the monk_, with a description of the season when leaves are long, blossoms are shooting, and the small birds are singing, and this season, though called summer, is at the same time spoken of as may in _robin hood and the monk_, which, from the description there given, it needs must be. the liberation of cloudesly by adam bel and clym of the clough is also achieved "on a merry morning of may." robin hood is moreover intimately associated with the month of may through the games which were celebrated at that time of the year. the history of these games is unfortunately very defective, and hardly extends beyond the beginning of the th century. by that time their primitive character seems to have been corrupted, or at least their significance was so far forgotten, that distinct pastimes and ceremonials were capriciously intermixed. at the beginning of the th century the may sports in vogue were, besides a contest of archery, four _pageants_,--the kingham, or election of a lord and lady of the may, otherwise called summer king and queen, the morris dance, the hobby horse, and the "robin hood." though these pageants were diverse in their origin, they had, at the epoch of which we write, begun to be confounded; and the morris exhibited a tendency to absorb and blend them all, as, from its character, being a procession interspersed with dancing, it easily might do. we shall hardly find the morris pure and simple in the english may-game; but from a comparison of the two earliest representations which we have of this sport, the flemish print given by douce in his _illustrations of shakespeare_, and tollett's celebrated painted window, (described in johnson and steevens's _shakespeare_,) we may form an idea of what was essential and what adventitious in the english spectacle. the lady is evidently the central personage in both. she is, we presume, the same as the queen of may, who is the oldest of all the characters in the may games, and the apparent successor to the goddess of spring in the roman floralia. in the english morris she is called simply the lady, or more frequently maid marian, a name which, to our apprehension, means lady of the may, and nothing more. a fool and a taborer seem also to have been indispensable; but the other dancers had neither names nor peculiar offices, and were unlimited in number. the morris then, though it lost in allegorical significance, would gain considerably in spirit and variety by combining with the other shows. was it not natural, therefore, and in fact inevitable, that the old favorites of the populace, robin hood, friar tuck, and little john, should in the course of time displace three of the anonymous performers in the show? this they had pretty effectually done at the beginning of the th century, and the lady, who had accepted the more precise designation of maid marian, was after that generally regarded as the consort of robin hood, though she sometimes appeared in the morris without him. in like manner, the hobby horse was quite early adopted into the morris, of which it formed no original part, and at last even a dragon was annexed to the company. under these circumstances we cannot be surprised to find the principal performers in the may pageants passing the one into the other; to find the may king, whose occupation was gone when the fascinating outlaw had supplanted him in the favor of the lady, assuming the part of the hobby horse,[ ] robin hood usurping the title of king of the may,[ ] and the hobby horse entering into a contest with the dragon, as st. george. we feel obliged to regard this interchange of functions among the characters in the english may pageants as fortuitous, notwithstanding the coincidence of the may king sometimes appearing on horseback in germany, and notwithstanding our conviction that kuhn is right in maintaining that the may king, the hobby horse, and the dragon-slayer, are symbols of one mythical idea. this idea we are compelled by want of space barely to state, with the certainty of doing injustice to the learning and ingenuity with which the author has supported his views. kuhn has shown it to be extremely probable, first, that the christmas games, which both in germany and england have a close resemblance to those of spring, are to be considered as a prelude to the may sports, and that they both originally symbolized the victory of summer over winter,[ ] which, beginning at the winter solstice, is completed in the second month of spring; secondly, that the conquering summer is represented by the may king, or by the hobby horse (as also by the dragon-slayer, whether st. george, siegfried, apollo, or the sanskrit indras); and thirdly, that the hobby horse in particular represents the god woden, who, as well as mars[ ] among the romans, is the god at once of spring and of victory. the essential point, all this being admitted, is now to establish the identity of robin hood and the hobby horse. this we think we have shown cannot be done by reasoning founded on the early history of the games under consideration. kuhn relies principally upon two modern accounts of christmas pageants. in one of these pageants there is introduced a man on horseback, who carries in his hands a bow and arrows. the other furnishes nothing peculiar except a name: the ceremony is called a _hoodening_, and the hobby horse a _hooden_. in the rider with bow and arrows, kuhn sees robin hood and the hobby horse, and in the name _hooden_ (which is explained by the authority he quotes to mean wooden) he discovers a provincial form of _wooden_ which connects the outlaw and the divinity.[ ] it will be generally agreed that these slender premises are totally inadequate to support the weighty conclusion that is rested upon them. why the adventures of robin hood should be specially assigned, as they are in the old ballads, to the month of may, remains unexplained. we have no exquisite reason to offer, but we may perhaps find reason good enough in the delicious stanzas with which some of these ballads begin. in summer when the shawès be sheen, and leavès be large and long, it is full merry in fair forèst to hear the fowlès song; to see the deer draw to the dale, and leave the hillès hee, and shadow them in the leavès green under the green-wood tree. the poetical character of the season affords all the explanation that is required. nor need the occurrence of exhibitions of archery and of the robin hood plays and pageants, at this time of the year, occasion any difficulty. repeated statutes, from the th to the th century, enjoined practice with the bow, and ordered that the leisure time of holidays should be employed for this purpose. under henry the eighth the custom was still kept up, and those who partook in this exercise often gave it a spirit by assuming the style and character of robin hood and his associates. in like manner the society of archers in elizabeth's time, took the name of arthur and his knights: all which was very natural then and would be now. none of all the merrymakings in merry england surpassed the may festival. the return of the sun stimulated the populace to the accumulation of all sorts of amusements. in addition to the traditional and appropriate sports of the season, there were, as stowe tells us, divers warlike shows, with good archers, morris-dancers, and other devices for pastime all day long, and towards the evening stage-plays and bonfires in the streets. a play of robin hood was considered "very proper for a may-game," but if robin hood was peculiarly prominent in these entertainments, the obvious reason would appear to be that he was the hero of that loved green-wood to which all the world resorted, when the cold obstruction of winter was broken up, "to do observance for a morn of may." we do not therefore attribute much value to the theory of mr. wright, that the may festival was, in its earliest form, "a religious celebration, though, like such festivals in general, it possessed a double character, that of a religious ceremony, and of an opportunity for the performance of warlike games; that, at such festivals, the songs would take the character of the amusements on the occasion, and would most likely celebrate warlike deeds--perhaps the myths of the patron whom superstition supposed to preside over them; that, as the character of the exercises changed, the attributes of the patron would change also, and he who was once celebrated as working wonders with his good axe or his elf-made sword, might afterwards assume the character of a skilful bowman; that the scene of his actions would likewise change, and the person whose weapons were the bane of dragons and giants, who sought them in the wildernesses they infested, might become the enemy only of the sheriff and his officers, under the 'grene-wode lefe.'" it is unnecessary to point out that the language we have quoted contains, beyond the statement that warlike exercises were anciently combined with religious rites, a very slightly founded surmise, and nothing more. another circumstance which weighs much with mr. wright, goes but a very little way with us in demonstrating the mythological character of robin hood. this is the frequency with which his name is attached to mounds, wells, and stones, such as in the popular creed are connected with fairies, dwarfs, or giants. there is scarcely a county in england which does not possess some monument of this description. "cairns on blackdown in somersetshire, and barrows near to whitby in yorkshire and ludlow in shropshire, are termed robin hood's pricks or butts; lofty natural eminences in gloucestershire and derbyshire are robin hood's hills; a huge rock near matlock is robin hood's tor; ancient boundary stones, as in lincolnshire, are robin hood's crosses; a presumed loggan, or rocking-stone, in yorkshire, is robin hood's penny-stone; a fountain near nottingham, another between doncaster and wakefield, and one in lancashire, are robin hood's wells; a cave in nottinghamshire is his stable; a rude natural rock in hope dale is his chair; a chasm at chatsworth is his leap; blackstone edge, in lancashire, is his bed."[ ] in fact, his name bids fair to overrun every remarkable object of the sort which has not been already appropriated to king arthur or the devil; with the latter of whom, at least, it is presumed that, however ancient, he will not dispute precedence. "the legends of the peasantry," quoth mr. wright, "are the shadows of a very remote antiquity." this proposition, thus broadly stated, we deny. nothing is more deceptive than popular legends; and the "legends," we speak of, if they are to bear that name, have no claim to antiquity at all. they do not go beyond the ballads. they are palpably of subsequent and comparatively recent origin. it was absolutely impossible that they should arise while robin hood was a living reality to the people. the archer of sherwood who could barely stand king edward's buffet, and was felled by the potter, was no man to be playing with rocking stones. this trick of naming must have begun in the decline of his fame, for there was a time when his popularity drooped, and his existence was just not doubted; not elaborately maintained by learned historians, and antiquarians deeply read in the public records. and what do these names prove? the vulgar passion for bestowing them is notorious and universal. we americans are too young to be well provided with heroes that might serve this purpose. we have no imaginative peasantry to invent legends, no ignorant peasantry to believe them. but we have the good fortune to possess the devil in common with the rest of the world; and we take it upon us to say, that there is not a mountain district in the land, which has been opened to summer travellers, where a "devil's bridge," a "devil's punch-bowl," or some object with the like designation, will not be pointed out.[ ] we have taken no notice of the later fortunes of robin hood in his true and original character of a hero of romance. towards the end of the th century, anthony munday attempted to revive the decaying popularity of this king of good fellows, who had won all his honors as a simple yeoman, by representing him in the play of _the downfall of robert earl of huntington_, as a nobleman in disguise, outlawed by the machinations of his steward. this pleasing and successful drama is robin's sole patent to that title of earl of huntington, in confirmation of which, dr. stukeley fabricated a pedigree that transcends even the absurdities of heraldry, and some unknown forger an epitaph beneath the skill of a chatterton. those who desire a full acquaintance with the fabulous history of robin hood, will seek it in the well-known volumes of ritson, or in those of his recent editor, gutch, who does not make up by superior discrimination for his inferiority in other respects to that industrious antiquary. [ ] "this is a tale indeed of robin hood, which to beleeve might show my wits but weake." harington's _ariosto_, p. , as cited by ritson. [ ] sloth says:-- "i kan noght parfitly my pater-noster, as the preest it syngeth, but i kan rymes of robyn hood, and randolf erl of chestre." wright's ed. v. - . [ ] a writer in the _edinburgh review_, (july, , p. ,) has cited an allusion to robin hood, of a date intermediate between the passages from wyntown, and the one about to be cited from bower. in the year , a petition was presented to parliament against one piers venables of aston, in derbyshire, "who having no liflode, ne sufficeante of goodes, gadered and assembled unto him many misdoers, beynge of his clothynge, and, in manere of insurrection, wente into the wodes in that countrie, like as it hadde be _robyn hode and his meynè_." _rot. parl._ v. . [ ] "legendis non raro incredibilibus aliisque plusquam anilibus neniis." hearne, _scotichronicon_, p. xxix. [ ] hearne. mr. hunter agrees to this. [ ] hearne, p. . [ ] _scotichronicon_, ed. goodall, ii. . [ ] a comparison of the legends concerning william tell, as they appear in any of the recent discussions of the subject, (e.g. ideler's _sage von dem schuss des tell_, berlin, ,) with those of robin hood and adam bell, will be found interesting and instructive. [ ] in his _histoire de la conquête de l'angleterre par les normands_, l. xi. thierry was anticipated in his theory by barry, in a dissertation cited by mr. wright in his essays: _thèse de littérature sur les viccissitudes et les transformations du cycle populaire de robin hood._ paris, . [ ] london and westminster review, vol. xxxiii. p. . [ ] no. . _the ballad hero, robin hood._ june, . [ ] hunter, p. , p. - . [ ] mr. hunter thinks it necessary to prove that it was formerly a usage in england to celebrate real events in popular song. we submit that it has been still more customary to celebrate them in history, when they were of public importance. the case of private and domestic stories is different. [ ] most remarkable of all would this be, should we adopt the views of mr. hunter, because we know from the incidental testimony of _piers ploughman_, that only forty years after the date fixed upon for the outlaw's submission, "rhymes of robin hood," were in the mouth of every tavern lounger; and yet no chronicler can spare him a word. [ ] matthew paris, london, , p. . [ ] mr. hunter had previously instituted a similar argument in the case of adam bell, and doubtless the reasoning might be extended to will scathlock and little john. with a little more rummaging of old account-books we shall be enabled to "comprehend all vagrom men." it is a pity that the sheriff of nottingham could not have availed himself of the services of our "detective." the sagacity that has identified the porter might easily, we imagine, have unmasked the potter. [ ] see wright's _essays_, ii. . "the name of witikind, the famous opponent of charlemagne, who always fled before his sight, concealed himself in the forests, and returned again in his absence, is no more than _witu chint_, in old high dutch, and signifies the _son of the wood_, an appellation which he could never have received at his birth, since it denotes an exile or outlaw. indeed, the name witikind, though such a person seems to have existed, appears to be the representative of all the defenders of his country against the invaders." (_cf._ the _three_ tells.) [ ] thus, in kent, the hobby horse is called _hooden_, i.e. wooden. it is curious that orlando, in _as you like it_, (who represents the outlaw gamelyn in the _tale of gamelyn_, a tale which clearly belongs to the cycle of robin hood,) should be the son of sir rowland _de bois_. robin de bois (says a writer in _notes and queries_, vi. ) occurs in one of sue's novels "as a well-known mythical character, whose name is employed by french mothers to frighten their children." [ ] kuhn, in _haupt's zeitschrift für deutsches alterthum_, v. . the idea of a northern myth will of course excite the alarm of all sensible patriotic englishmen, (e.g. mr. hunter, at page of his tract,) and the bare suggestion of woden will be received, in the same quarters, with an explosion of scorn. and yet we find the famous shot of eigill, one of the mythical personages of the scandinavians, (and perhaps to be regarded as one of the forms of woden,) attributed in the ballad of _adam bel_ to william of cloudesly, who may be considered as robin hood under another name. see the preface to _adam bel_. [ ] as in tollett's window. [ ] in lord hailes's _extracts from the book of the universal kirk_. [ ] more openly exhibited in the mock battle between summer and winter celebrated by the scandinavians in honor of may, a custom still retained in the isle of man, where the month is every year ushered in with a contest between the queen of summer, and the queen of winter. (brand's _antiquities_, by ellis, i. , .) a similar ceremony in germany, occurring at christmas, is noticed by kuhn, p. . [ ] hence the spring begins with march. the connection with mars suggests a possible etymology for the morris--which is usually explained, for want of something better, as a morisco or moorish dance. there is some resemblance between the morris and the salic dance. the salic games are said to have been instituted by the veian king morrius, a name pointing to mars, the divinity of the salii. kuhn, - . [ ] the name robin also appears to kuhn worthy of notice, since the horseman in the may pageant is in some parts of germany called ruprecht (rupert, robert). [ ] edinburgh review, vol. , p. . [ ] see some sensible remarks in the _gentleman's magazine_ for march, , by d. h., that is, says the courteous ritson, by gough, "the scurrilous and malignant editor of that degraded publication." robin hood and the monk. this excellent ballad, which appears to be the oldest of the class preserved, and is possibly as old as the reign of edward ii. (see wright's _essays_, &c., ii. ), is found in a manuscript belonging to the public library of the university of cambridge (ff. , ). it was first printed by jamieson, _popular ballads_, ii. , afterwards in hartshorne's _metrical tales_, p. , and is here given from the second edition of ritson's _robin hood_, (ii. ,) as collated by sir frederic madden. the story is nearly the same in _adam bel, clym of the cloughe, and wyllyam of cloudeslè_. in somer when the shawes be sheyne, and leves be large and longe, hit is full mery in feyre foreste to here the foulys song. to se the dere draw to the dale, and leve the hilles hee, and shadow hem in the leves grene, vndur the grene-wode tre. hit befell on whitsontide, erly in a may mornyng, the son vp fayre can shyne, and the briddis mery can syng. "this is a mery mornyng," seid litulle johne, "be hym that dyed on tre; a more mery man then i am one lyves not in cristianté." "pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster," litulle johne can sey, "and thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme in a mornynge of may." "ze on thynge greves me," seid robyne, "and does my hert mych woo, that i may not so solem day to mas nor matyns goo. "hit is a fourtnet and more," seyd hee, "syn i my sauyour see; to day will i to notyngham," seid robyn, "with the myght of mylde mary." then spake moche the mylner sune, euer more wel hym betyde, "take xii of thi wyght zemen well weppynd be thei side.[l ] such on wolde thi selfe slon that xii dar not abyde." "off alle my mery men," seid robyne, "be my feithe i wil non haue; but litulle johne shall beyre my bow til that me list to drawe. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "thou shalle beyre thin own," seid litulle jon,[l ] "maister, and i wil beyre myne, and we wille shete a peny," seid litulle jon, "vnder the grene wode lyne." "i wil not shete a peny," seyde robyn hode, "in feith, litulle johne, with thee, but euer for on as thou shetes," seid robyn, "in feith i holde the thre." thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too, bothe at buske and brome, til litulle johne wan of his maister v s. to hose and shone. a ferly strife fel them betwene, as they went bi the way; litull johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, and robyn hode seid schortly nay. with that robyn hode lyed litul jone, and smote hym with his honde; litul john waxed wroth therwith, and pulled out his bright bronde. "were thou not my maister," seid litulle johne, "thou shuldis by hit ful sore; get the a man where thou wilt, robyn, for thou getes me no more." then robyn goes to notyngham, hymselfe mornynge allone, and litulle johne to mery scherewode, the pathes he knowe alkone. whan robyn came to notyngham, sertenly withoutene layne, he prayed to god and myld mary to brynge hym out saue agayne. he gos into seynt mary chirche, and knelyd downe before the rode; alle that euer were the churche within beheld wel robyne hode. beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke, i pray to god woo he be; ful sone he knew gode robyn as sone as he hym se. out at the durre he ran ful sone and anon; alle the zatis of notyngham he made to be sparred euerychone. "rise vp," he seid, "thou prowde schereff, buske the and make the bowne; i haue spyed the kynges felone, for sothe he is in this towne. "i haue spyed the false felone, as he stondes at his masse; hit is longe of the," seide the munke, "and euer he fro vs passe. "this traytur[s] name is robyn hode; vnder the grene wode lynde, he robbyt me onys of a c pound,[l ] hit shalle neuer out of my mynde." vp then rose this prowd schereff, and zade towarde hym zare; many was the modur son to the kyrk with him can fare. in at the durres thei throly thrast with staves ful gode ilkone,[l ] "alas, alas," seid robin hode, "now mysse i litulle johne." but robyne toke out a too-hond sworde that hangit down be his kne; ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust, thidurward wold he. thryes thorow at them he ran, then for sothe as i yow say, and woundyt many a modur sone, and xii he slew that day. hys sworde vpon the schireff hed sertanly he brake in too; "the smyth that the made," seid robyn, "i pray god wyrke hym woo. "for now am i weppynlesse," seid robyne, "alasse, agayn my wylle; but if i may fle these traytors fro, i wot thei wil me kylle." robyns men to the churche ran throout hem euerilkon; sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, and lay still as any stone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * non of theym were in her mynde but only litulle jon. "let be your dule," seid litulle jon,[l ] "for his luf that dyed on tre; ze that shulde be duzty men, hit is gret shame to se. "oure maister has bene hard bystode, and zet scapyd away; pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, and herkyn what i shal say. "he has seruyd our lady many a day, and zet wil securly; therefore i trust in her specialy no wycked deth shal he dye. "therfor be glad," seid litul johne, "and let this mournyng be, and i shall be the munkes gyde, with the myght of mylde mary. "and i mete hym," seid litull johne, "we wille go but we too * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre vnder the levys smale, and spare non of this venyson that gose in thys vale." forthe thei went these zemen too, litul johne and moche onfere, and lokid on moche emys hows the hyeway lay fulle nere. litul john stode at a window in the mornynge, and lokid forth at a stage; he was war wher the munke came ridynge, and with hym a litul page. "be my feith," seid litul johne to moche, "i can the tel tithyngus gode; i se wher the munk comys rydyng, i know hym be his wyde hode." thei went into the way these zemen bothe, as curtes men and hende, thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke, as thei hade bene his frende. "fro whens come ze," seid litul johne; "tel vs tithyngus, i yow pray, off a false owtlay [called robyn hode], was takyn zisturday. "he robbyt me and my felowes bothe of xx marke in serten; if that false owtlay be takyn, for sothe we wolde be fayne." "so did he me," seid the munke, "of a c pound and more; i layde furst hande hym apon, ze may thonke me therfore." "i pray god thanke yow," seid litulle johne, "and we wil when we may; we wil go with yow, with your leve, and brynge yow on your way. "for robyn hode hase many a wilde felow, i telle yow in certen; if thei wist ze rode this way, in feith ze shulde be slayn." as thei went talkyng be the way, the munke and litulle johne, johne toke the munkes horse be the hede ful sone and anone. johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, for sothe as i yow say, so did muche the litulle page, for he shulde not stirre away. be the golett of the hode johne pulled the munke downe; johne was nothynge of hym agast, he lete hym falle on his crowne. litulle johne was sore agrevyd,[l ] and drew out his swerde in hye; the munke saw he shulde be ded, lowd mercy can he crye. "he was my maister," seid litulle johne, "that thou hase browzt in bale; shalle thou neuer cum at oure kynge for to telle hym tale." john smote of the munkes hed, no longer wolde he dwelle; so did moche the litulle page, for ferd lest he wold tell. ther thei beryed hem both in nouther mosse nor lynge, and litulle johne and muche infere bare the letturs to oure kyng. * * * * * * he kneled down vpon his kne, "god zow saue, my lege lorde, "jesus yow saue and se. "god yow saue, my lege kyng," to speke johne was fulle bolde; he gaf hym the letturs in his hond, the kyng did hit unfold. the kyng red the letturs anon, and seid, "so mot i the, ther was neuer zoman in mery inglond i longut so sore to see. "wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?" oure kynge gan say; "be my trouthe," seid litull jone, "he dyed aftur the way." the kyng gaf moche and litul jon xx pound in sertan, and made theim zemen of the crowne, and bade theim go agayn. he gaf johne the seel in hand, the scheref for to bere, to brynge robyn hym to, and no man do hym dere. johne toke his leve at oure kyng, the sothe as i yow say; the next way to notyngham to take he zede the way. when johne came to notyngham the zatis were sparred ychone; johne callid vp the porter, he answerid sone anon. "what is the cause," seid litul john, "thou sparris the zates so fast?" "because of robyn hode," seid [the] porter, in depe prison is cast. "johne, and moche, and wylle scathlok, for sothe as i yow say, thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis, and sawtene vs euery day." litulle johne spyrred aftur the schereff, and sone he hym fonde; he oppyned the kyngus privè seelle, and gaf hym in his honde. "when the schereff saw the kyngus seelle, he did of his hode anon; "wher is the munke that bare the letturs?" he seid to litulle johne. "he is so fayn of hym," seid litulle johne, "for sothe as i yow sey, he has made hym abot of westmynster, a lorde of that abbay." the scheref made john gode chere, and gaf hym wine of the best; at nyzt thei went to her bedde, and euery man to his rest. when the scheref was on-slepe dronken of wine and ale, litul johne and moche for sothe toke the way vnto the jale.[l ] litul johne callid vp the jayler, and bade hym ryse anon; he seid robyn hode had brokyn preson, and out of hit was gon. the portere rose anon sertan, as sone as he herd john calle; litul johne was redy with a swerd, and bare hym to the walle. "now will i be porter," seid litul johne, "and take the keyes in honde;" he toke the way to robyn hode, and sone he hym vnbonde. he gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond, his hed with for to kepe, and ther as the walle was lowyst anon down can thei lepe. be that the cok began to crow, the day began to sprynge, the scheref fond the jaylier ded, the comyn belle made he rynge. he made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n], whedur he be zoman or knave, that cowthe brynge hym robyn hode, his warisone he shuld haue. "for i dar neuer," said the scheref, "cum before oure kynge, for if i do, i wot serten, for sothe he wil me henge." the scheref made to seke notyngham, bothe be strete and stye, and robyn was in mery scherwode as lizt as lef on lynde. then bespake gode litulle johne, to robyn hode can he say, "i haue done the a gode turne for an euylle, quyte me whan thou may.[l ] "i haue done the a gode turne," said litulle johne, "for sothe as i you saie; i haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne; fare wel, and haue gode day." "nay, be my trouthe," seid robyn hode, "so shalle hit neuer be; i make the maister," seid robyn hode, "off alle my men and me." "nay, be my trouthe," seid litulle johne, "so shall hit neuer be, but lat me be a felow," seid litulle johne, "non odur kepe i'll be." thus johne gate robyn hode out of prisone, sertan withoutyn layne; when his men saw hym hol and sounde, for sothe they were ful fayne. they filled in wyne, and made him glad, vnder the levys smale, and zete pastes of venysone, that gode was with ale. than worde came to oure kynge, how robyn hode was gone, and how the scheref of notyngham durst neuer loke hyme vpone. then bespake oure cumly kynge, in an angur hye, "litulle johne hase begyled the schereff, in faith so hase he me. "litulle johne has begyled vs bothe, and that fulle wel i se, or ellis the schereff of notyngham hye hongut shuld he be. "i made hem zemen of the crowne, and gaf hem fee with my hond, i gaf hem grithe," seid oure kyng, "thorowout alle mery inglond. "i gaf hem grithe," then seide oure kyng, "i say, so mot i the, for sothe soche a zeman as he is on in alle ingland ar not thre. "he is trew to his maister," seide oure kynge, "i sey, be swete seynt johne; he louys bettur robyn hode, then he dose vs ychone. "robyne hode is euer bond to him, bothe in strete and stalle; speke no more of this matter," seid oure kynge,[l ] "but john has begyled vs alle." thus endys the talkyng of the munke and robyne hode i-wysse; god, that is euer a crowned kyng, bryng vs alle to his blisse. . ms. ther. . ms. th' now. . see the fourth fit of the _lyttell geste_. . ms. gode wone. . ms. rule. . ms. so. , gale. . ms. quyte the. . ms. mere. robin hood and the potter. from ritson's _robin hood_, i. . "this curious, and hitherto unpublished, and even unheard of old piece," remarks that editor, "is given from a manuscript among bishop more's collections, in the public library of the university of cambridge (ee. . ). the writing, which is evidently that of a vulgar and illiterate person, appears to be of the age of henry vii., that is, about the year ; but the composition (which he has irremediably corrupted) is probably of an earlier period, and much older, no doubt, than _the play of robyn hode_, which seems allusive to the same story." mr. wright thinks the manuscript is proved to be of the time of henry vi. by a memorandum on one page, setting forth the expenses of the feast on the marriage of the king with margaret:--"thys ys exspences of fflesche at the mariage of my ladey marg'et, that sche had owt off eynglonde." but this memorandum is more likely to apply to margaret, daughter of henry vii., who was married "_out_ of england," that is, in scotland, to james iv., than to the margaret who was married _in_ england to henry vi. (_ed. rev._ lxxxvi. .) the adventure in the first part of this story,--the encounter between robin hood and a sturdy fellow who proves his match or his superior--forms the subject of a large number of this circle of ballads, the antagonist being in one case a beggar, in another a tanner, a tinker, the pinder of wakefield, &c. (see the preface to _robin hood and the beggar_, p. .) the story of the second part is found again in _robin hood and the butcher_, and, with considerable differences, in the third fit of the _lytell geste_. it is in the disguise of a potter that the saxon hereward penetrates into the norman court, and that eustace the monk eludes the vengeance of the count of boulogne. eustace also drew his enemy into an ambush by nearly the same stratagem which robin employs to entice the sheriff of nottingham into the forest. (see the romances abridged in wright's _essays_, ii. , , , .) in schomer, when the leves spryng, the bloschems on every bowe, so merey doyt the berdys syng yn wodys merey now. herkens, god yemen, comley, corteysse, and god,[l ] on of the best that yever bar bou, hes name was roben hode. roben hood was the yemans name, that was boyt corteys and fre; for the loffe of owr ladey, all wemen werschep he.[l ] bot as the god yemen stod on a day, among hes mery manèy, he was war of a prowd potter, cam dryfyng owyr the ley.[l ] "yonder comet a prod potter," seyde roben,[l ] "that long hayt hantyd this wey; he was never so corteys a man on peney of pawage to pay." "y met hem bot at wentbreg," seyde lytyll john,[l ] "and therfor yeffell mot he the, seche thre strokes he me gafe, yet they cleffe by my seydys. "y ley forty shillings," seyde lytyll john, "to pay het thes same day, ther ys nat a man among hus all a wed schall make hem ley."[l ] "her ys forty shillings," seyde roben, "mor, and thow dar say, that y schall make that prowde potter, a wed to me schall he ley." ther thes money they leyde, they toke het a yeman to kepe; roben befor the potter he breyde, and bad hem stond stell.[l ] handys apon hes horse he leyde, and bad the potter stonde foll stell; the potter schorteley to hem seyde, "felow, what ys they well?" "all thes thre yer, and mor, potter," he seyde, "thow hast hantyd thes wey, yet wer tow never so cortys a man one peney of pauage to pay." "what ys they name," seyde the potter, "for pauage thow ask of me?" "roben hod ys mey name, a wed schall thow leffe me." "wed well y non leffe," seyde the potter, "nor pavag well y non pay; awey they honde fro mey horse, y well the tene eyls, be mey fay." the potter to hes cart he went, he was not to seke; a god to-hande staffe therowt he hent, befor roben he lepe.[l ] roben howt with a swerd bent, a bokeler en hes honde [therto]; the potter to roben he went, and seyde, "felow, let mey horse go." togeder then went thes two yemen, het was a god seyt to se; therof low robyn hes men, ther they stod onder a tre. leytell john to hes felowhes seyde,[l ] "yend potter welle steffeley stonde:" the potter, with an acward stroke,[l ] smot the bokeler owt of hes honde; and ar roben meyt get hem agen[l ] hes bokeler at hes fette, the potter yn the neke hem toke, to the gronde sone he yede. that saw roben hes men, as thay stode ender a bow; "let us helpe owr master," seyed lytell john, "yonder potter els well hem sclo."[l ] thes yemen went with a breyde,[l ] to ther master they cam.[l ] leytell john to hes master seyde, "ho haet the wager won? "schall y haff yowr forty shillings," seyde lytel john, "or ye, master, schall haffe myne?" "yeff they wer a hundred," seyde roben, "y feythe, they ben all theyne." "het ys fol leytell cortesey," seyde the potter, "as y haffe harde weyse men saye, yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey, to let hem of hes gorney." "be mey trowet, thow seys soyt," seyde roben, "thow seys god yemenrey;[l ] and thow dreyffe forthe yevery day, thow schalt never be let for me. "y well prey the, god potter, a felischepe well thow haffe? geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne; y well go to notynggam." "y grant therto," seyde the potter,[l ] "thow schalt feynde me a felow gode; bot thow can sell mey pottes well, come ayen as thow yode."[l ] "nay, be mey trowt," seyde roben, "and then y bescro mey hede yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen, and eney weyffe well hem chepe." than spake leytell john, and all hes felowhes heynd, "master, be well war of the screffe of notynggam, for he ys leytell howr frende." "heyt war howte," seyde roben,[l ] "felowhes, let me alone; thorow the helpe of howr ladey, to notynggam well y gon." robyn went to notynggam,[l ] thes pottes for to sell; the potter abode with robens men, ther he fered not eylle. tho roben droffe on hes wey, so merey ower the londe: heres mor and affter ys to saye, the best ys beheynde. ms. , cortessey. , ye. , lefe. ms. , , syde. , leffe. , a. ms. , leppyd. ms. , felow he. , a caward. , a. , seyde hels. , went yemen. , thes. ms. , yemerey. , grat. , yede. - . these lines stand in the ms. in the order , , , . - . this stanza is wrongly placed in the ms. after v. . it should he either in the place where it stands, or else begin the next fit. [the second fit.] when roben cam to notynggam, the soyt yef y scholde saye, he set op hes horse anon, and gaffe hem hotys and haye. yn the medys of the towne, ther he schowed hes war; "pottys! pottys!" he gan crey foll sone, "haffe hansell for the mar." foll effen agenest the screffeys gate schowed he hes chaffar; weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow, and chepyd fast of hes war. yet, "pottys, gret chepe!" creyed royn, "y loffe yeffell thes to stonde;" and all that saw hem sell,[l ] seyde he had be no potter long. the pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe, he sold tham for pens thre; preveley seyde man and weyffe, "ywnder potter schall never the." thos roben solde foll fast, tell he had pottys bot feyffe; op he hem toke of his ear, and sende hem to the screffeys weyffe. therof sche was foll fayne, "gramarsey, sir," than seyde sche;[l ] "when ye com to thes contre ayen, y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the."[l ] "ye schall haffe of the best," seyde roben, and swar be the treneytè; foll corteysley she gan hem call,[l ] "com deyne with the screfe and me." "godamarsey," seyde roben, "yowr bedyng schalle be doyn; a mayden yn the pottys gan ber, roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon. whan roben ynto the hall cam, the screffe sone he met; the potter cowed of corteysey, and sone the screffe he gret. "loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me;[l ] feyffe pottys smalle and grete!" "he ys fol wellcom," seyd the screffe, "let os was, and go to mete."[l ] as they sat at her methe, with a nobell cher, two of the screffes men gan speke off a gret wagèr, was made the thother daye,[l ] off a schotyng was god and feyne,[l ] off forty shillings, the soyt to saye, who scholde thes wager wen. styll than sat thes prowde potter, thos than thowt he; "as y am a trow cerstyn man, thes schotyng well y se." whan they had fared of the best. with bred and ale and weyne, to the bottys they made them prest,[l ] with bowes and boltys foll feyne.[l ] the screffes men schot foll fast, as archares that weren godde; ther cam non ner ney the marke bey halfe a god archares bowe. stell then stod the prowde potter, thos than seyde he; "and y had a bow, be the rode, on schot scholde yow se." "thow schall haffe a bow," seyde the screffe, "the best that thow well cheys of thre; thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,[l ] asay schall thow be." the screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey affter bowhes to wende; the best bow that the yeman browthe roben set on a stryng. "now schall y wet and thow be god, and polle het op to they ner;" "so god me helpe," seyde the prowde potter, "thys ys bot rygzt weke ger." to a quequer roben went, a god bolt owthe he toke; so ney on to the marke he went, he fayled not a fothe. all they schot abowthe agen, the screffes men and he; off the marke he welde not fayle, he cleffed the preke on thre. the screffes men thowt gret schame, the potter the mastry wan; the screffe lowe and made god game, and seyde, "potter, thow art a man; thow art worthey to ber a bowe, yn what plas that thow gang."[l ] "yn mey cart y haffe a bowe, forsoyt," he seyde, "and that a godde; yn mey cart ys the bow that i had of robyn hode."[l ] "knowest thow robyn hode?" seyde the screffe, "potter, y prey the tell thou me;" "a hundred torne y haffe schot with hem, under hes tortyll tree." "y had lever nar a hundred ponde," seyde the screffe, and swar be the trenitè, ["y had lever nar a hundred ponde," he seyde,] that the fals owtelawe stod be me. "and ye well do afftyr mey red," seyde the potter, "and boldeley go with me, and to morow, or we het bred, roben hode wel we se." "y well queyt the," kod the screffe, and swer be god of meythe;[l ] schetyng thay left, and hom they went, her scoper was redey deythe. upon the morow, when het was day, he boskyd hem forthe to reyde; the potter hes carte forthe gan ray, and wolde not [be] leffe beheynde. he toke leffe of the screffys wyffe, and thankyd her of all thyng: "dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer, y geffe yow her a golde ryng." "gramarsey," seyde the weyffe, "sir, god eylde het the;" the screffes hart was never so leythe, the feyr forest to se. and when he cam ynto the foreyst, yonder the leffes grene, berdys ther sange on bowhes prest, het was gret joy to sene.[l ] "her het ys merey to be," seyde roben,[l ] "for a man that had hawt to spende; be mey horne we schall awet yeff roben hode be ner hande."[l ] roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,[l ] and blow a blast that was foll god, that herde hes men that ther stode, fer downe yn the wodde; "i her mey master" seyde leytell john;[l ] they ran as thay wer wode. whan thay to thar master cam, leytell john wold not spar; "master, how haffe yow far yn notynggam? how haffe yow solde yowr war?" "ye, be mey trowthe, leytyll john,[l ] loke thow take no car; y haffe browt the screffe of notynggam, for all howr chaffar." "he ys foll wellcom," seyde lytyll john, "thes tydyng ys foll godde; the screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde [he had never sene roben hode.] "had i west that beforen,[l ] at notynggam when we wer, thow scholde not com yn feyr forest of all thes thowsande eyr." "that wot y well," seyde roben, "y thanke god that ye be her; therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos, and all your hother ger." "that fend i godys forbode," kod the screffe, "so to lese mey godde;" "hether ye cam on horse foll hey,[l ] and hom schall ye go on fote; and gret well they weyffe at home, the woman ys foll godde. "y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,[l ] het hambellet as the weynde; ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe, off mor sorow scholde yow seyng." thes parted robyn hode and the screffe, to notynggam he toke the waye; hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom, and to hem gan sche saye: "seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst? haffe ye browt roben hom?" "dam, the deyell spede him, bothe bodey and bon, y haffe hade a foll grete skorne. "of all the god that y haffe lade to grene wod, he hayt take het fro me, all bot this feyr palffrey, that he hayt sende to the." with that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng, and swhar be hem that deyed on tre, "now haffe yow payed for all the pottys that roben gaffe to me. "now ye be com hom to notynggam, ye schall haffe god ynowe;" now speke we of roben hode, and of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.[l ] "potter, what was they pottys worthe to notynggam that y ledde with me?" "they wer worth two nobellys," seyd he, "so mot y treyffe or the; so cowde y had for tham, and y had ther be."[l ] "thow schalt hafe ten ponde," seyde roben, "of money feyr and fre; and yever whan thou comest to grene wod, wellcom, potter to me." thes partyd robyn, the screffe, and the potter, ondernethe the grene-wod tre; god haffe mersey on robyn hodys solle, and saffe all god yemanrey! ms. , say. , gereamarsey, sir, seyde sche s'than. , the. , he. ms. , loseth. , to to. . this ceremony [of washing,] which, in former times, was constantly practised as well before as after meat, seems to have fallen into disuse on the introduction of forks, about the year ; as before that period our ancestors supplied the place of this necessary utensil with their fingers.--ritson. , , transposed in ms. ms. , pottys the. , bolt yt. , senyst. ms. , goe. , robyng gaffe me. , mey they. ms. , goy. , se. , he. , her. . for. ms. , i leyty. , he had west. , y. . the ms. repeats this line after the following: het ambellet be mey sey. ms. , bowhes. , be ther. robin hood and the butcher. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . printed from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood. the story is the same as in the second part of _robin hood and the potter_. come, all you brave gallants, and listen awhile, _with hey down, down, an a down_, that are in the bowers within; for of robin hood, that archer good, a song i intend for to sing. upon a time it chancèd so, bold robin in forrest did 'spy a jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare, with his flesh to the market did hye. "good morrow, good fellow," said jolly robin, "what food hast [thou]? tell unto me; thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell, for i like well thy company." the butcher he answer'd jolly robin, "no matter where i dwell; for a butcher i am, and to nottingham i am going, my flesh to sell." "what's [the] price of thy flesh?" said jolly robin,[l ] "come, tell it soon unto me; and the price of thy mare, be she never so dear, for a butcher fain would i be." "the price of my flesh," the butcher repli'd, "i soon will tell unto thee; with my bonny mare, and they are not too dear, four mark thou must give unto me. "four mark i will give thee," saith jolly robin, "four mark it shall be thy fee; the mony come count, and let me mount, for a butcher i fain would be." now robin he is to nottingham gone, his butchers trade to begin; with good intent to the sheriff he went, and there he took up his inn. when other butchers did open their meat, bold robin he then begun; but how for to sell he knew not well, for a butcher he was but young. when other butchers no meat could sell, robin got both gold and fee; for he sold more meat for one peny then others could do for three. but when he sold his meat so fast, no butcher by him could thrive; for he sold more meat for one peny than others could do for five. which made the butchers of nottingham to study as they did stand, saying, "surely he 'is' some prodigal, that hath sold his fathers land." the butchers stepped to jolly robin, acquainted with him for to be; "come, brother," one said, "we be all of one trade, "come, will you go dine with me?" "accurst of his heart," said jolly robin, "that a butcher doth deny; i will go with you, my brethren true, as fast as i can hie." but when to the sheriffs house they came, to dinner they hied apace, and robin hood he the man must be before them all to say grace. "pray god bless us all," said jolly robin, "and our meat within this place; a cup of sack so good will nourish our blood, and so do i end my grace. "come fill us more wine," said jolly robin, "let us be merry while we do stay; for wine and good cheer, be it never so dear, i vow i the reck'ning will pay. "come, 'brothers,' be merry," said jolly robin, "let us drink, and never give ore; for the shot i will pay, ere i go my way, if it cost me five pounds and more." "this is a mad blade," the butchers then said; saies the sheriff, "he is some prodigàl, that some land has sold for silver and gold, and now he doth mean to spend all. "hast thou any horn beasts," the sheriff repli'd, "good fellow, to sell unto me?" "yes, that i have, good master sheriff, i have hundreds two or three; "and a hundred aker of good free land, if you please it to see: and ile make you as good assurance of it, as ever my father made me." the sheriff he saddled his good palfrèy, and, with three hundred pound in gold, away he went with bold robin hood, his horned beasts to behold. away then the sheriff and robin did ride, to the forrest of merry sherwood; then the sheriff did say, "god bless us this day from a man they call robin hood!" but when a little farther they came, bold robin he chancèd to spy a hundred head of good red deer, come tripping the sheriff full nigh. "how like you my horn'd beasts, good master sheriff? they be fat and fair for to see;" "i tell thee, good fellow, i would i were gone, for i like not thy company." then robin set his horn to his mouth, and blew but blasts three; then quickly anon there came little john, and all his company. "what is your will, master?" then said little john, "good master come tell unto me;" "i have brought hither the sheriff of nottingham this day to dine with thee." "he is welcome to me," then said little john, "i hope he will honestly pay; i know he has gold, if it be but well told, will serve us to drink a whole day." then robin took his mantle from his back, and laid it upon the ground: and out of the sheriffs portmantle he told three hundred pound. then robin he brought him thorow the wood, and set him on his dapple gray; "o have me commended to your wife at home;" so robin went laughing away. . what is price. robyn and gandelyn. this interesting ballad (derived from a manuscript of the th century,) belongs to the cycle of robin hood, as mr. wright remarks, "at least by its subject, if not by the person whose death it celebrates." it was first printed by ritson in his _ancient songs and ballads_, (i. ,) and has been again printed by mr. wright in a little black-letter volume of _songs and carols_ (no. x); from which we take our copy. the similarity of the name gandelyn to the gamelyn of the _cook's tale_, attributed to chaucer, and the affinity of that story to the robin hood ballads, are alluded to by the last-named editor. is it not possible that this name reappears again in the "young gamwell" of _robin hood and the stranger_? the dialect of this piece is proved by an incidental coincidence, says mr. wright, to be that of warwickshire. i herde a carpyng of a clerk al at zone wodes ende, of gode robyn and gandeleyn was ther non other thynge.[l ] _robynn lyth in grene wode bowndyn._ stronge theuys wern tho chylderin non, but bowmen gode and hende: he wentyn to wode to getyn hem fleych, if god wold it hem sende. al day wentyn tho chylderin too, and fleych fowndyn he non, til it were ageyn euyn, the chylderin wold gon hom: half a honderid of fat falyf der he comyn azon, and all he wern fayr and fat inow, but markyd was ther non. "be dere gode," seyde gode [robyn], "hereof we xul haue on." robyn bent his joly bowe,[l ] therin he set a flo, the fattest der of alle [the herd] the herte he clef a-to. he hadde not the der islawe ne half out of the hyde,[l ] there cam a schrewde arwe out of the west, that felde roberts pryde. gandeleyn lokyd hym est and west be euery syde; "hoo hat myn mayster slayin, ho hat don this dede? xal i neuer out of grene wode go, ti[l] i se [his] sydis blede." gandeleyn lokyd hym est and lokyd west, and sowt vnder the sunne, he saw a lytil boy he clepyn wrennok of doune: a good bowe in his hond, a brod arewe therine, and fowre and xx goode arwys trusyd in a thrumme. "be war the, war the, gandeleyn, herof thu xalt han summe: "be war the, war the, gandeleyn, herof thu gyst plentè." "euere on for an other," seyde gandeleyn, "mysaunter haue he xal fle." "qwerat xal our marke be?" seyde gandeleyn: "eueryche at otheris herte," seyde wrennok ageyn. "ho xal zeue the ferste schote?" seyde gandeleyn: "and i xal zeue thè on beforn," seyd wrennok ageyn. wrennok schette a ful good schote, and he schet not too hye; throw the sanchothis of his bryk, it towchyd neyther thye. "now hast thu zouyn me on beforn," al thus to wrennok seyde he, "and throw the myzt of our lady[l ] a bettere i xal zeue the." gandeleyn bent his goode bowe, and set therin a flo, he schet throw his grene certyl, his herte he clef on too. "now zalt thu neuer zelpe, wrennok, at ale ne at wyn, that thu hast slawe goode robyn and his knaue gandeleyn. "now xalt thu neuer zelpe, wrennok, at wyn ne at ale, that thu hast slawe goode robyn and gandeleyyn his knave."[l ] _robyn lyzth in grene wode bow[n]dyn._ , ms. gynge. , ms. went. , cut of, ritson. , ms. thu. , ms. knawe. a lytell geste of robyn hode. three complete editions of this highly popular poem are known, all without date. the earliest, (perhaps not later than ,) is by wynken de worde, and has this title: _here beginneth a mery geste of robyn hode and his meyne, and of the proude sheryfe of notyngham_. a second is by william copland, and is apparently made from the former. a third was printed from copland's, for edward white, and though without date is entered in the stationers' registers in . portions have been preserved of two other editions, earlier than any of these three. ritson had in his hands a few leaves of an "old to. black-letter impression," by wynken de worde, "probably in ." _the gest of robyn hode_ was also printed at edinburgh, in , by chepman and myllar, who in the same year issued a considerable number of poetical tracts. a volume of these, containing a large fragment of the piece in question, was most fortunately recovered towards the end of the last century, and has been reprinted in fac simile by the messrs. laing, edinburgh, . the _lytell geste_ is obviously to be regarded as an heroic poem, constructed, partly or entirely, out of previously existing unconnected "rhymes of robin hood." the earlier ballads employed for this purpose have not been handed down to us in their primitive form. whatever this may have been, they were probably very freely treated by the rhapsodist that strung them together, who has indeed retold the ancient stories with such skill as might well cause the ruder originals to be forgotten. nevertheless, the third fit of our little epic is indisputably of common derivation with the last part of the older ballad of _robin hood and the potter_, and other portions of this tale occur separately in ballads, which, though modern in their structure, may have had a source independent of the _lytell geste_. it will be observed that each fit of this piece does not constitute a complete story. mr. hunter has correctly enough indicated the division into ballads as follows: the first ballad is comprised in the first two fits, and may be called robin hood and the knight; the second ballad is the third fit, and may be called little john and the sheriff of nottinghamshire; in the fourth fit we have the ballad of robin hood and the monks of st. mary; in the fifth and sixth, robin hood, the sheriff of nottingham, and the knight; the seventh and part of the eighth contain the ballad of robin hood and the king; and the remaining stanzas of the eighth the death of robin hood. concerning the imagined historical foundation of the _lytell geste_, see the general remarks on robin hood prefixed to this volume. lithe and lysten, gentylmen, that be of frebore blode; i shall you tell of a good yemàn, his name was robyn hode. robyn was a proude outlawe, whyles he walked on grounde; so curteyse an outlawe as he was one was never none yfounde. robyn stode in bernysdale,[l ] and lened hym to a tre, and by hym stode lytell johan, a good yeman was he; and also dyde good scathelock, and much the millers sone; there was no ynche of his body, but it was worthe a grome. than bespake hym lytell johan all unto robyn hode, "mayster, yf ye wolde dyne betyme, it wolde do you moch good." then bespake good robyn, "to dyne i have no lest,[l ] tyll i have some bolde baròn, or some unketh gest, "[or els some byshop or abbot] that may paye for the best; or some knyght or some squyere that dwelleth here by west." a good maner than had robyn, in londe where that he were, every daye or he woulde dyne thre messes wolde he here: the one in the worshyp of the fader, the other of the holy goost, the thyrde was of our dere lady, that he loved of all other moste. robyn loved our dere lady; for doute of dedely synne, wolde he never do company harme that ony woman was ynne. "mayster," than sayd lytell johan, "and we our borde shall sprede, tell us whether we shall gone, and what lyfe we shall lede; "where we shall take, where we shall leve, where we shall abide behynde, where we shall robbe, where we shall reve, where we shall bete and bynde." "therof no fors," said robyn, "we shall do well ynough; but loke ye do no housbonde harme that tylleth with his plough; "no more ye shall no good yemàn, that walketh by grene wode shawe, ne no knyght, ne no squyèr, that wolde be a good felawe. "these byshoppes, and thyse archebysshoppes, ye shall them bete and bynde; the hye sheryfe of notynghame, hym holde in your mynde." "this worde shall be holde," sayd lytyll johan, "and this lesson shall we lere; it is ferre dayes, god sende us a gest, that we were at our dynere." "take thy good bowe in thy hande," said robyn, "let moche wende with the, and so shall wyllyam scathelocke, and no man abyde with me: "and walke up to the sayles,[l ] and so to watlynge-strete,[l ] and wayte after some unketh gest, up-chaunce ye mowe them mete. "be he erle or ony baròn, abbot or ony knyght, brynge hym to lodge to me, hys dyner shall be dyght." they wente unto the sayles, these yemen all thre, they loked est, they loked west, they myght no man see. but as they loked in barnysdale, by a derne strete, then came there a knyght rydynge, full sone they gan hym mete. all dreri then was his semblaunte,[l ] and lytell was hys pryde, hys one fote in the sterope stode, that other waved besyde. hys hode hangynge over hys eyen two, he rode in symple aray; a soryer man than he was one rode never in somers-day. lytell johan was curteyse, and set hym on his kne: "welcome be ye, gentyll knyght, welcome are you to me. "welcome be thou to grene wood, hende knyght and fre; my mayster hath abyden you fastynge, syr, all these oures thre." "who is your mayster?" sayd the knyght. johan sayde, "robyn hode." "he is a good yeman," sayd the knyght, "of hym i have herde moch good. "i graunte," he sayd, "with you to wende, my brethren, all in-fere;[l ] my purpose was to have deyned to day at blythe or dankastere." forthe than went this gentyll knyght,[l ] with a carefull chere; the teres out of his eyen ran, and fell downe by his lere.[l ] they brought hym unto the lodge dore; when robyn gan hym se, full curteysly dyde of his hode, and set hym on his kne. "welcome, syr knyght," then said robyn, "welcome thou arte to me, i haue abyde you fastynge, syr, all these houres thre." then answered the gentyll knyght, with wordes fayre and fre, "god the save, good robyn, and all thy fayre meynè." they washed togyder and wyped bothe, and set tyll theyr dynere; brede and wyne they had ynough, and nombles of the dere. swannes and fesauntes they had full good, and foules of the revere; there fayled never so lytell a byrde, that ever was bred on brere. "do gladly, syr knyght," sayd robyn; "gramercy, syr," sayd he, "such a dyner had i not of all these wekes thre. "if i come agayne, robyn, here by this countrè, as good a dyner i shall the make, as thou hast made to me." "gramercy, knyght," sayd robyn; "my dyner whan i have, i was never so gredy, by dere worthy god, my dyner for to crave. "but pay or ye wende," sayd robyn, "me thynketh it is good ryght; it was never the maner, by dere worthy god, a yeman to pay for a knyght."[l ] "i have nought in my cofers," sayd the knyght, "that i may profer for shame;" "lytell johan, go loke," sayd robyn,[l ] "ne let not for no blame. "tell me trouth," sayd robyn, "so god have parte of the;" "i have no more but ten shillings," sayd the knyght, "so god have parte of me." "yf thou have no more," sayd robyn, "i wyll not one peny; and yf thou have nede of ony more, more shall i len the. "go now forth, lytell johan, the trouthe tell thou me; yf there be no more but ten shillings, not one peny that i se." lytell johan spred downe his mantell, full fayre upon the grounde, and there he found in the knyghtes cofer but even halfe a pounde. lytyll johan let it lye full styll, and went to his mayster full lowe: "what tydynge, johan?" sayd robyn: "syr, the knyght is trewe inough." "fyll of the best wyne," sayd robyn, "the knyght shall begynne; moch wonder thynketh me thy clothynge is so thynne. "tell me one worde," sayd robyn, "and counsell shall it be; i trowe thou were made a knyght of forse,[l ] or elles of yemanry; "or elles thou hast ben a sory housband, and leved in stroke and stryfe; an okerer, or elles a lechoure," sayd robyn, "with wronge hast thou lede thy lyfe." "i am none of them," sayd the knyght, "by god that made me; an hondreth wynter here before, myne aunsetters knyghtes have be. "but ofte it hath befal, robyn, a man hath be dysgrate; but god that syteth in heven above may amend his state. "within two or thre yere, robyn," he sayd,[l ] "my neyghbores well it kende,[l ] foure hondreth pounde of good money full wel than myghte i spende. "now have i no good," sayd the knyght, "but my chyldren and my wyfe; god hath shapen such an ende, tyll god may amende my lyfe."[l ] "in what maner," sayd robyn, "hast thou lore thy richès?" "for my grete foly," he sayd, "and for my kindenesse. "i had a sone, for soth, robyn, that sholde have ben my eyre, when he was twenty wynter olde, in felde wolde juste full feyre. "he slewe a knyght of lancastshyre,[l ] and a squyre bolde; for to save hym in his ryght, my goodes beth sette and solde. "my londes beth set to wedde, robyn, untyll a certayne daye, to a ryche abbot here besyde, of saynt mary abbay." "what is the somme?" sayd robyn, "trouthe than tell thou me;" "syr," he sayd, "foure hondred pounde, the abbot tolde it to me." "now, and thou lese thy londe," sayd robyn, "what shall fall of the?" "hastely i wyll me buske," sayd the knyght, "over the salte see, "and se where cryst was quycke and deed on the mounte of caluarè: fare well, frende, and have good daye, it may noo better be."[l ] teeres fell out of his eyen two, he wolde haue gone his waye: "farewell, frendes, and have good day, i ne have more to pay." "where be thy friendes?" sayd robyn:[l ] "syr, never one wyll me know;[l ] whyle i was ryche inow at home, grete bost then wolde they blowe. "and now they renne awaye fro me, as bestes on a rowe; they take no more heed of me then they me never sawe." for ruthe then wepte lytell johan, scathelocke and much in fere:[l ] "fyll of the best wyne," sayd robyn,[l ] "for here is a symple chere. "hast thou ony frendes," sayd robyn, "thy borowes that wyll be?" "i have none," then sayd the knyght, "but god that dyed on a tree." "do waye thy japes," sayd robyn, "therof will i right none; wenest thou i wyll have god to borowe, peter, poule, or johan? "nay, by hym that me made, and shope both sonne and mone; fynde a better borowe," sayd robyn, "or mony getest thou none." "i have none other," sayd the knyght, "the sothe for to say, but yf it be our dere lady, she fayled me never or this day." "by dere worthy god," sayd robyn, "to seche all england thorowe, yet founde i never to my pay a moch better borowe. "come now forthe, lytell johan, and goo to my tresourè, and brynge me foure hondred pounde, and loke that it well tolde be." forthe then wente lytell johan, and scathelocke went before, he tolde out foure houndred pounde, by eyghtene score.[l ] "is this well tolde?" said lytell much. johan sayd, "what greveth the? it is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght that is fall in povertè." "mayster," than said lytell johan, "his clothynge is full thynne; ye must gyve the knyght a lyveray to lappe his body ther in.[l ] "for ye have scarlet and grene, mayster, and many a ryche aray; there is no marchaunt in mery englònde, so ryche, i dare well saye." "take hym thre yerdes of every coloure, and loke that well mete it be:" lytell johan toke none other mesure but his bowe tre. and of every handfull that he met he lept ouer fotes thre: "what devilkyns draper," sayd litell much, "thynkyst thou to be?" scathelocke stoode full styll and lough, and sayd, "by god allmyght, johan may gyve hym the better mesure; by god, it cost him but lyght." "mayster," sayd lytell johan, all unto robyn hode, "ye must gyve that knight an hors, to lede home al this good." "take hym a gray courser," sayd robyn, "and a sadell newe; he is our ladyes messengere, god lene that he be true."[l ] "and a good palfraye," sayd lytell moch, "to mayntayne hym in his ryght:" "and a payre of botes," sayd scathelocke, "for he is a gentyll knyght." "what shalt thou gyve him, lytel johan?" sayd robyn. "syr, a payre of gylte spores clene, to pray for all this company: god brynge hym out of tene!" "whan shall my daye be," sayd the knyght, "syr, and your wyll be?" "this daye twelve moneth," sayd robyn, "under this grene wode tre." "it were grete shame," sayd robyn, "a knyght alone to ryde, without squyer, yeman, or page, to walke by hys syde. "i shall the lene lytyll johan my man, for he shall be thy knave; in a yemans steed he may the stonde, yf thou grete nede have." barnsdale is a tract of country, four or five miles broad, in the west riding of yorkshire. it was, we are told, woodland until recent inclosures, and is spoken of by leland as a "woody and famous forest" in the reign of henry the eighth. from the depths of this retreat to doncaster the distance is less than ten miles, and to nottingham, in a straight line, about fifty. a little to the north of barnsdale is pontefract, and a little to the northwest is wakefield, and beyond this the priory of kirklees. mr. hunter, whom we follow here, has shown by contemporary evidence that barnsdale was infested by robbers in the days of the edwards. "in the last year of the reign of king edward the first, the bishops of st. andrew's and glasgow, and the abbot of scone were conveyed, at the king's charge, from scotland to winchester. in this journey they had a guard, sometimes of eight archers, sometimes of twelve; but when they had got as far south as daventry, they had no archers at all in attendance, and proceeded without a guard, in three days from thence to winchester. but when they passed from pontefract to tickhill, the guard had been increased to the number of twenty archers, and the reason given in the account of the expenses of their journey, for this addition to the cost of the conveyance, is given in the two words, _propter barnsdale_." . lust, ritson. , . "the sayles," is a place no longer known, but it is certain that there was formerly a place of the name in barnsdale or near it. "it was a very small tenancy of the manor of pontefract, being not more than the tenth of a knight's fee" (hunter). watling street stands here for the great north road, probably a roman highway, which crosses barnsdale. . all his. pcc. , so r. (ed. ): all three, w. c. (de worde & copland). , this, r. that, w. c. , ere, r. , to pay, r. pay, w. c. , robyn, r. robyn hoode, w. c. . "this stanza is remarkable for containing a reference to one of the old grievances of the people of england. in the reign of henry the third, and his son, and grandson, the compelling persons, some of them of no great estate, to take upon them the honour of knighthood, or pay a large sum to be excused, was felt as a heavy oppression."--hunter. , two yere, r. , knowe, occ. , it may amende, occ. , lancasesshyre, r. , not w. c. , by w. c. . so r. knowe me, w. c. the fragment of de worde's older ed. ends with v. . , also, pcc. for 'in fere.' . wyme, pcc. . i.e. by so many score to the hundred. it is certainly a very hyperbolical expression, but he measures the cloth in the same way.--ritson. , helpe, w. wrappe, c. . leue, w. lende, c the seconde fytte. nowe is the knyght went on his way,[l ] this game hym thought full good;[l ] when he loked on bernysdale, he blyssed robyn hode; and whan he thought on bernysdale, on scathelock, much, and johan, he blyssed them for the best company that ever he in come. then spake that gentyll knyght, to lytel johan gan he saye, "to-morrowe i must to yorke toune, to saynt mary abbay; "and to the abbot of that place foure hondred pounde i must pay; and but i be there upon this nyght my londe is lost for ay." the abbot sayd to his covent, there he stode on grounde, "this day twelfe moneth came there a knyght and borowed foure hondred pounde. "[he borowed foure hondred pounde,] upon all his londe fre, but he come this ylke day dysheryte shall he be." "it is full erely," sayd the pryoure,[l ] "the day is not yet ferre gone; i had lever to pay an hondred pounde, and lay it downe anone. "the knight is ferre beyonde the see, in englonde is his ryght, and suffreth honger and colde, and many a sory nyght. "it were grete pytè," said the pryoure, "so to have his londe; and ye be so lyght of your conseyence, ye do to him moch wronge." "thou art euer in my berde," sayd the abbot, "by god and saynt rycharde;" with that cam in a fat-heded monke, the heygh selerer. "he is dede or hanged," sayd the monke, "by god that bought me dere, and we shall have to spende in this place foure hondred pounde by yere." the abbot and the hy selerer, sterte forthe full bolde, the high justyce of englonde the abbot there dyde holde. the hye justyce and many mo had take into their honde holy all the knyghtes det, to put that knyght to wronge. they demed the knyght wonder sore, the abbot and hys meynè: "but he come this ylke day dysheryte shall he be." "he wyll not come yet," sayd the justyce, "i dare well undertake;" but in sorowe tyme for them all the knyght came to the gate. than bespake that gentyll knyght untyll hys meynè, "now put on your symple wedes that ye brought fro the see." [they put on their symple wedes,] and came to the gates anone; the porter was redy hymselfe, and welcomed them everychone. "welcome, syr knyght," sayd the portèr, "my lorde to mete is he, and so is many a gentyll man, for the love of the." the porter swore a full grete othe, "by god that made me, here be the best coresed hors, that ever yet sawe i me. "lede them into the stable," he sayd, "that eased might they be:" "they shall not come therin," sayd the knyght, "by god that dyed on a tre." lordes were to mete isette in that abbotes hall; the knyght went forth and kneled downe, and salued them grete and small. "do gladly, syr abbot," sayd the knyght, "i am come to holde my day:" the fyrst word the abbot spake, "hast thou brought my pay?" "not one peny," sayd the knyght, "by god that maked me;" "thou art a shrewed dettour," sayd the abbot; "syr justyce, drynke to me. "what doost thou here," sayd the abbot, "but thou haddest brought thy pay?" "for god," than sayd the knyght, "to pray of a lenger daye." "thy daye is broke," sayd the justyce, "londe getest thou none:" "now, good syr justyce, be my frende, and fende me of my fone." "i am holde with the abbot," sayd the justyce,[l ] "bothe with cloth and fee:" "now, good syr sheryf, be my frende:" "nay for god," sayd he. "now, good syr abbot, be my frende, for thy curteysè, and holde my londes in thy honde tyll i have made the gree; "and i wyll be thy true servaunte, and trewely serve the, tyl ye have foure hondred pounde of money good and free." the abbot sware a full grete othe, "by god that dyed on a tree, get the londe where thou may, for thou getest none of me." "by dere worthy god," then sayd the knyght, "that all this worlde wrought, but i have my londe agayne full dere it shall be bought. "god, that was of a mayden borne, lene us well to spede![l ] for it is good to assay a frende or that a man have nede." the abbot lothely on him gan loke, and vylaynesly hym gan call;[l ] "out," he sayd, "thou false knyght, spede the out of my hall!" "thou lyest," then sayd the gentyll knyght, "abbot in thy hal; false knyght was i never, by god that made us all." up then stode that gentyll knyght, to the abbot sayd he, "to suffre a knyght to knele so longe thou canst no curteysye. "in joustes and in tournement full ferre than have i be, and put myselfe as ferre in prees as ony that ever i se." "what wyll ye gyve more," said the justyce, "and the knyght shall make a releyse? and elles dare i safly swere ye holde never your londe in pees." "an hondred pounde," sayd the abbot; the justyce said, "gyve him two;" "nay, be god," said the knyght, "yet gete ye it not soo.[l ] "though ye wolde gyve a thousande more, yet were ye never the nere;[l ] shall there never be myn eyre, abbot, justyse, ne frere." he sterte hym to a borde anone, tyll a table rounde, and there he shoke out of a bagge even foure hondred pounde. "have here thy golde, syr abbot," sayd the knyght, "which that thou lentest me; haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge, rewarde sholdest thou have be." the abbot sat styll, and ete no more, for all his ryall chere; he caste his hede on his sholdèr, and fast began to stare. "take me my golde agayne," sayd the abbot, "syr justyce, that i toke the;" "not a peny," sayd the justyce, "by god, that dyed on a tree." "syr abbot, and ye men of lawe, now have i holde my daye, now shall i have my londe agayne, for ought that you can saye." the knyght stert out of the dore, awaye was all his care, and on he put his good clothynge, the other he lefte there. he wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, as men have tolde in tale, his lady met hym at the gate, at home in uterysdale.[l ] "welcome, my lorde," sayd his lady; "syr, lost is all your good?" "be mery, dame," sayd the knyght, "and praye for robyn hode, "that ever his soule be in blysse; he holpe me out of my tene; ne had not be his kyndenesse, beggers had we ben. "the abbot and i acordyd ben, he is served of his pay, the good yeman lent it me, as i came by the way." this knyght than dwelled fayre at home, the soth for to say, tyll he had got foure hondreth pounde, all redy for too paye. he purveyed hym an hondred bowes, the strenges welle [y-]dyght, an hondred shefe of arowes good, the hedes burnyshed full bryght. and every arowe an elle longe, with pecocke well ydyght, inocked all with whyte sylvèr, it was a semly syght. he purveyed hym an hondreth men, well harneysed in that stede, and hymselfe in that same sete,[l ] and clothed in whyte and rede. he bare a launsgay in his honde, and a man ledde his male, and reden with a lyght songe unto bernysdale. as he went at brydge ther was a wrastelyng, and there taryed was he, and there was all the best yemèn, of all the west countree. a full fayre game there was upset; a whyte bull up ipyght,[l ] a grete courser with sadle and brydil, with golde burneyshed full bryght; a payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge, a pype of wyne, in good fay; what man bereth him best, i-wys, the pryce shall bere away. there was a yeman in that place, and best worthy was he, and for he was ferre and frend bestad, islayne he sholde have be. the knyght had reuth of this yemàn, in place where that he stode, he said that yoman sholde have no harme, for love of robyn hode. the knyght presed into the place, an hondred folowed hym fre,[l ] with bowes bent, and arowes sharpe, for to shende that company. they sholdred all, and made hym rome, to wete what he wolde say; he toke the yeman by the honde, and gave hym all the playe. he gave hym fyve marke for his wyne, there it laye on the molde, and bad it sholde be sette a broche, drynke who so wolde. thus longe taryed this gentyll knyght, tyll that playe was done, so longe abode robyn fastynge, thre houres after the none. , ritson, this way. , hym, _sic_ ch. & m. . the prior, in an abbey, was the officer immediately under the abbot; in priories and conventual cathedrals he was the superior.--ritson. , . i.e., the chief justice had been retained for the abbot by robe and fee. a writer in _notes and queries_, (vol. vi. p. ,) quotes statutes of edward i. and edward iii. against maintenance, in which the abuse of robes and fees is mentioned, and cites the following clause from the oath required to be taken by justices: "and that ye will take no _fee_ so long as ye shall be justices, nor _robes_, of any man great or small, except of the king himself." , leue, w. lende us, c. , loke (for call), w. c. , grete, w. get, c. , thou. pcc. . this is a place unknown. there is a forest in lancashire, observes ritson, of the name of wierysdale, but it appears subsequently that the knight's castle was in nottinghamshire. , sute, c. , i up pyght, w. up ypyght, c. , fere, w. in fere, c. the thyrde fytte. lyth and lysten, gentyll men, all that now be here, of lytell johan, that was the knyghtes man, good myrthe ye shall here. it was upon a mery day, that yonge men wolde go shete,[l ] lytell johan fet his bowe anone, and sayd he wolde them mete. thre tymes lytell johan shot about, and always cleft the wande;[l ] the proude sheryf of notyngham by the markes gan stande. the sheryf swore a full grete othe, by hym that dyed on a tre, this man is the best archere that yet sawe i me. "say me now, wyght yonge man, what is now thy name? in what countre were thou born,[l ] and where is thy wonnynge wane?"[l ] "in holdernesse i was bore, i-wys all of my dame; men call me reynolde grenelefe, whan i am at hame." "say me, reynaud grenelefe, wolte thou dwell with me? and every yere i wyll the gyve twenty marke to thy fee." "i have a mayster," sayd lytell johan, "a curteys knight is he; may ye gete leve of hym, the better may it bee." the sheryfe gate lytell johan twelve monethes of the knyght; therfore he gave him ryght anone a good hors and a wyght. now is lytel johan the sheryffes man, god gyve us well to spede, but alway thought lytell johan to quyte hym well his mede. "now so god me helpe," sayd lytel johan,[l ] "and be my trewe lewtè, i shall be the worste servaunte to hym that ever yet had he." it befell upon a wednesday, the sheryfe on hontynge was gone, and lytel johan lay in his bed, and was foryete at home. therfore he was fastynge tyl it was past the none; "good syr stuard, i pray the, geve me to dyne," sayd lytel johan. "it is to long for grenelefe, fastynge so long to be; therfore i pray the, stuarde, my dyner gyve thou me." "shalt thou never ete ne drynke," said the stuarde, "tyll my lord be come to towne;" "i make myn avowe to god," sayd lytell johan, "i had lever to cracke thy crowne." the butler was full uncurteys, there he stode on flore; he sterte to the buttery, and shet fast the dore. lytell johan gave the buteler such a rap, his backe yede nygh on two; tho he lyved an hundreth wynter, the wors he sholde go. he sporned the dore with his fote, it went up wel and fyne,[l ] and there he made a large lyveray both of ale and wyne. "syth ye wyl not dyne," sayd lytel johan, "i shall gyve you to drynke, and though ye lyve an hondred wynter, on lytell johan ye shall thynk." lytell johan ete, and lytell [johan] dronke, the whyle that he wolde; the sheryfe had in hys kechyn a coke, a stoute man and a bolde. "i make myn avowe to god," sayd the coke, "thou arte a shrewde hynde, in an householde to dwel, for to ask thus to dyne." and there he lent lytel johan good strokes thre; "i make myn avowe," said lytell johan, "these strokes lyketh well me. "thou arte a bolde man and an hardy and so thynketh me; and or i passe fro this place, asayed better shalt thou be." lytell johan drewe a good swerde, the coke toke another in honde; they thought nothynge for to fle, but styfly for to stonde. there they fought sore togyder, two myle way and more; myght neyther other harme done, the mountenaunce of an houre. "i make myn avowe to god," sayd lytell johan, "and be my trewe lewtè, thou art one of the best swerdemen, that ever yet sawe i me. "coowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, to grene wood thou sholdest with me, and two tymes in the yere thy clothynge ichaunged sholde be; "and every yere of robyn hode twenty marke to thy fee:" "put up thy swerde," sayd the coke, "and felowes wyll we be." then he fette to lytell johan the numbles of a doo, good brede and full good wyne; they ete and dranke therto. and whan they had dronken well, ther trouthes togyder they plyght, that they wolde be with robyn that ylke same day at nyght. they dyde them to the tresure-hous,[l ] as fast as they myght gone; the lockes, that were of good stele, they brake them everychone. they toke away the sylver vessell, and all that they myght get, peces, masars, and spones wolde they non forgete. also they toke the good pence, thre hondred pounde and three, and dyde them strayt to robyn hode, under the grene wode tre. "god the save, my dere maystèr, and cryst the save and se;" and than sayd robyn to lytell johan, "welcome myght thou be; "and also be that fayre yemàn thou bryngest there with the. what tydynges fro notyngham? lytell johan, tell thou me." "well the greteth the proude sheryfe, and sende the here by me his coke and his sylver vessell, and thre hondred pounde and thre." "i make myn avow to god," sayd robyn, "and to the trenytè, it was never by his good wyll this good is come to me." lytell johan hym there bethought on a shrewed wyle;[l ] fyve myle in the forest he ran, hym happed at his wyll. than he met the proud sheryf, huntynge with hounde and horne; lytell johan coud his curteysye, and kneled hym beforne. "god the save, my dere maystèr, and cryst the save and se;" "raynolde grenelefe," sayd the sheryfe, "where hast thou nowe be?" "i have be in this forest, a fayre syght can i se; it was one of the fayrest syghtes[l ] that ever yet sawe i me. "yonder i se a ryght fayre hart, his coloure is of grene; seven score of dere upon an herde be with hym all bedene. "his tynde are so sharp, maystèr, of sexty and well mo, that i durst not shote for drede lest they wolde me sloo." "i make myn avowe to god," sayd the sheryf, "that syght wolde i fayn se;" "buske you thyderwarde, my dere maystèr, anone, and wende with me." the sheryfe rode, and lytell johan of fote he was full smarte; and when they came afore robyn, "lo, here is the mayster harte!" styll stode the proud sheryf, a sory man was he: "wo worthe the, raynolde grenelefe![l ] thou hast now betrayed me." "i make myn avowe to god," sayd lytell johan, "mayster, ye be to blame, i was mysserved of my dynere, when i was with you at hame." soone he was to super sette, and served with sylver whyte; and whan the sheryf se his vessell, for sorowe he myght not ete. "make good chere," sayd robyn hode, "sheryfe, for charytè, and for the love of lytell johan, thy lyfe is graunted to the." when they had supped well, the day was all agone, robyn commaunded lytell johan to drawe of his hosen and his shone, his kyrtell and his cote-a-pye, that was furred well fyne, and take him a grene mantèll, to lappe his body therin. robyn commaunded his wyght young men, under the grene wood tre, they shall lay in that same sorte, that the sheryf myght them se. all nyght laye that proud sheryf in his breche and in his sherte; no wonder--it was in grene wode,-- tho his sydes do smerte. "make glad chere," sayd robyn hode, "sheryfe, for charytè, for this is our order i-wys, under the grene wood tre." "this is harder order," sayd the sheryfe, "than ony anker or frere; for al the golde in mery englonde, i wolde not longe dwell here." "all these twelve monethes," sayd robyn, "thou shalte dwell with me; i shall the teche, proud sheryfe, an outlawe for to be." "or i here another nyght lye," sayd the sheryfe, "robyn, nowe i pray the, smyte of my hede rather to-morne, and i forgyve it the. "lete me go," then sayd the sheryf, "for saynt charytè, and i wyll be the best frende that ever yet had ye."[l ] "thou shalte swere me an othe," sayd robyn, "on my bryght bronde, thou shalt never awayte me scathe, by water ne by londe; "and if thou fynde ony of my men, by nyght or by day, upon thyne othe thou shalt swere to helpe them that thou may." now hathe the sheryf iswore his othe,[l ] and home he began to gone; he was as full of grene wode as ever was hepe of stone. , shote, w. , he sleste, w. , thou wast, c. wast thou, wh. , wane, ch. & m. wan, r. . he, ritson. ge. w. f. god. , ch. & m. open. , hyed, c. , whyle, w. , syght, w. sightes, c. , wo the worth, w. , ye, ch. & m. the, r. , have, r. hathe, ch. & m. the fourth fytte. the sheryf dwelled in notynghame, he was fayne that he was gone, and robyn and his mery men went to wode anone. "go we to dyner," sayd lytell johan; robyn hode sayd, "nay; for i drede our lady be wroth with me, for she sent me not my pay." "have no dout, mayster," sayd lytell johan, "yet is not the sonne at rest; for i dare saye, and saufly swere, the knyght is trewe and trust." "take thy bowe in thy hande," sayd robyn, "let moche wende with the, and so shall wyllyam scathelock, and no man abyde with me. "and walk up into the sayles, and to watlynge-strete, and wayte after some unketh gest;[l ] up-chaunce ye may them mete. "whether he be messengere, or a man that myrthes can, or yf he be a pore man, of my good he shall have some." forth then stert lytel johan, half in tray and tene, and gyrde hym with a full good swerde, under a mantel of grene. they went up to the sayles, these yemen all thre; they loked est, they loked west, they myght no man se. but as he loked in bernysdale, by the hye waye, than were they ware of two blacke monkes, eche on a good palferay. then bespake lytell johan, to much he gan say, "i dare lay my lyfe to wedde, that these monkes have brought our pay. "make glad chere," sayd lytell johan, "and frese our bowes of ewe, and loke your hertes be seker and sad, your strynges trusty and trewe. "the monke hath fifty two men, and seven somers full stronge; there rydeth no bysshop in this londe so ryally, i understond. "brethern," sayd lytell johan, "here are no more but we thre; but we brynge them to dyner, our mayster dare we not se. "bende your bowes," sayd lytell johan, "make all yon prese to stonde;[l ] the formost monke, his lyfe and his deth is closed in my honde. "abyde, chorle monke," sayd lytell johan, "no ferther that thou gone; yf thou doost, by dere worthy god, thy deth is in my honde. "and evyll thryfte on thy hede," sayd lytell johan, "ryght under thy hattes bonde, for thou hast made our mayster wroth, he is fastynge so longe." "who is your mayster?" sayd the monke; lytell johan sayd "robyn hode;" "he is a stronge thefe," sayd the monke, "of hym herd i never good." "thou lyest," than sayd lytell johan, "and that shall rewe the; he is a yeman of the forèst, to dyne he hath bode the." much was redy with a bolte, redly and anone, he set the monke to fore the brest, to the grounde that he can gone. of fyfty two wyght yonge men[l ] there abode not one, saf a lytell page, and a grome, to lede the somers with johan.[l ] they brought the monke to the lodge dore, whether he were loth or lefe, for to speke with robyn hode, maugre in theyr tethe. robyn dyde adowne his hode, the monke whan that he se; the monke was not so curteyse, his hode then let he be. "he is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy god," than said lytell johan: "thereof no force," sayd robyn, "for curteysy can he none. "how many men," sayd robyn, "had this monke, johan?" "fifty and two whan that we met, but many of them be gone." "let blowe a horne," sayd robyn, "that felaushyp may us knowe;" seven score of wyght yemen, came pryckynge on a rowe. and everych of them a good mantell of scarlet and of raye; all they came to good robyn, to wyte what he wolde say. they made the monke to washe and wype, and syt at his denere, robyn hode and lytel johan they served him bothe in fere.[l ] "do gladly, monke," sayd robyn. "gramercy, syr," said he. "where is your abbay, whan ye are at home, and who is your avowè?" "saynt mary abbay," sayd the monke, "though i be symple here." "in what offyce?" sayd robyn: "syr, the hye selerer." "ye be the more welcome," sayd robyn, "so ever mote i the: fyll of the best wyne," sayd robyn, "this monke shall drynke to me. "but i have grete mervayle," sayd robyn, "of all this longe day; i drede our lady be wroth with me, she sent me not my pay." "have no doute, mayster," sayd lytell johan, "ye have no nede i saye; this monke it hath brought, i dare well swere, for he is of her abbay." "and she was a borowe," sayd robyn, "betwene a knyght and me, of a lytell money that i hym lent, under the grene wode tree. "and yf thou hast that sylver ibroughte, i pray the let me se; and i shall helpe the eftsones, yf thou have nede of me."[l ] the monke swore a full grete othe, with a sory chere, "of the borowehode thou spekest to me, herde i never ere." "i make myn avowe to god," sayd robyn, "monke, thou art to blame; for god is holde a ryghtwys man, and so is his dame. "thou toldest with thyn owne tonge, thou may not say nay, how thou arte her servaunt, and servest her every day. "and thou art made her messengere,[l ] my money for to pay; therefore i can the more thanke, thou arte come at thy day. "what is in your cofers?" sayd robyn, "trewe than tell thou me:" "syr," he sayd, "twenty marke, al so mote i the." "yf there be no more," sayd robyn, "i wyll not one peny; yf thou hast myster of ony more, syr, more i shall lende to the; "and yf i fynde more," sayd robyn, "i-wys thou shalte it forgone; for of thy spendynge sylver, monk, thereof wyll i ryght none. "go nowe forthe, lytell johan, and the trouth tell thou me; if there be no more but twenty marke, no peny that i se." lytell johan spred his mantell downe, as he had done before, and he tolde out of the monkes male eyght hundreth pounde and more.[l ] lytell johan let it lye full styll, and went to his mayster in hast; "syr," he sayd, "the monke is trewe ynowe, our lady hath doubled your cost." "i make myn avowe to god," sayd robyn, "monke, what tolde i the? our lady is the trewest womàn that ever yet founde i me. "by dere worthy god," said robyn, "to seche all england thorowe, yet founde i never to my pay a moche better borowe. "fyll of the best wyne, do hym drynke," said robyn, "and grete well thy lady hende, and yf she have nede of robyn hode,[l ] a frende she shall hym fynde. "and yf she nedeth ony more sylvèr, come thou agayne to me, and, by this token she hath me sent, she shall have such thre." the monke was going to london ward, there to holde grete mote, the knyght that rode so hye on hors, to brynge hym under fote. "whether be ye away?" sayd robyn. "syr, to maners in this londe, too reken with our reves, that have done moch wronge." "come now forth, lytell johan, and harken to my tale; a better yemen i knowe none, to seke a monkes male." "how much is in yonder other cofer?" said robyn,[l ] "the soth must we see:" "by our lady," than sayd the monke, "that were no curteysye, "to bydde a man to dyner, and syth hym bete and bynde." "it is our olde maner," sayd robyn, "to leve but lytell behynde." the monke toke the hors with spore, no lenger wolde he abyde: "aske to drynke," than sayd robyn, "or that ye forther ryde." "nay, for god," than sayd the monke, "me reweth i cam so nere; for better chepe i myght have dyned in blythe or in dankestere." "grete well your abbot," sayd robyn, "and your pryour, i you pray, and byd hym send me such a monke to dyner every day." now lete we that monke be styll, and speke we of that knyght: yet he came to holde his day, whyle that it was lyght. he dyde him streyt to bernysdale, under the grene wode tre, and he founde there robyn hode, and all his mery meynè. the knyght lyght downe of his good palfrày; robyn whan he gan see, so curteysly he dyde adoune his hode, and set hym on his knee. "god the save, good robyn hode, and al this company:" "welcome be thou, gentyll knyght, and ryght welcome to me." than bespake hym robyn hode, to that knyght so fre, "what nede dryveth the to grene wode? i pray the, syr knyght, tell me. "and welcome be thou, gentyl knyght, why hast thou be so longe?" "for the abbot and the hye justyce wolde have had my londe." "hast thou thy londe agayne?" sayd robyn;[l ] "treuth than tell thou me." "ye, for god," sayd the knyght, "and that thanke i god and the. "but take not a grefe, i have be so longe;[l ] i came by a wrastelynge, and there i dyd holpe a pore yemàn, with wronge was put behynde." "nay, for god," sayd robyn, "syr knyght, that thanke i the; what man that helpeth a good yemàn, his frende than wyll i be." "have here foure hondred pounde," than sayd the knyght, "the whiche ye lent to me; and here is also twenty marke for your curteysy." "nay, for god," than sayd robyn, "thou broke it well for ay; for our lady, by her selerer, hath sent to me my pay. "and yf i toke it twyse,[l ] a shame it were to me: but trewely, gentyll knyght, welcom arte thou to me." whan robyn had tolde his tale, he leugh and had good chere: "by my trouthe," then sayd the knyght. "your money is redy here." "broke it well," sayd robyn, "thou gentyll knyght so fre; and welcome be thou, gentill knyght, under my trystell tree.[l ] "but what shall these bowes do?" sayd robyn, "and these arowes ifedered fre?" "by god," than sayd the knyght, "a pore present to the." "come now forth, lytell johan, and go to my treasurè, and brynge me there foure hondred pounde, the monke over-tolde it me. "have here foure hondred pounde, thou gentyll knyght and trewe, and bye hors and harnes good, and gylte thy spores all newe. "and yf thou fayle ony spendynge, com to robyn hode, and by my trouth thou shalt none fayle, the whyles i have any good. "and broke well thy four hundred pound, whiche i lent to the, and make thy selfe no more so bare, by the counsell of me." thus than holpe hym good robyn, the knyght all of his care:[l ] god, that sytteth in heven hye,[l ] graunte us well to fare. , such, w. , you, w. make you yonder preste, c. , yemen, c. , lytell johan. o. cc. , them bothe, o. cc. , to, w. , nade, w. not in c. . eyght pounde, w. , to, w. , corser, w. courser, c. , gayne, w. . but take not a grefe, sayd the knyght, that i have be so longe. o. cc. . i twyse, w. , thi trusty, c. the fyfth fytte. now hath the knyght his leve itake, and wente hym on his way; robyn hode and his mery men dwelled styll full many a day. lyth and lysten, gentilmen, and herken what i shall say, how the proud sheryfe of notyngham dyde crye a full fayre play; that all the best archers of the north sholde come upon a daye, and he that shoteth altherbest[l ] the game shall bere away. he that shoteth altherbest[l ] furthest fayre and lowe, at a payre of fynly buttes, under the grene wode shawe, a ryght good arowe he shall have, the shaft of sylver whyte, the heade and the feders of ryche rede golde, in englond is none lyke. this then herde good robyn, under his trystell tre: "make you redy, ye wyght yonge men; that shotynge wyll i se. "buske you, my mery yonge men, ye shall go with me; and i wyll wete the shryves fayth, trewe and yf he be." whan they had theyr bowes ibent, theyr takles fedred fre, seven score of wyght yonge men stode by robyns kne. "whan they cam to notyngham, the buttes were fayre and longe; many was the bolde archere that shoted with bowes stronge. "there shall but syx shote with me; the other shal kepe my hede. and stande with good bowes bent, that i be not desceyved." the fourth outlawe his bowe gan bende, and that was robyn hode, and that behelde the proude sheryfe, all by the but he stode. thryes robyn shot about, and alway he slist the wand,[l ] and so dyde good gylberte with the whyte hande. lytell johan and good scatheloke were archers good and fre; lytell much and good reynolde, the worste wolde they not be. whan they had shot aboute, these archours fayre and good, evermore was the best, forsoth, robyn hode. hym was delyvered the goode aròw, for best worthy was he; he toke the yeft so curteysly, to grene wode wolde he. they cryed out on robyn hode, and great hornes gan they blowe: "wo worth the, treason!" sayd robyn, "full evyl thou art to knowe. "and wo be thou, thou proud sheryf, thus gladdynge thy gest; other wyse thou behote me in yonder wylde forest. "but had i the in grene wode, under my trystell tre, thou sholdest leve me a better wedde than thy trewe lewtè." full many a bowe there was bent, and arowes let they glyde, many a kyrtell there was rent, and hurt many a syde. the outlaws shot was so stronge, that no man myght them dryve, and the proud sheryfes men they fled away full blyve.[l ] robyn sawe the busshement to-broke, in grene wode he wolde have be; many an arowe there was shot amonge that company. lytell johan was hurte full sore, with an arowe in his kne, that he myght neyther go nor ryde; it was full grete pytè. "mayster," then sayd lytell johan, "if ever thou lovest me, and for that ylke lordes love, that dyed upon a tre, "and for the medes of my servyce, that i have served the, lete never the proude sheryf alyve now fynde me. "but take out thy browne swerde, and smyte all of my hede, and gyve me woundes dede and wyde, no lyfe on me be lefte."[l ] "i wolde not that," sayd robyn, "johan, that thou were slawe, for all the golde in mery englond, though it lay now on a rawe." "god forbede," sayd lytell much, "that dyed on a tre, that thou sholdest, lytell johan, parte our company." up he toke him on his backe, and bare hym well a myle; many a tyme he layd hym downe, and shot another whyle. then was there a fayre castèll, a lytell within the wode, double-dyched it was about, and walled, by the rode. and there dwelled that gentyll knyght, syr richard at the lee, that robyn had lent his good, under the grene wode tree. in he toke good robyn, and all his company; "welcome be thou, robyn hode, welcome arte thou me; "and moche [i] thanke the of thy comfort, and of thy curteysye, and of thy grete kyndenesse, under the grene wode tre. "i love no man in all this worlde so much as i do the; for all the proud sheryf of notyngham, ryght here shalt thou be. "shyt the gates, and drawe the bridge, and let no man com in; and arme you well, and make you redy, and to the walle ye wynne. "for one thyng, robyn, i the behote, i swere by saynt quyntyn, these twelve dayes thou wonest with me, to suppe, ete, and dyne." bordes were layed, and clothes spred, reddely and anone; robyn hode and his mery men to mete gan they gone. , this care, w. , syt, w. . and that shoteth al ther best, w. and they that shote al of the best, c. , al theyre, w. al of the, c. , they slist, w. he clefte, c. , belyve, c. . that i after eate no bread, c. the syxte fytte. lythe and lysten, gentylmen, and herken unto your songe, how the proude sheryfe of notyngham, and men of armes stronge, full faste came to the hye sheryfe, the countre up to rout, and they beset the knyghts castèll, the walles all about. the proude sheryfe loude gan crye, and sayd, "thou traytour knyght, thou kepeste here the kynges enemye, agayne the lawes and ryght." "syr, i wyll avowe that i have done, the dedes that here be dyght,[l ] upon all the londes that i have, as i am a trewe knyght. "wende forthe, syrs, on your waye, and doth do more to me, tyll ye wytte our kynges wyll, what he woll say to the." the sheref thus had his answere, with out ony leasynge; forthe he yode to london toune, all for to tel our kynge. there he tolde hym of that knyght, and eke of robyn hode, and also of the bolde archeres, that noble were and good. "he wolde avowe that he had done, to mayntayne the outlawes stronge, he wolde be lorde, and set you at nought, in all the north londe." "i woll be at notyngham," sayd the kynge, "within this fourtynyght, and take i wyll robyn hode, and so i wyll that knyght. "go home, thou proud sheryf, and do as i bydde the,[l ] and ordayne good archeres inowe of all the wyde countree." the sheryf had his leve itake, and went hym on his way; and robyn hode to grene wode [went] upon a certayn day. and lytell johan was hole of the arowe, that shote was in his kne, and dyde hym strayte to robyn hode, under the grene wode tre. robyn hode walked in the foreste, under the leves grene; the proud sheryfe of notyngham, therfore he had grete tene. the sheryf there fayled of robyn hode, he myght not have his pray; then he awayted that gentyll knyght, bothe by nyght and by daye. ever he awayted that gentyll knyght, syr rychard at the lee; as he went on haukynge by the ryver syde and let his haukes flee, toke he there this gentyll knyght, with men of armes stronge, and lad hym home to notyngham warde, ibonde both fote and honde.[l ] the sheryf swore a full grete othe, by hym that dyed on rode,[l ] he had lever than an hondrede pounde, that he had robyn hode. then the lady, the knyghtes wyfe, a fayre lady and fre, she set her on a gode palfrày, to grene wode anon rode she. when she came to the forèst, under the grene wode tre, founde she there robyn hode, and all his fayre meynè. "god the save, good robyn hode,[l ] and all thy company; for our dere ladyes love,[l ] a bone graunte thou me. "let thou never my wedded lorde[l ] shamfully slayne to be;[l ] he is fast ibounde to notyngham warde, for the love of the." anone then sayd good robyn, to that lady fre, "what man hath your lorde itake?" "the proude shirife," than sayd she.[l ] ["the proude sheryfe hath hym itake] forsoth as i the say; he is not yet thre myles passed on his waye."[l ] up then sterte good robyn, as a man that had be wode; "buske you, my mery young men, for hym that dyed on a rode. "and he that this sorowe forsaketh, by hym that dyed on a tre, and by him that al thinges maketh,[l ] no lenger shall dwell with me."[l ] sone there were good bowes ibent, mo than seven score, hedge ne dyche spared they none, that was them before. "i make myn avowe to god," sayd robyn, "the sheryf wolde i fayn se,[l ] and yf i may hym take, iquyt than shall he bee."[l ] and whan they came to notyngham, they walked in the strete, and with the proud sheryf, i-wys, sone gan they mete. "abyde, thou proud sheryf," he sayd, "abyde and speake with me, of some tydynges of our kynge, i wolde fayne here of the. "this seven yere, by dere worthy god, ne yede i so fast on fote; i make myn avowe to god, thou proude sheryfe, that is not for thy good."[l ] robyn bent a good bowe, an arrowe he drewe at his wyll, he hyt so the proud sheryf, upon the ground he lay full styll. and or he myght up aryse, on his fete to stonde, he smote of the sheryves hede, with his bryght bronde. "lye thou there, thou proude sheryf, evyll mote thou thryve; there myght no man to the trust, the whyles thou were alyve." his men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes, that were so sharpe and kene, and layde on the sheryves men, and dryved them downe bydene. robyn stert to that knyght, and cut a two his bonde,[l ] and toke hym in his hand a bowe, and bade hym by hym stonde. "leve thy hors the behynde, and lerne for to renne; thou shalt with me to grene wode, through myre, mosse, and fenne. "thou shalt with me to grene wode, without ony leasynge, tyll that i have gete us grace of edwarde, our comly kynge." , thou, w. , the bydde, occ. , honde and fote, w. foote and hande, c. , on a tre, r. rode, ch. & m. . god the good robyn, w. , lady, w. . late. . shamly i slayne be, w. . forsoth as i the say, w. , your waye, w. you may them over take, c. , . shall he never in grene wode be, nor longer dwell with me. w. , sherif, ch. & m. knyght, r. , it, w. . at, w. that, c. boote for good, wh. , hoode, w. bande, c. the seventh fytte. the kynge came to notynghame, with knyghtes in grete araye, for to take that gentyll knyght and robyn hode, yf he may.[l ] he asked men of that countrè, after robyn hode, and after that gentyll knyght, that was so bolde and stout. whan they had tolde hym the case our kynge understonde ther tale, and seased in his honde the knyghtes londes all. all the passe of lancasshyre he went both ferre and nere; tyll he came to plomton parke,[l ] he faylyd many of his dere. there our kynge was wont to se herdes many one, he coud unneth fynde one dere, that bare ony good horne. the kynge was wonder wroth withall, and swore by the trynytè, "i wolde i had robyn hode, with eyen i myght hym se. "and he that wolde smyte of the knyghtes hede, and brynge it to me, he shall have the knyghtes londes, syr rycharde at the le. "i gyve it hym with my chartèr, and sele it with my honde, to have and holde for ever-more, in all mery englonde." than bespake a fayre olde knyght, that was treue in his fay, "a, my lege lorde the kynge, one worde i shall you say; "there is no man in this countrè may have the knyghtes londes, whyle robyn hode may ryde or gone, and bere a bowe in his hondes, "that he ne shall lese his hede, that is the best ball in his hode: give it no man, my lorde the kynge, that ye wyll any good." half a yere dwelled our comly kynge in notyngham, and well more; coude he not here of robyn hode, in what countre that he were. but alway went good robyn by halke and eke by hyll, and alway slewe the kynges dere, and welt them at his wyll. than bespake a proude fostere, that stode by our kynges kne, "if ye wyll se good robyn, ye must do after me. "take fyve of the best knyghtes that be in your lede, and walk downe by yon abbay,[l ] and gete you monkes wede. "and i wyll be your ledes man, and lede you the way, and or ye come to notyngham, myn hede then dare i lay, "that ye shall mete with good robyn, on lyve yf that he be; or ye come to notyngham, with eyen ye shall hym se." full hastly our kynge was dyght, so were his knyghtes fyve, everych of them in monkes wede, and hasted them thyder blyve.[l ] our kynge was grete above his cole, a brode hat on his crowne, ryght as he were abbot-lyke, they rode up in-to the towne. styf botes our kynge had on, forsoth as i you say; he rode syngynge to grene wode, the covent was clothed in graye. his male hors and his grete somèrs folowed our kynge behynde, tyll they came to grene wode, a myle under the lynde. there they met with good robyn, stondynge on the waye, and so dyde many a bolde archere, for soth as i you say. robyn toke the kynges hors, hastely in that stede, and sayd, "syr abbot, by your leve, a whyle ye must abyde. "we be yemen of this foreste, under the grene wode tre; we lyve by our kynges dere, other shyft have not we.[l ] "and ye have chyrches and rentes both, and gold full grete plentè; gyve us some of your spendynge, for saynt charytè." than bespake our cumly kynge, anone than sayd he, "i brought no more to grene wode, but forty pounde with me. "i have layne at notyngham, this fourtynyght with our kynge, and spent i have full moche good, on many a grete lordynge. "and i have but forty pounde, no more than have i me; but yf i had an hondred pounde, i would geve it to the."[l ] robyn toke the forty pounde, and departed it in two partye, halfendell he gave his mery men, and bad them mery to be. full curteysly robyn gan say, "syr, have this for your spendyng; we shall mete another day." "gramercy," than sayd our kynge; "but well the greteth edwarde our kynge, and sent to the his seale, and byddeth the com to notyngham, both to mete and mele." he toke out the brode tarpe,[l ] and sone he lete hym se; robyn coud his courteysy, and set hym on his kne. "i love no man in all the worlde so well as i do my kynge. welcome is my lordes seale; and, monke, for thy tydynge, "syr abbot, for thy tydynges, to day thou shalt dyne with me, for the love of my kynge, under my trystell tre." forth he lad our comly kynge, full fayre by the honde; many a dere there was slayne, and full fast dyghtande. robyn toke a full grete horne, and loude he gan blowe; seven score of wyght yonge men came redy on a rowe. all they kneeled on theyr kne, full fayre before robyn: the kynge sayd hymselfe untyll, and swore by saynt austyn, "here is a wonder semely syght; me thynketh, by goddes pyne, his men are more at his byddynge, then my men be at myn." full hastly was theyr dyner idyght, and therto gan they gone; they served our kynge with al theyr myght, both robyn and lytell johan. anone before our kynge was set the fatte venyson, the good whyte brede, the good red wyne, and therto the fyne ale browne.[l ] "make good chere," said robyn, "abbot, for charytè; and for this ylke tydynge, blyssed mote thou be. "now shalte thou se what life we lede, or thou hens wende; than thou may enfourme our kynge, whan ye togyder lende." up they sterte all in hast, theyr bowes were smartly bent; our kynge was never so sore agast, he wende to have be shente. two yerdes there were up set, there to gan they gange; by fifty pase, our kynge sayd, the merkes were to longe. on every syde a rose garlonde, they shot under the lyne: "who so fayleth of the rose garlonde," sayd robyn, "his takyll he shall tyne, "and yelde it to his mayster, be it never so fyne; for no man wyll i spare, so drynke i ale or wyne;-- "and bere a buffet on his hede, i-wys right all bare:"[l ] and all that fell in robyns lote, he smote them wonder sare. twyse robyn shot aboute, and ever he cleved the wande, and so dyde good gylberte with the whyte hand.[l ] lytell johan and good scathelocke, for nothynge wolde they spare, when they fayled of the garlonde, robyn smote them full sare. at the last shot that robyn shot, for all his frendes fare, yet he fayled of the garlonde, thre fyngers and mare. than bespake good gylberte, and thus he gan say; "mayster," he sayd, "your takyll is lost, stand forth and take your pay." "if it be so," sayd robyn, "that may no better be; syr abbot, i delyver the myn arowe, i pray the, syr, serve thou me." "it falleth not for myn order," sayd our kynge, "robyn, by thy leve, for to smyte no good yemàn, for doute i sholde hym greve." "smyte on boldely," sayd robyn, "i give the large leve:" anone our kynge, with that worde, he folde up his sleve, and sych a buffet he gave robyn, to grounde he yede full nere. "i make myn avowe to god," sayd robyn, "thou arte a stalworthe frere. "there is pith in thyn arme," sayd robyn, "i trowe thou canst well shote;" thus our kynge and robyn hode togeder than they met. robyn behelde our comly kynge wystly in the face, so dyde syr richarde at the le, and kneled downe in that place; and so dyde all the wylde outlawes, whan they se them knele: "my lorde the kynge of englonde, now i knowe you well. "mercy," then robyn sayd to our kynge, under his trystyll tre,[l ] "of thy goodnesse and thy grace, for my men and me! "yes, for god," sayd robyn, "and also god me save; i aske mercy, my lorde the kynge, and for my men i crave." "yes, for god," than sayd our kynge, "thy peticion i graunt the, with that thou leve the grene wode, and all thy company; "and come home, syr, to my courte, and there dwell with me."[l ] "i make myn avowe to god," sayd robyn, "and ryght so shall it be. "i wyll come to your courte, your servyse for to se, and brynge with me of my men seven score and thre. "but me lyke well your servyse, i come agayne full soone, and shote at the donne dere, as i am wonte to done." , and yf, w. . not in cumberland, as ritson states, but, says hunter, a part of the forest of knaresborough, in yorkshire. , your, occ. , blyth, ritson. . under the grene wode tre, w. . i vouche it halfe on the, w. , seale, c. , and browne, w. . a wys, w. for that shall be his fyne, c. , good whyte, w. lilly white, c. . your, ritson. . and therto sent i me, w. the eighth fytte. "haste thou ony grene cloth," sayd our kynge, "that thou wylte sell now to me?" "ye, for god," sayd robyn, "thyrty yerdes and thre." "robyn," sayd our kynge, "now pray i the, to sell me some of that cloth, to me and my meynè." "yes, for god," then sayd robyn,[l ] "or elles i were a fole; another day ye wyll me clothe,[l ] i trowe, ayenst the yole."[l ] the kynge kest of his cote then, a grene garment he dyde on, and every knyght did so, i-wys,[l ] they clothed them full soone.[l ] whan they were clothed in lyncolne grene, they kest away theyr graye; "now we shall to notyngham," all thus our kynge gan say. theyr bowes bente and forth they went, shotynge all in-fere, towarde the towne of notyngham, outlawes as they were. our kynge and robyn rode togyder, for soth as i you say, and they shote plucke-buffet, as they went by the way. and many a buffet our kynge wan of robyn hode that day; and nothynge spared good robyn our kynge in his pay. "so god me helpe," sayd our kynge, "thy game is nought to lere; i sholde not get a shote of the, though i shote all this yere." all the people of notyngham they stode and behelde; they sawe nothynge but mantels of grene that covered all the felde. than every man to other gan say, "i drede our kynge be slone; come robyn hode to the towne i-wys, on lyve he leveth not one."[l ] full hastly they began to fle, both yemen and knaves, and olde wyves that myght evyll goo, they hypped on theyr staves. the kynge loughe full fast,[l ] and commanded theym agayne; when they se our comly kynge, i-wys they were full fayne. they ete and dranke, and made them glad, and sange with notes hye; than bespake our comly kynge to syr rycharde at the lee. he gave hym there his londe agayne, a good man he bad hym be; robyn thanked our comly kynge, and set hym on his kne. had robyn dwelled in the kynges courte but twelve monethes and thre, that he had spent an hondred pounde, and all his mennes fe. in every place where robyn came evermore he layde downe, both for knyghtes and for squyres, to gete hym grete renowne. by than the yere was all agone he had no man but twayne, lytell johan and good scathelocke, wyth hym all for to gone. robyn sawe yonge men shote, full fayre upon a day;[l ] "alas!" than sayd good robyn,[l ] "my welthe is went away. "somtyme i was an archere good, a styffe and eke a stronge; i was commytted the best archere that was in mery englonde. "alas!" then sayd good robyn, "alas and well a woo! yf i dwele lenger with the kynge, sorowe wyll me sloo." forth than went robyn hode tyll he came to our kynge; "my lorde the kynge of englonde, graunte me myn askynge. "i made a chapell in bernysdale, that semely is to se, it is of mary magdalene, and thereto wolde i be. "i myght never in this seven nyght no tyme to slepe ne wynke, nother all these seven dayes nother ete ne drynke. "me longeth sore to bernysdale, i may not be therfro; barefote and wolwarde i have hyght thyder for to go." "yf it be so," than sayd our kynge, "it may no better be; seven nyght i gyve the leve, no lengre, to dwell fro me." "gramercy, lorde," then sayd robyn, and set hym on his kne; he toke his leve full courteysly, to grene wode then went he. whan he came to grene wode, in a mery mornynge, there he herde the notes small of byrdes mery syngynge. "it is ferre gone," sayd robyn, "that i was last here; me lyste a lytell for to shote at the donne dere." robyn slewe a full grete harte, his horne than gan he blow, that all the outlawes of that forèst, that horne coud they knowe and gadred them togyder, in a lytell throwe; seven score of wight yonge men came redy on a rowe, and fayre dyde of theyr hodes, and set them on theyr kne: "welcome," they sayd, "our maystèr, under this grene wode tre." robyn dwelled in grene wode twenty yere and two; for all drede of edwarde our kynge, agayne wolde he not goo. yet he was begyled, i-wys, through a wycked womàn, the pryoresse of kyrkesly,[l ] that nye was of hys kynne; for the love of a knyght, syr roger of donkestèr,[l ] that was her owne speciall, full evyll mote they fare.[l ] they toke togyder theyr counsell robyn hode for to sle, and how they myght best do that dede, his banis for to be. than bespake good robyn, in place where as he stode, "tomorow i muste to kyrkesley, craftely to be leten blode." syr roger of donkestere, by the pryoresse he lay, and there they betrayed good robyn hode, through theyr false playe. cryst have mercy on his soule, that dyed on the rode! for he was a good outlawe, and dyde pore men moch god. , good, occ. , . "this alludes to the usual issue of winter robes from the king's wardrobe to the officers of his household." hunter. , had, ritson. . another had full sone, w. . lefte never one, w. , lughe, w. , ferre, w. , commended for, c. . the little convent of kirklees lay between wakefield and halifax. hunter. , donkesley, w. , the, occ. adam bel, clym of the cloughe, and wyllyam of cloudeslÈ. this favorite and delightful ballad was printed by william copland, without date, but probably not far from . only a single copy of this edition is known to be preserved. there is another edition by james roberts, printed in , with a second part entitled _young cloudeslee_, "a very inferior and servile production," says ritson. mr. payne collier has recently recovered a fragment of an excellent edition considerably older than copland's. _adam bell, &c._, was also entered at stationers' hall in - , as licensed to john king. another entry occurs in the same registers under , and in mention is made of "a ballad of willm. clowdisley never printed before." no one of these three impressions is known to be extant. percy inserted this piece in his _reliques_, (i. ,) following copland's edition, with corrections from his folio manuscript. ritson adhered to copland's text with his usual fidelity, (_pieces of popular poetry_, p. .) we have printed the ballad from ritson, with some important improvements derived from a transcript of mr. collier's fragment most kindly furnished by that gentleman. this fragment extends from the th verse of the second fit to the th of the third, but is somewhat mutilated. "allane bell" is mentioned by dunbar in company with robin hood, guy of gisborne, and others. the editor of the _reliques_ has pointed out several allusions to the ballad in our dramatic poets, which show the extreme popularity of the story. "shakespeare, in his comedy of _much ado about nothing_, act i. makes benedick confirm his resolves of not yielding to love, by this protestation: 'if i do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot at me, and he that hits me, let him be clapt on the shoulder, and called adam:'--meaning adam bell, as theobald rightly observes, who refers to one or two other passages in our old poets, wherein he is mentioned. the oxford editor has also well conjectured, that 'abraham cupid,'in _romeo and juliet_, act ii. sc. , should be 'adam cupid,' in allusion to our archer. ben jonson has mentioned clym o' the clough in his _alchemist_, act i. sc. . and sir william davenant, in a mock poem of his, called _the long vacation in london_, describes the attorneys and proctors as making matches to meet in finsbury fields. 'with loynes in canvas bow-case tyde, where arrowes stick with mickle pride; like ghosts of adam bell and clymme; sol sits for fear they'l shoot at him.'-- _works_, , fol. p. ." the place of residence ascribed in the present ballad to these outlaws is englewood or inglewood, a forest in cumberland sixteen miles in length, and extending from carlisle to penrith, which, according to wyntown, was also frequented by robin hood, (_cronykil_, vii. , .) by the author of the ballad of _robin hood's birth, breeding, valour, and marriage_, they are made contemporary with robin hood's father. "the father of robin a forrester was, and he shot in a lusty strong bow two north-country miles and an inch at a shot, as the pinder of wakefield does know. for he brought adam bell, and clim of the clugh, and william of clowdesle to shoot with our forrester for forty mark, and the forrester beat them all three." a state paper cited by mr. hunter exhibits a person of the name of adam bell in connection with another of robin hood's haunts, and is thought by that gentleman to afford a clue to the real history of one of the actors in the story. "king henry the fourth, by letters enrolled in the exchequer, in trinity term, in the seventh year of his reign [ ], and bearing date the th day of april, granted to one adam bell an annuity of _l._ _s._ issuing out of the fee-farm of clipston, in the forest of sherwood, together with the profits and advantages of the vesture and herbage of the garden called the halgarth, in which the manor-house of clipston is situated. "now, as sherwood is noted for its connection with archery, and may be regarded also as the _patria_ of much of the ballad poetry of england, and the name of adam bell is a peculiar one, this might be almost of itself sufficient to show that the ballad had a foundation in veritable history. but we further find that this adam bell violated his allegiance by adhering to the scots, the king's enemies; whereupon this grant was virtually resumed, and the sheriff of nottinghamshire accounted for the rents which would have been his. in the third year of king henry the fifth [ ], the account was rendered by thomas hercy, and in the fourth year by simon leak. the mention of his adhesion to the scots, leads us to the scottish border, and will not leave a doubt in the mind of the most sceptical (!) that we have here one of the persons, some of whose deeds (with some poetical license, perhaps) are come down to us in the words of one of our popular ballads." _new illustrations of the life, studies, and writings of shakespeare_, i. . it must be confessed that mr. hunter is easily satisfied. the bells were one of the most notorious of the marauding tribes of the marches, and as late as , are grouped with the graemes and armstrongs, in a memorial of the english warden, as among "the bad and more vagrant of the great surnames of the border." (rymer's _f[oe]dera_, xvi. , d ed.) adam was a very common _pr[oe]nomen_ among these people, and is borne by two other familiar ballad heroes, adam gordon and adam car. the combination of adam bell must have been anything but a rarity;[ ] nor could it have been an unfrequent occurrence, for a scottish freebooter who had entered into the pay of the english king, to return to his natural connections, when a tempting opportunity offered itself, or for any border mercenary to change sides as often as this seemed to be for his interest. the rescue of william of cloudesly by adam bell and clym of the clough, in the second fit, resembles in all the main points the rescue of robin hood by little john and much, in _robin hood and the monk_. the incident of the shot at the apple, in the third fit, for a long time received as a part of the genuine history of william tell, is of great antiquity, and may be traced northward from switzerland through the various gothic nations to the mythical legends of scandinavia. the exploit is first narrated in the _wilkina saga_ of the archer eigill, who, at nidung's command, proves his skill at the bow by shooting an apple from his son's head. eigill had selected three arrows, and on being questioned as to the purpose of the other two, replied that they were destined for nidung in case the first had caused the death of his child. this form of the legend is of the th or th century. in the th century, saxo grammaticus tells this story of toko and king harald. the resemblance to tell is in toko's case stronger than in any; for, besides making the same speech about the reserved arrow, he distinguishes himself in a sea-storm, and shoots the king,--this last feat being historical, and dated . similar achievements are ascribed in norwegian sagas to st. olaf (died, ), and to king haraldr sigurtharson (died, ), and in schleswig holstein, to heming wolf, who having, in , been outlawed for taking part with a rebel against king christian, and falling into the hands of his enemies, was obliged to exhibit his skill at the risk of his son's life. again, in sprenger's _malleus maleficarum_, a work of the th century, the story is related of one puncher, a magician of the rhine country; and finally, about two hundred years after the formation of the swiss confederacy, this famous exploit is imputed to tell, though early chroniclers have not a word to say either about him or his archery. (see grimm's[ ] _deutsche mythologie_, ed. , pp. - , p. : nork's _mythologie der volkssagen_, in scheible's _kloster_, vol. , p. , _seqq._ many of the documents that bear upon this question are cited at length in ideler's _schuss des tell_, berlin, .) [ ] thus, in the _parliamentary writs_, we have two adam bells (_possibly_ only one) contemporary with mr. hunter's robin hood, and both resident in yorkshire. , adam belle, manucaptor of a burgess for scarborough. , adam bele, manucaptor for citizens returned for york. [ ] grimm refers to the tradition by which eustathius accounts for sarpedon's being king of the lycians, which involves a story of his two rival uncles proposing to shoot through a ring placed on the breast of a child, and of sarpedon's being offered for that purpose by his mother; and also mentions a manuscript he had seen of travels in turkey, which contained a picture of a man shooting at an apple placed on a child's head. mery it was in grene forest, amonge the leues grene, wher that men walke east and west, with bowes and arrowes kene, to ryse the dere out of theyr denne,-- such sightes hath ofte bene sene,--[l ] as by thre yemen of the north countrey,[l ] by them it is i meane.[l ] the one of them hight adam bel, the other clym of the clough,[l ] the thyrd was william of cloudesly,[l ] an archer good ynough. they were outlawed for venyson, these yemen everechone; they swore them brethren upon a day, to englysshe-wood for to gone. now lith and lysten, gentylmen, that of myrthes loveth to here:[l ] two of them were single men, the third had a wedded fere. wyllyam was the wedded man, muche more then was hys care: he sayde to hys brethren upon a day, to carelel he would fare, for to speke with fayre alse hys wife, and with hys chyldren thre. "by my trouth," sayde adam bel, "not by the counsell of me. "for if ye go to caerlel, brother, and from thys wylde wode wende, if the justice mai you take, your lyfe were at an ende." "if that i come not tomorowe, brother, by pryme to you agayne, truste not els but that i am take, or else that i am slayne." he toke hys leave of his brethren two, and to carlel he is gon; there he knocked at hys owne windowe, shortlye and anone. "where be you, fayre alyce, my wyfe,[l ] and my chyldren three? lyghtly let in thyne owne husbande, wyllyam of cloudeslè." "alas!" then sayde fayre alyce, and syghed wonderous sore, "thys place hath ben besette for you, thys half yere and more." "now am i here," sayde cloudeslè, "i woulde that i in were:--[l ] now feche us meate and drynke ynoughe, and let us make good chere." she fetched him meat and drynke plenty, lyke a true wedded wyfe, and pleased hym wyth that she had, whome she loved as her lyfe. there lay an old wyfe in that place, a lytle besyde the fyre, whych wyllyam had found, of cherytye, more then seven yere. up she rose and walked full styll, evel mote she spede therefoore,[l ] for she had not set no fote on ground in seven yere before. she went unto the justice hall, as fast as she could hye; "thys nyght is come unto this town wyllyam of cloudeslè." thereof the iustice was full fayne, and so was the shirife also; "thou shalt not travaile hether, dame, for nought,[l ] thy meed thou shalt have or thou go." they gave to her a ryght good goune, of scarlat it was, as i heard sayne;[l ] she toke the gyft and home she wente, and couched her downe agayne. they rysed the towne of mery carlel, in all the hast that they can, and came thronging to wyllyames house, as fast as they myght gone. theyr they besette that good yeman, round about on every syde, wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes, that heytherward they hyed. alyce opened a shot-wyndow,[l ] and loked all about, she was ware of the justice and shirife bothe, wyth a full great route.[l ] "alas! treason," cry'd aleyce. "ever wo may thou be! go into my chambre, my husband," she sayd,[l ] "swete wyllyam of cloudeslè." he toke hys sweard and hys bucler, hys bow and hy[s] chyldren thre, and wente into hys strongest chamber, where he thought surest to be. fayre alice folowed him as a lover true, with a pollaxe in her hande; "he shal be dead that here cometh in thys dore, whyle i may stand." cloudeslè bent a wel good bowe, that was of trusty tre, he smot the justise on the brest, that hys arrowe brest in thre. "god's curse on his hartt," saide william, "thys day thy cote dyd on; if it had ben no better then myne, it had gone nere thy bone." "yelde the, cloudeslè," sayd the justise, "and thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro:" "gods curse on hys hart," sayde fair alice, "that my husband councelleth so." "set fyre on the house," saide the sherife, "syth it wyll no better be, and brenne we therin william," he saide, "hys wyfe and chyldren thre." they fyred the house in many a place, the fyre flew up on hye; "alas!" then cryed fayr alice, "i se we here shall dy." william openyd hys backe wyndow, that was in hys chambre on hye,[l ] and wyth shetes let hys wyfe downe, and hys chyldren thre. "have here my treasure," sayde william, "my wyfe and my chyldren thre, for christes love do them no harme, but wreke you all on me." wyllyam shot so wonderous well, tyll hys arrowes were all ygo,[l ] and the fyre so fast upon hym fell, that hys bowstryng brent in two. the spercles brent and fell hym on, good wyllyam of cloudeslè! but than wax he a wofull man, and sayde, "thys is a cowardes death to me. "leuer i had," sayde wyllyam, "with my sworde in the route to renne, then here among myne ennemyes wode, thus cruelly to bren." he toke hys sweard and hys buckler, and among them all he ran; where the people were most in prece, he smot downe many a man. there myght no man stand hys stroke, so fersly on them he ran; then they threw wyndowes and dores on him, and so toke that good yemàn. there they hym bounde both hande and fote, and in depe dongeon hym cast; "now, cloudeslè," sayd the hye justice, "thou shalt be hanged in hast." "one vow shal i make," sayd the sherife, "a payre of newe galowes shall i for the make, and the gates of caerlel shal be shutte, there shall no man come in therat. "then shall not helpe clim of the cloughe, nor yet shall adam bell, though they came with a thousand mo, nor all the devels in hell." early in the mornyng the justice uprose, to the gates first gan he gon, and commaundede to be shut full cloce lightilè everychone. then went he to the market place, as fast as he coulde hye; a payre of new gallous there did he up set, besyde the pyllory. a lytle boy stod them amonge, and asked what meaned that gallow tre; they sayde, "to hange a good yeamàn, called wyllyam of cloudeslè." that lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard, and kept fayre alyce swyne,[l ] oft he had seene cloudeslè in the wodde, and geuen hym there to dyne. he went out att a creves in the wall, and lightly to the wood dyd gone; there met he with these wight yonge men, shortly and anone. "alas!" then sayde that lytle boye, "ye tary here all to longe; cloudeslè is taken and dampned to death, all readye for to honge." "alas!" then sayde good adam bell, "that ever we see thys daye! he myght her with us have dwelled, so ofte as we dyd him praye! "he myght have taryed in grene foreste, under the shadowes sheene, and have kepte both hym and us in reaste, out of trouble and teene!" adam bent a ryght good bow, a great hart sone had he slayne; "take that, chylde," he sayde, "to thy dynner, and bryng me myne arrowe agayne." "now go we hence," sayed these wight yong men, "tary we no lenger here; we shall hym borowe, by gods grace, though we bye it full dere." to caerlel went these good yemèn,[l ] on a mery mornyng of maye: here is a fyt of cloudesli, and another is for to saye. , as hath. , the. , as i. , . clym of the clough means, as percy says, clement of the valley; and cloudeslè, suggests ritson, seems to be the same with clodsley. . and that. , your. , in woulde. , spende. , fore. , saye. _percy reads_, of scarlate and of graine. , shop. _percy reads_ back window. , great full great. , gy. , was on. , gon. , there. , cyerlel. [the second fit.] and when they came to mery caerlell, in a fayre mornyng tyde, they founde the gates shut them untyll, round about on every syde. "alas!" than sayd good adam bell, "that ever we were made men! these gates be shut so wonderly wel,[l ] that we may not come here in." then spake him clym of the clough, "wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng; let us saye we be messengers, streyght comen from our king."[l ] adam said, "i have a letter written wel, now let us wysely werke; we wyl saye we have the kinges seale,[l ] i holde the portter no clerke." then adam bell bete on the gate, with strokes great and strong; the porter herde suche noyse therat, and to the gate faste he throng.[l ] "who is there nowe," sayde the porter, "that maketh all thys knocking? "we be tow messengers," sayde clim of the clough, "be comen streyght from our kyng."[l ] "we haue a letter," sayd adam bel, "to the justice we must it bryng;[l ] let us in, our messag to do, that we were agayne to our kyng." "here commeth no man in," sayd the porter,[l ] "by hym that dyed on a tre,[l ] tyll a false thefe be hanged, called wyllyam of cloudeslè." then spake the good yeman clym of the clough, and swore by mary fre, "and if that we stande longe wythout, lyke a thefe hanged shalt thou be. "lo here we have the kynges seale; what! lordeyne, art thou wode?" the porter went it had ben so, and lyghtly dyd of hys hode. "welcome be my lordes seale," he saide, "for that ye shall come in:" he opened the gate full shortlye, an evyl openyng for him. "now are we in," sayde adam bell, "thereof we are full faine, but christ knoweth that harowed hell,[l ] how we shall com out agayne." "had we the keys," said clim of the clough, "ryght wel then shoulde we spede;[l ] then might we come out wel ynough, "when we se tyme and nede." they called the porter to a counsell,[l ] and wrange hys necke in two, and caste him in a depe dongeòn, and toke hys keys hym fro. "now am i porter," sayde adam bel, "se, brother, the keys haue we here; the worst porter to merry caerlel, that ye had thys hundred yere. "and now wyll we our bowes bend, into the towne wyll we go, for to delyver our dere brother, that lyveth in care and wo." [and thereupon] they bent theyr bowes, and loked theyr stringes were round; the market place of mery caerlel,[l ] they beset in that stound.[l ] and as they loked them besyde, a paire of new galowes ther thei see,[l ] and the justice with a quest of swerers,[l ] that had judged cloudeslè there hanged to be. and cloudeslè hymselfe lay redy in a carte, faste bounde both fote and hand,[l ] and a stronge rop about hys necke, all readye for to be hangde.[l ] the justice called to him a ladde, cloudeslè [s] clothes should he have, to take the measure of that good yeman,[l ] and therafter to make hys grave. "i have seen as great a mearveile," said cloudesli, "as betwyene thys and pryme, he that maketh thys grave for me, himselfe may lye therin." "thou speakest proudli," saide the justice, "i shall the hange with my hande:" full wel that herd hys brethren two,[l ] there styll as they dyd stande. then cloudeslè cast hys eyen asyde,[l ] and saw hys to brethren stande,[l ] at a corner of the market place,[l ] with theyr good bows bent in ther hand.[l ] "i se good comfort," sayd cloudeslè,[l ] "yet hope i well to fare;[l ] if i might haue my handes at wyll, ryght lytle wolde i care." then spake good adam bell, to clym of the clough so free, "brother, se ye marke the justyce wel, lo yonder ye may him see. "and at the shyrife shote i wyll, strongly with an arrowe kene;[l ] a better shote in mery caerlel thys seven yere was not sene." they lowsed their arrowes both at once,[l ] of no man had they dread; the one hyt the justice, the other the sheryfe, that both theyr sides gan blede.[l ] all men voyded, that them stode nye, when the justice fell downe to the grounde, and the sherife fell nyghe hym by, eyther had his deathes wounde. all the citezens fast gan flye, they durst no longer abyde; then lyghtly they loused cloudeslè,[l ] when he with ropes lay tyde. wyllyam sterte to an officer of the towne, hys axe out of hys hande he wronge, on eche syde he smote them downe, hym thought he taryed all to long. wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two,[l ] "thys daye let us togyder lyve and dye;[l ] if ever you have nede as i have now, the same shall you fynde by me." they shot so well in that tyde, for theyr stringes were of silke full sure, that they kept the stretes on every side:[l ] that batayle dyd longe endure. the[y] fought together as brethren tru, lyke hardy men and bolde; many a man to the ground they thrue, and many a herte made colde.[l ] but when their arrowes were all gon, men preced on them full fast;[l ] they drew theyr swordes then anone, and theyr bowes from them cast. they went lyghtlye on theyr way, wyth swordes and buclers round; by that it was the myddes of the day,[l ] they had made mani a wound.[l ] there was many an out-horne in caerlel blowen,[l ] and the belles bacward did they ryng;[l ] many a woman sayd alas, and many theyr handes dyd wryng. the mayre of caerlel forth com was, and with hym a ful great route; these thre yemen dred him full sore,[l ] for of theyr lyues they stode in great doute. the mayre came armed a full great pace, with a pollaxe in hys hande; many a strong man with him was, there in that stowre to stande. the mayre smot at cloudeslè with his bil, hys bucler he brust in two; full many a yeman with great yll,[l ] "alas, treason!" they cryed for wo. "kepe we the gates fast" they bad, "that these traytours thereout not go." but al for nought was that they wrought, for so fast they downe were layde,[l ] tyll they all thre, that so manfulli fought, were gotten without at a braide.[l ] "have here your keys," sayd adam bel, "myne office i here forsake; yf you do by my councèll, a new porter do ye make."[l ] he threw the keys there at theyr heads,[l ] and bad them evell to thryve, and all that letteth any good yeman to come and comfort hys wyfe. thus be these good yemen gon to the wod, as lyght as lefe on lynde;[l ] they lough and be mery in theyr mode, theyr ennemyes were ferre behynd. when they came to englyshe wode, under the trysty tre,[l ] there they found bowes full good,[l ] and arrowes full great plentye. "so god me help," sayd adam bell, and clym of the clough so fre, "i would we were nowe in mery caerlel,[l ] before that fayre meyny." they set them downe and made good chere, and eate and drank full well:[l ] here is a fet of these wyght yong men, and another i shall you tell.[l ] , wonderous. r. (ritson.) , come nowe. r. , seales. r. , r. omits faste. , come ryght. r. , me. , none. r. , be ... upon. r. , knows, r. , shaulde. , a, c. (collier.) , in, r. , in, c. , they. , squyers, r. , bounde, c. , to hang, r. , good, c. , that, c. , claudesle. , brethen; copland omits stande. , marked. . here the old edition adds,-- 'redy the justice for to chaunce', (chase, c.) , copland omits good. , will. , an, c. , thre. , sedes. , then. , brethen. , togyder, c. , sede. , made many a herte. , on, c. , was myd, r. , had, c. , many, c. , they, c. , thre, c. , evyll, r. , to. , abraide, r. , we. , theyr keys at, r. , and lyghtly as, r. [the third fit.] as they sat in englyshe-wood, under theyr trysty tre,[l ] them thought they herd a woman wepe,[l ] but her they mought not se. sore then syghed the fayre alyce, and sayde, "alas that ever i sawe this daye! for now is my dere husband slayne, alas and wel a way! "myght i have spoken wyth hys dere brethren,[l ] or with eyther of them twayne, [to let them know what him befell][l ] my hart were out of payne!"[l ] cloudeslè walked a lytle besyde, and loked under the grenewood linde; he was ware of hys wife and chyldren thre, full wo in hart and mynde. "welcome, wife," then sayde wyllyam, "under this trysty tre;[l ] i had wende yesterday, by swete saynt john, thou shulde me never have se."[l ] "now well is me," she sayde, "that ye be here, my hart is out of wo:" "dame," he sayde, "be mery and glad, and thank my brethren two."[l ] "hereof to speake," sayd adam bell, "i-wis it is no bote; the meat that we must supp withall it runneth yet fast on fote." then went they down into a launde, these noble archares all thre, eche of them slew a hart of greece,[l ] the best they could there se. "have here the best, alyce my wife," sayde wyllyam of cloudeslè, "by cause ye so bouldly stod by me, when i was slayne full nye." then went they to supper,[l ] wyth suche meat as they had, and thanked god of ther fortune; they were both mery and glad. and when they had supped well, certayne without any leace, cloudeslè sayd, "we wyll to our kyng, to get us a charter of peace. "alyce shall be at sojournyng,[l ] in a nunry here besyde; my tow sonnes shall wyth her go, and ther they shall abyde. "myne eldest son shall go wyth me, for hym have i no care, and he shall breng you worde agayn[l ] how that we do fare." thus be these yemen to london gone, as fast as they might hye, tyll they came to the kynges pallace, where they woulde nedes be. and whan they came to the kynges courte, unto the pallace gate, of no man wold they aske no leave, but boldly went in therat. they preced prestly into the hall, of no man had they dreade; the porter came after and dyd them call, and with them began to chyde. the ussher sayed, "yemen, what wold ye haue? i pray you tell me; you myght thus make offycers shent: good syrs, of whence be ye?" "syr, we be outlawes of the forest, certayne without any leace, and hether we be come to our kyng, to get us a charter of peace." and whan they came before the kyng, as it was the lawe of the lande, the[y] kneled downe without lettyng, and eche held up his hand. the[y] sayed, "lord, we beseche the here, that ye wyll graunt us grace, for we haue slaine your fat falow der, in many a sondry place." "what be your nam[e]s?" then said our king, "anone that you tell me: they sayd, "adam bel, clim of the clough, and wyllyam of cloudeslè." "be ye those theves," then sayd our kyng, "that men have tolde of to me? here to god i make a vowe, ye shal be hanged al thre. "ye shal be dead without mercy, as i am kynge of this lande." he commanded his officers everichone fast on them to lay hand. there they toke these good yemen, and arested them all thre: "so may i thryve," sayd adam bell, "thys game lyketh not me. "but, good lorde, we beseche you now, that you graunt vs grace, insomuche as we be to you comen, or els that we may fro you passe, "with such weapons as we have here, tyll we be out of your place; and yf we lyve this hundreth yere, we wyll aske you no grace." "ye speake proudly," sayd the kynge, "ye shall be hanged all thre:" "that were great pitye," then sayd the quene, "if any grace myght be. "my lorde, whan i came fyrst into this lande, to be your wedded wyfe, the fyrst bowne that i wold aske, ye would graunt it me belyfe; "and i asked never none tyll now, therefore, good lorde, graunte it me." "now aske it, madam," sayd the kynge, "and graunted shall it be." "then, my good lord, i you beseche, these yemen graunt ye me:" "madame, ye myght have asked a bowne that shuld have ben worth them all thre. "ye myght have asked towres and town[es], parkes and forestes plenty." "none so pleasaunt to mi pay," she said, "nor none so lefe to me." "madame, sith it is your desyre, your askyng graunted shal be; but i had lever have geven you good market townes thre." the quene was a glad woman, and sayd, "lord, gramarcy; i dare undertake for them, that true men shal they be. "but, good lord, speke som mery word, that comfort they may se." "i graunt you grace," then said our king, "wasshe, felos, and to meate go ye." they had not setten but a whyle, certayne without lesynge, there came messengers out of the north, with letters to our kynge. and whan the[y] came before the kynge, they kneled downe vpon theyr kne, and sayd, "lord, your offycers grete you wel, of caerlel in the north cuntrè." "how fare[s] my justice," sayd the kyng, "and my sherife also?" "syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, and many an officer mo." "who hath them slayne?" sayd the kyng, "anone thou tell me:" "adam bel, and clime of the clough, and wyllyam of cloudeslè." "alas for rewth!" then sayd our kynge, "my hart is wonderous sore; i had leuer [th]an a thousand pounde, i had knowne of thys before. "for i have graunted them grace, and that forthynketh me, but had i knowne all thys before, they had been hanged all thre." the kyng opened the letter anone, hymselfe he red it th[r]o, and founde how these thre outlawes had slaine thre hundred men and mo. fyrst the justice and the sheryfe, and the mayre of caerlel towne; of all the constables and catchipolles alyve were left not one. the baylyes and the bedyls both, and the sergeauntes of the law, and forty fosters of the fe, these outlawes had yslaw, and broke his parks, and slaine his dere; over all they chose the best; so perelous outlawes as they were, walked not by easte nor west. when the kynge this letter had red, in hys harte he syghed sore; "take vp the table anone," he bad, "for i may eate no more." the kyng called hys best archars, to the buttes with hym to go; "i wylle se these felowes shote," he sayd, in the north have wrought this wo." the kynges bowmen buske them blyve, and the quenes archers also, so dyd these thre wyght yemèn, wyth them they thought to go. there twyse or thryse they shote about, for to assay theyr hande; there was no shote these yemen shot, that any prycke might them stand. then spake wyllyam of cloudeslè, "by him that for me dyed, i hold hym never no good archar that shuteth at buttes so wyde." "wherat?" then sayd our kyng,[l ] "i pray thee tell me:" "at such a but, syr," he sayd, "as men use in my countree." wyllyam went into a fyeld, and his to brethren with him, there they set vp to hasell roddes, twenty score paces betwene. "i hold him an archar," said cloudeslè, "that yonder wande cleveth in two:" "here is none suche," sayd the kyng, "nor none that can so do." "i shall assaye, syr," sayd cloudeslè, "or that i farther go:" cloudeslè, with a bearyng arow, clave the wand in to. "thou art the best archer," then said the king, "forsothe that ever i se:" "and yet for your love," said wylliam, "i wyll do more maystry. "i have a sonne is seven yere olde,[l ] he is to me full deare; i wyll hym tye to a stake, all shall se that be here; "and lay an apele upon hys head, and go syxe score paces hym fro, and i myselfe, with a brode arow, shall cleve the apple in two." "now haste the," then sayd the kyng, "by him that dyed on a tre; but yf thou do not as thou hast sayde,[l ] hanged shalt thou be. "and thou touche his head or gowne, in syght that men may se, by all the sayntes that be in heaven, i shall hange you all thre." "that i have promised," said william, "i wyl it never forsake;" and there even before the kynge, in the earth he droue a stake, and bound therto his eldest sonne, and bad hym stande styll therat, and turned the childes face fro him, because he shuld not sterte. an apple upon his head he set, and then his bowe he bent; syxe score paces they were out met, and thether cloudeslè went. there he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, hys bowe was great and longe, he set that arrowe in his bowe, that was both styffe and stronge. he prayed the people that was there, that they would styll stande, "for he that shooteth for such a wager, behoveth a stedfast hand." muche people prayed for cloudeslè, that hys lyfe saved myght be, and whan he made hym redy to shote, there was many a weping eye. thus cloudeslè clefte the apple in two, that many a man myght se;[l ] "over gods forbode," sayde the kynge, "that thou shote at me! "i geve the xviii. pence a day, and my bowe shalt thou beare, and over all the north countre, i make the chyfe rydere." "and i geve the xvii. pence a day," said the quene, "by god and by my fay; come feche thy payment when thou wylt, no man shall say the nay. "wyllyam, i make the a gentelman, of clothyng and of fe, and thi two brethren yemen of my chambre, for they are so semely to se. "your sonne, for he is tendre of age, of my wyne-seller shall he be, and whan he commeth to mannes estate, better avaunced shall he be. "and, wylliam, bring me your wife," said the quene, me longeth her sore to se; she shal be my chefe gentelwoman, to governe my nursery." the yemen thanketh them full curteously, and sayde, "to some bysshop wyl we wend, of all the synnes that we have done to be assoyld at his hand." so forth be gone these good yemen, as fast as they myght hye, and after came and dwelled with the kynge, and dyed good men all thre. thus endeth the lives of these good yemen, god send them eternall blysse, and all that with hande bowe shoteth, that of heaven may never mysse! , trusty, r. , there, c. , nowe, c. , drynke, r. . another i wyll, r. , trusty, r. , they, r. , brethen. , supplied from a modern edition. , put out, r. , thus, trusty, r. , had. , brethen. , graece. , whent. , at our, r. , you breng, r. . at what a butte now, wold ye shot. percy. , hest. - . for remarks upon this passage in the story, see the preface to the ballad. . his son he did not nee. percy. robin hood and guy of gisborne. this ballad was derived from the percy manuscript, and is printed in the _reliques_, i. (ed. ), with some alterations by the editor. "as for guy of gisborne," says ritson, "the only further memorial which has occurred concerning him is in an old satirical piece by william dunbar, a celebrated scottish poet of the fifteenth century, on one "schir thomas nory," (ms. maitland, p. , mms. more, ll. , ,) where he is named along with our hero, adam bell, and other worthies, it is conjectured of a similar stamp, but whose merits have not, less fortunately, come to the knowledge of posterity. "was nevir weild robeine under bewch, nor yitt roger of clekkislewch, so bauld a bairne as he; gy of gysburne, na allane bell, na simones sones of quhynsell, off thocht war nevir so slie." "gisborne is a market town in the west riding of the county of york, on the borders of lancashire." when shaws beene sheene, and shradds full fayre,[l ] and leaves both large and longe, itt is merrye walkyng in the fayre forrèst, to heare the small birdes songe. the woodweele sang, and wold not cease, sitting upon the spraye, soe lowde, he wakened robìn hood, in the greenwood where he lay. "now, by my faye," sayd jollye robìn, "a sweaven i had this night; i dreamt me of tow wight yemèn,[l ] that fast with me can fight. "methought they did mee beate and binde, and tooke my bowe mee froe; iff i be robin alive in this lande, ile be wroken on them towe." "sweavens are swift, master," quoth john, "as the wind that blowes ore a hill; for iff itt be never so loude this night, to-morrow itt may be still." "buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all, and john shall goe with mee, for ile goe seeke yond wight yeomèn, in greenwood where they bee."[l ] then they cast on their gownes of grene, and tooke theyr bowes each one; and they away to the greene forrèst[l ] a shooting forth are gone; until they came to the merry greenwood, where they had gladdest bee; there were they ware of a wight yeomàn,[l ] his body leaned to a tree. a sword and a dagger he wore by his side, of manye a man the bane; and he was clad in his capull hyde, topp and tayll and mayne. "stand you still, master," quoth litle john, "under this tree so grene, and i will go to yond wight yeomàn, to know what he doth meane." "ah! john, by me thou settest noe store, and that i farley finde: how offt send i my men beffore, and tarry my selfe behinde? "it is no cunning a knave to ken, and a man but heare him speake; and itt were not for bursting of my bowe, john, i thy head wold breake." as often wordes they breeden bale, so they parted robin and john; and john is gone to barnesdale; the gates he knoweth eche one. but when he came to barnesdale, great heavinesse there hee hadd, for he found tow of his owne fellòwes, were slaine both in a slade. and scarlette he was flying a-foote fast over stocke and stone, for the sheriffe with seven score men fast after him is gone. "one shoote now i will shoote," quoth john, "with christ his might and mayne; ile make yond fellow that flyes soe fast, to stopp he shall be fayne." then john bent up his long bende-bowe, and fetteled him to shoote: the bowe was made of tender boughe, and fell downe to his foote. "woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, that ere thou grew on a tree! for now this day thou art my bale, my boote when thou shold bee." his shoote it was but loosely shott, yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, for itt mett one of the sheriffes men, good william a trent was slaine. it had bene better of william a trent to have bene abed with sorrowe, than to be that day in the greenwood slade to meet with little johns arrowe. but as it is said, when men be mett fyve can doe more than three, the sheriffe hath taken little john, and bound him fast to a tree. "thou shalt be drawen by dale and downe, and hanged hye on a hill;" "but thou mayst fayle of thy purpose," quoth john, "if itt be christ his will." lett us leave talking of little john, and thinke of robin hood, how he is gone to the wight yeomàn, where under the leaves he stood. "good morrowe, good fellowe," sayd robin so fayre, "good morrowe, good fellow, quoth he: methinkes by this bowe thou beares in thy hande, a good archere thou sholdst bee." "i am wilfulle of my waye," quo' the yemàn, "and of my morning tyde:" "ile lead thee through the wood," sayd robin, "good, fellow, ile be thy guide." "i seeke an outlawe," the straunger sayd, "men call him robin hood: rather ild meet with that proud outlawe than fortye pound soe good." "now come with me, thou wight yemàn,[l ] and robin thou soone shalt see; but first let us some pastime find under the greenwood tree. "first let us some masterye make among the woods so even; we may chance to meet with robin hood here att some unsett steven." they cutt them downe two summer shroggs, that grew both under a breere, and sett them threescore rood in twaine, to shoote the prickes y-fere. "leade on, good fellowe," quoth robin hood, "leade on, i do bidd thee;" "nay, by my faith, good fellowe," hee sayd, "my leader thou shalt bee." the first time robin shot at the pricke, he mist but an inch it fro; the yeoman was an archer good, but he cold never shoote soe. the second shoote had the wighte yemàn,[l ] he shote within the garlànde; but robin he shott far better than hee, for he clave the good pricke-wande. "a blessing upon thy heart," he sayd, "good fellowe, thy shooting is goode; for an thy hart be as good as thy hand, thou wert better then robin hoode. "now tell me thy name, good fellowe," sayd he, "under the leaves of lyne;" "nay, by my faith," quoth bolde robin, "till thou have told me thine." "i dwell by dale and downe," quoth hee, "and robin to take ime sworne; and when i am called by my right name, i am guye of good gisbòrne." "my dwelling is in this wood," sayes robin, "by thee i set right nought: i am robin hood of barnésdale, whom thou so long hast sought." he that had nether beene kithe nor kin might have seene a full fayre fight, to see how together these yeomen went with blades both browne and bright: to see how these yeomen together they fought two howres of a summers day, yett neither robin hood nor sir guy them fettled to flye away. robin was reachles on a roote, and stumbled at that tyde; and guy was quicke and nimble withall, and hitt him ore the left side. "ah, deere ladye," sayd robin hood tho, "thou art both mother and may; i think it was never mans destinye to dye before his day." robin thought on our ladye deere, and soone leapt up againe, and strait he came with an awkwarde stroke, and he sir guy hath slayne. he took sir guys head by the hayre, and sticked itt on his bowes end: "thou hast beene a traytor all thy liffe, which thing must have an end." robin pulled forth an irish kniffe, and nicked sir guy in the face, that he was never on woman born cold tell whose head it was. sayes, "lye there, lye there now, sir guye, and with me be not wrothe; iff thou have had the worse strokes at my hand, thou shalt have the better clothe." robin did off his gowne of greene, and on sir guy did it throwe, and hee put on that capull hyde, that cladd him topp to toe. "the bowe, the arrowes, and litle horne, now with me i will beare; for i will away to barnésdale, to see how my men doe fare." robin hood sett guyes horne to his mouth, and a loud blast in it did blow: that beheard the sheriffe of nottingham, as he leaned under a lowe. "hearken, hearken," sayd the sheriffe, "i heare nowe tydings good, for yonder i heare sir guyes horne blowe, and he hath slaine robin hoode. "yonder i heare sir guyes horne blowe, itt blowes soe well in tyde, and yonder comes that wight yeomàn,[l ] cladd in his capull hyde. "come hyther, come hyther, thou good sir guy, aske what thou wilt of mee:" "o i will none of thy gold," sayd robin, "nor i will none of thy fee. "but now i have slaine the master," he sayes, "let me goe strike the knave; this is all the rewarde i aske, nor noe other will i have." "thou art a madman," said the sheriffe, "thou sholdest have had a knights fee; but seeing thy asking hath beene soe bad, well granted it shale be." when litle john heard his master speake, well knewe he it was his steven; "now shall i be looset," quoth litle john, "with christ his might in heaven." fast robin hee hyed him to little john, he thought to loose him belive: the sheriffe and all his companye fast after him did drive. "stand abacke, stand abacke," sayd robin, "why draw you mee soe neere? it was never the use in our countrye, ones shrift another shold heere." but robin pulled forth an irysh knife, and losed john hand and foote, and gave him sir guyes bow into his hand, and bade it be his boote. then john he took guyes bow in his hand, his boltes and arrowes eche one: when the sheriffe saw little john bend his bow, he fettled him to be gone. towards his house in nottingham towne he fled full fast away, and soe did all the companye, not one behind wold stay. but he cold neither runne soe fast, nor away soe fast cold ryde, but litle john with an arrowe soe broad he shott him into the backe-syde. ms. , shales, for shaws. , wighty. , the. , , the. , wighty. , wightye. , wightye. the birth of robin hood. "the following ballad was taken down by the editor from the recitation of mrs. brown, and is here given without the alteration of a single word."--_jamieson_, _popular ballads_, ii. . another version of the same is printed in the appendix from buchan's collections. o willie's large o' limb and lith, and come o' high degree; and he is gone to earl richard to serve for meat and fee. earl richard had but ae daughter, fair as a lily flower; and they made up their love-contract like proper paramour. it fell upon a simmers nicht, whan the leaves were fair and green, that willie met his gay ladie intil the wood alane. "o narrow is my gown, willie, that wont to be sae wide; and gane is a' my fair colour, that wont to be my pride. "but gin my father should get word what's past between us twa, before that he should eat or drink, he'd hang you o'er that wa. "but ye'le come to my bower, willie, just as the sun goes down; and kep me in your arms twa, and latna me fa' down." o whan the sun was now gane down, he's doen him till her bower; and there, by the lee licht o' the moon, her window she lookit o'er. intill a robe o' red scarlet she lap, fearless o' harm; and willie was large o' lith and limb, and keepit her in his arm. and they've gane to the gude green-wood, and ere the night was deen, she's borne to him a bonny young son, amang the leaves sae green. whan night was gane, and day was come, and the sun began to peep, up and raise the earl richard out o' his drowsy sleep. he's ca'd upon his merry young men, by ane, by twa, and by three, "o what's come o' my daughter dear, that she's nae come to me? "i dreamt a dreary dream last night, god grant it come to gude! i dreamt i saw my daughter dear drown in the saut sea flood. "but gin my daughter be dead or sick, or yet be stown awa, i mak a vow, and i'll keep it true, i'll hang ye ane and a!" they sought her back, they sought her fore, they sought her up and down; they got her in the gude green wood, nursing her bonny young son. he took the bonny boy in his arms, and kist him tenderlie; says, "though i would your father hang, your mother's dear to me." he kist him o'er and o'er again; "my grandson i thee claim; and robin hood in gude green wood, and that shall be your name." and mony ane sings o' grass, o' grass, and mony ane sings o' corn; and mony ane sings o' robin hood, kens little whare he was born. it was na in the ha', the ha', nor in the painted bower; but it was in the gude green wood, amang the lily flower. rose the red, and white lilly. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . this legend and the preceding are placed in this volume solely on account of the names given to the personages who figure in them. in character they have no affinity with the recognized circle of robin hood ballads. the story is of a more ancient cast, and also of a type common to the northern nations, and we have no doubt that robin hood and little john were in the day of their popularity made to displace heroes of immemorial prescription, in order to give eclat to an old tale. of _rose the red, and white lilly_, three versions have been published. the present is that of scott, given "chiefly" from mrs. brown's manuscript. kinloch's is subjoined, and another, furnished by buchan, is printed in the appendix. o rose the red, and white lilly, their mother deir was dead; and their father has married an ill woman, wish'd them twa little guid. but she had twa as gallant sons as ever brake mans bread; and the tane o' them lo'ed her, white lilly, and the tother rose the red. o bigged hae they a bigly bour, fast by the roaring strand; and there was mair mirth in the ladyes bour, nor in a' their fathers land. but out and spak their step-mother, as she stood a little forebye-- "i hope to live and play the prank sall gar your loud sang lie." she's call'd upon her eldest son, "cum here, my son, to me: it fears me sair, my bauld arthur, that ye maun sail the sea." "gin sae it maun be, my deir mother, your bidding i maun dee; but, be never waur to rose the red, than ye hae been to me." she's called upon her youngest son, "cum here, my son, to me: it fears me sair, my brown robin, that ye maun sail the sea." "gin it fear ye sair, my mother deir, your bidding i shall dee; but, be never waur to white lilly, than ye hae been to me." "now haud your tongues, ye foolish boys, for small sall be their part: they ne'er again sall see your face, gin their very hearts suld break." sae bauld arthur's gane to our king's court, his hie chamberlain to be; but brown robin, he has slain a knight, and to grene-woode he did flee. when rose the red, and white lilly, saw their twa loves were gane, sune did they drop the loud loud sang, took up the still mourning. and out then spake her white lilly; "my sister, we'll be gane: why suld we stay in barnisdale, to mourn our bour within?" o cutted hae they their green cloathing, a little abune their knee, and sae hae they their yellow hair, a little abune their bree. and left hae they that bonny bour, to cross the raging sea; and they hae ta'en to a holy chapel, was christened by our ladye. and they hae changed their twa names, sae far frae ony toun; and the tane o' them's hight sweet willie, and the tother's rouge the rounde. between the twa a promise is, and they hae sworn it to fulfil; whenever the tane blew a bugle-horn, the tother suld cum her till. sweet willie's gane to the kings court, her true love for to see; and rouge the rounde to gude grene-wood, brown robin's man to be. o it fell anes, upon a time, they putted at the stane; and seven foot ayont them a', brown robin's gar'd it gang. she lifted the heavy putting-stane, and gave a sad "ohon!" then out bespake him, brown robin, "but that's a woman's moan!" "o kent ye by my rosy lips? or by my yellow hair? or kent ye by my milk-white breast, ye never yet saw bare?" "i kent na by your rosy lips; nor by your yellow hair; but, cum to your bour whaever likes, they'll find a ladye there." "o gin ye come my bour within, through fraud, deceit, or guile, wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, i vow i will thee kill." "yet durst i cum into your bour, and ask nae leave," quo' he; "and wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, wave danger back on thee." about the dead hour o' the night, the ladye's bour was broken; and, about the first hour o' the day, the fair knave bairn was gotten. when days were gane, and months were come, the ladye was sad and wan; and aye she cried for a bour woman, for to wait her upon. then up and spake him, brown robin, "and what needs this?" quo' he; "or what can woman do for you, that canna be done by me?" "'twas never my mothers fashion," she said, "nor shall it e'er be mine, that belted knights should e're remain while ladyes dree'd their pain. "but gin ye take that bugle-horn, and wind a blast sae shrill, i hae a brother in yonder court, will come me quickly till." "o gin ye hae a brother on earth, that ye lo'e mair than me, ye may blow the horn yoursell," he says, "for a blast i winna gie." she's ta'en the bugle in her hand, and blawn baith loud and shrill; sweet william started at the sound, and came her quickly till. o up and starts him, brown robin, and swore by our ladye, "no man shall come into this bour, but first maun fight wi' me." o they hae fought the wood within, till the sun was going down; and drops o' blood frae rose the red came pouring to the ground. she leant her back against an aik, said, "robin, let me be; for it is a ladye, bred and born, that has fought this day wi' thee." o seven foot he started back, cried, "alas and woe is me! for i wished never, in all my life, a woman's bluid to see: "and that all for the knightly vow i swore to our ladye; but mair for the sake o' ae fair maid, whose name was white lilly." then out and spake her rouge the rounde, and leugh right hertilie, "she has been wi' ye this year and mair, though ye wistna it was she." now word is gane through all the land, before a month was gane, that a foresters page, in gude grene-wood, had born a bonny son. the marvel gaed to the kings court, and to the king himsell; "now, by my fae," the king did say, "the like was never heard tell!" then out and spake him bauld arthur, and laugh'd right loud and hie-- "i trow some may has plaid the lown, and fled her ain countrie." "bring me my steid," the king can say, "my bow and arrows keen; and i'll gae hunt in yonder wood, and see what's to be seen." "gin it please your grace," quo' bauld arthur, "my liege, i'll gang you wi', and see gin i can meet a bonny page, that's stray'd awa frae me." and they hae chased in gude green-wood, the buck but and the rae, till they drew near brown robin's bour, about the close o' day. then out an' spake the king himsell, says, "arthur, look and see, gin yon be not your favourite page, that leans against yon tree." o arthur's ta'en a bugle-horn, and blawn a blast sae shrill; sweet willie started to her feet, and ran him quickly till. "o wanted ye your meat, willie, or wanted ye your fee? or gat ye e'er an angry word, that ye ran awa frae me?" "i wanted nought, my master dear; to me ye aye was good: i cam to see my ae brother, that wons in this grene-wood." then out bespake the king again,-- "my boy, now tell to me, who dwells into yon bigly bour, beneath yon green aik tree?" "o pardon me," said sweet willy, "my liege, i darena tell; and gangna near yon outlaw's bour, for fear they suld you kill." "o haud your tongue, my bonny boy, for i winna be said nay; but i will gang yon bour within, betide me weal or wae." they have lighted frae their milk-white steids, and saftlie entered in; and there they saw her, white lilly, nursing her bonny young son. "now, by the mass," the king he said, "this is a comely sight; i trow, instead of a forester's man, this is a ladye bright!" o out and spake her, rose the red, and fell low on her knee:-- "o pardon us, my gracious liege, and our story i'll tell thee. "our father is a wealthy lord, lives into barnisdale; but we had a wicked step-mother, that wrought us meikle bale. "yet had she twa as fu' fair sons as e'er the sun did see; and the tane o' them lo'ed my sister deir, and the tother said he lo'ed me." then out and cried him bauld arthur, as by the king he stood,-- "now, by the faith of my body, this suld be rose the red!" the king has sent for robes o' green, and girdles o' shining gold; and sae sune have the ladyes busked themselves, sae glorious to behold. then in and came him, brown robin, fra hunting o' the king's deer, but when he saw the king himsell, he started back for fear. the king has ta'en robin by the hand, and bade him nothing dread, but quit for aye the gude grene-wood, and come to the court wi' speed. the king has ta'en white lilly's son, and set him on his knee; says, "gin ye live to wield a brand, my bowman thou sall be." then they have ta'en them to the holy chapelle, and there had fair wedding; and when they cam to the king's court, for joy the bells did ring. the wedding of robin hood and little john. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . the king has wedded an ill woman, into some foreign land; his daughters twa, that stood in awe, they bravely sat and sang. then in be-came their step-mother, sae stately steppin' ben; "o gin i live and bruik my life, i'll gar ye change your tune." "o we sang ne'er that sang, ladie, but we will sing again; and ye ne'er boor that son, ladie, we wad lay our love on. "but we will cow our yellow locks, a little abune our bree; and we will on to gude green-wud, and serve for meat and fee. "and we will kilt our gay claithing a little below the knee; and we will on the gude green-wud, gif robin hood we see. "and we will change our ain twa names, when we gae frae the toun,-- the tane we will call nicholas, the tither rogee roun." then they hae cow'd their yellow locks, a little abune their bree; and they are on to gude green-wud to serve for meat and fee. and they hae kilt their gay claithing a little below their knee, and they are on to gud green-wud, gif robin hood they see. and they hae chang'd thair ain twa names, when they gaed frae the toun;-- the tane they've called nicholas, the tither rogee roun. and they hae staid in gude green-wud, and never a day thoucht long, till it fell ance upon a day, that rogee sang a sang. "when we were in our fathers bouer, we sew'd the silken seam; but now we walk the gude green-wud, and bear anither name. "when we were in our fathers ha', we wore the beaten gold; but now we wear the shield sae sharp, alas! we'll die with cold!" then up bespake him robin hood, as he to them drew near; "instead of boys to carry the bow, twa ladies we've got here." so they had not been in gud green-wud, a twalmonth and a day, till rogee roun was as big wi' bairn as onie lady could gae. "o wae be to my stepmother, that garr'd me leave my hame, for i'm wi' bairn to robin hood, and near nine month is gane. "o wha will be my bouer-woman? na bouer-woman is here! o wha will be my bouer-woman, whan that sad time draws near? * * * * * * * the tane was wedded to robin hood, and the tither to little john; and it was a' owing to their step-mother that garr'd them leave their hame. robin hood and the beggar. "robin hood and his fellow, little john," says motherwell, "were popular with the minstrels of scotland as they were with those of england. our early poets and historians never tired of alluding to songs current in their own times, relative to these waithmen and their merry men. even to this day there are fragments of songs regarding them, traditionally extant in scotland, which have not yet found their way into any printed collection of ballads commemorative of these celebrated outlaws. were they carefully gathered they would form an interesting addition to ritson's _robin hood_. in that collection, the ballad of _robin hood and the beggar_ is evidently the production of a scottish minstrel, pretty early stall copies of which were printed both at aberdeen and glasgow."--_minstrelsy_, p. xliii. ritson printed this ballad (_robin hood_, ii. ,) from a modern copy printed at newcastle. he remarks that a similar story may be found in _le moyen de parvenir_, (i. , ed. , _comment un moine se débarasse des voleurs_.) we have adopted a superior version given by gutch, which was from an aberdeen copy in the ashmolean museum, without date.--(gutch's _robin hood_, ii. .) _robin hood and the beggar_, with the nine pieces which are now immediately subjoined, the first part of the tenth, (which has the same title as the present,) and the first part of _robin hood and the stranger_, in the appendix, contains a story essentially the same with the first part of the ancient ballad of _robin hood and the potter_, p. . lyth and listen, gentlemen, that's come of high born blood, i'll tell you of a brave booting that befel robin hood. robin hood upon a day, he went forth alone; and as he came from barnesdale into fair evening, he met a beggar on the way, who sturdily could gang; he had a pike-staff in his hand that was baith stark and strang. a clouted cloak about him was, that held him frae the cold; the thinnest bit of it, i guess, was more then twenty fold. his meal-pock hang about his neck, into a leathern fang, well fasten'd with a broad buckle, that was baith stark and strang. he had three hats upon his head, together stickèd fast, he car'd neither for wind nor weet, in lands where'er he past. good robin coost him in his way, to see what he might be, if any beggar had monèy, he thought some part had he. "tarry, tarry," good robin says, "tarry, and speak with me;" he heard him as he heard him not, and fast on his way can hie. "it be's not so," says good robin, "nay, thou must tarry still;" "by my troth," said the bold beggar, "of that i have no will. "it is far to my lodging house, and it is growing late; if they have supt e'er i come in i will look wondrous blate." "now, by my truth," says good robin, "i see well by thy fare, if thou chear well to thy supper, of mine thou takes no care; "who wants my dinner all this day, and wots not where to lie, and should i to the tavern go, i want money to buy. "sir, thou must lend me some money till we two meet again:" the beggar answer'd cankerdly, "i have no money to lend. "thou art as young a man as i, and seems to be as sweir; if thou fast till thou get from me, thou shalt eat none this year." "now, by my truth," says good robin, "since we are 'sembled so, if thou have but a small farthing, i'll have it e'er thou go. "therefore, lay down thy clouted cloak, and do no longer stand, and loose the strings of all thy pocks, i'll ripe them with my hand. "and now to thee i make a vow, if thou make any din, i shall see if a broad arrow, can pierce a beggar's skin." the beggar smil'd, and answer made, "far better let me be; think not that i will be afraid for thy nip crooked tree. "or that i fear thee any whit for thy curn nips of sticks; i know no use for them so meet as to be pudding-pricks. "here i defy thee to do me ill, for all thy boisterous fare; thou'st get nothing from me but ill, would'st thou seek evermair." good robin bent his noble bow, he was an angery man, and in it set a broad arròw; yet erst was drawn a span, the beggar, with his noble tree, reach'd him so round a rout, that his bow and his broad arròw in flinders flew about. good robin bound him to his brand, but that prov'd likewise vain, the beggar lighted on his hand with his pike-staff again. i wot he might not draw a sword for forty days and mair; good robin could not speak a word, his heart was never so sair. he could not fight, he could not flee, he wist not what to do; the beggar with his noble tree laid lusty flaps him to. he paid good robin back and side, and beft him up and down, and with his pike-staff still laid on hard, till he fell in a swoon. "fy, stand up, man," the beggar said, "'tis shame to go to rest; stay still till thou get my money, i think it were the best. "and syne go to the tavern house, and buy both wine and ale; hereat thy friends will crack full crouse, thou hast been at a dale." good robin answer'd never a word, but lay still as a stane; his cheeks were white as any clay, and closed were his eyen. the beggar thought him dead but fail, and boldly bown'd away;-- i would you had been at the dale, and gotten part of the play. [the second part.] now three of robin's men, by chance, came walking by the way, and found their master in a trance, on ground where he did lay. up have they taken good robin, making a piteous beir, yet saw they no man there at whom they might the matter speir. they lookèd him all round about, but wounds on him saw none, yet at his mouth came bocking out the blood of a good vein. cold water they have taken syne, and cast into his face; then he began to lift his eyne, and spake within short space. "tell us, dear master," said his men, "how with you stands the case?" good robin sigh'd e'er he began to tell of his disgrace. "i have been watchman in this wood near hand this forty year, yet i was never so hard bestead as you have found me here. "a beggar with a clouted cloak, in whom i fear'd no ill, hath with his pike-staff claw'd my back, i fear 'twill never be well. see, where he goes o'er yonder hill, with hat upon his head; if e'er you lov'd your master well, go now revenge this deed. "and bring him back again to me, if it lie in your might, that i may see, before i die, him punisht in my sight. "and if you may not bring him back, let him not go loose on; for to us all it were great shame if he escap't again." "one of us shall with you remain, because you're ill at ease, the other two shall bring him back, to use him as you please." "now, by my troth," says good robin, "i trow there's enough said; if he get scouth to wield his tree, i fear you'll both be paid." "be ye not fear'd, our good master, that we two can be dung with any blutter base beggar, that has nought but a rung. "his staff shall stand him in no stead; that you shall shortly see; but back again he shall be led, and fast bound shall he be, to see if ye will have him slain, or hangèd on a tree." "but cast you slily in his way, before he be aware, and on his pike-staff first hands lay, you'll speed the better far." now leave we robin with his man, again to play the child, and learn himself to stand and gang by haulds, for all his eild. now pass we to the bold beggàr that rakèd o'er the hill, who never mended his pace no more nor he had done no ill. the young men knew the country well, so soon where he would be,[l ] and they have taken another way,[l ] was nearer by miles three. they rudely ran with all their might, spared neither dub nor mire, they started neither at laigh nor hight, no travel made them tire. till they before the beggar wan, and coost them in his way; a little wood lay in a glen, and there they both did stay. they stood up closely by a tree, in ilk side of the gate, until the beggar came them to, that thought not of such fate. and as he was betwixt them past, they leapt upon him baith; the one his pike-staff grippèd fast, they fearèd for its scaith. the other he held in his sight a drawen dirk to his breast, and said, "false carl, quit thy staff, or i shall be thy priest." his pike-staff they have taken him frae, and stuck it in the green, he was full loath to let gae, if better might have been. the beggar was the feardest man of one that ever might be; to win away no way he can, nor help him with his tree. he wist not wherefore he was tane, nor how many was there; he thought his life-days had been gane, he grew into despair. "grant me my life," the beggar said, "for him that died on tree, and take away that ugly knife, or then for fear i'll die. "i griev'd you never in all my life, nor late nor yet by ayre, ye have great sin, if ye would slay a silly poor beggàr." "thou lies, false lown," they said again, "by all that may be sworn; thou hast near slain the gentlest man that ever yet was born. "and back again thou shalt be led, and fast bound shalt thou be, to see if he will have thee slain, or hangèd on a tree." the beggar then thought all was wrong; they were set for his wrack; he saw nothing appearing then, but ill upon worse back. were he out of their hands, he thought, and had again his tree, he should not be had back for nought, with such as he did see. then he bethought him on a wile, if it could take effect, how he the young men might beguile, and give them a begeck. thus for to do them shame or ill, his beastly breast was bent; he found the wind grew something shril, to further his intent. he said, "brave gentlemen, be good, and let the poor man be; when ye have taken a beggar's blood, it helps you not a flea. "it was but in my own defence, if he hath gotten skaith; but i will make a recompense, much better for you baith. "if ye will set me safe and free, and do me no dangèr, an hundred pounds i will you give, and much more good silvèr, "that i have gather'd this many years, under this clouted cloak, and hid up [wonder] privately,[l ] in bottom of my pock." the young men to a council yeed, and let the beggar gae; they wist full well he had no speed from them to run away. they thought they would the money take, come after what so may; and then they would not bring him back, but in that place him slay. by that good robin would not know that they had gotten coin; it would content him for to show that there they had him slain. they said, "false carl, soon have done, and tell forth thy monèy; for the ill turn that thou hast done 'tis but a simple fee. "and yet we will not have thee back, come after what so may, if thou will do that which thou spake, and make us present pay." o then he loos'd his clouted cloak, and spread it on the ground, and thereon laid he many a pock, betwixt them and the wind. he took a great bag from his hase, it was near full of meal, two pecks in it at least there was, and more i wot full well. upon his cloak he laid it down, the mouth he open'd wide, to turn the same he made him bown, the young men ready spy'd. in every hand he took a nook of that great leathern meal, and with a fling the meal he shook, into their faces hail: wherewith he blinded them so close, a stime they could not see; and then in heart he did rejoice, and clapt his lusty tree. he thought if he had done them wrong, in mealing of their cloaths, for to strike off the meal again with his pike-staff he goes. or any of them could red their eyne, or could a glimm'ring see, ilk one of them a dozen had well laid on with the tree. the young men were right swift of foot, and boldly ran away, the beggar could them no more hit, for all the haste he may. "what ails this haste?" the beggar said, "may ye not tarry still, until your money be received? i'll pay you with good will. "the shaking of my pocks, i fear, hath blown into your eyne; but i have a good pike-staff here can ripe them out full clean." the young men answer'd never a word, they were dumb as a stane; in the thick wood the beggar fled, e'er they riped their eyne. and syne the night became so late, to seek him was in vain: but judge ye, if they lookèd blate, when they came home again. good robin spear'd how they had sped; they answer'd him, "full ill:" "that cannot be," good robin says, "ye have been at the mill. "the mill it is a meatrif place, they may lick what they please; most like ye have been at that art, who would look to your cloaths." they hang'd their heads, they dropèd down, a word they could not speak: robin said, "because i fell a-swoon, i think you'll do the like. "tell on the matter, less or more, and tell me what and how[l ] ye have done with the bold beggàr, i sent you for right now." and when they told him to an end, as i have said before, how that the beggar did them blind, what misters process more, and how he lin'd their shoulders broad[l ] with his great trenchen tree,[l ] and how in the thick wood he fled, e'er they a stime could see, and how they scarcely could win home, their bones were beft so sore, good robin cry'd, "fy! out, for shame! we're sham'd for evermore." altho' good robin would full fain of his wrong revengèd be, he smil'd to see his merry young men had gotten a taste of the tree. , . wanting in the original, and restored from the aberdeen copy. gutch. , wonder. ritson. , where. , . these two lines are restored from the aberdeen ballad. g. the jolly pinder of wakefield. with robin hood, scarlet, and john. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . "from an old black-letter copy, in a. à wood's collection, compared with two others in the british museum, one in black-letter. "several lines of this ballad are quoted in the two old plays of the _downfall_ and _death of robert earle of huntington_, , to. b. l. but acted many years before. it is also alluded to in shakespeare's _merry wives of windsor_, act i. scene , and again in his second part of _king henry iv._, act v. scene . "in certain 'ballets' are entered on the books of the stationers' company, 'to john wallye and mrs. toye,' one of which is entitled _of wakefylde and a grene_; meaning apparently the ballad here reprinted." ritson. in wakefield there lives a jolly pindèr, in wakefield all on a green, _in wakefield all on a green_. * * * * * * * * * * "there is neither knight nor squire," said the pinder, "nor baron that is so bold, _nor baron that is so bold_, dare make a trespàss to the town of wakefield, but his pledge goes to the pinfold," &c. all this beheard three wighty yeomen,[l ] 'twas robin hood, scarlet and john; with that they espy'd the jolly pindèr, as he sat under a thorn. "now turn again, turn again," said the pindèr, "for a wrong way you have gone; for you have forsaken the kings highway, and made a path over the corn." "o that were a shame," said jolly robìn, "we being three, and thou but one:" the pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'twas thirty good foot and one. he leaned his back fast unto a thorn, and his foot against a stone, and there he fought a long summers day, a summers day so long, till that their swords on their broad bucklèrs, were broke fast into their hands. "hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said bold robin hood, "and my merry men stand aside; for this is one of the best pindèrs,[l ] that with sword ever i tryed.[l ] "and wilt thou forsake thy pinders craft, and go to the greenwood with me? thou shalt have a livery twice in the year,[l ] th' one greene, 'tither brown shall be."[l ] "at michaelmas next my cov'nant comes out, when every man gathers his fee, then i'le take my blew blade all in my hand, and plod to the green-wood with thee." "hast thou either meat or drink," said robin hood, "for my merry men and me?" * * * * * * * * * * "i have both bread and beef," said the pinder, "and good ale of the best:" "and that is meat good enough," said robin hood, for such unbidden 'guest.' "o wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft, and go to the green-wood with me? thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, the one green, the other brown [shall be]." "if michaelmas day was come and gone, and my master had paid me my fee, then would i set as little by him, as my master doth by me." , witty young men. ritson , . this is the reading in one black-letter copy that has come under the editor's notice, instead of "for this is one of the best pinders that ever i tried with sword."--gutch. , . from the same. robin hood and the ranger; or, true friendship after a fierce fight. "no ancient copy of this ballad having been met with, it is given from an edition of _robin hood's garland_, printed some years since at york. the tune is _arthur a bland_." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . when ph[oe]bus had melted the 'sickles' of ice, _with a hey down, &c._ and likewise the mountains of snow, bold robin hood he would ramble away, to frolick abroad with his bow. he left all his merry men waiting behind, whilst through the green vallies he pass'd, where he did behold a forester bold, who cry'd out, "friend, whither so fast?" "i am going," quoth robin, "to kill a fat buck, for me and my merry men all; besides, ere i go, i'll have a fat doe, or else it shall cost me a fall." "you'd best have a care," said the forester then, "for these are his majesty's deer; before you shall shoot, the thing i'll dispute, for i am head forester here." "these thirteen long summers," quoth robin, "i'm sure, my arrows i here have let fly, where freely i range; methinks it is strange, you should have more power than i. "this forest," quoth robin, "i think is my own, and so are the nimble deer too; therefore i declare, and solemnly swear, i'll not be affronted by you." the forester he had a long quarter staff, likewise a broad sword by his side; without more ado, he presently drew, declaring the truth should be try'd. bold robin hood had a sword of the best, thus, ere he would take any wrong, his courage was flush, he'd venture a brush, and thus they fell to it ding dong. the very first blow that the forester gave, he made his broad weapon cry twang; 'twas over the head, he fell down for dead, o that was a damnable bang! but robin he soon recovered himself, and bravely fell to it again; the very next stroke their weapons they broke. yet never a man there was slain. at quarter staff then they resolvèd to play, because they would have the other bout; and brave robin hood right valiantly stood, unwilling he was to give out. bold robin he gave him very hard blows, the other return'd them as fast; at every stroke their jackets did smoke, three hours the combat did last. at length in a rage the forester grew, and cudgell'd bold robin so sore, that he could not stand, so shaking his hand, he cry'd, "let us freely give o'er. "thou art a brave fellow; i needs must confess, i never knew any so good; thou art fitting to be a yeoman for me, and range in the merry green-wood. "ill give thee this ring as a token of love, for bravely thou hast acted thy part; that man that can fight, in him i delight, and love him with all my whole heart. robin hood set his bugle-horn to his mouth, a blast then he merrily blows; his yeomen did hear, and strait did appear, a hundred with trusty long bows. now little john came at the head of them all, cloath'd in a rich mantle of green; and likewise the rest were gloriously drest, a delicate sight to be seen. "lo, these are my yeomen," said bold robin hood, "and thou shalt be one of the train; a mantle and bow, and quiver also, i give them whom i entertain." the forester willingly enter'd the list, they were such a beautiful sight; then with a long bow they shot a fat doe, and made a rich supper that night. what singing and dancing was in the green wood, for joy of another new mate! with might and delight they spent all the night, and liv'd at a plentiful rate. the forester ne'er was so merry before, as then he was with these brave souls, who never would fail, in wine, beer, or ale, to take off their cherishing bowls. then robin hood gave him a mantle of green, broad arrows, and curious long bow: this done, the next day, so gallant and gay, he marchèd them all on a row. quoth he, "my brave yeomen, be true to your trust, and then we may range the woods wide:" they all did declare, and solemnly swear, they would conquer, or die by his side. robin hoods delight: or, a merry combat fought between robin hood, little john, and will scarelock, and three stout keepers in sheerwood forrest. robin was valiant and stout, so was scarelock and john in the field, but these keepers stout did give them rout, and make them all for to yield. but after the battel ended was, bold robin did make them amends, for claret and sack they did not lack, so drank themselves good friends. to the tune of robin hood and queen katherine; or, robin hood and the shepheard. "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . there's some will talk of lords and knights, _doun, a doun, a doun_, and some of yeomen good, but i will tell you of will scarlock, little john, and robin hood. _doun, a doun, a doun, a doun._ they were outlaws, 'tis well known, and men of a noble blood; and many a time was their valour shown in the forrest of merry sheerwood. upon a time it chanced so, as robin hood would have it be, they all three would a walking go, the pastime for to see. and as they walked the forest along, upon a midsummer day, there was they aware of three keepèrs, clad all in green aray. with brave long faucheons by their sides, and forrest-bills in hand, they call'd aloud to those bold outlàws, and charged them to stand. "why, who are you," cry'd bold robìn, "that speak so boldly here?" "we three belong to king henry, and are keepers of his deer." "the devil you are!" sayes robin hood, "i am sure that it is not so; we be the keepers of this forrèst, and that you soon shall know. "come, your coats of green lay on the ground, and so will we all three, and take your swords and bucklers round, and try the victory." "we be content," the keepers said, "we be three, and you no less, then why should we be of you afraid, as we never did transgress?" "why, if you be three keepers in this forrèst, then we be three rangers good, and will make you know before you do go, you meet with bold robin hood." "we be content, thou bold outlàw, our valour here to try, and will make you know, before we do go, we will fight before we will fly. "then, come draw your swords, you bold outlàws, no longer stand to prate, but let us try it out with blows, for cowards we do hate. "here is one of us for will scarlock, and another for little john, and i myself for robin hood, because he is stout and strong." so they fell to it hard and sore, it was on a midsummers day; from eight of the clock till two and past, they all shewed gallant play. there robin, and will, and little john, they fought most manfully, till all their winde was spent and gone, then robin aloud did cry: "o hold, o hold," cries bold robin, "i see you be stout men; let me blow one blast on my bugle horn, then ile fight with you again." "that bargain's to make, bold robin hood, therefore we it deny; thy blast upon the bugle horn cannot make us fight or fly. "therefore fall on, or else be gone, and yield to us the day: it never shall be said that we are afraid of thee, nor thy yeomen gay." "if that be so," cries bold robin, "let me but know your names, and in the forrest of merry sheerwood, i shall extol your fames." "and with our names," one of them said, "what hast thou here to do? except that thou wilt fight it out, our names thou shalt not know." "we will fight no more," sayes bold robin, "you be men of valour stout; come and go with me to nottingham, and there we will fight it out. "with a but of sack we will bang it about, to see who wins the day; and for the cost, make you no doubt i have gold enough to pay. "and ever hereafter, so long as we live, we all will brethren be; for i love these men with heart and hand, that will fight and never flee." so away they went to nottingham, with sack to make amends; for three days they the wine did chase, and drank themselves good friends. robin hood and little john. being an account of their first meeting, their fierce encounter, and conquest. to which is added, their friendly agreement; and how he came to be called little john. to the tune of _arthur a bland_. from _a collection of old ballads_, i. . the same in ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . "this ballad is named in a schedule of such things under an agreement between w. thackeray and others, in (coll. pepys, vol. v.)." ritson. when robin hood was about twenty years old, _with a hey down, down, and a down_, he happen'd to meet little john, a jolly brisk blade, right fit for the trade, for he was a lusty young man. tho' he was call'd little, his limbs they were large, and his stature was seven foot high; where-ever he came, they quak'd at his name, for soon he would make them to fly. how they came acquainted, i'll tell you in brief, if you will but listen awhile; for this very jest, amongst all the rest, i think it may cause you to smile. bold robin hood said to his jolly bowmèn, "pray tarry you here in this grove; and see that you all observe well my call, while thorough the forest i rove. "we have had no sport for these fourteen long days, therefore now abroad will i go; now should i be beat, and cannot retreat, my horn i will presently blow." then did he shake hands with his merry men all, and bid them at present good b'w'ye; then, as near a brook his journey he took, a stranger he chanc'd to espy. they happen'd to meet on a long narrow bridge, and neither of them would give way; quoth bold robin hood, and sturdily stood, "i'll show you right nottingham play." with that from his quiver an arrow he drew, a broad arrow with a goose-wing. the stranger reply'd, "i'll liquor thy hide, if thou offer'st to touch the string." quoth bold robin hood, "thou dost prate like an ass, for were i to bend but my bow, i could send a dart quite thro' thy proud heart, before thou couldst strike me one blow." "thou talk'st like a coward," the stranger reply'd; "well arm'd with a long bow you stand, to shoot at my breast, while i, i protest, have nought but a staff in my hand." "the name of a coward," quoth robin, "i scorn, wherefore my long bow i'll lay by; and now, for thy sake, a staff will i take, the truth of thy manhood to try." then robin hood stept to a thicket of trees, and chose him a staff of ground oak; now this being done, away he did run to the stranger, and merrily spoke: "lo! see my staff, it is lusty and tough, now here on the bridge we will play; whoever falls in, the other shall win the battel, and so we'll away." "with all my whole heart," the stranger reply'd; "i scorn in the least to give out;" this said, they fell to't without more dispute, and their staffs they did flourish about. and first robin he gave the stranger a bang, so hard that it made his bones ring: the stranger he said, "this must be repaid, i'll give you as good as you bring. "so long as i'm able to handle my staff to die in your debt, friend, i scorn:" then to it each goes, and follow'd their blows, as if they had been threshing of corn. the stranger gave robin a crack on the crown, which caused the blood to appear; then robin enrag'd, more fiercely engag'd, and follow'd his blows more severe. so thick and so fast did he lay it on him, with a passionate fury and ire, at every stroke he made him to smoke, as if he had been all on fire. o then into fury the stranger he grew, and gave him a damnable look, and with it a blow that laid him full low, and tumbl'd him into the brook. "i prithee, good fellow, o where art thou now?" the stranger, in laughter, he cry'd. quoth bold robin hood, "good faith, in the flood, and floating along with the tide. "i needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul; with thee i'll no longer contend; for needs must i say, thou hast got the day, our battel shall be at an end." then unto the bank he did presently wade, and pull'd himself out by a thorn; which done, at the last, he blow'd a loud blast straitway on his fine bugle-horn: the eccho of which through the vallies did fly, at which his stout bowmen appear'd, all cloathed in green, most gay to be seen, so up to their master they steer'd. "o what's the matter?" quoth william stutely; "good master, you are wet to the skin." "no matter," quoth he; "the lad which you see in fighting hath tumbl'd me in." "he shall not go scot-free," the others reply'd; so strait they were seizing him there, to duck him likewise; but robin hood cries, "he is a stout fellow, forbear. "there's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid; these bowmen upon me do wait; there's threescore and nine; if thou wilt be mine, thou shalt have my livery strait: "and other accoutrements fit for a man; speak up, jolly blade, never fear. i'll teach you also the use of the bow, to shoot at the fat fallow-deer." "o here is my hand," the stranger reply'd, "i'll serve you with all my whole heart; my name is john little, a man of good mettle; ne'er doubt me, for i'll play my part." "his name shall be alter'd," quoth william stutely, "and i will his godfather be; prepare then a feast, and none of the least, for we will be merry," quoth he. they presently fetch'd in a brace of fat does, with humming strong liquor likewise; they lov'd what was good; so, in the green-wood, this pretty sweet babe they baptize. he was, i must tell you, but seven foot high, and, may be, an ell in the waste; a pretty sweet lad; much feasting they had; bold robin the christ'ning grac'd, with all his bowmèn, which stood in a ring, and were of the nottingham breed; brave stutely comes then, with seven yeomèn, and did in this manner proceed. "this infant was called john little," quoth he; "which name shall be changed anon; the words we'll transpose, so whereever he goes, his name shall be call'd little john." they all with a shout made the elements ring, so soon as the office was o'er; to feasting they went, with true merriment, and tippl'd strong liquor gillore. then robin he took the pretty sweet babe, and cloath'd him from top to the toe in garments of green, most gay to be seen, and gave him a curious long bow. "thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, and range in the green-wood with us; "where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold, while bishops have ought in their purse. "we live here like 'squires, or lords of renown, without e'er a foot of free land; we feast on good cheer, with wine, ale, and beer, and ev'ry thing at our command." then music and dancing did finish the day; at length, when the sun waxed low, then all the whole train the grove did refrain, and unto their caves they did go. and so ever after, as long as he liv'd, altho' he was proper and tall, yet, nevertheless, the truth to express, still little john they did him call. robin hood and the tanner; or, robin hood met with his match. a merry and pleasant song relating the gallant and fierce combat fought between arthur bland, a tanner of nottingham, and robin hood, the greatest and most noblest archer of england. tune is, robin hood and the stranger. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. , from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood. there is a copy with a few unimportant variations in _a collection of old ballads_, i. , from which a single reading has been admitted. in nottingham there lives a jolly tannèr, _with a hey down, down, a down, down_, his name is arthur-a-bland; there is nere a squire in nottinghamshire, dare bid bold arthur stand. with a long pike-staff upon his shouldèr, so well he can clear his way; by two and by three he makes them to flee, for he hath no list to stay. and as he went forth, in a summers morning, into the forrest of merry sherwood, to view the red deer, that range here and there, there met he with bold robin hood. as soon as bold robin he did espy,[l ] he thought some sport he would make, therefore out of hand he bid him to stand, and thus to him he spake: "why, what art thou, thou bold fellow, that ranges so boldly here? in sooth, to be brief, thou lookst like a thief, that comes to steal our kings deer. "for i am keeper in this forrest; the king puts me in trust to look to his deer, that range here and there; therefore stay thee i must." "if thou beest a keeper in this forrest, and hast such a great command, yet thou must have more partakers in store, before thou make me to stand." "nay, i have no more partakers in store, or any that i do not need; but i have a staff of another oke graff, i know it will do the deed. "for thy sword and thy bow i care not a straw, nor all thine arrows to boot; if thou get'st a knop upon the bare scop,[l ] thou canst as well sh--e as shoote." "speak cleanly, good fellow," said jolly robin, "and give better terms to me; else ile thee correct for thy neglect, and make thee more mannerly. "marry gep with a wenion!" quod arthur-a-bland, "art thou such a goodly man? i care not a fig for thy looking so big; mend thou thyself where thou can." then robin hood he unbuckled his belt, and laid down his bow so long; he took up a staff of another oke graff, that was both stiff and strong. "i'le yield to thy weapon," said jolly robin, "since thou wilt not yield to mine; for i have a staff of another oke graff, not half a foot longer then thine. "but let me measure," said jolly robin, "before we begin our fray; for i'le not have mine to be longer than thine, for that will be counted foul play." "i pass not for length," bold arthur reply'd, "my staff is of oke so free; eight foot and a half, it will knock down a calf, and i hope it will knock down thee." then robin could no longer forbear; he gave him such a knock, quickly and soon the blood came down, before it was ten a clock. then arthur he soon recovered himself, and gave him such a knock on the crown, that from every side of bold robin hoods head, the blood came trickling down. then robin raged like a wild boar, as soon as he saw his own blood; then bland was in hast, he laid on so fast, as though he had been cleaving of wood. and about, and about, and about they went, like two wild bores in a chase; striving to aim each other to maim, leg, arm, or any other place. and knock for knock they lustily dealt, which held for two hours and more; that all the wood rang at every bang, they ply'd their work so sore. "hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said robin hood, "and let thy quarrel fall; for here we may thrash our bones all to mesh, and get no coyn at all. "and in the forrest of merry sherwood hereafter thou shalt be free:" "god-a-mercy for nought, my freedom i bought; i may thank my staff, and not thee." "what tradesman art thou?" said jolly robìn, "good fellow, i prethee me show: and also me tell in what place thou dost dwell, for both of these fain would i know." "i am a tanner," bold arthur reply'd, "in nottingham long have i wrought; and if thou'lt come there, i vow and swear, i will tan thy hide for nought." "god-a-mercy, good fellow," said jolly robin, "since thou art so kind and free; and if thou wilt tan my hide for nought, i will do as much for thee. "and if thou'lt forsake thy tanners trade, and live in the green wood with me, my name's robin hood, i swear by the rood, i will give thee both gold and fee." "if thou be robin hood," bold arthur reply'd, "as i think well thou art, then here's my hand, my name's arthur-a-bland, we two will never depart. "but tell me, o tell me, where is little john? of him fain would i hear; for we are alide by the mothers side, and he is my kinsman dear." then robin hood blew on the beaugle horn, he blew full lowd and shrill, and quickly anon appear'd little john, come tripping down a green hill. "o what is the matter?" then said little john, "master, i pray you tell; "why do you stand with your staff in your hand? i fear all is not well." "o man i do stand, and he makes me stand, the tanner that stands thee beside; he is a bonny blade, and master of his trade, for soundly he hath tan'd my hide." "he is to be commended," then said little john, "if such a feat he can do; if he be so stout, we will have a bout, and he shall tan my hide too." "hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said robin hood, "for as i do understand, he's a yeoman good of thine own blood, for his name is arthur-a-bland." then little john threw his staff away, as far as he could it fling, and ran out of hand to arthur-a-bland, and about his neck did cling. with loving respect, there was no neglect, they were neither nice nor coy, each other did face with a lovely grace, and both did weep for joy. then robin hood took them both by the hands, and danc'd round about the oke tree; "for three merry men, and three merry men, and three merry men we be. "and ever hereafter as long as we live, we three will be as one; the wood it shall ring, and the old wife sing, of robin hood, arthur, and john. , did him. . i get. ritson. robin hood and the tinker. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . from an old black-letter copy in the library of anthony à wood. the full title is, a new song to drive away cold winter, between robin hood and the jovial tinker: how robin by a wile the tinker he did cheat; but at the length, as you shall hear, the tinker did him beat, whereby the same they did then so agree, they after liv'd in love and unity. to the tune of, _in summer time_. in summer time, when leaves grow green, _ down, a down, a down_, and birds singing on every tree, _hey down, a down, a down_, robin hood went to nottingham, _down, a down, a down_, as fast as hee could dree. _hey down, a down, a down._ and as hee came to nottingham, a tinker he did meet, and seeing him a lusty blade, he did him kindly greet. "where dost thou live?" quoth robin hood, "i pray thee now mee tell: sad news i hear there is abroad, i fear all is not well." "what is that news?" the tinker said; "tell mee without delay; i am a tinker by my trade, and do live in banburà." "as for the news," quoth robin hood, "it is but as i hear, two tinkers were set i'th' stocks, for drinking ale and beer." "if that be all," the tinker said, "as i may say to you, your news is not worth a f--t, since that they all bee true. "for drinking of good ale and beer, you will not lose your part:" "no, by my faith," quoth robin hood, "i love it with all my heart. "what news abroad?" quoth robin hood, "tell me what thou dost hear: seeing thou goest from town to town, some news thou need not fear." "all the news i have," the tinker said, "i hear it is for good, it is to seek a bold outlàw, which they call robin hood. "i have a warrant from the king, to take him where i can; if you can tell me where hee is, i will make you a man. "the king would give a hundred pound that he could but him see; and if wee can but now him get, it will serve thee and mee." "let me see that warrant," said robin hood, "ile see if it bee right; and i will do the best i can for to take him this night. "that will i not," the tinker said, "none with it i will trust; and where hee is if you'll not tell, take him by force i must." but robin hood perceiving well how then the game would go, "if you would go to nottingham, we shall find him i know." the tinker had a crab-tree staff, which was both good and strong; robin hee had a good strong blade, so they went both along. and when they came to nottingham, there they both tooke their inn; and there they called for ale and wine, to drink it was no sin. but ale and wine they drank so fast, that the tinker hee forgot what thing he was about to do; it fell so to his lot, that while the tinker fell asleep, robin made then haste away, and left the tinker in the lurch, for the great shot to pay. but when the tinker wakenèd, and saw that he was gone, he call'd then even for his host, and thus he made his moan: "i had a warrant from the king. which might have done me good, that is to take a bold outlaw, some call him robin hood. "but now my warrant and mony's gone, nothing i have to pay; but he that promis'd to be my friend, he is gone and fled away." "that friend you tell on," said the host, "they call him robin hood; and when that first hee met with you, he ment you little good." "had i but known it had been hee, "when that i had him here, th' one of us should have tri'd our might which should have paid full dear. "in the mean time i will away, no longer here ile bide, but i will go and seek him out, whatever do me betide. "but one thing i would gladly know, what here i have to pay;" "ten shillings just," then said the host; "ile pay without delay; "or elce take here my working-bag, and my good hammer too; and if that i light but on the knave. i will then soon pay you." "the onely way," then said the host, "and not to stand in fear, is to seek him among the parks, killing of the kings deer." the tinker hee then went with speed, and made then no delay, till he had found bold robin hood, that they might have a fray. at last hee spy'd him in a park, hunting then of the deer; "what knave is that," quoth robin hood, "that doth come mee so near?" "no knave, no knave," the tinker said, "and that you soon shall know; "whether of us hath done any wrong, my crab-tree staff shall show." then robin drew his gallant blade, made then of trusty steel; but the tinker he laid on so fast, that he made robin reel. then robins anger did arise; he fought right manfully, until he had made the tinkèr almost then fit to fly. with that they had a bout again, they ply'd their weapons fast; the tinker threshed his bones so sore, he made him yeeld at last. "a boon, a boon," robin hee cryes, "if thou will grant it mee;" "before i do it," the tinker said, "ile hang thee on this tree." but the tinker looking him about, robin his horn did blow; then came unto him little john, and william scadlock too. "what is the matter," quoth little john, "you sit on th' highway side?" "here is a tinker that stands by, that hath paid well my hide." "that tinker then," said little john, "fain that blade i would see, and i would try what i could do, if hee'l do as much for me." but robin hee then wish'd them both they should the quarrel cease, "that henceforth wee may bee as one, and ever live in peace. "and for the jovial tinkers part, a hundred pounds ile give in th' year to maintain him on, as long as he doth live. "in manhood he is a mettled man, and a mettle-man by trade; never thought i that any man should have made mee so afraid. "and if hee will bee one of us, "we will take all one fare; and whatsoever wee do get, he shall have his full share." so the tinker was content with them to go along, and with them a part to take: and so i end my song. robin hood and the shepherd. shewing how robin hood, little john, and the shepherd fought a sore combate. the shepherd fought for twenty pound, and robin for bottle and bag, but the shepherd stout gave them the rout, so sore they could not wag. tune is, robin hood and queen katherine. "from two old black-letter copies, one of them in the collection of anthony à wood, the other in that of thomas pearson, esq.," [now in the british museum.] ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . the same story, with verbal coincidences, serves for the first part of _king alfred and the shepherd_. all gentlemen and yeomen good, _down, a down, a down, a down_, i wish you to draw near; for a story of gallant bold robin hood unto you i will declare. _down, &c._ as robin hood walkt the forrest along, some pastime for to spie, there he was aware of a jolly shephèrd, that on the ground did lie. "arise, arise," cried jolly robin, "and now come let me see what's in thy bag and bottle, i say, come tell it unto me." "what's that to thee, thou proud fellòw? tell me as i do stand; what hast thou to do with my bag and bottle? let me see thy command." "my sword, which hangeth by my side, is my command i know; come, and let me taste of thy bottle, or it may breed thy woe." "the devil a drop, thou proud fellòw, of my bottle thou shalt see, until thy valour here be tried, whether thou wilt fight or flee." "what shall we fight for?" cries robin hood, "come tell it unto me; here is twenty pound in good red gold, win it, and take it thee." the shepherd stood all in a maze, and knew not what to say; "i have no money, thou proud fellow, but bag and bottle i'le lay." "i am content, thou shepherd swain, fling them down on the ground; but it will breed thee mickle pain, to win my twenty pound." "come draw thy sword, thou proud fellow, thou standest too long to prate; this hook of mine shall let thee know, a coward i do hate." so they fell to it, full hard and sore; it was on a summers day; from ten till four in the afternoon the shepherd held him play. robin's buckler proved his chiefest defence, and saved him many a bang, for every blow the shepherd gave made robins sword cry twang. many a sturdie blow the shepherd gave, and that bold robin found, till the blood ran trickling from his head, then he fell to the ground. "arise, arise, thou proud fellow, and thou shalt have fair play, if thou wilt yield, before thou go, that i have won the day." "a boon, a boon," cry'd bold robin, "if that a man thou be, then let me take my beugle horn, and blow out blasts three." then said the shepherd to bold robin, "to that will i agree; for if thou shouldst blow till to-morrow morn, i scorn one foot to flee." then robin he set his horn to his mouth, and he blew with mickle main, until he espied little john come tripping over the plain. "o who is yonder, thou proud fellow, that comes down yonder hill?" "yonder is john, bold robin hoods man, shall fight with thee thy fill." "what is the matter?" saies little john, "master, come tell unto me:" "my case is bad," cries robin hood, "for the shepherd hath conquered me." "i am glad of that," cries little john, "shepherd turn thou to me; for a bout with thee i mean to have, either come fight or flee." "with all my heart, thou proud fellòw, for it never shall be said that a shepherds hook at thy sturdy look will one jot be dismaied." so they fell to it, full hardy and sore, striving for victorie; "i will know," says john, "ere we give o'er, whether thou wilt fight or flee." the shepherd gave john a sturdie blow, with his hook under the chin; "beshrew thy heart," said little john, "thou basely dost begin." "nay, that is nothing," said the shepherd; "either yield to me the daie, or i will bang thy back and sides, before thou goest thy way. "what, dost thou think, thou proud fellow, that thou canst conquer me? nay, thou shalt know, before thou go, i'll fight before i'le flee." again the shepherd laid on him, 'just as he first begun;' "hold thy hand," cry'd bold robin, "i will yield the wager won." "with all my heart," said little john, "to that i will agree; for he is the flower of shepherd swains, the like i did never see." thus have you heard of robin hood, also of little john, how a shepherd swain did conquer them; the like was never known. robin hood and the peddlers. communicated to gutch by mr. payne collier, and first published in gutch's _robin hood_, ii. . will you heare a tale of robin hood, will scarlett, and little john? now listen awhile, it will make you smile, as before it hath many a one. they were archers three, of hie degree, as good as ever drewe bowe; their arrowes were long and their armes were strong, as most had cause to knowe. but one sommers day, as they toke their way through the forrest of greene sherwood, to kill the kings deare, you shall presently heare what befell these archers good. they were ware on the roade of three peddlers with loade, for each one had his packe, full of all wares for countrie faires, trust up upon his backe. a good oke staffe, a yard and a halfe, each one had in his hande; and they were all boune to nottingham toune, as you shall understand. "yonder i see bolde peddlers three," said robin to scarlett and john; "wele search their packes upon their backes before that they be gone. "holla, good fellowes!" quod robin hood, "whether is it ye doe goe? now stay and rest, for that is the best, 'tis well you should doe so." "noe rest we neede, on our roade we speede, till to nottingham we get:" "thou tellst a lowde lye," said robin, "for i can see that ye swinke and swet." the peddlers three crosst over the lee, they did not list to fight: "i charge ye tarrie," quod robin, "for marry, this is my owne land by right. "this is my mannor and this is my parke, i would have ye for to knowe; ye are bolde outlawes, i see by cause ye are so prest to goe. the peddlers three turned round to see, who it might be they herd; then again went on as they list to be gone, and never answered word. then tooke robin hood an arrow so good, which he did never lacke, and drewe his bowe, and the swift arrowe went through the last peddlers packe. for him it was well on the packe it fell, or his life had found an end; and it pierct the skin of his backe within, though the packe did stand his friend. then downe they flung their packes each one, and stayde till robin came. quod robin, "i saide ye had better stayde; good sooth, ye were to blame." "and who art thou? by s. crispin, i vowe, ile quickly cracke thy head!" cried robin, "come on, all three, or one; it is not so soone done as said. "my name, by the roode, is robin hood, and this is scarlett and john; it is three to three, ye may plainelie see, soe now, brave fellowes, laye on." the first peddlers blowe brake robins bowe, that he had in his hand; and scarlett and john, they eche had one that they unneath could stand. "now holde your handes," cried robin hood, "for ye have oken staves; but tarie till wee can get but three, and a fig for all your braves." of the peddlers the first, his name kit o thirske, said, "we are well content;" so eche tooke a stake for his weapon, to make the peddlers to repent. soe to it they fell, and their blowes did ring well uppon the others backes; and gave the peddlers cause to wish they had not cast their packes. yet the peddlers three of their blowes were so free, that robin began for to rue; and scarlett, and john, had such loade laide on, it made the sunne looke blue. at last kits oke caught robin a stroke, that made his head to sound; he staggerd, and reelde, till he fell on the fielde, and the trees with him went round. "now holde your handes," cried little john, and soe said scarlett eke; "our maister is slaine, i tell you plaine, he never more will speake." "now, heaven forefend he come to that end," said kit, "i love him well; but let him learne to be wise in turne, and not with poore peddlers mell. "in my packe, god wot, i a balsame have got, that soone his hurts will heale;" and into robin hoods gaping mouth he presentlie powrde some deale. "now fare ye well, tis best not to tell, how ye three peddlers met; or if that ye doe, prithee tell alsoe, how they made ye swinke and swett." poor robin in sound they left on the ground, and hied them to nottingham, whilst scarlett and john, robin tended on, till at length his senses came. no sooner, in haste, did robin hood taste the balsame he had tane, then he gan to spewe, and up he threwe the balsame all againe. and scarlett, and john, who were looking on their master as he did lie, had their faces besmeared, both eies and beard, therewith most piteouslie. thus ended that fray; soe beware alwaye how ye doe challenge foes; looke well aboute they are not to stoute, or you may have worst of the blowes. the bold pedlar and robin hood. from dixon's "_ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england_," percy society, vol. xvii. p. .--"an aged female in bermondsey, surrey, from whose oral recitation the editor took down the present version, informed him, that she had often heard her grandmother sing it, and that it was never in print; but he has of late met with several common stall copies." there chanced to be a pedlar bold, a pedlar bold he chanced to be, he rolled his pack all on his back, and he came tripping o'er the lee. _down, a down, a down, a down, down, a down, a down._ by chance he met two troublesome blades, two troublesome blades they chanced to be; the one of them was bold robin hood, and the other was little john so free. "oh! pedlar, pedlar, what is in thy pack, come speedilie and tell to me?" "i've several suits of the gay green silks, and silken bow-strings two or three." "if you have several suits of the gay green silk, and silken bow-strings two or three, then it's by my body," cries little john, "one half your pack shall belong to me." "o nay, o nay," says the pedlar bold, "o nay, o nay, that never can be; for there's never a man from fair nottingham can take one half my pack from me." then the pedlar he pulled off his pack, and put it a little below his knee, saying, "if you do move me one perch from this, my pack and all shall gang with thee." then little john he drew his sword; the pedlar by his pack did stand; they fought until they both did sweat, till he cried, "pedlar, pray hold your hand." then robin hood he was standing by, and he did laugh most heartilie; saying, "i could find a man of a smaller scale, could thrash the pedlar and also thee." "go you try, master," says little john, "go you try, master, most speedilie, or by my body," says little john, "i am sure this night you will not know me." then robin hood he drew his sword, and the pedlar by his pack did stand, they fought till the blood in streams did flow, till he cried, "pedlar, pray hold your hand! "pedlar, pedlar, what is thy name? come speedilie and tell to me:" "my name! my name i ne'er will tell, till both your names you have told to me." "the one of us is bold robin hood, and the other little john so free:" "now," says the pedlar, "it lays to my good will, whether my name i chuse to tell to thee. "i am gamble gold of the gay green woods, and travelled far beyond the sea; for killing a man in my father's land, rom my country i was forced to flee." "if you are gamble gold of the gay green woods, and travelled far beyond the sea, you are my mother's own sister's son; what nearer cousins then can we be?" they sheathed their swords with friendly words, so merrilie they did agree, they went to a tavern and there they dined, and bottles cracked most merrilie. robin hood and the beggar: shewing how robin hood and the beggar fought, and how he changed cloaths with the beggar, and how he went a begging to nottingham: and how he saved three brethren from being hang'd for stealing of deer. to the tune of =robin hood and the stranger=. "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood." ritson's =robin hood=, ii. . the three pieces which follow are all different versions of what is called the second part of this ballad. come and listen, you gentlemen all, _hey down, down, an a down_, that mirth do love for to hear, and a story true ile tell unto you, if that you will but draw near. in elder times, when merriment was, and archery was holden good, there was an outlaw, as many do know which men called robin hood. upon a time it chanced so bold robin was merry disposed, his time to spend he did intend, either with friend or foes. then he got upon a gallant brave steed, the which was worth angels ten, with a mantle of green, most brave to be seen, he left all his merry men. and riding towards nottingham, some pastime for to 'spy, there was he aware of a jolly beggàr, as ere he beheld with his eye. an old patcht coat the beggar had on, which he daily did use to wear; and many a bag about him did wag, which made robin to him repair.[l ] "god speed, god speed," said robin hood, "what countryman? tell to me:" "i am yorkshire, sir; but, ere you go far, some charity give unto me." "why, what wouldst thou have?" said robin hood, "i pray thee tell unto me:" "no lands nor livings," the beggar he said, "but a penny for charitie." "i have no money," said robin hood then, "but [am] a ranger within the wood; i am an outlaw, as many do know, my name it is robin hood. "but yet i must tell thee, bonny beggàr, that a bout with [thee] i must try; thy coat of gray, lay down i say, and my mantle of green shall lye by." "content, content," the beggar he cry'd, "thy part it will be the worse; for i hope this bout to give thee the rout, and then have at thy purse." so the beggar he had a mickle long staffe, and robin had a nut-brown sword;[l ] so the beggar drew nigh, and at robin let fly, but gave him never a word. "fight on, fight on," said robin hood then, "this game well pleaseth me;" for every blow that robin gave, the beggar gave buffets three. and fighting there full hard and sore, not far from nottingham town, they never fled, till from robin hoods head the blood came trickling down. "o hold thy hand," said robin hood then, "and thou and i will agree;" "if that be true," the beggar he said, "thy mantle come give unto me." "now a change, a change," cri'd robin hood, "thy bags and coat give me; and this mantle of mine ile to thee resign, my horse and my braverie." when robin hood had got the beggars clothes, he lookèd round about; "methinks," said he, "i seem to be a beggar brave and stout. "for now i have a bag for my bread, so have i another for corn; i have one for salt, and another for malt, and one for my little horn. "and now i will a begging goe, some charitie for to find:" and if any more of robin you'll know, in the second part 'tis behind. . robin hood. , he had. [the second part.] now robin he is to nottingham bound, with his bag hanging down to his knee, his staff, and his coat, scarce worth a groat, yet merrilie passed he. as robin he passed the streets along, he heard a pittiful cry; three brethren dear, as he did hear, condemned were to dye. then robin he highed to the sheriffs, some reliefe for to seek; he skipt, and leapt, and capered full high, as he went along the street. but when to the sheriffs doore he came, there a gentleman fine and brave, "thou beggar," said he, "come tell unto me what it is thou wouldest have." "no meat, nor drink," said robin hood then, "that i come here to crave; but to get the lives of yeomen three, and that i fain would have." "that cannot be, thou bold beggàr, their fact it is so cleer; i tell to thee, they hanged must be, for stealing of our kings deer." but when to the gallows they did come, there was many a weeping eye: "o hold your peace," said robin hood then, "for certainly they shall not dye." then robin he set his horn to his mouth, and he blew out blastès three, till a hundred bold archers brave came kneeling down to his knee. "what is your will, mastèr?" they said, "we are here at your command:" "shoot east, shoot west," said robin hood then, "and see you spare no man." then they shot east, then they shot west, their arrows were so keen, the sheriffe he, and his companie, no longer could be seen. then he stept to those brethren three, and away he has them tane; the sheriffe was crost, and many a man lost, that dead lay on the plain. and away they went into the merry green wood, and sung with a merry glee; then robin hood took those brethren good to be of his yeomandrie. robin hood and the old man. a fragment. from jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. , where it was printed "_verbatim et literatim_" from the percy manuscript. this is the same story with the two ballads which follow and the second part of the preceding. * * * * * * * in faith, thou shalt have mine, and s. in thy purse, to spend at ale and wine." "though your clothes are of light lincolne green, and mine gray russet, and torne, yet it doth not you beseme to doe an old man scorne." "i scorne thee not, old man," says robin,[l ] "by the faith of my body; doe of thy clothes, thou shalt have mine, for it may noe better be." but robin did on the old mans hose, the were torn in the wrist; "when i looke on my leggs," said robin, "then for to laugh i list." but robin did on the old mans shoes, and the were chitt full cleane; "now by my faith," says little john, "these are good for thornes keene." but robin did on the old mans cloake, and it was torne in the necke; "now by my faith," said william scarlett, "heere shold be set a specke." but robin did on the old mans hood, itt goggled on his crowne; "when i come into nottingham," said robin, "my hood it will lightly downe.[l ] "but yonder is an outwood," said robin, "an outwood all and a shade, and thither i reede you, my merrymen all, the ready way to take. "and when you heare my little horne blow, come raking all on a rowte,[l ] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * horne to his mouth, a loud blast cold he blow, full three hundred bold yeomen came raking all on a row. but robin cast downe his baggs of bread, soe did he his staffe with a face, and in a doublet of red velvett this yeoman stood in his place. but robin he lope, and robin he threw, he lope over stocke and stone, but those that saw robin hood run said he was a liver old man. "but bend your bowes, and stroke your strings, set the gallow tree aboute, and christes curse on his head," said robin, "that spares the sheriff and the sergeant.[l ] when the sheriffe see gentle robin wold shoote, he held up both his hands, says, "aske, good robin, and thou shalt have, whether it be house or land." "i will neither have house nor land," said robin, "nor gold, nor none of thy fee, but i will have those squires, to greene forest with mee." "now marry, gods forbott," said the sheriffe, "that ever that shold be, ffor why, they be the kings felons; they are all condemned to dye." "but grant me my askynge," said robin, "or by the faith of my body,[l ] thou shalt be the first man shall flower this gallow tree." but i will * * squires * * * * * * _cetera desunt_. . by proposing, that is, to make an exchange of clothes, the bargain being so much to the advantage of the old man. jamieson. , _i.e._ i shall easily bare my head, in reverence to the sheriff, &c. . nine or ten stanzas wanting. j. . for "the sergeant" read "his rowte." j. , by me. robin hood rescuing the widows three sons from the sheriff, when going to be executed. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . "this ballad," says ritson, "from the york edition of _robin hood's garland_,[ ] is probably one of the oldest extant of which he is the subject. the circumstance of robin's changing clothes with the palmer, is, possibly, taken from an old romance, entitled _the noble hystory of the moost excellent and myghty prynce and hygh renowmed knyght kynge ponthus of galyce and of lytell brytayne_. emprynted at london in fletestrete, at the sygne of the sonne, by wynken de worde. in the yere of our lorde god , to. bl. sig, l . 'and as he (ponthus) rode, he met with a poore palmer, beggynge his brede, the whiche had his gowne all to-clouted and an olde pylled hatte: so he alyght, and sayd to the palmer, frende, we shall make a chaunge of all our garmentes, for ye shall have my gowne and i shall have yours and your hatte. a, syr, sayd the palmer, ye bourde you with me. in good fayth, sayd ponthus, i do not; so he dyspoyled hym and cladde hym with all his rayment, and he put upon hym the poore mannes gowne, his gyrdell, his hosyn, his shone, his hatte and his bourden.'" "there is an allusion to this ballad," adds gutch, "in anthony munday's play of _the downfall of robert earl of huntington_. collier's _old plays_, p. ." another version of this piece is immediately subjoined. [ ] the earliest known edition of _robin hood's garland_ was formerly in the possession of mr. douce, and is now among the books bequeathed by him to the bodleian library. it is dated , and contains sixteen ballads. in the later garlands this number is increased to twenty four, and to twenty seven. there are twelve months in all the year, as i hear many say, but the merriest month in all the year is the merry month of may. now robin hood is to nottingham gone, _with a link a down and a day_, and there he met a silly old woman, was weeping on the way. "what news? what news, thou silly old woman? what news hast thou for me?" said she, "there's three squires in nottingham town, to-day is condemned to die." "o have they parishes burnt?" he said, "or have they ministers slain? or have they robbèd any virgin, or with other men's wives have lain?" "they have no parishes burnt, good sir, nor yet have ministers slain, nor have they robbèd any virgin, nor with other men's wives have lain." "o what have they done?" said robin hood, "i pray thee tell to me:" "it's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, bearing their long bows with thee." "dost thou not mind, old woman," he said, "since thou made me sup and dine? by the truth of my body," quoth bold robin hood, "you could not tell it in better time." now robin hood is to nottingham gone, _with a link a down and a day_,[l ] and there he met with a silly old palmer, was walking along the highway. "what news? what news, thou silly old man? what news, i do thee pray?" said he, "three squires in nottingham town are condemn'd to die this day." "come change thy apparel with me, old man, come change thy apparel for mine; here is forty shillings in good silvèr, go drink it in beer or wine." "o thine apparel is good," he said, "and mine is ragged and torn; "wherever you go, wherever you ride, laugh ne'er an old man to scorn." "come change thy apparel with me, old churl, come change thy apparel with mine; here are twenty pieces of good broad gold, go feast thy brethren with wine." then he put on the old man's hat, it stood full high on the crown: "the first bold bargain that i come at, it shall make thee come down." then he put on the old man's cloak, was patch'd black, blew, and red; he thought it no shame all the day long to wear the bags of bread. then he put on the old man's breeks, was patch'd from ballup to side: "by the truth of my body," bold robin can say, "this man lov'd little pride," then he put on the old man's hose, were patch'd from knee to wrist: "by the truth of my body," said bold robin hood, "i'd laugh if i had any list." then he put on the old man's shoes, were patch'd both beneath and aboon; then robin hood swore a solemn oath, it's good habit that makes a man. now robin hood is to nottingham gone, _with a link a down and a down_, and there he met with the proud sheriff, was walking along the town. "o christ you save, o sheriff," he said,[l ] "o christ you save and see;[l ] and what will you give to a silly old man to-day will your hangman be?" "some suits, some suits," the sheriff he said, "some suits i'll give to thee: some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen, to-day's a hangman's fee." then robin he turns him round about, and jumps from stock to stone: "by the truth of my body," the sheriff he said, "that's well jumpt, thou nimble old man." "i was ne'er a hangman in all my life, nor yet intends to trade; but curst be he," said bold robìn, "that first a hangman was made. "i've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, and a bag for barley and corn; a bag for bread, and a bag for beef, and a bag for my little small horn. "i have a horn in my pockèt, i got it from robin hood, and still when i set it to my mouth, for thee it blows little good."[l ] "o wind thy horn, thou proud fellòw, of thee i have no doubt: i wish that thou give such a blast till both thy eyes fall out." the first loud blast that he did blow, he blew both loud and shrill; a hundred and fifty of robin hood's men came riding over the hill. the next loud blast that he did give, he blew both loud and amain, and quickly sixty of robin hood's men came shining over the plain. "o who are those," the sheriff he said, "come tripping over the lee?" "they're my attendants," brave robin did say, "they'll pay a visit to thee." they took the gallows from the slack, they set it in the glen, they hang'd the proud sheriff on that, releas'd their own three men. , and a down a. , . oh save, oh save, oh sheriff, he said, oh save and you may see. , me. robin hood rescuing the three squires prom nottingham gallows. "this song, and its tune, as the editor is informed by his ingenious friend, edward williams, the welsh bard, are well known in south wales, by the name of _marchog glas_, _i.e._ green knight. though apparently ancient, it is not known to exist in black letter, nor has any better authority been met with than the common collection of aldermary-churchyard." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . bold robin hood ranging the forrest all round, the forrest all round ranged he, o there did he meet with a gay lady, she came weeping along the highway. "why weep you, why weep you?" bold robin he said, "what, weep you for gold or fee? or do you weep for your maidenhead, that is taken from your body?" "i weep not for gold," the lady reply'd, "neither do i weep for fee; nor do i weep for my maidenhead, that is taken from my body." "what weep you for then?" said jolly robìn, "i prithee come tell unto me;" "oh! i do weep for my three sons, for they are all condemned to die." "what church have they robbed?" said jolly robìn, "or parish-priest have they slain? what maids have they forced against their will? or with other mens wives have lain?" "no church have they robbed," this lady reply'd, "nor parish-priest have they slain; no maids have they forced against their will, nor with other mens wives have lain." "what have they done then?" said jolly robìn, "come tell me most speedily:" "oh! it is for killing the kings fallow deer, that they are all condemned to die."[l ] "get you home, get you home," said jolly robìn, "get you home most speedily, and i will unto fair nottingham go, for the sake of the squires all three." then bold robin hood for nottingham goes, for nottingham town goes he, o there did he meet with a poor beggar-man, he came creeping along the highway. "what news, what news, thou old beggar-man? what news, come tell unto me:" "o there's weeping and wailing in nottingham, for the death of the squires all three." this beggar-man had a coat on his back, 'twas neither green, yellow, nor red; bold robin hood thought 'twas no disgrace to be in the beggar-mans stead. "come, pull off thy coat, thou old beggar-man, and thou shalt put on mine; and forty good shillings i'll give thee to boot, besides brandy, good beer, ale and wine." bold robin hood then unto nottingham came, unto nottingham town came he; o there did he meet with great master sheriff, and likewise the squires all three. "one boon, one boon," says jolly robín, "one boon i beg on my knee; that, as for the death of these three squires, their hangman i may be." "soon granted, soon granted," says master sheriff, "soon granted unto thee; and you shalt have all their gay cloathìng, aye, and all their white monèy." "o i will have none of their gay cloathìng, nor none of their white monèy, but i'll have three blasts on my bugle-horn, that their souls to heaven may flee." then robin hood mounted the gallows so high,[l ] where he blew loud and shrill, till an hundred and ten of robin hoods men came marching down the green hill. "whose men are these?" says master sherìff, "whose men are they? come tell unto me:" "o they are mine, but none of thine, and are come for the squires all three." "o take them, o take them," says great master sheriff, "o take them along with thee; for there's never a man in fair nottinghàm can do the like of thee. , and. . when. robin hood and the curtall fryer. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood: corrected by a much earlier one in the pepysian library, printed by h. gosson, about the year ; compared with a later one in the same collection. the full title is: _the famous battell betweene robin hood and the curtall fryer_. _to a new northern tune._" in summer time, when leaves grow green, and flowers are fresh and gay, robin hood and his merry men were disposed to play. then some would leape, and some would runne, and some would use artillery; "which of you can a good bow draw, a good archer for to be? "which of you can kill a bucke, or who can kill a doe? or who can kill a hart of greece five hundreth foot him fro?" will scadlocke he kild a bucke, and midge he kild a doe, and little john kild a hart of greece, five hundreth foot him fro. "gods blessing on thy heart," said robin hood, "that hath such a shot for me; i would ride my horse a hundred miles, to find one could match thee." this caused will scadlocke to laugh, he laught full heartily: "there lives a curtall fryer in fountaines abbey will beate both him and thee. "the curtall fryer in fountaines abbey well can a strong bow draw; he will beat you and your yeomèn, set them all on a row." robin hood he tooke a solemne oath, it was by mary free, that he would neither eate nor drinke till the fryer he did see. robin hood put on his harnesse good, on his head a cap of steel, broad sword and buckler by his side, and they became him weele. he tooke his bow into his hand, it was made of a trusty tree, with a sheafe of arrowes at his belt, and to fountaine dale went he. and comming unto fountaine dale, no farther would he ride; there he was aware of the curtall fryer, walking by the water side. the fryer had on a harnesse good, on his head a cap of steel, broad sword and buckler by his side, and they became him weele. robin hood lighted off his horse, and tyed him to a thorne: "carry me over the water, thou curtall fryer, or else thy life's forlorne." the fryer tooke robin hood on his backe, deepe water he did bestride, and spake neither good word nor bad, till he came at the other side. lightly leapt robin offe the fryers backe; the fryer said to him againe, "carry me over this water, [thou] fine fellow, or it shall breed thy paine." robin hood took the fryer on his backe, deepe water he did bestride, and spake neither good word nor bad, till he came at the other side. lightly leapt the fryer off robin hoods backe; robin hood said to him againe, "carry me over this water, thou curtall fryer, or it shall breede thy pain." the fryer tooke robin on's backe againe, and stept in to the knee; till he came at the middle streame neither good nor bad spake he. and comming to the middle streame, there he threw robin in; "and chuse thee, chuse thee, fine fellow, whether thou wilt sink or swim." robin hood swam to a bush of broome, the fryer to a wigger wand; bold robin hood is gone to shore, and took his bow in his hand. one of his best arrowes under his belt to the fryer he let fly; the curtall fryer with his steel buckler did put that arrow by. "shoot on, shoot on, thou fine fellow, shoot as thou hast begun, if thou shoot here a summers day, thy marke i will not shun." robin hood shot passing well, till his arrows all were gane; they tooke their swords and steele bucklers, they fought with might and maine; from ten o'th' clock that [very] day, till four i'th' afternoon; then robin hood came to his knees, of the fryer to beg a boone. "a boone, a boone, thou curtall fryer, i beg it on my knee: give me leave to set my horne to my mouth, and to blow blasts three." "that i will do," said the curtall fryer, "of thy blasts i have no doubt; i hope thou'lt blow so passing well, till both thy eyes fall out." robin hood set his home to his mouth, he blew out blasts three; halfe a hundreth yeomen, with bowes bent, came raking over the lee. "whose men are these," said the fryer, "that come so hastily?" "these men are mine," said robin hood; "fryer, what is that to thee?" "a boone, a boone," said the curtall fryer, "the like i gave to thee; give me leave to set my fist to my mouth, and to whute whues three." "that will i doe," said robin hood, "or else i were to blame; three whues in a fryers fist would make me glad and faine." the fryer set his fist to his mouth, and whuted whues three; half a hundred good band-dogs came running over the lee. "here's for every man a dog, and i myselfe for thee:" "nay, by my faith," said robin hood, "fryer, that may not be." two dogs at once to robin hood did goe, the one behind, the other before; robin hoods mantle of lincolne greene off from his backe they tore. and whether his men shot east or west, or they shot north or south, the curtall dogs, so taught they were, they kept the arrows in their mouth. "take up thy dogs," said little john, "fryer, at my bidding be;" "whose man art thou," said the curtall fryer, "comes here to prate with me?" "i am little john, robin hoods man, fryer, i will not lie; if thou take not up thy dogs soone, i'le take up them and thee." little john had a bow in his hand, he shot with might and main; soon halfe a score of the fryers dogs lay dead upon the plain. "hold thy hand, good fellow," said the curtal fryer, "thy master and i will agree; and we will have new orders taken, with all the hast may be." "if thou wilt forsake fair fountaines dale, and fountaines abbey free, every sunday throwout the yeere, a noble shall be thy fee: "and every holliday through the yeere, changed shall thy garment be, if thou wilt goe to faire nottingham, and there remaine with me." this curtal fryer had kept fountaines dale seven long yeeres and more; there was neither knight, lord, nor earle, could make him yeeld before. robin hood and allin a dale. or, a pleasant relation how a young gentleman, being in love with a young damsel, she was taken from him to be an old knights bride: and how robin hood, pittying the young mans case, took her from the old knight, when they were going to be marryed, and restored her to her own love again. to a pleasant northern tune, _robin hood in the green-wood stood_. bold robin hood he did the young man right, and took the damsel from the doting knight. from an old black-letter copy in major pearson's collection. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . the same in _a collection of old ballads_, ii. . come listen to me, you gallants so free, all you that love mirth for to hear, and i will tell you of a bold outlàw that lived in nottinghamshire. as robin hood in the forest stood, all under the green-wood tree, there he was aware of a brave young man, as fine as fine might be. the youngster was cloathed in scarlet red, in scarlet fine and gay; and he did frisk it over the plain, and chanted a round-de-lay. as robin hood next morning stood amongst the leaves so gay, there did [he] espy the same young man, come drooping along the way. the scarlet he wore the day before, it was clean cast away; and at every step he fetcht a sigh, "alack and a well a day!" then stepped forth brave little john, and midge the millers son,[l ] which made the young man bend his bow, when as he see them come. "stand off, stand off," the young man said, "what is your will with me?" "you must come before our master straight, under yon green-wood tree." and when he came bold robin before, robin askt him courteously, "o hast thou any money to spare for my merry men and me?" "i have no money," the young man said, "but five shillings and a ring; and that i have kept this seven long years, to have it at my wedding. "yesterday, i should have married a maid, but she soon from me was tane, and chosen to be an old knights delight, whereby my poor heart is slain." "what is thy name?" then said robin hood, "come tell me, without any fail:" "by the faith of my body," then said the young man, "my name it is allin a dale." "what wilt thou give me," said robin hood, "in ready gold or fee, to help thee to thy true love again, and deliver her unto thee?" "i have no money," then quoth the young man, "no ready gold nor fee, but i will swear upon a book thy true servant for to be." "how many miles is it to thy true love? come tell me without guile:" "by the faith of my body," then said the young man, "it is but five little mile." then robin he hasted over the plain, he did neither stint nor lin, until he came unto the church, where allin should keep his wedding. "what hast thou here?" the bishop then said, "i prithee now tell unto me:" "i am a bold harper," quoth robin hood, "and the best in the north country." "o welcome, o welcome," the bishop he said, "that musick best pleaseth me:" "you shall have no musick," quoth robin hood, "till the bride and the bridegroom i see." with that came in a wealthy knight, which was both grave and old, and after him a finikin lass, did shine like the glistering gold. "this is not a fit match," quod bold robin hood, "that you do seem to make here, for since we are come into the church, the bride shall chuse her own dear." then robin hood put his horn to his mouth, and blew blasts two or three; when four and twenty bowmen bold came leaping over the lee. and when they came into the church-yard, marching all on a row, the first man was allin a dale, to give bold robin his bow. "this is thy true love," robin he said, "young allin, as i hear say; and you shall be married at this same time, before we depart away." "that shall not be," the bishop he said, "for thy word shall not stand; they shall be three times askt in the church, as the law is of our land." robin hood pull'd off the bishops coat, and put it upon little john; "by the faith of my body," then robin said, this cloth does make thee a man." "when little john went into the quire, the people began to laugh; he askt them seven times in the church, lest three times should not be enough. "who gives me this maid?" said little john; quoth robin hood, "that do i, and he that takes her from allin a dale, full dearly he shall her buy." and thus having ende of this merry wedding, the bride lookt like a queen; and so they return'd to the merry green-wood, amongst the leaves so green. . nicke. robin hoods rescuing will stutly. from _a collection of old ballads_, i. . the full title is: _robin hood rescuing will stutley from the sheriff and his men, who had taken him prisoner, and were going to hang him, &c. to the tune of robin hood and queen catherine_. the same in ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . when robin hood in the green wood stood, _derry, derry down_, under the green wood tree, tidings there came to him with speed, tidings for certainty; _hey down, derry, derry, down_. that will stutly surprized was, and eke in prison lay; three varlets that the king had hir'd, did likely him betray. ay, and to-morrow hang'd must be, to-morrow as soon as day; before they could the victory get, two of 'em did stutly slay. when robin hood did hear this news, lord! it did grieve him sore; and to his merry men he said, (who altogether swore) that will stutly should rescu'd be, and be brought back again; or else should many a gallant wight for his sake there be slain. he cloath'd himself in scarlet then, his men were all in green; a finer shew, throughout the world, in no place could be seen. good lord! it was a gallant sight to see them all a-row; with ev'ry man a good broad sword, and eke a good yew bow. forth of the green wood are they gone, yea, all couragously, resolving to bring stutly home, or every man to dye. and when they came to the castle near wherein will stutly lay, "i hold it good," said robin hood, "we here in ambush stay, "and send one forth some news to hear, to yonder palmer fair, that stands under the castle wall; some news he may declare." with that steps forth a brave young man, which was of courage bold; thus he did say to the old man: "i pray thee, palmer old, "tell me, if that thou rightly ken, when must will stutly dye, who is one of bold robin's men, and here doth prisoner lye?" "alas, alas," the palmer said, "and for ever woe is me! will stutly hang'd will be this day, on yonder gallows tree. "o had his noble master known, he would some succour send; a few of his bold yeomanry full soon would fetch him hence." "ay, that is true," the young man said; "ay, that is true," said he; "or, if they were near to this place, they soon would set him free. "but fare thou well, thou good old man, farewel, and thanks to thee; if stutly hanged be this day, reveng'd his death will be." no sooner he was from the palmer gone, but the gates were open'd wide, and out of the castle will stutly came, guarded on every side. when he was forth from the castle come, and saw no help was nigh, thus he did say unto the sheriff, thus he said gallantly: "now seeing that i needs must dye, grant me one boon," said he, "for my noble master ne'er had man that yet was hang'd on tree. "give me a sword all in my hand, and let me be unbound, and with thee and thy men i'll fight, till i lye dead on the ground." but this desire he would not grant, his wishes were in vain; for the sheriff swore he hang'd should be, and not by the sword be slain. "do but unbind my hands," he says, "i will no weapons crave, and if i hanged be this day, damnation let me have." "o no, no, no," the sheriff said, "thou shalt on gallows dye, ay, and so shall thy master too, if ever in me it lye." "o dastard coward!" stutly cries, faint-hearted peasant slave! if ever my master do thee meet, thou shalt thy payment have. "my noble master thee doth scorn, and all thy cowardly crew; such silly imps unable are bold robin to subdue." but when he was to the gallows gone, and ready to bid adieu, out of a bush steps little john, and goes will stutly to. "i pray thee, will, before thou dye, of thy dear friends take leave; i needs must borrow him a while, how say you, master sheriff?" "now, as i live," the sheriff said, "that varlet will i know; some sturdy rebel is that same, therefore let him not go." and little john most hastily away cut stutly's bands, and from one of the sheriffs men, a sword twich'd from his hands. "here, will stutly, take thou this same, thou canst it better sway; and here defend thyself awhile, for aid will come straightway." and there they turn'd them back to back, in the midst of them that day, till robin hood approached near, with many an archer gay. with that an arrow from them flew, i-wis[ ] from robin hood;[l ] "make haste, make haste," the sheriff he said, "make haste, for it is not good." the sheriff is gone; his doughty men thought it no boot to stay, but, as their master had them taught, they run full fast away. "o stay, o stay," will stutly said, "take leave ere you depart; you ne'er will catch bold robin hood, unless you dare him meet." "o ill betide you," said robin hood, that you so soon are gone; my sword may in the scabbard rest, for here our work is done." "i little thought," will stutly said, "when i came to this place, for to have met with little john, or seen my master's face." thus stutly he was at liberty set, and safe brought from his foe: "o thanks, o thanks to my mastèr, since here it was not so. "and once again, my fellows dear, _derry, derry down_, we shall in the green woods meet, where we will make our bow-strings twang, musick for us most sweet." _hey down, derry, derry down_. , i wist. robin hoods progress to nottingham. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood. it is there said to go 'to the tune of bold robin hood;' and the chorus is repeated in every stanza. to the above title are added the following doggerel lines:-- where hee met with fifteen forresters all on a row, and hee desired of them some news for to know, but with crosse-grain'd words they did him thwart, for which at last hee made them smart." one or two corrections made by gutch from copies in the roxburghe collection have been admitted. robin hood he was a tall young man,[l ] _derry, derry down_, and fifteen winters old; and robin hood he was a proper young man, of courage stout and bold. _hey down, derry, derry down_. robin hood hee would unto fair nottingham,[l ] with the general for to dine; there was hee aware of fifteen forresters, and a drinking beer, ale, and wine.[l ] "what news?" "what news?" said bold robin hood, "what news fain wouldest thou know? our king hath provided a shooting match, and i'm ready with my bow." "we hold it in scorn," said the forresters, "that ever a boy so young should bear a bow before our king, that's not able to draw one string." "i'le hold you twenty marks," said bold robin hood, "by the leave of our lad[y'], that i'le hit a mark a hundred rod, and i'le cause a hart to dye." "we'l hold you twenty mark," then said the forresters, "by the leave of our lady, thou hit'st not the marke a hundred rod, nor causest a hart to dye." robin hood he bent up a noble bow, and a broad arrow he let flye, he hit the mark a hundred rod, and he caused a hart to dye. some say hee brake ribs one or two, and some say hee brake three; the arrow within the hart would not abide, but it glanced in two or three. the hart did skip, and the hart did leap, and the hart lay on the ground; "the wager is mine," said bold robin hood, "if't were for a thousand pound." "the wager's none of thine," then said the forresters, "although thou beest in haste; take up thy bow, and get thee hence, lest wee thy sides do baste." robin hood he took up his noble bow, and his broad arrows all amain; and robin hood he laught, and begun to smile, as hee went over the plain. then robin hood he bent his noble bow, and his broad arrowes he let flye, till fourteen of these fifteen forresters upon the ground did lye. he that did this quarrel first begin went tripping over the plain; but robin hood he bent his noble bow, and hee fetcht him back again. "you said i was no archer," said robin hood, "but say so now again;" with that he sent another arrow, that split his head in twain. "you have found mee an archer," said robin hood,[l ] "which will make your wives for to wring, and wish that you had never spoke the word, that i could not draw one string." the people that lived in fair nottinghàm came running out amain, supposing to have taken bold robin hood, with the forresters that were slain. some lost legs, and some lost arms, and some did lose their blood; but robin hee took up his noble bow, and is gone to the merry green wood. they carried these forresters into fair nottingham, as many there did know; they dig'd them graves in their church-yard, and they buried them all a-row. , and he; , and to, ritson. , bear. , saith. ritson. robin hood and the bishop of hereford. "this excellent ballad, given from the common edition of aldermary church-yard (compared with the york copy), is supposed to be modern; the story, however, seems alluded to in the ballad of _renowned robin hood_. the full title is _the bishop of herefords entertainment by robin hood and little john, &c., in merry barnsdale_." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . some they will talk of bold robin hood, and some of barons bold; but i'll tell you how he serv'd the bishop of hereford, when he robb'd him of his gold. as it befel in merry barnsdale, all under the green-wood tree, the bishop of hereford was to come by, with all his company. "come, kill [me] a ven'son," said bold robin hood, "come, kill me a good fat deer; the bishop of hereford is to dine with me to-day, and he shall pay well for his cheer. "we'll kill a fat ven'son," said bold robin hood, and dress it by the highway side; and we will watch the bishop narrowly, lest some other way he should ride." robin hood dress'd himself in shepherds attire, with six of his men alsò; and, when the bishop of hereford came by, they about the fire did go. "o what is the matter?" then said the bishop, "or for whom do you make this a-do? or why do you kill the kings ven'son, when your company is so few?" "we are shepherds," said bold robin hood, "and we keep sheep all the year, and we are disposed to be merry this day, and to kill of the kings fat deer." "you are brave fellows!" said the bishop, "and the king of your doings shall know: therefore make haste, and come along with me, for before the king you shall go." "o pardon, o pardon," said bold robin hood, "o pardon, i thee pray! for it becomes not your lordships coat to take so many lives away." "no pardon, no pardon," said the bishòp, "no pardon i thee owe; therefore make haste, and come along with me, for before the king you shall go." then robin set his back against a tree, and his foot against a thorn, and from underneath his shepherds coat he pull'd out a bugle horn. he put the little end to his mouth, and a loud blast did he blow, till threescore and ten of bold robins men came running all on a row, all making obeysance to bold robin hood; 'twas a comely sight for to see. "what is the matter, master," said little john, "that you blow so hastily?" "o here is the bishop of hereford, and no pardon we shall have:" "cut off his head, master," said little john, "and throw him into his grave." "o pardon, o pardon," said the bishop, "o pardon, i thee pray, for if i had known it had been you, i'd have gone some other way." "no pardon, no pardon," said bold robin hood, "no pardon i thee owe; therefore make haste, and come along with me, for to merry barnsdale you shall go." then robin he took the bishop by the hand, and led him to merry barnsdale; he made him to stay and sup with him that night, and to drink wine, beer, and ale. "call in a reckoning," said the bishop, "for methinks it grows wond'rous high:" "lend me your purse, master," said little john, "and i'll tell you bye and bye." then little john took the bishops cloak, and spread it upon the ground, and out of the bishops portmantua he told three hundred pound. "here's money enough, master," said little john, "and a comely sight 'tis to see; it makes me in charity with the bishop, tho' he heartily loveth not me." robin hood took the bishop by the hand, and he caused the music to play; and he made the bishop to dance in his boots, and glad he could so get away. robin hood and the bishop. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . shewing how robin hood went to an old woman's house and changed cloaths with her to scape from the bishop; and how he robbed the bishop of all his gold, and made him sing a mass. to the tune of _robin hood and the stranger_. "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood." two trifling corrections have been made from the copy in _old ballads_, , (ii. ,) which is very nearly the same. come, gentlemen all, and listen awhile, _hey down, down, an a down_, and a story ile to you unfold; ile tell you how robin hood served the bishop, when he robbed him of his gold. as it fell out on a sun-shining day, when ph[oe]bus was in his prime, then robin hood, that archer good, in mirth would spend some time. and as he walk'd the forrest along, some pastime for to spy, there was he aware of a proud bishop, and all his company. "o what shall i do," said robin hood then, "if the bishop he doth take me? no mercy he'l show unto me, i know, but hangèd i shall be." then robin was stout, and turn'd him about, and a little house there he did spy; and to an old wife, for to save his life, he loud began for to cry. "why, who art thou?" said the old woman, "come tell it to me for good:"[l ] "i am an out-law, as many do know, my name it is robin hood; "and yonder's the bishop and all his men, and if that i taken be, then day and night he'l work my spight, and hangèd i shall be." "if thou be robin hood," said the old wife, "as thou dost seem to be, i'le for thee provide, and thee i will hide, from the bishop and his company. "for i remember one saturday night, thou brought me both shoes and hose; therefore i'le provide thy person to hide, and keep thee from thy foes." "then give me soon thy coat of grey, and take thou my mantle of green; thy spindle and twine unto me resign, and take thou my arrows so keen." and when robin hood was thus araid, he went straight to his company, with his spindle and twine, he oft lookt behind for the bishop and his company. "o who is yonder," quoth little john, "that now comes over the lee? an arrow i will at her let flie, so like an old witch looks she." "o hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said robin hood then, "and shoot not thy arrows so keen; i am robin hood, thy master good, and quickly it shall be seen." the bishop he came to the old womans house, and called with furious mood, "come let me soon see, and bring unto me, that traitor robin hood." the old woman he set on a milk-white steed, himselfe on a dapple gray; and for joy he had got robin hood, he went laughing all the way. but as they were riding the forrest along, the bishop he chanc'd for to see a hundred brave bowmen bold, stand under the green-wood tree. "o who is yonder," the bishop then said, "that's ranging within yonder wood?" "marry," says the old woman, "i think it to be a man call'd robin hood." "why, who art thou," the bishop he said, "which i have here with me?" "why, i am an old woman, thou cuckoldy bishop; lift up my leg and see." "then woe is me," the bishop he said, "that ever i saw this day!" he turn'd him about, but robin hood stout[l ] call'd him, and bid him stay. then robin took hold of the bishops horse, and ty'd him fast to a tree; then little john smil'd his master upon, for joy of that company. robin hood took his mantle from 's back, and spread it upon the ground, and out of the bishops portmantle he soon told five hundred pound. "now let him go," said robin hood; said little john, "that may not be; for i vow and protest he shall sing us a mass, before that he goe from me." then robin hood took the bishop by the hand, and bound him fast to a tree, and made him sing a mass, god wot, to him and his yeomandree. and then they brought him through the wood, and set him on his dapple gray, and gave him the tail within his hand, and bade him for robin hood pray. , tell to me. ritson. . robin, ritson. robin hoods golden prize. he met two priests upon the way, and forced them with him to pray; for gold they prayed, and gold they had, enough to make bold robin glad. his share came to four hundred pound, that then was told upon the ground; now mark, and you shall hear the jest, you never heard the like exprest. tune is, _robin hood was a tall young man, &c._ "this ballad (given from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood) was entered, amongst others, in the stationers' book, by francis coule, th june, , and by francis grove, nd june, ." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . this piece is printed in _a collection of old ballads_, ii. , with some variations. i have heard talk of bold robin hood, _derry, derry down_, and of brave little john, of fryer tuck, and will scarlet, loxley, and maid mariòn. but such a tale as this before i think was never knone; for robin hood disguised himself, and from the wood is gone.[l ] like to a fryer, bold robin hood was accoutered in his array; with hood, gown, bedes, and crucifix, he past upon the way. he had not gone miles two or three, but it was his chance to spy two lusty priests, clad all in black, come riding gallantly. "benedicite," then said robin hood, "some pitty on me take; cross you my hand with a silver groat, for our dear ladies sake. "for i have been wandring all this day, and nothing could i get; not so much as one poor cup of drink, nor bit of bread to eat." "now, by our dame," the priests repli'd, we never a penny have; for we this morning have been rob'd, and could no money save." "i am much afraid," said bold robin hood, that you both do tell a lie; and now before you do go hence, i am resolv'd to try." when as the priests heard him say so, then they rode away amain; but robin hood betook to his heels, and soon overtook them again. then robin hood laid hold of them both, and pull'd them down from their horse: "o spare us, fryer!" the priests cry'd out, "on us have some remorse!" "you said you had no mony," quoth he, "wherefore, without delay, we three will fall down on our knees, and for mony we will pray." the priests they could not him gainsay, but down they kneeled with speed; "send us, o send us," then quoth they, "some money to serve our need." the priests did pray with a mournful chear, sometimes their hands did wring; sometimes they wept, and cried aloud, whilst robin did merrily sing. when they had been praying an hours space, the priests did still lament; then quoth bold robin, "now let's see what mony heaven hath us sent. "we will be sharers all alike of mony that we have; and there is never a one of us that his fellow shall deceive." the priests their hands in their pockets put, but mony would find none: "we'l search ourselves," said robin hood, "each other, one by one." then robin hood took pains to search them both, and he found good store of gold, five hundred peeces presently upon the grass was told. "here is a brave show," said robin hood, "such store of gold to see, and you shall each one have a part, cause you prayed so heartily." he gave them fifty pounds a-peece, and the rest for himself did keep: the priests durst not speak one word, but they sighed wondrous deep. with that the priests rose up from their knees, thinking to have parted so: "nay, stay," says robin hood, "one thing more i have to say ere you do go. "you shall be sworn," said bold robin hood, "upon this holy grass, that you will never tell lies again, which way soever you pass. "the second oath that you here must take, that all the days of your lives, you shall never tempt maids to sin, nor lye with other mens wives. "the last oath you shall take, it is this, be charitable to the poor; say, you have met with a holy fryar, and i desire no more." he set them on their horses again, and away then they did ride; and he return'd to the merry green-wood, with great joy, mirth, and pride. to. robin hoods death and burial: shewing how he was taken ill, and how he went to his cousin at kirkley-hall, who let him blood, which was the cause of his death. tune of _robin hood's last farewel, &c._ "this very old (?) and curious piece is preserved solely in the editions of _robin hood's garland_ printed at york, (or such as have been taken from them,) where it is made to conclude with some foolish lines, (adopted from the london copy of _robin hood and the valiànt knight_,) in order to introduce the epitaph. it is here given from a collation of two different copies, containing numerous variations, a few of which are retained in the margin." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . when robin hood and little john, _down a down, a down, a down_. went o'er yon bank of broom, said robin hood to little john, "we have shot for many a pound: _hey down, a down, a down_. "but i am not able to shoot one shot more, my arrows will not flee; but i have a cousin lives down below, please god, she will bleed me." now robin is to fair kirkley gone, as fast as he can win; but before he came there, as we do hear, he was taken very ill. and when that he came to fair kirkley-hall, he knock'd all at the ring, but none was so ready as his cousin herself for to let bold robin in. "will you please to sit down, cousin robin," she said, "and drink some beer with me?" "no, i will neither eat nor drink, till i am blooded by thee."[l ] "well, i have a room, cousin robin," she said, "which you did never see, and if you please to walk therein, you blooded by me shall be."[l ] she took him by the lilly-white hand, and led him to a private room,[l ] and there she blooded bold robin hood, whilst one drop of blood would run. she blooded him in the vein of the arm, and lock'd him up in the room; there did he bleed all the live-long day, untill the next day at noon. he then bethought him of a casement door, thinking for to be gone;[l ] he was so weak he could not leap, nor he could not get down. he then bethought him of his bugle-horn, which hung low down to his knee; he set his horn unto his mouth, and blew out weak blasts three. then little john, when hearing him, as he sat under the tree, "i fear my master is near dead, he blows so wearily." then little john to fair kirkley is gone, as fast as he can dree; but when he came to kirkley-hall, he broke locks two or three: untill he came bold robin to, then he fell on his knee; "a boon, a boon," cries little john, "master, i beg of thee." "what is that boon," quoth robin hood, "little john, thou begs of me?" "it is to burn fair kirkley-hall, and all their nunnery." "now nay, now nay," quoth robin hood, "that boon i'll not grant thee; i never hurt woman in all my life,[l ] nor man in woman's company. "i never hurt fair maid in all my time, nor at my end shall it be; but give me my bent bow in my hand, and a broad arrow i'll let flee; and where this arrow is taken up, there shall my grave digg'd be. "lay me a green sod under my head,[l ] and another at my feet;[l ] and lay my bent bow by my side, which was my music sweet; and make my grave of gravel and green, which is most right and meet. "let me have length and breadth enough, with under my head a green sod;[l ] that they may say, when i am dead, here lies bold robin hood." these words they readily promis'd him, which did bold robin please: and there they buried bold robin hood, near to the fair kirklèys. . till i blood letted be. . you blood shall letted be. , let, ritson. , get down. , burnt. this stanza is omitted in one edition. , . with verdant sods most neatly put, weet as the green-wood tree. . with a green sod under my head, ritson. robin hood and queen katherine. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . "from an old black-letter copy in a private collection, compared with another in that of anthony à wood. the full title is: "_renowned robin hood; or, his famous archery truly related in the worthy exploits he acted before queen katherine, he being an outlaw man; and how he obtained his own and his fellows pardon_. _to a new tune._ "it is scarcely worth observing that there was no queen consort named katherine before henry the fifth's time: but as henry the eighth had no less than three wives so called, the name would be sufficiently familiar to our ballad-maker." ritson. gold tane from the kings harbengers, _downe, a downe, a downe_, as seldome hath beene seene, _downe, a downe, a downe_, and carried by bold robin hood for a present to the queen, _downe, a downe, a downe_. "if that i live a yeare to an end," thus can queene katherine say, "bold robin hood, i will be thy friend, and all thy yeomen gay." the queene is to her chamber gone, as fast as she can win;[l ] she calls unto her lovely page, his name was richard patrington. "come thou hither to mee, thou lovely page, come thou hither to mee; for thou must post to nottingham, as fast as thou can dree. "and as thou goest to nottingham, search all the english wood, enquire of one good yeoman or another, that can tell thee of robin hood." sometimes hee went, sometimes hee ran, as fast as hee could win; and when hee came to nottingham, there hee took up his inne. and when he came to nottingham, and had tooke up his inne, he calls for a pottle of rhenish wine, and dranke a health to his queene. there sate a yeoman by his side, "tell mee, sweet page," said hee, "what is thy businesse and thy cause, so far in the north countrey?" "this is my businesse and the cause, sir, i'le tell it you for good, to enquire of one good yeoman or another, to tell mee of robin hood." "i'le get my horse betimes in the morne, by it be break of day, and i will shew thee bold robin hood, and all his yeomen gay." when that he came at robin hoods place, hee fell down on his knee; "queen katherine she doth greet you well, she greets you well by mee; "she bids you post to fair london court, not fearing any thing: for there shall be a little sport, and she hath sent you her ring." robin hood tooke his mantle from his back, it was of the lincolne greene, and sent it by this lovely page, for a present unto the queene. in summer time, when leaves grow green, it [wa]s a seemely sight to see, how robin hood himselfe had drest, and all his yeomandry. he clothed his men in lincolne green, and himselfe in scarlet red; blacke hats, white feathers, all alike, now bold robin hood is rid. and when hee came at londons court, hee fell downe on his knee. "thou art welcome, locksly," said the queen, "and all thy good yeomandree." the king is into finsbury field,[l ] marching in battle ray, and after follows bold robin hood, and all his yeomen gay. "come hither, tepus," said the king, "bow-bearer after me; come measure me out with this line, how long our mark must be. "what is the wager?" said the queene, "that must i now know here:" "three hundred tun of rhenish wine, three hundred tun of beere; "three hundred of the fattest harts that run on dallom lee; that's a princely wager," said the king, "that needs must i tell thee." with that bespake one clifton then, full quickly and full soone; "measure no markes for us, most soveraigne liege, wee'l shoot at sun and moone." "ful fifteene score your marke shall be, ful fifteene score shall stand;" "i'll lay my bow," said clifton then, "i'll cleave the willow wand." with that the kings archers led about, while it was three and none; with that the ladies began to shout, "madam, your game is gone." "a boone, a boone," queen katherine cries, "i crave it on my bare knee; is there any knight of your privy counsèl of queen katherines part will be? "come hither to mee, sir richard lee, thou art a knight full good; for i do knowe by thy pedigree thou sprung'st from gowers blood. "come hither to me, thou bishop of herefordshire," for a noble priest was hee; "by my silver miter," said the bishop then, "ile not bet one peny." "the king hath archers of his own, full ready and full light, and these be strangers every one, no man knowes what they hight." "what wilt thou bet," said robin hood, "thou seest our game the worse?" "by my silver miter," then said the bishop, "all the money within my purse." "what is in thy purse?" said robin hood, "throw it downe on the ground." "fifteen score nobles," said the bishop; "it's neere an hundred pound." robin hood took his bagge from his side, and threw it downe on the greene; william scadlocke then went smiling away, "i know who this money must win." with that the kings archers led about, while it was three and three; with that the ladies gave a shout, "woodcock, beware thy knee!" "it is three and three, now," said the king, "the next three pays for all:" robin hood went and whisper'd the queen, "the kings part shall be but small." robin hood hee led about, hee shot it under hand; and clifton, with a bearing arrow, hee clave the willow wand. and little midge, the millers son, he shot not much the worse; he shot within a finger of the prick: "now, bishop, beware thy purse!" "a boone, a boone," queen katherine cries, "i crave it on my bare knee, that you will angry be with none that are of my partie." "they shall have forty daies to come, and forty daies to goe, and three times forty to sport and play; then welcome friend or foe." "thou art welcome, robin hood," said the queene, "and so is little john, and so is midge, the millers son; thrice welcome every one." "is this robin hood?" now said the king; "for it was told to me that he was slain in the palace gates, so far in the north country." "is this robin hood?" quoth the bishop then, "as i see well to be: had i knowne it had been that bold outlàw, i would not [have] bet one peny. "hee tooke me late one saturday at night, and bound mee fast to a tree, and made mee sing a masse, god wot, to him and his yeomandree." "what an if i did?" saies robin hood, "of that masse i was faine; "for recompence of that," he saies, "here's halfe thy gold againe." "now nay, now nay," saies little john, "master, that shall not be; we must give gifts to the kings officèrs; that gold will serve thee and mee." , wen. . ground near moorfields, london, famous in old times for the archery practised there. "in the year ," says stow, "all the gardens which had continued time out of minde, without mooregate, to wit, about and beyond the lordship of fensberry, were destroyed. and of them was made a plaine field for archers to shoote in." _survay of london_, , p. . see also p. , where it is observed that "about the feast of s. bartlemew ... the officers of the city ... were challengers of all men in the suburbes, ... before the lord maior, aldermen, and sheriffes, in fensbery fielde, to shoote the standarde, broade arrow, and flight, for games." [the finsbury] archers are mentioned by ben jonson, in _every man in his humour_, act i, scene : "because i dwell at hogsden, i shall keep company with none but the archers of finsbury." the practice of shooting here is alluded to by cotton, in his _virgile travestie_ (b. iv.), : "and arrows loos'd from grub-street bow, "in finsbury, to him are slow;" and continued till within the memory of persons now living. ritson. robin hoods chase: or, a merry progress between robin hood and king henry: shewing how robin hood led the king his chase from london to london; and when he had taken his leave of the queen, he returned to merry sherwood. to the tune of _robin hood and the beggar_." "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . come, you gallants all, to you i do call, _with hey down, down, an a down_, that now are in this place; for a song i will sing of henry the king, how he did robin hood chase. queen katherin she a match did make,[l ] as plainly doth appear, for three hundred tun of good red wine, and three [hundred] tun of beere. but yet her archers she had to seek, with their bows and arrows so good; but her mind it was bent, with a good intent, to send for bold robin hood. but when bold robin he came there, queen katherin she did say, "thou art welcome, locksley," said the queen, "and all thy yeomen gay; "for a match of shooting i have made, and thou on my part, robin, must be." "if i miss the mark, be it light or dark, then hanged i will be." but when the game came to be played, bold robin he then drew nigh; with his mantle of green, most brave to be seen, he let his arrows fly. and when the game it ended was, bold robin wan it with a grace; but after the king was angry with him, and vowed he would him chace. what though his pardon granted was, while he with him did stay; but yet the king was vexed at him, whenas he was gone his way. soon after the king from the court did hye, in a furious angry mood, and often enquired both far and near after bold robin hood. but when the king to nottingham came, bold robin was in the wood: "o come now," said he, "and let me see who can find me bold robin hood." but when that bold robin he did hear the king had him in chase, then said little john, "tis time to be gone, and go to some other place." then away they went from merry sherwood, and into yorkshire he did hye; and the king did follow, with a hoop and a hallow, but could not come him nigh. yet jolly robin he passed along, and went strait to newcastle town; and there he stayed hours two or three, and then to barwick is gone.[l ] when the king did see how robin did flee, he was vexed wondrous sore; with a hoop and a hallow he vowed to follow, and take him, or never give ore. "come now, let's away," then crys little john, "let any man follow that dare; to carlisle we'l hye with our company, and so then to lancastèr." from lancaster then to chester they went, and so did king henry; but robin [went] away, for he durst not stay, for fear of some treachery. says robin, "come, let us for london goe, to see our noble queens face; it may be she wants our company, which makes the king so us chase." when robin he came queene katherin before, he fell low upon his knee: "if it please your grace, i am come to this place, for to speak with king henry." queen katherine answered bold robin again,[l ] "the king is gone to merry sherwood: and when he went away, to me he did say, he would go and seek robin hood." "then fare you well, my gracious queen, for to sherwood i will hye apace; for fain would i see what he would with me, if i could but meet with his grace." but when king henry he came home, full weary, and vexed in mind, and that he did hear robin had been there, he blamed dame fortune unkind. "you're welcome home," queen katherin cryed, "henry, my soveraign liege; bold robin hood, that archer good, your person hath been to seek." but when king henry he did hear, that robin had been there him to seeke, this answer he gave, "he's a cunning knave, for i have sought him this whole three weeks." "a boon! a boon!" queen katherin cry'd, "i beg it here of your grace;-- to pardon his life, and seek not strife," and so endeth robin hoods chase. , then did. , he ... was. , robin hood. little john and the four beggers. "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood: the full title being, _a new merry song of robin hood and little john, shewing how little john went a begging, and how he fought with the four beggers_. _the tune is, robin hood and the begger._" ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . all you that delight to spend some time, _with a hey down, down, a down, down_, a merry song for to sing, unto me draw neer, and you shall hear how little john went a beggìng. as robin hood walked the forest along, and all his yeomandree, sayes robin, "some of you must a begging go, and, little john, it must be thee." sayes john, "if i must a begging go, i will have a palmers weed, with a staff and a coat, and bags of all sort, the better then i may speed. "come, give me now a bag for my bread, and another for my cheese, and one for a peny, whenas i get any, that nothing i may leese." now little john he is a begging gone, seeking for some relief; but of all the beggers he met on the way, little john he was the chief. but as he was walking himself alone, four beggers he chanced to spy, some deaf, and some blind, and some came behind; says john, "here's brave company. "good-morrow," said john, "my brethren dear, good fortune i had you to see; which way do you go? pray let me know, for i want some company. "o what is here to do?" then said little john, "why ring all these bells?" said he; "what dog is a hanging? come, let us be ganging, that we the truth may see." "here is no dog a hanging," then one of them said, "good fellow, we tell unto thee; but here is one dead that will give us cheese and bread,[l ] and it may be one single penny."[l ] "we have brethren in london," another he said, "so have we in coventry, in barwick and dover, and all the world over, but ne'er a crookt carril like thee. "therefore stand thee back, thou crooked carel, and take that knock on the crown:" "nay," said little john, "ile not yet be gone, for a bout will i have of you round. "now have at you all," then said little john, "if you be so full of your blows; fight on all four, and nere give ore, whether you be friends or foes." john nipped the dumb, and made him to rore, and the blind he made to see, and he that a cripple had been seven years,[l ] he made run then faster than he. and flinging them all against the wall, with many a sturdie bang, it made john sing, to hear the gold ring, which against the walls cryed twang. then he got out of the beggers cloak three hundred pound in gold; "good fortune had i," then said little john, "such a good sight to behold." but what found he in the beggars bag, but three hundred pound and three? "if i drink water while this doth last, then an ill death may i dye. "and my begging trade i will now give ore, my fortune hath bin so good; therefore ile not stay, but i will away to the forrest of merry sherwood." and when to the forrest of sherwood he came, he quickly there did see his master good, bold robin hood, and all his company. "what news? what news?" then said robin hood, "come, little john, tell unto me; how hast thou sped with thy beggers trade? for that i fain would see." "no news but good," said little john, "with begging ful wel i have sped; six hundred and three i have here for thee, in silver and gold so red. then robin took little john by the hand, and danced about the oak tree: "if we drink water while this doth last, then an il death may we die." so to conclude my merry new song, all you that delight it to sing, 'tis of robin hood, that archer good, and how little john went a beggìng. , . the allusion is of course to the dole at funerals. , that could not. the noble fisher-man, or, robin hoods preferment: shewing how he won a prize on the sea, and how he gave the one halfe to his dame, and the other to the building of almes-houses. the tune is, _in summer time_, etc. "from three old black-letter copies; one in the collection of anthony à wood, another in the british museum, and the third in a private collection." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . in summer time, when leaves grow green, when they doe grow both green and long,-- of a bold outlaw, call'd robin hood, it is of him i do sing this song,-- when the lilly leafe, and the eglantine,[l ] doth bud and spring with a merry cheere, this outlaw was weary of the wood-side, and chasing of the fallow-deere. "the fisher-men brave more mony have than any merchants two or three; therefore i will to scarborough go, that i a fisherman brave may be." this outlaw called his merry men all, as they sate under the green-wood tree: "if any of you have gold to spend, i pray you heartily spend it with me." "now," quoth robin hood, "ile to scarborough go, it seems to be a very faire day;" he tooke up his inne at a widdow-womans house, hard by upon the water gray: who asked of him, "where wert thou borne? or tell to me where dost thou fare?" "i am a poor fisherman," said he then, "this day intrapped all in care." "what is thy name, thou fine fellow, i pray thee heartily tell it to mee?" "in my own country, where i was borne, men call me simon over the lee." "simon, simon," said the good wife, "i wish thou mayest well brook thy name;" the out-law was ware of her courtesie, and rejoyced he had got such a dame. "simon, wilt thou be my man? and good round wages ile give thee; i have as good a ship of my own as any sails upon the sea. "anchors and planks thou shalt not want, masts and ropes that are so long:" "and if you thus do furnish me," said simon, "nothing shall goe wrong." they pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, more of a day then two or three; when others cast in their baited hooks, the bare lines into the sea cast he. "it will be long," said the master then, "ere this great lubber do thrive on the sea; i'le assure you he shall have no part of our fish, for in truth he is no part worthy." "o woe is me!" said simon then, "this day that ever i came here! i wish i were in plompton parke, in chasing of the fallow deere. "for every clowne laughs me to scorne, and they by me set nought at all; if i had them in plompton park, i would set as little by them all." they pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, more of a day then two or three: but simon espyed a ship of warre, that sayled towards them most valorously. "o woe is me!" said the master then, "this day that ever i was borne! for all our fish we have got to-day is every bit lost and forlorne. "for your french robbers on the sea, they will not spare of us one man, but carry us to the coast of france, and ligge us in the prison strong." but simon said, "doe not feare them, neither, master, take you no care; give me my bent bow in my hand, and never a frenchman will i spare." "hold thy peace, thou long lubbèr, for thou art nought but brags and boast; if i should cast thee over-board, there's but a simple lubber lost." simon grew angry at these words, and so angry then was he, that he took his bent bow in his hand, and in the ship-hatch goe doth he. "master, tye me to the mast," saith he, "that at my mark i may stand fair, and give me my bent bow in my hand, and never a frenchman will i spare." he drew his arrow to the very head, and drewe it with all his might and maine, and straightway, in the twinkling of an eye, doth the frenchmans heart the arrow gain. the frenchman fell down on the ship hatch, and under the hatches there below; another frenchman, that him espy'd, the dead corpse into the sea doth throw. "o master, loose me from the mast," he said, "and for them all take you no care; for give me my bent bow in my hand, and never a frenchman will i spare." then streight [they] boarded the french ship, they lyeing all dead in their sight; they found within that ship of warre twelve thousand pound of mony bright. "the one halfe of the ship," said simon then, "i'le give to my dame and children small; the other halfe of the ship i'le bestow on you that are my fellowes all." but now bespake the master then, "for so, simon, it shall not be, for you have won it with your own hand, and the owner of it you shall bee." "it shall be so, as i have said; and, with this gold, for the opprest an habitation i will build, where they shall live in peace and rest." , elephant. robin hood and the tanners daughter. gutch's _robin hood_, ii. . communicated to gutch by mr. payne collier, and derived by him, with _robin hood and the peddlers_, from a volume of ms. ballads, collected, as mr. c. conjectures, about the date of the protectorate. the story is only one of the varieties of the _douglas tragedy_. see vol. ii. p. . as robin hood sat by a tree, he espied a prettie may, and when she chanced him to see, she turnd her head away. "o feare me not, thou prettie mayde, and doe not flie from mee, i am the kindest man," he said, "that ever eye did see." then to her he did doffe his cap, and to her lowted low, "to meete with thee i hold it good hap, if thou wilt not say noe." then he put his hand around her waste, soe small, so tight, and trim, and after sought her lip to taste, and she to[o] kissed him. "where dost thou dwell, my prettie maide, i prithee tell to mee?" "i am a tanners daughter," she said, "john hobbes of barneslee." "and whither goest thou, pretty maide? shall i be thy true love?" "if thou art not afeard," she said, "my true love thou shalt prove." "what should i feare?" then he replied; "i am thy true love now;" "i have two brethren, and their pride would scorn such one as thou." "that will we try," quoth robin hood, "i was not made their scorne; ile shed my blood to doe the[e] good, as sure as they were borne." "my brothers are proude and fierce and strong;" "i am," said he, "the same, and if they offer thee to wrong, theyle finde ile play their game. "through the free forrest i can run, the king may not controll; they are but barking tanners sons, to me they shall pay toll. "and if not mine be sheepe and kine, i have cattle on my land; on venison eche day i may dine, whiles they have none in hand." these wordes had robin hood scarce spoke, when they two men did see, come riding till their horses smoke: "my brothers both," cried shee. each had a good sword by his side, and furiouslie they rode to where they robin hood espied, that with the maiden stood. "flee hence, flee hence, away with speede!" cried she to robin hood, "for if thou stay, thoult surely bleede; i could not see thy blood." "with us, false maiden, come away, and leave that outlawe bolde; why fledst thou from thy home this day, and left thy father olde?" robin stept backe but paces five, unto a sturdie tree; "ile fight whiles i am left alive; stay, thou sweete maide, with mee." he stood before, she stoode behinde, the brothers two drewe nie; "our sister now to us resign, or thou full sure shalt die." then cried the maide, "my brethren deare, with ye ile freely wend, but harm not this young forrester, noe ill doth he pretend." "stande up, sweete maide, i plight my troth; fall thou not on thy knee; ile force thy cruell brothers both to bend the knee to thee. "stand thou behinde this sturdie oke, i soone will quell their pride; thoult see my sword with furie smoke, and in their hearts blood died." he set his backe against a tree, his foote against a stone; the first blow that he gave so free cleft one man to the bone. the tanners bold they fought right well, and it was one to two; but robin did them both refell, all in the damsells viewe. the red blood ran from robins brow, all downe unto his knee; "o holde your handes, my brethren now, i will goe backe with yee." "stand backe, stand backe, my pretty maide, stand backe and let me fight; by sweete st. james be no afraide but i will it requite." then robin did his sword uplift, and let it fall againe; the oldest brothers head it cleft, right through unto his braine. "o hold thy hand, bolde forrester, or ill may thee betide; slay not my youngest brother here, he is my fathers pride." "away, for i would scorne to owe, my life to the[e], false maide!" the youngest cried, and aim'd a blow that lit on robins head. then robin leand against the tree, his life nie gone did seeme; his eyes did swim, he could not see the maiden start betweene. it was not long ere robin hood could welde his sword so bright; upon his feete he firmly stood, and did renew the fight; untill the tanner scarce could heave his weapon in the aire; but robin would not him bereave of life, and left him there. then to the greenewood did he fly, and with him went the maide; for him she vowd that she would dye, he'd live for her, he said. finis. t. fleming. appendix. robin hoods birth, breeding, valour, and marriage. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . ritson printed this piece from a black-letter copy in a large and valuable collection of old ballads which successively belonged to major pearson, the duke of roxburghe, and mr. bright, but which is now in the british museum. the full title of the original is: _a new ballad of bold robin hood; shewing his birth, breeding, valour, and marriage at tilbury bull-running. calculated for the meridian of staffordshire, but may serve for derbyshire or kent_. the copy in _a collection of old ballads_, i. , is the same. kind gentlemen, will you be patient awhile? ay, and then you shall hear anon a very good ballad of bold robin hood, and of his brave man little john. in locksly town, in merry nottinghamshire, in merry sweet locksly town, there bold robin hood he was born and was bred, bold robin of famous renown. the father of robin a forrester was, and he shot in a lusty strong bow, two north country miles and an inch at a shot, as the pinder of wakefield does know. for he brought adam bell, and clim of the clough, and william of clowdesle,[l ] to shoot with our forrester for forty mark, and the forrester beat them all three. his mother was neece to the coventry knight, which warwickshire men call sir guy; for he slew the blue bore that hangs up at the gate, or mine host of the bull tells a lie. her brother was gamwel, of great gamwel-hall, a noble house-keeper was he, ay, as ever broke bread in sweet nottinghamshire, and a 'squire of famous degree. the mother of robin said to her husbànd, "my honey, my love, and my dear, let robin and i ride this morning to gamwel, to taste of my brother's good cheer." and he said, "i grant thee thy boon, gentle joan, take one of my horses, i pray: the sun is arising, and therefore make haste, for to-morrow is christmas-day." then robin hood's father's grey gelding was brought, and sadled and bridled was he; god wot a blue bonnet, his new suit of cloaths, and a cloak that did reach to his knee. she got on her holyday kirtle and gown, they were of a light lincoln green; the cloath was homespun, but for colour and make it might a beseem'd our queen. and then robin got on his basket-hilt sword, and his dagger on his tother side; and said, "my dear mother, let's haste to be gone, we have forty long miles to ride." when robin had mounted his gelding so grey, his father, without any trouble, set her up behind him, and bad her not fear, for his gelding had oft carried double.[l ] and when she was settled, they rode to their neighbours, and drank and shook hands with them all; and then robin gallopt, and never gave o're, 'till they lighted at gamwel-hall. and now you may think the right worshipful 'squire was joyful his sister to see; for he kist her, and kist her, and swore a great oath, "thou art welcome, kind sister, to me." to-morrow, when mass had been said in the chappel, six tables were covered in the hall, and in comes the 'squire, and makes a short speech, it was, "neighbours, you're welcome all. "but not a man here shall taste my march beer, 'till a christmas carrol he does sing:" then all clapt their hands, and they shouted and sung, 'till the hall and the parlour did ring. now mustard and brawn, roast beef and plumb pies, were set upon every table: and noble george gamwel said, "eat and be merry and drink too as long as you're able." when dinner was ended, his chaplain said grace, and, "be merry, my friends," said the 'squire; "it rains, and it blows, but call for more ale, and lay some more wood on the fire. "and now call ye little john hither to me, for little john is a fine lad at gambols and juggling, and twenty such tricks, as shall make you both merry and glad. when little john came, to gambols they went, both gentlemen, yeomen, and clown; and what do you think? why, as true as i live, bold robin hood put them all down. and now you may think the right worshipful 'squire was joyful this sight for to see; for he said, "cousin robin, thou'st go no more home, but tarry and dwell here with me. "thou shalt have my land when i die, and till then, thou shalt be the staff of my age:" "then grant me my boon, dear uncle," said robin, "that little john may be my page." and he said, "kind cousin, i grant thee thy boon; with all my heart, so let it be;" "then come hither, little john," said robin hood, "come hither, my page, unto me. "go fetch me my bow, my longest long bow, and broad arrows, one, two, or three; for when 'tis fair weather we'll into sherwood, some merry pastime to see." when robin hood came into merry sherwood, he winded his bugle so clear; and twice five and twenty good yeomen and bold before robin hood did appear. "where are your companions all?" said robin hood, "for still i want forty and three:" then said a bold yeoman, "lo, yonder they stand, all under the green wood tree."[l ] as that word was spoke, clorinda came by, the queen of the shepherds was she; and her gown was of velvet as green as the grass, and her buskin did reach to her knee. her gait it was graceful, her body was straight, and her countenance free from pride; a bow in her hand, and a quiver of arrows hung dangling by her sweet side. her eye-brows were black, ay, and so was her hair, and her skin was as smooth as glass; her visage spoke wisdom, and modesty too; sets with robin hood such a lass! said robin hood, "lady fair, whither away? o whither, fair lady, away?" and she made him an answer, "to kill a fat buck; for to-morrow is titbury day." said robin hood, "lady fair, wander with me a little to yonder green bower; there set down to rest you, and you shall be sure of a brace or a leash in an hour."[l ] and as we were going towàrds the green bower, two hundred good bucks we espy'd; she chose out the fattest that was in the herd,[l ] and she shot him through side and side. "by the faith of my body," said bold robin hood, "i never saw woman like thee; and com'st thou from east, or com'st thou from west, thou needst not beg venison of me. "however, along to my bower you shall go, and taste of a forrester's meat:" and when we came thither we found as good cheer as any man needs for to eat. for there was hot venison, and warden pies cold, cream clouted, with honey-combs plenty; and the servitors they were, besides little john, good yeomen at least four and twenty. clorinda said, "tell me your name, gentle sir;" and he said, "'tis bold robin hood: 'squire gamwel's my uncle, but all my delight is to dwell in the merry sherwood; "for 'tis a fine life, and 'tis void of all strife." "so 'tis, sir," clorinda reply'd. "but oh," said bold robin, "how sweet would it be, if clorinda would be my bride!" she blusht at the motion; yet, after a pause said, "yes, sir, and with all my heart:" "then let us send for a priest," said robin hood, "and be married before we do part." but she said, "it may not be so, gentle sir,' for i must be at titbury feast; and if robin hood will go thither with me, i'll make him the most welcome guest." said robin hood, "reach me that buck, little john, for i'll go along with my dear; and bid my yeomen kill six brace of bucks, and meet me to-morrow just here." before he had ridden five staffordshire miles, eight yeomen, that were too bold, bid robin hood stand, and deliver his buck; a truer tale never was told. "i will not, faith," said bold robin; "come, john, stand by me, and we'll beat 'em all:" then both drew their swords, and so cut 'em, and slasht 'em, that five of them did fall. the three that remain'd call'd to robin for quarter, and pitiful john begg'd their lives; when john's boon was granted, he gave them good counsel, and sent them all home to their wives. this battle was fought near to titbury town, when the bagpipes baited the bull;[l ] i'm the king of the fidlers, and i swear 'tis truth, and i call him that doubts it a gull: for i saw them fighting, and fiddled the while, and clorinda sung "hey derry down! the bumkins are beaten, put up thy sword, bob, and now let's dance into the town." before we came in, we heard a strange shouting, and all that were in it look'd madly; for some were on bull-back, some dancing a morris, and some singing _arthur-a-bradley_. and there we see thomas, our justices clerk, and mary, to whom he was kind; for tom rode before her, and call'd mary madam, and kiss'd her full sweetly behind: and so may your worships. but we went to dinner, with thomas and mary, and nan; they all drank a health to clorinda and told her bold robin hood was a fine man. when dinner was ended, sir roger, the parson of dubbridge, was sent for in haste: he brought his mass-book, and he bad them take hands, and joyn'd them in marriage full fast. and then, as bold robin hood and his sweet bride went hand in hand to the green bower, the birds sung with pleasure in merry sherwood, and 'twas a most joyful hour. and when robin came in sight of the bower, "where are my yeomen?" said he: and little john answer'd, "lo, yonder they stand, all under the green wood tree." then a garland they brought her by two and by two, and plac'd them all on the bride's head: the music struck up, and we all fell to dance, 'till the bride and bridegroom were a-bed. and what they did there must be counsel to me, because they lay long the next day; and i had haste home, but i got a good piece of bride-cake, and so came away. now out, alas! i had forgotten to tell ye, that marry'd they were with a ring; and so will nan knight, or be buried a maiden, and now let us pray for the king: that he may get children, and they may get more, to govern and do us some good: and then i'll make ballads in robin hood's bower, and sing 'em in merry sherwood. , clowdel le. , has. , a. , lease. , choose. . tutbury, or stutesbury, staffordshire. this celebrated place lies about four miles from burton-upon-trent, on the west bank of the river don. its castle, it is supposed, was built a considerable time before the norman conquest. being the principal seat of the dukes of lancaster, it was long distinguished as the scene of festivity and splendour. the number of minstrels which crowded it was so great, that it was found necessary to have recourse to some expedient for preserving order among them, and determining their claims of precedence. accordingly, one of their number, with the title of king of the minstrels, was appointed, and under him several inferior officers, to assist in the execution of the laws. to this chief a charter was granted by john of gaunt, duke of lancaster, nd august, th richard ii., . this king of the minstrels and his officers having inflicted fines and punishments which exceeded the due bounds of justice, a court for hearing and determining complaints and controversies was instituted, which was yearly held with many forms and ceremonies. the business of the court being concluded, the officers withdraw to partake of a sumptuous repast, prepared for them by the steward of the lordship. in the afternoon the minstrels assembled at the gate of the priory, where, by way of amusement for the multitude, a bull, having his horns, ears, and tail cut off, his body besmeared with soap, and his nose blown full of pepper, was then let loose. if the minstrels could take and hold him, even so long as to deprive him of the smallest portion of his hair, he was declared their property, provided this was done within the confines of staffordshire, and before sunset. the bull was next collared and roped, and being brought to the market cross, was baited with dogs. after this he was delivered to the minstrels, who might dispose of him as they deemed proper. _vide_ blount's _ancient tenures_, hawkins's _history of music_, strutt's _sports and pastimes_, for fuller particulars of this ancient custom. gutch. a true tale of robin hood. gutch's _robin hood_, ii. . this doggerel is by martin parker, a well-known author of ballads in the reign of charles i. and during the protectorate. the titles of several of his works are given by ritson, (_robin hood_, i. ,) and those of others may be seen in collier's _roxburghe ballads_, , , and ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. , ; among these last is the celebrated song, _when the king enjoys his own again_. ritson printed this piece from a black-letter edition dated . gutch obtained a somewhat better copy from mr. collier, which we have here followed. "the date of mr. collier's copy is cut off, but enough remains to shew that it was printed at london, 'for t. cotes, and are to be sold by f. grove, dwelling upon snow-hill near the saracens * * *.' the first edition was entered at stationers' hall, th february, ." the title in full is: "_a true tale of robbin hood, or, a brief touch of the life and death of that renowned outlaw, robert, earle of huntington, vulgarly called robbin hood, who lived and died in , being the th yeare of king richard the first, commonly called richard cuer de lyon; carefully collected out of the truest writers of our english_ _chronicles and published for the satisfaction of those who desire to see truth purged from falsehood_. by martin parker." at the end of the tale is the following epitaph, "which the prioresse of the monastery of kirkes lay in yorkshire set over robbin hood, which was to bee reade within these hundreth yeares (though in old broken english), much to the same sence and meaning." _decembris quarto die . anno regni richardii primi ._ robert earle of huntington lies under this little stone. no archer was like him so good; his wildnesse named him robbin hood. full thirteene yeares and something more, these northern parts he vexed sore; such outlawes as hee and his men, may england never know agen. "some other superstitious words were in it, which i thought fit to leave out." m. p. both gentlemen, or yeomen bould, or whatsoever you are, to have a stately story tould attention now prepare. it is a tale of robin hood, which i to you will tell, which being rightly understood, i know will please you well. this robbin (so much talked on) was once a man of fame, instiled earle of huntington, lord robert hood by name. in courtship and magnificence his carriage won him prayse, and greater favour with his prince than any in his dayes. in bounteous liberality he too much did excell, and loved men of quality more than exceeding well. his great revennues all he sould for wine and costly cheere; he kept three hundred bowmen bold, he shooting loved so deare. no archer living in his time with him might well compare: he practis'd all his youthfull prime that exercise most rare. at last, by his profuse expence, he had consum'd his wealth; and being outlawed by his prince, in woods he liv'd by stealth. the abbot of saint maries rich, to whom he mony ought, his hatred to the earle was such that he his downefall wrought. so being outlaw'd (as 'tis told) he with a crew went forth of lusty cutters stout and bold, and robbed in the north. among the rest one little john, a yeoman bold and free, who could (if it stood him upon) with ease encounter three. one hundred men in all he got, with whom (the story sayes) three hundred commen men durst not hold combat any wayes. they yorkshire woods frequented much, and lancashire also, wherein their practises were such that they wrought mickle woe. none rich durst travell to and fro, though nere so strongly arm'd, but by these theeves (so strong in show) they still were rob'd and harm'd. his chiefest spight to th' clergie was, that liv'd in monstrous pride: no one of them he would let passe along the highway side, but first they must to dinner go, and afterwards to shrift: full many a one he served so, thus while he liv'd by theft. no monks nor fryers would he let goe, without paying their fees: if they thought much to be us'd so, their stones he made them leese. for such as they the country fill'd with bastards in those dayes; which to prevent, these sparkes did geld all that came by their ways. but robbin hood so gentle was, and bore so brave a minde, if any in distresse did passe, to them he was so kinde, that he would give and lend to them, to helpe them in their neede; this made all poore men pray for him, and wish he well might speede. the widdow and the fatherlesse he would send meanes unto; and those whom famine did oppresse found him a friendly foe. nor would he doe a woman wrong, but see her safe conveid: he would protect with power strong all those who crav'd his ayde. the abbot of saint maries then, who him undid before, was riding with two hundred men, and gold and silver store. but robbin hood upon him set, with his couragious sparkes, and all the coyne perforce did get, which was twelve thousand markes. he bound the abbot to a tree, and would not let him passe, before that to his men and he his lordship had said masse. which being done, upon his horse he set him fast astride, and with his face towards his---- he forced him to ride. his men were faine to be his guide, for he rode backward home: the abbot, being thus villified, did sorely chafe and fume. thus robbin hood did vindicate his former wrongs receiv'd; for 'twas this covetous prelàte that him of land bereav'd. the abbot he rode to the king, with all the haste he could, and to his grace he every thing exactly did unfold: and sayd if that no course were ta'en, by force or stratagem, to take this rebel and his traine, no man should passe for them. the king protested by and by unto the abbot then, that robbin hood with speed should dye, with all his merry men. but e're the king did any send, he did another feate, which did his grace much more offend, the fact indeed was great. for in a short time after that the kings receivers went towards london with the coyne they got, for 's highness northerne rent. bold robbin hood and little john, with the rest of their traine, not dreading law, set them upon, and did their gold obtaine. the king much moved at the same, and the abbots talke also, in this his anger did proclaime, and sent word to and fro, that whosoe'er alive or dead could bring bold robbin hood, should have one thousand markes well paid in gold and silver good. this promise of the king did make full many yeomen bold attempt stout robbin hood to take, with all the force they could. but still when any came to him within the gay greene wood, he entertainement gave to them with venison fat and good; and shew'd to them such martiale sport with his long bow and arrow, that they of him did give report, how that it was great sorow, that such a worthy man as he should thus be put to shift, being late a lord of high degree, of living quite bereft. the king to take him, more and more sent men of mickle might; but he and his still beate them sore, and conquered them in fight: or else with love and courtesie, to him he won their hearts. thus still he lived by robbery throughout the northerne parts; and all the country stood in dread of robbin hood and 's men: for stouter lads ne're liv'd by bread in those days, nor since then. the abbot which before i nam'd sought all the meanes he could to have by force this rebele ta'ne, and his adherents bold. therefore he arm'd five hundred men, with furniture compleate; but the outlawes slewe halfe of them, and made the rest retreate. the long bow and the arrow keene they were so us'd unto, that still he kept the forrest greene in spite o' th' proudest foe. twelve of the abbots men he tooke, who came him to have ta'ne, when all the rest the field forsooke; these he did entertaine with banquetting and merriment, and, having us'd them well, he to their lord them safely sent, and will'd them him to tell, that if he would be pleas'd at last to beg of our good king that he might pardon what was past, and him to favour bring, he would surrender backe again the money which before was taken by him and his men from him and many more. poore men might safely passe by him, and some that way would chuse, for well they knew that to helpe them he evermore did use. but where he knew a miser rich that did the poore oppresse, to feel his coyne his hands did itch; he'd have it, more or lesse. and sometimes, when the high-way fayl'd, then he his courage rouses, he and his men have oft assayld such rich men in their houses. so that, through dread of robbin then, and his adventurous crew, the mizers kept great store of men, which else maintayn'd but few. king richard of that name the first, sirnamed cuer de lyon, went to defeate the pagans curst, who kept the coasts of syon. the bishop of ely, chancelor, was left a vice-roy here, who like a potent emperor did proudly domminere. our chronicles of him report, that commonly he rode with a thousand horse from court to court, where he would make abode. he, riding down towards the north, with his aforesayd train, robbin and his men did issue forth, them all to entertaine; and with the gallant gray-goose wing they shewd to them such playe, that made their horses kicke and fling, and downe their riders lay. full glad and faine the bishop was, for all his thousand men, to seek what meanes he could to passe from out of robbins ken. two hundred of his men were kil'd, and fourescore horses good; thirty, who did as captives yeeld, were carryed to the greene wood; which afterwards were ransomed, for twenty markes a man; the rest set spurres to horse, and fled to th' town of warrington. the bishop sore enraged then, did, in king richards name, muster a power of northerne men, these outlawes bold to tame. but robbin with his courtesie so wonne the meaner sort, that they were loath on him to try what rigor did import. so that bold robbin and his traine did live unhurt of them, untill king richard came againe from faire jerusalem. and then the talke of robbin hood his royal eares did fill; his grace admir'd that i' th' greene wood he thus continued still. so that the country farre and neare did give him great applause; for none of them neede stand in feare, but such as broke the lawes. he wished well unto the king, and prayed still for his health, and never practis'd any thing against the common-wealth. onely, because he was undone by th' crewele clergie then, all meanes that he could thinke upon to vexe such kinde of men, he enterpriz'd with hateful spleene; for which he was to blame, for fault of some to wreake his teene on all that by him came. with wealth which he by robbery got eight almes-houses he built, thinking thereby to purge the blot of blood which he had spilt. such was their blinde devotion then, depending on their workes; which, if 'twere true, we christian men inferiour were to turkes. but, to speak true of robbin hood, and wrong him not a jot, he never would shed any mans blood that him invaded not. nor would he injure husbandmen, that toyld at cart and plough; for well he knew, were't not for them to live no man knew how. the king in person, with some lords, to nottingham did ride, to try what strength and skill affords to crush these outlaws pride. and, as he once before had done, he did againe proclaime, that whosoe'er would take upon to bring to nottingham, or any place within the land, rebellious robbin hood, should be prefer'd in place to stand with those of noble blood. when robbin hood heard of the same, within a little space, into the towne of nottingham a letter to his grace he shot upon an arrow head, one evening cunningly; which was brought to the king, and read before his majestie. the tennure of this letter was that robbin would submit, and be true liegeman to his grace in any thing that's fit, so that his highnesse would forgive him and his merry men all; if not, he must i' th' green wood live, and take what chance did fall. the king would faine have pardoned him, but that some lords did say "this president will much condemn your grace another day." while that the king and lords did stay debating on this thing, some of these outlawes fled away unto the scottish king. for they suppos'd, if he were tane, or to the king did yeeld, by th' commons all the rest of 's train full quickely would be quell'd. of more than full an hundred men, but forty tarryed still, who were resolv'd to sticke to him let fortune worke her will. if none had fled, all for his sake had got their pardon free; the king to favour meant to take his merry men and he. but e're the pardon to him came this famous archer dy'd: his death and manner of the same i'le presently describe. for, being vext to think upon his followers revolt, in melancholly passiòn he did recount his fault. "perfideous traytors!" sayd he then, "in all your dangers past have i you guarded as my men, to leave me thus at last!" this sad perplexity did cause a feaver, as some say, which him unto confusion drawes, though by a stranger way. this deadly danger to prevent, he hie'd him with all speede unto a nunnery, with intent for his healths-sake to bleede. a faithlesse fryer did pretend in love to let him blood, but he by falshood wrought the end of famous robbin hood. the fryer, as some say, did this to vindicate the wrong which to the clergy he and his had done by power strong. thus dyed he by trechery, that could not dye by force: had he liv'd longer, certainely king richard, in remorse, had unto favour him receiv'd, his brave men elevated: 'tis pitty he was of life bereav'd by one which he so hated. a treacherous leach this fryer was, to let him bleed to death; and robbin was, methinks, an asse to trust him with his breath. his corpse the prioress of the place, the next day that he dy'd, caused to be buried, in mean case, close by the high-way side. and over him she caused a stone to be fixed on the ground; an epitaph was set thereon, wherein his name was found. the date o' th' yeare, and day also, shee made to be set there, that all who by the way did goe might see it plain appeare, that such a man as robbin hood was buried in that place; and how he lived in the greene wood and robb'd there for a space. it seemes that though the clergie he had put to mickle woe, he should not quite forgotten be, although he was their foe. this woman, though she did him hate, yet loved his memory; and thought it wondrous pitty that his fame should with him dye. this epitaph, as records tell, within this hundred yeares, by many was discerned well, but time all things out-weares.[l ] his followers, when he was dead, were some receiv'd to grace; the rest to forraign countries fled, and left their native place. although his funerall was but mean, this woman had in minde, least his fame should be buried clean from those that came behind. for certainly, before nor since, no man e're understood, under the reign of any prince, of one like robbin hood. full thirteene years, and something more, these outlawes lived thus, feared of the rich, loved of the poor, a thing most marvelous. a thing unpossible to us this story seems to be; none dares be now so venturous, but times are chang'd we see. we that live in these later dayes of civile government, if need be, have an hundred wayes such outlawes to prevent. in those days men more barbarous were, and lived less in awe; now (god be thanked) people feare more to offend the law. no roaring guns were then in use, they dreampt of no such thing; our englishmen in fight did chuse the gallant gray-goose wing: in which activity these men, through practice, were so good, that in those days none equal'd them, specially robbin hood. so that, it seemes, keeping in caves, in woods and forests thicke, they'd beate a multitude with staves, their arrowes did so pricke. and none durst neare unto them come, unlesse in courtesie; all such he bravely would send home, with mirth and jollity. which courtesie won him such love, as i before have told, 'twas the cheef cause that he did prove more prosperous than he could. let us be thankefull for these times of plenty, truth, and peace; and leave out great and horrid crimes, least they cause this to cease. i know there's many fained tales of robbin hood and 's crew; but chronicles, which seldom fayles, reports this to be true. let none then thinke this is a lye, for, if 'twere put to th' worst, they may the truth of all discry i' th' raigne of richard the first. if any reader please to try, as i direction show, the truth of this brave history, hee'll find it true i know. and i shall think my labour well bestowed to purpose good, when't shall be said that i did tell true tales of robbin hood. , times. robin hood and maid marian. "this ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood. its full title is, _a famous battle between robin hood and maid marian; declaring their love, life, and liberty. tune_, robin hood reviv'd." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . a bonny fine-maid of a noble degree, _with a hey down, down, a down, down_, maid marian call'd by name, did live in the north, of excellent worth, for shee was a gallant dame. for favour and face, and beauty most rare, queen hellen shee did excell: for marian then was prais'd of all men that did in the country dwell. 'twas neither rosamond nor jane shore, whose beauty was clear and bright, that could surpass this country lass, beloved of lord and knight. the earl of huntington, nobly born, that came of noble blood, to marian went, with a good intent, by the name of robin hood. with kisses sweet their red lips did meet, for she and the earl did agree; in every place, they kindly embrace, with love and sweet unity. but fortune bearing these lovers a spight, that soon they were forc'd to part, to the merry green-wood then went robin hood, with a sad and sorrowfull heart. and marian, poor soul, was troubled in mind, for the absence of her friend; with finger in eye, shee often did cry, and his person did much comend. perplexed and vexed, and troubled in mind, she drest herself like a page, and ranged the wood, to find robin hood, the bravest of men in that age. with quiver and bow, sword, buckler, and all, thus armed was marian most bold, still wandering about, to find robin out, whose person was better then gold. but robin hood, hee himself had disguis'd, and marian was strangly attir'd, that they prov'd foes, and so fell to blowes, whose vallour bold robin admir'd. they drew out their swords, and to cutting they went, at least an hour or more, that the blood ran apace from bold robins face, and marian was wounded sore. "o hold thy hand, hold thy hand," said robin hood, "and thou shalt be one of my string, to range in the wood with bold robin hood, to hear the sweet nightingall sing." when marian did hear the voice of her love, her self shee did quickly discover, and with kisses sweet she did him greet, like to a most loyall lover. when bold robin hood his marian did see, good lord, what clipping was there! with kind embraces, and jobbing of faces, providing of gallant cheer. for little john took his bow in his hand, and wandred in the wood,[l ] to kill the deer, and make good chear for marian and robin hood. a stately banquet they had full soon, all in a shaded bower, where venison sweet they had to eat, and were merry that present hour. great flaggons of wine were set on the board, and merrily they drunk round their boules of sack, to strengthen the back, whilst their knees did touch the ground. first robin hood began a health to marian his onely dear; and his yeomen all, both comly and tall, did quickly bring up the rear. for in a brave vein they tost off the bouls,[l ] whilst thus they did remain; and every cup, as they drunk up, they filled with speed again. at last they ended their merryment, and went to walk in the wood, where little john and maid marian attended on bold robin hood. in sollid content together they liv'd, with all their yeomen gay; they liv'd by their hands, without any lands, and so they did many a day. but now to conclude, an end i will make, in time as i think it good; for the people that dwell in the north can tell of marian and bold robin hood. , wandring. , venie. the kings disguise and friendship with robin hood. this wretched production is evidently founded on the _lytell geste_. it was printed by ritson from "the common collection of aldermary churchyard." one or two improvements were made by gutch from a york edition. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. ; gutch's _robin hood_, ii. . king richard hearing of the pranks of robin hood and his men, he much admir'd, and more desir'd, to see both him and them. then with a dozen of his lords to nottingham he rode; when he came there, he made good cheer, and took up his abode. he having staid there some time, but had no hopes to speed, he and his lords, with one accord, all put on monks' weeds. from fountain abbey they did ride, down to barnsdale; where robin hood preparèd stood all company to assail. the king was higher than the rest, and robin thought he had an abbot been whom he had seen; to rob him he was glad. he took the kings horse by the head, "abbot," says he, "abide; i am bound to rue such knaves as you, that live in pomp and pride." "but we are messengers from the king," the king himself did say; "near to this place his royal grace to speak with thee does stay." "god save the king," said robin hood, "and all that wish him well; he that does deny his sovereignty, i wish he was in hell." "thyself thou cursedst," says the king, "for thou a traitor art:" "nay, but that you are his messenger, i swear you lie in heart. "for i never yet hurt any man that honest is and true; but those who give their minds to live upon other mens due. "i never hurt the husbandmen, that use to till the ground: nor spill their blood who range the wood to follow hawk or hound. "my chiefest spite to clergy is, who in these days bear great sway; with fryars and monks, and their fine sprunks, i make my chiefest prey. "but i am glad," says robin hood, "that i have met you here; before we end, you shall, my friend, taste of our green-wood cheer." the king he then did marvel much, and so did all his men; they thought with fear, what kind of cheer robin would provide for them. robin took the kings horse by the head, and led him to his tent: "thou wouldst not be so us'd," quoth he, "but that my king thee sent. "nay, more than that," quoth robin hood, "for good king richards sake, if you had as much gold as ever i told, i would not one penny take." then robin set his horn to his mouth, and a loud blast he did blow, till a hundred and ten of robin hoods men, came marching all of a row. and when they came bold robin before, each man did bend his knee: "o," thought the king, "'tis a gallant thing and a seemly sight to see." within himself the king did say, "these men of robin hoods more humble be than mine to me; so the court may learn of the woods." so then they all to dinner went, upon a carpet green; black, yellow, red, finely minglèd, most curious to be seen. venison and fowls were plenty there, with fish out of the river: king richard swore, on sea or shore, he never was feasted better. then robin takes a cann of ale: "come, let us now begin; and every man shall have his cann; here's a health unto the king." the king himself drank to the king, so round about it went; two barrels of ale, both stout and stale, to pledge that health was spent. and after that, a bowl of wine in his hand took robin hood; "until i die, i'll drink wine," said he, "while i live in the green-wood. "bend all your bows," said robin hood, "and with the grey goose-wing such sport now show, as you would do in the presence of the king." they shewed such brave archery by cleaving sticks and wands, that the king did say, such men as they live not in many lands. "well, robin hood," then says the king, "if i could thy pardon get, to serve the king in every thing wouldst thou thy mind firm set?" "yes, with all my heart," bold robin said, so they flung off their hoods; to serve the king in every thing, they swore they would spend their bloods. "for a clergyman was first my bane, which makes me hate them all; but if you will be so kind to me, love them again i shall." the king no longer could forbear, for he was mov'd with ruth, "robin," said he, "i'll now tell thee[l ] the very naked truth.[l ] "i am the king, thy sovereign king, that appears before you all:" when robin saw that it was he, strait then he down did fall. "stand up again," then said the king, "i'll thee thy pardon give; stand up, my friend; who can contend, when i give leave to live?" so they are all gone to nottingham, all shouting as they came: but when the people them did see, they thought the king was slain; and for that cause th' outlaws were come, to rule all as they list; and for to shun, which way to run, the people did not wist. the plowman left the plow in the field, the smith ran from his shop; old folks also, that scarce could go, over their sticks did hop. the king did soon let them understand he had been in the green-wood, and from that day, for evermore, he'd forgiven robin hood. then [when] the people they did hear, and [that] the truth was known, they all did sing, "god save the king! hang care, the town's our own!" "what's that robin hood?" then said the sheriff, "that varlet i do hate; both me and mine he caus'd to dine, and serv'd us all with one plate." "ho, ho," said robin hood, "i know what you mean; come, take your gold again; be friends with me, and i with thee, and so with every man. "now, master sheriff, you are paid, and since you are beginner, as well as you give me my due, for you ne'er paid for that dinner. "but if that it should please the king so much your house to grace, to sup with you, for, to speak true, [i] know you ne'er was base." the sheriff could not that gainsay, for a trick was put upon him; a supper was drest, the king was a guest, but he thought 'twould have outdone him. they are all gone to london court, robin hood, with all his train; he once was there a noble peer, and now he's there again. many such pranks brave robin play'd, while he liv'd in the green-wood: now, my friend, attend, and hear an end[l ] of honest robin hood.[l ] , . wanting in ritson; supplied by gutch. , . the two concluding lines refer to _robin hood and the valiant knight_, (see p. ,) which ballad in some collections follows the present. robin hood and the golden arrow. ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . from an aldermary-churchyard garland. perhaps by the same feeble and vulgar hand as the preceding, and, like that, founded on the _lytell geste_. when as the sheriff of nottingham was come with mickle grief, he talk'd no good of robin hood, that strong and sturdy thief. _fal la dal de_. so unto london road he past, his losses to unfold to king richàrd, who did regard the tale that he had told. "why," quoth the king, "what shall i do? art thou not sheriff for me" the law is in force, to take thy course of them that injure thee. "go get thee gone, and by thyself devise some tricking game for to enthral yon rebels all; go take thy course with them." so away the sheriff he return'd, and by the way he thought of th' words of the king, and how the thing to pass might well be brought. for within his mind he imagined, that when such matches were, those outlaws stout, without all doubt, would be the bowmen there. so an arrow with a golden head and shaft of silver-white, who won the day should bear away[l ] for his own proper right. tidings came to bold robin hood, under the green-wood tree: "come prepare you then, my merry men, we'll go yon sport to see." with that stept forth a brave young man, david of doncastèr: "master," said he, "be rul'd by me, from the green-wood we'll not stir. "to tell the truth, i'm well inform'd yon match it is a wile; the sheriff, i-wiss, devises this us archers to beguile." "thou smells of a coward," said robin hood, "thy words do not please me; come on't what will, i'll try my skill, at yon brave archery." o then bespoke brave little john, "come let us thither gang; come, listen to me, how it shall be that we need not be ken'd. "our mantles, all of lincoln-green, behind us we will leave; we'll dress us all so several, they shall not us perceive. "one shall wear white, another red, one yellow, another blue; thus in disguise, to the exercise we'll gang, whate'er ensue." forth from the green-wood they are gone, with hearts all firm and stout, resolving [then] with the sheriffs men to have a hearty bout. so themselves they mixèd with the rest, to prevent all suspicion; for if they should together hold they thought it no discretion. so the sheriff looked round about, amongst eight hundred men, but could not see the sight that he had long suspected then. some said, "if robin hood was here, and all his men to boot, sure none of them could pass these men, so bravely they do shoot." "ay," quoth the sheriff, and scratch'd his head, "i thought he would have been here; i thought he would, but tho' he's bold, he durst not now appear." o that word griev'd robin hood to the heart; he vexèd in his blood; ere long, thought he, thou shalt well see that here was robin hood. some cried "blue jacket!" another cried "brown!" and a third cried "brave yellow!" but the fourth man said, "yon man in red in this place has no fellow." for that was robin hood himself, for he was cloath'd in red; at every shot the prize he got, for he was both sure and dead. so the arrow with the golden head and shaft of silver-white, brave robin hood won, and bore with him for his own proper right. these outlaws there, that very day, to shun all kinds of doubt, by three or four, no less nor more, as they went in came out; until they all assembled were under the green-wood shade, where they report, in pleasant sport, what brave pastime they made. says robin hood, "all my care is, how that yon sheriff may know certainly that it was i that bore his arrow away." says little john, "my counsel good did take effect before, so therefore now, if you'll allow, i will advise once more." "speak on, speak on," said robin hood, "thy wit's both quick and sound, i know no man among us can[l ] for wit like thee be found."[l ] "this i advise," said little john; "that a letter shall be penn'd, and when it is done, to nottingham you to the sheriff shall send." "that is well advised," said robin hood, "but how must it be sent?" "pugh! when you please, 'tis done with ease; master, be you content. "i'll stick it on my arrows head, and shoot it into the town; the mark will show where it must go, whenever it lights down." the project it was well perform'd; the sheriff that letter had, which when he read, he scratch'd his head, and rav'd like one that's mad. so we'll leave him chafing in his grease, which will do him no good; now, my friends, attend, and hear the end[l ] of honest robin hood.[l ] , on the day. ritson. , . wanting in ritson; supplied by gutch, from a york edition. robin hood and the valiant knight: together with an account of his death and burial, &c. tune of _robin hood and the fifteen foresters_. "from the common garland of aldermary-churchyard; corrected by the york copy." ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . when robin hood and his merry men all, _derry down, down_, had reigned many years, the king was then told that they had been bold to his bishops and noble peers. _hey down, derry, derry down_. therefore they called a council of state, to know what was best to be done for to quell their pride, or else they reply'd the land would be over-run. having consulted a whole summers day, at length it was agreed that one should be sent to try the event, and fetch him away with speed. therefore a trusty and most worthy knight the king was pleas'd to call, sir william by name; when to him he came, he told him his pleasure all. "go you from hence to bold robin hood, and bid him, without more ado, surrender himself, or else the proud elf shall suffer with all his crew. "take here a hundred bowmen brave, all chosen men of great might, of excellent art to take thy part, in glittering armour most bright." then said the knight, "my sovereign liege, by me they shall be led; i'll venture my blood against bold robin hood, and bring him alive or dead." one hundred men were chosen straight, as proper as e'er men saw: on midsummer-day they march'd away, to conquer that brave outlaw. with long yew bows and shining spears, they marched with mickle pride, and never delay'd, nor halted, nor stay'd, till they came to the green-wood side. said he to his archers, "tarry here; your bows make ready all, that, if need should be, you may follow me; and see you observe my call. "i'll go first in person," he cry'd, "with the letters of my good king, well sign'd and seal'd, and if he will yield, "we need not to draw one string." he wander'd about till at length he came to the tent of robin hood; the letter he shows; bold robin arose, and there on his guard he stood. "they'd have me surrender," quoth bold robin hood, "and lie at their mercy then; but tell them from me, that never shall be, while i have full seven score men." sir william the knight, both hardy and bold, he offer'd to seize him there, which william locksley by fortune did see, and bid him that trick to forbear. then robin hood set his horn to his mouth, and blew a blast or twain, and so did the knight, at which there in sight the archers came all amain. sir william with care he drew up his men, and plac'd them in battle array; bold robin, we find, he was not behind; now this was a bloody fray. the archers on both sides bent their bows, and the clouds of arrows flew; the very first flight, that honour'd knight did there bid the world adieu. yet nevertheless their fight did last from morning till almost noon; both parties were stout and loth to give out, this was on the last day of june. at length they left off; one party they went to london with right good will; and robin hood he to the green-wood tree, and there he was taken ill. he sent for a monk, to let him blood, who took his life away: now this being done, his archers they run, it was not a time to stay. some got on board, and cross'd the seas to flanders, france, and spain, and others to rome, for fear of their doom, but soon return'd again. , . these lines, like the last two of the preceding ballad, refer to _robin hood and the valiant knight_. the birth of robin hood. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . mony ane talks o' the grass, the grass, and mony ane o' the corn, and mony ane talks o' gude robin hood, kens little whar he was born. he was gotten in a earl's ha', and in a lady's bower, and born into gude greenwood, thro' mony cauld winter's shower. his father was the earl's own steward, sprung frae sma' pedigree; his mother, earl huntingdon's ae daughter, for he had nane else but she. when nine months were near an end, and eight months they were gone; the lady's cheeks wi' tears were wet, and thus she made her moan:-- "what shall i say, my love, archibald, this day for you and me? i will be laid in cauld irons, and ye'll be hanged on tree." "what aileth my love clementina? what gars you mourn sae sair?" "you know," said she, "i'm with child to thee, these eight lang months and mair." "will ye gae to my mother's bower, stands on yon stately green? or will ye gae to the gude greenwood, where ye will not be seen?" "i winna gang to your mother's bower, stands on yon stately green; but i will on to gude greenwood, for i will not be seen." he's girt his sword down by his side, took his lady by the hand; and they are on thro' gude greenwood, as fast as they could gang. with slowly steps these couple walk'd, about miles scarcely three; when this lady, being sair wearied out, lay down beneath a tree. "o for a few of yon junipers, to cheer my heart again; and likewise for a gude midwife, to ease me of my pain." "i'll bring to you yon junipers, to cheer your heart again; and i'll be to you a gude midwife, to ease you of your pain." "had far awa' frae me, archibald, for this will never dee; that's nae the fashion o' our land, and its nae be used by me. "ye'll take your small sword by your side, your buckler and your bow; and ye'll gae down thro' gude greenwood, and hunt the deer and roe. "you will stay in gude green wood, and with the chase go on; until yon white hind pass you by, then straight to me ye'll come." he's girt his sword then by his side, his buckler and his bow; and he is on thro' gude greenwood, to hunt the deer and roe. and in the greenwood he did stay, and with the chase gaed on, until the white hind pass'd him by, then to his love he came. he girt his sword then by his side, fast thro' greenwood went he; and there he found his love lie dead, beneath the green oak tree. the sweet young babe that she had born right lively seemed to be; "ohon, alas!" said young archibald, "a mournful scene to me! "altho' my sweet babe is alive, this does increase my woe; how to nourish a motherless babe is mair than i do know." he looked east, he looked west, to see what he could see; then spied the earl o' huntingdon, and mony a man him wi'. then archibald fled from the earl's face, among the leaves sae green, that he might hear what might be said, and see, and nae be seen. the earl straight thro' the greenwood came, unto the green oak tree; and there he saw his daughter dead, her living child her wi'. then he's taen up the little boy, rowed him in his gown sleeve; said, "tho' your father's to my loss, your mother's to me leave. "and if ye live until i die, my bowers and lands ye'se heir; you are my only daughter's child, but her i never had mair. "ye'se hae all kinds of nourishment, and likewise nurses three; if i knew where the fause knave were, high hanged should he be." his daughter he buried in gude church-yard, all in a mournful mood; and brought the boy to church that day, and christen'd him robin hood. this boy was bred in the earl's ha', till he became a man; but loved to hunt in gude green wood to raise his noble fame. rose the red and white lillie. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . see p. . now word is gane thro' a' the land, gude seal that it sae spread! to rose the red and white lillie, their mither dear was dead. their father's married a bauld woman, and brought her ower the sea; twa sprightly youths, her ain young sons, intill her companie. they fix'd their eyes on those ladies, on shipboard as they stood, and sware, if ever they wan to land, these ladies they wou'd wed. but there was nae a quarter past, a quarter past but three, till these young luvers a' were fond o' others companie. the knights they harped i' their bower, the ladies sew'd and sang; there was mair mirth in that chamer than a' their father's lan'. then out it spak their step-mither, at the stair-foot stood she; "i'm plagued wi' your troublesome noise, what makes your melodie? "o rose the red, ye sing too loud, while lillie your voice is strang; but gin i live and brook my life, i'se gar you change your sang." "we maunna change our loud, loud song, for nae duke's son ye'll bear; we winna change our loud, loud song, but aye we'll sing the mair. "we never sung the sang, mither, but we'll sing ower again; we'll take our harps into our hands, and we'll harp, and we'll sing." she's call'd upon her twa young sons, says, "boun ye for the sea; let rose the red, and white lillie, stay in their bower wi' me." "o god forbid," said her eldest son, "nor lat it ever be, unless ye were as kind to our luves as gin we were them wi." "yet never the less, my pretty sons, ye'll boun you for the faem; let rose the red, and white lillie, stay in their bowers at hame." "o when wi' you we came alang, we felt the stormy sea; and where we go, ye ne'er shall know, nor shall be known by thee." then wi' her harsh and boisterous word, she forc'd these lads away; while rose the red and white lillie still in their bowers did stay. but there was not a quarter past, a quarter past but ane; till rose the red in rags she gaed, white lillie's claithing grew thin. wi' bitter usage every day, the ladies they thought lang; "ohon, alas!" said rose the red, "she's gar'd us change our sang. "but we will change our own fu' names, and we'll gang frae the town; frae rose the red and white lillie, to nicholas and roger brown. "and we will cut our green claithing a little aboon our knee; and we will on to gude greenwood, twa bauld bowmen to be." "ohon, alas!" said white lillie, "my fingers are but sma'; and tho' my hands wou'd wield the bow, they winna yield at a'." "o had your tongue now, white lillie, and lat these fears a' be; there's naething that ye're awkward in but i will learn thee." then they are on to gude greenwood as fast as gang cou'd they; o then they spied him, robin hood, below a green aik tree. "gude day, gude day, kind sir," they said, "god make you safe and free." "gude day, gude day," said robin hood, "what is your wills wi' me?" "lo here we are, twa banish'd knights, come frae our native hame; we're come to crave o' thee service, our king will gie us nane." "if ye be twa young banish'd knights, tell me frae what countrie;" "frae anster town into fifeshire, ye know it as well as we." "if a' be true that ye ha'e said, and tauld just now to me; ye're welcome, welcome, every one, your master i will be. "now ye shall eat as i do eat, and lye as i do lye; ye salna wear nae waur claithing nor my young men and i." then they went to a ruinous house, and there they enter'd in; and nicholas fed wi' robin hood, and roger wi' little john. but it fell ance upon a day, they were at the putting-stane; whan rose the red she view'd them a', as they stood on the green. she hit the stane then wi' her foot, and kep'd it wi' her knee; and spaces three aboon them a', i wyte she gar'd it flee. she sat her back then to a tree, and ga'e a loud ohon! a lad spak in the companie, "i hear a woman's moan." "how know you that, young man," she said, "how know you that o' me? did e'er ye see me in that place a'e foot my ground to flee? "or know ye by my cherry cheeks, or by my yellow hair? or by the paps on my breast bane? ye never saw them bare." "i know not by your cherry cheeks, nor by your yellow hair; but i know by your milk-white chin, on it there grows nae hair. "i never saw you in that cause a'e foot your ground to flee; i've seen you stan' wi' sword in han' 'mang men's blood to the knee. "but if i come your bower within, by night, or yet by day, i shall know before i go, if ye be man or may." "o if you come my bower within, by night, or yet by day, as soon's i draw my trusty brand, nae lang ye'll wi' me stay." but he is haunted to her bower, her bigly bower o' stane, till he has got her big wi' bairn, and near sax months she's gane. whan three mair months were come and gane, they gae'd to hunt the hynde; she wont to be the foremost ane, but now stay'd far behynd. her luver looks her in the face, and thus to her said he; "i think your cheeks are pale and wan, pray, what gaes warst wi' thee? "o want ye roses to your breast, or ribbons to your sheen? or want ye as muckle o' dear bought luve as your heart can conteen?" "i want nae roses to my breast, nae ribbons to my sheen; nor want i as muckle dear bought luve as my heart can conteen. "i'd rather ha'e a fire behynd, anither me before; a gude midwife at my right side, till my young babe be bore." "i'll kindle a fire wi' a flint stane, bring wine in a green horn; i'll be midwife at your right side, till your young babe be born." "that was ne'er my mither's custom, forbid that it be mine! a knight stan' by a lady bright, whan she drees a' her pine! "there is a knight in gude greenwood, if that he kent o' me, thro' stock and stane and the hawthorn, sae soon's he wou'd come me tee." "if there be a knight in gude greenwood ye like better than me, if ance he come your bower within, ane o' us twa shall dee." she set a horn to her mouth, and she blew loud and shrill! thro' stock and stane and the hawthorn, brave roger came her till. "wha's here sae bauld," the youth replied, "thus to encroach on me?" "o here i am," the knight replied, "ha'e as much right as thee." then they fought up the gude greenwood, sae did they down the plain; they niddart ither wi' lang braid swords, till they were bleedy men. then out it spak the sick woman, sat under the greenwood tree; "o had your han', young man," she said, "she's a woman as well as me." then out it speaks anither youth, amang the companie; "gin i had kent what i ken now, 'tis for her i wou'd dee." "o wae mat worth you, rose the red, an ill death mat ye dee! altho' ye tauld upo' yoursell, ye might ha'e heal'd on me. "o for her sake i was content for to gae ower the sea; for her i left my mither's ha', tho' she proves fause to me." but whan these luvers were made known, they sung right joyfullie; nae blyther was the nightingale, nor bird that sat on tree. now they ha'e married these ladies, brought them to bower and ha', and now a happy life they lead, i wish sae may we a'. robin hood and the stranger. ritson's _robin hood_. ii. . "from an old black-letter copy in the collection of anthony à wood. the title now given to this ballad is that which it seems to have originally borne; having been foolishly altered to _robin hood newly revived_. the circumstances attending the second part will be explained in a note." ritson. for the different versions of the first part of the story see _robin hood and the beggar_, p. . come listen awhile, you gentlemen all, _with a hey down, down, a down, down_, that are this bower within, for a story of gallant bold robin hood i purpose now to begin. "what time of day?" quod robin hood then; quoth little john, "'tis in the prime;" "why then we will to the greenwood gang, for we have no vittles to dine." as robin hood walkt the forrest along, (it was in the mid of the day,) there he was met of a deft young man as ever walkt on the way. his doublet was of silk, 'tis said, his stockings like scarlet shone; and he walked on along the way, to robin hood then unknown. a herd of deer was in the bend, all feeding before his face: "now the best of you ile have to my dinner, and that in a little space." now the stranger he made no mickle adoe, but he bends a right good bow, and the best of all the herd he slew,[l ] forty good yards him froe.[l ] "well shot, well shot," quod robin hood then, "that shot it was shot in time; and if thou wilt accept of the place, thou shalt be a bold yeoman of mine." "go play the chiven," the stranger said, "make haste and quickly go, or with my fist, be sure of this, ile give thee buffets sto'." "thou had'st not best buffet me," quod robin hood, "for though i seem forlorn, yet i have those will take my part, if i but blow my horn." "thou wast not best wind thy horn," the stranger said, "beest thou never so much in haste, for i can draw out a good broad sword, and quickly cut the blast." then robin hood bent a very good bow, to shoot, and that he would fain; the stranger he bent a very good bow, to shoot at bold robin again. "hold thy hand, hold thy hand," quod robin hood, "to shoot it would be in vain; for if we should shoot the one at the other, the one of us may be slain. "but let's take our swords and our broad bucklèrs, and gang under yonder tree:" "as i hope to be sav'd," the stranger said, "one foot i will not flee." then robin hood lent the stranger a blow, 'most scar'd him out of his wit: "thou never delt blow," the stranger he said,[l ] "that shall be better quit." the stranger he drew out a good broad sword, and hit robin on the crown, that from every haire of bold robins head, the blood ran trickling down. "god a mercy, good fellow!" quod robin hood then, "and for this that thou hast done, tell me, good fellow, what thou art, tell me where thou doest wone."[l ] the stranger then answer'd bold robin hood, "ile tell thee where i do dwell; in maxwell town i was bred and born, my name is young gamwell. "for killing of my own fathers steward, i am forc'd to this english wood, and for to seek an uncle of mine, some call him robin hood." "but art thou a cousin of robin hood then? the sooner we should have done:" "as i hope to be sav'd," the stranger then said, "i am his own sisters son." but, lord! what kissing and courting was there, when these two cousins did greet! and they went all that summers day, and little john did [not] meet. but when they met with little john, he unto them did say, "o master, pray where have you been, you have tarried so long away?" "i met with a stranger," quod robin hood, "full sore he hath beaten me:" "then i'le have a bout with him," quod little john, "and try if he can beat me." "oh [no], oh no," quoth robin hood then, "little john, it may [not] be so; for he is my own dear sisters son, and cousins i have no mo. "but he shall be a bold yeoman of mine, my chief man next to thee; and i robin hood, and thou little john, and scadlock he shall be: "and weel be three of the bravest outlàws that live in the north country." if you will hear more of bold robin hood, in the second part it will be. , and a. ritson. , full froe. , felt. ritson. , won, r. [part the second.[ ]] now robin hood, will scadlock, and little john are walking over the plain, with a good fat buck, which will scadlòck with his strong bow had slain. "jog on, jog on," cries robin hood, "the day it runs full fast; for tho' my nephew me a breakfast gave, i have not yet broke my fast. "then to yonder lodge let us take our way,-- i think it wondrous good,-- where my nephew by my bold yeomèn shall be welcom'd unto the greenwood." with that he took his bugle-horn, full well he could it blow; streight from the woods came marching down one hundred tall fellows and mo. "stand, stand to your arms," says will scadlòck, "lo! the enemies are within ken:" with that robin hood he laugh'd aloud, crying, "they are my bold yeomèn." who, when they arrived, and robin espy'd, cry'd "master, what is your will? we thought you had in danger been, your horn did sound so shrill." "now nay, now nay," quoth robin hood, "the danger is past and gone; i would have you welcome my nephew here, that has paid me two for one." in feasting and sporting they pass'd the day, till ph[oe]bus sunk into the deep; then each one to his quarters hy'd, his guard there for to keep. long had they not walked within the greenwood, when robin he soon espy'd a beautiful damsel all alone,[l ] that on a black palfrey did ride. her riding-suit was of sable hew black, cypress over her face, through which her rose-like cheeks did blush, all with a comely grace. "come tell me the cause, thou pretty one," quoth robin, "and tell me aright, from whence thou comest, and whither thou goest, all in this mournful plight?" "from london i came," the damsel reply'd, "from london upon the thames, "which circled is, o grief to tell! besieg'd with foreign arms; "by the proud prince of arragon, who swears by his martial hand to have the princess to his spouse, or else to waste this land; "except such champions can be found, that dare fight three to three, against the prince, and giants twain, most horrid for to see; "whose grisly looks, and eyes like brands, strike terrour where they come, with serpents hissing on their helms, instead of feathered plume. "the princess shall be the victor's prize, the king hath vow'd and said, and he that shall the conquest win, shall have her to his bride. "now we are four damsels sent abroad, to the east, west, north, and south, to try whose fortune is so good to find these champions forth. "but all in vain we have sought about, for none so bold there are that dare adventure life and blood, to free a lady fair." "when is the day?" quoth robin hood, "tell me this and no more:" "on midsummer next," the dam'sel said, "which is june the twenty-four." with that the tears trickled down her cheeks, and silent was her tongue: with sighs and sobs she took her leave, away her palfrey sprung. the news struck robin to the heart, he fell down on the grass; his actions and his troubled mind shew'd he perplexed was. "where lies your grief?" quoth will scadlòck, "o master, tell to me: if the damsel's eyes have pierc'd your heart, i'll fetch her back to thee." "now nay, now nay," quoth robin hood, "she doth not cause my smart; but 'tis the poor distress'd princèss, that wounds me to the heart. "i'll go fight the giants all to set the lady free:" "the devil take my soul," quoth little john, "if i part with thy company." "must i stay behind?" quoth will scadlòck, "no, no, that must not be; i'le make the third man in the fight, so we shall be three to three." these words cheer'd robin to the heart, joy shone within his face; within his arms he hugged them both, and kindly did imbrace. quoth he, "we'll put on motley gray, and long staves in our hands, a scrip and bottle by our sides, as come from the holy land. "so may we pass along the high-way, none will ask from whence we came, but take us pilgrims for to be, or else some holy men." now they are on their journey gone, as fast as they may speed, yet for all their haste, ere they arriv'd, the princess forth was led, to be deliver'd to the prince, who in the list did stand, prepar'd to fight, or else receive his lady by the hand. with that he walk'd about the lists, with giants by his side: "bring forth," said he, "your champions, or bring me forth my bride. "this is the four and twentieth day, the day prefixt upon: bring forth my bride, or london burns, i swear by alcaron."[l ] then cries the king, and queen likewise, both weeping as they spake, "lo! we have brought our daughter dear, whom we are forc'd to forsake." with that stept out bold robin hood, crys, "my liege, it must not be so; such beauty as the fair princèss is not for a tyrant's mow." the prince he then began to storm, cries, "fool, fanatick, baboon! how dare you stop my valour's prize? i'll kill thee with a frown." "thou tyrant turk, thou infidel," thus robin began to reply, "thy frowns i scorn; lo! here's my gage, and thus i thee defie. "and for those two goliahs there, that stand on either side, here are two little davids by, that soon can tame their pride." then the king did for armour send, for lances, swords, and shields: and thus all three in armour bright came marching to the field. the trumpets began to sound a charge, each singled out his man; their arms in pieces soon were hew'd, blood sprang from every vain. the prince he reacht robin hood a blow, he struck with might and main, which forc'd him to reel about the field, as though he had been slain. "god-a-mercy," quoth robin, "for that blow! the quarrel shall soon be try'd; this stroke shall shew a full divorce betwixt thee and thy bride." so from his shoulders he's cut his head, which on the ground did fall, and grumbling sore at robin hood, to be so dealt withal. the giants then began to rage to see their prince lie dead: "thou's be the next," quoth little john, "unless thou well guard thy head." with that his faulchion he wherled about, it was both keen and sharp; he clove the giant to the belt, and cut in twain his heart. will scadlock well had play'd his part, the giant he had brought to his knee; quoth will, "the devil cannot break his fast, unless he have you all three." so with his faulchion he run him through, a deep and ghastly wound; who dam'd and foam'd, curst and blasphem'd, and then fell to the ground. now all the lists with shouts were fill'd, the skies they did resound, which brought the princess to herself, who had fal'n in a swound. the king and queen and princess fair, came walking to the place, and gave the champions many thanks, and did them further grace. "tell me," quoth the king, "whence you are, that thus disguised came, whose valour speaks that noble blood doth run through every vain." "a boon, a boon," quoth robin hood, "on my knees i beg and crave;" "by my crown," quoth the king, "i grant; ask what, and thou shalt have." "then pardon i beg for my merry men, which are in the green-wood, for little john, and will scadlock, and for me bold robin hood." "art thou robin hood?" then quoth the king; "for the valour thou hast shewn, your pardons i do freely grant, and welcome every one. "the princess i promis'd the victor's prize;[l ] she cannot have you all three." "she shall chuse," quoth robin; said little john, "then little share falls to me." then did the princess view all three, with a comely lovely grace, and took will scadlock by the hand, saying "here i make my choice." with that a noble lord stept forth, of maxfield earl was he, who look'd will scadlock in the face, and wept most bitterly. quoth he, "i had a son like thee, whom i lov'd wondrous well; but he is gone, or rather dead, his name it is young gamwell." then did will scadlock fall on his knees, cries, "father! father! here, here kneels your son, your young gamwell, you said you lov'd so dear." but, lord! what imbracing and kissing was there, when all these friends were met! they are gone to the wedding, and so to bedding: and so i bid you good night. , of a. , acaron. , promise. ritson. [ ] "this (from an old black-letter copy in major pearson's collection) is evidently the genuine second part of the present ballad: although constantly printed as an independent article, under the title of _robin hood, will scadlock, and little john; or, a narrative of their victories obtained against the prince of aragon and the two giants; and how will scadlock married the princess_. _tune of robin hood; or, hey down, down, a down._" instead of which, in all former editions, are given the following incoherent stanzas, which have all the appearance of being the fragment of a quite different ballad: then bold robin hood to the north he would go, with valour and mickle might, with sword by his side, which oft had been tri'd, to fight and recover his right. the first that he met was a bonny bold scot, his servant he said he would be: "no," quoth robin hood, "it cannot be good, for thou wilt prove false unto me. "thou hast not been true to sire nor cuz." "nay, marry," the scot, he said, "as true as your heart, ile never part, gude master, be not afraid." then robin turned his face to the east, "fight on, my merry men stout; our cause is good," quod brave robin hood, "and we shall not be beaten out." the battel grows hot on every side, the scotchman made great moan: quoth jockey, "gude faith, they fight on each side, would i were with my wife joan!" the enemy compast brave robin about, 'tis long ere the battel ends; ther's neither will yield, nor give up the field, for both are supplied with friends. this song it was made in robin hoods dayes: let's pray unto jove above, to give us true peace, that mischief may cease, and war may give place unto love. ritson. robin hood and the scotchman. given in gutch's _robin hood_, ii. , from an irish garland, printed at monaghan, . this piece is the same as the fragment usually printed as the second part of _robin hood and the stranger_, (see p. ,) and both are undoubtedly relics of some older ballad. now bold robin hood to the north would go with valour and mickle might; with sword by his side, which oft had been try'd, to fight and recover his right. the first that he met was a jolly stout scot, his servant he said he would be; "no," quoth robin hood, "it cannot be good, for thou wilt prove false unto me. "thou has not been true to sire or cuz;" "nay, marry," the scot he said, "as true as your heart, i never will part; good master, be not afraid." "but e'er i employ you," said bold robin hood, "with you i must have a bout;" the scotchman reply'd, "let the battle be try'd, for i know i will beat you out." thus saying, the contest did quickly begin, which lasted two hours and more; the blows sawney gave bold robin so brave, the battle soon made him give o'er. "have mercy, thou scotchman," bold robin hood cry'd, "full dearly this boon have i bought; we will both agree, and my man you shall be, for a stouter i never have fought." then sawny consented with robin to go, to be of his bowmen so gay; thus ended the fight, and with mickle delight to sherwood they hasted away. the playe of robyn hode. from ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . printed by copland at the end of his edition of the _lytell geste_. the whole title runs: _here beginnethe the playe of robyn hoode, very proper to be played in maye games_. a few corrections were made by ritson from white's edition of . the fragment here preserved is founded upon the ballads of _robin hood and the curtall fryer_, (p. ,) and _robin hood and the potter_ (p. .) were the whole play recovered, we should probably find it a _pot pourri_ of the most favorite stories of robin hood. robyn hode. now stand ye forth, my mery men all, and harke what i shall say; of an adventure i shal you tell, the which befell this other day. as i went by the hygh way, with a stout frere i met, and a quarter-staffe in his hande. lyghtely to me he lept, and styll he bade me stande. there were strypes two or three, but i cannot tell who had the worse, but well i wote the horeson lept within me, and fro me he toke my purse. is there any of my mery men all, that to that frere wyll go, and bryng hym to me forth withall, whether he wyll or no? lytell john. yes, mayster, i make god a vowe, to that frere wyll i go, and bring him to you, whether he wyl or no. fryer tucke. _deus hic, deus hic_, god be here! is not this a holy worde for a frere? god save all this company! but am not i a jolly fryer? for i can shote both farre and nere, and handle the sworde and bucklèr, and this quarter-staffe also. if i mete with a gentylman or yemàn, i am not afrayde to loke hym upon, nor boldly with him to carpe; if he speake any wordes to me, he shall have strypes two or thre, that shal make his body smarte. but, maisters, to shew you the matter,[l ] wherfore and why i am come hither, in fayth i wyl not spare. i am come to seke a good yeman, in bernisdale men sai is his habitacion, his name is robyn hode. and if that he be better man than i, his servaunt wyll i be, and serve him truely; but if that i be better man than he, by my truth my knave shall he be, and leade these dogges all three. robyn hode. yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote. fryer tucke. i beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt. robyn hode. i trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote; who made the so malapert and so bolde, to come into this forest here, amonge my falowe dere? fryer. go louse the, ragged knave. if thou make mani wordes, i will geve the on the eare, though i be but a poore fryer. to seke robyn hode i am com here, and to him my hart to breke. robyn hode. thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym? he never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn. fryer. avaunt, ye ragged knave! or ye shall have on the skynne. robyn hode. of all the men in the morning thou art the worst, to mete with the i have no lust; for he that meteth a frere or a fox in the morning, to spede ill that day he standeth in jeoperdy.[l ] therfore i had lever mete with the devil of hell, (fryer, i tell the as i thinke,) then mete with a fryer or a fox in a mornyng, or i drynk. fryer. avaunt, thou ragged knave, this is but a mock; if thou make mani words thou shal have a knock.[l ] robyn hode. harke, frere, what i say here: over this water thou shalt me bere, the brydge is borne away. fryer. to say naye i wyll not: to let the of thine oth it were great pitie and sin, but up on a fryers backe, and have even in. robyn hode. nay, have over. fryer. now am i, frere, within, and thou, robin, without, to lay the here i have no great doubt. now art thou, robyn, without, and i, frere, within, lye ther, knave; chose whether thou wilte sinke or swym. robyn hode. why, thou lowsy frere, what hast thou done?[l ] fryer. mary, set a knave over the shone. robyn hode. therfore thou shalt abye. fryer. why, wylt thou fyght a plucke? robyn hode. and god send me good lucke. fryer. than have a stroke for fryer tucke. robyn hode. holde thy hande, frere, and here me speke. fryer. say on, ragged knave, me semeth ye begyn to swete. robyn hode. in this forest i have a hounde, i wyl not give him for an hundreth pound. geve me leve my home to blowe, that my hounde may knowe. fryer. blowe on, ragged knave, without any doubte, untyll bothe thyne eyes starte out. here be a sorte of ragged knaves come in, clothed all in kendale grene, and to the they take their way nowe. robyn hode. peradventure they do so. fryer. i gave the leve to blowe at thy wyll, now give me leve to whistell my fyll. robyn hode. whystell, frere, evyl mote thou fare, untyll bothe thyne eyes stare[l ]. fryer. now cut and bause! breng forth the clubbes and staves, and downe with those ragged knaves! robyn hode. how sayest thou, frere, wylt thou be my man, to do me the best servyse thou can? thou shalt have both golde and fee, and also here is a lady free, i wyll geve her unto the, and her chapplayn i the make, to serve her for my sake. fryer. here is a huckle duckle, an inch above the buckle; she is a trul of trust, to serve a frier at his lust, a prycker, a prauncer, a terer of shetes,[l ] a wagger of buttockes[l ] when other men slepes. go home, ye knaves, and lay crabbes in the fyre, for my lady and i wil daunce in the myre, for veri pure joye. robyn hode. lysten, to [me], my mery men all, and harke what i shall say; of an adventure i shall you tell, that befell this other daye. with a proude potter i met, and a rose garlande on his head, the floures of it shone marvaylous freshe; this seven yere and more he hath used this waye, yet was he never so curteyse a potter, as one peny passage to paye. is there any of my mery men all that dare be so bolde to make the potter paie passage, either silver or golde? lytell john. not i master, for twenty pound redy tolde, for there is not among us al one that dare medle with that potter, man for man. i felt his handes not long agone, but i had lever have ben here by the, therfore i knowe what he is. mete him when ye wil, or mete him whan ye shal, he is as propre a man as ever you medle withal. robyn hode. i will lai with the, litel john, twenti pound so read, if i wyth that potter mete, i wil make him pay passage, maugre his head. lettel john. i consente therto, so eate i bread, if he pay passage maugre his head, twenti pound shall ye have of me for your mede. the potters boy jacke. out alas, that ever i sawe this daye! for i am clene out of my waye from notyngham towne; if i hye me not the faster, or i come there the market wel be done.[l ] robyn hode. let me se, are thy pottes hole and sounde?[l ] jacke. yea, meister, but they will not breake the ground. robyn hode. i wil them breke, for the cuckold thi maisters sake; and if they will breake the grounde,[l ] thou shalt have thre pence for a pound. jacke. out alas! what have ye done? if my maister come, he will breke your crown. the potter. why, thou horeson, art thou here yet? thou shouldest have bene at markèt. jacke. i met with robin hode, a good yemàn, he hath broken my pottes, and called you kuckolde by your name. the potter. thou mayst be a gentylman, so god me save, but thou semest a noughty knave. thou callest me cuckolde by my name, and i swere by god and saynt john wyfe had i never none. this cannot i denye, but if thou be a good felowe, i wil sel mi horse, mi harneis, pottes and paniers to, thou shalt have the one halfe and i will have the other; if thou be not so content, thou shalt have stripes, if thou were my brother. robyn hode. harke, potter, what i shall say: this seven yere and more thou hast used this way, yet were thou never so curteous to me, as one penny passage to paye. the potter. why should i pay passage to thee? robyn hode. for i am robyn hode, chiefe gouernoure under the grene woode tree. the potter. this seven yere have i used this way up and downe, yet payed i passage to no man, nor now i wyl not beginne, so do the worst thou can.[l ] robyn hode. passage shalt thou pai here under the grene-wode tre, or els thou shalt leve a wedde with me.[l ] the potter. if thou be a good felowe, as men do the call, laye awaye thy bowe, and take thy sword and buckeler in thy hande, and see what shall befall. robin hode. lyttle john, where art thou? lyttel [john]. here, mayster, i make god a vowe. i tolde you, mayster, so god me save, that you shoulde fynde the potter a knave.[l ] holde your buckeler faste in your hande, and i wyll styfly by you stande, ready for to fyghte; be the knave never so stoute, i shall rappe him on the snoute, and put hym to flyghte. , maister, c. ell, c. you, you, c. , donee, c. , starte, c. , shefes, c. , ballockes, c. , maryet, c. , the, c. , not breake, in c. , to do, c.; _to_ or _so_ omitted in w. , wedded, c, wed, w. , your, c. fragment of an interlude (?) of robin hood. the lines which follow would seem to be part of an interlude, in which, as in the play just given, the incidents of several ballads are rudely combined. the present fragment is manifestly founded on _robin hood and guy of gisborne_. we owe this curious relic to a correspondent of _notes and queries_ (vol. xii. p. ), who found it in an interleaved copy of _robin hood's garland_, formerly belonging to dr. stukely, the inventor of the preposterous pedigree of robin hood. the doctor has prefixed these remarks:--"it is not to be doubted but that many of subsequent songs are compiled from old ballads wrote in the time, or soon after robin hood, with alterations from time to time into the more modern language. mr. le neve (norroy) has a large half-sheet of paper which was taken from the inside of some old book, which preserves in an old hand a fragment of this sort. on the back of it is wrote, among other accounts, this, 'it^m, r. s. of richard whitway, penter for his house, sent in full payment, jx. _s._, the vij. day of november, edw'^d iij. xv.'; and in a later hand as follows." "syr sheryffe, for thy sake robyn hode wull y take." i wyll the gyffe golde and fee, this beheste thow holde me. "robyn hode ffayre and fre, undre this lynde shote we." with the shote y wyll, alle thy lustes to fullfyll. "have at the pryke," and y cleve the styke. "late us caste the stone," i grante well, be seynte john. "late us caste the exaltrè," have a foote before the. syr knyght, ye have a falle. "and i the, robyn, qwyte shall. owte on the, i blewe my horne, hitt ware better be unborne." "let us fight at oltrance. "he that fleth, god gyfe hym myschaunce." now i have the maystry here, off i smyte this sory swyre. this knygthys clothis wolle i were, and on my hede his hyde will bere.[l ] well mete, felowe myn.[l ] what herst thou of gode robyn? "robyn hode and his menye with the sheryffe takyn be." sette on foote with gode wyll, and the sheryffe wull we kyll. beholde wele frere tuke, howe he dothe his bowe pluke. "yeld yow, syrs, to the sheryffe, or elles shall ye blowes pryffe[l ]." now we be bounden alle in same; frere tuke, this is no game. "come thou forth, thou fals outlawe; thou shall be hangyde and y-drawe." now alias, what shall we doo! we moste to the prysone goo." opyn the gates faste anon,[l ] and [late] theis thevys ynne gon."[l ] , hede. , folowe. , elyffe. , ory the yatn. , theif thouys yune. by lands-dale hey ho. "this strange and whimsical performance is taken from a very rare and curious publication, entitled _deuteromelia_: _or the second part of musicks melodie, or melodius musicke_, . "in the collection of old printed ballads made by anthony à wood, is an inaccurate copy of this ancient and singular production, in his own hand-writing. "'this song,' says he, 'was esteemed an old song before the rebellion broke out in .'" ritson's _robin hood_, ii. . by lands-dale hey ho, by mery lands-dale hey ho, there dwelt a jolly miller, and a very good old man was he, hey ho. he had, he had and a sonne a, men called him renold, and mickle of his might was he, was he, hey ho. and from his father a wode a, his fortune for to seeke, from mery lands-dale wode he, wode he, hey ho. his father would him seeke a, and found him fast asleepe; among the leaves greene was he, was he, hey ho. he tooke, he tooke him up a, all by the lilly-white hand, and set him on his feet, and bad him stand, hey ho. he gave to him a benbow, made all of a trusty tree, and arrowes in his hand, and bad him let them flee. and shoote was that, that a did a, some say he shot a mile, but halfe a mile and more was it, was it, hey ho. and at the halfe miles end [a,] there stood an armed man; the childe he shot him through, and through and through, hey ho. his beard was all on a white a, as white as whaleis bone, his eyes they were as cleare as christall stone, hey ho. and there of him they made [a] good yeoman robin hood, scarlet, and little john, and little john, hey ho. in sherwood livde stout robin hood. gutch's _robin hood_, ii. . from _a musicall dreamt, or the fourth booke of ayres_, &c., london, . ritson printed the same from the edition of . in sherwood livde stout robin hood, an archer great, none greater; his bow and shafts were sure and good, yet cupids were much better. robin could shoot at many a hart and misse, cupid at first could hit a hart of his. _hey, jolly robin, hoe, jolly robin, hey, jolly robin hood, love finds out me, as well as thee, so follow me, so follow me to the green-wood_.[l ] a noble thiefe was robin hoode, wise was he could deceive him; yet marrian, in his bravest mood, could of his heart bereave him! no greater thief lies hidden under skies then beauty closely lodgde in womens eyes. _hey, jolly robin, &c._ an out-law was this robin hood, his life free and unruly; yet to faire marrian bound he stood, and loves debt payed her duely. whom curbe of stricktest law could not hold in, love with obeyednes and a winke could winne _hey, jolly robin, &c._ now wend we home, stout robin hood, leave we the woods behind us; love-passions must not be withstood, love every where will find us. i livde in fielde and downe, and so did he, i got me to the woods, love followed me. _hey, jolly robin, &c._ , to follow. ritson. the song of robin hood and his huntes-men. from anthony munday's london pageant for , entitled _metropolis coronata, the triumphes of ancient drapery_. munday was a popular ballad-writer, and, together with chettle, the author of two well-known plays on the fortunes of "robert earl of huntington." this song is taken from _the civic garland_, in the percy society publications, vol. xix. p. . now wend we together, my merry men all, unto the forrest side a: and there to strike a buck or a doe, let our cunning all be a tride a. then go we merrily, merrily on, to the green-wood to take up our stand, where we will lye in waite for our game, with our bent bowes in our hand. what life is there like to bold robin hood? it is so pleasant a thing a: in merry shirwood he spends his dayes, as pleasantly as a king a. no man may compare with robin hood, with robin hood, scathlocke and john; their like was never, nor never will be, if in ease that they were gone. they will not away from merry shirwood, in any place else to dwell: for there is neither city nor towne, that likes them halfe so well. our lives are wholly given to hunt, and haunt the merry greene-wood, where our best service is daily spent for our master robin hood. glossary. [right pointing hand] figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a', _all_. aboon, abune, _above_. abowthe, _about_. abye, _abide_, _pay_. acward stroke, , _an unusual, out-of-the-way stroke, which could not be guarded against_. ae, _one_. aftur the way, , _upon the way_. agayne, _against_. agone, _ago_. aik, _oak_. alane, _alone_. alcaron, , _the name of an imaginary deity, by metathesis from alcoran_. ritson. _the original reading is, however, acoron_. alkone, _each one_. al so mote, _so may i_. altherbest, _best of all_. amain, all, , _at once_. ance, _once_. anker, _anchorite_. a-row, _in a row_. arthur-a-bradley, , _the title of a ballad_. arwe, _arrow_; arwys, _arrows_. asay, _tried_. assoyld, _absolved_. avowè, _founder_, _patron_, _protector_. awayte me scathe, , _lie in wait, or lay plots_, _to do me injury_. awet, _know_. awkwarde stroke, , _an unusual, out-of-the-way stroke_. ayen, _again_. ayenst, _against_. ayont, _beyond_. ayre, by, , _early_. azon, , _against_, _towards [them]_. bale, _ruin_, _harm_, _mischief_. ballup, , _the front or flap of small clothes_. banis, _bane_. barking, , _leather-tanning_. baylyes, , _bailiffs_, _sheriff's officers_. be, _by_. bearyng arow, , "_an arrow that carries well_;" see vol. vii. became, , _came_. bedene, , _in a company_, _together_.(?) bedyl, , beadle, _the keeper of a prison_. beforn, , _before_, _first_. beft, , _beaten_. begeck, give a, , _make a mock of_, _expose to derision_. beheste, , _promise_. behote, , _promise_; , _promised_. beir, _noise_, _cry_. belive, belyfe, _quickly_, _at once_. ben, _in_. benbow, , _bent bow_. bend, , _turn of a forest_. bescro, _beshrew_, _curse_. bestead, _circumstanced_, _put to it_. bewch, , _bough_. bigged, _built_. bigly, _commodious_, _pleasant to live in_. bil, _pike or halbert_. blate, _sheepish_, _foolish_. blowe bost, , _make boast_. blutter, , _dirty_. blyve, _quickly_. bocking, _belching_, _flowing out_. bode, _bid_. boltys, _arrows, especially arrows with a blunt head_. bone, _boon_. booting, , _robbing adventure_. borow, _surety_. borowe, _redeem_. boskyd, _made ready_. bote, _help_, _use_. bottys, _shooting butts_. boun, boune, _make ready_; bown'd, , _went_. boune, bowne, _ready_, _ready to go_; , _going_. bour, _bower_, _chamber_, _dwelling_. bowne, _boon_. boyt, _both_. braide at a, , _suddenly_, _in a moment_. braves, _bravadoes_. bree, _brow_. breeks, _breeches_. brenne, _burn_. brere, _briar_, _thorn_. breyde, _a start_, _leap_. breyde, _started_, _leaped_, _stepped hastily_. briddis, _birds_. broke, , _use and enjoy_. browthe, _brought_. browzt, _brought_. bruik, _enjoy_. bryk, _breeches_. buske, _bush_. buske, _dress_; , _make ready to go_, _go_. busshement, _ambush_. but, _without_; , but fail, _without fail_; but and, _and also_. bydene, , _all together_, _forthwith_, _one after the other_.(?) bystode, _put into a plight_, _circumstanced_. can, as an auxiliary, equivalent to _did_. can, _know_; coud, _knew_; can thanke, _feel grateful_, (_savoir gré_.) cankerdly, _with ill humor_. capull, _horse_. carefull, _sorrowful_. carpe, _talk_, _narrate_. carril, carel, _churl_. certyl, _kirtle_; , _jacket or waistcoat_. chaffar, chaffer, _merchandise_, _commodity_. charter of peace, _deed of pardon_, _safe-warrant_. chear well, , _make good cheer_, _have a good prospect_. chepe, v. _buy_; n. _bargain_. chere, _face_. cheys, _choose_. chitt, , _worn_? chiven, , _craven_? claw'd, , _scratched_, _curried_. clepyn, _call_. clipping, _embracing_. clouted, _patched_. cofer, _trunk_. cold, , _could_, used as an auxiliary of the perfect tense. cole, _cowl_. comet, _cometh_. commytted, , _accounted_. comyn belle, , _town-bell_. coost, _cast_. coresed, , _harnessed_. halliwell. (a guess?) cote-a-pye, _upper garment_, _short cloak_. coud, _could_, used as an auxiliary of the perfect tense; coud his curtesye, , [_showed that he_] _understood good manners_. counsel, _secret_. covent, _convent_. cow, _clip_. cowed, _could_, _knew_. cowthe, _could_. crack, _chat_, _talk_. craftely, _skilfully_. creves, _crevice_. crouse, , _merrily_. curn, , _quantity of_. curtall fryer, , _apparently the friar with the curtall (cur) dogs_. curtes, _courteous_. cutters, _swaggerers_, _riotous fellows_. cypress, , _gauze_, _crape_. dale, been at a, _in low spirits_? dame, , _mother_, i.e. _mary_. deale, _part_. dee, _die_. dee, _do_; deen, _done_. deft, _neat_, _trim_. demed, _judged_. dere, _harm_. dere worthy, _precious_. derne, _secret_, _privy_, _retired_. devilkyns, , _deuced_. did of, _doffed_. doen him, _betaken him_. doe of, _doff_. doubt, doute, _fear_, _danger_. doyt, _do_. dree, _bear_, _suffer_, _endure_. dub, , _pool_. dule, _lamentation_. dung, _struck down_, _put down_. duzty, _doughty_, _brave_. dyght, , _done_. dyght, _ready_, _made ready_; dyghtande, , _making ready_, _cooking_. dysgrate, _disgraced_, _degraded_, _fallen into poverty_. eftsones, _afterward_, _hereafter_. eild, _age_. emys, _uncles_. ere, , _before_. erst, _before_. even, _exactly_. everyche, euerilkone, everichone, _each_, _every one_. exaltrè, _axle-tree_. eylde het the, _requite (thee for) it_. eyr, _year_. faem, _foam_, _sea_. fail, but, , _without fail_. faine, _glad_. falleth, , _suiteth_. falyf, _fallen_. fánatick, , _madman_. fang, _strap_. fare, _way of proceeding_; , _fortune_; for all his frendes fare, seems to mean, _notwithstanding the penalties suffered by his friends for their bad shots_. fare, _go_. farley, _strange_. fault, , _misfortune_. fay, _faith_. fayne, _glad_. fe, fee, _property_, _wages_, _reward_. feardest, , _most frightened_. federed, _feathered_. felischepe, , _compact of friendship_. fend, _find_. fende, _defend_. ferd, , _fear_; probably misspelt. fere, _mate_. ferly, _wonderful_, _extraordinary_. ferre dayes, , _late in the day_. ferre and frend bestad, , _in the position of a stranger from a distance_. fet, _fetched_. fet, fit, _song_. fetteled, _made ready_. finikin, _fine_. flaps, _strokes_, _blows_. fleych, _flesh_. flinders, _fragments_. flo, _arrow_. fone, _foes_. forbode godys, , gods forbott, , _god's prohibition_; over gods forbode, , _on god's prohibition_, _god forbid_. force, fors, _matter_. forebye, _on one side_. for god, _before god_. forlorne, _lost_, _forsaken_, _alone_. forsoyt, _forsooth_. forthynketh, _repenteth_. fostere, _forester_; fosters of the fe, , _foresters in the king's pay_. foryete, , _forgotten_. fothe, _foot_. foulys, _fowls_, _birds_. free, , _gracious_, _bounteous_. frend, _foreign_, _strange_; ferre and frend bestad, , _in the position of a stranger from a distance_. frese (said of bows), ? fu', _full_. fynly, _goodly_. gang, _go_. gangna, _go not_. gar, _make_. gate, , , _way_. general, , _perhaps the governor, nottingham having once been a garrison town_. ritson. rather, _people_; i.e. _in public_, _with the rest of the world_. ger, , _gear_, _affair_. gest, _guest_. geste, _story_. gie, _give_. gif, _if_. gillore, _plenty_. gin, _if_. gladdynge, _entertaining_. go, _walk_. god, , _valuables_. gods forbott, , _god's prohibition_, _god forbid_. golett, _throat_, _the part of the dress or armor which covered the throat_. gone, _go_; ride and go, _ride and walk_. gorney, _journey_. graff, , _branch or sapling_. gree, , _satisfaction_. greece, hart of, _a fat hart_. grithe, , _peace_, _protection_, _security for a certain time_. grome, _groom_; , _a_ (_common_) _man_. ha', _hall_. had, _hold_, _keep_. hail, _wholly_. halfendell, _half_. halke, , _hollow_? hambellet, _ambleth_. hame, _home_. han, _have_. hansell, , _is the first money received in a new shop, or on any particular day_. the passage seems to be corrupt. hantyd, _haunted_. harbengers, _harbingers_, _servants that went on before their lords during a journey, to provide lodgings_. harowed, _despoiled_. hart of greece, _a fat hart_. hase, _neck_. haud, _hold_. haulds, , _things to take hold of_. haunted, _resorted frequently_. hawt, _aught_. hayt, _hath_. he, , _they_. heal'd, _concealed_. hede, _head_. hee, _high_. hende, _gentle_, _courteous_. hent, _took_. heres, _here is_. het, _it_. het, _eat_. heynd, _gentle_, _courteous_. hight, _called_, _are called_. ho, hoo, _who_. hode, _hood_. holde, , _retain_. holy, _wholly_. hos, _us_. housbond, _manager_. howt, _out_; heyt war howte, , a corrupt passage? huckle-duckle, , _a term for a loose woman_. humming, _heady_. hye, in, _aloft_. hyght, _promised_, _vowed_. hynde, _servant_. hypped, _hopped_, _hobbled_. i-bonde, _bound_. i-chaunged, _changed_. i-federed, _feathered_. ilk, _each_; ilkone, _each one_. in fere, _in company_. inn, , _abode_, _stand_. i-nocked, _nocked_, _notched_. inow, _enough_. in same, _together_. intil, _into_, _in_. into, _in_. in twaine, _apart_. i-pyght, _put_. i-quyt, _rewarded_. i-sette, _set_. i-slawe, _slain_. ither, _each other_. i-wysse, _surely_. japes, _jests_, _mocks_. jobbing, , _knocking together_. kende, kent, _knew_. kep, _catch_; kep'd, kept, keepit, _caught_. kepe; non odur kepe i'll be, , _i will be no other kind of retainer_, _i will have no other relations_. kest, _cast_. kilt, _tuck up_. knave, _servant_ (_boy_); knave bairn, _male child_. knop, _a knob or swelling from a blow_. kod, _quoth_. kyrtell, _kirtle_, _waistcoat_, _jacket, or tunic_. lad, _lead_. laigh, , _low ground_. lang, _longer_. lap, _leaped_. launde, _an open place in a wood_. launsgay, _a kind of dart or javelin_; (a compound of _lance_, and the arabic _zagaye_, says myrick, antient armour, &c.) lawhyng, _laughing_. layne, _deception_. leace, _lying_. leasynge, _lying_. leave, , _dear_. ledes man, _conductor_. lee licht, , _lonely_, _sad light_. leese, _lose_. lefe, _dear_, _pleasant_. lende, , _dwell_. lene, , _grant_; , _lend_. lengre, _longer_. lere, _cheek_. lere, _learn_. lese, _lose_. lest, _desire_. lesynge, _lying_. let, _stop_; letna, _let not_; lettyng, _stopping_. leugh, _laughed_. lever, _rather_. lewtè, _loyalty_. ley, _lea_. leythe, _light_. liflod, _livelihood_. ligge, , _lay_. lightilé, lyghtly, _quickly_. lin, _stop_. lin'd, , _beaten_. list, _desire_. list, _pleased_. lith, , _joint_, _limb_. lithe, _hearken_. liver, _nimble_. lizt, _light_. lokid on, , _looked in at_. longe of the, _thy fault_. longut, _longed_. lordeyne, _sluggard_, _clown_. lore, _lost_. lothely, _with aversion_, _with hatred_. lough, _laughed_. loused, lowsed, _loosed_. low, _laughed_. lowe, , _a small hill_. lown, _rogue_. lust, _desire_. lynde, lyne, _linden_, _lime_, _tree in general_. lynge, , _a thin long grass or rush_, _heather_. lyth, _hearken_. lyveray, _an allowance of provisions or clothes given out to servants or retainers_; , _levy_. lyzth, _lies_. male, _portmanteau_; , _[the horse carrying] the portmanteau_. maney, _company_. mar, _more_. marry, _mary_; marry gep, _apparently, mary go up_! masars, , _cups_, _vessels_. masterey, _mastery_, _trial of skill_, _feat_. mat, _may_. maun, _must_; maunna, _may not_. may, _maid_. maystry, _trial of skill_, _feat_. meal-pock, _meal-bag_. meatrif, _abounding in provisions_. mell, _meddle_. menyè, meynè, _company_. mete, _measured_. methe, _meat_. meyt, meythe, _might_. mickle, _great_. middle streame, , _middle of the stream_. misters, , _sorts of_. mo, _more_. molde, _ground_. mot, _may_. mote, _meeting_. mought, _might_. mow, _mouth_. muckle, _much_. mych, _much_. mylner, _miller_. mysaunter, _misadventure_, _ill luck_. myster, _need_. myzt, _might_. nae, _not_. nar, _nor_, _than_. ner, _never_. ner, _were it not_. ner; they ner, _thine ear_. nere, _nearer_. next way, _nearest way_. nicked, _notched_, _cut_, _slashed_. niddart, , _assailed_. nip, _bit_; curn nips of sticks, , _bundle of small sticks_. nipped, _pinched_. nombles, numbles, _[the eatable] entrails_. nouther, _neither_. odur, _other_. ohon, _interjection of grief_, _alas_. okerer, _usurer_. oltrance, _outrance_, _utterance_. on, _one_. onfere, _together_. on lyve, _alive_. onslepe, _asleep_. onys, _once_. or, _before_. os, _us_. ought, _owed_. out-horne, _a horn blown to summon people to assist in capturing a fugitive_. over all, _everywhere_. owthe, _out_. owtlay, _outlaw_. oysyd, _used_, _followed_. passe, _extent_, _bounds_, _limits_, _district_; as the pas de calais. ritson. partakers, _persons to take one's part_. pawage, pauage, pavag, _toll for the privilege of passing over the territory of another_. pay, _satisfaction_. peces, , _vessels_; _unless it be gold pieces_. pinder, _pounder_, _pound-keeper_. pine, _pain_. plucke, _stroke_, _blow_; , _bout_; plucke-buffet, , _is explained by the context_. prece, prese, _crowd_; prees, , _press (of battle)_. preced, _pressed_. preke, _the pin in the centre of a target_. president, _precedent_. prest, , _fast_, _zealously_. prest, _quick_, _in a hurry_; prestly, _quickly_. pricke-wande, _a rod set up as a mark. the prick is the peg in the centre of a target_. prycker, , _a galloping horse_. pryffe, , _prove_. pryme, _six in the morning_. pudding-prick, _a skewer to fasten a pudding-bag_. put at the stane, _throw the stone as a trial of strength_; putting-stane, _the stone used in this exercise_. pyne, _suffering_; goddes pyne, _christ's passion_. quequer, _quiver_. queyt, qwyte, _reward_. raked, , _proceeded leisurely_, _sauntered_. raking, , , _walking hastily_, _running_. rawe, _row_. ray, _prepare_. raye, , _striped cloth. "cloth not coloured or dyed. it is mentioned in many old statutes in contradistinction to cloth of colour."_ ritson. reachles, _reckless_, _careless_. red, _advice_. red, _rid_. reddely, _quickly_. reede, _advise_. renne, _run_. reuth, _pity_. reve, _rob_, _take by force_. revere, _river_. reves, _bailiffs_, _receivers_. rewth, _pity_. ripe, _rip_. ripe, , _search_; , _cleanse_. rode, _rood_, _cross_. rout, , _blow_. rowed, _rolled_. rowte, _company_. rue, , _to cause to rue_. rung, _staff_. ryall, _royal_. ryghtwys, _righteous_, _just_. sad, , _firm_, _resolute_. sall, _shall_; salna, _shall not_. salued, _greeted_. same, _in_, _together_. sanchothis, ? (the meaning is that the arrow went between the legs.) sawtene, _sought_. scaith, scathe, _hurt_, _harm_. schet, schette, _shot_. schrewde, _sharp_. sclo, _slay_. scouth, , _room_, _range_. screffe, _sheriff_. se, see, _protect_. seal, , gude seal, _god seal_, _forbid_? seke, _search_; , he was not to seke, _he did not require to be looked for_. seker, _sure_, _resolute_. selerer, cellarer, _the officer of a convent that furnished provisions_. semblaunte, _countenance_. sete, _set_. sets, , _suits_. shawe, , , , _grove_, _wood_. shende, _injure_, _blame_. shete, _shoo_t; shet, _shot_. sheyne, _bright_. shone, shoen, _shoes_. shope, _created_. shot-window, _a projecting window_. shradd, , (spelt also shard,) _an opening in a wood_. shrewed, , _cursed_, _precious_! shroggs, , _shrubs_, _twigs_. shryve, _sheriff_. shuldis, _shouldst_. silly, _simple_. sith, _since_. slack, _low ground_, _valley_. slade, _valley_, _ravine_, _strip of greensward between two woods_. slawe, _slain_. slist, _sliced_. slon, _slay_; slone, _slain_. somers, _sumpter horses_. sorowe tyme, , _sorry_, _bad time_. sothe, _truth_. sound, _swoon_. sowt, , _south_. soyt, _sooth_, _truth_. spar, _spare_, _stop_. sparris, _shutst_; sparred, _shut_. spear, speir, _ask about_. spercles, _sparks_. sprunks, , _concubines_? spyrred, _asked_, _asked for_. stage, , _story of the house_? stalle, , _place in general_, _room_, _house_. stark, _stiff_. stede, _place_. sterte, _started_, _rushed_. steven, , _voice_; , unsett steven, _a time not previously appointed_. stime, _a particle of light_. sto', _store_, _a quantity_. stood upon, , _concerned_, _was worth his while_. store, set no, _make no account of_. stound, _hour_, _time_. stowre, _turmoil_. strypes, _strokes_. stroke, , _stretch_? stye, , _lane_. sune, _son_. sweaven, _dream_. sweir, _niggardly_, _unwilling to part with any thing_. swinke, _toil_. swownd, _swoon_. swyre, , _neck_. syne, _then_, _afterwards_. syth, _then_. take, (often) _give_; take up (the table), _clear away_. takle, takyll, _arrow_. tarpe, ? tee, _to_. teene, tene, _harm_, _trouble_, _vexation_. than, _then_. the, _they_. the, _thrive_, _prosper_. then, _than_. ther, _their_. there, , _where_. thes, _thus_. thir, _they_. tho, _those_. thocht, _thought_. thother, _other_. thoucht _long_, thought lang, _grew weary_. thrast, _thrust_, _pressed_. throly, , _boldly_. throng, _hastened_. throwe, _space of time_. thrumme, _the extremity of a weaver's warp_; , _band_ _or_ _belt_? thryes, _thrice_. thynketh, _seemeth_. till, _to_. tithyngus, _tidings_. to, _two_. to-hande, _two-hand_. toke, _committed to_. tortyll, , _twisted_. qy. reading? trawale, _labor_, _vocation_. tray, , (a.s. trega,) _vexation_. tree, _staff_. trenchen, , _cutting_. treyffe, , _thrive_. tristil tre, , _tree of trist_, _or_ _meeting_. trowet, _troth_. trusyd, _trussed_. trysty tre, _tristing tree_, _tree of meeting_. tyde, _time_. tyll, _to_. tynde, _tine_, _antler_. tyne, _lose_. unketh, _strange_, _stranger_. unneath, unneth, _hardly_. untyll, _unto_. upchaunce, _peradventure_, _perchance_. venyson, , _deer-stealing_. voyded, _went off_. wa, _wall_. wad, _would_. wan, _got_, _came_. wane, ; wonnynge wane, _dwelling-place_: wane is perhaps an error for _hame_. war, _aware_. warden-pies, ; _wardens are large baking-pears_. warisone, , _reward_. was, , _wash_. waur, _worse_. waythmen, page ix., _hunters_, _sportsmen_ (german, weidmann). often explained _outlaws_, _rovers_. wed, wedde, _pledge_, _deposit_. wedes, _garments_. welde, _would_. welt, _wielded_, _disposed of_. wenion, , _curse_, (a word of unknown origin.) wende, went, _weened_, _thought_. weppynd, _weaponed_. west, _wist_. wet, wete, _know_. whether, _whither_. whute, _whistle_; whues, _whistlings_. wigger, _wicker_. wight, _strong_. wilfulle, , (like wilsom,) _doubtful_, _ignorant_. win, _go_, _get_, _get on_. winna, _will not_. wistna, _knew not_. wode, _mad_. wode, _went_. wodys, _woods_. woest, _saddest_. wolwarde, _without linen next the body_. wone, _dwell_; wonnynge, _dwelling_. woo, _sad_. woodweele, variously explained as _woodpecker_, _thrush_, _wood-lark_, _red-breast_. worthe, _be_. wroken, _revenged_. wrist, ? wyght, _strong_. wynne, _go_. wystly, _wistfully_, _intently_. wyte, , wytte, _know_. xal, xul, _shall_. y-dyght, _furnished_, _prepared_. yede, yeed, _went_. yeff, _if_. yeffell, _ill_. yeft, _gift_. yeman, _yeoman_; yemanrey, , yeomandrie, _yeomanry_, _what becomes a yeoman_. yend, _yonder_. yer, _years_. yerdes, _rods_, _wands_. ye'se, _you shall_. yever, _ever_. y-founde, _found_. ylke, _same_. yode, _went_. yole, yule, _christmas_. yonder, _under_. y-slaw, _slain_. zade, _went_. zare, _readily_, _quickly_. zatis, _gates_. ze, _the_. zelpe, _boast_. zemen, _yeomen_. zet, _yet_. zete, _eat_. zeue, _give_. zone, _yon_. zouyn, _given_. * * * * * transcriber's notes page iv table of contents: changed "landsdale" to "lands-dale" ( . by lands-dale hey ho) page ix: footnote [**] added closing quotation mark (... like as it hadde be _robyn hode and his meynè_.") page xvi: added closing quotation mark (... "_poar cas qil ne poait pluis travailler_".) page : deleted comma after "according" (... which, according to wyntown, was also frequented by robin hood ...) page , line : added sentence final period (in seven yere before.) page : note references to lines and ammended to and respectively. page : added closing quotation mark (... in the collection of anthony à wood.") page , line : added opening quotation mark ("thy bags and coat give me;) page , line : added closing quotation mark (aye, and all their white monèy.") page , line : added opening quotation mark ("my name it is allin a dale.") page , line : added closing quotation mark ("i prithee now tell unto me:") page : added sentence final period (... and the chorus is repeated in every stanza.) page , line : added closing quotation mark (i'd have gone some other way.") page , line : added closing quotation mark (some merry pastime to see.") page , line : changed placement of closing quotation mark ("so 'tis, sir," clorinda reply'd.) page , line : added missing comma ("but oh," said bold robin ...) page , line : added opening quotation mark ("and with the grey goose-wing) page , lines , : repositioned opening quotation mark from beginning of line to beginning of line "ay," quoth the sheriff, and scratch'd his head, "i thought he would have been here; i thought he would, but tho' he's bold, he durst not now appear." page , line : ammended punctuation and added closing quotation mark from ile give thee buffets sto.' to ile give thee buffets sto'." page , line : added closing quotation mark (tell me where thou doest wone.") page , line : added opening quotation mark ("lo! the enemies are within ken:") page , line : added closing quotation mark ("from london i came," the damsel reply'd,) page , line : added opening quotation mark ("o master, tell to me:) page , line : added opening quotation mark ("for the valour thou hast shewn,) page : delted comma after "flowing" (bocking, _belching_, _flowing out_.) page : changed "weidmann" to "weidmann" (waythmen, page ix., _hunters_, _sportsmen_ (german, weidmann).) generously made available by the digital & multimedia center, michigan state university libraries.) transcriber's notes archaic, dialect and inconsistent spellings have been retained as in the original. other than minor changes to format or punctuation, any changes to the text have been listed at the end of the book. in this plain text version of the e-book, symbols from the ascii and latin- character sets only are used. italic typeface is indicated by _underscores_. small caps typeface is represented by upper case. superscript characters are indicated by ^{xx}. [oe] and [oe] represent the oe-ligature (upper and lower case). a pointing hand symbol is represented as [hand]. footnotes are numbered in sequence throughout the book and presented at the end of the section or ballad in which the footnote anchor appears. notes with reference to ballad line numbers are presented at the end of each ballad. * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. volume iii. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. entered according to act of congress, in the year by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h.o. houghton and company. contents of volume third. book iii. (continued.) page a. earl richard, (a) [scott's version] b. earl richard, [motherwell's version] c. young redin d. lord william a. prince robert b. earl robert . the weary coble o' cargill . old robin of portingale . fause foodrage . bonnie annie . william guiseman a. the enchanted ring b. bonny bee-ho'm a. the three ravens b. the twa corbies, [scott] a. the dowie dens of yarrow b. the braes o' yarrow . sir james the rose . græme and bewick . the lament of the border widow . young waters . bonnie george campbell a. lamkin b. lambert linkin a. the laird of waristoun, [jamieson] b. laird of wariestoun, [kinloch] a. the queen's marie b. mary hamilton . bessie bell and mary gray . the children in the wood a. hugh of lincoln b. sir hugh c. the jew's daughter a. sir patrick spence, [percy] b. sir patrick spens, [scott] book iv. . king estmere . sir cauline a. fair annie, [scott] b. fair annie, [motherwell] a. child waters b. burd ellen a. erlinton b. the child of elle a. sir aldingar b. sir hugh le blond a. the knight, and shepherd's daughter b. earl richard (b) a. the gay goss-hawk b. the jolly goshawk appendix. young hunting young waters lammikin long lonkin the laird of waristoun mary hamilton, [kinloch] mary hamilton, [maidment] sir hugh, or the jew's daughter, [motherwell] sir hugh, [hume] sir patrick spens lord livingston clerk tamas john thomson and the turk lord thomas stuart the spanish virgin the lady isabella's tragedy the cruel black king malcolm and sir colvin ski[oe]n anna; fair annie lady margaret earl richard (b) glossary book iii. continued. earl richard. a fragment of this gloomy and impressive romance, (corresponding to v. - ,) was published in herd's _scottish songs_, i. , from which, probably, it was copied into pinkerton's _scottish tragic ballads_, p. . the entire ballad was first printed in _the border minstrelsy_, together with another piece, _lord william_, containing a part of the same incidents. of the five versions which have appeared, four are given in this place, and the remaining one in the appendix. in the _gentleman's magazine_, , vol. , part i. p. , there is a modern ballad of extremely perverted orthography and vicious style, (meant for ancient,) in which the twenty lines of herd's fragment are interwoven with an altogether different story. it is printed as authentic in _scarce "ancient" ballads_, aberdeen, . "there are two ballads in mr. herd's mss. upon the following story, in one of which the unfortunate knight is termed _young huntin'_. [see appendix.] the best verses are selected from both copies, and some trivial alterations have been adopted from tradition." _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "o lady, rock never your young son, young, one hour langer for me; for i have a sweetheart in garlioch wells, i love far better than thee. "the very sole o' that lady's foot than thy face is far mair white:" "but, nevertheless, now, erl richard, ye will bide in my bower a' night?" she birled him with the ale and wine, as they sat down to sup: a living man he laid him down, but i wot he ne'er rose up. then up and spake the popinjay, that flew aboun her head; "lady! keep weel your green cleiding frae gude erl richard's bleid."-- "o better i'll keep my green cleiding frae gude erl richard's bleid, than thou canst keep thy clattering toung, that trattles in thy head." she has call'd upon her bower maidens, she has call'd them ane by ane; "there lies a dead man in my bour: i wish that he were gane!" they hae booted him, and spurred him, as he was wont to ride;-- a hunting-horn tied round his waist, a sharpe sword by his side; and they hae had him to the wan water, for a' men call it clyde.[l ] then up and spoke the popinjay that sat upon the tree-- "what hae ye done wi' erl richard? ye were his gay ladye."-- "come down, come down, my bonny bird, and sit upon my hand; and thou sall hae a cage o' gowd, where thou hast but the wand."-- "awa! awa! ye ill woman! nae cage o' gowd for me; as ye hae done to erl richard, sae wad ye do to me." she hadna cross'd a rigg o' land, a rigg but barely ane, when she met wi' his auld father, came riding all alane. "where hae ye been, now, ladye fair, where hae ye been sae late? we hae been seeking erl richard, but him we canna get."-- "erl richard kens a' the fords in clyde, he'll ride them ane by ane; and though the night was ne'er sae mirk, erl richard will be hame." o it fell anes, upon a day, the king was boun to ride; and he has mist him, erl richard, should hae ridden on his right side. the ladye turn'd her round about, wi' mickle mournfu' din-- "it fears me sair o' clyde water, that he is drown'd therein."-- "gar douk, gar douk," the king he cried, "gar douk for gold and fee; o wha will douk for erl richard's sake, or wha will douk for me?" they douked in at ae weil-heid, and out aye at the other; "we can douk nae mair for erl richard, although he were our brother." it fell that, in that ladye's castle, the king was boun to bed; and up and spake the popinjay, that flew abune his head. "leave aff your douking on the day, and douk upon the night; and where that sackless knight lies slain, the candles will burn bright."-- "o there's a bird within this bower, that sings baith sad and sweet; o there's a bird within your bower, keeps me frae my night's sleep." they left the douking on the day, and douk'd upon the night; and where that sackless knight lay slain, the candles burned bright.[l ] the deepest pot in a' the linn,[l ] they fand erl richard in; a green turf tyed across his breast, to keep that gude lord down. then up and spake the king himsell, when he saw the deadly wound-- "o wha has slain my right-hand man, that held my hawk and hound?"-- then up and spake the popinjay, says--"what needs a' this din? it was his light leman took his life, and hided him in the linn." she swore her by the grass sae grene, sae did she by the corn, she hadna seen him, erl richard, since moninday at morn. "put na the wite on me," she said, "it was my may catherine:" then they hae cut baith fern and thorn, to burn that maiden in. it wadna take upon her cheik, nor yet upon her chin; nor yet upon her yellow hair, to cleanse the deadly sin. the maiden touch'd the clay-cauld corpse, a drap it never bled; the ladye laid her hand on him, and soon the ground was red. out they hae ta'en her, may catherine, and put her mistress in; the flame tuik fast upon her cheik, tuik fast upon her chin; tuik fast upon her faire body-- she burn'd like hollin-green.[l ] . _clyde_, in celtic, means _white_.--lockhart. . these are unquestionably the corpse-lights, called in wales _canhwyllan cyrph_, which are sometimes seen to illuminate the spot where a dead body is concealed. the editor is informed, that, some years ago, the corpse of a man, drowned in the ettrick, below selkirk, was discovered by means of these candles. such lights are common in churchyards, and are probably of a phosphoric nature. but rustic superstition derives them from supernatural agency, and supposes, that, as soon as life has departed, a pale flame appears at the window of the house, in which the person had died, and glides towards the churchyard, tracing through every winding the route of the future funeral, and pausing where the bier is to rest. this and other opinions, relating to the "tomb-fires' livid gleam," seem to be of runic extraction. scott. . the deep holes, scooped in the rock by the eddies of a river, are called _pots_; the motion of the water having there some resemblance to a boiling caldron. _linn_, means the pool beneath a cataract. scott. . the lines immediately preceding, "the maiden touched," &c., and which are restored from tradition, refer to a superstition formerly received in most parts of europe, and even resorted to by judicial authority, for the discovery of murder. in germany, this experiment was called _bahrrecht_, or the law of the bier; because, the murdered body being stretched upon a bier, the suspected person was obliged to put one hand upon the wound and the other upon the mouth of the deceased, and, in that posture, call upon heaven to attest his innocence. if, during this ceremony, the blood gushed from the mouth, nose, or wound, a circumstance not unlikely to happen in the course of shifting or stirring the body, it was held sufficient evidence of the guilt of the party. scott. earl richard. obtained from recitation by motherwell, and printed in his _minstrelsy_, p. . earl richard is a hunting gone, as fast as he could ride; his hunting-horn hung about his neck, and a small sword by his side. when he came to my lady's gate, he tirled at the pin; and wha was sae ready as the lady hersell to open and let him in? "o light, o light, earl richard," she says, "o light and stay a' night; you shall have cheer wi' charcoal clear, and candles burning bright." "i will not light, i cannot light, i cannot light at all; a fairer lady than ten of thee is waiting at richard's-wall." he stooped from his milk-white steed, to kiss her rosy cheek; she had a penknife in her hand, and wounded him so deep. "o lie ye there, earl richard," she says, "o lie ye there till morn; a fairer lady than ten of me will think lang of your coming home." she called her servants ane by ane, she called them twa by twa: "i have got a dead man in my bower, i wish he were awa." the ane has ta'en him by the hand, and the other by the feet; and they've thrown him in a deep draw well, full fifty fathoms deep. then up bespake a little bird, that sat upon a tree: "gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady, and pay your maids their fee." "come down, come down, my pretty bird, that sits upon the tree; i have a cage of beaten gold, i'll gie it unto thee." "gae hame, gae hame, ye fause lady, and pay your maids their fee; as ye have done to earl richard, sae wud ye do to me." "if i had an arrow in my hand, and a bow bent on a string; i'd shoot a dart at thy proud heart, among the leaves sae green." young redin. "from the recitation of miss e. beattie, of edinburgh, a native of mearnsshire, who sings it to a plaintive, though somewhat monotonous air of one measure."--kinloch, _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . young redin's til the huntin gane, wi' therty lords and three; and he has til his true-love gane, as fast as he could hie. "ye're welcome here, my young redin, for coal and candle licht; and sae are ye, my young redin, to bide wi' me the nicht." "i thank ye for your licht, ladie, sae do i for your coal; but there's thrice as fair a ladie as thee meets me at brandie's well." whan they were at their supper set, and merrily drinking wine, this ladie has tane a sair sickness, and til her bed has gane. young redin he has followed her, and a dowie man was he; he fund his true-love in her bouer, and the tear was in her ee. whan he was in her arms laid, and gieing her kisses sweet, then out she's tane a little penknife, and wounded him sae deep. "o lang, lang, is the winter nicht, and slawly daws the day; there is a slain knicht in my bouer, and i wish he war away." then up bespak her bouer-woman, and she spak ae wi' spite:-- "an there be a slain knicht in your bouer, it's yoursel that has the wyte." "o heal this deed on me, meggy, o heal this deed on me; the silks that war shapen for me gen pasche, they sall be sewed for thee." "o i hae heal'd on my mistress a twalmonth and a day, and i hae heal'd on my mistress, mair than i can say." they've booted him, and they've spurred him, as he was wont to ride:-- a huntin horn round his neck, and a sharp sword by his side; in the deepest place o' clyde's water, it's there they've made his bed. sine up bespak the wylie parrot, as he sat on the tree,-- "and hae ye kill'd him young redin, wha ne'er had love but thee!" "come doun, come doun, ye wylie parrot, come doun into my hand; your cage sall be o' the beaten gowd, when now it's but the wand." "i winna come doun, i canna come doun, i winna come doun to thee; for as ye've dune to young redin, ye'll do the like to me; ye'll thraw my head aff my hause-bane, and throw me in the sea." o there cam seekin young redin, monie a lord and knicht; and there cam seekin young redin, monie a ladie bricht. and they hae til his true-love gane, thinking he was wi' her; * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "i hae na seen him, young redin, sin yesterday at noon; he turn'd his stately steed about, and hied him through the toun. "but ye'll seek clyde's water up and doun, ye'll seek it out and in-- i hae na seen him, young redin, sin yesterday at noon." then up bespak young redin's mither, and a dowie woman was scho;-- "there's na a place in a clyde's water, but my son wad gae through." they've sought clyde's water up and doun, they've sought it out and in, and the deepest place o' clyde's water they fund young redin in. o white, white, war his wounds washen, as white as a linen clout; but as the traitor she cam near, his wounds they gushed out! "it's surely been my bouer-woman, o ill may her betide; i ne'er wad slain him young redin, and thrown him in the clyde." then they've made a big bane-fire, the bouer-woman to brin; it tuke na on her cheek, her cheek, it tuke na on her chin, but it tuke on the cruel hands that put young redin in. then they're tane out the bouer-woman, and put the ladie in: it tuke na on her cheek, her cheek, it tuke na on her chin, but it tuke on the fause, fause arms, that young redin lay in. lord william. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . this ballad was communicated to sir walter scott by mr. james hogg, accompanied with the following note:-- "i am fully convinced of the antiquity of this song; for, although much of the language seems somewhat modernized, this must be attributed to its currency, being much liked, and very much sung in this neighbourhood. i can trace it back several generations, but cannot hear of its ever having been in print. i have never heard it with any considerable variation, save that one reciter called the dwelling of the feigned sweet-heart, _castleswa_." lord william was the bravest knight that dwalt in fair scotland, and though renown'd in france and spain, fell by a ladie's hand. as she was walking maid alone, down by yon shady wood, she heard a smit o' bridle reins, she wish'd might be for good. "come to my arms, my dear willie, you're welcome hame to me; to best o' cheer and charcoal red,[l ] and candle burning free."-- "i winna light, i darena light, nor come to your arms at a'; a fairer maid than ten o' you i'll meet at castle-law."-- "a fairer maid than me, willie! a fairer maid than me! a fairer maid than ten o' me your eyes did never see."-- he louted ower his saddle lap, to kiss her ere they part, and wi' a little keen bodkin, she pierced him to the heart. "ride on, ride on, lord william now, as fast as ye can dree! your bonny lass at castle-law will weary you to see."-- out up then spake a bonny bird, sat high upon a tree,-- "how could you kill that noble lord? he came to marry thee."-- "come down, come down, my bonny bird, and eat bread aff my hand! your cage shall be of wiry goud, whar now it's but the wand."-- "keep ye your cage o' goud, lady, and i will keep my tree; as ye hae done to lord william, sae wad ye do to me."-- she set her foot on her door step, a bonny marble stane, and carried him to her chamber, o'er him to make her mane. and she has kept that good lord's corpse three quarters of a year, until that word began to spread; then she began to fear. then she cried on her waiting maid, aye ready at her ca'; "there is a knight into my bower, 'tis time he were awa."-- the ane has ta'en him by the head, the ither by the feet, and thrown him in the wan water, that ran baith wide and deep. "look back, look back, now, lady fair, on him that lo'ed ye weel! a better man than that blue corpse ne'er drew a sword of steel."-- . _charcoal red._ this circumstance marks the antiquity of the poem. while wood was plenty in scotland, charcoal was the usual fuel in the chambers of the wealthy. scott. prince robert was first published in the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. , and was obtained from the recitation of miss christian rutherford. another copy, also from recitation, is subjoined. prince robert has wedded a gay ladye, he has wedded her with a ring: prince robert has wedded a gay ladye, but he darna bring her hame. "your blessing, your blessing, my mother dear! your blessing now grant to me!"-- "instead of a blessing ye sall have my curse, and you'll get nae blessing frae me."-- she has call'd upon her waiting-maid, to fill a glass of wine; she has call'd upon her fause steward, to put rank poison in. she has put it to her roudes lip, and to her roudes chin; she has put it to her fause, fause mouth, but the never a drap gaed in. he has put it to his bonny mouth, and to his bonny chin, he's put it to his cherry lip, and sae fast the rank poison ran in. "o ye hae poison'd your ae son, mother, your ae son and your heir; o ye hae poison'd your ae son, mother, and sons you'll never hae mair. "o where will i get a little boy, that will win hose and shoon, to rin sae fast to darlinton, and bid fair eleanor come?"-- then up and spake a little boy, that wad win hose and shoon,-- "o i'll away to darlinton, and bid fair eleanor come."-- o he has run to darlinton, and tirled at the pin; and wha was sae ready as eleanor's sell to let the bonny boy in. "your gude-mother has made ye a rare dinour, she's made it baith gude and fine; your gude-mother has made ye a gay dinour, and ye maun cum till her and dine."-- it's twenty lang miles to sillertoun town, the langest that ever were gane: but the steed it was wight, and the ladye was light, and she cam linkin' in. but when she came to sillertoun town, and into sillertoun ha', the torches were burning, the ladies were mourning, and they were weeping a'. "o where is now my wedded lord, and where now can he be? o where is now my wedded lord? for him i canna see."-- "your wedded lord is dead," she says, "and just gane to be laid in the clay: your wedded lord is dead," she says, "and just gane to be buried the day. "ye'se get nane o' his gowd, ye'se get nane o' his gear, ye'se get nae thing frae me; ye'se no get an inch o' his gude braid land, though your heart suld burst in three."-- "i want nane o' his gowd, i want nane o' his gear, i want nae land frae thee: but i'll hae the rings that's on his finger, for them he did promise to me."-- "ye'se no get the rings that's on his finger, ye'se no get them frae me; ye'se no get the rings that's on his finger, an your heart suld burst in three."-- she's turn'd her back unto the wa', and her face unto a rock; and there, before the mother's face, her very heart it broke. the tane was buried in marie's kirk, the tother in marie's quair; and out o' the tane there sprang a birk, and out o' the tother a brier. and thae twa met, and thae twa plat, the birk but and the brier; and by that ye may very weel ken they were twa lovers dear. earl robert. "given," says motherwell, "from the recitation of an old woman, a native of bonhill, in dumbartonshire; and it is one of the earliest songs she remembers of having heard chanted on the classic banks of the water of leaven."--_minstrelsy_, p. . another copy is noted by the same editor as containing the following stanzas:-- lord robert and mary florence, they wer twa children ying; they were scarce seven years of age till luve began to spring. lord robert loved mary florence, and she lov'd him above power; but he durst not for his cruel mither bring her intill his bower. * * * * * it's fifty miles to sittingen's rocks, as ever was ridden or gane; and earl robert has wedded a wife, but he dare na bring her hame. _and earl robert has wedded a wife_, &c. his mother, she call'd to her waiting-maid: "o bring me a pint of wine, for i dinna weel ken what hour of this day that my son earl robert shall dine." she's put it to her fause, fause cheek, but an' her fause, fause chin; she's put it to her fause, fause lips; but never a drap went in. but he's put it to his bonny cheek, aye and his bonny chin; he's put it to his red rosy lips, and the poison went merrily down. "o where will i get a bonny boy, that will win hose and shoon,-- that will gang quickly to sittingen's rocks, and bid my lady come?" it's out then speaks a bonny boy, to earl robert was something akin: "many a time have i run thy errand, but this day with the tears i'll rin." o when he cam to sittingen's rocks, to the middle of a' the ha', there were bells a ringing, and music playing, and ladies dancing a'. "what news, what news, my bonny boy, what news have ye to me? is earl robert in very good health, and the ladies of your countrie?" "o earl robert's in very good health, and as weel as a man can be; but his mother this night has a drink to be druken, and at it you must be." she called to her waiting-maid, to bring her a riding weed; and she called to her stable groom, to saddle her milk-white steed. but when she came to earl robert's bouir, to the middle of a' the ha', there were bells a ringing and sheets down hinging, and ladies murning a'. "i've come for none of his gold," she said, "nor none of his white monie; excepting a ring of his smallest finger, if that you will grant me." "thou'll no get none of his gold," she said. "nor none of his white monie; thou'll no get a ring of his smallest finger, tho' thy heart should break in three." she set her foot unto a stone, her back unto a tree; she set her foot unto a stone, and her heart did break in three! the one was buried in mary's kirk, the other in mary's quier; out of the one there grew a bush, from the other a bonnie brier. and thir twa grew, and thir twa threw, till thir twa craps drew near; so all the world may plainly see that they lov'd each other dear. the weary coble o' cargill. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . "this local ballad, which commemorates some real event, is given from the recitation of an old woman, residing in the neighbourhood of cambus michael, perthshire. it possesses the elements of good poetry, and, had it fallen into the hands of those who make no scruple of interpolating and corrupting the text of oral song, it might have been made, with little trouble, a very interesting and pathetic composition. "kercock and balathy are two small villages on the banks of the tay; the latter is nearly opposite stobhall. according to tradition, the ill-fated hero of the ballad had a leman in each of these places; and it was on the occasion of his paying a visit to his kercock love, that the jealous dame in balathy toun, from a revengeful feeling, scuttled the boat in which he was to recross the tay to stobhall." motherwell. david drummond's destinie, gude man o' appearance o' cargill; i wat his blude rins in the flude, sae sair against his parents' will. she was the lass o' balathy toun, and he the butler o' stobhall; and mony a time she wauked late, to bore the coble o' cargill. his bed was made in kercock ha', of gude clean sheets and of the hay; he wudna rest ae nicht therein, but on the prude waters he wud gae. his bed was made in balathy toun, of the clean sheets and of the strae; but i wat it was far better made, into the bottom o' bonnie tay. she bored the coble in seven pairts, i wat her heart might hae been sae sair; for there she got the bonnie lad lost, wi' the curly locks and the yellow hair. he put his foot into the boat, he little thocht o' ony ill: but before that he was mid waters, the weary coble began to fill. "woe be to the lass o' balathy toun, i wat an ill death may she die; for she bored the coble in seven pairts, and let the waters perish me! "o help, o help i can get nane, nae help o' man can to me come!" this was about his dying words, when he was choaked up to the chin. "gae tell my father and my mother, it was naebody did me this ill; i was a-going my ain errands, lost at the coble o' bonnie cargill." she bored the boat in seven pairts, i wat she bored it wi' gude will; and there they got the bonnie lad's corpse, in the kirk-shot o' bonnie cargill. o a' the keys o' bonnie stobha', i wat they at his belt did hing; but a' the keys of bonnie stobha', they now ly low into the stream. a braver page into his age ne'er set a foot upon the plain; his father to his mother said, "o sae sune as we've wanted him! "i wat they had mair luve than this, when they were young and at the scule; but for his sake she wauked late, and bored the coble o' bonnie cargill. "there's ne'er a clean sark gae on my back, nor yet a kame gae in my hair; there's neither coal nor candle licht shall shine in my bouer for ever mair. "at kirk nor market i'se ne'er be at, nor yet a blythe blink in my ee; there's ne'er a ane shall say to anither, that's the lassie gar'd the young man die." between the yetts o' bonnie stobha', and the kirkstyle o' bonnie cargill, there is mony a man and mother's son that was at my luve's burial. old robin of portingale. percy's _reliques of english poetry_, iii. . "from an ancient copy in the editor's folio ms., which was judged to require considerable corrections. "in the former edition the hero of this piece had been called sir robin, but that title not being in the ms. is now omitted. "giles, steward to a rich old merchant trading to portugal, is qualified with the title of _sir_, not as being a knight, but rather, i conceive, as having received an inferior order of priesthood." percy. let never again soe old a man marrye soe yonge a wife, as did old robin of portingale; who may rue all the dayes of his life. for the mayors daughter of lin, god wott he chose her to his wife, and thought with her to have lived in love, but they fell to hate and strife. they scarce were in their wed-bed laid, and scarce was hee asleepe, but upp shee rose, and forth shee goes, to the steward, and gan to weepe. "sleepe you, wake you, faire sir gyles? or be you not within? sleepe you, wake you, faire sir gyles, arise and let me inn." "o i am waking, sweete," he said, "sweete ladye, what is your will?" "i have onbethought me of a wile[l ] how my wed lord weel spill. "twenty-four good knights," shee sayes, "that dwell about this towne, even twenty-four of my next cozens will helpe to dinge him downe." all that beheard his litle footepage, as he watered his masters steed; and for his masters sad perille his verry heart did bleed. he mourned, sighed and wept full sore; i sweare by the holy roode, the teares he for his master wept were blent water and bloude.[l ] and that beheard his deare master as he stood at his garden pale: sayes, "ever alacke, my litle foot-page, what causes thee to wail? "hath any one done to thee wronge, any of thy fellowes here? or is any of thy good friends dead, that thou shedst manye a teare? "or, if it be my head bookes-man, aggrieved he shal bee: for no man here within my howse shall doe wrong unto thee." "o it is not your head bookes-man, nor none of his degree: but, on to-morrow ere it be noone[l ] all deemed to die are yee: "and of that bethank your head steward, and thank your gay ladye." "if this be true, my litle foot-page, the heyre of my land thoust bee:" "if it be not true, my dear master, no good death let me die:" "if it be not true, thou litle foot-page, a dead corse shalt thou bee. "o call now downe my faire ladye, o call her downe to mee; and tell my ladye gay how sicke, and like to die i bee." downe then came his ladye faire, all clad in purple and pall: the rings that were on her fingers, cast light thorrow the hall. "what is your will, my own wed-lord? "what is your will with mee?" "o see, my ladye deere, how sicke, and like to die i bee." "and thou be sicke, my own wed-lord, soe sore it grieveth me: but my five maydens and myselfe will make the bedde for thee. "and at the waking of your first sleepe, we will a hott drinke make; and at the waking of your next sleepe,[l ] your sorrowes we will slake." he put a silk cote on his backe, and mail of manye a fold; and hee putt a steele cap on his head, was gilt with good red gold. he layd a bright browne sword by his side, and another att his feete: [and twentye good knights he placed at hand, to watch him in his sleepe.] and about the middle time of the night, came twentye-four traitours inn; sir giles he was the foremost man, the leader of that ginn. old robin with his bright browne sword, sir gyles head soon did winn; and scant of all those twenty-four went out one quick agenn. none save only a litle foot-page, crept forth at a window of stone; and he had two armes when he came in, and he went back with one. upp then came that ladie gaye, with torches burning bright; she thought to have brought sir gyles a drinke, butt she found her owne wedd knight. the first thinge that she stumbled on it was sir gyles his foote; sayes, "ever alacke, and woe is mee! here lyes my sweete hart-roote." the next thinge that she stumbled on it was sir gyles his heade; sayes, "ever alacke, and woe is me! heere lyes my true love deade." hee cutt the pappes beside her brest, and didd her body spille; he cutt the eares beside her heade, and bade her love her fille. he called up then up his litle foot-page, and made him there his heyre; and sayd, "henceforth my worldlye goodes, and countrie i forsweare." he shope the crosse on his right shoulder,[l ] of the white clothe and the redde,[l ] and went him into the holy land, wheras christ was quicke and dead. , unbethought. ms. , blend. , or to-morrow. ms. , first. . every person who went on a croisade to the holy land usually wore a cross on his upper garment, on the right shoulder, as a badge of his profession. different nations were distinguished by crosses of different colors: the english wore white, the french red, &c. this circumstance seems to be confounded in the ballad. percy. ms. , fleshe. fause foodrage. first published in _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "this ballad has been popular in many parts of scotland. it is chiefly given from mrs. brown of falkland's mss. the expression, "the boy stared wild like a gray goss-hawk," _v._ , strongly resembles that in _hardyknute_, "norse e'en like gray goss-hawk stared wild;" a circumstance which led the editor to make the strictest inquiry into the authenticity of the song. but every doubt was removed by the evidence of a lady of high rank, who not only recollected the ballad, as having amused her infancy, but could repeat many of the verses, particularly those beautiful stanzas from the th to the th. the editor is, therefore, compelled to believe, that the author of _hardyknute_ copied the old ballad, if the coincidence be not altogether accidental." scott. king easter has courted her for her lands, king wester for her fee, king honour for her comely face, and for her fair bodie. they had not been four months married, as i have heard them tell, until the nobles of the land against them did rebel. and they cast kevils them amang, and kevils them between; and they cast kevils them amang, wha suld gae kill the king. o some said yea, and some said nay, their words did not agree; till up and got him, fause foodrage, and swore it suld be he. when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' men bound to bed, king honour and his gay ladye in a high chamber were laid. then up and raise him, fause foodrage, when a' were fast asleep, and slew the porter in his lodge, that watch and ward did keep. o four and twenty silver keys hang hie upon a pin; and aye as ae door he did unlock, he has fasten'd it him behind. then up and raise him, king honour, says--"what means a' this din? or what's the matter, fause foodrage, or wha has loot you in?"-- "o ye my errand weel sall learn, before that i depart."-- then drew a knife, baith lang and sharp, and pierced him to the heart. then up and got the queen hersell, and fell low down on her knee, "o spare my life, now, fause foodrage! for i never injured thee. "o spare my life, now, fause foodrage! until i lighter be! and see gin it be lad or lass, king honour has left me wi'."-- "o gin it be a lass," he says, "weel nursed it sall be; but gin it be a lad bairn, he sall be hanged hie. "i winna spare for his tender age, nor yet for his hie, hie kin; but soon as e'er he born is, he sall mount the gallows pin."-- o four-and-twenty valiant knights were set the queen to guard; and four stood aye at her bour door, to keep both watch and ward. but when the time drew near an end, that she suld lighter be, she cast about to find a wile, to set her body free. o she has birled these merry young men with the ale but and the wine, until they were a' deadly drunk as any wild-wood swine. "o narrow, narrow is this window, and big, big am i grown!"-- yet through the might of our ladye, out at it she is gone. she wander'd up, she wander'd down, she wander'd out and in; and, at last, into the very swine's stythe, the queen brought forth a son. then they cast kevils them amang, which suld gae seek the queen; and the kevil fell upon wise william, and he sent his wife for him. o when she saw wise william's wife, the queen fell on her knee: "win up, win up, madam!" she says: "what needs this courtesie?"-- "o out o' this i winna rise, till a boon ye grant to me; to change your lass for this lad bairn, king honour left me wi'. "and ye maun learn my gay goss-hawk right weel to breast a steed; and i sall learn your turtle dow as weel to write and read. "and ye maun learn my gay goss-hawk to wield both bow and brand; and i sall learn your turtle dow to lay gowd wi' her hand. "at kirk and market when we meet, we'll dare make nae avowe, but--'dame, how does my gay goss-hawk?' 'madame, how does my dow?'" when days were gane, and years came on, wise william he thought lang; and he has ta'en king honour's son a-hunting for to gang. it sae fell out, at this hunting, upon a simmer's day, that they came by a bonny castell, stood on a sunny brae. "o dinna ye see that bonny castell, wi' halls and towers sae fair? gin ilka man had back his ain, of it you suld be heir." "how i suld be heir of that castell, in sooth, i canna see; for it belangs to fause foodrage, and he is na kin to me."-- "o gin ye suld kill him, fause foodrage, you would do but what was right; for i wot he kill'd your father dear, or ever ye saw the light. "and gin ye suld kill him, fause foodrage, there is no man durst you blame; for he keeps your mother a prisoner, and she darna take ye hame."-- the boy stared wild like a gray goss-hawk, says,--"what may a' this mean?" "my boy, ye are king honour's son, and your mother's our lawful queen." "o gin i be king honour's son, by our ladye i swear, this night i will that traitor slay, and relieve my mother dear!"-- he has set his bent bow to his breast, and leaped the castell wa'; and soon he has seized on fause foodrage, wha loud for help 'gan ca'. "o haud your tongue, now, fause foodrage, frae me ye shanna flee;"-- syne pierced him through the fause, fause heart, and set his mother free. and he has rewarded wise william wi' the best half o' his land; and sae has he the turtle dow wi' the truth o' his right hand. bonnie annie. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . "there is a prevalent belief among seafaring people, that if a person who has committed any heinous crime be on ship-board, the vessel, as if conscious of its guilty burden, becomes unmanageable, and will not sail till the offender be removed: to discover whom, they usually resort to the trial of those on board, by casting lots; and the individual upon whom the lot falls, is declared the criminal, it being believed that divine providence interposes in this manner to point out the guilty person."--kinloch. motherwell is inclined to think this an irish ballad, though popular in scotland. with bonnie annie may be compared _jon rimaardsöns skriftemaal_, _danske viser_, ii. ; or, _herr peders sjöresa, svenska folk-visor_, ii. , arwiddson, ii. (translated in _literature and romance of northern europe_, ). there was a rich lord, and he lived in forfar, he had a fair lady, and one only dochter. o she was fair, o dear! she was bonnie, a ship's captain courted her to be his honey. there cam a ship's captain out owre the sea sailing, he courted this young thing till he got her wi' bairn:-- "ye'll steal your father's gowd, and your mother's money, and i'll mak ye a lady in ireland bonnie." she's stown her father's gowd and her mother's money, but she was never a lady in ireland bonnie. * * * * "there's fey fowk in our ship, she winna sail for me, there's fey fowk in our ship, she winna sail for me." they've casten black bullets twice six and forty, and ae the black bullet fell on bonnie annie. "ye'll tak me in your arms twa, lo, lift me cannie, throw me out owre board, your ain dear annie." he has tane her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her cannie, he has laid her on a bed of down, his ain dear annie. "what can a woman do, love, i'll do for ye;" "muckle can a woman do, ye canna do for me.-- lay about, steer about, lay our ship cannie, do all you can to save my dear annie." "i've laid about, steer'd about, laid about cannie, but all i can do, she winna sail for me. ye'll tak her in your arms twa, lo, lift her cannie, and throw her out owre board, your ain dear annie." he has tane her in his arms twa, lo, lifted her cannie, he has thrown her out owre board, his ain dear annie: as the ship sailed, bonnie annie she swam, and she was at ireland as soon as them. they made his love a coffin of the gowd sae yellow, and they buried her deep on the high banks of yarrow.[l ] . the last two lines are derived from motherwell, p. xcix. the text in kinloch is corrupt, and stands thus:-- he made his love a coffin off the goats of yerrow, and buried his bonnie love doun in a sea valley. william guiseman. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . "my name is william guiseman, in london i do dwell; i have committed murder, and that is known right well; i have committed murder, and that is known right well, and it's for mine offence i must die. "i lov'd a neighbour's dochter, and with her i did lie; i did dissemble with her myself to satisfy; i did dissemble with her myself to satisfy, and it's for mine offence i must die. "sae cunningly's i kept her, until the fields war toom; sae cunningly's i trysted her unto yon shade o' broom; and syne i took my wills o' her, and then i flang her doun, and it's for mine offence i must die. "sae cunningly's i killed her, who should have been my wife; sae cursedly's i killed her, and with my cursed knife; sae cursedly's i killed her, who should have been my wife, and it's for mine offence i must die. "six days she lay in murder, before that she was found; six days she lay in murder, upon the cursed ground; six days she lay in murder, before that she was found, and it's for mine offence i must die. "o all the neighbours round about, they said it had been i; i put my foot on gude shipboard, the county to defy; the ship she wadna sail again, but hoisted to and fro, and it's for mine offence i must die. "o up bespak the skipper-boy, i wat he spak too high; 'there's sinful men amongst us, the seas will not obey;' o up bespak the skipper-boy, i wat he spak too high, and it's for mine offence i must die. "o we cuist cavels us amang, the cavel fell on me; o we cuist cavels us amang, the cavel fell on me; o we cuist cavels us amang, the cavel fell on me, and it's for mine offence i must die. "i had a loving mother who of me took gret care; she wad hae gien the gold sae red, to have bought me from that snare; but the gold could not be granted, the gallows pays a share, and it's for mine offence i must die." the enchanted ring buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . annexed is a fragment published by jamieson, under the title of _bonny bee-ho'm_. in lauderdale i chanc'd to walk, and heard a lady's moan, lamenting for her dearest dear, and aye she cried, ohon! "sure never a maid that e'er drew breath had harder fate than me; i'd never a lad but one on earth, they forc'd him to the sea. "the ale shall ne'er be brewin o' malt, neither by sea nor land, that ever mair shall cross my hause, till my love comes to hand. a handsome lad wi' shoulders broad, gold yellow was his hair; none of our scottish youths on earth that with him could compare. she thought her love was gone to sea, and landed in bahome; but he was in a quiet chamber, hearing his lady's moan. "why make ye all this moan, lady? why make ye all this moan? for i'm deep sworn on a book, i must go to bahome. "traitors false for to subdue, o'er seas i'll make me boun', that have trepan'd our kind scotchmen, like dogs to ding them down." "weell, take this ring, this royal thing, whose virtue is unknown; as lang's this ring's your body on, your blood shall ne'er be drawn. "but if this ring shall fade or stain, or change to other hue, come never mair to fair scotland, if ye're a lover true." then this couple they did part with a sad heavy moan; the wind was fair, the ship was rare, they landed in bahome. but in that place they had not been a month but barely one, till he look'd on his gay gold ring,[l ] and riven was the stone. time after this was not expir'd a month but scarcely three, till black and ugly was the ring, and the stone was burst in three.[l ] "fight on, fight on, you merry men all, with you i'll fight no more; i will gang to some holy place, pray to the king of glore." then to the chapel he is gone, and knelt most piteouslie, for seven days and seven nights, till blood ran frae his knee. "ye'll take my jewels that's in bahome, and deal them liberallie, to young that cannot, and old that mannot, the blind that does not see. "give maist to women in child-bed laid, can neither fecht nor flee: i hope she's in the heavens high, that died for love of me." the knights they wrang their white fingers, the ladies tore their hair; the women that ne'er had children born, in swoon they down fell there. but in what way the knight expir'd, no tongue will e'er declare; so this doth end my mournful song, from me ye'll get nae mair. , they look'd. , and stone. bonny bee-ho'm. jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. , from mrs. brown's ms., the interpolations of the editor being omitted. by arthur's dale as late i went, i heard a heavy moan; i heard a lady lamenting sair. and ay she cried "ohon!" "ohon, alas! what shall i do, tormented night and day? i never loved a love but ane, and now he's gone away. "but i will do for my true love what ladies would think sair; for seven years shall come and gae, ere a kaime gae in my hair. "there shall neither a shoe gae on my foot, nor a kaime gae in my hair, nor ever a coal or candle light shine in my bower nae mair." she thought her love had been on sea, fast sailing to bee-ho'm; but he was still in a quiet chamber, hearing his lady's moan. "be hush'd, be hush'd, my lady dear, i pray thee moan not so; for i am deep sworn on a book to bee-ho'm for to go." she's gien him a chain o' the beaten goud, and a ring with a ruby stone: "as lang as this chain your body binds, your blood can never be drawn. "but gin this ring should fade or fail, or the stone should change its hue, be sure your love is dead and gone, or she has proved untrue." * * * * * he had not been at bonny bee-ho'm a twelvemonth and a day, till looking on his gay gold ring, the stone grew dark and gray. "o ye tak my riches to bee-ho'm, and deal them presentlie, to the young that canna, the old that manna, the blind that downa see." now death has come intill his bower, and split his heart in twain: sae their twa sauls flew up to heaven, and there shall ever remain. the three ravens. from ritson's _ancient english songs_, ii. . it is there reprinted from ravenscroft's _melismata_, . another copy follows, taken from scott's _minstrelsy_. motherwell has recast the ballad in modern style, p. of his collection. there were three ravens sat on a tree, _downe, a downe, hay downe, hay downe_, there were three ravens sat on a tree, _with a downe_, there were three ravens sat on a tree, they were as blacke as they might be, _with a downe, derrie, derrie, derrie, downe, downe_. the one of them said to his mate, "where shall we our breakefast take?"-- "downe in yonder greene field, there lies a knight slain under his shield. "his hounds they lie downe at his feete, so well they their master keepe. "his haukes they flie so eagerly, there's no fowle dare him com nie." downe there comes a fallow doe, as great with yong as she might goe. she lift up his bloudy hed, and kist his wounds that were so red. she got him up upon her backe, and carried him to earthen lake. she buried him before the prime, she was dead herselfe ere even-song time. god send every gentleman, such haukes, such houndes, and such a leman. the twa corbies. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. . it was communicated to scott by mr. sharpe, as written down, from tradition, by a lady. as i was walking all alane, i heard twa corbies making a mane; the tane unto the t'other say, "where sall we gang and dine to-day?"-- "in behint yon auld fail dyke, i wot there lies a new-slain knight; and naebody kens that he lies there, but his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "his hound is to the hunting gane, his hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame, his lady's ta'en another mate, so we may mak our dinner sweet. "ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, and i'll pick out his bonny blue een: wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair we'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "mony a one for him makes mane, but nane sall ken where he is gane: o'er his white banes, when they are bare, the wind sall blaw for evermair."-- the dowie dens of yarrow. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "this ballad, which is a very great favourite among the inhabitants of ettrick forest, is universally believed to be founded in fact. i found it easy to collect a variety of copies; but very difficult indeed to select from them such a collated edition as might, in any degree, suit the taste of 'these more light and giddy-paced times.' "tradition places the event, recorded in the song, very early; and it is probable that the ballad was composed soon afterwards, although the language has been gradually modernized, in the course of its transmission to us, through the inaccurate channel of oral tradition. the bard does not relate particulars, but barely the striking outlines of a fact, apparently so well known when he wrote, as to render minute detail as unnecessary as it is always tedious and unpoetical. "the hero of the ballad was a knight of great bravery, called scott, who is said to have resided at kirkhope, or oakwood castle, and is, in tradition, termed the baron of oakwood. the estate of kirkhope belonged anciently to the scotts of harden: oakwood is still their property, and has been so from time immemorial. the editor was, therefore, led to suppose that the hero of the ballad might have been identified with john scott, sixth son of the laird of harden, murdered in ettrick forest by his kinsmen, the scotts of gilmanscleugh. (see notes to _jamie telfer_.) this appeared the more probable, as the common people always affirm that this young man was treacherously slain, and that, in evidence thereof, his body remained uncorrupted for many years; so that even the roses on his shoes seemed as fresh as when he was first laid in the family vault at hassendean. but from a passage in nisbet's heraldry, he now believes the ballad refers to a duel fought at deucharswyre, of which annan's treat is a part, betwixt john scott of tushielaw and his brother-in-law, walter scott, third son of robert of thirlestane, in which the latter was slain. "in ploughing annan's treat, a huge monumental stone, with an inscription, was discovered; but being rather scratched than engraved, and the lines being run through each other, it is only possible to read one or two latin words. it probably records the event of the combat. the person slain was the male ancestor of the present lord napier. "tradition affirms, that the hero of the song (be he who he may) was murdered by the brother, either of his wife or betrothed bride. the alleged cause of malice was the lady's father having proposed to endow her with half of his property, upon her marriage with a warrior of such renown. the name of the murderer is said to have been annan, and the place of combat is still called annan's treat. it is a low muir, on the banks of the yarrow, lying to the west of yarrow kirk. two tall unhewn masses of stone are erected, about eighty yards distant from each other; and the least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the passenger, that there lie 'the two lords, who were slain in single combat.' "it will be, with many readers, the greatest recommendation of these verses, that they are supposed to have suggested to mr. hamilton of bangour, the modern ballad, beginning, 'busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride.' "a fragment, apparently regarding the story of the following ballad, but in a different measure, occurs in mr. herd's ms., and runs thus:-- 'when i look east, my heart is sair, but when i look west, it's mair and mair; for then i see the braes o' yarrow, and there, for aye, i lost my marrow.'" we have added an uncollated copy from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_. another is furnished by motherwell, _minstrelsy_, p. . some of scott's verses are also found in herd's fragment, (_scottish songs_, i. ,) and buchan's _haughs o' yarrow_, ii. . _the dowy den_, in evans's collection, iii. , is the _caput mortuum_ of this spirited ballad. late at e'en, drinking the wine, and ere they paid the lawing, they set a combat them between, to fight it in the dawing. "o stay at hame, my noble lord, o stay at hame, my marrow! my cruel brother will you betray on the dowie houms of yarrow."-- "o fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! o fare ye weel, my sarah! for i maun gae, though i ne'er return frae the dowie banks o' yarrow." she kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, as oft she had done before, o; she belted him with his noble brand, and he's away to yarrow. as he gaed up the tennies bank,[l ] i wot he gaed wi' sorrow, till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men, on the dowie houms of yarrow. "o come ye here to part your land, the bonnie forest thorough? or come ye here to wield your brand, on the dowie houms of yarrow?"-- "i come not here to part my land, and neither to beg nor borrow; i come to wield my noble brand, on the bonnie banks of yarrow. "if i see all, ye're nine to ane; and that's an unequal marrow; yet will i fight, while lasts my brand, on the bonnie banks of yarrow." four has he hurt, and five has slain, on the bloody braes of yarrow, till that stubborn knight came him behind, and ran his body thorough. "gae hame, gae hame, good-brother john, and tell your sister sarah, to come and lift her leafu' lord; he's sleepin sound on yarrow."-- "yestreen i dream'd a dolefu' dream; i fear there will be sorrow! i dream'd i pu'd the heather green, wi' my true love, on yarrow. "o gentle wind, that bloweth south, from where my love repaireth, convey a kiss from his dear mouth, and tell me how he fareth! "but in the glen strive armed men; they've wrought me dole and sorrow; they've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain-- he bleeding lies on yarrow." as she sped down yon high high hill, she gaed wi' dole and sorrow, and in the den spied ten slain men, on the dowie banks of yarrow. she kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, she searched his wounds all thorough, she kiss'd them, till her lips grew red, on the dowie houms of yarrow. "now haud your tongue, my daughter dear! for a' this breeds but sorrow; i'll wed ye to a better lord, than him ye lost on yarrow."-- "o haud your tongue, my father dear! ye mind me but of sorrow; a fairer rose did never bloom than now lies cropp'd on yarrow." . _the tennies_ is the name of a farm of the duke of buccleuch's, a little below yarrow kirk. the braes o' yarrow. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . repeated in the xviith volume of the percy society publications. ten lords sat drinking at the wine, intill a morning early; there fell a combat them among, it must be fought,--nae parly. "o stay at hame, my ain gude lord, o stay, my ain dear marrow." "sweetest min', i will be thine, and dine wi' you to-morrow." she's kiss'd his lips, and comb'd his hair, as she had done before, o; gied him a brand down by his side, and he is on to yarrow. as he gaed ower yon dowie knowe, as aft he'd dune before, o; nine armed men lay in a den, upo' the braes o' yarrow. "o came ye here to hunt or hawk, as ye hae dune before, o? or came ye here to wiel' your brand, upo' the braes o' yarrow?" "i came na here to hunt nor hawk, as i hae dune before, o; but i came here to wiel' my brand, upon the braes o' yarrow." four he hurt, and five he slew, till down it fell himsell, o; there stood a fause lord him behin', who thrust him thro' body and mell, o. "gae hame, gae hame, my brother john, and tell your sister sorrow; your mother to come take up her son, aff o' the braes o' yarrow." as he gaed ower yon high, high hill, as he had dune before, o; there he met his sister dear, came rinnin fast to yarrow. "i dreamt a dream last night," she says, "i wish it binna sorrow; i dreamt i was pu'ing the heather green,[l ] upo' the braes o' yarrow." "i'll read your dream, sister," he says, "i'll read it into sorrow; ye're bidden gae take up your love, he's sleeping sound on yarrow." she's torn the ribbons frae her head, they were baith thick and narrow; she's kilted up her green claithing, and she's awa' to yarrow. she's taen him in her arms twa, and gien him kisses thorough, and wi' her tears she bath'd his wounds, upo' the braes o' yarrow. her father looking ower his castle wa', beheld his daughter's sorrow; "o had your tongue, daughter," he says, "and let be a' your sorrow, i'll wed you wi' a better lord, than he that died on yarrow." "o had your tongue, father," she says, "and let be till to-morrow; a better lord there cou'dna be than he that died on yarrow." she kiss'd his lips, and comb'd his hair, as she had dune before, o; then wi' a crack her heart did brack, upon the braes o' yarrow. . to dream of any thing green is regarded in scotland as unlucky. sir james the rose. pinkerton first published this piece in his _scottish tragic ballads_, p. . in a note, it is said to have been taken "from a modern edition in one sheet, mo. after the old copy." motherwell gives another version "as it occurs in early stall prints," (_minstrelsy_, p. ,) and suspects a few conjectural emendations in pinkerton's text. the passage from v. to v. is apparently defective, and has, probably, been tampered with; but pinkerton's copy is on the whole much better than motherwell's, or than whitelaw's, (_scottish ballads_, ,) which professes to be given chiefly from oral recitations. michael bruce's _sir james the rose_ will be found in another part of this collection. in caw's _museum_ (p. ) is a ballad in the worst possible taste, styled _elfrida and sir james of perth_, which seems to be a mere disfiguration of bruce's. o heard ye o' sir james the rose, the young heir o' buleighan? for he has kill'd a gallant squire, whase friends are out to tak him. now he has gane to the house o' mar, whar nane might seik to find him; to see his dear he did repair, weining she wold befreind him. "whar are ye gaing sir james," she said, "o whar awa are ye riding?" "i maun be bound to a foreign land, and now i'm under hiding. "whar sall i gae, whar sall i rin, whar sall i rin to lay me? for i ha kill'd a gallant squire, and his friends seik to slay me." "o gae ye down to yon laigh house, i sall pay there your lawing; and as i am your leman trew, i'll meet ye at the dawing." he turned him richt and round about, and rowd him in his brechan: and laid him doun to tak a sleip, in the lawlands o' buleighan. he was nae weil gane out o' sicht, nor was he past milstrethen, whan four and twenty belted knichts cam riding owr the leathen. "o ha ye seen sir james the rose, the young heir o' buleighan? for he has kill'd a gallant squire, and we are sent to tak him." "yea, i ha seen sir james," she said, "he past by here on monday; gin the steed be swift that he rides on, he's past the hichts of lundie." but as wi speid they rade awa, she leudly cryd behind them; "gin ye'll gie me a worthy meid, i'll tell ye whar to find him." "o tell fair maid, and on our band, ye'se get his purse and brechan." "he's in the bank aboon the mill, in the lawlands o' buleighan." than out and spak sir john the graham, who had the charge a keiping, "it's neer be said, my stalwart feres, we kill'd him whan a sleiping." they seized his braid sword and his targe, and closely him surrounded: "o pardon! mercy! gentlemen," he then fou loudly sounded. "sic as ye gae, sic ye sall hae, nae grace we shaw to thee can." "donald my man, wait till i fa, and ye sall hae my brechan; ye'll get my purse thouch fou o' gowd to tak me to loch lagan." syne they take out his bleiding heart, and set it on a speir; then tuke it to the house o' mar, and shawd it to his deir. "we cold nae gie sir james's purse, we cold nae gie his brechan; but ye sall ha his bleeding heart, bot and his bleeding tartan." "sir james the rose, o for thy sake my heart is now a breaking, curs'd be the day i wrocht thy wae, thou brave heir of buleighan!" then up she raise, and furth she gaes, and, in that hour o' tein, she wanderd to the dowie glen, and nevir mair was sein. grÆme and bewick. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . a single improved reading is adopted from a newcastle chap-book. "given, in the first edition, from the recitation of a gentleman, who professed to have forgotten some verses. these have, in the present edition, been partly restored, from a copy obtained by the recitation of an ostler in carlisle, which has also furnished some slight alterations." "the ballad is remarkable, as containing, probably, the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms, which was held so sacred in the days of chivalry, and whose origin may be traced up to the scythian ancestors of odin." scott. gude lord græme is to carlisle gane, sir robert bewick there met he, and arm in arm to the wine they did go, and they drank till they were baith merrie. gude lord græme has ta'en up the cup, "sir robert bewick, and here's to thee! and here's to our twae sons at hame! for they like us best in our ain countrie."-- "o were your son a lad like mine, and learn'd some books that he could read, they might hae been twae brethren bauld, and they might hae bragged the border side. "but your son's a lad, and he is but bad, and billie to my son he canna be;" * * * * "i sent him to the schools, and he wadna learn;[l ] i bought him books, and he wadna read;[l ] but my blessing shall he never earn, till i see how his arm can defend his head."-- gude lord græme has a reckoning call'd, a reckoning then called he; and he paid a crown, and it went roun', it was all for the gude wine and free.[l ] and he has to the stable gane, where there stude thirty steeds and three; he's ta'en his ain horse amang them a', and hame he rade sae manfullie. "welcome, my auld father!" said christie græme, "but where sae lang frae hame were ye?"-- "it's i hae been at carlisle town, and a baffled man by thee i be. "i hae been at carlisle town, where sir robert bewick, he met me; he says ye're a lad, and ye are but bad, and billie to his son ye canna be. "i sent ye to the schools, and ye wadna learn; i bought ye books, and ye wadna read; therefore my blessing ye shall never earn, till i see with bewick thou save thy head." "now, god forbid, my auld father, that ever sic a thing suld be! billie bewick was my master, and i was his scholar,[l ] and aye sae weel as he learned me." "o hald thy tongue, thou limmer loon, and of thy talking let me be! if thou does na end me this quarrel soon, there is my glove, i'll fight wi' thee." then christie græme he stooped low unto the ground, you shall understand;-- "o father, put on your glove again, the wind has blown it from your hand?" "what's that thou says, thou limmer loon? how dares thou stand to speak to me? if thou do not end this quarrel soon, there's my right hand thou shalt fight with me."-- then christie græme's to his chamber gane, to consider weel what then should be; whether he should fight with his auld father, or with his billie bewick, he. "if i suld kill my billie dear, god's blessing i shall never win; but if i strike at my auld father, i think 'twald be a mortal sin. "but if i kill my billie dear, it is god's will, so let it be; but i make a vow, ere i gang frae hame, that i shall be the next man's die."-- then he's put on's back a gude auld jack, and on his head a cap of steel, and sword and buckler by his side; o gin he did not become them weel! we'll leave off talking of christie græme, and talk of him again belive; and we will talk of bonny bewick, where he was teaching his scholars five. when he had taught them well to fence, and handle swords without any doubt, he took his sword under his arm, and he walk'd his father's close about. he look'd atween him and the sun, and a' to see what there might be, till he spied a man in armour bright, was riding that way most hastilie. "o wha is yon, that came this way, sae hastilie that hither came? i think it be my brother dear, i think it be young christie græme. "ye're welcome here, my billie dear, and thrice ye're welcome unto me!"-- "but i'm wae to say, i've seen the day, when i am come to fight wi' thee. "my father's gane to carlisle town, wi' your father bewick there met he: he says i'm a lad, and i am but bad, and a baffled man i trow i be. "he sent me to schools, and i wadna learn; he gae me books, and i wadna read; sae my father's blessing i'll never earn, till he see how my arm can guard my head." "o god forbid, my billie dear, that ever such a thing suld be! we'll take three men on either side, and see if we can our fathers agree." "o hald thy tongue, now, billie bewick, and of thy talking let me be! but if thou'rt a man, as i'm sure thou art, come o'er the dyke, and fight wi' me." "but i hae nae harness, billie, on my back,[l ] as weel i see there is on thine."-- "but as little harness as is on thy back, as little, billie, shall be on mine."-- then he's thrown aff his coat o' mail, his cap of steel away flung he; he stuck his spear into the ground, and he tied his horse unto a tree. then bewick has thrown aff his cloak, and's psalter-book frae's hand flung he; he laid his hand upon the dyke, and ower he lap most manfullie. o they hae fought for twae lang hours; when twae lang hours were come and gane, the sweat drapp'd fast frae aff them baith, but a drap of blude could not be seen. till græme gae bewick an ackward stroke, ane ackward stroke strucken sickerlie; he has hit him under the left breast, and dead-wounded to the ground fell he. "rise up, rise up, now, billie dear, arise and speak three words to me! whether thou's gotten thy deadly wound, or if god and good leeching may succour thee?" "o horse, o horse, now, billie græme, and get thee far from hence with speed; and get thee out of this country, that none may know who has done the deed."-- "o i have slain thee, billie bewick, if this be true thou tellest to me; but i made a vow, ere i came frae hame, that aye the next man i wad be." he has pitch'd his sword in a moodie-hill, and he has leap'd twenty lang feet and three, and on his ain sword's point he lap, and dead upon the ground fell he. 'twas then came up sir robert bewick, and his brave son alive saw he; "rise up, rise up, my son," he said, "for i think ye hae gotten the victorie." "o hald your tongue, my father dear, of your prideful talking let me be! ye might hae drunken your wine in peace, and let me and my billie be. "gae dig a grave, baith wide and deep, and a grave to hald baith him and me; but lay christie græme on the sunny side, for i'm sure he wan the victorie." "alack! a wae!" auld bewick cried, "alack! was i not much to blame? i'm sure i've lost the liveliest lad that e'er was born unto my name." "alack! a wae!" quo' gude lord græme, "i'm sure i hae lost the deeper lack! i durst hae ridden the border through, had christie græme been at my back. "had i been led through liddesdale, and thirty horsemen guarding me, and christie græme been at my back, sae soon as he had set me free! "i've lost my hopes, i've lost my joy, i've lost the key but and the lock; i durst hae ridden the world round, had christie græme been at my back." , scott, ye sent; , ye bought. . newcastle c. b., and hay. , . shall i venture my body in field to fight with a man that's faith and troth to me? n. c. b. - . instead of this passage, the newcastle copy has the following stanzas:-- he flang his cloak from off his shoulders, his psalm-book from his pouch flang he, he clapped his hand upon the hedge, and o'er lap he right wantonly. when graham did see his bully come, the salt tears stood long in his ee; "now needs must i say thou art a man, that dare venture thy body to fight with me. "nay, i have a harness on my back; i know that thou hast none on thine; but as little as thou hast on thy back, as little shall there be on mine." he flang his jacket from off his back, his cap of steel from his head flang he; he's taken his spear into his hand, he's ty'd his horse unto a tree. the lament of the border widow. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . this fragment was obtained from recitation in ettrick forest, where it is said to refer to the execution of cockburne, of henderland, a freebooter, hanged by james v. over the gate of his own tower. there is another version in johnson's _museum_, (_oh ono chrio_, p. ,) which, dr. blacklock informed burns, was composed on the massacre of glencoe. but in fact, these verses seem to be, as motherwell has remarked, only a portion (expanded, indeed,) of _the famous flower of serving men_: see vol. iv. p. . there are some verbal differences between scott's copy and the one in chambers's _scottish songs_, i. . my love he built me a bonny bower, and clad it a' wi' lilye flour, a brawer bower ye ne'er did see, than my true love he built for me. there came a man, by middle day, he spied his sport, and went away; and brought the king that very night, who brake my bower, and slew my knight. he slew my knight, to me sae dear; he slew my knight, and poin'd his gear; my servants all for life did flee, and left me in extremitie. i sew'd his sheet, making my mane; i watch'd the corpse, myself alane; i watch'd his body, night and day; no living creature came that way. i tuk his body on my back, and whiles i gaed, and whiles i sat; i digg'd a grave, and laid him in, and happ'd him with the sod sae green. but think na ye my heart was sair, when i laid the moul' on his yellow hair; o think na ye my heart was wae, when i turn'd about, away to gae? nae living man i'll love again, since that my lovely knight is slain; wi' ae lock of his yellow hair i'll chain my heart for ever mair. young waters. first published on an octavo sheet, by lady jean home, about the middle of the last century, and from this copy reprinted in percy's _reliques_, (ii. .) buchan has a version (i. ) twenty-five stanzas longer than the present, which is given in our appendix. this ballad has been supposed to refer to the fate of the earl of murray, (see _post_, _the bonny earl of murray_.) the additional circumstances furnished by buchan's copy, however, have led chambers to suggest that the unfortunate hero was walter stuart, second son of the duke of albany. in support of his conjecture, he adduces "the name, which may be a corruption of walter; the mention of the heading (beheading) hill of stirling, which is known to have been the very scene of walter stuart's execution; the relationship which young waters claims with the king; and the sympathy expressed by the people, in the last verse, for the fate of the young knight, which exactly tallies with what is told us by the scottish historians, regarding the popular feeling expressed in favour of the numerous nobles and princes of his own blood, whom the king saw it necessary to sacrifice." we do not consider these coincidences sufficient to establish the historical character of the piece. about zule, quhen the wind blew cule, and the round tables began, a'! there is cum to our kings court mony a well-favourd man. the queen luikt owre the castle wa', beheld baith dale and down, and then she saw zoung waters cum riding to the town. his footmen they did rin before, his horsemen rade behind; ane mantel of the burning gowd did keip him frae the wind. gowden graith'd his horse before, and siller shod behind; the horse zoung waters rade upon was fleeter than the wind. but then spake a wylie lord, unto the queen said he: "o tell me quha's the fairest face rides in the company?" "i've sene lord, and i've sene laird, and knights of high degree, bot a fairer face than zoung waters mine eyne did never see." out then spaek the jealous king (and an angry man was he): "o if he had been twice as fair, zou micht have excepted me." "zou're neither laird nor lord," she says, "bot the king that wears the crown; there is not a knight in fair scotland, bot to thee maun bow down." for a' that she could do or say, appeasd he wade nae bee; bot for the words which she had said, zoung waters he maun dee. they hae taen zoung waters, and put fetters to his feet; they hae taen zoung waters, and thrown him in dungeon deep. "aft i have ridden thro' stirling town, in the wind bot and the weit; bot i neir rade thro' stirling town wi' fetters at my feet. "aft have i ridden thro' stirling town, in the wind bot and the rain; bot i neir rade thro' stirling town neir to return again." they hae taen to the heiding-hill his zoung son in his craddle; and they hae taen to the heiding-hill his horse bot and his saddle. they hae taen to the heiding-hill his lady fair to see; and for the words the queen had spoke zoung waters he did dee. bonnie george campbell. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . this, says motherwell, "is probably a lament for one of the adherents of the house of argyle, who fell in the battle of glenlivat, stricken on thursday, the third day of october, years." it is printed, somewhat differently, in smith's _scottish minstrel_, v. . finlay gives eight lines of this ballad in the preface to his first volume, p. xxxiii. hie upon hielands, and low upon tay, bonnie george campbell rade out on a day. saddled and bridled and gallant rade he; hame cam his gude horse, but never cam he! out cam his auld mither greeting fu' sair, and out cam his bonnie bride rivin' her hair. saddled and bridled and booted rade he; toom hame cam the saddle, but never cam he! "my meadow lies green, and my corn is unshorn; my barn is to big, and my babie's unborn." saddled and bridled and booted rade he; toom hame cam the saddle, but never cam he! lamkin. the following is believed to be a correct account of the various printed forms of this extremely popular ballad. in the second edition of herd's _scottish songs_ ( ) appeared a fragment of eighteen stanzas, called _lammikin_, embellished in a puerile style by some modern hand. jamieson published the story in a complete and authentic shape in his _popular ballads_, in . finlay's collection ( ) furnishes us with two more copies, the first of which (ii. ) is made up in part of herd's fragment, and the second (ii. ) taken from a ms. "written by an old lady." another was given, from recitation, in motherwell's _minstrelsy_, ( ,) with the more intelligible title of _lambert linkin_. an english fragment, called _long lonkin_, taken down from the recitation of an old woman, is said to have been inserted by miss landon, in the _drawing-room scrap-book_, for . this was republished in richardson's _borderer's table-book_, , vol. viii. , and the editor of that miscellany, who ought to have learned to be skeptical in such matters, urges the circumstantial character of local tradition as strong evidence that the real scene of the cruel history was in northumberland. lastly, we have to note a version resembling motherwell's, styled _bold rankin_, printed in _a new book of old ballads_, (p. ,) and in whitelaw's _book of scottish ballads_, (p. ,) and an imperfect ballad (_long lankyn_) in _notes and queries_, new series, ii. . we have printed jamieson's, motherwell's, the longer of finlay's versions, and the english fragment: the last two in the appendix. the following is from jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . "this piece was transmitted to the editor by mrs. brown." "o pay me now, lord wearie; come, pay me out o' hand." "i canna pay you, lamkin, unless i sell my land." "o gin ye winna pay me, i here sall mak a vow, before that ye come hame again, ye sall ha'e cause to rue." lord wearie got a bonny ship, to sail the saut sea faem; bade his lady weel the castle keep, ay till he should come hame. but the nourice was a fause limmer as e'er hung on a tree; she laid a plot wi' lamkin, whan her lord was o'er the sea. she laid a plot wi' lamkin, when the servants were awa'; loot him in at a little shot window, and brought him to the ha'. "o whare's a' the men o' this house, that ca' me lamkin?" "they're at the barn well thrashing, 'twill be lang ere they come in." "and whare's the women o' this house, that ca' me lamkin?" "they're at the far well washing; 'twill be lang ere they come in." "and whare's the bairns o' this house, that ca' me lamkin?" "they're at the school reading; 'twill be night or they come hame." o whare's the lady o' this house, that ca's me lamkin?" "she's up in her bower sewing, but we soon can bring her down." then lamkin's tane a sharp knife, that hang down by his gaire, and he has gi'en the bonny babe a deep wound and a sair. then lamkin he rocked, and the fause nourice sang, till frae ilkae bore o' the cradle the red blood out sprang. then out it spak the lady, as she stood on the stair, "what ails my bairn, nourice, that he's greeting sae sair? "o still my bairn, nourice; o still him wi' the pap!" "he winna still, lady, for this, nor for that." "o still my bairn, nourice; "o still him wi' the wand!" "he winna still, lady, for a' his father's land." "o still my bairn, nourice, o still him wi' the bell!" "he winna still, lady, till ye come down yoursel." o the firsten step she steppit, she steppit on a stane; but the neisten step she steppit, she met him, lamkin. "o mercy, mercy, lamkin! ha'e mercy upon me! though you've ta'en my young son's life, ye may let mysel be." "o sall i kill her, nourice? or sall i lat her be?" "o kill her, kill her, lamkin, for she ne'er was good to me." "o scour the bason, nourice, and mak it fair and clean, for to keep this lady's heart's blood, for she's come o' noble kin." "there need nae bason, lamkin; lat it run through the floor; what better is the heart's blood o' the rich than o' the poor?" but ere three months were at an end, lord wearie came again; but dowie dowie was his heart when first he came hame. "o wha's blood is this," he says, "that lies in the châmer?" "it is your lady's heart's blood; 'tis as clear as the lamer." "and wha's blood is this," he says, "that lies in my ha'?" "it is your young son's heart's blood; 'tis the clearest ava." o sweetly sang the black-bird that sat upon the tree; but sairer grat lamkin, when he was condemn'd to die. and bonny sang the mavis out o' the thorny brake; but sairer grat the nourice, when she was tied to the stake. lambert linkin. "the present copy is given from recitation, and though it could have received additions, and perhaps improvements, from another copy, obtained from a similar source, and of equal authenticity, in his possession, the editor did not like to use a liberty which is liable to much abuse. to some, the present set of the ballad may be valuable, as handing down both name and nickname of the revengeful builder of prime castle; for there can be little doubt that the epithet _linkin_ mr. lambert acquired from the secrecy and address with which he insinuated himself into that notable strength. indeed, all the names of lammerlinkin, lammikin, lamkin, lankin, linkin, belinkin, can easily be traced out as abbreviations of lambert linkin. in the present set of the ballad, lambert linkin and belinkin are used indifferently, as the measure of the verse may require; in the other recited copy, to which reference has been made, it is lammerlinkin and lamkin; and the nobleman for whom he "built a house" is stated to be "lord arran." no allusion, however, is made here to the name of the owner of prime castle. antiquaries, peradventure, may find it as difficult to settle the precise locality of this fortalice, as they have found it to fix the topography of troy." motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . in finlay's second copy, the murderer's name is balcanqual, "which," observes the editor, "is an ancient scottish surname, and is sometimes corrupted, for the more agreeable sound, into beluncan." it is more likely that belinkin has suggested balcanqual, than that balcanqual has been corrupted into lamkin. belinkin was as gude a mason as e'er pickt a stane; he built up prime castle, but payment gat nane. the lord said to his lady, when he was going abroad, "o beware of belinkin, for he lyes in the wood." the gates they were bolted, baith outside and in; at the sma' peep of a window belinkin crap in. "gude morrow, gude morrow," said lambert linkin. "gude morrow to yoursell, sir," said the fause nurse to him. "o whare is your gude lord?" said lambert linkin. "he's awa to new england, to meet with his king." "o where is his auld son?" said lambert linkin. "he's awa to buy pearlings, gin our lady ly in." "then she'll never wear them," said lambert linkin. "and that is nae pity," said the fause nurse to him. "o where is your lady?" said lambert linkin. "she's in her bouir sleepin'," said the fause nurse to him. "how can we get at her?" said lambert linkin. "stab the babe to the heart wi' a silver bo'kin." "that wud be a pity," said lambert linkin. "nae pity, nae pity," said the fause nurse to him. belinkin he rocked, and the fause nurse she sang, till a' the tores o' the cradle[l ] wi' the red blude down ran. "o still my babe, nurice, o still him wi' the knife." "he'll no be still, lady, tho' i lay down my life." "o still my babe, nurice, o still him wi' the kame." "he'll no be still, lady, till his daddy come hame." "o still my babe, nurice, o still him wi' the bell." "he'll no be still, lady, till ye come down yoursell." "it's how can i come doun, this cauld frosty nicht, without e'er a coal or a clear candle licht?" "there's twa smocks in your coffer, as white as a swan; put ane o' them about you, it will shew you licht doun." she took ane o' them about her, and came tripping doun; but as soon as she viewed, belinkin was in. "gude morrow, gude morrow," said lambert linkin. "gude morrow to yoursell, sir," said the lady to him. "o save my life, belinkin, till my husband come back, and i'll gie ye as much red gold as ye'll haud in your hat." "i'll not save your life, lady, till your husband come back, tho' you wud gie me as much red gold as i could haud in a sack. "will i kill her?" quo' belinkin, "will i kill her, or let her be?" "you may kill her," said the fause nurse, "she was ne'er gude to me; and ye'll be laird o' the castle, and i'll be ladye." then he cut aff her head fra her lily breast bane, and he hung 't up in the kitchen, it made a' the ha' shine. the lord sat in england a-drinking the wine: "i wish a' may be weel wi' my lady at hame; for the rings o' my fingers they're now burst in twain!" he saddled his horse, and he came riding doun; but as soon as he viewed, belinkin was in. he hadna weel stepped twa steps up the stair, till he saw his pretty young son lying dead on the floor. he hadna weel stepped other twa up the stair, till he saw his pretty lady lying dead in despair. he hanged belinkin out over the gate; and he burnt the fause nurice, being under the grate. . _tores._ the projections or knobs at the corners of old-fashioned cradles, and the ornamented balls commonly found surmounting the backs of old chairs. motherwell. the laird of waristoun. jamieson and kinloch have each published a highly dramatic fragment of this terrible story. both of these are here given, and in the appendix may be seen buchan's more extensive, but far less poetical version. with this last, we have printed mr. chambers's account of the events on which these ballads are founded. jamieson's copy was taken down by sir walter scott, from the recitation of his mother. _popular ballads_, i. . down by yon garden green sae merrily as she gaes; she has twa weel-made feet, and she trips upon her taes. she has twa weel-made feet; far better is her hand; she's as jimp in the middle as ony willow-wand. "gif ye will do my bidding, at my bidding for to be, it's i will make you lady of a' the lands you see." * * * * * he spak a word in jest; her answer wasna good; he threw a plate at her face, made it a' gush out o' blood. she wasna frae her chamber a step but barely three, when up and at her richt hand there stood man's enemy. "gif ye will do my bidding, at my bidding for to be; i'll learn you a wile avenged for to be." the foul thief knotted the tether; she lifted his head on hie; the nourice drew the knot that gar'd lord waristoun die. then word is gane to leith, also to edinburgh town, that the lady had kill'd the laird, the laird o' waristoun. * * * * * "tak aff, tak aff my hood, but lat my petticoat be; put my mantle o'er my head; for the fire i downa see. "now, a' ye gentle maids, tak warning now by me, and never marry ane but wha pleases your e'e. "for he married me for love, but i married him for fee; and sae brak out the feud that gar'd my dearie die." laird of wariestoun. kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . it was at dinner as they sat, and when they drank the wine, how happy were the laird and lady of bonnie wariestoun. the lady spak but ae word, the matter to conclude; the laird strak her on the mouth, till she spat out o' blude. she did not know the way her mind to satisfy, till evil cam into her head all by the enemy. * * * * * * * "at evening when ye sit and when ye drink the wine, see that ye fill the glass well up to the laird o' wariestoun." * * * * * * so at table as they sat, and when they drank the wine, she made the glass aft gae round to the laird o' wariestoun. the nurice she knet the knot, and o she knet it sicker; the ladie did gie it a twig, till it began to wicker. but word has gane doun to leith, and up to embro toun, that the lady she has slain the laird, the laird o' wariestoun. word's gane to her father, the great duniepace, and an angry man was he; cries, "fy! gar mak a barrel o' pikes, and row her doun some brae." she said, "wae be to ye, wariestoun, i wish ye may sink for ain; for i hae been your gudwife these nine years, running ten; and i never loved ye sae weill as now when you're lying slain." * * * * * "but tak aff this gowd brocade, and let my petticoat be, and tie a handkerchief round my face, that the people may not see." the queen's marie. of this affecting ballad different editions have appeared in scott's _minstrelsy_, sharpe's _ballad book_, p. , kinloch's _scottish ballads_, and motherwell's _minstrelsy_. there is also a fragment in maidment's _north countrie garland_, which has been reprinted in buchan's _gleanings_, p. , and a very inferior version, with a different catastrophe, in buchan's larger collection, (ii. ,) called _warenston and the duke of york's daughter_. kinloch's copy may be found with maidment's fragment, in the appendix to this volume: motherwell's immediately after the present. sir walter scott conceives the ballad to have had its foundation in an event which took place early in the reign of mary stuart, described by knox as follows: "in the very time of the general assembly, there comes to public knowledge a haynous murther, committed in the court; yea, not far from the queen's lap; for a french woman, that served in the queen's chamber, had played the whore with the queen's own apothecary. the woman conceived and bare a childe, whom, with common consent, the father and mother murthered; yet were the cries of a new-borne childe hearde, searche was made, the childe and the mother were both apprehended, and so were the man and the woman condemned to be hanged in the publicke street of edinburgh. the punishment was suitable, because the crime was haynous. but yet was not the court purged of whores and whoredoms, which was the fountaine of such enormities: for it was well known that shame hasted marriage betwixt john sempill, called the dancer, and mary levingston, sirnamed the lusty. what bruit the maries, and the rest of the dancers of the court had, _the ballads of that age_ doe witnesse, which we for modestie's sake omit. knox's _history of the reformation_, p. . "such," sir walter goes on to say, "seems to be the subject of the following ballad, as narrated by the stern apostle of presbytery. it will readily strike the reader, that the tale has suffered great alterations, as handed down by tradition; the french waiting woman being changed into mary hamilton, and the queen's apothecary into henry darnley. yet this is less surprising, when we recollect, that one of the heaviest of the queen's complaints against her ill-fated husband, was his infidelity, and that even with her personal attendants." satisfactorily as the circumstances of knox's story may agree with those of the ballads, a coincidence no less striking, and extending even to the name, is presented by an incident which occurred at the court of peter the great. "during the reign of the czar peter," observes mr. c. k. sharpe, "one of his empress's attendants, a miss hamilton, was executed for the murder of a natural child,--not her first crime in that way, as was suspected; and the emperor, whose admiration of her beauty did not preserve her life, stood upon the scaffold till her head was struck off, which he lifted by the ears and kissed on the lips. i cannot help thinking that the two stories have been confused in the ballad; for, if marie hamilton was executed in scotland, it is not likely that her relations resided beyond seas; and we have no proof that hamilton was really the name of the woman who made the slip with the queen's apothecary." scott's edition of _mary hamilton_, (the first ever published,) was made up by him, from various copies. see _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . marie hamilton's to the kirk gane, wi' ribbons in her hair; the king thought mair o' marie hamilton, than ony that were there. marie hamilton's to the kirk gane, wi' ribbons on her breast; the king thought mair o' marie hamilton, than he listen'd to the priest. marie hamilton's to the kirk gane, wi' gloves upon her hands; the king thought mair o' marie hamilton, than the queen and a' her lands. she hadna been about the king's court a month, but barely one, till she was beloved by a' the king's court, and the king the only man. she hadna been about the king's court a month, but barely three, till frae the king's court marie hamilton, marie hamilton durstna be. the king is to the abbey gane, to pu' the abbey tree, to scale the babe frae marie's heart; but the thing it wadna be. o she has row'd it in her apron, and set it on the sea,-- "gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe, ye's get nae mair o' me."-- word is to the kitchen gane, and word is to the ha', and word is to the noble room, amang the ladyes a', that marie hamilton's brought to bed, and the bonny babe's mist and awa'. scarcely had she lain down again, and scarcely fa'en asleep, when up then started our gude queen, just at her bed-feet; saying--"marie hamilton, where's your babe? for i am sure i heard it greet."-- "o no, o no, my noble queen! think no such thing to be; 'twas but a stitch into my side, and sair it troubles me."-- "get up, get up, marie hamilton: get up and follow me; for i am going to edinburgh town, a rich wedding for to see."-- o slowly, slowly raise she up, and slowly put she on; and slowly rode she out the way, wi' mony a weary groan. the queen was clad in scarlet, her merry maids all in green; and every town that they cam to, they took marie for the queen. "ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, ride hooly now wi' me! for never, i am sure, a wearier burd rade in your cumpanie."-- but little wist marie hamilton, when she rade on the brown, that she was ga'en to edinburgh town, and a' to be put down. "why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, why look ye so on me? o i am going to edinburgh town, a rich wedding for to see."-- when she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, the corks frae her heels did flee; and lang or e'er she cam down again, she was condemn'd to die. when she cam to the netherbow port,[l ] she laughed loud laughters three; but when she cam to the gallows foot, the tears blinded her ee. "yestreen the queen had four maries, the night she'll hae but three; there was marie seaton, and marie beaton, and marie carmichael, and me.[l ] "o often have i dress'd my queen, and put gold upon her hair; but now i've gotten for my reward the gallows to be my share. "often have i dress'd my queen, and often made her bed; but now i've gotten for my reward the gallows tree to tread. "i charge ye all, ye mariners, when ye sail ower the faem, let neither my father nor mother get wit, but that i'm coming hame. "i charge ye all, ye mariners, that sail upon the sea, let neither my father nor mother get wit this dog's death i'm to die. "for if my father and mother got wit, and my bold brethren three, o mickle wad be the gude red blude this day wad be spilt for me! "o little did my mother ken, that day she cradled me, the lands i was to travel in, or the death i was to die!" . the netherbow port was the gate which divided the city of edinburgh from the suburb, called the canongate. s. . the queen's maries were four young ladies of the highest families in scotland, who were sent to france in her train, and returned with her to scotland. keith gives us their names, p. . "the young queen, mary, embarked at dunbarton for france, ... and with her went ... and four young virgins, all of the name of mary, viz. livingston, fleming, seatoun, and beatoun." neither mary livingston, nor mary fleming, are mentioned in the ballad; nor are the mary hamilton, and mary carmichael, of the ballad, mentioned by keith. but if this corps continued to consist of young virgins, as when originally raised, it could hardly have subsisted without occasional recruits; especially if we trust our old bard, and john knox. the queen's maries are mentioned in many ballads, and the name seems to have passed into a general denomination for female attendants.--scott. mary hamilton. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . "in this set of the ballad, from its direct allusion to the use of the savin-tree, a clue is, perhaps, afforded for tracing how the poor mediciner mentioned by knox should be implicated in the crime of mary hamilton. it may also be noted as a feature in this version of the ballad, which does not occur in any heretofore printed, the unfortunate heroine's proud and indignant spurning at life after her character had been tainted by the infamy of a sentence of condemnation. in another copy of the ballad, also obtained from recitation, this sentiment is, perhaps, still more forcibly expressed; at any rate, it is more appropriate as being addressed to the king. the whole concluding verses of this copy, differing as they somewhat do from the version adopted for a text, it has been thought worth while to preserve. "but bring to me a cup," she says, "a cup bot and a can, and i will drink to all my friends, and they'll drink to me again. here's to you, all travellers, who travel by land or sea; let na wit to my father nor mother the death that i must die. here's to you, all travellers, that travel on dry land; let na wit to my father or mother but i am coming hame. o little did my mother think, first time she cradled me, what land i was to travel on, or what death i would die. o little did my mother think, first time she tied my head, what land i was to tread upon, or whare i would win my bread. yestreen queen mary had four maries; this night she'll hae but three; she had mary seaton, and mary beaton, and mary carmichael, and me. yestreen i wush queen mary's feet, and bore her till her bed; this day she's given me my reward, the gallows tree to tread. cast aff, cast aff my gown," she said, "but let my petticoat be; and tye a napkin on my face, for that gallows i downa see." by and cam the king himsell, look'd up wi' a pitiful ee: "come down, come down, mary hamilton; this day thou wilt dine with me." "hold your tongue, my sovereign liege, and let your folly be; an ye had had a mind to save my life, ye should na hae shamed me here!" "the copy of the ballad from which the above extract is given, begins with this verse: "there were three ladies, they lived in a bower, and o but they were fair; the youngest o' them is to the king's court, to learn some unco lair." "there is another version in which the heroine is named mary myles, or myle; but myle is probably a corruption of the epithet 'mild,' which occurs in the fragment given in the _north countrie garland_." motherwell. there lived a knight into the north, and he had daughters three: the ane of them was a barber's wife, the other a gay ladie; and the youngest o' them to scotland is gane the queen's mary to be; and for a' that they could say or do, forbidden she wouldna be. the prince's bed it was sae saft, the spices they were sae fine, that out of it she could not lye while she was scarce fifteen. she's gane to the garden gay to pu' of the savin tree; but for a' that she could say or do, the babie it would not die. she's rowed it in her handkerchief, she threw it in the sea: says,--"sink ye, swim ye, my bonnie babe, for ye'll get nae mair of me." queen mary came tripping down the stair, wi' the gold strings in her hair: "o whare's the little babie," she says, "that i heard greet sae sair?" "o hald your tongue, queen mary, my dame, let all those words go free; it was mysell wi' a fit o' the sair colic, i was sick just like to die." "o hald your tongue, mary hamilton, let all those words go free; o where is the little babie that i heard weep by thee?" "i rowed it in my handkerchief, and threw it in the sea; i bade it sink, i bade it swim, it would get nae mair o' me." "o wae be to thee, mary hamilton, and an ill deid may you die; for if you had saved the babie's life, it might hae been an honour to thee. "busk ye, busk ye, mary hamilton, o busk ye to be a bride; for i am going to edinburgh town your gay wedding to bide. "you must not put on your robes of black, nor yet your robes of brown; but you must put on your yellow gold stuffs, to shine thro' edinburgh town." "i will not put on my robes of black, nor yet my robes of brown; but i will put on my yellow gold stuffs, to shine thro' edinburgh town." as she went up the parliament close, a riding on her horse, there she saw many a burgess' lady sit greeting at the cross. "o what means a' this greeting? i'm sure it's nae for me; for i'm come this day to edinburgh town, weel wedded for to be." when she gade up the parliament stair, she gied loud lauchters three; but ere that she had come down again, she was condemned to die. "o little did my mother think, the day she prinned my gown, that i was to come sae far frae hame to be hanged in edinburgh town. "o what'll my poor father think, as he comes through the town, to see the face of his molly fair hanging on the gallows pin? "here's a health to the mariners that plough the raging main; let neither my mother nor father ken but i'm coming hame again. "here's a health to the sailors that sail upon the sea; let neither my mother nor father ken that i came here to die. "yestreen the queen had four maries, this night she'll hae but three; there was mary beaton, and mary seaton, and mary carmichael and me." "o hald your tongue, mary hamilton, let all those words go free; this night ere ye be hanged ye shall gang hame wi' me." "o hald your tongue, queen mary, my dame, let all those words go free; since i have come to edinburgh town, it's hanged i shall be; for it shall ne'er be said that in your court i was condemned to die." bessie bell and mary gray. from lyle's _ancient ballads and songs_, p. , where it was printed as collated "from the singing of two aged persons, one of them a native of perthshire." there are two versions slightly differing from the present;--one in cunningham's _songs of scotland_, iii. , obtained from sir walter scott, and another in mr. kirkpatrick sharpe's _ballad book_, p. . allan ramsay wrote a song with the same title, beginning with the first stanza of the ballad, (_tea table miscellany_, i. .) the story of the unfortunate heroines is thus given by chambers: "bessie bell and mary gray were the daughters of two country gentlemen in the neighborhood of perth; and an intimate friendship subsisted between them. bessie bell, daughter of the laird of kinnaird, happening to be on a visit to mary gray, at her father's house of lynedoch, when the plague of broke out, to avoid the infection, the two young ladies built themselves a bower in a very retired and romantic spot, called the burn-braes, about three quarters of a mile westward from lynedoch house; where they resided for some time, supplied with food, it is said, by a young gentleman of perth, who was in love with them both. the disease was unfortunately communicated to them by their lover, and proved fatal; when, according to custom in cases of the plague, they were not buried in the ordinary parochial place of sepulture, but in a sequestered spot, called the dronach haugh, at the foot of a brae of the same name, upon the banks of the river almond." o bessy bell an' mary gray, they were twa bonnie lassies; they biggit a house on yon burn-brae, an' theekit it o'er wi' rashes. they theekit it o'er wi' birk and brume, they theekit it o'er wi' heather, till the pest cam frae the neib'rin town an' streekit them baith thegither. they were na' buried in meffen kirk-yard, amang the rest o' their kin; but they were buried by dornoch haugh, on the bent before the sun. sing, bessy bell an' mary gray, they were twa bonnie lasses, wha' biggit a bower on yon burn-brae, an' theekit it o'er wi' thrashes. the children in the wood. _the children in the wood_ is perhaps the most popular of all english ballads. its merit is attested by the favor it has enjoyed with so many generations, and was vindicated to a cold and artificial age by the kindly pen of addison. the editor of the _reliques_ thought that the subject was taken from an old play, published in , "of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffins, with the consent of his unkle," but ritson discovered that the ballad was entered in the stationers' registers in . the plot of the play was undoubtedly derived from the italian, and the author of the ballad may have taken a hint from the same source. percy's edition, (_reliques_, iii. ,) which we have adopted, was printed from two old copies, one of them in black-letter, in the pepys collection. the full title is, _the children in the wood, or, the norfolk gentleman's last will and testament_. _to the tune of rogero_, &c. copies slightly varying from percy's may be seen in _a collection of old ballads_, ( ,) i. ; ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. ; _the book of british ballads_, p. ; and moore's _pictorial book of ancient ballad poetry_, p. . now ponder well, you parents deare, these wordes which i shall write; a doleful story you shall heare, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolke dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sicke he was, and like to dye, no helpe his life could save; his wife by him as sicke did lye, and both possest one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kinde; in love they liv'd, in love they dyed, and left two babes behinde: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three yeares olde; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beautyes molde. the father left his little son, as plainlye doth appeare, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred poundes a yeare. and to his little daughter jane five hundred poundes in gold, to be paid downe on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children chance to dye, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possesse their wealth; for so the wille did run. "now, brother," said the dying man, "look to my children deare; be good unto my boy and girl, no friendes else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children deare this daye; but little while be sure we have within this world to staye. "you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knowes what will become of them, when i am dead and gone." with that bespake their mother deare, "o brother kinde," quoth shee, "you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or miserie: "and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deedes regard." with lippes as cold as any stone, they kist their children small: "god bless you both, my children deare;" with that the teares did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sicke couple there: "the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not feare. god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children deare, when you are layd in grave." the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and bringes them straite unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a daye, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both awaye. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slaye them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale. he would the children send to be brought up in faire london, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoycing at that tide, rejoycing with a merry minde, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the waye, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives decaye: so that the pretty speeche they had, made murder's heart relent: and they that undertooke the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them more hard of heart, did vowe to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the childrens life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slaye the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for feare! he took the children by the hand, teares standing in their eye, and bad them straitwaye follow him, and look they did not crye: and two long miles he ledd them on, while they for food complaine: "staye here," quoth he, "i'll bring you bread, when i come back againe." these pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and downe; but never more could see the man approaching from the towne: their prettye lippes with blackberries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they sawe the darksome night, they sat them downe and cryed. thus wandered these poor innocents, till deathe did end their grief, in one anothers armes they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair[l ] of any man receives, till robin-red-breast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrathe of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell; his barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd, his landes were barren made, his cattle dyed within the field, and nothing with him stayd. and in the voyage of portugal[l ] two of his sonnes did dye; and to conclude, himselfe was brought to want and miserye: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about, and now at length this wicked act did by this meanes come out: the fellowe, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to dye, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having dyed in gaol, where he for debt was layd. you that executors be made, and overseers eke of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like miserye your wicked minds requite. , these ... babes, pp. . "a. d. . dr. percy, not knowing that the text alludes to a particular event, has altered it to _a_ voyage _to_ portugal." ritson. hugh of lincoln. in the year , we are told by matthew paris, in his account of the reign of henry iii., the jews of lincoln stole a boy, named hugh, of the age of eight years, whom, after torturing for ten days, they crucified before a large council of their people, in contempt of the death of the founder of christianity. the boy was sought by his mother in the house of a jew, which he had been seen to enter, and his body was found in a pit. the occupant of the house being seized, acknowledged the crime, and avowed, besides, that the like was committed nearly every year by his nation. notwithstanding the promise of impunity by which this confession had been obtained, the wretch who made it was tied to the tail of a horse and dragged to the gallows, and after a judicial investigation, eighteen of the richest and most distinguished jews in lincoln were hanged for participation in the murder, while many more were detained as prisoners in the tower of london. on the other hand, the body of the child was buried with the honors of a martyr in lincoln cathedral, where a construction, assumed without reason to be his tomb, is still shown. the remains of a young person, found near this spot in , were at once taken for granted to be those of the sainted infant, and drawings were made of the relics, which may be seen among the works of the artist grimm in the british museum. several stories of the same tenor are reported by the english chroniclers. it may be doubted whether there is a grain of truth in any of them, although it would be no wonder if the atrocious injuries inflicted on the jews should, in an instance or two, have provoked a bloody retaliation, even from that tribe whose badge has always been sufferance. the annual sacrifice of a christian child, in mockery of the crucifixion of jesus, is on a par for credibility with the miracles which are said to have followed the death of those innocents. the exquisite tale which chaucer has put into the mouth of the prioress exhibits nearly the same incidents as the following ballad. the legend of hugh of lincoln was widely famous. michel has published an anglo-norman ballad, (_hugo de lincolnia_,) on the subject, which appears to be almost contemporary with the event recorded by matthew paris, and is certainly of the times of henry iii. the versions of the english ballad are quite numerous. we give here those of percy, herd, and jamieson, and two others in the appendix. besides these, fragments have been printed in sir egerton brydges's _restituta_, i. , halliwell's _ballads and poems respecting hugh of lincoln_, ( ,) and in _notes and queries_, vol. viii. , ix. , xii. . the most complete of all the versions is to be found in the new edition of the _musical museum_, vol. iv. p. ; but that copy is evidently made up from others previously published. see, for a collection of most of the poetry, and of much curious information on the imputed cruelties of the jews, michel's _hugues de lincoln_, and hume's _sir hugh of lincoln_. the whole subject is critically examined in the _london athenæum_ for dec. , . "the text of the following edition has been given _verbatim_, as the editor took it down from mrs. brown's recitation; and in it two circumstances are preserved, which are neither to be found in any of the former editions, nor in any of the chronicles in which the transaction is recorded; but which are perfectly in the character of those times, and tend to enhance the miracles to which the discovery is attributed. the first of these is, that, in order that the whole of this infamous sacrifice might be of a piece, and every possible outrage shown to christianity, the jews threw the child's body into a well dedicated to the virgin mary; and tradition says, that it was 'through the might of our ladie,' that the dead body was permitted to speak, and to reveal the horrid story to the disconsolate mother. the other is, the voluntary ringing of the bells, &c., at his funeral. the sound of consecrated bells was supposed to have a powerful effect in driving away evil spirits, appeasing storms, &c., and they were believed to be inspired with sentiments and perceptions which were often manifested in a very miraculous manner." jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. - . four and twenty bonny boys were playing at the ba'; and by it came him, sweet sir hugh, and he play'd o'er them a'. he kick'd the ba' with his right foot, and catch'd it wi' his knee; and throuch-and-thro' the jew's window, he gar'd the bonny ba' flee. he's doen him to the jew's castell, and walk'd it round about; and there he saw the jew's daughter at the window looking out. "throw down the ba', ye jew's daughter, throw down the ba' to me!" "never a bit," says the jew's daughter, "till up to me come ye." "how will i come up? how can i come up? how can i come to thee? for as ye did to my auld father, the same ye'll do to me." she's gane till her father's garden, and pu'd an apple, red and green; 'twas a' to wyle him, sweet sir hugh, and to entice him in. she's led him in through ae dark door, and sae has she thro' nine; she's laid him on a dressing table, and stickit him like a swine. and first came out the thick, thick blood, and syne came out the thin; and syne came out the bonny heart's blood; there was nae mair within. she's row'd him in a cake o' lead, bade him lie still and sleep; she's thrown him in our lady's draw well, was fifty fathom deep. when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' the bairns came hame, when every lady gat hame her son, the lady maisry gat nane. she's ta'en her mantle her about, her coffer by the hand; and she's gane out to seek her son, and wander'd o'er the land. she's doen her to the jew's castell, where a' were fast asleep; "gin ye be there, my sweet sir hugh, i pray you to me speak." she's doen her to the jew's garden, thought he had been gathering fruit; "gin ye be there, my sweet sir hugh, i pray you to me speak." she near'd our lady's deep draw-well, was fifty fathom deep; "whare'er ye be, my sweet sir hugh, i pray you to me speak." "gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear; prepare my winding sheet; and, at the back o' merry lincoln, the morn i will you meet." now lady maisry is gane hame; made him a winding sheet; and, at the back o' merry lincoln, the dead corpse did her meet. and a' the bells o' merry lincoln, without men's hands were rung; and a' the books o' merry lincoln, were read without man's tongue; and ne'er was such a burial sin adam's days begun. sir hugh. from herd's _scottish songs_, i. . a' the boys of merry linkim war playing at the ba', an up it stands him sweet sir hugh, the flower among them a'. he keppit the ba' than wi' his foot, and catcht it wi' his knee, and even in at the jew's window, he gart the bonny ba' flee. "cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, cast out the ba' to me." "ah never a bit of it," she says, "till ye come up to me. "come up, sweet hugh, come up, dear hugh, come up and get the ba';" "i winna come, i mayna come, without my bonny boys a'." "come up, sweet hugh, come up, dear hugh, come up and speak to me;" "i mayna come, i winna come, without my bonny boys three." she's taen her to the jew's garden, whar the grass grew lang and green, she's pu'd an apple red and white, to wyle the bonny boy in. she's wyled him in through ae chamber, she's wyled him in through twa, she's wyled him in till her ain chamber, the flower out owr them a'. she's laid him on a dressin board, whar she did often dine; she stack a penknife to his heart, and dress'd him like a swine. she row'd him in a cake of lead, bade him ly still and sleep, she threw him i' the jew's draw-well, it was fifty fathom deep. whan bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' man bound to bed, every lady got home her son, but sweet sir hugh was dead. the jew's daughter. from percy's _reliques_, i. ; printed from a manuscript copy sent from scotland. mirryland toune is a corruption of merry lincoln, and not, as percy conjectured, of mailand (milan) town. in motherwell's copy we have maitland town. the rain rins doun through mirry-land toune, sae dois it doune the pa: sae dois the lads of mirry-land toune, quhan they play at the ba'. than out and cam the jewis dochter, said, "will ye cum in and dine?" "i winnae cum in, i cannae cum in, without my play-feres nine." scho powd an apple reid and white, to intice the zong thing in: scho powd an apple white and reid, and that the sweit bairne did win. and scho has taine out a little pen-knife, and low down by her gair; scho has twin'd the zong thing and his life; a word he nevir spak mair. and out and cam the thick thick bluid, and out and cam the thin; and out and cam the bonny herts bluid: thair was nae life left in. scho laid him on a dressing borde, and drest him like a swine, and laughing said, "gae nou and pley with zour sweit play-feres nine." scho rowd him in a cake of lead, bade him lie stil and sleip; scho cast him in a deip draw-well, was fifty fadom deip. quhan bells wer rung, and mass was sung, and every lady went hame, then ilka lady had her zong sonne, bot lady helen had nane. scho rowd hir mantil hir about, and sair sair gan she weip, and she ran into the jewis castèl, quhan they wer all asleip. "my bonny sir hew, my pretty sir hew, i pray thee to me speik:" "o lady, rinn to the deip draw-well, gin ze zour sonne wad seik." lady helen ran to the deip draw-well, and knelt upon her kne: "my bonny sir hew, and ze be here, i pray thee speik to me." "the lead is wondrous heavy, mither, the well is wondrous deip; a keen pen-knife sticks in my hert, a word i dounae speik. "gae hame, gae hame, my mither deir, fetch me my windling sheet, and at the back o' mirry-land toun, its thair we twa sall meet." sir patrick spence. from percy's _reliques_, i. . the event upon which this ballad is founded, if it has been rightly ascertained, belongs to a remote period in scottish history. margaret, the daughter of alexander iii., was, in the year , betrothed to eric, prince of norway. the bride was conducted to her husband by a splendid convoy of knights and nobles, and in the month of august was crowned queen. in returning from the celebration of the nuptials, many of the scottish escort were lost at sea, and among those who perished was sir patrick spence, we are to suppose. it is in conformity with this view of the origin of the ballad, (the suggestion of motherwell,) that in buchan's version the object of the voyage is said to be to take the king's daughter, now "a chosen queen," _to_ norway. in scott's edition, on the other hand, sir patrick is deputed _to bring home_ the king of norway's daughter. to explain this circumstance in the story, sir walter is forced to suppose that an unsuccessful and unrecorded embassy was sent, when the death of alexander iii. had left the scottish throne vacant, to bring the only daughter of eric and margaret, styled by historians the maid of norway, to the kingdom of which, after her grandfather's demise, she became the heir. that such an embassy, attended with so disastrous consequences to the distinguished persons who would compose it, should be entirely unnoticed by the chroniclers is, to say the least, exceedingly improbable. the question concerning the historical basis of the ballad would naturally lose much of its interest, were any importance attached to the arguments by which its genuineness has been lately assailed. these are so trivial as hardly to admit of a statement. the claims of the composition to a high antiquity are first disputed, (_musical museum_, new ed., iv. *,) on the ground that such a piece was never heard of till it was sent to percy by some of his correspondents in scotland, with other ballads of (assumed) questionable authority. but even the ballad of _sir hugh_ is liable to any impeachment that can be extracted from these circumstances, since it was first made known by percy, and was transmitted to him from scotland, (for aught we know, in suspicious company,) while its story dates also from the th century. then, "an ingenious friend" having remarked to percy that some of the phrases of _hardyknute_ seemed to have been borrowed from _sir patrick spence_ and _other_ old scottish songs, this observation, combined with the fact that the localities of dunfermline and aberdour are in the neighborhood of sir henry wardlaw's estate, leads to a conjecture that lady wardlaw may have been the author of _sir patrick spence_, as she is known to have been of _hardyknute_. it could never be deemed fair to argue from those resemblances which give plausibility to a counterfeit to the spuriousness of the original, but in fact there is _no_ resemblance in the two pieces. _hardyknute_ is recognized at once by an ordinary critic to be a modern production, and is, notwithstanding the praise it has received, a tame and tiresome one besides. _sir patrick spence_, on the other hand, if not ancient, has been always accepted as such by the most skilful judges, and is a solitary instance of a successful imitation, in manner and spirit, of the best specimens of authentic minstrelsy.[ ] it is not denied that this ballad has suffered, like others, by corruption and interpolations, and it is not, therefore, maintained that hats and cork-heeld shoon are of the th century. we have assigned to percy's copy the first place, because its brevity and directness give it a peculiar vigor. scott's edition follows, made up from two ms. copies, (one of which has been printed in jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. ,) collated with several verses recited by a friend. buchan's version, obtained from recitation, is in the appendix. the variations in recited copies are numerous: some specimens are given by motherwell, p. xlv. [ ] this controversy has been recently re-opened by r. chambers, _the romantic scottish ballads, their epoch and authorship_, edin. ; and in reply, _the romantic scottish ballads and the lady wardlaw heresy_, by norval clyne, aberdeen, . the king sits in dumferling[ ] toune, drinking the blude-reid wine: "o quhar will i get guid sailor, to sail this schip of mine?" up and spak an eldern knicht, sat at the kings richt kne: "sir patrick spence is the best sailor, that sails upon the se." the king has written a braid letter, and signd it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spence, was walking on the sand. the first line that sir patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he: the next line that sir patrick red, the teir blinded his ee. "o quha is this has don this deid, this ill deid don to me; to send me out this time o' the zeir, to sail upon the se? "mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, our guid schip sails the morne." "o say na sae, my master deir, for i feir a deadlie storme. "late late yestreen i saw the new moone wi' the auld moone in hir arme; and i feir, i feir, my deir master, that we will com to harme." o our scots nobles wer richt laith to weet their cork-heild schoone; bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, thair hats they swam aboone. o lang, lang, may their ladies sit wi' thair fans into their hand, or eir they se sir patrick spence cum sailing to the land. o lang, lang, may the ladies stand wi' thair gold kems in their hair, waiting for thair ain deir lords, for they'll se thame na mair. have owre, have owre to aberdour,[l ] it's fiftie fadom deip: and thair lies guid sir patrick spence, wi' the scots lords at his feit. [ ] the palace of dunfermline was the favorite residence of king alexander iii. - . "it is true that the name of sir patrick spens is not mentioned in history; but i am able to state that tradition has preserved it. in the little island of papa stronsay, one of the orcadian group, lying over against norway, there is a large grave or tumulus, which has been known to the inhabitants, from time immemorial, as 'the grave of sir patrick spens.' the scottish ballads were not early current in orkney, a scandinavian country; so it is very unlikely that the poem could have originated the name. the people know nothing beyond the traditional appellation of the spot, and they have no legend to tell." aytoun, _ballads of scotland_, i. .--this passage is cited simply as a piece of _external_ evidence to the antiquity of the legend of sir patrick spens,--supposing the matter of fact to be well established, and the alleged tradition to be of long standing. sir patrick spens. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, i. . in singing, the interjection o is added to the second and fourth lines. the king sits in dunfermline town, drinking the blude-red wine: "o whare will i get a skeely skipper to sail this new ship of mine?" o up and spake an eldern knight, sat at the king's right knee: "sir patrick spens is the best sailor that ever sailed the sea." our king has written a braid letter, and sealed it with his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens, was walking on the strand. "to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis thou maun bring her hame!" the first word that sir patrick read, sae loud loud laughed he; the neist word that sir patrick read, the tear blindit his e'e. "o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me, to send us out at this time of the year, to sail upon the sea? "be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail the faem; the king's daughter of noroway, 'tis we must fetch her hame." they hoysed their sails on monenday morn wi' a' the speed they may; they hae landed in noroway upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway, but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say: "ye scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, and a' our queenis fee." "ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! fu' loud i hear ye lie! "for i brought as much white monie as gane my men and me,-- and i brought a half-fou o' gude red goud out o'er the sea wi' me. "make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! our gude ship sails the morn." "now, ever alake! my master dear, i fear a deadly storm! "i saw the new moon, late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm." they hadna sailed a league, a league, a league, but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, it was sic a deadly storm; and the waves came o'er the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. "o where will i get a gude sailor, to take my helm in hand, till i get up to the tall topmast, to see if i can spy land?" "o here am i, a sailor gude, to take the helm in hand, till you go up to the tall topmast,-- but i fear you'll ne'er spy land." he hadna gane a step, a step, a step, but barely ane, when a bout flew out of our goodly ship, and the salt sea it came in. "gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and wap them into our ship's side, and letna the sea come in." they fetched a web o' the silken claith, another o' the twine, and they wapped them roun' that gude ship's side, but still the sea came in. "o laith laith were our gude scots lords to weet their cork-heeled shoon! but lang or a' the play was played, they wat their hats aboon. and mony was the feather-bed that flatter'd on the faem; and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam hame. the ladyes wrang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair; a' for the sake of their true loves, for them they'll see nae mair. o lang lang may the ladyes sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand! and lang lang may the maidens sit, wi' their goud kaims in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. o forty miles off aberdeen 'tis fifty fathoms deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. book iv. king estmere. from _reliques of english poetry_, i. . "this romantic legend," says percy, "is given from two copies, one of them in the editor's folio ms., but which contained very great variations." this second copy has been conjectured to be of percy's own making, the ballad never having been heard of by any one else, out of his manuscript. judging from the internal evidence, the alterations made in the printed text were not very serious. king easter and king wester have appeared in the ballad of _fause foodrage_, (vol. iii. p. .) in another version of the same, they are called the eastmure king and the westmure king, (motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. lix.) there is also a tale cited in the _complaynt of scotland_, (i. ,) of a king of estmureland that married the daughter of the king of westmureland. this is plausibly supposed by ritson to have been a romance of horn, in which case the two countries should mean england and ireland. king esmer is one of king diderik's champions (in the danish ballad, _kong diderik og hans kæmper_), and the father of svend vonved (in _svend vonved_). in the flemish and german romances of _the knight of the swan_, essmer, or esmerés, is one of the seven sons of oriant, and in _le dit de flourence de romme_ (jubinal, _nouveau recueil de contes_, etc., i. ), esmère is a roman prince. (grundtvig, i. , .) for the nonce, we are told that king estmere was an english prince, and we may, perhaps, infer from the eighth stanza that king adland's dominions were on the same island. but no subject of inquiry can be more idle than the geography of the romances. hearken to me, gentlemen, come and you shall heare; ile tell you of two of the boldest brethren, that ever born y-were. the tone of them was adler yonge, the tother was kyng estmere; they were as bolde men in their deedes as any were, farr and neare. as they were drinking ale and wine within kyng estmeres halle, "when will ye marry a wyfe, brother, a wyfe to gladd us all?" then bespake him kyng estmere, and answered him hartilye: "i knowe not that ladye in any lande, that is able to marry with mee." "kyng adland hath a daughter, brother, men call her bright and sheene; if i were kyng here in your stead, that ladye shold be queene." sayes, "reade me, reade me, deare brother, throughout merry england, where we might find a messenger betweene us two to sende." sayes, "you shall ryde yourselfe, brother, ile beare you companee; many throughe fals messengers are deceived,[l ] and i feare lest soe shold wee." thus they renisht them to ryde on twoe good renisht steedes, and when they came to kyng adlands halle, of red golde shone their weedes. and when they came to kyng adlands halle, before the goodlye yate, ther they found good kyng adland, rearing himselfe theratt. "nowe christ thee save, good kyng adland, nowe christ thee save and see:" sayd, "you be welcome, kyng estmere, right hartilye to mee." "you have a daughter," sayd adler yonge, "men call her bright and sheene; my brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, of englande to be queene." "yesterdaye was att my dere daughter the king his sonne of spayn; and then she nicked him of naye; i feare sheele do youe the same." "the kyng of spayne is a foule paynim, and 'leeveth on mahound, and pitye it were that fayre ladye shold marrye a heathen hound." "but grant to me," sayes kyng estmere, "for my love i you praye, that i may see your daughter dere before i goe hence awaye." "althoughe itt is seven yeare and more syth my daughter was in halle, she shall come downe once for your sake, to glad my guestès alle." downe then came that mayden fayre, with ladyes lacede in pall, and halfe a hondred of bolde knightes, to bring her from bowre to hall, and eke as manye gentle squieres, to waite upon them all. the talents of golde were on her head sette, hunge lowe downe to her knee; and everye rynge on her small finger shone of the chrystall free. sayes, "christ you save, my deare madame," sayes, "christ you save and see:" sayes, "you be welcome, kyng estmere, right welcome unto mee. "and iff you love me, as you saye, so well and hartilee, all that ever you are comen about soone sped now itt may bee." then bespake her father deare, "my daughter, i saye naye; remember well the kyng of spayne, what he sayd yesterdaye. "he wold pull downe my halles and castles, and reave me of my lyfe: and ever i feare that paynim kyng, iff i reave him of his wyfe." "your castles and your towres, father, are stronglye built aboute; and therefore of that foule paynim wee neede not stande in doubte. "plyght me your troth nowe, kyng estmere, by heaven and your righte hande, that you will marrye me to your wyfe, and make me queene of your land." then kyng estmere he plight his troth by heaven and his righte hand, that he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, and make her queene of his land. and he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, to goe to his owne countree, to fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, that marryed they might bee. they had not ridden scant a myle, a myle forthe of the towne, but in did come the kynge of spayne, with kempès many a one: but in did come the kyng of spayne, with manye a grimme barone, tone day to marrye kyng adlands daughter, tother daye to carrye her home. then shee sent after kyng estmere, in all the spede might bee, that he must either returne and fighte, or goe home and lose his ladye. one whyle then the page he went, another whyle he ranne; till he had oretaken king estmere, iwis he never blanne. "tydinges, tydinges, kyng estmere!" "what tydinges nowe, my boye?" "o tydinges i can tell to you, that will you sore annoye. "you had not ridden scant a myle, a myle out of the towne, but in did come the kyng of spayne with kempès many a one: "but in did come the kyng of spayne with manye a grimme barone, tone day to marrye kyng adlands daughter, tother daye to carrye her home. "that ladye fayre she greetes you well, and ever-more well by mee: you must either turne againe and fighte, or goe home and lose your ladye." sayes, "reade me, reade me, deare brother, my reade shall ryse at thee,[l ] whiche way we best may turne and fighte, to save this fayre ladye." "now hearken to me," sayes adler yonge, "and your reade must rise at me; i quicklye will devise a waye to sette thy ladye free. "my mother was a westerne woman, and learned in gramarye, and when i learned at the schole, something shee taught itt me. "there groweth an hearbe within this fielde, and iff it were but knowne, his color which is whyte and redd, it will make blacke and browne. "his color which is browne and blacke, itt will make redd and whyte; that sword is not in all englande, upon his coate will byte. "and you shal be a harper, brother, out of the north countree; and ile be your boye, so faine of fighte, to beare your harpe by your knee. "and you shall be the best harper that ever tooke harpe in hand; and i will be the best singer that ever sung in this land. "itt shal be written in our forheads, all and in grammarye, that we towe are the boldest men that are in all christentye." and thus they renisht them to ryde, on towe good renish steedes; and whan they came to king adlands hall, of redd gold shone their weedes. and whan they came to kyng adlands hall, untill the fayre hall yate, there they found a proud porter, rearing himselfe theratt. sayes, "christ thee save, thou proud porter," sayes, "christ thee save and see:" "nowe you be welcome," sayd the porter, "of what land soever ye bee." "we been harpers," sayd adler yonge, "come out of the northe countree; we beene come hither untill this place, this proud weddinge for to see." sayd, "and your color were white and redd, as it is blacke and browne, ild saye king estmere and his brother were comen untill this towne." then they pulled out a ryng of gold,[l ] layd itt on the porters arme: "and ever we will thee, proud porter, thow wilt saye us no harme." sore he looked on kyng estmere, and sore he handled the ryng, then opened to them the fayre hall yates, he lett for no kind of thyng. kyng estmere he light off his steede, up att the fayre hall board; the frothe that came from his brydle bitte light on kyng bremors beard. sayes, "stable thy steede, thou proud harper, go stable him in the stalle; itt doth not beseeme a proud harper to stable him in a kyngs halle." "my ladd he is so lither," he sayd, "he will do nought that's meete; and aye that i cold but find the man, were able him to beate." "thou speakst proud words," sayd the paynim king, "thou harper, here to mee; there is a man within this halle, that will beate thy lad and thee." "o lett that man come downe," he sayd, "a sight of him wold i see; and whan hee hath beaten well my ladd, then he shall beate of mee." downe then came the kemperye man, and looked him in the eare; for all the gold that was under heaven, he durst not neigh him neare. "and how nowe, kempe," sayd the kyng of spayne, "and how what aileth thee?" he sayes, "itt is written in his forhead, all and in gramarye, that for all the gold that is under heaven, i dare not neigh him nye." kyng estmere then pulled forth his harpe, and played thereon so sweete: upstarte the ladye from the kynge, as hee sate at the meate. "now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, now stay thy harpe, i say; for an thou playest as thou beginnest, thou'lt till my bride awaye." he strucke upon his harpe agayne, and playd both fayre and free; the ladye was so pleasde theratt, she laught loud laughters three. "nowe sell me thy harpe," sayd the kyng of spayne, "thy harpe and stryngs eche one, and as many gold nobles thou shalt have, as there be stryngs thereon." "and what wold ye doe with my harpe," he sayd, iff i did sell it yee?" "to playe my wiffe and me a fitt, when abed together we bee." "now sell me," quoth hee, "thy bryde soe gay, as shee sitts laced in pall, and as many gold nobles i will give, as there be rings in the hall." "and what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, iff i did sell her yee? more seemelye it is for her fayre bodye to lye by mee than thee." hee played agayne both loud and shrille, and adler he did syng, "o ladye, this is thy owne true love; noe harper, but a kyng. "o ladye, this is thy owne true love, as playnlye thou mayest see; and ile rid thee of that foule paynim, who partes thy love and thee." the ladye looked, the ladye blushte, and blushte and lookt agayne, while adler he hath drawne his brande, and hath the sowdan slayne. up then rose the kemperye men, and loud they gan to crye: "ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, and therefore yee shall dye." kyng estmere threwe the harpe asyde, and swith he drew his brand; and estmere he, and adler yonge, right stiffe in stour can stand. and aye their swordes soe sore can byte, through helpe of gramarye, that soone they have slayne the kempery men, or forst them forth to flee. kyng estmere tooke that fayre ladye, and marryed her to his wiffe, and brought her home to merrye england, with her to leade his life. . ms. many a man ... is. . ms. ryde, but see v. . v. . then they pulled out a ryng of gold, layd itt on the porters arme. the rings so often used in ballads to conciliate the porter would seem to be not personal ornaments, but coins. for an account of ring money, see the paper of sir william betham, in the seventeenth volume of the _transactions of the royal irish academy_. sir cauline. from _reliques of english poetry_, i. . "this old romantic tale," says percy, "was preserved in the editor's folio ms., but in so very defective and mutilated a condition, (not from any chasm in the ms., but from great omission in the transcript, probably copied from the faulty recitation of some illiterate minstrel,) that it was necessary to supply several stanzas in the first part, and still more in the second, to connect and complete the story." many of the interpolations acknowledged in such general terms might with some confidence be pointed out. among them are certainly most, if not all, of the last twelve stanzas of the second part, which include the catastrophe to the story. it is difficult to believe that this charming romance had so tragic and so sentimental a conclusion. the first part of this ballad is preserved in scotland, under the title of _king malcolm and sir colvin_, and is printed in our appendix from buchan's collection. in this, sir colvin weds the princess after his victory over the elrick knight. the first part. in ireland, ferr over the sea, there dwelleth a bonnye kinge; and with him a yong and comlye knighte, men call him syr cauline. the kinge had a ladye to his daughter, in fashyon she hath no peere; and princely wightes that ladye wooed to be theyr wedded feere. syr cauline loveth her best of all, but nothing durst he saye, ne descreeve his counsayl to no man, but deerlye he lovde this may. till on a daye it so beffell great dill to him was dight; the maydens love removde his mynd, to care-bed went the knighte. one while he spred his armes him fro, one while he spred them nye: "and aye! but i winne that ladyes love, for dole now i mun dye." and whan our parish-masse was done, our kinge was bowne to dyne: he sayes, "where is syr cauline, that is wont to serve the wyne?" then aunswerde him a courteous knighte, and fast his handes gan wringe: "syr cauline is sicke, and like to dye, without a good leechinge." "fetche me downe my daughter deere, she is a leeche fulle fine; goe take him doughe and the baken bread, and serve him with the wyne soe red: lothe i were him to tine." fair christabelle to his chaumber goes, her maydens followyng nye: "o well," she sayth, "how doth my lord?" "o sicke, thou fayr ladye." "nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame, never lye soe cowardlee; for it is told in my fathers halle you dye for love of mee." "fayre ladye, it is for your love that all this dill i drye: for if you wold comfort me with a kisse, then were i brought from bale to blisse, no lenger wold i lye." "sir knighte, my father is a kinge, i am his onlye heire; alas! and well you knowe, syr knighte, i never can be youre fere." "o ladye, thou art a kinges daughter, and i am not thy peere; but let me doe some deedes of armes, to be your bacheleere." "some deedes of armes if thou wilt doe, my bacheleere to bee, (but ever and aye my heart wold rue, giff harm shold happe to thee,) "upon eldridge hill there groweth a thorne, upon the mores brodinge; and dare ye, syr knighte, wake there all nighte, untile the fayre morninge? "for the eldridge knighte, so mickle of mighte, will examine you beforne; and never man bare life awaye, but he did him scath and scorne. "that knighte he is a foul paynim, and large of limb and bone; and but if heaven may be thy speede, thy life it is but gone." "nowe on the eldridge hilles ile walke, for thy sake, fair ladie; and ile either bring you a ready token, or ile never more you see." the lady has gone to her own chaumbere, her maydens following bright; syr cauline lope from care-bed soone, and to the eldridge hills is gone, for to wake there all night. unto midnight, that the moone did rise, he walked up and downe; then a lightsome bugle heard he blowe over the bents soe browne; quoth hee, "if cryance come till my heart, i am ffar from any good towne." and soone he spyde on the mores so broad a furyous wight and fell; a ladye bright his brydle led, clad in a fayre kyrtell: and soe fast he called on syr cauline, "o man, i rede thee flye, for but if cryance come till thy heart,[l ] i weene but thou mun dye." he sayth, "no cryance comes till my heart,[l ] nor, in faith, i wyll not flee; for, cause thou minged not christ before, the less me dreadeth thee." the eldridge knighte, he pricked his steed; syr cauline bold abode: then either shooke his trustye speare, and the timber these two children bare soe soone in sunder slode. then tooke they out theyr two good swordes, and layden on full faste, till helme and hawberke, mail and sheelde, they all were well-nye brast. the eldridge knight was mickle of might, and stiffe in stower did stande; but syr cauline with an aukeward stroke he smote off his right-hand; that soone he, with paine and lacke of bloud, fell downe on that lay-land. then up syr cauline lift his brande all over his head so hye: "and here i sweare by the holy roode, nowe, caytiffe, thou shalt dye." then up and came that ladye brighte, faste ringing of her hande: "for the maydens love, that most you love, withhold that deadlye brande: "for the maydens love that most you love, now smyte no more i praye; and aye whatever thou wilt, my lord, he shall thy hests obaye." "now sweare to mee, thou eldridge knighte, and here on this lay-land, that thou wilt believe on christ his laye, and therto plight thy hand: "and that thou never on eldridge [hill] come to sporte, gamon, or playe; and that thou here give up thy armes until thy dying daye." the eldridge knighte gave up his armes, with many a sorrowfulle sighe; and sware to obey syr caulines hest, till the tyme that he shold dye. and he then up, and the eldridge knighte sett him in his saddle anone; and the eldridge knighte and his ladye, to theyr castle are they gone. then he tooke up the bloudy hand, that was so large of bone, and on it he founde five ringes of gold, of knightes that had be slone. then he tooke up the eldridge sworde, as hard as any flint; and he tooke off those ringes five, as bright as fyre and brent. home then pricked syr cauline, as light as leafe on tree; i-wys he neither stint ne blanne, till he his ladye see. then downe he knelt upon his knee, before that lady gay: "o ladye, i have bin on the eldridge hills; these tokens i bring away." "now welcome, welcome, syr cauline, thrice welcome unto mee, for now i perceive thou art a true knighte, of valour bolde and free." "o ladye, i am thy own true knighte, thy hests for to obaye; and mought i hope to winne thy love!"-- no more his tonge colde say. the ladye blushed scarlette redde, and fette a gentill sighe: "alas! syr knight, how may this bee, for my degree's soe highe? "but sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth, to be my batchilere, ile promise, if thee i may not wedde, i will have none other fere." then shee held forthe her liley-white hand towards that knighte so free; he gave to it one gentill kisse, his heart was brought from bale to blisse, the teares sterte from his ee. "but keep my counsayl, syr cauline, ne let no man it knowe; for, and ever my father sholde it ken, i wot he wolde us sloe." from that daye forthe, that ladye fayre lovde syr cauline the knighte; from that daye forthe, he only joyde whan shee was in his sight. yea, and oftentimes they mette within a fayre arboure, where they, in love and sweet daliaunce, past manye a pleasaunt houre. , ms. for if. , no inserted. the second part. everye white will have its blacke, and everye sweete its sowre: this founde the ladye christabelle in an untimely howre. for so it befelle, as syr cauline was with that ladye faire, the kinge, her father, walked forthe to take the evenyng aire: and into the arboure as he went to rest his wearye feet, he found his daughter and syr cauline there sette in daliaunce sweet. the kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys, and an angrye man was hee: "nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe and rewe shall thy ladie." then forthe syr cauline he was ledde, and throwne in dungeon deepe: and the ladye into a towre so hye, there left to wayle and weepe. the queene she was syr caulines friend, and to the kinge sayd shee: "i praye you save syr caulines life, and let him banisht bee." "now, dame, that traitor shall be sent across the salt sea fome: but here i will make thee a band, if ever he come within this land, a foule deathe is his doome." all woe-begone was that gentil knight to parte from his ladye; and many a time he sighed sore, and cast a wistfulle eye: "faire christabelle, from thee to parte, farre lever had i dye." fair christabelle, that ladye bright, was had forthe of the towre; but ever shee droopeth in her minde, as, nipt by an ungentle winde, doth some faire lillye flowre. and ever shee doth lament and weepe, to tint her lover soe: "syr cauline, thou little think'st on mee, but i will still be true." manye a kinge, and manye a duke, and lorde of high degree, did sue to that fayre ladye of love; but never shee wolde them nee. when manye a daye was past and gone, ne comforte she colde finde, the kynge proclaimed a tourneament, to cheere his daughters mind. and there came lords, and there came knights, fro manye a farre countrye, to break a spere for theyr ladyes love, before that faire ladye. and many a ladye there was sette, in purple and in palle; but faire christabelle, soe woe-begone, was the fayrest of them all. then manye a knighte was mickle of might, before his ladye gaye; but a stranger wight, whom no man knewe, he wan the prize eche daye. his acton it was all of blacke, his hewberke and his sheelde; ne noe man wist whence he did come, ne noe man knewe where he did gone, when they came out the feelde.[l ] and now three days were prestlye past in feates of chivalrye, when lo, upon the fourth morninge, a sorrowfulle sight they see: a hugye giaunt stiffe and starke, all foule of limbe and lere, two goggling eyen like fire farden, a mouthe from eare to eare. before him came a dwarffe full lowe, that waited on his knee; and at his backe five heads he bare, all wan and pale of blee. "sir," quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe, "behold that hend soldain! behold these heads i beare with me! they are kings which he hath slain. "the eldridge knight is his own cousine, whom a knight of thine hath shent; and hee is come to avenge his wrong: and to thee, all thy knightes among, defiance here hath sent. "but yette he will appease his wrath, thy daughters love to winne; and, but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd, thy halls and towers must brenne. "thy head, syr king, must goe with mee, or else thy daughter deere: or else within these lists soe broad, thou must finde him a peere." the king he turned him round aboute, and in his heart was woe: "is there never a knighte of my round table this matter will undergoe? "is there never a knighte amongst yee all will fight for my daughter and mee? whoever will fight yon grimme soldan, right fair his meede shall bee. "for hee shall have my broad lay-lands, and of my crowne be heyre; and he shall winne fayre christabelle to be his wedded fere." but every knighte of his round table did stand both still and pale; for, whenever they lookt on the grim soldan, it made their hearts to quail. all woe-begone was that fayre ladye, when she sawe no helpe was nye: she cast her thought on her owne true-love, and the teares gusht from her eye. up then sterte the stranger knighte, sayd, "ladye, be not affrayd; ile fight for thee with this grimme soldan, thoughe he be unmacklye made. "and if thou wilt lend me the eldridge sworde, that lyeth within thy bowre, i truste in christe for to slay this fiende, thoughe he be stiff in stowre." "goe fetch him downe the eldridge sworde," the kinge he cryde, "with speede: nowe, heaven assist thee, courteous knighte; my daughter is thy meede." the gyaunt he stepped into the lists, and sayd, "awaye, awaye! i sweare, as i am the hend soldan, thou lettest me here all daye." then forthe the stranger knight he came, in his blacke armoure dight: the ladye sighed a gentle sighe, "that this were my true knighte!" and nowe the gyaunt and knight be mett within the lists soe broad; and now, with swordes soe sharpe of steele, they gan to lay on load. the soldan strucke the knighte a stroke that made him reele asyde: then woe-begone was that fayre ladye, and thrice she deeply sighde. the soldan strucke a second stroke, and made the bloude to flowe: all pale and wan was that ladye fayre, and thrice she wept for woe. the soldan strucke a third fell stroke, which brought the knighte on his knee: sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, and she shriekt loud shriekings three. the knighte he leapt upon his feete, all recklesse of the pain: quoth hee, "but heaven be now my speede, or else i shall be slaine." he grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, and spying a secrette part, he drave it into the soldans syde, and pierced him to the heart. then all the people gave a shoute, whan they sawe the soldan falle: the ladye wept, and thanked christ that had reskewed her from thrall. and nowe the kinge, with all his barons, rose uppe from offe his seate, and downe he stepped into the listes that curteous knighte to greete. but he, for payne and lacke of bloude, was fallen into a swounde, and there, all walteringe in his gore, lay lifelesse on the grounde. "come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, thou art a leeche of skille; farre lever had i lose halfe my landes than this good knighte sholde spille." downe then steppeth that fayre ladye, to helpe him if she maye: but when she did his beavere raise, "it is my life, my lord!" she sayes, and shriekte and swound awaye. sir cauline juste lifte up his eyes, when he heard his ladye crye: "o ladye, i am thine owne true love; for thee i wisht to dye." then giving her one partinge looke, he closed his eyes in death, ere christabelle, that ladye milde, begane to drawe her breathe. but when she found her comelye knighte indeed was dead and gone, she layde her pale, cold cheeke to his, and thus she made her moane: "o staye, my deare and onlye lord, for mee, thy faithfulle feere; 'tis meet that i shold followe thee, who hast bought my love so deare." then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, and with a deep-fette sighe that burst her gentle heart in twayne, fayre christabelle did dye. . "syr cauline here acts up to the genuine spirit of perfect chivalry. in old romances no incident is of more frequent occurrence than this, of knights already distinguished for feats of arms laying aside their wonted cognizances, and, under the semblance of stranger knights, manfully performing right worshipful and valiant deeds. how often is the renowned arthur, in such exhibitions, obliged to exclaim, "o jhesu, what knight is that arrayed all in grene (or as the case may be)? he justeth myghtily!" the emperor of almaine, in like manner, after the timely succor afforded him by syr gowghter, is anxious to learn the name of his modest but unknown deliverer." [so in the romance of _roswall and lillian_, &c.]--motherwell. fair annie. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . the story of _fair annie_ is widely disseminated. the substance of it is found in the beautiful romance of marie de france, the _lai le frein_, of which an ancient english translation is printed in weber's _metrical romances_, i. . the swedish and danish ballads go under the same name of _fair anna_, and may be seen in arwidsson's _svenska fornsånger_, i. ; geijer's _svenska folk-visor_, i. ; and nyerup's _danske viser_, iv. . jamieson has rendered the danish ballad very skilfully, in the scottish dialect, from syv's edition of the _kæmpe viser_. in dutch, the characters are maid adelhaid and king alewijn (hoffmann's _holländische volkslieder_, .) the story as we have found it in german is considerably changed. see _die wiedergefundene königstochter_, in _des knaben wunderhorn_, ii. , and _südeli_, uhland's _volkslieder_, i. . the scottish versions of _fair annie_ are quite numerous. a fragment of eight stanzas was published in herd's collection, (_wha will bake my bridal bread_, ed. , i. .) sir walter scott gave a complete copy, from recitation in the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_. two other copies, also from oral tradition, were inserted by jamieson in the appendix to his _popular ballads_, (_lady jane_, ii. , _burd helen_, ii. ,) and from these he constructed the edition of _lady jane_, printed at p. of the same volume. motherwell (_minstrelsy_) affords still another variety, and chambers has compiled a ballad from all these sources and a manuscript furnished by mr. kinloch, (_scottish ballads_, p. .) in this collection we have adopted the versions of scott and motherwell, giving jamieson's translation of _skj[oe]n anna_ in our appendix. "it's narrow, narrow, make your bed, and learn to lie your lane; for i'm gaun o'er the sea, fair annie, a braw bride to bring hame. wi' her i will get gowd and gear; wi' you i ne'er got nane. "but wha will bake my bridal bread, or brew my bridal ale? and wha will welcome my brisk bride, that i bring o'er the dale?"-- "it's i will bake your bridal bread, and brew your bridal ale; and i will welcome your brisk bride, that you bring o'er the dale."-- "but she that welcomes my brisk bride maun gang like maiden fair; she maun lace on her robe sae jimp, and braid her yellow hair."-- "but how can i gang maiden-like, when maiden i am nane? have i not born seven sons to thee, and am with child again?"-- she's ta'en her young son in her arms, another in her hand; and she's up to the highest tower, to see him come to land. "come up, come up, my eldest son, and look o'er yon sea-strand, and see your father's new-come bride, before she come to land."-- "come down, come down, my mother dear, come frae the castle wa'! i fear, if langer ye stand there, ye'll let yoursell down fa'."-- and she gaed down, and farther down, her love's ship for to see; and the topmast and the mainmast shone like the silver free. and she's gane down, and farther down, the bride's ship to behold; and the topmast and the mainmast they shone just like the gold. she's ta'en her seven sons in her hand; i wot she didna fail! she met lord thomas and his bride, as they came o'er the dale. "you're welcome to your house, lord thomas; you're welcome to your land; you're welcome, with your fair ladye, that you lead by the hand. "you're welcome to your ha's, ladye, your welcome to your bowers; you're welcome to your hame, ladye, for a' that's here is yours."-- "i thank thee, annie; i thank thee, annie; sae dearly as i thank thee; you're the likest to my sister annie, that ever i did see. "there came a knight out o'er the sea, and steal'd my sister away; the shame scoup in his company, and land where'er he gae!"-- she hang ae napkin at the door, another in the ha'; and a' to wipe the trickling tears, sae fast as they did fa'. and aye she served the lang tables with white bread and with wine; and aye she drank the wan water, to had her colour fine. and aye she served the lang tables, with white bread and with brown; and ay she turn'd her round about, sae fast the tears fell down. and he's ta'en down the silk napkin, hung on a silver pin; and aye he wipes the tear trickling adown her cheek and chin. and aye he turn'd him round about, and smiled amang his men, says--"like ye best the old ladye, or her that's new come hame?"-- when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' men bound to bed, lord thomas and his new-come bride, to their chamber they were gaed. annie made her bed a little forbye, to hear what they might say; "and ever alas!" fair annie cried, "that i should see this day! "gin my seven sons were seven young rats, running on the castle wa', and i were a grey cat mysell, i soon would worry them a'. "gin my seven sons were seven young hares, running o'er yon lilly lee, and i were a grew hound mysell, soon worried they a' should be."-- and wae and sad fair annie sat, and drearie was her sang; and ever, as she sobb'd and grat, "wae to the man that did the wrang!"-- "my gown is on," said the new-come bride, "my shoes are on my feet, and i will to fair annie's chamber, and see what gars her greet.-- "what ails ye, what ails ye, fair annie, that ye make sic a moan? has your wine barrels cast the girds, or is your white bread gone? "o wha was't was your father, annie, or wha was't was your mother? and had you ony sister, annie, or had you ony brother?"-- "the earl of wemyss was my father, the countess of wemyss my mother; and a' the folk about the house, to me were sister and brother."-- "if the earl of wemyss was your father, i wot sae was he mine; and it shall not be for lack o' gowd, that ye your love sall tyne. "for i have seven ships o' mine ain, a' loaded to the brim; and i will gie them a' to thee, wi' four to thine eldest son. but thanks to a' the powers in heaven that i gae maiden hame!" fair annie. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . obtained from recitation. "learn to mak your bed, annie, and learn to lie your lane; for i maun owre the salt seas gang, a brisk bride to bring hame. "bind up, bind up your yellow hair, and tye it in your neck; and see you look as maiden-like as the day that we first met." "o how can i look maiden-like, when maiden i'll ne'er be; when seven brave sons i've born to thee, and the eighth is in my bodie? "the eldest of your sons, my lord, wi' red gold shines his weed; the second of your sons, my lord, rides on a milk-white steed. "and the third of your sons, my lord, he draws your beer and wine; and the fourth of your sons, my lord, can serve you when you dine. "and the fift of your sons, my lord, he can both read and write; and the sixth of your sons, my lord, can do it most perfyte. "and the sevent of your sons, my lord, sits on the nurse's knee: and how can i look maiden-like, when a maid i'll never be? "but wha will bake your wedding bread, and brew your bridal ale? or wha will welcome your brisk bride that you bring owre the dale?" "i'll put cooks in my kitchen, and stewards in my hall, and i'll have bakers for my bread, and brewers for my ale; but you're to welcome my brisk bride that i bring owre the dale." he set his feet into his ship, and his cock-boat on the main; he swore it would be year and day or he returned again. when year and day was past and gane, fair annie she thocht lang; and she is up to her bower head, to behold both sea and land. "come up, come up, my eldest son, and see now what you see; o yonder comes your father dear, and your stepmother to be." "cast off your gown of black, mother, put on your gown of brown, and i'll put off my mourning weeds, and we'll welcome him home." she's taken wine into her hand, and she has taken bread, and she is down to the water side to welcome them indeed. "you're welcome, my lord, you're welcome, my lord, you're welcome home to me; so is every lord and gentleman that is in your companie. "you're welcome, my lady, you're welcome, my lady, you're welcome home to me; so is every lady and gentleman that's in your companie." "i thank you, my girl, i thank you, my girl, i thank you heartily; if i live seven years about this house, rewarded you shall be." she serv'd them up, she serv'd them down, with the wheat bread and the wine; but aye she drank the cauld water, to keep her colour fine. she serv'd them up, she serv'd them down, with the wheat bread and the beer; but aye she drank the cauld water, to keep her colour clear. when bells were rung and mass was sung, and all were boune for rest, fair annie laid her sons in bed, and a sorrowfu' woman she was. "will i go to the salt, salt seas, and see the fishes swim? or will i go to the gay green wood, and hear the small birds sing?" out and spoke an aged man, that stood behind the door,-- "ye will not go to the salt, salt seas, to see the fishes swim; nor will ye go to the gay green wood, to hear the small birds sing: "but ye'll take a harp into your hand, go to their chamber door, and aye ye'll harp and aye ye'll murn, with the salt tears falling o'er." she's ta'en a harp into her hand, went to their chamber door, and aye she harped and aye she murn'd, with the salt tears falling o'er. out and spak the brisk young bride, in bride-bed where she lay,-- "i think i hear my sister annie, and i wish weel it may; for a scotish lord staw her awa, and an ill death may he die." "wha was your father, my girl," she says, "or wha was your mother? or had you ever a sister dear, or had you ever a brother?" "king henry was my father dear, queen esther was my mother, prince henry was my brother dear, and fanny flower my sister." "if king henry was your father dear, and queen esther was your mother, if prince henry was your brother dear, then surely i'm your sister. "come to your bed, my sister dear, it ne'er was wrang'd for me, bot an ae kiss of his merry mouth, as we cam owre the sea." "awa, awa, ye forenoon bride, awa, awa frae me; i wudna hear my annie greet, for a' the gold i got wi' thee." "there were five ships of gay red gold cam owre the seas with me; it's twa o' them will tak me hame, and three i'll leave wi' thee. "seven ships o' white monie came owre the seas wi' me; five o' them i'll leave wi' thee, and twa will take me hame; and my mother will make my portion up, when i return again." child waters. first published by percy from his folio ms., _reliques_, iii. . several traditionary versions have since been printed, of which we give _burd ellen_ from jamieson's, and in the appendix, _lady margaret_ from kinloch's collection. jamieson also furnishes a fragment, and buchan, (_ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. ,) a complete copy of another version of _burd ellen_, and chambers (_scottish ballads_, ,) makes up an edition from all the copies, which we mention here because he has taken some lines from a manuscript supplied by mr. kinloch. childe waters in his stable stoode and stroakt his milke-white steede; to him a fayre yonge ladye came as ever ware womans weede. sayes, "christ you save, good childe waters," sayes, "christ you save and see; my girdle of gold that was too longe, is now too short for mee. "and all is with one childe of yours i feele sturre at my side; my gowne of greene it is too straighte; before, it was too wide." "if the child be mine, faire ellen," he sayd,[l ] "be mine, as you tell mee, then take you cheshire and lancashire both, take them your owne to bee. "if the childe be mine, faire ellen," he sayd, "be mine, as you doe sweare, then take you cheshire and lancashire both, and make that child your heyre." shee sayes, "i had rather have one kisse, childe waters, of thy mouth, than i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, that lye by north and southe. "and i had rather have one twinkling, childe waters, of thine ee, than i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, to take them mine owne to bee." "to morrowe, ellen, i must forth ryde farr into the north countree; the fayrest lady that i can finde, ellen, must goe with mee." "thoughe i am not that ladye fayre,[l ] yet let me go with thee: and ever i pray you, childe waters, your foot-page let me bee." "if you will my foot-page bee, ellen, as you doe tell to mee, then you must cut your gowne of greene an inch above your knee: "soe must you doe your yellowe lockes, an inch above your ee; you must tell no man what is my name; my foot-page then you shall bee." shee, all the long daye childe waters rode, ran barefoote by his syde, yet was he never soe courteous a knighte, to say, "ellen, will you ryde?" shee, all the long daye childe waters rode, ran barefoote thorow the broome, yett was hee never soe courteous a knighte, to say, "put on your shoone." "ride softlye," shee sayd, "o childe waters: why doe you ryde so fast? the childe, which is no mans but thine, my bodye itt will brast." hee sayth, "seest thou yond water, ellen, that flows from banke to brimme?" "i trust to god, o childe waters, you never will see me swimme." but when shee came to the water side, she sayled to the chinne: "now the lord of heaven be my speede, for i must learne to swimme." the salt waters bare up her clothes, our ladye bare up her chinne; childe waters was a woe man, good lord, to see faire ellen swimme! and when shee over the water was, shee then came to his knee: hee sayd, "come hither, thou fayre ellen, loe yonder what i see. "seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of redd gold shines the yate: of twenty foure faire ladyes there, the fairest is my mate. "seest thou not yonder hall, ellen? of redd golde shines the towre: there are twenty four fayre ladyes there, the fayrest is my paramoure." "i see the hall now, childe waters, of redd golde shines the yate: god give you good now of yourselfe, and of your worldlye mate. "i see the hall now, childe waters, of redd golde shines the towre: god give you good now of yourselfe, and of your paramoure." there twenty four fayre ladyes were a playing at the ball, and ellen, the fayrest ladye there, must bring his steed to the stall. there twenty four fayre ladyes were a playinge at the chesse, and ellen, the fayrest ladye there, must bring his horse to gresse. and then bespake childe waters sister, these were the wordes sayd shee: "you have the prettyest page, brother, that ever i did see; "but that his bellye it is soe bigge, his girdle stands soe hye; and ever, i pray you, childe waters, let him in my chamber lye." "it is not fit for a little foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to lye in the chamber of any ladye, that weares soe riche attyre. "it is more meete for a little foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to take his supper upon his knee, and lye by the kitchen fyre." now when they had supped every one, to bedd they tooke theyr waye: he sayd, "come hither, my little foot-page, and hearken what i saye. "goe thee downe into yonder towne, and lowe into the streete; the fayrest ladye that thou canst finde, hyre in mine armes to sleepe; and take her up in thine armes twaine, for filing of her feete." ellen is gone into the towne, and lowe into the streete; the fayrest ladye that shee colde finde, she hyred in his armes to sleepe; and tooke her up in her armes twayne, for filing of her feete. "i praye you nowe, good childe waters, let mee lye at your feete; for there is noe place about this house, where i may saye a sleepe." he gave her leave, and faire ellen[l ] down at his beds feet laye; this done the nighte drove on apace, and when it was neare the daye, hee sayd, "rise up, my little foot-page, give my steede corne and haye; and give him nowe the good black oats, to carry mee better awaye." up then rose the faire ellen, and gave his steede corne and hay; and soe shee did the good black oates, to carry him the better awaye. she leaned her back to the manger side, and grievouslye did groane; she leaned her back to the manger side, and there shee made her moane. and that beheard his mother deare, shee heard her woefull woe:[l ] shee sayd, "rise up, thou childe waters, and into thy stable goe. "for in thy stable is a ghost, that grievouslye doth grone; or else some woman laboures with childe, shee is so woe-begone." up then rose childe waters soone, and did on his shirte of silke; and then he put on his other clothes, on his bodye as white as milke. and when he came to the stable dore, full still there hee did stand, that hee mighte heare his fayre ellen, howe shee made her monand. she sayd, "lullabye, mine own dear childe, lullabye, deare childe, deare; i wolde thy father were a kinge, thy mothere layd on a biere." "peace nowe," hee sayd, "good, faire ellen, bee of good cheere, i praye; and the bridale and the churchinge bothe shall bee upon one daye. , ms. be inne. , , supplied by percy. , , supplied by percy. , her woefull woe, percy! burd ellen. printed from mrs. brown's recitation, in jamieson's _popular ballads_, i. . we have restored the text by omitting some interpolations of the editor, and three concluding stanzas by the same, which, contrary to all authority, gave a tragic turn to the story. lord john stood in his stable door, said he was boun to ride; burd ellen stood in her bower door, said she'd rin by his side. he's pitten on his cork-heel'd shoon, and fast awa rade he; she's clad hersel in page array, and after him ran she: till they came till a wan water, and folks do call it clyde; then he's lookit o'er his left shoulder, says, "lady, will ye ride?" "o i learnt it wi' my bower woman, and i learnt it for my weal, whanever i cam to wan water, to swim like ony eel." but the firsten stap the lady stappit, the water came till her knee; "ochon, alas!" said the lady, "this water's o'er deep for me." the nexten stap the lady stappit, the water came till her middle; and sighin says that gay lady, "i've wat my gouden girdle." the thirden stap the lady stappit, the water came till her pap; and the bairn that was in her twa sides for cauld began to quake. "lie still, lie still, my ain dear babe; ye work your mother wae: your father rides on high horse back, cares little for us twae." o about the midst o' clyde's water there was a yeard-fast stane; he lightly turn'd his horse about, and took her on him behin. "o tell me this now, good lord john, and a word ye dinna lie, how far it is to your lodgin, whare we this night maun be?" "o see na ye yon castell, ellen, that shines sae fair to see? there is a lady in it, ellen, will sinder you and me. "there is a lady in that castell will sinder you and i"-- "betide me weal, betide me wae, i sall gang there and try." "my dogs shall eat the good white bread, and ye shall eat the bran; then will ye sigh, and say, alas! that ever i was a man!" "o i shall eat the good white bread, and your dogs shall eat the bran; and i hope to live to bless the day, that ever ye was a man." "o my horse shall eat the good white meal, and ye sall eat the corn; then will ye curse the heavy hour that ever your love was born." ["o i shall eat the good white meal, and your horse shall eat the corn;][l ] i ay sall bless the happy hour that ever my love was born." o four and twenty gay ladies welcom'd lord john to the ha', but a fairer lady than them a' led his horse to the stable sta.' o four and twenty gay ladies welcom'd lord john to the green; but a fairer lady than them a' at the manger stood alane. when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' men boun to meat, burd ellen was at the bye-table amang the pages set. "o eat and drink, my bonny boy, the white bread and the beer."-- "the never a bit can i eat or drink, my heart's sae fu' o' fear." "o eat and drink, my bonny boy, the white bread and the wine."-- "o how sall i eat or drink, master, wi' heart sae fu' o' pine?" but out and spak lord john's mother, and a wise woman was she: "whare met ye wi' that bonny boy, that looks sae sad on thee? sometimes his cheek is rosy red, and sometimes deadly wan; he's liker a woman big wi' bairn, than a young lord's serving man." "o it makes me laugh, my mother dear, sic words to hear frae thee; he is a squire's ae dearest son, that for love has followed me. "rise up, rise up, my bonny boy, gi'e my horse corn and hay."-- "o that i will, my master dear, as quickly as i may." she's ta'en the hay under her arm, the corn intill her hand, and she's gane to the great stable, as fast as e'er she can. "o room ye round, my bonny brown steeds, o room ye near the wa'; for the pain that strikes me through my sides full soon will gar me fa'." she lean'd her back against the wa'; strong travel came her on; and e'en amang the great horse feet burd ellen brought forth her son. lord johnis mither intill her bower was sitting all alane, when, in the silence o' the nicht, she heard burd ellen's mane. "won up, won up, my son," she says, "gae see how a' does fare; for i think i hear a woman's groans, and a bairnie greetin' sair." o hastily he gat him up, staid neither for hose nor shoon, and he's doen him to the stable door wi' the clear light o' the moon. he strack the door hard wi' his foot, sae has he wi' his knee, and iron locks and iron bars into the floor flung he: "be not afraid, burd ellen," he says, "there's nane come in but me. "tak up, tak up my bonny young son; gar wash him wi' the milk; tak up, tak up my fair lady, gar row her in the silk. "and cheer thee up, burd ellen," he says, "look nae mair sad nor wae; for your marriage and your kirkin too sall baith be in ae day." , , according to jamieson, the same as vv. , , but here formed on their model, from , . erlinton. first published in the _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, ii. ,--"from the collation of two copies obtained from recitation." _erlinton_ and _the child of elle_ are corrupt varieties of _the douglas tragedy_. the passage referred to in vol. ii. p. , is remarked on in a note at the end of the ballad. erlinton had a fair daughter; i wat he weird her in a great sin, for he has built a bigly bower, an' a' to put that lady in. an' he has warn'd her sisters six, an' sae has he her brethren se'en, outher to watch her a' the night, or else to seek her morn an e'en. she hadna been i' that bigly bower, na not a night, but barely ane, till there was willie, her ain true love, chapp'd at the door, cryin', "peace within!" "o whae is this at my bower door, that chaps sae late, or kens the gin?" "o it is willie, your ain true love, i pray you rise an' let me in!" "but in my bower there is a wake, an' at the wake there is a wane; but i'll come to the green-wood the morn, whar blooms the brier, by mornin' dawn." then she's gane to her bed again, where she has layen till the cock crew thrice, then she said to her sisters a', "maidens, 'tis time for us to rise." she pat on her back her silken gown, an' on her breast a siller pin, an' she's ta'en a sister in ilka hand, an' to the green-wood she is gane. she hadna walk'd in the green-wood, na not a mile but barely ane, till there was willie, her ain true love, wha frae her sisters has her ta'en. he took her sisters by the hand, he kiss'd them baith, an' sent them hame, an' he's ta'en his true love him behind, and through the green-wood they are gane. they hadna ridden in the bonnie green-wood, na not a mile but barely ane, when there came fifteen o' the boldest knights, that ever bare flesh, blood, or bane. the foremost was an aged knight, he wore the grey hair on his chin: says, "yield to me thy lady bright, an' thou shalt walk the woods within." "for me to yield my lady bright to such an aged knight as thee, people wad think i war gane mad, or a' the courage flown frae me." but up then spake the second knight, i wat he spake right boustouslie: "yield me thy life, or thy lady bright, or here the tane of us shall die." "my lady is my warld's meed;[l ] my life i winna yield to nane; but if ye be men of your manhead, ye'll only fight me ane by ane." he lighted aff his milk-white steed, an' gae his lady him by the head, say'n, "see ye dinna change your cheer, untill ye see my body bleed." he set his back unto an aik, he set his feet against a stane, an' he has fought these fifteen men, an' kill'd them a' but barely ane; for he has left that aged knight, an' a' to carry the tidings hame. when he gaed to his lady fair, i wat he kiss'd her tenderlie: "thou art mine ain love, i have thee bought; now we shall walk the green-wood free." , should we not read _warld's mate_? note to v. , . "say'n, 'see ye dinna change your cheer, untill ye see my body bleed.'" as has been remarked (vol. ii. p. ), _erlinton_ retains an important, and even fundamental trait of the older forms of the story, which is not found in any other of the english versions of the _douglas tragedy_. it was a northern superstition that to call a man by name while he was engaged in fight was a fatal omen, and hence a phrase, "to name-to-death." to avert this danger, ribolt, in nearly all the scandinavian ballads, entreats guldborg not to _pronounce his name_, even if she sees him bleeding or struck down. in her agony at seeing the last of her brothers about to be slain, guldborg forgets her lover's injunction, calls on him by name to stop, and thus brings about the catastrophe. ignorant reciters have either dropped the corresponding passage in the english ballad, or (as in this case) have so corrupted it, that its significance is only to be made out by comparison with the ancient copies. the child of elle. "from a fragment in the editor's folio ms., which, though extremely defective and mutilated, appeared to have so much merit, that it excited a strong desire to attempt the completion of the story. the reader will easily discover the supplemental stanzas by their inferiority, and at the same time be inclined to pardon it, when he considers how difficult it must be to imitate the affecting simplicity and artless beauties of the original." percy, _reliques_, i. . (see vol. ii. p. .) it must be acknowledged that this truly modest apology was not altogether uncalled for. so extensive are percy's alterations and additions, that the reader will have no slight difficulty in detecting the few traces that are left of the genuine composition. nevertheless, sir walter scott avers that the corrections are "in the true style of gothic embellishment!" on yonder hill a castle standes, with walles and towres bedight, and yonder lives the child of elle, a younge and comely knighte. the child of elle to his garden wente, and stood at his garden pale, whan, lo! he beheld fair emmelines page come trippinge downe the dale. the child of elle he hyed him thence, ywis he stoode not stille, and soone he mette faire emmelines page come climbing up the hille. "nowe christe thee save, thou little foot-page, now christe thee save and see! oh telle me how does thy ladye gaye, and what may thy tydinges bee?" "my lady shee is all woe-begone, and the teares they falle from her eyne; and aye she laments the deadlye feude betweene her house and thine." "and here shee sends thee a silken scarfe, bedewde with many a teare, and biddes thee sometimes thinke on her, who loved thee so deare. "and here shee sends thee a ring of golde, the last boone thou mayst have, and biddes thee weare it for her sake, whan she is layde in grave. "for, ah! her gentle heart is broke, and in grave soone must shee bee, sith her father hath chose her a new, new love, and forbidde her to think of thee. "her father hath brought her a carlish knight, sir john of the north countraye, and within three dayes shee must him wedde, or he vowes he will her slaye." "nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and greet thy ladye from mee, and telle her that i, her owne true love, will dye, or sette her free. "nowe hye thee backe, thou little foot-page, and let thy fair ladye know, this night will i bee at her bowre-windowe, betide me weale or woe." the boye he tripped, the boye he ranne, he neither stint ne stayd, untill he came to fair emmelines bowre, whan kneeling downe he sayd: "o ladye, ive been with thy own true love, and he greets thee well by mee; this night will he bee at thy bowre-windowe, and dye or sette thee free." nowe daye was gone, and night was come, and all were fast asleepe, all save the ladye emmeline, who sate in her bowre to weepe: and soone shee heard her true loves voice lowe whispering at the walle: "awake, awake, my deare ladye, tis i, thy true love, call. "awake, awake, my ladye deare, come, mount this faire palfraye: this ladder of ropes will lette thee downe, ile carrye thee hence awaye." "nowe nay, nowe nay, thou gentle knight, nowe nay, this may not bee; for aye sould i tint my maiden fame, if alone i should wend with thee." "o ladye, thou with a knight so true mayst safelye wend alone; to my ladye mother i will thee bringe, where marriage shall make us one." "my father he is a baron bolde, of lynage proude and hye; and what would he saye if his daughter awaye with a knight should fly? "ah! well i wot, he never would rest, nor his meate should doe him no goode, till he had slayne thee, child of elle, and seene thy deare hearts bloode." "o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and a little space him fro, i would not care for thy cruel father, nor the worst that he could doe. "o ladye, wert thou in thy saddle sette, and once without this walle, i would not care for thy cruel father, nor the worst that might befalle." faire emmeline sighed, faire emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe: at length he seizde her lilly-white hand, and downe the ladder he drewe. and thrice he claspde her to his breste, and kist her tenderlie: the teares that fell from her fair eyes, ranne like the fountayne free. hee mounted himselfe on his steede so talle, and her on a faire palfraye, and slung his bugle about his necke, and roundlye they rode awaye. all this beheard her owne damselle, in her bed whereas shee ley; quoth shee, "my lord shall knowe of this, soe i shall have golde and fee. "awake, awake, thou baron bolde! awake, my noble dame! your daughter is fledde with the childe of elle, to doe the deede of shame." the baron he woke, the baron he rose, and called his merrye men all: "and come thou forth, sir john the knighte; the ladye is carried to thrall." fair emmeline scant had ridden a mile, a mile forth of the towne, when she was aware of her fathers men come galloping over the downe. and foremost came the carlish knight, sir john of the north countraye: "nowe stop, nowe stop, thou false traitoure, nor carry that ladye awaye. "for she is come of hye lynage, and was of a ladye borne, and ill it beseems thee, a false churles sonne, to carrye her hence to scorne." "nowe loud thou lyest, sir john the knight, nowe thou doest lye of mee; a knight mee gott, and a ladye me bore, soe never did none by thee. "but light nowe downe, my ladye faire, light downe, and hold my steed, while i and this discourteous knighte doe trye this arduous deede. "but light now downe, my deare ladye, light downe, and hold my horse; while i and this discourteous knight doe trye our valours force." fair emmeline sighde, fair emmeline wept, and aye her heart was woe, while twixt her love and the carlish knight past many a baleful blowe. the child of elle hee fought soe well, as his weapon he wavde amaine, that soone he had slaine the carlish knight, and layde him upon the plaine. and nowe the baron, and all his men full fast approached nye: ah! what may ladye emmeline doe? twere now no boote to flye. her lover he put his horne to his mouth, and blew both loud and shrill, and soone he saw his owne merry men come ryding over the hill. "nowe hold thy hand, thou bold baron, i pray thee, hold thy hand, nor ruthless rend two gentle hearts, fast knit in true loves band. "thy daughter i have dearly lovde full long and many a day; but with such love as holy kirke hath freelye sayd wee may. "o give consent shee may be mine, and blesse a faithfull paire; my lands and livings are not small, my house and lynage faire. "my mother she was an earles daughter, and a noble knyght my sire----" the baron he frownde, and turnde away with mickle dole and ire. fair emmeline sighde, faire emmeline wept, and did all tremblinge stand; at lengthe she sprange upon her knee, and held his lifted hand. "pardon, my lorde and father deare, this faire yong knyght and mee: trust me, but for the carlish knyght, i never had fled from thee. "oft have you callde your emmeline your darling and your joye; o let not then your harsh resolves your emmeline destroye." the baron he stroakt his dark-brown cheeke, and turnde his heade asyde, to wipe awaye the starting teare, he proudly strave to hyde. in deepe revolving thought he stoode, and musde a little space; then raisde faire emmeline from the grounde, with many a fond embrace. "here take her, child of elle," he sayd, and gave her lillye hand; "here take my deare and only child, and with her half my land. "thy father once mine honour wrongde, in dayes of youthful pride; do thou the injurye repayre in fondnesse for thy bride. "and as thou love her and hold her deare, heaven prosper thee and thine; and nowe my blessing wend wi' thee, my lovelye emmeline." sir aldingar. of this very remarkable ballad two copies have been printed in english, _sir aldingar_, from the percy ms. (_reliques_, ii. ), "with conjectural emendations and the insertion of some additional stanzas," and _sir hugh le blond_, by scott, from recitation. the corresponding danish ballad, _ravengaard og memering_, first published by grundtvig, is extant in not less than five copies, the oldest derived from a ms. of the middle of the th century, the others from recent recitations. with these grundtvig has given an icelandic version, from a ms. of the th century, another in the dialect of the faroe islands, and a third half danish, half faroish, both as still sung by the people. the ballad was also preserved, not long ago, in norway.--_danmarks gamle folkeviser_, i. - , ii. - . all these ballads contain a story one and the same in the essential features--a story which occurs repeatedly in connection with historical personages, in germany, france, italy, and spain, as well as england,--and which has also furnished the theme for various modern romances, poems, and tragedies. the connection of the different forms of the legend has been investigated by the danish editor at considerable length and with signal ability; and we shall endeavor to present the principal results of his wide research in the few pages which our narrow limits allow us to give to such questions. the names of the characters in the danish ballads are henry (called duke of brunswick and of schleswig in the oldest), gunild (of spires, called also gunder), ravengaard, and memering. to these correspond, in the english story, king henry, queen eleanor, sir aldingar (the resemblance of this name to ravengaard will be noted), and a boy, to whom no name is assigned. eleanor, it hardly need be remarked, is a queen's name somewhat freely used in ballads (see vol. vi. , and vol. vii. ), and it is possible that the consort of henry ii. is here intended, though her reputation both in history and in song hardly favors that supposition. the occurrence of spires in the old danish ballad would naturally induce us to look for the origin of the story in the annals of the german emperors of the franconian line, who held their court at spires, and are most of them buried in the cathedral at that place. a very promising clue is immediately found in the history of king (afterwards emperor) henry iii., son of the emperor conrad ii. salicus. this henry was married, in the year , to gunhild, daughter of canute the great. an english chronicler, william of malmesbury, writing in the first half of the th century, tells us that after this princess had lived many years in honorable wedlock, she was accused of adultery. being forced to clear herself by wager of battle, she found in all her retinue no one who was willing to risk a combat with her accuser, a man of gigantic stature, save a little boy whom she had brought with her from england. the issue of the duel established her innocence,--her diminutive champion succeeding by some miracle in ham-stringing his huge adversary; but it is alleged that the queen refused to return to her husband, and passed the rest of a long life in a monastery.[ ] [ ] "although there are seven centuries between william and our times," says grundtvig, "and the north sea between jutland and the land of his birth, it almost seems as if he had taken his account from the very ballad which is at this day sung on the little island of fuur in the lym fiord." a norman-french _life of edward the confessor_, written about , repeats this story, and adds the champion's name.[ ] [ ] we have substituted this paragraph instead of a later chronicle cited by grundtvig. the translation is that of the english editor: _lives of edward the confessor_ (p. , ), recently published by authority of the british government. "a daughter had the king, who was not so beautiful as clever. gunnild her name; and he gave her to him who with love had asked for her,-- the noble emperor henry. she remained not long with him, because by felons, who had no reason to blame her calumniously, she was charged with shame: to the emperor was she accused. according to the custom of the empire, it behoved her to clear herself from shame by battle; and she takes much trouble to find one to be her champion: but finds no one, for very huge was the accuser,--as a giant. but a dwarf, whom she had brought up, undertook the fight with him. at the first blow he hamstrung him; at the second he cut off his feet. mimecan was the dwarf's name, who was so good a champion, as the history, which is written, says of him. the lady was freed from blame, but the lady the emperor no more will have as her lord." finally, john brompton, writing two hundred years after william of malmesbury, repeats his account, and gives the names of _both_ the combatants,--"a youth called mimicon, and a man of gigantic size, by name roddyngar" (raadengard = the danish ravengaard). the story of william of malmesbury and the rest, though it is sufficiently in accordance with the danish and english ballads, is in direct opposition to the testimony of contemporary german chroniclers, who represent queen gunhild as living on the best terms with her husband, and instead of growing old in god's service in a nunnery, as dying of the plague in italy two years after her marriage, and hardly twenty years of age. it is manifest, therefore, that the english chroniclers derived their accounts from ballads current at their day,[ ] which, as they were not founded on any real passages in the life of gunhild, require us to look a little further for their origin. [ ] william of malmesbury refers to ballads which were made on the splendid nuptial procession, by which gunhild was conducted to the ship that was to bear her to her husband, as still sung about the streets in his time. the empress gunhild was called by the german chroniclers of her day by various names--as cunihild, chunihild, chunelind, and _cunigund_, which last name she is said to have assumed at her coronation. this change of gunhild's name accounts for the unfounded scandals which were in circulation about her in her native land, scarcely a hundred years after her death. cunigund, wife of henry iii., was in fact confounded with a contemporary german queen and empress, _st. cunigund_, widow of the emperor henry ii. this mistake, which has been made more than once, will be acknowledged to be a very natural one (especially for foreigners), when it is considered that both queens not only bore the same name, but were married each to an emperor of the same name (henry), both of whom again were sons of conrads.[ ] [ ] an argument in confirmation of what is here said is afforded by a german annalist of the th century, who states, under the date , that the empress cunigund died the d of march, and was buried at spires. now st. cunigund actually did die the d of march, and that day is dedicated to her in the roman calendar, but the year was , and she was buried at bamberg, while gunhild died in (july ), and was buried in the monastery of limburg, near spires. referring now to the history of st. cunigund, we read in the papal bull of innocent iii., by which she was canonized in the year , that "she consecrated her virginity to the lord, and preserved it intact,--so that when at one time by the instigation of the enemy of mankind a suspicion had been raised against her, she, to prove her innocence, walked with bare feet over burning ploughshares, and came off unscathed." again, we read in a slightly more recent german chronicle, as follows: "the devil, who hates all the righteous, and is ever seeking to bring them to shame, stirred up the emperor against his wife, persuading him, through a certain duke, that in contempt of her husband she had committed adultery with another man. the empress offered to undergo an ordeal, and a great many bishops came to see it carried out. whereupon seven glowing ploughshares were laid on the ground, over which the empress was forced to walk in bare feet, to attest her innocence, ... which, when the king saw, he prostrated himself before her with all his nobles." adalbert's life of st. henry (which is, at the latest, of the th century), agreeing in all essentials with these accounts, adds an important particular, explaining how it was that the devil brought the queen's honor into question, namely, that he was seen by many to go in and out of her private chamber, in the likeness of a handsome young man.--st. cunigund is said to have undergone the ordeal at bamberg, in the year . the story, however, is without foundation, not being mentioned by any contemporary writers, but first appearing in various legends, towards the year . but st. cunigund is by no means the first german empress of whom the story under consideration is told. a writer contemporary with her, who has nothing to say about the miracle just recounted, relates something very similar of _another_ empress, one hundred and thirty years earlier, namely, of richardis, wife of charles iii. the tale runs that this charles, in the year , accused his queen of unlawful connection with a bishop. her majesty offered to subject herself to the judgment of god, either by duel or by the ordeal of burning ploughshares. it is not said that either test was applied, but only that the queen retired into a cloister which she had herself founded. this is the contemporary account. a century and a half later we are told that an ordeal by _water_ was actually undergone, which again is changed by later writers into an ordeal by _fire_,--the empress passing through the flames in a waxed garment, without receiving the least harm; in memory of which, a day was kept, five centuries after, in honor of st. richardis, in the monastery to which she withdrew. several other similar cases might be mentioned, but it will suffice to refer to only one more, more ancient than any of those already cited. paulus diaconus (who wrote about the year ) relates that a lombard queen, gundiberg (of the th century), having been charged with infidelity, one of her servants asked permission of the king to fight in the lists for his mistress's honor, and conquered his antagonist in the presence of all the people. the same story is told, more in detail, by aimoin, a somewhat more recent writer, of another gundeberg, likewise of the th century. a lombard nobleman makes insolent proposals to his queen, and meets with a most emphatic repulse. upon this he goes to the king with a story that the queen has been three days conspiring to poison her husband, and put her accomplice in his place. the tale is believed, and the queen shut up in prison. the frankish king, a relation of the injured woman, remonstrates on the injustice of condemnation without trial, and the king consents to submit the question to a duel. the champion of innocence is victorious, and the real criminal is condignly punished. this form of the legend, the oldest of all that have been cited, approaches very near to the danish and english ballads. our conclusion would therefore be, with grundtvig, that the ballads of _sir aldingar_, _ravengaard and memering_, and the rest, are of common derivation with the legends of st. cunigund, gundeberg, &c., and that all these are offshoots of a story which, "beginning far back in the infancy of the gothic race and their poetry, is continually turning up, now here and now there, without having a proper home in any definite time or assignable place." many circumstances corroborative of this view might be added, but we must content ourselves with obviating a possible objection. an invariable feature in the story is the _judicium dei_ by which the innocence of the accused wife is established, but there is much difference in the various forms of the legend as to the _kind_ of ordeal employed, and some minds may here find difficulty. a close observation, however, will show such a connection between the different accounts as to prove an original unity. even the earlier legends of st. cunigund do not agree on this point; one makes her to have walked over burning ploughshares, another to have carried red-hot iron in her hands. the icelandic copy of the ballad has both of these: the queen "carries iron and walks on steel"; and there is also a "judgment by iron bands." all these three tests are found in the faroe ballad, which brings in memering besides, and thus furnishes a transition to the danish, which says nothing about the trial by fire, and has only the duel. finally the english ballad completes the circle with the pile at which the queen was to be burned, in case she should not be able to prove her innocence by the duel. at a time uncertain, but earlier than the th century, this legend was transplanted into the literature of southern europe. it is found in various spanish chronicles, the earliest the _historia de cataluña_ of bernardo desclot, written about ; also in a provençal and a french chronicle of the th century. in most of these the part of the queen's champion is assigned to the well-known raimund berengar, count of barcelona, who, in the year , took majorca from the moors. the popularity of the story is further proved by the spanish romance, _el conde de barcelona y la emperatriz de alemania_; the french romance _l'histoire de palanus, comte de lyon_; and a novel of bandello, the th of the second part. this last was re-written and published in , with slight changes, as an original tale, by m^{me} de fontaines (_histoire de la comtesse de savoie_), whence voltaire borrowed materials for two of his tragedies, _tancrède_ and _artémire_. by the circuitous route of spain the story returns to england in a romance of the th century, _the erle of tolous_ (ritson, _metr. rom._ iii. p. ). nearly related with this romance is the german story-book (derived from the french) on which hans sachs founded his tragedy, _der ritter golmi mit der herzogin auss britanien_. another german popular story-book, _hirlanda_, exhibits a close resemblance to our ballad of _sir aldingar_.[ ] [ ] in § v. of his introduction to _ravengaard og memering_, grundtvig seeks to show that this ballad, though independent in its origin, was at one time, like many others, woven into the great south-gothic epic of diderik of bern, and then, having divided the legend into two portions,--the accusation and its cause, the vindication and its mode,--he, in § vi. vii. traces out with wonderful learning and penetration the extensive ramifications of the first part, taken by itself, through the romance of the middle ages. the whole essay is beyond praise. "this old fabulous legend is given from the editor's folio ms., with conjectural emendations, and the insertion of some additional stanzas to supply and complete the story. it has been suggested to the editor that the author of the poem seems to have had in his eye the story of gunhilda, who is sometimes called eleanor (?), and was married to the emperor (here called king) henry."--percy. our king he kept a false stewarde, sir aldingar they him call; a falser steward than he was one, servde not in bower nor hall. he wolde have layne by our comelye queene, her deere worshippe to betraye; our queene she was a good woman, and evermore said him naye. sir aldingar was wrothe in his mind, with her hee was never content, till traiterous meanes he colde devyse, in a fyer to have her brent. there came a lazar to the kings gate, a lazar both blinde and lame; he tooke the lazar upon his backe, him on the queenes bed has layne. "lye still, lazar, wheras thou lyest, looke thou goe not hence away; ile make thee a whole man and a sound in two howers of the day." then went him forth sir aldingar, and hyed him to our king: "if i might have grace, as i have space, sad tydings i could bring." "say on, say on, sir aldingar, saye on the soothe to mee." "our queene hath chosen a new, new love, and shee will have none of thee. "if shee had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had beene her shame; but she hath chose her a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame." "if this be true, thou aldingar, the tyding thou tellest to me, then will i make thee a rich, rich knight, rich both of golde and fee. "but if it be false, sir aldingar, as god nowe grant it bee! thy body, i sweare by the holye rood, shall hang on the gallows tree." he brought our king to the queenes chamber, and opend to him the dore: "a lodlye love," king harry says, "for our queene," dame elinore! "if thou were a man, as thou art none, here on my sword thoust dye; but a payre of new gallowes shall be built, and there shalt thou hang on hye." forth then hyed our king, iwysse, and an angry man was hee, and soone he found queene elinore, that bride so bright of blee. "now god you save, our queene, madame, and christ you save and see! here you have chosen a newe, newe love, and you will have none of mee. "if you had chosen a right good knight, the lesse had been your shame; but you have chose you a lazar man, a lazar both blinde and lame. "therfore a fyer there shall be built, and brent all shalt thou bee."-- "now out, alacke!" said our comly queene, "sir aldingar's false to mee. "now out, alacke!" sayd our comlye queene, "my heart with griefe will brast: i had thought swevens had never been true, i have proved them true at last. "i dreamt in my sweven on thursday eve, in my bed wheras i laye, i dreamt a grype and a grimlie beast had carryed my crowne awaye; "my gorgett and my kirtle of golde, and all my faire head-geere; and he wold worrye me with his tush, and to his nest y-beare: "saving there came a little gray hawke, a merlin him they call, which untill the grounde did strike the grype, that dead he downe did fall. "giffe i were a man, as now i am none, a battell wold i prove, to fight with that traitor aldingar: att him i cast my glove. "but seeing ime able noe battell to make, my liege, grant me a knight to fight with that traitor, sir aldingar, to maintaine me in my right." "now forty dayes i will give thee to seeke thee a knight therin: if thou find not a knight in forty dayes, thy bodye it must brenn." then shee sent east, and shee sent west, by north and south bedeene; but never a champion colde she find, wolde fight with that knight soe keene. now twenty dayes were spent and gone, noe helpe there might be had; many a teare shed our comelye queene, and aye her hart was sad. then came one of the queenes damselles, and knelt upon her knee: cheare up, cheare up, my gracious dame, i trust yet helpe may be. "and here i will make mine avowe, and with the same me binde, that never will i return to thee, till i some helpe may finde." then forth she rode on a faire palfraye, oer hill and dale about; but never a champion colde she finde, wolde fighte with that knight so stout. and nowe the daye drewe on apace, when our good queene must dye; all woe-begone was that fair damselle, when she found no helpe was nye. all woe-begone was that faire damselle, and the salt teares fell from her eye; when lo! as she rode by a rivers side, she met with a tinye boye. a tinye boy she mette, god wot, all clad in mantle of golde; he seemed noe more in mans likenesse, then a childe of four yeere olde. "why grieve you, damselle faire?" he sayd, "and what doth cause you moane?" the damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, but fast she pricked on. "yet turne againe, thou faire damselle, and greete thy queene from mee; when bale is at hyest, boote is nyest; nowe helpe enoughe may bee. "bid her remember what she dreamt, in her bedd wheras shee laye; how when the grype and the grimly beast wolde have carried her crowne awaye, "even then there came the little gray hawke, and saved her from his clawes: then bidd the queene be merry at hart, for heaven will fende her cause." back then rode that fair damselle, and her hart it lept for glee: and when she told her gracious dame, a gladd woman then was shee. but when the appointed day was come, no helpe appeared nye; then woeful woeful was her hart, and the teares stood in her eye. and nowe a fyer was built of wood, and a stake was made of tree; and now queene elinor forth was led, a sorrowful sight to see. three times the herault he waved his hand, and three times spake on hye; "giff any good knight will fende this dame, come forth, or shee must dye." no knight stood forth, no knight there came, no helpe appeared nye; and now the fyer was lighted up, queene elinor she must dye. and now the fyer was lighted up, as hot as hot might bee; when riding upon a little white steed, the tinye boye they see. "away with that stake, away with those brands, and loose our comelye queene: i am come to fight with sir aldingar, and prove him a traitor keene." forth then stood sir aldingar; but when he saw the chylde, he laughed, and scoffed, and turned his backe, and weened he had been beguylde. "now turne, now turne thee, aldingar, and eyther fighte or flee; i trust that i shall avenge the wronge, thoughe i am so small to see." the boye pulld forth a well good sworde, so gilt it dazzled the ee; the first stroke stricken at aldingar smote off his leggs by the knee. "stand up, stand up, thou false traitor, and fighte upon thy feete, for, and thou thrive as thou beginst, of height wee shall be meete." "a priest, a priest," sayes aldingar, "while i am a man alive; "a priest, a priest," sayes aldingar, "me for to houzle and shrive. "i wolde have laine by our comlie queene, but shee wolde never consent; then i thought to betraye her unto our kinge, in a fyer to have her brent. "there came a lazar to the kings gates, a lazar both blind and lame; i tooke the lazar upon my backe, and on her bedd had him layne. "then ranne i to our comlye king, these tidings sore to tell: but ever alacke!" sayes aldingar, "falsing never doth well. "forgive, forgive me, queene, madame, the short time i must live:" "nowe christ forgive thee, aldingar, as freely i forgive." "here take thy queene, our king harrye, and love her as thy life, for never had a king in christentye a truer and fairer wife." king harrye ran to claspe his queene, and loosed her full sone; then turnd to look for the tinye boye:-- the boye was vanisht and gone. but first he had touchd the lazar man, and stroakt him with his hand; the lazar under the gallowes tree all whole and sounde did stand. the lazar under the gallowes tree was comelye, straight, and tall; king henrye made him his head stewarde, to wayte withinn his hall. sir hugh le blond. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "the tradition, upon which the ballad is founded, is universally current in the mearns; and the editor is informed, that, till very lately, the sword, with which sir hugh le blond was believed to have defended the life and honour of the queen, was carefully preserved by his descendants, the viscounts of arbuthnot. that sir hugh of arbuthnot lived in the thirteenth century, is proved by his having, , bestowed the patronage of the church of garvoch upon the monks of aberbrothwick, for the safety of his soul.--_register of aberbrothwick, quoted by crawford in peerage._ "i was favoured with the following copy of _sir hugh le blond_, by k. williamson burnet, esq. of monboddo, who wrote it down from the recitation of an old woman, long in the service of the arbuthnot family. of course, the diction is very much humbled, and it has, in all probability, undergone many corruptions; but its antiquity is indubitable, and the story, though indifferently told, is in itself interesting. it is believed that there have been many more verses." scott. the birds sang sweet as ony bell, the world had not their make, the queen she's gone to her chamber, with rodingham to talk. "i love you well, my queen, my dame, 'bove land and rents so clear, and for the love of you, my queen, would thole pain most severe."-- "if well you love me, rodingham, i'm sure so do i thee: i love you well as any man, save the king's fair bodye."-- "i love you well, my queen, my dame; 'tis truth that i do tell: and for to lye a night with you, the salt seas i would sail."-- "away, away, o rodingham! you are both stark and stoor; would you defile the king's own bed, and make his queen a whore? "to-morrow you'd be taken sure, and like a traitor slain; and i'd be burned at a stake, although i be the queen."-- he then stepp'd out at her room door, all in an angry mood: until he met a leper-man, just by the hard way-side. he intoxicate the leper-man, with liquors very sweet: and gave him more and more to drink, until he fell asleep. he took him in his armis twa, and carried him along, till he came to the queen's own bed, and there he laid him down. he then stepp'd out of the queen's bower, as swift as any roe, 'till he came to the very place where the king himself did go. the king said unto rodingham, "what news have you to me?"-- he said, "your queen's a false woman, as i did plainly see."-- he hasten'd to the queen's chamber, so costly and so fine, until he came to the queen's own bed, where the leper-man was lain. he looked on the leper-man, who lay on his queen's bed; he lifted up the snaw-white sheets, and thus he to him said:-- "plooky, plooky, are your cheeks, and plooky is your chin, and plooky are your armis twa, my bonny queen's layne in. "since she has lain into your arms, she shall not lye in mine; since she has kiss'd your ugsome mouth, she never shall kiss mine."-- in anger he went to the queen, who fell upon her knee; he said, "you false, unchaste woman, what's this you've done to me?" the queen then turn'd herself about, the tear blinded her ee-- "there's not a knight in a' your court dare give that name to me." he said, "'tis true that i do say; for i a proof did make: you shall be taken from my bower, and burned at a stake. "perhaps i'll take my word again, and may repent the same, if that you'll get a christian man to fight that rodingham."-- "alas! alas!" then cried our queen, "alas, and woe to me! there's not a man in all scotland will fight with him for me."-- she breathed unto her messengers, sent them south, east, and west; they could find none to fight with him, nor enter the contest. she breathed on her messengers, she sent them to the north; and there they found sir hugh le blond, to fight him he came forth. when unto him they did unfold the circumstance all right, he bade them go and tell the queen, that for her he would fight. the day came on that was to do that dreadful tragedy; sir hugh le blond was not come up to fight for our ladye. "put on the fire," the monster said: "it is twelve on the bell." "'tis scarcely ten, now," said the king; "i heard the clock mysell."-- before the hour the queen is brought, the burning to proceed; in a black velvet chair she's set, a token for the dead. she saw the flames ascending high, the tears blinded her ee: "where is the worthy knight," she said, "who is to fight for me?"-- then up and spak the king himsell, "my dearest, have no doubt, for yonder comes the man himsell, as bold as e'er set out."-- they then advanced to fight the duel with swords of temper'd steel, till down the blood of rodingham came running to his heel. sir hugh took out a lusty sword, 'twas of the metal clear, and he has pierced rodingham till's heart-blood did appear. "confess your treachery, now," he said, "this day before you die!"-- "i do confess my treachery, i shall no longer lye: "i like to wicked haman am, this day i shall be slain."-- the queen was brought to her chamber, a good woman again. the queen then said unto the king, "arbattle's near the sea; give it unto the northern knight, that this day fought for me." then said the king, "come here, sir knight, and drink a glass of wine; and, if arbattle's not enough,[l ] to it we'll fordoun join." . arbattle is the ancient name of the barony of arbuthnot. fordun has long been the patrimony of the same family. s. the knight, and shepherd's daughter. "this ballad (given from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections) was popular in the time of queen elizabeth, being usually printed with her picture before it, as hearne informs us in his preface to gul. neubrig, _hist. oxon_, , vo. vol. i. p. lxx. it is quoted in fletcher's comedy of the _pilgrim_, act , sc. ." percy's _reliques_, iii. . the scottish ballad corresponding to percy's has been printed by kinloch, p. . besides this, however, there are three other scottish versions, superior to the english in every respect, and much longer. they are _earl richard_, motherwell, p. ; (also in buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. ;) a ballad with the same title in kinloch's collection, p. ; and _earl lithgow_, buchan, ii. . in all these, the futile attempts of the knight to escape marrying the lady, and the devices by which she aggravates his reluctance to enter into the match, are managed with no little humour. we give motherwell's edition a place next to percy's, and refer the reader for kinloch's to the appendix. there was a shepherds daughter came tripping on the waye, and there by chance a knighte shee mett, which caused her to staye. "good morrowe to you, beauteous maide," these words pronounced hee; "o i shall dye this daye," he sayd, "if ive not my wille of thee." "the lord forbid," the maide replyd, "that you shold waxe so wode!" but for all that shee could do or saye,[l ] he wold not be withstood. "sith you have had your wille of mee, and put me to open shame, now, if you are a courteous knighte, tell me what is your name?" "some do call mee jacke, sweet heart, and some do call mee jille; but when i come to the kings faire courte, they calle me wilfulle wille." he sett his foot into the stirrup, and awaye then he did ride; she tuckt her girdle about her middle, and ranne close by his side. but when she came to the brode water, she sett her brest and swamme; and when she was got out againe, she tooke to her heels and ranne. he never was the courteous knighte, to saye, "faire maide, will ye ride?" and she was ever too loving a maide to saye, "sir knighte, abide." when she came to the kings faire courte, she knocked at the ring; so readye was the king himself to let this faire maide in. "now christ you save, my gracious liege, now christ you save and see; you have a knighte within your courte this daye hath robbed mee." "what hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? of purple or of pall? or hath he took thy gaye gold ring from off thy finger small?" "he hath not robbed mee, my liege, of purple nor of pall; but he hath gotten my maidenhead, which grieves mee worst of all." "now if he be a batchelor, his bodye ile give to thee; but if he be a married man, high hanged he shall bee." he called downe his merrye men all, by one, by two, by three; sir william used to bee the first, but nowe the last came hee. he brought her downe full fortye pounde, tyed up withinne a glove: "faire maid, ile give the same to thee; go, seeke thee another love." "o ile have none of your gold," she sayde, "nor ile have none of your fee; but your faire bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee." sir william ranne and fetchd her then five hundred pound in golde, saying, "faire maide, take this to thee, thy fault will never be tolde." "tis not the gold that shall mee tempt," these words then answered shee, "but your own bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee." "would i had drunke the water cleare, when i did drinke the wine, rather than any shepherds brat shold bee a ladye of mine! "would i had drank the puddle foule, when i did drink the ale, rather than ever a shepherds brat shold tell me such a tale!" "a shepherds brat even as i was, you mote have let mee bee; i never had come to the kings faire courte, to crave any love of thee." he sett her on a milk-white steede, and himself upon a graye; he hung a bugle about his necke, and soe they rode awaye. but when they came unto the place, where marriage-rites were done, she proved herself a dukes daughter, and he but a squires sonne. "now marrye me, or not, sir knight, your pleasure shall be free: if you make me ladye of one good towne, ile make you lord of three." "ah! cursed bee the gold," he sayd; "if thou hadst not been trewe, i shold have forsaken my sweet love, and have changed her for a newe." and now their hearts being linked fast, they joyned hand in hande: thus he had both purse, and person too, and all at his commande. , , percy's. earl richard (b). motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . from recitation. earl richard once on a day, and all his valiant men so wight, he did him down to barnisdale, where all the land is fair and light. he was aware of a damosel, i wot fast on she did her bound, with towers of gold upon her head, as fair a woman as could be found. he said, "busk on you, fair ladye, the white flowers and the red; for i would give my bonnie ship, to get your maidenhead." "i wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, and drown you in the sea; for all this would not mend the miss that ye would do to me." "the miss is not so great, ladye, soon mended it might be. "i have four-and-twenty mills in scotland, stands on the water tay; you'll have them, and as much flour as they'll grind in a day." "i wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, and drown you in the sea; for all that would not mend the miss that ye would do for me." "the miss is not so great, lady, soon mended it will be. "i have four-and-twenty milk-white cows, all calved in a day; you'll have them, and as much hained grass as they all on can gae." "i wish your bonnie ship rent and rive, and drown ye in the sea; for all that would not mend the miss that ye would do to me." "the miss is not so great, ladye, soon mended it might be. "i have four-and-twenty milk-white steeds, all foaled in one year; you'll have them, and as much red gold as all their backs can bear." she turned her right and round about, and she swore by the mold, "i would not be your love," said she, "for that church full of gold." he turned him right and round about, and he swore by the mass, says,--"lady, ye my love shall be, and gold ye shall have less." she turned her right and round about, and she swore by the moon, "i would not be your love," says she, "for all the gold in rome." he turned him right and round about, and he swore by the moon, says,--"lady, ye my love shall be, and gold ye shall have none." he caught her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass-green sleeve; and there has taken his will of her, wholly without her leave. the lady frowned and sadly blushed, and oh! but she thought shame: says,--"if you are a knight at all, you surely will tell me your name." "in some places they call me jack, in other some they call me john; but when into the queen's court, oh then lithcock it is my name." "lithcock! lithcock!" the lady said, and oft she spelt it over again; "lithcock! it's latin," the lady said, "richard's the english of that name." the knight he rode, the lady ran,[l ] a live long summer's day; till they came to the wan water that all men do call tay. he set his horse head to the water, just thro' it for to ride; and the lady was as ready as him the waters for to wade. for he had never been as kind-hearted as to bid the lady ride; and she had never been so low-hearted as for to bid him bide. but deep into the wan water there stands a great big stone; he turned his wight horse head about, said, "lady fair, will ye loup on?" she's taken the wand was in her hand, and struck it on the foam, and before he got the middle stream, the lady was on dry land. "by help of god and our lady, my help lyes not in your hand. "i learned it from my mother dear,-- few is there that has learned better-- when i came to a deep water, i can swim thro' like ony otter. "i learned it from my mother dear,-- i find i learned it for my weel; when i came to a deep water, i can swim thro' like ony eel." "turn back, turn back, you lady fair, you know not what i see; there is a lady in that castle, that will burn you and me." "betide me weal, betide me wae, that lady will i see." she took a ring from her finger, and gave't the porter for his fee: says, "tak you that, my good porter, and bid the queen speak to me." and when she came before the queen, there she fell low down on her knee: says, "there is a knight into your court, this day has robbed me." "o has he robbed you of your gold, or has he robbed you of your fee?" "he has not robbed me of my gold, he has not robbed me of my fee; he has robbed me of my maidenhead, the fairest flower of my bodie." "there is no knight in all my court, that thus has robbed thee, but you'll have the truth of his right hand, or else for your sake he'll die, tho' it were earl richard, my own brother; and oh forbid that it be!" then, sighing, said the lady fair, "i wot the samen man is he." the queen called on her merry men, even fifty men and three; earl richard used to be the first man, but now the hindmost was he. he's taken out one hundred pounds, and told it in his glove: says, "tak you that, my lady fair, and seek another love." "oh no, oh no," the lady cried, "that's what shall never be; i'll have the truth of your right hand, the queen it gave to me." "i wish i had drunk of your water, sister, when i did drink your wine; that for a carle's fair daughter, it does gar me dree all this pine." "may be i am a carle's daughter, and may be never nane; when ye met me in the green wood, why did you not let me alane?" "will you wear the short clothes, or will you wear the side; or will you walk to your wedding, or will you till it ride?" "i will not wear the short clothes, but i will wear the side; i will not walk to my wedding, but i to it will ride." when he was set upon the horse, the lady him behind, then cauld and eerie were the words the twa had them between. she said, "good e'en, ye nettles tall, just there where ye grow at the dike; if the auld carline my mother was here, sae weel's she would your pates pike. "how she would stap you in her poke, i wot at that she wadna fail; and boil ye in her auld brass pan, and of ye mak right gude kail. "and she would meal you with millering that she gathers at the mill, and mak you thick as any daigh; and when the pan was brimful, "would mess you up in scuttle dishes, syne bid us sup till we were fou; lay down her head upon a poke, then sleep and snore like any sow." "away! away! you bad woman, for all your vile words grieveth me; when ye heed so little for yourself, i'm sure ye'll heed far less for me. "i wish i had drunk your water, sister, when that i did drink of your wine; since for a carle's fair daughter, it aye gars me dree all this pine." "may be i am a carle's daughter, and may be never nane; when ye met me in the good green wood, why did you not let me alane? "gude e'en, gude e'en, ye heather berries, as ye're growing on yon hill; if the auld carle and his bags were here, i wot he would get meat his fill. "late, late at night i knit our pokes, with even four-and-twenty knots; and in the morn at breakfast time, i'll carry the keys of an earl's locks. "late, late at night i knit our pokes, with even four-and-twenty strings; and if you look to my white fingers, they have as many gay gold rings." "away! away! ye ill woman, and sore your vile words grieveth me; when you heed so little for yourself, i'm sure ye'll heed far less for me. "but if you are a carle's daughter, as i take you to be, how did you get the gay clothing, in green wood ye had on thee?" "my mother she's a poor woman, she nursed earl's children three; and i got them from a foster sister, for to beguile such sparks as thee." "but if you be a carle's daughter, as i believe you be, how did ye learn the good latin, in green wood ye spoke to me?" "my mother she's a mean woman, she nursed earl's children three; i learned it from their chapelain, to beguile such sparks as ye." when mass was sung, and bells were rung, and all men boune for bed, then earl richard and this ladye in ane bed they were laid. he turned his face to the stock, and she hers to the stane; and cauld and dreary was the luve that was thir twa between. great was the mirth in the kitchen, likewise intill the ha'; but in his bed lay earl richard, wiping the tears awa'. he wept till he fell fast asleep, then slept till licht was come; then he did hear the gentlemen that talked in the room: said,--"saw ye ever a fitter match, betwixt the ane and ither; the king o' scotland's fair dochter, and the queen of england's brither?" "and is she the king o' scotland's fair dochter? this day, oh, weel is me! for seven times has my steed been saddled, to come to court with thee; and with this witty lady fair, how happy must i be!" et seq. this passage has something in common with _child waters_ and _burd ellen_. the gay goss-hawk. from _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . "this ballad is published, partly from one under this title, in mrs. brown's collection, and partly from a ms. of some antiquity, _penes_ edit. the stanzas appearing to possess most merit have been selected from each copy."--scott. annexed is another version from motherwell's collection. a third, longer than either, is furnished by buchan, _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. , _the scottish squire_. "o waly, waly, my gay goss-hawk, gin your feathering be sheen!" "and waly, waly, my master dear, gin ye look pale and lean! "o have ye tint, at tournament, your sword, or yet your spear? or mourn ye for the southern lass, whom ye may not win near?" "i have not tint, at tournament, my sword nor yet my spear; but sair i mourn for my true love, wi' mony a bitter tear. "but weel's me on ye, my gay goss-hawk, ye can baith speak and flee; ye sall carry a letter to my love, bring an answer back to me." "but how sall i your true love find, or how suld i her know? i bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, an eye that ne'er her saw." "o weel sall ye my true love ken, sae sune as ye her see; for, of a' the flowers of fair england, the fairest flower is she. "the red, that's on my true love's cheek, is like blood-drops on the snaw; the white, that is on her breast bare, like the down o' the white sea-maw "and even at my love's bouer-door there grows a flowering birk; and ye maun sit and sing thereon as she gangs to the kirk. "and four-and-twenty fair ladyes will to the mass repair; but weel may ye my ladye ken, the fairest ladye there." lord william has written a love-letter, put it under his pinion gray; and he is awa to southern land as fast as wings can gae. and even at the ladye's bour there grew a flowering birk; and he sat down and sung thereon as she gaed to the kirk. and weel he kent that ladye fair amang her maidens free; for the flower that springs in may morning was not sae sweet as she. he lighted at the ladye's yate, and sat him on a pin; and sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, till a' was cosh within. and first he sang a low, low note, and syne he sang a clear; and aye the o'erword o' the sang was--"your love can no win here."-- "feast on, feast on, my maidens a', the wine flows you amang, while i gang to my shot-window, and hear yon bonny bird's sang. "sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, the sang ye sung yestreen; for weel i ken, by your sweet singing, ye are frae my true love sen." o first he sang a merry sang, and syne he sang a grave; and syne he pick'd his feathers gray, to her the letter gave. "have there a letter from lord william; he says he's sent ye three; he canna wait your love langer, but for your sake he'll die."-- "gae bid him bake his bridal bread, and brew his bridal ale; and i shall meet him at mary's kirk, lang, lang ere it be stale." the lady's gane to her chamber, and a moanfu' woman was she; as gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, and were about to die. "a boon, a boon, my father deir, a boon i beg of thee!"-- "ask not that paughty scottish lord, for him you ne'er shall see: "but, for your honest asking else, weel granted it shall be."-- "then, gin i die in southern land, in scotland gar bury me. "and the first kirk that ye come to, ye's gar the mass be sung; and the next kirk that ye come to, ye's gar the bells be rung. "and when you come to st. mary's kirk, ye's tarry there till night." and so her father pledg'd his word, and so his promise plight. she has ta'en her to her bigly bour as fast as she could fare; and she has drank a sleepy draught, that she had mix'd wi' care. and pale, pale, grew her rosy cheek, that was sae bright of blee, and she seem'd to be as surely dead as any one could be. then spake her cruel step-minnie, "tak ye the burning lead, and drap a drap on her bosome, to try if she be dead." they took a drap o' boiling lead, they drapp'd it on her breast; "alas! alas!" her father cried, "she's dead without the priest." she neither chatter'd with her teeth, nor shiver'd with her chin; "alas! alas!" her father cried, "there is nae breath within." then up arose her seven brethren, and hew'd to her a bier; they hew'd it frae the solid aik, laid it o'er wi' silver clear. then up and gat her seven sisters, and sewed to her a kell; and every steek that they put in sewed to a siller bell. the first scots kirk that they cam to, they garr'd the bells be rung; the next scots kirk that they cam to, they garr'd the mass be sung. but when they cam to st. mary's kirk, there stude spearmen all on a raw; and up and started lord william, the chieftane amang them a.' "set down, set down the bier," he said, "let me look her upon:" but as soon as lord william touch'd her hand, her colour began to come. she brightened like the lily flower, till her pale colour was gone; with rosy cheek, and ruby lip, she smiled her love upon. "a morsel of your bread, my lord, and one glass of your wine; for i hae fasted these three lang days, all for your sake and mine.-- "gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers, gae hame and blaw your horn! i trow ye wad hae gi'en me the skaith, but i've gi'en you the scorn. "commend me to my grey father, that wished my saul gude rest; but wae be to my cruel step-dame, garr'd burn me on the breast."-- "ah! woe to you, you light woman! an ill death may ye die! for we left father and sisters at hame breaking their hearts for thee." v. . this simile resembles a passage in a ms. translation of an irish fairy tale, called _the adventures of faravla, princess of scotland, and carral o'daly, son of donogho more o'daly, chief bard of ireland_. "faravla, as she entered her bower, cast her looks upon the earth, which was tinged with the blood of a bird which a raven had newly killed: 'like that snow,' said faravla, 'was the complexion of my beloved, his cheeks like the sanguine traces thereon; whilst the raven recalls to my memory the colour of his beautiful locks.'" there is also some resemblance in the conduct of the story, betwixt the ballad and the tale just quoted. the princess faravla, being desperately in love with carral o'daly, despatches in search of him a faithful confidante, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, perching upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the princess of scotland. scott. the jolly goshawk. motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . "o well is me, my jolly goshawk, that ye can speak and flee; for ye can carry a love-letter to my true love from me." "o how can i carry a letter to her, when her i do not know? i bear the lips to her never spak, and the eyes that her never saw." "the thing of my love's face that's white is that of dove or maw; the thing of my love's face that's red is like blood shed on snaw. "and when you come to the castel, light on the bush of ash; and sit you there and sing our loves, as she comes from the mass. "and when she gaes into the house, sit ye upon the whin; and sit you there and sing our loves, as she goes out and in." and when he flew to that castel, he lighted on the ash; and there he sat and sung their loves, as she came from the mass. and when she went into the house, he flew unto the whin; and there he sat and sung their loves, as she went out and in. "come hitherward, my maidens all, and sip red wine anon, till i go to my west window, and hear a birdie's moan." she's gane unto her west window, and fainly aye it drew; and soon into her white silk lap the bird the letter threw. "ye're bidden send your love a send, for he has sent you twa; and tell him where he can see you, or he cannot live ava." "i send him the rings from my white fingers, the garlands off my hair; i send him the heart that's in my breast: what would my love have mair? and at the fourth kirk in fair scotland, ye'll bid him meet me there." she hied her to her father dear, as fast as gang could she: "an asking, an asking, my father dear, an asking ye grant me,-- that, if i die in fair england, in scotland gar bury me. "at the first kirk of fair scotland, you cause the bells be rung; at the second kirk of fair scotland, you cause the mass be sung; "at the third kirk of fair scotland, you deal gold for my sake; and at the fourth kirk of fair scotland, oh there you'll bury me at! "and now, my tender father dear, this asking grant you me:" "your asking is but small," he said, "weel granted it shall be." [_the lady asks the same boon and receives a similar answer, first from her mother, then from her sister, and lastly from her seven brothers._] then down as dead that lady drapp'd, beside her mother's knee; then out it spak an auld witch wife, by the fire-side sat she: says,--"drap the het lead on her cheek, and drap it on her chin, and drap it on her rose red lips, and she will speak again: for much a lady young will do, to her true love to win." they drapp'd the het lead on her cheek, so did they on her chin; they drapp'd it on her red rose lips, but they breathed none again. her brothers they went to a room, to make to her a bier; the boards of it were cedar wood, and the plates on it gold so clear. her sisters they went to a room, to make to her a sark; the cloth of it was satin fine, and the steeking silken wark. "but well is me, my jolly goshawk, that ye can speak and flee; come shew to me any love tokens that you have brought to me." "she sends you the rings from her fingers, the garlands from her hair; she sends you the heart within her breast: and what would you have mair? and at the fourth kirk of fair scotland, she bids you meet her there." "come hither, all my merry young men, and drink the good red wine; for we must on to fair england, to free my love from pine." at the first kirk of fair scotland, they gart the bells be rung; at the second kirk of fair scotland, they gart the mass be sung. at the third kirk of fair scotland, they dealt gold for her sake; and the fourth kirk of fair scotland her true love met them at. "set down, set down the corpse," he said, "till i look on the dead; the last time that i saw her face, she ruddy was and red; but now, alas, and woe is me! she's wallowed like a weed." he rent the sheet upon her face, a little aboon her chin; with lily white cheek, and lemin' eyne, she lookt and laugh'd to him. "give me a chive of your bread, my love, a bottle of your wine; for i have fasted for your love, these weary lang days nine; there's not a steed in your stable, but would have been dead ere syne. "gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, gae hame and blaw the horn; for you can say in the south of england, your sister gave you a scorn. "i came not here to fair scotland, to lye amang the meal; but i came here to fair scotland, to wear the silks so weel. "i came not here to fair scotland, to lye amang the dead; but i came here to fair scotland, to wear the gold so red." appendix. young hunting. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . lady maisry forth from her bower came, and stood on her tower head; she thought she heard a bridle ring, the sound did her heart guid. she thought it was her first true love, whom she loved ance in time; but it was her new love, hunting, come frae the hunting o' the hyn'. "gude morrow, gude morrow, lady maisry, god make you safe and free! i'm come to take my last farewell, and pay my last visit to thee." "o stay, o stay then, young hunting, o stay with me this night; ye shall ha'e cheer, an' charcoal clear, and candles burning bright." "have no more cheer, you lady fair, an hour langer for me; i have a lady in garmouth town i love better than thee." "o if your love be changed, my love, since better canno' be, nevertheless, for auld lang syne, ye'll stay this night wi' me. "silver, silver shall be your wage, and gowd shall be your fee; and nine times nine into the year, your weed shall changed be. "will ye gae to the cards or dice, or to a tavern fine? or will ye gae to a table forebye, and birl baith beer and wine?" "i winna gang to the cards nor dice, nor to a tavern fine; but i will gang to a table forebye, and birl baith beer and wine." then she has drawn for young hunting the beer but and the wine, till she got him as deadly drunk as ony unhallowed swine. then she's ta'en out a trusty brand, that hang below her gare; then she's wounded him, young hunting, a deep wound and a sair. then out it speaks her comrade, being in the companie: "alas! this deed that ye ha'e done, will ruin baith you and me." "heal well, heal well, you lady katharine, heal well this deed on me; the robes that were shapen for my bodie, they shall be sewed for thee." "tho' i wou'd heal it never sae well, and never sae well," said she, "there is a god above us baith, that can baith hear and see." they booted him and spurred him, as he'd been gaun to ride; a hunting-horn about his neck, a sharp sword by his side. and they rode on, and farther on, all the lang summer's tide, until they came to wan water, where a' man ca's it clyde. the deepest pot in clyde's water,[l ] there they flang him in,[l ] and put a turf on his breast bane, to had young hunting down. o out it speaks a little wee bird, as she sat on the brier: "gae hame, gae hame, ye lady maisry, and pay your maiden's hire." "o i will pay my maiden's hire, and hire i'll gi'e to thee; if ye'll conceal this fatal deed, ye's ha'e gowd for your fee." then out it speaks a bonny bird, that flew aboon their head; "keep well, keep well your green claithing frae ae drap o' his bluid." "o i'll keep well my green claithing frae ae drap o' his bluid, better than i'll do your flattering tongue, that flutters in your head. "come down, come down, my bonny bird, light down upon my hand; for ae gowd feather that's in your wing, i wou'd gi'e a' my land." "how shall i come down, how can i come down, how shall i come down to thee? the things ye said to young hunting, the same ye're saying to me." but it fell out on that same day, the king was going to ride, and he call'd for him, young hunting, for to ride by his side. then out it speaks the little young son, sat on the nurse's knee, "it fears me sair," said that young babe, "he's in bower wi' yon ladie." then they ha'e call'd her, lady katharine, and she sware by the thorn, that she saw not him, young hunting, sin' yesterday at morn. then they ha'e call'd her, lady maisry, and she sware by the moon, that she saw not him, young hunting, sin' yesterday at noon. "he was playing him at the clyde's water, perhaps he has fa'en in:" the king he call'd his divers all, to dive for his young son. they div'd in thro' the wan burn-bank, sae did they out thro' the other: "we'll dive nae mair," said these young men, "suppose he were our brother." then out it spake a little bird, that flew aboon their head: "dive on, dive on, ye divers all, for there he lies indeed. "but ye'll leave aff your day diving, and ye'll dive in the night; the pot where young hunting lies in, the candles they'll burn bright. "there are twa ladies in yon bower, and even in yon ha', and they ha'e kill'd him, young hunting, and casten him awa'. "they booted him and spurred him, as he'd been gaun to ride; a hunting horn tied round his neck, a sharp sword by his side. "the deepest pot o' clyde's water, there they flang him in, laid a turf on his breast bane, to had young hunting down." now they left aff their day diving, and they dived on the night; the pot that young hunting lay in, the candles were burning bright. the king he call'd his hewers all, to hew down wood and thorn, for to put up a strong bale-fire, these ladies for to burn. and they ha'e ta'en her, lady katharine, and they ha'e pitten her in; but it wadna light upon her cheek, nor wou'd it on her chin, but sang the points o' her yellow hair, for healing the deadly sin. then they ha'e ta'en her, lady maisry, and they ha'e put her in: first it lighted on her cheek, and syne upon her chin, and sang the points o' her yellow hair, and she burnt like keckle-pin. , and the. , and there. see , . young waters.--see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. p. . it fell about the gude yule time, when caps and stoups gaed roun', down it came him young waters, to welcome james, our king. the great, the great, rade a' together, the sma' came a' behin'; but wi' young waters, that brave knight, there came a gay gatherin'. the horse young waters rade upon, it cost him hunders nine; for he was siller shod before, and gowd graith had behin'. at ilka tippit o' his horse mane there hang a siller bell; the wind was loud, the steed was proud, and they gae a sindry knell. the king he lay ower's castle wa', beheld baith dale and down; and he beheld him, young waters, come riding to the town. he turn'd him right and round about, and to the queen said he,-- "who is the bravest man, my dame, that ever your een did see?" "i've seen lairds, and i've seen lords, and knights o' high degree; but a braver man than young waters my e'en did never see." he turn'd him right and roun' about, and ane angry man was he; "o wae to you, my dame, the queen; ye might ha'e excepted me!" "ye are nae laird, ye are nae lord, ye are the king that wears the crown; there's nae a lord in fair scotland, but unto you maun a' bow down." "o lady, for your love choicing, ye shall win to your will; the morn, or i eat or drink, young waters i'll gar kill." and nevertheless, the king cou'd say, "ye might ha'e excepted me; yea for yea," the king cou'd say, "young waters he shall die. "likewise for your ill-wyled words ye sall ha'e cause to mourn; gin ye hadna been sae big wi' child, ye on a hill su'd burn." young waters came before the king, fell low down on his knee; "win up, win up, young waters, what's this i hear o' thee?" "what ails the king at me," he said, "what ails the king at me?" "it is tauld me the day, sir knight, ye've done me treasonie." "liars will lie on sell gude men, sae will they do on me; i wudna wish to be the man that liars on wudna lie." nevertheless, the king cou'd say, "in prison strang gang ye; o yea for yea," the king cou'd say, "young waters, ye shall die." syne they ha'e ta'en him, young waters, laid him in prison strang, and left him there wi' fetters boun', making a heavy mane. "aft ha'e i ridden thro' striveling town thro' heavy wind and weet; but ne'er rade i thro' striveling town wi' fetters on my feet. "aft ha'e i ridden thro' striveling town, thro' heavy wind and rain; but ne'er rade i thro' striveling town but thought to ridden't again." they brought him to the heading-hill, his horse, bot and his saddle; and they brought to the heading-hill his young son in his cradle. and they brought to the heading-hill, his hounds intill a leish; and they brought till the heading-hill, his gos-hawk in a jess. king james he then rade up the hill, and mony a man him wi', and called on his trusty page, to come right speedilie. "ye'll do' ye to the earl o' mar, for he sits on yon hill; bid him loose the brand frae his bodie, young waters for to kill." "o gude forbid," the earl he said, "the like su'd e'er fa' me, my bodie e'er su'd wear the brand that gars young waters die." then he has loos'd his trusty brand, and casten't in the sea; says, "never lat them get a brand, till it come back to me." the scaffold it prepared was, and he did mount it hie; and a' spectators that were there, the saut tears blint their e'e. "o had your tongues, my brethren dear, and mourn nae mair for me; ye're seeking grace frae a graceless face, for there is nane to gie. "ye'll tak' a bit o' canvas claith, and pit it ower my ee; and jack, my man, ye'll be at hand, the hour that i su'd die. "syne aff ye'll tak' my bluidy sark, gie it fair margaret grahame; for she may curse the dowie dell that brought king james him hame. "ye'll bid her mak' her bed narrow, and mak' it naeways wide; for a brawer man than young waters will ne'er streek by her side. "bid her do weel to my young son, and gie him nurses three; for gin he live to be a man, king james will gar him die." he call'd upon the headsman then, a purse o' gowd him gae; says, "do your office, headsman, boy, and mak' nae mair delay." "o head me soon, o head me clean, and pit me out o' pine; for it is by the king's command; gang head me till his min'. "tho' by him i'm condemn'd to die, i'm lieve to his ain kin; and for the truth, i'll plainly tell, i am his sister's son." "gin ye're my sister's son," he said, "it is unkent to me." "o mindna ye on your sister bess, that lives in the french countrie?" "gin bess then be your mither dear, as i trust well she be, gae hame, gae hame, young waters, ye'se ne'er be slain by me." but he lay by his napkin fine, was saft as ony silk, and on the block he laid his neck, was whiter than the milk. says, "strike the blow, ye headsman, boy, and that right speedilie; it's never be said here gaes a knight, was ance condemn'd to die." the head was ta'en frae young waters, and mony tears for him shed; but mair did mourn for fair margaret, as raving she lyes mad. lammikin. see p. . finlay's _scottish ballads_, ii. . lammikin was as gude a mason as ever hewed a stane; he biggit lord weire's castle, but payment gat he nane. "sen ye winna gie me my guerdon, lord, sen ye winna gie me my hire, this gude castle, sae stately built, i sall gar rock wi' fire. "sen ye winna gie me my wages, lord, ye sall hae cause to rue:" and syne he brewed a black revenge, and syne he vowed a vow. the lammikin sair wroth, sair wroth, returned again to downe; but or he gaed, he vow'd and vow'd, the castle should sweep the ground. "o byde at hame, my gude lord weire, i weird ye byde at hame; gang na to this day's hunting, to leave me a' alane. "yae night, yae night, i dreamt this bower o red, red blude was fu'; gin ye gang to this black hunting, i sall hae cause to rue." "wha looks to dreams, my winsome dame? nae cause hae ye to fear:" and syne he kindly kissed her cheek, and syne the starting tear. now to the gude green-wood he's gane, she to her painted bower; but first she closed the windows and doors of the castle, ha', and tower. they steeked doors, they steeked yetts, close to the cheek and chin; they steeked them a' but a wee wicket, and lammikin crap in. "where are the lads o' this castle?" says the lammikin; "they are a' wi lord weire, hunting," the false nourice did sing. "where are the lasses o' this castle?" says the lammikin; "they are a' out at the washing," the false nourice did sing. "but where's the lady o' this castle?" says the lammikin; "she is in her bower sewing," the false nourice did sing. "is this the bairn o' this house?" says the lammikin; "the only bairn lord weire aughts," the false nourice did sing. lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, while loud false nourice sings; lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, till high the red blude springs. "still my bairn, nourice, o still him if ye can:" "he will not still, madam, for a' his father's lan'." "o gentle nourice, still my bairn, o still him wi' the keys:" "he will not still, fair lady, let me do what i please." "o still my bairn, kind nourice, o still him wi' the ring:" "he will not still, my lady, let me do any thing." "o still my bairn, gude nourice, o still him wi' the knife:" "he will not still, dear mistress mine, gin i'd lay down my life." "sweet nourice, loud, loud cries my bairn, o still him wi' the bell:" "he will not still, dear lady, till ye cum down yoursell." the first step she stepped, she stepped on a stane, the next step she stepped, she met the lammikin. and when she saw the red, red blude, a loud skriech skrieched she: "o monster, monster, spare my child, who never skaithed thee! "o spare, if in your bluidy breast abides not heart of stane! o spare, an' ye sall hae o' gold that ye can carry hame!" "i carena for your gold," he said, "i carena for your fee: i hae been wranged by your lord, black vengeance ye sall drie. "here are nae serfs to guard your haa's, nae trusty spearmen here; in yon green wood they sound the horn, and chace the doe and deer. "tho merry sounds the gude green wood wi' huntsmen, hounds, and horn, your lord sall rue ere sets yon sun he has done me skaith and scorn." "o nourice, wanted ye your meat, or wanted ye your fee, or wanted ye for any thing, a fair lady could gie?" "i wanted for nae meat, ladie, i wanted for nae fee; but i wanted for a hantle a fair lady could gie." then lammikin drew his red, red sword, and sharped it on a stane, and through and through this fair ladie, the cauld, cauld steel is gane. nor lang was't after this foul deed, till lord weire cumin' hame, thocht he saw his sweet bairn's bluid sprinkled on a stane. "i wish a' may be weel," he says, "wi' my ladie at hame; for the rings upon my fingers are bursting in twain." but mair he look'd, and dule saw he, on the door at the trance, spots o' his dear ladys bluid shining like a lance. "there's bluid in my nursery, there's bluid in my ha', there's bluid in my fair lady's bower, an' that's warst of a'." o sweet, sweet sang the birdie, upon the bough sae hie, but little cared false nourice for that, for it was her gallows tree. then out he set, and his braw men rode a' the country roun'; ere lang they faud the lammikin had sheltered near to downe. they carried him a' airts o' wind, and mickle pain had he, at last before lord weire's gate they hanged him on the tree. long lonkin. see p. . from richardson's _borderer's table-book_, viii. . the lord said to his ladie, as he mounted his horse, "beware of long lonkin that lies in the moss." the lord said to his ladie, as he rode away, "beware of long lonkin that lies in the clay." "what care i for lonkin, or any of his gang? my doors are all shut and my windows penned in." there are six little windows, and they were all shut, but one little window, and that was forgot. * * * * * * * * * * * * and at that little window long lonkin crept in. "where's the lord of the hall?" says the lonkin; "he's gone up to london," says orange to him. "where's the men of the hall?" says the lonkin; "they're at the field ploughing," says orange to him. "where's the maids of the hall?" says the lonkin; "they're at the well washing," says orange to him. "where's the ladies of the hall?" says the lonkin; "they're up in their chambers," says orange to him. "how shall we get them down?" says the lonkin; "prick the babe in the cradle," says orange to him. "rock well my cradle, and bee-ba my son; ye shall have a new gown when the lord he comes home." still she did prick it, and bee-ba she cried; "come down, dearest mistress, and still your own child." "o still my child, orange, still him with a bell;" "i can't still him, ladie, till you come down yoursell." * * * * * * "hold the gold basin, for your heart's blood to run in," * * * * * * * * * * * * "to hold the gold basin, it grieves me full sore; oh kill me, dear lonkin, and let my mother go." * * * * * * the laird of waristoun. see p. . "john kincaid, laird of waristoun, (an estate situated between the city of edinburgh and the sea, towards leith,) was murdered, on the d of july, , by a man named robert weir, who was employed to do so by his wife, jean livingstone, daughter of the laird of dunipace. the unfortunate woman, who thus became implicated in a crime so revolting to humanity, was only twenty-one years of age at the time. it is probable from some circumstances, that her husband was considerably older than herself, and also that their marriage was any thing but one of love. it is only alleged, however, that she was instigated to seek his death by resentment for some bad treatment on his part, and, in particular, for a bite which he had inflicted on her arm. there was something extraordinary in the deliberation with which this wretched woman approached the awful gulf of crime. having resolved on the means to be employed in the murder, she sent for a quondam servant of her father, robert weir, who lived in the neighbouring city. he came to the place of waristoun, to see her; but, for some unexplained reason was not admitted. she again sent for him, and he again went. again he was not admitted. at length, on his being called a third time, he was introduced to her presence. before this time she had found an accomplice in the nurse of her child. it was then arranged, that weir should be concealed in a cellar till the dead of night, when he should come forth and proceed to destroy the laird as he lay in his chamber. the bloody tragedy was acted precisely in accordance with this plan. weir was brought up, at midnight, from the cellar to the hall by the lady herself, and afterwards went forward alone to the laird's bedroom. as he proceeded to his bloody work, she retired to her bed, to wait the intelligence of her husband's murder. when weir entered the chamber, waristoun awoke with the noise, and leant inquiringly over the side of the bed. the murderer then leapt upon him; the unhappy man uttered a great cry; weir gave him several dreadful blows on vital parts, particularly one on the flank vein. but as the laird was still able to cry out, he at length saw fit to take more effective measures: he seized him by the throat with both hands, and compressing that part with all his force, succeeded, after a few minutes, in depriving him of life. when the lady heard her husband's first death-shout, she leapt out of bed, in an agony of mingled horror and repentance, and descended to the hall: but she made no effort to countermand her mission of destruction. she waited patiently till weir came down to inform her that all was over. "weir made an immediate escape from justice; but lady waristoun and the nurse were apprehended before the deed was half a day old. being caught, as the scottish law terms it, _red-hand_,--that is, while still bearing unequivocal marks of guilt, they were immediately tried by the magistrates of edinburgh, and sentenced to be strangled and burnt at a stake. the lady's father, the laird of dunipace, was a favourite of king james vi., and he made all the interest he could with his majesty to procure a pardon; but all that could be obtained from the king, was an order that the unhappy lady should be executed by decapitation, and that at such an early hour in the morning as to make the affair as little of a spectacle as possible. "the space intervening between her sentence and her execution was only thirty-seven hours; yet, in that little time, lady waristoun contrived to become converted from a blood-stained and unrelenting murderess into a perfect saint on earth. one of the then ministers of edinburgh has left an account of her conversion, which was lately published, and would be extremely amusing, were it not for the disgust which seizes the mind on beholding such an instance of perverted religion. she went to the scaffold with a demeanour which would have graced a martyr. her lips were incessant in the utterance of pious exclamations. she professed herself confident of everlasting happiness. she even grudged every moment which she spent in this world, as so much taken from that sum of eternal felicity which she was to enjoy in the next. the people who came to witness the last scene, instead of having their minds inspired with salutary horror for her crime, were engrossed in admiration of her saintly behaviour, and greedily gathered up every devout word which fell from her tongue. it would almost appear from the narrative of the clergyman, that her fate was rather a matter of envy than of any other feeling. her execution took place at four in the morning of the th of july, at the watergate, near holyroodhouse; and at the same hour her nurse was burnt on the castle-hill. it is some gratification to know, that the actual murderer, weir, was eventually seized and executed, though not till four years after." chambers's _scottish ballads_, p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . my mother was an ill woman, in fifteen years she married me; i hadna wit to guide a man, alas! ill counsel guided me. o warriston, o warriston, i wish that ye may sink for sin; i was but bare fifteen years auld, whan first i enter'd your yates within. i hadna been a month married, till my gude lord went to the sea; i bare a bairn ere he came hame, and set it on the nourice knee. but it fell ance upon a day, that my gude lord return'd from sea; then i did dress in the best array, as blythe as ony bird on tree. i took my young son in my arms, likewise my nourice me forebye, and i went down to yon shore side, my gude lord's vessel i might spy. my lord he stood upon the deck, i wyte he hail'd me courteouslie; "ye are thrice welcome, my lady gay, whase aught that bairn on your knee?" she turn'd her right and round about, says, "why take ye sic dreads o' me? alas! i was too young married, to love another man but thee." "now hold your tongue, my lady gay, nae mair falsehoods ye'll tell to me; this bonny bairn is not mine, you've loved another while i was on sea." in discontent then hame she went, and aye the tear did blin' her e'e; says, "of this wretch i'll be revenged, for these harsh words he's said to me." she's counsell'd wi' her father's steward, what way she cou'd revenged be; bad was the counsel then he gave,-- it was to gar her gude lord dee. the nourice took the deed in hand, i wat she was well paid her fee; she kiest the knot, and the loop she ran, which soon did gar this young lord dee. his brother lay in a room hard by, alas! that night he slept too soun'; but then he waken'd wi a cry, "i fear my brother's putten down. "o get me coal and candle light, and get me some gude companie;" but before the light was brought, warriston he was gart dee. they've ta'en the lady and fause nourice, in prison strong they ha'e them boun'; the nourice she was hard o' heart, but the bonny lady fell in swoon. in it came her brother dear, and aye a sorry man was he; "i wou'd gie a' the lands i heir, o bonny jean, to borrow thee." "o borrow me brother, borrow me,-- o borrow'd shall i never be; for i gart kill my ain gude lord, and life is nae pleasure to me." in it came her mother dear, i wyte a sorry woman was she; "i wou'd gie my white monie and gowd, o bonny jean, to borrow thee." "borrow me mother, borrow me,-- o borrow'd shall i never be; for i gart kill my ain gude lord, and life's now nae pleasure to me." then in it came her father dear, i wyte a sorry man was he; says, "ohon, alas! my bonny jean, if i had you at hame wi' me. "seven daughters i ha'e left at hame, as fair women as fair can be; but i wou'd gi'e them ane by ane, o bonny jean, to borrow thee." "o borrow me father, borrow me,-- o borrow'd shall i never be; i that is worthy o' the death, it is but right that i shou'd dee." then out it speaks the king himsell, and aye as he steps in the fleer; says, "i grant you your life, lady, because you are of tender year." "a boon, a boon, my liege the king, the boon i ask, ye'll grant to me:" "ask on, ask on, my bonny jean, whate'er ye ask it's granted be." "cause take me out at night, at night, lat not the sun upon me shine; and take me to yon heading hill, strike aff this dowie head o' mine. "ye'll take me out at night, at night, when there are nane to gaze and see; and ha'e me to yon heading hill, and ye'll gar head me speedilie." they've ta'en her out at nine at night, loot not the sun upon her shine; and had her to yon heading hill, and headed her baith neat and fine. then out it speaks the king himsell, i wyte a sorry man was he; "i've travell'd east, i've travell'd west, and sailed far beyond the sea, but i never saw a woman's face i was sae sorry to see dee. "but warriston was sair to blame, for slighting o' his lady so; he had the wyte o' his ain death, and bonny lady's overthrow." mary hamilton. see p. . a "north country" version from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . the editor furnishes the two following stanzas of another copy:-- my father is the duke of argyle, my mother's a lady gay, and i mysel am a daintie dame, and the king desired me. he shaw'd me up, he shaw'd me doun, he shaw'd me to the ha', he shaw'd me to the low cellars, and that was warst of a'. in one of motherwell's copies, and in buchan's, the heroine calls herself daughter of the duke of york. "whan i was a babe, and a very little babe, and stood at my mither's knee, nae witch nor warlock did unfauld the death i was to dree. "but my mither was a proud woman, a proud woman and a bauld; and she hired me to queen mary's bouer when scarce eleven years auld. "o happy, happy, is the maid, that's born of beauty free! it was my dimpling rosy cheeks that's been the dule o' me; and wae be to that weirdless wicht, and a' his witcherie." word's gane up and word's gane doun, and word's gane to the ha', that mary hamilton was wi' bairn, and na body ken'd to wha. but in and cam the queen hersel, wi' gowd plait on her hair;-- says, "mary hamilton, whare is the babe that i heard greet sae sair?" "there is na babe within my bouer, and i hope there ne'er will be; but it's me wi' a sair and sick colic, and i'm just like to dee." but they looked up, they looked down, atween the bowsters and the wa', it's there they got a bonnie lad-bairn, but it's life it was awa'. "rise up, rise up, mary hamilton, rise up, and dress ye fine, for you maun gang to edinbruch, and stand afore the nine.[l ] "ye'll no put on the dowie black, nor yet the dowie brown; but ye'll put on the robes o' red, to sheen thro' edinbruch town." "i'll no put on the dowie black, nor yet the dowie brown; but i'll put on the robes o' red, to sheen thro' edinbruch town." as they gaed thro' edinbruch town, and down by the nether-bow, there war monie a lady fair siching and crying, "och how!" "o weep na mair for me, ladies, weep na mair for me; yestreen i killed my ain bairn, the day i deserve to dee. "what need ye hech! and how! ladies, what need ye how! for me; ye never saw grace at a graceless face,-- queen mary has nane to gie." "gae forward, gae forward," the queen she said, "gae forward, that ye may see; for the very same words that ye hae said, sall hang ye on the gallows tree." as she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, she gied loud lauchters three; but or ever she cam down again, she was condemn'd to dee. "o tak example frae me, maries, o tak example frae me, nor gie your luve to courtly lords, nor heed their witchin' ee. "but wae be to the queen hersel, she micht hae pardon'd me; but sair she's striven for me to hang upon the gallows tree. "yestreen the queen had four maries, the nicht she'll hae but three; there was mary beatoun, mary seaton, and mary carmichael, and me. "aft hae i set pearls in her hair, aft hae i lac'd her gown, and this is the reward i now get, to be hang'd in edinbruch town! "o a' ye mariners, far and near, that sail ayont the faem, o dinna let my father and mither ken, but what i am coming hame. "o a' ye mariners, far and near, that sail ayont the sea, let na my father and mither ken, the death i am to dee. "sae, weep na mair for me, ladies, weep na mair for me, the mither that kills her ain bairn, deserves weel for to dee." * * * * * * * * . anciently the supreme criminal court of scotland was composed of nine members, viz. the justiciar, or justice general, and his eight deputes. kinloch. mary hamilton. see p . maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. . then down cam queen marie wi' gold links in her hair, saying, "marie mild, where is the child, that i heard greet sair sair?" "there was nae child wi' me, madam, there was nae child wi' me; it was but me in a sair cholic, when i was like to die." "i'm not deceived," queen marie said, "no, no, indeed, not i! so marie mild, where is the child? for sure i heard it cry." she turned down the blankets fine, likewise the holland sheet, and underneath, there strangled lay a lovely baby sweet. "o cruel mother," said the queen, "some fiend possessed thee; but i will hang thee for this deed, my marie tho' thou be!" * * * * * * when she cam to the nether-bow port, she laugh't loud laughters three; but when she cam to the gallows foot, the saut tear blinded her ee. "yestreen the queen had four maries, the night she'll hae but three; there was marie seton, and marie beaton, and marie carmichael and me. "ye mariners, ye mariners, that sail upon the sea, let not my father or mother wit the death that i maun die. "i was my parents' only hope, they ne'er had ane but me; they little thought when i left hame, they should nae mair me see!" sir hugh, or the jew's daughter. see p. . from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. ; taken down from recitation. yesterday was brave hallowday, and, above all days of the year, the schoolboys all got leave to play, and little sir hugh was there. he kicked the ball with his foot, and kepped it with his knee, and even in at the jew's window he gart the bonnie ba' flee. out then came the jew's daughter,-- "will ye come in and dine?" "i winna come in and i canna come in till i get that ball of mine. "throw down that ball to me, maiden, throw down the ball to me." "i winna throw down your ball, sir hugh, till ye come up to me." she pu'd the apple frae the tree, it was baith red and green, she gave it unto little sir hugh, with that his heart did win. she wiled him into ae chamber, she wiled him into twa, she wiled him into the third chamber, and that was warst o't a'. she took out a little penknife, hung low down by her spare, she twined this young thing o' his life, and a word he ne'er spak mair. and first came out the thick, thick blood, and syne came out the thin, and syne came out the bonnie heart's blood,-- there was nae mair within. she laid him on a dressing table, she dress'd him like a swine, says, "lie ye there, my bonnie sir hugh, wi' ye're apples red and green!" she put him in a case of lead, says, "lie ye there and sleep!" she threw him into the deep draw-well was fifty fathom deep. a schoolboy walking in the garden did grievously hear him moan, he ran away to the deep draw-well and fell down on his knee. says, "bonnie sir hugh, and pretty sir hugh, i pray you speak to me; if you speak to any body in this world, i pray you speak to me." when bells were rung and mass was sung, and every body went hame, then every lady had her son, but lady helen had nane. she rolled her mantle her about, and sore, sore did she weep; she ran away to the jew's castle, when all were fast asleep. she cries, "bonnie sir hugh, o pretty sir hugh, i pray you speak to me; if you speak to any body in this world, i pray you speak to me." "lady helen, if ye want your son, i'll tell ye where to seek; lady helen, if ye want your son, he's in the well sae deep." she ran away to the deep draw-well, and she fell down on her knee; saying, "bonnie sir hugh, o pretty sir hugh, i pray ye speak to me; if ye speak to any body in the world, i pray ye speak to me." "oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother, the well it is wondrous deep; the little penknife sticks in my throat, and i downa to ye speak. but lift me out o' this deep draw-well, and bury me in yon churchyard; "put a bible at my head," he says, "and a testament at my feet, and pen and ink at every side, and i'll lie still and sleep. "and go to the back of maitland town, bring me my winding sheet; for it's at the back of maitland town that you and i shall meet." o the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, the broom that makes full sore, a woman's mercy is very little, but a man's mercy is more. sir hugh. see p. . from hume's _sir hugh of lincoln_, p. ; obtained from recitation, in ireland. 'twas on a summer's morning, some scholars were playing at ball; when out came the jew's daughter and lean'd her back against the wall. she said unto the fairest boy, "come here to me, sir hugh." "no! i will not," said he, "without my playfellows too." she took an apple out of her pocket, and trundled it along the plain; and who was readiest to lift it, was little sir hugh, again. she took him by the milk-white han', an' led him through many a hall, until they came to one stone chamber, where no man might hear his call. she sat him in a goolden chair, and jagg'd him with a pin; and called for a goolden cup to houl' his heart's blood in. she tuk him by the yellow hair, an' also by the feet; an' she threw him in the deep draw well, it was fifty fadom deep. day bein' over, the night came on, and the scholars all went home; then every mother had her son, but little sir hugh's had none. she put her mantle about her head, tuk a little rod in her han', an' she says, "sir hugh, if i fin' you here, i will bate you for stayin' so long." first she went to the jew's door, but they were fast asleep; an' then she went to the deep draw-well, that was fifty fadom deep. she says, "sir hugh, if you be here, as i suppose you be, if ever the dead or quick arose, arise and spake to me." yes, mother dear, i am here, i know i have staid very long; but a little penknife was stuck in my heart, till the stream ran down full strong. and mother dear, when you go home, tell my playfellows all, that i lost my life by leaving them when playing that game of ball. and ere another day is gone, my winding-sheet prepare, and bury me in the green churchyard where the flowers are bloomin' fair. lay my bible at my head, my testament at my feet; the earth and worms shall be my bed, till christ and i shall meet. sir patrick spens. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . the king sits in dunfermline town, a-drinking at the wine; says, "where will i get a good skipper will sail the saut seas fine?" out it speaks an eldren knight amang the companie,-- "young patrick spens is the best skipper that ever sail'd the sea." the king he wrote a braid letter, and seal'd it wi' his ring; says, "ye'll gi'e that to patrick spens: see if ye can him find." he sent this, not wi' an auld man, nor yet a simple boy, but the best o' nobles in his train this letter did convoy. when patrick look'd the letter upon a light laugh then ga'e he; but ere he read it till an end, the tear blinded his e'e. "ye'll eat and drink, my merry men a', an' see ye be weell thorn; for blaw it weet, or blaw it wind, my guid ship sails the morn." then out it speaks a guid auld man, a guid death mat he dee,-- "whatever ye do, my guid master, tak' god your guide to bee. "for late yestreen i saw the new moon, the auld moon in her arm." "ohon, alas!" says patrick spens, "that bodes a deadly storm. "but i maun sail the seas the morn, and likewise sae maun you; to noroway, wi' our king's daughter,-- a chosen queen she's now. "but i wonder who has been sae base, as tauld the king o' mee: even tho' hee ware my ae brither, an ill death mat he dee." now patrick he rigg'd out his ship, and sailed ower the faem; but mony a dreary thought had hee, while hee was on the main. they hadna sail'd upon the sea a day but barely three, till they came in sight o' noroway, it's there where they must bee. they hadna stayed into that place a month but and a day, till he caus'd the flip in mugs gae roun', and wine in cans sae gay. the pipe and harp sae sweetly play'd, the trumpets loudly soun'; in every hall where in they stay'd, wi' their mirth did reboun'. then out it speaks an auld skipper, an inbearing dog was hee,-- "ye've stay'd ower lang in noroway, spending your king's monie." then out it speaks sir patrick spens,-- "o how can a' this bee? i ha'e a bow o' guid red gowd into my ship wi' mee. "but betide me well, betide me wae, this day i'se leave the shore; and never spend my king's monie 'mong noroway dogs no more." young patrick hee is on the sea, and even on the faem, wi' five-an-fifty scots lords' sons, that lang'd to bee at hame. they hadna sail'd upon the sea a day but barely three, till loud and boistrous grew the wind, and stormy grew the sea. "o where will i get a little wee boy will tak' my helm in hand, till i gae up to my tapmast, and see for some dry land?" he hadna gane to his tapmast a step but barely three; ere thro' and thro' the bonny ship's side, he saw the green haw sea. "there are five-an-fifty feather beds well packed in ae room; and ye'll get as muckle guid canvas as wrap the ship a' roun'; "ye'll pict her well, and spare her not, and mak' her hale and soun'." but ere he had the word well spoke the bonny ship was down. o laith, laith were our guid lords' sons to weet their milk-white hands; but lang ere a' the play was ower they wat their gowden bands. o laith, laith were our scots lords' sons to weet their coal-black shoon; but lang ere a' the play was ower they wat their hats aboon. it's even ower by aberdour it's fifty fathoms deep, and yonder lies sir patrick spens, and a's men at his feet. it's even ower by aberdour, there's mony a craig and fin, and yonder lies sir patrick spens, wi' mony a guid lord's son. lang, lang will the ladyes look into their morning weed, before they see young patrick spens come sailing ower the fleed. lang, lang will the ladyes look wi' their fans in their hand, before they see him, patrick spens, come sailing to dry land. lord livingston. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . it fell about the lammas time, when wightsmen won their hay; a' the squires in merry linkum, went a' forth till a play. they play'd until the evening tide, the sun was gaeing down; a lady thro' plain fields was bound, a lily leesome thing. two squires that for this lady pledged, in hopes for a renown; the one was call'd the proud seaton, the other livingston. "when will ye, michaell o' livingston, wad for this lady gay?" "to-morrow, to-morrow," said livingston, "to-morrow, if you may." then they hae wadded their wagers, and laid their pledges down; to the high castle o' edinbro' they made them ready boun'. the chamber that they did gang in, there it was daily dight; the kipples were like the gude red gowd, as they stood up in hight; and the roof-tree like the siller white, and shin'd like candles bright. the lady fair into that ha' was comely to be seen; her kirtle was made o' the pa', her gowns seem'd o' the green. her gowns seem'd like green, like green, her kirtle o' the pa'; a siller wand intill her hand, she marshall'd ower them a'. she gae every knight a lady bright, and every squire a may; her own sell chose him, livingston, they were a comely tway. then seaton started till his foot, the fierce flame in his e'e: "on the next day, wi' sword in hand, on plain fields, meet ye me." when bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' man bound for bed; lord livingston and his fair dame in bed were sweetly laid. the bed, the bed, where they lay in, was cover'd wi' the pa'; a covering o' the gude red gowd, lay nightly ower the twa. so they lay there, till on the morn the sun shone on their feet; then up it raise him, livingston, to draw to him a weed. the first an' weed that he drew on, was o' the linen clear; the next an' weed that he drew on, it was a weed o' weir. the niest an' weed that he drew on, was gude iron and steel; twa gloves o' plate, a gowden helmet, became that hind chiel weel. then out it speaks that lady gay, a little forbye stood she; "i'll dress mysell in men's array, gae to the fields for thee." "o god forbid," said livingston, "that e'er i dree the shame; my lady slain in plain fields, and i coward knight at hame!" he scarcely travelled frae the town a mile but barely twa, till he met wi' a witch woman, i pray to send her wae. "this is too gude a day, my lord, to gang sae far frae town; this is too gude a day, my lord, on field to make you boun'. "i dream'd a dream concerning thee, o read ill dreams to guid! your bower was full o' milk-white swans, your bride's bed full o' bluid." "o bluid is gude," said livingston, "to bide it whoso may; if i be frae yon plain fields, nane knew the plight i lay." then he rade on to plain fields, as swift's his horse cou'd hie; and there he met the proud seaton, come boldly ower the lee. "come on to me now, livingston, or then take foot and flee; this is the day that we must try who gains the victorie." then they fought with sword in hand, till they were bluidy men; but on the point o' seaton's sword brave livingston was slain. his lady lay ower castle wa', beholding dale and down, when blenchant brave, his gallant steed, came prancing to the town. "o where is now my ain gude lord, he stays sae far frae me?" "o dinna ye see your ain gude lord, stand bleeding by your knee?" "o live, o live, lord livingston, the space o' ae half hour; there's nae a leech in edinbro' town but i'll bring to your door." "awa' wi' your leeches, lady," he said, "of them i'll be the waur; there's nae a leech in edinbro' town, that can strong death debar. "ye'll take the lands o' livingston, and deal them liberallie; to the auld that may not, the young that cannot, and blind that does na see; and help young maidens' marriages, that has nae gear to gie." "my mother got it in a book, the first night i was born, i wou'd be wedded till a knight, and him slain on the morn. "but i will do for my love's sake what ladies woudna thole; ere seven years shall hae an end, nae shoe's gang on my sole. "there's never lint gang on my head, nor kame gang in my hair, nor ever coal nor candle light, shine in my bower mair." when seven years were near an end, the lady she thought lang; and wi' a crack her heart did brake, and sae this ends my sang. clerk tamas. buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. . clerk tamas lov'd her, fair annie, as well as mary lov'd her son; but now he hates her, fair annie, and hates the lands that she lives in. "ohon, alas!" said fair annie, "alas! this day i fear i'll die; but i will on to sweet tamas, and see gin he will pity me." as tamas lay ower his shott-window, just as the sun was gaen down, there he beheld her, fair annie, as she came walking to the town. "o where are a' my well-wight men, i wat that i pay meat and fee, for to lat a' my hounds gang loose, to hunt this vile whore to the sea!" the hounds they knew the lady well, and nane o' them they wou'd her bite; save ane that is ca'd gaudy-where, i wat he did the lady smite. "o wae mat worth ye, gaudy-where, an ill reward this is to me; for ae bit that i gae the lave, i'm very sure i've gi'en you three. "for me, alas! there's nae remeid, here comes the day that i maun die; i ken ye lov'd your master well, and sae, alas for me, did i!" a captain lay ower his ship window, just as the sun was gaen down; there he beheld her, fair annie, as she was hunted frae the town. "gin ye'll forsake father and mither, and sae will ye your friends and kin, gin ye'll forsake your lands sae broad, then come and i will take you in." "yes, i'll forsake baith father and mither, and sae will i my friends and kin, yes, i'll forsake my lands sae broad, and come, gin ye will take me in." then a' thing gaed frae fause tamas, and there was naething byde him wi'; then he thought lang for arrandella, it was fair annie for to see. "how do ye now, ye sweet tamas? and how gaes a' in your countrie?" "i'll do better to you than ever i've done, fair annie, gin ye'll come an' see." "o guid forbid," said fair annie, "that e'er the like fa' in my hand; wou'd i forsake my ain gude lord, and follow you, a gae-through-land? "yet nevertheless now, sweet tamas, ye'll drink a cup o' wine wi' me; and nine times in the live lang day, your fair claithing shall changed be." fair annie pat it till her cheek, sae did she till her milk-white chin, sae did she till her flattering lips, but never a drap o' wine gaed in. tamas pat it till his cheek, sae did he till his dimpled chin; he pat it till his rosy lips, and then the well o' wine gaed in. "these pains," said he, "are ill to bide; here is the day that i maun die; o take this cup frae me, annie, for o' the same i am weary." "and sae was i, o' you, tamas, when i was hunted to the sea; but i'se gar bury you in state, which is mair than ye'd done to me." john thomson and the turk. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, appendix, p. ix. the same in buchan's collection, ii. . john thomson fought against the turks three years, intill a far countrie; and all that time, and something mair, was absent from his gay ladie. but it fell ance upon a time, as this young chieftain sat alane, he spied his lady in rich array, as she walk'd ower a rural plain. "what brought ye here, my lady gay, so far awa from your ain countrie? i've thought lang, and very lang, and all for your fair face to see." for some days she did with him stay, till it fell ance upon a day, "fareweel, for a time," she said, "for now i must boun hame away." he's gi'en to her a jewel fine, was set with pearl and precious stane; says, "my love, beware of these savages bold that's in your way as ye gang hame. "ye'll tak the road, my lady fair, that leads you fair across the lea: that keeps you from wild hind soldan, and likewise from base violentrie." wi' heavy heart thir twa did pairt, she mintet as she wuld gae hame; hind soldan by the greeks was slain, but to base violentrie she's gane. when a twelvemonth had expired, john thomson he thought wondrous lang, and he has written a braid letter, and sealed it weel wi' his ain hand. he sent it with a small vessel that there was quickly gaun to sea; and sent it on to fair scotland, to see about his gay ladie. but the answer he received again,-- the lines did grieve his heart right sair: nane of her friends there had her seen, for a twelvemonth and something mair. then he put on a palmer's weed, and took a pike-staff in his hand; to violentrie's castell he hied; but slowly, slowly he did gang. when within the hall he came, he jooked and couch'd out ower his tree: "if ye be lady of this hall, some of your good bountith gie me." "what news, what news, palmer," she said, "and from what countrie cam ye?" "i'm lately come from grecian plains, where lies some of the scots armie." "if ye be come from grecian plains, some mair news i will ask of thee,-- of one of the chieftains that lies there, if he has lately seen his gay ladie." "it is twa months, and something mair, since we did pairt on yonder plain; and now this knight has began to fear one of his foes he has her ta'en." "he has not ta'en me by force nor slight; it was a' by my ain free will; he may tarry into the fight, for here i mean to tarry still. "and if john thomson ye do see, tell him i wish him silent sleep; his head was not so coziely, nor yet sae weel, as lies at my feet." with that he threw aff his strange disguise, laid by the mask that he had on; said, "hide me now, my lady fair, for violentrie will soon be hame." "for the love i bore thee ance, i'll strive to hide you, if i can:" then she put him down in a dark cellar where there lay many a new slain man. but he hadna in the cellar been, not an hour but barely three, then hideous was the noise he heard, when in at the gate cam violentrie. says, "i wish you well, my lady fair, it's time for us to sit to dine; come, serve me with the good white bread, and likewise with the claret wine. "that scots chieftain, our mortal fae, sae aft frae the field has made us flee, ten thousand zechins this day i'll give that i his face could only see." "of that same gift wuld ye give me, if i wuld bring him unto thee? i fairly hold you at your word;-- come ben, john thomson, to my lord." then from the vault john thomson came, wringing his hands most piteouslie: "what would ye do," the turk he cried, "if ye had me as i hae thee?" "if i had you as ye have me, i'll tell ye what i'd do to thee; i'd hang you up in good greenwood, and cause your ain hand wale the tree. "i meant to stick you with my knife for kissing my beloved ladie:" "but that same weed ye've shaped for me, it quickly shall be sewed for thee." then to the wood they baith are gane; john thomson clamb frae tree to tree; and aye he sighed and said, "och hone! here comes the day that i must die." he tied a ribbon on every branch, put up a flag his men might see; but little did his false faes ken he meant them any injurie. he set his horn unto his mouth, and he has blawn baith loud and schill: and then three thousand armed men cam tripping all out ower the hill. "deliver us our chief," they all did cry; "it's by our hand that ye must die;" "here is your chief," the turk replied, with that fell on his bended knee. "o mercy, mercy, good fellows all, mercy i pray you'll grant to me;" "such mercy as ye meant to give, such mercy we shall give to thee." this turk they in his castel burnt, that stood upon yon hill so hie; john thomson's gay ladie they took and hanged her on yon greenwood tree. lord thomas stuart. from maidment's _north countrie garland_, p. . thomas stuart was a lord, a lord of mickle land; he used to wear a coat of gold, but now his grave is green. now he has wooed the young countess, the countess of balquhin, an' given her for a morning gift, strathboggie and aboyne. but women's wit is aye willful, alas! that ever it was sae; she longed to see the morning gift that her gude lord to her gae. when steeds were saddled an' weel bridled, an' ready for to ride, there came a pain on that gude lord, his back, likewise his side. he said, "ride on, my lady fair, may goodness be your guide; for i'm sae sick an' weary that no farther can i ride." now ben did come his father dear, wearing a golden band; says, "is there nae leech in edinburgh, can cure my son from wrang?" "o leech is come, an' leech is gane, yet, father, i'm aye waur; there's not a leech in edinbro' can death from me debar. "but be a friend to my wife, father, restore to her her own; restore to her my morning gift, strathboggie and aboyne. "it had been gude for my wife, father, to me she'd born a son; he would have got my land an' rents, where they lie out an' in. "it had been gude for my wife, father, to me she'd born an heir; he would have got my land an' rents, where they lie fine an' fair." the steeds they strave into their stables, the boys could'nt get them bound; the hounds lay howling on the leech, 'cause their master was behind. "i dreamed a dream since late yestreen, i wish it may be good, that our chamber was full of swine, an' our bed full of blood. "i saw a woman come from the west, full sore wringing her hands, and aye she cried, 'ohon alas! my good lord's broken bands.' "as she came by my good lord's bower, saw mony black steeds an' brown; i'm feared it be mony unco lords havin' my love from town." as she came by my gude lord's bower, saw mony black steeds an' grey; "i'm feared its mony unco lords havin' my love to the clay." the spanish virgin. from percy's _reliques_, iii. . the three following pieces are here inserted merely as specimens of a class of tales, horrible in their incidents but feeble in their execution, of which whole dreary volumes were printed and read about two centuries ago. they were all of them, probably, founded on italian novels. "the subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, entitled, _the theatre of god's judgments, by dr. beard and dr. taylor_, . pt. , p. . the text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the pepys collection. in this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden: oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell: depart from hence, and therein dwell." all tender hearts, that ake to hear of those that suffer wrong; all you that never shed a tear, give heed unto my song. fair isabella's tragedy my tale doth far exceed: alas, that so much cruelty in female hearts should breed! in spain a lady liv'd of late, who was of high degree; whose wayward temper did create much woe and misery. strange jealousies so filled her head with many a vain surmize, she thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, and did her love despise. a gentlewoman passing fair did on this lady wait; with bravest dames she might compare; her beauty was compleat. her lady cast a jealous eye upon this gentle maid, and taxt her with disloyaltye, and did her oft upbraid. in silence still this maiden meek her bitter taunts would bear, while oft adown her lovely cheek would steal the falling tear. in vain in humble sort she strove her fury to disarm; as well the meekness of the dove the bloody hawke might charm. her lord, of humour light and gay, and innocent the while, as oft as she came in his way, would on the damsell smile. and oft before his lady's face, as thinking her her friend, he would the maiden's modest grace and comeliness commend. all which incens'd his lady so, she burnt with wrath extreame; at length the fire that long did glow, burst forth into a flame. for on a day it so befell, when he was gone from home, the lady all with rage did swell, and to the damsell come. and charging her with great offence and many a grievous fault, she bade her servants drag her thence, into a dismal vault, that lay beneath the common-shore,-- a dungeon dark and deep, where they were wont, in days of yore, offenders great to keep. there never light of chearful day dispers'd the hideous gloom; but dank and noisome vapours play around the wretched room: and adders, snakes, and toads therein, as afterwards was known, long in this loathsome vault had bin, and were to monsters grown. into this foul and fearful place, the fair one innocent was cast, before her lady's face; her malice to content. this maid no sooner enter'd is, but strait, alas! she hears the toads to croak, and snakes to hiss: then grievously she fears. soon from their holes the vipers creep, and fiercely her assail, which makes the damsel sorely weep, and her sad fate bewail. with her fair hands she strives in vain her body to defend; with shrieks and cries she doth complain, but all is to no end. a servant listning near the door, struck with her doleful noise, strait ran his lady to implore; but she'll not hear his voice. with bleeding heart he goes agen to mark the maiden's groans; and plainly hears, within the den, how she herself bemoans. again he to his lady hies, with all the haste he may; she into furious passion flies, and orders him away. still back again does he return to hear her tender cries; the virgin now had ceas'd to mourn, which fill'd him with surprize. in grief, and horror, and affright, he listens at the walls but finding all was silent quite, he to his lady calls. "too sure, o lady," now quoth he, "your cruelty hath sped; make haste, for shame, and come and see; i fear the virgin's dead." she starts to hear her sudden fate, and does with torches run; but all her haste was now too late, for death his worst had done. the door being open'd, strait they found the virgin stretch'd along; two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round, which her to death had stung. one round her legs, her thighs, her waist, had twin'd his fatal wreath; the other close her neck embrac'd, and stopt her gentle breath. the snakes being from her body thrust, their bellies were so fill'd, that with excess of blood they burst, thus with their prey were kill'd. the wicked lady, at this sight, with horror strait ran mad; so raving dy'd, as was most right, 'cause she no pity had. let me advise you, ladies all, of jealousy beware: it causeth many a one to fall, and is the devil's snare. the lady isabella's tragedy. "this ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection, collated with another in the british museum, h. , folio. it is there entitled, _the lady isabella's tragedy, or the step-mother's cruelty; being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. to the tune of the lady's fall_. to some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, entitled, _the dutchess's and cook's lamentation_." percy's _reliques_, iii. . the copy in durfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, v. , is nearly _verbatim_ the same. there was a lord of worthy fame, and a hunting he would ride, attended by a noble traine of gentrye by his side. and while he did in chase remaine, to see both sport and playe, his ladye went, as she did feigne, unto the church to praye. this lord he had a daughter deare, whose beauty shone so bright, she was belov'd, both far and neare, of many a lord and knight. fair isabella was she call'd, a creature faire was shee; she was her fathers only joye; as you shall after see. therefore her cruel step-mother did envye her so much, that daye by daye she sought her life, her malice it was such. she bargain'd with the master-cook to take her life awaye; and taking of her daughter's book, she thus to her did saye:-- "go home, sweet daughter, i thee praye, go hasten presentlie, and tell unto the master-cook these wordes that i tell thee. "and bid him dresse to dinner streight that faire and milk-white doe that in the parke doth shine so bright, there's none so faire to showe." this ladye fearing of no harme, obey'd her mothers will; and presentlye she hasted home, her pleasure to fulfill. she streight into the kitchen went, her message for to tell; and there she spied the master-cook, who did with malice swell. "nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, do that which i thee tell: you needes must dresse the milk-white doe, which you do knowe full well." then streight his cruell bloodye hands, he on the ladye layd; who quivering and shaking stands, while thus to her he sayd: "thou art the doe that i must dresse; see here, behold my knife; for it is pointed presently to ridd thee of thy life." "o then," cried out the scullion-boye, as loud as loud might bee, "o save her life, good master-cook, and make your pyes of mee! "for pityes sake do not destroye my ladye with your knife; you know shee is her father's joye; for christes sake save her life!" "i will not save her life," he sayd, "nor make my pyes of thee; yet if thou dost this deed bewraye, thy butcher i will bee." now when this lord he did come home for to sitt down and eat, he called for his daughter deare, to come and carve his meat. "now sit you downe," his ladye sayd, "o sit you downe to meat; into some nunnery she is gone; your daughter deare forget." then solemnlye he made a vowe before the companie, that he would neither eat nor drinke, until he did her see. o then bespake the scullion-boye. with a loud voice so hye; "if now you will your daughter see, my lord, cut up that pye: "wherein her fleshe is minced small, and parched with the fire; all caused by her step-mother, who did her death desire. "and cursed bee the master-cook, o cursed may he bee! i proffered him my own heart's blood, from death to set her free." then all in blacke this lord did mourne, and for his daughters sake, he judged her cruell step-mother to be burnt at a stake. likewise he judg'd the master-cook in boiling lead to stand. and made the simple scullion-boye the heire of all his land. the cruel black. _a collection of old ballads_, ( ,) ii. : also evans's _old ballads_, iii. . entered in the stationers' _registers, - _. a writer in the _british bibliographer_, (iv. ,) has pointed out that this is only one of bandello's novels versified. the novel is the st of the third part, (london, .) _a lamentable ballad of the tragical end of a gallant lord and virtuous lady; together with the untimely death of their two children: wickedly performed by a heathenish and blood-thirsty black-a-moor, their servant; the like of which cruelty and murder was never before heard of._ in rome a nobleman did wed a virgin of great fame; a fairer creature never did dame nature ever frame: by whom he had two children fair, whose beauty did excel; they were their parents only joy, they lov'd them both so well. the lord he lov'd to hunt the buck, the tiger, and the boar; and still for swiftness always took with him a black-a-moor: which black-a-moor within the wood his lord he did offend, for which he did him then correct, in hopes he would amend. the day it grew unto an end; then homewards he did haste, where with his lady he did rest, until the night was past. then in the morning he did rise, and did his servants call; a hunting he provides to go: straight they were ready all to cause the toyl the lady did intreat him not to go: "alas, good lady," then quoth he, "why art thou grieved so? content thyself, i will return with speed to thee again." "good father," quoth the little babes, "with us here still remain." "farewel, dear children, i will go a fine thing for to buy;" but they, therewith nothing content, aloud began to cry. the mother takes them by the hand, saying, "come, go with me unto the highest tower, where your father you shall see." the black-a-moor, perceiving now, who then did stay behind, his lord to be a hunting gone, began to call to mind: "my master he did me correct, my fault not being great; now of his wife i'll be reveng'd, she shall not me intreat." the place was moated round about; the bridge he up did draw; the gates he bolted very fast; of none he stood in awe. he up into the tower went, the lady being there; who, when she saw his countenance grim, she straight began to fear. but now my trembling heart it quakes to think what i must write; my senses all begin to fail, my soul it doth affright. yet must i make an end of this which here i have begun, which will make sad the hardest heart, before that i have done. this wretch unto the lady went, and her with speed did will, his lust forthwith to satisfy, his mind for to fulfil. the lady she amazed was, to hear the villain speak; "alas," quoth she, "what shall i do? with grief my heart will break." with that he took her in his arms; she straight for help did cry; "content yourself, lady," he said, "your husband is not nigh: the bridge is drawn, the gates are shut, therefore come lie with me, or else i do protest and vow, thy butcher i will be." the crystal tears ran down her face, her children cried amain, and sought to help their mother dear, but all it was in vain; for that egregious filthy rogue her hands behind her bound, and then perforce with all his might, he threw her on the ground. with that she shriek'd, her children cried, and such a noise did make, that town-folks, hearing her laments, did seek their parts to take: but all in vain; no way was found to help the lady's need, who cried to them most piteously, "o help! o help with speed!" some run into the forest wide, her lord home for to call; and they that stood still did lament this gallant lady's fall. with speed her lord came posting home; he could not enter in; his lady's cries did pierce his heart; to call he did begin: "o hold thy hand, thou savage moor, to hurt her do forbear, or else be sure, if i do live, wild horses shall thee tear." with that the rogue ran to the wall, he having had his will, and brought one child under his arm, his dearest blood to spill. the child, seeing his father there, to him for help did call: "o father! help my mother dear, we shall be killed all." then fell the lord upon his knee, and did the moor intreat, to save the life of this poor child, whose fear was then so great. but this vile wretch the little child by both the heels did take and dash'd his brains against the wall, whilst parent's hearts did ake: that being done, straightway he ran the other child to fetch, and pluck'd it from the mother's breast, most like a cruel wretch. within one hand a knife he brought, the child within the other; and holding it over the wall, saying, "thus shall die thy mother," with that he cut the throat of it; then to the father he did call, to look how he the head did cut, and down the head did fall. this done, he threw it down the wall into the moat so deep; which made the father wring his hands, and grievously to weep. then to the lady went this rogue, who was near dead with fear, yet this vile wretch most cruelly did drag her by the hair; and drew her to the very wall, which when her lord did see, then presently he cried out, and fell upon his knee: quoth he, "if thou wilt save her life, whom i do love so dear, i will forgive thee all is past, though they concern me near. "o save her life, i thee beseech; o save her, i thee pray, and i will grant thee what thou wilt demand of me this day." "well," quoth the moor, "i do regard the moan that thou dost make: if thou wilt grant me what i ask, i'll save her for thy sake." "o save her life, and then demand of me what thing thou wilt." "cut off thy nose, and not one drop of her blood shall be spilt." with that the lord presently took a knife within his hand, and then his nose he quite cut off, in place where he did stand. "now i have bought my lady's life," he to the moor did call; "then take her," quoth this wicked rogue, and down he let her fall. which when her gallant lord did see, his senses all did fail; yet many sought to save his life, but nothing could prevail. when as the moor did see him dead, then did he laugh amain at them who for their gallant lord and lady did complain: quoth he, "i know you'll torture me, if that you can me get, but all your threats i do not fear, nor yet regard one whit. "wild horses shall my body tear, i know it to be true, but i prevent you of that pain:" and down himself he threw. too good a death for such a wretch, a villain void of fear! and thus doth end as sad a tale as ever man did hear. book iv. king malcolm and sir colvin. see p. . from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . there ance liv'd a king in fair scotland, king malcolm called by name; whom ancient history gives record, for valour, worth, and fame. and it fell ance upon a day, the king sat down to dine; and then he miss'd a favourite knight, whose name was sir colvin. but out it speaks another knight, ane o' sir colvin's kin; "he's lyin' in bed, right sick in love, all for your daughter jean." "o waes me," said the royal king, "i'm sorry for the same; she maun take bread and wine sae red, give it to sir colvin." then gently did she bear the bread, her page did carry the wine, and set a table at his bed;-- "sir colvin, rise and dine." "o well love i the wine, lady, come frae your lovely hand; but better love i your fair body, than all fair scotland's strand." "o hold your tongue now, sir colvin, let all your folly be; my love must be by honour won, or nane shall enjoy me. "but on the head o' elrick's hill, near by yon sharp hawthorn, where never a man with life e'er came, sin our sweet christ was born;-- "o ye'll gang there and walk a' night, and boldly blaw your horn; with honour that ye do return, ye'll marry me the morn." then up it raise him, sir colvin, and dress'd in armour keen; and he is on to elrick's hill, without light of the meen. at midnight mark the meen upstarts; the knight walk'd up and down; while loudest cracks o' thunder roar'd, out ower the bent sae brown. then by the twinkling of an e'e he spied an armed knight; a fair lady bearing his brand, wi' torches burning bright. then he cried high, as he came nigh, "coward, thief, i bid you flee! there is not ane comes to this hill, but must engage wi' me. "ye'll best take road before i come, and best take foot and flee; here is a sword baith sharp and broad, will quarter you in three." sir colvin said, "i'm not afraid of any here i see; you hae not ta'en your god before; less dread hae i o' thee." sir colvin then he drew his sword, his foe he drew his brand; and they fought there on elrick's hill till they were bluidy men. the first an' stroke the knight he strake, gae colvin a slight wound; the next an' stroke lord colvin strake, brought's foe unto the ground. "i yield, i yield," the knight he said, "i fairly yield to thee; nae ane came e'er to elrick-hill e'er gain'd such victorie. "i and my forbears here did haunt three hundred years and more; i'm safe to swear a solemn oath, we were never beat before." "an asking," said the lady gay, "an asking ye'll grant me:" "ask on, ask on," said sir colvin, "what may your asking be?" "ye'll gie me hame my wounded knight, let me fare on my way; and i'se ne'er be seen on elrick's hill, by night, nor yet by day; and to this place we'll come nae mair, cou'd we win safe away; "to trouble any christian one lives in the righteous law, we'll come nae mair unto this place, cou'd we win safe awa'." "o ye'se get hame your wounded knight, ye shall not gang alane; but i maun hae a wad o' him, before that we twa twine." sir colvin being a book-learn'd man, sae gude in fencing tee, he's drawn a stroke behind his hand, and followed in speedilie. sae fierce a stroke sir colvin's drawn, and followed in speedilie, the knight's brand and sword hand in the air he gar'd them flee. it flew sae high into the sky, and lighted on the ground; the rings that were on these fingers were worth five hundred pound. up he has ta'en that bluidy hand, set it before the king; and the morn it was wednesday, when he married his daughter jean. ski[oe]n anna; fair annie, see p. . translated in jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. , from syv's _kj[oe]mpe viser_. see another copy in nyerup's _danske viser_, iv. . the reivers they wad a stealing gang, to steal sae far frae hame; and stown ha'e they the king's daughter, fair annie hight by name. they've carried her into fremmit lands, to a duke's son of high degree; and he has gie'n for fair annie mickle goud and white money. and eight lang years o' love sae leal had past atween them twae; and now a bonny bairntime o' seven fair sons had they. that lord he was of meckelborg land, of princely blood and stemme; and for his worth and curtesy that lord a king became. but little wist that noble king, as little his barons bald, that it was the king of england's daughter, had sae to him been sald! and eight lang years sae past and gane, fair annie now may rue; for now she weets in fremmit lands anither bride he'll wooe. fair annie's till his mither gane; fell low down on her knee; "a boon, a boon, now lady mither, ye grant your oys and me! "if ever ye kist, if ever ye blest, and bade them thrive and thee, o save them now frae scaith and scorn, o save your oys and me! "their father's pride may yet relent; his mither's rede he'll hear; nor for anither break the heart that ance to him was dear. "he had my love and maiden pride; i had nae mair to gi'e; he well may fa' a brighter bride, but nane that lo'es like me." "a brighter bride he ne'er can fa'; a richer well he may; but daughter dearer nor fair annie, his mither ne'er can ha'e." that princess stood her son before: "my lord the king," said she, "fy on the lawless life ye lead, dishonour'd as ye be! "its annie's gude, and annie's fair, and dearly she lo'es thee; and the brightest gems in a' your crown your seven fair sons wad be. "her love, her life, her maiden fame, wi' you she shar'd them a'; now share wi' her your bridal bed; her due she well may fa'." "to my bridal bed, my mither dear, fair annie ne'er can win; i coft her out of fremmit lands, nor ken her kith or kin." and he's gard write a braid letter, his wedding to ordein; and to betrothe anither bride to be his noble queen. fair annie up at her bower window heard a' that knight did say: "o god, my heavenly father! gif my heart mat brast in twae!" fair annie stood at her bower window, and heard that knight sae bald: "o god, my heavenly father! gif i mat my dearest hald!" that lord is to fair annie gane: says, "annie, thou winsome may, o whatten a gude gift will ye gi'e my bride on her bridal day?" "i'll gi'e her a gift, and a very gude gift, and a dear-bought gift to me; for i'll gi'e her my seven fair sons, her pages for to be." "o that is a gift, but nae gude gift, frae thee, fair annie, i ween; and ye maun gi'e some richer gift befitting a noble queen." "i'll gi'e her a gift, and a dear, dear gift, and a gift i brook wi' care; for i'll gi'e her my dearest life, that i dow brook nae mair." "o that is a gift, but a dowie gift, now, annie, thou winsome may; ye maun gi'e her your best goud girdle, her gude will for to ha'e." "oh na, that girdle she ne'er shall fa'; that i can never bear; the luckless morn i gave you a', ye gae me that girdle to wear." that lord before his bride gan stand: "my noble bride and queen! o whatten a gift to my lemman annie will now by you be gi'en?" "i'll gi'e her a gift, and a very gude gift, my lord the king," said she; "for i'll gi'e her my auld shoe to wear, best fitting her base degree." "o that is a gift, but nae gude gift, my noble bride and queen; and ye maun gi'e her anither gift, if you'll my favour win." "then i'll gi'e her a very gude gift, my lord the king," said she; "i'll gie her my millers seven, that lig sae far ayont the sea. "well are they fed, well are they clad, and live in heal and weal; and well they ken to measure out the wheat, but and caneel." fair annie says, "my noble lord, this boon ye grant to me; let me gang up to the bridal bower, your young bride for to see." "o gangna, annie, gangna, there, nor come that bower within; ye maunna come near that bridal bower, wad ye my favour win." fair annie is till his mither gane: "o lady mither," said she, "may i gang to the bridal bower, my lord's new bride to see?" "that well ye may," his mither said; but see that ye're buskit bra', and clad ye in your best cleading, wi' your bower maidens a'." fair annie she's gaen to the bower, wi' heart fu' sair and sad; wi' a' her seven sons her before, in the red scarlet clad. fair annie's taen a silver can, afore the bride to skink; and down her cheeks the tears ay run, upon hersell to think. the bride gan stand her lord before: "now speak, and dinna spare; whare is this fair young lady frae? whareto greets she sae sair?" "o hear ye now, dear lady mine, the truth i tell to thee; it is but a bonny niece of mine, that is come o'er the sea." "o wae is me, my lord," she says, "to hear you say sic wrang; it can be nane but your auld lemman; god rede whare she will gang!" "then till her sorrow, and till her wae, i'll tell the truth to thee; for she was sald frae fremmit lands, for mickle goud to me. "her bairntime a' stand her before, her seven young sons sae fair; and they maun now your pages be, that maks her heart sae sair." "a little sister ance i had, a sister that hight ann; by reivers she was stown awa', and sald in fremmit land. "she was a bairn when she was stown, yet in her tender years; and sair her parents mourn'd for her, wi' mony sighs and tears. "art thou fair annie, sister mine, thou noble violet flower? her mither never smil'd again frae annie left her bower! "o thou art she! a sister's heart wants nane that tale to tell! and there he is, thy ain true lord; god spare ye lang and well!" and gladness through the palace spread, wi' mickle game and glee; and blythe were a' for fair annie, her bridal day to see. and now untill her father's land this young bride she is gane; and her sister annie's youngest son she hame wi' her has ta'en. lady margaret. see p. . from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . "the corn is turning ripe, lord john, the nuts are growing fu', and ye are bound for your ain countrie; fain wad i go wi' you." "wi me, marg'ret, wi me, marg'ret, what wad ye do wi' me? i've mair need o' a pretty little boy, to wait upon my steed." "it's i will be your pretty little boy, to wait upon your steed; and ilka town that we come to, a pack of hounds i'll lead." "my hounds will eat o' the bread o' wheat, and ye of the bread of bran: and then you will sit and sigh, that e'er ye loed a man." the first water that they cam to, i think they call it clyde, he saftly unto her did say,-- "lady marg'ret, will ye ride?" the first step that she steppit in, she steppit to the knee; says, "wae be to ye, waefu' water, for through ye i maun be." the second step that she steppit in, she steppit to the middle, and sigh'd, and said, lady margaret, "i've stain'd my gowden girdle." the third step that she steppit in, she steppit to the neck; the pretty babe within her sides, the cauld it garr'd it squake. "lie still my babe, lie still my babe, lie still as lang's ye may, for your father rides on horseback high, cares little for us twae." it's whan she cam to the other side, she sat doun on a stane; says, "them that made me, help me now, for i am far frae hame. "how far is it frae your mither's bouer, gude lord john tell to me?" "it's therty miles, lady margaret, it's therty miles and three: and ye'se be wed to ane o' her serving men, for ye'se get na mair o' me." then up bespak the wylie parrot, as it sat on the tree;-- "ye lee, ye lee, lord john," it said, "sae loud as i hear ye lee. "ye say it's thirty miles frae your mither's bouer, whan it's but barely three; and she'll ne'er be wed to a serving man, for she'll be your ain ladie." * * * * * * monie a lord and fair ladie met lord john in the closs, but the bonniest face amang them a', was hauding lord john's horse. monie a lord and gay ladie sat dining in the ha', but the bonniest face that was there, was waiting on them a'. o up bespak lord john's sister, a sweet young maid was she: "my brither has brought a bonnie young page, his like i ne'er did see; but the red flits fast frae his cheek, and the tear stands in his ee." but up bespak lord john's mither, she spak wi' meikle scorn: "he's liker a woman gret wi' bairn, than onie waiting-man." "it's ye'll rise up, my bonnie boy, and gie my steed the hay:"-- "o that i will, my dear master, as fast as i can gae." she took the hay aneath her arm, the corn intil her hand; but atween the stable door and the staw, lady marg'ret made a stand. * * * * * * "o open the door, lady margaret, o open and let me in; i want to see if my steed be fed, or my grey hounds fit to rin." "i'll na open the door, lord john," she said, "i'll na open it to thee, till ye grant to me my ae request, and a puir ane it's to me. "ye'll gie to me a bed in an outhouse, for my young son and me, and the meanest servant in a' the place, to wait on him and me." "i grant, i grant, lady marg'ret," he said, "a' that, and mair frae me, the very best bed in a' the place to your young son and thee: and my mither, and my sister dear, to wait on him and thee. "and a' thae lands, and a' thae rents, they sall be his and thine; our wedding and our kirking day, they sall be all in ane." and he has tane lady margaret, and row'd her in the silk; and he has tane his ain young son, and wash'd him in the milk. earl richard (b). see p. . from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . there was a shepherd's dochter kept sheep on yonder hill; bye cam a knicht frae the king's court, and he wad hae his will. whan he had got his wills o' her, his will as he has tane; "wad ye be sae gude and kind, as tell to me your name?" "some ca's me jock, some ca's me john, some disna ken my name; but whan i'm in the king's court, mitchcock is my name." "mitchcock! hey!" the lady did say, and spelt it oure again; "if that's your name in the latin tongue, earl richard is your name!" o jumpt he upon his horse, and said he wad gae ride; kilted she her green claithing, and said she wad na bide. and he was never sae discreet, as bid her loup on and ride; and she was ne'er sae meanly bred, as for to bid him bide. and whan they cam to yon water, it was running like a flude; "i've learnt it in my mither's bouer, i've learnt it for my gude, that i can soum this wan water, like a fish in a flude. "i've learnt it in my father's bouer, ive learnt it for my better, and i will soum this wan water, as tho' i was ane otter." "jump on behind, ye weill-faur'd may, or do ye chuse to ride?" "no, thank ye, sir," the lady said, "i wad rather chuse to wyde;" and afore that he was 'mid-water, she was at the ither side. "turn back, turn back, ye weill-faur'd may, my heart will brak in three;" "and sae did mine, on yon bonnie hill-side, whan ye wad na let me be." "whare gat ye that gay claithing, this day i see on thee?" "my mither was a gude milk-nurse, and a gude nourice was she, she nurs'd the earl o' stockford's ae dochter, and gat a' this to me." whan she cam to the king's court, she rappit wi' a ring; sae ready was the king himsel' to lat the lady in. "gude day, gude day, my liege the king, gude day, gude day, to thee;" "gude day," quo' he, "my lady fair, what is't ye want wi' me?" "there is a knicht into your court, this day has robbed me;" "o has he tane your gowd," he says, "or has he tane your fee?" "he has na tane my gowd," she says, "nor yet has he my fee; but he has tane my maiden-head, the flow'r o' my bodie." "o gin he be a single man, his body i'll gie thee; but gin he be a married man, i'll hang him on a tree." then out bespak the queen hersel', wha sat by the king's knee: "there's na a knicht in a' our court wad hae dune that to thee, unless it war my brither, earl richard, and forbid it, it war he!" "wad ye ken your fause love, amang a hundred men?" "i wad," said the bonnie ladie, "amang five hundred and ten." the king made a' his merry men pass, by ane, by twa, and three; earl richard us'd to be the first man, but was hindmost man that day. he cam hauping on ae foot, and winking wi' ae ee; "ha! ha!" cried the bonnie ladie, "that same young man are ye." he has pou'd out a hundred pounds, weel lockit in a glove; "gin ye be a courteous may, ye'll chose anither love." "what care i for your hundred pounds? nae mair than ye wad for mine; what's a hundred pounds to me, to a marriage wi' a king! "i'll hae nane o' your gowd, nor either o' your fee; but i will hae your ain bodie, the king has grantit me." "o was ye gentle gotten, maid? or was ye gentle born? or hae ye onie gerss growin'? or hae ye onie corn? "or hae ye onie lands or rents lying at libertie? or hae ye onie education, to dance alang wi' me?" "i was na gentle gotten, madam, nor was i gentle born; neither hae i gerss growin', nor hae i onie corn. "i hae na onie lands or rents, lying at libertie; nor hae i onie education, to dance along wi' thee." whan the marriage it was oure, and ilk ane took their horse,-- "it never sat a beggar's brat, at na knicht's back to be." he lap on ae milk-white steed, and she lap on anither, and syne the twa rade out the way like sister and like brither. the ladie met wi' a beggar-wife, and gied her half o' crown-- "tell a' your neebours whan ye gae hame, that earl richard's your gude-son." "o haud your tongue, ye beggar's brat, my heart will brak in three;" "and sae did mine on yon bonnie hill-side, whan ye wad na lat me be." whan she cam to yon nettle-dyke-- "an my auld mither was here, sae weill as she wad ye pou; she wad boil ye weill, and butter ye weill, and sup till she war fou, syne laye her head upo' her dish doup, and sleep like onie sow." and whan she cam to tyne's water, she wylilie did say-- "fareweil, ye mills o' tyne's water, with thee i bid gude-day. "fareweil, ye mills o' tyne's water, to you i bid gude-een; whare monie a time i've fill'd my pock, at mid-day and at een." "hoch! had i drank the well-water, whan first i drank the wine, never a mill-capon wad hae been a love o' mine." whan she cam to earl richard's house, the sheets war hollan' fine; "o haud awa thae linen sheets, and bring to me the linsey clouts, i hae been best used in." "o haud your tongue, ye beggar's brat, my heart will brak in three;" "and sae did mine on yon bonnie hill-side, whan ye wadna lat me be." "i wish i had drank the well-water, whan first i drank the beer; that ever a shepherd's dochter shou'd hae been my only dear!" "ye'll turn about, earl richard, and mak some mair o' me: an ye mak me lady o' ae puir plow, i can mak you laird o' three." "if ye be the earl o' stockford's dochter, as i've some thouchts ye be, aft hae i waited at your father's yett, but your face i ne'er could see." whan they cam to her father's yett, she tirled on the pin; and an auld belly-blind man was sittin' there, as they were entering in:-- "the meetest marriage," the belly-blind did cry, "atween the ane and the ither; atween the earl o' stockford's ae dochter, and the queen o' england's brither." glossary. [hand] figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. aboon, aboun, abune, _above_; , above the surface of the water. ackward stroke, , , _cross or back stroke_. acton, _a leather jacket worn under a coat of mail_. ae, _only_. airts, _quarters_, _points of the compass_. an, _one_; an ae, _one single_. aneath, _beneath_. anes, _once_. asking, _boon_. aughts, _owns_. aukeward stroke, , , _cross or back stroke_. auld son, . "_young son_ and _auld son_ are phrases used only to denote the comparative ages of children. the _young son_ is perhaps the child now in the nurse's arms; the _auld son_, he who has just begun to walk without leading-strings."--_chambers._ ava, _of all_; , _at all_. avowe, _vow_. ayont, _beyond_. baffled, _disgraced_. bairntime, _brood of children_. bale-fire, _bonfire_. band, _agreement_. bane-fire, _bonfire_. bedeene, , _immediately?_ _continuously?_ bedight, _furnished_. beforne, _before_. belive, _soon_. belly blind, , _stone blind_. ben, _in_. bent, _a field where the coarse grass so named grows_. big, _build_; biggit, _built_. bigly, _spacious_, _commodious_. billie, _comrade_, _brother_, _a term of affection_. binna, _be not_. birk, _birch_. birl, _drink_, _pour out drink_, _ply with drink_. blanne, _stopped_. blee, _complexion_. bleid, _blood_. blint, _blinded_. bookin, bo'kin, _bodkin_, _small dagger_. bookesman, _clerk_, _secretary_. bore, _crevice_, _hole_. borrow, _ransom_. bouer, _chamber_. boun, , _go_. boun, _ready_. bountith, _bounties_. boustouslie, _threateningly_. bout, _bolt_. bow, _bole_, _two bushels_. bower, _chamber_. bowne, _ready_. brae, _hill-side_. bragged, _defied_. braid letter, _an open letter_, _or_ _letter patent_. brash, _sickness_. brast, _burst_. braw, _brave_, _handsome_. breast, , _make a horse spring up or forward_? brechan, _tartan_, _plaid_. brenne, _burn_. bricht, _bright_. brodinge, , _pricking_. bully, _see_ billie. burd, _lady_. busk, _dress_, _make ready_; busk on, _put on for dress_; buskit, _dressed_. but and, _and also_. can, _used as an auxiliary with the infinitive mood_, _to form an imperfect tense_. caneel, _cinnamon_. cannie, _handily_, _gently_. caps, , _bowls_. carle, _churl_; carline, _feminine of churl_, _old woman_. carlish, _churlish_. châmer, _chamber_. chapp'd, _rap_, _tapped_. cheer, _countenance_. cheer, _entertainment_. chive, , _mouthfull_? cleiding, _clothing_. close, _enclosure_. coble, _boat_. coffer, _coif_, _head-dress_, _cap_? coft, _bought_. corbies, _ravens_. cosh, _quiet_. counsayl, _secret_. craps, _tops_. cryance, , _apparently for recreance_, _cowardice_. cuist cavels, _cast lots_. daigh, _dough_. darna, _dares not_. dawing, _dawn_; daws, _dawns_. decaye, , _destruction_. dee, _die_. deemed, _adjudged_. deid, _death_. den, _hollow_, _small valley_. descreeve, _impart_. dight, , _prepared for_. dill, _dole_, _grief_. dinge, _strike_. discreet, _civil_. disna, _does not_. dochter, _daughter_. dole, _grief_. doubte, _dread_. douk, _dive_. dounae, _cannot_. doup, _bottom_. dow, _can_; downa, _cannot_. dow, _dove_. dowie, _sad_. dree, drye, _bear_, _suffer_. dyne, _dinner_. eerie, , _dreary_, _cheerless_. eldern, _old_. eldridge, , (elriche, elrick, &c.,) _ghostly_, _spectral_: , hill _seems to be omitted_. even ower, _half over_. fa', _obtain as one's lot_. faem, _foam_. fail-dyke, _a wall built of sods_. faine, _glad_; fainly, _gladly_. farden, , _fared_, _appeared_. fare, _go_. fecht, _fight_. fee, _possessions_, _property_. feres, _comrades_. fey fowk, , _people doomed to die_. ficht, _fight_. fin, ? fitt, _strain_. flatter'd, , _fluttered_, _floated_. forbears, _ancestors_. forbye, _beyond_, _near_, fou, _full_. frae, , _from the time_. free, _noble_. fremmit, _foreign_. fund, _found_. gae, _gave_. gae-through-land, _vagabond_. gane, _suffice_. gar, _cause_, _make_. gare, below her, _below the_ [_gore in the edge of the_] _skirt_? gear, _goods_. gen, _against_. gerss, _grass_. gif, _if_. gin, _if_. gin, _trick_, _snare_; , _the device_ (_necessary to open the door_). girds, _hoops_. glore, _glory_. god before, _god help me!_ good-brother, , _brother-in-law_. gorgett, , _a kerchief to cover the bosom_. graith, _caparisons_; graith'd, _caparisoned_. gramarye, _grammar_, _abstruse or magical learning_. grat, _cried_, _wept_. greeting, _weeping_, _crying_. gresse, _grass_. grew, _gray_. grype, _griffin_. gude-mother, _mother-in-law_. gude-son, _son-in-law_. gurly, _troubled_, _stormy_. ha', _hall_. had, _hold_, _keep_. had, _taken_. hained, _enclosed_, _surrounded with a hedge_. half-fou, _half bushel_. hantle, _much_, _great deal_. happ'd, _covered_. hart-rote, , _a term of endearment_, _sweet-heart_. haud, _hold_. haugh, _low flat ground by a river-side_. hauping, _limping_. hause, _neck_. have owre, , _half over_. haw, _azure_. hawberke, _cuirass_, _coat of mail_. heading-hill, _beheading hill_. heal, _conceal_. heal, _health_. hech, _a forcible expiration of breath_, _as in striking a heavy blow_. heiding-hill, _the beheading hill_. hend, _gentle_. het, _hot_. hewberke, _cuirass_, _coat of mail_. hichts, _heights_. hight, _promised_. hind-chiel, _young stripling_. hinging, _hanging_. hollin, _holly_. hooly, _slowly_, _softly_. houl', _hold_. houms, _flat grounds near water_. houzle, _give the sacrament_. ilka, _each_. inbearing, _forth-putting_. iwis, iwysse, _certainly_, _truly_. jack, , _a coat of mail_. jagged, _pierced_. jess, _a leather strap for a hawk's leg, by which it was fastened to the leash_. jooked, _bowed_, _made obeisance_. kail, _broth_. kame, _comb_. keckle-pin, , should be heckle-pin, _the tooth of a heckle or flax-comb_. kell, _a dress of net-work for a woman's head_. kempes, _soldiers_; kemperye man, , _soldier-man_. kepped, keppit, _intercepted received when falling_. kevils, _lots_. kiest, _cast_. kilted, _tucked up_. kipples, _rafters_. kirkin, _churching_. kirk-shot, _see_ shot. knet, _knitted_. knicht, _knight_. knot, , _tie up_. knowe, _knoll_. lack, , _loss_. laigh, _low_. lake, , _hollow place_, _grave_? lamer, _amber_. lane, your lane, &c., _alone_. lap, _leapt_; , _sprang_. lauch, _laugh_. lauchters, _laughters_. lave, _rest_. lawing, _reckoning_. laye, , _law_. lay gowd, _embroider in gold_. lay-land, _lea-land_, _unploughed_, _green sward_. leafu', _lawful_. leal, _loyal_, _true_. leech, _leash_. leesome, _pleasant_, _lovely_. lemin, _gleaming_. lere, _countenance_. lethal, _deadly_. licht, _light_. lieve, _dear_. lift, _air_. lift, _carry off_. lig, _lie_. lighter, _delivered_. limmer, _mean_, _scoundrel_, _wretch_. linkin', _riding briskly_. linn, _the pool beneath a cataract_. lither, _lazy_, _wicked_. lodlye, _loathly_. loon, _clown_, _rascal_, _low fellow_. loot, _let_. louted, _bowed_, _bent_. make, _mate_. mane, _moan_, _lament_. mannot, _may not_. maries, _maids_. mark, _murky_. marrow, _mate_, _husband_; , _antagonist_, _match_. mat, _might_. mavis, _thrush_. maw, _mew_. may, _maid_. meen, _moon_. mell, , _milt_, _spleen_. micht, _might_. mill-capon, _a poor person who asks charity at mills from those who have grain grinding_. millering, , _dust of the mill_. min', _mind_. min', minnie, _mother_, _love_, _dear_. minged, , _named_, _mentioned_. mintet, , _took the direction or course_. mirk, _dark_. monand, _moaning_. moodie hill, , _mole-hill_. morning-gift, _the gift made a wife by her husband, the morning after marriage_. mun, _must_. nee, _nigh_. nicked of naye, , _denied_; should be _with naye_. niest, _next_. nurice, _nurse_. o'erword, _refrain_. ohon, _an exclamation of sorrow_, _alas_. onbethought, , _thought upon_. or, _before_. out o'hand, _at once_. owre, , _or_, _ere_. oys, _grandsons_. pa, . qy. _is this a contraction of pall, and is pall, an alley or mall in which games of ball are played?_ pall, _a kind of rich cloth_. pasche, _easter_. pat, _put_. paughty, _insolent_. pearlings, _thread laces_. pict, _pitch_. pike, _pick_. pin, _summit_; gallows pin, _top of the gallows_? pine, _sorrow_. pitten, _put_. plat, _interwove_. play-feres, _play-fellows_. plight, _pledge_. plooky, _pimpled_. poin'd, _seized_. poke, _bag_. pot, _a deep place scooped in a rock or river-bed by the eddies_. pou, _pull_. prestlye, _quickly_. pricked, _rode smartly_. prime, _six o'clock_. prude, , _proud_? put down, putten down, _executed_, _killed_. quair, _choir_. quha, _who_. quick, _alive_. raw, _row_. reade, _advise_. reave, _deprive_. removde, , _stirred up_, _excited_. renish, renisht, , ? rievers, _marauders_, _robbers_. rigg, _ridge_. rive, _riven_. roode, _cross_. room, , _make room_. roudes, _haggard_. round tables, _a game much played in the th & th century_. row, _roll_; rowd, _rolled_. sackless, _guiltless_. sald, _sold_. sark, _shirt_, _shift_. sat, _fitted_. saye, , _essay_, _try_. scale, _scatter_, _disperse_. scath, _injury_. scoup, , _go or fly_. scuttle dishes, , _wooden platters_. sea-maw, _sea-mew_. see, (save and see,) _protect_ sell, _good_; sell gude, _right good_. sen, , _sent_. sen, _since_. send, _message_. shanna, _shall not_. shaw'd, _showed_. sheen, _bright_. shent, _disgraced_, _injured_. shope, , _shaped_, _assumed_. shot, _plot of land_; also, _a place where fishermen let out their nets_. shot-window, _a projected_, _over-hanging window_.[ ] sicker, sickerly, _sure_, _surely_. side, _long_. sindry, , _peculiar_. skeely, _skilful_. skink, _serve drink_. slode, _slid_, _split_. sloe, _slay_; slone, _slain_. smit, _a clashing noise_. soum, _swim_. spare, _the opening in a woman's gown_. spille, _destroy_, _perish_ sta', _stall_. staf, _stuff_. stark and stoor, , _strong_, _and big_; here we may say, _rough and rude_. staw, _stole_. steek, _stitch_, _thread_; steeking, _stitching_. steeked, _fastened_. step-minnie, _step-mother_. sterte, _started_. stickit, , _cut the throat_. stock, _the forepart of a bed_. stoups, _flagons_. stour, stower, , _fight_, _disturbance_. stown, _stolen_. streekit, _stretched_, _struck down_. stythe, , _sty_. suld, _should_. swaird, _sword_. sweven, _dream_. swith, _quickly_. syne, _then_, _afterwards_; ere syne, _before now_. [ ] it "meant a certain species of aperture, generally circular, which used to be common in the stair-cases of old wooden houses in scotland, and some specimens of which are yet to be seen in the old town of edinburgh. it was calculated to save glass in those parts of the house where light was required, but where there was no necessity for the exclusion of the air."--_chambers._ not always certainly, since persons are sometimes said to be lying at the shot window. tee, _too_. tein, _suffering_, _grief_. thae, _these_. theek, theekit, _thatch_, _thatched_. think lang, _feel weary_, _ennuyé_. thir, _these_. thocht lang, _grew weary_, _felt ennui_. thole, _endure_. thorn, , (and thorn'd, ii. ,) _refreshed with food_? thouch, _though_. thought lang, _grew weary_, _felt ennui_. thoust, _thou shouldst_. thraw, _twist_. till, , _entice_. till, _to_. tine, , _lose_; tint, _lost_. tint, , , _apparently misused by percy_, for tine, _lose_. tippit, _lock (of hair)_. tirled at the pin, _trilled, or rattled, at the door-latch_. tolbooth, _prison_. tone, _the one_, (after the.) toom, _empty_. trattles, _prattles_, _tattles_. trysted, _made an appointment with_. twig, _twitch_. twine, _part_. tyne, _lose_. ugsome, _disgusting_, _loathsome_. unco, _strange_. unmacklye, , _unshapely_. wad, _wager_. wad, _would_. wae, _sad_. wake, _watch_. wale, _choose_. wallowed, , _withered_. waly, _alas_. wan, _dark_, _black_, _gloomy_. wand, _wicker_. wane, , _a number of people_. wantonly, , _nimbly_. wap, _wrap_. warlock, _wizard_. wat, _know_. wat, _wet_. wauked, _watched_. waur, _worse_. weary, _causing trouble_, _sad_. wed-bed, _marriage-bed_. weets, _knows_. weil-heid, _the vortex of a whirlpool_. weill-faur'd, _well-favored_. weir, _war_. weird, , _made liable to_, _exposed to_; , apparently, _foretell that it is important_. weirdless, _unlucky_. well-wight men, _picked strong men_. westlin, _westward_. whareto, _wherefore_. whin, _furze_. wicht, _wight_. wicker, _twist, from being too tightly drawn_. wight, _strong_, _active_. wightlye, _bravely_, _quickly_. wightsmen, , _husbandmen?_ win, _come_, _reach_; win near, _come near_; win up, _get up_. winsome, _gay_, _comely_. win hay, _dry or make_. wit, _information_. wite, _blame_. wode, _mad_. woe, _sad_. won up, , _get up_; should be _win up_. wrocht, _wrought_. wush, _washed_. wyde, _wade_. wyte, , _blame_. wyte, _know_. yate, _gate_. yeard-fast, _fixed in the earth_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_. ying, _young_. young son, , _see_ auld son. y-rode, _rode_. y-were, _were_. zechins, _sequins_. zoung, _young_. zule, _yule_, _christmas_. * * * * * transcriber's notes page iii: changed "kinlock" to "kinloch" ( b. laird of wariestoun, [kinloch]) page v: changed "malcom" to "malcolm" (king malcolm and sir colvin) page ; line : changed "this" to "thir" (till thir twa craps drew near;) page ; line : deleted closing quotation mark (yet let me go with thee:) page ; line : changed "countrayc" to "countraye" (sir john of the north countraye) page ; line : added closing quotation mark (and there shalt thou hang on hye.") page ; line : added closing quotation mark (and candles burning bright.") page ; lines , : added missing quotation marks ("what ails the king at me," he said, "what ails the king at me?") page ; line : added opening quotation mark ("liars will lie on sell gude men,) page : changed "wier" to "weir" (weir was brought up, at midnight, from the cellar) page ; line : changed closing single quote to double quote (i will bate you for stayin' so long.") page ; line : changed "taavelled" to "travelled" (he scarcely travelled frae the town) page ; line : removed opening single quote (my good lord's broken bands.') page ; line : changed closing single quote to double (this day has robbed me;") english songs and ballads compiled by t.w.h. crosland [illustration] london grant richards leicester square edinburgh: t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty note 'english songs and ballads' must not be regarded as 'a choice,' but simply as a bringing together of poetical pieces which are, presumably, well known to the average person,--that is to say, the compiler has endeavoured to illustrate the general taste rather than his own preference. index of first lines page about the sweet bag of a bee, a chieftain to the highlands bound, ae fond kiss, and then we sever, agincourt, agincourt, ah, my swete swetyng, alas! my love, you do me wrong, allen-a-dale has no faggot for burning, all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, all ye woods, and trees, and bowers, and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, an old song made by an aged old pate, a parrot from the spanish main, arm, arm, arm, arm, the scouts are all come in, a simple child, as i came thro' sandgate, ask me no more where jove bestows, ask me no more, the moon may draw the sea, a spirit haunts the year's last hours, as thro' the land at eve we went, a sweet disorder in the dress, attend all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise, a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a well there is in the west country, a wet sheet and a flowing sea, * * * * * beauty clear and fair, be it right or wrong, these men among, believe me, if all those endearing young charms, bird of the wilderness, blame not my lute! for he must sound, blow, blow, thou winter wind, blow high, blow low, let tempests tear, break, break, break, busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, but are ye sure the news is true, * * * * * call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry, cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, come all ye jolly shepherds, come, cheerful day, part of my life to me, come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, come follow, follow me, come into the garden, maud, come live with me and be my love, come not, when i am dead, come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving, * * * * * dear is my little native vale, doubt thou the stars are fire, drink to me only with thine eyes, duncan gray came here to woo, * * * * * faintly as tolls the evening chime, fair daffodils, we weep to see, fair pledges of a fruitful tree, fair stood the wind for france, fear no more the heat o' the sun, flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow, for auld lang syne, my dear, four and twenty bonny boys, from oberon, in fairy land, from the forests and highlands, from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested, full fathom five thy father lies, * * * * * gather the rose-buds while ye may, god lyaeus, ever young, god prosper long our noble king, god save our gracious king, go fetch to me a pint o' wine, go, lovely rose, good-morrow to the day so fair, good people all, of every sort, go where glory waits thee, green fields of england, wheresoe'er, * * * * * hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hang fear, cast away care, hark! now everything is still, hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings, he is gone on the mountain, her arms across her breast she laid, here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, here's a health unto his majesty, here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, hide me, o twilight air, home they brought her warrior dead, ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, how should i your true love know, * * * * * i arise from dreams of thee, i cannot eat but little meat, i come from haunts of coot and hern, i come, i come! ye have called me long, i knew an old wife lean and poor, i lov'd a lass, a fair one, i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill, i'm sitting on the stile, mary, in going to my naked bed, in good king charles's golden days, in her ear he whispered gaily, in the merry month of may, in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he, is there for honest poverty, i tell thee, dick, where i have been, it is an ancient mariner, it is the miller's daughter, i travelled among unknown men, it was a blind beggar had long lost his sight, it was a friar of orders gray, it was a lover and his lass, it was a summer evening, it was the frog in the well, it was the time when lilies blow, i've seen the smiling, i wander'd by the brook-side, * * * * * john anderson, my jo, john, john gilpin was a citizen, * * * * * kentish sir byng stood for his king, king death was a rare old fellow, * * * * * lassie wi' the lint-white locks, lawn as white as driven snow, lay a garland on my hearse, let me the canakin clink, clink, let the bells ring, and let the boys sing, lithe and listen, gentlemen, long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, lord, thou hast given me a cell, love wakes and weeps, * * * * * maxwelltown braes are bonnie, men of england! who inherit, mine be a cot beside the hill, move eastward, happy earth, and leave, my banks they are furnished with bees, my heart is sair, i darena tell, my heart is wasted with my woe, my mind to me a kingdom is, my true love hath my heart, * * * * * napoleon's banners at boulogne, no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are, now, now the mirth comes, now ponder well, you parents dear, now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, now the hungry lion roars, * * * * * of all the girls that are so smart, of a' the airts the wind can blaw, of nelson and the north, oft i had heard of lucy gray, oft in the stilly night, oh, call my brother back to me, oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, oh! the days are gone when beauty bright, oh, the sweet contentment, oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone, o jenny's a' weet, poor body, o listen, listen, ladies gay, o mistress mine, where are you roaming, o, my luve's like a red red rose, o nanny, wilt thou go with me, on either side the river lie, on linden when the sun was low, on that deep-retiring shore, on the banks of allan water, orpheus with his lute made trees, o sing unto my roundelay, o swallow, swallow, flying south, our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered, over hill, over dale, o waly, waly up the bank, o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, o whistle and i'll come to ye, my lad, o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, o world! o life! o time! o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, * * * * * pack clouds, away, and welcome, day, pibroch of donuil dhu, piping down the valleys wild, proud maisie in the wood, * * * * * queen and huntress, chaste and fair, * * * * * red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae, rich and rare were the gems she wore, rose cheek'd laura, come, * * * * * scots wha hae wi' wallace bled, shall i, wasting in despair, she dwelt among untrodden ways, she is a winsome wee thing, she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, she stood breast high among the corn, she walks in beauty like the night, sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, sing his praises, that doth keep, some asked me where the rubies grew, some talk of alexander, and some of hercules, some years of late, in eighty-eight, so now is come our joyfullest part, so, we'll go no more a-roving, spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king, still to be neat, still to be drest, sweet and low, sweet and low, sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, sweet emma moreland of yonder town, * * * * * tell me not, sweet, i am unkind, tell me, where is fancy bred, the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, the boy stood on the burning deck, the breaking waves dashed high, the bride cam' out o' the byre, the deil cam' fiddlin' thro' the toun, the feathered songster chanticleer, the fountains mingle with the river, the glories of our blood and state, the harp that once through tara's halls, the king sits in dunfermline town, the laird o' cockpen, he's proud an' he's great, the lawns were dry in euston park, the minstrel boy to the war is gone, there be none of beauty's daughters, there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, there come seven gypsies on a day, there is a garden in her face, there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, there was a youth, a well beloved youth, there was three kings into the east, there were three ladies play'd at the ba', there were three sailors of bristol city, the splendour falls on castle walls, the stars are with the voyager, the stately homes of england, the time i've lost in wooing, they grew in beauty side by side, three fishers went sailing out into the west, tiger, tiger, burning bright, 'tis the last rose of summer, toll for the brave, turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 'twas in the prime of summer time, * * * * * under the greenwood tree, * * * * * was this fair face the cause, quoth she, weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, wha'll buy my caller herrin', when all among the thundering drums, when all is done and said, when britain first, at heaven's command, when cats run home, and light is come, when daffodils begin to peer, when daisies pied and violets blue, when hercules did use to spin, when icicles hang by the wall, when love with unconfined wings, when o'er the hill the eastern star, when the british warrior queen, when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, when this old cap was new, when we two parted, where gang ye, thou silly auld carle, where the bee sucks, there lurk i, while larks with little wing, who is sylvia? what is she, why does your brand so drop with blood, why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears, why so pale and wan, fond lover, with fingers weary and worn, * * * * * ye gentlemen of england, ye little birds that sit and sing, ye mariners of england, you are old, father william, the young man cried, you spotted snakes with double tongue, index of authors page anonymous-- , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . * * * * * barnard, lady anne, beaumont and fletcher, blake, william, bloomfield, robert, breton, nicholas, browning, robert, burns, robert, burns, robert, byron, lord, * * * * * campbell, thomas, campion, thomas, carew, thomas, carey, henry, carey, henry, chalkhill, john, chatterton, thomas, clough, arthur hugh, cockburn, mrs., coleridge, samuel taylor, cowper, william, cunningham, allan, * * * * * dalrymple, sir david, dibdin, charles, drayton, michael, dufferin, lady, dyer, sir edward * * * * * edwardes, richard, * * * * * fletcher, john, * * * * * garrick, david, gay, john, goldsmith, oliver, * * * * * hamilton, william, hemans, felicia, herbert, george, herrick, robert, heywood, thomas, hogg, james, holcroft, thomas, hood, thomas, houghton, lord, * * * * * jonson, ben, * * * * * keats, john, kingsley, rev. charles, * * * * * lovelace, richard, * * * * * macaulay, lord, marlowe, christopher, mickle, william julius, moore, thomas, * * * * * nairne, lady, nash, thomas, * * * * * parker, martin, percy, thomas, proctor, b.w., * * * * * rogers, samuel, ross, alexander, * * * * * scott, sir walter, shakespeare, william, shelley, percy bysshe, shenstone, william, shirley, james, sidney, sir philip, southey, robert, still, john, suckling, sir john, * * * * * tennyson, lord, thackeray, william makepeace, thomson, james, * * * * * vaux, lord, * * * * * waller, edmund, webster, john, wither, george, wolfe, charles, wordsworth, william, wyatt, sir thomas, songs and ballads my swete sweting ah, my swete swetyng! my lytyle prety swetyng, my swetyng will i love wherever i go; she is so proper and pure, full stedfast, stabill and demure, there is none such, ye may be sure, as my swete swetyng. in all this world, as thynketh me, is none so pleasant to my eye, that i am glad soe ofte to see, as my swete swetyng. when i behold my swetyng swete, her face, her hands, her minion fete, they seme to me there is none so swete, as my swete swetyng. above all other prayse must i, and love my pretty pygsnye, for none i fynd so womanly as my swete swetyng. thinking lord vaux when all is done and said, in the end thus shall you find, he most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind: and, clear from worldly cares, to deem can be content the sweetest time in all his life in thinking to be spent. the body subject is to fickle fortune's power, and to a million of mishaps is casual every hour: and death in time doth change it to a clod of clay; whenas the mind, which is divine, runs never to decay. companion none is like unto the mind alone; for many have been harmed by speech; through thinking, few, or none. fear oftentimes restraineth words, but makes not thought to cease; and he speaks best that hath the skill when for to hold his peace. our wealth leaves us at death; our kinsmen at the grave; but virtues of the mind unto the heavens with us we have. wherefore, for virtue's sake, i can be well content, the sweetest time of all my life to deem in thinking spent. the falling out of faithful friends richard edwardes in going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, i heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; she sighèd sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, that would not cease, but crièd still, in sucking at her breast. she was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child; she rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled: then did she say, now have i found this proverb true to prove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. then took i paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, in register for to remain, of such a worthy wight; as she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, much matter uttered she of weight, in place whereas she sat. and provèd plain, there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, could well be known to live in love, without discord and strife: then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by god above, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said that neither king, nor prince, nor lord could live aright, until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might; when manhood shall be matchèd so that fear can take no place, then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, and leave their force that failed them, which did consume the rout, that might before have lived in peace their time and nature out: then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. she said she saw no fish, nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, that met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt; since flesh might not endure for long, but rest must wrath succeed, and force the fight to fall to play, in pasture where they feed; so noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, and bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: thus in her song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. i marvel much pardy, quoth she, for to behold the rout, to see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about; some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some cheek, and some can smoothly smile, and some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile; some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: thus ended she her song, and said before she did remove, the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love. the lover's lute sir thomas wyatt blame not my lute! for he must sound of this or that as liketh me; for lack of wit the lute is bound to give such tunes as pleaseth me; though my songs be somewhat strange, and speak such words as touch my change, blame not my lute! my lute, alas! doth not offend, though that perforce he must agree to sound such tunes as i intend to sing to them that heareth me; then though my songs be somewhat plain, and toucheth some that use to feign, blame not my lute! my lute and strings may not deny, but as i strike they must obey; break not them so wrongfully, but wreak thyself some other way; and though the songs which i indite do quit thy change with rightful spite, blame not my lute! spite asketh spite, and changing change, and falsed faith must needs be known; the faults so great, the case so strange; of right it must abroad be blown: then since that by thine own desert my songs do tell how true thou art, blame not my lute! blame but thyself that hast misdone, and well deserved to have blame; change thou thy way, so evil begone, and then my lute shall sound that same; but if till then my fingers play, by thy desert their wonted way, blame not my lute! farewell! unknown; for though thou break my strings in spite with great disdain, yet have i found out for thy sake, strings for to string my lute again: and if perchance this silly rhyme do make thee blush at any time, blame not my lute! the passionate shepherd to his love christopher marlowe come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove that hills and valleys, dale and field, and all the craggy mountains yield. there will we sit upon the rocks and see the shepherds feed their flocks, by shallow rivers, to whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals. there will i make thee beds of roses and a thousand fragrant posies, a cap of flowers, and a kirtle embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. a gown made of the finest wool, which from our pretty lambs we pull, fair linèd slippers for the cold, with buckles of the purest gold. a belt of straw and ivy buds with coral clasps and amber studs: and if these pleasures may thee move, come live with me and be my love. thy silver dishes for thy meat as precious as the gods do eat, shall on an ivory table be prepared each day for thee and me. the shepherd swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each may morning: if these delights thy mind may move, then live with me and be my love. jolly good ale and old john still i cannot eat but little meat, my stomach is not good; but sure i think that i can drink with him that wears a hood. though i go bare, take ye no care, i nothing am a-cold; i stuff my skin so full within of jolly good ale and old. back and side go bare, go bare; both foot and hand go cold; but, belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old. i love no roast but a nut-brown toast, and a crab laid in the fire; a little bread shall do me stead, much bread i not desire, no frost nor snow, no wind, i trow, can hurt me if i wold; i am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd of jolly good ale and old. and tib, my wife, that as her life loveth well good ale to seek, full oft drinks she till ye may see the tears run down her cheek. then doth she trowl to me the bowl even as a maltworm should, and saith, 'sweetheart, i took my part of this jolly good ale and old.' now let them drink till they nod and wink, even as good fellows should do; they shall not miss to have the bliss good ale doth bring men to; and all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, or have them lustily troll'd, god save the lives of them and their wives whether they be young or old. back and side go bare, go bare; both foot and hand go cold; but, belly, god send thee good ale enough, whether it be new or old. phillida and corydon nicholas breton in the merry month of may, in a morn by break of day, with a troop of damsels playing forth i went forsooth a-maying. when anon by a wood side, where, as may was in his pride, i espied, all alone, phillida and corydon. much ado there was, god wot! he would love, and she would not, she said, never man was true: he says none was false to you; he said he had lov'd her long; she says love should have no wrong, corydon would kiss her then; she says, maids must kiss no men, till they do for good and all, when she made the shepherd call all the heavens to witness truth, never lov'd a truer youth. then with many a pretty oath, yea and nay, faith and troth, such as silly shepherds use, when they will not love abuse; love, which had been long deluded, was with kisses sweet concluded; and phillida with garlands gay was made the lady of may. spring thomas nash spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! the palm and may make country houses gay, lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, and we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. the fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, in every street these tunes our ears do greet, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! spring! the sweet spring! my mind to me a kingdom is sir edward dyer my mind to me a kingdom is, such perfect joy therein i find, that it excels all other bliss that god or nature hath assigned: though much i want that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. no princely port, nor wealthy store, nor force to win a victory; no wily wit to salve a sore, no shape to win a loving eye; to none of these i yield as thrall, for why, my mind despise them all. i see that plenty surfeits oft, and hasty climbers soonest fall; i see that such as are aloft, mishap doth threaten most of all; these get with toil, and keep with fear: such cares my mind can never bear. i press to bear no haughty sway; i wish no more than may suffice; i do no more than well i may, look what i want, my mind supplies; lo, thus i triumph like a king, my mind's content with any thing. i laugh not at another's loss, nor grudge not at another's gain; no worldly waves my mind can toss; i brook that is another's bane; i fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; i loathe not life, nor dread mine end. my wealth is health and perfect ease, and conscience clear my chief defence, i never seek by bribes to please, nor by desert to give offence; thus do i live, thus will i die; would all do so as well as i! death the leveller james shirley the glories of our blood and state are shadows, not substantial things; there is no armour against fate; death lays his icy hand on kings: sceptre and crown must tumble down, and in the dust be equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade. some men with swords may reap the field, and plant fresh laurels where they kill: but their strong nerves at last must yield; they tame but one another still: early or late they stoop to fate, and must give up their murmuring breath when they, pale captives, creep to death. the garlands wither on your brow; then boast no more your mighty deeds; upon death's purple altar now see where the victor-victim bleeds: your heads must come to the cold tomb; only the actions of the just smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. ye little birds that sit and sing thomas heywood ye little birds that sit and sing amidst the shady valleys, and see how phillis sweetly walks within her garden-alleys; go, pretty birds, about her bower; sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; ah me! methinks i see her frown! ye pretty wantons, warble. go tell her through your chirping bills, as you by me are bidden, to her is only known my love, which from the world is hidden. go, pretty birds, and tell her so, see that your notes strain not too low, for still methinks i see her frown; ye pretty wantons, warble. go tune your voices' harmony and sing, i am her lover; strain loud and sweet, that every note with sweet content may move her: and she that hath the sweetest voice, tell her i will not change my choice: --yet still methinks i see her frown! ye pretty wantons, warble. o fly! make haste! see, see, she falls into a pretty slumber! sing round about her rosy bed that waking she may wonder: say to her, 'tis her lover true that sendeth love to you, to you! and when you hear her kind reply, return with pleasant warblings. pack clouds, away pack clouds, away, and welcome, day! with night we banish sorrow. sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft to give my love good-morrow! wings from the wind to please her mind, notes from the lark i'll borrow; bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! to give my love good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow notes from them all i'll borrow. wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! sing, birds, in every furrow! and from each bill let music shrill give my fair love good-morrow! blackbird and thrush in every bush, stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, you pretty elves, among yourselves sing my fair love good-morrow! to give my love good-morrow! sing, birds, in every furrow! sleep beaumont and fletcher come, sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving lock me in delight awhile; let some pleasing dreams beguile all my fancies; that from thence i may feel an influence all my powers of care bereaving! though but a shadow, but a sliding, let me know some little joy! we that suffer long annoy are contented with a thought through an idle fancy wrought: o let my joys have some abiding! song to pan all ye woods, and trees, and bowers, all ye virtues and ye powers that inhabit in the lakes, in the pleasant springs or brakes, move your feet to our sound, whilst we greet, all this ground, with his honour and his name that defends our flocks from blame. he is great and he is just, he is ever good, and must thus be honoured. daffodillies, roses, pinks, and lovèd lilies, let us fling, whilst we sing, ever holy, ever holy, ever honoured, ever young! thus great pan is ever sung. aspatia's song lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew; maidens, willow branches bear; say, i died true. my love was false, but i was firm from my hour of birth. upon my buried body lie lightly, gentle earth! beauty clear and fair john fletcher beauty clear and fair, where the air rather like a perfume dwells; where the violet and the rose their blue veins and blush disclose, and come to honour nothing else: where to live near and planted there is to live, and still live new; where to gain a favour is more than light, perpetual bliss-- make me live by serving you! dear, again back recall to this light, a stranger to himself and all! both the wonder and the story shall be yours, and eke the glory; i am your servant, and your thrall. let the bells ring, and let the boys sing let the bells ring, and let the boys sing, the young lasses skip and play; let the cups go round, till round goes the ground, our learned old vicar will stay. let the pig turn merrily, merrily, ah! and let the fat goose swim; for verily, verily, verily, ah! our vicar this day shall be trim. the stewed cock shall crow, cock-a-loodle-loo, a loud cock-a-loodle shall he crow; the duck and the drake shall swim in a lake of onions and claret below. our wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat to thee our most noble adviser; our pains shall be great, and bottles shall sweat, and we ourselves will be wiser. we'll labour and smirk, we'll kiss and we'll drink, and tithes shall come thicker and thicker; we'll fall to our plough, and have children enow, and thou shalt be learned old vicar. weep no more weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, sorrow calls no time that's gone: violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain makes not fresh nor grow again. trim thy locks, look cheerfully; fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. joys as wingèd dreams fly fast, why should sadness longer last? grief is but a wound to woe; gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. pan sing his praises that doth keep our flocks from harm, pan, the father of our sheep; and arm in arm tread we softly in a round, whilst the hollow neighbouring ground fills the music with her sound. pan, o great god pan, to thee thus do we sing! thou who keep'st us chaste and free as the young spring: ever be thy honour spoke, from that place the morn is broke, to that place day doth unyoke! god lyaeus god lyaeus, ever young, ever honour'd, ever sung, stain'd with blood of lusty grapes, in a thousand lusty shapes dance upon the mazer's brim, in the crimson liquor swim; from thy plenteous hand divine let a river run with wine: god of youth, let this day here enter neither care nor fear. a battle-song arm, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. behold from yonder hill the foe appears; bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; o view the wings of horse the meadows scouring! the vanguard marches bravely. hark, the drums! dub, dub! they meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: see how the arrows fly that darken all the sky! hark how the trumpets sound! hark how the hills rebound-- tara, tara, tara, tara, tara! hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! the battle totters; now the wounds begin: o how they cry! o how they die! room for the valiant memnon, armed with thunder! see how he breaks the ranks asunder! they fly! they fly! eumenes has the chase, and brave polybius makes good his place: to the plains, to the woods, to the rocks, to the floods, they fly for succour. follow, follow, follow! hark how the soldiers hollow! hey, hey! brave diocles is dead, and all his soldiers fled; the battle's won, and lost, that many a life hath cost. my lady greensleeves anonymous alas! my love, you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously; and i have lovèd you so long, delighting in your company. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! i bought thee petticoats of the best, the cloth so fine as fine as might be; i gave thee jewels for thy chest, and all this cost i spent on thee. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! thy smock of silk, both fair and white, with gold embroidered gorgeously; thy petticoat of sendal right: and these i bought thee gladly. greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! greensleeves now farewell! adieu! god i pray to prosper thee! for i am still thy lover true: come once again and love me! greensleeves was all my joy! greensleeves was my delight! greensleeves was my heart of gold! and who but my lady greensleeves! my true love sir philip sidney my true love hath my heart, and i have his, by just exchange one for another given: i hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; there never was a better bargain driven: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. his heart in me keeps him and me in one, my heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: he loves my heart, for once it was his own, i cherish his because in me it bides: my true love hath my heart, and i have his. dirge john webster call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, since o'er shady groves they hover, and with leaves and flowers do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men. call unto his funeral dole the ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, to rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, and (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; but keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, for with his nails he'll dig them up again. the shrouding hark! now everything is still, the screech-owl and the whistler shrill, call upon our dame aloud, and bid her quickly don her shroud! much you had of land and rent; your length in clay's now competent: a long war disturb'd your mind; here your perfect peace is sign'd. of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? sin their conception, their birth weeping, their life a general mist of error, their death a hideous storm of terror. strew your hair with powders sweet, don clean linen, bathe your feet, and--the foul fiend more to check-- a crucifix let bless your neck; 'tis now full tide 'tween night and day; end your groan and come away. content thomas dekker art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? o sweet content! art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? o punishment! dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd to add to golden numbers, golden numbers? o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? o sweet content! swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? o punishment! then he that patiently want's burden bears no burden bears, but is a king, a king! o sweet content! o sweet, o sweet content! work apace, apace, apace, apace; honest labour bears a lovely face; then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! troll the bowl cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. down-a-down, hey, down-a-down, hey derry derry down-a-down. ho! well done, to let me come, ring compass, gentle joy! troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, and here, kind mate, to thee! let's sing a dirge for saint hugh's soul, and down it merrily. cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, saint hugh be our good speed! ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, nor helps good hearts in need. sir patrick spens anonymous the king sits in dunfermline toun, drinking the blude-red wine; 'oh whare will i get a gude sailor, to sail this ship o' mine?' then up and spake an eldern knight sat at the king's right knee; 'sir patrick spens is the best sailor that ever sail'd the sea.' the king has written a braid letter, and seal'd it wi' his hand, and sent it to sir patrick spens was walking on the strand. 'to noroway, to noroway, to noroway o'er the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis thou maun tak' her hame.' the first line that sir patrick read, a loud laugh laughed he; the neist line that sir patrick read, the tear blinded his ee. 'o wha is this has done this deed, and tauld the king o' me, to send us out at this time o' the year, to sail upon the sea?' 'be 't wind or weet, be't hail or sleet, our ship maun sail the faem; the king's daughter to noroway, 'tis we maun tak' her hame.' they hoisted their sails on monenday morn, wi' a' the speed they may; and they hae landed in noroway upon a wodensday. they hadna been a week, a week, in noroway but twae, when that the lords o' noroway began aloud to say-- 'ye scotisman spend a' our king's gowd, and a' our queenis fee.' 'ye lee, ye lee, ye leears loud, sae loud's i hear ye lee! 'for i brought as much o' the white monie as gane my men and me, and a half-fou o' the gude red gowd, out owre the sea with me. 'mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a', our gude ship sails the morn.' 'o say na sae, my master dear, i fear a deadlie storm. 'i saw the new moon late yestreen, wi' the auld moon in her arm; and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'll come to harm!' they hadna sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud and gurly grew the sea. the ankers brak, and the tap-masts lap, it was sic a deadlie storm; and the waves cam' owre the broken ship, till a' her sides were torn. 'o whare will i get a gude sailor will tak' the helm in hand, till i get up to the tall tap-mast, to see if i can spy land.' 'o here am i, a sailor gude, to tak' the helm in hand, till ye get up to the tall tap-mast, but i fear ye'll ne'er spy land.' he hadna gane a step, a step, a step but barely ane, when a bout flew out o' the gude ship's side, and the saut sea it cam' in. 'gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and wap them into our gude ship's side, and letna the sea come in.' they fetch'd a wab o' the silken claith, anither o' the twine, and they wapp'd them into the gude ship's side, but aye the sea cam' in. o laith, laith were our scots lords' sons to weet their coal-black shoon, but lang ere a' the play was play'd, they wat their hats abune. and mony was the feather-bed that fluttered on the faem, and mony was the gude lord's son that never mair cam' hame. o lang, lang may the ladies sit, wi' their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand. and lang, lang may the maidens sit, wi' the gowd kaims in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair. half owre, half owre to aberdour 'tis fifty fathom deep, and there lies gude sir patrick spens wi' the scots lords at his feet. the beggar's daughter of bednall-green part i it was a blind beggar, had long lost his sight, he had a fair daughter of beauty most bright; and many a gallant brave suitor had she, for none was so comely as pretty bessee. and though she was of favour most faire, yet seeing she was but a poor beggar's heyre, of ancyent housekeepers despised was she, whose sons came as suitors to pretty bessee. wherefore in great sorrow fair bessy did say, good father, and mother, let me go away to seek out my fortune, whatever it be, this suite then they granted to pretty bessee. then bessy, that was of beauty so bright, all cladd in grey russet, and late in the night from father and mother alone parted she, who sighed and sobbed for pretty bessee. she went till she came to stratford-le-bow; then knew she not whither, nor which way to go: with tears she lamented her hard destinìe, so sad and so heavy was pretty bessee. she kept on her journey until it was day, and went unto rumford along the high way; where at the queen's arms entertained was she: so fair and well-favoured was pretty bessee. she had not been there a month to an end, but master and mistress and all was her friend: and every brave gallant, that once did her see, was straightway enamour'd of pretty bessee. great gifts they did send her of silver and gold, and in their songs daily her love was extolled; her beauty was blazed in every degree; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. the young men of rumford in her had their joy she showed herself courteous, and modestly coy; and at her commandment still would they be; so fair and so comely was pretty bessee. four suitors at once unto her did go; they craved her favour, but still she said no; i would not wish gentles to marry with me; yet ever they honoured pretty bessee. the first of them was a gallant young knight, and he came unto her disguised in the night: the second a gentleman of good degree, who wooed and sued for pretty bessee. a merchant of london, whose wealth was not small, he was the third suitor, and proper withal: her master's own son the fourth man must be, who swore he would die for pretty bessee. and, if thou wilt marry with me, quoth the knight, i'll make thee a lady with joy and delight; my heart's so enthralled by thy beautie, that soon i shall die for pretty bessee. the gentleman said, come, marry with me, as fine as a lady my bessy shall be: my life is distressed: o hear me, quoth he; and grant me thy love, my pretty bessee. let me be thy husband, the merchant did say, thou shalt live in london both gallant and gay; my ships shall bring home rich jewels for thee, and i will for ever love pretty bessee. then bessy she sighed, and thus she did say, my father and mother i mean to obey; first get their good will, and be faithful to me, and then you shall marry your pretty bessee. to every one this answer she made, wherefore unto her they joyfully said, this thing to fulfil we all do agree; but where dwells thy father, my pretty bessee? my father, she said, is soon to be seen: the silly blind beggar of bednall-green, that daily sits begging for charitìe, he is the good father of pretty bessee. his marks and his tokens are known very well; he always is led with a dog and a bell: a silly old man, god knoweth, is he, yet he is the father of pretty bessee. nay then, quoth the merchant, thou art not for me. nor, quoth the innholder, my wife thou shalt be: i loth, said the gentle, a beggar's degree, and therefore adieu, my pretty bessee. why then, quoth the knight, hap better or worse, i weigh not true love by the weight of the purse, and beauty is beauty in every degree; then welcome unto me, my pretty bessee. with thee to thy father forthwith i will go. nay soft, quoth his kinsmen, it must not be so; a poor beggar's daughter no lady shall be, then take thy adieu of pretty bessee. but soon after this, by break of the day the knight had from rumford stole bessy away. the young men of rumford, as thick as might be, rode after to fetch again pretty bessee. as swift as the wind to ryde they were seen, until they came near unto bednall-green; and as the knight lighted most courteouslìe, they all fought against him for pretty bessee. but rescue came speedily over the plain, or else the young knight for his love had been slain. this fray being ended, then straightway he see his kinsmen come railing at pretty bessee. then spake the blind beggar, although i be poor, yet rail not against my child at my own door: though she be not decked in velvet and pearl, yet will i drop angels with you for my girl. and then, if my gold may better her birth, and equal the gold that you lay on the earth, then neither rail nor grudge you to see the blind beggar's daughter a lady to be. but first you shall promise, and have it well known, the gold that you drop shall all be your own. with that they replied, contented be we. then here's, quoth the beggar, for pretty bessee. with that an angel he cast on the ground, and dropped in angels full three thousand pound; and oftentimes it was proved most plain, for the gentlemen's one the beggar dropt twain: so that the place, wherein they did sit, with gold it was covered every whit. the gentlemen then having dropt all their store, said, now, beggar, hold, for we have no more, thou hast fulfilled thy promise aright. then marry, quoth he, my girl to this knight; and here, added he, i will now throw you down a hundred pounds more to buy her a gown. the gentlemen all, that this treasure had seen, admired the beggar of bednall-green: and all those, that were her suitors before, their flesh for very anger they tore. thus was fair bessy matched to the knight, and then made a lady in others' despite: a fairer lady there never was seen, than the blind beggar's daughter of bednall-green. but of their sumptuous marriage and feast, what brave lords and knights thither were prest, the second fitt shall set forth to your sight with marvellous pleasure and wished delight. part ii of a blind beggar's daughter most bright, that late was betrothed unto a young knight; all the discourse thereof you did see: but now comes the wedding of pretty bessee. within a gorgeous palace most brave, adorned with all the cost they could have, this wedding was kept most sumptuouslìe, and all for the credit of pretty bessee. all kind of dainties and delicates sweet were bought for the banquet, as it was most meet; partridge, and plover, and venison most free, against the brave wedding of pretty bessee. this marriage through england was spread by report, so that a great number thereto did resort of nobles and gentles in every degree; and all for the fame of pretty bessee. to church then went this gallant young knight; his bride followed after, an angel most bright, with troops of ladies, the like ne'er was seen, as went with sweet bessy of bednall-green. this marriage being solemnized then, with musick performed by the skilfullest men, the nobles and gentles sat down at that tide, each one admiring the beautiful bride. now, after the sumptuous dinner was done, to talk, and to reason a number begun: they talked of the blind beggar's daughter most bright, and what with his daughter he gave to the knight. then spake the nobles, 'much marvel have we, this jolly blind beggar we cannot here see.' my lords, quoth the bride, my father's so base, he is loth with his presence these states to disgrace. 'the praise of a woman in question to bring before her own face, were a flattering thing, but we think thy father's baseness,' quoth they, 'might by thy beauty be clean put away.' they had no sooner these pleasant words spoke, but in comes the beggar clad in a silk cloak; a fair velvet cap, and a feather had he, and now a musician forsooth he would be. he had a dainty lute under his arm, he touched the strings, which made such a charm, says, please you to hear any musick of me, i'll sing you a song of pretty bessee. with that his lute he twanged straightway, and thereon began most sweetly to play; and after that lessons were played two or three, he strain'd out this song most delicatelìe. 'a poor beggar's daughter did dwell on a green, who for her fairness might well be a queen: a blithe bonny lass, and a dainty was she, and many one called her pretty bessee. 'her father he had no goods, nor no land, but begged for a penny all day with his hand; and yet to her marriage he gave thousands three, and still he hath somewhat for pretty bessee. 'and if any one here her birth do disdain, her father is ready, with might and with main, to prove she is come of noble degree: therefore never flout at pretty bessee.' with that the lords and the company round with hearty laughter were ready to swound; at last said the lords, full well we may see, the bride and the beggar's beholden to thee. on this the bride all blushing did rise, the pearly drops standing within her fair eyes, o pardon my father, grave nobles, quoth she, that through blind affection thus doteth on me. if this be thy father, the nobles did say, well may he be proud of this happy day; yet by his countenance well may we see, his birth and his fortune did never agree: 'and therefore, blind man, we pray thee bewray (and look that the truth thou to us do say) thy birth and thy parentage, what it may be; for the love that thou bearest to pretty bessee.' 'then give me leave, nobles and gentles, each one, one song more to sing, and then i have done; and if that it may not win good report, then do not give me a _groat_ for my sport. 'sir simon de montfort my subject shall be; once chief of all the great barons was he, yet fortune so cruel this lord did abase, now lost and forgotten are he and his race. 'when the barons in arms did king henry oppose, sir simon de montfort their leader they chose; a leader of courage undaunted was he, and oft-times he made their enemies flee. 'at length in the battle on evesham plain, the barons were routed, and montfort was slain; most fatal that battle did prove unto thee, though thou wast not born then, my pretty bessee! 'along with the nobles, that fell at that tide, his eldest son henry, who fought by his side, was felled by a blow he received in the fight; a blow that deprived him for ever of sight. 'among the dead bodies all lifeless he lay, till evening drew on of the following day, when by a young lady discovered was he; and this was thy mother, my pretty bessee! 'a baron's fair daughter stept forth in the night to search for her father, who fell in the fight, and seeing young montfort, where gasping he lay, was moved with pity, and brought him away. 'in secret she nurst him, and swaged his pain, while he through the realm was believed to be slain: at length his fair bride she consented to be, and made him glad father of pretty bessee. 'and now, lest our foes our lives should betray, we clothed ourselves in beggars' array; her jewels she sold, and hither came we: all our comfort and care was our pretty bessee. 'and here have we lived in fortune's despite, though poor, yet contented with humble delight: full forty winters thus have i been a silly blind beggar of bednall-green. 'and here, noble lords, is ended the song of one, that once to your own rank did belong: and thus have you learned a secret from me, that ne'er had been known, but for pretty bessee.' now when the fair company every one, had heard the strange tale in the song he had shown, they all were amazed, as well they might be, both at the blind beggar, and pretty bessee. with that the fair bride they all did embrace, saying, sure thou art come of an honourable race thy father likewise is of noble degree, and thou art well worthy a lady to be. thus was the feast ended with joy and delight, a bridegroom most happy then was the young knight, in joy and felicitie long lived he, all with his fair lady, the pretty bessee. the babes in the wood now ponder well, you parents dear, these words, which i shall write; a doleful story you shall hear, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolk dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sick he was, and like to die, no help his life could save; his wife by him as sick did lie, and both possest one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kind, in love they liv'd, in love they died, and left two babes behind: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three yeares old; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beauty's mould. the father left his little son, as plainly doth appeare, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred pounds a yeare. and to his little daughter jane five hundred pounds in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children came to die, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possesse their wealth; for so the will did run. now, brother, said the dying man, look to my children dear; be good unto my boy and girl, no friends else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children dear this daye; but little while be sure we have within this world to stay. you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knows what will become of them, when i am dead and gone. with that bespake their mother dear, o brother kind, quoth she, you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or miserie: and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deeds regard. with lips as cold as any stone, they kist their children small: god bless you both, my children dear; with that the tears did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sick couple there, the keeping of your little ones, sweet sister, do not feare; god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children dear, when you are laid in grave. the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and brings them straite unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a day, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both away. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slay them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in fair londòn, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoycing at that tide, rejoycing with a merry mind, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the way, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives' decay: so that the pretty speech they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertook the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them, more hard of heart, did vow to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the children's life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slay the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for fear! he took the children by the hand, tears standing in their eye, and bade them straightway follow him, and look they did not cry: and two long miles he led them on, while they for food complain: stay here, quoth he, i'll bring you bread, when i come back again. the pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and down; but never more could see the man approaching from the town; their pretty lips with black-berries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they saw the darksome night, they sat them down and cryed. thus wandered these poor innocents, till death did end their grief, in one another's arms they died, as wanting due relief: no burial this pretty pair of any man receives, till robin-redbreast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrath of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearful fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barns were fir'd, his goods consum'd, his lands were barren made; his cattle died within the field, and nothing with him stayd. and in a voyage to portugal two of his sons did die; and to conclude, himself was brought to want and misery: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven years came about. and now at length this wicked act did by this means come out: the fellow, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to die, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having died in gaol, where he for debt was laid. you that executors be made, and overseers eke, of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like misery your wicked minds requite. robin hood and the pinder of wakefield in wakefield there lives a jolly pinder, in wakefield, all on a green; 'there is neither knight nor squire,' said the pinder, 'nor baron that is so bold, dare make a trespasse to the town of wakefield, but his pledge goes to the pinfold.' all this beheard three witty young men, 'twas robin hood, scarlet, and john; with that they spied the jolly pinder, as he sate under a thorn. 'now turn again, turn again,' said the pinder, 'for a wrong way have you gone; for you have forsaken the king his highway, and made a path over the corn.' 'oh, that were great shame,' said jolly robin, 'we being three, and thou but one': the pinder leapt back then thirty good foot, 'twas thirty good foot and one. he leaned his back fast unto a thorn, and his foot unto a stone, and there he fought a long summer's day, a summer's day so long, till that their swords, on their broad bucklers, were broken fast unto their hands. * * * * * 'hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said robin hood, 'and my merry men every one; for this is one of the best pinders that ever i try'd with sword. 'and wilt thou forsake thy pinder his craft, and live in the green wood with me?' * * * * * 'at michaelmas next my covenant comes out, when every man gathers his fee; i'le take my blew blade all in my hand, and plod to the green wood with thee.' 'hast thou either meat or drink,' said robin hood, 'for my merry men and me?' * * * * * 'i have both bread and beef,' said the pinder, 'and good ale of the best'; 'and that is meat good enough,' said robin hood, 'for such unbidden guest. 'o wilt thou forsake the pinder his craft and go to the green wood with me? thou shalt have a livery twice in the year, the one green, the other brown shall be.' 'if michaelmas day were once come and gone, and my master had paid me my fee, then would i set as little by him as my master doth set by me.' the nut-brown maid _he._ be it right or wrong, these men among on women do complain; affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain, to love them well; for never a deal they love a man again: for let a man do what he can, their favour to attain, yet, if a new do them pursue, their first true lover then laboureth for nought; for from their thought he is a banished man. _she._ i say not nay, but that all day it is both written and said, that woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed; but, nevertheless, right good witnèss in this case might be laid, that they love true, and continùe: record the nut-brown maid: which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his moan, would not depart; for in her heart she loved but him alone. _he._ then between us let us discuss what was all the manner between them two: we will also tell all the pain, and fear, that she was in. now i begin, so that ye me answèr; wherefore, all ye, that present be, i pray you give an ear. 'i am the knight; i come by night, as secret as i can; saying, alas! thus standeth the case, i am a banished man.' _she._ and i your will for to fulfil in this will not refuse; trustying to show, in words few, that men have an ill use (to their own shame) women to blame, and causeless them accuse; therefore to you i answer now, all women to excuse,-- mine own heart dear, with you what cheer i pray you, tell anon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ it standeth so; a deed is done whereof great harm shall grow: my destiny is for to die a shameful death, i trow; or else to flee. the one must be; none other way i know, but to withdraw as an outlàw, and take me to my bow. wherefore adieu, my own heart true! none other rede i can: for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ o lord, what is this worldis bliss, that changeth as the moon! my summer's day in lusty may is derked before the noon. i hear you say, farewell: nay, nay, we dèpart not so soon, why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas! what have you done? all my welfàre to sorrow and care should change, if you were gone; for in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ i can believe, it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain; but, afterward, your paines hard within a day or twain shall soon aslake; and ye shall take comfort to you again. why should ye ought? for to make thought, your labour were in vain. and thus i do; and pray you to, as hartely, as i can; for i must to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ now, sith that ye have showed to me the secret of your mind, i shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find. sith it is so, that ye will go, i will not live behind; shall never be said, the nut-brown maid was to her love unkind: make you ready, for so am i, although it were anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he._ yet i you rede to take good heed what men will think, and say: of young and old it shall be told, that ye be gone away, your wanton will for to fulfil, in green-wood you to play; and that ye might for your delight no longer make delay. rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill womàn, yet would i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ though it be sung of old and young, that i should be to blame, theirs be the charge, that speak so large in hurting of my name: for i will prove that faithful love it is devoid of shame; in your distress, and heaviness, to part with you, the same: and sure all those, that do not so, true lovers are they none; for, in my mind, of all mankind, i love but you alone. _he._ i counsel you, remember how, it is no maiden's law, nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an outlàw: for ye must there in your hand bear a bow, ready to draw, and, as a thief, thus must you live, ever in dread and awe; whereby to you great harm might grow: yet had i liever than, that i did to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ i think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's lore: but love may make me for your sake, as i have said before, to come on foot, to hunt, and shoot to get us meat in store; for so that i your company may have, i ask no more: from which to part, it maketh my heart as cold as any stone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ for an outlàw this is the law, that men him take and bind; without pitie, hangèd to be, and waver with the wind. if i had need (as god forbid!) what socours could ye find? forsooth, i trow, ye and your bow for fear would draw behind: and no marvèl; for little avail were in your counsel then: wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ right well know ye that woman be but feeble for to fight; no womanhede it is indeed to be bold as a knight: yet, in such fear if that ye were with enemies day or night, i would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as i might, and you to save; as women have from death men many one; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ yet take good heed; for ever i dread that ye could not sustain the thorny ways, the deep vallèys, the snow, the frost, the rain, the cold, the heat: for dry, or wet, we must lodge on the plain; and, us above, no other roof but a brake bush, or twain: which soon should grieve you, i believe, and ye would gladly than that i had to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ sith i have here been partynère with you of joy and bliss, i must alsò part of your woe endure, as reason is: yet am i sure of one pleasùre; and shortly, it is this: that, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè, i could not fare amiss. without more speech, i you beseech that we were soon agone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ if you go thyder, ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine, there shall no meat be for you gete, neither beer, ale, nor wine; no shétes clean, to lie between, made of thread and twine; none other house but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine, lo, mine heart sweet, this evil diéte should make you pale and wan; wherefore i will to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ among the wild deer, such an archère as men say that ye be, ne may not fail of good vitayle, where is so great plentè: and water clear of the rivère shall be full sweet to me; with which in hele i shall right wele endure, as ye shall see; and, or we go, a bed or two i can provide anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ lo yet, before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me: as cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by the knee; with bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be: and this same night before daylight, to woodward will i flee. if that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can: else will i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ i shall as now do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede; to shote my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need. o my sweet mother, before all other for you i have most dread! but now, adieu! i must ensue, where fortune doth me lead. all this make ye: now let us flee; the day cometh fast upon; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, and i shall tell you why,-- your appetite is to be light of love, i well espy: for, like as ye have said to me, in likewise hardily ye would answere whosoever it were, in way of company. it is said of old, soon hot, soon cold; and so is a womàn. wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she._ if ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me; for oft ye prayed, and long assayed, or i loved you, pardè: and though that i of ancestry a baron's daughter be, yet have you proved how i you loved, a squire of low degree; and ever shall, whatso befall; to die therefore anone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ a baron's child to be beguil'd! it were a cursèd deed; to be felàwe with an outlàw! almighty god forbid! yet better were the poor squyère alone to forest yede, than ye shall say another day, that, by my cursèd rede, ye were betrayed: wherefore, good maid, the best rede that i can, is, that i to the green-wood go, alone, a banished man. _she._ whatever befall, i never shall of this thing be upbraid: but if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed. remember you well, how that ye deal; for, if ye, as ye said, be so unkind, to leave behind, your love, the nut-brown maid, trust me truly, that i shall die soon after ye be gone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ if that ye went, ye should repent; for in the forest now i have purvayed me of a maid, whom i love more than you; another more fair than ever ye were, i dare it well avow; and of you both each should be wroth with other, as i trow: it were mine ease to live in peace; so will i, if i can; wherefore i to the wood will go, alone, a banished man. _she._ though in the wood i understood ye had a paramour, all this may nought remove my thought, but that i will be yours: and she shall find me soft and kind, and courteous every hour; glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power: for had ye, lo, an hundred mo, yet would i be that one, for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ mine own dear love, i see the prove that ye be kind and true; of maid, and wife, in all my life, the best that ever i knew. be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changèd new; for it were ruth, that, for your truth, ye should have cause to rue. be not dismayed; whatsoever i said to you when i began; i will not to the green-wood go; i am no banished man. _she._ these tidings be more glad to me, than to be made a queen, if i were sure they should endure; but it is often seen, when men will break promise, they speak the wordis on the spleen. ye shape some wile me to beguile, and steal from me, i ween: then were the case worse than it was, and i more wobegone; for, in my mind, of all mankind i love but you alone. _he._ ye shall not need further to dread; i will not disparàge you (god defend), sith ye descend of so great lineàge. now understand; to westmoreland, which is my heritage, i will you bring; and with a ring, by way of marriàge i will you take, and lady make, as shortly as i can. thus have you won an erle's son, and not a banished man. _here may ye see, that woman be in love, meek, kind, and stable: let never man reprove them than, or call them variable; but rather pray god that we may to them be comfortable; which sometimes proveth such, as he loveth, if they be charitable. for sith men would that women should be meek to them each one; much more ought they to god obey, and serve but him alone._ sir hugh of lincoln four and twenty bonny boys war playing at the ba'; then up and started sweet sir hugh, the flower amang them a'. he hit the ba' a kick wi's fit, and kept it wi' his knee, that up into the jew's window he gart the bonny ba' flee. 'cast doun the ba' to me, fair maid, cast doun the ba' to me'; 'o ne'er a bit o' the ba' ye get till ye cum up to me.' 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and get the ba''; 'i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes twa.' 'cum up, sweet hugh, cum up, dear hugh, cum up and play wi' me'; 'i canna cum, i darna cum, without my playferes three.' she's gane into the jew's garden, where the grass grew lang and green; she pow'd an apple red and white, to wyle the young thing in. she wyl'd him into ae chamber, she wyl'd him into twa; she wyl'd him to her ain chamber, the fairest o' them a'. she laid him on a dressing-board where she did sometimes dine; she put a penknife in his heart and dressed him like a swine. then out and cam the thick, thick blude, then out and cam the thin; then out and cam the bonny heart's blude, where a' the life lay in. she row'd him in a cake of lead, bad him lie still and sleep; she cast him into the jew's draw-well, was fifty fadom deep. she's tane her mantle about her head, her pike-staff in her hand; and prayed heaven to be her guide unto some uncouth land. his mither she cam to the jew's castle, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam into the jew's garden, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' she cam unto the jew's draw-well, and there ran thryse about: 'o sweet sir hugh, gif ye be here, i pray ye to me speak.' 'how can i speak, how dare i speak, how can i speak to thee? the jew's penknife sticks in my heart, i canna speak to thee. 'gang hame, gang hame, o mither dear, and shape my winding-sheet, and at the birks of mirryland town there you and i shall meet.' when bells war rung and mass was sung, and a' men bound for bed, every mither had her son, but sweet sir hugh was dead. the gypsy countess there come seven gypsies on a day, oh, but they sang bonny, o! and they sang so sweet, and they sang so clear, down cam the earl's ladie, o. they gave to her the nutmeg, and they gave to her the ginger; but she gave to them a far better thing, the seven gold rings off her fingers. when the earl he did come home, enquiring for his ladie, one of the servants made this reply, 'she's awa with the gypsie laddie.' 'come saddle for me the brown,' he said, 'for the black was ne'er so speedy, and i will travel night and day till i find out my ladie.' 'will you come home, my dear?' he said, 'oh will you come home, my honey? and by the point of my broad sword, a hand i'll ne'er lay on you.' 'last night i lay on a good feather-bed, and my own wedded lord beside me, and to-night i'll lie in the ash-corner, with the gypsies all around me. 'they took off my high-heeled shoes, that were made of spanish leather, and i have put on coarse lowland brogues, to trip it o'er the heather.' 'the earl of cashan is lying sick; not one hair i'm sorry; i'd rather have a kiss from his fair lady's lips than all his gold and his money.' there were three ladies there were three ladies play'd at the ba', with a hey, hey, an' a lilly gay. bye cam three lords an' woo'd them a', whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the first o' them was clad in yellow: 'o fair may, will ye be my marrow?' whan the roses smelled sae sweetly. the niest o' them was clad i' ried: o fair may, will ye be my bride?' the thrid o' them was clad i' green: he said, 'o fair may, will ye be my queen?' the heir of linne part i lithe and listen, gentlemen, to sing a song i will begin: it is of a lord of faire scotlànd, which was the unthrifty heir of linne. his father was a right good lord, his mother a lady of high degree; but they, alas! were dead, him froe, and he lov'd keeping companie. to spend the day with merry cheer, to drinke and revell every night, to card and dice from eve to morne, it was, i ween, his heart's delight. to ride, to run, to rant, to roar, to alwaye spend and never spare, i wot, an' it were the king himself, of gold and fee he mote be bare. so fares the unthrifty lord of linne till all his gold is gone and spent; and he maun sell his lands so broad, his house, and lands, and all his rent. his father had a keen stewàrde, and john o' the scales was called he: but john is become a gentel-man, and john has got both gold and fee. says, welcome, welcome, lord of linne, let nought disturb thy merry cheer; if thou wilt sell thy lands soe broad, good store of gold i'll give thee here. my gold is gone, my money is spent; my land now take it unto thee: give me the gold, good john o' the scales, and thine for aye my land shall be. then john he did him to record draw, and john he cast him a gods-pennie; but for every pound that john agreed, the land, i wis, was well worth three. he told him the gold upon the bord, he was right glad his land to win: the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'll be the lord of linne. thus he hath sold his land so broad, both hill and holt, and moore and fenne, all but a poor and lonesome lodge, that stood far off in a lonely glen. for so he to his father hight. my son, when i am gone, said he, then thou wilt spend thy land so broad, and thou wilt spend thy gold so free: but swear me now upon the roode, that lonesome lodge thou'lt never spend; for when all the world doth frown on thee, thou there shalt find a faithful friend. the heir of linne is full of gold: and come with me, my friends, said he, let's drinke, and rant, and merry make, and he that spares, ne'er mote he thee. they ranted, drank, and merry made, till all his gold it waxed thin; and then his friends they slunk away; they left the unthrifty heir of linne. he had never a penny left in his purse, never a penny left but three, and one was brass, another was lead, and another it was white monèy. now well-aday, said the heir of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me, for when i was the lord of linne, i never wanted gold nor fee. but many a trusty friend have i, and why should i feel dole or care? i'll borrow of them all by turns, so need i not be never bare. but one, i wis, was not at home; another had payd his gold away; another call'd him thriftless loon, and bade him sharply wend his way. now well-aday, said the heir of linne, now well-aday, and woe is me! for when i had my lands so broad, on me they liv'd right merrilee. to beg my bread from door to door i wis, it were a burning shame: to rob and steal it were a sin: to work my limbs i cannot frame. now i'll away to that lonesome lodge, for there my father bade me wend; when all the world should frown on me, i there shold find a trusty friend. part ii away then hied the heir of linne o'er hill and holt and moor and fen, untill he came to the lonesome lodge, that stood so lowe in a lonely glenne. he looked up, he looked down, in hope some comfort for to win: but bare and lothly were the walls. here's sorry cheer, quo' the heir of linne. the little window dim and dark was hung with ivy, brere, and yew; no shimmering sun here ever shone; no wholesome breeze here ever blew. nor chair, nor table he mote spy, no cheerful hearth, no welcome bed, nought save a rope with a running noose, that dangling hung up o'er his head. and over it in broad lettèrs, these words were written so plain to see: 'ah! graceless wretch, hast spent thine all, and brought thyself to penurìe? 'and this my boding mind misgave i therefore left this trusty friend: let it now shield thy foule disgrace, and all thy shame and sorrows end.' sorely shent wi' this rebuke, sorely shent was the heir of linne; his heart, i wis, was near to burst with guilt and sorrow, shame and sin. never a word spake the heir of linne, never a word he spake but three: 'this is a trusty friend indeed, and is right welcome unto me.' then round his neck the cord he drew, and sprang aloft with his bodìe: when lo! the ceiling burst in twaine, and to the ground came tumbling he. astonished lay the heir of linne, nor knewe if he were live or dead: at length he looked, and saw a bill, and in it a key of gold so redd. he took the bill, and lookt it on, strait good comfort found he there: it told him of a hole in the wall, in which there stood three chests in-fere. two were full of the beaten gold, the third was full of white monèy; and over them in broad lettèrs these words were written so plain to see: 'once more, my son, i set thee clear; amend thy life and follies past; for but thou amend thee of thy life, that rope must be thy end at last.' 'and let it be,' said the heir of linne; 'and let it be, but if i amend: for here i will make mine avow, this read shall guide me to the end.' away then went with a merry cheer, away then went the heir of linne; i wis, he neither ceas'd nor stayed, till john o' the scales' house he did win. and when he came to john o' the scales, up at the window then looked he: there sate three lords upon a row, were drinking of the wine so free. and john himself sate at the bord-head, because now lord of linne was he. i pray thee, he said, good john o' the scales, one forty pence for to lend me. away, away, thou thriftless loone; away, away, this may not be: for a curse upon my head he said, if ever i trust thee one pennìe. then bespake the heir of linne, to john o' the scales' wife then spake he: madame, some alms on me bestow, i pray for sweet saint charitìe. away, away, thou thriftless loone, i swear thou gettest no alms of me; for if we shold hang any losel here, the first we would begin with thee. then bespake a good fellòwe, which sat at john o' the scales his bord; sayd, turn again, thou heir of linne; some time thou wast a well good lord: some time a good fellow thou hast been, and sparedst not thy gold and fee: therefore i'll lend thee forty pence, and other forty if need be. and ever, i pray thee, john o' the scales, to let him sit in thy companie: for well i wot thou hadst his land, and a good bargain it was to thee. up then spake him john o' the scales, all hot he answered him againe: now a curse upon my head, he said, but i did lose by that bargàine. and here i proffer thee, heir of linne, before these lords so fair and free, thou shalt have it back again better cheap, by a hundred markes, than i had it of thee. i draw you to record, lords, he said. with that he cast him a god's pennie: now by my fay, sayd the heir of linne, and here, good john, is thy monèy. and he pull'd forth three bags of gold, and layd them down upon the board: all woebegone was john o' the scales, soe shent he could say never a word. he told him forth the good red gold, he told it forth with mickle dinne, the gold is thine, the land is mine, and now i'm again the lord of linne. sayes, have thou here, thou good fellòwe, forty pence thou didst lend me: now i am again the lord of linne, and forty pounds i will give thee. i'll make thee keeper of my forest, both of the wild deere and the tame; for unless i reward thy bounteous heart, i wis, good fellowe, i were to blame. now well-aday! sayth john o' the scales: now well-aday! and woe is my life! yesterday i was lady of linne, now i'm but john o' the scales his wife. now fare thee well, said the heir of linne; farewell now, john o' the scales, said he. a curse light on me, if ever again i bring my lands in jeopardy. the old and young courtier an old song made by an aged old pate, of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate, that kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, and an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; like an old courtier of the queen's and the queen's old courtier. with an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; they every quarter paid their old servants their wages, and never knew what belong'd to coachman, footmen, nor pages, but kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges; like an old courtier ... with an old study fill'd full of learned old books, with an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. with an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, and an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old cooks: like an old courtier ... with an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns and bows, with old swords, and bucklers, that had borne many shrewde blows, and an old frize coat to cover his worship's trunk hose, and a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose; like an old courtier ... with a good old fashion, when christmasse was come, to call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, with good chear enough to furnish every old room, and old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb, like an old courtier ... with an old falconer, huntsman, and a kennel of hounds, that never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds, who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, and when he dyed gave every child a thousand good pounds; like an old courtier ... but to his eldest son his house and land he assign'd, charging him in his will to keep the old bountifull mind, to be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: but in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclin'd; like a young courtier of the king's and the king's young courtier. like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, and takes up a thousand pound upon his father's land, and gets drunk in a tavern, till he can neither go nor stand; like a young courtier ... with a new-fangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, who never knew what belong'd to good house-keeping, or care, who buyes gaudy-color'd fans to play with wanton air, and seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair; like a young courtier ... with a new-fashion'd hall, built where the old one stood, hung round with new pictures, that do the poor no good, with a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, and a new smooth shovelboard, whereon no victuals ne'er stood; like a young courtier ... with a new study, stuft full of pamphlets, and plays, and a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, with a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, and a new french cook, to devise fine kickshaws, and toys; like a young courtier ... with a new fashion, when christmas is drawing on, on a new journey to london straight we all must begone, and leave none to keep house, but our new porter john, who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone; like a young courtier ... with a new gentleman-usher, whose carriage is compleat, with a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, with a waiting-gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, who when her lady has din'd, lets the servants not eat; like a young courtier ... with new titles of honour bought with his father's old gold, for which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; and this is the course most of our new gallants hold, which makes that good house-keeping is now grown so cold, among the young courtiers of the king, among the king's young courtiers. the winning of cales long the proud spaniards had vaunted to conquer us, threatning our country with fyer and sword; often preparing their navy most sumptuous with as great plenty as spain could afford. dub a dub, dub a dub, thus strike their drums; tantara, tantara, the englishman comes. to the seas presentlye went our lord admiral, with knights couragious and captains full good; the brave earl of essex, a prosperous general, with him prepared to pass the salt flood. at plymouth speedilye, took they ship valiantlye, braver ships never were seen under sayle, with their fair colours spread, and streamers o'er their head. now bragging spaniards, take heed of your tayle. unto cales cunninglye, came we most speedilye, where the kinges navy securelye did ryde; being upon their backs, piercing their butts of sacks, ere any spaniards our coming descryde. great was the crying, the running and ryding, which at that season was made in that place; the beacons were fyred, as need then required; to hyde their great treasure they had little space. there you might see their ships, how they were fyred fast, and how their men drowned themselves in the sea; there you might hear them cry, wayle and weep piteously, when they saw no shift to 'scape thence away. the great st. phillip, the pryde of the spaniards, was burnt to the bottom, and sunk in the sea; but the st. andrew, and eke the st. matthew, wee took in fight manfullye and brought away. the earl of essex, most valiant and hardye, with horsemen and footmen march'd up to the town; the spanyards, which saw them, were greatly alarmed, did fly for their savegard, and durst not come down. now, quoth the noble earl, courage my soldiers all, fight and be valiant, the spoil you shall have; and be well rewarded all from the great to the small; but look that the women and children you save. the spaniards at that sight, thinking it vain to fight, hung upp flags of truce and yielded the towne; wee marched in presentlye, decking the walls on hye, with english colours which purchas'd renowne. entering the houses then, of the most richest men, for gold and treasure we searched eche day; in some places we did find, pyes baking left behind, meate at fire rosting, and folkes run away. full of rich merchandize, every shop catch'd our eyes, damasks and sattens and velvets full fayre: which soldiers mèasur'd out by the length of their swords; of all commodities eche had a share. thus cales was taken, and our brave general march'd to the market-place, where he did stand: there many prisoners fell to our several shares, many crav'd mercye, and mercye they fannd. when our brave general saw they delayed all, and would not ransome their towne as they said, with their fair wanscots, their presses and bedsteds, their joint-stools and tables a fire we made; and when the town burned all in a flame, with tara, tantara, away we all came. the bailiff's daughter of islington there was a youth, a well-beloved youth, and he was a squire's son; he loved the bayliffe's daughter dear, that lived in islington. yet she was coy and would not believe that he did love her so, no nor at any time would she any countenance to him show. but when his friends did understand his fond and foolish mind, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to bind. and when he had been seven long years, and never his love could see: many a tear have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of me. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and play, all but the bayliffe's daughter dear; she secretly stole away. she pulled off her gown of green, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and dry, she sat her down upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour so redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, will ease me of much pain. before i give you one penny, sweetheart, pray tell me where you were born. at islington, kind sir, said she, where i have had many a scorn. i prythe, sweetheart, then tell to me, o tell me, whether you know, the bayliffe's daughter of islington. she is dead, sir, long ago. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will unto some far country, where no man shall me know. o stay, o stay, thou goodly youth, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and ready to be thy bride. o farewell grief, and welcome joy, ten thousand times therefore; for now i have found mine own true love, whom i thought i should never see more. chevy chase part i god prosper long our noble king, our lives and safeties all! a woeful hunting once there did in chevy chase befall. to drive the deer, with hound and horn, earl percy took the way; the child may rue, that is unborn, the hunting of that day! the stout earl of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods, three summer days to take; the chiefest harts in chevy chase, to kill and bear away. these tidings to earl douglas came in scotland, where he lay. who sent earl percy present word, he would prevent his sport. the english earl, not fearing that, did to the woods resort with fifteen hundred bowmen bold, all chosen men of might, who knew full well, in time of need, to aim their shafts aright. the gallant greyhounds swiftly ran, to chase the fallow deer. on monday, they began to hunt, ere daylight did appear; and long before high noon they had a hundred fat bucks slain: then, having dined, the drovers went to rouse the deer again. the hounds ran swiftly through the woods, the nimble deer to take, that with their cries the hills and dales an echo shrill did make. lord percy, to the quarry went, to view the slaughtered deer, quoth he, 'earl douglas promiséd this day to meet me here: 'but if i thought he would not come, no longer would i stay!' with that, a brave young gentleman, thus to the earl did say: 'lo! yonder doth earl douglas come! his men in armour bright! full twenty hundred scottish spears all marching in our sight! 'all pleasant men of tividale, fast by the river tweed.' 'o, cease your sports!' earl percy said, 'and take your bows with speed; 'and now with me, my countrymen, your courage forth advance; for there was never champion yet, in scotland, nor in france, 'that ever did on horseback come; and, if my hap it were, i durst encounter man for man, with him to break a spear!' earl douglas, on his milk-white steed, most like a baron bold, rode foremost of his company, whose armour shone like gold. 'show me,' said he, 'whose men you be, that hunt so boldly here? that, without my consent, do chase and kill my fallow deer?' the first man that did answer make, was noble percy he, who said, 'we list not to declare, nor show, whose men we be: 'yet we will spend our dearest blood thy chiefest harts to slay.' then douglas swore a solemn oath, and thus in rage did say: 'ere thus i will outbravèd be, one of us two shall die: i know thee well! an earl thou art, lord percy. so am i. 'but, trust me, percy, pity it were, and great offence, to kill any of these, our guiltless men! for they have done no ill. 'let thou and i, the battle try; and set our men aside.' 'accursed be he,' earl percy said, 'by whom it is denied!' then stepped a gallant squire forth, witherington was his name, who said, 'i would not have it told to henry our king, for shame, 'that e'er my captain fought on foot, and i stood looking on. you be two earls,' quoth witherington, 'and i a squire alone. 'i'll do the best that do i may, while i have power to stand: while i have power to wield my sword, i'll fight with heart and hand.' our english archers bent their bows, their hearts were good and true. at the first flight of arrows sent, full fourscore scots they slew. 'to drive the deer with hound and horn!' douglas bade on the bent. two captains moved, with mickle might, their spears to shivers went. they closed full fast on every side; no slackness there was found: but many a gallant gentleman lay gasping on the ground. o, christ! it was a grief to see, and likewise for to hear, the cries of men lying in their gore, and scattered here and there. at last, these two stout earls did meet. like captains of great might, like lions wood, they laid on load, and made a cruel fight: they fought, until they both did sweat, with swords of tempered steel, till blood adown their cheeks, like rain, they trickling down did feel. 'yield thee, o percy,' douglas said, 'in faith! i will thee bring, where thou shalt high advancèd be, by james, our scottish king! 'thy ransom i will freely give! and this report of thee, "thou art the most courageous knight that ever i did see!"' 'no, douglas,' quoth earl percy then, 'thy proffer i do scorn; i will not yield to any scot that ever yet was born!' with that, there came an arrow keen out of an english bow, which struck earl douglas to the heart, a deep and deadly blow. who never said more words than these, 'fight on, my merry men all! for why? my life is at an end, lord percy sees my fall!' then leaving life, earl percy took the dead man by the hand, who said, 'earl douglas, for thy sake, would i had lost my land! 'o, christ! my very heart doth bleed for sorrow, for thy sake, for, sure, a more redoubted knight mischance could never take!' a knight, amongst the scots there was, which saw earl douglas die; who straight in heart did vow revenge upon the lord percy. part ii sir hugh montgomery was he called; who, with a spear most bright, well mounted on a gallant steed, ran fiercely through the fight. and passed the english archers all, without or dread or fear; and through earl percy's body then he thrust his hateful spear. with such a vehement force and might, he did his body gore: the staff ran through the other side, a large cloth-yard and more. thus did both those nobles die, whose courage none could stain. an english archer then perceived the noble earl was slain. he had a good bow in his hand, made of a trusty tree. an arrow of a cloth-yard long, up to the head drew he. against sir hugh montgomery, so right the shaft he set; the grey-goose wing that was thereon, in his heart's blood was wet. this fight did last from break of day till setting of the sun: for when they rang the evening bell, the battle scarce was done. with stout earl percy there were slain sir john of egerton, sir robert ratcliff, and sir john, sir james, that bold baron. and with sir george and stout sir james, both knights of good account, good sir ralph raby there was slain, whose prowess did surmount. for witherington needs must i wail, as one in doleful dumps, for when his legs were smitten off, he fought upon his stumps. and with earl douglas there were slain sir hugh montgomery; and sir charles murray, that from field one foot would never flee. sir charles murray of ratcliff, too, his sister's son was he: sir david lamb, so well esteemed, but savèd he could not be. and the lord maxwell, in like case, did with earl douglas die. of twenty hundred scottish spears scarce fifty-five did fly. of fifteen hundred englishmen, went home but fifty-three; the rest in chevy chase were slain, under the greenwood tree. next day did many widows come their husbands to bewail: they washed their wounds in brinish tears; but all would not prevail! their bodies, bathed in purple blood, they bore with them away. they kissed them, dead, a thousand times, ere they were clad in clay. the news was brought to edinborough, where scotland's king did reign, that brave earl douglas suddenly was with an arrow slain. 'o, heavy news!' king james did say, 'scotland may witnèss be, i have not any captain more of such account as he!' like tidings to king henry came, within as short a space, that percy of northumberland, was slain in chevy chase. 'now, god be with him!' said our king, 'sith it will no better be; i trust i have, within my realm, five hundred as good as he! 'yet shall not scots, nor scotland, say but i will vengeance take; and be revengèd on them all, for brave earl percy's sake.' this vow the king did well perform after, on humbledown, in one day fifty knights were slain, with lords of great renown; and of the rest, of small account, did many thousands die. thus endeth the hunting in chevy chase, made by the earl percy. god save our king; and bless this land with plenty, joy, and peace! and grant henceforth, that foul debate 'twixt noblemen may cease! the battle of agincourt michael drayton fair stood the wind for france when we our sails advance, nor now to prove our chance longer will tarry; but putting to the main, at kaux, the mouth of seine, with all his martial train, landed king harry. and taking many a fort, furnish'd in warlike sort march'd towards agincourt in happy hour; skirmishing day by day with those that stopp'd his way, where the french gen'ral lay with all his power. which in his height of pride, king henry to deride, his ransom to provide to the king sending; which he neglects the while, as from a nation vile yet with an angry smile, their fall portending. and turning to his men, quoth our brave henry then, though they to one be ten, be not amazed. yet, have we well begun, battles so bravely won have ever to the sun by fame been raised. and for myself, quoth he, this my full rest shall be, england ne'er mourn for me, nor more esteem me. victor i will remain, or on this earth lie slain, never shall she sustain loss to redeem me. poictiers and cressy tell, when most their pride did swell, under our swords they fell, no less our skill is, than when our grandsire great, claiming the regal seat, by many a warlike feat, lop'd the french lilies. the duke of york so dread, the eager vanward led; with the main henry sped, amongst his henchmen. excester had the rear, a braver man not there, o lord, how hot they were on the false frenchmen! they now to fight are gone, armour on armour shone, drum now to drum did groan, to hear, was wonder; that with cries they make, the very earth did shake, trumpet to trumpet spake, thunder to thunder. well it thine age became, o noble erpingham, which did the signal aim to our hid forces: when from a meadow by, like a storm suddenly, the english archery stuck the french horses. with spanish yew so strong, arrows a cloth-yard long, that like to serpents stung piercing the weather; none from his fellow starts, but playing manly parts, and like true english hearts, stuck close together. when down their bows they threw, and forth their bilbows drew, and on the french they flew, not one was tardy; arms were from shoulders sent, scalps to the teeth were rent, down the french peasants went, our men were hardy. this while our noble king, his broad sword brandishing, down the french host did ding, as to o'erwhelm it; and many a deep wound lent, his arms with blood besprent, and many a cruel dent bruised his helmet. glo'ster, that duke so good, next of the royal blood, for famous england stood, with his brave brother; clarence, in steel so bright, though but a maiden knight, yet in that furious fight scarce such another. warwick in blood did wade, oxford the foe invade, and cruel slaughter made, still as they ran up; suffolk his axe did ply, beaumont and willoughby bare them right doughtily, ferrers and fanhope. upon saint crispin's day fought was this noble fray, which fame did not delay to england to carry; o when shall englishmen with such acts fill a pen, or england breed again such a king harry? song of the english bowmen anonymous agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, where english slew and hurt all their french foemen? with their pikes and bills brown, how the french were beat down, shot by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt, never to be forgot, or known to no men? where english cloth-yard arrows killed the french like tame sparrows, slain by our bowmen? agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? english of every sort, high men and low men, fought that day wondrous well, all our old stories tell, thanks to our bowmen! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? where our fifth harry taught frenchmen to know men: and, when the day was done, thousands there fell to one good english bowman! agincourt, agincourt! know ye not agincourt? dear was the vict'ry bought by fifty yeomen. ask any english wench, they were worth all the french, rare english bowmen! winter william shakespeare when icicles hang by the wall, and dick the shepherd blows his nail, and tom bears logs into the hall, and milk comes frozen home in pail; when blood is nipt, and ways be foul, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. when all about the wind doth blow, and coughing drowns the parson's saw, and birds sit brooding in the snow, and marian's nose looks red and raw; when roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, then nightly sings the staring owl tu-whit! tu-who! a merry note! while greasy joan doth keel the pot. ingratitude blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude; thy tooth is not so keen, because thou art not seen, although thy breath be rude. heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: then heigh, ho, the holly! this life is most jolly. freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, that dost not bite so nigh as benefits forgot: though thou the waters warp, thy sting is not so sharp as friend remember'd not. heigh, ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: then heigh, ho, the holly! this life is most jolly. fidele fear no more the heat o' the sun nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone and ta'en thy wages; golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke; care no more to clothe and eat; to thee the reed is as the oak: the sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this, and come to dust. fear no more the lightning-flash nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; fear not slander, censure rash; thou hast finish'd joy and moan: all lovers young, all lovers must consign to thee, and come to dust. under the greenwood tree under the greenwood tree who loves to lie with me, and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat, come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall he see no enemy, but winter and rough weather. who doth ambition shun, and loves to lie i' the sun, seeking the food he eats, and pleas'd with what he gets, come hither, come hither, come hither; here shall he see no enemy, but winter and rough weather. sylvia who is sylvia? what is she, that all our swains commend her? holy, fair, and wise is she; the heaven such grace did lend her, that she might admirèd be. is she kind as she is fair? for beauty lives with kindness, love doth to her eyes repair, to help him of his blindness, and, being help'd, inhabits there. then to sylvia let us sing, that sylvia is excelling; she excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling: to her let us garlands bring. song come away, come away, death, and in sad cypress let me be laid; fly away, fly away, breath; i am slain by a fair cruel maid. my shroud of white, stuck all with yew, o, prepare it; my part of death no one so true did share it. not a flower, not a flower sweet, on my black coffin let there be strown; not a friend, not a friend greet my poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. a thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me, o, where sad true lover ne'er find my grave to weep there. a sea dirge full fathom five thy father lies: of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes: nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange. sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: hark! now i hear them,-- ding, dong, bell. ophelia's song how should i your true love know from another one? by his cockle hat and staff, and his sandal shoon. he is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone; at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone. white his shroud as the mountain snow, larded with sweet flowers; which bewept to the grave did go with true-love showers. and will he not come again? and will he not come again? no, no, he is dead: go to thy death-bed: he never will come again. his beard was as white as snow, all flaxen was his poll: he is gone, he is gone, and we cast away moan: god ha' mercy on his soul! when daisies pied when daisies pied and violets blue, and lady-smocks all silver-white, and cuckoo-buds of yellow hue do paint the meadows with delight, the cuckoo then, on every tree, mocks married men; for thus sings he, cuckoo; cuckoo, cuckoo: o word of fear, unpleasing to a married ear! when shepherds pipe on oaten straws, and merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, when turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, and maidens bleach their summer smocks, the cuckoo then, on every tree, mocks married men; for thus sings he, cuckoo; cuckoo, cuckoo: o word of fear, unpleasing to a married ear! it was a lover it was a lover and his lass, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, that o'er the green cornfield did pass in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: sweet lovers love the spring. between the acres of the rye, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, these pretty country folks would lie, in spring time, etc. this carol they began that hour, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, how that a life was but a flower in spring time, etc. and therefore take the present time, with a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino; for love is crowned with the prime in spring time, etc. sweet and twenty o mistress mine, where are you roaming? o, stay and hear; your true love's coming, that can sing both high and low: trip no further, pretty sweeting; journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know. what is love? 'tis not hereafter; present mirth hath present laughter; what's to come is still unsure: in delay there lies no plenty; then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, youth's a stuff will not endure. music orpheus with his lute made trees, and the mountain tops that freeze, bow themselves when he did sing: to his music plants and flowers ever sprung; as sun and showers there had made a lasting spring. every thing that heard him play, even the billows of the sea, hung their heads, and then lay by. in sweet music is such art, killing-care and grief-of-heart fall asleep, or hearing, die. the pedlar lawn as white as driven snow; cypress black as e'er was crow; gloves as sweet as damask roses; masks for faces and for noses; bugle bracelet, necklace amber, perfume for a lady's chamber; golden quoifs and stomachers, for my lads to give their dears: pins and poking-sticks of steel, what maids lack from head to heel: come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: come buy. soldier's song and let me the canakin clink, clink; and let me the canakin clink: a soldier's a man; a life's but a span; why, then, let a soldier drink. king stephen was a worthy peer, his breeches cost him but a crown; he held them sixpence all too dear, with that he call'd the tailor lown. he was a wight of high renown, and thou art but of low degree: 'tis pride that pulls the country down; then take thine auld cloak about thee. doubt not doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt i love. ariel where the bee sucks, there lurk i; in a cowslip's bell i lie; there i couch when owls do cry. on the bat's back i do fly after summer merrily. merrily, merrily shall i live now under the blossom that hangs on the bough. sigh no more, ladies sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; men were deceivers ever; one foot in sea, and one on shore; to one thing constant never; then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny; converting all your sounds of woe into, hey nonny, nonny. sing no more ditties, sing no mo of dumps so dull and heavy; the fraud of men was ever so, since summer first was leavy, then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny; converting all your sounds of woe, into, hey nonny, nonny. the sweet o' the year when daffodils begin to peer, with heigh! the doxy over the dale, why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; for the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. the white sheet bleaching on the hedge, with heigh! the sweet birds, o, how they sing! doth set my pugging tooth on edge; for a quart of ale is a dish for a king. the lark, that tirra-lyra chants, with heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, are summer songs for me and my aunts, while we lie tumbling in the hay. but shall i go mourn for that, my dear? the pale moon shines by night: and when i wander here and there, i then do most go right. if tinkers may have leave to live, and bear the sow-skin budget, then my account i well may give, and in the stocks avouch it. hark! hark! the lark! (cloten's song) hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, and phoebus 'gins arise, his steeds to water at those springs, on chalic'd flowers that lies; and winking mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes; with every thing that pretty bin; my lady sweet, arise. over hill, over dale over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, i do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon's sphere; and i serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green. the cowslips tall her pensioners be: in their gold coats spots you see; those be rubies, fairy favours, in those freckles live their savours; i must go seek some dewdrops here, and hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. one in ten was this fair face the cause, quoth she, why the grecians sacked troy? fond done, done fond, was this king priam's joy? with that she sighèd as she stood, with that she sighèd as she stood, and gave this sentence then; among nine bad if one be good, among nine bad if one be good, there's yet one good in ten. puck now the hungry lion roars, and the wolf behowls the moon; whilst the heavy ploughman snores, all with weary task fordone. now the wasted brands do glow, while the screech-owl, screeching loud, puts the wretch, that lies in woe, in remembrance of a shroud. now it is the time of night that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth his sprite, in the church-way paths to glide; and we fairies, that do run by the triple hecate's team, from the presence of the sun, following darkness like a dream, now are frolic; not a mouse shall disturb this hallow'd house: i am sent with broom before, to sweep the dust behind the door. through the house give glimmering light, by the dead and drowsy fire: every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier; and this ditty, after me, sing, and dance it trippingly. first, rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note: hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing, and bless this place. lullaby you spotted snakes with double tongue, thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, come not near our fairy queen. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. weaving spiders, come not here; hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! beetles black, approach not near; worm nor snail, do no offence. philomel, with melody sing in our sweet lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. never harm, nor spell nor charm, come our lovely lady nigh; so, good-night, with lullaby. song tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head? how begot, how nourished? reply, reply. it is engender'd in the eyes, with gazing fed: and fancy dies in the cradle where it lies. let us all ring fancy's knell: i'll begin it,--ding, dong, bell. ding, dong, bell. cherry-ripe thomas campion there is a garden in her face, where roses and white lilies grow; a heavenly paradise is that place, wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; there cherries grow that none may buy till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. those cherries fairly do enclose of orient pearl a double row, which, when her lovely laughter shows, they look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; yet them no peer nor prince may buy till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. her eyes like angels watch them still, her brows like bended bows do stand, threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill all that approach with eye or hand these sacred cherries to come nigh, till 'cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. laura rose-cheeked laura, come; sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's silent music, either other sweetly gracing. lovely forms do flow from consent divinely framed; heaven is music, and thy beauty's birth is heavenly. these dull notes we sing discords need for helps to grace them, only beauty purely loving knows no discord, but still moves delight, like clear springs renewed by flowing, ever perfect, ever in them- selves eternal. come, cheerful day come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; for while thou view'st me with thy fading light part of my life doth still depart with thee, and i still onward haste to my last night: time's fatal wings do ever forward fly-- so every day we live, a day we die. but o ye nights, ordain'd for barren rest, how are my days deprived of life in you when heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest, by feignèd death life sweetly to renew; part of my life, in that, you life deny: so every day we live, a day we die. follow thy fair sun follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! though thou be black as night and she made all of light, yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! though here thou liv'st disgraced, and she in heaven is placed, yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth, that so have scorchèd thee as thou still black must be till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. follow her, while yet her glory shineth! there comes a luckless night that will dim all her light; --and this the black unhappy shade divineth. follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! the sun must have his shade, till both at once do fade,-- the sun still proved, the shadow still disdainèd. to celia ben jonson drink to me only with thine eyes, and i will pledge with mine, or leave a kiss but in the cup and i'll not look for wine. the thirst that from the soul doth rise doth ask a drink divine; but might i of jove's nectar sup, i would not change for thine. i sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee as giving it a hope that there it could not wither'd be; but thou thereon didst only breathe and sent'st it back to me; since when it grows, and smells, i swear, not of itself, but thee! song from 'cynthia's revels' queen and huntress, chaste and fair, now the sun is laid to sleep, seated in thy silver chair, state in wonted manner keep. hesperus entreats thy light, goddess excellently bright! earth, let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose; cynthia's shining orb was made heaven to clear, when day did close. bless us then with wishèd sight, goddess excellently bright! lay thy bow of pearl apart, and thy crystal-shining quiver, give unto the flying hart space to breathe how short soever; thou that mak'st a day of night, goddess excellently bright! the sweet neglect still to be neat, still to be drest, as you were going to a feast: still to be poud'red, still perfum'd: lady, it is to be presum'd, though art's hid causes are not found, all is not sweet, all is not sound. give me a looke, give me a face, that makes simplicitie a grace; robes loosely flowing, haire as free: such sweet neglect more taketh me, than all th' adulteries of art, that strike mine eyes, but not my heart. the weaver's song anonymous when hercules did use to spin, and pallas wrought upon the loom, our trade to flourish did begin, while conscience went not selling broom; then love and friendship did agree to keep the bands of amity. when princes' sons kept sheep in field, and queens made cakes of wheated flour, the men to lucre did not yield, which brought good cheer in every bower; then love and friendship ... but when the gyants huge and high, did fight with spears like weavers' beams, then they in iron beds did lye, and brought poor men to hard extreams; yet love and friendship ... then david took his sling and stone, not fearing great goliah's strength, he pierc't his brains, and broke the bone, though he were fifty foot of length; for love and friendship ... but while the greeks besiegèd troy, penelope apace did spin; and weavers wrought with mickle joy, though little gains were coming in; for love and friendship ... had helen then sate carding wooll, (whose beauteous face did breed such strife), she had not been sir paris' trull, nor caused so many to lose their life; yet we by love did still agree to hold the bands of amity. or had king priam's wanton son been making quills with sweet content, he had not then his friends undone, when he to greece a-gadding went; for love and friendship ... the cedar-trees endure more storms then little shrubs that sprout on high; the weavers live more void of harms then princes of great dignity; while love and friendship doth agree ... the shepherd sitting in the field doth tune his pipe with heart's delight; when princes watch with spear and shield, the poor man soundly sleeps all night; while love and friendship doth agree ... yet this by proof is daily try'd, for god's good gifts we are ingrate, and no man through the world so wide lives well contented with his state; no love and friendship we can see to hold the bands of amity. the honest fellow hang fear, cast away care, the parish is bound to find us thou and i, and all must die, and leave this world behind us. the bells shall ring, the clerk shall sing, and the good old wife shall winde us; and the sexton shall lay our bodies in the clay, where nobody shall find us. robin goodfellow from oberon, in fairy land, the king of ghosts and shadows there, mad robin i, at his command, am sent to view the night-sports here. what revel rout is kept about, in every corner where i go, i will o'ersee, and merry be, and make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! more swift than lightning can i fly about this airy welkin soon, and, in a minute's space, descry each thing that's done below the moon. there's not a hag or ghost shall wag, or cry, 'ware goblins! where i go; but robin i their feats will spy, and send them home with ho, ho, ho! whene'er such wanderers i meet, as from their night-sports they trudge home, with counterfeiting voice i greet, and call them on with me to roam: through woods, through lakes; through bogs, through brakes; or else, unseen, with them i go, all in the nick, to play some trick, and frolic it, with ho, ho, ho! sometimes i meet them like a man, sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; and to a horse i turn me can, to trip and trot about them round. but if to ride my back they stride, more swift than wind away i go, o'er hedge and lands, through pools and ponds, i hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when lads and lasses merry be, with possets and with junkets fine; unseen of all the company, i eat their cakes and sip their wine! and, to make sport, i puff and snort: and out the candles i do blow: the maids i kiss, they shriek--who's this? i answer nought but ho, ho, ho! yet now and then, the maids to please, at midnight i card up their wool; and, while they sleep and take their ease, with wheel to threads their flax i pull. i grind at mill their malt up still; i dress their hemp; i spin their tow; if any wake, and would me take, i wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when any need to borrow aught, we lend them what they do require: and, for the use demand we nought; our own is all we do desire. if to repay they do delay, abroad amongst them then i go, and night by night, i them affright, with pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho! when lazy queans have nought to do, but study how to cog and lie: to make debate and mischief too, 'twixt one another secretly: i mark their gloze, and it disclose to them whom they have wronged so: when i have done, i get me gone, and leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! when men do traps and engines set in loop-holes, where the vermin creep, who from their folds and houses get their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep; i spy the gin, and enter in, and seem a vermin taken so; but when they there approach me near, i leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! by wells and rills, in meadows green, we nightly dance our heyday guise; and to our fairy king and queen, we chant our moonlight minstrelsies. when larks 'gin sing, away we fling; and babes new born steal as we go; and elf in bed we leave in stead, and wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! from hag-bred merlin's time, have i thus nightly revelled to and fro; and for my pranks men call me by the name of robin good-fellow. fiends, ghosts, and sprites, who haunt the nights, the hags and goblins do me know; and beldames old my feats have told, so vale, vale; ho, ho, ho! time's alteration when this old cap was new, 'tis since two hundred year; no malice then we knew, but all things plenty were: all friendship now decays (believe me, this is true); which was not in those days, when this old cap was new. the nobles of our land were much delighted then, to have at their command a crew of lusty men, which by their coats were known, of tawny, red, or blue, with crests on their sleeves shewn, when this old cap was new. now pride hath banished all, unto our land's reproach, when he whose means is small, maintains both horse and coach: instead of a hundred men, the coach allows but two; this was not thought on then, when this old cap was new. good hospitality was cherished then of many now poor men starve and die, and are not helped by any: for charity waxeth cold, and love is found in few; this was not in time of old, when this old cap was new. where'er you travelled then, you might meet on the way brave knights and gentlemen, clad in their country gray; that courteous would appear, and kindly welcome you; no puritans then were, when this old cap was new. our ladies in those days in civil habit went; broad cloth was then worth praise, and gave the best content: french fashions then were scorned; fond fangles then none knew; then modesty women adorned, when this old cap was new. a man might then behold, at christmas, in each hall, good fires to curb the cold, and meat for great and small: the neighbours were friendly bidden, and all had welcome true; the poor from the gates were not chidden when this old cap was new. black jacks to every man were filled with wine and beer; no pewter pot nor can in those days did appear: good cheer in a nobleman's house was counted a seemly show; we wanted no brawn nor souse, when this old cap was new. we took not such delight in cups of silver fine; none under the degree of a knight in plate drank beer or wine: now each mechanical man hath a cupboard of plate for a show; which was a rare thing then, when this old cap was new. then bribery was unborn, no simony men did use; christians did usury scorn, devised among the jews. the lawyers to be fee'd at that time hardly knew; for man with man agreed, when this old cap was new. no captain then caroused, nor spent poor soldiers' pay; they were not so abused as they are at this day: of seven days they make eight, to keep from them their due; poor soldiers had their right, when this old cap was new. which made them forward still to go, although not prest; and going with goodwill, their fortunes were the best. our english then in fight did foreign foes subdue, and forced them all to flight, when this old cap was new. god save our gracious king, and send him long to live: lord, mischief on them bring that will not their alms give, but seek to rob the poor of that which is their due: this was not in time of yore, when this old cap was new. shall i, wasting in despair george wither shall i, wasting in despair, die because a woman's fair? or make pale my cheeks with care 'cause another's rosy are? be she fairer than the day, or the flow'ry meads in may, if she be not so to me, what care i how fair she be? should my heart be griev'd or pin'd 'cause i see a woman kind? or a well-disposèd nature joinèd with a lovely feature? be she meeker, kinder than turtle-dove or pelican, if she be not so to me, what care i how kind she be? shall a woman's virtues move me to perish for her love? or her well-deservings, known, make me quite forget my own? be she with that goodness blest which may gain her name of best, if she be not such to me, what care i how good she be? 'cause her fortune seems too high, shall i play the fool and die? those that bear a noble mind, where they want of riches find. think what with them they would do that without them dare to woo; and unless that mind i see, what care i how great she be? great, or good, or kind, or fair, i will ne'er the more despair; if she love me, this believe, i will die ere she shall grieve: if she slight me when i woo, i can scorn and let her go; for if she be not for me, what care i for whom she be? i loved a lass, a fair one i lov'd a lass, a fair one, as fair as e'er was seen; she was indeed a rare one, another sheba queen. but, fool as then i was, i thought she lov'd me too: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. her hair like gold did glister, each eye was like a star, she did surpass her sister, which pass'd all others far; she would me honey call, she'd, oh--she'd kiss me too: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. many a merry meeting my love and i have had; she was my only sweeting, she made my heart full glad; the tears stood in her eyes, like to the morning dew: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. her cheeks were like the cherry, her skin as white as snow; when she was blythe and merry, she angel-like did show; her waist exceeding small, the fives did fit her shoe: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. in summer time or winter she had her heart's desire; i still did scorn to stint her from sugar, sack, or fire; the world went round about, no cares we ever knew: but now, alas! she's left me, falero, lero, loo. to maidens' vows and swearing henceforth no credit give; you may give them the hearing, but never them believe; they are as false as fair, unconstant, frail, untrue: for mine, alas! hath left me, falero, lero, loo. christmas so now is come our joyfullest part; let every man be jolly; each room with ivy-leaves is dressed, and every post with holly. though some churls at our mirth repine, round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine, and let us all be merry! now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, and christmas-blocks are burning; their ovens they with baked meat choke, and all their spits are turning. without the door let sorrow lie; and, if for cold it hap to die, we'll bury it in a christmas pie and evermore be merry! rank misers now do sparing shun; their hall of music soundeth; and dogs thence with whole shoulders run; so all things there aboundeth. the country folks themselves advance with crowdy-muttons out of france; and jack shall pipe, and jill shall dance, and all the town be merry! good farmers in the country nurse the poor that else were undone; some landlords spend their money worse, on lust and pride in london. there the roysters they do play, drab and dice their lands away, which may be ours another day, and therefore let's be merry! the client now his suit forbears; the prisoner's heart is easèd; the debtor drinks away his cares, and for the time is pleasèd. though other's purses be more fat, why should we pine or grieve at that? hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, and therefore let's be merry! hark! now the wags abroad do call each other forth to rambling; anon you'll see them in the hall, for nuts and apples scrambling. hark! how the roofs with laughter sound; anon they'll think the house goes round, for they the cellar's depth have found, and there they will be merry! the wenches with their wassail bowls about the streets are singing; the boys are come to catch the owls; the wild mare in is bringing; our kitchen-boy hath broke his box; and to the dealing of the ox our honest neighbours come by flocks, and here they will be merry! now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have, and mate with everybody; the honest now may play the knave, and wise men play the noddy. some youths will now a-mumming go, some others play at rowland-bo, and twenty other game, boys, mo, because they will be merry! then wherefore, in these merry days, should we, i pray, be duller? no, let us sing some roundelays to make our mirth the fuller: and, while we thus inspirèd sing, let all the streets with echoes ring; woods, and hills, and everything, bear witness we are merry! ask me no more thomas carew ask me no more where jove bestows, when june is past, the fading rose; for in your beauties orient deep these flowers, as in their causes, sleep. ask me no more, whither do stray the golden atoms of the day; for, in pure love, heaven did prepare those powders to enrich your hair. ask me no more, whither doth haste the nightingale, when may is past; for in your sweet dividing throat she winters, and keeps warm her note. ask me no more, where those stars light, that downwards fall in dead of night; for in your eyes they sit, and there fixed become, as in their sphere. ask me no more, if east or west, the phoenix builds her spicy nest; for unto you at last she flies, and in your fragrant bosom dies. night-piece to julia robert herrick her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, the shooting stars attend thee; and the elves also, whose little eyes glow like the sparks of fire, befriend thee! no will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, nor snake or slow-worm bite thee! but on, on thy way, not making a stay, since ghost there is none to affright thee. let not the dark thee cumber; what though the moon does slumber? the stars of the night will lend thee their light, like tapers clear without number. then julia let me woo thee, thus, thus to come unto me; and, when i shall meet thy silvery feet, my soul i'll pour into thee. the mad maid's song good-morrow to the day so fair, good-morrow, sir, to you; good-morrow to my own torn hair, bedabbled all with dew. good-morrow to this primrose too; good-morrow to each maid that will with flowers the tomb bestrew wherein my love is laid. ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me; alack and well-a-day! for pity, sir, find out that bee which bore my love away. i'll seek him in your bonnet brave; i'll seek him in your eyes; nay, now i think they've made his grave in the bed of strawberries. i'll seek him there, i know ere this the cold, cold earth doth shake him; but i will go, or send a kiss by you, sir, to awake him. pray hurt him not; though he be dead, he knows well who do love him, and who with green turfs rear his head, and who so rudely move him. he's soft and tender, pray take heed; with bands of cowslips bind him, and bring him home; but 'tis decreed that i shall never find him. to blossoms fair pledges of a fruitful tree, why do you fall so fast? your date is not so past, but you may stay yet here awhile, to blush and gently smile, and go at last. what! were ye born to be an hour or half's delight, and so to bid good-night? 'tis pity nature brought ye forth merely to show your worth, and lose you quite. but you are lovely leaves, where we may read how soon things have their end, though ne'er so brave: and after they have shown their pride, like you awhile, they glide into the grave. to daffodils fair daffodils, we weep to see you haste away so soon; as yet the early-rising sun has not attained his noon: stay, stay, until the hast'ning day has run but to the even-song; and having prayed together, we will go with you along! we have short time to stay as you; we have as short a spring; as quick a growth to meet decay, as you or any thing: we die, as your hours do; and dry away like to the summer's rain, or as the pearls of morning-dew, ne'er to be found again. julia some asked me where the rubies grew, and nothing did i say, but with my finger pointed to the lips of julia. some asked how pearls did grow, and where, then spake i to my girl, to part her lips, and show me there the quarelets of pearl. one asked me where the roses grew, i bade him not go seek; but forthwith bade my julia shew a bud in either cheek. to the virgins, to make much of their time gather the rose-buds while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying. the glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he's a-getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he's to setting. that age is best which is the first, when youth and blood are warmer; but, being spent, the worse, and worst time shall succeed the former. then be not coy, but use your time, and while you may, go marry; for, having lost but once your prime, you may for ever tarry. twelfth night, or king and queen now, now the mirth comes, with the cake full of plums, where bean's the king of the sport here; beside, we must know, the pea also must revel as queen in the court here. begin then to choose, this night, as ye use, who shall for the present delight here; be a king by the lot, and who shall not be twelfth-day queen for the night here. which known, let us make joy-sops with the cake; and let not a man then be seen here, who unurged will not drink, to the base from the brink, a health to the king and the queen here. next crown the bowl full with gentle lamb's-wool; add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, with store of ale, too; and thus ye must do to make the wassail a swinger. give them to the king and queen wassailing; and though with ale ye be wet here; yet part ye from hence, as free from offence, as when ye innocent met here. the bag of the bee about the sweet bag of a bee, two cupids fell at odds; and whose the pretty prize should be, they vowed to ask the gods. which venus hearing, thither came, and for their boldness stript them; and taking thence from each his flame, with rods of myrtle whipt them. which done, to still their wanton cries, when quiet grown she'ad seen them, she kissed and wiped their dove-like eyes and gave the bag between them. a thanksgiving for his house lord, thou hast given me a cell wherein to dwell; a little house, whose humble roof is weatherproof; under the spars of which i lie both soft and dry. where thou, my chamber for to ward, hast set a guard of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep me while i sleep. low is my porch, as is my fate, both void of state; and yet the threshold of my door is worn by the poor, who hither come, and freely get good words or meat. like as my parlour, so my hall, and kitchen small; a little buttery, and therein a little bin, which keeps my little loaf of bread unchipt, unflead. some brittle sticks of thorn or brier make me a fire, close by whose living coal i sit, and glow like it. lord, i confess, too, when i dine the pulse is thine, and all those other bits that be there placed by thee. the worts, the purslain, and the mess of water-cress, which of thy kindness thou hast sent: and my content makes those, and my beloved beet, to be more sweet. 'tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth with guiltless mirth; and giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, spiced to the brink. lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand that sows my land: all this, and better, dost thou send me for this end: that i should render for my part a thankful heart, which, fired with incense, i resign as wholly thine: but the acceptance--that must be, o lord, by thee. to primroses, filled with morning dew why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears speak grief in you, who were but born just as the modest morn teemed her refreshing dew? alas! you have not known that shower that mars a flower, nor felt the unkind breath of a blasting wind; nor are ye worn with years, or warped as we, who think it strange to see such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known the reason why ye droop and weep; is it for want of sleep, or childish lullaby? or that ye have not seen as yet the violet? or brought a kiss from that sweet heart to this? no, no; this sorrow shown by your tears shed, would have this lecture read-- 'that things of greatest, so of meanest worth, conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' delight in disorder a sweet disorder in the dress [a happy kind of carelessness;] a lawn about the shoulders thrown into a fine distraction; an erring lace, which here and there enthralls the crimson stomacher; a cuff neglectful, and thereby ribands that flow confusedly; a winning wave, deserving note in the tempestuous petticoat; a careless shoe-string, in whose tie i see a wild civility; do more bewitch me, than when art is too precise in every part. cherry ripe cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, i cry, full and fair ones--come and buy; if so be you ask me where they do grow?--i answer: there, where my julia's lips do smile-- there's the land, or cherry-isle; whose plantations fully show all the year where cherries grow. virtue george herbert sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright the bridal of the earth and sky; the dews shall weep thy fall to-night; for thou must die. sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; thy root is ever in its grave; and thou must die. sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses; a box where sweets compacted lie; thy music shows ye have your closes; and all must die. only a sweet and virtuous soul, like seasoned timber never gives; but, though the whole world turn to coal, then chiefly lives. the spanish armado some years of late, in eighty-eight, as i do well remember, it was, some say, the middle of may, and some say in september, and some say in september. the spanish train launch'd forth amain, with many a fine bravado, their (as they thought, but it prov'd not) invincible armado, invincible armado. there was a man that dwelt in spain who shot well with a gun a, don pedro hight, as black a wight as the knight of the sun a, as the knight of the sun a. king philip made him admiral, and bid him not to stay a, but to destroy both man and boy and so to come away a, and so to come away a. their navy was well victualled with bisket, pease, and bacon, they brought two ships, well fraught with whips, but i think they were mistaken, but i think they were mistaken. their men were young, munition strong, and to do us more harm a, they thought it meet to joyn their fleet all with the prince of parma, all with the prince of parma. they coasted round about our land, and so came in by dover: but we had men set on 'em then, and threw the rascals over, and threw the rascals over. the queen was then at tilbury, what could we more desire a? sir francis drake for her sweet sake did set them all on fire a, did set them all on fire a. then straight they fled by sea and land, that one man kill'd threescore a, and had not they all run away, in truth he had kill'd more a, in truth he had kill'd more a. then let them neither bray nor boast, but if they come again a, let them take heed they do not speed as they did you know when a, as they did you know when a. a ballad upon a wedding sir john suckling i tell thee, dick, where i have been; where i the rarest things have seen; oh, things without compare! such sights again can not be found in any place on english ground, be it at wake or faer. at charing cross, hard by the way where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, there is a house with stairs; and there did i see coming down such folks as are not in our town; vorty at least, in pairs. amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (his beard no bigger tho' than thine) walk'd on before the rest; our landlord looks like nothing to him; the king (god bless him), 'twould undo him, should he go still so drest. at course-a-park, without all doubt, he should have first been taken out by all the maids i' the town: though lusty roger there had been, or little george upon the green, or vincent of the crown. but wot you what? the youth was going to make an end of all his wooing: the parson for him staid: yet by his leave, for all his haste, he did not so much wish all past, perchance as did the maid. the maid (and thereby hangs a tale) for such a maid no whitson-ale could ever yet produce; no grape that's kindly ripe could be so round, so plump, so soft as she, nor half so full of juyce. her finger was so small, the ring would not stay on which they did bring; it was too wide a peck: and, to say truth (for out it must), it look'd like the great collar (just) about our young colt's neck. her feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice stole in and out, as if they fear'd the light: but oh! she dances such a way; no sun upon an easter day is half as fine a sight. her cheeks so rare, a white was on, no daisie make comparison (who sees them is undone); for streaks of red were mingled there, such as are on a kath'rine pear, the side that's next the sun. her lips were red; and one was thin, compared to what was next her chin (some bee had stung it newly); but, dick, her eyes so guard her face, i durst no more upon them gaze, than on a sun in july. her mouth so small, when she does speak, thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break that they might passage get; but she so handled still the matter, they came as good as ours, or better, and are not spent a whit. passion, oh me! how i run on! there's that that would be thought upon, i trow, beside the bride. the business of the kitchen's great; for it is fit that men should eat, nor was it there denied. just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, and all the waiters in a trice his summons did obey; each serving man, with dish in hand, march'd boldly up like our train'd band, presented, and away. when all the meat was on the table, what man of knife, or teeth, was able to stay to be entreated? and this the very reason was, before the parson could say grace the company was seated. now hats fly off, and youths carouse; healths first go round, and then the house, the bride's came thick and thick; and when 'twas named another's health, perhaps he made it her's by stealth, (and who could help it, dick?) o' th' sudden up they rise and dance; then sit again, and sigh, and glance: then dance again, and kiss: thus several ways the time did pass, till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, and ev'ry man wish'd his. by this time all were stolen aside to counsel and undress the bride; but that he must not know: but yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind and did not mean to stay behind above an hour or so. why so pale and wan? why so pale and wan, fond lover? prithee, why so pale? will, when looking well can't move her, looking ill prevail? prithee, why so pale? why so dull and mute, young sinner? prithee, why so mute? will, when speaking well can't win her, saying nothing do 't? prithee, why so mute? quit, quit, for shame, this will not move, this cannot take her; if of herself she will not love, nothing can make her. the devil take her! go, lovely rose! edmund waller go, lovely rose! tell her, that wastes her time and me, that now she knows, when i resemble her to thee how sweet and fair she seems to be. tell her that's young, and shuns to have her graces spied, that hadst thou sprung in deserts, where no men abide, thou must have uncommended died. small is the worth of beauty from the light retired: bid her come forth, suffer herself to be desired, and not blush so to be admired. then die! that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee: how small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair! the frog he would a-wooing ride anonymous it was the frog in the well, humble dum, humble dum, and the merry mouse in the mill, tweedle, tweedle, twino. the frog would a-wooing ride, humble dum, humble dum, sword and buckler by his side, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when upon his high horse set, humble dum, humble dum, his boots they shone as black as jet, tweedle, tweedle, twino. when he came to the merry mill pin, lady mouse beene you within? then came out the dusty mouse, i am lady of this house; hast thou any mind of me? i have e'en great mind of thee. who shall this marriage make? our lord, which is the rat. what shall we have to our supper? three beans in a pound of butter. but, when supper they were at, the frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat, then came in tib, our cat, and caught the mouse e'en by the back, then did they separate: the frog leapt on the floor so flat; then came in dick, our drake, and drew the frog e'en to the lake, the rat he ran up the wall, and so the company parted all. to althea, from prison richard lovelace when love with unconfinèd wings hovers within my gates, and my divine althea brings to whisper at my grates; when i lie tangled in her hair, and fetter'd to her eye, the birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty. when flowing cups run swiftly round, with no allaying thames, our careless heads with roses bound, our hearts with loyal flames; when thirsty grief in wine we steep, when healths and draughts are free,-- fishes that tipple in the deep know no such liberty. when linnet-like confinèd, i with shriller throat shall sing the sweetness, mercy, majesty, and glories of my king: when i shall voice aloud how good he is, how great should be,-- enlargèd winds that curl the flood know no such liberty. stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; minds innocent and quiet take that for a hermitage: if i have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free,-- angels alone that soar above enjoy such liberty. to lucasta, on going to the wars tell me not, sweet, i am unkind,-- that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms i fly. true, a new mistress now i chase, the first foe in the field; and with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield. yet this inconstancy is such as you, too, shall adore; i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more. ye gentlemen of england martin parker ye gentlemen of england that live at home at ease, ah! little do ye think upon the dangers of the seas. give ear unto the mariners, and they will plainly show all the cares and the fears when the stormy winds do blow. when the stormy winds do blow. if enemies oppose us when england is at war with any foreign nation, we fear not wound or scar; our roaring guns shall teach 'em our valour for to know, whilst they reel on the keel, and the stormy winds do blow. and the stormy winds do blow. then courage, all brave mariners, and never be dismay'd; while we have bold adventurers, we ne'er shall want a trade: our merchants will employ us to fetch them wealth, we know; then be bold--work for gold, when the stormy winds do blow. when the stormy winds do blow. the fairy queen anonymous come follow, follow me, you, fairy elves that be: which circle on the greene, come follow mab your queene. hand in hand let's dance around, for this place is fairye ground. when mortals are at rest, and snoring in their nest; unheard, and unespy'd, through key-holes we do glide; over tables, stools, and shelves, we trip it with our fairy elves. and, if the house be foul with platter, dish, or bowl, upstairs we nimbly creep, and find the sluts asleep; there we pinch their armes and thighes; none escapes, nor none espies. but if the house be swept, and from uncleanness kept, we praise the household maid, and duely she is paid: for we use before we goe to drop a tester in her shoe. upon a mushroome's head our table-cloth we spread; a grain of rye, or wheat, is manchet, which we eat; pearly drops of dew we drink in acorn cups fill'd to the brink. the brains of nightingales, with unctuous fat of snailes, between two cockles stew'd, is meat that's easily chew'd; tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, do make a dish that's wondrous nice. the grasshopper, gnat, and fly, serve for our minstrelsie; grace said, we dance a while, and so the time beguile: and if the moon doth hide her head, the gloe-worm lights us home to bed. on tops of dewie grasse so nimbly do we passe; the young and tender stalk ne'er bends when we do walk: yet in the morning may be seen where we the night before have been. the praise of a countryman's life john chalkhill oh, the sweet contentment the countryman doth find, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; that quiet contemplation possesseth all my mind: then care away, and wend along with me. for courts are full of flattery, as hath too oft been tried, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; the city full of wantonness, and both are full of pride; then care away, and wend along with me. but, oh! the honest countryman speaks truly from his heart, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; his pride is in his tillage, his horses and his cart: then care away, and wend along with me. our clothing is good sheep-skins, grey russet for our wives, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; 'tis warmth and not gay clothing that doth prolong our lives: then care away, and wend along with me. the ploughman, though he labour hard, yet on the holy day, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; no emperor so merrily does pass his time away: then care away, and wend along with me. to recompense our tillage the heavens afford us showers, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee and for our sweet refreshments the earth affords us bowers; then care away, and wend along with me. the cuckoo and the nightingale full merrily do sing, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; and with their pleasant roundelays bid welcome to the spring: then care away, and wend along with me. this is not half the happiness the countryman enjoys, high trolollie, lollie, lol; high trolollie, lee; though others think they have as much, yet he that says so lies: then care away, and wend along with me. here's a health anonymous here's a health unto his majesty, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ confusion to his enemies, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ and he that will not drink his health, i wish him neither wit nor wealth, nor yet a rope to hang himself, _with a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ black-eyed susan john gay all in the downs the fleet was moor'd, the streamers waving in the wind, when black-eyed susan came on board, 'oh, where shall i my true-love find? tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, does my sweet william sail among your crew?' william, who high upon the yard rock'd by the billows to and fro, soon as the well-known voice he heard, he sigh'd and cast his eyes below; the cord flies swiftly through his glowing hands, and quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 'o susan, susan, lovely dear, my vows shall always true remain, let me kiss off that falling tear,-- we only part to meet again; change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be the faithful compass that still points to thee. 'believe not what the landsmen say, who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; they tell thee sailors, when away, in every port a mistress find; yes, yes, believe them when they tell you so, for thou art present wheresoe'er i go.' the boatswain gave the dreadful word, the sails their swelling bosom spread; no longer she must stay on board,-- they kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head: her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 'adieu!' she cried, and wav'd her lily hand. annie laurie anonymous maxwellton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew, and 'twas there that annie laurie gied me her promise true; gied me her promise true, which ne'er forgot shall be, and for bonnie annie laurie, i'd lay me doon and dee. her brow is like the snaw-flake, her neck is like the swan, her face it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on; that e'er the sun shone on, and dark blue is her e'e; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. like dew on the gowan lying, is the fa' of her fairy feet; and like winds in summer sighing, her voice is low and sweet; her voice is low and sweet, and she's a' the world to me; and for bonnie annie laurie i'd lay me doon and dee. rule britannia james thomson when britain first at heaven's command arose from out the azure main, this was the charter of her land, and guardian angels sang the strain: rule britannia! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! the nations not so blest as thee must in their turn to tyrants fall, whilst thou shalt flourish great and free-- the dread and envy of them all! still more majestic shalt thou rise, more dreadful from each foreign stroke; as the last blast which tears the skies serves but to root thy native oak. thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; all their attempts to bend thee down will but arouse thy generous flame, and work their woe and thy renown. to thee belongs the rural reign; thy cities shall with commerce shine; all thine shall be the subject main, and every shore it circles thine the muses, still with freedom found, shall to thy happy coast repair; blest isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, and manly hearts to guard the fair:-- rule britannia! britannia rules the waves! britons never shall be slaves! waly, waly, but love be bonny anonymous o waly, waly up the bank, and waly, waly down the brae, and waly, waly yon burn-side, where i and my love wont to gae. i lean'd my back unto an aik, and thought it was a trusty tree, but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lightly me. o waly, waly, but love is bonny, a little time while it is new, but when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades away like morning dew. oh! wherefore should i busk my head? or wherefore should i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never love me mair. now arthur seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, saint anton's well shall be my drink, since my true love's forsaken me. martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves off the tree? oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come? for of my life i am weary. 'tis not the frost that freezes fell, nor blowing snow's inclemency; 'tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, but my love's heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgow town, we were a comely sight to see; my love was clad in the black velvet, and i mysel' in cramasie. but had i wist before i kiss'd that love had been so ill to win, i'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, and pinn'd it with a silver pin. and oh! if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurse's knee, and i mysel' were dead and gane, wi' the green grass growin' over me! sally in our alley henry carey of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. there's ne'er a lady in the land is half so sweet as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. her father he makes cabbage nets, and through the streets doth cry them; her mother she sells laces long to such as please to buy them: but sure such folk can have no part in such a girl as sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when she is by, i leave my work, i love her so sincerely; my master comes, like any turk, and bangs me most severely: but let him bang, long as he will, i'll bear it all for sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. of all the days are in the week, i dearly love but one day, and that's the day that comes betwixt a saturday and monday; for then i'm dress'd, in all my best, to walk abroad with sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master carries me to church, and often i am blamèd, because i leave him in the lurch, soon as the text is namèd: i leave the church in sermon time, and slink away to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. when christmas comes about again, o then i shall have money; i'll hoard it up and, box and all, i'll give unto my honey: i would it were ten thousand pounds, i'd give it all to sally; she is the darling of my heart, and lives in our alley. my master and the neighbours all, make game of me and sally, and but for she i'd better be a slave, and row a galley: but when my seven long years are out, o then i'll marry sally, and then how happily we'll live-- but not in our alley. the braes of yarrow william hamilton busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? where gat ye that winsome marrow? i gat her where i daurna weel be seen, pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow; nor let thy heart lament to leive pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? and why daur ye nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow? lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, and lang maun i nae mair weel be seen pu'ing the birks on the braes of yarrow. for she has tint her luver, luver dear, her luver dear, the cause of sorrow; and i hae slain the comliest swain that eir pu'd birks on the braes of yarrow. why rins thy stream, o yarrow, yarrow, reid? why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? and why yon melancholious weids hung on the bonny birks of yarrow? what's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? what's yonder floats? o dule and sorrow! o 'tis he the comely swain i slew upon the duleful braes of yarrow. wash, o wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, his wounds in tears with dule and sorrow; and wrap his limbs in mourning weids, and lay him on the braes of yarrow. then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; and weep around in waeful wise his hapless fate on the braes of yarrow! curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, my arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, the fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, his comely breast, on the braes of yarrow. did i not warn thee, not to, not to luve? and warn from fight? but to my sorrow too rashly bauld a stronger arm thou mett'st, and fell on the braes of yarrow. sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, yellow on yarrow's bank the gowan; fair hangs the apple frae the rock, sweet the wave of yarrow flowin'! flows yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows tweed, as green its grass, its gowan as yellow, as sweet smells on its braes the birk, the apple frae its rocks as mellow. fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, in flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; tho' he was fair, and weel beluv'd again than me he never luv'd thee better. busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, busk ye, and luve me on the banks of tweed, and think nae mair on the braes of yarrow. how can i busk a bonny bonny bride? how can i busk a winsome marrow? how luve him on the banks of tweed, that slew my luve on the braes of yarrow? o yarrow fields, may never never rain, nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, for there was basely slain my luve, my luve, as he had not been a lover. the boy put on his robes, his robes of green, his purple vest--'twas my awn sewing: ah! wretched me! i little, little kenn'd he was in these to meet his ruin. the boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, unheedful of my dule and sorrow: but ere the toofall of the night he lay a corpse on the braes of yarrow. much i rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; i sang, my voice the woods returning: but lang ere night the spear was flown, that slew my luve, and left me mourning. what can my barbarous barbarous father do, but with his cruel rage pursue me? my luver's blood is on thy spear-- how canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? my happy sisters may be, may be proud with cruel and ungentle scoffin', may bid me seek on yarrow braes my luver nailed in his coffin. my brother douglas may upbraid, upbraid, and strive with threatning words to muve me: my luver's blood is on thy spear-- how canst thou ever bid me luve thee? yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, with bridal sheets my body cover, unbar, ye bridal maids, the door! let in the expected husband-luver. but who the expected husband husband is? his hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter. ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after? pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, o lay his cold head on my pillow! take aff, take aff these bridal weids, and crown my careful head with willow. pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, o could my warmth to life restore thee! ye'd lye all night between my breists-- no youth lay ever there before thee! pale, pale indeed, o luvely luvely youth, forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, and lye all night between my breists, no youth shall ever lye there after. _a._ return, return, o mournful, mournful bride! return and dry thy useless sorrow! thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, he lyes a corpse on the braes of yarrow. the shepherd's home william shenstone my banks they are furnished with bees, whose murmur invites one to sleep; my grottoes are shaded with trees, and my hills are white over with sheep. i seldom have met with a loss, such health do my fountains bestow; my fountains all bordered with moss, where the harebells and violets blow. not a pine in the grove is there seen, but with tendrils of woodbine is bound; not a beech's more beautiful green, but a sweet-briar entwines it around. not my fields in the prime of the year, more charms than my cattle unfold; not a brook that is limpid and clear, but it glitters with fishes of gold. i have found out a gift for my fair, i have found where the wood-pigeons breed; but let me such plunder forbear, she will say 'twas a barbarous deed; for he ne'er could be true, she averred, who would rob a poor bird of its young; and i loved her the more when i heard such tenderness fall from her tongue. the diverting history of john gilpin william cowper john gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown, a train-band captain eke was he of famous london town. john gilpin's spouse said to her dear: 'though wedded we have been these twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen. 'to-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair unto the bell at edmonton all in a chaise and pair. 'my sister, and my sister's child, myself and children three, will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we.' he soon replied: 'i do admire of womankind but one, and you are she, my dearest dear; therefore, it shall be done. 'i am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know, and my good friend the calender will lend his horse to go.' quoth mrs. gilpin: 'that's well said; and for that wine is dear, we will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear.' john gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find that, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind. the morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed to drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud. so three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in; six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin. smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folk so glad; the stones did rattle underneath, as if cheapside were mad. john gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, and up he got, in haste to ride, but soon came down again; for saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, when, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in. so down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more. 'twas long before the customers were suited to their mind, when betty screaming came down stairs: 'the wine is left behind!' 'good lack!' quoth he--'yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, in which i bear my trusty sword when i do exercise.' now mrs. gilpin--careful soul!-- had two stone-bottles found, to hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound. each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, and hung a bottle on each side, to make his balance true. then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, his long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw. now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, full slowly pacing o'er the stones with caution and good heed. but finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, the snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat. so, 'fair and softly,' john he cried, but john he cried in vain; that trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein. so stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, he grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might. his horse, which never in that sort had handled been before, what thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more. away went gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; he little dreamt when he set out of running such a rig. the wind did blow, the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay, till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away. then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung; a bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung. the dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; and every soul cried out: 'well done!' as loud as he could bawl. away went gilpin--who but he? his fame soon spread around; he carries weight! he rides a race! 'tis for a thousand pound! and still, as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view how in a trice the turnpike-men their gates wide open threw. and now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, the bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow. down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been. but still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; for all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist. thus all through merry islington these gambols he did play, until he came unto the wash of edmonton so gay; and there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play. at edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride. 'stop, stop, john gilpin!--here's the house'-- they all aloud did cry; 'the dinner waits, and we are tired!' said gilpin: 'so am i!' but yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; for why? his owner had a house full ten miles off, at ware. so like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong; so did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song. away went gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still. the calender, amazed to see his neighbour in such trim, laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him: 'what news? what news? your tidings tell-- tell me you must and shall-- say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?' now gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; and thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke: 'i came because your horse would come; and, if i well forebode, my hat and wig will soon be here-- they are upon the road.' the calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, returned him not a single word, but to the house went in; whence straight he came with hat and wig; a wig that flowed behind, a hat not much the worse for wear, each comely in its kind. he held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit: 'my head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit. 'but let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face: and stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case.' said john: 'it is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare if wife should dine at edmonton, and i should dine at ware.' so turning to his horse, he said: 'i am in haste to dine; 'twas for your pleasure you came here, you shall go back for mine.' ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! for which he paid full dear; for, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear; whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, and galloped off with all his might, as he had done before. away went gilpin, and away went gilpin's hat and wig; he lost them sooner than at first; for why?--they were too big. now mrs. gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down into the country far away, she pulled out half-a-crown; and thus unto the youth she said that drove them to the bell: 'this shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well.' the youth did ride, and soon did meet john coming back amain; whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein; but not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, the frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run. away went gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels, the post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels. six gentlemen upon the road thus seeing gilpin fly, with post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry: 'stop thief! stop thief!'--a highwayman, not one of them was mute; and all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit. and now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space; the tollmen thinking as before that gilpin rode a race. and so he did, and won it too, for he got first to town; nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down. now let us sing, long live the king, and gilpin, long live he; and, when he next doth ride abroad, may i be there to see! the 'royal george' toll for the brave! the brave that are no more! all sunk beneath the wave fast by their native shore! eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried, had made the vessel heel and laid her on her side. a land-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset; down went the _royal george_ with all her crew complete. toll for the brave! brave kempenfelt is gone; his last sea-fight is fought, his work of glory done. it was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock, she sprang no fatal leak, she ran upon no rock. his sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen, when kempenfelt went down with twice four hundred men. weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes! and mingle with our cup the tear that england owes. her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again full charged with england's thunder, and plough the distant main: but kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er; and he and his eight hundred shall plough the wave no more. boadicea when the british warrior queen, bleeding from the roman rods, sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods, sage beneath the spreading oak sat the druid, hoary chief; every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief. 'princess, if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. 'rome shall perish--write that word in the blood that she has spilt; perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, deep in ruin as in guilt. 'rome, for empire far renown'd, tramples on a thousand states; soon her pride shall kiss the ground-- hark! the gaul is at her gates! 'other romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name; sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame. 'then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command. 'regions cæsar never knew thy posterity shall sway; where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they.' such the bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire, bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. she, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; rush'd to battle, fought, and died; dying hurl'd them at the foe. 'ruffians, pitiless as proud, heaven awards the vengeance due; empire is on us bestow'd, shame and ruin wait for you.' hearts of oak david garrick come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, to add something more to this wonderful year, to honour we call you, not press you like slaves, for who are so free as the sons of the waves? hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. we ne'er see our foes but we wish them to stay, they never see us but they wish us away; if they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, for if they won't fight us, we cannot do more. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. still britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, her standard be justice, her watchword 'be free'; then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, we always are ready, steady, boys, steady, we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again. an elegy on the death of a mad dog oliver goldsmith good people all, of every sort, give ear unto my song; and if you find it wondrous short, it cannot hold you long. in islington there was a man, of whom the world might say, that still a godly race he ran whene'er he went to pray. a kind and gentle heart he had, to comfort friends and foes; the naked every day he clad, when he put on his clothes. and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree. this dog and man at first were friends; but when a pique began, the dog, to gain his private ends, went mad, and bit the man. around from all the neighbouring streets the wondering neighbours ran, and swore the dog had lost his wits, to bite so good a man. the wound it seem'd both sore and sad to every christian eye: and while they swore the dog was mad, they swore the man would die. but soon a wonder came to light, that show'd the rogues they lied, the man recover'd of the bite, the dog it was that died. edwin and angelina 'turn, gentle hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way, to where yon taper cheers the vale with hospitable ray. 'for here forlorn and lost i tread, with fainting steps and slow; where wilds immeasurably spread, seem lengthening as i go.' 'forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'to tempt the dangerous gloom; for yonder phantom only flies to lure thee to thy doom. 'here, to the houseless child of want, my door is open still: and though my portion is but scant, i give it with goodwill. 'then turn to-night, and freely share whate'er my cell bestows; my rushy couch and frugal fare, my blessing and repose. 'no flocks that range the valley free, to slaughter i condemn; taught by that power that pities me, i learn to pity them. 'but from the mountain's grassy side, a guiltless feast i bring; a script, with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the spring. 'then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; all earth-born cares are wrong: man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long.' soft as the dew from heaven descends, his gentle accents fell; the modest stranger lowly bends, and follows to the cell. far in a wilderness obscure, the lonely mansion lay; a refuge to the neighbouring poor, and strangers led astray. no stores beneath its humble thatch required a master's care; the wicket, opening with a latch, received the harmless pair. and now, when busy crowds retire, to take their evening rest, the hermit trimmed his little fire, and cheered his pensive guest; and spread his vegetable store, and gaily pressed and smiled; and, skilled in legendary lore, the lingering hours beguiled. around, in sympathetic mirth, its tricks the kitten tries; the cricket chirrups in the hearth, the crackling fagot flies. but nothing could a charm impart, to soothe the stranger's woe; for grief was heavy at his heart, and tears began to flow. his rising cares the hermit spied, with answering care opprest: 'and whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 'the sorrows of thy breast? 'from better habitations spurned, reluctant dost thou rove? or grieve for friendship unreturned, or unregarded love? 'alas! the joys that fortune brings are trifling, and decay; and those who prize the paltry things more trifling still than they. 'and what is friendship but a name: a charm that lulls to sleep! a shade that follows wealth or fame, and leaves the wretch to weep! 'and love is still an emptier sound, the modern fair-one's jest; on earth unseen, or only found to warm the turtle's nest. 'for shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, and spurn the sex,' he said: but while he spoke, a rising blush his love-lorn guest betrayed. surprised he sees new beauties rise, swift mantling to the view, like colours o'er the morning skies, as bright, as transient too. the bashful look, the rising breast, alternate spread alarms; the lovely stranger stands confest a maid in all her charms. 'and ah! forgive a stranger rude, a wretch forlorn,' she cried, 'whose feet unhallowed thus intrude where heaven and you reside. 'but let a maid thy pity share, whom love has taught to stray: who seeks for rest, but finds despair companion of her way. 'my father lived beside the tyne, a wealthy lord was he; and all his wealth was marked as mine; he had but only me. 'to win me from his tender arms, unnumbered suitors came; who praised me for imputed charms, and felt, or feigned, a flame. 'each hour a mercenary crowd with richest proffers strove; amongst the rest young edwin bowed, but never talked of love. 'in humblest, simplest habit clad, no wealth nor power had he; wisdom and worth were all he had; but these were all to me. 'the blossom opening to the day, the dews of heaven refined, could nought of purity display, to emulate his mind. 'the dew, the blossoms of the tree, with charms inconstant shine; their charms were his; but, woe to me, their constancy was mine. 'for still i tried each fickle art, importunate and vain; and while his passion touched my heart, i triumphed in his pain. 'till quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride; and sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he died! 'but mine the sorrow, mine the fault, and well my life shall pay: i'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay. 'and there, forlorn, despairing, hid, i'll lay me down and die: 'twas so for me that edwin did, and so for him will i.' 'forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cried, and clasped her to his breast: the wondering fair one turned to chide: 'twas edwin's self that prest! 'turn, angelina, ever dear, my charmer, turn to see thy own, thy long-lost edwin here, restored to love and thee. 'thus let me hold thee to my heart, and every care resign; and shall we never, never part, my life--my all that's mine? 'no, never from this hour to part, we'll live and love so true; the sigh that rends thy constant heart, shall break thy edwin's too.' auld robin gray lady anne barnard when the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, and a' the weary warld to rest are gane, the waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. young jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, but saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; to make the crown a pound my jamie gaed to sea, and the crown and the pound--they were baith for me. he hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, when my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; my mither she fell sick--my jamie was at sea, and auld robin gray came a courting me. my father couldna work--my mither couldna spin-- i toiled day and night, but their bread i couldna win; auld rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, said: 'jeanie, o for their sakes, will ye no marry me?' my heart it said na, and i looked for jamie back, but hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack, his ship was a wrack--why didna jamie die, or why am i spared to cry wae is me? my father urged me sair--my mither didna speak, but she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; they gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea-- and so robin gray he was gudeman to me. i hadna been his wife a week but only four, when, mournfu' as i sat on the stane at my door, i saw my jamie's ghaist, for i couldna think it he till he said: 'i'm come hame, love, to marry thee!' oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', i gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'-- i wish that i were dead, but i'm na like to die, for, though my heart is broken, i'm but young, wae is me! i gang like a ghaist, and i carena much to spin, i darena think o' jamie, for that wad be a sin, but i'll do my best a gude wife to be, for, oh! robin gray, he is kind to me. woo'd, and married, and a'. alexander ross the bride cam' out o' the byre, and, oh, as she dighted her cheeks: 'sirs, i'm to be married the night, and have neither blankets nor sheets; have neither blankets nor sheets, nor scarce a coverlet too; the bride that has a' thing to borrow, has e'en right muckle ado.' woo'd, and married, and a', married, and woo'd, and a'! and was she nae very weel off, that was woo'd, and married, and a'? out spake the bride's father, as he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, and ye'se get gear eneugh; the stirk stands i' the tether, and our braw bawsint yaud, will carry ye hame your corn-- what wad ye be at, ye jaud?' out spake the bride's mither: 'what deil needs a' this pride? i hadna a plack in my pouch that night i was a bride; my gown was linsey-woolsey, and ne'er a sark ava; and ye hae ribbons and buskins, mae than ane or twa.' out spake the bride's brither, as he cam' in wi' the kye: 'poor willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, had he kent ye as weel as i; for ye're baith proud and saucy, and no for a poor man's wife; gin i canna get a better, i'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' the british grenadiers anonymous some talk of alexander, and some of hercules, of hector and lysander, and such great names as these, but of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, with a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the british grenadier! those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; but our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers! whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, we throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the british grenadiers! and when the siege is over, we to the town repair, the townsmen cry, 'hurrah, boys, here comes a grenadier! here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!' then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the british grenadiers! then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, may they and their commanders live happy all their years, with a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the british grenadiers! here's to the maiden anonymous here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; now to the widow of fifty; here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, and here's to the housewife that's thrifty. let the toast pass, drink to the lass, i'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, now to the damsel with none, sir, here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, and now to the nymph with but one, sir. here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, now to her that's as brown as a berry, here's to the wife with a face full of woe, and now to the damsel that's merry. for let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, young or ancient, i care not a feather, so fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, and let us e'en toast 'em together, let the toast pass, drink to the lass, i'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. bristow tragedy thomas chatterton the feathered songster chanticleer had wound his bugle-horn, and told the early villager the coming of the morn: king edward saw the ruddy streaks of light eclipse the gray, and heard the raven's croaking throat, proclaim the fated day. 'thou 'rt right,' quoth he, 'for by the god that sits enthroned on high! charles bawdin, and his fellows twain, to-day shall surely die.' then with a jug of nappy ale his knights did on him wait; 'go tell the traitor, that to-day he leaves this mortal state.' sir canterlone then bended low, with heart brimful of woe; he journeyed to the castle-gate, and to sir charles did go. but when he came, his children twain, and eke his loving wife, with briny tears did wet the floor, for good sir charles's life. 'o good sir charles,' said canterlone, 'bad tidings i do bring.' 'speak boldly, man,' said brave sir charles, 'what says the traitor-king?' 'i grieve to tell: before yon sun does from the welkin fly, he hath upon his honour sworn, that thou shalt surely die.' 'we all must die,' said brave sir charles; 'of that i'm not afraid; what boots to live a little space? thank jesus, i'm prepared. 'but tell thy king, for mine he's not, i'd sooner die to-day, than live his slave, as many are, though i should live for aye.' then canterlone he did go out, to tell the mayor straight to get all things in readiness for good sir charles's fate. then mr. canynge sought the king, and fell down on his knee; 'i'm come,' quoth he, 'unto your grace, to move your clemency.' 'then,' quoth the king, 'your tale speak out, you have been much our friend: whatever your request may be, we will to it attend.' 'my noble liege, all my request is for a noble knight, who, though mayhap he has done wrong, he thought it still was right. 'he has a spouse and children twain; all ruined are for aye, if that you are resolved to let charles bawdin die to-day.' 'speak not of such a traitor vile,' the king in fury said; 'before the evening-star doth shine, bawdin shall lose his head: 'justice does loudly for him call, and he shall have his meed: speak, mr. canynge, what thing else at present do you need?' 'my noble liege,' good canynge said, 'leave justice to our god, and lay the iron rule aside; be thine the olive rod. 'was god to search our hearts and reins, the best were sinners great; christ's vicar only knows no sin, in all this mortal state. 'let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'twill fix thy crown full sure; from race to race thy family all sovereigns shall endure. 'but if with blood and slaughter thou begin thy infant reign, thy crown upon thy children's brows will never long remain.' 'canynge, away! this traitor vile has scorned my power and me; how canst thou, then, for such a man entreat my clemency?' 'my noble liege, the truly brave will valorous actions prize: respect a brave and noble mind, although in enemies.' 'canynge, away! by god in heaven that did me being give, i will not taste a bit of bread whilst this sir charles doth live! 'by mary, and all saints in heaven, this sun shall be his last!' then canynge dropped a briny tear, and from the presence passed. with heart brimful of gnawing grief, he to sir charles did go, and sat him down upon a stool, and tears began to flow. 'we all must die,' said brave sir charles; 'what boots it how or when? death is the sure, the certain fate, of all we mortal men. 'say why, my friend, thy honest soul runs over at thine eye; is it for my most welcome doom that thou dost child-like cry?' saith godly canynge: 'i do weep, that thou so soon must die, and leave thy sons and helpless wife; 'tis this that wets mine eye.' 'then dry the tears that out thine eye from godly fountains spring; death i despise, and all the power of edward, traitor-king. 'when through the tyrant's welcome means i shall resign my life, the god i serve will soon provide for both my sons and wife. 'before i saw the lightsome sun, this was appointed me; shall mortal man repine or grudge what god ordains to be? 'how oft in battle have i stood, when thousands died around; when smoking streams of crimson blood imbrued the fattened ground? 'how did i know that every dart that cut the airy way, might not find passage to my heart, and close mine eyes for aye? 'and shall i now, for fear of death, look wan and be dismayed? no! from my heart fly childish fear; be all the man displayed. 'ah, godlike henry, god forefend, and guard thee and thy son, if 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, why, then his will be done. 'my honest friend, my fault has been to serve god and my prince; and that i no time-server am, my death will soon convince. 'in london city was i born, of parents of great note; my father did a noble arms emblazon on his coat: 'i make no doubt but he is gone where soon i hope to go, where we for ever shall be blest, from out the reach of woe. 'he taught me justice and the laws with pity to unite; and eke he taught me how to know the wrong cause from the right: 'he taught me with a prudent hand to feed the hungry poor, nor let my servants drive away the hungry from my door: 'and none can say but all my life i have his wordis kept; and summed the actions of the day each night before i slept. 'i have a spouse, go ask of her if i defiled her bed? i have a king, and none can lay black treason on my head. 'in lent, and on the holy eve, from flesh i did refrain; why should i then appear dismayed to leave this world of pain? 'no, hapless henry, i rejoice i shall not see thy death; most willingly in thy just cause do i resign my breath. 'oh, fickle people! ruined land! thou wilt ken peace no moe; while richard's sons exalt themselves, thy brooks with blood will flow. 'say, were ye tired of godly peace, and godly henry's reign, that you did chop your easy days for those of blood and pain? 'what though i on a sledge be drawn, and mangled by a hind, i do defy the traitor's power; he cannot harm my mind: 'what though, uphoisted on a pole, my limbs shall rot in air, and no rich monument of brass charles bawdin's name shall bear; 'yet in the holy book above, which time can't eat away, there with the servants of the lord my name shall live for aye. 'then welcome death, for life eterne i leave this mortal life: farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, my sons and loving wife! 'now death as welcome to me comes as e'er the month of may; now would i even wish to live, with my dear wife to stay.' saith canynge: ''tis a goodly thing to be prepared to die; and from this world of pain and grief to god in heaven to fly.' and now the bell began to toll, and clarions to sound; sir charles he heard the horses' feet a-prancing on the ground. and just before the officers, his loving wife came in, weeping unfeignèd tears of woe with loud and dismal din. 'sweet florence, now i pray forbear, in quiet let me die; pray god that every christian soul may look on death as i. 'sweet florence, why these briny tears? they wash my soul away, and almost make me wish for life, with thee, sweet dame, to stay. ''tis but a journey i shall go unto the land of bliss; now, as a proof of husband's love receive this holy kiss.' then florence, faltering in her say, trembling these wordis spoke: 'ah, cruel edward! bloody king! my heart is well-nigh broke. 'ah, sweet sir charles, why wilt thou go without thy loving wife? the cruel axe that cuts thy neck, it eke shall end my life.' and now the officers came in to bring sir charles away, who turnèd to his loving wife, and thus to her did say: 'i go to life, and not to death; trust thou in god above, and teach thy sons to fear the lord, and in their hearts him love. 'teach them to run the noble race that i their father run. florence, should death thee take--adieu! ye officers, lead on.' then florence raved as any mad, and did her tresses tear; 'o stay, my husband, lord, and life!'-- sir charles then dropped a tear. till tirèd out with raving loud, she fell upon the floor; sir charles exerted all his might, and marchèd from out the door. upon a sledge he mounted then, with looks full brave and sweet; looks that enshone no more concern than any in the street. before him went the council-men, in scarlet robes and gold, and tassels spangling in the sun, much glorious to behold: the friars of saint augustine next appearèd to the sight, all clad in homely russet weeds, of godly monkish plight: in different parts a godly psalm most sweetly they did chant; behind their back six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then five-and-twenty archers came; each one the bow did bend, from rescue of king henry's friends sir charles for to defend. bold as a lion came sir charles, drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, by two black steeds in trappings white, with plumes upon their head. behind him five-and-twenty more of archers strong and stout, with bended bow each one in hand, marchèd in goodly rout. saint james's friars marched next, each one his part did chant; behind their backs six minstrels came, who tuned the strange bataunt. then came the mayor and aldermen, in cloth of scarlet decked; and their attending men each one, like eastern princes tricked. and after them a multitude of citizens did throng; the windows were all full of heads, as he did pass along. and when he came to the high cross, sir charles did turn and say: 'o thou that savest man from sin, wash my soul clean this day.' at the great minster window sat the king in mickle state, to see charles bawdin go along to his most welcome fate. soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, that edward he might hear, the brave sir charles he did stand up, and thus his words declare: 'thou seest me, edward! traitor vile! exposed to infamy; but be assurèd, disloyal man, i'm greater now than thee. 'by foul proceedings, murder, blood, thou wearest now a crown; and hast appointed me to die by power not thine own. 'thou thinkest i shall die to-day; i have been dead till now, and soon shall live to wear a crown for aye upon my brow; 'whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, shalt rule this fickle land, to let them know how wide the rule 'twixt king and tyrant hand. 'thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! shall fall on thy own head'-- from out of hearing of the king departed then the sledde. king edward's soul rushed to his face, he turned his head away, and to his brother gloucester he thus did speak and say: 'to him that so-much-dreaded death no ghastly terrors bring; behold the man! he spake the truth; he's greater than a king!' 'so let him die!' duke richard said; 'and may each one our foes bend down their necks to bloody axe, and feed the carrion crows.' and now the horses gently drew sir charles up the high hill; the axe did glister in the sun, his precious blood to spill. sir charles did up the scaffold go, as up a gilded car of victory, by valorous chiefs gained in the bloody war. and to the people he did say: 'behold you see me die, for serving loyally my king, my king most rightfully. 'as long as edward rules this land, no quiet you will know; your sons and husbands shall be slain, and brooks with blood shall flow. 'you leave your good and lawful king when in adversity; like me, unto the true cause stick, and for the true cause die.' then he, with priests, upon his knees, a prayer to god did make, beseeching him unto himself his parting soul to take. then, kneeling down, he laid his head most seemly on the block; which from his body fair at once the able headsman stroke: and out the blood began to flow, and round the scaffold twine; and tears, enough to wash't away, did flow from each man's eyne. the bloody axe his body fair into four partis cut; and every part, and eke his head, upon a pole was put. one part did rot on kinwulph-hill, one on the minster-tower, and one from off the castle-gate the crowen did devour. the other on saint paul's good gate, a dreary spectacle; his head was placed on the high cross, in high street most noble. thus was the end of bawdin's fate: god prosper long our king, and grant he may, with bawdin's soul, in heaven god's mercy sing! minstrel's song in ella oh, sing unto my roundelay; oh, drop the briny tear with me; dance no more at holiday, like a running river be; my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. black his hair as the winter night, white his neck as summer snow, ruddy his face as the morning light, cold he lies in the grave below: my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. sweet his tongue as throstle's note, quick in dance as thought was he; deft his tabor, cudgel stout; oh! he lies by the willow-tree. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. hark! the raven flaps his wing, in the briered dell below; hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, to the nightmares as they go. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. see! the white moon shines on high; whiter is my true-love's shroud; whiter than the morning sky, whiter than the evening cloud. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. here, upon my true-love's grave, shall the garish flowers be laid, nor one holy saint to save all the sorrows of a maid. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. with my hands i'll bind the briers, round his holy corse to gre; elfin-fairy, light your fires, here my body still shall be. my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. come with acorn cup and thorn, drain my heart's blood all away; life and all its good i scorn, dance by night, or feast by day, my love is dead, gone to his death-bed, all under the willow-tree. water-witches, crowned with reytes, bear me to your deadly tide. i die--i come--my true-love waits. thus the damsel spake, and died. the piper william blake piping down the valleys wild, piping songs of pleasant glee, on a cloud i saw a child, and he, laughing, said to me, 'pipe a song about a lamb,' so i piped with merry cheer; 'piper, pipe that song again,' so i piped: he wept to hear. 'drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, sing thy songs of happy cheer.' so i sang the same again, while he wept with joy to hear. 'piper, sit thee down and write in a book that all may read.' so he vanish'd from my sight: and i pluck'd a hollow reed, and i made a rural pen, and i stain'd the water clear, and i wrote my happy songs every child may joy to hear. the tiger tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry? in what distant deeps or skies burnt the ardour of thine eyes? on what wings dare he aspire-- what the hand dare seize the fire? and what shoulder, and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart? and when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand form'd thy dread feet? what the hammer, what the chain, in what furnace was thy brain? did god smile his work to see? did he who made the lamb make thee? scots wha hae robert burns scots, wha hae wi' wallace bled, scots, wham bruce has aften led; welcome to your gory bed, or to victorie! now's the day, and now's the hour; see the front of battle lour; see approach proud edward's power-- chains and slaverie! wha will be a traitor knave? wha can fill a coward's grave? wha sae base as be a slave? let him turn and flee! wha for scotland's king and law freedom's sword will strongly draw, freeman stand, or free-man fa'? let him follow me! by oppression's woes and pains! by your sons in servile chains! we will drain our dearest veins, but they shall be free! lay the proud usurpers low! tyrants fall in every foe! liberty's in every blow! let us do, or die! for a' that is there, for honest poverty, that hings his head, and a' that; the coward-slave, we pass him by, we dare be poor for a' that! for a' that, and a' that; our toils obscure, and a' that; the rank is but the guinea's stamp: the man's the gowd for a' that. what tho' on hamely fare we dine, wear hoddin grey, and a' that; gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, a man's a man for a' that. for a' that, and a' that, their tinsel show, and a' that; the honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, is king o' men for a' that. ye see yon birkie, ca'd 'a lord,' wha struts, and stares, and a' that; tho' hundreds worship at his word, he's but a coof for a' that: for a' that, and a' that, his riband, star, an' a' that, the man of independent mind, he looks and laughs at a' that. a prince can mak' a belted knight, a marquis, duke, an' a' that; but an honest man's aboon his might, guid faith he mauna fa' that! for a' that, an' a' that, their dignities, and a' that, the pith o' sense an' pride o' worth, are higher rank than a' that. then let us pray that come it may, as come it will for a' that; that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, may bear the gree, an' a' that. for a' that, and a' that, it's comin' yet, for a' that, that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that. a red, red rose o, my luve's like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in june: o, my luve's like the melodie that's sweetly play'd in tune. as fair art thou, my bonie lass, so deep in luve am i: and i will luve thee still, my dear, till a' the seas gang dry. till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun: i will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run. and fare thee weel, my only luve, and fare thee weel awhile! and i will come again, my luve, tho' it were ten thousand mile! comin' thro' the rye o, jenny's a' weet, poor body, jenny's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. comin' thro' the rye, poor body, comin' thro' the rye, she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye! gin a body meet a body-- comin' thro' the rye; gin a body kiss a body-- need a body cry? gin a body meet a body comin' thro' the glen, gin a body kiss a body-- need the warld ken? jenny's a' weet, poor body; jenny's seldom dry; she draigl't a' her petticoatie, comin' thro' the rye. phillis the fair while larks with little wing fann'd the pure air, tasting the breathing spring, forth i did fare: gay the sun's golden eye peep'd o'er the mountains high; 'such thy morn,' did i cry, 'phillis the fair!' in each bird's careless song glad did i share; while yon wild flowers among, chance led me there: sweet to the opening day, rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 'such thy bloom,' did i say, 'phillis the fair!' down in a shady walk, doves cooing were, i mark'd the cruel hawk caught in a snare; so kind may fortune be, such make his destiny, he who would injure thee, phillis the fair! ae fond kiss ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee. who shall say that fortune grieves him, while the star of hope she leaves him? me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; dark despair around benights me. i'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, naething could resist my nancy; but to see her was to love her; love but her, and love for ever. had we never loved sae kindly, had we never loved sae blindly, never met--or never parted, we had ne'er been broken-hearted. fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! thine be ilka joy and treasure, peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, alas! for ever! deep in heart-wrung tears i'll pledge thee, warring sighs and groans i'll wage thee! my bonny mary go fetch to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a silver tassie; that i may drink, before i go, a service to my bonny lassie; the boat rocks at the pier o' leith, fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; the ship rides by the berwick law, and i maun leave my bonny mary. the trumpets sound, the banners fly, the glittering spears are ranked ready; the shouts o' war are heard afar, the battle closes thick and bloody; but it's not the roar o' sea or shore wad make me langer wish to tarry; nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- it's leaving thee, my bonny mary. afton water flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, i'll sing thee a song in thy praise; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, i charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. how lofty, sweet afton, thy neighbouring hills, far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; there daily i wander as noon rises high, my flocks and my mary's sweet cot in my eye. how pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; there oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, the sweet-scented birk shades my mary and me. thy crystal stream, afton, how lovely it glides, and winds by the cot where my mary resides; how wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, as gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. flow gently, sweet afton, among thy green braes, flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; my mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, flow gently, sweet afton, disturb not her dream. for the sake of somebody my heart is sair, i daurna tell, my heart is sair for somebody; i could wake a winter night, for the sake o' somebody! oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i could range the world around, for the sake o' somebody. ye powers that smile on virtuous love, o, sweetly smile on somebody! frae ilka danger keep him free, and send me safe my somebody. oh-hon! for somebody! oh-hey! for somebody! i wad do--what wad i not? for the sake o' somebody! whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. but warily tent, when ye come to court me, and come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, and come as ye were na comin' to me. at kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie: but steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, and whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; but court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, for fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad; o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad: tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, o whistle, and i'll come to ye, my lad. the de'il's awa' wi' the exciseman the de'il cam fiddling thro' the town, and danc'd awa wi' the exciseman; and ilka wife cry'd 'auld mahoun, we wish you luck o' your prize, man. we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman. 'there's threesome reels, and foursome reels, there's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; but the ae best dance that cam to our lan', was--the de'il's awa wi' the exciseman. we'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, we'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; and monie thanks to the muckle black de'il that danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.' lassie wi' the lint-white locks lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? now nature cleeds the flowery lea, and a' is young and sweet like thee; o wilt thou share its joys wi' me, and say thou'lt be my dearie o? lassie wi' the lint-white locks... and when the welcome simmer-shower has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, we'll to the breathing woodbine bower at sultry noon, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks... when cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, the weary shearer's hameward way, thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, and talk o' love, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks... and when the howling wintry blast disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; enclasped to my faithfu' breast, i'll comfort thee, my dearie o. lassie wi' the lint-white locks, bonie lassie, artless lassie, wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? wilt thou be my dearie o? i love my jean of a' the airts the wind can blaw, i dearly like the west, for there the bonie lassie lives, the lassie i lo'e best: there wild woods grow, and rivers row, and monie a hill between; but day and night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my jean. i see her in the dewy flowers, i see her sweet and fair: i hear her in the tunefu' birds, i hear her charm the air: there's not a bonie flower that springs by fountain, shaw, or green; there's not a bonie bird that sings, but minds me o' my jean. the happy trio o, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, and rob and allan cam to pree; three blither hearts that lee-lang night, ye wad na find in christendie. we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. here are we met, three merry boys, three merry boys, i trow, are we; and monie a night we've merry been, and monie mae we hope to be! it is the moon, i ken her horn, that's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; she shines sae bright to wyle us hame, but by my sooth she'll wait a wee! wha first shall rise to gang awa, a cuckold, coward loun is he! wha first beside his chair shall fa', he is the king amang us three! we are na fou, we're no that fou, but just a drappie in our ee: the cock may craw, the day may daw, and aye we'll taste the barley bree. john anderson my jo john anderson my jo, john, when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonie brow was brent; but now your brow is beld, john, your locks are like the snaw; but blessings on your frosty pow, john anderson my jo. john anderson my jo, john, we clamb the hill thegither; and monie a canty day, john, we've had wi' ane anither: now we maun totter down, john, but hand in hand we'll go, and sleep thegither at the foot, john anderson my jo. my wife's a winsome wee thing she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. i never saw a fairer, i never lo'ed a dearer, and neist my heart i'll wear her, for fear my jewel tine. she is a winsome wee thing, she is a handsome wee thing, she is a bonie wee thing, this sweet wee wife o' mine. the warld's wrack, we share o't, the warstle and the care o't; wi' her i'll blythely bear it, and think my lot divine. duncan gray duncan gray came here to woo, ha, ha, the wooing o't, on blithe yule night when we were fou, ha, ha, the wooing o't. maggie coost her head fu' high, look'd asklent and unco skeigh, gart poor duncan stand abeigh; ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan fleech'd, and duncan pray'd; ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg was deaf as ailsa craig, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan sigh'd baith out and in, grat his een baith bleer't and blin', spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; ha, ha, the wooing o't. time and chance are but a tide, ha, ha, the wooing o't, slighted love is sair to bide, ha, ha, the wooing o't. shall i, like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie die? she may gae to--france for me! ha, ha, the wooing o't. how it comes let doctors tell, ha, ha, the wooing o't, meg grew sick--as he grew well, ha, ha, the wooing o't. something in her bosom wrings, for relief a sigh she brings; and o, her een, they spak sic things! ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan was a lad o' grace, ha, ha, the wooing o't, maggie's was a piteous case, ha, ha, the wooing o't. duncan couldna be her death, swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; now they're crouse and cantie baith! ha, ha, the wooing o't. my ain kind dearie o when o'er the hill the eastern star tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; and owsen frae the furrow'd field return sae dowf and wearie o; down by the burn, where scented birks wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, i'll meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. in mirkest glen, at midnight hour, i'd rove, and ne'er be eerie o, if thro' that glen i gaed to thee, my ain kind dearie o. altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, and i were ne'er sae wearie o, i'd meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the hunter lo'es the morning sun, to rouse the mountain deer, my jo; at noon the fisher seeks the glen, along the burn to steer, my jo; gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, it maks my heart sae cheery o, to meet thee on the lea-rig, my ain kind dearie o. the thorn from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested a sprig her fair breast to adorn, from the white blossom'd sloe my dear chloe requested, a sprig her fair breast to adorn. no! by heav'n! i exclaimed, may i perish, if ever i plant in that bosom a thorn! when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn, when i show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, she blushed like the dawning of morn. yes! i'll consent, she replied, if you promise, that no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. john barleycorn there was three kings into the east, three kings both great and high, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn should die. they took a plough and plough'd him down, put clods upon his head, and they hae sworn a solemn oath, john barleycorn was dead. but the cheerful spring came kindly on, and showers began to fall; john barleycorn got up again, and sore surpris'd them all. the sultry suns of summer came, and he grew thick and strong, his head well-armed wi' pointed spears, that no one should him wrong. the sober autumn enter'd mild, when he grew wan and pale; his bending joints and drooping head show'd he began to fail. his colour sicken'd more and more, he faded into age; and then his enemies began to show their deadly rage. they've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, and cut him by the knee; and tied him fast upon the cart, like a rogue for forgerie. they laid him down upon his back, and cudgell'd him full sore; they hung him up before the storm, and turn'd him o'er and o'er. they fillèd up a darksome pit with water to the brim, they heavèd in john barleycorn, there let him sink or swim. they laid him out upon the floor, to work him further woe, and still as signs of life appear'd, they toss'd him to and fro. they wasted, o'er a scorching flame, the marrow of his bones; but a miller used him worst of all, for he crush'd him between two stones. and they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, and drank it round and round; and still the more and more they drank, their joy did more abound. john barleycorn was a hero bold, of noble enterprise; for if you do but taste his blood, 'twill make your courage rise. 'twill make a man forget his woe; 'twill heighten all his joy; 'twill make the widow's heart to sing, tho' the tear were in her eye. then let us toast john barleycorn, each man a glass in hand; and may his great prosperity ne'er fail in old scotland! the banks of allan water anonymous on the banks of allan water, when the sweet spring time did fall, was the miller's lovely daughter, fairest of them all. for his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he, on the banks of allan water, none so gay as she. on the banks of allan water, when brown autumn spread his store, there i saw the miller's daughter, but she smiled no more. for the summer grief had brought her, and the soldier false was he, on the banks of allan water, none so sad as she. on the banks of allan water, when the winter snow fell fast, still was seen the miller's daughter, chilling blew the blast. but the miller's lovely daughter, both from cold and care was free, on the banks of allan water, there a corse lay she. dear is my little native vale samuel rogers dear is my little native vale, the ring-dove builds and murmurs there; close by my cot she tells her tale to every passing villager; the squirrel leaps from tree to tree, and shells his nuts at liberty. in orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, that breathe a gale of fragrance round, i charm the fairy-footed hours with my loved lute's romantic sound; or crowns of living laurel weave for those that win the race at eve. the shepherd's horn at break of day, the ballet danced in twilight glade, the canzonet and roundelay sung in the silent greenwood shade: these simple joys, that never fail, shall bind me to my native vale. a wish mine be a cot beside the hill; a bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; a willowy brook, that turns a mill, with many a fall, shall linger near. the swallow oft, beneath my thatch, shall twitter near her clay-built nest; oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, and share my meal, a welcome guest. around my ivied porch shall spring each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; and lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, in russet gown and apron blue. the village church beneath the trees, where first our marriage-vows were given, with merry peals shall swell the breeze, and point with taper spire to heaven. the fakenham ghost robert bloomfield the lawns were dry in euston park; (here truth inspires my tale) the lonely footpath, still and dark, led over hill and dale. benighted was an ancient dame, and fearful haste she made to gain the vale of fakenham and hail its willow shade. her footsteps knew no idle stops, but followed faster still, and echoed to the darksome copse that whispered on the hill; where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, bespoke a peopled shade, and many a wing the foliage brushed, and hovering circuits made. the dappled herd of grazing deer, that sought the shades by day, now started from her path with fear, and gave the stranger way. darker it grew; and darker fears came o'er her troubled mind-- when now a short quick step she hears come patting close behind. she turned; it stopped; nought could she see upon the gloomy plain! but as she strove the sprite to flee, she heard the same again. now terror seized her quaking frame, for, where the path was bare, the trotting ghost kept on the same she muttered many a prayer. yet once again, amidst her fright, she tried what sight could do; when through the cheating glooms of night a monster stood in view. regardless of whate'er she felt, it followed down the plain! she owned her sins, and down she knelt and said her prayers again. then on she sped; and hope grew strong, the white park gate in view; which pushing hard, so long it swung that ghost and all passed through. loud fell the gate against the post! her heart-strings like to crack; for much she feared the grisly ghost would leap upon her back. still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, as it had done before; her strength and resolution spent, she fainted at the door. out came her husband, much surprised, out came her daughter dear; good-natured souls! all unadvised of what they had to fear. the candle's gleam pierced through the night, some short space o'er the green; and there the little trotting sprite distinctly might be seen. an ass's foal had lost its dam within the spacious park; and simple as the playful lamb had followed in the dark. no goblin he; no imp of sin; no crimes had ever known; they took the shaggy stranger in, and reared him as their own. his little hoofs would rattle round upon the cottage floor; the matron learned to love the sound that frightened her before. a favourite the ghost became, and 'twas his fate to thrive; and long he lived and spread his fame, and kept the joke alive. for many a laugh went through the vale; and some conviction too: each thought some other goblin tale, perhaps, was just as true. the keel row anonymous as i came thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, thro' sandgate, as i came thro' sandgate i heard a lassie sing, o weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, o weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. o wha's like my johnny, sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? he's foremost among the mony keel lads o' coaly tyne: he'll set and row so tightly, or in the dance--so sprightly-- he'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'tis true,--were he not mine. he wears a blue bonnet, blue bonnet, blue bonnet; he wears a blue bonnet,-- and a dimple in his chin: and weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row; and weel may the keel row, that my laddie's in. the blue bell of scotland anonymous oh where, and oh where, is your highland laddie gone? he's gone to fight the french for king george upon the throne; and it's oh, in my heart, how i wish him safe at home! oh where, and oh where, does your highland laddie dwell? he dwells in merry scotland, at the sign of the blue bell; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my laddie well. in what clothes, in what clothes is your highland laddie clad? his bonnet's of the saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; and it's oh, in my heart, that i love my highland lad. suppose, oh, suppose that your highland lad should die? the bagpipes shall play over him, and i'll lay me down and cry; and it's oh, in my heart, i wish he may not die. the laird o' cockpen lady nairne the laird o' cockpen he's proud an' he's great, his mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state; he wanted a wife his braw house to keep, but favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, at his table-head he thocht she'd look well; m'cleish's ae dochter, o' clavers-ha' lee, a penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. his wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; his waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; he put on a ring, a sword, an' cocked hat, an' wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that? he took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, an' rapped at the yett o' clavers-ha' lee; 'gae tell mistress jean to come speedily ben,-- she's wanted to speak wi' the laird o' cockpen.' mistress jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'an' what brings the laird at sic a like time?' she put aff her apron, an' on her silk goon, her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa' doon. an' when she cam' ben he bowèd fu' low, an' what was his errand he soon let her know; amazed was the laird when the lady said 'na!' an' wi' a laigh curtsie she turnèd awa'! dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, he mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; an' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'she's daft to refuse the laird o' cockpen!' caller herrin' wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; wha'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? when ye were sleepin' on your pillows, dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, darkling as they faced the billows, a' to fill the woven willows? buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're no brought here without brave darin'; buy my caller herrin', hauled thro' wind and rain. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... wha'll buy my caller herrin'? oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; wives and mithers, maist despairin', ca' them lives o' men. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... when the creel o' herrin' passes, ladies, clad in silks and laces, gather in their braw pelisses, cast their heads, and screw their faces. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... caller herrin's no got lightlie, ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', gow has set you a' a-singin'. wha'll buy my caller herrin'?... neebour wives, now tent my tellin', when the bonnie fish ye're sellin', at ae word be in yer dealin'-- truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. wha'll buy my caller herrin'? they're bonnie fish and halesome farin' wha'll buy my caller herrin', new drawn frae the forth? tom bowling charles dibdin here, a sheer hulk, lies poor tom bowling, the darling of our crew; no more he'll hear the tempest howling, for death has broach'd him to. his form was of the manliest beauty, his heart was kind and soft, faithful, below, he did his duty but now he's gone aloft. tom never from his word departed, his virtues were so rare; his friends were many and true-hearted, his poll was kind and fair: and then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, ah, many's the time and oft! but mirth is turned to melancholy, for tom is gone aloft. yet shall poor tom find pleasant weather, when he, who all commands, shall give, to call life's crew together, the word to pipe all hands. thus death, who kings and tars despatches, in vain tom's life has doff'd, for, though his body's under hatches, his soul has gone aloft. blow high, blow low blow high, blow low, let tempests tear the mainmast by the board; my heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, and love, well stored, shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, the roaring winds, the raging sea, in hopes on shore to be once more safe moor'd with thee! aloft while mountains high we go, the whistling winds that scud along, and surges roaring from below, shall my signal be, to think on thee, and this shall be my song: blow high, blow low. and on that night when all the crew the mem'ry of their former lives o'er flowing cans of flip renew, and drink their sweethearts and their wives, i'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; and, as the ship rolls through the sea, the burthen of my song shall be-- blow high, blow low. the jolly young waterman and did you not hear of a jolly young waterman, who at blackfriars bridge us'd for to ply, and he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, winning each heart and delighting each eye. he look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, the maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, and he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, that this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. what sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'twas cleaned out so nice and so painted withall, he always was first oars when the fine city ladies, in a party to ranelagh went, or vauxhall. and oft-times would they be giggling and leering, but 'twas all one to tom their jibing and jeering, for loving or liking he little did care, for this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. and yet but to see how strangely things happen, as he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, he was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, that she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. and would this young damsel e'en banish his sorrow, he'd wed her to-night, before even to-morrow, and how should this waterman ever know care, when he's married and never in want of a fare? the rime of the ancient mariner samuel taylor coleridge part i [sidenote: an ancient mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.] it is an ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. 'by thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stopp'st thou me? the bridegroom's doors are opened wide, and i am next of kin; the guests are met, the feast is set: may'st hear the merry din.' he holds him with his skinny hand, 'there was a ship,' quoth he. 'hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' eftsoons his hand dropt he. [sidenote: the wedding-guest is spellbound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] he holds him with his glittering eye-- the wedding-guest stood still, and listens like a three years' child: the mariner hath his will. the wedding-guest sat on a stone: he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. 'the ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, merrily did we drop below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top. [sidenote: the mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.] the sun came up upon the left, out of the sea came he! and he shone bright, and on the right, went down into the sea. higher and higher every day, till over the mast at noon'-- the wedding-guest here beat his breast, for he heard the loud bassoon. [sidenote: the wedding-guest heareth the bridal music; but the mariner continueth his tale.] the bride hath paced into the hall, red as a rose is she; nodding their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. the wedding-guest he beat his breast, yet he cannot choose but hear; and thus spake on that ancient man, the bright-eyed mariner. [sidenote: the ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.] 'and now the storm-blast came, and he was tyrannous and strong: he struck with his o'ertaking wings, and chased us south along. with sloping masts and dipping prow, as who pursued with yell and blow still treads the shadow of his foe and forward bends his head, the ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, and southward aye we fled. and now there came both mist and snow, and it grew wondrous cold: and ice, mast-high, came floating by, as green as emerald. [sidenote: the land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.] and through the drifts the snowy clifts did send a dismal sheen: nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- the ice was all between. the ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around: it cracked and growled, and roared and howled, like noises in a swound! [sidenote: till a great sea-bird, called the albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality] at length did cross an albatross: thorough the fog it came; as if it had been a christian soul, we hailed it in god's name. it ate the food it ne'er had eat, and round and round it flew. the ice did split with a thunder-fit; the helmsman steered us through! [sidenote: and lo! the albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice.] and a good south wind sprung up behind; the albatross did follow, and every day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! in mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, it perched for vespers nine; whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, glimmered the white moon-shine.' [sidenote: the ancient mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.] 'god save thee, ancient mariner! from the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- why look'st thou so?'--'with my cross-bow i shot the albatross! part ii 'the sun now rose upon the right: out of the sea came he, still hid in mist, and on the left went down into the sea. and the good south wind still blew behind, but no sweet bird did follow, nor any day, for food or play, came to the mariners' hollo! [sidenote: his shipmates cry out against the ancient mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.] and i had done a hellish thing, and it would work 'em woe; for all averred, i had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow. "ah wretch," said they, "the bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow!" [sidenote: but when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.] nor dim nor red, like god's own head, the glorious sun uprist: then all averred, i had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist. "'twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist." [sidenote: the fair breeze continues; the ship enters the pacific ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the line.] the fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the furrow streamed off free: we were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. [sidenote: the ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'twas sad as sad could be; and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea! all in a hot and copper sky, the bloody sun, at noon, right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the moon. day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. [sidenote: and the albatross begins to be avenged.] water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. the very deep did rot: o christ that ever this should be! yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. about, about, in reel and rout the death-fires danced at night; the water, like a witch's oils, burnt green, and blue, and white. [sidenote: a spirit had followed them: one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned jew, josephus, and the platonic constantinopolitan, michael psellus, may be consulted. they are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.] and some in dreams assurèd were of the spirit that plagued us so: nine fathom deep he had followed us from the land of mist and snow. and every tongue, through utter drought, was withered at the root; we could not speak, no more than if we had been choked with soot. [sidenote: the shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.] ah! well a-day! what evil looks had i from old and young! instead of the cross, the albatross about my neck was hung. part iii 'here passed a weary time. each throat was parched, and glazed each eye. a weary time! a weary time! how glazed each weary eye! when looking westward i beheld a something in the sky. [sidenote: the ancient mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.] at first it seemed a little speck, and then it seemed a mist: it moved and moved, and took at last a certain shape, i wist. a speck, a mist, a shape, i wist! and still it neared and neared: as if it dodged a water-sprite, it plunged and tacked and veered. [sidenote: at its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, we could nor laugh nor wail; through utter drought all dumb we stood! i bit my arm, i sucked the blood, and cried, "a sail! a sail!" [sidenote: a flash of joy.] with throats unslaked, with black lips baked, agape they heard me call: gramercy! they for joy did grin, and all at once their breath drew in, as they were drinking all. [sidenote: and horror follows. for can it be a _ship_ that comes onward without wind or tide?] "see! see!" (i cried) "she tacks no more! hither to work us weal; without a breeze, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel!" the western wave was all a-flame, the day was well nigh done! almost upon the western wave rested the broad bright sun; when that strange shape drove suddenly betwixt us and the sun. [sidenote: it seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.] and straight the sun was flecked with bars, (heaven's mother send us grace!) as if through a dungeon grate he peered, with broad and burning face. "alas!" (thought i, and my heart beat loud) how fast she nears and nears! are those her sails that glance in the sun, like restless gossameres? [sidenote: and its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun.] [sidenote: the spectre-woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship.] are those her ribs through which the sun did peer, as through a grate? and is that woman all her crew? is that a death? and are there two? is death that woman's mate? [sidenote: like vessel, like crew!] her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold: her skin was as white as leprosy, the night-mare life-in-death was she, who thicks man's blood with cold. [sidenote: death and life-in-death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient mariner.] the naked hulk alongside came, and the twain were casting dice; "the game is done! i've won, i've won!" quoth she, and whistles thrice. the sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: at one stride comes the dark; with far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, off shot the spectre-bark. [sidenote: at the rising of the moon,] we listened and looked sideways up! fear at my heart, as at a cup, my life-blood seemed to sip! the stars were dim, and thick the night, the steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; from the sails the dew did drip-- till clomb above the eastern bar the hornèd moon, with one bright star within the nether tip. [sidenote: one after another,] one after one, by the star-dogged moon, too quick for groan or sigh, each turned his face with a ghastly pang, and cursed me with his eye. [sidenote: his shipmates drop down dead.] four times fifty living men, (and i heard nor sigh nor groan) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one. [sidenote: but life-in-death begins her work on the ancient mariner.] the souls did from their bodies fly,-- they fled to bliss or woe! and every soul, it passed me by, like the whizz of my cross-bow!' part iv [sidenote: the wedding-guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him;] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner! i fear thy skinny hand! and thou art long, and lank, and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand. [sidenote: but the ancient mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.] i fear thee and thy glittering eye, and thy skinny hand, so brown.'-- 'fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! this body dropt not down. alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide wide sea! and never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. [sidenote: he despiseth the creatures of the calm,] the many men, so beautiful! and they all dead did lie: and a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did i. [sidenote: and envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.] i looked upon the rotting sea, and drew my eyes away; i looked upon the rotting deck, and there the dead men lay. i looked to heaven, and tried to pray; but or ever a prayer had gusht, a wicked whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. i closed my lids, and kept them close, and the balls like pulses beat; for the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, lay like a load on my weary eye, and the dead were at my feet. [sidenote: but the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.] the cold sweat melted from their limbs, nor rot nor reek did they: the look with which they looked on me had never passed away. an orphan's curse would drag to hell a spirit from on high; but oh! more horrible than that is the curse in a dead man's eye! seven days, seven nights, i saw that curse, and yet i could not die. [sidenote: in his loneliness and fixedness, he yearneth towards the journeying moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.] the moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did abide: softly she was going up, and a star or two beside. her beams bemocked the sultry main, like april hoar-frost spread; but where the ship's huge shadow lay, the charmèd water burnt alway a still and awful red. [sidenote: by the light of the moon he beholdeth god's creatures of the great calm.] beyond the shadow of the ship, i watched the water-snakes: they moved in tracks of shining white, and when they reared, the elfish light fell off in hoary flakes. within the shadow of the ship i watched their rich attire: blue, glossy green, and velvet black, they coiled and swam; and every track was a flash of golden fire. [sidenote: their beauty and their happiness.] [sidenote: he blesseth them in his heart.] o happy living things! no tongue their beauty might declare: a spring of love gushed from my heart, and i blessed them unaware! sure my kind saint took pity on me, and i blessed them unaware. [sidenote: the spell begins to break.] the selfsame moment i could pray; and from my neck so free the albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea. part v 'oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, beloved from pole to pole! to mary queen the praise be given! she sent the gentle sleep from heaven, that slid into my soul. [sidenote: by grace of the holy mother, the ancient mariner is refreshed with rain.] the silly buckets on the deck, that had so long remained, i dreamt that they were filled with dew; and when i awoke, it rained. my lips were wet, my throat was cold, my garments all were dank; sure i had drunken in my dreams, and still my body drank. i moved, and could not feel my limbs: i was so light--almost i thought that i had died in sleep and was a blessed ghost. [sidenote: he heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.] and soon i heard a roaring wind: it did not come anear; but with its sound it shook the sails, that were so thin and sere. the upper air burst into life, and a hundred fire-flags sheen; to and fro they were hurried about; and to and fro, and in and out, the wan stars danced between. and the coming wind did roar more loud, and the sails did sigh like sedge; and the rain poured down from one black cloud; the moon was at its edge. the thick black cloud was cleft, and still the moon was at its side: like waters shot from some high crag, the lightning fell with never a jag, a river steep and wide. [sidenote: the bodies of the ship's crew are inspirited, and the ship moves on;] the loud wind never reached the ship, yet now the ship moved on! beneath the lightning and the moon the dead men gave a groan. they groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, nor spake, nor moved their eyes; it had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. the helmsman steered, the ship moved on; yet never a breeze up blew; the mariners all 'gan work the ropes, where they were wont to do: they raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- we were a ghastly crew. the body of my brother's son stood by me, knee to knee: the body and i pulled at one rope, but he said nought to me.' [sidenote: but not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.] 'i fear thee, ancient mariner!' 'be calm, thou wedding-guest! 'twas not those souls that fled in pain, which to their corses came again, but a troop of spirits blest: for when it dawned--they dropped their arms, and clustered round the mast; sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, and from their bodies passed. around, around, flew each sweet sound, then darted to the sun; slowly the sounds came back again, now mixed, now one by one. sometimes a-dropping from the sky i heard the sky-lark sing; sometimes all little birds that are, how they seemed to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning! and now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute. it ceased; yet still the sails made on a pleasant noise till noon, a noise like of a hidden brook in the leafy month of june, that to the sleeping woods all night singeth a quiet tune. till noon we quietly sailèd on, yet never a breeze did breathe: slowly and smoothly went the ship, moved onward from beneath. [sidenote: the lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.] under the keel nine fathom deep, from the land of mist and snow, the spirit slid; and it was he that made the ship to go. the sails at noon left off their tune, and the ship stood still also. the sun, right up above the mast, had fixed her to the ocean; but in a minute she 'gan stir, with a short uneasy motion-- backwards and forwards half her length, with a short uneasy motion. then like a pawing horse let go, she made a sudden bound: it flung the blood into my head, and i fell down in a swound. [sidenote: the polar spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient mariner hath been accorded to the polar spirit, who returneth southward.] how long in that same fit i lay, i have not to declare; but ere my living life returned, i heard, and in my soul discerned two voices in the air. "is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? by him who died on cross, with his cruel bow he laid full low the harmless albatross. the spirit who bideth by himself in the land of mist and snow, he loved the bird that loved the man who shot him with his bow." the other was a softer voice, as soft as honey-dew: quoth he, "the man hath penance done, and penance more will do." part vi _first voice_ "but tell me, tell me! speak again, thy soft response renewing-- what makes that ship drive on so fast? what is the ocean doing?" _second voice_ "still as a slave before his lord, the ocean hath no blast; his great bright eye most silently up to the moon is cast-- if he may know which way to go; for she guides him smooth or grim. see, brother, see! how graciously she looketh down on him." [sidenote: the mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure.] _first voice_ "but why drives on that ship so fast, without or wave or wind?" _second voice_ "the air is cut away before, and closes from behind. fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! or we shall be belated: for slow and slow that ship will go, when the mariner's trance is abated." [sidenote: the supernatural motion is retarded; the mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.] i woke, and we were sailing on as in a gentle weather: 'twas night, calm night, the moon was high; the dead men stood together. all stood together on the deck, for a charnel-dungeon fitter: all fixed on me their stony eyes, that in the moon did glitter. the pang, the curse, with which they died, had never passed away: i could not draw my eyes from theirs, nor turn them up to pray. [sidenote: the curse is finally expiated,] and now this spell was snapt: once more i viewed the ocean green, and looked far forth, yet little saw of what had else been seen-- like one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread. but soon there breathed a wind on me nor sound nor motion made: its path was not upon the sea, in ripple or in shade. it raised my hair, it fanned my cheek like a meadow-gale of spring-- it mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming. swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, yet she sailed softly too: sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- on me alone it blew. [sidenote: and the ancient mariner beholdeth his native country.] oh dream of joy! is this indeed the lighthouse top i see? is this the hill? is this the kirk? is this mine own countree? we drifted o'er the harbour-bar, and i with sobs did pray-- "o let me be awake, my god! or let me sleep alway." the harbour-bay was clear as glass, so smoothly it was strewn! and on the bay the moonlight lay, and the shadow of the moon. the rock shone bright, the kirk no less, that stands above the rock: the moonlight steeped in silentness the steady weathercock. [sidenote: the angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,] and the bay was white with silent light, till rising from the same, full many shapes, that shadows were, in crimson colours came. [sidenote: and appear in their own forms of light.] a little distance from the prow those crimson shadows were: i turned my eyes upon the deck-- oh, christ! what saw i there! each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, and, by the holy rood! a man all light, a seraph-man, on every corse there stood. this seraph-band, each waved his hand: it was a heavenly sight! they stood as signals to the land, each one a lovely light: this seraph-band, each waved his hand, no voice did they impart-- no voice; but oh! the silence sank like music on my heart. but soon i heard the dash of oars, i heard the pilot's cheer; my head was turned perforce away, and i saw a boat appear. the pilot, and the pilot's boy, i heard them coming fast: dear lord in heaven! it was a joy the dead men could not blast. i saw a third--i heard his voice: it is the hermit good! he singeth loud his godly hymns that he makes in the wood. he'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away the albatross's blood. part vii [sidenote: the hermit of the wood] 'this hermit good lives in that wood which slopes down to the sea. how loudly his sweet voice he rears! he loves to talk of marineres that come from a far countree. he kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- he hath a cushion plump: it is the moss that wholly hides the rotted old oak stump. the skiff-boat neared: i heard them talk, "why, this is strange, i trow! where are those lights so many and fair, that signal made but now?" [sidenote: approacheth the ship with wonder.] "strange, by my faith!" the hermit said-- "and they answered not our cheer! the planks look warped! and see those sails, how thin they are and sere! i never saw aught like to them, unless perchance it were brown skeletons of leaves that lag my forest-brook along: when the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, and the owlet whoops to the wolf below, that eats the she-wolf's young." "dear lord! it hath a fiendish look"-- (the pilot made reply) "i am a-feared"--"push on, push on!" said the hermit cheerily. the boat came closer to the ship, but i nor spake nor stirred; the boat came close beneath the ship, and straight a sound was heard. [sidenote: the ship suddenly sinketh.] under the water it rumbled on, still louder and more dread: it reached the ship, it split the bay; the ship went down like lead. [sidenote: the ancient mariner is saved in the pilot's boat.] stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, which sky and ocean smote, like one that hath been seven days drowned, my body lay afloat; but swift as dreams, myself i found within the pilot's boat. upon the whirl, where sank the ship, the boat spun round and round; and all was still, save that the hill was telling of the sound. i moved my lips--the pilot shrieked and fell down in a fit; the holy hermit raised his eyes, and prayed where he did sit. i took the oars: the pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go, laughed loud and long, and all the while his eyes went to and fro. "ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain i see, the devil knows how to row." and now, all in my own countree, i stood on the firm land! the hermit stepped forth from the boat, and scarcely he could stand. [sidenote: the ancient mariner earnestly entreateth the hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.] "o shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" the hermit crossed his brow. "say quick," quoth he, "i bid thee say-- what manner of man art thou?" forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched with a woful agony, which forced me to begin my tale; and then it left me free. [sidenote: and ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,] since then, at an uncertain hour, that agony returns; and till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. i pass, like night, from land to land; i have strange power of speech; that moment that his face i see, i know the man that must hear me: to him my tale i teach. what loud uproar bursts from that door! the wedding-guests are there; but in the garden-bower the bride and bride-maids singing are; and hark the little vesper bell, which biddeth me to prayer! o wedding-guest! this soul hath been alone on a wide wide sea: so lonely 'twas, that god himself scarce seemed there to be. o sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'tis sweeter far to me, to walk together to the kirk with a goodly company!-- to walk together to the kirk, and all together pray, while each to his great father bends, old men, and babes, and loving friends, and youths and maidens gay! [sidenote: and to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that god made and loveth.] farewell, farewell! but this i tell to thee, thou wedding-guest! he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast. he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small; for the dear god who loveth us, he made and loveth all.' the mariner, whose eye is bright, whose beard with age is hoar, is gone; and now the wedding-guest turned from the bridegroom's door. he went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn: a sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. the vicar of bray anonymous in good king charles's golden days, when loyalty no harm meant, a zealous high churchman was i, and so i got preferment; to teach my flock i never miss'd, kings were by god appointed; and damn'd are those who do resist, or touch the lord's anointed. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. when royal james obtained the crown, and pop'ry came in fashion, the penal laws i hooted down, and read the declaration; the church of rome i found would fit full well my constitution; and had become a jesuit, but for the revolution. when william was our king declared, to ease the nation's grievance, with this new wind about i steered, and swore to him allegiance; old principles i did revoke, set conscience at a distance; passive obedience was a joke, a jest was non-resistance. when gracious anne became our queen, the church of england's glory, another face of things was seen, and i became a tory; occasional conformists base, i damn'd their moderation, and thought the church in danger was, by such prevarication. when george in pudding-time came o'er, and moderate men looked big, sir, i turned a cat-in-pan once more, and so became a whig, sir; and thus preferment i procured, from our new faith's defender, and almost every day abjured the pope and the pretender. the illustrious house of hanover, and protestant succession, to these i do allegiance swear, while they can keep possession; for in my faith and loyalty i never more will falter, and george my lawful king shall be, until the times do alter. and this is law, that i'll maintain, until my dying day, sir, that whatsoever king shall reign, i'll be the vicar of bray, sir. there's nae luck about the house william julius mickle but are ye sure the news is true? and are ye sure he's weel? is this a time to think o' wark? ye jauds, fling by your wheel. there's nae luck about the house, there's nae luck at a', there's nae luck about the house, when our gudeman's awa'. is this a time to think o' wark, when colin's at the door? rax down my cloak--i'll to the key, and see him come ashore. rise up and make a clean fireside, put on the mickle pat; gie little kate her cotton goun, and jock his sunday's coat. and mak their shoon as black as slaes, their stockins white as snaw; it's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- he likes to see them braw. there are twa hens into the crib, hae fed this month and mair, mak haste and thraw their necks about, that colin weel may fare. bring down to me my bigonet, my bishop's sattin gown, for i maun tell the bailie's wife, that colin's come to town. my turkey slippers i'll put on, my stockins pearl blue-- it's a' to pleasure our gudeman, for he's baith leal and true. sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; his breath's like caller air; his very fit has music in 't as he comes up the stair. and will i see his face again? and will i hear him speak? i'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: in troth, i'm like to greet. the girl i left behind me anonymous i'm lonesome since i cross'd the hill, and o'er the moor and valley; such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, since parting with my sally. i seek no more the fine or gay, for each does but remind me how swift the hours did pass away, with the girl i've left behind me. oh, ne'er shall i forget the night the stars were bright above me, and gently lent their silv'ry light when first she vowed to love me. but now i'm bound to brighton camp kind heaven, then, pray guide me, and send me safely back again to the girl i've left behind me. my mind her form shall still retain, in sleeping, or in waking, until i see my love again, for whom my heart is breaking. if ever i return that way, and she should not decline me, i evermore will live and stay with the girl i've left behind me. edward! edward! sir david dalrymple 'why does your brand so drop with blood? edward! edward! why does your brand so drop with blood? and why so sad go ye, o?' 'o! i have killed my hawk so good, mother! mother! o! i have killed my hawk so good, and i have no more but he, o!' 'your hawk's blood was never so red, edward! edward! your hawk's blood was never so red, my dear son, i tell thee, o!' 'o! i have killed my red roan steed, mother! mother! o! i have killed my red roan steed, that once was fair and free, o!' 'your steed was old and ye have got more, edward! edward! your steed was old and ye have got more, some other dule you drie, o!' 'o! i have killed my father dear, mother! mother! o! i have killed my father dear, alas, and woe is me, o!' 'and what penance will ye drie for that? edward! edward! and what penance will ye drie for that? my dear son, now tell me, o!' 'i'll set my feet in yonder boat, mother! mother! i'll set my feet in yonder boat, and i'll fare over the sea, o!' 'and what will you do with your towers and your hall? edward! edward! and what will you do with your towers and your hall? they were so fair to see, o!' 'i'll let them stand till they down fall, mother! mother! i'll let them stand till they down fall, for here never more must i be, o!' 'and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? when you go over the sea, o!' 'the world's room, let them beg through life, mother! mother! the world's room, let them beg through life, for them never more will i see, o!' 'and what will you leave to your own mother dear? edward! edward! and what will you leave to your own mother dear? my dear son, now tell me, o!' 'the curse of hell from me shall you bear, mother! mother! the curse of hell from me shall you bear, such counsels you gave to me, o!' o nanny, wilt thou go with me? thomas percy o nanny, wilt thou go with me, nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? can silent glens have charms for thee,-- the lowly cot and russet gown? no longer drest in silken sheen, no longer deck'd with jewels rare,-- say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, when thou'rt far away, wilt thou not cast a wish behind? say, canst thou face the parching ray, nor shrink before the wintry wind? oh, can that soft and gentle mien extremes of hardship learn to bear, nor sad, regret each courtly scene, where thou wert fairest of the fair? o nanny, canst thou love so true, through perils keen with me to go, or when thy swain mishap shall rue, to share with him the pang of woe? say, should disease or pain befall, wilt thou assume the nurse's care, nor wistful those gay scenes recall, where thou wert fairest of the fair? and when at last thy love shall die, wilt thou receive his parting breath, wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, and cheer with smiles the bed of death? and wilt thou o'er his breathless clay strew flowers and drop the tender tear, nor then regret those scenes so gay, where thou wert fairest of the fair? the friar of orders gray it was a friar of orders gray walk'd forth to tell his beads; and he met with a lady fair clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 'now christ thee save, thou reverend friar, i pray thee tell to me, if ever at yon holy shrine my true love thou didst see.' 'and how should i know your true-love from many another one?' 'oh, by his cockle-hat and staff, and by his sandal shoon. 'but chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view; his flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyes of lovely blue.' 'o lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone! and at his head a green-grass turf, and at his heels a stone. 'within these holy cloisters long he languish'd, and he died lamenting of a lady's love, and 'plaining of her pride. 'they bore him barefaced on his bier six proper youths and tall, and many a tear bedew'd his grave within yon kirk-yard wall.' 'and art thou dead, thou gentle youth and art thou dead and gone; and didst thou die for love of me? break, cruel heart of stone!' 'oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, some ghostly comfort seek; let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, nor tears bedew thy cheek.' 'oh, do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove; for i have lost the sweetest youth that e'er won lady's love. 'and now, alas! for thy sad loss i'll ever weep and sigh; for thee i only wish'd to live, for thee i wish to die.' 'weep no more, lady, weep no more, thy sorrow is in vain; for violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower will ne'er make grow again. 'our joys as wingèd dreams do fly, why then should sorrow last? since grief but aggravates thy loss, grieve not for what is past.' 'oh, say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not so; for since my true-love died for me, 'tis meet my tears should flow. 'and will he never come again? will he ne'er come again? ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain. 'his cheek was redder than the rose; the comeliest youth was he; but he is dead and laid in his grave: alas, and woe is me!' 'sigh no more, lady, sigh no more; men were deceivers ever; one foot on sea and one on land, to one thing constant never. 'hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy; for young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy.' 'now say not so, thou holy friar, i pray thee say not so; my love he had the truest heart, oh, he was ever true! 'and art thou dead, thou much lov'd youth, and didst thou die for me? then farewell, home; for evermore a pilgrim i will be. 'but first upon my true-love's grave my weary limbs i'll lay, and thrice i'll kiss the green-grass turf that wraps his breathless clay.' 'yet stay, fair lady, rest a while beneath this cloister wall; see, through the thorn blows cold the wind and drizzly rain doth fall.' 'oh, stay me not, thou holy friar; oh, stay me not, i pray; no drizzly rain that falls on me can wash my fault away.' 'yet stay, fair lady, turn again, and dry those pearly tears; for see, beneath this gown of grey thy own true-love appears. 'here, forced by grief and hopeless love, these holy weeds i sought, and here amid these lonely walls to end my days i thought. 'but haply, for my year of grace is not yet pass'd away, might i still hope to win thy love, no longer would i stay.' 'now farewell grief, and welcome joy once more unto my heart; for since i have found thee, lovely youth, we never more will part.' the inchcape rock robert southey no stir in the air, no stir in the sea, the ship was still as she could be, her sails from heaven received no motion, her keel was steady in the ocean. without either sign or sound of their shock the waves flow'd over the inchcape rock; so little they rose, so little they fell, they did not move the inchcape bell. the worthy abbot of aberbrothock had placed that bell on the inchcape rock; on a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, and over the waves its warning rung. when the rock was hid by the surge's swell, the mariners heard the warning bell; and then they knew the perilous rock, and bless'd the abbot of aberbrothock. the sun in heaven was shining gay, all things were joyful on that day; the sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, and there was joyaunce in the sound. the buoy of the inchcape bell was seen, a darker speck on the ocean green; sir ralph the rover walk'd his deck, and he fixed his eye on the darker speck. he felt the cheering power of spring, it made him whistle, it made him sing; his heart was mirthful to excess, but the rover's mirth was wickedness. his eye was on the inchcape float; quoth he, 'my men, put out the boat, and row me to the inchcape rock, and i'll plague the abbot of aberbrothock.' the boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, and to the inchcape rock they go; sir ralph bent over from the boat, and he cut the bell from the inchcape float. down sank the bell with a gurgling sound, the bubbles arose and burst around; quoth sir ralph, 'the next who comes to the rock won't bless the abbot of aberbrothock.' sir ralph the rover sail'd away, he scour'd the seas for many a day; and now grown rich with plunder'd store, he steers his course for scotland's shore. so thick a haze o'erspreads the sky they cannot see the sun on high; the wind hath blown a gale all day, at evening it hath died away. on deck the rover takes his stand, so dark it is they see no land; quoth sir ralph, 'it will be lighter soon, for there is the dawn of the rising moon.' 'canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? for methinks we should be near the shore.' 'now where we are i cannot tell, but i wish i could hear the inchcape bell.' they hear no sound, the swell is strong; though the wind hath fallen they drift along, till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- 'oh christ! it is the inchcape rock!' sir ralph the rover tore his hair; he curst himself in his despair; but the waves rush in on every side, and the vessel sinks beneath the tide. the well of st. keyne a well there is in the west country, and a clearer one never was seen; there is not a wife in the west country but has heard of the well of st. keyne. an oak and an elm tree stand beside, and behind doth an ash-tree grow, and a willow from the bank above droops to the water below. a traveller came to the well of st. keyne; joyfully he drew nigh, for from cock-crow he had been travelling, and there was not a cloud in the sky. he drank of the water so cool and clear, for thirsty and hot was he, and he sat down upon the bank under the willow-tree. there came a man from the house hard by at the well to fill his pail; on the well-side he rested it, and he bade the stranger hail. 'now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, 'for an if thou hast a wife, the happiest draught thou hast drunk this day that ever thou didst in thy life. 'or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, ever here in cornwall been? for an if she have, i'll venture my life she has drunk of the well of st. keyne.' 'i have left a good woman who never was here,' the stranger he made reply, 'but that my draught should be the better for that, i pray you answer me why?' 'st. keyne,' quoth the cornish-man, 'many a time drank of this crystal well, and before the angel summon'd her, she laid on the water a spell. 'if the husband, of this gifted well, shall drink before his wife, a happy man thenceforth is he, for he shall be master for life. 'but if the wife shall drink of it first, god help the husband then!' the stranger stoopt to the well of st. keyne, and drank of the water again. 'you drank of the well i warrant betimes?' he to the cornish-man said: but the cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, and sheepishly shook his head. 'i hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, and left my wife in the porch; but i' faith she had been wiser than me, for she took a bottle to church.' the battle of blenheim it was a summer evening, old kaspar's work was done, and he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun, and by sported on the green his little grandchild wilhelmine. she saw her brother peterkin roll something large and round, which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found; he came to ask what he had found, that was so large, and smooth, and round. old kaspar took it from the boy, who stood expectant by; and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh, ''tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'who fell in that great victory. 'i find them in the garden, for there's many here about; and often when i go to plough, the ploughshare turns them out! for many thousand men,' said he, 'were slain in that great victory.' 'now tell us what 'twas all about,' young peterkin he cries; and little wilhelmine looks up with wonder-waiting eyes; 'now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for.' 'it was the english,' kaspar cried, 'who put the french to rout; but what they fought each other for, i could not well make out; but everybody said,' quoth he, 'that 'twas a famous victory. 'my father lived at blenheim then, yon little stream hard by; they burnt his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly; so with his wife and child he fled, nor had he where to rest his head. 'with fire and sword the country round was wasted far and wide, and many a tender mother then, and new-born baby, died; but things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. 'they say it was a shocking sight after the field was won; for many thousand bodies here lay rotting in the sun; but things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory; 'great praise the duke of marlbro' won, and our good prince eugene.'-- 'why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' said little wilhelmine. 'nay--nay--my little girl,' quoth he, 'it was a famous victory; 'and everybody praised the duke who this great fight did win.' 'but what good came of it at last?' quoth little peterkin. 'why, that i cannot tell,' said he, 'but 'twas a famous victory.' father william you are old, father william, the young man cried, the few locks that are left you are gray; you are hale, father william, a hearty old man, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth would fly fast, and abused not my health and my vigour at first, that i never might need them at last. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and pleasures with youth pass away, and yet you lament not the days that are gone, now tell me the reason, i pray. in the days of my youth, father william replied, i remember'd that youth could not last; i thought of the future, whatever i did, that i never might grieve for the past. you are old, father william, the young man cried, and life must be hastening away; you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! now tell me the reason, i pray. i am cheerful, young man, father william replied; let the cause thy attention engage: in the days of my youth i remember'd my god! and he hath not forgotten my age. the flowers of the forest mrs. cockburn i've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling; i've felt all its favours, and found its decay: sweet was its blessing, kind its caressing; but now it is fled--it is fled far away. i've seen the forest adornèd the foremost with flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; sae bonny was their blooming! their scent the air perfuming! but now they are withered and weeded away. i've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, and loud tempest storming before the mid-day, i've seen tweed's silver streams, shining in the sunny beams, grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. o fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting? oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? nae mair your smiles can cheer me, nae mair your frowns can fear me; for the flowers of the forest are a' wede away. lucy gray william wordsworth oft i had heard of lucy gray; and, when i crossed the wild, i chanced to see at break of day, the solitary child. no mate, no comrade, lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor, --the sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door! you yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green; but the sweet face of lucy gray will never more be seen. 'to-night will be a stormy night-- you to the town must go; and take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow.' 'that, father, will i gladly do! 'tis scarcely afternoon-- the minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon.' at this the father raised his hook and snapped a fagot band; he plied his work;--and lucy took the lantern in her hand. not blither is the mountain roe: with many a wanton stroke her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. the storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down: and many a hill did lucy climb; but never reached the town. the wretched parents all that night, went shouting far and wide; but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. at daybreak on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor; and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from the door. and, turning homeward, now they cried, 'in heaven we all shall meet!' --when in the snow the mother spied the print of lucy's feet. then downward from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small; and through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall: and then an open field they crossed: the marks were still the same; they tracked them on, nor ever lost; and to the bridge they came. they followed from the snowy bank the footmarks, one by one, into the middle of the plank; and further there were none! --yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child; that you may see sweet lucy gray upon the lonesome wild. o'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind. we are seven a simple child that lightly draws its breath, and feels its life in every limb, what should it know of death? i met a little cottage girl: she was eight years old, she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. she had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; --her beauty made me glad. 'sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?' 'how many? seven in all,' she said, and wondering looked at me. 'and where are they? i pray you tell.' she answered, 'seven are we; and two of us at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. 'two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and, in the churchyard cottage, i dwell near them with my mother.' 'you say that two at conway dwell, and two are gone to sea, yet ye are seven!--i pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?' then did the little maid reply, 'seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree.' 'you run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five.' 'their graves are green, they may be seen,' the little maid replied, 'twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. 'my stockings there i often knit, my kerchief there i hem; and there upon the ground i sit-- i sit and sing to them. 'and often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, i take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. 'the first that died was little jane; in bed she moaning lay, till god released her of her pain: and then she went away. 'so in the churchyard she was laid; and all the summer dry, together round her grave we played, my brother john and i. 'and when the ground was white with snow, and i could run and slide, my brother john was forced to go, and he lies by her side.' 'how many are you, then,' said i, 'if they two are in heaven?' the little maiden did reply, 'o master! we are seven.' 'but they are dead: those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!' 'twas throwing words away: for still the little maid would have her will, and said, 'nay, we are seven!' she dwelt among untrodden ways she dwelt among the untrodden ways beside the springs of dove, a maid whom there were none to praise and very few to love: a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the eye! fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky. she lived unknown, and few could know when lucy ceased to be; but she is in her grave, and oh, the difference to me! i travelled among unknown men i travell'd among unknown men, in lands beyond the sea; nor, england! did i know till then what love i bore to thee. 'tis past, the melancholy dream! nor will i quit thy shore a second time; for still i seem to love thee more and more. among thy mountains did i feel the joy of my desire; and she i cherish'd turn'd her wheel beside an english fire. thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, the bowers where lucy play'd; and thine too is the last green field that lucy's eyes survey'd. lochinvar sir walter scott o, young lochinvar is come out of the west, through all the wide border his steed was the best, and save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; he rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. so faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was knight like the young lochinvar. he stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, he swam the eske river where ford there was none; but, ere he alighted at netherby gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late for a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair ellen of brave lochinvar. so boldly he entered the netherby hall, among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 'o come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young lord lochinvar?' 'i long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;-- love swells like the solway, but ebbs like its tide-- and now i am come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. there are maidens in scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young lochinvar.' the bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, he quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, she looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. he took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'now tread we a measure!' said young lochinvar. so stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a galliard did grace; while her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; and the bride-maidens whispered, ''twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young lochinvar.' one touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, when they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; so light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, so light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'she is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; they'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young lochinvar. there was mounting 'mong græmes of the netherby clan; forsters, fenwicks, and musgraves, they rode and they ran: there was racing, and chasing, on cannobie lee, but the lost bride of netherby ne'er did they see. so daring in love, and so dauntless in war, have ye e'er heard of gallant like young lochinvar? coronach he is gone on the mountain, he is lost to the forest, like a summer-dried fountain, when our need was the sorest, the font, reappearing, from the rain-drops shall borrow, but to us comes no cheering, to duncan no morrow! the hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. the autumn winds rushing, waft the leaves that are searest, but our flower was in flushing when blighting was nearest. fleet foot on the correi, sage counsel in cumber, red hand in the foray, how sound is thy slumber! like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever! a weary lot is thine 'a weary lot is thine, fair maid, a weary lot is thine! to pull the thorn thy brow to braid, and press the rue for wine! a lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, a feather of the blue, a doublet of the lincoln green,-- no more of me you knew, my love! no more of me you knew. 'this morn is merry june, i trow, the rose is budding fain; but she shall bloom in winter snow, ere we two meet again.' he turned his charger as he spake, upon the river shore, he gave his bridle-reins a shake, said 'adieu for evermore, my love! and adieu for evermore.' allen-a-dale allen-a-dale has no fagot for burning, allen-a-dale has no furrow for turning, allen-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning, yet allen-a-dale has red gold for the winning. come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! and tell me the craft of bold allen-a-dale. the baron of ravensworth prances in pride, and he views his domains upon arkindale side. the mere for his net, and the land for his game, the chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, are less free to lord dacre than allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight, though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; and the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, who at rere-cross on stanmore meets allen-a-dale. allen-a-dale to his wooing is come; the mother, she asked of his household and home: 'though the castle of richmond stand fair on the hill, my hall,' quoth bold allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, and with all its bright spangles!' said allen-a-dale. the father was steel, and the mother was stone; they lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; but loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: he had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, and she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, and the youth it was told by was allen-a-dale. pibroch of donuil dhu pibroch of donuil dhu, pibroch of donuil, wake thy wild voice anew, summon clan conuil. come away, come away, hark to the summons! come in your war array, gentles and commons! come from deep glen, and from mountain so rocky; the war-pipe and pennon are at inverlochy. come every hill-plaid, and true heart that wears one; come every steel blade, and strong hand that bears one! leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar. leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges; come with your fighting-gear, broadswords and targes. come as the winds come, when forests are rended: come as the waves come, when navies are stranded. faster come, faster come, faster and faster; chief, vassal, page, and groom, tenant and master. fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! wide waves the eagle plume, blended with heather. cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set; pibroch of donuil dhu, knell for the onset! song from 'the pirate' love wakes and weeps while beauty sleeps! o for music's softest numbers, to prompt a theme for beauty's dream, soft as the pillow of her slumbers! through groves of palm sigh gales of balm, fire-flies on the air are wheeling; while through the gloom comes soft perfume, the distant beds of flowers revealing. o wake and live! no dreams can give a shadowed bliss, the real excelling; no longer sleep, from lattice peep, and list the tale that love is telling! rosabelle o listen, listen, ladies gay! no haughty feat of arms i tell; soft is the note, and sad the lay that mourns the lovely rosabelle. 'moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! and, gentle ladye, deign to stay! rest thee in castle ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 'the blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly; the fishers have heard the water-sprite, whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 'last night the gifted seer did view a wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; then stay thee, fair, in ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ''tis not because lord lindesay's heir to-night at roslin leads the ball, but that my ladye-mother there sits lonely in her castle-hall. ''tis not because the ring they ride, and lindesay at the ring rides well, but that my sire the wine will chide if 'tis not fill'd by rosabelle.' --o'er roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam. it glared on roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'twas seen from dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd hawthornden. seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, each baron, for a sable shroud, sheathed in his iron panoply. seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale; shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- so still they blaze, when fate is nigh the lordly line of high saint clair. there are twenty of roslin's barons bold-- lie buried within that proud chapelle; each one the holy vault doth hold-- but the sea holds lovely rosabelle. and each saint clair was buried there, with candle, with book, and with knell; but the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung the dirge of lovely rosabelle. proud maisie proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush, singing so rarely. 'tell me, thou bonny bird, when shall i marry me?'-- 'when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye.' 'who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?'-- 'the grey-headed sexton that delves the grave duly. 'the glow-worm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing welcome, proud lady.' lord ullin's daughter thomas campbell a chieftain to the highlands bound, cries, 'boatman, do not tarry! and i'll give thee a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry.' 'now, who be ye would cross lochgyle, this dark and stormy water?' 'oh, i'm the chief of ulva's isle, and this lord ullin's daughter. 'and fast before her father's men three days we've fled together; for, should he find us in the glen, my blood would stain the heather. 'his horsemen hard behind us ride; should they our steps discover, then who will cheer my bonny bride when they have slain her lover?' out spoke the hardy island wight, 'i'll go, my chief--i'm ready:-- it is not for your silver bright; but for your winsome lady: 'and by my word, the bonny bird in danger shall not tarry; so, though the waves are raging white, i'll row you o'er the ferry.' by this the storm grew loud apace, the water-wraith was shrieking; and in the scowl of heaven each face grew dark as they were speaking. but still as wilder blew the wind, and as the night grew drearer, adown the glen rode armèd men, their trampling sounded nearer. 'oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'though tempests round us gather; i'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.' the boat has left a stormy land, a stormy sea before her,-- when, oh! too strong for human hand, the tempest gathered o'er her. and still they rowed amidst the roar of waters fast prevailing; lord ullin reached that fatal shore, his wrath was changed to wailing. for sore dismayed through storm and shade, his child he did discover: one lovely hand she stretched for aid, and one was round her lover. 'come back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'across this stormy water; and i'll forgive your highland chief, my daughter!--oh! my daughter!' 'twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, return or aid preventing; the waters wild went o'er his child, and he was left lamenting. the soldier's dream our bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered and the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; and thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, the weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. when reposing that night on my pallet of straw, by the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, at the dead of the night a sweet vision i saw, and thrice ere the morning i dreamt it again. methought from the battlefield's dreadful array, far, far i had roamed on a desolate track; 'twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. i flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young; i heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly i swore from my home and my weeping friends never to part; my little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, and my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 'stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn'; and fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; but sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. exile of erin there came to the beach a poor exile of erin, the dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: for his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing to wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. but the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, for it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, he sang the bold anthem of erin go bragh. sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, the wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; but i have no refuge from famine and danger, a home and a country remain not to me. never again in the green sunny bowers, where my forefathers lived, shall i spend the sweet hours, or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, and strike to the numbers of erin go bragh! erin my country! though sad and forsaken, in dreams i revisit thy sea-beaten shore; but alas! in a fair foreign land i awaken, and sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me in a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me? never again shall my brothers embrace me? they died to defend me, or live to deplore! where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? where is the mother that looked on my childhood? and where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, why did it doat on a fast fading treasure? tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, but rapture and beauty they cannot recall. yet all its sad recollection suppressing, one dying wish my lone bosom can draw: erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! land of my forefathers! erin go bragh! buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, green be thy fields--sweetest isle of the ocean! and thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion-- erin mavournin!--erin go bragh! ye mariners of england ye mariners of england, that guard our native seas; whose flag has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze! your glorious standard launch again to match another foe; and sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the spirits of your fathers shall start from every wave; for the deck it was their field of fame, and ocean was their grave: where blake and mighty nelson fell, your manly hearts shall glow, as ye sweep through the deep, while the stormy winds do blow; while the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along the steep; her march is o'er the mountain wave, her home is on the deep. with thunders from her native oak she quells the floods below, as they roar on the shore, when the stormy winds do blow; when the battle rages loud and long, and the stormy winds do blow! the meteor flag of england shall yet terrific burn, till danger's troubled night depart, and the star of peace return; then, then, ye ocean warriors, our song and feast shall flow to the fame of your name, when the storm has ceased to blow; when the fiery fight is heard no more, and the storm has ceased to blow. the battle of the baltic of nelson and the north sing the glorious day's renown, when to battle fierce came forth all the might of denmark's crown, and her arms along the deep proudly shone: by each gun the lighted brand in a bold, determined hand; and the prince of all the land led them on. like leviathans afloat, lay their bulwarks on the brine, while the sign of battle flew o'er the lofty british line: it was ten of april morn by the chime, as they drifted on their path; there was silence deep as death, and the boldest held his breath for a time. but the might of england flushed, to anticipate the scene; and her van the fleeter rushed o'er the deadly space between. 'hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun from its adamantine lips spread a death-shade round the ships, like the hurricane eclipse of the sun. again! again! again! and the havoc did not slack, till a feebler cheer the dane to our cheering sent us back; their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- then ceased, and all is wail, as they strike the shattered sail; or, in conflagration pale, light the gloom. out spoke the victor then, as he hailed them o'er the wave: 'ye are brothers! we are men! and we conquer but to save: so peace instead of death let us bring; but yield, proud foe, thy fleet, with the crews, at england's feet, and make submission meet to our king.' then denmark blessed our chief, that he gave her wounds repose; and the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose, as death withdrew his shades from the day; while the sun looked smiling bright o'er a wide and woeful sight, where the fires of funeral light died away. now joy, old england raise, for the tidings of thy might, by the festal cities' blaze, whilst the wine-cup shines in light; and yet amidst that joy and uproar let us think of them that sleep, full many a fathom deep, by thy wild and stormy steep, elsinore! brave hearts! to britain's pride once so faithful and so true, on the deck of fame that died, with the gallant good riou: soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave; while the billow mournful rolls, and the mermaid's song condoles, singing glory to the souls of the brave. napoleon and the sailor napoleon's banners at boulogne arm'd in our island every freeman, his navy chanced to capture one poor british seaman. they suffer'd him--i know not how-- unprison'd on the shore to roam; and aye was bent his longing brow on england's home. his eye, methinks, pursued the flight of birds to britain half-way over; with envy they could reach the white dear cliffs of dover. a stormy midnight watch, he thought, than this sojourn would have been dearer, if but the storm his vessel brought to england nearer. at last, when care had banish'd sleep, he saw one morning--dreaming--doating, an empty hogshead from the deep come shoreward floating; he hid it in a cave, and wrought the livelong day laborious; lurking until he launch'd a tiny boat by mighty working. heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond description wretched: such a wherry perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, or cross'd a ferry. for ploughing in the salt sea-field, it would have made the boldest shudder; untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, no sail--no rudder. from neighbouring woods he interlaced his sorry skiff with wattled willows; and thus equipp'd he would have pass'd the foaming billows-- but frenchmen caught him on the beach, his little argo sorely jeering; till tidings of him chanced to reach napoleon's hearing. with folded arms napoleon stood, serene alike in peace and danger; and in his wonted attitude, address'd the stranger:-- 'rash man that wouldst yon channel pass on twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; thy heart with some sweet british lass must be impassion'd.' 'i have no sweetheart,' said the lad; 'but--absent long from one another-- great was the longing that i had to see my mother!' 'and so thou shalt,' napoleon said, 'ye've both my favour fairly won; a noble mother must have bred so brave a son.' he gave the tar a piece of gold, and with a flag of truce commanded he should be shipp'd to england old, and safely landed. our sailor oft could scantly shift to find a dinner plain and hearty; but never changed the coin and gift of bonaparte. the parrot a parrot, from the spanish main, full young and early caged came o'er, with bright wings, to the bleak domain of mullah's shore. to spicy groves where he had won his plumage of resplendent hue, his native fruits, and skies, and sun, he bade adieu. for these he changed the smoke of turf, a heathery land and misty sky, and turned on rocks and raging surf his golden eye. but petted in our climate cold, he lived and chattered many a day: until with age, from green and gold his wings grew grey. at last when blind, and seeming dumb, he scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, a spanish stranger chanced to come to mullah's shore; he hail'd the bird in spanish speech, the bird in spanish speech replied; flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, dropt down, and died. hohenlinden on linden when the sun was low, all bloodless lay the untrodden snow; and dark as winter was the flow of iser rolling rapidly. but linden saw another sight when the drum beat at dead of night, commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery. by torch and trumpet fast arrayed, each horseman drew his battle blade, and furious every charger neighed to join the dreadful revelry. then shook the hill, with thunder riven; then rushed the steed, to battle driven; and louder than the bolts of heaven far flashed the red artillery. but redder yet that light shall glow on linden's hills of stainèd snow, and bloodier yet the torrent flow of iser rolling rapidly. 'tis morn, but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, where furious frank and fiery hun shout in their sulph'rous canopy. the combat deepens. on, ye brave, who rush to glory or the grave! wave, munich, all thy banners wave, and charge with all thy chivalry. few, few shall part where many meet; the snow shall be their winding-sheet; and every turf beneath their feet shall be a soldier's sepulchre. men of england men of england! who inherit rights that cost your sires their blood men whose undegenerate spirit has been proved on land and flood: yours are hampden's, russell's glory, sidney's matchless shade is yours,-- martyrs in heroic story, worth a thousand agincourts! we're the sons of sires that baffled crown'd and mitred tyranny: they defied the field and scaffold, for their birthright--so will we. when the kye comes hame james hogg come all ye jolly shepherds that whistle through the glen, i'll tell ye of a secret that courtiers dinna ken; what is the greatest bliss that the tongue o' man can name? 'tis to woo a bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, 'tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. 'tis not beneath the coronet, nor canopy of state, 'tis not on couch of velvet, nor arbour of the great-- 'tis beneath the spreading birk, in the glen without the name, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. see yonder pawky shepherd that lingers on the hill-- his yowes are in the fauld, and his lambs are lying still; yet he downa gang to bed, for his heart is in a flame to meet his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame. when the little wee bit heart rises high in the breast, and the little wee bit stars rise bright in the east, o there's a joy sae dear, that the heart can hardly frame, wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, when the kye comes hame. then since all nature joins in this love without alloy, o' wha wad prove a traitor to nature's dearest joy? or wha wad choose a crown, wi' its pearls and its fame, and miss his bonny lassie when the kye comes hame? when the kye comes hame, when the kye comes hame, 'tween the gloamin' and the mirk, when the kye comes hame. the skylark bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! wild is thy lay and loud, far in the downy cloud, love gives it energy, love gave it birth, where, on thy dewy wing, where art thou journeying? thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. o'er fell and fountain sheen, o'er moor and mountain green, o'er the red streamer that heralds the day, over the cloudlet dim, over the rainbow's rim, musical cherub, soar, singing, away! then, when the gloaming comes, low in the heather blooms, sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place-- o to abide in the desert with thee! the young maxwell allan cunningham 'where gang ye, thou silly auld carle? and what do you carry there?' 'i'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, to shift my sheep their lair.' ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, an' a gude lang stride took he: 'i trow thou to be a feck auld carle, will ye shaw the way to me?' and he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, adown by the greenwood side; 'light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, for here ye canny ride.' he drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, an' lightly down he sprang: of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, whare the gowden tassels hang. he has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, an' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree; an' wha was it but the young maxwell! an' his gude brown sword drew he! 'thou killed my father, thou vile south'ron! an' ye killed my brethren three! whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, i loved as the light o' my e'e! 'draw out thy sword, thou vile south'ron! red wat wi' blude o' my kin! that sword it crapped the bonniest flower e'er lifted its head to the sun! 'there's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! there's twa for my brethren three! an' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, wham i loved as the light o' my e'e.' hame, hame, hame hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! when the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, the larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', the bonny white rose it is withering an' a'; but i'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, an' green it will grow in my ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie! o there's naught frae ruin my country can save, but the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, that a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie, may rise again and fight for their ain countrie. hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, o hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! the great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, the new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; but the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'i'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.' hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad i be, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie. a wet sheet and a flowing sea a wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves old england on the lee. o for a soft and gentle wind! i heard a landsman cry; but give to me the snoring breeze, and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my boys, the good ship tight and free-- the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. there's tempest in yon hornèd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; and hark the music, mariners, the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashing free-- while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea. my nanie o red rows the nith 'tween bank and brae, mirk is the night and rainie o, though heaven and earth should mix in storm, i'll gang and see my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; my kind and winsome nanie o, she holds my heart in love's dear bands, and nane can do 't but nanie o. in preaching-time sae meek she stands, sae saintly and sae bonny o, i cannot get ae glimpse of grace, for thieving looks at nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; the world's in love with nanie o; that heart is hardly worth the wear that wadna love my nanie o. my breast can scarce contain my heart, when dancing she moves finely o; i guess what heaven is by her eyes, they sparkle sae divinely o; my nanie o, my nanie o, the flower o' nithsdale's nanie o; love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, and says, i dwell with nanie o. tell not, thou star at grey daylight, o'er tinwald-tap sae bonny o, my footsteps 'mang the morning dew when coming frae my nanie o; my nanie o, my nanie o; nane ken o' me and nanie o; the stars and moon may tell 't aboon, they winna wrang my nanie o! canadian boat-song thomas moore faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at st. ann's our parting hymn. row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! why should we yet our sail unfurl? there's not a breath the blue wave to curl! but, when the wind blows off the shore, oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! ottawa's tide! this trembling moon shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight's past! go where glory waits thee go where glory waits thee, but while fame elates thee, oh, still remember me. when the praise thou meetest to thine ear is sweetest, oh, then remember me. other arms may press thee, dearer friends caress thee, all the joys that bless thee sweeter far may be; but when friends are nearest, and when joys are dearest, oh, then remember me. when at eve thou rovest by the star thou lovest, oh, then remember me. think, when home returning, bright we've seen it burning. oh, thus remember me. oft as summer closes, when thine eye reposes on its lingering roses, once so loved by thee, think of her who wove them, her who made thee love them, oh, then remember me. when, around thee dying, autumn leaves are lying, oh, then remember me. and, at night, when gazing on the gay hearth blazing, oh, still remember me. then, should music, stealing all the soul of feeling, to thy heart appealing, draw one tear from thee; then let memory bring thee strains i used to sing thee,-- oh, then remember me. the harp that once through tara's halls the harp that once through tara's halls, the soul of music shed, now hangs as mute on tara's walls as if that soul were fled. so sleeps the pride of former days, so glory's thrill is o'er, and hearts, that once beat high for praise, now feel that pulse no more. no more to chiefs and ladies bright the harp of tara swells: the chord alone, that breaks at night, its tale of ruin tells. thus freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives. rich and rare were the gems she wore rich and rare were the gems she wore, and a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; but, oh! her beauty was far beyond her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 'lady, dost thou not fear to stray, so lone and lovely, through this bleak way? are erin's sons so good or so cold, as not to be tempted by woman or gold?' 'sir knight! i feel not the least alarm, no son of erin will offer me harm: for, though they love women and golden store sir knight! they love honour and virtue more. on she went, and her maiden smile in safety lighted her round the green isle; and blest for ever is she who relied upon erin's honour and erin's pride. the meeting of the waters there is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, as that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, oh! no--it was something more exquisite still. 'twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, and who felt how the best charms of nature improve, when we see them reflected from looks that we love. she is far from the land she is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, and lovers are round her sighing; but coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, for her heart in his grave is lying. she sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, every note which he loved awaking;-- ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, how the heart of the minstrel is breaking. he had lived for his love, for his country he died, they were all that to life had entwined him; nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, nor long will his love stay behind him. oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest when they promise a glorious morrow; they'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, from her own loved island of sorrow. believe me, if all those endearing young charms believe me, if all those endearing young charms which i gaze on so fondly to-day, were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still. it is not while beauty and youth are thine own, and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, that the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, to which time will but make thee more dear; no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to the close, as the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, the same look which she turned when he rose. love's young dream oh, the days are gone, when beauty bright my heart's chain wove; when my dream of life from morn till night was love, still love. new hope may bloom, and days may come of milder, calmer beam, but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream; no, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. though the bard to purer fame may soar, when wild youth's past; though he wins the wise, who frown'd before, to smile at last; he'll never meet a joy so sweet, in all his noon of fame, as when first he sung to woman's ear his soul-felt flame, and, at every close, she blushed to hear the one loved name. no--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot which first love traced; still it lingering haunts the greenest spot on memory's waste. 'twas odour fled as soon as shed; 'twas morning's wingèd dream; 'twas a light there ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream: oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again on life's dull stream. the last rose of summer 'tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone; no flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes, to give sigh for sigh. i'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem; since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them. thus kindly i scatter thy leaves o'er the bed, where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. so soon may i follow, when friendships decay, and from love's shining circle the gems drop away! when true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown, oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? the minstrel-boy the minstrel-boy to the war is gone, in the ranks of death you'll find him; his father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him.-- 'land of song!' said the warrior-bard, 'though all the world betrays thee, one sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!' the minstrel fell--but the foeman's chain could not bring his proud soul under; the harp he loved ne'er spoke again, for he tore its cords asunder; and said, 'no chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! thy songs were made for the brave and free, they shall never sound in slavery!' the time i've lost in wooing the time i've lost in wooing, in watching and pursuing the light that lies in woman's eyes, has been my heart's undoing. though wisdom oft has sought me, i scorned the lore she brought me, my only books were women's looks, and folly's all they've taught me. her smile when beauty granted, i hung with gaze enchanted, like him the sprite whom maids by night oft meet in glen that's haunted. like him, too, beauty won me; but while her eyes were on me, if once their ray was turned away, oh, winds could not outrun me. and are those follies going? and is my proud heart growing too cold or wise for brilliant eyes again to set it glowing? no--vain, alas! th' endeavour from bonds so sweet to sever;-- poor wisdom's chance against a glance is now as weak as ever. the light of other days oft in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, fond memory brings the light of other days around me: the smiles, the tears of boyhood's years, the words of love then spoken; the eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone, the cheerful hearts now broken! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. when i remember all the friends so link'd together, i've seen around me fall like leaves in wintry weather, i feel like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted, whose lights are fled whose garlands dead and all but he departed! thus in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound me, sad memory brings the light of other days around me. the destruction of sennacherib lord byron the assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; and the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep galilee. like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen: like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown. for the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; and the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! and there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: and the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. and there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; and the tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. and the widows of ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of baal; and the might of the gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the lord! when we two parted when we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss; truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. the dew of the morning sank chill on my brow-- it felt like the warning of what i feel now. thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame; i hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame. they name thee before me, a knell to mine ear; a shudder comes o'er me-- why wert thou so dear? they know not i knew thee, who knew thee too well:-- long, long shall i rue thee, too deeply to tell. in secret we met-- in silence i grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. if i should meet thee after long years, how should i greet thee?-- with silence and tears. song there be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: when, as if its sound were causing the charmèd ocean's pausing, the waves lie still and gleaming, and the lull'd winds seem dreaming: and the midnight moon is weaving her bright chain o'er the deep; whose breast is gently heaving, as an infant's asleep: so the spirit bows before thee, to listen and adore thee; with a full but soft emotion, like the swell of summer's ocean. we'll go no more a-roving so, we'll go no more a-roving so late into the night, though the heart be still as loving, and the moon be still as bright. for the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. she walks in beauty she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes, and starry skies: and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express, how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. and on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent. a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent! king death b.w. procter king death was a rare old fellow, he sat where no sun could shine, and he lifted his hand so yellow, and poured out his coal-black wine hurrah, for the coal-black wine! there came to him many a maiden whose eyes had forgot to shine, and widows with grief o'erladen, for a draught of his coal-black wine. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! the scholar left all his learning, the poet his fancied woes, and the beauty her bloom returning, like life to the fading rose. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! all came to the rare old fellow, who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, and he gave them his hand so yellow, and pledged them in death's black wine. hurrah, for the coal-black wine! song for twilight hide me, o twilight air, hide me from thought, from care, from all things foul or fair, until to-morrow! to-night i strive no more; no more my soul shall soar: come, sleep, and shut the door 'gainst pain and sorrow! if i must see through dreams, be mine elysian gleams, be mine by morning streams to watch and wander; so may my spirit cast (serpent-like) off the past, and my free soul at last have leave to ponder. and shouldst thou 'scape control, ponder on love, sweet soul; on joy, the end and goal of all endeavour: but if earth's pains will rise, (as damps will seek the skies,) then, night, seal thou mine eyes, in sleep for ever. the burial of sir john moore at corunna charles wolfe not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his corpse to the rampart we hurried; not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er the grave where our hero we buried. we buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning; by the struggling moonbeam's misty light and the lantern dimly burning. no useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow; but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. we thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, and we far away on the billow! lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone and o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- but little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on in the grave where a briton has laid him. but half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring: and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone with his glory. i arise from dreams of thee percy bysshe shelley i arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet sleep of night, when the winds are breathing low, and the stars are shining bright; i arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet has led me--who knows how? to thy chamber-window, sweet the wandering airs they faint on the dark, the silent stream,-- the champetre odours fail, like sweet thoughts in a dream, the nightingale's complaint it dies upon her heart, as i must die on thine, o beloved as thou art! o lift me from the grass! i die, i faint, i fail. let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale. my cheek is cold and white, alas! my heart beats loud and fast. oh! press it close to thine again, where it will break at last. lament o world! o life! o time! on whose last steps i climb, trembling at that where i had stood before; when will return the glory of your prime? no more--oh, never more! out of the day and night a joy has taken flight: fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, move my faint heart with grief, but with delight no more--oh, never more! love's philosophy the fountains mingle with the river, and the rivers with the ocean, the winds of heaven mix for ever with a sweet emotion; nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle-- why not i with thine? see the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another; no sister flower would be forgiven if it disdained its brother: and the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me? hymn of pan from the forests and highlands we come, we come; from the river-girt islands, where loud waves are dumb, listening to my sweet pipings. the wind in the reeds and the rushes, the bees on the bells of thyme, the birds on the myrtle bushes, the cicale above in the lime, and the lizards below in the grass, were as silent as ever old tmolus was, listening to my sweet pipings. liquid peneus was flowing, and all dark tempe lay in pelion's shadow, outgrowing the light of the dying day, speeded by my sweet pipings. the sileni and sylvans and fauns, and the nymphs of the woods and waves, to the edge of the moist river-lawns, and the brink of the dewy caves, and all that did then attend and follow, were silent with love, as you now, apollo, with envy of my sweet pipings. i sang of the dancing stars, i sang of the dædal earth, and of heaven, and the giant wars, and love, and death, and birth. and then i changed my pipings-- singing how down the vale of mænalus i pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: gods and men, we are all deluded thus; it breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. all wept--as i think both ye now would, if envy or age had not frozen your blood-- at the sorrow of my sweet pipings. la belle dame sans merci john keats 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? the sedge has wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing. 'o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! so haggard and so woebegone? the squirrel's granary is full, and the harvest's done. 'i see a lily on thy brow with anguish moist and fever-dew. and on thy cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too.' 'i met a lady in the meads, full beautiful--a faery's child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild. 'i made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; she look'd at me as she did love, and made sweet moan. 'i set her on my pacing steed and nothing else saw all day long, for sidelong would she bend, and sing a faery's song. 'she found me roots of relish sweet, and honey wild and manna-dew, and sure in language strange she said, "i love thee true." 'she took me to her elfin grot, and there she wept and sigh'd full sore; and there i shut her wild wild eyes with kisses four. 'and there she lullèd me asleep, and there i dream'd--ah! woe betide the latest dream i ever dream'd on the cold hill's side. 'i saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all: they cried--"la belle dame sans merci hath thee in thrall!" 'i saw their starved lips in the gloam with horrid warning gapèd wide, and i awoke and found me here on the cold hill's side. 'and this is why i sojourn here alone and palely loitering, though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, and no birds sing.' gaffer gray thomas holcroft ho, why dost thou shiver and shake, gaffer gray? and why does thy nose look so blue? ''tis the weather that's cold, 'tis i'm grown very old, and my doublet is not very new, well-a-day!' then line thy worn doublet with ale, gaffer gray; and warm thy old heart with a glass. 'nay, but credit i've none, and my money's all gone; then say how may that come to pass? well-a-day!' hie away to the house on the brow, gaffer gray; and knock at the jolly priest's door. 'the priest often preaches against worldly riches, but ne'er gives a mite to the poor, well-a-day!' the lawyer lives under the hill, gaffer gray; warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'he will fasten his locks, and will threaten the stocks should he ever more find me in want, well-a-day!' the squire has fat beeves and brown ale, gaffer gray; and the season will welcome you there. 'his fat beeves and his beer, and his merry new year, are all for the flush and the fair, well-a-day!' my keg is but low, i confess, gaffer gray; what then? while it lasts, man, we'll live. 'the poor man alone, when he hears the poor moan, of his morsel a morsel will give, well-a-day!' the pilgrim fathers felicia hemans the breaking waves dash'd high on a stern and rock-bound coast; and the woods, against a stormy sky, their giant branches toss'd; and the heavy night hung dark, the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles moor'd their bark on the wild new england shore. not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came;-- not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame;-- not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear;-- they shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. amidst the storm they sang: till the stars heard, and the sea; and the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, to the anthem of the free. the ocean-eagle soar'd from his nest, by the white wave's foam, and the rocking pines of the forest roar'd:-- such was their welcome home. there were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band: why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land? there was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; there was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. what sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine? the wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- no--'twas a faith's pure shrine. yes, call it holy ground,-- which first their brave feet trod! they have left unstain'd what there they found-- freedom to worship god! the voice of spring i come, i come! ye have called me long, i come o'er the mountains with light and song; ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, by the winds which tell of the violet's birth, by the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, by the green leaves opening as i pass. i have breathed on the south, and the chestnut-flowers by thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; and the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, are veiled with wreaths on italian plains. --but it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, to speak of the ruin or the tomb! i have passed o'er the hills of the stormy north, and the larch has hung all his tassels forth, the fisher is out on the sunny sea, and the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, and the pine has a fringe of softer green, and the moss looks bright where my step has been. i have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, and called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, from the night-bird's lay through the starry time, in the groves of the soft hesperian clime, to the swan's wild note by the iceland lakes, when the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. from the streams and founts i have loosed the chain; they are sweeping on to the silvery main, they are flashing down from the mountain-brows, they are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, they are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, and the earth resounds with the joy of waves. come forth, o ye children of gladness, come! where the violets lie may now be your home. ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, and the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, with the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, come forth to the sunshine,--i may not stay. away from the dwellings of care-worn men, the waters are sparkling in wood and glen; away from the chamber and dusky hearth, the young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, and youth is abroad in my green domains. the homes of england the stately homes of england, how beautiful they stand, amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land! the deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny gleam, and the swan glides past them with the sound of some rejoicing stream. the merry homes of england-- around their hearths by night, what gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! there woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is told; or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old. the blessed homes of england, how softly on their bowers, is laid the holy quietness that breathes from sabbath hours! solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime floats through their woods at morn, all other sounds in that still time of breeze and leaf are born. the cottage homes of england by thousands on her plains, they are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, and round the hamlet fanes. through glowing orchards forth they peep, each from its nook of leaves, and fearless there the lowly sleep, as the bird beneath their eaves. the free fair homes of england, long, long, in hut and hall, may hearts of native proof be reared to guard each hallowed wall. and green for ever be the groves, and bright the flowery sod, where first the child's glad spirit loves its country and its god. the child's first grief 'oh, call my brother back to me! i cannot play alone; the summer comes with flower and bee-- where is my brother gone? 'the butterfly is glancing bright across the sunbeam's track; i care not now to chase its flight-- oh, call my brother back! 'the flowers run wild--the flowers we sow'd around our garden tree; our vine is drooping with its load-- oh, call him back to me!' 'he could not hear thy voice, fair child, he may not come to thee; the face that once like spring-time smiled, on earth no more thou'lt see. 'a rose's brief bright life of joy, such unto him was given; go--thou must play alone, my boy! thy brother is in heaven!' 'and has he left his birds and flowers, and must i call in vain? and, through the long, long summer hours, will he not come again? 'and by the brook, and in the glade, are all our wanderings o'er? oh, while my brother with me play'd, would i had loved him more!' the graves of a household they grew in beauty side by side, they filled one home with glee, their graves are severed far and wide, by mount, and stream, and sea. the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow, she had each folded flower in sight, where are those dreamers now? one midst the forests of the west, by a dark stream, is laid; the indian knows his place of rest far in the cedar's shade. the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, he lies where pearls lie deep, he was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. one sleeps where southern vines are drest above the noble slain; he wrapt his colours round his breast on a blood-red field of spain. and one, o'er her the myrtle showers its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; she faded midst italian flowers, the last of that bright band. and, parted thus, they rest--who played beneath the same green tree, whose voices mingled as they prayed around one parent knee! they that with smiles lit up the hall, and cheered with song the hearth, alas for love, if thou wert all, and nought beyond, oh earth! casabianca the boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled; the flame that lit the battle's wreck, shone round him o'er the dead. yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm; a creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form. the flames roll'd on--he would not go, without his father's word; that father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. he call'd aloud--'say, father, say if yet my task is done?' he knew not that the chieftain lay unconscious of his son. 'speak, father!' once again he cried, 'if i may yet be gone!' --and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames roll'd on. upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair; and look'd from that lone post of death, in still, yet brave despair: and shouted but once more aloud, 'my father! must i stay?' while o'er him fast, through sail and shroud the wreathing fires made way. they wrapt the ship in splendour wild, they caught the flag on high, and stream'd above the gallant child, like banners in the sky. there came a burst of thunder sound-- the boy--oh, where was he? --ask of the winds that far around with fragments strew'd the sea! the dream of eugene aram thomas hood 'twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran, and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. away they sped with gamesome minds, and souls untouch'd by sin; to a level mead they came, and there they drave the wickets in; pleasantly shone the setting sun over the town of lynn. like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran-- turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can: but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man. his hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessèd breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he lean'd his head on his hands, and read the book between his knees. leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, nor ever glanced aside; for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. at last he shut the ponderous tome; with a fast and fervent grasp he strain'd the dusky covers close, and fix'd the brazen hasp: 'o heav'n, could i so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!' then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took; now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook: and lo, he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. 'my gentle lad, what is 't you read-- romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page of kings and crowns unstable?' the young boy gave an upward glance-- 'it is the death of abel.' the usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain; six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again: and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of cain; and long since then, of bloody men, whose deeds tradition saves; of lonely folk cut off unseen, and hid in sudden graves; of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, and murders done in caves; and how the sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod-- ay, how the ghostly hand will point to show the burial clod; and unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams from god. he told how murderers walk'd the earth beneath the curse of cain-- with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain. 'and well,' quoth he, 'i know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme-- wo, wo, unutterable wo-- who spill life's sacred stream! for why? methought last night i wrought a murder in a dream! 'one that had never done me wrong-- a feeble man, and old; i led him to a lonely field, the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said i, this man shall die, and i will have his gold! 'two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife, and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my feet, but lifeless flesh and bone! 'nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet i fear'd him all the more, for lying there so still: there was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill. 'and lo, the universal air seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame: i took the dead man by the hand, and call'd upon his name! 'oh me, it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when i touch'd the lifeless clay, the blood gush'd out amain! for every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain! 'my head was like an ardent coal, my heart as solid ice; my wretched, wretched soul, i knew, was at the devil's price: a dozen times i groan'd; the dead had never groan'd but twice. 'and now from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, i heard a voice--the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite: "thou guilty man, take up thy dead, and hide it from my sight!" 'i took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream-- a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme. my gentle boy, remember, this is nothing but a dream! 'down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanish'd in the pool; anon i cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young that evening in the school. 'o heaven, to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! i could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit i seem'd, 'mid holy cherubim! 'and peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread; but guilt was my grim chamberlain that lighted me to bed, and drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red! 'all night i lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep; my fever'd eyes i dared not close, but star'd aghast at sleep; for sin had render'd unto her the keys of hell to keep! 'all night i lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint, that rack'd me all the time-- a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime. 'one stern tyrannic thought that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave-- still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave. 'heavily i rose up--as soon as light was in the sky-- and sought the black accursèd pool with a wild misgiving eye; and i saw the dead, in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry! 'merrily rose the lark, and shook the dew-drop from its wing; but i never mark'd its morning flight, i never heard it sing: for i was stooping once again under the horrid thing. 'with breathless speed, like a soul in chase, i took him up and ran-- there was no time to dig a grave before the day began: in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, i hid the murder'd man. 'and all that day i read in school, but my thought was otherwhere; as soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret i was there: and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! 'then down i cast me on my face, and first began to weep; for i knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep; or land, or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. 'so wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones; ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh-- the world shall see his bones. 'oh me--that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake! again, again, with a dizzy brain, the human life i take; and my red right hand grows raging hot, like cranmer's at the stake. 'and still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul-- it stands before me now!' the fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow. that very night, while gentle sleep the urchin's eyelids kiss'd, two stern-faced men set out from lynn through the cold and heavy mist; and eugene aram walk'd between, with gyves upon his wrist. the song of the shirt with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-- stitch--stitch--stitch in poverty, hunger, and dirt, and still with a voice of dolorous pitch she sang the song of the shirt. 'work--work--work while the cock is crowing aloof; and work--work--work till the stars shine through the roof! it's o! to be a slave along with the barbarous turk, where woman has never a soul to save if this is christian work! 'work--work--work till the brain begins to swim; work--work--work till the eyes are heavy and dim! seam, and gusset, and band,-- band, and gusset, and seam, till over the buttons i fall asleep, and sew them on in a dream! 'o men with sisters dear! o men with mothers and wives! it is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures' lives! stitch--stitch--stitch, in poverty, hunger, and dirt, sewing at once with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt. 'but why do i talk of death? that phantom of grisly bone, i hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own-- it seems so like my own, because of the fasts i keep; oh god, that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap! 'work--work--work! my labour never flags; and what are its wages? a bed of straw, a crust of bread--and rags. that shattered roof,--and this naked floor,-- a table,--a broken chair,-- and a wall so blank, my shadow i thank for sometimes falling there. 'work--work--work from weary chime to chime, work--work--work as prisoners work for crime! band, and gusset, and seam, seam, and gusset, and band, till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand. 'work--work--work, in the dull december light, and work--work--work, when the weather is warm and bright-- while underneath the eaves the brooding swallows cling, as if to show me their sunny backs and twit me with the spring. 'oh, but to breathe the breath of the cowslip and primrose sweet-- with the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet, for only one short hour to feel as i used to feel, before i knew the woes of want and the walk that costs a meal! 'oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief! no blessèd leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief! a little weeping would ease my heart, but in their briny bed my tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread!' with fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat, in unwomanly rags, plying her needle and thread-- stitch--stitch--stitch! in poverty, hunger, and dirt, and still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- would that its tone could reach the rich! she sang this 'song of the shirt!' the stars are with the voyager the stars are with the voyager, wherever he may sail; the moon is constant to her time, the sun will never fail, but follow, follow, round the world, the green earth and the sea; so love is with the lover's heart, wherever he may be. wherever he may be, the stars must daily lose their light, the moon will veil her in the shade, the sun will set at night; the sun may set, but constant love will shine when he's away, so that dull night is never night, and day is brighter day. ruth she stood breast high amid the corn, clasped by the golden light of morn, like the sweetheart of the sun, who many a glowing kiss had won. on her cheek an autumn flush deeply ripened--such a blush in the midst of brown was born-- like red poppies grown with corn. round her eyes her tresses fell, which were blackest none could tell, but long lashes veiled a light that had else been all too bright. and her hat, with shady brim, made her tressy forehead dim:-- thus she stood amid the stooks, praising god with sweetest looks:-- sure, i said, heav'n did not mean where i reap thou shouldst but glean, lay thy sheaf adown and come share my harvest and my home. ivry lord macaulay now glory to the lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! and glory to our sovereign liege, king henry of navarre! now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of france! and thou, rochelle, our own rochelle, proud city of the waters, again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. as thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, for cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, hurrah! hurrah! for ivry, and henry of navarre. oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, we saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; with all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, and appenzel's stout infantry, and egmont's flemish spears. there rode the brood of false lorraine, the curses of our land; and dark mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: and, as we looked on them, we thought of seine's empurpled flood, and good coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; and we cried unto the living god, who rules the fate of war, to fight for his own holy name, and henry of navarre. the king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. he looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; he looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, down all our line, a deafening shout, 'god save our lord the king.' 'and if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may-- for never saw i promise yet of such a bloody fray-- press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, and be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of navarre.' hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled din of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. the fiery duke is pricking fast across st. andré's plain, with all the hireling chivalry of guelders and almayne. now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of france, charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance! a thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; and in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding-star, amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of navarre. now, god be praised, the day is ours! mayenne hath turned his rein. d'aumale hath cried for quarter. the flemish count is slain. their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a biscay gale; the field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. and then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 'remember st. bartholomew,' was passed from man to man; but out spake gentle henry: 'no frenchman is my foe: down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.' oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign lord, king henry, the soldier of navarre! right well fought all the frenchmen who fought for france to-day; and many a lordly banner god gave them for a prey. but we of the religion have borne us best in fight; and the good lord of rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. our own true maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, the cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false lorraine. up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know how god hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for henry of navarre. ho! maidens of vienna! ho! matrons of lucerne! weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. ho! philip, send, for charity, thy mexican pistoles, that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright; ho! burghers of saint genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. for our god hath crushed the tyrant, our god hath raised the slave, and mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are; and glory to our sovereign lord, king henry of navarre. the armada attend, all ye who list to hear our noble england's praise: i sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, when that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, the richest spoils of mexico, the stoutest hearts in spain. it was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, there came a gallant merchant ship full sail to plymouth bay; the crew had seen castile's black fleet, beyond aurigny's isle, at earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile. at sunrise she escaped their van, by god's especial grace; and the tall pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; the beacon blazed upon the roof of edgecombe's lofty hall; many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; and with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post. with his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums: the yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space, for there behoves him to set up the standard of her grace: and haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, as slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, and underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! so stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed picard field, bohemia's plume, and genoa's bow, and cæsar's eagle shield; so glared he when, at agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay, and crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! our glorious _semper eadem_! the banner of our pride! the fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold-- the parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; such night in england ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. from eddystone to berwick bounds, from lynn to milford bay, that time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; for swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spread-- high on st. michael's mount it shone--it shone on beachy head; far o'er the deep the spaniard saw, along each southern shire, cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. the fisher left his skiff to rock on tamar's glittering waves, the rugged miners poured to war, from mendip's sunless caves; o'er longleat's towers, or cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, and roused the shepherds of stonehenge--the rangers of beaulieu. right sharp and quick the bells rang out all night from bristol town; and, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on clifton down. the sentinel on whitehall gate looked forth into the night, and saw, o'er hanging richmond hill, that streak of blood-red light: the bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke, and with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke; at once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; at once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; from all the batteries of the tower pealed loud the voice of fear, and all the thousand masts of thames sent back a louder cheer: and from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, and the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each rousing street: and broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, as fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; and eastward straight, for wild blackheath, the warlike errand went; and roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of kent: southward, for surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth; high on black hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north; and on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; all night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to hill; till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er derwent's rocky dales; till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of wales; till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on malvern's lonely height; till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the wrekin's crest of light; till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on ely's stately fane, and town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; till belvoir's lordly towers the sign to lincoln sent, and lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of trent; till skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on gaunt's embattled pile, and the red glare on skiddaw roused the burghers of carlisle. lady clare lord tennyson it was the time when lilies blow, and clouds are highest up in air, lord ronald brought a lily-white doe to give his cousin, lady clare. i trow they did not part in scorn: lovers long-betroth'd were they: they two will wed the morrow morn; god's blessing on the day! 'he does not love me for my birth, nor for my lands so broad and fair; he loves me for my own true worth, and that is well,' said lady clare. in there came old alice the nurse, said, 'who was this that went from thee?' 'it was my cousin,' said lady clare, 'to-morrow he weds with me.' 'o god be thank'd!' said alice the nurse, 'that all comes round so just and fair: lord ronald is heir of all your lands, and you are not the lady clare.' 'are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?' said lady clare, 'that ye speak so wild?' 'as god's above,' said alice the nurse, 'i speak the truth: you are my child. 'the old earl's daughter died at my breast; i speak the truth, as i live by bread! i buried her like my own sweet child, and put my child in her stead.' 'falsely, falsely have ye done, o mother,' she said, 'if this be true, to keep the best man under the sun so many years from his due.' 'nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, 'but keep the secret for your life, and all you have will be lord ronald's, when you are man and wife.' 'if i'm a beggar born,' she said, 'i will speak out, for i dare not lie. pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, and fling the diamond necklace by.' 'nay now, my child,' said alice the nurse, 'but keep the secret all ye can.' she said, 'not so: but i will know if there be any faith in man.' 'nay now, what faith?' said alice the nurse, 'the man will cleave unto his right.' 'and he shall have it,' the lady replied, 'tho' i should die to-night.' 'yet give one kiss to your mother dear! alas, my child, i sinn'd for thee.' 'o mother, mother, mother,' she said, 'so strange it seems to me. 'yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, my mother dear, if this be so, and lay your hand upon my head, and bless me, mother, ere i go.' she clad herself in a russet gown, she was no longer lady clare: she went by dale, and she went by down, with a single rose in her hair. the lily-white doe lord ronald had brought leapt up from where she lay, dropt her head in the maiden's hand, and follow'd her all the way. down stept lord ronald from his tower: 'o lady clare, you shame your worth! why come you drest like a village maid, that are the flower of the earth?' 'if i come drest like a village maid, i am but as my fortunes are: i am a beggar born,' she said, 'and not the lady clare.' 'play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, 'for i am yours in word and in deed. play me no tricks,' said lord ronald, 'your riddle is hard to read.' o and proudly stood she up! her heart within her did not fail: she look'd into lord ronald's eyes, and told him all her nurse's tale. he laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: he turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood; 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, 'the next in blood-- 'if you are not the heiress born, and i,' said he, 'the lawful heir, we two will wed to-morrow morn, and you shall still be lady clare.' the lord of burleigh in her ear he whispers gaily, 'if my heart by signs can tell, maiden, i have watch'd thee daily, and i think thou lov'st me well.' she replies, in accents fainter, 'there is none i love like thee.' he is but a landscape-painter, and a village maiden she. he to lips, that fondly falter, presses his without reproof: leads her to the village altar, and they leave her father's roof. 'i can make no marriage present: little can i give my wife. love will make our cottage pleasant, and i love thee more than life.' they by parks and lodges going see the lordly castles stand: summer woods, about them blowing, made a murmur in the land. from deep thought himself he rouses, says to her that loves him well, 'let us see these handsome houses where the wealthy nobles dwell.' so she goes by him attended, hears him lovingly converse, sees whatever fair and splendid lay betwixt his home and hers; parks with oak and chestnut shady, parks and order'd gardens great, ancient homes of lord and lady, built for pleasure and for state. all he shows her makes him dearer: evermore she seems to gaze on that cottage growing nearer, where they twain will spend their days. o but she will love him truly! he shall have a cheerful home; she will order all things duly, when beneath his roof they come. thus her heart rejoices greatly, till a gateway she discerns with armorial bearings stately, and beneath the gate she turns; sees a mansion more majestic than all those she saw before: many a gallant gay domestic bows before him at the door. and they speak in gentle murmur, when they answer to his call, while he treads with footstep firmer, leading on from hall to hall. and, while now she wonders blindly, nor the meaning can divine, proudly turns he round and kindly, 'all of this is mine and thine.' here he lives in state and bounty, lord of burleigh, fair and free, not a lord in all the county is so great a lord as he. all at once the colour flushes her sweet face from brow to chin: as it were with shame she blushes, and her spirit changed within. then her countenance all over pale again as death did prove: but he clasp'd her like a lover, and he cheer'd her soul with love. so she strove against her weakness, tho' at times her spirits sank: shaped her heart with woman's meekness to all duties of her rank: and a gentle consort made he, and her gentle mind was such that she grew a noble lady, and the people loved her much. but a trouble weigh'd upon her, and perplex'd her, night and morn, with the burthen of an honour unto which she was not born. faint she grew, and ever fainter, as she murmur'd, 'oh, that he were once more that landscape-painter, which did win my heart from me!' so she droop'd and droop'd before him, fading slowly from his side: three fair children first she bore him, then before her time she died. weeping, weeping late and early, walking up and pacing down, deeply mourn'd the lord of burleigh, burleigh-house by stamford-town. and he came to look upon her, and he look'd at her and said, 'bring the dress and put it on her, that she wore when she was wed.' then her people, softly treading, bore to earth her body, drest in the dress that she was wed in, that her spirit might have rest. edward gray sweet emma moreland of yonder town met me walking on yonder way, 'and have you lost your heart?' she said; 'and are you married yet, edward gray?' sweet emma moreland spoke to me: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: 'sweet emma moreland, love no more can touch the heart of edward gray. 'ellen adair she loved me well, against her father's and mother's will: to-day i sat for an hour and wept, by ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 'shy she was, and i thought her cold; thought her proud, and fled over the sea; fill'd i was with folly and spite, when ellen adair was dying for me. 'cruel, cruel the words i said! cruelly came they back to-day: "you're too slight and fickle," i said, "to trouble the heart of edward gray.' 'there i put my face in the grass-- whisper'd, "listen to my despair: i repent me of all i did: speak a little, ellen adair!" 'then i took a pencil, and wrote on the mossy stone, as i lay, "here lies the body of ellen adair; and here the heart of edward gray!" 'love may come, and love may go, and fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: but i will love no more, no more, till ellen adair come back to me. 'bitterly wept i over the stone: bitterly weeping i turn'd away: there lies the body of ellen adair! and there the heart of edward gray!' the owl i when cats run home and light is come, and dew is cold upon the ground, and the far-off stream is dumb, and the whirring sail goes round, and the whirring sail goes round: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. ii when merry milkmaids click the latch, and rarely smells the new-mown hay, and the cock hath sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his roundelay, twice or thrice his roundelay: alone and warming his five wits, the white owl in the belfry sits. oriana my heart is wasted with my woe, oriana. there is no rest for me below, oriana. when the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, and loud the norland whirlwinds blow, oriana, alone i wander to and fro, oriana. ere the light on dark was growing, oriana, at midnight the cock was crowing, oriana: winds were blowing, waters flowing, we heard the steeds to battle going, oriana; aloud the hollow bugle blowing, oriana. in the yew-wood black as night, oriana, ere i rode into the fight, oriana, while blissful tears blinded my sight by star-shine and by moonlight, oriana, i to thee my troth did plight, oriana. she stood upon the castle wall, oriana: she watch'd my crest among them all, oriana: she saw me fight, she heard me call, when forth there stept a foeman tall, oriana, atween me and the castle wall, oriana. the bitter arrow went aside, oriana: the false, false arrow went aside, oriana: the damned arrow glanced aside, and pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, oriana! thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, oriana! oh, narrow, narrow was the space, oriana. loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, oriana. oh, deathful stabs were dealt apace, the battle deepen'd in its place, oriana; but i was down upon my face, oriana. they should have stabb'd me where i lay, oriana! how could i rise and come away, oriana? how could i look upon the day? they should have stabb'd me where i lay oriana-- they should have trod me into clay, oriana. o breaking heart that will not break, oriana! o pale, pale face so sweet and meek, oriana! thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, and then the tears run down my cheek, oriana: what wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, oriana? i cry aloud: none hear my cries, oriana. thou comest atween me and the skies, oriana. i feel the tears of blood arise up from my heart unto my eyes, oriana. within my heart my arrow lies, oriana. o cursed hand! o cursed blow! oriana! o happy thou that liest low, oriana! all night the silence seems to flow beside me in my utter woe, oriana. a weary, weary way i go, oriana. when norland winds pipe down the sea, oriana, i walk, i dare not think of thee, oriana. thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, i dare not die and come to thee, oriana. i hear the roaring of the sea, oriana. the lady of shalott part i on either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye, that clothe the wold and meet the sky; and thro' the field the road runs by to many-tower'd camelot; and up and down the people go, gazing where the lilies blow round an island there below, the island of shalott. willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver thro' the wave that runs for ever by the island in the river flowing down to camelot. four gray walls, and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle embowers the lady of shalott. by the margin, willow-veil'd, slide the heavy barges trail'd by slow horses; and unhail'd the shallop flitteth silken sail'd skimming down to camelot: but who hath seen her wave her hand? or at the casement seen her stand? or is she known in all the land, the lady of shalott? only reapers, reaping early in among the bearded barley, hear a song that echoes cheerly from the river winding clearly, down to tower'd camelot: and by the moon the reaper weary, piling sheaves in uplands airy, listening, whispers ''tis the fairy lady of shalott.' part ii there she weaves by night and day a magic web with colours gay. she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay to look down to camelot. she knows not what the curse may be, and so she weaveth steadily, and little other care has she, the lady of shalott. and moving thro' a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear. there she sees the highway near winding down to camelot: there the river eddy whirls, and there the surly village-churls, and the red cloaks of market girls, pass onward from shalott. sometimes a troop of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, goes by to tower'd camelot; and sometimes thro' the mirror blue the knights come riding two and two. she hath no loyal knight and true, the lady of shalott. but in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights, for often thro' the silent nights a funeral, with plumes and lights, and music, went to camelot: or when the moon was overhead, came two young lovers lately wed; 'i am half sick of shadows,' said the lady of shalott. part iii a bow-shot from her bower-eaves, he rode between the barley-sheaves, the sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, and flamed upon the brazen greaves of bold sir lancelot. a red-cross knight for ever kneel'd to a lady in his shield, that sparkled on the yellow field beside remote shalott. the gemmy bridle glitter'd free, like to some branch of stars we see hung in the golden galaxy. the bridle bells rang merrily as he rode down to camelot: and from his blazon'd baldric slung a mighty silver bugle hung, and as he rode his armour rung, beside remote shalott. all in the blue unclouded weather thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather the helmet and the helmet-feather burn'd like one burning flame together, as he rode down to camelot. as often thro' the purple night, below the starry clusters bright, some bearded meteor, trailing light, moves over still shalott. his broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; on burnish'd hooves his war-horse trod; from underneath his helmet flow'd his coal-black curls as on he rode, as he rode down to camelot. from the bank and from the river he flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'tirra lirra,' by the river sang sir lancelot. she left the web, she left the loom, she made three paces thro' the room, she saw the water-lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume, she look'd down to camelot. out flew the web and floated wide; the mirror crack'd from side to side; 'the curse is come upon me,' cried the lady of shalott. part iv in the stormy east-wind straining, the pale yellow woods were waning, the broad stream in his banks complaining, heavily the low sky raining over tower'd camelot; down she came and found a boat beneath a willow left afloat, and round about the prow she wrote _the lady of shalott_. and down the river's dim expanse-- like some bold seër in a trance, seeing all his own mischance-- with a glassy countenance did she look to camelot. and at the closing of the day she loosed the chain, and down she lay; the broad stream bore her far away, the lady of shalott. lying, robed in snowy white that loosely flew to left and right-- the leaves upon her falling light-- thro' the noises of the night she floated down to camelot: and as the boat-head wound along the willowy hills and fields among, they heard her singing her last song, the lady of shalott. heard a carol, mournful, holy, chanted loudly, chanted lowly, till her blood was frozen slowly, and her eyes were darken'd wholly, turn'd to tower'd camelot; for ere she reach'd upon the tide the first house by the water-side, singing in her song she died, the lady of shalott. under tower and balcony, by garden-wall and gallery, a gleaming shape she floated by, dead-pale between the houses high, silent into camelot. out upon the wharfs they came, knight and burgher, lord and dame, and round the prow they read her name, _the lady of shalott_. who is this? and what is here? and in the lighted palace near died the sound of royal cheer; and they cross'd themselves for fear, all the knights at camelot: but lancelot mused a little space; he said, 'she has a lovely face; god in his mercy lend her grace, the lady of shalott.' song move eastward, happy earth, and leave yon orange sunset waning slow: from fringes of the faded eve, o, happy planet, eastward go; till over thy dark shoulder glow thy silver sister-world, and rise to glass herself in dewy eyes that watch me from the glen below. ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, dip forward under starry light, and move me to my marriage-morn, and round again to happy night. break, break, break break, break, break, on thy cold grey stones, o sea! and i would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. o well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play! o well for the sailor lad, that he sings in his boat on the bay. and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill; but o for the touch of a vanish'd hand, and the sound of a voice that is still! break, break, break, at the foot of thy crags, o sea! but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. the goose i knew an old wife lean and poor, her rags scarce held together; there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather. he held a goose upon his arm, he utter'd rhyme and reason, 'here, take the goose, and keep you warm, it is a stormy season.' she caught the white goose by the leg, a goose--'twas no great matter. the goose let fall a golden egg with cackle and with clatter. she dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, and ran to tell her neighbours; and bless'd herself, and cursed herself, and rested from her labours. and feeding high, and living soft, grew plump and able-bodied; until the grave churchwarden doff'd, the parson smirk'd and nodded. so sitting, served by man and maid, she felt her heart grow prouder: but ah! the more the white goose laid it clack'd and cackled louder. it clutter'd here, it chuckled there; it stirr'd the old wife's mettle: she shifted in her elbow-chair, and hurl'd the pan and kettle. 'a quinsy choke thy cursed note!' then wax'd her anger stronger. 'go, take the goose, and wring her throat, i will not bear it longer.' then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; ran gaffer, stumbled gammer. the goose flew this way and flew that, and fill'd the house with clamour. as head and heels upon the floor they flounder'd all together, there strode a stranger to the door, and it was windy weather: he took the goose upon his arm, he utter'd words of scorning; 'so keep you cold, or keep you warm, it is a stormy morning.' the wild wind rang from park and plain, and round the attics rumbled, till all the tables danced again, and half the chimneys tumbled. the glass blew in, the fire blew out, the blast was hard and harder. her cap blew off, her gown blew up, and a whirlwind clear'd the larder; and while on all sides breaking loose her household fled the danger, quoth she, 'the devil take the goose, and god forget the stranger!' in autumn i a spirit haunts the year's last hours dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: to himself he talks; for at eventide, listening earnestly. at his work you may hear him sob and sigh in the walks; earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the mouldering flowers: heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ii the air is damp, and hush'd, and close, as a sick man's room when he taketh repose an hour before death; my very heart faints and my whole soul grieves at the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, and the breath of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose. heavily hangs the broad sunflower over its grave i' the earth so chilly; heavily hangs the hollyhock, heavily hangs the tiger-lily. as through the land at eve we went as thro' the land at eve we went, and plucked the ripened ears, we fell out, my wife and i, we fell out, i know not why, and kissed again with tears. and blessings on the falling out that all the more endears, when we fall out with those we love, and kiss again with tears! for when we came where lies the child we lost in other years, there above the little grave, o there above the little grave, we kissed again with tears. the bugle the splendour falls on castle walls and snowy summits, old in story: the long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o hark, o hear! how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going! o sweet and far from cliff and scar the horns of elfland faintly blowing! blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. o love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or river: our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever. blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. home they brought her warrior dead home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: all her maidens, watching, said, 'she must weep or she will die.' then they praised him, soft and low, call'd him worthy to be loved, truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved. stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stept, took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept. rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee-- like summer tempest came her tears-- 'sweet my child, i live for thee.' the brook i come from haunts of coot and hern, i make a sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley. by thirty hills i hurry down, or slip between the ridges, by twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. till last by philip's farm i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, i bubble into eddying bays, i babble on the pebbles. with many a curve my bank i fret by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. i chatter, chatter, as i flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, and here and there a foamy flake upon me as i travel, with many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, and draw them all along and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. i steal by lawns and grassy plots, i slide by hazel covers, i move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. i slip, i slide, i gloom, i glance, among my skimming swallows; i make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. i murmur under moon and stars in brambly wildernesses; i linger by my shingly bars; i loiter round my cresses; and out again i curve and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come, and men may go, but i go on for ever. sweet and low sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea! over the rolling waters go, come from the dropping moon, and blow, blow him again to me; while my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon; rest, rest, on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon; father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west under the silver moon: sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. come into the garden, maud come into the garden, maud, for the black bat, night, has flown, come into the garden, maud, i am here at the gate alone; and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the roses blown. for a breeze of morning moves, and the planet of love is on high, beginning to faint in the light that she loves on a bed of daffodil sky, to faint in the light of the sun she loves, to faint in his light, and to die. all night have the roses heard the flute, violin, bassoon; all night has the casement jessamine stirr'd to the dancers dancing in tune; till a silence fell with the waking bird, and a hush with the setting moon. i said to the lily, 'there is but one with whom she has heart to be gay. when will the dancers leave her alone? she is weary of dance and play.' now half to the setting moon are gone, and half to the rising day; low on the sand and loud on the stone the last wheel echoes away. i said to the rose, 'the brief night goes in babble and revel and wine. o young lord-lover, what sighs are those, for one that will never be thine? but mine, but mine,' so i sware to the rose, 'for ever and ever, mine.' and the soul of the rose went into my blood, as the music clash'd in the hall; and long by the garden lake i stood, for i heard your rivulet fall from the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, our wood, that is dearer than all; from the meadow your walks have left so sweet that whenever a march-wind sighs he sets the jewel-print of your feet in violets blue as your eyes, to the woody hollows in which we meet and the valleys of paradise. the slender acacia would not shake one long milk-bloom on the tree; the white lake-blossom fell into the lake, as the pimpernel dozed on the lea; but the rose was awake all night for your sake, knowing your promise to me; the lilies and roses were all awake, they sigh'd for the dawn and thee. queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, come hither, the dances are done, in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, queen lily and rose in one; shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, to the flowers, and be their sun. there has fallen a splendid tear from the passion-flower at the gate. she is coming, my dove, my dear; she is coming, my life, my fate; the red rose cries, 'she is near, she is near'; and the white rose weeps, 'she is late'; the larkspur listens, 'i hear, i hear'; and the lily whispers, 'i wait.' she is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so airy a tread, my heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed; my dust would hear her and beat, had i lain for a century dead; would start and tremble under her feet, and blossom in purple and red. ask me no more ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; the cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; but o too fond, when have i answer'd thee? ask me no more. ask me no more: what answer should i give? i love not hollow cheek or faded eye: yet, o my friend, i will not have thee die! ask me no more, lest i should bid thee live; ask me no more. ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: i strove against the stream and all in vain: let the great river take me to the main: no more, dear love, for at a touch i yield; ask me no more. the soldier when all among the thundering drums thy soldier in the battle stands, thy face across his fancy comes and gives the battle to his hands: a moment while the trumpets blow, he sees his brood about thy knee-- the next--like fire he meets the foe, and strikes him dead for them and thee! tara ta tantara! dusk now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: the fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, and like a ghost she glimmers on to me. now lies the earth all danaë to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me. now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake: so fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me. a farewell flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, thy tribute wave deliver: no more by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, a rivulet then a river: no where by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. but here will sigh thine alder-tree, and here thine aspen shiver; and here by thee will hum the bee, for ever and for ever. a thousand suns will stream on thee, a thousand moons will quiver; but not by thee my steps shall be, for ever and for ever. the beggar maid her arms across her breast she laid; she was more fair than words can say: bare-footed came the beggar maid before the king cophetua. in robe and crown the king stept down, to meet and greet her on her way; 'it is no wonder,' said the lords, 'she is more beautiful than day.' as shines the moon in clouded skies, she in her poor attire was seen: one praised her ankles, one her eyes, one her dark hair and lovesome mien. so sweet a face, such angel grace, in all that land had never been cophetua sware a royal oath: 'this beggar maid shall be my queen!' come not, when i am dead come not, when i am dead, to drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, to trample round my fallen head, and vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. there let the wind sweep and the plover cry; but thou, go by. child, if it were thine error or thy crime i care no longer, being all unblest: wed whom thou wilt, but i am sick of time, and i desire to rest. pass on, weak heart, and leave me where i lie: go by, go by. o swallow, swallow 'o swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, and tell her, tell her what i tell to thee. 'o tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each, that bright and fierce and fickle is the south, and dark and true and tender is the north. 'o swallow, swallow, if i could follow, and light upon her lattice, i would pipe and trill, and cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 'o were i thou that she might take me in, and lay me on her bosom, and her heart would rock the snowy cradle till i died. 'why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, delaying as the tender ash delays to clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 'o tell her, swallow, that thy brood is flown: say to her, i do but wanton in the south but in the north long since my nest is made. 'o tell her, brief is life but love is long, and brief the sun of summer in the north, and brief the moon of beauty in the south. 'o swallow, flying from the golden woods, fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, and tell her, tell her, that i follow thee.' the miller's daughter it is the miller's daughter, and she is grown so dear, so dear, that i would be the jewel that trembles at her ear: for hid in ringlets day and night, i'd touch her neck so warm and white. and i would be the girdle about her dainty dainty waist, and her heart would beat against me, in sorrow and in rest: and i should know if it beat right, i'd clasp it round so close and tight. and i would be the necklace, and all day long to fall and rise upon her balmy bosom, with her laughter or her sighs, and i would lie so light, so light, i scarce should be unclasp'd at night. little billee william makepeace thackeray there were three sailors of bristol city who took a boat and went to sea, but first with beef and captain's biscuits and pickled pork they loaded she. there was gorging jack and guzzling jimmy, and the youngest he was little billee. now when they got as far as the equator they'd nothing left but one split pea. says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'i am extremely hungaree.' to gorging jack says guzzling jimmy, 'we've nothing left; us must eat we.' says gorging jack to guzzling jimmy, 'with one another we shouldn't agree! 'there's little bill, he's young and tender, we're old and tough, so let's eat he.' 'oh, bill, we're going to kill and eat you, so undo the button of your chemie.' when bill received this information he used his pocket handkerchie. 'first let me say my catechism, which my poor mammy taught to me.' 'make haste, make haste,' says guzzling jimmy, while jack pulled out his snickersnee. so billy went up to the main-top gallant mast, and down he fell on his bended knee, he scarce had come to the twelfth commandment when up he jumps. 'there's land i see: 'there's jerusalem and madagascar, and north and south amerikee: 'there's the british flag a-riding at anchor, with admiral napier, k.c.b.' so when they got aboard of the admiral's, he hanged fat jack and flogged jimmee: but as for little bill, he made him the captain of a seventy-three. green fields of england arthur hugh clough green fields of england! wheresoe'er across this watery waste we fare, one image at our hearts we bear, green fields of england, everywhere. sweet eyes in england, i must flee past where the waves' last confines be, ere your loved smile i cease to see, sweet eyes in england, dear to me. dear home in england, safe and fast, if but in thee my lot lie cast, the past shall seem a nothing past to thee, dear home, if won at last; dear home in england, won at last. how they brought the good news from ghent to aix robert browning i sprang to the stirrup, and joris, and he; i galloped, dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. not a word to each other; we kept the great pace neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; i turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily roland a whit. 'twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; at boom, a great yellow star came out to see; at düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; and from mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, so joris broke silence with 'yet there is time!' at aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one, to stare through the mist at us galloping past, and i saw my stout galloper roland at last, with resolute shoulders, each butting away the haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. and his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; and one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance o'er its white edge at me, his own master askance! and the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon his fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. by hasselt, dirck groaned; and cried joris, 'stay spur! your ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember at aix'--for one heard the quick wheeze of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. so we were left galloping, joris and i, past looz and past tongres, no cloud in the sky; the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; till over by dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, and 'gallop,' gasped joris, 'for aix is in sight!' 'how they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan rolled neck and crop over; lay dead as a stone; and there was my roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aix from her fate, with his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. then i cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, called my roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, till at length into aix roland galloped and stood. and all i remember is, friends flocking round as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent. marching along i kentish sir byng stood for his king, bidding the crop-headed parliament swing: and, pressing a troop unable to stoop and see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, marched them along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. ii god for king charles! pym and such carles to the devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles. cavaliers, up! lips from the cup, hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup till you're-- marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. iii hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell serve hazelrig, fiennes, and young harry as well! england, good cheer! rupert is near! kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! iv then, god for king charles! pym and his snarls to the devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! hold by the right, you double your might; so, onward to nottingham, fresh for the fight, marching along, fifty-score strong, great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. the irish emigrant lady dufferin i'm sitting on the stile, mary, where we sat side by side, on a bright may morning long ago, when first you were my bride. the corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, and the red was on your lip, mary, and the love light in your eye. the place is little changed, mary, the day's as bright as then; the lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again, but i miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your warm breath on my cheek, and i still keep listening for the words you never more may speak. 'tis but a step down yonder lane, the village church stands near,-- the church where we were wed, mary, i see the spire from here. but the grave-yard lies between, mary, and my step might break your rest, where i've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. i'm very lonely now, mary, for the poor make no new friends; but, oh, they love the better the few our father sends. and you were all i had, mary, my blessing and my pride; there's nothing left to care for now, since my poor mary died. i'm bidding you a long farewell, my mary kind and true, but i'll not forget you, darling, in the land i'm going to. they say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there, but i'll not forget old ireland, were it fifty times less fair. song lord houghton i wander'd by the brook-side, i wander'd by the mill,-- i could not hear the brook flow, the noisy wheel was still; there was no burr of grasshopper, nor chirp of any bird; but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. i sat beneath the elm-tree, i watch'd the long, long shade, and as it grew still longer i did not feel afraid; for i listen'd for a footfall, i listen'd for a word,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. he came not,--no, he came not; the night came on alone; the little stars sat one by one each on his golden throne; the evening air pass'd by my cheek, the leaves above were stirr'd,-- but the beating of my own heart was all the sound i heard. fast silent tears were flowing, when some one stood behind; a hand was on my shoulder, i knew its touch was kind: it drew me nearer, nearer; we did not speak a word,-- for the beating of our own hearts was all the sound we heard. the long-ago on that deep-retiring shore frequent pearls of beauty lie, where the passion-waves of yore fiercely beat and mounted high: sorrows that are sorrows still lose the bitter taste of woe; nothing's altogether ill in the griefs of long-ago. tombs where lonely love repines, ghastly tenements of tears, wear the look of happy shrines through the golden mist of years death, to those who trust in good, vindicates his hardest blow; oh! we would not, if we could, wake the sleep of long-ago! though the doom of swift decay shocks the soul where life is strong, though for frailer hearts the day lingers sad and overlong-- still the weight will find a leaven, still the spoiler's hand is slow, while the future has its heaven, and the past its long-ago. the sands of dee rev. charles kingsley 'oh, mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands of dee.' the western wind was wild and dank with foam, and all alone went she. the western tide crept up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see. the rolling mist came down and hid the land: and never home came she. 'oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress of golden hair, a drowned maiden's hair, above the nets at sea?' was never salmon yet that shone so fair among the stakes of dee. they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea. but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands of dee. three fishers three fishers went sailing out into the west, out into the west, as the sun went down, each thought of the woman who loved him best, and the children stood watching them out of the town; for men must work, and women must weep, and there's little to earn, and many to keep, though the harbour-bar be moaning. three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, and they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, and the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; but men must work, and women must weep, though storms be sudden, and waters deep, and the harbour-bar be moaning. three corpses lie out on the shining sands, in the morning gleam, as the tide goes down, and the women are weeping and wringing their hands, for those who will never come home to the town. for men must work, and women must weep, and the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, and good-bye to the bar and its moaning. auld lang syne robert burns for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to min'? should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne. we twa hae run about the braes, and pou'd the gowans fine, but we've wander'd mony a weary fit sin' auld lang syne. we twa hae paidl'd i' the burn frae morning sun till dine, but seas between us braid hae roar'd sin' auld lang syne. and here's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine, and we'll tak a right guid willie-waught for auld lang syne. and surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, and surely i'll be mine, and we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne. for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne! god save the king henry carey god save our gracious king, long live our noble king, god save the king. send him victorious, happy and glorious, long to reign over us, god save the king. o lord our god, arise! scatter his enemies, and make them fall! confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks; on thee our hopes we fix-- god save us all. thy choicest gifts in store on him be pleased to pour, long may he reign! may he defend our laws, and ever give us cause to sing, with heart and voice, god save the king! printed by t. and a. constable, (late) printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press. * * * * * ------------------------------------------------------------------ transcriber's notes: p.xv. 'da rymple' is 'dalrymple' in table of contents, changed. p.viii. 'for auld lang syne, my dear,' is on p. , changed. p.x. 'my true love hath my heart,' is missing from table of contents, added. p.xii. 'sweet and low, sweet and low,' is on page , changed. p.xiii. 'weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,' is missing in table of contents, added. p.xv. 'burns, robert' on p. is missing from table of contents, added. p.xv. 'carey, henry' on p. is missing from table of contents, added. p.xv. 'dyer, sir edward' is missing in table of contents, added. p. . we praise the 'houshold' maid, changed to 'household'. p. . husband-lover changed to husband-luver. p. . with 'fragmeats' changed to 'fragments'. ------------------------------------------------------------------ public domain works from the university of michigan digital libraries.) transcriber's notes: . greek text has been replaced by a transliteration and indicated by [grk: ...]. in "constantine and arete" the same transliteration scheme has been used for modern greek text as is customary for ancient greek. . footnotes have been relocated following the paragraph or section where the anchor occurs. footnote anchors are in the form [a], [b] etc. . linenotes have been grouped at the end of each ballad. linenote anchors in the form [l##] have been added to the text (they are not in the original but alert the reader to the presence of a note referring to line number ##). ballad line numbers have been regularised to multiples of five and re-positioned or added where necessary. . [z] has been used to represent the yogh character. . italic typeface is represented by _underscores_. . archaic, unusual and inconsistent spelling or punctuation has generally been retained as in the original. where changes have been made to the text these are listed in transcriber's notes at the end of the book. * * * * * english and scottish ballads. edited by francis james child. sum bethe of wer, and sum of wo, sum of joie and mirthe also; and sum of trecherie and of gile, of old aventours that fel while; and sum of bourdes and ribaudy; and many ther beth of fairy; of all thinges that men seth;-- maist o love forsothe thai beth. _lay le freine._ volume i. boston: little, brown and company. m.dccc.lx. * * * * * entered according to act of congress, in the year , by little, brown and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of massachusetts. riverside, cambridge: stereotyped and printed by h.o. houghton and company. contents of volume first. page preface vii list of collections of ballads and songs xiii book i. . the boy and the mantle . the horn of king arthur . the marriage of sir gawaine . king arthur's death . the legend of king arthur . sir lancelot du lake . the legend of sir guy . st. george and the dragon . the seven champions of christendom a. thomas of ersseldoune b. thomas the rhymer . the young tamlane . the wee wee man . the elfin knight a. the broomfield hill b. lord john a. kempion b. kemp owyne . king henry a. cospatrick b. bothwell . willie's ladye . alison gross . the earl of mar's daughter a. young akin b. young hastings the groom . clerk colvill, or, the mermaid a. lady isabel and the elf-knight b. the water o'wearie's well a. the dæmon lover b. james herries . the knight's ghost . the wife of usher's well . the suffolk miracle . sir roland appendix. fragment of the ballad of king arthur and the king of cornwall fragment of child rowland and burd ellen rosmer hafmand, or, the merman rosmer tama-a-line tom linn burd ellen and young tamlane als y yod on ay mounday the elphin knight the laidley worm of spindlestonheugh lord dingwall fragment of hynde etin sir oluf and the elf-king's daughter fragment of the dæmon lover constantine and arete translation of the same the hawthorn tree st. stephen and herod glossary preface. these volumes have been compiled from the numerous collections of ballads printed since the beginning of the last century. they contain all but two or three of the _ancient_ ballads of england and scotland, and nearly all those ballads which, in either country, have been gathered from oral tradition,--whether ancient or not. widely different from the true popular ballads, the spontaneous products of nature, are the works of the professional ballad-maker, which make up the bulk of garlands and broadsides. these, though sometimes not without grace, more frequently not lacking in humor, belong to artificial literature,--of course to an humble department.[a] as many ballads of this second class have been admitted as it was thought might be wished for, perhaps i should say tolerated, by the "benevolent reader." no words could express the dulness and inutility of a collection which should embrace all the roxburghe and pepys broadsides--a scope with which this publication was most undeservedly credited by an english journal. but while the broadside ballads have been and must have been gleaned, the popular ballads demand much more liberal treatment. many of the older ones are mutilated, many more are miserably corrupted, but as long as any traces of their originals are left, they are worthy of attention and have received it. when a ballad is extant in a variety of forms, all the most important versions are given.--less than this would have seemed insufficient for a collection intended as a complement to an extensive series of the british poets. to meet the objections of readers for pleasure, all those pieces which are wanting in general interest are in each volume inserted in an appendix. [a] this distinction is not absolute, for several of the ancient ballads have a sort of literary character, and many broadsides were printed from oral tradition. the only _popular_ ballads excluded from this selection that require mention, are _the bonny hynd_, _the jolly beggar_, _the baffled knight_, _the keach in the creel_, and _the earl of errol_. these ballads, in all their varieties, may be found by referring to the general index at the end of the eighth volume. to extend the utility of this index, references are also given to many other ballads which, though not worth reprinting, may occasionally be inquired for. the ballads are grouped in eight books, nearly corresponding to the division of volumes. the arrangement in the several books may be called chronological, by which is meant, an arrangement according to the probable antiquity of the story, not the age of the actual form or language. exceptions to this rule will be observed, partly the result of oversight, partly of fluctuating views; the most noticeable case is in the first book, where the ballads that stand at the beginning are certainly not so old as some that follow. again, it is very possible that some pieces might with advantage be transferred to different books, but it is believed that the general disposition will be found practically convenient. it is as follows:-- book i. contains ballads involving superstitions of various kinds,--as of fairies, elves, water-spirits, enchantment, and ghostly apparitions; and also some legends of popular heroes. book ii. tragic love-ballads. book iii. other tragic ballads. book iv. love-ballads not tragic. book v. ballads of robin hood, his followers, and compeers. book vi. ballads of other outlaws, especially border outlaws, of border forays, feuds, &c. book vii. historical ballads, or those relating to public characters or events. book viii. miscellaneous ballads, especially humorous, satirical, burlesque; also some specimens of the moral and scriptural, and all such pieces as had been overlooked in arranging the earlier volumes. for the texts, the rule has been to select the most authentic copies, and to reprint them as they stand in the collections, restoring readings that had been changed without grounds, and noting all deviations from the originals, whether those of previous editors or of this edition, in the margin. interpolations acknowledged by the editors have generally been dropped. in two instances only have previously printed texts been superseded or greatly improved: the text of _the horn of king arthur_, in the first volume, was furnished from the manuscript, by j.o. halliwell, esq., and _adam bel_, in the fifth volume, has been amended by a recently discovered fragment of an excellent edition, kindly communicated by j.p. collier, esq. the introductory notices prefixed to the several ballads may seem dry and somewhat meagre. they will be found, it is believed, to comprise what is most essential even for the less cursory reader to know. these prefaces are intended to give an account of all the printed forms of each ballad, and references to the books in which they were first published. in many cases also, the corresponding ballads in other languages, especially in danish, swedish, and german, are briefly pointed out. but these last notices are very imperfect. fascinating as such investigations are, they could not be allowed to interfere with the progress of the series of poets of which this collection of ballads forms a part, nor were the necessary books immediately at hand. at a more favorable time the whole subject may be resumed, unless some person better qualified shall take it up in the interim. while upon this point let me make the warmest acknowledgments for the help received from grundtvig's ancient popular ballads of denmark (_danmarks gamle folkeviser_), a work which has no equal in its line, and which may in every way serve as a model for collections of national ballads. such a work as grundtvig's can only be imitated by an english editor, never equalled, for the material is not at hand. all denmark seems to have combined to help on his labors; schoolmasters and clergymen, in those retired nooks where tradition longest lingers, have been very active in taking down ballads from the mouths of the people, and a large number of old manuscripts have been placed at his disposal.--we have not even the percy manuscript at our command, and must be content to take the ballads as they are printed in the _reliques_, with all the editor's changes. this manuscript is understood to be in the hands of a dealer who is keeping it from the public in order to enhance its value. the greatest service that can now be done to english ballad-literature is to publish this precious document. civilization has made too great strides in the island of great britain for us to expect much more from tradition. certain short romances which formerly stood in the first book, have been dropped from this second edition, in order to give the collection a homogeneous character. one or two ballads have been added, and some of the prefaces considerably enlarged. f.j.c. _may_, . list of the principal collections of english and scottish ballads and songs. [this list does not include (excepting a few reprints) the collections of songs, madrigals, "ballets," &c., published in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,--the titles of most of which are to be seen in rimbault's _bibliotheca madrigaliana_. on the other hand, it does include a few useful books connected with ballad-poetry which would not properly come into a list of collections. the relative importance of the works in this list is partially indicated by difference of type. when two or more editions are mentioned, those used in this collection are distinguished by brackets. a few books which we have not succeeded in finding--all of slight or no importance--are marked with a star.] "a choise collection of comic and serious scots poems. both ancient and modern. by several hands. edinburgh. printed by james watson." three parts, , , . [ , , .] "miscellany poems, containing a variety of new translations of the ancient poets, together with several original poems. by the most eminent hands." ed. by dryden. vols. st ed. - . ed. of * contains ballads not in the earlier ones. "wit and mirth: or pills to purge melancholy; being a collection of the best merry ballads and songs, old and new. fitted to all humours, having each their proper tune for either voice or instrument: most of the songs being new set." by thomas d'urfey. vols. london. - . "a collection of old ballads. corrected from the best and most ancient copies extant. with introductions historical, critical, or humorous." vols. london. st and d vol. , d vol. . "the evergreen. being a collection of scots poems, wrote by the ingenious before . published by allan ramsay." vols. edinburgh, . [edinburgh. printed for alex. donaldson, .] "the tea-table miscellany: a collection of choice songs, scots and english." edinburgh. . vols. [glasgow, r. & a. foulis. . vols.] "orpheus caledonius, or a collection of scots songs, set to musick by w. thomson." london, , fol. [ , vols. vo.] "the hive. a collection of the most celebrated songs." in four volumes. th ed. london. . "the british musical miscellany, or the delightful grove, being a collection of celebrated english and scottish songs." london. - . "reliques of ancient english poetry: consisting of old heroic ballads, songs, and other pieces of our earlier poets; together with some few of later date. by thomas percy, lord bishop of dromore." vols. st ed. london, . [ th ed. (improved) .--london, l.a. lewis, .] "ancient and modern scottish songs, heroic ballads, &c." by david herd. vols. edinburgh, . d ed. . [ d ed. printed for lawrie and symington, .] "ancient scottish poems. published from the ms. of george bannatyne, mdlxviii." by sir david dalrymple, lord hailes. edinburgh, . "the choice spirit's chaplet: or a poesy from parnassus, being a select collection of songs from the most approved authors: many of them written and the whole compiled by george alexander slovens, esq." whitehaven, . "a collection of english songs in score for three or four voices. composed about the year . taken from mss. of the same age. revised and digested by john stafford smith." london, . "scottish tragic ballads." john pinkerton. london, . "two ancient scottish poems; the gaberlunzie-man and christ's kirk on the green. with notes and observations. by john callender, esq. of craigforth." edinburgh, . "the charmer: a collection of songs, chiefly such as are eminent for poetical merit; among which are many originals, and others that were never before printed in a songbook." vols. th ed. edinburgh, . "select scottish ballads." vols. john pinkerton. london, . vol. i. tragic ballads, vol. ii. comic ballads. "a select collection of english songs, with their original airs, and an historical essay on the origin and progress of national song." by j. ritson. . d ed. with additional songs and occasional notes, by thomas park. london, . vols. "the poetical museum. containing songs and poems on almost every subject. mostly from periodical publications." george caw. hawick, . "the bishopric garland or durham minstrel." edited by ritson. stockton, . newcastle, . [london, .] see "northern garlands," p. xix. *"the new british songster. a collection of songs, scots and english, with toasts and sentiments for the bottle." falkirk, . "ancient scottish poems, never before in print, but now published from the ms. collections of sir richard maitland," &c. john pinkerton. vols. london, . "the works of james i., king of scotland." to which are added "two ancient scotish poems, commonly ascribed to king james v." (the gaberlunzie-man and the jollie beggar.) morrison's scotish poets. poets. perth, . "the scots musical museum. in six volumes. consisting of six hundred scots songs, with proper basses for the piano forte," &c. by james johnson. edinburgh, - . [ d ed. "with copious notes and illustrations of the lyric poetry and music of scotland, by the late wiliam stenhouse," and "with additional notes and illustrations," by david laing. vols. edinburgh and london, .] "the yorkshire garland." edited by ritson. york, . see "northern garlands," p. xix. *"a select collection of favourite scottish ballads." vols. r. morison & son. perth, . "pieces of ancient popular poetry: from authentic manuscripts and old printed copies. by joseph ritson, esq." london, . [second edition, london, .] "ancient songs and ballads, from the reign of king henry the second to the revolution. collected by joseph ritson, esq." vols. printed , dated , published . [london, .] "scottish poems, reprinted from scarce editions, with three pieces before unpublished." collected by john pinkerton. vols. london, . *"the melodies of scotland, &c. the poetry chiefly by burns. the whole collected by george thomson." lond. & edin. vols. - . see p. xx., last title but one. "the northumberland garland." edited by ritson. newcastle, . [london, .] see "northern garlands," p. xix. "scotish song. in two volumes." joseph ritson. london, . "robin hood: a collection of all the ancient poems, songs and ballads, now extant, relative to that celebrated english outlaw. to which are prefixed historical anecdotes of his life, by joseph ritson. esq." vols. . [second edition, london, .] "a collection of english songs, with an appendix of original pieces." london, . lord hailes. *"an introduction to the history of poetry in scotland, &c., by alexander campbell, to which are subjoined songs of the lowlands of scotland, carefully compared with the original editions." edinburgh, . to. "tales of wonder; written and collected by m.g. lewis, esq., m.p." vols. london, . [new-york, .] "scottish poems of the sixteenth century." ed. by j.g. dalzell. edinburgh, . vols. (contains "ane compendious booke of godly and spirituall songs, collectit out of sundrie partes of the scripture, with sundrie of other ballates, changed out of prophaine sanges for avoyding of sinne and harlotrie, with augmentation of sundrie gude and godly ballates, not contained in the first edition. newlie corrected and amended by the first originall copie. edinburgh, printed by andro hart.") "the complaynt of scotland. written in . with a preliminary dissertation and glossary." by john leyden. edinburgh, . "chronicle of scottish poetry; from the thirteenth century to the union of the crowns." by j. sibbald. vols. edinburgh, . "the north-country chorister." edited by j. ritson. durham, . [london, .] see "northern garlands," p. xix. "minstrelsy of the scottish border: consisting of historical and romantic ballads, collected in the southern counties of scotland; with a few of modern date founded upon local tradition." st and d vols. , d . [poetical works of sir walter scott, vols. - . cadell, edinburgh, .] "the wife of auchtermuchty. an ancient scottish poem, with a translation into latin rhyme." edinburgh, . "a collection of songs, moral, sentimental, instructive, and amusing." by james plumtre. to. cambridge, . london, . vols. "popular ballads and songs, from tradition, manuscripts, and scarce editions; with translations of similar pieces from the ancient danish language, and a few originals by the editor. by robert jamieson." vols. edinburgh, . "ancient (!) historic ballads." newcastle, . "scottish historical and romantic ballads, chiefly ancient." by john finlay. vols. edinburgh . "remains of nithsdale and galloway song," &c. by r.h. cromek. london, . "old ballads, historical and narrative, with some of modern date: collected from rare copies and mss." by thomas evans. vols. . vols. . [new edition, revised and enlarged by r.h. evans. vols. london, .] "select scottish songs, ancient and modern, with critical and biographical notices, by robert burns. edited by r.h. cromek." london. . vols. "essay on song-writing; with a selection of such english songs as are most eminent for poetical merit. by john aiken. a new edition, with additions and corrections, and a supplement by r.h. evans." london, . "northern garlands." london, . (contains the bishopric, yorkshire, and northumberland garlands, and the north-country chorister, before mentioned.) "bibliographical miscellanies, being a collection of curious pieces in verse and prose." by dr. bliss. oxford, . "illustrations of northern antiquities, from the earlier teutonic and scandinavian romances, &c., with translations of metrical tales from the old german, danish, swedish, and icelandic languages." to. by weber, scott, and jamieson. edinburgh, . "pieces of ancient poetry, from unpublished manuscripts and scarce books." fry. bristol, . "a collection of ancient and modern scottish ballads, tales, and songs: with explanatory notes and observations." by john gilchrist. vols. edinburgh, . "heliconia. comprising a selection of the poetry of the elizabethan age, written or published between and ." edited by t. park. vols. london, . *"albyn's anthology." by alexander campbell. edinburgh, . "the pocket encyclopedia of song." vols. glasgow, . "calliope: a selection of ballads, legendary and pathetic." london, . facetiæ. musarum deliciæ ( ), wit restor'd ( ), and wits recreations ( ). vols. london, . "the suffolk garland: or a collection of poems, songs, tales, ballads, sonnets, and elegies, relative to that county." ipswich, . "the jacobite relics of scotland: being the songs, airs, and legends of the adherents to the house of stuart. collected and illustrated by james hogg." vols. edinburgh, and . "the harp of caledonia: a collection of songs, ancient and modern, chiefly scottish," &c. by john struthers. vols. glasgow, . "the new notborune mayd." roxburghe club. london, . "the scottish minstrel, a selection from the vocal melodies of scotland, ancient and modern, arranged for the piano-forte by r.a. smith." vols. - . *"the british minstrel, a selection of ballads, ancient and modern; with notes, biographical and critical. by john struthers." glasgow, . "scarce ancient ballads, many never before published." aberdeen. alex. laing, . "the select melodies of scotland, interspersed with those of ireland and wales," &c. by george thomson. london. vols. - . "select remains of the ancient popular poetry of scotland." by david laing. edinburgh, . "the beauties of english poetry." london, . "the thistle of scotland; a selection of ancient ballads, with notes. by alexander laing." aberdeen, . "some ancient christmas carols, with the tunes to which they were formerly sung in the west of england; together with two ancient ballads, a dialogue, &c. collected by davies gilbert." the second edition. london, . "a collection of curious old ballads and miscellaneous poetry." david webster. edinburgh, . "a ballad book." by charles kirkpatrick sharpe. . ( copies printed.) "a north countrie garland." by james maidment. edinburgh, . ( copies printed.) "the common-place book of ancient and modern ballad and metrical legendary tales. an original selection, including many never before published." edinburgh, . *"the scottish caledonian encyclopædia; or, the original, antiquated, and natural curiosities of the south of scotland, interspersed with scottish poetry." by john mactaggart. london, . "gleanings of scotch, english, and irish scarce old ballads, chiefly tragical and historical." by peter buchan. peterhead, . "the songs of scotland, ancient and modern; with an introduction and notes," &c. by allan cunningham. vols. london, . "early metrical tales." by david laing. edinburgh, . "ancient scottish ballads, recovered from tradition, and never before published: with notes, historical and explanatory, and an appendix, containing the airs of several of the ballads." by george r. kinloch. edinburgh, . "minstrelsy, ancient and modern, with an historical introduction and notes. by william motherwell." glasgow, . "the ballad-book." by george r. kinloch. edinburgh, . ( copies printed.) "ancient ballads and songs, chiefly from tradition, manuscripts, and scarce works," &c. by thomas lyle. london, . "the knightly tale of golagrus and gawane, and other ancient poems. printed at edinburgh, by w. chepman and a. myllar in the year m.d. viii. reprinted md.ccc.xxvii." "ancient ballads and songs of the north of scotland, hitherto unpublished." by peter buchan. vols. edinburgh, . "jacobite minstrelsy, with notes illustrative of the text, and containing historical details in relation to the house of stuart from to ." glasgow, . "the scottish ballads; collected and illustrated by robert chambers." edinburgh, . "the scottish songs; collected and illustrated by robert chambers." vols. edinburgh, . "ancient metrical tales: printed chiefly from original sources." by c.h. hartshorne. london, . "christmas carols, ancient and modern, including the most popular in the west of england, and the airs to which they were sung," &c. by w. sandys. london, . "the bishoprick garland, or a collection of legends, songs, ballads, &c., belonging to the county of durham." by sir cuthbert sharp. london, . "the universal songster, or museum of mirth, forming the most complete, extensive, and valuable collection of ancient and modern songs in the english language." vols. london. . "hugues de lincoln, recueil de ballades, anglo-normande et ecossoises, relatives an meurtre de cet enfant," &c. francisque michel. paris, . "ballads and other fugitive poetical pieces, chiefly scottish; from the collections of sir james balfour." edinburgh, . ed. by james maidment. "lays and legends of varions nations." by w.j. thoms. london, . parts. "the songs of england and scotland." by peter cunningham. vols. london, . "songs and carols. printed from a manuscript in the sloane collection in the british museum." by t. wright. london, . "the nutbrown maid. from the earliest edition of arnold's chronicle." by t. wright, london, . "the turnament of totenham, and the feest. two early ballads, printed from a manuscript preserved in the public library of the university of cambridge." by t. wright. london, . "a little book of ballads." newport, . printed by e.v. utterson for the roxburghe club. "ancient scotish melodies, from a manuscript of the reign of king james vi., with an introductory enquiry illustrative of the history of music in scotland." by william dauncy. edinburgh, . "syr gawayne; a collection of ancient romance-poems, by scotish and english authors, relating to that celebrated knight of the round table, with an introduction, notes, and a glossary." by sir fred. madden. bannatyne club. london, . *"frühlingsgabe für freunde älterer literatur." by th. g. v. karajan. vienna, . (contains english ballads.) "the political songs of england, from the reign of john to that of edward ii. edited and translated by thomas wright." london, . camden society. "a collection of national english airs, consisting of ancient song, ballad, and dance tunes, interspersed with remarks and anecdote, and preceded by an essay on english minstrelsy." by w. chappell. vols. london, - . (see _post_.) "the latin poems commonly attributed to walter mapes, collected and edited by thomas wright." london, . camden society. publications of the percy society, ( - .) vol. i. "old ballads, from early printed copies of the utmost rarity." by j. payne collier. . "a collection of songs and ballads relative to the london prentices and trades, and to the affairs of london generally, during the th, th, and th centuries." by charles mackay. . "the historical songs of ireland: illustrative of the revolutionary struggle between james ii. and william iii. by t. crofton croker. . "the king and a poor northern man. from the edition of ." . vol. ii. "the early naval ballads of england. collected and edited by j.o. halliwell." . "the mad pranks and merry jests of robin goodfellow. reprinted from the edition of ." by j. payne collier. . vol. iii. "political ballads published in england during the commonwealth." by thomas wright. . "strange histories: consisting of ballads and other poems, principally by thomas deloney. from the edition of ." . "the history of patient grisel. two early tracts in black-letter." . vol. iv. "the nursery rhymes of england, collected principally from oral tradition." by j.o. halliwell. . vol. vi. "ancient poetical tracts of the sixteenth century." reprinted from unique copies. by e.f. rimbault . "the crown garland of golden roses: consisting of ballads and songs. by richard johnson." part i. from the edition of . . [part ii., from the edition of , in vol. xv.] vol. ix. "old ballads illustrating the great frost of - , and the fair on the thames." collected and edited by e.f. rimbault. . vol. xiii. "six ballads with burdens." by james goodwin. . "lyrical poems selected from musical publications between the years and ." by j.p. collier. . vol. xv. "the crown garland of golden roses. part ii. from the edition of ." . vol. xvii. "scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads." [from a ms. of buchan's.] edited by james henry dixon. . "ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england, taken down from oral recitation, and transcribed from private manuscripts, rare broadsides, and scarce publications. collected and edited by james henry dixon." . vol. xix. "the civic garland. a collection of songs from london pageants." by f.w. fairholt. . vol. xxi. "popular songs illustrative of the french invasions of ireland." by t. crofton croker. . vol. xxiii. "songs and carols, now first printed from a manuscript of the fifteenth century." by thomas wright, . "festive songs, principally of the th and th centuries: with an introduction." by william sandys. . vol. xxvii. "satirical songs and poems on costume: from the th to the th century." by f.w. fairholt. . vol. xxix. "the loyal garland: a collection of songs of the th century. reprinted from a black-letter copy supposed to be unique." by j.o. halliwell. . "poems and songs relating to george villiers, duke of buckingham, and his assassination by john felton." by f.w. fairholt. vol. xxx. "the garland of goodwill, by thomas deloney." from the edition of . by j.h. dixon. . "popular rhymes, fireside stories, and amusements of scotland." by robert chambers, edinburgh. . [earlier edition in .] "selections from the early ballad poetry of england and scotland. edited by richard john king." london, . "the book of british ballads." by s.c. hall. vols. . . "the book of scottish song: collected and illustrated with historical and critical notices, and an essay on the song-writers of scotland." by alex. whitelaw. . [glasgow, edinburgh and london, .] "a new book of old ballads." by james maidment. edinburgh, . [ copies printed.] *twelve romantic scottish ballads, with music. chambers, . publications of the shakespeare society: "the shakespeare society papers." vol. i. . vol. iv. . "illustrations of the fairy mythology of a midsummer night's dream." by j.o. halliwell. . "the moral play of wit and science, and early poetical miscellanies from an unpublished manuscript." by j.o. halliwell. . "extracts from the registers of the stationers' company, of works entered for publication between the years and . with notes and illustrations by j. payne collier." . vol. ii. [ - .] . "the book of scottish ballads; collected and illustrated with historical and critical notices. by alex. whitelaw." glasgow, edinburgh & london. . "reliquiæ antiquæ." wright & halliwell. vols. london, . "essays on subjects connected with the literature, popular superstitions, and history of england in the middle ages." by thomas wright. vols. london, . "the borderer's table book: or gatherings of the local history and romance of the english and scottish border. by m.a. richardson." vols. newcastle-upon-tyne, . "the ballads and songs of ayrshire," &c. by james paterson and captain charles gray. vols. ayr, - . "the minstrelsy of the english border. being a collection of ballads, ancient, remodelled, and original, founded on well-known border legends. with illustrative notes." by frederick sheldon. london, . "a book of roxburghe ballads. edited by john payne collier." london, . "bibliotheca madrigaliana. a bibliographical account of the musical and poetical works published in england during the th and th centuries, under the titles of madrigals, ballots, ayres, canzonets," &c. by e.f. rimbault. . "a lytell geste of robin hode, with other ancient and modern ballads and songs relating to this celebrated yeoman," &c. by john mathew gutch. vols. london. . "sir hugh of lincoln: or an examination of a curious tradition respecting the jews, with a notice of the popular poetry connected with it. by the rev. abraham hume." london, . "ballads and poems respecting hugh of lincoln." j.o. halliwell. brixton hill, . "the ballad of edwin and emma. by david mallet." with notes and illustrations by frederick t. dinsdale. london, . "musical illustrations of bishop percy's reliques of ancient english poetry. a collection of old ballad tunes, etc. chiefly from rare mss. and early printed books," &c. by edward f. rimbault. london, . "the fairy mythology. illustrative of the romance and superstition of various countries." by thomas keightley. london, . "palatine anthology. a collection of ancient poems and ballads relating to lancashire and cheshire. the palatine garland. being a selection of ballads and fragments supplementary to the palatine anthology." by j.o. halliwell. . [privately printed.] "a new boke about shakespeare and stratford-on-avon." by j.o. halliwell. . [privately printed.] "a little book of songs and ballads, gathered from ancient musick books, ms. and printed." by e.f. rimbault. london, . "the sussex garland. a collection of ballads, sonnets, tales, elegies, songs, epitaphs, &c. illustrative of the county of sussex." by james taylor. newick, . "the yorkshire anthology. a collection of ancient and modern ballads, poems and songs, relating to the county of yorkshire. collected by j.o. halliwell." london, . [privately printed.] "the norfolk anthology. a collection of poems, ballads, and rare tracts, relating to the county of norfolk." collected by j.o. halliwell. . [privately printed.] "the illustrated book of english songs. from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century." illustrated london library. london, (about) . "the illustrated book of scottish songs. from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century." illustrated london library. london, (about) . "the great hero of the ancient minstrelsy of england, robin hood," &c. by joseph hunter. london, . "the literature and romance of northern europe, &c.; with copious specimens of the most celebrated histories, romances, popular legends and tales, old chivalrous ballads," &c. by william & mary howitt. vols. london, . "the pictorial book of ancient ballad poetry of great britain, historical, traditional, and romantic: to which are added a selection of modern imitations, and some translations." by j.s. moore. london, . "the songs of scotland adapted to their appropriate melodies," &c. illustrated with historical, biographical, and critical notices. by george farquhar graham. vols. edinburgh, - . "songs from the dramatists." edited by robert bell. annotated edition of the english poets. london, . "popular music of the olden time; a collection of ancient songs, ballads, and dance tunes, illustrative of the national music of england. with short introductions to the different reigns, and notices of the airs from writers of the th and th centuries. also a short account of the minstrels." by w. chappell. london. begun, . complete in vols. "reliques of ancient poetry, &c. (percy's.) to which is now added a supplement of many curious historical and narrative ballads, reprinted from rare copies." philadelphia, . "early ballads illustrative of history, traditions and customs." by r. bell. annotated edition of the english poets. london, . "ballads and songs. by david mallet. a new edition, with notes and illustrations and a memoir of the author." by frederick dinsdale. london, . "ancient poems, ballads, and songs of the peasantry of england. edited by robert bell." london, . "the ballads of scotland. edited by william edmondstoune aytoun." vols. edinburgh and london, . d ed., . "the romantic scottish ballads: their epoch and authorship. edinburgh papers. by robert chambers." lond. &. ed. . "the romantic scottish ballads and the lady wardlaw heresy. by norval clyne." aberdeen, . "political poems and songs relating to english history, composed during the period from the accession of edward iii. to that of richard iii." by thomas wright. vol. i. london, . (published by the british government.) the ballads and songs of yorkshire. by c.j.d. ingledew. (announced.) the jacobite minstrelsy of scotland. by charles mackay (announced.) the gentleman's magazine, *the scots magazine, the retrospective review, the british bibliographer, censura literara, restituta, notes and queries, &c. the full titles of the principal collections of ballad-poetry in other languages, referred to in these volumes, are as follows:-- "udvalgte danske viser fra middelalderen; efter a.s. vedels og p. syvs trykte udgaver og efter haandskrevne samlinger udgivne paa ny af abrahamson, nyerup, og rahbek." copenhagen, - . vols. danmarks gamle folkeviser, udgivne af svend grundtvig. vols., and the first part of the third. copenhagen, - . "svenska folk-visor fran forntiden, samlade och utgifne af er. gust. geijer och arv. aug. afzelius." stockholm, - . vols. "svenska fornsånger. en samling af kämpavisor, folk-visor, lekar och dansar, samt barn- och vall-sånger. utgifne af adolf iwar arwidsson." stockholm, - . vols. "altdänische heldenlieder, balladen, und mährchen, übersetzt von wilhelm carl grimm." heidelberg, . "des knaben wunderhorn. alte dentsche lieder." arnim & brentano. vols. heidelberg, - . d ed. of first part in . "die volkslieder der deutschen, etc. herausgegeben durch friedrich karl freiherrn von erlach." mannheim, - . vols. "versuch einer geschichtlichen charakteristik der volkslieder germanischer nationen, mit einer uebersicht der lieder aussereuropäischer völkerschaften." von talvj. leipzig, . "schlesische volkslieder mit melodien. aus dem munde des volks gesammelt und herausgegeben von hoffmann von fallersleben und ernst richter." leipzig, . "alte hoch- und niederdeutsche volkslieder, in fünf büchern, herausgegeben von ludwig uhland." vols. stuttgart, - . "deutsther liederhort. auswahl der vorzüglichern deutschen volkslieder aus der vorzeit und der gegenwart mit ihren eigenthümlichen melodien." von ludwig erk. berlin, . "niederländische volkslieder. gesammelt und erläutert von hoffmann von fallersleben." d ed. hannover, . * * * * * book i. the boy and the mantle. no incident is more common in romantic fiction, than the employment of some magical contrivance as a test of conjugal fidelity, or of constancy in love. in some romances of the round table, and tales founded upon them, this experiment is performed by means either of an enchanted horn, of such properties that no dishonoured husband or unfaithful wife can drink from it without spilling, or of a mantle which will fit none but chaste women. the earliest known instances of the use of these ordeals are afforded by the _lai du corn_, by robert bikez, a french minstrel of the twelfth or thirteenth century, and the _fabliau du mantel mautaillé_, which, in the opinion of a competent critic, dates from the second half of the thirteenth century, and is only the older lay worked up into a new shape. (wolf, _ueber die lais_, , sq., , sq.) we are not to suppose, however, that either of these pieces presents us with the primitive form of this humorous invention. robert bikez tells us that he learned his story from an abbot, and that "noble ecclesiast" stood but one further back in a line of tradition which curiosity will never follow to its source. we shall content ourselves with noticing the most remarkable cases of the use of these and similar talismans in imaginative literature. in the _roman de tristan_, a composition of unknown antiquity, the frailty of nearly all the ladies at the court of king marc is exposed by their essaying a draught from the marvellous horn, (see the english _morte arthur_, southey's ed. i. .) in the _roman de perceval_, the knights, as well as the ladies, undergo this probation. from some one of the chivalrous romances ariosto adopted the wonderful vessel into his _orlando_, (xlii. , sq., xliii. , sq.,) and upon his narrative la fontaine founded the tale and the comedy of _la coupe enchantée_. in german, we have two versions of the same story,--one, an episode in the _krone_ of heinrich vom türlein, thought to have been borrowed from the _perceval_ of chrétien de troyes, (_die sage vom zauberbecher_, in wolf, _ueber die lais_, ,) and another, which we have not seen, in bruns, _beiträge zur kritischen bearbeitung alter handschriften_, ii. ; while in english, it is represented by the highly amusing "bowrd," which we are about to print, and which we have called _the horn of king arthur_. the forms of the tale of the mantle are not so numerous. the _fabliau_ already mentioned was reduced to prose in the sixteenth century, and published at lyons, (in ,) as _le manteau mal taillé_, (legrand's _fabliaux_, d ed., i. ,) and under this title, or that of _le court mantel_, is very well known. an old fragment (_der mantel_) is given in haupt and hoffmann's _altdeutsche blätter_, ii. , and the story is also in bruns _beiträge_. lastly, we find the legends of the horn and the mantle united, as in the german ballad _die ausgleichung_, (_des knaben wunderhorn_, i. ,) and in the english ballad of _the boy and the mantle_, where a magical knife is added to the other curiosities. all three of these, by the way, are claimed by the welsh as a part of the _insignia_ of ancient britain, and the special property of tegau eurvron, the wife of caradog with the strong arm. (jones, _bardic museum_, p. .) in other departments of romance, many other objects are endowed with the same or an analogous virtue. in indian and persian story, the test of innocence is a red lotus-flower; in _amadis_, a garland, which fades on the brow of the unfaithful; in _perceforest_, a rose. the _lay of the rose_ in _perceforest_, is the original (according to schmidt) of the much-praised tale of senecé, _camille, ou la manière de filer le parfait amour_, ( ,)--in which a magician presents a jealous husband with a portrait in wax, that will indicate by change of color the infidelity of his wife,--and suggested the same device in the twenty-first novel of bandello, (part first,) on the translation of which in painter's _palace of pleasure_, (vol. ii. no. ,) massinger founded his play of _the picture_. again, in the tale of _zeyn alasman and the king of the genii_, in the _arabian nights_, the means of proof is a mirror, that reflects only the image of a spotless maiden; in that of the carpenter and the king's daughter, in the _gesta romanorum_, (c. ,) a shirt, which remains clean and whole as long as both parties are true; in _palmerin of england_, a cup of tears, which becomes dark in the hands of an inconstant lover; in the _fairy queen_, the famous girdle of florimel; in _horn and rimnild_ (ritson, _metrical romances_, iii. ,) as well as in one or two ballads in this collection, the stone of a ring; in a german ballad, _die krone der königin von afion_, (erlach, _volkslieder der deutschen_, i. ,) a golden crown, that will fit the head of no incontinent husband. without pretending to exhaust the subject, we may add three instances of a different kind: the valley in the romance of _lancelot_, which being entered by a faithless lover would hold him imprisoned forever; the cave in _amadis of gaul_, from which the disloyal were driven by torrents of flame; and the well in _horn and rimnild_, (_ibid._) which was to show the shadow of horn, if he proved false. in conclusion, we will barely allude to the singular anecdote related by herodotus, (ii. ,) of phero, the son of sesostris, in which the experience of king marc and king arthur is so curiously anticipated. in the early ages, as dunlop has remarked, some experiment for ascertaining the fidelity of women, in defect of evidence, seems really to have been resorted to. "by the levitical law," (_numbers_ v. - ,) continues that accurate writer, "there was prescribed a mode of trial, which consisted in the suspected person drinking water in the tabernacle. the mythological fable of the trial by the stygian fountain, which disgraced the guilty by the waters rising so as to cover the laurel wreath of the unchaste female who dared the examination, probably had its origin in some of the early institutions of greece or egypt. hence the notion was adopted in the greek romances, the heroines of which were invariably subjected to a magical test of this nature, which is one of the few particulars in which any similarity of incident can be traced between the greek novels and the romances of chivalry." see dunlop, _history of fiction_, london, , i. , sq.; legrand, _fabliaux_, d ed., i. , sq., ; schmidt, _jahrbücher der literatur_, xxix. ; wolf, _ueber die lais_, - ; and, above all, graesse's _sagenkreise des mittelalters_, , sq. _the boy and the mantle_ was "printed verbatim" from the percy ms., in the _reliques of ancient english poetry_, iii. . in the third day of may, to carleile did come a kind curteous child, that cold much of wisdome. a kirtle and a mantle this child had uppon, with brouches[l ] and ringes full richelye bedone. he had a sute of silke about his middle drawne; without he cold of curtesye, he thought itt much shame. "god speed thee, king arthur, sitting at thy meate: and the goodly queene guénever i cannott her forgett, "i tell you, lords, in this hall, i hett[l ] you all to heede, except you be the more surer, is you for to dread." he plucked out of his poterner,[l ] and longer wold not dwell; he pulled forth a pretty mantle, betweene two nut-shells. "have thou here, king arthur, have thou heere of mee; give itt to thy comely queene, shapen as itt is alreadye. itt shall never become that wiffe, that hath once done amisse:"-- then every knight in the kings court began to care for his[l ]. forth came dame guénever; to the mantle shee her hied[l ]; the ladye shee was newfangle, but yett shee was affrayd. when shee had taken the mantle, she stoode as shee had beene madd: it was from the top to the toe, as sheeres had itt shread. one while was it gule[l ], another while was itt greene; another while was it wadded; ill itt did her beseeme. another while was it blacke, and bore the worst hue: "by my troth," quoth king arthur, "i think thou be not true." she threw down the mantle, that bright was of blee; fast, with a rudd redd, to her chamber can shee flee. she curst the weaver and the walker that clothe that had wrought, and bade a vengeance on his crowne that hither hath itt brought. "i had rather be in a wood, under a greene tree, then in king arthurs court shamed for to bee." kay called forth his ladye, and bade her come neere; saies, "madam, and thou be guiltye, i pray thee hold thee there." forth came his ladye, shortlye and anon; boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone. when she had tane the mantle, and cast it her about, then was shee bare 'before all the rout.' then every knight, that was in the kings court, talked, laughed,[l ] and showted full oft att that sport. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee; fast, with a red rudd, to her chamber can shee flee. forth came an old knight, pattering ore a creede, and he proferred to this litle boy twenty markes to his meede, and all the time of the christmasse, willinglye to ffeede; for why, this mantle might doe his wiffe some need. when she had tane the mantle, of cloth that was made, shee had no more left on her, but a tassell and a threed: then every knight in the kings court bade evill might shee speed. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee; and fast, with a redd rudd, to her chamber can shee flee. craddocke called forth his ladye, and bade her come in; saith, "winne this mantle, ladye, with a little dinne. winne this mantle, ladye, and it shal be thine, if thou never did amisse since thou wast mine." forth came craddockes ladye, shortlye and anon; but boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone. when she had tane the mantle, and cast it her about, upp at her great toe it began to crinkle and crowt: shee said, "bowe downe, mantle, and shame me not for nought. once i did amisse, i tell you certainlye, when i kist craddockes mouth under a greene tree; when i kist craddockes mouth before he marryed mee." when shee had her shreeven, and her sines shee had tolde, the mantle stoode about her right as shee wold, seemelye of coulour, glittering like gold: then every knight in arthurs court did her behold. then spake dame guénever to arthur our king; "she hath tane yonder mantle not with right[l ], but with wronge. see you not yonder woman, that maketh her self soe 'cleane'[l ]? i have seene tane out of her bedd of men fiveteene; priests, clarkes, and wedded men from her, bydeene: yett shee taketh the mantle, and maketh her self cleane." then spake the little boy, that kept the mantle in hold; sayes, "king, chasten thy wiffe, of her words shee is to bold: shee is a bitch and a witch, and a whore bold: king, in thine owne hall thou art a cuckold." the little boy stoode looking out a dore; 'and there as he was lookinge he was ware of a wyld bore.' he was ware of a wyld bore, wold have werryed a man: he pulld forth a wood kniffe, fast thither that he ran: he brought in the bores head, and quitted him like a man. he brought in the bores head, and was wonderous bold: he said there was never a cuckolds kniffe carve itt that cold. some rubbed their knives uppon a whetstone: some threw them under the table, and said they had none. king arthur and the child stood looking them upon; all their knives edges turned backe againe. craddocke had a little knive of iron and of steele; he britled[l ] the bores head wonderous weele, that every knight in the kings court had a morssell. the little boy had a horne, of red gold that ronge: he said there was "noe cuckolde shall drinke of my horne, but he shold it sheede, either behind or beforne." some shedd on their shoulder, and some on their knee; he that cold not hitt his mouthe, put it in his eye: and he that was a cuckold every man might him see. craddocke wan the horne, and the bores head: his ladie wan the mantle unto her meede. everye such a lovely ladye god send her well to speede. ms. ver. , branches. v. , heate. v. , poterver. ms. v. , his wiffe. v. , bided. v. , gaule. ms. ver. , lauged. ms. ver. , wright. v. , cleare. ms. v. , or birtled. the horn of king arthur. ms. ashmole, , fol. to . this amusing piece was first published entire in hartshorne's _ancient metrical tales_, p. , but with great inaccuracies. it is there called _the cokwolds daunce_. a few extracts had previously been given from the ms., in the notes to _orfeo and heurodis_, in laing's _early popular poetry of scotland_. mr. wright contributed a corrected edition to karajan's _frühlingsgabe für freunde älterer literatur_. that work not being at the moment obtainable, the editor was saved from the necessity of reprinting or amending a faulty text, by the kindness of j.o. halliwell, esq., who sent him a collation of hartshorne's copy with the oxford manuscript. all that wyll of solas lere, herkyns now, and [z]e schall here, and [z]e kane vnderstond; off a bowrd i wyll [z]ou schew, that ys full gode and trew, that fell some tyme in ynglond. kynge arthour was off grete honour, off castellis and of many a toure, and full wyde iknow; a gode ensample i wyll [z]ou sey, what chanse befell hym one a dey; herkyn to my saw! cokwoldes he louyd, as i [z]ou ply[z]t; he honouryd them, both dey and nyght, in all maner of thyng; and as i rede in story, he was kokwold sykerly; ffor sothê it is no lesyng. herkyne, seres, what i sey; her may [z]e here solas and pley, iff [z]e wyll take gode hede; kyng arthour had a bugyll horn, that ever mour stod hym be forn, were so that ever he [z]ede. ffor when he was at the bord sete, anon the horne schuld be fette[l ], ther off that he myght drynk; ffor myche crafte he couth thereby, and ofte tymes the treuth he sey; non other couth he thynke. iff any cokwold drynke of it, spyll he schuld, withouten lette; therfor thei wer not glade; gret dispyte thei had therby, because it dyde them vilony, and made them oft tymes sade. when the kyng wold hafe solas, the bugyll was fett[l ] into the plas, to make solas and game; and then changyd the cokwoldes chere; the kyng them callyd ferre and nere, lordynges, by ther name. than men myght se game inow[z]e, when every cokwold on other leu[z]e, and [z]it thei schamyd sore: where euer the cokwoldes wer sought, befor the kyng thei were brought, both lesse and more. kyng arthour than, verament, ordeynd, throw hys awne assent, ssoth as i [z]ow sey, the tabull dormounte withouten lette; ther at the cokwoldes wer sette, to have solas and pley. ffor at the bord schuld be non other bot euery cokwold and his brother[l ]; to tell treuth i must nedes; and when the cokwoldes wer sette, garlandes of wylos sculd be fette, and sett vpon ther hedes. off the best mete, withoute lesyng, that stode on bord befor the kyng, both ferr and nere, to the cokwoldes he sente anon, and bad them be glad euerychon, ffor his sake make gode chere. and seyd, "lordyngs, for [z]our lyues, be neuer the wrother with [z]our wyues, ffor no manner of nede: off women com duke and kyng; i [z]ow tell without lesyng, of them com owre manhed. so it befell sertenly, the duke off glosseter com in hy[z]e, to the courte with full gret my[z]ht; he was reseyued at the kyngs palys, with mych honour and grete solas, with lords that were well dyg[z]ht. with the kyng ther dyde he dwell, bot how long i can not tell, therof knaw i non name; off kyng arthour a wonder case, frendes, herkyns how it was, ffor now begynes game. vppon a dey, withouten lette, the duke with the kyng was sette, at mete with mykill pride; he lukyd abowte wonder faste, hys syght on euery syde he caste to them that sate besyde. the kyng aspyed the erle anon, and fast he low[z]he the erle vpon, and bad he schuld be glad; and yet, for all hys grete honour, cokwold was kyng arthour, ne galle non he had. so at the last, the duke he brayd, and to the kyng thes wordes sayd[l ]; he myght no longer forbere; "syr, what hath thes men don, that syche garlondes thei were vpon? that skyll wold i lere." the kyng seyd the erle to, "syr, non hurte they haue do, ffor this was thru[z]h a chans. sertes thei be fre men all, ffor non of them hath no gall; therfor this is ther penans. "ther wyves hath ben merchandabull, and of ther ware compenabull; methinke it is non herme; a man of lufe that wold them craue, hastely he schuld it haue, ffor thei couth not hym wern. "all theyr wyves, sykerlyke, hath vsyd the backefysyke[l ], whyll thes men were oute; and ofte they haue draw that draught, to vse well the lechers craft, with rubyng of ther toute. "syr," he seyd, "now haue i redd; ete we now, and make vs glad, and euery man fle care;" the duke seyd to hym anon, "than be thei cokwoldes, everychon;" the kyng seyd, "hold the there." the kyng than, after the erlys word, send to the cokwolds bord, to make them mery among, all manner of mynstralsy, to glad the cokwolds by and by with herpe, fydell, and song: and bad them take no greffe, bot all with loue and with leffe, euery man ...[l ] with other; ffor after mete, without distans, the cockwolds schuld together danse, euery man with hys brother. than began a nobull game: the cockwolds together came befor the erle and the kyng; in skerlet kyrtells over one, the cokwoldes stodyn euerychon, redy vnto the dansyng. than seyd the kyng in hye, "go fyll my bugyll hastely, and bryng it to my hond. i wyll asey with a gyne all the cokwolds that her is in; to know them wyll i fond." than seyd the erle, "for charyte, in what skyll, tell me, a cokwold may i know?" to the erle the kyng ansuerd, "syr, be myn hore berd, thou schall se within a throw." the bugyll was brought the kyng to hond. then seyd the kyng, "i vnderstond, thys horne that [z]e here se, ther is no cockwold, fer ne nere, here of to drynke hath no power, as wyde as crystiante, "bot he schall spyll on euery syde; ffor any cas that may betyde, schall non therof avanse." and [z]it, for all hys grete honour, hymselfe, noble kyng arthour, hath forteynd syche a chans. "syr erle," he seyd, "take and begyn." he seyd; "nay, be seynt austyn, that wer to me vylony; not for all a reme to wyn, befor you i schuld begyn, ffor honour off my curtassy." kyng arthour ther he toke the horn, and dyde as he was wont beforn, bot ther was [z]it gon a gyle: [l ]he wend to haue dronke of the best, bot sone he spyllyd on hys brest, within a lytell whyle. the cokwoldes lokyd iche on other, and thought the kyng was their own brother, and glad thei wer of that: "he hath vs scornyd many a tyme, and now he is a cokwold fyne, to were a cokwoldes hate." the quene was therof schamyd sore; sche changyd hyr colour lesse and more, and wold haue ben a wey. therwith the kyng gan hyr behold, and seyd he schuld neuer be so bold, the soth agene to sey. "cokwoldes no mour i wyll repreue, ffor i ame ane, and aske no leue, ffor all my rentes and londys. lordyngs, all now may [z]e know that i may dance in the cokwold row, and take [z]ou by the handes." than seyd thei all at a word, that cokwoldes schuld begynne the bord, and sytt hyest in the halle. "go we, lordyngs, all [and] same, and dance to make vs gle and game, ffor cokwolds have no galle." and after that sone anon, the kyng causyd the cokwolds ychon to wesch withouten les; ffor ought that euer may betyde, he sett them by hys awne syde, vp at the hy[z]e dese. the kyng hymselff a gurlond fette; uppon hys hede he it sette, ffor it myght be non other, and seyd, "lordyngs, sykerly, we be all off a freyry; i ame [z]our awne brother. "be jhesu cryst that is aboffe, that man aught me gode loffe that ley by my quene: i wer worthy hym to honour, both in castell and in towre, with rede, skerlet and grene. "ffor him he helpyd, when i was forth, to cher my wyfe and make her myrth; ffor women louys wele pley; and therfor, serys, have [z]e no dowte bot many schall dance in the cokwoldes rowte, both by nyght and dey. "and therefor, lordyngs, take no care; make we mery; for nothing spare; all brether in one rowte." than the cokwoldes wer full blythe, and thankyd god a hundred syth, ffor soth withouten dowte. every cokwold seyd to other, "kyng arthour is our awne brother, therfor we may be blyth:" the erle off glowsytur verament, toke hys leve, and home he wente, and thankyd the kyng fele sythe. kyng arthour lived at karlyon[l ], with hys cokwolds euerychon, and made both gam and gle: * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *[l ] a knyght ther was withouten les, that seruyd at the kyngs des, syr corneus hyght he; he made this gest in hys gam, and named it after hys awne name, in herpyng or other gle. and after, nobull kyng arthour lyued and dyed with honour, as many hath don senne, both cokwoldes and other mo: god gyff vs grace that we may go to heuyn! amen, amen. , sette. see , . , sett. , brothers. , spake. , ms. baskefysyke. , word wanting. , bot he. , left at skarlyon. , three lines omitted in ms. fragment of the marriage of sir gawaine. from percys _reliques_, iii. . this is one of the few ballads contained in the percy ms., which we have the pleasure of possessing as it is there written. having first submitted an improved copy, "with large conjectural supplements and corrections," percy added this old fragment at the end of the volume: "literally and exactly printed, with all its defects, inaccuracies, and errata," in order, as he triumphantly remarks, "that such austere antiquaries as complain that the ancient copies have not been always rigidly adhered to, may see how unfit for publication many of the pieces would have been, if all the blunders, corruptions, and nonsense of illiterate reciters and transcribers had been superstitiously retained, without some attempt to correct and amend them." "this ballad," the editor of the _reliques_ goes on to say, "has most unfortunately suffered by having half of every leaf in this part of the ms. torn away; and, as about nine stanzas generally occur in the half-page now remaining, it is concluded that the other half contained nearly the same number of stanzas." the story may be seen, unmutilated and in an older form, in madden's _syr gawayne_, p. , _the weddynge of syr gawen and dame ragnell_. the transformation on which the story turns is found also in chaucer's _wife of bath's tale_, in gower's tale of _florent and the king of sicily's daughter_; (_confessio amantis_, book i.) in the ballad of _king henry_ (page of this volume); and in an icelandic saga of the danish king helgius, quoted by scott in his illustrations to _king henry, minstrelsy_, iii. . voltaire has employed the same idea in his _ce qui plaît aux dames_, but whence he borrowed it we are unable to say. worked over by some ballad-monger of the sixteenth century, and of course reduced to dish-water, this tale has found its way into _the crown garland of golden roses_, part i. p. (percy society, vol. vi.), _of a knight and a faire virgin_. kinge arthur liues in merry carleile, and seemely is to see; and there he hath with him queene genever, that bride so bright of blee. and there he hath with him queene genever, that bride soe bright in bower; and all his barons about him stoode, that were both stiffe and stowre. the king kept a royall christmasse, of mirth & great honor; ... when ... [_about nine stanzas wanting._] "and bring me word what thing it is that women[l ] most desire; this shalbe thy ransome, arthur," he sayes, "for ile haue no other hier." king arthur then held vp his hand, according thene as was the law; he tooke his leaue of the baron there, and homword can he draw. and when he came to merry carlile, to his chamber he is gone; and ther came to him his cozen, sir gawaine, as he did make his mone. and there came to him his cozen, sir gawaine[l ], that was a curteous knight; "why sigh you soe sore, vnckle arthur," he said, "or who hath done thee vnright?" "o peace! o peace! thou gentle gawaine, that faire may thee beffall; for if thou knew my sighing soe deepe, thou wold not meruaile att all. "ffor when i came to tearne-wadling, a bold barron there i fand; with a great club vpon his backe, standing stiffe & strong. "and he asked me wether i wold fight or from him i shold be gone; or else[l ] i must him a ransome pay, and soe depart him from. "to fight with him i saw noe cause, me thought it was not meet; for he was stiffe and strong with all; his strokes were nothing sweete. "therefor this is my ransome, gawaine, i ought to him to pay; i must come againe, as i am sworne, vpon the newyeers day. "and i must bring him word what thing it is [_about nine stanzas wanting._] then king arthur drest him for to ryde, in one soe riche array, towards the foresaid tearne-wadling, that he might keepe his day. and as he rode over a more, hee see a lady, where shee sate, betwixt an oke and a greene hollen; she was clad in red scarlett. then there as shold have stood her mouth, then there was sett her eye; the other was in her forhead fast, the way that she might see. her nose was crooked, & turnd outward, her mouth stood foule a-wry; a worse formed lady then shee was, neuer man saw with his eye. to halch vpon him, king arthur, this lady was full faine; but king arthur had forgott his lesson, what he shold say againe. "what knight art thou," the lady sayd, "that wilt not speake to me? of me [be] thou nothing dismayd, tho i be vgly to see. "for i haue halched you curteouslye, and you will not me againe; yett i may happen, sir knight," shee said, "to ease thee of thy paine." "giue thou ease me, lady," he said, "or helpe me any thing, thou shalt haue gentle gawaine, my cozen, and marry him with a ring." "why if i helpe thee not, thou noble king arthur, of thy owne hearts desiringe, of gentle gawaine.... [_about nine stanzas wanting._] and when he came to the tearne-wadling, the baron there cold he finde[l ]; with a great weapon on his backe, standinge stiffe and stronge. and then he tooke king arthurs letters in his hands, and away he cold them fling; and then he puld out a good browne sword, and cryd himselfe a king. and he sayd, "i haue thee, & thy land, arthur, to doe as it pleaseth me; for this is not thy ransome sure, therfore yeeld thee to me." and then bespoke him noble arthur, and bade him hold his hand[l ]; "and give me leave to speake my mind, in defence of all my land." he said, "as i came over a[l ] more, i see a lady, where shee sate, betweene an oke & a green hollen; shee was clad in red scarlette. "and she says a woman will haue her will, and this is all her cheef desire; doe me right, as thou art a baron of sckill, this is thy ransome, & all thy hyer." he sayes, "an early vengeance light on her! she walkes on yonder more; it was my sister, that told thee this, she is a misshapen hore. "but heer ile make mine avow to god, to do her an euill turne; for an euer i may thate fowle theefe get, in a fyer i will her burne." [_about nine stanzas wanting._] the second part. sir lancelott, & sir steven, bold, they rode with them that day; and the formost of the company, there rode the steward kay. soe did sir banier, & sir bore, sir garrett with them, soe gay; soe did sir tristeram, that gentle knight, to the forrest, fresh & gay. and when he came to the greene forrest, vnderneath a greene holly tree, their sate that lady in red scarlet, that vnseemly was to see. sir kay beheld this ladys face, and looked vppon her suire,-- "whosoeuer kisses this lady," he sayes, "of his kisse he stands in feare!" sir kay beheld the lady againe, and looked vpon her snout; "whosoeuer kisses this lady," he saies, "of his kisse he stands in doubt!" "peace, cozen kay," then said sir gawaine, "amend thee of thy life; for there is a knight amongst us all, that must marry her to his wife." "what! wedd her to wiffe," then said sir kay, "in the diuells name anon, get me a wiffe whereere i may, for i had rather be slaine!" then some[l ] tooke vp their hawkes in hast, and some tooke vp their hounds; and some sware they wold not marry her, for citty nor for towne. and then bespake him noble king arthur, and sware there, "by this day, for a litle foule sight & misliking, [_about nine stanzas wanting._] then shee said, "choose thee, gentle gawaine, truth as i doe say; wether thou wilt haue me in this liknesse, in the night, or else in the day." and then bespake him gentle gawaine, with one soe mild of moode; sayes, "well i know what i wold say, god grant it may be good! "to haue thee fowle in the night, when i with thee shold play-- yet i had rather, if i might, haue thee fowle in the day." "what, when lords goe with ther feires[l ]," shee said, "both to the ale and wine; alas! then i must hyde my selfe, i must not goe withinne." and then bespake him gentle gawaine, said, "lady, thats but a skill; and because thou art my owne lady, thou shall haue all thy will." then she said, "blessed be thou, gentle gawaine, this day that i thee see; for as thou see me att this time, from hencforth i wil be. "my father was an old knight, and yett it chanced soe, that he married a younge lady, that brought me to this woe. "shee witched me, being a faire young lady, to the greene forrest to dwell; and there i must walke in womans liknesse, most like a feeind of hell. "she witched my brother to a carlist b.... [_about nine stanzas wanting._] that looked soe foule, and that was wont on the wild more to goe. "come kisse her, brother kay," then said sir gawaine, "and amend the of thy liffe; i sweare this is the same lady that i marryed to my wiffe." sir kay kissed that lady bright, standing vpon his ffeete; he swore, as he was trew knight, the spice was neuer soe sweete. "well, cozen gawaine," sayes sir kay, "thy chance is fallen arright; for thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids, i euer saw with my sight." "it is my fortune," said sir gawaine; "for my vnckle arthurs sake, i am glad as grasse wold be of raine, great joy that i may take." sir gawaine tooke the lady by the one arme, sir kay tooke her by the tother; they led her straight to king arthur, as they were brother and brother. king arthur welcomed them there all, and soe did lady geneuer, his queene; with all the knights of the round table, most seemly to be seene. king arthur beheld that lady faire, that was soe faire & bright; he thanked christ in trinity for sir gawaine, that gentle knight. soe did the knights, both more and lesse, rejoyced all that day, for the good chance that hapened was to sir gawaine and his lady gay. , y^e a woman. , cawaine. , o else. , srinde. , hands. , the. , soome. , seires. king arthur's death. a fragment. _reliques of english poetry_, iii, . "the subject of this ballad is evidently taken from the old romance _morte arthur_, but with some variations, especially in the concluding stanzas; in which the author seems rather to follow the traditions of the old welsh bards, who 'believed that king arthur was not dead, but conveied awaie by the fairies into some pleasant place, where he should remaine for a time, and then returne againe and reign in as great authority as ever.' (holinshed, b. , c. .) or, as it is expressed in an old chronicle printed at antwerp, , by ger. de leew: 'the bretons supposen, that he [king arthur] shall come yet and conquere all bretaigne, for certes this is the prophicye of merlyn, he sayd, that his deth shall be doubteous; and sayd soth, for men thereof yet have doubte, and shullen for ever more,--for men wyt not whether that he lyveth or is dede.' see more ancient testimonies in selden's notes on polyolbion, song . "this fragment, being very incorrect and imperfect in the original ms., hath received some conjectural emendations, and even a supplement of three or four stanzas composed from the romance of _morte arthur_." percy. * * * * * on trinitye mondaye in the morne, this sore battayle was doom'd to bee, where manye a knighte cry'd, well-awaye! alacke, it was the more pittìe. ere the first crowinge of the cocke, when as the kinge in his bed laye, he thoughte sir gawaine[l ] to him came, and there to him these wordes did saye. "nowe, as you are mine unkle deare, and as you prize your life, this daye o meet not with your foe in fighte; putt off the battayle, if yee maye. "for sir launcelot is nowe in fraunce, and with him many an hardye knighte: who will within this moneth be backe, and will assiste yee in the fighte." the kinge then call'd his nobles all, before the breakinge of the daye; and tolde them howe sir gawaine came, and there to him these wordes did saye. his nobles all this counsayle gave, that earlye in the morning, hee shold send awaye an herauld at armes, to aske a parley faire and free. then twelve good knightes king arthur chose, the best of all that with him were, to parley with the foe in field, and make with him agreement faire. the king he charged all his hoste, in readinesse there for to bee; but noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, unlesse a sword drawne they shold see. and mordred, on the other parte, twelve of his knights did likewise bringe, the beste of all his companye, to holde the parley with the kinge. sir mordred alsoe charged his hoste, in readinesse there for to bee; but noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, but if a sworde drawne they shold see. for he durste not his unkle[l ] truste, nor he his nephewe[l ], sothe to tell; alacke! it was a woefulle case, as ere in christentye befelle. but when they were together mette, and both to faire accordance broughte, and a month's league betweene them sette, before the battayle sholde be foughte, an addere crept forth of a bushe, stunge one o' the king's knightes on the knee; alacke! it was a woefulle chance, as ever was in christentìe. when the knighte found him wounded sore, and sawe the wild-worme hanginge there, his sworde he from his scabberde drewe; a piteous case, as ye shall heare. for when the two hostes sawe the sworde, they joyned battayle instantlye; till of so manye noble knightes, on one side there were left but three. for all were slaine that durst abide, and but some fewe that fled awaye: ah mee! it was a bloodye fielde, as ere was foughte on summer's daye. upon king arthur's own partyè, onlye himselfe escaped there, and lukyn duke of gloster free, and the king's butler bedevere. and when the king beheld his knightes all dead and scattered on the molde, the teares fast trickled downe his face; that manlye face in fight so bolde. "nowe reste yee all, brave knights," he said, "soe true and faithful to your trust: and must yee then, yee valiant hearts, be lefte to moulder into dust! "most loyal have yee been to mee, most true and faithful unto deathe: and, oh! to rayse yee up againe, how freelye could i yield my breathe! "but see, the traitor's yet alive! lo where hee stalkes among the deade! nowe bitterlye he shall abye, and vengeance fall upon his head." "o staye, my liege," then sayd the duke; "o staye for love and charitìe; remember what the vision spake, nor meete your foe, if it may bee." "o staye mee not, thou worthye wight, this debt my loyal knights i owe: betide me life, betide me death, i will avenge them of their foe." then straite he grasp'd his trustye speare, and on his horse then mounted hee: as his butler holpe him to his horse, his bowels gushed to his knee. "alas!" then sayd the noble king, "that i should live this sight to see! to see this good knight here be slaine, all for his love in helping mee!" he put his speare into his reste, and to sir mordred loud gan crye; "nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde, for, traitor, nowe thy death is nye." sir mordred lifted up his sworde, and fierce to meet the king ran hee: the king his speare he through him thrust, a fathom thorow his bodìe. when mordered felt the stroke of death, and found that he was wounded soe, he thruste himselfe upon the speare, and strucke the king a deadlye blowe. then grimmlye dyed sir mordered, presentlye upon that tree: and bloody streames ranne from the kinge, ere to the duke returned hee. sir lukyn then he thus bespake: "sir knighte, thou hast been faithfulle tryde; nowe take my sword excalibar[l ], that hangs so freelye by my syde, "o take my sword excalibar, and there into the river throwe: for here, henceforth, benethe this tree, all use of weapons i foregoe. "and fare thee well, thou trustye sword, a better neer had valiant knighte; with thee full ofte, and many a daye, have i withstood my foe in fighte. "with this good fauchion in my hande, oft have i reapd the bloody feelde: but nowe the fatalle houre is come, that never more i may thee weelde." the duke to the river side he went, and there his owne sword in threwe he; but he kept back excalibar, he kept it back in privitie. for all of coleyne was the blade, and all the hilte of precious stone: "and ever alacke!" then sayd the knighte, "must such a sword awaye be throwne?" then backe he came unto the kinge, who sayd, "sir lukyn, what did yee see?" "nothing, my liege, save that the winde blewe oer the waters faire and free." "o goe againe," then said the kinge, "o good sir lukyn, goe againe: into the rivere throwe my sword, nor keepe me lingering here in paine." the duke then to the river went, and the kings scabbard in threwe hee; but hee kept backe excalibar, and hid it undernethe a tree. then backe he came to tell the kinge, who sayde, "sir lukyn, sawe ye oughte?" "nothinge, my liege, save that the winde nowe with the angrye waters fought." "o lukyn, lukyn," said the kinge, "twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye: alacke, whom may wee ever truste, when suche a knighte soe false can bee! "saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead, all for a sword that wins thine eye? now goe againe, and throwe it in, or here the one of us shall dye." the duke, all shent with this rebuke, no aunswere made unto the kinge; but to the rivere tooke the sworde, and threwe it far as he coulde flinge. a hande and an arme did meete the sworde, and flourishd three times in the air; then sunke benethe the renninge streme, and of the duke was seene noe mair. all sore astonied stood the duke, he stood as still, as still mote bee; then hastend backe to tell the kinge, but he was gone from under the tree. but to what place, he cold not tell, for never after hee did him see; but hee sawe a barge goe from the land, and hee heard ladyes howle and crye. and whether the kinge were there, or not, hee never knewe, nor ever colde; for from that sad and direfulle daye, hee never more was seene on molde. . sir gawaine had been killed at arthur's landing on his return from abroad. see the next ballad, ver. . p. , , the folio ms. reads father ... sonne. . more commonly called _caliburn_. in the folio ms. _escalberd_. p. the legend of king arthur. _reliques of english poetry_, iii. . "we have here a short summary of king arthur's history as given by jeff. of monmouth and the old chronicles, with the addition of a few circumstances from the romance _morte arthur_.--the ancient chronicle of ger. de leew (quoted above in p. ,) seems to have been chiefly followed: upon the authority of which we have restored some of the names which were corrupted in the ms., and have transposed one stanza, which appeared to be misplaced: _viz._, that beginning at v. , which in the ms. followed v. . "printed from the editor's ancient folio ms." percy. of brutus'[l ] blood, in brittaine borne, king arthur i am to name; through christendome and heathynesse well knowne is my worthy fame. in jesus christ i doe beleeve; i am a christyan bore; the father, sone, and holy gost, one god, i doe adore. in the four hundred ninetieth yeere[l ], oer brittaine i did rayne, after my savior christ his byrth, what time i did maintaine the fellowshipp of the table round, soe famous in those dayes; whereatt a hundred noble knights and thirty sat alwayes: who for their deeds and and martiall feates, as bookes done yett record, amongst all other nations wer feared through the world. and in the castle off tyntagill king uther mee begate, of agyana[l ], a bewtyous ladye, and come of 'hie'[l ] estate. and when i was fifteen yeere old, then was i crowned kinge: all brittaine, that was att an upròre, i did to quiett bringe; and drove the saxons from the realme, who had opprest this land; all scotland then, throughe manly feates, i conquered with my hand. ireland, denmarke, norwaye, these countryes wan i all; iseland, gotheland, and swetheland; and made their kings my thrall. i conquered all gallya, that now is called france; and slew the hardye froll in feild[l ], my honor to advance. and the ugly gyant dynabus[l ], soe terrible to vewe, that in saint barnards mount did lye, by force of armes i slew. and lucyus, the emperour of rome, i brought to deadly wracke; and a thousand more of noble knightes for feare did turne their backe. five kinges of pavye i did kill[l ] amidst that bloody strife; besides the grecian emperour, who alsoe lost his liffe. whose carcasse i did send to rome, cladd poorlye on a beere; and afterward i past mount-joye the next approaching yeere. then i came to rome, where i was mett right as a conquerour, and by all the cardinalls solempnelye i was crowned an emperour. one winter there i made abode, then word to mee was brought, howe mordred had oppressed the crowne, what treason he had wrought att home in brittaine with my queene: therfore i came with speede to brittaine backe, with all my power, to quitt that traitorous deede; and soone at sandwiche i arrivde, where mordred me withstoode: but yett at last i landed there, with effusion of much blood. for there my nephew sir gawaine dyed, being wounded in that sore the whiche sir lancelot in fight had given him before. thence chased i mordered away, who fledd to london right, from london to winchester, and to cornewalle tooke his flyght. and still i him pursued with speed, till at last wee mett; wherby an appointed day of fight was there agreed and sett: where we did fight, of mortal life eche other to deprive, till of a hundred thousand men scarce one was left alive. there all the noble chivalrye of brittaine tooke their end: o see how fickle is their state that doe on fates[l ] depend! there all the traiterous men were slaine, not one escapte away; and there dyed all my vallyant knightes alas! that woefull day! two and twenty yeere i ware the crowne in honor and great fame, and thus by death was suddenlye deprived of the same. . ms., bruitehis. , he began his reign a.d. , according to the chronicles. , she is named _igerna_ in the old chronicles. , his, ms. , froland field, ms. froll, according to the chronicles, was a roman knight, governor of gaul. , danibus, ms. , see p. , v. . , feates, ms. sir lancelot du lake. this ballad first occurs in the _garland of good will_, and is attributed to thomas deloney, whose career as a song-writer extends from about to . it is merely a rhymed version of a passage in the _morte d'arthur_, (book vi. ch. , , , of southey's ed.) the first two lines are quoted in the second part of henry iv., a. ii. sc. . the present text is nearly that of the _garland of good will_ (percy society, vol. xxx. p. ), and differs considerably from that of percy, (_reliques_, i. .) the same, with very trifling variations, is found in _old ballads_, ( ,) ii. ; ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. ; evans's _old ballads_, ii. . when arthur first in court began, and was approvèd king, by force of arms great victories won, and conquests home did bring; then into britain straight he came, where fifty good and able knights then repairèd unto him, which were of the round table; and many justs and tournaments before them there were drest, where valiant knights did then excel, and far surmount the rest. but one sir lancelot du lake, who was approvèd well, he in his fights and deeds of arms, all others did excel. when he had rested him a while, to play, to game, and sport, he thought he would go try himself, in some adventurous sort. he armèd rode in forest wide, and met a damsel fair, who told him of adventures great, whereto he gave good ear. "why should i not?" quoth lancelot tho, "for that cause i came hither." "thou seem'st," quoth she, "a goodly knight, and i will bring thee thither "whereas a[l ] mighty knight doth dwell, that now is of great fame; therefore tell me what knight thou art, and then what is your name." "my name is lancelot du lake." quoth she, "it likes me than; here dwells a knight that never was o'ermatch'd[l ] with any man; "who has in prison threescore knights and four, that he has bound; knights of king arthur's court they be, and of his table round." she brought him to a river side, and also to a tree, whereon a copper bason hung, his fellows[l ] shields to see. he struck so hard, the bason broke: when tarquin heard the sound, he drove a horse before him straight, whereon a knight lay bound. "sir knight," then said sir lancelot, "bring me that horse-load hither, and lay him down, and let him rest; we'll try our force together. "and as i understand, thou hast, so far as thou art able, done great despite and shame unto the knights of the round table." "if thou be of the table round" (quoth tarquin, speedilye), "both thee and all thy fellowship i utterly defie." "that's overmuch," quoth lancelot tho; "defend thee by and by." they put their spurs unto their steeds, and each at other fly. they coucht their spears, and horses ran as though there had been thunder; and each struck them amidst the shield, wherewith they broke in sunder. their horses backs brake under them. the knights were both astound; to void their horses they made great haste, to light upon the ground. they took them to their shields full fast, their swords they drew out than; with mighty strokes most eagerly each one at other ran. they wounded were, and bled full sore, for breath they both did stand, and leaning on their swords awhile, quoth tarquin, "hold thy hand, "and tell to me what i shall ask;" "say on," quoth lancelot tho; "thou art," quoth tarquin, "the best knight that ever i did know; "and like a knight that i did hate; so that thou be not he, i will deliver all the rest, and eke accord with thee." "that is well said," quoth lancelot then; "but sith it must be so, what is the knight thou hatest thus?[l ] i pray thee to me show." "his name is lancelot du lake, he slew my brother dear; him i suspect of all the rest; i would i had him here." "thy wish thou hast, but yet unknown; i am lancelot du lake! now knight of arthur's table round, king ban's son of benwake;[l ] "and i desire thee do thy worst." "ho! ho!" quoth tarquin tho, "one of us two shall end our lives, before that we do go. "if thou be lancelot du lake, then welcome shalt thou be; wherefore see thou thyself defend, for now defie i thee." they buckled then together so, like two wild boars rashing, and with their swords and shields they ran at one another slashing.[l ] the ground besprinkled was with blood, tarquin began to faint; for he gave back, and bore his shield so low, he did repent. this soon espied[l ] sir lancelot tho; he leapt upon him then, he pull'd him down upon his knee, and rushed[l ] off his helm. and then he struck his neck in two; and when he had done so, from prison, threescore knights and four lancelot delivered tho. , the. , e'er match'd. , fellow. , so. , kind haud's son of seuwake. , flashing. , 'spied. , rushing. the legend of sir guy. (percy's _reliques_, iii. .) "published from an ancient ms. copy in the editor's old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in black-letter in the pepys collection." percy. an inferior copy is printed in ritson's _ancient songs and ballads_, ii. . from an essay on the romance of sir guy, read by mr. wright before the british archæological association during its meeting at warwick, we extract the following remarks in illustration of the history of the present ballad, and other similar popular heroic traditions. "as the teutonic tribes progressed in their migrations, and settled in new lands--and especially when they received a new faith, and made advances in civilization,--the mythic romances of their forefathers underwent remarkable modifications to adapt them to new sentiments and new manners. among people who had forgotten the localities to which they referred, they received a new location and became identified with places and objects with which people were better acquainted, and in this manner they underwent a new historical interpretation. it would be no uninteresting task to point out how many romantic tales that are soberly related of individuals of comparatively modern history, are merely new applications of these early myths. "among the romances of the anglo-danish cycle by no means the least celebrated is that of guy of warwick. it is one, of the few, which has been preserved in its anglo-norman form, since which it has gone through an extraordinary number of versions, and chaucer enumerated it among the _romances of pris_, or those which in the fourteenth century were held in the highest estimation. it is doubtless one of those stories in which an ancient mythic romance has undergone the series of modifications i have been describing; a legend which had become located by popular traditions in the neighbourhood we are now visiting, in which the contests between northern chieftains are changed into tilts and tournaments, but in which the combats with dragons and giants are still preserved. whatever may have been the name of the original hero, that which he now bears, guy, is a french name, and could not have been given till norman times. "from the anglo-norman poem, so great was its popularity, two or three different english metrical versions were made, which are still found in manuscripts, and the earliest of which, that of the well-known auchinlech manuscript, has been printed in a very expensive form by one of the scottish antiquarian clubs. it was next transformed into french prose, and in that form was popular in the fifteenth century, and was printed by some of the earlier printers. it was finally reduced to a popular chap-book in prose and a broadside ballad in verse, and in these forms was hawked about the streets until a very recent period. such has in general been the fate of the romantic literature of the middle ages; a remarkable proof of the tenacity with which it has kept its hold on the popular mind." _gentleman's magazine_, sept. , p. . was ever knight for ladyes sake soe tost in love, as i, sir guy, for phelis fayre, that lady bright as ever man beheld with eye? she gave me leave myself to try, the valiant knight with sheeld and speare, ere that her love she would grant me; which made mee venture far and neare. then proved i a baron bold,[l ] in deeds of armes the doughtyest knight that in those dayes in england was, with sworde and speare in feild to fight. an english man i was by birthe: in faith of christ a christyan true: the wicked lawes of infidells i sought by prowesse to subdue. 'nine' hundred twenty yeere and odde[l ] after our saviour christ his birth, when king athelstone wore the crowne, i lived heere upon the earth. sometime i was of warwicke erle, and, as i sayd, of very truth a ladyes love did me constraine to seeke strange ventures in my youth; to win me fame by feates of armes in strange and sundry heathen lands; where i atchieved for her sake right dangerous conquests with my hands. for first i sayled to normandye, and there i stoutlye wan in fight the emperours daughter of almaine, from manye a vallyant worthye knight. then passed i the seas to greece, to helpe the emperour in his right, against the mightye souldans hoaste of puissant persians for to fight: where i did slay of sarazens, and heathen pagans, manye a man; and slew the souldans cozen deere, who had to name doughtye coldràn. eskeldered, a famous knight, to death likewise i did pursue: and elmayne, king of tyre, alsoe, most terrible in fight to viewe. i went into the souldans hoast, being thither on embassage sent, and brought his head awaye with mee; i having slaine him in his tent. there was a dragon in that land most fiercelye mett me by the waye, as hee a lyon did pursue, which i myself did alsoe slay. then soon i past the seas from greece, and came to pavye land aright; where i the duke of pavye killed, his hainous treason to requite. to england then i came with speede, to wedd faire phelis, lady bright; for love of whome i travelled farr to try my manhood and my might. but when i had espoused her, i stayd with her but fortye dayes, ere that i left this ladye faire, and went, from her beyond the seas. all cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, my voyage from her i did take unto the blessed holy-land, for jesus christ my saviours sake. where i erle jonas did redeeme, and all his sonnes, which were fifteene, who with the cruell sarazens in prison for long time had beene. i slew the gyant amarant in battel fiercelye hand to hand, and doughty barknard killed i, a treacherous knight of pavye land. then i to england came againe, and here with colbronde fell i fought; an ugly gyant, which the danes had for their champion hither brought. i overcame him in the feild, and slewe him soone right valliantlye; wherebye this land i did redeeme from danish tribute utterlye. and afterwards i offered upp the use of weapons solemnlye at winchester, whereas i fought, in sight of manye farr and nye. 'but first,' neare winsor, i did slaye a bore of passing might and strength; whose like in england never was for hugenesse both in bredth and length. some of his bones in warwicke yett within the castle there doth lye; one of his sheeld-bones to this day hangs in the citye of coventrye. on dunsmore heath i alsoe slewe a monstrous wyld and cruell beast, calld the dun-cow of dunsmore heath; which manye people had opprest. some of her bones in warwicke yett still for a monument doth lye, and there exposed to lookers viewe, as wondrous strange, they may espye. a dragon in northumberland i alsoe did in fight destroye, which did bothe man and beast oppresse, and all the countrye sore annoye. at length to warwicke i did come, like pilgrim poore, and was not knowne; and there i lived a hermitts life a mile and more out of the towne. where with my hands i hewed a house out of a craggy rocke of stone, and lived like a palmer poore within that cave myself alone: and daylye came to begg my bread of phelis att my castle gate; not knowne unto my loved wiffe, who dailye mourned for her mate. till att the last i fell sore sicke, yea, sicke soe sore that i must dye; i sent to her a ring of golde, by which shee knew me presentlye. then shee repairing to the cave, before that i gave up the ghost, herself closd up my dying eyes; my phelis faire, whom i lovd most. thus dreadful death did me arrest, to bring my corpes unto the grave, and like a palmer dyed i, wherby i sought my soule to save. my body that endured this toyle, though now it be consumed to mold, my statue, faire engraven in stone, in warwicke still you may behold. , the proud sir guy, pc. , two hundred, ms. and pc. st. george and the dragon. (from percy's _reliques_, iii. .) the following rhymed legend, which, like several other pieces in this book, can be called a ballad only by an objectionable, though common, extension of the term, was printed by percy (with some alterations) from two "ancient" black-letter copies in the pepys collection. real popular ballads on st. george's victory over the dragon exist in several languages, though not in english.[b] such a ballad is known to have been sung by the swedes at the battle of brunkeberg in , and one is still sung by the people both of denmark and sweden. grundtvig gives three copies of the danish ballad, two of the th and th centuries, and one of the present. four versions of the swedish have been published, of various ages (e.g. _svenska folkvisor_, ii. ). a german ballad is given by meinert, _altdeutsche volkslieder_, p. ; after him by erlach, iv. ; and haupt and schmaler have printed two widely different versions of the ballad in wendish, _volkslieder der wenden_, vol. i. no. , ii. no. . these are all the proper traditional ballads upon this subject which are known to be preserved, unless we include a piece called _jürg drachentödter_ in zuccalmaglio's _deutsche volkslieder_, no. , which is of suspicious authenticity. the piece called _ritter st. georg_, in _des knaben wunderhorn_, i. , is not a proper ballad, but a rhymed legend, like the one here printed, though intended to be sung. [b] what follows is abridged from grundtvig, _danmarks gamle folkeviser_, ii. . the hero of these ballads, st. george of cappadocia, is said to have suffered martyrdom during the persecution in syria, in the year . in the th century he was a recognized saint both in the western and the eastern churches, and his reputation was limited to this character until the th. reinbot von dorn, ( - ,) in his poem _der heilige georg_, (von der hagen and büsching's _deutsche gedichte des mittelalters_,) and vincent de beauvais (died ) in his _speculum historiale_ (xii. - ), content themselves with recounting his martyrdom, and appear to know nothing about his fight with the dragon. the first known writer who attributes this exploit to st. george is jacobus a voragine (died ), in the _golden legend_. of course it does not follow that the story originated there. it is probable that the legend of the dragon arose at the time of the crusades, and indeed was partly occasioned by them, though we ought not hastily to admit, what has been suggested, that it was founded upon some tradition which the crusaders heard in syria. the byzantians had long before ascribed various miracles to st. george, but it was the normans, who, so to say, first pressed him into active military service. it was he that commanded the heavenly host that came to the help of the crusaders against the turks, under the walls of antioch, in the year , on which occasion he was seen on his white horse, bearing the white banner with the red cross. he manifested himself again at the storming of jerusalem in the following year, and a hundred years later was seen to fight in the front rank against the moors in spain, and for frederic barbarossa, in his crusade in . but though he had entered into the service of the german emperor, this did not prevent his aiding the orthodox william of holland in taking aix-la-chapelle from the excommunicated emperor frederic in .--the most various races have contended for his protection. his feast was in ordered to be kept as a holiday throughout all england: from the beginning of the th century, or since the mongol dominion was shaken off, he has been one of the guardian saints of russia: in , the emperor frederic iii. founded the austrian order of st. george for the protection of the empire against the turks, and a few years later, in , at the momentous battle of brunkeberg, his name was the war-cry of both parties, swedes and danes. that the subjugation of the dragon (a symbolical mode of representing the extinction of evil common to all times and peoples) should be attributed to st. george, would seem to be sufficiently explained by his having become the christian hero of the middle ages. a special reason may, however, be alleged for his connection with such a legend. long before the crusades, he was depicted by the artists of the oriental church as the great martyr, with the dragon (anti-christ or the devil) at his feet, and a crowned virgin (the church) at his side. in like manner had constantine the great had himself drawn, and many other saints are represented in the same way, as theodore, victor, and margaret. this symbolic representation would naturally lead to the crusaders making st. george the hero in an achievement which was well known in connection with other names: and it would then not be too much to assume that the normans (who, as already said, were the first to recognize his presence in battle),--the same normans who were properly the creators of the romantic poetry of the middle ages,--were also the first to connect st. george with the conquest of the dragon. but however we may account for st. george's being introduced into such a legend, so much is sure; that from the th century on, the story and the hero have been inseparable: all the legendaries and all the pictures of him exhibit him as the conqueror of the dragon: his martyrdom is nearly lost sight of, and in ballads is entirely forgotten.--as to the place which was the scene of the fight, there are many opinions. some have fixed it in cappadocia, others in lybia, others in syria, and some european nations have assigned the adventure to a locality within their own bounds. thus the wallachians lay the scene at orwoza, one of the wendish ballads at berlin, the germans at leipsic, the dutch at oudenarde, and--the people of the island of funen at svendborg! of hector's deeds did homer sing, and of the sack of stately troy, what griefs fair helena did bring, which was sir paris' only joy: and by my pen i will recite st. george's deeds, an english knight. against the sarazens so rude fought he full long and many a day, where many gyaunts he subdu'd, in honour of the christian way; and after many adventures past, to egypt land he came at last. now, as the story plain doth tell, within that countrey there did rest a dreadful dragon, fierce and fell, whereby they were full sore opprest: who by his poisonous breath each day did many of the city slay. the grief whereof did grow so great throughout the limits of the land, that they their wise men did intreat to shew their cunning out of hand; what way they might this fiend destroy, that did the countrey thus annoy. the wise men all before the king, this answer fram'd incontinent: the dragon none to death might bring by any means they could invent; his skin more hard than brass was found, that sword nor spear could pierce nor wound. when this the people understood, they cryed out most piteouslye, the dragon's breath infects their blood, that every day in heaps they dye; among them such a plague is bred, the living scarce could bury the dead. no means there were, as they could hear, for to appease the dragon's rage, but to present some virgin clear, whose blood his fury might asswage; each day he would a maiden eat, for to allay his hunger great. this thing by art the wise men found, which truly must observed be; wherefore, throughout the city round, a virgin pure of good degree was, by the king's commission, still taken up to serve the dragon's will. thus did the dragon every day untimely crop some virgin flowr, till all the maids were worn away, and none were left him to devour; saving the king's fair daughter bright, her father's only heart's delight. then came the officers to the king, that heavy message to declare, which did his heart with sorrow sting; "she is," quoth he, "my kingdom's heir: o let us all be poisoned here, ere she should die, that is my dear." then rose the people presently, and to the king in rage they went; they said his daughter dear should dye, the dragon's fury to prevent: "our daughters all are dead," quoth they, "and have been made the dragon's prey; "and by their blood we rescued were, and thou hast sav'd thy life thereby; and now in sooth it is but faire, for us thy daughter so should die." "o save my daughter," said the king, "and let me feel the dragon's sting." then fell fair sabra on her knee, and to her father dear did say, "o father, strive not thus for me, but let me be the dragon's prey; it may be, for my sake alone this plague upon the land was thrown. "'tis better i should dye," she said, "than all your subjects perish quite; perhaps the dragon here was laid, for my offence to work his spite, and after he hath suckt my gore, your land shall feel the grief no more." "what hast thou done, my daughter dear, for to deserve this heavy scourge? it is my fault, as may appear, which makes the gods our state to purge; then ought i die, to stint the strife, and to preserve thy happy life." like mad-men, all the people cried, "thy death to us can do no good; our safely only doth abide in making her the dragon's food." "lo! here i am, i come," quoth she, "therefore do what you will with me." "nay stay, dear daughter," quoth the queen, "and as thou art a virgin bright, that hast for vertue famous been, so let me cloath thee all in white; and crown thy head with flowers sweet, an ornament for virgins meet." and when she was attired so, according to her mother's mind, unto the stake then did she go, to which her tender limbs they bind; and being bound to stake a thrall, she bade farewell unto them all. "farewell, my father dear," quoth she, "and my sweet mother, meek and mild; take you no thought nor weep for me, for you may have another child; since for my country's good i dye, death i receive most willinglye." the king and queen and all their train with weeping eyes went then their way, and let their daughter there remain, to be the hungry dragon's prey: but as she did there weeping lye, behold st. george came riding by. and seeing there a lady bright so rudely tyed unto a stake, as well became a valiant knight, he straight to her his way did take: "tell me, sweet maiden," then quoth he, "what caitif thus abuseth thee? "and, lo! by christ his cross i vow, which here is figured on my breast, i will revenge it on his brow, and break my lance upon his chest:" and speaking thus whereas he stood, the dragon issued from the wood. the lady, that did first espy the dreadful dragon coming so, unto st. george aloud did cry, and willed him away to go; "here comes that cursed fiend," quoth she, "that soon will make an end of me." st. george then looking round about, the fiery dragon soon espy'd, and like a knight of courage stout, against him did most fiercely ride; and with such blows he did him greet, he fell beneath his horse's feet. for with his launce, that was so strong, as he came gaping in his face, in at his mouth he thrust along; for he could pierce no other place: and thus within the lady's view this mighty dragon straight he slew. the savour of his poisoned breath could do this holy knight no harm; thus he the lady sav'd from death, and home he led her by the arm; which when king ptolemy did see, there was great mirth and melody. when as that valiant champion there had slain the dragon in the field, to court he brought the lady fair, which to their hearts much joy did yield, he in the court of egypt staid till he most falsely was betray'd. that lady dearly lov'd the knight, he counted her his only joy; but when their love was brought to light, it turn'd unto their great annoy. th' morocco king was in the court, who to the orchard did resort; dayly, to take the pleasant air; for pleasure sake he us'd to walk; under a wall he oft did hear st. george with lady sabra talk; their love he shew'd unto the king, which to st. george great woe did bring. those kings together did devise to make the christian knight away: with letters him in curteous wise they straightway sent to persia, but wrote to the sophy him to kill, and treacherously his blood to spill. thus they for good did him reward with evil, and most subtilly, by such vile meanes, they had regard to work his death most cruelly; who, as through persia land he rode, with zeal destroy'd each idol god. for which offence he straight was thrown into a dungeon dark and deep; where, when he thought his wrongs upon, he bitterly did wail and weep: yet like a knight of courage stout, at length his way he digged out. three grooms of the king of persia by night this valiant champion slew, though he had fasted many a day, and then away from thence he flew on the best steed the sophy had; which when he knew he was full mad. towards christendom he made his flight, but met a gyant by the way, with whom in combat he did fight most valiantly a summer's day: who yet, for all his bats of steel, was forc'd the sting of death to feel. back o'er the seas, with many bands of warlike souldiers soon he past, vowing upon those heathen lands to work revenge; which at the last, ere thrice three years were gone and spent, he wrought unto his heart's content. save onely egypt land he spar'd, for sabra bright her only sake, and, ere for her he had regard, he meant a tryal kind to make: meanwhile the king, o'ercome in field, unto saint george did quickly yield. then straight morocco's king he slew, and took fair sabra to his wife, but meant to try if she were true, ere with her he would lead his life; and, tho' he had her in his train, she did a virgin pure remain. toward england then that lovely dame the brave st. george conducted strait, an eunuch also with them came, who did upon the lady wait. these three from egypt went alone: now mark st. george's valour shown. when as they in a forest were, the lady did desire to rest: meanwhile st. george to kill a deer for their repast did think it best: leaving her with the eunuch there, whilst he did go to kill the deer. but lo! all in his absence came two hungry lyons, fierce and fell, and tore the eunuch on the same in pieces small, the truth to tell; down by the lady then they laid, whereby they shew'd she was a maid. but when he came from hunting back, and did behold this heavy chance, then for his lovely virgin's sake his courage strait he did advance, and came into the lions sight, who ran at him with all their might. their rage did him no whit dismay, who, like a stout and valiant knight, did both the hungry lyons slay within the lady sabra's sight: who all this while, sad and demure, there stood most like a virgin pure. now when st. george did surely know this lady was a virgin true, his heart was glad, that erst was woe, and all his love did soon renew: he set her on a palfrey steed, and towards england came with speed. where being in short space arriv'd unto his native dwelling place, therein with his dear love he liv'd, and fortune did his nuptials grace: they many years of joy did see, and led their lives at coventry. the seven champions of christendom. _the famous historie of the seven champions of christendom_, is the work of richard johnson, a ballad maker of some note at the end of the th and beginning of the th century. all that is known of him may be seen in chappel's introduction to the _crown garland of golden roses_, of which johnson was the compiler or the author. (percy society, vol. vi.) "the story of st. george and the fair sabra," says percy, "is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of sir bevis of hampton." the _seven champions_ is twice entered on the stationers' registers in the year . it is here reprinted from _a collection of old ballads_, , vol. i. . the same copy is in evans's collection, i. . now of the seven champions here my purpose is to write, to show how they with sword and spear put many foes to flight; distressed ladies to release, and captives bound in chains, that christian glory to increase which evermore remains. first, i give you to understand that great saint george by name, was the true champion of our land; and of his birth and fame, and of his noble mother's dream, before that he was born, the which to her did clearly seem her days would be forlorn. this was her dream; that she did bear a dragon in her womb; which griev'd this noble lady fair, 'cause death must be her doom. this sorrow she could not conceal, so dismal was her fear, so that she did the same reveal unto her husband dear; who went for to inquire straight of an enchanteress; when, knocking at her iron gate, her answer it was this: "the lady shall bring forth a son, by whom, in tract of time, great noble actions shall be done; he will to honour climb. "for he shall be in banners wore; this truth i will maintain; your lady, she shall die before you see her face again." his leave he took, and home he went; his wife departed lay; but that which did his grief augment, the child was stole away. then did he travel in despair, where soon with grief he died; while the young child, his son and heir, did constantly abide with the wise lady of the grove, in her enchanted cell; amongst the woods he oft did rove, his beauty pleased her well. blinded with love, she did impart, upon a certain day, to him her cunning magic art, and where six champions lay within a brazen castle strong, by an enchanted sleep, and where they had continued long; she did the castle keep. she taught and show'd him every thing through being free and fond; which did her fatal ruin bring; for with a silver wand he clos'd her up into a rock, by giving one small stroke; so took possession of her stock, and the enchantment broke. those christian champions being freed from their enchanted state, each mounted on his prancing steed, and took to travel straight; where we will leave them to pursue kind fortune's favours still, to treat of our own champion, who did courts with wonders fill. for as he came to understand, at an old hermit's cell, how, in the vast egyptian land, a dragon fierce and fell threatened the ruin of them all, by his devouring jaws, his sword releas'd them from that thrall, and soon remov'd the cause. this dreadful dragon must destroy a virgin every day, or else with stinks he'll them annoy, and many thousands slay. at length the king's own daughter dear, for whom the court did mourn, was brought to be devoured here, for she must take her turn. the king by proclamation said, if any hardy knight could free this fair young royal maid, and slay the dragon quite, then should he have her for his bride, and, after death, likewise his crown and kingdom too beside: saint george he won the prize. when many hardy strokes he'd dealt, and could not pierce his hide, he run his sword up to the hilt in at the dragon's side; by which he did his life destroy, which cheer'd the drooping king; this caused an universal joy, sweet peals of bells did ring. the daughter of a king, for pride transformed into a tree of mulberries, saint denis[l ] spied, and being hungery, of that fair fruit he ate a part, and was transformed likewise into the fashion of a hart, for seven years precise. at which he long bewail'd the loss of manly shape: then goes to him his true and trusty horse, and brings a blushing rose, by which the magic spell was broke, and both were fairly freed from the enchanted heavy yoke: they then in love agreed. now we come to saint james of spain, who slew a mighty boar, in hopes that he might honour gain, but he must die therefore: who was allow'd his death to choose, which was by virgins' darts, but they the same did all refuse, so tender were their hearts. the king's daughter at length, by lot, was doomed to work his woe; from her fair hands a fatal shot, out of a golden bow, must put a period to the strife; at which grief did her seize. she of her father begg'd his life upon her bended knees; saying, "my gracious sovereign lord, and honoured father dear, he well deserves a large reward; then be not so severe. give me his life!" he grants the boon, and then without delay, this spanish champion, ere 'twas noon, rid with her quite away. now come we to saint anthony, a man with valour fraught, the champion of fair italy, who many wonders wrought. first, he a mighty giant slew, the terror of mankind: young ladies fair, pure virgins too, this giant kept confined within his castle walls of stone, and gates of solid brass, where seven ladies made their moan, but out they could not pass. many brave lords, and knights likewise, to free them did engage, who fell a bleeding sacrifice to this fierce giant's rage. fair daughters to a royal king! yet fortune, after all, did our renowned champion bring to free them from their thrall. assisted by the hand of heaven, he ventured life and limb: behold the fairest of the seven, she fell in love with him. that champion good, bold saint andrew, the famous scottish knight, dark gloomy deserts travelled through, where phoebus gave no light. haunted with spirits, for a while his weary course he steers, till fortune blessed him with a smile, and shook off all his fears. this christian champion travell'd long, till at the length he came unto the giant's castle strong, great blanderon by name, where the king's daughters were transform'd into the shape of swans: though them he freed, their father storm'd, but he his malice shuns. for though five hundred armed knights did straight beset him round, our christian champion with them fights, till on the heathen ground most of those pagans bleeding lay; which much perplexed the king; the scottish champion clears the way, which was a glorious thing. saint patrick too, of ireland, that noble knight of fame, he travelled, as we understand, till at the length he came into a grove where satyrs dwelt, where ladies he beheld, who had their raged fury felt, and were with sorrow fill'd. he drew his sword, and did maintain a sharp and bloody fray, till the ring-leader he had slain; the rest soon fled away. this done, he asked the ladies fair, who were in silks array'd, from whence they came, and who they were. they answered him and said: "we are all daughters to a king, whom a brave scottish knight did out of tribulation bring: he having took his flight, now after him we are in quest." saint patrick then replies, "he is my friend, i cannot rest till i find him likewise. "so, ladies, if you do intend to take your lot with me, this sword of mine shall you defend from savage cruelty." the ladies freely gave consent to travel many miles; through shady groves and woods they went, in search of fortune's smiles. the christian champion david, went to the tartarian court, where at their tilt and tournament, and such like royal sport, he overthrew the only son of the count palatine; this noble action being done his fame began to shine. the young count's sad and sudden death turn'd all their joys to grief; he bleeding lay, bereaved of breath, the father's son in chief; but lords and ladies blazed the fame of our brave champion bold; saying, they ought to write his name in characters of gold. here have i writ a fair account of each heroic deed, done by these knights, which will surmount all those that shall succeed. the ancient chronicles of kings, ere since the world begun, can't boast of such renowned things as these brave knights have done. saint george he was for england, saint dennis was for france, saint james for spain, whose valiant hand did christian fame advance: saint anthony for italy, andrew for scots ne'er fails, patrick too stands for ireland, saint david was for wales. thus have you those stout champions names in this renowned song: young captive ladies bound in chains, confined in castles strong, they did by knightly prowess free, true honour to maintain: then let their lasting memory from age to age remain. , which dennis. thomas of ersseldoune. this beautiful tale is transferred to these pages from mr. laing's _select remains of the ancient popular poetry of scotland_. the two "fytts" of prophecies which accompany it in the manuscripts, are omitted here, as being probably the work of another, and an inferior, hand. from the exordium by which the story is introduced, it might be concluded that the author was an englishman. indeed, all the poems and prophecies attributed to thomas the rhimer which remain to us, are preserved in english manuscripts and an english dress; but, in the judgment of mr. jamieson, the internal evidence still almost amounts to proof that the romance itself was of scottish origin, although no indubitably scottish copy is now known to be in existence. the hero of this legend is believed to have lived through nearly the whole of the th century. he derived his territorial appellation from the village of erceldoune, in the county of berwick, lying on the river leader, about two miles above its junction with the tweed. the huntly bank on which the meeting of thomas with the queen of fairy took place, is situated, according to mr. laing, on one of the eldoun hills, but the same distinction is claimed for another place of like name, which, together with an adjoining ravine, called from time immemorial the _rymer's glen_, was included in the domain of abbotsford. (see _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iv. . v. .) "during the th, th, and th centuries, to get up a prophecy in the name of thomas the rhymer appears to have been found a good stroke of policy on many occasions. thus was his authority employed to countenance the views of edward iii. against scottish independence, to favor the ambitious views of the duke of albany in the minority of james v., and to sustain the spirits of the nation under the harassing invasions of henry viii. a small volume containing a collection of the rhymes thus put into circulation was published by andro hart in edinburgh, in ."--chambers, _pop. rhymes of scotland_, p. . "this poem," says mr. laing, "is preserved in three ancient manuscripts, each of them in a state more or less mutilated, and varying in no inconsiderable degree from the others. a portion of it was first printed in the _border minstrelsy_, [iv. ,] from the fragment in the british museum, among the cotton mss.; and the one which mr. jamieson adopted in his collection of _popular ballads and songs_ [ii. ,] was carefully deciphered from a volume of no ordinary curiosity, in the university library, cambridge, written in a very illegible hand, about the middle of the th century. it is now printed from the other copy, as it occurs in a volume, compiled at a still earlier period, which is preserved in the cathedral library of lincoln. on comparison, it will be readily perceived, that the text is in every respect preferable to that of either of the other manuscripts.... an endeavor has been made to fill up the defective parts from the cambridge copy, though in some instances, as will be seen, without success."--mr. halliwell has republished the cambridge text in his _fairy mythology_, (p. ,) and he cites a fourth manuscript, which, however, appears to be of slight importance. thomas of ersseldoune. lystnys, lordyngs, bothe grete and smale, and takis gude tente what i will say: i sall yow telle als trewe a tale, als euer was herde by nyghte or daye: and the maste meruelle fforowttyn naye, that euer was herde byfore or syen, and therfore pristly i yow praye, that ye will of youre talkyng blyn. it es an harde thyng for to saye, of doghety dedis that hase bene done; of felle feghtyngs and batells sere; and how that knyghtis hase wonne thair schone. bot jhesu christ, that syttis in trone, safe ynglysche men bothe ferre and nere; and i sall telle yow tyte and sone, of battells done sythen many a yere; and of batells that done sall bee; in whate place, and howe and whare; and wha sall hafe the heghere gree; and whethir partye sall hafe the werre; [transcriber's note: one stanza missing here, lines - ] wha sall take the flyghte and flee; and wha sall dye and byleue thare: bot jhesu christ, that dyed on tre, saue inglysche men whare so thay fare. * * * * * als i me wente this endres-daye, full faste in mynd makane my mone, in a mery mornynge of may, by huntle bankkes my selfe allone, i herde the jaye, and the 'throstelle,'[l ] the mawys menyde of hir songe, the wodewale beryde als a belle, that all the wode abowte me ronge. allone in longynge, thus als i laye, vndre nethe a semely tre, 'saw i' whare a lady gaye, 'came ridand' ouer a longe lee. if i suld sytt to domesdaye, with my tonge, to wrebbe and wrye, certanely that lady gaye, neuer bese scho askryede for mee. hir palfraye was a dappill graye; swilke one i saghe ne neuer none: als dose the sonne, on someres daye, that faire lady hir selfe scho schone. hir selle[l ] it was of reele bone, full semely was that syghte to see! stefly sett with precyous stones, and compaste all with crapotee, stones of oryence, grete plente. hir hare abowte hir hede it hange; scho rode ouer that lange lee; a whylle scho blewe, a nother scho sange. hir garthes of nobyll sylke they were; the bukylls were of berelle stone; hir steraps were of crystalle clere, and all with perelle ouer bygone. hir payetrelle was of iralle fyne; hir cropoure was of orfaré; and als clere golde hir brydill it schone; one aythir syde hange bellys three. 'scho led seuen grew houndis in a leeshe;' and seuen raches by hir they rone; scho bare a horne abowte hir halse; and vnder hir belte full many a flone. thomas laye and sawe that syghte, vnder nethe ane semly tree; he sayd, "yone es marye most of myghte, that bare that childe that dyede for mee. "but if i speke with yone lady bryghte, i hope myn herte will bryste in three; now sall i go with all my myghte, hir for to mete at eldoun tree." thomas rathely vpe he rase, and he rane ouer that mountayne hye; gyff it be als the storye sayes, he hir mette at eldone tree. he knelyde down appon his knee, vndir nethe that grenwode spraye:-- and sayd, "lufly ladye! rewe one mee; qwene of heuen, als thu wele maye!" then spake that lady milde of thoghte:-- "thomas, late swylke wordes bee; qwene of heuenne, am i noghte, for i tuke neuer so heghe degre. "bot i ame of ane other contree, if i be payrelde moste of prysse; i ryde aftyre this wylde fee; my raches rynnys at my devyse." "if thu be parelde moste of prysse, and here rydis thus in thy folye, of lufe, lady, als thu art wysse, thou gyffe me leue to lye the bye." scho sayde, "thu man, that ware folye; i praye the, thomas, thu lat me bee; ffor i saye the full sekirlye, that syne will fordoo all my beaute." "now lufly ladye rewe on mee, and i will euer more with the duelle; here my trouthe i 'plyghte to thee,' wethir thu will in heuen or helle." "mane of molde, thu will me marre, but yitt thu sall hafe all thy will; and trowe it wele, thu chewys the werre, ffor alle my beaute will thu spylle." down than lyghte that lady bryghte, vndir nethe that grene wode spraye; and, als the storye tellis full ryghte, seuen sythis by hir he laye. scho sayd, "man, the lykes thi playe: what byrde in boure maye delle with the? thou merrys me all this longe daye; i pray the, thomas, late me bee." thomas stode wpe in that stede, and he byhelde that lady gaye; hir hare it hange all ouer hir hede, hir eghne semede owte, that are were graye. and all the riche clothynge was awaye, that he byfore sawe in that stede; hir a schanke blake, hir other graye, and all hir body lyke the lede; thomas laye, and sawe that syghte, vndir nethe that grenewod tree. than sayd thomas, "allas! allas! in faythe this es a dullfull syghte; how arte thu fadyde thus in the face, that schane byfore als the sonne so bryght!" scho sayd, "thomas, take leve at sone and mone, and als at lefe that grewes on tree; this twelmoneth sall thu with me gone, and medill-erthe thu sall non see." he knelyd downe appon his knee, vndir nethe that grenewod spraye; and sayd, "lufly lady![l ] rewe on mee, mylde qwene of heuen, als thu beste maye." "allas!" he sayd, "and wa es mee, i trewe my dedis will wirke me care; my saulle, jhesu, byteche i the, whedir come that euer my banes sall fare." scho ledde hym in at eldone hill, vndir nethe a derne lee; whare it was dirk as mydnyght myrke, and euer the water till his knee. the montenans of dayes three, he herd bot swoghyne of the flode; at the laste, he sayde, "full wa es mee! almaste i dye, for fawte of fude." scho lede hym in till a faire herbere, whare frwte was 'growyng in gret plentee;' pers and appill, bothe rype thay were, the date, and als the damasee; the fygge, and als so the wyne-berye; the nyghtyngales lyggande on thair neste; the papeioyes faste abowte gan flye; and throstylls sange, wolde hafe no reste. he pressede to pulle frowte with his hande, als man for fude that was nere faynt; scho sayd, "thomas, thu late tham stande, or ells the fende the will atteynt. "if thu it plokk, sothely to say, thi saule gose to the fyre of helle; it comes neuer owte or domesdaye, bot ther in payne ay for to duelle. "thomas, sothely, i the hyghte, come lygge thyn hede down on my knee, and 'thou' sall se the fayreste syghte, that euer sawe man of thi contree." he did in hye als scho hym badde; appone hir knee his hede he layde, ffor hir to paye he was full glade, and than that lady to him sayde-- "seese thu nowe yone faire waye, that lyggis ouer yone heghe montayne?-- yone es the waye to heuen for aye, when synfull sawles are passed ther payne. "seese thu nowe yone other waye, that lygges lawe by nethe yone rysse? yone es the waye, the sothe to saye, vnto the joye of paradyse. "seese thu yitt yone third waye, that ligges vnder yone grene playne? yone es the waye, with tene and traye, whare synfull saulis suffiris thare payne. "bot seese thu nowe yone forthe waye, that lygges ouer yone depe delle? yone es the way, so waylawaye, vnto the byrnande fyre of hell. "seese thu yitt yone faire castelle, that standes vpone yone heghe hill? of towne and towre, it beris the belle; in erthe es none lyk it vntill. "ffor sothe, thomas, yone es myn awenn, and the kynges of this countree; bot me ware leuer hanged and drawen, or that he wyste thou laye me by. "when thu commes to yone castelle gay, i pray the curtase man to bee; and whate so any man to the saye, luke thu answere none bott mee. "my lorde es seruede at ylk a mese, with thritty knyghttis faire and free; i sail saye, syttande at the dasse, i tuke thi speche byyonde the see." thomas still als stane he stude. and he byhelde that lady gaye; scho come agayne als faire and gude, and al so ryche one hir palfraye. hir grewe hundis fillide with dere blode; hir rachis couplede, by my faye; scho blewe hir horne with mayne and mode, vnto the castelle scho tuk the waye. in to the haulle sothely scho went; thomas foloued at hir hande; than ladyes come, bothe faire and gent, with curtassye to hit knelande. harpe and fethill bothe thay fande, getterne, and als so the sawtrye; lutte and rybybe, bothe gangande, and all manere of mynstralsye. the most meruelle that thomas thoghte, when that he stode appon the flore; ffor feftty hertes in were broghte, that were bothe 'largely' grete and store. raches laye lapande in the blode, cokes come with dryssynge knyfe; they brittened tham als thay were wode; reuelle amanges thame was full ryfe. knyghtis dawnsede by three and three, thare was revelle, gamen, and playe, lufly ladyes, faire and free, that satte and sange one riche araye. thomas duellide in that solace more than i yowe save, perde; till one a daye, so hafe i grace, my lufly lady sayde to mee: "do busk the, thomas,--the busk agayne,[l ] ffor thu may here no lengare be; hye the faste, with myghte and mayne; i sall the brynge till eldone tree." thomas sayde than with heuy chere; "lufly lady, nowe late me bee; ffor certis, lady, i hafe bene here noghte bot the space of dayes three. "ffor sothe, thomas, als i the telle, thou hase bene here thre yere and more; bot langere here thu may noghte dwelle; the skylle i sall the telle wherefore. "to morne, of helle the foulle fende amange this folke will feche his fee; and thu arte mekill man and hende, i trowe full wele he wolde chese the. "ffor all the gold that euer may bee, ffro hethyn unto the worldis ende, thou bese neuer betrayede for mee; therefore with me i rede thou wende." scho broghte hym agayne to eldone tree, vndir nethe that grenewode spraye; in huntlee bannkes es mery to bee, whare fowles synges bothe nyght and daye. "fferre owtt in yone mountane graye, thomas, my fawkon byggis a neste;-- a fawcoun is an eglis praye; fforthi in na place may he reste. "ffare well, thomas; i wend my waye; ffor me byhouys ouer thir benttis brown." --loo here a fytt: more es to saye, all of thomas of erselldown.-- , laing, by tene. [transcriber's note: this refers to line of the first part, which is missing between pages and .] , linc. ms. throstylle cokke. , sette, laing. , lufly lady, i.e. mary. , buse agayne. thomas the rhymer. traditional version. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, (iv. .) "given from a copy obtained from a lady residing not far from ercildoune, corrected and enlarged by one in mrs. brown's mss." true thomas lay on huntlie bank; a ferlie he spied wi' his ee; and there he saw a ladye bright, come riding down by the eildon tree. her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, her mantle o' the velvet fyne; at ilka tett of her horse's mane, hung fifty siller bells and nine. true thomas, he pull'd aff his cap, and louted low down to his knee: "all hail, thou mighty queen of heaven! for thy peer on earth i never did see."-- "o no, o no, thomas," she said, "that name does not belang to me; i am but the queen of fair elfland, that am hither come to visit thee. "harp and carp, thomas," she said; "harp and carp along wi' me; and if ye dare to kiss my lips, sure of your bodie i will be."-- "betide me weal, betide me woe, that weird shall never daunton me."-- syne he has kissed her rosy lips, all underneath the eildon tree. "now, ye maun go wi' me," she said; "true thomas, ye maun go wi' me; and ye maun serve me seven years, thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." she mounted on her milk-white steed; she's ta'en true thomas up behind: and aye, whene'er her bridle rung, the steed flew swifter than the wind. o they rade on, and farther on; the steed gaed swifter than the wind; until they reach'd a desert wide, and living land was left behind. "light down, light down, now, true thomas, and lean your head upon my knee; abide and rest a little space, and i will shew you ferlies three. "o see ye not yon narrow road, so thick beset with thorns and briers? that is the path of righteousness, though after it but few enquires. "and see ye not that braid braid road, that lies across that lily leven? that is the path of wickedness, though some call it the road to heaven. "and see not ye that bonny road, that winds about the fernie brae? that is the road to fair elfland, where thou and i this night maun gae. "but, thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, whatever ye may hear or see; for, if you speak word in elfyn land, ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." o they rade on, and farther on, and they waded through rivers aboon the knee, and they saw neither sun nor moon, but they heard the roaring of the sea. it was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, and they waded through red blude to the knee; for a' the blude that's shed on earth rins through the springs o' that countrie. syne they came on to a garden green, and she pu'd an apple frae a tree-- "take this for thy wages, true thomas; it will give thee the tongue that can never lie."-- "my tongue is mine ain," true thomas said; "a gudely gift ye wad gie to me![l ] i neither dought to buy nor sell, at fair or tryst where i may be. "i dought neither speak to prince or peer, nor ask of grace from fair ladye."-- "now hold thy peace!" the lady said, "for as i say, so must it be."-- he has gotten a coat of the even cloth, and a pair of shoes of velvet green; and till seven years were gane and past, true thomas on earth was never seen. . the traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the fatal tree of knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. the repugnance of thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic effect. scott. the young tamlane. the _tayl of the yong tamlene_ is mentioned in the _complaynt of scotland_, ( ,) and the dance of _thom of lyn_ is noticed in the same work. a considerable fragment of this ballad was printed by herd, (vol. i. ,) under the title of _kertonha'_, a corruption of carterhaugh; another is furnished in maidment's _new book of old ballads_, (p. ,) and a nearly complete version in johnson's _museum_, (p. ,) which, with some alterations, was inserted in the _tales of wonder_, (no. .) the present edition, prepared by sir walter scott from a collation of various copies, is longer than any other, but was originally disfigured by several supposititious stanzas here omitted. another version, with maidment's fragment, will be found in the appendix to this volume. "carterhaugh is a plain, at the conflux of the ettrick and yarrow in selkirkshire, about a mile above selkirk, and two miles below newark castle; a romantic ruin which overhangs the yarrow, and which is said to have been the habitation of our heroine's father, though others place his residence in the tower of oakwood. the peasants point out, upon the plain, those electrical rings, which vulgar credulity supposes to be traces of the fairy revels. here, they say, were placed the stands of milk, and of water, in which _tamlane_ was dipped, in order to effect the disenchantment; and upon these spots, according to their mode of expressing themselves, the grass will never grow. miles cross, (perhaps a corruption of mary's cross,) where fair janet awaited the arrival of the fairy train, is said to have stood near the duke of buccleuch's seat of bow-hill, about half a mile from carterhaugh."--(scott's _minstrelsy_, ii. , at the end of a most interesting essay, introductory to this tale, on the fairies of popular superstition.) "o i forbid ye, maidens a', that wear gowd on your hair, to come or gae by carterhaugh, for young tamlane is there. "there's nane that gaes by carterhaugh, but maun leave him a wad, either gowd rings, or green mantles, or else their maidenheid. "now gowd rings ye may buy, maidens, green mantles ye may spin; but, gin ye lose your maidenheid, ye'll ne'er get that agen."-- but up then spak her, fair janet, the fairest o' a' her kin; "i'll cum and gang to carterhaugh; and ask nae leave o' him."-- janet has kilted her green kirtle, a little abune her knee; and she has braided her yellow hair, a little abune her bree. and when she came to carterhaugh, she gaed beside the well; and there she fand his steed standing, but away was himsell. she hadna pu'd a red red rose, a rose but barely three; till up and starts a wee wee man, at lady janet's knee. says--"why pu' ye the rose, janet? what gars ye break the tree? or why come ye to carterhaugh, withouten leave o' me?"-- says--"carterhaugh it is mine ain; my daddie gave it me; i'll come and gang to carterhaugh, and ask nae leave o' thee." he's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, among the leaves sae green; and what they did, i cannot tell-- the green leaves were between. he's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, among the roses red; and what they did, i cannot say-- she ne'er return'd a maid. when she cam to her father's ha', she looked pale and wan; they thought she'd dreed some sair sickness, or been with some leman. she didna comb her yellow hair, nor make meikle o'er her head; and ilka thing that lady took, was like to be her deid. it's four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the ba'; janet, the wightest of them anes, was faintest o' them a'. four and twenty ladies fair were playing at the chess; and out there came the fair janet, as green as any grass. out and spak an auld grey-headed knight, lay o'er the castle wa',-- "and ever, alas! for thee, janet, but we'll be blamed a'!"-- "now haud your tongue, ye auld grey knight! and an ill deid may ye die; father my bairn on whom i will, i'll father nane on thee."-- out then spak her father dear, and he spak meik and mild-- "and ever, alas! my sweet janet, i fear ye gae with child."-- "and if i be with child, father, mysell maun bear the blame; there's ne'er a knight about your ha' shall hae the bairnie's name. "and if i be with child, father, 'twill prove a wondrous birth; for weel i swear i'm not wi' bairn to any man on earth. "if my love were an earthly knight, as he's an elfin grey, i wadna gie my ain true love for nae lord that ye hae."-- she prink'd hersell and prinn'd hersell, by the ae light of the moon, and she's away to carterhaugh, to speak wi' young tamlane. and when she came to carterhaugh, she gaed beside the well; and there she saw the steed standing, but away was himsell. she hadna pu'd a double rose, a rose but only twae, when up and started young tamlane, says--"lady, thou pu's nae mae! "why pu' ye the rose, janet, within this garden grene, and a' to kill the bonny babe, that we got us between?" "the truth ye'll tell to me, tamlane; a word ye mauna lie; gin e'er ye was in haly chapel, or sained in christentie?"-- "the truth i'll tell to thee, janet, a word i winna lie; a knight me got, and a lady me bore, as well as they did thee. "randolph, earl murray, was my sire, dunbar, earl march, is thine; we loved when we were children small, which yet you well may mind. "when i was a boy just turn'd of nine, my uncle sent for me, to hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, and keep him companie. "there came a wind out of the north, a sharp wind and a snell; and a deep sleep came over me, and frae my horse i fell. "the queen of fairies keppit me, in yon green hill to dwell; and i'm a fairy, lyth and limb; fair ladye, view me well. "then would i never tire, janet, in elfish land to dwell; but aye, at every seven years, they pay the teind to hell; and i am sae fat and fair of flesh, i fear 'twill be mysell[l ]. "this night is hallowe'en, janet, the morn is hollowday; and, gin ye dare your true love win, ye hae nae time to stay. "the night it is good hallowe'en, when fairy folk will ride; and they that wad their true-love win, at miles cross they maun bide." "but how shall i thee ken, tamlane? or how shall i thee knaw, amang so many unearthly knights, the like i never saw?" "the first company that passes by, say na, and let them gae; the next company that passes by, sae na, and do right sae; the third company that passes by, then i'll be ane o' thae. "first let pass the black, janet, and syne let pass the brown; but grip ye to the milk-white steed, and pu' the rider down. "for i ride on the milk-white steed, and aye nearest the town; because i was a christen'd knight, they gave me that renown. "my right hand will be gloved, janet, my left hand will be bare; and these the tokens i gie thee, nae doubt i will be there. "they'll turn me in your arms, janet,[l ] an adder and a snake; but had me fast, let me not pass, gin ye wad buy me maik. "they'll turn me in your arms, janet, an adder and an ask; they'll turn me in your arms, janet, a bale that burns fast. "they'll turn me in your arms, janet, a red-hot gad o' airn; but haud me fast, let me not pass, for i'll do you no harm. "first dip me in a stand o' milk, and then in a stand o' water; but had me fast, let me not pass-- i'll be your bairn's father. "and, next, they'll shape me in your arms, a tod, but and an eel; but had me fast, nor let me gang, as you do love me weel. "they'll shape me in your arms, janet, a dove, but and a swan; and, last, they'll shape me in your arms a mother-naked man: cast your green mantle over me-- i'll be myself again."-- gloomy, gloomy, was the night, and eiry was the way, as fair janet, in her green mantle, to miles cross she did gae. betwixt the hours of twelve and one, a north wind tore the bent; and straight she heard strange elritch sounds upon that wind which went. about the dead hour o' the night, she heard the bridles ring; and janet was as glad o' that as any earthly thing. will o' wisp before them went, sent forth a twinkling light; and soon she saw the fairy bands all riding in her sight. and first gaed by the black black steed, and then gaed by the brown; but fast she gript the milk-white steed, and pu'd the rider down. she pu'd him frae the milk-white steed, and loot the bridle fa'; and up there raise an erlish cry-- "he's won amang us a'!"-- they shaped him in fair janet's arms,[l ] an esk, but and an adder; she held him fast in every shape-- to be her bairn's father. they shaped him in her arms at last, a mother-naked man: she wrapt him in her green mantle, and sae her true love wan! up then spake the queen o' fairies, out o' a bush o' broom-- "she that has borrow'd young tamlane, has gotten a stately groom."-- up then spake the queen o' fairies, out o' a bush o' rye-- "she's ta'en awa the bonniest knight in a' my cumpanie. "but had i kenn'd, tamlane," she says, "a lady wad borrow'd thee-- i wad ta'en out thy twa grey een, put in twa een o' tree. "had i but kenn'd, tamlane," she says, "before ye came frae hame-- i wad ta'en out your heart o' flesh, put in a heart o' stane. "had i but had the wit yestreen that i hae coft the day-- i'd paid my kane seven times to hell ere you'd been won away!" , see _thomas of ersseldoune_, (p. ,) v. , . v. - , v. - . the same process of disenchantment is found in the danish ballad _nattergalen_, st. - , grundtvig, no. (also _svenska folk-visor_, no. ). the comparison with the transformations of proteus is curious. [grk: amphi de cheiras ballomen; oud' ho gerôn doliês epelêtheto technês; all' êtoi prôtista leôn genet' êugeneios, autar epeita drakôn kai pordalis êde megas sus; gigneto d' hygron hydôr kai dendreon hypsipetêlon. hêmeis d' astempheôs echomen tetlêoti thymô.] _odyssey_, iv. - . verum ubi correptum manibus vinclisque tenebis, tum variæ eludent species atque ora ferarum: fiet enim subito sus horridus atraque tigris, squamosusque draco, et fulva cervice leæna, aut acrem flammæ sonitum dabit, atque ita vinclis excidet, aut in aquas tenues dilapsus abibit. sed quanto ille magis formas se vertet in omnes, tanto, nate, magis contende tenacia vincla. _georgics_, iv. - . the wee wee man. this ballad will be found, in forms slightly varying, in herd, (i. ;) caw's _poetical museum_, (p. ;) motherwell's _minstrelsy_, (p. ;) and buchan's _ancient ballads_, (i. .) it bears some resemblance to the beginning of the remarkable poem, _als y yod on ay mounday_, (see appendix). the present version is from the _poetical museum_. as i was walking by my lane, atween a water and a wa, there sune i spied a wee wee man, he was the least that eir i saw. his legs were scant a shathmont's length, and sma and limber was his thie; atween his shoulders was ae span,[l ] about his middle war but three. he has tane up a meikle stane, and flang't as far as i cold see; ein thouch i had been wallace wicht, i dought na lift it to my knie. "o wee wee man, but ye be strang! tell me whar may thy dwelling be?" "i dwell beneth that bonnie bouir, o will ye gae wi me and see?" on we lap, and awa we rade, till we cam to a bonny green; we lichted syne to bait our steid, and out there cam a lady sheen; wi four and twentie at her back, a' comely cled in glistering green; thouch there the king of scots had stude, the warst micht weil hae been his queen. on syne we past wi wondering cheir, till we cam to a bonny ha; the roof was o the beaten gowd, the flure was o the crystal a. when we cam there, wi wee wee knichts[l ] war ladies dancing, jimp and sma; but in the twinkling of an eie, baith green and ha war clein awa. . much better in motherwell. between his een there was a span, betwixt his shoulders there were ells three. - . there were pipers playing in every neuk, and ladies dancing, jimp and sma'; and aye the owreturn o' their tune was, "our wee wee man has been lang awa!"-- motherwell. the elfin knight. reprinted from _a collection of curious old ballads and miscellaneous poetry_, edinburgh. david webster, . other versions are given in motherwell's _minstrelsy_, (see the appendix to this volume;) kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, (p. ;) buchan's _ancient ballads_, (ii. .) similar collections of impossibilities in _the trooper and fair maid_, buchan, i. ; _robin's tesment_, _id._, i. , or aytoun, d ed. ii. ; _as i was walking under a grove_, _pills to purge melancholy_, v. . see also _post_, vol. ii. , , vol. iv. , ; and in german, _von eitel unmöglichen dingen_, erk's _liederhort_, p. - ; uhland, _eitle dinge_, no. , a, b; _wunderhorn_, ii. . the elfin knight sits on yon hill, _ba, ba, ba, lillie ba._ he blaws his horn baith loud and shrill. _the wind hath blawn my plaid awa._ he blaws it east, he blaws it west, he blaws it where he liketh best. "i wish that horn were in my kist, yea, and the knight in my arms niest." she had no sooner these words said, than the knight came to her bed. "thou art o'er young a maid," quoth he, "married with me, that thou would'st be." "i have a sister, younger than i, and she was married yesterday." "married with me if thou would'st be, a curtisie thou must do to me. "it's ye maun mak a sark to me, without any cut or seam," quoth he; "and ye maun shape it, knife-, sheerless, and also sew it needle-, threedless." "if that piece of courtisie i do to thee, another thou must do to me. "i have an aiker of good ley land, which lyeth low by yon sea strand; "it's ye maun till't wi' your touting horn, and ye maun saw't wi' the pepper corn; "and ye maun harrow't wi' a thorn, and hae your wark done ere the morn; "and ye maun shear it wi' your knife, and no lose a stack o't for your life; "and ye maun stack it in a mouse hole, and ye maun thrash it in your shoe sole; "and ye maun dight it in your loof, and also sack it in your glove; "and ye maun bring it over the sea,[l ] fair, and clean, and dry to me; "and when that ye have done your wark, come back to me, and ye'll get your sark." "i'll not quite my plaid for my life; it haps my seven bairnes and my wife." "my maidenhead i'll then keep still, let the elfin knight do what he will. "my plaid awa, my plaid away, and owre the hills and far awa, and far awa to norowa', my plaid shall not be blawn awa." , thou must. the broomfield hill. a fragment of this ballad was printed in herd's collection, ("_i'll wager, i'll wager_," i. .) the present version is from the _border minstrelsy_, (iii. ,) and we have added another from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_. a somewhat longer copy is given in buchan's _ballads_, (ii. ,) and a modernized english one, of no value, (_the west country wager_,) in _ancient poems_, &c., percy society, vol. xvii. p. . _brume, brume on hil_, is mentioned in the _complaynt of scotland_, and formed part of captain cox's well-known collection. a danish ballad exhibits the same theme, though differently treated: _sövnerunerne_, grundtvig, no. . there was a knight and a lady bright, had a true tryst at the broom; the ane ga'ed early in the morning, the other in the afternoon. and aye she sat in her mother's bower door, and aye she made her mane, "o whether should i gang to the broomfield hill, or should i stay at hame? "for if i gang to the broomfield hill, my maidenhead is gone; and if i chance to stay at hame, my love will ca' me mansworn."-- up then spake a witch woman, aye from the room aboon; "o, ye may gang to broomfield hill, and yet come maiden hame. "for when ye come to the broomfield hill, ye'll find your love asleep, with a silver belt about his head, and a broom-cow at his feet. "take ye the blossom of the broom, the blossom it smells sweet, and strew it at your true love's head, and likewise at his feet. "take ye the rings off your fingers, put them on his right hand, to let him know, when he doth awake, his love was at his command."-- she pu'd the broom flower on hive-hill, and strew'd on's white hals bane, and that was to be wittering true, that maiden she had gane. "o where were ye, my milk-white steed, that i hae coft sae dear, that wadna watch and waken me, when there was maiden here?"-- "i stamped wi' my foot, master, and gar'd my bridle ring; but nae kin' thing wald waken ye, till she was past and gane."-- "and wae betide ye, my gay goss hawk, that i did love sae dear, that wadna watch and waken me, when there was maiden here."-- "i clapped wi' my wings, master, and aye my bells i rang, and aye cry'd, waken, waken, master, before the ladye gang."-- "but haste and haste, my gude white steed, to come the maiden till, or a' the birds of gude green wood of your flesh shall have their fill."-- "ye needna burst your gude white steed, wi' racing o'er the howm; nae bird flies faster through the wood, than she fled through the broom." lord john. from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, (p. .) "i'll wager, i'll wager," says lord john, "a hundred merks and ten, that ye winna gae to the bonnie broom-fields, and a maid return again."-- "but i'll lay a wager wi' you, lord john, a' your merks oure again, that i'll gae alane to the bonnie broom-fields, and a maid return again." then lord john mounted his grey steed, and his hound wi' his bells sae bricht, and swiftly he rade to the bonny broom-fields, wi' his hawks, like a lord or knicht. "now rest, now rest, my bonnie grey steed, my lady will soon be here; and i'll lay my head aneath this rose sae red, and the bonnie burn sae near." but sound, sound, was the sleep he took, for he slept till it was noon; and his lady cam at day, left a taiken and away, gaed as licht as a glint o' the moon. she strawed the roses on the ground, threw her mantle on the brier, and the belt around her middle sae jimp, as a taiken that she'd been there. the rustling leaves flew round his head, and rous'd him frae his dream; he saw by the roses, and mantle sae green, that his love had been there and was gane. "o whare was ye, my gude grey steed, that i coft ye sae dear; that ye didna waken your master, whan ye ken'd that his love was here."-- "i pautit wi' my foot, master, garr'd a' my bridles ring; and still i cried, waken, gude master, for now is the hour and time."-- "then whare was ye, my bonnie grey hound, that i coft ye sae dear, that ye didna waken your master, whan ye kend that his love was here."-- "i pautit wi' my foot, master, garr'd a' my bells to ring; and still i cried, waken, gude master, for now is the hour and time."-- "but whare was ye, my hawks, my hawks, that i coft ye sae dear, that ye didna waken your master, whan ye ken'd that his love was here."-- "o wyte na me, now, my master dear, i garr'd a' my young hawks sing, and still i cried, waken, gude master, for now is the hour and time."-- "then be it sae, my wager gane! 't will skaith frae meikle ill; for gif i had found her in bonnie broom-fields, o' her heart's blude ye'd drunken your fill." * * * * * the stanzas below are from an american version of this ballad called _the green broomfield_, printed in a cheap song-book. (graham's _illustrated magazine_, sept. .) "then when she went to the green broom field, where her love was fast asleep, with a gray _goose_-hawk and a green laurel bough, and a green broom under his feet. "and when he awoke from out his sleep, an angry man was he; he looked to the east, and he looked to the west, and he wept for his sweetheart to see. "oh! where was you, my gray _goose_-hawk, the hawk that i loved so dear, that you did not awake me from out my sleep, when my sweetheart was so near!" kempion. this ballad was first printed in the _border minstrelsy_, (vol. iii. p. ,) "chiefly from mrs. brown's ms. with corrections from a recited fragment." motherwell furnishes a different version, from recitation, (_minstrelsy_, p. ,) which is subjoined to the present, and the well-known ditty of the _laidley worm of spindleston-heugh_, upon the same theme, will be found in the appendix to this volume. "such transformations as the song narrates," remarks sir walter scott, "are common in the annals of chivalry. in the th and th cantos of the second book of the _orlando inamorato_, the paladin, brandimarte, after surmounting many obstacles, penetrates into the recesses of an enchanted palace. here he finds a fair damsel, seated upon a tomb, who announces to him, that, in order to achieve her deliverance, he must raise the lid of the sepulchre, and kiss whatever being should issue forth. the knight, having pledged his faith, proceeds to open the tomb, out of which a monstrous snake issues forth, with a tremendous hiss. brandimarte, with much reluctance, fulfils the _bizarre_ conditions of the adventure; and the monster is instantly changed into a beautiful fairy, who loads her deliverer with benefits." _jomfruen i ormeham_, in grundtvig's _danmarks gamle folkeviser_, ii. , is essentially the same ballad as _kempion_. the characteristic incident of the story (a maiden who has been transformed by her step-mother into a snake or other monster, being restored to her proper shape by the kiss of a knight) is as common in the popular fiction of the north as scott asserts it to be in chivalrous romance. for instances, see grundtvig, l. l., and under the closely related _lindormen_, ii. . the name _kempion_ is itself a monument of the relation of our ballads to the _kæmpeviser_. pollard of pollard hall, who slew "a venomous serpent which did much harm to man and beast," is called in the modern legend a _champion_ knight. "cum heir, cum heir, ye freely feed, and lay your head low on my knee; the heaviest weird i will you read, that ever was read to gay ladye. "o meikle dolour sall ye dree, and aye the salt seas o'er ye'se swim; and far mair dolour sall ye dree on estmere crags[l ], when ye them climb. "i weird ye to a fiery beast, and relieved sall ye never be, till kempion, the kingis son, cum to the crag, and thrice kiss thee."-- o meikle dolour did she dree, and aye the salt seas o'er she swam; and far mair dolour did she dree on estmere crag, when she them clamb. and aye she cried for kempion, gin he would but come to her hand: now word has gane to kempion, that sicken a beast was in his land. "now, by my sooth," said kempion, "this fiery beast i'll gang and see."-- "and by my sooth," said segramour, "my ae brother, i'll gang wi' thee." then bigged hae they a bonny boat, and they hae set her to the sea; but a mile before they reach'd the shore, around them she gar'd the red fire flee. "o segramour, keep the boat afloat, and let her na the land o'er near; for this wicked beast will sure gae mad, and set fire to a' the land and mair."-- syne has he bent an arblast bow, and aim'd an arrow at her head; and swore if she didna quit the land, wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead. "o out of my stythe i winna rise, (and it is not for the awe o' thee,) till kempion, the kingis son, cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me."-- he has louted him o'er the dizzy crag, and gien the monster kisses ane; awa she gaed, and again she cam. the fieryest beast that ever was seen. "o out o' my stythe i winna rise, (and not for a' thy bow nor thee,) till kempion, the kingis son, cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me."-- he's louted him o'er the estmere crags, and he has gi'en her kisses twa: awa she gaed, and again she cam, the fieryest beast that ever you saw. "o out of my den i winna rise, nor flee it for the fear o' thee, till kempion, that courteous knight, cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me."-- he's louted him o'er the lofty crag, and he has gi'en her kisses three: awa she gaed, and again she cam, the loveliest ladye e'er could be! "and by my sooth," says kempion, "my ain true love, (for this is she,) they surely had a heart o' stane, could put thee to such misery. "o was it warwolf in the wood? or was it mermaid in the sea? or was it man or vile woman, my ain true love, that mis-shaped thee?"-- "it wasna warwolf in the wood, nor was it mermaid in the sea: but it was my wicked step-mother, and wae and weary may she be!"-- "o, a heavier weird shall light her on, than ever fell on vile woman; her hair shall grow rough, and her teeth grow lang, and on her four feet shall she gang. "none shall take pity her upon; in wormeswood she aye shall won; and relieved shall she never be, till st. mungo come over the sea."-- and sighing said that weary wight, "i doubt that day i'll never see!" . if by estmere crags we are to understand the rocky cliffs of northumberland, in opposition to westmoreland, we may bring our scene of action near bamborough, and thereby almost identify the tale of _kempion_ with that of the _laidley worm of spindleston_, to which it bears so strong a resemblance.--scott. but why should we seek to do this? kemp owyne. kemp owyne, says motherwell, "was, no doubt, the same ewein or owain, ap urien the king of reged, who is celebrated by the bards, taliessin and llywarch-hen, as well as in the welsh historical triads. in a poem of gruffyd llwyd, a.d. , addressed to owain glyndwr, is the following allusion to this warrior. 'thou hast travelled by land and by sea in the conduct of thine affairs, like owain ap urien in days of yore, when with activity he encountered the black knight of the water.'[c] his mistress had a ring esteemed one of the thirteen rarities of britain, which, (like the wondrous ring of gyges) would render the wearer invisible." _minstrelsy_, p. lxxxiii. [c] "on sea, on land, thou still didst brave the dangerous cliff and rapid wave; like _urien_, who subdued the knight, and the fell dragon put to flight, yon moss-grown fount beside; the grim, black warrior of the flood, the dragon, gorged with human blood, the waters' scaly pride." jones's _welsh bards_, i. . the copy of kemp owyne printed in buchan's _ancient ballads_, (ii. ,) is the same as the following. her mother died when she was young, which gave her cause to make great moan; her father married the warst woman that ever lived in christendom. she served her with foot and hand, in every thing that she could dee; till once, in an unlucky time, she threw her in ower craigy's sea. says, "lie you there, dove isabel, and all my sorrows lie with thee; till kemp owyne come ower the sea, and borrow you with kisses three, let all the warld do what they will, oh borrowed shall you never be." her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, and twisted thrice about the tree, and all the people, far and near, thought that a savage beast was she; this news did come to kemp owyne, where he lived far beyond the sea. he hasted him to craigy's sea, and on the savage beast look'd he; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted was about the tree, and with a swing she came about: "come to craigy's sea, and kiss with me. "here is a royal belt," she cried, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me, tail or fin, i vow my belt your death shall be." he stepped in, gave her a kiss, the royal belt he brought him wi'; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted twice about the tree, and with a swing she came about: "come to craigy's sea, and kiss with me. "here is a royal ring," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your finger it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me, tail or fin, i swear my ring your death shall be." he stepped in, gave her a kiss, the royal ring he brought him wi'; her breath was strang, her hair was lang, and twisted ance around the tree, and with a swing she came about: "come to craigy's sea, and kiss with me. "here is a royal brand," she said, "that i have found in the green sea; and while your body it is on, drawn shall your blood never be; but if you touch me, tail or fin, i swear my brand your death shall be." he stepped in, gave her a kiss, the royal brand he brought him wi'; her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, and twisted nane about the tree; and smilingly she came about, as fair a woman as fair could be. king henry. a modernized copy of king henry was published in the _tales of wonder_, (no ,) under the title of _courteous king jamie_. it first appeared in an ancient dress in the _border minstrelsy_, (iii. ,) but a version preferable in some respects was given by jamieson in his _popular ballads_, (ii. ,) which is here printed, without the editor's interpolations. for a notice of similar legends, see the _marriage of sir gawaine_, at page of this volume. lat never a man a wooing wend, that lacketh thingis three; a routh o' gould, an open heart, ay fu' o' charity. as this i speak of king henry, for he lay burd-alane; and he's doen him to a jelly hunt's ha', was far frae ony town. he chas'd the deer now him before, and the roe down by the den, till the fattest buck in a' the flock king henry he has slain. o he has doen him to his ha', to mak him bierly cheer; and in it cam a grisly ghost, staed stappin' i' the fleer. her head hat the roof-tree o' the house, her middle ye mat weel span;-- he's thrown to her his gay mantle; says,--"ladie, hap your lingcan." her teeth was a' like leather stakes, her nose like club or mell; and i ken nae thing she 'pear'd to be, but the fiend that wons in hell. "some meat, some meat, ye king henry; some meat ye gie to me." "and what meat's in this house, ladie? and what ha'e i to gi'e?" "its ye do kill your berry-brown steed, and ye bring him here to me." o whan he slew his berry-brown steed, wow but his heart was sair! she ate him a' up, flesh and bane, left naething but hide and hair. "mair meat, mair meat, ye king henry, mair meat ye bring to me." "and what meat's in this house, ladie? and what hae i to gi'e?" "o ye do kill your good grey hounds, and ye bring them in to me." o whan he killed his good grey hounds, wow but his heart was sair! she ate them a' up, flesh and bane, left naething but hide and hair. "mair meat, mair meat, ye king henry, mair meat ye bring to me." "and what meat's in this house, ladie? and what hae i to gi'e?" "o ye do kill your gay goss hawks, and ye bring them here to me." o whan he kill'd his gay goss hawks, wow but his heart was sair! she ate them a' up, skin and bane, left naething but feathers bare. "some drink, some drink, now, king henry; some drink ye bring to me." "o what drink's in this house, ladie, that ye're nae welcome tee?" "o ye sew up your horse's hide, and bring in a drink to me." and he's sew'd up the bloody hide, a puncheon o' wine put in; she drank it a' up at a waught, left na ae drap ahin'. "a bed, a bed, now, king henry, a bed ye mak to me; for ye maun pu' the heather green, and mak a bed to me." and pu'd has he the heather green, and made to her a bed; and up he's ta'en his gay mantle, and o'er it has he spread. "tak aff your claiths, now, king henry, and lye down by my side;" "o god forbid," says king henry, "that ever the like betide; that ever the fiend that wons in hell, should streek down by my side." * * * * * whan nicht was gane, and day was come, and the sun shone thro' the ha', the fairest lady that ever was seen lay atween him and the wa'. "o weel is me!" says king henry; "how lang'll this last wi' me?" then out it spake that fair lady,-- "e'en till the day you die. "for i've met wi' mony a gentle knicht, that gae me sic a fill; but never before wi' a curteis knicht, that gae me a' my will." cospatrick. (_border minstrelsy_, iii. .) this ballad, which is still very popular, is known under various other names, as _bothwell_, _child brenton_, _lord dingwall_, _we were sisters_, _we were seven_, &c. scott's version was derived principally from recitation, but some of the concluding stanzas were taken from herd's. herd's copy, which must be regarded as a fragment, is given in connection with the present, and buchan's in the appendix to this volume. another edition, of a suspicious character, may be seen in cromek's _remains of nithsdale and galloway song_, (p. .) all the principal incidents of the story are found in _ingefred og gudrune, danske viser_, no. , translated by jamieson, _illustrations_ p. . more or less imperfect versions of the same are _riddar olle, svenska folk-visor_, ii. p. , , , , and _herr Äster och fröken sissa_, p. . the substitution of the maid-servant for the bride, occurs also in _torkild trundesön, danske v._, no. , or _thorkil troneson_, arwidsson, no. . this idea was perhaps derived from _tristan and isold_: see scott's _sir tristrem_, ii. , . cospatrick has sent o'er the faem; cospatrick brought his ladye hame; and fourscore ships have come her wi', the ladye by the grene-wood tree. there were twal' and twal' wi' baken bread, and twal' and twal' wi' gowd sae reid, and twal' and twal' wi' bouted flour, and twal' and twal' wi' the paramour. sweet willy was a widow's son, and at her stirrup he did run; and she was clad in the finest pall, but aye she let the tears down fall. "o is your saddle set awrye? or rides your steed for you ower high? or are you mourning, in your tide, that you suld be cospatrick's bride?" "i am not mourning, at this tide, that i suld be cospatrick's bride; but i am sorrowing in my mood, that i suld leave my mother good. "but, gentle boy, come tell to me, what is the custom of thy countrie?"-- "the custom thereof, my dame," he says, "will ill a gentle laydye please. "seven king's daughters has our lord wedded, and seven king's daughters has our lord bedded; but he's cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane, and sent them mourning hame again. "yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid, ye may gae safely to his bed; but gif o' that ye be na sure, then hire some damsell o' your bour."-- the ladye's call'd her bour maiden, that waiting was into her train; "five thousand merks i'll gie to thee, to sleep this night with my lord for me."-- when bells were rang, and mass was sayne, and a' men unto bed were gane, cospatrick and the bonny maid, into a chamber they were laid. "now, speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed, and speak, thou sheet, enchanted web; and speak up, my bonny brown sword, that winna lie, is this a true maiden that lies by me?"-- "it is not a maid that you hae wedded, but it is a maid that you hae bedded; it is a leal maiden that lies by thee, but not the maiden that it should be."-- o wrathfully he left the bed, and wrathfully his claes on did; and he has ta'en him through the ha', and on his mother he did ca'. "i am the most unhappy man, that ever was in christen land! i courted a maiden, meik and mild, and i hae gotten naething but a woman wi' child."-- "o stay, my son, into this ha', and sport ye wi' your merry men a'; and i will to the secret bour, to see how it fares wi' your paramour."-- the carline she was stark and sture, she aff the hinges dang the dure; "o is your bairn to laird or loun, or is it to your father's groom?"-- "o hear me, mother, on my knee, till my sad story i tell to thee: o we were sisters, sisters seven, we were the fairest under heaven. "it fell on a summer's afternoon, when a' our toilsome task was done, we cast the kevils us amang, to see which suld to the grene-wood gang. "ohon! alas, for i was youngest, and aye my wierd it was the hardest! the kevil it on me did fa', whilk was the cause of a' my woe. "for to the grene-wood i maun gae, to pu' the red rose and the slae; to pu' the red rose and the thyme, to deck my mother's bour and mine. "i hadna pu'd a flower but ane, when by there came a gallant hende, wi' high-coll'd hose and laigh-coll'd shoon, and he seem'd to be sum kingis son. "and be i a maid, or be i nae, he kept me there till the close o' day; and be i a maid, or be i nane, he kept me there till the day was done. "he gae me a lock o' his yellow hair, and bade me keep it ever mair; he gae me a carknet o' bonny beads, and bade me keep it against my needs. "he gae to me a gay gold ring, and bade me keep it abune a' thing."-- "what did ye wi' the tokens rare, that ye gat frae that gallant there?"-- "o bring that coffer unto me, and a' the tokens ye sall see."-- "now stay, daughter, your bour within, while i gae parley wi' my son."-- o she has ta'en her thro' the ha', and on her son began to ca'; "what did ye wi' the bonny beads i bade you keep against your needs? "what did you wi' the gay gold ring i bade you keep abune a' thing?"-- "i gae them to a ladye gay, i met on grene-wood on a day. "but i wad gie a' my halls and tours, i had that ladye within my bours; but i wad gie my very life, i had that ladye to my wife."-- "now keep, my son, your ha's and tours, ye have the bright burd in your bours; and keep, my son, your very life, ye have that ladye to your wife."-- now, or a month was come and gane, the ladye bare a bonny son; and 'twas weel written on his breast-bane, "cospatrick[l ] is my father's name." "o row my lady in satin and silk, and wash my son in the morning milk." , cospatrick, _comes patricius_, was the designation of the earl of dunbar, in the days of wallace and bruce.--scott. bothwell. from herd's _scottish songs_, (i. .) as bothwell was walking in the lowlands alane, _hey down, and a down_, he met six ladies sae gallant and fine, _hey down, and a down._ he cast his lot amang them a', and on the youngest his lot did fa'. he's brought her frae her mother's bower, unto his strongest castle and tower. but ay she cry'd and made great moan, and ay the tear came trickling down. "come up, come up," said the foremost man, "i think our bride comes slowly on." "o lady, sits your saddle awry, or is your steed for you owre high?" "my saddle is not set awry, nor carries me my steed owre high; "but i am weary of my life, since i maun be lord bothwell's wife." he's blawn his horn sae sharp and shrill, up start the deer on every hill; he's blawn his horn sae lang and loud, up start the deer in gude green wood. his lady mother lookit owre the castle wa', and she saw them riding ane and a'. she's called upon her maids by seven, to mak his bed baith saft and even: she's called upon her cooks by nine, to make their dinner fair and fine. when day was gane and night was come, "what ails my love on me to frown? "or does the wind blow in your glove, or runs your mind on another love?" "nor blows the wind within my glove, nor runs my mind on another love;" "but i not maid nor maiden am, for i'm wi' bairn to another man." "i thought i'd a maiden sae meek and sae mild, but i've nought but a woman wi' child." his mother's taen her up to a tower, and lockit her in her secret bower: "now doughter mine, come tell to me, wha's bairn this is that you are wi'." "o mother dear, i canna learn wha is the father of my bairn. "but as i walk'd in the lowlands my lane, i met a gentleman gallant and fine; "he keepit me there sae late and sae lang, frae the ev'ning late till the morning dawn; "and a' that he gied me to my propine, was a pair of green gloves, and a gay gold ring, "three lauchters of his yellow hair, in case that we shou'd meet nae mair." his lady mother went down the stair: "now son, now son, come tell to me, where's the green gloves i gave to thee?" "i gied to a lady sae fair and so fine, the green gloves and a gay gold ring: "but i wad gie my castles and towers, i had that lady within my bowers: "but i wad gie my very life, i had that lady to be my wife." "now keep, now keep your castles and towers, you have that lady within your bowers: "now keep, now keep your very life, you have that lady to be your wife." "o row my lady in sattin and silk, and wash my son in the morning milk." willie's ladye. printed from mrs. brown's ms., in the _border minstrelsy_, vol. iii. p. . another copy is given in jamieson's _popular ballads_, (ii. ,) and versions, enlarged and altered from the ancient, in the same work, (ii. ,) and in _tales of wonder_, no. . this ballad bears a striking resemblance to _sir stig and lady torelild_, translated from the danish by jamieson, _illustrations of northern antiquities_, p. . this is the eighth (marked h) of nine danish ballads given by grundtvig, under the title _hustru og mands moder_, vol. ii. . three swedish versions have been printed: two in arwidsson's _fornsånger, liten kerstins förtrollning_, ii. , and another (grundtvig) in cavallius and stephens's _svenska folksagor_. "those who wish to know how an incantation, or charm, of the distressing nature here described, was performed in classic days, may consult the story of galanthis's metamorphosis, in ovid, or the following passage in apuleius: 'eadem (saga, scilicet, quædam) amatoris uxorem, quod in eam dicacule probrum dixerat, jam in sarcinam prægnationis, obsepto utero, et repigrato f[oe]tu, perpetua prægnatione damnavit. et ut cuncti numerant, octo annorum onere, misella illa, velut elephantum paritura, distenditur.' apul. _metam._ lib. i. "there is a curious tale about a count of westeravia, whom a deserted concubine bewitched upon his marriage, so as to preclude all hopes of his becoming a father. the spell continued to operate for three years, till one day, the count happening to meet with his former mistress, she maliciously asked him about the increase of his family. the count, conceiving some suspicion from her manner, craftily answered, that god had blessed him with three fine children; on which she exclaimed, like willie's mother in the ballad, "may heaven confound the old hag, by whose counsel i threw an enchanted pitcher into the draw-well of your palace!" the spell being found, and destroyed, the count became the father of a numerous family. _hierarchie of the blessed angels_, p. ." scott. willie's ta'en him o'er the faem, he's wooed a wife, and brought her hame; he's wooed her for her yellow hair, but his mother wrought her meikle care; and meikle dolour gar'd her dree, for lighter she can never be; but in her bower she sits wi' pain, and willie mourns o'er her in vain. and to his mother he has gane, that vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! he says--"my ladie has a cup, wi' gowd and silver set about; this gudely gift sall be your ain, and let her be lighter o' her young bairn."-- "of her young bairn she's never be lighter, nor in her bour to shine the brighter: but she sall die, and turn to clay, and you sall wed another may."-- "another may i'll never wed, another may i'll never bring hame:"-- but, sighing, said that weary wight-- "i wish my life were at an end! "yet gae ye to your mother again, that vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! and say, your ladye has a steed, the like o' him's no in the land o' leed. "for he is silver shod before, and he is gowden shod behind; at every tuft of that horse mane, there's a golden chess, and a bell to ring. this gudely gift sall be her ain, and let me be lighter o' my young bairn."-- "of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, nor in her bour to shine the brighter; but she sall die, and turn to clay, and ye sall wed another may."-- "another may i'll never wed, another may i'll never bring hame:"-- but, sighing, said that weary wight-- "i wish my life were at an end!-- "yet gae ye to your mother again, that vile rank witch, o' rankest kind! and say your ladye has a girdle, it's a' red gowd to the middle; "and aye, at ilka siller hem hang fifty siller bells and ten; this gudely gift sall be her ain, and let me be lighter o' my young bairn."-- "of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, nor in your bour to shine the brighter; for she sall die, and turn to clay, and thou sall wed another may."-- "another may i'll never wed, another may i'll never bring hame;"-- but, sighing, said that weary wight-- "i wish my days were at an end!"-- then out and spak the billy blind,[l ] (he spak aye in good time:) "yet gae ye to the market-place, and there do buy a loaf of wace; do shape it bairn and bairnly like, and in it twa glassen een you'll put; "and bid her your boy's christening to, then notice weel what she shall do; and do you stand a little away, to notice weel what she may say." [l ]he did him to the market-place, and there he bought a loaf[l ] o' wax; he shaped it bairn and bairnly like, and in twa glazen een he pat; he did him till his mither then, and bade her to his boy's christnin; and he did stand a little forbye, and noticed well what she did say. "o wha has loosed the nine witch knots, that were amang that ladye's locks? and wha's ta'en out the kaims o' care, that were amang that ladye's hair? "and wha has ta'en down that bush o' woodbine, that hung between her bour and mine? and wha has kill'd the master kid,[l ] that ran beneath that ladye's bed? and wha has loosed her left foot shee, and let that ladye lighter be?" syne, willy's loosed the nine witch knots, that were amang that ladye's locks; and willie's ta'en out the kaims o' care, that were into that ladye's hair; and he's ta'en down the bush o' woodbine, hung atween her bour and the witch carline; and he has kill'd the master kid, that ran beneath that ladye's bed; and he has loosed her left foot shee, and latten that ladye lighter be; and now he has gotten a bonny son, and meikle grace be him upon. . _billy blind_--a familiar genius, or propitious spirit, somewhat similar to the _brownie_. - . inserted from jamieson's copy. . _leaf_, jamieson. . the witch's chief familiar, placed in the chamber of the sick woman in the form of a kid. alison gross. jamieson's _popular ballads_, ii. . from the recitation of mrs. brown. the beginning is to be compared with _lindormen_, the whole ballad with _jomfruen i ormeham_, grundtvig's _folkeviser_, ii. , . o alison gross, that lives in yon tower, the ugliest witch in the north countrie, has trysted me ae day up till her bower, and mony fair speech she made to me. she straiked my head, and she kembed my hair, and she set me down saftly on her knee, says,--"gin ye will be my lemman sae true, sae mony braw things as i would you gi'e." she shaw'd me a mantle o' red scarlet, wi' gouden flowers and fringes fine, says "gin ye will be my lemman sae true, this goodly gift it sall be thine." "awa, awa, ye ugly witch, haud far awa, and lat me be; i never will be your lemman sae true, and i wish i were out of your company." she neist brocht a sark o' the saftest silk, weel wrought wi' pearls about the band; says,--"gin ye will be my ain true love, this goodly gift ye sall command." she shaw'd me a cup o' the good red goud, weel set wi' jewels sae fair to see; says,--"gin ye will be my lemman sae true, this goodly gift i will you gie." "awa, awa, ye ugly witch! haud far awa, and lat me be; for i wadna ance kiss your ugly mouth for a' the gifts that ye cou'd gie." she's turned her richt and round about, and thrice she blew on a grass-green horn; and she sware by the moon and the stars aboon, that she'd gar me rue the day i was born. then out has she ta'en a silver wand, and she's turned her three times round and round; she's mutter'd sic words, that my strength it fail'd, and i fell down senseless on the ground. she's turn'd me into an ugly worm, and gar'd me toddle about the tree; and ay, on ilka saturday's night, my sister maisry came to me, wi' silver bason, and silver kemb, to kemb my headie upon her knee; but or i had kiss'd her ugly mouth, i'd rather hae toddled about the tree. but as it fell out on last hallowe'en, when the seely court[l ] was ridin' by, the queen lighted down on a gowan bank, nae far frae the tree whare i wont to lye. she took me up in her milk-white hand, and she straiked me three times o'er her knee; she changed me again to my ain proper shape, and i nae mair maun toddle about the tree. . _seely court_, i.e. "pleasant or happy court," or "court of the pleasant and happy people." this agrees with the ancient and more legitimate idea of fairies. jamieson. see p. , v. , _et seq._ the earl of mar's daughter. from buchan's _ancient ballads and songs of the north of scotland_, (i. .) it is much to be regretted that this piece has not come down to us in a purer and more ancient form. similar ballads are found in danish, swedish, and faroish. several forms of the danish are given by grundtvig (_ridderen i fugleham_, no. ), who also cites many popular tales which have the same basis, e.g. the countess d'aulnoy's fairy story of _the blue bird_. it was intill a pleasant time, upon a simmer's day; the noble earl of mar's daughter went forth to sport and play. as thus she did amuse hersell, below a green aik tree, there she saw a sprightly doo set on a tower sae hie. "o cow-me-doo, my love sae true, if ye'll come down to me, ye'se hae a cage o' guid red gowd instead o' simple tree: "i'll put gowd hingers roun' your cage, and siller roun' your wa'; i'll gar ye shine as fair a bird as ony o' them a'." but she had nae these words well spoke, nor yet these words well said, till cow-me-doo flew frae the tower, and lighted on her head. then she has brought this pretty bird hame to her bowers and ha'; and made him shine as fair a bird as ony o' them a'. when day was gane, and night was come, about the evening tide, this lady spied a sprightly youth stand straight up by her side. "from whence came ye, young man?" she said, "that does surprise me sair; my door was bolted right secure; what way ha'e ye come here?" "o had your tongue, ye lady fair, lat a' your folly be; mind ye not on your turtle doo last day ye brought wi' thee?" "o tell me mair, young man," she said, "this does surprise me now; what country ha'e ye come frae? what pedigree are you?" "my mither lives on foreign isles, she has nae mair but me; she is a queen o' wealth and state, and birth and high degree; "likewise well skill'd in magic spells, as ye may plainly see; and she transform'd me to yon shape, to charm such maids as thee. "i am a doo the live lang day, a sprightly youth at night; this aye gars me appear mair fair in a fair maiden's sight. "and it was but this verra day that i came ower the sea; your lovely face did me enchant,-- i'll live and dee wi' thee." "o cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, nae mair frae me ye'se gae." "that's never my intent, my luve, as ye said, it shall be sae." "o cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, it's time to gae to bed." "wi' a' my heart, my dear marrow, it's be as ye ha'e said." then he has staid in bower wi' her for sax lang years and ane, till sax young sons to him she bare, and the seventh she's brought hame. but aye as ever a child was born, he carried them away, and brought them to his mither's care, as fast as he cou'd fly. thus he has staid in bower wi' her for twenty years and three; there came a lord o' high renown to court this fair ladie. but still his proffer she refused, and a' his presents too; says, "i'm content to live alane wi' my bird, cow-me-doo." her father sware a solemn oath amang the nobles all, "the morn, or ere i eat or drink, this bird i will gar kill." the bird was sitting in his cage, and heard what they did say; and when he found they were dismist, says, "waes me for this day! "before that i do langer stay, and thus to be forlorn, i'll gang unto my mither's bower, where i was bred and born." then cow-me-doo took flight and flew beyond the raging sea; and lighted near his mither's castle on a tower o' gowd sae hie. as his mither was wauking out, to see what she coud see, and there she saw her little son set on the tower sae hie. "get dancer here to dance," she said, "and minstrells for to play; for here's my young son, florentine, come here wi' me to stay." "get nae dancers to dance, mither, nor minstrells for to play; for the mither o' my seven sons, the morn's her wedding-day." "o tell me, tell me, florentine, tell me, and tell me true, tell me this day without a flaw, what i will do for you." "instead of dancers to dance, mither, or minstrells for to play, turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men, like storks, in feathers gray; "my seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and i, mysell, a gay gos-hawk, a bird o' high degree." then sichin' said the queen hersell, "that thing's too high for me;" but she applied to an auld woman, who had mair skill than she. instead o' dancers to dance a dance, or minstrells for to play, four-and-twenty wall-wight men turn'd birds o' feathers gray; her seven sons in seven swans, aboon their heads to flee; and he, himsell, a gay gos-hawk, a bird o' high degree. this flock o' birds took flight and flew beyond the raging sea; and landed near the earl mar's castle, took shelter in every tree. they were a flock o' pretty birds, right comely to be seen; the people view'd them wi' surprise, as they danc'd on the green. these birds ascended frae the tree, and lighted on the ha'; and at the last wi' force did flee among the nobles a'. the storks there seized some o' the men, they cou'd neither fight nor flee; the swans they bound the bride's best man, below a green aik tree. they lighted next on maidens fair, then on the bride's own head; and wi' the twinkling o' an e'e, the bride and them were fled. there's ancient men at weddings been, for sixty years or more; but sic a curious wedding-day they never saw before. for naething cou'd the companie do, nor naething cou'd they say; but they saw a flock o' pretty birds that took their bride away. when that earl mar he came to know where his dochter did stay, he sign'd a bond o' unity, and visits now they pay. young akin. mr. kinloch printed a fragment of this ballad under the title of _hynde etin_. (see appendix.) the story was afterwards given complete by buchan, (_ballads of the north of scotland_, i. ,) as here follows. buchan had previously communicated to motherwell a modernized version of the same tale, in which the etin is changed to a groom. (see _post_.) this ancient ballad has suffered severely in the course of its transmission to our times. still there can be no doubt that it was originally the same as _the maid and the dwarf king_, which is still sung in denmark, norway, sweden, and the faroe islands. numerous copies of the scandinavian ballad have been given to the world: seven danish versions, more or less complete, four norse, nine swedish, one faroish, and some other fragments (grundtvig, ii. , and note, p. ). one of the swedish ballads (_bergkonungen_, afzelius, no. ) is translated in keightley's _fairy mythology_, , under the title of _proud margaret_. closely related is _agnete og havmanden_, grundtvig, ii. , , which is found in several forms in german (e.g. _die schöne hannele_ in hoffmann von fallersleben's _schlesische volkslieder_, no. ), and two in slavic. lady margaret sits in her bower door, sewing at her silken seam; she heard a note in elmond's-wood, and wish'd she there had been. she loot the seam fa' frae her side, and the needle to her tae; and she is on to elmond-wood as fast as she coud gae. she hadna pu'd a nut, a nut, nor broken a branch but ane, till by it came a young hind chiel, says, "lady, lat alane. "o why pu' ye the nut, the nut, or why brake ye the tree? for i am forester o' this wood: ye shou'd spier leave at me." "i'll ask leave at no living man, nor yet will i at thee; my father is king o'er a' this realm, this wood belongs to me." she hadna pu'd a nut, a nut, nor broken a branch but three, till by it came him young akin, and gar'd her lat them be. the highest tree in elmond's-wood, he's pu'd it by the reet; and he has built for her a bower near by a hallow seat. he's built a bower, made it secure wi' carbuncle and stane; tho' travellers were never sae nigh, appearance it had nane. he's kept her there in elmond's-wood, for six lang years and one; till six pretty sons to him she bear, and the seventh she's brought home. it fell ance upon a day, this guid lord went from home; and he is to the hunting gane, took wi' him his eldest son. and when they were on a guid way, wi' slowly pace did walk, the boy's heart being something wae, he thus began to talk:-- "a question i wou'd ask, father, gin ye wou'dna angry be?" "say on, say on, my bonny boy, ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me." "i see my mither's cheeks aye weet, i never can see them dry; and i wonder what aileth my mither, to mourn continually." "your mither was a king's daughter, sprung frae a high degree; and she might hae wed some worthy prince, had she nae been stown by me. "i was her father's cup-bearer, just at that fatal time; i catch'd her on a misty night, whan summer was in prime. "my luve to her was most sincere, her luve was great for me; but when she hardships doth endure, her folly she does see." "i'll shoot the buntin' o' the bush, the linnet o' the tree, and bring them to my dear mither, see if she'll merrier be." it fell upo' another day, this guid lord he thought lang, and he is to the hunting gane, took wi' him his dog and gun. wi' bow and arrow by his side, he's aff, single, alane; and left his seven children to stay wi' their mither at hame. "o, i will tell to you, mither, gin ye wadna angry be:" "speak on, speak on, my little wee boy, ye'se nae be quarrell'd by me." "as we came frae the hynd hunting, we heard fine music ring:" "my blessings on you, my bonny boy, i wish i'd been there my lane." he's ta'en his mither by the hand, his six brithers also, and they are on thro' elmond's-wood, as fast as they coud go. they wistna weel where they were gaen, wi' the stratlins o' their feet; they wistna weel where they were gaen, till at her father's yate. "i hae nae money in my pocket, but royal rings hae three; i'll gie them you, my little young son, and ye'll walk there for me. "ye'll gi'e the first to the proud porter,[l ] and he will lat you in; ye'll gi'e the next to the butler boy, and he will show you ben; "ye'll gi'e the third to the minstrel that plays before the king; he'll play success to the bonny boy came thro' the wood him lane." he ga'e the first to the proud porter, and he open'd an' let him in; he ga'e the next to the butler boy, and he has shown him ben; he ga'e the third to the minstrel that play'd before the king; and he play'd success to the bonny boy came thro' the wood him lane. now when he came before the king, fell low down on his knee: the king he turned round about, and the saut tear blinded his ee. "win up, win up, my bonny boy, gang frae my companie; ye look sae like my dear daughter, my heart will birst in three." "if i look like your dear daughter, a wonder it is none; if i look like your dear daughter, i am her eldest son." "will ye tell me, ye little wee boy, where may my margaret be?" "she's just now standing at your yates, and my six brithers her wi'." "o where are all my porter boys that i pay meat and fee, to open my yates baith wide and braid? let her come in to me." when she came in before the king, fell low down on her knee: "win up, win up, my daughter dear, this day ye'll dine wi me." "ae bit i canno' eat, father, nor ae drop can i drink, till i see my mither and sister dear, for lang for them i think." when she came before the queen, fell low down on her knee: "win up, win up, my daughter dear, this day ye'se dine wi' me." "ae bit i canno' eat, mither, nor ae drop can i drink, until i see my dear sister, for lang for her i think." when that these two sisters met, she hail'd her courteouslie: "come ben, come ben, my sister dear, this day ye'se dine wi' me." "ae bit i canno' eat, sister, nor ae drop can i drink, until i see my dear husband, for lang for him i think." "o where are all my rangers bold that i pay meat and fee, to search the forest far an' wide, and bring akin to me?" out it speaks the wee little boy,-- "na, na, this maunna be; without ye grant a free pardon, i hope ye'll nae him see." "o here i grant a free pardon, well seal'd by my own han'; ye may make search for young akin, as soon as ever you can." they search'd the country wide and braid, the forests far and near, and found him into elmond's-wood, tearing his yellow hair. "win up, win up, now young akin. win up, and boun wi' me; we're messengers come from the court; the king wants you to see." "o lat him take frae me my head, or hang me on a tree; for since i've lost my dear lady, life's no pleasure to me." "your head will nae be touch'd, akin, nor hang'd upon a tree: your lady's in her father's court, and all he wants is thee." when he came in before the king, fell low down on his knee: "win up, win up now, young akin, this day ye'se dine wi' me." but as they were at dinner set, the boy asked a boun; "i wish we were in the good church, for to get christendoun. "we ha'e lived in guid green wood this seven years and ane; but a' this time since e'er i mind, was never a church within." "your asking 's nae sae great, my boy, but granted it shall be; this day to guid church ye shall gang, and your mither shall gang you wi'." when unto the guid church she came, she at the door did stan'; she was sae sair sunk down wi' shame, she coudna come farer ben. then out it speaks the parish priest, and a sweet smile gae he;--- "come ben, come ben, my lily flower, present your babes to me." charles, vincent, sam, and dick, and likewise james and john; they call'd the eldest young akin, which was his father's name. then they staid in the royal court, and liv'd wi' mirth and glee; and when her father was deceas'd, heir of the crown was she. . the regular propitiation for the "proud porter" of ballad poetry. see, e.g. _king arthur and the king of cornwall_, in the appendix, v. : also the note to _king estmere_, vol. iii. p. . young hastings the groom. (motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. .) "o well love i to ride in a mist, and shoot in a northern wind; and far better a lady to steal, that's come of a noble kind." four-and-twenty fair ladies put on that lady's sheen; and as many young gentlemen did lead her o'er the green. yet she preferred before them all him, young hastings the groom; he's coosten a mist before them all, and away this lady has ta'en. he's taken the lady on him behind, spared neither the grass nor corn, till they came to the wood of amonshaw, where again their loves were sworn. and they have lived in that wood full many a year and day, and were supported from time to time, by what he made of prey. and seven bairns, fair and fine, there she has born to him, and never was in good church door, nor never gat good kirking. once she took harp into her hand, and harped them asleep; then she sat down at their couch side, and bitterly did weep. said, "seven bairns have i born now to my lord in the ha'; i wish they were seven greedy rats, to run upon the wa', and i mysel' a great grey cat, to eat them ane an' a'. "for ten long years now i have lived within this cave of stane, and never was at good church door, nor got no good churching." o then outspak her eldest child, and a fine boy was he,-- "o hold your tongue, my mother dear; i'll tell you what to dee. "take you the youngest in your lap, the next youngest by the hand; put all the rest of us you before, as you learnt us to gang. "and go with us into some good kirk,-- you say they are built of stane,-- and let us all be christened, and you get good kirking." she took the youngest in her lap, the next youngest by the hand; set all the rest of them her before, as she learnt them to gang. and she has left the wood with them, and to a kirk has gane; where the good priest them christened, and gave her good kirking. clerk colvill, or the mermaid. this ballad exemplifies a superstition deeply rooted in the belief of all the northern nations,--the desire of the elves and water-spirits for the love of christians, and the danger of being exposed to their fascination. the object of their fatal passion is generally a bridegroom, or a bride, on the eve of marriage. see, in the appendix, _sir oluf and the elf-king's daughter_, for further illustrations; also the two succeeding pieces. _clerk colvill_ was first printed in herd's _scottish songs_, (i. ,) and was inserted, in an altered shape, in lewis's _tales of wonder_, (no. .) clerk colvill and his lusty dame were walking in the garden green; the belt around her stately waist cost clerk colvill of pounds fifteen. "o promise me now, clerk colvill, or it will cost ye muckle strife, ride never by the wells of slane, if ye wad live and brook your life." "now speak nae mair, my lusty dame, now speak nae mair of that to me: did i ne'er see a fair woman, but i wad sin with her fair body?" he's ta'en leave o' his gay lady, nought minding what his lady said, and he's rode by the wells of slane, where washing was a bonny maid. "wash on, wash on, my bonny maid, that wash sae clean your sark of silk;" "and weel fa' you, fair gentleman, your body's whiter than the milk." * * * * * then loud, loud cry'd the clerk colvill, "o my head it pains me sair;" "then take, then take," the maiden said, "and frae my sark you'll cut a gare." then she's gi'ed him a little bane-knife, and frae her sark[l ] he cut a share; she's ty'd it round his whey-white face, but ay his head it aked mair. then louder cry'd the clerk colvill, "o sairer, sairer akes my head;" "and sairer, sairer ever will," the maiden crys, "till you be dead." out then he drew his shining blade, thinking to stick her where she stood; but she was vanish'd to a fish, and swam far off, a fair mermaid. "o mother, mother, braid my hair; my lusty lady, make my bed; o brother, take my sword and spear, for i have seen the false mermaid." , his sark. lady isabel and the elf-knight. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, i. , where it is entitled _the gowans sae gay_, from the burden. the hero of the first of the two following ballads would seem to be an elf, that of the second a nix, or merman, though the punishment awarded to each of them in the catastrophe, as the ballads now exist, is not consistent with their supernatural character. it is possible that in both instances two independent stories have been blended: but it is curious that the same intermixture should occur in norse and german also. see grundtvig's preface to _noekkens svig_, ii. p. . the conclusion in all these cases is derived from a ballad resembling _may colvin_, vol. ii. p. . we have had the elf-knight introduced under the same circumstances at page ; indeed, the first three or four stanzas are common to both pieces. fair lady isabel sits in her bower sewing, _aye as the gowans grow gay_; there she heard an elf-knight blawing his horn, _the first morning in may_. "if i had yon horn that i hear blawing," _aye as the gowans grow gay_; "and yon elf-knight to sleep in my bosom," _the first morning in may_. this maiden had scarcely these words spoken, _aye as the gowans grow gay_; till in at her window the elf-knight has luppen, _the first morning in may_. "its a very strange matter, fair maiden," said he, _aye as the gowans grow gay_, "i canna' blaw my horn, but ye call on me," _the first morning in may_. "but will ye go to yon greenwood side," _aye as the gowans grow gay_? "if ye canna' gang, i will cause you to ride," _the first morning in may_. he leapt on a horse, and she on another, _aye as the gowans grow gay_; and they rode on to the greenwood together, _the first morning in may_. "light down, light down, lady isabel," said he, _aye as the gowans grow gay_; "we are come to the place where ye are to die," _the first morning in may_. "ha'e mercy, ha'e mercy, kind sir, on me," _aye as the gowans grow gay_; "till ance my dear father and mother i see," _the first morning in may_. "seven king's-daughters here hae i slain," _aye as the gowans grow gay_; "and ye shall be the eight o' them," _the first morning in may_. "o sit down a while, lay your head on my knee," _aye as the gowans grow gay_; "that we may hae some rest before that i die," _the first morning in may_. she stroak'd him sae fast, the nearer he did creep, _aye as the gowans grow gay_; wi' a sma' charm she lull'd him fast asleep, _the first morning in may_. "wi' his ain sword belt sae fast as she ban' him, _aye as the gowans grow gay_; with his ain dag-durk sae sair as she dang him, _the first morning in may_. "if seven kings' daughters here ye ha'e slain," _aye as the gowans grow gay_, "lye ye here, a husband to them a'," _the first morning in may_. the water o' wearie's well. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, ii. . repeated in scottish _traditional versions of ancient ballads_, percy society, xvii. . the three ballads which follow, diverse as they may now appear, after undergoing successive corruptions, were primarily of the same type. in the first (which may be a compound of two ballads, like the preceding, the conclusion being taken from a story of the character of _may colvin_ in the next volume) the merman or nix may be easily recognized: in the second he is metamorphosed into the devil; and in the third, into a ghost. full details upon the corresponding scandinavian, german, and slavic legends, are given by grundtvig, in the preface to _noekkens svig, danmarks g. folkeviser_, ii. : translated by jamieson, i. , and by monk lewis, _tales of wonder_, no. . there came a bird out o' a bush, on water for to dine; and sighing sair, says the king's daughter, "o waes this heart o' mine!" he's taen a harp into his hand, he's harped them all asleep; except it was the king's daughter, who ae wink cou'dna get. he's luppen on his berry-brown steed, taen her on behind himsell; then baith rade down to that water, that they ca' wearie's well. "wide in, wide in, my lady fair, nae harm shall thee befall; aft times hae i water'd my steed, wi' the water o' wearie's well." the first step that she stepped in, she stepped to the knee; and sighing sair, says this lady fair, "this water's nae for me." "wide in, wide in, my lady fair, nae harm shall thee befall; aft times hae i water'd my steed, wi' the water o' wearie's well." the next step that she stepped in, she stepped to the middle; and sighing, says, this lady fair, "i've wat my gowden girdle." "wide in, wide in, my lady fair, nae harm shall thee befall; aft times hae i water'd my steed, wi' the water o' wearie's well." the niest step that she stepped in, she stepped to the chin; and sighing, says, this lady fair, "they shou'd gar twa loves twine." "seven king's-daughters i've drown'd there, in the water o' wearie's well; and i'll make you the eight o' them, and ring the common bell." "sin' i am standing here," she says, "this dowie death to die; ae kiss o' your comely mouth i'm sure wou'd comfort me." he louted him ower his saddle bow, to kiss her cheek and chin; she's taen him in her arms twa, and thrown him headlang in. "sin' seven king's daughters ye've drown'd there, in the water o' wearie's well, i'll make you bridegroom to them a', an' ring the bell mysell." and aye she warsled, and aye she swam, till she swam to dry land; then thanked god most cheerfully, the dangers she'd ower came. the dÆmon lover. this ballad was communicated to sir walter scott, (_minstrelsy_, iii. ,) by mr. william laidlaw, who took it down from recitation. a fragment of the same legend, recovered by motherwell, is given in the appendix to this volume, and another version, in which the hero is not a dæmon, but the ghost of an injured lover, is placed directly after the present. the devil (auld _nick_) here takes the place of the merman (nix) of the ancient ballad. see p. , and the same natural substitution noted in _k.u.h._--_märchen_, d ed. iii. . "o where have you been, my long, long love, this long seven years and more?"-- "o i'm come to seek my former vows ye granted me before."-- "o hold your tongue of your former vows, for they will breed sad strife; o hold your tongue of your former vows, for i am become a wife." he turn'd him right and round about, and the tear blinded his ee; "i wad never hae trodden on irish ground, if it had not been for thee. "i might hae had a king's daughter, far, far beyond the sea; i might have had a king's daughter, had it not been for love o' thee."-- "if ye might have had a king's daughter, yer sell ye had to blame; ye might have taken the king's daughter, for ye kend that i was nane."-- "o faulse are the vows of womankind, but fair is their faulse bodie; i never wad hae trodden on irish ground, had it not been for love o' thee."-- "if i was to leave my husband dear, and my two babes also, o what have you to take me to, if with you i should go?"-- "i hae seven ships upon the sea, the eighth brought me to land; with four-and-twenty bold mariners, and music on every hand." she has taken up her two little babes, kiss'd them baith cheek and chin; "o fair ye weel, my ain two babes, for i'll never see you again." she set her foot upon the ship, no mariners could she behold; but the sails were o' the taffetie, and the masts o' the beaten gold. she had not sail'd a league, a league, a league but barely three, when dismal grew his countenance, and drumlie grew his ee. the masts that were like the beaten gold, bent not on the heaving seas; but the sails, that were o' the taffetie, fill'd not in the east land breeze.-- they had not sailed a league, a league, a league but barely three, until she espied his cloven foot, and she wept right bitterlie. "o hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, "of your weeping now let me be; i will show you how the lilies grow on the banks of italy."-- "o what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, that the sun shines sweetly on?"-- "o yon are the hills of heaven," he said, "where you will never win."-- "o whaten a mountain is yon," she said, "all so dreary wi' frost and snow?"-- "o yon is the mountain of hell," he cried, "where you and i will go." and aye when she turn'd her round about, aye taller he seem'd for to be; until that the tops o' that gallant ship nae taller were than he. the clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, and the levin fill'd her ee; and waesome wail'd the snaw-white sprites upon the gurlie sea. he strack the tap-mast wi' his hand, the fore-mast wi' his knee; and he brake that gallant ship in twain, and sank her in the sea. james herries. from buchan's _ballads of the north of scotland_, (i. .) (see the preface to the last ballad but one.) "o are ye my father, or are ye my mother? or are ye my brother john? or are ye james herries, my first true love, come back to scotland again?" "i am not your father, i am not your mother, nor am i your brother john; but i'm james herries, your first true love, come back to scotland again." "awa', awa', ye former lovers, had far awa' frae me; for now i am another man's wife, ye'll ne'er see joy o' me." "had i kent that ere i came here, i ne'er had come to thee; for i might hae married the king's daughter, sae fain she wou'd had me. "i despised the crown o' gold, the yellow silk also; and i am come to my true love, but with me she'll not go." "my husband he is a carpenter, makes his bread on dry land, and i hae born him a young son,-- wi' you i will not gang." "you must forsake your dear husband, your little young son also, wi' me to sail the raging seas, where the stormy winds do blow." "o what hae you to keep me wi', if i should with you go? if i'd forsake my dear husband, my little young son also?" "see ye not yon seven pretty ships, the eighth brought me to land; with merchandize and mariners, and wealth in every hand?" she turn'd her round upon the shore, her love's ships to behold; their topmasts and their mainyards were cover'd o'er wi' gold. then she's gane to her little young son, and kiss'd him cheek and chin; sae has she to her sleeping husband, and dune the same to him. "o sleep ye, wake ye, my husband, i wish ye wake in time; i woudna for ten thousand pounds, this night ye knew my mind." she's drawn the slippers on her feet, were cover'd o'er wi' gold; well lined within wi' velvet fine, to had her frae the cold. she hadna sailed upon the sea a league but barely three, till she minded on her dear husband, her little young son tee. "o gin i were at land again, at land where i wou'd be, the woman ne'er shou'd bear the son, shou'd gar me sail the sea." "o hold your tongue, my sprightly flower, let a' your mourning be; i'll show you how the lilies grow on the banks o' italy." she hadna sailed on the sea a day but barely ane, till the thoughts o' grief came in her mind, and she lang'd for to be hame. "o gentle death, come cut my breath, i may be dead ere morn; i may be buried in scottish ground, where i was bred and born." "o hold your tongue, my lily leesome thing, let a' your mourning be; but for a while we'll stay at rose isle, then see a far countrie. "ye'se ne'er be buried in scottish ground, nor land ye's nae mair see; i brought you away to punish you, for the breaking your vows to me. "i said ye shou'd see the lilies grow on the banks o' italy; but i'll let you see the fishes swim, in the bottom o' the sea." he reached his band to the topmast, made a' the sails gae down; and in the twinkling o' an e'e, baith ship and crew did drown. the fatal flight o' this wretched maid did reach her ain countrie; her husband then distracted ran, and this lament made he:-- "o wae be to the ship, the ship, and wae be to the sea, and wae be to the mariners, took jeanie douglas frae me! "o bonny, bonny was my love, a pleasure to behold; the very hair o' my love's head was like the threads o' gold. "o bonny was her cheek, her cheek, and bonny was her chin; and bonny was the bride she was, the day she was made mine!" * * * * * *** the following stanzas from a version of this ballad printed at philadelphia (and called _the house carpenter_) are given in graham's _illustrated magazine_, sept. . "i might have married the king's daughter dear;" "you might have married her," cried she, "for i am married to a house carpenter, and a fine young man is he." "oh dry up your tears, my own true love, and cease your weeping," cried he; "for soon you'll see your own happy home, on the banks of old tennessee." the knight's ghost. from _buchan's ballads of the north of scotland_, (i. .) "there is a fashion in this land, and even come to this country, that every lady should meet her lord, when he is newly come frae sea: "some wi' hawks, and some wi' hounds, and other some wi' gay monie; but i will gae myself alone, and set his young son on his knee." she's ta'en her young son in her arms, and nimbly walk'd by yon sea strand; and there she spy'd her father's ship, as she was sailing to dry land. "where hae ye put my ain gude lord, this day he stays sae far frae me?" "if ye be wanting your ain gude lord, a sight o' him ye'll never see." "was he brunt, or was he shot? or was he drowned in the sea? or what's become o' my ain gude lord, that he will ne'er appear to me?" "he wasna brunt, nor was he shot, nor was he drowned in the sea; he was slain in dumfermling, a fatal day to you and me." "come in, come in, my merry young men, come in and drink the wine wi' me; and a' the better ye shall fare, for this gude news ye tell to me." she's brought them down to yon cellar, she brought them fifty steps and three; she birled wi' them the beer and wine, till they were as drunk as drunk could be. then she has lock'd her cellar door, for there were fifty steps and three; "lie there wi' my sad malison, for this bad news ye've tauld to me." she's ta'en the keys intill her hand, and threw them deep, deep in the sea; "lie there wi' my sad malison, till my gude lord return to me." then she sat down in her own room, and sorrow lull'd her fast asleep; and up it starts her own gude lord, and even at that lady's feet. "take here the keys, janet," he says, "that ye threw deep, deep in the sea; and ye'll relieve my merry young men, for they've nane o' the swick o' me. "they shot the shot, and drew the stroke, and wad in red bluid to the knee; nae sailors mair for their lord coud do, nor my young men they did for me." "i hae a question at you to ask, before that ye depart frae me; you'll tell to me what day i'll die, and what day will my burial be?" "i hae nae mair o' god's power than he has granted unto me; but come to heaven when ye will, there porter to you i will be. "but ye'll be wed to a finer knight than ever was in my degree; unto him ye'll hae children nine, and six o' them will be ladies free. "the other three will be bold young men, to fight for king and countrie; the ane a duke, the second a knight, and third a laird o' lands sae free." the wife of usher's well. _minstrelsy of the scottish border_, iii. . that the repose of the dead is disturbed by the immoderate grief of those they have left behind them, is a belief which finds frequent expression in popular ballads. obstinate sorrow rouses them from their grateful slumber; every tear that is shed for them wets their shroud; they can get no rest, and are compelled to revisit the world they would fain forget, to rebuke and forbid the mourning that destroys their peace. "ice-cold and bloody, a lead-weight of sorrow, falls on my breast each tear that you shed," says the ghost of helgi in the _edda_ to his lamenting wife (_helgak. hundingsb._ ii.) the same idea is found in the german ballad, _der vorwirth_, erk's _liederhort_, no. , a, and in various tales, as _das todtenhemdchen_, (_k.u.h. märchen_, no. , and note), etc. in like manner sir aage, in a well-known danish ballad (grundtvig, no. ), and the corresponding _sorgens magt, svenska f.v._, no. . "every time thou weepest for me, thy heart makest sad, then all within, my coffin stands full of clotted blood." rarely is the silence of the grave broken for purposes of consolation. yet some cases there are, as in a lithuanian ballad cited by wackernagel, _altd. blätter_, i. , and a spanish ballad noticed by talvj, _versuch_, p. . the present ballad seems to belong to the latter class rather than the former, but it is so imperfect that its true character cannot be determined. chambers maintains, we think erroneously, that this ballad is a fragment of _the clerk's twa sons o' owsenford_. see the second volume of this collection, page . there lived a wife at usher's well, and a wealthy wife was she, she had three stout and stalwart sons, and sent them o'er the sea. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely ane, when word came to the carline wife, that her three sons were gane. they hadna been a week from her, a week but barely three, when word came to the carline wife, that her sons she'd never see. "i wish the wind may never cease, nor fishes[l ] in the flood, till my three sons come hame to me, in earthly flesh and blood."-- it fell about the martinmas, when nights are lang and mirk, the carline wife's three sons came hame, and their hats were o' the birk. it neither grew in syke nor ditch, nor yet in ony sheugh; but at the gates o' paradise, that birk grew fair eneugh. * * * * * "blow up the fire, my maidens! bring water from the well! for a' my house shall feast this night, since my three sons are well."-- and she has made to them a bed, she's made it large and wide; and she's ta'en her mantle her about, sat down at the bed-side. * * * * * up then crew the red red cock, and up and crew the gray; the eldest to the youngest said, "'tis time we were away."-- the cock he hadna craw'd but once, and clapp'd his wings at a', whan the youngest to the eldest said, "brother, we must awa.-- "the cock doth craw, the day doth daw, the channerin' worm doth chide; gin we be mist out o' our place, a sair pain we maun bide. "fare ye weel, my mother dear! fareweel to barn and byre! and fare ye weel, the bonny lass, that kindles my mother's fire." . should we not read, for _fishes_ here, _fashes_-- i. e. troubles?--lockhart. the suffolk miracle: _or, a relation of a young man, who, a month after his death, appeared to his sweetheart, and carried her on horseback behind him for forty miles in two hours, and was never seen after but in his grave._ from _a collection of old ballads_, i. . in moore's _pictorial book of ancient ballad poetry_ (p. ) is a copy from a broadside in the roxburghe collection. _the suffolk miracle_ has an external resemblance to several noble ballads, but the likeness does not extend below the surface. it is possible that we have here the residuum of an old poem, from which all the beauty and spirit have been exhaled in the course of tradition; but as the ballad now exists, it is a vulgar ghost-story, without any motive. regarding the external form alone, we may place by its side the breton ballad, _le frère de lait_, in villemarqué's _chants populaires de la bretagne_, vol. i. no. (translated by miss costello, _quart. review_, vol. , p. ), the romaic ballad of _constantine and arete_, in fauriel's _chants populaires de la grèce moderne_, p. (see appendix), and the servian ballad (related to the romaic, and perhaps derived from it), _jelitza and her brothers_, talvj, _volkslieder der serben_, i. , all of them among the most beautiful specimens in this kind of literature; and also bürger's _lenore_. it has been once or twice most absurdly suggested that _lenore_ owed its existence to this _suffolk miracle_. the difference, indeed, is not greater than between a "chronicle history" and _macbeth_; it is however certain that bürger's ballad is all his own, except the hint of the ghostly horseman and one or two phrases, which he took from the description of a low german ballad. the editors of the _wunderhorn_ claim to give this ballad, vol. ii. p. . an equivalent prose tradition is well known in germany. most of the ballads relating to the return of departed spirits are brought together in an excellent article by wackernagel in the _altdeutsche blätter_, i. . a wonder stranger ne'er was known than what i now shall treat upon. in suffolk there did lately dwell a farmer rich and known full well. he had a daughter fair and bright, on whom he placed his chief delight; her beauty was beyond compare, she was both virtuous and fair. there was a young man living by, who was so charmed with her eye, that he could never be at rest; he was by love so much possest. he made address to her, and she did grant him love immediately; but when her father came to hear, he parted her and her poor dear. forty miles distant was she sent, unto his brother's, with intent that she should there so long remain, till she had changed her mind again. hereat this young man sadly grieved, but knew not how to be relieved; he sighed and sobbed continually that his true love he could not see. she by no means could to him send, who was her heart's espoused friend; he sighed, he grieved, but all in vain, for she confined must still remain. he mourned so much, that doctor's art could give no ease unto his heart, who was so strangely terrified, that in short time for love he died. she that from him was sent away knew nothing of his dying day, but constant still she did remain, and loved the dead, although in vain. after he had in grave been laid a month or more, unto this maid he came in middle of the night, who joyed to see her heart's delight. her father's horse, which well she knew, her mother's hood and safe-guard too, he brought with him to testify her parents order he came by. which when her uncle understood, he hoped it would be for her good, and gave consent to her straightway, that with him she should come away. when she was got her love behind, they passed as swift as any wind, that in two hours, or little more, he brought her to her father's door. but as they did this great haste make, he did complain his head did ake; her handkerchief she then took out, and tied the same his head about. and unto him she thus did say: "thou art as cold as any clay; when we come home a fire we'll have;" but little dreamed he went to grave. soon were they at her father's door, and after she ne'er saw him more; "i'll set the horse up," then he said, and there he left this harmless maid. she knocked, and straight a man he cried, "who's there?" "'tis i," she then replied; who wondred much her voice to hear, and was possessed with dread and fear. her father he did tell, and then he stared like an affrighted man: down stairs he ran, and when he see her, cried out, "my child, how cam'st thou here?" "pray, sir, did you not send for me, by such a messenger?" said she: which made his hair stare on his head, as knowing well that he was dead. "where is he?" then to her he said; "he's in the stable," quoth the maid. "go in," said he, "and go to bed; i'll see the horse well littered." he stared about, and there could he no shape of any mankind see, but found his horse all on a sweat; which made him in a deadly fret. his daughter he said nothing to, nor none else, (though full well they knew that he was dead a month before,) for fear of grieving her full sore. her father to the father went of the deceased, with full intent to tell him what his daughter said; so both came back unto this maid. they ask'd her, and she still did say 'twas he that then brought her away; which when they heard they were amazed, and on each other strangely gazed. a handkerchief she said she tied about his head, and that they tried; the sexton they did speak unto, that he the grave would then undo. affrighted then they did behold his body turning into mould, and though he had a month been dead, this handkerchief was about his head. this thing unto her then they told, and the whole truth they did unfold; she was thereat so terrified and grieved, that she quickly died. part not true love, you rich men, then; but, if they be right honest men your daughters love, give them their way, for force oft breeds their lives decay. sir roland. from motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. . this fragment, motherwell tells us, was communicated to him by an ingenious friend, who remembered having heard it sung in his youth. he does not vouch for its antiquity, and we have little or no hesitation in pronouncing it a modern composition. whan he cam to his ain luve's bouir, he tirled at the pin, and sae ready was his fair fause luve to rise and let him in. "o welcome, welcome, sir roland," she says, "thrice welcome thou art to me; for this night thou wilt feast in my secret bouir, and to-morrow we'll wedded be." "this night is hallow-eve," he said, "and to-morrow is hallow-day; and i dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, that has made my heart fu' wae. "i dreamed a drearie dream yestreen, and i wish it may cum to gude: i dreamed that ye slew my best grew hound, and gied me his lappered blude." * * * * * "unbuckle your belt, sir roland," she said, "and set you safely down." "o your chamber is very dark, fair maid, and the night is wondrous lown." "yes, dark, dark is my secret bowir, and lown the midnight may be; for there is none waking in a' this tower, but thou, my true love, and me." * * * * * she has mounted on her true love's steed, by the ae light o' the moon; she has whipped him and spurred him, and roundly she rade frae the toun. she hadna ridden a mile o' gate, never a mile but ane, whan she was aware of a tall young man, slow riding o'er the plain. she turned her to the right about, then to the left turn'd she; but aye, 'tween her and the wan moonlight, that tall knight did she see. and he was riding burd alane, on a horse as black as jet; but tho' she followed him fast and fell, no nearer could she get. "o stop! o stop! young man," she said, "for i in dule am dight; o stop, and win a fair lady's luve, if you be a leal true knight." but nothing did the tall knight say, and nothing did he blin; still slowly rode he on before, and fast she rade behind. she whipped her steed, she spurred her steed, till his breast was all a foam; but nearer unto that tall young knight, by our ladye, she could not come. "o if you be a gay young knight, as well i trow you be, pull tight your bridle reins, and stay till i come up to thee." but nothing did that tall knight say, and no whit did he blin, until he reached a broad river's side, and there he drew his rein. "o is this water deep," he said, "as it is wondrous dun? or it is sic as a saikless maid and a leal true knight may swim?" "the water it is deep," she said, "as it is wondrous dun; but it is sic as a saikless maid and a leal true knight may swim." the knight spurred on his tall black steed, the lady spurred on her brown; and fast they rade unto the flood, and fast they baith swam down. "the water weets my tae," she said, "the water weets my knee; and hold up my bridle reins, sir knight, for the sake of our ladye." "if i would help thee now," he said, "it were a deadly sin; for i've sworn neir to trust a fair may's word, till the water weets her chin." "o the water weets my waist," she said, "sae does it weet my skin; and my aching heart rins round about, the burn maks sic a din. "the water is waxing deeper still, sae does it wax mair wide; and aye the farther that we ride on, farther off is the other side. "o help me now, thou false, false knight, have pity on my youth; for now the water jawes owre my head, and it gurgles in my mouth." the knight turned right and round about, all in the middle stream, and he stretched out his head to that lady, but loudly she did scream. "o this is hallow-morn," he said, "and it is your bridal day; but sad would be that gay wedding, if bridegroom and bride were away. "and ride on, ride on, proud margaret! till the water comes o'er your bree; for the bride maun ride deep, and deeper yet, wha rides this ford wi' me. "turn round, turn round, proud margaret! turn ye round, and look on me; thou hast killed a true knight under trust, and his ghost now links on with thee." appendix. fragment of the ballad of king arthur and the king of cornwall. printed from the celebrated percy ms. in madden's _syr gawayne_, p. . the editor has added the following note. "it has no title, and the first line has been cut away by the ignorant binder to whom the volume was intrusted, but both are supplied from the notice given of the ballad in the dissertation prefixed to vol. iii. of the _reliques_, p. xxxvii. dr. percy has added in the margin of the ms. these words: "to the best of my remembrance, this was the first line, before the binder cut it." the poem is very imperfect, owing to the leaves having been half torn away to light fires (!) as the bishop tells us, but i am bound to add, previous to its coming into his possession. the story is so singular, that it is to be hoped an earlier and complete copy of it may yet be recovered. on no account perhaps is it more remarkable, than the fact of its close imitation of the famous _gabs_ made by charlemagne and his companions at the court of king hugon, which are first met with in a romance of the twelfth century, published by m. michel from a ms. in the british museum, mo., london, , and transferred at a later period to the prose romance of _galien rethoré_, printed by verard, fol., , and often afterwards. in the absence of other evidence, it is to be presumed that the author of the ballad borrowed from the printed work, substituting arthur for charlemagne, gawayne for oliver, tristram for roland, etc., and embellishing his story by converting king hugon's spy into a "lodly feend," by whose agency the _gabs_ are accomplished. it is further worthy of notice, that the writer seems to regard arthur as the sovereign of little britain, and alludes to an intrigue between the king of cornwall and queen guenever, which is nowhere, as far as i recollect, hinted at in the romances of the round table." "come here my cozen, gawain, so gay; my sisters sonne be yee; for you shall see one of the fairest round tables, that ever you see with your eye." then bespake [the] lady queen guenever, and these were the words said shee: "i know where a round table is, thou noble king, is worth thy round table and other such three. "the trestle that stands under this round table," she said, "lowe downe to the mould, it is worth thy round table, thou worthy king, thy halls, and all thy gold. "the place where this round table stands in, it is worth thy castle, thy gold, thy fee; and all good litle britaine,"-- "where may that table be, lady?" quoth hee, "or where may all that goodly building be?" "you shall it seeke," shee sayd, "till you it find, for you shall never gett more of me." then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words said hee; "ile make mine avow to god, and alsoe to the trinity, "ile never sleepe one night, there as i doe another, till that round table i see; sir marramiles and sir tristeram, fellowes that ye shall bee. "weele be clad in palmers weede, five palmers we will bee; there is noe outlandish man will us abide, nor will us come nye." then they rived east and they rived west,[l ] in many a strange country. then they travelled[l ] a litle further, they saw a battle new sett; "now, by my faith," saies noble king arthur, [_half a page is here torn away._] but when he came that castle to, and to the palace gate, soe ready was ther a proud porter, and met him soone therat. shooes of gold the porter had on, and all his other rayment was unto the same; "now, by my faith," saies noble king arthur, "yonder is a minion swaine." then bespake noble king arthur, these were the words says hee: "come hither, thou proud porter, i pray thee come hither to me. "i have two poor rings of my finger, the better[l ] of them ile give to thee; [to] tell who may be lord of this castle," he saies, "or who is lord in this cuntry?" "cornewall king," the porter sayes, "there is none soe rich as hee; neither in christendome, nor yet in heathennest, none hath soe much gold as he." and then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words sayes hee: "i have two poore rings of my finger, the better of them ile give thee, if thou wilt greete him well, cornewall king, and greete him well from me. "pray him for one nights lodging, and two meales meate, for his love that dyed uppon a tree; a bue[l ] ghesting, and two meales meate, for his love that dyed uppon a tree. "a bue[l ] ghesting, and two meales meate, for his love that was of virgin borne, and in the morning that we may scape away, either without scath or scorne." then forth is gone[l ] this proud porter, as fast as he cold hye; and when he came befor cornewall king, he kneeled downe on his knee. sayes, "i have beene porter, man, at thy gate, [_half a page is wanting._] ... our lady was borne, then thought cornewall king these palmers had beene in britt. then bespake him cornewall king, these were the words he said there: "did you ever know a comely king, his name was king arthur?" and then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words said hee: "i doe not know that comly king, but once my selfe i did him see." then bespake cornwall king againe, these were the words said he. sayes, "seven yeere i was clad and fed, in litle brittaine, in a bower; i had a daughter by king arthurs wife, it now is called my flower; for king arthur, that kindly cockward, hath none such in his bower. "for i durst sweare, and save my othe, that same lady soe bright, that a man that were laid on his death-bed wold open his eyes on her to have sight." "now, by my faith," sayes noble king arthur, "and thats a full faire wight!" and then bespoke cornewall [king] againe, and these were the words he said:[l ] "come hither, five or three of my knights, and feitch me downe my steed; king arthur, that foule cockeward, hath none such, if he had need. "for i can ryde him as far on a day, as king arthur can doe any of his on three. and is it not a pleasure for a king, when he shall ryde forth on his journey? "for the eyes that beene in his head, they[l ] glister as doth the gleed;"-- "now, by my faith," says noble king arthur, [_half a page is wanting._] no body.... but one thats learned to speake. then king arthur to his bed was brought, a greeived man was hee; and soe were all his fellowes with him, from him they[l ] thought never to flee. then take they did that lodly boome,[l ] and under thrubchandler[l ] closed was hee; and he was set by king arthurs bed-side, to heere theire talke, and theire com'nye; that he might come forth, and make proclamation, long before it was day; it was more for king cornwalls pleasure, then it was for king arthurs pay. and when king arthur on his bed was laid, these were the words said hee: "ile make mine avow to god, and alsoe to the trinity, that ile be the bane of cornwall kinge litle brittaine or ever i see!" "it is an unadvised vow," saies gawaine the gay, "as ever king hard make i; but wee that beene five christian men, of the christen faith are wee; and we shall fight against anoynted king, and all his armorie." and then he spake him noble arthur, and these were the words said he: "why, if thou be afraid, sir gawaine the gay, goe home, and drinke wine in thine owne country." , the rived west. , tranckled. , they better. , bue, _sic_. , bue, _sic_; of two. , his gone. , said he. , the. , the. , goome? , thrubchadler. the third parte. and then bespake sir gawaine the gay, and these were the words said hee: "nay, seeing you have made such a hearty vow, here another vow make will i. "ile make mine avow to god, and alsoe to the trinity, that i will have yonder faire lady to litle brittaine with mee. "ile hose her hourly to my hart,[l ] and with her ile worke my will; [_half a page is wanting._] these were the words sayd hee: "befor i wold wrestle with yonder feend, it is better be drowned in the sea." and then bespake sir bredbeddle, and these were the words said he: "why, i will wrestle with yon lodly feend, god! my governor thou shalt bee." then bespake him noble arthur, and these were the[l ] words said he: "what weapons wilt thou have, thou gentle knight? i pray thee tell to me." he sayes, "collen brand ile have in my hand, and a millaine knife fast be my knee; and a danish axe fast in my hands, that a sure weapon i thinke wilbe." then with his collen brand, that he had in his hand, the bunge of the trubchandler he burst in three. what that start out a lodly feend, with seven heads, and one body. the fyer towards the element flew, out of his mouth, where was great plentie; the knight stoode in the middle, and fought, that it was great joy to see. till his collaine brand brake in his hand, and his millaine knife burst on his knee; and then the danish axe burst in his hand first, that a sur weapon he thought shold be. but now is the knight left without any weapone, and alacke! it was the more pitty; but a surer weapon then had he one, had never lord in christentye: and all was but one litle booke, he found it by the side of the sea. he found it at the sea-side, wrucked upp in a floode; our lord had written it with his hands, and sealed it with his bloode. [_half a page is wanting._] "that thou doe.... but ly still in that wall of stone; till i have beene with noble king arthur, and told him what i have done." and when he came to the king's chamber, he cold of his curtesie saye, "sleep you, wake you, noble king arthur? and ever jesus watch yee!" "nay, i am not sleeping, i am waking," these were the words said hee: "for thee i have car'd; how hast thou fared? o gentle knight, let me see." the knight wrought the king his booke, bad him behold, reede, and see; and ever he found it on the backside of the leafe, as noble arthur wold wish it to be. and then bespake him king arthur, "alas! thou gentle knight, how may this be, that i might see him in the same licknesse, that he stood unto thee?" and then bespake him the greene knight,[l ] these were the words said hee: "if youle stand stifly in the battell stronge, for i have won all the victory." then bespake him the king againe, and these were the words said hee: "if we stand not stifly in this battell strong, wee are worthy to be hanged all on a tree." then bespake him the greene knight, these were the words said hee: saies, "i doe coniure thee, thou fowle feend, in the same licknesse thou stood unto me." with that start out a lodly feend, with seven heads, and one body; the fier towarde the element flaugh, out of his mouth, where was great plenty. the knight stood in the middle.... [_half a page is wanting._] ... the space of an houre, i know not what they did. and then bespake him the greene knight, and these were the words said he: saith, "i coniure thee, thou fowle feend, that thou feitch downe the steed that we see." and then forth is gone burlow-beanie, as fast as he cold hie; and feitch he did that faire steed, and came againe by and by. then bespake him sir marramile, and these were the words said hee: "riding of this steed, brother bredbeddle, the mastery belongs to me." marramiles tooke the steed to his hand, to ryd him he was full bold; he cold noe more make him goe, then a child of three yeere old. he laid[l ] uppon him with heele and hand, with yard that was soe fell; "helpe! brother bredbeddle," says marramile, "for i thinke he be the devill of hell. "helpe! brother bredbeddle," says marramile. "helpe! for christs pittye; for without thy help, brother bredbeddle, he will never be rydden for me."[l ] then bespake him sir bredbeddle, these were the words said he: "i coniure thee, thou burlow-beane,[l ] thou tell me how this steed was riddin in his country." he saith, "there is a gold wand, stands in king cornwalls study windowe. "let him take that wand in that window, and strike three strokes on that steed; and then he will spring forth of his hand, as sparke doth out of gleede." then bespake him the greene knight, [_half a page is wanting._] a lowd blast.... and then bespake sir bredbeddle, to the feend these words said hee: says, "i coniure thee, thou burlow-beanie, the powder-box thou feitch me." then forth is gone burlow-beanie, as fast as he cold hie; and feich he did the powder-box, and came againe by and by. then sir tristeram tooke powder forth of that box, and blent it with warme sweet milke; and there put it unto the horne, and swilled it about in that ilke. then he tooke the horne in his hand, and a lowd blast he blew; he rent the horne up to the midst, all his fellowes this they knew.[l ] then bespake him the greene knight, these were the words said he: saies. "i coniure thee, thou burlow-beanie, that thou feitch me the sword that i see." then forth is gone burlow-beanie, as fast as he cold hie; and feitch he did that faire sword, and came againe by and by. then bespake him sir bredbeddle, to the king these words said he: "take this sword in thy hand, thou noble king, for the vowes sake that thou made ile give it thee; and goe strike off king cornewalls head, in bed where he doth lye."[l ] then forth is gone noble king arthur, as fast as he cold hye; and strucken he hath king cornwalls head, and came againe by and by. he put the head upon a swords point, [_the poem terminates here abruptly._] , hurt. , they words. , the greene knight is sir bredbeddle. , sayed. , p' me, _i.e._ pro or per. , burlow-leane. , the knew. , were. fragment of child rowland and burd ellen. it is not impossible that this ballad should be the one quoted by edgar in _king lear_, (act iii. sc. :) "child rowland to the dark tower came." we have extracted the fragment given by jamieson, with the breaks in the story filled out, from _illustrations of northern antiquities_, p. ; and we have added his translation of the danish ballad of _rosmer hafmand_, which exhibits a striking similarity to _child rowland_, from _popular ballads and songs_, ii. . the tale of the _red etin_, as given in chamber's _pop. rhymes of scotland_, p. , has much resemblance to jamieson's story, and, like it, is interspersed with verse. the occurrence of the name merlin is by no means a sufficient ground for connecting this tale, as jamieson would do, with the cycle of king arthur. for merlin, as grundtvig has remarked (_folkeviser_, ii. ), did not originally belong to that cycle, and again, his name seems to have been given in scotland to any sort of wizard or prophet. * * * * * ["king arthur's sons o' merry carlisle] were playing at the ba'; and there was their sister burd ellen, i' the mids amang them a'. "child rowland kick'd it wi' his foot, and keppit it wi' his knee; and ay, as he play'd out o'er them a', o'er the kirk he gar'd it flee. "burd ellen round about the isle to seek the ba' is gane; but they bade lang and ay langer, and she camena back again. "they sought her east, they sought her west, they sought her up and down; and wae were the hearts [in merry carlisle,] for she was nae gait found!" at last her eldest brother went to the warluck merlin, (_myrddin wyldt_,) and asked if he knew where his sister, the fair burd ellen, was. "the fair burd ellen," said the warluck merlin, "is carried away by the fairies, and is now in the castle of the king of elfland; and it were too bold an undertaking for the stoutest knight in christendom to bring her back." "is it possible to bring her back?" said her brother, "and i will do it, or perish in the attempt." "possible indeed it is," said the warluck merlin; "but woe to the man or mother's son who attempts it, if he is not well instructed beforehand of what he is to do." influenced no less by the glory of such an enterprise, than by the desire of rescuing his sister, the brother of the fair burd ellen resolved to undertake the adventure; and after proper instructions from merlin, (which he failed in observing,) he set out on his perilous expedition. "but they bade lang and ay langer, wi' dout and mickle maen; and wae were the hearts [in merry carlisle,] for he camena back again." the second brother in like manner set out; but failed in observing the instructions of the warluck merlin; and "they bade lang and ay langer, wi' mickle dout and maen; and wae were the hearts [in merry carlisle,] for he camena back again." child rowland, the youngest brother of the fair burd ellen, then resolved to go; but was strenuously opposed by the good queen, [gwenevra,] who was afraid of losing all her children. at last the good queen [gwenevra] gave him her consent and her blessing; he girt on (in great form, and with all due solemnity of sacerdotal consecration,) his father's good _claymore_, [excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and repaired to the cave of the warluck merlin. the warluck merlin gave him all necessary instructions for his journey and conduct, the most important of which were, that he should kill every person he met with after entering the land of fairy, and should neither eat nor drink of what was offered him in that country, whatever his hunger or thirst might be; for if he tasted or touched in elfland, he must remain in the power of the elves, and never see _middle eard_ again. so child rowland set out on his journey, and travelled "on and ay farther on," till he came to where (as he had been forewarned by the warluck merlin,) he found the king of elfland's horse-herd feeding his horses. "canst thou tell me," said child rowland to the horse-herd, "where the king of elfland's castle is?"--"i cannot tell thee," said the horse-herd; "but go on a little farther, and thou wilt come to the cow-herd, and he, perhaps, may tell thee." so child rowland drew the good claymore, [excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and hewed off the head of the horse-herd. child rowland then went on a little farther, till he came to the king of elfland's cow-herd, who was feeding his cows. "canst thou tell me," said child rowland to the cow-herd, "where the king of elfland's castle is?"--"i cannot tell thee," said the cow-herd; "but go on a little farther, and thou wilt come to the sheep-herd, and he perhaps may tell thee." so child rowland drew the good claymore, [excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and hewed off the head of the cow-herd. he then went on a little farther, till he came to the sheep-herd. * * * * [_the sheep-herd, goat-herd, and swine-herd are all, each in his turn, served in the same manner; and lastly he is referred to the hen-wife._] "go on yet a little farther," said the hen-wife, "till thou come to a round green hill surrounded with rings (_terraces_) from the bottom to the top; go round it three times _widershins_, and every time say, "open, door! open, door! and let me come in; and the third time the door will open, and you may go in." so child rowland drew the good claymore, [excalibar,] that never struck in vain, and hewed off the head of the hen-wife. then went he three times _widershins_ round the green hill, crying, "open, door! open, door! and let me come in;" and the third time the door opened, and he went in. it immediately closed behind him; and he proceeded through a long passage, where the air was soft and agreeably warm like a may evening, as is all the air of elfland. the light was a sort of twilight or gloaming; but there were neither windows nor candles, and he knew not whence it came, if it was not from the walls and roof, which were rough, and arched like a grotto, and composed of a clear transparent rock, incrusted with _sheeps-silver_ and spar, and various bright stones. at last he came to two wide and lofty folding-doors, which stood a-jar. he opened them, and entered a large and spacious hall, whose richness and brilliance no tongue can tell. it seemed to extend the whole length and height of the hill. the superb gothic pillars by which the roof was supported, were so large and so lofty, (said my seannachy,) that the pillars of the chanry kirk,[d] or of pluscardin abbey, are no more to be compared to them, than the knock of alves is to be compared to balrinnes or ben-a-chi. they were of gold and silver, and were fretted like the west window of the chanry kirk, with wreaths of flowers composed of diamonds and precious stones of all manner of beautiful colors. the key-stones of the arches above, instead of coats of arms and other devices, were ornamented with clusters of diamonds in the same manner. and from the middle of the roof, where the principal arches met, was hung by a gold chain, an immense lamp of one hollowed pearl, perfectly transparent, in the midst of which was suspended a large carbuncle, that by the power of magic continually turned round, and shed over all the hall a clear and mild light like the setting sun; but the hall was so large, and these dazzling objects so far removed, that their blended radiance cast no more than a pleasing lustre, and excited no more than agreeable sensations in the eyes of child rowland. [d] the cathedral of elgin naturally enough furnished similes to a man who had never in his life been twenty miles distant from it. the furniture of the hall was suitable to its architecture; and at the farther end, under a splendid canopy, seated on a gorgeous sofa of velvet, silk, and gold, and "kembing her yellow hair wi' a silver kemb," "there was his sister burd ellen; she stood up him before." says, "'god rue on thee, poor luckless fode! what has thou to do here? "'and hear ye this, my youngest brither, why badena ye at hame? had ye a hundur and thousand lives, ye canna brook ane o' them. "'and sit thou down; and wae, o wae that ever thou was born; for come the king o' elfland in, thy leccam is forlorn!'" a long conversation then takes place; child rowland tells her the news [of merry carlisle,] and of his own expedition; and concludes with the observation, that, after this long and fatiguing journey to the castle of the king of elfland, he is _very hungry_. burd ellen looked wistfully and mournfully at him, and shook her head, but said nothing. acting under the influence of a magic which she could not resist, she arose, and brought him a golden bowl full of bread and milk, which she presented to him with the same timid, tender, and anxious expression of solicitude. remembering the instructions of the warluck merlin, "burd ellen," said child rowland, "i will neither taste nor touch till i have set thee free!" immediately the folding-doors burst open with tremendous violence, and in came the king of elfland, "with '_fi_, _fi_, _fo_, and _fum_! i smell the blood of a christian man! be he dead, be he living, wi' my brand i'll clash his harns frae his harn-pan!'" "strike, then, bogle of hell, if thou darest!" exclaimed the undaunted child rowland, starting up, and drawing the good claymore, [excalibar,] that never struck in vain. a furious combat ensued, and the king of elfland was felled to the ground; but child rowland spared him on condition that he should restore to him his two brothers, who lay in a trance in a corner of the hall, and his sister, the fair burd ellen. the king of elfland then produced a small crystal phial, containing a bright red liquor, with which he anointed the lips, nostrils, eye-lids, ears, and finger-ends of the two young men, who immediately awoke as from a profound sleep, during which their souls had quitted their bodies, and they had seen, &c., &c., &c. so they all four returned in triumph to [merry carlisle.] such was the rude outline of the romance of child rowland, as it was told to me when i was about seven or eight years old, by a country tailor then at work in my father's house. he was an ignorant and dull good sort of honest man, who seemed never to have questioned the truth of what he related. where the _et cæteras_ are put down, many curious particulars have been omitted, because i was afraid of being deceived by my memory, and substituting one thing for another. it is right also to admonish the reader, that the warluck merlin, child rowland, and burd ellen, were the only _names_ introduced in _his_ recitation; and that the others, inclosed within brackets, are assumed upon the authority of the locality given to the story by the mention of _merlin_. in every other respect i have been as faithful as possible. rosmer hafmand, or, the mer-man rosmer. the ballad of _rosmer_ is found in danish, swedish, faroish, and norse. all the questions bearing upon its origin, and the relations of the various _forms_ in which the story exists, are amply discussed by grundtvig, vol. ii. p. . three versions of the danish ballad are given by vedel, all of which jamieson has translated. the following is no. in abrahamson. there dwalls a lady in danmarck, lady hillers lyle men her ca'; and she's gar'd bigg a new castell, that shines o'er danmarck a'. her dochter was stown awa frae her; she sought for her wide-whare; but the mair she sought, and the less she fand,-- that wirks her sorrow and care. and she's gar'd bigg a new ship, wi' vanes o' flaming goud, wi' mony a knight and mariner, sae stark in need bestow'd. she's followed her sons down to the strand, that chaste and noble fre; and wull and waif for eight lang years they sail'd upon the sea. and eight years wull and waif they sail'd, o' months that seem'd sae lang; syne they sail'd afore a high castell, and to the land can gang. and the young lady svanè lyle, in the bower that was the best, says, "wharfrae cam thir frem swains, wi' us this night to guest?" then up and spak her youngest brither, sae wisely ay spak he; "we are a widow's three poor sons, lang wilder'd on the sea. "in danmarck were we born and bred, lady hillers lyle was our mither; our sister frae us was stown awa, we findna whare or whither." "in danmarck were ye born and bred? was lady hillers your mither? i can nae langer heal frae thee, thou art my youngest brither. "and hear ye this, my youngest brither: why bade na ye at hame? had ye a hunder and thousand lives, ye canna brook ane o' them." she's set him in the weiest nook she in the house can meet; she's bidden him for the high god's sake nouther to laugh ne greet. rosmer hame frae zealand came, and he took on to bann: "i smell fu' weel, by my right hand, that here is a christian man." "there flew a bird out o'er the house, wi' a man's bane in his mouth; he coost it in, and i cast it out, as fast as e'er i couth." but wilyly she can rosmer win; and clapping him tenderly, "it's here is come my sister-son;-- gin i lose him, i'll die. "it's here is come, my sister-son, frae baith our fathers' land; and i ha'e pledged him faith and troth, that ye will not him bann." "and is he come, thy sister-son, frae thy father's land to thee? then i will swear my highest aith, he's dree nae skaith frae me." 'twas then the high king rosmer, he ca'd on younkers twae: "ye bid proud svanè lyle's sister-son to the chalmer afore me gae." it was svanè lyle's sister-son, whan afore rosmer he wan, his heart it quook, and his body shook, sae fley'd, he scarce dow stand. sae rosmer took her sister-son, set him upon his knee; he clappit him sae luifsomely, he turned baith blue and blae. and up and spak she, svanè lyle; "sir rosmer, ye're nae to learn that your ten fingers arena sma, to clap sae little a bairn." there was he till, the fifthen year, he green'd for hame and land: "help me now, sister svanè lyle, to be set on the white sand." it was proud lady svanè lyle, afore rosmer can stand: "this younker sae lang in the sea has been, he greens for hame and land." "gin the younker sae lang in the sea has been, and greens for hame and land, then i'll gie him a kist wi' goud, sae fitting till his hand." "and will ye gi'e him a kist wi' goud, sae fitting till his hand? then hear ye, my noble heartis dear, ye bear them baith to land." then wrought proud lady svanè lyle what rosmer little wist; for she's tane out the goud sae red, and laid hersel i' the kist. he's ta'en the man upon his back; the kist in his mouth took he; and he has gane the lang way up frae the bottom o' the sea. "now i ha'e borne thee to the land; thou seest baith sun and moon; namena lady svanè for thy highest god, i beg thee as a boon." rosmer sprang i' the saut sea out, and jawp'd it up i' the sky; but whan he cam till the castell in, nae svanè lyle could he spy. whan he came till the castell in, his dearest awa was gane; like wood he sprang the castell about, on the rock o' the black flintstane. glad they were in proud hillers lyle's house, wi' welcome joy and glee; hame to their friends her bairns were come, that had lang been in the sea. tam-a-line, the elfin knight. (see page .) from _scottish traditionary versions of ancient ballads_, percy society, xvii. p. . take warnin', a' ye ladyes fair, that wear gowd on your hair; come never unto charter-woods, for tam-a-line he's there. even about that knicht's middle o' siller bells are nine; nae ane comes to charter-woods, and a may returns agen. ladye margaret sits in her bouir door, sewing at her silken seam; and she lang'd to gang to charter woods, to pou the roses green. she hadna pou'd a rose, a rose, nor braken a branch but ane, till by it came him true tam-a-line, says, "layde, lat alane. "o why pou ye the rose, the rose? or why brake ye the tree? or why come ye to charter-woods, without leave ask'd of me?" "i will pou the rose, the rose, and i will brake the tree; charter-woods are a' my ain, i'll ask nae leave o' thee." he's taen her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass-green sleeve; and laid her low on gude green wood, at her he spier'd nae leave. when he had got his will o' her, his will as he had ta'en, he's ta'en her by the middle sma', set her to feet again. she turn'd her richt and round about, to spier her true love's name, but naething heard she, nor naething saw, as a' the woods grew dim. seven days she tarried there, saw neither sun nor muin; at length, by a sma' glimmerin' licht, came thro' the wood her lane. when she came to her father's court, was fine as ony queen; but when eight months were past and gane, got on the gown o' green. then out it speaks an eldren knicht, as he stood at the yett; "our king's dochter, she gaes wi' bairn, and we'll get a' the wyte." "o haud your tongue, ye eldren man, and bring me not to shame; although that i do gang wi' bairn, yese naeways get the blame. "were my love but an earthly man, as he's an elfin knicht, i wadna gie my ain true luve, for a' that's in my sicht." then out it speaks her brither dear, he meant to do her harm, "there is an herb in charter-woods will twine you an' the bairn." she's taen her mantle her about, her coiffer by the band; and she is on to charter-woods, as fast as she coud gang. she hadna poud a rose, a rose, nor braken a branch but ane, till by it came him, tam-a-line, says, "ladye, lat alane." "o! why pou ye the pile, margaret, the pile o' the gravil green, for to destroy the bonny bairn that we got us between? "o! why pou ye the pile, margaret, the pile o' the gravil gray, for to destroy the bonny bairn that we got in our play? "for if it be a knave bairn, he's heir o' a' my land; but if it be a lass bairn, in red gowd she shall gang." "if my luve were an earthly man, as he's an elfin grey, i coud gang bound, luve, for your sake, a twalmonth and a day." "indeed your luve's an earthly man, the same as well as thee; and lang i've haunted charter-woods, a' for your fair bodie." "o! tell me, tell me, tam-a-line, o! tell, an' tell me true; tell me this nicht, an' mak' nae lee, what pedigree are you?" "o! i hae been at gude church-door, an' i've got christendom; i'm the earl o' forbes' eldest son, an' heir ower a' his land. "when i was young, o' three years old, muckle was made o' me; my stepmither put on my claithes, an' ill, ill, sained she me. "ae fatal morning i gaed out, dreading nae injurie; and thinking lang, fell soun asleep, beneath an apple tree. "then by it came the elfin queen, and laid her hand on me; and from that time since e'er i mind, i've been in her companie. "o elfin it's a bonny place, in it fain wad i dwell; but aye at ilka seven years' end, they pay a tiend to hell, and i'm sae fou o' flesh an blude, i'm sair fear'd for mysell." "o tell me, tell me, tam-a-line, o tell, an' tell me true; tell me this nicht, an' mak' nae lee, what way i'll borrow you?" "the morn is hallowe'en nicht, the elfin court will ride, through england, and thro' a' scotland, and through the warld wide. "o they begin at sky sett in, ride a' the evenin' tide; and she that will her true love borrow, at miles-cross will him bide. "ye'll do ye down to miles-cross, between twall hours and ane; and full your hands o' holie water, and cast your compass roun'. "then the first ane court that comes you till, is published king and queen; the neist ane court that comes you till, it is maidens mony ane. "the neist ane court that comes you till, is footmen, grooms, and squires; the neist ane court that comes you till, is knichts; and i'll be there. "i tam-a-line, on milk-white steed, a gowd star on my crown; because i was an earthly knicht, got that for a renown. "and out at my steed's right nostril, he'll breathe a fiery flame; ye'll loot you low, and sain yoursel, and ye'll be busy then. "ye'll tak' my horse then by the head, and lat the bridal fa'; the queen o' elfin she'll cry out, 'true tam-a-line's awa'.' "then i'll appear into your arms like the wolf that ne'er wad tame; ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, case we ne'er meet again. "then i'll appear into your arms like fire that burns sae bauld; ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, i'll be as iron cauld. "then i'll appear into your arms like the adder an' the snake; ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, i am your warld's maike. "then i'll appear into your arms like to the deer sae wild; ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, and i'll father your child. "and i'll appear into your arms like to a silken string; ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, till ye see the fair mornin'. "and i'll appear into your arms like to a naked man; ye'll haud me fast, lat me not gae, and wi' you i'll gae hame." then she has done her to miles-cross, between twal hours an' ane; and filled her hands o' holie water, and kiest her compass roun'. the first ane court that came her till, was published king and queen; the niest ane court that came her till, was maidens mony ane. the niest ane court that came her till, was footmen, grooms, and squires; the niest ane court that came her till, was knichts; and he was there! true tam-a-line, on milk-white steed, a gowd star on his crown; because he was an earthly man, got that for a renown. and out at the steed's right nostril, he breath'd a fiery flame; she loots her low, an' sains hersel, and she was busy then. she's taen the horse then by the head, and loot the bridle fa'; the queen o' elfin she cried out,-- "true tam-a-line's awa'." "stay still, true tam-a-line," she says, "till i pay you your fee;" "his father wants not lands nor rents, he'll ask nae fee frae thee." "gin i had kent yestreen, yestreen, what i ken weel the day, i shou'd hae taen your fu' fause heart, gien you a heart o' clay." then he appeared into her arms like the wolf that ne'er wad tame; she held him fast, lat him not gae, case they ne'er met again. then he appeared into her arms like the fire burning bauld; she held him fast, lat him not gae, he was as iron cauld. and he appeared into her arms like the adder an' the snake; she held him fast, lat him not gae, he was her warld's maike. and he appeared into her arms like to the deer sae wild; she held him fast, lat him not gae, he's father o' her child. and he appeared into her arms like to a silken string; she held him fast, lat him not gae, till she saw fair mornin'. and he appeared into her arms like to a naked man; she held him fast, lat him not gae, and wi' her he's gane hame. these news hae reach'd thro' a' scotland, and far ayont the tay, that ladye margaret, our king's dochter, that nicht had gain'd her prey. she borrowed her love at mirk midnicht, bare her young son ere day; and though ye'd search the warld wide, ye'll nae find sic a may. tom linn. (see p. .) this fragment was taken down from the recitation of an old woman. maidment's _new book of old ballads_, p. . o all you ladies young and gay, who are so sweet and fair, do not go into chaster's wood, for tomlinn will be there. * * * * * fair margaret sat in her bonny bower, sewing her silken seam, and wished to be in chaster's wood, among the leaves so green. she let the seam fall to her foot, the needle to her toe, and she has gone to chaster's wood, as fast as she could go. when she began to pull the flowers; she pull'd both red and green; then by did come, and by did go, said, "fair maid, let abene! "o why pluck you the flowers, lady, or why climb you the tree? or why come ye to chaster's wood, without the leave of me?" "o i will pull the flowers," she said, "or i will break the tree; for chaster's wood it is my own, i'll ask no leave at thee." he took her by the milk-white hand, and by the grass-green sleeve; and laid her down upon the flowers, at her he ask'd no leave. the lady blush'd and sourly frown'd, and she did think great shame; says, "if you are a gentleman, you will tell me your name." "first they call me jack," he said, "and then they call'd me john; but since i liv'd in the fairy court, tomlinn has always been my name. "so do not pluck that flower, lady, that has these pimples gray; they would destroy the bonny babe that we've gotten in our play." "o tell to me, tomlinn," she said, "and tell it to me soon; was you ever at a good church door, or got you christendom?" "o i have been at good church door, and oft her yetts within; i was the laird of foulis's son, the heir of all his land. "but it fell once upon a day, as hunting i did ride, as i rode east and west yon hill, then woe did me betide. "o drowsy, drowsy as i was, dead sleep upon me fell; the queen of fairies she was there, and took me to hersel. "the morn at even is hallowe'en, our fairy court will ride, through england and through scotland both, through all the world wide; and if that ye would me borrow, at rides cross ye may bide. "you may go into the miles moss, between twelve hours and one; take holy water in your hand, and cast a compass round. "the first court that comes along, you'll let them all pass by; the next court that comes along, salute them reverently. "the next court that comes along, is clad in robes of green; and it's the head court of them all, for in it rides the queen. "and i upon a milk-white steed, with a gold star in my crown; because i am an earthly man, i'm next the queen in renown. "then seize upon me with a spring, then to the ground i'll fa'; and then you'll hear a rueful cry, that tomlinn is awa'. "then i'll grow in your arms two, like to a savage wild; but hold me fast, let me not go, i'm father of your child. "i'll grow into your arms two like an adder, or a snake; but hold me fast, let me not go, i'll be your earthly maik. "i'll grow into your arms two like ice on frozen lake; but hold me fast, let me not go, or from your goupen break. "i'll grow into your arms two, like iron in strong fire; but hold me fast, let me not go, then you'll have your desire." and its next night into miles moss, fair margaret has gone; when lo she stands beside rides cross, between twelve hours and one. there's holy water in her hand, she casts a compass round; and presently a fairy band comes riding o'er the mound. * * * * * this seems to be the most appropriate connection for a short fragment from maidment's _north countrie garland_, (p. .) it was taken down from the recitation of a lady who had heard it sung in her childhood. burd ellen and young tamlane. burd ellen sits in the bower windowe, _with a double laddy double, and for the double dow_, twisting the red silk and the blue, _with the double rose and the may-hay_. and whiles she twisted, and whiles she twan, _with a double_, &c. and whiles the tears fell down amang, _with the double_, &c. till once there by cam young tamlane, _with a double_, &c. "come light, oh light, and rock your young son!" _with the double_, &c. "if you winna rock him, you may let him rair, _with a double_, &c. for i hae rockit my share and mair." _with the double_, &c. * * * * * young tamlane to the seas he's gane, _with a double laddy double, and for the double dow,_ and a' women's curse in his company's gane, _with the double rose and the may-hay_. als y yod on ay mounday. (see p. .) in the manuscript from which these verses are taken, they form the preface to a long strain of incomprehensible prophecies of the same description as those which are appended to _thomas of ersyldoune_. whether the two portions belong together, or not, (and it will be seen that they are ill enough joined,) the first alone requires to be cited here for the purpose of comparison with the _wee wee man_. the whole piece has been twice printed, first by finlay, in his _scottish ballads_, (ii. ,) and afterwards, by a person who was not aware that he had been anticipated, in the _retrospective review_, second series, vol. ii. p. . both texts are in places nearly unintelligible, and are evidently full of errors, part of which we must ascribe to the incompetency of the editors. finlay's is here adopted as on the whole the best, but it has received a few corrections from the other, and one or two conjectural emendations. als y yod on ay mounday bytwene wyltinden and wall, the ane after brade way, ay litel man y mette with alle, the leste yat ever y, sathe to say, oither in bowr, oither in halle; his robe was noither grene na gray, bot alle yt was of riche palle. on me he cald, and bad me bide; well stille y stode ay litel space; fra lanchestre the parke syde yeen he come, wel fair his pase. he hailsed me with mikel pride; ic haved wel mykel ferly wat he was; i saide,--"wel mote the betyde, that litel man with large face." i beheld that litel man bi the strete als we gon gae; his berd was syde ay large span, and glided als the fether of pae; his heved was wyte als ony swan, his hegehen was gret and grai als so; brues lange, wel i the can merk it to fize inches and mae. armes scort, for sothe i saye, ay span seemed thaem to bee: handes brade vytouten nay, and fingeres lange, he scheued me. ay stane he tok op thar it lay, and castit forth that i moth see; ay merk-soot of large way bifore me strides he castit three. wel stille i stod als did the stane, to loke him on thouth me nouth lang; his robe was alle gold begane, wel craftelike[l ] maked, i understande; botones asurd, everlk ane, fra his elbouthe ontil his hande; erdelik[l ] man was he nane; that in myn hert ich onderstande. til him i sayde ful sone on ane, for forthirmar i wald him fraine, "gladli wald[l ] i wit thi name, and i wist wat me mouthe gaine; thou ert so litel of fleshe and bane, and so mikel of mith and mayne, war vones thou, litel man, at hame? wit of thee i wald ful faine." "thoth i be litel and lith, am y noth wytouten wane; ferli frained thou wat hi hith, that[l ] thou salt noth wit my name; my wonige stede ful wel es dyght,[l ] nou sone thou salt se at hame." til him i sayde, "for godes mith, let me forth myn erand gane." "the thar noth of thin erand lette, thouth thou come ay stonde wit me, forther salt thou noth bi sette, bi miles twa noyther bi three." na linger durst i for him lette, but forth y funded wyt that free; stintid vs brok no beck; ferlich me thouth hu so mouth bee. he vent forth, als y you say, in at ay yate, y vnderstande; in til ay yate wvndouten nay; it to se thouth me nouth[l ] lang. the bankers on the binkes lay, and fair lordes sett y fonde; in ilka ay hirn y herd ay lay, and leuedys soth meloude sange. [here there seems to be a break, and a new start made, with a tale told not on a _monday_, but on a _wednesday_.] lithe, bothe zonge and alde: of ay worde y will you saye, ay litel tale that me was tald erli on ay wedenesdaye. a mody barn, that was ful bald, my friend that y frained aye, al my gesing he me tald, and galid me als we went bi waye. "miri man, that es so wyth, of ay thing gif me answere: for him that mensked man wyt mith, wat sal worth of this were?" &c. finlay, , crustlike. , clidelik. , glalli wild. , that, qy. yat?; with. , dygh. , south. the elphin knight. (see p. .) "the following transcript is a literal copy from the original in the pepysian library, cambridge." motherwell's _minstrelsy_, appendix, p. i. "a proper new ballad, entituled, _the wind hath blown my plaid away, or, a discourse betwixt a young maid and the elphin-knight_; to be sung with its own pleasant new tune." the elphin knight site on yon hill, _ba, ba, ba, lilli ba,_ he blowes his horn both loud and shril, _the wind hath blown my plaid awa_. he blowes it east, he blowes it west, _ba, ba_, &c. he blowes it where he lyketh best. _the wind_, &c. "i wish that horn were in my kist, _ba, ba_, &c. yea, and the knight in my armes two." _the wind_, &c. she had no sooner these words said, _ba, ba_, &c. when that the knight came to her bed. _the wind_, &c. "thou art over young a maid," quoth he, _ba, ba_, &c. "married with me thou il wouldst be." _the wind_, &c. "i have a sister younger than i, _ba, ba_, &c. and she was married yesterday." _the wind_, &c. "married with me if thou wouldst be, _ba, ba_, &c. a courtesie thou must do to me. _the wind_, &c. "for thou must shape a sark to me, _ba, ba_, &c. without any cut or heme," quoth he. _the wind_, &c. "thou must shape it needle- and sheerlesse, _ba, ba_, &c. and also sue it needle-threedlesse." _the wind_, &c. "if that piece of courtesie i do to thee, _ba, ba_, &c. another thou must do to me. _the wind_, &c. "i have an aiker of good ley-land, _ba, ba_, &c. which lyeth low by yon sea-strand. _the wind_, &c. "for thou must cure it with thy horn, _ba, ba_, &c. so thou must sow it with thy corn. _the wind_, &c. "and bigg a cart of stone and lyme, _ba, ba_, &c. robin redbreast he must trail it hame. _the wind_, &c. "thou must barn it in a mouse-holl, _ba, ba_, &c. and thrash it into thy shoes' soll. _the wind_, &c. "and thou must winnow it in thy looff, _ba, ba_, &c. and also seck it in thy glove. _the wind_, &c. "for thou must bring it over the sea, _ba, ba_, &c. and thou must bring it dry home to me. _the wind_, &c. "when thou hast gotten thy turns well done, _ba, ba_, &c. then come to me and get thy sark then. _the wind_, &c." "i'l not quite my plaid for my life, _ba, ba_, &c. it haps my seven bairns and my wife. _the wind shall not blow my plaid awa._" "my maidenhead i'l then keep still, _ba, ba_, &c. let the elphin knight do what he will. _the wind's not blown my plaid awa._" "_my plaid awa, my plaid awa, and o'er the hill and far awa, and far awa, to norrowa, my plaid shall not be blown awa._" the laidley worm of spindleston-heugh. see p. . "a song above years old, made by the old mountain-bard, duncan frasier, living on cheviot, a.d. ." this ballad, first published in hutchinson's _history of northumberland_, was the composition of mr. robert lambe, vicar of norham. several stanzas are, however, adopted from some ancient tale. it has been often printed, and is now taken from ritson's _northumberland garland_. the similar story of _the worme of lambton_, versified by the rev. j. watson (compare _ormekampen_ and the cognate legends, grundtvig, i. , also vol. viii. p. , of this collection), may be seen in richardson's _borderer's table-book_, viii. , or in moore's _pictorial book of ancient ballad poetry_, page . with the tale of the _lambton worm of durham_ agrees in many particulars that of the _worm of linton_ in roxburghshire. (see scott's introduction to _kempion_, and sir c. sharpe's _bishopric garland_, p. .) it is highly probable that the mere coincidence of sound with _linden-worm_ caused this last place to be selected as the scene of such a story. the king is gone from bambrough castle, long may the princess mourn; long may she stand on the castle wall, looking for his return. she has knotted the keys upon a string, and with her she has them ta'en, she has cast them o'er her left shoulder, and to the gate she is gane. she tripped out, she tripped in, she tript into the yard; but it was more for the king's sake, than for the queen's regard. it fell out on a day, the king brought the queen with him home; and all the lords in our country to welcome them did come. "o welcome father!" the lady cries, "unto your halls and bowers; and so are you, my step-mother, for all that's here is yours." a lord said, wondering while she spake,[l ] "this princess of the north surpasses all of female kind in beauty, and in worth." the envious queen replied, "at least, you might have excepted me; in a few hours, i will her bring down to a low degree. "i will her liken to a laidley worm, that warps about the stone, and not till childy wynd[l ] comes back, shall she again be won." the princess stood at the bower door laughing, who could her blame? but e'er the next day's sun went down, a long worm she became. for seven miles east, and seven miles west, and seven miles north, and south, no blade of grass or corn could grow, so venomous was her mouth. the milk of seven stately cows (it was costly her to keep) was brought her daily, which she drank before she went to sleep. at this day may be seen the cave which held her folded up, and the stone trough, the very same out of which she did sup. word went east, and word went west, and word is gone over the sea, that a laidley worm in spindleston-heughs would ruin the north country. word went east, and word went west, and over the sea did go; the child of wynd got wit of it, which filled his heart with woe. he called straight his merry men all, they thirty were and three: "i wish i were at spindleston, this desperate worm to see. "we have no time now here to waste, hence quickly let us sail: my only sister margaret, something, i fear, doth ail." they built a ship without delay, with masts of the rown tree, with flutring sails of silk so fine, and set her on the sea. they went on board; the wind with speed, blew them along the deep; at length they spied an huge square tower on a rock high and steep. the sea was smooth, the weather clear; when they approached nigher, king ida's castle they well knew, and the banks of bambroughshire. the queen look'd out at her bower window, to see what she could see; there she espied a gallant ship sailing upon the sea. when she beheld the silken sails, full glancing in the sun, to sink the ship she sent[l ] away her witch wives every one. the spells were vain; the hags returned to the queen in sorrowful mood, crying that witches have no power where there is rown-tree wood. her last effort, she sent a boat, which in the haven lay, with armed men to board the ship, but they were driven away. the worm lept out, the worm lept down, she plaited round the stone; and ay as the ship came to the land she banged it off again. the child then ran out of her reach the ship on budley-sand, and jumping into the shallow sea, securely got to land. and now he drew his berry-brown[l ] sword, and laid it on her head; and swore, if she did harm to him, that he would strike her dead. "o quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, and give me kisses three; for though i am a poisonous worm, no hurt i'll do to thee. "o quit thy sword, and bend thy bow, and give me kisses three; if i'm not won e'er the sun go down, won i shall never be." he quitted his sword, and bent his bow, he gave her kisses three; she crept into a hole a worm, but out stept a lady. no clothing had this lady fine, to keep her from the cold; he took his mantle from him about, and round her did it fold. he has taken his mantle from him about, and in it he wrapt her in, and they are up to bambrough castle, as fast as they can win. his absence, and her serpent shape, the king had long deplored; he now rejoyced to see them both again to him restored. the queen they wanted, whom they found all pale, and sore afraid, because she knew her power must yield to childy wynd's, who said, "woe be to thee, thou wicked witch; an ill death mayest thou dee; as thou my sister hast lik'ned, so lik'ned shalt thou be. "i will turn you into a toad, that on the ground doth wend; and won, won shalt thou never be, till this world hath an end." now on the sand near ida's tower, she crawls a loathsome toad, and venom spits on every maid she meets upon her road. the virgins all of bambrough town will swear that they have seen this spiteful toad, of monstrous size, whilst walking they have been. all folks believe within the shire this story to be true, and they all run to spindleston, the cave and trough to view. this fact now duncan frasier, of cheviot, sings in rhime, lest bambroughshire men should forget some part of it in time. v. - . compare _young waters_, (iii. ,) v. - , and _young beichan and susie pye_, (iv. ,) v. - . v. . childy wynd is obviously a corruption of child owain. , went. , berry-broad. lord dingwall. (see p. .) from buchan's _ancient ballads and songs of the north of scotland_. (i. .) we were sisters, sisters seven, _bowing down, bowing down_; the fairest women under heaven. _and aye the birks a-bowing._ they kiest kevels them amang, wha wou'd to the grenewood gang. the kevels they gied thro' the ha', and on the youngest it did fa'. now she must to the grenewood gang, to pu' the nuts in grenewood hang. she hadna tarried an hour but ane, till she met wi' a highlan' groom. he keeped her sae late and lang, till the evening set, and birds they sang. he ga'e to her at their parting, a chain o' gold, and gay gold ring: and three locks o' his yellow hair: bade her keep them for evermair. when six lang months were come and gane, a courtier to this lady came. lord dingwall courted this lady gay, and so he set their wedding-day. a little boy to the ha' was sent, to bring her horse was his intent. as she was riding the way along, she began to make a heavy moan. "what ails you, lady," the boy said, "that ye seem sae dissatisfied? "are the bridle reins for you too strong? or the stirrups for you too long?" "but, little boy, will ye tell me, the fashions that are in your countrie?" "the fashions in our ha' i'll tell, and o' them a' i'll warn you well. "when ye come in upon the floor, his mither will meet you wi' a golden chair. "but be ye maid, or be ye nane, unto the high seat make ye boun. "lord dingwall aft has been beguil'd, by girls whom young men hae defiled. "he's cutted the paps frae their breast bane, and sent them back to their ain hame." when she came in upon the floor, his mother met her wi' a golden chair. but to the high seat she made her boun': she knew that maiden she was nane. when night was come, they went to bed, and ower her breast his arm he laid. he quickly jumped upon the floor, and said, "i've got a vile rank whore." unto his mother he made his moan, says, "mother dear, i am undone. "ye've aft tald, when i brought them hame, whether they were maid or nane. "i thought i'd gotten a maiden bright, i've gotten but a waefu' wight. "i thought i'd gotten a maiden clear, but gotten but a vile rank whore." "when she came in upon the floor, i met her wi' a golden chair. "but to the high seat she made her boun', because a maiden she was nane." "i wonder wha's tauld that gay ladie, the fashion into our countrie." "it is your little boy i blame, whom ye did send to bring her hame." then to the lady she did go, and said, "o lady, let me know "who has defiled your fair bodie? ye're the first that has beguiled me." "o we were sisters, sisters seven, the fairest women under heaven; "and we kiest kevels us amang, wha wou'd to the grenewood gang; "for to pu' the finest flowers, to put around our summer bowers. "i was the youngest o' them a', the hardest fortune did me befa'. "unto the grenewood i did gang, and pu'd the nuts as they down hang. "i hadna stay'd an hour but ane, till i met wi' a highlan' groom. "he keeped me sae late and lang, till the evening set, and birds they sang. "he gae to me at our parting, a chain of gold, and gay gold ring: "and three locks o' his yellow hair: bade me keep them for evermair. "then for to show i make nae lie, look ye my trunk, and ye will see." unto the trunk then she did go, to see if that were true or no. and aye she sought, and aye she flang, till these four things came to her hand. then she did to her ain son go, and said, "my son, ye'll let me know. "ye will tell to me this thing:-- what did yo wi' my wedding-ring?" "mother dear, i'll tell nae lie: i gave it to a gay ladie. "i would gie a' my ha's and towers, i had this bird within my bowers." "keep well, keep well, your lands and strands, ye hae that bird within your hands. "now, my son, to your bower ye'll go: comfort your ladie, she's full o' woe." now when nine months were come and gane, the lady she brought hame a son. it was written on his breast-bane, lord dingwall was his father's name. he's ta'en his young son in his arms, and aye he prais'd his lovely charms. and he has gi'em him kisses three, and doubled them ower to his ladie. hynde etin. (see p. .) from kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_, p. . may marg'ret stood in her bouer door, kaiming doun her yellow hair; she spied some nuts growin in the wud, and wish'd that she was there. she has plaited her yellow locks a little abune her bree; and she has kilted her petticoats a little below her knee; and she's aff to mulberry wud, as fast as she could gae. she had na pu'd a nut, a nut, a nut but barely ane, till up started the hynde etin, says, "lady! let thae alane." "mulberry wuds are a' my ain; my father gied them me, to sport and play when i thought lang; and they sall na be tane by thee." and ae she pu'd the tither berrie, na thinking o' the skaith; and said, "to wrang ye, hynde etin, i wad be unco laith." but he has tane her by the yellow locks, and tied her till a tree, and said, "for slichting my commands, an ill death shall ye dree." he pu'd a tree out o' the wud, the biggest that was there; and he howkit a cave monie fathoms deep, and put may marg'ret there. "now rest ye there, ye saucie may; my wuds are free for thee; and gif i tak ye to mysell, the better ye'll like me." na rest, na rest may marg'ret took, sleep she got never nane; her back lay on the cauld, cauld floor, her head upon a stane. "o tak me out," may marg'ret cried, "o tak me hame to thee; and i sall be your bounden page until the day i dee." he took her out o' the dungeon deep, and awa wi' him she's gane; but sad was the day an earl's dochter gaed hame wi' hynde etin. * * * * * it fell out ance upon a day, hynde etin's to the hunting gane; and he has tane wi' him his eldest son, for to carry his game. "o i wad ask you something, father, an ye wadna angry be;"-- "ask on, ask on, my eldest son, ask onie thing at me." "my mother's cheeks are aft times weet, alas! they are seldom dry;"-- "na wonder, na wonder, my eldest son, tho' she should brast and die. "for your mother was an earl's dochter, of noble birth and fame; and now she's wife o' hynde etin, wha ne'er got christendame. "but we'll shoot the laverock in the lift, the buntlin on the tree; and ye'll tak them hame to your mother, and see if she'll comforted be." * * * * * "i wad ask ye something, mother, an' ye wadna angry be;"-- "ask on, ask on, my eldest son, ask onie thing at me." "your cheeks they are aft times weet, alas! they're seldom dry;"-- "na wonder, na wonder, my eldest son, tho' i should brast and die. "for i was ance an earl's dochter, of noble birth and fame; and now i am the wife of hynde etin, wha ne'er got christendame." sir oluf and the elf-king's daughter. (see p. .) this is a translation by jamieson (_popular ballads and songs_, i. ), of the danish _elveskud_ (abrahamson, i. ). lewis has given a version of the same in the _tales of wonder_, (no. .) the corresponding swedish ballad, _the elf-woman and sir olof_ (afzelius, iii. ) is translated by keightley, _fairy mythology_, p. . this ballad occurs also in norse, faroish, and icelandic. of the same class are _elfer hill_, (from the danish, jamieson, i. ; from the swedish, keightley, ; through the german, _tales of wonder_, no. :) _sir olof in the elve-dance_, (keightley, ; _literature and romance of northern europe_, by william and mary howitt, i. :) _the merman and marstig's daughter_, (from the danish, jamieson, i. ; _tales of wonder_, no. :) the breton tale of _lord nann and the korrigan_, (keightley, :) three slavic ballads referred to by grundtvig, (_elveskud_, ii. :) _sir peter of stauffenbergh and the mermaid_, (from the german, jamieson, _illustrations of northern antiquities_, ,) and the well-known _fischer_ of goethe. sir oluf the hend has ridden sae wide, all unto his bridal feast to bid. and lightly the elves, sae feat and free, they dance all under the greenwood tree! and there danced four, and there danced five; the elf-king's daughter she reekit bilive. her hand to sir oluf sae fair and free: "o welcome, sir oluf, come dance wi' me! "o welcome, sir oluf! now lat thy love gae, and tread wi' me in the dance sae gay." "to dance wi' thee ne dare i, ne may; the morn it is my bridal day." "o come, sir oluf, and dance wi' me; twa buckskin boots i'll give to thee; "twa buckskin boots, that sit sae fair, wi' gilded spurs sae rich and rare. "and hear ye, sir oluf! come dance wi' me; and a silken sark i'll give to thee; "a silken sark sae white and fine, that my mother bleached in the moonshine." "i darena, i maunna come dance wi' thee; for the morn my bridal day maun be." "o hear ye, sir oluf! come dance wi' me, and a helmet o' goud i'll give to thee." "a helmet o' goud i well may ha'e; but dance wi' thee ne dare i, ne may." "and winna thou dance, sir oluf, wi' me? then sickness and pain shall follow thee!" she's smitten sir oluf--it strak to his heart; he never before had kent sic a smart; then lifted him up on his ambler red; "and now, sir oluf, ride hame to thy bride." and whan he came till the castell yett, his mither she stood and leant thereat. "o hear ye, sir oluf, my ain dear son, whareto is your lire sae blae and wan?" "o well may my lire be wan and blae, for i ha'e been in the elf-womens' play." "o hear ye, sir oluf, my son, my pride, and what shall i say to thy young bride?" "ye'll say, that i've ridden but into the wood, to prieve gin my horse and hounds are good." ear on the morn, whan night was gane, the bride she cam wi' the bridal train. they skinked the mead, and they skinked the wine: "o whare is sir oluf, bridegroom mine?" "sir oluf has ridden but into the wood, to prieve gin his horse and hounds are good." and she took up the scarlet red, and there lay sir oluf, and he was dead! ear on the morn, whan it was day, three likes were ta'en frae the castle away; sir oluf the leal, and his bride sae fair, and his mither, that died wi' sorrow and care. and lightly the elves sae feat and free, they dance all under the greenwood tree! fragment of the dÆmon lover. (see p. .) (motherwell's _minstrelsy_, p. .) "i have seven ships upon the sea, laden with the finest gold, and mariners to wait us upon;-- all these you may behold. "and i have shoes for my love's feet, beaten of the purest gold, and lined wi' the velvet soft, to keep my love's feet from the cold. "o how do you love the ship," he said, "or how do you love the sea? and how do you love the bold mariners that wait upon thee and me?" "o i do love the ship," she said, "and i do love the sea; but woe be to the dim mariners, that nowhere i can see." they had not sailed a mile awa', never a mile but one, when she began to weep and mourn, and to think on her little wee son. "o hold your tongue, my dear," he said, "and let all your weeping abee, for i'll soon show to you how the lilies grow on the banks of italy." they had not sailed a mile awa', never a mile but two, until she espied his cloven foot, from his gay robes sticking thro'. they had not sailed a mile awa', never a mile but three, when dark, dark, grew his eerie looks, and raging grew the sea. they had not sailed a mile awa', never a mile but four, when the little wee ship ran round about, and never was seen more! constantine and arete. see p. . we are indebted for the following recension of _constantine and areté_ to mr. sophocles of harvard college. it is constructed from fauriel's text, combined with a copy in zambelios's [grk: aismata dêmotika], and with a version taken down from the recitation of a cretan woman. the translation is by the skilful hand of professor felton. we may notice by the way that several versions of this piece are given by tommaseo, in his _canti popolari toscani_, etc. iii. . [grk: manna me tous ennia sou huious kai me tê mia sou korê, tên korê tê monakribê tên polyagapêmenê, tên eiches dôdeka chronôn k' hêlios den sou tên eide, 's ta skoteina tên êlouges, 's t' aphenga tên eplekes, 's t' astrê kai 's ton augerino to' ephkeianes ta sgoura tês. hê geitonia den êxere pôs eiches thygatera, kai proxenia sou pherane apo tê babylônê. hoi oktô aderphoi den theloune, kai ho kôstantinos thelei; "dos têne, manna, dos têne tên 'aretê 's ta xena, na 'chô k' egô parêgoria 's tê strata pou diabainô." "phrenimos eisai, kôstantê, m' aschêm' apilogêthês; an tychê pikra gê chara, poios tha mou têne pherê?" to theo tês banei engytê kai tous hagious martyrous, an tychê pikra gê chara na paê na tês tên pherê; kai san tên epantrepsane tên aretê 's ta xena, erchetai chronos disephtos kai hoi ennia pethanan. emeine hê manna monachê san kalamia 's ton kampo. 's ta ochtô mnêmata dernetai, 's ta ochtô myrologaei, 's tou kôstantinou to thaphtio anespa ta mallia tês; "sêkou, kôstantinakê mou, tên aretê mou thelô; to theo mou 'bales engytê kai tous hagious martyrous, an tychê pikra gê chara na pas na mou tên pherês." kai mesa 's ta mesanychta ap' to kibouri bgainei. kanei to sygnepho alogo, kai t' astro salibari, kai to phengari syntrophia kai paei na têne pherê. briskei tên kai chtenizountai oxou 's to phengaraki. apomakria tên chairetaei kai apomakria tês legei. "gia ela, aretoula mou, kyrana mas se thelei." "alimono, aderphaki mou, kai ti 'ne tout' hê hôra! an ên' chara 's to spiti mas, na balô ta chrysa mou, kai an pikra, aderphaki mou, na 'rthô hôs kathôs eimai." "mêde pikra mêde chara; ela hôs kathôs eisai." 's tê strata pou diabainane, 's tê strata pou pagainan, akoun poulia kai kiladoun, akoun poulia kai lene; "gia des kopela omorphê na sernê apethamenos!" "akouses, kôstantakê mou, ti lene ta poulakia?" "poulakia 'ne kai as kiladoun, poulakia 'ne kai as lene." kai parakei pou pagainan kai alla poulia tous legan; "ti blepoume ta thlibera ta paraponemena? na perpatoun hoi zôntanoi me tous apethamenous?" "akouses, kôstantakê mou, ti lene ta poulakia?" "poulakia 'ne kai as kiladoun, poulakia 'ne kai as lene." "phoboumai s' aderphaki mou, kai libanies myrizeis." "echtes bradys epêgame katô 's ton haïgiannê, k' ethymiase mas ho papas me to poly libani." kai parempros pou pêgane, kai alla poulia tous lene; "Ô the megalodyname, megalo thama kaneis! tetoia panôrêa lygerê na sernê apethamenos!" t' akouse pale hê aretê k' erragis' hê kardia tês; "akouses, kôstantakê mou, ti lene ta poulakia? pes mou pou 'n' ta mallakia sou, to pêgouro moustaki?" "megalê arrôstia m' heurêke, m' errêxe tou thanatou." briskoun to spiti kleidôto kleidomantalômeno, kai ta spitoparathyra pou 'tan arachniasmena; "anoixe, manna m', anoixe, kai na tên aretê sou." "an êsai charos, diabaine, kai alla paidia den echô; hê dolêa aretoula mou leipei makria 's ta xena." "anoixe, manna m', anoixe, k' egô' mai ho kôstantês sou. to thio sou 'bala engytê kai tous agious martyrous, an tychê pikra gê chara na paô na sou tên pherô." kai hôste na 'bgê 's tên porta tês, ebgêke hê psychê tês.] constantine and arete. o mother, thou with thy nine sons, and with one only daughter, thine only daughter, well beloved, the dearest of thy children, for twelve years thou didst keep the maid, the sun did not behold her, whom in the darkness thou didst bathe, in secret braid her tresses, and by the starlight and the dawn, didst wind her curling ringlets, nor knew the neighborhood that thou didst have so fair a daughter,-- when came to thee from babylon a woer's soft entreaty: eight of the brothers yielded not, but constantine consented. "o mother give thine arete, bestow her on the stranger, that i may have her solace dear when far away i wander." "though thou art wise, my constantine, thou hast unwisely spoken: be woe my lot or be it joy, who will restore my daughter?" he calls to witness god above, he calls the holy martyrs, be woe her lot, or be it joy, he would restore her daughter: and when they wedded arete, in that far distant country, then comes the year of sorrowing, and all the nine did perish. all lonely was the mother left, like a reed alone in the meadow; o'er the eight graves she beats her breast, o'er eight is heard her wailing, and at the tomb of constantine, she rends her hair in anguish. "arise, my constantine, arise, for arete i languish: on god to witness thou didst call, didst call the holy martyrs, be woe my lot or be it joy, thou wouldst restore my daughter." and forth at midnight hour he fares, the silent tomb deserting, he makes the cloud his flying steed, he makes the star his bridle, and by the silver moon convoyed, to bring her home he journeys: and finds her combing down her locks, abroad by silvery moonlight, and greets the maiden from afar, and from afar bespeaks her. "arise, my aretula dear, for thee our mother longeth." "alas! my brother, what is this? what wouldst at such an hour? if joy betide our distant home, i wear my golden raiment, if woe betide, dear brother mine, i go as now i'm standing." "think not of joy, think not of woe--return as here thou standest." and while they journey on the way, all on the way returning, they hear the birds, and what they sing, and what the birds are saying. "ho! see the maiden all so fair, a ghost it is that bears her." "didst hear the birds, my constantine, didst list to what they're saying?" "yes: they are birds, and let them sing, they're birds, and let them chatter:" and yonder, as they journey on, still other birds salute them. "what do we see, unhappy ones, ah! woe is fallen on us;-- lo! there the living sweep along, and with the dead they travel." "didst hear, my brother constantine, what yonder birds are saying?" "yes! birds are they, and let them sing, they're birds, and let them chatter." "i fear for thee, my brother dear, for thou dost breathe of incense." "last evening late we visited the church of saint johannes, and there the priest perfumed me o'er with clouds of fragrant incense." and onward as they hold their way, still other birds bespeak them: "o god, how wondrous is thy power, what miracles thou workest! a maid so gracious and so fair, a ghost it is that bears her:" 'twas heard again by arete, and now her heart was breaking; "didst hearken, brother constantine, to what the birds are saying? say where are now thy waving locks, thy strong thick beard, where is it?" "a sickness sore has me befallen, and brought me near to dying." they find the house all locked and barred, they find it barred and bolted, and all the windows of the house with cobwebs covered over. "unlock, o mother mine, unlock, thine arete thou seest." "if thou art charon, get thee gone--i have no other children: my hapless arete afar, in stranger lands is dwelling." "unlock, o mother mine, unlock, thy constantine entreats thee. i called to witness god above, i called the holy martyrs, were woe thy lot, or were it joy, i would restore thy daughter." and when unto the door she came, her soul from her departed. the hawthorn tree. ritson's _ancient songs_, ii. . _a mery ballet of the hathorne tre_, from a ms. in the cotton library, vespasian, a. xxv. the ms. has "g. peele" appended to it, but in a hand more modern than the ballad. mr. dyce, with very good reason, "doubts" whether peele is the author of the ballad, but has printed it, peele's _works_, ii. . it is given also by evans, i. , and partly in chappell's _popular music_, i. . the true character of this piece would never be suspected by one reading it in english. the same is true of the german, where the ballad is very common, and much prettier than in english, e.g. _das mädchen und die hasel_, _das mädchen und der sagebaum_, erk's _liederhort_, no. , five copies; hoffmann, _schlesische volkslieder_, no. , three copies, etc. in danish and swedish we find a circumstantial story: _jomfruen i linden_, grundtvig, no. ; _linden, svenska folkvisor_, no. . the tree is an enchanted damsel, one of eleven children transformed by a step-mother into various less troublesome things, and the spell can be removed only by a kiss from the king's son. by the intervention of the maiden, this rite is performed, and the beautiful linden is changed to as beautiful a young woman, who of course becomes the prince's bride. a wendish ballad resembling the german is given by haupt and schmaler, and ballads akin to the danish, are found in slovensk and lithuanian (see grundtvig). it was a maide of my countrè, as she came by a hathorne-tre, as full of flowers as might be seen, 'she' merveld to se the tree so grene. at last she asked of this tre, "howe came this freshness unto the, and every branche so faire and cleane? i mervaile that you growe so grene." the tre 'made' answere by and by: "i have good causse to growe triumphantly; the swetest dewe that ever be sene doth fall on me to kepe me grene." "yea," quoth the maid, "but where you growe, you stande at hande for every blowe; of every man for to be seen; i mervaile that you growe so grene." "though many one take flowers from me, and manye a branche out of my tre, i have suche store they wyll not be sene, for more and more my 'twegges'[l ] growe grene." "but howe and they chaunce to cut the downe, and carry thie braunches into the towne? then will they never no more be sene to growe againe so freshe and grene." "though that you do, yt ys no boote; althoughe they cut me to the roote, next yere againe i will be sene to bude my branches freshe and grene. "and you, faire maide, canne not do so; for yf you let youre maid-hode goe, then will yt never no more be sene, as i with my braunches can growe grene." the maide wyth that beganne to blushe, and turned her from the hathorne-bushe; she though[t]e herselffe so faire and clene, her bewtie styll would ever growe grene. whan that she harde this marvelous dowbte, she wandered styll then all aboute, suspecting still what she would wene, her maid-heade lost would never be seen. wyth many a sighe, she went her waye, to se howe she made herselff so gay, to walke, to se, and to be sene, and so out-faced the hathorne grene. besides all that, yt put her in feare to talke with companye anye where, for feare to losse the thinge that shuld be sene to growe as were the hathorne grene. but after this never could i here of this faire mayden any where, that ever she was in forest sene to talke againe of the hathorne grene. . twedges. st. stephen and herod. ritson's _ancient songs_, i. , sandys's _christmas carols_, p. : from the sloane ms., no. (temp. hen. vi.) this curious little ballad was sung as a carol for st. stephen's day. its counterpart is found in danish (though not in an ancient form), printed in erik pontoppidan's book on the relics of heathenism and papistry in denmark, (_jesusbarnet, stefan, og herodes_ grundtvig, no. ). there is also a similar ballad in faroish. only a slight trace of the story is now left in the swedish _staffans visa_ (_svenska f.v._, no. ), which is sung as a carol on st. stephen's day, as may very well have been the case with the danish and faroish ballads too. the miracle of the roasted cock occurs in many other legends. the earliest mention of it is in vincent of beauvais's _speculum historiale_, l. xxv. c. . it is commonly ascribed to st. james, sometimes to the virgin. (see the preface to the ballad in grundtvig, and to southey's _pilgrim to compostella_.) we meet with it in another english carol called _the carnal[e] and the crane_, printed in sandys's collection, p. , from a broadside copy, corrupt and almost unintelligible in places. the stanzas which contain the miracle are the following: there was a star in the west land, so bright it did appear into king herod's chamber, and where king herod were. the wise men soon espied it, and told the king on high, a princely babe was born that night no king could e'er destroy. "if this be true," king herod said, "as thou tellest unto me, this roasted cock that lies in the dish shall crow full fences[f] three." the cock soon freshly feather'd was, by the work of god's own hand, and then three fences crowed he, in the dish where he did stand. "rise up, rise up, you merry men all, see that you ready be; all children under two years old now slain they all shall be." [e] crow? [f] rounds? * * * * * seynt stevene was a clerk in kyng herowdes halle, and servyd him of bred and cloth, as ever kyng befalle.[l ] stevyn out of kechon cam, wyth boris hed on honde; he saw a sterr was fayr and bryght over bedlem stonde. he kyst[l ] adoun the bores hed, and went into the halle: "i forsake the, kyng herowdes, and thi werkes alle. "i forsak the, kyng herowdes, and thi werkes alle: ther is a chyld in bedlem born is beter than we alle." "quhat eylyt[l ] the, stevene? quhat is the befalle? lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in kyng herowdes halle?" "lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in kyng herowdes halle: ther is a chyld in bedlem born is beter than we alle." "quhat eylyt the, stevyn? art thu wod, or thu gynnyst to brede?[l ] lakkyt the eythar gold or fe, or ony ryche wede?"[l ] "lakyt 'me' neyther gold ne fe, ne non ryche wede;[l ] ther is a chyld in bedlem born xal[l ] helpen us at our nede." "that is al so soth, stevyn, al so soth, i-wys,[l ] as this capon crowe xal that lyth her in myn dysh." that word was not so sone seyd, that word in that halle, the capon crew, christus natus est! among the lordes alle. "rysyt up, myn turmentowres, be to[l ] and al be on, and ledyt stevyn out of this town, and stonyt hym wyth ston." tokyn he[l ] stevene, and stonyd hym in the way; and therefor is his evyn on crystes owyn day. . befalle, _befell_. . kyst, _cast_. . eylyt, _aileth_. . wod, _mad_: gynnyst to brede, _beginnest to entertain capricious fancies_, like a woman, &c. . fe, _wages_: wede, _clothes_. . ne, _nor_. . xall, _shall_. . soth, _true_: i-wys, _for a certainty_. . be to, _by two_. . he, _they_. glossary. n.b. figures placed after words denote the pages in which they occur. a, _one_. a', _all_. abee, abene, _be_. aboon, abune, _above_. aby, _pay for_. ae, _only, sole_. ae, _aye, still_, ahin, _behind_. airn, _iron_. ald, _old_. all and some, _each and all_. als, _as_. als, _also_. ance, anes, _once_. appone, _upon_. araye, _order_. arblast-bow, _cross-bow_. are, _before_. arena, _are not_. arighte, _laid hold of_. armorie, , _band of armed men_. asey, _assay_. ask, _newt, a kind of lizard_. askryede, _described_. asurd, _azured, blue_. at, , _of_. atteynt, _seize_. aught, _owed_. avanse, _gain, succeed_. avow, _vow_. awa, _away_. awenn, _own_. ay, _a_. ayont, _beyond_. ba', _ball_. backefysyke, . bade, _prayed for_. bade, _abode, staid_. bairnly, _childlike_. bald, _bold_. bale, _blaze, fire_. bale, _harme, ruin, sorrow_. ban', _bound_. bane, _bone_. bankers, , _coverings for benches_. bann, _curse_. barn, _child, wight_. beck, _stream_. bedone, , _bedecked_. begane, _bedecked_. begynne the bord, _sit at the head of the table_. ben, _in_. ben, _prompt, ready_. bent, _plain, field_, (from the coarse grass growing on open lands); bentis, bents, _coarse grass_. beryde, , _cried, made a noise_. bese, _will_ or _shall be_. best man, bride's, , _bridesman_, (corresponding to the best maid, or bridesmaid). bestedde, _circumstanced_. bi, _be_. bierly, , _proper, becoming, comfortable_. bigg, _build_. bilive, _quickly_. billy blind, or billy blin, _a brownie, or domestic fairy_. binkes, _benches_. bird, _lady_. birk, _birch_. birled, , _poured out drink_, or _drunk_. blae, _livid_. blee, _color, complexion_. blewe, , _sounded a horn_. blin, blyn, _stop, cease_. bogle, _spectre, goblin_. bone, _boon_. boome, . qy. goome, _man_? bord, _table_. borrow, _stand surety for, ransom, rescue_. bouir, _chamber, dwelling_. boun, _boon_. boun, _ready_; make ye boun, , boun, , _go straightway_. bourdes, _jests_. boure, bower, _chamber_. bouted, _bolted_. bown, _ready, ready to go_. bowrd, _jest_. brade, _broad_. brae, _hill-side_. brast, _burst_. brayd, _started, turned_. braw, _brave, fine_. bree, _brow_. brening, _burning_. brent, _burnt_. brether, , _brethren_. bricht, _bright_. brimes, _water_. britled, , brittened, , _cut up, carved_. brok, _brook_. broom-cow, _bush of broom_. brook, _enjoy, preserve_. brues, _brows_. brunt, _burnt_. bryste, _burst_. bue, , , _fair_? bugyle, _horn_. bunge, ? buntin, buntlin, _blackbird_; al. _wood-lark_. burd, _maid, lady_. burd-alane, _alone_. burlow-beanie, , _name of a fiend or spirit_. burn, _brook_. busk, _dress, make ready_. but, , _and_; but and, _and also_. by and by, _straightway_. bydeene, , _continuously, in numbers_. byggis, _builds_. bygone, _bedecked_. byhouys, _behoves_. byleve, , _remain_. byrde, _lady_. byre, _cow-house_. byrnande, _burning_. byteche, _commit_. ca', _call_. can, (sometimes gan,) _used as an auxiliary with an infinitive mood, to express the past tense of a verb_. carknet, _necklace_. carline, _female of churl_, _old woman_. carlist, , _churlish_. carp, _talk_, _tell stories_. cast, _planned_. chalmer, _chamber_. channerin', _fretting_. chere, _countenance_. chese, _choose_. chess, _jess_, _strap_. chewys, _choosest_. chiel, _child_, _young man_. christendame, christendoun, _christening_. christentye, _christendom_. claes, _clothes_. clapping, _fondling_. clear, clere, _fair_, _morally pure_. cockward, _cuckold_. coft, _bought_. coiffer, , _coif_, _head-dress_, _cap?_ cold, _could, knew_; _used as an auxiliary with the infinitive to express a past tense_; e.g. he cold fling, _he flung_. coleyne, collen, _cologne steel_. com'nye, , _communing_, _discourse_. compass, _circle_, compenabull, , _sociable_, _admitting to participation_. coost, coosten, _cast_. couth, _could_, _knew_, _understood_. covent, _convent_. cow-me-doo, , like curdoo, _name for a dove_, from its cooing. craftelike, _craftily_. crapoté, . qy. cramasee, _crimson?_ cropoure, _crupper_. crowt, , _curl up_. crystiante, _christendom_. cure, , _till_. dag-durk, _dagger_, _dirk_. damasee, _damson_. dang, _beat_, _struck_. dasse, _dais_, _raised platform_. daunton, _daunt_. decay, _destruction_. dee, _die_. dee, _do_. deid, _death_. dele, dell, _part_. delle, , _dally_. dere, _harm_. derne, _secret_. des, dese, _dais_, _elevated platform_. devyse, _direction_. deynteous, _dainty_. dight, , _placed_, _involved_. dight (corn), _winnow_. dinne, , _trouble_, _circumstance_. distans, , _dissension_, _strife_. done, _do_. doo, _dove_. doubt, dout, _fear_. dought, _could_, _might_; , _may_, _am able_. dow, _could_. dowie, _mournful_, _doleful_. dree, _suffer_. drest, _arranged_. drumlie, _troubled_, _gloomy_. dryssynge, _dressing_. dule, _sorrow_, _trouble_. dullfull, _doleful_. dyght, dygzht, _adorned_, _arrayed_, _dressed_. ear, _soon_, _early_. eerie, eiry, _fearful_, _producing superstitious dread_. eghne, _eyes_. eglis, _eagle's_. elde, eldren, _old_. elfin, , _elf-land_. elritch, _elvish_. endres-daye, , _past day_? _other day_? see halliwell's _dictionary_. "of my fortune, how it ferde, this _endir_ day, as y forth ferde." erdelik, , _earthly_. (finlay, "clidelik.") erlish, _elvish_. esk, _newt_. etin (danish jette), _giant_. even cloth, , _fine cloth_? everlk, _every_. everychon, _every one_. faem, _foam_. faine, _desire_. faine, _glad_. fairest, _forest_. fand, _found_. fare, _go_. farer, _further_. fawte, _want_. fayrse, _fierce_. feat, _neat_, _dexterous_, _nimble_. fee, , _animals_, _deer_; , _rent_, _tribute_. feed, _same as_ food, fud, _creature_, _man_, _woman_, or _child_. feires, _companions_, _mates_. fele, _many_. fell, _hill_, _moor_. ferli, , _fairly?_ ferlie, ferly, _wonder_. ferlich, _wondrous_. fernie, _covered with fern_. fet, fette, _fetched_. fethill, _fiddle_. fforthi, _therefore_. fifthen, _fifth_. fil, _fell_. first ane, _first_. firth, (frith,) _wood_. fize, , _five_. flang, _flung_. flaugh, _flew_. flaw, , _lie_. fleer, _floor_. fley'd, _frightened_. flone, _arrow_. fode, _creature_, _child_. fond, _try_, _make trial_. fonde, _found_. forbye, _aside_. fordoo, _destroy_. foremost man, , (like best man), _bridesman_. forowttyn, _without_. forteynd, _happened_. forther, _further_. forthi, _therefore_. fowles, _birds_. fraine, _question_. free, , _lord_, , _lady_. free, freely, _noble_, _lovely_. frem, _strange_. freyry, _fraternity_. frowte, _fruit_. fu', _full_. fundyd, , _went_. fytt, _canto_, _division of a song_. gad, _bar_. gae, _gave_. gae, _go_, _going_. gait, nae, _no way_, _no where_. galid, , _sang?_ gangande, _going_. gar, _make_, _cause_. gare, , _strip_. garthes, _girths_. gate, , _way_. gesing, , _guessing_; or, _desire_, a. sax. gitsung? getterne, _giitern_, _kind of harp_. ghesting, _lodging_, _hospitable reception_. gied, _went_. gien, _given_. gin, giue, _if_. gleed, _a burning coal_. glided, . qy. _gilded?_ glint, _gleam_. gon, _begun_, _performed_. gon, _went_. goud, _gold_. goupen, _the hollow of the hand contracted to receive anything_. gowan, _flower_. gowd, _gold_. gowden, _golden_. gown of green, got on the, , _was with child_. gravil, ? gree, _favor_, _prize_. green'd, _longed_. greet, _weep_. grew, _gray_. groom, _man_, _young man_. gule, _red_. gurlie, _stormy_, _surly_. gyne, _device_. ha', _hall_. had, _hold_, _keep_. hailsed, _saluted_. halch, _salute_, _embrace_. hallow, _hollow_. hallowe'en, , _the eve of all-saints' day_, supposed to be peculiarly favorable for intercourse with the invisible world, all fairies, witches, and ghosts being then abroad. hals, halse, _neck_; halsed, _greeted_. haly, _holy_. hame, _home_. hap, _cover_. harde, _heard_. harns, _brains_; harn-pan, _skull_. hate, _hat_. hat, _hit_. hand, _hold_. haved, _had_. heal, _conceal_. heathennest, heathynesse, , _heathendom_. hegehen, _eyes_. hegh, _high_; heghere, _higher_. hem, _them_. hende, _handsome_, _gentle_. hent, _took_. herbere, _arbor_, _orchard_. herme, _harm_. hethyn, , _hence_. hett, _bid_. heved, _head_. hi, , _i_. high-coll'd, _high-cut_. hind, _gentle_. hind, , _stripling_. him lane, _alone_. hingers, _hangings_. hirn, _corner_. hith, _hight, is called_. hollen, _holly_. hore, _hoar_, _hoary_. hose, , _clasp_. howkit, _dug_. howm, _holm_; _level, low ground on the bank of a stream_. hunt's-ha', _hunting-lodge_. hye, in, _in haste_; , perhaps _aloud_. hyghte, _bid_; _was called_. hynde, _youth_, _stripling_, _swain_. hy[z]e, in, , _in haste_, _of a sudden_. ic, _i_. iknow, _known_. ilka, _each_. ilke, _same_. inow[z]e, _enough_. intill, _into_, _upon_. iralle, . qu. rialle, _royal?_ jawes, , _dashes_; jawp'd, , _dashed_, _spattered_. jelly, _jolly_, _pleasant_. jimp, _slender_, _neat_. jolly, _pretty_, _gay_. kaim, _comb_. kane, _rent_. karp, _talk_, _relate stories_. kemb, _comb_. ken, _know_. keppit, _caught_, _kept_. kevels, _lots_. kiest, _cast_. kilted, _tucked_. kin', _kind of_. kindly, , "_good old_"? kirk, _church_. kist, _chest_. knave-bairn, _male child_. knicht, _knight_. laidley, _loathly_, _loathsome_. laigh-coll'd, _low-cut_. laith, _loath_. lane, _alone_; joined with pronouns, as, my lane, his lane, her lane, their lane, _myself alone_, &c. lang, _to think_, originally, _to seem long_, then _to be weary_, _feel ennui_. lapande, _lapping_. lappered, _coagulated_, _clotted_. lat, latten, _let_. lauchters, _locks_. laverock, _lark_. leal, _loyal_, _chaste_. leccam, _body_. lede, _lead_. lee, _lie_. leesome, _pleasant_, _sweet_. lelfe, , _leave?_ lere, _lore_, _doctrine_; _learn_. les, lesyng, _lying_, _lie_. lesse and more, _smaller and greater_. lett, lette, _hinder_, _hinderance_; _delay_; withouten lette, _for a certainty_. leuedys, _ladies_. leuer, _liefer_, _rather_. leu[z]e, _laughed_. leven, , _lawn_. levin, _lightning_. ley-land, _lea-land_, _not ploughed_. licht, _light_. lichted, _lighted_. lift, _air_. likes, _dead bodies_. lingcam, , _body_, =leccam? linger, _longer_. link, _walk briskly_; _arm in arm_. lire, _face_, _countenance_. lith, , _supple_, _limber_. lithe, _listen_. lodlye, _loathly_. loffe, _love_. loof, _hollow of the hand_. loot, _bow_. loot, _let_. loun, _loon_. louted, _bowed_. lown, _lone_. low[z]he, _laughed_, _smiled_. luifsomely, _lovingly_. luppen, _leapt_. lygge, _lay_ lyggande, _lying_. lyle, _little_. lystnys, _listen_. lyth, _member_, _limb_. mae, _more_. maen, _moan_. maik, _mate_. makane, _making_. mane, _moan_. mansworn, _perjured_. marrow, _mate_. maste, _most_, _greatest_. maun, _must_. maunna, _may not_. mawys, mavis, _singing thrush_. may, _maid_. medill-erthe, _earth_, _the upper-world_. mekill, _great_, _large_. mell, _mallet_. meloude, _melody_. mensked, , _honored_. menyde, _moaned_. merks, _marks_. merk-soot, , _mark-shot_, _distance between bow-marks_.--finlay. merrys, _marrest_. mese, _mess_, _meal_. micht, _might_. middle-eard, the _upper world_, placed between the nether regions and the sky. minded, _remembered_. minion, _fine_, _elegant_. mirk, _dark_. mith, _might_. mode, _passion_, _energy_. mody, _courageous_. mold, mould, _earth_, _ground_. montenans, _amount_. more, _greater_. most, _greatest_. moth, _might_. mother-naked, _naked as at one's birth_. mouthe, _might_. mungo, st., _st. kentigern_. my lane, _alone_. mykel, _much_. na, _not_; namena, _name not_, _&c._ nay, _denial_. neist, _next_. newfangle, , (_trifling_, _inconstant_), _light_, _loose_. niest, _next_, _nearest_, _close_. noth, nouth, _not_. nouther, noyther, _neither_. on, _in_. on ane, _anon_. one, _on_, _in_. onie, _any_. or, _ere_, _before_. orfaré, , _embroidery_. oryence, _orient_. oure, _over_. over one, , _in a company_, _together?_ see jamieson's _scottish dictionary_, in v. ouer ane. owre, _over_, _too_. owreturn, _refrain_. pae, _peacock_. paines, _penance_. pall, _rich cloth_. palmer, _pilgrim_. papeioyes, _popinjays_. parde, _par dieu_. pautit, _paw_, _beat with the foot_. pay, , _pleasure_, _satisfaction_. paye, , _content_. payetrelle, , (otherwise, patrel, poitrail, pectorale, &c.) _a steel plate for the protection of a horse's chest_. payrelde, _apparelled_. perdé, _par dieu_. perelle, _pearl_. pile, , _down_, sometimes _tender leaves_. plas, , _place_, _palace_. ply[z]t, _plight_, _promise_. poterner, , _pouch_, _purse_. _rightly corrected by percy from_ poterver. _see_ pautonnière, pontonaria, _and_ pantonarius, _in henschel's ed. of ducange_. pou, _pull_. prest, _priest_. prieve, _prove_. prink'd, prinn'd, _adorned_, _drest up_, _made neat_. pristly, _earnestly_. propine, _gift_. raches, _scenting hounds_. radde, _quick_, _quickly_. rair, _roar_. rashing, _striking like a boar_. rathely, _quickly_. raught, _reached_. rauine, _beasts of chase_, _prey_. redd, , _explained_. rede, _counsel_. reekit, , _steamed_. reele bone, , _an unknown material, of which saddles, especially, are in the romances said to be made_; _called variously_, rewel-bone, (_cant. tales_, , ,) rowel-bone, reuylle-bone, _and_ (_young bekie_, vol. iv. ) royal-bone. reet, _root_. reme, _kingdom_. renninge, _running_. repreve, _reprove_, _deride_. rewe, _take pity_. ridand, _riding_. rived, , (_arrived_,) _travelled_. rought, route, rowte, _rout_, _band_, _company_. routh, _plenty_. row, _roll_, _wrap_. rown-tree, _mountain-ash_. rudd, _complexion_. rybybe, _kind of fiddle_. ryn, _run_. rysse, _rise_. safe-guard, _a riding-skirt_. saghe, _saw_. saikless, _guiltless_. sained, _crossed_, _consecrated_. sall, _shall_. same, , _some_, _each_. sark, _shirt_. sathe, _sooth_, _truth_. saw, _saying_, _tale_. sawtrye, _psaltery_. scathe, _damage_. schane, _shone_. scho, _she_. schone, _shoes_. scort, _short_. sculd, _should_. seannachy, _genealogist, bard, or story-teller_. seck, _sack_. sekirlye, _truly_. selle, _saddle_. senne, _since_. sere, _sore_. seres, _sires_, _sirs_. sey, , v. , _saw_. share, , _slip_, _strip_. shathmont, , [a. sax. scæftmund,] _a measure from the top of the extended thumb to the utmost part of the palm, six inches_. shee, , _shoe_. sheede, _spill_. sheeld-bones, _blade-bones_, _shoulder-blades_. sheen, _bright_. sheen, _shoes_. sheep's-silver, _mica_. shent, _injured_, _abused_; , _shamed_. sheugh, _furrow_, _ditch_. sic, _such_. sichin', _sighing_. sicken, _such_. skaith, _harm_. skaith, [qy. skail?] , _save_, _keep innocent of_. skill, but a, , _only reasonable?_ skinked, _poured out_. sky sett in, , for _sunset_ or _evening_. skyll, _reason_, _manner_, _matter_. slae, _sloe_. slawe, _slain_. slichting, _slighting_. smert, _quickly_. snell, _quick_, _keen_. solace, solas, _recreation_, _sport_. sooth, soth, _truth_; sothely, _truly_. soth, , _sweet_. soun, _sound_. speed, , _fare_. spier, _ask_. spylle, _destroy_. stappin', , _stopping_. stark, _strong_. start, _started_. stefly, _thickly_. stered, _guided_. stern light, , _light of stars_. stiffe, , _strong_, _stout_. stinted, _stopped_. store, _big_, _strong_. stown, _stolen_. stowre, _strong_, _brave_. straiked, _stroaked_. strak, _struck_. stratlins, , _straddlings?_ streek, _stretch_. sture, , _big_, _strong_. stythe, _stead_, _place_. suire, _neck_. suld, _should_. swick, _blame_. swilled, , _shook, as in rinsing_. swoghyne, , _soughing_. swylke, _such_. syde, _long_. syen, _since_. syke, _rivulet_, _marshy bottom_. sykerly, sykerlyke, _certainly_, _truly_. syne, _then_. syth, _times_. sythen, _since_. tabull dormounte, , _standing table_, _the fixed table at the end of the hall_. (?) tae, _toe_. taiken, _token_. tee, _to_. teind, _tithe_. tene, _grief_, _sorrow_, _loss_, _harm_. tente, _attention_, _heed_; takis gude tente, _give good attention to_. tett, , _lock_ [_of hair._] thae, _those_. than, _then_ thar, _where_. thar, , _it needs_. then, _than_. think lang, _to be weary_, _impatient_. thir, _these_, _those_. tho, _then_. thoghte, _seemed_. thoth, thouch, thouth, _though_. thought lang, _seemed long_; _grew weary_, _felt ennui_. thouth, , _seemed_. throw, _short time_, _while_. thrubchandler, ? tide, _time_. till, _to_. tirled at the pin, _trilled, or rattled, at the door-pin, or latch, to obtain admission_. tither, _the other_. tod, _fox_. toute, . see chaucer. touting, _tooting_. travayle, _labor_. traye, , _suffering_. [dree?] tree, _wood_, _staff_. trew, _trow_. tryst, _appointment_, _assignation_. twal, _twelve_. twan, _twined_. twine, _part_, _deprive of_. tyde, _time_. tyte, _promptly_, _quick_. unco, _strangely_, _very_. vanes, _flags_. venerye, _hunting_. vent, _went_. verament, _truly_. villanye, vilony, _disgrace_. vntill, _unto_. vones, (wones,) _dwellest_. vytouten, _without_. wa', _wall_. wace, _wax_. wad, _pledge_. wad, , _waded_. wadded, , _woad-colored_, _blue_. wadna, _would not_. wae, waefu', waesome, _sorrowful_, _sad_. waif, _straying_. wald, _would_. walker, , _fuller_. wall-wight men, , _picked_ (waled) _strong men_, _warriors_: see vol. vi., p. , v. . wan afore, , _came before_. wane, _dwelling_. war, _where_. ware of, to be, _to perceive_. warld's maike, , _companion for life_. warluck, _a wizard_, _a man in league with the devil_. warsled, _wrestled_, _struggled_. warwolf, _werwolf_, _manwolf_. wat, _wet_. waught, _draught_. wauking, _walking_. waylawaye, _alas_. wee, _little_. weiest, , [jamieson,] _saddest_, _darkest_. weird, _fate_. weird, _destine_. wend, _weened_. wer, were, _war_. wern, _refuse_. werre, _worse_. werryed, _worried_. wesch, _wash_. wete, weten, _knowing_. whareto, _wherefore_. wharfrae, _whence_. whereas, _where_. wi, _with_. wicht, _strong_, _nimble_, wide, , _wade_. widershins, _the contrary way_, _the way contrary to the course of the sun_. wide-whare, _widely_, _far and near_. wierd, _fate_. wight, _strong_, _active_, _nimble_. wilder'd, _carried astray_. win, _go to_, _attain_; win up, _get up_. win, _rescue_. wind blows in your glove, ? winna, _will not_. wistna, _knew not_. wit, _know_, _knowledge_. wittering, _information_. witti, _intelligible_. wodewale, _woodpecker_. woe, _sad_. won, _dwell_. wonige, , [adj. qy. woning?] _dwelling_. wood, _mad_. worth, , _become_, _be the result_. worthy, i were, , _it would become me_. wow, _exclamation of astonishment or grief_. wpe, _up_. wrebbe, ; _wrebbe and wrye_, _turn and twist_? wrought, , for raught, _reached_. wrucked up, , _thrown up_. wrye, , _wrebbe and wrye_, _turn and twist_? wud, _wood_. wull, , _wandering in ignorance of one's course_, _lost in error_, _bewildered_. wylos, _willow_. wyndouten, _without_. wyne-berye, _grape_. wysse, _wise_. wyt, _with_. wyte, , _blame_. wyth, , _wight_, _agile_. wytouten, _without_. yard, _staff_. yat, _that_. yate, _gate_. y-born, _born_. y-doon, _done_. ychon, _each one_. yeen, , _against_, _towards_. ye'se, _ye shall_, _will_. yestreen, _yesterday_. yett, _gate_ ylk, _each_. yod, _went_. yone, _yon_. yyng, _young_. zede, _went_. zonge, _young_. &c. [z]e, _ye_. [z]ede, _went_. [z]it, _yet_. &c. * * * * * transcriber's notes archaic, unusual and inconsistent spelling or punctuation has generally been retained as in the original. where changes have been made to the text these are listed below: page (line ) added missing close quotation mark: nor keepe me lingering here in paine." page (lines , ) moved close quotation mark: "pray, sir, did you not send for me, by such a messenger?" said she: page (line ) deleted extraneous open quotation mark: "go in," said he, "and go to bed; i'll see the horse well littered." page : added missing open quotation mark ("go on yet a little farther," said the hen-wife, "till thou come to a round green hill ...") page (line ) added missing single quotation mark: "'and sit thou down; and wae, o wae that ever thou was born; page (lines , ) added missing open quotation mark: "our king's dochter, she gaes wi' bairn, and we'll get a' the wyte." page (line ) added missing closing single quotation mark: the queen o' elfin she'll cry out, 'true tam-a-line's awa'.' page added missing closing quotation mark for him that mensked man wyt mith, wat sal worth of this were?" &c. page : the line numbering in lord dingwall is in error, but has been retained as per the original. page (line ) added missing open quotation mark: "o tak me out," may marg'ret cried, "o tak me hame to thee; [illustration] percy's reliques. [illustration] reliques of ancient english poetry consisting of old heroic ballads, songs and other pieces of our earlier poets together with some few of later date by thomas percy, d.d. bishop of dromore edited, with a general introduction, additional prefaces, notes, glossary, etc. by henry b. wheatley, f.s.a. in three volumes vol. iii london: george allen & unwin ltd. ruskin house museum street, w.c. first published by swan sonnenschein _april_ reprinted _august_ " _august_ " _december_ " _january_ printed by the riverside press limited, edinburgh great britain [illustration] contents of volume the third book the first. (_poems on king arthur, &c._) page . the boy and the mantle . the marriage of sir gawaine . king ryence's challenge . king arthur's death. a fragment copy from the folio ms. . the legend of king arthur . a dyttie to hey downe . glasgerion . old robin of portingale . child waters . phillida and corydon. by nicholas breton . little musgrave and lady barnard . the ew-bughts, marion. a scottish song . the knight, and shepherd's daughter . the shepherd's address to his muse. by n breton . lord thomas and fair ellinor . cupid and campaspe. by john lilye . the lady turned serving-man . gil [child] morrice. a scottish ballad copy from the folio ms. book the second. . the legend of sir guy . guy and amarant. by samuel rowlands . the auld good-man. a scottish song . fair margaret and sweet william . barbara allen's cruelty . sweet william's ghost. a scottish ballad . sir john grehme and barbara allen. a scottish ballad . the bailiff's daughter of islington . the willow tree. a pastoral dialogue . the lady's fall . waly, waly, love be bonny. a scottish song . the bride's burial . dulcina . the lady isabella's tragedy . a hue and cry after cupid. by ben. jonson . the king of france's daughter . the sweet neglect. by ben. jonson . the children in the wood . a lover of late was i . the king and the miller of mansfield . the shepherd's resolution. by george wither . queen dido (or the wandering prince of troy) . the witches' song. by ben. jonson . robin good-fellow . the fairy queen . the fairies farewell. by bishop corbet book the third. . the birth of st. george . st. george and the dragon . love will find out the way . lord thomas and fair annet. a scottish ballad . unfading beauty. by thomas carew . george barnwell . the stedfast shepherd. by george wither . the spanish virgin, or effects of jealousy . jealousy tyrant of the mind. by dryden . constant penelope . to lucasta, on going to the wars. by col. lovelace. . valentine and ursine . the dragon of wantley . st. george for england. the first part . st. george for england. the second part. by john grubb . margaret's ghost. by david mallet . lucy and colin. by thomas tickel . the boy and the mantle, as revised and altered by a modern hand . the ancient fragment of the marriage of sir gawaine appendix. i. the wanton wife of bath ii. essay on the ancient metrical romances, &c. glossary index [illustration] [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the third. book i. [illustration] "an ordinary song or ballad, that is the delight of the common people, cannot fail to please all such readers, as are not unqualified for the entertainment by their affectation or their ignorance; and the reason is plain, because the same paintings of nature which recommend it to the most ordinary reader, will appear beautiful to the most refined."--addison, in _spectator_, no. . [illustration] poems on king arthur, etc. the third volume being chiefly devoted to romantic subjects, may not be improperly introduced with a few slight strictures on the old metrical romances: a subject the more worthy attention, as it seems not to have been known to such as have written on the nature and origin of books of chivalry, that the first compositions of this kind were in verse, and usually sung to the harp.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [see appendix.] i. the boy and the mantle is printed verbatim from the old ms. described in the preface.[ ] the editor believes it more ancient than it will appear to be at first sight; the transcriber of that manuscript having reduced the orthography and style in many instances to the standard of his own times. the incidents of the _mantle and the knife_ have not, that i can recollect, been borrowed from any other writer. the former of these evidently suggested to spenser his conceit of _florimel's girdle_, b. iv. c. , st. . "that girdle gave the virtue of chaste love and wivehood true to all that did it beare; but whosoever contrarie doth prove, might not the same about her middle weare, but it would loose or else asunder teare." so it happened to the false florimel, st. , when "being brought, about her middle small they thought to gird, as best it her became, but by no means they could it thereto frame, for ever as they fastned it, it loos'd and fell away, as feeling secret blame, &c. that all men wondred at the uncouth sight and each one thought as to their fancies came. but she herself did think it done for spight, and touched was with secret wrath and shame therewith, as thing deviz'd her to defame: then many other ladies likewise tride about their tender loynes to knit the same, but it would not on none of them abide, but when they thought it fast, eftsoones it was untide. thereat all knights gan laugh and ladies lowre, till that at last the gentle amoret likewise assayed to prove that girdle's powre. and having it about her middle set did find it fit withouten breach or let, whereat the rest gan greatly to envie. but florimel exceedingly did fret and snatching from her hand," &c. as for the trial of the _horne_, it is not peculiar to our poet: it occurs in the old romance, intitled _morte arthur_, which was translated out of french in the time of k. edw. iv., and first printed anno . from that romance ariosto is thought to have borrowed his tale of the _enchanted cup_, c. , &c. see mr. warton's _observations on the faerie queen_, &c. the story of the _horn_ in _morte arthur_ varies a good deal from this of our poet, as the reader will judge from the following extract:--"by the way they met with a knight that was sent from morgan la faye to king arthur, and this knight had a fair horne all garnished with gold, and the horne had such a virtue, that there might no ladye or gentlewoman drinke of that horne, but if she were true to her husband: and if shee were false she should spill all the drinke, and if shee were true unto her lorde, shee might drink peaceably: and because of queene guenever and in despite of sir launcelot du lake, this horne was sent unto king arthur." this horn is intercepted and brought unto another king named marke, who is not a whit more fortunate than the british hero, for he makes "his qeene drinke thereof and an hundred ladies moe, and there were but foure ladies of all those that drank cleane," of which number the said queen proves not to be one (book ii. chap. , ed. ). in other respects the two stories are so different, that we have just reason to suppose this ballad was written before that romance was translated into english. as for queen guenever, she is here represented no otherwise than in the old histories and romances. holinshed observes, that "she was evil reported of, as noted of incontinence and breach of faith to hir husband" (vol. i. p. ). such readers, as have no relish for pure antiquity, will find a more modern copy of this ballad at the end of the volume. * * * * * [for percy's further notes on this ballad see the modernized version (book iii. no. ). professor child prints the ballad in his _english and scottish ballads_ (vol. i. p. ) with a full notice of the various forms of the story by way of introduction. he writes:--"no incident is more common in romantic fiction than the employment of some magical contrivance as a test of conjugal fidelity, or of constancy in love. in some romances of the round table, and tales founded upon them, this experiment is performed by means either of an enchanted horn, of such properties that no dishonoured husband or unfaithful wife can drink from it without spilling, or of a mantle which will fit none but chaste women. the earliest known instances of the use of these ordeals are afforded by the _lai du corn_, by robert bikez, a french minstrel of the twelfth or thirteenth century, and the _fabliau du mantel_ _mautaillé_, which, in the opinion of a competent critic, dates from the second half of the thirteenth century, and is only the older lay worked up into a new shape (wolf, _ueber die lais_, , sq., , sq.). we are not to suppose, however, that either of these pieces presents us with the primitive form of this humorous invention. robert bikez tells us that he learned his story from an abbot, and that 'noble ecclesiast' stood but one further back in a line of tradition which curiosity will never follow to its source." here follows a list of "the most remarkable cases of the use of these and similar talismans in imaginative literature." to these may be added the garland described in the curious old story of the _wright's wife_, which has been printed since the publication of mr. child's work. "haue here thys garlond of roses ryche, in alle thys lond ys none yt lyche; for ytt wylle euer be newe. wete þou wele withowtyn fable, alle the whyle thy wyfe ys stable the chaplett wolle hold hewe; and yf thy wyfe vse putry, or tolle eny man to lye her by, than wolle yt change hewe; and by the garlond þou may see, fekylle or fals yf þat sche be, or ellys yf sche be trewe." _the wright's chaste wife_ (e. e. text soc. , . - ).] * * * * * in the third day of may, to carleile did come a kind curteous child, that cold[ ] much of wisdome. a kirtle and a mantle this child had uppon, with 'brouches' and ringes[ ] full richelye bedone.[ ] he had a sute of silke about his middle drawne; without he cold of curtesye he thought itt much shame. god speed thee, king arthur, sitting at thy meate: and the goodly queene guenéver, i cannott her forgett. i tell you, lords, in this hall; i hett[ ] you all to 'heede';[ ] except you be the more surer is you for to dread. he plucked out of his 'poterner,'[ ][ ] and longer wold not dwell, he pulled forth a pretty mantle, betweene two nut-shells. have thou here, king arthur; have thou heere of mee: give itt to thy comely queene shapen as itt is alreadye. itt shall never become that wiffe, that hath once done amisse. then every knight in the kings court began to care for 'his.'[ ] forth came dame guénever; to the mantle shee her 'hied';[ ] the ladye shee was newfangle, but yett shee was affrayd. when shee had taken the mantle; she stoode as shee had beene madd: it was from the top to the toe as sheeres had itt shread. one while was itt 'gule';[ ][ ] another while was itt greene; another while was itt wadded:[ ] ill itt did her beseeme. another while was it blacke and bore the worst hue: by my troth, quoth king arthur, i thinke thou be not true. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee;[ ] fast with a rudd[ ] redd, to her chamber can[ ] shee flee. she curst the weaver, and the walker,[ ] that clothe that had wrought; and bade a vengeance on his crowne, that hither hath itt brought. i had rather be in a wood, under a greene tree; then in king arthurs court shamed for to bee. kay called forth his ladye, and bade her come neere; saies, madam, and thou be guiltye, i pray thee hold thee there. forth came his ladye shortlye and anon; boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone. when she had tane the mantle, and cast it her about; then was shee bare 'before all the rout.'[ ] then every knight, that was in the kings court, talked, laughed, and showted[ ] full oft att that sport. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee; fast, with a red rudd, to her chamber can[ ] shee flee. forth came an old knight pattering ore a creede, and he proferred to this litle boy twenty markes to his meede; and all the time of the christmasse willinglye to ffeede; for why this mantle might doe his wiffe some need. when she had tane the mantle, of cloth that was made, shee had no more left on her, but a tassell and a threed: then every knight in the kings court bade evill might shee speed. shee threw downe the mantle, that bright was of blee; and fast, with a redd rudd, to her chamber can[ ] shee flee. craddocke called forth his ladye, and bade her come in; saith, winne this mantle, ladye, with a litle dinne. winne this mantle, ladye, and it shal be thine, if thou never did amisse since thou wast mine. forth came craddockes ladye shortlye and anon; but boldlye to the mantle then is shee gone. when shee had tane the mantle, and cast itt her about, upp att her great toe it began to crinkle and crowt:[ ] shee said, bowe downe, mantle, and shame me not for nought. once i did amisse, i tell you certainlye, when i kist craddockes mouth under a greene tree; when i kist craddockes mouth before he marryed mee. when shee had her shreeven, and her sines shee had tolde; the mantle stoode about her right as shee wold: seemelye of coulour glittering like gold: then every knight in arthurs court did her behold. then spake dame guénever to arthur our king; she hath tane yonder mantle not with right, but with wronge.[ ] see you not yonder woman, that maketh her self soe 'cleane'?[ ] i have seene tane out of her bedd of men fiveteene; priests, clarkes, and wedded men from her bedeene:[ ][ ] yett shee taketh the mantle, and maketh her self cleane. then spake the litle boy, that kept the mantle in hold; sayes, king, chasten thy wiffe, of her words shee is to bold: shee is a bitch and a witch, and a whore bold: king, in thine owne hall thou art a cuckold. the litle boy stoode[ ] looking out a dore;[ ] [and there as he was lookinge he was ware of a wyld bore.] he was ware of a wyld bore,[ ] wold have werryed a man:[ ] he pulld forth a wood kniffe, fast thither that he ran: he brought in the bores head, and quitted him like a man. he brought in the bores head, and was wonderous bold: he said there was never a cuckolds kniffe carve itt that cold. some rubbed their knives uppon a whetstone: some threw them under the table, and said they had none. king arthur, and the child stood looking upon them; all their knives edges turned backe againe.[ ] craddocke had a litle knive of iron and of steele; he britled[ ] the bores head[ ] wonderous weele; that every knight in the kings court had a morssell. the litle boy had a horne, of red gold that ronge: he said, there was noe cuckolde shall drinke of my horne; but he shold it sheede[ ] either behind or beforne. some shedd on their shoulder, and some on their knee; he that cold not hitt his mouthe, put it in his eye: and he that was a cuckold every man might him see. craddocke wan the horne, and the bores head: his ladie wan the mantle unto her meede. everye such a lovely ladye god send her well to speede. footnotes: [ ] [percy folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. pp. - .] [ ] [knew.] [ ] ver. . branches, ms. [ ] [ornamented.] [ ] [bid.] [ ] v. . heate, ms. [ ] [probably a pouch or bag, but there is no authority for the word.] [ ] ver. . potewer, ms. [ ] v. . his wiffe, ms. [ ] v. . biled, ms. [ ] [red.] [ ] v. . gaule, ms. [ ] [light blue or woad coloured.] [ ] [colour.] [ ] [ruddy.] [ ] [began.] [ ] [fuller.] [ ] [ver. . all above the buttockes, ms.] [ ] v. . lauged, ms. [ ] [began.] [ ] [draw close together, another form of _crowd_.] [ ] ver. . wright, ms. [ ] v. . cleare, ms. [ ] [forthwith.] [ ] ver. . by deene, ms. [ ] [v. . a little boy, ms.] [ ] [v. . looking over.] [ ] [v. - . these two lines belong to the former stanza.] [ ] ver. . them upon, ms. [ ] [carved.] [ ] v. . _or_ birtled, ms. [ ] [shed.] ii. the marriage of sir gawaine is chiefly taken from the fragment of an old ballad in the editor's ms., which he has reason to believe more ancient than the time of _chaucer_, and what furnished that bard with his _wife of bath's tale_. the original was so extremely mutilated, half of every leaf being torn away, that without large supplements, &c. it was deemed improper for this collection: these it has therefore received, such as they are. they are not here particularly pointed out, because the _fragment_ itself will now be found printed at the end of this volume. * * * * * [sir frederic madden supposed this ballad to be founded upon the _weddynge of syr gawen and dame ragnell_, which he printed from the rawlinson ms. c. , fol. b, in his _syr gawaine_. mr. hales writes as follows respecting the various forms in which the story appears in literature. "the wonderful 'metamorphosis' on which this story turns is narrated in gower's _confessio amantis_, as the story of florent and the king of sicily's daughter, taken by him, as tyrwhitt conjectures, from the _gesta romanorum_, or some such collection. it appears again, as the reader will remember, in chaucer's _wyf of bathes tale_. 'worked over,' says prof. child, 'by some ballad-monger of the sixteenth century, and of course reduced to ditch-water, this tale has found its way into the _crown garland of golden roses_, part i. p. (_percy society_, vol. vi.), 'of a knight and a faire virgin.' on a similar transformation depends the story of 'king henrie' in scott's _minstrelsy_, edited from mrs. brown's ms., with corrections from a recited fragment, and modernized as 'courteous king jamie' in lewis's _tales of wonder_. 'the prime original,' says scott, 'is to be found in an icelandic saga.'"[ ] mr. child prints (_english and scottish ballads_, vol. viii. p. ) two versions of a scotch ballad entitled _kempy kaye_, which he supposes to be an extravagant parody of _the marriage of sir_ _gawaine_.] * * * * * part the first. king arthur lives in merry carleile, and seemely is to see; and there with him queene guenever, that bride soe bright of blee.[ ] and there with him queene guenever, that bride so bright in bowre: and all his barons about him stoode, that were both stiffe and stowre.[ ] the king a royale christmasse kept, with mirth and princelye cheare; to him repaired many a knighte, that came both farre and neare. and when they were to dinner sette, and cups went freely round; before them came a faire damsèlle, and knelt upon the ground. a boone, a boone, o kinge arthùre, i beg a boone of thee; avenge me of a carlish knighte, who hath shent[ ] my love and mee. at tearne-wadling[ ] his castle stands, near to that lake so fair, and proudlye rise the battlements, and streamers deck the air. noe gentle knighte, nor ladye gay, may pass that castle-walle: but from that foule discurteous knighte, mishappe will them befalle. hee's twyce the size of common men, wi' thewes, and sinewes stronge, and on his backe he bears a clubbe, that is both thicke and longe. this grimme baròne 'twas our harde happe, but yester morne to see; when to his bowre he bare my love, and sore misused mee. and when i told him, king arthùre as lyttle shold him spare; goe tell, sayd hee, that cuckold kinge, to meete mee if he dare. upp then sterted king arthùre, and sware by hille and dale, he ne'er wolde quitt that grimme baròne, till he had made him quail. goe fetch my sword excalibar: goe saddle mee my steede; nowe, by my faye, that grimme baròne shall rue this ruthfulle deede. and when he came to tearne wadlinge benethe the castle walle: "come forth; come forth; thou proude baròne, or yielde thyself my thralle." on magicke grounde that castle stoode, and fenc'd with many a spelle: noe valiant knighte could tread thereon, but straite his courage felle. forth then rush'd that carlish[ ] knight, king arthur felte the charme: his sturdy sinewes lost their strengthe, downe sunke his feeble arme. nowe yield thee, yield thee, kinge arthùre, now yield thee, unto mee: or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande, noe better termes maye bee, unlesse thou sweare upon the rood, and promise on thy faye, here to returne to tearne-wadling, upon the new-yeare's daye; and bringe me worde what thing it is all women moste desyre; this is thy ransome, arthur, he sayes, he have noe other hyre. king arthur then helde up his hande, and sware upon his faye,[ ] then tooke his leave of the grimme barone and faste hee rode awaye. and he rode east, and he rode west, and did of all inquyre, what thing it is all women crave, and what they most desyre. some told him riches, pompe, or state; some rayment fine and brighte; some told him mirthe; some flatterye; and some a jollye knighte. in letters all king arthur wrote, and seal'd them with his ringe: but still his minde was helde in doubte, each tolde a different thinge. as ruthfulle he rode over a more, he saw a ladye sette betweene an oke, and a greene holléye, all clad in red[ ] scarlette. her nose was crookt and turnd outwàrde, her chin stoode all awrye; and where as sholde have been her mouthe, lo! there was set her eye: her haires, like serpents, clung aboute her cheekes of deadlye hewe: a worse-form'd ladye than she was, no man mote ever viewe. to hail the king in seemelye sorte this ladye was fulle faine; but king arthùre all sore amaz'd, no aunswere made againe. what wight art thou, the ladye sayd, that wilt not speake to mee; sir, i may chance to ease thy paine, though i be foule to see. if thou wilt ease my paine, he sayd, and helpe me in my neede; ask what thou wilt, thou grimme ladyè, and it shall bee thy meede. o sweare mee this upon the roode, and promise on thy faye; and here the secrette i will telle, that shall thy ransome paye. king arthur promis'd on his faye, and sware upon the roode; the secrette then the ladye told, as lightlye well shee cou'de. now this shall be my paye, sir king, and this my guerdon bee, that some yong fair and courtlye knight, thou bringe to marrye mee. fast then pricked king arthùre ore hille, and dale, and downe: and soone he founde the barone's bowre: and soone the grimme baroùne. he bare his clubbe upon his backe, hee stoode bothe stiffe and stronge; and, when he had the letters reade, awaye the lettres flunge. nowe yielde thee, arthur, and thy lands, all forfeit unto mee; for this is not thy paye, sir king, nor may thy ransome bee. yet hold thy hand, thou proud baròne, i praye thee hold thy hand; and give mee leave to speake once more in reskewe of my land. this morne, as i came over a more, i saw a ladye sette betwene an oke, and a greene hollèye, all clad in red scarlètte. shee sayes, all women will have their wille, this is their chief desyre; now yield, as thou art a barone true, that i have payd mine hyre. an earlye vengeaunce light on her! the carlish baron swore: shee was my sister tolde thee this, and shee's a mishapen whore. but here i will make mine avowe, to do her as ill a turne: for an ever i may that foule theefe gette, in a fyre i will her burne. * * * * * part the seconde. homewarde pricked king arthùre, and a wearye man was hee; and soone he mette queene guenever, that bride so bright of blee. what newes! what newes! thou noble king, howe, arthur, hast thou sped? where hast thou hung the carlish knighte? and where bestow'd his head? the carlish knight is safe for mee, and free fro mortal harme: on magicke grounde his castle stands, and fenc'd with many a charme. to bowe to him i was fulle faine, and yielde mee to his hand: and but for a lothly ladye, there i sholde have lost my land. and nowe this fills my hearte with woe, and sorrowe of my life; i swore a yonge and courtlye knight, sholde marry her to his wife. then bespake him sir gawàine, that was ever a gentle knighte: that lothly ladye i will wed; therefore be merrye and lighte. nowe naye, nowe naye, good sir gawàine; my sister's sonne yee bee; this lothlye ladye's all too grimme, and all too foule for yee. her nose is crookt and turn'd outwàrde; her chin stands all awrye; a worse form'd ladye than shee is was never seen with eye. what though her chin stand all awrye. and shee be foule to see: i'll marry her, unkle, for thy sake, and i'll thy ransome bee. nowe thankes, nowe thankes, good sir gawàine; and a blessing thee betyde! to-morrow wee'll have knights and squires, and wee'll goe fetch thy bride. and wee'll have hawkes and wee'll have houndes, to cover our intent; and wee'll away to the greene forèst, as wee a hunting went. sir lancelot, sir stephen[ ] bolde, they rode with them that daye; and foremoste of the companye there rode the stewarde kaye: soe did sir banier[ ] and sir bore,[ ] and eke sir garratte[ ] keene; sir tristram too, that gentle knight, to the forest freshe and greene. and when they came to the greene forrèst, beneathe a faire holley tree there sate that ladye in red scarlètte that unseemelye was to see. sir kay beheld that lady's face, and looked upon her sweere;[ ] whoever kisses that ladye, he sayes, of his kisse he stands in feare. sir kay beheld that ladye againe, and looked upon her snout; whoever kisses that ladye, he sayes, of his kisse he stands in doubt. peace, brother kay, sayde sir gawàine, and amend thee of thy life: for there is a knight amongst us all, must marry her to his wife. what marry this foule queane, quoth kay, i' the devil's name anone; gett mee a wife wherever i maye, in sooth shee shall be none. then some tooke up their hawkes in haste, and some took up their houndes; and sayd they wolde not marry her, for cities, nor for townes. then bespake him king arthùre, and sware there by this daye; for a little foule sighte and mislikìnge, yee shall not say her naye. peace, lordings, peace; sir gawaine sayd; nor make debate and strife; this lothlye ladye i will take, and marry her to my wife. nowe thankes, nowe thankes, good sir gawaine, and a blessinge be thy meede! for as i am thine owne ladyè, thou never shalt rue this deede. then up they took that lothly dame, and home anone they bringe: and there sir gawaine he her wed, and married her with a ringe. and when they were in wed-bed laid, and all were done awaye: "come turne to mee, mine owne wed-lord come turne to mee i praye." sir gawaine scant could lift his head, for sorrowe and for care; when, lo! instead of that lothelye dame, hee sawe a young ladye faire. sweet blushes stayn'd her rud-red cheeke, her eyen were blacke as sloe: the ripening cherrye swellde her lippe, and all her necke was snowe. sir gawaine kiss'd that lady faire, lying upon the sheete: and swore, as he was a true knighte, the spice was never soe sweete. sir gawaine kiss'd that lady brighte, lying there by his side: "the fairest flower is not soe faire: thou never can'st bee my bride." i am thy bride, mine owne deare lorde, the same whiche thou didst knowe, that was soe lothlye, and was wont upon the wild more to goe. nowe, gentle gawaine, chuse, quoth shee, and make thy choice with care; whether by night, or else by daye, shall i be foule or faire? "to have thee foule still in the night, when i with thee should playe! i had rather farre, my lady deare, to have thee foule by daye." what when gaye ladyes goe with their lordes to drinke the ale and wine; alas! then i must hide myself, i must not goe with mine? "my faire ladyè, sir gawaine sayd, i yield me to thy skille; because thou art mine owne ladyè thou shalt have all thy wille." nowe blessed be thou, sweete gawàine, and the daye that i thee see; for as thou seest mee at this time, soe shall i ever bee. my father was an aged knighte, and yet it chanced soe, he tooke to wife a false ladyè, whiche broughte me to this woe. shee witch'd mee, being a faire yonge maide, in the greene forèst to dwelle; and there to abide in lothlye shape, most like a fiend of helle. midst mores and mosses; woods, and wilds; to lead a lonesome life: till some yong faire and courtlye knighte wolde marrye me to his wife: nor fully to gaine mine owne trewe shape, such was her devilish skille; until he wolde yielde to be rul'd by mee, and let mee have all my wille. she witchd my brother to a carlish boore, and made him stiffe and stronge; and built him a bowre on magicke grounde, to live by rapine and wronge. but now the spelle is broken throughe, and wronge is turnde to righte; henceforth i shall bee a faire ladyè, and hee be a gentle knighte. [***] footnotes: [ ] [percy folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. .] [ ] [complexion.] [ ] [strong.] [ ] [abused.] [ ] _tearne-wadling_ is the name of a small lake [in inglewood forest] near hesketh in cumberland, on the road from penrith to carlisle. there is a tradition, that an old castle once stood near the lake, the remains of which were not long since visible. _tarn_, in the dialect of that country, signifies a small lake, and is still in use. ["tarn-wadling ... has been for the last ten years a wide meadow grazed by hundreds of sheep."--j. s. glennie, in _macmillan's mag._ dec. , p. , col. .] [ ] churlish. [ ] faith. [ ] this was a common phrase in our old writers; so chaucer, in his prologue to the _cant. tales_, says of the wife of bath:-- "her hosen were of fyne scarlet red." [ ] sir f. madden remarks that sir stephen does not appear in the round table romances. [ ] [perhaps intended for bedver, the king's constable, tennyson's bedivere, but more probably ban of benoyk, the brother of bors.] [ ] [bors de gauves, or gaunes.] [ ] [gareth, or gaheret, sir gawain's younger brother.] [ ] [neck.] iii. king ryence's challenge. this song is more modern than many of those which follow it, but is placed here for the sake of the subject. it was sung before queene elizabeth at the grand entertainment at kenelworth-castle in , and was probably composed for that occasion. in a letter describing those festivities, it is thus mentioned: "a minstral came forth with a sollem song, warranted for story out of k. arthur's acts, whereof i gat a copy, and is this: "so it fell out on a pentecost, &c." after the song the narrative proceeds: "at this the minstrell made a pause and a curtezy for primus passus. more of the song is thear, but i gatt it not." the story in morte arthur, whence it is taken, runs as follows: "came a messenger hastely from king ryence of north-wales,--saying, that king ryence had discomfited and overcomen eleaven kings, and everiche of them did him homage, and that was this: they gave him their beards cleane flayne off.--wherefore the messenger came for king arthur's beard, for king ryence had purfeled a mantell with kings beards, and there lacked for one a place of the mantell, wherefore he sent for his beard, or else he would enter into his lands, and brenn and slay, and never leave till he have thy head and thy beard. well, said king arthur, thou hast said thy message, which is the most villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent to a king. also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet for to make a purfell of, but tell thou the king that--or it be long he shall do to me homage on both his knees, or else he shall leese his head." [b. i. c. . see also the same romance, b. i. c. .] the thought seems to be originally taken from jeff. monmouth's _hist._ b. x. c. . which is alluded to by drayton in his _poly-olb. song._ and by spenser in _faer. qu._ . . . . see the observations on spenser, vol. ii. p. . the following text is composed of the best readings selected from three different copies. the first in enderbie's _cambria triumphans_, p. . the second in the letter abovementioned. and the third inserted in ms. in a copy of _morte arthur_, , in the bodleian library. stow tells us, that king arthur kept his round table at "diverse places, but especially at carlion, winchester, and camalet in somersetshire." this _camalet_, sometimes a famous towne or castle, is situate on a very high tor or hill, &c. (see an exact description in stowe's _annals_, ed. , p. .) * * * * * as it fell out on a pentecost day, king arthur at camelot kept his court royall, with his faire queene dame guenever the gay; and many bold barons sitting in hall; with ladies attired in purple and pall; and heraults in hewkes,[ ] hooting on high, cryed, _largesse, largesse, chevaliers tres-hardie_.[ ] a doughty dwarfe to the uppermost deas[ ] right pertlye gan pricke, kneeling on knee; with steven[ ] fulle stoute amids all the preas,[ ] sayd, nowe sir king arthur, god save thee, and see! sir ryence of north-gales[ ] greeteth well thee, and bids thee thy beard anon to him send, or else from thy jaws he will it off rend. for his robe of state is a rich scarlet mantle, with eleven kings beards bordered[ ] about, and there is room lefte yet in a kantle,[ ] for thine to stande, to make the twelfth out: this must be done, be thou never so stout; this must be done, i tell thee no fable, maugre[ ] the teethe of all thy round table. when this mortal message from his mouthe past, great was the noyse bothe in hall and in bower: the king fum'd; the queene screecht; ladies were aghast; princes puffd; barons blustred; lords began lower; knights stormed; squires startled, like steeds in a stower; pages and yeomen yell'd out in the hall, then in came sir kay, the 'king's' seneschal. silence, my soveraignes, quoth this courteous knight, and in that stound the stowre[ ] began still: 'then' the dwarfe's dinner full deerely was dight;[ ] of wine and wassel he had his wille: and, when he had eaten and drunken his fill, an hundred pieces of fine coyned gold were given this dwarf for his message bold. but say to sir ryence, thou dwarf, quoth the king, that for his bold message i do him defye; and shortlye with basins and pans will him ring out of north-gales; where he and i with swords, and not razors, quickly shall trye, whether he, or king arthur will prove the best barbor: and therewith he shook his good sword excalàbor. * * * * * * * * * * [+±+] strada, in his _prolusions_, has ridiculed the story of the giant's mantle, made of the beards of kings. footnotes: [ ] [party-coloured coats.] [ ] _largesse, largesse._ the heralds resounded these words as oft as they received of the bounty of the knights. see _memoires de la_ _chevalerie_, tom. i. p. .--the expression is still used in the form of installing knights of the garter. [ ] [dais or upper table.] [ ] [voice.] [ ] [press.] [ ] [north wales.] [ ] _i.e._ set round the border, as furs are now round the gowns of magistrates. [ ] [corner.] [ ] [in spite of.] [ ] [that moment the tumult.] [ ] [decked.] iv. king arthur's death. a fragment. the subject of this ballad is evidently taken from the old romance _morte arthur_, but with some variations, especially in the concluding stanzas; in which the author seems rather to follow the traditions of the old welsh bards, who believed that king arthur was not dead, "but conveied awaie by the fairies into some pleasant place, where he should remaine for a time, and then returne againe and reign in as great authority as ever." holinshed, b. , c. , or as it is expressed in an old chronicle printed at antwerp , by ger. de leew, "the bretons supposen, that he [k. arthur]--shall come yet and conquere all bretaigne, for certes this is the prophicye of merlyn: he sayd, that his deth shall be doubteous; and sayd soth, for men thereof yet have doubte, and shullen for ever more,--for men wyt not whether that he lyveth or is dede." see more ancient testimonies in selden's _notes on polyolbion, song iii._ this fragment being very incorrect and imperfect in the original ms. hath received some conjectural emendations, and even a supplement of three or four stanzas composed from the romance of _morte arthur_. * * * * * [the two ballads here entitled _king arthur's death_ and _the_ _legend of king arthur_ are united in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. ), but they are evidently two distinct songs. the first ballad forms part ii. of the ms. copy, which has fourteen verses at the end not printed here. the last four verses are printed at the end of the next ballad. percy has taken great liberties with his original, and has not left a single line unaltered, as will be seen by comparing it with the original printed at the end. additional lines are also interpolated which are now enclosed within brackets, and it will be seen that these unnecessary amplifications do not improve the effect of the poem. it will also be seen that in vv. - the father and son of the original are changed into uncle and nephew. this last scene in the life of king arthur is the most beautiful and touching portion of his history, and the romancers and minstrels were never tired of telling it in every form. according to one tradition arthur still sleeps under st. michael's mount ("the guarded mount" of milton's _lycidas_), and according to another beneath richmond castle, yorkshire. mr. willmott, in his edition of the _reliques_, writes, "according to popular superstition in sicily, arthur is preserved alive by his sister la fata morgana, whose fairy palace is occasionally seen from reggio in the opposite sea of messina."] * * * * * * * * * * on trinitye mondaye in the morne, this sore battayle was doom'd to bee; where manye a knighte cry'd, well-awaye! alacke, it was the more pittìe. ere the first crowinge of the cocke, when as the kinge in his bed laye, he thoughte sir gawaine to him came,[ ] and there to him these wordes did saye. nowe, as you are mine unkle deare, and as you prize your life, this daye o meet not with your foe in fighte; putt off the battayle, if yee maye. for sir launcelot is now in fraunce, and with him many an hardye knighte: who will within this moneth be backe, and will assiste yee in the fighte. the kinge then call'd his nobles all, before the breakinge of the daye; and tolde them howe sir gawaine came, and there to him these wordes did saye. his nobles all this counsayle gave, that earlye in the morning, hee shold send awaye an herauld at armes, to aske a parley faire and free. then twelve good knightes king arthure chose, the best of all that with him were: to parley with the foe in field, and make with him agreement faire. the king he charged all his hoste, in readinesse there for to bee: but noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, unlesse a sword drawne they shold see and mordred on the other parte, twelve of his knights did likewise bringe; the beste of all his companye, to hold the parley with the kinge. sir mordred alsoe charged his hoste, in readinesse there for to bee; but noe man sholde noe weapon sturre, but if a sworde drawne they shold see. for he durste not his unkle truste,[ ] nor he his nephewe, sothe to tell:[ ] alacke! it was a woefulle case, as ere in christentye befelle. but when they were together mette, and both to faire accordance broughte; and a month's league betweene them sette, before the battayle sholde be foughte; an addere crept forth of a bushe, stunge one o' th' king's knightes on the knee: alacke! it was a woefulle chance, as ever was in christentìe. when the knighte found him wounded sore, and sawe the wild-worme[ ] hanginge there; his sworde he from his scabberde drewe; a piteous case as ye shall heare. for when the two hostes sawe the sworde, they joyned battayle instantlye; till of soe manye noble knightes, on one side there were left but three. for all were slain that durst abide, and but some fewe that fled awaye: ay mee! it was a bloodye fielde, as ere was foughte on summer's daye. upon king arthur's own partyè, onlye himselfe escaped there, and lukyn duke of gloster free, and the king's butler bedevere. and when the king beheld his knightes, all dead and scattered on the molde; [the teares fast trickled downe his face; that manlye face in fight so bolde. nowe reste yee all, brave knights, he said, soe true and faithful to your trust: and must yee then, ye valiant hearts, be lefte to moulder into dust! most loyal have yee been to mee, most true and faithful unto deathe: and, oh! to rayse yee up againe, how freelye could i yield my breathe!] but see the traitor's yet alive, lo where hee stalkes among the deade! nowe bitterlye he shall abye:[ ] and vengeance fall upon his head. o staye, my liege, then sayd the duke; o staye for love and charitìe; [remember what the vision spake, nor meete your foe, if it may bee. o, staye mee not, thou worthye wight, this debt my loyal knights i owe: betide me life, betide me death, i will avenge them of their foe.] then straite he grasp'd his trustye speare, and on his horse then mounted hee: as his butler holpe him to his horse, his bowels gushed to his knee. alas! then sayd the noble king, that i should live this sight to see! to see this good knight here be slaine, all for his love in helping mee! he put his speare into his reste, and to sir mordred loud gan crye; [nowe sette thyself upon thy guarde, for, traitor, nowe thy death is nye. sir mordred lifted up his sworde, and fierce to meet the king ran hee:] the king his speare he through him thrust; a fathom thorow his bodìe. when mordered felt the stroke of death, and found that he was wounded soe; he thruste himselfe upon the speare, and strucke the king a deadlye blowe. then grimmlye dyed sir mordered, presentlye upon that tree: and bloody streames ranne from the kinge ere to the duke returned hee. sir lukyn then he thus bespake, sir knighte, thou hast beene faithfulle tryde, nowe take my sword excalibar,[ ] that hangs so freelye by my syde: o take my sword excalibar, and there into the river throwe: for here, henceforth, benethe this tree, all use of weapons i foregoe. [and fare thee well, thou trustye sword, a better neer had valiant knighte, with thee full ofte, and manye a daye, have i withstood my foe in fighte. with this good fauchion in my hande, oft have i reapd the bloody feelde: but nowe the fatalle houre is come, that never more i may thee weelde.] the duke to the river side he went, and there his owne sword in threwe he: but he kept back excalibar, he kept it back in privitie. [for all of coleyne[ ] was the blade; and all the hilte of precious stone: and ever alacke! then sayd the knighte, must such a sword awaye be throwne?] then backe he came unto the kinge, who sayd, sir lukyn, what did yee see? nothing, my liege, save that the winde blewe oer the waters faire and free. o goe againe, then said the kinge, o good sir lukyn, goe againe: into the rivere throwe my sword, nor keepe me lingering here in paine. the duke then to the river went, and the kings scabberd in threwe hee; but hee kept backe excalibar, and hid it undernethe a tree. then backe he came to tell the kinge, who sayde, sir lukyn sawe ye oughte? nothinge, my liege, save that the winde nowe with the angrye waters fought. o lukyn, lukyn, said the kinge, [twice haste thou dealt deceytfullye: alacke, whom may wee ever truste, when suche a knighte soe false can bee? saye, wouldst thou have thy master dead; all for a sword, that wins thine eye: nowe goe againe, and throwe it in, or here the one of us shall dye.] the duke, all shent with this rebuke, no aunswere made unto the kinge: but to the rivere tooke the sworde, and threwe it far as he coulde flinge. a hande and an arme did meete the sworde, and flourishd three times in the air; [then sunke benethe the renninge streme, and of the duke was seene noe mair. all sore astonied stood the duke; he stood as still, as still mote bee:] then hastend backe to telle the kinge; but he was gone from under the tree. but to what place he cold not tell, for never after hee did him spye:[ ] but hee sawe a barge goe from the land, and hee heard ladyes howle and crye[ ]. and whether the kinge were there, or not, hee never knewe, nor ever colde: [for from that sad and direfulle daye, hee never more was scene on molde.] [***] [illustration] * * * * * [the following forms part ii. of a ballad entitled _king arthur's death_, in the folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. . but vpon a monday after trinity sonday this battaile foughten cold bee, where many a knight cryed well-away! alacke, the more pittye! but vpon sunday in the euening then, when the king in his bedd did lye, he thought sir gawaine to him came, & thus to him did say: "now as you are my vnckle deere, i pray you be ruled by mee, doe not fight as to-morrow day, but put the battelle of if you may; "for sir lancelott is now in france, & many knights with him full hardye, & with-in this month here hee wilbe, great aide wilbe to thee." hee wakened forth of his dreames; to his nobles that told hee, how he thought sir gawaine to him came, & these words sayd certainly. & then thé gaue the king councell all, vpon munday earlye that hee shold send one of his heralds of armes to parle with his sonne, if itt might bee. & knights king arthur chose, the best in his companye, that they shold goe to meete his sonne, to agree if itt cold bee. & the king charged all his host in readynesse for to bee, that noe man shold noe weapons stur with-out a sword drawne amongst his knights thé see. & mordred vpon the other part, of his knights chose hee that they shold goe to meete his father betweene those hosts fayre & free. & mordred charged his ost in like mannor most certaínely, that noe man shold noe weapons sturr with-out a sword drawne amongst them thé see; for he durst not his father trust, nor the father the sonne certainley. alacke! this was a woefull case as euer was in christentye! but when they were mett together there, & agreed of all things as itt shold bee, & a monthes league then there was before the battele foughten shold bee, an adder came forth of bush, stunge one of king arthirs knights below his knee; alacke! this was a woefull chance as euer was in christentye! the knight he found him wounded there, & see the wild worme there to bee; his sword out of his scabberd he drew; alas! itt was the more pittye! & when these osts saw they sword drawen, thé ioyned battell certainlye, till of a : : men of one side was left but . but all were slaine that durst abyde, but some awaye that did flee. king arthur upon his owne partye himselfe aliue cold be, & lukin the duke of gloster, & bedever his butler certainlye the king looked about him there & saw his knights all slaine to bee; "alas!" then sayd noble king arthur "that ever this sight i see! to see all my good knights lye slaine, & the traitor yett aliue to bee! loe where he leanes vpon his sword hillts amongst his dead men certainlye! i will goe slay him att this time; neuer att better advantage i shall him see." "nay! stay here, my leege!" then said the duke, "for loue and charitye! for wee haue the battell woone, for yett aliue we are but :" the king wold not be perswaded then, but his horsse then mounted hee; his butler [that] helped him to horsse, his bowells gushed to his knee. "alas!" then said noble king arthur, "that this sight i euer see, to see this good knight for to be slaine for loue for to helpe mee!" he put his speare into his rest, & att his sonne he ryd feirclye, & through him there his speare he thrust a fatham thorrow his body. the sonne he felld him wounded there, & knew his death then to bee; he thrust himselfe vpon his speare, & gaue his father a wound certainlye. but there dyed sir mordred presently vpon that tree. but or ere the king returned againe, his butler was dead certainlye. then bespake him noble king arthur, these were the words sayd hee, sayes "take my sword escalberd from my side fayre & free, & throw itt into this riuer heere; for all the vse of weapons ile deliuer vppe, heere vnderneath this tree." the duke to the riuer side he went, & his sword in threw hee; & then he kept escalberd, i tell you certainlye; & then he came to tell the king, the king said, "lukin what did thou see?" noe thing, my leege," the[n] sayd the duke, "i tell you certainlye." "o goe againe," said the king "for loue & charitye, & throw my sword into that riuer, that neuer i doe itt see." the duke to the riuer side he went, & the kings scaberd in threw hee; & still he kept escalberd for vertue sake faire & free. he came againe to tell the king; the king sayd, "lukin what did thou see?" "nothing my leege," then sayd the duke, "i tell you certainlye." "o goe againe lukin," said the king, "or the one of vs shall dye." then the duke to the riuer sid went, & then kings sword then threw hee: a hand & an arme did meete that sword, & flourished times certainlye he came againe to tell the king, but the king was gone from vnder the tree but to what place, he cold not tell, for neuer after hee did him see, but he see a barge from the land goe, & hearde ladyes houle & cry certainlye; but whether the king was there or noe he knew not certainlye. the duke walked by that riuers side till a chappell there found hee, & a preist by the aulter side there stood. the duke kneeled downe there on his knee & prayed the preists, "for christs sake the rights of the church bestow on mee!" for many dangerous wounds he had vpon him & liklye he was to dye. & there the duke liued in prayer till the time that hee did dye. king arthur liued king yeere in honor and great fame, & thus by death suddenlye was depriued from the same. ffins.] footnotes: [ ] sir gawaine had been killed at arthur's landing on his return from abroad. see the next ballad, ver. . [ ] [ver. , , the folio ms. reads father ... sonne.] [ ] [serpent.] [ ] [pay for or expiate.] [ ] more commonly called, _caliburn_. in the folio ms. _escallberd_. [percy notes in the ms. that "caliburn was presented a.d. to tancred, king of sicily, by our king richard i. see rapin, vol. i."] [ ] [cologne steel.] [ ] ver. , see ms. [ ] not unlike that passage in virgil. "summoque ulularunt vertice nymphæ." _ladies_ was the word our old english writers used for _nymphs_: as in the following lines of an old song in the editor's folio ms. "when scorching ph[oe]bus he did mount, then lady venus went to hunt; to whom diana did resort, with all the ladyes of hills, and valleys of springs, and floodes, &c." v. the legend of king arthur. we have here a short summary of k. arthur's history as given by jeff. of monmouth and the old chronicles, with the addition of a few circumstances from the romance morte arthur.--the ancient chronicle of ger. de leew (quoted above in p. ), seems to have been chiefly followed: upon the authority of which we have restored some of the names which were corrupted in the ms. and have transposed one stanza, which appeared to be misplaced, (_viz._ that beginning at ver. , which in the ms. followed ver. .) printed from the editor's ancient folio manuscript. * * * * * [this ballad as previously stated is the first part of the poem in the ms. and precedes the one here printed before it. percy made comparatively few alterations in this part and all of them are now noted at the foot of the page.] * * * * * of brutus' blood, in brittaine borne,[ ] king arthur i am to name; through christendome, and heathynesse,[ ] well knowne is my worthy fame. in jesus christ i doe beleeve; i am a christyan bore:[ ][ ] the father, sone, and holy gost one god, i doe adore. in the four hundred ninetieth yeere,[ ] over brittaine i did rayne, after my savior christ his byrth: what time i did maintaine the fellowshipp of the table round, soe famous in those dayes; whereatt a hundred noble knights, and thirty sat alwayes:[ ] who for their deeds and martiall feates, as bookes done yett record, amongst all other nations[ ] wer feared throwgh the world. and in the castle off tyntagill[ ] king uther mee begate of agyana a bewtyous ladye,[ ] and come of "hie" estate.[ ] and when i was fifteen yeere old, then was i crowned kinge: all brittaine that was att an upròre, i did to quiett bringe. and drove the saxons from the realme, who had opprest this land; all scotland then throughe manly feats[ ] i conquered with my hand.[ ] ireland, denmarke, norway, these countryes wan i all; iseland, gotheland, and swethland; and made their kings my thrall. i conquered all gallya, that now is called france; and slew the hardye froll in feild[ ] my honor to advance. and the ugly gyant dynabus[ ] soe terrible to vewe, that in saint barnards mount did lye, by force of armes i slew: and lucyus the emperour of rome i brought to deadly wracke; and a thousand more of noble knightes for feare did turne their backe: five kinges of "paynims"[ ] i did kill[ ][ ] amidst that bloody strife;[ ] besides the grecian emperour[ ] who alsoe lost his liffe.[ ] whose carcasse i did send to rome cladd poorlye on a beere; and afterward i past mount-joye the next approaching yeere. then i came to rome, where i was mett right as a conquerour, and by all the cardinalls solempnelye i was crowned an emperour. one winter there i made abode: then word to mee was brought how mordred had oppressd the crowne: what treason he had wrought att home in brittaine with my queene; therfore i came with speede to brittaine backe, with all my power, to quitt that traiterous deede: and soone at sandwiche i arrivde,[ ] where mordred me withstoode: but yett at last i landed there, with effusion of much blood. for there my nephew sir gawaine dyed, being wounded in that sore,[ ] the whiche sir lancelot in fight[ ] had given him before. thence chased i mordered away, who fledd to london right, from london to winchester, and to cornewalle tooke his flyght.[ ] and still i him pursued with speed till at the last we mett: whereby an appointed day of fight[ ] was there agreed and sett.[ ] where we did fight, of mortal life[ ] eche other to deprive,[ ] till of a hundred thousand men scarce one was left a live. there all the noble chivalrye of brittaine tooke their end. o see how fickle is their state that doe on feates depend![ ][ ] there all the traiterous men were slaine not one escapte away; and there dyed all my vallyant knightes. alas! that woefull day![ ] two and twenty yeere i ware the crowne in honor and great fame; and thus by death was suddenlye deprived of the same. footnotes: [ ] ver. . bruite his, ms. [ ] [heathendom.] [ ] [born.] [ ] [v. . borne, ms.] [ ] v. . he began his reign a.d. , according to the chronicles. [ ] [v. . sit, ms.] [ ] [v. . all nations, ms.] [ ] [pronounced "tintadgell;" the remains of the castle still exist on the north coast of cornwall.] [ ] v. . she is named igerna in the old chronicles. [ ] v. . his, ms. [ ] [ver. - . and then i conquered througe manly feats, all scottlande with my hands, ms.] [ ] v. . froland feild, ms. froll, according to the chronicles, was a roman knight governor of gaul. [ ] v. . danibus, ms. [ ] [pagans.] [ ] v. . of pavye, ms. [ ] [v. - . this stanza occurs after v. in the ms.] [ ] [ver. . and when at sandwich i did land.] [ ] [v. . on that.] [ ] [v. . that sir lancelott.] [ ] [v. . he tooke. ms.] [ ] [ver. . wherby appointed.] [ ] [v. . was agreed.] [ ] [v. - . where wee did fight soe mortallye of live eche other to deprive.] [ ] [v. . upon.] [ ] v. . perhaps fates. [ ] [v. is the end of the first part in the ms., the stanza king arthur lived king yeere in honor and great fame and thus by death suddenlye was deprived from the same ends the second part, which is printed by percy as _king arthur's_ _death_, see previous ballad.] vi. a dyttie to hey downe. copied from an old ms. in the cotton library [british museum] (vesp. a. xxv. fol. ), intitled, "divers things of hen. viij's time." * * * * * who sekes to tame the blustering winde, or causse the floods bend to his wyll, or els against dame nature's kinde to "change" things frame by cunning skyll:[ ] that man i thinke bestoweth paine, thoughe that his laboure be in vaine. who strives to breake the sturdye steele, or goeth about to staye the sunne; who thinks to causse an oke to reele, which never can by force be done: that man likewise bestoweth paine, thoughe that his laboure be in vaine. who thinks to stryve against the streame, and for to sayle without a maste; unlesse he thinks perhapps to faine, his travell ys forelorne and waste; and so in cure of all his paine, his travell ys his cheffest gaine. so he lykewise, that goes about to please eche eye and every eare, had nede to have withouten doubt a golden gyft with hym to beare; for evyll report shall be his gaine, though he bestowe both toyle and paine. god grant eche man one to amend; god send us all a happy place; and let us pray unto the end, that we may have our princes grace: amen, amen! so shall we gaine a dewe reward for all our paine. footnotes: [ ] ver. . causse, ms. vii. glasgerion. an ingenious friend thinks that the following old ditty (which is printed from the editor's folio ms.) may possibly have given birth to the tragedy of the _orphan_, in which polidore intercepts monimia's intended favours to castalio. see what is said concerning the hero of this song, (who is celebrated by _chaucer_ under the name of _glaskyrion_) in the essay affixed to vol. i. note h. pt. iv. ( ). * * * * * [the hero of this ballad is the same as "gret glascurion," placed by chaucer in the _house of fame_ by the side of orpheus, and also associated with orpheus by gawain douglas in the _palice of honour_. percy's note in the folio ms. is "it was not necessary to correct this much for the press;" (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. ). it will be seen, however, by the collations at the foot of the page that several corrections were made, not always for the better. thus ver. , "who did his ladye grieve," is certainly weaker than the original,-- "and asked noe man noe leave." jamieson (_popular ballads_, , vol. i. p. ) prints an inferior version under the name of _glenkindie_. mr. hale points out, however, that "the scotch version is more perfect in one point--in the test question put to the page before the assignation is disclosed to him:-- 'o mith i tell you, gib my man, gin i a man had slain?' some such question perhaps would give more force to vv. - of our version." he also very justly observes, "perhaps there is no ballad that represents more keenly the great gulf fixed between churl and noble--a profounder horror at the crossing over it."] * * * * * glasgerion was a kings owne sonne, and a harper he was goode: he harped in the kinges chambere, where cuppe and candle stoode.[ ] and soe did hee in the queens chamber, till ladies waxed "glad."[ ] and then bespake the kinges daughter; and these wordes thus shee sayd.[ ] strike on, strike on, glasgèrion,[ ] of thy striking doe not blinne:[ ] theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe,[ ] but it glads my hart withinne. faire might he fall,[ ] ladye, quoth hee,[ ] who taught you nowe to speake! i have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere[ ] my minde i neere durst breake.[ ] but come to my bower, my glasgèrion, when all men are att rest: as i am a ladie true of my promise, thou shalt bee a welcome guest. home then came glasgèrion,[ ] a glad man, lord! was hee. and, come thou hither, jacke my boy; come hither unto mee.[ ] for the kinges daughter of normandye hath granted mee my boone: and att her chambere must i bee beffore the cocke have crowen. o master, master, then quoth hee,[ ] lay your head downe on this stone: for i will waken you, master deere, afore it be time to gone. but up then rose that lither[ ] ladd, and hose and shoone did on:[ ] a coller he cast upon his necke, hee seemed a gentleman. and when he came to the ladies chamber, he thrild upon a pinn.[ ] the lady was true of her promise, rose up and lett him in. he did not take the lady gaye to boulster nor to bed:[ ] "nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille,[ ] "a single word he sed."[ ] he did not kisse that ladyes mouthe,[ ] nor when he came, nor youd:[ ][ ] and sore mistrusted that ladye gay, he was of some churls bloud. but home then came that lither ladd, and did off his hose and shoone; and cast the coller from off his necke:[ ] he was but a churlès sonne. awake, awake, my deere master,[ ] [the cock hath well-nigh crowen.[ ] awake, awake, my master deere,][ ] i hold it time to be gone. for i have saddled your horsse, mastèr, well bridled i have your steede: and i have served you a good breakfast:[ ] for thereof ye have need.[ ] up then rose, good glasgeriòn,[ ] and did on hose and shoone; and cast a coller about his necke: for he was a kinge his sonne.[ ] and when he came to the ladyes chamber,[ ] he thrild upon the pinne:[ ] the ladye was more than true of promise, and rose and let him in.[ ] saies, whether have you left with me your bracelett or your glove? or are you returned backe againe[ ] to know more of my love? glasgèrion swore a full great othe by oake, and ashe, and thorne; lady, i was never in your chambèr. sith the time that i was borne. o then it was your lither foot-page,[ ] he hath beguiled mee.[ ] then shee pulled forth a little pen-kniffe,[ ] that hanged by her knee: sayes, there shall never noe churlès blood within my bodye spring:[ ] [no churlès blood shall ever defile[ ] the daughter of a kinge.][ ] home then went glasgèrion,[ ] and woe, good lord, was hee.[ ] sayes, come thou hither, jacke my boy,[ ] come hither unto mee.[ ] if i had killed a man to night,[ ] jacke, i would tell it thee: but if i have not killed a man to night jacke, thou hast killed three. and he puld out his bright browne sword, and dryed it on his sleeve, and he smote off that lither ladds head, who did his ladye grieve.[ ] he sett the swords poynt till his brest, the pummil untill a stone:[ ] throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd, these three lives werne all gone. footnotes: [ ] [ver. . where cappe and candle yoode, ms.] [ ] v. . wood, ms. [ ] [v. . sayd shee, ms.] [ ] [v. . saide, strike.] [ ] [cease.] [ ] [v. . over this.] [ ] [well may be thine.] [ ] [v. . you fall.] [ ] [v. . yeere.] [ ] [v. . my hart i durst neere breake.] [ ] [v. . but whom then.] [ ] [v. . her love is granted mee.] [ ] [ver. . but come you hither master, quoth he.] [ ] [wicked.] [ ] [v. . and did on hose and shoone.] [ ] this is elsewhere expressed "_twirled the pin_," or "_tirled at_ _the pin_" (see b. ii. s. vi. v. .) and seems to refer to the turning round the button on the outside of a door, by which the latch rises, still used in cottages. [the explanation given by percy in this note is an unfounded guess. the risp or tirling pin was very generally used in the north to do the duty afterwards performed by the knocker. there are several of these curious contrivances in the antiquarian museum at edinburgh, and they are described by d. wilson in his _memorials of edinburgh in the olden time_, as follows,--"these antique precursors of the knocker and bell are still frequently to be met with in the steep turnpikes of the old town, notwithstanding the cupidity of the antiquarian collectors. the ring is drawn up and down the notched iron rod and makes a very audible noise within." ( , vol. i. p. ).] [ ] [v. . nor noe bed.] [ ] [v. - . but downe upon her chamber flore full soone he hath her layd.] [ ] [ver. . that lady gay.] [ ] [went.] [ ] [ver. . when he came nor when he youd.] [ ] [v. . that coller from about.] [ ] [v. . awaken quoth hee my master deere.] [ ] [v. - . not in ms.] [ ] [v. . have not i served a.] [ ] [v. . when times comes i have need.] [ ] [v. . but up.] [ ] [v. . he was a kinges sonne.] [ ] [v. . that ladies.] [ ] [v. . upon a.] [ ] [v. . rose up and.] [ ] [v. . you are. ms] [ ] ver. . litle, ms. [ ] [v. . falsly hath.] [ ] [v. . and then.] [ ] [v. . spring within my body.] [ ] [v. - . not in ms.] [ ] [v. . but home then.] [ ] [v. . a woe man good was hee.] [ ] [v. . come hither thou.] [ ] [v. . come thou.] [ ] [v. . ffor if.] [ ] [v. . and asked noe man noe leave.] [ ] [v. . till a. ms.] viii. old robin of portingale. from an ancient copy in the editor's folio ms. which was judged to require considerable corrections. in the former edition the hero of this piece had been called sir robin, but that title not being in the ms. is now omitted. _giles_, steward to a rich old merchant trading to _portugal_, is qualified with the title of _sir_, not as being a knight, but rather, i conceive, as having received an inferior order of priesthood. * * * * * [percy's note in the ms. is as follows, "when i first set to examine this i had not yet learnt to hold this old ms. in much regard." every line is altered, so that it has been necessary to add a copy of the original, although the interest of the ballad itself is not very great. percy's most notable correction is the introduction of good knights to help robin against his wife's twenty-four traitors.] * * * * * let never again soe old a man marrye soe yonge a wife, as did old robin of portingale; who may rue all the dayes of his life. for the mayors daughter of lin, god wott, he chose her to his wife, and thought with her to have lived in love, by they fell to hate and strife. they scarce were in their wed-bed laid, and scarce was hee asleepe, but upp shee rose, and forth shee goes, to the steward, and gan to weepe. sleepe you, wake you, faire sir gyles? or be you not within? sleepe you, wake you, faire sir gyles, arise and let me inn. o, i am waking, sweete, he said, sweete ladye, what is your will? i have unbethought me of a wile[ ] how my wed-lord weell spill.[ ] twenty-four good knights, shee sayes. that dwell about this towne, even twenty-four of my next cozèns, will helpe to dinge[ ] him downe. all that beheard his litle footepage, as he watered his masters steed; and for his masters sad perille his verry heart did bleed. he mourned still, and wept full sore; i sweare by the holy roode the teares he for his master wept were blent water and bloude.[ ] and that beheard his deare mastèr as he stood at his garden pale: sayes, ever alacke, my litle foot-page, what causes thee to wail? hath any one done to thee wronge any of thy fellowes here? or is any of thy good friends dead, that thou shedst manye a teare? or, if it be my head bookes-man,[ ] aggrieved he shal bee: for no man here within my howse, shall doe wrong unto thee. o, it is not your head bookes-man, nor none of his degree: but, on to-morrow ere it be noone[ ] all deemed[ ] to die are yee. and of that bethank your head stewàrd, and thank your gay ladie. if this be true, my litle foot-page, the heyre of my land thoust bee. if it be not true, my dear mastèr, no good death let me die. if it be not true, thou litle foot-page, a dead corse shalt thou lie.[ ] o call now downe my faire ladye, o call her downe to mee: and tell my ladye gay how sicke, and like to die i bee. downe then came his ladye faire, all clad in purple and pall: the rings that were on her fingèrs, cast light thorrow the hall. what is your will, my owne wed-lord? what is your will with mee? o see, my ladye deere, how sicke, and like to die i bee. and thou be sicke, my own wed-lord, soe sore it grieveth me: but my five maydens and myselfe will "watch thy" bedde for thee:[ ] and at the waking of your first sleepe, we will a hott drinke make: and at the waking of your "next" sleepe,[ ] your sorrowes we will slake. he put a silk cote on his backe, and mail of manye a fold: and hee putt a steele cap on his head, was gilt with good red gold. he layd a bright browne sword by his side, and another att his feete: "and twentye good knights he placed at hand, to watch him in his sleepe." and about the middle time of the night, came twentye-four traitours inn: sir giles he was the foremost man, the leader of that ginn.[ ] old robin with his bright browne sword, sir gyles head soon did winn: and scant of all those twenty-four, went out one quick[ ] agenn. none save only a litle foot page, crept forth at a window of stone: and he had two armes when he came in, and he went back with one. upp then came that ladie gaye with torches burning bright: she thought to have brought sir gyles a drinke, butt she found her owne wedd knight. the first thinge that she stumbled on it was sir gyles his foote: sayes, ever alacke, and woe is mee! here lyes my sweete hart-roote. the next thinge that she stumbled on it was sir gyles his heade; sayes, ever, alacke, and woe is me! heere lyes my true love deade. hee cutt the pappes beside her brest, and did her body spille;[ ] he cutt the eares beside her heade, and bade her love her fille. he called then up his litle foot-page, and made him there his heyre; and sayd henceforth my worldlye goodes and countrye i forsweare. he shope[ ] the crosse on his right shouldèr, of the white "clothe" and the redde,[ ] and went him into the holy land, wheras christ was quicke and dead. * * * * * [the following is the original ballad from the folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. . god! let neuer soe old a man marry so yonge a wiffe as did old robin of portingale! he may rue all the dayes of his liffe. ffor the maiors daughter of lin, god wott, he chose her to his wife, & thought to haue liued in quiettnesse with her all the dayes of his liffe. they had not in their wed bed laid, scarcly were both on sleepe, but vpp shee rose, & forth shee goes to sir gyles, & fast can weepe, saies, "sleepe you, wake you, faire sir gyles, or be not you within?" "but i am waking, sweete," he said, "lady, what is your will?" "i haue vnbethought me of a will, how my wed lord we shall spill. " knights, she sayes, that dwells about this towne, eene of my next cozens, will helpe to dinge him downe." with that beheard his litle foote page as he was watering his masters steed, soe s * * * * his verry heart did bleed; he mourned, sist, and wept full sore; i sweare by the holy roode, the teares he for his master wept were blend water & bloude. with that beheard his deare master as in his garden sate, says, "euer alacke my litle page! what causes thee to weepe? "hath any one done to thee wronge, any of thy fellowes here, or is any of thy good friends dead which makes thee shed such teares? "or if it be my head bookes man, grieued againe he shalbe, nor noe man within my howse shall doe wrong vnto thee." "but it is not your head bookes man, nor none of his degree, but or to morrow, ere it be noone, you are deemed to die; "& of that thanke your head steward, & after your gay ladie." "if it be true, my little foote page, ile make thee heyre of all my land." "if it be not true, my deare master, god let me neuer dye." "if it be not true, thou little foot page, a dead corse shalt thou be." he called downe his head kookes man, cooke in kitchen super to dresse: "all & anon, my deare master, anon at your request." "& call you downe my faire lady, this night to supp with mee." & downe then came that fayre lady, was cladd all in purple & palle, the rings that were vpon her fingers cast light thorrow the hall. "what is your will, my owne wed lord, what is your will with mee?" "i am sicke, fayre lady, sore sicke, & like to dye." "but & you be sicke, my owne wed lord, soe sore it greiueth mee, but my maydens & my selfe will goe & make your bedd, "& at the wakening of your first sleepe, you shall haue a hott drinke made, & at the wakening of your first sleepe your sorrowes will haue a slake." he put a silke cote on his backe, was inches folde, & put a steele cap vpon his head, was gilded with good red gold; & he layd a bright browne sword by his side, & another att his ffeete, & full well knew old robin then whether he shold wake or sleepe. & about the middle time of the night came good knights in, syr gyles he was the formost man, soe well he knew that ginne. old robin with a bright browne sword sir gyles head he did winne, soe did he all those , neuer a one went quicke out [agen;] none but one litle foot page crept forth at a window of stone, & he had armes when he came in and [when he went out he had none]. vpp then came that ladie bright with torches burning light; shee thought to haue brought sir gyles a drinke, but shee found her owne wedd knight, & the first thinge that this ladye stumbled vpon, was of sir gyles his ffoote, sayes, "euer alacke, and woe is me, heere lyes my sweete hart roote!" & the ^d thing that this ladie stumbled on, was of sir gyles his head, sayes, "euer alacke, and woe is me, heere lyes my true loue deade!" hee cutt the papps beside he[r] brest, & bad her wish her will, & he cutt the eares beside her heade, & bade her wish on still. "mickle is the mans blood i haue spent to doe thee & me some good," sayes, "euer alacke, my fayre lady, i thinke that i was woode?" he calld then vp his litle foote page, & made him heyre of all his land, & he shope the crosse in his right sholder of the white flesh & the redd. & he sent him into the holy land wheras christ was quicke & dead. ffins.] footnotes: [ ] ver. . _unbethought_, (properly _onbethought_) this word is still used in the midland counties in the same sense as _bethought_. [ ] [spoil or kill.] [ ] [knock.] [ ] v. . blend, ms. [ ] [clerk.] [ ] ver. . or to-morrow, ms. [ ] [doomed.] [ ] v. . bee, ms. [ ] ver. . make the, ms. [ ] v. . first, ms. [ ] [snare.] [ ] [alive.] [ ] ver. . fleshe, ms. [ ] [shaped.] [ ] every person who went on a _croisade_ to the holy land, usually wore a cross on his upper garment, on the right shoulder, as a badge of his profession. different nations were distinguished by crosses of different colours: the english wore white; the french red; &c. this circumstance seems to be confounded in the ballad. (v. spelman, _gloss_.) ix. child waters. _child_ is frequently used by our old writers, as a title. it is repeatedly given to prince arthur in the fairie queen: and the son of a king is in the same poem called "child tristram." (b. . c. . st. . .--b. . c. . st. .--_ibid._ c. . st. .) in an old ballad quoted in shakespeare's _k. lear_, the hero of ariosto is called _child roland_. mr. theobald supposes this use of the word was received along with their romances from the spaniards, with whom _infante_ signifies a "prince." a more eminent critic tells us, that "in the old times of chivalry, the noble youth, who were candidates for knighthood, during the time of their probation were called _infans_, _varlets_, _damoysels_, _bacheliers_. the most noble of the youth were particularly called _infans_." (vid. warb. shakesp.) a late commentator on spenser observes, that the saxon word cniht, knight, signifies also a "child." (see upton's gloss to the f. q.) the editor's folio ms. whence the following piece is taken (with some corrections), affords several other ballads, wherein the word _child_ occurs as a title: but in none of these it signifies "prince." see the song intitled _gil morrice_, in this volume. it ought to be observed, that the word _child_ or _chield_ is still used in north britain to denominate a man, commonly with some contemptuous character affixed to him, but sometimes to denote man in general. * * * * * [this ballad gives us a curious insight into ancient manners, and shows what were our forefathers' notions of the perfection of female character. they would have agreed with the propounder of the question--what is woman's mission? answer, sub-mission. like patient grissel, ellen bears worse sufferings than the nut-brown maid has to hear of, and in spite of the worst usage she never swerves from her devotion. this english version was the first published, but the story is the same as _lai le frêne_, preserved in english in the auchinleck ms. and in norman in the _lais_ of marie, which were written about the year . jamieson (_popular ballads and songs_, , vol. i. p. ) published his scottish version under the more appropriate name of _burd ellen_, who is the real heroine rather than the ruffian waters is the hero. adopting the idea of mrs. hampden pye, who wrote a ballad on the same subject, he changes the character of the catastrophe by adding three concluding stanzas to wind up the story in an unhappy manner. another version of the ballad, which ends happily, is given in kinloch's _ancient scottish ballads_ under the title of lady margaret. a german version of this ballad was made by the poet bürger.] * * * * * childe waters in his stable stoode and stroakt his milke white steede to him a fayre yonge ladye came[ ] as ever ware womans weede.[ ] sayes, christ you save, good childe waters; sayes, christ you save, and see: my girdle of gold that was too longe,[ ] is now too short for mee. and all is with one chyld of yours, i feele sturre att my side; my gowne of greene it is too straighte; before, it was too wide. if the child be mine, faire ellen, he sayd, be mine as you tell mee; then take you cheshire and lancashire both,[ ] take them your owne to bee. if the childe be mine, faire ellen, he sayd, be mine, as you doe sweare: then take you cheshire and lancashire both, and make that child your heyre. shee saies, i had rather have one kisse, child waters, of thy mouth; than i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both, that lye by north and south.[ ] and i had rather have one twinkling,[ ] childe waters, of thine ee:[ ] then i wolde have cheshire and lancashire both to take them mine owne to bee. to morrow, ellen, i must forth ryde farr into the north countrie;[ ] the fairest lady that i can find, ellen, must goe with mee. [thoughe i am not that lady fayre, yet let me go with thee.] and ever i pray you, child watèrs, your foot-page let me bee. if you will my foot-page be, ellèn, as you doe tell to mee;[ ] then you must cut your gowne of greene, an inch above your knee: soe must you doe your yellowe lockes, an inch above your ee:[ ] you must tell no man what is my name; my foot-page then you shall bee. shee, all the long day child waters rode,[ ] ran barefoote by his side;[ ] yett was he never so courteous a knighte, to say, ellen, will you ryde? shee, all the long day child waters rode,[ ] ran barefoote thorow the broome;[ ] yett hee was never soe curteous a knighte, to say, put on your shoone.[ ] ride softlye, shee sayd, o childe waters,[ ] why doe you ryde soe fast? the childe, which is no mans but thine,[ ] my bodye itt will brast.[ ] hee sayth, seest thou yonder water, ellen,[ ] that flows from banke to brimme.-- i trust to god, o child waters,[ ] you never will see[ ] mee swimme. but when shee came to the waters side, shee sayled to the chinne: except the lord of heaven be my speed, now must i learne to swimme. the salt waters bare up her clothes;[ ] our ladye bare upp her chinne: childe waters was a woe man, good lord,[ ] to see faire ellen swimme. and when shee over the water was, shee then came to his knee: he said, come hither, thou faire ellèn,[ ] loe yonder what i see. seest thou not yonder hall, ellèn? of redd gold shines the yate:[ ] of twenty foure faire ladyes there,[ ] the fairest is my mate.[ ] seest thou not yonder hall, ellèn? of redd gold shines the towre:[ ] there are twenty four faire ladyes there,[ ] the fairest is my paramoure. i see the hall now, child waters,[ ] of redd gold shines the yate:[ ] god give you good now of yourselfe,[ ] and of your worthye mate.[ ] i see the hall now, child waters,[ ] of redd golde shines the towre:[ ] god give you good now of yourselfe,[ ] and of your paramoure. there twenty four fayre ladyes were[ ] a playing att the ball:[ ] and ellen the fairest ladye there,[ ] must bring his steed to the stall. there twenty four fayre ladyes were[ ] a playinge at the chesse;[ ] and ellen the fayrest ladye there,[ ] must bring his horse to gresse.[ ] and then bespake childe waters sister, these were the wordes said shee:[ ] you have the prettyest foot-page, brother, that ever i saw with mine ee.[ ] but that his bellye it is soe bigg, his girdle goes wonderous hie: and let him, i pray you, childe watèrs,[ ] goe into the chamber with mee.[ ] [it is not fit for a little foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre, to go into the chamber with any ladye. that weares soe riche attyre.] it is more meete for a litle foot-page, that has run throughe mosse and myre. to take his supper upon his knee, and sitt downe by the kitchen fyer.[ ] but when they had supped every one, to bedd they tooke theyr waye:[ ] he sayd, come hither, my little foot-page, and hearken what i saye.[ ] goe thee downe into yonder towne,[ ] and low into the street; the fayrest ladye that thou can finde, hyer her in mine armes to sleepe, and take her up in thine armes twaine,[ ] for filinge[ ] of her feete. ellen is gone into the towne, and low into the streete: the fairest ladye that shee cold find, shee hyred in his armes to sleepe; and tooke her up in her armes twayne,[ ] for filing of her feete. i praye you nowe, good childe watèrs, let mee lye at your bedds feete:[ ] for there is noe place about this house, where i may 'saye a slepe[ ]. [he gave her leave, and faire ellèn down at his beds feet laye:] this done the nighte drove on apace,[ ] and when it was neare the daye,[ ] hee sayd, rise up, my litle foot-page, give my steede corne and haye;[ ] and soe doe thou the good black oats, to carry mee better awaye.[ ] up then rose the faire ellèn[ ] and gave his steede corne and hay: and soe shee did the good blacke oates,[ ] to carry him the better away.[ ] shee leaned her backe to the manger side,[ ] and grievouslye did groane: [shee leaned her back to the manger side, and there shee made her moane.] and that beheard his mother deere, shee heard her there monand.[ ] shee sayd, rise up, thou child watèrs, i think thee a cursed man.[ ] for in thy stable is a ghost,[ ] that grievouslye doth grone. or else some woman laboures of childe, she is soe woe-begone. up then rose childe waters soon,[ ] and did on his shirte of silke; and then he put on his other clothes,[ ] on his body as white as milke. and when he came to the stable dore, full still there hee did stand,[ ] that hee mighte heare his fayre ellèn,[ ] howe shee made her monànd[ ]. she sayd, lullabye, mine owne deere child,[ ] lullabye, dere child, dere: i wold thy father were a king, thy mother layd on a biere. peace now, hee said, good faire ellèn. be of good cheere, i praye;[ ] and the bridal and the churching both shall bee upon one day.[ ] footnotes: [ ] [ver. . to him came, ms.] [ ] [v. . as ere did weare, ms.] [ ] [v. . which was. ms.] [ ] v. . then not in ms. [ ] [v. . that lyes.] [ ] [v. . have a.] [ ] [v. . of your eye.] [ ] [v. . soe ffarr.] [ ] [v. . tell itt mee.] [ ] [v. . another inch above your eye. ms.] [ ] [ver. . all this long. _shee_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . shee ran.] [ ] [v. . but all this day.] [ ] [v. . shee ran.] [ ] [v. . as to say.] [ ] [v. . _o_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . but yours.] [ ] [v. . burst.] [ ] [v. . he sayes, sees.] [ ] [v. . child waters, shee said.] [ ] _i.e._ permit, suffer, &c. [ ] [v. . ellen's clothes.] [ ] [v. . and child waters.] [ ] [v. . _thou_ not in ms.] [ ] [ver. . shine the yates. ms.] [ ] [v. . theres ffayre ladyes.] [ ] [v. . the ffairest is my worldlye make.] [ ] [v. . shineth.] [ ] [v. . there is ffaire ladyes.] [ ] [v. , . i doe see.] [ ] [v. , . that of redd gold shineth the yates.] [ ] [v. , . god give good then.] [ ] [v. . worldlye make.] [ ] [v. . there were ladyes.] [ ] [v. . were playing.] [ ] [v. . ellen was the fairest ladye.] [ ] [v. . there were.] [ ] [v. . was playing.] [ ] [v. . shee was the ffairest ladye.] [ ] [v. . grasse.] [ ] [v. . and these.] [ ] [v. . eye. ms.] [ ] [ver. . and ever i pray. ms.] [ ] [v. . let him goe.] [ ] [after v. the two lines then goe into the chamber with any ladye that weares soe ... attyre occur in the ms.] [ ] [v. . they waye.] [ ] [v. . hearken what i doe say.] [ ] [v. . and goe thy.] [ ] [v. . armes . ms.] [ ] _i.e._ defiling. see warton's _observ._ vol. ii. p. . [ ] [v. . and tooke her in her armes .] [ ] [v. . that i may creape in att.] [ ] ver. . _i.e._ essay, attempt [ ] [v. - . this and itt drove now afterward till itt was neere the day.] [ ] [v. . and give.] [ ] [v. . that he may carry me the better away.] [ ] [v. . and up then rose the.] [ ] [v. . did on.] [ ] [v. . that he might carry him.] [ ] [v. . she layned.] [ ] [v. . and heard her make her moane.] [ ] [v. . i think thou art a. ms.] [ ] [ver. . for yonder is a ghost in thy stable.] [ ] [v. . but up then rose childe waters.] [ ] [v. . _and_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . full still that.] [ ] [v. . heare now faire.] [ ] _sic_ in ms., _i.e._ moaning, bemoaning, &c. [ ] [v. . my owne.] [ ] [v. . and be of good cheere i thee pray.] [ ] [v. . they shall, ms.] x. phillida and corydon. this sonnet is given from a small quarto ms. in the editor's possession, written in the time of q. elizabeth. another copy of it containing some variations, is reprinted in the _muses' library_, p. , from an ancient miscellany, intitled _england's helicon_, , to. the author was _nicholas breton_, a writer of some fame in the reign of elizabeth; who also published an interlude intitled _an old man's lesson and a young man's love_, to., and many other little pieces in prose and verse, the titles of which may be seen in winstanley, ames' _typog._ and osborne's _harl. catalog._ &c.--he is mentioned with great respect by _meres_, in his d pt. of _wit's common-wealth_, , f. , and is alluded to in beaumont and fletcher's _scornful lady_, act ii., and again in _wit without money_, act iii.--see whalley's _ben jonson_, vol. iii. p. . the present edition is improved by a copy in _england's helicon_, edit. , vo. this little pastoral is one of the songs in "the honourable entertainment gieven to the queenes majestie in progresse at elvetham in hampshire, by the r. h. the earle of hertford, , to." (printed by wolfe. no name of author.) see in that pamphlet, "the thirde daies entertainment. "on wednesday morning about o'clock, as her majestie opened a casement of her gallerie window, ther were excellent musitians, who being disguised in auncient country attire, did greet her with a pleasant song of _corydon and phillida_, made in parts of purpose. the song, as well for the worth of the dittie as the aptnesse of the note thereto applied, it pleased her highnesse after it had been once sung to command it againe, and highly to grace it with her cheerefull acceptance and commendation. the plowman's song. _in the merrie month of may, &c."_ the splendour and magnificence of elizabeth's reign is nowhere more strongly painted than in these little diaries of some of her summer excursions to the houses of her nobility; nor could a more acceptable present be given to the world, than a republication of a select number of such details as this of the entertainment at _elvetham_, that at _killingworth_, &c., &c., which so strongly mark the spirit of the times, and present us with scenes so very remote from modern manners. since the above was written, the public hath been gratified with a most compleat work on the foregoing subject, intitled, _the progresses and public processions of queen elizabeth, &c. by john nichols, f.a.s., edinb. and perth_, , vols. to. * * * * * [the author of this elegant little poem was a most voluminous author, and "is supposed to be the same capt. nicholas breton, who was of norton in northamptonshire, and dying there june , , has a monument in that church."[ ] dr. rimbault (_musical_ _illustrations of percy's reliques_) writes as follows of the music:--"we have here two settings of this beautiful pastoral, the first as it was sung by the 'three excellent musitians' before queen elizabeth in ; the second as it was reset in the following century. the first is extracted from _madrigals to , , and parts, apt for viols and voices_, newly composed by michael este, ; the second from _cheerfull ayres or ballads, set for three voyces_, by dr. john wilson, oxford, . the latter became extremely popular, and is included in d'urfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, , and several other musical miscellanies of subsequent date."] * * * * * in the merrie moneth of maye, in a morne by break of daye, with a troope of damselles playing forthe "i yode" forsooth a maying:[ ] when anon by a wood side, where as maye was in his pride, i espied all alone phillida and corydon. much adoe there was, god wot; he wold love, and she wold not. she sayde, never man was trewe; he sayes, none was false to you. he sayde, hee had lovde her longe: she sayes, love should have no wronge. corydon wold kisse her then: she sayes, maydes must kisse no men, tyll they doe for good and all. when she made the shepperde call all the heavens to wytnes truthe, never loved a truer youthe. then with manie a prettie othe, yea and nay, and, faith and trothe; suche as seelie shepperdes use when they will not love abuse; love, that had bene long deluded, was with kisses sweete concluded; and phillida with garlands gaye was made the lady of the maye. footnotes: [ ] [england's _helicon_ (brydges' _british bibliographer_, vol. iii.)] [ ] ver. . the wode, ms. xi. little musgrave and lady barnard. this ballad is ancient, and has been popular; we find it quoted in many old plays. see beaum. and fletcher's _knight of the burning pestle_, to. , act v. sc. iii. _the varietie, a comedy_, mo. , act iv. &c. in sir william davenant's play, _the witts_, a. iii. a gallant thus boasts of himself: "limber and sound! besides i sing musgrave, and for chevy-chace no lark comes near me." in the pepys _collection_, vol. iii. p. , is an imitation of this old song, in stanzas, by a more modern pen, with many alterations, but evidently for the worse. this is given from an old printed copy in the british museum, with corrections; some of which are from a fragment in the editor's folio ms. it is also printed in dryden's _collection of miscellaneous_ _poems_. * * * * * [the copy of this ballad in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. i. p. ) is a mutilated fragment consisting of only ten complete stanzas and three half ones. the oldest entire copy is to be found in _wit restor'd_, , where it is called _the_ old _ballad of little musgrave_, which is given by professor child (_english and scottish ballads_, vol. ii. p. ) in preference to percy's. this version, not very exactly transcribed, is printed in dryden's _miscellany poems_ ( , vol. iii. ), and ritson (_ancient songs and ballads_, vol. ii. p. ) copied it from thence. ritson writes of one of percy's statements above: "dr. percy indeed, by some mistake, gives it as from an old printed copy in the british museum; observing that 'in the pepys collection is an imitation of this old song in a different measure, by a more modern pen, with many alterations, but evidently for the worse.' it is very true, and not less so that the only copies in the museum (for there are two) are more recent impressions of this identical _imitation_." it is the th stanza slightly altered which is quoted in the _knight of the burning pestle_. "and some they whistled, and some they sung, hey down down! and some did loudly say ever as lord barnet's horn blew, away musgrave, away." there are several scottish versions, in which the reciters have altered the locality. jamieson has printed one which he calls _lord barnaby_ (_popular ballads and songs_, i. ). he states that he had heard it repeated both in morayshire and in the southern counties. motherwell gives the air in his _minstrelsy_ which he noted down from oral communication, and this verse-- "it fell upon a martinmas time when the nobles were a drinking wine, that little mushiegrove to the kirk he did go for to see the ladies come in." mr. j. h. dixon includes a version entitled _lord burnett and_ _little munsgrove_ in his scottish traditional versions of ancient ballads (percy society, vol. xvii.) home adopted the name of lady barnard in his _douglas_ before he took that of lady randolph, see no. , gil morrice. there is another ballad called _the bonny birdy_, with a similar story. jamieson (i. ) prints it and alters the title to _lord_ _randal_.] * * * * * as it fell out on a highe holye daye, as many bee in the yeare, when yong men and maides together do goe their masses and mattins to heare, little musgràve came to the church door, the priest was at the mass; but he had more mind of the fine womèn, then he had of our ladyes grace. and some of them were clad in greene, and others were clad in pall; and then came in my lord barnardes wife, the fairest among them all. shee cast an eye on little musgràve as bright as the summer sunne: o then bethought him little musgràve, this ladyes heart i have wonne. quoth she, i have loved thee, little musgràve, fulle long and manye a daye. so have i loved you, ladye faire, yet word i never durst saye. i have a bower at bucklesford-bury,[ ] full daintilye bedight, if thoult wend thither, my little musgràve, thoust lig in mine armes all night. quoth hee, i thanke yee, ladye faire, this kindness yee shew to mee; and whether it be to my weale or woe, this night will i lig with thee. all this beheard a litle foot-page, by his ladyes coach as he ranne: quoth he, thoughe i am my ladyes page, yet ime my lord barnardes manne. my lord barnàrd shall knowe of this, although i lose a limbe. and ever whereas the bridges were broke, he layd him downe to swimme. asleep or awake, thou lord barnàrd, as thou art a man of life, lo! this same night at bucklesford-bury litle musgrave's in bed with thy wife. if it be trew, thou litle foote-page, this tale thou hast told to mee, then all my lands in bucklesford-bury i freelye will give to thee. but and it be a lye, thou litle foot-page, this tale thou hast told to mee, on the highest tree in bucklesford-bury all hanged shalt thou bee. rise up, rise up, my merry men all, and saddle me my good steede; this night must i to bucklesford-bury; god wott, i had never more neede. then some they whistled, and some they sang, and some did loudlye saye, whenever lord barnardes horne it blewe, awaye, musgràve, away. methinkes i heare the throstle cocke, methinkes i heare the jay, methinkes i heare lord barnards home; i would i were awaye. lye still, lye still, thou little musgràve, and huggle me from the cold; for it is but some shephardes boye a whistling his sheepe to the fold.[ ] is not thy hawke upon the pearche, thy horse eating corne and haye? and thou a gay lady within thine armes: and wouldst thou be awaye? by this lord barnard was come to the dore, and lighted upon a stone: and he pulled out three silver keyes, and opened the dores eche one. he lifted up the coverlett, he lifted up the sheete; how now, how now, thou little musgràve, dost find my gaye ladye sweete? i find her sweete, quoth little musgràve, the more is my griefe and paine; ide gladlye give three hundred poundes that i were on yonder plaine. arise, arise, thou little musgràve, and put thy cloathes nowe on, it shall never be said in my countree, that i killed a naked man. i have two swordes in one scabbàrde, full deare they cost my purse; and thou shalt have the best of them, and i will have the worse. the first stroke that little musgrave strucke, he hurt lord barnard sore; the next stroke that lord barnard strucke, little musgrave never strucke more. with that bespake the ladye faire, in bed whereas she laye, althoughe thou art dead, my little musgràve, yet for thee i will praye: and wishe well to thy soule will i, so long as i have life; so will i not do for thee, barnàrd, thoughe i am thy wedded wife. he cut her pappes from off her brest; great pitye it was to see the drops of this fair ladyes bloode run trickling downe her knee. wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all, you never were borne for my goode: why did you not offer to stay my hande, when you sawe me wax so woode?[ ] for i have slaine the fairest sir knighte, that ever rode on a steede; so have i done the fairest lady, that ever ware womans weede.[ ] a grave, a grave, lord barnard cryde, to putt these lovers in; but lay my ladye o' the upper hande, for she comes o' the better kin. * * * * * [+±+] that the more modern copy is to be dated about the middle of the last century, will be readily conceived from the tenor of the concluding stanza, viz. "this sad mischief by lust was wrought; then let us call for grace, that we may shun the wicked vice, and fly from sin a-pace." footnotes: [ ] bucklefield-berry, fol. ms. [ ] ver. . is whistling sheepe ore the mold, fol. ms. [ ] [wildly angry.] [ ] [see the last stanza of _childe maurice_ from folio ms., book i. no. , which is almost identical with this.] xii. the ew-bughts, marion. a scottish song. this sonnet appears to be ancient: that and its simplicity of sentiment have recommended it to a place here. * * * * * [this is marked in ramsay's _tea table miscellany_ as an old song with additions. it is not known who wrote the song or who composed the air belonging to it. they are both old.] * * * * * will ye gae to the ew-bughts,[ ] marion, and wear in[ ] the sheip wi' mee? the sun shines sweit, my marion, but nae half sae sweit as thee. o marion's a bonnie lass; and the blyth blinks[ ] in her ee: and fain wad i marrie marion, gin marion wad marrie mee. theire's gowd in your garters, marion; and siller on your white hauss-bane[ ]: fou faine wad i kisse my marion at eene quhan i cum hame. theire's braw lads in earnslaw, marion, quha gape and glowr wi' their ee at kirk, quhan they see my marion; bot nane of them lues[ ] like mee. ive nine milk-ews, my marion, a cow and a brawney quay;[ ] ise gie tham au to my marion, just on her bridal day. and yees get a grein sey[ ] apron, and waistcote o' london broun; and wow bot ye will be vaporing quhaneir ye gang to the toun. ime yong and stout, my marion, none dance lik mee on the greine; and gin ye forsak me, marion, ise een gae draw up wi' jeane. sae put on your pearlins,[ ] marion, and kirtle oth' cramasie;[ ] and sune as my chin has nae haire on, i sall cum west, and see yee. footnotes: [ ] [the pens in which the ewes are milked.] [ ] [gather in.] [ ] [joy sparkles.] [ ] _hauss bane, i.e._ the neck-bone. marion had probably a silver locket on, tied close to her neck with a ribband, an usual ornament in scotland; where a sore throat is called "_a sair hause_," properly _halse_. [ ] [loves.] [ ] [young heifer.] [ ] [woollen cloth.] [ ] [a kind of lace made of thread or silk.] [ ] [crimson.] xiii. the knight, and shepherd's daughter. this ballad (given from an old black-letter copy, with some corrections) was popular in the time of q. elizabeth, being usually printed with her picture before it, as hearne informs us in his preface to _gul. neubrig. hist. oxon._ , vo. vol. i. p. lxx. it is quoted in fletcher's comedy of the _pilgrim_, act iv. sc. . * * * * * [it is also quoted in _the knight of the burning pestle_: "he set her on a milk white steed." (l. .) there are several scottish versions given by buchan, kinloch, and motherwell. the latter claims greater antiquity for his over percy's. it appears, however, to be a southern ballad adapted by the scotch and improved in its humour. the heroine practices various artifices to maintain the character of a "beggar's brat" when riding back with _earl richard_.] * * * * * there was a shepherd's daughter came tripping on the waye; and there by chance a knighte shee mett, which caused her to staye. good morrowe to you, beauteous maide, these words pronounced hee: o i shall dye this daye, he sayd, if ive not my wille of thee. the lord forbid, the maide replyde, that you shold waxe so wode! "but for all that shee could do or saye, he wold not be withstood." sith you have had your wille of mee, and put me to open shame, now, if you are a courteous knighte, tell me what is your name? some do call mee jacke, sweet heart, and some do call mee jille;[ ] but when i come to the kings faire courte they call me wilfulle wille. he sett his foot into the stirrup, and awaye then he did ride; she tuckt her girdle about her middle, and ranne close by his side. but when she came to the brode watèr, she sett her brest and swamme; and when she was got out againe, she tooke to her heels and ranne. he never was the courteous knighte, to saye, faire maide, will ye ride? "and she was ever too loving a maide" to saye, sir knighte abide. when she came to the kings faire courte, she knocked at the ring; so readye was the king himself to let this faire maide in. now christ you save, my gracious liege, now christ you save and see, you have a knighte within your courte this daye hath robbed mee. what hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart? of purple or of pall? or hath he took thy gaye gold ring from off thy finger small? he hath not robbed mee, my leige, of purple nor of pall: but he hath gotten my maiden head, which grieves mee worst of all. now if he be a batchelor, his bodye ile give to thee;[ ] but if he be a married man, high hanged he shall bee. he called downe his merrye men all, by one, by two, by three; sir william used to bee the first, but nowe the last came hee. he brought her downe full fortye pounde, tyed up withinne a glove: faire maid, ile give the same to thee; go, seeke thee another love. o ile have none of your gold, she sayde, nor ile have none of your fee; but your faire bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee. sir william ranne and fetchd her then five hundred pound in golde, saying, faire maide, take this to thee, thy fault will never be tolde. tis not the gold that shall mee tempt, these words then answered shee, but your own bodye i must have, the king hath granted mee. would i had dranke the water cleare, when i did drinke the wine, rather than any shepherds brat shold bee a ladye of mine! would i had drank the puddle foule, when i did drink the ale, rather than ever a shepherds brat shold tell me such a tale! a shepherds brat even as i was, you mote have let me bee, i never had come othe kings faire courte, to crave any love of thee. he sett her on a milk-white steede, and himself upon a graye; he hung a bugle about his necke, and soe they rode awaye. but when they came unto the place, where marriage-rites were done, she proved herself a dukes daughtèr, and he but a squires sonne. now marrye me, or not, sir knight. your pleasure shall be free: if you make me ladye of one good towne, ile make you lord of three. ah! cursed bee the gold, he sayd. if thou hadst not been trewe. i shold have forsaken my sweet love, and have changed her for a newe. and now their hearts being linked fast, they joyned hand in hande: thus he had both purse, and person too, and all at his commande. * footnotes: [ ] [jill is sometimes used as a woman's name and at other times as a man's.] [ ] [ver. . _his bodye ile give to thee._] this was agreeable to the feudal customs: the lord had a right to give a wife to his vassals. see shakespeare's _all's well that ends well_. xiv. the shepherd's address to his muse. this poem, originally printed from the small ms. volume, mentioned above in no. x., has been improved by a more perfect copy in _england's helicon_, where the author is discovered to be _n. breton_. * * * * * good muse, rocke me aslepe with some sweete harmony: this wearie eyes is not to kepe thy wary company. sweete love, begon a while, thou seest my heavines: beautie is borne but to beguyle my harte of happines. see howe my little flocke, that lovde to feede on highe, doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke, and in the valley dye. the bushes and the trees, that were so freshe and greene, doe all their deintie colors leese, and not a leafe is seene. the blacke birde and the thrushe, that made the woodes to ringe, with all the rest, are now at hushe, and not a note they singe. swete philomele, the birde that hath the heavenly throte, doth nowe, alas! not once afforde recordinge of a note. the flowers have had a frost, the herbs have loste their savoure; and phillida the faire hath lost "for me her wonted" favour. thus all these careful sights, so kill me in conceit; that now to hope upon delights, it is but meere deceite. and therefore, my sweete muse, that knowest what helpe is best, doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use to sett my harte at rest: and in a dreame bewraie what fate shal be my frende; whether my life shall still decaye, or when my sorrowes ende. [illustration] xv. lord thomas and fair ellinor is given (with corrections) from an ancient copy in black letter, in the pepys collection, intitled, _a tragical ballad on the unfortunate love of lord thomas and fair ellinor, together with the downfall of the browne girl_.--in the same collection may be seen an attempt to modernize this old song, and reduce it to a different measure: a proof of its popularity. the reader will find a scottish song on a similar subject to this, towards the end of this volume, intitled, _lord thomas and lady annet_. * * * * * [this is one of the ballads still kept in print in seven dials, and ritson describes it as having "every appearance of being originally a minstrel song." there is a series of ballads on the same subject-- . _lord thomas and fair annet_, (see book iii. no. .) . _fair margaret and sweet william_, (see book ii. no. .) . _sweet willie and fair annie_, (jamieson's _popular ballads_, l. .) the last named ballad is a combination of the first two, the first part being similar to _lord thomas_, and the second part to _fair_ _margaret_.] * * * * * lord thomas he was a bold forrestèr, and a chaser of the kings deere; faire ellinor was a fine womàn, and lord thomas he loved her deare. come riddle my riddle, dear mother, he sayd, and riddle us both as one; whether i shall marrye with faire ellinòr, and let the browne girl alone? the browne girl she has got houses and lands, faire ellinor she has got none, and therefore i charge thee on my blessìng, to bring me the browne girl home. and as it befelle on a high holidaye, as many there are beside, lord thomas he went to faire ellinòr, that should have been his bride. and when he came to faire ellinors bower, he knocked there at the ring, and who was so readye as faire ellinòr, to lett lord thomas withinn. what newes, what newes, lord thomas, she sayd? what newes dost thou bring to mee? i am come to bid thee to my weddìng, and that is bad newes for thee. o god forbid, lord thomas, she sayd, that such a thing should be done; i thought to have been the bride my selfe, and thou to have been the bridegrome. come riddle my riddle, dear mother, she sayd,[ ] and riddle it all in one; whether i shall goe to lord thomas his wedding, or whether shall tarry at home? there are manye that are your friendes, daughtèr, and manye a one your foe, therefore i charge you on my blessing, to lord thomas his wedding don't goe. there are manye that are my friendes, mothèr; but were every one my foe, betide me life, betide me death, to lord thomas his wedding i'ld goe. she cloathed herself in gallant attire, and her merrye men all in greene; and as they rid through every towne, they took her to be some queene. but when she came to lord thomas his gate, she knocked there at the ring; and who was so readye as lord thomàs, to lett faire ellinor in. is this your bride, fair ellinor sayd? methinks she looks wonderous browne; thou mightest have had as faire a womàn, as ever trod on the grounde. despise her not, fair ellin, he sayd, despise her not unto mee; for better i love thy little fingèr, than all her whole bodèe. this browne bride had a little penknife, that was both long and sharpe, and betwixt the short ribs and the long, she prickd faire ellinor's harte. o christ thee save, lord thomas, hee sayd, methinks thou lookst wonderous wan; thou usedst to look with as fresh a colòur, as ever the sun shone on. oh, art thou blind, lord thomas? she sayd, or canst thou not very well see? oh! dost thou not see my owne hearts bloode run trickling down my knee. lord thomas he had a sword by his side; as he walked about the halle, he cut off his brides head from her shouldèrs, and threw it against the walle. he set the hilte against the grounde, and the point against his harte. there never three lovers together did meete, that sooner againe did parte. footnotes: [ ] ver. . it should probably be, _read me, read, &c., i.e._ advise me, advise. xvi. cupid and campaspe. this elegant little sonnet is found in the third act of an old play intitled _alexander and campaspe_, written by john lilye, a celebrated writer in the time of queen elizabeth. that play was first printed in ; but this copy is given from a later edition. * * * * * [these pretty epigrammatic verses occur in act iii. sc. . of lilly's play as a song by apelles. the first edition of _campaspe_ was printed in , and that of , mentioned above, is the second edition. this song, however, was omitted in all the editions printed before that of e. blount (_six court comedies, ._)] * * * * * cupid and my campaspe playd at cardes for kisses; cupid payd: he stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, his mothers doves, and teame of sparrows; loses them too; then down he throws the coral of his lippe, the rose growing on's cheek (but none knows how) with these, the crystal of his browe, and then the dimple of his chinne; all these did my campaspe winne. at last he set her both his eyes, she won, and cupid blind did rise. o love! has she done this to thee? what shall, alas! become of mee? xvii. the lady turned serving-man is given from a written copy, containing some improvements (perhaps modern ones), upon the popular ballad, intitled, _the famous flower of serving-men_: or the _lady turned serving-man_. * * * * * [it is printed in the _collection of old ballads_ (i. ) without the _improvements_. after verse the first person is changed to the third in the original, but percy altered this and made the first person run on throughout. kinloch (_ancient scottish ballads_, p. ) gives a very mutilated and varied version of this ballad in the scottish dress under the title of _sweet willie_, which was taken down from the recitation of an old woman in lanark. there is a similar story in swedish and danish.] * * * * * you beauteous ladyes, great and small, i write unto you one and all, whereby that you may understand what i have suffered in the land. i was by birth a lady faire, an ancient barons only heire, and when my good old father dyed, then i became a young knightes bride. and there my love built me a bower, bedeck'd with many a fragrant flower; a braver bower you ne'er did see then my true-love did build for mee. and there i livde a ladye gay, till fortune wrought our loves decay; for there came foes so fierce a band, that soon they over-run the land. they came upon us in the night, and brent my bower, and slew my knight; and trembling hid in mans array, i scant with life escap'd away. in the midst of this extremitìe, my servants all did from me flee: thus was i left myself alone, with heart more cold than any stone. yet though my heart was full of care, heaven would not suffer me to dispaire, wherefore in haste i chang'd my name from faire elise, to sweet williame: and therewithall i cut my haire, resolv'd my man's attire to weare; and in my beaver, hose and band, i travell'd far through many a land. at length all wearied with my toil, i sate me downe to rest awhile; my heart it was so fill'd with woe, that downe my cheeke the teares did flow. it chanc'd the king of that same place with all his lords a hunting was, and seeing me weepe, upon the same askt who i was, and whence i came. then to his grace i did replye, i am a poore and friendlesse boye, though nobly borne, nowe forc'd to bee a serving-man of lowe degree. stand up, faire youth, the king reply'd, for thee a service i'll provyde: but tell me first what thou canst do; thou shalt be fitted thereunto. wilt thou be usher of my hall, to wait upon my nobles all? or wilt be taster of my wine, to 'tend on me when i shall dine? or wilt thou be my chamberlaine, about my person to remaine? or wilt thou be one of my guard, and i will give thee great reward? chuse, gentle youth, said he, thy place. then i reply'd, if it please your grace to shew such favour unto mee, your chamberlaine i faine would bee. the king then smiling gave consent, and straitwaye to his court i went; where i behavde so faithfullìe, that hee great favour showd to mee. now marke what fortune did provide; the king he would a hunting ride with all his lords and noble traine, sweet william must at home remaine. thus being left alone behind, my former state came in my mind: i wept to see my mans array; no longer now a ladye gay. and meeting with a ladyes vest, within the same myself i drest; with silken robes, and jewels rare, i deckt me, as a ladye faire: and taking up a lute straitwaye, upon the same i strove to play; and sweetly to the same did sing, as made both hall and chamber ring. "my father was as brave a lord, as ever europe might afford; my mother was a lady bright; my husband was a valiant knight: "and i myself a ladye gay, bedeckt with gorgeous rich array; the happiest lady in the land, had not more pleasure at command. "i had my musicke every day harmonious lessons for to play; i had my virgins fair and free, continually to wait on mee. "but now, alas! my husband's dead, and all my friends are from me fled, my former days are past and gone, and i am now a serving-man." and fetching many a tender sigh, as thinking no one then was nigh, in pensive mood i laid me lowe, my heart was full, the tears did flowe. the king, who had a huntinge gone, grewe weary of his sport anone, and leaving all his gallant traine, turn'd on the sudden home againe: and when he reach'd his statelye tower, hearing one sing within his bower, he stopt to listen, and to see who sung there so melodiouslìe. thus heard he everye word i sed, and saw the pearlye teares i shed, and found to his amazement there, sweete william was a ladye faire. then stepping in, faire ladye, rise, and dry, said he, those lovelye eyes, for i have heard thy mournful tale, the which shall turne to thy availe. a crimson dye my face orespred, i blusht for shame, and hung my head, to find my sex and story knowne, when as i thought i was alone. but to be briefe, his royall grace grewe so enamour'd of my face, the richest gifts he proffered mee, his mistress if that i would bee. ah! no, my liege, i firmlye sayd, i'll rather in my grave be layd, and though your grace hath won my heart, i ne'er will act soe base a part. faire ladye, pardon me, sayd hee, thy virtue shall rewarded bee, and since it is soe fairly tryde thou shalt become my royal bride. then strait to end his amorous strife, he tooke sweet william to his wife. the like before was never seene, a serving-man became a queene. [***] xviii. gil morrice. a scottish ballad. the following piece hath run thro' two editions in scotland: the second was printed at glasgow in , vo. prefixed to them both is an advertisement, setting forth that the preservation of this poem was owing "to a lady, who favoured the printers with a copy, as it was carefully collected from the mouths of old women and nurses;" and "any reader that can render it more correct or complete," is desired to oblige the public with such improvements. in consequence of this advertisement sixteen additional verses have been produced and handed about in manuscript, which are here inserted in their proper places: (these are from ver. , to ver. , and from ver. , to ver. , but are perhaps, after all, only an ingenious interpolation.) as this poem lays claim to a pretty high antiquity, we have assigned it a place among our early pieces: though, after all, there is reason to believe it has received very considerable modern improvements: for in the editor's ancient ms. collection is a very old imperfect copy of the same ballad: wherein though the leading features of the story are the same, yet the colouring here is so much improved and heightened, and so many additional strokes are thrown in, that it is evident the whole has undergone a revisal. this little pathetic tale suggested the plot of the tragedy of _douglas_. since it was first printed, the editor has been assured that the foregoing ballad is still current in many parts of scotland, where the hero is universally known by the name of _child maurice_, pronounced by the common people _cheild_ or _cheeld_; which occasioned the mistake. it may be proper to mention that other copies read ver. , thus: "shot frae the golden sun" and ver. , as follows: "his een like azure sheene." n.b. the editor's ms. instead of "lord barnard," has "john stewart;" and instead of "gil morrice," _child maurice_, which last is probably the original title. see above, p. . * * * * * [_gil maurice_ is one of the most popular of the old ballads and it is also one of the most corrupt. the present copy is so tinkered that it is not surprising burns regarded the ballad as a modern composition and classed it with _hardyknute_, a position afterwards taken up by robert chambers in his pamphlet _the romantic scottish ballads, their epoch and authorship_. the fact however that the story is preserved in the folio ms. and also in several other forms obtained from tradition prove it to be an authentic ballad. jamieson thinks it has all the appearance of being a true narrative of some incident that had really taken place. motherwell devotes several pages of his _minstrelsy_ (pp. - ) to an account of the various versions. he says that tradition points out the "green wood" of the ballad in the ancient forest of dundaff in stirlingshire. the request for additions mentioned above by percy was a tempting bait eagerly caught at, and the edition of was a made up text with additional verses. besides vv. - , - , which are known to be interpolations, professor child (_english and scottish ballads_, vol. ii. p. ) also degrades to the foot of the page the verses from to the end, on the authority of jamieson, who says, that "having been attentive to all the proceedings in most of the trials at the bar of ballad criticism i may venture to hazard an opinion that the genuine text ends with 'ver. .'" ritson and motherwell are of the same opinion. sir walter scott notes on the interpolated verses, "in the beautiful and simple ballad of _gil morris_ some affected person has stuck in one or two factitious verses which, like vulgar persons in a drawing room, betray themselves by their over-finery." the fine copy in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ), which jamieson thought debased and totally unworthy of the subject, which chambers calls "a poor, bald imperfect composition," and mr. hales more accurately designates as "a noble specimen of our ballad poetry in all its strength," was first printed by jamieson (_popular ballads and songs_, , vol. i. p. ), and is now added to the present version. the last stanza of the folio ms. copy is identical with the last stanza but one of _little musgrave_ _and lady barnard_, with which it seems to have some connection both in subject and name. prof. aytoun points out that vv. - of percy's copy, which are now placed within brackets, are taken from _lady maisry_, a ballad obtained from recitation and printed by jamieson (vol. i. p. ). "o whan he came to broken briggs he bent his bow and swam, and whan he came to the green grass growin' he slack'd his shoon and ran. and whan he came to lord william's yeats he badena to chap or ca', but set his bent bow to his breast and lightly lap the wa'." it is however only fair to percy to say that he printed _gil morice_ before _lady maisry_ was published. gray wrote to a friend, "i have got the old scotch ballad on which _douglas_ was founded; it is divine, and as long as from hence [cambridge] to aston." jamieson says, on the authority of sir walter scott, that after the appearance of home's _douglas_ six additional stanzas, beginning-- "she heard him speak, but fell despair sat rooted in her heart she heard him, and she heard nae mair though sair she rued the smart," were written to complete the ballad, and in accordance with the final catastrophe of the tragedy lord barnard rushes into the thickest of the fight-- "and meets the death he sought." when the play was produced in edinburgh in the heroine was named lady barnard, and the alteration to lady randolph was made on its appearance in england in the following year. jamieson gives three stanzas of a traditional version of the ballad, the whole of which neither he nor motherwell could recover, although mr. sharpe told the latter that they were incorporated in an annandale version which contained a novel feature in the story. motherwell prints a version called _chield morice_, which he took down from the recitation of an old woman of in , and which she had learned in infancy from her grandmother. she told motherwell "that at a later period of her life she also committed to memory _gill morice_, which began with young lasses like her to be a greater favourite, and more fashionable than the set which her grandmother and other old folks used to sing under the title of _chield morice_." he also prints _child moryce_, taken down from the singing of widow m'cormick of paisley in , and adds his opinion that morice and maurice are evident corruptions of norice--a foster child. the story of langhorne's _owen of carron_ is also taken from this ballad.] * * * * * gil morrice was an erlès son, his name it waxed wide; it was nae for his great richès, nor yet his mickle pride; bot it was for a lady gay, that livd on carron side. quhair sall i get a bonny boy, that will win hose and shoen; that will gae to lord barnards ha', and bid his lady cum? and ye maun rin my errand, willie;[ ] and ye may rin wi' pride; quhen other boys gae on their foot, on horse-back ye sall ride. o no! oh no! my master dear! i dare nae for my life; i'll no gae to the bauld baròns, for to triest furth his wife. my bird willie, my boy willie; my dear willie, he sayd: how can ye strive against the stream? for i sall be obeyd. bot, o my master dear! he cryd, in grene wod ye're your lain;[ ] gi owre sic thochts, i walde ye rede,[ ] for fear ye should be tain. haste, haste, i say, gae to the ha', bid hir cum here wi speid: if ye refuse my heigh command, ill gar your body bleid. gae bid hir take this gay mantèl, 'tis a' gowd bot the hem;[ ] bid hir cum to the gude grene wode, and bring nane bot hir lain: and there it is, a silken sarke, her ain hand sewd the sleive; and bid hir cum to gill morice, speir nae bauld barons leave. yes, i will gae your black errand, though it be to your cost; sen ye by me will nae be warn'd, in it ye sall find frost. the baron he is a man of might, he neir could bide to taunt, as ye will see before its nicht, how sma' ye hae to vaunt. and sen i maun your errand rin sae sair against my will, i'se mak a vow and keip it trow, it sall be done for ill. [and quhen he came to broken brigue, he bent his bow and swam; and quhen he came to grass growing, set down his feet and ran. and quhen he came to barnards ha', would neither chap[ ] nor ca': bot set his bent bow to his breist, and lichtly lap the wa'.][ ] he wauld nae tell the man his errand, though he stude at the gait; bot straiht into the ha' he cam, quhair they were set at meit. hail! hail! my gentle sire and dame! my message winna waite; dame, ye maun to the gude grene wod before that it be late. ye're bidden tak this gay mantèl, tis a' gowd bot the hem:[ ] you maun gae to the gude grene wode, ev'n by your sel alane. and there it is, a silken sarke, your ain hand sewd the sleive; ye maun gae speik to gill morìce; speir nae bauld barons leave. the lady stamped wi' hir foot, and winked wi' hir ee; bot a' that she coud say or do, forbidden he wad nae bee. its surely to my bow'r-womàn; it neir could be to me. i brocht it to lord barnards lady; i trow that ye be she. then up and spack the wylie nurse, (the bairn upon hir knee) if it be cum frae gill morice, it's deir welcum to mee. ye leid, ye leid, ye filthy nurse, sae loud i heird ye lee;[ ] i brocht it to lord barnards lady; i trow ye be nae shee. then up and spack the bauld baròn, an angry man was hee; he's tain the table wi' his foot, sae has he wi' his knee; till siller cup and 'mazer'[ ] dish in flinders he gard flee.[ ] gae bring a robe of your clidìng,[ ] that hings upon the pin; and i'll gae to the gude grene wode, and speik wi' your lemmàn. o bide at hame, now lord barnàrd, i warde ye bide at hame; neir wyte[ ] a man for violence, that neir wate[ ] ye wi' nane. gil morice sate in gude grene wode, he whistled and he sang': o what mean a' the folk comìng, my mother tarries lang. [his hair was like the threeds of gold, drawne frae minervas loome: his lipps like roses drapping dew, his breath was a' perfume. his brow was like the mountain snae gilt by the morning beam: his cheeks like living roses glow: his een like azure stream. the boy was clad in robes of grene, sweete as the infant spring: and like the mavis on the bush, he gart the vallies ring.] the baron came to the grene wode, wi' mickle dule and care, and there he first spied gill morìce kameing his yellow hair: [that sweetly wavd around his face, that face beyond compare: he sang sae sweet it might dispel, a' rage but fell despair.][ ] nae wonder, nae wonder, gill morìce, my lady loed thee weel, the fairest part of my bodie is blacker than thy heel. yet neir the less now, gill morìce, for a' thy great beautiè, ye's rew the day ye eir was born; that head sall gae wi' me. now he has drawn his trusty brand, and slaited on the strae;[ ] and thro' gill morice' fair body he's gar cauld iron gae. and he has tain gill morice' head and set it on a speir; the meanest man in a' his train has gotten that head to bear. and he has tain gill morice up, laid him across his steid, and brocht him to his painted bowr and laid him on a bed. the lady sat on castil wa', beheld baith dale and doun; and there she saw gill morice' head cum trailing to the toun. far better i loe that bluidy head, both and that yellow hair, than lord barnard, and a' his lands, as they lig here and thair. and she has tain her gill morice, and kissd baith mouth and chin: i was once as fow of gill morice, as the hip is o' the stean.[ ] i got ye in my father's house, wi' mickle sin and shame; i brocht thee up in gude grene wode, under the heavy rain. oft have i by thy cradle sitten, and fondly seen thee sleip; but now i gae about thy grave, the saut tears for to weip. and syne she kissd his bluidy cheik, and syne his bluidy chin: o better i loe my gill morice than a' my kith and kin! away, away, ye ill womàn, and an il deith mait ye dee: gin i had kend he'd bin your son, he'd neir bin slain for mee. [obraid me not, my lord barnard! obraid me not for shame! wi' that saim speir o pierce my heart! and put me out o' pain. since nothing bot gill morice head thy jelous rage could quell, let that saim hand now tak hir life, that neir to thee did ill. to me nae after days nor nichts will eir be saft or kind; i'll fill the air with heavy sighs, and greet till i am blind. enouch of blood by me's bin spilt, seek not your death frae mee; i rather lourd it had been my sel than eather him or thee. with waefo wae i hear your plaint; sair, sair i rew the deid, that eir this cursed hand of mine had gard his body bleid. dry up your tears, my winsome dame, ye neir can heal the wound; ye see his head upon the speir, his heart's blude on the ground. i curse the hand that did the deid, the heart that thocht the ill; the feet that bore me wi' silk speid, the comely youth to kill. i'll ay lament for gill morice, as gin he were mine ain; i'll neir forget the dreiry day on which the youth was slain.] [illustration] * * * * * [the following is copied from the folio ms. (ed. h. & f. vol. . pp. - .) childe maurice hunted ithe siluen wood, he hunted itt round about, & noebodye that he ffound therin, nor none there was with-out. & he tooke his siluer combe in his hand, to kembe his yellow lockes; he sayes, "come hither, thou litle ffoot page, that runneth lowlye by my knee; ffor thou shalt goe to iohn stewards wiffe & pray her speake with mee. "& as itt ffalls out many times, as knotts beene knitt on a kell, or marchant men gone to leeue london either to buy ware or sell, "i, and greete thou doe that ladye well, euer soe well ffroe mee,-- and as itt ffalles out many times as any hart can thinke, "as schoole masters are in any schoole house writting with pen and iinke,-- ffor if i might, as well as shee may, this night i wold with her speake. "& heere i send her a mantle of greene, as greene as any grasse, & bidd her come to the siluer wood to hunt with child maurice; "& there i send her a ring of gold, a ring of precyous stone, & bidd her come to the siluer wood; let ffor no kind of man." one while this litle boy he yode, another while he ran; vntill he came to iohn stewards hall, i-wis he neuer blan. & of nurture the child had good; hee ran vp hall & bower ffree, & when he came to this lady ffaire, sayes, "god you saue and see! "i am come ffrom ch[i]ld maurice, a message vnto thee; & child maurice, he greetes you well, & euer soe well ffrom mee. "& as itt ffalls out oftentimes, as knotts beene knitt on a kell, or marchant men gone to leeue london, either ffor to buy ware or sell, "& as oftentimes he greetes you well as any hart can thinke, or schoole masters in any schoole wryting with pen and inke; "& heere he sends a mantle of greene, as greene as any grasse, & he bidds you come to the siluer wood, to hunt with child maurice. "& heere he sends you a ring of gold, a ring of the precyous stone, he prayes you to come to the siluer wood, let ffor no kind of man." "now peace, now peace, thou litle ffootpage, ffor christes sake, i pray thee! ffor if my lord heare one of these words, thou must be hanged hye!" iohn steward stood vnder the castle wall, & he wrote the words euerye one, & he called vnto his horskeeper, "make readye you my steede!" i, and soe hee did to his chamberlaine, "make readye then my weede!" & he cast a lease[ ] vpon his backe, & he rode to the siluer wood; & there he sought all about, about the siluer wood, & there he ffound him child maurice sitting vpon a blocke, with a siluer combe in his hand kembing his yellow locke. he sayes, "how now, how now, child maurice? alacke! how may this bee?" but then stood vp him child maurice, & sayd these words trulye: "i doe not know your ladye," he said, "if that i doe her see." "ffor thou hast sent her loue tokens, more now then or ; "ffor thou hast sent her a mantle of greene, as greene as any grasse, & bade her come to the siluer woode to hunt with child maurice; "& thou [hast] sent her a ring of gold, a ring of precyous stone, & bade her come to the siluer wood, let ffor noe kind of man. "and by my ffaith, now, child maurice, the tone of vs shall dye!" "now be my troth," sayd child maurice, "& that shall not be i." but hee pulled forth a bright browne sword & dryed itt on the grasse, & soe ffast he smote att iohn steward, i-wisse he neuer rest. then hee pulled fforth his bright browne sword, & dryed itt on his sleeue; & the ffirst good stroke iohn stewart stroke, child maurice head he did cleeue; & he pricked itt on his swords poynt, went singing there beside, & he rode till he came to that ladye ffaire wheras this ladye lyed; and sayes "dost thou know child maurice head if that thou dost itt see? & lapp itt soft, & kisse itt offt, ffor thou louedst him better then mee." but when shee looked on child maurice head shee neuer spake words but , "i neuer beare no child but one, & you haue slaine him trulye." sayes, "wicked by my merry men all, i gaue meate, drinke, & clothe! but cold they not haue holden me when i was in all that wrath? "ffor i haue slaine one of the curteouse[s]t knights that euer bestrode a steed! soe haue i done one [of] the fairest ladyes that euer ware womans weede!" ffins] footnotes: [ ] ver. . something seems wanting here. [ ] [alone by yourself.] [ ] [advise.] [ ] ver. , and , perhaps, _'bout the hem_. [ ] [knock.] [ ] v. . could this be the wall of the castle? [ ] ver. . perhaps, _loud say i heire_. [ ] _i.e._ a drinking cup of maple: other edit. read _ezar_. [ ] [in splinters he made fly.] [ ] [clothing.] [ ] [blame.] [ ] [blamed.] [ ] ver. . so milton,-- "vernal delight and joy: able to drive all sadness but despair."-- b. iv. v. . [ ] [and wiped it on the grass.] [ ] [as the berry is of the stone.] [ ] leash, thong, cord?--f. the end of the first book. [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the third. book ii. [illustration] [illustration] i. the legend of sir guy contains a short summary of the exploits of this famous champion, as recorded in the old story books; and is commonly intitled, "a pleasant song of the valiant deeds of chivalry atchieved by that noble knight sir guy of warwick, who, for the love of fair phelis, became a hermit, and dyed in a cave of craggy rocke, a mile distant from warwick." the history of sir guy, tho' now very properly resigned to children, was once admired by all readers of wit and taste: for taste and wit had once their childhood. although of english growth, it was early a favourite with other nations: it appeared in french in ; and is alluded to in the old spanish romance _tirante el blanco_, which, it is believed, was written not long after the year . see advertisement to the french translation, vols. mo. the original whence all these stories are extracted is a very ancient romance in old english verse, which is quoted by chaucer as a celebrated piece even in his time (viz.:-- "men speken of romances of price, of horne childe and ippotis, of bevis, and sir guy," &c.--_r. of thop._) and was usually sung to the harp at christmas dinners and brideales, as we learn from puttenham's _art of poetry_, to. . this ancient romance is not wholly lost. an imperfect copy in black letter, "imprynted at london----for wylliam copland," in sheets to. without date, is still preserved among mr. garrick's collection of old plays. as a specimen of the poetry of this antique rhymer, take his description of the dragon mentioned in v. of the following ballad:-- "----a messenger came to the king. syr king, he sayd, lysten me now, for bad tydinges i bring you, in northumberlande there is no man, but that they be slayne everychone: for there dare no man route, by twenty myle rounde aboute, for doubt of a fowle dragon, that sleath men and beastes downe. he is blacke as any cole, rugged as a rough fole; his bodye from the navill upwarde no man may it pierce it is so harde; his neck is great as any summere; he renneth as swifte as any distrere; pawes he hath as a lyon: all that he toucheth he sleath dead downe. great winges he hath to flight, that is no man that bare him might. there may no man fight him agayne, but that he sleath him certayne: for a fowler beast then is he, ywis of none never heard ye." sir william dugdale is of opinion that the story of guy is not wholly apocryphal, tho' he acknowledges the monks have sounded out his praises too hyperbolically. in particular, he gives the duel fought with the danish champion as a real historical truth, and fixes the date of it in the year , Ætat. guy, . see his _warwickshire_. the following is written upon the same plan as ballad v. book i., but which is the original and which the copy cannot be decided. this song is ancient, as may be inferred from the idiom preserved in the margin, v. , : and was once popular, as appears from fletcher's _knight of the burning pestle_, act , sc. ult. it is here published from an ancient ms. copy in the editor's old folio volume, collated with two printed ones, one of which is in black letter in the pepys collection. * * * * * [guy was one of the most popular of the heroes of romance, and the folio ms. contains three pieces upon his history, viz., the two printed here and _guy and colbrand_. the original of the present ballad in the folio ms., entitled _guy and phillis_ (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ), is a mere fragment beginning with verse . percy tore out certain leaves to send to the printer, and in consequence the whole of _king estmere_ and the beginning of this ballad are lost. alterations have been made in nearly every verse by the help of the printed copies. _guy and phillis_ was entered on the stationers' books, th january, - . we are told by dugdale that an english traveller, about the year , was hospitably received at jerusalem by the soldan's lieutenant, who, hearing that lord beauchamp "was descended from the famous guy of warwick, whose story they had in books of their own language, invited him to his palace; and royally feasting him, presented him with three precious stones of great value, besides divers cloaths of silk and gold given to his servants." dugdale's authority for this story was john rous, a priest of the chapel at guy's cliff, near warwick, who compiled a biography of the hero, in which all the incidents of the romance are narrated as sober fact. the constant praises of the hero bored some people, and corbet, in his _iter boreale_, expressed the hope that he should hear no more of him-- "may all the ballads be call'd in and dye which sing the warrs of colebrand and sir guy." much valuable information on this subject will be found in mr. hale's interesting introduction to the guy poems in the folio ms.] * * * * * was ever knight for ladyes sake soe tost in love, as i sir guy for phelis fayre, that lady bright as ever man beheld with eye? she gave me leave myself to try, the valiant knight with sheeld and speare, ere that her love shee wold grant me; which made mee venture far and neare. then proved i a baron bold,[ ] in deeds of armes the doughtyest knight that in those dayes in england was, with sworde and speare in feild to fight. an english man i was by birthe: in faith of christ a christyan true: the wicked lawes of infidells i sought by prowesse to subdue. 'nine' hundred twenty yeere and odde[ ] after our saviour christ his birth, when king athèlstone wore the crowne, i lived heere upon the earth. sometime i was of warwicke erle, and, as i sayd, of very truth a ladyes love did me constraine to seeke strange ventures in my youth. to win me fame by feates of armes in strange and sundry heathen lands; where i atchieved for her sake right dangerous conquests with my hands. for first i sayled to normandye, and there i stoutlye wan in fight the emperours daughter of almaine, from manye a vallyant worthye knight. then passed i the seas to greece to helpe the emperour in his right; against the mightye souldans hoaste of puissant persians for to fight. where i did slay of sarazens, and heathen pagans, manye a man; and slew the souldans cozen deere, who had to name doughtye coldràn. eskeldered a famous knight to death likewise i did pursue: and elmayne king of tyre alsoe, most terrible in fight to viewe. i went into the souldans hoast, being thither on embassage sent, and brought his head awaye with mee; i having slaine him in his tent. there was a dragon in that land most fiercelye mett me by the waye as hee a lyon did pursue, which i myself did alsoe slay. then soon i past the seas from greece, and came to pavye land aright: where i the duke of pavye killed, his hainous treason to requite. to england then i came with speede, to wedd faire phelis lady bright: for love of whome i travelled farr to try my manhood and my might. but when i had espoused her, i stayd with her but fortye dayes, ere that i left this ladye faire, and went from her beyond the seas. all cladd in gray, in pilgrim sort, my voyage from her i did take unto the blessed holy-land, for jesus christ my saviours sake. where i erle jonas did redeeme, and all his sonnes which were fifteene, who with the cruell sarazens in prison for long time had beene. i slew the gyant amarant in battel fiercelye hand to hand: and doughty barknard killed i, a treacherous knight of pavye land. then i to england came againe, and here with colbronde fell i fought: an ugly gyant, which the danes had for their champion hither brought. i overcame him in the feild, and slewe him soone right valliantlye; wherebye this land i did redeeme from danish tribute utterlye. and afterwards i offered upp the use of weapons solemnlye at winchester, whereas i fought, in sight of manye farr and nye. 'but first,' neare winsor, i did slaye a bore of passing might and strength; whose like in england never was for hugenesse both in bredth, and length. some of his bones in warwicke yett, within the castle there doe lye:[ ] one of his sheeld-bones to this day hangs in the citye of coventrye. on dunsmore heath i alsoe slewe a monstrous wyld and cruell beast, calld the dun-cow of dunsmore heath; which manye people had opprest. some of her bones in warwicke yett still for a monument doe lye;[ ] and there exposed to lookers viewe as wonderous strange, they may espye. a dragon in northumberland, i alsoe did in fight destroye, which did bothe man and beast oppresse, and all the countrye sore annoye. at length to warwicke i did come, like pilgrim poore and was not knowne; and there i lived a hermitts life a mile and more out of the towne. where with my hands i hewed a house out of a craggy rocke of stone; and lived like a palmer poore within that cave myself alone: and daylye came to begg my bread of phelis att my castle gate; not knowne unto my loved wiffe who dailye mourned for her mate. till att the last i fell sore sicke, yea sicke soe sore that i must dye; i sent to her a ring of golde, by which shee knew me presentlye. then shee repairing to the cave before that i gave up the ghost; herself closd up my dying eyes: my phelis faire, whom i lovd most. thus dreadful death did me arrest, to bring my corpes unto the grave; and like a palmer dyed i, wherby i sought my soule to save. my body that endured this toyle, though now it be consumed to mold; my statue faire engraven in stone, in warwicke still you may behold. footnotes: [ ] ver. . the proud sir guy, _pc._ [ ] ver. . two hundred, ms. and p. [ ] ver. , , doth lye, ms. ii. guy and amarant. the editor found this poem in his ancient folio manuscript among the old ballads; he was desirous therefore that it should still accompany them; and as it is not altogether devoid of merit, its insertion here will be pardoned. although this piece seems not imperfect, there is reason to believe that it is only part of a much larger poem, which contained the whole history of sir guy: for upon comparing it with the common story book mo. we find the latter to be nothing more than this poem reduced to prose: which is only effected by now and then altering the rhyme, and throwing out some few of the poetical ornaments. the disguise is so slight, that it is an easy matter to pick complete stanzas in any page of that book. the author of this poem has shown some invention. though he took the subject from the old romance quoted before, he has adorned it afresh, and made the story intirely his own. this poem has been discovered to be a fragment of, "the famous historie of guy earl of warwicke, by _samuel rowlands_, london, printed by j. bell, , to." in xii cantos, beginning thus: "when dreadful mars in armour every day." whether the edition in , was the first, is not known, but the author _sam. rowlands_ was one of the minor poets who lived in the reigns of q. elizabeth and james i. and perhaps later. his other poems are chiefly of the religious kind, which makes it probable that the hist. of guy was one of his earliest performances.--there are extant of his ( .) "_the betraying of christ, judas in dispaire, the seven words of our saviour on the crosse, with other poems on the passion, &c._ , to. (ames typ. p. .)--( .) _a theatre of delightful recreation._ lond. printed for a. johnson, ," to. (penes editor.) this is a book of poems on subjects chiefly taken from the old testament. ( .) "_memory of christ's miracles, in verse._ lond. , to." ( .) "_heaven's glory, earth's vanity, and hell's horror._ lond. , vo." (these two in bod. cat.) in the present edition the following poem has been much improved from the printed copy. * * * * * [this poem is a very poor thing and looks very like a joke in some parts. in the folio ms. percy has written "by the elegance of language and easy flow of the versification this poem should be more modern than the rest." mr. furnivall adds to this expression of opinion the following note, "the first bombastic rhodomontade affair in the book. certainly modern and certainly bad" (folio ms. ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. .) collations from the ms. are added at the foot of the page.] * * * * * guy journeyes towards that sanctifyed ground,[ ] whereas the jewes fayre citye sometime stood, wherin our saviour's sacred head was crowned, and where for sinfull man he shed his blood: to see the sepulcher was his intent, the tombe that joseph unto jesus lent. with tedious miles he tyred his wearye feet, and passed desart places full of danger, at last with a most woefull wight[ ] did meet, a man that unto sorrow was noe stranger: for he had fifteen sonnes, made captives all to slavish bondage, in extremest thrall. a gyant called amarant detaind them, whom noe man durst encounter for his strength: who in a castle, which he held, had chaind them: guy questions, where? and understands at length the place not farr.--lend me thy sword, quoth hee, ile lend my manhood all thy sonnes to free. with that he goes, and lays upon the dore, like one that sayes, i must, and will come in:[ ] the gyant never was soe rowz'd before;[ ] for noe such knocking at his gate had bin: soe takes his keyes, and clubb, and cometh out staring with ireful countenance about. sirra, quoth hee, what busines hast thou heere?[ ] art come to feast the crowes about my walls?[ ] didst never heare, noe ransome can him cleere,[ ] that in the compasse of my furye falls: for making me to take a porters paines, with this same clubb i will dash out thy braines. gyant, quoth guy, y'are quarrelsome i see,[ ] choller and you seem very neere of kin:[ ] most dangerous at the clubb belike you bee;[ ] i have bin better armed, though nowe goe thin; but shew thy utmost hate, enlarge thy spight, keene is my weapon, and shall doe me right.[ ] soe draws his sword, salutes him with the same[ ] about the head, the shoulders, and the side:[ ] whilst his erected clubb doth death proclaime, standinge with huge colossus' spacious stride, putting such vigour to his knotty beame, that like a furnace he did smoke extreame. but on the ground he spent his strokes in vaine, for guy was nimble to avoyde them still, and ever ere he heav'd his clubb againe,[ ] did brush his plated coat against his will:[ ] att such advantage guy wold never fayle, to bang him soundlye in his coate of mayle.[ ] att last through thirst the gyant feeble grewe,[ ] and sayd to guy, as thou'rt of humane race, shew itt in this, give natures wants their dewe,[ ] let me but goe, and drinke in yonder place: thou canst not yeeld to "me" a smaller thing, than to graunt life, thats given by the spring.[ ] i graunt thee leave, quoth guye, goe drink thy last,[ ] go pledge the dragon, and the salvage bore[ ]:[ ] succeed the tragedyes that they have past, but never thinke to taste cold water more:[ ] drinke deepe to death and unto him carouse:[ ] bid him receive thee in his earthen house. soe to the spring he goes, and slakes his thirst; takeing the water in extremely like some wracked shipp that on a rocke is burst,[ ] whose forced hulke against the stones does stryke;[ ] scooping it in soe fast with both his hands, that guy admiring to behold it stands.[ ] come on, quoth guy, let us to worke againe,[ ] thou stayest about thy liquor overlong; the fish, which in the river doe remaine, will want thereby; thy drinking doth them wrong: but i will see their satisfaction made, with gyants blood they must, and shall be payd. villaine, quoth amarant, ile crush thee streight; thy life shall pay thy daring toungs offence: this clubb, which is about some hundred weight, is deathes commission to dispatch thee hence:[ ] dresse thee for ravens dyett i must needes; and breake thy bones, as they were made of reedes. incensed much by these bold pagan bostes,[ ] which worthye guy cold ill endure to heare, he hewes upon those bigg supporting postes, which like two pillars did his body beare: amarant for those wounds in choller growes and desperatelye att guy his clubb he throwes: which did directly on his body light, soe violent, and weighty there-withall,[ ] that downe to ground on sudden came the knight; and, ere he cold recover from the fall,[ ] the gyant gott his clubb againe in fist,[ ] and aimd a stroke that wonderfullye mist.[ ] traytor, quoth guy, thy falshood ile repay, this coward act to intercept my bloode. sayes amarant, ile murther any way, with enemyes all vantages are good: o could i poyson in thy nostrills blowe, besure of it i wold dispatch thee soe.[ ] its well, said guy, thy honest thoughts appeare, within that beastlye bulke where devills dwell; which are thy tenants while thou livest heare, but will be landlords when thou comest in hell: vile miscreant, prepare thee for their den, inhumane monster, hatefull unto men.[ ] but breathe thy selfe a time, while i goe drinke, for flameing ph[oe]bus with his fyerye eye torments me soe with burning heat, i thinke my thirst wold serve to drinke an ocean drye: forbear a litle, as i delt with thee. quoth amarant, 'thou hast noe foole of mee. noe, sillye wretch, my father taught more witt, how i shold use such enemyes as thou; by all my gods i doe rejoice at itt, to understand that thirst constraines thee now; for all the treasure, that the world containes, one drop of water shall not coole thy vaines. releeve my foe! why, 'twere a madmans part: refresh an adversarye to my wrong! if thou imagine this, a child thou art: noe, fellow, i have known the world too long to be soe simple: now i know thy want, a minutes space of breathing i'll not grant.[ ] and with these words heaving aloft his clubb into the ayre, he swings the same about: then shakes his lockes, and doth his temples rubb, and, like the cyclops, in his pride doth strout:[ ] sirra, sayes hee, i have you at a lift, now you are come unto your latest shift. perish forever: with this stroke i send thee a medicine, that will doe thy thirst much good;[ ] take noe more care for drinke before i end thee, and then wee'll have carouses of thy blood: here's at thee with a butchers downright blow, to please my furye with thine overthrow. infernall, false, obdurate feend, said guy,[ ] that seemst a lumpe of crueltye from hell;[ ] ungratefull monster, since thou dost deny[ ] the thing to mee wherin i used thee well: with more revenge, than ere my sword did make, on thy accursed head revenge ile take. thy gyants longitude shall shorter shrinke, except thy sun-scorcht skin be weapon proof:[ ] farewell my thirst; i doe disdaine to drinke, streames keepe your waters to your owne behoof;[ ] or let wild beasts be welcome thereunto; with those pearle drops i will not have to do. here, tyrant, take a taste of my good-will,[ ] for thus i doe begin my bloodye bout: you cannot chuse but like the greeting ill; it is not that same clubb will beare you out; and take this payment on thy shaggye crowne.-- a blowe that brought him with a vengeance downe. then guy sett foot upon the monsters brest, and from his shoulders did his head divide; which with a yawninge mouth did gape, unblest; noe dragons jawes were ever scene soe wide to open and to shut, till life was spent. then guy tooke keyes and to the castle went. where manye woefull captives he did find, which had beene tyred with extremityes; whom he in freindly manner did unbind, and reasoned with them of their miseryes:[ ] eche told a tale with teares, and sighes, and cryes, all weeping to him with complaining eyes. there tender ladyes in darke dungeons lay,[ ] that were surprised in the desart wood, and had noe other dyett everye day, but flesh of humane creatures for their food:[ ] some with their lovers bodyes had beene fed, and in their wombes their husbands buryed. now he bethinkes him of his being there, to enlarge the wronged brethren from their woes; and, as he searcheth, doth great clamours heare, by which sad sound's direction on he goes, untill he findes a darksome obscure gate, arm'd strongly ouer all with iron plate. that he unlockes, and enters, where appeares, the strangest object that he ever saw; men that with famishment of many yeares, were like deathes picture, which the painters draw;[ ] divers of them were hanged by eche thombe; others head-downward: by the middle some. with diligence he takes them from the walle,[ ] with lybertye their thraldome to acquaint: then the perplexed knight their father calls,[ ] and sayes, receive thy sonnes though poore and faint: i promisd you their lives, accept of that; but did not warrant you they shold be fat.[ ] the castle i doe give thee, heere's the keyes, where tyranye for many yeeres did dwell: procure the gentle tender ladyes ease, for pittyes sake, use wronged women well:[ ] men easilye revenge the wrongs men do:[ ] but poore weake women have not strength thereto.[ ] the good old man, even overjoyed with this, fell on the ground, and wold have kist guys feete: father, quoth he, refraine soe base a kiss, for age to honor youth i hold unmeete: ambitious pryde hath hurt mee all it can, i goe to mortifie a sinfull man. footnotes: [ ] [ver. . journeyed ore the.] [ ] erle jonas, mentioned in the foregoing ballad. [ ] [v. . he sayes that must. ms.] [ ] [ver. . the gyant, he was neere soe.] [ ] [v. . sais hee.] [ ] [v. . my crowes about the walls.] [ ] [v. . cold him.] [ ] [v. . saies guy your quarrelsome.] [ ] [v. . are something neere.] [ ] [v. . _most_ not in ms., a club.] [ ] [v. . heere is the wepon that must doe.] [ ] [v. . soe takes.] [ ] [v. . sides.] [ ] [v. . and ere he cold recovers clubb againe.] [ ] [v. . did beate.] [ ] [v. . to beate.] [ ] [ver. . att last through strength, amarant feeble grew.] [ ] [v. . nature wants her.] [ ] [v. . then to grant.] [ ] [v. . i give.] [ ] which guy had slain before [ ] [v. . to pledge, beare.] [ ] [v. . to drinke cold.] [ ] [v. . and after that carrouse.] [ ] [v. . on some rocke.] [ ] [v. . bulke doe stryke.] [ ] [v. . behold him.] [ ] [v. . lets to one.] [ ] [v. . has deathes.] [ ] [ver. . att this bold pagans bostes.] [ ] [v. . soe heavy and soe weaghtye.] [ ] [v. . his fall.] [ ] [v. . in his fist.] [ ] [v. . and stroke a blow.] [ ] [v. . i wold destroy.] [ ] [v. . hurtfull.] [ ] [ver. . space to thee i will not.] [ ] [strut.] [ ] [v. . _that_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . guy said.] [ ] [v. . seemes.] [ ] [v. . ingratefull monster since thou hast denyd.] [ ] [ver. . doe weapon prove.] [ ] [v. . behoves.] [ ] [v. . hold, tyrant.] [ ] [v. . miserye.] [ ] [v. . dungeon.] [ ] [v. . then flesh.] [ ] [ver. . will were.] [ ] [v. . walls.] [ ] [v. . the father.] [ ] [v. . promise you.] [ ] [v. . pittye sake.] [ ] [v. . men may easilye revenge the deeds men doe.] [ ] [v. . no strength. ms.] iii. the auld good-man. a scottish song. i have not been able to meet with a more ancient copy of this humourous old song, than that printed in the _tea-table miscellany, &c._ which seems to have admitted some corruptions. * * * * * [this song is printed in ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_ as old, and it is also given in the _orpheus caledonius_, . "auld goodman" means a first husband.] * * * * * late in an evening forth i went a little before the sun gade down, and there i chanc't, by accident, to light on a battle new begun: a man and his wife wer fawn[ ] in a strife, i canna weel tell ye how it began; but aye she wail'd her wretched life, cryeng, evir alake, mine auld goodman! he. thy auld goodman, that thou tells of, the country kens where he was born, was but a silly poor vagabond, and ilka ane leugh him to scorn: for he did spend and make an end of gear 'his fathers nevir' wan; he gart the poor stand frae the door; sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman. my heart, alake! is liken to break, whan i think on my winsome john, his blinkan ee, and gait sae free, was naithing like thee, thou dosend[ ] drone; wi' his rosie face, and flaxen hair, and skin as white as ony swan, he was large and tall, and comely withall; thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman. he. why dost thou plein?[ ] i thee maintein; for meal and mawt thou disna want: but thy wild bees i canna please, now whan our gear gins to grow scant: of houshold stuff thou hast enough; thou wants for neither pot nor pan; of sicklike ware he left thee bare; sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman. she. yes i may tell, and fret my sell, to think on those blyth days i had, whan i and he, together ley in armes into a well-made bed: but now i sigh and may be sad, thy courage is cauld, thy colour wan, thou falds thy feet and fa's asleep; thou'lt nevir be like mine auld goodman. then coming was the night sae dark, and gane was a' the light of day? the carle was fear'd to miss his mark, and therefore wad nae longer stay: then up he gat, and ran his way, i trowe, the wife the day she wan; and aye the owreword[ ] of the fray was, evir alake! mine auld goodman. footnotes: [ ] [fallen.] [ ] [dozing or stupid.] [ ] [complain.] [ ] [last word or burden.] iv. fair margaret and sweet william. this seems to be the old song quoted in fletcher's _knight of the burning pestle_, acts d and d; altho' the six lines there preserved are somewhat different from those in the ballad, as it stands at present. the reader will not wonder at this, when he is informed that this is only given from a modern printed copy picked up on a stall. it's full title is _fair margaret's misfortunes; or sweet william's frightful dreams on his wedding night, with the sudden death and burial of those noble lovers_.-- the lines preserved in the play are this distich, "you are no love for me, margaret, i am no love for you." and the following stanza, "when it was grown to dark midnight, and all were fast asleep, in came margarets grimly ghost and stood at williams feet." these lines have acquired an importance by giving birth to one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any language. see the song intitled _margaret's ghost_, at the end of this volume. since the first edition some improvements have been inserted, which were communicated by a lady of the first distinction, as she had heard this song repeated in her infancy. * * * * * [the ballads on the two lovers margaret and william are numerous, culminating as they do in mallet's _william and margaret_. see _sweet william's ghost_ (no. in this book) and mallet's ballad (no. of book iii). the present ballad is also in the douce collection and in that of the late mr. george daniel. jamieson prints (_popular ballads and songs_, , vol. i. p. ) a ballad entitled _sweet willie and fair annie_, which may be divided into two parts, the first resembling _lord thomas and fair elinor_, and the second, _fair annie's ghost_, is still more like the following ballad. mr. chappell remarks, "another point deserving notice in the old ballad is that one part of it has furnished the principal subject of the modern burlesque ballad _lord lovel_, and another that of t. hood's song, _mary's ghost_."] * * * * * as it fell out on a long summer's day two lovers they sat on a hill; they sat together that long summer's day, and could not talk their fill. i see no harm by you, margarèt, and you see none by mee; before to-morrow at eight o' the clock a rich wedding you shall see. fair margaret sat in her bower-windòw, combing her yellow hair; there she spyed sweet william and his bride, as they were a riding near. then down she layd her ivory combe, and braided her hair in twain: she went alive out of her bower, but ne'er came alive in't again. when day was gone, and night was come, and all men fast asleep, then came the spirit of fair marg'ret, and stood at williams feet. are you awake, sweet william? shee said; or, sweet william, are you asleep? god give you joy of your gay bride-bed, and me of my winding-sheet. when day was come, and night was gone, and all men wak'd from sleep, sweet william to his lady sayd, my dear, i have cause to weep. i dreamt a dream, my dear ladyè, such dreames are never good: i dreamt my bower was full of red 'wine,'[ ] and my bride-bed full of blood. such dreams, such dreams, my honoured sir, they never do prove good; to dream thy bower was full of red 'wine,'[ ] and thy bride-bed full of blood. he called up his merry men all, by one, by two, and by three; saying, i'll away to fair marg'ret's bower, by the leave of my ladiè. and when he came to fair marg'ret's bower, he knocked at the ring; and who so ready as her seven brethrèn to let sweet william in. then he turned up the covering-sheet, pray let me see the dead; methinks she looks all pale and wan, she hath lost her cherry red. i'll do more for thee, margarèt, than any of thy kin; for i will kiss thy pale wan lips, though a smile i cannot win. with that bespake the seven brethrèn, making most piteous mone: you may go kiss your jolly brown bride, and let our sister alone. if i do kiss my jolly brown bride, i do but what is right; i neer made a vow to yonder poor corpse by day, nor yet by night. deal on, deal on, my merry men all, deal on your cake and your wine[ ]: for whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day, shall be dealt to-morrow at mine. fair margaret dyed to-day, to-day, sweet william dyed the morrow: fair margaret dyed for pure true love, sweet william dyed for sorrow. margaret was buryed in the lower chancèl, and william in the higher: out of her brest there sprang a rose, and out of his a briar. they grew till they grew unto the church-top, and then they could grow no higher; and there they tyed in a true lovers knot, which made all the people admire. then came the clerk of the parìsh, as you the truth shall hear, and by misfortune cut them down, or they had now been there. footnotes: [ ] ver. , . swine, _pcc._ [ ] alluding to the dole anciently given at funerals. v. barbara allen's cruelty. given, with some corrections, from an old black letter copy, intitled, _barbara allen's cruelty, or the young man's tragedy_. * * * * * [it is not clear why percy separated this english version of _barbara allen_ from the scottish version entitled _sir john grehme and barbara allan_ (no. ). goldsmith in his third essay says, "the music of the finest singer is dissonance to what i felt when our dairy maid sung me into tears with _johnny armstrong's last good night_, or the _cruelty of barbara allen_." it has been suggested that for "scarlet towne" in the first verse should be read carlisle town, but as some printed copies have reading town we may suppose that a pun is intended.] * * * * * in scarlet towne, where i was borne, there was a faire maid dwellin, made every youth crye, wel-awaye! her name was barbara allen. all in the merrye month of may, when greene buds they were swellin, yong jemmye grove on his death-bed lay, for love of barbara allen. he sent his man unto her then, to the town, where shee was dwellin; you must come to my master deare, giff your name be barbara allen. for death is printed on his face, and ore his hart is stealin: then haste away to comfort him, o lovelye barbara allen. though death be printed on his face, and ore his harte is stealin, yet little better shall he bee, for bonny barbara allen. so slowly, slowly, she came up, and slowly she came nye him; and all she sayd, when there she came, young man, i think y'are dying. he turnd his face unto her strait, with deadlye sorrow sighing; o lovely maid, come pity mee, ime on my deth-bed lying. if on your death-bed you doe lye, what needs the tale you are tellin: i cannot keep you from your death; farewell, sayd barbara allen. he turnd his face unto the wall, as deadlye pangs he fell in: adieu! adieu! adieu to you all, adieu to barbara allen. as she was walking ore the fields, she heard the bell a knellin; and every stroke did seem to saye, unworthy barbara allen. she turnd her bodye round about, and spied the corps a coming: laye down, laye down the corps, she sayd that i may look upon him. with scornful eye she looked downe, her cheeke with laughter swellin; whilst all her friends cryd out amaine, unworthye barbara allen. when he was dead, and laid in grave, her harte was struck with sorrowe, o mother, mother, make my bed, for i shall dye to-morrowe. hard harted creature him to slight, who loved me so dearlye: o that i had beene more kind to him, when he was alive and neare me! she, on her death-bed as she laye, beg'd to be buried by him; and sore repented of the daye, that she did ere denye him. farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all, and shun the fault i fell in: henceforth take warning by the fall of cruel barbara allen. vi. sweet william's ghost. a scottish ballad. from allan ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_. the concluding stanza of this piece seems modern. * * * * * [in the previous ballad (no. ) and in mallet's _william and margaret_ it is margaret who appears to william, but in the present one and in some other versions william is made to die first. in _clerk saunders_ (_minstrelsy of the scottish border_) scott has joined two distinct stories, and the second part, in which the spirit of clerk saunders appears to may margaret, closely resembles the present ballad. besides these there are two other versions. kinloch's, entitled _sweet william and may margaret_, and motherwell's _william and marjorie_. dr. rimbault points out that the chief incidents in bürger's _leonora_ resemble those in this ballad. the last two stanzas are probably ramsay's own.] * * * * * there came a ghost to margaret's door, with many a grievous grone, and ay he tirled at the pin;[ ] but answer made she none. is this my father philip? or is't my brother john? or is't my true love willie, from scotland new come home? 'tis not thy father philip; nor yet thy brother john: but tis thy true love willie from scotland new come home, o sweet margret! o dear margret! i pray thee speak to mee: give me my faith and troth, margret, as i gave it to thee. thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'of me shalt nevir win,' till that thou come within my bower, and kiss my cheek and chin. if i should come within thy bower, i am no earthly man: and should i kiss thy rosy lipp, thy days will not be lang. o sweet margret, o dear margret, i pray thee speak to mee: give me my faith and troth, margret, as i gave it to thee. thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'of me shalt nevir win,' till thou take me to yon kirk yard, and wed me with a ring. my bones are buried in a kirk yard afar beyond the sea, and it is but my sprite, margret, that's speaking now to thee. she stretched out her lilly-white hand, as for to do her best: hae there your faith and troth, willie, god send your soul good rest. now she has kilted her robes of green, a piece below her knee: and a' the live-lang winter night the dead corps followed shee. is there any room at your head, willie? or any room at your feet? or any room at your side, willie, wherein that i may creep? there's nae room at my head, margret, there's nae room at my feet, there's no room at my side, margret, my coffin is made so meet. then up and crew the red red cock, and up then crew the gray: tis time, tis time, my dear margret, that 'i' were gane away. [no more the ghost to margret said, but, with a grievous grone, evanish'd in a cloud of mist, and left her all alone. o stay, my only true love, stay, the constant margret cried: wan grew her cheeks, she clos'd her een, stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.] footnotes: [ ] [see note, _ante_, p. .] vii. sir john grehme and barbara allan. a scottish ballad. printed, with a few conjectural emendations, from a written copy. * * * * * [pepys, in jan. - , heard mrs. knipp, the actress, sing "her little scotch song of _barbery allen_" at lord brouncker's, and he was "in perfect pleasure to hear her sing" it. it was first printed in ramsay's _tea-table miscellany_ (ii. ). "i remember," says mr. c. kirkpatrick sharpe, "that the peasantry of annandale sang many more verses of this ballad than have appeared in print, but they were of no merit, containing numerous magnificent offers from the lover to his mistress, and amongst others some ships in sight, which may strengthen the belief that this song was composed near the shores of the solway."--_addit._ _illustrations to stenhouse._] * * * * * it was in and about the martinmas time, when the greene leaves wer a fallan; that sir john grehme o' the west countrye, fell in luve wi' barbara allan. he sent his man down throw the towne, to the plaice wher she was dwellan: o haste and cum to my maister deare, gin ye bin barbara allan. o hooly, hooly raise she up, to the plaice wher he was lyan; and whan she drew the curtain by, young man, i think ye're dyan.[ ] o its i'm sick, and very very sick, and its a' for barbara allan. o the better for me ye'se never be, though your harts blude wer spillan. remember ye nat in the tavern, sir, whan ye the cups wer fillan; how ye made the healths gae round and round, and slighted barbara allan? he turn'd his face unto the wa' and death was with him dealan; adiew! adiew! my dear friends a', be kind to barbara allan. then hooly, hooly raise she up, and hooly, hooly left him; and sighan said, she could not stay, since death of life had reft him. she had not gane a mile but twa, whan she heard the deid-bell knellan; and everye jow the deid-bell geid, cried, wae to barbara allan! o mither, mither, mak my bed, o make it saft and narrow: since my love died for me to-day, ise die for him to morrowe. [***] footnotes: [ ] an ingenious friend thinks the rhymes _dyand_ and _lyand_ ought to be transposed; as the taunt _young man, i think ye're yand_, would be very characteristical. viii. the bailiff's daughter of islington. from an ancient black-letter copy in the pepys _collection_, with some improvements communicated by a lady as she had heard the same recited in her youth. the full title is, _true love requited: or, the bailiff's daughter of islington_. _islington_ in norfolk is probably the place here meant. * * * * * [copies of this charming old ballad are found in all the large collections, and two tunes are associated with it. percy's suggestion that islington in norfolk is referred to is not a probable one, and there seems to be no reason for depriving the better known islington of the south of the honour of having given birth to the bailiff's daughter. islington at the time when this ballad was written was a country village quite unconnected with london, and a person who represented "a squier minstrel of middlesex" made a speech before queen elizabeth at kenilworth in , in which he declared "how the worshipful village of islington [was] well knooen too bee one of the most auncient and best tounz in england, next to london."] * * * * * there was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, and he was a squires son; he loved the bayliffes daughter deare, that lived in islington. yet she was coye and would not believe that he did love her soe, noe nor at any time would she any countenance to him showe. but when his friendes did understand his fond and foolish minde, they sent him up to faire london an apprentice for to binde. and when he had been seven long yeares, and never his love could see: many a teare have i shed for her sake, when she little thought of mee. then all the maids of islington went forth to sport and playe, all but the bayliffes daughter deare; she secretly stole awaye. she pulled off her gowne of greene, and put on ragged attire, and to faire london she would go her true love to enquire. and as she went along the high road, the weather being hot and drye, she sat her downe upon a green bank, and her true love came riding bye. she started up, with a colour soe redd, catching hold of his bridle-reine; one penny, one penny, kind sir, she sayd, will ease me of much paine. before i give you one penny, sweet-heart, praye tell me where you were borne. at islington, kind sir, sayd shee, where i have had many a scorne. i prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, o tell me, whether you knowe the bayliffes daughter of islington, she is dead, sir, long agoe. if she be dead, then take my horse, my saddle and bridle also; for i will into some farr countrye, where noe man shall me knowe. o staye, o staye, thou goodlye youthe, she standeth by thy side; she is here alive, she is not dead, and readye to be thy bride. o farewell griefe, and welcome joye, ten thousand times therefore; for nowe i have founde mine owne true love, whom i thought i should never see more. ix. the willow tree. a pastoral dialogue. from the small black-letter collection, intitled, _the golden garland of princely delights_; collated with two other copies, and corrected by conjecture. * * * * * [dr. rimbault gives the melody of this pretty little pastoral on the favourite subject of wearing the willow from a ms. dated in the advocate's library, edinburgh. it is also to be found in the celebrated skene ms. in the same library, and again in all the editions of forbes's _cantus_.] * * * * * willy. how now, shepherde, what meanes that? why that willowe in thy hat? why thy scarffes of red and yellowe turn'd to branches of greene willowe? cuddy. they are chang'd, and so am i; sorrowes live, but pleasures die: phillis hath forsaken mee, which makes me weare the willowe-tree. willy. phillis! shee that lov'd thee long? is shee the lass hath done thee wrong? shee that lov'd thee long and best, is her love turn'd to a jest? cuddy. shee that long true love profest, she hath robb'd my heart of rest: for she a new love loves, not mee; which makes me wear the willowe-tree. willy. come then, shepherde, let us joine, since thy happ is like to mine: for the maid i thought most true, mee hath also bid adieu. cuddy. thy hard happ doth mine appease, companye doth sorrowe ease: yet, phillis, still i pine for thee, and still must weare the willowe-tree. willy. shepherde, be advis'd by mee, cast off grief and willowe-tree: for thy grief brings her content, she is pleas'd if thou lament. cuddy. herdsman, i'll be rul'd by thee, there lyes grief and willowe-tree: henceforth i will do as they, and love a new love every day. x. the lady's fall is given (with corrections) from the editor's ancient folio ms.[ ] collated with two printed copies in black-letter; one in the british museum, the other in the pepys collection. its old title is, _a lamentable ballad of the lady's fall_. to the tune of, _in pescod time, &c._--the ballad here referred to is preserved in the _muses library_, vo. p. . it is an allegory or vision, intitled, _the shepherd's slumber_, and opens with some pretty rural images, viz. "in pescod time when hound to horn gives eare till buck be kil'd, and little lads with pipes of corne sate keeping beasts a-field." "i went to gather strawberries by woods and groves full fair, &c." * * * * * [mr. hales thinks it possible that this ballad was written by the same author as _the children in the wood_--"the same facility of language and of rhyme, the same power of pathos, the same extreme simplicity characterise both ballads." mr. chappell says that _chevy chace_ was sometimes sung to the tune of _in pescod time_, as were the _bride's burial_ (no. ), and _lady isabella's tragedy_ (no. ). the various readings from the original ms. are noted at the foot of the page.] * * * * * marke well my heavy dolefull tale, you loyall lovers all, and heedfully beare in your brest, a gallant ladyes fall. long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne, to lead a wedded life, but folly wrought her overthrowe before she was a wife. too soone, alas! shee gave consent and yeelded to his will, though he protested to be true, and faithfull to her still. shee felt her body altered quite, her bright hue waxed pale, her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,[ ] her strength began to fayle. soe that with many a sorrowful sigh,[ ] this beauteous ladye milde, with greeved hart, perceived herselfe to have conceived with childe.[ ] shee kept it from her parents sight as close as close might bee, and soe put on her silken gowne none might her swelling see.[ ] unto her lover secretly her greefe shee did bewray, and walking with him hand in hand, these words to him did say; behold, quoth shee, a maids distresse[ ] by love brought to thy bowe;[ ] behold i goe with childe by thee,[ ] tho none thereof doth knowe. the litle babe springs in my wombe[ ] to heare its fathers voyce, lett it not be a bastard called,[ ] sith i made thee my choyce: [come, come, my love, perform thy vowe[ ] and wed me out of hand;[ ] o leave me not in this extreme[ ] of griefe, alas! to stand.][ ] think on thy former promises, thy oathes and vowes eche one;[ ] remember with what bitter teares to mee thou madest thy moane. convay me to some secrett place, and marry me with speede; or with thy rapyer end my life, ere further shame proceede.[ ] alacke! my beauteous love, quoth hee,[ ] my joye, and only dear;[ ] which way can i convay thee hence,[ ] when dangers are so near?[ ] thy friends are all of hye degree,[ ] and i of meane estate; full hard it is to gett thee forthe[ ] out of thy fathers gate.[ ] dread not thy life to save my fame,[ ] for if thou taken bee,[ ] my selfe will step betweene the swords,[ ] and take the harme on mee:[ ] soe shall i scape dishonor quite;[ ] and if i should be slaine[ ] what could they say, but that true love had wrought a ladyes bane.[ ] but feare not any further harme; my selfe will soe devise, that i will ryde away with thee[ ] unknowen of mortall eyes: disguised like some pretty page ile meete thee in the darke, and all alone ile come to thee hard by my fathers parke. and there, quoth hee, ile meete my deare if god soe lend me life, on this day month without all fayle i will make thee my wife.[ ] then with a sweet and loving kisse,[ ] they parted presentlye, and att their partinge brinish teares stoode in eche others eye, att length the wished day was come,[ ] on which this beauteous mayd, with longing eyes, and strange attire, for her true lover stayd. when any person shee espyed[ ] come ryding ore the plaine,[ ] she hop'd it was her owne true love:[ ] but all her hopes were vaine. then did shee weepe and sore bewayle her most unhappy fate; then did shee speake these woefull words, as succourless she sate;[ ] o false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,[ ] disloyall in thy love, hast thou forgott thy promise past, and wilt thou perjured prove? and hast thou now forsaken mee in this my great distresse, to end my dayes in open shame,[ ] which thou mightst well redresse?[ ] woe worth the time i eer believ'd[ ] that flattering tongue of thine: wold god that i had never seene the teares of thy false eyne. and thus with many a sorrowful sigh,[ ] homewards shee went againe;[ ] noe rest came in her waterye eyes, shee felt such privye paine.[ ] in travail strong shee fell that night, with many a bitter throwe;[ ] what woefull paines shee then did feel,[ ] doth eche good woman knowe. shee called up her waiting mayd,[ ] that lay at her bedds feete,[ ] who musing at her mistress woe,[ ] began full fast to weepe. weepe not, said shee, but shutt the dores,[ ] and windowes round about,[ ] let none bewray my wretched state, but keepe all persons out. o mistress, call your mother deare; of women you have neede, and of some skilfull midwifes helpe,[ ] that better may you speed.[ ] call not my mother for thy life, nor fetch no woman here; the midwives helpe comes all too late, my death i doe not feare. with that the babe sprang from her wombe no creature being nye,[ ] and with one sighe, which brake her hart, this gentle dame did dye.[ ] the lovely litle infant younge,[ ] [the mother being dead,][ ] resigned its new received breath, to him that had it made. next morning came her own true love, affrighted at the newes,[ ] and he for sorrow slew himselfe, whom eche one did accuse. the mother with her new borne babe, were laide both in one grave: their parents overworne with woe, no joy thenceforth cold have.[ ] take heed, you dayntye damsells all, of flattering words beware, and to the honour of your name have an especial care.[ ] [too true, alas! this story is,[ ] as many one can tell:[ ] by others harmes learne to be wise,[ ] and you shall do full well.][ ] footnotes: [ ] [ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. .] [ ] [ver. . her faire red cheekes changed color quite.] [ ] [v. . and soe with.] [ ] [v. . to be conceived.] [ ] [v. . none shold. ms.] [ ] [ver. . a ladyes distress.] [ ] [v. . your bowe.] [ ] [v. . see how i goe with chyld with thee.] [ ] [v. . my litle.] [ ] [v. . o lett.] [ ] [v. - . not in ms.] [ ] [v. . thy wordes.] [ ] [v. . lest further.] [ ] [v. . my derest.] [ ] [v. . my greatest joy on earthe.] [ ] [v. . shold i convay you.] [ ] [v. . to scape a sudden death.] [ ] [ver. . your friends.] [ ] [v. . gett you.] [ ] [v. . your ffathers.] [ ] [v. . your liffe ... your fame.] [ ] [v. . you.] [ ] [v. . sword.] [ ] [v. . to take ... of thee.] [ ] [v. . soe may you.] [ ] [v. . if soe you.] [ ] [v. . ladyes paine.] [ ] [v. . i will safely ryd with thee.] [ ] [v. . ile make the then.] [ ] [v. . and with.] [ ] [ver. . wherin this lovely maid.] [ ] [v. . if any person shee had spyed.] [ ] [v. . came.] [ ] [v. . shee thought.] [ ] [v. . when succourles.] [ ] [v. . _and_ not in ms.] [ ] [v. . in heavinesse.] [ ] [v. . which well thou might.] [ ] [v. . i did beleeve.] [ ] [v. . soe that with many a grievous groane.] [ ] [v. . amaine.] [ ] [v. . shee found.] [ ] [ver. . thraw.] [ ] [v. . shee felt that night.] [ ] [v. . mayd.] [ ] [v. . who lay.] [ ] [v. . and musing at her great woe.] [ ] [v. . shee sayth.] [ ] [v. . all about.] [ ] [v. . and to some.] [ ] [v. . the better.] [ ] [v. . being by.] [ ] [v. . gallant dame.] [ ] [v. . litle lovely.] [ ] [v. . the pretty smiling babe.] [ ] [ver. . with this newes.] [ ] [v. . no joy that they.] [ ] [v. . have you a specyall care.] [ ] [v. - . not in ms.] xi. waly waly, love be bonny. a scottish song. this is a very ancient song, but we could only give it from a modern copy. some editions instead of the four last lines in the second stanza have these, which have too much merit to be wholly suppressed: "whan cockle shells turn siller bells, and muscles grow on every tree, when frost and snaw sall warm us aw', than sall my love prove true to me." see the _orpheus caledonius, &c._ arthur's-seat mentioned in ver. , is a hill near edinborough; near the bottom of which is st. anthony's well. * * * * * [there has been considerable difference of opinion among ballad collectors relative to this beautiful song. some suppose it to be a portion of the ballad entitled _lord jamie douglas_, which relates to james douglas, second marquis of douglas, who married lady barbara erskine, eldest daughter of john, ninth earl of mar, on the seventh of september, , and afterwards repudiated her on account of a false accusation of adultery made against her by lowrie, laird of blackwood. prof. aytoun, however, believes that certain verses of _waly waly_ have wrongly been mixed up with _lord jamie douglas_. there is very little doubt that the song was in existence long before , and it also appears to be the lamentation of a forsaken girl rather than of a wife. mr. stenhouse and others considered it to belong to the age of queen mary and to refer to some affair at court. aytoun writes, "there is also evidence that it was composed before , for there is extant a ms. of that year in which some of the lines are transcribed," but mr. maidment gives the following opinion--"that the ballad is of ancient date is undoubted, but we are not quite prepared to admit that it goes back as far as , the date of the manuscript transcribed by thomas wode from an ancient church music book compiled by dean john angus, andrew blackhall, and others, in which it said the first [second] stanza is thus parodied:-- hey trollie lollie, love is jollie, a quhile, quhil itt is new quhen it is old, it grows full cold, wae worth the love untrue. never having had access to the ms., we may be permitted to remark that the phraseology of the burlesque is not exactly that of the reign of queen mary" (_scottish ballads and songs_, , vol. ii. p. .) allan ramsay was the first to publish the song, and he marked it as ancient. "when cockle shells turn silver bells, when wine drieps red frae ilka tree, when frost and snaw will warm us a' then i'll cum down and dine wi' thee," is the fourth stanza of _jamie douglas_, printed by john finlay, in his _scottish historical and romantic ballads_ (vol. ii.)] * * * * * o waly[ ] waly up the bank, and waly waly down the brae, and waly waly yon burn side, where i and my love wer wont to gae. i leant my back unto an aik, i thought it was a trusty tree; but first it bow'd, and syne it brak, sae my true love did lichtly me. o waly, waly, gin love be bonny, a little time while it is new; but when its auld, it waxeth cauld, and fades awa' like morning dew. o wherfore shuld i busk my head? or wherfore shuld i kame my hair? for my true love has me forsook, and says he'll never loe me mair. now arthur-seat sall be my bed, the sheets shall neir be fyl'd[ ] by me: saint anton's well sall be my drink, since my true love has forsaken me. marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, and shake the green leaves aff the tree? o gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? for of my life i am wearìe. tis not the frost, that freezes fell, nor blawing snaws inclemencìe; 'tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry, but my loves heart grown cauld to me. when we came in by glasgowe town, we were a comely sight to see, my love was cled in black velvet, and i my-sell in cramasie.[ ] but had i wist, before i kisst, that love had been sae ill to win; i had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, and pinnd it with a siller pin. and, oh! if my young babe were born, and set upon the nurses knee, and i my sell were dead and gane! for a maid again ise never be. footnotes: [ ] [interjection of lamentation.] [ ] [defiled.] [ ] [crimson.] xii. the bride's burial. from two ancient copies in black-letter: one in the pepys collection; the other in the british museum. to the tune of _the lady's fall_. * * * * * come mourne, come mourne with mee, you loyall lovers all; lament my loss in weeds of woe, whom griping grief doth thrall. like to the drooping vine, cut by the gardener's knife, even so my heart, with sorrow slaine, doth bleed for my sweet wife. by death, that grislye ghost, my turtle dove is slaine, and i am left, unhappy man, to spend my dayes in paine. her beauty late so bright, like roses in their prime, is wasted like the mountain snowe, before warme phebus' shine. her faire red colour'd cheeks now pale and wan; her eyes, that late did shine like crystal stars; alas, their light it dies: her prettye lilly hands, with fingers long and small, in colour like the earthly claye, yea, cold and stiff withall. when as the morning star her golden gates had spred, and that the glittering sun arose forth from fair thetis' bed; then did my love awake, most like a lilly-flower, and as the lovely queene of heaven, so shone shee in her bower. attired was shee then, like flora in her pride, like one of bright diana's nymphs, so look'd my loving bride. and as fair helen's face, did grecian dames besmirche, so did my dear exceed in sight, all virgins in the church. when we had knitt the knott of holy wedlock-band, like alabaster joyn'd to jett, so stood we hand in hand; then lo! a chilling cold strucke every vital part, and griping grief, like pangs of death, seiz'd on my true love's heart. down in a swoon she fell, as cold as any stone; like venus picture lacking life, so was my love brought home. at length her rosye red, throughout her comely face, as ph[oe]bus beames with watry cloudes was cover'd for a space. when with a grievous groane, and voice both hoarse and drye, farewell, quoth she, my loving friend, for i this daye must dye; the messenger of god, with golden trumpe i see, with manye other angels more, which sound and call for mee. instead of musicke sweet, go toll my passing-bell; and with sweet flowers strow my grave, that in my chamber smell. strip off my bride's arraye, my cork shoes from my feet; and, gentle mother, be not coye to bring my winding-sheet. my wedding dinner drest, bestowe upon the poor, and on the hungry, needy, maimde, now craving at the door. instead of virgins yong, my bride-bed for to see, go cause some cunning carpenter, to make a chest for mee. my bride laces of silk bestowd, for maidens meet, may fitly serve, when i am dead, to tye my hands and feet. and thou, my lover true, my husband and my friend, let me intreat thee here to staye, until my life doth end. now leave to talk of love, and humblye on your knee, direct your prayers unto god: but mourn no more for mee. in love as we have livde, in love let us depart; and i, in token of my love, do kiss thee with my heart. o staunch those bootless teares, thy weeping tis in vaine; i am not lost, for wee in heaven shall one daye meet againe. with that shee turn'd aside, as one dispos'd to sleep, and like a lamb departed life; whose friends did sorely weep. her true love seeing this, did fetch a grievous groane, as tho' his heart would burst in twaine, and thus he made his moane. o darke and dismal daye, a daye of grief and care, that hath bereft the sun so bright, whose beams refresht the air. now woe unto the world, and all that therein dwell, o that i were with thee in heaven, for here i live in hell. and now this lover lives a discontented life, whose bride was brought unto the grave a maiden and a wife. a garland fresh and faire of lillies there was made, in sign of her virginitye, and on her coffin laid.[ ] six maidens, all in white, did beare her to the ground: the bells did ring in solemn sort, and made a dolefull sound. in earth they laid her then, for hungry wormes a preye; so shall the fairest face alive at length be brought to claye. footnotes: [ ] ["it was an ancient and pleasing custom to place a garland made of white flowers and white riband upon the coffin of a maiden; it was afterwards hung up over her customary seat in church. sometimes a pair of white gloves, or paper cut to the shape of gloves, was hung beneath the garland. chaplets of the kind still hang in some of the derbyshire churches, and at hathersage in that county the custom is still retained."--(_transactions of the essex archælogical society_, vol. i. , p. .) see _corydon's doleful knell_, vol. ii. book ii. no. , p. . ophelia is "allowed her virgin crants" (or garland)--_hamlet_, act v. sc. . see also an interesting article on _funeral garlands_ by llewellyn jewitt in the _reliquary_, vol. i. ( ), p. .] xiii. dulcina. given from two ancient copies, one in black-print, in the pepys collection: the other in the editor's folio ms. each of these contained a stanza not found in the other. what seemed the best readings were selected from both. this song is quoted as very popular in walton's _compleat angler_, chap. ii. it is more ancient than the ballad of _robin good-fellow_ printed below, which yet is supposed to have been written by ben. jonson. * * * * * [the milk-woman in walton's _angler_ says, "what song was it, i pray you? was it _come shepherds deck your heads_, or _as at noon dulcina rested_?" in the registers of the stationers' company, under date of may , , there is an entry transferring the right of publication from one printer to another of _a ballett of dulcina to the tune of_ _forgoe me nowe, come to me sone_. mr. chappell also tells us that _dulcina_ was one of the tunes to the "psalms and songs of sion, turned into the language and set to the tunes of a strange land," . the editors of the folio ms., more scrupulous than the bishop, have not printed this song in its proper place, but have turned it into the supplement of _loose and humourous songs_ (p. ). the third stanza of the ms. beginning "words whose hopes might have enjoyned" is not printed in the present copy. the third stanza here is the fourth of the ms., and the fourth stanza is not in the ms. at all. cayley and ellis attribute this song to raleigh, but without sufficient authority.] * * * * * as at noone dulcina rested in her sweete and shady bower; came a shepherd, and requested in her lapp to sleepe an hour. but from her looke a wounde he tooke soe deepe, that for a further boone the nymph he prayes. wherto shee sayes, forgoe me now, come to me soone. but in vayne shee did conjure him to depart her presence soe; having a thousand tongues to allure him, and but one to bid him goe: where lipps invite, and eyes delight, and cheekes, as fresh as rose in june, persuade delay; what boots, she say, forgoe me now, come to me soone? he demands what time for pleasure can there be more fit than now: she sayes, night gives love that leysure, which the day can not allow. he sayes, the sight 'improves delight. 'which she denies: nights mirkie noone in venus' playes makes bold, shee sayes; forgoe me now, come to mee soone. but what promise or profession from his hands could purchase scope? who would sell the sweet possession of suche beautye for a hope? or for the sight of lingering night foregoe the present joyes of noone? though ne'er soe faire her speeches were, forgoe me now, come to me soone. how, at last, agreed these lovers? shee was fayre, and he was young: the tongue may tell what th'eye discovers; joyes unseene are never sung. did shee consent, or he relent; accepts he night, or grants shee noone; left he her a mayd, or not; she sayd forgoe me now, come to me soone. xiv. the lady isabella's tragedy. this ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection, collated with another in the british museum, h. , folio. it is there intitled, "_the lady isabella's tragedy, or the step-mother's cruelty_: being a relation of a lamentable and cruel murther, committed on the body of the lady isabella, the only daughter of a noble duke, &c. to the tune of, _the lady's fall_." to some copies are annexed eight more modern stanzas, intitled, _the dutchess's and cook's lamentation_. * * * * * there was a lord of worthy fame, and a hunting he would ride, attended by a noble traine of gentrye by his side. and while he did in chase remaine, to see both sport and playe; his ladye went, as she did feigne, unto the church to praye. this lord he had a daughter deare, whose beauty shone so bright, she was belov'd, both far and neare, of many a lord and knight. fair isabella was she call'd, a creature faire was shee; she was her father's only joye; as you shall after see. therefore her cruel step-mothèr did envye her so much; that daye by daye she sought her life, her malice it was such. she bargain'd with the master-cook, to take her life awaye: and taking of her daughters book, she thus to her did saye. go home, sweet daughter, i thee praye, go hasten presentlie; and tell unto the master-cook these wordes that i tell thee. and bid him dresse to dinner streight that faire and milk-white doe, that in the parke doth shine so bright, there's none so faire to showe. this ladye fearing of no harme, obey'd her mothers will; and presentlye she hasted home, her pleasure to fulfill. she streight into the kitchen went, her message for to tell; and there she spied the master-cook, who did with malice swell. nowe, master-cook, it must be soe, do that which i thee tell: you needes must dresse the milk-white doe, which you do knowe full well. then streight his cruell bloodye hands, he on the ladye layd; who quivering and shaking stands, while thus to her he sayd: thou art the doe, that i must dresse; see here, behold my knife; for it is pointed presently to rid thee of thy life. o then, cried out the scullion-boye, as loud as loud might bee; o save her life, good master-cook, and make your pyes of mee! for pityes sake do not destroye my ladye with your knife; you know shee is her father's joye, for christes sake save her life. i will not save her life, he sayd, nor make my pyes of thee; yet if thou dost this deed bewraye, thy butcher i will bee. now when this lord he did come home for to sit downe and eat; he called for his daughter deare, to come and carve his meat. now sit you downe, his ladye sayd, o sit you downe to meat: into some nunnery she is gone; your daughter deare forget. then solemnlye he made a vowe, before the companìe: that he would neither eat nor drinke, until he did her see. o then bespake the scullion-boye, with a loud voice so hye: if now you will your daughter see, my lord, cut up that pye: wherein her fleshe is minced small, and parched with the fire: all caused by her step-mothèr, who did her death desire. and cursed bee the master-cook, o cursed may he bee! i proffered him my own hearts blood, from death to set her free. then all in blacke this lord did mourne; and for his daughters sake, he judged her cruell step-mothèr to be burnt at a stake. likewise he judg'd the master-cook in boiling lead to stand; and made the simple scullion-boye the heire of all his land. xv. a hue and cry after cupid. this song is a kind of translation of a pretty poem of tasso's, called _amore fuggitivo_, generally printed with his _aminta_, and originally imitated from the first idyllium of moschus. it is extracted from ben jonson's masque at the marriage of lord viscount hadington, on shrove-tuesday, . one stanza full of dry mythology is here omitted, as it had been dropped in a copy of this song printed in a small volume called _le prince d'amour_. lond. , vo. * * * * * [the stanza of the first grace which percy left out is as follows:-- "at his sight the sun hath turn'd, neptune in the waters burn'd; hell hath felt a greater heat; jove himself forsook his seat: from the centre to the sky are his trophies reared high."] * * * * * [_ grace._] beauties have yee seen a toy, called love, a little boy, almost naked, wanton, blinde; cruel now; and then as kinde? if he be amongst yee, say; he is venus' run away. [_ grace._] shee, that will but now discover where the winged wag doth hover, shall to-night receive a kisse, how and where herselfe would wish: but who brings him to his mother shall have that kisse, and another. [_ grace._] markes he hath about him plentie; you may know him among twentie: all his body is a fire, and his breath a flame entire: which, being shot, like lightning, in, wounds the heart, but not the skin. * * * * * [_ grace._] wings he hath, which though yee clip, he will leape from lip to lip, over liver, lights, and heart; yet not stay in any part. and, if chance his arrow misses, he will shoot himselfe in kisses. [_ grace._] he doth beare a golden bow, and a quiver hanging low, full of arrowes, which outbrave dian's shafts; where, if he have any head more sharpe than other, with that first he strikes his mother. [_ grace._] still the fairest are his fuell, when his daies are to be cruell; lovers hearts are all his food, and his baths their warmest bloud: nought but wounds his hand doth season, and he hates none like to reason. [_ grace._] trust him not: his words, though sweet, seldome with his heart doe meet: all his practice is deceit; everie gift is but a bait; not a kisse but poyson beares; and most treason's in his teares. [_ grace._] idle minutes are his raigne; then the straggler makes his gaine, by presenting maids with toyes and would have yee thinke hem joyes; 'tis the ambition of the elfe to have all childish as himselfe. [_ grace._] if by these yee please to know him, beauties, be not nice, but show him. [_ grace._] though ye had a will to hide him, now, we hope, yee'le not abide him. [_ grace._] since yee heare this falser's play, and that he is venus' run-away. xvi. the king of france's daughter. the story of this ballad seems to be taken from an incident in the domestic history of charles the bald, king of france. his daughter judith was betrothed to ethelwulph king of england: but before the marriage was consummated, ethelwulph died, and she returned to france: whence she was carried off by baldwyn, forester of flanders; who, after many crosses and difficulties, at length obtained the king's consent to their marriage, and was made earl of flanders. this happened about a.d. .--see rapin, henault, and the french historians. the following copy is given from the editor's ancient folio ms. collated with another in black-letter in the pepys collection, intitled, _an excellent ballad of a prince of england's courtship to the king of france's daughter, &c._ to the tune of _crimson velvet_. many breaches having been made in this old song by the hand of time, principally (as might be expected) in the quick returns of the rhime; an attempt is here made to repair them. * * * * * [this ballad was written by thomas deloney, who included it in his _garland of goodwill_ (percy society, vol. xxx. p. ). it is, as percy points out, founded on history, but deloney paid little attention to facts. all the first part of the poem, which tells of the miserable end of the english prince of suitable age to the young french princess, is fiction. judith was ethelwulf's wife for about two years, and on the death of her husband she married his son ethelbert. the only historical fact that is followed in the ballad is the marriage of judith with baldwin, great forester of france, from which union descended matilda, the wife of william the conqueror. the copy in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. ) is entitled "in the dayes of olde." percy altered it considerably, sometimes following the printed copy and sometimes the ms. mr. hales suggests that the name of the tune is derived from the dress of the princess, described in vv. - ,-- "their mothers riche array was of crimson velvet," and mr. chappell agrees with him.] * * * * * in the dayes of old, when faire france did flourish, storyes plaine have told, lovers felt annoye. the queene a daughter bare, whom beautye's queene did nourish: she was lovelye faire she was her father's joye. a prince of england came, whose deeds did merit fame, but he was exil'd, and outcast: love his soul did fire, shee granted his desire, their hearts in one were linked fast. which when her father proved, sorelye he was moved, and tormented in his minde. he sought for to prevent them; and, to discontent them, fortune cross'd these lovers kinde. when these princes twaine were thus barr'd of pleasure, through the kinges disdaine, which their joyes withstoode: the lady soone prepar'd her jewells and her treasure; having no regard for state and royall bloode; in homelye poore array she went from court away, to meet her joye and hearts delight; who in a forest great had taken up his seat, to wayt her coming in the night. but, lo! what sudden danger to this princely stranger chanced, as he sate alone! by outlawes he was robbed, and with ponyards stabbed, uttering many a dying grone. the princesse, arm'd by love, and by chaste desire, all the night did rove without dread at all: still unknowne she past in her strange attire; coming at the last within echoes call,-- you faire woods, quoth shee, honoured may you bee, harbouring my heart's delight; which encompass here my joye and only deare, my trustye friend, and comelye knight. sweete, i come unto thee, sweete, i come to woo thee; that thou mayst not angry bee for my long delaying; for thy curteous staying soone amendes ile make to thee. passing thus alone through the silent forest, many a grievous grone sounded in her eares: she heard one complayne and lament the sorest, seeming all in payne, shedding deadly teares. farewell, my deare, quoth hee, whom i must never see; for why my life is att an end, through villaines crueltye: for thy sweet sake i dye, to show i am a faithfull friend. here i lye a bleeding, while my thoughts are feeding on the rarest beautye found. o hard happ, that may be! little knows my ladye my heartes blood lyes on the ground. with that a grone he sends which did burst in sunder all the tender bands of his gentle heart. she, who knewe his voice, at his wordes did wonder; all her former joyes did to griefe convert. strait she ran to see, who this man shold bee, that soe like her love did seeme: her lovely lord she found lye slaine upon the ground, smear'd with gore a ghastlye streame. which his lady spying, shrieking, fainting, crying, her sorrows could not uttered bee: fate, she cryed, too cruell: for thee--my dearest jewell, would god! that i had dyed for thee. his pale lippes, alas! twentye times she kissed, and his face did wash with her trickling teares: every gaping wound tenderlye she pressed, and did wipe it round with her golden haires. speake, faire love, quoth shee, speake, fair prince, to mee, one sweete word of comfort give: lift up thy deare eyes, listen to my cryes, thinke in what sad griefe i live. all in vain she sued, all in vain she wooed, the prince's life was fled and gone. there stood she still mourning, till the suns retourning, and bright day was coming on. in this great distresse weeping, wayling ever, oft shee cryed, alas! what will become of mee? to my fathers court i returne will never: but in lowlye sort i will a servant bee. while thus she made her mone, weeping all alone, in this deepe and deadlye feare: a for'ster all in greene, most comelye to be seene, ranging the woods did find her there. moved with her sorrowe, maid, quoth hee, good morrowe, what hard happ has brought thee here? harder happ did never two kinde hearts dissever: here lyes slaine my brother deare. where may i remaine, gentle for'ster, shew me, 'till i can obtaine a service in my neede? paines i will not spare: this kinde favour doe me, it will ease my care; heaven shall be thy meede. the for'ster all amazed, on her beautye gazed, till his heart was set on fire. if, faire maid, quoth hee, you will goe with mee, you shall have your hearts desire. he brought her to his mother, and above all other he sett forth this maidens praise. long was his heart inflamed, at length her love he gained, and fortune crown'd his future dayes. thus unknowne he wedde with a kings faire daughter; children seven they had, 'ere she told her birth. which when once he knew, humblye he besought her, he to the world might shew her rank and princelye worth. he cloath'd his children then, (not like other men) in partye-colours strange to see; the right side cloth of gold, the left side to behold, of woollen cloth still framed hee[ ]. men thereat did wonder; golden fame did thunder this strange deede in every place: the king of france came thither, it being pleasant weather, in those woods the hart to chase. the children then they bring, so their mother will'd it, where the royall king must of force come bye: their mothers riche array, was of crimson velvet: their fathers all of gray, seemelye to the eye. then this famous king, noting every thing, askt how he durst be so bold to let his wife soe weare, and decke his children there in costly robes of pearl and gold. the forrester replying, and the cause descrying[ ], to the king these words did say, well may they, by their mother, weare rich clothes with other, being by birth a princesse gay. the king aroused thus, more heedfullye beheld them, till a crimson blush his remembrance crost. the more i fix my mind on thy wife and children, the more methinks i find the daughter which i lost. falling on her knee, i am that child, quoth shee; pardon mee, my soveraine liege. the king perceiving this, his daughter deare did kiss, while joyfull teares did stopp his speeche. with his traine he tourned, and with them sojourned. strait he dubb'd her husband knight; then made him erle of flanders, and chiefe of his commanders: thus were their sorrowes put to flight. [***] footnotes: [ ] this will remind the reader of the livery and device of charles brandon, a private gentleman, who married the queen dowager of france, sister of henry viii. at a tournament which he held at his wedding, the trappings of his horse were half cloth of gold, and half frieze, with the following motto:-- "cloth of gold, do not despise, tho' thou art matcht with cloth of frize, cloth of frize, be not too bold, tho' thou art matcht with cloth of gold." see sir w. temple's _misc._ vol. iii. p. . [ ] _i.e._ describing. xvii. the sweet neglect. this little madrigal (extracted from ben. jonson's _silent woman_, act i. sc. , first acted in ) is in imitation of a latin poem printed at the end of the variorum edit. of petronius, beginning, _semper munditias, semper basilissa, decoras_, &c. see whalley's _ben jonson_, vol. ii. p. . * * * * * still to be neat, still to be drest, as you were going to a feast: still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd: lady, it is to be presum'd, though art's hid causes are not found, all is not sweet, all is not sound. give me a looke, give me a face, that makes simplicitie a grace; robes loosely flowing, haire as free: such sweet neglect more taketh me, than all th' adulteries of art, that strike mine eyes, but not my heart. xviii. the children in the wood. the subject of this very popular ballad (which has been set in so favourable a light by the _spectator_, no. .) seems to be taken from an old play, intitled, _two lamentable tragedies; the one of the murder of maister beech, a chandler in thames streete, &c. the other of a young child murthered in a wood by two ruffins, with the_ _consent of his unkle._ by rob. yarrington, , to. our ballad-maker has strictly followed the play in the description of the father and mother's dying charge: in the uncle's promise to take care of their issue: his hiring two ruffians to destroy his ward, under pretence of sending him to school: their chusing a wood to perpetrate the murder in: one of the ruffians relenting, and a battle ensuing, &c. in other respects he has departed from the play. in the latter the scene is laid in padua: there is but one child: which is murdered by a sudden stab of the unrelenting ruffian: he is slain himself by his less bloody companion; but ere he dies gives the other a mortal wound: the latter living just long enough to impeach the uncle; who, in consequence of this impeachment, is arraigned and executed by the hand of justice, &c. whoever compares the play with the ballad, will have no doubt but the former is the original: the language is far more obsolete, and such a vein of simplicity runs through the whole performance, that, had the ballad been written first, there is no doubt but every circumstance of it would have been received into the drama: whereas this was probably built on some italian novel. printed from two ancient copies, one of them in black-letter in the pepys collection. its title at large is, _the children in the wood; or, the norfolk gentleman's last will and testament: to the tune of rogero, &c._ * * * * * [ritson thought he had refuted percy's statement that the play was older than the ballad by pointing out that the latter was entered in the stationers' books in , but i find in baker's _biographia dramatica_ an assertion that yarrington's play was not printed "till many years after it was written." the following is the form of the entry at stationers' hall, " oct. . thomas millington entred for his copie under th[e h]andes of bothe the wardens a ballad intituled _the norfolk gent, his will and testament_ _and howe he commytted the keepinge of his children to his owne_ _brother whoe delte most wickedly with them and howe god plagued_ _him for it._" sharon turner and miss halsted favoured the rather untenable opinion that the wicked uncle was intended to represent richard iii., and therefore that the date of the ballad was much earlier than that usually claimed for it. turner writes in his _history of england_, "i have sometimes fancied that the popular ballad may have been written at this time on richard and his nephews before it was quite safe to stigmatize him more openly." wailing, or wayland wood, a large cover near walton in norfolk is the place which tradition assigns to the tragedy, but the people of wood dalling also claim the honour for their village. addison speaks of the ballad as "one of the darling songs of the common people, [which] has been the delight of most englishmen in some part of their age," and points out that the circumstance ... robin-red-breast piously did cover them with leaves, has a parallel in horace, who tells us that when he was a child, fallen asleep in a desert wood, the turtle doves took pity on him and covered him with leaves. the popular belief that the robin covers dead bodies with leaves (probably founded on the habits of the bird) is of considerable antiquity. the passage in cymbeline (act iv. sc. ) naturally occurs as the chief illustration:-- ... "the ruddock would, with charitable bill.... ... bring thee all this, yea and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, to winter-ground thy corse." in webster's _white devil_, act v., we read:-- "call for the robin red breast and the wren since o'er shady groves they hover and with leaves and flowers do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men." the critics suppose webster to have imitated shakespere here, but there is no ground for any such supposition. the industry of reed, steevens, and douce has supplied us with several passages from old literature in which this characteristic of the robin is referred to. in "_cornucopiæ, or, divers secrets_; wherein is contained the rare secrets of man, beasts, fowles, fishes, trees, plants, stones, and such like, most pleasant and profitable, and not before committed to bee printed in english. newlie drawen out of divers latine authors into english by thomas johnson," to. london, , occurs the following passage:--"the robin red-breast if he find a man or woman dead will cover all his face with mosse, and some thinke that if the body should remaine unburied that hee woulde cover the whole body also." this little secret of johnson is copied by thomas lupton into his _a thousand notable things of sundrie sorts newly corrected_, , where it appears as no. of book i. michael drayton has the following lines in his poem, _the owl_: "cov'ring with moss the dead's unclosed eye the little red-breast teacheth charitie." in dekker's _villanies discovered by lanthorn and candlelight_, , we read, "they that cheere up a prisoner but with their sight are robin red-breasts, that bring strawes in their bils to cover a dead man in extremitìe." this is sufficient evidence that the belief was wide-spread.] * * * * * now ponder well, you parents deare, these wordes, which i shall write; a doleful story you shall heare, in time brought forth to light. a gentleman of good account in norfolke dwelt of late, who did in honour far surmount most men of his estate. sore sicke he was, and like to dye, no helpe his life could save; his wife by him as sicke did lye, and both possest one grave. no love between these two was lost, each was to other kinde, in love they liv'd, in love they dyed, and left two babes behinde: the one a fine and pretty boy, not passing three yeares olde; the other a girl more young than he, and fram'd in beautyes molde. the father left his little son, as plainlye doth appeare, when he to perfect age should come, three hundred poundes a yeare. and to his little daughter jane five hundred poundes in gold, to be paid down on marriage-day, which might not be controll'd: but if the children chance to dye, ere they to age should come, their uncle should possesse their wealth; for so the wille did run. now, brother, said the dying man, look to my children deare; be good unto my boy and girl, no friendes else have they here: to god and you i recommend my children deare this daye; but little while be sure we have within this world to staye. you must be father and mother both, and uncle all in one; god knowes what will become of them, when i am dead and gone. with that bespake their mother deare, o brother kinde, quoth shee, you are the man must bring our babes to wealth or miserie: and if you keep them carefully, then god will you reward; but if you otherwise should deal, god will your deedes regard. with lippes as cold as any stone, they kist their children small: god bless you both, my children deare; with that the teares did fall. these speeches then their brother spake to this sicke couple there, the keeping of your little ones sweet sister, do not feare; god never prosper me nor mine, nor aught else that i have, if i do wrong your children deare, when you are layd in grave. the parents being dead and gone, the children home he takes, and bringes them straite unto his house, where much of them he makes. he had not kept these pretty babes a twelvemonth and a daye, but, for their wealth, he did devise to make them both awaye. he bargain'd with two ruffians strong, which were of furious mood, that they should take these children young, and slaye them in a wood. he told his wife an artful tale, he would the children send to be brought up in faire londòn, with one that was his friend. away then went those pretty babes, rejoycing at that tide, rejoycing with a merry minde, they should on cock-horse ride. they prate and prattle pleasantly, as they rode on the waye, to those that should their butchers be, and work their lives decaye: so that the pretty speeche they had, made murder's heart relent; and they that undertooke the deed, full sore did now repent. yet one of them more hard of heart, did vowe to do his charge, because the wretch, that hired him, had paid him very large. the other won't agree thereto, so here they fall to strife; with one another they did fight, about the childrens life: and he that was of mildest mood, did slaye the other there, within an unfrequented wood; the babes did quake for feare! he took the children by the hand, teares standing in their eye, and bad them straitwaye follow him, and look they did not crye: and two long miles he ledd them on, while they for food complaine: staye here, quoth he, i'll bring you bread, when i come back againe. these pretty babes, with hand in hand, went wandering up and downe; but never more could see the man approaching from the town: their prettye lippes with black-berries, were all besmear'd and dyed, and when they sawe the darksome night, they sat them downe and cryed. thus wandered these poor innocents, till deathe did end their grief, in one anothers armes they dyed, as wanting due relief: no burial 'this' pretty 'pair'[ ] of any man receives, till robin-red-breast piously did cover them with leaves. and now the heavy wrathe of god upon their uncle fell; yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house, his conscience felt an hell: his barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd, his landes were barren made, his cattle dyed within the field, and nothing with him stayd. and in a voyage to portugal[ ] two of his sonnes did dye; and to conclude, himselfe was brought to want and miserye: he pawn'd and mortgaged all his land ere seven yeares came about. and now at length this wicked act did by this meanes come out: the fellowe, that did take in hand these children for to kill, was for a robbery judg'd to dye, such was god's blessed will: who did confess the very truth, as here hath been display'd: their uncle having dyed in gaol, where he for debt was layd. you that executors be made, and overseers eke of children that be fatherless, and infants mild and meek; take you example by this thing, and yield to each his right, lest god with such like miserye your wicked minds requite. footnotes: [ ] ver. . these ... babes. _p.p._ [ ] [ritson has the following note (_ancient songs_, , vol. ii. p. ): "_the_ voyage, a.d. . see the catalogue of the harl. mss. no. ( ). dr. percy, not knowing that the text alludes to a particular event, has altered it to _a_ voyage."] xix. a lover of late. printed, with a few slight corrections, from the editor's folio ms. * * * * * [this song is printed, hales and furnivall's edition of the ms. vol. iii. p. .] * * * * * a lover of late was i, for cupid would have it soe, the boy that hath never an eye, as every man doth know: i sighed and sobbed, and cryed, alas! for her that laught, and called me ass. then knew not i what to doe, when i saw itt was in vaine[ ] a lady soe coy to wooe, who gave me the asse soe plaine:[ ] yet would i her asse freelye bee, soe shee would helpe, and beare with mee. an' i were as faire as shee,[ ] or shee were as kind as i,[ ] what payre cold have made, as wee, soe prettye a sympathye: i was as kind as she was faire, but for all this wee cold not paire. paire with her that will for mee, with her i will never paire; that cunningly can be coy, for being a little faire. the asse ile leave to her disdaine; and now i am myselfe againe. footnotes: [ ] [ver. . when i see itt was vaine.] [ ] [v. . and gave.] [ ] [v. . faine, ms.] [ ] [v. . and shee, ms.] xx. the king and miller of mansfield. it has been a favourite subject with our english ballad-makers to represent our kings conversing, either by accident or design, with the meanest of their subjects. of the former kind, besides this song of the king and the miller; we have k. henry and the soldier; k. james i. and the tinker; k. william iii. and the forrester &c. of the latter sort, are k. alfred and the shepherd; k. edward iv. and the tanner;[ ] k. henry viii. and the cobler, &c.--a few of the best of these are admitted into this collection. both the author of the following ballad, and others who have written on the same plan, seem to have copied a very ancient poem, intitled _john the reeve_, which is built on an adventure of the same kind, that happened between k. edward longshanks, and one of his reeves or bailiffs. this is a piece of great antiquity, being written before the time of edward iv. and for its genuine humour, diverting incidents, and faithful picture of rustic manners, is infinitely superior to all that have been since written in imitation of it. the editor has a copy in his ancient folio ms. but its length rendered it improper for this volume, it consisting of more than lines. it contains also some corruptions, and the editor chuses to defer its publication in hopes that some time or other he shall be able to remove them. the following is printed, with corrections, from the editor's folio ms. collated with an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection, intitled _a pleasant ballad of k. henry ii. and the miller of mansfield, &c._ * * * * * [this ballad of _henry ii. and the miller of mansfield_ cannot be traced farther back than the end of elizabeth's reign or the beginning of james's. one of the three copies in the roxburghe collection is dated by mr. chappell between and , and the copy in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ) was written about the same period. (see roxburghe _ballads_, ed. chappell, vol. i. p. .) as there are earlier copies than the one in the folio ms. it has not been thought necessary to add collations. _john the reeve_, referred to above, is one of the earliest and most interesting of this large class of tales. it was printed for the first time in hales and furnivall's edition of the ms. (vol. ii. p. ) with a valuable introduction. this spirited poem was probably written originally in the middle of the fifteenth century. "it professes to describe an incident that took place in the days of king edward. it adds: of that name were kings _three_ but edward with the long shanks was he, a lord of great renown. the poem then was written after the death of edward iii.; that is, after , and before the accession of edward iv., that is before ."] * * * * * part the first. henry, our royall king, would ride a hunting to the greene forest so pleasant and faire; to see the harts skipping, and dainty does tripping: unto merry sherwood his nobles repaire: hawke and hound were unbound, all things prepar'd for the game, in the same, with good regard. all a long summers day rode the king pleasantlye, with all his princes and nobles eche one; chasing the hart and hind, and the bucke gallantlye, till the dark evening forc'd all to turne home. then at last, riding fast, he had lost quite all his lords in the wood, late in the night. wandering thus wearilye, all alone, up and downe, with a rude miller he mett at the last: asking the ready way unto faire nottingham; sir, quoth the miller, i meane not to jest, yet i thinke, what i thinke, sooth for to say, you doe not lightlye ride out of your way. why, what dost thou think of me, quoth our king merrily, passing thy judgment upon me so briefe? good faith, sayd the miller, i meane not to flatter thee; i guess thee to be but some gentleman thiefe; stand thee backe, in the darke; light not adowne, lest that i presentlye cracke thy knaves crowne. thou dost abuse me much, quoth the king, saying thus; i am a gentleman; lodging i lacke. thou hast not, quoth th' miller, one groat in thy purse; all thy inheritance hanges on thy backe.[ ] i have gold to discharge all that i call; if it be forty pence, i will pay all. if thou beest a true man, then quoth the miller, i sweare by my toll-dish, i'll lodge thee all night. here's my hand, quoth the king, that was i ever. nay, soft, quoth the miller, thou may'st be a sprite. better i'll know thee, ere hands we will shake; with none but honest men hands will i take. thus they went all along unto the miller's house; where they were seething of puddings and souse:[ ] the miller first enter'd in, after him went the king; never came hee in soe smoakye a house. now, quoth hee, let me see here what you are. quoth our king, looke your fill, and doe not spare. i like well thy countenance, thou hast an honest face with my son richard this night thou shalt lye. quoth his wife, by my troth, it is a handsome youth, yet it's best, husband, to deal warilye. art thou no run away, prythee, youth, tell? shew me thy passport, and all shal be well. then our king presentlye, making lowe courtesye, with his hatt in his hand, thus he did say; i have no passport, nor never was servitor, but a poor courtyer, rode out of my way: and for your kindness here offered to mee, i will requite you in everye degree. then to the miller his wife whisper'd secretlye, saying, it seemeth, this youth's of good kin, both by his apparel, and eke by his manners; to turne him out, certainlye, were a great sin. yea, quoth hee, you may see, he hath some grace when he doth speake to his betters in place. well, quo' the millers wife, young man, ye're welcome here; and, though i say it, well lodged shall be: fresh straw will i have, laid on thy bed so brave, and good brown hempen sheets likewise, quoth shee. aye, quoth the good man; and when that is done, thou shalt lye with no worse, than our own sonne. nay, first, quoth richard, good-fellowe, tell me true, host thou noe creepers within thy gay hose? or art thou not troubled with the scabbado? i pray, quoth the king, what creatures are those? art thou not lowsy, nor scabby? quoth he: if thou beest, surely thou lyest not with mee. this caus'd the king, suddenlye, to laugh most heartilye, till the teares trickled fast downe from his eyes. then to their supper were they set orderlye, with hot bag-puddings, and good apple-pyes; nappy ale, good and stale, in a browne bowle, which did about the board merrilye trowle. here, quoth the miller, good fellowe, i drinke to thee, and to all 'cuckholds, wherever they bee.'[ ] i pledge thee, quotth our king, and thanke thee heartilye for my good welcome in everye degree: and here, in like manner, i drinke to thy sonne. do then, quoth richard, and quicke let it come. wife, quoth the miller, fetch me forth lightfoote, and of his sweetnesse a little we'll taste. a fair ven'son pastye brought she out presentlye. eate, quoth the miller, but, sir, make no waste. here's dainty lightfoote! in faith, sayd the king, i never before eat so daintye a thing. i wis, quoth richard, no daintye at all it is, for we doe eate of it everye day. in what place, sayd our king, may be bought like to this? we never pay pennye for itt, by my fay; from merry sherwood we fetch it home here; now and then we make bold with our kings deer. then i thinke, sayd our king, that it is venison. eche foole, quoth richard, full well may know that: never are wee without two or three in the roof, very well fleshed, and excellent fat: but, prythee, say nothing wherever thou goe; we would not, for two pence, the king should it knowe. doubt not, then sayd the king, my promist secresye; the king shall never know more on't for mee. a cupp of lambs-wool[ ] they dranke unto him then, and to their bedds they past presentlie. the nobles, next morning, went all up and down, for to seeke out the king in everye towne. at last, at the miller's 'cott,' soone they espy'd him out, as he was mounting upon his faire steede; to whom they came presently, falling down on their knee; which made the millers heart wofully bleede; shaking and quaking, before him he stood, thinking he should have been hang'd, by the rood. the king perceiving him fearfully trembling, drew forth his sword, but nothing he sed: the miller downe did fall, crying before them all, doubting the king would have cut off his head. but he his kind courtesye for to requite, gave him great living, and dubb'd him a knight. * * * * * part the seconde. when as our royall king came home from nottingham, and with his nobles at westminster lay; recounting the sports and pastimes they had taken, in this late progress along on the way; of them all, great and small, he did protest, the miller of mansfield's sport liked him best. and now, my lords, quoth the king, i am determined against st. georges next sumptuous feast, that this old miller, our new confirm'd knight, with his son richard, shall here be my guest: for, in this merryment, 'tis my desire to talke with the jolly knight, and the young squire. when as the noble lords saw the kinges pleasantness, they were right joyfull and glad in their hearts: a pursuivant there was sent straighte on the business, the which had often-times been in those parts. when he came to the place, where they did dwell, his message orderlye then 'gan he tell. god save your worshippe, then said the messenger, and grant your ladye her own hearts desire; and to your sonne richard good fortune and happiness; that sweet, gentle, and gallant young squire. our king greets you well, and thus he doth say, you must come to the court on st. george's day; therfore, in any case, faile not to be in place. i wis, quoth the miller, this is an odd jest: what should we doe there? faith, i am halfe afraid. i doubt, quoth richard, to be hang'd at the least. nay, quoth the messenger, you doe mistake; our king he provides a great feast for your sake. then sayd the miller, by my troth, messenger, thou hast contented my worshippe full well. hold here are three farthings, to quite thy gentleness, for these happy tydings, which thou dost tell. let me see, hear thou mee; tell to our king, we'll wayt on his mastershipp in everye thing. the pursuivant smiled at their simplicitye, and, making many leggs, tooke their reward; and his leave taking with great humilitye to the kings court againe he repair'd; shewing unto his grace, merry and free, the knightes most liberall gift and bountie. when he was gone away, thus gan the miller say, here come expences and charges indeed; now must we needs be brave, tho' we spend all we have; for of new garments we have great need: of horses and serving-men we must have store, with bridles and saddles, and twentye things more. tushe, sir john, quoth his wife, why should you frett, or frowne? you shall ne'er be att no charges for mee; for i will turne and trim up my old russet gowne, with everye thing else as fine as may bee; and on our mill-horses swift we will ride, with pillowes and pannells, as we shall provide. in this most statelye sort, rode they unto the court, their jolly sonne richard rode foremost of all; who set up, for good hap, a cocks feather in his cap,[ ] and so they jetted[ ] downe to the kings hall; the merry old miller with hands on his side; his wife, like maid marian, did mince at that tide.[ ] the king and his nobles that heard of their coming, meeting this gallant knight with his brave traine; welcome, sir knight, quoth he, with your gay lady: good sir john cockle, once welcome againe: and soe is the squire of courage soe free. quoth dicke, a bots on you! do you know mee? quoth our king gentlye, how should i forget thee? that wast my owne bed-fellowe, well it i wot. yea, sir, quoth richard, and by the same token, thou with thy farting didst make the bed hot. thou whore-son unhappy knave, then quoth the knight, speake cleanly to our king, or else go sh***. the king and his courtiers laugh at this heartily, while the king taketh them both by the hand; with the court-dames, and maids, like to the queen of spades the millers wife did soe orderlye stand. a milk-maids courtesye at every word; and downe all the folkes were set to the board. there the king royally, in princelye majestye, sate at his dinner with joy and delight; when they had eaten well, then he to jesting fell, and in a bowle of wine dranke to the knight: here's to you both, in wine, ale and beer; thanking you heartilye for my good cheer. quoth sir john cockle, i'll pledge you a pottle, were it the best ale in nottinghamshire: but then said our king, now i think of a thing; some of your lightfoote i would we had here. ho! ho! quoth richard, full well i may say it, 'tis knavery to eate it, and then to betray it. why art thou angry? quoth our king merrilye; in faith, i take it now very unkind: i thought thou wouldst pledge me in ale and wine heartily. quoth dicke, you are like to stay till i have din'd: you feed us with twatling dishes soe small; zounds, a blacke-pudding is better than all. aye, marry, quoth our king, that were a daintye thing, could a man get but one here for to eate. with that dicke straite arose, and pluckt one from his hose, which with heat of his breech gan to sweate. the king made a proffer to snatch it away:-- 'tis meat for your master: good sir, you must stay. thus in great merriment was the time wholly spent; and then the ladyes prepared to dance. old sir john cockle, and richard, incontinent[ ] unto their places the king did advance. here with the ladyes such sport they did make, the nobles with laughing did make their sides ake. many thankes for their paines did the king give them, asking young richard then, if he would wed; among these ladyes free, tell me which liketh thee? quoth he, jugg grumball, sir, with the red head: she's my love, she's my life, her will i wed; she hath sworn i shall have her maidenhead. then sir john cockle the king called unto him, and of merry sherwood made him o'er seer; and gave him out of hand three hundred pound yearlye: take heed now you steale no more of my deer: and once a quarter let's here have your view; and now, sir john cockle, i bid you adieu. footnotes: [ ] [see vol. ii. book i. no. .] [ ] the king says this. [ ] [the head, feet, and ears of swine boiled and pickled for eating.--_halliwell's dictionary._] [ ] [ver. . courtnalls, that courteous be. _ms. and p._] [ ] [a favourite liquor among the common people, composed of ale and roasted apples, the pulp of the apple worked up with the ale till the mixture formed a smooth beverage. _nares' glossary._] [ ] [ver. . _for good hap_: _i.e._ for good luck; they were going on an hazardous expedition.] [ ] [strutted.] [ ] [ver. . maid marian in the morris dance, was represented by a man in woman's cloaths, who was to take short steps in order to sustain the female character.] [ ] [forthwith.] xxi. the shepherd's resolution. this beautiful old song was written by a poet, whose name would have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by _swift_, as a term of contempt. _dryden_ and _wither_ are coupled by him like the _bavius_ and _mævius_ of virgil. _dryden_, however, has had justice done him by posterity: and as for _wither_, though of subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius, will be judged from the following stanzas. the truth is, _wither_ was a very voluminous party-writer: and as his political and satyrical strokes rendered him extremely popular in his life-time; so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally consigned his writings to oblivion. _george wither_ was born june , , and in his younger years distinguished himself by some pastoral pieces, that were not inelegant; but growing afterwards involved in the political and religious disputes in the times of james i. and charles i. he employed his poetical vein in severe pasquils on the court and clergy, and was occasionally a sufferer for the freedom of his pen. in the civil war that ensued, he exerted himself in the service of the parliament, and became a considerable sharer in the spoils. he was even one of those provincial tyrants, whom oliver distributed over the kingdom, under the name of major generals; and had the fleecing of the county of surrey: but surviving the restoration, he outlived both his power and his affluence; and giving vent to his chagrin in libels on the court, was long a prisoner in newgate and the tower. he died at length on the d of may, . during the whole course of his life, _wither_ was a continual publisher; having generally for opponent, _taylor_ the water-poet. the long list of his productions may be seen in wood's _athenæ._ _oxon._ vol. ii. his most popular satire is intitled, _abuses whipt_ _and stript_, . his most poetical pieces were eclogues, intitled, _the shepherd's hunting_, , vo. and others printed at the end of browne's _shepherd's pipe_, , vo. the following sonnet is extracted from a long pastoral piece of his, intitled, _the mistresse_ _of philarete_, , vo. which is said in the preface to be one of the author's first poems; and may therefore be dated as early as any of the foregoing. * * * * * [this favourite song appeared in , appended to wither's _fidelia_, and again in his _juvenilia_ in in _fair virtue the mistress of philarete_. it was reprinted again and again, and occurs in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ). mr. chappell refers to a copy in the pepys collection entitled, _a new song of a young man's opinion of the difference between good_ _and bad women_, the first line of which is, "shall i _wrestling_ in despaire?" this reading seems to have been pretty popular, as mr. chappell gives two instances of the tune being called "_shall_ _i wrastle in despair?_" mr. chappell prints a song in the same metre and with a similar burden, which has been attributed on insufficient evidence to sir walter raleigh. the first stanza is as follows:-- "shall i like a hermit dwell on a rock or in a cell? calling home the smallest part that is missing of my heart, to bestow it where i may meet a rival every day? if she undervalues me what care i how fair she be." _popular music of the olden time_, vol. i. p. .] * * * * * shall i, wasting in dispaire, dye because a woman's faire? or make pale my cheeks with care, 'cause another's rosie are? be shee fairer then the day, or the flowery meads in may; if she be not so to me,[ ] what care i how faire shee be? shall my foolish heart be pin'd, 'cause i see a woman kind? or a well-disposed nature joyned with a lovely feature? be she meeker, kinder, than the turtle-dove or pelican: if shee be not so to me, what care i how kind shee be? shall a woman's virtues move me to perish for her love? or, her well-deservings knowne, make me quite forget mine owne? be shee with that goodnesse blest, which may merit name of best; if she be not such to me,[ ] what care i how good she be? cause her fortune seems too high,[ ] shall i play the foole and dye?[ ] those that beare a noble minde,[ ] where they want of riches find,[ ] think what with them they would doe,[ ] that without them dare to woe;[ ] and, unlesse that minde i see,[ ] what care i how great she be?[ ] great or good, or kind or faire, i will ne'er the more dispaire: if she love me, this beleeve; i will die ere she shall grieve. if she slight me when i wooe, i can scorn and let her goe: if shee be not fit for me, what care i for whom she be? footnotes: [ ] [ver. . if shee thinke not well of mee, ms.] [ ] [v. . soe to me, ms.] [ ] [v. - . this stanza is not in the ms.] xxii. queen dido. such is the title given in the editor's folio ms.[ ] to this excellent old ballad, which, in the common printed copies, is inscribed, _eneas, wandering prince of troy_. it is here given from that ms. collated with two different printed copies, both in black-letter, in the pepys collection. the reader will smile to observe with what natural and affecting simplicity, our ancient ballad-maker has engrafted a gothic conclusion on the classic story of virgil, from whom, however, it is probable he had it not. nor can it be denied, but he has dealt out his poetical justice with a more impartial hand, than that celebrated poet. * * * * * [this once popular ballad was entered on the registers of the stationers company in - as "a ballett intituled _the wanderynge prince_." its great popularity is evidenced by the frequent references in literature and the large number of ballads sung to the tune of _queen dido_ or _troy towne_. in _the penniless parliament of threadbare poets_, , ale-knights are said to "sing _queen dido_ over a cup and tell strange news over an ale-pot," and the same song is referred to in fletcher's _captain_ (act iii. sc. ) and his _bonduca_, act i. sc. . the only tune that mr. chappell could find for the ballad was one by dr. john wilson (the jack wilson of shakspere's stage according to dr. rimbault), which is printed in his _cheerful ayres or ballads_, oxford, .] * * * * * when troy towne had, for ten yeeres "past,"[ ] withstood the greekes in manfull wise, then did their foes encrease soe fast, that to resist none could suffice: wast lye those walls, that were soe good, and corne now growes where troy towne stoode. Æneas, wandering prince of troy, when he for land long time had sought, at length arriving with great joy, to mighty carthage walls was brought; where dido queene, with sumptuous feast, did entertaine that wandering guest. and, as in hall at meate, they sate, the queene, desirous newes to heare, "says, of thy troys unhappy fate" declare to me thou trojan deare: the heavy hap and chance soe bad, that thou, poore wandering prince, hast had, and then anon this comelye knight, with words demure, as he cold well, of his unhappy ten yeares "fight," soe true a tale began to tell, with words soe sweete, and sighes so deepe, that oft he made them all to weepe. and then a thousand sighes he fet,[ ] and every sigh brought teares amaine; that where he sate the place was wett, as though he had seene those warrs againe; soe that the queene, with ruth therfore, said, worthy prince, enough, no more. and then the darksome night drew on, and twinkling starres the skye bespred; when he his dolefull tale had done, and every one was layd in bedd: where they full sweetly tooke their rest, save only dido's boyling brest. this silly woman never slept, but in her chamber, all alone, as one unhappye, alwayes wept, and to the walls shee made her mone; that she shold still desire in vaine the thing, she never must obtaine. and thus in grieffe she spent the night, till twinkling starres the skye were fled, and ph[oe]bus, with his glistering light, through misty cloudes appeared red; then tidings came to her anon, that all the trojan shipps were gone. and then the queene with bloody knife did arme her hart as hard as stone, yet, something loth to loose her life, in woefull wise she made her mone; and, rowling on her carefull bed, with sighes and sobbs, these words shee sayd: o wretched dido queene! quoth shee, i see thy end approacheth neare; for hee is fled away from thee, whom thou didst love and hold so deare: what is he gone, and passed by? o hart, prepare thyselfe to dye. though reason says, thou shouldst forbeare, and stay thy hand from bloudy stroke; yet fancy bids thee not to fear, which fetter'd thee in cupids yoke. come death, quoth shee, resolve my smart!-- and with those words shee peerced her hart. when death had pierced the tender hart of dido, carthaginian queene; whose bloudy knife did end the smart, which shee sustain'd in mournfull teene[ ]; Æneas being shipt and gone, whose flattery caused all her mone; her funerall most costly made, and all things finisht mournfullye; her body fine in mold was laid, where itt consumed speedilye: her sisters teares her tombe bestrewde; her subjects griefe their kindnesse shewed. then was Æneas in an ile in grecya, where he stayd long space, wheras her sister in short while writt to him to his vile disgrace; in speeches bitter to his mind shee told him plaine he was unkind. false-harted wretch, quoth shee, thou art; and traiterouslye thou hast betraid unto thy lure a gentle hart, which unto thee much welcome made; my sister deare, and carthage' joy, whose folly bred her deere annoy. yett on her death-bed when shee lay, shee prayd for thy prosperitye, beseeching god, that every day might breed thy great felicitye: thus by thy meanes i lost a friend; heavens send thee such untimely end. when he these lines, full fraught with gall, perused had, and wayed them right, his lofty courage then did fall; and straight appeared in his sight queene dido's ghost, both grim and pale; which made this valliant souldier quaile. Æneas, quoth this ghastly ghost, my whole delight when i did live, thee of all men i loved most; my fancy and my will did give; for entertainment i thee gave, unthankefully thou didst me grave. therfore prepare thy flitting soule to wander with me in the aire; where deadlye griefe shall make it howle, because of me thou tookst no care: delay not time, thy glasse is run, thy date is past, thy life is done. o stay a while, thou lovely sprite, be not soe hasty to convay my soule into eternall night, where itt shall ne're behold bright day. o doe not frowne; thy angry looke, hath "all my soule with horror shooke."[ ] but, woe is me! all is in vaine, and bootless is my dismall crye; time will not be recalled againe, nor thou surcease before i dye. o lett me live, and make amends to some of thy most deerest friends. but seeing thou obdurate art, and wilt no pittye on me show, because from thee i did depart, and left unpaid what i did owe: i must content myselfe to take what lott to me thou wilt partake. and thus, as one being in a trance, a multitude of uglye feinds about this woffull prince did dance; he had no helpe of any friends: his body then they tooke away, and no man knew his dying day. footnotes: [ ] [ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. .] [ ] [ver. . . war. ms. and pp.] [ ] fetched. [ ] [trouble.] [ ] ver. . ms. _hath_ made my breath my life forsooke. xxiii. the witches' song from ben jonson's _masque of queens_ presented at whitehall, feb. , . the editor thought it incumbent on him to insert some old pieces on the popular superstition concerning witches, hobgoblins, fairies, and ghosts. the last of these make their appearance in most of the tragical ballads; and in the following songs will be found some description of the former. it is true, this song of the witches, falling from the learned pen of ben jonson, is rather an extract from the various incantations of classical antiquity, than a display of the opinions of our own vulgar. but let it be observed, that a parcel of learned wiseacres had just before busied themselves on this subject, in compliment to k. james i. whose weakness on this head is well known: and these had so ransacked all writers, ancient and modern, and so blended and kneaded together the several superstitions of different times and nations, that those of genuine english growth could no longer be traced out and distinguished. by good luck the whimsical belief of fairies and goblins could furnish no pretences for torturing our fellow-creatures, and therefore we have this handed down to us pure and unsophisticated. * * * * * witch.[ ] i have been all day looking after a raven feeding upon a quarter; and, soone as she turn'd her beak to the south, i snatch'd this morsell out of her mouth. witch. i have beene gathering wolves haires, the madd dogges foames, and adders eares; the spurging of a deadmans eyes: and all since the evening starre did rise. witch. i last night lay all alone o' the ground, to heare the mandrake grone; and pluckt him up, though he grew full low: and, as i had done, the cocke did crow. witch. and i ha' beene chusing out this scull from charnell houses that were full; from private grots, and publike pits; and frighted a sexton out of his wits. witch. under a cradle i did crepe by day; and, when the childe was a-sleepe at night, i suck'd the breath; and rose, and pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose. witch. i had a dagger: what did i with that? killed an infant to have his fat. a piper it got at a church-ale,[ ] i bade him again blow wind i' the taile. witch. a murderer, yonder, was hung in chaines; the sunne and the wind had shrunke his veines: i bit off a sinew; i clipp'd his haire; i brought off his ragges, that danc'd i' the ayre. witch. the scrich-owles egges and the feathers blacke, the bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his backe i have been getting; and made of his skin a purset, to keep sir cranion[ ] in. witch. and i ha' beene plucking (plants among) hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue, night-shade, moone-wort, libbards-bane[ ]; and twise by the dogges was like to be tane. witch. i from the jawes of a gardiner's bitch did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch: yet went i back to the house againe, kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine. witch. i went to the toad, breedes under the wall, i charmed him out, and he came at my call; i scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before; i tore the batts wing: what would you have more? dame.[ ] yes: i have brought, to helpe your vows, horned poppie, cypresse boughes, the fig-tree wild, that growes on tombes, and juice, that from the larch-tree comes, the basiliskes bloud, and the viper's skin: and now our orgies let's begin. footnotes: [ ] [these witches are called hags by jonson.] [ ] [a wake or feast in commemoration of the dedication of a church.] [ ] [skull.] [ ] [the herb wolfbane.] [ ] [jonson meant the dame to represent ate or the goddess of mischief.] xxiv. robin good-fellow, alias _pucke_, alias _hobgoblin_, in the creed of ancient superstition, was a kind of merry sprite, whose character and atchievements are recorded in this ballad, and in those well-known lines of milton's _l'allegro_, which the antiquarian peck supposes to be owing to it: "tells how the drudging _goblin_ swet to earn his creame-bowle duly set; when in one night ere glimpse of morne, his shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn that ten day-labourers could not end; then lies him down the lubber fiend, and stretch'd out all the chimneys length, basks at the fire his hairy strength, and crop-full out of doors he flings, ere the first cock his matins rings." the reader will observe that our simple ancestors had reduced all these whimsies to a kind of system, as regular, and perhaps more consistent, than many parts of classic mythology: a proof of the extensive influence and vast antiquity of these superstitions. mankind, and especially the common people, could not every where have been so unanimously agreed concerning these arbitrary notions, if they had not prevailed among them for many ages. indeed, a learned friend in wales assures the editor, that the existence of fairies and goblins is alluded to by the most ancient british bards, who mention them under various names, one of the most common of which signifies, _the spirits of the mountains_. see also preface to song xxv. this song, which peck attributes to ben jonson, (tho' it is not found among his works) is chiefly printed from an ancient black-letter copy in the british museum. it seems to have been originally intended for some masque. it is intitled, in the old black-letter copies, _the mad merry_ _prankes of robin goodfellow_. to the tune of _dulcina_, &c. (see no. xiii. above.) to one, if not more of the old copies, are prefixed two wooden cuts, said to be taken from bulwer's _artificial changeling, &c._, which, as they seem to correspond with the notions then entertained of the whimsical appearances of this fantastic spirit, and perhaps were copied in the dresses in which he was formerly exhibited on the stage, are, to gratify the curious, engraven below. * * * * * [the copy in the roxburghe _collection_ (ed. chappell, vol. ii. pl. i. p. ) is printed by h[enry] g[osson], who was a contemporary of ben jonson. some little books in prose on _robin goodfellow_, written in the seventeenth century, were printed for the percy society by mr. j. p. collier.] * * * * * from oberon, in fairye land, the king of ghosts and shadowes there, mad robin i, at his command, am sent to viewe the night-sports here. what revell rout is kept about, in every corner where i go, i will o'ersee, and merry bee, and make good sport, with ho, ho, ho! more swift than lightening can i flye about this aery welkin soone, and, in a minutes space, descrye each thing that's done belowe the moone, there's not a hag or ghost shall wag, or cry, ware goblins! where i go; but robin i their feates will spy, and send them home, with ho, ho, ho! whene'er such wanderers i meete, as from their night-sports they trudge home; with counterfeiting voice i greete and call them on, with me to roame thro' woods, thro' lakes, thro' bogs, thro' brakes; or else, unseene, with them i go, all in the nicke to play some tricke and frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho! sometimes i meete them like a man; sometimes, an ox, sometimes, a hound; and to a horse i turn me can; to trip and trot about them round. but if, to ride, my backe they stride, more swift than wind away i go, ore hedge and lands, thro' pools and ponds i whirry, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when lads and lasses merry be, with possets and with juncates fine; unseene of all the company, i eat their cakes and sip their wine; and, to make sport, i fart and snort; and out the candles i do blow: the maids i kiss; they shrieke--who's this? i answer nought, but ho, ho, ho! yet now and then, the maids to please, at midnight i card up their wooll; and while they sleepe, and take their ease, with wheel to threads their flax i pull. i grind at mill their malt up still; i dress their hemp, i spin their tow. if any 'wake, and would me take, i wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! when house or harth doth sluttish lye,[ ] i pinch the maidens blacke and blue; the bed-clothes from the bedd pull i, and lay them naked all to view. 'twixt sleepe and wake, i do them take, and on the key-cold floor them throw. if out they cry, then forth i fly, and loudly laugh out, ho, ho, ho! when any need to borrowe ought, we lend them what they do require; and for the use demand we nought; our owne is all we do desire. if to repay, they do delay, abroad amongst them then i go, and night by night, i them affright with pinchings, dreames, and ho, ho, ho! when lazie queans have nought to do, but study how to cog and lye; to make debate and mischief too, 'twixt one another secretlye: i marke their gloze, and it disclose, to them whom they have wronged so; when i have done, i get me gone, and leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho! when men do traps and engins set in loop-holes, where the vermine creepe, who from their foldes and houses, get their duckes and geese, and lambes and sheepe: i spy the gin, and enter in, and seeme a vermine taken so; but when they there approach me neare, i leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho! by wells and rills,[ ] in meadowes greene, we nightly dance our hey-day guise;[ ] and to our fairye king, and queene, we chant our moon-light minstrelsies. when larks 'gin sing, away we fling; and babes new borne steal as we go, and else in bed, we leave instead, and wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho! from hag-bred merlin's time have i thus nightly revell'd to and fro: and for my pranks men call me by the name of robin good-fellow. fiends, ghosts, and sprites, who haunt the nightes, the hags and goblins do me know; and beldames old my feates have told; so _vale, vale_; ho, ho, ho! footnotes: [ ] [ver. . this begins the second part in the roxburghe copy.] [ ] [gills=rivulets, _roxb. copy_.] [ ] [a misprint for heydegies=rustic dances. the word occurs in lily's _endymion_, , and in wm. bulleyn's _dialogue_, , where the minstrel daunces "trenchmore" and "heie de gie."--_chappell._] xxv. the fairy queen. we have here a short display of the popular belief concerning _fairies_. it will afford entertainment to a contemplative mind to trace these whimsical opinions up to their origin. whoever considers, how early, how extensively, and how uniformly, they have prevailed in these nations, will not readily assent to the hypothesis of those, who fetch them from the east so late as the time of the croisades. whereas it is well known that our saxon ancestors, long before they left their german forests, believed the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits, whom they called _duergar_ or _dwarfs_, and to whom they attributed many wonderful performances, far exceeding human art. vid. hervarer saga olaj verelj. . hickes' thesaur., &c. this song is given (with some corrections by another copy) from a book intitled, _the mysteries of love and eloquence, &c._ lond. , vo. * * * * * [dr. rimbault points out that this song occurs in a rare tract published more than twenty years before the book mentioned above. it is entitled, _a description of the king and queen of the_ _fayries, their habit, fare, abode, pomp and state, being very delightful to the sense and full of mirth_. london, . the song was to be sung to the tune of the _spanish gypsie_, which began-- "o follow, follow me for we be gypsies three." martin parker wrote a sort of parody called _the three merry_ _cobblers_, commencing-- "come follow, follow me to the alehouse we'll march all three; leave awl, last, thread and leather, and let's go all together." mr. chappell prints the first, eighth, fourteenth and last stanzas (_popular music_, vol. i. p. .)] * * * * * come, follow, follow me, you, fairy elves that be: which circle on the greene, come follow mab your queene. hand in hand let's dance around, for this place is fairye ground. when mortals are at rest, and snoring in their nest; unheard, and un-espy'd, through key-holes we do glide; over tables, stools, and shelves. we trip it with our fairy elves. and, if the house be foul[ ] with platter, dish or bowl, up stairs we nimbly creep, and find the sluts asleep: there we pinch their armes and thighes; none escapes, nor none espies. but if the house be swept, and from uncleanness kept, we praise the household maid, and duely she is paid: for we use before we goe to drop a tester[ ] in her shoe. upon a mushroomes head our table-cloth we spread; a grain of rye, or wheat, is manchet,[ ] which we eat; pearly drops of dew we drink in acorn cups fill'd to the brink. the brains of nightingales, with unctuous fat of snailes, between two cockles stew'd, is meat that's easily chew'd; tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice do make a dish, that's wonderous nice. the grashopper, gnat, and fly, serve for our minstrelsie; grace said, we dance a while, and so the time beguile; and if the moon doth hide her head, the gloe-worm lights us home to bed. on tops of dewie grasse so nimbly do we passe, the young and tender stalk ne'er bends when we do walk: yet in the morning may be seen where we the night before have been. footnotes: [ ] [puck's speech in _midsummer night's dream_ (act v. sc. )-- "i am sent with broom before to sweep the dust behind the door," illustrates the delight of the fairies in cleanliness, which is dwelt upon in this and the following song.] [ ] [tester or teston=sixpence.] [ ] [best kind of white bread.] xxvi. the fairies farewell. this humorous old song fell from the hand of the witty dr. _corbet_ (afterwards bishop of norwich, &c.) and is printed from his _poëtica stromata_, , mo. (compared with the third edition of his poems, .) it is there called, _a proper new ballad, intitled, the fairies farewell, or god-a-mercy will, to be sung or whistled to the tune of the meddow brow, by the learned; by the unlearned, to the tune of fortune_. the departure of fairies is here attributed to the abolition of monkery: chaucer has, with equal humour, assigned a cause the very reverse, in his _wife of bath's tale_. "in olde dayes of the king artour, of which that bretons speken gret honour, all was this lond fulfilled of faerie; the elf-quene, with hire joly compagnie danced ful oft in many a grene mede. this was the old opinion as i rede; i speke of many hundred yeres ago; but now can no man see non elves mo, for now the grete charitee and prayeres of limitoures and other holy freres, that serchen every land and every streme, as thikke as motes in the sonne beme, blissing halles, chambres, kichenes, and boures, citees and burghes, castles high and toures, thropes and bernes, shepenes and dairies, this maketh that ther ben no faeries: for ther as wont to walken was an elf, ther walketh now the limitour himself, in undermeles and in morweninges, and sayth his matines and his holy thinges, as he goth in his limitatioun. women may now go safely up and doun, in every bush, and under every tree, ther is non other incubus but he, and he ne will don hem no dishonour." tyrwhitt's _chaucer_, i. p. . dr. richard corbet, having been bishop of oxford about three years, and afterwards as long bishop of norwich, died in , Ætat. . * * * * * farewell rewards and fairies! good housewives now may say; for now foule sluts in dairies, doe fare as well as they: and though they sweepe their hearths no less than mayds were wont to doe, yet who of late for cleaneliness finds sixe-pence in her shoe? lament, lament old abbies, the fairies lost command; they did but change priests babies, but some have chang'd your land: and all your children stoln from thence are now growne puritanes, who live as changelings ever since, for love of your demaines. at morning and at evening both you merry were and glad, so little care of sleepe and sloth, these prettie ladies had. when tom came home from labour, or ciss to milking rose, then merrily went their tabour, and nimbly went their toes. witness those rings and roundelayes of theirs, which yet remaine; were footed in queene maries dayes on many a grassy playne. but since of late elizabeth and later james came in; they never danc'd on any heath, as when the time hath bin. by which wee note the fairies were of the old profession: their songs were _ave maries_, their dances were procession. but now, alas! they all are dead, or gone beyond the seas, or farther for religion fled, or else they take their ease. a tell-tale in their company they never could endure; and whoso kept not secretly their mirth, was punish'd sure: it was a just and christian deed to pinch such blacke and blue: o how the common-welth doth need such justices, as you! now they have left our quarters; a register they have, who can preserve their charters; a man both wise and grave. an hundred of their merry pranks by one that i could name are kept in store; con twenty thanks to william for the same. to william churne of staffordshire give laud and praises due, who every meale can mend your cheare with tales both old and true: to william all give audience, and pray yee for his noddle: for all the fairies evidence were lost, if it were addle. * * * * * [***] after these _songs_ on the _fairies_, the reader may be curious to see the manner in which they were formerly invoked and bound to human service. in ashmole's _collection of mss._ at oxford (num. . . ), are the papers of some alchymist, which contain a variety of incantations and forms of conjuring both _fairies_, _witches_, and _demons_, principally, as it should seem, to assist him in his great work of transmuting metals. most of them are too impious to be reprinted: but the two following may be very innocently laughed at. whoever looks into ben jonson's _alchymist_, will find that these impostors, among their other secrets, affected to have a power over _fairies_: and that they were commonly expected to be seen in a christal glass appears from that extraordinary book, _the relation_ _of dr. john dee's actions with spirits_, , folio. _"an excellent way_ to gett a _fayrie_. (for myself i call _margarett barrance_; but this will obteine any one that is not allready bownd.) "first, gett a broad square christall or venice glasse, in length and breadth inches. then lay that glasse or christall in the bloud of a white henne, wednesdayes, or fridayes. then take it out, and wash it with holy aq. and fumigate it. then take hazle sticks, or wands of an yeare groth: pill them fayre and white; and make 'them' soe longe, as you write the _spiritts_ name, or _fayries_ name, which you call, times on every sticke being made flatt on one side. then bury them under some hill, whereas you suppose _fayries_ haunt, the wednesday before you call her: and the friday followinge take them uppe, and call her at or or of the clocke, which be good planetts and houres for that turne: but when you call, be in cleane life, and turne thy face towards the east. and when you have her, bind her to that stone or glasse." "an unguent to annoynt under the eyelids, and upon the eyelids eveninge and morninge: but especially when you call; or find your sight not perfect. "r. a pint of sallet-oyle, and put it into a viall glasse: but first wash it with rose-water, and marygold-water; the flowers 'to' be gathered towards the east. wash it till the oyle come white; then put it into the glasse, _ut supra_: and then put thereto the budds of holyhocke, the flowers of marygold, the flowers or toppes of wild thime, the budds of young hazle: and the thime must be gathered neare the side of a hill where _fayries_ use to be: and 'take' the grasse of a fayrie throne, there. all these put into the oyle, into the glasse: and set it to dissolve dayes in the sunne, and then keep it for thy use; _ut supra_." after this receipt for the unguent follows a form of incantation, wherein the alchymist conjures a fairy, named _elaby gathon_, to appear to him in that chrystal glass, meekly and mildly; to resolve him truly in all manner of questions; and to be obedient to all his commands, under pain of damnation, &c. one of the vulgar opinions about fairies is, that they cannot be seen by human eyes, without a particular charm exerted in favour of the person who is to see them: and that they strike with blindness such as having the gift of seeing them, take notice of them _mal-à-propos_. as to the hazle sticks mentioned above, they were to be probably of that species called the _witch hazle_; which received its name from this manner of applying it in incantations. the end of book the second. [illustration] reliques of ancient poetry, etc. series the third. book iii. [illustration] [illustration] i. the birth of st. george. the incidents in this, and the other ballad of _st. george and the dragon_, are chiefly taken from the old story-book of the seven champions of christendome; which, tho' now the play-thing of children, was once in high repute. bp. hall in his _satires_, published in , ranks "st. george's sorell, and his cross of blood," among the most popular stories of his time: and an ingenious critic thinks that spencer himself did not disdain to borrow hints from it;[ ] tho' i much doubt whether this popular romance were written so early as the _faery queen_. the author of this book of the _seven champions_ was one richard johnson, who lived in the reigns of elizabeth and james, as we collect from his other publications: viz.--_the nine worthies of london_: , to.--_the pleasant walks of moor fields_: , to.--_a crown garland of goulden roses, gathered, &c._ , vo.--_the life and death of rob. cecill, e. of salisbury_: , to.--_the hist. of tom of lincoln_, to. is also by r. j. who likewise reprinted _don flores of greece_, to. the _seven champions_, tho' written in a wild inflated style, contains some strong gothic painting; which seems, for the most part, copied from the metrical romances of former ages. at least the story of _st. george and the fair sabra_ is taken almost verbatim from the old poetical legend of _syr bevis of hampton_. this very antique poem was in great fame in chaucer's time (see above, pag. .), and so continued till the introduction of printing, when it ran thro' several editions; two of which are in black letter, to. "imprinted by wyllyam copland," without date; containing great variations. as a specimen of the poetic powers of this very old rhimist, and as a proof how closely the author of the _seven champions_ has followed him, take a description of the dragon slain by sir bevis. "--whan the dragon, that foule is, had a syght of syr bevis, he cast up a loude cry, as it had thondred in the sky; he turned his bely towarde the son; it was greater than any tonne: his scales was bryghter then the glas, and harder they were than any bras: betwene his shulder and his tayle, was forty fote withoute fayle. he waltred out of his denne, and bevis pricked his stede then, and to hym a spere he thraste that all to shyvers he it braste: the dragon then gan bevis assayle, and smote syr bevis with his tayle; then downe went horse and man, and two rybbes of bevis brused than." after a long fight, at length, as the dragon was preparing to fly, sir bevis "hit him under the wynge, as he was in his flyenge, there he was tender without scale, and bevis thought to be his bale. he smote after, as i you saye, with his good sword morglaye. up to the hiltes morglay yode through harte, lyver, bone, and bloude: to the ground fell the dragon, great joye syr bevis begon. under the scales al on hight he smote off his head forth right, and put it on a spere: &c." sign. k. iv. sir bevis's dragon is evidently the parent of that in the _seven_ _champions_, see chap, iii., viz. "the dragon no sooner had a sight of him (st. george) but he gave such a terrible peal, as though it had thundered in the elements.... betwixt his shoulders and his tail were fifty feet in distance, his scales glistering as bright as silver, but far more hard than brass; his belly of the colour of gold, but bigger than a tun. thus weltered he from his den, &c.... the champion ... gave the dragon such a thrust with his spear, that it shivered in a thousand pieces: whereat the furious dragon so fiercely smote him with his venomous tail, that down fell man and horse: in which fall two of st. george's ribs were so bruised, &c.--at length ... st. george smote the dragon under the wing where it was tender without scale, whereby his good sword ascalon with an easie passage went to the very hilt through both the dragon's heart, liver, bone, and blood.--then st. george--cut off the dragon's head and pitcht it upon the truncheon of a spear, &c." the _history of the seven champions_, being written just before the decline of books of chivalry, was never, i believe, translated into any foreign language: but _le roman de beuves of hantonne_ was published at paris in , to. let. gothique. the learned selden tell us, that about the time of the norman invasion was bevis famous with the title of earl of southampton, whose residence was at duncton in wiltshire; but he observes, that the monkish enlargements of his story have made his very existence doubted. see _notes on poly-olbion, song_ iii. this hath also been the case of _st. george_ himself; whose martial history is allowed to be apocryphal. but, to prove that there really existed an orthodox saint of this name (altho' little or nothing, it seems, is known of his genuine story) is the subject of _an historical and critical inquiry into the existence and character of st. george, &c._ by the rev. j. milner, f.s.a. , vo. the equestrian figure worn by the knights of the garter, has been understood to be an emblem of the christian warrior, in his spiritual armour, vanquishing the old serpent. but on this subject the inquisitive reader may consult _a dissertation_ _on the original of the equestrian figure of the george and of the garter, ensigns of the most noble order of that name_. illustrated with copper-plates. by john petingal, a.m., fellow of the society of antiquaries, london, , to. this learned and curious work the author of the _historical and critical inquiry_ would have done well to have seen. it cannot be denied, but that the following ballad is for the most part modern: for which reason it would have been thrown to the end of the volume, had not its subject procured it a place here. * * * * * [in respect to the last paragraph, ritson writes, "it may be safely denied, however, that the least part of it is ancient."] * * * * * listen, lords, in bower and hall, i sing the wonderous birth of brave st. george, whose valorous arm rid monsters from the earth: distressed ladies to relieve he travell'd many a day; in honour of the christian faith, which shall endure for aye. in coventry sometime did dwell a knight of worthy fame, high steward of this noble realme; lord albert was his name. he had to wife a princely dame, whose beauty did excell. this virtuous lady, being with child, in sudden sadness fell: for thirty nights no sooner sleep had clos'd her wakeful eyes, but, lo! a foul and fearful dream her fancy would surprize: she dreamt a dragon fierce and fell conceiv'd within her womb; whose mortal fangs her body rent ere he to life could come. all woe-begone, and sad was she; she nourisht constant woe: yet strove to hide it from her lord, lest he should sorrow know. in vain she strove, her tender lord, who watch'd her slightest look, discover'd soon her secret pain, and soon that pain partook. and when to him the fearful cause she weeping did impart, with kindest speech he strove to heal the anguish of her heart. be comforted, my lady dear, those pearly drops refrain; betide me weal, betide me woe, i'll try to ease thy pain. and for this foul and fearful dream, that causeth all thy woe, trust me i'll travel far away but i'll the meaning knowe. then giving many a fond embrace, and shedding many a teare, to the weïrd lady of the woods he purpos'd to repaire. to the weïrd lady of the woods, full long and many a day, thro' lonely shades, and thickets rough he winds his weary way. at length he reach'd a dreary dell with dismal yews o'erhung; where cypress spred its mournful boughs, and pois'nous nightshade sprung. no chearful gleams here pierc'd the gloom, he hears no chearful sound; but shrill night-ravens' yelling scream, and serpents hissing round. the shriek of fiends, and damned ghosts ran howling thro' his ear: a chilling horror froze his heart, tho' all unus'd to fear. three times he strives to win his way, and pierce those sickly dews: three times to bear his trembling corse his knocking knees refuse. at length upon his beating breast he signs the holy crosse; and, rouzing up his wonted might, he treads th' unhallow'd mosse. beneath a pendant craggy cliff, all vaulted like a grave, and opening in the solid rock, he found the inchanted cave. an iron gate clos'd up the mouth, all hideous and forlorne; and, fasten'd by a silver chain, near hung a brazed horne. then offering up a secret prayer, three times he blowes amaine: three times a deepe and hollow sound did answer him againe. "sir knight, thy lady beares a son, who, like a dragon bright, shall prove most dreadful to his foes, and terrible in fight. "his name advanc'd in future times on banners shall be worn: but lo! thy lady's life must passe before he can be born." all sore opprest with fear and doubt long time lord albert stood; at length he winds his doubtful way back thro' the dreary wood. eager to clasp his lovely dame then fast he travels back: but when he reach'd his castle gate, his gate was hung with black. in every court and hall he found a sullen silence reigne; save where, amid the lonely towers, he heard her maidens 'plaine; and bitterly lament and weep, with many a grievous grone: then sore his bleeding heart misgave, his lady's life was gone. with faultering step he enters in, yet half affraid to goe; with trembling voice asks why they grieve, yet fears the cause to knowe. "three times the sun hath rose and set;" they said, then stopt to weep: "since heaven hath laid thy lady deare in death's eternal sleep. "for, ah! in travel sore she fell, so sore that she must dye; unless some shrewd and cunning leech could ease her presentlye. "but when a cunning leech was fet, too soon declared he, she, or her babe must lose its life; both saved could not be. "now take my life, thy lady said, my little infant save: and o commend me to my lord, when i am laid in grave. "o tell him how that precious babe cost him a tender wife: and teach my son to lisp her name, who died to save his life. "then calling still upon thy name, and praying still for thee; without repining or complaint, her gentle soul did flee." what tongue can paint lord albret's woe, the bitter tears he shed, the bitter pangs that wrung his heart, to find his lady dead? he beat his breast: he tore his hair; and shedding many a tear, at length he askt to see his son; the son that cost so dear. new sorrowe seiz'd the damsells all: at length they faultering say; "alas! my lord, how shall we tell? thy son is stoln away. "fair as the sweetest flower of spring, such was his infant mien: and on his little body stampt three wonderous marks were seen: "a blood-red cross was on his arm; a dragon on his breast: a little garter all of gold was round his leg exprest. "three carefull nurses we provide our little lord to keep: one gave him sucke, one gave him food, and one did lull to sleep. "but lo! all in the dead of night, we heard a fearful sound: loud thunder clapt; the castle shook; and lightning flasht around. "dead with affright at first we lay; but rousing up anon, we ran to see our little lord: our little lord was gone! "but how or where we could not tell; for lying on the ground, in deep and magic slumbers laid, the nurses there we found." o grief on grief! lord albret said: no more his tongue cou'd say, when falling in a deadly swoone, long time he lifeless lay. at length restor'd to life and sense he nourisht endless woe, no future joy his heart could taste, no future comfort know. so withers on the mountain top a fair and stately oake, whose vigorous arms are torne away, by some rude thunder-stroke. at length his castle irksome grew, he loathes his wonted home; his native country he forsakes in foreign lands to roame. there up and downe he wandered far, clad in a palmer's gown; till his brown locks grew white as wool, his beard as thistle down. at length, all wearied, down in death he laid his reverend head. meantime amid the lonely wilds his little son was bred. there the weïrd lady of the woods had borne him far away, and train'd him up in feates of armes, and every martial play. [***] footnotes: [ ] mr. warton. vid. observations on the _fairy queen_, vol. , mo. _passim._ ii. st. george and the dragon. the following ballad is given (with some corrections) from two ancient black-letter copies in the _pepys collection_: one of which is in mo., the other in folio. * * * * * [the story of _st. george and the dragon_ is found in many forms in the northern languages.] * * * * * of hector's deeds did homer sing; and of the sack of stately troy, what griefs fair helena did bring, which was sir paris' only joy: and by my pen i will recite st. george's deeds, and english knight. against the sarazens so rude fought he full long and many a day, where many gyants he subdu'd, in honour of the christian way: and after many adventures past to egypt land he came at last. now, as the story plain doth tell, within that countrey there did rest a dreadful dragon fierce and fell, whereby they were full sore opprest; who by his poisonous breath each day, did many of the city slay. the grief whereof did grow so great throughout the limits of the land, that they their wise-men did intreat to shew their cunning out of hand; what way they might this fiend destroy, that did the countrey thus annoy. the wise-men all before the king this answer fram'd incontinent; the dragon none to death might bring by any means they could invent: his skin more hard than brass was found, that sword nor spear could pierce nor wound. when this the people understood, they cryed out most piteouslye, the dragon's breath infects their blood, that every day in heaps they dye: among them such a plague it bred, the living scarce could bury the dead. no means there were, as they could hear, for to appease the dragon's rage, but to present some virgin clear, whose blood his fury might asswage; each day he would a maiden eat, for to allay his hunger great. this thing by art the wise-men found, which truly must observed be; wherefore throughout the city round a virgin pure of good degree was by the king's commission still taken up to serve the dragon's will. thus did the dragon every day untimely crop some virgin flowr, till all the maids were worn away, and none were left him to devour: saving the king's fair daughter bright, her father's only heart's delight. then came the officers to the king that heavy message to declare, which did his heart with sorrow sting; she is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir: o let us all be poisoned here, ere she should die, that is my dear. then rose the people presently, and to the king in rage they went; they said his daughter dear should dye, the dragon's fury to prevent: our daughters all are dead, quoth they, and have been made the dragon's prey: and by their blood we rescued were, and thou hast sav'd thy life thereby; and now in sooth it is but faire, for us thy daughter so should die. o save my daughter, said the king; and let me feel the dragon's sting. then fell fair sabra on her knee, and to her father dear did say, o father, strive not thus for me, but let me be the dragon's prey; it may be, for my sake alone this plague upon the land was thrown. tis better i should dye, she said, than all your subjects perish quite; perhaps the dragon here was laid, for my offence to work his spite: and after he hath suckt my gore, your land shall feel the grief no more. what hast thou done, my daughter dear, for to deserve this heavy scourge? it is my fault, as may appear, which makes the gods our state to purge; then ought i die, to stint the strife, and to preserve thy happy life. like mad-men, all the people cried, thy death to us can do no good; our safety only doth abide in making her the dragon's food. lo! here i am, i come, quoth she, therefore do what you will with me. nay stay, dear daughter, quoth the queen, and as thou art a virgin bright, that hast for vertue famous been, so let me cloath thee all in white; and crown thy head with flowers sweet, an ornament for virgins meet. and when she was attired so, according to her mother's mind, unto the stake then did she go; to which her tender limbs they bind: and being bound to stake a thrall she bade farewell unto them all. farewell, my father dear, quoth she, and my sweet mother meek and mild; take you no thought nor weep for me, for you may have another child: since for my country's good i dye, death i receive most willinglye. the king and queen and all their train with weeping eyes went then their way, and let their daughter there remain, to be the hungry dragon's prey: but as she did there weeping lye, behold st. george came riding by. and seeing there a lady bright so rudely tyed unto a stake, as well became a valiant knight, he straight to her his way did take: tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he, what caitif thus abuseth thee? and, lo! by christ his cross i vow, which here is figured on my breast, i will revenge it on his brow, and break my lance upon his chest: and speaking thus whereas he stood, the dragon issued from the wood. the lady that did first espy the dreadful dragon coming so, unto st. george aloud did cry, and willed him away to go; here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she; that soon will make an end of me. st. george then looking round about, the fiery dragon soon espy'd, and like a knight of courage stout, against him did most fiercely ride; and with such blows he did him greet, he fell beneath his horse's feet. for with his launce that was so strong, as he came gaping in his face, in at his mouth he thrust along; for he could pierce no other place: and thus within the lady's view this mighty dragon straight he slew. the savour of his poisoned breath could do this holy knight no harm. thus he the lady sav'd from death, and home he led her by the arm; which when king ptolemy did see, there was great mirth and melody. when as that valiant champion there had slain the dragon in the field, to court he brought the lady fair, which to their hearts much joy did yield. he in the court of egypt staid till he most falsely was betray'd. that lady dearly lov'd the knight, he counted her his only joy; but when their love was brought to light it turn'd unto their great annoy: th' morocco king was in the court, who to the orchard did resort, dayly to take the pleasant air, for pleasure sake he us'd to walk, under a wall he oft did hear st. george with lady sabra talk: their love he shew'd unto the king, which to st. george great woe did bring. those kings together did devise to make the christian knight away, with letters him in curteous wise they straightway sent to persia: but wrote to the sophy him to kill, and treacherously his blood to spill. thus they for good did him reward with evil, and most subtilly by much vile meanes they had regard to work his death most cruelly; who, as through persia land he rode, with zeal destroy'd each idol god. for which offence he straight was thrown into a dungeon dark and deep; where, when he thought his wrongs upon, he bitterly did wail and weep: yet like a knight of courage stout, at length his way he digged out. three grooms of the king of persia by night this valiant champion slew, though he had fasted many a day; and then away from thence he flew on the best steed the sophy had; which when he knew he was full mad. towards christendom he made his flight, but met a gyant by the way, with whom in combat he did fight most valiantly a summer's day: who yet, for all his bats of steel, was forc'd the sting of death to feel. back o'er the seas with many bands of warlike souldiers soon he past, vowing upon those heathen lands to work revenge; which at the last, ere thrice three years were gone and spent, he wrought unto his heart's content. save onely egypt land he spar'd for sabra bright her only sake, and, ere for her he had regard, he meant a tryal kind to make: mean while the king o'ercome in field unto saint george did quickly yield. then straight morocco's king he slew, and took fair sabra to his wife, but meant to try if she were true ere with her he would lead his life: and, tho' he had her in his train, she did a virgin pure remain. toward england then that lovely dame the brave st. george conducted strait, an eunuch also with them came, who did upon the lady wait; these three from egypt went alone. now mark st. george's valour shown. when as they in a forest were, the lady did desire to rest; mean while st. george to kill a deer, for their repast did think it best: leaving her with the eunuch there, whilst he did go to kill the deer. but lo! all in his absence came two hungry lyons fierce and fell, and tore the eunuch on the same in pieces small, the truth to tell; down by the lady then they laid, whereby they shew'd, she was a maid. but when he came from hunting back, and did behold this heavy chance, then for his lovely virgin's sake his courage strait he did advance, and came into the lions sight, who ran at him with all their might. their rage did him no whit dismay, who, like a stout and valiant knight, did both the hungry lyons slay within the lady sabra's sight: who all this while sad and demure, there stood most like a virgin pure. now when st. george did surely know this lady was a virgin true, his heart was glad, that erst was woe, and all his love did soon renew: he set her on a palfrey steed, and towards england came with speed. where being in short space arriv'd unto his native dwelling-place; therein with his dear love he liv'd, and fortune did his nuptials grace: they many years of joy did see, and led their lives at coventry. iii. love will find out the way. this excellent song is ancient: but we could only give it from a modern copy. * * * * * [earlier editions of this spirited song are printed in evans's _old ballads_, iii. ( ), and rimbault's _little book of songs and ballads_, p. . it is quoted in brome's _sparagus garden_, acted in , and shirley's _constant maid_ was republished in , under the title of _love will find out the way_, by t. b. dr. rimbault has the following note in his _musical illustrations_, "the old black-letter copy of this ballad is called '_truth's integrity: or, a curious northerne ditty_, called _love will finde out the way_. to a pleasant new tune printed at london for f. coules, dwelling in the old bailey.' there is a second part consisting of six stanzas, which percy has not reprinted. the tune is here given (translated from the _tablature_) from _musicks recreation on the lyra viol_, published by playford in . it is also preserved in forbes's _cantus_, ; in _musick's delight on the cithren_, ; and in d'urfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, . the _pepysian collection_ contains several ballads to this tune." mr. chappell writes, "the air is still current, for in the summer of , mr. jennings, organist of all saints' church, maidstone, noted it down from the wandering hop-pickers singing a song to it on their entrance into that town." _popular music_, vol. i. p. .] * * * * * over the mountains, and over the waves; under the fountains, and under the graves; under the floods that are deepest, which neptune obey; over rocks that are steepest, love will find out the way. where there is no place for the glow-worm to lye; where there is no space for receipt of a fly; where the midge dares not venture, lest herself fast she lay; if love come, he will enter, and soon find out his way. you may esteem him a child for his might; or you may deem him a coward from his flight; but if she, whom love doth honour, be conceal'd from the day, set a thousand guards upon her, love will find out the way. some think to lose him, by having him confin'd; and some do suppose him, poor thing, to be blind; but if ne'er so close ye wall him, do the best that you may, blind love, if so ye call him, will find out his way. you may train the eagle to stoop to your fist; or you may inveigle the phenix of the east; the lioness, ye may move her to give o'er her prey; but you'll ne'er stop a lover: he will find out his way. [***] iv. lord thomas and fair annet, a scottish ballad, seems to be composed (not without improvements) out of two ancient english ones, printed in the former part of this volume. see book i. ballad xv. and book ii. ballad iv.--if this had been the original, the authors of those two ballads would hardly have adopted two such different stories: besides, this contains enlargements not to be found in either of the others. it is given with some corrections, from a ms. copy transmitted from scotland. * * * * * [jamieson prints a version of this ballad which was taken down from the recitation of mrs. w. arrot of aberbrothick, and is entitled _sweet willie and fair annie_. he contends that it is "pure and entire," and expresses his opinion that the text of percy's copy had been "adjusted" previous to its leaving scotland.] * * * * * lord thomas and fair annet sate a' day on a hill; whan night was cum, and sun was sett, they had not talkt their fill. lord thomas said a word in jest, fair annet took it ill: a'! i will nevir wed a wife against my ain friends will. gif ye wull nevir wed a wife, a wife wull neir wed yee. sae he is hame to tell his mither, and knelt upon his knee: o rede, o rede, mither, he says, a gude rede gie to mee: o sall i tak the nut-browne bride, and let faire annet bee? the nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear, fair annet she has gat nane; and the little beauty fair annet has, o it wull soon be gane! and he has till his brother gane: now, brother, rede ye mee; a' sall i marrie the nut-browne bride, and let fair annet bee? the nut-browne bride has oxen, brother, the nut-browne bride has kye; i wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride, and cast fair annet bye. her oxen may dye i' the house, billìe, and her kye into the byre; and i sall hae nothing to my sell, bot a fat fadge[ ] by the fyre. and he has till his sister gane: now, sister, rede ye mee; o sall i marrie the nut-browne bride, and set fair annet free? ise rede ye tak fair annet, thomas, and let the browne bride alane; lest ye sould sigh and say, alace! what is this we brought hame? no, i will tak my mithers counsel, and marrie me owt o' hand; and i will tak the nut-browne bride; fair annet may leive the land. up then rose fair annets father twa hours or it wer day, and he is gane into the bower, wherein fair annet lay. rise up, rise up, fair annet, he says, put on your silken sheene; let us gae to st. maries kirke, and see that rich weddeen. my maides, gae to my dressing roome, and dress to me my hair; whair-eir yee laid a plait before, see yee lay ten times mair. my maids, gae to my dressing room, and dress to me my smock; the one half is o' the holland fine, the other o' needle-work. the horse fair annet rade upon, he amblit like the wind, wi' siller he was shod before, wi' burning gowd behind. four and twanty siller bells wer a' tyed till his mane, and yae tift[ ] o' the norland wind, they tinkled ane by ane. four and twanty gay gude knichts rade by the fair annets side, and four and twanty fair ladies, as gin she had bin a bride. and whan she cam to maries kirk, she sat on maries stean: the cleading that fair annet had on it skinkled in their een. and whan she cam into the kirk, she shimmer'd like the sun; the belt that was about her waist, was a' wi' pearles bedone. she sat her by the nut-browne bride, and her een they wer sae clear, lord thomas he clean forgat the bride, whan fair annet she drew near. he had a rose into his hand, and he gave it kisses three, and reaching by the nut-browne bride, laid it on fair annets knee up than spak the nut-browne bride, she spak wi' meikle spite; and whair gat ye that rose-water, that does mak yee sae white? o i did get the rose-water, whair ye wull neir get nane, for i did get that very rose-water into my mithers wame. the bride she drew a long bodkin, frae out her gay head-gear, and strake fair annet unto the heart, that word she nevir spak mair. lord thomas he saw fair annet wex pale, and marvelit what mote bee: but whan he saw her dear hearts blude, a' wood-wroth[ ] wexed hee. he drew his dagger, that was sae sharp, that was sae sharp and meet, and drave into the nut-browne bride, that fell deid at his feit. now stay for me, dear annet, he sed, now stay, my dear, he cry'd; then strake the dagger untill his heart, and fell deid by her side. lord thomas was buried without kirk-wa', fair annet within the quiere; and o' the tane thair grew a birk, the other a bonny briere. and ay they grew, and ay they threw, as they wad faine be neare; and by this ye may ken right weil, they ware twa luvers deare. footnotes: [ ] [bundle of sticks.] [ ] [gust of wind.] [ ] [furiously enraged.] v. unfading beauty. this little beautiful sonnet is reprinted from a small volume of "_poems_ by _thomas carew_, esq. one of the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in ordinary to his majesty (charles i.) lond. ." this elegant, and almost-forgotten writer, whose poems have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of his age, in . in the original follows a third stanza; which, not being of general application, nor of equal merit, i have ventured to omit. * * * * * [dr. rimbault informs us that the original music was composed by henry lawes, and is included in his _ayres and dialogues for one, two and three voyces_, .] * * * * * hee, that loves a rosie cheeke, or a corall lip admires, or from star-like eyes doth seeke fuell to maintaine his fires, as old time makes these decay, so his flames must waste away. but a smooth and stedfast mind, gentle thoughts, and calme desires, hearts with equal love combin'd kindle never-dying fires: where these are not i despise lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes. * * * * * vi. george barnwell. the subject of this ballad is sufficiently popular from the modern play which is founded upon it. this was written by _george lillo_, a jeweller of london, and first acted about .--as for the ballad it was printed at least as early as the middle of the last century. it is here given from three old printed copies, which exhibit a strange intermixture of roman and black letter. it is also collated with another copy in the _ashmole collection_ at oxford, which is thus intitled, "an excellent ballad of _george barnwell_, an apprentice of london, who ... thrice robbed his master and murdered his uncle in ludlow." the tune is _the merchant_. this tragical narrative seems to relate a real fact; but when it happened i have not been able to discover. * * * * * [ritson writes as follows concerning certain improvements made by percy in the following ballad (_ancient songs_, , vol. ii. p. , note):--"throughout this 'second part' (except in a single instance) the metre of the first line of each stanza is in the old editions lengthened by a couple of syllables, which are, occasionally at least, a manifest interpolation. the person also is for the most part changed from the first to the third, with evident impropriety. dr. percy has very ingeniously restored the measure by ejecting the superfluous syllables, and given consistency to the whole by the restoration of the proper person; and as it is now highly improbable that any further ancient copy will be found, and those which exist are manifestly corrupt, it seemed justifiable to adopt the judicious emendations of this ingenious editor." dr. rimbault observes, "this curious tune (_the merchant_) which has been quite overlooked by antiquaries, is found, together with the original ballad, _the merchant and the fiddler's wife_, in d'urfey's _pills to purge melancholy_, vol. v. p. , edit. ." the former great popularity of the story of the wicked young prentice is shown by james smith's parody in the _rejected addresses_ and thackeray's caricature romance--_george de barnwell_.] * * * * * the first part. all youths of fair englànd that dwell both far and near, regard my story that i tell, and to my song give ear. a london lad i was, a merchant's prentice bound; my name george barnwell; that did spend my master many a pound. take heed of harlots then, and their enticing trains; for by that means i have been brought to hang alive in chains. as i, upon a day, was walking through the street about my master's business, a wanton i did meet. a gallant dainty dame, and sumptuous in attire; with smiling look she greeted me, and did my name require. which when i had declar'd, she gave me then a kiss, and said, if i would come to her, i should have more than this. fair mistress, then quoth i, if i the place may know, this evening i will be with you, for i abroad must go to gather monies in, that are my master's due: and ere that i do home return, i'll come and visit you. good barnwell, then quoth she, do thou to shoreditch come, and ask for mrs. millwood's house, next door unto the gun. and trust me on my truth, if thou keep touch with me, my dearest friend, as my own heart thou shall right welcome be. thus parted we in peace, and home i passed right; then went abroad, and gathered in, by six o'clock at night, an hundred pound and one: with bag under my arm i went to mrs. millwood's house, and thought on little harm; and knocking at the door, straightway herself came down; rustling in most brave attire, with hood and silken gown. who, through her beauty bright, so gloriously did shine, that she amaz'd my dazzling eyes, she seemed so divine. she took me by the hand, and with a modest grace, welcome, sweet barnwell, then quoth she, unto this homely place. and since i have thee found as good as thy word to be: a homely supper, ere we part, thou shalt take here with me. o pardon me, quoth i, fair mistress, i you pray; for why, out of my master's house, so long i dare not stay. alas, good sir, she said, are you so strictly ty'd, you may not with your dearest friend one hour or two abide? faith, then the case is hard: if it be so, quoth she, i would i were a prentice bound, to live along with thee: therefore, my dearest george, list well what i shall say, and do not blame a woman much, her fancy to bewray. let not affection's force be counted lewd desire; nor think it not immodesty, i should thy love require. with that she turn'd aside, and with a blushing red, a mournful motion she bewray'd by hanging down her head. a handkerchief she had, all wrought with silk and gold: which she to stay her trickling tears before her eyes did hold. this thing unto my sight was wondrous rare and strange; and in my soul and inward thought it wrought a sudden change: that i so hardy grew, to take her by the hand: saying, sweet mistress, why do you so dull and pensive stand? call me no mistress now, but sarah, thy true friend, thy servant, millwood, honouring thee, until her life hath end. if thou wouldst here alledge, thou art in years a boy; so was adonis, yet was he fair venus' only joy. thus i, who ne'er before of woman found such grace, but seeing now so fair a dame give me a kind embrace, i supt with her that night, with joys that did abound; and for the same paid presently, in money twice three pound. an hundred kisses then, for my farewel she gave; crying, sweet barnwell, when shall i again thy company have? o stay not hence too long, sweet george, have me in mind. her words bewicht my childishness, she uttered them so kind: so that i made a vow, next sunday without fail, with my sweet sarah once again to tell some pleasant tale. when she heard me say so, the tears fell from her eye; o george, quoth she, if thou dost fail, thy sarah sure will dye. though long, yet loe! at last, the appointed day was come, that i must with my sarah meet; having a mighty sum of money in my hand,[ ] unto her house went i, whereas my love upon her bed in saddest sort did lye. what ails my heart's delight, my sarah dear? quoth i; let not my love lament and grieve, nor sighing pine, and die. but tell me, dearest friend, what may thy woes amend, and thou shalt lack no means of help, though forty pound i spend. with that she turn'd her head, and sickly thus did say, oh me, sweet george, my grief is great, ten pound i have to pay unto a cruel wretch; and god he knows, quoth she, i have it not. tush, rise, i said, and take it here of me. ten pounds, nor ten times ten, shall make my love decay. then from my bag into her lap, i cast ten pound straightway. all blithe and pleasant then, to banqueting we go; she proffered me to lye with her, and said it should be so. and after that same time, i gave her store of coyn, yea, sometimes fifty pound at once; all which i did purloyn. and thus i did pass on; until my master then did call to have his reckoning in cast up among his men. the which when as i heard, i knew not what to say: for well i knew that i was out two hundred pound that day. then from my master straight i ran in secret sort; and unto sarah millwood there my case i did report. "but how she us'd this youth, in this his care and woe, and all a strumpet's wiley ways, the second part may showe." * * * * * the second part. young barnwell comes to thee, sweet sarah, my delight; i am undone unless thou stand my faithful friend this night. our master to accompts, hath just occasion found; and i am caught behind the hand, above two hundred pound: and now his wrath to 'scape, my love, i fly to thee, hoping some time i may remaine in safety here with thee. with that she knit her brows, and looking all aquoy,[ ] quoth she, what should i have to do with any prentice boy? and seeing you have purloyn'd your master's goods away, the case is bad, and therefore here you shall no longer stay. why, dear, thou knowst, i said, how all which i could get, i gave it, and did spend it all upon thee every whit. quoth she, thou art a knave, to charge me in this sort, being a woman of credit fair, and known of good report: therefore i tell thee flat, be packing with good speed; i do defie thee from my heart, and scorn thy filthy deed. is this the friendship, that you did to me protest? is this the great affection, which you so to me exprest? now fie on subtle shrews! the best is, i may speed to get a lodging any where, for money in my need. false woman, now farewell, whilst twenty pound doth last, my anchor in some other haven with freedom i will cast. when she perceiv'd by this, i had store of money there: stay, george, quoth she, thou art too quick: why, man, i did but jeer: dost think for all my speech, that i would let thee go? faith no, said she, my love to thee i wiss is more than so. you scorne a prentice boy, i heard you just now swear, wherefore i will not trouble you.---- ----nay, george, hark in thine ear; thou shalt not go to-night, what chance so e're befall: but man we'll have a bed for thee, o else the devil take all. so i by wiles bewitcht, and snar'd with fancy still, had then no power to 'get' away, or to withstand her will. for wine on wine i call'd, and cheer upon good cheer; and nothing in the world i thought for sarah's love too dear. whilst in her company, i had such merriment; all, all too little i did think, that i upon her spent. a fig for care and thought! when all my gold is gone, in faith, my girl, we will have more, whoever i light upon. my father's rich, why then should i want store of gold? nay with a father sure, quoth she, a son may well make bold. i've a sister richly wed, i'll rob her ere i'll want. nay, then quoth sarah, they may well consider of your scant. nay, i an uncle have; at ludlow he doth dwell: he is a grazier, which in wealth doth all the rest excell. ere i will live in lack, and have no coyn for thee: i'll rob his house, and murder him, why should you not? quoth she: was i a man, ere i would live in poor estate; on father, friends, and all my kin, i would my talons grate. for without money, george, a man is but a beast: but bringing money, thou shalt be always my welcome guest. for shouldst thou be pursued with twenty hues and cryes, and with a warrant searched for with argus' hundred eyes, yet here thou shalt be safe; such privy ways there be, that if they sought an hundred years, they could not find out thee. and so carousing both their pleasures to content: george barnwell had in little space his money wholly spent. which done, to ludlow straight he did provide to go, to rob his wealthy uncle there; his minion would it so. and once he thought to take his father by the way, but that he fear'd his master had took order for his stay[ ]. unto his uncle then he rode with might and main, who with a welcome and good cheer, did barnwell entertain. one fortnight's space he stayed, until it chanced so, his uncle with his cattle did unto a market go. his kinsman rode with him, where he did see right plain, great store of money he had took: when coming home again, sudden within a wood, he struck his uncle down, and beat his brains out of his head; so sore he crackt his crown. then seizing fourscore pound, to london straight he hyed, and unto sarah millwood all the cruell fact descryed. tush,'tis no matter, george, so we the money have to have good cheer in jolly sort, and deck us fine and brave. thus lived in filthy sort, until their store was gone: when means to get them any more, i wis, poor george, had none. therefore in railing sort, she thrust him out of door: which is the just reward of those, who spend upon a whore. o! do me not disgrace in this my need, quoth he she call'd him thief and murderer, with all the spight might be: to the constable she sent, to have him apprehended; and shewed how far, in each degree, he had the laws offended. when barnwell saw her drift, to sea he got straightway; where fear and sting of conscience continually on him lay. unto the lord mayor then, he did a letter write; in which his own and sarah's fault he did at large recite. whereby she seized was, and then to ludlow sent: where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd, for murder incontinent. there dyed this gallant quean, such was her greatest gains: for murder in polonia, was barnwell hang'd in chains. lo! here's the end of youth, that after harlots haunt; who in the spoil of other men, about the streets do flaunt. footnotes: [ ] the having a sum of money with him on sunday, &c. shews this narrative to have been penned before the civil wars: the strict observance of the sabbath was owing to the change of manners at that period. [ ] [coy, shy.] [ ] _i.e._ for stopping, and apprehending him at his father's. vii. the stedfast shepherd. these beautiful stanzas were written by _george wither_, of whom some account was given in the former part of this volume; see the song intitled, _the shepherd's resolution_, book ii. song xxi. in the first edition of this work only a small fragment of this sonnet was inserted. it was afterwards rendered more compleat and intire by the addition of five stanzas more, extracted from wither's pastoral poem, intitled, _the mistress of philarete_, of which this song makes a part. it is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of _the shepherd's hunting_, , vo. * * * * * [the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. iii. p. ) contains only the fifth and sixth stanzas slightly varied, which were printed in the first edition of the _reliques_, with the title of _the aspiring shepherd_.] * * * * * hence away, thou syren, leave me, pish! unclaspe these wanton armes; sugred words can ne'er deceive me, (though thou prove a thousand charmes). fie, fie, forbeare; no common snare can ever my affection chaine: thy painted baits, and poore deceits, are all bestowed on me in vaine. i'me no slave to such, as you be; neither shall that snowy brest, rowling eye, and lip of ruby ever robb me of my rest: goe, go display thy beautie's ray to some more soone-enamour'd swaine; those common wiles of sighs and smiles are all bestowed on me in vaine. i have elsewhere vowed a dutie; turne away thy tempting eye: shew not me a painted beautie; these impostures i defie: my spirit lothes where gawdy clothes and fained othes may love obtaine: i love her so, whose looke sweares no; that all your labours will be vaine. can he prize the tainted posies, which on every brest are worne; that may plucke the virgin roses from their never-touched thorne? i can goe rest on her sweet brest, that is the pride of cynthia's traine: then stay thy tongue; thy mermaid song is all bestowed on me in vaine. hee's a foole, that basely dallies, where each peasant mates with him: shall i haunt the thronged vallies, whilst ther's noble hills to climbe? no, no, though clownes are scar'd with frownes, i know the best can but disdaine; and those ile prove: so will thy love be all bestowed on me in vaine. i doe scorne to vow a dutie, where each lustfull lad may wooe: give me her, whose sun-like beautie buzzards dare not soar unto: shee, shee it is affoords that blisse for which i would refuse no paine: but such as you, fond fooles, adieu; you seeke to captive me in vaine. leave me then, you syrens, leave me; seeke no more to worke my harmes: craftie wiles cannot deceive me, who am proofe against your charmes: you labour may to lead astray the heart, that constant shall remaine: and i the while will sit and smile to see you spend your time in vaine. viii. the spanish virgin, or effects of jealousy. the subject of this ballad is taken from a folio collection of tragical stories, intitled, _the theatre of god's judgments_, by dr. beard and dr. taylor, . pt. ii. p. .--the text is given (with corrections) from two copies; one of them in black-letter in the pepys collection. in this every stanza is accompanied with the following distich by way of burden: "oh jealousie! thou art nurst in hell: depart from hence, and therein dwell." * * * * * all tender hearts, that ake to hear of those that suffer wrong; all you, that never shed a tear, give heed unto my song. fair isabella's tragedy my tale doth far exceed: alas! that so much cruelty in female hearts should breed! in spain a lady liv'd of late, who was of high degree; whose wayward temper did create much woe and misery. strange jealousies so fill'd her head with many a vain surmize, she thought her lord had wrong'd her bed, and did her love despise. a gentlewoman passing fair did on this lady wait; with bravest dames she might compare; her beauty was compleat. her lady cast a jealous eye upon this gentle maid; and taxt her with disloyaltye; and did her oft upbraid. in silence still this maiden meek her bitter taunts would bear, while oft adown her lovely cheek would steal the falling tear. in vain in humble sort she strove her fury to disarm; as well the meekness of the dove the bloody hawke might charm. her lord of humour light and gay, and innocent the while, as oft as she came in his way, would on the damsell smile. and oft before his lady's face, as thinking her her friend, he would the maiden's modest grace and comeliness commend. all which incens'd his lady so she burnt with wrath extreame; at length the fire that long did glow, burst forth into a flame. for on a day it so befell, when he was gone from home, the lady all with rage did swell, and to the damsell come. and charging her with great offence, and many a grievous fault; she bade her servants drag her thence, into a dismal vault, that lay beneath the common-shore: a dungeon dark and deep: where they were wont, in days of yore, offenders great to keep. there never light of chearful day dispers'd the hideous gloom; but dank and noisome vapours play around the wretched room: and adders, snakes, and toads therein, as afterwards was known, long in this loathsome vault had bin, and were to monsters grown. into this foul and fearful place, the fair one innocent was cast, before her lady's face; her malice to content. this maid no sooner enter'd is, but strait, alas! she hears the toads to croak, and snakes to hiss: then grievously she fears. soon from their holes the vipers creep, and fiercely her assail: which makes the damsel sorely weep, and her sad fate bewail. with her fair hands she strives in vain her body to defend: with shrieks and cries she doth complain, but all is to no end. a servant listning near the door, struck with her doleful noise, strait ran his lady to implore; but she'll not hear his voice. with bleeding heart he goes agen to mark the maiden's groans; and plainly hears, within the den, how she herself bemoans. again he to his lady hies with all the haste he may: she into furious passion flies, and orders him away. still back again does he return to hear her tender cries; the virgin now had ceas'd to mourn; which fill'd him with surprize. in grief, and horror, and affright, he listens at the walls; but finding all was silent quite, he to his lady calls. too sure, o lady, now quoth he, your cruelty hath sped; make hast, for shame, and come and see; i fear the virgin's dead. she starts to hear her sudden fate, and does with torches run: but all her haste was now too late, for death his worst had done. the door being open'd strait they found the virgin stretch'd along: two dreadful snakes had wrapt her round, which her to death had stung. one round her legs, her thighs, her waist had twin'd his fatal wreath: the other close her neck embrac'd, and stopt her gentle breath. the snakes, being from her body thrust, their bellies were so fill'd, that with excess of blood they burst, thus with their prey were kill'd. the wicked lady at this sight, with horror strait ran mad; so raving dy'd, as was most right, 'cause she no pity had. let me advise you, ladies all, of jealousy beware: it causeth many a one to fall, and is the devil's snare. [***] ix. jealousy tyrant of the mind. this song is by _dryden_, being inserted in his tragi-comedy of _love triumphant_, &c.--on account of the subject it is inserted here. * * * * * what state of life can be so blest, as love that warms the gentle brest; two souls in one; the same desire to grant the bliss, and to require? if in this heaven a hell we find, tis all from thee, o jealousie! thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind. all other ills, though sharp they prove, serve to refine and perfect love: in absence, or unkind disdaine, sweet hope relieves the lovers paine: but, oh, no cure but death we find to sett us free from jealousie, thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind. false in thy glass all objects are, some sett too near, and some too far: thou art the fire of endless night, the fire that burns, and gives no light. all torments of the damn'd we find in only thee, o jealousie; thou tyrant, tyrant of the mind. x. constant penelope. the ladies are indebted for the following notable documents to the pepys collection, where the original is preserved in black-letter, and is intitled, _a lookingglass for ladies, or a mirrour for married women_. tune _queen dido, or troy town_. * * * * * when greeks and trojans fell at strife, and lords in armour bright were seen; when many a gallant lost his life about fair hellen, beauty's queen; ulysses, general so free, did leave his dear penelope. when she this wofull news did hear, that he would to the warrs of troy; for grief she shed full many a tear, at parting from her only joy; her ladies all about her came, to comfort up this grecian dame. ulysses, with a heavy heart, unto her then did mildly say, the time is come that we must part; my honour calls me hence away; yet in my absence, dearest, be my constant wife, penelope. let me no longer live, she sayd, then to my lord i true remain; my honour shall not be betray'd until i see my love again; for i will ever constant prove, as is the loyal turtle-dove. thus did they part with heavy chear, and to the ships his way he took; her tender eyes dropt many a tear; still casting many a longing look: she saw him on the surges glide, and unto neptune thus she cry'd: thou god, whose power is in the deep, and rulest in the ocean main, my loving lord in safety keep till he return to me again: that i his person may behold, to me more precious far than gold. then straight the ships with nimble sails were all convey'd out of her sight: her cruel fate she then bewails, since she had lost her hearts delight. now shall my practice be, quoth she, true vertue and humility. my patience i will put in ure,[ ] my charity i will extend; since for my woe there is no cure, the helpless now i will befriend: the widow and the fatherless i will relieve, when in distress. thus she continued year by year in doing good to every one; her fame was noised every where, to young and old the same was known, that she no company would mind, who were to vanity inclin'd. mean while ulysses fought for fame, 'mongst trojans hazarding his life: young gallants, hearing of her name, came flocking for to tempt his wife: for she was lovely, young, and fair, no lady might with her compare. with costly gifts and jewels fine, they did endeavour her to win; with banquets and the choicest wine, for to allure her unto sin: most persons were of high degree, who courted fair penelope. with modesty and comely grace, their wanton suits she did denye; no tempting charms could e'er deface her dearest husband's memorye; but constant she would still remain, hopeing to see him once again. her book her dayly comfort was, and that she often did peruse; she seldom looked in her glass; powder and paint she ne'er would use. i wish all ladies were as free from pride, as was penelope. she in her needle took delight, and likewise in her spinning-wheel; her maids about her every night did use the distaff, and the reel: the spiders, that on rafters twine, scarce spin a thread more soft and fine. sometimes she would bewail the loss and absence of her dearest love: sometimes she thought the seas to cross, her fortune on the waves to prove. i fear my lord is slain, quoth she, he stays so from penelope. at length the ten years siege of troy did end: in flames the city burn'd; and to the grecians was great joy, to see the towers to ashes turn'd: then came ulysses home to see his constant, dear, penelope. o blame her not if she was glad, when she her lord again had seen. thrice-welcome home, my dear, she said, a long time absent thou hast been: the wars shall never more deprive me of my lord whilst i'm alive. fair ladies all example take; and hence a worthy lesson learn, all youthful follies to forsake, and vice from virtue to discern: and let all women strive to be, as constant as penelope. footnotes: [ ] [use.] xi. to lucasta, on going to the wars. by col. richard lovelace: from the volume of his poems, intitled _lucasta_, (lond. . mo.). the elegance of this writer's manner would be more admired, if it had somewhat more of simplicity. * * * * * [percy's admirers would be glad to expunge the above unjust judgment. some of lovelace's poems may be affected, but that charge cannot be brought against these exquisite verses, the last two of which have become a world-famed quotation.] * * * * * tell me not, sweet, i am unkinde, that from the nunnerie of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, to warre and armes i flie. true, a new mistresse now i chase, the first foe in the field; and with a stronger faith imbrace a sword, a horse, a shield. yet this inconstancy is such, as you too shall adore; i could not love thee, deare, so much, lov'd i not honour more. xii. valentine and ursine. the old story-book of _valentine and orson_ (which suggested the plan of this tale, but it is not strictly followed in it) was originally a translation from the french, being one of their earliest attempts at romance. see _le bibliothèque de romans, &c._ the circumstance of the bridge of bells is taken from the old metrical legend of sir bevis, and has also been copied in the _seven champions_. the original lines are, "over the dyke a bridge there lay, that man and beest might passe away: under the brydge were sixty belles; right as the romans telles; that there might no man passe in, but all they rang with a gyn." sign. e. iv. in the editor's folio ms. was an old poem on this subject, in a wretched corrupt state, unworthy the press: from which were taken such particulars as could be adopted. * * * * * [the poem entitled _the emperour and the childe_ in the folio ms. (ed. hales and furnivall, vol. ii. p. ) only suggested the subject of the present ballad. it commences-- within the grecyan land some time did dwell an emperour, whose name did ffar excell; he tooke to wiffe the lady b[e]llefaunt, the only sister to the kinge of ffrance, with whome he liued in pleasure and delight vntill that ffortune came to worke them spighte. there are no particular signs of "corruption," and the piece is probably superior to percy's own effusion. percy's trumpery commencement is an echo of the beginning of the printed copies of _sir andrew barton_. the name ursine, like that of orson, is derived from fr. _ourson_, the diminutive of _ours_, a bear (latin, _ursus_.)] * * * * * part the first. then flora 'gins to decke the fields with colours fresh and fine, then holy clerkes their mattins sing to good saint valentine! the king of france that morning fair he would a hunting ride: to artois forest prancing forth in all his princelye pride. to grace his sports a courtly train of gallant peers attend; and with their loud and cheerful cryes the hills and valleys rend. through the deep forest swift they pass, through woods and thickets wild; when down within a lonely dell they found a new-born child; all in a scarlet kercher lay'd of silk so fine and thin: a golden mantle wrapt him round pinn'd with a silver pin. the sudden sight surpriz'd them all; the courtiers gather'd round; they look, they call, the mother seek; no mother could be found. at length the king himself drew near, and as he gazing stands, the pretty babe look'd up and smil'd, and stretch'd his little hands. now, by the rood, king pepin says, this child is passing fair: i wot he is of gentle blood; perhaps some prince's heir. goe bear him home unto my court with all the care ye may: let him be christen'd valentine, in honour of this day: and look me out some cunning nurse; well nurtur'd let him bee; nor ought be wanting that becomes a bairn of high degree. they look'd him out a cunning nurse; and nurtur'd well was hee; nor ought was wanting that became a bairn of high degree. thus grewe the little valentine belov'd of king and peers; and shew'd in all he spake or did a wit beyond his years. but chief in gallant feates of arms he did himself advance, that ere he grewe to man's estate he had no peere in france. and now the early downe began to shade his youthful chin; when valentine was dubb'd a knight, that he might glory win. a boon, a boon, my gracious liege, i beg a boon of thee! the first adventure, that befalls, may be reserv'd for mee. the first adventure shall be thine; the king did smiling say. nor many days, when lo! there came three palmers clad in graye. help, gracious lord, they weeping say'd; and knelt, as it was meet: from artoys forest we be come, with weak and wearye feet. within those deep and drearye woods there wends a savage boy; whose fierce and mortal rage doth yield thy subjects dire annoy. 'mong ruthless beares he sure was bred; he lurks within their den: with beares he lives; with beares he feeds; and drinks the blood of men. to more than savage strength he joins a more than human skill: for arms, ne cunning may suffice his cruel rage to still: up then rose sir valentine, and claim'd that arduous deed. go forth and conquer, say'd the king, and great shall be thy meed. well mounted on a milk-white steed, his armour white as snow; as well beseem'd a virgin knight, who ne'er had fought a foe; to artoys forest he repairs with all the haste he may; and soon he spies the savage youth a rending of his prey. his unkempt hair all matted hung his shaggy shoulders round: his eager eye all fiery glow'd: his face with fury frown'd. like eagles' talons grew his nails: his limbs were thick and strong; and dreadful was the knotted oak he bare with him along. soon as sir valentine approach'd, he starts with sudden spring; and yelling forth a hideous howl, he made the forests ring. as when a tyger fierce and fell hath spyed a passing roe, and leaps at once upon his throat; so sprung the savage foe; so lightly leap'd with furious force the gentle knight to seize: but met his tall uplifted spear, which sunk him on his knees. a second stroke so stiff and stern had laid the savage low; but springing up, he rais'd his club, and aim'd a dreadful blow. the watchful warrior bent his head, and shun'd the coming stroke; upon his taper spear it fell, and all to shivers broke. then lighting nimbly from his steed, he drew his burnisht brand: the savage quick as lightning flew to wrest it from his hand. three times he grasp'd the silver hilt; three times he felt the blade; three times it fell with furious force; three ghastly wounds it made. now with redoubled rage he roared; his eye-ball flash'd with fire; each hairy limb with fury shook; and all his heart was ire. then closing fast with furious gripe he clasp'd the champion round, and with a strong and sudden twist he laid him on the ground. but soon the knight, with active spring, o'erturn'd his hairy foe: and now between their sturdy fists past many a bruising blow. they roll'd and grappled on the ground, and there they struggled long: skilful and active was the knight; the savage he was strong. but brutal force and savage strength to art and skill must yield: sir valentine at length prevail'd, and won the well-fought field. then binding strait his conquer'd foe fast with an iron chain, he tyes him to his horse's tail, and leads him o'er the plain. to court his hairy captive soon sir valentine doth bring; and kneeling downe upon his knee, presents him to the king. with loss of blood and loss of strength, the savage tamer grew; and to sir valentine became a servant try'd and true. and 'cause with beares he erst was bred, ursine they call his name; a name which unto future times the muses shall proclame. * * * * * part the second. in high renown with prince and peere now liv'd sir valentine: his high renown with prince and peere made envious hearts repine. it chanc'd the king upon a day prepar'd a sumptuous feast: and there came lords, and dainty dames, and many a noble guest. amid their cups, that freely flow'd, their revelry, and mirth; a youthful knight tax'd valentine of base and doubtful birth. the foul reproach, so grossly urg'd, his generous heart did wound: and strait he vow'd he ne'er would rest till he his parents found. then bidding king and peers adieu, early one summer's day, with faithful ursine by his side, from court he took his way. o'er hill and valley, moss and moor, for many a day they pass; at length upon a moated lake,[ ] they found a bridge of brass. beyond it rose a castle fair y-built of marble stone: the battlements were gilt with gold, and glittred in the sun. beneath the bridge, with strange device, a hundred bells were hung; that man, nor beast, might pass thereon, but strait their larum rung. this quickly found the youthful pair, who boldly crossing o'er, the jangling sound bedeaft their ears, and rung from shore to shore. quick at the sound the castle gates unlock'd and opened wide, and strait a gyant huge and grim stalk'd forth with stately pride. now yield you, caytiffs, to my will; he cried with hideous roar; or else the wolves shall eat your flesh, and ravens drink your gore. vain boaster, said the youthful knight, i scorn thy threats and thee: i trust to force thy brazen gates, and set thy captives free. then putting spurs unto his steed, he aim'd a dreadful thrust: the spear against the gyant glanc'd, and caus'd the blood to burst. mad and outrageous with the pain, he whirl'd his mace of steel: the very wind of such a blow had made the champion reel. it haply mist; and now the knight his glittering sword display'd, and riding round with whirlwind speed oft made him feel the blade. as when a large and monstrous oak unceasing axes hew: so fast around the gyant's limbs the blows quick-darting flew. as when the boughs with hideous fall some hapless woodman crush: with such a force the enormous foe did on the champion rush. a fearful blow, alas! there came, both horse and knight it took. and laid them senseless in the dust; so fatal was the stroke. then smiling forth a hideous grin, the gyant strides in haste, and, stooping, aims a second stroke: "now caytiff breathe thy last!" but ere it fell, two thundering blows upon his scull descend: from ursine's knotty club they came, who ran to save his friend. down sunk the gyant gaping wide, and rolling his grim eyes: the hairy youth repeats his blows: he gasps, he groans, he dies. quickly sir valentine reviv'd with ursine's timely care: and now to search the castle walls the venturous youths repair. the blood and bones of murder'd knights they found where'er they came: at length within a lonely cell they saw a mournful dame. her gentle eyes were dim'd with tears; her cheeks were pale with woe: and long sir valentine besought her doleful tale to know. "alas! young knight," she weeping said, "condole my wretched fate: a childless mother here you see; a wife without a mate. "these twenty winters here forlorn i've drawn my hated breath; sole witness of a monster's crimes, and wishing aye for death. "know, i am sister of a king; and in my early years was married to a mighty prince, the fairest of his peers. "with him i sweetly liv'd in love a twelvemonth and a day: when, lo! a foul and treacherous priest y-wrought our loves' decay. "his seeming goodness wan him pow'r; he had his master's ear: and long to me and all the world he did a saint appear. "one day, when we were all alone, he proffer'd odious love: the wretch with horrour i repuls'd, and from my presence drove. "he feign'd remorse, and piteous beg'd his crime i'd not reveal: which, for his seeming penitence, i promis'd to conceal. "with treason, villainy, and wrong my goodness he repay'd: with jealous doubts he fill'd my lord, and me to woe betray'd. "he hid a slave within my bed, then rais'd a bitter cry. my lord, possest with rage, condemn'd me, all unheard, to dye. "but 'cause i then was great with child, at length my life he spar'd; but bade me instant quit the realme, one trusty knight my guard. "forth on my journey i depart, opprest with grief and woe; and tow'rds my brother's distant court, with breaking heart, i goe. "long time thro' sundry foreign lands we slowly pace along: at length within a forest wild i fell in labour strong: "and while the knight for succour sought, and left me there forlorn, my childbed pains so fast increast two lovely boys were born. "the eldest fair, and smooth, as snow that tips the mountain hoar: the younger's little body rough with hairs was cover'd o'er. "but here afresh begin my woes: while tender care i took to shield my eldest from the cold, and wrap him in my cloak; "a prowling bear burst from the wood, and seiz'd my younger son: affection lent my weakness wings, and after them i run. "but all forewearied, weak and spent, i quickly swoon'd away; and there beneath the greenwood shade long time i lifeless lay. "at length the knight brought me relief, and rais'd me from the ground: but neither of my pretty babes could ever more be found. "and, while in search we wander'd far, we met that gyant grim; who ruthless slew my trusty knight, and bare me off with him. "but charm'd by heav'n, or else my griefs, he offer'd me no wrong; save that within these lonely walls i've been immur'd so long." now, surely, said the youthful knight, you are lady bellisance, wife to the grecian emperor: your brother's king of france. for in your royal brother's court myself my breeding had; where oft the story of your woes hath made my bosom sad. if so, know your accuser's dead, and dying own'd his crime; and long your lord hath sought you out thro' every foreign clime. and when no tidings he could learn of his much-wronged wife, he vow'd thenceforth within his court to lead a hermit's life. now heaven is kind! the lady said; and dropt a joyful tear: shall i once more behold my lord? that lord i love so dear? but, madam, said sir valentine, and knelt upon his knee; know you the cloak that wrapt your babe, if you the same should see? and pulling forth the cloth of gold, in which himself was found; the lady gave a sudden shriek, and fainted on the ground. but by his pious care reviv'd, his tale she heard anon; and soon by other tokens found, he was indeed her son. but who's this hairy youth? she said; he much resembles thee: the bear devour'd my younger son, or sure that son were he. madam, this youth with bears was bred, and rear'd within their den. but recollect ye any mark to know you son agen? upon his little side, quoth she, was stampt a bloody rose. here, lady, see the crimson mark upon his body grows! then clasping both her new-found sons she bath'd their cheeks with tears; and soon towards hèr brother's court her joyful course she steers. what pen can paint king pepin's joy, his sister thus restor'd! and soon a messenger was sent to cheer her drooping lord: who came in haste with all his peers, to fetch her home to greece; where many happy years they reign'd in perfect love and peace. to them sir ursine did succeed, and long the scepter bare. sir valentine he stay'd in france, and was his uncle's heir. [***] footnotes: [ ] ver. . _i.e._ a lake that served for a moat to a castle. xiii. the dragon of wantley. this humourous song (as a former editor[ ] has well observed) is to old metrical romances and ballads of chivalry, what _don quixote_ is to prose narratives of that kind:--a lively satire on their extravagant fictions. but altho' the satire is thus general, the subject of this ballad is local and peculiar: so that many of the finest strokes of humour are lost for want of our knowing the minute circumstances to which they allude. many of them can hardly now be recovered, altho' we have been fortunate enough to learn the general subject to which the satire referred, and shall detail the information, with which we have been favoured, at the end of this introduction. in handling his subject, the author has brought in most of the common incidents which occur in romance. the description of the dragon[ ]--his outrages--the people flying to the knight for succour--his care in chusing his armour--his being drest for fight by a young damsel--and most of the circumstances of the battle and victory (allowing for the burlesque turn given to them) are what occur in every book of chivalry, whether in prose or verse. if any one piece, more than other, is more particularly levelled at, it seems to be the old rhiming legend of sir bevis. there a _dragon_ is attacked from a _well_ in a manner not very remote from this of the ballad:-- there was a well, so have i wynne, and bevis stumbled ryght therein. * * * * * than was he glad without fayle, and rested a whyle for his avayle; and dranke of that water his fyll; and then he lepte out, with good wyll, and with morglay his brande he assayled the dragon, i understande: on the dragon he smote so faste, where that he hit the scales braste: the dragon then faynted sore, and cast a galon and more out of his mouthe of venim strong, and on syr bevis he it flong: it was venymous y-wis. this seems to be meant by the dragon of wantley's stink, ver. . as the politick knight's creeping out, and attacking the dragon, &c. seems evidently to allude to the following: bevis blessed himselfe and forth yode, and lepte out with haste full good; and bevis unto the dragon gone is; and the dragon also to bevis. longe, and harde was that fyght betwene the dragon, and that knyght: but ever whan syr bevis was hurt sore, he went to the well, and washed him thore; he was as hole as any man, ever freshe as whan he began. the dragon sawe it might not avayle besyde the well to hold batayle; he thought he would, wyth some wyle, out of that place bevis begyle; he woulde have flowen then awaye, but bevis lepte after with good morglaye, and hyt him under the wynge, as he was in his flyenge, &c. sign. m. jv. l. j. &c. after all, perhaps the writer of this ballad was acquainted with the above incidents only thro' the medium of spenser, who has assumed most of them in his _faery queen_. at least some particulars in the description of the dragon, &c. seem evidently borrowed from the latter. see book i. canto , where the dragon's "two wynges like sayls--huge long tayl--with stings--his cruel rending clawes--and yron teeth--his breath of smothering smoke and sulphur"--and the duration of the fight for upwards of two days, bear a great resemblance to passages in the following ballad; though it must be confessed that these particulars are common to all old writers of romance. altho' this ballad must have been written early in the last century, we have met with none but such as were comparatively modern copies. it is here printed from one in roman letter, in the pepys collection, collated with such others as could be procured. a description of the supposed scene of this ballad, which was communicated to the editor in , is here given in the words of the relater:-- "in yorkshire, miles from rotherham, is a village, called _wortley_, the seat of the late _wortley montague_, esq. about a mile from this village is a lodge, named _warncliff lodge_, but vulgarly called _wantley_: here lies the scene of the song. i was there about forty years ago: and it being a woody rocky place, my friend made me clamber over rocks and stones, not telling me to what end, till i came to a sort of a cave; then asked my opinion of the place, and pointing to one end, says, here lay the dragon killed by _moor_ of _moor-hall_: here lay his head; here lay his tail; and the stones we came over on the hill, are those he could not crack; and yon white house you see half a mile off, is _moor-hall_. i had dined at the lodge, and knew the man's name was _matthew_, who was a keeper to mr. wortley, and, as he endeavoured to persuade me, was the same matthew mentioned in the song: in the house is the picture of the dragon and moor of moor-hall, and near it a well, which, says he, is the well described in the ballad." since the former editions of this humorous old song were printed, the following _key to the satire_ hath been communicated by _godfrey_ _bosville_, esq. of thorp, near malton, in yorkshire; who, in the most obliging manner, gave full permission to adjoin it to the poem. _warncliffe_ lodge, and _warncliffe_ wood (vulgarly pronounced _wantley_), are in the parish of penniston, in yorkshire. the rectory of penniston was part of the dissolved monastery of st. stephen's, westminster; and was granted to the duke of norfolk's family: who therewith endowed an hospital, which he built at sheffield, for women. the trustees let the impropriation of the great tythes of penniston to the wortley family, who got a great deal by it, and wanted to get still more; for mr. nicholas wortley attempted to take the tythes in kind, but mr. francis bosville opposed him, and there was a decree in favour of the modus in th eliz. the vicarage of penniston did not go along with the rectory, but with the copyhold rents, and was part of a large purchase made by ralph bosville, esq. from q. elizabeth, in the d year of her reign: and that part he sold in th eliz. to his elder brother godfrey, the father of francis; who left it, with the rest of his estate, to his wife, for her life, and then to ralph, d son of his uncle ralph. the widow married lyonel rowlestone, lived eighteen years, and survived ralph. this premised, the ballad apparently relates to the law-suit carried on concerning this claim of tythes made by the wortley family. "houses and churches, were to him geese and turkeys:" which are tytheable things, the dragon chose to live on. sir francis wortley, the son of nicholas, attempted again to take the tythes in kind: but the parishioners subscribed an agreement to defend their modus. and at the head of the agreement was lyonel rowlestone, who is supposed to be one of "the stones, dear jack, which the dragon could not crack." the agreement is still preserved in a large sheet of parchment, dated st of james i., and is full of names and seals, which might be meant by the coat of armour, "with spikes all about, both within and without." _more_ of _more-hall_ was either the attorney, or counsellor, who conducted the suit. he is not distinctly remembered, but more-hall is still extant at the very bottom of wantley [warncliff] wood, and lies so low, that it might be said to be in a well: as the dragon's den [warncliff lodge] was at the top of the wood, "with matthew's house hard by it." the keepers belonging to the wortley family were named, for many generations, matthew northall: the last of them left this lodge, within memory, to be keeper to the duke of norfolk. the present owner of more-hall still attends mr. bosville's manor-court at oxspring, and pays a rose a year. "more of more-hall, with nothing at all, slew the dragon of wantley." he gave him, instead of tythes, so small a modus, that it was in effect nothing at all, and was slaying him with a vengeance. "the poor children three," &c. cannot surely mean the three sisters of francis bosville, who would have been coheiresses, had he made no will? the late mr. bosville had a contest with the descendants of two of them, the late sir geo. saville's father, and mr. copley, about the presentation to penniston, they supposing francis had not the power to give this part of the estate from the heirs at law; but it was decided against them. the dragon (sir francis wortley) succeeded better with his cousin wordesworth, the freehold lord of the manor (for it is the copyhold manor that belongs to mr. bosville) having persuaded him not to join the refractory parishioners, under a promise that he would let him his tythes cheap: and now the estates of wortley and wordesworth are the only lands that pay tythes in the parish. * * * * * n.b. "two days and a night," mentioned in ver. , as the duration of the combat, was probably that of the trial at law. * * * * * [in gough's edition of camden's _britannia_ we learn that "sir thomas wortley, who was knight of the body to edward iv., richard iii., henry vii. and viii., built a lodge in his chace of warncliffe, and had a house and park there, disparked in the civil war." mr. gilfillan has the following note in his edition of the _reliques_, "a legend current in the wortley family states the dragon to have been a formidable drinker, drunk dead by the chieftain of the opposite moors. ellis thinks it was a wolf or some other fierce animal hunted down by more of more-hall." a writer in the _notes and queries_ ( rd s. ix. ), who signs himself "fitzhopkins," expresses his disbelief in the above explanation communicated to percy by godfrey bosville.] * * * * * old stories tell how hercules a dragon slew at lerna, with seven heads, and fourteen eyes, to see and well discern-a: but he had a club, this dragon to drub, or he had ne'er done it, i warrant ye: but more of more-hall, with nothing at all, he slew the dragon of wantley. this dragon had two furious wings, each one upon each shoulder; with a sting in his tayl as long as a flayl, which made him bolder and bolder. he had long claws, and in his jaws four and forty teeth of iron; with a hide as tough, as any buff, which did him round environ. have you not heard how the trojan horse held seventy men in his belly? this dragon was not quite so big, but very near, i'll tell ye. devoured he poor children three, that could not with him grapple; and at one sup he eat them up, as one would eat an apple. all sorts of cattle this dragon did eat. some say he ate up trees, and that the forests sure he would devour up by degrees: for houses and churches were to him geese and turkies;[ ] he ate all, and left none behind, but some stones, dear jack, that he could not crack, which on the hills you will find. in yorkshire, near fair rotherham,[ ] the place i know it well; some two or three miles, or thereabouts, i vow i cannot tell. but there is a hedge, just on the hill edge, and matthew's house hard by it; o there and then was this dragon's den, you could not chuse but spy it. some say, this dragon was a witch; some say, he was a devil, for from his nose a smoke arose, and with it burning snivel; which he cast off, when he did cough, in a well that he did stand by; which made it look, just like a brook running with burning brandy. hard by a furious knight there dwelt, of whom all towns did ring; for he could wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff, and huff, call son of a whore, do any kind of thing: by the tail and the main, with his hands twain he swung a horse till he was dead; and that which is stranger, he for very anger eat him all up but his head. these children, as i am told, being eat; men, women, girls and boys, sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, and made a hideous noise: o save us all, more of more-hall, thou peerless knight of these woods; do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, we'll give thee all our goods. tut, tut, quoth he, no goods i want; but i want, i want, in sooth, a fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk, and keen, with smiles about the mouth; hair black as sloe, skin white as snow, with blushes her cheeks adorning; to anoynt me o'er night, ere i go to fight, and to dress me in the morning. this being done, he did engage to hew the dragon down; but first he went, new armour to bespeak at sheffield town; with spikes all about, not within but without, of steel so sharp and strong; both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er some five or six inches long. had you but seen him in this dress, how fierce he look'd and how big, you would have thought him for to be some egyptian porcupig: he frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, each cow, each horse, and each hog: for fear they did flee, for they took him to be some strange outlandish hedge-hog. to see this fight, all people then got up on trees and houses, on churches some, and chimneys too; but these put on their trowses, not to spoil their hose. as soon as he rose, to make him strong and mighty, he drank by the tale, six pots of ale, and a quart of aqua-vitæ. it is not strength that always wins, for wit doth strength excell; which made our cunning champion creep down into a well; where he did think, this dragon would drink, and so he did in truth; and as he stoop'd low, he rose up and cry'd, boh! and hit him in the mouth. o, quoth the dragon, pox take thee, come out, thou disturb'st me in my drink: and then he turn'd, and s... at him; good lack how he did stink! beshrew thy soul, thy body's foul, thy dung smells not like balsam; thou son of a whore, thou stink'st so sore, sure thy diet is unwholesome. our politick knight, on the other side, crept out upon the brink, and gave the dragon such a douse, he knew not what to think: by cock, quoth he, say you so: do you see? and then at him he let fly with hand and with foot, and so they went to't; and the word it was, hey boys, hey! your words, quoth the dragon, i don't understand: then to it they fell at all, like two wild boars so fierce, if i may, compare great things with small. two days and a night, with this dragon did fight our champion on the ground; tho' their strength it was great, their skill it was neat, they never had one wound. at length the hard earth began to quake, the dragon gave him a knock, which made him to reel, and straitway he thought, to lift him as high as a rock, and thence let him fall. but more of more-hall, like a valiant son of mars, as he came like a lout, so he turn'd him about, and hit him a kick on the a... oh, quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh, and turn'd six times together, sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing out of his throat of leather; more of more-hall! o thou rascàl! would i had seen thee never; with the thing at thy foot, thou hast prick'd my a...gut, and i'm quite undone for ever. murder, murder, the dragon cry'd, alack, alack, for grief; had you but mist that place, you could have done me no mischief. then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked, and down he laid and cry'd; first on one knee, then on back tumbled he, so groan'd, kickt, s..., and dy'd. footnotes: [ ] collection of historical ballads in vol. . [ ] see above, pp. , . [ ] ver. . were to him gorse and birches. _other copies._ [ ] [wharncliffe is about six miles from rotherham.] xiv. st. george for england. the first part. as the former song is in ridicule of the extravagant incidents in old ballads and metrical romances; so this is a burlesque of their style; particularly of the rambling transitions and wild accumulations of unconnected parts, so frequent in many of them. this ballad is given from an old black-letter copy in the pepys collection, "imprinted at london, ." it is more ancient than many of the preceding; but we place it here for the sake of connecting it with the _second part_. * * * * * [_saint george that, o! did break the dragon's heart_ is one of the ballads offered for sale by nightingale, the ballad-singer in ben jonson's comedy of _bartholomew fair_ (act ii. sc. ), and according to fielding's tom jones, _st. george, he was for england_, was one of squire western's favourite tunes. this ballad is printed in several collections, and mr. chappell notices a modernization subscribed s. s. and "printed for w. gilbertson in giltspur street," about , which commences-- "what need we brag or boast at all of arthur and his knights."] * * * * * why doe you boast of arthur and his knightes, knowing 'well' how many men have endured fightes? for besides king arthur, and lancelot du lake, or sir tristram de lionel, that fought for ladies sake; read in old histories, and there you shall see how st. george, st. george the dragon made to flee. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. mark our father abraham, when first he resckued lot onely with his household, what conquest there he got: david was elected a prophet and a king, he slew the great goliah, with a stone within a sling: yet these were not knightes of the table round; nor st. george, st. george, who the dragon did confound. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. jephthah and gideon did lead their men to fight, they conquered the amorites, and put them all to flight: hercules his labours 'were' on the plaines of basse; and sampson slew a thousand with the jawbone of an asse, and eke he threw a temple downe, and did a mighty spoyle: but st. george, st. george he did the dragon foyle. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. the warres of ancient monarchs it were too long to tell, and likewise of the romans, how farre they did excell; hannyball and scipio in many a fielde did fighte: orlando furioso he was a worthy knighte: remus and romulus, were they that rome did builde: but st. george, st. george the dragon made to yielde. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. the noble alphonso, that was the spanish king, the order of the red scarffes and bandrolles in did bring:[ ] he had a troope of mighty knightes, when first he did begin, which sought adventures farre and neare, that conquest they might win: the ranks of the pagans he often put to flight: but st. george, st. george did with the dragon fight. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. many 'knights' have fought with proud tamberlaine. cutlax the dane, great warres he did maintaine: rowland of beame, and good 'sir' olivere in the forest of acon slew both woolfe and beare: besides that noble hollander, 'sir' goward with the bill: but st. george, st. george the dragon's blood did spill. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. valentine and orson were of king pepin's blood: alfride and henry they were brave knightes and good: the four sons of aymon, that follow'd charlemaine: sir hughon of burdeaux, and godfrey of bullaine: these were all french knightes that lived in that age: but st. george, st. george the dragon did assuage. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. bevis conquered ascapart, and after slew the boare, and then he crost beyond the seas to combat with the moore: sir isenbras, and eglamore they were knightes most bold; and good sir john mandeville of travel much hath told: there were many english knights that pagans did convert: but st. george, st. george pluckt out the dragon's heart. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. the noble earl of warwick, that was call'd sir guy, the infidels and pagans stoutlie did defie; he slew the giant brandimore, and after was the death of that most ghastly dun cowe, the divell of dunsmore heath; besides his noble deeds all done beyond the seas: but st george, st. george the dragon did appease. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. richard c[oe]ur-de-lion erst king of this land, he the lion gored with his naked hand:[ ] the false duke of austria nothing did he feare; but his son he killed with a boxe on the eare; besides his famous actes done in the holy lande: but st. george, st. george the dragon did withstande. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. henry the fifth he conquered all france, and quartered their arms, his honour to advance: he their cities razed, and threw their castles downe, and his head he honoured with a double crowne: he thumped the french-men, and after home he came: but st. george, st. george he did the dragon tame. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. st. david of wales the welsh-men much advance: st. jaques of spaine, that never yet broke lance: st. patricke of ireland, which was st. georges boy, seven yeares he kept his horse, and then stole him away: for which knavish act, as slaves they doe remaine: but st. george, st. george the dragon he hath slaine. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. footnotes: [ ] this probably alludes to "an ancient order of knighthood, called the order of the band, instituted by don alphonsus, king of spain, ... to wear a red riband of three fingers breadth," &c. see ames _typog._ p. . [ ] alluding to the fabulous exploits attributed to this king in the old romances. see the dissertation affixed to this volume. xv. st. george for england. the second part. was written by john grubb, m.a. of christ church, oxford. the occasion of its being composed is said to have been as follows. a set of gentlemen of the university had formed themselves into a club, all the members of which were to be of the name of _george_: their anniversary feast was to be held on _st. george's_ day. our author solicited strongly to be admitted; but his name being unfortunately _john_, this disqualification was dispensed with only upon this condition, that he would compose a song in honour of their patron saint, and would every year produce one or more new stanzas, to be sung on their annual festival. this gave birth to the following humorous performance, the several stanzas of which were the produce of many successive anniversaries.[ ] this diverting poem was long handed about in manuscript, at length a friend of _grubb's_ undertook to get it printed, who, not keeping pace with the impatience of his friends, was addressed in the following whimsical macaronic lines, which, in such a collection as this, may not improperly accompany the poem itself. * * * * * _expostulatiuncula_, sive _querimoniuncula_ ad _antonium_ [_atherton_] ob poema _johannis grubb_, viri #tou pany# ingeniosissimi in lucem nondum editi. _toni!_ tune sines divina poemata grubbi intomb'd in secret thus still to remain any longer, #tounoma sou# shall last, #Ô grubbe diamperes aei#, grubbe tuum nomen vivet dum nobilis ale-a efficit heroas, dignamque heroe puellam. est genus heroum, quos nobilis efficit alea-a qui pro niperkin clamant, quaternque liquoris quem vocitant homines brandy, superi cherry-brandy, sæpe illi longcut, vel small-cut flare tobacco sunt soliti pipos. ast si generosior herba (per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum) mundungus desit, tum non funcare recusant brown-paper tostâ, vel quod fit arundine bed-mat. hic labor, hoc opus est heroum ascendere sedes! ast ego quo rapiar! quo me feret entheus ardor grubbe, tui memorem? divinum expande poema. quæ mora? quæ ratio est, quin grubbi protinus anser virgilii, flaccique simul canat inter olores? at length the importunity of his friends prevailed, and mr. grubb's song was published at oxford, under the following title: _the british heroes._ a new poem in honour of st. george, by mr. _john grubb_, school-master of christ-church, _oxon._ . favete linguis: carmina non prius audita, musarum sucerdos canto.-- hor. sold by henry clements. oxon. * * * * * the story of king arthur old is very memorable, the number of his valiant knights, and roundness of his table: the knights around his table in a circle sate d'ye see: and altogether made up one large hoop of chivalry. he had a sword, both broad and sharp, y-clepd caliburn, would cut a flint more easily, than pen-knife cuts a corn; as case-knife does a capon carve, so would it carve a rock, and split a man at single slash, from noddle down to nock. as roman augur's steel of yore dissected tarquin's riddle, so this would cut both conjurer and whetstone thro' the middle. he was the cream of brecknock, and flower of all the welsh: but george he did the dragon fell, and gave him a plaguy squelsh.[ ] st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. pendragon, like his father jove, was fed with milk of goat; and like him made a noble shield of she-goat's shaggy coat: on top of burnisht helmet he did wear a crest of leeks; and onions' heads, whose dreadful nod drew tears down hostile cheeks. itch, and welsh blood did make him hot, and very prone to ire; h' was ting'd with brimstone, like a match, and would as soon take fire. as brimstone he took inwardly when scurf gave him occasion, his postern puff of wind was a sulphureous exhalation. the briton never tergivers'd, but was for adverse drubbing, and never turn'd his back to aught, but to a post for scrubbing. his sword would serve for battle, or for dinner, if you please; when it had slain a cheshire man, 'twould toast a cheshire cheese. he wounded, and, in their own blood did anabaptize pagans: but george he made the dragon an example to all dragons. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. brave warwick guy, at dinner time, challeng'd a gyant savage; and streight came out the unweildy lout brim-full of wrath and cabbage: he had a phiz of latitude, and was full thick i' th' middle; the chekes of puffed trumpeter, and paunch of squire beadle.[ ] but the knight fell'd him, like an oak, and did upon his back tread; the valiant knight his weazon cut, and atropos his packthread. besides he fought with a dun cow, as say the poets witty, a dreadful dun, and horned too, like dun of oxford city: the fervent dog-days made her mad, by causing heat of weather, syrius and procyon baited her, as bull-dogs did her father: grafiers, nor butchers this fell beast, e'er of her frolick hindered; john dosset[ ] she'd knock down as flat, as john knocks down her kindred: her heels would lay ye all along, and kick into a swoon; frewin's[ ] cow-heels keep up your corpse, but hers would beat you down. she vanquisht many a sturdy wight, and proud was of the honour; was pufft by mauling butchers so, as if themselves had blown her. at once she kickt, and pusht at guy, but all that would not fright him; who wav'd his winyard o'er sir-loyn, as if he'd gone to knight him. he let her blood, frenzy to cure, and eke he did her gall rip; his trenchant blade, like cook's long spit, ran thro' the monster's bald-rib: he rear'd up the vast crooked rib, instead of arch triumphal: but george hit th' dragon such a pelt, as made him on his bum fall. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. tamerlain, with tartarian bow, the turkish squadrons slew; and fetch'd the pagan crescent down, with half-moon made of yew: his trusty bow proud turks did gall, with showers of arrows thick, and bow-strings, without strangling, sent grand viziers to old nick: much turbants, and much pagan pates he made to humble in dust; and heads of saracens he fixt on spear, as on a sign-post: he coop'd in cage bajazet the prop of mahomet's religion, as if't been the whispering bird, that prompted him; the pigeon. in turkey leather scabbard, he did sheathe his blade so trenchant: but george he swinged the dragon's tail, and cut off every inch on't. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. the amazon thalestris was both beautiful, and bold; she sear'd her breasts with iron hot, and bang'd her foes with cold. her hand was like the tool, wherewith jove keeps proud mortals under: it shone just like his lightning, and batter'd like his thunder. her eye darts lightning, that would blast the proudest he that swagger'd, and melt the rapier of his soul, in its corporeal scabbard. her beauty, and her drum to foes did cause amazement double; as timorous larks amazed are with light, and with a low-bell: with beauty, and that lapland-charm,[ ] poor men she did bewitch all; still a blind whining lover had, as pallas had her scrich-owl. she kept the chastness of a nun in armour, as in cloyster: but george undid the dragon just as you'd undo an oister. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. stout hercules, was offspring of great jove, and fair alcmene: one part of him celestial was, one part of him terrene. to scale the hero's cradle walls two fiery snakes combin'd, and, curling into swaddling cloaths, about the infant twin'd: but he put out these dragons' fires, and did their hissing stop; as red-hot iron with hissing noise is quencht in blacksmith's shop. he cleans'd a stable, and rubb'd down the horses of new-comers; and out of horse-dung he rais'd fame, as tom wrench[ ] does cucumbers. he made a river help him through; alpheus was under-groom; the stream, disgust at office mean, ran murmuring thro' the room: this liquid ostler to prevent being tired with that long work, his father neptune's trident took, instead of three-tooth'd dung-fork. this hercules, as soldier, and as spinster, could take pains; his club would sometimes spin ye flax, and sometimes knock out brains: h' was forc'd to spin his miss a shift by juno's wrath and hér-spite; fair omphale whipt him to his wheel, as cook whips barking turn-spit. from man, or churn he well knew how to get him lasting fame: he'd pound a giant, till the blood, and milk till butter came. often he fought with huge battoon, and oftentimes he boxed; tapt a fresh monster once a month, as hervey[ ] doth fresh hogshead. he gave anteus such a hug, as wrestlers give in cornwall: but george he did the dragon kill, as dead as any door-nail. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. the gemini, sprung from an egg, were put into a cradle: their brains with knocks and bottled ale, were often-times full addle: and, scarcely hatch'd, these sons of him, that hurls the bolt trisulcate, with helmet-shell on tender head, did tustle with red-ey'd pole-cat. castor a horseman, pollux tho' a boxer was, i wist: the one was fam'd for iron heel; th' other for leaden fist. pollux to shew he was god, when he was in a passion with fist made noses fall down flat by way of adoration: this fist, as sure as french disease, demolish'd noses' ridges: he like a certain lord[ ] was famd' for breaking down of bridges. castor the flame of fiery steed, with well-spur'd boots took down; as men, with leathern buckets, quench a fire in country town. his famous horse, that liv'd on oats, is sung on oaten quill; by bards' immortal provender the nag surviveth still. this shelly brood on none but knaves employ'd their brisk artillery: and flew as naturally at rogues, as eggs at thief in pillory.[ ] much sweat they spent in furious fight, much blood they did effund: their whites they vented thro' the pores; their yolks thro' gaping wound: then both were cleans'd from blood and dust to make a heavenly sign; the lads were, like their armour, scowr'd, and then hung up to shine; such were the heavenly double-dicks, the sons of jove and tyndar: but george he cut the dragon up, as he had bin duck or windar.[ ] st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. gorgon a twisted adder wore for knot upon her shoulder: she kemb'd her hissing periwig, and curling snakes did powder. these snakes they made stiff changelings of all the folks they hist on; they turned barbars into hones, and masons into free-stone: sworded magnetic amazon her shield to load-stone changes; then amorous sword by magic belt clung fast unto her haunches. this shield long village did protect, and kept the army from-town, and chang'd the bullies into rocks, that came t' invade long-compton.[ ] she post-diluvian stores unmans, and pyrrha's work unravels; and stares deucalion's hardy boys into their primitive pebbles. red noses she to rubies turns, and noddles into bricks: but george made dragon laxative; and gave him a bloody flix. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. by boar-spear meleager got, an everlasting name, and out of haunch of basted swine, he hew'd eternal fame. this beast each hero's trouzers ript, and rudely shew'd his bare-breech, prickt but the wem, and out there came heroic guts and garbadge. legs were secur'd by iron boots no more, than peas by peascods: brass helmets, with inclosed sculls, wou'd crackle in's mouth like chestnuts. his tawny hairs erected were by rage, that was resistless; and wrath, instead of cobler's wax, did stiffen his rising bristles. his tusk lay'd dogs so dead asleep, nor horn, nor whip cou'd wake 'um: it made them vent both their last blood, and their last album-grecum. but the knight gor'd him with his spear, to make of him a tame one, and arrows thick, instead of cloves, he stuck in monster's gammon. for monumental pillar, that his victory might be known, he rais'd up, in cylindric form, a collar of the brawn. he sent his shade to shades below, in stygian mud to wallow: and eke the stout st. george eftsoon, he made the dragon follow. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. achilles of old chiron learnt the great horse for to ride; h' was taught by th' centaur's rational part, the hinnible to bestride. bright silver feet, and shining face had that stout hero's mother; as rapier's silver'd at one end, and wounds you at the other. her feet were bright, his feet were swift, as hawk pursuing sparrow: her's had the metal, his the speed of braburn's[ ] silver arrow. thetis to double pedagogue commits her dearest boy; who bred him from a slender twig to be the scourge of troy: but ere he lash't the trojans, h' was in stygian waters steept; as birch is soaked first in piss, when boys are to be whipt. with skin exceeding hard, he rose from lake, so black and muddy, as lobsters from the ocean rise, with shell about their body: and, as from lobster's broken claw, pick out the fish you might: so might you from one unshell'd heel dig pieces of the knight. his myrmidons robb'd priam's barns and hen-roosts, says the song; carried away both corn and eggs, like ants from whence they sprung. himself tore hector's pantaloons, and sent him down bare-breech'd to pedant radamanthus, in a posture to be switch'd. but george he made the dragon look, as if he had been bewitch'd. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. full fatal to the romans was the carthaginian hanni- bal; him i mean, who gave them such a devilish thump at cannæ: moors thick, as goats on penmenmure, stood on the alpes's front: their one-eyed guide,[ ] like blinking mole, bor'd thro' the hindring mount: who, baffled by the massy rock, took vinegar for relief; like plowmen, when they hew their way thro' stubborn rump of beef. as dancing louts from humid toes cast atoms of ill favour to blinking hyatt,[ ] when on vile crowd he merriment does endeavour, and saws from suffering timber out some wretched tune to quiver: so romans slunk and squeak'd at sight of affrican carnivor. the tawny surface of his phiz did serve instead of vizzard: but george he made the dragon have a grumbling in his gizzard. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. the valour of domitian, it must not be forgotten; who from the jaws of worm-blowing flies, protected veal and mutton. a squadron of flies errant, against the foe appears; with regiments of buzzing knights, and swarms of volunteers: the warlike wasp encourag'd 'em, with animating hum; and the loud brazen hornet next, he was their kettle-drum: the spanish don cantharido did him most sorely pester, and rais'd on skin of vent'rous knight full many a plaguy blister. a bee whipt thro' his button hole, as thro' key hole a witch, and stabb'd him with her little tuck drawn out of scabbard breech: but the undaunted knight lifts up an arm both big and brawny, and slasht her so, that here lay head, and there lay bag and honey: then 'mongst the rout he flew as swift, as weapon made by cyclops, and bravely quell'd seditious buz, by dint of massy fly-flops. surviving flies do curses breathe, and maggots too at cæsar: but george he shav'd the dragon's beard, and askelon[ ] was his razor. st. george he was for england; st. dennis was for france; sing, _honi soit qui mal y pense_. [illustration] _john grubb_, the facetious writer of the foregoing song, makes a distinguished figure among the oxford wits so humorously enumerated in the following distich: alma novem genuit célebres rhedycina poetas bub, stubb, grubb, crabb, trap, young, carey, tickel, evans. these were bub dodington (the late lord melcombe), dr. stubbes, our poet _grubb_, mr. crabb, dr. trapp the poetry-professor, dr. edw. young, the author of night-thoughts, walter carey, thomas tickel, esq., and dr. evans the epigrammatist. as for our poet _grubb_, all that we can learn further of him is contained in a few extracts from the university register, and from his epitaph. it appears from the former that he was matriculated in , being the son of john grubb, "_de acton burnel in comitatu salop. pauperis_." he took his degree of bachelor of arts, june , : and became master of arts, june , . he was appointed head master of the grammar school at christ church: and afterwards chosen into the same employment at gloucester, where he died in , as appears from his monument in the church of st. mary de crypt in gloucester, which is inscribed with the following epitaph:-- h. s. e. _johannes grubb, a. m._ natus apud acton burnel in agro salopiensi anno dom. . cujus variam in linguis notitiam, et felicem erudiendis pueris industriam, gratâ adhuc memoriâ testatur oxonium: ibi enim Ædi christi initiatus, artes excoluit; pueros ad easdem mox excolendas accuratè formavit: huc demum unanimi omnium consensu accitus, eandem suscepit provinciam, quam feliciter adeo absolvit, ut nihil optandum sit nisi ut diutius nobis interfuisset: fuit enim propter festivam ingenij suavitatem, simplicem morum candorem, et præcipuam erga cognatos benevolentiam, omnibus desideratissimus. obiit do die aprilis, anno dni. . Ætatis suæ . footnotes: [ ] to this circumstance it is owing that the editor has never met with two copies, in which the stanzas are arranged alike, he has therefore thrown them into what appeared the most natural order. the verses are properly long alexandrines, but the narrowness of the page made it necessary to subdivide them: they are here printed with many improvements. [ ] [blow.] [ ] men of bulk answerable to their places, as is well known at oxford. [ ] a butcher that then served the college. [ ] a cook, who on fast nights was famous for selling cow-heel and tripe. [ ] the drum. [ ] who kept paradise gardens at oxford. [ ] a noted drawer at the mermaid tavern in oxford. [ ] lord lovelace broke down the bridges about oxford, at the beginning of the revolution. see on this subject a ballad in smith's poems, p. . london, . [ ] it has been suggested by an ingenious correspondent that this was a popular subject at that time:-- not carted bawd, or dan de foe, in wooden ruff ere bluster'd so. smith's poems, p. [ ] [perhaps a contraction of windhover, a kind of hawk.] [ ] see the account of rolricht stones, in dr. plott's _hist. of_ _oxfordshire_. [ ] braburn, a gentleman commoner of lincoln college, gave a silver arrow to be shot for by the archers of the university of oxford. [ ] hannibal had but one eye. [ ] a one-eyed fellow, who pretended to make fiddles, as well as play on them; well known at that time in oxford. [ ] the name of st. george's sword. xvi. margaret's ghost. this ballad, which appeared in some of the public newspapers in or before the year , came from the pen of david mallet, esq. who in the edition of his poems, vols. , informs us that the plan was suggested by the four verses quoted above in page , which he supposed to be the beginning of some ballad now lost. "these lines, says he, naked of ornament and simple, as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago." the two introductory lines (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz. "when all was wrapt in dark midnight, and all were fast asleep," &c. in a late publication, intitled, _the friends_, &c. lond. , vols. mo. (in the first volume, p. ) is inserted a copy of the foregoing ballad, with very great variations, which the editor of that work contends was the original; and that mallet adopted it for his own and altered it, as here given.--but the superior beauty and simplicity of the present copy, gives it so much more the air of an original, that it will rather be believed that some transcriber altered it from mallet's, and adapted the lines to his own taste; than which nothing is more common in popular songs and ballads. * * * * * [this ballad, more generally known as _william and margaret_, is supposed to have been printed for the first time in aaron hill's _plain dealer_ (no. , july , ), when the author was a very young man. hill introduced it to the reader as the work of an old poet, and wrote, "i am sorry i am not able to acquaint my readers with his name to whom we owe this melancholy piece of finished poetry under the humble title of a ballad." in the following month the editor announced that "he had discovered the author to be still alive." the verses were probably written in , in the august of which year mallet left scotland, for allan ramsay, in his _stanzas to mr. david mallock on his departure from scotland_, alludes to them:-- "but he that could, in tender strains, raise margaret's plaining shade, and paints distress that chills the veins, while william's crimes are red." the ballad at once became popular, and was printed in several collections, undergoing many alterations for the worse by the way. sundry attempts were made to rob mallet of the credit of his song. besides the one mentioned above by percy, captain thompson, the editor of andrew marvell's works, claimed it for marvell, but this claim was even more ridiculous than those he set up against addison and watts. although mallet doubtless knew the ballads _fair margaret and sweet william_ (book ii. no. ) and _sweet william's ghost_ (no. ), he is said to have founded his own upon a true story which came under his observation. a daughter of professor james gregory of st. andrews, and afterwards of edinburgh, was seduced by a son of sir william sharp of strathyrum, who had promised to marry her, but heartlessly deserted her. the ballad has been extravagantly praised: ritson observes, "it may be questioned whether any english writer has produced so fine a ballad as _william and margaret_." percy describes it as one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any other language; and allan ramsay writes, "i know not where to seek a finer mixture of pathos and terror in the whole range of gothic romance." scott, on the other hand, was of opinion that "the ballad, though the best of mallet's writing, is certainly inferior to the original, which i presume to be the very fine and terrific old scottish tale, beginning 'there came a ghost to margaret's door.'" the extreme popularity of the poem is seen by the various parodies, one of which, _watty and madge_, is printed in ramsay's _tea_ _table miscellany_ (vol. iii.). it commences-- "'twas at the shining mid-day hour," and each succeeding verse is parodied in the same manner. vincent browne imitated the original in latin verse, and a german version was published as _wilhelm und gretchen_. mallet was a native of crieff in perthshire, and is believed to have been born in the year . he was sometime tutor to the montrose family, through whose influence he was introduced into public life. he changed his name from malloch to mallet when he settled in london, and in he was appointed under secretary to the prince of wales. he died on the st of april, . mallet is a writer little cared for now, but he can hardly be said to be neglected, for in mr. frederick dinsdale published an illustrated edition of his ballads and songs, chiefly made up of copious notes on _william and margaret_ and _edwin and emma_.] * * * * * 'twas at the silent solemn hour, when night and morning meet; in glided margaret's grimly ghost, and stood at william's feet. her face was like an april morn, clad in a wintry cloud: and clay-cold was her lily hand, that held her sable shrowd. so shall the fairest face appear, when youth and years are flown: such is the robe that kings must wear, when death has reft their crown. her bloom was like the springing flower, that sips the silver dew; the rose was budded in her cheek, just opening to the view. but love had, like the canker worm, consum'd her early prime: the rose grew pale, and left her cheek; she dy'd before her time. "awake!" she cry'd, "thy true love calls, come from her midnight grave; now let thy pity hear the maid, thy love refus'd to save. "this is the dark and dreary hour, when injur'd ghosts complain; now yawning graves give up their dead, to haunt the faithless swain. "bethink thee, william, of thy fault, thy pledge, and broken oath: and give me back my maiden vow, and give me back my troth. "why did you promise love to me, and not that promise keep? why did you swear mine eyes were bright, yet leave those eyes to weep? "how could you say my face was fair, and yet that face forsake? how could you win my virgin heart, yet leave that heart to break? "why did you say my lip was sweet, and made the scarlet pale? and why did i, young witless maid, believe the flattering tale? "that face, alas! no more is fair; these lips no longer red: dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death, and every charm is fled. "the hungry worm my sister is; this winding-sheet i wear: and cold and weary lasts our night, till that last morn appear. "but hark! the cock has warn'd me hence! a long and last adieu! come see, false man, how low she lies, who dy'd for love of you." the lark sung loud; the morning smil'd, with beams of rosy red: pale william shook in ev'ry limb, and raving left his bed. he hyed him to the fatal place, where margaret's body lay; and stretch'd him on the grass-green turf, that wrapt her breathless clay: and thrice he call'd on margaret's name, and thrice he wept full sore: then laid his cheek to her cold grave, and word spake never more. xvii. lucy and colin was written by thomas tickell, esq. the celebrated friend of mr. addison, and editor of his works. he was son of a clergyman in the north of england, had his education at queen's college, oxon, was under secretary to mr. addison and mr. craggs, when successively secretaries of state; and was lastly (in june, ) appointed secretary to the lords justices in ireland, which place he held till his death in .[ ] he acquired mr. addison's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of _rosamond_, written while he was at the university. it is a tradition in ireland, that the song was written at castletown, in the county of kildare, at the request of the then mrs. conolly--probably on some event recent in that neighbourhood. [gray called _lucy and colin_ "the prettiest" ballad in the world, although he was not partial to tickell's other poems. the fine old melody given by dr. rimbault for this ballad is taken from "_the merry musician; or a cure for the spleen_; being a collection of the most diverting songs and pleasant ballads set to musick," .] * * * * * of leinster, fam'd for maidens fair, bright lucy was the grace; nor e'er did liffy's limpid stream reflect so fair a face. till luckless love, and pining care impair'd her rosy hue, her coral lip, and damask cheek, and eyes of glossy blue. oh! have you seen a lily pale, when beating rains descend? so droop'd the slow-consuming maid; her life now near its end. by lucy warn'd, of flattering swains take heed, ye easy fair: of vengeance due to broken vows, ye perjured swains, beware. three times, all in the dead of night, a bell was heard to ring; and at her window, shrieking thrice, the raven flap'd his wing. too well the love-lorn maiden knew that solemn boding sound; and thus, in dying words, bespoke the virgins weeping round. "i hear a voice, you cannot hear, which says i must not stay: i see a hand, you cannot see, which beckons me away. "by a false heart, and broken vows, in early youth i die. am i to blame, because his bride is thrice as rich as i? "ah colin! give not her thy vows; vows due to me alone: nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, nor think him all thy own. "to-morrow in the church to wed, impatient, both prepare; but know, fond maid, and know, false man, that lucy will be there, "then, bear my corse; ye comrades, bear, the bridegroom blithe to meet; he in his wedding-trim so gay, i in my winding-sheet." she spoke, she dy'd;--her corse was borne, the bridegroom blithe to meet; he in his wedding-trim so gay, she in her winding-sheet. then what were perjur'd colin's thoughts? how were those nuptials kept? the bride-men flock'd round lucy dead, and all the village wept. confusion, shame, remorse, despair at once his bosom swell: the damps of death bedew'd his brow, he shook, he groan'd, he fell. from the vain bride (ah bride no more!) the varying crimson fled, when, stretch'd before her rival's corse, she saw her husband dead. then to his lucy's new-made grave, convey'd by trembling swains, one mould with her, beneath one sod, for ever now remains. oft at their grave the constant hind and plighted maid are seen; with garlands gay, and true-love knots they deck the sacred green. but, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art, this hallow'd spot forbear; remember colin's dreadful fate, and fear to meet him there. footnotes: [ ] born . xviii. the boy and the mantle, as revised and altered by a modern hand. mr. warton, in his ingenious _observations on spenser_, has given his opinion, that the fiction of the _boy and the mantle_ is taken from an old french piece intitled _le court mantel_, quoted by m. de st. palaye in his curious _mémoires sur l'ancienne chevalerie_, paris, , tom. mo., who tells us the story resembles that of ariosto's inchanted cup. 'tis possible our english poet may have taken the hint of this subject from that old french romance, but he does not appear to have copied it in the manner of execution; to which (if one may judge from the specimen given in the _mémoires_) that of the ballad does not bear the least resemblance. after all, 'tis most likely that all the old stories concerning k. arthur are originally of british growth, and that what the french and other southern nations have of this kind, were at first exported from this island. see _mémoires de l'acad. des inscrip._ tom. xx. p. . (since this volume was printed off, the _fabliaux ou contes_, , tom. mo., of _m. le grand_, have come to hand: and in tom. i. p. , he hath printed a modern version of the old tale _le court mantel_, under a new title _le manteau maltaillé_; which contains the story of this ballad much enlarged, so far as regards the _mantle_; but without any mention of the _knife_, or the _horn_.) * * * * * [see book i. no. , for the original of this ballad.] * * * * * in carleile dwelt king arthur, a prince of passing might; and there maintain'd his table round, beset with many a knight. and there he kept his christmas with mirth and princely cheare, when, lo! a straunge and cunning boy before him did appeare. a kirtle and a mantle this boy had him upon, with brooches, rings, and owches[ ] full daintily bedone. he had a sarke[ ] of silk about his middle meet; and thus, with seemly curtesy, he did king arthur greet. "god speed thee, brave king arthur, thus feasting in thy bowre. and guenever thy goodly queen, that fair and peerlesse flowre. "ye gallant lords, and lordings, i wish you all take heed, lest, what ye deem a blooming rose should prove a cankred weed." then straitway from his bosome a little wand he drew; and with it eke a mantle of wondrous shepe, and hew. "now have thou here, king arthur, have this here of mee, and give unto thy comely queen, all-shapen as you see. "no wife it shall become, that once hath been to blame." then every knight in arthur's court slye glaunced at his dame. and first came lady guenever, the mantle she must trye. this dame, she was new-fangled, and of a roving eye. when she had tane the mantle, and all was with it cladde, from top to toe it shiver'd down, as tho' with sheers beshradde. one while it was too long, another while too short, and wrinkled on her shoulders in most unseemly sort. now green, now red it seemed, then all of sable hue. "beshrew me, quoth king arthur, i think thou beest not true." down she threw the mantle, ne longer would not stay; but storming like a fury, to her chamber flung away. she curst the whoreson weaver, that had the mantle wrought: and doubly curst the froward impe, who thither had it brought. "i had rather live in desarts beneath the green-wood tree: than here, base king, among thy groomes, the sport of them and thee." sir kay call'd forth his lady, and bade her to come near: "yet dame, if thou be guilty, i pray thee now forbear." this lady, pertly gigling, with forward step came on, and boldly to the little boy with fearless face is gone. when she had tane the mantle, with purpose for to wear: it shrunk up to her shoulder, and left her b**side bare. then every merry knight, that was in arthur's court, gib'd, and laught, and flouted, to see that pleasant sport. down she threw the mantle, no longer bold or gay, but with a face all pale and wan, to her chamber slunk away. then forth came an old knight, a pattering o'er his creed; and proffer'd to the little boy five nobles to his meed; "and all the time of christmass plumb-porridge shall be thine, if thou wilt let my lady fair within the mantle shine." a saint his lady seemed, with step demure, and slow, and gravely to the mantle with mincing pace doth goe, when she the same had taken, that was so fine and thin, it shrivell'd all about her, and show'd her dainty skin. ah! little did her mincing, or his long prayers bestead; she had no more hung on her, than a tassel and a thread. down she threwe the mantle, with terror and dismay, and, with a face of scarlet, to her chamber hyed away. sir cradock call'd his lady, and bade her to come neare; "come win this mantle, lady, and do me credit here. "come win this mantle, lady, for now it shall be thine, if thou hast never done amiss, sith first i made thee mine." the lady gently blushing, with modest grace came on, and now to trye this wondrous charm courageously is gone. when she had tane the mantle, and put it on her backe, about the hem it seemed to wrinkle and to cracke. "lye still, shee cried, o mantle! and shame me not for nought, i'll freely own whate'er amiss, or blameful i have wrought. "once i kist sir cradocke beneathe the green wood tree: once i kist sir cradocke's mouth before he married me." when thus she had her shriven, and her worst fault had told, the mantle soon became her right comely as it shold. most rich and fair of colour, like gold it glittering shone: and much the knights in arthur's court admir'd her every one. then towards king arthur's table the boy he turn'd his eye: where stood a boar's-head garnished with bayes and rosemarye. when thrice he o'er the boar's head his little wand had drawne, quoth he, "there's never a cuckold's knife, can carve this head of brawne." then some their whittles rubbed on whetstone, and on hone: some threwe them under the table, and swore that they had none. sir cradock had a little knife of steel and iron made; and in an instant thro' the skull he thrust the shining blade. he thrust the shining blade full easily and fast: and every knight in arthur's court a morsel had to taste. the boy brought forth a horne, all golden was the rim: said he, "no cuckolde ever can set mouth unto the brim. "no cuckold can this little horne lift fairly to his head; but or on this, or that side, he shall the liquor shed." some shed it on their shoulder, some shed it on their thigh; and hee that could not hit his mouth, was sure to hit his eye. thus he, that was a cuckold, was known of every man: but cradock lifted easily, and wan the golden can. thus boar's head, horn and mantle were this fair couple's meed: and all such constant lovers, god send them well to speed. then down in rage came guenever, and thus could spightful say, "sir cradock's wife most wrongfully hath borne the prize away. "see yonder shameless woman, that makes herselfe so clean: yet from her pillow taken thrice five gallants have been. "priests, clarkes, and wedded men have her lewd pillow prest: yet she the wondrous prize forsooth must beare from all the rest." then bespake the little boy, who had the same in hold: "chastize thy wife, king arthur, of speech she is too bold: "of speech she is too bold, of carriage all too free; sir king, she hath within thy hall a cuckold made of thee. "all frolick light and wanton she hath her carriage borne: and given thee for a kingly crown to wear a cuckold's horne." [***] * * * * * [***] the rev. evan evans, editor of the specimens of _welsh_ _poetry_, to. affirmed that the _boy and the mantle_ is taken from what is related in some of the old welsh mss. of tegan earfron, one of king arthur's mistresses. she is said to have possessed a mantle that would not fit any immodest or incontinent woman; this, (which, the old writers say, was reckoned among the curiosities of britain) is frequently alluded to by the old welsh bards. _carleile_, so often mentioned in the ballads of k. arthur, the editor once thought might probably be a corruption of _caer-leon_, an ancient british city on the river uske, in monmouthshire, which was one of the places of k. arthur's chief residence; but he is now convinced, that it is no other than _carlisle_, in cumberland; the old english minstrels, being most of them northern men, naturally represented the hero of romance as residing in the north: and many of the places mentioned in the old ballads are still to be found there: as _tearne-wadling_, &c. near penrith is still seen a large circle, surrounded by a mound of earth, which retains the name of arthur's round table. * * * * * [for a full statement of the claims of the "north" to be considered as the home of king arthur, see j. s. stuart glennie's essay on _arthurian localities_, in the edition of the prose romance of _merlin_, published by the early english text society.] footnotes: [ ] [bosses or buttons of gold.] [ ] [shirt.] xix. the ancient fragment of the marriage of sir gawaine.[ ] the second poem in this volume, intitled _the marriage of sir gawaine_, having been offered to the reader with large conjectural supplements and corrections, the old fragment itself is here literally and exactly printed from the editor's folio ms. with all its defects, inaccuracies, and errata; that such austere antiquaries, as complain that the ancient copies have not been always rigidly adhered to, may see how unfit for publication many of the pieces would have been, if all the blunders, corruptions, and nonsense of illiterate reciters and transcribers had been superstitiously retained, without some attempt to correct and emend them. this ballad had most unfortunately suffered by having half of every leaf in this part of the ms. torn away; and, as about nine stanzas generally occur in the half page now remaining, it is concluded, that the other half contained nearly the same number of stanzas. * * * * * [the following poem is printed in hales' and furnivall's edition of the ms., vol. i. p. .] * * * * * kinge arthur liues in merry carleile, & seemely is to see, & there he hath w^{th} him queene genev^r, y^t bride soe bright of blee. and there he hath w^{th} him queene genever, y^t bride soe bright in bower, & all his barons about him stoode y^t were both stiffe & stowre. the k. kept a royall christmasse of mirth & great honor, & when.... [_about nine stanzas wanting._] and bring me word what thing it is y^t a woman most desire. this shalbe thy ransome, arthur, he sayes for ile haue noe other hier. k. arthur then held vp his hand according thene as was the law; he tooke his leaue of the baron there, & homward can he draw. and when he came to merry carlile, to his chamber he is gone, & ther came to him his cozen s^r gawaine as he did make his mone. and there came to him his cozen s^r gawaine y^t was a curteous knight, why sigh you soe sore vnckle arthur, he said or who hath done thee vnright. o peace, o peace, thou gentle gawaine, y^t faire may thee beffall, for if thou knew my sighing soe deepe, thou wold not meruaile att all; ffor when i came to tearne wadling, a bold barron there i fand, w^{th} a great club vpon his backe, standing stiffe & strong; and he asked me wether i wold fight, or from him i shold be gone, o[r] else i must him a ransome pay & soe dep't him from. to fight w^{th} him i saw noe cause, me thought it was not meet, ffor he was stiffe & strong w^{th} all, his strokes were nothing sweete. therfor this is my ransome, gawaine i ought to him to pay i must come againe, as i am sworne, vpon the newyeers day. and i must bring him word what thing it is [_about nine stanzas wanting._] then king arthur drest him for to ryde in one soe rich array toward the foresaid tearne wadling, y^t he might keepe his day. and as he rode over a more, hee see a lady where shee sate betwixt an oke & a greene hollen[ ]: she was cladd in red scarlett. then there as shold have stood her mouth, then there was sett her eye the other was in her forhead fast the way that she might see. her nose was crooked & turnd outward, her mouth stood foule a wry; a worse formed lady then shee was, neuer man saw w^{th} his eye. to halch[ ] vpon him, k. arthur this lady was full faine but k. arthur had forgott his lesson what he shold say againe what knight art thou, the lady sayd, that wilt not speake to me? of me be thou nothing dismayd tho i be vgly to see; for i haue halched you curteouslye, & you will not me againe, yett i may happen s^r knight, shee said to ease thee of thy paine. giue thou ease me, lady, he said or helpe me any thing, thou shalt haue gentle gawaine, my cozen & marry him w^{th} a ring. why, if i helpe thee not, thou noble k. arthur of thy owne hearts desiringe, of gentle gawaine.... [_about nine stanzas wanting._] and when he came to the tearne wadling the baron there cold he fimde[ ] w^{th} a great weapon on his backe, standing stiffe & stronge and then he tooke k. arthur's letters in his hands & away he cold them fling, & then he puld out a good browne sword, & cryd himselfe a k. and he sayd, i haue thee & thy land, arthur to doe as it pleaseth me, for this is not thy ransome sure, therfore yeeld thee to mee. and then bespoke him noble arthur, & bad him hold his hands, & give me leave to speake my mind in defence of all my land. he said as i came over a more, i see a lady where shee sate betweene an oke & a green hollen; shee was clad in red scarlett; and she says a woman will haue her will, & this is all her cheefe desire: doe me right as thou art a baron of sckill, this is thy ransome & and all thy hyer. he sayes an early vengeance light on her, she walkes on yonder more; it was my sister that told thee this & she is a misshappen hore. but heer ile make mine avow[ ] to god to do her an euill turne, for an euer i may thate fowle theefe get, in a fyer i will her burne. [_about nine stanzas wanting._] * * * * * the d part. sir lancelott & s^r steven bold they rode w^{th} them that day, and the formost of the company there rode the steward kay, soe did s^r banier & s^r bore s^r garrett w^{th} them soe gay, soe did s^r tristeram y^t gentle k^t, to the forrest fresh & gay and when he came to the greene forrest vnderneath a greene holly tree their sate that lady in red scarlet y^t vnseemly was to see. s^r kay beheld this ladys face, & looked vppon her smire[ ] whosoeuer kisses this lady, he sayes of his kisse he standes in feare. sir kay beheld the lady againe, & looked vpon her snout, whosoeuer kisses this lady, he saies, of his kisse he stands in doubt. peace coz. kay, then said s^r gawaine amend thee of thy life; for there is a knight amongst us all y^t must marry her to his wife. what, wedd her to wiffe, then said s^r kay, in the diuells name anon, gett me a wiffe where ere i may, for i had rather be slaine. then soome tooke vp their hawkes in hast & some tooke vp their hounds, & some sware they wold not marry her for citty nor for towne. and then be spake him noble k. arthur, & sware there by this day, for a litle foule sight and misliking [_about nine stanzas wanting._] then shee said choose thee gentle gawaine, truth as i doe say, wether thou wilt haue me in this liknesse in the night or else in the day. and then bespake him gentle gawaine, w^{th} one soe mild of moode, sayes, well i know what i wold say, god grant it may be good. to haue thee fowle in the night when i w^{th} thee shold play; yet i had rather, if i might haue thee fowle in the day. what, when lords goe w^{th} ther seires,[ ] shee said both to the ale & wine alas then i must hyde my selfe, i must not goe withinne. and then bespake him gentle gawaine, said, lady thats but a skill; and because thou art my owne lady, thou shalt haue all thy will. then she said, blesed be thou gentle gawain this day y^t i thee see, for as thou see me att this time, from hencforth i wilbe: my father was an old knight, & yett it chanced soe that he marryed a younge lady y^t brought me to this woe. shee witched me, being a faire young lady, to the greene forrest to dwell, & there i must walke in womans liknesse, most like a feend of hell. she witched my brother to a carlist b.... [_about nine stanzas wanting_.] that looked soe foule & that was wont on the wild more to goe. come kisse her, brother kay, then said s^r gawaine, & amend the of thy liffe; i sweare this is the same lady y^t i marryed to my wiffe. s^r kay kissed that lady bright, standing vpon his ffeete; he swore, as he was trew knight, the spice was neuer soe sweete. well, coz. gawaine, sayes s^r kay, thy chance is fallen arright, for thou hast gotten one of the fairest maids i euer saw w^{th} my sight. it is my fortune, said s^r gawaine; for my vnckle arthurs sake i am glad as grasse wold be of raine, great ioy that i may take. s^r gawaine tooke the lady by the one arme, s^r kay tooke her by the tother, they led her straight to k. arthur as they were brother & brother. k. arthur welcomed them there all, & soe did lady geneuer his queene, w^{th} all the knights of the round table most seemly to be seene. k. arthur beheld that lady faire that was soe faire & bright, he thanked christ in trinity for s^r gawaine that gentle knight; soe did the knights, both more and lesse, reioyced all that day for the good chance y^t hapened was to s^r gawaine & his lady gay. ffins. footnotes: [ ] [printed for the first time in the fourth edition.] [ ] [holly.] [ ] [salute.] [ ] sic ms. = finde. [ ] [my vow.] [ ] [qy. for swire = neck.] [ ] sic in ms. pro _feires_, i.e. mates. the end of the third book. [illustration] appendix i. the wanton wife of bath. [illustration] [illustration] appendix i. the wanton wife of bath. from an ancient copy in black-print, in the pepys collection. mr. addison has pronounced this an excellent ballad: see the _spectator_, no. . * * * * * [this ballad was printed in the third volume of the first edition of the _reliques_, book ii. no. , but was afterwards expunged by percy. professor child gives the following references in his collection of _english and scottish ballads_, vol. viii. p. :--"the same story circulates among the peasantry of england and scotland in the form of a penny tract or chap-book, _notices of_ _popular histories_, p. , (_percy soc._ vol. xxiii.); _notes and queries_, new series, vol. iii. p. . this jest is an old one. mr. halliwell refers to a fabliau in barbazan's collection, which contains the groundwork of this piece, _du vilain qui conquist paradis par plait_, meon's ed. iv. ."] * * * * * in bath a wanton wife did dwelle, as chaucer he doth write; who did in pleasure spend her dayes; and many a fond delight. upon a time sore sicke she was and at the length did dye; and then her soul at heaven gate, did knocke most mightilye. first adam came unto the gate: who knocketh there? quoth hee i am the wife of bath, she sayd, and faine would come to thee. thou art a sinner, adam sayd, and here no place shalt have. and so art thou, i trowe, quoth shee, 'and eke a' doting knave.[ ] i will come in, in spight, she sayd, of all such churles as thee; thou wert the causer of our woe, our paine and misery; and first broke god's commandiments, in pleasure of thy wife. when adam heard her tell this tale, he ranne away for life. then downe came jacob at the gate, and bids her packe to hell, thou false deceiving knave, quoth she thou mayst be there as well. for thou deceiv'dst thy father deare, and thine own brother too. away 'slunk' jacob presently, and made no more adoo. she knockes again with might and maine, and lot he chides her straite, how now, quoth she, thou drunken ass, who bade thee here to prate? with thy two daughters thou didst lye, on them two bastardes got. and thus most tauntingly she chaft against poor silly lot. who calleth there, quoth judith then, with such shrill sounding notes? this fine minkes surely came not here, quoth she, for cutting throats. good lord, how judith blush'd for shame, when she heard her say soe! king david hearing of the same, he to the gate would goe. quoth david, who knockes there so loud, and maketh all this strife; you were more kinde, good sir, she sayd, unto uriah's wife. and when thy servant thou didst cause in battle to be slaine; thou causedst far more strife than i, who would come here so faine. the woman's mad, quoth solomon, that thus doth taunt a king. not half so mad as you, she sayd, i trowe in manye a thing. thou hadst seven hundred wives at once, for whom thou didst provide; and yet god wot, three hundred whores thou must maintaine beside: and they made thee forsake thy god, and worship stockes and stones; besides the charge they put thee to in breeding of young bones. hadst thou not bin beside thy wits, thou wouldst not thus have ventur'd; and therefore i do marvel much, how thou this place hast enter'd. i never heard, quoth jonas then, so vile a scold as this. thou whore-son run-away, quoth she, thou diddest more amiss. 'they say,' quoth thomas, women's tongues,[ ] of aspen-leaves are made. thou unbelieving wretch, quoth she, all is not true that's sayd. when mary magdalen heard her then, she came unto the gate. quoth she, good woman, you must think upon your former state. no sinner enters in this place quoth mary magdalene. then 'twere ill for you, fair mistress mine, she answered her agen: you for your honestye, quoth she, had once been ston'd to death; had not our saviour christ come by, and written on the earth. it was not by your occupation, you are become divine: i hope my soul in christ his passion, shall be as safe as thine. uprose the good apostle paul, and to this wife he cryed, except thou shake thy sins away, thou here shalt be denyed. remember, paul, what thou hast done, all through a lewd desire: how thou didst persecute god's church, with wrath as hot as fire. then up starts peter at the last, and to the gate he hies: fond fool, quoth he, knock not so fast, thou weariest christ with cries. peter, said she, content thyselfe, for mercye may be won, i never did deny my christ, as thou thyselfe hast done. when as our saviour christ heard this, with heavenly angels bright, he comes unto this sinful soul, who trembled at his sight. of him for mercye she did crave. quoth he, thou hast refus'd my proffer'd grace, and mercy both, and much my name abus'd. sore have i sinned, lord, she sayd, and spent my time in vaine, but bring me like a wandring sheepe into thy flocke againe. o lord my god, i will amend my former wicked vice: the thief for one poor silly word, past into paradise. my lawes and my commandments, saith christ, were known to thee; but of the same in any wise, not yet one word did yee. i grant the same, o lord, quoth she; most lewdly did i live: but yet the loving father did his prodigal son forgive. so i forgive thy soul, he sayd, through thy repenting crye; come enter then into my joy, i will not thee denye. footnotes: [ ] ver. . now gip you, _p._ [ ] ver. . i think, _p._ [illustration] appendix ii. on the ancient metrical romances, &c. i. the first attempts at composition among all barbarous nations are ever found to be poetry and song. the praises of their gods, and the achievements of their heroes, are usually chanted at their festival meetings. these are the first rudiments of history. it is in this manner that the savages of north america preserve the memory of past events[ ]; and the same method is known to have prevailed among our saxon ancestors before they quitted their german forests[ ]. the ancient britons had their bards, and the gothic nations their scalds or popular poets[ ], whose business it was to record the victories of their warriors, and the genealogies of their princes, in a kind of narrative songs, which were committed to memory, and delivered down from one reciter to another. so long as poetry continued a distinct profession, and while the bard, or scald, was a regular and stated officer in the prince's court, these men are thought to have performed the functions of the historian pretty faithfully; for though their narrations would be apt to receive a good deal of embellishment, they are supposed to have had at the bottom so much of truth as to serve for the basis of more regular annals. at least succeeding historians have taken up with the relations of these rude men, and for the want of more authentic records, have agreed to allow them the credit of true history[ ]. after letters began to prevail, and history assumed a more stable form, by being committed to plain simple prose; these songs of the scalds or bards began to be more amusing than useful. and in proportion as it became their business chiefly to entertain and delight, they gave more and more into embellishment, and set off their recitals with such marvellous fictions, as were calculated to captivate gross and ignorant minds. thus began stories of adventures with giants and dragons, and witches and enchanters, and all the monstrous extravagances of wild imagination, unguided by judgment, and uncorrected by art[ ]. this seems to be the true origin of that species of romance, which so long celebrated feats of chivalry, and which at first in metre, and afterwards in prose, was the entertainment of our ancestors, in common with their contemporaries on the continent, till the satire of cervantes, or rather the increase of knowledge and classical literature, drove them off the stage to make room for a more refined species of fiction, under the name of french romances, copied from the greek[ ]. that our old romances of chivalry may be derived in a lineal descent from the ancient historical songs of the gothic bards and scalds, will be shown below, and indeed appears the more evident, as many of those songs are still preserved in the north, which exhibit all the seeds of chivalry before it became a solemn institution[ ]. "chivalry, as a distinct military order, conferred in the way of investiture, and accompanied with the solemnity of an oath, and other ceremonies," was of later date, and sprung out of the feudal constitution, as an elegant writer has clearly shown[ ]. but the ideas of chivalry prevailed long before in all the gothic nations, and may be discovered as in embriyo in the customs, manners, and opinions of every branch of that people[ ]. that fondness of going in quest of adventures, that spirit of challenging to single combat, and that respectful complaisance shewn to the fair sex, (so different from the manners of the greeks and romans), all are of gothic origin, and may be traced up to the earliest times among all the northern nations[ ]. these existed long before the feudal ages, though they were called forth and strengthened in a peculiar manner under that constitution, and at length arrived to their full maturity in the times of the crusades, so replete with romantic adventures[ ]. even the common arbitrary fictions of romance were (as is hinted above) most of them familiar to the ancient scalds of the north, long before the time of the crusades. they believed the existence of giants and dwarfs[ ]; they entertained opinions not unlike the more modern notion of fairies[ ], they were strongly possessed with the belief of spells and inchantment[ ], and were fond of inventing combats with dragons and monsters[ ]. the opinion therefore seems very untenable, which some learned and ingenious men have entertained, that the turn for chivalry, and the taste for that species of romantic fiction were caught by the spaniards from the arabians or moors after their invasion of spain, and from the spaniards transmitted to the bards of armorica[ ], and thus diffused through britain, france, italy, germany, and the north. for it seems utterly incredible, that one rude people should adopt a peculiar taste and manner of writing or thinking from another, without borrowing at the same time any of their particular stories and fables, without appearing to know anything of their heroes, history, laws, and religion. when the romans began to adopt and imitate the grecian literature, they immediately naturalized all the grecian fables, histories, and religious stories; which became as familiar to the poets of rome, as of greece itself. whereas all the old writers of chivalry, and of that species of romance, whether in prose or verse, whether of the northern nations, or of britain, france, and italy, not excepting spain itself[ ], appear utterly unacquainted with whatever relates to the mahometan nations. thus with regard to their religion, they constantly represent them as worshipping idols, as paying adoration to a golden image of mahomet, or else they confound them with the ancient pagans, &c. and indeed in all other respects they are so grossly ignorant of the customs, manners, and opinions of every branch of that people, especially of their heroes, champions, and local stories, as almost amounts to a demonstration that they did not imitate them in their songs or romances: for as to dragons, serpents, necromancies, &c., why should these be thought only derived from the moors in spain so late as after the eighth century? since notions of this kind appear too familiar to the northern scalds and enter too deeply into all the northern mythology, to have been transmitted to the unlettered scandinavians, from so distant a country, at so late a period. if they may not be allowed to have brought these opinions with them in their original migrations from the north of asia, they will be far more likely to have borrowed them from the latin poets after the roman conquests in gaul, britain, germany, &c. for, i believe one may challenge the maintainers of this opinion, to produce any arabian poem or history, that could possibly have been then known in spain, which resembles the old gothic romances of chivalry half so much as the metamorphoses of ovid. but we well know that the scythian nations situate in the countries about pontus, colchis, and the euxine sea, were in all times infamous for their magic arts: and as odin and his followers are said to have come precisely from those parts of asia; we can readily account for the prevalence of fictions of this sort among the gothic nations of the north, without fetching them from the moors in spain; who for many centuries after their irruption, lived in a state of such constant hostility with the unsubdued spanish christians, whom they chiefly pent up in the mountains, as gave them no chance of learning their music, poetry, or stories; and this, together with the religious hatred of the latter for their cruel invaders, will account for the utter ignorance of the old spanish romancers in whatever relates to the mahometan nations, although so nearly their own neighbours. on the other hand, from the local customs and situations, from the known manners and opinions of the gothic nations in the north, we can easily account for all the ideas of chivalry and its peculiar fictions[ ]. for, not to mention their distinguished respect for the fair sex, so different from the manners of the mahometan nations[ ], their national and domestic history so naturally assumes all the wonders of this species of fabling, that almost all their historical narratives appear regular romances. one might refer in proof of this to the old northern sagas in general: but to give a particular instance it will be sufficient to produce the history of king regner lodbrog, a celebrated warrior and pirate, who reigned in denmark about the year [ ]. this hero signalized his youth by an exploit of gallantry. a swedish prince had a beautiful daughter whom he intrusted (probably during some expedition) to the care of one of his officers, assigning a strong castle for their defence. the officer fell in love with his ward, and detained her in his castle, spite of all the efforts of her father. upon this he published a proclamation through all the neighbouring countries, that whoever would conquer the ravisher and rescue the lady should have her in marriage. of all that undertook the adventure, regner alone was so happy as to achieve it: he delivered the fair captive, and obtained her for his prize. it happened that the name of this discourteous officer was orme, which in the islandic language signifies serpent: wherefore the scalds, to give the more poetical turn to the adventure, represent the lady as detained from her father by a dreadful dragon, and that regner slew the monster to set her at liberty. this fabulous account of the exploit is given in a poem still extant, which is even ascribed to regner himself, who was a celebrated poet; and which records all the valiant achievements of his life[ ]. with marvelous embellishments of this kind the scalds early began to decorate their narratives: and they were the more lavish of these, in proportion as they departed from their original institution, but it was a long time before they thought of delivering a set of personages and adventures wholly feigned. of the great multitude of romantic tales still preserved in the libraries of the north, most of them are supposed to have had some foundation in truth, and the more ancient they are, the more they are believed to be connected with true history[ ]. it was not probably till after the historian and the bard had been long disunited, that the latter ventured at pure fiction. at length when their business was no longer to instruct or inform, but merely to amuse, it was no longer needful for them to adhere to truth. then succeeded fabulous songs and romances in verse, which for a long time prevailed in france and england before they had books of chivalry in prose. yet in both these countries the minstrels still retained so much of their original institution, as frequently to make true events the subject of their songs[ ]; and indeed, as during the barbarous ages, the regular histories were almost all written in latin by the monks, the memory of events was preserved and propagated among the ignorant laity by scarce any other means than the popular songs of the minstrels. ii. the inhabitants of sweden, denmark, and norway, being the latest converts to christianity, retained their original manners and opinions longer than the other nations of gothic race: and therefore they have preserved more of the genuine compositions of their ancient poets, than their southern neighbours. hence the progress, among them, from poetical history to poetical fiction is very discernible: they have some old pieces, that are in effect complete romances of chivalry[ ]. they have also (as hath been observed) a multitude of sagas[ ] or histories on romantic subjects, containing a mixture of prose and verse, of various dates, some of them written since the times of the crusades, others long before: but their narratives in verse only are esteemed the more ancient. now as the irruption of the normans[ ] into france under rollo did not take place till towards the beginning of the tenth century, at which time the scaldic art was arrived to the highest perfection in rollo's native country, we can easily trace the descent of the french and english romances of chivalry from the northern sagas. that conqueror doubtless carried many scalds with him from the north, who transmitted their skill to their children and successors. these adopting the religion, opinions, and language of the new country, substituted the heroes of christendom instead of those of their pagan ancestors, and began to celebrate the feats of charlemagne, roland, and oliver; whose true history they set off and embellished with the scaldic figments of dwarfs, giants, dragons, and enchantments. the first mention we have in song of those heroes of chivalry is in the mouth of a norman warrior at the conquest of england[ ]: and this circumstance alone would sufficiently account for the propagation of this kind of romantic poems among the french and english. but this is not all; it is very certain, that both the anglo-saxons and the franks had brought with them, at their first emigrations into britain and gaul, the same fondness for the ancient songs of their ancestors, which prevailed among the other gothic tribes[ ], and that all their first annals were transmitted in these popular oral poems. this fondness they even retained long after their conversion to christianity, as we learn from the examples of charlemagne and alfred[ ]. now poetry, being thus the transmitter of facts, would as easily learn to blend them with fictions in france and england, as she is known to have done in the north, and that much sooner, for the reasons before assigned[ ]. this, together with the example and influence of the normans, will easily account to us, why the first romances of chivalry that appeared both in england and france[ ] were composed in metre, as a rude kind of epic songs. in both kingdoms tales in verse were usually sung by minstrels to the harp on festival occasions: and doubtless both nations derived their relish for this sort of entertainment from their teutonic ancestors, without either of them borrowing it from the other. among both people narrative songs on true or fictitious subjects had evidently obtained from the earliest times. but the professed romances of chivalry seem to have been first composed in france, where also they had their name. the latin tongue, as is observed by an ingenious writer[ ], ceased to be spoken in france about the ninth century, and was succeeded by what was called the romance tongue, a mixture of the language of the franks and bad latin. as the songs of chivalry became the most popular compositions in that language, they were emphatically called romans or romants; though this name was at first given to any piece of poetry. the romances of chivalry can be traced as early as the eleventh century[ ]. i know not if the _roman de brut_ written in , was such: but if it was, it was by no means the first poem of the kind; others more ancient are still extant[ ]. and we have already seen, that, in the preceding century, when the normans marched down to the battle of hastings, they animated themselves, by singing (in some popular romance or ballad) the exploits of roland and the other heroes of chivalry[ ]. so early as this i cannot trace the songs of chivalry in english. the most ancient i have seen, is that of hornechild described below, which seems not older than the twelfth century. however, as this rather resembles the saxon poetry than the french, it is not certain that the first english romances were translated from that language[ ]. we have seen above, that a propensity to this kind of fiction prevailed among all the gothic nations[ ]; and, though after the norman conquest, this country abounded with french romances, or with translations from the french, there is good reason to believe, that the english had original pieces of their own. the stories of king arthur and his round table, may be reasonably supposed of the growth of this island; both the french and the armoricans probably had them from britain[ ]. the stories of guy and bevis, with some others, were probably the invention of english minstrels[ ]. on the other hand, the english procured translations of such romances as were most current in france; and in the list given at the conclusion of these remarks, many are doubtless of french original. the first prose books of chivalry that appeared in our language, were those printed by caxton[ ]; at least, these are the first i have been able to discover, and these are all translations from the french. whereas romances of this kind had been long current in metre, and were so generally admired in the time of chaucer, that his rhyme of sir thopas was evidently written to ridicule and burlesque them[ ]. he expressly mentions several of them by name in a stanza, which i have had occasion to quote more than once in this volume: "men speken of romaunces of pris of horn-child, and of ipotis of bevis, and sire guy of sire libeux, and pleindamour, but sire thopas, he bereth the flour of real chevalrie"[ ]. most, if not all of these are still extant in ms. in some or other of our libraries, as i shall shew in the conclusion of this slight essay, where i shall give a list of such metrical histories and romances as have fallen under my observation. as many of these contain a considerable portion of poetic merit, and throw great light on the manners and opinions of former times, it were to be wished that some of the best of them were rescued from oblivion. a judicious collection of them accurately published with proper illustrations, would be an important accession to our stock of ancient english literature. many of them exhibit no mean attempts at epic poetry, and though full of the exploded fictions of chivalry, frequently display great descriptive and inventive powers in the bards, who composed them. they are at least generally equal to any other poetry of the same age. they cannot indeed be put in competition with the nervous productions of so universal and commanding a genius as chaucer, but they have a simplicity that makes them be read with less interruption, and be more easily understood: and they are far more spirited and entertaining than the tedious allegories of gower, or the dull and prolix legends of lydgate. yet, while so much stress was laid upon the writings of these last, by such as treat of english poetry, the old metrical romances, though far more popular in their time, were hardly known to exist. but it has happened unluckily, that the antiquaries, who have revived the works of our ancient writers, have been for the most part men void of taste and genius, and therefore have always fastidiously rejected the old poetical romances, because founded on fictitious or popular subjects, while they have been careful to grub up every petty fragment of the most dull and insipid rhymist, whose merit it was to deform morality, or obscure true history. should the publick encourage the revival of some of those ancient epic songs of chivalry, they would frequently see the rich ore of an ariosto or a tasso, though buried it may be among the rubbish and dross of barbarous times. such a publication would answer many important uses: it would throw new light on the rise and progress of english poetry, the history of which can be but imperfectly understood, if these are neglected: it would also serve to illustrate innumerable passages in our ancient classic poets, which without their help must be for ever obscure. for, not to mention chaucer and spencer, who abound with perpetual allusions to them, i shall give an instance or two from shakespeare, by way of specimen of their use. in his play of _king john_ our great dramatic poet alludes to an exploit of richard i. which the reader will in vain look for in any true history. faulconbridge says to his mother, act i. sc. . "needs must you lay your heart at his dispose ... against whose furie and unmatched force, the awlesse lion could not wage the fight, nor keepe his princely heart from richard's hand: he that perforce robs lions of their hearts may easily winne a woman's:" the fact here referred to, is to be traced to its source only in the old romance of _richard ceur["c[oe]ur"?] de lyon_[ ], in which his encounter with a lion makes a very shining figure. i shall give a large extract from this poem, as a specimen of the manner of these old rhapsodists, and to shew that they did not in their fictions neglect the proper means to produce the ends, as was afterwards so childishly done in the prose books of chivalry. the poet tells us, that richard, in his return from the holy land, having been discovered in the habit of "a palmer in almayne," and apprehended as a spy, was by the king thrown into prison. wardrewe, the king's son, hearing of richard's great strength, desires the jailor to let him have a sight of his prisoners. richard being the foremost, wardrewe asks him, "if he dare stand a buffet from his hand?" and that on the morrow he shall return him another. richard consents, and receives a blow that staggers him. on the morrow, having previously waxed his hands, he waits his antagonist's arrival. wardrewe accordingly, proceeds the story, "held forth as a trewe man," and richard gave him such a blow on the cheek, as broke his jawbone, and killed him on the spot. the king, to revenge the death of his son, orders, by the advice of one eldrede, that a lion, kept purposely from food, shall be turned loose upon richard. but the king's daughter having fallen in love with him, tells him of her father's resolution, and at his request procures him forty ells of white silk "kerchers;" and here the description of the combat begins: "the kever-chefes[ ] he toke on honde, and aboute his arme he wonde; and thought in that ylke while, to slee the lyon with some gyle. and syngle in a kyrtyll he stode, and abode the lyon fyers and wode, with that came the jaylere, and other men that wyth him were, and the lyon them amonge; his pawes were stiffe and stronge. the chambre dore they undone, and the lyon to them is gone. rycharde sayd, helpe lorde jesu! the lyon made to hym venu, and wolde hym have all to rente: kynge rycharde besyde hym glente[ ] the lyon on the breste hym spurned, that aboute he tourned. the lyon was hongry and megre, and bette his tayle to be egre; he loked aboute as he were madde; abrode he all his pawes spradde. he cryed lowde, and yaned[ ] wyde. kynge rycharde bethought hym that tyde what hym was beste, and to hym sterte, in at the throte his honde he gerte, and hente out the herte with his honde, lounge and all that he there fonde. the lyon fell deed to the grounde: rycharde felte no wem[ ], ne wounde. he fell on his knees on that place, and thanked jesu of his grace." * * * * * what follows is not so well, and therefore i shall extract no more of this poem.--for the above feat the author tells us, the king was deservedly called "stronge rycharde cure de lyowne." that distich which shakespeare puts in the mouth of his madman in _k. lear_, act iii. sc. . "mice and rats and such small deere have been tom's food for seven long yeare," has excited the attention of the critics. instead of _deere_, one of them would substitute _geer_; and another _cheer_[ ]. but the ancient reading is established by the old romance of sir bevis, which shakespeare had doubtless often heard sung to the harp. this distich is part of a description there given of the hardships suffered by bevis, when confined for seven years in a dungeon: "rattes and myse and such small dere was his meate that seven yere."--sign. f. iii. iii. in different parts of this work, the reader will find various extracts from these old poetical legends; to which i refer him for farther examples of their style and metre. to complete this subject, it will be proper at least to give one specimen of their skill in distributing and conducting their fable, by which it will be seen that nature and common sense had supplied to these old simple bards the want of critical art, and taught them some of the most essential rules of epic poetry.--i shall select the romance of _libius disconius_[ ], as being one of those mentioned by chaucer, and either shorter or more intelligible than the others he has quoted. if an epic poem may be defined,[ ] "a fable related by a poet, to excite admiration, and inspire virtue, by representing the action of some one hero, favoured by heaven, who executes a great design, in spite of all the obstacles that oppose him:" i know not why we should withold the name of epic poem from the piece which i am about to analyse. my copy is divided into ix. parts or cantos, the several arguments of which are as follows. part i. opens with a short exordium to bespeak attention: the hero is described; a natural son of sir gawain a celebrated knight of king arthur's court, who being brought up in a forest by his mother, is kept ignorant of his name and descent. he early exhibits marks of his courage, by killing a knight in single combat, who encountered him as he was hunting. this inspires him with a desire of seeking adventures: therefore cloathing himself in his enemy's armour, he goes to k. arthur's court, to request the order of knighthood. his request granted, he obtains a promise of having the first adventure assigned him that shall offer.--a damsel named ellen, attended by a dwarf, comes to implore k. arthur's assistance, to rescue a young princess, "the lady of sinadone" their mistress, who is detained from her rights, and confined in prison. the adventure is claimed by the young knight sir lybius: the king assents; the messengers are dissatisfied, and object to his youth; but are forced to acquiesce. and here the first book closes with a description of the ceremony of equipping him forth. part ii. sir lybius sets out on the adventure: he is derided by the dwarf and the damsel on account of his youth: they come to the bridge of perill, which none can pass without encountering a knight called william de la braunch. sir lybius is challenged: they just with their spears: de la braunch is dismounted: the battle is renewed on foot: sir william's sword breaks: he yields. sir lybius makes him swear to go and present himself to k. arthur, as the first-fruits of his valour. the conquered knight sets out for k. arthur's court: is met by three knights, his kinsmen; who, informed of his disgrace, vow revenge, and pursue the conqueror. the next day they overtake him: the eldest of the three attacks sir lybius; but is overthrown to the ground. the two other brothers assault him: sir lybius is wounded; yet cuts off the second brother's arm: the third yields; sir lybius sends them all to k. arthur. in the third evening he is awaked by the dwarf, who has discovered a fire in the wood. part iii. sir lybius arms himself, and leaps on horseback: he finds two giants roasting a wild boar, who have a fair lady their captive. sir lybius, by favour of the night, runs one of them through with his spear: is assaulted by the other: a fierce battle ensues: he cuts off the giant's arm, and at length his head. the rescued lady (an earl's daughter) tells him her story; and leads him to her father's castle; who entertains him with a great feast; and presents him at parting with a suit of armour and a steed. he sends the giant's head to k. arthur. part iv. sir lybius, maid ellen, and the dwarf, renew their journey: they see a castle stuck round with human heads; and are informed it belongs to a knight called sir gefferon, who, in honour of his lemman or mistress, challenges all comers: he that can produce a fairer lady, is to be rewarded with a milk-white faulcon, but if overcome, to lose his head. sir lybius spends the night in the adjoining town: in the morning goes to challenge the faulcon. the knights exchange their gloves: they agree to just in the market place: the lady and maid ellen are placed aloft in chairs: their dresses: the superior beauty of sir gefferon's mistress described: the ceremonies previous to the combat. they engage: the combat described at large: sir gefferon is incurably hurt; and carried home on his shield. sir lybius sends the faulcon to k. arthur; and receives back a large present in florins. he stays days to be cured of his wounds, which he spends in feasting with the neighbouring lords. part v. sir lybius proceeds for sinadone: in the forest he meets a knight hunting, called sir otes de lisle: maid ellen charmed with a very beautiful dog, begs sir lybius to bestow him upon her: sir otes meets them, and claims his dog: is refused: being unarmed he rides to his castle, and summons his followers: they go in quest of sir lybius: a battle ensues: he is still victorious, and forces sir otes to follow the other conquered knights to k. arthur. part vi. sir lybius comes to a fair city and castle by a riverside, beset round with pavilions or tents: he is informed, in the castle is a beautiful lady besieged by a giant named maugys, who keeps the bridge, and will let none pass without doing him homage: this lybius refuses: a battle ensues: the giant described: the several incidents of the battle; which lasts a whole summer's day; the giant is wounded: put to flight; slain. the citizens come out in procession to meet their deliverer: the lady invites him into her castle: falls in love with him; and seduces him to her embraces. he forgets the princess of sinadone, and stays with this bewitching lady a twelvemonth. this fair sorceress, like another alcina, intoxicates him with all kinds of sensual pleasure; and detains him from the pursuit of honour. part vii. maid ellen by chance gets an opportunity of speaking to him; and upbraids him with his vice and folly: he is filled with remorse, and escapes the same evening. at length he arrives at the city and castle of sinadone: is given to understand that he must challenge the constable of the castle to single combat, before he can be received as a guest. they just: the constable is worsted: sir lybius is feasted in the castle: he declares his intention of delivering their lady; and inquires the particulars of her history. "two necromancers have built a fine palace by sorcery, and there keep her inchanted, till she will surrender her duchy to them, and yield to such base conditions as they would impose." part viii. early on the morrow sir lybius sets out for the inchanted palace. he alights in the court: enters the hall: the wonders of which are described in strong gothic painting. he sits down at the high table: on a sudden all the lights are quenched: it thunders, and lightens; the palace shakes; the walls fall in pieces about his ears. he is dismayed and confounded: but presently hears horses neigh, and is challenged to single combat by the sorcerers. he gets to his steed: a battle ensues, with various turns of fortune: he loses his weapon; but gets a sword from one of the necromancers, and wounds the other with it: the edge of the sword being secretly poisoned, the wound proves mortal. part ix. he goes up to the surviving sorcerer, who is carried away from him by inchantment: at length he finds him, and cuts off his head; he returns to the palace to deliver the lady; but cannot find her: as he is lamenting, a window opens, through which enters a horrible serpent with wings and a woman's face: it coils round his neck and kisses him; then is suddenly converted into a very beautiful lady. she tells him she is the lady of sinadone, and was so inchanted, till she might kiss sir gawain, or some one of his blood: that he has dissolved the charm, and that herself and her dominions may be his reward. the knight (whose descent is by this means discovered) joyfully accepts the offer; makes her his bride, and then sets out with her for king arthur's court. such is the fable of this ancient piece: which the reader may observe, is as regular in its conduct, as any of the finest poems of classical antiquity. if the execution, particularly as to the diction and sentiments, were but equal to the plan, it would be a capital performance; but this is such as might be expected in rude and ignorant times, and in barbarous unpolished language. iv. i shall conclude this prolix account, with a list of such old metrical romances as are still extant; beginning with those mentioned by chaucer. . the romance of _horne childe_ is preserved in the british museum, where it is intitled +þe geste+ kyng horne. see catalog. harl. mss. , p. . the language is almost saxon, yet from the mention in it of sarazens, it appears to have been written after some of the crusades. it begins thus: "all heo ben blyþe þat to my son[gh] ylyþe: a son[gh] ychulle ou sin[gh] of allof þe [gh]ode kyn[gh]e,"[ ] &c. another copy of this poem, but greatly altered, and somewhat modernized, is preserved in the advocates library at edinburgh, in a ms. quarto volume of old english poetry [w. . .] num. xxxiv. in seven leaves or folios[ ], intitled, _horn-child and maiden rinivel_, and beginning thus: "mi leve frende dere, herken and ye may here." . the poem of _ipotis_ (or _ypotis_) is preserved in the cotton library, calig. a. , fo. , but is rather a religious legend, than a romance. its beginning is, "he þat wyll of wysdome here herkeneth nowe ye may here of a tale of holy wryte seynt jon the evangelyste wytnesseth hyt." . the romance of sir _guy_ was written before that of bevis, being quoted in it[ ]. an account of this old poem is given above, p. . to which it may be added, that the two complete copies in ms. are preserved at cambridge, the one in the public library[ ], the other in that of caius college, class a. .--in ames's typog. p. , may be seen the first lines of the printed copy.--the first ms. begins, "sythe the tyme that god was borne." . _guy and colbronde_, an old romance in three parts, is preserved in the editor's folio ms. (p. .) [printed edition, vol. ii. p. .] it is in stanzas of six lines, the first of which may be seen in vol. ii. p. , beginning thus: "when meate and drinke is great plentye." in the edinburgh ms. (mentioned above) are two ancient poems on the subject of _guy of warwick_: viz. num. xviii. containing leaves, and xx. leaves. both these have unfortunately the beginnings wanting, otherwise they would perhaps be found to be different copies of one or both the preceding articles. . from the same ms. i can add another article to this list, viz. the romance of _rembrun_ son of sir guy; being num. xxi. in leaves: this is properly a continuation of the history of _guy_: and in art. , the hist. of rembrun follows that of guy as a necessary part of it. this edinburgh romance of rembrun begins thus: "jesu that erst of mighte most fader and sone and holy ghost." before i quit the subject of sir guy, i must observe, that if we may believe dugdale in his _baronage_ (vol. i. p. , col. ), the fame of our english champion had in the time of henry iv. travelled as far as the east, and was no less popular among the sarazens, than here in the west among the nations of christendom. in that reign a lord beauchamp travelling to jerusalem was kindly received by a noble person, the soldan's lieutenant, who hearing he was descended from the famous guy of warwick, "whose story they had in books of their own language," invited him to his palace; and royally feasting him, presented him three precious stones of great value, besides divers cloaths of silk and gold given to his servants. . the romance of _syr bevis_ is described in page of this vol. two manuscript copies of this poem are extant at cambridge, viz., in the public library[ ], and in that of caius coll. class a. . ( .)--the first of these begins, "lordyngs lystenyth grete and smale." there is also a copy of this romance of _sir bevis of hamptoun_, in the edinburgh ms. numb. xxii. consisting of twenty-five leaves, and beginning thus: "lordinges herkneth to mi tale, is merier than the nightengale." the printed copies begin different from both, viz., "lysten, lordinges, and hold you styl." . _libeaux_ (_libeaus_, or _lybius_) _disconius_ is preserved in the editor's folio ms. (page ) [pr. ed, vol. ii. p. ], where the first stanza is, "jesus christ christen kinge, and his mother that sweete thinge, helpe them at their neede, that will listen to my tale, of a knight i will you tell, a doughtye man of deede." an older copy is preserved in the cotton library (calig. a. . fol. ) but containing such innumerable variations, that it is apparently a different translation of some old french original, which will account for the title of _le beaux disconus_, or the fair unknown. the first line is, "jesu christ our savyour." as for _pleindamour_, or _blandamoure_, no romance with this title has been discovered; but as the word _blaundemere_ occurs in the romance of _libius disconius_, in the editor's folio ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. ii. p. ], he thought the name of _blandamoure_ (which was in all the editions of chaucer he had then seen) might have some reference to this. but _pleindamour_, the name restored by mr. tyrwhitt, is more remote. . _le morte arthure_ is among the harl. mss , § . this is judged to be a translation from the french; mr. wanley thinks it no older than the time of henry vii., but it seems to be quoted in syr bevis, (sign. k. ij. b.) it begins, "lordinges, that are lesse and deare." in the library of bennet coll. cambridge, no. , is a ms. intitled in the catalogue _acta arthuris metrico anglicano_, but i know not its contents. . in the editor's folio ms. are many songs and romances about king arthur and his knights, some of which are very imperfect, as _king arthur and the king of cornwall_ (page ) [pr. ed. vol. i. p. ], in stanzas of four lines, beginning, "'come here,' my cozen gawaine so gay." _the turke and gawain_ (p. ) [pr. ed. vol. i. p. ], in stanzas of six lines beginning thus: "listen lords great and small,"[ ] but these are so imperfect that i do not make distinct articles of them. see also in this volume, book i. no. i., ii., iv., v. in the same ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. ii. p. ], is the _greene knight_, in two parts, relating a curious adventure of sir gawain, in stanzas of six lines, beginning thus:-- "list: wen arthur he was k:" . _the carle of carlisle_ is another romantic tale about sir gawain, in the same ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. iii. p. ], in distichs: "listen: to me a litle stond." in all these old poems the same set of knights are always represented with the same manners and characters; which seem to have been as well known, and as distinctly marked among our ancestors, as homer's heroes were among the greeks: for, as _ulysses_ is always represented crafty, _achilles_ irascible, and _ajax_ rough; so _sir gawain_ is ever courteous and gentle, _sir kay_ rugged and disobliging, &c. "_sir gawain with his olde curtesie_" is mentioned by chaucer as noted to a proverb, in his _squire's tale_. _canterb. tales_, vol. ii. p. . . _syr launfal_, an excellent old romance concerning another of king arthur's knights, is preserved in the cotton library, calig. a , f. . this is a translation from the french[ ], made by one _thomas_ _chestre_, who is supposed to have lived in the reign of henry vi. (see tanner's biblioth.) it is in stanzas of six lines, and begins, "be douyty artours dawes." the above was afterwards altered by some minstrel into the romance of _sir lambewell_, in three parts, under which title it was more generally known[ ]. this is the editor's folio ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. i. p. ], beginning thus: "doughty in king arthures dayes." . _eger and grime_, in six parts (in the editor's folio ms. p. ) [pr. ed. vol. i. p. ], is a well invented tale of chivalry, scarce inferior to any of ariosto's. this which was inadvertently omitted in the former editions of this list, is in distichs, and begins thus: "it fell sometimes in the land of beame." . the romance of _merline_, in nine parts (preserved in the same folio ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. i. p. ]), gives a curious account of the birth, parentage, and juvenile adventures of this famous british prophet. in this poem the _saxons_ are called _sarazens_; and the thrusting the rebel angels out of heaven is attributed to "_oure lady_." it is in distichs and begins thus: "he that made with his hand." there is an old romance _of arthour and of merlin_, in the edinburgh ms. of old english poems: i know not whether it has anything in common with this last mentioned. it is in the volume numbered xxiii. and extends through fifty-five leaves. the two first lines are: "jesu crist, heven king al ous graunt gode ending." . _sir isenbras_ (or as it is in the ms. copies, _sir isumbras_), is quoted in chaucer's _r. of thopas_, v. . among mr. garrick's old plays is a printed copy; of which an account has been already given in vol. i. book iii. no. vii. it is preserved in ms. in the library of caius coll. camb., class a. ( ), and also in the cotton library, calig. a. (f. ). this is extremely different from the printed copy. e.g. "god þat made both erþe and hevene." . _emarè_, a very curious and ancient romance, is preserved in the same vol. of the cotton library, f. . it is in stanzas of six lines, and begins thus: "jesu þat ys kyng in trone." . _chevelere assigne_, or the knight of the swan, preserved in the cotton library, has been already described in vol. ii. appendix, _essay on p. plowman's metre_, &c., as hath also . _the sege of f[=e][=r]lam_ (or jerusalem), which seems to have been written after the other, and may not improperly be classed among the romances; as may also the following, which is preserved in the same volume, viz., . _owaine myles_ (fol. ), giving an account of the wonders of st. patrick's purgatory. this is a translation into verse of the story related in mat. paris's _hist._ (sub. ann. .) it is in distichs beginning thus: "god þat ys so full of myght." in the same manuscript are three or four other narrative poems, which might be reckoned among the romances, but being rather religious legends, i shall barely mention them; as _tundale_, f. ; _trentale_ _sci gregorii_, f. ; _jerome_, f. ; _eustache_, f. . . _octavian imperator_, an ancient romance of chivalry, is in the same vol. of the cotton library, f. . notwithstanding the name, this old poem has nothing in common with the history of the roman emperors. it is in a very peculiar kind of stanza, whereof , , , & rhyme together, as do the and . it begins thus: "ihesu þat was with spere ystonge." in the public library at cambridge[ ], is a poem with the same title, and begins very differently: "lyttyll and mykyll, olde and yonge." . _eglamour of artas_ (or _artoys_) is preserved in the same vol. with the foregoing, both in the cotton library and public library at cambridge. it is also in the editor's folio ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. ii. p. ], where it is divided into six parts. a printed copy in the bodleian library, c. . art. seld., and also among mr. garrick's old plays, k. vol. x. it is in distichs, and begins thus: "ihesu crist of heven kyng." . _syr triamore_ (in stanzas of six lines) is preserved in ms. in the editor's volume, p. [pr. ed. vol. ii. p. ], and in the public library at cambridge ( , § . vid. cat. mss. p. .) two printed copies are extant in the bodleian library, and among mr. garrick's plays in the same volumes with the last article. both the editor's ms. and the printed copy begin, "nowe jesu chryste our heven kynge." the cambridge copy thus: "heven blys that all shall wynne." . _sir degree_ (_degare_, or _degore_, which last seems the true title) in five parts, in distichs, is preserved in the editor's folio ms. p. [pr. ed. vol. iii. p. ], and in the public library at cambridge (ubi supra). a printed copy is in the bod. library c. . art. seld. and among mr. garrick's plays, k. vol. ix. the editor's ms. and the printed copies begin, "lordinges, and you wyl holde you styl." the cambridge ms. has it, "lystenyth, lordyngis, gente and fre." . _ipomydon_ (or _chylde ipomydon_), is preserved among the harl. mss. ( ). it is in distichs, and begins, "mekely, lordyngis, gentylle and fre." in the library of lincoln cathedral, k k. , , is an old imperfect printed copy, wanting the whole first sheet a. . _the squyr of lowe degre_, is one of those burlesqued by chaucer in his rhyme of thopas[ ]. mr. garrick has a printed copy of this, among his old plays, k. vol. ix. it begins, "it was a squyer of lowe degre, that loved the kings daughter of hungre." . _historye of k. richard cure [c[oe]ur] de lyon._ (impr. w. de worde, , to.) is preserved in the bodleian library, c. , art. selden. a fragment of it is also remaining in the edinburgh ms. of old english poems; no. xxxvi. in two leaves. a large extract from this romance has been given already above, p. . richard was the peculiar patron of chivalry, and favourite of the old minstrels and troubadours. see warton's _observ._ vol. i. p. , vol. ii. p. . . of the following i have only seen no. , but i believe they may all be referred to the class of romances. the _knight of courtesy and the lady of faguel_ (bod. lib. c. . art. sheld. a printed copy). this mr. warton thinks is the story of coucy's heart, related in fauchet, and in howel's letters. (v. i. s. , l. , see wart. _obs._ v. ii. p. ). the editor has seen a very beautiful old ballad on this subject in french. . the four following are all preserved in the ms. so often referred to in the public library at cambridge, ( . appendix to bp. more's mss. in cat. mss. tom. ii. p. ), viz., _the lay of erle of tholouse_ (no. ), of which the editor hath also a copy from "cod. mss. mus. ashmol. oxon." the first line of both is, "jesu chryste in trynyte." . _roberd kynge of cysyll_ (or sicily) shewing the fall of pride. of this there is also a copy among the harl. mss. ( ). the cambridge ms. begins, "princis that be prowde in prese." . _le bone florence of rome_, beginning thus: "as ferre as men ride or gone." . _dioclesian the emperour_, beginning, "sum tyme ther was a noble man." . the two knightly brothers _amys and amelion_ (among the harl mss. , §. ) is an old romance of chivalry, as is also, i believe, the fragment of the _lady belesant, the duke of lombardy's fair_ _daughter_, mentioned in the same article. see the catalog. vol. ii. . in the edinburgh ms. so often referred to (preserved in the advocates library, w. . i.) might probably be found some other articles to add to this list, as well as other copies of some of the pieces mentioned in it, for the whole volume contains not fewer than thirty-seven poems or romances, some of them very long. but as many of them have lost the beginnings, which have been cut out for the sake of the illuminations, and as i have not had an opportunity of examining the ms. myself, i shall be content to mention only the articles that follow[ ]: viz. an old romance about _rouland_ (not i believe the famous paladine, but a champion named _rouland louth_; query) being in the volume, no. xxvii. in five leaves, and wants the beginning. . another romance that seems to be a kind of continuation of this last, intitled, _otuel a knight_, (no. xxviii. in eleven leaves and a half). the two first lines are, "herkneth both yinge and old, that willen heren of battailes bold." . _the king of tars_ (no. iv. in five leaves and a half; it is also in the bodleyan library, ms. vernon, f. ) beginning thus: "herkneth to me bothe eld and ying for maries love that swete thing." . a tale or romance (no. i. two leaves), that wants both beginning and end. the first lines now remaining are, "th erl him graunted his will y-wis. that the knicht him haden y told. the baronnis that were of mikle pris. befor him thay weren y-cald." . another mutilated tale or romance (no. iii. four leaves). the first lines at present are, "to mr. steward wil y gon. and tellen him the sothe of the reseyved bestow sone anon. gif you will serve and with hir be." . a mutilated tale or romance (no. xi. in thirteen leaves). the two first lines that occur are, "that riche dooke his fest gan hold with erls and with baronns bold." i cannot conclude my account of this curious manuscript, without acknowledging that i was indebted to the friendship of the rev. dr. blair, the ingenious professor of belles lettres, in the university of edinburgh, for whatever i learned of its contents, and for the important additions it enabled me to make to the foregoing list. to the preceding articles two ancient metrical romances in the scottish dialect may now be added, which are published in pinkerton's _scottish poems_, reprinted "from scarce editions," lond. , in vols. vo. viz. . _gawan and gologras_, a metrical romance; from an edition printed at edinburgh, , vo. beginning:-- "in the tyme of arthur, as trew men me tald." it is in stanzas of thirteen lines. . _sir gawan and sir galaron of galloway_, a metrical romance, in the same stanzas as no. , from an ancient ms. beginning thus: "in the tyme of arthur an aunter[ ] betydde by the turnwathelan, as the boke tells; whan he to carlele was comen, and conqueror kyd," &c. both these (which exhibit the union of the old alliterative metre, with rhyme, &c., and in the termination of each stanza the short triplets of the turnament of tottenham), are judged to be as old as the time of our k. henry vi., being apparently the production of an old poet, thus mentioned by dunbar, in his _lament for the deth of the makkaris_: "clerk of tranent eik he hes take, that made the aventers of sir gawane." it will scarce be necessary to remind the reader, that _turnewathelan_ is evidently _tearne-wadling_, celebrated in the old ballad of the _marriage of sir gawaine_. see pp. and of this volume. many new references, and perhaps some additional articles might be added to the foregoing list from mr. warton's _history of english poetry_, vols. to. and from the notes to mr. tyrwhitt's improved edition of _chaucer's canterbury tales_, &c. in vols. vo. which have been published since this essay, &c. was first composed; but it will be sufficient once for all to refer the curious reader to those popular works. the reader will also see many interesting particulars on the subject of these volumes, as well as on most points of general literature, in sir john hawkins's curious _history of music_, &c., in volumes, to., as also in dr. burney's _hist._ &c. in vols. to. * * * * * [much has been written upon the subject of this essay since percy's time, but no exhaustive work has yet appeared. the reader may consult w. c. hazlitt's new edition of warton's _history_, ; ellis's _specimens of early english metrical romances_, new edition, by j. o. halliwell, ; dunlop's _history of fiction_; j. m. ludlow's _popular epics of the middle ages, norse, german, and carlovingian cycles_, ; g. w. cox and e. h. jones's _popular romances of the middle ages_, ; and also the prefaces of the various old english romances printed by the percy, camden, and early english text societies; and by the abbotsford, bannatyne, and roxburghe clubs.] footnotes: [ ] vid. _lasiteau, moeurs de sauvages_, t. ii. dr. browne's _hist._ _of the rise and progress of poetry_. [ ] "germani celebrant carminibus antiquis (quod unum apud illos memoriæ et annalium genus est) tuistonem," &c. _tacit. germ._ c. ii. [ ] _barth. antiq. dan._ lib. i. cap. x. _wormii literatura runica_, ad finem. [ ] see _northern antiquities, or a description of the manners,_ _customs, &c., of the ancient danes and other northern nations,_ _translated from the fr. of m. mallet_, , vols. vo. (vol. i. p. , &c.) [ ] _vid. infra_, pp. , , &c. [ ] viz. _astræa_, _cassandra_, _clelia_, &c. [ ] mallet, vid. _northern antiquities_, vol. i. p. , &c.; vol. ii. p. , &c. [ ] _letters concerning chivalry_, vo. . [ ] mallet. [ ] mallet. [ ] the seeds of chivalry sprung up so naturally out of the original manners and opinions of the northern nations, that it is not credible they arose so late as after the establishment of the feudal system, much less the crusades. nor, again, that the romances of chivalry were transmitted to other nations, through the spaniards, from the moors and arabians. had this been the case the first french romances of chivalry would have been on moorish, or at least spanish subjects: whereas the most ancient stories of this kind, whether in prose or verse, whether in italian, french, english, &c., are chiefly on the subjects of charlemagne and the paladins, or of our british arthur and his knights of the round table, &c., being evidently borrowed from the fabulous chronicles of the supposed archbishop turpin and of jeffery of monmouth. not but some of the oldest and most popular french romances are also on norman subjects, as _richard sans-peur_, _robert le diable_, &c., whereas i do not recollect so much as one in which the scene is laid in spain, much less among the moors, or descriptive of mahometan manners. even in _amadis de gaul_, said to have been the first romance printed in spain, the scene is laid in gaul and britain; and the manners are french: which plainly shews from what school this species of fabling was learnt and transmitted to the southern nations of europe. [ ] mallet. _north. antiquities_, vol. i. p. ; vol. ii. _passim_. [ ] _olaus verelius, herv. saga_, pp. , . hickes's _thesaur._ vol. ii. p. . _northern antiquities_, vol. ii. _passim_. [ ] _ibid._ vol. i. pp. , , &c.; vol. ii. p. , &c. [ ] rollof's _saga_, c. , &c. [ ] it is peculiarly unfortunate that such as maintain this opinion are obliged to take their first step from the moorish provinces in spain, without one intermediate resting place, to armorica or bretagne, the province in france from them most remote, not more in situation than in the manners, habits, and language of its welsh inhabitants, which are allowed to have been derived from this island, as must have been their traditions, songs, and fables; being doubtless all of celtic original. see p. of the _dissertation on the origin of romantic fiction in europe_, prefixed to mr. tho. warton's _history of english poetry_, vol. i. , to. if any pen could have supported this darling hypothesis of dr. warburton that of this ingenious critic would have effected it. but under the general term oriental, he seems to consider the ancient inhabitants of the north and the south of asia, as having all the same manners, traditions, and fables; and because the secluded people of arabia took the lead under the religion and empire of mahomet, therefore everything must be derived from them to the northern asiatics in the remotest ages, &c. with as much reason under the word occidental, we might represent the early traditions and fables of the north and south of europe to have been the same; and that the gothic mythology of scandinavia, the druidic or celtic of gaul and britain, differed not from the classic of greece and rome. there is not room here for a full examination of the minuter arguments, or rather slight coincidences, by which our agreeable dissertator endeavours to maintain and defend this favourite opinion of dr. w., who has been himself so completely confuted by mr. tyrwhitt. (see his notes on _love's labour lost_, &c.) but some of his positions it will be sufficient to mention: such as the referring the gog and magog, which our old christian bards might have had from scripture, to the _jaguiouge_ and _magiouge_ of the arabians and persians, &c. (p. ). that "we may venture to affirm that this (geoffrey of monmouth's) chronicle, supposed to contain the ideas of the welsh bards, entirely consists of arabian inventions" (p. ). and that, "as geoffrey's history is the grand repository of the acts of arthur, so a fabulous history ascribed to turpin is the groundwork of all the chimerical legends which have been related concerning the conquests of charlemagne and his twelve peers. its subject is the expulsion of the saracens from spain, and it is filled with fictions evidently congenial to those which characterize geoffrey's history" (p. ). that is, as he afterwards expresses it, "lavishly decorated by the arabian fablers" (p. ). we should hardly have expected that the arabian fablers would have been lavish in decorating a history of their enemy: but what is singular, as an instance and proof of this arabian origin of the fictions of turpin, a passage is quoted from his fourth chapter, which i shall beg leave to offer, as affording decisive evidence, that they could not possibly be derived from a mahometan source. sc. "the christians under charlemagne are said to have found in spain a golden idol, or image of mahomet, as high as a bird can fly--it was framed by mahomet himself of the purest metal, who, by his knowledge in necromancy, had sealed up within it a legion of diabolical spirits. it held in its hand a prodigious club; and the saracens had a prophetic tradition, that this club should fall from the hand of the image in that year when a certain king should be born in france, &c." (_vid._ p. , note.) [ ] the little narrative songs on morisco subjects, which the spaniards have at present in great abundance, and which they call peculiarly _romances_, (see vol. i. book iii. no. xvi. &c.), have nothing in common with their proper romances (or histories) of chivalry, which they call _historias de cavallerias_; these are evidently imitations of the french, and shew a great ignorance of moorish manners: and with regard to the morisco, or song _romances_, they do not seem of very great antiquity; few of them appear, from their subjects, much earlier than the reduction of granada, in the fifteenth century: from which period, i believe, may be plainly traced among the spanish writers, a more perfect knowledge of moorish customs, &c. [ ] see _northern antiquities_, passim. [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _saxon gram._ p. , . mallet, _north. antiq._ vol. i. p. . [ ] see a translation of this poem, among _five pieces of runic_ _poetry_, printed for dodsley, , vo. [ ] _vid._ mallet, _northern antiquities_, passim. [ ] the editor's ms. contains a multitude of poems of this latter kind. it was probably from this custom of the minstrels that some of our first historians wrote their chronicles in verse, as rob. of gloucester, harding, &c. [ ] see a specimen in d vol. of _northern antiquities_, &c., p. , &c. [ ] _eccardi hist. stud. etym._ , p. , &c. hickes's _thesaur._ vol. ii. p. . [ ] _i.e._ northern men, being chiefly emigrants from norway, denmark, &c. [ ] see the account of taillefer in vol. i. essay, and note. [ ] "ipsa carmina memoriæ mandabant, & prælia inituri decantabant; qua memoriâ tam fortium gestorum a majoribus patratorum ad imitationem animus adderetur."--_jornandes de gothis._ [ ] _eginhartus de carolo magno._ "item barbara, & antiquissima carmina, quibus veterum regum actus & bella canebantur, scripsit."--c. . _asserius de Ælfredo magno._ "rex inter bella, &c.... saxonicos libros recitare, & _maxime carmina saxonica_ memoriter discere, aliis imperare, & solus assidue pro viribus, studiosissime non desinebat."--ed. , vo. p. . [ ] see above, pp. , . [ ] the romances on the subject of perceval, san graal, lancelot du lac, tristan, &c., were among the first that appeared in the french language in prose, yet these were originally composed in metre: the editor has in his possession a very old french ms. in verse, containing _l'ancien roman de perceval_, and metrical copies of the others may be found in the libraries of the curious. see a note of wanley's in _harl. catalog. num._ , p. , &c. nicholson's _eng. hist. library_, rd ed. p. , &c. see also a curious collection of old french romances, with mr. wanley's account of this sort of pieces, in _harl. mss. catal._ , . [ ] the author of the _essay on the genius of pope_, p. . [ ] _ibid._ p. . _hist. lit._ tom. , . [ ] _voir preface aux_ "fabliaux & contes des poetes françois des xii. xiii. xiv. & xv. siècles, &c., paris, , tom. mo." (a very curious work). [ ] _vid. supra_, note (d), vol. i. essay, &c. _et vide_ rapin, carte, &c. this song of _roland_ (whatever it was) continued for some centuries to be usually sung by the french in their marches, if we may believe a modern french writer. "un jour qu'on chantoit la _chanson de roland_, comme c'etoit l'usage dans les marches. il y a long temps, dit il (john k. of france, who died in ), qu'on ne voit plus de rolands parmi les françois. on y verroit encore des rolands, lui répondit un vieux capitaine, s'ils avoient un charlemagne à leur tête." _vid._ tom. iii. p. , _des essaies hist. sur paris, de m. de saintefoix_: who gives as his authority, boethius in _hist. scotorum_. this author, however, speaks of the complaint and repartee, as made in an assembly of the states (_vocato senatu_), and not upon any march, &c. _vid._ boeth. lib. xv. vol. . ed. paris, . [ ] see on this subject, vol. i. note, s. , p. ; and in note g g, p. , &c. [ ] the first romances of chivalry among the germans were in metre: they have some very ancient narrative songs (which they call _lieder_) not only on the fabulous heroes of their own country, but also on those of france and britain, as tristram, arthur, gawain, and the knights _von der tafel-ronde_ (_vid._ goldasti not. in _eginhart. vit. car. mag._ to. , p. .) [ ] the welsh have still some very old romances about k. arthur; but as these are in prose, they are not probably their first pieces that were composed on that subject. [ ] it is most credible that these stories were originally of english invention, even if the only pieces now extant should be found to be translations from the french. what now pass for the french originals were probably only amplifications, or enlargements of the old english story. that the french romances borrowed some things from the english, appears from the word _termagant_. [ ] _recuyel of the hystoryes of troy_, ; _godfroye of boloyne_, ; _le morte de arthur_, ; _the life of charlemagne_, , &c. as the old minstrelsy wore out, prose books of chivalry became more admired, especially after the spanish romances began to be translated into english towards the end of q. elizabeth's reign: then the most popular metrical romances began to be reduced into prose, as _sir guy_, _bevis_, &c. [ ] see extract from a letter, written by the editor of these volumes, in mr. warton's _observations_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _canterbury tales_ (tyrwhitt's edit.), vol. ii. p. . in all the former editions which i have seen the name at the end of the fourth line is _blandamoure_. [ ] dr. grey has shewn that the same story is alluded to in rastell's _chronicle_: as it was doubtless originally had from the romance, this is proof that the old metrical romances throw light on our first writers in prose: many of our ancient historians have recorded the fictions of romance. [ ] _i.e._ handkerchiefs. here we have the etymology of the word, viz. "_couvre le chef_." [ ] _i.e._ slipt aside. [ ] _i.e._ yawned. [ ] _i.e._ hurt. [ ] dr. warburton.--dr. grey. [ ] so it is intitled in the editor's ms. but the true title is _le_ _beaux disconus_, or the fair unknown. see a note on the _canterbury_ _tales_, vol. iv. p. . [ ] vid. _discours sur la poesie epique_, prefixed to _télémaque_. [ ] _i.e._ may all they be blithe that to my song listen: a song i shall you sing, of allof the good king, &c. [ ] in each full page of this volume are forty-four lines, when the poem is in long metre: and eighty-eight when the metre is short, and the page in two columns. [ ] sign. k. . b. [ ] for this and most of the following, which are mentioned as preserved in the public library, i refer the reader to the _oxon_ _catalogue of mss._, , vol. ii p. ; in appendix to bp. more's mss. no. , , since given to the university of cambridge. [ ] no. , § . vid. _catalog. mss._ p. . [ ] in the former editions, after the above, followed mention of a fragment in the same ms., intitled, _sir lionel_, in distichs (p. ) [pr. ed. vol. i. p. ]; but this being only a short ballad, and not relating to k. arthur, is here omitted. [ ] the french original is preserved among the harl. mss. no. , § , _lanval_. [ ] see laneham's _letter concern. q. eliz. entertainment at_ _killingworth_, , mo. p. . [ ] no. . ( .) _vid. oxon catalog. mss._ p. . [ ] this is alluded to by shakespeare in his _hen. v._ (act v.), where fluellyn tells pistol, he will make him a squire of low degree, when he means, to knock him down. [ ] some of these i give, though mutilated and divested of their titles, because they may enable a curious inquirer to complete or improve other copies. [ ] _i.e._ adventure. [illustration] glossary to the three volumes. this is an amalgamation of the three original glossaries, with large additions and alterations, and the introduction of references. it has not, however, been thought necessary to refer to every passage in which a particular word may occur. percy's explanatory notes are marked with the letter p. many words which appear in a slightly varied form from the present spelling are not included in this glossary. a', _all_. a, _at_. a, i. , _of_. watter a twyde, i. , _water of tweed_. abacke, _back_. abenche, i. , _on a bench_. able, i. , _fit_, _suitable_. abone, i. ; aboon, i. ; aboone, i. ; aboun, i. , _above_. aboven ous, ii. , _above us_. abowght, i. , _about_. abraide, i. , _abroad_. abuve, ii. , _in the uplands_. abye, iii. , _suffer_, _pay for_, _expiate_. acton, i. , _a quilted leather jacket, worn under the coat of mail_. fr. hacqueton. advoutry, ii. , _adultery_. aff, ii. , _off_. affore, i. ; afore, ii. , _before_. aft, i. , _oft_. agayne, i. , _against_. ageyn, i. , _against_. agone, ii. , _gone_. ahte, ii. , _ought_. aik, iii. , _oak_. ail, ii. , _trouble_. ain, i. , _own_. aith, ii. , _oath_. al, ii. , _albeit_, _although_. al gife, _although_. alace, iii. , _alas_. alane, ii. , _alone_. alemaigne, ii. , _germany_. allgyf, i. , _although_. almaine, iii. , _germany_. alyes, ii. , _always_. amang, ii. , _among_. amangis, ii. , _amongst_. amblit, iii. , _ambled_. among, ii. , _at intervals_, _sometimes_. an, _and_. an, i, , _if_. ancyent, i. , _flag_, _banner_, _standard_. and, _if_, but and, i. ; _but if_; and youe, _if you_. and but, ii. , _and unless_. ane, i. , ii. , _one_, _an_, _a_. anes, ii. , _once_, ii. . (?) angel, ii. , _a gold coin varying in value from s. d. to s._ ann, ii. , _if_. anneuche, ii. , _enough_. annoy, ii. , _trouble_. ant, ii. , _and_. aplyht, al aplyht, ii. , _entirely_. aquoy, iii. , _coy_, _shy_. ar, ii. , _are_. aras, i. , _arrows_. archeborde, ii. , , _side of the ship?_ see hach-borde. arcir, i. , _archer_. argabushe, ii. , _harquebuse, an old-fashioned kind of musket_. arrand, i. , _errand_. arros, i. , _arrows_. ase, ii. , _as_. aslake, ii. , _abate_. assay, i. , _essay_, assayed, ii. . assoyld, i. , _absolved_. astate, i. , _estate_. astonied, iii. , _astonished_, _stunned_. astound, i. , _stunned_. ath, i. , _of the_. att me, i. , _from me_. attour, ii. ; attowre, ii. , , _over_. au, iii. , _all_. auld, i. , , ii. , _old_. aule, i. , _awl_. aureat, i. , _golden_. austerne, i. , _stern_, _austere_. avaunce, ii. , _advance_. avow, iii. ; avowe, i. , , , ; ii. , , _vow_. aw, iii. , _all_. awa', ii. , _away_. awin, ii. , _own_. awne, i. , , _own_. axed, i. , _asked_. ay, ii. , _ever_; also _ah! alas!_ ayein, ii. , _against_. ayont the ingle, ii. , _beyond the fire_. _the fire was in the middle of the room_. "in the west of scotland, at this present time, in many cottages, they pile their peats and turfs upon stones in the middle of the room. there is a hole above the fire in the ridge of the house to let the smoke out at. in some places are cottage-houses, from the front of which a very wide chimney projects like a bow-window: the fire is in a grate, like a malt-kiln grate, round which the people sit: sometimes they draw this grate into the middle of the room." (mr. lambe.) p. ba', i. , _ball._ bacheleere, i. , , _knight_; bachelary, ii. ; bachelery, ii. , _company of bachelors_. badena, iii. , _delayed not_. baile, i. , _bale_, _evil_, _mischief_, _misery_, _trouble_. bairn, ii. ; bairne, i. , _child_. baith, i. , , _both_. bale, i. , , ii. , , _evil_, _hurt_, _mischief_, _misery_; baleful, i. . balow, ii. (a nursery term), _hush_, _lullaby_. balys bete, i. , _remedy our evils_. ban, ii. , _curse_. band, i. , , _bond_, _covenant_. bandrolles, iii. , _streamers_, _little flags_. bane, i. , _bone_. banket, ii. , _banquet_. banning, ii. , _cursing_. barker, ii. , _dealer in bark_. barne, i. , _child_, _man_, _person_. barrow hogge, i. , _gelded hog_. basnete, i. , basnite, i. , bassonett, i. , _helmet_. bason, _helmet_. batchilere, i. , _knight_. bathe, i. , _both_. bats, ii. , _cudgels_. bauld, i. , _bold_. bauzen's skinne, i. , _sheepskin gloves with the wool on the inside_. bayard, ii. , _a noted horse in the old romances_. be, ii. , _by_. beanes, ii. , _beams_. bearing arowe, i. , _an arrow that carries well_. bed, ii. , _bade_. bede, ii. , , _bid_, _offer_, _engage_. bedeaft, iii. , _deafened_. bedeene, ii. , iii. , _immediately_. bedight, i. , _bedecked_. bedone, iii. , , _wrought_, _made-up_, _ornamented_. beere, i. , iii. , _bier_. beforn, i. ; beforne, i. , , _before_. begilde, ii. ; begylde, ii. , _beguiled_, _deceived_. beheard, i. , _heard_. behove, i. , _behoof_. beir, i. ; beire, ii. , _bear_. belive, i. ; belyfe, i. , _immediately_, _presently_, _shortly_. ben, ii. , , iii. , _been_, _be_, _are_. ben, ii. , _within doors_, _the inner room_. (the "but" is the outer room. "a but and a ben" is a house containing two rooms.) bene, ii. , _bean, an expression of contempt_. benison, i. , _blessing_. bent, bents, _long coarse grass_, i. , , ; _also wild fields_, i. , , , . beoth, ii. , _be_, _are_. ber, ii. , _bare_. ber the prys, ii. , _bare the prize_. berne, i. , _man_. bernes, iii. , _barns_. berys, ii. , _beareth_. beseeme, _become_. besene, ii. , _dressed_. beshradde, iii. , _cut into shreds_. besmirche, _to soil_, _discolour_. bespake, iii. , _spoke_. besprent, ii. , _besprinkled_. beste, _beest_, _art_. beste, i. , _beast_. bested, _abode_. bestis, i. , _beasts_. bestrawghted, i. , _distracted_. besy, i. , _busy_. bet, _better_. beth, i. , _be_, _is_, _are_. bett, ii. , _lighted_. a.s. bétan fyr, _to make or light a fire_. bette, iii. , _did beat_. beuche, ii. , _bough_. bewray, ii. , _discover_. bi mi leautè, ii. , _by my loyalty_, _honesty_. bickarte, i. , _skirmished_; also _swiftly_ coursed. mr. lambe also interprets "bickering," by rattling, _e.g._, and on that slee ulysses head sad curses down does bicker. translat. of ovid. p. bide at hame, iii. , _remain at home_. biilt, ii. , _built_. bil, i. , _pike or halbert_. bille, i. , , ii. , _writing_. biqueth, ii. , _bequeath_. bird, iii. , _child_, _term of affection usually applied to a woman_. birk, ii. , iii. , _birch-tree_. blak, ii. ; blake, ii. , _black_. blan, i. ; blane, i. ; blanne, i. , , , ii. , _lingered_, _stopped_. blaw, i. , iii. , _blow_; blawing, iii. , _blowing_. blaze, ii. , _emblazon_, _display_. blee, i. , ii. , _colour_, _complexion_. bleid, iii. , _bleed_; bleids, ii. , _bleeds_. blend, iii. ; blent, iii. , _blended_. blent, _ceased_. blink, ii. , _a glimpse of light_. blinkan, iii. , _twinkling_. blinks, iii. , _twinkles_, _sparkles_. blinne, iii. , _cease_, _give over_. blissing, iii. , _blessing_. blist, i. , _blessed_. blude, i. , _blood_; blude reid, i. , _blood red_. bluid, i. , _blood_; bluidy, i. , _bloody_; reid bluid, _red blood_, i. . blyth, ii. , _joyous_, _sprightly_. blyth, iii. , _joy_, _sprightliness_. blyve, i. , _instantly_. bode, i. , _abode_, _stayed_. boist, boisteris, _boast_, _boasters_. boke, ii. , _book_. bollys, ii. , _bowls_. boltes, _shafts_, _arrows_. bomen, i. , _bowmen_. bonny, iii. , _handsome_, _comely_. bonys, ii. , _bones_. roundebonys, ii. . bookes-man, iii. , _clerk_, _secretary_. boot, ii. ; boote, i. , , , ii. ; boots, iii. , _gain_, _advantage_, _help_, _assistance_. bore, iii. , _boar_. bore, iii. , _born_. borowe, i. , _to redeem_. borrow, i. , borrowe, i. , _pledge_, _surety_. bost, ii. , boste, i. , _pride_; _boast_, ii. . bot, ii. , _but_. bot, ii. , _without_; bot and, i. , _and also_; bot dreid, _without dread, or certainly_; bot gif, ii. , _unless_. bots, iii. , _a worm troublesome to horses_. bougill, i. , _bugle-horn_, _hunting-horn_. boun, i. , _ready_. bowen, ii. , _ready_. bower, iii. , , , _parlour_, _chamber_. bower-window, iii. , _chamber window_. bowne, i. , , ii. , _ready_; bowned, _prepared_; bowne ye, i. , _prepare ye_, _get ready_; bowne to dine, _going to dine_. bowne _is a common word in the north for "going,"_ e.g. where are you bowne to? _where are you going to?_ p. bow're-woman, iii. , _chambermaid_. bowyn, i. , _ready_. bowynd, i. , _prepared_. bowys, i. , _bows_. brade, ii. , , _broad_. brae, iii. , _the brow or side of a hill_, _a declivity_. braes of yarrow, ii. , _hilly banks of the river yarrow_. braid, _broad_. braid, i. , _open_. brand, i. , ; brande, i. , , , , , _sword_. brast, i. , , ii. , , iii. , _burst_. braw, ii. , _brave_. braw, ii. , _bravely_, _handsomely_. brayd attowre the bent, ii. , _hastened over the field_. brayn-pannes, ii. , _skulls_. bread, ii. , _breadth_. bred, i. , _broad_. breeden, i. , _breed_. breere, i. , _briar_. bren, i. , ; brenn, ii. , _burn_. brenand drake, ii. , _fiery dragon_. brenn, i. ; brenne, i. , , _burn_; brent, i. , ii. , iii. , _burnt_; brenning, ii. , _burning_. brest, i. , _breast_. brest, ii. , _burst_. brether, i. , _brethren_. bridal (bride-ale), _nuptial feast_. brigue, iii. ; briggs, iii. , _bridge_. brimme, ii. , _public_, _universally known_; a.-s. bryme. britled, iii. , _carved_. broche, ii. , _any ornamental trinket_. _stone buckles of silver or gold with which gentlemen and ladies clasp their shirt-bosoms, and handkerchiefs, are called in the north_ broches, _from the_ fr. broche, _a spit_. p. brocht, ii. , _brought_. broder, ii. , _brother_. broding, i. , , _pricking_. broht, ii. ; brohte, ii. , _brought_. bronde, i. , _sword_. brooche, brouche, _a spit_, _a bodkin_. brooke, _enjoy_; and i brook, i. , _if i enjoy_. brouke hur wyth wynne, ii. , _enjoy her with pleasure_. browd, i. , _broad_. broyt, ii. , _brought_. bryttlynge, i. , _cutting up_, _quartering_, _carving_. buen, ii. ; bueth, ii. , _been_, _be_, _are_. buff, i. , _arm_, _dress_. bugle, i. , , _bugle horn_, _hunting horn_ (_being the horn of a bugle or wild bull_). buik, _book_. buit, ii. , _help_. burgens, ii. , _buds_, _young shoots_. burn, iii. , bourne, _brook_. bushment, i. , _ambush_, _snare_. busk, i. , _dress_, _deck_; busk ye, i. , ii. , _dress ye_; busk and boun, i. , _make yourselves ready to go_; buske them blyve, i. , _get them ready instantly_; buskit, i. , _dressed_; buskt them, i. , _prepared themselves_, _made themselves ready_. but, _without_; but let, _without hindrance_. but, i. , ii. , _unless_; but an, i. , _unless_; but yf, ii. , _unless_. bute, ii. , _boot_, _good_, _advantage_. butt, ii. , _the outer room_. see ben. by three, _of three_. byde, ii. , _stay_. bydys, i. , _bides_, _abides_. bye, _buy_, _pay for_. byears, i. , beeres, _biers_. byhynde, ii. , _behind_. byre, iii. , _cow-house_. byste, i. , _beest_, _art_. ca', iii. , _call_. caddis, i. , _worsted ribbon_. cadgily, ii. , _merrily_, _cheerfully_. caitif, iii. ; caitive, ii. , _wretch_. cales, ii. , _cadiz_. calliver, _a large pistol or blunderbuss_. camscho, iii. . (glossary--_eldridge_) _grim_. can, i. , , ii. , ; cane, i. , _gan_, _began_. can, ii. , _know_. canna, iii. ; cannæ, i. , , _cannot_. cannes, _wooden cups_, _bowls_. cantabanqui, i. , _ballad-singers_, _singers on benches_. cantells, ii. , _pieces_, _corners_. canty, ii. , _cheerful_, _chatty_. capul, ii. , _a poor horse_; capulys, ii. , _horses_. capull hyde, i. , , _horse hide_. carle, ii. , iii. , _clown_, _a strong, hale old man_. carlish, i. , iii. , _churlish_, _discourteous_. carlist, iii. , _churlish_? carp, ii. ; carpe, ii. , _to speak_, _recite_, also _to censure_, i. , _complain_. carpyng, ii. , _tumult_. cast, i. , _mean_, _intend_. caste, ii. , _stratagem_. catives, ii. , _wretches_. cau, ii. , _call_. cauld, i. , ii. , _cold_. causey, ii. , _causeway_. cawte and kene, i. , _cautious and active_. cent, i. , _scent_. cetywall, i. , _setiwall_, _the herb valerian_, _or mountain spikenard_. cham, ii. , _i am, in somersetshire dialect_. chanteclere, i. , _the cock_. chap, iii. , , _knock_. charke-bord, ii. ? same as archeborde, _side of the ship_. see hach-borde. chayme, ii. , _cain_, or _ham_. chays, i. , _chase_. che, ii. , _i. in somersetshire dialect_. cheare, ii. , _chair_. checke, i. , _to stop_, _to chide_. cheefe, _the upper part of the scutcheon in heraldry_. cheffe, i. , _chief_; cheffest, iii. , _chiefest_. cheften, i. , _chieftain_. cheis, _choose_. chevaliers, _knights_. cheveron, ii. , _upper part of the scutcheon in heraldry_. chevy chase, i. , _cheviot chase or hunt_. see same contraction in tividale. chield, _fellow_. child, iii. , _knight_. children, i. , , _knights_. chill, ii. , _i will, in somersetshire dialect_. cholde, y-cholde, ii. , _i would_. choul'd, ii. , _i would, in som. dialect_. christentie, christentye, i. , ii. ; christianté, i. , _christendom_. church-ale, iii. , _a wake or feast in commemoration of the dedication of a church_. chyf, chyfe, _chief_. chylded, ii. , _brought forth_, _was delivered_. chylder, ii. , _children's_. chyviat chays, i. . (see chevy chase.) claiths, ii. , _clothes_. clattered, _beat so as to rattle_. clawde, _clawed_, _tore_, _scratched_; figuratively, _beat_. clead, ii. , _clad_, _clothe_; cleading, iii. , _clothing_. cleaped, i. , _called_, _named_. cled, iii. , _clad_, _clothed_. clepe, ii. , _call_; cleped, ii. , _called_. cliding, iii. , _clothing_. clim, i. , _contraction of clement_. clough, i. , _a broken cliff_. clout, i. , _a cloth to strain milk through_; _rag_, ii. . clout, ii. , _mend_. clowch, _clutch_, _grasp_. clymme, ii. , _climb_. coate, i. , _cot_, _cottage_. cockers, i. , _a sort of buskins or short boots fastened with laces or buttons, worn by farmers or shepherds_. cokers, _fishermen's boots_ (littleton's dict.) cog, iii. , _to lie_, _cheat_. cohorted, ii. , _incited_, _exhorted_. cokenay, ii. , explained by percy to be a diminutive of cook, from the latin coquinator, or coquinarius; it really means _a lean chicken_. cold, ii. ; colde, ii. , _could_. cold, iii. , _knew_, where i cold be; i. , _where i was_. cold rost, _nothing to the purpose_. cole, iii. , _coal_. coleyne, iii. , _cologne steel_. collayne, i. , _cologne steel_. com, ii. ; come, ii. , _came_; comen, i. ; commen, i. , _come_. con, ii. , _can_. con fare, _went_, _passed_. con springe, ii. , _spread abroad_. con twenty thanks, iii. , _give twenty thanks_. confeterd, i. , _confederated_. confound, i. , _destroy_. contray, ii. , _country_. cop, ii. , _head_, _the top of anything_. coppell, ii. , _name of a hen_. cordiwin, i. , _originally spanish or cordovan leather, afterwards commoner leather_. cors, ii. , _body_. cors, i. , _curse_. corsiare, i. , _courser_, _steed_. coste, ii. , _coast_, _side_, _region_. cote, i. ; cott, iii. , _cottage_. cote, iii. , _coat_. cotydyallye, ii. , _daily_, _every day_. could bear, ii. , did _bare_. could be, _was_. could dye, _died_. could his good, _knew what was good for him_. could weip, _wept_. coulde, _cold_. counsayl, _secret_. countie, i. , _count_, _earl_. coupe, i. , _coop, or a pen for poultry_. courtas, ii. , _courteous_. courteys, ii. , _courteous_. courtnalls, iii. , _courtiers_. couth, i. , _could_. couthen, ii. , _knew_. cowde, i. , _could_. coyntrie, i. , _coventry_. cramasie, iii. , , _crimson_. crancke, i. , _exultingly_. cranion, iii. , _skull_. crech, ii. . this word is incorrectly explained in the text as _crutch_. it is really a form of the french _crèche_, a crib or manger. it occurs as _cracche_ in the "promptorium parv." ( ). crepyls, ii. , _cripples_. cricke, i. , _properly an ant, but used for any small insect_. crinkle, iii. , _run in and out_, _run into flexures_, _wrinkle_. cristes cors, _christ's corse_. croche, ii. , _crouch_. croft, ii. , _inclosure near a house_. crois, ii. ; croiz, ii. , _cross_. crook, ii. , _twist_, _wrinkle_, _distort_; crook my knee, ii. , _make lame my knee_. they say in the north "the horse is crookit," _i.e._ lame; the "horse crooks," _i.e._ goes lame. p. crouneth, ii. , _crown ye_. crowch, i. , _crutch_. crown, i. , _head_. crowt, iii. , _to pucker up_, _draw close together_. (another form of crowd.) crumpling, ii. , _crooked_, _horned_. cryance, i. , , , _fear_. cule, ii. , _cool_. cum, i. , , , ; ii. , _come_, _came_. cummer, ii. , _gossip_, _friend_; fr. commère, compère. cure, ii. , _care_, _heed_, _regard_. dale, _deal_; bot gif i dale, ii. , _unless i share_. dampned, i. , _damned_, _condemned_. dan, _an ancient title of respect_, from lat. dominus. danske, ii. , _denmark_. dare, ii. , _their_; ii. , _there_. darh, ii. , _need_. darr'd, ii. , _hit_. dart the tree, ii. , _hit the tree_. dat, ii. , _that_. daunger halt, ii. , _fear holdeth_. dawes, iii. , _days_. dawkin, ii. , diminutive of david. de, ii. , _the_. de, i. , , _die_. dealan, iii. , _dealing_. deare, ii. , _hurt_. deare, iii. , _dearly_. deas, iii. _the high table in a hall_. f. dais, a canopy. ded, ii. ; dede, i. , _dead_. dede is do, ii. , _deed is done_. dee, iii. , _die_. deemed, iii. ; deemedst, ii. , _doomed_, _judged_; _thus in the isle of man judges are called deemsters_. p. deere, ii. , _hurt_, _mischief_. deerely, ii. , iii. ; _preciously_, _richly_. default, i. , _neglect_. deid, ii. , _dead_; deid bell, iii. , _passing bell_. deid, i. , , _deed_. deip, i. ; _deep_. deir, i. , ; _dear_. deir, iii. , _dearly_. deir, ii. , _hurt_, _trouble_. deie, ii. , _deal_, _bit_. dele, ii. , _to deal_. dell, _deal, part_; every dell, _every part_. delt, iii. , _dealt_. dem, ii. , _them_. demaines, iii. , _demesnes_, _estates_. deme, ii. , _judged_, _doomed_. denay, i. , _deny_, _refuse_. dent, ii. , _a dint_, _blow_. deol, ii. , _dole_, _grief_. depart, ii. , _separate_; departing, ii. , _dividing_. depured, i. , _purified_, _run clear_. deray, ii. , _confusion_. dere, ii. , _dear_, also _hurt_. dere, ii. , _dire or sad_. a.-s. derian, to hurt. "my dearest foe"--_hamlet_. dere, iii. , _wild animals_. derked, ii. , _darkened_. dern, ii. , _secret_; i'dern, ii. , _in secret_. descreeve, i. , _describe_; descrying, iii. , _describing_. devys, ii. , _devise_, _the act of bequeathal by will_. dey, ii. , _they_. dey, i. ; deye, ii. , _die_. did off, i. , _took off_; did on, iii. , _put on_. dight, i. , ; dighte, ii. , _decked_, _dressed_, _prepared_, _wrought_, _fitted out_, _done_. diht, ii. , _wrought_; ii. , _sent_. dill, ii. , _share_. dill, _still_, _calm_, _mitigate_. dill, i. , , , _dole_, _grief_, _pain_, _sorrow_; dill i drye, i. , _pain i suffer_; dill was dight, _grief was upon him_. dinge, iii. , _knock_, _beat_. dis, _this_. discreeve, i. , _describe_, or _discover_. disna, iii. , _does not_. disteynyd, i. , _stained_. distrere, iii. , _the horse ridden by a knight in the tournament_. do, ii. , _done_. dochter, i. , , ii. , _daughter_. dois, i. , , _does_. dois, _days_. dol, ii. ; dole, i. , , , _dole_, _grief_, _sorrow_. doleful dumps, i. , , _sorrowful gloom or heaviness of heart_. dolours, _dolorous_, _mournful_. don, iii. , _do_. don, ii. , _be made_. done roun, ii. , _run down_. dosend, iii. , _dosing_, _drowsy_, _torpid_, _benumbed_. doth, dothe, doeth, _do_. doubt, iii. , _fear_. doubteous, _doubtful_. dough, ii. , _though_. doughty, iii. ; doughtye, i. ; dowghtye, i. ; _formidable_. doughete, i. ,_ a doughty man_. dounae, i. , _cannot_. dout, ii. , _fear_. doute, i. , _doubt_. doutted, i. , _redoubted_, _feared_. douyty, _doughty_. doy-trogh, ii. , _dough trough_, _a kneading trough_. doys, i. , _does_. doyter, ii. , _daughter_. drake; brenand drake, ii. , _burning, fire-breathing dragon_. drap, _drop_; draping, ii. , drapping, iii. , _dropping_. dre, i. , , _suffer_. dreid, ii. , _dread_. dreips, i. , _drips_, _drops_. dreiry, iii. , _dreary_. drieps, iii. , _drips_, _drops_. drie, i. , _suffer_; _ill_, i. ; _undergo_, i. . drighnes, i. , _dryness_. drogh, ii. , _drew_. drovyers, i. , _drovers_, _cattle-drivers_. drye, i. , , , _suffer_, _endure_. dryng, ii. , _drink_. duble dyse, _double or false dice_. dude, ii. , _did_; dudest, ii. , _didst_. duel, ii. , _grief_. dughty, ii. , , _doughty_; dughtynesse of dent, ii. , _sturdiness of blows_. dule, i. , , _dole_, _grief_, _sorrow_; dulefu', ii. , _doleful_. dumps, i. , , ii. , _heaviness of heart_. dwellan, iii. , _dwelling_. dy, _die_; dyan, iii. , _dying_. dyd on, i. , _put on_; dyd off, i. , _doffed_, _put off_. dyght, i. , _dressed_, _put on_. dyht, ii. , _to dispose_, _order_. dynt, i. , dynte, i. , dyntes, i. , _dint_, _blow_, _stroke_. dystrayne, ii. , _afflict_. dyyt, ii. , _dight_, _dressed_. eame, _uncle_. eard, _earth_. earn, ii. , _to curdle_, _make cheese_. eathe, i. , _easy_. eather, iii. , _either_. eche, ii. , _each_. ee, i. , , ii. ; een, i. , _eye_, _eyes_. eene, iii. , _even_. effund, iii. , _pour forth_. eftsoon, iii. , _in a short time_. egge, ii. , _to urge on_. eik, ii. , _also_. eiked, ii. , _added_, _enlarged_. ein, i. , _even_. eir, i. , , , _ever_. eise, ii. , _ease_. eke, ii. , _also_. eldridge, i. , , _wild_, _hideous_, _ghostly_, _lonesome_, _uninhabited_. "in the ballad of _sir cauline_ we have 'eldridge hills,' p. , 'eldridge knight,' p. , 'eldridge sword,' p. . so gawin douglas calls the cyclops the 'elriche brethir,' _i.e._ brethren (b. ii. p. , l. ), and in his prologue to b. vii. (p. , l. ) he thus describes the night-owl:-- "'laithely of forme, with crukit camscho beik, 'ugsome to here was his wyld _elrische_ skreik.' "in bannatyne's ms. poems (fol. , in the advocate's library at edinburgh) is a whimsical rhapsody of a deceased old woman travelling in the other world; in which "'scho wanderit, and yeid by, to an _elrich_ well.' "in the glossary to g. douglas, elriche, &c. is explained by 'wild, hideous: lat. _trux_, _immanis_;' but it seems to imply somewhat more, as in allan ramsay's glossaries." p. elke, _each_. elles, ii. , _else_. ellumynynge, i. , _embellishing_. elyconys, i. , _helicon's_. elvish, _peevish_, _fantastical_. eme, i. , ii. , _uncle_, _kinsman_. endyed, i. , _dyed_. ene, eyn, _eyes_. ene, _even_. enharpid, i. , _hooked or edged_. enkankered, _cankered_. enouch, iii. , _enough_. enowe, i. , _enough_. ensue, ii. , _follow_. entendement, ii. , _understanding_. entent, ii. , _intent_. ententifly, ii, , _to the intent_, _purposely_. envie; envye, i. , _malice_, _ill-will_, _injury_. er, ii. , , _are_. ere, ii. , , _ear_. erlys, ii. ; erlés, iii. , _earls_. erst, i. , _heretofore_. etermynable, i. , _interminable_, _unlimited_. ettled, ii. , _aimed_. evanished, iii. , _vanished_. everych, ii. , _every_; everychone, i. ; iii. , _every one_. ew-bughts, iii. , _pens for milch-ewes_. eyen, i. ; eyn, ii. ; eyne, i. , _eyes_. ezar, iii. , _maple_. fa', i. , , _fall_; fa's, iii. , _falls_. fach, i. , feche, _fetch_. fader, iii. ; fadir, i. ; fatheris, _father_, _father's_. fadge, iii. , _a bundle of sticks_, _a thick loaf of bread_, _coarse heap of stuff_. fadom, i. , _fathom_. fae, ii. , _foe_. fain, ii. ; faine, i. , ; fayne, i. , _glad_, _fond_, _well pleased_; faine of fighte, i. , _fond of fighting_. fair of feir, _of a fair and healthful look_; perhaps, far off (free from) fear. p. falds, iii. , _thou foldest_. fallan, iii. , _falling_. fals, ii. , _false_. falser, iii. , _a deceiver_, _hypocrite_. falsing, ii. , _dealing in falsehood_. fand, iii. , _found_. fang, ii. , _make off_. fann'd, ii. , _found_. fannes, _instruments for winnowing corn_. fantacy, ii. ; fantasye, ii. , _fancy_. farden, i. , _flashed_. fare, i. , ii. , _go forth_, _pass_, _travel_. fare, _the price of a passage_, _shot_, _reckoning_. farley, i. , _strange_. fauht, i. , _fought_. fauld, ii. , _field_. fauyt, ii. , _fought_. fawkon, i. , _falcon_. fawn, iii. , _fallen_. fawte, i. , _fought_. fay, i. ; faye, i. , _faith_. fayrere, ii. , _fairer_. faytors, i. , _deceivers_, _dissemblers_, _cheats_. fe, i. , _fee_, _reward_, also _bribe_. applied to lands and tenements which are held by perpetual right, and by acknowledgment of superiority to a higher lord. feare. in feare, ii. , _company_. feat, i. , _nice_, _neat_. featously, i. , _neatly_, _dexterously_. fedyrs, ii. , _feathers_. fee, ii. , _property_. feere, i. , , _mate_, _companion_. feill, ii. , _fail_(?). feil, fele, _many_. feirs, ii. , _companions_. feir, i. , ii. ; feire, ii. , _fear_. feit, i. , , _feet_. felawe, ii. , _fellow_. feld, ii. , _field_. fell, i. , ; ii. , _furious_, _fierce_, _keen_, i. . fell, ii. , _hide_. feloy, ii. , _fellow_. fend, ii. ; fende, ii. , _defend_. fendys pray, i. , _the prey of the fiends_. fere, ii. , _fear_. fere, i. , , , , ii. , _mate_, play-feres, i. , _play-fellows_. ferly, ii. , _wonder_; also _wonderfully_, ii, . ferlyng, ii. , _furlong_. ferr, i. , _far_. fersly, i. , _fiercely_. fesaunt, i. , _pheasant_. fest, ii. , _feast_. fet, ii. , iii. ; fett, i. ; fette, i. , , _fetched_; deepe-fette, i. , _deep-drawn_. fethe, i. , _faith_. fettle, i. ; fetteled, i. ; fettled, i. , , _prepared_, _addressed_, _made ready_. fey, ii. , _predestinated to some misfortune_. feyytyng, ii. , _fighting_. fie, ii. , _sheep or cattle_. fier, i. , _fire_. filde, _field_. filinge, iii. , _defiling_. fillan, iii. , _filling_. finaunce, i. , _fine_, _forfeiture_. find frost, _find mischance or disaster_. firth, ii. , _copse_, _wood_. fit, i. ; fitt, ii. ; fytte, i. , _part or division of a song_. fitts, _i.e._ divisions or parts in music, are alluded to in "troilus and cressida," act. iii. sc. . (see steevens's note.) p. fit, _foot, feet_; a fit, ii. , _on foot_. flatred, ii. , _slit_. flayne, iii. , _flayed_. flearing, i. , _sneering_. flee, iii. , _fly_. fles, ii. , _fleece_. fleyke, ii. , _a large kind of hurdle_; cows are frequently milked in hovels made of fleyks. flindars, iii. , _pieces_, _splinters_. flix, iii. _flux_. flote, i. . to flote is to flete or fleet, to flit, to change position easily, to move away quickly; as fleeting moments, flitting birds flote and flete are two forms of the same word; and flutter bears the same relation to flote that flitter does to flete. in the roxburghe copy of the ballad of _willow, willow_ this word is printed as "fleet." (roxb. ballads, ed. chappell, part i. p. .) flout, ii. ; floute, i. , _to sneer_; fflouting, i. . flowan, ii. , _flowing_. flude, ii. , _flood_. flyte, i. , , , _to contend with words_, _scold_. fole, iii. , _foal_. fonde, ii. , _contrive_, _endeavour_, _try_. foo, i. , _foe_. fooder, ii. , _wine tun_; germ. _fuder_. for, _on account of_. for but, ii. , _unless_. forbode, _commandment_. force, no force, _no matter_. forced, ii. , _regarded_, _heeded_. forefend, i. ; forfend, ii. , _prevent_, _defend_, _avert_, _hinder_. forewearied, _over-wearied_. forfeebled, ii. , _enfeebled_. for-fought, ii. , _over-fought_. fors, ii. , _strength_. fors. i do no fors, ii. , _i don't care_. forsede, i. , _heeded_, _regarded_. forst, ii. , _regarded_. forthynketh, i. , _repenteth_, _vexeth_, _troubleth_. forthy, _therefore_. forwarde, i. , _van_. forewatcht, ii. , _over-wakeful_, _kept awake_. fosters of the fe, i. , _foresters of the king's demesnes_. fot pot, ii. , _with his foot push on_. fote, i. , _foot_. fou, i. , iii. ; fow, iii. , _full_, also _fuddled_. fowkin, ii. , _crepitus ventris_. fox't, _drunk_. frae, i. , _from_. fraemang, ii. , _from among_. fraid i. , _afraid_. freake, i. , _man_, _person_, _human creature_. freake, _a whim or maggot_. freckys, i. , _men_. freers, ii. ; fryars, _friars_. freits, i. , _ill omens_, _ill-luck_. freke, i. , ii. , _man_; frekys, ii. , _men_. freyke, ii. , _humour_, _freak_. freyke, i. , _strong man_. freyned, ii. , _asked_; freyned that freake, ii. , _asked that man_. frie, ii. ; _free_. fro, i. ; froe, i. , , _from_. fruward, _forward_. furth, ii. , _forth_. fuyson, i. ; foyson, _plenty_, also _substance_. fyer, ii. , , _fire_; fyerye, iii. , _fiery_. fyers, _fierce_. fyhte, ii. , _fight_. fykkill, i. , _fickle_. fyl'd, iii. , _defiled_. fyll, i. , _fell_. ga, ii. ; _go_; gais, ii. , _goes_. ga, ii. , _gave_. gaberlunyie, ii. , _a wallet_; gaberlunyie man, ii. , _a tinker_, _beggar_, _one who carried a wallet_. gade, iii. , _went_. gadelyngys, ii. , _gadders_, _idle fellows_. gaderyd, ii. , _gathered_. gadryng, ii. , _gathering_. gae, ii. , _gave_. gae, i. ; gaes, ii. , _go_, _goes_. gaed, ii. , _went_. gair, ii. , _strip of land_. gair, i. , _geer_, _dress_. gait, iii. , _gate_. galliard, ii. , _a sprightly kind of dance_. gamon, i. , _to make game_, _to sport_. a.-s. gamenian _jocari_. gan, i. , , , ii. , _began_. gan, i. ; gane, i. , ii. , _gone_. gang, i. , ii. , _go_. ganyde, i. , _gained_. gar, ii. ; iii. , gare, garre, i. , _make_, _cause_, _force_, &c.; gars, i. , _makes_. gard, iii. ; garde, i. ; garred, garr'd, ii. ; gart, iii. , _made_. gargeyld, i. , from _gargouille_, _the spout of a gutter_. the tower was adorned with spouts cut in the figures of greyhounds, lions, &c. garland, i. , _the ring within which the prick or mark was set to be shot at_. garth, ii. _garden_, _yard_. gat, i. , _got_. gate, i. , _way_. gaup, ii. , _gapes_, _waits_. gear, i. , iii. , _goods_, _effects_, _stuff_. gederede ys host, ii. , _gathered his host_. geere, i. , , _property_. gef, ii. , _give_. geid, _gave_. geir, ii. , _gear_, _property_. gerte, iii. , _pierced_. gesse, ii. , _guess_. gest, ii. , _act_, _feat_, _story_, _history_. gettyng, i. , _booty_. geud, i. , _good_. geve, ii. , _give_. gibed, _jeered_. gi', i. ; gie, i. , _give_; gied, i. , _gave_. giff, i. ; giffe, ii. , _if_. gilderoy, i. , _red boy_ (or gillie); gaelic, _gille ruadh_ (pronounced _roy_). gillore, ii. , _plenty_. gimp, ii. , _neat_, _slender_. gin, i. , iii. , _if_. gin, iii. ; ginn, iii. ; _engine_, _contrivance_. gins, ii. , _begins_. give, ii. ; _if_. glave, ii. , _sword_. glede, i. , _a red-hot coal_. glent, i. , _glanced_. glente, iii. , _slipped aside_. gleyinge, i. , _minstrelsy_. glist, ii. , _glistered_. glose, i. , _gloss over_. glowr, iii. , _stare_ or _frown_. gloze, iii. , _canting_, _dissimulation_, _fair outside_. god before, _god be thy guide_, a form of blessing. so in shakespeare's "king hen. v." (a. iii. sc. ) the king says:-- "my army's but a weak and sickly guard; yet, god before, tell him we will come on." p. gode, ii. , _good_. gods-pennie, ii. , _earnest money_. gon, ii. , _began_. gone, _go_. good, _a good deal_. good-e'ens, ii. , _good evenings_. good-se peny, ii. , _earnest money_. gorget, ii. , _the dress of the neck_. gorrel-bellyed, ii. , _pot-bellied_. gowan, ii. , _the common yellow crowfoot or gold cup_, _daisy_. gowd, i. , iii. , _gold_; gowden glist, ii. , _shone like gold_; gowden graith'd, ii. , _caparisoned with golden accoutrements_. graine, i. , i. , _scarlet_. graith'd, ii. , _caparisoned_. gramarye, i. ; grammarye, i. , _grammar_, _abstruse learning_. gramercy, i. ; gramercye, ii. , _i thank you_. fr. grand-mercie. graunge; peakish graunge, i. , _a lone country house_. graythed, ii. , _made ready_. gre, ii. , _prize_. grea-hondes, i. , _grey-hounds_. grece, i. , _step_, _flight of steps_. greece, _fat_; hart of greece, i. , _a fat hart_. fr. graisse. greet, iii. , _weep_. grein, iii. , _green_. gresse, i. , iii. , _grass_. gret, ii. , _grieved_. greves, i. , _groves_, _bushes_. grippel, ii. , _griping_, _tenacious_, _miserly_. grone, iii. _groan_. ground-wa', i. , _groundwall_. growynde, i. , , _ground_. grownes, ii. , _grounds_. growte, ii. . in northamptonshire is a kind of small beer extracted from the malt after the strength has been drawn off. in devon it is a kind of sweet ale medicated with eggs, said to be a danish liquor. (growte is a kind of fare much used by danish sailors, being boiled groats, _i.e._ hulled oats, or else shelled barley, served up very thick, and butter added to it.--_mr. lambe._) p. grype, ii. , _a griffin_. grysely groned, i. , _dreadfully groaned_. gude, ii. , , _good_. guerdon, iii. , _reward_. guid, i. , _good_. gule, iii. , _red_. gyb, ii. , _nickname of gilbert_. gybe, ii. , _jibe_, _jest_, _joke_; gybing, ii. . gyle, gyles, _guile_, _guiles_. gyn, ii. , _engine_, _contrivance_. gyrd, ii. , _girded_, _lashed_. gyrdyl, ii. , _girdle_. gyse, _guise_, _form_, _fashion_. ha, i. , _has_; hae, ii. , _have_; haes, iii. , _has_. ha', i. , iii. , _hall_; ha's, ii. , _halls_. habbe ase he brew, ii. , _have as he brews_. habergeon, _a lesser coat of mail_. hable, i. , _able_. hach-borde, ii. , _probably that part of the bulwark of the ship which is removed to form the gangway or entrance on board,--in fact, the "hatch"--(or half-door) "board."_ haif, ii. , _have_. haggis, ii. , _a sheep's stomach stuffed with a pudding made of mince-meat, &c_. hail, ii. , _healthful_. hair, ii. , , _hoar or grey_. halch, iii. , _salute_. halched, i. , _saluted_, _embraced_, _fell on his neck_. halesome, ii. , _wholesome healthy_. halse, iii. , _the neck_, _throat_. halt, ii. , _holdeth_. ham, ii. , _them_. hame, i. , _home_; hameward, ii. , _homeward_. han, ii. , _have_. handbow, _the long-bow or common bow, as distinguished from the cross-bow_. hap, i. ; happ, iii. ; happe, i. , _fortune_; hap, i. , _chance_, _happen_, i. . hard, ii. , _heard_. hare ... swerdes, ii. , _their ... swords_. harflue, ii. , _harfleur_. harlocke, i. , _perhaps charlock, or wild rape, which bears a yellow flower, and grows among corn, &c_. harneis, i. , _armour_. harnisine, ii. , _harness_, _armour_. harrowe, i. , _harass_. harowed, i. , _harassed_, _disturbed_. hart, iii. , _heart_; hartes, i. ; harts, i. ; hartis, i. . hartely, ii. , _earnestly_. hartly lust, i. , _hearty desire_. harwos, ii. , _harrows_. haryed, i. , , _pillaged_. hastarddis, i. , _perhaps hasty, rash fellows, or upstarts_. hatcht, ii. , _seized_. hauld, i. , _hold_. hauss bone, iii. , _the neck bone (halse bone), a phrase for the neck_. have owre, i. , _half over_. haves, ii. , _effects_, _substance_, _riches_. haveth, ii. , _has_. haviour, i. , _behaviour_. hawberke, i. , _a coat of mail, consisting of iron rings, &c._ hawkin, ii. , _diminutive of harry, from halkin_. haylle, i. , _hale_, _strong_. he, i. , _hie_, _hasten_. he, i. , _high_. heal, i. , _hail_. hear, i. , _here_. heare, ii. ; heares, _hair_, _hairs_. heathynesse, iii. , _heathendom._ heawying, i. , _hewing_, _hacking._ hech, ii. , _hatch_, _half door of a cottage_ (sometimes spelt heck). "dogs leap the hatch," _king lear_, act. iii. sc. . "'he'll have to ride the _hatch_' is a familiar phrase about looe, and signifies 'he'll be brought to trial.' it is generally used jocosely in the case of any loud professor of religion who has been 'overtaken in a fault;' and the idea is that his trial will be the ordeal of attempting to ride or sit on the top or narrow edge of a hatch or half-door, when if he maintain his seat he will be pronounced innocent, if he fall he is guilty. if he fall inwards (_i.e._ within the room or building), he will be pardoned, but if he fall outwards, he will be excommunicated." w. pengelly (_devonshire association report_, vol. vii. p. ). hecht to lay thee law, _promised (engaged) to lay the law_. hed, hede, _head_; hedys, ii. , _heads_. hede, ii. , _had_. hede, _hied_. hee, i. , _high_. heele, i. , _he will_. hees, ii. , _he is_. heght, ii. , _promised_. heiding hill, ii. , the _heading (or beheading) hill_. the place of execution was anciently an artificial hillock. heigh, iii. , _high_. heil, ii. , _health_. heir, ii. , _here_; also _hear_; herid, iii. , _heard_. hele, ii. , _health_. helen, ii. , _heal_. helpeth, ii. , _help ye_. hem, ii. , _them_. hend, i. , i. , , _kind_, _gentle_, _courteous_. henne, ii. , _hence_. hent, ii. , _laid hold of_. hepps and hawes, ii. , _hips and haws_. herault, ii. , _herald_. her, ii. , _hear_. her, ii. , _their_. here, ii. , _hair_. herkneth, ii. , _hearken ye_. herry, ii. , _harry_. hert, i. , _heart_. hes, ii. , _has_. hest, _hast_. hest, i. , _command_, _injunction_. het, ii. , _heated_. hete, ii. , _heat_. hether, _hither_. hether, _heather_, _heath_. hett, iii. , _bid_, _call_, _command_. heuch, ii. , _rock or steep hill_. hevede, ii. , _had_, _hadst_; hevedest, ii. . hevenriche, ii. , _heavenly_. hewberke, i. , _coat of mail_. hewkes, iii. , _party-coloured coats of the heralds_. hewyns in to, _hewn in two_. hey-day guise, iii. , _rustic dances_, _a corruption of "heydegies."_ heynd, ii. , _gentle_, _obliging_. heyye, ii. , _high_. hi, hie, _he_. hicht, a-hicht, _on height_. hie, i. , _high_; hier, ii. , _higher_; _hire_, iii. . hight, i. , , , _promise_, _promised_, _engaged_, also _named_, _called_. hilt, ii. , _taken off_, _flayed_. hinch boys, _pages of honour_. hind, ii. , _behind_. hinde, i. , _gentle_. hings, iii. , _hangs_. hinnible, iii. , _horse_, or _pony_. hinny, ii. , _honey_. hip, iii. , _the berry which contains the stones or seeds of the dog-rose_. hir, i. ; hire, iii. , _her_; hir lain, iii. , _herself alone_. hird, ii. , _herd_. hirsel, i. , _herself_. hit, ii. , _it_; hit be write, ii. , _it be written_. hode, i. , _hood_, _cap_. holden, ii. , _hold_. hole, i. , , iii. , _whole_. hollen, iii. , _holly_. holp, i. , _help_; holpe, iii. , _helped_. holt, ii. , _wood_. holtes, i. , _woods_, _groves_. in norfolk a plantation of cherry-trees is called a "cherry holt." p. holtis hair, ii. , , _hoary or grey woods or heaths_. "holtes seems evidently to signify hills in the following passage from turberville's "songs and sonnets," mo. , fol. :-- "yee that frequent the hilles, and highest holtes of all; assist me with your skilfull quilles, and listen when i call." "as also in this other verse of an ancient poet:-- "underneath the holtes so hoar." p. holy, _wholly_. holy-rode, ii. , _holy cross_; holye rood, ii. . honde, _hand_; honden wrynge, ii. , _hands wring_. hondert, i. , _hundred_. hondrith, i. , , , , , _hundred_. hong, ii. ; honge, i. , _hang_; _hung_, i. . hooly, iii. , _slowly_, _gently_. hophalt, _limping, hopping, and halting_. hore, iii. , _whore_. hount, i. , _hunt_. houzle, ii. , _give the sacrament_. hoved, i. , _heaved_; _hovered_, i. . howers, ii. , _hours_. huche, ii. , _wood, or a shed_. hud, ii. , _proper name_. hue, ii. , _she_. a.-s. heo; refers to huerte, which is feminine. it is an interesting example of the continuance of a grammatical gender in english. huerte trewe, ii. , _true heart_. huggle, iii. , _hug_, _clasp_. hull, i. , _hill_. hur, ii. ; hurr, ii. , _her_. hye, i. , _high_, _highest_; hyest, ii. ; hyer, iii. , _hire_. hyght, i. , _promised or engaged_. hyght, _high_; on hyght, i. , , _aloud_. hyllys, i. , _hills_. hynd out o'er, ii. , _over the country_. hyp-halte, ii. , _lame in the hip_. hyrdyllys, ii. , _hurdles_. hys, ii. , _his_. hyssylton, ii. , _islington_. hyt, hytt, ii. , _it_. hyyt, ii. , _promised_. i-clipped, i. , _called_. i-feth, i. , _in faith_. i-lore, ii. , _lost_. i-strike, ii. , _stricken_, _struck_. i-trowe, _verily_. i-tuned, _tuned_. i-ween, _verily_. i-wis, i. , _verily_; i-wys, i. , . i-wot, _verily_. ich, ii. , _i_; ich biqueth, ii. , _i bequeath_. ich, ii. ; icha, ii. , _each_. ide, iii. , _i would_. ild, ii. , _i'd_, _i would_. ile, i. , _i'll_, _i will_. illfardly, ii. , _ill-favouredly_, _uglily_. ilk, _same_; this ilk, _this same_. ilk on, ii. , _each one_; ilka, ilke, _every_; ilka ane, iii. , _every one_. im, i. , _him_. ime, i. , ii. , _i am_. incontinent, iii. , _forthwith_. in fere, ii. , _together_, _in company_. ingle, ii. , _fire_. inogh, ii. , _enough_; inoughe, ii. , _enough_. into, iii. , _in_. intres, i. , _entrance_, _admittance_. irke, ii. , _angry_. is, i. , ii. , _his_. ise, ii. , iii. , _i shall_. i'st, i. , , _i'll_. it's neir, _it shall never_. iye, i. , _eye_. janglers, ii. , _talkative persons_, _wranglers_, _tell-tales_. jear, ii. , _derision_. jetted, iii. , _strutted, or went proudly_. jille, iii. , _used here as a man's name_. jimp, i. , _slender_. jo, i. , ii. , _sweetheart_, _friend_, contraction of _joy_. jogelers, i. , _jugglers_. jow, iii. , _single stroke in tolling_. juncates, iii. , _junket_, _curds and clouted cream_. jupe, ii. , _an upper garment_. kall, i. , _call_. kame, iii. , _comb_; kameing, iii. , _combing_. kan, i. , , _can_. kantle, iii. , _piece_, _corner_. karlis of kynde, i. , _churls by nature_. kauk, ii. , _chalk_. kauld, i. , _called_. keel, ii. , _ruddle_. keepe, i. , ii. , _care_, _heed_. so in the old play of "hick scorner," "i keepe not to clymbe so hye;" _i.e._ i study not, care not, &c. keip, ii. , _keep_; ii. , _watch_. keipand, ii. , _keeping_. kell, iii. , _net for a woman's hair_. kembe, iii. , , _to comb_; kembing, iii. , _combing_; kemb'd, iii. , _combed_. kempe, i. , , ii. , _soldier_, _warrior_. kemperye man, i. , _soldier_, _fighting man_. "_germanis_ camp, _exercitum, aut locum ubi exercitus_ _castrametatur, significat: inde ipsis vir castrensis et militaris_ kemffer, _et_ kempher, _et_ kemper, _et_ kimber, _et_ kamper, _pro varietate dialectorum, vocatur: vocabulum hoc nostro sermone nondum penitus exolevit; nor folcienses enim plebeio et proletario sermone dicunt_. 'he is a kemper old man, _i.e. senex vegetus est:' hinc_ cimbris _suum nomen_: 'kimber _enim homo bellicosus, pugil, robustus miles, &c. significat_.' sheringham de anglor. gentis. orig. pag. . _rectius autem lazius_ [apud eundem, p. ]. 'cimbros _a bello quod_ kamff, _et saxonice_ kamp _nuncupatos crediderim: unde bellatores viri_ die kempffer, die kemper.'" p. kems, i. , _combs_. ken, ii. , _know_; kens, iii. , _knows_; kenst, i. , _knowest_. kend, ii. , _knew_; _known_, iii. ; kenn'd, ii. . kene, ii. , _keen_. kepand, ii. , _keeping_. kepers, i. . "those that watch by the corpse shall tye up my winding-sheet." p. kester, i. , _nickname for christopher_. kever chefes, _kerchiefs_ or _head covers_. (see vol. , p. .) kexis, ii. , _elder sticks used for candles_. kilted, iii. , _tucked up_. kind, _nature_. to carp is our kind, _it is natural for us to talk of_; of hir kind, ii. , _of her family_. kirk, iii. ; kirke, i. , _church_; kirk wa', iii. , _church wall, or churchyard wall_; kirkyard, i. , iii. , _churchyard_. kirns to kirn, ii. , _churns to churn_. kirtle, i. , _a petticoat_, _a woman's gown_. kist, ii. , _chest_. kit, i. , _cut_. knave, _servant_. knaw, ii. , _know_. knellan, iii. , _knelling_, _ringing the knell_. knicht, iii. , _knight_. knight's fe, _such a portion of land as required the possessor to serve with man and horse_. knowles, _knolls_, _little hills_. knyled, i. , _knelt_. kowarde, i. , _coward_. kowe, ii. , _cow_. kuntrey, i. , _country_. kurteis, i. , _courteous_. kyd, ii. , _shown_. kye, ii. , _kine_, _cows_. kyrtel, ii. ; kyrtell, i. , _petticoat_, _gown_, _a man's under garment_. "bale, in his 'actes of eng. votaries' (part ii. fol. ), uses the word kyrtle to signify a monk's frock. he says, roger, earl of shrewsbury, when he was dying, sent 'to clunyake, in france, for the kyrtle of holy hugh the abbot there,' &c." p. kythe, i. , _make appear_, _show_, _declare_. kythed, _appeared_. laigh, ii. , _low_. laith, i. , ii. , _loth_. laithly, _loathsome_, _hideous_. laitl, i. , _little_. lamb's wool, iii. , _a liquor composed of ale and roasted apples_. lane, lain, _lone_; her lane, ii. ; hir lain, iii. , _alone by herself_. lang, i. , ii. , _long_. lang'd, ii. , _longed_. langsome, i. , _long_, _tedious_. lap, iii. , , _leaped_. largesse, iii. , _gift_, _liberality_. lasse, ii. , _less_. late, ii. , _let_. latte, ii. , _hinder_. lauch, i. , _laugh_; lauched, i. , _laughed_. launde, i. , _clear space in a forest_. lawlands, ii. , _lowlands_. lay, i. , _law_. layde, i. , _lady_. layden, i. , _laid_. layland, i. , , , _green sward_. laylands, i. , _lands in general_. layne, lain, _laid_. layne, i. , , _deceive_, _break one's word_. lazar, ii. , _leper_. leal, ii. , _loyal_, _honest_, _true_. leane, _conceal_, _hide_. lear'd, i. , _pastured_. lease, _lying_, _falsehood_; withouten lease, i. , _verily_, _without lying_. lease, iii. , _leash_, _thong_, _cord_. leasynge, _lying_, _falsehood_. leaute, ii. , _loyalty_. lee, ii. , _lea_, _field_, _pasture_. lee, iii. , _lie_. leeche, i. , , , _physician_. leechinge, i. ; leedginge, i. , _doctoring_, _medicinal care_. leek, _phrase of contempt_. leel, ii. , _true_. leer, _look_. leeve london, i. , iii. , _dear london_. leever, i. , _sooner_. leeveth, i. , _believeth_. lefe, i. , _dear_. lefe, _leave_; leves, _leaves_. leffe, leefe, _dear_. leid, iii. , _lyed_. leil, ii. , _loyal_, _true_. leir, ii. , _learn_; lere, i. , _learning_. leive, i. , iii. , _leave_. leman, i. , ; leiman, i. ; lemman, iii. , _lover_, _mistress_. lemster wooll, i. , _leominster wool_. lene, ii. , _give_. lenger, i. , ii. , _longer_. lengeth in, _resideth in_. lere, i. , _face_, _countenance_, _complexion_. lese, ii. , _lose_. lesynge, i. ; leasing, _lying_, _falsehood_. let, i. , _hinder_; lett, ii. , _hindrance_. lett, i. , _left or let be opened_. lettest, i. , _hinderest_, _detainest_. letteth, i. , _hindereth_. lettyng, i. , _hindrance_, _without delay_. leugh, ii. ; leuche, ii. , _laughed_. leve, ii. , _remain_. lever, i. , , , , _rather_; lever than, ii. , _rather then_. leves and bowes, ii. , _leaves and boughs_. lewd, i. ; leud, ii. , _ignorant_, _scandalous_. ley, iii. , _lay_. leyke, ii. , _play_. leyre, lere, _learning_, _lore_. libbard, _leopard_; libbard's bane, iii. , _the herb wolfbane_. lichtly, iii. , _lightly_, _easily_. lig, i. , iii. , _lie_; ligge, ii. ; liggd, ii. , _lay_. lightfoote, iii. , _venison_. lightile, i. , _quickly_. lightsome, i. , _cheerful_, _sprightly_. limber, ii. , _supple_, _flexible_. limitoures, iii. , _friars licensed to beg within certain limits_. limitatioun, iii. , _a certain precinct allowed to a limitour_. lingell, i. , _a thread of hemp rubbed with resin, &c., used by rustics for mending their shoes_. lire, _flesh_, _complexion_. list, i. ; lith, ii. , _lieth_. lith, i. ; lithe, i. ; lythe, _attend_, _hearken_, _listen_. lither, i. , iii. , _idle_, _lazy_, _naughty_, _worthless_, _wicked_. live-lang, iii. , _live-long_. liver, i. , _deliver_. liverance, i. , , _deliverance_ (_money or a pledge for delivering you up_). livor, i. , _deliver_. load; lay on load, i. , _give blows_. lodly, ii. ; lodlye, ii. , _loathsome_. loe, ii. , iii. , _love_; lo'ed, iii. , _loved_. logeyng, i. , _lodging_. loht, ii. ; be the luef, be the loht, _whether you like it or loathe it_. loke, i. , _lock of wool_. lokyd, ii. ; lokyde, i. , _looked_. lome, ii. , _man_, _object_. lond, iii. , _land_. longes, i. , _belongs_; longeth, ii. , _belongeth_. longs, i. , _lungs_. looket, i. , _looked_. loone, ii. , _idle fellow_. looset, i. , _loosed_. lope, i. , , ii. , _leapt_. lore, ii. , , _teaching_, _lesson_, _doctrine_, _learning_. lore, _lost_. lorrel, i. , _a sorry, worthless person_. losel, ii. , , _the same as lorrel_. lothly, ii. , _loathsome_. "the adverbial terminations _-some_ and _-ly_ were applied indifferently by our old writers: thus, as we have _lothly_ for _loathsome_ above, so we have _ugsome_ in a sense not very remote from _ugly_ in lord surrey's version of Æn. nd, viz.-- "'in every place the ugsome sightes i saw' (p. )." p. loud and still, ii. , _openly and secretly_. lough, i. , _laugh_; lought, ii. , _laughed_. loun, i. , _loon_, _rascal_. lounge, iii. , _lung_. lourd, iii. , _rather (?)_ lout, ii. ; loute, ii. , _stoop_. louted, i. ; lowtede, _bowed_, _did obeisance_. lowe, i. , _a little hill_. lowne, i. , _rascal_. lowns, ii. , _blazes_. lowttede, i. , _crouched_. lude, ii. , _loved_. lued, i. , _loved_. luef, ii. , _love_. lues, iii. , _loves_, _love_. lugh, ii. , _laughed_. luik, i. , _look_; luiks, i. , _looks_; luikt, ii. , _looked_. luivt, ii. , _loved_. lung, ii. , _long_. lurden, i. ; lurdeyne, _sluggard_, _drone_. lust, ii. , _desire_. luve, i. , _love_; luver, ii. , _lover_. luvely, i. , _lovely_. lyan, iii. , _lying_. lyard, ii. , _grey; a name given to a horse from its grey colour, as bayard from bay_. lyff, ii. , _life_. lyk, i. ; lyke, ii. , _like_. lynde, i. ; lyne, i. , _the lime-tree_. lys, ii. , _lies_. lystenyth, iii. , _listen_. lyth, i. , _easy_, _gentle_, _pliant_, _flexible_, _lithesome_. lyvar, i. , _liver_ lyven na more, _live no more_, _no longer_. lyyt, ii. , _light_; lyytly, ii. , _lightly_. mad, ii. , _made_. mahound, i. , _mahomet_. maining, ii. , _moaning_. mair, ii. , _more_, _most_. maist, i. , _mayest_. mait, iii. , _might_, _may_. majeste, maist, mayeste, _may'st_. makes, i. , ii. , _mates_. making, _versifying_. makys, i. , _mates_. "as the words make and mate were, in some cases, used promiscuously by ancient writers, so the words cake and cate seem to have been applied with the same indifferency; this will illustrate that common english proverb, 'to turn cat (_i.e._ cate) in pan.' a pancake is in northamptonshire still called a pancate." p. male, i. , _coat of mail_; shirt of male, ii. . manchet, iii. , _best kind of white bread_. mane, i. , _man_. mangonel, ii. , _a military engine used for discharging great stones, arrows, &c., before the invention of gunpowder_. march perti, i. ; march partes, i. , _in the parts lying upon the marches_. march-pine, i. ; marchpane, _a kind of biscuit_. mare ii. , _more_. margarite, ii. , _a pearl_. mark, _a coin, in value s. d._ marke hym to the trenité, _commit himself to god_. marrow, ii. , , _match, or equal companion_. mart, ii. , _marred_, _hurt_, _damaged_. marvelit, iii. , _marvelled_. mast, maste, _may'st_. masterye, i. ; maystery, i. , _a trial of skill_. maugre, ii. ; mauger, i. , _in spite of_. maugre, ii. , _ill will_. maun, i. , , , _must_. mavis, iii. , _a thrush_. mawt, iii. , _malt_. may, i. , ; maye, i. , _maid_. mayne, i. , _force_, _strength_. mayne, _a horse's mane_. mayny, i. , _a company_. maze, _a labyrinth_, _anything entangled or intricate_. "on the top of catherine-hill, winchester (the usual play-place of the school), was a very perplexed and winding path, running in a very small space over a great deal of ground, called a miz-maze. the senior boys obliged the juniors to tread it, to prevent the figure from being lost, as i am informed by an ingenious correspondent." p. mazer, in. , _drinking cup of maple_. me, _men_; me con, ii. , _men began_. me-thuncketh, ii. , _methinks_. meane, ii. , _moderate_, _middle-sized_. meany, i. , , _retinue_, _train_, _company_. mease, ii. , _soften_, _mollify_. meed, meede, i. , iii. , _reward_. meet, in. , _even_. meid, _mood_. meikle, iii. , _much_. meit, iii. , _meat_. meit, ii. , , _meet_, _fit_, _proper_. mekyl, ii. , _much_. mell, ii. , _honey_. mell, _meddle_, _mingle_. meniveere, i. , _a species of fur_. mense the faught, ii. , _to measure the battle_. "to give to the mense is to give above the measure. twelve and one to the mense is common with children in their play." p. menzie, ii. , _retinue_, _company_. merch, ii. , _march_. merchis, i. , _marches_. merth, merthe, ii. , _mirth_. messager, ii. , _messenger_. mete, i. , _meet_, _fit_, _proper_. mewe, ii. , _confinement_. micht, ii. , _might_. mickle, i. , , , , , , _much_, _great_. midge, iii. , _a small insect_, _a kind of gnat_. mids, ii. , _midst_. minged, i. , , _mentioned_. minny, ii. , _mother_. mirk, ii. ; mirkie, iii. , _dark_, _black_. mirry, i. , , ii. , _merry_; mirriest, ii. , _merriest_. mirry-land toune, i. . misconster, ii. , _misconstrue_. misdoubt, i. , _suspect_, _doubt_. miskaryed, _miscarried_. misken, i. , _mistake_. mister, _to need_. mith, iii. , _might_. mither, i. , , , _mother_. mo, i. , , ii. ; moe, ii. , _more_. moche, ii. , _much_. mode, _mood_. moder, i. , _mother_. moiening, ii. , _by means of_. mome, ii. , _blockhead_. mon, ii. , _man_. mone, ii. , _moon_. mone lyyt, ii. , _moonlight_. mone, ii. , iii. , _moan_. monand, iii. , _moaning_, _bemoaning_. monnynday, i. , , _monday_. mony, ii. , , , _many_. more, iii. , "originally and properly signified _a hil_l (from a.-s. mor, _mons_), but the hills of the north being generally full of bogs, a moor came to signify boggy, marshy, ground in general." p. mores and the fenne, ii. , _hill and dale_; mores brodinge, i. , , _wide moors_. morne, i. ; to morn, ii. , , _on the morrow_, _in the morning_. mornyng, ii. , _mourning_. morwenynges, iii. , _mornings_. mort, i. , _dead stag_. most, _must_. mot, i. , , _may_. mote, i. , _might_; mote i thee, ii. , _may i thrive_. mou, ii. , _mouth_. mought, i. , , , _might_, _may it_, ii. . mowe, ii. , , _may_. muchele bost, ii. , _great boast_. mude, ii. , _mood_. muid, i. , _mood_. mulne, ii. , _mill_. mun, i. , , _must_. mure, mures, _wild downs_, _heaths_, &c. murn, ii. ; murnd, ii. ; murnit, ii. ; murnt, ii. ; murning, ii. , _mourn_, _mourned_, _mourning_. muve, ii. , _move_; muvit, ii. , _moved_. mykel, i. , _great_. myllan, i. , _milan steel_. myn, ii. , _my_. myne-ye-ple, i. , _probably a corruption of manople, a large gauntlet_. myrry, _merry_. mysuryd, i. , _misused_, _applied to a bad purpose_. myyt, ii. , _might_; myyty, _mighty_. na, ii. ; nae, _no_, _not_, _none_. naebody, ii. , _nobody_. naithing, ii. , _nothing_. nane, i. , ii. , iii. , _none_. nappy, iii. , _strong, as ale_. nar, i. , ; nare, i. , _nor_. nat, i. , ii. , _not_. natheless, ii. , _nevertheless_ n'availeth not, ii. , _availeth not_. ne, ii. , _no_, _nor_, _not_. near, ner, nere, _ne'er_, _never_. neat, _oxen_, _cows_, _large cattle_; neates leather, ii. , _cowhide_. neatherd, _a keeper of cattle_. neatresse, ii. , _female keeper of cattle_. nee, i. , , _nigh_. neigh him neare, i. , _approach him near_. neir, i. , _ne'er_, _never_. neire, ii. ; nere, _near_. nemped, i. , _named_. nere, ii. ; ne were, _were it not for_. nest, ii. , _next_, _nearest_. nethar, _neither_. neven, i. , _name_. new fangle, iii. , _new-fangled_, _fond of novelty_. nicht, ii. , _night_. nicked him of naye, i. , _nicked him with a refusal_. nipt, _pinched_. no, _not_. noble, _a gold coin in value twenty groats, or s. d._ nobles, i. , _nobleness_. nocht, ii. , _not_. nock, iii. , _the posteriors_. nollys, ii. , _noddles_, _heads_. nom, ii. , _took_. nome, ii. , _name_. non, ii. , _none_. none, i. , , ii. , _noon_. nones, ii. , _nonce_. nonys, ii. , _nonce or occasion_. norland, iii. , _northern_. norse, _norway_. norss menzie, ii. , _the norse army_. north-gales, iii. , _north wales_. nou, ii. , _now_. nourice, _nurse_. nout, ii. , _nought_, also _not_, ii. . nowght, _nought_. nowls, _noddles_, _heads_. noye, ii. , _hurt_. noyt, ii. , _nought_, _not_. ny, ii. ; nye, i. , _nigh_; nyest, ii. , _nighest_. nyyt, ii. , _night_. o, ii. , _one_; o', iii. , _of_; o, ii. , _on_. o wow, ii. , _an exclamation_. obraid, iii. , _upbraid_. occupied, i. , _used_. ocht, _ought_. off, ii. , _of_. oloft, ii. , _on horseback_. on, ii. , _one_, _an_. on loft, ii. , _aloft_. onfowghten, unfoughten, _unfought_. ony, ii. , _any_. onys, ii, , _once_. opon, ii. , _upon_. or, ii. , _before ever_. ore, iii. , _over_. orisons, _prayers_. ost, i. , ii. , iii. ; oste, i. , , ; ooste, i. , _host_. osterne, i. , _austere_. oth, othe, iii. , _oath_. ou, ii. , _you_. ous, ii. , _us_. out-owr, i. , _quite over_, _over_. outbrayd, ii. , _drew out_, _unsheathed_. outhorne, i. , _the summoning to arms by the sound of a horn_. outrake, i. , , _an out ride or expedition_; _to raik is to go fast_. "outrake is a common term among shepherds. when their sheep have a free passage from enclosed pastures into open and airy grounds they call it a good outrake." (mr. lambe.) p. owar, i. , _hour_. oware of none, i. , _hour of noon_. owches, iii. , _bosses_. owre, i. , ii. ; _over_, _o'er_; _ere_, i. . owreword, iii. , _the last word_, _burden of a song_. pa, i. . packing, i. , _dealing_. pall, i, ; palle, i. , _a cloak or robe of state_. palmer, iii. , _a pilgrim who, having been in the holy land, carried a palm branch in his hand_. paramour, i. , _gallant_, _lover_; _mistress_, ii. . pardè, ii. ; perdie, _verily_ (par dieu). paregall, i. , _equal_. parle, iii. , _speak or parley_. parti, party; a parti, i. , _apart or aside_. partynere, ii. , _partner_. pat, ii. , _pot_. pattering, iii. , "_murmuring, mumbling, from the manner in which the paternoster was anciently hurried over in a low inarticulate voice_." p. pauky, ii. , _shrewd_, _cunning_, _sly_. paves, i. , _a pavice, a large shield that covered the whole body_. fr. pavois. pavilliane, _pavilion_, _tent_. pay, i. , _liking_, _satisfaction_. paynim, i. , , iii. , _pagan_. peakish, i. , _rude_, _simple_; peakish hull, i. , _perhaps the derbyshire peak_. peare, i. , _peer_, _equal_. pearlins, iii. , _coarse sort of bone-lace_. pece, _piece of cannon_. pee, i. , _piece_. peere, i. , , _equal_. pees, ii. , _peace_. pele, ii. , _a baker's long-handled shovel_. penon, _a banner or streamer borne at the top of a lance_. pentarchye, ii. , _five heads_. perchmine, _parchment_. perde, i. , _verily_. perelous, parlous, _perilous_, _dangerous_. perfay, ii. , _verily_. perfight, i. , _perfect_; perfightly, i. , _perfectly_. perfytte, i. , _perfect_. perkyn, ii. , _diminutive of peter_. perlese, i. , _peerless_. perte, i. , _part_, _side_. pertyd, i. , _parted_, _divided_. pese, ii. , _peace_. petye, i. , ii. , _pity_. peyn, ii. , _pain_. peyses, i. , _pieces_. peysse, i. , _peace_. peyters, ii. , _peter's_. philomele, iii. , _the nightingale_. piece, _a little_. pil'd, _peeled_, _bald_. pine, i. , _famish_, _starve_. pinner, ii. , _pinder, or impounder of cattle._ pious chanson, i. , _a godly song or ballad_. "mr. rowe's edition of shakespeare has 'the first row of the rubrick;' which has been supposed by dr. warburton to refer to the red-lettered titles of old ballads. in the large collection made by mr. pepys, i do not remember to have seen one single ballad with its title printed in red letters." p. pipl, i. , _people_. playand, ii. , _playing_. play-feres, i. , _play-fellows_. playning, i. , _complaining_. plein, iii. , _complain_. pleis, ii. , _please_. plett, ii. , _plaited_. pley, i. , ii. , _play_. pleyn, ii. , _complain_. plyyt, ii. , _plight_. plowmell, ii. , _a small wooden hammer occasionally fixed to the plough_. poll-cat, _cant word for a prostitute_. pollys, ii. , _polls_, _heads_. pompal, i. , _proud_, _pompous_. popingay, i. , _a parrot_. porcupig, iii. , _porcupine_. portingale, iii. , _portugal_. portingalls, ii. , _portuguese_. portres, _porteress_. poterner, iii. , _probably a pouch or bag._ pottle, iii. , _a measure of two quarts_. poudered, ii. , _a term in heraldry for sprinkled over_. pow'd, i. , _pulled_. powlls, _polls_, _heads_. pownes, i. , _pounds_. praat, ii. , _prate_. pray, i. , _prey_. prayse-folk, ii. , _singing men and women_. preas, iii. , _press_. prece, i. , _crowd_, _press_; preced, i. , , _pressed_. prest, i. , ii. , _ready_; prestly, i. ; prestlye, i. , _readily_, _quickly_. prickes, i. , _mark in the centre of the target_. pricke-wande, _pole set up for a mark_. pricked, i. , _spurred on_, _hasted_. priefe, ii. , _prove_. priving, ii. , _proving_, _testing_. prove, ii. , _proof_. prude, ii. , _pride_. prycke, i. , _the mark_, _commonly a hazel wand_. prycked, i. , _spurred_. pryme, i. , _daybreak, or six o'clock in the morning_. prys, ii. , _prize_. pu, i. , _pull_. puing, ii. , _pulling_. puissant, iii. , _strong_, _powerful_. purfell, iii. , _ornament, or border of embroidery_. purfelled, iii. , _embroidered_. purvayed, ii. , _provided_. putry, iii. , _whoredom_. pyght, i. , _pitched_. quadrant, _four-square_. quaint, ii. , _nice_, _fantastical_. quarry, i. , _the slaughtered game in hunting or hawking_. quat, ii. , _quitted_. quay, iii. , _a young heifer, called a whie in yorkshire_. quean, iii. , , , _a sorry, base woman_, _a slut_. quel, ii. , _cruel_, _murderous_. quelch, _a blow or bang_. quere, i. , _quire_, _choir_. quest, i. , _inquest_. quha, i. , _who_. quhair, ii. , _where_. quhair-eir, ii. , _wherever_. quhan, i. , iii. , _when_. quhaneir, iii. , _whenever_. quhar, i. , _where_. quhat, i. , _what_. quhatten, i. , _what_. quhen, i. , ii. , _when_. quhilk, ii. , _which_. quhy, i. , _why_. quhyle, ii. , _while_. quick, iii. , _alive_, _living_. quiere, ii. , _choir_. quillets, ii. , _quibbles_. quiristers, ii. , _choristers_. quitt, ii. , _requite_. quo, ii. , _quoth_. quyle, ii. , _while_. quyrry, i. , _quarry of slaughtered game_. quyt, ii. , _quite_. quyte, i. , _requited_. qwyknit, ii. , _quickened_, _restored to life_. rade, i. , _rode_. rae, ii. , _roe_. raigne, ii. , _reign_. raik, _to go apace_; raik on raw, ii. , _extend in a row_. raise, ii. , _rose_. rampire, ii. , _rampart_. ranted, ii. , _made merry_. rashing, i. , _the old hunting term for the stroke made by a wild boar with his fangs_. raught, _reached_, _gained_, _obtained_. raw, ii. , _row_. rawstye, i. , _damp_(?) rayt, ii. , _raught or reached_. reachles, i. , _careless_. read, ii. ; reade, ii. , _advice_; reade me, i. , _advise me_. rea'me, ii. , _realm_. reane, i. , _rain_. rearing, i. , _leaning against_. reas, i. , _raise_. reave, i. , , _bereave_. reckt, i. , _regarded_. reckyn, ii. , _reckon_. red, i. , _read_. redd, i. , _advise_. reddyl, ii. , _riddle or sieve_. rede, iii. ; redde, ii. , _read_. rede, i. , , iii. , _advise_; rede i can, ii. , _advice i know_. rede, i. , _guessed_. redouted, i. , _dreaded_. redresse, ii. , _care_, _labour_. redyn, ii. , _moved_. reek, i. , _smoke_. reev, ii. ; reeve, iii. , _bailiff_. refe, ii. , _bailiff_. refe, _bereave_. reft, ii. , _bereft_. register, iii. , _the officer who keeps the public register_. reid, ii. , _advise_. reid, i. , , , _red_; reid roan, i. , _red roan_. reivs, ii. , _bereavest_. rekeles, i. , _regardless_, _rash_. remeid, ii. , _remedy_. renisht, i. , _harnessed_. renn, i. ; renne, i. , ii. , _run_. renneth, iii. , _runneth_; renning, ii. , _running_. renyed, i. , _refused_. reporte, i. , _refer_. rescous, ii. , _rescues_; rescew, ii. , _rescue_. reve, ii. , _bereave_, _deprive_. revers, ii. , _robbers_, _pirates_, _rovers_. rew, ii. , _take pity_. rew, iii. ; rewe, i. , ii. , _regret_; reweth, ii. , _regrets_; rewyth, i. , _regrets_. rewth, i. , _ruth_, _pity_. riall, _royal_. richt, i. , _right_. riddle, _vulgar idiom for unriddle, or corruption of reade_, _to advise_. rin, i. ; rinn, i. , _run_; rins, i. , _runs_; rinnes, i. , _runs_. rise, _shoot_, _bush_, _shrub_. rive, i. , _rend_; rives, i. ; _rends_. rive, ii. , _rife_, _abounding_. roche, i. , _rock_. rofe, ii. , _roof_. roke, i. , _steam or smoke_. ronne, _ran_; roone, _run_. roo, i. , _roe_. roode, i. , _cross_, _crucifix_. rood loft, _the place in the church where the images were set up_. room, i. , _large_. roun, ii. , _run_. route, i. , _company_. route, iii. , _go about_, _travel_. routhe, i. , _ruth_, _pity_. row, i. ; rowd, i. , , _roll_, _rolled_. rowght, i. ; rowte, ii. , _rout_. rowyned, _round_. rowned, rownyd, _whispered_. rudd, iii. , _red_, _ruddy_; rud-red, iii. . rude, ii. ; _rood_, _cross_. ruell bones, ii. . rues, _pitieth_. rugged, ii. , _pulled with violence_. runnagate, ii. , _runaway_. rushy gair, ii. , _rushy strip of land_. ruthe, ii. , _pity_, _woe_. ryal, ii. ; ryall, i. , , _royal_. ryd, iii. , _rode_; rydand, ii. , _riding_. ryde, i. , _for ryse_ (?) rydere, i. , _ranger_. ryghtwes, i. , _righteous_. ryhte, ii. , _right_. rynde, i. , _rent_, _flayed_. ryschys, ii. , _rushes_. rywe, ii. , _rue_. ryyt, ii. , _right_; _even_, ii. . sa, i. , ii. ; sae, i. , _so_. safer, _sapphire_. saft, ii. , _soft_; saftly, ii. , _softly_. saif, i. , _safe_. saim, iii. , _same_. sair, i. , , _sore_. saisede, ii. , _seized_. sall, i. , , , _shall_. salvage, iii. , _savage_. sar, i. , _sore_. sarke, iii. , _shirt_; _shift_, i. . sat, i. , _set_. sauls, ii. , _souls_. saut, iii. , _salt_. saw, say, _speech_, _discourse_. say, i. , _saw_. saye, iii. , _essay_, _attempt_. say us no harme, _say no ill of us_. say'n, ii. , _saying_. scant, i. , , _scarce_. scath, i. , _hurt_, _injury_. schadow, ii. , _shadow_. schal, ii. ; schall, i. , _shall_. schapen, ii. , _shaped_. schapped, i. , _swapped_ (?), _i.e. smote_. scharpe, i. , , _sharp_. schatred, ii. , _shattered_. schaw, ii. , _show_. sche, i. , ii. , _she_. schene, _sheen_, also _brightness_. schepeskynnes, ii. , _sheepskins_. schip, i. , _ship_; schiples, _shipless_. scho, i. , ii. , _she_. schone, i. , _shone_. schoone, i. , _shoes_. schoote, i. , _shot_, _let go_. schowte, i. ; schowtte, _shout_. schrill, _shrill_. schuke, _shook_. schuld, ii. ; schulde, i. , _should_. schulder, ii. , _shoulder_. sckill, iii. , _skill_. sckirmish, ii. , _skirmish_. sckore, ii. , _score_. sclat, ii. , _slate_. scomfet, ii. , _discomfit_. scorke, i. , _struck_. scot, ii. , _tax_, _revenue_; also _shot_, _reckoning_, ii. . see, ii. , _sea_. sed, iii. , _said_. seely, ii. ; seelie, iii. , _poor_, _simple_. seignour, ii. , _lord_. seik, i. , _seek_. seires, iii. , _for feires_, _i.e. mates_. sek-ful, ii. , _sackful_. sel, iii. ; sell, iii. , _self_. selcouthe, ii. , _strange_. selven, ii. , _self_. selver, ii. , _silver_. sely, ii. , _simple_. semblyd, i. , _assembled_. sen, i. , ii. , iii. , _since_. seneschall, _steward_. senvy, _mustard seed_. fr. senevé. serrett, i. , _closed fist_ (?) sertayne, i. , _certain_; sertenly, i. , , _certainly_. sese, ii. , _seize_. setywall, _the herb valerian_. sey, iii. , _a kind of woollen stuff_. sey yow, ii. , _say to you_; i sey yow soth, ii. , _i tell you truth_. sey'd, ii. , _tried_. sey'd, _saw_. seyde, ii. , _said_. sha' na bide, ii. , _shall not endure_. shaint, ii. , _saint_. shave; be shave, ii. , _be shaven_. shaw, ii. , _show_; shaw'd, ii. , _showed_. shaws, i. , _little woods_. shear, i. , _entirely_. sheede, iii. , _shed_. sheel, ii. ; sheele, i. , , _she'll_, _she will_. sheene, i. , ; iii. , _bright_, _brightness_, _beauty_. germ. _schön_. shees, ii. , _she is_. sheeve, ii. , _shive_, _a great slice of bread_. sheip, ii. , _sheep_; sheips heid, ii. , _sheep's head_. sheits, i. , _sheets_. sheid, ii. , _she would_. shent, i. , , _disgraced_; _abashed_, ii. ; _confounded_, ii. . shepenes, iii. , _cowhouses_, _sheep pens_. a.-s. scypen. shield bone, _the blade bone_, a common phrase in the north. shill, ii. , _shrill_. shimmer'd, iii. , _glittered_; shimmering, ii. , _shining by glances_, _glittering_. sho, ii. , _she_. shoen, ii. , _shoes_. shold, sholde, _should_. shoone, i. , ; iii. , _shoes_. shope, iii. , _shaped_. shorte, ii. , _shorten_. shote, ii. , _shoot_. shott, ii. , _reckoning_. shoul, ii. , _soul_. shradds, i. , _twigs_. shreeven, iii. , _shriven_, _confessed_. shreward, ii. , _a male shrew_. shrive, ii. , _confess_; _hear confession_, ii. . shroggs, i. , _shrubs_, _thorns_, _briars_. shuld, iii. ; shulde, i. , _should_. shullen, _shall_. shunted, ii. , _shunned_. shuntyng, ii. , _recreation_, _diversion_, _sport_. shyars, i. , _shires_. shynand, ii. , _shining_. sib, _kin_, _akin_. sic, i. ; sich, i. , _such_. sich, ii. , _sigh_; sichit, ii. , sicht, ii. , _sighed_. sicht, ii. , _sight_. sick-like, iii. , _such like_. side, i. , _long_. sied, i. , _saw_. sigh clout, i. , _a cloth to strain milk through_. sighan, iii. , _sighing_. sik, i. ; sike, i. , _such_. siker, i. , _secure_, _surely_, _certainly_. silk, iii. , _such_. siller, ii. ; iii. , _silver_. silly, i. ; ii. , _simple_. silven, iii. , _silver_. sindle, ii. , _seldom_. sist, iii. , _sighed_. sith, i. , , _since_. sitten, iii. , _sat_. sitteth, ii. , _sit ye_. skaith, ii. , _scath_, _harm_, _mischief_. skinker, _one that serves drink_. skinkled, iii. , _glittered_. skore, i. , _score_. slade, i. , _a breadth of greensward between ploughlands or woods_. slaited, iii. , _wiped_. slatred, ii. , _broke into splinters_. slaw, i. , _slew_. slaw, ii. , _slow_. sle, i. , _slay_; sleest, _slayest_, i. . slee, ii. , _sly_. slean, i. , , , _slain_. sleath, iii. , _slayeth_. slein, ii. , _slain_. sleip, i. ; sleipe, ii. , _sleep_. sleive, iii. , _sleeve_. slo, i. ; sloe, i. , _slay_. slode, i. , , slit, _split_. slone, i. , , _slain_. sloughe, i. , _slew_. sma', i. , _small_; _little_, iii. . smire, iii. (? for swire = neck). smithers, i. , _smothers_. snae, iii. ; snaw, ii. , _snow_. soar, i. , _sore_. sodenly, ii. , _suddenly_. solacious, i. ; _affording solace_. soldan, i. , , ; sowdan, i. , _sultan_. soll, i. , _soul_. son, ii. , _soon_; sone, ii. , _soon_. sond, ii. , sending, _present_. sone, ii. , _soon_. soothe, ii. , _truth_, _true_. sort, i. , , _set_, _company_. soth, i. , , , ; ii. ; iii. , _truth_, _true_. sothe, i. , _south_. sould, ii. , _should_. souldan, iii. , _sultan_. souling, ii. , _victualling_. sowle is still used in the north for anything eaten with bread. p. souse, iii. , _the head, feet and ears of swine boiled and pickled for eating_. souter, i. , _psaltry_. sowne, ii. , _sound_. sowre, _sour_. sowre, _sore_. sowter, i. , _a shoemaker_. soy, i. , _silk_. spack, ii. ; iii. , _spake_. spec, ii. , _spake_. speere, ii. ; speered, ii. , _sparred_, _fastened_, _shut_. so in an old "treatyse agaynst pestilence, etc. to emprynted by wynkyn de worde:" we are exhorted to "spere [i.e. shut or bar] the wyndowes ayenst the south." fol. . p. speid, iii. , _speed_. speik, iii. , _speak_. speir, ii. ; iii. , _ask_, _inquire_. so chaucer, in his rhyme of sir thopas-- ----"he foughte north and south, and oft he spired with his mouth." _i.e._ "inquired." not spied, as in the new edit. of cant. tales, vol. ii. p. . p. speir, iii. , _spear_. spek, ii. , _spoke_; speken, iii. , _speak_. spence, ii. ; spens, ii. , _expense_. spendyd, _grasped_. spill, i. , iii. ; spille, i. , _spoil_, _kill_. spillan, iii. , _spilling_. spindles and whorles, ii. , _the instruments used for spinning in scotland instead of spinning-wheels_. "the rock, spindles, and whorles are very much used in scotland and the northern parts of northumberland at this time. the thread for shoemakers, and even some linen webs, and all the twine of which the tweed salmon-nets are made, are spun upon spindles. they are said to make a more even and smooth thread than spinning-wheels." (_mr. lambe._) p. spittle, ii. , _hospital_. splene; on the splene, ii. , _in haste_. spole, ii. , _shoulder_. sporeles, ii. , _spurless_, _without spurs_. sprente, i. , _spurted out_, _sprung out_. sprite, iii. , _spirit_. spurging, ii. , _drivelling froth_. spurn, i. , _a kick_. spylt, i. , _spoiled_, _destroyed_. squelsh, iii. , _a blow or bang_. squyer, ii. ; squyere, ii. , _squire_. stalworth, ii. , _stout_. stalwurthlye, i. , _stoutly_. stane, i. , _stone_. starke, i. , _stout_, _strong_. startopes, ii. , _buskins or half boots_. stean, i. , iii. , _stone_. stede, ii. , _place_. steid, i. , iii. , _steed_. steill, ii. , _steel_. steir, ii. , _stir_. stel, ii. , _steel_. stele, ii. , _steal_. sterne, i. , _fierce ones_. sterris, _stars_. sterte, i. , , _start_; sterted, iii. , _started_. sterve, ii. , _die_, _perish_. steven, i. , iii. , _voice_, _sound_. steven, i. , _time_. stint, i. , , , _stop_, _stopped_. stond, ii. , _stand_. stonderes, _standers by_. stonds, i. , _stands_. stound, i. , _hour_. stounde, i. , _time_; _for awhile_, ii. . stoup, ii. , _stoop_. stoup of weir, ii. , _a pillar of war_. stour, i. , ; stower, i. , iii. ; stowre, i. , , , iii. , _strong_, _fierce_, _stir_, _fight_. this word is applied in the north to signify dust agitated and put in motion, as by the sweeping of a room, &c. p. stown, ii. , _stolen_. stra, ii. ; strae, ii. , iii. , _straw_. strake, ii. , _struck_. strekene, i. , _stricken_, _struck_. stret, _street_. strick, i. , _strict_. strike, _stricken_. stroke, i. ; stroken, i. , _struck_. strout, iii. , _strut_. stude, i. , iii. , _stood_. styntyde, i. , _stinted_, _stayed_, _stopped_. styrande, i. , _stirring_. styrt, ii. , _started_. suar, i. , , _sure_. suld, ii. , _should_. sum, i. , , ii. , _some_. summere, iii. , _a sumpter horse_. sumpters, i. , _horses that carry clothes, furniture, &c._ sune, _soon_. surmount, iii. , _surpass_. suore bi ys chyn, ii. , _sworn by his chin_. supprised, i. , _overpowered_. suraunce, ii. , _assurance_. suthe, ii. , _soon_, _quickly_. swa, ii. , _so_. swage, ii. , _assuage_; swaged, ii. , _assuaged_. swapte, i. ; _swapped_, i. , _struck violently_, _exchanged blows_. sware, ii. , ii. , _swearing_, _oath_. swarned, ii. , _climbed_. swarved, ii. , _climbed_, _swarmed_. to swarm, in the midland counties, is to draw oneself up a tree or any other thing, clinging to it with the legs and arms. p. swat, i. , _did sweat_. swear, _sware_. swearde, ii. , _sword_. sweaven, i. , ii. ; sweven, ii. , _a dream_. sweere, iii. , _neck_. sweit, iii. ; swete, ii. , _sweet_; sweitly, ii. , _sweetly_. swepyls, ii. , "a swepyl is that staff of the flail with which the corn is beaten out. vulg. a supple (called in the midland counties a swindgell, where the other part is termed the hand-staff)." p. swerdes, ii. , _swords_. swiche, i. , _such_. swith, i. , ii. , _quickly_, _instantly_, _at once_. swound, i. , , ii. , _swoon_. swyke, _sigh_. swynkers, ii. , _labourers_. swyppyng, ii. , _striking fast_. swyving, ii. , _wenching_, _lechery_. sych, ii. , _such_. syd, _side_; on sydis shear, i. , _on all sides_. syn, ii. , _since_. syne, i. , ii. , iii. , _then_, _afterwards_. syns, _since_. syschemell, ii. , _ishmael_. syth, ii. , _since_. syyt, ii. , _sight_. taiken, ii. , _taken_. tain, iii. ; taine, i. , _taken_. tane, i. , ii. , _taken_. tane, iii. , _the one_. tarbox, ii. , _box containing tar for anointing sores in sheep, &c._ targe, ii. , _target_, _shield_. tauld, ii. , _told_. tayne, i. , _taken_. te, ii. , _to_; te-knowe, ii. , _to know_; te-make, _to make_. te-he, ii. , _interjection of laughing_. tear, i. , _tearing or pulling_. teene, i. , _vexation_; i. , , _injury_; iii. , _trouble_; teenefu, i. , _wrathful_. teene, i. , _vex_. teir, i. , _tear_. tene, i. , _wrath_. tenebrus, i. , _dark_. tent, ii. , _heed_. termagaunt, i. , , _the god of the saracens_. the old french romancers, who had corrupted _termagant_ into _tervagant_, couple it with the name of mahomet as constantly as ours; thus in the old _roman de blanchardin_, "cy guerpison tuit apolin, et mahomet et _tervagant_." hence la fontaine, with great humour, in his tale, intitled _la_ _fiancée du roy de garbe_, says, "et reniant mahom, jupin, et _tervagant_, avec maint autre dieu non moins extravagant." --_mem. de l'acad. des inscript. tom._ , to. p. . as _termagant_ is evidently of anglo-saxon derivation and can only be explained from the elements of that language, its being corrupted by the old french romancers proves that they borrowed some things from ours. p. terrene, iii. , _earthly_. terry, ii. , _thierry_, or a _diminutive of terence_. tester, iii. , _teston, or sixpence_. tha, ii. , _them_. thah, ii. , _though_. thair, ii. , iii. , _there_. tham, ii. ; thame, i. , , , _them_. than, i. , , _then_. thanns, ii. , _thence_. thay, i. , _they_. thaym, ii. , _them_. thayr, ii. , _their_. the, _they_; the wear, i. , _they were_. the, i. , ii. , _thee_. the god, ii. , _contraction for the_ he (_i.e. high_) god. p. thear, i. , _there_; i. , _their_. theder, ii. ; thedyr, ii. , _thither_. thee, ii. , _thrive_; so mote i thee, ii. , _so may i thrive_. so in chaucer, _cant. tales_, vol. i. p. , "god let him never _the_." p. then, _than_. ther, ii. ; _there_ i. , _their_. ther, ii. , _where_. thes, ii. , _these_. thether, i. , _thither_. they, i. , _the_. theyther-ward, _thitherward_, _towards that place_. thie, _thy_. thii, ii. , _they_. thilke, ii. , _this_. thir, ii. , _this_, _these_; thir towmonds, ii. , _these twelve months_. tho, i. , _then_; _those_, ii. . thocht, iii. , _thought_. thole, ii. , _suffer_. thore, ii. , _there_. thorow, ii. ; thorrow, i. , _through_; thorowout, ii. , _throughout_. thouse, i. , _thou art_; _thou shalt_, iii. . thoust, i. , _thou shalt or shouldst_. thowe, _thou_. thrall, i. , ii. , _captive_,; _captivity_, i. , ; ii. . thrang, ii. , _throng_; _close_, ii. . thraste, iii. , _thrust_. thrawis, _throes_. thrawn, ii. , _thrown_. threape, i. , _to argue_, _to affirm or assert in a positive overbearing manner_. threven, ii. , _thrived_. threw, ii. , _drew_. threw, iii. , _thrived_. thrie, _three_. thrif, _thrive_. thrild upon a pinn, iii. , _twirled or twisted the door pin_. thrittè, i. , _thirty_; thritti thou sent, ii. , _thirty thousand_. thronge, i. , _hastened_. thropes, iii. , _villages_. through-girt, ii. , _pierced through_. throw, iii. , _through_. thruch, throuch, _through_. thrughe, _through_. thrustand, ii. , _thrusting_. thryes, ii. , _thrice_. thrysse, i. , _thrice_. thud, ii. , _dull sound_. tickle, ii. , _uncertain_. tift, iii. , _puff of wind_. till, i. , , , ii. , _unto_. till, i. , _entice_. timkin, _diminutive of timothy_. tine, i. , _lose_; tint, i. ; ii. , _lost_. tirled at the pin, iii. , _twirled or twisted the door pin_. tividale, i. , _teviotdale_. to, _too_, _two_. tokenyng, ii. , _token_. tomkyn, ii. , _diminutive of thomas_. to-flatred, ii. , _slit_. to-rente, iii. , _rent_. to-schatred, ii. , _shattered_. to-slatered, ii. , _splintered_. tone, i. , , iii. , _the one_. too-fall, ii. , _twilight_. "too-fall of the night" seems to be an image drawn from a suspended canopy, so let fall as to cover what is below. (_mr. lambe._) p. tooken, i. , _took_. tor, _a tower_; also _a high pointed rock or hill_. torn, i. , _turn_. tothar, i. , _the other_. tother, i. , _the other_. toun, i. ; town, i. , _dwelling-house_. tow, i. , _to let down with a rope_; towd, i. , _let down_. tow, i. ; towe, i. , , _two_. towmonds, ii. , _twelve months_. towyn, i. , _town_. traitorye, i. , , ii. ; traytery, ii. , _treason_. tre, i. , ii. , _wood_; i. , _staff_. tree, i. , _ill_. trewest, ii. , _truest_. treytory, i. , _treachery_. trichard, ii. , _treacherous_. tricthen (should be trichen), ii. , _deceive_. triest furth, iii. , _draw forth to an assignation_. trifulcate, _three forked_, _three pointed_. trippand, ii. , _tripping_. trim, i. , _exact_. troate, ii. , _throat_. trogh, ii. , _trough_. trone, yn trone, i. , _enthroned_. troth, iii. , _truth_, _faith_, _fidelity_; trothles, i. , _faithless_. trough, trouth, _troth_. trouth plyyt, ii. , _truth plight_. trow, ii. , _true_. trow, iii. ; trowe, i. , _believe_, _trust_, also _verily_. trumped, _boasted_, _told bragging lies_; a trump, _a lie_. tuik, i. , _took_. tuke gude keip, ii. , _took good watch_. tull, i. ; for till, _to_. tup, ii. , _ram_. turn, such turn, _such an occasion_. turnes a crab, ii. , _roasts a crab apple_. tush, ii. , _tusk_. twa, i. ; ii. , _two_. twatling, iii. , _trifling_. twaw, i. , _two_. twayne, ii. , _two_. twin'd, i. , _parted in two_. twirtle twist, ii. , _twirled twist_. twyes, ii. , _twice_. tyb, ii. , _the diminutive of isabel_. tyll. com the tyll, i. , _come unto thee_. tyrry, ii. . see _terry_. uch, ii. , _each_. ugsome, _shocking_, _horrible_. 'um, iii. , _them_. unbethought, iii. , for _bethought_. undermeles, iii. , _afternoons_. undight, i. , _undecked_. unfeeled, _opened_, a term in falconry. unhap, ii. , _mishap_. unkempt, ii. , _uncombed_. unmacklye, i. , , _mis-shapen_. unmufit, _undisturbed_. unright, ii. , _wrong_. unsett steven, i. , _unappointed time_, _unexpectedly_. unsonsie, ii. , _unlucky_, _unfortunate_. untill, iii. ; untyll, i. , _unto_. upo, ii. , _upon_. ure, iii. , _use_. uthers, ii. , _others_. vaints, ii. , _faints_. vair, ii. , _fair_. valeies, ii. , _valleys_. vart, ii. , _fart_. vazen, ii. , for _faith_. vellow, ii. ; vellowe, ii. , _fellow_. venge, ii. , _revenge_. venu, iii. , _approach_, _coming_. verament, i. , , _truly_. vices, i. , _devices_. vilane, _rascally_. vitayle, ii. , _victual_. vive, ii. , _five_. vools, ii. , _fools_; voolish, ii. , _foolish_. vor, ii. , _for_. vorty, ii. , _forty_. vourteen, ii. , _fourteen_. voyded, i. , _quitted_, _left the place_. vrier, ii. , _friar_. wa, i. , , ii. , iii. , , _wall_. wache, i. , _a spy_. wad, i. , , , _would_. wadded, iii. , _light-blue or woad-coloured_. wadna, ii. , _would not_. wae, i. , , _woe_; waefo', iii. ; waefu', ii. , _woeful_. wae worth, i. , , _woe betide_. wald, i. ; walde, iii. , _would_. walker, iii. , _a fuller of cloth_. walowit, ii. , _faded_, _withered_. waltering, i. , ii. , _weltering_; waltred, _tumbled or rolled about_. waly, iii. , _an interjection of lamentation_. wame, iii. , _womb_, _belly_. wan, i. , ; ii. , _won_. wan near, ii. , _drew near_. wane, i. , _the same as_ ane, _one_, _so_ wone _is one_. in fol. of bannatyne's ms. is a short fragment, in which "wane" is used for "ane" or "one," viz.:-- "amongst the monsters that we find, there's _wane_ belovved of woman-kind, renowned for antiquity, from adame drivs his pedigree." p. the word wane in the text, however, is probably a misreading for mane. wanrufe, ii. , _uneasy_. war, i. , _aware_. war ant wys, ii. , _wary and wise_. ward, ii. , _watch_, _sentinel_, _warder_. warde, iii. , _advise_, _forewarn_. ware, i. , , , _aware_. ware, i. , _wore_. ware, iii. , _were_. warke, _work_. warld, ii. , _world_; warldis, i. , _worlds_. waryd, ii. , _accursed_. waryson, i. , _reward_. wassel, iii. , _drinking_, _good cheer_. wat, i. , ii. , _wet_. wat, i. , _know_. wate, iii. , _blamed_. (preterite of _wyte_, to blame.) wauld, iii. , _would_. wayde, _waved_. wayed, iii. , _weighed_. weal, i. , _wail_. weale, _well_. wear, i. , _were_. wear-in, iii. , _drive in gently_. wearifu', ii. , _wearisome_, _troublesome_, _tiresome_, _disturbing_. weddeen, iii. , _wedding_. wedder, ii. , _weather_. wede, ii. , _clothing_. wedous, i. , _widows_. wee, ii. , _little_. weede, iii. , _clothing_, _dress_; weeds, i. , , _garments_. weell, iii. , _we'll_, _we will_. weel, ii. ; weele, i. , _well_. weel-faur'd, ii. , _well-favoured_. weene, i. , _think_; ween'd, i. ; weened, ii. ; weende, ii. , _thought_. weete, i. , ii. , _wet_. weet, ii. , _know_. weids, ii. , _cloathing_. weil, i. , _well_. weip, i. ; weipe, ii. , _weep_. weir, ii. , _war_. weird, iii. , _witch-like_. weit, ii. , _wet_. wel longe, ii. , _very long_. wel-awaye, iii. , _an interjection of grief_. weldynge, _ruling_. wele, ii. , _well_. welkin, iii. , _the sky_. wem, iii. , _spot_. wem, iii. , _hurt_. weme, i. , , _hollow_. wend, i. , ii. , _go_. wend, ii. ; wende, i. , _thought_; wende do, ii. , _thought to do_. wenden, ii. , _go_. went, i. , _thought_. wer, iii. , _were_. wereth, _defendeth_. werke, i. , , _work_. werre, ii. , _war_. werryed, ii. , _worried_. wes, ii. , _was_. westlin, ii. , _western_. westlings, _whistling_. wete, i. , _wet_. wether, iii. , _whether_. wex, iii. , _wax_, _grow_. wha, ii. , _who_. whair, ii. , _where_; whair-eir, ii. , _wherever_. wham, ii. , _whom_. whan, i. , _when_. whang, ii. , _a large slice_. wheder, ii. , _whither_. whelyng, ii. , _wheeling_. whig, i. , ii. , _sour whey_, _buttermilk_. while, _until_. whilk, ii. , _which_. whirry, iii. , _laugh_. whittles, _knives_. whoard, i. , _hoard_. whorles (see spindles). whyll, i. , _while_. whyllys, i. , _whilst_. wi', ii. , _with_. wight, i. , , , , _man_, _human being_. wight, i. , , _strong_, _lusty_. wightlye, i. , , _swiftly_, _vigorously_. wighty, i. , ; wightye, i. , _strong_, _active_. wild-worme, iii. , , _serpent_. wildings, ii. , _wild or crab apples_. wilfull, i. , _ignorant_. windar, iii. , _a kind of hawk_. windling, _winding_. winna, iii. ; winnae, i. , , _will not_. winyard, iii. , _long knife or short cutlass_. winsome, i. , ii. , , _agreeable_, _engaging_. wirk, ii. , _do_. wis, i. , _know_; wist, i. , iii. , _knew_. witchd, iii. , _bewitched_. withouten, i. ; withowtten, i. ; withowghten, i. , , _without_. wive, ii. , _marry_. wo, ii. , , _woe_. wobster, ii. , _webster_, _weaver_. wod, ii. ; wode, i. , , , _mad_, _wild_. wod, iii. ; wode, i. , ii. , _wood_. wodewarde, ii. , _towards the wood_. woe-man, _a sorrowful man_. woe worth, ii. , _woe be to thee_. wolden, i. , _would_. woll, ii. , _wool_. wolle, ii. , _will_. won, ii. , _wont_, _usage_. won'd, i. , _dwelt_. wonde, wounde, _winded_. wonders, _wondrous_. wondersly, i. , _wondrously_. wone, i. , _one_. wonne, _dwell_. woo, i. , _woe_. wood, i. , ii. ; woode, iii. , _mad_, _furious_. wood-wroth, iii. , _furiously enraged_. woodweele, i. , _the golden ouzle_, _a bird of the thrush kind_. worm, iii. , , _serpent_. worship, i. , _honour_. worshipfully frended, _of worshipful friends_. wot, i. ; wott, ii. , _know_; wotes, i. , _knows_. wouche, i. , _mischief_, _wrong_. wowe, i. , _woo_. wow, iii. , _who_. wow, ii. , _vow_. wrack, i. ; wracke, iii. , _wreck_, _ruin_, _destruction_; wracked, iii. , _wrecked_. wrang, i. , _wrung_. wrange, i. , _wrong_. wreake, ii. , _pursue revengefully_. wrench, ii. , , _wretchedness_. wringe, i. , _to contend with violence_. writhe, i. , _writhed_, _twisted_. wroken, i. , , _revenged_. wrong, i. , _wrung_. wrotyn, ii. , _wrought_. wrouyt, ii. , _wrought_. wry, ii. , _turn aside_. wul, i. , ; wull, iii. , _will_. wych, i. , _which_. wyld, i. , _wild deer_. wynn ther haye, i. , _gather in their hay_. wynne, i. , ii. , _joy_, _pleasure_. wynne, iii. , _heard_. wynnen, ii. , _win_, _gain_. wyrch wyselyer, ii. , _work more wisely_. wysse, ii. , , _teach_, _govern_. wyst, ii. ; wyste, i. , _knew_. wyt, _know_; wyt wold i, ii. , _know would i_. wyte, iii. , _blame_. y, ii. , _i_; y singe, ii. , _i sing_. y-beare, ii. , _bear_; y-boren, ii. , _borne_. y-bent, _bent_. y-built, iii. , _built_. y-cald, iii. , _called_. y-chesyled, i. , _chiselled_. y-cleped, i. , _named_, _called_. y-con'd, i. , _taught_, _instructed_. y-core, ii. , _chosen_. y-fere, ii. , _together_. y-founde, ii. , _found_. y-mad, ii. , _made_. y-picking, i. , _picking_, _culling_. y-slaw, i. , _slain_. y-told, iii. , _told_. y-were, i. , _were_. y-wis, i. ; ii. , _verily_. y-wonne, ii. , _won_. y-wrought, i. ; iii. , _wrought_. y-yote, ii. , _cast_. yae, iii. , _each_. yalping, ii. , _yelping_. yaned, iii. , _yawned_. yate, i. ; iii. , _gate_; yates, i. . yave, i. , _gave_. ych, i. , ; ycha, ii. , _each_, _every_. ych, ii. , _same_. ycholde, ii. , _i would_. ychone, i. , _each one_. ychulle, iii. , _i shall_. ydle, _idle_. yeaning, ii. , _bringing forth young_. yearded, ii. , _buried_, _earthed_. yeats, iii. , _gates_. yebent, i. , _bent_. yede, ii. , , _went_. yee, _eye_. yef, ii. , _if_. yeid, ii. , _went_. yeir, i. , _year_. yeme, ii. , _take care of_, _govern_. yender, _yonder_. yenoughe, i. , , _enough_. yent, ii. , _through_. yerarchy, i. , _hierarchy_. yerle, i. , , , , _earl_; yerlle, i. , , . yerly, i. , _early_. yerly, i. , _yearly_. ye's, ii. ; ye'se, iii. , _ye shall_. yestreen, ii. , _last evening_. yet, ii. , _still_. yf, ii. , _though_. ygnoraunce, i. , _ignorance_. ying, iii. ; yinge, iii. , _young_. yit, _yet_. ylk, ii. , _same_. yll, ii. , _ill_. ylythe, _listen_. yn, ii. , _house_. yngglishe, i. , , , _english_. ynglonde, i. , , , , _england_. ynough, i. , _enough_. yode, iii. , _went_. yond, i. ; ii. ; yonds, i. , _yonder_. yong, i. ; yonge, ii. , _young_. youd, iii. , _went_. youle, i. , , _you will_. your lane, iii. , _alone_, _by yourself_. youst, i. , _you will_. yow, ii. , _you_. ys, i. ; ii. , _is_; ii. , _his_. yt, _it_. yth, i. , _in the_. yule, ii. , _christmas_. * * * * * [in several of the poems percy used the letter z to represent the anglo-saxon character [gh], but as this is incorrect, and, moreover, gives rise to a very frequent mispronunciation, the z has been replaced by y in this edition, and several words have therefore been left out that occurred in the original glossary.] * * * * * zacring bell, ii. , _sacring bell_, a little bell rung to give notice of the elevation of the host. p. zaints, ii. , _saints_. zaw, ii. , _saw_. zay, ii. , _say_. zee, ii. , _see_; zeene, ii. _seen_. zelf, ii. , _self_. zet, ii. , _set_. zhall, ii. , _shall_. zhowe, ii. , _show_. zinging, ii. , _singing_. zmell, ii. , _smell_. zo, ii. , _so_. zold, ii. , _sold_. zometimes, ii. , _sometimes_. zon, ii. , _son_. zorrow, ii. , _sorrow_. zorts, ii. , _sorts_. zubtil, ii. , _subtil_. zuch, ii. , _such_. zure, ii. , _sure_. zweet, ii. , _sweet_. [illustration] [illustration] index to the three volumes. the titles of the various poems included in the _reliques_ are distinguished from the other entries by being printed in italics. _a, robyn, jolly robyn_, i. - . _adam bell, clym of the clough, and william of cloudesley_, i. - . _admiral hosier's ghost_, ii. - . _aged lover renounceth love_, by lord vaux, i. - . _agincourt, for the victory of_, ii. - . _alcanzor and zayda_, translated by percy, i. - . _aldingar_ (_sir_), ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . alexandrine or anapestic verse, ii. . alfred the great as a harper, i. . alliterative metre without rhyme, ii. - . _althea_ (_to_) _from prison_, ii. - . _ambree_ (_mary_), ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . "amys and amelion," iii. . anderson (john), the town crier of kelso, ii. . _argentile and curan_, ii. - . arthour and merlin, romance of, iii. . arthur (king), poems on, iii. - . ---- king arthur and the king of cornwall, iii. . ---- _legend of king arthur_, iii. - . ---- _king arthur's death, a fragment_, iii. - . ---- ---- version from the folio ms. iii. - . ---- le morte arthure, iii. _as ye came from the holy land_, ii. - . ---- copy from the folio ms. - . _auld_ (_the_) _good-man_, iii. - . _baffled knight, or lady's policy_, ii. - . _bailiff's daughter of islington_, iii. - . _balet by the earl of rivers_, ii. - . _ballad of constant susanna_, i. . _ballad of luther, the pope, a cardinal, and a husbandman_, ii. - . ballads and ballad-writers, i. xxiv.-xliv. ---- imitators and forgers of, i. xliv.-xlviii. ---- authenticity of certain, i. xlviii.-lviii. ---- preservers of the, i. lviii.-lxxii. ---- collections of printed, i. lxiii.-lxv. ---- "collection of old ballads," i. lxix. ---- that illustrate shakespeare, i. - . ---- ballad literature since percy, i. xci.-xcvii. ---- meaning of the word ballad, i. xxx. . ---- ballad-singers, i. xxxiii.-xxxiv. balowe, ii. - . bannatyne ms. i. lxii. _barbara allan, sir john grehme and_, iii. - . _barbara allen's cruelty_, iii. - . bards, successors of the ancient, i. . _barton_ (_sir andrew_), ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . _battle of otterbourne_, i. - . beaumont and fletcher, _farewell to love_, i. . _bedlam, old tom of_, ii. - . _bednall green, beggar's daughter of_, ii. - . bedwell (william), ii. . _beggar's daughter of bednall green_, ii. - . "belesant (lady), the duke of lombardy's fair daughter," iii. . "bevis (sir) of hampton," referred to, iii. , , , , . _birth of st. george_, iii. - . blondell de nesle, the minstrell, i. . bodwell (earle), ii. - . bohemia, elizabeth, queen of, ii. . bolle (sir john), ii. . bond-story in the "merchant of venice," i. . _bonny earl of murray_, ii. - . bosville's (godfrey), explanation of the "dragon of wantley," iii. . _bothwell's (lady anne) lament_, ii. - . _boy and the mantle_, iii. - . _boy and the mantle, as revised and altered by a modern hand_, iii. - . _braes of yarrow_, ii. - . brandon's (charles) livery and device, iii. (note). _brave lord willoughbey_, ii. - . breton (nicholas), iii. , . _bride's burial_, iii. - . _bridges, gascoigne's praise of the fair_, ii. - . brown, epithet applied to a sword, i. . brown (mrs.) of falkland, i. lxvi. _bryan and pereene_, by j. grainger, i. - . cadiz, taking of, by the english, ii. . caliburn, king arthur's sword, iii. . carew (thomas), _unfading beauty_, iii. . carey (henry), _distracted lover_, ii. - . carle of carlisle, iii. . "carre (captain)", from the folio ms. i. - . _cauline_ (_sir_), i. - . ---- copy from the folio ms. i. - . chambers (robert), "romantic scottish ballads" noticed, i. l. _character of a happy life_, by sir h. wotton, i. - . _charing-cross, downfall of_, ii. - . _charles i., verses by_, ii. - . _chaucer, original ballad by_, ii. - . "chevalere assigne," an alliterative romance, ii. ; iii. . cheviot hills, the scene of chevy chase, i. . _chevy chase, the ancient ballad of_, i. - . ---- ---- names mentioned in, i. - . ---- _the more modern ballad of_, i. - . ---- ---- names mentioned in, i. - . _child of elle_, i. - . ---- copy from the folio ms. i. - . _child waters_, iii. - . _children in the wood_, iii. - . chylde ipomydon, a romance, iii. . clym of the clough, i. . clyne (norval) on the authenticity of _sir patrick spence_, i. lii. _complaint of conscience_, ii. - . _constant penelope_, iii. - . _cophetua_ (_king_) _and the beggar-maid_, i. - . coppe, an enthusiast, ii. (note). corbet (bishop richard), _fairies farewell_, iii. - . ---- _the distracted puritan_, ii. - . _corin's fate_, ii. - . _corydon's doleful knell_, ii. - . _corydon's farewell to phillis_, i. - . _courtier, old and young_, ii. - . crants, ophelia's virgin, iii. (note). _cromwell_ (_thomas lord_), ii. - . cunningham's (allan) forged ballads, i. xlvi. _cupid, hue and cry after_, iii. - . _cupid and campaspe, by john lilye_, iii. - . _cupid's assault, by lord vaux_, ii. - . _cupid's pastime_, i. - . cymmortha in wales, i. xix. daniel (s.), _ulysses and the syren_, i. - . darnley, ballad on his murder, ii. - . _dawson_ (_jemmy_), ii. - . "death and life," an alliterative poem, ii. . degree (sir), a romance, iii. . deloney (thomas), ballad-writer, i. xxxviii. ---- _sir lancelot du lake_, i. - . ---- _the king of france's daughter_, iii. - . ---- _the winning of cales_, ii. - . _dido_ (_queen_), iii. - . "dioclesian, the emperour," iii. . _distracted lover_, ii. - . _distracted puritan_, ii. - . douglas, heraldic arms of the house of, i. . _downfall of charing cross_, ii. - . _dowsabell_, by michael drayton, i. - . _dragon of wantley_, iii. - . drayton (michael), _dowsabell_, i. - . _dulcina_, iii. - . d'urfey (tom), _frantic lady_, ii. - . ---- _lady distracted with love_, ii. - . dyer (sir e.), _my mind to me a kingdom is_, i. - . _dyttie to hey downe_, iii. - . _edom o'gordon_, i. - . ---- copy from the folio ms. i. - . _edward, edward, a scottish ballad_, i. - . _edward i., on the death of_, ii. - . _edward iv. and tanner of tamworth_, ii. - . edwards (richard) _a song to the lute in musicke_, i. - . "eger and grime," iii. . "eglamour of artas," a romance, iii. . _eleanor's_ (_queen_) _confession_, ii. - . elderton (william), ballad-writer, i. xxxvii. ---- his ballad, _king of scots and andrew browne_, ii. - . _elizabeth_ (_queen_), _sonnet_ by, ii. - . _---- verses while prisoner at woodstock_, ii. - . emanuel college, cambridge, ii. (note). emarè, romance of, iii. . erasmus, colloquy on pilgrimages, ii. . _estmere (king)_, i. - . "every man," i. . _ew-bughts, marion, a scottish song_, iii. - . excalibar, king arthur's sword, iii. . _fair margaret and sweet william_, iii. - . _fair rosamond_, ii. - . _fairies farewell_, iii. - . fairy, way to get a, iii. . _fairy queen_, iii. - . _fancy and desire, by the earl of oxford_, ii. - . _farewell to love_, i. . "fit," meaning of a, i. xxiii.; ii. . "florence (le bone) of rome," iii. . folio ms. and the _reliques_, i. lxxxi.-xci., - . four elements, interlude of the, i. . _france's_ (_king of_) _daughter_, iii. - . _frantic lady_, ii. , . _friar of orders gray_, i. - . _frolicksome duke, or the tinker's good fortune_, i. - . funeral garlands, iii. (note). _gaberlunyie man_, ii. - . garlands of ballads, i. . garlands (funeral), iii. (note). _gascoigne's praise of the fair bridges_, ii. - . gawain, the duke and, iii. . ---- and the greene knight, iii. . ---- "sir gawan and sir galaron of galloway," metrical romance, iii. . ---- "gawan and gologras," metrical romance, iii. . ---- _marriage of sir gawayne_, iii. - . ---- ---- ancient fragment from the folio ms. - . _gentle herdsman, tell to me_, ii. - . _gentle river, gentle river_, translated by percy, i. - . _george_ (_st._ ), _birth of_, iii. - . _---- and the dragon_, iii. - . _---- for england_, the first part, iii. - . ---- ---- the second part, by john grubb, iii. - . _george barnwell_, iii. - . _gernutus the jew of venice_, i. - . _gil morrice_, iii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. - . _gilderoy_, i. - . _glasgerion_, iii. - . ---- the harper, i. . gleemen, i. . glover (r.), _admiral hosier's ghost_, ii. - . _good-man, the auld_, iii. - . graham (david) of fintray, ii. . grainger (j.), _bryan and pereene_, i. - . gramarye, on the word, i. . "green knight," iii. . greenham (richard), ii. (note). _grehme_ (_sir john_), _and barbara allan_, iii. - . grubb (john), _st. george for england_, the second part, iii. - . guy of gisborne, i. . _guy_ (_sir_), _legend of_, iii. - . ---- romance of, iii. . ---- two poems on guy of warwick, iii. . _guy and amarant_, iii. - . guy and colbronde, romance of, iii. . hamilton (w.), _the braes of yarrow_, ii. - . _hardyknute, a scottish fragment_, ii. - . _harpalus, an ancient english pastoral_, ii. - . harpers and minstrels, i. . harrington, _witch of wokey_, i. - . hawes (stephen) _tower of doctrine_, i. - . hawker (rev. r. s.), imitator of the old ballad, i. xlv. _heir of linne_, ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . henry ii. and the miller of mansfield, iii. - . henryson (robert) _robin and makyne_, ii. - . _hey downe, dyttie to_, iii. - . "hick scorner," i. . hock tuesday, coventry play of, i. . holy-land, as ye came from the, ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . horne childe, romance of, iii. . _hosier's_ (_admiral_) _ghost_, ii. - . howleglas, merye jest of, i. . _hue and cry after cupid_, iii. - . hugh of lincoln, story of, i. . humbledon, battle of, i. . ipomydon, a romance, iii. . ipotis, poem of, iii. . _isabella's_ (_lady_) _tragedy_, iii - . isenbras (sir), romance of, iii. . islington, iii. . james v. _gaberlunyie man_, ii. - . james i. of england, _verses by_, ii. - . _---- king of scots and andrew browne_, ii. - . _jane shore_, ii. - . _jealousy, spanish virgin, or effects of_, iii. - . _jealousy tyrant of the mind_, iii. . _jemmy dawson_, ii. - . _jephthah, judge of israel_, i. - . _jew's daughter_, i. - . jews supposed to crucify christian children, i. . _john_ (_king_) _and the abbot of canterbury_, ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . _john anderson my jo_, ii. - . "john the reeve," referred to, ii. , . johnson (richard), ballad-writer, i. xxxix. jonson (ben.) _a hue and cry after cupid_, iii. - . _---- the sweet neglect_, iii. . _---- the witches' song_, iii. - . king (francis), the skipton minstrel, i. xxiii. _king and miller of mansfield_, iii. - . _king arthur's death_, iii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. iii. - . _king cophetua and the beggar-maid_, i. - . _king estmere_, i. - . _king leir and his three daughters_, i. - . _king ryence's challenge_, iii. - . _king of france's daughter_, iii. - . _king of scots, murder of the_, ii. - . _king of scots and andrew browne_, ii. - . "king of tars," iii. . _knight and shepherd's daughter_, iii. - . "knight of courtesy and the lady of faguel," iii. . _lady distracted with love_, ii. , . _lady turned serving-man_, iii. - . _lady anne bothwell's lament_, ii. - . _lady isabella's tragedy_, iii. - . _lady's fall_, iii. - . laing's (david) opinion on the authenticity of _sir patrick spence_, i. xlix. lambewell (sir), romance of, iii. . _lancelot (sir) du lake_, i. - . langland's visions of pierce plowman, ii. - . launfal (sir), a romance, iii. . "lay of erie of thoulouse," iii. . _legend of king arthur_, iii. - . _legend of sir guy_, iii. - . legh (sir urias), ii. . _leir (king) and his three daughters_, i. - . levison (sir richard), ii. . libius disconius, analysis of the romance of, iii. , . _lilli burlero_, ii. - . lilly (john), _cupid and campaspe_, iii. - . _little john nobody_, ii. - . _little musgrave and lady barnard_, iii. - . _lord thomas and fair annet_, iii. - . _lord thomas and fair ellinor_, iii. - . _love will find out a way_, iii. - . lovelace (richard), _to althea from prison_, ii. - . ---- _to lucasta on going to the wars_, iii. - . _lover (a) of late_, iii. - . _loyalty confined_, ii. - . _lucasta (to) on going to the wars_, iii. - . _lucy and colin_, iii. - . _lunatic lover_, ii. - . _luther, the pope, a cardinal, and a husbandman, a ballad of_, ii. - . lusty juventus, interlude of, i. . _lye (the), by sir walter raleigh_, ii. - . mad songs-- . old tom of bedlam, ii. - . . the distracted puritan, ii. - . . the lunatic lover, ii. - . . the lady distracted with love, ii. - . . the distracted lover, ii. - . . the frantic lady, ii. - . mahound, on the word, i. . maid marian, iii. . maitland ms. i. lxii. mallet (d.), _margaret's ghost_, iii. - . ms. (folio) and the _reliques_, i. lxxxi.-xci, - . _margaret_ (_fair_) _and sweet william_, iii. - . _margaret's ghost_, iii. - . marlowe's (c.), _passionate shepherd to his love_, i. - . _marriage of sir gawayne_, iii. - . ---- ancient fragment from the folio ms. iii. - . _mary ambree_, ii. - . ---- version from folio ms. ii. - . "merchant of venice," bond-story in, i. . merline, romance of, iii. . "milky way," names of, ii. . miller of mansfield, king and, iii. - . minstrels, i. xiii.-xxiv. ---- essay on the ancient, in england, i. - . ---- ---- notes on, i. - . mirrour for magistrates, i. . montfort (simon de), earl of leicester, ii. . more of more-hall, iii. . _morrice_ (_gil_), iii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. iii. - . morte arthure, iii. . munday (anthony), ballad-writer, i. xxxix. _murder of the king of scots_, ii. - . _murray, the bonny earl of_, ii. - . _musgrave_ (_little_) _and lady barnard_, iii. - . _my mind to me a kingdom is_, i. - . "new (the) custom," i. . _northumberland_ (_henry, th earl of_), _elegy on_, by skelton, i. - . northumberland (thomas, th earl of), i. . _northumberland betrayed by douglas_, i. - . ---- version from the folio ms. i. - . northumberland (elizabeth duchess of), dedications to, i. - . norton (richard) and his sons, i. , . _not-browne mayd_, ii. - . _o nancy wilt thou go with me_, i. lxxii. "octavian imperator," a romance, iii. . _old and young courtier_, ii. - . _old robin of portingale_, iii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. iii. - . _old tom of bedlam_, ii. - . _otterbourne, the battle of_, i. - . "otuel, a knight," iii. . "owain myles," iii. . oxford (edward vere, earl of), _fancy and desire_, ii. - . parker (martin), royalist ballad-writer, i. xl. _passionate shepherd to his love_, i. - . _patient countess_, i. - . _penelope, constant_, iii. - . pepperden, battle of, i. . percy (bishop thomas), life of, i. lxxi.-lxxx. ---- portraits of, i. lxxx. _---- friar of orders gray_, i. - . perkins (william), ii. (note). _phillida and corydon_, iii. - . pierce plowman's visions, alliterative metre without rhyme in, ii. - . pipers (town) of scotland, i. xx. _plain truth and blind ignorance_, ii. - . politick maid, ii. . popham (sir john), ii. . portugal, voyage to, , iii. . prior's henry and emma, ii. . pucke, alias hobgoblin, iii. . _puritan, the distracted_, ii. - . _queen dido_, iii. - . rahere, the king's minstrel, i. . raleigh (sir walter), _the lye_, ii. - . _---- the nymph's reply_, i. - . "reliques," first publication of the, i. lxxv., lxxxix. ---- sources of the, i. lxxxi.-xci. rembrun, romance of, iii. . "richard cure de lyon, historye of," iii. , . _richard of almaigne_, ii. - . _rising in the north_, i. - . ---- version from the folio ms. i. - . risp, or tirling-pin, iii. (note). ritson's attack upon percy, i. xiv. rivers (earl of), _balet_, ii. - . "robert, kynge of cysill," iii. . _robin_ (_old_) _of portingale_, iii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. iii. - . _robin and makyne, an ancient scottish pastoral_, ii. - . _robin good-fellow_, iii. - . _robin hood and guy of gisborne_, i. - . robin redbreast, popular belief relating to, iii. - . _robyn_ (_a_), _jolly robyn_, i. - . rolricht stones, iii. . romances, on the ancient metrical, iii. - . rondeau or roundel, ii. . _rosamond_ (_fair_), ii. - . roxburghe ballads, i. lxiii. _ryence's_ (_king_) _challenge_, iii. - . _sale of rebellious household-stuff_, ii. - . _sandes (lady)_, ii. . scott (sir walter) on the controversy between percy and ritson, i. xiv. "scottish feilde," an alliterative poem, ii. . "sege of jerusalem," an alliterative poem, ii. ; iii. . shakespeare, ballads that illustrate, i. - . _---- take those lips away_, i. . _---- youth and age_, i. - . sheale (richard), the preserver of _chevy chase_, i. xviii. . shenstone (w.), _jemmy dawson_, ii. - . _shepherd's address to his muse_, iii. - . _shepherd's resolution_, iii. - . shirley (j.), _death's final conquest_, i. - . _---- victorious men of earth_, ii. . _shore_ (_jane_), ii. - . sir, the title applied to priests, i. . _sir aldingar_, ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . _sir andrew barton_, ii. - . ---- version from the folio ms. ii. - . _sir cauline_, i. - . ---- copy from the folio ms. i. - . sir degree, degare or degore, a romance, iii. . sir gawan and sir galaron of galloway, metrical romance, iii. . sir isenbras, romance of, iii. . _sir john grehme and barbara allan_, iii. - . _sir john suckling's campaigne_, ii. - . _sir lancelot du lake_, i. - . _sir patrick spence_, i. - . ---- authenticity of, i. xlviii. skeat (rev. w. w.) on the essay on alliterative metre, ii. . skelton's (john) _elegy on henry, fourth earl of northumberland_, i. - . soldan or sowdan, on the words, i. . _song to the lute in musicke_, i. - . _sonnet by queen elizabeth_, ii. - . soules (the) errand, ii. - . spanish ballads, i. . _spanish lady's love_, ii. - . _spanish virgin, or effects of jealousy_, iii. - . squyr of lowe degre, a romance, iii. . stage, on the origin of the english, i. - . _stedfast shepherd_, iii. - . _sturdy rock_, ii. - . suckling (sir john), _why so pale_, ii. - . _---- sir john suckling's campaigne_, ii. - . surtees (robert), forger of old ballads, i. xlvii. susanna, ballad of constant, i. . _sweet neglect_, iii. . _sweet william, fair margaret and_, iii. - . _sweet william's ghost_, iii. - . syr triamore, a romance, iii. . taillefer the minstrel, i. xvi. . _take those lips away_, i. . _take thy old cloak about thee_, i. - . "taming of the shrew," story of the induction to, i. . tearne-wadling no longer a lake, iii. (note). termagaunt, on the word, i. . _thomas_ (_lord_) _and fair annet_, iii. - . _thomas_ (_lord_) _and fair ellinor_, iii. - . thoms (w. j.), note on the _reliques_, i. lxxxviii. thorn (m.), _sturdy rock_, ii. - . "thoulouse, lay of erle of," iii. . tickell (thomas), _lucy and colin_, iii. - . tirling pin or risp, iii. (note). _titus andronicus's complaint_, i. - . _tom_ (_old_) _of bedlam_, ii. - . _tottenham, turnament of_, ii. - . _tower of doctrine_, by stephen hawes, i. - . triamore (syr), a romance, iii. . turke and gawain, iii. . _turnament of tottenham_, ii. - . turnewathelan, iii. . tutbury court of minstrels, i. . _ulysses and the syren_, by s. daniel, i. - . _unfading beauty_, iii. . _valentine and ursine_, iii. - . vaux (thomas, lord), _cupid's assault_, ii. - . _---- the aged lover renounceth love_, i. - . _verses by k. james i._, ii. - . _verses by k. charles i._, ii. - . _victorious men of earth_, ii. . waits attached to corporate towns, i. xvi. walsingham, shrine of the virgin at, ii. , . _wandering jew_, ii. - . _wantley, dragon of_, iii. - . _wanton wife of bath_, iii. - . _waly waly, love be bonny_, iii. - . wardlaw (lady), imitator of the old ballad, i. xliv., xlix. _---- hardyknute_, ii. - . warner (w.), _argentile and curan_, ii. - . _---- the patient countess_, i. - . _waters_ (_child_), iii. - . _waters_ (_young_), ii. - . westmorland (earl of), i. . wharncliffe lodge and wood, iii. . wharton (thomas, marquis of), _lilli burlero_, ii. - . _why so pale_, by sir john suckling, ii. - . _wife_ (_wanton_) _of bath_, iii. - . william (st.) of norwich, i. . william of cloudesley, i. . _william_ (_sweet_), _fair margaret and_, iii. - . _william's_ (_sweet_) _ghost_, iii. - . william and margaret, by d. mallet, iii. - . _willoughbey_ (_brave lord_), ii. - . _willow, willow, willow_, i. - . _willow tree, a pastoral dialogue_, iii. - . _winifreda_, i. - . _winning of cales_, ii. - . _witch of wokey_, by dr. harrington, i. - . _witches' song_, iii. - . wither (george), _shepherd's resolution_, iii. - . _---- the stedfast shepherd_, iii. - . wokey-hole in somersetshire, i. . wortley (sir thomas), iii. . wotton (sir h.), _character of a happy life_, i. - . _---- you meaner beauties_, ii. - . _yarrow, the braes of_, ii. - . _you meaner beauties_, ii. - . _young waters_, ii. - . _youth and age_, i. - . ypotis, poem of, iii. . transcriber's notes: simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected. punctuation normalized. anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed. errata on p. vii were incorporated in the document. italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_. greek text is transliterated and enclosed in #number signs#. anglo-saxon uncial script is enclosed in +plus signs+. special characters and symbols. latin abbreviation large sign et [et] latin small letter heng [hj] latin small letter thorn with stroke [þ/] yogh [gh] inverted asterism [***] triple dagger (center one reversed) [+±+] therefore sign [···] reversed pilcrow sign [r¶] black right pointing index [-»] white right pointing index [->]